Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - The Speed Demon

CHAPTER II - The Holdup

CHAPTER III - The Threat

CHAPTER IV - Red Versus Yellow

CHAPTER V - The Hunt Is Intensified

CHAPTER VI - The Robbery

CHAPTER VII - The Arrest

CHAPTER VIII - An Important Discovery

CHAPTER IX - Rival Detectives

CHAPTER X - A Sleuthing Trip

CHAPTER XI - Anxious Waiting

CHAPTER XII - A Disturbing Absence

CHAPTER XIII - Teamwork

CHAPTER XIV - The Confession

CHAPTER XV - The Tower Search

CHAPTER XVI - A Surprise

CHAPTER XVII - An Unexpected Find

CHAPTER XVIII - A Startling Deduction

CHAPTER XIX - Loot!

CHAPTER XX - The Escape

Joe toppled over the railing into spacel

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1987, 1959, 1955, 1927 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. .S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-440-67315-3

2006 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

The Speed Demon

FRANK and Joe Hardy clutched the grips of their motorcycles and stared in horror at the oncoming car. It was careening from side to side on the narrow road.

“He’ll hit us! We’d better climb this hillside—and fast!” Frank exclaimed, as the boys brought their motorcycles to a screeching halt and leaped off.

“On the double!” Joe cried out as they started up the steep embankment.

To their amazement, the reckless driver suddenly pulled his car hard to the right and turned into a side road on two wheels. The boys expected the car to turn over, but it held the dusty ground and sped off out of sight.

“Wow!” said Joe. “Let’s get away from here before the crazy guy comes back. That’s a dead-end road, you know.”

The boys scrambled back onto their motorcycles and gunned them a bit to get past the intersecting road in a hurry. They rode in silence for a while, gazing at the scene ahead.

On their right an embankment of tumbled rocks and boulders sloped steeply to the water below. From the opposite side rose a jagged cliff. The little-traveled road was winding, and just wide enough for two cars to pass.

“Boy, I’d hate to fall off the edge of this road,” Frank remarked. “It’s a hundred-foot drop.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “We’d sure be smashed to bits before we ever got to the bottom.” Then he smiled. “Watch your step, Frank, or Dad’s papers won’t get delivered.”

Frank reached into his jacket pocket to be sure several important legal papers which he was to deliver for Mr. Hardy were still there. Relieved to find them, Frank chuckled and said, “After the help we gave Dad on his latest case, he ought to set up the firm of Hardy and Sons.”

“Why not?” Joe replied with a broad grin. “Isn’t he one of the most famous private detectives in the country? And aren’t we bright too?” Then, becoming serious, he added, “I wish we could solve a mystery on our own, though.”

Frank and Joe, students at Bayport High, were combining business with pleasure this Saturday morning by doing the errand for their father.

Even though one boy was dark and the other fair, there was a marked resemblance between the two brothers. Eighteen-year-old Frank was tall and dark. Joe, a year younger, was blond with blue eyes. They were the only children of Fenton and Laura Hardy. The family lived in Bayport, a small but thriving city of fifty thousand inhabitants, located on Barmet Bay, three miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean.

The two motorcycles whipped along the narrow road that skirted the bay and led to Willowville, the brothers’ destination. The boys took the next curve neatly and started up a long, steep slope. Here the road was a mere ribbon and badly in need of repair.

“Once we get to the top of the hill it won’t be so rough,” Frank remarked, as they jounced over the uneven surface. “Better road from there into Willowville.”

Just then, above the sharp put-put of their own motors, the two boys heard the roar of a car approaching from their rear at great speed. They took a moment to glance back.

“Looks like that same guy we saw before!” Joe burst out. “Good night!”

At once the Hardys stopped and pulled as close to the edge as they dared. Frank and Joe hopped off and stood poised to leap out of danger again if necessary.

The car hurtled toward them like a shot. Just when it seemed as if it could not miss them, the driver swung the wheel about viciously and the sedan sped past.

“Whew! That was close!” Frank gasped.

The car had been traveling at such high speed that the boys had been unable to get the license number or a glimpse of the driver’s features. But they had noted that he was hatless and had a shock of red hair.

“If I ever meet him again,” Joe muttered, “I’ll —I’ll—” The boy was too excited to finish the threat.

Frank relaxed. “He must be practicing for some kind of race,” he remarked, as the dark-blue sedan disappeared from sight around the curve ahead.

The boys resumed their journey. By the time they rounded the curve, and could see Willowville in a valley along the bay beneath them, there was no trace of the rash motorist.

“He’s probably halfway across the state by this time,” Joe remarked.

“Unless he’s in jail or over a cliff,” Frank added.

The boys reached Willowville and Frank delivered the legal papers to a lawyer while Joe guarded the motorcycles. When his brother returned, Joe suggested, “How about taking the other road back to Bayport? I don’t crave going over that bumpy stretch again.”

“Suits me. We can stop off at Chet’s.”

Chet Morton, who was a school chum of the Hardy boys, lived on a farm about a mile out of Bayport. The pride of Chet’s life was a bright yellow jalopy which he had named Queen. He worked on it daily to “soup up” the engine.

Frank and Joe retraced their trip for a few miles, then turned onto a country road which led to the main highway on which the Morton farm was situated. As they neared Chet’s home, Frank suddenly brought his motorcycle to a stop and peered down into a clump of bushes in a deep ditch at the side of the road.

“Joel That crazy driver or somebody else had a crack-up!”

Among the tall bushes was an overturned blue sedan. The car was a total wreck, and lay wheels upward, a mass of tangled junk.

“We’d better see if there’s anyone underneath,” Joe cried out.

The boys made their way down the culvert, their hearts pounding. What would they find?

A close look into the sedan and in the immediate vicinity proved that there was no victim around.

“Maybe this happened some time ago,” said Joe, “and—”

Frank stepped forward and laid his hand on the exposed engine. “Joe, it’s still warm,” he said. “The accident occurred a short while ago. Now I’m sure this is the red-haired driver’s car.”

“But what about him?” Joe asked. “Is he alive? Did somebody rescue him, or what happened?”

Frank shrugged. “One thing I can tell you. Either he or somebody else removed the license plates to avoid identification.”

The brothers were completely puzzled by the whole affair. Since their assistance was not needed at the spot, they climbed out of the culvert and back onto their motorcycles. Before long they were in sight of the Mortons’ home, a rambling old farmhouse with an apple orchard at the rear. When they drove up the lane they saw Chet at the barnyard gate.

“Hi, fella!” Joe called.

Chet hurried down the lane to meet them. He was a plump boy who loved to eat and was rarely without an apple or a pocket of cookies. His round, freckled face usually wore a smile. But today the Hardys sensed something was wrong. As they brought their motorcycles to a stop, they noticed that their chum’s cheery expression was missing.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked.

“I’m in trouble,” Chet replied. “You’re just in time to help me. Did you meet a fellow driving the Queen?”

Frank and Joe looked at each other blankly.

“Your car? No, we haven’t seen it,” said Joe. “What’s happened?”

“It’s been stolen!”

“Stolen!”

“Yes. I just came out to the garage to get the Queen and she was gone,” Chet answered mournfully.

“Wasn’t the car locked?”

“That’s the strange part of it. She was locked, although the garage door was open. I can’t see how anyone got away with it.”

“A professional job,” Frank commented. “Auto thieves always carry scores of keys with them. Chet, have you any idea when this happened?”

“Not more than fifteen minutes ago, because that’s when I came home with the car.”

“We’re wasting time!” Joe cried out. “Let’s chase that thief!”

“But I don’t know which way he went,” Chet protested.

“We didn’t meet him, so he must have gone in the other direction,” Frank reasoned.

“Climb on behind me, Chet,” Joe urged. “The Queen can’t go as fast as our motorcycles. We’ll catch her in no time!”

“And there was only a little gas in my car, anyway,” Chet said excitedly as he swung himself onto Joe’s motorcycle. “Maybe it has stalled by this time.”

In a few moments the boys were tearing down the road in pursuit of the automobile thief!

CHAPTER II

The Holdup

CHET MORTON’S jalopy was such a brilliant yellow that the boys were confident it would not be difficult to pick up the trail of the auto thief.

“The Queen’s pretty well known around Bayport,” Frank remarked. “We should meet someone who saw it.”

“Seems strange to me,” said Joe, “that a thief would take a car like that. Auto thieves usually take cars of a standard make and color. They’re easier to get rid of.”

“It’s possible,” Frank suggested, “that the thief didn’t steal the car to sell it. Maybe, for some reason, he was making a fast getaway and he’ll abandon it.”

“Look!” Chet exclaimed, pointing to a truck garden where several men were hoeing cabbage plants. “Maybe they saw the Queen.”

“I’ll ask them,” Frank offered, and brought his motorcycle to a stop.

He scrambled over the fence and jumped across the rows of small plants until he reached the first farm hand.

“Did you see a yellow jalopy go by here within the past hour?” Frank asked him.

The lanky old farmer leaned on his hoe and put a hand to one ear. “Eh?” he shouted.

“Did you see a fellow pass along here in a bright yellow car?” Frank repeated in a louder tone.

The farmer called to his companions. As they ambled over, the old man removed a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his overalls and took a hearty chew.

“Lad here wants to know if we saw a jalopy come by,” he said slowly.

The other three farm hands, all rather elderly men, did not answer at once. Instead, they laid down their hoes and the plug of tobacco was duly passed around the group.

Frank grit his teeth. “Please hurry up and answer. The car was stolen. We’re trying to find the thief!”

“That so?” said one of the men. “A hot rod, eh?”

“Yes. A bright yellow one,” Frank replied.

Another of the workers removed his hat and mopped his brow. “Seems to me,” he drawled, “I did see a car come by here a while ago.”

“A yellow car?”

“No—’twarn’t yeller, come to think of it. I guess, anyhow, it was a delivery truck, if I remember rightly.”

Frank strove to conceal his impatience. “Please, did any of you—?”

“Was it a brand-new car, real shiny?” asked the fourth member of the group.

“No, it was an old car, but it was painted bright yellow,” Frank explained.

“My nephew had one of them things,” the farmer remarked. “Never thought they was safe, myself.”

“I don’t agree with you,” still another man spoke up. “All boys like cars and you might as well let ‘em have one they can work on themselves.”

“You’re all wrong!” the deaf man interrupted. “Let the boys work on the farm truck. That way they won’t get into mischief!” He gave a cackling sort of laugh. “Well, son, I guess we ain’t been much help to you. Hope you find the critter that stole your hot rod.”

“Thanks,” said Frank, and joined the other boys. “No luck. Let’s go!”

As they approached Bayport, the trio saw a girl walking along the road ahead of them. When the cyclists drew nearer, Frank’s face lighted up, for he had recognized Callie Shaw, who was in his class at Bayport High. Frank often dated Callie and liked her better than any girl he knew.

The boys brought their motorcycles to a stop beside pretty, brown-eyed Callie. Under one arm she was carrying a slightly battered package. She looked vexed.

“Hi, Callie! What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “You look as if your last friend had gone off in a moon rocket.”

Callie gave a mischievous smile. “How could I think that with you three friends showing up? Or are you about to take off?” Then her smile faded and she held out the damaged package. “Look at that!” she exclaimed. “It’s your fault, Chet Morton!”

The stout boy gulped. “M-my fault? How do you figure that?”

“Well, dear old Mrs. Wills down the road is ill, so I baked her a cake.”

“Lucky Mrs. Wills,” Joe broke in. “Callie, I’m feeling terribly ill.”

Callie ignored him. “That man in the car came along here so fast that I jumped to the side of the road and dropped my package. I’m afraid my cake is ruined!”

“What man?” Joe asked.

“The one Chet lent his car to.”

“Callie, that’s the man we’re looking for!” Frank exclaimed. “Chet didn’t lend him the car. He stole it!”

“Oh!” said Callie, shocked. “Chet, that’s a shame.”

“Was he heading for Bayport?” Joe asked.

“Yes, and at the speed he was making the poor Queen travel, you’ll never catch him.”

Chet groaned. “I just remembered that the gas gauge wasn’t working. I guess the car had more gas in it than I thought. No telling where that guy may take my Queen.”

“We’d better go to police headquarters,” Frank suggested. “Callie, will you describe this man?”

“All I saw,” she answered, “was a blur, but the man did have red hair.”

“Red hair!” Frank fairly shouted. “Joe, do you think he could be the same man we saw? The one who wrecked his own car?”

Joe wagged his head. “Miracles do happen. Maybe he wasn’t hurt very much and walked to Chet’s house.”

“And helped himself to my car!” Chet added.

Frank snapped his fingers. “Say! Maybe the wrecked car didn’t belong to that fellow—”

“You mean he’d stolen it, too!” Joe interrupted.

“Yes—which would make him even more desperate to get away.”

“Whatever are you boys talking about?” Callie asked.

“I’ll phone you tonight and tell you,” Frahk promised. “Got to dash now.”

The boys waved good-by to Callie and hurried into town. They went at once to Chief Ezra Collig, head of the Bayport police force. He was a tall, husky man, well known to Fenton Hardy and his two sons. The chief had often turned to the private detective for help in solving particularly difficult cases.

When the boys went into his office they found the police chief talking with three excited men. One of these was Ike Harrity, the old ticket seller at the city ferryboat office. Another was Policeman Con Riley. The third was Oscar Smuff, a short, stout man. He was invariably seen wearing a checkered suit and a soft felt hat. He called himself a private detective and was working hard to earn a place on the Bayport police force.

“Smuff’s playing up to Collig again,” Joe whispered, chuckling, as the boys waited for the chief to speak to them.

Ike Harrity was frankly frightened. He was a timid man, who had perched on a high stool behind the ticket window at the ferryboat office day in and day out for a good many years.

“I was just countin’ up the mornin’s receipts,” he was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice, “when in comes this fellow and sticks a revolver in front of my nose.”

“Just a minute,” interrupted Chief Collig, turning to the newcomers. “What can I do for you boys?”

“I came to report a theft,” Chet spoke up. “My hot rod has been stolen.”

“Why, it was one of those crazy hot rods this fellow drove!” Ike Harrity cried out. “A yellow one!”

“Ha!” exclaimed Oscar Smuff. “A clue!” He immediately pulled a pencil and notebook from his pocket.

“My Queen!” shouted Chet.

Chief Collig rapped on his desk for quiet and asked, “What’s a queen got to do with all this?”

Chet explained, then the chief related Harrity’s story for him.

“A man drove up to the ferryboat office and tried to hold up Mr. Harrity. But a passenger came into the office and the fellow ran away.”

As the officer paused, Frank gave Chief Collig a brief account of the wrecked blue sedan near the Morton farm.

“I’ll send some men out there right now.” The chief pressed a buzzer and quickly relayed his orders.

“It certainly looks,” Joe commented, “as if the man who stole Chet’s car and the fellow who tried to hold up the ferryboat office are the same person!”

“Did you notice the color of the man’s hair?” Frank asked Mr. Harrity.

Smuff interrupted. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“It may have a great deal to do with it,” Frank replied. “What was the color of his hair, Mr. Harrity?”

“Dark brown and short cropped.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other, perplexed. “You’re sure it wasn’t red?” Joe asked.

Chief Collig sat forward in his chair. “What are you driving at, boys? Have you some information about this man?”

“We were told,” said Joe, “that the guy who stole Chet’s car had red hair. A friend of ours saw him.”

“Then he must have turned the jalopy over to someone else,” Chief Collig concluded.

At this moment a short, nervous little man was ushered into the room. He was the passenger who had gone into the ferryboat office at the time of the attempted holdup. Chief Collig had sent for him.

The newcomer introduced himself as Henry J. Brown of New York. He told of entering the office and seeing a man run away from the ticket window with a revolver in his hand.

“What color was his hair?” Frank asked eagerly. “Did you notice?”

“I can’t say I did,” the man replied. “My eyes were focused on that gun. Say, wait a minutel He had red hair. You couldn’t miss it! I noticed it after he jumped into the car.”

Oscar Smuff looked bewildered. “You say he had red hair.” The detective turned to Mr. Harrity. “And you say he had dark hair. Somethin’ wrong somewhere!” He shook his head in puzzlement.

The others were puzzled too. Frank asked Mr. Brown to tell once more just when he had noticed the red hair.

“After the fellow leaned down in the car and popped his head up again,” the New Yorker replied.

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was it possible the red hair was a wig and the thief had put it on just before Mr. Brown had noticed him? The boys kept still—they didn’t want any interference from Smuff in tracking down this clue.

Harrity and Brown began to argue over the color of the thief’s hair. Finally Chief Collig had to rap once more for order. “I’ll send out an alarm for both this holdup man and for Chet’s car. I guess that’s all that can be done now.”

Undaunted by their failure to catch the thief, the Hardy boys left police headquarters with Chet Morton. They were determined to pursue the case.

“We’ll talk with Dad tonight, Chet,” Frank promised. “Maybe he’ll give us some leads.”

“I sure hope so, fellows,” their friend replied as they climbed onto the motorcycles.

The same thought was running through Frank’s and Joe’s minds: maybe this mystery would turn out to be their first case!

CHAPTER III

The Threat

“YOU’RE getting to be pretty good on that motorcycle, Frank,” Joe said as the boys rode into the Hardy garage. “I’m not even scared to ride alongside you any more!”

“You’re not scared!” Frank pretended to take Joe seriously. “What about me—riding with a daredevil like you?”

“Well,” Joe countered, “let’s just admit that we’re both pretty good!”

“It sure was swell of Dad to let us have them,” Joe continued.

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “And if we’re going to be detectives, we’ll get a lot of use out of them.”

The boys started toward the house, passing the old-fashioned barn on the property. Its first floor had been converted into a gymnasium which was used after school and on week ends by Frank and Joe and their friends.

The Hardy home, on the corner of High and Elm streets, was an old stone house set in a large, tree-shaded lawn. Right now, crocuses and miniature narcissi were sticking their heads through the light-green grass.

“Hello, Mother!” said Frank, as he pushed open the kitchen door.

Mrs. Hardy, a petite, pretty woman, looked up from the table on which she was stuffing a large roasting chicken and smiled.

Her sons kissed her affectionately and Joe asked, “Dad upstairs?”

“Yes, dear. He’s in his study.”

The study was Fenton Hardy’s workshop. Adjoining it was a fine library which contained not only books but files of disguises, records of criminal cases, and translations of thousands of codes.

Walking into the study, Frank and Joe greeted their father. “We’re reporting errand accomplished,” Frank announced.

“Fine!” Mr. Hardy replied. Then he gave his sons a searching glance. “I’d say your trip netted you more than just my errand.”

Frank and Joe had learned early in their boyhood that it was impossible to keep any secrets from their astute father. They assumed that this ability was one reason why he had been such a successful detective on the New York City police force before setting up a private practice in Bayport.

“We ran into some real excitement,” Frank said, and told his father the whole story of Chet’s missing jalopy, the wrecked car which they suspected had been a stolen one also, and the attempted holdup at the ferryboat office.

“Chet’s counting on us to find his car,” Joe added.

Frank grinned. “That is, unless the police find it first.”

Mr. Hardy was silent for several seconds. Then he said, “Do you want a little advice? You know I never give it unless I’m asked for it.” He chuckled.

“We’ll need a lot of help,” Joe answered.

Mr. Hardy said that to him the most interesting angle to the case was the fact that the suspect apparently used one or more wigs as a disguise. “He may have bought at least one of them in Bayport. I suggest that you boys make the rounds of all shops selling wigs and see what you can find out.”

The boys glanced at the clock on their father’s large desk, then Frank said, “We’ll have time to do a little sleuthing before closing time. Let’s go!”

The two boys made a dash for the door, then both stopped short. They did not have the slightest idea where they were going! Sheepishly Joe asked, “Dad, do you know which stores sell wigs?”

With a twinkle in his eyes, Mr. Hardy arose from the desk, walked into the library, and opened a file drawer labeled “W through Z.” A moment later he pulled out a thick folder marked WIGS: Manufacturers, distributors, and retail shops of the world.

“Why, Dad, I didn’t know you had all this information—” Joe began.

His father merely smiled. He thumbed through the heavy sheaf of papers, and pulled one out.

“Bayport,” he read. “Well, three of these places can be eliminated at once. They sell only women’s hair pieces. Now let’s see. Frank, get a paper and pencil. First there’s Schwartz’s Masquerade and Costume Shop. It’s at 79 Renshaw Avenue. Then there’s Flint’s at Market and Pine, and one more: Ruben Brothers. That’s on Main Street just this side of the railroad.”

“Schwartz’s is closest,” Frank spoke up. “Let’s try him first, Joe.”

Hopefully the boys dashed out to their motorcycles and hurried downtown. As they entered Schwartz’s shop, a short, plump, smiling man came toward them.

“Well, you just got under the wire fellows,” he said, looking up at a large old-fashioned clock on the wall. “I was going to close up promptly tonight because a big shipment came in today and I never have time except after business hours to unpack and list my merchandise.”

“Our errand won’t take long,” said Frank. “We’re sons of Fenton Hardy, the detective. We’d like to know whether or not you recently sold a red wig to a man.”

Mr. Schwartz shook his head. “I haven’t sold a red wig in months, or even rented one. Everybody seems to want blond or brown or black lately. But you understand, I don’t usually sell wigs at all. I rent ’em.”

“I understand,” said Frank. “We’re just trying to find out about a man who uses a red wig as a disguise. We thought he might have bought or rented it here and that you would know his name.”

Mr. Schwartz leaned across the counter. “This man you speak of—he sounds like a character. It’s just possible he may come in to get a wig from me. If he does, I’ll be glad to let you know.”

The boys thanked the shopkeeper and were about to leave when Mr. Schwartz called, “Hold on a minute!”

The Hardys hoped that the dealer had suddenly remembered something important. This was not the case, however. With a grin the man asked the boys if they would like to help him open some cartons which had arrived and to try on the costumes.

“Those folks at the factory don’t always get the sizes marked right,” he said. “Would you be able to stay a few minutes and help me? I’ll be glad to pay you.”

“Oh, we don’t want any money,” Joe spoke up. “To tell you the truth, I’d like to see your costumes.”

Mr. Schwartz locked the front door of his shop, then led the boys into a rear room. It was so filled with costumes of all kinds and paraphernalia for theatrical work, plus piles of cartons, that Frank and Joe wondered how the man could ever find anything.

“Here is today’s shipment,” Mr. Schwartz said, pointing to six cartons standing not far from the rear entrance to his shop.

Together he and the boys slit open the boxes and one by one lifted out a king’s robe, a queen’s tiara, and a Little Bopeep costume. Suddenly Mr. Schwartz said:

“Here’s a skeleton marked size thirty-eight. Would one of you boys mind trying it on?”

Frank picked up the costume, unzipped the back, and stepped into the skeleton outfit. It was tremendous on him and the ribs sagged ludicrously.

“Guess a fat man modeled for this,” he remarked, holding the garment out to its full width.

At that moment there was a loud rap on the front door of the store. Mr. Schwartz made no move to answer it. “I’m closed,” he said. “Let him rap.”

Suddenly Frank had an idea. The thief who used wigs might be the late customer, coming on purpose at this hour to avoid meeting other people. Without a word to the others, he dashed through the doorway into the store and toward the front entrance.

He could vaguely see someone waiting to be admitted. But the stranger gave one look at the leaping, out-of-shape skeleton and disappeared in a flash. At the same moment Frank tripped and fell headlong.

Mr. Schwartz and Joe, hearing the crash, rushed out to see what had happened. Frank, hopelessly tangled in the skeleton attire, was helped to his feet. When he told the others why he had made his unsuccessful dash to the front door, they conceded he might have a point.

“But you sure scared him away in that outfit,” Joe said, laughing. “He won’t be back!”

The boys stayed for over half an hour helping Mr. Schwartz, then said good-by and went home.

“Monday we’ll tackle those other two wig shops,” said Frank.

The following morning the Hardy family attended church, then after dinner Frank and Joe told their parents they were going to ride out to see Chet Morton. “We’ve been invited to stay to supper,” Frank added. “But we promise not to get home late.”

The Hardys picked up Callie Shaw, who also had been invited. Gaily she perched on the seat behind Frank.

“Hold on, Callie,” Joe teased. “Frank’s a wild cyclist!”

The young people were greeted at the door of the Morton farmhouse by Chet’s younger sister Iola, dark-haired and pretty. Joe Hardy thought she was quite the nicest girl in Bayport High and dated her regularly.

As dusk came on, the five young people gathered in the Mortons’ kitchen to prepare supper. Chet, who loved to eat, was in charge, and doled out various jobs to the others. When he finished, Joe remarked, “And what are you going to do, big boy?”

The stout youth grinned. “I’m the official taster.”

A howl went up from the others. “No workee, no eatee,” said Iola flatly.

Chet grinned. “Oh, well, if you insist, I’ll make a little side dish for all of us. How about Welsh rabbit?”

“You’re elected!” the others chorused, and Chet set to work.

The farmhouse kitchen was large and contained a group of windows in one corner. Here stood a large table, where the young people decided to eat. They had just sat down when the telephone rang. Chet got up and walked out in the hall to answer it. Within a minute he re-entered the kitchen, his eyes bulging.

“What’s the matter?” Iola asked quickly.

“I—I’ve been th-threatened!” Chet replied.

“Threatened!” the others cried out. “How?”

Chet was so frightened he could hardly speak, but he managed to make the others understand that a man had just said on the telephone, “You’ll never get your jalopy back. And if you don’t lay off trying to find me or your car, you’re going to get hurt!”

“Whew!” cried Joe. “This is getting serious!”

Callie and Iola had clutched their throats and were staring wild-eyed at Chet. Frank, about to speak, happened to glance out the window toward the barn. For an instant he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no! They were not. A figure was sneaking from the barn and down the lane toward the highway.

“Fellows!” he cried suddenly. “Follow me!”

CHAPTER IV

Red Versus Yellow

BY THE time the Hardy boys and Chet had raced from the Mortons’ kitchen, the prowler was not in sight. Thinking he had run across one of the fields, the three pursuers scattered in various directions to search. Joe struck out straight ahead and pressed his ear to the ground to listen for receding footsteps. He could hear none. Presently the three boys met once more to discuss their failure to catch up to the man, and to question why he had been there.

“Do you think he was a thief?” Joe asked Chet. “What would he steal?”

“Search me,” the stout boy replied. “Let’s take a look.”

“I believe he was carrying something, but I couldn’t see what it was,” Frank revealed.

The barn door had not been closed yet for the night and the boys walked in. Chet turned on the lights and the searchers gazed around.

“Look!” Frank cried suddenly.

He pointed to the floor below the telephone ex tension in the barn. There lay a man’s gray wig.

“The intruder’s!” Joe exclaimed.

“It sure looks so,” Frank agreed. “And something must have scared him. In his hurry to get away he must have dropped this.”

Frank picked up the wig and examined it carefully for a clue. “No identifying mark in it. Say, I have an idea,” he burst out. “That man phoned you from here, Chet.”

“You mean he’s the one who threatened me?”

“Yes. If you know how, you can call your own telephone number from an extension.”

“That’s right.”

Chet was wagging his head. “You mean that guy bothered to come all the way here to use this phone to threaten me? Why?”

Both Hardys said they felt the man had not come specifically for that reason. There was another more important one. “We must figure it out. Chet, you ought to be able to answer that better than anybody else. What is there, or was there, in this barn to interest such a person?”

The stout boy scratched his head and let his eyes wander around the building. “It wouldn’t be any of the livestock,” he said slowly. “And it couldn’t be hay or feed.” Suddenly Chet snapped his fingers. “Maybe I have the answer. Wait a minute, fellows.”

On the floor lay a man’s wig

He disappeared from the barn and made a bee-line for the garage. Chet hurried inside but was back in a few seconds.

“I have it!” he shouted. “That guy came here to get the spare tire for the jalopy.”

“The one you had is gone?” Frank asked.

Chet nodded. He suggested that perhaps the man was not too far away. He might be on some side road changing the tire. “Let’s find out,” he urged.

Although the Hardys felt that it would be a useless search, they agreed to go along. They got on their motorcycles, with Chet riding behind Joe. The boys went up one road and down another, covering the territory very thoroughly. They saw no parked car.

“Not even any evidence that a driver pulled off the road and stayed to change a tire,” Frank remarked. “No footprints, no tool marks, no treads.”

“That guy must have had somebody around to pick him up,” Chet concluded with a sigh.

“Cheer up, Chet,” Frank said, as they walked back to the house. “That spare tire may turn out to be a clue in this case.”

When the boys entered the kitchen again, they were met with anxious inquiries from Callie and Iola.

“What in the world were you doing—dashing out of here without a word?” Callie asked in a shaking voice.

“Yes, what’s going on? You had us frightened silly,” Iola joined in. “First Chet gets a threatening phone call, and then suddenly all three of you run out of the house like madmen!”

“Calm down, girls,” Frank said soothingly. “I saw a prowler, and we were looking for him, but all we found was this!” He tossed the gray wig onto a chair in the hall.

Suddenly there was a loud wail from Chet. “My Welsh rabbit! It’s been standing so long it will be ruined!”

Iola began to giggle. “Oh, you men!” she said. “Do you suppose Callie and I would let all that good cheese go to waste? We kept that Welsh rabbit at just the right temperature and it isn’t spoiled at all.”

Chet looked relieved, as he and the others took their places at the table. Although there was a great deal of bantering during the meal, the conversation in the main revolved around Chet’s missing jalopy and the thief who evidently wore hair disguises to suit his fancy.

Frank and Joe asked Chet if they might take along the gray wig and examine it more thoroughly. There might be some kind of mark on it to indicate either the maker or the owner. Chet readily agreed.

But when supper was over, Callie said to Frank with a teasing gleam in her eyes, “Why don’t you hot-shot sleuths examine that wig now? I’d like to watch your super-duper methods.”

“Just for that, I will,” said Frank.

He went to get the wig from the hall chair, and then laid it on the kitchen table. From his pocket he took a small magnifying glass and carefully examined every inch of the lining of the wig.

“Nothing here,” he said presently.

The hair was thoroughly examined and parted strand by strand to see if there were any identifying designations on the hair piece. Frank could discover nothing.

“I’m afraid this isn’t going to help us much,” he said in disgust. “But I’ll show it to the different wig men in town.”

As he finished speaking the telephone rang and Iola went to answer it. Chet turned white and looked nervous. Was the caller the man who had threatened him? And what did he want?

Presently Iola returned to the kitchen, a worried frown on her face. “It’s a man for you, Chet. He wouldn’t give his name.”

Trembling visibly, Chet walked slowly to the telephone. The others followed and listened.

“Ye-yes, I’m Chet Morton. N-no, I haven’t got my car back.”

There was a long silence, as the person on the other end of the line spoke rapidly.

“B-but I haven’t any money,” Chet said finally. “I—Well, okay, I’ll let you know.”

Chet hung up and wobbled to a nearby chair. The others bombarded him with questions.

The stout boy took a deep breath, then said, “I can get my jalopy back. But the man wants a lot of money for the information as to where it is.”

“Oh, I’m glad you’re going to get your car back!” Callie exclaimed.

“But I haven’t got any money,” Chet groaned.

“Who’s the man?” Frank demanded.

There was another long pause before Chet answered. Then, looking at the waiting group before him, he announced simply, “Smuff. Oscar Smuff!”

His listeners gasped in astonishment. This was the last thing they expected to hear. The detective was selling information as to where Chet would find his missing jalopy!

“Why, that cheap so-and-so!” Joe cried out angrily.

Chet explained that Smuff had said he was not in business for his health. He had to make a living and any information which he dug up as a detective should be properly paid for.

Frank shrugged. “I suppose Smuff has a point there. How much does he want for the information, Chet?”

“His fee is twenty-five dollars!”

“What!” the others cried out.

After a long consultation it was decided that the young people would pool their resources. Whatever sum they could collect toward the twenty-five dollars would be offered to Oscar Smuff to lead them to Chet’s car.

“But make it very plain,” Frank admonished, “that if it’s not your jalopy Smuff leads us to, you won’t pay him one nickel.”

Chet put in a call to Smuff’s home. As expected, the detective grumbled at the offer of ten dollars but finally accepted it. He said he would pick up the boys in half an hour and take them to the spot.

About this time Mr. and Mrs. Morton returned home. Chet and Iola’s father was a good-looking, jolly man with his son’s same general build and coloring. He was in the real-estate business in Bayport and ran the farm as a hobby.

Mrs. Morton was an older edition of her daughter Iola and just as witty and lighthearted. But when she learned what had transpired and that her son had been threatened, she was worried.

“You boys must be very careful,” Mrs. Morton advised. “From what I hear about Smuff, this red-haired thief could easily put one over on him. So watch your step!”

Chet promised that they would.

“Good luck!” Callie called out, as Smuff beeped his horn outside the door. “And don’t be too late. I want to hear the news before I have to go home.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet found Smuff entirely uncommunicative about where they were going. He seemed to enjoy the role he was playing.

“I knew I’d be the one to break this case,” he boasted.

Joe could not resist the temptation of asking Smuff if he was going to lead them to the thief as well as to the car. The detective flushed in embarrassment and admitted that he did not have full details yet on this part of the mystery.

“But it won’t be long before I capture that fellow,” he assured the boys. They managed to keep their faces straight and only hoped that they were not now on a wild-goose chase.

Twenty minutes later Smuff pulled into the town of Ducksworth and drove straight to a used-car lot. Stopping, he announced, “Well, here we are. Get ready to fork over that money, Chet.”

Smuff nodded to the attendant in charge, then led the boys down a long aisle past row after row of cars to where several jalopies were lined up against a rear fence. Turning left, the detective finally paused before a bright red car.

“Here you are!” said Smuff grandly, extending his right hand toward Chet. “My money, please.”

The stout boy as well as the Hardys stared at the jalopy. There was no question but that it was the same make and model as Chet’s.

“The thief thought he could disguise it by painting it red,” Smuff explained.

“Is that your guess?” Frank asked quietly.

Oscar Smuff frowned. “How else could you figure it?” he asked.

“Then there’ll be yellow paint under the red,” Frank went on. “Let’s take a look to make sure.”

It was evident that Smuff did not like this procedure. “So you doubt me, eh?” he asked in an unpleasant tone.

“Anybody can get fooled,” Frank told him. “Well, Chet, let’s operate on this car.”

The detective stood by sullenly as Frank pulled out a penknife and began to scrape the red paint off part of the fender.

CHAPTER V

The Hunt Is Intensified

“HEY!” Oscar Smuff shouted. “You be careful with that penknife! The man who owns this place don’t want you ruinin’ his cars!”

Frank Hardy looked up at the detective. “I’ve watched my father scrape off flecks of paint many times. The way he does it, you wouldn’t know anybody had made a mark.”

Smuff grunted. “But you’re not your father. Easy there!”

As cautiously as possible Frank picked off flecks of the red paint in a spot where it would hardly be noticeable. Taking a flashlight from his pocket, he trained it on the spot.

Joe, leaning over his brother’s shoulder, said, “There was light-blue paint under this red, not yellow.”

“Right,” Frank agreed, eying Smuff intently.

The detective reddened. “You fellows trying to tell me this isn’t Chet’s jalopy?” he demanded. “Well, I’m telling you it is, and I’m right!”

“Oh, we haven’t said you’re wrong,” Joe spoke up quickly. Secretly he was hoping that this was Chet’s car, but reason told him it was not.

“We’ll try another place,” Frank said, straightening up, and walking around to a fender on the opposite side.

Here, too, the test indicated that the car had been painted light blue before the red coat had been put over it.

“Well, maybe the thief put blue on and then red,” said Smuff stubbornly.

Frank grinned. “We’ll go a little deeper. If the owner of this establishment objects, we’ll pay for having the fenders painted.”

But though Frank went down through several layers of paint, he could not find any sign of yellow.

All this time Chet had been walking round and round the car, looking intently at it inside and out. Even before Frank announced that he was sure this was not the missing jalopy, Chet was convinced of it himself.

“The Queen had a long, thin dent in the right rear fender,” he said. “And that seat cushion by the door had a little split in it. I don’t think the thief would have bothered to fix them up.”

Chet showed his keen disappointment, but he was glad that the Hardys had come along to help him prove the truth. But Smuff was not giving up the money so easily.

“You haven’t proved a thing,” he said. “The man who runs this place admitted that maybe this is a stolen car. The fellow who sold it to him said he lived on a farm outside Bayport.”

The Hardys and Chet were taken aback for a moment by this information. But in a moment Frank said, “Let’s go talk to the owner. We’ll find out more about the person who brought this car in.”

The man who ran the used-car lot was very cooperative. He readily answered all questions the Hardys put to him. The bill of sale revealed that the former owner of the red jalopy was Melvin Schuster of Bayport.

“Why, we know him!” Frank spoke up. “He goes to Bayport High—at least, he did. He and his family moved far away. That’s probably why he sold his car.”

“But Mr. Smuff said you suspected the car was stolen,” Joe put in.

The used-car lot owner smiled. “I’m afraid maybe Mr. Smuff put that idea in my head. I did say that the person seemed in an awful hurry to get rid of the car and sold it very cheap. Sometimes when that happens, we dealers are a little afraid to take the responsibility of buying a car, in case it is stolen property. But at the time Mr. Schuster came in, I thought everything was on the level and bought his jalopy.”

Frank said that he was sure everything was all right, and after the dealer described Melvin Schuster, there was no question but that he was the owner.

Smuff was completely crestfallen. Without a word he started for his own car and the boys followed. The detective did not talk on the way back to the Morton farm, and the boys, feeling rather sorry for him, spoke of matters other than the car incident.

As the Hardys and Chet walked into the Morton home, the two girls rushed forward. “Did you find it?” Iola asked eagerly.

Chet sighed. “Another one of Smuff’s bluffs,” he said disgustedly. He handed back the money which his friends had given to help pay the detective.

Frank and Joe said good-by, went for their motorcycles, and took Callie home. Then they returned to their own house, showered, and went to bed.

As soon as school was over the next day, they took the gray wig and visited Schwartz’s shop. The owner assured them that the hair piece had not come from his store.

“It’s a very cheap one,” the man said rather disdainfully.

Frank and Joe visited Flint’s and Ruben Brothers’ shops as well. Neither place had sold the gray wig. Furthermore, neither of them had had a customer in many weeks who had wanted a red wig, or who was in the habit of using wigs or toupees of various colors.

“Today’s sleuthing was a complete washout,” Joe reported that night to his father.

The famous detective smiled. “Don’t be discouraged,” he said. “I can tell you that one bit of success makes up for a hundred false trails.”

As the boys were undressing for bed later, Frank reminded his brother that the following day was a school holiday. “That’ll give us hours and hours to work on the case,” he said enthusiastically.

“What do you suggest we do?” Joe asked.

Frank shrugged. Several ideas were brought up by the brothers, but one which Joe proposed was given preference. They would get hold of a large group of their friends. On the theory that the thief could not have driven a long distance away because of the police alarm, the boys would make an extensive search in the surrounding area for Chet’s jalopy.

“We’ll hunt in every possible hiding place,” he stated.

Early the next morning Frank hurried to the telephone and put in one call after another to “the gang.” These included, besides Chet Morton, Allen Hooper, nicknamed Biff because of his fondness for a distant relative who was a boxer named Biff; Jerry Gilroy, Phil Cohen, and Tony Prito. All were students at Bayport High and prominent in various sports.

The five boys were eager to co-operate. They agreed to assemble at the Hardy home at nine o’clock. In the meantime, Frank and Joe would lay out a plan of action.

As soon as breakfast was over the Hardys told their father what they had in mind and asked if he had any suggestions on how they might go about their search.

“Take a map,” he said, “with our house as a radius and cut pie-shaped sections. I suggest that two boys work together.”

By nine o’clock his sons had mapped out the search in detail. The first recruit to arrive was Tony Prito, a lively boy with a good sense of humor. He was followed in a moment by Phil Cohen, a quiet, intelligent boy.

“Put us to work,” said Tony. “I brought one of my father’s trucks that he isn’t going to use today.” Tony’s father was in the contracting business. “I can cover a lot of miles in it.”

Frank suggested that Tony and Phil work together. He showed them the map, with Bayport as the center of a great circle, cut into four equal sections.

“Suppose you take from nine o’clock to twelve on this dial we’ve marked. Mother has agreed to stay at home all day and act as clearing house for our reports. Call in every hour.”

“Will do,” Tony promised. “Come on, Phil. Let’s get going!”

The two boys were just starting off when Biff and Jerry arrived at the Hardy home on motorcycles. Biff, blond and long-legged, had an ambling gait, with which he could cover a tremendous amount of territory in a short time. Jerry, an excellent fielder on Bayport High’s baseball team, was of medium height, wiry, and strong.

Biff and Jerry were assigned to the section on the map designated six to nine o’clock. They were given further instructions on sleuthing, then started off on their quest.

“Where’s Chet?” Mr. Hardy asked his sons. “Wasn’t he going to help in the search?”

“He probably overslept. Chet’s been known to do that,” Frank said with a grin.

“He also might have taken time for a double breakfast,” Joe suggested.

Mrs. Hardy, who had stepped to the front porch, called, “Here he comes now. Isn’t that Mr. Morton’s car?”

“Yes, it is,” Frank replied.

Chet’s father let him off in front of the Hardy home and the stout boy hurried to the porch. “Good morning, Mrs. Hardy. Good morning, Mr. Hardy. Hi, chums!” he said cheerily. “Sorry to be late. My dad had a lot of phoning to do before he left. I was afraid if I’d tried to walk here, I wouldn’t have arrived until tomorrow.”

At this point Mr. Hardy spoke up. “As I said before, I think you boys should work in twos. There are only three of you to take care of half the territory.” The detective suddenly grinned boyishly. “How about me teaming up with one of you?”

Frank and Joe looked at their dad in delight. “You mean it?” Frank cried out. “I’ll choose you as my partner right now.”

“I have a further suggestion,” the detective said. “It’s not going to take you fellows more than three hours to cover the area you’ve laid out. And there’s an additional section I think you might look into.”

“What’s that?” Joe inquired.

“Willow Grove. That’s a park area, but there’s also a lot of tangled woodland to one side of it. Good place to hide a stolen car.”

Mr. Hardy suggested that the boys meet for a picnic lunch at Willow Grove and later do some sleuthing in the vicinity. “That is, provided you haven’t found Chet’s jalopy by that time.”

Mrs. Hardy spoke up. “I’ll fix a nice lunch for all of you,” she offered.

“That sure would be swell,” Chet said hastily. “You make grand picnic lunches, Mrs. Hardy.”

Frank and Joe liked the plan, and it was decided that the boys would have the picnic whether or not they had found the jalopy by one o’clock. Mrs. Hardy said she would relay the news to the other boys when they phoned in.

Chet and Joe set off on the Hardy boys’ motorcycles, taking the twelve-to-three segment on the map. Then Mr. Hardy and Frank drove off for the three-to-six area.

Hour after hour went by, with the searchers constantly on the alert. Every garage, public and private, every little-used road, every patch of woods was thoroughly investigated. There was no sign of Chet’s missing yellow jalopy. Finally at one o’clock Frank and his father returned to the Hardy home. A few moments later Joe and Chet returned and a huge picnic lunch was stowed aboard the two motorcycles.

When the three boys reached the picnic area they were required to park their motorcycles outside the fence. They unstrapped the lunch baskets and carried them down to the lake front. The other boys were already there.

“Too bad we can’t go swimming,” Tony remarked, “but this water’s pretty cold.”

Quickly they unpacked the food and assembled around one of the park picnic tables.

“Um! Yum! Chicken sandwiches!” Chet cried gleefully.

During the meal the boys exchanged reports on their morning’s sleuthing. All had tried hard but failed to find any trace of the missing car.

“Our work hasn’t ended,” Frank reminded the others. “But I’m so stuffed I’m going to rest a while before I start out again.”

All the other boys but Joe Hardy felt the same way and lay down on the grass for a nap. Joe, eager to find out whether or not the woods to their right held the secret of the missing car, plunged off alone through the underbrush.

He searched for twenty minutes without finding a clue to any automobile. He was on the point of returning and waiting for the other boys when he saw a small clearing ahead of him. It appeared to be part of an abandoned roadway.

Excitedly Joe pushed on through the dense undergrowth. It was in a low-lying part of the grove and the ground was wet. At one point it was quite muddy, and it was here that Joe saw something that aroused his curiosity.

“A tire! Then maybe an automobile has been in here,” he muttered to himself, although there were no tire marks in the immediate vicinity. “No footprints, either. I guess someone tossed this tire here.”

Remembering his father’s admonitions on the value of developing one’s powers of observation, Joe went closer and examined the tire.

“That tread,” he thought excitedly, “looks familiar.”

He gazed at it until he was sure, then dashed back to the other boys.

“I’ve found a clue!” he cried out. “Come on, everybody!”

CHAPTER VI

The Robbery

JOE HARDY quickly led the way into the swampy area as the other boys trooped along, everyone talking at once. When they reached the spot, Chet examined the tire and exclaimed:

“There’s no mistake about it! This is one of the tires! When the thief put on the new one, he threw this away.”

“Perhaps the Queen is still around,” suggested Frank quickly. “The thief may have picked this road as a good place to hide your jalopy until he could make a getaway.”

“It would be an ideal place,” Chet agreed. “People coming to Willow Grove have to park at the gate, so nobody would come in here. But this old road comes in from the main highway. Let’s take a look, fellows.”

A scrutinizing search was begun along the abandoned road in the direction of the highway. A moment later Frank and Chet, in the lead, cried out simultaneously.

“Here’s a bypath! And here are tire marks!” Frank exclaimed. To one side was a narrow roadway, almost overgrown with weeds and low bushes. It led from the abandoned road into the depths of the woods.

Without hesitation Frank and Chet plunged into it. Presently the roadway widened out, then wound about a heavy clump of trees. It came to an end in a wide clearing.

In the clearing stood Chet Morton’s lost jalopy!

“My Queen!” he yelled in delight. “Her own license plates!”

His shout was heard by the rest of the boys, who came on a run. Chet’s joy was boundless. He examined the car with minute care, while his chums crowded around. At last he straightened up with a smile of satisfaction.

“She hasn’t been damaged a bit. All ready to run. The thief just hid the old bus in here and made a getaway. Come on, fellows, climb aboard. Free ride to the highway!”

Before leaving, the Hardys examined footprints left by the thief. “He wore sneakers,” Frank observed.

Suddenly Chet swung open the door and looked on the floor. “You mean he wore my sneakers. They’re gone.”

“And carried his own shoes,” Joe observed. “Very clever. Well, that washes out one clue. Can’t trace the man by his shoe prints.”

“Let’s go!” Chet urged.

He jumped into the car and in a few seconds the engine roared. There was barely sufficient room in the clearing to permit him to turn the jalopy about. When he swung around and headed up the bypath, the boys gave a cheer and hastened to clamber aboard.

Lurching and swaying, the car reached the abandoned road and from there made the run to the main highway. The boys transferred to Tony’s truck and the motorcycles, and formed a parade into Bayport, with Frank and Joe in the lead. It was their intention to ride up to police headquarters and announce their success to Chief Collig.

“And I hope Smuff will be around,” Chet gloated.

As the grinning riders came down Main Street, however, they noticed that no one paid any attention to them, and there seemed to be an unusual air of mystery in the town. People were standing in little groups, gesticulating and talking earnestly.

Presently the Hardys saw Oscar Smuff striding along with a portentous frown. Joe called out to him. “What’s going on, detective? You notice we found Chet’s car.”

“I’ve got something more important than stolen cars to worry—Hey, what’s that?” Detective Smuff stared blankly, as the full import of the discovery filtered his consciousness.

The boys waited for Smuff’s praise, but he did not give it. Instead, he said, “I got a big mystery to solve. The Tower Mansion has been robbed!”

“Good night!” the Hardys chorused.

Tower Mansion was one of the show places of Bayport. Few people in the city had ever been permitted to enter the place and the admiration which the palatial building excited was solely by reason of its exterior appearance. But the first thing a newcomer to Bayport usually asked was, “Who owns that house with the towers over on the hill?”

It was an immense, rambling stone structure overlooking the bay, and could be seen for miles, silhouetted against the sky line like an ancient feudal castle. The resemblance to a castle was heightened by the fact that from each of the far ends of the mansion arose a high tower.

One of these had been built when the mansion was erected by Major Applegate, an eccentric, retired old Army man who had made a fortune by lucky real-estate deals. Years ago there had been many parties and dances in the mansion.

But the Applegate family had become scattered until at last there remained in the old home only Hurd Applegate and his sister Adelia. They lived in the vast, lonely mansion at the present time.

Hurd Applegate was a man about sixty, tall, and stooped. His life seemed to be devoted now to the collection of rare stamps. But a few years before he had built a new tower on the mansion, a duplicate of the original one.

His sister Adelia was a maiden lady of uncertain years. Well-dressed women in Bayport were amused by her clothes. She dressed in clashing colors and unbecoming styles. Hurd and Adelia Applegate were reputed to be enormously wealthy, although they lived simply, kept only a few servants, and never had visitors.

“Tell us about the theft,” Joe begged Smuff.

But the detective waved his hand airily. “You’ll have to find out yourselves,” he retorted as he hurried off.

Frank and Joe called good-by to their friends and headed for home. As they arrived, the boys saw Hurd Applegate just leaving the house. The man tapped the steps with his cane as he came down them. When he heard the boys’ motorcycles he gave them a piercing glance.

“Good day!” he growled in a grudging manner and went on his way.

“He must have been asking Dad to take the case,” Frank said to his brother, as they pulled into the garage.

The boys rushed into the house, eager to find out more about the robbery. In the front hallway they met their father.

“We heard the Tower Mansion has been robbed,” said Joe.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “Yes. Mr. Applegate was just here to tell me about it. He wants me to handle the case.”

“How much was taken?”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “Well, I don’t suppose it will do any harm to tell you. The safe in the Applegate library was opened. The loss will be about forty thousand dollars, all in securities and jewels.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Frank. “What a haul! When did it happen?”

“Either last night or this morning. Mr. Applegate did not get up until after ten o’clock this morning and did not go into the library until nearly noon. It was then that he discovered the theft.”

“How was the safe opened?”

“By using the combination. It was opened either by someone who knew the set of numbers or else by a very clever thief who could detect the noise of the tumblers. I’m going up to the house in a few minutes. Mr. Applegate is to call for me.”

“I’d like to go along,” Joe said eagerly.

“So would I,” Frank declared.

Mr. Hardy looked at his sons and smiled. “Well, if you want to be detectives, I suppose it is about as good a chance as any to watch a crime investigation from the inside. If Mr. Applegate doesn’t object, you may come with me.”

A few minutes later a foreign-make, chauffeur-driven car drew up before the Hardy home. Mr. Applegate was seated in the rear, his chin resting on his cane. The three Hardys went outside. When the detective mentioned the boys’ request, the man merely grunted assent and moved over. Frank and Joe stepped in after their father. The car headed toward Tower Mansion.

“I don’t really need a detective in this case!” Hurd Applegate snapped. “Don’t need one at all. It’s as clear as the nose on your face. I know who took the stuff. But I can’t prove it.”

“Whom do you suspect?” Fenton Hardy asked.

“Only one man in the world could have taken the jewels and securities. Robinson!”

“Robinson?”

“Yes. Henry Robinson—the caretaker. He’s the man.”

The Hardy boys looked at each other in consternation. Henry Robinson, the caretaker of the Tower Mansion, was the father of one of their closest chums ! Perry Robinson, nicknamed “Slim,” was the son of the accused man!

That his father should be blamed for the robbery seemed absurd to the Hardy boys. They had met Mr. Robinson upon several occasions and he had appeared to be a good-natured, easygoing man with high principles.

“I don’t believe he’s guilty,” Frank whispered.

“Neither do I,” returned his brother.

“What makes you suspect Robinson?” Mr. Hardy asked Hurd Applegate.

“He’s the only person besides my sister and me who ever saw that safe opened and closed. He could have learned the combination if he’d kept his eyes and ears open, which I’m sure he did.”

“Is that your only reason for suspecting him?”

“No. This morning he paid off a nine-hundred-dollar note at the bank. And I know for a fact he didn’t have more than one hundred dollars to his name a few days ago. Now where did he raise nine hundred dollars so suddenly?”

“Perhaps he has a good explanation,” Mr. Hardy suggested.

“Oh, he’ll have an explanation all right!” sniffed Mr. Applegate. “But it will have to be a mighty good one to satisfy me.”

The automobile was now speeding up the wide driveway that led to Tower Mansion and within a few minutes stopped at the front entrance. Mr. Hardy and the two boys accompanied the eccentric man into the house.

“Nothing has been disturbed in the library since the discovery of the theft,” he said, leading the way there.

Mr. Hardy examined the open safe, then took a special magnifying glass from his pocket. With minute care he inspected the dial of the combination lock. Next he walked to each window and the door to examine them for fingerprints. He asked Mr. Applegate to hold his fingers up to a strong light and got a clear view of the whorls and lines on the inside of the tips. At last he shook his head.

“A smooth job,” he observed. “The thief must have worn gloves. All the fingerprints in the room, Mr. Applegate, seem to be yours.”

“No use looking for fingerprints or any other evidence!” Mr. Applegate barked impatiently. “It was Robinson, I tell you.”

“Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to ask him a few questions,” Mr. Hardy advised.

Mr. Applegate rang for one of the servants and instructed him to tell the caretaker to come to the library at once. Mr. Hardy glanced at the boys and suggested they wait in the hallway.

“It might prove less embarrassing to Mr. Robinson that way,” he said in a low voice.

Frank and Joe readily withdrew. In the hall they met Mr. Robinson and his son Perry. The man was calm, but pale, and at the doorway he patted Slim on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will be all right.” With that he entered the library.

Slim turned to his two friends. “It’s got to be!” he cried out. “My dad is innocent!”

CHAPTER VII

The Arrest

FRANK and Joe were determined to help their chum prove his father’s innocence. They shared his conviction that Mr. Robinson was not guilty.

“Of course he’s innocent,” Frank agreed. “He’ll be able to clear himself all right, Slim.”

“But things look pretty black right now,” the boy said. He was white-faced and shaken. “Unless Mr. Hardy can catch the real thief, I’m afraid Dad will be blamed for the robbery.”

“Everybody knows your father is honest,” said Joe consolingly. “He has been a faithful employee —even Mr. Applegate will have to admit that.”

“Which won’t help him much if he can’t clear himself of the charge. And Dad admits that he did know the combination of the safe, although of course he’d never use it.”

“He knew it?” repeated Joe, surprised.

“Dad learned the combination accidentally. It was so simple one couldn’t forget it. This was how it happened. One day when he was cleaning the library fireplace, he found a piece of paper with numbers on it. He studied them and decided they were the safe combination. Dad laid the paper on the desk. The window was open and he figured the breeze must have blown the paper to the floor.”

“Does Mr. Applegate know that?”

“Not yet. But Dad is going to tell him now. He realizes it will look bad for him, but he’s going to give Mr. Applegate the truth.”

From the library came the hum of voices. The harsh tones of Hurd Applegate occasionally rose above the murmur of conversation and finally the boys heard Mr. Robinson’s voice rise sharply.

“I didn’t do it! I tell you I didn’t take that money!”

“Then where did you get the nine hundred you paid on that note?” demanded Mr. Applegate.

Silence.

“Where did you get it?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you or anyone else.”

“Why not?”

“I got the money honestly—that’s all I can say about it.”

“Oh, ho!” exclaimed Mr. Applegate. “You got the money honestly, yet you can’t tell me where it came from! A pretty story! If you got the money honestly you shouldn’t be ashamed to tell where it came from.”

“I’m not ashamed. I can only say again, I’m not at liberty to talk about it.”

“Mighty funny thing that you should get nine hundred dollars so quickly. You were pretty hard up last week, weren’t you? Had to ask for an advance on your month’s wages.”

“That is true.”

“And then the day of this robbery you suddenly have nine hundred dollars that you can’t explain.”

Mr. Hardy’s calm voice broke in. “Of course I don’t like to pry into your private affairs, Mr. Robinson,” he said, “but it would be best if you would clear up this matter of the money.”

“I know it looks bad,” replied the caretaker doggedly. “But I’ve made a promise I can’t break.”

“And you admit being familiar with the combination of the safe, too!” broke in Mr. Applegate. “I didn’t know that before. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t consider it important.”

“And yet you come and tell me now!”

“I have nothing to conceal. If I had taken the securities and jewels I wouldn’t be telling you that I knew the combination.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Hardy, “that’s a point in your favor, Mr. Robinson.”

“Is it?” asked Mr. Applegate. “Robinson’s just clever enough to think up a trick like that. He’d figure that by appearing to be honest, I’d believe he is honest and couldn’t have committed this robbery. Very clever. But not clever enough. There’s plenty of evidence right this minute to convict him, and I’m not going to delay any further.”

In a moment Mr. Applegate’s voice continued, “Police station? Hello ... Police station? ... This is Applegate speaking—Applegate—Hurd Applegate.... Well, we’ve found our man in that robbery.... Yes, Robinson.... You thought so, eh?—So did I, but I wasn’t sure.... He has practically convicted himself by his own story.... Yes, I want him arrested.... You’ll be up right away? ... Fine.... Good-by.”

“You’re not going to have me arrested, Mr. Applegate?” the caretaker cried out in alarm.

“Why not? You’re the thief!”

“It might have been better to wait a while,” Mr. Hardy interposed. “At least until there was more evidence.”

“What more evidence do we want, Mr. Hardy,” the owner of Tower Mansion sneered. “If Robinson wants to return the jewels and securities I’ll have the charge withdrawn—but that’s all.”

“I can’t return them! I didn’t take them!” Mr. Robinson defended himself.

“You’ll have plenty of time to think,” Mr. Applegate declared. “You’ll be in the penitentiary a long time—a long time.”

In the hallway the boys listened in growing excitement and dismay. The case had taken an abrupt and tragic turn. Slim looked as though he might collapse under the strain.

“My dad’s innocent,” the boy muttered over and over again, clenching his fists. “I know he is. They can’t arrest him. He never stole anything in his life!”

Frank patted his friend on the shoulder. “Brace up, pal,” he advised. “It looks discouraging just now, but I’m sure your father will be able to clear himself.”

“I—I’ll have to tell Mother,” stammered Slim. “This will break her heart. And my sisters—”

Frank and Joe followed the boy down the hallway and along a corridor that led to the east wing of the mansion. There, in a neat but sparsely furnished apartment, they found Mrs. Robinson, a gentle, kind-faced woman, who was lame. She was seated in a chair by the window, anxiously waiting. Her two daughters, Paula and Tessie, twelve-year-old twins, were at her side, and all looked up in expectation as the boys came in.

“What news, son?” Mrs. Robinson asked bravely, after she had greeted the Hardys.

“Bad, Mother.”

“They’re not—they’re not—arresting him?” cried Paula, springing forward.

Perry nodded wordlessly.

“But they can’t!” Tessie protested. “Dad couldn’t do anything like that! It’s wrong—”

Frank, looking at Mrs. Robinson, saw her suddenly slump over in a faint. He sprang forward and caught the woman in his arms as she was about to fall to the floor.

“Mother!” cried Slim in terror, as Frank laid Mrs. Robinson on a couch, then he said quickly to his sister, “Paula, bring the smelling salts and her special medicine.”

Perry explained that at times undue excitement caused an “attack.” “I shouldn’t have told her about Dad,” the boy chided himself.

“She’d have to know it sooner or later,” Joe said kindly.

In a moment Paula returned with the bottle of smelling salts and medicine. The inhalant brought her mother back to consciousness, and Paula then gave Mrs. Robinson the medicine. In a few moments the woman completely revived and apologized for having worried everyone.

“I admit it was a dreadful shock to think my husband has been arrested,” she said, “but surely something can be done to prove his innocence.”

Instantly Frank and Joe assured her they would do everything they could to find the real thief, because they too felt that Mr. Robinson was not guilty.

The next morning, as the brothers were dressing in their room at home, Frank remarked, “There’s a great deal about this case that hasn’t come to the surface yet. It’s just possible that the man who stole Chet Morton’s car may have had something to do with the theft.”

Joe agreed. “He was a criminal—that much is certain. He stole an automobile and he tried to hold up the ticket office, so why not another robbery?”

“Right, Joe. I just realized that we never inspected Chet’s car for any dues to the thief, so let’s do it.”

The stout boy did not bring his jalopy to school that day, so the Hardys had to submerge their curiosity until classes and baseball practice were over. Then, when Mrs. Morton picked up Chet and Iola, Frank and Joe went home with them.

“I’ll look under the seats,” Joe offered.

“And I’ll search the trunk compartment.” Frank walked to the back of the car and raised the cover. He began rooting under rags, papers, and discarded schoolbooks. Presently he gave a cry of victory.

“Here it is! The best evidence in the world!”

Joe and Chet rushed to his side as he held up a man’s red wig.

Frank said excitedly, “Maybe there’s a clue in this hair piece!”

An examination failed to reveal any, but Frank said he would like to show the wig to his father. He covered it with a handkerchief and put it carefully in an inner pocket. Chet drove the Hardys home. They assumed that their father was in his study on the second floor, and rushed up there and into the room without ceremony.

“Dad, we’ve found a clue!” Joe cried. Then he stepped back, embarrassed, as he realized there was someone else in the room.

“Sorry!” said Frank. The boys would have retreated, but Mr. Hardy’s visitor turned around and they saw that he was Perry Robinson.

“It’s only me,” said Slim. “Don’t go.”

“Hi, Slim!”

“Perry has been trying to shed a little more light on the Tower robbery,” explained Mr. Hardy. “But what is this clue you’re talking about?”

“It might concern the robbery,” replied Frank. “It’s about the red-haired man.” He took the wig from his pocket and told where he had found it.

Mr. Hardy’s interest was kindled at once. “This seems to link up a pretty good chain of evidence. The man who passed you on the shore road wrecked the car he was driving, then stole Chet’s, and afterward tried to hold up the ticket office. When he failed there, he tried another and more successful robbery at the Tower.”

“Do you really think the wig might help us solve the Tower robbery?” asked Perry, taking hope.

“Possibly.”

“I was just telling your father,” Slim went on, “that I saw a strange man lurking around the grounds of the mansion two days before the robbery. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, and in the shock of Dad’s arrest I forgot about it.”

“Did you get a good look at him? Could you describe him?” Frank asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t. It was in the evening. I was sitting by a window, studying, and happened to look up. I saw this fellow moving about among the trees. Later, I heard one of the dogs barking in another part of the grounds. Shortly afterward, I saw someone running across the lawn. I thought he was just a tramp.”

“Did he wear a hat or a cap?”

“As near as I can remember, it was a cap. His clothes were dark.”

“And you couldn’t see his face?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s not much to go on,” said Mr. Hardy, “but it might be linked up with Frank and Joe’s idea that the man who stole the jalopy may still have been hanging around Bayport.” The detective thought deeply for a few moments. “I’ll bring all these facts to Mr. Applegate’s attention, and I’m also going to have a talk with the police authorities. I feel they haven’t enough evidence to warrant holding your father, Perry.”

“Do you think you can have him released?” the boy asked eagerly.

“I’m sure of it. In fact, I believe Mr. Applegate is beginning to realize now that he made a mistake.”

“It will be wonderful if we can have Dad back with us again,” said Perry. “Of course things won’t be the same for him. He’ll be under a cloud of suspicion as long as this mystery isn’t cleared up. I suppose Mr. Applegate won’t employ him or anyone else.”

“All the more reason why we should get busy and clear up the affair,” Frank said quickly, and Joe added, “Slim, we’ll do all we can to help your father.”

CHAPTER VIII

An Important Discovery

WHEN the Hardy boys were on their way home from school the next afternoon they noticed that a crowd had collected in the vestibule of the post office and were staring at the bulletin board.

“Wonder what’s up now?” said Joe, pushing his way forward through the crowd with the agility of an eel. Frank was not slow in following.

On the board was a large poster. The ink on it was scarcely dry. At the top, in enormous black letters, it read:

$1000 REWARD

Underneath, in slightly smaller type, was the following:

The above reward will be paid for information leading to the arrest of the person or persons who broke into Tower Mansion and stole jewels and securities from a safe in the library.

The reward was being offered by Hurd Applegate.

“Why, that must mean the charge against Mr. Robinson has been dropped!” exclaimed Joe.

“It looks like it. Let’s see if we can find Slim.”

All about them people were commenting on the size of the reward, and there were many expressions of envy for the person who would be fortunate enough to solve the mystery.

“A thousand dollars!” said Frank, as the brothers made their way out of the post office. “That’s a lot of money, Joe.”

“I’ll say it is.”

“And there’s no reason why we haven’t as good a chance of earning it as anyone else.”

“I suppose Dad and the police are barred from the reward, for it’s their duty to find the thief if they can. But if we track him down we can get the money. It’ll be a good sum to add to our college fund.”

“Let’s go! Say, there’s Slim now.”

Perry Robinson was coming down the street toward them. He looked much happier than he had the previous evening, and when he saw the Hardy boys his face lighted up.

“Dad is free,” he told them. “Thanks to your father, the charge has been dropped.”

“I’m sure glad to hear that!” exclaimed Joe. “I see a reward is being offered.”

“Your father convinced Mr. Applegate that it must have been an outside job. And the work of a professional thief. Chief Collig admitted there wasn’t much evidence against Dad, so they let him go. It’s a great relief. My mother and sisters were almost crazy with worry.”

“No wonder,” commented Frank. “What’s your father going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Slim admitted. “Of course, we’ve had to move from the Tower Mansion estate. Mr. Applegate said that even though the charge had been dropped, he wasn’t altogether convinced in his own mind that Dad hadn’t had something to do with the theft. So he dismissed him.”

“That’s tough luck. But your dad will be able to get another job somewhere,” Frank said consolingly.

“I’m not so sure about that. People aren’t likely to employ a man who’s been suspected of stealing. Dad tried two or three places this afternoon, but he was turned down.”

The Hardys were silent. They felt very sorry for the Robinsons and were determined to do what they could to help them.

“We’ve rented a small house just outside the city,” Slim went on. “It’s cheap and the neighborhood is kind of bad, but we’ll have to get along.”

Frank and Joe admired Slim. There was no false pride about him. He faced the facts as they came, and made the best of them. “But if Dad doesn’t get a job, it will mean that I’ll have to go to work full time.”

“Why, Slim—you’d have to quit school!” Joe cried out.

“I can’t help that. I wouldn’t want to, for you know I was trying for a scholarship. But—”

The brothers realized how much it would mean to their chum if he had to leave school. Perry Robinson was an ambitious boy and one of the top ten in his class. He had always wanted to continue his studies and go on to a university, and his teachers had predicted a brilliant career for him as an engineer. Now it seemed that all his ambitions for a high school diploma and a college education would have to be given up because of this misfortune.

Frank put an arm around Slim’s shoulders. “Chin up,” he said with a warm smile. “Joe and I are going to plug away at this affair until we get to the bottom of it!”

“It’s mighty good of you fellows,” Slim said gratefully. “I won’t forget it in a hurry.” He tried to smile, but it was evident that the boy was deeply worried. When he walked away it was not with the light, carefree step which the Hardys associated with him.

“What’s the first move, Frank?” Joe asked.

“We’d better get a full description of those jewels. Perhaps the thief tried to pawn them. Let’s try all the pawnshops and see what we can find out.”

“Good idea, even if the police have already done it.” Frank grinned. Then he sobered. “Do you think Applegate will give us a list?”

“We won’t have to ask him. Dad should have that information.”

“Let’s find out right now.”

When the boys returned home, they found their father waiting for them. “I have news for you,” he said. “Your theory about the wrecked auto being stolen has been confirmed. Collig phoned just now and told me the true ownership had been traced by the engine number. Car belongs to a man over in Thornton.”

“Good. That’s one more strike against the thief,” Joe declared.

But a moment later the boys met with disappointment when they asked their father for a list of the stolen jewels.

“I’m willing to give you all the information I have,” said Fenton Hardy, “but I’m afraid it won’t be of much use. Furthermore, I’ll bet I can tell just what you’re going to do.”

“What?”

“Make the rounds of the pawnshops to see if any of the jewels have been turned in.”

The Hardy boys looked at each other in amazement. “I might have guessed,” said Frank.

Their father smiled. “Not an hour after I was called in on the case I had a full description of all those jewels in every pawnshop in the city. More than that, the description has been sent to jewelry firms and pawnshops in other cities near here, and also the New York police. Here’s a duplicate list if you want it, but you’ll just be wasting time calling at the shops. All the dealers are on the lookout for the jewels.”

Mechanically, Frank took the list. “And I thought it was such a bright idea!”

“It is a bright idea. But it has been used before. Most jewel robberies are solved in just this manner—by tracing the thief when he tries to get rid of the gems.”

“Well,” said Joe gloomily, “I guess that plan is all shot to pieces. Come on, Frank. We’ll think of something else.”

“Out for the reward?” asked Mr. Hardy, chuckling.

“Yes. And we’ll get it, too!”

“I hope you do. But you can’t ask me to help you any more than I’ve done. It’s my case, too, remember. So from now on, you boys and I are rivals!”

“It’s a go!”

“More power to you!” Mr. Hardy smiled and returned to his desk.

He had a sheaf of reports from shops and agencies in various parts of the state, through which he had been trying to trace the stolen jewels and securities, but in every case the report was the same. There had been no lead to the gems or the bonds taken from Tower Mansion.

When the boys left their father’s study they went outside and sat on the back-porch steps.

“What shall we do now?” asked Joe.

“I don’t know. Dad sure took the wind out of our sails that time, didn’t he?”

“I’ll say he did. But it was just as well. He saved us a lot of trouble.”

“Yes, we might have been going around in circles,” Frank conceded.

Joe wagged his head. “It looks as if Dad has the inside track on the case—in the city, anyway.”

“What have you got in mind?” Joe asked.

“To concentrate on the country. We started out to find the thief because he stole Chet’s car. Let’s start all over again from that point.”

“Meaning?”

“Mr. Red Wig may have come back to the woods expecting to use Chet’s car again, and—”

“Frank, you’re a genius! You figure the guy may have left a clue by accident.”

“Exactly.”

Fired with enthusiasm once more, the brothers called to Mrs. Hardy where they were going, then set off on their motorcycles. After parking them at the picnic site, the brothers once more set off for the isolated spot where the jalopy had been hidden.

Everything looked the same as it had before, but Frank and Joe examined the ground carefully for new footprints. They found none, but Joe pointed out six-inch circular marks at regular intervals.

Frank and Joe examined the circular marks

“They’re just the size of a man’s stride,” he remarked, “and I didn’t notice them before.”

“I didn’t either,” said Frank. “Do you suppose that thief tied pads onto his shoes to keep him from making footprints?”

“Let’s see where they lead.”

The boys followed the circular marks through the thicket. They had not gone far when their eyes lighted up with excitement.

“Another clue!” Joe yelled. “And this time a swell one!”

CHAPTER IX

Rival Detectives

“MAYBE,” Frank said with a grin, “Dad will take us into his camp when he sees these!”

“Just a minute,” Joe spoke up. “I thought we were rivals now, and you and I have to solve this mystery alone to earn the reward.”

Frank held up a man’s battered felt hat and an old jacket. “If these belong to that thief, I think we’ve earned the money already!”

He felt through the pockets of the jacket, but they were empty. “No clue here,” he said.

“This hat has a label, though—New York City store,” said Joe.

“And the coat, too,” Frank added. “Same shop. Well, one thing is sure. If they do belong to the thief, he never meant to leave them. The labels are a dead giveaway.”

“He must have been frightened off,” Joe concluded. “Maybe when he found that Chet’s jalopy was gone, he felt he’d better scram, and forgot the coat and hat.”

“What I’d like to know,” Frank said, “is whether some hairs from that red wig may be in the hat.”

Joe grinned. “Bright boy.” He carried the hat to a spot where the sunlight filtered down through the trees and looked intently at the inside, even turning down the band. “Yowee! Success!” he yelled.

Frank gazed at two short strands of red hair. They looked exactly like those in the wig which the boys had found.

Joe sighed. “I guess we’ll have to tell Dad about this. He has the wig.”

“Right.”

Frank and Joe hurried home, clutching their precious clues firmly. Mr. Hardy was still in his study when his sons returned. The detective looked up, frankly surprised to see them home so soon. There was the suspicion of a twinkle in his eyes.

“What! More clues!” he exclaimed. “You’re really on the job.”

“You bet we have more clues!” cried Frank eagerly. He told the boys’ story and laid the hat and jacket on a table. “We’re turning these over to you.”

“But I thought you two were working on this case as my rivals.”

“To tell the truth,” said Frank, “we don’t know what to do with the clue we’ve found. It leads to New York City.”

Mr. Hardy leaned forward in his desk chair as Frank pointed out the labels and the two strands of red hair.

“And besides,” Frank went on, “I guess the only way to prove that the thief owns these clothes is by comparing the hairs in the hat with the red wig. And Joe and I don’t have the wig.”

With a grin the detective went to his files and brought it out. “Chief Collig left this here.”

The strands of hair were compared and matched perfectly!

“You boys have certainly made fine progress,” Mr. Hardy praised his sons. He smiled. “And since you have, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Chief Collig asked me to see what I could figure out of the wig. He says there’s no maker’s name on it.”

“And there isn’t?” Joe asked.

His father’s eyes twinkled once more. “I guess Collig’s assistants weren’t very thorough. At any rate, I discovered there’s an inner lining and on that is the maker’s name. He’s in New York City and I was just thinking about flying there to talk to him. Now you boys have given me a double incentive for going.”

Frank and Joe beamed with pleasure, then suddenly their faces clouded.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Hardy asked them.

Joe answered. “It looks as if you’re going to solve the case all alone.”

“Nothing of the sort,” the detective replied. “The person who bought the wig may not have given his name. The hat may have been purchased a long time ago, and it isn’t likely that the clerk who sold it will remember who bought it. The same with the jacket.”

Frank and Joe brightened. “Then the case is far from solved,” Frank said.

“All these are good leads, however,” Mr. Hardy said. “There is always the chance that the store may not be far from where the suspect lives. Though it’s a slim chance, we can’t afford to overlook anything. I’ll take these articles to the city and see what I can do. It may mean everything and it may mean nothing. Don’t be disappointed if I come back empty-handed. And don’t be surprised if I come back with some valuable information.”

Mr. Hardy tossed the wig, coat, and hat into a bag that was standing open near his desk. The detective was accustomed to being called away suddenly on strange errands, and he was always prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.

“Not much use starting now,” he said, glancing at his watch. “But I’ll go to the city first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you boys keep your eyes and ears open for more clues. The case isn’t over yet by any means.”

Mr. Hardy picked up some papers on his desk, as a hint that the interview was over, and the boys left the study. They were in a state of high excitement when they went to bed that night and could not get to sleep.

“That thief must be pretty smart,” murmured Joe, after they had talked long into the night.

“The smarter crooks are, the harder they fall,” Frank replied. “If this fellow has any kind of a record, it won’t take long for Dad to run him down. I’ve heard Dad say that there is no such thing as a clever crook. If he was really clever, he wouldn’t be a crook at all.”

“Yes, I guess there’s something in that, too. But it shows that we’re not up against any amateur. This fellow is a slippery customer.”

“He’ll have to be mighty slippery from now on. Once Dad has a few clues to work on he never lets up till he gets his man.”

“And don’t forget us,” said Joe, yawning. With that the boys fell asleep.

When they went down to breakfast the following morning Frank and Joe learned that their father had left for New York on an early-morning plane. Their mother remarked, “I’ll be so relieved when he gets back. So often these missions turn out to be dangerous.”

She went on to say that her husband had promised to phone her if he wasn’t going to be back by suppertime. Suddenly she added with a tantalizing smile, “Your father said he might have a surprise for you if he remains in New York.”

Mrs. Hardy refused to divulge another word. The boys went to school, but all through the morning could scarcely keep their minds on studies. They kept wondering how Fenton Hardy was faring on his quest in New York and what the surprise was.

Slim Robinson was at school that day, but after classes he confided to the Hardys that he was leaving for good.

“It’s no use,” he said. “Dad can’t keep me in school any longer and it’s up to me to pitch in and help the family. I’m to start work tomorrow at a supermarket.”

“And you wanted to go to college!” exclaimed Frank. “It’s a shame!”

“Can’t be helped,” replied Perry with a grimace. “I consider myself lucky to have stayed in school this long. I’ll have to give up all those college plans and settle down in the business world. There’s one good thing about it—I’ll have a chance to learn supermarket work from the ground up. I’m starting in the receiving department.” He smiled. “Perhaps in about fifty years I’ll be head of the firm!”

“You’ll make good at whatever you tackle,” Joe assured him. “But I’m sorry you won’t be able to go through college as you planned. Don’t give up hope yet, Slim. One never knows what may happen. Perhaps the thief who did rob Tower Mansion will be found.”

Frank and Joe wanted to tell Slim about the clues they had discovered the previous day, but the same thought came into their minds—that it would be unfair to raise any false hopes. So they said good-by and wished him good luck. Perry tried hard to be cheerful, but his smile was very faint as he turned away from them and walked down the street.

“I sure feel sorry for him,” said Frank, as he and Joe started for home. “He was such a hard worker in school and counted so much on going to college.”

“We’ve just got to clear up the Tower robbery, that’s all there is to it!” declared his brother.

As they neared the Hardy home, the boys’ steps quickened. Would they find that their father had returned with the information on the identity of the thief? Or was he still in New York? And were they about to share another of his secrets?

CHAPTER X

A Sleuthing Trip

FRANK and Joe’s first stop was the Hardy garage. Looking in, they saw that only Mrs. Hardy’s car was there. Their father had taken his sedan to the airport and not brought it back.

“Dad’s not home!” Joe cried excitedly. “Now we’ll hear what the surprise is.” Dashing into the kitchen, he called, “Mother!”

“I’m upstairs, dear,” Mrs. Hardy called back.

The boys rushed up the front stairway two steps at a time. Their mother met them at the door of their bedroom. Smiling broadly, she pointed to a packed suitcase on Frank’s bed. The boys looked puzzled.

Next, from her dress pocket, Mrs. Hardy brought out two plane tickets and some dollar bills. She handed a ticket and half the money to each of her sons, saying, “Your father wants you to meet him in New York to help him on the case.”

Frank and Joe were speechless for a moment, then they grabbed their mother in a bear hug. “This is super!” Joe exclaimed. “What a surprise!”

Frank looked affectionately at his mother. “You sure were busy today—getting our plane tickets and money. I wish you were going too.”

Mrs. Hardy laughed. “When I go to New York for a week end I want to have fun with you boys, not trot around to police stations and thieves’ hide-outs!” she teased. “I’ll go some other time. Well, let’s hurry downstairs. There’s a snack ready for you. Then I’ll drive my detective sons to the airport.”

In less than two hours the boys were on the plane to New York City. Upon landing there, they were met by Mr. Hardy. He took them to his hotel, where he had engaged an adjoining room for them. It was not until the doors were closed that he brought up the subject of the mystery.

“The case has taken an interesting turn, and may involve considerable research. That’s why I thought you might help me.”

“Tell us what has happened so far,” Frank requested eagerly.

Mr. Hardy said that immediately upon arriving in the city he had gone to the office of the company which had manufactured the red wig. After sending in his card to the manager he had been admitted readily.

“That’s because the name of Fenton Hardy is known from the Atlantic to the Pacific!” Joe interjected proudly.

The detective gave his son a wink and went on with the story. “‘Some of our customers in trouble, Mr. Hardy?’ the manager asked me when I laid the red wig on his desk.

“‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But one of them may be if I can trace the purchaser of this wig.’

“The manager picked it up. He inspected it carefully and frowned. ‘We sell mainly to an exclusive theatrical trade. I hope none of the actors has done anything wrong.’

“‘Can you tell me who bought this one?’ I asked.

“‘We make wigs only to order,’ the manager said. He pressed a button at the side of his desk. A boy came and departed with a written message. ‘It may be difficult. This wig is not a new one. In fact, I would say it was fashioned about two years ago.’

“‘A long time. But still—’ I encouraged him,” the detective went on. “In a few minutes a bespectacled elderly man shuffled into the office in response to the manager’s summons.

“‘Kauffman, here,’ the manager said, ‘is our expert. What he doesn’t know about wigs isn’t worth knowing.’ Then, turning to the old man, he handed him the red wig. ‘Remember it, Kauffman?’

“The old man looked at it doubtfully. Then he gazed at the ceiling. ‘Red wig—red wig—’ he muttered.

“‘About two years old, isn’t it?’ the manager prompted.

“‘Not quite. Year’n a half, I’d say. Looks like a comedy-character type. Wait’ll I think. There ain’t been so many of our customers playin’ that kind of a part inside a year and a half. Let’s see. Let’s see.’ The old man paced up and down the office, muttering names under his breath. Suddenly he stopped, snapping his fingers.

“‘I have it,’ he said. ‘It must have been Morley who bought that wig. That’s who it was! Harold Morley. He’s playin’ in Shakespearean repertoire with Hamlin’s company. Very fussy about his wigs. Has to have ’em just so. I remember he bought this one, because he came in here about a month ago and ordered another like it.’

“‘Why would he do that?’ I asked him.

“Kauffman shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ain’t none of my business. Lots of actors keep a double set of wigs. Morley’s playin’ down at the Crescent Theater right now. Call him up.’

“‘I’ll go and see him,’ I told the men. And that’s just what we’ll do, Frank and Joe, after a bite of supper.”

“You don’t think this actor is the thief, do you?” Frank asked in amazement. “How could he have gone back and forth to Bayport so quickly? And isn’t he playing here in town every night?”

Mr. Hardy admitted that he too was puzzled. He was certain Morley was not the man who had worn the wig on the day the jalopy was stolen, for the Shakespearean company had been playing a three weeks’ run in New York. It was improbable, in any case, that the actor was a thief.

The three Hardys arrived at Mr. Morley’s dressing room half an hour before curtain time. Mr. Hardy presented his card to a suspicious doorman at the Crescent, but he and his sons were finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug place, with pictures on the walls, a potted plant in the window overlooking the alleyway, and a rug on the floor.

Seated before a mirror with electric lights at either side was a stout little man, almost totally bald. He was diligently rubbing creamy stage make-up on his face. He did not turn around, but eyed his visitors in the mirror, casually telling them to sit down. Mr. Hardy took the only chair. The boys squatted on the floor.

“Often heard of you, Mr. Hardy,” the actor said in a surprisingly deep voice that had a comical effect in contrast to his diminutive appearance. “Glad to meet you. What kind of call is this? Social —or professional?”

“Professional.”

Morley continued rubbing the make-up on his jowls. “Out with it,” he said briefly.

“Ever see this wig before?” Mr. Hardy asked him, laying the hair piece on the make-up table.

Morley turned from the mirror, and an expression of delight crossed his plump countenance. “Well, I’ll say I’ve seen it before!” he declared. “Old Kauffman—the best wigmaker in the country —made this for me about a year and a half ago. Where did you get it? I sure didn’t think I’d ever see this red wig again.”

“Why?”

“Stolen from me. Some low-down sneak got in here and cleaned out my dressing room one night during the performance. Nerviest thing I ever heard of. Came right in here while I was doing my stuff out front, grabbed my watch and money and a diamond ring I had lying by the mirror, took this wig and a couple of others that were around, and beat it. Nobody saw him come or go. Must have got in by that window.”

Morley talked in short, rapid sentences, and there was no mistaking his sincerity.

“All the wigs were red,” he stated. “I didn’t worry so much about the other wigs, because they were for old plays, but this one was being used right along. Kauffman made it specially for me. I had to get him to make another. But say—where did you find it?”

“Oh, my sons located it during some detective work we’re on. The crook left this behind. I was trying to trace him by it.”

Morley did not inquire further. “That’s all the help I can give you,” he said. “The police never did learn who cleaned out my dressing room.”

“Too bad. Well, I’ll probably get him some other way. Give me a list and description of the articles he took from you. Probably I can trace him through that.”

“Glad to,” said Morley. He reached into a drawer and drew out a sheet of paper which he handed to the detective. “That’s the same list I gave the police when I reported the robbery. Number of the watch, and everything. I didn’t bother to mention the wigs. Figured they wouldn’t be in any condition to wear if I did get them back.”

Mr. Hardy folded the list and put it in his pocket. Morley glanced at his watch, lying face up beside the mirror, and gave an exclamation. “Suffering Sebastopol! Curtain in five minutes and I’m not half made up yet. Excuse me, folks, but I’ve got to get on my horse. In this business ‘I’ll be ready in a minute’ doesn’t go.”

He seized a stick of grease paint and feverishly resumed the task of altering his appearance to that of the character he was portraying at that evening’s performance. Mr. Hardy and his sons left. They made their way out to the street.

“Not much luck there,” Frank commented.

“Except through Mr. Morley’s stolen jewelry,” his father reminded him. “If that’s located in a pawnshop, it may lead to the thief. Well, boys, would you like to go into the theater via the front entrance and see the show?”

“Yes, Dad,” the brothers replied, and Joe added, “Tomorrow we’ll try to find out the name and address of the thief through his coat and hat?”

“Right,” the detective said.

The Hardys enjoyed the performance of The Merchant of Venice with Mr. Morley as Launcelot Gobbo, and laughed hilariously at his comedy and gestures.

The next morning the detective and his sons visited the store from which the thief’s jacket and hat had been purchased. They were told that the styles were three years out of date and there was no way to tell who had bought them.

“The articles,” the head of the men’s suit department suggested, “may have been picked up more recently at a secondhand clothing store.” The Hardys thanked him and left.

“All this trip for nothing.” Joe gave a sigh.

His father laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “A good detective,” he said, “never sighs with discouragement nor becomes impatient. It took years of persistence to solve some famous cases.”

He suggested that their next effort be devoted to doing some research in the city’s police files. Since Mr. Hardy had formerly been a member of the New York City detective force, he was permitted to search the records at any time.

Frank and Joe accompanied him to headquarters and the work began. First came a run-down on any known New York criminals who used disguises. Of these men, the Hardys took the reports on the ones who were thin and of medium height.

Next came a check by telephone on the whereabouts of these people. All could be accounted for as working some distance from Bayport at the time of the thefts, with one exception.

“I’ll bet he’s our man!” Frank exclaimed. “But where is he now?”

CHAPTER XI

Anxious Waiting

THE suspect, the Hardys learned, was out of prison on parole. His name was John Jackley, but he was known as Red Jackley because when caught before going to prison he had been wearing a red wig.

“He lives right here in New York, and maybe he’s back home by this time,” Joe spoke up. “Let’s go see him.”

“Just a minute,” Mr. Hardy said, holding up his hand. “I don’t like to leave Mother alone so long. Besides, in this type of sleuthing three detectives together are too noticeable to a crook. This Jackley may or may not be our man. But if he is, he’s probably dangerous. I want you boys to take the evening plane home. I’ll phone the house the minute the thief is in custody.”

“All right, Dad,” his sons chorused, though secretly disappointed that they had to leave.

When they reached home, Frank and Joe learned that their mother had been working on the case from a completely different angle. Hers was the humanitarian side.

“I went to call on the Robinsons to try to bolster their spirits,” she said. “I told them about your trip to New York and that seemed to cheer them a lot. Monday I’m going to bake a ham and a cake for you to take to them. Mrs. Robinson isn’t well and can do little in the kitchen.”

“That’s swell of you!” Frank said admiringly. “I’ll go.”

Joe told them he had a tennis match to play. “I’ll do the next errand,” he promised.

Monday, during a change of classes, Frank met Callie Shaw in the corridor. “Hi!” she said. “What great problem is on Detective Hardy’s mind? You look as if you’d lost your best criminal!”

Frank grimaced. “Maybe I have,” he said.

He told Callie that he had phoned home at noon confidently expecting to hear that his father had reported the arrest of the real thief of the Applegate money and the exoneration of Mr. Robinson. “But there was no word, Callie, and I’m worried Dad may be in danger.”

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “What do you think has happened?”

“Well, you never can tell when you’re dealing with criminals.”

“Now, Frank, you’re not trying to tell me your father would let himself get trapped?” Callie said.

“No, I don’t think he would, Callie. Maybe Dad hasn’t returned because he still hasn’t found the man he was looking for.”

“Well, I certainly hope that thief is caught,” said Callie. “But, Frank, nobody really believes Mr. Robinson did it!”

“Nobody but Hurd Applegate and the men who employ people. Until they find the man who did take the stuff, Mr. Robinson is out of a job.”

“I’m going over to see the Robinsons soon. Where are they living?”

Frank gave Callie the address. Her eyes widened. “Why, that’s in one of the poorest sections of the city! Frank, I had no idea the Robinsons’ plight was that bad!”

“It is—and it’ll be a lot worse unless Mr. Robinson gets work pretty soon. Slim’s earnings aren’t enough to take care of the whole family. Say, Callie, how about going over to the Robinsons’ with me after school? Mother’s sending a ham and a cake.”

“I’d love to,” Callie agreed. The two parted at the door of the algebra teacher’s classroom.

As soon as the last bell had rung, Frank and Callie left the building together. First they stopped at the Shaw house to leave the girl’s books.

“I think I’ll take some fruit to the Robinsons,” Callie said, and quickly filled a bag with oranges, bananas, and grapes.

When the couple reached the Hardy home, Frank asked his mother if any messages had come. “No, not yet,” she answered.

Frank said nothing to her about being concerned over his father, as he tucked the ham under one arm and picked up the cakebax. But after he and Callie reached the street, he again confided his concern to Callie.

“It does seem strange you haven’t heard anything,” she admitted. “But don’t forget the old saying, ‘No news is good news,’ so don’t worry.”

“I’ll take your advice,” Frank agreed. “No use wearing a sour look around the Robinsons.”

“Or when you’re with me, either,” Callie said, tossing her head teasingly.

Frank hailed an approaching bus bound for the section of the city in which the Robinsons lived. He and Callie climbed aboard. It was a long ride and the streets became less attractive as they neared the outskirts of Bayport.

“It’s a shame, that’s what it is!” declared Callie abruptly. “The Robinsons were always accustomed to having everything so nice! And now they have to live here! Oh, I hope your father catches the man who committed that robbery—and soon!”

Her eyes flashed and for a moment she looked so fierce that Frank laughed.

“I suppose you’d like to be the judge and jury at his trial, eh?”

“I’d give him a hundred years in jail!” Callie declared.

When they came to the street where the Robinsons had moved they found that it was an even poorer thoroughfare than they had expected. There were small houses badly in need of paint and repairs. Shabbily dressed children were playing in the roadway.

At the far end of the street stood a small cottage that somehow contrived to look homelike in spite of the surroundings. The picket fence had been repaired and the yard had been cleaned up.

“This is where they live,” said Frank.

Callie smiled. “It’s the neatest place on the whole street.”

Paula and Tessie answered their knock. The twins’ faces lighted up with pleasure when they saw who the callers were.

“Frank and Callie!” they exclaimed. “Come in.”

The callers were greeted with kindly dignity by Mrs. Robinson. She looked pale and thin but had the same self-possession she had always shown at Tower Mansion.

“We can’t stay long,” Callie explained. “But Frank and I just thought we’d run out to see how you all are. And we brought something for you.”

The fruit, ham, and cake were presented. As the twins ohed and ahed over the food, Mrs. Robinson’s eyes filled with tears. “You are dear people,” she said. “Frank, tell your mother I can’t thank her enough.”

Frank grinned as Mrs. Robinson went on, “Callie, we shall enjoy this fruit very much. Many thanks.”

Paula said, “It’s a wonderful gift. Say, did you know Perry got a better job the second day he was at the supermarket?”

“No. That’s swell,” Frank replied. “It didn’t take the manager long to find out how smart Slim is, eh?”

The twins giggled, but Mrs. Robinson said dolefully, “I wish my husband could find a job. Since no one around here will employ him, he is thinking of going to another city to get work.”

“And leave you here?”

“I suppose so. We don’t know what to do.”

“It’s so unfair!” Paula flared up. “My father didn’t have a thing to do with that miserable robbery, and yet he has to suffer for it just the same!”

Mrs. Robinson said to Frank hesitantly, “Has Mr. Hardy discovered anything—yet?”

“I don’t know,” Frank admitted. “We haven’t heard from him. He’s been in New York following up some clues. But so far there’s been no word.”

“We hardly dare hope that he’ll be able to clear Mr. Robinson,” the woman said sorrowfully. “The whole case is so mysterious.”

“I’ve stopped thinking of it,” Tessie declared. “If the mystery is cleared up, okay. If it isn’t—we won’t starve, at any rate, and my father knows we believe in him.”

“Yes, I suppose it doesn’t do much good to keep talking about it,” agreed Mrs. Robinson. “We’ve gone over the whole matter so thoroughly that there is nothing more to say.”

So, by tacit consent, the subject was changed and for the rest of their stay Frank and Callie chatted of doings at school. Mrs. Robinson and the girls invited them to remain for supper, but Callie insisted that she must go. As they were leaving, Mrs. Robinson drew Frank to one side.

“Promise me one thing,” she said. “Let me know as soon as your father returns—that is, if he has any news.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Robinson,” Frank agreed. “I know what this suspense must be like for you and the twins.”

“It’s terrible. But as long as Fenton Hardy—and his sons—are working on the case, I’m sure it will be straightened out.”

Callie and Frank were unusually silent all the way home. They had been profoundly affected by the change that the Tower Mansion mystery had caused in the lives of the Robinsons. Callie lived but a few blocks from the Hardy home, and Frank accompanied her to the door.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes, Frank. And I hope you’ll hear good news from your father.”

The boy quickened his steps and ran eagerly into the Hardy house. Joe met him.

“Any phone call?”

Joe shook his head. “Mother’s pretty worried that something has happened to Dad.”

CHAPTER XII

A Disturbing Absence

ANOTHER whole day went by. When still no word had come from Mr. Hardy, his wife phoned the New York hotel. She was told that the detective had checked out the day before.

Discouraged and nervous about the new mystery of their father’s disappearance, Frank and Joe found it almost impossible to concentrate on their studies.

Then, the following morning when Mrs. Hardy came to awaken them, she wore a broad smile. “Your father is home!” she said excitedly. “He’s all right but has had a bad time. He’s asleep now and will tell you everything after school.”

The boys were wild with impatience to learn the outcome of his trip, but they were obliged to curb their curiosity.

“Dad must be mighty tired,” Joe remarked, as Mrs. Hardy went downstairs to start breakfast. “I wonder where he came from.”

“Probably he was up all night. When he’s working on a case, he forgets about sleep. Do you think he found out anything?”

“Hope so, Frank. I wish he’d wake up and tell us. I hate to go back to school without knowing.”

But Mr. Hardy had not awakened by the time the boys set out for school, although they lingered until they were in danger of being late. As soon as classes were over, they shattered all records in their race home.

Fenton Hardy was in the living room, and as they rushed in panting, he grinned broadly. He looked refreshed after his long sleep and it was evident that his trip had not been entirely without success, for his manner was cheerful.

“Hello, boys! Sorry I worried you and Mother.”

“What luck, Dad?” asked Frank.

“Good and bad. Here’s the story: I went to the house where Red Jackley was boarding. Although he seemed to be an exemplary parolee, I decided to watch him a while and try to make friends.”

“How could you do that?”

“By taking a room in the same house and pretending to be a fellow criminal.”

“Wow!” Joe cried. “And then?”

“Jackley himself spoiled everything. He got mixed up in a jewel robbery and cleared out of the city. Luckily, I heard him packing, and I trailed him. The police were watching for him and he couldn’t get out of town by plane or bus. He outwitted the police by jumping a freight on the railroad.”

“And you still followed?”

“I lost him two or three times, but fortunately I managed to pick up his trail again. He got out of the city and into upper New York State. Then his luck failed him. A railroad detective recognized Jackley and the chase was on. Up to that time I had been content with just keeping behind him. I had still hoped to pose as a fellow fugitive and win his confidence. But when the pursuit started in earnest, I had to join the officers.”

“And they caught Jackley?”

“Not without great difficulty. Jackley, by the way, was once a railroad man. Strangely enough, he worked not many miles from here. He managed to steal a railroad handcar and got away from us. But he didn’t last long, for the handcar jumped the tracks on a curve and Jackley was badly smashed up.”

“Killed?” Frank asked quickly.

“No. But he’s in a hospital right now and the doctors say he hasn’t much of a chance.”

“He’s under arrest?”

“Oh, yes. He’s being held for the jewel thefts and also for the theft from the actor’s dressing room. But he probably won’t live to answer either charge.”

“Didn’t you find out anything that would connect him with the Tower robbery?”

“Not a thing.”

The boys were disappointed, and their expressions showed it. If Red Jackley died without confessing, the secret of the Tower robbery would die with him. Mr. Robinson might never be cleared. He might be doomed to spend the rest of his life under a cloud, suspected of being a thief.

“Have you talked to Jackley?” Frank asked.

“I didn’t have a chance—he wasn’t conscious.”

“Then you may never be able to get a confession from him.”

Fenton Hardy shrugged. “I may be able to. If Jackley regains consciousness and knows he’s going to die, he may admit everything. I intend to see him in the hospital and ask him about the Tower robbery.”

“Is he far away?”

“Albany. I explained my mission to the doctor in charge and he promised to telephone me as soon as it was possible for Jackley to see anyone.”

“You say he used to work near here?” Joe asked.

“He was once employed by the railroad, and he knows all the country around here well. Then he became mixed up in some thefts from freight cars, and after he got out of jail, turned professional criminal. I suppose he came back here because he is so familiar with this area.”

“I promised to call Mrs. Robinson,” Frank spoke up. “Okay to tell her about Jackley?”

“Yes, it may cheer her up. But ask her not to tell anyone.”

Frank dialed the number and relayed part of his father’s story. The accused man’s wife was overwhelmed and relieved by the news, but promised not to divulge the information. Just as Frank finished the call, the doorbell rang. Frank ushered in the private detective Oscar Smuff.

“Your pa home?” he asked.

“Yes. Come in.” Frank led the way into the living room.

Smuff, although he considered himself a top-notch sleuth, stood in awe of Fenton Hardy. He cleared his throat nervously.

“Good afternoon, Oscar,” said Mr. Hardy pleasantly. “Won’t you sit down?”

Detective Smuff eased himself into an armchair, then glanced inquiringly at the two boys. At once Mr. Hardy said, “Unless your business is very private, I’d like to have my sons stay.”

“Well, I reckon that’ll be all right,” Smuff conceded. “I hear you’re working on this Applegate case.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“You’ve been out of town several days,” Smuff remarked cannily, “so I deduced you must be workin’ on it.”

“Very clever of you, Detective Smuff,” Mr. Hardy said, smiling at his visitor.

Smuff squirmed uneasily in his chair. “I’m workin’ on this case too—I’d like to get that thousand-dollar reward, but I’d share it with you. I was just wonderin’ if you’d found any clues.”

Mr. Hardy’s smile faded. He said, with annoyance, “If I went away, it is my own business. And if I’m working on the Tower robbery, that also is my business. You’ll have to find your own clues, Oscar.”

“Well, now, don’t get on your high horse, Mr. Hardy,” the visitor remonstrated. “I’m just anxious to get this affair cleared up and I thought we might work together. I heard you were with the officers what chased this here notorious criminal Red Jackley.”

Mr. Hardy gave a perceptible start. He had no idea that news of the capture of Jackley had reached Bayport, much less that his own participation in the chase had become known. The local police must have received the information and somehow Smuff had heard the news.

“What of it?” Mr. Hardy asked in a casual way.

“Did Jackley have anything to do with the Tower case?”

“How should I know?”

“Wasn’t that what you were warkin’ on?”

“As I’ve told you, that’s my affair.”

Detective Smuff looked sad. “I guess you just don’t want to co-operate with me, Mr. Hardy. I was thinkin’ of goin’ over to the hospital where this man Jackley is and questionin’ him about the case.”

Mr. Hardy’s lips narrowed into a straight line. “You can’t do that, Oscar. He isn’t conscious. The doctor won’t let you see him.”

“I’m goin’ to try. Jackley’ll come to some time and I want to be on hand. There’s a plane at six o’clock, and I aim to leave my house about five-thirty and catch it.” He thumped his chest in admiration. “Detectives don’t have to show up for a plane till the last minute, eh, Mr. Hardy? Well, I’ll have a talk with Jackley tonight. And I may let you know what he says.”

“Have it your own way,” said Mr. Hardy. “But if you take my advice you’ll not visit the hospital. You’ll just spoil everything. Jackley will talk when the times comes.”

“So there is somethin’ in it!” Smuff said triumphantly. “Well, I’m goin’ over there and get a confession!” With that he arose, stumped out of the room, and left the house.

CHAPTER XIII

Teamwork

AFTER Smuff left the house, Mr. Hardy sat back with a gesture of despair. “That man,” he said, “handles an investigation so clumsily that Red Jackley will close up like a clam if Smuff manages to question him.”

At that moment the telephone rang. The boys listened excitedly as Mr. Hardy answered. “Hello.... Oh, yes, doctor.... Is that so? ... Jackley will probably live only until morning? ... I can see him.... Fine.... Thank you. Good-by.”

The detective put back the receiver and turned to the boys. “I’ll take that six-o’clock plane to Albany. But if Smuff goes too, it may ruin everything. The Albany police and I must question Jackley first.”

“When’s the next commercial flight after six?” Joe asked.

“Seven o’clock.”

“Then,” said Frank, “Smuff can take that one and question Jackley later. Come on, Joe. Let’s see what we can do to help Dad!”

“Don’t you boys do anything rash,” their father warned.

“We won’t.”

Frank led the way outdoors and started walking down the street.

“What’s on your mind?” Joe asked as they reached the corner.

“We must figure out how to keep Detective Smuff in Bayport until seven o’clock.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know yet, but we’ll find a way. We can’t have him bursting into that hospital room and spoiling the chance of Dad’s getting a confession. Smuff might ruin things so the case will never be solved.”

“You’re right.”

The brothers walked along the street in silence. They realized that the situation was urgent. But though they racked their brains trying to think of a way to prevent Detective Smuff from catching the six-o’clock plane, it seemed hopeless.

“Let’s round up our gang,” Joe suggested finally. “Perhaps they’ll have some ideas.”

The Hardys found their friends on the tennis courts of Bayport High.

“Hi, fellows!” called Chet Morton when he saw Frank and Joe approaching. “You’re too late for a game. Where’ve you been?”

“We had something important to do,” Frank replied. “Say, we need your help.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Tony Prito.

“Oscar Smuff is trying to win that thousand-dollar reward and get himself on the Bayport police force by interfering in one of Dad’s cases,” Frank explained. “We can’t tell you much more than that. But the main thing is, we want to keep him from catching the six-o’clock plane. We—er—don’t want him to go until seven.”

“What do you want us to do?” Bill Hooper asked.

“Help us figure out how to keep Smuff in Bayport until seven o’clock.”

“Without having Chief Collig lock us up?” Jerry Gilroy put in. “Are you serious about this, Frank?”

“Absolutely. If Smuff gets to a certain place before Dad can, the case will be ruined. And I don’t mind telling you that it has something to do with Slim Robinson.”

Chet Morton whistled. “Oh, ho! I catch on. The Tower business. If that’s it, we’ll make sure the six-o’clock plane leaves here without that nutty detective.” Chet had a special dislike for Smuff, because the man had once reported him for swimming in the bay after hours.

“So our problem,” said Phil solemnly, “is to keep Smuff here and keep out of trouble ourselves.”

“Right.”

“Well,” Jerry Gilroy said, “let’s put our heads together, fellows, and work out a plan.”

A dozen ideas were put forth, each wilder than the one before. Biff Hooper, with a wide grin, went so far as to propose kidnaping Smuff, binding him hand and foot, and setting him adrift in the bay in an open boat.

“We could rescue him later,” he said. The proposal was so ridiculous that the others howled with laughter.

Phil Cohen suggested setting the detective’s watch back an hour. That plan, as Frank observed, was a good one except for the minor difficulty of laying hands on the watch.

“We might send him a warning not to take a plane before seven o’clock,” Tony Prito said, “and sign it with a skull and crossbones.”

“That’s a keen ideal” Chet cried enthusiastically . “Let’s do it!”

“Wait a minute, fellows,” Frank spoke up. “If Smuff ever found out who wrote it, we’d be up to our necks in trouble. We could all be arrested!”

“I know!” Joe cried suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Why didn’t I think of it before? And it’s so simple, too.”

“Well, tell us!” Frank urged.

Joe explained that every once in a while he and Frank went down to Rocco’s fruit store to act as clerks while the owner went home to supper. He stayed open evenings until nine.

“Rocco’s is only a block from Smuff’s house. Smuff knows Frank and I go there, so he wouldn’t be surprised to see us in the neighborhood. I suggest that the bunch of us meet casually down near the store and one boy after another stop Smuff to talk. Maybe we can even get him into the shop. You know Smuff loves to eat.”

“You can’t hate him for that,” Chet spoke up. “I’ll be glad to invite him in and buy him an apple for his trip.”

“A fifteen-minute delay for Smuff is all we need,” Frank said.

“I think it’s a swell idea,” Biff spoke up. “And I’m sure Mr. Rocco will co-operate.”

“Who’s going to persuade him?” Phil asked.

“That’s Frank and Joe’s department,” Jerry replied.

Rocco was a hard-working man who had come from Italy only a few years ago. He was a simple, genial person and had great admiration for the Hardy boys.

The whole group made their way toward the fruit store, but only the Hardys went inside. The others spread out to watch for Smuff, who was expected to leave his house soon. Each boy went over his part in the plan.

When Frank and Joe walked into the fruit store, they found the dark-eyed Rocco sorting oranges. “Buona sera,” he said. “Good evening. How you like my fix the place?”

“Looks swell,” Frank answered. “New bins. Better lights.” Then he added, “How does your neighbor Smuff like it?”

Rocco threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust. “Oh, that man! He make me mad. He say I charge too much. He tell me I ought to go back to old country.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Joe advised. “Say, Mr. Rocco,” he went on, “you look tired. Why don’t you go home for an hour or so and let Frank and me take over here?”

“You think I look tired? That worry my wife. Then Rosa say I must close up early.” Rocco sighed. “You very kind boys. I do what you say. Come back six-thirty.”

As Rocco removed his apron, he said, “I fix trash in yard to burn. You do that?”

“Glad to.”

Rocco showed them a wire incinerator in the yard, then left the store. Five minutes later there was a whistle from the street. A signal from Jerry! Frank and Joe went to the front door to watch. Smuff was just backing his car out of the driveway. As prearranged, Phil hurried over and stopped him.

The detective and the boy apparently got into an argument, but it did not last long enough to satisfy Frank and Joe. The conversation took less than two minutes, then Smuff backed around into the street.

“Hey, Frank,” said Joe, “I have an idea. Go light that trash. Make it a roaring fire!”

Without further explanation he dashed into the street, but Frank figured out what was in his brother’s mind. He dashed through the store and into the yard. Quickly he lighted the papers in the incinerator in several places. The rubbish blazed lustily.

Joe was intently watching the scene down the street. Smuff was now being “interviewed” by Biff, and Chet came forward to urge Smuff to take some fruit with him on his trip. The detective hesitated, then shook his head and started off in his car.

Only five of the necessary fifteen-minute delay had elapsed! Joe hesitated no longer. Running down the street, he held up one hand for the oncoming car to stop.

“Come quick, Smuff!” he called out. “There’s a fire back of Rocco’s!”

“Well, you put it out. I’m in a hurry!” the detective told the boy tartly.

“You mean you’d let all of Bayport burn down just because you’re in a hurry?” Joe pretended to scoff.

Smuff winced, but still did not move. Joe said, starting back to the store, “Well, Frank and I will have to take care of it alone.”

“Where’s the fire?” Smuff cried out

This brought the detective to action. He realized he might be missing a chance to become a hero! In a flash he drove his car down the street and parked in front of the fruit store.

“Where’s the fire?” Smuff cried out, nearly bumping into Frank who was dashing from the front door of Rocco’s.

“The fire—is—back there—in the yard.” Frank pretended to pant. “You go look and see if we ought to turn in an alarm.”

Smuff dashed inside the store and hurried to the yard. By this time the Hardys’ friends had gathered in Rocco’s fruit store. They asked excitedly what was going on.

“Frank! Joe!” yelled Smuff from the rear of the store. “Where’s Rocco? Where’s a pail? Where’s some water?”

CHAPTER XIV

The Confession

“Rocco’s not around,” Joe replied to Smuff. “There’s water in the sink—in the back. Shall I call the fire department?”

“No, I can manage this,” Smuff declared. “But where’s a pail?”

Frank dashed into the back room and found a pail under the sink. He filled it with water and handed the pail to Smuff, who hurried to the yard. He doused the incinerator flames which hissed and crackled, then died.

“Some people have no sense,” Smuff commented. “The idea of anyone starting a fire, then going off and leaving it! I’ll bet that was Rocco’s work! As for you boys—you had to call me. Didn’t have the savvy to put out a simple fire.”

“Good thing you were around,” Frank observed, suppressing a smile.

“I’ll say it was,” Smuff agreed. “And Chief Collig is sure goin’ to hear about this.”

“Oh, please don’t tell him about us,” Joe spoke up, half closing his eyes so Smuff could not see the twinkle in them.

“I didn’t mean that. Oscar Smuff is no squealer. I mean Collig is goin’ to hear what I did.” The detective chuckled. “One more notch in my gun, as the cowboys say.”

Suddenly Smuff sobered and looked at his wrist watch. “Oh, no!” he cried out. “Ten minutes to six! I can’t make my plane!”

“That’s a shame,” Frank said consolingly. “But cheer up, Smuff, there’s a seven-o’clock plane for Albany. I wish you luck in your interview.”

Smuff stormed out of the fruit store and disappeared with his car. The Hardys and their friends burst into roars of laughter which did not stop until a woman customer came into the shop. All the boys but Frank and Joe left.

Rocco returned at six-thirty, pleased that so much fruit had been sold during his absence. “You better salesman than Rocco.” He grinned widely.

The Hardys went home, well-satisfied with their day’s work. The six-o’clock plane had left without Smuff. Their father could make his trip to the hospital without the annoying detective’s interference.

Fenton Hardy did not return home until the next afternoon. When the boys came from school they found him in high spirits.

“Solved the mystery?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Practically. First of all, Jackley is dead.”

“Did he confess?”

“You’re not very sympathetic toward the poor fellow, Joe. Yes, he confessed. Fortunately, Oscar Smuff didn’t show up while Jackley was talking.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other and their father smiled quietly. “I have an idea,” he said, “that you two sleuths know more about this Smuff business than you would care to tell. Well, anyhow, the Albany police and I had a clear field. I saw Jackley before he died and questioned him about the Tower robbery.”

“Did he admit everything?”

“Jackley said he came to Bayport with the intention of robbery. He stole a car, smashed it up, and took Chet’s. Then he went to rob the ticket office. When he failed in that he decided to hang around town for a few days. He hit upon Tower Mansion as his next effort. Jackley entered the library with gloves on, opened the safe, and took out the jewelry and securities.”

“What did he do with the loot?”

“That’s what I’m coming to. It was not until Jackley knew he was at the point of death that he did confess to the Tower affair. Then he said, ‘Yes, I took the stuff—but I didn’t dare try selling any of it right away, so I hid it. You can get all the stuff back easily. It’s in the old tower—’

“That was all he said. Jackley lost consciousness then and never regained it.”

“When did Smuff get there?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Not until after Jackley had gone into a coma,” Mr. Hardy replied. “We both sat by his bed, hoping the man would awaken, but he died within an hour. Just where Jackley hid the loot in the old tower, he was never able to say.”

“Does Smuff know what Jackley said?”

“No.”

“If the loot’s hidden in the old Applegate tower, we’ll find it in no time!” Frank exclaimed.

“Tower Mansion has two towers—the old and the new,” Joe reminded him.

“We’ll search the old tower first.”

“The story seems likely enough,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “Jackley would gain nothing by lying about it on his deathbed. He probably became panicky after he committed the robbery and hid in the old tower until he was able to get away safely. No doubt he decided to hide the stuff there and take a chance on coming back for it some time after the affair had blown over.”

Joe nodded. “That was why Jackley couldn’t be traced through the jewels and the bonds. They were never disposed of—they’ve been lying in the old tower all this time!”

“I tried to get him to tell me in just what part of the tower the loot was hidden,” Mr. Hardy continued, “but he died before he could say any more.”

“Too bad,” said Frank. “But it shouldn’t be hard to find the loot, now that we have a general idea where it is. Probably Jackley didn’t hide it very carefully. Since the old tower has been unoccupied for a long time, the stuff would be safe there from snoopers.”

Joe jumped up from his chair. “I think we ought to get busy and go search the old tower right away. Oh, boy! Maybe we can hand old Mr. Applegate his jewels and bonds this afternoon and clear Mr. Robinson! Let’s go!”

“I’ll leave it to you boys to make the search,” said Mr. Hardy with a smile. “Then you can have the satisfaction of turning over the stolen property to Mr. Applegate. I guess you can get along without me in this case from now on.”

“We wouldn’t have got very far if it hadn’t been for you,” Frank declared.

“And I wouldn’t have got very far if it hadn’t been for you, so we’re even.” Mr. Hardy’s smile broadened. “Well, good luck to you.”

As the boys started from the study, Frank said, “Thanks, Dad. I only hope the Applegates don’t throw us out when we ask to be allowed to look around inside the old tower.”

“Just tell them,” his father advised, “that you have a pretty good clue to where the bonds and jewels are hidden and they’ll let you search.”

Joe grinned. “Frank, we’ll have that thousand-dollar reward before the day is over!”

The brothers raced from the house, confident that they were about to solve the Tower Treasure mystery.

CHAPTER XV

The Tower Search

WHEN the Hardy boys reached Tower Mansion at four o’clock the door was opened by Hurd Applegate himself. The tall, stooped gentleman peered at them through his thick-lensed glasses. In one hand he held a sheet of stamps.

“Yes?” he said, seemingly annoyed at being disturbed.

“You remember us, don’t you?” Frank asked politely. “We’re Mr. Hardy’s sons.”

“Fenton Hardy, the detective? Oh, yes. Well, what do you want?”

“We’d like to look through the old tower, if you don’t mind. We have a clue about the robbery.”

“What kind of clue?”

“We have evidence that leads us to believe the jewels and bonds were hidden by the thief in the old tower.”

“Oh! You have evidence, have you?” The elderly man peered at the boys closely. “It’s that rascal Robinson, I’ll warrant, who gave it to you. He hid the stuff, and now he’s suggesting where you might find it, just to clear himself.”

Frank and Joe had not considered the affair in this light, and they gazed at Mr. Applegate in consternation. At last Joe spoke up.

“Mr. Robinson has nothing to do with this,” he said. “The real thief was found. He said the loot was hidden in the old tower. If you will just let us take a look around, we’ll find it for you.”

“Who was the real thief?”

“We’d rather not tell you, sir, until we find the stolen property, then we’ll reveal the whole story.”

Mr. Applegate took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. He stared at the boys suspiciously for a few moments. Then he called out:

“Adelia!”

From the dim interior of the hallway a high feminine voice answered.

“What do you want?”

“Come here a minute.”

There was a rustle of skirts, and Adelia Applegate appeared. A faded blond woman of thin features, she was dressed in a fashion of fifteen years before, in which every color of the spectrum fought for supremacy.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded. “I can’t sit down to do a bit of sewing without you interrupting me, Hurd.”

“These boys want to look through the old tower.”

“What for? Up to some mischief?”

Frank and Joe feared she would not give her consent. Frank said quietly, “We’re doing some work for our dad, the detective Fenton Hardy.”

“They think they can find the bonds and jewels in the tower,” Hurd Applegate explained.

“Oh, they do, do they?” the woman said icily. “And what would the bonds and jewels be doing in the old tower?”

“We have evidence that they were hidden there after the robbery,” Frank told her.

Miss Applegate viewed the boys with obvious suspicion. “As if any thief would be silly enough to hide them right in the house he robbed!” she said in a tone of finality.

“We’re just trying to help you,” Joe put in courteously.

“Go ahead, then,” said Miss Applegate with a sigh. “But even if you tear the old tower to pieces, you won’t find anything. It’s all foolishness.”

Frank and Joe followed Hurd Applegate through the gloomy halls and corridors that led toward the old tower. He said he was inclined to share his sister’s opinion that the boys’ search would be in vain.

“We’ll make a try at it, anyway, Mr. Applegate,” Frank said.

“Don’t ask me to help you. I’ve got a bad knee. Anyway, I just received some new stamps this afternoon. You interrupted me when I was sorting them. I must get back to my work.”

The man reached a corridor that was heavily covered with dust. It apparently had not been in use for a long time and was bare and unfurnished. At the end was a heavy door. It was unlocked, and when Mr. Applegate opened it, the boys saw a square room. Almost in the center of it rose a flight of wooden stairs with a heavily ornamented balustrade. The stairway twisted and turned to the roof, five floors above. Opening from each floor was a room.

“There you are,” Mr. Applegate announced. “Search all you want to. But you won’t find anything—of that I’m certain.”

With this parting remark he turned and hobbled back along the corridor, the sheet of stamps still in his gnarled hand.

The Hardy boys looked at each other. “Not very encouraging, is he?” Joe remarked.

“He doesn’t deserve to get his stuff back,” Frank declared flatly, then shrugged. “Let’s get up into the tower and start the search.”

Frank and Joe first examined the dusty stairs carefully for footprints, but none were to be seen.

“That seems queer,” Frank remarked. “If Jackley was here recently you’d think his footprints would still show. Judging by this dust, there hasn’t been anyone in the tower for at least a year.”

“Perhaps the dust collects more quickly than we think,” Joe countered. “Or the wind may get in here and blow it around.”

An inspection of the first floor of the old tower revealed that there was no place where the loot could have been hidden except under the stairs. But they found nothing there.

The boys ascended to the next floor, and entered the room to the left of the stair well. It was as drab and bare as the one they had just left. Here again the dust lay thick and the murky windows were almost obscured with cobwebs. There was an atmosphere of age and decay about the entire place, as if it had been abandoned for years.

“Nothing here,” said Frank after a quick glance around. “On we go.”

They made their way up to the next floor. After searching this room and under the stairway, they had to admit defeat.

The floor above was a duplicate of the first and second. It was bare and cheerless, deep in dust. There was not the slightest sign of a hiding place, or any indication that another human being had been in the tower for a long time.

“Doesn’t look very promising, Joe. Still, Jackley may have gone right to the top of the tower.”

The search continued without success until the boys reached the roof. Here a trap door which swung inward led to the top of the tower. Frank unlatched it and pulled on the door. It did not budge.

“I’ll help you,” Joe offered.

Together the brothers yanked on the stubborn trap door of the old tower. Suddenly it gave way completely, causing both boys to lose their balance. Frank fell backward down the stairway.

Joe, with a cry, toppled over the railing into space!

Frank grabbed a spindle of the balustrade and kept himself from sliding farther down the steps. He had seen Joe’s plunge and expected the next moment to hear a sickening thud on the floor five stories below.

“Joel” he murmured as he pulled himself upright. “Oh, Joel”

To Frank’s amazement, he heard no thud and now looked over the balustrade. His brother was not lying unconscious at the bottom of the tower. Instead, he was clinging to two spindles of the stairway on the floor below.

Frank, heaving a tremendous sigh of relief, ran down and helped pull Joe to the safety of the steps. Both boys sat down to catch their breaths and recover from their falls.

Finally Joe said, “Thanks. For a second I sure thought I was going to end my career as a detective right here!”

“I guess you can also thank our gym teacher for the tricks he taught you on the bars,” Frank remarked. “You must have grabbed those spindles with flash-camera speed.”

Presently the boys turned their eyes upward. An expression halfway between a grin and a worried frown crossed their faces.

“Mr. Applegate,” Joe remarked, “isn’t going to like hearing we ruined his trap door.”

“No. Let’s see if we can put it back in place.”

The boys climbed the stairway and examined the damage. They found that the hinges had pulled away from rotted wood. A new piece would have to be put in to hold the door in place.

“Before we go downstairs,” said Joe, “let’s look out on the roof. We thought maybe the loot was hidden there. Remember?”

Frank and Joe climbed outside to a narrow, railinged walk that ran around the four sides of the square tower. There was nothing on it.

“Our only reward for all this work is a good view of Bayport,” Frank remarked ruefully.

Below lay the bustling little city, and to the east was Barmet Bay, its waters sparkling in the late afternoon.

“Dad was fooled by Jackley, I guess,” Frank said slowly. “There hasn’t been anyone in this tower for years.”

The boys gazed moodily over the city, then down at the grounds of Tower Mansion. The many roofs of the house itself were far below, and directly across from them rose the heavy bulk of the new tower.

“Do you think Jackley might have meant the new tower?” Joe exclaimed suddenly.

“Dad said he specified the old one.”

“But he may have been mistaken. Even the new one looks old. Let’s ask Mr. Applegate if we may search the new tower, too.”

“It’s worth trying, anyway. But I’m afraid when we tell him about the trap door, he’ll say no.”

The brothers went down through the opening. They lifted the door into place, latched it, and then wedged Frank’s small pocket notebook into the damaged side. The door held, but Frank and Joe knew that wind or rain would easily dislodge it.

The boys hurried down the steps and through the corridor to the main part of the house.

Adelia Applegate popped her head out of a doorway. “Where’s the loot?” she asked.

“We didn’t find any,” Frank admitted.

The woman sniffed. “I told you so! Such a waste of time!”

“We think now,” Joe spoke up, “that the stolen property is probably hidden in the new tower.”

“In the new tower!” Miss Applegate cried out. “Absurd! I suppose you’ll want to go poking through there now.”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“It would be too much trouble, indeed!” she shrilled. “I shan’t have boys rummaging through my house on a wild-goose chase like this. You’d better leave at once, and forget all this nonsense.”

Her voice had attracted the attention of Hurd Applegate, who came hobbling out of his study.

“Now what’s the matter?” he demanded. His sister told him and suddenly his face creased in a triumphant smile. “Aha! So you didn’t find anything after all! You thought you’d clear Robinson, but you haven’t done it.”

“Not yet,” Frank answered.

“These boys have the audacity,” Miss Applegate broke in, “to want to go looking through the new tower.”

Hurd Applegate stared at the boys. “Well, they can’t do it!” he snapped. “Are you boys trying to make a fool of me?” he asked, shaking a fist at them.

Frank and Joe exchanged glances and nodded at each other. They would have to reveal their reason for thinking the loot was in the new tower.

“Mr. Applegate,” Frank began, “the information about where your stolen stuff is hidden came from the man who took the jewels and the bonds. And it wasn’t Mr. Robinson.”

“What! You mean it was someone else? Has he been caught?”

“He was captured but he’s dead now.”

“Dead? What happened?” Hurd Applegate asked in excitement.

“His name was Red Jackley and he was a notorious criminal. Dad got on his trail and Jackley tried to escape on a railroad handcar. It smashed up and he was fatally injured,” Frank explained.

“Where did you get your information then?” Mr. Applegate asked.

Frank told the whole story, ending with, “We thought Jackley might have made a mistake and that it’s the new tower where he hid the loot.”

Hurd Applegate rubbed his chin meditatively. It was evident that he was impressed by the boys’ story.

“So this fellow Jackley confessed to the robbery, eh?”

“He admitted everything. He had once worked around here and knew the Bayport area well. He had been hanging around the city for several days before the robbery.”

“Well,” Applegate said slowly, “if he said he hid the stuff in the old tower and it’s not there, it must be in the new tower, as you say.”

“Will you let us search it?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Yes, and I’ll help. I’m just as eager to find the jewels and bonds as you are. Come on, boys!”

Hurd Applegate led the way across the mansion toward a door which opened into the new tower. Now that the man was in a good mood, Frank decided that this was an opportune time to tell him about the trap door. He did so, offering to pay for the repair.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Applegate. “I’ll have it fixed. In fact, Robinson—Oh, I forgot. I’ll get a carpenter.”

He said no more, but quickened his steps. Frank and Joe grinned. Old Mr. Applegate had not even reprimanded them!

The mansion owner opened the door to the new tower and stepped into a corridor. Frank and Joe, tingling with excitement, followed.

CHAPTER XVI

A Surprise

THE rooms in the new tower had been furnished when it was built. But only on rare occasions when the Applegates had visitors were the rooms occupied, the owner stated.

In the first one Frank, Joe, and Mr. Applegate found nothing, although they looked carefully in closets, bureaus, highboys, and under the large pieces of furniture. They even turned up mattresses and rugs. When they were satisfied that the loot had not been hidden there, they ascended the stairs to the room above. Again their investigation proved fruitless.

Hurd Applegate, being a quick-tempered man, fell back into his old mood. The boys’ story had convinced him, but when they had searched the rooms in the tower without success, he showed his disgust.

“It’s a hoax!” he snorted. “Adelia was right. I’ve been made a fool of! And all because of Robinson!”

“I can’t understand it!” Joe burst out. “Jackley said he hid the stuff in the tower.”

“If that fellow did hide the jewels and bonds in one of the towers,” Applegate surmised, “someone else must have come in and taken them—maybe someone working with him. Or else Robinson found the loot right after the robbery and kept it for himself.”

“I’m sure Mr. Robinson wouldn’t do that,” Joe objected.

“Then where did he get the nine hundred dollars? Explain that. Robinson won’t!”

On the way back to the main part of the mansion, Hurd Applegate elaborated on his theory. The fact that the loot had not been found seemed to convince him all over again that Robinson was involved in some way.

“Like as not he was in league with Jackley!” the man stated flatly.

Again Frank and Joe protested that the ex-caretaker did not hobnob with criminals. Neverthe-: less, the Hardys were puzzled, disappointed, and alarmed. Their search had only resulted in implicating Mr. Robinson more deeply in the mystery.

Back in the hallway of the main house they met Adelia Applegate, who crowed triumphantly when she saw the search party returning empty-handed. “Didn’t I tell you?” she cried. “Hurd Applegate, you’ve let these boys make a fool of you!”

She escorted the Hardys to the front door, while her brother, shaking his head perplexedly, went back to his study.

“We sure messed things up, Frank,” Joe declared, as they walked toward their motorcycles. “I feel like a dud rocket.”

“Me too.”

They hurried home to tell their father the disappointing news. Fenton Hardy was amazed to hear that the stolen valuables had not been located in either tower. “You’re sure you went over the place thoroughly?”

“Every inch of it. There wasn’t a sign of the loot. From the dust in the old tower, I’d say no one had been there for ages,” Frank replied.

“Strange,” the detective muttered. “I’m sure Jackley wasn’t lying. He had absolutely nothing to gain by deceiving me. ‘I hid it in the old tower.’ Those were his very words. And what could he mean but the old tower of Tower Mansion? And why should he be so careful to say the old tower? Since he was familiar with Bayport, he probably knew that the mansion has two towers, the old and the new.”

“Of course, it may be that we didn’t search thoroughly enough,” Joe remarked. “The loot could be hidden under the flooring or behind a movable wall panel. We didn’t look there.”

“That’s the only solution,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “I’m still not satisfied that the stolen property isn’t there. I’m going to ask Applegate to permit another search of both towers. And now, I think your mother wants you to do an errand downtown.”

Mrs. Hardy explained what she wanted and Frank and Joe were soon on their motorcycles again. When the boys reached the business section of Bayport they found that Jackley’s confession had already become known. The local radio station had broadcast it in the afternoon news program and people everywhere were discussing it.

Detective Smuff walked along the street looking as if he would bite the head off the first person who mentioned the case to him. When he saw the Hardy boys he glowered.

“Well,” he grunted, “I hear you got the stuff back.”

“I wish we had,” Frank said glumly.

“What!” the detective cried out, brightening at once. “You didn’t get it? I thought they said on the radio that this fellow Jackley had told your father where he hid it.”

“He did. But how did the news leak out?”

“Jackley’s door wasn’t closed all the time. One of the other patients who was walking by the room heard the confession and spilled it. So you didn’t find the loot after all! Ha-ha! That’s a good one! Didn’t Jackley say the stuff was hidden in the old tower? What more do you need?”

“Well, it wasn’t there!” Joe retorted hotly. “Jackley must have made a mistake!”

“Jackley made a mistake!” Smuff continued cheerfully. “It looks like the joke’s on you fellows and your father!” The would-be sleuth went on down the street, chuckling to himself.

When Frank and Joe returned home they found that Mr. Hardy had been in touch with Hurd Applegate and had convinced him that a more detailed search of the towers would be advisable.

“Boys,” he said, “we’ll go there directly after supper. I think we’d better not wait until tomorrow.”

At seven o’clock the detective and his sons presented themselves at the Tower Mansion. Hurd Applegate met them at the door.

“I’m letting you make this search,” he said as he led them toward the old tower, “but I’m convinced you won’t find anything. I’ve talked the case over with Chief Collig. He’s inclined to think that Robinson is behind it all and I’m sure he is.”

“But how about Jackley’s confession?” Mr. Hardy asked him.

“The chief says that could be a blind. Jackley did it to protect Robinson. They were working together.”

“I know it looks bad for Robinson,” Mr. Hardy admitted, “but I want to give the towers another close examination. I heard Jackley make the confession and I don’t believe he was lying.”

“Maybe. Maybe. But I’m telling you it was a hoax.”

“I’ll believe that only if I don’t find anything inside or outside either tower,” Mr. Hardy declared, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Well, come on, let’s get started,” Hurd Applegate said, unlocking the door leading to the old tower.

Eagerly the four set to work. They started at the top of the old tower and worked downward. Their investigation left no possibility untouched. All the walls were tapped for hollow sounds which might indicate secret hiding places. The floors were examined closely for signs of any recent disturbance to the wood. But the missing jewels and bonds were not located. Finally the group reached the ground floor again.

“Nothing to do but go on to the new tower,” Mr. Hardy commented briefly.

“I’ll have to rest and eat something before I do any more,” Hurd Applegate said wearily. He led the way to the dining room where sandwiches and milk had been set out. “Help yourselves,” he invited. He himself took only crackers and milk when they all sat down.

After the brief stop for refreshment, the Hardys and the mansion owner turned their attention to the new tower. Again they searched carefully. Walls and partitions were tapped and floors were sounded. Every bit of furniture was minutely examined. Not an inch of space escaped the scrutiny of the detective and his helpers.

As the search drew to a close and the loot still had not been found, Mr. Hardy remarked, “It certainly looks as if the stolen property was never hidden here by Jackley. And furthermore, there’s no evidence that if he did hide it here, anyone came in to take it away.”

“You mean,” said Frank, “it’s proof that Mr. Robinson did not come in here?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe not,” Mr. Applegate conceded. “But it still doesn’t prove he wasn’t in cahoots with the thief!”

“I’m not going to give up this search yet,” Mr. Hardy said determinedly. “Perhaps the loot was hidden somewhere outside the old tower.”

He explained that it would be difficult to examine the grounds properly at night. “With your permission, Mr. Applegate, my sons and I will return at sunrise tomorrow morning and start work again.” As the owner reluctantly nodded his assent, Mr. Hardy turned to Frank and Joe and smiled. “We ought to be able to prove our point before schooltime.”

The boys, who had had no time to prepare any homework, reminded their father that a note from him to the principal would be a great help. The detective smiled, and as soon as they reached home he wrote one out, then said good night.

Frank and Joe felt as if their eyes had hardly closed when they opened them again to see their father standing between their beds. “Time to get up if you want to be in on the search,” he announced.

The boys blinked sleepily, then sprang out of bed. Showers awakened them fully and they dressed quickly. Mrs. Hardy was in the kitchen when they entered it and breakfast was ready. The sun was just rising over a distant hill.

“Everything hot this morning,” Mrs. Hardy said. “It’s chilly outside.”

The menu included hot applesauce, oatmeal, poached eggs on toast, and cocoa. Breakfast was eaten almost in silence to avoid any delay, and within twenty minutes the three Hardy sleuths were on their way.

“I see you put spades in the car, Dad,” Frank remarked. “I take it we’re going to do some digging.”

“Yes, if we don’t locate the loot hidden above ground some place.”

When the Hardys reached Tower Mansion they instituted their hunt without notifying the Applegates, who, they were sure, were still asleep. Everything in the vicinity of both towers was scrutinized. Boulders were overturned, the space under the summerhouse examined by flashlight, every stone in the masonry tested to see if it could be dislodged. Not a clue turned up.

“I guess we dig,” Frank stated finally.

He chose a bed of perennial bushes at the foot of the old tower where there had been recent planting, and pushed one of the spades in deep with his foot. The tool hit an obstruction. Excitedly Frank shoveled away the dirt around the spot. In half a minute he gave a cry of delight.

“A chest! I’ve found a buried chest!”

CHAPTER XVII

An Unexpected Find

THROWING out the dirt in great spadefuls, Frank uncovered the chest completely. It was about two feet long, six inches wide, and a foot deep.

“The treasure!” Joe cried out, running up.

Mr. Hardy was at his son’s heels and looked in amazement at Frank’s discovery. The boy lifted the chest out of the hole and instantly began to raise the lid on which there was no lock.

Everyone held his breath. Had the Hardys really uncovered the jewels and securities stolen from the Applegates? Frank flung back the lid.

The three sleuths stared at the contents. They had never been more surprised in their lives. Finally Joe found his voice.

“Nothing but a lot of flower bulbs!”

The first shock of disappointment over, the detective and his sons burst into laughter. The contents of the chest were such a far cry from what they had expected that now the situation seemed ridiculous.

“Well, one thing is sure,” said Frank. “Red Jackley never buried this chest. I wonder who did?”

“I can answer that,” a voice behind them replied, and the Hardys turned to see Hurd Applegate, clad in bathrobe and slippers, walking toward them.

“Good morning, Mr. Applegate,” the boys chorused, and their father added, “You see we’re on the job. For a couple of moments we thought we had found your stolen property.”

Hurd Applegate’s face took on a stem look. “You didn’t find my securities,” he said, “but maybe you have found a clue to the thief. Robinson buried that chest full of bulbs. That’s what he’s done with Adelia’s jewelry and my securities! He’s buried them some place, but I’d be willing to bet anything it wasn’t on the grounds here.”

Frank, realizing the man was not in a good humor this morning, tried to steer the conversation away from the stolen valuables. “Mr. Applegate,” he said, “why did Mr. Robinson bury these flower bulbs here?”

The owner of Tower Mansion gave a little snort. “That man’s nutty about unusual flowers. He sent to Europe for these bulbs. They have to be kept in a cool, dark place for several months, so he decided to bury them. He’s always doing something queer like that. Why, do you know what he tried to get me to do? Put up a greenhouse here on the property so he could raise all kinds of rare flowers.”

“That sounds like a swell hobby,” Joe spoke up.

“Swell nothing!” Mr. Applegate replied. “I guess you don’t know how much greenhouses cost. And besides, growing rare flowers takes a lot of time. Robinson had enough to do without fiddling around with making great big daisies out of little wild ones, or turning cowslips into orchids!”

Frank whistled. “If Mr. Robinson can do that, he’s a genius!”

“Genius—that’s a joke!” said Mr. Applegate. “Well, go on with your digging. I want this mystery cleared up.”

It was decided that Mr. Hardy, with his superior powers of observation, would scrutinize the ground near both towers. Wherever it looked as if the ground had been turned over recently, the boys would dig at the spot. The chest of flower bulbs was carefully replaced and the dirt shoveled over it.

“Here’s a place where you might dig,” Mr. Hardy called presently from the opposite side of the old tower. When the boys arrived with their spades, he said, “I have an idea a dog dug up this spot and probably all you’ll find is a beef bone. But we don’t want to miss anything.”

This time Joe’s spade hit the object which had been buried. As his father had prophesied, it proved to be only a bone secreted by some dog.

The three Hardys transferred their work to the new tower. All this time Hurd Applegate had been looking on in silence. From the corners of their eyes, the Hardys could catch an expression of satisfaction on the elderly man’s face.

Mr. Hardy glanced at his wrist watch, then said, “Well, boys, I guess this is our last try.” He indicated another spot a few feet away. “You fellows must get cleaned up and go to school.”

Undaunted by their failures so far, Frank and Joe dug in with a will. In a few moments they had uncovered another small chest.

“Wow, this one is heavy!” Frank said as he lifted it from the hole.

“Then maybe—maybe it’s the stolen property!” Joe exclaimed.

Even Mr. Applegate showed keen interest this time and leaned over to raise the lid himself. The box contained several sacks.

“The jewels!” Joe cried out.

“And that flat-shaped sack could contain the securities!” Frank said enthusiastically.

Mr. Applegate picked up one of the circular bags and quickly untied the string wound about the top. His face took on a look of utter disgust. “Seeds!” he fairly shouted.

Mr. Hardy had already picked up the flat sack. He looked almost as disappointed as Mr. Applegate. “Flower catalogs!” he exclaimed. “They seem to be in various foreign languages.”

Frank lifted the chest from the hole

“Oh, Robinson was always sending for things from all over the world,” the Tower Mansion owner remarked. “I told him to destroy them. He paid too much attention to that stuff when he might have been doing something useful. I suppose he buried the catalogs, so I wouldn’t find them.”

After a long breath the elderly man went on, “Well, we’ve reached the end of the line. You Hardys haven’t proved a thing, but you’ve certainly torn up my house and grounds.”

The three sleuths had to admit this was true but told him they were still fired by two hopes: to clear Mr. Robinson of the charge against him, and to find the stolen property. As they put their spades back into the Hardy car, Mr. Applegate invited them into the house to wash and have a bite to eat.

“I guess you boys could do with a second breakfast,” he added, and the brothers thought, “Maybe at times Mr. Applegate isn’t such a bad sort.”

They accepted the invitation and enjoyed the meal of waffles and honey. Their father then drove them to Bayport High.

Frank and Joe had no sooner stepped from the car than they heard their names called. Turning, they saw Iola Morton and Callie Shaw coming toward them.

“Hi, boys!”

“Hi, girls!”

“Say, did you hear what happened early this morning?” Callie asked.

“No. School called off for today?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I wish it were.” Callie sobered. “It’s about Mr. Robinson. He’s been arrested again!”

“No!” The Hardys stared at Callie, thunder-struck. “Why?” Frank demanded.

Iola took up the story, saying that she and Chet had heard the bad news on the radio that morning. They had stopped at the Robinsons’ home, when their father brought them to school, to find out more about what had happened.

“It seems that Chief Collig has an idea Mr. Robinson was in league with the thief Jackley, that man your father got the confession from. So he arrested him. Poor Mrs. Robinsonl She doesn’t know what to do.”

“And Mr. Robinson had just managed to find another job,” Callie said sadly. “Oh, can’t you boys do something?”

“We’re working on the case as hard as we can,” Frank replied, and told the girls about their sleuthing the evening before and early that morning. At that moment the school bell rang and the young people had to separate.

Frank and Joe were deeply concerned by what they had just heard. At lunch they met Jerry, Phil, Tony, and Chet Morton and told them the news.

“This is tough on Slim,” Phil remarked.

“Tough on the whole family,” Chet declared.

The boys discussed the situation from all angles and racked their brains for some way in which they could help the Robinsons. They concluded that only the actual discovery of the stolen jewels and bonds would clear Mr. Robinson of the suspicion which hung over him.

“That means there’s only one thing to do,” Frank said. “We must find that loot!”

After school he and Joe played baseball for the required period, then went directly home. They had no heart for further sports activities. It was a dull, gloomy day, indicative of rain and this did not raise the boys’ spirits.

Frank, who was restless, finally suggested, “Let’s take a walk.”

“Maybe it’ll help clear the cobwebs from our brains,” Joe agreed.

They told their mother they would be home by suppertime, then set off. The brothers walked mile after mile, and then, as they turned back, they were drawn as if by magnets to Tower Mansion.

“This place is beginning to haunt me,” said Joe, as they walked up the driveway.

Suddenly Frank caught his brother’s arm. “I just had an idea. Maybe Jackley in his deathbed confession was confused and meant some other robbery he committed. Besides, at some time in every mystery the most innocent-seeming people become suspect. What proof is there that the Applegates haven’t pulled a hoax? For reasons of their own they might say that the things had been stolen from their safe. Don’t forget that Dad didn’t find any fingerprints on it except Mr. Applegate’s.”

“Frank, you’ve got a point there. That man and his sister act so mean sometimes, I wouldn’t put it past them to be trying to cheat the insurance company,” said Joe.

“Exactly,” his brother agreed. “For the moment, let’s play it this way. We’ll pretend they’re suspects and do a little spying about this place.”

Instantly the boys left the roadway and disappeared among the shrubbery that lined it. Making their way cautiously, they moved forward toward Tower Mansion. The place was in darkness with the exception of three lighted rooms on the first floor.

“What’s your idea, Frank?” his brother whispered. “To learn something that might tell us whether or not the Applegates are implicated in the robbery?”

“Yes. Maybe we’ll get a clue if we keep our eyes and ears open.”

The boys walked forward in silence. They approached the mansion from the end where the old tower stood. Somewhere, not far from them, they suddenly heard footsteps on the gravel walk. In a flash the brothers dodged behind a tree. The footsteps came closer and the boys waited to see who was approaching. Was it one of the Applegates, or someone else?

Before they could find out, the person’s footsteps receded and the boys emerged from their hiding place. Suddenly a glaring light was beamed directly on them.

It came from the top room of the old tower!

CHAPTER XVIII

A Startling Deduction

“DUCK!” Frank ordered in a hoarse whisper, quickly dropping to the ground.

Instantly Joe threw himself face down alongside his brother.

“You think the person with the flashlight in the tower saw us?” Frank asked.

“He could have, but maybe not. We sure went down fast.”

The strong flashlight was not trained on them again. It was beamed out a window of the tower in another direction, then turned off.

“Well, what say?” Joe asked. “Shall we go on up to the mansion and continue our sleuthing?”

Frank was of the opinion that if they did, they might get into trouble. Even if they had not been recognized, the person in the tower probably had spotted them.

“I’d like to find out who was in the tower,” Joe argued. “It’s just possible that the Applegates don’t know anything about him.”

Frank laughed quietly. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” he advised.

As the boys debated about whether to leave the grounds or to go forward, the matter was suddenly taken out of their hands. From around the corner of the tower rushed a huge police dog, growling and barking. It apparently had scented the brothers and was bounding directly toward them.

Frank and Joe started to run pell-mell, but were unable to keep ahead of the dog. In a few moments he blocked their path menacingly and set up a ferocious barking.

“I guess we’re caught,” Frank said. “And I hope this old fellow won’t take a piece out of my leg.”

The two boys tried to make friends with the animal, but he would not let them budge.

“Well, what do we do now?” Joe asked in disgust as the dog continued to growl menacingly.

“Wait to be rescued,” Frank replied tersely.

A moment later they saw a bobbing light coming in their direction and presently Mr. Applegate appeared. He looked at the boys in complete astonishment.

“You fellows never give up, do you?” he remarked. “What have you been doing—more digging?”

The brothers did not reply at once. They were embarrassed at having been discovered, but relieved that the man did not suspect what they had really intended to do. The owner of Tower Mansion took their lack of response to mean he was right.

“I’m just not going to have any more of my grounds ruined,” he said gruffly. “I’ve borrowed this watchdog, Rex, and he’s going to keep everybody away. If you have any reason for wanting to see me, you’d better phone first, and I’ll keep Rex chained.”

“Who was up in the tower with a flashlight?” Frank asked the elderly man.

“My sister. She got it into her head that maybe she was smarter than you fellows and could find the stolen stuff in the old tower, but she didn’t!” Frank and Joe suppressed grins as he went on. “And then Adelia decided to flash that high-powered flashlight around the grounds, thinking we might have a lot of curious visitors because of the publicity. Apparently she picked you up.”

The boys laughed. “Yes, she did,” Frank admitted. “Between her and Rex, I guess you needn’t worry about any prowlers.”

Frank and Joe said good night to Hurd Applegate and started down the driveway. This time the dog did not follow them. He remained at the man’s side until the Hardys were out of sight.

As they trudged homeward, Joe remarked, “This seems to be our day for exciting events that fizzle out like wet fireworks.”

“Yes. Nothing to show for all our work.”

At supper both Mr. and Mrs. Hardy laughed at the boys’ story of their encounter with the dog. Then they became serious when Frank asked his father if he thought there was a chance that the Applegates might be guilty of falsely reporting a robbery.

“It’s possible, of course,” the detective answered. “But the Applegates are so well-to-do I can’t see any point in their trying such a thing. I believe it’s best for us to stick to the original idea —that someone really did take jewels and securities from the safe, and that the person was Jackley.”

As the boys were going to bed that night, Frank remarked to his brother, “Tomorrow is Saturday and we have the whole day free. I vote we set ourselves the goal of solving the mystery before night.”

“A big order, but I’m with you,” Joe replied with a grin.

They were up early and began to discuss what course of sleuthing they should follow.

“I think we ought to start off on a completely new tack,” Joe suggested.

“In which direction?” Frank asked him.

“In the direction of the railroad.”

Joe went on to explain that one thing they had not done was find out about Red Jackley’s habits when he had worked around Bayport. If they could talk to one or more persons who had known him, they might pick up some new clue which would lead them to the stolen property.

“Good idea, Joe,” his brother agreed. “Let’s take our lunch and make an all-day trip on our motorcycles.”

“Fine.”

Mr. Hardy had left the house very early, so his sons did not see him. When his wife heard the boys’ plan, she thought it an excellent one and immediately offered to make some sandwiches for them. By the time they were ready to leave she had two small boxes packed with a hearty picnic lunch.

“Good-by and good luck!” Mrs. Hardy called as the brothers rode off.

“Thanks, Mother, for everything!” the young detectives chorused as they started off.

When Frank and Joe reached the Bayport railroad station, they questioned the stationmaster, and learned that he had been with the company only a year and had not known Red Jackley.

“Did he work on a passenger train?” the man asked.

“I don’t think so,” Frank replied. “I believe he was employed as a maintenance man.”

“Then,” said the stationmaster, “I’d advise you to go out along the highway to the railroad crossings and interview a couple of old flagmen who are still around. Both of them seem to know everybody and everything connected with the railroad for the past fifty years.” He chuckled.

The boys knew of two grade crossings some miles out of town and now headed for them. At the first one they learned that the regular flagman was home ill and his substitute had never heard of Red Jackley. Frank and Joe went on.

At the next crossing they found old Mike Halley, the flagman there, busy at his job. His bright blue eyes searched their faces for a moment, then he amazed them by saying, “You’re Frank and Joe Hardy, sons of the famous detective Fenton Hardy.”

“You know us?” Frank asked. “I must confess I don’t recall having met you before.”

“And you ain’t,” the man responded. “But I make it a rule to memorize every face I see in the newspapers. Never know when there’s goin’ to be an accident and I might be called on to identify some people.”

The boys gulped at this gruesome thought, then Frank asked Halley if he remembered a railroad man named Red Jackley.

“I recollect a man named Jackley, but he wasn’t never called Red when I knew him. I reckon he’s the same fellow, though. You mean the one that I read went to jail?”

“That’s the man!”

“He out of the pen yet?” Mike Halley questioned.

“He died,” Joe replied. “Our dad is working on a case that has some connection with Jackley and we’re just trying to find out something about him.”

“Then what you want to do,” said the flagman, “is go down to the Bayport and Coast Line Railroad. That’s where Jackley used to work. He was around the station at Cherryville. That ain’t so far from here.” He pointed in a northerly direction.

“Thanks a million,” said Frank. “You’ve helped us a lot.”

The brothers set off on their motorcycles for Cherryville. When they came to the small town, a policeman directed them to the railroad station, which was about a half mile out of town. The station stood in a depression below a new highway, and was reached by a curving road which ran parallel to the tracks for several hundred feet.

The building itself was small, square, and very much in need of paint. A few nearby frame buildings were in a bad state of disrepair. An old wooden water tank, about seventy yards from one side of the station house, sagged precariously. At the same distance on the other side rose another water tank. This one, painted red, was of metal and in much better condition.

Frank and Joe parked their motorcycles and went into the station. A man in his shirt sleeves and wearing a green visor was bustling about behind the ticket window.

“Are you the stationmaster?” Frank called to him.

The man came forward. “I’m Jake—stationmaster, and ticket seller, and baggage slinger, and express handler, and mail carrier, and janitor, and even rice thrower. You name it. I’m your man.”

The boys burst into laughter, then Joe said, “If there’s anybody here who can tell us what we want to know, I’m sure it’s you. But first, what do you mean you’re a rice thrower?”

The station agent guffawed. “Well, it don’t happen often, but when a bride and groom comes down here to take a train, I just go out, grab some of the rice, and throw it along with everybody else. I reckon if that’ll make ’em happy, I want to be part of the proceedin’s.”

Again the Hardys roared with laughter. Then Frank inquired if the man had known Red Jackley.

“I sure did,” Jake replied. “Funny kind of fellow. Work like mad one minute, then loaf on the job the next. One thing about him, he never wanted nobody to give him any orders.”

“Did you know that he died recently?” Frank asked.

“No, I didn’t,” the stationmaster answered. “I’m real sorry to hear that. Jackley wasn’t a bad sort when I knew him. Just got to keepin’ the wrong kind of company, I guess.”

“Can you tell us any particular characteristics he had?” Frank questioned.

Jake scratched his head above his visor. Finally he said, “The thing I remember most about Jackley is that he was a regular monkey. He was nimble as could be, racin’ up and down freight-car lad. ders.”

At that moment they heard a train whistle and the man said hurriedly, “Got to leave you now, boys. Come back some other time when I ain’t so busy. Got to meet this train.”

The Hardys left him and Frank suggested, “Let’s eat our lunch and then come back.”

They found a little grove of trees beside the railroad tracks and propped their motorcycles against a large tree.

“I’m starved,” said Frank, seating himself under the tree and opening his box of lunch.

“Boy, this is good!” Joe exclaimed a moment later as he bit hungrily into a thick roast beef sandwich.

“If Jackley had only stayed with the railroad company,” Frank observed as he munched a deviled egg, “it would’ve been better for everyone.”

“He sure caused a lot of trouble before he died,” Joe agreed.

“And he’s caused a lot more since, the way things have gone. For the Robinsons, especially.”

The boys gazed reflectively down the tracks, gleaming in the sun. The rails stretched far into the distance. Only a few hundred feet from the place where they were seated, the Hardys could see both water tanks: the dilapidated, weather-beaten wooden one, with some of the rungs missing from the ladder that led up its side, and the squat, metal tank, perched on spindly legs.

Frank took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully. The sight of the two water towers had given him an idea, but at first it seemed to him too absurd for consideration. He was wondering whether or not he should mention it to his brother.

Then he noticed that Joe, too, was gazing intently down the tracks at the tanks. Joe raised a cooky to his lips absently, attempted a bite, and missed the cooky altogether. Still he continued gazing fixedly in the same direction.

Finally Joe turned and looked at his brother. Both knew that they were thinking the identical thing.

“Two water towers,” Frank said in a low but excited tone.

“An old one and a newer one,” Joe murmured.

“And Jackley said—”

“He hid the stuff in the old tower.”

“He was a railroad man.”

“Why not?” Joe shouted, springing to his feet. “Why couldn’t it have been this old water tower he meant? He used to work around here.”

“After all, he didn’t say the old tower of Tower Mansion. He just said ‘old tower’!”

“Frank, I believe we’ve stumbled on a terrific clue!” Joe said jubilantly. “It would be the natural thing for Jackley to come to his former haunts after the robbery!”

“Right!” Frank agreed.

“And when he discovered that Chet’s jalopy was gone, he probably thought that the police were hot on his trail, so he decided to hide the loot some place he knew—where no one else would suspect. The old water tower! This must be the place!”

CHAPTER XIX

Loot!

LUNCH, motorcycles—everything else was forgotten ! With wild yells of excitement, Frank and Joe hurried down the embankment which flanked the right of way.

But as they came to a fence that separated the tracks from the grass and weeds that grew along the side, they stopped short. Someone on the highway above was sounding a car horn. Looking up, they recognized the driver.

Smuff!

“Oh, good night!” Joe cried out.

“The last person we want to see right now,” Frank said in disgust.

“We’ll get rid of him in a hurry,” Joe determined.

The boys turned around and climbed back up the embankment. By this time Oscar Smuff had stepped from his car and was walking down to meet the boys.

“Well, I found you,” he said.

“You mean you’ve been looking for us?” Frank asked in astonishment.

The detective grinned. With an ingratiating air he explained to the boys that he had trailed them for miles. He had seen them leave home on their motorcycles, and almost caught up with them at the Bayport station, only to lose them. But the stationmaster had revealed the Hardys’ next destination, and the aspiring sleuth had hastened to talk to the flagman, Mike Halley.

“He told me I’d find you here,” Smuff said, self-satisfaction evident in his tone.

“But why do you want us?” Joe demanded.

“I’ve come to make a proposition,” Smuff announced. “I’ve got a swell clue about Jackley and that loot he hid, but I need somebody to help me in the search. How about it, fellows? If old Smuff lets you in on his secret, will you help him?”

Frank and Joe were astounded at this turn of events. Did the man really know something important? Or was he suddenly becoming clever and trying to trick the Hardys into divulging what they knew? One thing the brothers were sure of: they wanted nothing to do with Oscar Smuff until they had searched the old water tower.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Frank said. He grinned. “Joe and I think we’re pretty good ourselves. We’re glad you do.”

“Then you’ll work with me?” Smuff asked, his eyes lighting up in anticipation.

“I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no,” Frank countered. He glanced at Joe, who was standing in back of the detective. Joe shook his head vigorously. “Tell you what, Smuff,” Frank went on. “When Joe and I get back to Bayport, we’ll look you up. We came out here to have a picnic lunch and relax.”

Smuff’s face fell. But he was not giving up so easily. “When I drove up, I saw you running like mad down the bank. Do you call that relaxing?”

“Oh, when you sit around awhile eating, your legs feel kind of cramped,” Joe told him. “Anyway, we have to keep in practice for the Bayport High baseball team.”

Smuff looked as if he did not know whether or not he was being kidded. But finally he said, “Okay, fellows. If you’ll get in touch with me the first of the week, I can promise you a big surprise. You’ve proved you can’t win the thousand-dollar reward alone, so we may as well each get a share of it. I’ve already admitted I need help to solve this mystery.”

He turned and slowly ambled up the embankment to his car. The boys waved good-by to the detective and waited until he was far out of sight and they were sure he would not return. Then Frank and Joe hurried down to the tracks, vaulted the fence, and ran pell-mell toward the old water tower.

“If only we have stumbled on the secret!” Frank said enthusiastically.

“It’ll clear Mr. Robinson—”

“We will earn the reward by ourselves—”

“Best of all, Dad will be proud of us.”

The old water tower reared forlornly alongside the tracks. At close quarters it seemed even more decrepit than from a distance. When the boys glanced at the ladder with its many rungs missing, they wondered if they would be able to ascend to the top on it.

“If Jackley climbed this ladder we can too,” said Frank as he stopped, panting, at the bottom. “Let’s go!”

He began to scramble up the rotted wood rungs. He had ascended only four of them when there came an alarming crack!

“Careful!” Joe cried out from below.

Frank clung to the rung above just as the one beneath him snapped under his weight. He drew himself up and cautiously put his foot on the next rung. This one was firmer and held his weight.

“Hey!” Joe called up. “Don’t break all the rungs! I want to come up too!”

Frank continued to climb the ladder as his brother began the ascent. When they came to any place where a rung had broken off, the boys were obliged to haul themselves up by main force. But finally Frank reached the top and waited until Joe was just beneath him.

“There’s a trap door up here leading down into the tank,” Frank called.

“Well, for Pete’s sake, be careful,” Joe warned. “We don’t want any more accidents with trap doors.”

The boys climbed onto the roof of the tower, which swayed under their weight. Both fully realized their peril.

“We can’t give up now!” said Frank, and scrambled over the surface of the roof until he reached the trap door. Joe followed. They unlatched and raised the door, then peered down into the recesses of the abandoned water tank. It was about seven feet in depth and twelve in diameter.

Frank lowered himself through the opening, but clung to the rim until he was sure, from feeling around with his feet, that the floor would not break through. “It’s okay,” he told Joe, who followed his brother inside.

Eagerly the boys peered about the dim interior. The place seemed to be partly filled with rubbish. There was a quantity of old lumber, miscellaneous bits of steel rails, battered tin pails, and crowbars, all piled in helter-skelter fashion. At first glance there was no sign of the Applegates’ stolen possessions.

“The jewels and bonds must be here somewhere,” Joe declared. “But if Jackley did put the stuff here, he wouldn’t have left it right out in the open. It’s probably hidden under some of this junk.”

Frank pulled out a flashlight and swung it around. In its glow Joe began to hunt frantically, casting aside the old pails and pieces of lumber.

One entire half of the tower was searched without result. Frank turned the flashlight to the far side and noted that a number of boards had been piled up in a rather orderly crisscrossed manner.

“Joe,” said Frank, “I’d say these boards hadn’t been thrown here accidentally. It sure looks as if somebody had placed them deliberately to hide something underneath.”

“You’re right.”

Like a terrier after a bone, Joe dived toward the pile. Hastily he pulled away the boards.

Revealed in the neat little hiding place lay a bag. It was an ordinary gunny sack, but as Joe dragged it out he felt sure that the search for the Applegate property had come to an end.

“This must be it!” he exulted.

“The Tower treasure!” Frank smothered a whoop of joy.

Joe carried the sack into the light beneath the trap door.

“Hurry up! Open it!” Frank urged.

With trembling fingers Joe began to untie the cord around the sack. There were many knots, and as Joe worked at them, Frank fidgeted nervously.

“Let me try,” he said impatiently.

At last, with both Hardys working on the stubborn knots, the cord was untied and the bag gaped open. Joe plunged one hand into it and withdrew an old-fashioned bracelet of precious stones.

“Jewelry!”

“How about the securities?”

Again Joe groped into the sack. His fingers encountered a bulky packet. When he pulled it out, the boys exclaimed in unison:

“The bonds!”

The bundle of papers, held together by an elastic band, proved to be the securities. The first of the documents was a negotiable bond for one thousand dollars issued by the city of Bayport.

“Mr. Applegate’s property!” Frank cried out triumphantly. “Joe, do you realize what this means? We’ve solved the mystery!”

The brothers looked at each other almost unbelievingly, then each slapped the other on the back. “We did it! We did it!” Joe cried out jubilantly.

Frank grinned. “And without old Smuff,” he said.

“Now Mr. Robinson’s cleared for sure!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s the best part of solving this mystery.”

“You’re right!”

The boys rejoiced over their discovery for another full minute, then decided to hurry back to Bayport with the precious sack.

“You go down first, Frank,” said Joe. “I’ll toss the sack to you and then come myself.”

He picked up the bag and was about to hoist it to his shoulders when both boys heard a sound on the roof of the tower. They looked up to see an evil-looking, unshaven man peering down at them.

“Halt!” he ordered.

“Who are you?” Frank asked.

“They call me Hobo Johnny,” the man replied. “This here is my quarters and anything in it belongs to me. You got no right in my room. You can’t take anything away. And t’anks for finding the wad. I never thought to look around.”

Joe, taken aback a moment, now said, “You may sleep here, but this is railroad property. You don’t own what’s in this tower. Now go on down the ladder, so we can leave.”

“So you’re going to fight, eh?” Hobo Johnny said in an ugly tone. “I’ll see about that!”

Without warning the trap door was slammed shut and locked from the outside!

CHAPTER XX

The Escape

“LET us out of here!” Frank shouted at Hobo Johnny.

“You can’t get away with this!” Joe yelled.

The man on the water tower roof gave a loud guffaw. “You think I ain’t got no brains. Well, I got enough to know when I’m well off. I ain’t in no hurry to collect that treasure you found in the tower. A few days from now will be all right for me to sell it.”

“A few days from now?” Joe exclaimed, horrified. “By that time we’ll be suffocated or die of starvation.”

Frank put an arm around his impulsive brother’s shoulder. In a low tone he said, “We won’t do either, Joe. I don’t think it’s going to be too hard to get out of here. If not by the trap door, we’ll hack our way out through one side of the tank.”

Joe calmed down and both boys became silent. This seemed to worry Hobo Johnny, who called down, “What’re you guys up to?”

No answer.

“Okay. I’m leaving you now, but I’ll be back for that treasure. Don’t try any funny stuff or you’ll get hurt!”

The man on the roof waited a few moments for an answer. Receiving none, he shuffled across the tower to the ladder.

“I hope he doesn’t break all the rungs,” said Joe worriedly. “We won’t be able to get down.”

Again Frank patted his brother on the shoulder. “I noticed an iron pipe running from the top of this tower to the bottom,” he said. “If necessary, we can slide down the pipe.”

“How long do you think we should wait before trying to break out of here?” Joe asked.

Before replying, Frank pondered the situation. Not knowing anything about Hobo Johnny’s habits, he wondered how far away from the tower the man would go. If not far, the boys might find him waiting below and a tough person to handle. Finally, Frank decided that since the tramp had said he would return in an hour, he must be planning to go some distance away, perhaps to get a couple of his hobo friends to come back and help him.

“I’d say that if we leave in fifteen minutes we’ll be safe,” was Frank’s conclusion.

Every second seemed like an hour, but finally when the fifteen minutes were up, the boys lifted a plank and tried to push up the trap door. It would not budge.

“Where do we try next?” Joe questioned.

Frank was examining the seams around the trap door with the flashlight. Presently he pointed out a section where the wood looked completely dried out.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to ram a hole here, Joe. Then you can boost me up, so I can reach through and turn the handle on the lock.”

Joe picked up a crowbar and jabbed the sharp end between the edge of the trap door and the board next to it. There was a splintering sound. He gave the tool another tremendous push. The seam widened. Now he and Frank together wedged the end of the crowbar up through the opening.

In a few moments they had sprung the two boards far enough apart so that Frank, by standing on Joe’s shoulders, could reach his arm through the opening. He found the handle which locked the trap door and turned it. Joe pushed up the door with the plank.

The boys were free!

Frank pulled himself up through the opening and hurried to the edge of the roof. He looked all around below. Hobo Johnny was not in sight; in fact, there was no one to be seen anywhere.

“Clear field ahead!” he announced.

Now the boys began to carry out their original intention of removing the stolen property from the old water tower. Frank went back to the trap door and Joe handed up the sack, then joined his brother on the roof. The older boy went down the ladder quickly and his brother tossed the treasure to him. Joe lost no time in following.

“We’d better get away from here in a hurry!” Frank advised, and both boys sprinted to their motorcycles.

“Let’s divide this stuff. It’ll be easier to carry,” Frank suggested.

He opened the sack and handed Joe the bundle of securities, which the boy jammed into his pocket. Frank stuffed the sack containing the jewelry into his own side pocket. Then they hopped onto their motorcycles, stepped on the starters, and roared down the road toward Bayport. It was not until they were several miles from the old water tower that the Hardys relaxed. Grins spread over their faces.

“I don’t know who’s going to be the most surprised—Hurd or Adelia Applegate, or Chief Collig or—”

“I have another guess—Dad!” said Frank.

“I guess you’re right,” Joe agreed. “And the most disappointed person is going to be one Oscar Smuff!”

“What clue do you suppose he wanted us to follow?”

“It’s my idea he didn’t have any. He just wanted to hook on to us and then claim the glory if we found the treasure, so Collig would give him a job on the force.”

“Where do you think we ought to take these valuables?” Joe asked presently.

The boys discussed this as they covered nearly a mile of ground and finally came to the conclusion that since Hurd Applegate had given their father the job of finding the stolen property, the detective should be the one to return it to the owners.

Half an hour later the brothers pulled into the Hardy driveway and soon were overwhelming their parents with the good news.

“It’s wonderfull Simply wonderful!” Mrs. Hardy cried out, hugging each of her sons.

Their father’s face wore a broad grin. “I’m certainly proud of you,” he said, and slapped Frank and Joe on the back. “You boys shall have the honor of making the announcement to the Applegates.”

“How about Chief Collig?” Frank asked. “And we’ll report Hobo Johnny to him.”

“And we’ll invite the Robinsons to hear the announcement,” Joe added.

The detective said he thought there should be a grand meeting at the Applegates’ home of everyone involved with the tower mystery. He suggested that when the boys called up, they try to arrange such a meeting for that very evening.

Frank was selected to make the report to Hurd Applegate; the others could hear the elderly man exclaim in amazement. “I didn’t think you’d do it!” he said over and over again.

Shouting for his sister, he relayed the message, then said, “Adelia wants me to tell you she’s the most relieved woman in all of Bayport. She never did like any of this business.”

The Applegates readily agreed to a meeting at their home early that evening and insisted that Mr. Robinson be there. Mr. Hardy was to see to it that Chief Collig released the man at once.

“This is going to be a lot of fun,” Frank declared at supper. “Mother, I think you should come along? Will you?”

“I’d love to,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “I’d like to hear what the Applegates and Mr. Robinson and Chief Collig are going to say.”

“And Chet should be there too,” Joe said. “After all, it was his stolen car that gave us the clue to Red Jackley.” Chet was called and gave a whoop of delight. He agreed to meet the Hardy family at the Tower Mansion.

“There’s one more person who ought to attend,” said Frank with a twinkle in his eye. “Oscar Smuff. I’d like to watch his face, too.”

“At least we should tell him that the mystery has been solved,” Joe spoke up.

Frank waited until his father had phoned Chief Collig, who promised to release Mr. Robinson at once and bring him out to the Applegates’ home. Then Frank called Detective Smuff. He could not resist the temptation to keep Smuff guessing a little longer, and merely invited him to join the conference for a big surprise.

At eight o’clock one car after another arrived at the Tower Mansion. When the Hardy family walked in they found all the Robinsons there. The twins rushed up to Frank and Joe and hugged them. Slim and his father shook the brothers’ hands fervently and Mr. Robinson said, “How can I ever thank you?”

There were tears in his wife’s eyes and her voice trembled as she added her appreciation for what the Hardy boys had done. “You’ll never know what this means to us,” she said.

Oscar Smuff was the last to arrive. Instantly he demanded to know what was going on. Frank and Joe had hoped to have a little fun with him, but Tessie and Paula, unable to restrain their enthusiasm, shouted, “Frank and Joe Hardy found the jewelry and the papers! They’re real heroes!”

As Frank and Joe reddened in embarrassment, Detective Smuff looked at them disbelievingly. “You!” he almost screamed. “You mean the Hardy boys found the treasure?”

As all the others nodded, Slim spoke up, “This means that my father is completely exonerated.”

“But how about that nine hundred dollars?” Smuff demanded suspiciously. “What’s the explanation of where your father got that?”

Mr. Robinson straightened up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must keep my promise to remain silent about that money.”

To everyone’s amazement, Adelia Applegate arose and went to stand by the man’s side. “I will tell you where Robinson got that money,” she said dramatically. “At my own suggestion I loaned it to him.”

“You!” her brother shouted disbelievingly.

“Yes, this was one time when I didn’t ask your advice because I knew you wouldn’t agree. I knew Robinson needed the money and I really forced him to borrow it, but made him promise to tell no one where he got it. Then when the robbery took place, I didn’t know what to think. I was sick over the whole affair, and I’m very, very glad everything’s cleared up.”

Miss Applegate’s announcement astounded her listeners. Robinson stood up, shook her hand, and said in a shaky voice, “Thank you, Miss Adelia.”

Hurd Applegate cleared his throat, then said, “I’d like to make an announcement. Will you all please sit down?”

After everyone had taken seats in the large living room of the mansion, the owner went on, “My sister Adelia and I have been talking things over. This whole robbery business has taught us a great lesson. In the future we’re not going to be so standoffish from the residents of Bayport. We’re going to dedicate part of our grounds—the part with the pond—as a picnic and swimming spot for the townspeople.”

“Super!” exclaimed Chet, and Mrs. Hardy said, “I know everyone will appreciate that.”

“I haven’t finished,” Hurd Applegate went on. “I want to make a public apology to Mr. Robinson. Adelia and I are extremely sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused him. Robinson, if you will come back and work for us, we promise to treat you like the gentleman you are. We will increase your salary and we have decided to build that greenhouse you want. You’ll have free rein to raise all the rare flowers you wish to.”

There was a gasp from everyone in the room. All eyes were turned on Mr. Robinson. Slowly he arose from his chair, walked over to Mr. Applegate, and shook his hand.

“No hard feelings,” he said. “I’ll be happy to have my old position back, and with the new greenhouse, I’m sure I’ll win a lot of blue ribbons for you and Miss Adelia.”

As he returned to his chair, Mr. Applegate said, “There is just one more item of business—the reward. The thousand-dollar reward goes to Frank and Joe Hardy, who solved the mystery of the Tower treasure.”

“A thousand bucks!” exclaimed Detective Smuff.

“Dollars, Mr. Smuff—dollars!” Adelia Applegate corrected him severely. “No slang, please, not in Tower Mansion.”

“One thousand iron men,” Smuff continued, unheeding. “One thousand round, fat, juicy smackers. For two high school boys! And a real detective like me—”

The thought was too much for him. He dropped his head in his hands and groaned aloud. Frank and Joe did not dare look at each other. They were finding it difficult to restrain their laughter.

“Yes, a thousand dollars,” Hurd Applegate went on. “Five hundred to each boy.”

He took the two checks from a pocket and handed one each to Frank and Joe, who accepted them with thanks. Mr. Applegate now invited his guests into the dining room for sandwiches, cake, and cold drinks.

As Frank and Joe ate, they were congratulated over and over by the others in the room. They accepted it all with a grin, but secretly, each boy had a little feeling of sadness that the case had ended. They hoped another mystery would soon come their way, and one did at THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF.

“Later, on the way home, Mr. Hardy asked his sons, ”What are you fellows going to do with all that money?”

Frank had an instant answer. “Put most of it in the bank.”

And Joe added, “Frank and I for some time have wanted to build a crime lab on the second floor of our barn. Now we can do it. All right, Dad?”

The detective smiled and nodded. “An excellent ideal”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Spying by Telescope

CHAPTER II - Thief at Work

CHAPTER III - Landslide!

CHAPTER IV - The Rescue

CHAPTER V - Pretzel Pete

CHAPTER VI - The Strange Message

CHAPTER VII - The Hidden Trail

CHAPTER VIII - A Cap on a Peg

CHAPTER IX - Plan of Attack

CHAPTER X - A Watery tunnel

CHAPTER XI - Cliff Watchers

CHAPTER XII - The Secret Passage

CHAPTER XIII - A Startling Discovery

CHAPTER XIV - Captured

CHAPTER XV - Dire Threats

CHAPTER XVI - Quick Work

CHAPTER XVII - Hostages

CHAPTER XVIII - Coast Guard Action

CHAPTER XIX - The Chase

CHAPTER XX - The Smuggler’s Request

Match Wits with The Hardy Boys®!

Collect the Original Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

by Franklin W. Dixon

The Tower Treasure

The House on the Cliff

The Secret of the Old Mill

The Missing Chums

Hunting for Hidden Gold

The Shore Road Mystery

The Secret of the Caves

The Mystery of Cabin Island

The Great Airport Mystery

What Happened at Midnight

While the Clock Ticked

Footprints Under the Window

The Mark on the Door

The Hidden Harbor Mystery

The Sinister Signpost

A Figure In Hiding

The Secret Warning

The Twisted Claw

The Disappearing Floor

The Mystery of the Flying Express

The Clue of the Broken Blade

The Flickering Torch Mystery

The Melted Coins

The Short-Wave Mystery

The Secret Panel

The Phantom Freighter

The Secret of Skull Mountain

The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

The Secret of the Lost tunnel

The Wailing Siren Mystery

The Secret of Wildcat Swamp

The Crisscross Shadow

The Yellow Feather Mystery

The Hooded Hawk Mystery

The Clue in the Embers

The Secret of Pirates’ Hill

The Ghost at Skeleton Rock

The Mystery at Devil’s Paw

The Mystery of the Chinese Junk

Mystery of the Desert Giant

The Clue of the Screeching Owl

The Viking Symbol Mystery

The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior

The Haunted Fort

The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge

The Secret Agent on Flight 101

Mystery of the Whale Tattoo

The Arctic Patrol Mystery

The Bombay Boomerang

Danger of Vampire Trail

The Masked Monkey

The Shattered Helmet

The Clue of the Hissing Serpent

The Mysterious Caravan

The Witchmaster’s Key

The Jungle Pyramid

The Firebird Rocket

The Sting of the Scorpion

Hardy Boys Detective Handbook

The Hardy Boys Back-to-Back

The Tower Treasure/The House

on the Cliff

Celebrate 60 Years with the World’s Greatest Super Sleuths!

“Maybe I can give you a tip where to find

your father,” said Pretzel Pete

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1987, 1959, 1955, 1927 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. .S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-440-67316-0

1998 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Spying by Telescope

“So YOU boys want to help me on another case?” Fenton Hardy, internationally known detective, smiled at his teen-age sons.

“Dad, you said you’re working on a very mysterious case right now,” Frank spoke up. “Isn’t there some angle of it that Joe and I could tackle?”

Mr. Hardy looked out the window of his second-floor study as if searching for the answer somewhere in the town of Bayport, where the Hardys lived. Finally he turned back and gazed steadfastly at his sons.

“All right. How would you like to look for some smugglers?”

Joe Hardy’s eyes opened wide. “You mean it, Dad?”

“Now just a minute.” The detective held up his hand. “I didn’t say capture them; I just said look for them.”

“Even that’s a big assignment. Thanks for giving it to us!” Frank replied.

The lean, athletic detective walked to a corner of the study where a long, narrow carrying case stood. Tapping it, he said:

“You boys have learned how to manipulate this telescope pretty well. How would you like to take it out onto that high promontory above the ocean and train it seaward? The place I mean is two miles north of the end of the bay and eight miles from here.”

“That would be great!” said seventeen-year-old, blond-haired Joe, his blue eyes flashing in anticipation.

Frank, who was a year older than his brother and less impetuous, asked in a serious tone of voice, “Dad, have you any ideas about the identity of any of the smugglers?”

“Yes, I do,” Mr. Hardy answered his tall, dark-haired son. “I strongly suspect that a man named Felix Snattman is operating in this territory. I’ll give you the whole story.”

The detective went on to say that he had been engaged by an international pharmaceutical company to trace stolen shipments of valuable drugs. Reports of thefts had come from various parts of the United States. Local police had worked on the case, but so far had failed to apprehend any suspects.

“Headquarters of the firm is in India,” the detective told the boys. “It was through them that I was finally called in. I’m sure that the thefts are the result of smuggling, very cleverly done. That’s the reason I suspect Snattman. He’s a noted criminal and has been mixed up in smuggling rackets before. He served a long term in prison, and after being released, dropped out of sight.”

“And you think he’s working around Bayport?” Joe asked. He whistled. “That doesn’t make this town a very healthy place to live in!”

“But we’re going to make it sol” Mr. Hardy declared, a ring of severity in his voice.

“Just where is this spot we’re to use the telescope?” Frank asked eagerly.

“It’s on the Pollitt place. You’ll see the name at the entrance. An old man named Felix Pollitt lived there alone for many years. He was found dead in the house about a month ago, and the place has been vacant ever since.”

“It sounds as if we could get a terrific range up and down the shore from there and many miles across the water,” Frank remarked.

Mr. Hardy glanced at his wrist watch. “It’s one-thirty now. You ought to be able to go out there, stay a fair amount of time, and still get home to supper.”

“Oh, easily,” Joe answered. “Our motorcycles can really burn up the road!”

His father smiled, but cautioned, “This telescope happens to be very valuable. The less jouncing it receives the better.”

“I get the point,” Joe conceded, then asked, “Dad, do you want us to keep the information about the smugglers to ourselves, or would it be all right to take a couple of the fellows along?”

“Of course I don’t want the news broadcast,” Mr. Hardy said, “but I know I can trust your special friends. Call them up.”

“How about Chet and Biff?” Joe consulted Frank. As his brother nodded, he said, “You pack the telescope on your motorcycle. I’ll phone.”

Chet Morton was a stout, good-natured boy who loved to eat. Next to that, he enjoyed being with the Hardys and sharing their exciting adventures, although at times, when situations became dangerous, he wished he were somewhere else. Chet also loved to tinker with machinery and spent long hours on his jalopy which he called Queen. He was trying to “soup up” the motor, so that he could have a real “hot rod.”

In contrast to Chet, Biff Hooper was tall and lanky. To the amusement—and wonder—of the other boys, he used his legs almost as a spider does, covering tremendous distances on level ground or vaulting fences.

A few minutes later Joe joined his brother in the garage and told him that both Chet and Biff would go along. Chet, he said, had apologized for not being able to offer the Queen for the trip but her engine was “all over the garage.” “As usual,” Frank said with a grin as the two boys climbed on their motorcycles and set out.

Presently the Hardys stopped at Biff Hooper’s home. He ran out the door to meet them and climbed aboard behind Joe. Chet lived on a farm at the outskirts of Bayport, about a fifteen-minute run from the Hooper home. The stout boy had strolled down the lane to the road and was waiting for his friends. He hoisted himself onto Frank’s motorcycle.

“I’ve never seen a powerful telescope in operation,” he remarked. “How far away can you see with this thing?”

“It all depends on weather conditions,” Frank replied. “On a clear day you can make out human figures at distances of twenty-four miles.”

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “We ought to be able to find those smugglers easily.”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Biff spoke up. “Smugglers have the same kind of boats as everybody else. How close do you have to be to identify a person?”

“Oh, about two and a half miles,” Joe answered.

The motorcycles chugged along the shore road, with Frank watching his speedometer carefully. “We ought to be coming to the Pollitt place soon,” he said finally. “Keep your eyes open, fellows.”

The boys rode on in silence, but suddenly they all exclaimed together, “There it is!”

At the entrance to a driveway thickly lined with trees and bushes was a stone pillar, into which the name “Pollitt” had been chiseled. Frank and Joe turned into the driveway. The only part of the house they could see was the top of the roof. Finally, beyond a lawn overgrown with weeds, they came upon the tall, rambling building. It stood like a beacon high above the water. Pounding surf could be heard far below.

“This place sure looks neglected,” Biff remarked.

Dank, tall grass grew beneath the towering trees. Weeds and bushes threatened to engulf the whole building.

“Creepy, if you ask me,” Chet spoke up. “I don’t know why anybody would want to live here.”

The house itself was in need of repair. Built of wood, it had several sagging shutters and the paint was flaking badly.

“Poor old Mr. Pollitt was probably too sick to take care of things,” Frank commented, as he looked at several weed-choked flower beds.

To the Hardys’ disappointment, the sky had become overcast and they realized that visibility had been cut down considerably. Nevertheless, Frank unstrapped the carrying case and lugged it around to the front of the house.

He unfastened the locks and Joe helped his brother lift out the telescope and attached tripod, pulling up the eye-end section first.

Biff and Chet exclaimed in admiration.

“Boy, that’s really neat!” Chet remarked.

He and Biff watched in fascination as Frank and Joe began to set up the telescope. First they unfastened the tape with which the tube and tripod legs were tied together. Joe turned the three legs down and pulled out the extensions to the desired height. Then Frank secured the tripod legs with a chain to keep them from spreading.

“What’s next?” Biff asked.

“To get proper balance for the main telescope tube we slide it through this trunnion sleeve toward the eye end, like this.” After doing so, Frank tightened the wing nuts on the tripod lightly.

Joe picked up the balance weight from the carrying case and screwed it into the right side of the telescope tube about one third the distance from the eyepiece.

“This’ll keep the whole thing from being top heavy,” he pointed out.

“And what’s this little telescope alongside the big one for?” Chet queried.

The House on the Cliff grin. He squinted through the ends of both the large and the small telescopes. “I can’t see a thing,” he complained.

Joe laughed. “And you won’t until I insert one of the eyepieces into the adapter of the big telescope and put another eyepiece into the finder.”

of the eyepieces into the adapter of the big telescope and put another eyepiece into the finder.”

In a few minutes the Hardys had the fascinating device working. By turning a small knob, Frank slowly swung the telescope from left to right, and each boy took a turn looking out across the water.

“Not a boat in sight!” said Chet, disappointed.

Frank had just taken his second turn squinting through the eyepiece when he called out excitedly, “I see something!”

He now began a running account of the scene he had just picked up. “It’s not very clear ... but I see a boat ... must be at least six miles out.”

“What kind of boat?” Joe put in.

“Looks like a cruiser ... or a cutter.... It’s not moving.... Want to take a look, Joe?”

Frank’s brother changed places with him. “Say, fellows, a man’s going over the side on a ladder ... and, hey! there’s a smaller boat down below.... He’s climbing into it.”

“Can you see a name or numbers on the big boat?” Frank asked excitedly.

“No. The boat’s turned at a funny angle, so you can’t see the lettering. You couldn’t even if the weather was clearer.”

“Which way is the man in the small boat heading?” Biff asked.

“He seems to be going toward Barmet Bay.”

Joe gave up his position to Biff. “Suppose you keep your eye on him for a while, and also the big boat. Maybe it’ll turn so you can catch the name or number on the box.”

Chet had been silent for several moments. Now he said, “Do you suppose they’re the smugglers?”

“Could be,” Frank replied. “I think we’d better leave and report this to Dad from the first telephone we—”

He was interrupted by the sudden, terrifying scream of a man!

“Wh-where did that come from?” Chet asked with a frightened look.

“Sounded as if it came from inside,” Frank answered.

The boys stared at the house on the cliff. A moment later they heard a loud cry for help. It was followed by another scream.

“Somebody’s in there and is in trouble!” Joe exclaimed. “We’d better find out what’s going on!”

Leaving the telescope, the four boys ran to the front door and tried the knob. The door was locked.

“Let’s scatter and see if we can find another door,” Frank suggested.

Frank and Joe took one side of the house, Biff and Chet the other. They met at the rear of the old home and together tried a door there. This, too, was locked.

“There’s a broken window around the corner,” Biff announced. “Shall we climb in?”

“I guess we’d better,” Frank answered.

As the boys reached the window, which seemed to open into a library, they heard the scream again.

“Help! Hurry! Help!” came an agonized cry.

CHAPTER II

Thief at Work

JOE was first to slide through the broken window. “Wait a moment, fellows,” he called out, “until I unlock this.”

Quickly he turned the catch, raised the window, and the other three boys stepped inside the library. No one was there and they ran into the large center hall.

“Hello!” Frank shouted. “Where are you?”

There was no answer. “Maybe that person who was calling for help has passed out or is unconscious,” Joe suggested. “Let’s look around.”

The boys dashed in various directions, and investigated the living room with its old-fashioned furnishings, the dining room with its heavily carved English oak set, the kitchen, and what had evidently been a maid’s bedroom in days gone by. Now it was heaped high with empty boxes and crates. There was no one in any of the rooms and the Hardys and their two friends met again in the hall.

“The man must be upstairs,” Frank decided.

He started up the front stairway and the others followed. There were several bedrooms. Suddenly Chet hung back. He wanted to go with his pals but the eeriness of the house made him pause. Biff and the Hardys sped from one to another of the many rooms. Finally they investigated the last of them.

“Nobody here! What do you make of it?” Biff asked, puzzled.

Chet, who had rejoined the group, said worriedly, “M-maybe the place is haunted!”

Joe’s eyes were searching for an entrance to the third floor. Seeing none, he opened three doors in the hall, hoping to find a stairway. He saw none.

“There must be an attic in this house,” he said. “I wonder how you get to it.”

“Maybe there’s an entrance from one of the bedrooms,” Frank suggested. “Let’s see.”

The boys separated to investigate. Suddenly Frank called out, “I’ve found it.”

The others ran to where he had discovered a door behind a man’s shabby robe hanging inside a closet. This in turn revealed a stairway and the group hurriedly climbed it, Chet bringing up the rear.

The attic room was enormous. Old newspapers and magazines were strewn around among old-fashioned trunks and suitcases, but there was no human being in sight.

“I guess that cry for help didn’t come from the house at all,” Biff suggested. “What’ll we do now? Look outdoors?”

“I guess we’ll have to,” Frank answered.

He started down the steep stairway. Reaching the foot, he turned the handle of the door which had swung shut. To his concern he was not able to open it.

“What’s the matter?” asked Chet from the top of the stairway.

“Looks as if we’re locked in,” Frank told him. “Locked in?” Chet wailed. “Oh, no!”

Frank tried pulling and pushing the door. It did not budge.

“That’s funny,” he said. “I didn’t see any lock on the outside.”

Suddenly the full import of the situation dawned on the four boys. Someone had deliberately locked them in! The cries for help had been a hoax to lure them into the house!

“You think somebody was playing a joke on us?” Biff asked.

“Pretty rotten kind of joke,” Chet sputtered.

Frank and Joe were inclined to think that there was more to it than a joke. Someone had seen a chance to steal a valuable telescope and two late-model motorcycles!

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Joe said. “Frank, put your shoulder to the door and I’ll help.”

Fortunately, the door was not particularly sturdy and gave way easily. Frank glanced back a moment as he rushed through and saw two large hooks which he had not noticed before. They had evidently been slipped into the eyes and had been ripped from the framework by the crash on the door.

The other boys followed, running pell-mell through the hallway and clattering down the stairway. They dashed out the front door, leaving it open behind them. To their relief, the telescope still stood at the edge of the cliff, pointing seaward.

“Thank goodness!” said Joe. “I’d hate to have had to tell Dad the telescope was gone!”

Frank rushed over to take a quick look through the instrument. It had occurred to him that maybe some confederate of the smugglers had seen them spying. He might even have tricked them into the house during the very time that a smuggling operation would be within range of the telescope!

When Frank reached the edge of the cliff and tried to look through the instrument, he gasped in dismay. The eyepieces from both the finder and the telescope tube had been removed!

As he turned to tell the other boys of his discovery, he found that they were not behind him. But a moment later Joe came running around the corner of the house calling out:

“The motorcycles are safe! Nobody stole them!”

“Thank goodness for that,” said Frank.

Chet and Biff joined them and all flopped down on the grass to discuss the mysterious happenings and work out a plan of action.

“If that thief is hiding inside the house, I’m going to find him,” Joe declared finally.

“I’m with you,” said Frank, jumping up. “How about you, Biff, guarding the motorcycles and Chet taking charge of the telescope? That way, both the front and back doors will be covered, too, in case that thief comes out.”

“Okay,” the Hardys’ friends agreed.

As Frank and Joe entered the front hall, Joe remarked, “There’s a back stairway. If we don’t find the person on the first floor, I’ll take that to the second. You take the front.”

Frank nodded and the search began. Not only the first, but the second and attic floors were thoroughly investigated without results.

“There’s only one place left,” said Frank. “The cellar.”

This area also proved to have no one hiding in it. “I guess our thief got away,” Frank stated.

“And probably on foot,” Joe added. “I didn’t hear any car, did you?”

“No. Maybe he went down the cliff and made a getaway in a boat,” Frank suggested.

In complete disgust the Hardys reported their failure to Biff and Chet. Then they packed up the telescope and strapped it onto Frank’s motorcycle.

“We may as well go home,” Joe said dolefully. “We’ll have a pretty slim report for Dad.”

“Slim?” said Biff. “I haven’t had so much excitement in six months.”

The boys climbed aboard the motorcycles. As the Hardys were about to start the motors, all four of them froze in the seats. From somewhere below the cliff came a demoniacal laugh. Involuntarily the boys shuddered.

“L-let’s get out of here!” Chet urged.

Frank and Joe had hopped off the motorcycles, and were racing in the direction from which the eerie laughter was coming.

“It may be another trap!” Chet yelled after them. “Come back!”

But the Hardys went on. Just before they reached the edge of the cliff they were thunderstruck to hear the laughter coming from a completely different area. It was actually in back of them!

“What gives?” Joe asked.

“Search me,” his brother answered. “The ghost must have a confederate.”

The brothers peered over the edge of the cliff but could see only jagged rocks that led to the booming surf below. Frank and Joe returned to their chums, disappointed that they had learned nothing and had no explanation for the second laugh.

“I’m glad it stopped, anyhow,” said Chet. “It gave me goose pimples and made chills run up and down my spine.”

Biff looked at his wrist watch. “I really have to be getting home, fellows. Sorry to break up this man hunt. Maybe you can take me to a bus and come back.”

The Hardys would not hear of this and said they would leave at once.

They had gone scarcely a mile when the motor on Frank’s cycle sputtered and backfired, then died. “A swell time for a breakdown,” he said disgustedly as he honked for Joe to stop.

Joe turned around and drove back. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t know.” Frank dismounted. “It’s not the gas. I have plenty of that.”

“Tough luck!” Joe said sympathetically. “Well, let’s take a look at the motor. Better get out your tools.”

As Frank opened the toolbox of his motorcycle, an expression of bewilderment came over his face.

“My tools!” he exclaimed. “They’re gone!”

The others gathered around. The toolbox was indeed empty!

“Are you sure you had them when you left Bayport?” Chet asked.

“Of course I did. I never go anywhere without them.”

Biff shook his head. “I suppose the guy who took the eyepieces stole your tools too.”

Joe dashed to the toolbox on his own motorcycle and gave a cry of dismay.

“Mine are gone, too!”

CHAPTER III

Landslide!

“THAT’S a shame, fellows,” Chet Morton said. “This is sure your day for bad luck. First the eyepieces from your telescope are taken and now the tools from your motorcycles.”

“And all by the same person, I’m sure,” Frank remarked grimly.

“Some slick operator, whoever he is,” Joe added gloomily.

Chet put his hands into his trouser pockets and with a grin pulled out a pair of pliers, a screw driver, and a wrench.

“I was working on the Queen this morning,” he explained. “Good thing I happened to put these in my pocket.”

“I’ll say,” Frank declared gratefully, taking the tools which Chet handed over.

He unfastened the housing of the motor and began checking every inch of the machinery. Finally he looked up and announced, “I guess I’ve found the trouble—a loose connection.”

Frank adjusted the wires and a moment later the vehicle’s motor was roaring normally. The housing was put back on, Chet’s tools were returned with thanks, and the four boys set off once more.

“Let’s hope nothing more happens before we get home,” Biff said with a wry laugh.

“I’ll second that,” Joe said emphatically.

For five minutes the cyclists rode along in silence, their thoughts partly on the passing scenery, but mostly on the mystery in which they had become involved.

Joe’s mind was racing with his throbbing motorcycle. In a few minutes he had far outdistanced his brother. Frank did not dare go any faster because of the telescope strapped onto his handle bars.

Presently Joe reached a spot in the road where it had been cut out of the hillside on the right. There was a sharp curve here. The motorcycle took it neatly, but he and Biff had scarcely reached the straightaway beyond when they heard a thunderous sound back of them.

“What’s that?” Joe cried out.

Biff turned to look over his shoulder. “A landslide!” he shouted.

Rocks and dirt, loosened by recent heavy rain-storms, were tumbling down the steep hillside at terrific speed.

“Frank!” Joe cried out in horror. He jammed on his brake and disengaged the engine. As he ran back to warn his brother, Joe saw that he was too late. Biff had rushed up and both could only stare helplessly, their hearts sinking.

Frank and Chet came around the corner at good speed and ran full tilt into the landslide. Its rumbling sound had been drowned out by the pounding surf and their own roaring motor.

The two boys, the motorcycle, and the telescope were bowled over by the falling rocks and earth. As the rain of debris finally stopped, Joe and Biff reached their sides.

“Frank! Chet!” they cried out in unison. “Are you hurt?”

Frank, then Chet, sat up slowly. Aside from looking a bit dazed, they seemed to be all right. “Rock just missed my head,” Frank said finally.

“I got a mean wallop on my shoulder,” Chet panted gingerly, rubbing the sore spot.

“You fellows were lucky,” Biff spoke up, and Joe nodded his intense relief.

“How about the telescope?” Frank asked quickly. “Take a look at it, will you, Joe?”

The battered carrying case, pushed out of the straps which had held it in place on the motorcycle, lay in the road, covered with stone and dirt. Joe opened the heavily lined box and carefully examined the telescope.

“It looks all right to me,” he said in a relieved voice. “Of course we won’t know for sure until we try other eyepieces in it. But at least nothing looks broken.”

By this time Frank and Chet were standing up and Biff remarked, “While you two are getting your breath, Joe and I can take the biggest rocks out of the way. Some motorist may come speeding along here and break his neck or wreck his car unless this place gets cleaned up.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” Chet insisted. “The rock that hit me felt just like Bender, that big end on the Milton High team. He’s hit me many a time the same way.”

Frank, too, declared that he felt no ill effects. Together, the boys flung rock after rock into the field between the road and the water and, in pairs, carried the heavier rocks out of the way.

“Guess we’re all set now,” Frank spoke up. “Biff, I’m afraid you’re going to be late getting home.” He chuckled. “Who is she?”

Biff reddened a little. “How’d you guess? I have a date tonight with Sally Sanderson. But she’s a good sport. She won’t mind waiting a little longer.”

Again the four boys straddled the motorcycles and started off. A few minutes later a noise out in the ocean attracted Frank’s attention and he peered across the rolling sweep of waters. A powerful speedboat came into view around the base of a small cliff about a quarter mile out. It was followed at a short distance by a similar, but larger craft. Both boats were traveling at high speed.

“Looks like a race!” Joe called out. “Let’s watch it!”

The Hardys ran their motorcycles behind a clump of trees and stopped, then walked down to the shore line.

The boats did not appear to be having a friendly speed contest, however. The first boat was zigzagging in a peculiar manner, and the pursuing craft was rapidly overtaking it.

“See! That second boat is trying to stop the other one!” Frank exclaimed.

“It sure is. Wonder what’s up,” said Joe tensely. “I wish that telescope was working. Can any of you fellows make out the names on the boats?”

“No,” the others chorused.

The two men standing in the bow of the pursuing craft were waving their arms frantically. The first boat turned as if about to head toward the shore. Then, apparently, the helmsman changed his mind, for at once the nose of his boat was pointed out into the ocean again.

But the moment of hesitation had given the pursuers the chance they needed. Swiftly the gap between the racing craft grew smaller and smaller until the boats were running side by side. They were so close together that a collision seemed imminent.

“They’ll all be killed if they aren’t careful!” Frank muttered as he watched intently.

The lone man in the foremost craft was bent over the wheel. In the boat behind, one of the two men suddenly raised his right arm high. A moment later he hurled an object through the air. It landed in back of the engine housing in the center of the craft. At the same time the larger boat sped off seaward.

“What was that?” Chet asked. “I—”

Suddenly a sheet of flame leaped high into the air from the smaller boat. There was a stunning explosion and a dense cloud of smoke rose in the air. Bits of wreckage were thrown high and in the midst of it the boys saw the occupant hurled into the water.

Swiftly the whole boat caught fire. The flames raced from bow to stern.

“That man!” shouted Frank. “He’s alive!”

The boys could see him struggling in the surf, trying to swim ashore.

“He’ll never make it!” Joe gasped. “He’s all in.”

“We’ve got to save him!” Frank cried out.

CHAPTER IV

The Rescue

THE Hardy boys knew that they had no time to lose. It was evident that the man in the water had been injured by the explosion and could not swim much longer.

“We’ll never reach him!” Chet said, as the four boys dashed across the rocks and grass to the shore.

Suddenly Frank cried out, “I see a rowboat up on the beach.” His sharp eyes had detected a large rowboat almost completely hidden in a small cove at the bottom of the cliff. “We’d make better time in that!”

A huge rock jutting out of the water cut the cove off from the open part of the beach.

“We’d have to go up to that ridge and then down,” Joe objected. “I’ll swim out.”

“I will too,” said Biff.

The two plunged into the water and struck out for the stricken man.

Meanwhile, Frank and Chet sped up the slope, cut across a strip of grass, and began running down the embankment toward the rowboat.

“That man’s still afloat,” Frank shouted as he looked out over the water.

Joe and Biff were making good time but were a long way from the man, who seemed now to be drifting with the outgoing tide. The explosion victim, fortunately, had managed to seize a piece of wreckage and was hanging onto it.

Slipping and scrambling, Frank and Chet made their way down the slope. Rocks rolled and tumbled ahead of them. But finally they reached the bottom safely and examined the boat. It was battered and old, but evidently still seaworthy. There were two sets of oars.

“Grab hold!” Frank directed Chet.

The boys pulled the boat across the pebbles and into the water. Swiftly they fixed the oars in the locks and took their places. Pulling hard, Frank and Chet rowed toward the distressed swimmer. Presently they overtook Joe and Biff, who clambered aboard. The man had seen the boys and called feebly to them to hurry.

“Faster!” Joe urged. “He looks as if he’ll go under any second!”

The motorboat in the background was still blazing fiercely, flames shooting high in the air. The craft was plainly doomed.

The boys pulled harder and the rowboat leaped across the water. When it was only a few yards away from the man, he suddenly let go his hold on the bit of wreckage and slipped beneath the waves.

“He’s drowning!” Chet shouted, as he bent to his oar again.

Joe made a tremendously long, outward dive and disappeared into the water where the man had gone down. Frank and Chet rowed the boat to the spot and leaned over the side to peer down.

Just then, Joe and the stranger broke the surface of the water, with the boy holding an arm under the man’s shoulders. His head sagged.

“He’s unconscious!” Biff whispered hoarsely, as he helped pull the victim into the boat. The man sprawled helplessly on the bottom, more dead than alive.

“We’d better revive him and get him to the hospital,” said Frank.

He applied artificial respiration, forcing a little water from the man’s lungs, but the stranger did not regain consciousness.

“I think he collapsed from exhaustion,” Joe spoke up.

Frank and Chet took off their jackets and wrapped them around the wet figure.

“How about taking him to that farmhouse over there—along the road?” Chet suggested.

The others agreed. As Frank and Chet rowed toward the farm, the boys discussed the mystery. Who was the victim of the explosion and why had the men in the other motorboat tried to kill him?

The man they had rescued lay face downward in the bottom of the boat. He was a slim, dark-haired man with sharp, clean-cut features, and his clothes were cheap and worn. Biff looked in his pockets for identification but found none.

“Wonder if he’s a local man,” Joe said. “Never saw him around town.”

The other boys declared they never had either.

By this time the boat was close to shore. Joe and Biff leaped out and dragged it part way up on the beach. Then the four boys carried the unconscious man up the rocky shore toward the farmhouse.

At their approach a plump woman came hurrying out of the house. From the orchard nearby a burly man in overalls came forward.

“My goodness! What has happened?” the woman asked, running toward them.

“We just pulled this man out of the water,” Frank explained. “We saw your house—”

“Bring him in,” boomed the farmer. “Bring him right in.”

The woman ran ahead and held the door open. The boys carried the stranger into the house and laid him on a bed in the comfortably furnished first-floor bedroom. The farmer’s wife hastened to the kitchen to prepare a hot drink.

“Rub his ankles and wrists, and get those wet clothes off him,” the farmer told the boys. “That will step up his circulation. I’ll get him some pajamas.”

“How about calling a doctor?” Frank asked.

“No need. He’ll be okay,” the farmer declared.

The victim was soon under the covers. Frank and Joe continued to massage his wrists and ankles.

At last the stranger stirred feebly. His eyelids fluttered. His lips moved, but no words came. Then his eyes opened and the man stared at those around him, as though in a daze.

“Where am I?” he muttered faintly.

“You’re safe,” Frank assured him. “You’re with friends.”

“You saved me?”

“Yes.”

“Pretty near—cashed in—didn’t I?”

“You nearly drowned, but you’re all right now. When you feel like talking, you can tell us the whole story,” said Frank. “But, in the meantime, we’ll call the police or the Coast Guard and report those men who tried to murder you.”

The man in the bed blinked and looked out the window. Finally he said, “No, no. Don’t do that.”

The boys were shocked. “Why not?” Joe burst out.

The man was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said, “Thanks, but I’d rather let matters stand as they are. I’ll take care of it as soon as I get my strength back.” The rescued man turned to the farmer. “Okay with you if I stay here overnight? I’ll pay you, of course.”

The farmer put out his hand. “The name’s Kane and you’re welcome to stay until you feel strong. Nobody can say I ever turned a sick man away. And what’s your name?”

The patient hesitated a moment. “Jones. Bill Jones,” he said at last.

It was so evidently a false name that the Hardys glanced knowingly at each other. Mr. Kane did not seem to realize that his guest was apparently trying to hide his identity.

Mrs. Kane appeared with hot broth and toast. She suggested that her husband and the boys let the patient rest for a while. When she joined them in the living room she invited the boys to have a snack. Chet readily accepted for all of them.

The snack consisted of sandwiches of home-cured ham with cheese, glasses of fresh milk, and rich lemon pie, frothy with meringue. Chet beamed. “Mrs. Kane, you ought to open a restaurant. I’d be a steady customer. You’re the best pie maker I’ve ever met.”

Frank, Joe, and Biff chuckled. How often they had heard their stout, food-loving chum make similar remarks! But in this case they had to agree with him and told Mrs. Kane so.

She smiled. “It’s the least I can do for you boys who just saved someone’s life.”

Her young guests said nothing of their early afternoon’s adventure inside the Pollitt house, but Frank casually asked the Kanes if they had known the deceased owner and if anyone were living there now.

“Sure I knew Felix Pollitt,” the farmer replied. “Closemouthed old codger, but I did hear him once say somethin’ about havin’ a no-good nephew. Pollitt said he was his only livin’ relative and he supposed he’d have to leave the property to him.”

“But who’d want the place?” Mrs. Kane spoke up. “It’s falling apart and would cost a mint of money to fix up.”

Joe grinned. “Sounds like a haunted house,” he remarked pointedly.

“Funny you should say that.” Mrs. Kane looked at Joe. “There was a family stopped here the other day. Wanted to buy some eggs. One of the little girls said they’d had a terrible scare. They’d stopped at the old Pollitt place to have a picnic, and were scared out of their wits by moans and groans and queer laughs from the house.”

Mr. Kane’s face broke into a grin. “The kid’s imagination sure was runnin’ away with itself.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” his wife disagreed. “I think some boys were in there playing pranks.”

After Frank and Joe and their friends had left the farmhouse, they discussed the strange noises at the Pollitt place from this new angle.

Biff frowned. “If those ghosts are from Bayport High, they’ll sure have the laugh on us,” he remarked.

“They sure will,” Chet agreed. “I’d hate to face them on Monday.”

Frank and Joe were not convinced. After they had dropped their chums at the Morton and Hooper homes, they discussed the day’s strange and varied adventures all the way to the Hardy house.

“I’m sure that ghost business was meant to be something more than a prank,” Frank stated.

“Right,” his brother agreed. “I just had an idea, Frank. Maybe nobody was in the house, but he could have rigged up a tape recorder to make those sounds and a remote control to start it. What say we go back sometime and take a look?”

“I’m with you.”

By this time the boys had turned into the long driveway of the Hardy home, a spacious, three-story clapboard house on the corner of High and Elm streets. The large two-story garage at the rear of an attractive garden had once been a barn.

Frank and Joe parked their motorcycles, unstrapped the telescope, and carried it to the back porch. As they entered the kitchen, they found their mother, a pretty, sweet-faced woman, with sparkling blue eyes, preparing supper.

“Hello, boys,” she greeted them. “Did you have a good day? See any smugglers?”

They kissed her and Frank said, “We have a lot to tell you and Dad.”

“He’s in the study upstairs. I’ll go up with you right away and we can talk while the chicken’s roasting and the potatoes baking.”

The three hurried up to the room where Mr. Hardy was busy looking in a large metal file in which he kept important records. The detective stopped his work and listened with rapt attention as Frank and Joe gave a detailed account of their adventures.

“We sure fell for that cry for help,” Joe explained. “I’m sorry about the stolen eyepieces from the telescope.”

“And I hope it wasn’t damaged when I had my spill,” Frank added. He smiled wanly. “You’ll probably want to dismiss us from your detective force.”

“Nothing of the kind,” his father said. “But now, let’s discuss what you saw through the telescope. You said you spotted a man who climbed down the ladder of a boat and went off in a smaller one. Could he have been this same fellow who calls himself Jones?”

“We couldn’t identify him,” Joe replied, “but he might be.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “Yes, and he could be one of the smugglers.”

“But who threw that hand grenade at him?” Joe asked. “Not one of his own gang, surely. And those guys in the other speedboat—they couldn’t have been Coast Guard men, even in disguise. They wouldn’t use grenades.”

“Joe’s right on the second point,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But Jones may still be a smuggler.”

“You mean he might have done something to make his boss mad and the boss sent out a couple of men to get him?” Joe asked.

The detective nodded. “If this theory is right, and we can persuade Jones to talk before he either rejoins the gang or starts trying to take revenge, then we might get him to turn state’s evidence.”

The boys were excited. Both jumped from their chairs and Joe cried out eagerly, “Let’s go talk to him right away! By morning he’ll be gone!”

CHAPTER V

Pretzel Pete

“JUST a minute!” Mrs. Hardy said to her sons. “How about supper?”

“We can eat when we come back from our interview with Jones,” Joe answered. “Mother, he may decide to leave the farmhouse any time.”

Despairingly Mrs. Hardy returned to her husband. “What do you think, Fenton?”

The detective gave his wife an understanding smile, then turned to Frank and Joe. “Didn’t you say Jones was in pretty bad shape?”

“Yes, Dad,” Frank replied.

“Then I doubt very much that he’ll try to leave the Kanes’ home before the time he set—tomorrow morning. I’m sure that it’ll be safe for us to eat Mother’s good supper and still see our man in time.”

Joe subsided, and to make his mother feel better, said with a smile, “Guess I let this mystery go to my brain for a minute. As a matter of fact, I have an empty space inside of me big enough to eat two suppers!”

Mrs. Hardy tweaked an ear of her energetic son, just as she had frequently done ever since he was a small boy. He smiled at her affectionately, then asked what he could do to help with supper.

“Well, suppose you fill the water glasses and get milk for you and Frank,” Mrs. Hardy said, as she and Joe went downstairs together.

At the table, as often happened at meals in the Hardy home, the conversation revolved around the mystery. Frank asked his father if he had made any progress on his part in the case concerning the smugglers.

“Very little,” the detective replied. “Snattman is a slippery individual. He covers his tracks well. I did find this out, though. The law firm which is handling old Mr. Pollitt’s affairs has had no luck in locating the nephew to whom the property was left.”

“Mr. Kane said he’d heard Mr. Pollitt call his nephew a no-good,” Frank put in.

“That’s just the point,” Mr. Hardy said. “The lawyers learned from the police that he’s a hoodlum and is wanted for burglary.”

Frank whistled. “That puts the nephew in a bad spot, doesn’t it? If he shows up to claim the property, he’ll be nabbed as a criminal.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Hardy answered.

“What will become of the property?” Joe queried.

His father said he thought the executors might let the house remain vacant or they might possibly rent it. “They could do this on a month-to-month basis. This would give added income to the estate.”

“Which wouldn’t do the nephew much good if he were in jail,” Mrs. Hardy put in.

“That would depend on how long his sentence was,” her husband said. “He may not be a dangerous criminal. He may just have fallen into bad company and unwittingly become an accessory in some holdup or burglary.”

“In that case,” Frank remarked, “he may realize that he wouldn’t have to stay in prison long. He may appear to claim the property, take his punishment, and then lead a normal, law-abiding life out at his uncle’s place.”

“Well, I sincerely hope so,” Mr. Hardy replied. “The trouble is, so often when a young man joins a group of hoodlums or racketeers, he’s blackmailed for the rest of his life, even though he tries to go straight.” The detective smiled. “The best way to avoid such a situation is never to get into it!”

At this moment the phone rang and Frank went to answer it. “It’s for you, Dad!” he called, coming back to the table.’

Mr. Hardy spent nearly fifteen minutes in conversation with the caller. In the meantime, the boys and Mrs. Hardy finished their supper. Then, while Mr. Hardy ate his dessert, he told his family a little about the information he had just received on the phone.

“More drugs have disappeared,” he said tersely. “I’m positive now that Snattman is behind all this.”

“Were the drugs stolen around here?” Frank asked.

“We don’t know,” his father answered. “A pharmaceutical house in the Midwest was expecting a shipment of rare drugs from India. When the package arrived, only half the order was there. It was evident that someone had cleverly opened the package, removed part of the shipment, and replaced the wrapping so neatly that neither the customs officials nor the post office was aware that the package had been tampered with.”

“How were the drugs sent to this country?” Joe queried.

“They came by ship.”

“To which port?”

“New York. But the ship did stop at Bayport.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Nearly two months ago. It seems that the pharmaceutical house wasn’t ready to use the drugs until now, so hadn’t opened the package.”

“Then,” said Joe, “the drugs could have been removed right on the premises, and have had nothing to do with smugglers.”

“You’re right,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Each time drugs are reported missing, there’s a new angle to the case. Although I’m convinced Snattman is back of it, how to prove this is really a stickler.”

Mr. Hardy went on to say that the tip he had received about Snattman being in the Bayport area had been a very reliable one. He smiled. “I’ll tell you all a little secret. I have a very good friend down on the waterfront. He picks up many kinds of information for me. His name is Pretzel Pete.”

“Pretzel Pete!” Frank and Joe cried out. “What a name!”

“That’s his nickname along the waterfront,” Mr. Hardy told them. He laughed. “During the past few years I’ve munched on so many of the pretzels he sells, I think I’m his best customer.”

By this time the boys’ father had finished his dessert, and he suggested they leave at once for the Kane farmhouse. He brought his black sedan from the garage and the boys hopped in. It did not take long to cover the six miles to the place where Jones was spending the night.

“Why, the house is dark,” Frank remarked, puzzled.

“Maybe everyone’s asleep,” Joe suggested.

“This early?” Frank protested.

Mr. Hardy continued on down the lane. There was no sign of anyone around the place. Frank remarked that perhaps the farmer and his wife had gone out for the evening. “But I’m surprised that they would leave Jones alone in his condition,” he added.

“I’m quite sure they wouldn’t,” his father averred. “If they’re asleep, I’m afraid we’ll have to wake them.”

He pulled up in front of the kitchen entrance. Frank was out of the car in an instant, the others followed. He rapped on the door. There was no answer.

“Let’s try the front door,” Joe suggested. “Maybe that has a knocker on it.”

The boys walked around to the ocean side of the house. Although they banged loudly with the brass door knocker, there was still no response.

“The Kanes must have gone out,” said Joe.

“But what about Jones? Surely he’s here.”

“And too weak to come to the door,” Frank surmised. “But he could call out. I can’t understand it.”

The brothers returned to the back door and reported to their father. Then, as Joe rapped several more times without response, a sinking feeling came over the brothers.

“I guess Jones recovered fast and has gone,” Joe said dejectedly. “We’ve goofed.”

“Try the knob. The door may not be locked,” Mr. Hardy ordered. From his tone the boys knew that he shared their fears.

Frank turned the knob and the door swung open. Mr. Hardy felt around for a light switch on the wall.

“We’ll go in,” he murmured. “If Jones is here we’ll talk to him.”

By this time the detective had found the switch. As the kitchen became flooded with light, the boys gasped, thunderstruck. On their previous visit they had been impressed by the neatness of the room. Now the place looked as though an earthquake had shaken it.

Pots and pans were scattered about the floor. The table was overturned. A chair lay upside down in a corner. Shattered bits of cups and saucers were strewn on the floor.

“What happened?” Frank exclaimed in bewilderment.

“There’s been a fight—or a struggle of some kind,” said Mr. Hardy. “Let’s see what the rest of the house looks like.”

The boys opened the door to the adjoining living room. Frank snapped on the wall switch. There a horrifying sight met the Hardys’ eyes.

The farmer and his wife were bound and gagged

The farmer and his wife, bound and gagged, were tied to chairs in the middle of the room!

Swiftly Frank, Joe, and their father rushed over to Mr. and Mrs. Kane. They had been tied with strong ropes and so well gagged that the couple had been unable to utter a sound. In a minute the Hardys had loosened the bonds and removed the gags.

“Thank goodness!” Mrs. Kane exclaimed with a sigh of relief, stretching her arms.

Her husband, spluttering with rage, rose from his chair and hurled the ropes to one side. “Those scoundrels!” he cried out.

Frank hastily introduced his father, then asked, “What happened?”

For several moments Mr. and Mrs. Kane were too upset to tell their story. But finally the farmer staggered over to the window and pointed down the shore road.

“They went that way!” he roared. “Follow them!”

“Who?”

“Those thugs who tied us up! They took Jones!”

CHAPTER VI

The Strange Message

“How long ago did those kidnapers leave?” Frank asked the Kanes quickly.

“About ten minutes,” replied the farmer. “Maybe you can catch them if you hurry!”

“Come on, Dad!” Frank cried. “Let’s go after them!”

Mr. Hardy needed no further urging. He and his sons ran out of the house and jumped into the car.

“That’s rough stuff,” Joe said to his father as they turned onto the shore road, “barging into a house, tying up the owners, and kidnaping a guy!”

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “It looks as though your friend Jones is mixed up in some kind of racket. Those men must have been pretty desperate to risk breaking into an occupied house.”

The boys’ father was able to follow the tracks of the car from the tread marks in the dusty road. But soon there were signs that another car had turned onto the shore road from a side lane and the trail became confused.

The Hardys passed the lane that led into the Pollitt place and continued on until they came to a hilltop. Here they could get a clear view of the road winding along the coast for several miles. There was no sign of a car.

“We’ve lost them, I guess,” said Frank in disappointment, as Mr. Hardy brought the sedan to a stop.

“They had too much of a head start,” Joe remarked. “If only we’d gotten to the farm sooner. Well, we may as well go back.”

Mr. Hardy agreed, turned the car around, and once more the Hardys headed for the farm. On the way they discussed the mysterious kidnaping, and speculated on the identity of those responsible.

“I’ll bet those men in the other motorboat saw us rescue Jones, or else they heard somehow that he’d been taken to the farmhouse,” Joe surmised.

“If they are the kidnapers, I wonder what will happen to Jones now,” Frank said gravely. “They tried to kill him once.”

“Maybe they’ll just hold him prisoner,” Mr. Hardy stated thoughtfully. “They were probably afraid he’d tell all he knew, and couldn’t afford to leave him at the farmhouse.”

When they got back to the Kanes’, they found the farmer and his wife somewhat recovered from their harrowing experience. Mrs. Kane was busy straightening up the kitchen.

“We couldn’t catch them,” Frank reported sadly.

“Well, those hoodlums had a high-powered car and they weren’t wastin’ any time. I could see ’em from the window as they went down the lane,” the farmer remarked, frowning angrily at the recollection.

“Please tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Kane,” Joe urged.

“Well, Mabel and I were here in the kitchen,” the man began. “Mabel was washin’ the supper dishes when this fellow came to the door. He was a tall chap with a long, thin face.”

“He asked us if we were looking after the man that was almost drowned earlier,” the farmer’s wife took up the tale. “When we said we were, the fellow told us that Mr. Jones was his brother and he had come to take him away.”

“I got suspicious,” Mr. Kane broke in. “He didn’t look nothin’ like Jones. I asked him where he lived.”

“At that,” Mrs. Kane said, “he walked in the house with another fellow right at his heels. They grabbed my husband. Henry put up an awful good fight but he was outnumbered. When I tried to help, a third man appeared from nowhere and held me back.”

“They dragged us into the livin’ room, tied us to those chairs, and put the gags in our mouths,” the farmer continued. “Then we heard ’em goin’ into Jones’s room. Pretty soon they carried him out to a car where a fourth fellow was sittin’ at the wheel.”

“Did Jones put up a fight when they took him away?” Frank asked.

“He tried to. He hollered for help, but of course I couldn’t do anythin’ and he was too weak to struggle much.”

“This whole affair is very peculiar,” Mr. Hardy observed. “Perhaps Jones is mixed up in the smuggling going on around here. But who were those four men, I wonder?”

Mrs. Kane shook her head. “All I know is, we’re sure glad you and your sons came out tonight. There’s no telling how long we’d have been tied up before somebody found us!”

“We’re glad, too, that we got here,” Frank replied.

“You folks say your name’s Hardy?” said the farmer. “Any relation to Fenton Hardy?”

“Right here.” The detective smiled.

“Pleasure to know you!” exclaimed Kane heartily, putting out his hand. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this business, you can.”

“I’ll certainly try,” the boys’ father promised.

The Hardys bade the farmer and his wife good-by. They promised to call again at the Kane farm as soon as they had any further information, and Mr. Kane, in turn, said he would notify them if he found any trace of Jones or his kidnapers.

When they returned home the boys followed their father into his study.

“What do you make of all this, Dad?” Joe asked.

Mr. Hardy sat down at his desk. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair a few moments without speaking.

“I have only one theory,” he said at last. “The kidnapers probably are Snattman’s friends. That means you boys may have uncovered the fact that there is a whole gang of smugglers around here.”

The brothers were pleased with their progress. “What do we do next, Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I want to evaluate this case from every angle,” their father replied. “I’ll think about it and talk to you later.” With this the boys had to be content for the rest of the week end.

When the brothers came downstairs Monday morning, Mrs. Hardy was putting their breakfast on the table.

In answer to the boys’ inquiries, she replied, “Your father went out early this morning in his car. He didn’t say when he would return. But your dad didn’t take a bag with him, so he’ll probably be back today.” Mrs. Hardy was accustomed to her husband’s comings and goings at odd hours in connection with his profession and she had learned not to ask questions.

Frank and Joe were disappointed. They had looked forward to resuming a discussion of the case with their father.

“I guess we’re left on our own again to try finding out something about those smugglers,” Frank remarked, and Joe agreed.

Later, when they reached Bayport High School, the brothers saw Iola Morton standing on the front steps. With pretty, dark-haired Iola was her best friend Callie Shaw. Callie, a blond, vivacious, brown-eyed girl, was Frank’s favorite among all the girls in his class.

“How are the ghost hunters this morning?” she asked with a mischievous smile. “Iola told me about your adventures on Saturday.”

“Chet was really scared,” Iola chimed in. “I think somebody played a good joke on all of you.”

“Well, whoever it was had better return the telescope eyepieces and our motorcycle tools,” Joe said defiantly.

But as the day wore on and none of their class-mates teased them or brought up the subject, the Hardys became convinced that the “ghost” had been serious and not just playing pranks.

“It was no joke,” Joe said to Frank on the way home. “If any of the fellows at school had done it, they’d have been kidding us plenty by now.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “Joe, do you think the smugglers had anything to do with what happened at the Pollitt place?”

“That’s a thought!” exclaimed Joe. “That house on the cliff would be a great hide-out. If the smugglers could make the house appear to be haunted, everyone would stay away.”

“I wish Dad would get home, so we could take up this idea with him,” Frank said thoughtfully.

But Mr. Hardy did not come home that day. He had often been away for varying lengths of time without sending word, but on this occasion, since he had not taken a bag, the boys felt uneasy.

“Let’s not worry Mother about this,” Frank said. “But if Dad’s not back by Wednesday—at the latest—I think we should do some inquiring. Maybe Pretzel Pete will be able to help us.”

Joe agreed. Wednesday was the start of their summer vacation and they could give full time to trying to locate their father.

On Tuesday afternoon the mystery of Mr. Hardy’s absence took a strange turn. Frank and Joe came home from school to find their mother seated in the living room, carefully examining a note that she evidently just had received.

“Come here, boys,” Mrs. Hardy said in an apprehensive tone. “Look at this and tell me what you think.” She handed the note to Frank.

“What is it?” he asked quickly. “Word from Dad?”

“It’s supposed to be.”

The boys read the note. It was typed on a torn sheet of paper and the signature looked like Fenton Hardy’s. It read:

I won’t be home for several days. Don’t worry. Fenton.

That was all. There was nothing to indicate where the detective was; nothing to show when the note had been written.

“When did you get this, Mother?” asked Frank.

“It came in the afternoon mail. It was addressed to me, and the envelope had a Bayport postmark.”

“Why are you worried?” Joe asked. “At least we’ve heard from Dad.”

“But I’m not sure he sent the note.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father and I have an agreement. Whenever he writes me, he puts a secret sign beneath his signature. Fenton was always afraid that someone would forge his name to a letter or note, and perhaps get papers or information that he shouldn’t have.”

Frank picked up the note again. “There’s no sign here. Just Dad’s signature.”

“It may be his signature. If not, it’s a very good forgery.” Mrs. Hardy was plainly worried.

“If Dad didn’t write this note,” Joe asked, “who did and why?”

“Your father has many enemies-criminals whom he has been instrumental in sending to prison. If there has been foul play, the note might have been sent to keep us from being suspicious and delay any search.”

“Foul play!” exclaimed Frank in alarm. “Then you think something has happened to Dad?”

CHAPTER VII

The Hidden Trail

JOE put an arm around his mother. “Frank and I will start a search for Dad first thing tomorrow,” her son said reassuringly.

Next morning, as the boys were dressing, Joe asked, “Where shall we start, Frank?”

“Down at the waterfront. Let’s try to find Pretzel Pete and ask him if Dad talked to him on Monday. He may give us a lead.”

“Good idea.”

The brothers reached the Bayport waterfront early. It was the scene of great activity. A tanker was unloading barrels of oil, and longshoremen were trundling them to waiting trucks.

At another dock a passenger ship was tied up. Porters hurried about, carrying luggage and packages to a line of taxicabs.

Many sailors strolled along the busy street. Some stepped into restaurants, others into amusement galleries.

“I wonder where Pretzel Pete is,” Frank mused. He and Joe had walked four blocks without catching sight of the man.

“Maybe he’s not wearing his uniform,” Joe surmised. “You know, the one Dad described.”

“Let’s turn and go back the other way beyond the tanker,” Frank suggested.

The boys reversed their direction and made their way through the milling throng for six more blocks.

Suddenly Joe chuckled. “Here comes our man.

Strolling toward them and hawking the product he had for sale came a comical-looking individual He wore a white cotton suit with a very loose-fitting coat Around his neck was a vivid red silk handkerchief, embroidered with anchors.

The vendor’s trousers had been narrowed at the cuff with bicycle clips to keep them from trailing on the ground, with the result that there was a continuous series of wrinkles from the edge of his coat to his ankles.

The man wore a white hat which came down to his ears. On the wide brown band the name Pretzel Pete was embroidered in white letters.

“Boy, that’s some gear!” Frank murmured.

Pretzel Pete’s garb was bizarre, but he had an open, honest face. He stopped calling “Pretzels! Hot pretzels! Best in the land!” and smiled at the Hardys. He set down the large metal food warmer he carried. From the top of it rose three short aerials, each ringed with a dozen pretzels.

“You like them hot, or do you prefer them cold?” he asked the brothers.

Joe grinned. “If they’re good, I can eat them any way.” Then he whispered, “We’re Mr. Fenton Hardy’s sons. We’d like to talk to you.”

At that moment a group of sailors brushed past. Pretzel Pete did not reply until they were out of earshot, then he said to the boys, “Come into this warehouse.”

The brothers followed him down the street a short distance and through a doorway into an enormous room which at the moment was practically empty.

“You’ve brought a message from your pop?” the vendor asked.

Quickly Frank explained to him that their father seemed to be missing. “We thought you might have heard this.”

“Yes, I did,” Pretzel Pete answered. “But I didn’t think nothing about it. I always thought detectives disappeared—sometimes in order to fool people they were after.”

“They sometimes do,” Joe told him. “But this time seems to be different. Dad said he often came down here to get information from you—because you always give him good tips—and we wondered if you had seen him lately.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Monday morning.”

“Dad has been gone ever since.”

“Hmm.” The man frowned, picked up a pretzel from one of the aerials, and began to munch on it. “Help yourselves, fellows.”

Frank and Joe each took one of the pretzels. They had just bitten into the delicious salted rings when Pete continued, “Now you got me worried. Your pop’s a fine man and I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to him. I’ll tell you a place you might look for him.”

Pretzel Pete said that he had picked up a bit of information that led him to think an East Indian sailor named Ali Singh might be engaged in some smuggling. The vendor did not know what ship he sailed on, but he understood that the man had come ashore for a secret meeting of some gang.

“This here meeting,” Pretzel Pete explained, “was being held out in the country somewhere off the shore road. It was to be in a deserted farm house on Hillcrest something or other. I don’t remember whether it was ‘road’ or ‘street’ or what.”

“Was this last Monday?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Oh, no,” the vendor answered. “This was about three weeks ago, but when I told your pop he seemed real interested and said he guessed he’d go out there and look around.”

Joe broke in, “Dad must have thought the rest of the gang might be living there. Maybe they’re holding him a prisoner!”

“Oh, I hope not,” Pretzel Pete said worriedly. “But you fellows had better get right out there and take a look.”

“We certainly will,” Frank told the man.

The brothers thanked Pretzel Pete for the information, then hurried home. Mrs. Hardy was not there, so they did not have a chance to tell her about their plans.

“We’ll leave a note,” Frank decided and quickly wrote one.

Their hopes high, the brothers set off on their motorcycles on the search for their father. By now they were very familiar with the shore road but did not recall having seen any sign reading Hillcrest.

“Suppose it’s not marked,” said Joe. “We’ll never find it.”

Frank gripped his handle bars hard. “If Dad found it, we won’t give up until we do.”

The motorcycles chugged past side road after side road. The farther away from Bayport the boys went, the farther apart these roads became. After a while they came to the Kanes’ farmhouse and were tempted to stop to see if they might know where Hillcrest was. But just then, a short distance ahead, Joe saw a small car suddenly turn into the shore road. It seemed to have come right out of a clump of bushes and trees.

“Come on, Frank! Let’s investigate that place.”

The boys pushed ahead, hoping to speak to the driver of the car. But he shot down the road in the opposite direction at terrific speed. When Frank and Joe reached the place from which he had just emerged, they saw that it was a road, though hardly noticeable to anyone passing by.

“I’ll take a look and see where it goes,” Frank said, shutting off his motorcycle and walking up the grassy, rutted lane. Suddenly he called back, “We’re in luck, Joe. I see a homemade sign on a tree. It says Hillcrest Road.”

Frank returned to his brother and the boys trundled their machines up among the trees to hide them. Then they set off afoot along the almost impassable woods road.

“There aren’t any tire tracks,” Joe remarked. “I guess that fellow who drove out of here must have left his car down at the entrance.”

Frank nodded, and then in a low tone suggested that they approach the deserted farmhouse very quietly, in case members of the gang were there. “In fact, I think it might be better if we didn’t stay on this road but went through the woods.”

Joe agreed and silently the Hardys picked their way along among the trees and through the undergrowth. Five minutes later they came to a clearing in which stood a ramshackle farmhouse. It looked as if it had been abandoned for many years.

The young sleuths stood motionless, observing the run-down building intently. There was not a sound of activity either inside or outside the place. After the boys had waited several minutes, Frank decided to find out whether or not anyone was around. Picking up a large stone, he heaved it with precision aim at the front door. It struck with a resounding thud and dropped to the floor of the sagging porch.

Frank’s action brought no response and finally he said to Joe, “I guess nobody’s home. Let’s look in.”

“Right,” Joe agreed. “And if Dad’s a prisoner there, we’ll rescue him!”

The boys walked across the clearing. There was no lock on the door, so they opened it and went inside. The place consisted of only four first-floor rooms. All were empty. A tiny cellar and a loft with a trap door reached by a ladder also proved to have no one in them.

“I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry Dad’s not here,” said Frank. “It could mean he escaped from the gang if he was caught by them and is safely in hiding, but can’t send any word to us.”

“Or it could mean he’s still a captive somewhere else,” Joe said. “Let’s look around here for clues.”

The boys made a systematic search of the place. They found only one item which might prove to be helpful It was a torn piece of a turkish towel on which the word Polo appeared.

“This could have come from some country club where they play polo,” Frank figured.

“Or some stable where polo ponies are kept,” Joe suggested.

Puzzled, Frank put the scrap in his pocket and the brothers walked down Hillcrest Road. They brought their motorcycles from behind the trees and climbed aboard.

“What do you think we should do next?” Joe asked.

“See Police Chief Collig in Bayport,” Frank replied. “I think we should show him this towel Maybe he can identify it.”

Half an hour later they were seated in the chief’s office. The tall, burly man took a great interest in the Hardy boys and often worked with Fenton Hardy on his cases. Now Chief Collig gazed at the scrap of toweling for a full minute, then slapped his desk.

“I have it!” he exclaimed. “That’s a piece of towel from the Marco Polo!”

“What’s that?”

“A passenger ship that ties up here once in a while.”

Frank and Joe actually jumped in their chairs. Their thoughts went racing to Ali Singh, smugglers, a gang at the deserted farmhouse!

At that moment Chief Collig’s phone rang. The Hardys waited politely as he answered, hoping to discuss these new developments with him. But suddenly he put down the instrument, jumped up, and said:

“Emergency, fellows. Have to leave right away!” With that he rushed out of his office.

Frank and Joe arose and disappointedly left headquarters. Returning home, they reported everything to their mother, but upon seeing how forlorn she looked, Frank said hopefully, “That note you received with Dad’s name on it could have been on the level.”

Mrs. Hardy shook her head. “Fenton wouldn’t forget the secret sign. I just know he wouldn’t.”

Word quickly spread through Bayport that the famous Fenton Hardy had disappeared. Early the next morning a thick-set, broad-shouldered young man presented himself at the front door of the Hardy home and said he had something to tell them. Mrs. Hardy invited him to step inside and he stood in the hall, nervously twisting a cap in his hands. As Frank and Joe appeared, the man introduced himself as Sam Bates.

“I’m a truck driver,” he told them. “The reason I came around to see you is because I heard you were lookin’ for Mr. Hardy. I might be able to help you.”

CHAPTER VIII

A Cap on a Peg

“YOU’VE seen my father?” Frank asked the truck driver.

“Well, I did see him on Monday,” Sam said slowly, “but I don’t know where he is now.”

“Come in and sit down,” Frank urged. “Tell us everything you know.”

The four walked to the living room and Mr. Bates sat down uneasily in a large chair.

“Where did you see Mr. Hardy?” Mrs. Hardy asked eagerly.

But Sam Bates was not to be hurried. “I’m a truck driver, see?” he said. “Mostly I drive in Bayport but sometimes I have a run to another town. That’s how I come to be out there that mornin’.”

“Out where?”

“Along the shore road. I’m sure it was Monday, because when I came home for supper my wife had been doin’ the washin’ and she only does that on Monday.”

“That was the day Dad left!” Joe exclaimed.

“Well, please go on with the story,” Frank prodded Sam Bates. “Where did you see him?”

The truck driver explained that his employer had sent him to a town down the coast to deliver some furniture. “I was about half a mile from the old Pollitt place when I saw a man walkin’ along the road. I waved to him, like I always do to people in the country, and then I see it’s Mr. Hardy.”

“You know my father?” Frank asked.

“Only from his pictures. But I’m sure it was him.”

“Dad left here in a sedan,” Joe spoke up. “Did you see one around?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What was this man wearing?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Well, let’s see. Dark-brown trousers and a brown-and-black plaid sport jacket. He wasn’t wearin’ a hat, but I think he had a brown cap in one hand.”

Mrs. Hardy’s face went white. “Yes, that was my husband.” After a moment she added, “Can you tell us anything more?”

“I’m afraid not, ma‘am,” the trucker said. “You see, I was in kind of a hurry that mornin’, so I didn’t notice nothin’ else.” He arose to leave.

“We certainly thank you for coming to tell us, Mr. Bates,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“Yes, you’ve given us a valuable lead,” Frank added. “Now we’ll know where to look for Dad.”

“I sure hope he shows up,” the driver said, walking toward the door. “Let me know if I can help any.”

When the man had left, Joe turned to Frank, puzzled. “Do you suppose Dad hid his car and was walking to the Pollitt house? If so, why?”

“Maybe he picked up a clue at that deserted farmhouse on Hillcrest Road,” Frank suggested, “and it led to the old Pollitt place. If he left his car somewhere, he must have been planning to investigate the haunted house without being seen.”

“Something must have happened to him!” Joe cried out. “Frank, I’ll bet he went to Pollitt’s and that fake ghost got him. Let’s go look for Dad right away!”

But Mrs. Hardy broke in. Her expression was firm. “I don’t want you boys to go to that house alone. Maybe you’d just better notify the police and let them make a search.”

The brothers looked at each other. Finally Frank, realizing how alarmed she was, said, “Mother, it’s possible Dad is there spying on some activities offshore and he’s all right but can’t leave to phone you. The Pollitt line must have been disconnected. If Joe and I go out there and find him we can bring back a report.”

Mrs. Hardy gave a wan smile. “You’re very convincing, Frank, when you put it that way. All right. I’ll give my permission, but you mustn’t go alone.”

“Why not, Mother? We can look out for ourselves,” Joe insisted.

“Get some of the boys to go with you. There’s safety in numbers,” his mother said.

The boys agreed to this plan and got busy on the telephone rounding up their pals. Chet Morton and Biff Hooper agreed to go, and they suggested asking Tony Prito and Phil Cohen, two more of the Hardys’ friends at Bayport High. Phil owned a motorcycle. He and Tony said they could go along.

Shortly after lunch the group set out. Chet rode with Frank, Biff with Joe, and Tony with Phil The three motorcycles went out of Bayport, past the Tower Mansion, and along the shore road.

They passed the Kane farmhouse, Hillcrest Road, and at last came in sight of the steep cliff rising from Barmet Bay and crowned by the rambling frame house where Felix Pollitt had lived. All this time they had watched carefully for a sign of Mr. Hardy’s car, but found none.

“Your dad hid it well,” Chet remarked.

“It’s possible someone stole it,” Frank told him.

As the boys came closer to the Pollitt property, Phil said to Tony, “Lonely looking place, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Good haunt for a ghost.”

When they were still some distance from the lane, Frank, in the lead, brought his motorcycle to a stop and signaled the other two drivers to do likewise.

“What’s the matter?” Chet asked.

“We’d better sneak up on the place quietly. If we go any farther and the ghost is there, he’ll hear the motorcycles. I vote we leave them here under the trees and go the rest of the way on foot.”

The boys hid their machines in a clump of bushes beside the road, and then the six searchers went on toward the lane.

“We’ll separate here,” Frank decided. “Three of us take one side of the lane and the rest the other side. Keep to the bushes as much as possible, and when we get near the house, lay low for a while and watch the place. When I whistle, you can come out of the bushes and go up to the house.”

“That’s a good idea,” Joe agreed. “Biff, Tony, and I will take the left side of the road.”

“Okay.”

The boys entered the weeds and undergrowth on either side of the lane. In a few minutes they were lost to view and only an occasional snapping and crackling of branches indicated their presence. The six sleuths crept forward, keeping well in from the lane. After about ten minutes Frank raised his hand as a warning to Chet and Phil. He had caught a glimpse of the house through the dense thicket.

They went on cautiously until they reached the edge of the bushes. From behind the screen of leaves they looked toward the old building. An expression of surprise crossed Frank’s face.

“Someone’s living here!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

From where the boys stood they hardly recognized the old place. Weeds that had filled the flower beds on their last visit had been completely cleared away. Leaves and twigs had been raked up and the grass cut.

A similar change had been wrought in the house. The hanging shutters had been put in place and the broken library window glass replaced.

“What do you suppose has happened?” Chet whispered.

Frank was puzzled. “Let’s wait a minute before we go any farther.”

The boys remained at the edge of the bushes, watching the place. A short time later a woman came out of the house carrying a basket of clothes. She walked over to a clothesline stretched between two trees and began to hang up the laundry. Shortly afterward a man came out, and strode across the yard to a shed where he started filling a basket with logs.

The boys looked at one another in bewilderment. They had expected to find the same sinister and deserted place they had visited previously. Instead, here was a scene of domestic tranquillity.

“There’s not much use in our hiding any longer,” Frank whispered. “Let’s go out and question these people.” He gave the prearranged whistle.

The other three boys appeared, and the entire group walked boldly up the lane and across the yard. The man in the woodshed saw them first and straightened up, staring at them with an expression of annoyance. The woman at the clothesline heard their footsteps and turned to face them, her hands on her hips. Her gaunt face wore an unpleasant scowl.

“What do you want?” demanded the man, emerging from the shed.

He was short and thin with close-cropped hair, and he needed a shave. His complexion was swarthy, his eyes narrow under coarse, black brows.

At the same time another man came out of the kitchen and stood on the steps. He was stout and red-haired with a scraggly mustache.

“Yeah, who are you?” he asked.

“We didn’t know anyone was living here,” Frank explained, edging over to the kitchen door. He wanted to get a look inside the house if possible.

“Well, we’re livin’ here now,” said the red-haired man, “and we don’t like snoopers.”

“We’re not snooping,” Frank declared. “We are looking for a man who has disappeared from Bayport.”

“Humph!” grunted the woman.

“Why do you think he’s around here?” the thin man put in.

“He was last seen in this neighborhood.”

“What does he look like?”

“Tall and dark. He was wearing a brown suit and sports jacket and cap.”

“There hasn’t been anybody around here since we rented this place and moved in,” the red-haired man said gruffly.

There seemed to be no prospect of gaining information from the unpleasant trio, so the boys started to leave. But Frank had reached the kitchen door. As he glanced in he gave a start. Hanging on a peg was a brown sports cap!

It looked exactly like the one his father owned, and which he had worn the morning that he had disappeared.

CHAPTER IX

Plan of Attack

“I’M very thirsty,” Frank said quickly to the occupants of the Pollitt house. “May I have a drink?”

The red-haired man and the woman looked at each other. They obviously wished to get rid of their visitors as soon as possible. But they could not refuse such a reasonable request.

“Come into the kitchen,” said the man grudgingly.

Frank followed him through the door. As he passed the cap he took a good look at it. It was his father’s, and there were stains on it which looked like blood!

The redheaded man pointed to a sink on the other side of the room. On it stood a plastic cup. “Help yourself,” he said gruffly.

Frank went across the room and ran some water from the faucet. As he raised the cup to his lips, his mind was racing. On his way out he glanced again at the peg.

The cap was gone!

Frank gave no sign that he had noticed anything amiss. He walked out into the yard and joined the other five boys.

“I guess we may as well be going,” he said nonchalantly.

“You might as well,” snapped the woman. “There’s no stranger around here, I tell you.”

The boys started off down the lane. When they were out of sight of the house, Frank stopped and turned to his companions.

“Do you know what I saw in that kitchen?” he asked tensely.

“What?”

“Dad’s cap hanging on a peg!”

“Then he has been there!” cried Joe. “They were lying!”

“Yes,” Frank continued, “and—and there were bloodstains on the cap!”

“Bloodstains!” Joe exclaimed. “That means he must be in trouble. Frank, we’ve got to go back!”

“We sure do!” his brother agreed. “But I wanted to tell you all about it first.”

“What do you think we should do?” Chet asked.

“I’ll ask those people in the house about the cap and force a showdown,” Frank declared tersely. “We’ve got to find out where Dad is!”

Resolutely the boys started back to the Pollitt house. When they reached the yard they found the two men and the woman standing by the shed talking earnestly. The woman caught sight of them and spoke warningly to the red-haired man.

“What do you want now?” he demanded, advancing toward the boys.

“We want to know about that sports cap in the kitchen,” said Frank firmly.

“What cap? There’s no cap in there.”

“There isn’t now—but there was. It was hanging on a peg when I went in for a drink.”

“I don’t know anythin’ about no cap,” persisted the man.

“Perhaps we’d better ask the police to look around,” Joe suggested.

The redhead glanced meaningly at the woman. The other man stepped forward. “I know the cap this boy means,” he said. “It’s mine. What about it?”

“It isn’t yours and you know it,” Frank declared. “That cap belongs to the man we’re looking for.”

“I tell you it is my cap!” snapped the swarthy man, showing his yellowed teeth in a snarl “Don’t tell me I’m lyin’.”

The red-haired man intervened. “You’re mistaken, Klein,” he said. “I know the cap they mean now. It’s the one I found on the road a few days ago.”

“Guess you’re right, Red,” Klein conceded hastily.

“You found it?” asked Frank incredulously.

“Sure, I found it. A brown cap with bloodstains on it.”

“That’s the one. But why did you hide it when I went into the kitchen?”

“Well, to tell the truth, them bloodstains made me nervous. I didn’t know but what there might be some trouble come of it, so I thought I’d better keep that cap out of sight.”

“Where did you find it?” Joe asked.

“About a mile from here.”

“On the shore road?”

“Yes. It was lyin’ right in the middle of the road.”

“When was this?”

“A couple of days ago—just after we moved in here.”

“Let’s see the cap,” Chet Morton suggested. “We want to make sure of this.”

As Red moved reluctantly toward the kitchen, the woman sniffed. “I don’t see why you’re makin’ all this fuss about an old cap,” she said. “Comin’ around here disturbin’ honest folks.”

“We’re sorry if we’re bothering you,” said Joe, “but this is a very serious matter.”

Red came out of the house holding the cap. He tossed it to Frank.

The boy turned back the inside flap and there he found what he was looking for—the initials F. H. printed in gold on the leather band.

“It’s Dad’s cap all right.”

“I don’t like the look of those bloodstains,” said Joe in a low voice. “He must have been badly hurt.”

“Are you sure you found this on the road?” Frank asked, still suspicious.

“You don’t think I’d lie about it, do you?” Red answered belligerently.

“I can’t contradict you, but I’m going to turn this over to the police,” Frank told him. “If you know anything more about it, you’d better speak up now.”

“He doesn’t know anything about it,” shrilled the woman angrily. “Go away and don’t bother us. Didn’t he tell you he found the cap on the road? I told him to burn up the dirty thing. But he wanted to have it cleaned and wear it.”

The boys turned away, Frank still holding the cap. “Come on, fellows,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

As the boys started down the lane they cast a last glance back at the yard. The woman and the two men were standing just where the young sleuths had left them. The woman was motionless, her hands on her hips. Red was standing with his arms folded, and Klein, the swarthy man, was leaning against a tree. All three were gazing intently and silently after the departing boys.

“He doesn’t know anything about the cap,” the woman shrilled

“I’m sure that those people know more about Dad’s cap than they’re telling,” Frank said grimly, as the boys mounted their motorcycles and rode back toward Bayport.

“What are you planning to do next?” Phil asked as he pulled his machine alongside Frank’s.

“I’m going right to Chief Collig and tell him the whole story.”

“Okay, we’re with you!”

The boys rode directly to police headquarters and left their motorcycles in the parking lot. Chief Collig looked up as his six visitors were ushered into his office.

“Well,” he said heartily, “this is quite a delegation! What can I do for you?”

As Frank and Joe took turns, with an occasional graphic illustration from one of the other boys, they told the full story and showed him the bloodstained cap.

Chief Collig looked grave. “I don’t like the sound of this at all,” he said finally. “We must find your father at once! This cap is a good clue.” Then he went on, “Of course you realize that the area where the Pollitt house is located is outside the limits of Bayport, so my men can’t go there. But I’ll get in touch with Captain Ryder of the State Police at once, so he can assign men to the case.”

The boys thanked the chief for his help and left. Chet, Tony, Biff, and Phil went their separate ways while Frank and Joe turned toward home. They decided not to upset their mother about the bloodstained cap, but merely tell her that the State Police would take over the search for her husband.

“I still think there’s some connection between Dad’s disappearance and the smuggling outfit and the house on the cliff,” Frank declared.

“What I’ve been wondering,” said Joe, “is where those two motorboats came from that day Jones was attacked. We didn’t see them out in the ocean earlier—at least not both of them.”

“That’s right. They could have come right out from under the cliff.”

“You mean, Frank, there might be a secret harbor in there?”

“Might be. Here’s the way it could work. Dad suspects smugglers are operating in this territory from a base that he has been unable to find.” Frank spread his arms. “The base is the old Pollitt place! What more do you want?”

“But the house is on top of a cliff.”

“There could be a secret passage from the house to a hidden harbor at the foot of the cliff.”

“Good night, Frank, it sure sounds reasonable!”

“And perhaps that explains why the kidnapers got away with Jones so quickly on Saturday. If they left the Kane farmhouse just a little while before we did, we should have been able to get within sight of their car. But we didn’t.”

“You mean they turned in at the Pollitt place?”

“Why not? Probably Jones is hidden there right now.”

“And maybe Dad too,” Joe cried out excitedly.

“That’s right. I’m against just sitting and waiting for the state troopers to find him. How about asking Tony if he will lend us his motorboat, so we can investigate the foot of that cliff?”

“I get you!” Joe agreed enthusiastically. “And if we pick up any information we can turn it over to the State Police and they can raid the Pollitt place!”

CHAPTER X

A Watery tunnel

WHEN the brothers arrived home Frank and Joe assured their mother that the State Police would soon find Mr. Hardy. Some of the anxiety left her face as she listened to her sons’ reassuring words.

When she went to the kitchen to start preparations for supper, the boys went to phone Tony Prito. After Frank explained their plan to him, he agreed at once to let them use the Napoli, provided they took him along.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” he said. “But I can’t go until afternoon. Have to do some work for my dad in the morning. I’ll meet you at the boathouse at two o’clock.”

“Swell, Tony. I have a job of my own in the morning.”

Chet called a few minutes later. As Frank finished telling him about the plan, he whistled. “You fellows have got your nerve all right. But count me in, will you? I started this thing with you and I’d like to finish it. We’ve got to find your father!”

After Chet had said good-by, Joe asked his brother, “What’s on for the morning?”

“I want to go down to the waterfront and talk to Pretzel Pete again. He might have another clue, Also, I want to find out when the Marco Polo is due back here.”

Joe nodded. “I get it. You think something may be going on then?”

“Right. And if we can find Dad and lead the Coast Guard to the smugglers before the boat docks—”

“Brother, that’s a big order.”

By nine o’clock the following morning Frank and Joe were down at the Bayport docks. Pretzel Pete was not in evidence.

“We’d better be cagey about asking when the Marco Polo’s coming in,” Frank cautioned. “The smugglers probably have spies around here and we’d sure be targets.”

Acting as if there were no problems on their minds, Frank and Joe strolled along whistling. Once they joined a group of people who were watching a sidewalk merchant. The man was demonstrating little jumping animals. Frank and Joe laughed as they bought a monkey and a kangaroo. “Iola and Callie will get a kick out of these,” Joe predicted.

“Say, Frank, here comes Pretzel Pete now!” Joe whispered.

The Hardys went up the street, saying in a loud voice in case anyone was listening, that they were hungry and glad to see Pete.

“Nobody can make pretzels like yours,” Joe exclaimed. “Give me a dozen. Two for my mouth and ten for my pockets.”

As Pretzel Pete laughed and pulled out a cellophane bag to fill the order, Frank said in a whisper, “Heard anything new?”

“Not a thing, son.” Pete could talk without moving his lips. “But I may know something tomorrow.”

“How come?"

“The Marco Polo’s docking real early—five A.M. I heard Ali Singh is one of the crew. I’ll try to get a line on him.”

“Great! We’ll be seeing you.”

The boys moved off, and to avoid arousing any suspicion as to why they were in the area, headed for a famous fish market.

“Mother will be surprised to see our morning’s catch,” Joe said with a grin as he picked out a large bluefish.

The brothers did not discuss the exciting information Pretzel Pete had given them until they were in the safety of their own home. Then Joe burst out, “Frank, if the Marco Polo gets offshore during the night, it’ll have to lay outside until it’s time to dock!”

“And that’ll give those smugglers a real break in picking up the stolen drugs!” Frank added. “Maybe we should pass along our suspicions to the Coast Guard.”

“Not yet,” Joe objected. “All we have to go on is Pretzel Pete’s statements about Ali Singh. Maybe we’ll learn more this afternoon and then we can report it.”

“I guess you’re right,” Frank concluded. “If those smugglers are holding Dad, and find out that we’ve tipped off the Coast Guard, they’ll certainly harm him.”

“You have a point.”

When Frank and Joe reached the Prito boathouse at two o’clock, Tony and Chet were already there. Tony was tuning up the motor, which purred evenly.

“No word from your dad yet?” Tony asked. The Hardys shook their heads as they stepped aboard.

The Napoli was a rangy, powerful craft with graceful lines and was the pride of Tony’s life. The boat moved slowly out into the waters of Barmet Bay and then gathered speed as it headed toward the ocean.

“Rough water,” Frank remarked as breaking swells hit the hull. Salt spray dashed over the bow of the Napoli as it plunged on through the white-caps. Bayport soon became a speck nestled at the curve of the horseshoe-shaped body of water. Reaching the ocean, Tony turned north. The boys could see the white line of the shore road rising and falling along the coast. Soon they passed the Kane farm. Two miles farther on they came within sight of the cliff upon which the Pollitt house stood. It looked stark and forbidding above the rocks, its roof and chimneys silhouetted against the sky.

“Pretty steep cliff,” Tony observed. “I can’t see how anyone could make his way up and down that slope to get to the house.”

“That’s probably why nobody has suspected the place of being a smuggling base,” Frank replied. “But perhaps when we look around we’ll find an answer.”

Tony steered the boat closer toward the shore, so that it would not be visible from the Pollitt grounds. Then he slackened speed in order that the sound of the engine would be less noticeable, and the craft made its way toward the bottom of the cliff.

There were currents here that demanded skillful navigation, but Tony brought the Napoli through them easily, and at last the boat was chugging along close to the face of the cliff.

The boys eagerly scanned the formidable wall of rock. It was scarred and seamed and the base had been eaten away by the incessant battering of waves. There was no indication of a path.

Suddenly Tony turned the wheel sharply. The Napoli swerved swiftly to one side. He gave it power and the craft leaped forward with a roar.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked in alarm.

Tony gazed straight ahead, tense and alert. Another shift of the wheel and the Napoli swerved again.

Then Chet and the Hardys saw the danger. There were rocks at the base of the cliff. One of them, black and sharp, like an ugly tooth, jutted out of the water almost at the boat’s side. Only Tony’s quick eye had saved the Napoli from hitting it!

They had blundered into a veritable maze of reefs which extended for several yards ahead. Tony’s passengers held their breaths. It seemed impossible that they could run the gantlet of those rocks without tearing out the bottom of the craft.

But luck was with them. The Napoli dodged the last dangerous rock, and shot forward into open water.

Tony sank back with a sigh of relief. “Whew, that was close!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t see those rocks until we were right on top of them. If we’d ever struck one of them we’d have been goners.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet nodded in solemn agreement. Then, suddenly, Frank cried out, “Turn back! I think I saw an opening!”

Tony swung the boat around. The opening which Frank had spotted was a long, narrow tunnel. It led right through the cliff!

“This might be the secret entrance!” Joe exclaimed.

“I think it’s large enough for the boat to go through,” said Tony. “Want me to try it?”

Frank nodded tensely. “Go ahead.”

The Napoli slipped through the opening and in a few moments came out into a pond of considerable extent. The boys looked about expectantly. Steep slopes covered with scraggly trees and bushes reached to the water’s edge. But there was no path or indication that any human being ever came down to the pond.

Suddenly Frank gave a gasp of surprise and said, “Look to my right, fellows.”

Among the thickets at the base of the steepest slope stood a man. He was very tall, his face was weather-beaten, and his lips thin and cruel. He stood quietly, looking at the boys without a shadow of expression on his sinister face.

Upon realizing he had been observed, the man shouted, “Get out of here!”

Tony throttled the engine and Frank called, “We aren’t doing any harm.”

“I said ‘Get out!’ This is private property.”

The boys hesitated. Instantly the man, as though to back up his commands, reached significantly toward the holster of a revolver.

“Turn that boat around and beat it!” he mapped. “And don’t ever come back here! Not if you know what’s good for you.”

The boys realized that nothing would be gained by argument. Tony slowly brought the boat around.

“Okay,” Joe called cheerfully.

The stranger did not reply. He stood gazing fixedly after them, his left hand pointing to the exit, his right tapping the gun holster, as the motorboat made its way out through the tunnel

“Looks as if he didn’t want us around,” remarked Tony facetiously, as soon as the Napoli was in open water again.

“He sure didn’t!” Frank exclaimed. “I expected him to start popping that gun at any moment!”

“He must have an important reason. Who and what do you suppose he is?” Tony asked in bewilderment.

“Fellows,” Frank said thoughtfully, “I think that man might have been Snattman!”

CHAPTER XI

Cliff Watchers

“FRANK!” Joe exclaimed. “I think you’ve hit it! That man had no reason to act the way he did unless he’s covering up something.”

“Something like smuggling, you mean,” said Chet. “He must be Snattman or one of his gang.”

“And,” Frank went on, “the fact that he was in that cove must mean he has some connection with the house on the cliff.”

“Snattman, king of the smugglers!” Tony whistled. “You guys really get in some interesting situations!”

“I’ll bet that he’s one of the fellows who chased Jones that day in the motorboat,” Joe cried.

“And tried to kill him,” Frank continued the thought.

“Let’s get away from here!” Chet urged.

“Why should we go now?” Frank demanded. “We’ve stumbled on something important. That hidden pond may be the smugglers’ base.”

“But if they use the house how do they get to it?” Tony asked. “Those cliffs up from the pond were mighty steep.”

“There must be some other way that we couldn’t see,” Joe said. “What say we hang around here for a while and find out what we can?”

Tony caught the Hardys’ enthusiasm and agreed to keep the motorboat in the vicinity of the Cliff.

“That fellow may be keeping his eye on us and we don’t want him to know that we’re watching the place,” Frank observed. “Let’s run back to the bay and cruise up and down a while, then return.”

Chet sighed. “I’m glad none of you argued with that armed man.”

“Right,” Joe replied. “As it is, he must think we were simply out for a cruise and wandered into that tunnel by mistake.”

“Yes,” his brother agreed. “If he’d known we’re hunting for Dad, he might have acted very differently.”

In the late afternoon Tony took the Napoli back to the suspected shore spot. Keeping well out from the breaking waves, he cruised along the cliff. The boys kept a sharp eye on the location of the tunnel. As the boat passed it they were just able to distinguish the narrow opening in the rocks.

“I won’t be able to go in there after a while,” Tony remarked. “The tide’s coming in. At high tide I’ll bet that tunnel is filled with water.”

Suddenly Tony swung his craft so hard to the right that the other boys lost their balance.

“Sorry, fellows,” he said. “Saw a log—oh!”

He shut off his engine in a flash and leaned over the gunwale. His companions picked themselves up and asked what had happened.

“Propeller started to foul up with some wire on that log.” Tony began to peel off his clothes. “Get me some pliers, will you?”

Frank opened a locker and found a pair. Taking them, Tony dived overboard. A minute later he reappeared and climbed in. “I’m lucky,” he said. “Just plain lucky. Two seconds more and all that wire would have been wound around the prop and the log would have knocked it off.”

“Good night!” Chet exclaimed. “It would have been a long swim home.”

Joe slapped Tony on the back. “Good work, boy. I’d hate to see the Napoli out of commission.”

Chet and Frank hauled the log aboard, so it would not damage any other craft. “This is a fence post with barbed wire!” Chet said. “Wowee! It’s good you spotted that log, Tony.”

Tony dressed, then started the engine. He cruised around for more than an hour, but the boys saw no sign of life about the base of the cliff. They could see the Pollitt house, but to their amazement no lights appeared in it as twilight came.

“How much longer do you think we should stay out here?” Chet asked. “I’m getting hungry.”

“I have a few pretzels and a candy bar, but that’s not much for four of us,” Joe remarked.

“Aha!” crowed Tony. “I have a surprise for you! I stowed away a little food before we took off.” With that he pulled a paper bag from the locker and passed each boy a large sandwich, a piece of chocolate cake, and a bottle of lemon soda.

“You deserve a medal,” Chet remarked as he bit into a layer of ham and cheese.

“You sure do!” Frank agreed. “I think we should stay right here for a while and watch. It’s my guess the smugglers will be on the job tonight. Don’t forget that the Marco Polo is docking tomorrow morning.”

“I get it,” said Chet. “If she lays offshore or steams in slowly, it’ll give Ali Singh a chance to drop the stolen drugs overboard to Snattman.”

“Correct,” said Frank.

Tony looked intently at the Hardys. “Is it your idea to keep Snattman from meeting Ali Singh? But what about your father? I thought we came out here to get a line on how to rescue him.”

The brothers exchanged glances, then Joe said, “Of course that’s our main purpose, but we hope that we can do both.”

Twilight deepened into darkness and lights could be seen here and there through the haze. The cliff was only a black smudge and the house above was still unlighted.

Suddenly the boys heard a muffled sound. Tony slowed the Napoli and they listened intently.

“Another motorboat,” Tony whispered.

The sound seemed to come from near the cliff. Straining their eyes in that direction, the four were at last able to distinguish a faint moving light.

“Can you head over that way, Tony?” Frank asked in a low voice. “And could you take a chance on turning off our lights?”

“Sure. Here goes. The wind’s blowing from the land, so our engine won’t be heard from the shore.”

The boys were tense with excitement as the Napoli moved slowly toward the light. As the boat crept nearer the cliff, they could barely distinguish the outline of a motorboat. The craft seemed to be making its way carefully out of the very face of the cliff.

“It must have come from that tunnel!” Joe whispered to Frank.

“Yes.”

The Napoli went closer, in imminent danger of being discovered or of being washed ashore onto the rocks. Finally the other boat slowed to a crawl. Then came the faint clatter of oars and low voices. The motorboat had evidently met a rowboat.

The next moment, with an abrupt roar, the motorboat turned and raced out to sea at an ever-increasing rate of speed.

“Where can it be going?” said Tony, in amazement. “Out to meet the Marco Polo?”

“Probably,” Frank replied, “and we’d never catch it. I wonder where the rowboat’s going.”

The four boys waited in silence for several minutes. Then the rattle of oars came again. This time the sound was closer. The rowboat was coming toward them!

“What’ll we do now?” Tony asked.

“Turn off your engine,” Frank whispered. Tony complied.

Through the gloom suddenly came snatches of conversation from the rowboat. “—a hundred pounds—” they heard a man say harshly, and then the rest of the sentence was lost. There was a lengthy murmur of voices, then, “I don’t know. It’s risky—”

The wind died down just then and two voices could be heard distinctly. “Ali Singh’s share—” one man was saying.

“That’s right. We can’t forget him,” the gruff voice replied.

“I hope they get away all right.”

“What are you worryin’ about? Of course they’ll get away.”

“We’ve been spotted, you know.”

“It’s all your imagination. Nobody suspects.”

“Those boys at the house—”

“Just dumb kids. If they come nosin’ around again, we’ll knock ’em on the head.”

“I don’t like this rough stuff. It’s dangerous.”

“We’ve got to do it or we’ll end up in the pen. What’s the matter with you tonight? You’re nervous.”

“I’m worried. I’ve got a hunch we’d better clear out of here.”

“Clear out!” replied the other contemptuously. “Are you crazy? Why, this place is as safe as a church.” The man laughed sardonically. “Haven’t we got all the squealers locked up? And tonight we make the big cleanup and get away.”

“Well, maybe you’re right,” said the first man doubtfully. “But still—”

His voice died away as the boat entered the tunnel

Joe grabbed Frank’s arm. “Did you hear that? All the squealers locked up? I’ll bet Dad’s one of them and he’s a prisoner somewhere around here.”

“And this is the hide-out of Snattman and the other smugglers he was after,” Frank added.

“I don’t like this,” Chet spoke up. “Let’s leave here and get the police.”

Frank shook his head. “It would take so long we might goof the whole thing. Tell you what. Joe and I will follow that rowboat through the tunnel!”

“How?”

“On foot or swim. I don’t think it’s deep along the edges.”

“You mean Chet and I will wait here?” Tony asked.

“No,” Frank answered. “You two beat it back to Bayport and notify the Coast Guard. Tell them we’re on the track of smugglers and ask them to send some men here.”

“And tell them our suspicions about Ali Singh and the Marco Polo,” Joe added. “They can radio the captain to keep an eye on him.”

“Okay,” said Tony. “I’ll do that. First I’ll put you ashore.”

“Don’t go too close or you’ll hit those rocks and wreck the boat,” Frank warned. “Joe and I can swim to shore. Then we’ll work around into the tunnel and see what we can find. If we do discover anything, we’ll wait at the entrance and show the men from the Coast Guard where to go when they get here.”

Tony edged the boat in as close to the dark shore as he dared without lights. Quickly Frank and Joe took off their slacks, T shirts, sweaters, and sneakers. They rolled them up, and with twine which Tony provided, tied the bundles on top of their heads. Then they slipped over the side into the water. The Napoli sped off.

Frank and Joe were only a few yards from the rocks and after a short swim emerged on the main-land.

“Well, here goes!” Joe whispered, heading for the tunnel.

CHAPTER XII

The Secret Passage

CAUTIOUSLY Frank and Joe made their way across the slippery rocks. Suddenly there was a loud splash as Joe lost his footing.

“Are you all right?” Frank whispered, as he came up to where his brother was standing in the shallow water at the edge of the cliff.

“Yes. For a moment I sure thought I’d sprained my ankle,” Joe replied tensely, “but it seems to be okay now.”

“Give me your hand,” Frank whispered and quickly pulled Joe back onto the rocks.

The Hardys had landed at a point some twenty-five yards from the tunnel opening, but the climb over the treacherous rocks was so difficult that the distance seemed much longer. It was very dark in the shadow of the steep cliff. The waves breaking against the rocks had a lonely and foreboding sound.

“Good night!” Joe muttered. “Aren’t we ever coming to that tunnel?”

“Take it easy,” Frank advised. “It can’t be much farther.”

“I hope Tony and Chet will hurry back with help,” Joe said. “This is a ticklish job.”

“If anybody’s on guard here, we’ll certainly be at a disadvantage,” Frank remarked in a barely audible tone. “Watch out!”

By this time they had reached the entrance to the tunnel. After a few cautious steps they discovered that the narrow piece of land between the water and the base of the cliff was covered by a thick growth of bushes.

Frank turned to Joe. “If we try to walk through all that stuff,” he whispered, “we’re sure to be heard. That is, if those men are in here some place.”

Joe grunted in agreement. “What shall we do?”

Tentatively, Frank put one foot into the water from the rock on which he was standing.

“It isn’t deep,” he said. “I guess we can wade through.”

The boys hugged the wall and started off. Fortunately, the water came only to their knees because there was a shelf of rocks all the way along. The brothers’ hearts beat wildly. What would they find ahead of them?

The boys had not heard a sound since entering the tunnel. It appeared that the men in the row. boat had gone on to some secret hiding place.

“I think I’ll risk my flashlight,” Frank said in a low voice as they reached the pond. “We can’t find out anything without it.”

He pulled one he always carried from its waterproof case and snapped it on. The yellow beam shone over the pond. There was no sign of the rowboat.

“How do you think those men got out of here?” Joe asked. “Do you suppose there’s another opening?”

Frank turned the flashlight onto the steep sides surrounding the water. “I don’t see any. My guess is that those men hid the boat some place. Let’s make a thorough search.”

Slowly the brothers began to walk around the edge of the pond, brushing aside the heavy growth and peering among the bushes. They had about given up in despair as they reached the section by the far wall of the tunnel. Then, as Frank beamed the flashlight over the thicket, he exclaimed hoarsely, “Look!”

“A door!” Joe whispered tensely.

The door had been so cleverly concealed that it would not have been seen in full daylight except at close quarters. The glare of the flashlight, however, brought the artificial screen of branches and leaves into sharp relief against the dark cliffside.

“This explains it,” Joe said. “The men in the boat went through here. I wonder where it goes.”

In order to avoid detection, Frank extinguished his light before trying to open the door. He swung it open inch by inch, half expecting to find lights and people beyond. But there was only darkness. Luckily the door had made no noise. Frank turned on his light again.

Ahead was a watery passageway some ten feet wide and twenty-five feet long, with a ledge running along one side. At the end was a tiny wharf with a rowboat tied to a post.

“This is fantastic!” Joe whispered. “And it must have been here a long time. Do you suppose it’s connected with the Pollitt place?”

“If it is, it could mean old Mr. Pollitt was mixed up with the smugglers!” Frank answered. “Hey, do you suppose Snattman is his nephew?”

Excited over this possible new angle to the case, Frank and Joe stepped onto the ledge. They dressed, then quietly inched forward. Reaching the wharf, they looked about them as Frank beamed his flashlight on the walls.

“Hold it!” Joe whispered.

Directly ahead was a crude arch in the rock. Beyond it, the boys could see a steep flight of stone steps. Their hearts pounded with excitement.

“We’ve found it!” Frank whispered. “This must be the secret passageway!”

“Yes,” Joe agreed, “and from the distance we’ve come I’d figure that we’re right underneath the house on the cliff.”

“Let’s go up.”

The light cast strange shadows in the passage through the rocks. Water dripped from the walls. The boys tiptoed forward and stealthily began the ascent.

As they crept up the stairs, Frank flashed the light ahead of them. Shortly they could see that the steps ended at a heavy door. Its framework was set into the wall of rock. Above them was only a rocky ceiling.

When Frank and Joe reached the door, they hesitated. Both were thinking, “If we go through that door and find the gang of smugglers, we’ll never get out. But, on the other hand, we must find Dad!”

Frank stepped forward, pressed his ear against the door, and listened intently. There was not a sound beyond.

He turned off his light and looked carefully around the sides of the door to see if he could catch a glimmer of any illumination from the other side. There was only darkness.

“I guess there’s no one inside,” he said to Joe. “Let’s see if we can open it.”

Frank felt for the latch. The door did not move. “It must be locked,” he whispered.

“Try it again. Maybe it’s just stuck.”

Frank put his hand on the latch, this time also pushing the door with his shoulder. Suddenly, with a noise which echoed from wall to wall, the latch snapped and the door swung open.

Joe stepped forward, but Frank put out a restraining hand. “Wait!” he cautioned. “That noise may bring someone.”

Tensely, they stood alert for the slightest sound. But none came. Hopeful that there was no one in the area beyond, Frank switched on the flashlight.

The vivid beam cut the darkness and revealed a gloomy cave hewn out of the rock in the very center of the cliff. The boys wondered if it had been a natural cave. It was filled with boxes, bales, and packages distributed about the floor and piled against the walls.

“Smuggled goods!” Frank and Joe thought.

The fact that the majority of the boxes bore labels of foreign countries seemed to verify their suspicions.

Convinced that the cave was unoccupied, the boys stepped through the doorway and looked about for another door or opening. They saw none. Was this the end of the trail?

“But it couldn’t be,” the young sleuths thought. “Those men went some place.”

Bolts of beautiful silk had been tossed on top of some of the bales. Valuable tapestries were also lying carelessly around. In one corner four boxes were piled on top of one another. Frank accidentally knocked the flashlight against one of these and it gave forth a hollow sound.

“It’s empty,” he whispered.

An idea struck him that perhaps these boxes had been piled up to conceal some passage leading out of the secret storeroom. He mentioned his suspicion to Joe.

“But how could the men pile the boxes up there after they went out?” his brother questioned.

“This gang is smart enough for anything. Let’s move these boxes away and maybe we’ll find out.”

Frank seized the topmost box. It was very light and he removed it from the pile without difficulty.

“I thought so!” Frank said with satisfaction. The flashlight had revealed the top of a door which had been hidden from view.

The boys lost no time in moving the other three boxes. Then Frank and Joe discovered how it was possible for the boxes to be piled up in such a position, in spite of the fact that the smugglers had left the cave and closed the door behind them.

Attached to the bottom of the door was a thin wooden platform that projected out over the floor of the cave and on this the boxes had been piled.

“Very clever,” Joe remarked. “Whenever any one leaves the cave and closes the door, the boxes swing in with the platform and it looks as though they were piled up on the floor.”

“Right. Well, let’s see where the door leads,” Frank proposed.

He snapped off his light and with utmost caution opened the door. It made no sound. Again there was darkness ahead.

“What a maze!” Frank whispered as he turned on his flash and beamed the light ahead.

Another stone-lined passage with a flight of steps at the end!

Suddenly Frank stiffened and laid a warning hand on his brother’s arm. “Voices!” he said in a low tone and snapped off his light.

The boys listened intently. They could hear a man’s voice in the distance. Neither could distinguish what he was saying, for he was still too far away, but gradually the tones grew louder. Then, to the brothers’ alarm, they heard footsteps. Hastily they retreated into the secret cave.

“Quick! The door!” Frank urged.

They closed it quietly.

“Now the boxes. If those men come in here they’ll notice that the boxes have been moved!” He turned on the light but shielded it with his hand.

Swiftly Joe piled the empty boxes back onto the platform that projected from the bottom of the door. He worked as silently and quickly as possible, but could hear the footsteps drawing closer and closer.

Finally the topmost box was in place.

“Out the other door!” Frank hissed into Joe’s ear.

They sped across the floor of the cave toward the door opening onto the stairs they had recently ascended. But hardly had they reached it before they heard a rattle at the latch of the door on the opposite side of the cave.

“We haven’t time,” Frank whispered. “Hide!”

The beam of the flashlight revealed a number of boxes close to the door. On top of these someone had thrown a heavy bolt of silk, the folds of which hung down to the floor. The brothers scrambled swiftly behind the boxes, pressing themselves close against the wall. They had just enough time to hide and switch out Frank’s light before they heard the other door open.

“There’s a bunch of drugs in that shipment that came in three weeks ago,” they heard a husky voice say. “We’ll take it upstairs. Burke says he can get rid of it for us right away. No use leaving it down here. Got to make room for the new shipment.”

“Right,” the Hardys heard someone else reply. “Anything else to go up?”

“No. I’ll switch on the light.”

There was a click, and suddenly the cave was flooded with light. It had been wired for electricity.

Frank and Joe crouched in their hiding place, holding their breaths in terror. Would they be discovered?

Footsteps slowly approached the boxes behind which they were concealed!

CHAPTER XIII

A Startling Discovery

FRANK AND JOE tried to crowd themselves into the smallest space possible as the men came nearer to their hiding place. The electric light bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling cast such a strong illumination over the cave that the boys felt certain they would be discovered.

The boxes were placed a small distance apart, and only the fact that folds of silk hung down over the open spaces between the boxes prevented the boys from being seen immediately. However, through a crack in one of the crates, the Hardys could just make out two husky-looking figures.

“Here’s some o’ that Japanese silk,” the boys heard one of the men say. “I’d better take a bolt of that up too. Burke said he could place some more of it.”

Instantly the same thought ran through both the brothers’ minds. If the man picked up the silk, they would surely be found!

“Don’t be crazy!” the other man objected. “You know you won’t get any credit for pushin’ a sale. Why break your arm luggin’ all that stuff upstairs?”

“Well,” the first man explained in a whining tone, “I thought maybe we could get rid of some more of this swag and make ourselves a little extra dough.”

“Naw,” his companion snarled. “I can tell you ain’t been with this gang long. You never get any thanks around here for thinkin’. If Burke don’t take the extra stuff, the boss’ll make you bring it all the way down again.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Sure I’m right! My idea for the rest of us in this gang is to do just what Snattman tells us to and no more.”

“You got somethin’ there, Bud. Okay. We’ll just take up the package of drugs and leave the rest.”

To the boys’ relief the men turned away and went over to the other side of the room. Frank and Joe did not dare peer out, but they could hear the sound of boxes being shifted.

Then came the words, “All set. I’ve got the packages. Let’s go!”

The switch was snapped and the cave was plunged into darkness. The Hardys began to breathe normally again. The door to the corridor closed and faintly the boys could detect the men’s footsteps as they ascended the stairs at the end of it.

When they had died away completely, Frank switched on the flashlight. “Wow!” he said, giving a tremendous sigh of relief. “That was a close call! I sure thought they had us.”

“Me too,” Joe agreed. “We wouldn’t have had a chance with that pair. Looked like a couple of wrestlers.”

“Do we dare follow them?”

“You bet. I’d say we’ve solved the smuggling mystery, but we’ve still got to find out if they’re holding Dad,” Joe said grimly.

“We’ll have to watch our step even more carefully. We don’t want to walk right into the whole ring of smugglers,” Frank reminded him.

“Right. I don’t crave anything worse than what we’ve just gone through,” said Joe. “I thought I’d die of suspense while that pair was in here.”

They crossed the room, opened the door, and started up the dark passageway. Presently they were confronted by the flight of steps. Part way up there was a landing, then more steps with a door at the top.

“I’ll go first,” Frank offered. “Stick close behind me. I think I’ll keep the flash off.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “Snattman might have a guard at the top and there’s no use advertising our presence.”

Step by step, the boys crept upward in the inky blackness. Then they found themselves on a crude landing of planks. Carefully they felt their way along the side of the rock wall until they reached the next flight of steps.

Here the brothers stopped again to listen. Silence.

“So far, so good,” Frank whispered. “But somehow I don’t like this whole thing. I have a feeling we’re walking into a trap.”

“We can’t quit now,” Joe answered. “But I admit I’m scared.”

Still groping in the dark, the boys climbed up and up until they were nearly winded.

“Where are we?” Joe panted. “I feel as if I’ve been climbing stairs for an hour!”

“Me too,” Frank agreed. “The cliff doesn’t look this high from the outside.”

They rested a minute, then continued their journey. Groping around, they finally reached another door. Frank hunted for the door handle. Finding it, he turned the knob ever so slightly to find out if the door was locked.

“I can open it,” Frank said in Joe’s ear, “but we’d better wait a few minutes.”

“Every second is vital if Dad’s a prisoner,” Joe objected.

Frank was about to accede to his brother’s urging when both boys heard footsteps on the other side of the door. A chill ran down their spines.

“Shall we run?” Joe said fearfully.

“It wouldn’t do us any good. Listen!”

There came a queer shuffling sound and a sigh from somewhere beyond the door. That was all.

“Someone’s in there,” Frank breathed. Joe nodded in the darkness.

The boys did not know what to do. The gang might have posted a sentry. If there was only one, the Hardys might be able to jump the man and disarm him. However, they probably could not do it without making some noise and attracting the attention of the rest of the smugglers.

Frank and Joe gritted their teeth. They couldn’t give up now!

As they were trying to decide how to proceed, the situation took an unexpected turn. A door slammed in the distance. Then came the murmur of voices and the sound of advancing footsteps.

“This nonsense has gone far enough,” a man said angrily. “He’ll write that note at once, or I’ll know the reason why.”

The boys started. The voice was that of the man who had ordered them to leave the pond during the afternoon.

“That’s right, chief!” another voice spoke up. “Make him do as you say and get the heat off us until we’ve got all the loot moved.”

“If he doesn’t write it, he’ll never get out of here alive,” the first man promised coldly.

Instantly Frank and Joe thought of the note their mother had received. Was the man these smugglers were talking about their father? Or was he someone else—maybe Jones, who was to be forced to obey them or perhaps lose his life?

The speakers went a short distance beyond the door behind which Frank and Joe were standing. Then they heard the click of a switch. A faint beam of yellow light shone beneath the door. The brothers figured there was a corridor beyond and three or four men had entered a room opening from it.

“Well, I see you’re still here,” said the man who had been addressed as chief. “You’ll find this an easier place to get into than out of.”

A weary voice answered him. The tones were low, so the boys pressed closer to the door. But try as they might, they could not distinguish the words.

“You’re a prisoner here and you’ll stay here until you die unless you write that note.”

Again the weary voice spoke, but the tones were still so indistinct that the boys could not hear the answer.

“You won’t write it, eh? We’ll see what we can do to persuade you.”

“Let him go hungry for a few days. That’ll persuade him!” put in one of the other men. This brought a hoarse laugh from his companions.

“You’ll be hungry enough if you don’t write that letter,” the chief agreed. “Are you going to write it?”

“No,” the boys barely heard the prisoner answer.

The chief said sourly, “You’ve got too much on us. We can’t afford to let you go now. But if you write that letter, we’ll leave you some food, so that you won’t starve. You’ll break out eventually, but not in time to do us any harm. Well, what do you say? Want some food?”

There was no reply from the prisoner.

“Give his arm a little twist,” suggested one of the smugglers.

At this the Hardys’ blood boiled with rage. Their first impulse was to fling open the door and rush to the aid of the person who was being tormented. But they realized they were helpless against so many men. Their only hope lay in the arrival of the Coast Guard men, but they might come too late!

“Chief, shall I give this guy the works?” one of the smugglers asked.

“No,” the leader answered quickly. “None of that rough stuff. We’ll do it the easy way—starvation. I’m giving him one more chance. He can write that note now or we’ll leave him here to starve when we make our getaway.”

Still there was no reply.

To Frank’s and Joe’s ears came a scraping sound as if a chair was being moved forward.

“You won’t talk, eh?” The leader’s voice grew ugly.

There was a pause of a few seconds, then suddenly he shouted, “Write that note, Hardy, or you’ll be sorry—as sure as my name’s Snattmanl”

CHAPTER XIV

Captured

JOE gave a start. “It is Dad!” he whispered hoarsely. “He found the smugglers’ hide-out!”

Frank nudged his brother warningly. “Not so loud.”

The boys’ worst fears were realized—their father was not only a prisoner of the smugglers, but also his life was being threatened!

“Write that note!” Snattman demanded.

“I won’t write it,” Fenton Hardy replied in a weak but clear voice.

The chief persisted. “You heard what I said. Write it or be left here to starve.”

“I’ll starve.”

“You’ll change your mind in a day or two. You think you’re hungry now, but wait until we cut off your food entirely. Then you’ll see. You’ll be ready to sell your soul for a drop of water or a crumb to eat.”

“I won’t write it.”

“Look here, Hardy. We’re not asking very much. All we want you to do is write to your wife that you’re safe and tell her to call off the police and those kids of yours. They’re too nosy.”

“Sooner or later someone is going to trace me here,” came Mr. Hardy’s faint reply. “And when they do, I can tell them enough to send you to prison for the rest of your life.”

There was a sudden commotion in the room and two or three of the smugglers began talking at once.

“You’re crazy!” shouted Snattman, but there was a hint of uneasiness in his voice. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know enough to have you sent up for attempted murder. And you’re about to try it again.”

“You’re too smart, Hardy. That’s all the more reason why you’re not going to get out of here until we’ve gone. And if you don’t co-operate you’ll never make it. Our next big shipment’s coming through tonight, and then we’re skipping the country. If you write that letter, you’ll live. If you don’t, it’s curtains for you!”

Frank and Joe were shaken by the dire threats. But they must decide whether to go for help, or stay and risk capture and try to rescue their father.

“You can’t scare me, Snattman,” the detective said. “I have a feeling your time is up. You’re never going to get that big shipment.”

The detective’s voice seemed a little stronger, the boys felt.

Snattman laughed. “I thought you were smart, but you’re playing a losing game, I warn you. And how about your family? Are you doing them a service by being so stubborn?”

There was silence for a while. Then Fenton Hardy answered slowly:

“My wife and boys would rather know that I died doing my duty than have me come back to them as a protector of smugglers and criminals.”

“You have a very high sense of duty,” sneered Snattman. “But you’ll change your mind. Are you thirsty?”

There was no reply.

“Are you hungry?”

Still no answer.

“You know you are. And it’ll be worse. You’ll die of thirst and starvation unless you write that note.”

“I’ll never write it.”

“All right. Come on, men. We’ll leave him to himself for a while and give him time to think about it.”

Frank squeezed Joe’s arm in relief and exhilaration. There was still a chance to save their father!

Footsteps echoed as Snattman and the others left the room and walked through the corridor. Finally the sounds died away and a door slammed.

Joe made a move toward the door, but Frank held him back. “We’d better wait a minute,” he cautioned, “They may have left someone on guard.”

The boys stood still, listening intently. But there were no further sounds from beyond the door. At length, satisfied that his father had indeed been left alone, Frank felt for the knob.

Noiselessly he opened the door about an inch, then peered into the corridor which was dimly lighted from one overhead bulb. There was no sign of a guard.

Three doors opened from the corridor—two on the opposite side from where the brothers were standing and another at the end.

The passage was floored with planks and had a beamed ceiling like a cellar. Frank and Joe quickly figured where their father was and sped across the planks to the room. They pushed open the door of the almost dark room and peered inside. There was a crude table and several chain. In one corner stood a small cot. On it lay Fenton Hardy. He was bound hand and foot to the bed and so tightly trussed that he was unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. He was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his prison. On a chair beside the cot was a sheet of paper and a pencil, evidently the materials for the letter Snattman had demanded he write.

“Dad!” Frank and Joe cried softly.

The detective had not heard the door open, but now he looked at his sons in amazement and relief. “You’re here!” he whispered. “Thank goodness!”

The boys were shocked at the change in their father’s appearance. Normally a rugged-looking man, Fenton Hardy now was thin and pale. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes listless.

“We’ll have you out of here in a minute,” Frank whispered.

“Hurry!” the detective begged. “Those demons may be back any minute!”

Frank pulled out his pocketknife and began to work at the ropes that bound his father. But the knife was not very sharp and the bonds were thick.

Joe discovered that he did not have his knife with him. “It probably slipped out of my pocket when we undressed on the Napoli,” he said.

“Mine’s gone too,” Mr. Hardy told them. “Snattman took everything I had in my pockets, including concentrated emergency rations. Have you anything sweet with you?”

Joe pulled out the candy bar from his pocket and held it, so Mr. Hardy could take a large bite of the quick-energy food. Meanwhile, his eyes roamed over the room in search of something sharp which he might use to help Frank with the ropes. He saw nothing.

Mr. Hardy finished the candy bar, bite by bite. Now Joe started to help Frank by trying to untie the knots. But they were tight and he found it almost impossible to loosen them.

Minutes passed. Frank hacked at the ropes, but the dull blade made little progress. Joe worked at the obstinate knots. Fenton Hardy could give no assistance. All were silent. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the boys and the scraping of the knife against the ropes.

At last Frank was able to saw through one of the bonds and the detective’s feet were free. His son pulled the ropes away and began to work on the ones that bound his father’s arms. As he reached over with the knife there came a sound that sent a feeling of terror through the Hardys.

It was a heavy footstep beyond the corridor door. Someone was coming back!

Frank worked desperately with the knife, but the ropes still held stubbornly. The dull blade seemed to make almost no impression. But at last a few strands parted. Finally, with Fenton Hardy making a mighty effort and Joe clawing at the rope with his fingers, it snapped.

The detective was free!

But the footfalls of the approaching smuggler came closer.

“Quick!” Frank whispered, as he flung the ropes aside.

“I—I can’t hurry!” Mr. Hardy gasped. “I’ve been tied up so long my feet and legs are numb.”

“But we’ve got to hurry, Dad!” Frank said excitedly. “See if you can stand up.”

“I’ll—I’ll do my best,” his father replied, as the boys rubbed his legs vigorously to restore full circulation.

“We must run before those crooks come!” Joe said tensely.

Fenton Hardy got to his feet as hastily as he could. But when he stood up, the detective staggered and would have fallen if Frank had not taken his arm. He was so weak from hunger that a wave of dizziness had come over him. He gave his head a quick shake and the feeling passed.

“All right. Let’s go,” he said, clinging to both boys for support.

The three hastened out the door of the room and across the corridor to the cave. As they entered it, Mr. Hardy’s knees buckled. In desperation his sons picked him up.

“You go on,” he whispered. “Leave me here.”

“I’m sure all of us can make it,” Joe said bravely.

They reached the far door, but the delay had been costly. Just as Frank opened it, clicking off his flashlight, the corridor door was flung open and the ceiling light snapped on.

Frank leaped directly at the smuggler

Frank and Joe had a confused glimpse of the dark man whom they had seen at the pond that afternoon. Snattman! Two rough-looking companions crowded in behind him.

“What’s going on here?” Snattman exclaimed, apparently not recognizing the group for a moment.

“It’s the Hardys!” one of the other men cried out

The fleeing trio started down the steps but got no farther than the landing when the smugglers appeared at the stairway and rushed down after them.

“Stop!” cried Snattman, jumping down the last three steps and whipping an automatic from his hip pocket. The place was flooded with light.

As Snattman drew closer, Frank crouched for a spring, then leaped directly at the smuggler. He struck at the man’s wrist and the revolver flew out of his grasp. It skidded across the landing and clattered down the steps. Frank closed in on the man. Snattman had been taken completely by surprise. Before he could defend himself, Frank forced him against the wall.

Joe, in the meantime, with a swift uppercut had kayoed one of the other men. And Mr. Hardy, whose strength had partially returned, was battling the third as best he could.

But at this moment the boys saw their father’s adversary dodge to the wall and press a button. In an instant an alarm bell sounded in the corridor. Within seconds a new group of Snattman’s gang appeared. As some held drawn revolvers, others overpowered the three Hardys.

In the face of the guns, father and sons were forced to surrender and return to the room where Mr. Hardy had been held captive before.

Within five minutes Fenton Hardy was bound again to the cot, while Frank and Joe, trussed up and unable to move, were tied to two chairs.

CHAPTER XV

Dire Threats

SNATTMAN, once he had recovered from his first consternation and surprise at finding the Hardy boys in the underground room, was in high good humor. He turned to his men.

“Just in time,” he gloated, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. “If we hadn’t come here when we did, they’d have all escaped!”

The Hardy boys were silent, sick with despair. They had been sure they were going to succeed in rescuing their father and now the three of them were prisoners of the smuggling gang.

“What are we goin’ to do with these guys?” asked one of the men.

The voice sounded familiar to the boys and they looked up. They were not surprised to see that the man was the red-haired one they had met at the Pollitt place when Frank had discovered his father’s cap.

“Do with them?” Snattman mused. “That’s a problem. We’ve got three on our hands now instead of one. Best thing is to leave them all here and lock the door.”

“And put gags in their traps,” suggested a burly companion.

Red objected. “As long as the Hardys are around here, they’re dangerous. They almost got away this time.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“We ought to do what I wanted to do with the old man in the first place,” Red declared doggedly.

“You mean get rid of them?” Snattman asked thoughtfully.

“Sure. All of them!”

“Well—” Snattman gazed at Mr. Hardy with a sinister look.

“I should think you have enough on your conscience already, Snattman!” the detective exclaimed. “I don’t expect you to let me go,” he added bitterly. “But release my boys. They haven’t done anything but try to rescue their father. You’d do the same thing yourself.”

“Oh yeah?” Snattman sneered. “Don’t bother yourself about my conscience. Nobody—but nobody ever stands in my way.

“As to letting these boys go, what kind of a fool do you take me for?” Snattman shouted. “If you three are such buddies, you ought to enjoy starving together.”

The smuggler laughed uproariously at what he considered a very funny remark.

Frank’s and Joe’s minds were racing with ideas. One thing stood out clearly. Snattman had said the Hardys almost escaped. This meant that no one was guarding the secret entrance!

“If we can only hold out a while,” they thought, “the Coast Guard will arrive. There’ll be nobody to stop them from coming up here.”

Then, suddenly, a shocking possibility occurred to the boys. Suppose the Coast Guard could not find the camouflaged door opening from the pond!

During the conversation four of the smugglers had been whispering among themselves in the corridor. One of them now stepped into the room and faced Snattman.

“I’d like a word with you, chief,” he began.

“What is it now?” The smuggler’s voice was surly.

“It’s about what’s to be done with the Hardys, now that we’ve got ‘em,” the man said hesitantly. “It’s your business what you do to people who make it tough for you when you’re on your own. But not in our gang. We’re in this for our take out of the smugglin’, and we won’t stand for too much rough stuff.”

“That’s right!” one of the other men spoke up.

“Is that so?” Snattman’s upper lip curled. “You guys are gettin’ awful righteous all of a sudden, aren’t you? Look out or I’ll dump the lot of you!”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” replied the first man who had addressed him. “We’re partners in this deal and we’re goin’ to have our full share of what comes in. We ain’t riskin’ our lives for love, you know.”

“We’ve got another idea about what to do with these three prisoners,” a third smuggler spoke up. “I think it’s a good one.”

“What is it?” Snattman asked impatiently.

“We’ve been talkin’ about Ali Singh.”

Frank and Joe started and listened intently.

“What about him?” Snattman prodded his assistant.

“Turn the prisoners over to him. He’s got a friend named Foster who’s captain of a boat sailin’ to the Far East tonight. Put the Hardys on board that ship,” the first smuggler urged.

Snattman looked thoughtful. The idea seemed to catch his fancy.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “I hadn’t thought of Ali Singh. Yes, he’d take care of them. They’d never get back here.” He smiled grimly.

“From what he told me about that friend of his, the captain’d probably dump the Hardys overboard before they got very far out,” the man went on smugly. “Seems like he don’t feed passengers if he can get rid of ’em!”

“All the better. We wouldn’t be responsible.”

“Leave them to Ali Singh.” Red chuckled evilly. “He’ll attend to them.”

Snattman walked over to the cot and looked down at Mr. Hardy. “It’s too bad your boys had to come barging in here,” he said. “Now the three of you will have to take a little ocean voyage.” He laughed. “You’ll never get to the Coast Guard to tell your story.”

The detective was silent. He knew further attempts at persuasion would be useless.

“Well,” said Snattman, “haven’t you anything to say?”

“Nothing. Do as you wish with me. But let the boys go.”

“We’ll stick with you, Dad,” said Frank quickly.

“Of course!” Joe added.

“You sure will,” Snattman declared. “I’m not going to let one of you have the chance of getting back to Bayport with your story.”

The ringleader of the smugglers stood in the center of the room for a while, contemplating his captives with a bitter smile. Then he turned suddenly on his heel.

“Well, they’re safe enough,” he told Red. “We have that business with Burke to take care of. Come on, men, load Burke’s truck. If any policemen come along and find it in the lane we’ll be done for.”

“How about them?” asked Red, motioning to the Hardys. “Shouldn’t they be guarded?”

“They’re tied up tight.” Snattman gave a short laugh. “But I guess we’d better leave one guard, anyway. Malloy, you stay here and keep watch.”

Malloy, a surly, truculent fellow in overalls and a ragged sweater, nodded and sat down on a box near the door. This arrangement seemed to satisfy Snattman. After warning Malloy not to fall asleep on the job and to see to it that the prisoners did not escape, he left the room. He was followed by Red and the other smugglers.

A heavy silence fell over the room after the departure of the men. Malloy crouched gloomily on the box, gazing blankly at the floor. The butt of a revolver projected from his hip pocket.

Frank strained against the ropes that bound him to the chair. But the smugglers had done their task well. He could scarcely budge.

“We’ll never get out of this,” he told himself ruefully.

Joe was usually optimistic but this time his spirits failed him. “We’re in a tough spot,” he thought. “It looks as if we’ll all be on that ship by morning.”

To lighten their spirits the Hardys began to talk, hoping against hope to distract the guard and perhaps overpower him.

“Shut up, you guys!” Malloy growled. “Quit your talking or I’ll make it hot for you!” He tapped his revolver suggestively.

After that, a melancholy silence fell among the prisoners. All were downhearted. It looked as if their fate truly were sealed.

CHAPTER XVI

Quick Work

IN DESPAIR the boys glanced over at their father on the cot. To their surprise they saw that he was smiling.

Frank was about to ask him what he had found amusing about their predicament when his father shook his head in warning. He looked over at the guard.

Malloy was not watching the prisoners. He sat staring at the floor. Occasionally his head would fall forward, then he would jerk it back as he struggled to keep awake.

“Snattman sure made a poor selection when he chose Malloy as guard,” the boys thought.

Several times the burly man straightened up, stretched his arms, and rubbed his eyes. But when he settled down again, his head began to nod.

In the meantime, the boys noticed their father struggling with his bonds. To their amazement he did not seem to be so tightly bound as they had thought. Both of them tried moving but could not budge an inch.

The boys exchanged glances, both realizing what had happened. “Dad resorted to an old trick!” Frank told himself, and Joe was silently fuming, “Why didn’t we think of it?”

Mr. Hardy had profited by his previous experience. When the smugglers had seized the detective and tied him to the cot for the second time, he had used a device frequently employed by magicians and professional “escape artists” who boast that they can release themselves from tightly tied ropes and strait jackets.

The detective had expanded his chest and flexed his muscles. He had also kept his arms as far away from his sides as he could without being noticed. In this way, when he relaxed, the ropes did not bind him as securely as his captors intended.

“Oh, why were Frank and I so dumb!” Joe again chided himself.

Frank bit his lip in utter disgust at not having remembered the trick. “But then”—he eased his conscience—“Dad didn’t think of it the first time, either.”

Mr. Hardy had discovered that the rope binding his right wrist to the cot had a slight slack in it. He began trying to work the rope loose. This took a long time and the rough strands rubbed his wrist raw. But at last he managed to slide his right hand free.

“Hurray!” Frank almost shouted. He glanced at the guard. Malloy appeared to be sound asleep. “Hope he’ll stay that way until we can escape,” Frank wished fervently.

He and Joe watched their father in amazement, as they saw him grope for one of the knots. The detective fumbled at it for a while. It was slow work with only his one hand free. But the boys knew from his satisfied expression that the smugglers in their haste apparently had not tied the knots as firmly as they should have.

At this instant the guard suddenly lifted his head, and Mr. Hardy quickly laid his free hand back on the cot. He closed his eyes as if sleeping and his sons followed his example. But opening their lids a slit, they watched the smuggler carefully.

The guard grunted. “They’re okay,” he mumbled. Once more he tried to stay awake but found it impossible. Little by little his head sagged until his chin rested on his chest. Deep, regular breathing told the prisoners he was asleep.

Mr. Hardy now began work again on the knot of the rope that kept his left arm bound to the cot. In a matter of moments he succeeded in loosening it and the rope fell away from his arm.

After making sure the guard was still asleep, the detective sat up on the cot and struggled to release his feet. This was an easier task. The smugglers had merely passed a rope around the cot to hold the prisoner’s feet. A few minutes’ attention was all that was necessary for the boys’ father to work his way loose.

“Now he’ll release us,” Joe thought excitedly, “and we can escape from here!”

As Fenton Hardy tiptoed toward his sons, the board floor squeaked loudly. The guard muttered again, as if dreaming, shook his head, then sat up.

“Oh, no!” Frank murmured, fearful of what would happen. He saw his father pick up a white rag someone had dropped.

A look of intense amazement crossed Malloy’s face. As he opened his mouth to yell for help, Fenton Hardy leaped across the intervening space and flung himself on the smuggler.

“Keep quiet!” the detective ordered.

Malloy had time only to utter a muffled gasp before the detective clapped a hand over the guard’s mouth, jammed the rag in it, and toppled him to the floor. The two rolled over and over in a desperate, silent struggle. The boys, helpless, looked on, their fears mounting. They knew their father had been weakened by his imprisonment and hunger, and the guard was strong and muscular. Nevertheless, the detective had the advantage of a surprise attack. Malloy had had no time to collect his wits.

Frank and Joe watched the battle in an agony of suspense. If only they could join the fight!

Mr. Hardy still had the advantage, for he could breathe better than his opponent. But suddenly Malloy managed to raise himself to his knees. He reached for the revolver at his hip.

“Look out, Dad!” Frank hissed. “He’s got his gun!”

Quick as a flash the detective landed a blow on the guard’s jaw. Malloy blinked and raised both hands to defend himself as he fell to the ground. Mr. Hardy darted forward and pulled the revolver out of the man’s side pocket.

“No funny business!” the detective told him in a low voice.

Without being told, Malloy raised his hands in the air. He sat helplessly on the floor, beaten.

“He’s got a knife too, Dad,” Joe said quietly. “Watch that.”

“Thanks, Joe,” his father replied. Then, motioning with the pistol, he said, “All right. Let’s have the knife!”

Sullenly the guard removed the knife from its leather sheath at his belt and handed it to Mr. Hardy.

Frank and Joe wanted to shout with joy, but merely grinned at their father.

Still watching Malloy, the detective walked slowly backward until he reached Joe’s side. Without taking his eyes from the smuggler, he bent down and with the knife sliced at the ropes that bound his son. Fortunately, the knife was sharp and the ropes soon were cut.

“Boy, that feels good, Dad. Thanks,” Joe whispered.

He sprang from the chair, took the knife, and while his father watched Malloy, he cut Frank’s bonds.

“Malloy,” Mr. Hardy ordered, “come over here!”

He motioned toward the bed and indicated by gestures that the smuggler was to lie down on the cot. Malloy shook his head vigorously, but was prodded over by Joe. The guard lay down on the cot.

The ropes which had held Mr. Hardy had not been cut. Quickly Frank and Joe trussed up Malloy just as their father had been tied, making certain that the knots were tight. As a final precaution they pushed in the gag which was slipping and with a piece of rope made it secure.

The whole procedure had taken scarcely five minutes. The Hardys were free!

“What now?” Frank asked his father out of earshot of Malloy. “Hide some place until the Coast Guard gets here?” Quickly he told about Tony and Chet going to bring the officers to the smugglers’ hide-out.

“But they should have been here by now,” Joe whispered. “They probably haven’t found the secret door. Let’s go down and show them.”

This plan was agreed upon, but the three Hardys got no farther than the top of the first stairway when they heard rough, arguing voices below them.

“They can’t be Coast Guard men,” said Mr. Hardy. “We’ll listen a few seconds, then we’d better run in the other direction. I know the way out to the grounds.”

From below came an ugly, “You double-crosser, you! This loot belongs to the whole gang and don’t you forget it!”

“Listen,” said the second voice. “I don’t have to take orders from you. I thought we was pals. Now you don’t want to go through with the deal. Who’s to know if we got ten packages or five from that friend o’ Ali Singh’s?”

“Okay. And the stuff’ll be easier to get rid of than those drugs. They’re too hot for me. Snattman can burn for kidnapin’ if he wants to—I don’t.”

The voices had now become so loud that the Hardys did not dare wait another moment. “Come on!” the boys’ father urged.

He led the way back to the corridor and along it to the door at the end. Suddenly Frank and Joe noticed him falter and were afraid he was going to faint. Joe recalled that his father had had no food except the candy bar. Ramming his hands into his pockets, he brought out another bar and some pieces of pretzel. Quickly he filled both his father’s hands with them. Mr. Hardy ate them hungrily as his sons supported him under his arms and assisted him to the door.

As Frank quietly opened it, and they saw a stairway beyond, the detective said, “These steps will bring us up into a shed near the Pollitt house. There’s a trap door. That’s the way Snattman brought me down. Got your lights? We haven’t any time to lose.” Mr. Hardy seemed stronger already. “I’ll take the lead.”

As they ascended, Frank and Joe wondered if they would come out in the shed where they had seen the man named Klein picking up small logs.

When the detective reached the top of the stairs he ordered the lights out and pushed against the trap door. He could not budge it.

“You try,” he urged the boys. “And hurry! Those men we heard may discover Malloy.”

“And then things will start popping!” Frank murmured.

The boys heaved their shoulders against the trap door. In a moment there came the rumble of rolling logs. The door went up easily.

Frank peered out. No one seemed to be around. He stepped up into the shed and the others followed.

The three stood in silence. The night was dark. The wind, blowing through the trees, made a moaning sound. Before the Hardys rose the gloomy mass of the house on the cliff. No lights could be seen.

From the direction of the lane came dull, thudding sounds. The boys and their father assumed the smugglers’ truck was being loaded with the goods which were to be disposed of by the man named Burke.

Suddenly the Hardys heard voices from the corridor they had just left. Quickly Frank closed the trap door and Joe piled up the logs. Then, silently, the Hardys stole out into the yard.

CHAPTER XVII

Hostages

LITHE as Indians the three Hardys hurried across the lawn and disappeared among the trees. They headed for the road, a good distance away.

“I hope a bus comes along,” Frank said to himself. “Then we can get to a phone and report—”

His thought was rudely interrupted as the boys and their father heard a sound that struck terror to their hearts—the clatter of the logs tumbling off the trap door!

An instant later came a hoarse shout. “Chief! Red! The Hardys got away! Watch out for them!”

“He must be one of the men we heard coming up from the shore,” Joe decided. “They must have found Malloy trussed up!”

Instantly the place became alive with smugglers flashing their lights. Some of the men ran from the truck toward the road, shouting. Others began to comb the woods. Another man emerged from the trap door. He and his companion dashed to the ocean side of the house.

Two burly smugglers flung open the kitchen door and ran out. One shouted, “They ain’t in the house!”

“And they’re not down at the shore!” the other yelled. “I just talked to Klein on the phone down there.”

“You guys better not let those Hardys get away!” Snattman’s voice cut through the night. “It’ll be the pen for all of you!”

“Fenton Hardy’s got a gun! He took Malloy’s!” came a warning voice from the far side of the house. The two men who had gone to the front now returned. “He never misses his mark!”

When the fracas had started, the detective had pulled his sons to the ground, told them to lie flat, face down, and not to move. Now they could hear the pounding steps of the smugglers as they dashed among the trees. The boys’ hearts pounded wildly. It did not seem possible they could be missed!

Yet man after man ran within a few yards of the three prone figures and dashed on toward the road. Presently Mr. Hardy raised his head and looked toward the Pollitt mansion.

“Boys,” he said tensely, “we’ll make a run for the kitchen door. The men won’t expect us to go there.”

The three arose. Swiftly and silently they crossed the dark lawn and slipped into the house. Apparently no one had seen them.

“When Snattman doesn’t find us outdoors,” Joe whispered, “won’t he look here to make sure?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. “But by that time I hope the Coast Guard and State Police will arrive.”

“Joe and I found a hidden stairway to the attic,” Frank spoke up. “Snattman won’t think of looking in it. Let’s hide up there.”

“You forget the ghost,” Joe reminded his brother. “He knows we found that stairway.”

“Nevertheless, Frank’s suggestion is a good one,” Mr. Hardy said. “Let’s go to the attic. Were any clothes hanging in the closet that might be used to conceal the door?”

“Yes, a man’s bathrobe on a rod.”

The Hardys did not dare use a light and had to make their way along by feeling walls, and the stair banister, with Frank in the lead and Mr. Hardy between the boys. Reaching the second floor, Frank looked out the rear window of the hall.

“The smugglers are coming back!” he remarked in a low voice. “The lights are heading this way!”

The Hardys doubled their speed, but it was still slow going, for they banged into chairs and a wardrobe as Frank felt his way along the hall toward the bedroom where the hidden staircase was.

Finally the trio reached it. Just as Frank was about to open the door to the attic, a door on the first floor swung open with a resounding bang.

“Scatter and search every room!” Snattman’s crisp voice rang out.

“We’re trapped!” Joe groaned.

“Maybe not,” Frank said hopefully. “I have a hunch Klein was the ghost. It’s possible that he’s the only one who knows about this stairway and he’s down at the shore.”

“We’ll risk going up,” Mr. Hardy decided. “But not a sound.” He slid the bathrobe across the rod, so that it would hide the door.

“The stairs creak,” Joe informed him.

Mr. Hardy told his sons to push down the treads slowly but firmly with their hands and hold them there until they put one foot between them and then raised up to their full weight.

“And lean forward, so you won’t lose your balance,” he warned.

Fearful that he could not accomplish this, Frank opened the door carefully and started up in the pitch blackness. But the dread thought of capture made him use extreme caution and he reached the attic without having made a sound.

After closing the door, Joe and his father quickly followed. The three moved noiselessly to a spot out of sight of the stairway behind a large trunk. They sat down and waited, not daring even to whisper. From downstairs they could hear running footsteps, banging doors, and loud talk.

“Not here!”

“Not here!”

“Not here!”

The search seemed to come to an end, for the second-floor group had gathered right in the room where the secret stairway was.

“This is it! The end! They’re going to search up here!” Frank thought woefully.

His father reached over and grasped a hand of each of his sons in a reassuring grip. Someone yanked open the closet door. The Hardys became tense. Would the robe over the entrance to the secret stairway fool him?

“Empty!” the man announced and shut the door. The smugglers went downstairs.

There were fervent handshakes among the detective and his sons. Other than this they did not move a muscle of their bodies, although they inwardly relaxed.

Now new worries assailed the Hardys. It was possible that Snattman and his gang, having been alerted, would move out and disappear before the police or Coast Guard could get to the house on the cliff.

Frank’s heart gave a jump. He suddenly realized that his father was hiding to protect his sons. Had he been alone, the intrepid detective would have been downstairs battling to get the better of Snattman and break up the smuggling ring.

“What a swell father he is!” Frank thought. Then another idea came to him. “Maybe being here isn’t such a bad plan after all. Dad might have been fatally shot if he’d been anywhere else on the property.”

A moment later the Hardys again became aware of voices on the second floor. They recognized one as Snattman’s, the other as Klein’s.

“Yeah, there’s a secret stairway to the attic,” Klein announced. “I found it when I was playin’ ghost. And them Hardy boys—they found it too. I’ll bet my last take on those rare drugs we’re gettin’ tonight that the dick and his sons are up in that attic!”

The Hardys’ spirits sank. They were going to be captured again after all!

They heard the door at the foot of the stairway open. “Go up and look, Klein,” ordered Snattman.

“Not me. Fenton Hardy has Malloy’s gun.”

“I said go up!”

“You can’t make me,” Klein objected in a whining tone. “I’d be a sure target ’cause I couldn’t see him. He’d be hiding and let me have it so quick I’d never know what hit me.”

Despite the grave situation, Frank’s and Joe’s faces were creased in smiles, but they faded as Snattman said, “I’ll go myself. Give me that big light!”

Suddenly a brilliant beam was cast into the attic. It moved upward, accompanied by heavy footsteps.

“Hardy, if you want to live, say so!” Snattman said, an evil ring in his voice.

No answer from the detective.

“We’ve got you cornered this time!”

Mr. Hardy did not reply.

“Listen, Hardy!” Snattman shouted. “I know you’re up there because you moved that bathrobe. I’ll give you just one minute to come down out of that attic!”

Still no answer and an interval of silence followed.

Then came Snattman’s voice again. “This is your last chance, Hardy!”

Nearly a minute went by without a sign from the two enemy camps. Then Snattman moved up the stairs a few more steps.

“Hardy, I have a proposition to make to you,” he said presently. “I know you don’t want to die and you want those boys of yours to live too. Well, so do I want to live. So let’s call it quits.”

The detective maintained his silence and Snattman continued up the steps. “Give you my word I won’t shoot. And I know you never fire first unless you have to.”

“You are my hostages!” the smuggler sneered

A moment later he appeared at the top of the stairs, empty-handed except for the light. In a moment he spotted the Hardys with his high-powered flashlight.

“Here’s the proposition—your lives in exchange for mine and my gang’s.”

“How do you mean?” Mr. Hardy asked coldly.

“I mean,” the smuggler said, “that you are my hostages.”

“Hostages!” Frank and Joe exclaimed together.

“Yes. If my men and I can get our stuff moved away before the police or the Coast Guard might happen in here, then you can leave a little later.”

“But if they do come?” Frank asked.

“Then I’ll bargain with them,” Snattman answered. “And I don’t think they’ll turn me down. They don’t know where you are, but I’ll make them understand I mean business. If they take me, you three die!”

Frank and Joe gasped. The famous Fenton Hardy and his sons were to be used as a shield to protect a ruthless gang of criminals!

The boys looked at their father in consternation. To their amazement he looked calm, but his mouth was drawn in a tight line.

“It won’t do you any good to shoot me, Hardy,” the smuggler said. “Mallory said all the chambers in that gat are empty but one. If the gang hears a shot, they’ll be up here in a minute to finish you all off properly.”

The Hardys realized that if Snattman’s remark about the gun were true, they were indeed at the mercy of this cunning, scheming, conniving smuggler. He now started backing toward the stairway.

“I think I’m a pretty fair guy,” he said with the trace of a satisfied smile.

“And one to be hated and feared!” Joe thought in a rage. “We’ve got to outwit this man some-howl” he determined.

But at the moment the possibility of this looked hopeless.

CHAPTER XVIII

Coast Guard Action

WHILE the Hardy boys had been investigating the smugglers’ hide-out and had been captured, together with their father, Tony and Chet were trying their best to accomplish the errand which Frank and Joe had given them.

During the early part of their trip back to Bayport to contact the Coast Guard, the Napoli had cut through the darkness like a streak. Then suddenly Tony exclaimed, “Oh, oh! My starboard light just went out.”

Chet turned to look at the portside. “This light’s all right. Must be the bulb in the other one.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” said Tony. “I’ll bet I haven’t another bulb.”

“You mean, somebody might not see the Napoli and ram us?” Chet asked fearfully.

“We’ll have to be careful,” Tony replied. “Chet, take the wheel, will you? I’ll see if I can find an extra bulb.”

Chet changed places with Tony, throttled the motor, and gazed intently ahead. The moon had not yet risen and it was difficult to see very far ahead.

“Find anything?” Chet called out, as Tony finished his round of the lockers and was now rummaging in the last one.

“Not yet.” Tony pulled out a canvas bag, a pair of sneakers, and some fishing tackle. As he reached in for the last article in the locker, he gave a whoop of joy. “Here’s one bulb—just one—keep your fingers crossed, pal. If this isn’t any good, we’re in a mess.”

“And breaking the law besides,” Chet added.

He held his breath as Tony went forward and crawled inside the prow of the Napoli. With a flashlight, Tony found the protecting shield for the bulb and unfastened it. After removing the dead bulb, he screwed in the new one. As the light flashed on, Tony breathed a sigh of relief and started to crawl out of the prow.

“Good work!” Chet said. “It’s lucky we—”

Chet never finished the sentence. At this instant he saw another speedboat loom up in front of him. Like lightning he swung the wheel around, missing the oncoming craft by inches!

“You fool!” the driver of the other boat shouted. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”

Chet did not reply. He was quivering. Besides, he had stalled the motor, which had been throttled so low it had not been able to take the terrific swerving. “Oh, now I’ve done it!” the stout boy wailed.

There was no response from Tony for several seconds. He had been thrown violently against the side of the boat and was dazed. But he quickly collected his wits and crawled down beside Chet.

“What happened?” he asked.

Chet told him, then said, “You’d better take over. I’m a rotten pilot.”

Tony took the seat behind the wheel, started the motor, and sped off toward Barmet Bay.

“We’ve sure wasted a lot of time,” he remarked. “I wonder how Frank and Joe are making out.”

“Hope they found Mr. Hardy,” Chet added.

There was no more conversation until the boys turned into the bay. The Coast Guard station for the area was a short distance along the southern shore of the bay and Tony headed the Napoli directly for it. He pulled up at the dock, where two patrol boats and a cutter were tied.

The two boys climbed out and hurried up to the white building. As they were about to enter it, Chet and Tony were amazed to find Biff Hooper and Phil Cohen coming out of it. Jerry Gilroy, another Bayport High friend, was with them.

“Well, for Pete’s sake!” the three cried out, and Biff added, “Boy, are we glad to see you! Where are Frank and Joe?”

“Still hunting for the smugglers,” Chet replied. “What brings you here?”

Biff explained that an hour ago Mrs. Hardy had telephoned him to see if he had heard from Frank and Joe. She confessed to being exceedingly worried about her sons. Mrs. Hardy knew they had gone to look for their father and she was in a panic that they had been captured by the same men who were possibly holding her husband.

“I told her I’d round up a couple of the fellows and go on a hunt,” Biff went on. “Jerry thought maybe Frank and Joe had come back to town and were somewhere around. We looked, but we couldn’t find them anywhere, so we borrowed Mr. Gilroy’s car and came out here to tell the Coast Guard. They’re going to send out boats. You’d better come in and talk to Chief Warrant Officer Robinson yourself.”

The boys hurried inside. Quickly Chet and Tony told of the Hardys’ suspicion that they had found the entrance to the smugglers’ hide-out.

“Can you send help out there right away?” Chet asked. “We’ll show you where the secret tunnel is.”

“This is astounding,” said Chief Robinson. “I’ll order the Alice out. You can start within five minutes.”

“I’ll phone Mrs. Hardy right away,” Jerry offered. “I’m afraid, though, that the news isn’t going to make her feel too good.”

While Jerry was gone, Chet told the chief warrant officer that the Hardys thought they knew the names of two of the men who were involved in the smuggling racket. Chet revealed the Hardy suspicions about Snattman being one and Ali Singh the other.

“We think Ali is a crewman on the Marco Polo that’s going to dock early tomorrow morning in Bayport,” Chet continued. “Frank and Joe got a tip that makes them think this is the deal: While the ship is offshore, Ali Singh pitches stolen drugs overboard and one of the smugglers picks the package up in a speedboat.”

Robinson raised his eyebrows. “Those Hardy boys certainly take after their father,” he remarked. “They have the makings of good detectives.”

Biff told the Coast Guard officer of the boys’ adventure at the haunted house on their first visit to the Pollitt place. “Frank and Joe are sure there is some connection between the house and the smugglers.”

“And they are probably right,” the chief remarked. “I’ll call the State Police at once and tell them the latest developments in this case.”

The boys waited while he made the report. Jerry, who had just finished telephoning Mrs. Hardy, said that she seemed even more worried than before but relieved that the Coast Guard was going to take a hand.

The chief warrant officer then told the boys he would get in touch with the captain of the Marco Polo at once by ship-to-shore telephone. The connection was made and the boys listened with great interest to the conversation. The captain had a booming voice which they could hear plainly.

“Yes, I have a sailor named Ali Singh,” he replied in answer to Chief Robinson’s question. “He’s a member of the kitchen crew.”

After he had been told that Ali Singh was suspected of stealing drug shipments and dropping them overboard to a confederate, he said, “That would be pretty easy for him to do. Singh probably throws them out when he dumps garbage into the water, even though he’s not supposed to do it. The drugs could be in an inflated waterproof bag.”

“Captain, will you have someone keep an eye on this Ali Singh without his knowing he’s being watched?” Chief Robinson requested. “I’ll send a patrol boat out from here to watch for any of his gang who may be in a small boat waiting to pick up something he dumps overboard. How far offshore are you?”

“About sixteen miles from your headquarters,” was the answer.

“Will you keep in touch with the patrol boat?” Robinson requested. “It’s the Henley, in charge of Chief Petty Officer Brown.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Ali Singh can be arrested when your ship docks.”

As the conversation was concluded, a uniformed coastguardman came in. He was introduced as Chief Petty Officer Bertram in charge of the Alice, which would follow Tony and Chet to the smugglers’ hide-out.

“I’m ready, sir,” he told his chief, after a short briefing. He turned to the boys. “All set?”

Chet and Tony nodded. As they turned to follow Bertram, Biff, Phil, and Jerry looked glum.

Noting the expressions on the three boys, Chief Robinson leaned across his desk and said, “I guess you fellows were hoping to be in on this too. How would you like to go on the Henley with Chief Petty Officer Brown and watch the fun?”

The eyes of the three boys lighted up and Phil said, “You mean it?”

“Do you want a formal invitation?” Chief Robinson asked with a laugh.

He rang for Chief Petty Officer Brown, and after introducing the boys, he explained what the mission of the Henley was to be.

“I understand, sir,” Brown replied. “We’ll leave at once.”

The three boys followed him down to the dock and went aboard. They met the other Coast Guard men and the fast patrol boat set off. It seemed to the boys as if the sixteen miles were covered in an incredibly short time. The lights of the Marco Polo loomed up in the distance.

“She’s moving very slowly, isn’t she?” Biff asked their skipper.

“Yes, she’s making only about four knots.”

“So it would be easy for a small boat to come alongside and take something from her?” Phil suggested.

“Yes, it would.” Quickly the officer picked up a telescope and trained it on the large craft. “The galley hatches are on the left and the tide is coming in,” he reported. “Anything thrown overboard will float toward shore.”

He ordered the wheelsman to go past the Marco Polo, come down the other side, and approach within three hundred yards, then turn off the engine and lights.

When they reached the designated spot, Petty Officer Brown ordered everyone on board the Henley not to talk or to move around. The Marco Polo’s decks, as well as the water some distance from the craft, was illuminated by light from some of the stateroom portholes. Biff, Phil, and Jerry crowded close to the chief as he trained his powerful binoculars on the galley hatches, so he could give them a running account of anything that might happen. The officer reported little activity aboard the Marco Polo and the boys assumed that the passengers either were asleep or packing their luggage in anticipation of landing the next morning.

Suddenly Petty Officer Brown saw one of the hatches open. A small man, with a swarthy complexion and rather longish coal-black hair, appeared in the circular opening. He looked out, then raised a large pail and dumped its contents into the water. Quickly he closed the hatch.

“Ali Singh!” the three boys thought as Brown reported what he had seen.

They watched excitedly to see what would happen now.

Suddenly Biff grabbed Phil’s arm and pointed. Vaguely they could see a long pole with a scooping net fastened to the end of it appear from outside the circle of light and fish among the debris. Petty Officer Brown reported that apparently the person holding the pole had found what he wanted, for he scooped something up and the pole vanished from sight.

The boys strained their ears for the sound of a small boat. It did not come and they were puzzled. They also wondered why Petty Officer Brown seemed to be doing nothing about trying to apprehend the person.

The tense skipper suddenly handed the binoculars to Phil. Without a word the puzzled boy looked through them at the spot where Brown had been gazing. To his amazement he could make out the dim shape of a speedboat with two figures in it. Each held an oar and was rowing the small boat away from the Marco Polo as fast as possible.

“We’ve got the smugglers dead to rights!” Petty Officer Brown whispered to the boys.

“Aren’t you going to arrest them?” Phil asked.

“Not yet,” the officer told him. “I’m afraid we can’t do it without some shooting. I don’t want to scare the passengers on the Marco Polo. We’ll wait a few minutes.”

Suddenly the engine of the smugglers’ speedboat was started. Tersely, Brown began issuing orders to his men. The motors roared into action.

The chase was on!

CHAPTER XIX

The Chase

IN A few minutes the Henley’s brilliant searchlight was turned on. It picked up the speedboat which was racing toward shore at full power. But gradually the Coast Guard boat lessened the distance between them.

Chief Petty Officer Brown picked up a megaphone and shouted for the fleeing men to stop. They paid no attention.

“We’ll have to show them we mean business,” the officer told Biff, Phil, and Jerry. “We’ll shoot across their bow.”

He ordered the boys out of the line of fire, in case the smugglers should attempt to retaliate. They obeyed, and though from their shelter the three could not see the speedboat, they listened intently to what was going on.

The Henley plowed ahead and presently the boys heard a shot whistle through the air.

“Stop your engine!” Brown commanded. A second later he added, “Drop those guns!”

The smugglers evidently did both, for Skipper Brown said to the boys, “You fellows can come forward now.”

The three scrambled to his side. Biff was just in time to see one of the two captured men half turn and slyly run his hand into the large pocket of his sports jacket. Biff expected him to pull out a gun and was about to warn Brown when the smuggler withdrew his hand and dropped something into the water.

“The rare drugs!” Biff thought.

Instantly he began peeling off his clothes, and when the others asked him what he was doing this for, he merely said, “Got an underwater job to do.”

Biff was over the side in a flash and swimming with strong, long strokes to the speedboat. He went beyond it and around to the far side.

In the meantime, Petty Officer Brown had ordered the smugglers to put their hands over their heads. As the Henley came alongside, two of the enlisted coastguardmen jumped across and slipped handcuffs on them. Brown instructed one of the enlisted men to take their prisoners back to Coast Guard headquarters in the smugglers’ boat.

“You got nothin’ on us! You ain’t got no right to arrest us!” one of the captured men cried out.

At that moment Biff Hooper’s head appeared over the side of the speedboat and a moment later he clambered aboard. He called out, “You’ve got plenty on these men! Here’s the evidence!”

He held up a waterproof bag, tightly sealed. It was transparent and the printing on the contents was easily read. “I happen to know that what’s in here is a rare drug,” Biff added. “I heard our doctor mention it just a few days ago.”

This announcement took the bravado out of the smugglers. The two men insisted they were only engaged to pilot the speedboat and deliver the drugs. But they would not give the name of the person who had hired them, nor the spot to which they were supposed to go.

“We know both the answers already,” Petty Officer Brown told the smugglers. Then he said to his wheelsman, “Head for the house on the cliff! They may need a little more help over there.”

Biff was hauled aboard, and as he put his clothes back on, the Henley shot through the water. He whispered to his pals, “We’ll see some more excitement, maybe.”

Some time before this, Chet and Tony had reached the area where the secret tunnel was. The patrol boat which had been following them turned on its great searchlight to pick out the exact spot.

“Look!” Chet cried out.

A speedboat with two men in it had just entered the choppy, rocky waters in front of the tunnel.

“Halt!” Skipper Bertram of the Alice ordered.

The man at the wheel obeyed the command and turned off his motor. But instead of surrendering, he shouted to his companion, “Dive, Sneffen!”

Quick as a flash the two smugglers disappeared into the water on the far side of their boat. When they did not reappear, Chet called:

“I’ll bet they’re swimming underwater to the tunnel. Aren’t we going after them?”

“We sure are,” Petty Officer Bertram replied. “Tony, can you find the channel which leads to that tunnel?”

“I think so,” Tony answered, eying the smugglers’ speedboat which now, unattended, had been thrown violently by the waves onto some rocks.

“Then we’ll come on board your boat,” the chief petty officer stated. He left two of his own men aboard the Alice to guard it and to be ready for any other smugglers who might be arriving at the hide-out.

The rest of the crew, including Bertram himself, climbed aboard the Napoli, and Tony started through the narrow passage between the rocks leading to the tunnel. One of the enlisted men in the prow of the boat operated a portable searchlight. Everyone kept looking for the swimmers, as they went through the tunnel, but did not see them. When the Napoli reached the pond, the man swung his light around the circular shore line.

“There they are!” Chet cried out.

The two smugglers, dripping wet, had just opened the secret door into the cliff. They darted through and the door closed behind them.

Tony pulled his boat to the ledge in front of the door, turned off the engine, and jumped ashore with the others. To their surprise the door was not locked.

“I’ll go first,” Bertram announced.

“But be careful!” Chet begged. “There may be a man with a gun on the other side!”

The officer ordered everyone to stand back as he pulled the door open. He beamed the searchlight inside. No one was in sight!

“Come on, men!” the skipper said excitedly.

The group quickly went along the route the Hardys had discovered earlier. When they reached the corridor and saw the three doors, Tony suggested that they look inside to see if the Hardys were prisoners. One by one each room was examined but found to be empty.

The searchers hurried on down the corridor and up the stairway which led to the woodshed of the Pollitt place. They pushed the trap door but it did not open. Their light revealed no hidden springs or catches.

“The two smugglers that got away from us may have sounded an alarm,” Bertram said. “They probably set something heavy on top of this trap door to delay us.”

“Then we’ll heave it off!” Chet declared.

He and Tony, with two of the enlisted men, put their shoulders to the trap door and heaved with all their might. At last it raised a little, then fell back into place.

“It isn’t nailed shut from the other side at any rate,” Bertram said. “Give it another shove!”

The four beneath it tried once more. Now they all could hear something sliding sideways.

“All together now!” Chet said, puffing. “One, two, three!”

The heave that followed did the trick. A heavy object above toppled with a crash, and the trap door opened. As before, Chief Petty Officer Bertram insisted upon being the first one out. There was not a sound from the grounds nor the house and not a light in evidence. He told the others to come up but cautioned:

“This may be an ambush. Watch your step and if anything starts to pop, you two boys go back down through the trap door.”

Suddenly there was a sound of cars turning into the lane leading to the Pollitt place. The vehicles’ lights were so bright that Bertram said, “I believe it’s the police!”

A few moments later the cars reached the rear of the old house and state troopers piled out. Chief Petty Officer Bertram hurried forward to introduce himself to Captain Ryder of the State Police. The two held a whispered conversation. From what the boys overheard, they figured that the troopers planned to raid the house.

Just as the men seemed to have reached a decision, everyone was amazed to see a man appear at the rear window of the second-floor hall. He held a gun in his right hand, but with his left he gestured for attention.

“My name’s Snattman,” he announced with a theatrical wave of his hand. “Before you storm this place, I want to talk to you! I know you’ve been looking for me and my men a long time. But I’m not going to let you take me without some people on your side getting killed first!” He paused dramatically.

“Come to the point, Snattman,” Captain Ryder called up to him. He, too, had a gun poised for action should this become necessary.

“I mean,” the smuggler cried out, “that I got three hostages in this house—Fenton Hardy and his two sons!”

Chet and Tony jumped. The boys had found their father, only to become captives themselves. And now the three were to be used as hostages!

“What’s the rest?” Captain Ryder asked acidly.

“This: If you’ll let me and my men go, we’ll clear out of here. One will stay behind long enough to tell you where the Hardys are.” Snattman now set his jaw. “But if you come in and try to take us, it’ll be curtains for the Hardys!”

Chet’s and Tony’s hearts sank. What was going to be the result of this nightmarish dilemma?

In the meantime Frank, Joe, and their father, for the past hour, had despaired of escaping before Snattman might carry out his sinister threat. After the smuggler left the attic, they had heard hammering and suspected the smugglers were nailing bars across the door. The Hardys tiptoed to the foot of the stairway, only to find their fears confirmed.

“If those bars are made of wood,” Frank whispered, “maybe we can cut through them with our knives without too much noise.”

“We’ll try,” his father agreed. “Joe, take that knife I got from Malloy.”

As Detective Hardy sat on the steps, leaning weakly against the wall, his two sons got to work. They managed to maneuver the knives through the crack near the knob. Finding the top of the heavy crossbars, the boys began to cut and hack noiselessly. Frank’s knife was already dull and it was not long before Joe’s became so. This greatly hampered their progress.

Half an hour later the boys’ arms were aching so badly that Frank and Joe wondered how they could continue. But the thought that their lives were at stake drove them on. They would rest for two or three minutes, then continue their efforts. Finally Joe finished cutting through one bar and started on the second of the three they had found. Ten minutes later Frank managed to cut through his.

“Now we can take turns,” he told his brother.

Working this way, with rest periods in between, the boys found the task less arduous.

“We’re almost free!” Joe finally said hopefully.

Just then, the Hardys heard cars coming into the driveway. They were sure that the police had arrived because of the illumination flooding the place even to the crack under the attic door.

It was less than a minute later that they heard the cars come to a stop outside and then Snattman’s voice bargaining for his own life in exchange for his hostages!

“Let’s break this door down and take our chances,” Frank whispered hoarsely.

“No!” his father said. “Snattman and his men would certainly shoot us!”

At this instant Frank gave a low cry of glee. His knife had just hacked through the last wooden bar. Turning the knob, he opened the door and the three Hardys stole silently from their prison.

From the bedroom doorway they peered out to where Snattman was still trying to bargain with the police. No one else was around. The boys and their father looked at one another, telegraphing a common thought.

They would rush the king of the smugglers and overpower him!

CHAPTER XX

The Smuggler’s Request

As THE three Hardys crept forward, hoping to overpower Snattman before he saw them, they heard a voice outside the house say, “You’ll never get away with this, Snattman! You may as well give up without any shooting!”

“I’ll never give up!”

“The house is surrounded with troopers and Coast Guard men!”

“What do I care?” Snattman shouted, waving his arms out the window. “I got three hostages here, and I’ve got one of the Coast Guard.”

“He’s in the house too?”

Snattman laughed. “Trying to catch me, eh? Well, I’m not going to answer that question.”

There was silence outside the house. This seemed to worry the man. He cried out, “It won’t do you any good to talk things over! I got you where I want you and—”

Like three stalking panthers Frank, Joe, and their father pounced upon the unwary smuggler. Mr. Hardy knocked the man’s gun from his hand. It flew out the window and thudded to the ground below. The boys pinned his arms back and buckled in his knees.

From below came a whoop of joy. “The Hardys have captured Snattmanl” The voice was Chet Morton’s.

“My men will never let you in herel” the victim screamed. He snarled, twisted, and turned in his captors’ grip.

Mr. Hardy, fearful that Snattman would shout to order his men upstairs, clamped a hand over the smuggler’s mouth. By this time there was terrific confusion inside and outside the Pollitt place. State troopers and the Coast Guard men had burst into both the front and rear doors.

Others guarded the sides of the house to prevent any escape from the windows. A few shots were fired, but soon the smuggling gang gave up without fighting further. The capture of their leader and the sudden attack had unnerved them.

The Hardys waited upstairs with their prisoner. In a few moments Chet and Tony appeared and behind them, to the utter astonishment of Frank and Joe, were Biff, Phil, and Jerry.

Stories were quickly exchanged and Mr. Hardy praised Frank’s and Joe’s chums for their efforts. All this time Snattman glowered maliciously.

In a few moments chief petty officers Bertram and Brown appeared in the second-floor hall with Captain Ryder. Immediately the state trooper fastened handcuffs onto the prisoner. He was about to take him away when Frank spoke up:

“There’s someone else involved in this smuggling who hasn’t been captured yet.”

“You mean the man who got away from here in the truck?” Officer Ryder asked. “We’ve set up a roadblock for him and expect to capture him any minute.”

Frank shook his head. “Ali Singh, the crewman on the Marco Polo, has a friend who owns a small cargo ship. Right now, it’s lying somewhere offshore. Snattman was thinking of putting my dad, Joe, and me on it and arranging things so that we never got home again.”

The king of the smugglers, who had been silent for several minutes, now cried out, “You’re crazy! There’s not a word of truth in it! There isn’t any boat offshore!”

The others ignored the man. As soon as he stopped yelling, Joe took up the story. “I have a hunch you’ll find that your Coast Guard man is a prisoner on that cargo ship. The name of the captain is Foster.”

“You mean our man Ayres is on that ship?” Petty Officer Brown asked unbelievingly.

“We don’t know anyone named Ayres,” Frank began. He stopped short and looked at his brother. They nodded significantly at each other, then Frank asked, “Does Ayres go under the name of Jones?”

“He might, if he were cornered. You see, he’s sort of a counterspy for the Coast Guard. He pretended to join the smugglers and we haven’t heard from him since Saturday.”

“I found out about him,” Snattman bragged. “That name Jones didn’t fool us. I saw him make a sneak trip to your patrol boat.”

Frank and Joe decided this was the scene they had seen through the telescope. They told about their rescue of “Jones” after a hand grenade had nearly killed him. They also gave an account of how his kidnapers had come to the Kane farmhouse, bound up the farmer and his wife, and taken “Jones.”

Skipper Brown said he would send a patrol boat out to investigate the waters in the area and try to find Captain Foster’s ship.

“We’ll wait here for you,” Captain Ryder stated. “This case seems to be one for both our branches of service. Two kidnapings on land and a theft from the Marco Polo, as well as an undeclared vessel offshore.”

While he was gone, the Hardys attempted to question Snattman. He refused to admit any guilt in connection with smuggling operations or the shipment of stolen goods from one state to another. Frank decided to talk to him along different lines, hoping that the smuggler would inadvertently confess something he did not intend to.

“I heard you inherited this house from your uncle, Mr. Pollitt,” Frank began.

“That’s right. What’s it to you?”

Frank was unruffled. “I was curious about the tunnel and the stairways and the cave,” he said pleasantly. “Did your uncle build them?”

Snattman dropped his sullen attitude. “No, he didn’t,” the smuggler answered. “My uncle found them all by accident. He started digging through his cellar wall to enlarge the place, and broke right through to that corridor.”

“I see,” said Frank. “Have you any idea who did build it?”

Snattman said that his uncle had come to the conclusion that the tunnel and pond had been discovered by pirates long, long ago. They apparently had decided it would be an ideal hide-out and had built the steps all the way to the top of the ground.

“Of course the woodshed wasn’t there then,” Snattman explained. “At least not the one that’s here now. The trap door was, though, but there was a tumble-down building over it.”

“How about the corridor? Was it the same size when your uncle found it?”

“Yes,” the smuggler answered. “My uncle figured that was living quarters for the pirates when they weren’t on their ship.”

“Pretty fascinating story,” Tony Prito spoke up.

Several seconds of silence followed. Snattman’s eyes darted from one boy to another. Finally they fastened on Frank Hardy and he said:

“Now that I’m going to prison, the eyepieces to your telescope, and your motorcycle tools, won’t do me any good. You’ll find them in a drawer in the kitchen.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Frank.

There was another short silence. Then the smuggler went on, his head down and his eyes almost closed, “Mr. Hardy, I envy you. And I—I never thought I’d be making this kind of a confession. You know almost everything about what I’ve been doing. I’ll tell the whole story later. Since they’re going to find that Coast Guard officer, Ayres, on Foster’s ship there’s no use in my holding out any longer.

“I said I envy you, Mr. Hardy. It’s because you brought up two such fine boys and they got swell friends. Me—I wasn’t so lucky. My father died when I was little. I was pretty headstrong and my mother couldn’t manage me. I began to make the wrong kind of friends and after that—you know how it is.

“My uncle, who owned this place, might have helped me, but he was mean and selfish and never gave us any money. The most he would do was invite my mother and me here once in a while for a short visit. I hated him because he made my mother work very hard around the house all the time we were here. It wasn’t any vacation for her.

“One of the times when I was here my uncle showed me the pirates’ hide-out and I never forgot it. After I got in with a gang of hoods I kept thinking about this place, and what a swell hide-out it would be for smugglers. I was afraid to try it while my uncle was alive. But when I heard he was dead, I thought that was my chance.

“You see, I didn’t dare go to claim the property as the rightful heir. But now I’m planning to take it over. Of course it won’t do me any good, because I know I’ll have to do a long stretch in the pen. But I’m going to ask those executors to use my uncle’s money to run this place as a boys’ home—I mean a place where boys without proper home training can come to live.”

The group listening to Snattman, king of the smugglers, were too overwhelmed by his complete change of heart to say anything for a few seconds. But when the man looked up, as if pleading for his hearers to believe him, Mr. Hardy said, “That’s a very fine thing for you to do, Snattman. I’m sure that the boys who benefit from living here will always be grateful to you.”

The solemn scene was suddenly interrupted by the return of Chief Petty Officer Brown. He reported that another patrol boat had picked up his message about Captain Foster’s ship and within a few minutes had reported sighting it. Then, within a quarter of an hour, word came that Captain Foster had been put under arrest, and that the missing Coast Guard man had been found on the ship, as well as a quantity of merchandise which the captain had expected Snattman to remove.

The prisoners were now taken away from the Pollitt home and the Hardys and their friends found themselves alone.

Chet asked suddenly, “How do we get home?”

Tony grinned. “I guess the Napoli will hold all of us.”

The group went to the woodshed, opened the trap door, and started down the secret passageway to the pond below. They climbed into the Napoli and Tony slipped behind the wheel. The Coast Guard men thoughtfully had left the portable searchlight on the prow and Tony was able to make the trip through the tunnel and the narrow channel out to the ocean without accident.

Suddenly Frank spoke up, “Dad, what happened to your car?”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “It’s in Bayport in a garage. I was being followed, so I shook off the shadowers and took the bus.” He added ruefully, “But it didn’t do me much good. Snattman’s men attacked me and took me prisoner on the road.”

The famous detective now said, “While I have the chance, I want to thank each of you boys individually for what you did. Without the seven of you, this case might never have been solved and I might not have been found alive.”

Modestly Frank and Joe and their friends acknowledged the praise, secretly hoping another mystery would come their way soon. One did and by learning The Secret of the Old Mill the Hardy boys encountered a cunning gang of counterfeiters.

Suddenly Joe remarked, “Compliments are flying around here pretty thick, but there’s one person we forgot to mention. Without him, Frank and I might never have found Dad.”

“Who’s that?” Biff asked.

“Pretzel Pete!” Joe replied.

“That’s right,” said Frank. “All together, fellows! A rousing cheer for Pretzel Pete!”

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Narrow Escape

CHAPTER II - Trailing a Detective

CHAPTER III - An Unexpected Return

CHAPTER IV - The Shadowy Visitor

CHAPTER V - The Bicycle Clue

CHAPTER VI - A Mysterious Tunnel

CHAPTER VII - Sleuthing by Microscope

CHAPTER VIII - The Strange Mill Wheel

CHAPTER IX - Tracing a Slugger

CHAPTER X - The Sign of the Arrow

CHAPTER XI - Sinister Tactics

CHAPTER XII - An Interrupted Chase

CHAPTER XIII - Sudden Suspicion

CHAPTER XIV - Prisoners!

CHAPTER XV - Lead to a Counterfeiter

CHAPTER XVI - A Night Assignment

CHAPTER XVII - Secret Signal

CHAPTER XVIII - The Hidden Room

CHAPTER XIX - Underground Chase

CHAPTER XX - Solid Evidence

THE SECRET OF THE OLD MILL

“Drop case or else danger for you and your family.” This warning addressed to Fenton Hardy not only alarms the famous investigator and his detective sons, but also puzzles them, because Mr. Hardy is working on more than one case. Which one prompted the threat?

When more ominous warnings follow, Frank and Joe suspect there is a link between the counterfeiting case they are investigating and a secret case their father cannot discuss since it involves national security.

The key to the solution of both cases appears to be hidden in the old Turner mill, constructed in frontier days but now a gatehouse for Elekton Controls Limited engaged in manufacturing top-secret electronic parts for space missiles. But the millhouse is occupied by two Elekton employees who are hostile to Frank and Joe and refuse to allow the young detectives to question the company’s fourteen-year-old messenger boy who unknowingly may be in possession of some vital clues.

Determined to learn the secret of the old mill, Frank and Joe employ a clever ruse to gain entrance, only to find themselves trapped in a subterranean passageway. How the young detectives extricate themselves from this dangerous situation and unravel both mysteries will keep the reader tense with suspense.

Joe had to act fast to avoid being crushed beneath the turning wheel!

Copyright © 1990, 1962, 1955, 1927 by Simon &: Schuster, Inc. All rights

reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.. a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. .S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-440-67317-7

2006 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Narrow Escape

“WONDER what mystery Dad’s working on now?” Joe Hardy asked.

His brother Frank looked eagerly down the platform of the Bayport railroad station. “It must be a very important case, the way Dad dashed off to Detroit. We’ll know in a few minutes.”

Joe looked at his watch impatiently. “Train’s late.”

Both boys were wondering, too, about a certain surprise their father had hinted might be ready for them upon his return.

Waiting with Frank and Joe for Mr. Hardy’s arrival was their best friend Chet Morton. “Your dad’s cases are always exciting—and dangerous,” the plump, ruddy-faced boy remarked. “Do you think he’ll give you a chance to help out on this one?”

“We sure hope so,” Joe replied eagerly.

“Well, if I know you fellows,” Chet went on, “you’ll get mixed up in the mystery, somehow-and so will I, sooner or later. There goes my peaceful summer vacation!”

Frank and Joe chuckled, knowing that Chet, despite his penchant for taking things easy and avoiding unnecessary risks, would stick by them through any peril.

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank, and blond impetuous Joe, a year younger, had often assisted their detective father, Fenton Hardy, in solving baffling mysteries. There was nothing the two brothers liked more than tackling a tough case, either with their father, or by themselves.

Chet gave a huge sigh and leaned against a baggage truck as though his weight were too much for him. “I sure could use something to eat,” he declared. “I should have brought along some candy or peanuts.”

The Hardys exchanged winks. They frequently needled their friend about his appetite, and Joe could not resist doing so now.

“What’s the matter, Chet? Didn’t you have lunch? Or did you forget to eat?”

The thought of this remote possibility brought a hearty laugh from Frank. Chet threw both boys a glance of mock indignation, then grinned. “Okay, okay. I’m going inside and get some candy from the machine.”

As Chet went into the station, the Hardys looked across to the opposite platform where a northbound train roared in. The powerful diesel ground to a halt, sparks flashing from under the wheels. Passengers began to alight.

“Did you notice that there weren’t any passengers waiting to board the train?” Frank remarked.

At that moment a man dashed up the stairs onto the platform toward the rear of the train. As the train started to move, the stranger made a leap for the last car.

“Guess he made it. That fellow’s lucky,” Joe commented as the train sped away. “And crazy!”

“You’re telling me!” Chet exclaimed, as he rejoined the brothers. Munching on a chocolate bar, he added, “That same man stopped me in the station and asked me to change a twenty-dollar bill. There was a long line at the ticket window, so he didn’t want to wait for change there. He grabbed the money I gave him and rushed out the door as if the police were after him!”

“Boy!” Joe exclaimed. “You must be really loaded with money if you could change a twenty-dollar bill.”

Chet blushed and tried to look as modest as he could. “Matter of fact, I do have a good bit with me,” he said proudly. “I guess the man saw it when I pulled out my wallet to be sure the money was there.”

“What are you going to do with all your cash?” Frank asked curiously. “Start a mint of your own?”

“Now, don’t be funny, Frank Hardy,” Chet retorted. “You must have noticed that for a long time I haven’t been spending much. I’ve been saving like mad to buy a special scientific instrument. After your dad arrives, I’m going to pick it up.”

“What kind of hobby are you latching onto this time, Chet?” Frank asked, grinning.

From past experience, Frank and Joe knew that their friend’s interest in his new hobby would only last until another hobby captured his fancy.

“This is different,” Chet insisted. “I’m going to the Scientific Specialties Store and buy a twin-lensed, high-powered micrascope-and an illuminator to go with it.”

“A microscope!” Joe exclaimed. “What are you going to do with it—hunt for the answers to school exams?”

Frank joined Joe in a loud laugh, but Chet did not seem to think there was anything funny about it.

“Just you two wait,” he muttered, kicking a stone that was lying on the platform. “You don’t know whether or not I’ll decide to be a naturalist or even a zoologist.”

“Wow!” said Joe. “I can just see a sign: Chester Morton, Big-game Naturalist.”

“Okay,” Chet said. “Maybe even you two great detectives will need me to help you with some of your cases.”

The conversation ended with Frank’s saying, “Here comes Dad’s train.”

The express from Detroit rolled into the station. The brothers and their friend scanned the passengers alighting. To their disappointment, Mr. Hardy was not among them.

“Aren’t there any other Bayport passengers?” Frank asked a conductor.

“No, sir,” the trainman called out as he waved the go-ahead signal to the engineer and jumped back onto the car.

As the train pulled out, Joe said, “Dad must have been delayed at the last moment. Let’s come back to the station and meet the four-o’clock train.”

“That’s plenty of time for you fellows to go with me and pick up my microscope,” said Chet.

The boys walked to Chet’s jalopy, nicknamed Queen, parked in the station lot. The Queen had been painted a brilliant yellow, and “souped up” by Chet during one of the periods when engines were his hobby. It was a familiar and amusing sight around the streets of Bayport.

“She’s not fancy, but she gets around pretty quick,” Chet often maintained stoutly. “I wouldn’t trade her for all the fancy cars in the showrooms.”

“Some adjustment!” Joe grimaced. “Think we’ll get to town in one piece?”

“Huh!” Chet snorted. “You don’t appreciate great mechanical genius when you see it!”

In the business center of Bayport, the boys found traffic heavy. Fortunately, Chet found a parking spot across the street from the Scientific Specialties Store and swung the car neatly into the space.

“See what I mean?” he asked. “Good old Queen. And boy, I can’t wait to start working with that microscope!” Chet exclaimed as the three boys got out and walked to the corner.

“All bugs beware.” Joe grinned.

“You ought to be a whiz in science class next year,” Frank said while they waited for the light to change.

When it flashed green, the trio started across the street. Simultaneously, a young boy on a bicycle began to ride toward them from the opposite side of the street.

The next moment a large sedan, its horn honking loudly, sped through the intersection against the red light and roared directly toward the Hardys and Chet. Instantly Frank gave Joe and Chet a tremendous push and they all leaped back to safety. To their horror, the sedan swerved and the young boy on the bicycle was directly in its path.

“Look out!” the Hardys yelled at him.

CHAPTER II

Trailing a Detective

THE BOY on the bicycle heard the Hardys’ warning just in time and swerved away from the on-rushing car. He skidded and ran up against the curb.

The momentum carried the boy over the handlebars. He landed in a sitting position on the pavement, looking dazed.

“That driver must be out of his head!” Joe yelled as he, Frank, and Chet dashed over to the boy.

The sedan continued its erratic path, and finally, with brakes squealing and horn blaring, slammed into the curb. It had barely missed a parked car.

By now the Hardys and Chet had reached the boy. He was still seated on the sidewalk, holding his head. “Are you all right?” Frank asked, bending down. The boy was about fourteen years old, very thin and tall for his age.

“I—I think so.” A grateful look came into the boy’s clear brown eyes. “Thanks for the warning, fellows! Whew! That was close!”

Frank and Joe helped him to his feet. A crowd had gathered, and the Hardys had a hard time keeping the onlookers back. Just then the driver of the sedan made his way through the throng. He was a middle-aged man, and his face was ashen and drawn.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! My brakes wouldn’t hold. Are you fellows all right?” The driver was frantic with worry. “It happened so fast—I—I just couldn’t stop!”

“In that case, you’re lucky no one was hurt,” Frank said calmly.

The Hardys saw a familiar uniformed figure push through the crowd toward them.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. He was Officer Roberts, a member of the local police department and an old friend of the Hardys. The driver of the car started to explain, but by this time he had become so confused, his statements were incoherent.

“What happened, Frank?” Officer Roberts asked.

Frank assured him no one was hurt, and said that apparently the mishap had been entirely accidental, and the only damage was to the boy’s bicycle. The front wheel spokes were bent, and some of the paint was scratched off the fender. The car driver, somewhat calmer now, insisted upon giving the boy five dollars toward repairs.

“I’ll phone for a tow truck,” Joe offered, and hurried off to make the call while Officer Roberts got the traffic moving again.

After the garage truck had left with the sedan, and the crowd had dispersed, the boy with the bicycle gave a sudden gasp.

“My envelope!” he cried out. “Where is it?”

The Hardys and Chet looked around. Joe was the first to spot a large Manila envelope in the street near the curb. He stepped out and picked it up. “Is this yours?” he asked.

“Yes! I was afraid it was lost!”

As Joe handed over the heavy, sealed envelope, he noticed that it was addressed in bold printing to Mr. Victor Peters, Parker Building, and had Confidential marked in the lower lefthand corner.

The boy smiled as he took the envelope and mounted his bicycle. “Thanks a lot for helping me, fellows. My name is Ken Blake.”

The Hardys and Chet introduced themselves and asked Ken if he lived in Bayport.

“Not really,” Ken answered slowly. “I have a summer job near here.”

“Oh! Where are you working?” Chet asked.

Ken paused a moment before replying. “At a place outside of town,” he said finally.

Although curious about Ken’s apparent evasiveness, Frank changed the subject. He had been observing the bicycle with interest. Its handlebars were a different shape from most American models. The handgrips were much higher than the center post and the whole effect was that of a deep U.

“That’s a nifty bike,” he said. “What kind is it?”

Ken looked pleased. “It was made in Belgium. Rides real smooth.” Then he added, “I’d better get back on the job now. I have several errands to do. So long, and thanks again.”

As Ken rode off, Joe murmured, “Funny he’s so secretive about where he lives and works.”

Frank agreed. “I wonder why.”

Chet scoffed. “There you go again, making a mystery out of it.”

Frank and Joe had acquired their keen observation and interest in places and people from their father, one of the most famous investigators in the United States.

Only recently, the boys had solved The Tower Treasure mystery. Shortly afterward, they had used all their ingenuity and courage to uncover a dangerous secret in the case of The House on the Cliff.

“Come on, you two,” Chet urged. “Let’s get my microscope before anything else happens.”

They had almost reached the Scientific Specialties Store when Joe grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed down the street.

“Hey!” he exclaimed. “There’s Oscar Smuff. What’s he up to?”

The other boys looked and saw a short, stout man who was wearing a loud-checkered suit and a soft felt hat. Chet guffawed. “He acts as if he were stalking big game in Africa! Where’s the lion?”

“I think”—Frank chuckled—“our friend is trying to shadow someone.”

“If he is,” Chet said, “how could anybody not know Oscar Smuff was following him?”

Oscar Smuff, the Hardys knew, wanted to be a member of the Bayport Police Department. He had read many books on crime detection, but, though he tried hard, he was just not astute enough to do anything right. The boys had encountered him several times while working on their own cases. Usually Smuff’s efforts at detection had proved more hindrance than help, and at times actually laughable.

“Let’s see what happens,” said Joe.

In a second the boys spotted the man Oscar Smuff was tailing—a tall, trim, well-dressed stranger. He carried a suitcase and strode along as though he was going some place with a firm purpose in mind.

The boys could hardly restrain their laughter as they watched Smuff’s amateurish attempts to put into action what he had read about sleuthing.

“He’s about as inconspicuous as an elephant!” Chet observed.

Smuff would run a few steps ahead of the stranger, then stop at a store window and pretend to be looking at the merchandise on display. Obviously he was waiting for the man to pass him, but Smuff did not seem to care what kind of window he was looking in. Joe nudged Frank and Chet when Oscar Smuff paused before the painted-over window of a vacant store.

“Wonder what he’s supposed to be looking at,” Chet remarked.

Smuff hurried on, then suddenly stopped again. He took off his jacket, threw it over his arm, and put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“Get a load of his tactics now!” Joe laughed. “He’s trying to change his appearance.”

Frank chuckled. “Oscar’s been studying about how to tail, but he needs a lot more practice.”

“He probably suspects the man has contraband in his suitcase,” Joe guessed, grinning.

The tall stranger suddenly turned and looked back at Smuff. The would-be detective had ducked into a doorway and was peering out like a child playing hide-and-seek. For a moment Smuff and the stranger stared at each other. The man shrugged as though puzzled about what was going on, then continued walking.

Smuff kept up his comical efforts to shadow his quarry, unaware that the boys were following him. Near the end of the block, the man turned into a small variety store and Smuff scurried in after him.

“Come on!” said Joe to Frank and Chet. “This is too good to miss.”

The boys followed. Oscar Smuff was standing behind a display of large red balloons. He was so intent on his quarry that he still did not notice the Hardys and Chet.

Frank looked around the store quickly and saw the stranger at the drug counter selecting some toothpaste. The suitcase was on the floor beside him. As they watched, the man picked up the toothpaste and his bag, and went up front to the checkout counter. He took out a bill and gave it to the woman cashier.

Immediately Smuff went into action. He dashed from behind the balloons and across the front of the store. Elbowing several customers out of the way, he grasped the man by the arm and in a loud voice announced, “You’re under arrest! Come with me!”

The man looked at Oscar Smuff as though he were crazy. So did the cashier. Other people quickly crowded around.

“What’s the matter?” someone called out.

The Hardys and Chet hurried forward, as the man pulled his arm away from Smuff’s grasp and demanded angrily, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“You know very well what’s the meaning of this,” Smuff blustered, and grabbed the man’s arm again. “Now, miss”—Smuff turned to the cashier—“let me see the bill this man just gave you.”

The woman was too surprised to refuse the request and handed the bill to the amateur detective.

Smuff took the money. The Hardys stepped up and peered over his shoulder. The bill was a five-dollar one. Suddenly the expression on Smuff’s face changed to confusion and concern.

“Oh—er—a five—” he stuttered.

He dropped his hold on the man’s arm and stared down at the floor. “Awfully sorry,” he muttered. “It’s been—a—mistake.”

Both the man and the cashier looked completely bewildered. The next moment Smuff whirled and dashed from the store.

The Hardys and Chet rushed after him. They were overwhelmed with curiosity as to what Smuff thought the man had done. The boys soon overtook the would-be detective.

“What’s up?” Joe demanded. “Looking for somebody suspicious?”

Oscar Smuff reddened when he realized the boys had witnessed his entire performance.

“Never mind,” he said sharply. “I’ll bet even you smart-aleck Hardys have made mistakes. Anyhow, this is different. I’m helping the police on a very special, very confidential case.”

As he made the last statement, Smuff shrugged off his look of embarrassment and assumed an air of great importance.

“Well, I can’t waste precious time gabbing with you three.” Smuff turned and rushed off down the street.

The boys watched his bustling figure as he disappeared into the crowd. “I wonder what kind of case ’Detective’ Smuff is working on?” Frank mused.

“I do too,” Joe said, as Chet finally led the way into the Scientific Specialties Store.

Mr. Reed, the shop owner, stood behind the counter. He was a plump, pleasant man with a shock of white hair that stood erect on his head.

“Have you come for your microscope, Chet?” he asked. As he spoke, the man’s head bobbed up and down and his white hair waved back and forth as though blown by the wind.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Reed,” Chet said enthusiastically. “My friends, Frank and Joe, are looking forward to trying out the microscope just as much as I am.”

Joe smiled a little skeptically, but Frank agreed with his chum. Chet pulled out his wallet and emptied it of ten- and twenty-dollar bills. “Here you are, Mr. Reed. I’ve been saving for a long time so I could get the best.”

“And the best this is.” Mr. Reed smiled. “I’ll get the microscope you want from the stock-room.” The proprietor picked up the money and disappeared into the back of the store.

While they waited, Chet pointed out the various instruments on display in the showcase. The Hardys were surprised at how much Chet had learned about microscopes and their use.

After waiting five minutes, Chet grew impatient, “Wonder what’s keeping Mr. Reed,” he said. “I hope he has my ’scope in stock.”

At that moment Mr. Reed returned. There was a look of concern on his face.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t got the model.” Chet groaned.

Mr. Reed shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was solemn.

“It’s not that, Chet,” he said. “I’m afraid that one of the twenty-dollar bills you gave me is a counterfeit!”

CHAPTER III

An Unexpected Return

“COUNTERFEIT!” Chet burst out. “Counterfeit! It can’t be. I just drew the money out of the bank this morning.”

The Hardys, nonplused, stared at the twenty-dollar bill Mr. Reed was holding.

“I’m sorry, Chet,” Mr. Reed said sympathetically. “But just a few days ago all the store-keepers in town were notified by the police to be on the lookout for fake twenties. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have checked it. I can’t understand, though, why the bank didn’t detect it.”

Frank’s mind raced. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Chet, what about the man you made change for at the station?”

“You’re right, Frank!” Joe put in. “He must have passed Chet the phony twenty!”

“You mean he gave it to me on purpose?” Chet asked indignantly.

“It’s possible,” Frank said. “Of course it would be pretty hard to prove whether he did it intentionally or not.”

“What did the man look like?” Joe questioned Chet. “We got only a glimpse of him running for the train. He was medium height and stocky, but did you notice anything else about him?”

Chet thought for a few seconds. Then he said, “I do remember that the man had a sharp nose. But he was wearing sunglasses and a slouch hat, so I didn’t notice much else.”

The Hardys tried to fix a picture of the man in their minds. Meanwhile, Chet looked gloomily at the bogus bill.

“What luck!” he complained. “Here I am cheated out of twenty dollars and the microscope.”

“I’m sorry, Chet,” Mr. Reed said. “I wish there was something I could do about it.”

“Don’t worry, Chet,” said Joe. “You’ll get the microscope, anyway.” He turned to his brother. “How much money do you have with you?” he asked. “I have five-fifty.”

Frank emptied his pockets, but all he had was three dollars in change and bills.

“We’ll lend you what we have,” Joe offered. “Eight-fifty.”

Although Chet protested, the Hardys insisted, and Mr. Reed added, “You can take the microscope along and pay me the balance when you can.”

Frank and Joe put their money on the counter, while Mr. Reed went to wrap the instrument.

“Thanks. You’re real pals,” Chet said gratefully.

When the store owner returned with the package, Chet said, “I’ll go right down to Dad’s office and borrow the balance. We’ll get back here later this afternoon. Thanks very much, Mr. Reed.”

The boys were about to leave when Frank had a sudden thought.

“Mr. Reed,” he said, “would you let us borrow that counterfeit bill for some close study? We’ll be sure to turn it over to Chief Collig.”

“Swell idea,” Joe said.

The proprietor, who was familiar with the Hardys’ reputation as sleuths, readily assented. Frank put the bill in his pocket and the boys left the store.

They hurried back to Chet’s car and drove to Mr. Morton’s real-estate office several blocks away. The office was on the street level of a small building. They entered and were greeted pleasantly by Mr. Morton’s efficient secretary, Miss Benson.

“Hello, boys. Enjoying your summer vacation?”

“Yes, thanks, Miss Benson,” Chet said, eying his father’s empty desk. “When will Dad be back?”

“Your father’s gone for the day, Chet,” she replied. “He decided to go home early.”

“That’s funny,” Chet mused. “Dad usually stays until five at least.”

“We have time to drive out to the farm before we meet the train,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”

The Morton farm was on the outskirts of Bayport. When Chet swung the car into the driveway, Joe noticed with pleasure that Iola, Chet’s sister, was waving to them from the front porch. Dark-haired Iola, slim and vivacious, was Joe’s favorite date.

When they told her about the counterfeit bill, she exclaimed, “What a shame!”

Joe agreed emphatically. “And we’d sure like to get a lead on the man who passed it to Chet.”

“Sounds as if you Hardys are in the mood for some sleuthing,” Iola said with a twinkle in her eye.

“What’s this about sleuthing?” asked attractive Mrs. Morton as she came outside and joined the group.

The boys quickly explained. Then Chet asked his mother, “Is Dad around?”

Mrs. Morton smiled. “He isn’t here right now, Chet. He’s attending to an important job.”

Chet looked disappointed until his sister giggled and said, “Dad’s not too far away.” Iola winked at her mother and they both began to laugh.

“Your father’s important job is at his favorite fishing spot,” Mrs. Morton told Chet.

“Fishing!” Chet exclaimed. “He never goes fishing during the week!”

“He did this time,” said Mrs. Morton. “I guess the good weather was too much for him to resist.”

A few minutes later the boys were in the jalopy and driving down a country road bordered by woods. A half mile farther, Chet stopped and turned off the Queen’s engine. The sound of rushing water could be heard.

“This is the spot,” Chet announced, and they started off through the woods.

The boys soon came to a clear running stream and spotted Mr. Morton seated contentedly on the bank. He was leaning against a tree, holding his rod lightly between his knees and steadying it with his hands.

Just as the boys called a greeting to him, the line began to jerk and almost immediately the rod bent till the tip was close to the water. Mr. Morton leaped to his feet and shouted, “Just a minute, fellows! I’ve hooked a lulu!”

Mr. Morton was an expert. He let the fish take just enough line to bury the hook properly, then he very gently braked the reel with his thumb.

So intent was Mr. Morton on his fishing, he was not aware that his son was now rushing down the slope toward him. Suddenly Chet slipped on a moss-covered rock and fell forward. He lost his grip on the box containing the microscope and it flew toward the water. Joe, behind Chet, leaped forward and grabbed the box.

“Whew!” Chet exclaimed, regaining his balance. “Good work, Joe! Thanks a million!”

The three boys joined Mr. Morton, who was busy landing his catch, a fine, smallmouthed black bass. He held up the fish for them to admire. “Isn’t it a beauty, boys?” he said.

“Terrific, Dad,” Chet replied, still out of breath from his near tumble. “And I have something to show you.”

He unwrapped the package and held out the microscope. Mr. Morton put the fish in his creel, then studied the instrument closely.

“It’s a topnotch one, son,” he declared. “And just the model you wanted.”

“Yes, Dad. Only there’s a slight problem connected with it.”

“Oh—oh.” Mr. Morton chuckled good-naturedly. “I should have known from the look on your face. You didn’t have enough money, after all. Well, how much do you need?”

“That isn’t all there is to it,” Chet hastened to inform him, and told about the counterfeit bill.

Mr. Morton’s face darkened. “I hope we’re not in for a flood of phony bills.”

Frank nodded. “Especially since these are very clever imitations.”

Chet’s father handed over twenty dollars in small bills.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“From now on, Chet, be careful about making change for strangers,” Mr. Morton cautioned.

“I will,” his son promised fervently. “Getting cheated once is enough!”

Chet paid the Hardys the money they had lent him. Then he said to his father, “I sure was surprised when Mother told me you were fishing —in the middle of the week.”

Mr. Morton smiled broadly. “I’ve been working hard the past year on the big sale of land to Elekton Controls,” he said. “I thought it was time to take an afternoon off and do some thinking while the fish were nibbling.”

“Is that the property in back of the plant they just finished building?” asked Frank.

“That’s right.” Mr. Morton pointed upstream. “You can just see the top of the main building from here.”

“The property you sold has the old Turner mill on it,” Joe remarked. “Quite a contrast. A company that makes top-secret control parts for space missiles in a modern building right next to an ancient, abandoned gristmill.”

“I suppose they’ll tear the old place down,” Frank remarked.

“No, Elekton has decided to use it,” Mr. Morton went on. “I suggested to them that the old mill would make an attractive gatehouse for the plant’s rear entrance. After all, it’s a historic place, built by the settlers when this whole area was inhabited by Indians. The company has renovated the old mill a bit, restoring the old living quarters and adding modern facilities.”

“Is someone living there?” Joe asked with interest.

“I understand a couple of their employees are,” Mr. Morton replied. Then he continued, “They’ve even repaired the wheel, so it’s turning again. Hearing the rushing water and the grinding of the wheel’s gear mechanism brought back memories to me.”

“About the Indians, Dad?” Chet joked.

“Not quite, son.” His father smiled. “But I can remember when the mill produced the best flour around here. Your grandmother made many a delicious loaf of bread from wheat ground in the Turner mill.”

“That’s for me!” Chet said.

Everyone laughed as Mr. Morton reminisced further about having seen the mill in full operation when he was a boy. Suddenly he and the Hardys noticed that Chet had fallen silent. There was a familiar, faraway look in his eyes.

Joe grinned. “Chet, you’re turning some new idea over in your mind.”

“That’s right,” Chet said excitedly. “I’ve been thinking that maybe I could get a summer job at Elekton.”

Mr. Morton exchanged amazed glances with the Hardys at the thought of Chet’s working during the summer vacation! But, with growing enthusiasm, Chet went on:

“I could earn the twenty dollars I owe you, Dad. Besides, if I am going to be a scientist, I couldn’t think of a better place to work.”

“Elekton’s a fine company,” his father said. “I wish you luck, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Chet smiled broadly. “See you later. I have to go now and pay Mr. Reed the money I owe him.”

On the drive back to town, Chet told Frank and Joe that he was going to apply for a job at the Elekton plant the next day.

“We’ll go along,” Joe offered. “I’d like to see the plant and the old mill.”

“Swell,” said Chet.

When they reached the shopping area in Bayport, Chet drove directly to Mr. Reed’s store. The three boys had just alighted from the parked car when Chet excitedly grabbed his friends’ arms.

“There he is!” the chubby boy exclaimed. “Right down the street—the man who gave me that phony twenty!”

CHAPTER IV

The Shadowy Visitor

“THERE he goes! Across the street!” Joe said excitedly. “Let’s ask him about the counterfeit bill!”

The three boys broke into a run, dodging in and out of the crowd of afternoon shoppers. The Hardys kept their eyes trained on the stocky figure of their quarry.

But their chase was halted at the corner by a red traffic light against them. The street was congested with vehicles and it was impossible for the boys to get across.

“What luck!” Joe growled impatiently.

It seemed to be the longest red light they had ever encountered. When it changed, the three-some streaked across the street—but it was too late. The stocky man was lost to sight. The Hardys raced down the next two blocks, peering in every direction, but to no avail.

Disappointed, Frank and Joe went back to Chet, who had stopped to catch his breath.

“We lost him,” Joe reported tersely.

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “I have a hunch that man who passed the bogus twenty-dollar bill to Chet knew it was counterfeit. That last-second dash for the train was just a gimmick to make a fast getaway. But his showing up here in Bayport a couple hours after he took the train out of town is mighty peculiar.”

Joe and Chet agreed. “He probably got off in Bridgeport,” Frank went on. “That’s the nearest big town.”

As the boys walked back toward the Scientific Specialties Store, they speculated about the source of the supply of bogus money.

“Maybe it’s Bridgeport,” Frank said. “That could be one of the reasons he took the train there—to get a new supply, or palm off more.”

“You mean they might actually make the stuff there?” Chet asked.

Frank shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “I hope no more counterfeit bills are passed in Bayport.”

“There probably will be,” Chet said ruefully, “if this town is full of easy marks like me.”

“Let’s keep a sharp lookout for that fake-money passer from now on,” Joe said, “and other clues to the counterfeit ring.”

“Who knows,” Chet put in, “it could turn out to be your next case.”

As soon as Mr. Reed had been paid, the boys drove to Bayport Police Headquarters. Chet decided to take his microscope into headquarters and show it to Chief Ezra Collig. The keen-eyed, robust officer was an old friend of Fenton Hardy and his sons. Many times the four had cooperated on cases.

“Sit down,” the chief said cordially. “I can see that you boys have something special on your minds. Another mystery?”

He leaned forward expectantly in his chair.

“It’s possible, Chief,” replied Frank as he handed over the counterfeit bill. Quickly the Hardys explained what had happened, then voiced their suspicions of the man who had just eluded them.

“Have there been any other reports of people receiving fake bills?” Joe asked the officer.

Chief Collig nodded. “Chet’s not the first to be fooled,” he replied. “Since the Secret Service alerted us to watch for these twenty-dollar bills, we’ve had nearly a dozen complaints. But we’ve instructed the people involved not to talk about it.”

“Why?” Chet asked curiously.

“It’s part of our strategy. We hope to trap at least some of the gang by lulling them into a feeling of false security.”

The boys learned that Chet’s description of the stocky stranger tallied with what the police had on file.

“He’s a slippery one,” the chief added. “It sounds to me as if the man wears a different outfit each time he shoves a bill.”

“Shoves?” echoed Chet.

“A shover—or passer—is a professional term for people who pass counterfeit money,” Chief Collig explained. He rubbed the bogus bill between his fingers. “This is a clever forgery,” he said. “Let’s see what it looks like under your microscope, Chet.”

It took just a minute to rig and focus the microscope. Then, under Chief Collig’s directions, the boys scrutinized the faults in the bill.

“Look at the serial number,” the chief pointed out. “That’s the large, colored group of numbers that appears on the upper right and lower left portions of the bill.”

As the boys peered at the number, Chief Collig made some quick calculations on his desk pad. “Divide the serial number by six,” he went on, “and in this case, the remainder is two.”

When the boys looked puzzled, the chief smiled. “On the upper left portion of the note you’ll see a small letter. One that is not followed by a number. That’s the check letter and in this case it’s B.”

The boys listened as Chief Collig further explained, “If the letter B corresponds to the remainder two, after you have done the division, it means the bill is either genuine—or a careful fake. The same way with the remainder, one. The check letter would be A or G; and with the remainder three, the check letter C or I, and so on.”

“Wow! Some arithmetic!” Chet remarked.

Frank looked thoughtful. “In this case, the test of the divisional check indicates the bill is genuine.”

“Exactly,” Chief Collig said. “And the portrait of Jackson is good. The border, sometimes called lathe or scrollwork, is excellent.”

“But, Chief,” said Joe, puzzled, “everything you’ve mentioned points toward the bill’s being the real thing.”

“That’s right. However, you’ll see through the microscope that the lines in the portrait are slightly grayish and the red and blue fibers running through the bank note have been simulated with colored ink.”

In turn, the boys peered through the microscope, observing the points the chief had called to their attention.

Chief Collig snapped off the light in Chet’s microscope and pulled the bill out from under the clips that were holding it in place.

He handed the fake bill to Frank and at the same time gave him a genuine one from his wallet. “Now feel the difference in the paper quality,” he directed.

Frank did so and could tell immediately that the forged bill was much rougher and thicker than the genuine one.

Just then the chief’s telephone rang. He answered it, speaking quickly. When he hung up, Chief Collig said, “I must go out on a call, boys. Thanks for bringing in this bill. If you come across any others like it, or clues that might help the police, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll relay your description of the suspect to the Secret Service, and also turn this bill over to them.”

Chief Collig arose from his desk, and the boys walked out of the building with him. On the way, Joe said, “I wonder if Oscar Smuff has heard of the counterfeiting racket, and is—er—working on it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” The chief sighed. “That fellow will never give up.”

The boys did not mention their encounter with Smuff earlier in the afternoon, but they were fairly certain that Oscar Smuff had trailed the man because he was a stranger in town and had been carrying a suitcase. The aspiring detective undoubtedly had jumped to the conclusion that the suitcase was filled with counterfeit money.

When the chief had gone, Joe glanced at his watch. “If we’re going to meet Dad’s train, we’d better get started.”

The three boys climbed into the jalopy and drove off. They arrived at the station just as the four-o’clock train was coming to a halt.

A moment later they spotted Mr. Hardy alighting from the rear car. “Dad!” cried Frank and Joe, and dashed to greet him, followed by Chet.

Fenton Hardy, a tall, distinguished-looking man, smiled broadly. “I appreciate this special reception—and a ride home, too,” he added, noticing Chet’s jalopy in the lot.

“Right this way, sir.” Chet grinned.

Joe took his father’s suitcase and everyone went to the car. As they rode along, the boys gave Mr. Hardy an account of the afternoon’s exciting events.

The detective listened intently. In conclusion, Frank said, “Dad, does your new case have anything to do with the counterfeiting ring?”

Mr. Hardy did not answer for a moment. His mind seemed to be focused on another matter. Finally he said, “No. But I’ll be glad to help you boys track down any clues to these counterfeiters. I have a feeling you’ll be on the lookout for them!”

“We sure will!” Joe said emphatically.

As they turned into the Hardy driveway, Frank said, “Maybe more leads will show up around here.”

Fenton Hardy agreed. “That’s a strong possibility.”

They were met at the door by Aunt Gertrude, Mr. Hardy’s unmarried sister. She was a tall, angular woman, somewhat peppery in manner, but extremely kindhearted. Miss Hardy had arrived recently for one of her frequent long visits with the family. In her forthright manner she was constantly making dire predictions about the dangers of sleuthing, and the terrible fate awaiting anyone who was a detective.

She greeted her brother affectionately as everyone went into the living room. With a sigh she asked, “Will you be home for a while this time, Fenton, before you have to go dashing off on another case?”

Chuckling, Mr. Hardy replied, “I’ll probably be around for a while, Gertrude—especially if the boys run into any more counterfeit money.”

“What! Laura, did you hear that?” Aunt Gertrude turned to a slim, attractive woman who had just entered the room.

“I did.” Mrs. Hardy greeted her husband, then urged the boys to explain.

After hearing of Chet’s experience, both women shook their heads in dismay. “Well, the sooner those counterfeiters are caught, the better!” Aunt Gertrude declared firmly.

“That’s what we figure, Aunty,” Joe spoke up. “We’ll see what we can do! Right, Frank?”

“You bet.”

Chet added, grinning, “With the Hardy boys on their trail, those counterfeiters won’t have a chance!”

“And Laura and I will lose sleep worrying,” Aunt Gertrude prophesied.

Frank and Joe exchanged winks, knowing that actually she and Mrs. Hardy were proud of the boys’ sleuthing accomplishments, though sometimes fearful of the dangers they encountered.

“What delayed you today, Fenton?” Aunt Gertrude asked her brother. “Another case, I suppose.”

Mr. Hardy explained, “There is a special matter I’m investigating, but I’m not at liberty to talk about it yet.”

His next remark diverted the boys’ attention from the counterfeiters. “Frank and Joe, will you be free tomorrow to see the surprise I have for you both?” he asked. “It’ll be ready late in the afternoon.”

“We sure will!” his sons exclaimed together. They knew what they hoped the surprise would be, but did not dare count on it.

The brothers tried without success to coax a hint from their family.

“All I can say,” Aunt Gertrude remarked, “is that you’re mighty lucky boys!” With a deep sigh she added, “But this surprise certainly won’t help my peace of mind!”

“Oh, Aunty!” said Joe. “You don’t really worry about us, do you?”

“Oh, no!” she exploded. “Only on weekdays, Saturdays, and Sundays!”

Before Chet left for home, he reminded Frank and Joe of his intention to apply to Elekton Controls Limited for a job.

Overhearing him, Mr. Hardy was immediately interested. “So you want to enter the scientific field, Chet?” he said. “Good for you and lots of luck!”

The detective told the boys that the company, in addition to manufacturing controls, was engaged in secret experiments with advanced electronic controls.

“Not too long ago,” he concluded, “I met some of Elekton’s officers.”

It flashed through Chet’s mind that he might ask the detective to make an appointment for him, but he decided not to. He wanted to get the job without an assist from anyone. Frank and Joe suggested that Chet come for them early the next afternoon.

“I have an idea!” Chet exclaimed. “Let’s go earlier and take along a picnic lunch. We’ll be right near Willow River. After I apply for a job, we can eat by the water. Then you fellows can help me collect bark and stone specimens.”

“Microscope study, eh?” Frank grinned. “Okay. It’s a deal.”

At supper Aunt Gertrude commented wryly, “There’ll be two moons in the sky when Chet Morton settles down to a job!”

The others laughed, then the conversation reverted once more to counterfeiting. Mr. Hardy backed up Chief Collig’s statement that the bogus twenty-dollar bills being circulated were clever imitations. “I heard that the Secret Service is finding it a hard case to crack,” he added.

Frank and Joe were wondering about their father’s other case. They realized it must be extremely confidential, and refrained from questioning him.

In the middle of the night, Joe was suddenly awakened by a clattering sound. He leaped out of bed and rushed across the room to the front window. It was a dark, moonless night, and for a moment Joe could see nothing.

But suddenly he detected a movement near the front door, then saw a shadowy figure running down the walk to the street.

“Hey!” Joe called out. “Who are you? What do you want?”

At the end of the walk, the mysterious figure leaped onto a bicycle. It swerved, nearly throwing the rider, but he regained his balance and sped off into the darkness.

“What’s going on?” Joe cried out.

CHAPTER V

The Bicycle Clue

JOE ran downstairs to the front door, flung it open, and dashed outside. He reached the end of the walk and peered in the direction the mysterious cyclist had taken. The person was not in sight.

Puzzled, Joe walked back slowly to the house. Had the stranger come there by mistake? “If not, what did he want?” Joe wondered.

The rest of the Hardy family had been awakened by Joe’s cries to the stranger. By this time, they were clustered at the doorway and all the lights in the house were on.

“What’s the matter, Joe?” Aunt Gertrude demanded. “Who were you calling to at this unearthly hour?”

Joe was about to reply when he noticed a large white envelope protruding from the mailbox. He pulled it out, and saw that his father’s name was typed on the front. “This is for you, Dad.”

Joe handed the envelope to Mr. Hardy. “That fellow on the bike must have left it.”

Joe was besieged with questions, and he explained what had happened.

“It’s a funny way to deliver a message,” Frank commented.

“Very suspicious, if you ask me!” Aunt Gertrude snapped.

Suddenly they all noticed that Mr. Hardy was frowning at the contents of the envelope—a plain piece of white paper.

“What does it say, Fenton?” Mrs. Hardy asked anxiously.

He read the typed message: “‘Drop case or else danger for you and family.’ ”

There was silence for a moment, then Aunt Gertrude exclaimed, “I knew it! We can’t get a decent night’s sleep with three detectives in the family! I just know there’s real trouble brewing!”

Although she spoke tartly, the others realized Miss Hardy was concerned, as always, for her brother’s safety.

“Now, don’t worry, Gertrude,” Fenton Hardy said reassuringly. “The boys and I will be on guard against any danger. This note probably is the work of a harmless crank.”

Aunt Gertrude tossed her head as though she did not believe this for a moment.

“Let’s all look around for clues to the person on the bike,” Frank suggested.

Flashlights were procured, and the entire family searched the grounds thoroughly on both sides of the stoop and the walk. As Frank and his aunt neared the end of the front walk, Miss Hardy cried out, “There’s something—next to that bush.”

Frank picked up the object. “A bicycle pedal!” he exclaimed. “Aunty, this is a terrific cluel I think we have four detectives in the family!”

His aunt forced a rather embarrassed smile.

“The pedal must’ve fallen off the bike Joe saw,” Frank said. “That’s why it swerved.”

Back in the house, the family gathered in the kitchen. They were too excited to go back to bed immediately, and the boys were eager to question their father. They all had cookies and lemonade.

“What case did the warning refer to?” Joe asked Mr. Hardy.

“I can’t be sure,” the detective replied slowly.

Again the boys wondered about Mr. Hardy’s secret case, and longed to know what it involved. “Maybe the threat is connected with that one,” Frank thought. Before the boys went to sleep, they decided to track down the pedal clue early the next morning.

Right after breakfast, Chet telephoned. He told Frank, who took the call, that his sister Iola and her friend Callie Shaw had offered to pack lunch if they could go along on the picnic.

“Swell,” Frank said enthusiastically. Callie was his favorite date. “In the meantime, how’d you like to do some sleuthing with us?”

“Sure! What’s up?”

Frank quickly told Chet about the excitement of the previous night. “Meet us here as soon as you can.”

When Frank and Joe informed Mr. Hardy of their plan to trace the pedal, he nodded approval. “I must go out of town for a short while,” he said. “But first, I’d like to examine the warning note in the lab.”

The boys went with him to their fully equipped laboratory over the garage. Mr. Hardy dusted the note carefully, but when he blew the powder away, there was no sign of a fingerprint.

Holding the note up to the light, Mr. Hardy said, “There’s no watermark. Of course, this is not a full sheet of paper.”

“Dead end, so far.” Joe frowned. “If we could only locate the typewriter this message was written on—”

Shortly after Mr. Hardy had driven off in his sedan, Chet arrived. “Where to, fellows?” he asked as they set off in the Queen.

“Center of town,” Joe replied.

On the way, the brothers briefed Chet on their plan, which was to make inquiries at all the bicycle supply stores. In the first four they visited, Frank showed the pedal and asked if there had been any requests for a replacement that morning. All the answers were negative. Finally, at the largest supply store in Bayport, they obtained some helpful information.

“This particular pedal comes from a bike made in Belgium,” the proprietor said. “There isn’t a store in town that carries parts for it.”

The boys were disappointed. As Frank put the pedal back in his pocket he asked the proprietor where parts for the Belgian bicycle could be purchased.

“It might be worth your while to check over in Bridgeport,” the man said. “I think you’ll find Traylor’s handles them.”

“It’s an odd coincidence,” Frank remarked, when the boys were back in the car. “We’ve come across two Belgian bikes in two days.”

When they reached the Traylor store in Bridgeport, the young detectives learned they had just missed a customer who had purchased a pedal for a Belgian bike.

“Who was he?” Frank inquired.

“I don’t know.”

“What did he look like?” Joe asked.

The proprietor’s brow wrinkled. “Sorry. I was too busy to pay much attention, so I can’t tell you much. As far as I can remember, he was a tall boy, maybe about fourteen.”

The three friends knew this vague description was almost useless. There probably were hundreds of boys living in the surrounding area who fitted that description.

As the boys reached the street, Joe said determinedly, “We’re not giving up!”

“Hey!” Chet reminded his friends. “It’s almost time to pick up the girls.”

Within an hour the five young people were turning off the highway onto a side road paralleling Elekton’s east fence. A little farther on Chet made a right turn and followed the dirt road that led to the rear entrance of the plant.

“Any luck sleuthing?” Pretty, brown-eyed Callie Shaw asked the Hardys.

“What makes you think we were sleuthing?”

“Oh, I can tell!” Callie said, her eyes twinkling. “You two always have that detective gleam in your eyes when you’re mixed up in a mystery!”

“They certainly have!” Iola agreed, laughing.

When they reached a grove bordering Willow River, which was to their left, Chet pulled over. “I’ll park here.”

The girls had decided they would like to see the changes which had been made in the old mill. As the group approached Elekton’s gatehouse, they were amazed at the transformation.

No longer did the mill look shabby and neglected. The three-story structure had been completely repainted and the weeds and overgrowth of years cleared away. The grounds and shrubbery of the whole area were neatly trimmed.

“Look!” said Frank. “There’s the mill wheel!”

As the Hardys and their friends watched the huge wheel turning, they felt for a moment that they were living in olden days. Water which poured from a pond over a high stone dam on the south side and through an elevated millrace caused the wheel to revolve.

“Oh!” Callie exclaimed admiringly as she spotted a little bridge over the stream from the falls. “It looks just like a painting!”

About three hundred yards from the north side of the mill was the closed rear gate to Elekton’s ultramodern plant.

“Some contrast between the old and the new!” Joe remarked as they left the dirt road and walked up the front path to the gatehouse.

Suddenly the door opened and a dark-haired, muscular man in uniform came out to meet them. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “I’m the gate guard here.”

“I’d like to apply for a summer job at Elekton,” Chet told him.

“Have you an appointment?”

“No,” replied Chet. “I guess I should have phoned first.”

The guard agreed. “You would’ve saved yourself time and trouble,” he said. “I’m sure there aren’t any openings, especially for temporary help.”

“Well, couldn’t I go in and leave an application with the personnel manager?” Chet asked.

The guard shrugged. “Tell you what—I’ll phone the personnel office instead,” he offered, and went back into the mill.

While they waited, the five looked around. At the south side of the mill grounds, a slender, graying man who wore overalls was clipping the low hedges.

“Look, Callie,” said Iola, pointing toward a spot near the hedges. “Isn’t that quaint? An old flour barrel with ivy growing out of it!”

“Charming.” Callie smiled.

The girls and boys started over toward the mill for a closer inspection. At that same moment the guard came to the door. “Just as I told you,” he called out to Chet. “No openings! Sorry!”

“Too bad, Chet,” Joe said sympathetically. “Well, at least you can keep on relaxing.”

Despite his disappointment, Chet grinned. “Right now I’m starved. ”Let’s go down to the river and have our picnic.”

He thanked the guard, and the young people started to walk away. Suddenly Frank stopped and looked back at the mill. Propped against the south wall was a bicycle. Quickly he ran over to examine it. “This looks like a Belgian model,” Frank thought. “Sure is,” he told himself. “The same type Ken Blake has.”

On impulse Frank pulled the pedal from his pocket and compared it to those on the bike. They matched exactly. Frank noticed that one of the pedals looked much less worn than the other. “As if it had been replaced recently,” he reflected, wondering excitedly if someone had used this bicycle to deliver the warning note.

“And could this bike be Ken’s?” the young detective asked himself.

He inspected the front-wheel spokes. None was twisted, but several had slight dents. “They could’ve been straightened out easily,” Frank reasoned, “and the paint scratches on the fender touched up.”

He felt his heart beat faster as he waved his companions to join him. When Frank pointed out the clues to his brother, Joe agreed immediately.

“It could be the bicycle which was used to deliver the message—”

Joe was interrupted by a strange voice behind them. “Pardon me, but why are you so interested in that bike?”

Frank quickly slipped the pedal into his pocket as the group swung around to face the speaker. He was the man who had been clipping the hedges.

“Because just yesterday we met a boy, Ken Blake, who was riding a bike of the same model. We don’t often see this Belgian make around.”

For a moment the man looked surprised, then smiled. “Of course! Ken works here—does odd jobs for us around the mill. You must be the boys he met yesterday when he was delivering some copy to the printer.”

“Yes,” Frank replied. “When we asked Ken about his job he was very secretive.”

“Well,” the maintenance man said, “he has to be! This plant is doing top-secret work. All of us have been impressed with the necessity of not talking about Elekton at all.”

“Is Ken around?” Joe asked nonchalantly. “We’d like to say hello.”

“I’m afraid not,” was the reply. “We sent him by bus this afternoon to do an errand. He won’t be back until later.” The man excused himself and resumed his clipping.

“We’d better eat.” Iola giggled. “My poor brother is suffering.”

“I sure am!” Chet rolled his eyes. Laughing, the picnickers started away.

Joe, who was in the rear, happened to glance up at the front of the mill. He was startled to catch a glimpse of a face at one of the second-story windows. He stopped in his tracks.

“Ken Blake!” Joe said to himself.

As the young sleuth stared, mystified, the face disappeared from the window.

CHAPTER VI

A Mysterious Tunnel

PUZZLED, Joe continued looking up at the window of the old mill.

“What’s the matter?” Iola asked him. “Did you see a ghost?”

In a low whisper Joe explained about the face which had disappeared. “I’m sure it was Ken Blake I saw at that window!”

The others followed his gaze. “No one’s there now,” Iola said. “Of course the glass in all the windows is old and wavy. The sunlight on them could cause an illusion.”

Chet agreed. “How could Ken be here if he was sent on an errand?”

Joe stood for a minute, deep in thought. “I can’t figure it out, but I’m sure that it was no illusion. Come on, Frank. Let’s go check.”

While the others walked down the hill, the Hardys strode up to the maintenance man, who was still trimming hedges.

“Are you sure Ken went into town?” Joe asked. “Just now I thought I saw him looking out a second-floor window.”

“You couldn’t have. You must have been dreaming.” The man gave a jovial laugh.

Joe was still not convinced. Impulsively he asked, “Does Ken ever run any errands for you at night?”

“No,” the man answered readily. “He leaves his bike here and walks home when we close at five-thirty.”

“Does anyone else have access to the bike after that?” Frank queried.

“It’s kept in an open storage area under the rear of the mill and could be taken from there easily.”

Although obviously curious, the man did not ask the Hardys the reason for their questions. He looked at his watch.

“Excuse me, boys, I’m late for lunch.” He turned and hurried into the mill.

As the brothers hastened to catch up with Chet and the girls, Frank said, “Another thing which makes me wonder if that bicycle is connected with the warning is the description of the boy who bought the pedal. He could be Ken Blake.”

“I agree,” Joe said. “I’d sure like to question Ken.”

“We’ll come back another time,” Frank proposed.

The group picked up the picnic hamper from the Queen and strolled down a narrow path through the woods leading to Willow River.

“Here’s a good spot.” Callie pointed to a shaded level area along the bank. “We haven’t been in this section before.”

Soon everyone was enjoying the delicious lunch the girls had prepared: chicken sandwiches, potato salad, chocolate cake, and lemonade. While they were eating, the girls were the targets of good-natured kidding.

“Boy!” Joe exclaimed as he finished his piece of cake. “This is almost as good as my mother and Aunt Gertrude make.”

“That’s a compliment!” Chet said emphatically.

Callie’s eyes twinkled. “I know it is. Joe’s mother and aunt are the best cooks ever!”

Iola sniffed. “I don’t know about this compliment stuff. There’s something on your mind, Joe Hardy!”

Joe grinned. “How are you on apple pie and cream puffs and—?”

“Oh, stop it!” Iola commanded. “Otherwise, you won’t get a second piece of cake!”

“I give up.” Joe handed over his paper plate.

After lunch everyone but Chet was ready to relax in the sun. Normally he was the first one to suggest a period of rest, even a nap, but now his new project was uppermost in his mind.

“Let’s start to collect the specimens for my microscope,” he urged his friends.

The Hardys groaned good-naturedly at Chet’s enthusiasm, but readily agreed.

“We’ll need some exercise to work off that meal.” Frank grinned.

The girls packed the food wrappings in the hamper. Then, single file, the group walked downstream, paying careful attention to the rocks and vegetation. Chet picked up several rocks and leaves, but discarded them as being too common.

“Are you looking for something from the Stone Age?” Joe quipped. “Maybe a prehistoric fossil?”

“Wouldn’t you be surprised if I found one?” Chet retorted.

They followed a bend in the river and came to a small cove with a rocky, shelving beach. Here the willow trees did not grow so thickly. The shoreline curved gently around to the right before it came to a halt in a sandy strip along the riverbank.

“What a nice spot,” said Callie. “We’ll have to come here again and wear our swim suits.”

“Look!” cried Iola. “What’s that?”

She pointed to a dark opening beneath a rocky ledge which bordered the beach.

“A cave!” exclaimed Joe and Frank together.

Intrigued, the five hurried along the beach for a closer look. Eagerly the Hardys and Chet peered inside the entrance. The interior was damp, and the cave’s walls were covered with green growth.

“Hey! This looks like a tunnel!”

“This’ll be a perfect spot to look for specimens,” Chet said. “Let’s go in!”

The boys entered the cave. The girls, however, decided to stay outside.

“Too spooky—and crowded!” Callie declared. “Iola and I will sun ourselves while you boys explore.”

The Hardys and Chet could just about stand up in the low-ceilinged cave. Frank turned on his pocket flashlight and pointed to an unusual yellow-green fungus on the right side of the cave. “Here’s a good sample of lichens, Chet.”

Soon the boys were busy scraping various lichens off the rocks. Gradually they moved deeper into the cave. Frank halted in front of a pile of rocks at the rear.

“There ought to be some interesting specimens behind these stones,” he said. “They look loose enough to move.”

Together, the three boys rolled some of the rocks to one side. To their great surprise, the stones had concealed another dark hole.

“Hey! This looks like a tunnel!”

Excitedly Joe poked his flashlight into the opening. In its beam they could see that the hole appeared to extend into the side of the bank.

“Let’s see where the tunnel goes!” Joe urged.

“Okay,” Frank agreed eagerly. “We’ll have to move more of these rocks before we can climb through. I wonder who put them here and why.”

Rapidly the boys pushed rocks aside until the narrow tunnel entrance was completely exposed. Joe crawled in first, then Frank.

Chet tried to squeeze his bulky form through the space but quickly backed out. “It’s too tight for me,” he groaned. “I’ll stay here and collect more specimens. Anyhow, I’ll bet some animal made the tunnel and it doesn’t lead anywhere.”

“I’m sure no animal did this,” Joe called back, aiming his flashlight at the earthen walls of the tunnel. “Look how hard-packed the sides are—as if dug out by a shovel.”

Frank was of the same opinion. He pointed to rough-hewn wooden stakes placed at intervals along the sides and across the ceiling. “I wonder who put those supports here—and when.”

The Hardys crawled ahead carefully. There was just room in the passageway for a normal-sized person to get through.

Presently Joe called back to his brother, “Look ahead! I can see a sharp bend to the right. Let’s keep going.”

Frank was about to reply when the brothers were startled by a girl’s scream from outside.

“That’s Callie!” Frank exclaimed. “Something’s wrong!”

CHAPTER VII

Sleuthing by Microscope

FRANK and Joe scrambled through the tunnel and out of the cave. They found Chet and the girls staring at an arrow embedded in the sandy beach.

“It—it almost hit us,” Iola quavered. Callie, who was white-faced with fear, nodded.

Joe was furious. “Whoever shot it shouldn’t be allowed to use such a dangerous weapon!” he burst out. “That’s a hunting arrow—it could have caused serious injury.”

Chet gulped. “M-maybe the Indians haven’t left here, after all,” he said, trying to hide his nervousness.

Joe turned to dash off into the woods to search for the bowman.

“Wait!” Frank called. He had pulled the arrow from the sand. “This was done deliberately,” he announced grimly, holding the arrow up for all of them to see. Attached to the shaft just below the feathers was a tiny piece of paper. It had been fastened on with adhesive tape.

Frank unrolled the paper and read the printed message aloud: “ ‘Danger. Hardys beware.’ ”

Chet and the girls shuddered and looked around fearfully, as though they expected to see the bowman behind them.

“You boys are involved in a new mystery!” Callie exclaimed. “Your own or your father’s?”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. It certainly seemed as though they were involved, but they had no way of knowing which case. Did it involve the counterfeit money? Or was it the case their father could not divulge?

“A warning did come to Dad,” Frank admitted. “This one obviously was meant for Joe and me. Whoever shot the arrow trailed us here.”

Joe frowned. “I wonder if the same person sent both warnings.”

“I still think Ken Blake could give us a clue,” Frank said. “But we must remember that anybody could have taken the bike from the storage place under the mill.”

Frank pocketed the latest warning, then the five searched quickly for any lead to the bowman. They found none. When the group returned to the beach, Joe looked at the sky. “We’re in for a storm—and not one of us has a raincoat.”

The bright summer sun had disappeared behind towering banks of cumulus clouds. There were rumbles of heavy thunder, followed by vivid flashes of lightning. The air had become humid and oppressive.

“Let’s get out of here!” Chet urged. “This isn’t a picnic any more!”

The young people hastened through the woods and up the road to Chet’s jalopy. As they drove off, rain began coming down in torrents. The sky grew blacker.

Callie shivered. “It seems so sinister—after that awful arrow.”

Chet dropped his sister off at the Morton farm and at the same time picked up his new microscope. He begged to try out the instrument on both warning notes and the Hardys smilingly agreed, although they had an up-to-date model of their own.

By the time they had said good-by to Callie at her house, and Chet had driven the Queen into the Hardys’ driveway, the storm had ended. The sun shone brightly again.

Immediately the three boys went to the laboratory over the garage. Here Frank carefully dusted the arrow and the second warning note for prints. He blew the powder away, and Joe and Chet looked over his shoulder as he peered through the magnifying glass.

“Nothing. Same as the warning to Dad. The person no doubt wore gloves.”

“Now to compare this paper to the first note,” Joe said.

“Right,” his brother agreed. “You have the combination to the cabinet in Dad’s study. Chet and I will rig up his microscope while you get the note from the file.”

Frank and Chet focused and adjusted the microscope, making sure it was level on the table. They plugged in the illuminator and checked to see that it did not provide too dazzling a reflection. When Joe returned, Chet took the two pieces of paper and fitted them side by side under the clips on the base.

“Okay. Want to take a look, fellows?” Frank, then Joe, studied both papers. “The quality and texture are definitely the same,” Frank observed.

Next, he lifted the second note from under the clips and slowly moved the paper back and forth under the lenses.

“A watermark!” he exclaimed, stepping back so the others could look at the small, faint imprint.

“Sure is!” said Joe. “A five-pointed star. This could be a valuable clue! We can try to track down exactly where this paper came from.”

“And also the arrow,” said Chet. “I’ll make the rounds of sport stores in town.”

“Swell, Chet. Thanks,” Frank said.

After their friend had left, the Hardys consulted the classified directory for paper manufacturers.

They made several calls without any luck. Finally they learned that the Quality Paper Company in Bridgeport manufactured paper bearing the five-pointed star watermark. The brothers wanted to go at once to get more information, but realized this errand would have to wait.

“Dad will be home soon,” Frank reminded his brother. “We don’t want to miss our surprise!”

“Right. And I’d like to tell him about the warning on the arrow.”

When Chet returned from a round of the sports shops, he was glum. “I wasn’t much help,” he said. “The arrow isn’t new, and all the stores I checked told me it was a standard model that could be purchased at any sports shop in the country.”

“Never mind, Chet,” said Frank. “At least giving your microscope a trial run helped us to spot the watermark on the second warning note. We’ve located a company that manufactures paper with the star watermark.”

Chet’s face brightened. “Let me know if you find out anything else,” he said, packing up his microscope. “I guess I’ll take off—and do some nature study for a change.”

After he had driven off, Frank and Joe walked to the house. Their minds once more turned to the surprise Mr. Hardy had for them.

“Wouldn’t it be terrific if—” Joe said to Frank excitedly. “Do you think it is?”

“I’m just hoping.” Frank grinned.

Just then a newsboy delivered the evening newspaper. The brothers entered the house and went into the living room. Frank scanned the front page and pointed out an item about new trouble in an Indiana electronics plant.

“That’s where an explosion took place a couple of months ago,” Joe remarked. “Sabotage, the investigators decided.”

“And before that,” Frank added, “the same thing happened at a rocket research lab in California. Another unsolved case.”

“Seems almost like a chain reaction,” Frank remarked.

Any mystery appealed to the boys, but they did not have much chance to discuss this one. The telephone rang. Aunt Gertrude, after taking the call, burst into the living room. From the look on her face Frank and Joe could tell she was indignant, and at the same time, frightened.

“What’s the matter, Aunty?” Joe asked.

“More threats—that’s all!” she cried out. “This time by telephone. A man’s voice—he sounded sinister—horrible!”

Mrs. Hardy came into the living room at that moment. “What did he say, Gertrude?” she asked.

Aunt Gertrude took a deep breath in an effort to calm down. “ ‘Hardy and his sons are playing with fire,’ the man said. ‘They’ll get burned if they don’t lay off this case.”’ Miss Hardy sniffed. “I don’t know what case he meant. What kind of danger are you boys mixed up in now?”

Frank and Joe smiled wryly. “Aunt Gertrude,” Frank replied, “we really don’t know. But please try not to worry,” he begged her and his mother. “You know that Dad and the two of us will be careful.”

When Mr. Hardy came home a little later, his family told him about the threatening telephone call. The boys, however, did not mention the arrow warning in the presence of their mother and Aunt Gertrude. They knew it would only add to their concern.

Mr. Hardy was as puzzled as his sons. “It’s a funny thing,” he said. “At this point it’s impossible to tell which ‘case’ the person is referring to. If I knew, it might shed light on either one.”

The detective grinned and changed the subject. “Right now, I want you all to come for a drive and have a look at the boys’ surprise.”

“Swell!” Frank and Joe exclaimed in unison.

While Aunt Gertrude and Mrs. Hardy were getting ready, Frank and Joe went out to the car with their father. Quickly the boys related their afternoon’s experience, concluding with the arrow incident.

The detective looked grim. “Whoever is responsible for these warnings is certainly keeping close tabs on us.”

Mr. Hardy and his sons speculated for a few minutes on the fact that the pedal found in front of the house apparently had belonged to Ken’s bike.

“I think Joe and I should go back tonight to the place where we had the picnic,” Frank told his father. “In the darkness we’ll have a better chance to sleuth without being seen. And there might be some clue we missed this afternoon.”

“I suppose you’re right,” agreed his father. “But be cautious.”

As Aunt Gertrude and Mrs. Hardy came out of the house, conversation about the mystery ceased. Everyone climbed into the sedan and Mr. Hardy drove off. Frank and Joe, seated alongside him, were in a state of rising suspense. Was the surprise the one thing they wanted most of all?

CHAPTER VIII

The Strange Mill Wheel

A FEW minutes later Mr. Hardy was driving along the Bayport waterfront.

“Is the surprise here, Dad?” Joe asked excitedly.

“That’s right.”

Mr. Hardy drove to a boathouse at the far end of the dock area and parked. He then invited the others to follow him. He walked to the door of a boathouse and unfastened the padlock.

Frank and Joe held their breaths as Mr. Hardy swung back the door. For a moment they stared inside, speechless with delight. Finally Joe burst out, “Exactly what we had hoped for, Dad!” and put an arm affectionately around his father.

“What a beauty!” Frank exclaimed and wrung Mr. Hardy’s hand.

Rocking between the piles lay a sleek, completely equipped motorboat. It nudged gently against clean white fenders as the waves from the bay worked their way under the boathouse door.

The boys’ mother exclaimed in delight, and even Aunt Gertrude was duly impressed by the handsome craft.

“This is the same model we saw at the boat show,” Joe said admiringly. “I never thought we’d own one.”

“She even has the name we picked out,” Frank observed excitedly. “The Sleuth!”

Shiny brass letters were fitted on the bow of the boat, with the port of registry, Bayport, underneath them.

Mr. Hardy and his wife beamed as their sons walked up and down, praising every detail of the graceful new craft. It could seat six people comfortably. The polished fore and aft decks carried gleaming anchor fittings, and the rubbing strakes were painted white. The Sleuth seemed to be waiting to be taken for a run!

“May we try her out now, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Of course. She’s fueled up.”

Aunt Gertrude shook her head. “The Sleuth’s an attractive boat, all right. But don’t you two start doing any crazy stunts in it,” she cautioned her nephews. “And be back for supper.”

When the adults had left, Frank and Joe climbed aboard and soon had the Sleuth gliding into the bay. The boys had no difficulty operating the motorboat. They had gained experience running their friend Tony Prito’s boat, the Napoli, which had similar controls.

Taking turns at the wheel, the brothers ran the boat up and down the bay. “Terrific!” Joe shouted.

Frank grinned. “Am I glad we stuck to our agreement with Dad, and saved up to help buy this!”

For some time the boys had been putting money toward a boat of their own into a special bank account. Mr. Hardy had promised that when the account reached a certain sum, he would make up the necessary balance.

Now, as the Sleuth knifed through the water, Frank and Joe admired the way the stern sat down in the water when the boat gathered speed. Joe was impressed with the turning circle and the fact that no matter how sharp the twist, none of the spume sprayed into the cockpit.

“Wait until Tony and Chet see this!” Joe exclaimed, when they were pulling back toward the boathouse.

“Speaking of Tony—there he is,” Frank said. Their dark-haired classmate was standing on the dock, shouting and waving to them.

Joe, who was at the wheel, brought the Sleuth neatly alongside. He turned off the engine as Tony rushed up.

“Don’t tell me this dreamboat is yours?” he demanded in amazement.

“Nothing but,” Joe said proudly.

Tony and the brothers inspected the boat carefully, comparing her various features with the Napoli. They lifted the battens from the Sleuth’s cowling and admired the powerful motor underneath.

“She’s neat all right,” said Tony. “But I’ll still promise you a stiff race in the Napoli!”

“We’ll take you up on it after the Sleuth’s broken in,” Joe returned, laughing.

Tony became serious. “Say, fellows, something happened today in connection with my dad’s business that I want to tell you about. Your mother said you were down here,” he explained.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

Tony’s father was a building contractor and also had a construction supply yard where Tony worked during the summer. “Today I went to the bank, just before it closed, to deposit the cash and checks we took in this week,” he said. “The teller discovered that one of the bills was a counterfeit!”

“A twenty-dollar bill?” Frank guessed.

“Yes. How’d you know?”

The Hardys related Chet’s experience. Tony’s dark brows drew together. “I’d like to get my hands on the guy making the stuff!” he said angrily.

“So would we!” Joe stated.

The Hardys learned that the head teller had told Tony he would make a report to the Bayport police and turn the bill over to the Secret Service. “Did he explain how he could tell that the bill was a fake?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” replied Tony, and from his description, the Hardys were sure that the bill had come from the same batch as the one passed to Chet.

“Think back, Tony,” Frank urged. “Have you any idea who gave it to you—or your father?”

Tony looked doubtful. “Three days’ trade—pretty hard to remember. Of course, we know most of the customers. I did ask Mike, our yardman, who helps with sales. He mentioned one purchaser he didn’t know.”

Frank, eager for any possible lead, carefully questioned Tony. The Hardys learned that three days before, just at closing time, a faded green panel truck had driven into the Prito supply yard. “Mike remembers there were no markings on the truck—as if the name might have been painted out.”

“Who was in it?” Joe prompted.

“A young boy—about fourteen—was with the driver. Mike says they bought about fifty dollars’ worth of old bricks and lumber. The boy paid him in assorted bills. One was a twenty. Our other cash customers had given smaller bills.”

“What did the driver look like?” Frank probed.

“Mike said he didn’t notice—the fellow stayed behind the wheel. There was a last-minute rush at the yard, so the boy and Mike piled the stuff into the back of the truck. Then the driver gave the boy money to pay the bill.”

Frank and Joe wondered the same thing: Had the man driving the truck passed the bogus bill deliberately? If so, was he the one who had fooled Chet? “It seems funny he’d go to so much trouble to dump one phony twenty-dollar bill,” Joe said.

Frank agreed and added, “Besides, what would a person in league with counterfeiters want with a pile of old bricks and lumber?”

He turned to Tony. “Did Mike notice anything in particular about the boy?”

“He was tall and thin. Mike thinks he was wearing a striped shirt.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. “Could be Ken Blake!” Joe declared. Briefly, the Hardys explained their first encounter with the boy.

“He might have been helping pick up the load for Elekton,” Frank reasoned. “But why would a modern plant want secondhand building material? And why wouldn’t they have the purchase billed to them?”

“What’s more,” his brother put in, “why didn’t the driver get out and help with the loading? Unless, perhaps, he wanted to stay out of sight as much as possible.”

“Too bad Mike didn’t notice the truck’s license number,” Tony said. “Naturally he had no reason to at the time.”

“Was there anything unusual about the truck besides the fact it wasn’t marked?” Frank asked his chum.

Tony thought for a moment. “Mike did say there was a bike in the back. He had to move it out of the way.”

“Ken rides one,” Joe remarked.

“Well, Dad will be glad if you two pick up any clues to these counterfeiters,” Tony said. “He’s hopping mad at being cheated, and Mike feels sore about it.”

“We’ll keep our eyes open for that green truck,” Frank assured him. “The whole business sounds suspicious—though the bill could have been passed accidentally.”

“Let’s question Ken Blake,” Joe proposed.

He and his brother housed the Sleuth, and the three boys started homeward. On the way they continued to speculate on the counterfeiting racket.

“Let me know if I can help you detectives,” Tony said as he turned into his street.

“Will do.”

That evening, when it grew dark, Frank and Joe told their mother and aunt that they were going out to do some investigating. Before they left, the boys had a chance to speak to their father in private about Tony’s report of the counterfeit bill and green truck and their own hunches.

Mr. Hardy agreed that the purchase of lumber and bricks seemed odd, but he felt that until more positive evidence could be obtained, it was best not to approach Elekton officials on the matter.

“I guess you’re right, Dad,” said Frank. “We might be way off base.”

The detective wished them luck on their sleuthing mission. The boys decided to make the trip in the Sleuth. They rode their motorcycles down to the boathouse, parked them, then climbed aboard the new boat. Joe took the wheel and soon the sleek craft was cutting across the bay toward the mouth of Willow River.

When they entered it, Joe throttled down and carefully navigated the stream. Meanwhile, Frank shone his flashlight on the wooded banks.

“There’s the cave—ahead!” he whispered.

Joe ran the boat astern a few yards and Frank dropped anchor. The brothers waded ashore, carrying their shoes and socks.

When they reached the mouth of the cave, Joe said, “Let’s investigate this place first.”

They went into the cave and moved forward to the tunnel. One glance told them that the tunnel had become impassable—it was filled with water.

“Must have been the cloudburst,” said Frank, as they emerged from the cave. “We’ll have to wait until the ground dries out. At least we can take a look through the woods and the area around the mill for clues to the bowman.”

Shielding the lenses of their flashlights, so that the light beams would not be easily detected by anyone lurking in the vicinity, the boys began a thorough search of the wooded section. As they worked their way noiselessly uphill among the trees, the only sound was the eerie rattling the wind made in the leaves and branches.

Frank and Joe shone their lights beneath shrubs and rocks, and even crawled under some fallen trees. They found nothing suspicious. They were approaching the edge of the woods and could see the outline of the mill beyond. The old wheel creaked and rumbled.

Suddenly Frank whispered hoarsely, “Look! Here’s something!”

Joe joined his brother, and together they examined the leather object Frank had picked up.

“An archer’s finger guard,” he said.

“It may be a valuable clue to the arrow warning,” Joe said, as Frank pocketed the guard. “Let’s go up to the mill,” he proposed. “Maybe the men there have seen something suspicious.”

As the boys crossed the clearing toward the gatehouse, they saw that it was in darkness.

“Probably everyone has gone to bed,” Frank remarked.

For a moment the brothers stood wondering what to do next. “Something’s missing,” Joe said in a puzzled voice. “I have it! The mill wheel has stopped turning.”

“Maybe it was switched off for the night,” Frank observed.

The boys were eager to question the occupants, but decided not to awaken them.

“Let’s walk around the mill,” said Frank, “and look through the woods on the other side.”

The boys had just passed the north corner of the building when, with a creaking groan, the wheel started to turn again.

“There must be something wrong with the mechanism,” Frank deduced. “The wheel hasn’t been used for so many years that adapting it to work the generator may have put a strain on it.”

“We’d better let the men know it’s acting up,” Joe said.

The boys retraced their steps to the mill door. As they reached it, the wheel stopped turning.

Frank and Joe stood staring off to their left where the mass of the motionless wheel was outlined against the night sky.

“Spooky, isn’t it?” Joe commented.

Frank nodded, and knocked on the door. There was no response. After a short wait, he knocked again—louder this time. The sound echoed in the deep silence of the night. Still no one answered.

The Hardys waited a while longer. Finally they turned away. “Must be sound sleepers,” Joe commented. “Well, maybe they’ll discover what’s wrong tomorrow.”

Frank and Joe were about to resume their search for clues when they heard a loud crashing noise from the woods which bordered Willow River.

The boys dashed ahead to investigate. Entering the woods, they made their way stealthily forward, flashlights turned off. Silently they drew near the river.

After a few minutes they stopped, and listened intently. The sound was not repeated.

“Must have been an animal,” Joe whispered.

Just then they heard a rustling sound behind them and turned to look. The next instant each received a terrific blow on the back of the head. Both boys blacked out.

CHAPTER IX

Tracing a Slugger

WHEN Frank regained consciousness, his first thought was of his brother. He turned his throbbing head and saw that Joe was lying next to him.

“Joe!” he exclaimed anxiously.

To his relief, Joe stirred and mumbled, “W-what happened?”

“Someone conked us on the head—”

Frank broke off as he became aware of a gentle rocking motion. He sat up. Was he still dizzy or were they moving? When his mind and vision cleared, he knew they were certainly moving.

“Hey!” he said. “We’re on the Sleuth!”

Astonished, Joe raised himself and looked around. They were indeed aboard their boat—lying on the foredeck and slowly drifting down Willow River toward the bay. The anchor lay beside them.

“A fog’s rolling in,” Frank said uneasily, observing white swirls of mist ahead. “Let’s start ’er up before visibility gets worse.”

The boys wriggled into the cockpit and Joe pressed the starter. It would not catch. While Joe stayed at the controls, Frank climbed to the foredeck and lifted the cowling from the engine. He quickly checked to see if the distributor wires were in place. They were. There did not seem to be anything visibly wrong with the engine, but when he lifted the top off the carburetor, he found it empty.

A quick check of the gas tank revealed the cause of the trouble. The tank had been drained.

“Fine mess we’re in,” he mumbled. “What was the idea?”

“The man who hit us on the head can answer that one,” Joe said bitterly. “He sure did a complete job—even took both the oars!”

“We’ll have to tow her,” Frank said tersely, “to make more speed and guide her.”

While Joe stripped to his shorts, Frank quickly led a painter through one of the foredeck fair-leads.

“Take this painter,” Frank said, handing Joe the rope. “Make it fast around your shoulder and swim straight ahead. I’ll unhinge one of the battens and use it as a paddle and try to keep her straight. In a few minutes I’ll change places with you.”

The Hardys knew that keeping a dead weight like the Sleuth moving in a straight line would be a tough job. However, with Joe swimming ahead and Frank wielding the batten, they managed to make fairly steady progress.

It was slow, backbreaking work, and before they reached the bay, the boys had changed places three times. Their heads were pounding more than ever from the physical strain. Also, the fog had grown so dense that it was impossible to see very far ahead.

Frank, who was taking his turn in the water, did not know how much longer he could go on.

Suddenly Joe shouted from the boat, “There’s a light! Help! Help! Ahoy! Over here!” he directed at the top of his lungs.

Gradually the light approached them. Frank clambered back into the Sleuth as a Harbor Police boat, making its scheduled rounds, pulled alongside.

“You’re just in time!” Frank gasped to the sergeant in charge. “We’re exhausted.”

“I can see that. You run out of gas?” the police officer asked.

“Worse than that. Foul play,” Frank replied.

“Tough luck,” the sergeant said. “You can tell your story when we get to town.”

The officer gave orders to his crew, and a tow-line was put on the Sleuth. The boys were given blankets to throw around themselves.

When the two crafts reached the Harbor Police pier, the boys went inside and gave a full account of what had happened to them and asked that the report be relayed to Chief Collig.

“We’ll give you some gas,” said the sergeant who had rescued the boys. “Then do you think you can make it home alone?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A half hour later the boys, tired and disappointed, cycled home. Their mother and aunt gasped with dismay at the sight of the weary boys in the water-sodden clothing. Joe and Frank, however, made light of the evening’s experience.

“We ran out of gas,” Joe explained, “and had to swim back with the Sleuth.”

Aunt Gertrude sniffed skeptically. “Humph! It must have been some long ride to use up all that fuel!” She hustled off to make hot chocolate.

Mrs. Hardy told the boys that their father had left the house an hour before and would be away overnight working on his case. Again Frank and Joe wondered about it. And did the attack tonight have any connection with either case?

After a hot bath and a good night’s sleep, Frank and Joe were eager to continue their search for clues to the bowman, the counterfeiters, and the writer of the first warning note to Mr. Hardy.

Breakfast over, Frank and Joe went to the lab and dusted the archer’s finger guard. To the brothers’ delight they lifted one clear print.

“We’ll take this to Chief Collig on our way to the paper company in Bridgeport,” Frank decided.

Just before they left, Chet telephoned. “Guess what!” he said to Frank, who answered. “I have an appointment at Elekton to see about a job!”

“How’d you do it?” Frank asked, amazed. “You sure work fast.”

Chet laughed. “I decided to telephone on my own,” he explained. “The man in the personnel office told me there might be something available on a part-time basis. How about that?”

“Swell,” Frank said. “The vacancy must have come up since yesterday.”

“Funny thing,” Chet added. “The personnel manager asked me if I’d applied before. I said No, though the guard had phoned about me yesterday. The manager said he didn’t remember this, but that somebody else in the office might have taken the call.”

Chet became more and more excited as he talked about the prospect of getting a job in the Elekton laboratory. “I’m going to make a lot of money and—”

“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” Frank cautioned his friend. “Elekton is such a top-secret outfit they might not hire anyone on a part-time basis for lab work. But you might get something else.”

“We’ll see,” Chet replied optimistically.

“Joe and I have something special to show you,” Frank told him. “After you have your interview, meet us at the north end of the Bayport waterfront.”

Chet begged to know why, but Frank kept the news about the Sleuth a secret. “You’ll see soon enough,” he said.

“Okay, then. So long!”

The Hardys hopped on their motorcycles and rode to police headquarters. They talked to Chief Collig in detail about the attack on them, and left the bowman’s fingerprint for him to trace.

“Good work, boys,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Frank and Joe had decided not to mention to him the green truck and its possible connection with the counterfeiters until they had more proof.

The boys mounted their motorcycles and rode to Bridgeport. They easily located the Quality Paper Company, and inquired there for Mr. Evans, the sales manager, with whom they had talked the day before.

When Frank and Joe entered his office and identified themselves, Mr. Evans looked at the brothers curiously. But he was most cooperative in answering their questions.

“No,” Mr. Evans said, “we don’t sell our star watermark paper to retail stores in this vicinity. All our purchasers are large industrial companies. Here is a list.” He handed a printed sheet across the desk to Frank.

The boys were disappointed not to have obtained any individual’s name. Nevertheless, Frank and Joe read the list carefully. Several names, including Elekton Controls Limited, were familiar to them. The warning note could have come from any one of thousands of employees of any of the firms.

“I guess there’s no clue here to the man we want to locate,” Frank said to Mr. Evans.

The boys thanked him. As they started to leave, he called them back.

“Are you boys, by any chance, related to Mr. Fenton Hardy?” he asked.

Joe, puzzled, nodded. “He’s our father. Why?”

“Quite a coincidence,” Mr. Evans said. “Mr. Hardy was here a little while ago.”

“He was!” Frank exclaimed in surprise. The brothers exchanged glances, wondering what mission their father had been on.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Mr. Hardy’s visit,” Mr. Evans said.

“That’s all right,” Joe assured him. “If Dad had wanted the visit kept secret, he would have told you.”

When the boys were outside again, Frank said, “I hope Dad will be home. I’d like to find out what brought him here.”

Frank and Joe rode directly home and were glad to see Mr. Hardy’s sedan in the driveway. The boys rushed into the house.

They found the detective in his study, talking on the telephone. The boys paused next to the partly open door.

“... the same eight-and-one pattern, I believe,” their father was saying.... “Yes—I’ll be there.... Good-by.”

Frank knocked and the boys entered the room. Mr. Hardy greeted them warmly. He was startled when Joe told him, “We know where you’ve been this morning, Dad.”

“Were you two shadowing me?” the detective joked.

“Not exactly.” Frank grinned, and explained why they had visited the Quality Paper Company.

“Good idea,” said the detective. “Did you learn anything?”

“No,” Joe replied glumly, then asked suddenly, “Dad, did you go to Quality Paper in connection with the warning note on the arrow?”

Mr. Hardy admitted that he had gone there to investigate the watermark. “I believe I did find a clue to confirm a suspicion of mine. But I’m not sure yet where it will lead.”

The boys sensed that their father’s trip had been linked to his secret case. “If it was to help us on the counterfeiting mystery, he’d say so,” Frank thought. “And he hasn’t mentioned Elekton, so I guess he doesn’t suspect any of that company’s employees.”

Mr. Hardy changed the subject. He looked at his sons quizzically. “What’s this I hear from Aunt Gertrude about you boys coming home last night half dead?”

The boys explained, omitting none of the details. “We didn’t want to alarm Mother and Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said, “so we didn’t tell them about the attack.”

Mr. Hardy looked grim and warned his sons gravely to be extra cautious.

“There’s one bright spot,” he added. “The print you found on that finger guard. It could be a big break.”

During lunch the detective was unusually preoccupied. The boys tried to draw him out by questions and deductions about the counterfeiting case. He would say very little, however, and seemed to be concentrating on a knotty problem.

A little later the boys rode their motorcycles straight to the boathouse and parked at the street end of the jetty. “Chet ought to show up soon,” Joe remarked.

As the brothers walked toward the boathouse Frank commented on his father’s preoccupation during luncheon.

“I have a hunch Dad’s assignment is even tougher than usual,” he confided. “I wish we could help him on it.”

Frank seemed to be only half listening and nodded absently.

“What’s the matter with you?” Joe laughed. “I’m talking to myself!”

Suddenly Frank stopped. He grasped his brother’s arm firmly.

“Joe!” he said. “We may have found a clue in Bridgeport this morning, and didn’t realize it!”

CHAPTER X

The Sign of the Arrow

“WHAT clue do you mean, Frank?” Joe demanded eagerly.

“Elekton’s name was on that list Mr. Evans showed us this morning.”

“Yes, I know. But Dad didn’t seem excited over that.”

“Well, I am,” Frank said. “Put two and two together. Every time we’ve been near the Elekton area, something has happened. First, the warning on the arrow, then the attack last night.”

“Of course!” Joe said. “I get you! Someone who has access to the company’s paper supply could have sent the warnings, and knocked us out. But who? An employee of Elekton?”

“That’s the mystery,” said Frank. “Is the person trying to get at Dad through us? And which of the cases is this mysterious person connected with —the counterfeit case or Dad’s secret one?”

“Then there’s the bike,” Joe recalled. “Someone from the company easily could have taken it from the storage area under the mill at night when the guard and maintenance man were inside the gatehouse.”

“Joe,” said Frank slowly, “we’re theorizing on the case having a connection with Elekton. Do you think Dad is, too, even though he didn’t tell us? The Elekton name may have been the clue he found at Quality Paper!”

Joe snapped his fingers. “My guess is that Dad is doing some detective work for Elekton! That would explain why he can’t say anything. Elekton is doing top-secret space missile work.”

“It’s possible,” Frank speculated, “that Elekton retained Dad because of the chain of sabotage acts in plants handling similar jobs for the government.”

“Sounds logical,” Joe agreed. “I guess Dad’s main assignment would be to ward off sabotage at Elekton. No wonder he is so anxious to find out who sent the warnings.”

Just then Chet arrived in the Queen and leaped out.

“I have a job!” he announced to Frank and Joe. Then he looked a bit sheepish. “It’s—er—in the cafeteria, serving behind the food counter. The cafeteria is run on a concession basis, and the people working there aren’t as carefully screened as the plant employees.”

Joe grinned. “It’s not very scientific, but think of the food! You’ll be able to eat anything you want.”

Chet sighed, and did not respond with one of his usual humorous comebacks. A worried expression spread over his face. He shifted from one foot to the other.

“What’s on your mind?” Joe prodded. “Not nervous about the job, are you?”

Chet shook his head. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of white paper. “I am nervous about this—another warning note! It was on the seat of my car when I came out after the job interview.” He handed the note to Frank.

Unfolding it, Frank read aloud, “‘You and your pals watch out!’ ” There was no signature on the boldly printed note, but at the bottom was the crude drawing of an arrow.

Chet gulped. “Must be that arrow shooter. He’s keeping tabs on all of us!” he said.

Frank and Joe studied the note intently for a minute, then Frank asked Chet, “Where did you park?”

“Near the front entrance. The guard at the mill told me to go in that way to reach the personnel office.” Chet smiled faintly. “Boy, was he surprised when I told him I had an appointment.”

The Hardys were more convinced than ever that their unknown enemy must somehow be linked with the Elekton company. “We’ll compare this note with the others,” Frank said. “But first, Chet, we’ll show you something to cheer you up.”

The brothers led their friend into the boathouse. “Feast your eyes!” Joe grinned. “This is our surprise.”

Chet gasped when he saw the Sleuth. “Wow! She’s really yours?”

“You bet! How about a ride?”

Eagerly Chet accepted. As the Hardys refueled from the boathouse tank, they told Chet about the adventure they had had the previous night.

“You suspect there’s a connection between somebody at Elekton and the counterfeiting?” Chet guessed.

“That’s right,” Frank replied.

He then told Chet about the Pritos having received a counterfeit bill. “We think,” said Joe, “the boy in the panel truck who gave Mike the counterfeit twenty might have been Ken Blake.”

“Ken Blake again,” Chet commented. “Funny how he keeps turning up.”

The Hardys agreed. As Frank steered the Sleuth into the bay, Joe suggested, “Let’s run up Willow River to the mill. That’ll give you a good chance to see how the boat rides, Chet, and also we can stop to question the guard and maintenance man, and Ken Blake. They might have seen some suspicious people in the area.”

“I should’ve known this would turn into a sleuthing trip.” Chet sighed. “Oh, well, I’m with you if we can learn anything about the counterfeiters.”

“Something’s wrong!” Joe shouted. “I can’t slow her down.”

When Frank had the Sleuth well away from shore and out of the path of other craft on the bay, he pushed the throttle for more speed and steered the boat toward the mouth of the river.

The Sleuth responded like a thoroughbred. The stern sat back in the water and in a second it was planing wide open across the bay.

“How do you like this?” Frank called from the cockpit.

“Terrific!” Chet yelled back enthusiastically.

Frank now swung the wheel back and forth to show his friend how stable the boat was. Then he said, “Joe, take the wheel and show Chet your stuff!”

The brothers changed places and Joe made a wide circle to port, with the Sleuth heeling beautifully. Then he headed for the river’s narrow mouth.

“Better slow down!” Frank warned him.

Obediently Joe began to ease the throttle. The Sleuth did not respond! And there was no lessening of the roar of the engine.

Quickly Joe turned the throttle all the way back. Still there was no decrease in speed.

“Something’s wrong!” he shouted. “I can’t slow her down!”

CHAPTER XI

Sinister Tactics

“WHAT do you mean you can’t slow down?” Chet yelled. “Turn off the engine!”

“Joe can’t,” Frank said grimly. “He has the throttle to off position and we’re still traveling at full speed.”

There was no choice for Joe but to swing the Sleuth into another wide, sweeping turn. It would have been foolhardy to enter the river at such speed, and Joe knew that under the circumstances he needed lots of room to maneuver. The motorboat zoomed back into the middle of the bay. It seemed to the boys that suddenly there was far more traffic on the bay than there had been before.

“Look out!” Chet yelled. Joe just missed a high-speed runabout.

He turned and twisted to avoid the small pleasure boats. The young pilot was more worried about endangering these people than he was about colliding with the larger vessels, which were commercial craft.

“Keep her as straight as you can!” Frank shouted to Joe. “I’ll take a look at the engine and see what I can do with it.”

Frank stood up and leaned forward to open the cowling in front of the dashboard, as the boat leaped across the waves in the bay.

“Watch out!” Chet yelled, as Frank almost lost his balance.

Joe had made a sharp turn to avoid cutting in front of a rowboat containing a man and several children. Joe realized that the wash of the speeding Sleuth might upset it.

“If those people are thrown overboard,” he thought, “we’ll have to rescue them. But how?” Fortunately, the boat did not overturn.

Frank quickly lifted the cowling from the engine and stepped into the pit. He knew he could open the fuel intake and siphon off the gas into the bay, but this would take too long.

“I’ll have to stop the boat-right now!” he decided.

Frank reached down beside the roaring engine and pulled three wires away from the distributor. Instantly the engine died, and Frank stood up just as Joe made another sharp turn to miss hitting a small outboard motorboat that had wandered across their path.

“Good night!” Chet cried out. “That was a close one!”

Even with the Sleuth’s reduction in speed, the other boat rocked violently back and forth as it was caught in the wash. Frank grasped the gunwale, ready to leap over the side and rescue the man if his boat overturned.

But the smaller craft had been pulled around to face the wash. Though it bounced almost out of the water, the boat quickly resumed an even keel.

The lone man in it kept coming toward the Sleuth. As he drew alongside, he began to wave his arms and shout at the boys.

“What’s the matter with you young fools?” he yelled. “You shouldn’t be allowed to operate a boat until you learn how to run one.”

“We couldn’t—” Joe started to say when the man interrupted.

“You should have more respect for other people’s safety!”

Frank finally managed to explain. “It was an accident. The throttle was jammed open. I had to pull the wires out of the distributor to stop her.”

By this time the outboard was close enough for its pilot to look over the Sleuth’s side and into the engine housing where Frank was pointing at the distributor.

The man quickly calmed down. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “There are so many fools running around in high-powered boats these days, without knowing anything about the rules of navigation, I just got good and mad at your performance.”

“I don’t blame you, sir,” said Joe. Then he asked, “Do you think you could tow us into the municipal dock so that we can have repairs made?”

“Glad to,” said the man.

At the dock, the Hardys and Chet watched while the serviceman checked the Sleuth to find out the cause of the trouble. Presently he looked up at the boys with an odd expression.

“What’s the trouble?” Frank asked. “Serious?”

The mechanic’s reply startled them. “This is a new motorboat and no doubt was in tiptop shape. But somebody tampered with the throttle!”

“What!” Joe demanded. “Let’s see!”

The serviceman pointed out where a cotter pin had been removed from the throttle group. And the tension spring which opened and closed the valve had been replaced with a bar to hold the throttle wide open, once it was pushed there.

The Hardys and Chet exchanged glances which meant: “The unknown enemy again?”

The boys, however, did not mention their suspicions to the mechanic. Frank merely requested him to make the necessary repairs on the Sleuth. Then the trio walked back to the Hardys’ boathouse.

Several fishermen were standing at a nearby wharf. Frank and Joe asked them if they had seen anyone near the boathouse.

“No,” each one said.

The three boys inspected the boathouse. Frank scrutinized the hasp on the door. “The Sleuth must have been tampered with while it was inside. Unless it was done last night while we were unconscious.”

There was no sign of the lock having been forced open, but near the edge of the loose hasp there were faint scratches.

“Look!” Joe pointed. “Somebody tore the whole hasp off the door and then carefully put it back on.”

Frank looked grim. “I’m sure this was done by the same person who attacked us last night, and sent us the warnings.”

“You’re right,” said Joe. “This is what Dad would call sinister tactics.”

Again both brothers wondered with which case their enemy was connected. There seemed to be no answer to this tantalizing question which kept coming up again and again.

Chet drove the Queen back to the Hardys’, and the brothers rode their motorcycles. When they reached the house they went at once to the lab with the note Chet had found in his car.

They dusted it for fingerprints but were disappointed again. There was not one trace of a print. The boys found, however, that the paper was the same as that used for the previous warnings.

“Well,” said Joe, “I vote we go on out to the mill.”

The boys went in the Queen. Chet had just brought his car to a stop on the dirt road when Joe called out, “There’s Ken Blake trimming the grass over by the millrace. Now’s our chance to talk to him.”

The three jumped out. Ken looked up, stared for a second, then threw his clippers to the ground. To the boys’ surprise, he turned and ran away from them, along the stream.

“Wait!” Frank yelled.

Ken looked over his shoulder, but kept on running. Suddenly he tripped and stumbled. For a moment the boy teetered on the bank of the rushing stream. The next instant he lost his balance and fell headlong into the water!

At once the Hardys and Chet dashed to the water’s edge. Horrified, they saw that the force of the water was carrying the boy, obviously a poor swimmer, straight toward the plunging falls!

CHAPTER XII

An Interrupted Chase

FRANK, quick as lightning, dashed to the mill-stream and plunged in after Ken Blake. The boy was being pulled relentlessly toward the waterfall. In another moment he would be swept over the brink of the dam!

With strong strokes, Frank swam toward the struggling boy. Reaching out desperately, he managed to grasp Ken’s shirt.

Joe jumped in to assist Frank. The two boys were buffeted by the rushing water but between them they managed to drag Ken back from the falls.

“Easy,” Frank cautioned the frightened youth. “Relax. We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

Despite the weight of their clothes, the Hardys, both proficient at lifesaving techniques, soon worked Ken close to the bank. Chet leaned over and helped haul him out of the water. Then Frank and Joe climbed out.

To their relief, Ken, though white-faced and panting from exhaustion, seemed to be all right. The Hardys flopped to the ground to catch their breath.

“That was a whale of a rescue!” Chet praised them.

“You bet!” Ken gasped weakly. “Thanks, fellows! You’ve saved my life!”

“In a way it was our fault,” Joe replied ruefully. “You wouldn’t have fallen in if we hadn’t come here. But why did you run away when you saw us?”

Ken hesitated before answering. “Mr. Markel —the guard at the gatehouse-said you wanted to talk to me. He warned me about talking to out. siders, because of the strict security at Elekton.”

Joe nodded. “We understand, Ken. But,” he added, “we have something important to ask you, and I don’t think you will be going against company rules if you answer. Did anybody use your bike the night before last to deliver a message to our house?”

“Your house?” Ken sounded surprised. “No. At least, not that I know of.”

Joe went on, “Did you buy a pedal in Bridgeport to replace the one missing from your bike?”

Ken again looked surprised. “Yes. It was gone yesterday morning when I came to work. I suspected someone must have used my bike and lost the pedal. When I couldn’t find it around here, Mr. Market sent me to Bridgeport to buy a new one.”

It was on the tip of Frank’s tongue to ask the boy if he had seen any person in the area of the mill carrying a bow and arrow. But suddenly Mr. Markel and the maintenance man came dashing from the mill.

“What’s going on here?” the guard demanded, staring at the Hardys and Ken, who were still dripping wet.

Briefly, Frank told the men what had happened. They thanked the brothers warmly for the rescue, and the maintenance man hustled Ken into the mill for dry clothes. He did not invite the Hardys inside.

Frank and Joe turned to Mr. Markel, intending to question him. But before they could, a horn sounded and a shabby green panel truck approached the plant gate.

The guard hurried over to admit the truck and it entered without stopping. Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank’s arm. “Hey! That truck’s unmarked—it looks like the one Tony described.”

The brothers peered after the vehicle, but by this time it was far into the grounds, and had turned out of sight behind one of the buildings.

“I wonder,” Joe said excitedly, “if the driver is the man who gave the Pritos the counterfeit bill!”

The boys had noticed only that the driver wore a cap pulled low and sat slouched over the wheel.

“If this truck’s the same one, it may be connected with Elekton,” Frank said tersely.

Both Hardys, though uncomfortably wet, decided to stay and see what they could find out. They hailed Mr. Markel as he walked back from the Elekton gate.

“Does that truck belong to Elekton?” Frank asked him.

“No, it doesn’t,” the guard answered.

“Do you know who does own it?” asked Joe.

Mr. Markel shook his head regretfully. “Sorry, boys. I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give out such information. Excuse me, I have work to do.” He turned and went back into the gatehouse.

“Come on, fellows,” Chet urged. “You’d better not hang around in those wet clothes.”

The Hardys, however, were determined to stay long enough to question Ken Blake further, if possible.

“He’ll probably be coming outside soon,” said Joe. “Frank and I can dry out on the beach by the cave. It won’t take long in this hot sun.”

Chet sighed. “Okay. And I know what I’m supposed to do—wait here and watch for Ken.”

Frank chuckled. “You’re a mind reader.”

Chet took his post at the edge of the woods, and the Hardys hurried down to the river’s edge.

They spread their slacks and shirts on the sun-warmed rocks. In a short while the clothing was dry enough to put on.

“Say, maybe we’ll have time to investigate that tunnel before Chet calls us,” Joe suggested eagerly.

He and Frank started for the cave, but a second later Chet came running through the woods toward them.

“Ken came out, but he’s gone on an errand,” he reported, and explained that the boy had rushed from the mill dressed in oversize dungarees and a red shirt. “He was riding off on his bike when I caught up to him. I told Ken you wanted to see him, but he said he had to make a fast trip downtown and deliver an envelope to the Parker Building.”

“We’ll catch him there,” Frank decided.

The three boys ran up the wooded slope and jumped into the Queen. They kept on the main road to Bayport, hoping to overtake Ken, but they did not pass him.

“He must have taken another route,” Joe said.

At the Parker Building there were no parking spaces available, so Chet stopped his jalopy long enough to drop off Frank and Joe.

“I’ll keep circling the block until you come out,” Chet called as he drove away.

There was no sign of Ken’s bicycle outside the building. The Hardys rushed into the lobby and immediately were met by a five-o’clock crowd of office workers streaming from the elevators. Frank and Joe made their way through the throng, but saw no sign of Ken.

Joe had an idea. “Maybe he was making the delivery to Mr. Peters, the name I saw on the Manila envelope I picked up the other day. Let’s see if Ken’s still in his office.”

The boys ran their eyes down the building directory, but Mr. Peters was not listed. The brothers questioned the elevator starter, who replied that so far as he knew, no one by the name of Peters had an office in the building.

Joe asked the starter, “Did you notice a boy wearing dungarees and a bright-red shirt in the lobby a few minutes ago?”

“Sure,” was the prompt reply. “Just before the five-o’clock rush started. I saw the boy come in and give an envelope to a man waiting in the corner over there. The man took the envelope and they both left right away.”

“I guess he must be Mr. Peters,” Frank said.

“Could be,” the starter agreed. “I didn’t recognize him.”

As the Hardys hurried outside, Joe said, “Well, we got crossed up on that one. Let’s get back to the mill. Ken will have to drop off the bike.”

The brothers waited at the curb for Chet. In a few minutes the Queen pulled up. “All aboard!” Chet sang out. “Any luck?”

“No.”

When Frank told Chet they were returning to the mill, their good-natured friend nodded. “It’s fortunate I bought these sandwiches,” he said, indicating a paper bag on the seat beside him. “I had a feeling we’d be late to supper.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. I’ll stop and phone our families so they won’t wait supper for us.”

After Joe had made the calls and they were on their way again, he told Frank and Chet that Mr. Hardy had left a message saying he would not be home until after ten o’clock.

As the Queen went down the side road past the Elekton buildings, Frank thought, “If Dad is working for Elekton, he might be somewhere in the plant right this minute.”

The same possibility was running through Joe’s mind. “Wonder if Dad is expecting a break in his secret case.”

As Chet neared the turn into the mill road, a green truck zoomed out directly in front of the Queen. Chet jammed on his brake, narrowly avoiding a collision. The truck swung around the jalopy at full speed and roared off toward the highway.

“The green truck we saw before!” Joe exclaimed. “This time I got the license number, but couldn’t see the driver’s face.”

“Let’s follow him!” Frank urged.

Chet started back in pursuit. “That guy ought to be arrested for reckless driving!” he declared indignantly.

The Hardys peered ahead as they turned right onto the main road, trying to keep the truck in sight. Suddenly the boys heard a tremendous bo-o-om and felt the car shake.

“An explosion!” Joe cried out, turning his head. “Look!”

Against the sky a brilliant flash and billows of smoke came from the direction of Elekton. Another explosion followed.

“The plant’s blowing up!” Joe gasped.

CHAPTER XIII

Sudden Suspicion

THE roar of the explosion and the sight of smoke and flames stunned the three boys for a moment. Chet stepped on the brake so fast that his passengers hit the dashboard.

“Take it easy!” urged Frank, although he was as excited as Chet.

All thoughts of chasing the mysterious green truck were erased from the Hardys’ minds.

“Let’s get as close as possible,” Frank said tersely, as Chet headed the car back toward the plant. “I’d like to know what—”

Frank broke off as a series of explosions occurred. The brothers sat forward tensely.

As the Queen drew near the main entrance, the boys could see that the flames and smoke were pouring from a single building at the northeast corner.

“It’s one of the labs, I think,” said Frank.

Quickly Chet pulled over and parked, and the boys hopped out of the jalopy. The series of explosive sounds had died away, but the damage appeared to be extensive. Most of the windows in the steel-and-concrete building had been blown out by the force of the blast.

Smoke and flames were pouring out of the blackened spaces where the windows had been. As the boys ran toward the front, the roof of the west wing caved in. The rush of oxygen provided fuel for a new surge of flames that reached toward the sky.

“Lucky this happened after closing time,” Chet murmured, staring wide-eyed at the fire. “There might have been a lot of injuries.”

“I hope no one was inside.” Joe exchanged worried glances with his brother. Both shared the same concern. It was for their father.

“I wish we could find out whether or not Dad’s at Elekton,” Frank whispered to Joe.

At this point, the boys heard the scream of sirens. Soon fire trucks and police cars from Bayport pulled up at the front gate. The Hardys saw Chief Collig in the first police car. They rushed up to him and he asked how they happened to be there.

“Sleuthing,” Frank answered simply. Without going into detail, he added, “Joe and I aren’t sure, but we have a hunch Dad may have been— or still is—here at Elekton. All right if we go into the grounds and look around?” he asked eagerly. “And take Chet?”

The officer agreed.

By this time the guard had opened the wide gate, and the fire apparatus rushed in. Some of the police officers followed, while others took positions along the road and directed traffic so it would not block the path of emergency vehicles.

As the boys rode inside with the chief, Joe asked him, “Any idea what caused the explosion?”

“Not yet. Hard to tell until the firemen can get inside the building.”

When they reached the burning structure, Chief Collig began directing police operations, and checking with the firemen. As soon as they seemed to have the flames under control, the firemen entered the laboratory building to look for any possible victims of the explosions.

The Hardys and Chet, meanwhile, had searched the outdoors area for Mr. Hardy, but did not see the detective.

“Maybe we were wrong about Dad’s coming here,” Joe said to his brother, more hopeful than before. “Dad probably wouldn’t have been in the lab.”

The brothers went back to Chief Collig, who told them he had not seen Fenton Hardy. Just then the fire chief came up to the group.

“I’ll bet this fire was no accident,” he reported grimly to Collig. “The same thing happened in Indiana about two months ago—and that was sabotage!”

Frank and Joe stared at each other. “Sabotage!” Joe whispered.

A startling thought flashed into Frank’s mind, and, drawing his brother aside, he exclaimed, “Remember what we overheard Dad say on the phone? ‘The same eight-and-one pattern. I’ll be there.’ ”

“And two months equal about eight weeks,” Joe added excitedly. “That might have been the saboteurs’ time schedule Dad was referring to! So maybe the explosion at Elekton was set for today!”

Frank’s apprehension about his father returned full force. “Joe,” he said tensely, “Dad might have been inside the lab building trying to stop the saboteurs!”

Deeply disturbed, the Hardys pleaded with Chief Collig for permission to enter the building and search for their father.

“I can tell you’re worried, boys,” the officer said sympathetically. “But it’s still too risky for me to let you go inside. It’ll be some time before we’re sure there’s no danger of further explosions.”

“I know,” Frank agreed. “But what if Dad is in there and badly hurt?”

The police chief did his best to reassure the brothers. “Your father would never forgive me if I let you risk your lives,” he added. “I suggest that you go on home and cheer up your mother in case she has the same fears you do. I promise if I see your dad I’ll call you, or ask him to.”

The boys realized that their old friend was right, and slowly walked away. Frank and Joe looked back once at the blackened building, outlined against the twilight sky. Wisps of smoke still curled from the torn-out windows. It was a gloomy, silent trio that drove to the Hardy home in the Queen.

Frank and Joe decided not to tell their mother or aunt of their fear, or to give any hint of their suspicions. When the boys entered the living room, both women gave sighs of relief. They had heard the explosions and the subsequent news flashes about it.

Aunt Gertrude looked at the boys sharply. “By the way, where have you three been all this time? I was afraid that you might have been near Elekton’s.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet admitted that they had been. “You know we couldn’t miss a chance to find out what the excitement was about,” Joe said teasingly, then added with an assurance he was far from feeling, “Don’t worry. The fire was pretty much under control when we left.”

To change the subject, Frank said cheerfully, “I sure am hungry. Let’s dig into those sandwiches you bought, Chet!”

“Good idea!” Joe agreed.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to fix you something hot to eat?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Thanks, Mother, but we’ll have enough.” Frank smiled.

Chet called his family to let them know where he was, then the three boys sat down in the kitchen and halfheartedly munched the sandwiches. Aunt Gertrude bustled in and served them generous portions of deep-dish apple pie.

“This is more super than usual,” Chet declared, trying hard to be cheerful.

The boys finished their pie, but without appetite. When they refused second helpings, however, Aunt Gertrude demanded suspiciously, “Are you ill—or what?”

“Oh, no, Aunty,” Joe replied hastily. “Just—er—too much detecting.”

“I can believe that!” Miss Hardy said tartly.

The evening dragged on, tension mounting every minute. The boys tried to read or talk, but their concern for the detective’s safety made it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Eleven o’clock! Where was their father? Frank and Joe wondered.

“Aren’t you boys going to bed soon?” Mrs. Hardy asked, as she and Aunt Gertrude started upstairs.

“Pretty soon,” Frank answered.

The three boys sat glumly around the living room for a few minutes until the women were out of earshot.

“Fellows,” said Chet, “I caught on that you’re sure your dad is working on an important case for Elekton, and it’s a top-secret one—that’s why you couldn’t say anything about it.”

“You’re right,” Frank told him.

Chet went on to mention that his father had heard of various problems at Elekton—produc—tion stoppages caused by power breaks, and, before the buildings were completed, there were reports of tools and equipment being missing.

“This ties in with our hunch about the secrecy of Dad’s case,” Frank said. “The company must have suspected that major sabotage was being planned, and retained Dad to try and stop it.”

Talking over their speculations helped to relieve some of the tension the boys felt and made the time pass a little faster as they waited for news of Fenton Hardy.

“I wonder how the saboteurs got into the plant?” Joe said, thinking aloud. “Both the gates are locked and well guarded. It seems almost impossible for anyone to have sneaked in the necessary amount of explosives—without inside help.”

A sudden thought flashed into Frank’s mind. He leaped to his feet. “The green truck!” he exclaimed. “It was unmarked, remember? It could have been carrying dynamite—camouflaged under ordinary supplies!”

“That could be, Frank!” Joe jumped up. “If so, no wonder it was in such a rush! I’ll phone the chief right now and give him the truck’s license number.”

Frank went with Joe to the hall telephone. As they approached the phone, it rang. The bell, shattering the tense atmosphere, seemed louder than usual.

“It must be Dad!” exclaimed the brothers together, and Chet hurried into the hall.

Frank eagerly lifted the receiver. “Hello!” he said expectantly.

The next moment Frank looked dejected. He replaced the receiver and said glumly, “Wrong number.”

The Hardys exchanged bleak looks. What had happened to their father?

CHAPTER XIV

Prisoners!

THE HARDYS’ disappointment in discovering that the telephone call was not from their father was intense. Nevertheless, Joe picked up the receiver and dialed police headquarters to report the truck’s license number.

“Line’s busy,” he said.

Joe tried several more times without success. Suddenly he burst out, “I can’t stand it another minute to think of Dad perhaps lying out there hurt. Let’s go back to Elekton and see if we can learn something.”

“All right,” Frank agreed, also eager for action, and the three rushed to the front door.

Just as they opened it, the boys saw the headlights of a car turning into the driveway.

“It’s Dad!” Joe barely refrained from shouting so as not to awaken Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.

The detective’s sedan headed for the garage at the back of the house. Heaving sighs of thankful relief, the boys quietly hurried through the house into the kitchen to meet him.

“Are we glad to see you, Dad!” Frank exclaimed as he came into the house.

His father looked pale and disheveled. There was a large purple bruise on his left temple. He slumped wearily into a chair.

“I guess I’m lucky to be here.” Mr. Hardy managed a rueful smile. “Well, I owe you boys an explanation, and now is the time.”

“Dad,” Joe spoke up, “you are working on the sabotage case for Elekton, aren’t you?”

“And you were in the lab building during the explosions?” Frank put in.

“You’re both right,” the detective replied. “Of course I know I can depend on all of you to keep the matter strictly confidential. The case is far from solved.”

Mr. Hardy was relieved that Frank and Joe had kept their fears for his safety from his wife and sister. He now revealed to the boys that for the past several hours he had been closeted with Elekton’s officials. Suspecting that the saboteurs had inside help, the detective had screened the records of all employees. He and the officials had found nothing suspicious.

“I’ll submit a full report to the FBI tomorrow morning, and continue a search on my own.”

When Joe asked if the eight-and-one pattern referred to the saboteurs’ schedule, his father nodded. “In the other plants, the sabotage took place eight weeks plus one day apart.

“In each of those plants,” the detective went on, “the damage occurred right after closing time. Figuring the schedule would be exactly right for

an attempt on Elekton in a couple of days, I started a systematic check of the various buildings. I planned to check daily, until the saboteurs had been caught here or elsewhere. At my request, one company security guard was assigned to assist me. I felt that the fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better. That’s how I ruined the saboteurs’ plan in Detroit.

“Nothing suspicious occurred here until today when I took up a post in the section of the building where the experimental work is being conducted. After all the employees had left, and the dim night-lights were on, I went toward the east lab wing to investigate.”

Mr. Hardy paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “Just as I reached the lab, I happened to glance back into the hall. Things started to happen—fast.”

“What did you see, Dad?” asked Joe, and all the boys leaned forward expectantly.

The detective went on, “Hurrying down the hall from the west lab were two men in work clothes, one carrying a leather bag. I knew there weren’t supposed to be any workmen in the building. I stepped out to question them, but the pair broke into a run and dashed past me down the stairs.”

“Did you see what either of them looked like?” Frank asked.

“I did catch a glimpse of one before they broke away. He had heavy features and thick eyebrows. But just as I was about to take off after them, I smelled something burning in the east lab and went to investigate. The first thing I saw was a long fuse sputtering toward a box of dynamite, set against the wall.

“I didn’t know if it was the kind of fuse that would burn internally or not, so I took my pen-knife and cut it close to the dynamite. Professional saboteurs don’t usually rely on just one explosive, so I started for the west wing to check the lab there.”

Mr. Hardy leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bruise on his temple. In a low voice he said, “But I didn’t make it. I was running toward the hall when there was a roar and a burst of flame. The explosion lifted me off my feet and threw me against the wall. Though I was stunned, I managed to get back to the east wing. I reached for the phone, then blacked out.

“I must have been unconscious for some time because when the firemen found me and helped me out of the building, the fire had been put out.”

“You’re all right now?” asked Frank.

“Yes. It was a temporary blackout from shock. What bothers me is that I had the saboteurs’ pattern figured out—only they must have become panicky, and moved up their nefarious scheme two days.”

Joe looked grim. “I wish we’d been there to help you capture those rats!”

Chet asked Mr. Hardy if he would like a fruit drink. “I’ll make some lemonade,” he offered.

“Sounds good.” Mr. Hardy smiled.

As they sipped the lemonade, Frank and Joe questioned their father about his theories.

“I’m still convinced,” said Mr. Hardy, “that one of those men works in the plant. How else would he have known when the watchman makes his rounds and how to disconnect the electronic alarms? But I can’t figure how the outside accomplice got in—those gates are carefully guarded.”

At this point, Frank told his father about the green truck. “We suspected at first it might be connected with the counterfeiters. Now we have a hunch the saboteurs may have used it.”

Fenton Hardy seemed greatly encouraged by this possible lead. Joe gave him the license number, which Mr. Hardy said he would report to Chief Collig at once.

When Mr. Hardy returned from the telephone, he told the boys the chief would check the license number with the Motor Vehicle Bureau in the morning and by then he also would have some information about the print on the archer’s finger guard.

The next morning after breakfast Frank said he wanted to take another look at the warning notes.

“Why?” Joe asked curiously as they went to the file.

Frank held up the “arrow” warning, and the one received by Chet. “I’ve been thinking about the printing on these two—seems familiar. I have it!” he burst out.

“Have what?” Joe asked.

“This printing”—Frank pointed to the papers —“is the same as the printing on Ken’s envelope addressed to Victor Peters. I’m positive.”

Excitedly the brothers speculated on the possible meaning of this clue. “I’d sure like to find out,” said Joe, “who addresses the envelopes Ken delivers, and if they’re always sent to Mr. Peters in the Parker Building. And why—if he doesn’t have an office there. And who is Victor Peters?”

“If the person who addresses the envelopes and the sender of the warnings are the same,” Frank declared, “it looks as though he’s sending something to a confederate, under pretense of having work done for Elekton. I wonder what that something could be?”

“At any rate,” Joe added, “this could be a link either to the counterfeiters or to the saboteurs. Which one?”

The boys decided to go out to the mill again, in hopes of quizzing Ken Blake. Just then their father came downstairs. Frank and Joe were glad to see that he looked rested and cheerful.

Mr. Hardy phoned Chief Collig. When the detective hung up, he told his sons that the license number belonged to stolen plates and the fingerprint to a confidence man nicknamed The Arrow.

“He’s called this because for several years he worked at exclusive summer resorts, teaching archery to wealthy vacationers, then fleecing as many of them as he could. After each swindle, The Arrow disappeared. Unfortunately, there’s no picture of him on file. All the police have is a general description of him.”

Frank and Joe learned that the swindler had a pleasant speaking voice, was of medium height, with dark hair and brown eyes.

“Not much to go on,” Joe remarked glumly.

“No, but if he is working for Elekton, he must be pretty shrewd to have passed their screening.”

Mr. Hardy agreed, and phoned Elekton, requesting the personnel department to check if anybody answering The Arrow’s description was employed there.

The brothers then informed their father about the similar lettering on the warnings and Ken’s Manila envelope.

“A valuable clue,” he remarked. “I wish I could go with you to question Ken.” The detective explained that right now he had to make his report of the explosion to the nearby FBI office.

When he had left, Frank and Joe rode off to the mill on their motorcycles.

At the gatehouse the guard had unexpected news. “Ken Blake isn’t working here any more,” Mr. Markel said. “We had to discharge him.”

“Why?” asked Joe in surprise.

The guard replied that most of the necessary jobs had been done around the mill grounds. “Mr. Docker—my coworker—and I felt we could handle everything from now on,” he explained.

“I see,” said Frank. “Can you tell us where Ken is staying?”

Markel said he was not sure, but he thought Ken might have been boarding in an old farmhouse about a mile up the highway.

When the brothers reached the highway, they stopped. “Which way do we go? Mr. Markel didn’t tell us,” Joe said in chagrin.

“Instead of going back to find out, let’s ask at that gas station across the way,” Frank suggested. “Someone there may know.”

“An old farmhouse?” the attendant repeated in answer to Frank’s query. “There’s one about a mile from here going toward Bayport. That might be the place your friend is staying. What does he look like?”

Frank described Ken carefully. The attendant nodded. “Yep. I’ve seen him ride by here on his bike. A couple of times when I was going past the farm I noticed him turn in the dirt road to it.”

“Thanks a lot!” The Hardys cycled off quickly.

Soon they were heading up the narrow, dusty lane, which led to a ramshackle, weather-beaten house. The brothers parked their motorcycles among the high weeds in front of it and dismounted.

“This place seems deserted!” Joe muttered.

Frank agreed and looked around, perplexed. “Odd that Ken would be boarding in such a run-down house.”

Frank and Joe walked onto the creaky porch and knocked at the sagging door. There was no answer. They knocked again and called. Still no response.

“Some peculiar boardinghouse!” Joe said. “I wouldn’t want a room here!”

Frank frowned. “This must be the wrong place. Look—it’s all locked up and there’s hardly any furniture.”

“I’ll bet nobody lives in this house!” Joe burst out.

“But the attendant said he has seen Ken riding in here,” Frank declared. “Why?”

“Let’s have a look,” Joe urged.

Mystified, Frank and Joe circled the house. Since they were now certain it had been abandoned, they glanced in various windows. When Joe came to the kitchen he grabbed Frank’s arm excitedly.

“Somebody is staying here! Could it be Ken?”

Through the dusty glass the boys could see on a rickety table several open cans of food, a carton of milk, and a bowl.

“Must be a tramp,” Frank guessed. “I’m sure Ken wouldn’t live here.”

In turning away, the young detectives noticed a small stone structure about ten yards behind the house. It was the size of a one-car garage. Instead of windows, it had slits high in the walls.

“It probably was used to store farm equipment,” Frank said. “We might as well check.”

They unbolted the old-fashioned, stout, wooden double doors. These swung outward, and the boys were surprised that the doors opened so silently. “As if they’d been oiled,” Frank said.

“No wonder!” Joe cried out. “Look!”

Inside was a shabby green panel truck! “The same one we saw yesterday! Joe exclaimed. “What’s it doing here?”

The boys noticed immediately that the vehicle had no license plates. “They probably were taken off,” Frank surmised, “and disposed of.”

“We’re prisoners!” Frank exclaimed

Frank checked the glove compartment while Joe looked on the seat and under the cushion for any clue to the driver or owner of the vehicle. Suddenly he called out, “Hey! What’s going on?”

Joe jumped from the truck and saw with astonishment that the garage doors were swinging shut. Together, the boys rushed forward but not in time. They heard the outside bolt being rammed into place.

“We’re prisoners!” Frank exclaimed.

Again and again the Hardys threw their weight against the doors. This proved futile. Panting, Frank and Joe looked for a means of escape.

“Those slits in the wall are too high and too narrow, anyway,” Frank said, chiding himself for not having been on guard.

Finally he reached into the glove compartment and drew out an empty cigarette package he had noticed before. He pulled off the foil. Joe understood immediately what his brother had in mind. Frank lifted the truck’s hood and jammed the foil between the starting wires near the fuse box. “Worth a try,” he said. “Ignition key’s gone. If we can start the engine—we’ll smash our way out!”

Joe took his place at the wheel and Frank climbed in beside him. To their delight, Joe gunned the engine into life.

“Here goes!” he muttered grimly. “Brace yourself!”

“Ready!”

Joe eased the truck as far back as he could, then accelerated swiftly forward. The truck’s wheels spun on the dirt floor and then with a roar it headed for the heavy doors.

CHAPTER XV

Lead to a Counterfeiter

C-R-A-S-H! The green truck smashed through the heavy garage doors. The Hardys felt a terrific jolt and heard the wood splinter and rip as they shot forward into the farmyard.

“Wow!” Joe gasped as he braked to a halt. “We’re free—but not saying in what shape!”

Frank gave a wry laugh. “Probably better than the front of this truck!”

The boys hopped to the ground and looked around the overgrown yard. No one was in sight. The whole area seemed just as deserted as it had been when they arrived.

“Let’s check the house,” Joe urged. “Someone could be hiding in there.”

The brothers ran to the run-down dwelling. They found all the doors and windows locked. Again they peered through the dirty panes, but did not see anyone.

“I figure that whoever locked us in the garage would decide that getting away from here in a hurry was his safest bet.”

“He must have gone on foot,” Joe remarked. “I didn’t hear an engine start up.”

The Hardys decided to separate, each searching the highway for a mile in opposite directions.

“We’ll meet back at the service station we stopped at,” Frank called as the boys kicked their motors into life and took off toward the highway.

Fifteen minutes later they parked near the station. Neither boy had spotted any suspicious pedestrians.

“Did you see anybody come down this road in a hurry during the past twenty minutes?” Joe asked the attendant.

“I didn’t notice, fellows,” came the answer. “I’ve been busy working under a car. Find your friend?”

“No. That farmhouse is apparently deserted except for signs of a tramp living there,” Joe told him.

The Hardys quickly asked the attendant if he knew of any boardinghouse nearby. After a moment’s thought, he replied:

“I believe a Mrs. Smith, who lives a little ways beyond the old place, takes boarders.”

“We’ll try there. Thanks again,” Frank said as he and Joe went back to their motorcycles.

Before Frank threw his weight back on the starter, he said, “Well, let’s hope Ken Blake can give us a lead.”

“If we ever find him,” Joe responded.

They located Mrs. Smith’s boardinghouse with no trouble. She was a pleasant, middle-aged woman and quickly confirmed that Ken was staying there for the summer. She was an old friend of his parents. Mrs. Smith invited the Hardys to sit down in the living room.

“Ken’s upstairs now,” she said. “I’ll call him.”

When Ken came down, the Hardys noticed that he looked dejected. Frank felt certain it was because of losing his job and asked him what had happened.

“I don’t know,” Ken replied. “Mr. Markel just told me I wouldn’t be needed any longer. I hope I’ll be able to find another job this summer,” he added. “My folks sent me here for a vacation. But I was going to surprise them—” His voice trailed off sadly.

“Ken,” Frank said kindly, “you may be able to help us in a very important way. Now that you’re not working at the Elekton gatehouse, we hope you can answer some questions—to help solve a mystery.”

Frank explained that he and Joe often worked on mysteries and assisted their detective father.

Ken’s face brightened. “I’ll do my best, fellows,” he assured them eagerly.

“Last week,” Joe began, “a shabby green panel truck went to Pritos’ Supply Yard and picked up old bricks and lumber. Our friend Tony Prito said there was a boy in the truck who helped the yardman with the loading. Were you the boy?”

“Yes,” Ken replied readily.

“Who was the driver?” Frank asked him.

“Mr. Docker, the maintenance man at the mill. He said he’d hurt his arm and asked me to help load the stuff.” Ken looked puzzled. “Is that part of the mystery?”

“We think it could be,” Frank said. “Now, Ken —we’ve learned since then that one of the bills you gave the yardman is a counterfeit twenty.”

Ken’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “A—a counterfeit!” he echoed. “Honest, I didn’t know it was, Frank and Joel”

“Oh, we’re sure you didn’t,” Joe assured him. “Have you any idea who gave Docker the cash?”

Ken told the Hardys he did not know. Then Frank asked:

“What were the old bricks and lumber used for, Ken?”

“Mr. Docker told me they were for repair work around the plant. After we got back to the mill, Mr. Markel and I stored the load in the base. ment.”

“Is it still there?” asked Frank.

“I guess so,” Ken answered. “Up to the time I left, it hadn’t been taken out.”

The Hardys determined to question Markel and Docker at the first opportunity. Then Frank changed the subject and asked about the day of the picnic when Joe thought he had seen Ken at the window.

“I remember,” the younger boy said. “I did see you all outside. I never knew you were looking for me.”

“When we told Mr. Docker,” Frank went on, “he said Joe must have been mistaken.”

Ken remarked slowly, “He probably was worrying about the plant’s security policy. He and Mr. Markel were always reminding me not to talk to anybody.”

“During the time you were working at the Elekton gatehouse, did you see any strange or suspicious person near either the plant or the mill grounds?” Frank asked.

“No,” said Ken in surprise. Curiosity overcoming him, he burst out, “You mean there’s some crook loose around here?”

Frank and Joe nodded vigorously. “We’re afraid so,” Frank told him. “But who, or what he’s up to, is what we’re trying to find out. When we do, we’ll explain everything.”

Joe then asked Ken if he had seen anyone in the area of the mill with a bow and arrow.

“A bow and arrow?” Ken repeated. “No, I never did. I sure would’ve remembered that!”

Frank nodded and switched to another line of questioning. “When you delivered envelopes, Ken, did you always take them to Mr. Victor Peters?”

“Yes,” Ken answered.

The Hardys learned further that Ken’s delivery trips always had been to Bayport—sometimes to the Parker Building, and sometimes to other office buildings in the business section.

“Did Mr. Peters meet you in the lobby every time?” Frank queried.

“That’s right.”

“What was in the envelopes?” was Joe’s next question.

“Mr. Markel said they were bulletins and forms to be printed for Elekton.”

“Were the envelopes always marked confidential?” Joe asked.

“Yes.”

“Probably everything is that Elekton sends out,” Frank said.

“Sounds like a complicated delivery arrangement to me,” Joe declared.

Ken admitted that he had not thought much about it at the time, except that he had assumed Mr. Peters relayed the material to the printing company.

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Both remembered Frank’s surmise that the bulky Manila envelopes had not contained bona fide Elekton papers at all!

“What does Mr. Peters look like?” asked Joe, a note of intense excitement in his voice.

“Average height and stocky, with a sharp nose. Sometimes he’d be wearing sunglasses.”

“Stocky and a sharp nose,” Frank repeated. “Sunglasses.” Meaningfully he asked Joe, “Whom does that description fit?”

Joe jumped to his feet. “The man who gave Chet the counterfeit twenty at the railroad station!”

The Hardys had no doubt now that the mysterious Victor Peters must be a passer for the counterfeit ring!

CHAPTER XVI

A Night Assignment

GREATLY excited at this valuable clue to the counterfeiters, Frank asked, “Ken, who gave Mr. Markel the envelopes for Victor Peters?”

“I’m sorry, fellows, I don’t know.”

The Hardys speculated on where Peters was living. Was it somewhere near Bayport?

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Ken,” he said, “this morning we found out that sometimes you’d ride up that dirt road to the deserted farmhouse. Was it for any particular reason?”

“Yes,” Ken replied. “Mr. Markel told me a poor old man was staying in the house, and a couple of times a week I was sent there to leave a box of food on the front porch.”

“Did you ever see the ‘poor old man’?” Frank asked. “Or the green panel truck?”

The Hardys were not surprised when the answer to both questions was No. They suspected the “poor old man” was Peters hiding out there and that he had made sure the truck was out of sight whenever Ken was expected.

The brothers were silent, each puzzling over the significance of what they had just learned. If the truck was used by the counterfeiters, how did this tie in with its being used for the sabotage at Elekton?

“Was The Arrow in league with the saboteurs? Did he also have something to do with the envelopes sent to Victor Peters?” Joe asked himself.

Frank wondered, “Is The Arrow—or a confederate of his working at Elekton—the person responsible for the warnings, the attack on us, and the tampering with the Sleuth?”

“Ken,” Frank said aloud, “I think you’d better come and stay with us for a while, until we break this case. Maybe you can help us.”

He did not want to mention it to Ken, but the possibility had occurred to him that the boy might be in danger if the counterfeiters suspected that he had given the Hardys any information about Victor Peters.

Ken was delighted with the idea, and Mrs. Smith, who knew of Fenton Hardy and his sons, gave permission for her young charge to go.

As a precaution, Frank requested the kindly woman to tell any stranger asking for Ken Blake that he was “visiting friends.”

“I’ll do that,” she agreed.

Ken rode the back seat of Joe’s motorcycle on the trip to High Street. He was warmly welcomed by Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.

“I hope you enjoy your stay here,” said Mrs. Hardy, who knew that Frank and Joe had a good reason for inviting Ken. But neither woman asked questions in his presence.

“Your father probably will be out all day,” Mrs. Hardy told her sons. “He’ll phone later.”

While lunch was being prepared, Frank called police headquarters to give Chief Collig a report on what had happened at the deserted farmhouse.

“I’ll notify the FBI,” the chief said. “I’m sure they’ll want to send men out there to examine that truck and take fingerprints. Elekton,” the chief added, “had no record of any employee answering The Arrow’s description.”

“We’re working on a couple of theories,” Frank confided. “But nothing definite so far.”

After lunch the Hardys decided their next move was to try to find out more about the contents of the envelopes Ken had delivered to Peters.

“We could ask Elekton officials straight out,” Joe suggested.

His brother did not agree. “Without tangible evidence to back us up, we’d have to give too many reasons for wanting to know.”

Finally Frank hit on an idea. He telephoned Elekton, asked for the accounting department, and inquired where the company had its printing done. The accounting clerk apparently thought he was a salesman, and gave him the information.

Frank hung up. “What did they say?” Joe asked impatiently.

“All Elekton’s printing is done on the premises!”

“That proves it!” Joe burst out. “The setup with Ken delivering envelopes to Peters isn’t a legitimate one, and has nothing to do with Elek ton business.”

Meanwhile Ken, greatly mystified, had been listening intently. Now he spoke up. “Jeepers, Frank and Joe, have I been doing something wrong?”

In their excitement the Hardys had almost forgotten their guest. Frank turned to him apologetically. “Not you, Ken. We’re trying to figure out who has.”

Just then the Hardys heard the familiar chug of the Queen pulling up outside. The brothers went out to the porch with Ken. Chet leaped from his jalopy and bounded up to them. His chubby face was split with a wide grin.

“Get a load of this!” He showed them a badge with his picture on it. “I’ll have to wear it when I start work. Everybody has to wear one before he can get into the plant,” he added. “Even the president of Elekton!”

Suddenly Chet became aware of Ken Blake. “Hello!” the plump boy greeted him in surprise. Ken smiled, and the Hardys told their friend of the morning’s adventure.

“Boy!” Chet exclaimed. “Things are starting to pop! So you found that green truck!”

At these words a strange look crossed Frank’s face.

“Chet,” he said excitedly, “did you say every body must show identification to enter Elekton’s grounds?”

“Yes—everybody,” Chet answered positively.

“What are you getting at, Frank?” his brother asked quickly.

“Before yesterday’s explosion, when we saw the gate guard admit the green truck, the driver didn’t stop—didn’t: show any identification at all!”

“That’s true!” Joe exclaimed. “Mr. Markel doesn’t seem to be the careless type, though.”

“I know,” Frank went on. “If the green truck was sneaking in explosives—what better way than to let the driver zip right through.”

Joe stared at his brother. “You mean Markel deliberately let the truck go by? That he’s in league with the saboteurs, or the counterfeiters, or both?”

As the others listened in astonishment, Frank replied, “I have more than a hunch he is—and Docker, too. It would explain a lot.”

Joe nodded in growing comprehension. “It sure would!”

“How?” demanded Chet.

Joe took up the line of deduction. “Markel himself told Ken the envelopes were for the printer. Why did Docker say Ken wasn’t at the mill the day I saw him? And what was the real reason for his being discharged?”

“I’m getting it,” Chet interjected. “Those men were trying to keep you from questioning Ken. Why?”

“Perhaps because of what Ken could tell us, if we happened to ask him about the envelopes he delivered,” Joe replied. Then he asked Ken if Markel and Docker knew that Joe had picked up the envelope the day of the near accident.

“I didn’t say anything about that,” Ken replied. The boy’s face wore a perplexed, worried look. “You mean Mr. Docker and Mr. Markel might be—crooks! They didn’t act that way.”

“I agree,” Frank said. “And we still have no proof. We’ll see if we can find some—one way or another.”

The Hardys reflected on the other mysterious happenings. “The green truck,” Frank said, “could belong to the gatehouse men, since it seems to be used for whatever their scheme is, and they are hiding it at the deserted farmhouse.”

“Also,” Joe put in, “if Victor Peters is the ‘old man,’ he’s probably an accomplice.”

“And,” Frank continued, “don’t forget that the bike Ken used was available to both Docker and Markel to deliver the warning note. The arrow shooting occurred near the mill; the attack on us in the woods that night was near the mill. The warning note found in Chet’s car was put there after Markel told him to go to the front gate. The guard probably lied to Chet the first day we went to the mill—he never did phone the personnel department.”

“Another thing,” Joe pointed out. “Both men are more free to come and go than someone working in the plant.”

There was silence while the Hardys concentrated on what their next move should be.

“No doubt about it,” Frank said finally. “Everything seems to point toward the mill as the place to find the answers.”

“And the only way to be sure,” Joe added, “is to go and find out ourselves. How about tonight?”

Frank and Chet agreed, and the boys decided to wait until it was fairly dark. “I’ll call Tony and see if he can go with us,” Frank said. “We’ll need his help.”

Tony was eager to accompany the trio. “Sounds as if you’re hitting pay dirt in the mystery,” he remarked when Frank had brought him up to date.

“We hope so.”

Later, Joe outlined a plan whereby they might ascertain if Peters was an accomplice of Docker and Markel, and at the same time make it possible for them to get into the mill.

“Swell idea,” Frank said approvingly. “Better brush up on your voice-disguising technique!”

Joe grinned. “I’ll practice.”

Just before supper Mr. Hardy phoned to say he would not be home until later that night.

“Making progress, Dad?” asked Frank, who had taken the call.

“Could be, son,” the detective replied. “That’s why I’ll be delayed. Tell your mother and Gertrude not to worry.”

“Okay. And, Dad—Joe and I will be doing some sleuthing tonight to try out a few new ideas we have.”

“Fine. But watch your step!”

About eight-thirty that evening Chet and Tony pulled up to the Hardy home in the Queen.

Ken Blake went with the brothers to the door. “See you later, Ken,” Frank said, and Joe added, “I know you’d like to come along, but we don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks.”

The younger boy looked wistful. “I wish I could do something to help you fellows.”

“There is a way you can help,” Frank told him.

At that moment Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came into the hall. Quickly Frank drew Ken aside and whispered something to him.

CHAPTER XVII

Secret Signal

WITH rising excitement, Frank, Joe, Chet, and Tony drove off through the dusk toward the old mill.

Chet came to a stop about one hundred yards from the beginning of the dirt road leading to the gatehouse. He and Tony jumped out. They waved to the Hardys, then disappeared into the woods.

Joe took the wheel of the jalopy. “Now, part two of our plan. I hope it works.”

The brothers quickly rode to the service station where they had been that morning. Joe parked and hurried to the outdoor telephone booth nearby. From his pocket he took a slip of paper on which Ken had jotted down the night telephone number of the Elekton gatehouse.

Joe dialed the number, then covered the mouthpiece with his handkerchief to muffle his voice.

A familiar voice answered, “Gatehouse. Markel speaking.”

Joe said tersely, “Peters speaking. Something has gone wrong. Both of you meet me outside the Parker Building. Make it snappy!” Then he hung up.

When Joe returned to the Queen, Frank had turned it around and they were ready to go. They sped back toward the mill and in about ten minutes had the jalopy parked out of sight in the shadows of the trees where the dirt road joined the paved one.

The brothers, keeping out of sight among the trees, ran to join Chet and Tony who were wait ing behind a large oak near the edge of the gatehouse grounds.

“It worked!” Tony reported excitedly. “About fifteen minutes ago the lights in the mill went out, and Markel and Docker left in a hurry.”

“On foot?” Joe asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. If they have to take a bus or cab to town, it’ll give us more time,” Frank said.

Tony and Chet were given instructions about keeping watch outside while the Hardys inspected the mill. The brothers explained where the Queen was parked, in case trouble should arise and their friends had to go for help.

Frank and Joe approached the mill cautiously. It was dark now, but they did not use flashlights. Though confident that the gatehouse was deserted, they did not wish to take any chances. As they neared the building the Hardys could see that the shutters were tightly closed. Over the sound of the wind in the trees came the rumble of the turning mill wheel.

The Hardys headed for the door. They had just mounted the steps when the rumbling sound of the wheel ceased.

In the silence both boys looked around, perplexed. “I thought it had been fixed,” Joe whispered. “Seemed okay the other day.”

“Yes. But last time we were here at night the wheel stopped when we were about this distance away from it,” Frank observed.

Thoughtfully the boys stepped back from the mill entrance to a point where they could see the wheel. They stood peering at it through the dark ness. Suddenly, with a dull rumble, it started to turn again!

Mystified, the Hardys advanced toward the gatehouse and stopped at the entrance. In a short while the wheel stopped.

“Hm!” Joe murmured. “Just like one of those electric-eye doors.”

“Exactly!” Frank exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “I’ll bet the wheel’s not broken—it’s been rigged up as a warning signal to be used at night! When someone approaches the mill, the path of the invisible beam is broken and the wheel stops. The lack of noise is enough for anyone inside to notice, and also, the lights would go out because the generator is powered by the wheel.”

The Hardys went on a quick search for the origin of the light beam. Frank was first to discover that it was camouflaged in the flour-barrel ivy planter. Beneath a thin covering of earth, and barely concealed, were the heavy batteries, wired in parallel, which produced the current necessary to operate the light source for the electric eye.

The stopping and starting of the wheel was further explained when Frank found, screened by a bushy shrub, a small post with a tiny glass mirror fastened on its side.

“That’s the complete secret of the signal!” he exclaimed. “This is one of the mirrors a photoelectric cell system would use. With several of these hidden mirrors, they’ve made a light-ring around the mill so an intruder from any side would break the beam. The barrel that contains the battery power also contains the eye that completes the circuit.”

“I’ll bet Markel and Docker rigged this up,” Joe said excitedly. “Which means there must be something in the mill they want very badly to keep secret! We must find a way inside!”

The Hardys did not pull the wires off the battery connection, since they might have need of the warning system. Quietly and quickly the brothers made a circuit of the mill, trying doors and first-floor windows, in hopes of finding one unlocked. But none was.

“We can’t break in,” Joe muttered.

Both boys were aware that time was precious—the men might return shortly. The young sleuths made another circle of the mill. This time they paused to stare at the huge wheel, which was turning once more.

“Look!” Joe whispered tensely, pointing to an open window-shaped space above the wheel.

“It’s our only chance to get inside,” Frank stated. “We’ll try climbing up.”

The Hardys realized it would not be easy to reach the opening. Had there been a walkway on top of the wheel, as there was in many mills, climbing it would have been relatively simple.

The brothers came to a quick decision: to maneuver one of the paddles on the wheel until it was directly below the ledge of the open space, then stop the motion. During the short interval which took place between the stop and start of the wheel, they hoped to climb by way of the paddles to the top and gain entrance to the mill.

Joe ran back through the beam, breaking it, while Frank clambered over a pile of rocks across the water to the wheel. It rumbled to a stop, one paddle aligned with the open space above. By the time Joe returned, Frank had started to climb up, pulling himself from paddle to paddle by means of the metal side struts. Joe followed close behind.

The boys knew they were taking a chance in their ascent up the wet, slippery, mossy wheel. They were sure there must be a timing-delay switch somewhere in the electric-eye circuit. Could they beat it, or would they be tossed off into the dark rushing water?

“I believe I can get to the top paddle and reach the opening before the timer starts the wheel turning again. But can Joe?” Frank thought. “Hurry!” he cried out to his brother.

Doggedly the two continued upward. Suddenly Joe’s hand slipped on a slimy patch of moss. He almost lost his grip, but managed to cling desperately to the edge of the paddle above his head, both feet dangling in mid-air.

“Frank!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

His brother threw his weight to the right. Holding tight with his left hand to a strut, he reached down and grasped Joe’s wrist. With an aerialist’s grip, Joe locked his fingers on Frank’s wrist, and let go with his other hand.

Frank swung him out away from the wheel. As Joe swung himself back, he managed to regain his footing and get a firm hold on the paddle supports.

“Whew!” said Joe. “Thanks!”

The boys resumed the climb, spurred by the thought that the sluice gate would reopen any second and start the wheel revolving.

Frank finally reached the top paddle. Stretching his arms upward, he barely reached the sill of the opening. The old wood was rough and splintering, but felt strong enough to hold his weight.

“Here goes!” he thought, and sprang away from the paddle.

At the same moment, with a creaking rumble, the wheel started to move!

CHAPTER XVIII

The Hidden Room

WHILE Frank clung grimly to the sill, Joe, below him, knew he must act fast to avoid missing the chance to get off, and perhaps being crushed beneath the turning wheel. He leaped upward with all his might.

Joe’s fingers barely grasped the ledge, but he managed to hang onto the rough surface beside his brother. Then together they pulled themselves up and over the sill through the open space.

In another moment they were standing inside the second floor of the building. Rickety boards creaked under their weight. Still not wishing to risk the use of flashlights, the Hardys peered around in the darkness.

“I think we’re in the original grinding room,” Frank whispered as he discerned the outlines of two huge stone cylinders in the middle of the room.

“You’re right,” said Joe. “There’s the old grain hopper.” He pointed to a chute leading down to the grinding stones.

Though many years had passed since the mill had been used to produce flour, the harsh, dry odor of grain still lingered in the air. In two of the corners were cots and a set of crude shelves for clothes. Suddenly the boys’ hearts jumped. A loud clattering noise came from directly below. Then, through a wide crack in the floor, shone a yellow shaft of light!

“Someone else must be here!” Joe whispered.

The Hardys stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for another sound. Who was in the suddenly lighted room?

The suspense was unbearable. Finally the brothers tiptoed over and peered through the wide crack. Straightening up, Frank observed, “Can’t see anyone. We’d better go investigate.”

Fearful of stumbling in the inky darkness, the boys now turned on their flashlights, but shielded them with their hands. Cautiously they found their way to a door. It opened into a short passageway which led down a narrow flight of steps.

Soon Frank and Joe were in another small hall. Ahead was a partially opened door, with light streaming from it.

Every nerve taut, the young sleuths advanced. Frank edged up to the door and looked in.

“Well?” Joe hissed. To his utter astonishment Frank gave a low chuckle, and motioned him forward.

“For Pete’s sake!” Joe grinned.

Inside, perched on a chipped grindstone, was a huge, white cat. Its tail twitched indignantly. An overturned lamp lay on a table.

The Hardys laughed in relief. “Our noisemaker and lamplighter!” Frank said as the boys entered the room. “The cat must have knocked over the lamp and clicked the switch.”

Although the room contained the gear mechanism and the shaft connected to the mill wheel, it was being used as a living area by the present tenants. There were two overstuffed chairs, a table, and a chest of drawers. On the floor, as if dropped in haste, lay a scattered newspaper.

“Let’s search the rest of the mill before Markel and Docker get back,” Joe suggested. “Nothing suspicious here.”

The Hardys started with the top story of the old building. There they found what was once the grain storage room. Now it was filled with odds and ends of discarded furniture.

“I’m sure nothing’s hidden here,” Frank said.

The other floors yielded no clues to what Docker and Markel’s secret might be.

Frank was inclined to be discouraged. “Maybe our big hunch is all wet,” he muttered.

Joe refused to give up. “Let’s investigate the cellar. Come on!”

The brothers went into the kitchen toward the basement stairway. Suddenly Joe gave a stifled yell. Something had brushed across his trouser legs. Frank swung his light around. The beam caught two round golden eyes staring up at them.

“The white cat!” Joe said sheepishly.

Chuckling, the Hardys continued down into the damp, cool cellar. It was long and narrow, with only two small windows.

Three walls were of natural stone and mortar. The fourth wall was lined with wooden shelves. Frank and Joe played their flashlights into every corner.

“Hm.” There was a note of disappointment in Joe’s voice. “Wheelbarrow, shovels, picks—just ordinary equipment.”

Frank nodded. “Seems to be all, but where are the old bricks and lumber that Ken said were stored here?”

“I’m sure the stuff was never intended for Elekton,” Joe declared. “More likely the mill. But where? In a floor? We haven’t seen any signs.”

Thoughtfully the boys walked over to inspect the shelves, which held an assortment of implements. Frank reached out to pick up a hammer.

To his amazement, he could not lift it. A further quick examination revealed that all the tools were glued to the shelves.

“Joe!” he exclaimed. “There’s a special reason for this—and I think it’s camouflage!”

“You mean these shelves are movable, and the tools are fastened so they won’t fall off?”

“Yes. Also, I have a feeling this whole section is made of the old lumber from Pritos’ yard.”

“And the bricks?” Joe asked, puzzled.

His brother’s answer was terse. “Remember, this mill was used by settlers. In those days many places had hidden rooms in case of Indian attacks—”

“I get you!” Joe broke in. “Those bricks are in a secret room! The best place to build one in this mill would have been the cellar.”

“Right,” agreed Frank. “And the only thing unusual here is this shelf setup. I’ll bet it’s actually the entrance to the secret room.”

“All we have to do is find the opening mechanism,” Joe declared.

Using their flashlights, the boys went over every inch of the shelves. These were nailed to a backing of boards. The Hardys pulled and pushed, but nothing happened. Finally, on the bottom shelf near the wall, Frank discovered a knot in the wood. In desperation, he pressed his thumb hard against the knot.

There was the hum of a motor, and, as smoothly as though it were moving on greased rails, the middle section of shelves swung inward.

“The door to the secret room!” Frank exulted

“The door to the secret room!” Frank exulted.

Quickly the boys slipped inside the room and shone their flashlights around. The first thing they noticed was the flooring—recently laid bricks. Frank snapped on a light switch beside the entrance.

The boys blinked in the sudden glare of two high-watt bulbs suspended from the low ceiling. The next instant both spotted a small, hand-printing press.

“The counterfeiters’ workshop!” they cried out.

On a wooden table at the rear of the room were a camera, etching tools, zinc plates, and a large pan with little compartments containing various colors of ink. At the edge of the table was a portable typewriter.

Frank picked up a piece of paper, rolled it into the machine, and typed a few lines. Pulling it out, he showed the paper to Joe.

“The machine used to type the warning note Dad got!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “The counterfeiters must have thought he was on their trail.”

“And look here!” exclaimed Frank, his voice tense. A small pile of twenty-dollar bills lay among the equipment. “They’re fakes,” he added, scrutinizing the bills. “They’re the same as Chet’s and Tony’s.”

Joe made another startling discovery. In one corner stood a bow, with the string loosened and carefully wound around the handgrip. A quiver of three hunting arrows leaned against the wall nearby.

Excitedly Joe pulled one out. “The same type that was fired at the girls,” he observed. “This must belong to The Arrow!”

“Docker matches his description,” Frank pointed out. “He easily could have colored his hair gray.”

The Hardys were thrilled at the irrefutable evidence all around them. “Now we know why Markel and Docker rigged the mill wheel—to give a warning signal when they’re working in this room!”

“Also, we have a good idea what was being sent to Peters in the envelopes—phony twenty-dollar bills!”

“Let’s get Dad and Chief Collig here!” Joe urged, stuffing several of the counterfeits into a pocket.

As the boys turned to leave, the lights in the secret room went out. Frank and Joe froze. They realized the mill wheel had stopped turning.

“The signal!” Joe said grimly. “Someone is coming!”

CHAPTER XIX

Underground Chase

THE HARDYS knew this was the signal for them to get out of the secret room—and fast! As they hurried into the cellar, the lights came on again. With hearts beating faster, they started for the stairway. But before the boys reached it, they heard the mill door being unlocked, then heavy footsteps pounded overhead.

“Docker!” a man’s voice called. “Markel! Where are you!”

The Hardys listened tensely, hoping for a chance to escape unseen. When they heard the man cross the ground floor and go upstairs, Joe whispered, “Let’s make a break for it!”

The boys dashed to the steps. They could see a crack of light beneath the closed door to the kitchen. Suddenly the light vanished, and the rumble of the mill wheel ceased.

The Hardys stopped in their tracks. “Somebody else is coming!” Frank muttered. “Probably Docker and Markel. We’re trapped!”

Again the brothers heard the mill door open. Two men were talking loudly and angrily. Then came the sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs to the first floor.

“Peters!” The boys recognized Docker’s voice. “Where in blazes were you?”

Frank and Joe nudged each other. Victor Peters was in league with the gatehouse men!

“What do you mean? I told you I’d meet you here at eleven,” snarled Peters.

“You must be nuts!” retorted Markel. “You called here an hour ago and said there was trouble and to meet you at the Parker Building.”

Peters’ tone grew menacing. “Something’s fishy. I didn’t phone. You know I’d use the two-way radio. What’s the matter with you guys, anyway?”

“Listen!” Markel snapped. “Somebody called here and said he was you. The voice did sound sort of fuzzy, but I didn’t have a chance to ask questions—he hung up on me. I thought maybe your radio had conked out.”

The Hardys, crouched on the cellar stairs, could feel the increasing tension in the room above. Docker growled, “Something funny is going on. Whoever phoned must be on to us, or suspect enough to want to get in here and snoop around.”

“The Feds! We’ll have to scram!” said Markel, with more than a trace of fear in his voice. “Come on! Let’s get moving!”

“Not so fast, Markel!” Docker barked. “We’re not ditching the stuff we’ve made. We’ll have a look around first—starting with the cellar.”

The men strode into the kitchen. Below, Frank grabbed Joe. “No choice now. Into the secret room!”

Quickly the brothers ran back into the workshop. Frank pulled the door behind him and slid the heavy bolt into place.

Tensely the brothers pressed against the door as the three men came downstairs into the basement. Frank and Joe could hear them moving around, searching for signs of an intruder.

“I’d better check the rest of the mill,” Docker said brusquely. “You two get the plates and the greenbacks. Go out through the tunnel, and I’ll meet you at the other end. We’ll wait there for Blum to pay us off, then vamoose.”

“We’re in a fix, all right,” Joe said under his breath. “What tunnel are they talking about?”

“And who’s Blum?” Frank wondered.

The boys heard the hum of the motor that opened the secret door. But the bolt held it shut.

“The mechanism won’t work!” Markel rasped.

“Maybe it’s just stuck,” said Peters.

The men began pounding on the wood.

“What’s going on?” Docker demanded as he returned.

“We can’t budge this tricky door you dreamed up,” Peters complained.

“There’s nothing wrong with the door, you blockheads!” Docker shouted. “Somebody’s in the room! Break down the door!”

In half a minute his order was followed by several sharp blows.

“Oh, great!” Joe groaned. “They’re using axes!”

“We won’t have long to figure a way out,” Frank said wryly.

“Way out!” Joe scoffed. “There isn’t any!”

Frank’s mind raced. “Hey! They said something about leaving through a tunnel! It must be in here.”

Frantically the Hardys searched for another exit from the secret room. They crawled on the floor, and pried up one brick after another looking for a ring that might open a trap door.

“Nothing!” Joe said desperately.

All the while the men in the cellar kept battering away at the door. “Good thing that old lumber is such hard wood,” Frank thought. “But they’ll break through any minute.”

“Look!” Joe pointed. “Under the bench!”

Frank noticed a shovel lying beneath the worktable. The boys pushed it aside, and saw that the wall behind the table was partially covered with loose dirt. On a hunch Frank grabbed the shovel and dug into the dirt.

“This dirt might have been put here to hide the entrance to the tunnel!” he gasped.

“It better be!” His brother clawed frantically at the dirt.

At the same moment there was a loud splintering noise. The Hardys looked around. A large crack had appeared in the bolted door.

One of the men outside yelled, “A couple more blows and we’ll be in.”

Frank dug furiously. Suddenly his shovel opened up a small hole in the crumbly dirt. Joe scooped away with his hands. Finally there was a space big enough for the boys to squeeze through. Without hesitation, Frank wriggled in, then Joe.

From behind them came a tremendous crash and the sound of ripping wood. Markel’s voice shouted, “Into the tunnel! After ’em!”

The Hardys heard no more as they pushed ahead on hands and knees into the damp darkness of an earthen passageway.

Joe was about to call out to his brother when he became aware that someone was crawling behind him. “No room here for a knockdown fight,” he thought, wondering if the pursuer were armed.

The young detective scrambled on as fast as he could in the narrow, twisting tunnel. He managed to catch up to Frank, and with a push warned him to go at top speed.

“Somebody’s after us!” Joe hissed. “If only we can outdistance him!”

The underground route was a tortuous, harrowing one. The Hardys frequently scraped knees and shoulders against sharp stones in the tunnel floor and walls. They had held onto their flashlights, but did not dare turn them on.

“This passageway is endless!” Frank thought. The close, clammy atmosphere made it increasingly difficult for him and his brother to breathe.

Joe thought uneasily, “What if we hit a blind alley and are stuck in here?”

The boys longed to stop and catch their breath, but they could hear the sounds of pursuit growing nearer, and forced themselves onward faster than ever.

Frank wondered if Chet and Tony had seen the men enter the mill and had gone for help.

“We’ll need it,” he thought grimly.

Suddenly the brothers came to another turn and the ground began to slope sharply upward.

“Maybe we’re getting close to the end,” Frank conjectured hopefully.

Spurred by possible freedom, he put on a burst of speed. Joe did the same. A moment later Frank stopped unexpectedly and Joe bumped into him.

“What’s the matter?” he barely whispered.

“Dead end,” reported his brother.

Squeezing up beside Frank, Joe reached out and touched a pile of stones blocking their path. The boys now could hear the heavy breathing of their pursuer.

“Let’s move these stones,” Frank urged. Both Hardys worked with desperate haste to pull the barrier down. They heaved thankful sighs when a draft of fresh air struck their faces.

“The exit!” Joe whispered in relief.

The brothers wriggled through the opening they had made and found themselves in a rock walled space.

“It’s the cave by the river, Joe!” Frank cried out. “Someone put back the rocks we removed!”

The boys clicked on their flashlights and started toward the entrance of the cave.

“We beat ’em to it!” Joe exclaimed.

“That’s what you think!” came a harsh voice from the entrance.

The glare from two flashlights almost blinded the Hardys. Docker and Markel, with drawn revolvers, had stepped into the cave,

CHAPTER XX

Solid Evidence

FoR a second the two armed men stared in disbelief at Frank and Joe. “The Hardy boys!” Docker snarled. “So you’re the snoopers we’ve trapped!”

There was a scuffling in the tunnel behind the boys. A stocky man, huffing and puffing, emerged from the tunnel. The Hardys recognized him in stantly : the counterfeit passer, Victor Peters.

The newcomer gaped at the Hardys. “What are they doing here?”

“A good question!” Markel snapped at his accomplice. “You told us on the two-way radio you’d locked ’em up with the truck.”

Peters whined, “I did. They must’ve broken out.”

“Obviously.” Docker gave him a withering look.

Frank and Joe realized that Peters had not returned to the old farmhouse.

Docker whirled on them. “How did you escape?”

The boys looked at him coldly. “That’s for you to find out,” Joe retorted.

“It’s a good thing Markel and I decided to head ’em off at the cave,” Docker added angrily. “Otherwise, they would have escaped again.”

The Hardys could see that the men were nervous and edgy. “I’m not the only one who made a mistake,” Peters growled. “I told you a couple of days ago to get rid of that kid Ken when these pests started asking about him, and then found the tunnel. We could have thrown ’em off the scent!”

While the men argued, the Hardys kept on the alert for a chance to break away. Markel’s eye caught the movement, and he leveled his revolver. “Don’t be smart!” he ordered. “You’re covered.”

Peters continued the tirade against his confederates. “Docker, you should’ve finished these Hardys off when you put ’em in the boat that night! And you”—Peters turned on Markel—“you could have planted a dynamite charge in their boat instead of just monkeying with the throttle.”

The Hardys, meanwhile, were thankful for the precious minutes gained by the men’s dissension. “Tony and Chet might come back in time with help,” Joe thought.

Simultaneously, Frank hoped that Ken Blake had carried out his whispered instructions.

Docker glanced nervously at his watch. “Blum ought to be here,” he fumed.

“Who’s Blum?” Frank asked suddenly. “One of your counterfeiting pals?”

Docker, Markel, and Peters laughed scornfully. “No,” said Markel. “We’re the only ones in our exclusive society. Paul Blum doesn’t know anything about our—er—mill operation, but it was through him we got the jobs at the gatehouse. The whole deal really paid off double.”

Docker interrupted him with a warning. “Don’t blab so much!”

Markel sneered. “Why not? What I say won’t do these smart alecks any good.”

Joe looked at the guard calmly. “Who paid you to let the green panel truck into Elekton?”

All three men started visibly. “How’d you know that?” Markel demanded.

“Just had a hunch,” Joe replied.

The former guard regained his composure. “We’ll get our money for that little job tonight.”

Frank and Joe felt elated. Paul Blum, whom these men expected, must be the sabotage ring-leader! “So that’s what Markel meant by the deal paying off double,” Frank thought. “He and Docker working the counterfeit racket on their own—and being in cahoots with the saboteurs.”

Frank addressed Markel in an icy tone. “You call blowing up a building a ‘little job’?”

The counterfeiters’ reactions astonished the Hardys. “What!” bellowed Markel, as Docker and Peters went ashen.

Joe snorted. “You expect us to believe you didn’t know explosives were in that truck?”

Victor Peters was beside himself with rage. “Fools!” he shrilled at Docker and Markel. “You let yourselves be used by saboteurs? This whole state will be crawling with police and federal agents.”

The gatehouse men, though shaken, kept their revolvers trained on the Hardys. “Never mind,” Docker muttered. “Soon as Blum shows up we’ll get out of here and lie low for a while.”

Frank and Joe learned also that Docker and Markel actually were brothers, but the two refused to give their real names.

“You, Docker, are known as The Arrow, aren’t you?” Frank accused him.

“Yeah. Next time I’ll use you boys for targets!” the man retorted threateningly.

The Hardys kept egging the men on to further admissions. Docker and Markel had been approached several months before by Blum who tipped them off to good-paying jobs at the Elekton gatehouse. Docker had cleverly forged references and identification for Markel and himself.

As soon as he and Markel had obtained the jobs, Blum had instructed them to buy the truck secondhand in another state, and told them only that Markel was to lend Blum the truck on a certain day when notified, let him through the gate, then out again soon after closing time. The guard would be handsomely paid to do this.

When Markel and Docker had become settled in the mill, the two had discovered the secret room and tunnel, which once had been a settlers’ escape route. The men had wasted no time in setting it up for their counterfeiting racket, and often used the nondescript green truck to sneak in the required equipment.

“Who rigged up the electric-eye signal?” Frank queried.

“My work,” Docker replied proudly.

As the boys had surmised, Peters, an old acquaintance of theirs, was “the old man” at the deserted farmhouse. When the boys had left the mill that morning Docker had radioed Peters, telling him if the Hardys showed up at the farm, he was to trap them.

“No doubt you planned to finish us off when you came back,” Joe said.

Peters nodded.

Frank said to Docker, “I must admit, those twenties are pretty good forgeries. The police think so, too.”

The counterfeiter smiled in contempt. “Your fat friend sure was fooled.”

He explained that his skill at engraving, which he had learned years ago, had enabled him to make the plates from which the bills were printed.

“Which one of you rode Ken’s bike and left the typed warning for our father?” Frank asked.

“I did,” Markel replied promptly.

“Why? He wasn’t involved with the counterfeiting case.”

We thought he was when we overheard a company bigwig say Fenton Hardy was ‘taking the case.’ ”

“Yeah,” Docker said. “I wasn’t kidding when I sent the warnings—on paper and by phone.”

He had acquired some sheets of bond paper from Elekton on a pretext; also the Manila envelopes used to deliver the bogus money to Peters. Docker admitted he had “unloaded” the counterfeit twenty at Pritos’ yard by mistake.

Peters broke in abruptly. “We’d better get rid of these kids right now!”

The three men held a whispered conference, but Docker and Markel did not take their eyes from the Hardys. Suddenly the boys’ keen ears detected the put-put of an approaching motorboat.

One thought flashed across their minds—Chet and Tony were bringing help. But in a few minutes their hopes were dashed! A heavy-set, dark-haired man peered into the mouth of the cave.

“Blum!” Markel said.

“Who are these kids?” Blum asked, squinting at Frank and Joe.

“Their name is Hardy—” Docker began, but Blum cut him short.

“Hardy!” he said sharply. “Listen—I just gave Fenton Hardy the slip at the Bayport dock. He was on a police launch.”

“We’ve got to move fast!” Markel urged. “Docker and I caught these sons of his snooping. Pay us what you promised and we’ll scram.”

Blum looked disgusted. “Stupid amateurs! You let kids make it so hot you have to get out of town?” The heavy-set man pulled out his wallet. “Here’s your cut for letting me into the plant,” he continued scornfully. “I’m glad to get rid of such bunglers.”

“It’s not just these kids that made it hot for us!” Docker stormed. “If we’d known you were going to blow up that lab, we never would’ve gotten mixed up with you.”

The Hardys noticed that Paul Blum appeared startled at Docker’s words.

Frank spoke up boldly. “Sure. We all know you’re back of the sabotage. Who pays you for doing it? And who’s your inside man at Elekton?”

Blum glared, then in a sinister tone replied, “You’ll never live to sing to the cops, so I’ll tell you. Several countries that want to stop United States progress in missiles are paying me. My friend in the plant is a fellow named Jordan.”

The saboteur revealed that his accomplice had first carried out smaller acts of sabotage, the ones which Chet had heard about from his father. It had been Blum himself who had driven the truck into the grounds and placed the dynamite in the laboratory. “Jordan and I gave your father the slip, then, too!”

“You guys can stand here and talk!” snapped Peters. “I’m going. You’d better take care of these Hardys.” He backed out of the cave and raced off.

The counterfeiters discussed heatedly whether “to get rid” of Frank and Joe immediately, or take “these kids” and dispose of them later.

“That’s your worry!” Blum said. “I’m taking off!”

“Oh, no, you’re not. You can’t leave us in the lurch.” Markel waved his gun meaningfully.

At that instant there was a crashing noise outside the cave. The three men swung around.

This was all the Hardys needed. They hurled themselves at their captors, forcing them backward onto the rocky beach. From the woods they heard Chet yell, “Here we come, fellows!”

Frank had tackled Blum, and Joe was wrestling with Docker on the beach.

Tony Prito yelled, “Got you!” as he took a flying leap at Markel and brought him to the ground.

The older men, though strong, were no match for the agile Hardys and the furious onslaught of Chet and Tony. Finally the struggle ended.

The saboteur and counterfeiters were disarmed and lined up before the cave, their arms pinioned behind them by Joe, Chet, and Tony. Frank took charge of the revolvers.

“Good work, you two!” he said to his friends.

Chet, out of breath, grinned proudly. “I’m glad Tony and I stuck around when we saw these guys high-tailing it through the woods.”

Now Frank turned to the prisoners. “Okay. March!” he ordered.

But before anyone could move, footsteps were heard approaching through the woods. A moment later Chief Collig and another officer appeared. With them, in handcuffs, was Victor Peters.

“Chief! Are we glad to see you!” Joe exclaimed.

The chief stared in amazement at the boys and their captives. “I got your message from Ken Blake,” he told Frank. “Looks as if you have your hands full!”

“Oh, we have!” Joe grinned, then, puzzled, he asked his brother, “What message?”

“Just before I left the house I told Ken to call Chief Collig if we weren’t back by eleven, and tell him where we had gone.”

While Blum and the counterfeiters stood in sullen silence, the four boys learned that Ken had called the chief just minutes after Fenton Hardy had left in the police launch in pursuit of Paul Blum.

“When we reached the mill we met this crook running out of the woods.” Chief Collig gestured toward the handcuffed Peters. “I recognized him from Chet’s description. When we found phony money on him, he told me where you were, hoping to get off with a lighter sentence.”

“You rat!” Docker’s face contorted with rage.

At that moment the group became aware of a police launch churning toward them, the beam from its searchlight sweeping the water. In the excitement, no one had heard the sound of its engine.

“Dad!” cried the Hardys, spotting the detective’s erect figure standing in the bow. Soon the launch was beached, and Mr. Hardy, with several officers, leaped ashore.

“Well,” Mr. Hardy said sternly when he saw Blum, “you won’t be escaping again.”

The captured lawbreakers were handcuffed and put aboard the launch. Mr. Hardy looked at his sons and their friends proudly. “You’ve done a yeoman’s job—on both cases, yours and mine,” he said.

After the police cruiser had departed, Frank and Joe led their father and the others into the mill cellar and showed them the secret room.

“This is all the evidence you need against the counterfeiters, Chief,” said Mr. Hardy. “I can see there are plenty of fingerprints on this equipment. We know some will match the one on the finger guard. Besides your evidence, boys, Ken’s testimony should be more than enough to convict them.”

“What about Jordan, Blum’s confederate at Elekton?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “He was my big prize and I’m glad to say he is in jail!” The detective explained that further sleuthing had led to Jordan —and through him, Paul Blum. Mr. Hardy’s first break had come when he learned that one Elekton employee had seen Jordan going toward the laboratory building at closing time on the day of the explosion.

A police guard was assigned to watch the counterfeiters’ workshop and its contents. Then the four boys, Mr. Hardy, and the chief left the mill. Outside, they paused and looked back at the turning wheel.

Frank laughed. “Its signaling days are over.” “Sure hope so,” Chet declared firmly. “No more mysteries for a while, please!”

Tony chuckled. “With Frank and Joe around, I wouldn’t count on it.”

His words proved to be true. Sooner than even the Hardy boys expected, they were called upon to solve the mystery of THE MISSING CHUMS.

Now Joe turned to their plump friend. “Good thing you bought that microscope, Chet. We started to look for nature specimens and dug up the old mill’s secret!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Exciting Assignment

CHAPTER II - An Evening of Mystery

CHAPTER III - Faces in the Fog

CHAPTER IV - A Daring Getaway

CHAPTER V - Dancing Gorillas

CHAPTER VI - A Perilous Slide

CHAPTER VII - Dangerous Beachcombing

CHAPTER VIII - Postcard Puzzle

CHAPTER IX - The Old Salt’s Story

CHAPTER X - A Narrow Escape

CHAPTER XI - Midnight Caller

CHAPTER XII - The Desolate Island

CHAPTER XIII - The Threatening Figure

CHAPTER XIV - Signal Three

CHAPTER XV - Outwitting a Suspect

CHAPTER XVI - Skeleton Symbol

CHAPTER XVII - Hermit’s Hideout

CHAPTER XVIII - Hidden Watchers

CHAPTER XIX - Rocky Prison

CHAPTER XX - Ambushing the Enemy

THE MISSING CHUMS

Something is amiss in Bayport, the Hardy boys’ home town. First, there is trouble in Shantytown, then a strange black craft tries to ram Joe and Frank’s boat, the Sleuth. That night the local bank is robbed. And later that same night the young detectives’ pals, Chet Morton and Biff Hooper, mysteriously disappear after a masquerade party.

Are the events related? And do they emanate from Shantytown—or from Hermit Island, an isolated land mass inhabited for many years by a strange recluse? Is it significant that both the missing boys and the bank robbers wore masquerade masks? Or is it more important that Chet was wearing a costume identical to Frank’s?

One by one, Frank and Joe tackle the clues, hardly daring to think what might have happened to their missing friends. But it is not until the two brothers confront the kidnapers that the overall pattern begins to emerge. The kidnapers ruthlessly plan to force Frank and Joe’s famous detective father into choosing between justice and his sons!

How the Hardy boys use all their courage and skill to outwit the criminals provides an exciting climax to one of the most baffling mysteries the young detectives have ever encountered.

“I hate to think what that costume means,

if it’s a signal,” Joe said

Copyright © 1990, 1962, 1955, 1928 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. .S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-440-67318-4

2006 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Exciting Assignment

“JOE, how soon will you be ready to roll?” Frank Hardy burst into the garage where his brother was working on a sleek, black-and-silver motorcycle.

“Right now, if this machine kicks over,” Joe replied, putting down a wrench. “But what’s the rush? We’re not going to meet Chet and Biff for two hours.”

Joe looked up quizzically at his brother.

“Chief Collig phoned,” Frank said. “You’ll never believe it, but he has a case for us.”

“You’re sure he didn’t mean Dad?” Joe asked. Fenton Hardy was a widely known private investigator. His sons had learned from him about sleuthing, and acquired a great deal of skill.

“Positive. He said he wanted the detective’s sons this time—and right away.”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed happily. “What a break! Summer vacation and a mystery to solve!” He swung into the saddle and kicked down hard on the starter. A roar filled the garage and he grinned in satisfaction.

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank had jumped onto an identical motorcycle, standing beside that of his blond brother, who was a year younger. The two machines roared out into the hot morning sunlight. Ten minutes later the boys arrived at police headquarters in downtown Bayport.

They were greeted by the desk sergeant. “Hello Frank—Joe!” He waved them toward the chief’s office. “He’s waiting for you.”

“Come in, boys,” boomed Chief Collig through the open door. He was a vigorous, middle-aged man with iron-gray hair. “I’ll get right to the point. There’s something funny going on in the squatter colony at the end of the bay.”

“You mean Shantytown?” Joe asked, referring to a settlement of shacks on the ocean shore north of Bayport. The odd community was composed mostly of men who had seasonal or temporary jobs—and some who did not work at all.

Chief Collig nodded. “The men there seem to be in an ugly mood—violence and fighting at night. The charitable landowner who permits them to stay there wants us to investigate, but it’ll have to be an undercover job because those drifters recognize the police.”

“And that’s where we come in?” Frank guessed.

“Yes. I want you to put on old clothes, muss your hair, and hang around Shantytown for a while. See if you can discover what’s been stirring up the group. Will you do it?”

“Will we!” Joe exclaimed without hesitation. He turned to Frank and added, “Chet and Biff aren’t due at the boathouse for an hour. Let’s take a look at Shantytown.”

“Thanks, boys. Be careful,” Chief Collig said as they hurried from the office. Outside, Frank and Joe mounted their motorcycles and rode through the downtown traffic to the Bayport waterfront.

Leaving the big commercial piers behind, they took the Shore Road, past a section of private docks to where the brothers kept their trim speedboat, the Sleuth. Driving on, the Hardys followed the road along the curve of the left bank of the bay to the mouth of the harbor. Here they turned north and continued parallel with the ocean.

Soon they saw a jumble of board shanties on the wide beach ahead. Some were nothing more than open lean-tos, but others had glass windows and stovepipes. Pieces of ragged clothing fluttered from ropes in the breeze. Smoke curled up lazily from a small fire around which three men lay, watching the steam from a black pot which hung on a tripod above the flames.

The boys parked a distance away and observed them intently. “Looks peaceful,” Joe commented.

“A lot of them must be away at work,” Frank remarked. “Remember, the trouble comes at night, when they’re all here together.”

After studying the quiet scene for a few more minutes, Frank said, “We’ll come back later.”

The brothers turned their motorcycles around and headed toward the outskirts of Bayport, where the many private docks lay. Brightly painted cabin craft and sailboats with slender masts rode at mooring floats.

Seeing a yellow jalopy parked in front of the Hardy boathouse, Joe remarked, “Chet’s here.”

Frank and Joe parked their motorcycles beside his car, named the Queen. A broad-shouldered, good-looking boy stepped through the small side door of the boathouse. He held a key, one of the duplicates the Hardys had given to their close friends.

“Hi, Biff!” Frank greeted him. “Where’s Chet?”

Biff Hooper answered in an unnaturally loud voice and winked at them. “Why—uh—he’ll see you soon.”

“What’s up?” Joe whispered.

Biff merely shrugged and kept on grinning. The Hardys knew some joke was in the making!

Frank asked in a low tone, “Have you opened the bay door yet?”

Biff nodded. “And unmoored the Sleuth.”

Frank raised his voice and continued talking with Biff, at the same time motioning to his brother to tiptoe to the boat door.

Joe chuckled, took a bamboo pole from against the boathouse, and picked his way across the cat-walk to the front. He peered in, then upward.

Jammed between the rafters and the ceiling was plump Chet Morton! He was looking the other way, toward the small door.

Silently Joe unmoored the Sleuth, and using the pole, pulled the craft halfway out of the boathouse, leaving a clear surface of water beneath Chet. Then Joe playfully jabbed at his friend with the bamboo pole.

“Yow!” Chet bellowed. There followed a great splash, and a geyser of water drenched the inside of the boathouse, as the chubby boy went under. A second later he popped to the surface, just as Frank and Biff ran in.

“Why, Chet, what are you doing in the water?” Frank asked, pretending astonishment.

“As if you didn’t know! Where’s Joe?”

“Right here, Chet,” he said.

“All right, you turned the tables,” Chet sputtered good-naturedly as they hauled him out of the water. “I was going to scare you. Biff, did you give me away?”

“Of course not.” Biff laughed. “If I’d known it was a swimming party, I’d have worn my trunks!”

Chet grinned and began peeling off his wet shirt. “Good thing I wore my trunks under my clothes,” he said.

In a few minutes his wet garments were drying in the stern of the Sleuth while the powerful craft, with Joe at the wheel, cut smoothly through the waters of Barmet Bay. The boys munched on sandwiches, which Chet had brought along.

“Say, how about a camping trip, fellows?” Biff suggested. “We could go to some of the islands along the coast.”

“This boat would hold plenty of provisions,” Chet chimed in.

“We can explore Hermit Island,” Biff went on. “I heard that the old man who owns it lives there all alone.”

“Afraid we can‘t, fellows,” Frank answered. “We have a new case.” Quickly he told them about it.

Biff whistled appreciatively but Chet groaned. “Ever since you solved The Tower Treasure mystery, our lives haven’t been the same.”

With a twinkle in his eyes, Biff said, “Chet was hoping that would be your first and only case.”

“The last one you took on was nearly the death of me,” Chet grumbled. He was referring to his adventures with the Hardys while solving The Secret of the Old Mill. “From here on,” he declared, “just leave me out of any mysteries!”

His friends laughed, knowing how Chet hated to be left out of anything.

“Yow!” Chet bellowed

“Too late,” Joe told him. “We’re heading for Shantytown to take another look-see.”

By now the speedy craft was far out on the broad bay. The water had grown choppy and was turning from green to steely gray. In the distance the boys watched a cluster of white sails skim ming before the breeze.

“A race,” Biff observed.

“Hey! Look out!” Frank cried sharply.

A black hull, parting the water in white sheets at its prow, was bearing straight down on the Sleuth’s rear on the portside.

Frank shouted and waved frantically at the oncoming boat. “Cut her, Joe!”

Still the strange craft roared along toward the boys. At the last moment it came about, throwing a heavy bank of water aboard the Sleuth. For a moment the two boats sped forward, gunwale to gunwale. The name Black Cat was on the prow of the strange boat.

“Not so close!” Frank shouted angrily. The pilot ignored the warning. He was a swarthy man with black hair combed straight back. At his side sat a huge man with a bald head.

Calling on the Sleuth’s reserve of power, Joe shot the craft forward, veering to the right. The boys looked back with satisfaction as the black boat dropped behind.

Facing forward again, Joe caught his breath in horror. Directly ahead loomed the great white sails of the racers, bearing down on them swiftly. He cut the wheel frantically to the left.

“Hang on!” he yelled. “We’re going to hit!”

CHAPTER II

An Evening of Mystery

INSTANTLY Frank grabbed the steering wheel held by his brother. He twisted it violently and pulled out the throttle at the same time.

For a moment the Sleuth banked hard and balanced on her side, while the huge tilting sails hovered overhead!

One—two—three—tour—dark sailboat hulls sliced safely across the speedboat’s boiling wake as she shot outward into the bay.

“Wow! That last one only missed us by a foot!” Biff exclaimed.

“Oh, boy, let’s not do that again!” Chet said shakily.

“You okay, Joe?” Frank asked as he slid back to his side of the boat.

“Yes, thanks to you! Where did the Black Cat go?”

“There she is!” Biff shouted.

Looking around, the brothers saw that the other speedboat had veered in plenty of time to run easily before the sail craft. The big, bald man was pointing to the boys and laughing.

“Bank her again, Joe!” Frank cried angrily. “We’re going after those men!”

“I can‘t!” Joe shouted back over the roar of the engine. “She won’t respond to the wheel.”

Already a quarter of a mile of open water separated the two boats. Helpless, the four friends watched the black craft race away.

Meanwhile, the Sleuth shot ahead at full speed, her handsome prow lifted clear of the water.

“Do something!” Chet cried. “We’ll run aground!”

“No, we won‘t,” said Frank, who had noticed the curving white swath of their wake. “We’re going in circles.”

The Sleuth, her steering mechanism disabled by Frank’s emergency turn, was clearly completing a wide circuit.

“We might as well save gas,” Joe said, throttling down. “One thing’s sure. We won’t make Shantytown today.”

Glumly the four sat still while the distant shores seemed to rotate around them. To the east, where the bay opened toward the sea, a grayish mist lay over the black water.

“Look at that fogbank,” Biff said. “I hope we’re not stuck here when it rolls in. It would be mighty hard for anybody to find us.”

“I don’t think that pea soup will move in before dark,” Frank said, but there was a note of concern in his voice.

“We’re supposed to go to Callie’s costume party tonight,” Chet reminded the others, “so we’d better get out of this mess soon!”

Suddenly the boys’ attention was diverted by the high whine of a motorboat plowing toward them across the water.

“More trouble?” Chet muttered.

“Trouble, nothing!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s the Napoli! Hi, Tony!”

The four companions waved wildly at their friend and in a few minutes a yellow speedboat idled up alongside the Sleuth.

“Thought it was you,” said dark-haired Tony Prito from behind the wheel.

“Why are you fellows running in circles?” asked Jerry Gilroy, who sat beside Tony.

“Our steering’s fouled up,” Joe reported briefly. “Give us a tow, will you, Tony? I’ll tell you about it on the way in. Chet, let’s have that line back there!”

Taking a coil of rope from the stout boy, Joe scrambled onto the prow of the Sleuth. He secured the line at the bow, passed it to Jerry in the Napoli, and then climbed into Tony’s boat himself. While the Sleuth bobbed along toward Bayport in the wake of the Napoli, Joe told the new-comers of the near collision.

Twenty minutes later the six friends stood together on the dock of the Bayport boatyard while a mechanic examined the Sleuth.

“You think the fellow tried to sideswipe you on purpose?” Tony Prito asked.

“Yes, I do,” Frank said. “They saw us clearly and heard us shouting, but they came straight at us, anyhow.”

“Maybe something went wrong with their boat,” Tony suggested. “It could have been an accident.”

“Accident!” Chet Morton snorted. “You should have seen the look on the bald man’s face after we skinned past that last sailboat. They were out to get us all right.”

“But why?” Jerry inquired. “Did you ever see them before?”

“Never!” Joe stated positively. “But I certainly hope we see them again!”

“We’ll report this to the Coast Guard,” Frank said. “They may want to talk to those two men.”

Just then the young mechanic joined the group. “You have a damaged rudder,” he reported to the Hardys. “I’ve fixed it temporarily, but you’ll need a new part to do the job right. It’ll take a day or two for me to get it. Bring your boat back then.”

“I’ll follow while you take the Sleuth to your boathouse,” Tony volunteered. “Then we can all go to the Coast Guard station in the Napoli.”

After the Hardys’ craft had been safely moored in their boathouse, Tony headed the Napoli out into the bay. He turned and followed the shoreline to the long jetties where the freighters were docked.

Soon the Napoli passed under the gray bow of a big cutter moored at the Coast Guard pier. Tony made his boat fast, and the six boys climbed up a steel ladder onto the dock. They entered the small, neat station office, which had a short-wave tower on its roof.

The officer on duty rose from his desk. “Hello, Frank—Joe—fellows,” he greeted them. The personnel at the Bayport station knew the Hardys well. More than once they had cooperated with the boys and their father on cases.

“Hello, Lieutenant Parker,” Frank said gravely. “We want to report a near collision caused by a powerboat named the Black Cat. Can you tell us who owns her?”

Quickly Frank gave an account of the incident while the officer took notes. Then a seaman who had been listening brought over a heavy ledger, which he spread open on the desk.

Lieutenant Parker ran his finger down the list of names and licenses of speedboats on the bay. “Nothing here, fellows,” he announced, looking up. “She must have come in from an outside port. Have you noticed a boat like that in the last week or so, Thompson?”

The seaman thought for a moment. “No, sir,” he answered. “But there’s been a big regatta going on up the coast for a couple of days. She may have run down from there.”

“We’ll go up and find her!” Joe put in eagerly. “What town is it?”

“Northport.”

“Not so fast,” Frank said. “Don’t forget our other business, Joe.”

“You win,” Joe replied with a rueful grin, “but I hate to see—”

“We’ll have our patrol boats keep a lookout for the craft,” the officer promised. “If we find it, I’ll call you.”

It was late afternoon when the Napoli plowed through rough water on her return to the Hardy boathouse. To seaward, the wall of mist had mounted higher and moved in closer, so that now it seemed almost at the harbor’s mouth.

“The fog’s coming in fast,” Jerry remarked as Frank, Joe, Chet, and Biff disembarked. The Hardys thanked Tony for his help.

“That’s okay,” he replied. “It’s getting late. We’d all better go home and get ready for Callie’s party.”

“Don’t forget your costume,” Joe called as the Napoli churned away. He turned to Chet and Biff. “How about you, fellows? Are you all set for the masquerade?”

“I am!” The fat boy chuckled in anticipation. “Wait’ll you see what I’m going to wear!”

Biff grinned. “Even you detectives won’t know us.”

“We just have time to pick up our costumes from Mr. French before he closes,” Frank noted.

A few minutes later there was a clatter as Chet backed his jalopy onto Shore Road and he and Biff drove off.

The Hardys kicked their motorcycles into life and started toward town. When they reached Bayport’s main street most of the stores were closing.

“We’re in luck!” Frank declared as he parked in front of the costume store. “It’s still open. Mr. French has a couple of customers in there!”

The boys hurried toward the door. Through the wide shopwindow they could see the tall, spare proprietor, with thinning blond hair and a small graying mustache. He was talking earnestly to two men whose backs were turned. None of them noticed the boys.

As Frank pushed open the door, Mr. French stopped speaking. The taller of the strangers raised his voice and said in an ugly tone:

“Well, you’re in this now, French, and don’t you forget it!”

CHAPTER III

Faces in the Fog

THE door clicked shut behind the Hardys and the speaker whirled. He was a slight man with gray hair, pale skin, and small dark eyes. His brow was furrowed in a deep scowl, but in a flash he assumed a genial smile.

“Hello there. You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

His companion was short and darkly tanned, with almost white-blond hair. He gave a little laugh and nodded. Even Mr. French assumed a thin smile, though his eyes had a worried and uncertain look.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Frank said, “but we’ve come for our costumes.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything, fellows,” the blond man assured them. “Just a little standing joke we have with Mr. French. We’ve known him for years. But every time we come to town he says he won’t go out for a good time with us. So we have to get tough with him. Isn’t that right, French?”

The shopkeeper smiled weakly and stammered, “Yes ... of course ... that’s right.” Nervously he fingered a small costume box on the counter in front of him. Then, to Frank and Joe’s surprise, he added, “These are the sons of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy. Excuse me, I’ll get their costumes.” He hurried into the back room.

Both strangers looked steadily at the boys a few moments before the gray-haired man spoke up. “I recollect that your father was once an eminent member of the New York City police force.”

“That’s right,” Frank replied.

“And haven’t you young lads received attention in the public eye for your own exploits?”

Frank and Joe looked uncomfortable at the flattery. Before they could answer, Mr. French returned with two cardboard boxes. He opened one and took out a hairy-skinned gorilla costume. Its ferocious head was a rubber mask to fit over Frank’s head.

“Going to a party, eh?” asked the white-haired man.

“Where will the festivities be held?” inquired the other.

“At a friend’s house,” Frank replied evasively.

“Of course.” The man gave him a hard look. Then, taking the small costume box from the counter, he said, “Well, we wish you a pleasant evening, young gentlemen. Good night, Mr. French!”

With a cheery wave of the hand, the gray-haired stranger went out the door, followed by his short companion. As they walked past the window, the Hardys looked them over carefully.

“Is my suit ready too, Mr. French?” Joe asked, after the men had passed from sight.

“Yes—the magician’s outfit. Here it is.”

The shopkeeper opened the other box and held up a rubber mask with a long nose, sinister slanting eyes, black mustache, and goatee. Joe looked at it for a moment with approval, then returned it to the box.

“We’ll bring the costumes back tomorrow,” he promised, and the brothers left the shop.

“Something queer was going on in there,” Frank said as they placed the boxes in the carriers of their motorcycles.

“I think that gray-haired fellow was threatening Mr. French,” Joe declared. “Old friends, my foot! Did you notice how Mr. French tried to cover it up?”

“Maybe he didn’t dare do anything else,” Frank suggested. “He looked scared to me. Let’s ask him about it tomorrow. He might be in some kind of trouble.”

“Okay,” his brother agreed as they mounted their motorcycles. “But we’re going to be busy on that Shantytown case.”

Minutes later, the two motorcycles swung into the Hardy driveway. “Say, I have an idea!” Joe said, as the boys left the garage together. “Let’s put on our masks and give Mother and Aunt Gertrude a surprise.”

Frank chuckled. “I’ll ask what’s new at the zoo.”

The brothers pulled the false faces over their heads and went to the front door. As Joe pressed the doorbell, chimes sounded within. The boys thrust their faces forward.

After a pause the door was opened by a tall, thin woman whose angular frame froze momentarily to stiff attention. Her mouth opened and closed twice. On the third try her voice succeeded.

“You’re repulsive! Go away!” she cried and slammed the door.

The brothers burst into laughter. “Poor Aunt Gertrude!” said Frank. “It isn’t often we can fool Dad’s smart sister!”

The door opened again, revealing a handsome man with the build of an athlete. “What’s going —?” Then he began to laugh. “Okay, you nuts. Come in.” Frank and Joe ripped off the masks and walked into the living room.

“You!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed.

“We’re sorry, Auntie,” Frank said. “Joe and I didn’t mean to scare you so badly. These are masks we’re wearing to a masquerade party tonight.”

Mrs. Hardy, their slim, attractive mother, smiled. “They are realistic. No wonder you were frightened, Gertrude!”

When Miss Hardy was mollified, the family sat down to a delicious chicken dinner. Between mouthfuls, Frank and Joe told about the near collision on the bay and of their conference with Chief Collig.

“It could be an important case,” Mr. Hardy said. “Good luck.”

But his sister had other ideas. “I don’t like it in the least,” she declared. “Two young boys among those roughnecks in Shantytown!”

“Frank and Joe know how to take care of themselves,” Mrs. Hardy said. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m warning you,” Aunt Gertrude said to the boys. “One of these days something terrible will happen to you! Just remember I told you so.”

Seeing the teasing twinkle in Joe’s eye, Mrs. Hardy spoke up quickly before he could reply. “Where’s the big party tonight?”

“Callie Shaw‘s,” Joe answered. “Frank can’t wait to see her.”

“Oh-ho!” his father teased. “And I suppose you, Joe, won’t look for Iola Morton as soon as you get there?”

The brothers grinned at the mention of the two girls they liked best.

“Callie and Iola are giving the party together,” Frank explained. “That reminds me, Joe. We’re supposed to pick up the ice cream!”

A short time later, as Frank and Joe stepped from the house, they noted the gray, leaden sky overhead.

“Looks as if that fogbank has moved in from the bay,” Joe commented. “It’ll be thick downtown.”

After stowing their costumes in the carrier behind Frank’s motorcycle, the two boys set off for the center of Bayport. White wisps of fog swirled in the glare of their headlights and almost blotted out traffic. Both riders slowed to a cautious pace.

At last the boys maneuvered to a stop in Milton Place just off Main Street. Through the fog and gathering dusk, vague lights could be seen in the big brick building on the opposite corner.

“They’re working overtime at the bank,” Joe pointed out and grinned. “Counting the extra money they took in during evening hours.”

The brothers walked around the corner onto Main Street and entered a soda shop. Minutes later they emerged, each carrying a two-gallon drum of ice cream packed in dry ice.

“Wow! This is cold!” said Joe, as they turned into the alley.

Frank and Joe placed the cylinders in Joe’s carrier. “Now for the party!” Frank grinned.

Suddenly they heard a harsh grating noise and looked down the narrow street to see a heavy side door swing open in the bank building. There was a clatter of footsteps on concrete, and four men hurried from inside, carrying white sacks. Their faces looked like those of hideous beasts!

For an instant the Hardys stood paralyzed with surprise until Frank cried out, “It’s a bank robbery!”

In a split second the men dived into a waiting sedan. Its powerful engine roared. As the getaway car moved down Milton Place through the mist, a bank custodian raced out and fired his revolver at one of the car’s tires, but missed.

“Let’s tail ‘em, Joe!” cried Frank, leaping onto his motorcycle.

CHAPTER IV

A Daring Getaway

FRANK and Joe gunned their motors and took off down the narrow street after the bank robbers. Tires screamed as pursuers and pursued careened through the fog-filled streets toward the Bayport waterfront district. Through the haze, the boys could see the red taillights of the bank robbers’ car.

“They’re heading for the docks!” Joe shouted as he recognized the long, dark shapes of warehouses on both sides of the murky street.

The fleeing car shot out onto a wide pier, lighted at intervals by yellow fog lamps. Ahead, a four-foot wire fence barred motorists from the pier’s end.

• Brakes squealed sharply. In the amber glow, the Hardys saw the four doors of the thieves’ car pop open at once. Five dark-coated figures piled out and jumped the fence.

The Hardys’ motorcycles screeched to a halt behind the empty getaway car. “Stop!” shouted Frank, leaping off. “Help! Police!”

A clatter of footsteps sounded far out on the jetty. Frank and Joe vaulted the fence and sprinted in pursuit.

The sound of heavy breathing told them they were nearing their quarry. But as the boys reached the end of the long pier a powerful boat engine suddenly roared to life.

There was a churning of water, a whiff of gasoline smoke, and the sound of men jumping into the boat. Then the craft gained headway in the darkness of the bay.

“We can still stop them!” Frank exclaimed. “The Coast Guard station’s on the next pier. Come on, Joe!”

The boys dashed back, cleared the barrier, and ran past their motorcycles. Suddenly they heard shouts and footfalls approaching along the pier.

Omph! With stunning impact, Joe collided head-on with a running man.

“Look out!” Frank shouted as strong arms grasped him.

“Halt!” a voice ordered. “We’ve got you!” A whistle pierced the air. For a moment all was confusion. “Now—what’s going on here?” demanded the authoritative voice.

“Let us go! Bank robbery! We need the Coast Guard!” Frank said, gasping.

“We are the Coast Guard,” replied the voice, and a flashlight shone through the fog. “Why, it’s the Hardy boys. Release them, men,” said Lieutenant Parker.

“We heard somebody shouting for police,” he added. “What’s this about bank robbers?”

After Frank had explained, the officer said, “I’ll dispatch a cutter after the bandits right away.” Lieutenant Parker and his men raced off.

Moments later, a police car sped onto the pier, its siren wailing and red top light blinking. It stopped and three uniformed men leaped out.

“There’s the car!” cried one of the men. Even in the heavy fog, Frank and Joe recognized him as the bank guard who had fired the shots after the fleeing robbers. “The crooks got into that car, and then these motorcycles raced off with them.”

Suddenly he spotted Frank and Joe. “Those are the bodyguards who rode the motorcycles. Grab ’em!”

A grim-faced policeman, gun in hand, ordered Frank and Joe to come forward. Apparently he and the officer with him were new members of Bayport’s police department, for the boys had never seen them before.

“All right, what do you two have to say about this?” the patrolman demanded. Again Frank told what had happened.

The policeman turned to the guard. “Is that the way it was?”

“Yes—no—” the man stammered, highly excited. “The robbers had on hats and pea jackets. And they wore horrible-looking masks.”

“Look at this!” called the second policeman, who had been examining the car and the motorcycles. He came over, holding up the gorilla face in one hand and the magician mask in the other. “These were in the carrier of that cycle. I guess we’ve got two members of the gang.”

“Now wait a minute!” Joe began, but the wail of a siren cut him short.

Two more police cars arrived and heavily armed men poured from both cruisers.

The first officer to reach the group was Chief Collig. “We got your radio call!” he told the policemen briefly. “Any sign of the bank robbers?”

“Two of them—right here!” the man replied. He jerked a thumb at the Hardys.

Joe stepped forward quickly into the beam of yellow fog light. “Hello, Chief!”

“Frank! Joe!” Collig cried out in astonishment. “How did you get here?” He faced the startled rookies and said, “These boys are all right.”

“But,” one of the men protested, “according to the bank guard the thieves wore masks. And we found these on one of the cycles.” He handed Chief Collig the false faces.

“You’ll find four gallons of ice cream, too, Chief,” Frank put in. “We’re on our way to Callie Shaw’s masquerade party.”

The chief laughed heartily, but quickly became serious again. “Any suspicion of these boys is nonsense. Now, what about the bank robbers?”

Quickly Frank told him all that had happened.

“I guess it was too foggy to see their getaway boat,” the chief said gloomily.

“That’s right,” Joe answered, “but from the sound of it, I’d say it was an open speedboat, with a powerful inboard motor.”

There was the ringing of bells and the deep rumble of engines from the next pier.

“The Coast Guard is taking the cutter,” Frank said. “But even their powerful searchlights won’t pierce through this pea soup.”

“Their best bet is to crisscross the bay and perhaps close in on the robbers,” Joe added.

“And for that a little boat is as good as a big one,” Frank said excitedly. “Joe, do you think the Sleuth is in good enough shape to take out?”

“It’s worth a try,” his brother assented.

Chief Collig nodded approvingly. “The more boats we send out, the better our chances,” he said. “I’ll dispatch the police cruiser, too.”

Frank and Joe swung onto their motorcycles and roared off the pier and along the Shore Road toward their boathouse as fast as they dared in the heavy fog.

Guessing they were near the private docks, the boys pulled off the road and parked. Each took a flashlight from the carrier of his motorcycle.

After a short walk they found their boathouse. Joe reached the small door and took out his key. He gave a cry.

“The lock’s broken off!”

“What!” Frank exclaimed.

He swung the door open and beamed his flashlight inside the building.

The Sleuth was gone!

CHAPTER V

Dancing Gorillas

FOR A moment Frank and Joe stared at the empty boathouse unbelievingly. “I’ll bet the bank robbers stole the Sleuth!” Joe exploded.

“If they did,” Frank said with a grim smile, “they may be surprised. That rudder is only temporarily repaired. It won’t last long.”

“Let’s go after them!” Joe urged. “We’ll call Tony to bring the Napoli.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “He’ll be at Callie’s now.”

The Hardys hurried to their motorcycles and headed back toward town. When they reached the piers, they stopped at a public telephone booth outside a warehouse. Joe dialed the call and returned after a short conversation.

“Tony will meet us at the Coast Guard station,” he reported to Frank. “Come on!”

When the Hardys walked in they found that Chief Collig had turned the place into a temporary headquarters. He was questioning three bank tellers who had been brought there at the chief’s request. One teller was giving his account:

“The four men must have hidden in another part of the bank. Just after we closed tonight, the robbers rushed into the main room together. Three came to our cages and forced us at gun point to put all the money into their sacks, while the fourth went to the side door. Then they warned us to keep still, and backed out the door. Our vault custodian fired after their car, but had no luck.”

“Can you describe just one of the gang?” Collig asked wearily. “Any one that sticks in your mind? Was he short or tall? Fat or skinny?”

“I already told you,” the man said doggedly. “They were all the same size.”

“But blast it, man, that’s impossible!” the chief exploded. “I don’t have four identically built men on my whole force!”

“They were all the same size,” the teller repeated, growing sullen. “They wore masks.”

Shaking his head, Chief Collig turned from the teller. His eyes fell on Frank and Joe. “Back so soon?” he asked, surprised.

Frank told him about the stolen Sleuth. “The bank robbers used a speedboat for their getaway,” Joe added. “It might have been ours.”

“Has the cutter had any luck on the bay?” Frank asked.

“Nothing yet,” the radio operator spoke up. “They’ve been calling in every ten minutes.”

While Joe reported the theft of their boat to a Coast Guardman, Frank asked whether any dues had been found in the thieves’ car.

“Not even a fingerprint,” was Chief Collig’s answer. “We checked on the vehicle, of course. It had been stolen in Northport.”

Just then Tony Prito entered the crowded station, exclaiming, “It looks like a police convention outside, with all those prowl cars!”

“Hi, Tony,” Joe greeted him.

“Thanks for getting here so fast!” Frank said.

The three boys left the station at once, ran across the pier, and scrambled down a ladder into the Napoli. Tony started his motor, switched on his running lights, and throttled cautiously into the bay.

The surface of the water was smooth and the air was warm. The fog, however, was thicker than ever. Tony tried his spotlight but even this did not penetrate the murk for any great distance.

“Suppose we zigzag along shore about half a mile out,” Joe suggested. “The Coast Guard will cover the middle of the bay.”

The Napoli moved steadily through the night. The boys could see nothing.

“We need our ears for this job,” Frank said finally. “Shut her off a minute, Tony.”

The steady purr of the motor ceased and the craft drifted noiselessly. Far to seaward, outside the harbor’s mouth, a deep-voiced foghorn rasped its warning at regular intervals.

“Nothing,” Joe muttered disgustedly. “Start her again, Tony!”

“Wait!” Frank ordered. “There—another boat!”

“I don’t hear it!” Tony whispered.

“It’s very high-pitched—just a tingle. Turn her out into the bay, Tony. Run full throttle until I say stop.”

The Napoli shot forward, roaring through the fog.

“Stop!” Frank cried out.

Again came the sudden, hushed silence. Only the wake of the Napoli washed audibly behind them. But now all three boys heard the sound of a boat engine.

“You were right,” Joe whispered. “I think it is the Sleuth. Listen!”

The high-pitched whine drew slowly closer, then gradually receded. Soon it approached again.

“She’s going in circles!” Joe chortled gleefully. “Head toward her, Tony.”

“Sure. But which way?”

“To the right,” Joe said promptly.

“Straight ahead!” Frank countered.

Tony started his engine and headed midway between the two directions. He drove steadily forward until Joe signaled to cut it again.

The other craft was very near them and over the motor’s purr they could hear angry voices.

“It won’t work!” one cried out. “Try it yourself!” Another shouted, “Move over, then!”

Frank, Joe, and Tony listened, grinning, while the men argued about the disabled boat. Suddenly the Sleuth’s motor was silent.

“They’re drifting away,” Frank said quietly.

Although Tony followed in the direction he thought the other boat was taking, the voices grew faint. Desperately Tony opened his throttle wide, then shut off the motor again to listen. The voices had ceased.

“The men must have heard us,” Joe whispered. “They probably know they’re being chased.”

For a time the eerie pursuit continued, but at last Frank said, “It’s no use. They could have drifted a mile away by now.”

“Or they could be five feet from us,” Joe whispered. “We’ll never find them in this fog.”

“Besides, we’re low on gas,” Tony added, and turned the Napoli toward Bayport.

“Joe and I will come to the party later,” Frank told Tony. “I think Dad would like to hear our account of the bank robbery.”

After dropping Frank and Joe at the Coast Guard pier, Tony returned his boat to its mooring and went back to Callie’s house. Meanwhile, the brothers, dejected, cycled home. Opening the front door, they found their father in the hall taking his hat from the rack. Mr. Hardy stopped short.

“Tell me what you know about the bank holdup,” he said crisply. His sons stared in surprise.

Then Frank grinned. “I guess Chief Collig told you about us, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Hardy. “He just phoned to ask my help. I’m on my way downtown. Brief me quickly.”

The detective listened with keen interest while his sons poured out the story of the robbery and the missing Sleuth.

“One thing is odd,” Frank added when they had finished. “The tellers swear the thieves were all the same size and build.”

Fenton Hardy smiled. “That’s not so strange.”

“You mean the men were identical in size?” Frank asked.

“Not at all,” their father answered. “But a large mask will make a person’s body seem smaller. A tiny face mask can make him look bigger.”

“So the robbers used the masks to disguise their builds as well as their faces,” said Frank.

“Exactly,” his father answered. “It sounds like a very clever gang.”

At that moment Aunt Gertrude came into the living room. “Fenton,” she said, her voice sharp with disapproval, “there was a special news bulletin on the radio just now saying that you’ve taken on the Bayport bank robbery case.”

“So I have,” Mr. Hardy replied mildly, though the boys knew he was an expert at this. “At least to help the local authorities,” he added.

“But why do they announce it?” his sister asked tartly. “The bank robbers may hear it, and who knows what those dangerous men might do to make you drop the case!”

“Don’t worry, Gertrude,” Mr. Hardy replied kindly. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for the information, boys,” he added, and hurried off.

Aunt Gertrude eyed Frank and Joe suspiciously. “What are you two going to do now?” she demanded.

“Nothing dangerous, Auntie,” Joe assured her. “We’re just going to Callie’s party.” Satisfied, Miss Hardy watched the boys depart.

“Aunt Gertrude’s right, you know,” Frank remarked as they walked to their motorcycles in the drive. “It’s too bad about that radio bulletin. Dad is safer if he works under cover.”

A short ride brought Frank and Joe to the Shaw house. They parked their motorcycles beside the garage and quickly put on their costumes. Carrying the two containers of ice cream, the gorilla and the magician walked to the door, where they were admitted by a smiling Mrs. Shaw.

“Hello, boys. Come right in! I’ll put the ice cream away.”

When the Hardys entered the big living room they were hailed by a camel with four human legs, Spaceman Prito, and many other fantastic figures.

Pretty, brown-haired Callie was dressed as a fairy princess, and slim, vivacious Iola as a page boy. The two girls hurried forward to greet the late arrivals.

“Tony told us about the robbers and the chase,” Callie said.

“We’re glad you got here!” Iola added warmly.

A fierce pirate strode up to them. “I’m Black-beard Biff Hooper,” he announced. “How’d you like to walk the plank?”

Before Frank could answer, there was a ferocious roar behind him and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He whirled to find himself face to face with another gorilla!

“Told you I’d surprise you!” came Chet Morton’s voice. “Come on, Gargantua! Let’s dance!”

The two hairy creatures joined hands and waltzed around the room to the music of the record player. They pirouetted, leaped in the air, and did somersaults. The other guests watched, shrieking with laughter. Panting, Chet yanked off his tight-fitting gorilla face.

“Oops!” he exclaimed ruefully. “I tore it.”

Frank examined the rubber mask. “Too bad,” he said with a grin. “You’ll have to wear your own face from now on.”

Later, as the guests ate, they listened, fascinated, to the Hardys’ account of their adventure. Finally, about midnight, everyone began to leave.

As Frank and Joe were saying good night to the girls, Chet came over to them. “Biff, Tony, Jerry, and I have decided to go camping tomorrow. We’re using Mr. Hooper’s boat. Sorry you fellows can’t come.”

“We’ll make it next time,” Joe promised.

Iola said to Chet, “You can go on home and drop Biff at his house. I’m staying overnight here.”

“Okay, Sis.”

Frank and Joe departed, and soon after returning home, they were sound asleep. Two hours later the ringing of the telephone jarred the silence of the Hardy home. Frank awoke and picked up the extension phone.

“Hello.”

“Frank?” The speaker was Mrs. Morton. “Is Chet there? He hasn’t come home yet!”

“No, he isn’t here,” Frank answered. “He probably went to Biff’s.”

“I’ll try the Hoopers,” Mrs. Morton said. “Sorry to have awakened you.”

As Frank replaced the telephone, he glanced at his wrist watch. It was two o’clock.

“Funny Chet didn’t phone his folks,” he thought.

A second later the phone jangled again and he picked it up. “Frank Hardy speaking.”

“This is Mrs. Hooper,” said a worried voice. “Is Biff with you?”

Frank sat straight up in bed. “I’m sorry, he isn’t here,” he replied. “I’ll call some of our friends and see what I can find out.”

Biff’s mother gratefully accepted the offer. “Oh, thank you. I’m so worried about him.”

As Frank put down the phone, Joe mumbled sleepily, “What’s the matter?”

“Matter? It looks as if plenty’s the matter. Wake up! Chet and Biff are missing!”

CHAPTER VI

A Perilous Slide

STARTLED by the news, Joe sat bolt upright in bed. “Chet and Biff gone?”

“They vanished after the party.”

“Who was that on the telephone?” suddenly asked a deep voice. In the doorway stood Fenton Hardy in a robe.

Quickly Frank told his father and Joe about the calls from Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Hooper. Mr. Hardy promptly dialed police headquarters, and identified himself to the desk sergeant.

“Have any accidents been reported since midnight?” he inquired. As he listened, the lines of his forehead relaxed.

“None,” he reported to Frank and Joe. Then the detective explained the situation to the officer, who promised that the police would look for Chet and Biff.

After putting down the phone, Mr. Hardy asked his sons, “Is there any place the boys are likely to have gone?”

“They were planning to go camping early this morning,” Joe recollected, “stopping at different islands along the coast. Maybe they decided to go tonight instead.”

“I doubt it—in this fog,” Frank objected. “And not without telling anyone.” Nevertheless, he dialed the Hooper home to make sure.

“Oh, no,” Biff’s mother replied to Frank’s question. “Mr. Hooper carries the boathouse key with him. If Biff and Chet had wanted to leave earlier, they would have had to get it from him.”

Frank tried not to show his mounting alarm. Hoping he sounded cheerful, he said, “We’ll keep looking for the boys.” After saying good-by, he turned to Joe and his father. “This is serious. I hate to disturb Callie, but I’ll have to now.” He dialed her number. Callie herself answered sleepily.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” Frank said. “But will you do me a favor? Peek out the window and see if Chet’s jalopy is there. It was parked under the street light.”

After a short pause he turned to Joe and his father. “It’s still there! ... Callie, when did Biff and Chet leave?” He listened a moment. “Thanks. We can’t locate them.... Nothing wrong for sure yet. We’ll call you tomorrow.” Frank hung up and said worriedly, “They left the party ten minutes after we did.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet they couldn’t get the jalopy started. They’re probably spending the night with one of the fellows who lives on Callie’s street.”

Frank looked relieved. “Let’s go over and check the jalopy.” The boys began dressing.

“Have you a key to the car?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Chet gave us one,” Frank explained.

Fifteen minutes later the boys drove up quietly in their father’s sedan and parked behind the yellow jalopy. Quickly Frank slipped into the driver’s seat, and a moment later the Queen coughed and rattled into life. Abruptly he cut the motor and the two brothers looked at each other soberly.

“I was wrong,” Joe said. “They didn’t have car trouble. What did happen?”

Frank shook his head grimly. By the light of the street lamp the boys examined the jalopy, the curb and road around it, but found no clues. Using their flashlights, they checked the Shaws’ yard and porch.

“Nothing here,” Frank said finally.

The porch lights blinked on and Callie appeared in the doorway. “Frank—Joe, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Looking for clues,” Joe replied. “But we haven’t found any yet.”

“Chet and Biff had their costumes on when they left, and carried the masks,” Callie said. “They looked so conspicuous, they should be easy to locate.”

“We’ll keep trying,” Frank promised.

He used the Shaw phone and called each boy who had been at the party. Chet and Biff were not with any of them, nor had Tony or Jerry heard from them.

Finally the Hardys headed for home. They gave their father the discouraging report and reluctantly went back to bed.

After a few hours of uneasy sleep, Frank and Joe awakened to find bright sunlight filling the room. Hurriedly they dressed and dashed downstairs. Their father was already at the breakfast table.

“Any news of Chet and Biff?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy shook his head soberly. “The police have found no trace of them.”

“If only we knew where to start looking!” Joe said worriedly. “But we haven’t a single clue to go on.”

“The State Police are searching, too,” Mr. Hardy told them. “A lead may turn up before the day is over. I hate to mention it,” he added, “but the boys might have been kidnaped. So, to be on the safe side, there’ll be absolutely no publicity.”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed.

For a minute he and Joe sat in glum silence. “What about the Sleuth?” Joe asked finally.

“The Coast Guard hasn’t found it yet,” Mr. Hardy replied, “and there are no leads on the bank robbery, either.”

“How about the stolen car?” Frank queried. “Who owns it?”

“A man living up the coast,” his father answered. “It disappeared day before yesterday while he was at a boat regatta in Northport.”

“A boat regatta—” Joe murmured. “Where have we heard of one lately?”

“At the Coast Guard station,” Frank prompted.

“That’s it! Seaman Thompson thought the boat that tried to ram us might have come down from the regatta in Northport.”

“Looks like Northport might furnish a lead to more than one mystery,” Frank declared. “Let’s take a run up there and see if we can pick up a clue.”

“If I go up the coast, I want to go in the Sleuth!” Joe answered firmly. “We must find her!”

At this point, Mrs. Hardy brought the discussion to an end by setting before each boy a stack of steaming, golden-brown pancakes.

Aunt Gertrude came in behind her with a block of yellow butter and a tall pitcher of maple syrup. “There are more cakes on the griddle,” she said. “You need your strength. And for goodness’ sake, find those poor lost boys!”

“If we can help—” Mrs. Hardy began.

“Thanks,” Frank said.

After breakfast the brothers hurried to the garage. “The bank robbers must have beached the Sleuth somewhere,” Joe reasoned. “If we follow the shore, we’re sure to find her.”

The black-and-silver motorcycles backfired like pistol shots, then roared from the drive and down High Street. The riders headed out Shore Road, past the private docks.

The fog of the night before had given way to a bright-blue summer morning. As the boys sped along in a cool, salty breeze they watched the white sand of the beach on their right. There was no sign of the Sleuth.

Finally they reached the head of the bay and turned sharply, following the seacoast northward. For a while Frank and Joe saw only the big green rollers of the Atlantic as they broke into foaming white along the sand and rocks.

The brothers spotted the squatters’ colony of slapped-together board dwellings ahead.

The cycles chugged up Shore Road, which rose and twisted along the top of high, rocky cliffs along the sea.

“Look down there!” Joe called out suddenly. He had caught the glint of sunshine on a familiar hull. The Sleuth! It was stranded on the beach!

“Yippee!” exclaimed Frank. “The robbers must have floated her in at high tide.” The boys parked their motorcycles and hurried to the edge of the bluff. Below them, the rocky cliff fell straight down to the boulders bordering the sand.

“I don’t see a path,” Frank said. “Wait! Here’s a place we can go down.”

As he leaned over the edge, a mass of loose sod and stone gave way at his feet. With a startled cry Frank slid downward. Desperately he grasped for a hold, his clawing fingers closing on a sharp slab jutting out just below the lip of the bluff. His body hung a hundred feet above the rocks and sand below.

“Hang on!” Joe shouted, and whipped his extra-long leather belt from its loops. Lying flat, he inched downward over the cliff edge until he could pass the leather under Frank’s armpits. He slid the end through the buckle and pulled the belt tight.

Joe squirmed back again, braced himself, and hauled. For one sickening moment Frank swung like a pendulum beneath the cliff. With all his strength, Joe jerked the belt again and a moment later helped Frank clamber to safety.

“Whew! That was close!” Frank said, gasping. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Better leave the boat,” Joe panted, retrieving his belt. “We can come by sea with the Coast Guard and get her.“ Still shaking from fright, Frank agreed.

Joe helped Frank clamber to safety

The brothers went at once to the Coast Guard station on the pier. When Lieutenant Parker heard Frank’s story, he called two men and led the way to a patrol boat. The powerful craft headed straight out the mouth of the bay and turned sharply up the coast.

The beach was a whitish line on their left. Soon it broadened, and the tumble-down buildings of Shantytown came into view.

“Wait! Wait a minute!” Frank called out. “Can we slow down? What’s that white thing floating in the water?”

“A dead fish,” suggested a Coast Guardman. The patrol boat throttled down and slid nearer the object. Leaning far over the side, Joe lunged and scooped it from the sea.

“This isn’t a fish!” he cried out excitedly. “It’s a rubber mask turned inside out!”

As he spoke, his fingers moved nimbly. In an instant a limp gorilla face appeared.

“This belongs to Chet!” Frank exclaimed.

CHAPTER VII

Dangerous Beachcombing

FRANK took the mask from Joe and examined it carefully. “You’re right. Here’s the place where Chet ripped it at the party.”

“But what’s it doing floating in the bay?” asked Joe in great concern. “He and Biff must have gone out in a boat after all.”

“But whose?” Frank queried.

“And why would they go out in the fog?” Joe added. Then he voiced the question uppermost in both their minds. “You don’t think they could have drowned?”

Frank’s face was grim. “Chet and Biff are excellent swimmers. Maybe, for a reason we don’t know yet, they’re hiding somewhere—perhaps Shantytown!” Frank gazed intently across the water at the squatter colony, now falling astern.

“Could be,” Joe said. “They knew about our case. Maybe they picked up a clue and landed in Shantytown. We’d better find out as soon as we get the Sleuth.”

The boys lapsed into worried silence until the Coast Guard boat came within sight of rocky cliffs towering high above the white beach.

A seaman scanned the shore with binoculars and sang out, “There she is, sir! It’s the Sleuth, all right. I can read her name.”

The engines of the cutter shuddered as it swung in toward the beached motorboat. The Hardys whipped off their shoes and leaped overboard into thigh-deep water as the craft crunched against the sandy bottom. Joe was the first to reach the derelict Sleuth.

“She looks okay,” he called out to his brother.

“Yes, but high and dry,” Frank said as he waded ashore.

“We’ll help you float her,” a seaman offered.

Quickly gathering large pieces of driftwood, the boys improvised a crude skidway. Then, with the Coast Guardmen helping, they slid the boat down to the water. A towline was secured and the Sleuth bobbed toward Bayport in the wake of the Coast Guard patrol boat.

“Let’s tow her straight to the boatyard,” Frank suggested. “Maybe they have the new part by now.”

His guess proved correct. While the patrol boat waited, the young mechanic quickly examined the Sleuth.

“Have you been using her?” he asked the Hardys.

“Well—somebody has, Charlie,” Joe replied.

The mechanic nodded. “Hm—thought so. The temporary repair I made didn’t last. But if you keep turning the wheel, you can make her steer a little—enough to get by.”

“That’s how the bandits slipped away in the fog last night,” Frank whispered to his brother.

“I’ll be finished in an hour,” Charlie said. “Shall I have her taken to your boathouse?”

“Righto,” Frank replied. “We’ll pick her up there.”

The Hardys rode on the patrol boat to the Coast Guard pier, thanked Lieutenant Parker and his men for their help, and hastened to their motorcycles.

“I wish the Sleuth were ready now,” Joe said impatiently, “so we could go right to Shantytown.”

“But first we have to round up beachcomber disguises,” Frank reminded him.

The boys rode home and changed into dry clothes. While Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were preparing lunch for them, Joe called police headquarters. He learned that there were no new leads on their friends or the bank robbers.

Chief Collig was amazed to hear about the discovery of Chet’s mask. “The boys may be nearer than I thought. I’ve already sent out a seventeen-state missing-persons alarm.”

“We might find more clues in Shantytown,” Joe told him. “We’re going there next.”

Directly after lunch, Frank and Joe bounded upstairs, pulled out some old shirts and pants, and hurried down again. As they passed through the hall carrying the clothes, their mother and aunt looked out from the living room in surprise.

“Where are you going?” Aunt Gertrude inquired.

Mrs. Hardy asked, smiling, “Not another costume party? I returned your gorilla and magician suits this morning.”

“Did you explain to Mr. French about Chet and Biff? He’ll wonder why they don’t bring their costumes back,” Joe said.

“He wasn’t there,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “I left your outfits with the clerk.”

“Where are you boys off to?” Aunt Gertrude demanded again.

“We’re going sleuthing in Shantytown,” Frank replied. “Probably we won’t be home to supper.”

Aunt Gertrude stared in disapproval. “Even foolhardy young detectives get hungry,” she said tartly.

“I’ll pack your supper,” their mother offered. Aunt Gertrude and the boys followed her into the kitchen where the two women quickly prepared a package of food for the boys to take along.

“You and Auntie certainly move fast, Mother,” Joe said admiringly. “Thanks a lot.”

“Yes, we appreciate it,” Frank chimed in.

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “We know you’re in a hurry.”

The boys went out the back door and hastily stowed the food and clothing in their motorcycle carriers.

“We must put in the make-up kit from the lab,” Frank reminded his brother. With Fenton Hardy’s help, Frank and Joe had fitted out a small modern crime laboratory over the family garage. Joe hurried upstairs to it and soon emerged with the kit, which he put in the carrier.

When they reached their boathouse, the boys found the Sleuth there. By the time the craft emerged, she carried two entirely different-looking young men.

Frank’s face was smudged and his dark hair was tousled. He wore a battered straw hat and a striped jersey with a long rip in the back.

Joe’s normal suntan had been made even darker by the use of make-up. A fake tattoo decorated his right arm. His trousers were torn off at the knees.

Both boys wore tennis shoes bursting at the sides. They carried burlap sacks appropriate for beachcombing.

“Let’s land about a mile this side of Shantytown,” Frank suggested. “We can wander toward it along the beach.”

Soon Beachcomber Joe, at the wheel, ran the Sleuth into a little cove. Drawing her up between two rocks, they camouflaged the craft with pieces of driftwood and dry seaweed.

“Now,” said Joe, “if we can just find another clue to lead us to Chet and Biff!”

Frank nodded. “And at the same time learn what’s behind the fighting in Shantytown.”

Trying not to appear hurried, the two boys sauntered along with their sacks. The midafternoon sun threw a white sparkle over everything

—the curling waves, the sand, and even the gray, bleaching driftwood. Now and again Frank and Joe would stoop and put a handful of shells, bits of rope, or a few pebbles into the sacks.

“Some beachcombing!” Joe grinned.

At last the Hardys entered the squatters’ village. The first huts were merely tarpaulins stretched across driftwood poles. But as the boys strolled along, they saw that several of the many shacks were of wood, well constructed, with solid, padlocked doors.

A few men were lounging about, smoking. Frank and Joe passed near a group roasting potatoes in hot coals before one of the huts. The men paid no attention to the Hardys as the boys moved on.

“If Chet and Biff are here, they could be in any of these shacks!” Joe muttered in a low tone. “How can we get a closer look?”

The young sleuths were walking between the water’s edge and the first row of huts. Near them a man stood in the water wringing out a shirt.

“Let’s drift up to the next shack,” Frank suggested.

The boys approached a solidly built shanty. Abruptly the door swung open. A thin, seedy-looking man with faded red hair stepped out in the sunlight and stared at them with hard blue eyes. As the Hardys returned the look, the fellow moved toward them.

“What are you doing here?” he challenged harshly.

“Just walking along the beach,” Joe returned in a tough-sounding voice. “Looking for junk.”

“Yeah? Well, get out of here and do it some place else. See?”

“This is a free country,” Frank retorted, also speaking in a tough tone. “We’ll walk here if we feel like it.”

Instead of answering, the man reached into a back pocket and pulled out a blackjack. He lunged at Frank with the agility of a cat.

“Cut it out, Sutton!” barked a voice. The new-comer, a broad-shouldered young man, darted between Frank and his assailant. A boxer’s hand chop sent the blackjack flying to the sand.

Sutton muttered under his breath, clenched his fists, and glared at the tall man. He was young and strong, with a blond crew cut.

“If you’re looking for trouble, I’ll give it to you,” the big fellow said meaningfully.

Sutton dropped his eyes and turned away. He retrieved his weapon and disappeared behind his shanty.

Relieved, Frank said, “Thanks a lot, Mr.—”

“Call me Alf,” was the friendly reply. “I was wading over there when I saw Sutton go for you. You’d better stay away from this place. We’ve had a lot of trouble lately.”

“Well, thanks again, Alf,” Frank said warmly as he shook the huge, hard hand. “You sure saved me a lump on the head. I’m Frank, and this is my brother Joe.”

The three strolled along the beach. “So there’s been trouble in Shantytown lately,” Joe repeated, hoping to learn more from their new acquaintance.

“Yes. Sutton and his pals have been the ones making it, too. All they do is fight among themselves. Shantytown wouldn’t be such a bad place, otherwise.”

“Do you live here, Alf?” Frank inquired.

“Me?” The man laughed good-naturedly. “No, but I work on the docks and I know some fellows who work in town occasionally and live here, so I come out a lot on my hours off.”

By now the three had reached the far edge of the colony. “I’ve got to see a fellow,” Alf told them. “Look out for Hank Sutton when you go back. If he tries anything, just yell for Alf—Alf Lundborg.”

The young giant’s friendly act and his open face made Frank decide to trust him. “Maybe we can help you sometime, Alf,” he said. “Our name is Hardy, but we don’t want anyone in Shantytown to know it.”

“Nobody’ll hear it from me,” Lundborg replied. “Say, if you’re going to be around for a while, why don’t you eat with my friends and me?”

“We’d like that,” Frank said. “How’ll we find you?”

Alf reached into his pocket. “Just listen for this,” he replied, opening his hand. In the palm lay a harmonica. “See you around,” he said and moved off.

When Alf Lundborg had gone up the beach, the brothers retraced their steps. While picking up more stones and shells, they scanned the sand carefully for anything that might belong to their missing chums. This time they took care not to venture too close to Sutton’s shanty.

“There’s our ‘friend,’ ” Frank said in a low voice.

Stealing a glance toward the hut, Joe saw Sutton standing at one corner, talking earnestly with another man. His companion was listening with obvious impatience. He shifted his weight and suddenly turned full around. The Hardys saw that he was short in build, and had black hair combed straight back.

“That man!” Joe whispered. “It’s—”

“I know!” Frank took his brother’s arm and hurried him toward the beach. “It’s the speedboat driver who almost rammed us! What’s he doing here?”

CHAPTER VIII

Postcard Puzzle

“KEEP going,” Frank advised Joe. “If we turn around for another look, that powerboat pilot may recognize us!”

With bent heads, the young detectives shuffled along the beach between the ocean and the first line of squatters’ shacks. If the stranger with the dark, combed-back hair noticed them at all, he saw only two ragged beachcombers wandering back in the direction of Bayport.

“So, the fellow who rammed us hangs around Shantytown!” Joe burst out.

“Yes,” Frank added thoughtfully, “and he’s friendly with the chief troublemaker there.”

“But why should one of Sutton’s pals try to ram the Sleuth?” Joe puzzled. “Because he found out—or suspected—we’d be investigating Shantytown?”

“Possibly,” Frank replied. “And if Chet and Biff are prisoners here, the men don’t want us to find out! They’ll do everything to keep us away.”

Joe whistled. “If that’s true, we must find them. I’m scared about what may have happened to them.”

“Maybe we’ll pick up some clues tonight,” Frank said. “It’s almost suppertime. Let’s go back and watch Sutton’s place.”

When the boys returned to the group of shacks, they saw some of the men drifting in from work, and others tending cooking fires.

Behind Sutton’s shanty was a deserted shack. Frank and Joe slipped inside and settled themselves by a broken window. Although they stayed at their post an hour, they saw no sign of activity.

“Sutton’s probably eating somewhere else,” Frank said. “Let’s find Alf and come back later.”

As the boys stepped outside they heard a lively tune from a harmonica. Following the sound of the music, they found Alf playing for a small group of rough-looking men, seated around a fire.

When Alf finished the song, he introduced the boys and the laborers by first names. The men looked the Hardys over and nodded.

“The stew’s done,” a big red-faced man said, taking the lid from a large kettle. “Pitch in!”

As the men began to serve themselves on tin plates, Frank and Joe reached into their bags and took out the food they had brought. They unpacked a pound of frankfurters, rolls, two cans of beans, and apples.

“Help yourselves,” Frank invited cordially.

“Looks good, boys,” said the red-faced man, whose name was Lou. “Most of us are hungry enough to eat two suppers.”

By the time the last crumb had disappeared, the men had warmed up to Frank and Joe and willingly answered their seemingly casual questions about Shantytown. None of the men, however, knew what the fights were about, nor had they seen two strange boys.

“We’ll keep our eyes open for ’em,” Lou volunteered. He took some driftwood from a bushel basket beside him, and threw two pieces on the fire. Then he tossed a piece of dark cloth after it.

“What’s that?” Frank asked sharply. He grabbed a long stick and hooked the cloth from the blaze.

“It’s just some junk I picked up,” Lou answered.

Frank dropped it to the ground and the brothers eagerly examined the piece.

“It’s a sleeve from Chet’s gorilla outfit!” Joe whispered excitedly.

“I thought it looked familiar,” Frank said. To Lou he said, “It’s part of a costume. Where did you find this?”

“Behind Sutton’s shack,” the man replied.

“Is it important?” Alf asked the boys.

“It definitely links our missing friends with Shantytown,” Frank replied, as he put the sleeve in his burlap bag. “Come on, Joe! Let’s gro back to Sutton’s place.”

After thanking the men for their hospitality, the boys hurried off into the darkness.

“Be careful,” Alf called after them. “Yell if you need help.”

The Hardys found the shanty dark and padlocked. They circled it cautiously, but there was no one around. Joe knocked on the door. “Chet! Biff!” Frank called. Not a sound from inside. Again Joe pounded and both boys called repeatedly.

“It’s no use,” Joe said finally. “If they are inside, they’re probably bound and gagged.”

“Look for an opening between the boards,” Frank instructed. The boys pulled out pencil flashlights and examined the side of the shack.

“I’ve found a knothole,” said Joe.

“And here’s a chink. I’ll shine my light in while you look through the hole.”

Joe watched the slender beam shift around the dark room. “Empty,” he declared, disappointed. “Let’s look for more of Chet’s or Biff’s belongings.” They searched the sand around the shanty, but found nothing.

“Let’s hide in the deserted shack again,” Frank suggested. “If Sutton comes back with any of his pals, we may overhear something important.”

Patiently the young detectives waited and watched, but their quarry did not return. Frank consulted his watch. “It’s almost midnight. Maybe—”

“Sh!” Joe interrupted. “Listen!”

They heard footsteps and saw a dark figure approaching Sutton’s shanty. The stranger knocked several times. Finally a neighbor opened his door. “You lookin’ for Sutton?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the unknown caller. “All I know is he went off in a car with a dark-haired fellow. I heard Sutton say he wouldn’t come back tonight.”

Without a word the caller disappeared into the darkness. The door to the shack slammed shut.

“That’s that,” Frank said in disappointment. “Let’s go back to town and report to headquarters.”

“You bet. Frank, do you suppose Chet and Biff were here but have been taken away?”

“It’s a good guess.”

The boys covered the mile of beach to their boat, quickly pulled off the improvised camouflage, and launched her. Frank headed down the coast toward Bayport and the Hardy boathouse. When the boys had debarked, they donned their street clothes again. Carrying their burlap bags, they emerged from the boathouse and mounted their motorcycles. It was well past midnight.

When the Hardys reached police headquarters, they were amazed to see Chief Collig in his office. He looked tired and somewhat dejected.

“I’ve been working night and day on the bank robbery case and the mystery of your friends,” he said. “I’m afraid that the boys have been kidnaped.”

“That’s what we fear,” Frank said. He showed the gorilla head mask and sleeve of Chet’s costume and told of the boys’ run-in with Sutton.

“I’ll send men out there to make a thorough search,” Collig said.

“We’ll go with them!” Joe volunteered eagerly.

“We’d better not,” Frank countered. “Once the men at Shantytown see us with the police, we won’t be able to work under cover there.”

Regretfully, Joe agreed.

Chief Collig rose, strode around the desk, and clapped each of the young sleuths on the shoulder. “Thanks, boys! You’ve brought in the first two leads I’ve had on this case,” he said. “If we find Chet and Biff, I’ll call you at once.”

Frank and Joe hurried home through the silent streets. When they let themselves into the house, they saw a light in Fenton Hardy’s upstairs study. Frank knocked.

“Come in,” called the detective. When his sons entered, he pushed aside some papers on his desk. “What did you find out today?”

He leaned back in his big leather chair and listened carefully as his sons gave an account of their day’s progress.

When it was finished, their father said, “If Collig doesn’t find Chet and Biff in Shantytown tonight, and they were kidnaped, their parents should receive ransom notes soon.”

“Perhaps they will come tomorrow,” Frank suggested. He turned to his father. “Do you think Chet and Biff’s disappearance could have anything to do with the bank robbery?”

“It’s possible.”

“In that case, maybe you’d let us give you a hand on the bank robbery case, Dad.”

“As a matter of fact,” the detective replied, “if Collig hadn’t offered you the Shantytown problem, I would have asked your help on this one.”

Frank and Joe looked perplexed. “But the bank robbery hadn’t happened then!” Joe protested.

Mr. Hardy smiled briefly. “For some time I have been working secretly to round up a certain ring of bank robbers who operate on a national scale.”

“I see,” said Frank. “And they committed the Bayport holdup?”

“I believe so. It looks like their work. I’ve learned that the gang is broken up into a number of teams,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Somewhere on the West Coast is the ringleader who assigns each ‘team’ to rob a local bank in a different part of the country. The scheme is very well organized.”

The boys went to bed, hoping to be disturbed by a call from the police, telling them good news, but none came. In the morning Joe called headquarters, then relayed a disappointing report to his family. “The police didn’t find Chet and Biff, but they picked up pieces of their costumes on piles of half-charred paper trash in different parts of Shantytown. Someone didn’t know the outfits were fireproof and tried to burn them.”

“Then our pals were taken there and later moved somewhere else,” Frank declared. “But where?”

He and Joe were so upset they could hardly eat breakfast. The other Hardys, who also were fond of Chet and Biff, were greatly sobered.

“Oh, I almost forgot something,” said Mrs. Hardy. “A letter came for you boys in this morning’s early mail.” She handed Frank a plain white envelope. “It’s postmarked Northport, yesterday.”

Frank looked at it. “The writing is familiar,” he remarked, “but there’s no return address.”

He tore open the envelope, took out a picture postcard, and scanned the message.

Frank’s eyes widened. “Listen to this!” he exclaimed. “ ‘Having a wonderful time. Don’t worry about us.’ And it’s signed ‘Chet and Biff’!”

The rest of the family stared in amazement. Aunt Gertrude snorted indignantly. “Having a wonderful time, indeed! Everyone worried sick, police searching all over the map for them, and they’re having a wonderful time!”

“But what a relief!” Mrs. Hardy said warmly. “I’ll call Mrs. Morton and—”

“Wait a minute,” Mr. Hardy cautioned. “It may not really be from the boys.”

“This is Chet’s handwriting,” Frank said.

Joe had jumped from his chair to examine the card. “Yes, it is,” he affirmed. “The picture is of Waterfront Street in Northport. Looks like an old card,” he added, passing it to his father.

“Why do you think it was mailed in an envelope?” Mrs. Hardy asked, puzzled.

“So no one would read the message until it got here,” suggested Joe.

“Why didn’t they telephone?” Aunt Gertrude asked tartly. “It’s even quicker.”

“I think they would if they could, Auntie,” Frank replied. “Chet and Biff know better than to worry everybody this way. They’re prisoners!”

“Anyway, we know they’re alive,” said his mother. “That in itself is good news.”

“Will you call Mrs. Hooper and Mrs. Morton and tell them?” Frank requested his mother. She nodded.

“And I’ll notify the police,” Mr. Hardy added. “By the way, they looked for the thieves’ fingerprints on Chet’s jalopy and your motorboat, but didn’t find any.”

“I suppose the robbers wore gloves,” Frank remarked.

As Joe went back to his chair, he said, “I think we ought to run up to Northport and see if we can trace this card.”

Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful. “The bank robbers stole their getaway car in Northport.”

“And the fellow who tried to ram the Sleuth,” Frank added, “may have come down from there after watching the regatta.”

“Don’t forget,” said Joe, “he’s a pal of Sutton’s.”

“Northport might provide clues to Chet and Biff, the bank robbery, and the Shantytown trouble,” Frank concluded.

The boys finished their breakfast and rode to the Hardy boathouse. As Joe stepped into the Sleuth, he kicked off his moccasins. The next moment he cried, “Ouch—hey! Broken glass!” He lifted the floor rack. “There’s a whole mess of it in the bottom. Looks like a soda bottle.”

“That’s funny,” said Frank. “We didn’t notice any yesterday.”

“That’s because the glass was all hidden under the rack,” Joe pointed out. “This piece was forced up between the slats overnight by the rocking of the boat.”

While he gingerly extracted a sliver of glass from his toe, Frank picked up the jagged fragments. “These weren’t here the day before the robbery,” he broke in excitedly. “We took out the rack and emptied the boat completely. It’s a clue, Joe! We’ll put these pieces together at home.”

He found some cheesecloth in the dashboard compartment, gathered all the glass fragments into it, and put the little bundle in his pocket. Joe, meanwhile, stuck a small bandage on his foot and put on his shoes.

After filling the tank with fuel, the boys headed for Northport. The motorboat streaked across the bay, with Frank at the wheel. Skillfully he throttled down a bit as his craft moved into the long, dark swells of the Atlantic.

Steadily the Sleuth plowed northward. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand as dots of land appeared off the coast ahead. “There are the islands where Chet and Biff wanted to camp,” he noted. “Say! They’re pretty isolated—and would be likely spots for hiding kidnap victims! We ought to search them if we don’t find some clue to the boys in Northport.”

“I’ll pass them as close as I can,” Frank offered. “Maybe we’ll see something.”

One by one the line of islets could be seen. Though the Hardys watched carefully, they saw only sand, pines, and huge stone formations. Some of the islands were surrounded by dangerous half-submerged rocks.

“We’re getting close to Jagged Reef,” Joe reminded his brother. “Better take her out. Those rocky teeth can bite the bottom of a boat!”

Frank turned the Sleuth’s prow seaward. As he revved up the engine, however, he was startled by a shout from Joe.

“Hold it! There—submerged just off those rocks—” Joe pointed to a little island. “It looks like the wreck of a motorboat!”

Immediately Frank throttled down and headed toward the spot. Finally he let the engine idle. “I don’t dare go any closer,” he said. “Can you see her from here?”

“Only the outline,” reported Joe, who was standing up now with one foot on the gunwale. “Looks as if she hit a rock close to shore and sank. She’s a good size.”

“Those fragments on the rock look black,” Joe noticed. “So does the outline. Say, do you suppose it’s the boat that nearly hit us—the Black Cat?”

“We can find out,” Frank said promptly. “Our underwater equipment is in the locker. Take the wheel. I want to get a look.”

Quickly Frank donned a face mask with a wide glass plate. Leaning over, he put his head in the water and strained to see the wreck more clearly.

Lifting his face, he exclaimed, “It is black! I can’t tell if it’s the Black Cat at this distance. Keep her in close, Joe. Why are we drifting away?”

“Can’t help it.” Desperately Joe yanked at the wheel. “We’re caught in the current!” he exclaimed frantically.

While the boys had been intent on the sunken hull, the swift, strong current had caught their craft. The Sleuth was being rushed toward the deadly rocks of Jagged Reef!

CHAPTER IX

The Old Salt’s Story

BUFFETED by the current, the Sleuth plunged out of control toward the line of white exploding spray, where the sea’s swell smacked against the barrier reef.

Joe bore down hard on the wheel as the churned-up waters, falling back from the rocks, seethed underneath. The din of crashing waves was terrific, but above it could be heard the powerful throb of the Sleuth’s engine.

“If I could only turn her!” Joe thought.

For an instant the motorboat seemed to stand still in the midst of the boiling waters. The engine and treacherous current pulled with equal strength in a fierce tug of war. Then, slowly, the sturdy craft inched her way seaward under Joe’s guidance.

“She did it!” Frank whooped in relief. “What a boat! And nice piloting, Joe!”

The Sleuth gathered speed and Joe took the boat out a safe distance from the reef.

“Too bad we couldn’t find out if that sunken boat was the Black Cat,” he remarked. “But maybe we can learn something about the wreck when we get to Northport.”

“First we should trace the postcard,” Frank said. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at it again carefully. “This is so old, it probably was bought in a place that doesn’t sell many,” he commented.

“The edges are yellow and the picture is out of date. There haven’t been trolleys on Waterfront Street for years. As soon as we get there, let’s look for a little hole-in-the-wall store.”

Frank studied the card from all angles. “Joe, look!” he exclaimed, and pointed to the thin edge. There was a blue stain. “Ink,” Frank judged. “If it was spilled on the whole batch of cards, the others will have similar blots. We’ll look for that.”

It was well past noon when the boys sighted Northport on their left. Passing between a pair of entrance buoys, the Sleuth came off the swelling ocean onto the calm surface of a small, well-protected harbor.

On one side a forest of thick masts rose from a fleet of sturdy fishing boats. At the far end of the bay, bright-colored pleasure craft rode at anchor. Slender, pencillike masts marked the sailboats. On the shore nearby were the yellow wooden skeletons of boats under construction.

Joe guided the Sleuth toward a large dock with gasoline pumps, which extended into the water from the boatyard.

“This must be the yard that sponsored the regatta,” Frank commented. “Bring her in, Joe.”

Within minutes the young detectives had made their craft secure and scrambled onto the dock. They hurried down the wooden planking and turned onto Waterfront Street. There were restaurants, souvenir shops, and boat-supply stores. All of them were well kept and busy. The boys stopped in a luncheonette for a snack, then hurried on. They paused to look down the first intersecting street. It was narrow and shabby.

“Let’s try the stores on this street,” Joe suggested.

Halfway down the block, they found a small confectionery squeezed between a junk shop and an empty store. There was a sign HARRY’S on the window.

As the boys went in, a musty smell hit them. When their eyes adjusted from bright sunlight to the dark interior, they saw a glass case of candy and a soda fountain with a broken stool. There was no one in the store.

“Look!” Frank said, pointing to a rack of postcards on a shelf behind the candy case.

As Joe stepped behind the counter to peer at them, a door opened in the rear of the store.

“Don’t touch!” said a deep voice.

The boys turned to see a big man lumbering toward them. He had a swarthy face with huge dark eyes and a heavy black mustache.

“You want a postcard?” he asked shortly.

“Yes, please,” Joe replied. The shopkeeper took the card rack from the shelf and placed it on the counter. “Pick out,” he ordered.

Frank showed the man Chet’s postcard. “We want one like this. Some friends of ours bought it here yesterday, we think.”

The man looked at them stonily. “Could be!” He pointed at the rack to some faded cards identical to the one Frank held. Joe lifted them out, held them up together, and squinted at the edges. There was the blue inkstain!

“Do you remember the fellows who bought this one?” Frank asked casually, holding out the card from Chet and Biff.

“You buying or asking questions?” the man inquired.

“Both,” Frank told him with a smile.

“I guess you don’t recall,” Joe said. “Two boys our age—one of them pretty chubby?”

The man looked annoyed. “I remember who comes in my place,” he said hotly. “No kids. It was a big, bald fellow with a loud voice. He bought a lot of Fizzle soda. Second time in a week.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Both had the same recollection: the huge, bald-headed man in the Black Cat. Could he be the postcard purchaser ?

Unable to learn more, the boys thanked the proprietor and purchased three postcards. Outside, they turned toward Waterfront Street.

“Just as we suspected!” Joe burst out. “The postcard’s a phony. Somebody forced Chet and Biff to write it!”

“And that somebody may be the bald man. But what’s his game? And is his buddy who piloted the Black Cat in on it too? What’s their connection with Shantytown, anyway?”

“I’d sure like to get my hands on those two guys!” Joe declared. “They must know where Biff and Chet are.”

The Hardys stopped at a nearby restaurant, where Frank telephoned Bayport police headquarters. He gave a report of their findings to Chief Collig.

“Good lead,” said the officer. “That bald fellow might have a connection with your pals’ disappearance. I’ll send out a description of him. Keep up the good work.”

The Hardys then went to the boatyard where they had left the Sleuth. “Maybe someone here knows about the Black Cat,” Joe said. “Let’s ask.”

As the boys walked out on the docks, a wiry man bustled up to greet them. He had a lively, ruddy face and unruly black hair.

“Hello, mates!” he called out. “I’m William Caine—I manage this dock. Need any gas? Repairs?”

Frank spoke up. “What we really want, Mr. Caine, is some information.”

The manager smiled. “We’ve got plenty of that, too. Come along.”

The friendly man led the Hardys to his office, an old deck cabin, at one end of his dock. Inside, Frank and Joe looked about them curiously. The room was filled with all sorts of old sea articles—a barometer, a binnacle, and a huge pilot wheeL In addition, there were a desk, a filing cabinet, a typewriter, and a telephone.

“Pretty snug, eh?” Mr. Caine chuckled. “It’s my little bit of sea on shore, now that my sailing days are over.”

While Joe grinned appreciatively, Frank noted a limp object lying on top of the filing cabinet. “Excuse me, Mr. Caine,” he said. “What’s that?”

The seafaring man followed Frank’s gaze. “Oh, that!” Carelessly he tossed it over.

“A mask!” Frank exclaimed.

“A gorilla mask!” Joe added. “Where did you get this, Mr. Caine?”

“Kind of scary, ain’t he?” The old-timer chuckled. “We had a big masquerade party the last night of the regatta. I went as a gorilla.”

The young sleuths studied the rubber face intently. “Coincidence,” Joe murmured.

“Sure was a big regatta,” the manager went on. “People came from all over.”

Joe nodded. “What we want to ask you about, Mr. Caine, is a good-sized inboard, painted all black, named the Black Cat.”

“The Black Cat?” Caine raised his eyebrows. “Why, I own her!”

“You do?” Frank exclaimed.

“Sure. Nice fast boat, too. Where’d you see her?”

“At Bayport, day before yesterday,” Joe replied. “She tried to ram us.”

Caine looked astonished. “What happened?”

“We pulled away from her.”

“You fellows must have a pretty good boat yourselves!”

“Who was piloting the Black Cat, Mr. Caine?” Frank asked. “Did he wreck her?”

“I should say not! She’s tied up to the dock right this minute.”

“We saw the sunken hull of a black boat off one of the islands,” Joe explained.

“Oh, yes, the poor old Queen of Spades,” Mr. Caine replied. “Too bad she was wrecked. Like to have a look at my boat?”

“We sure would!” Joe declared.

Caine obligingly led the way out on the long pier. As he walked, the old salt rambled on about the Black Cat. “She’s a fast boat, all right. Let’s see—day before yesterday—that was the last day of the regatta. Three men from San Francisco hired her.”

“Three?” Joe caught him up. “There were only two men aboard when they tried to ram our boat.”

“Well, three hired her, but only two went out in her. Let’s see—there were the Stark brothers, Ben and Fritz, I think their names were, and a third fellow—big and bald. He and Ben went out in the boat. The men said they came all the way here on their vacations, especially to see the regatta.”

“Are they still around?” Frank asked.

“They’re back in California by now, I guess,” Caine replied. “Said they were taking a plane.” He stopped at the edge of the dock and motioned downward. “There she is,” he said proudly.

Frank and Joe found themselves looking into the same sleek, black powerboat which had nearly rammed them.

Joe stepped into the boat and looked around carefully. “Sure they didn’t leave anything behind?”

“Yep. I always clean my boats out good after people bring ‘em in.”

“Well, the Black Cat sure is a nice boat,” Joe declared as he climbed back onto the dock. “Which one of the renters was driving her? A dark fellow, with black hair combed straight back?”

“Yes,” Caine replied. “That would be Ben Stark.”

“We reported the attack to the Coast Guard,” Frank told the manager.

“And right you were!” said Mr. Caine. “Just let them turn up here again, and I’ll have ‘em arrested.”

“If you should hear anything about them, please let us know,” Frank requested, and gave his name and address.

“Glad to!” exclaimed Caine. “Now can I give you some gas?”

“We’d better get some,” Frank replied, “and start for home.”

By the time the boys were ready to leave, the sun was setting. Frank revved up the Sleuth’s power plant and sent the craft knifing through the swells.

Soon the boys passed out the narrow mouth of Northport harbor. Frank turned the Sleuth southward toward Bayport.

The sea was calmer than it had been during the day. On the ocean’s horizon the darkness gathered slowly, and finally a few stars were beginning to push through when the coastal islands came into view on the Sleuth’s starboard side.

After passing Jagged Reef safely, Frank ran in closer to the islands. Ahead they saw a tall, limp white sail. As the Sleuth drew nearer, the boys made out the masts and hull of a trim-looking schooner, anchored for the night off one of the islets.

“Nice lines,” commented Joe. “Pass close to her, will you, Frank?”

Quietly, with her engine throttled down, the motorboat drew abreast of the larger vessel. It was now dusk and a light shone in her cabin from which came the sound of activity. Frank gazed in admiration at the tall masts and shipshape rigging.

Suddenly Joe’s fingers clutched his brother’s shoulder. “Look! On the deck!”

As the Sleuth passed the schooner, Frank caught a quick glimpse of the figure of a boy leaning over the rail.

Joe cried out, “That was Chet!”

CHAPTER X

A Narrow Escape

“IT’s either Chet or his double!” Joe exclaimed. “But I’m sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks.”

“Do you suppose he’s a prisoner on that schooner?” Frank asked. “Well, we’ll soon find out!”

He turned the wheel sharply and the Sleuth swung about. It circled close to the anchored vesseL

“Chet!” cried Joe, making a trumpet of his hands. “Chet Morton! It’s Frank and Joe! Are you all right?”

“Che-e-t!” both boys yelled together. “Che-e-t Mo-or-ton!”

A momentary hush followed, as the Hardys paused for breath. All sounds of activity aboard the schooner ceased. Abruptly a burly sailor in white duck trousers appeared on deck.

“What’s all the holler?” he barked. “Clear out of here, or you’ll get in plenty of trouble!”

As Joe stood up to retort, Frank yanked him down again. “We should go!” he whispered. “Let him think he scared us off.”

The Sleuth’s engine roared louder, and the boat moved along the shore of the island until the white sails were out of sight.

“It’ll be black night out here in half an hour,” Frank explained. “Then we’ll go back and see what’s up.”

Daylight faded away, leaving in its place broadly sprinkled stars. A calm ocean swayed their boat gently. Rocks along the shore humped up, massive shapes in the darkness.

“Now!” Frank said softly.

Joe took the wheel and throttled the smooth-running engine so low that its sound was only a faint hum. Keeping as close to shore as possible, the Sleuth crept toward the anchored schooner.

When the vessel loomed just ahead, Joe cut the throttle completely and the motorboat glided noiselessly under her stern. Frank, holding out his hands to ward off the hull, suddenly felt rough fibers.

“A rope ladder!” he whispered. “I’m going up!”

“I’ll follow,” said Joe.

After securing their own boat with a loose hitch, Frank cautiously drew his body upward, rung by rung. Joe was right behind him. Frank slipped underneath the rail and crawled along the empty deck.

Joe reached the top of the ladder and stepped forward. Suddenly, from out of the darkness, two powerful arms seized him in a viselike grip, and a man’s sandpaper voice called out:

“Here! I caught one of them!”

Joe tensed in surprise, then spun around, breaking the grip. He ducked. With all his strength he drove upward, his head hitting the midsection of his attacker like a battering ram.

As the man fell back, gasping, Joe leaped to his feet. “Frank!” he cried hoarsely. There was no reply, but a wild clamor rose from the fore part of the deck.

“Here he is!” someone cried out.

“No, here!” another rasped.

“That’s me, you fool!”

Someone began ringing the deck bell. There came the shuffle of running feet and the grunting of men short of breath.

Then Frank’s clear voice sang out, “No use, Joe! Overboard!”

Both boys vaulted the rail. As Joe hit the water, another geyser of spray rose several feet from him. The Hardys popped to the surface, then disappeared under the dark water again.

“Harbor thieves!” came shouts from the deck. “Get them!” The bell clanged on. There were two sudden bursts of light, accompanied by sharp explosions. Someone was shooting wildly!

“Harbor thieves! Get them!” came shouts

from the deck

Frank and Joe surfaced near the rope ladder and quickly untied the Sleuth. Swimming with swift, silent strokes they pushed their craft away from the schooner into the protecting darkness.

“Whew!” breathed Joe as he tumbled, panting, into the motorboat. “They must have been on deck, watching.”

“Anyhow, I found out what we wanted to know,” Frank reported. “That wasn’t Chet, but a boy who looks a lot like him.”

“How do you know?”

“He tackled me. I said, ‘Chet, it’s Frank!’ but he hung on tightly. That’s when I yelled for you to go over the side.”

Joe started the motor and opened the throttle all the way. As the Sleuth gained power, the prow lifted and the boat leaped forward. Safely away from the yacht, Joe switched on the running lights. Along the shore, they could see a solitary light here and there. Presently the bright glow of beach fires told them they were passing Shantytown.

“No more stops tonight,” Frank said with a chuckle.

The Sleuth crossed the quiet expanse of Bayport harbor and finally entered their boathouse. Twenty minutes later they reached the Hardy house. Their mother and aunt were anxiously waiting.

“Goodness gracious!” scolded Aunt Gertrude. “Is this a time to come home—” She stopped and gasped. “Oh! Look at them! Soaking wet—like a pair of drowned rats!”

“We’re almost dry, Auntie,” Joe replied with a laugh. “We fell in over an hour ago.”

“Fell in!” their mother exclaimed. “We can’t wait to hear! But first you’d better go upstairs and change, then have some supper.”

Soon Frank and Joe, comfortable in fresh, dry clothes, were seated at the kitchen table before a late but steaming dinner.

“Where’s Dad?” Frank asked.

“He left town this afternoon,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “He’s checking an out-of-state clue on the bank robbery. Now tell us what happened to you boys.”

“Well, we thought we saw Chet on a schooner,” Frank began, as he cut into a generous slice of roast beef.

“Only it wasn’t Chet ...” Joe said, and helped himself to a baked potato.

“They thought we were thieves ...” Frank tried again.

“So we jumped overboard!” Joe added.

“A very clear account,” Aunt Gertrude commented tartly.

As soon as the brothers finished eating they excused themselves, jumped up, and headed for the back door.

“Oh, no!” cried Aunt Gertrude in alarm. “Where are you off to now?”

“Just out to the laboratory, Auntie,” Frank reassured her. “We found something today we must work on.”

The boys ran up the garage stairs and Joe unlocked the door at the top. Frank switched on the fluorescent light over a clean table. On it he laid the cheesecloth bundle of glass fragments from the Sleuth.

“We’ll need something to hold these together,” he noted, unwrapping the green shards. As the brothers examined them, Frank reached for a container of putty. “This will be better than glue.”

Treating the fragments like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the young sleuths rebuilt a twelve-ounce, green-tinted pop bottle.

“Fizzle,” Joe read from the raised glass letters. “Fizzle—where—”

“Harry’s confectionery in Northport!” Frank broke in excitedly. “The owner said that the bald man bought several bottles of Fizzle!”

“You mean he might have been the one who left the broken glass in the Sleuth?”

“Yes! Not only that—he might have done it while helping to steal our boat.”

“Wait a minute!” Joe’s thoughts raced as he followed his brother’s line of deduction. “If that’s true, he could be one of the bank robbers! They stole a car in Northport!”

“And don’t forget the postcard business, which may tie him in with the kidnaping of Chet and Biff!”

Joe nodded. “Then there’s Ben Stark, the pilot of the Black Cat, which by the way, came down from Northport the day of the bank robbery. Is he linked with both cases? And is his pal Sutton? And where do the fights at Shantytown fit in?”

“That’s for us to find out,” Frank said determinedly. “Especially since the answer might lead us to Chet and Biff. We’re pretty sure they were in Shantytown—since we found Chet’s gorilla mask off the coast there, and his sleeve was picked up behind Sutton’s shack.”

The excitement suddenly faded from Joe’s face. “Maybe our hunches are on the wrong track. After all, Fizzle could be sold in other places besides Northport—and we have no proof the bald guy left the bottle in the Sleuth.”

“Don’t be a pessimist,” Frank begged. “Remember what Dad says: ‘Persistence is just as important as cleverness in detective work.’ ”

“Yes, and a little luck helps, too. Don’t worry. It’s just that we have so many mysteries to solve. Which one do we tackle next?” The ringing of the telephone interrupted. Frank answered.

“Glad to find you home,” came Chief Collig’s familiar voice. “Maybe you can help me. We have a man down here—been brought in for stealing. He seems to think you and Joe can clear him.”

“Joe and I?” repeated Frank, astonished. “Why ... what’s his name? What does he look like?”

“He’s a big, strong fellow—a stevedore. Calls himself Alf.”

CHAPTER XI

Midnight Caller

“ALF Lundborg a thief!” Frank exclaimed. “I can’t believe it! We’ll be right down, Chief Collig,” he promised.

“I don’t buy it,” Joe said flatly as they started out. “What’s the pitch?”

Frank shrugged and hurried off to inform his mother of the errand, while Joe locked the laboratory. Then the brothers rushed downtown on their motorcycles to Chief Collig’s office.

“Where’s Alf?” asked Joe, looking around as he entered.

“We’re holding him in a cell until I talk to you boys,” the officer explained.

“He’s the man we told you about yesterday,” Frank reminded the chief. “The one who helped us in Shantytown. If it hadn’t been for him, Sutton would have cracked my skull with a blackjack.”

“I remember,” the chief replied. “Sutton’s the cause of his arrest.” Before the surprised boys could speak, he added, “I’ll let Lundborg tell you himself.” Over his intercom he ordered the suspect brought in.

“I don’t believe Alf’s a thief,” Frank said.

“But he does have a record for petty theft and disturbing the peace,” Chief Collig said soberly. “That makes it look bad for him.”

“How long ago was that?” Joe asked.

“Alf’s last brush with the law was five years ago,” Collig replied. “He claims he was just a wild kid at the time.”

The door opened and Alf stood on the threshold. His giant frame almost hid the sergeant behind him. When he saw the Hardys, his troubled face lighted up instantly.

“I knew you fellows wouldn’t let me down,” he burst out. “Tell the chief I didn’t take it!”

“Take what, Alf?” said Frank.

“The police found a transistor radio in my knapsack,” the big man explained, “but I didn’t put it there!”

“Sutton reported it stolen,” the officer said. “We sent out Lieutenant Daley to investigate, and he found it in Lundborg’s bag.”

“Is Lieutenant Daley still here?” Frank asked. “Would you have him come in?” Collig nodded.

A few minutes later a tall, thin-faced officer entered. He and the Hardys had known one another for years and exchanged greetings. “Lieutenant Daley,” Frank said, “when you were hunting for the radio who suggested that you look in Alf’s knapsack?”

“Sutton,” the officer answered.

Frank nodded. “It looks like a plant, Chief.”

“Sure it is,” Joe declared. “Alf scared Sutton off when he attacked Frank. He probably planted the radio to get even.”

“That’s right! That’s just what I told them!” Alf boomed. “Thanks a lot for sticking by me, fellows. I’ll get Sutton!”

“Hold on there!” commanded Chief Collig. “You’ll be back here for assault if you try that. Since the Hardys back up your story, I’ll let you go. But if Sutton prosecutes, we’ll have to bring you in again.”

“Okay.” Alf wrung the boys’ hands, thanked them, and left.

Frank pointed to a radio on Collig’s desk and asked, “Is this the stolen property?”

“That’s it,” Lieutenant Daley spoke up.

“Take a look,” the chief invited, and Frank picked up the compact, heavy little set.

“Japanese make. Yokohama Super-X.”

“Let’s see,” Joe requested. He gave a low whistle as his brother passed it to him. “What a little beauty! Brand new, too. Look at that nickel-and-ivory case!”

“It’s an expensive, rare set,” Lieutenant Daley commented. “Not many people can afford one.”

“That’s true,” Frank said. “Hank Sutton seems to be just a seedy-looking character who lives in Shantytown. But Joe and I have a hunch as to how he could afford a radio like this.”

“You mean he stole it?” Chief Collig asked.

“We think he belongs to a ring of thieves,” Frank told him. “If they fight among themselves, it would explain the trouble in Shantytown.”

Lieutenant Daley looked doubtful. “If Sutton stole the radio, why would he plant it on Alf? That would only call the attention of the police to himself.”

Frank grinned. “If you’d seen Sutton go after me, you’d know he acts first and thinks later.”

“Then he’s probably regretting Lundborg’s arrest right now,” Lieutenant Daley returned.

“That’s not all he’ll regret,” Joe promised grimly, “if he’s had anything to do with Chet and Biff’s disappearance.”

“That reminds me,” the chief said. “The boys’ parents received postcards from Northport, too. We’re looking for the bald, loud-voiced man you told me about, but that isn’t much to go on.”

“No,” Frank admitted, “but we’re working on a new clue.” He told of the discovery of the Fizzle soda bottle and the purchase of a similar one by the bald-headed man in Northport. “That’s why we think he’s connected with stealing the Sleuth as well as Chet and Biff’s disappearance.”

“Then,” Joe put in, “we learned that the dock manager up there owns the Black Cat and rented it the day of the bank robbery to the bald fellow and Ben Stark—the one we saw talking to Hank Sutton in Shantytown.”

Chief Collig looked at the boys keenly. “I see what you’re driving at—that Sutton may be more than a petty thief—he and the other two might be involved in the robbery!”

As Lieutenant Daley stared at the Hardys in amazement, Frank replied, “You’re right, Chief. But we have no solid evidence yet to back up our hunch. Joe and I will check stores in town tomorrow to see where the radio came from.”

“Good. We’ll do some checking of our own too. Thanks, Frank and Joe, for coming down.”

When the Hardys reached home, their house was dark. They let themselves in quietly, went to bed, and fell asleep at once.

Some time later Joe was awakened by a noise. He sat up, listening. It came again-a soft knocking.

“Frank!” he whispered, shaking his brother. “Someone’s at the front door.”

Instantly Frank was awake. The boys hurried downstairs. As the gentle knocking began again, Frank switched on the porch light. Joe swung open the front door. Before them stood a tall, thin, worried-looking man.

“Mr. French!” cried Joe in surprise.

The costume dealer’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “You—you’re not—you’re here!” he stammered incoherently.

“Yes, of course, we are,” Frank responded. “Why are you so surprised to see us?”

“Why—ah—I’m terribly sorry, boys!” Mr. French looked nervously over his shoulder. “I—I see I’ve come to the wrong street—looking for High Avenue, and this must be High Street. So sorry! Good night!”

The tall man hurried down the steps to a car at the curb and drove away.

Joe turned to his brother. “There isn’t any High Avenue in Bayport. Mr. French must know that. He’s been in business here for years.”

As Frank closed the door, they heard footsteps at the top of the stairs and their mother’s voice asked softly, “What is it, Gertrude?”

“Burglars!” hissed their aunt. “I heard them talking.” She called down in a loud but shaky voice, “The police are coming! Go or I’ll call my nephews! Frank! Joe!”

“We’re down here, Auntie!” Frank informed her, stifling a laugh. “There are no burglars.”

After a second’s pause there came a weak “Well!” followed by “Humph! I might have known!”

“What’s the matter, boys?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Someone here who said he had the wrong street,” Joe told her, and switched off the porch light.

The next morning the boys ate an early breakfast. Afterward, Frank suggested, “Let’s try all the appliance stores to see if Sutton did buy the Super-X radio. We can see Mr. French later.”

Joe agreed and they set off. They went from shop to shop, but the story was always the same: The merchants did not stock the Yokohama Super-X radio—it was too costly to sell many sets. At last, however, a young clerk in a hi-fi equipment store said, “Yes, we have them. I’ll be glad to show you one.”

“We’re not here to buy,” Frank said. “We just want to know if you’ve sold any recently.”

“No,” the disappointed clerk admitted. “We don’t sell many. We thought we would—despite the high price—because the Super-X transistor has so many extra features—FM, short wave—name it!”

“Where do you get them?” Joe asked.

“We import directly from the Yokohama Radio Company’s distributors in Japan. The radios come in by ship and are unloaded on the Bayport docks.”

“Have you missed any from your stock lately?” Frank queried.

The clerk looked surprised, but answered readily, “No, but we were short one crate on the last shipment. My boss wrote to the distributor in Japan about it, but there hasn’t been time for a reply yet.”

The boys thanked the youth and returned to the street. They wondered about the clerk’s remarks concerning the foreign-made radios.

“If Sutton bought the radio, he didn’t buy it in Bayport,” Joe declared.

Frank said, “He may have stolen the whole crate that was supposed to go to the hi-fi store. Let’s cycle out to Shantytown. Maybe we can learn more about Sutton.”

The brothers hurried home and put on their beachcomber clothes. Then they hopped onto their motorcycles and sped along Shore Road. They hid their cycles in a grove of short, scrubby pines near the squatter colony.

“We’d better walk the rest of the way,” Joe said, “and act as casual as possible.”

Frank and Joe entered the camp cautiously. It was noontime and pale smoke rose from a few cooking fires near the water. The village was nearly deserted and the boys judged that Sutton’s shack was empty. The door was padlocked.

As Frank and Joe wandered among the huts, they noticed that each one had a trash heap of its own in the rear. Suddenly Joe darted to a pile in which something glinted in the sunlight.

“What did you find?” Frank called, and ran forward to look.

“Pop bottles!” Joe exulted, holding one aloft. “Fizzle soda!”

CHAPTER XII

The Desolate Island

JOE picked up another bottle from the rubbish heap. “It’s exactly like the one we pieced together last night,” he declared. “These prove the bank robbers are linked up with Shantytown!”

“It looks that way,” Frank conceded. “But—Fizzle soda may be sold around Bayport. As you said, we don’t know for certain that the robbers used the Sleuth. Somebody may just have ‘borrowed’ it for a joy ride.”

“Well, the bottles make it likely that the robbers are connected to this place,” Joe amended. “But let’s scout around some more.”

The two boys, hands in pockets, strolled casually among the shacks. Although they looked closely at the few squatters hanging around, they saw no one they recognized. Disappointed, the brothers circled back to the trash heap.

“We’re getting nowhere,” said Joe, disheartened.

Suddenly Frank’s body tensed. “Sh! Listen! Hear that?”

“All I hear is the ocean.”

“Someone is groaning!”

Still listening intently, Frank turned and looked all around him. The nearest building was a gray, windowless shack with a closed door. Abruptly he strode toward it, Joe behind him.

Reaching the handleless door, Frank gave a tentative push and it swung open. Warily he stepped inside and blinked for a moment in the darkness.

“Joe! Quick!”

A man lay huddled on a cot. His face and the blanket he clutched were smeared with dried blood, and he moaned and heaved for breath.

“The man’s unconscious,” said Frank as he took the limp wrist for a pulse. “Find water, Joe. Maybe there’s some in the jug on the table.”

Joe looked into the container. “We’re in luck!” He soaked his handkerchief and bathed the injured man’s face. As the blood and dirt came away, the boy gave a gasp of surprise.

Hank Sutton!

“He’s badly hurt,” Frank observed. “Cuts and bruises on the head, and shock. Might be fractures, too,”

“I’ll call the police ambulance,” Joe volunteered. “We passed a house about a mile down the road. They must have a phone.”

“Hurryl” Frank urged. “I’ll stay here.”

Joe sprinted for his motorcycle. While he was gone, Frank searched the dim hut for clues to an assailant, but found nothing.

Soon an ambulance, its red lights blinking, was speeding toward Shantytown. A police car followed. When they passed the house where Joe had telephoned, he zoomed after them.

At Shantytown he led an intern and two stretcher-bearers across the sand to the hut where Frank waited with the injured Sutton.

“How is he?” asked the doctor quickly on entering. “Is he conscious yet?”

“No, he’s delirious,” Frank said. “He keeps mumbling something over and over—a man’s name.”

“Whose?” asked Joe eagerly. He had appeared in the doorway, with Chief Collig behind him.

Frank looked up at them with a frown. “Alf Lundborg‘s, I’m afraid.”

“So he took his revenge on Sutton,” the chief concluded. “That’s bad.”

The intern hustled everyone out of the way. Expertly the injured man was transferred to the stretcher and borne across the sand to the waiting ambulance.

Chief Collig and the boys trailed along. “We’ll have to pick up Alf,” the chief remarked. “He had the perfect motive for assaulting Sutton.”

“Just the same I don’t believe he did it,” Joe declared stoutly.

“Sorry, fellows,” the chief said regretfully as they reached the road, “but regardless of the suspicions against Sutton, I have no choice.”

Frank and Joe walked sadly back to the pine grove, mounted their motorcycles, and rode home. They ate lunch quietly, puzzling over the case.

“What now?” Joe asked glumly. “All we did this morning was to get Alf in trouble.”

“Great detectives we are!” said Frank, disgusted. “How about walking downtown? I have another idea.”

“About what?” “The Fizzle soda. Since the person who had a bottle of it was in our boat—the bald fellow or someone else—he was in Bayport. Maybe he did buy some here.”

The two set off and strode briskly along the sidewalk. At the first grocery store they turned in. “Do you carry Fizzle soda?” Frank asked.

“No, I don’t.”

The young detectives went into all the drugstores, markets, and lunch counters along their way. Always they asked the same question, and received the same answer. Nobody sold Fizzle soda.

At last they entered a downtown sweetshop which was a meeting place for many of their friends. “Hi!” called Tony Prito from a booth where he was seated with Jerry Gilroy.

“Hello, fellows,” Frank greeted them. “We’ll be over in a minute.”

Meanwhile, he asked the soda clerk about Fizzle, but received a negative answer. “Only place I’ve ever seen it anywhere around these parts is Northport. I live near there.”

Northport again!

Frank and Joe walked over to their friends.

“Any news of Chet and Biff?” Tony asked.

“Nothing but a postcard,” Frank answered.

“What do you think really happened to them?” Jerry asked worriedly. “Did they go off on a mission of their own? Or were they kidnaped?”

“We don’t know,” Frank confessed. “But there haven’t been any ransom notes.”

“It’s dull around here without the fellows.” Tony sighed. “We were going on a nice camping trip.”

“Chet and Biff told us about it,” said Joe. “Frank and I have an idea maybe they’re being hidden on one of the coast islands.”

“Could be,” Tony said. “I remember Biff mentioned Hermit Island—the one owned by a queer old recluse who lives on it.”

“He mentioned that to us, too,” Joe recalled. “I wonder if that old man has seen any sign of Chet and Biff?”

“Say!” Tony’s face suddenly lighted up. “Why don’t we get your boat and go out for a look at Hermit Island? It’s early enough yet. How about it?”

“Good idea!” Jerry exclaimed.

“Right!” Frank said enthusiastically.

Joe was already on his feet. “Come on! Let’s go!” To Frank he said, “The mystery of Mr. French’s mix-up last night can wait.”

Jerry and Tony paid for their ice cream, and the four hurried out to Jerry’s car. A short drive brought them to the Hardy boathouse.

“Let’s take both our boats,” Tony proposed. “We might need them—if we find Chet and Biff.”

They piled into the Sleuth and Frank steered the craft down to the dock where Tony kept the Napoli. Just as the two boats were ready to cast off, Callie Shaw and Iola Morton walked out onto Tony’s dock.

“Oh, are you boys going for a ride?” Callie asked. “May we come along?”

“Gosh, Callie,” Frank said doubtfully, “this isn’t exactly a pleasure cruise. We’re bound for Hermit Island to look for Chet and Biff.”

“Oh, then you have to take us,” pleaded Iola. “After all, Chet’s my brother.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, Frank.”

“Iola’s right,” Joe agreed. “The girls want to find Chet and Biff as much as we do.”

“Okay,” said Frank. “Pile in, then!” Iola cheered up at once and the Hardys helped the girls into the stern of the Sleuth.

The boats moved swiftly out the harbor, with Frank leading the way in the slightly faster Sleuth. Before long, the shore islands came into sight, with their white, drifted sand, scrubby vegetation, and huge, barren rocks.

Hermit Island, a big craggy pile, loomed out of the water higher than all the others. It was attractive but wild looking.

“Too rough on this side to land,” Frank called over to the Napoli. “Good beach on the lee shore, though, I believe. Follow me!”

The search party rounded the island. After the girls had stepped onto firm sand, the four boys tied their mooring ropes to trees at the edge of the beach. All went ashore and gazed at the lonely spot.

“This is a spooky place,” commented Iola, looking around her uneasily.

“It does give one the creeps,” Callie agreed.

The boys laughed but felt they should proceed carefully. With Frank and Joe in the lead, they set off on a faint path that wound along the shore at the base of the steep, rocky hill which formed the heart of the island. Above the searchers loomed jagged cliffs, cut here and there by deep ravines, thick with pines and coarse grass.

At times Joe cupped his hands and shouted, “Hallooo ... Bi-iff ... Che-e-t!”

There was no answer. “Looks hopeless,” Joe commented.

At last the path began to rise steeply. The four boys moved upward much faster than Iola and Callie. Finally the girls dropped behind. The boys continued on, clambering and puffing, forgetful of everything but the tough terrain they were fighting.

Suddenly a sharp scream rang out from below. “Callie!” cried Frank, whirling.

CHAPTER XIII

The Threatening Figure

TUMBLING and sliding, the four boys rushed pell-mell down the steep path to Iola and Callie. The girls clung together in fright.

“What is it, Callie?” cried Frank.

Speechless, the girl pointed upward. From the top of the bluff a wild-looking old man with a long, dirty white beard was pointing a shotgun at them.

His clothes were torn, and he wore a battered felt hat. The weird figure stood motionless, silhouetted against the blue sky. The afternoon sunlight gleamed on the barrels of his weapon.

“He must be the hermit,” muttered Joe.

“Git off my island!” came the strong, deep voice of the old man. The shotgun jerked threateningly. “Git, I say!”

“We’d better do as he says,” Frank advised.

He took Callie’s arm. Joe grabbed Iola’s. The six young people scooted for the beach.

As they followed the path, the Hardys and their friends could see the strange man darting from rock to rock along the top of the bluff above them. He did not let them out of his sight. When they reached the boats, Frank and Joe quickly helped the girls safely aboard the Sleuth.

Joe took the wheel while Frank cast off. The Sleuth and the Napoli were run just out of shotgun range, then throttled down while their passengers took another look at their adversary. The old man stood in the same threatening attitude on the hilltop.

“You know,” Frank noted, “for an old fellow he has a powerful voice.”

“He’s plenty spry, too,” Joe added. “Did you see how he jumped across those rocks? He’s nimble as a goat!”

“And did you notice his shotgun?” Frank asked. “It was very well cared for; not like his beard and clothes!”

“There was no nonsense about that gun,” Joe agreed. “I’d like to know what the man’s trying to keep us away from!”

“Maybe he just wants to be left alone,” Callie suggested.

“After all, he is a hermit,” added Iola.

“Whatever he is,” declared Joe, “I’d like to get a closer look at him sometime.”

Joe put on power and the Sleuth shot forward over the water. The Napoli trailed close behind.

As the island dropped astern, Frank remarked, “I can still make out the hermit. He’s standing motionless on that hilltop.”

The two speedboats crossed the wide expanse of Bayport harbor and came to rest at Tony’s dock.

“Say, you fellows don’t have any transportation down here,” Jerry recalled. “Shall I pick you up at your boathouse?”

“No, thanks,” Frank replied. “Joe and I came out to do some sleuthing. We’ll walk. We have a few stops to make.”

“Okay, we’ll give Iola and Callie a lift, then.” They helped the girls ashore and Frank and Joe waved good-by.

After locking the Sleuth in her berth, Frank and Joe walked to the center of town. “Let’s stop at headquarters,” Frank suggested as they approached the familiar stone building. “Maybe there’s some new word on Sutton.”

The boys found Chief Collig in conference with Lieutenant Daley.

“It’s all right. Come in, fellows,” the chief invited. “Daley’s been over at the hospital. Sutton has regained consciousness.”

“What did he say?” Frank inquired eagerly.

“He claims he doesn’t know who beat him up,” replied Lieutenant Daley. “Says he was hit from behind and never saw his attacker.”

“But that can’t be true!” Frank protested. “The bruises I saw were mostly on his face.”

“Oh, he knows who did it, all right,” Lieutenant Daley agreed. “Only he’s covering up for somebody. Why should he try to protect that big fellow he tried to frame last night?”

“How about Alf?” Joe broke in. “What’s his story?”

“We have Lundborg in a cell,” Lieutenant Daley answered. “Of course he denies any part in the beating.”

“We can’t hold him much longer,” put in Chief Collig. “There’s no evidence against him.”

“Of course not! Alf wouldn’t beat up a fellow half his size,” Joe declared.

“Then why did Sutton mumble Lundborg’s name in his delirium?” the chief countered.

“Sutton had a grudge against Alf. It must have been on his mind,” Frank suggested.

“That could be,” Chief Collig conceded. “How have you two boys been making out? Any new dues on Chet or Biff? We have none.”

“No, we haven’t,” Frank answered. “We went out to Hermit Island on a hunch this afternoon, but had no luck there, either.”

“Do you know anything about that hermit, Chief?” Joe inquired.

“A little,” the chief returned. “Remember him, Daley? Queer old bird. Somebody left him the whole island in a will. He said it was just the place he wanted, to get away from the crazy world!”

“Yes.” The tall lieutenant chuckled. “He moved out there for good some years ago. Never let anybody land on his island.”

“We found that out. He chased us off pretty fast this afternoon,” Joe said.

“Wha-a-t?” drawled the lieutenant, turning for a good look at the boy.

“Who are you kidding?” Chief Collig grinned.

“What’s so funny?” Joe asked. “He threatened us with a shotgun.”

“That’s impossible,” Chief Collig said flatly. “He’s dead!”

Frank and Joe looked at each other in astonishment. “Then he’s a mighty spry dead man,” Joe declared.

Chief Collig shook his head. “The hermit died last fall and the Coast Guard brought him back to the mainland for burial. He had no one to leave the island to, so it belongs to the state.”

“Wow!” Joe cried out. “Then the man we saw isn’t the real hermit and had no right to order us off.”

“Right,” Chief Collig agreed. “It’s state property. Anyone can go there. My jurisdiction doesn’t cover it. Report this man to the Coast Guard.”

“We will, if he bothers us again,” Frank stated.

After leaving the police station, the young detectives walked along Bayport’s main street toward Mr. French’s costume store.

“That phony hermit wasn’t joking,” Frank said. “He wanted us off the island and no fooling. What do you think he’s up to?”

Joe stopped short and said excitedly, “What if Chet and Biff were taken to Hermit Island?”

“Then this faker might know about the kidnaping. Is he in on the game, too?”

“The old guy could be holding them prisoner,” Joe went on. “That’s why he chased us away! He didn’t dare risk having us looking around.”

“Hermit Island isn’t very far away from Shantytown,” Frank said. “The rubber mask we found could have floated out from one place as well as from the other, depending on the tide.”

“But how about the pieces of the boys’ costumes the police found among the shacks?” Joe asked, perplexed. “How do they fit in with the Hermit Island theory?”

“Chet and Biff could’ve been transported to the island from Shantytown,” reasoned Frank.

As he spoke, the brothers came to the costume shop. “I hope Mr. French is here,” Frank said. “We’ll ask him why he—”

The boys suddenly gasped and stared in amazement at the big display window of the store. In it were a gorilla and a magician costume!

“The same kind of suits we were wearing the night Biff and Chet disappeared!” Frank cried out.

“Yes,” Joe agreed in high excitement. “And that was the night of the bank robbery!”

CHAPTER XIV

Signal Three

“THERE’S something queer about this costume store,” Frank said positively. “Maybe the bank robbers got their masks here!”

“And Mr. French came to our house in the middle of the night to tell us about it, then lost his nerve,” Joe added.

“Why are the same costumes in this window as those we wore?” Frank wondered. “Are they a signal to somebody?”

“There’s one way to find out,” Joe replied. “We’ll ask Mr. French himself.” He pushed the heavy glass door.

It was locked. Peering inside the store, the boys saw that it was deserted. A shaft of light from the back room pierced the late-afternoon shadows within. Joe banged on the heavy glass with his knuckles but no one came.

“Let’s try the back entrance,” Frank muttered.

An alley separated the costume store from the next building. The boys slipped along this cobbled passageway to a dingy yard behind the shop. Quietly they stepped up to the rear door. Voices could be heard inside.

As Joe raised his fist to knock, Frank grabbed his arm. “Wait! Listen!”

A man’s voice droned on indistinguishably, then snapped out a single, sharp word.

“Kidnap!”

Breathless, Frank and Joe strained to hear more.

“You fools!” said a new voice derisively.

A third speaker broke in harshly. The phrase “no second mistake” rasped out clearly.

“... signal three ...” came another snatch.

The Hardys listened intently but were unable to catch any more of the conversation.

Silently Frank beckoned Joe into the alley. “I have a hunch!” he said. “Chet was wearing a gorilla suit just like mine. What if he and Biff were kidnaped in place of you and me?”

Joe’s eyes widened with excitement. “Then the kidnapers are the bank robbers—and they would still be out to get us!” he exclaimed. “That’s what they meant by ‘no second mistake’!”

Frank nodded. “They’re probably holding Chet and Biff because they’re afraid to let them go!”

“But why were they after us in the first place?” Joe asked, puzzled.

“I don’t know,” Frank admitted. “But I have a plan. Come on! We must act fast!”

The boys ran from the alley and hailed a passing taxi. When they reached home, the brothers found that their father had just returned and was in his study. Fenton Hardy listened in concern and amazement to his sons’ discovery.

“How I’d like to pick up those thugs and question them!” he exclaimed. “But that would only tip them off.”

“And we haven’t enough evidence to hold them,” Frank added.

Mr. Hardy frowned. “The best we can do is put a police tail on them and hope to find out more that way.” He reached for the phone.

“Wait, Dad!” Frank pleaded. “I have a scheme. Joe and I will go back to the shop. We’ll let them kidnap us. Then Collig’s men will really have something on the gang and can nab them.”

“I don’t know,” their father considered. “It’s plenty risky.”

“Please, Dad,” Joe urged. “The faster we crack the case, the sooner we’ll find Chet and Biff.”

Fenton Hardy was concerned for his sons’ safety, but was proud of their willingness to risk capture for the sake of their missing chums.

“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll alert the police. We’ll station ourselves outside the store. As soon as the gang tries to take you away, we’ll close in!”

“Good,” said Frank, satisfied.

As their father dialed headquarters, he checked his watch and said to Frank and Joe, “Give Collig and me twenty minutes from now to get set. Then go into the store.”

The boys sped downtown on their motorcycles, parked near the costume shop, and slipped down the alley. The men were still talking inside the back room of the store. The brothers waited, eyes fixed on their wrist watches.

“Now!” Frank whispered at last. “Let’s take the chance that ‘signal three’ means knock three times!”

The boys walked to the back door and Frank gave three hard raps.

Immediately the voices became silent. A lock clicked and the door swung a few inches inward. A man’s face peered out at the boys. He was the speedboat pilot with the slicked-back hair—the one Mr. Caine had identified as Ben Stark!

Frank and Joe gave no sign of recognition. Stark’s eyes, however, widened in astonishment.

“I know the store is closed,” Frank said to him, “but we need something desperately. We’re the Hardy boys. May we come in?”

Stark’s expression changed from amazement to oily politeness. “Of course, boys!” he answered, and swung the door wide. “Come right inside!”

Frank and Joe passed into a dim storeroom, lighted by a single bulb overhead. On one side, two tough-looking men they had never seen before eyed them in stunned silence. Ben Stark closed the door and stood with his back against it.

“So you are the famous Hardy boys!” he said, smiling widely. “Of course I’ve heard of you, but I don’t think we’ve met before.”

Stark looked hard at them, but the boys’ expressions betrayed nothing. He indicated his companions. “This is Mr. Moran and Mr. Duke,” he said. Moran nodded. Duke, a lanky, pale-faced man, merely stared.

“Haven’t I heard that you’ve been working on a new case?” Stark asked. “What do you suppose has happened to your missing friends?”

Recognizing the attempt to pump them, the young sleuths played along.

“They must have drowned,” Frank replied sadly. He made no reference to the postcard in Chet’s handwriting.

For a moment Stark looked puzzled. Then he said with exaggerated sympathy, “Isn’t it strange there’s been so much excitement in town lately? Even a bank robbery!”

“That won’t be a mystery for long,” Frank boasted to test the man’s reaction. “My father, Fenton Hardy, has it practically solved. The robbers had better watch out!”

Ben Stark’s oily smile faded. He looked hard at his two companions by the wall. Catching the signal, the men left their places and casually drew nearer to Frank and Joe. Both boys sensed the coming attack and summoned all their will power to appear nonchalant.

“By the way, where’s Mr. French?” Joe asked, glancing casually around the room. There was no answer.

The next instant the three men lunged forward and leaped on the brothers!

Boxes tumbled from shelves in the struggle, and the single light bulb swung crazily from the ceiling. Frank pretended to be fighting off his assailants, but finally he allowed his arms to be pinioned.

Joe, meanwhile, had been thrown against a bank of shelves and had fallen to the floor as though stunned. Panting, the men quickly bound, gagged, and blindfolded the two young detectives.

“Now,” gloated Stark, “if your old man and the police don’t call off the hunt for the bank robbers, they’ll never see you again!”

Frank and Joe listened intently, hoping to learn more, but the men said nothing further.

A door slammed. There was a short, silent wait. Then they heard a car engine running in the yard behind the store.

“Okay!” came Stark’s voice. “Coast is clear!”

Frank and Joe were lifted up, carried a little way, then dropped on the floor of the automobile.

Tensely the two boys waited to hear police whistles and Chief Collig barking orders. But the car began to move, rolling swiftly out the alley, and away.

“What happened to our plan?” Frank wondered. “Where’s Dad?”

“We must have gone in too soon,” Joe thought, dismayed. “The police couldn’t get here in time!”

As the car drove on, Frank and Joe recognized the sounds of heavy traffic all around them. Gradually the vehicle picked up speed. The engine purred steadily, and the tires whined along on what could only be open highway.

Presently the car swerved, bumped over uneven ground a short distance, and stopped. In the sudden silence the blindfolded youths could hear the sound of surf on the beach.

“We’re near the shore,” Frank reasoned. “Shantytown perhaps. The time it took getting here seems about the same as when we came before.”

The car doors were opened. Again the boys were lifted and carried. A minute later each of them felt a jarring pain as he was dropped on a wooden floor. Rough hands ripped away their blindfolds.

Although tightly bound, the Hardys struggled to sitting positions. They were in a small board shack. A little light came through a tiny window high up in one of the walls.

Ben Stark and Moran were going out the door. Stark looked back. “Keep your eyes open, Duke,” he ordered sharply. “Those kids are slippery.”

“Don’t worry,” the pale-faced man replied insolently.

After his two companions had left, he went to a water bucket in one corner, dipped in a tin cup, and drank thirstily. Then he sat down in a wooden chair and tilted back lazily against the wall.

Frank and Joe listened anxiously for sounds of rescue. They could hear the sea, but nothing else.

Carefully they looked over their prison. The shack was crudely built out of broken crates and old two-by-fours. Long, sharp points of nails stuck through the wall near Duke’s chair. At the rear of the room was a little squat wood-burning stove.

Cramped and helpless, the boys could only wait. As night came on, Duke stood up and lighted a kerosene lantern hanging on the wall. Then he sat down and tilted back his chair again.

“Might as well face it,” thought Frank. “Rescue isn’t coming.” He looked at Joe with silent urgency, and his eyes said plainly, “It’s up to us!”

CHAPTER XV

Outwitting a Suspect

ALTHOUGH bound and gagged, the Hardys exchanged messages. Frank’s glance slid to their guard, tilted back in his chair against the wall. Then he looked at his brother.

Joe nodded slightly to show he understood and looked toward the lantern. The glass was turning black with soot and the room was in deep shadow.

“Lucky it’s dark in here,” he thought, “because we’ll have to get these ropes off without being seen.”

Frank’s eyes fastened on the long nails he had seen sticking through the wall near the chair legs. If only he could get his back to those sharp points!

Cautiously he inched toward the wall. Duke, who appeared to be asleep, did not stir. Joe also moved. Bit by bit, the brothers worked their way closer to the protruding nails.

At last Frank sat with his back against the wall, not far from the guard’s chair. Hardly daring to breathe, he felt behind him until a tenpenny spike pricked his wrist. If he was lucky, his scheme would work!

Frank eyed his captor. The man was still asleep. Quickly Frank rubbed the rope against the sharp point. He could feel the strands separate, one at a time. His arms and back ached, but he kept on doggedly.

Finally the rope was severed. His hands freed, he removed the gag, then pulled out his pocket-knife and cut the ropes around his ankles. Reaching over, he cut Joe’s bonds.

Then Frank seized a leg of Duke’s tilted chair and jerked it out from under the guard. Slam! Duke fell on his back and cried out.

Frank and Joe leaped on him together, but he rolled away. As he bounced to his feet, Joe brought him down with a tackle.

Fighting desperately, the guard kicked, bit, scratched, and finally broke away. Gasping, he backed into a corner. As Frank went after him, Duke grabbed the kerosene lantern and hurled it. The boys ducked.

Crash! The glass shattered and kerosene drenched the opposite wall. A flame licked up the side of the shack.

“Water!” Joe yelled. “The bucket!”

He tore off his shirt and tried to beat out the flames. At the same time, Frank and Duke grappled for the pail. Duke jerked it away and flung it at Joe. The bucket narrowly missed him, slamming against the wall. The water splashed over onto the flames with a hissing sound.

“You young fools! I’ll get you for this!” Duke picked up the chair and raised it over his head. But Frank swung a right-hand haymaker. It caught Duke in the solar plexus and he went down in a heap.

“He’s out cold!” Joe cried, whipped off his shirt, and finally smothered the flames. “What a sock that was!”

Duke moaned and stirred. Swiftly the boys felt around until they found the cut ropes. Panting, they bound their prisoner’s hands and feet.

“That should hold him,” said Joe as the boys stood up.

“Now, let’s see where we are,” Frank suggested.

Cautiously he opened the shack door and the brothers slipped outside.

“It’s the edge of Shantytown,” Joe whispered after a quick look around.

Across a whitish stretch of sand they could see the dark shacks and beyond them a red glare from beach fires. A nearly full moon sailed in and out of heavy clouds.

Suddenly a figure detached itself from the shadow of the shanties and glided quickly across the sand toward them. Fists ready, Frank and Joe set themselves for a fight!

“Put up your hands!” came a firm command. “You’re under arrest!”

At the same moment, moonlight fell upon a familiar face. “Pat Muster!” Frank exclaimed joyfully. “Are we glad to see you!”

Pat Muster was a plain-clothes man on the Bayport police force. The brawny, red-haired man turned his flashlight on the bruised, disheveled boys. “So you fought your way out, eh?” he said, putting away his revolver. “Too bad you didn’t yell for help. My men and I were staked out by the shacks, keeping an eye on this place.”

Frank grinned ruefully. “I wish we’d known that. We didn’t call out, because we were afraid of bringing more of the gang.”

“Where’s our father?” Joe asked.

“He took a squad of police and followed Stark and the other fellow. The chief went back to headquarters.”

“I see,” said Frank. “When you didn’t close in at the store, we thought the plan had backfired.”

“Your father suggested that we follow you, on the chance of locating the rest of the gang. Sorry I left you in the shack so long,” he added. “I was hoping some more of these tough birds would turn up and we’d make a bigger haul.”

“We have one of them for you,” Joe said, “all trussed up and ready to go.”

Pat Muster chuckled. “I’ve got to hand it to you, boys,” he said. “You always deliver the goods!”

He turned toward the shanties and gave a low whistle. Here and there a half dozen figures appeared from the shadows and crossed to join the boys and Muster at the shack.

“Wait here,” the officer ordered his men. He and the Hardys entered the shanty. The detective beamed his flashlight on the prone figure of Duke, who blinked and scowled.

“Now that you’re awake,” Frank said, “you’d be smart to tell us where our missing chums are.”

The man glared and did not answer.

“Don’t waste time on him,” Joe advised. “Let’s search this place. Maybe the bank loot is hidden here.”

Frank and Joe borrowed flashlights from two of the men outside and began to help Detective Muster. They inspected the crude walls and flooring. Finally, they stood up, disappointed.

“Nothing,” Frank said, “and there’s no other place to hide anything except in the little stove.”

At this, Duke darted an apprehensive look at the stove. In two quick strides Frank reached it, lifted the stove lid, and plunged his hand inside.

“There’s something here!” he exclaimed. He pulled out a limp object. “A rubber mask! I think there are more!” he added quickly, reaching in again. One after another, he brought out four additional false faces.

Joe whistled. “The bank robbers’ masks! What a find! This shack must have been their headquarters—for a time, at least!”

“Great work, Frank!” Detective Muster congratulated him. “There’ll probably be plenty of fingerprints on those masks.” He pulled a large folded paper sack from his pocket and opened it. “Drop them in here.”

The detective summoned two of his men to unbind the prisoner. Then they handcuffed Duke and led him to the police cars hidden in the pines on the other side of Shore Road. Muster and the boys followed. When they reached headquarters, Chief Collig sent the rubber masks to his lab for immediate fingerprint analysis. Finally he turned to the Hardys. “Letting yourselves be kidnaped was a daring stunt, boys. But you got results.” He looked at Duke, who sat beside him, scowling.

Frank drew the chief aside and asked quietly, “How about Dad and his men? Have they located Chet and Biff?”

The chief shook his head. “They should have radioed in by now,” he replied. “Let’s see what we can get out of the prisoner.” He walked over and stood in front of Duke. “If you know what’s good for you—” he began but was interrupted by a clatter of feet outside.

The next moment Ben Stark and Moran, handcuffed together, entered the chief’s office, followed by Fenton Hardy and two policemen.

“Dad!” cried Joe. “Did you find Chet and Biff?”

“No,” said his father quietly. “Are you boys all right? You look as if you’d had a rough time.”

“We’re okay,” Frank assured his father quickly. “Tell us your story.”

“We followed Stark and Moran from Shantytown,” his father explained. “They drove down to the docks and sat there, apparently waiting for a boat. When it didn’t show up, they headed back to Shantytown. So did we. As soon as I saw that Pat was missing from his station, I knew you boys and your guard had been brought here. We arrested these two right in the shack.”

“Do Stark and Moran know where Biff and Chet are?” Joe asked.

“I think they know all right,” Fenton Hardy said grimly. “But they’re not talking.”

Frank and Joe looked disappointed.

“Cheer up,” Chief Collig advised them. “You’ve done a terrific job. We can hold these three on a charge of kidnaping you. After we’ve checked the prints on the masks you found, we’ll probably be able to identify them conclusively as the bank robbers.”

After the sullen prisoners were taken away, Frank and Joe told their father and the police what had happened to them. Then the Hardys left the station and piled into the detective’s car.

“We’ll pick up our motorcycles tomorrow,” Frank said.

When they reached home, the three shared a late supper of cold chicken, milk, and apple pie. Then they went straight to bed.

The next morning, as the boys were coming downstairs to breakfast, the telephone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Mr. Hardy, picking up the receiver.

A few minutes later he joined the boys in the dining room. “That was Chief Collig,” the detective announced. “The fingerprints of Ben Stark, Fritz Stark, Duke, and Moran—all wanted by the police—were on the masks. One set of prints is unidentified.”

“They probably belong to the big bald fellow,” said Frank. “The one Mr. Caine mentioned.”

“Caine!” exclaimed their father. “In all the excitement I forgot to tell you that Mr. Caine phoned yesterday just after you left for the costume shop. He wants you to call him.”

At this news the boys hurried to the hall and Frank dialed the long-distance call to Northport. In a few seconds Frank was speaking to the friendly dock manager.

“You remember those fellows who rented the Black Cat from me?” he asked. “Well, one of ‘em left an empty envelope in his hotel room. I own the hotel, that’s how I found it. Thought it might help you to track ’em down. Fritz Stark’s address is on it.”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Caine!” Frank cried out, and said to Joe, “He has what might be the Starks’ address.” Turning back to the telephone, Frank asked, “Where was the letter from?”

“Let me see ...” the dock manager said. “It’s from Worldwide Radio Distributors, Yokohama, over in Japan!”

CHAPTER XVI

Skeleton Symbol

“MR. CAINE,” said Frank in a puzzled tone, “may I have the address on the letter?”

After jotting down the information, Frank thanked him and said good-by. He told Joe, “Just a San Francisco hotel. But the sender was the distributor for radios in Yokohama.”

“Sutton had a Yokohama radio!” Joe exclaimed. “And we saw him talking to Ben Stark that day at Shantytown.”

“The radio seems to be a connection between them,” Frank pointed out. “I think we’d better go back to the hi-fi shop, and find out more about the identity of Yokohama Super-X purchasers.”

After eating breakfast, the boys hurried off, first to pick up their motorcycles, then to go to the hi-fi shop. When they entered the store, the young clerk was glad to see them.

“Change your minds, fellows?” he asked hopefully. “Like to buy one of those sets?”

“We would like to look at them,” Frank replied.

Immediately the clerk bustled off and returned with four of the compact little radios. “Go ahead,” he invited. “Try them.”

While Joe flicked the button on one set, the young man said, “These are neat. As I told you the other day, we buy them from a distributor in Japan.” In response to Frank’s query about who had purchased them, the clerk gave the customers’ names, all familiar to the Hardy3. None of them could be suspect.

“Three of these radios came in yesterday afternoon. I could give you boys a good price, since we bought them at a big discount.”

“How come?” Frank asked.

“Well, we didn’t buy these from the distributor,” the clerk admitted. “These were brought in by a fellow who wanted to sell them at a secondhand price, even though they’re brand new. My boss snapped up all three. He knows a bargain.”

“I see.” Frank nodded. “No questions asked.”

“Oh, it’s not anything illegal,” the clerk hastened to say. “They were brought in by a respectable businessman, Mr. French, who owns the costume store down the street.”

“Mr. French!” the boys echoed in amazement.

“Yes. What’s so strange about that?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess,” Frank replied. “You just reminded us that we must see Mr. French ourselves right away. The radios will have to wait. Come on, Joe!”

While the mystified clerk stared after the Hardys, they bolted from the shop and hurried along the sidewalk toward the costume shop.

“Mr. French again,” Joe muttered, shaking his head. “Is he one of this gang?”

“Somehow I trust him,” Frank replied. “Maybe the robbers are forcing him to play along with them, and have threatened harm to his family unless he does.”

“He didn’t look very happy the afternoon we picked up our costumes,” Joe recalled. “Those men in his shop were threatening him. And when he came to our house in the middle of the night, it was no mistake!”

“He knows Dad’s a detective,” Frank said. “I think he wanted him and was confused when we answered the door.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out,” Joe said as they neared the shop.

“It looks closed,” Frank remarked. The heavy door was shut and the blinds drawn. Going closer, the boys saw a sign in the window:

CLOSED INDEFINITELY

“I wonder why,” said Joe. “Has Mr. French gone out of business?”

“Hey,” Frank cried out, “where are the gorilla and magician outfits that were in the window yesterday afternoon?”

Only one costume was now on display—a skeleton suit, which stood up with outspread arms, like a scarecrow!

“I hate to think what that costume means, if it’s a signal,” Joe said.

“Never mind,” Frank said. “We must find Mr. French. Perhaps he lives over the store.” Frank strode to a door at one side of the building. “Yes, here’s his name on the bell plate.”

Impatiently the young detective jabbed with his thumb at the button. The bell sounded loudly but no one answered.

“Hey!” came a sharp voice. “What are you two doing here?”

Frank and Joe whirled to face their two chums Jerry Gilroy and Tony Prito.

“We’re sleuthing around,” Joe replied, and grinned. “What are you fellows up to?”

Tony explained that he and Jerry were on an errand for Mr. Prito, then asked, “Have you found out anything more about Chet and Biff?”

“We found out plenty!” Joe exploded. “Chet and Biff were kidnaped by the bank robbers, who mistook them for Frank and me.”

“What!” cried Tony and Jerry. While they listened intently, Frank and Joe gave the details of their adventure the night before.

“But where is the gang holding them?” Jerry wondered. “Could it be Hermit Island?”

“Could be,” Frank said. “We found out the hermit we saw is a fake. The real one’s dead.”

“And when Dad trailed Stark and Moran last night,” Joe put in, “they went to the dock and waited for a boat. That could mean the rest of the gang—and Chet and Biff—are some place only accessible by water.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” urged Jerry. “Let’s head for Hermit Island!”

“Yes—and no girls this time,” Tony added. “That phony hermit carries a shotgun, and if the robbers are there, the danger is double.”

“Right,” Frank said. “We’d better take both boats, Tony. In case of trouble, we’ll be able to split up, or help each other.”

Tony agreed eagerly. “Then we’ll meet you at your dock at one-thirty,” Frank told him.

As their two friends hurried off, Frank and Joe walked to their motorcycles and rode home.

As they dismounted in front of their garage, Aunt Gertrude appeared behind the back screen door, wringing her hands nervously.

“Hi, Auntie!” Joe called cheerfully. “Where are Mother and Dad?”

“Your mother has gone shopping and your father’s off on some more detective work! There’s a giant in the living room waiting for you.”

“A what?” Joe asked, entering the house.

Aunt Gertrude made a sweeping motion with her arms. “A man,” she said, “a great big man!”

Laughing, Frank led the way into the living room. This must be Alf Lundborg!

The visitor’s huge frame certainly dwarfed the Hardys’ furniture. Grinning, he shook each brother’s hand in his crushing grip.

“I’m out of jail again,” he told them. “Sutton wouldn’t say I attacked him, so they finally let me go.”

“I knew you didn’t do it, Alf,” said Joe.

The stevedore’s good-natured face clouded. “No, I wouldn’t touch a little weasel like Sutton,” he agreed. “But it makes me sore to be accused of doing it! What I came to tell you, though, is this—I know who did beat him up. It was one of his own pals!”

“Ben Stark?” Frank asked curiously.

“No, a fellow they call Pops. Remember I told you about the bunch who were always fighting with one another? Well, Sutton and Pops do most of it. Pops finally gave it to him good, but Sutton won’t tell the police.”

“That must mean they’re in something illegal together,” Frank reasoned. “How about this Pops, Alf—is he an old man?”

“No. Although he’s bald, he’s younger than Sutton—bigger and stronger. Talks loud, too. I don’t know why they call him Pops.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other excitedly. Both immediately thought of Ben Stark’s pal who was still at large. Could Pops be the Fizzle soda drinker?

“Thanks for telling us, Alf,” said Joe. “We’re glad you’re out of jail. You’ve been in twice and both times because of us.”

“You couldn’t help it,” replied their big friend, “and you spoke up for me both times. I appreciate that.”

After Alf had left, the brothers had some lunch, then headed for the waterfront on their motorcycles.

Tony and Jerry were already in the Napoli when the Sleuth came alongside the Prito dock. With serious, determined faces the four friends headed for Hermit Island.

As soon as they reached the ocean, the boys were confronted by a fast-darkening sky and choppy sea. With incredible swiftness, black clouds, with chains of lightning snapping underneath them, moved in from the south. Large raindrops began to pelt the boys. In another moment the darkness closed around them like nightfall. Lightning flashed on the heaving ocean and the rain smacked down on them almost painfully.

“Why didn’t we bring slickers!” Joe exclaimed.

Through it all, Joe kept the Sleuth’s nose pointed northward. Presently, illuminated by the lightning, a rocky mass came into view.

“There’s the island,” Frank called out. “A motorboat’s just pulling away, Joe!”

“Let’s chase it!” Joe cried. “Some of the gang may be aboard and are escaping.”

“Not now,” Frank cautioned. “Chet and Biff come first!” As the boys watched, the dark-brown craft disappeared in the distance.

As suddenly as it had come up, the black squall passed over. The Sleuth and the Napoli circled toward the island’s beach. By this time the rain had stopped.

The clouds parted, blue sky appeared, and the sun beat down again. Under its burning heat the boys’ clothes began to dry out.

“The storm’s probably driven that phony hermit under cover,” Joe said. “Let’s get ashore before he spots us.”

The boys found a small cove fringed with small, scrubby oak trees. Quickly concealing their boats in this cover, they debarked and set out on the path around the island.

This time no one disturbed them. The trail climbed and then dropped down to the level of the shore again. Overhead loomed the wet bluff.

Suddenly Frank stopped and pointed to a dark opening in the gray rock ahead. “A cave!” he said quietly.

The boys crept nearer. Just outside the cave’s entrance, Frank lifted a warning hand.

“Voices!” he whispered.

CHAPTER XVII

Hermit’s Hideout

HOLDING themselves rigid against the damp rock, the four boys strained to listen. Somewhere inside the cave a man was talking rapidly, but his words were muffled and indistinct.

“What’s he saying?” whispered Tony.

Frank motioned for the others to hold their places. Then he lay on his stomach and inched cautiously forward until his head was just outside the cave opening. From this position he could hear what was going on inside.

“Well, what’s happening?” Jerry whispered impatiently. “Tug at his ankle, Joe!”

But just then Frank came wriggling backward. He jumped to his feet, and clutching his sides, hastened some distance down the path.

Joe, Tony, and Jerry ran after him.

“Frank—what’s the matter?” his brother asked. “What was he saying?”

Frank tried to speak, but his chest heaved with suppressed laughter. Finally he managed to tell them: “The fellow was saying... ‘B-buy B-b-butterfly Baby Foods’!”

Frank could hear what was going on inside

“Wha-a-t!” The three boys looked at one another, completely mystified.

“We were listening to a radio,” Frank blurted out. “The announcer was giving a commercial!”

“You mean the hermit’s in there, listening to the radio?” Joe asked.

“I couldn’t see,” Frank replied. “Maybe Chet and Biff are there! It’s likely, anyhow, that their guard went in to avoid the rain. Now that it’s over, he’ll probably come out again. Our best move is to find a good spot to lie in wait for him.”

Near the cave mouth the boys found a large, brush-protected boulder and hid themselves behind it. For some time they waited. From inside the cave, snatches of music alternated with the announcer’s voice.

At last Joe could stand it no longer. “Maybe there’s nobody inside!” he burst out impatiently. “I’m going to have a look!”

“Careful!” Frank whispered, as his brother slipped out of hiding.

Joe darted to the path, lay down, and inched himself forward until he could see into the cavern. For several minutes he peered inside, then scrambled back behind the boulder.

“Somebody is in there!” he reported. “He’s asleep and forgot to turn off his radio.”

“Any sign of Chet and Biff?” Frank asked.

Joe shook his head. “No.”

“Do you think it’s the hermit?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “Anyway, he’s alone.”

“We could surprise this fellow while he’s asleep,” Tony said.

Frank nodded. “But Chet and Biff may be somewhere else on the island. Let’s search while the fellow in the cave is asleep.”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “Look for a hut or shelter where the boys might be prisoners.”

A brief examination of the gray bluff revealed a narrow cleft leading to the top of the precipice. Joe, ascending first, found himself on another path which seemed to rim the island from the top of the bluffs.

“Here’s the trail the hermit used to keep us in sight yesterday,” he told the others.

After scrambling up, Frank, Tony, and Jerry paused for a look about. Below them sparkled the bright ocean, extending to the mainland a few miles away. Behind lay a little plateau, overgrown with small pines and scrub oaks. In the center of the flat area rose a steep, rocky hill which gave the island its humping silhouette.

“A hut would be easy to camouflage among those trees,” Frank remarked. “We’ll have to spread out and comb every foot of the woods.”

Though the youths worked carefully around the plateau, they found no sign of any shelter. On the island’s seaward side, where the growth was sparse, the boys checked the sides of the steep hill for caves. They saw none.

“It doesn’t look very hopeful,” Joe said at last. “If Biff and Chet were brought here, they’ve probably been carried off by now.”

“The robbers might still be using this place,” Jerry insisted. “It’s a perfect hideout.”

“They could have come here with the loot from the bank,” Tony added, “and used the phony hermit to scare off intruders.”

“Perhaps the gang is using the island merely as a stopping-off place,” Frank suggested. “With this hill right in the middle, a lookout could spot boats approaching from miles away.”

“Of course!” Joe took him up eagerly. “That’s how the hermit happened to be waiting for us yesterday. Today is different. Don’t forget that boat we saw pulling away. Chet and Biff may have been put aboard!”

“Right,” said Joe. “Let’s climb to the top of the hill and determine how far we can see.”

Sparked by the new idea, the four boys attacked the steep hill at the center of the island. They worked their way among the rocks and pulled themselves upward by means of the short, tough brush.

“What a rough climb!” Jerry gasped.

As they climbed higher, the vegetation became too flimsy to use as support, and the hill’s cone became even steeper. Still the boys pressed upward, panting, with Frank in the lead. Finally he clambered onto a flat, wind-swept area at the top—about twenty feet across—and threw himself down to rest.

Joe’s head popped into view over the edge, and then Jerry’s. Suddenly, from below them, came a sharp cry.

“Tony!” yelled Joe and Jerry together.

Sitting up, Frank saw a cloud of dust and stones tumbling and bouncing down the hill. A whole section of ground slid like a carpet along the steep slope, with Tony in the middle of it!

Frank, Joe, and Jerry slid in pursuit, bracing their feet hard against the slope like skiers!

Partly covered by loose earth, Tony Prito lay on his back where the hillside leveled off. He grinned up weakly at his three chums.

“You okay, Tony?” Joe cried anxiously.

“Think so. Can’t seem to get up, though.”

“Where are you hurt?” Frank asked.

“Ankle,” Tony answered, rising to one knee.

Immediately a wince of pain crossed his face and he sank back again. Quickly Frank and Joe lifted their comrade to a standing position.

“Try now, Tony,” Jerry urged. “Put just a little weight on it.”

Though Tony’s left leg appeared sturdy enough, the right one buckled at any pressure.

“It might be a fracture,” Frank said. “We’ll get you to a doctor, Tony.”

While Jerry steadied the injured boy, Frank and Joe made a chair for him by interlocking their hands. Then they lifted Tony, who braced himself with one arm across each brother’s shoulder.

Slowly the little procession made its way down to the level of the plateau. Moving more rapidly now, they followed the path around to the mainland side of the island.

Once among the scrub oaks and pines, the trail became too narrow for three persons to move abreast. Frank and Joe had to kick their way through the brush on each side as they advanced.

When they neared the beach at last, a small pine clump hindered Frank’s progress. He kicked out determinedly.

“Hey, what’s that?” cried Tony from his perch.

A dark garment, struck by Frank’s foot, flopped into the path!

“A sailor’s pea jacket,” Jerry reported, stooping down. “And here are some more, under this pine brush.”

“Pea jackets?” Frank exclaimed. “That’s what the bank robbers wore!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Hidden Watchers

“THE bandits have been here!” Frank exclaimed. “Fellows, we’re on the right track after all!”

“Wait till Chief Collig sees these pea jackets!” Joe exulted. “Pick ’em up, Jerry. Boy, what a bundle of clues!”

Jerry gathered the five bulky, damp jackets in his arms and staggered forward. Almost immediately a low-hanging oak branch snagged one of the coats and pulled it from his grasp.

“We’ll never get to the boats at this rate,” he despaired.

Frank, however, was more interested at this moment in the number of jackets. “There were only four robbers,” he pointed out. “Who wore the fifth coat?”

“The driver of the getaway car, probably,” Joe said. “Here, Jerry! We’ll put Tony down for a minute. Why don’t each of us put on a coat and you can carry the other one. That’ll make it easier.”

Swiftly the boys donned the jackets. Now Jerry moved ahead without difficulty, and the Hardys followed with Tony as fast as they could.

When they reached the top of the bluff that overlooked the cove where the boats lay hidden, the party paused for breath. Here was a fresh obstacle! Tony had to be lowered down the steep slope to the level of the beach!

“We’ll slide him down,” Frank decided. “Joe, you stay just below Tony, and keep his injured ankle from striking anything. Jerry and I can make a sling of our belts and lower him from one level to another.”

Slowly the injured boy was brought from foothold to foothold, down to the sand. When they reached the boats, Tony’s face was drawn and pale.

“Gosh, Tony—did we bump you too much coming down?” Frank asked solicitously.

“No, it’s not your fault, fellows,” their friend protested bravely. “My ankle’s just starting to throb a little.”

“Swelling, too,” Frank noted with a frown. “Here, Joe, let’s get him into the Steuth. I’ll head it for the Coast Guard dock as fast as I can. You and Jerry follow in the Napoli.”

In another moment the Sleuth’s powerful engine roared to life. Hastily stripping off the pea jacket, Frank bent over the wheel. Tony sat beside him, suffering in silence. The sleek craft sped across open water toward Bayport.

Meanwhile, Joe and Jerry threw the other pea jackets into the Napoli. Starting her engine, Joe piloted the slower speedboat out of the cove and along the island shore.

“Joe!” Jerry pointed to a boat coming around the island toward them.

“Oh, boy, this is trouble!” Joe exclaimed. “Hang on!”

He brought the wheel around hard. The Napoli swerved and ran in straight toward shore.

Jerry gasped. “You’re running aground!”

Joe did not answer. He had noticed a narrow fissure which cut through the bluffs, making a tiny V-shaped opening in the shoreline. He ran the Napoli straight into the small slot of water, crashing through low-growing brush at its edges.

“Quick, Jerry,” he directed, shutting off the motor, “grab some of these pine branches and pull them down on top of us!”

Clutching the sticky, sweet-smelling limbs, the boys crouched low and waited. Soon the slow, regular throb of a boat’s motor could be heard. The strange brown boat, carrying two men, came into view.

The craft seemed to move with maddening slowness. Luckily the two men in it kept looking forward. From his place of concealment, Joe studied them carefully. The one in the stern was a short, muscular fellow, whose shock of white-blond hair gleamed in the sunshine.

“Jerry,” Joe hissed, “I’ve seen those guys before! They were in Mr. French’s shop when we picked up our costumes!” He added in a whisper, “The blond one must be Fritz Stark. He looks just like Ben, except for the different-colored hair.”

Jerry gripped Joe’s arm. “He’s standing up! He’ll see us!”

But Fritz Stark pointed straight ahead of him and called out to the man at the wheel, “Nick, take her to the hidden inlet!”

The boys crouched tensely, watching the two men cruise slowly past them. When at last the dark-brown craft was out of sight, the boys took in deep breaths of relief. But the result was disastrous to Jerry.

“Kerchoo! Kerchoo!” The sounds echoed off the bluffs behind them and carried far over the water.

“Oh, golly, I’m sorry,” Jerry whispered. “I’m allergic to pine.”

“Sh! Keep down,” Joe warned. “Maybe they heard you, and maybe they didn’t.”

With hearts pounding, the boys waited. The gentle put-putting sound of the motorboat grew louder and faster, rising in crescendo to an angry roar.

“We’re in for it,” Joe groaned.

In another moment the prow of the brown boat knifed back into view. This time the men aboard scanned the shoreline suspiciously!

The boys clutched the pine branches in front of them. But it was no use. The Napoli’s hull was clearly visible to their pursuers.

“There they are!” Fritz Stark shouted. “In that boat!”

As the bandits’ craft swerved sharply and ran straight up on the concealed boys, Joe whispered, “Run for it, Jerry!”

The thick-growing brush, which had helped to conceal them, now became an obstacle to their flight. Seizing the pithy branches, Joe pulled and squirmed until he could feel solid ground. But when he jumped up and walked, the thick growth clawed at his legs.

Thump! The robbers’ boat crashed into the Napoli. Then the brush began to shake as the men fought their way toward the boys. “Grab them!” Stark yelled.

Jerry caught up to Joe and for an instant the boys hesitated. All around rose the gray, rocky bluffs. Just in front of them, however, was a narrow ravine which Joe had noticed earlier.

“Come on! I think we can make it!” Joe urged.

The boys scrambled madly uphill, their pursuers only yards behind! Hand over hand, they clambered upward. Once Jerry stumbled and Joe paused to help him regain his balance. The short, muscular Stark was now gaining rapidly.

Joe uprooted a small prickly bush and fired it back. The bush hit Stark in the face. He cried out in anger, but kept staggering upward. In a moment he made a leap for Joe’s ankles!

“I’ve got you!” he cried as the boy slid backward on his stomach.

“Keep going, Jerry!” Joe shouted before turning to grapple with his antagonist.

At the same time the second man skirted them both, and disappeared over the top of the ravine, pursuing Jerry.

Though Joe fought savagely, Stark’s weight finally won out and soon the boy’s arms were pinned behind him and bound together with a belt.

Then Jerry appeared at the top of the ravine, his arms held securely by Stark’s henchman. “Get down there!” his captor ordered roughly.

While he and the boy descended, Stark eyed Joe with an unpleasant smile.

“Hey, Nick,” the blond man called, “look who’s here!”

The henchman grinned as he recognized Joe. “One of the real Hardy boys!”

“What’ll we do with him and his friend?”

“Load ‘em in the boat. We’ll take ’em to the cave.”

“We haven’t much time,” Nick warned him.

“Don’t worry,” Stark said in a hard voice. “We’re going to make quick work of ’em!”

CHAPTER XIX

Rocky Prison

FEAR showed in Jerry’s eyes and his face paled. Joe stoically hid his emotions at Stark’s ominous threat. The same thought raced wildly through the boys’ minds. What would these men do to them?

While the two men forced Joe and Jerry into the brown boat, Frank was sending the Sleuth full speed toward Bayport harbor. Looking behind him, he frowned, puzzled.

“Where’s the Napoli, Tony?” he asked. “Can you see it?”

Tony turned his head for a look. “No,” he answered.

“They shouldn’t be so far behind us,” Frank said.

From time to time he glanced back uneasily, and as they sped across the bay toward the Coast Guard station, he spoke up worriedly, “The Napoli isn’t that much slower than the Sleuth. Maybe the boat had motor trouble.”

“Don’t think so,” Tony said, tight-lipped. “Just had her checked.”

Frank throttled down his engine as the Sleuth slid in beside the pier. Making a line fast to a pile, he leaped onto the ladder and climbed up.

“Take it easy, Tony. I’ll get help,” he said, and sprinted along the wharf to the Coast Guard headquarters.

“I have a fellow in my boat with an injured ankle,” he told Lieutenant Parker breathlessly.

A few moments later four Coast Guardmen, two with a stretcher between them, were running with Frank to the end of the pier. Expertly, the rescue team carried Tony up the ladder and laid him on the stretcher.

“Okay, Tony?” Frank inquired.

“Sure,” came the plucky reply. “You’d better forget me, Frank, and think about Joe and Jerry. Something must have happened to them!”

“We must get Tony to a doctor,” Frank told Lieutenant Parker, as both hurried along beside the stretcher.

“Our men will take him,” the young officer said. “We have an emergency vehicle ready at all times. But what was he talking about, Frank? Is something else wrong?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” the boy replied. “We might need a cutter and some men soon. May I use your phone?”

Frank went into the Coast Guard station and called police headquarters.

“Chief Collig?” he began urgently. “This is Frank Hardy. I’m at the Coast Guard pier. Just got back from Hermit Island. We’ve found the jackets the bank robbers were wearing. I have two of them. Joe ought to be here with the others any minute.”

“What!” Collig cried in amazement. “Stay there. I’ll be right down,” he said.

After hanging up, Frank dashed out of the station and ran to the end of the pier again. Frowning, he scanned the waters of the bay. He could not see the Napoli, and he returned to the station.

“Our men have taken Tony to a doctor,” Lieutenant Parker told him. “Have you found some new clue to the bank robbers or your missing chums, Frank? If there’s going to be trouble, we want to help.”

Frank quickly gave details and ended with, “I’m worried about Joe and Jerry.”

“What do you think happened to them?”

“I don’t know. There was one member of the gang on the island when Tony and I left. Maybe more of them came back. The boys may have been trapped.”

“I’ll order the cutter at once,” Lieutenant Parker said.

“Thanks,” Frank replied. “If we don’t see the Napoli by the time Chief Collig gets here, we’d better move fast!”

Nervously the boy paced about the pier with his eyes fixed on the harbor mouth. Still no Napoli. Frank heard a siren wail and a black police car sped up to the Coast Guard station.

“Joe hasn’t come yet,” he told the chief. “I’m afraid something went wrong out at the island.”

“Then we’d better get there fast!” Collig snapped.

The powerful engines of a Coast Guard cutter were rumbling impatiently beside the pier. Frank, Chief Collig, and the two policemen he had brought along hurried aboard. Already a squad of seamen armed with rifles had taken their places. At a signal from Lieutenant Parker the cutter growled out into the bay.

On Hermit Island the two robbers had hauled Joe and Jerry along the path toward the cave. When they reached the entrance, they noted that the radio inside was still playing.

Stark’s face tightened with anger. “Hold them here with your gun, Nick,” he ordered, and disappeared into the cavern. The music stopped suddenly, and Stark came out a few moments later, pushing a heavy, bald-headed man, who blinked in the late-afternoon sunlight.

“It’s the fellow we saw with Ben Stark in the Black Cat!” Joe thought.

He also noted that the man was wearing the same clothing the fake hermit had had on the day before. But this man was clean shaven and in his thirties! “He must have been wearing a false beard yesterday,” Joe decided.

Fritz Stark glowered at the bald man. “Listen, Pops,” he demanded, “how did these kids get on the island? You’re supposed to be keeping people away—not sleeping!”

“Pops!” said Joe to himself. “This is the fellow Alf told us about who beat up Sutton!”

The bald man answered Stark lamely. “I guess I was in the cave and didn’t hear them. I figured nobody would be nosing around during the storm.”

“You fool!” Stark returned harshly. “These kids found three of our jackets—I saw them in their boat. What if they had made it to the police?”

“Well, we’ve got ‘em now,” Pops said.

“No thanks to you!” Nick put in angrily. “You’re no good for anything but drinking soda and getting into fights!”

“Give him credit for buying postcards in Northport,” Stark said sarcastically.

Pops bristled. “I did my share! We wouldn’t have stolen the crate of Yokohama radios so easy, if I hadn’t first made the deal with Sutton.”

“We’d have been better off without that hot-head,” Nick declared.

“He knew the docks,” Pops retorted. “Thanks to him we had inside help. If you guys hadn’t been so slow we could’ve taken more crates.”

“Oh, he was helpful,” Stark sneered. “He wasn’t satisfied with our bank loot. He brought the Hardys and the police down on our necks by planting a stolen radio on that big stevedore and making the whole bunch hot.”

“And fighting with you over his cut every night in Shantytown. Did that help?” Nick asked sourly.

“You were all pretty careless,” Joe egged them on. “We heard that an envelope from the Yokohama radio distributors was found in the Starks’ hotel room.”

Pops snorted in triumph. “You left that, Fritz!” he accused. “It was you who wrote pretending to be a purchasing agent to find out where their Super-X radio shipments came in.”

“But Pops left his broken soda bottle in the Sleuth,” Joe prodded.

“That’s enough!” the bald man ordered. Roughly he shoved the captives toward the gaping cavern.

“Hold it!” Stark rasped. “First I have a bone to pick with this nosy kid.” Then he cuffed Joe on the ear and laughed wickedly.

“What was that for?” Joe complained, trying to draw the man out more.

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” Stark sneered and pushed Joe so hard that he fell to the ground.

“Cut it out!” Jerry protested, and lunged forward to help his friend. Nick seized the boy and held him fast.

Stark yanked Joe up by the shoulders and yelled at him, “You and your pesky brother—always interfering with our plans! I had things all worked out!”

“I’ll bet you did,” Joe retorted. “Who stole the car in Northport?”

“Nick did,” Stark replied, “while Ben and Pops took the Black Cat for a spin. Ben found out where your boat was kept, and later Pops took it.”

“He broke into our boathouse while the rest of your gang was robbing the bank,” Joe egged him on.

“That’s right, smart boy.” Fritz Stark sneered. “Ben was with us. Pops had the Sleuth waiting. We were going to head straight for Hermit Island.”

Despite their predicament, Joe and Jerry could not help but gloat. “Instead, you landed high and dry miles up the coast,” Joe said.

Stark’s face darkened. “Yeah. Well, that didn’t stop us. We hotfooted it back to Shantytown, picked up Ben’s car there, and drove around looking for another fast boat. We found one and ‘borrowed’ it.”

“Ben ran the boat up the coast to Shantytown while I drove back. I’d heard over the radio your father was working on the bank robbery case. Soon as Ben got back to Shantytown, I told him about it and that I’d seen you Hardys in the costume store.”

“So,” Nick broke in, “Ben got the idea of kidnaping you two to make your old man drop the case.”

“We told him what costume your brother was wearing,” Fritz went on.

“And he sent two bunglers to do the job,” Nick interrupted resentfully. “Moran and Duke! They drove to French’s place and made him tell where the party was. Then they nabbed the wrong boys!”

“Where are they now?” Joe demanded. For answer their captors merely laughed.

“When did you discover who they were?” Joe asked. “After you took them to Shantytown?”

Stark shot him a hard look. “You know that, too?”

“Whoever tried to burn the costumes and hid the robbery masks didn’t do a very good job,” the young sleuth commented. “They were found.”

“Duke’s carelessness again,” Pops muttered.

Nick cut in. “You fellows won’t ever find your two friends. And nobody will find you!”

The boys learned the crooks had spotted the Sleuth and pretended to ram her to find out her full power. “We needed a fast boat for our get away,” Stark said, “and we knew yours would do.”

Joe now said, “We saw you leaving the island during the storm. Why?”

Stark smiled briefly. “Nick and I had urgent business to check on in Bayport and no time to lose! We’ve got one more job to do tonight and then we’re clearing out.”

“And we need a fast boat to pull it,” Pops said.

“You mean you’ll leave your own brother in jail!” Joe taunted Stark. “You’re a real pal!”

The man’s face twitched with rage. “Listen, kid, I don’t leave my brother in the lurch.” He turned to Pops and snarled, “Get these guys in the cave! We’ll take care of ‘em later!”

The thug reinforced the belt which held Joe’s hands with stout Manila rope. He tied Joe’s ankles too, and then moved on to bind Jerry. All the while Joe thought over what he had learned. “Stark says they’re doing one more job, and he won’t abandon his brother. That must mean they went to Bayport to plan a jail break, which they’re going to pull tonight. Then they’ll all flee together!”

“All right—inside!” Pops ordered gruffly.

Stumbling in the gloom, Joe and Jerry were dragged far back into the cave. The place smelled musty and damp.

Stark threw them to the ground and walked away.

The boys waited in silence until their eyes became more accustomed to the darkness. Then Joe felt a chill up and down his spine as he discerned the shape of someone lying beside him! Could it be Chet or Biff?

Wriggling over, Joe nudged the unknown prisoner. He moaned, as though dazed, and turned his face upward.

“Jumping catfish!” Joe whispered hoarsely. “It’s Mr. French!”

CHAPTER XX

Ambushing the Enemy

“MR. FRENCH, what happened?” Joe asked in amazement.

Painfully the costume dealer drew himself to a sitting position. “It was terrible,” he answered shakily. “Where am I? I was blindfolded by the men who brought me here.”

“You’re in a cave on Hermit Island,” Joe told him. “How are you mixed up in this, Mr. French? I wondered once if you belonged to the gang.”

“No!” the man protested. “You must believe me, boy. The mental anguish I’ve gone through since I sold those men the masks for the robbery! I neglected my business entirely—didn’t even check my stock.

“Fritz Stark and Nick Glaser were in the shop when you stopped in for your costumes that afternoon. They had come to pick up the masks they’d ordered. I asked if they were going to a party. Glaser laughed and said, ‘Yes—a big surprise party!’ When I went in the back to get the masks, I heard them laugh again and mention the bank.”

“So you put two and two together,” Jerry said.

“That’s right. I guessed they were crooks.”

“You should have tipped us off,” Joe said. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

Mr. French said brokenly, “I had made the mistake of telling them my suspicions and who you were. They said they’d kill me and harm my family if I talked. I sent my family away for safety.”

“Why did you come to our house that night?” Joe asked sympathetically.

“The other morning they began to use my store as one of their meeting places and told me to give my assistant a short vacation. I heard them bragging they were going to kidnap you and your brother. Later something snapped inside me. Robbery is bad enough, but I couldn’t let them get away with kidnaping no matter what they did to me. So I went to tell your father everything.”

“But Frank and I answered the door,” Joe prompted.

“Yes,” French agreed. “When I saw you were safe, it confused me. Besides, I had a strange feeling I was being followed. I didn’t know what to do, so I came away without telling my story.”

“What happened then?” Joe asked.

“Well, when Fritz Stark and Nick Glaser came to the shop early yesterday afternoon, I got my nerve back and told them I’d spill everything if they didn’t let me alone.”

“What did they do?” Jerry asked.

“Stark said they’d let me alone if I’d do two things for them. First he made me put the gorilla and the magician suits in the window. They were a signal to the rest of the thieves to knock three times at the back door. The gang was going to have a meeting about something.”

Joe laughed grimly. “Yes, to plan to kidnap Frank and me. I guess that’s why they used our costumes in the window.”

“There was only one costume—a skeleton suit —on display this morning,” Jerry remembered.

“Fritz Stark put it there last night. He took my key. I overheard him say a single costume meant ‘Danger. Stay away,’ ” French explained.

“Stark put up the warning signal too late. He didn’t know then that half the gang was in jail.”

“That’s right,” the man said. “It was after he left the skeleton warning that he found out Ben and the others were captured.”

“I’ll bet the second thing they wanted you to do, Mr. French, was to sell three radios to the hi-fi shop,” Joe guessed.

“Yes,” said the man, surprised, “and immediately. Glaser walked down to the shop with me and waited on the sidewalk. As I came out, Stark drove up in their car, forced me to get in, and blindfolded me. The last thing I remember before I came to in this cave was trying to break loose and jump out.”

“They must have slugged you,” Joe said.

“But what good will it do you to know all this?” Mr. French said despairingly. “We’ll never get out of here alive. These men mean business!”

“So do we,” Joe promised grimly. In rapid whispers he told the despondent man how he and Frank, by offering themselves as bait, had trapped Ben Stark and his two henchmen. “But we haven’t been able to find Chet and Biff. Do you know where they are?”

The costume dealer shook his head helplessly. “No. You can see for yourself they’re not in here. I wanted to look for the stolen money, but naturally I didn’t dare. This is the end for us, I’m afraid.”

Joe tried to reassure him. “My brother is free. When Jerry and I fail to show up, he’ll bring help.”

“I only hope he’s in time,” said Mr. French. “I heard these men planning to leave here in a little while. They said they’d dispose of me before they push off.”

Jerry looked grimly at Joe. “That goes for us too, I guess!”

As dusk fell, the prisoners waited anxiously. While Joe tried to keep Mr. French’s spirits up, Jerry watched Stark and Pops passing and repassing before the entrance.

“Joe,” he said after a while, “I haven’t seen those two guys outside for the last ten minutes. Do you think something’s up?”

The three prisoners stiffened, all senses alert.

“Sh!” Joe hissed suddenly. “Listen!” In the distance they heard a motorboat.

“That’s a big one,” Jerry whispered excitedly. “Sounds like a cutter.”

“It’s coming here!” Joe said as the sound grew louder. Suddenly it ceased and they heard shouts in the distance, then closer.

“It’s Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “Sing out, everybody!”

“Halloo! Frank! Help! In here!”

Their voices rang and echoed hollowly against the rock walls. Before long, the beam of a flash light pierced the cave opening.

“Joe! Jerry!” came an anxious, familiar voice. “You okay?”

“Back here, Frank!” Joe called eagerly to his brother.

Seconds later, Frank and two young Coast Guardmen were cutting the ropes that bound the prisoners.

“Mr. French!” cried Frank in recognition. “So the gang had you, too! Are Chet and Biff here?”

“No!” his brother replied worriedly. “And neither are the bank robbers.”

Already the cave was filled with men. Flashlight beams flickered up and down the damp walls. Seamen and policemen stood by with guns ready. Chief Collig and Lieutenant Parker hurried into the cave.

“You boys all right?” he demanded.

“We’re okay,” Joe answered, “but we must go after the robbers. Two of them—Fritz Stark and Pops—were here twenty minutes ago. And Nick Glaser, who drove the getaway car, was here too.”

“They probably spotted the cutter and headed for their boat or the Napoli,” said Joe.

Quickly he described the location of the hidden inlet where the Napoli and the robbers’ stolen craft were concealed. Lieutenant Parker immediately dispatched men to the spot.

“With a twenty-minute head start,” Joe said, “Fritz Stark and the other two probably will get away.”

“But the cutter could pick them up easily,” Jerry put in.

“Right,” said Frank. “Those men know they haven’t a chance against the Coast Guard. I think they’re hiding here.”

“Where?” asked Mr. French.

“We’ll comb the island,” Lieutenant Parker said.

“Let’s search this cave first,” Frank suggested. “There’s a slight draft coming from the back. That might mean there’s another chamber.” Slowly Frank played the beam of his flashlight over the rear wall until he spotted a narrow crevice. He stepped quickly over and shone his beam into it.

“Look!” he exclaimed softly.

Joe, Chief Collig, and Lieutenant Parker crowded around. In front of them, well inside the opening, hung a piece of burlap. Frank slipped into the crevice and pulled the rough curtain aside. A long rock passage was revealed.

“Come on!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

As Joe stepped forward, Chief Collig clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Hold it,” the chief ordered. “Let the armed men go first. Those crooks are desperate and won’t hesitate to use their guns.” Reluctantly, all three boys heeded the order.

At Collig’s signal, Parker drew his service revolver and led the men into the narrow rock corridor. The chief and his two policemen followed, with Frank, Joe, and Jerry impatiently bringing up the rear.

The narrow passage twisted and turned. Only one kind of sound could be heard—the heavy breathing of the pursuers. Suddenly there came an earsplitting crack! A gunshot from up front!

“Halt!” Lieutenant Parker’s voice rang out. “Do not return fire!”

The file of men flattened against the rocks. The boys craned to see what was happening.

In a chamber at the end of the passage, their hands tied, stood Chet and Biff! Behind them were Stark and Pops, a cloud of gun smoke above them.

Though the two men were using the captives as shields, and the situation was desperate, Frank, Joe, and Jerry were jubilant. They had found their missing chums!

The Coast Guardmen and the police were forced to stand by helplessly, not daring to endanger Chet and Biff. But Joe saw a chance to change the situation. At a signal, he motioned Frank and Jerry to back out of the passage quietly. The three dashed from the cave.

“Stark and Pops got in there, somehow,” Joe said. “They didn’t come past us. There must be another entrance out here.”

Hastily, in the gathering twilight, the boys examined the irregular face of the bluff. Suddenly Frank pointed to a big dark crack in the rock. As they neared it, a man’s figure loomed in the opening.

Without hesitation the three boys hurled themselves on the man and bore him to the ground. He hit with a thud, the fight knocked out of him.

“It’s Nick Glaser,” Joe whispered as Jerry whipped off the man’s belt and bound his arms securely with it.

“Okay,” Jerry replied, “I’ll watch him. Don’t worry, he won’t get away.”

The Hardys slipped into the dark crack from which the man had emerged. Snapping out his flashlight, Frank groped forward as fast as he dared. Soon he could make out the yellow glare of the rescuers’ flashlights, and the backs of Pops and Fritz Stark, standing behind Biff and Chet!

“For the last time, I tell you throw down your guns,” Stark ordered, “if you don’t want these kids hurt!”

Without pausing, Frank and Joe charged forward. Together they let drive with two bruising tackles. The legs of the criminals buckled underneath them. The revolvers flew from their hands and the men landed, dazed, on the floor of the cave. The police and seamen were upon them in a second.

“Frank! Joe!” cried Chet, overjoyed. As soon as his hands were untied, the stout boy grabbed his pals and hugged them in his excitement.

“O-of! Hey, don’t crush us!” Joe protested, laughing.

“We thought you’d never find us in this place!” Biff put in, rubbing his chafed wrists.

“We were plenty worried ourselves,” Frank admitted.

“They took us to Shantytown first in Stark’s car.” Chet spilled out the story. “Were they mad when they found out we weren’t you and Joe!”

“But they were afraid to let us go,” Biff went on, “so they took away our costumes and brought us here in a small boat.”

“On the way, they threw our masks overboard,” Chet said, “hoping you’d think we drowned.”

“We found yours,” Frank told him. “Because it was made of rubber,” Biff put in. “Mine was only paper, so it was lost.”

“And the day we got here, Pops went for the postcards,” Chet continued. “Fritz Stark dictated what we had to write.”

“We told them you wouldn’t be fooled,” Biff added, “but Pops took the cards back to Northport and mailed ‘em, anyhow.”

“We found out a lot,” Chet continued. “This outfit is part of a national ring of bank robbers. Duke, Moran, and Glaser were sent first to ‘case’ the banks around here and decided on Bayport.”

“Do you know where the loot is?” Joe asked.

“Right here, I’ll bet!” Chet pointed at his feet. “I noticed loose earth the first day.”

Immediately Frank and Joe, aided by the two policemen, began to scoop away the earth with pocketknives and their bare hands. In a few minutes they had dragged out the canvas sacks filled with money!

“Now, one more thing,” Joe said. “Let’s search for the rest of the Yokohama radios.”

“They’re right over here,” Biff volunteered, and led the others to a shadowy corner of the cave where an opened crate stood. “Chet and I have been tied up next to them all the time. Those crooks were sure mad at Sutton—said it was his fault they only dared sell three.”

“Jerry has the last member of the gang outside, Chief Collig,” Frank concluded. “Once you hand-cuff him, we can all go back home.”

Lieutenant Parker said he would take charge of the stolen boat and return the craft to its owner. A seaman was assigned to bring in the Napoli.

The evening shadows were lengthening as the rest of the party boarded the cutter. First of all, Frank told Jerry and Joe about Tony. They were relieved he had not been seriously injured. By the time the boat entered the wide mouth of the bay, the harbor lights were twinkling.

News of the capture had been radioed ahead, so the Morton and Hooper families were on the pier to embrace their sons. Fenton Hardy, too, came forward to congratulate Frank and Joe and their chums.

“A fine job,” he said. “And you’ll be glad to hear,” he went on, “that the bank robbery ring has been put out of business nationally as well as locally. The leader’s arrest this afternoon at a secret hideout in California clinched matters.”

A cheer arose from the whole group. Nodding modestly, Mr. Hardy explained, “The robbers we rounded up here talked, hoping for clemency, so that made the job simple.”

When Mr. Hardy finished speaking, Collig boomed out, “I congratulate you, boys. You solved three mysteries at once. And you even helped us round up two crooked dockmen.”

For a moment the Hardys were silent, wondering how soon another case might come their way. They were to find out in the near future while Hunting for Hidden Gold.

“There’s one question I’d like to have answered,” Joe said, coming back to the present. “Who were Stark and Moran waiting for on the pier the night Dad trailed them?”

“For Pops,” Lieutenant Daley replied. “He was supposed to meet them there in a small boat and help pull off another theft—this time valuable radios from Germany.”

Pat Muster chortled. “But the weather was uncertain and the big, bold bandit said he was afraid to make the trip!”

Frank spoke up. “One last question. Why was Pops called Pops, anyhow?”

“Because he drinks soda pop all the time,” replied Chet. “His favorite is some stuff named Fizzle.”

“I wonder,” said Joe with a grin, “if he’ll be served any Fizzle in jaill”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Danger in the Fog

CHAPTER II - A Suspicious Summons

CHAPTER III - Shortcut to Peril

CHAPTER IV - A Painted Warning

CHAPTER V - The Strange Blue Light

CHAPTER VI - Ghost Music

CHAPTER VII - A Rooftop Struggle

CHAPTER VIII - Tommy-knockers!

CHAPTER IX - The Crowbar Clue

CHAPTER X - Ambush Trail

CHAPTER XI - Shadow of the Bear

CHAPTER XII - Big Al’s Orders

CHAPTER XIII - A Fight in the Dark

CHAPTER XIV - The Broken Knife

CHAPTER XV - Underground Chase

CHAPTER XVI - Cliff Hideaway

CHAPTER XVII - The Secret Listener

CHAPTER XVIII - North from Lone Tree

CHAPTER XIX - Wolf Prey

CHAPTER XX - Windy Peak Prisoner

HUNTING FOR HIDDEN GOLD

Timber wolves, a Rocky Mountain blizzard, and a mine cave-in are only a few of the perils Frank and Joe Hardy encounter during their search for the principal members of a notorious gang responsible for a payroll robbery.

In the old Montana mining camp of Lucky Lode, the young detectives puzzle over a series of mysterious events. A piano-playing ghost haunts the long-abandoned dance hall. Eerie blue lights flash from the hilltop cemetery in the dark of night. Strange men arrange a meeting at Shadow of the Bear. A suspect disappears through a curtain of frozen ice.

How are these events related to the men who kidnapped the boys in Chicago? Who booby-trapped the helicopter which flew the young detectives to the ghost town? And what ever happened to Bart Dawson who seemingly deserted his gold-mining partners twenty-five years ago?

Clue by clue, Frank and Joe cleverly fit into place the scattered pieces of this dangerous puzzle and come up with the astonishing solution.

The wolf pack seemed to sense that its victims were trying to escape

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Copyright © 1991, 1963, 1956, 1928 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. .S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-440-67319-1

2007 Printing

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CHAPTER I

Danger in the Fog

“SOMEBODY’S going to get hurt!” Frank Hardy exclaimed.

He and his four companions paused in the darkening woods and listened as rifleshots and loud laughter rang out from a nearby ridge.

“Careless hunters,” Frank’s brother Joe said grimly.

Joe was seventeen, tall and blond, and a year younger than Frank.

“Let’s go back to the cabin,” urged plump Chet Morton nervously. “I’m hungry, anyhow.”

Lanky Biff Hooper agreed. “We can look for a campsite tomorrow.”

“Unless Frank and Joe are called away to solve a mystery,” Tony Prito needled.

Frank chuckled. “There’s a chance we will—”

Smack! A bullet thudded into a tree an inch from Joe’s head!

For a moment there was stunned silence. Then Frank asked quickly, “Joe, are you all right?”

His brother gulped and looked at the gash in the bark. “I’m okay. But one inch closer—”

Biff Hooper’s handsome face flushed with anger. “I’m going after those fellows!” he declared.

As he spoke, three hunters came into view.

“Hold it!” Frank hailed them. “You men nearly killed my brother!”

“Why don’t you be careful?” Joe shouted.

“Sorry, boys,” one of the men called back casually. He and his companions did not stop; instead, they moved on through the undergrowth.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” Chet bellowed.

“Forget it, kid,” another of the hunters replied. “Nobody got hurt.”

“Stupid sportsmen!” growled Joe as the trio disappeared. He added to his companions, “You fellows nearly lost one business partner.”

The five boys had pooled money to build their own cabin and were exploring the deep woods north of Bayport looking for a campsite.

To relieve the tension caused by the near accident, Tony Prito said jokingly, “We’re used to the idea of losing you and Frank. Every time we start a project, you two get involved in a mystery.”

Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, the well-known detective. They had solved many mysteries on their own and sometimes cooperated with their father on his cases.

Biff grinned. “Amazing! We’ve been here one whole day, and you Hardys are still with us!”

Frank winked at Joe. “We may have to leave,” he admitted. “Dad’s on a case out West and we’re hoping we’ll get a call to go and help him.”

The others groaned, then laughed. “In fact,” Joe added, “we might even find a clue right around here.”

“What!” chorused the Hardys’ pals.

“Remember when Frank and I inquired at the store about a man named Mike Onslow?” Joe went on, “Dad asked us to keep an eye out for him. Onslow lives somewhere in these woods, and he may have some useful information that ties in with Dad’s case.”

“Come on,” said Chet. “Let’s eat and talk later.”

The boys pushed on through the growing darkness. Fog was beginning to rise by the time they reached the edge of the clearing where their rented cabin stood. As they crossed to the crude log house, rifleshots sounded in the distance.

Chet winced. “Those careless hunters are still at it,” he remarked.

The boys were about to enter the cabin when Joe exclaimed, “Quiet!”

They all halted, listening intently. “It sounded like a cry,” Joe said.

The others had heard nothing, and finally went inside.

“Hope nobody was shot by those fools,” Tony remarked, lighting the oil lamp.

Frank and Joe built a fire in the fireplace, while Chet started supper on a wood stove.

“This is a bad place to get hurt,” Biff said.

The boys were ten miles from the nearest town, Clintville, and the only road was steep and rutted. They had borrowed Mr. Hardy’s car for the trip, but had left it in the Clintville Garage. George Haskins, owner of the town’s one hotel, had rented them the cabin, and his son Lenny had driven the boys to it in his jeep.

“It wouldn’t be easy to get help here,” Joe agreed.

“Dinner’s nearly ready,” Chet announced. “Bring chairs to the—” He stopped short. From the clearing outside came the sound of running feet and then a frantic hammering on the door. Tony strode over and opened it. Lenny Haskins, a lanky boy, stood in the doorway, panting.

“What’s the matter?” Tony asked the youth.

“Frank and Joe Hardy have a long-distance call at the hotel,” the boy blurted, out of breath.

“From where?” Frank asked.

“Don’t know,” Lenny said. “There’s trouble on the line and all I could make out was that the person would call back in an hour or so.”

“Maybe it’s Dad!” Frank exclaimed.

“I’ll bet you’re right,” Joe agreed. “We told him he could reach us through Mr. Haskins.”

“You fellows go ahead and eat,” said Frank. “Joe and I will return to the hotel with Lenny.”

With the Haskins boy leading the way, the Hardys hurried across the clearing and down a trail through the misty woods to the road. There they piled into the rattletrap jeep.

“Hang on!” said Lenny, as they started a bone-shaking ride downhill.

Twenty minutes later the car reached Main Street in Clintville and came to a stop in front of Haskins Hotel. The telephone was ringing as the boys rushed in.

Mr. Haskins seized the receiver from the wall telephone. “Yep!” he shouted into the mouthpiece, then handed the instrument to Frank.

“This is Hank Shale,” came a voice, barely understandable through the static. “Your pa asked me to call and say he needs your help pronto.”

“Is Dad okay?” Frank asked loudly.

The answer was drowned out by crackling noises over the wire. Then the voice said, “Get here to Lucky Lode,” and the line went dead.

“Hank Shale is the name of the old friend Dad told us he’d be staying with,” Joe recalled. “But how do we know that was really Shale?”

“I heard the operator say it was Lucky Lode calling,” put in Mr. Haskins.

“That settles it then,” Frank said urgently. “Something has happened. We must take off right away and help Dad!”

“There’s a morning flight to the West,” Joe said. “We’ll have to make it!”

After some difficulty, the boys managed to place a call to Lucky Lode, notifying Hank of their plan to start out the next day.

“Better eat before you go,” the hotel proprietor said kindly.

Gratefully the hungry boys joined Mr. Haskins and Lenny at a table in the kitchen. While they ate, Frank and Joe made their plans. They asked Lenny to take them back to the cabin in his jeep and wait while they packed.

“Then we’ll pick up our car in the garage, drive all night, and make Bayport by sunup. Another car can be sent back later for the other fellows.”

After the meal, the Hardys thanked Mr. Haskins and hurried out with Lenny. Soon they were riding up the steep hill in the noisy jeep.

Joe shouted, “We’ll have to move fast to—”

Crash! The oil pan of the jeep hit a rock in the road. The vehicle lurched into the ditch and stopped against a tree.

“We can soon push it back on the road,” Lenny said, as they climbed out.

“No use. We wouldn’t get far, the way it’s losing oil,” replied Frank when he saw the extent of the damage. “We’ll walk the rest of the way and you can go back for help or another car.”

Lenny agreed and hurried down the hill as the Hardys began hiking up the rugged road. Their flashlights were on, but the beams hardly penetrated the thickening fog. Often they stumbled over rocks and into ruts. The night was raw and damp.

The jeep lurched into the ditch!

Suddenly Joe stopped. “What’s that?”

For a second they both stood still and from the woods came a faint cry. “He-e-elp!”

“Come on!” Frank said tersely.

The boys cut into the woods on their right, and felt their way through the mist-shrouded trees. Low branches cut their faces, and once Joe tripped over a huge oak root.

Again they heard the thin call for help.

“Over there,” said Frank, “where the fog is denser.”

Cautiously they moved forward. Suddenly the cry came more loudly—from right below their feet!

“Careful,” warned Frank, feeling ahead with his foot. “There’s a ravine here.” Half sliding, the boys worked their way down the bank. At the bottom Frank stumbled over something bulky and there came another moan. He beamed his light on a prostrate figure.

“Here he is, Joe,” said Frank. The two boys knelt beside the victim.

“My leg,” the man groaned. “I’ve been shot.”

With extreme care Frank pulled aside the trouser cloth torn by the bullet. “Doesn’t seem to be much bleeding now, but there might be more when we move you.” Quickly the boys wound their handkerchiefs loosely around the man’s thigh to use as a tourniquet if necessary.

As they lifted the moaning figure, he fainted.

“No time to waste, Joe. He’s pretty weak.”

Joe peered around into the blanket of fog. “Suppose we can’t find our cabin?” he asked grimly.

“We must,” Frank replied. “This man may die if we don’t get him to shelter.”

CHAPTER II

A Suspicious Summons

TOGETHER, the boys eased the unconscious man up the bank. Then Frank hoisted him over one shoulder.

“Lucky he’s not a big fellow,” Joe commented.

He went ahead, beaming his light through the fog and leading Frank by one hand. Gradually the white mist grew less dense, and the Hardys could make out the shapes of trees.

“That looks like the oak where I stumbled,” Joe said. “I think we go left here.”

Progress was slow and uncertain. Finally Frank said, “If we don’t come to the road soon, we’d better stop. We may have lost our bearings and be heading deeper into the woods.”

To the boys’ relief, the man’s wound bled little. Just as they were about to turn back, Joe felt rocky ruts underfoot and exclaimed, “Here’s the road!”

Carefully he and Frank began the climb uphill and struggled to the top. The fog had drifted and lightened in spots. The boys trudged on. Finally, Frank caught sight of the path which led to the clearing. A few minutes later the Hardys found the cabin, and Frank pounded on the door.

Biff opened it and exclaimed in amazement. Quickly he and the other boys helped carry the man to one of the bunks and covered him. When Tony brought the oil lamp from the table, they saw that the man’s face was deeply seamed by time and weather. Joe removed the man’s worn woolen hat, revealing a thick thatch of grizzled hair.

While Frank cut away the victim’s trouser leg and examined the bullet wound in his thigh, Joe quietly told the others all that had happened. Meantime, Biff unpacked their first-aid kit, and Chet began heating a can of soup.

“We must get this man to a doctor,” Frank said as he finished bandaging the leg. “The bullet will have to be removed.”

The victim groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “Wh-where am I?” he whispered.

Joe quickly explained what had happened.

“Sip this soup,” Chet told the patient, “and you’ll feel a lot better. I’ll feed it to you.”

When the stranger had finished the soup, he said in a stronger voice, “Thank you, boys, for a mighty good turn. I wish I could repay you.”

“The most important thing is to get you to a doctor. We’re expecting Lenny Haskins to come for—” Frank broke off as the old man gave a start. “Is anything wrong?”

“Say! Would any of you boys be Frank and Joe Hardy?” the patient inquired in a feeble voice.

The two brothers identified themselves.

“I plumb forgot, gettin’ shot by that fool hunter and all,” the man went on, “but you’re the lads I was comin’ to see. The storekeeper in Clintville said you wanted to get in touch with me.”

“Are you Mike Onslow?” Frank queried.

“Yep, that’s me.”

“We asked about you, but the storekeeper told us you’d probably be off tending your traplines,” Frank went on. “He doubted we’d catch you at home, even if we could find your cabin.”

Onslow nodded. “My shack’s pretty hard to get to if you don’t know these woods. I camp out quite a bit, anyhow, durin’ the trappin’ season.” He gave the brothers a quizzical look. “What you want to see me about?”

“You’d better not do any more talking till you’re stronger,” Joe advised.

But the trapper insisted he felt equal to it, so Frank explained that their father was a private detective and had been engaged to track down a gang of criminals in Montana.

“Dad thinks they may be holed up somewhere in the country around Lucky Lode,” Frank went on. “He heard out there that you had prospected the whole area about twenty-five years ago and once tangled with crooks who had a secret hideout in those parts.”

Joe added, “He thought you might know of some likely spots to hunt for the gang.”

The elderly trapper sighed and settled back on the bunk. His eyes took on a faraway look.

“Yep, I know the Lucky Lode country like the palm of my hand,” he murmured. “Don’t reckon as I can help you much, though. But your pa’s right—I did run up against a gang o’ owlhoots.”

“Tell us about it,” Frank urged.

“Well,” Onslow began, “I was partners with two brothers, John and James Coulson, and a big redheaded daredevil, Bart Dawson. We were workin’ a claim in the Bitterroot Hills and we sure ’nough struck it rich.”

“Gold?” Joe asked.

Onslow nodded. “Real pay dirt—we thought we were fixed for life. By the time the vein petered out, we had three bags o’ nuggets and one of old gold coins we found stashed behind a rock.”

“Wow! What happened?” put in Tony.

“The night we were ready to leave our claim, we were jumped by the toughest bunch o’ crooks in Montana—Black Pepper and his gang. They surrounded our cabin, and we knew we’d never get away with our skins and the gold.”

“How did you make it finally?” Chet asked.

“Well, Bart Dawson was an ex-pilot and he had an old, beat-up plane out on the plateau. We’d already put the gold aboard—easier than luggin’ it on horseback. While we lured Black Pepper and his boys around to the front of the cabin, Bart slipped out back and ran for his crate. The gang spotted Bart and chased him. We heard his motor, so we knew he got away okay. Before the varmints came back, the rest of us escaped from the cabin.”

“You met Dawson later?” Joe wanted to know.

Onslow’s face became bitter. “We were supposed to meet him up in Helena and split the gold four ways. But we never saw Dawson or the gold again. Funny part of it is, Dawson was a good partner. I’d have staked my life we could trust him. But I was wrong.”

“Didn’t you ever hear of him afterward, or pick up his trail?” questioned Frank.

“Nope. Never found hide nor hair o’ him. After that, I got fed up prospectin’. So I come back East and settled down to scratchin’ out a livin’ with my traplines. I lost track o’ the Coulson brothers.”

Everyone was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then Joe asked Mike Onslow, “Have you any ideas as to where Dad might look for the criminals he’s after?”

The woodsman chuckled dryly. “Son, there’s a heap o’ places he might look—awful big country out Montana way. Them mountains is full o’ spots for a gang to hole up in.” The trapper frowned. “One likely place was in the Lone Tree area—a box canyon part way up Windy Peak. Accordin’ to rumors, that was Black Pepper’s hideout.”

The Hardys were excited by this information. “Thanks for the tip,” said Frank. “It’s tough luck, your getting shot tonight. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t started out to see us. But maybe we can make up for it.”

“Right!” Joe chimed in. “When we’re out West, we’ll try to find a clue to Dawson and your missing gold.”

“That’s kind of you, boys,” said the trapper, “but I don’t think there’s much use. If Dawson really stole that gold, there wouldn’t be much left after twenty-five years. All the same,” he added spunkily, “if you’re willin’ to try, I’ll help you if I can.”

Onslow scratched his head and was thoughtful for a moment. “Don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’ll draw you a map of our claim.”

“That’ll be a starting point, anyhow,” Frank said.

While the boys packed the Hardys’ gear, Onslow drew a map for Frank and Joe. “Here’s where the claim was,” he said, marking an X. “This region was called the Lone Tree area because of a giant pine which stood all by itself on a cliff. Every body out there knows Lone Tree,” he added.

As Joe tucked the map into his pocket, someone pounded on the door. It was Lenny. “Are you ready?” he asked, panting. “The jeep’s fixed.”

Frank told him about finding Onslow with the gunshot wound. Then the boys improvised a stretcher, and Frank and Joe carried the injured trapper out to the jeep. While they were placing him on the back seat, Tony, Chet, and Biff collected and stowed the Hardys’ gear. A few moments later Lenny started the engine and they took off.

“So long!” Frank and Joe called from the jeep.

“Good luck!” chorused Chet and the others.

When Lenny reached town, he drove straight to the local doctor’s office. Despite their hurry, the Hardys waited to hear Dr. Knapp’s report after the bullet had been removed.

“He’ll have to stay off that leg and have nursing care,” Dr. Knapp advised as he washed his hands. “He ought to go to the hospital.”

“I have no money for that,” Mike spoke up. “I’ll look after myself.”

“No, you won’t,” Frank said with a smile. “We’ll take you back to Bayport with us.”

“You bet!” his brother added. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude will like having somebody to fuss over.”

The injured man protested that he did not want to be a nuisance, but the boys won their point. After picking up their car at the garage, they drove all night and arrived in Bayport at dawn. Quietly they carried Onslow up to their room. Then Frank awakened his mother and explained what had happened. She smiled understandingly and soon she and Mr. Hardy’s sister, Gertrude, were welcoming the woodsman warmly.

“You look as though you’re in need of a good meal,” Miss Hardy stated. She was a tall, spare woman with a tart tongue but a warm heart.

“We’ll fix something right now,” agreed the boys’ slim, attractive mother.

As Frank and Joe hurried downstairs after the women, Aunt Gertrude clucked disapprovingly. “Flying around in airplanes, traipsing about the Wild West chasing outlaws! You boys are headed for trouble again.”

“We hope so, Aunty.” Joe laughed as his aunt sniffed and bustled into the kitchen with Mrs. Hardy.

Frank called the airport to check on their plane time and reported to Joe. “We have one hour to shower, dress, drive to the airport, and buy our tickets.”

“We can take our camping gear just as it is,” said his brother.

The boys wasted no time getting ready, and soon were on their way. They pulled up in the parking lot outside the air terminal with ten minutes to spare. Frank paid for their tickets and checked the baggage through to Cold Springs, the closest airport to Lucky Lode. Meantime, Joe wired their father.

As the brothers sank into their plane seats, Joe exclaimed with a grin, “We made it!”

“But we have to change at Chicago and Butte,” Frank reminded him.

As soon as the plane was airborne, a hot breakfast was served. After eating, the boys napped for a couple of hours. When they awoke, Joe took out the map Onslow had drawn.

“It shows the area around the claim,” he remarked, studying it closely. “But not how to get there from Lucky Lode.”

Joe was replacing the sketch in his wallet, when the pilot’s voice announced that they were coming into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. After deplaning, Frank and Joe checked at the airline ticket counter. A clerk told them that the plane they were to board would be three hours late in taking off.

Just then a quiet voice behind them asked, “Are you the Hardy boys?”

The brothers turned to face the speaker—a well-dressed man in dark clothes. “Yes, we are,” Frank replied.

“My name is Hopkins,” the stranger said. “I’ve had word from your father that I’m to give you some important reports. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to stop by my office to get them, so I’ll have to ask you to come there with me.”

Frank looked at Joe. They had never heard the detective mention Mr. Hopkins. The man smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re cautious,” he said. “But I assure you this is on the level. Your father called me this morning.”

The boys realized they did not know all Mr. Hardy’s associates. It was possible the man was telling the truth. Both Frank and Joe reasoned that Hank Shale could have mentioned Mr. Hopkins over the telephone, but they had missed it because the connection had been so bad.

“Whom is Dad staying with?” Frank asked as a test.

“Hank Shale,” Mr. Hopkins replied promptly. Then he added seriously, “The reports are very important, boys.” Frank and Joe knew they would have to risk accompanying him.

“All right,” Frank said. “Let’s go.”

“My car and chauffeur are right outside,” Mr. Hopkins told them, walking toward the door.

The brothers followed him to a large black sedan parked at the curb. The chauffeur leaned back and opened the rear door. The boys climbed in. Mr. Hopkins seated himself in front.

Suddenly, as the driver started the motor, both rear doors opened and two big, tough-looking men slid in, one on each side of the Hardys.

Instantly Frank and Joe realized this was a trap. Joe reached across to the dashboard in a desperate effort to switch off the engine. The two thugs pushed him back roughly.

“None o’ that!” one snarled as the car shot away from the curb. “From here on you kids’ll take orders from us. Don’t argue or we’ll shut you up in a way you won’t like!”

CHAPTER III

Shortcut to Peril

FRANK and Joe gritted their teeth, furious at hav ing walked into a trap. The two thugs kept an iron grip on the boys.

“Where are you guys taking us?” Joe asked angrily.

Hopkins turned around in the front seat and gave a nasty sneer. “You’re both going on a little trip. You’ll soon find out where.” He added gloatingly, “We knew that you’d show up at the airport today.”

He now addressed one henchman, a flashily dressed fellow. “Robby, gag these kids if they squawk. And you, Zeke, let them see what you’ll use on them if you have to.”

Zeke, who was wearing a brown suit and shirt, opened his huge hand and revealed a small blackjack. Without a word he gave the boys a threaten ing look and closed his hand again.

The car moved smoothly through traffic and the boys’ captors never loosened their grasp. After a long ride, the car reached a wide, store-fronted avenue in one of the Chicago suburbs. Slowing up, it turned down a side street and pulled into the driveway of a very old house near the corner. The driver parked in back and the four men hustled the Hardys inside. They went upstairs to an open hallway protected by a railing.

“Get in there!” Zeke ordered, and pushed the boys into a room near the head of the stairs. There was one window with the shade drawn and a table.

“What’s this all about?” Frank demanded.

Hopkins ignored the question. “Empty your pockets!” he barked.

Zeke opened his hand, disclosing the black jack. Realizing that resistance was pointless, the brothers obeyed.

“You won’t need this stuff,” Hopkins said, as tickets, money, and keys were laid on the table.

Going through Joe’s wallet, Hopkins found the map which Mike Onslow had drawn. Hopkins gave the boys a hard look. “Where did you get this?”

“What do you want with us?” Frank countered.

Hopkins’ eyes glittered menacingly. “So you won’t talk about the map. Well, you will later.” He folded the map and put it into his pocket. “The boss’ll be interested to hear about this,” he said to his companions. “Now tie up these smart alecks.”

With a sneer the driver of the car pulled several lengths of heavy cord from his pocket. Robby bound the Hardys’ wrists behind their backs, while Zeke began tying their ankles together.

As his henchmen finished, Hopkins snapped, “I have to get downtown. Nick, go out and start the car.” When the chauffeur left, Hopkins said to Zeke and Robby, “Don’t forget—I’ll need one of you a little later.”

“How about me?” Robby asked hopefully.

“You’ll do.” Hopkins glanced at his wristwatch. “There’ll be a taxi here to pick you up at noon—twenty-three minutes from now. Be ready.”

As Hopkins moved toward the door, Joe asked hotly, “How long are you going to keep us here?”

“Until your father drops the case he’s on.”

After a short interval there came the sound of a car driving away. Within seconds Zeke said to Robby, “Let’s go downstairs and eat some lunch.”

“And leave these boys?” Robby asked. “Zeke, you’re crazy. They might get loose.”

A crafty look came into Zeke’s eyes as he gazed at a closet. It had an old-fashioned wooden latch.

“We’ll lock ‘em in there,” he said. “If they try to bust out, we’ll hear ’em and come runnin’”

“Okay,” Robby agreed. “And for safety we’ll lock the hall door.”

Frank and Joe were dragged into the closet and the latch was secured. The men left the room. At once the Hardys began trying to free themselves. Frank managed to back close to his brother, and with his fingers, work at Joe’s wrist bonds.

“We sure pulled a boner,” Frank said grimly. “Dad told us before he left that the gang he’s after is widespread.”

“What puzzles me,” Joe replied, as he finally extricated his hands from the loosened ropes, and untied Frank’s wrist cords, “is how they knew we were heading for the West?”

Frank shrugged as he and Joe freed their ankles. “We’ll find out later. Right now we must escape.”

Joe was already feeling around the closet. On a hook hung a slender metal coat hanger. “I’ll try this,” he said. “The door crack by the latch is pretty wide. Hurray! The hanger goes through!”

It was only a matter of moments before the wooden latch had been pushed upward, and the boys stepped out of the closet. They pocketed the tickets, money, and wallets, which were still on the table.

Joe whispered, “The hall door won’t be so easy.”

Frank had tiptoed to the one window in the room. He pushed aside the shade and looked down onto a shabby backyard adjoined by empty lots.

“Too far to drop down there,” he muttered. “We’ll just have to rush those men when they come back.”

The next instant came the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. Joe stepped to one side of the door while Frank crouched in the center of the room.

The key turned in the lock and the door burst open. Frank charged forward, butting Zeke squarely in the stomach. The blow sent the man reeling across the hall against the hallway railing. Zeke toppled over it backward with a shriek of panic and would have plunged to the floor below had he not grabbed one of the rails.

Enraged, Zeke’s partner seized Frank by the shoulder and swung him around for a punch. Joe rushed out through the doorway. His fist landed hard on the back of Robby’s skull and the man collapsed in a heap.

“Come on! Let’s go!” Frank exclaimed.

Zeke snarled and tried desperately to pull himself back up over the railing as the two boys dashed downstairs and out the front door. To their relief, they saw a taxi waiting at the curb, its motor idling.

“Boy! We timed things just right!” Joe exclaimed gleefully.

The driver, a thin-faced, hawk-nosed man, looked at the boys in surprise as they yanked open the car door and climbed in.

“O’Hare Airport,” Frank ordered. “Fast as you can make it!”

The driver threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. Frank and Joe looked back at the house. As the taxi reached the corner and swung onto the avenue, the boys caught a glimpse of Robby rushing from the house.

“I’ll bet he’s mad enough to chew nails!” Joe thought with a chuckle.

“I’d like to see Hopkins’ face when Robby reports what happened,” Frank whispered.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Joe asked the driver. “We have to catch a plane.”

The taxi driver glanced at the Hardys in his rearview mirror. “Sure. I’ll take a shortcut.”

He turned right at the next corner. After threading his way through several narrow side streets, the driver came to another avenue. Here he swung right again.

The Hardys were puzzled. Although the side streets had slanted and twisted somewhat, it seemed as if they were now heading back in the same direction from which they had come! Joe was about to protest when Frank clutched his arm.

He pointed furtively to the taxi driver’s identification card. The photograph on the card showed a chubby man with a small button nose. He looked nothing like the hawk-featured driver.

Joe gulped as he realized that this driver was an impostor—most likely one of Hopkins’ thugs! The boys had escaped from Zeke and Robby only to fall straight into the clutches of another member of the gang!

CHAPTER IV

A Painted Warning

THE Hardys looked at each other, speechless. No wonder the taxi driver had seemed surprised! He must have guessed they had escaped from Zeke and Robby. But he had not dared risk any strong-arm tactics in full view of the neighboring houses.

Probably, Frank thought, he had driven around to gain time while figuring out his next move. Maybe the driver, too, had glimpsed Robby and was circling back to the house for help.

Joe wondered, “Could we tackle this hood without causing an accident? I’m afraid not.”

As if reading his brother’s mind, Frank scribbled a note on his plane-ticket envelope:

Hop out at first stoplight!

Joe nodded tensely. Two blocks later a traffic signal loomed. It was just changing to yellow. The driver tried to beat the light, but an oncoming car made a left turn, blocking his way, and he had to slam on the brakes. Frank nudged his brother toward the right-hand door and Joe jerked it open.

“Hey! What’s the idea?” the driver snarled as the boys leaped out. “Come back!”

Frank and Joe sprinted across the street. Reaching the curb, they glanced back. The driver was still snarling at them, but they could not hear what he was saying. Then the light changed and he was forced to move on in the surge of traffic.

“He may try a U-turn!” Frank said. “Let’s go!”

“Wait! Here comes another taxi!” Joe exclaimed. They flagged it down and jumped in. “O’Hare Airport! Step on it!” Frank ordered.

As the taxi sped off, the boys watched out the rear window. But no one was in pursuit.

“Whew!” Joe said, giving a sigh of relief. “Good thing you spotted that identification photo!”

Frank nodded. “That thug must have stolen the car from the real driver—and not just to trap us,” he whispered. “I’ll bet it was to be used for pulling another job!”

“Right! That’s why Hopkins told Robby ex actly when it would arrive—they may be planning a carefully timed holdup!”

It was only a few minutes before takeoff when the boys dashed into the air terminal. Frank made a hasty call to Captain Jaworski of the Chicago Police, an old friend. Frank quickly explained what had happened and told the chief their theory that the gang might be planning to use the stolen taxi for some crooked job.

“The name on the real driver’s identification card was Ira Kleeder,” Frank added.

“Good enough. We can get the license number from the taxi company. And thanks for the tip!”

Joe, who was standing watch outside the telephone booth, rapped on the glass and pointed frantically to his wristwatch. Frank rang off, and the boys raced to the loading gate.

“We nearly left without you,” the stewardess said as she welcomed them aboard the plane. The Hardys smiled and found seats.

Soon they were airborne. The two boys settled back as the plane headed west.

“I’d sure like to know how Hopkins got word we were on our way to Lucky Lode,” Frank mused.

“The gang out there must have informed him,” Joe said. “Remember—he even knows that Dad is staying with Hank Shale.”

“Another thing,” Frank went on, “why should they be interested in that map? Is there some connection between Onslow’s claim and the gang? We’d better ask Mike to send us another map.”

“I can remember it pretty clearly,” Joe assured him, then added soberly, “Why didn’t Dad call us himself? I hope he’s not hurt.”

Frank nodded, troubled. Lunch was served aboard the plane. Afterward, the boys dozed.

At Butte they were wary, staying close to other passengers as they changed planes. No one bothered them, however. Soon they were winging their way in a two-motored craft over the frozen ridges of the Rockies toward Cold Springs, the small airport serving Lucky Lode.

The plane set down bumpily on a snow-covered landing strip. As the Hardys came out and gazed around, a sharp, biting wind hit their faces.

“Wow! This sure is different!” said Frank.

Pine woods surrounded the bleak, windswept field with its Quonset hut terminal and hangar. A helicopter and a tiny single-engine aircraft were parked near the edge of the field. To the west loomed the snowy Bitterroot mountain range.

“Brr!” Joe shivered. “Lonely looking, eh?”

“Sure is.” Frank replied.

As the brothers headed for the terminal, a hatless man in a plaid mackinaw strode toward them. “Frank and Joe Hardy?” he boomed.

He was a tall, handsome, ruddy-faced man. His white hair blew about in the wind. “I’m Bob Dodge,” he added, shaking hands with the boys heartily. “Your father’s working on a case for me in Lucky Lode. I came over in my helicopter to pick you up.”

“Why didn’t Dad come?” Frank asked.

“He had an accident—broke a couple of ribs. Nothing serious,” Dodge added, “but the doctor taped his chest and wants him to keep quiet.”

Seeing a look of suspicion on the boys’ faces, Dodge took a picture from his pocket. “Your father gave me this.” He held out a snapshot of the Hardys’ house with Aunt Gertrude standing on the lawn. “That’s your father’s sister,” Dodge said.

“Okay.” Frank knew that if the detective had been forced to hand over the picture, he would not have given Aunt Gertrude’s true identity. Mr. Dodge must be all right.

“We have to be careful,” Joe explained.

“I understand.” Dodge smiled. “There’s some stuff in the terminal I want to pick up. You two go on aboard.” He gestured toward the helicopter.

The boys started across the field. They were still some distance from the craft when a tall, thin man suddenly jumped out of the ship and walked rapidly away.

“Wonder who he is?” Joe asked.

“Maybe an airport attendant,” Frank guessed.

“If so, why is he heading for the woods?”

Frank frowned. When they reached the helicopter, he said, “I wish we knew what that fellow was doing aboard.”

Joe pulled back the door and looked inside cautiously. The boys searched the helicopter but found nothing.

Frank chuckled in relief. “Okay, we didn’t get booby-trapped. Let’s stow our gear.”

They climbed out and Joe was about to open the access hatch to the baggage compartment, just aft of the cabin, when Frank stopped him.

“Let’s play safe and check this door.”

“Good idea.” Frank took a rope from his gear and tied one end to the hatch handle. The boys backed off to one side. Frank tugged the rope.

Boo-o-om! A deafening blast rocked the craft and knocked the boys off their feet. An acrid smell of gunpowder assailed their nostrils.

“Good grief!” Joe whispered.

Pale and shaken, they examined the baggage compartment. A sawed-off shotgun had been wired and propped into position inside, evidently by someone working through a removable panel in the forward wall. The gun had been triggered by a cord tied to the door latch.

Meanwhile, the explosion had brought Bob Dodge and an older man running from the terminal. “What happened?” they yelled together.

Frank explained, and the two men examined the deadly setup with dismayed looks. Joe cautioned them not to touch the weapon so it could be checked for fingerprints. Dodge’s companion, who proved to be the airport manager, went off to report the incident to the police.

Frank and Joe took out their fingerprint kit and dusted the shotgun. No prints appeared.

“The man we saw at the copter wore gloves,” Frank recalled, “but I was hoping something might show up, anyhow.”

“The gun must have been wiped clean beforehand,” Joe deduced.

Soon two police officers arrived. The Hardys described their near-fatal experience, and reported the results of their fingerprint check.

“You’re detectives?” one officer asked.

Frank introduced himself and his brother as Fenton Hardy’s sons. “I see,” said the officer. “I’ve heard of him—rarely fails to solve a case. So you’re following in his footsteps. Well, good luck!”

The brothers turned over the weapon to the policemen, who then, with the boys assisting, made a thorough check of the helicopter. They found no clues, however, so the Hardys stowed their gear and followed Dodge aboard the whirlybird.

“That scattergun could have been meant for me,” Dodge remarked worriedly, as he started the motor.

“Or for us,” Frank said.

As the helicopter rose and soared toward the Bitterroot mountain range, Frank told Dodge of their being kidnapped in Chicago.

“What is the case Dad is working on for you?” Joe asked.

“I’ve been running an armored-car service for ten years,” the big man explained. ”Recently one of my trucks was hijacked and a money shipment stolen. Both guards aboard were shot. The money was insured, of course, but I wanted those hijackers caught to avoid any future holdups, so, knowing your father’s reputation for tracking down hijackers, I engaged him to investigate. My men’s safety is important to me. The police have worked on the case, too. They and your father managed to recover the money and catch two of the gang, but the others escaped. Someone reported seeing them in Canada.”

Boo-o-om! The blast knocked the boys off their feet

“Then why has Dad stayed here?” Frank asked.

“Because he believes the leader of the gang, Big Al Martin, is still in this area. Your father refuses to leave until he is found.”

“How did Dad get hurt?” Joe questioned.

“He was thrown from a horse yesterday afternoon,” Dodge replied, “while chasing a fellow he thinks is one of Big Al’s men.”

“And now Dad wants us to try to find the outlaws,” Frank surmised.

“Yes,” Dodge said, “and the sooner the better. Big Al’s dangerous—he belongs behind bars. The police know he has henchmen in other cities.”

As Dodge spoke, the helicopter shook and rattled in the wind. Below them, the boys saw wild, rugged country. Snow-covered buttes stood like gaunt sentinels overlooking heavily wooded valleys.

Presently Dodge shouted, “It won’t be long now!”

Ahead, in a mountain cleft, the pilot pointed out the tiny town of Lucky Lode. “Over to the left is Windy Peak—the highest in the range.”

“Have you been flying long, Mr. Dodge?” Joe asked.

“I started taking lessons a couple of years ago and it came easily to me.”

“Have you always lived in the West?” Frank asked, but Dodge did not reply.

“Here we go!” he said, and began setting the helicopter down. Frank wondered if Dodge had not heard his question or did not want to discuss his past.

The pilot landed expertly in a clearing at one end of Lucky Lode. Then he helped the boys lug their gear to Hank Shale’s cabin at the foot of a steep hill on the outskirts of the town.

When Frank knocked, the door was opened by a tall, skinny man with thinning red hair. His wrinkled face split into a grin when he saw the trio.

“Come in and thaw out!” he exclaimed. “I’m Hank Shale. Your pa and I’ve been waitin’ for you!”

The boys entered to find their father seated before a roaring fire. Fenton Hardy was a trim, athletic-looking man. His keen eyes lighted up when he saw his sons.

“Hello, boys,” said the detective, and moving carefully, shook hands with them. “Thanks for giving up your camping trip.”

“We’d rather work with you any day,” Joe said, grinning.

Mr. Hardy smiled and turned to Dodge. “I appreciate your bringing my sons.”

Hank announced that he was going to the kitchen and rustle up some grub.

“I’ll help you,” Dodge volunteered. “The three detectives can sit by the fire and exchange news.”

In low voices the boys told their father all that had happened since they had left Bayport.

Mr. Hardy looked grave. “I agree with you that someone here must have informed Al’s Chicago henchmen that you were coming. But who?” He glanced toward the kitchen and called, “Hank!”

When the red-haired man appeared in the doorway, Mr. Hardy asked him, “Who was in Burke’s general store when you phoned my sons last night?”

“Just the usual crowd o’ fellers sittin’ around the stove,” Hank replied. “I had to holler on account o’ that bad connection, so they all heard every word.”

“Someone on the line might have been listening, too,” Joe remarked.

“I smell somethin’ bumin’!” Hank exclaimed and bolted into the kitchen.

“We’ll have to be on guard,” said Frank. “Someone probably will be watching every move we make.”

“Dad,” Joe asked, “what made you so sure Big Al didn’t go to Canada?”

“I was working with the police,” Mr. Hardy said, “when we caught two of the gang week before last. One of them told us Big Al was hiding out here, and meant to attend to some unfinished business. The police thought he was lying in order to sidetrack us while Al made an escape. I had a hunch it was the truth.”

“Why?” asked Frank.

“Because the man seemed scared and appeared to be hoping for a break at his trial. I started riding the hills trying to pick up Al’s trail. Yesterday I followed a rough-looking fellow on horseback. He met another man in a small clearing. I heard them talking and caught the words ‘Big Al‘ and ‘hideout.’ Just then my horse Major whinnied and the men galloped off. I gave chase, but Major stumbled and I took a spill.” The detective smiled ruefully. “Now I’m stuck here! Boys,” he added seriously, “your job is to find that hideout.”

Frank and ,joe, greatly excited by this challenge, discussed it all during a supper of thick western steaks, beans, and biscuits.

“We’ll have to get a line on what Big Al’s unfinished business is,” Frank said, when they were seated around the fireplace later.

“In any event, it’s probably illegal,” his father rejoined.

Presently Dodge got up. “Guess I’d better get back to the hotel.”

“Are your offices in Lucky Lode?” Joe asked.

“No, in Helena. I’ve been staying in town to watch developments on the case. If there’s any way I can help you, boys,” the big man added, “just let me know.”

After Dodge had left, Mr. Hardy remarked, “Bob strikes me as a fine man. Never mentions his early days, but I’m told he started his business on a shoestring and built it up by hard work.”

“Speakin’ o’ work, who wants to wash dishes?”

Laughing, the boys took Hank’s hint and before long the kitchen was shipshape.

Finally the brothers went to bed in one of two small rooms which led off the big one. Weary, the boys fell asleep immediately.

Suddenly they awoke with a start. A rumbling noise was coming from behind the cabin, growing louder every moment. The brothers leaped from bed. At the same instant, the cabin was jarred with a deafening crash.

Frank and Joe heard Hank yell as they rushed into the living room. “Look! Fire!” He pointed to the kitchen where a bright red glow was visible.

The trio dashed in. By the light of the flames they could see that a huge boulder had crashed through the back wall, overturning the stove and spewing burning firewood over the floor.

The boys raced back to their bedroom to get blankets. Spreading them over the fire, they began smothering and stamping out the flames. Mr. Hardy had hurried from his room, but the boys would not allow him to help. Meanwhile, Hank had filled a bucket at the kitchen pump and was dousing water over the hot stove. The fire sizzled angrily but gradually died out.

“Tarnation!” Hank exclaimed. “Nearest thing to an avalanche we’ve ever had around here.” He lighted an oil lamp, and everyone surveyed the damage.

“What a mess!” Joe grimaced.

The cabin owner sighed. “A whoppin’ big hole in the wall, and some burnt floorin’. Well, I reckon I can fix it tomorrow.”

Frank and Joe started to push the boulder out through the hole, then Joe gasped in surprise. On the huge stone were brightly painted red letters. Rolling the boulder a bit farther, the boys made out a crudely painted message:

HARDYS—LEAVE TOWN!

“A warning from Big All” Frank said grimly.

CHAPTER V

The Strange Blue Light

THE three detectives and Hank examined the warning message on the huge rock.

“Big Al is a rough customer,” Mr. Hardy said, frowning. “Be on your guard at all times.”

“We’ll watch out, Dad,” Frank promised.

He and Joe shoved the boulder outside and looked up the hill. The moon had set and the mountainside was shrouded in darkness.

“No telling if anyone’s up there,” Joe muttered.

The two brothers shivered in the icy wind, and then squirmed through the hole into the burned kitchen. Meanwhile, Hank pulled on warm clothes, went out to a lean-to, and brought back a tarpaulin. The boys helped him nail it over the hole in the wall, then set the stove up.

“That’ll do till mornin’,” Hank said.

Frank and Joe were up as soon as it was light. After a quick breakfast they climbed the steep, snow-covered slope behind the shack, following the trail plowed by the huge boulder. The boys soon found a deep gouge where the stone had been pried out of the hillside.

“Somebody used a crowbar to get it going,” Joe said, kneeling on the ground.

“And here are some traces of red paint,” Frank pointed out.

They scouted around thoroughly, and noticed the snow had been disturbed, as if to cover tracks.

“Whoever pried that stone loose,” Frank said thoughtfully, “may have come from town rather than from a hideout in the hills.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not likely that anyone hiding up in the mountains would have red paint on hand. The person who did this probably got it at the village store.”

“Maybe Big Al has an agent in Lucky Lode,” Joe suggested.

The boys walked on up the hill. The undergrowth at the top was parted and broken.

“Someone forced his way through here,” Frank said.

They followed the trampled brush to a trail which led along the wooded ridge, paralleling the main street of Lucky Lode below them. Soon they spotted a narrow path leading down into the small community.

“The man we’re after could have come this way,” Frank said. “We’d better scout for clues.”

Slowly he and Joe walked down the steep, narrow trail. There were footprints, but these were too jumbled to be of any significance. They reached the bottom without finding anything else, then climbed back to the top and continued along the ridge.

After a while the boys emerged into a clearing. Before them lay an old cemetery. They crawled through a gap in the dilapidated wooden fence and walked silently among the gravestones. From the bleak, windswept spot they could see all of Lucky Lode in the valley below. The old part of town ended directly under the cemetery.

“Look at these, Frank,” called Joe, from where he knelt beside a double headstone.

“‘John and James Coulson’!” Frank read. “Mike Onslow’s partners!”

“I guess they came to Lucky Lode to try for another stake,” Joe said.

“You’re probably right,” Frank replied.

The boys decided to go into town and headed for the cemetery gate. Coarse brush grew up around the ornate posts. Frank passed through, but Joe was pulled up short.

“Wait!” he said. “I’m caught!”

Big burrs clung to his trousers. Fumbling with heavily gloved fingers, he managed to get free. Together, he and Frank pulled out all the burrs and the brothers scrambled down the slope.

At the foot they saw the deserted gray-weathered buildings. As they walked along the old wooden sidewalk, the boards creaked and the wind rattled the loose doors and shutters.

“This end of Lucky Lode’s a real ghost town,” Frank remarked.

“Somebody lives here, though,” Joe replied. He pointed ahead to a tumbledown house. A pale stream of smoke issued from the chimney.

Suddenly the door opened a crack and a rifle muzzle poked out. It was aimed straight at the boys!

Frank and Joe halted, not knowing whether to drop to the ground or run. But nothing happened. At last they moved forward cautiously.

The muzzle followed the Hardys until they came abreast of the porch. Then the door was kicked open and an old man jumped out, aiming the weapon at them. Frank and Joe stopped.

“What are you doin’ here?” the white-haired man demanded curtly, his eyes squinting suspiciously.

“Just visiting,” Frank said in a friendly tone.

“We’re from the East,” Joe went on. “Staying with Hank Shale.”

The old man lowered the rifle. “Oh,” he said, relieved. “Any friend of Hank Shale is a friend of mine. Come on in.”

“Did you expect somebody else?” Frank asked, as the boys followed the old man into the shack.

“Don’t know!” he snapped. “A fella can’t be too careful around here now. There’s funny things happenin’ up on Cemetery Hill.”

The boys found themselves in a plainly furnished room heated by a wood stove. They introduced themselves and their host said, “My name’s Ben Tinker.” He pointed to two wooden chairs near the stove. “Sit down and warm up.”

“What did you mean by funny things going on in the cemetery?” Frank asked him.

“It’s haunted,” Ben said flatly. “Has been for the past two weeks.”

“Haunted!” Joe echoed. “How?”

“Sometimes, late at night, a blue light blinks on and off up there. I’ve seen it,” the old man explained, “because I’m a night owl and like a breath of air before turnin’ in.”

“Has anyone else seen the light?” Frank asked.

“Doubt it. In Lucky Lode nobody’s out late at night. But that’s not all,” Ben went on. “About an hour after the lights show, somebody walks past here. I think it’s Charlie’s ghost. Charlie used to play piano in the Peacock Dance Hall next door. He was killed in a gunfight there forty years ago and buried up on Cemetery Hill.”

The Hardys were mystified. “Why do you think it’s Charlie’s ghost, Ben?” Frank asked.

“Because some nights I hear the piano—it’s still there. Sort of tuneless, like when Charlie let his fingers wander over the keys.”

“When was the last time you saw the blue light?” Frank queried.

“Night before last.”

“You don’t really believe it’s a ghost, do you?” Joe said.

“Might be. Then again might not. Somebody might be up to monkey business,” Ben admitted. “That’s why I keep this handy.” He pointed to the rifle leaning against the wall.

Frank, on impulse, asked the old-timer, “Do you know anything about John and James Coulson?”

“Sure do. They died in a mining accident about twenty-five years ago, after some highbinder stole a lot o’ gold from them.”

“We’d like to hear the story,” Frank said quickly.

Ben’s rambling account of the Lone Tree incident agreed with the version the Hardys had heard from Mike Onslow.

“What happened to Bart Dawson?” Joe asked.

“Can’t say for sure,” was Ben’s reply, “but he must have kept the gold. I saw him in Helena a couple o’ years after and he acted like he didn’t know me. Why would he have done that if he hadn’t been guilty?”

The Hardys exchanged glances. It certainly sounded as though Mike Onslow’s ex-partner had absconded with the gold! The brothers got up to leave, and Frank said, “Thanks for telling us all this, Ben.”

“Any time, boys. Come back again,” the man urged. “But stay away from that graveyard!”

As the Hardys walked down the main street toward the populated part of Lucky Lode, Frank suggested that the blue light could be a signal.

“I think so, too,” Joe agreed. “Cemetery Hill is clearly visible from everywhere in town.”

“It would be an ideal place for Big Al to signal a spy if he had one in Lucky Lode,” Frank remarked.

“Ben said the light has been around for only a couple of weeks,” Joe added, “and that’s about the length of time Dad thinks Big Al has been hiding out near here.”

“The footsteps Ben hears could be the spy returning to town after meeting Al in the cemetery,” Frank speculated.

“What about the piano playing in the deserted dance hall?” Joe asked.

“Maybe it’s Ben Tinker’s imagination.”

By this time the boys had reached the business section of Main Street. Frank stopped in front of the general store. “Let’s go in and see if we can find out anything about that red paint.”

Inside, a husky man stood behind the counter, slitting open cartons with his pocketknife. Frank asked if he were the owner.

“I am,” he said. “Jim Burke’s the name.”

Frank and Joe told him who they were, and he introduced the boys to several men seated around a potbelly stove. The Hardys noticed that the town post office, telephone switchboard, and telegraph office were also in the store.

“You must know everything that’s going on in town, Mr. Burke,” Joe said, smiling.

“That’s right,” the man answered with a wink.

“Could you tell us which stores here stock red paint?” Frank asked.

Burke chuckled. “This is the only store there is,” he replied. “I carry it. You want some?”

“No,” said Joe. “We’d like to find out if anyone bought red paint in the past few weeks.”

“No one,” Burke told him promptly. “I’d remember because I don’t sell much of it. Why?”

While Frank described the boulder attack on Hank’s cabin, he and Joe watched their listeners’ faces. None showed any sign of guilt. The Hardys told about meeting Ben Tinker and asked if anyone else had seen the blue light at the top of Cemetery Hill.

Burke laughed. “Ben Tinker’s always imaginin’ things.”

One of the other men guffawed. “A couple of weeks ago he was seein’ men from outer space.”

The Hardys did not believe this but made no comment. They left the store and went back to their cabin. Here they found Hank Shale and their father repairing the damaged wall.

“You’d better take it easy, Dad,” Joe said with concern.

“Oh, I haven’t been exerting myself.” Fenton Hardy grinned at his sons. “I have to find some way to work off a little energy.”

While Hank fixed lunch, Frank and Joe related what they had found out.

“Ben is an old man,” Hank put in as he dished out a sizzling plateful of ham and eggs, “but he’s not loco. Still, the whole story, blue lights and all, might be just his imagination.”

That afternoon the boys insisted that their father remain quiet while they helped Hank rebuild the cabin wall. By nightfall the job was done.

While they were relaxing in front of the fire after supper, Hank told the boys where they could rent horses to search for Big Al’s hideout. “I only have my mare Daisy,” he added, “and she’s none too young and spry.”

“There are a number of abandoned mines in this area,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “I suggest you investigate them.”

“But watch out for tommy-knockers,” Hank warned with a grin.

“Tommy-knockers? What’re they?” Joe asked.

“Some kind o’ gnomes or spirits or suchlike that live underground. Old-time miners used to say that if you heard one knockin’, it meant there was about to be an accident.”

“Okay. If we hear any, we’ll watch our step,” Frank promised jokingly. “By the way, we’d like to search the Lone Tree area. Where was Mike Onslow’s claim located?”

“Nobody knows, any more,” Hank said, scratching his head. “The Lone Tree territory’s too big for you fellows to cover alone.”

He drew them a sketch, showing the location of Lone Tree and deserted mines in the area. Frank and Joe decided which ones they would try next day.

Later, the brothers walked down to the livery stable on Main Street and rented horses for their expedition. The boys rode back to the cabin and stabled the animals in Hank’s lean-to. When they returned, Hank and Mr. Hardy were asleep, but the boys sat up for a while and discussed the mystery. They became aware that the wind had risen and was whipping around the cabin.

“We’d better take a look at the horses,” Frank suggested.

Bundling into their heavy jackets, the boys went outside. The lean-to was snugly built and the animals seemed comfortable. Satisfied, Frank and Joe started back. As they rounded the corner of Hank’s cabin, they stopped short.

“Look!” breathed Joe.

Clearly visible on the top of Cemetery Hill was a winking blue light!

CHAPTER VI

Ghost Music

“LET’S go up there!” urged Frank, grabbing Joe’s arm.

As quickly and quietly as possible, the boys scaled the hill in back of Hank’s cabin and hurried along the ridge trail toward the graveyard. When they reached the edge of the clearing, Frank and Joe paused in the shelter of the trees.

The night was moonless but the northern lights made great colored streaks across the sky. In a back corner of the cemetery, the brothers spotted a tall, thin figure.

“Probably the person who signaled with the blue light!” Joe whispered.

Crouching low, the young detectives crept through the broken fence. They moved forward soundlessly to a large stone monument and knelt behind it. The Hardys wished they could get closer to the man, but that gravestone was the only one large enough to afford them cover.

The man paced about restlessly, stamping his feet and huddling his shoulders for warmth. Presently the boys heard the sound of footsteps in the front of the cemetery. A second figure, big and bulky, approached the first. The newcomer’s cap was pulled low, and his face appeared to be muffled for protection against the bitter cold. He took up a position with his back turned to the two brothers.

As the thin man spoke, Frank and Joe strained their ears to hear above the roaring of the wind. They were able to catch only a part of the conversation.

“... Big Al’s plenty mad,” the first man was saying. “He gave me special orders for you tonight, Slip Gun.”

The big man was silent, apparently waiting for the speaker to continue.

“He wants you to keep the Hardy boys bottled up in town,” the thin man went on. “Also, be sure to tip him off on every move they make.”

The other man’s muffled response was drowned by the wind. Evidently he had asked a question.

“No luck yet,” the tall figure declared. “He’d better forget ... that special business ... it’s hopeless ... meeting day after tomorrow ... wants ... the usual stuff.”

“Where?”

“Shadow of the Bear,” answered the thin man.

The next instant there came the loud crack of breaking twigs. Both men whirled toward the noise. The boys held their breath. Was somebody else in the graveyard?

After a long silence, the thin man said, “Tomorrow Jake and I . . . with the boss ... Brady’s Mine. It’s one that ain’t flooded.”

Frank’s and Joe’s hearts jumped with excitement, but the wind rose to a howl and they could hear no more. The men murmured together for a few minutes, then parted.

The thin man moved past the Hardys’ hiding place. He slipped through the gap in the fence and quickly disappeared into the woods. Soon afterward, the boys heard a horse whinny and a brief clatter of hoofs on rocky ground.

“No chance of following him,” Joe muttered. “He might have led us to the gang’s hideout, too.”

Just then the other man trudged by. The boys waited tensely until the bulky figure reached the gate.

“Joe,” whispered Frank, “we can still find out who Big Al’s spy in town is.”

Cautiously the boys started toward the cemetery gate. They could hear the big man ahead, slipping and slithering along over the stony, snow-covered hill. The Hardys followed him as closely as they dared, moving furtively from one patch of scrub brush to another.

Suddenly Frank stopped short to listen. He thought he had heard a noise behind them and seized his brother’s arm to alert him. Startled, Joe slipped and nearly fell. A shower of stones cascaded down the hill!

There was silence on the dark slope. Frank and Joe stood motionless, listening intently. They could imagine the burly figure ahead listening as well. Then, from behind them, another rock came tumbling down.

Joe nudged Frank. “We didn’t cause that! Someone’s following us!”

Had the thin man spotted them, the Hardys wondered, and doubled back to stalk them? Or had a third person been in the cemetery, as they suspected?

The brothers scanned the hill above, but could see no one. “He’s probably hiding behind boulders or scrub,” Frank whispered.

After a while the Hardys thought they detected sounds of movement below them. Warily they descended, alert for any possible attack from the rear.

By the time they reached the foot of the hill, Frank and Joe had drawn close enough to their quarry to spot his shadowy figure disappearing into the ghost town. The boys trod stealthily on the snow-crusted wooden sidewalk, hugging the buildings. Ahead they could hear the man’s footsteps and see his bulky, muffled shape. Suddenly he vanished into the sagging shell of a deserted building.

The Hardys quickened their pace and peered around the corner of the building. They were just in time to see the man emerge from the rear. He whirled about and ran to the far side of the adjoining building.

Frank darted in pursuit and saw the man return to the street. When Frank reached the sidewalk again, Joe was at his elbow, silent as a shadow. Ahead, the man was hurrying down the street toward the other end of town.

“He knows he’s being followed,” Joe whispered, “and is trying to shake us.”

“Come on, or we’ll lose him!” Frank urged.

Flinging caution aside, the boys broke into a run, their steps pounding on the plank walk. Apparently their quarry heard them and immediately stepped up his own pace. A moment later the dim figure melted into the darkness between two old buildings. Frank and Joe reached the spot in a few seconds.

“This way!” Frank urged in a low voice, and the Hardys plunged into the shadowy gloom of the narrow passageway.

Behind the two structures, the brothers found themselves in an area overgrown with weeds and brush which merged into the trees on the hillside. Frank and Joe halted, straining their eyes in the darkness and listening intently. Nothing could be heard but the wind—then the howl of a wolf somewhere beyond the ridge.

“Looks as if he’s given us the slip,” Joe muttered.

The boys flicked on their flashlights and searched about. They finally picked out the fugitive’s prints, but his tracks led to the hard-trampled roadway and became indistinguishable. Baffled, the Hardys started back through the ghost town on their way to Hank’s cabin.

“Of all the luck!” Joe grumbled. “We almost had our hands on that spy!”

“At least we’ve learned one thing about him,” Frank said thoughtfully.

“What’s that?”

“His nickname. The man he met in the cemetery called him ‘Slip Gun.’”

“You’re right! I almost forgot,” Joe said. “Maybe it’ll help us trace him, if we can find out what it means. Any idea?”

Frank shook his head. “Not a glimmer, except that it sounds like a cowboy expression. Maybe Hank can tell us.”

As they approached Ben Tinker’s place, the brothers noticed that the windows were dark. Frank and Joe paused at the shack to listen, and heard a steady wheezing snore coming from inside.

“Good thing the old man’s asleep”—Frank chuckled—“or he might have started shooting at us!”

The Hardys resumed their pace. They were about to go past the deserted dance hall next door, when suddenly they froze in their tracks. Both Frank and Joe felt the hair on their necks rise and cold chills sweep up and down their spines.

From the abandoned hall, through the moan of the wind, came the sound of piano playing.

Tinker’s ghost music!

CHAPTER VII

A Rooftop Struggle

THE wind suddenly died down and in the eerie silence Frank and Joe again heard the tinkle of the piano keys coming from the deserted dance hall.

Joe murmured, “Here’s one mystery we can solve tonight! Let’s find out what goes on in here!”

“Right.”

Moving lightly over the wooden sidewalk, the boys approached the dance-hall entrance. The weird, tuneless music stopped.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. “Maybe we’ve scared the spook away,” Frank whispered half jokingly.

As if in answer, the music started once more. This time both the treble and bass keys of the piano sounded.

Quickly the Hardys drew flashlights from their jacket pockets and stepped inside. The searchers snapped on their flashlights and played the beams about the interior.

The music stopped again.

The room was sparsely furnished with a few rickety tables and chairs, heavily coated with dust. Ancient oil-lamp chandeliers, festooned with cobwebs, dangled from the ceiling.

At that moment the piano resumed its tinkling. Outside, the wind howled and shutters banged.

“Boy! This place is really creepy!” said Joe with a shudder.

Frank gripped his brother’s arm. “Look there!”

The boys’ lights now fell on a raised dais at one end of the room. On it stood a battered upright piano.

The Hardys stared in astonishment as the music continued. “The piano’s playing by itself!” Joe exclaimed.

Quickly the brothers crossed the room and Frank lifted the top of the old piano. He shone his flashlight inside. There was a sudden squeaking and twanging of wires.

“For Pete’s sake!” he burst out, as several rats scampered out of the piano, jumped down to the floor, and scurried away.

The boys laughed heartily. “There goes Tinker’s ghost music,” Frank said.

“Talented rats.” Joe grinned.

Suddenly, from the direction of the doorway, they heard the sidewalk creak. The boys whirled as a low, flat voice snarled, “You kids have been askin’ for it!”

Frank and Joe barely had time to glimpse a head—masked by a ghostlike hood with eyeholes —above the swinging doors. Then a gloved hand jerked into view, clutching a short-barreled revolver, the thumb cocking back the hammer. There was a spurt of flame.

Bang! A bullet whistled across the room and thudded into the piano. The Hardys dived from the dais, snapping off their flashlights and crashing into the tables and chairs below.

As the echoes of the shot died away, Frank picked up a broken chair and hurled it in the general direction of the gun flash.

There was a grunt as the chair connected, then the Hardys could hear the gunman’s feet scraping across the floor. He was stalking them in the darkness!

The boys separated instinctively to divide his attention. Frank crept off to the right and Joe to the left.

Suddenly Frank sprang to his feet. In two long strides he reached the window and leaped through it into the darkness outside.

Crash! Bang! There was no glass in the window, but Frank’s weight had carried away the crosspieces of the frame. He landed feet first. A moment later he saw a figure struggling through the window, grunting with the effort. The masked man!

Frank dashed around the corner of the dance hall. When he reached the back, he skidded to a halt at a high fence that was blocking his way. Hearing the gunman’s steps behind him, Frank vaulted the fence and fell in a heap on the other side.

The gunman leaped a moment later. Frank held his breath. He could see the man silhouetted against the dim light of the sky—then darting off into the darkness.

Frank jumped up and dashed into a ramshackle building that stood next to the dance hall. But the hooded man evidently had spotted the boy’s move, for Frank heard steps pounding in pursuit.

Without hesitation he raced through the front door and out onto the slippery, snowy sidewalk.

There was no time to find cover. The gunman was hot on his heels. In desperation, Frank ran straight down the open street. As he sped along, he wondered what had happened to Joe.

Flinging a glance over his shoulder, Frank saw the hooded gunman raise his arm to fire. Zing! The bullet whistled past Frank’s head and ricocheted off a metal store sign.

Just ahead, to the left, was an old hitching rail. Frank recalled that it stood in front of the ghost town’s abandoned hotel. He cut across the street and dashed into the narrow side yard of the hotel.

A flight of outside stairs slanted up the wall of the building. Frank mounted the steps two at a time. At the top was a rickety wooden balcony, which sagged under Frank’s weight as he stepped onto it.

“Now what?” the young detective wondered. Had he worked himself into a corner? Frank’s heart thudded as he heard the gunman’s footsteps on the wooden walk below.

Just out of reach, the overhanging roof of the hotel loomed in the blackness. There was no place else to go, so Frank leaped up for the edge.

His fingers dug into the broken shingles and he swung himself onto the rear slope of the snow-covered roof. Meanwhile, the hooded gunman had already started up the stairs. Frank heard his clattering footsteps as he reached the balcony platform. Then he saw the man’s hands appear, clutching the edge of the roof. A moment later his hooded head rose into view against the night sky! He was pulling himself up for a shot at close range!

Frank fought down a surge of panic. He had wriggled some distance away from the eaves. Now he must work his way back and try to overcome his assailant before the man could pull his gun.

Frank slithered toward him across the slippery shingles. By now the man had one leg up over the roof and was groping for the gun in his coat pocket.

“I won’t be able to reach him in time!” Frank thought grimly.

Just then he heard steps racing up the stairway to the balcony.

The gunman heard the footsteps, too. He paused and looked down, then managed to extract the gun from his pocket. An instant later Frank saw his body jerk, and the man clutched the roof edge as if to brace himself.

Evidently the newcomer was pulling the gunman’s other leg, trying to dislodge him! The hooded figure suddenly gave a tremendous heave upward and the next moment was free, sprawled full length on the roof. Frank by now was close enough to grab the man’s coat sleeve.

The gunman threw up his arm and yanked it free. But the force of this action caused him to lose his grip completely! His gun arced through the air, hit the rear part of the roof, and bounced off. The man, meanwhile was rolling and slipping rapidly toward the edge.

Frank saw him clutch frantically for the gutter. The man caught it, hung suspended for a moment, then swung over to the drainpipe and slid down it to the ground.

“Frank! Are you all right?” It was Joe!

“I’m okay.” As quickly as possible, Frank wriggled toward the stairway side of the roof and dropped safely onto the balcony platform.

The Hardys glanced over the railing. Below, the hooded figure was groping about hastily, trying to find his gun.

“Come on, Joe! Let’s get him this time!” Frank urged, and the boys went bucketing down the stairs.

Hearing them, the man gave up his search and dashed off into the darkness. Their quarry was some distance ahead when Frank and Joe approached the inhabited part of Lucky Lode. But the town was so dimly lighted it was hard to keep the figure in view, except for his white hood.

The next moment the boys lost sight of him completely as he disappeared into the deep shadows around the general store. Nevertheless, Frank and Joe dashed in pursuit.

Reaching the store, they saw no one in front, so they ran to the back. The area was hidden in almost total darkness.

Suddenly Frank stiffened. “Did you hear something?” he muttered.

“Yes. Sounded like a door closing.”

“Come on!”

The boys ran around to the front of the store. There were no lights showing. Joe grabbed the doorknob and shook it. The door was locked.

Frank knocked. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet of the deserted street. The boys waited for a few moments. When no one answered, Frank repeated his knock. He kept hammering on the door.

At last there was a response. From inside came the call, “Just a minute! Hold your horses!”

Presently a light showed, and a moment later Jim Burke came to the door, holding an oil lamp. He had pulled on a bathrobe over his long underwear.

“Well? What’s all the excitement about?” From the look on his face, Burke was not pleased at being disturbed at so late an hour. Frank explained why they had roused him.

“Nope.” Burke’s expression was puzzled as he shook his head. “I haven’t seen or heard anyone —except you two.”

“Could the fellow we’re after have slipped in your back door?” Joe asked.

“Not a chance,” Burke replied. “I sleep right in the back room.”

As Burke spoke, the front door suddenly burst open and Bob Dodge strode in out of the windy darkness.

Frank and Joe stared at him. Dodge’s outer garments were wet with snow, and his coat sleeves and trouser legs were covered with burrs!

CHAPTER VIII

Tommy-knockers!

THE same thought struck the Hardy boys. Did the burrs on Dodge’s clothes mean he had been one of the people in the cemetery—perhaps even the man they had chased? Excited, Frank and Joe watched the big man’s face closely.

But Dodge displayed no outward signs of guilt. “What’s all the shooting about?” he asked while brushing the snow off his coat.

Burke raised his eyebrows. “You heard it?”

“I sure did,” the big, white-haired man replied. “I couldn’t sleep tonight, so I went for a stroll up on the hillside. Then I heard two gunshots and I came down to investigate.”

“Did you see anybody, Mr. Dodge?” Frank put in.

“Well, not too clearly. I thought I glimpsed two people running in this direction. But when I got down to the street, there was no one in sight.”

“Must’ve been these two lads,” the storekeeper said. “They woke me up and told me some gun-slinger had been chasin’ ’em through the ghost town. Didn’t hear anythin’ myself,” Burke added, “but I guess I was pretty sound asleep.”

Frank repeated the story they had told Burke. “We were investigating what Ben Tinker had told us about the old dance hall being haunted,” Frank explained. “While we were inside the place, someone shot at us.”

“He chased us for a while, and then we turned the tables and started chasing him,” Joe added. “Whoever the man was, he headed for the store.”

Dodge frowned worriedly. “You boys seem to attract danger. I hope you won’t take any unnecessary chances on this case.”

“We’ll try not to,” Frank said. “There isn’t much more we can do tonight, anyhow.”

The Hardys started to leave. Just before they reached the door, Frank turned and said casually, “By the way, does either of you know what’s meant by a ‘slip gun’?”

Dodge and Burke looked surprised, but otherwise their expressions seemed innocent enough.

“It’s a gun that’s been fixed in a certain way so it can be fired by thumbing the hammer,” Dodge explained.

“You mean like fanning?” Joe asked.

“No. Fanning is when you hold the gun in one hand and keep knocking back the hammer with the other,” Dodge replied. “But in slip shooting you fire the gun by simply wiping your thumb back over the hammer. It’s a bit slower than fanning, but more accurate.”

“How would a gun be fixed for slip shooting?” Frank put in.

Dodge shrugged. “Oh, often the trigger’s taken out, and the hammer spur lowered. Sometimes a slip shooter may cut off part of the barrel so he can carry the gun in his pocket.”

“Sounds like a real gunfighter’s trick,” Joe said.

“You boys aimin’ to try it?” Burke grinned.

“No,” Joe replied. “I just meant that a slip gun isn’t something a law-abiding person would be apt to have around.”

“Ever seen one?” Frank asked the two men.

Burke promptly shook his head. Dodge looked a bit startled, then answered slowly, “No. Stop to think of it, I don’t even recall where I acquired that information. One of those things you pick up in the West, I suppose.”

The boys said good-by and went out. The night was chillier than ever and the wind biting.

“Where to?” Joe asked, pulling his jacket collar up for protection. “Back to Hank’s?”

“Not yet,” Frank said. “Let’s see if we can find that gun the hooded man dropped.”

“Hey, that’s right!”

As the two headed back toward the ghost town, Frank said thoughtfully, “Looks as though we now have two prime suspects, Joe.”

“Right—Burke, or Bob Dodge, which is hard to believe. But those burrs on his clothes sure looked suspicious.”

“Dodge admitted he was on the hillside,” Frank pointed out. “I suppose the cemetery isn’t the only place they grow.”

“You’ll have to admit, though, it’s a real coincidence,” Joe argued. “On the other hand, Burke took a long time to open the door for us.”

Frank nodded. “Long enough to yank off a hood and get out of wet clothes. I wish we could have searched his back room.”

“Another thing,” Joe went on, “the general store would be a perfect setup for a spy of Big Al’s in Lucky Lode.”

“It sure would,” Frank agreed. “Burke has a chance to learn everything that goes on. What’s more, he could relay telephone or telegraph messages between Big Al and members of the gang in other spots—even handle mail for them.”

“He could provide Big Al with supplies, too, including that red paint.”

The boys trudged along in silence.

“We can build just as strong a case against Dodge,” Frank said after a while. “It seems strange to me that he keeps hanging around Lucky Lode, instead of tending to his business in Helena.”

“I’ve wondered about that, too,” Joe conceded, “even though he claims to be staying here on account of the case Dad’s working on. If Dodge is in cahoots with the gang, he may be keeping an eye on the gang’s doings. Also, he could be using the copter to transport supplies to the crooks.”

“And don’t forget that shotgun booby trap at the airport,” Frank added. “Dodge sent us to the copter alone—which could mean he wanted to make sure he wasn’t in range when the gun went off.”

Joe frowned. “But would a company president plot with a crook to rob his own truck?”

“Why not? The money was covered by insurance. And he might have hired Dad to allay suspicion.”

As the boys neared the old abandoned hotel, they watched the display of northern lights sweeping across the sky.

“You know, Frank,” Joe said slowly, “there’s one big thing in Dodge’s favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Dad likes him.”

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “From the way Dad spoke last night, he really admires Dodge—and Dad’s a good judge of character. He never would have talked about Dodge as he did if he suspected him.”

Making their way through the side yard to the back of the hotel, the Hardys switched on their flashlights and began searching for the gun.

Presently Joe exclaimed, “Here it is!” The revolver lay in a clump of undergrowth. Joe picked it up carefully by the trigger guard.

“It’s a slip gun, all right,” Frank commented. “No trigger, and the barrel’s been cut short.”

“That means Slip Gun is the man we followed from the cemetery! He’s Big Al’s spy.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “You know, Joe—Dodge might have been the person we heard following us.”

“Maybe, but there’s no way to be sure,” Joe pointed out. “Slip Gun is a husky fellow, and Dodge and Burke are both big men. Either one would answer the description.”

“True enough,” Frank conceded. “Besides, if Dodge did follow us, why didn’t he admit it?”

When the Hardys got back to the cabin, both their father and Hank were sleeping soundly. Frank and Joe checked the slip gun for fingerprints, but found none clear enough to photograph. Evidently the hooded man’s gloved hand had smudged any that might have existed before the night’s events.

The brothers undressed quickly and crawled into their bunks. As Joe blew out the oil lamp, Frank yawned and said sleepily, “Wonder what ‘Shadow of the Bear’ means?”

“Me too. Something else to track down—” Joe’s voice trailed off and he was fast asleep.

Neither boy needed an alarm clock. They got up at dawn without disturbing the men and had a quick breakfast. Then they went outside, saddled up their horses, and mounted.

“Do you have Hank’s sketch of the mines?” Joe asked as they started up the hill.

“Right here.” Frank patted his pocket. “I wish we still had Mike Onslow’s map.”

“Poor Mike!” Joe reined in his skittish horse. “I wish we could find at least some of his missing gold.”

“So do I.” Frank added with a chuckle, “I’ll bet Aunt Gertrude is fussing over him right now like a mother hen.”

When the boys reached the top of the hill, they could see the sunlight starting to work its way over Windy Peak. “Lucky Slip Gun didn’t stop us,” said Joe as they halted to study the map.

Brady’s Mine, they found, was located to the north, not far away. Half an hour’s ride brought them to a point somewhere below the mine site. Here the boys dismounted and led their horses carefully up the slope.

Frank and Joe scouted the area, but could see nobody, nor any tracks in the snow.

“Let’s take a look inside,” Joe suggested.

The boys tied their horses to a clump of bushes a hundred yards from the mouth of the mine. After making sure their flashlights were working, they cautiously approached the dark hole in the edge of the hill.

The mine entrance was big enough for them to walk erect. Inside, the Hardys paused to listen, then snapped on their flashlights. They were in a fair-sized cavern, which had been hacked and blasted out of the mountainside. Just ahead, a tunnel sloped downward into darkness.

Among the rubble on the floor were some lengths of rusty iron pipe and a discarded pick with a broken handle.

“Doesn’t look as if anyone has been here in a long time,” Joe murmured. His voice echoed weirdly in the chilly cavern.

Frank was about to reply when suddenly both boys stiffened. “Did you hear something?” he whispered.

“I sure did!”

As the brothers froze into silence, the sound came again—tap ... tap-tap ... tap.

“Spirits!” Joe gasped. “Tommy-knockers!”

CHAPTER IX

The Crowbar Clue

THE tapping noises from within the mine died away. Frank and Joe looked at each other uncertainly.

“You don’t really believe that superstition about spirit rapping?” Frank muttered.

“Of course not,” Joe whispered. “It did sound spooky, though.”

“More likely it’s Big Al’s gang,” Frank said, peering around intently.

Joe’s face took on a troubled frown. “But there were no prints outside showing that anyone else had come here.”

“Maybe there’s another entrance,” Frank argued. “Let’s find out.”

The two boys started forward into the tunnel. Its walls and ceiling were shored with ancient timbers that gave out a smell of moldy dampness. The passageway not only sloped downward, but turned and twisted. Evidently it had been tunneled out to follow the vein of ore.

Presently the floor of the passage leveled off. The Hardys probed the darkness ahead with the yellow glow of their flashlights. Still there was no sign of the tunnel coming to an end or opening out into a large excavation.

“How far does this go?” Joe said tensely.

“It has to end somewhere,” Frank replied.

Both boys felt their nerves tauten. The eerie stillness was broken only by the sound of their footsteps echoing hollowly through the tunnel.

Suddenly Frank came to a halt and pointed to the handle of a crowbar protruding from between two of the wall timbers. The bar was painted with bright-red markings. The Hardys bent close to examine them.

AL-5-X-*-4

“‘All’” Joe read. “This may be a code message from Big Al to the gang!”

“Or maybe a message to Big Al,” Frank countered. He tested one of the red daubs with his finger. The paint was dry but looked fresh enough to have been applied recently.

Joe tried to puzzle out the meaning of the message. “Any ideas, Frank?”

The older boy shook his head. “Beats me—unless,” he added slowly, “the crowbar was put here to mark a certain spot in the mine.”

“Maybe something’s hidden behind the timbers!” Joe conjectured excitedly.

Frank doubted this. “These shorings look as if they’ve been here forever.”

“Let’s make sure,” Joe urged. “We’ll want to take the crowbar along with us, anyhow, so we can check it for clues. Hold my flashlight, will you?”

Gripping the handle carefully, so that at least part of the surface could be tested later for fingerprints, Joe yanked hard on the crowbar. It gave scarcely at all. He threw his whole weight into the effort and began forcing the bar from side to side. The timbering creaked ominously.

“Hey, be careful!” Frank warned. “This tunnel isn’t shored up too solidly along here!”

“Don’t worry—I can get the bar out.” Joe grunted, heaving hard. “It’s coming now!”

The rotten wood crumpled and shredded as the crowbar gouged into it. Suddenly, as Joe gave one last hard yank, there was a loud splintering noise. The ceiling sagged.

“Look out!” Frank cried out. He grabbed Joe’s arm, and both boys leaped ahead in the nick of time.

A split second later the tunnel caved in! As the boys dashed to safety, tons of earth and rock came pouring down. The passageway rumbled and thundered with the deafening impact.

“Good grief!” Joe stared back in awe after he and his brother had come to a halt deeper inside the tunnel. “I should have listened to your warning, Frank!”

“Forget it. Let’s be thankful neither of us got hurt and that I still have our flashlights.”

Both boys coughed and tried to screen their noses from the cloud of dust billowing through the passage. Gradually the particles settled.

“How do we get out of here?” Joe asked worriedly. “Dig our way through?”

The brothers strode back toward the scene of the cave-in. The tunnel there was totally blocked by the tremendous fall of dirt and rock.

“What about the crowbar?” Frank asked suddenly. “We can use that.”

“I dropped it,” Joe admitted, red-faced. “It’s somewhere underneath all this rubble.”

“Oh, great.”

“Maybe we can still dig through,” Joe said. “Come on—let’s try!”

The Hardys set their flashlights on the ground, then began clawing away the debris with their hands. Soon the boys were panting and soaked with perspiration. In addition to loose dirt and stones, huge hunks of rock had broken off and been carried downward in the cave-in.

After trying vainly to shift one enormous stone fragment, Frank and Joe gave up in despair.

“We’ll never make it,” Frank said, breathing hard. “We don’t even know how far the cave-in extends.”

Tons of earth and rock came pouring down

Joe leaned against the wall to collect his strength. “That means we’ll have to find another way out of here.”

“If there is one.”

Although neither boy said so aloud, they knew their situation was desperate. Brady’s Mine was only one of the places on Hank’s map which they had picked out to search and they had told no one of the clue they had overheard. No doubt a search party would be organized when they failed to return. But how long would they be trapped underground before help might arrive?

“No use standing here,” Frank said finally. “Let’s find out where the tunnel leads.”

“Right. We’re getting fresh air, so there must be an exit.”

Using only one flashlight in order to conserve their battery power, the Hardys pressed on.

“Joe, there’s another reason why well find an exit,” Frank said suddenly. “I believe someone from the gang was doing that tapping. If so, he must have been on this side of the cave-in.”

“Sure—and the noises we heard were the sounds of the crowbar being pounded into position,” Joe guessed.

“Let’s hope he hasn’t heard us,” Frank murmured. “And the chances are there was more than one member of the gang here.”

“Probably they scooted out the other entrance, so they wouldn’t be caught in the cave-in,” Joe reasoned. “But we’d better talk in whispers just the same.”

Both boys realized also that the flashlight beam would make them easy targets. But they had no choice. Without a light to guide them, there would be no hope of finding a way out through the inky darkness.

Presently the tunnel widened, opening into a sizable cavern. The Hardys held their breath as Frank swept his flashlight beam rapidly about the chamber. He and Joe were ready to dive to the floor or retreat at the first sign of an enemy. But the cavern was empty.

“Look!” Frank exclaimed. “Another tunnel!” He aimed his light toward a dark hole that gaped in the far wall.

The two boys hurried to examine it. This passageway was narrower than the one they had just left and not shored by timbers. It was high enough for the Hardys to walk erect, but in places they found it a tight squeeze.

This time, Joe took the lead. Although the tunnel twisted and turned, he pressed forward steadily. He became aware that the cool draft was growing stronger.

“Feel the breeze?” Joe called back over his shoulder. “We must be near the end.”

Joe had spoken too soon. They turned a sharp corner and the tunnel ended in a sheer wall of solid rock.

They could go no farther!

The boys shone their flashlights upward. There was nothing to see but the rock roof.

Joe gave a groan and sank down on the rocky floor of the tunnel. “What’ll we do now?”

For a few minutes the brothers sat in silence. Then suddenly Frank leaped to his feet. “The draft!” he said.

“What about it?”

“We’ve passed the opening.”

Frank snapped on his light and started back down the tunnel. Joe scrambled to his feet and followed. As they moved back around the bend again, they could feel the movement of air on their cheeks.

“The air current seems to flow from somewhere up above,” Frank said, aiming his light toward the roof.

“It does!” Joe exclaimed. “See that crack?”

High overhead, well out of reach, was a rocky shelf protruding from the wall. Frank grabbed a handful of dust and tossed it up to the shelf. Some dropped on the edge, but the rest remained in the air and then slowly drifted away out of sight.

“That’s it!” Joe said excitedly. “There’s something beyond! It must lead to an exit.”

Frank braced himself against the wall. “Up you go, Joe!”

Quickly Joe climbed to his brother’s shoulders and found he could easily reach the rocky shelf. Joe gripped the edge and pulled himself upward. Then he lay on his stomach and, reaching down, grasped Frank’s hand in a fireman’s grip. A second later Frank was seated beside Joe.

When the Hardys turned, they found still another tunnel facing them. This one slanted upward from the shelf and was too low-roofed for anyone to walk upright. Aiming their lights ahead, the boys crawled on hands and knees through the cramped area.

Presently a glimmer of daylight showed ahead. Joe was about to exclaim in relief when a murmur of voices suddenly reached the boys’ ears.

The Hardys knelt motionless and looked at each other. Were members of the gang just outside the tunnel exit waiting for them?

Frank put a finger to his lips. Without a word the boys resumed their crawling—but more slowly and quietly now—toward the mouth of the passage.

Near the opening they halted. A voice which Frank and Joe recognized as that of the thin man they had overheard at the cemetery was saying:

“Those kids ought to be showin’ any time now, if the cave-in didn’t get ’em.”

Then another man, deeper-voiced, chuckled. “If it didn‘t, we’ll trap ’em like rats comin’ out of a hole!”

CHAPTER X

Ambush Trail

A PANG of fear shot through Frank and Joe as they realized they were trapped in the mine. A clump of brush partly screened the tunnel mouth, but the Hardys’ enemies were waiting outside—ready to seize the boys the moment they appeared!

Scarcely daring to breathe, the boys listened as the thin man went on: “I figured it was them Hardys eavesdroppin’ at the graveyard last night.” He laughed. “Pretty smart o’ me givin’ out that hint about Brady’s Mine, eh?”

“They fell for it, all right,” his partner agreed. “And that crowbar business, too, with the phony code. Best part is, it’ll look accidental.”

The boys heard a deep-throated chuckle. Joe shot a shamefaced glance at his brother. The crowbar must have been painted to attract their attention and then cunningly planted at a weakly shored part of the tunnel!

The thin man continued, “I’ll really get a kick out o’ payin’ off those brats. Big Al was plenty sore at me ’cause that shotgun setup in the copter didn’t work out.”

“’Twasn’t your fault, Slim.”

“Try tellin’ that to Al. He was mad over Slip Gun not gettin’ the kids last night. Now he blames me for wastin’ time this mornin’”

“How come?”

“Aw, that special business he keeps harpin’ on —it’s all he thinks about. He wanted us to do some searchin’ elsewhere today, but the Hardys comin’ here changed his plans.”

There was silence for a while. Frank and Joe waited tensely, digesting what they had overheard. Then Slim spoke again.

“Wonder how much longer we'll have to wait? I’m gettin’ fed up, perchin’ here in this cold.”

“Maybe the kids can’t find their way out,” his partner suggested. “If they ain’t dead already, that is.”

“You sure the tunnel caved in, Jake?”

“Sure. Sounded like an earthquake. I could see the dust comin’ out the front end.”

“Did you make certain the tunnel was completely blocked?” Slim asked.

“Well, I didn’t actually go inside and look. I might’ve got trapped. Besides, they didn’t show up!”

“You chowderhead!” Slim exploded irritably. “If it ain’t blocked, the kids may still be able to squirm out. Go on back and make sure.”

“Okay, okay.” Jake sounded as if he were getting to his feet.

“Wait! Got another idea. You fetch their horses and bring ’em back here before you check the tunnel,” Slim added. “That way, there’ll be no chance o’ the Hardys pullin’ a sneak.”

After warning Joe to silence, Frank wriggled forward and peered out through the screen of brush. In the distance he could see Jake’s stocky figure heading down the snow-covered mountainside on his way to the mine entrance.

Frank was astonished at how far Jake had gone in a few seconds. Since the two men had conversed in low voices, the speakers had sounded as if they were fairly close to the clump of brush. Now Frank realized his mistake.

The opening was on one side of a narrow draw. Slim was evidently perched out of sight, somewhere higher up the mountainside—probably holding a rifle to cover the boys.

The two men must have thought their conversation was inaudible to anyone else, but the steep-sided draw had caused an echo effect, trapping their voices and reflecting the sound back toward the tunnel.

Frank signaled his brother to crawl forward and join him. Stealthily Joe complied. Several minutes later Jake returned, leading the boys’ horses. Slim came down the slope to meet him.

“No sign of ’em,” the Hardys heard Jake report.

“Check inside the tunnel,” Slim told his partner. “If they didn’t get buried by the cave-in, we’re supposed to take’em up to Windy Peak.”

The thugs exchanged one or two other remarks, but their conversation was carried away by a surge of icy wind sweeping down the draw.

Jake turned and started off again, heading back to the mine entrance. Slim threw a glance toward the clump of brush to make sure their quarry had not yet emerged. Then he took the boys’ horses and trudged toward a stunted, leafless tree growing out of the mountainside.

“Let’s jump him!” Joe urged.

Frank had noticed that the man wore a long barreled revolver in a holster slung at his hip. If he had a rifle, he must have left it at the spot where he and Jake had been waiting.

“It’s risky, but we’ll try,” Frank agreed.

The moaning of the wind would help cover the sound of their footsteps in the snow, and Slim’s back was turned as he prepared to tether the horses to the tree. Jake was already out of sight behind a shoulder of the hill.

“It’s now or never!” Frank hissed.

Slithering from the hole and past the screen of brush, the boys darted across the slope. They were halfway to the man when one of the horses suddenly detected the boys and whinnied.

Slim muttered an oath and jerked the horse roughly by its bridle. He seemed to realize that something behind him had startled the animal.

The man whirled, his hand streaking toward the gun at his hip. At the same moment, Frank hurled himself through the air in a flying tackle. Just as Slim yanked his gun from its holster, Frank rammed into him!

In an instant Joe had joined the fray. He stunned. Slim with a backhand smash to the side of the head. As the thug went limp, his revolver arced into the air and went hurtling down the mountainside.

“Come on! Grab your horse!” Joe urged. “We’ve got to get out of here before Jake finds out what happened and starts firing at us.”

The boys quickly untied their mounts and swung into the saddles. The horses whinnied, then went galloping down the draw as Frank and Joe dug their heels into the horses’ flanks.

Frank threw a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Slim staggering to his feet. The man’s face was livid with fury.

“Jake!” he bawled at the top of his lungs. “The Hardy kids are gettin’ away!”

His voice trailed off and was lost against the wind. Moments later a rifle crack echoed, but by now the boys were well out of range.

“Did you spot the men’s horses?” Joe called.

“Up the mountainside, I think,” Frank yelled back. “We’d better not count on a big lead!”

The boys pushed their mounts hard, taking desperate chances along the rocky declivities. No sounds of pursuit reached their ears, and gradually Frank and Joe slowed their pace.

In about twenty minutes they topped the ridge overlooking Lucky Lode and rode down the trail into town. As their horses clip-clopped along the main street toward Hank’s cabin, Frank asked, “Did you hear what that fellow Slim said about taking us to Windy Peak?”

“I sure did,” Joe returned. “It could mean that’s Al’s hideout. Let’s search there.”

Frank nodded. “It’ll be an overnight trip. We’ll need supplies.”

The boys were surprised to find a battered blue station wagon parked in front of their cabin.

“Doc Whitlow’s here,” Hank explained when they went inside. “He’s in with your pa now.”

“Is Dad worse?” Frank asked, concerned.

“Not exactly, but he spent a kind o’ restless night. And this mornin’ he felt like he was runnin’ a slight fever. So I fetched the doc.”

Minutes later the physician, a young man with a brown beard, emerged from Mr. Hardy’s room.

“Nothing to worry about,” Doc Whitlow announced. “Apparently your father overexerted himself yesterday and irritated the fracture.”

“He shouldn’t have worked on the wall,” Frank said.

“I gave him something to ease the pain,” the doctor said. “He’s sleeping now.”

Doc Whitlow declined Hank’s offer of lunch, saying he had to get back to his office in the nearby town of Bear Creek. After he had left, Hank prepared a meal of beans and frankfurters and sat down to eat with Frank and Joe.

“You boys just missed seein’ Bob Dodge,” he remarked.

“When was he here?” Joe asked.

“Just a while ’fore you two showed up. Say—you boys look like you been through the mill. What happened?”

The Hardys related all that had taken place the night before, as well as the entrapment at Brady’s Mine and their narrow escape from the two gang members, Slim and Jake. Hank, too, was puzzled by the Shadow of the Bear reference. The boys asked him to pass on a full report to their father.

“You mean you won’t be around to tell him?”

“We’re going up to investigate Windy Peak,” Frank replied. “The sooner the better.”

A worried look spread over the Westerner’s leathery face. He urged the boys to be extremely cautious, now that the gang was clearly trying to get rid of them. He agreed to provide supplies for the trip, however, and to lend them his mare Daisy for use as a pack horse. Soon the boys were ready to start.

“What’s the easiest way to get up Windy Peak, Hank?” asked Joe as he tightened the cinch.

“There ain’t no easy way this time o’ year,” the man replied. “You’ll have to take an old Indian path called Ambush Trail, up near Brady’s Mine. Starts about half a mile north o’ the mine entrance. But watch your step.”

“Bad going?” Frank put in.

“Plenty bad. Even in summer, that trail’s full o’ narrow ledges and hairpin turns. Now it’ll be lots worse. We had a freak thaw early this month that probably loosened quite a few boulders. Some places you’ll be on icy ledges lookin’ straight down the side of a cliff.”

Hank’s warning proved to be fully justified. At first the trail seemed fairly easy, but as they left the timberline behind, the path narrowed and wound confusingly in and out among the rocky outcrops on the face of the mountainside.

“I’ll bet even the Indians got lost sometimes on this snaky trail,” Joe remarked wryly.

On their left the mountain towered sheer above them, with precariously poised boulders and crusted drifts of snow. Half-dislodged clumps of earth and rock projected from the cliffside.

“This would be a bad place to get caught in an avalanche,” Frank observed.

Joe gulped. “Whew! Don’t even think it!”

Presently the boys saw horseshoe prints in the snow. Apparently the riders, whoever they were, had cut in from some side path.

“At least we seem to be on the right trail,” Joe said tensely.

“Probably members of the gang,” Frank cautioned. “We’d better keep a sharp eye out.”

The prints faded out presently as the path became more glazed and rocky. Soon the trail narrowed so much that the boys were forced to proceed single file. Both gulped as they glanced down the cliff at the icy river below.

Joe was close behind when Frank turned a sharp corner on the trail and reined to a halt. Ahead was a huge barrier of snow, rocks, and logs.

“Must have been an avalanche,” Joe said.

Frank moved forward for a better look. “Maybe not,” he commented. “Those logs don’t look like windfalls—they could have been cut by men. Anyhow—our trail is blocked.”

After sizing up the situation, Frank and Joe decided to risk skirting the curve of the hillside, which seemed less steep at this point.

“Maybe we can get back on the trail somewhere beyond the barrier,” Joe said hopefully.

Dismounting, the Hardys started cautiously downward. Frank went first, leading his horse and Daisy. Joe followed with his mount.

For a while the footing seemed fairly sure. The Hardys had negotiated their way around part of the slope when Frank suddenly felt the ground shifting beneath his feet.

“Look out, Joe!” he cried out. “There’s loose shale under this snow!”

A spatter of stones and earth went clattering down the mountainside. As the brothers scrambled for safer ground, their mounts became panicky, neighing and pawing wildly for a foothold.

The horses’ bucking dislodged still more shale. The next instant, the horses and the boys went slipping and sliding downward in the landslide. All three of the animals went over on their sides in a swirl of flying hoofs.

Frank and Joe were half stunned as they tumbled on down the mountain. Below was an icy creek. Suddenly they were sailing through the air.

Crash! ... Crash!

The Hardys and their horses shattered the ice and disappeared below the surface of the mountain torrent!

CHAPTER XI

Shadow of the Bear

THE icy shock of the water stung the Hardys back to full consciousness. They flailed their arms and legs wildly, fighting to get to the surface.

Frank broke water first, gasping for breath. His heart skipped when he saw nothing but the half-frozen river, the struggling horses, and the steep-sided canyon. Where was Joe?

Then his brother bobbed to the surface nearby. “Thank goodness,” Frank murmured.

Neither boy had breath to spare to make himself heard above the roar of the rushing current. The ice extended outward from both banks, but near the center, the water was surging along in full torrent. With every passing moment, Frank and Joe were being swept farther downstream.

Joe pointed to the horses. The two saddle animals were breaking their way through the ice, gradually swimming and floundering toward shore. Daisy, the elderly pack mare, loaded down with supplies, was having a more difficult time.

“She may drown!” Frank thought fearfully.

He and Joe summoned all their strength and swam toward the frantic animals. In a few minutes their own horses managed to reach the bank. Daisy was rolling her eyes, whinnying and snorting with terror. But Frank and Joe were finally able to steer her to safety through the broken ice.

At last the boys staggered out of the water and flopped down on the rocky, snow-covered bank. The saddle horses stood shaking themselves farther up the shore, and Daisy trotted on to join them.

“Wow!” Joe took a deep breath. “What a day for a swim!”

“Joe, we’re pretty lucky, at that.” Frank got up. “We’d better see about the supplies.”

“And a fire—if we can make one,” Joe added.

Both boys were shivering and blue with cold. They hurried toward the horses. At least half the provisions and gear strapped to Daisy’s back had come loose and had been carried away.

“Let’s get out of sight first,” Joe suggested. “Someone may be spying on us from up on the mountain.”

“Right!” Frank agreed. “I’m sure now that the barrier on the trail was no accident.”

The brothers led the horses toward some sheltering timber. Just beyond the trees they discovered a rocky recess in the mountainside. Here they grouped the horses and proceeded to survey the state of their supplies.

“Well,” Joe said, “at least it’s not so bad as it might have been.”

Most of their provisions were gone, as well as their tent and other camp equipment. But they had blankets, towels, spare clothing, fishing gear, compass, matches, and some food. Luckily, everything had been packed in waterproof wrapping.

“I’m sure glad we still have that compass,” Frank remarked, as the boys unsaddled the horses and used the towels to rub down the animals.

“You bet,” Joe agreed. “If we should lose our bearings in this wilderness with our food so low, we’d really be in a jam.”

“You build a fire, Joe,” Frank suggested, “while I get out dry clothes for us.”

After donning fresh clothing in the warmth from the crackling flames, and drying their windbreakers, the Hardys soon felt more comfortable. Their horses recovered rapidly and began to nibble the shrubs and winter-dry brush sticking up through the snow.

Frank stepped out of their rocky niche and shaded his eyes toward the sun, which was already red and low in the sky. In another half hour it would be out of sight behind the mountains.

“Too late to do much traveling now,” said Frank. “We may as well camp here and strike out for Windy Peak early in the morning.”

“Okay, Frank. I’ll try some fishing. That looks like a trout stream.”

He put their collapsible fishing rod together and headed off among the trees toward the bank of the river.

“Watch your step on that ice!” Frank called.

As Joe disappeared from view, his brother took out their precious compass. Using the setting sun as a reference, he checked the action of the needle to see if any magnetic ore in the range might be affecting it. The deviation, if any, seemed to be very slight.

“It’s a cinch we’ll never get back up the cliff to the trail,” Frank thought. “At least not here. We’ll have to follow the river and try to find some place where the canyon walls are not so steep.”

“Frank! Frank!” It was Joe calling from the river. “Help! Frank, help!”

“The ice!” Frank thought. “Joe’s broken through!”

Laying the compass on a flat rock, the older Hardy dashed toward the river. To Frank’s amazement, Joe was in no danger. But he was sprawled flat on the ice, clinging desperately to the rod and trying not to lose the prize catch he had hooked. The fish had sounded and was bending the rod almost to a U-shape as it fought to escape.

“Quick! Give me a hand!” Joe shouted.

Frank flat-footed gingerly out onto the ice, grabbed the line, and began hauling in.

“I guess we’re breaking all the rules for game fishing,” he called back with a chuckle, “but this is one fellow we can’t risk losing!”

The fish put up a furious struggle that roused the boys’ admiration, but they finally managed to reel in a huge cutthroat trout.

“Boy, what a swell catch!” Frank cried. “There’s our supper!”

“First fish that ever decked me,” Joe said, grinning. “But then it’s the first time I’ve ever tried trout fishing on ice.”

Back at camp, Joe set about cleaning the fish while Frank built up the fire. Suddenly Joe heard his brother gasp.

“What’s wrong?”

“The compass!” Frank exclaimed. “I left it right here on this flat rock. Now it’s gone!”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I put it exactly where this pine cone is. Wait a minute! That wasn’t here before!” Frank broke off and picked up the pine cone. An exasperated look spread over his face. “You know what, Joe? A pack rat has been here!”

“I’ll bet you’re right!” Joe declared. “The rat picked up the compass because it’s bright and shiny, and left the pine cone in its place.”

The Hardys looked at each other gravely. Any other time the situation might have been funny, but right now the compass was vital to them. Without it, they might never find their way safely out of the wilderness.

“Come on! Let’s look for it!” Frank urged. “I remember reading that pack rats will often drop a prize if something else catches their eye.”

The boys began a systematic search, pacing back and forth around the camp in widening circles. At last Frank detected some faint rodent tracks in the trampled snow and soon spotted a shiny object in the cliffside brush.

Frank pounced on the compass with a cry of relief. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “What a break!”

“Better keep it in your pocket from now on,” Joe advised.

The trout, cooked over heated rocks, made a tasty dish. After the meal, the boys felt more cheerful. As they huddled around the campfire in their blankets, Frank said thoughtfully, “Tomorrow’s the day for Big Al’s meeting.”

“Right. I wish we could find the place.”

“If only we knew what Shadow of the Bear meant,” Frank mused.

In spite of the cold and their desperate situation, the boys slept well. The horses, too, evidently rested well during the night, staying close together near the embers of the fire.

Next morning Frank and Joe made a cold breakfast of oatmeal mush and dried apricots from their scanty supplies. Then they fed and saddled the horses, strapped their remaining gear on Daisy’s back, and headed downriver.

The canyon turned and twisted along the curve of the mountainside, and the footing was treacherous. As they rode, the Hardys continually scanned the sides of the gorge, hoping to find a route out of the canyon. Twice they dismounted and tried to thread their way upward, leading the horses. But both times the cliff wall proved too steep.

At last, however, the canyon opened out and the slope of the cliffs became more gentle. Relieved, Frank and Joe halted for another cold meal. Then they rode to higher ground and struck back across the rolling foothills of the mountain range in the general direction of town.

Eventually they cut into a beaten trail. About midafternoon, the brothers swung over a rise on the rocky, snow-covered path and Frank reined up sharply.

“Look!” he exclaimed, and indicated the area to their right.

Looming against the sky was a huge, ungainly rock formation that crudely resembled a bear standing upright.

“Al’s meeting place!” Joe breathed.

Dismounting, the boys ground-hitched their horses out of sight behind a clump of boulders. Then they crept cautiously toward the huge rock formation. To their surprise, Frank and Joe discovered that it was poised on the rim of a small box canyon.

The Hardys cautiously peered over the edge. The canyon was choked with drifted snow, from which protruded a few scrubby trees and brush. The view directly below was blocked by a shelving overhang of rock, about twenty feet farther down and extending along the cliff wall. The boys could detect no sign or sound of human beings.

“Maybe we missed the meeting,” Joe murmured. “Or this isn’t the place, after all.”

“I’ll bet it is,” Frank replied. “My guess is, the confab hasn’t been held yet.” He gazed across the canyon. “Let’s keep an eye on that bear’s shadow.”

In the lowering sun the rock formation cast a formless shadow on the opposite wall. As the boys stood up, Joe remarked with a puzzled look, “That shadow doesn’t look much like a bear.”

“True. But it might at some other time of day. Remember, Slim didn’t name any hour for the meeting. He just said, ‘Shadow of the Bear.’ ”

“I get it!” Joe broke in excitedly. “Maybe the meeting is to take place when the bear shows up clearly on the canyon wall!”

“And that ought to be when the sun drops a little lower,” Frank added.

Joe asked, “Do you think the meeting will be down inside the canyon?”

“Probably. Up here by this rock formation the gang would be too easy to spot.”

“But this looks like a blind canyon to me,” Joe objected. “How’ll they get into it?”

“There may be an entrance we can’t see from here. Let’s stay out of sight.”

The boys found cover in a nearby cluster of rocks and brush. As the sun sank lower, the bear’s shadow across the canyon became more distinct and realistic.

“Listen!” Joe whispered suddenly.

From somewhere below came a clopping of horses’ hoofs—then a sound of men reining up and dismounting. The Hardys peered downward, but the rocky overhang of the canyon prevented them from seeing what was taking place.

A murmur of voices came drifting up. The boys strained their ears and recognized Slim’s voice, but could not make out what he was saying. Then a harsh voice, unfamiliar to the Hardys, spoke out clearly:

“You sure muffed things in Lucky Lode, Slip Gun!”

“I couldn’t help it, Big Al,” returned a voice too muffled to identify.

“One more job like that and I’ll—” the harsh tone faded to a threatening mutter.

Frank and Joe could hardly keep from shouting for joy. They had found Big Al! If only they could dare to try capturing him!

CHAPTER XII

Big Al’s Orders

THE only reply to Big Al’s scornful words was a brief, sullen mutter. It was so low that the Hardys could not distinguish whether the speaker might have been Burke or Bob Dodge.

Frank and Joe exchanged a grimace of disappointment. If only the Lucky Lode spy would speak again, and more loudly! But evidently he was too cowed by his boss’s angry tone to put up an argument.

“Stupid cluck!” Big Al continued to rant. “You had a chance to get rid of those kids—or at least scare ’em off this case. And what happens? You get so rattled you can’t even hang onto your own gun!”

“Don’t worry, Al”—Jake’s voice cut in quickly, trying to placate the gang leader—“Slim and me took care o’ them brats.”

“At Brady’s Mine?” the boss snapped back.

“Well, no—not there. The crowbar stunt worked okay, but they ducked the cave-in and—”

Jake’s explanation was cut short by another outburst from Big Al. Slim hastened to soothe him.

“Jake’s tryin’ to tell you, boss—they’re both drowned.”

“Drowned?”

“Yeah. We figured they’d be comin’ along Ambush Trail, so we fixed up a roadblock to sidetrack ‘em and make ’em go lower down. The cliff shoulder along there is all loose shale, but it’s covered over with snow. Sure enough, they tried to worm around it and the ground gave way. Must’ve been a regular landside from the looks of it!” Slim chuckled with satisfaction. “Anyhow, they took a long fall and wound up in the drink, horses and all.”

“You sure o’ that?” Big Al demanded suspiciously.

“Sure. Jake and me came back to check and we could see the break in the ice where they went through. We even spotted some o’ their gear float-in’ downriver.”

“Good! It’s about time.” Big Al sounded mollified by the news. “Those kids knew too much—and they were too smart to fool around with. They were makin’ monkeys out of all you guys!”

“Aw, boss, we couldn’t help it if—” The rest of Jake’s whining protest was lost in the wind.

“Shut up!” Big Al roared. “One thing’s sure —anything those kids knew, they’ve told their father. So he’ll have to be the next one to go. Slip Gun, you’re supposed to be handlin’ things in town. You take care of Hardy tonight. Get me?”

“Yeah.” Only a single word—and again too low for the voice to be identified.

Frank and Joe looked at each other, stunned. The gang had their father marked for death! They would have to return in time to warn him!

“The weather’s gettin’ worse all the time, boss,” Slim put in. “How much longer do we have to keep searchin’?”

“Listen, you!” Big Al’s voice was fierce. “I staked out that loot twenty-five years ago. And I aim to have it! We’re goin’ to keep lookin’ till we find the wreck of a plane. The stuff’ll be there, all right—and a skeleton with it.”

“How do you know there’s a wreck?” Jake asked.

“Don’t worry—I made sure.” Big Al gave an ugly chuckle. Again his rough voice drifted up to the listeners on the cliff. “Enough talkin’. Get these supply cartons cut open and load the horses. We’ll leave part of the stores cached here and take the rest up to the hideout.”

From below came the sound of cardboard boxes being ripped open, and the mumble of the men’s voices. Suddenly Frank and Joe heard an exclamation of annoyance.

“What’s wrong now?” Big Al snarled.

“Looks like Slip Gun just broke his knife blade,” Jake replied.

Before the unidentified man could add anything, the gang leader snapped curtly, “Never mind gripin’! Use your fingers!”

Presently they could hear the men loading the horses. A few moments later the boys heard Big Al’s harsh tones: “You’ve all had your orders. Now let’s get gain’!”

Horses’ hoofs started up on a rocky surface somewhere below—then faded bit by bit, echoing hollowly.

Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “There must be a passage from the canyon that leads out through the hill!” he whispered excitedly.

“Right! We’d better get back to the trail and see if we can spot them!”

Frank led the way as the brothers hurried back to the site from which they had first noticed the bearlike rock formation. Sprawling among the snow and rocks to avoid being seen, the Hardys gazed intently down the hillside.

For a long while there was no sign of humans. The sun had vanished behind clouds, leaving a leaden, wintry sky. Nothing was visible below but the vast, rugged expanse of timber-clad wilderness.

Joe fidgeted anxiously. “Those fellows can’t just disappear!” he muttered. “They’ll have to come out somewh—”

Frank held up his hand for silence. “There they are!” he whispered.

Far below and off to the right, four riders had emerged from a patch of brush on the hillside. They paused momentarily, then separated. Three of the men rode upward through a notch in the hills. The fourth headed off in the direction of Lucky Lode, leading an empty pack horse behind his mount.

“That one by himself must be Slip Gun!” Joe groaned. “If only we had binoculars to see who he is!”

“Maybe we can overtake him,” Frank said hopefully. “Anyhow, the important thing is to get to the cabin and warn Dad. Let’s go!”

Quickly the boys got their horses, swung into the saddles, and started off along the trail. They watched for a safe place to descend the hillside and soon picked out a likely route. The downslope, even here, was steep and slippery, but their horses managed to negotiate it successfully.

Minutes later, Frank and Joe picked up Slip Gun’s trail in the snow. By this time the spy was far ahead and lost to view among the timber.

As the boys rode along, Joe fumed impatiently. “We’ll lose him if we don’t make better time!” he said, urging his horse to greater speed.

“Take it easy, Joe,” Frank advised. “This ground is pretty rough going for the horses— they’re doing the best they can. It won’t help any if one of them breaks a leg.”

Joe admitted the wisdom of his brother’s words, and they pressed forward at the best pace they could manage.

“You know,” Frank said, “I’m beginning to see why Hopkins was so interested when he saw Mike Onslow’s map.”

“You must be thinking the same thing I am,” Joe returned. “Big Al must be looking for Onslow’s missing gold!”

Frank pounded his fist into his palm as another thought struck him. “And, if he staked it out twenty-five years ago,” he added excitedly, “that means—Big Al and Black Pepper are the same person! Also, the wrecked plane they’re looking for must be the crate Bart Dawson took off in!”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Big Al seems to be sure Dawson died in the wreck.”

“Which doesn’t jibe with what Ben Tinker told us,” Frank pointed out. “Ben claimed he saw Dawson in Helena a couple of years later.”

“True—though nobody around here seems to believe anything Ben says.”

“I know—but he did hear the music in the dance hall.”

Joe chuckled. “That’s right. Of course it wasn’t exactly played by Charlie’s ghost.”

Dusk was gathering fast. By the time the boys had passed through the stretch of timber, it was no longer possible to make out Slip Gun’s tracks, nor see the rider ahead. By now Frank and Joe were able to recognize familiar landmarks and inside of an hour were crossing the ridge above Lucky Lode. The town lights were visible below.

“It’s tough luck we weren’t able to nab Slip Gun,” Frank said, as the brothers spurred their horses down the trail.

“Let’s hope we’re not too late to warn Dad!” Joe said grimly.

There was no sign of the horseman they were pursuing as they pounded through the streets of Lucky Lode. The boys’ fears mounted when they drew in sight of Hank’s cabin. Although darkness had fallen, no lights showed in the windows.

Frank and Joe pulled to a halt, leaped from their horses, and dashed inside, fear gripping them.

“Hank! Dad!” Frank shouted.

No one answered. Without bothering to light the oil lamp, the boys blundered through the darkness and hastily checked the two sleeping rooms and the kitchen.

The cabin was empty!

CHAPTER XIII

A Fight in the Dark

“WE’RE too late!” Frank muttered in a choking voice.

Joe was too stunned to speak. The killer must have arrived before theml But where had the victims been taken?

The next instant the Hardys stiffened in suspense. Someone was slipping quietly into the cabin through the half-open front door.

“That you, boys?” It was Hank Shale!

Frank and Joe rushed to question him.

“What happened to Dad?” Joe exclaimed.

“Don’t worry—your pa’s safe,” the Westerner assured them. “I just finished movin’ him to Ben Tinker’s place.”

A wave of relief swept over the boys. “Did you know he was in danger?” Frank asked.

“We figgered so. After I told him how Big Al’s men tried to get you lads, your pa had a hunch the gang might come after him next.”

“His hunch was right,” Joe said. “Big Al’s spy was ordered to kill Dad tonight!”

Hank gave a low whistle. “By jingo, then he took cover just in time!” Hank listened tensely as the boys related their latest adventures.

“We’d better not wait any longer,” Frank declared. “The killer may make his move any time now. Hank, you’d better go back to Ben’s place and stand guard!”

“What about you two?”

“We’ll wait here at the cabin and see if Slip Gun shows up,” Frank replied.

“And if he does,” Joe declared, “we’ll have him dead to rights!”

“Now hold on!” said Hank. “If this feller’s comin’ to kill your pa, he’ll be armed. It’d be plumb foolish to try takin’ him on alone.”

“Then we’ll wait outside and just see who he is,” Frank promised hastily. “The arrest can be handled later.”

Hank started back to Ben Tinker’s. Meanwhile, Joe lighted the oil lamp and the boys rummaged quickly through their father’s gear for extra flashlights to replace the ones they had lost in the river. Then they extinguished the lamp and hurried outside.

After stabling their horses in the lean-to, without taking time to unsaddle them, the boys darted into a nearby clump of trees. They picked out a spot from which they could watch the front door of the cabin and waited. For the next quarter of an hour nothing disturbed the peaceful quiet of the icy night.

Suddenly Frank gave a low hiss and pointed toward the cabin. The boys could barely discern the figure of a man, moving silently. He tried the door cautiously, then slipped inside.

“Think we should try to nab him?” Joe whispered.

“We promised Hank we wouldn’t,” Frank reminded his brother. “But don’t worry—once he comes back, we won’t let him out of our sight till we’ve identified him. This time he won’t give us the slip!”

The boys fell silent as a faint glow of light showed through the cabin window. The glow moved about. Evidently the intruder had brought a flashlight of his own.

The Hardys stiffened in surprise as a second figure suddenly loomed in the darkness near the cabin. The newcomer halted for an instant, then moved swiftly toward the door and went inside.

Joe gasped, “Two of them!”

A second later came a muffled outburst of voices, then a sharp cry. Confused noises followed, then a crash.

“They’re fighting!” Frank sprang up. “Come on! That second person must have surprised the killer—he may need help!”

Joe followed as his brother sprinted from their hiding place. Frank reached the cabin first and tried to open the door. But it resisted his efforts, as if something were blocking it.

Frank braced his shoulder and slammed hard against the wood. This time it yielded and came open part way.

“Wait—wait a minute!” a voice just inside muttered thickly.

The boys pushed on through and almost stumbled over someone on the floor. Frank snapped on his flashlight. Its bright beam revealed the face of Burke, the storekeeper!

“Never mind me! Get him!” Burke rasped as he struggled to his feet. “He went through the back window!”

Joe had already switched on his flashlight. As Burke spoke, the beam swept through the doorway and showed an open window.

Joe darted out the front door and ran to the back of the cabin. Frank dashed straight to the bedroom and stuck his head out the window.

Tracks were visible in the snow, leading off toward the heavy brush and timber skirting the hillside. Joe came around the corner of the cabin, picked out the footprints with the beam of his flashlight, and began following them.

“Hold it, Joe!” Frank called. “That fellow might have a gun!”

Joe halted unwillingly and looked back at his brother. “If he had a gun, wouldn’t he have used it on Burke?”

“How do we know?” Frank argued. “Maybe he had no chance to draw before he knocked Burke down—and after he heard us at the door, he may have been more interested in making a getaway. Anyhow, don’t risk it, Joe!”

“Okay.” Joe shrugged and returned to the cabin.

By this time Burke was sitting down, and Frank had righted the overturned table and chairs. The storekeeper was disheveled and had a raw-looking bruise on his right cheek.

“What happened?” Frank asked him.

“I came here to see you boys or your dad,” Burke replied. “Instead, I discovered Bob Dodge nosin’ around with a Hashlight—”

“Dodge!” Frank and Joe exclaimed together. “You heard me!” the storekeeper snapped. He rubbed his cheek gingerly. “I accused him of bein’ a crook, and he slugged me with his flashlight. Then we started fightin’. Finally Dodge knocked me down against the door, and before I could get up, he scrammed.”

“If Dodge had the flashlight, how could you see who he was?” Joe asked.

“I couldn’t at first,” Burke explained. “I called out, ‘Who are you?’ or ‘Who’s there?’—somethin’ like that. Then he started givin’ me some cock-and-bull story about lookin’ for your dad and Hank Shale, and I recognized his voice. I said, ‘Don’t try to kid me, Dodge—you’re in with that gang Mr. Hardy’s after!’ That’s when he conked me with the flashlight.”

The boys looked at each other in bewilderment.

“What made you suspect Dodge is in league with Big Al’s gang?” Frank questioned.

“Because I suddenly remembered him buyin’ some red paint soon after your dad first came to Lucky Lode,” Burke replied. “It slipped my mind when you boys asked me. That’s what I was comin’ here to tell you.”

Frank and Joe digested this startling news. Burke’s story added up to a convincing case against Dodge.

“That would explain why he fled,” Joe said. “If he figured the jig was up, Mr. Dodge may have headed for the gang’s hideout.”

“Or taken off in his copter!” Frank exclaimed. “I’ll see if it’s still where he landed us.”

“We’ll both go,” Joe said.

“No need for that,” his brother argued. “You’d better help Mr. Burke back to his store.”

From the quick look his brother flashed him, Joe guessed that Frank still mistrusted Burke and wanted the man kept under surveillance.

Burke, however, declined the offer. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m okay now.”

The storekeeper stood up to go, but after taking a few steps, he teetered and leaned weakly against the wall.

“Whew!” Burke muttered, shaking his head. “Guess I’m still a bit woozy from that clout Dodge gave me.”

Joe helped him back to the chair, then went for some water from the kitchen pump. Before leaving, Frank made an excuse to join Joe.

“Take Burke to the store,” he whispered. “Then go straight to Ben Tinker’s and make sure Dad’s okay. I’ll meet you there.”

Frank went outside, got his horse from the lean-to, and rode off toward the clearing where he judged the helicopter was parked.

Joe, meanwhile, bathed Burke’s head with cold water and bandaged his injured cheek.

“Where did your dad go?” Burke asked.

“He and Hank Shale are following a lead on the case,” Joe said vaguely. He then suggested that they take the remaining two horses and ride, rather than walk, to the store.

Burke shook his head. “It’s not far enough to bother. Besides, the way I feel, I’m not sure I could stick onto a saddle.”

Joe assisted him on foot to the store with no further difficulty. Burke thanked him, said good night, and went inside. Joe lingered until he saw the light go out. Then he hurried to Ben Tinker’s cabin.

The young detective found Mr. Hardy, Hank, and Ben awake and gathered around a glowing potbelly stove. They listened with keen interest as Joe poured out his story of the night’s events. Just as he was finishing, there came the sound of a horse being reined up outside, and a moment later Frank burst into the cabin.

“The helicopter’s still at the field,” Frank reported. “I scouted around a bit, but there’s no sign of Dodge. And he hasn’t returned to the hotel.”

Mr. Hardy frowned and stroked his jaw. “I find it hard to believe that Bob Dodge can be a criminal—much less a killer,” the detective said. “What’s your opinion, boys?”

“Until tonight it seemed to me to be a tossup between Burke and Dodge,” Joe replied. “We’ve suspected one of them must be Big Al’s spy, ever since that night we trailed the hooded man to the general store.”

Frank nodded and tallied up the evidence.

His father said, “Burke may be lying about what happened at the cabin tonight. Are you sure Dodge wasn’t the second man to arrive?”

“It was too dark to tell,” Frank admitted. “But you’re right—Dodge may have surprised Burke there and accused him of working with the gang. And Burke may have done the attacking but got knocked down.”

“In that case, why should Dodge duck out the window?” Hank objected.

“Burke was blocking the door,” Joe said. “Maybe Dodge decided to get out fast, in case Burke came at him again.”

Ben Tinker put in, “That still don’t explain where he disappeared to.”

Mr. Hardy arose from his chair and paced back and forth. “The flashlight might carry fingerprints,” he remarked. “Was it still around?”

“I didn’t see it,” Joe replied. “Dodge must have taken it with him.”

“But we don’t know that,” Frank emphasized. “Burke could have slipped it inside his coat while we were looking out back.”

Joe agreed. “We should have checked on that right away.”

Frank suddenly snapped his fingers. “Let’s assume Dodge is innocent. And if he got those burrs on his coat up at the cemetery, he must have been the third man—the one we heard behind us.”

“Yes, and he may have spotted the blue signal light and gone to investigate just as we did.”

“Right,” Frank went on. “So maybe Dodge suspected all along that Burke was the man who met Slim. But he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Then, when he discovered Burke at the cabin tonight, he accused him outright—and Burke got panicky and jumped him.”

Ben Tinker grunted suspiciously. “If Dodge suspected Burke, whyn’t he tell you lads or your pa?”

“Matter of fact, Dodge did come around yesterday,” Hank reminded them. “But the doc was tendin’ to Fenton, and the boys weren’t here, so he never got to talk to ’em.”

“Maybe that’s why Dodge came to the cabin tonight—to tell us his suspicions,” Mr. Hardy conjectured. “Has Burke ever been in trouble with the law?” he asked.

Hank and Ben replied that so far as they knew, he had not.

Frank began pacing the floor. “As things stand, we can make out a pretty convincing case for or against either Burke or Dodge,” he stated. “Dodge has disappeared but Burke is still around. What we need is some way to test Burke’s innocence—or guilt.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “Good thought.”

“We know that the gang wants Joe and me out of the way,” Frank went on. “And we also know they’re after Mike Onslow’s lost gold. So let’s set a trap for Burke.”

“How?” asked Joe.

Frank grinned and said coolly, “By using the best possible bait—the gold and ourselves!”

CHAPTER XIV

The Broken Knife

FRANK explained his plan while the others listened approvingly.

“Right smart idea, boy!” Ben Tinker cackled appreciatively. “If Burke’s in league with the gang, I’ll lay ten to one he snaps at the bait!”

Mr. Hardy agreed. “But you boys should have a lawman on hand when the trap is sprung.”

“I’ll go along,” Hank Shale volunteered. “And I’ll get Sheriff Kenner over at Bear Creek.”

After details of the planned capture had been settled, Mr. Hardy said, “You boys had better bunk here for the night, if Ben will permit. It might be risky staying at Hank’s place, in case the gang makes another attempt on our lives.”

Ben willingly approved, and the boys said they would stretch out on blankets by the stove.

“We’ll have to make one more trip back to Hank’s, though, to tend the horses,” Joe added.

The brothers set out, riding double on Frank’s horse. By this hour the long, single street of Lucky Lode was dark and silent. When the Hardys reached Hank’s cabin, they dismounted and went to the lean-to.

It was empty! Both Joe’s horse and Daisy, the pack mare, were gone!

“Who could have taken them?” Joe gasped.

Frank was equally mystified. “Maybe footprints will give us a clue,” he said hopefully.

The boys shone their flashlights around the trampled snow. Horseshoe prints led off up the hillside. A man’s tracks were heading toward the cabin from the patch of timber into which Dodge had disappeared earlier.

“He must have come back after we left!” Joe exclaimed.

“Sure looks that way,” Frank agreed. “We can check more carefully by daylight.”

The boys returned to Ben’s and stabled Frank’s horse in one of the old ghost-town buildings. When they went inside the cabin, the three men were asleep. Ben was snoring loudly.

“Even that won’t keep me awake tonight!” Joe grinned, and yawned deeply.

In spite of their exhausting adventures, Frank and Joe awoke at daybreak, thoroughly refreshed. After pulling on their clothes, they hurried back to Hank Shale’s cabin.

Although the snow had wind-drifted, it was still possible to make out Dodge’s tracks. They led away from the cabin to the woods, then returned to the lean-to.

“He was punchy, all right,” Frank remarked. “His steps zigzagged.”

The prints led to a clump of brush, where the crushed, broken twigs indicated the fugitive had fallen full length.

“Dodge collapsed when he got this far!” Joe said in surprise.

“Yes, Joe. And this may prove his innocence.”

“How so?”

“Suppose it was Burke who beaned him with the flashlight, instead of the other way around. Dodge might have fought back, knocked Burke down, then scrammed out the window before Burke could come at him again. Dodge may have been dazed from the blow—”

“I get it!” Joe interrupted excitedly. “So he staggered out here in the woods, maybe not even knowing where he was going, and passed out.”

Frank said he was puzzled. “Why should Dodge go riding off up the hillside, instead of back into town? And why take Daisy?”

Joe shook his head. “Maybe we have him figured all wrong. Could be he is part of the gang, and wanted to get up to their hideout.”

Frank and Joe checked again on the helicopter and found it still in the clearing. On their way back through Lucky Lode, the Hardys stopped off at the hotel. The worried manager informed them that he had had no word from the vanished armored-car-company owner.

“I’ve notified Sheriff Kenner and I just now finished calling Mr. Dodge’s office in Helena,” the manager added.

Back at Ben’s cabin, the boys found a hearty breakfast awaiting them. As they ate, Frank and Joe reported the theft of the two horses and discussed their theories with the men.

“An amazing turn of events,” Mr. Hardy said.

As soon as the meal was over, Hank and the boys went off to hire fresh mounts from the livery stable. They promised to pay the owner for the lost horse if it was not recovered. Hank started off for Bear Creek to meet the sheriff. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe rode to the general store.

“Mornin’, boys,” Burke greeted them. Aside from his bruised cheek, he seemed to have suffered no ill effects from the fight.

Frank read off a short list of supplies. One item was a carton of canned beans. When Burke brought it, Frank said, “We’d better divide the cans between our saddlebags, Joe. Could you lend me a knife to open the carton, Mr. Burke?”

“Sure,” Burke took out a huge pocketknife and tossed it on the counter.

As the storekeeper went off to get the rest of the items, Frank opened the knife. About half the main blade was broken off!

The Hardys exchanged quick glances of triumph. The first part of Frank’s plan had paid off. Unless the broken knife was an amazing coincidence, Burke must be the man the gang called “Slip Gun”! Now to see if he would take the bait they were about to offer!

As Frank had hoped, Burke was curious as to why the boys needed the supplies. “You fellas fixin’ to take a trip somewhere?” he asked casually as he totaled the bill.

“Not too far,” Frank replied. “We’ll be camping in a canyon up the mountain a ways.”

“And we’ll be coming back rich!” Joe added boastfully.

Frank shot an angry look at his brother, as if Joe had spoken out of turn.

“Rich?” Burke looked at the boys questioningly.

“It was supposed to be a secret,” Frank grumbled, “but—well, I guess we can trust you after what happened last night.”

“Sure! I won’t tell nobody,” Burke purred. “Well, one reason we came out West was to look for some lost gold that an old miner named Mike Onslow told us about,” Frank began.

“He drew us a map,” put in Joe, “but it was stolen from us.”

“Then yesterday we were out in a box canyon where there’s a certain rock formation that looks like a bear,” Frank went on. “We’d heard Big Al’s gang planned to meet there. We didn’t see the gang, but we did spot a clue to the whereabouts of the gold. And we have the location marked right here on a map we drew ourselves.”

Frank pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and tapped it significantly.

Burke stared in amazement. “No foolin’! You really know where to lay hands on the gold?”

The boys nodded gloatingly.

“But please don’t say a word to anyone,” Joe cautioned. “We don’t want to start a gold rush out to that canyon before we’ve had a chance to uncover the treasure.”

“Don’t worry, boys! Mum’s the word as far as I’m concerned.” Burke gave an oily smile.

After stowing the supplies in their saddlebags, Frank and Joe rode out of town. Beyond the ridge they reined up at a sheltered spot agreed upon beforehand with Hank. Here the boys waited until they were joined by Hank and Sheriff Kenner. Then all four set out together, retracing the route the Hardys had followed when returning to town from the canyon the evening before.

A brief search soon disclosed the opening in the hillside through which the gang had emerged from the canyon. The entrance widened into a high-arched rocky passage, big enough for riding two abreast. The passage ended directly below the bear-shaped rock.

Once inside, Frank, Joe, and their two companions paused to consider their next move.

Sheriff Kenner, a rugged-looking man with an iron-gray mustache, asked the boys, “What time do you figure the gang will show—assuming Burke took the bait?”

“He jumped at it!” Joe declared confidently.

“My hunch is,” Frank said, “they’ll wait until after dark and try to take us by surprise.”

The group kept out of sight below the rocky overhang and Hank cooked lunch over a small fire. Meanwhile, the two boys searched for the broken knife blade. Joe soon found it.

“This sure looks as if it fits Burke’s knife,” he said, handing over the blade to the sheriff.

By the time darkness fell, the group had arranged a convincing-looking camp with two stone-and-brush dummies covered with blankets to resemble sleepers. Then the four retired with their horses behind a cluster of huge boulders.

Time passed slowly. The campfire was renewed. Suddenly, above the soughing of the wind, the listeners’ ears caught the faint clop of horses’ hoofs. The riders were coming through the rocky passage. Frank, Joe, and their two companions swung quietly into their saddles. Sheriff Kenner whispered final orders.

Moments later, three horsemen entered the canyon. There was sufficient moonlight for the boys to make out Slim and Jake. The third man, they guessed, was Big Al. Evidently Burke was not taking part in the raid.

The three thugs paused inside the canyon. The dying campfire and the two blanketed dummies lay in plain view. Big Al hissed out an order. Slim and Jake charged forward, their horses breaking into a gallop. The gang leader followed at a more leisurely pace.

“All right, let’s take ’em!” Sheriff Kenner snapped in a low voice. He and Hank spurred their horses from behind the boulders, while Frank and Joe waited, according to plan.

“Don’t go for your guns! Just reach!” Sheriff Kenner yelled. At the same time, he fired a shot to show that he meant business.

Slim and Jake reined up sharply. Their hands shot skyward in panic as the bullet whistled over their heads. Frank and Joe spurred their horses into action and sped from behind the boulders. At that same instant Big Al wheeled his horse in a wild dash for the passageway. The boys and Hank followed, but suddenly Hank’s horse stumbled and its rider went flying off. The Hardys stopped, and turned back to help him.

“I’ll—be all right—boys. Nothin—broken! Just —got the—wind knocked out o’ me,” he called out.

Reassured, Joe swung his mount in the direction of the escaping outlaw. “Big Al’s getting away! Let’s go after him!” he called to his brother.

Frank needed no urging. Together, they galloped after the ringleader. With Slim and Jake to deal with, the sheriff was powerless to join the chase. He shouted a warning to the two boys, advising them to wait, but his cry was drowned by the thundering hoofbeats.

The boys were already plunging through the tunnel in hot pursuit of the outlaw. In the darkness ahead they could hear the pounding hoofs of Big Al’s mount and see an occasional glint of sparks as its steel shoes struck the rocks.

Presently a dim glow of moonlight showed the passageway coming to an end. For a time Big Al’s figure was clearly silhouetted. Then it was lost to view as he emerged from the passage and headed to the right along the foot of the hillside. In moments Frank and Joe were out of the passageway and turning their own horses in the same direction.

“Big Al’s heading toward the same notch he and his men aimed for yesterday!” Frank called.

For more than an hour the chase continued—over rocks, through dangerous gullies, then along a river winding through a narrow canyon. Suddenly Frank and Joe lost sight of their quarry as the canyon curved sharply. When the boys rounded the bend, they reined up in astonishment.

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

CHAPTER XV

Underground Chase

FRANK and Joe looked at each other in sheer disbelief, mingled with uneasiness. Except for the panting of their horses, not a sound broke the wintry silence of the canyon.

“Could Big Al have rigged some kind of ambush?” Joe asked in a low, worried voice.

“I don’t see how,” Frank murmured, scanning the terrain. “There’s no place for him and his horse to hide.”

The cliff walls on either side were bare and precipitous. With the moon almost directly overhead, the snow-covered floor of the canyon was revealed with brilliant clarity. The narrow riverbanks were barren of brush. Aside from a few scattered rocks —none big enough to afford cover—nothing intervened between the boys and the frozen waterfall.

“Well, he must be here somewhere,” Joe said edgily. “His tracks will give us the answer.”

Frank agreed. The boys dismounted and moved forward cautiously, leading their horses. Moonlight wrapped the scene in eerie loneliness. The boys kept their eyes and ears alert. Gradually they became aware of another sound—the muted roar of falling water, still flowing behind the glacier-like formation.

The sound became louder as they neared the cataract. The majestic ice curtain glittered in the moonlight. It was fringed with great, jagged blue-white spears that hung down like stalactites.

“I don’t get it,” Joe muttered. “Al’s tracks lead straight toward the waterfall!”

As they proceeded, Frank took out his flashlight, and switched it on. He gave a cry of surprise.

“Joe! He must have gone under the waterfall!”

At the base of the cliff was a dark open space yawning between the curve of the falls and the rock face! It was large enough to admit a horse and rider. The boys moved closer for a better look and Frank probed the darkness with his flashlight.

“Look! There’s an opening in the cliff wall!” Joe exclaimed. “It must be a tunnel!”

“Or maybe just a blind cavern,” Frank said, switching off his flashlight. “Big Al could be waiting for us in there!”

After a whispered conference, Frank groped his way behind the cataract. When he reached the opening in the cliff he quickly snapped on his flashlight again for a more leisurely examination. Presently he came back and reported to Joe. “It’s a tunnel, all right. No telling how far it goes —or where.”

“No sign of Big Al?” Joe questioned.

“Not in person, but there are wet tracks.”

The two horses balked a bit as the boys took their bridles and attempted to lead them into the dark space behind the icy falls. Joe’s animal, which was in the lead, whinnied and reared when it felt the splattering spray, but it soon calmed under Joe’s reassuring hand.

Inside the tunnel mouth the passage widened, giving the boys room to mount. Frank and Joe rode slowly forward, with Joe, in the lead, shining his flashlight.

After several hundred yards the passage widened and the boys were able to ride side by side.

“Must have been the bed of an old underground stream,” Frank guessed. “See how smooth the walls are worn.”

Joe nodded. “We’d better speed up before Big Al gets too far ahead.”

Urging their horses to a faster pace, they pushed on through the tunnel. At intervals the boys stopped and listened, hoping to catch some sound of their quarry. The fourth time they halted, a faint echoing sound of horse’s hoofs on rock reached their ears from somewhere ahead.

“We must be getting closer!” Joe said tensely.

Just how close was difficult to judge, since the enclosed passage with its smooth, hard walls might carry the sound almost any distance. The boys rode on steadily. When they paused to listen once more, the hoofbeats were no longer audible. But twenty minutes later Joe thought he could detect them again.

“He may be far ahead of us,” said Frank. “Sound can be pretty tricky in here.”

As the brothers continued along the tunnel, the chill, dank atmosphere gradually became warmer. Frank and Joe unzipped their heavy windbreakers.

After a while it became necessary to rest the horses. The Hardys did not dare pause too long for fear of losing Big Al completely, and soon went on.

The tunnel turned and twisted. The horses were nervous at first about proceeding, but gradually became accustomed to the experience.

“It seems as if we’ve been traveling for hours,” said Frank. Presently he snapped on his flashlight to glance at his wristwatch. To his amazement, it was almost three-thirty in the morning! “Whew! Do you realize the night’s almost over, Joe?”

“I sure do. The horses are bushed.”

Gradually the boys became aware that the tunnel was sloping upward. The horses began to pant and labor from the steepness of the incline, and the Hardys had to rest them more frequently.

“It’s getting colder in here,” Joe said with a sudden shiver. Both boys zipped up their jackets.

“We must be getting close to the surface,” Frank said hopefully.

Sometime later he was about to turn on his flashlight again when he paused. “Hey! The tunnel’s not so dark as it has been—or am I imagining things?”

“You’re right!” Joe replied, with rising excitement. “I’ll keep my flashlight off for a while.”

Soon the boys could feel cold air on their faces. The tunnel was lightening every moment, and presently a gray glimmer of daylight showed ahead. With joyful cries of relief, Frank and Joe urged their horses forward.

In a minute or so, they had emerged onto a snow-covered mountainside. Rocks, scattered trees, and slopes all around them were bathed in the ghostly light of dawn. The Hardys leaped from their horses, stretched their tired muscles, and inhaled the fresh air deeply. Then they looked around and assessed their situation.

“There are Big Al’s tracks,” Joe said, pointing them out.

Frank nodded. “Fairly fresh, too—but he could be a good distance ahead of us.”

“Any idea where we are, Frank?”

“Not much, except that we’ve come clear through the mountain.” Frank grinned wryly. “I’m famished, Joe. How about you?”

“Same here! Think we can take time to eat?”

“May as well,” Frank decided. “No telling how long we’ll be on the trail. Lucky we didn’t unpack.”

The boys fed their horses, built a small fire, and had breakfast. Then they swung back into the saddles and resumed their pursuit of the outlaw. His tracks led upward onto a beaten trail winding along the mountainside.

When they reached the path, Frank reined in his mount and glanced toward a high, jutting rock formation farther up the mountain. “Know something, Joe?” he remarked. “I’ll bet this is a continuation of Ambush Trail.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “You’re right! I remember seeing that rocky outcrop way in the distance, just before we fell into the river!”

“If this is Ambush Trail,” Frank went on, “Big Al must be heading for their hideout on Windy Peak.”

“That figures,” Joe agreed. “He thinks he’s shaken us by going through the tunnel.”

The boys continued their pursuit throughout the morning. Around noontime, Big Al’s tracks left the well-defined path and disappeared upward among the higher rocks and brush.

Joe groaned at the sight. “Good grief! How can we tackle that kind of ground when our horses are exhausted already?”

Frank looked thoughtful as they slouched in their saddles and studied the terrain. “Maybe there’s no need to, Joe. I have a hunch this could be a dodge to throw us off.”

“You could be right,” Joe said, brightening. “If Big Al’s heading for Windy Peak, he’ll probably have to come back to the trail eventually.”

After talking the matter over, the Hardys decided to halt for lunch and a rest. Two hours later, feeling refreshed, they hit the trail again.

It was late in the afternoon when the boys sighted the outlaw’s tracks once more, leading from the slope back down to the trail.

“Your hunch paid off, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “These tracks look pretty fresh, too!”

Encouraged, the boys pressed forward with new energy. A mile farther on, the trail forked. One branch struck sharply upward. The other followed a more winding course along the curve of the mountainside. To their left stretched a shallow box canyon.

Frank and Joe took the lower trail, since the prints showed that Big Al had gone that way. Gradually the path became little more than a rocky ledge, with frequent sharp turns and a sheer drop-off along the outer edge. The Hardys rode single file, with Joe in the lead.

Suddenly a pebble clattered down from a rock jutting out just above their heads. Frank shot a quick glance upward. “Look out, Joe!” he yelled.

A rope with a wide circling noose was snaking down toward his brother’s head!

Frank’s warning came an instant too late. The noose settled over Joe’s shoulders and jerked tight, nearly yanking him from the saddle.

Frank spurred forward, white with terror. Someone hidden on the ledge above them was trying to drop Joe over the precipice! Frank managed to grab the taut rope just in time. Almost at the same instant, the unseen enemy let go of it. Joe would have gone over the brink, but Frank’s quick jerk on the rope pulled his brother back from the edge, and Joe dropped heavily onto the trail. Unhurt, he struggled to his feet and began extricating himself from the noose. In moments he was free.

“There goes the rat!” Frank yelled as a figure burst from the ledge above and scrambled rapidly along the slope.

Big Al!

Instantly Joe was back in the saddle. The Hardys spurred forward in hot pursuit. The outlaw’s course was roughly parallel to the trail. Suddenly Big Al checked his stride long enough to send a large rock rumbling down the slope.

“Hold it, Frank!” Joe warned.

Both boys yanked their horses to a rearing, whinnying halt in the nick of time! A split second later the rock crashed onto the trail just ahead, rolled to the edge, and went over.

The animals snorted with fear and stood trembling. Frank and Joe barely managed to spur them into motion again. Big Al was lost to view behind a clump of brush and jagged outcropping.

The trail ahead bent sharply around a projecting shoulder of the mountainside. Joe caught a quick glimpse of Big Al outlined against the sky as he rounded the slope. Then he disappeared.

The boys slowed their mounts to negotiate the dangerous hairpin curve of the ledge. As they came around to the opposite side of the shoulder, Joe reined in and signaled Frank to halt. Ahead stood Big Al’s riderless horse. The Hardys dismounted to scout the situation.

“Where has he gone?” Frank asked tensely.

“Search me,” Joe replied, looking around.

Just past the outlaw’s horse the trail petered out and the terrain sloped upward in a jumble of giant rocks. Beyond them a huge boulder stood poised straight up like a pinnacle.

“He must be holed up among those rocks,” Frank said. “Probably waiting for us!”

He had hardly finished speaking when Joe clutched his brother’s arm and pointed. “Look! There he is!”

Big Al had suddenly appeared, clawing his way to the very top of the jutting boulder!

“He’s trapped!” Frank cried out triumphantly. “Let’s get him!”

CHAPTER XVI

Cliff Hideaway

“YOU’LL never take me alive!” screamed Big Al.

He had reached the top of the huge boulder and now stood waving his arms against the leaden sky. The outlaw was jumping around as though half-crazed.

“Try to get me!” he challenged.

As Frank and Joe sped into the jumble of rocks, they lost sight of their quarry momentarily. They could hear Big Al still yelling, then suddenly there was silence.

“Wonder what happened?” Joe panted. “Did—”

He was interrupted by a long-drawn-out scream which gradually trailed off. Then there was silence.

Dashing from the rocks, the boys came around a corner. Before them was the huge boulder.

“He’s gone!” Joe panted.

“But where?”

There was no place for Big Al to have run except down the rocky trail on which the boys had been.

“He must have jumped over the edge!” Joe yelled. The Hardys ran to it. They could see most of the canyon floor below them. There was no sign of a body.

“He must have gone down!” Frank said, puzzled. “But where is he?”

The boys looked closely again in the waning light. There was no one in sight.

“I wonder—” Joe said slowly. “Even if Big Al did go over the side, he may have known a safe way to slide to the bottom, and there might be some hiding place—”

Frank agreed. “Big Al’s pretty tricky. He could have figured out some way to escape.”

As the light failed, the brothers strained their eyes to peer into the darkness, but could detect no niche, crevice, or cave in which to hide.

“Well,” Frank murmured at last, “there isn’t much we can do tonight. I sure hate to think Big Al is roaming around here loose.”

Joe looked toward the sky. It was dark now and they were a long distance up Windy Peak. “What’ll we do, Frank?” he asked.

“The only thing we can do,” said his brother, “is spend the night here. Tomorrow we might manage to find some trace of Big Al. I want to know if he’s dead or alive.”

“I do, too!” Joe exclaimed.

“We’ll have to make camp,” Frank said, “but first we’d better do something about our horses.”

“Yes, and Big Al’s, too,” Joe added, pointing toward the outlaw’s fine roan that was still ground-hitched.

The boys gathered the three animals together, rode back to the fork, and secured the horses to rocks.

“These old fellows will provide us with a good warning system,” Frank remarked.

“How?” his brother asked.

Frank explained his idea. “We’ll leave them here and go part way back along the trail to make camp. If Al is alive he’ll have to come past here, since all three trails meet at this spot. He’ll want his roan, anyway. The horses would be sure to whinny and waken us.”

“Good scheme!” said Joe. “We’ll camp at the Rock Motel!”

“Every comfort and all for free,” Frank joked.

The boys ate, fed the horses, then carted their bedrolls and meager supplies to a sheltered spot and quickly spread out the blankets. Though the brothers were tired, sleep was slow in coming.

“I can’t help wondering if Big Al is tricking us again,” Frank said uneasily as he was finally drifting off.

He dreamed several times about the outlaw and tried to figure out why he and Joe had not seen Big Al’s body in the gorge. Both boys slept fitfully through the night.

As the blackness of the sky began to lighten with the coming of dawn, they got up and ate a cold but nourishing breakfast of oranges, oatmeal cookies, and egg flakes. Refreshed, the boys walked toward the edge of the cliff over which Big Al had disappeared.

“We may be able to see something more in the daylight,” Joe remarked.

Frank had been staring into the gray, lowering sky. “I doubt if there’s anything to see,” he observed.

“What do you mean?”

Frank scanned the sky once more. “I think we’ve been fooled again,” he answered. “If there had been a body down in the gorge, there’d be carrion birds flying around.”

“Of course,” said Joe.

“I wondered about it last night, but thought maybe because it was so late there wouldn’t be any birds at work. But some would be here this morning, if there was anything to attract them.”

“Let’s look over the edge again,” Joe suggested.

The brothers dropped to their stomachs and crept as close as they could to the rim. By leaning well over it, they could look almost to the base of the cliff.

“See anything, Joe?”

“Not a thing.”

Suddenly, from far below, came the rattle of small pebbles. A great black raven flew out of the precipice.

“There must be a nest in the cliff!” Joe cried out.

The boys edged forward over the rough stones. They held on as tightly as possible before leaning over to locate the nest.

“There it is!” exclaimed Frank.

Below them in a recess that nature had torn in the cliffside was the bird’s nest and alongside it enough room to give a man shelter.

“That was Big Al’s hiding place!” Frank said grimly. “He swung down there to the left and probably got away during the night.”

Frank and Joe crawled back from the cliff’s edge until they could stand up in safety.

“He fooled us all right,” said Frank. “I wonder how long it was before he left here.”

“Maybe,” Joe suggested, “it depended on the horses. I’ll bet he waited until just before dawn and then stole them!”

Frank was angry. “Of course. His horse would know him, and since the three animals have been together and gotten to be friends, none of them would whinny an alarm. I should have realized that.”

The boys dashed for the fork. Their guess had been right! The horses were gone! And taken up the steeper branch!

“Al did trick us!” Frank chided himself.

“Now he’s really got us in a spot,” murmured his brother. “Do we head for home or trail him?”

“Trail him,” Frank decided promptly. ‘We’ll have to walk, of course.”

“Can we make it up there?” Joe sounded worried.

“I don’t know, but we’ll have to try.”

The brothers huddled in the shelter of a rock to discuss the situation. What lay ahead? They realized it might be a long and treacherous climb —perhaps another night without hot food and proper shelter. They noticed it was growing colder and that was a bad sign too. It was not only going to be uncomfortable for the Hardy boys, but they could easily freeze to death!

“Come on, Joe!” Frank said resolutely as he started up the steep trail. “We’re not going to let Big Al get away!”

Joe joined his brother and together they started the climb along this part of Ambush Trail. The turns were abrupt and the wind whistled sharply. Once Joe had to snatch Frank back when the wind nearly blew him over the edge.

For hours the boys toiled along the trail, following the string of horseshoe prints. During the afternoon, the marks made an abrupt turn that opened onto a plateau. It was almost completely surrounded by jagged outcroppings of rocks. The boys ducked down out of the strong wind which had swept the area almost clean of snow.

Suddenly their eyes bulged as they spotted a small cabin that lay nestled in the center of the little plateau! From its chimney came a thin wisp of smoke.

“Somebody’s here!” said Joe excitedly, and instinctively began to run.

“Wait!” Frank warned. “It might be Big Al. We’d better approach cautiously. Say, Joe—look !”

On a ridge beyond the cabin was a single weather-beaten pine tree.

“The lone pine!” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Frank, “and if it is, that building might be Mike Onslow’s cabin—now occupied by Big Al!”

CHAPTER XVII

The Secret Listener

As THE boys paused uncertainly, pondering their next move, the cabin door opened. A tall, white-haired man strode out and waved to them.

“Hi there!” he called. “Looking for shelter?”

The boys gasped as they recognized him.

“It’s Mr. Dodge!” Joe exclaimed.

“Can we trust him?” Frank muttered. “If he is in cahoots with the gang, Big Al may be in there, waiting to jump us.”

Joe shot his brother a quick glance. “If we run for it, they may come after us shooting!”

“Guess we’ll have to play this by ear,” Frank said in a low voice. “Better pretend we don’t suspect anything—but be ready to act fast if we spot a trap.”

The Hardys walked toward the cabin.

“What are you doing up here, Mr. Dodge?” Joe asked when they drew closer.

A bewildered look came over the man’s face. “Dodge?” he repeated. “My name is Dawson—Bart Dawson. I worked a claim up here with Mike Onslow and the Coulson brothers.”

The boys stopped short in astonishment.

“That’s right,” Dodge went on. His manner seemed strange. “I—I’d better explain,” he added. “Come on inside and I’ll tell you the whole story. Maybe you boys can help me.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Both had a hunch as to what Dodge was about to tell them.

“Okay, let’s go,” Frank murmured to Joe.

The brothers entered and Dodge closed the door. The cabin had a “lived-in” appearance. There were cans of food and other supplies on the shelves, and a pile of firewood beside the potbelly stove.

“Sit down, boys.”

Frank and Joe found chairs, but Dodge remained standing. He sighed and ran his fingers through his thick shock of white hair, as if he scarcely knew how to begin. He had a livid, swollen bruise on his right temple.

“Can you lads imagine what it’s like to wake up suddenly and not know where you are or how you got there?” the big man said at last. “To have a complete blank in your memory?”

“A blank twenty-five years long?” Joe put in.

Dodge looked startled. “I don’t know how you guessed it, son, but you must be just about right. Last time I recall, I was a young man with red hair and a beard. Also I was very skinny. But now when I see myself”—he gestured toward a small cracked mirror—“my hair’s white, I’m years older, and I’m much heavier.”

“Do you recognize us?” Frank queried.

The man shook his head. “No—and I’ve been wondering why you called me Dodge.”

“Because you’ve been going under the name of Bob Dodge,” Frank replied.

“Same initials—B.D.—but a different identity,” Joe added.

After introducing himself and his brother, Frank went on, “You spoke about waking up suddenly. Where?”

“In some woods near a cabin,” the man answered. “Felt as if I’d hit my head—or been hit —and there was a big swelling on my temple. Do you fellows know what happened?”

“You were conked with a flashlight,” Joe told him.

Frank leaned forward and asked, “Can’t you remember anything about a fight inside a cabin?”

Bart Dawson frowned in deep thought. Finally he shook his head. “No. I tried to figure how I’d got to the woods, but nothing came back to me.”

“What did you do next?” Frank said.

“Well, I staggered out of the woods. It was dark, but I was close to someone’s cabin. I knocked on the door, but—no answer.”

“Is that any reason to steal two horses?” Joe asked accusingly.

Dawson flushed. “You seem to know all my actions. I guess it was pretty highhanded, helping myself like that. But believe me, I intended to bring them back.”

“Just why did you take them?” Frank asked. “If you were confused, you could have gone into town for help.”

“I guess so,” Dawson admitted. “But the main street was dark and no one seemed to be stirring. Besides, I—well, I’d have felt pretty foolish waking people up and confessing I was mixed up.

“All I knew,” the man went on, “was that my name was Bart Dawson and I had to find my partners fast. It seemed terribly urgent for me to get back up here to our cabin on Windy Peak. There were two horses in the stable, so I helped myself to ’em and hit the trail. I took the pack horse,” he added, “because it was carrying blankets and a few supplies which I figured I might need in case I got lost and had to camp in the open.”

“When did you arrive here?” Frank asked.

“Yesterday afternoon. The place was empty, but there was some food.”

Frank and Joe concluded this was the gang’s hideout.

“When I saw myself in the mirror,” Dawson went on, “I realized how many years must have gone by.” His voice broke. He slumped down on a bunk and put his head in his hands. “If you boys can fill me in at all,” he said, “I’d sure appreciate it.”

Frank and Joe explained to Dawson that under the name Dodge, he had been operating a successful armored-car business in Helena for ten years. Where he had been before that, they did not know. The boys also told him how he had engaged their father, Fenton Hardy, to run down a gang of robbers and how his sons had been brought into the case. Frank ended by telling Dawson about his fight with Burke at Hank Shale’s cabin, and how a trap had been baited for Burke later, which resulted in the capture of Slim and Jake.

The white-haired man on the bunk shook his head hopelessly. “Thanks for telling me this, boys. But I still can’t remember a thing about my life as Bob Dodge.”

“What’s the last thing you do remember?” Joe pressed him.

Slowly Dawson began to relate how he and his partners had been besieged in this very cabin by Black Pepper’s gang.

“We heard about that from Mike Onslow,” Frank put in. “He’s a trapper now, back East. The two Coulson brothers are dead.”

Dawson swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to hear that.” After a moment he continued, “Anyhow, I remember taking off in the plane and heading north. But after three or four minutes the engine failed—and the ship crashed.”

“You couldn’t have gone far in three or four minutes,” Joe said thoughtfully.

“No, that’s right,” Dawson agreed, frowning. “I think I came down in the big valley beyond Lone Tree Ridge.”

“Then what?” Frank asked.

Dawson got up from the bunk and paced back and forth. “The plane hit hard and cartwheeled over into a sort of little gully somewhere along the valley floor. I must have blacked out for a while. When I came to, I had a terrible pain in my head.”

“You walked away from the wreck?” asked Joe.

“Yes. I was worried about Black Pepper getting the gold and the fact that Mike Onslow and the Coulson boys had entrusted it to me. Don’t know how I managed, weak as I was, but somehow I got the sacks of gold out of the plane.”

“What did you intend to do?” Frank inquired.

Dawson rubbed his head painfully. “I’ve been concentrating on that ever since I arrived at the cabin,” he replied. “I recall knowing I couldn’t lug the gold very far, and that I wanted to hide it in a safe place. Some landmark in the valley must have reminded me of an old abandoned mine called the Lone Tree diggings.”

“Is that where you took the gold?” Joe asked.

“It must have been,” Dawson said. “Anyhow, I remember finding a tunnel opening—and at the end of the tunnel a big excavation with bluish dirt walls. That’s where I hid the gold.”

“Can you remember anything more?” Frank urged.

“Not much. Guess I tried to reach help. But it was bitter cold and snowing and I must have lost my way. Seems as if I wandered for a long time—plodding along blindly, falling, getting up, and staggering on. After that, everything’s a blank.”

“The crash and the terrible hardships you went through must have brought on amnesia,” Joe said.

“And the blow Burke gave you that night triggered your mind into recalling the past,” Frank added.

“Incidentally,” Joe put in, “we’re pretty sure that Black Pepper and the gang leader Big Al are the same man.”

Dawson frowned again. “You said I was running a business up in Helena,” he murmured. “In that case, why was I hanging around Lucky Lode? Your father was handling the detective work.”

“We wondered about that ourselves,” Frank admitted. “In fact, it made us suspect that you might be in with the gang. But maybe you were trying to dig up your past. I have a hunch this territory around Lucky Lode could have rung a bell in your mind.”

Suddenly all three were startled by the whinny of a horse. Frank and Joe leaped from their chairs and dashed outside, followed by Dawson. A man on horseback had just emerged from a clump of rocks and brush. He was headed toward the ridge.

“That’s Big All” Joe cried.

A thought flashed into Frank’s mind. Around the windward sides of the cabin lay an area of drift snow. Frank ran toward it. As he had feared, fresh tracks were visible leading toward and away from the lean-to shed at the back.

“He was here!” Frank called angrily. As the others joined him, he pointed to the prints in the snow. “I’ll bet Big Al was hiding in the shed! He must have heard everything!”

The Hardys and Dawson hurried into the shed. Joe’s saddle horse and Daisy, the pack mare—the animals Dawson had taken from Hank’s cabin—were peacefully munching hay at the feedbox. Dawson was mystified, but Frank and Joe quickly reconstructed what must have happened.

“The gang’s been using this cabin as their hideout,” Joe said. “Big Al must have reached here just before we did. When he saw the smoke, Big Al figured he’d better scout the situation.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “He circled around the cabin toward that clump of brush, left the horses there, and sneaked up from the rear.”

“I’ll bet he was in the lean-to when we arrived,” Joe added. “That means he heard everything through the wall—including what Mr. Dodge—Dawson—told us about the place where he hid the gold!”

“And now Big Al’s on his way to find it!” Frank exclaimed.

The Hardys ran toward the clump of rocks and brush. Among them, well out of sight of the cabin, were the two horses Big Al had stolen from the boys. The outlaw had abandoned the extra animals when he galloped off.

“We’ll go after him!” Frank decided.

The boys rode the horses back to the cabin. Dawson was eager to accompany them in pursuit of the gang leader, but the Hardys thought it more important that he return to Lucky Lode immediately and tell their father the turn of events.

“Dad and Hank and the sheriff will be worried sick about us by this time,” Frank said. “Besides, Mr. Dawson, that knock on the head may cause some aftereffects—you should see a doctor.”

After some persuasion, Dawson agreed, although the leaden sky foreboded bad weather.

Frank and Joe quickly collected some supplies from among the provisions in the cabin. In doing so, they discovered a powerful flashlight with a blue lens—evidently the signal light beamed from the cemetery—and a complete list of the gang members, with jotted notes on how to contact them, including Hopkins’ group in Chicago.

“This should give the police all they need to smash the gang for good!” Joe exclaimed, handing the papers to Dawson.

Snow was falling as the boys mounted their horses. Dawson was ready to hit the trail for Lucky Lode with the other horses. After a final farewell Frank and Joe galloped off.

The snow was gradually obliterating Big Al’s tracks. By the time the Hardys had topped the ridge and were riding down into the valley below, the outlaw’s trail had disappeared.

“A tough break,” Frank murmured, “but at least we know the general direction he’s taking.”

An hour later they reached level ground. The sky was darkening now under a heavy overcast and wind was roaring down the valley at gale force. The brothers hunched low in the saddle as driving gusts of snow stung their faces.

Frank took the lead while the boys threaded their way among boulders and brush that studded the valley floor. Here and there drifts were accumulating and the horses’ legs sank deep into the snow at every step. Soon the snow was swirling so thickly that Frank could see only a few yards ahead. Had they made a mistake, he wondered, in pressing ahead through the storm?

“Looks as though we’re in for a real blizzard, Joe!” he yelled. “We’d better find shelter!”

Hearing no answer, Frank swung around in the saddle—then gasped. Joe was nowhere in sight !

“Joe!” Frank screamed against the wind. “Joe! Where are you?”

There was no reply.

CHAPTER XVIII

North from Lone Tree

FOR a moment Frank was panic-stricken. He shouted Joe’s name, but the howling wind drowned his voice.

Snugging his chin inside his turned-up coat collar, Frank slouched in his saddle and waited. Minutes dragged by. Again and again he called his brother’s name, but no answering cry reached his ears. Darkness was closing in rapidly now, and Frank was half numbed from the icy blast of the storm. His heart sank with every passing moment.

“It’s hopeless,” Frank decided at last. “If I sit here much longer, I’ll freeze. I must get out of the driving wind and snow.” Frank urged his horse in the general direction of the mountainside.

Presently through the swirling snow, a shapeless, rocky mass loomed in front of him. Frank guided his horse along the base of the rock, and after several minutes of plodding, found a spot that was partially sheltered by overhang. He dismounted and drew his horse in out of the blizzard.

Frank clicked on his flashlight and shone it about the area. Fringing the rock face were brownish clumps of brush—dry and brittle beneath their coating of snow.

“These will do for a fire,” Frank thought. “And it might signal Joe!”

He broke off enough of the brush to make a small pile and took out his waterproof case of matches. He struck one, then a second. Both blew out, but the third one caught. Cupping the flame in his hand, Frank held it against one of the broken twigs. In a moment the dry wood began to smolder. Bit by bit, Frank nursed the ember into a fire and soon had a roaring blaze going.

“It won’t last long, though,” he reflected as he warmed his face and hands.

By now the circle of firelight was strong enough to reveal a fallen tree several yards away. Frank managed to break off some branches and brought them back to augment his supply of firewood.

“If only Joe were here!” he thought.

Shivering, Frank walked out into the darkness. “Joe!” he shouted, his voice straining. Then again, “Joe! ...”

Frank listened intently. Suddenly his heart leaped. He had heard a cry!

Frank began yelling frantically. Several moments later a horse and rider took shape out of the snowy darkness. Frank rushed to meet them and guided Joe’s frost-rimed mount back toward the welcome glow of the firelight.

He shouted Joe’s name, but the howling wind drowned his voice

Joe himself was white from head to foot. He climbed wearily out of the saddle, shook himself off, and hunkered close to the flames while Frank attended to his horse.

“Whew!” Joe gave a long sigh of relief as the warmth of the blaze restored his numbed circulation. “Good thing you built this fire, Frank. I was about ready to give up.”

“I was hoping you might spot the light,” Frank said. “How did we get separated?”

“My carelessness,” Joe confessed. “I was looking around for signs of Big Al and sort of trusting my horse to follow yours. First thing I knew, you were nowhere in sight.”

The boys blanketed and fed their horses, then opened a can of beans and had a warm supper.

“Wonder if Big Al’s lost in the storm, too?” Joe mused drowsily.

“Probably,” Frank replied. “If he’s smart, he’ll find some kind of shelter.”

“He may already have found the mine tunnel where Dawson’s gold is hidden,” Joe pointed out.

“Let’s hope not!”

There was a long silence as the two brothers crouched close to the fire, listening to the roar of the storm. Gradually their heads drooped. It was an uneasy, uncomfortable night. Frank and Joe managed to sleep, off and on, but as the fire died down one or the other would get up and forage for more wood.

With the first clear light of dawn, the brothers were awake and preparing to hit the trail. The snow had stopped sometime during the early morning. Now the whole valley lay covered in a ghostly blanket of white.

“What’s our next move?” Joe asked as the boys ate breakfast.

“I think our best bet is to look for the lost plane,” Frank suggested. “The mine tunnel can’t be too far from there.”

Joe shook his head pessimistically. “Don’t forget, Big Al’s gang has been looking for it for a long time with no luck.”

“But they had nothing to go on,” Frank argued. “Of course Dawson’s plane fell into a gully—so it might not be too easy to spot.”

“That’s true,” Joe said thoughtfully. “Let’s see if we can get some idea of where it came down. According to Dawson, he headed north and was in the air only three or four minutes!”

The Hardys made a rough calculation, based on the probable speed of a single-engine plane of old vintage. Then, using their compass and taking a bearing on the lone sentinel pine atop the ridge, they started off toward the area where they estimated the crash might have occurred.

The horses could move only at a slow plod. Their forelegs sank knee-deep into the snow at every step. Frank and Joe—their breaths steaming in the subzero atmosphere—were forced to control their impatience.

The search continued for several hours. By late morning, both boys were discouraged. Joe, who was in the lead, reined in his horse.

“Seems pretty hopeless, if you ask me,” he said, swinging around in his saddle. “Maybe we should—”

Joe broke off with a gasp. As he turned, his eyes had suddenly detected something protuding from the snow in the distance.

“Frank!” Joe pointed off through the clear, cold air.

Frank’s eyes widened as he too saw the object. “You’re right! Let’s go check!”

Turning their horses, the boys rode toward the spot. Even before they reached it, they could make out the skeletal wing tip of a plane sticking up from a snow-choked gully.

“That’s the wreck, all right!” Frank exclaimed jubilantly. “No wonder Big Al and his gang never saw it! Those trees along the edge of the gully would screen it from the ridge!”

The boys halted to discuss the next step in their search.

“The mine tunnel must be somewhere in the mountainside,” Frank reasoned. “And it must be on this side of the valley. The other side’s miles away—Dawson couldn’t have carried the gold that far.”

“Which still gives us a lot of ground to cover,” Joe said.

The two boys rode toward the edge of the valley where the ground began to slope steeply upward.

“Dawson probably wasn’t in shape to climb very far after the crash,” Frank said. “So let’s concentrate along the lower slopes.”

The boys decided to turn left and skirt the mountainside for at least two miles. If their efforts proved fruitless, they would then retrace their steps and try the other direction.

Deep drifts and tangled underbrush made the going difficult. Several times the Hardys were disappointed. What looked like a hole in the mountainside proved to be only the shadow of trees or some rocky outcropping.

But suddenly Frank gave a cry of excitement and pointed. “There’s an opening for sure, Joe.”

The dark recess was only partly screened by a clump of underbrush. The two boys dismounted, ground-hitched their horses, and scrambled up the slope. They pulled aside the snow-laden brush and Frank shone his flashlight into the hole.

As the yellow beam stabbed through the darkness, Joe murmured, “This looks more like an ordinary cave than a mine tunnel.”

“But there is a tunnel back there,” Frank replied.

In the rear wall of the cavern, about fifty feet or more from the entrance, they could make out another hole which evidently led deep into the mountainside.

“Okay, let’s take a look,” Joe urged.

The boys entered the cave cautiously and walked toward the inner passage. Frank stopped as he heard a faint rustling noise to their left.

“Hold it, Joe.”

His brother turned quickly. A pair of glowing eyes glinted at them from the darkness.

Frank’s flashlight revealed an enormous gray wolf! Standing stiffly, the animal glared at the intruders, baring its teeth in a low growl.

Other noises reached the boys’ ears. Frank swung his flashlight around and a dozen pairs of wolves’ eyes shone in the glow like burning coals.

“Good grief!” Frank’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “We’ve walked straight into a den of wolves!”

CHAPTER XIX

Wolf Prey

FoR a moment the Hardys were paralyzed with fright.

Joe swallowed hard and whispered, “Can we make a break for freedom?”

“We can try.”

At the first step, however, the huge timber wolf nearest them gave a savage snarl. The fur on its back bristled stiffly.

Frank muttered, “One false move and that lobo will go for us. This pack acts hungry.”

There was a patter of feet in the darkness. The glowing eyes from the dim recesses circled closer. The wolves were gathering around the boys, cutting off escape through the cave entrance!

Frank could feel drops of cold perspiration trickling down his skin. “Snap on your flashlight, too, Joe. That may help hold them back.”

Joe played the beam slowly back and forth, while Frank used his.

The wolves slunk restlessly to and fro. Their lolling tongues gave them a wickedly grinning appearance, but they were wary of the lights. Now and then, as a gaunt gray form was caught in the full radiance of a beam, the animal would leap back into the shadows.

It was dear that the flashlights could not hold the beasts at bay for long. As the wolves paced back and forth, the circle was being drawn gradually tighter.

“Watch it!” Joe exclaimed suddenly.

The leader of the pack was advancing straight toward Frank, who stabbed his light full into the wolf’s greenish eyes. The brute shrank back, its ears laid flat to its head. A vicious growl issued from its throat.

Instinctively the Hardys moved a step backward. The pack seemed to sense the boys’ fear and pressed its advantage, forcing the Hardys to retreat still farther.

“Into the tunnel!” Frank told his brother.

“It may be a blind alley,” Joe warned.

“We’ll have to risk it—there’s no other way out.”

Inch by inch, the boys backed toward the tunnel opening.

“It’s not wide enough for both of us,” Joe said tensely, flashing his light quickly behind them.

“Then you go first,” Frank ordered.

They were only a few yards from the tunnel now. Joe began working his way into position behind his brother. The wolves edged closer still, growing bolder, as if they sensed that their victims were trying to escape.

Suddenly the leader gave a vicious snarl and shortened his distance from the boys with a quick leap forward. Again Frank focused his flashlight squarely into the huge beast’s eyes—but this time the wolf refused to shrink back. Frank’s heart hammered as he saw the bared fangs and slavering jaws. Any instant it would leap in for the kill!

“Quick! A rock!” Frank gasped.

Joe looked around desperately and snatched up a heavy, jagged stone. He hurled it with all his might at the wolf. The rock hit the beast squarely in the head and the wolf collapsed, with blood oozing from the wound.

A chorus of low growls rose from the pack. The wolves seemed cowed by their leader’s downfall, but their nostrils had caught the scent of blood.

“Run for it!” Frank yelled.

Joe turned and plunged into the narrow passageway. Frank followed but more slowly, keeping his light aimed back at the wolves. The pack was gathering around its downed leader, sniffing and growling at the carcass.

Suddenly Frank heard a cry from Joe. It faded abruptly somewhere in the distance.

“Joe! Are you all right?” Frank glanced around hastily but saw only darkness.

A loud snarl drew his attention back toward the main cave. Glowing eyes were peering into the passage as if the wolves were nerving themselves for a renewed attack. Frank backed away fast, hoping to keep them dazzled with the flashlight beam.

Suddenly the ground seemed to end. His foot encountered only empty space!

The next instant Frank was plunging downward through a narrow hole. Instinctively he doubled up and a moment later landed hard amid dirt and rubble.

Frank was breathless from the jolting shock. Luckily he was still clutching the flashlight. He rolled quickly to his feet and played the beam around. A surge of relief swept over him.

Joe was lying on the ground only a few feet away. He, too, had fallen through the hole, but apparently had retained enough presence of mind to roll clear before Frank fell on him.

“Whew!” Joe was struggling for breath. “Had the wind knocked out of met” As Frank helped him to his feet, he asked, “What about those wolves?”

“Guess they won’t bother us down here,” Frank replied. He shone his flashlight up the hole, which seemed to be a natural chimney in the rock, but he could see nothing.

Meanwhile, Joe was examining the area into which they had fallen. This too appeared to be a passageway, but larger than the one they had ducked into while escaping from the wolves.

“Frank—look!” Joe exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?”

“Timbering!” Joe’s beam picked out a few moldy uprights and crossbeams, still in position at intervals along the passage despite years of disuse. “This place is a mine tunnel!”

“You’re right!” Frank’s voice quivered with excitement. “This must be the tunnel of the Lone Tree diggings that Dawson told us about!”

“Feels like cold air coming from over there,” Joe said, glancing toward his right. A curve of the tunnel prevented them from seeing more than ten yards in that direction, but Joe reasoned, “The entrance must be at that end.”

Frank agreed and added, “So the chamber with the bluish dirt walls would be the other way. Come on. Let’s find out!”

Shining their flashlights ahead, the Hardys plodded on. The tunnel was wide enough for them to proceed side by side, but at times they had to duck their heads to avoid bumping them on a crossbeam or a low-hanging clump of rock. Presently the boys’ excitement grew as they noticed blue-gray streaks appearing in the earth of the tunnel walls.

“There it is!” Frank cried suddenly.

Far ahead, dimly revealed by the glow of their flashlights, the tunnel opened out into a wider cavern. The boys sprinted forward eagerly. As they burst into the underground chamber, Joe gave a low shout of triumph.

The walls of the cavern were veined with bluish clay!

“This is the place, all right!” Joe exclaimed.

The Hardys excitedly shone their flashlights around the chamber. Several rusty picks and shovels lay scattered about, abandoned by the miners who had worked there many, many years before. The floor of the cavern was hard-packed, but in a few moments Frank and Joe discovered a heap of earth which looked as though at some time it had been dug up, then replaced.

“Grab a shovel, Joe!” Frank said. “I’ll bet this is where Dawson buried the gold! Let’s see if it’s still here!”

Both boys set to work. Though the spot was not rocky, the digging was difficult. Frank exchanged his shovel for a pick and began loosening the earth. Then he switched to a shovel again and helped Joe scoop out the dislodged dirt and gravel. After several minutes the Hardys were streaming with perspiration from the exhausting job.

“Boy! No wonder miners use dynamite!” Joe took off his heavy jacket. Frank, too, removed his and the boys returned to the digging. Their flashlights had been propped nearby to illuminate the spot.

Suddenly a yellowish-brown patch showed beneath the dirt. The boys frantically scraped and shoveled away the earth in a frenzy of anticipation.

A moment later they could make out four bulging leather pokes buried in the hole. As Frank beamed his flashlight into it, Joe tipped up a bag. Suddenly one side of the rotting leather burst open and gleaming yellow coins poured from it! The other bags held nuggets.

“Dawson’s and Onslow’s gold!” Frank cried out.

The boys dropped to their knees, tense with excitement.

“Wow! Imagine how Mike Onslow will feel when he gets the news!” Joe exclaimed.

“He never will!” said a harsh voice directly behind the Hardys.

Frank swung the flashlight around. Not ten feet away stood a glowering man.

“Big Al!” Joe gasped.

“That’s right.” The gang leader gave an ugly laugh. “Thanks for finding the gold, kids. Too bad you’ll never live to enjoy it!”

CHAPTER XX

Windy Peak Prisoner

“WHAT do you intend to do?” Frank demanded.

“What do you think?” Big Al rasped. “I’m going to get rid of you brats for keeps.”

“You’ve tried before,” Joe said defiantly.

“I sure have.” Big Al’s face was hard. “Since your pa’s a big detective, I tried to fix you so it would look like an accident. Then I made out like I’d gone over the cliff and got killed. But you punks were still camping there next morning—so I swiped your horses, figuring you’d wind up starved or frozen, and nothing could be pinned on me. That didn’t work either.”

Frank regarded the outlaw coolly. “So?”

“So now, I’ve got the gold and that’s all that matters. You kids’ll never leave here alive.” The outlaw’s hand went to the holster he was wearing.

“Click off your light, Joel” Frank said in a whisper, snapping off his own.

As Big Al snaked out his gun, the cavern was plunged into darkness. Frank and Joe dived clear of his line of fire and clawed for their shovels.

The outlaw’s gun thundered as both boys hurled their shovels toward the spurt of flame. There was a thud and a cry of pain. At least one of the shovels had found its target!

The boys closed in on Big Al. Frank found the outlaw’s gun arm and levered it backward with both hands. Joe was busy on the other side.

Big Al fought like a madman, but Frank and Joe hung on. The outlaw screeched in pain as Frank applied bone-cracking pressure to his wrist, and a moment later the gun dropped from Big Al’s numbed fingers. Frank heard it fall and for an instant slackened pressure as he kicked the revolver out of reach.

The momentary diversion gave Big Al the chance he needed. Digging his fingers into Joe’s throat, he hurled the boy hard against the rocky wall. Joe sank to the ground, stunned.

“Now I’ll take care of you, kid!” Big Al snarled at Frank.

The huge outlaw was more than a match for Frank alone. Frank fought desperately to maintain his hold, but Big Al grabbed his shoulder, jerked him loose, and drove a punch to Frank’s face. Frank staggered back, tripped over a rock, and fell heavily to the ground.

“Don’t try anything more or I’ll beat your brains out!” Big Al warned as he groped for his lost gun.

Meanwhile, Joe had recovered from the pounding Big Al had given him, and was feeling around stealthily for one of the shovels. His fingers closed around a wooden handle just as Big Al spoke. Seizing the implement, Joe sprang to his feet and swung hard in the direction of Big Al’s voice.

There was a thudding impact, a gasp, and the sound of a body hitting the ground.

“I got him, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

“Sure—just woozy.” Frank pulled himself together and began searching for a flashlight. A moment later he found one and switched it on. Big Al lay stretched on the floor of the cavern, unconscious.

“Good work, Joe! I thought we were goners,” Frank confessed, still panting from the struggle. “Let’s tie him up before he comes to.”

The boys took off their belts and strapped the gang leader’s wrists and ankles tightly. Then, with Frank taking his shoulders and Joe his legs, they managed to lug their prisoner through the mine tunnel. The outlaw’s roan horse was standing outside, hitched to a rock.

“Stay here and guard him,” Frank said to his brother as they dumped their prisoner across the horse’s back. “I’ll go and get the gold.”

Making two trips, Frank hauled out the four bags. Then he stood watch over the unconscious outlaw while Joe went to retrieve their horses.

Joe soon sighted the two animals wandering through the snow along the foot of the mountainside. Evidently the scent of the wolves, or their snarling, had frightened the horses away from the cave.

Joe quickly rounded up their mounts and brought them back to the mouth of the mine tunnel. Big Al had not yet recovered consciousness and Frank was tying him fast to the roan.

“I found some rope in his saddlebag,” Frank explained.

The boys loaded the gold into their saddlebags, then Joe attached the lead rope of Big Al’s horse to the saddle of his own mount.

The outlaw was showing signs of reviving. Joe rubbed snow in his face to bring him around faster. As the man’s eyes opened, he roared with rage and struggled violently against his bonds. But he soon realized he was helpless.

Big Al’s face took on a sullen scowl. “I hope that gold brings you punks and Dawson and Onslow the same kind of bad luck it brought me!” he muttered viciously. “That gold should’ve been mine twenty-five years ago!”

“You mean when you were Black Pepper, and you and your gang tried to snatch it from those four miners?” Joe asked.

“You know that too, eh?” The outlaw glared at the Hardys. “All right, it’s true. I was Black Pepper, and I’d have had the gold if that skunk Dawson hadn’t cheated me out of it!”

“Cheated you?” Frank retorted sarcastically.

“Because I’d put sand and gravel in the gas tank of his plane. But he managed to take off, and after he crashed a bad storm came up—so we couldn’t even find the wreck.”

Big Al went on bitterly, “Other jobs came up after that, and I was dodging lawmen. But I never forgot there was a fortune in gold somewhere in these mountains. When my men and I came up here to lie low after that payroll robbery, I figured this was my chance. I’d have had the whole loot if it hadn’t been for you!”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Frank asked. “You’d never have found where Dawson hid the gold if you hadn’t overheard us talking at the cabin.”

Big Al laughed harshly. “Sure. Even before you two showed up, I was hidin’ in the horse shed attached to the cabin and was tryin’ to find out what was goin’ on. But once I wised up to the fact that Dodge was really Dawson, I’d have choked the truth out of him!”

“Just out of curiosity,” Joe said, “how did you find the mine today? For that matter, how did you survive the storm?”

“I’m used to this country, kid—found a snug place to hole up for the night,” Big Al said boastfully. “This morning I spied your tracks leadin’ to that wolf cave. But I spotted the pack before I went barging in. So I searched around and found the real mine tunnel. After that, all I had to do was keep strikin’ matches till I saw where the tunnel ended.”

“Come on, Joe. We’ve spent enough time talking,” said Frank. “Let’s get started!”

The boys knew the trip back to Lucky Lode would be treacherous, especially with a heavy load of gold and the task of keeping a close eye on Big Al. They quickly mounted and started off. Just as the trio emerged from the valley, the Hardys shouted joyfully. They had sighted Hank Shale and Sheriff Kenner topping Lone Tree Ridge!

“Boys! Are you all right?” Hank yelled as he and the sheriff spurred forward to meet them.

Frank and Joe told their story and turned Big Al over to the sheriff. Hank had listened with growing astonishment and admiration.

“You sure are wonders,” he said to Frank and Joe. “We were afraid you’d be frozen stiff by now. And here you’re bringin’ back Big Al and the gold! And you solved the mystery o’ Bart Dawson!”

“Your pa should be mighty proud of you lads!” Sheriff Kenner added.

The boys grinned and Frank said, “I’m glad we could help out.” Then he asked the men, “How did you get here?”

The sheriff explained that after handcuffing Slim and Jake, he and Hank had tried to follow the boys and the fleeing gang leader. But in the darkness, with the other two outlaws on their hands, the chase had proved impossible.

“So we took ’em back to Lucky Lode,” said Kenner. “We arrested Burke. He made a full confession about being Slip Gun—the gang’s spy in town—and pushing the boulder into Hank’s cabin. Later that day we started back to search for you. We looked everywhere and had just given up hope when we ran into Dodge—or Dawson, rather—on his way back and heard part of the story.”

“How’s Dad?” Frank asked anxiously.

“Doin’ fine. Fact is, the doc says he can take the tape off’n his ribs in another day or so,” Hank replied. “We practically had to tie him down to keep him from comin’ along.”

Late that night the lights of Lucky Lode were sighted and by midnight the party rode into town.

Frank and Joe and their father held a warm reunion at Ben Tinker’s cabin.

Dawson was also on hand as the boys told their story of finding the gold and capturing Big Al.

“I can’t get over it,” said Ben Tinker. He chuckled. “Regardin’ you, Dawson, bein’ Dodge and you not knowin’ it. No wonder you didn’t recognize me when I saw you one time up in Helena.” Ben cackled with satisfaction. “Reckon now folks’ll believe I ain’t given to imaginin’ things!”

Frank and Joe, glad the case was solved, wondered what kind of adventure would come their way next. They were soon to find out when confronted by The Shore Road Mystery.

Mr. Hardy looked proudly at his sons, then said, “Incidentally, boys, I had a call from Chicago after you left, saying the police had traced that phony taxi driver. Also, those friends of Big Al’s, Hopkins and his hoods, were rounded up, thanks to your phone tip. They all just made full confessions. By the way, Hopkins never had a chance to send Onslow’s map to Al. The gang was going to pull a bank holdup that afternoon, but your escape ruined their plans.”

“Speaking of plans, I wonder what Mike Onslow’s will be when he learns he’s rich,” Frank mused.

Joe chuckled. “Let’s phone him first thing in the morning and find out. And I’d give a mint to see Aunt Gertrude’s face when she hears about the gold!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Pursuit!

CHAPTER II - Police Tip-off

CHAPTER III - A Pilgrim Mystery

CHAPTER IV - Suspicious Visitor

CHAPTER V - Strategy

CHAPTER VI - Mysterious Collision

CHAPTER VII - Flight Sniper

CHAPTER VIII - The Ring of Fire

CHAPTER IX - The Spider’s Net

CHAPTER X - Strange Roadblock

CHAPTER XI - Guard on the Cliff

CHAPTER XII - Planted Evidence?

CHAPTER XIII - A Hungry Sleuth

CHAPTER XIV - Sea Clues

CHAPTER XV - Double Attack

CHAPTER XVI - Retreat Trick

CHAPTER XVII - The Wooden Horse

CHAPTER XVIII - Prisoner Rescue

CHAPTER XIX - Hopeless Escape

CHAPTER XX - Roundup and Treasure

Match Wits with The Hardy Boys®!

Collect the Original

Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

by Franklin W. Dixon

The Tower Treasure

The House on the Cliff

The Secret of the Old Mill

The Missing Chums

Hunting for Hidden Gold

The Shore Road Mystery

The Secret of the Caves

The Mystery of Cabin Island

The Great Airport Mystery

What Happened at Midnight

While the Clock Ticked

Footprints Under the Window

The Mark on the Door

The Hidden Harbor Mystery

The Sinister Signpost

A Figure in Hiding

The Secret Warning

The Twisted Claw

The Disappearing Floor

The Mystery of the Flying Express

The Clue of the Broken Blade

The Flickering Torch Mystery

The Melted Coins

The Short-Wave Mystery

The Secret Panel

The Phantom Freighter

The Secret of Skull Mountain

The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

The Secret of the Lost Tunnel

The Wailing Siren Mystery

The Secret of Wildcat Swamp

The Crisscross Shadow

The Yellow Feather Mystery

The Hooded Hawk Mystery

The Clue in the Embers

The Secret of Pirates’ Hill

The Ghost at Skeleton Rock

The Mystery at Devil’s Paw

The Mystery of the Chinese Junk

Mystery of the Desert Giant

The Clue of the Screeching Owl

The Viking Symbol Mystery

The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior

The Haunted Fort

The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge

The Secret Agent on Flight 101

Mystery of the Whale Tattoo

The Arctic Patrol Mystery

The Bombay Boomerang

Danger of Vampire Trail

The Masked Monkey

The Shattered Helmet

The Clue of the Hissing Serpent

The Mysterious Caravan

The Witchmaster’s Key

The Jungle Pyramid

The Firebird Rocket

The Sting of the Scorpion

Hardy Boys Detective Handbook

The Hardy Boys Back-to-Back The Tower Treasure/The House on the Cliff

Celebrate 60 Years with the World’s Greatest Super Sleuths!

THE SHORE ROAD MYSTERY

When the Hardy boys eagerly agree to assist their friend Jack Dodd and his father in locating a family treasure, the two young detectives are unaware of the baffling complications that will arise. The only clue to the long-lost treasure is a cryptic message written by a Pilgrim ancestor.

But when Mr. Dodd and Jack are accused of stealing cars and then mysteriously disappear, Frank and Joe are confronted with a triple mystery. Have their friends run away to avoid the law? Or are they secretly hunting for the treasure? Or have they been kidnapped?

Despite mounting evidence and the bitter suspicions of the townspeople, the Hardys are convinced that the Dodds are the victims of a sinister plot. Clues that Frank and Joe uncover, with the aid of their jolly, plump friend, Chet Morton, lead to the secret hideout of a ruthless gang of criminals.

Deadly road traps and aerial ambush, a spider man and a suspect who carries a menacing cane harass the young detectives as they seek the triple solution to this perplexing and exciting mystery.

Joe flew into the air

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1992, 1964, 1956, 1928 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New

York. Published simultaneously in Canada. .S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-440-67320-7

1999 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Pursuit!

“... stolen at Dune Beach. Car is Swiftline cream sedan, believed heading south on Shore Road. Alert all cars! Repeat ...”

The bulletin had just come over the police band on Frank Hardy’s motorcycle radio. He and his brother Joe, side by side on their dark-gray machines, were roaring northward along Shore Road to join school friends for a swim.

“Dune Beach!” Frank shouted, and the boys skidded to a halt on a sand shoulder. The car thief might pass them at any moment!

“Let’s stop him!” Joe proposed.

The boys waited, scanning a deserted fishing pier on their right. Frank was eighteen, tall and dark-haired. Joe, a year younger, was blond. Both were excellent amateur detectives.

“Joe, do you realize this makes five car thefts in one week along Shore Road?”

The Hardys steered their motorcycles to the land side of Shore Road and faced them south, ready to move out quickly.

Several cars whizzed by, heading north. Then two police cars screamed past in the other direction.

After five more minutes had gone by, Frank frowned. “It looks as if we’re not going to nab any thieves today.”

Joe said, “Let’s hope the police are on the right track!”

But subsequent bulletins indicated another successful getaway by the car thieves. The Hardys cycled to Dune Beach to learn what they could. Here the boys found several state troopers taking down information from the elderly man whose car had been stolen.

“It was gone when I came up from the beach,” he said.

Presently the boys headed south for their swim. “I don’t understand this,” Joe remarked. “The stolen car couldn’t just vanish into thin air!”

“The police seemed just as puzzled,” Frank observed. “Unfortunately, there were no witnesses. Did you notice that the tires of two nearby cars had been punctured? The thief must have done that to avoid pursuit.”

The brothers eased their motorcycles toward a wooden rack behind Oceanside’s bathing pavilion. Joe swung off his vehicle and unstrapped his towel roll. “Maybe a good swim will sharpen our wits.”

“Right,” said Frank as they headed for the bathhouse.

Being the sons of Bayport’s famous detective, Fenton Hardy, the boys were not easily deterred by initial disappointments in pursuing criminals. Although still high school students, they had helped their father on many cases and had used their sleuthing prowess in solving several mysteries. Joe, though impetuous, was quick-witted and dependable. Frank, more serious-minded, was inclined to think out a situation before taking action. They worked well together.

After the Hardys had changed into swimming trunks and Bayport High sweat shirts, they trotted across the hot white sand to the roped-off bathing area.

“Frank! Joe!” called their waiting friends.

Greetings were exchanged as Phil Cohen and Tony Prito, pals of the Hardys, bounded over from behind the lifeguard’s green chair. Phil was a quiet, intelligent boy with sandy hair. Tony, olive-complexioned and lively, owned a motorboat and had shared many adventures with the Hardys out on Barmet Bay.

“We’re sorry,” Frank apologized, “but we were delayed by a car thief.” He recounted the story.

“Another one!” Tony shook his head. “Is your dad on the case?”

Joe slipped off his sweat shirt. “No, not yet. He’s going out of town today. All the police in the area are, though. Maybe there’ll be a break in the mystery soon.”

Phil tilted his head. “If you fellows get on the job, there will be.” He grinned. “For better or worse.”

“Thanks,” said Joe, then turned and raced for the water. Frank followed.

“Whoa there!” From behind a pair of sunglasses appeared the tan, smiling face of blond Lifeguard Biff Hooper.

The Hardys greeted Biff and looked around the beach. There were not many bathers in evidence.

“Where is everybody today?” Frank asked.

“I think the car thefts are keeping folks away,” Biff answered. “It’s been like this for a week.”

“Have any of the rest of our crowd been here today?” Joe put in.

“I haven’t seen Iola all day,” Biff teased.

The others laughed, and Joe joined in. Bashful with girls, he was used to being teased about his attachment to Chet Morton’s sister.

“Say, where’s Chet?” Frank asked.

“Chet? I haven’t seen him here this week,” Biff replied. “But I did hear he’s been spending some time at the Bayport Museum.”

“It must be connected with food.” Tony grinned. Their stout friend loved to eat.

Frank and Joe went swimming. An hour later they saw Biff beckoning to them from shore. “Message for you fellows!” he shouted. They swam quickly to the beach.

Biff exclaimed, “A phone message was just brought to me! Jerry finally got his new car! He’s at Beach Grove. Why don’t you Hardys run over later and take a look at it?”

“Great!”

Jerry Gilroy, a fellow student, had long spoken of buying a handsome car for which he had been saving earnings from summer and after-school jobs.

Before leaving, Frank and Joe decided to stroll along the beach toward a black stone jetty in the distance. Suddenly they came upon a dead bat in the sand.

“Funny,” said Joe. “Wonder how that got here.”

The boys walked on to the end of the jetty and scanned the horizon. Beyond the bathing area, a black fishing boat cruised by slowly. Moments later, the Hardys recognized a smaller green-and-white boat which belonged to their friend Jack Dodd.

They waved to him. Jack seemed about to wave back when they saw him lurch forward sharply and drop below in his boat. Then he stood up and signaled frantically.

“Something’s wrong!” Joe gasped. “Look! The bow is beginning to list!”

The Hardys dived off the jetty and swam swiftly out to meet the craft as Jack headed it toward the rock promontory. In moments they had climbed into the boat.

“Frank! Joe! Quick! In there!”

Jack pointed to the small forward compartment as he maneuvered the boat closer to the jetty. Below, the Hardys found themselves standing in an inch of churning water!

“Near the left bulkhead!” Jack called down, cutting the motor.

Frank had already spotted a small, bubbling fount and covered it with his foot. Joe ripped a towel off a hook and together they stanched the leak until some wood sealer was found in the paint locker. By the time Joe and Jack were mooring the boat to the jetty, Frank had tightly plugged the leak.

“I guess I owe you fellows my boat.” Jack smiled gratefully as the three bailed most of the water out of the compartment.

Jack Dodd was a likable, dark-haired youth. He and his father, a widower and respected Bayport citizen, worked a farm on Shore Road.

“The exercise did us good—and in.” Joe laughed and jumped onto the jetty. “How did it happen, Jack? Did you strike a rock?”

Jack shook his head worriedly. “Some other object struck my boat underneath.”

Frank’s face showed astonishment.

“Something’s wrong!” Joe gasped

“It sure seemed that way. I was moving along great until I heard a scraping noise and then the gush of water. I’ve never hit any rocks around here before.”

“But who would deliberately—” Joe was puzzled.

“You’ve got me.” Jack shrugged. “I’ve run into some cranks along the coast, but never any who seemed likely to do this sort of thing.” A gleam came into Jack’s eye. “Say, how would you fellows like to help Dad and me solve a mystery?”

“A mystery!”

“Yes,” Jack continued, brightening. “My uncle, an astronomy professor at Cheston College, is coming up from Greenville tomorrow to assist us, but we need a couple of good local detectives.” He grinned at the Hardys. “This mystery concerns a geographical puzzle that’s been puzzling our family for three centuries!”

The Hardys whistled. “You bet we’ll help!”

Jack promised to give them the details the following day. He cast off, waving good-by.

After Frank and Joe had changed into their sport clothes, they returned to the motorcycles and headed north on Shore Road, eager to see Jerry’s new car.

As they neared Beach Grove Point, they saw a boy running toward them. “It’s Jerry!” Frank exclaimed.

The Hardys screeched to a halt as their wiry, red-cheeked friend flagged them down. His hair was tousled and his eyes wide with worry.

“The car—my new car!” he gasped. “It’s just been stolen—sky-blue Cavalier hardtop! Did it pass you heading south?”

The brothers shook their heads. “Then it must have gone north,” Jerry declared.

“We’ll chase it,” Joe offered.

The Hardys gunned their motors and swept northward. Crouching low, they whipped up an incline beneath a rock overhang.

“There it is!” Frank shouted.

Several hundred yards ahead a light-blue hardtop sped around a long curve in the highway. When the car came into view again, the gap between it and the boys had widened. The Hardys accelerated and streaked ahead through an unbroken stretch of farm country.

“We’re gaining on him!” Joe yelled.

He had no sooner said this when Frank saw something that made him exclaim in dismay.

A huge, bright-red produce truck pulled out of a dirt road directly ahead, entirely blocking off the highway! It stood still.

“Joe, look out!” Frank shouted, desperately braking down from top speed.

But it was too late! Tires smoking, the motorcycles screeched into a skid off the road!

CHAPTER II

Police Tip-off

SWERVING to avoid a wooden fence, the Hardys windmilled their motorcycles violently. Both boys flew off as the machines came to a stop in a cloud of dust. Dazed, Frank pulled himself up and limped over to Joe.

“You okay?” Frank asked with concern. His brother had a bruised forehead and had skinned his left arm.

Joe seemed stunned but managed a weak smile. “I just hope our cycles came out of it as lucky as we have.”

“The radio’s banged up,” Frank said.

Up ahead, the door of the produce truck slammed. A short, plump man with yellowish-white hair approached the Hardys. From his floppy straw hat, denims, and mud-stained shoes the boys concluded that he was a farmer.

“You fellers all right?” he asked. “Mighty sorry ‘bout that spill. Didn’t see you comin’. My truck horn don’t work noways. Hope you wasn’t in no hurry.”

“We were after somebody, but it’s too late to catch him now,” said Frank. “May we use your phone?”

“Ain’t got one,” the man replied.

As he drove off, the Hardys righted their motorcycles. To their relief, both machines were operable.

“We’d better get back to Beach Grove,” said Frank, and the boys chugged off.

They found that Jerry had already phoned the police. There were no noticeable footprints or other clues where he had left his car.

“I sure hate to lose that bus,” Jerry said. “Although the car was a year old, it was a good one, and an expensive model, too.”

“Was your car locked?” Joe asked their friend.

“Yes, but the thief managed to get it open.”

After the police arrived, Frank and Joe said they must leave. Jerry thanked the boys for their efforts. “I’ll let you know what happens,” he promised.

In a short time the brothers reached the pleasant, tree-shaded Hardy home, which stood at the corner of Elm and High streets.

After dusting off their motorcycles, the boys entered the back door and tiptoed through the fragrant kitchen.

“I’m ready to put away a good meal,” Frank remarked.

Smudged, unkempt, and with a few bleeding cuts, they hoped to wash before alarming their mother or peppery Aunt Gertrude. Their father’s unmarried sister was a frequent visitor.

They had no sooner started up the stairs when Miss Hardy came from the living room and called to them.

“Supper is almost ready—” In the moment of silence that followed, there was a disapproving gasp. “Frank and Joe! Look at yourselves! Dust and mud and dirt and—” the tall, angular woman began.

“That supper sure smells good, Aunty!” Joe said, smiling.

“Joe Hardy, don’t you change the subject!” she continued. “A fine spectacle you are! And tracking dirt all over your mother’s vacuumed carpet—”

Suddenly Aunt Gertrude saw Joe’s skinned arm and bruised forehead. “Joe, you’re cut! And Frank—why are you limping? Oh, my goodness, what happened?”

Her nephews could not repress smiles. They soon dispelled her concern without mentioning the details of their accident on Shore Road. The brothers loved their aunt and knew that beneath her huffish way she held great affection for them.

“Well, maybe you didn’t track the carpet too badly,” she said. “But, Joe, you’d better put some antiseptic on that ugly scratch. Frank Hardy, be careful going up those steps!”

Later, the boys joined the family at dinner. Their mother was a sweet-faced, quiet woman. Mr. Hardy was tall and distinguished looking.

After hearing the details of the day’s happenings, the detective announced that he was leaving for New York on business. He left the table before dessert was served and hurried upstairs. Presently he reappeared, set a suitcase in the hall, and prepared to say good-by in the dining room.

“A big case, Dad?” Frank asked him.

“Not big enough, son.” The detective grinned. “After that last shirt was packed, I had to stand on the case to get it shut.” The pun brought pretended groans from his sons.

Their father went on, “I’ll be in New York City, perhaps for several weeks. Authorities there have asked me to work on an arms-smuggling case. The smugglers are apparently supplying American criminals with foreign-made lethal weapons.”

“Got any leads, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Not yet. The government is greatly concerned over their distribution.”

Mr. Hardy kissed his wife and sister good-by. Then Frank and Joe accompanied their father outside to wait for his taxi to the airport.

“Too bad about Jerry’s car,” the detective said. “Chief Collig asked my help on the theft case. Unfortunately, I had already accepted the New York assignment.”

“Do you mind if we have a try at the Shore Road mystery, Dad?” Frank asked hopefully.

“It sounds like quite a challenge—even for my sons!” He smiled. “But I think the police could use any help available. Take care of yourselves and keep in touch. By the way, put my car in the garage before you go to bed. It’s in the driveway.”

“Sure thing, Dad,” said Frank.

Back at the table, the brothers discussed the day’s events with the women. “I wonder why Jerry’s stolen car was headed north,” said Frank. “The other Shore Road thieves always turned south.”

Just then they heard a familiar voice from the kitchen door.

“Hi, Chet! Long time no see!” called Frank.

Stout, good-natured Chet Morton appeared, eating a piece of celery he had picked up from the kitchen table. Chet’s visits to the Hardy household at mealtimes were not a rarity.

He greeted Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, then said, “Hi, fellows!” Chet dropped into Mr. Hardy’s vacant chair. “Sorry I couldn’t meet you fellows at the beach today, but I’ve been kind of busy with my work.”

“Your work?” Joe repeated. Work was not one of Chet’s strong assets.

He reached for an olive as Mrs. Hardy said, “How about some dinner? I’ll get you a plate.”

“Not tonight, thanks, Mrs. Hardy.”

Aunt Gertrude raised her eyebrows. Seldom did the stout boy turn down an offer of food!

Frank and Joe hid smiles behind their napkins. Finally Frank urged, “Come on, Chet, something’s in the air. It’s not like you to—”

Joe was not paying attention. He interrupted to say, “Listen! I just heard a noise from the driveway. It sounded like a door of Dad’s car being shut!”

The three boys rushed out to the back porch. “Look!” cried Joe.

A hulking figure was getting into Mr. Hardy’s sedan. Another man was already in the car.

“Stop!” Frank ordered.

Tearing down the steps, the boys ran across the lawn. The men jumped out and dashed down the driveway to the street. In an instant they were picked up by a waiting car, which roared away. The boys gave chase but to no avail. Identification was impossible because the driver had put out the lights and the license number could not be seen.

“Pretty daring thieves!” Chet commented. The boys hurried back to Mr. Hardy’s automobile. Finding no damage, Frank drove it into the garage and locked the door.

“Those guys sure had a nerve trying to steal a detective’s car,” Chet remarked as they re-entered the house. “Any special reason, do you suppose?”

“They probably didn’t know Dad’s away,” said Frank, “and thought this would handicap him if he should be working on the car thefts.”

“This may have been our first look at some of the Shore Road gang,” Frank concluded.

After reporting the attempted theft to the police, the boys went to the living room, where Chet proceeded to explain his latest project.

“I’m studying dietary survival.” He took a book from a pocket and tapped the cover. Chet brought a carrot from another pocket and bit loudly into it before tossing the book to Joe. Its title was Vegetable Survival in the Wilderness.

“Sounds interesting, Chet,” he said. “But what brought this on? You’ve always been the biggest eater in Bayport High.”

“Common sense,” Chet intoned. “You see, we live in a dangerous world, never knowing where our next meal may come from. So, I figure to learn a little botany in case I’m ever marooned on a jungle island or too far from a hot-dog stand. In other words, herbivorous survival.”

“Herb—” Frank stared.

“Plant eating, for you laymen,” Chet said, nibbling a second carrot. “I’ve decided to live on vegetables and fruits between visits to the museum and library to study.”

“And how long is this going to go on, Chester Morton?” demanded Aunt Gertrude as she came in. “No more chocolate fudge cake—ever?”

Chet shifted in his chair and swallowed. “I haven’t worked out the—er—details yet, Miss Hardy. It depends upon my—er—further research.”

Frank grinned as his aunt shook her head in puzzlement and left the room. “Well, we sure wish you luck, Chet,” he said. “Sounds pretty austere to me.”

“I’ll make it,” Chet declared. “Tell me about your swim.”

The Hardys told their friend of all the adventures on Shore Road that afternoon, of their plans to help Jack Dodd, and of the theft of Jerry’s new car.

Chet’s eyes bugged out. “Wow! I sure feel sorry for Jerry. I hope the police catch those thieves.”

Later, as the boys were listening to a television newscast, the speaker said the police had not yet apprehended the thieves.

“Sure is a tough mystery,” Chet remarked.

Frank suggested they all look at a map of the Shore Road area. “Maybe we can figure where the cars disappear to.”

Just then the telephone rang. Joe took the call, then rushed back to the others.

“That was Jack!” he exclaimed. “He sounded upset and wants us out at the farm right away!”

Suspecting a sudden development in Jack’s secret mystery, the three boys piled into Chet’s green jalopy and headed out Shore Road. As they pulled into the dirt lane to the Dodd farmhouse, they saw the rotating red lights of police cars in front of the house.

“Something has happened!” Joe exclaimed.

Officers and excited reporters were assembled near the front of the big porch, while three patrolmen stood by an empty car near the back of the house. The hum of car engines filled the night air.

After parking, the Hardys and Chet found Mr. Dodd and Jack standing next to a state trooper at the side of the building. The thin, well-dressed farmer, who had a slight mustache, looked pale and worn. Jack’s hands were clenched.

“The Hardys! And Chet!” Mr. Dodd exclaimed, forcing a smile as the boys rushed up to them.

“What has happened?” Frank asked immediately.

Jack hung his head and pointed to the unoccupied automobile. “We’ve been accused of stealing that car!”

“Stealing!”

“Yes,” Mr. Dodd continued grimly. “Jack had just discovered this car on our property tonight when all these officers began to arrive—apparently having received a ‘tip-off’ over the phone that we were the Shore Road thieves.”

A husky, uniformed man, Chief Ezra Collig, approached the group and greeted the Hardys. Mr. Dodd tried to recall the whereabouts of himself and his son on the day the car was reported stolen.

Jack added, “We couldn’t have stolen the car on that day, sir. Both Dad and I were—”

At that moment his attention was diverted by an approaching officer. In his hand he carried a fishing pole.

“Is this your rod, son?” he asked.

Jack stared in surprise. “Yes, but—”

“Then what was it doing in the trunk of the stolen car?” the officer demanded.

CHAPTER III

A Pilgrim Mystery

“MY fishing pole—in the stolen car!” Jack repeated in disbelief. “It’s been missing from my boat since yesterday.”

Chief Collig examined the rod, then frowned. “Personally, I’m inclined to believe you, Jack. But I’m afraid you and your father will have to come to headquarters. We particularly want to check the fingerprints on the car.”

“Fingerprints?” Joe queried.

Mr. Dodd nodded resignedly. “I’m afraid you’ll find my fingerprints inside. I got into the car, hoping to find the owner’s name in the glove compartment.”

Frank spoke in low tones to Chief Collig as flashbulbs illuminated the area. The chief assured him the Dodds could be released on bail until a hearing, but said the figure would probably be a very high one. The Hardys promised to visit Mr. Dodd and Jack the next morning about their release.

“We’ll contact Dad right away,” Frank told the Dodds.

Chet added, “Jack, keep your chin up!” He drove the Hardys home, where they wired their father.

The following morning the brothers drove to Bayport Police Headquarters to see Mr. Dodd and Jack. As they had feared, the bail figure was too high for the Dodds to pay it all at this time.

“Frank!” Joe exclaimed as the boys left the building. “Maybe Dad will help them out with the rest!”

Over the telephone, Fenton Hardy supported the boys’ faith in the Dodds’ innocence and promised to arrange by phone for the balance of the bail payment. Shortly after noontime the two prisoners were released.

“We can’t thank you boys and your father enough,” Mr. Dodd said as Frank was driving them back to their farm in Mr. Hardy’s car. “Having your father’s name behind us at the hearing tomorrow will mean a great deal.”

“We’re glad to do what we can.” Joe grinned.

“Have you any idea who might have wanted to frame you?” Frank asked as they headed north.

“Not really,” Jack replied. “But Dad and I have come up with one possibility.”

“His name is Ray Slagel,” Mr. Dodd explained. “He came to the farm looking for work about a month ago. But he didn’t prove dependable, and after I had found him away from his chores several times, I had to dismiss him.”

“Did you have any trouble with him after that?” Joe asked.

“No,” Mr. Dodd answered, “but he threatened to get even with me. I can’t tell you much about his background, but we can describe him.”

“Dad,” Jack interrupted excitedly, “I think I still have that picture I took of Slagel!”

“That might give us something to go on,” Frank remarked. “Actually, we’ve got two Dodd mysteries.”

“I almost forgot!” Jack gasped, remembering his uncle’s expected visit that night.

Mr. Dodd laughed. “Frank and Joe, are you still interested?”

“Interested!” the Hardys cried in unison. “We sure are!”

Frank turned the sedan off Shore Road onto the lane leading to the Dodd house. Mr. Dodd and Jack cordially invited the Hardys inside, where they all sat down in the attractive, pine-paneled living room. Over a large flagstone fireplace hung a framed black-and-white map of the Atlantic coast. There were several early Colonial prints above the bookcases and sofa.

“We’re ready for the story,” said Frank.

“As you may know,” Mr. Dodd began, “the Dodd family, while small today, goes back several hundred years in this country.” He pointed to some faded, brown-leather volumes along a mahogany shelf. “There are records in these of centuries of Dodds—records that go back before the Revolutionary War. Unfortunately, they tell us little about the man at the root of the Pilgrim mystery.”

Frank and Joe leaned forward.

“We do know,” the farmer continued, “that in the year 1647, one Elias Dodd embarked from Plymouth Colony in a small skiff with his wife and three children. A good seaman, with considerable knowledge of astronomy, he went in search of a horseshoe-shaped inlet he had heard of from an Indian. Dodd hoped to establish a settlement to which other families might come later.”

“A horseshoe-shaped inlet!” Joe exclaimed.

Mr. Dodd smiled. “The inlet that is today Barmet Bay.”

“Did he reach it?” Frank asked.

Mr. Dodd stood up and paced the room. “That is the mystery we hope to solve. You see, Elias Dodd was never heard from again. But many years later, a bottle was found washed up on a shore farther south of here. In it was a note believed to have been written by Elias before he and his family perished in a sudden, violent storm.

“Deterioration of the paper had obliterated some of the words. In the message, Elias hastily described their last geographical position.”

“And you have the message here?” Frank asked.

“Only in our heads.” Jack smiled.

Mr. Dodd explained. “My brother Martin, who teaches astronomy at Cheston College in Greenville, has the original. You’ll be able to see it when you meet him this evening.”

“And you’re hoping,” Joe said, “to discover whether your ancestor perished in the Bayport area?”

“That’s right, as well as to determine the existence of the Pilgrim treasure.”

“Treasure!” Frank and Joe echoed.

Jack’s father went on, “When Elias left the colony for his journey, he brought with him a chest of jewels, many of which were very valuable. He hoped to use the less expensive ones to barter with the Indians he might encounter.”

“Because of the treasure, I assume the mystery must remain in confidence,” Frank said.

Mr. Dodd nodded. “Dishonest people mustn’t hear about it,” Jack said. “They might find the chest before we do. And there is the possibility it contains his journals which would also be valuable.”

Frank and Joe stood up as Mr. Dodd glanced at his watch. Though eager to hear details of the Pilgrim clue, they realized that Jack and his father needed a chance to obtain legal advice for their hearing the next morning on the stolen car.

Frank shook hands with the Dodds at the front door. “We look forward to meeting Martin Dodd —and seeing the old paper—tonight!”

Jack smiled, fingering a rabbit’s-foot key chain, but his face seemed to cloud with the anxieties of last night’s events. ‛Thanks again, fellows,” he said. ”Without you, we wouldn’t even be free to work on the mystery.”

“As it is,” Mr. Dodd added, “we must solve it within the next few days!”

His mention of a deadline puzzled the Hardys. He promised to explain later that night.

Jack gave the boys a photograph of Ray Slagel. The picture revealed a burly, bald man leaning on a pitchfork before the Dodd barn. He wore a work glove with a V-shaped cuff on his left hand.

The Hardys then drove out to Beach Grove where they locked the car and began combing the sand for clues to the thief of Jerry’s stolen car. Later, they heard Chet’s jalopy arrive, and he joined the brothers in the search.

“I guessed you fellows would be here,” he said. He took out a large magnifier. “Thought you could use a botanical consultant. Say, do you think the evidence against the Dodds is serious?”

“It could be,” Frank admitted, kicking into a small mound of sand. “They have no witnesses for their whereabouts the day that car was stolen, but Mr. Dodd’s good reputation can’t be discounted.”

Chet leaned down with his magnifier at the top of a sand slope to inspect a plant. Suddenly he lost his balance, and rolled down the incline.

“Chet, are you all right?”

Their rotund friend regained his feet. Scrubbing sand out of his hair, he held up a glove. “This might be a clue!”

Frank and Joe went down to look at it.

“It’s a work glove!” Chet said, pointing to the V-shaped cuff.

At that moment the boys saw a car slow down on the road above them. They raced up the slope, but when they reached the highway, the car was already disappearing around the bend.

The boys rushed to check their cars. Neither had been tampered with.

“Wonder what he was looking for,” Joe remarked.

“Maybe the same thing that Chet found,” Frank said. “Joe, have you that picture of Slagel?”

Joe produced the photograph. Frank compared the left-handed glove Chet held and the one in the picture.

The two looked identical!

“This may be the lead we’re looking for!” Frank rejoiced as they walked to their cars.

“Do you think this could help prove the Dodds’ innocence?” Chet asked.

“It might if they can identify it as Slagel’s when we see them tonight.”

Elated by the clue, the Hardys thanked Chet and headed home. After a light supper, they told of their proposed visit to the Dodds. Aunt Gertrude was skeptical about the bail which Mr. Hardy had put up so promptly. “You’re all too trustful,” she said. “Look up this Slagel in your father’s files.”

Frank and Joe did so, and were disappointed when the files revealed no information on Slagel.

“Reckless, plain reckless, Frank and Joe Hardy,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Why, the Dodds may really be car thieves!”

“But Dad doesn’t think so, Aunty,” Joe reminded Miss Hardy.

“Never you mind. You just can’t rely on men who don’t have a woman around the house to keep them straight.” Despite her words, the boys’ aunt was secretly proud of their magnanimous efforts to help the Dodds.

When the telephone rang, Joe answered the call. “It’s Chief Collig,” he whispered to Frank. Then Joe’s jaw dropped and he slowly hung up the phone. He could hardly speak.

“The chief says the Dodds may have jumped bail. They’ve disappeared in their station wagon!”

CHAPTER IV

Suspicious Visitor

PERPLEXED over the news of the Dodds, Frank and Joe immediately cycled out to the farm. It was a scene of confusion, with a crowd of spectators watching the excitement from the highway.

“There’s Chief Collig,” Frank indicated as the boys parked next to a bright-blue television van. They went over to speak to him. As they walked with him toward the house, Joe asked, “But why would the Dodds run away?”

Collig took a deep breath and shook his head. “I only know they appear to have left hastily—and, I’m afraid, permanently. One of our patrols noticed the garage was empty and investigated. The door of the house was unlocked. All food and clothing were gone.”

The officer turned to the boys. “I’m sorry that you and your dad will suffer financially should the Dodds not appear at the hearing tomorrow.” 28

Frank and Joe, in their concern over the Dodds, had completely forgotten about the posted bail.

The police chief accompanied them through the farmhouse rooms. Joe, who was familiar with Jack’s room, noticed that a pup tent and sleeping bag were missing.

“I don’t understand it,” Frank said ruefully as they started down the stairs. “Jack seemed worried but not enough to—”

“I’m afraid this isn’t all,” Collig interrupted. He held out a large rabbit’s-foot charm. “Have you boys ever seen this?”

“Yes, that’s the one Jack had on his key ring,” Joe said.

“Another car was stolen at Bay Bluff during the last hour.” Collig hesitated. “This charm was found there.”

When the three returned to the noisy scene outside, the boys inquired for Jack’s uncle. He had not arrived.

Frank and Joe decided to ride out to Bay Bluff. As they reached their motorcycles, Frank said in a low voice, “Joe, I have a hunch that Jack and his father didn’t leave of their own accord.”

Joe whistled. “You mean they might have been kidnapped? But why—”

The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a short, stout man named Oscar Smuff, wearing a green tweed suit and Tyrolean hat. He appeared to be taking copious notes in a memo book.

Smuff, an aspiring detective, had long wanted to become a member of the Bayport Police Department. The Hardys often encountered him on cases, but he was not distinguished for powers of deduction or insight. The boys greeted him and started their vehicles.

“Too bad about all that bail money,” Smuff said. “But you’re just kids—didn’t know you were backing car thieves. Got in over your heads this time. Should have asked my advice.

Joe was about to retort, but Frank signaled to him and they wished the egotistical detective good night.

Heading through a cool sea wind down the dark highway, the Hardys soon reached Bay Bluff. Near a lone police car, a young woman was wiping her eyes as an officer spoke with her. The boys parked and introduced themselves.

From the woman’s story, Frank and Joe gathered she had parked at the bend, heading south, and climbed a foot path to watch the sunset. “I did leave the key in the ignition,” she admitted, “and my car wasn’t visible from the path, but I had a complete view of Shore Road traffic in both directions. Then I saw my car moving out on the highway—but it was too late.”

“We’re sure sorry to hear that,” said Frank.

After the policeman and the woman had driven away, the Hardys looked for clues to the theft. The stolen car had been driven south toward Bayport.

Frank followed his flashlight beam across the road toward the ocean. Joe did the same. From far below came the sound of the pounding surf.

“If only Jack and Mr. Dodd had known about the glove we found!” Joe sighed. “Now, it may not be wise to publicize that we have it until we have some idea where Slagel is.”

Frank agreed. “But it might be good for us to have a talk with Dad tomorrow. If—”

Frank’s voice was drowned in a loud screeching sound as a limousine burst around the bend from the south. It swung too wide in the turn and headed straight for the boys!

Blinded by the glaring headlights, Joe slipped but sprawled safely out of the way as the big car rocked back onto the road and raced off. Frank had vanished from sight!

“Frank!” Joe cried out, rushing to the edge of the bluff. He heard a sound, and looking down, was relieved to see his brother’s hands grasping the vines of a small bush. In a moment he had pulled him up.

“Whew! Thanks!” Frank gasped. “I was standing on an awful lot of air down there! Did you get the license number of that car?”

“No,” Joe replied. “But it looked to me like a tan Carlton, two or three years old.”

After a double-check failed to turn up any clues, the brothers headed home. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were upset to hear of the Dodds’ disappearance. Their mother also mentioned having heard prowlers outside the house earlier in the evening.

“Again! Were they near the garage?” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “I looked around out there myself but didn’t see anybody. Your father’s car was not touched.”

“Joe, the glove!” Frank started, suddenly remembering that they had left it in their crime lab over the garage.

Both boys tore out of the house and ran up to the lab. The pine-paneled room also served as a combination workshop and clubhouse. One maple bookcase, a small safe, several plaster footprint molds, and various scientific kits were arranged neatly along two walls of the lab. Hanging on another wall were assorted disguises—wigs, beards, masks, and hats.

Joe flicked on the light and opened a cabinet. The glove was gone!

Frank groaned. “Our only clue! But let’s make a duplicate of Slagel’s picture, anyway.”

They did this, then returned to the house.

“Well,” Joe said, trying to be cheerful, “the Dodds may still show up at the hearing tomorrow.”

A light came into Frank’s face. “Joe! We may have lost a clue, but I think we’ve gained something in its place.”

“What?”

“The fact that the glove was stolen from us proves it must be important—and probably to Slagell”

The late news reports gave no word on the missing Dodds, but another car had been reported stolen and presumed to have been driven toward Bayport. When the announcer read its description, Joe jumped up.

“A tan Carlton! Frank, it’s the car that almost ran us down at the bluff!”

“But the driver was heading north. Still—” Frank snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! Tire marks prove the thieves always head south. But what’s to stop them from turning around a minute later and heading north?”

“A simple U-turn!” Joe agreed.

The following morning, just before the scheduled hearing of the Dodd case, Frank called Chief Collig and learned that the Dodds had failed to appear. Nothing had been heard from Martin Dodd, either.

“Do you suppose he was kidnapped too?” Joe asked Frank.

His brother shrugged. “If so, it may involve the Pilgrim mystery. Let’s go out to Cheston College and make some inquiries.”

Before they left, a phone call came from their father. After briefing him on the latest developments, Joe asked, “Dad, how’s your case coming?”

“I’m not at liberty to say much, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I suddenly took up the study of gases as a hobby. I wish I were free, though, to give you boys a hand.”

Late that morning Frank and Joe traveled by train to Greenville, then walked to the peaceful, shaded campus of Cheston College. At the office they learned that Martin Dodd, a bachelor, had left as expected the day before for Bayport. The boys obtained two photographs of the astronomy professor. Both showed him to be tall and middle-aged, with a gray mustache and horn-rimmed glasses.

“He may be in Bayport right now,” Frank remarked hopefully.

But when the Hardys called on Chief Collig later that afternoon they were told nothing had been heard of the mysteriously missing uncle. Without mentioning the Dodds’ Pilgrim mystery, the Hardys provided the chief with one of the professor’s photographs.

“We’ll look for him,” the officer promised.

Upon reaching home the brothers found that Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were out. A few minutes later the boys received a visitor. Frank ushered the heavy-set, well-dressed man into the living room. He introduced himself as a Manhattan businessman.

“I must profoundly apologize for not giving my name to you boys,” he said. “I have come on a matter of a highly confidential nature.”

“My father can’t help you now. He is away,” Frank told him. “Perhaps when he returns—”

“Oh, but you misapprehend me,” the stranger protested, removing his spectacles. He smiled ingratiatingly. “It is the services of the distinguished sons of Fenton Hardy which I am interested in acquiring—for a private case in New York City.”

The stilted language and pompous manner of the man impressed neither of the boys. Suspicious of his wish for anonymity, they informed him that they were engaged on other matters. His flattering persistence availed nothing.

“You refuse then? Most unfortunate, most unfortunate,” the man whispered. He bowed curtly at the door and left.

“There’s something fishy about him,” Joe commented. “Too bad we couldn’t get his name.”

“I did notice some things,” Frank said. “The cigarette he was smoking was a foreign make, and that gaudy tie clasp had the initials C. M. on it.”

“Maybe he wants to get us out of Bayportl” Joe suggested.

Other thoughts crossed the boys’ minds. Was the stranger connected in any way with the Shore Road thieves? Or did he know anything about the disappearance of the Dodds?

Early that evening Joe phoned Chet, and without disclosing details of the Pilgrim mystery, told him of the missing Martin Dodd. Chet agreed to come to a strategy meeting at the Hardy home the next day.

Joe had just hung up when he thought of something. “Frank! Jack’s boat! We forgot all about it! Do you think the Dodds could have gone off in that?”

“Not unless their station wagon is parked down by the boathouse. But we might find some clues there to where they could be!”

Ten minutes later Frank and Joe reached an aluminum boathouse at the Bayport waterfront. They parked their motorcycles. Faintly pink clouds lingered in the sky below a rising half-moon. Over the distant hum of cicadas, the boys’ footsteps drummed on the wooden boards of the dock.

Inside the dark, oblong structure six boats were moored. Eerie shadows seemed to ripple up the corrugated walls from the lapping water. At the end of the row, Frank saw a green-and-white boat bobbing gently.

“It’s still here!” he said.

Joe, snapping a finger to his lips, grabbed his brother’s arm. He had heard a sound outside, but now only the wash of water on the hulls came to their ears. The brothers worked their way along until they stood over Jack’s boat. Holding the damp railings, the Hardys peered into its dark hold.

“Let’s have a closer look,” Frank said.

At that moment the sound of a board creaking came from inside the cabin of the boat.

“Joe! Somebody’s in there!”

Before they could investigate, the boys felt strong arms around their necks. Wet cloths were slapped over their faces!

CHAPTER V

Strategy

FRANK awoke to see blurred reflections from the water on the dark boathouse ceiling. His clothes felt damp, and he was conscious of a heavy feeling in his head.

As Joe stirred alongside him, Frank scrambled to his feet, then helped his brother to get up.

“Jack’s boat—it’s gone!” Joe said groggily. “Did you get a look at the men who attacked us?”

“No, but whoever grabbed me and clamped that cloth over my face was strong. Wonder what knocked us out?”

“Some kind of liquid gas is my guess,” Joe answered.

After informing Chief Collig of the attack upon them and the stolen Dodd boat, many unanswered questions filled the Hardys’ thoughts as they drove home. Who were the men who had gassed them and taken the Dodd boat? Could they have been Shore Road thieves, who also had planted a stolen car at the Dodd farm? Did they know anything about the clue to the Pilgrim treasure? Above all, what had become of Jack and his father?

Frank looked worried. “We feel sure the Dodds aren’t car thieves, and what happened tonight at the boathouse makes me think more than ever that they didn’t run away.”

“You mean they were not only kidnapped, but maybe harmed?”

“That’s right,” said Frank. “Tomorrow let’s forget the car thieves and start a hunt for Slagel.”

The next morning Frank and Joe worked on their battered short-wave radio, then cycled into town. When they reached the Bayport business district, the boys paused for a moment at the corner of Main and Larch. Frank gave Joe one half of a penciled list of hotels and rooming houses and the copy of the Slagel photograph they had made.

“Righto,” said Joe. “See you in an hour at this corner.”

The boys separated, Joe taking the north end of Bayport and Frank the south. An hour later neither Hardy had yet come across a Slagel registered in any of the hotels. None of the desk clerks had recognized the photographs.

During the second hour, Joe had no success. Only five names were left on his list.

“You have any luck?” he asked Frank hopefully when they met to compare progress.

Frank wiped his brow. “Not a thing. I covered all the waterfront places and saw the registers myself. How about you?”

“No.”

Frank read down his list. “Well, this last run ought to do it. Fingers crossed!”

But the boys’ final circuit turned up no leads. Disappointed, the brothers headed through the center of town for home.

“Slagel may still be in the area, but staying in another town,” Frank remarked.

“At any rate,” Joe declared, “I guess we’ll have some more footwork cut out for us.”

At the Dock Street traffic light Joe noticed a heavy-set, well-dressed man getting into a taxicab.

“Frank! That’s our nameless visitor from New York!”

The brown-and-white cab pulled out and headed toward the western side of town. The boys decided to follow on their motorcycles.

Moments later, the taxi wound under an overpass and came to a stop at the Bayport railroad station. Parking nearby, the Hardys followed as the man purchased a ticket in the waiting room, then boarded a waiting New York train.

Joe heaved a sigh. “Well, we can cancel one lead—at least for the time being. Maybe he was telling the truth about living in New York City.”

Frank and Joe found Chet at their house. Presently the three boys went to the brothers’ crime lab.

Chet proudly dropped a large cylinder of paper on the table. “I thought we could use this to find the car thieves.”

“What is it?” Joe asked.

Chet rolled out a highly detailed map of Bayport and its environs. “It’s on loan from my father’s real-estate office.”

The Hardys marveled at the map’s detail, which included geographical features as well as houses and roads in the entire Shore Road area.

“This is a great help, Chet!” said Frank.

After switching on an overhead fluorescent light and locking the door and windows for security, he rejoined the boys over the map spread out on the table. The three pored over the paper for the next half hour. Except for the sounds of Chet chewing gum, the room was silent.

Two considerations were paramount: Where were the Dodds, and where were the stolen cars being taken?

At last Frank sat back. “I have a hunch that working on the thefts is the only way we’ll ever find Jack and his father. With the Dodds missing, suspicion of future thefts would naturally fall on them.”

“Do you think their lives are in danger?” Chet asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Frank replied. “They may be prisoners within a few miles of where we are this minute. The gang may be making a quick haul of flashy cars, and storing them at a hideout until they can be safely moved. But as long as the thefts continue, I think the Dodds will be kept prisoners.”

Since Chet was to be a part of their sleuthing team, Frank and Joe now told him about the Pilgrim mystery.

Joe paused at the window. “I feel that the treasure also would fit right into the disappearance of Jack and his father and even the uncle,” he commented. “If only we had a copy of Elias Dodd’s last message! Do you think Slagel or the car thieves found out about the treasure and kidnapped Jack and his father to keep them from looking for it?”

“It’s possible,” Frank answered.

Moments later, Mrs. Hardy interrupted briefly to give the boys four letters which had come for them in a late delivery. As Frank and Joe read them, Chet noted their grim expressions.

“Who sent the letters?” he asked.

“They’re complaints,” Frank replied. “Some townspeople aren’t happy about our backing the Dodds.”

Joe slapped the letter he was reading. “This one is from a theft victim. He even says he’ll hold us responsible if the Dodds aren’t apprehended!”

“People are really getting up in arms about these thefts,” Frank said. “We must work harder to track down the thieves.”

First, the boys reviewed recent copies of the Bayport Times for theft evidence, which proved to be scanty. Then they studied minutely the mapped roads leading to and from Shore Road.

“There are a few things that seem certain,” Frank concluded. “One, the thieves appear to be after late-model cars, and to steal most of them at night. Two, the gang can’t be a small one—their success alone would suggest that. And three, the stolen cars are most likely driven north up Shore Road.”

“If,” Chet cut in, “your U-turn theory is right.”

“Correct. The police have suspected a southerly direction so far, and therefore have been concentrating on watching Bayport. But as the papers indicate, patrols are now keeping an eye on other towns that lie off Shore Road to the north.”

Chet shrugged. “Then what could we possibly learn that the police haven’t?”

Frank drew the others’ attention to the black line which represented Shore Road on the map.

“The thief heads north. He could go straight into Northport, but he’d take a chance staying on one road all that distance. This leaves the turnoffs which meet Shore Road from the west.”

“I follow,” Joe murmured.

“Now,” Frank continued, “police have been watching all towns at the end of the turnoffs, but there’s one place they haven’t been stationed—at the intersections themselves!”

He went on to propose a two-part plan. “With daily night watches, at the Shore Road intersections with Springer Road, Route 7, and Pembroke Road, we should find out which one the thieves are using! Daylight hours we can spend sleuthing around the terrain off Shore Road, since the gang may have a secret hideout in the woods.”

Chet whistled. “Boy, night watches, day watches, and three mysteries rolled into one! There goes my important museum workl” He groaned loudly as Frank and Joe grinned.

“But, Chet, this will give you a chance to do some real field work for your botanical and dietary investigations,” Joe explained, slapping his heavy friend on the back. “Think of all the herbs and plants in those woods!”

Chet was weighing the idea when they heard familiar footsteps ascending the garage stairs and a sharp rap on the door.

“I’ve brought you boys some refreshments,” came the voice of Gertrude Hardy.

“Refreshments!” Chet echoed happily, opening the door. The laden tray Aunt Gertrude carried looked inviting.

Noticing the closed windows she winced. “A beautiful day like this and you three sitting in a hot, stuffy room! Frank, Joe, here are some apple pie and chocolate milk.”

A heavy object sailed through the window

“Oh boy!” Chet exclaimed.

“And for you, Chet Morton, a large glass of cooling parsnip juice. I fixed it especially for your vegetarian diet.”

“My vegetarian—” Chet’s voice trailed off despondently at the sight of the liquid.

Muffling laughs, Frank and Joe thanked their aunt. “Your pie is—”

Suddenly there was a deafening crash. A heavy object sailed through the rear window, sending splinters of glass against Joe’s neck. Chet flew from his chair and Aunt Gertrude screamed.

In the center of the floor lay a black hand grenade!

“Run!” she cried.

But Frank knew that in a few seconds all of them might be killed! He snatched up the grenade and ran to the window with the deadly missile. Would he be able to hurl it outside in time?

CHAPTER VI

Mysterious Collision

THE others watched in frozen horror, fully expecting the grenade to go off in Frank’s hand. The next second he tossed it from the broken window. Everyone stood as if in a trance, waiting for the explosion.

But it never came.

The boys and Aunt Gertrude drew shaky sighs of relief. “Must be a dud,” said Frank. “I’ll check.”

He ran downstairs and around to the rear of the garage. He immediately spotted the grenade lying in the grass. With his foot he gingerly turned it over. In the bottom gaped a round, unplugged hole. “It’s a dummy, all right,” Frank said to himself.

Next, he looked about for any signs of the grenade thrower. There was no one in sight and no clues to the person’s identity. Quickly Frank picked up the grenade and returned to the lab.

Aunt Gertrude, recovered from her fright, was highly indignant. “I don’t care if that—that bomb is a fake! What a wicked thing to do! The villain responsible should be tarred and feathered!” She paused for breath. “Frank, you were very brave, but you shouldn’t take such chances!”

Her nephew smiled. “I’ll try not to, Aunty.”

With a warning for the boys to be extra cautious, Miss Hardy left. Chet and Joe had by now swept up the broken glass and the young sleuths turned their attention to the grenade. Joe lifted it and studied the hole closely.

“Look, there’s a note where the firing pin should be!” He unrolled the paper and the boys read the typed words:

Keep off Shore Road or next time this will be a real one.

The message was unsigned, and when they dusted the grenade it showed no fingerprints except the Hardys’. The weapon was clearly of foreign manufacture.

“Think Slagel threw it?” Joe suggested, recalling the missing glove.

“Or one of his pals,” Frank replied. “At any rate, our conference wasn’t overheard. What say we start today on our two-part plan?”

After the window had been boarded up, the Hardys and Chet started for the door. Joe grinned. “Chet! You forgot to drink your parsnip juice.”

“Oh—er—yeah, I almost forgot,” he muttered, plodding over to the table. Grimacing, he downed the liquid, choking on the last few gulps.

“Good?” Frank asked, chuckling.

Chet wiped his lips and beamed at the brothers before leading the way vigorously down the stairs, the map under one arm.

“Nutritional!” he called back.

Chet rode at the rear of Joe’s motorcycle as the three boys headed for a wooded area near Springer Road. This was the most northern of the three roads they suspected as the thieves’ possible escape route.

The trio spread out and began combing the area for clues. There was little traffic this far north. The air was close, and the pitch pines afforded little shade.

In white sneakers and saggy dungarees, Chet trudged along between the Hardys. He occasionally consulted a botanical handbook.

They reached farmland and doubled back along the edge of the woods. Finding no tire marks or buildings, the boys returned to the motorcycles and rode a few hundred yards south. They began combing another patch of trees.

Five minutes later the trio heard a noise behind a thicket-covered hill. Frank motioned for silence and the boys hid behind a large rock.

The crunch of turf became louder. When the person had almost reached the rock, Frank revealed his presence.

“Well, Frank Hardy! And Joe, and Chet! What brings you city fellers all the way out here?”

“Scratch! What a surprise!”

Before them stood the disheveled figure of Scratch Cantrell, a well-known local drifter and long-time acquaintance of the Hardys. Scratch lived alone in the woods. Under a straw hat and ragged gray overcoat, he wore brown trousers, patched in several places. Two pieces of clothes-line provided him with suspenders, and rusty sewing scissors, with which he shaved, were tucked into a belt loop. The boys explained their interest in the Shore Road mystery.

“Have you noticed any cars in the woods around here, Scratch?” Frank asked.

Removing his hat, the drifter scratched his wispy hair. His voice was gravelly. “No, haven’t seen none. But I’ve heard ’em.”

“Heard them?”

“Yep, about two days back. I was just waterin down my campfire when I heard a motor in the woods, then a noise like a crash. Didn’t find nothin’. Sounded like a siren on the highway later.”

“The siren may have been the police pursuing one of the stolen cars!” Joe observed.

But they were puzzled by Scratch’s story, particularly the mention of a “crash.” Unfortunately, the grizzled man could not remember where the incident had occurred.

Scratch did recall something else, however. “I saw a man drive out of these woods the other day, and another time walking along Shore Road.”

Frank asked what the man looked like.

“Big guy, bald, kinda mean-lookin’. Wasn’t happy when I seen him pullin’ out of the woods.”

Quickly Joe took out the picture of Slagel. “Is this the man?”

Scratch nodded. “He had a walkin’ stick. Don’t know why he was carryin’ the cane—he didn’t seem to limp.”

Encouraged by news that Slagel had been in the area recently, the boys thanked Scratch and returned to the motorcycles. Soon they were cruising homeward.

Chet felt weary from their trek and lack of food. “But I’m going to keep on with my vegetable juices,” he declared valiantly.

Joe grinned. “Here’s luck!” He pretended to drink a toast.

Presently Frank remarked, “I have a hunch we’ll be meeting Slagel soon.” At that moment he saw something on the beach that made him stare in astonishment. “Look! Two men are tied up down there!”

Flashing across the road, the Hardys stoppec’ their motorcycles abruptly, then rushed down to the two men. They lay behind a dune, and had been visible from the road for only a moment. From their clothing, the boys believed they were fishermen. Both were distraught. One of them pointed to the north as Joe untied him and ripped the gag off his mouth. “We were jumped and our car stolen. Can you fellows catch that thief?”

“How long ago did it happen?” Frank asked as he freed the other man.

“Two—three minutes—a brown Condor with white wall tires.”

Frank groaned, realizing they had passed the car moments before! “We could never catch him now, unless—Joe! Let’s try the old Pine Road shortcut!”

While the fishermen hurried toward a farmhouse to alert the police, the Hardys and Chet raced to the motorcycles.

“Will I slow you down?” Chet puffed anxiously.

“No.” Joe motioned for him to get on. “But hold tight—don’t lean back!”

They sped along the highway for a quarter mile, then chugged up a dirt rise to the old overland route. This was stony and overgrown, but a shorter way to the north.

Through the clouds of dust, Joe and Chet could barely make out the crouched form of Frank ahead. Chet held on tautly.

“Heads!” Frank cried back, as Joe and Chet barely ducked under a broken oak limb.

Minutes later, they came out to the highway. He’d still have a lead on us, but we may be able to catch him now,” Frank murmured.

They proceeded north, passing several cars. Whizzing beside pastures, they approached a cloud of dust at the Pembroke Road intersection.

“Come on! Let’s try the turnoff!”

The boys took the curve, squinting for a glimpse of the stolen brown car. Suddenly they heard a crashing sound!

“That came from the woods!” Joe exclaimed, staring to his right.

They proceeded slowly among the trees until they came to some tire tracks. Seeing no car or evidence of a collision, the boys followed the trail. At a turn in the tracks, Frank noticed something on the ground. “A clue!” Here and there were flecks of brown paint. He scooped them up and wrapped them in a handkerchief. The trio continued following the tracks, but they only led the boys back to the highway.

“Beats me,” Frank said. “Whoever drove in seems to have driven right out again. But why?”

On the way back, they dropped off the paint flecks at the police station for analysis.

At the Hardy garage Chet pulled a gnarled mass of broken leaves and stems from his dusty pocket. “My plant specimens!” he groaned. “Ah, what scientists must suffer—and all for nothing! Fellows, could we postpone our first night watch until tomorrow? I’m tired—and hungry.”

The Hardys agreed, feeling sorry for their chum. After Chet left, the brothers had supper and opened a special-delivery packet which had arrived that afternoon from their father. To their surprise, it contained data on Slagel.

“Dad is sure a wonder!” Joe declared.

Information on the man recent moves was scant, but the report said that Slagel had been dishonorably discharged from the Army and had served a prison term in Leavenworth. A list of several aliases was given, as well as an indication he had been born left-handed, but now used either hand.

Later, while the boys were studying a small map, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy answered it. When she came back into the living room, their mother seemed perplexed.

“That’s strange. A man was at the door. He wore a blue winter face muffler and didn’t identify himself. When I told him that your father wasn’t at home, he seemed hesitant. Finally, before leaving, he asked me to give this to you boys.” She handed Frank a small, white envelope.

On the front of it was the drawing of a bottle!

CHAPTER VII

Flight Sniper

IMPATIENTLY, Frank tore open the envelope and removed a folded message. It was a photostat of an aged, incomplete message. He read it aloud:

“ ‘ when the ftorm broke ... alone ... to give our pofition in the hope that ...’”

Frank glanced at Joe. “The Dodds’ Pilgrim clue! Each small looks like an f, the way an was written centuries ago!”

He continued. “ ‘... vegetation no protection ... fhelter but crafh of countleff ... breaking black illowf ... high vein of gold...’ ”

In the margin was a crude drawing of a leaf. Frank passed the paper to his brother. “That’s all. Looks as if part of it has been cut off at the end.”

The brothers spent the rest of the evening trying vainly to interpret the message and speculating on the identity of the visitor.

“As I make it out,” Frank remarked, “the storm in this message is the hurricane in which Elias Dodd perished with his family.”

“And the question is, where?”

“Apparently they found some cover, for it mentions vegetation. If only we knew what kind. The leaf drawing must be a clue.”

Joe tapped his head with a pencil. “But if Elias Dodd’s bottle washed up on the shore, wouldn’t the family have been out at sea?”

His brother had second thoughts. “There’s something about the words ‘vegetation’ and ‛shelter’ that suggests a location on land. Besides, wouldn’t Elias Dodd have needed some kind of shelter in which to write the note?”

“That figures,” Joe replied. “What do you make of the last part?”

Frank reread the final fragments. “ ‘... crafh of countleff breaking black illowf ... high vein of gold...’ ”

“I don’t get it,” Joe muttered. “Were there ever veins of gold in this area?”

Frank offered to find out. He went into the hall, where Joe heard him talking on the phone with Chet. Presently Frank returned, excited.

“Joe! I think I may have it!”

“What?”

“The answer to at least most of the message.” Frank explained, “It figures that this fifth word from the end could be ‘willows,’ referring, in other words, to black willow trees. A hurricane would certainly cause many branches to ‘break’ and even whole trees to ‛crash.’ ”

“Sure,” Joe said, puzzled. “But if there were ‘countless’ black willows, they would be in an inland forest. I still don’t see how any bottle could reach the sea from there.”

Frank grinned. “I had a hunch and asked Chet to check it. Have you ever noticed where most black willows seem to grow?”

Joe recalled some of their past camping trips. “Near rivers or other bodies of water. Shadow Lake, and of course Willow River.” Suddenly Joe caught the drift of Frank’s reasoning. “Willow River, of course. That would account for Elias Dodd’s message reaching the sea!”

Frank said thoughtfully, “And gold is often found in stream beds.”

Neither of the brothers recognized the crude drawing of the leaf. “Chet may be able to identify it,” Frank said.

Joe suggested that they check in town about past gold mines or claims to any in Bayport history.

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. “Now for the big question—is this message a copy of the real one?”

“Any ideas about who brought it?” Joe asked.

“One,” Frank answered. “Professor Martin Dodd, though I don’t understand why he wouldn’t identify himself.”

Joe remembered their last meeting with Jack and his father. “Mr. Dodd did suggest there was an urgency about solving the Pilgrim mystery. Let’s start treasure sleuthing early tomorrow.”

Mrs. Hardy brought the morning mail to the breakfast table next day. The brothers received more letters of complaint from Bayport residents, but the last letter Joe opened had a Bridgewater postmark. He paled as he read it.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed, passing the typed letter to Frank. It said:

Hardys—You were suckers to back us, Don’t meddle any more.

“It’s signed ‘Jack’!” Frank cried out.

After the initial shock caused by the note, Frank became suspicious. “This doesn’t sound like Jack. Did you save that grenade note? This typing looks the same.”

The boys went upstairs and Joe produced the paper. He followed his brother into Mr. Hardy’s study, where Frank got out a file on typewriter clues.

“I’m convinced of it!” he said at last. “Certain information here points to one interesting fact—both were typed by the same person. Also, the letters typed by the left hand are much darker—”

“Which might mean,” Joe broke in, “that the person is—or was—left-handed. Slagel!”

After marking on the map the streams running into Willow River, Frank and Joe picked up Chet at the Bayport Museum. Still tired from yesterday’s trek and overland chase, Chet was nevertheless proud about his part in the black-willow clue. He agreed to be their lookout for a plant like that in the drawing.

The boys’ plan was to cover certain areas daily in their search for the treasure. Right now they would sleuth in a region north of Route 7, keeping a lookout for willow groves. The only stream in the region, shaded by old black willows, offered no clues to any gold or buried treasure and Chet saw no plants matching the leaf sketch.

“What’s the next assignment?” Chet asked. He pulled a small, wrapped raw cauliflower from his pocket, took off the paper, and started to eat it. “Ever try this?” he asked. “Very nourishing.”

“It just so happens we have,” Frank replied. “What say we have our first stakeout tonight?”

“Here?” Chet asked, munching.

“No. Out at Springer Road.”

“Why don’t we make it an overnight?” Joe proposed. “In the meantime, we’ll finish fixing our motorcycle radio.”

The others liked the idea. After supper the three assembled packs and drove out to Springer Road. The boys set up a three-man shift among some trees. The night passed slowly as the Hardys and Chet each took a turn watching the night traffic for two hours, then sleeping during the next four.

No thefts were reported over the radio, and the cars using the turnoff, which they logged by hour and description, were few and not suspect. An hour after sunrise on Saturday morning Frank woke the others and, disappointed, they headed home.

“You think maybe they’ve stopped stealing cars?” Chet yawned.

“I doubt it,” Joe yelled back. “But there may have been a theft that hasn’t been reported yet.”

Joe’s guess proved to be correct. Presently an announcement came over the police band that a car had been stolen several hours earlier outside a Shore Road gas station.

“That proves one thing,” said Frank. “The thieves don’t use Springer Road.”

“One down, two to go!” Joe exulted. “Tonight we move to Route 7. Maybe we’ll get a nibble on Mr. Slagel or his cronies.”

Later that morning Joe called the Bayport Records Office for information about old gold claims.

“Any luck?” Frank asked as Joe hung up.

“Not yet. The only man who could tell us anything about mineral history in Bayport is out of town and won’t be back until Monday.”

That afternoon the Hardys met Chet to comb another area in their search for the Pilgrim treasure. Chet, in khaki shorts and a pith helmet, looked like an overstuffed safari guide. They hunted through several thickets and a stream bed near a farm owned by John Apperson, but found no trace of gold.

“We’ve hardly seen a willow twig all day,” Chet moaned disconsolately as they sat on a rock to rest. He picked a burr out of his sneakers. “And I haven’t spotted any plant with a leaf like in that drawing. Might as well look for a pine needle in a haystack.”

“Still,” said Frank, “with what we covered today, we can eliminate a lot of that shadowed area on our map.”

Suddenly Joe had an idea and hopped down.

“A bird’s-eye view of this whole region might reveal some small streams not on any of our maps. Think we could get hold of Larry Dillon at the airfield?”

“He’s usually free this late in the afternoon,” Frank said. “Let’s try him!”

The airport lay not far from their present location, and it took them less than half an hour to reach the field. They skirted the modern terminal and soon reached a smaller hangar where several single-engine aircraft stood poised about the taxiing area.

Sidestepping grease puddles, the boys entered the silver hangar and found Larry in a small, makeshift office. He was just getting into a leather flight jacket and greeted them warmly.

“Sure, I’ll be glad to take you fellows around for a buzz!” The tall, crisp-voiced pilot smiled. He slapped Chet heartily on the back and winked at Frank and Joe. “What do you think—shall we charge him for extra freight? Chet, you look as if you’re dressed for a jungle adventure!”

Chet grinned. “My outfit is just for solving mysteries—and the cause of science!”

They followed Larry across the field to a handsome red, high-wing craft. Moments later, they were airborne.

“Any place in particular?” Larry asked above the din of the motors as he banked away from the sun.

“North Bayport would be fine,” Frank answered.

As they flew eastward, coastal breakers came into view far below. They looked like a white lace fringe in the gentle wind. While Chet held the map spread out on his lap, Frank and Joe gazed through binoculars.

“I’m sorry these windows don’t give you a bigger view,” the pilot remarked. “At least we have good visibility today.”

“This beats feet any day,” Chet remarked languidly. “There’s Bayport already!”

When they reached the city nestled around the sprawling, horseshoe-shaped inlet, Frank had Larry fly northward. They strained to pick up traces of small streams or ponds not on the map. Seeing none, they turned south, circling several times before reversing direction again.

“I guess the map is accurate,” Frank said, after they had failed to uncover anything not charted. “Have you seen a spot that could be a hideout. Joe?”

“No. Every building looks accounted for on the map.” Chet supported Joe’s observation.

“Could we go down a little lower, Larry, or a couple of final spins?”

“Roger! Hold on!”

The plane nosed gracefully to a course nearer the ground. The black highway loomed larger, dotted with late-afternoon traffic. The shadow of their plane flickered on the surface of the blue sea.

They had just whined into a wide turn and started southward again, when they heard a ring of ripping steel to their rear. It was followed by a thudding flash of light inches away, and the shatter of glass in the instrument panel.

“We’re being shot at!” Frank cried out.

“Keep away from the windows!” Larry yelled. He climbed frantically to a higher altitude.

“Good night!” Joe said, stunned. “Are we hit badly, Larry?”

“The motor’s choking—I’m taking her back!”

As they pulled westward from the Shore Road area, the boys peered from the windows again, trying to determine the source of the bullets. But the altitude was too great.

Larry landed the plane safely. When investigators from the Civil Aeronautics Board arrived, the Hardys were looking at one of the slugs in the fuselage.

“They’re from a submachine gun of foreign manufacture,” one of the men reported.

Frank whispered to Joe, “That dud grenade was foreign made too! Makes me think of Dad’s case.”

The Hardys apologized to Larry for the trouble they had caused. “Nonsense.” He smiled, wiping grease off his T-shirt. “I’ll let you know if we get any leads to the sniper.”

The boys rode to the Hardy home. There was no news of the missing Dodds or of the recently stolen cars.

Chet stayed to supper but proudly partook only of Mrs. Hardy’s cooked vegetables. Aunt Gertrude stared incredulously, but offered him no dessert.

Later, Chet borrowed an old shirt and dungarees from Frank for the night’s watch on Shore Road. After reassembling their gear they drove out to Route 7, the turnoff four miles south of Springer Road. The boys stationed themselves on a pine slope some fifty yards down the turnoff.

“We’ll have to be on our toes tonight, men,” Frank said. “There’s more traffic on Route 7 than on Springer or Pembroke.”

As darkness fell, the three arranged their shifts for the night. Joe propped up a twig fork-support for the binoculars while his brother stationed their motorcycles. Chet, who was to have the third shift, settled down on his sleeping bag with a small flashlight, engrossed in a thick book on botany.

“You fellows are pretty lucky to have a botanist at your service,” he boasted, then yawned.

“Boy, are you going to itch tomorrow!” said Joe, and pointed to where Chet’s bag rested in a patch of poison ivy.

“Oh, all right, maybe I don’t know everything about botany,” Chet grumbled, dragging his gear to another spot.

Hours later Chet took his watch. He sat cross-legged before the field-glass tripod listening to the police calls and looking over the Hardys’ log of the cars which had passed that night. Presently he heard a motor.

“Maybe this is it!” he thought as two headlight beams appeared. The next instant Chet saw the dark-colored sedan suddenly speed up and roar wildly toward him on Route 7. It swerved, caromed off a bush, and raced down the road.

The noise awakened Frank and Joe. “That may be our first bite!” Frank yelled. “Let’s go!”

CHAPTER VIII

The Ring of Fire

IN seconds Frank and Joe had started their motorcycles, the headlights cutting the darkness of the woods. Racing along, the boys could see the red taillights of the speeding sedan ahead.

“Anything come over the police band?” Joe shouted back to Chet.

“Nothing about a theft.”

The gap diminished, and the boys realized the car was slowing down.

“Maybe he thinks we’re the police,” Frank called out.

But the sedan cut speed still more and began to make a U-turn. “He’s coming back. Let’s keep with him!” Frank urged.

The driver appeared to take no notice of their pursuit. The boys followed him back to the turnoff and then down Shore Road.

Joe called to Frank, “He’s heading for Bayportl”

Dropping back, the boys trailed the car through the quiet city streets until it drew up before the Excelsior Hotel in the waterfront area. The Hardys swung behind a parked truck.

Frank motioned for the binoculars. When Chet handed them over, Frank focused on the sedan’s driver, a bald thick-set man. He still did not seem to notice the boys as he crossed the street and entered the hotel.

Frank flashed an excited look at the others. “I think we’ve finally found our man!”

“Slagel?” Joe guessed hopefully.

“That’s right.”

Chet spoke up. “No wonder no hotel day clerks recognized his picture—he works—or steals—at night!”

“I don’t get it,” Joe said. “If Slagel stole that car, would he park it right in Bayport? And why the U-turn back on Route 7?”

“Or why speed up suddenly when he made the turn off Shore Road?” Chet interrupted.

“I don’t know,” Frank said, “but I’m going in the hotel for a second. Joe, take down the license and description of the car.”

Frank came out of the hotel a few minutes later and rejoined the boys.

“The night clerk knows Slagel under the alias of James Wright,” he reported. “Apparently Slagel has kept these late hours since checking in two weeks ago.”

“That’s about when the Shore Road thefts began!” Chet exclaimed.

The Hardys felt they should go to police headquarters and report the episode.

While Joe watched the motorcycles, Frank and Chet ran up the steps to headquarters. But when they reappeared, they looked disappointed.

“A car was stolen all right, but not the one driven by Slagel.”

“Crumb!” Joe muttered. “It looks as if we’ll have to stick with the Route 7 turnoff. Still, do you think Slagel is connected with the theft in some way?”

Frank shrugged. “What gets me is the stolen car. The thief may have used Pembroke Road, but it’s also possible we missed him in chasing Slagel.”

The three boys rode back to the turnoff for their gear before dropping Chet at home and returning to their own house. They spent a quiet Sunday, their only detective work being to call headquarters, but there was no news about the Dodds or the car thieves.

After breakfast Monday morning the Hardys phoned Chet and promised to meet him and the girls later in the day for a swim off the Sleuth, the Hardys’ sleek motorboat.

Then they rode into town, parked, and posted themselves in sight of the Excelsior Hotel. They did not have long to wait. Slagel, dressed in Army surplus trousers, boots, and a summer jacket emerged. He was carrying a cane in his left hand.

“He doesn’t limp,” Frank remarked. “Wonder why he carries a cane.”

Slagel jumped into the black sedan and pulled out. The Hardys followed on their motorcycles, and saw him come to a halt two blocks away before a paint store. He entered and soon emerged with cans of paint in either hand. After several trips, he had loaded some twenty gallons into the trunk. He had just slammed the trunk shut when he glanced back at the watching boys.

A chill went down Joe’s back. “Think he knows we’ve been tailing him?”

“He sure doesn’t act like it,” said Frank.

Slagel went to a telephone booth on the curb, dialed, and spoke briefly. Presently he returned to his car and moved into the Bayport traffic.

“It looks like Shore Road again,” Frank noted, as Slagel rounded Barmet Bay a little later.

Farther north, where the road curved inland and had pastureland on both sides, the traffic thinned. Slagel increased speed, but the Hardys kept him in sight. Suddenly a moving mass of brown and white appeared just ahead of them.

“Cattle!” Frank exclaimed.

He and Joe were forced to slow down as the cows were driven across the road toward a wide meadow on their left.

“We’re really blocked,” Joe shouted.

Fortunately, no fence separated the highway from the meadow, and the boys were able to steer off the road. But by the time the cattle had crossed, Slagel’s car had disappeared around a curve.

Then Frank saw the farmer who had driven the cattle across the road. He was the same short, white-haired man who had caused their spill a week before with his stalled truck.

Parking their vehicles, the Hardys approached him, but he spoke first. “What do you kids think yer doin’? If yer gonna ride wild, jest keep off my land—you mighta killed one o’ my prize critters!”

Frank’s eyes blazed. “This isn’t an authorized cattle crossing—you should know better than to drive your herd across a major road without giving some kind of warning!”

Seeing no point in futher heated words, Frank turned from the irate farmer and the boys rode off.

On the way home they discussed their unsuccessful pursuit of Slagel. “At least,” said Frank, “we know where he’s staying. Maybe next time we’ll have better luck.”

Back home for lunch, the boys spoke to their mother and Aunt Gertrude about the farmer.

“A farm just south of Pembroke Road?” their aunt asked. “Laura, wouldn’t that be George Birnham?”

Yes,” said Mrs. Hardy. “He has lived here a number of years.”

“Do you know anything else about him?” Frank said.

“An odd man,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “I believe his grandfather was given the land by a member of the Dodd family, though Birnham has never done very well with it. I gave him an order over the phone once. He sold me some half-rotten tomatoes, and I told him a thing or two!”

Out of curiosity Joe consulted the new telephone directory. “Frank! Birnham’s name is in here—which means he lied about having no phone! Why?” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “He’s blocked us off two times. What if it wasn’t coincidence—that there’s some tie-in between him and Slagel?”

“Let’s pay a visit to his farm tonight,” Frank answered. “If Biff will team up with us, we can still watch Route 7 too. Have you the same hunch about Slagel’s paint that I do?”

“If you mean it’s for repainting stolen cars—yes,” Joe replied. “And that does make the hideout north of here.”

Suddenly Frank remembered the flecks of paint they had found near the car tracks in the woods. He phoned Chief Collig to learn the test results. The police were convinced they were from the stolen car and the tire prints also. “My men have rechecked the area where you boys found the paint chips but couldn’t come up with anything more.”

“How about the collision noises, Chief?”

“The police have heard them too—once when a patrol was on the tail of a stolen car. But that’s not all. Do you know who the first victim of the auto thefts was?”

Frank tried to recall the papers two weeks back. “Wasn’t it a farmer somewhere out on Shore—”

“A farmer named George Birnham!”

“Birnham!” Frank exclaimed. In view of the boys’ latest suspicions, this seemed a strange twist!

That afternoon Frank and Joe look the Pilgrim clue with them and combed another patch of woods in the vicinity of Willow River.

It was three o’clock when they came upon a granite rock formation near a wooded slope. Nearby were several black willow trees.

“It looks as if somebody else has been sleuthing around here,” Frank said. He pointed to traces of footprints and digging. “These were all made by one person.”

The stone looked as if it had been there a long time. But it was too small to have afforded shelter for a whole family even three hundred years ago. Joe looked without success for traces of a gold vein.

“Let’s take a look at Birnham’s farm by daylight,” Frank suggested, and they rode off.

After parking at some distance, the two cautiously made their way along the dirt road turning off to the farm. The road was just beyond the rise at which they had lost sight of Slagel’s car that morning. At a distance they could see Birnham working in a field. But there was no sign of Slagel’s car. The brothers returned to their motorcycles.

Frank, gazing ahead, suddenly cried out. Above the tips of a thick birch forest a couple of miles ahead, a circular formation of black smoke could be seen rising. “That looks like the start of a forest fire! We’d better find out and then report it!”

Swiftly the boys shot north toward the column of smoke. When they braked to a halt at the forest edge, a crackling sound reached their ears.

“It’s a fire all right, and there may be a house and people in there!” Joe exclaimed.

The Hardys hopped off and ran into the woods.

Soon billows of choking smoke swirled their way. Tying handkerchiefs over their noses, the boys hurried forward. A minute later they reached a clearing, circled by flames.

In the middle of the ring of fire a man lay unconscious!

“It’s Scratch!” Joe cried out.

Instantly he and Frank leaped over singeing flames toward the helpless manl

CHAPTER IX

The Spider’s Net

BY the time Frank and Joe dived through the last patch of searing flame, licks of fire had almost reached Scratch’s prone figure.

Joe tied his shirt over the drifter’s face and pulled him up into a fireman’s carry. With Frank holding the man’s legs, the boys dashed back through the flames, not stopping until they were a hundred yards from the spreading conflagration.

To the Hardys’ relief, fire fighters were arriving, and the woods echoed with heavy vehicles, sirens, and shouts.

The Hardys coughed violently for several minutes while slapping their smoking trousers. Scratch was just reviving as three state policemen approached.

“How did it happen?” one of them asked.

“We don’t know,” said Frank, and explained what they had seen.

Scratch sat up, blinking, and thanked the boys for his rescue. The officer turned to him. “Scratch, have you been careless with one of your camp-fires?”

“No, sir,” he said. “I heard a car in the woods hereabouts, and come to take a look. Next thing I knew, somebody put a funny-smellin’ rag in front o’ my face. After that, I don’t remember.”

The officer looked skeptically at Scratch, but the Hardys were startled. Liquid gas again! “This fire could have been planned,” said Frank. “It was arranged in a perfect circle.”

“I guess you’re right,” the officer conceded.

After the fire was out and the police completed a fruitless search for clues to the arsonist, the officers and firemen left. Forest rangers continued inspecting the scene.

Scratch drew the boys aside. “I owe you fellers my life.” He smiled. “Least I kin do is tell you about the tre-men-dous spider I seen.”

“Spider?”

“Yep, last night, leastwise, it looked like one.” The drifter shivered. “Big enough to be a man, but it sure didn’t move like onel”

“Sounds weird!” Joe said.

“Where did you see it, Scratch?” Frank asked.

“On a rock ledge down the road a piece. I was strollin’ towards my camp when he crawled out o’ sight. I never seen a human spider in a web!”

The Hardys, knowing that Scratch was apt to exaggerate, did not take his story seriously. They did not want to hurt his feelings, so they pretended to be impressed.

“We’ve got to get going,” said Joe. “Take care, Scratch.”

When the boys came out to the highway, Joe glanced at his watch. “Jeepers! We promised to meet Chet and the girls for a swim half an hour ago!”

They whizzed off. At the dock where the Sleuth was berthed, they were met with reproving glances. Not only were they late, but disheveled.

“Promises, promises,” purred Iola Morton, as Joe slunk down the ramp. Chet’s slim, brunette sister had small features and twinkling eyes, and looked very pretty in an aqua-colored swimsuit.

“Frank Hardy, it’s about time!” sang out another voice. Callie Shaw, a slim blonde in a red suit, gasped at the boys’ sooty appearance.

Chet sat comfortably in the back of the boat, finishing a piece of watermelon. “Wow! You look like boiled frankfurters. Wrap yourselves in rolls, with a little mustard, and I’ll break my diet!”

The others laughed, then Frank explained their delay. “We’ll change and be right with you.”

The brothers ran to a nearby bathhouse. Then they rejoined the others and started up the Sleuth’s motor. The sleek blue-and-white craft moved swiftly out into the bay, its bow chopping through glistening breakers. Frank steered around the tip of the bay and headed the Sleuth north. They cast anchor near a small cove.

Chet had hit the water before the anchor. “Come on in!” he gurgled, surfacing with immense satisfaction.

Amidst jokes about a “salt bath,” the sooty Hardys followed the girls overboard.

The bracing water refreshed them. After a rest in the motorboat, the five swimmers decided to go in again. They waited for a black fishing boat to pass. It anchored a short distance away. Then Callie dived in. Several seconds went by. She did not reappear.

“Something may have happened to Callie!” Iola said fearfully. The three boys dived in at once and plunged beneath the surface. Twenty feet down Frank’s blood chilled. Callie, her face blanched with fear, was struggling violently.

She was enclosed in a small, tightly wound net!

His lungs bursting, Frank reached her, grasped the net, and started upward. When they broke surface, Callie was choking and too weak to swim. Desperately, Frank bore her to the Sleuth. Joe cut the nylon net and Callie was lifted over the side. She gestured that she was all right, but it was several minutes before she could explain what had happened.

“Some man—he was in a black skin-diving suit and mask—grabbed me and threw the net around...”

The sound of a motor reached their ears. The fishing boat nearby was heading away.

“He may have come from that boat!” said Frank. “Let’s find out! There was a black fishing boat around just before the accident to Jack’s boat!”

They pulled anchor and Frank steered the Sleuth after the fishing boat. The boys signaled to the pilot several times. He cut his engine as they drew alongside.

The fisherman, young and slim, wore a checkered sport shirt and a white yachting cap. He appeared annoyed at being disturbed.

“What do you want?” he asked curtly.

“Know anything about a skin diver around the cove back there?” Frank asked.

The young man started his motor. “Skin diver? No.” His craft roared away.

Upset by the near-fatal accident to Callie, the five young people headed back to the boathouse. The Hardys bade good-by to Chet, Callie, and Iola, who planned to report the incident to the maritime authorities.

As the brothers were locking up, they saw Tony docking his Napoli. They related their recent adventures.

Tony whistled. “You’ve been busy! I’m out in the Napoli nearly every day, so I’ll keep an eye on that fishing launch. It’s sure suspicious why the pilot pulled away so fast. Also, if I see anything of the Dodds’ boat, I’ll let you know.“

Frank swam frantically toward the trapped girl!

On the way home, Frank and Joe stopped at the Records Building to check on past gold claims in the vicinity. The clerk who was familiar with the older mineral files was there. They spoke with him in a small office adjoining musty rows of books.

“Gold?” the white-haired man repeated, smiling agreeably. “Are you fellows hoping to strike it rich before school resumes?”

“No.” Frank chuckled. “Our interest is historical. Have you any record of gold streaks at all—particularly north of Bayport?”

The old man shook his head. “No, son. To my knowledge, no gold has ever been found, or sought for that matter, within fifty miles of Bayport. But it’s odd you should ask too. Another fellow was in here just a few hours ago looking for the same information. Didn’t give his name.”

“What did he look like?” Frank cut in.

The clerk removed his spectacles. “Maybe forty, or fifty, dark hair, a beard. Sounded like an educated fellow.”

The boys thanked the clerk and drove home, wondering who the anonymous inquirer was. Someone who had knowledge of the Pilgrim clue? “The beard might have been a disguise,” Joe remarked. “I doubt that the man was Slagel, though. He’d never strike anyone as being an educated person.”

“The bearded man could be the missing professor—Martin Dodd!” Frank suggested.

Later, just before sunset, the boys were seated in Mr. Hardy’s study reviewing their sleuthing plans for the evening. Suddenly Joe stood up. “Frank! Let’s move our watch to Pembroke Road tonight!”

Frank knit his brows. “But we haven’t eliminated Route 7 yet.”

“I think we can!” Joe said. “There seems to be a pattern shaping up: the stolen car U-turns, the warning notes from the same person, Jack’s things being found at theft scenes—whoever master-minds this operation has made an effort to throw the police off track. Well, what better way than to send Slagel around a turn—leaving skid marks—while someone else whisks the stolen car away to another spot, like Pembroke Road?”

“Joe, you’re right! Decoy maneuvers! That might also account for the tire tracks and paint we found in the woods!”

The Hardys agreed on a plan to watch both the Birnham farm and Pembroke Road. By now it was dark, so after contacting Biff Hooper and Chet, they met them midway out on Shore Road. There they split up, Biff and Joe going farther north with the motorcycles to watch the intersection. Chet and Frank went in Chet’s jalopy to George Birnham’s farm.

The moon had risen, but was occasionally obscured by clouds. Frank guided Chet to a secluded woods. The jalopy was parked at the edge and the boys set out, carrying packs. Silently they walked across the dark farm fields where silvery mist gave the air a chill.

When the lights of Birnham’s farmhouse appeared on the west side of Shore Road, they stopped. There was no place to hide, but Frank pointed to deep furrows in a field.

“We can lie low between those and get a pretty good view of anything going on near the house.”

Chet followed Frank as he crawled under a wooden fence. The boys unrolled their sleeping bags between two rows of turned-up soil. Lying on their sides, they watched the house. Occasionally Frank glanced through his binoculars.

The hours passed slowly, uninterrupted except for the rhythmic chant of katydids and the boys’ whispers, both of them having decided to keep awake until one became tired. Chet bit noisily into his last carrot.

“Shhh!” Frank whispered. “Birnham will think somebody’s turned on that tractor I see over there!” Chet muffled his bites and laughter.

An hour later the boys saw a black sedan pull up the dirt road to the house. Frank watched through the binoculars. “It’s Slagel!” he whispered excitedly as Birnham came out on the porch. “So those two are in cahoots! Wish we could hear what they’re saying.”

Presently Slagel returned to his car and drove out, heading south on the highway. Then the farmer left the porch and walked to the end of the dirt road. Frank and Chet saw the squat figure duck under the fence and cross the field some fifty feet to their rear. Fortunately, the moon had gone under again.

“Keep as low as you can!” Frank whispered.

He and Chet listened keenly. In a moment they heard a motor starting up. Frank stole a backward glance and saw Birnham seated atop the large tractor to which a cultivator was attached.

“What’s he doing?” Chet asked, burrowing deeper into his sleeping bag.

Frank watched as the noisy vehicle began to move. The farmer did not turn on the headlights.

“He’s heading in our direction!” Frank gasped.

He could feel Chet shaking violently alongside him. “Quick!” said Frank. “Keep low and roll to the right!”

Chet struggled to obey, but his eyes bulged with desperation. “I can’t—the zipper on my sleeping bag is stuck!”

Frank yanked wildly at the zipper, but it was no use!

CHAPTER X

Strange Roadblock

MUFFLING Chet’s yell, Frank rolled him violently over and landed quickly on top of him. The tractor and its whirling blades missed them by inches!

The vehicle’s sound grew fainter as Birnham continued ahead. As Frank looked up he noticed a large truck passing slowly on the road going in the direction of Bayport.

“It’s okay, pal,” he said, patting Chet. “But let’s get to the road before Birnham starts back on this row!”

Chet finally freed himself from the sleeping bag. Trailing it behind him, the heavy youth followed Frank across the field, running in a low crouch. Once beneath the fence, the boys paused to catch their breath, and saw Birnham turn.

“I’ve had it,” Chet moaned softly. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Shhh!”

Puzzled by the farmer’s strange activity, they watched his tractor, still without lights, churn earth at a rise near the highway. After twenty minutes, the vehicle stopped. Birnham cut the motor, jumped down, and returned to his house. In a few moments the building was dark.

“What was that all about?” Chet asked. “Did Birnham know we were here and do that just to scare us?”

“If not, why this night work without lights?” said Frank.

Chet grimaced. “Nuttiest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Exhausted, the two boys took shifts for the remainder of the night. When nothing more had transpired by sunrise, they drove north and rejoined Joe and Biff.

They had had an uneventful night at Pembroke Road but were excited by Frank and Chet’s adventure, and agreed that Birnham’s actions were indeed suspicious.

Frank asked, “Did you pick up anything on the radio?”

“Nothing new,” Biff said.

He climbed into Chet’s jalopy and they roared off. The brothers soon passed them on the motorcycles. The Hardys were just entering Bayport when report of a theft came over the police band.

“... the car, reported missing at Lucas Street in Bridgewater was later recovered, abandoned on the other side of town. Owner, while sitting in his parked car, was gassed. No clues ...”

“In Bridgewater!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s not only the first theft someplace besides Shore Road, but the first time the thieves have failed! Apparently they were frightened off before they could get out of town.”

“So it was the car thieves who gassed Scratch and us,” said Frank. Another idea struck him. “Bridgewater’s at the end of Pembroke Road, Joe—also, remember it’s the postmark on that phony typed note from Jack!”

“Come on! Let’s check on Slagel at the Excelsior!”

The Hardys cycled to the waterfront hotel, and Joe went in to inquire. When he emerged from the run-down doorway, his expression was not happy. “Slagel—or ‘James Wright’—checked out early this morning!”

The boys decided to sacrifice their treasure hunt for the day and check the hotels in Bridgewater for Slagel. First they stopped at a diner and had a quick breakfast. Afterward, they hurried to their motorcycles and started up. Just then a middle-aged man strode over to them.

“You’re the Hardy boys, aren’t you?” he demanded.

They nodded. “My car was stolen a week ago!” he shouted. “You and your father had a nerve giving bail money to car thieves and allowing them to escape! What are you doing to help? If my car is not recovered, I’ll hold you personally responsible!” The man stormed away.

Frank was depressed. “This feeling in town worries me, Joe—not because of the ridicule or threats, but because so many people seem to be convinced that the Dodds are guilty.”

As the Hardys coasted to the corner, Joe groaned. Approaching them with a broad smirk was the dumpy figure of would-be detective Oscar Smuff.

“What ho, it’s our two young sleuths!” he sang out flatly. “Any sign of your Dodd friends, the car thieves?”

Frank was too accustomed to Smuff’s ways to be incensed. “We think the Dodds are innocent,” he responded.

“If you boys were smart,” Smuff went on, “you’d memorize features of all the stolen cars, like I do. I’m watching the streets.”

“For the Dodds too?” Joe asked.

Smuff nodded smugly. “Or accomplices. I think a woman is involved in the racket somewhere, and if my deductions are correct, she’s got blond hair.”

He whipped out a note pad and glanced at a scribbled list. Then the “detective” looked up at a sedan stopping for a red light. Suddenly his eyes widened. “There’s one of the stolen cars now!”

Frank recognized the blond woman driver as Chief Collig’s wife and tried to restrain Smuff. But the self-appointed detective excitedly darted into the street and up to the sedan. Poking his head in the window, he started to accuse the woman loudly. She turned to face him indignantly.

The next moment Smuff stepped back, open-mouthed and flaming with embarrassment as he realized his mistake. By this time the light had changed and horns were blasting impatiently. Stuttering apologies, Smuff retreated rapidly, wiping his forehead. Mrs. Collig drove off and the deflated detective hastily returned to the sidewalk. He passed the grinning Hardys with a sheepish look and disappeared around a corner.

Still chuckling, Frank and Joe rode off. They passed the Birnham farm and turned down Pembroke Road on the way to Bridgewater.

“Everything seems to narrow down to this road—and now to Bridgewater,” Frank remarked. “And according to the map—some of Birnham’s property touches Pembroke.”

As the brothers passed an open field, they noticed a man ahead leaning comfortably on a fence. He held a walking stick in one hand.

“Slagel!” Joe exclaimed.

“It’s time we had a word with him!” Frank declared.

The Hardys rolled to a stop, hopped off, and hurried toward Slagel. He turned as if to walk away, but the boys confronted him.

“Mr. Wright—?” Frank began.

The broad-nosed, bald man wiped his sleeve across his face, drumming a cane on the fence. “What of it?” he drawled.

“We understand you worked for a Mr. Dodd—that is, when your name was Slagel.”

The man’s lips tightened. “It’s none of your business what I dol”

“Maybe not,” Frank said. “We just thought you might be able to give us a clue to where the Dodds might be.” He noticed Slagel’s expression change to a supercilious smile.

“’Fraid I can’t help you there,” said Slagel, leaning back. “Besides, why should I bother spendin’ my time here with car-thief bailers. Any way, I’m doin’ work for Birnham now.”

“Like stealing cars?” Joe interjected.

Slagel’s face flushed. He leaned down and swung the end off his cane. A long silver blade pointed at Joe’s face!

“Beat it!” Slagel rasped viciously. “You’re trespassin’ on private propertyl”

More surprised than awed by the lethal sword, Joe looked at Frank. At his brother’s signal, they walked back to their motorcycles. Slagel was still glaring lividly at them as they rode off in the direction of Bridgewater.

“At least we shook him up a bit.” Frank smiled. “Even if we can’t find out where he’s staying, we know for sure he’s in league with Birnham—and not just for farm work. That sword cane didn’t look very innocent.”

“But good for puncturing tires!” Joe added, remembering the flats reported on some cars near the stolen ones.

In Bridgewater the brothers stopped at a drugstore, had lunch, then purchased a town map which also had a list of the hotels in the immediate area. They were fewer in number than those in Bayport. The Hardys checked all but two in an hour. At this point, they entered one at the east end of town. The desk clerk immediately recognized Slagel’s picture.

“Yes, he checked in today. Name of Wright. He just dropped his things off, then asked directions to the telegraph office.”

Frank and Joe headed for the office a block away. Inside, a woman behind a typewriter affirmed the fact that a Slagel had sent a message out, though she was not permitted to divulge its contents.

As the boys walked away, Frank said, “Joe, sometimes when a person sends a telegram, he makes a draft of it first.” He saw a wastebasket beneath a writing counter and hurried over. It took him only a second to find a torn piece of yellow paper with Slagel’s name at the bottom. When he found the second half, the boys left the office excitedly. Outside, they pieced the halves together and read the message:

MORE NERVE NOW. TRYING FOR 8-CYLINDER STOCK. TAKING CARE OF TWO FRIENDS. ATTEND TO THEM WHEN JOB DONE IN WEEK OR SO. EXPECT YOU FOR SHIPMENT TOMORROW.

The message was addressed to Carlton Melliman in New York City.

“Carlton Melliman-C. M.,” Joe mused. “Frank! He must be our mysterious visitor who wouldn’t give his name. And the ‘8-cylinder’ busi. ness—that cinches Slagel’s connection with the Shore Road gang!”

Frank nodded. “It fits. I wonder how Melliman figures in. ‘Two friends’ might refer to Mr. Dodd and Jack, which gives us only a week before—We’re going to have to work fast!”

“If we only knew what this ‘shipment’ is and where it’s going,” Joe murmured.

The Hardys stopped at an outside phone booth and Frank dialed his home. Mrs. Hardy answered. “I’m glad you called,” she said. “Your father phoned a little while ago, and gave me a list of things for you boys to look up in his file—information to help him on his case. He’s going to call back tonight at ten for your data.”

“We’re on our way,” Frank assured her.

When they reached home, the brothers washed and changed, then started work. Among the items their father had requested were the first dates of manufacture of various foreign weapons and ammunition, as well as serial numbers for certain guns made abroad.

The job took most of the afternoon. The boys had almost finished when Frank exclaimed, “Joel Remember? The grenade and those machine-gun bullets were of foreign make.”

“Sure enough! You think they have a connection with Dad’s arms-smuggling case?”

“Possibly, since we’re pretty sure they were used by thieves.”

After supper Frank and Joe handed Mrs. Hardy the data they had compiled and asked her to relay it to their father. “We’ll get back to our case now, Mother,” Joe explained. “Please give Dad our regards.”

The boys had decided to cycle along Pembroke Road. Seeing nothing suspicious, they returned to Shore Road. As they approached the intersection, the sun was setting. There was no traffic.

“Let’s cruise south,” Frank proposed.

“Right.”

The young sleuths turned onto Shore Road, with Joe in the lead. Some distance along they had reached a section of the road with a sheer drop to the left and a steep rocky formation on their right, when Joe happened to glance back out to sea. He gave a start, then beckoned Frank to turn around. When they were facing north, Joe pointed toward a high shadowed rock cliff that dropped to the ocean.

A spidery figure was moving slowly up the rock face!

The boys rode forward to get a closer look. A turn in the road made them lose sight of the figure. When their view was unobstructed, the spidery form had vanished! They watched the rock cliff a few minutes but saw nothing in the twilight.

“I’ll bet that was the spider Scratch told us about,” Joe declared.

“He looked half human, half spider,” Frank remarked. “I’d sure like to know where he went. Well, let’s go. It’ll be dark soon.”

Frank turned around and went ahead, increasing speed, and snapped on his head lamp. Presently he noticed a slight glitter over the center of the highway. As the reflection grew nearer, alarm coursed through his body.

Strung chest-high across the entire highway was a fine steel-wire net!

It was too late to stop. Frank ducked and closed his eyes, yelling as loudly as he could at the same time. “Joe, look out!”

CHAPTER XI

Guard on the Cliff

FRANK swerved to safety an instant before his brother’s motorcycle crashed into the glistening wire. Joe flew into the air, as his vehicle twisted and smashed into a tree to which the net was tied.

“Joel” cried Frank, leaping off his cycle and running to the still form in the roadway. Joe lay unconscious, blood oozing from his head.

Both of Joe’s legs were badly bruised, and Frank feared he might have suffered a concussion. Frantically Frank waved down an oncoming car. The driver offered to take Joe to Bayport Hospital. Frank followed on his motorcycle. Joe’s motorcycle lay in a tangled heap of gray steel and chrome.

An hour later Frank, Mrs. Hardy, and Aunt Gertrude stood at Joe’s bedside in the hospital. A physician watched Joe as he mumbled, moving his head slightly.

“He has had a nasty shock, but he should be coming out of it soon,” he reassured the others before stepping quietly from the room. “Just see that Joe gets plenty of rest in the next few days.”

After spending the night at the hospital, Joe was moved home. He had a slight limp and wore a large bandage on his head.

“How do you feel, partner?” Frank asked, as Joe rested on the living-room couch.

“A little weak.” He grinned. “But still in one piece. Who put up that wire?”

“I wish I knew, Joe, but my guess is it was the work of the car thieves. They had the wire netting ready to string across the road.”

“Was there another theft?” Joe asked.

“Yes. This time they copped one from the Ely estate during a dinner party.”

“The Ely estate! Why, that place is walled in like a fortress!”

“Right. Those thieves are bold, all right. Joe, that barrier across the road reminds me of the nylon net Callie was trapped in underwater. I have a hunch one of the thieves is a skin diver.”

Joe whistled, then grinned. “You don’t think the thieves hide the stolen cars under water!”

Frank laughed. “It would be a good place! Maybe that spider-man owns an underwater garage!”

At that moment Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came into the room, dressed to go shopping.

“Joe, promise me you’ll rest,” his mother said, her face much brighter than it had been the night before.

“Except for this limp,” he said, smiling, “I feel as if I could run ten laps!”

“Don’t you dare, Joe Hardy!” Aunt Gertrude scolded.

The two women had been gone half an hour when the boys heard the front door open and a familiar voice call, “Hellol Where is Joe?”

“Dad!”

Fenton Hardy strode with concern into the living room, his face relaxing when he saw Joe sitting up. After shaking hands warmly with his sons, he asked, “You all right, Joe? Mother phoned me about your accident.”

“I’m okay, Dad.” Joe grinned.

The brothers briefed their father on what had happened to date in the mystery. When they mentioned liquid gas, the foreign grenade, and machine-gun bullets, he started to say something, then changed his mind.

“I have some hunches. If I’m right—” He stopped. “It’s my opinion you’re up against a highly professional operation. Promise me you’ll be careful, for the Dodds’ sake as well as yours.”

“How about your own case, Dad?” Frank asked.

“I’ll be doing some risky undercover work in the next day or so. Sorry I can’t tell you about it now, but you can reach me at the usual New York address. Meanwhile, you boys use the family car. I understand your motorcycle, Joe, is a wreck.”

Frank drove his father to the airport and came home for a light salad lunch. Mrs. Hardy apologized for the wilted lettuce. “Apparently a different farmer is supplying stores in town since the Dodds’ disappearance.”

Later, Joe persuaded his mother to let the boys go out in the Sleuth, promising he would be quiet. At the Prito boathouse they noticed that Tony’s boat was not in dock.

“If we can find Tony, he may have some leads on that strange fisherman in the black boat,” Frank said, and drove on to the Hardy boathouse.

“I’ll take the wheel,” Joe volunteered. “That won’t hurt my legs.”

The Sleuth’s powerful engine droned smoothly as they cruised south to Willow Beach. Then they turned back across Barmet Bay and north.

Just past Beacon Point the boys caught sight of the Napoli. Waving to Tony, they drew alongside.

“Wow! What did Iola do to you?” Tony asked, looking at the bandage on Joe’s head.

“Somebody handed me a line,” Joe quipped, as Frank laughed. The Hardys told Tony of the accident. He asked several questions but seemed eager to tell them something himself.

“Would you guys believe me if I told you I saw a—a huge spider—out here last night?”

Tony described a black form scampering into a crevice in a rock cliff farther up the coast.

Frank started. “We saw one too. Where exactly did you see the spider?”

Tony paused in thought. “On a cliff just south of that big seaside estate.”

“The Ely estate!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “Frank, it was on that same cliff that we saw the spider-man!”

The Hardys mentioned the theft which had taken place at the estate the previous night and wondered what relation the “spider” could have to it.

“That’s not all,” Tony continued. “I’ve been watching our fisherman friend—the one you told me about. Apparently he does some of his fishing at night. Sometimes he has one lamp on his boat, other times two. He keeps on the move up and down the coast.”

“Is he fishing?” Frank asked.

“I guess so, or else trolling. I didn’t want him to catch on that I was watching and kept the Napoli at some distance.”

In the Sleuth the Hardys followed the Napoli north along the coast to the place where Tony had seen the “spider.” The ocean washed at the foot of a high rock cliff, atop which the Ely estate could be seen. The boys glided beneath an overhanging ledge.

“It’d take a skilled climber to scale that and steal a car,” Frank remarked, training his field glasses up the sheer wall.

Joe, meanwhile, noticed a gossamer-like pattern in the water. “Look, fellows!”

The three boys stared at the ghostly, weblike rope floating in the waves. With a pole, Frank pulled it aboard.

“It’s rope netting, probably for climbing!” Frank exclaimed. “I have a hunch our spider-man is an accomplished climber—”

“And car thief!” Joe finished. “He could easily —at dusk—look like a spider.”

“But still,” Tony put in, “that can’t account for the daylight thefts. Anybody swimming in or climbing a precipice like this would be seen.”

Tony said he had also discovered that the fisherman moored at a small inlet to the north along the coast. The Napoli and the Sleuth sped to the area.

A makeshift dock extended from a narrow crescent of sand at the base of a high bluff with a “No Trespassing” sign nailed to it. Several buoys dotted the water out from the shore.

As Frank gazed at the peaceful scene, he wondered : Could stolen cars be shipped out by sea from this beach? The possibility seemed unlikely. Not only was the water cluttered with buoys, but the only grassy slope leading down to the beach was too steep for cars to descend.

The two boats ran farther up the coast. Frank gazed at the shore through binoculars. Seeing nothing suspicious, they turned back.

They were passing along the fisherman’s secluded beach when Joe’s hands tensed on the wheel at an eerie sound. Something had scraped against the Sleuth’s bottom!

“I’m going overboard to take a look!” Frank said. He stripped to his shorts, kicked off his shoes, and dived in.

The scraping sound had stopped by the time Frank was under water and he found no sign of any rocks beneath the craft. Another thought occurred to him. Had somebody intended to sabotage the Sleuth as he had Jack’s boat? Frank could find no evidence of this on the bottom of the Sleuth.

Climbing back into the boat, he reported this fact, then suggested they move along the coast for more sleuthing.

As they left the area, Frank watched the coast through binoculars. Suddenly he said, “Joe! Slow down! I want to get a better look at the top of that bluff!”

Through the two eyepieces, he could see a lone figure peering, through similar glasses, at the boys. As the man removed his binoculars before disappearing into the brush, Frank’s recognition was instant.

Carlton Melliman!

CHAPTER XII

Planted Evidence?

“MELLIMAN!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys told Tony of their visit from the unctuous New York businessman.

“I wish we could trail him,” said Frank. “But we’d never catch him.”

“On whose property is that bluff?” Tony asked.

Joe referred to a map. “According to this, that beach is part of Birnham’s property! He owns land on both sides of Shore Road.”

As Frank headed back to the Bayport dock area, he said, “Slagel, Birnham, a spider-man, and now Melliman—they’re like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. But I think we’re at least fitting some of them into place.”

Back in their crime lab, the brothers discussed the latest leads in the mystery.

“We must find out where the shipment mentioned in the telegram is to take place,” Frank declared. “It must be a load of stolen cars.”

Joe suggested the possibility of the cars being moved out of the Bayport area by truck.

“I’m thinking of Birnham’s covered produce job that blocked us. It’s big enough to carry two cars at a time.”

Suddenly an idea came to Frank. “When Chet and I had that narrow squeak with Birnham’s tractor I noticed a truck—maybe Birnham’s—heading south on Shore Road past us.”

“Let’s call Chief Collig and suggest his patrols take a look inside the truck.”

“Good idea.”

The Bayport chief proved reluctant at first to conduct the search, largely because the farmer himself had been the first victim of the automobile thieves. But at length he promised to do so.

Collig mentioned that the police, too, were being flooded by letters of protest over the continuing thefts. Another car had been stolen—and recovered—in Bridgewater that morning.

“Jack Dodd’s identification bracelet was found under the front seat,” he added.

“Planted, of course,” said Joe. “The poor guy.”

“We’re inclined to agree,” Collig said. “We’re running twenty-four-hour patrols, and, with the Bridgewater department, several roadblocks. I hope we’ll have some word on your friends or their uncle soon.”

But when the chief called after receiving reports from his men, the result was a disappointment to the boys. The Birnham truck, returning from Bayport to the farm, had been halted but only empty crates had been found inside.

By suppertime Joe said he was completely recovered and suggested that they watch Pembroke Road that night.

“Joe,” said Frank, “remember your idea about the gang’s decoy tactics? We may be up against the same trick at Pembroke. The postmark on that last note, tire marks near Pembroke, maybe even Slagel’s moving to Bridgewater—it’s just too pat. A couple of those thefts could be phonies to draw the police and us away from Shore Road!”

Joe agreed, and they decided to watch only the farm that night. The boys wired their father in code about the net and Melliman, then changed into fresh sport clothes and telephoned Chet they wanted him along. They picked him up in Mr. Hardy’s car, and stationed themselves beyond a rise in the road. From there they had a better view of the dirt lane leading to Birnham’s farm.

Shortly after midnight, it began to rain, and the boys shivered under wet ponchos for four hours. Finally, having spotted nothing suspicious, they returned to the car and drove back toward Bayport. Chet looked longingly at an open frankfurter stand as they passed it.

“How’s the diet?” Joe asked. “You’ve lost weight. But it’ll be a phenomenon when one Chester Morton loses his appetitel”

“My spirits, not my appetite are dampened,” Chet chattered, as he huddled in the back seat with a large box of raisins. “Do you th-think Birnham, Slagel and Company are 1-laying 1-low for a wh-while?”

“Could be,” Frank said. “They may have found out we weren’t at Pembroke Road tonight. Not knowing where we were, they decided to play safe.”

The sun had not yet risen as they passed the vacant Dodd farmhouse silhouetted ominously against the dawn sky.

“Frank, somebody’s inside the house! I just saw a light flicker in an upstairs window!”

Applying the brakes, Frank reversed direction and drove as silently as possible down the farm road. Chet seemed disposed to stay locked inside the car but finally accompanied the others quietly around to the backyard. Above the shadowed screen porch, a slight glow was visible in Jack’s second-floor bedroom.

The back door was locked. Joe tried a window. “It’s open!” he whispered. He noticed Chet trembling. The stout youth swallowed.

“I’m n-not scared. Just c-cold!”

Joe preceded the others through the window, where they paused and listened. They heard the faint thump of footsteps overhead.

“Careful!” Frank whispered.

Tiptoeing, he led the way through the kitchen. They had just reached the foot of the stairs when Chet sneezed. Both Hardys winced as the raucous sound echoed through the house. The footsteps above stopped for a moment, then resumed at a rapid pace. Soon they ceased altogether. There was only silence.

Flushing and gesturing apologetically, Chet followed the brothers hurriedly up the stairs into the darkness of the hallway. Motioning Joe to guard the stairway, Frank played his flashlight into Jack Dodd’s abandoned room. When the beam touched a half-open drawer, he flipped on the wall switch.

The room was empty. Frank crept down the carpeted hall, searching one by one three other rooms before returning with a shrug to the others.

Chet, his face pale with fear, was the first to break the silence. “N-nobody here. Let’s go!” He started for the stairs but was beckoned back.

While Frank beamed his flashlight down the stairs to spot anyone coming up, Joe and Chet looked around Jack’s room. Except for the open drawer, there seemed to be no disorder. Joe was about to open the closet door when Frank called out in a loud voice:

“I guess nobody’s up here. Let’s head back to the vein of gold.”

Sensing his brother’s strategy of flushing out anyone inside the closet, Joe led Chet to the hall. Turning off the lights, the three boys walked downstairs. They had just turned toward the kitchen when a deep voice came from the top of the steps.

“Excuse me, are you the Hardy boys?”

Both brothers’ flashlight beams revealed a mustached man dressed in slacks and a navy-blue hooded sweater.

Joe, starting cautiously up, answered, “Yes. Are you—”

“Martin Dodd.” The man smiled. Turning on the lights, he came down and shook hands cordially with each of the boys. “I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger game, but I had to be careful.”

There was no doubt but that the tall, middle-aged man was the professor whose picture they had seen. He led them to a small den in the rear of the house.

“When I got word of my brother’s and nephew’s arrests, I knew somebody had plotted against them. I could have gone to the police but thought I might be able to find them by working undercover. And also,” he added, “because a private mystery is involved. Moreover, I didn’t want any publicity because of my position at the college.”

“Then it was you who left the Pilgrim clue at our house!” Frank said.

“That’s right. I hoped to get your father’s help, but finding he was away, I decided to leave you the clue in the hope that—separately—you two or I might hit upon its solution. I couldn’t chance your giving me away to the police.”

The energetic professor agreed that his relatives had been victims either of an accident or a kidnapping, though he failed to see how news of the lost Pilgrim treasure could have reached other ears. Of the Shore Road thefts, or Slagel or Birnham, he knew little.

“Then you didn’t reach Bayport until after your relatives had disappeared?” Chet asked.

“No. I heard the news over the radio. It was then that I decided to leave my car in another town and camp in the northern Bayport area. With authorities already dragneting the region for my relatives, it seemed best for me to work from the Pilgrim-clue angle. While I’ve had little success in decoding it yet, I feel strongly that something may have happened to them while tracking down—or being forced to track down—the clue.”

As Martin Dodd spoke, a cordial relationship began to develop between the boys and the astronomy professor.

He went on, “Jack had written to me about trying to get your help on our mystery, but I didn’t know you and wanted to be extra careful.” The professor smiled. “That is why I watched you several times when I heard your voices in the woods.”

“Then it was your footprints we spotted,” said Frank, “and you who inquired about the gold in Bayport.”

Dodd nodded. “I’ve used a disguise whenever I went into town. I wish you and I had had more success with the black-willow clue or the plant drawing.”

Martin Dodd told the boys he was interested in astronomy and carried telescopic equipment on his trips. He now unfolded a small piece of paper and handed it to Frank. It was a photostat of a note in the same handwriting as that in the Pilgrim clue, except that it contained several numbers, angles, estimations, and the words: “the evening ftar crefcent.”

“I owe you boys an apology,” the professor said. “I didn’t give you this, which is also part of Elias Dodd’s last message, and refers to the position of the planet Venus in the late summer of 1647.”

“Which might help locate the treasure site?”

“Yes. Elias Dodd attempted, before dying, to cite his position relative to that of Venus. If his estimation was accurate, it may indeed pinpoint the location.” The professor paused. “I believe I am on the verge of solving these calculations, which seem to be leading me farther east each day.”

Chet mulled over the piece of paper. “These sure are complicated numbers!”

“That is why I didn’t include them with the rest of the message,” Martin Dodd replied. “The fact that he called Venus the ‘evening star’ indicates its crescent was in a period of eastern elongation. As you may know, the motions of Venus are irregular, with identical phases for a given month recurring only about every eight years.”

“Then there is a deadline for solving the Pilgrim mystery!” Frank exclaimed.

“That’s right, Frank, and time is running out, since this particular phase of Venus won’t be seen in August again for another eight years. Boys, the progress you’ve made so far astonishes me. I think by working together we may find the treasure, but more important, my brother and nephew before it is too late.”

“Let’s meet early tomorrow afternoon,” said Frank. “We’ll come here.”

“Very good.”

On the way home Chet dozed in the back seat. When they arrived at his farm, he asked, “What’s hatching, guys?”

“Some work for you. Game?” Joe said.

Chet was cagey. “Tell me first.”

“Will you try to follow Birnham’s truck on its rounds today? It’s big and red.”

“Oh, sure,” Chet agreed.

The Hardys arrived home to find a hearty breakfast awaiting them. As they ate, the brothers discussed the purchase in Harpertown of a used car as part of a plan for solving the case. “I’ll go,” Frank offered.

Joe remained at home and greeted Chet when he stopped in before his reconnaissance errand.

“Chet! You look starved!” Aunt Gertrude observed.

“Suppose so.” He yawned. “Do feel kind of empty. But no food, thanks. I’ve decided I’m not so interested in land vegetation any more.”

“You mean you’re going to break your diet?” Joe asked.

“Certainly not! But I think I’ll become an al gologist.”

“An algologist?”

Chet brandished a green book with a picture of the ocean on its cover. “Algology is the study of marine vegetation—seaweed and stuff.”

Joe grinned. “By this time next year you’ll be a poor fish?” Chet gave his friend a black look.

At that moment the mail arrived. One letter was addressed to the Hardy Boys. Joe showed the envelope to Chet. “Another Bridgewater postmark.” Quickly he tore it open to find a handwritten message:

Frank and Joe—Jack and I have escaped criminals. We want to give ourselves up but not before talking with you. Meet us alone beneath Saucer Rock on Pine Road at 12 P.M. today. Please be there!

CHAPTER XIII

A Hungry Sleuth

“Do YOU think the message is another trick?” Chet asked as Joe studied the note.

“Could be. The handwriting’s not Jack’s, but it could be Mr. Dodd’s. What do you think?”

Chet shrugged. “It sounds like Mr. Dodd, but I still think it’s suspicious. You’re not going to go, are you?”

Joe paced the room. “If only Frank were here!” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon now! That doesn’t give us much time to decide!”

At last he made up his mind to go to the rendezvous. “I can’t afford not to go—wouldn’t sleep tonight if I just dismissed the possibility that the Dodds really may have escaped. There isn’t time to check the handwriting. Keep your fingers crossed. If you don’t hear from me by four, get out to Saucer Rock with Frank as fast as possible! Meanwhile, good luck in town and don’t let Birnham’s driver see that you’re tailing himl”

After seeing Joe off on Frank’s motorcycle, Chet was called by Aunt Gertrude to the kitchen. She handed him a wrapped, warm box.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Since you’re going into town, you won’t mind dropping this cake off at Mrs. Bartlett’s house on Kent Street, will you?”

“I’ll be glad to.”

When Chet reached the business district, he pulled his jalopy over to the curb. “Guess I’ll deliver the cake later,” he said to himself. Chet felt very empty. “Should’ve had a bigger lunch.”

He squared his shoulders and took out a list of Bayport markets supplied by local farmers. He hoped to pick up the trail of the Birnham’s produce truck.

“Guess I’ll start with Max’s Supermarket.” From his pocket he took out some watercress and munched on it.

There was no red truck bearing the name Birnham at the large, block-long store. Chet drove on to the Food Fresh Market three blocks away. Seeing only a blue truck unloading vegetables, he headed farther down the street to a smaller store. He checked vehicles parked at the rear. No luck.

Back in his jalopy, Chet looked longingly at a pork-roll sandwich stand crowded with customers.

“Boy! I could go for a nice, juicy, well-done ...” Quickly he drove out of sight of the stand.

At Castagna’s Grocery near the waterfront, Chet obtained the names of stores usually supplied by the Dodds’ now jobless truck driver.

“These must be some of the places giving Birnham business now,” the youth concluded, stuffing the list into his pocket. In the car again, he spread the paper out on the front seat, moving Aunt Gertrude’s cakebox over. For a moment he eyed it hungrily, then drove off.

By two-thirty he had covered five of the nine listed stores without seeing the red truck. He shut off the motor and relaxed. His stomach rumbled. “Should have eaten something at the Hardys’,” he thought, and again looked at the cakebox.

Taking out a pencil, Chet crossed out the stores and markets he had already covered. He sighed wearily.

“The vegetable deliveries may be over for today. Wonder what kind of cake Aunt Gertrude made. Four places to go. Wonder ...”

He lifted the lid of the white box and sniffed. “Chocolate fudge—my favorite!” He sighed, then started the motor and proceeded to Frankel’s Market.

“Birnham’s truck just left here,” the manager told him. “About five to ten minutes ago. I think he goes to a place on the west side of town after us.”

“That must be the other Food Fresh store,” Chet thought. Getting into the hot car, he again sniffed the cakebox. Slipping the string off, he opened the cover, and beheld the luscious whipped chocolate frosting. His stomach growled as he wiped his forehead. “Maybe a little taste—”

Finding a large gob of frosting that had fallen off he thumbed it. Carefully he picked it up and laid it on his tongue. “Mmm,” he murmured.

When Chet reached the Food Fresh Market on Kennedy Street, he learned that the Birnham truck had not yet made its delivery. The man in charge of the produce department told him it was uncertain when the truck would come.

“Guess I’ll wait,” Chet said, but almost immediately returned to the car. Untying the string again, he took a small dab of frosting.

After half and hour Chet got out, stretched, and paced back and forth in front of a restaurant. Then he got back in. He felt weak with hunger.

The car was very warm. As the cake frosting became stickier in the heat, occasional breezes wafted its fragrance to Chet’s nostrils. He opened the box. “Just one more lick.”

By now, he had eaten all the uneven gobs of chocolate. Chet sighed. Slowly he ran his finger lightly around the cake in a complete revolution, chuckling. “Mrs. Bartlett won’t even notice.”

After licking the frosting off his thumb, he studied the cake again. One part of the swath he had made was wider then the rest. With his finger he made another circuit to even the groove, but in his eagerness dug in too deeply at one place.

“Uh-oh, now I’ve done it!” he moaned.

Glancing out the window, he still saw no sign of the red truck. His eyes returned to the inviting cake. “Can’t just leave it that way, he mused. Then he swallowed. ”Morton, get hold of yourself!”

Chet got out and plodded to and fro. No red truck. Sighing, he climbed into the front seat and uncovered the cakebox again.

“If I just cut off that little gouged piece, I can tell Mrs. Bartlett I snitched a tiny bit.”

Chet sat back, tucked a handkerchief into his T-shirt, and having no knife, made a small wedge of two pudgy fingers to push down through the thick, melting frosting. A minute later his hands and chin were daubed with chocolate. The hungry boy surveyed the damage.

Several thumbprints surrounded the drooping surface near the small missing segment. Besides, his fingers had cut wider and wider on their paths toward the plate.

“Got to even it off.”

Twenty minutes later Chet was still evening up the wedge and making it larger and larger. Suddenly he heard a heavy motor and saw a huge, red truck marked BIRNHAM pull into an alley next to the store. He climbed out and crossed the street.

Chet leaned heavily against a mailbox. He had a clear view of the back end of the truck as it was unloaded by the driver and two store employees. This appeared to be the truck’s final delivery, for its eight or ten remaining vegetable crates were removed and taken into the store.

“That truck’s big enough to carry two cars all right,” he said to himself.

The tough-looking driver started the motor and began backing out. Chet hastened to his car, his stomach feeling a bit uncomfortable. Behind the wheel, he loosened his belt.

“Wonder where that driver’s going,” Chet thought.

A block from Barmet Bay he saw the produce van pull into a large, dilapidated, brown-shingle warehouse surrounded by a vast, junk-filled lot. The faded sign over the door read: KITCHER’S JUNKYARD.

Chet cut his ratchety engine and looked warily up the street toward the building. He heard the truck door slam.

“What could Birnharn have to do with a run-down place like this?” he wondered.

Chet decided to take a closer look and shuffled up the street. Nobody was in sight at the wide entrance. Swallowing dryly, Chet hitched his trousers up, and after peeking in the warehouse, tiptoed inside.

The faint murmur of voices came to him from behind a closed door to the rear. Next to the parked truck was a black sedan Chet recognized as the one driven by Slagel. He peered in its rear window.

On the floor lay a small, vinyl phonograph record near a small generator. “A cluel I’ll give it to Frank and Joe.” After glancing toward the office, he reached in and picked up the disk, then slid it inside his T-shirt.

Chet turned to the musty flaps on the back of the truck. His face red with exertion, he clam bered up and squeezed through the flap opening, letting some light into the rank-smelling interior.

On the stained, bare floor were scattered splinters of wood and random, rotted greens. “If these vegetables don’t prove to be clues,” he thought, “I can use them for samples of botanical deterioration.”

As he scooped the various greens into his pockets, Chet noticed, on the scratched floor, muddied, ridgelike patterns.

“Tire-tread marks!” he gasped.

Then he heard the voice of an approaching man, calling back to the office. “No, the kids’ll fall for the trap. Slagel’s waitin’ out at Saucer Rock to take care of them!”

“Good night! Joel Joe’s out there!” Chet realized, suddenly feeling sweat on his forehead. His heart thumped wildly. “I must get back!”

Just then the truck flap flew open and light flooded the interior. Glaring in at him, Chet saw the hard face of a stocky, red-haired manl

CHAPTER XIV

Sea Clues

SAUCER Rock, a broad, flat overhang above a deserted dirt road outside Bayport, was known to most people in the vicinity. Joe reached the spot ten minutes before his appointed meeting with the Dodds.

Parking the motorcycle, he approached the large, sunlit, limestone rock and sat down on a smaller one underneath it. Then, thinking of a possible trap, he got up and walked around.

The surrounding woods were quiet except for the twitter of a few orioles. Joe looked at his watch. It was 12:35.

As Joe neared the overhang, a glittering object nearby caught his eye. Stooping, he picked it up.

“Jack’s high school ring!”

At that instant a sound like crackling fire reached Joe’s ears. Tensing, he noticed a large moving shadow engulfing hisl He spun around to face Saucer Rock.

Joe raced for safety

A station wagon was toppling off directly toward him!

Darting back, Joe barely escaped the plunging car. Then came a shattering crash. Pieces of broken glass flew by him, as he looked up the slope. The sound of rushing feet along a nearby road stopped with the slam of a car door. The motor roared off into the distance.

The roof of the toppled car, its three remaining wheels still spinning, was completely crushed in. A shudder passed through Joe. “It’s the Dodds’ station wagon!”

Fortunately, the vehicle was empty. Joe inspected some curious deposits on the fender. “Salt water corrosion! I must report this!”

He ran to his motorcycle. After telephoning Chief Collig from a farmhouse, he drove home.

Frank returned from his trip moments later. He was stunned by his brother’s story. “The men must have timed it, knowing we wouldn’t have a chance to study the handwriting on the note. I hope Collig’s men can nab them.”

“I’ll bet it was Slagel’s work and now he’ll probably lie low and keep away from his ‘job’ at Birnham’s.”

“What about your trip?” Joe asked. “Any luck?”

“Some. I saw several good used cars. We might buy one.”

Just then the Hardys heard a familiar chugging sound in the driveway, then the heavy plodding of two feet through the kitchen and into the living room.

“Chet, how did it go?” Joe welcomed their friend. “Say, you don’t look very happy.”

“Joe, you’re home! You’re safe!” Chet ex claimed.

He collapsed into the large green armchair. “Whew! Have I got an earful for you fellows!”

Fanning himself with a magazine, Chet told the Hardys of his adventure. They leaned forward when he mentioned the junkyard.

“And when I saw this guy glaring at me, I decided it was now or never. So I landed on him.”

“Landed on him?”

Chet nodded, pride swelling his chest. “Just took a run, sailed off the end of the truck, and knocked him off balance. Then I dashed to the car. He didn’t know who I was, so nobody chased me.”

Joe laughed. “It’s a good thing you’ve been keeping in training on that diet.”

“My—diet?” Chet gulped. “Oh yeah, that.”

At Chet’s report of the tire tracks inside the Birnham truck, Frank jumped up. “That proves it! The gang is shipping the hot cars into Bayport in that truck at night. Were there autos in the junk lot, Chet?”

“I never noticed. I did get these.” Standing up, Chet unloaded frayed, discolored greens on the coffee table. Frank was about to groan when Chet’s eyes riveted on one of the greens. “Hey, this isn’t produce—it’s a piece of seaweed!”

“Seaweed?”

Chet checked his pocket-sized algology book. He nodded. “Yes. Not exactly seaweed, but it’s a form of marine vegetation.”

Joe recalled the salt-water traces he had detected on the crushed Dodd station wagon. When he related his findings to Frank and Chet, the three boys tried to correlate the two sea clues.

“I wonder—” Joe thought. But when he compared the sea leaf with the Pilgrim drawing, they proved to be dissimilar.

“The stolen car hideout—and maybe the place the Dodds are being held—must be somewhere not far from the ocean!” said Frank. “But where?”

“Probably north along the coast,” Joe suggested. “There are miles of beach, but we’ve scouted most of it. The police have checked all the buildings, public and private, north of the Barmet beach area.”

“How about the waterfront?” Frank asked.

“It’s possible. But where could they hide cars, even repainted, right in the face of Collig’s heavy police lookout?”

Again recalling the shipment mentioned in Slagel’s telegram to Melliman, the Hardys decided to watch Kitcher’s Junkyard that night.

Suddenly Chet remembered the small phonograph record. “Got something else,” he told the others excitedly. He stood up and slipped it out of his T-shirt.

He groaned. The edges of the black vinyl disk had curled up from heat.

“I hope it will still play,” Frank said, going to the record player.

From the speaker came the warped sound of a loud automobile collision!

“The collisions in the woods!” Joe exclaimed. “This must be how Slagel or his pals decoyed the police off the track—by playing this record and making them look for an accident instead of chasing a stolen car.”

“The paint flecks must be part of the same idea!” added Frank.

The brothers poured thanks on Chet for his reconnaissance work. But his pride was being snuffed by the beginnings of a stomach-ache. As he rose to leave, he heard Aunt Gertrude’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Well, guess I’ll be leaving,” he said quickly, almost sprinting to the back door.

But a friendly voice stopped him. “Oh, Chester”—Miss Hardy smiled—“I want to thank you for delivering my little gift to Mrs. Bartlett.”

“Oh, I—Yes, I delivered it. I—I—”

“It was an errand I shouldn’t have burdened you with, but she’s a lovely woman, as you could see, and I always try to send her one of my chocolate-fudge cakes.

“Before you go,” she continued, holding a second cake up to Chet’s nose, “I insist you have a piece of Laura’s delicious caramel cake. This silly diet of yours has gone far enough, and I know you like pecans and marshmallow fill—”

“Yes, yes,” the youth muttered, and to the others’ surprise rushed from the house.

That night Frank and Joe drove to the waterfront area, parking in a cobblestone alley behind a fish store. Their position afforded a good view of Kitcher’s Junkyard.

“If there’s any kind of a shipment here tonight, we should be able to spot it,” Joe whispered from behind the wheel.

The air was cold. Damp gusts from the foggy bay, just visible down a small hill, chilled the air. Both boys shivered, having neglected to bring sweaters.

Through the mist a light was visible inside the junk warehouse. Occasionally a gaunt figure appeared in the light and lounged in the doorway.

“That’s probably Kitcher,” Frank said. A moment later it began to drizzle lightly.

A black sedan moved slowly down the street and parked in front of the junkyard. The brothers leaned forward as they recognized Slagel emerging from the car, its motor still running.

“Guess he’s not staying long,” Frank whispered.

Kitcher and several other men appeared in the light of the doorway and conversed with Slagel. The burly ex-convict shrugged. He held up his hand to the rain which by now was heavy, and shook his head. Then he returned to his car and drove off.

“Looks as if he doesn’t plan to come back,” Frank said. “Think we should follow?”

“I’d rather find out what’s going on here,” Joe answered. “I’d say Slagel’s appearance proves that if there is to be a shipment, it will be to Kitcher’s.”

The street became silent, but the lights in the warehouse remained on. During the next hour Kitcher emerged several times to look at the rain. Another hour passed, then two. Except for the periodic drone of a distant foghorn, the only sound was that of gurgling gutters.

Shivering, the boys rolled up the windows, leaving them open a crack. Joe turned on the heater, hoping the engine noise would not give away their presence. After the car warmed up, they listened to the mesmerizing patter of rain-drops on the roof. Soon Joe fell asleep.

Yawning, Frank kept his eyes fixed on the junkyard area, feeling more and more sleepy. He felt a sensation of dizziness when he nudged his brother to take the next shift.

“Come on—I’m falling off. Wake me in—Joe?”

His brother’s eyes remained closed. Frank shook him more vigorously. “Joe!”

Feeling his own eyes dimming, Frank tried to rouse Joe. He could not awaken him. Panic seized him. Joe was unconscious and Frank felt himself slumping to the floor!

CHAPTER XV

Double Attack

DESPERATELY shaking his head, Frank pushed open the door and pulled his brother outside into the rain. Leaning against a wall, he breathed in large draughts of air.

Mumbling, Joe revived. “What happened?”

“Don’t know, but I have a fair idea.” Frank shut off the car motor and opened all the windows wide. “My guess is carbon monoxide.”

“I don’t get it. We left the windows open enough so we shouldn’t have had that much CO inside.”

“Somebody may have clogged our exhaust.” Frank investigated but nothing was stuffed into it now.

The warehouse was dark. “I wonder when the men left,” Joe said, disappointed.

The brothers crossed the silent, dark street. The warehouse door was locked, so the Hardys peered over the fence into the lot. The yard was strewn with junk, including numerous heaps of rusted piping and battered automobiles.

“Well, chalk off one wasted night,” Joe said as they returned to the car.

“It wasn’t exactly dull.” Frank smiled. “I have a hunch our friends’ shipment may come off tomorrow night. Maybe the weather changed Slagel’s mind.”

By late the next morning the weather had cleared. After wiring their father, the boys repaired the car exhaust which, they found, had been punctured in several places.

“I wonder when those crooks did this,” said Frank. “Probably before we left here last night.”

After lunch Frank and Joe drove out to the Dodd farm for their appointment with Martin Dodd. Parking near the barn, they got out and waited.

Presently Frank looked at his watch. “The professor should have been here by now.”

Fifteen minutes later the brothers walked to the back of the house. Here the ground was still muddy from the previous night’s rain. Frank pointed out a confused jumble of footprints and suddenly Joe stumbled on a hard object in the mud. Looking down, he gasped in alarm.

It was the broken half of a smashed telescope!

“The professor must have been in a scuffle!” he said. Nearby Frank found a dead bat. Both boys recalled the one they had seen on the beach some days before. “I may be crazy,” said Joe, “but I wonder if somebody’s leaving these dead bats around on purpose.”

Finding no clues to Martin Dodd’s whereabouts, Frank and Joe drove away. “I’m worried, Joe,” said Frank. “If Slagel and his gang have captured the professor, every move we make may endanger the lives of three people.”

“I wonder,” Joe replied, “if the professor came upon a clue to the car hideout.”

“Or the answer to the Pilgrim mystery,” Frank added.

The Hardys stopped at headquarters to report the professor’s seeming disappearance. Chief Collig was concerned, and said he would order his men to conduct a search. Back at the house, Frank and Joe found a coded telegram had arrived for them. “It’s from Dad!” Joe said.

BOYS—HAVE LEARNED WE ARE WORKING ON THE SAME CASE. MELLIMAN MEMBER OF GANG SMUGGLING GAS, WEAPONS TO HIDDEN ARSENAL SOMEWHERE NEAR BAYPORT. WATCH DOCKS.

“The same case!” Joe exclaimed. “Melliman’s traffic in gases could explain the liquid gas.”

Frank went for Slagel’s telegram to Melliman and read the opening aloud:

“ ‘More nerve now, trying for 8-cylinder stock.’ ”

The words seemed to take on a different mean ing and a far graver one.

“Eight cylinders of nerve gas,” Frank said grimly, “probably smuggled and then shipped up the coast to Slagel’s gang!”

“That must be why Dad wants us to watch the docks!”

The young sleuths decided to watch both the junkyard and the docks that night. They phoned Chet and asked him to come over. When their stout friend arrived, he entered the crime lab hesitantly.

“You fellows been cooking up something?”

Joe grinned. “Chet, have you ever heard of the wooden horse?”

“Sure. Wasn’t that the roadblock the people of Troy used to keep out the attacking Greeks?”

“Not exactly.” Frank laughed. “It was a huge gift from the Greeks to the Trojans. But they had really packed the horse with soldiers. When the Trojans accepted the gift, the Greeks were able to get inside the city walls and defeat them.”

“What of it?” Chet shrugged.

“We have a similar plan.” Frank clarified his remark. “We’ve decided that if everything else fails, there’s one way we might blow this case wide open. That’s to buy a car and allow it to be stolen!”

“Buy a car!” Chet exclaimed.

“Yes. Joe and I have enough money to buy a secondhand sedan at Harpertown, where we’re unknown. If it’s flashy enough, Slagel’s gang may steal it out on Shore Road—and us too. Our car will have a large trunk and we’ll be in it!”

Chet shook his head. “And I suppose you’ll ask me to drive it.”

The Hardys grinned but did not answer. Instead, they said they wanted Chet to help them that evening. They would use Mr. Hardy’s car.

By nine o’clock the car was parked between two automobiles a block away from the junkyard.

Presently Slagel arrived and great activity became evident around the lighted lot. Kitcher moved about, making notes on a clipboard as men carried metal junk inside the building. Melliman was nowhere in sight.

“I guess he works behind the scenes and is the brains of this whole operation,” Frank whispered.

Soon several tow trucks bearing Kitcher’s name rolled out of the warehouse and headed downhill toward the docks. Tied behind each of them were five battered cars.

“They couldn’t be stolen,” Chet said. “Nobody would buy them.”

As the warehouse doors closed, the boys decided to follow the shipment and Frank drove off.

Reaching the docks, he parked near a row of steel drums, behind which the boys stationed themselves.

The lights of a barge glittered in the waters of Barmet Bay. The name Arachne was painted on its side in white letters. The dilapidated cars were being unhitched from the tow trucks and rolled toward the barge.

In an hour all the junk cars had been loaded onto the barge. Several loads of rusted wire and sheet metal followed. Slagel and Kitcher returned to their car. A whistle sounded over the churning water, then slowly the Arachne backed into the dark bay toward the south.

“Come on. Let’s take the Sleuth!” Frank motioned.

The boys reached the Hardy boathouse in record time. A minute later the Sleuth’s motor roared to life. A night wind fluttered at their backs as they reached the mouth of Barmet Bay. Joe peered through field glasses.

“There it is!” he cried out.

The lights of the Arachne moved slowly down the coast. Her bow and stern lamps off, the Sleuth increased speed. When Frank had swung farther out to sea he headed parallel to the coast. Abreast of the barge, he throttled down to six knots.

“We can’t do this foreverl” Chet protested. “They’ll catch on!”

Frank slipped off his shoes. “I’m getting a closer look at what and who’s on that barge.”

“You’re crazy!” Joe protested. “You wouldn’t have a chance against all of them!”

“I’ll be careful. Keep the Sleuth on course and give me about twenty minutes.”

Before Joe could say more, Frank was overboard and swimming toward the ghostly lights. He was midway between the two crafts when Joe saw the black fishing boat. Joe stiffened with fear as he deciphered the international code message which was being flashed by lights from the fishing boat to the barge.

“O-n-e o-f H-a-r-d-y k-i-d-s s-w-i-m-m-i-n-g t-o-w-a-r-d y-o-u. S-t-o-p h-i-m.”

Joe jumped into the water instantly and swam toward his brother. Frank, fighting strong currents, had not noticed the warning. Minutes later, he reached the barge and caught his breath. Then, grasping the damp wood with his wet hands, he pulled himself up and slid noiselessly over the side next to a braced car.

Suddenly someone struck him a hard blow on the head. His next sensation was of falling to the water. Frank blacked out before he reached it, but revived as he felt two arms grab him and take him to the surface.

Desperately, Joe bore his brother througli the waves to the darkened Sleuth as the noise of the barge motors became fainter and fainter.

Joe was almost at the end of his strength when he touched the hull of the Sleuth. Chet leaned over and hauled Frank, semiconscious, aboard. The next instant, Joe heard Chet cry out and saw him topple backward out of sight.

Grabbing the rail, Joe swung into the stern of the boat. To his horror, Chet lay motionless beside Frank. Joe whirled to face the attacker—a muscular, black figure in a glistening skin-diving suit.

The man raised a sharp, dripping piton and lunged at Joel

CHAPTER XVI

Retreat Trick

BLOCKING the thrust of the spike, Joe threw all his remaining strength into a hard-fisted uppercut. The blow sent the diver reeling against the fan-tail of the Sleuth. Staggering, the black figure noticed Chet beginning to revive. In a flash he dived overboard and disappeared.

Joe hurried over to Frank, who by now was sitting up groggily. “Thank goodness you’re all right,” he said. “Chet, you okay?”

Chet winced and rubbed his jaw, but smiled gamely. “You Hardys are the ones I’m worried about!”

“You can’t keep us down!” Joe said with a grin as he helped Frank to his feet.

“Thanks for saving my wet skin,” Frank said.

Shivering, Joe crouched out of the wind and started the engine. He pointed to starboard. “Look!”

Fifty yards away the fishing boat idled in the waves, its lights extinguished. Through the darkness, the boy could see its pilot pulling another figure aboard. Then the boat sped in the direction of Bayport.

“Let’s go!” Frank said.

The Sleuth followed. It was just closing the gap near the mouth of Barmet Bay when the motor began sputtering. The gas gauge read empty. In disgust the boys watched the black boat vanish down the coast.

“How are we going to make the boathouse?” Chet asked nervously.

Frank pointed to the emergency oars. “The tide’s coming in, so that’ll help us row.”

Joe was angry about the fishing boat and its occupants getting away. Frank consoled him. “At least we’ve learned the owner of that boat is in on this racket. Also, I’m sure we had our first meeting with the spider-man!”

“Who?” chorused Joe and Chet.

“The skin diver—he’s powerful enough to scale cliffs. And that pike he had is used for mountain climbing.”

Chet shuddered. “Or a weapon.”

“He’s the one who trapped Callie in the net,” Joe added.

Frank expressed disappointment at his failure to get a look aboard the barge or at the man who had knocked him into the water. “We’ll have to tackle the problem from another angle.”

“Not tonight!” Chet begged. “We’ve had enough.”

The Hardys agreed and the boys rowed wearily to the boathouse.

First thing the next morning Frank checked with police headquarters. There were no leads to any of the missing Dodds. The brothers were discussing what move they should make next, when the telephone rang. It was Tony Prito. He excitedly asked the boys to come to the Napoli’s boathouse at once. “It’s important!”

When they met him, Joe asked, “What’s up?”

“Can’t tell you yet.” Their friend, wearing swimming trunks, hurried them aboard his motorboat and steered north out of Barmet Bay. He slowed down just past Bay Bluff.

“I think I saw something out here yesterday, and if it’s what I suspect—”

Tony headed toward the shoreline, studying the water closely. Suddenly he cut the motor and leaned over the side. The Hardys followed his pointing finger.

“Down there!”

Beneath the gray surface of the water, a slight glimmer of light was visible. Straining their eyes, Frank and Joe could make out part of a green-and- white object. Their hearts jumped.

“Jack’s boat!” Frank exclaimed. “Do you think—” He did not voice the dreadful thought that crossed each boy’s mind.

Tony said tersely. “We won’t know until one of us goes down there. I’ll go!”

Tensely Frank and Joe watched Tony’s lithe body cut the water and his distorted image vanish into the depths. They waited in grim silence.

When Tony’s head broke the surface, the look on his face brought vast relief to the Hardys. “It’s the Dodds’ boat all right, but nobody’s in it.” He climbed aboard the Napoli, “Do you think their kidnappers scuttled it?”

“Probably,” Frank guessed, “they wanted the boat out of the way so that the police would think the Dodds had escaped in it. We’d better report this right away.”

Tony drove back to Bayport and the brothers went home. They had just entered the kitchen door when the telephone rang. Joe answered it.

“Joe Hardy speaking.”

The voice at the other end said crisply:

“Kid, you and your brother have meddled enough. If you ever want to see your friends alive again, get out of town and stay out for five days—it might be good for your mother’s and aunt’s health too. This is your last warning! And be sure to take a look out your front window before leaving.”

When Joe heard the receiver click, he hung up and told Frank of the threat. “It was Slagel, I’m sure.”

The brothers ran to the front windows.

Between two trees along their quiet street, a black sedan was parked. Two strangers sat silently in the front seat watching the Hardy house.

Joe was upset. “We can’t just obey Slagel—but we can’t ignore a threat to Mother and Aunt Gertrude, either. What choice have we? Maybe we should call the police.”

Frank thought a minute, then his eyes lighted up. “Not yet, Joe. Let’s try our wooden-horse operation!”

The boys suddenly realized how well their secret plan would work during the present predicament. Joe led the way upstairs. “Of course! If we leave now for Harpertown, we could buy the car while we’re ‘vacationing.’ And then—” he grinned—“gallop into Troy!”

The boys brought down suitcases from the attic and packed them hastily. While Frank changed into Bermuda shorts and a light jacket, Joe opened a closet and brought out a fishing rod, surfboard, and an air mattress. “We may as well make it look good.”

Frank was sober. “We’ll have to let Mother and Aunt Gertrude know why we’re leaving, but I hate to worry them.”

“We’ll have to tell them for their own safety. Besides, it’s the best reason we’ve had for a vacation in a long while!”

Twenty minutes later, their bags and gear at the foot of the stairs, the brothers went into the kitchen and told the two women of the threat. “But we’ll be able to return to Bayport in less than a week,” Joe added.

“We’ll phone you as often as we can,” Frank assured them. “It will be the only way for us to know you’re both safe.”

Mrs. Hardy’s pretty face showed worry, but she forced a smile and kissed them. “Frank—Joe—take care of yourselves. You promise you’ll be able to return in a few days?”

“We may be home sooner than you think.” Joe chuckled.

Aunt Gertrude’s face wore an expression of militance. Removing her apron, she took a large frying pan off a hook.

“Just where are these two men watching our house?” she asked, brandishing her weapon. “Who do they think they are, threatening my nephews!”

It took Laura Hardy’s help to restrain their courageous relative from marching outside. Finally she replaced the frying pan.

“Aunty,” said Frank, “this isn’t really a Hardy retreat. It’s sort of a strategic withdrawal.”

The boys made two quick telephone calls, one to Chet, and the other to telegraph their father. Then they took some cash which they kept in the house safe. Picking up a suitcase, Frank turned to Miss Hardy. “Aunty, you and Mother can help by showing a lot of emotion out at the car. We want to impress those men.”

The two women did their part. When the boys had loaded all their luggage and vacation equipment into their father’s car, Mrs. Hardy embraced them fervently. Aunt Gertrude’s eyes were red as from weeping. In each hand she held a concealed onion. From their car, the two men watched the well-staged scene.

Amidst much waving Frank and Joe pulled down the driveway and drove up the street. The black sedan moved out and followed.

When the boys reached the highway beyond the city limits, Joe glanced back at the car following. “Next stop Harpertown,” he said. “Then the wooden horse!”

CHAPTER XVII

The Wooden Horse

FRANK kept the car at a leisurely speed. In the rear-view mirror he and Joe could see the black sedan fifty yards behind them.

“If we go any faster,” said Frank, “those men will think we’re trying to shake them. I want them to keep thinking we’re just going on a vacation.”

Using Route 10 and then the State Highway, the Hardys rolled along toward their destination. They had ten miles to go when Joe murmured, “They’re still trailing us.”

In Harpertown the Hardys headed for the beach resort area. Soon they drew up before a large seaside motel.

Frank took several bills out of his wallet and handed them to Joe. “We’d better pay for a week to make it look good.”

Frank stayed behind the wheel while Joe went in to register. When he came out again, they took their luggage from the trunk.

“Our friends are still along,” Frank whispered.

Joe could see the black sedan parked to their rear half a block away. Paying no attention, the boys carried their gear in two trips up to their second-floor room. On the last trip, Joe overheard the sedan’s driver checking the Hardys’ length of stay with the desk clerk.

In the room the boys changed into swimming trunks. “It’s a shame we can’t enjoy what we paid for.” Frank smiled. “But we’ll put on a good act for our two friends.”

When the Hardys returned from a brief swim, the black car was gone. “Think we’ve convinced them?” Joe asked.

“Yes. They’re probably hightailing it back to Bayport to attend to their—er—business.”

It was early afternoon when the brothers walked to a used-car lot in the Harpertown business district—the one Frank had scouted on his previous visit.

They looked over several late-model cars. Joe smiled. “It doesn’t seem possible we’re actually going to own a car.”

“You’re right.”

The heavy, round-faced owner approached them. His manner was friendly and he talked volubly.

“Thought I remembered one of you fellows,” he said, walking around with them. “What kind of car are you looking for?”

“Something pretty flashy, if it’s not too expensive,” Frank said.

“At least a year old,” Joe added, recalling the points common to the cars stolen on Shore Road. “And nothing foreign.”

The man knit his brows, then pointed out several large cars. He came to the end of a row. “Here’s a nice Booster six-cylinder job, white walls, power steering—”

The boys regarded the two-tone brown sedan, then shook their heads. “None of these are as sharp-looking as we wanted. Have you anything else?”

The owner led them to a far corner of the lot. He pointed to a handsome, sea-green Chancellor, a model two years old. Excited, both boys walked around it several times.

“She’s a real limousine all right,” the dealer acknowledged. “But her engine’s not the best and the carburetor could use some work. Wouldn’t buy her myself, but if you boys want a flashy car, that’s the one.”

The Hardys climbed inside, then got out again. There was no question of the car’s luxurious appearance.

Excited, Joe looked at his brother. “What do you think?”

Frank checked the trunk before replying, then grinned. “I think we’ve found our horse!” Frank exclaimed. He turned to the man. “What are you asking for her?”

“I’ll give you a fair price.”

An hour later the Hardys happily closed the deal on the Chancellor. They had the bill of sale and new license plates. As the boys proudly received the keys and got in, with Frank at the wheel, the man leaned in the window.

“Can’t understand why you care just about the car’s appearance. But I wish you lots of luck.” He started away, then looked back. “By the way, if you fellows are heading south, you’d better watch this baby near the Bridgewater-Bayport area. Been lots of thefts down there, and this is the sort of car they’ve been taking.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

Back at the motel, Frank and Joe rechecked the entire parking area for the black sedan. But it seemed to be gone for good. They now locked their father’s car securely. “We’ll have to leave this here in case those men return,” Frank said. In their own handsome car, they were soon on the road back to Bayport.

“How does she drive?” Joe asked.

“A little slow starting. Otherwise, no trouble. After paying for a ‘week’s vacation’ and a risky purchase, do you know how much money we have left?” Frank shook his pocket. “Three dollars and forty-seven cents!”

“Not much for a sleuthing trip,” Joe commented. He traded places to try the car.

Frank switched on the radio in time to hear the end of a news bulletin.

“The car had been parked near a public-telephone booth at Ocean Bluff on Shore Road.”

“Slagel’s men are still in operation. That’s a good sign—for us, anyway,” Frank remarked.

The Hardys stopped along the highway at a small diner for a quick bite to eat, then phoned Chet. He promised to meet them in his car near a Shore Road camping area.

Dusk was falling when his jalopy rattled to a stop near their car behind some trees at the Pine-wood Campsite.

“Jumpin’ catfish!” he exclaimed. “She’s a real beauty!”

The Hardys gave him the details of their being followed and the purchase. They directed Chet to park his car in an inconspicuous spot on the other side of the highway.

The boys’ plan, though dangerous, was simple. If one of the gang took the “bait” and drove off in the Hardys’ new car unaware of the brothers in the trunk, Chet was to follow cautiously at some distance. When he was sure of the thief’s destination, he was to notify the police as quickly as possible.

“Of course I know the real reason you guys want my car parked over here.” Chet winked as the Hardys wished him good luck at his post. “You’re afraid my four-wheeler will tempt Slagel’s man away from yours.”

Joe grinned. “Fat chance.”

When darkness fell, the brothers climbed inside the trunk of their car and closed it. Joe had punched minute air holes in the metal near the seams. Although the air was very close, Frank and Joe were too tense to notice any discomfort.

Several hours passed, as they crouched in rigid silence. The only sounds were those of cars passing north and south on Shore Road.

The luminous dial on Frank’s watch read one-thirty when they detected approaching footsteps. The Hardys stiffened.

The crunch of feet on gravel became louder, then stopped. After a silence, the boys felt the car door being opened and an added weight in front. Joe bit his lips.

The motor turned over weakly, sputtered, and died.

Several more attempts were made, but the engine only whined futilely. Both boys recognized the voice of Slagel complaining loudly. The car door slammed and the man’s footsteps faded away.

The Hardys were bitterly disappointed. When they were sure Slagel had gone, the boys climbed out. “Guess that ends our wooden-horse bit tonight,” said Joe in disgust as they signaled to Chet by flashlight to join them.

“What a bad break!” their friend said. “Can we try again tomorrow night?”

“You bet!” Frank answered. “Next time this car won’t fail us! By the way, can we borrow a little money from you to tide us over?”

“Sure thing, but I only have ten dollars.”

Tired and stiff, the Hardys primed the motor and reluctantly it started. They bid good night to Chet and drove back to their motel in Harpertown. In the morning they had breakfast and attended church. The Hardys spent the balance of the day working on the car engine.

Periodically they listened to radio newscasts, but there was no report of thefts.

After supper the brothers set out once more. “Cross your fingers and hope this car will be stolen!” Frank said as they left Harpertown.

The three boys had decided upon another spot for their mission—near a deserted fishing area on Shore Road somewhat south of the place used the previous evening. Chet arrived and took up his position in the dark woods.

This time Joe had placed an air mattress on the floor of the trunk and each carried a flashlight. As the Hardys climbed in, threatening storm clouds blotted the night sky. They snapped down the lid. Again the brothers imposed a rigid silence upon themselves.

Few cars came by, and only the faint sound of the sea reached their ears during the slowly passing hours. Once Frank and Joe heard the voices of two night fishermen on their way down to the beach. Then it was still again. A boat whistle tooted mournfully from far out on the bay. Another hour dragged by.

Would the boys’ plan to capture the car thief work?

A car approached, slowed down, and stopped. Then a door opened and shut quietly before heavy footsteps came toward the hidden boys. After a pause, Frank and Joe heard the front door of their own car close. They waited in an agony of suspense. Would the boys’ plan to capture the thieves work?

The engine roared to life!

In a moment the boys’ car was being backed up. Then it spun around and headed south on Shore Road. About a mile farther on, the Hardys braced themselves as the car turned sharply and headed in the opposite direction.

Frank held up his fingers in the shape of a V and grinned. The brothers tried to detect the sound of Chet’s rattling jalopy to their rear, but could not do so above the noise of their own engine.

Joe watched the second hand of his watch, trying to estimate the distance north the car was covering. After eight minutes had passed, they slowed down. Frank heard a loud rattling sound like that of machinery. “A tractor!” he thought, and hastily whispered:

“Birnham’s farm!”

It soon became clear that the car was not continuing toward Pembroke Road, Route 7, or Springer Road. Remembering Birnham’s dirt lane, both Hardys anticipated entering this. But instead, the car slowed almost to a stop, then veered sharply to the left and began to bounce up and down, apparently going over bumpy terrain. At one point, Joe grimaced as his head struck the trunk lid. After a time the car hit a short, smooth stretch, then went downhill before the driver stopped and let the motor idle.

The Hardys heard a man say, “Okay in the gully!”

The boys were thrown forward as the car resumed its descent, and the roar of the ocean became louder. Their next sensation was of a soft, smooth surface before the car came to a halt. The engine was shut off.

“Nice work, Ben. She’s a pretty one. Where’d you pick her up?”

“About five miles south—a real cinch.”

“Anything valuable in the trunk?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t have time to check. Let’s take a look.”

A sinking feeling came over the Hardy boys! Holding their breaths, they clenched their flashlights.

The key was inserted into the lock of the trunk!

CHAPTER XVIII

Prisoner Rescue

FRANK and Joe crouched in the trunk, poised to defend themselves. At that moment there came a call from a distance, then the scrape of the key being withdrawn.

“We’d better go,” said one of the men.

After their footsteps had faded, all was silent.

“Let’s get out of here before they come back!” Frank whispered.

Raising the lid, the brothers climbed out and found themselves in darkness. They stood on the beach.

“This is where that black fishing boat docks!” Joe whispered. “It’s anchored out in the cove now!”

As the boys watched it, Frank said, “We cased this inlet from the Sleuth and didn’t see anything suspicious.”

The brothers crouched behind upjutting rocks and beamed their lights upward. There was a short gully from the beach to the grassy slope.

“Look!” Frank hissed.

Pegged into the soil near the foot of the slope was the end of a long stretch of thick netting.

“It must go to the top!” he said. “That’s how they get the stolen cars down! The net would give the cars traction. Slagel’s Army hitch probably taught him this type of operation.”

Frank reasoned that the bumpy part of the boys’ trunk ride had been through Birnham’s unplanted field to its far end. “To cover tire tracks of stolen cars pronto,” he added, “the thieves had Birnham use his tractor and disk harrow over the ground. That explains his night farming. Next, the thieves crossed Shore Road for the descent and Birnham brushed away any tire tracks across the road.”

Joe nodded. “The same truck must transport cars at night to Kitcher’s before shipping them south of here—probably to New York. But that junk we saw put onto the barge puzzles me.”

“Perhaps,” Frank suggested, “Kitcher was moving it to make room for Slagel’s booty.”

“Let’s find out where those men who brought us here went!” Joe urged.

Hugging the cliff base, the brothers proceeded in darkness along the beach. Presently they came to the mouth of a tunnel covered with hanging rockweed.

“No wonder we didn’t know about this place,” Joe whispered.

The boys noticed a strange odor of explosive powder and several dead bats.

“Dynamite!” said Frank. “It was probably what killed the bats we’ve found—one of them managed to fly as far as Oceanside Beach, the other died when it reached the Dodd farm. Slagel’s gang must have enlarged this place to be used as headquarters.”

A large rock just beyond the entrance apparently stood ready to be rolled into position as extra concealment for the mouth of the tunnel.

The boys, their eyes still on the launch, moved farther along the base of the sheer rock cliff hunting for additional evidence. Joe’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he saw some mossy vegetation near a cluster of rocky projections. Wading out, he halted and covering the beam of his flash with his hands, held the light directly over the moss.

He was about to nudge Frank when they heard a motor start. Joe put out his light. The black fishing boat, a lighted lamp in the stern, began to move to the dock.

“Quick! Behind these rocks!” Frank urged his brother.

The boys crouched as the boat glided in. After the craft was moored, two men jumped from it and walked toward the tunnel entrance. One was the belligerent fisherman. The other, in a black skin-diving suit, they recognized as the man who had attacked them in the Sleuth, When the two disappeared through the rockweed, the Hardys followed them up the passageway.

A hundred feet in, cold air carried the smell of fresh paint, and presently they began passing newly painted cars. As the Hardys proceeded, with flashlights off, each boy had the same thoughts: Were they about to solve the mystery of the stolen cars? Was Chet safely on his way to the police? Would the next few minutes lead them to the three Dodds?

Suddenly Frank detected footsteps to their rear. He grabbed Joe’s shoulder and they threw themselves flat against the wall, holding their breaths so as not to make a sound.

The steps came abreast of them.

Slagel!

Fortunately, his light beam kept to the center of the tunnel and he soon passed ahead. As Joe breathed out again, he said, “That was close!”

“Too close!” Frank murmured.

Walking forward even more cautiously, the Hardys rounded a bend and sidestepped a pile of broken shale. At several places the passageway was roof-beamed against cave-ins. Chipped-out hollows in the walls held automobile tools and rifles.

The tunnel came to an end in a large chamber, dimly lighted. Frank and Joe slipped into a narrow side passage, where Frank spotted a small, natural peephole in the wall. He peered into the room.

Against the opposite wall three men lounged on boxes near a row of cots. One of them stopped reading a newspaper aloud. Next to them stood several glistening machine guns, an oddly designed mortar, and numerous stacks of lighter shoulder weapons.

“They must be the foreign arms Melliman is trading with Slagel in return for the cars,” Joe thought as he took a turn at the peephole.

Suddenly the high-pitched whine of a sanding machine caught the boys’ ears and they saw a workman in a spotted white jacket start removing paint from a large, new sedan. Near him another man was spraying a car with green paint.

Their appearance evoked Frank’s excitement. He thought, “That cinches it—those battered-looking cars on the barge were stolen! Instead of just repainting them to look new, Melliman has the color changed and then has the cars made to look worthless without really damaging them, so he can fool the local police. No doubt he spruces them up again when they reach New York!”

Two cars along a side wall caught Joe’s attention. He recognized the model and year of one as being similar to Jerry Gilroy’s stolen car! “But this one looks really beat up!” The car was severely corroded by fire and rust.

“Anyway,” Joe decided, “this explains why brand-new cars weren’t stolen. It’s easier to damage a used car. But why do all this disguising? Melliman must think it’s worthwhile. There’s something more to this whole deal than we’ve figured out yet. Maybe the cars will be sold in a distant foreign market.”

Slagel stood in the center of the cavern conversing with the skin diver. When the sanding machine was turned off, the boys heard Slagel refer to him as Reb. They also detected garbled voices below them but had no view of the speakers.

Having seen everything close at hand, the young detectives turned to the more important concern of trying to find the Dodds. Silently they moved off down the narrower side tunnel. Holding their arms before them, Frank and Joe found the passage widened only slightly, then ended at a blank rock wall. Frank switched on his flashlight for a moment and almost cried out.

Bound and gagged only inches from his foot lay Professor Martin Dodd!

The man’s face showed astonishment and relief as Frank put a finger to his lips, then dropped down to untie the professor. At the same time, Frank felt a nudge from Joe who pointed. Against a side wall lay Jack Dodd and his father!

The boys rushed over to unbind them and remove the gags. Both looked thin and haggard from their ordeal, but their faces lit up as the Hardys helped them stand.

“But how—” Jack whispered.

Joe cut him off and murmured in his ear, “Chet should be on his way here with the police by now. Let’s get outside before the fireworks begin. Is there another exit besides the main tunnel?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We’ll have to chance it then,” Joe said.

Mr. Dodd stumbled with his first step, his limbs weak from the tight ropes. He muffled a cough as he took a few steps to regain his strength. Then he nodded that he would be all right.

The Hardys switched off their flashlights. Martin Dodd and Frank led the way out, followed by Jack and his father. Joe took the rear.

They were halfway down the side passage when the glare of four flashlights almost blinded them. An affected voice rang out.

“Why, my friends the Hardy boys! And here I had thought you weren’t interested in taking my confidential case!”

Mellimanl

CHAPTER XIX

Hopeless Escape

CONFRONTED by a submachine-gun barrel, the Hardys and the Dodds were strong-armed by a dozen henchmen behind Melliman and shoved into the main cavern. The prisoners’ hands were quickly tied while two thugs trained guns on them.

“A pity,” Melliman began, “that you should work such a splendid plan—and have it all come to nothing! Your unexpected visit, I am afraid, causes us a certain inconvenience.” His eyes glittered.

Slagel thrust himself in front of Frank and Joe and flashed the blade out of his cane. “You little punks! You’ve caused us more trouble than all the cops in the area! For two cents I’d—”

“No violence, Slagel!” snapped Melliman, restraining the gangster. “At least, not for the present.”

He turned to several of the men, including the husky skin diver the boys knew as the spider-man, and the red-haired man Chet had seen at Kitcher’s. “Get the cars ready for barge transport south—we’re moving everything out tonight. Reb, you and Montrose take the boat to Kitcher’s dock. Wait for the barge, then send her here immediately to the inlet.”

The diver nodded and ran down the tunnel to notify the fisherman.

Slagel voiced discontent. “Are we gonna close up shop just because a couple of kids—”

“We have no choice,” Melliman cut in as four men hastily lined up the refinished cars for movement down the tunnel. “Unfortunately, the Hardys may have relatives and friends who know they gave up the generous vacation we urged them to take.”

Slagel protested that a storm was brewing at sea, but the unctuous Melliman soon convinced him by saying. “The arms and tanks of nerve gas are yours to do with as you like.”

“You double-crosser!” Slagel yelled. “You’re not leavin’ me to take the rap!”

The two finally agreed that the lethal gas would go on the barge as usual, carefully packed in the trunks of the cars, and accompanied by Melliman. Slagel and the other henchmen would head south in Birnham’s large truck, taking the weapons with them. They would meet Melliman’s barge in New York. A thug was dispatched to inform Birnham of the evacuation of the hideout.

While Slagel and Melliman stood with two guards near the prisoners, three men worked quickly on one of the unfinished cars near the paint rack, removing two door windows, sanding down the hood, and replacing its new tires with old ones. Both Frank and Joe noticed one man applying peculiar reddish and black compounds to the roof and sides.

Slagel pointed his cane at the five captives. “What about a halfway trip for ’em on the barge?”

Melliman removed his spectacles. “For the Dodds and the esteemed professor, perhaps. It might prove diverting for the police to find their bodies washed ashore. But we reserve a special treatment for the famous Hardy boys.”

Melliman turned to the guard holding the automatic weapon. “Take them all into the gas alcove.”

As the Dodds were pushed into line behind them, Frank whispered to Joe, “Try to keep Melliman talking until Chet and the police arrive—it’s our only chance!”

The prisoners were led past a trunk of gas masks into a small corner previously not visible to them. Joe felt a shiver when he saw twenty metal cylinders against the damp wall. Most were black or orange, and a few, near their nozzles, had round meters. He could barely make out their chemical symbols and some foreign words.

Since Melliman planned to take the Dodds on the barge, only the Hardys’ legs were bound. One of the men ran to the tunnel entrance to watch for the incoming barge.

Frank spoke to Melliman. “Maybe you won’t mind telling us why you framed the Dodds.”

“Not at all.” The man smiled. “We noticed the boy Jack often snooping along the coast around here. We couldn’t afford to have him find our setup.”

“So you had your spider-man sabotage his boat off Oceanside Beach?” Joe asked.

“Yes. Unfortunately, it didn’t prove successful. Since your friends live on Shore Road, we conveniently made them suspects and—shall we say? —arranged for them to jump bail.”

Immediately the Hardys realized that the gang had not known of the Dodd Pilgrim mystery when they captured the farmer and his son. They were surprised, therefore, when Jack said:

“I never got a chance to tell you fellows my ideas about the treasure clue. I had looked inland and thought I’d search along the coast.” He frowned. “Guess I was wrong.”

Frank was about to suggest that Jack say no more, when Melliman interrupted. “Oh, yes, my friends and I first learned about this treasure when the Dodds came here as our guests. Jack was rather heated about our understanding of his coast prowling and let it slip out. But since then, both he and his father have been uncooperative in sharing their family secret with us.”

Frank changed the subject and asked Melliman, “What led you to postpone your car shipment last Thursday at Kitcher’s docks?”

“The weather,” Slagel put in, surprised to learn the boys had been there.

“Yes,” Melliman said. “I conceived our ingenious car disguises, although my partner here has helped considerably with his knowledge of camouflage. I figured if his rust and char coatings did not wash off in rain, weather would be of no concern to us. Nevertheless, we have tarpaulins on the barge, and tonight’s impending storm should cause us no difficulties.”

“And the fisherman was a lookout along the coast for parked cars—just as Slagel was on his trips up and down Shore Road?” Joe asked.

“Exactly. Since terrain or circumstances sometimes presented problems, we also made use of Montrose’s colleague, Reb, with his swimming and climbing abilities.

“And that’s where the lamp signals from the fishing boat figured?”

“Yes. During daylight Montrose signaled tips to Slagel by his anchoring at various places off shore. As for the lamps, they made the boat easily identifiable at night.”

Melliman grinned mockingly. “You recall the signals before Paul Revere’s ride? One light if an attack was coming by land, two if by sea? When Slagel saw two flashes, he knew Reb had spotted the police or you boys on the water and stopped bringing any stolen cars down the hillside! Our spider-man was a good go-between.”

“That’s right,” said Slagel. “And I left the brown paint flecks and car tracks to fool the police. But I was a fool to lose my glove on the beach.”

Melliman remarked, “Birnham has been most helpful. He disked out the stolen car tracks from his field and brushed them off the road when we brought the cars down the slope. He had the idea of his car being ‘stolen’ to throw suspicion elsewhere. Birnham had already told us of this tunnel and cave, which were ideal for a smuggling operation. We blasted it out for our needs. His truck to transport shipments to Kitcher’s and his blockades were effective too.”

Joe glared at Melliman. “And you’re bringing guns and nerve gases into the United States for use by subversive gangs?”

Melliman scowled. “You’re too smart. But it won’t help you now. You boys should have accepted that assignment I offered you—it would have taken you safely out of town. Even your illustrious detective father can’t do you any good now. We have eluded him.”

The Hardys were told that Slagel had sent two men to put the brothers, and later Scratch, to sleep with gas. “You and the old geezer were in our way.”

“You didn’t get our dad’s car,” Joe needled.

“True,” said Slagel, but added he had thrown the dud grenade into the Hardys’ lab, and shot at the boys in the plane. He and Reb had pushed the Dodds’ station wagon off Saucer Rock. He himself had tied up the two fishermen, and strung the wire netting into which Joe had crashed. The skin diver had damaged Jack’s boat.

When footsteps sounded in the tunnel, Martin Dodd turned to the boys and whispered, “I guess it’s all over for us—and solving the Pilgrim mystery—but I want to thank you for—”

Frank was about to tell the professor of their hopes invested in Chet when three figures entered the chamber. Frank and Joe paled.

Held prisoner between two men stood Chet!

“This is the kid I saw in the truck at Kitcher’s,” one said. “He took our record. We just caught him at the top of the slope. Lucky thing, or he’d have brought the police.”

“Aha, a loyal friend of the Hardys!” Melliman pushed the petrified Chet against the wall and turned to his captors. “Isn’t the barge here yet?”

“Just comin’ now.”

“Good! Get these three Dodds out to the beach. Then clear that car out of the entrance. It hasn’t been coated yet. Next start these other autos down the tunnel. Quick!”

The Dodds were seized and led into the main tunnel. Chet and the brothers remained with Slagel, Melliman, and a fat, armed henchman.

“Well”—Melliman rubbed his hands—“we’ll have to part company now. I’ve decided to let you boys enjoy your last hours here together! Slagel, have one of your men wire the remaining dynamite at the tunnel entrance.”

Slagel snickered as Melliman went on, “Boys, we’ll even provide a little atmosphere.” He winked at the fat henchman and pointed to the three cylinders. “When we call, you’ll know what to do.”

After Melliman and Slagel had left, Chet turned dismally to Frank and Joe.

“I’m sorry, fellows. I wasn’t quick enough. I was heading for my car when those creeps nabbed me.”

“We’re not cooked yet,” Frank consoled him in a whisper as he watched the squat man guarding them. “We must get out of here! Joe, did you notice that two of those worn metal cylinders against the wall are different from the others?”

Joe glanced to his right. His eyes widened. “They’re just plain oxygen!”

“Right. Probably from the spider-climber’s aqualung gear. Melliman must have left them here because they’re empty,” Frank whispered. “But maybe our guard doesn’t know that!”

Not only were the oxygen cylinders of the same height and black color as the ones containing poisonous gas, but their labels were not visible to the guard.

“Hey, cut out that talking!” the gunman barked. “I’ve got to listen to know when to blow that gas and leave this joint—fast!”

Actually he seemed to be paying little attention to the tied-up boys. After a moment Frank checked with Chet, then nodded to Joe.

Shuffling quickly to an upright position, Joe swung his body wildly, pretending to get his ropes up on the sharp rock. Instead, he bumped purposely into one of the oxygen cylinders and forcefully toppled it over. The slender metal valve at the top smashed hollowly against the stone. The rolling cylinder clattered along the ground. By the time the startled man had spun around, all three boys were coughing violently.

“You fools!” he cried. His eyes filled with fear, he hesitated. Then, cupping his mouth, he raced out of the cavern and down the tunnel.

Immediately Frank crawled to the painting area of the cavern. He turned on the abandoned sander, wincing as the ropes smoked and finally broke between his hands. In seconds he had untied the other boys.

“Let’s get to the Dodds!” Joe urged. The boys had just taken a step forward when three men rushed in from the tunnel. Though all of them wore white cloths over their faces, Frank recognized two as the fleeing guard and the surly fisherman named Montrose. The third wore a barge pilot’s uniform.

He cried out, “Gas? There’s no gas here! These kids tricked you!” The men pulled down their masks and advanced. “Let’s finish ’em off right here!”

The boys were trapped!

CHAPTER XX

Roundup and Treasure

MONTROSE whipped out a blackjack and advanced on the boys. The next instant he felt himself yanked around. An iron fist crashed into his jaw and dropped him unconscious to the floor.

The astonished boys saw that his attacker was the bargeman who had ripped off a mask, revealing the face of Fenton Hardy! Over his shoulders were several coils of rope.

Losing no time, Joe rushed the equally astonished guard. Blocking a wild swing, he drove a punch into the man’s solar plexus. He doubled up and fell to his knees.

“Quick! Let’s get these men tied!” Frank urged. He grabbed the rope from his father and with Chet’s help bound both men securely. Mr. Hardy gagged them.

Chet exclaimed, “Mr. Hardy, you’re a magician! How did you ever—”

“When I got my sons’ telegram about the wooden-horse plan I was just finishing the last stage of my undercover work on Melliman’s operations. I thought you might need help, so I stowed away on that barge when it docked at Kitcher’s to deliver smuggled arms that were going to Slagel.”

Frank briefed the detective on the excitement of the past few hours. “But Chet never got to the police!”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “I have good news. They should be on their way here right now! When that man in the fishing boat signaled an emergency call to the barge, I kayoed the barge pilot, then borrowed his uniform and came ashore. But first I alerted the police over my short-wave radio to grab Kitcher and watch where the fishing boat headed.”

“And then you heard the ‘gas’ alarm from this guard when you docked?” Joe asked.

“Right. One of the thugs on the beach suspected it might have been an empty oxygen tank you boys had knocked over. But when they took the precaution of putting handkerchiefs over their faces, it gave me a chance to come along undetected by doing the same thing.”

Leaving the thugs securely tied, Mr. Hardy led the boys toward the beach.

“It’s my guess,” said Frank, “they have the Dodds in one of those cars they’re loading onto the barge.”

“Then we’ll have to stand them off until Collig’s men arrivel” his father said.

He and the boys halted just inside the entrance and peered out through the curtain of rockweed.

The barge rocked gently at the tip of the dock, its lights out. A few cars were already aboard. The Hardys’ own automobile stood nearby, while Birnham’s truck was parked at the end of the gully. Guns and crates were being loaded into it quickly, as black storm clouds rolled ominously over the scene.

“Do you think the gang’s lookouts may spot the police?” Frank murmured.

“Could be,” his father whispered. “How many routes are there off this beach?”

“Just one—that gully over there,” Cher answered. “It connects with the grassy slope to the top of the cliff.”

A short time later the barge was fully loaded. A man began untying its mooring rope.

Mr. Hardy fastened his handkerchief over his face. “I’m going to draw some of them into the tunnel. Think you boys can cause them a little trouble out there on the beach?”

“I’ll handle the gully,” Joe whispered.

“Chet and I will watch the barge,” Frank offered.

When the boys had backed against the rock wall near the tunnel, the detective ran toward the barge and gave a muffled shout.

“Hey, quick, some of you guys give me a hand with these kids in here!”

At once several footsteps pounded down the ramp onto the dock. Mr. Hardy dashed back into the tunnel. In a moment four men raced in after him. At once Frank, Joe, and Chet sprang into action.

Joe ran toward Birnham’s truck, which was guarded by two men. After landing a stunning punch to one thief’s jaw, he blocked the other with an upturned crate. Like lightning Joe leaped to the right-front tire and drove his pocketknife deep into the thick rubber until it collapsed. Yanking out the knife, Joe bounded into the gully.

Meanwhile, Frank and Chet were sprinting to the barge ramp. As Frank glanced back, he saw Chet trip, and the stocky figure of Birnham rushing to tackle him. Chet threw him off, however, and Frank rushed onto the ramp. Two men on the barge charged him.

Sidestepping the larger thug, Frank recognized the second man as Montrose. The boatman raised a tire iron, but got no further as Frank’s head rammed into his midriff. With a groan, Montrose toppled backward onto the dock.

The next second Frank felt a sharp blow on his shoulder and the two strong arms of Slagel dragged him out to the beach. Slagel thrashed at Frank with his cane and the two rolled over and over in the wet sand. Suddenly the sound of wailing sirens put an end to the struggle. Slagel leaped up and bolted toward the tunnel. At the same time came a shout. “Cops!”

Dazed, Frank staggered to his feet in time to see four men climb into the brothers’ car and race it into the gully!

Searchlights flashed on the beach and policemen swarmed down the grass slope. Just then a figure darted past Frank onto the barge. Melliman! Before Frank was halfway up the ramp, Melliman had kicked out the tire braces of one of the cars and rolled the car over the edge into the water.

For an instant Frank wondered why. Then he thought, “The Dodds must be inside!”

Melliman now leaped aboard the adjacent fishing boat. By this time Frank was in the water swimming in the direction of the sinking vehicle. When he reached it, Frank could see the three helpless Dodds within. The water was rising rapidly. Frank pulled on a door, but the pressure against it was too great!

“Hold on!” he yelled.

Fortunately, two policemen had followed Frank. Together, they pulled the door open, yanked the Dodds out, and bore them safely through the rising waves to the beach.

Chief Collig rushed up. “Are you all okay?”

“Fine, thanks, sir,” Jack gasped as he was cut loose. His father and uncle, having swallowed some water, coughed violently but soon were able to stand up.

“The crooks escaped in our car!” Frank exclaimed, starting toward the gully.

Collig stopped him. “Your brother pulled a fast one on them. He waited at the top of the cliff until they were halfway up the slope, then unfastened the netting. As it slid down, they couldn’t move, and our men caught them. Your dad, after tunneling up half the gang, also took care of this fellow with the cane. He was still out cold when we handcuffed him!”

Just then Joe ran up, his face flushed with excitement and relief at the Dodds’ rescue. When Mr. Hardy joined the group, the others learned that Melliman had not escaped in the fishing boat. “Apparently he couldn’t get it started.”

“And why not?” asked a familiar voice with a proud ring in it.

“Chet!”

Soaked to the skin, Chet added, “A knowledge of botany goes a long way—especially in learning to knot seaweed into a boat propeller!”

By now, Slagel, Melliman, and the rest of the prisoners had been led away to police cars on the cliff above. Only Collig and another officer remained on the beach with the Hardys and Dodds. The tide was rolling in now, and jagged streaks of lightning could be seen.

“How can we ever thank you Hardys and Chet enough!” Mr. Dodd said.

Collig added, “You boys will be receiving a handsome reward for your work.”

Joe’s eyes glistened. “I think there’s another case we’re going to solve tonight—the Pilgrim mystery.” He sloshed through the surf which had almost covered the beach. Chet, Frank, and the Dodds joined Joe as he pointed to some leaves along the cliff. Puzzled, Mr. Hardy and Collig watched from the remaining strip of dry sand.

“I noticed this algae earlier tonight, and if I’m not wrong, it matches the leaf in the Pilgrim message,” Joe declared.

“You’re right!” Jack exclaimed. “But the message seems to indicate a place on land.”

“Maybe we’ve been on the wrong track,” said Frank. “Professor Dodd, can you remember the last words of the clue?”

The tall professor knew them by heart.“‘Crash of countless breaking black—’ ”

“ ‘Billows’! Not willows!” Joe finished. “Waves would break in a hurricane as well as trees.”

“Joel” the professor cried excitedly. “My calculations on the position of Venus—which is now obscured by clouds—had led me to this area of the coast a short time before I was seized by Slagel’s men!”

Chet pulled a soaked book from his pocket. “That growth is chondrus crispus—Irish moss.”

Frank exclaimed, “It was several hundred years ago when the Pilgrim family perished! Since that time, this coastline may have fallen several feet and water may now cover the location of their shelter.”

“Then there may be a cave in the slope near where we’re standing!” Jack cried out.

Another streak of lightning could be seen in the distance and the waves were rising over the moss-covered rock.

“Let’s look before the storm gets here!” Joe urged.

With flashlights turned on the scene by the men, the four boys kicked off their shoes, stripped to their shorts, and dived in. Suddenly Frank came up and shouted, “I see something!”

Chet, Jack, and Joe swam over to him. Then all four vanished beneath a rough wave. Twenty seconds later they surfaced, holding a heavy object. Treading water, they maneuvered the object to the beach.

It was a steel-bound wooden chest!

Excitedly they set it down in the sand beyond the incoming tide, as the rest of the group rushed up. The metal had rusted almost to powder, and several holes gaped through the rotting wood. With Joe’s help, Jack raised the wobbly lid, and everyone stared in wonderment.

Piles of green and blue jewels, strings of ruby beads, and rotted pouches of gold coins glistened with sea water amid brown weeds and Irish moss. Near one corner lay a large, algae-covered object.

“Look!” Martin Dodd exclaimed excitedly.

It was a bottle! He handed it to Jack’s father, who carefully unstoppered it and removed a long roll of worn papers. The others gathered around as he read the first words aloud:

“‘The Record of a Perilouf Voyage in Fearch of the Horfefhoe-Fhaped Inlet, in the Year of Our Lord 1647, by Eliaf Dodd.”’

“We’ve found it!” Jack exclaimed.

As a streak of lightning creased the black skies, Frank glanced up at the cliffs. Suddenly he cried out, “There’s the answer to the clue’s last words!”

At the next flash the others looked up at the glistening rock. It had all the appearance of a vein of gold!

Drenched but happy, everyone walked toward the brothers’ car. Each of the four boys bore a corner of the chest. Frank and Joe wondered if any case as exciting as the one just solved would ever come their way. They were soon to find out, when challenged by The Secret of the Caves.

Frank now smiled at the Dodds. “How about a lift?”

“Only if you’ll promise to share Thanksgiving with us this fall,” Jack answered. “We’re going to have a feast that would make our ancestors proud! And you’re going to join us too, Chet. We’ll even have a special seaweed menu for you!”

“No roast turkey and sweet potatoes and—” Joe asked.

“Or chocolate cake with frosting,” Frank added.

Chet groaned “Stop it! Anything but sea-weedl”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Telescope Hill Trouble

CHAPTER II - Over the Fence

CHAPTER III - Bouncy Quill

CHAPTER IV - A Hazing Trick

CHAPTER V - Counterattack

CHAPTER VI - The Toppled Tower

CHAPTER VII - The Palais Paris

CHAPTER VIII - The Old Man’s Warning

CHAPTER IX - The Cavern

CHAPTER X - A Terrifying Loss

CHAPTER XI - No Trespassing!

CHAPTER XII - Undercover Work

CHAPTER XIII - A Straight-Line Clue

CHAPTER XIV - Startling News

CHAPTER XV - A Growing Suspicion

CHAPTER XVI - Deadly Clicking

CHAPTER XVII - A Bold Warning

CHAPTER XVIII - Searchlight

CHAPTER XIX - A Raft of Trouble

CHAPTER XX - Loyal Pals

THE SECRET OF THE CAVES

Triggered by the disappearance of a brilliant young professor, this mystery takes the Hardy boys first to Kenworthy College, where they find a puzzling message on an examination paper. But then their pal Chet Morton, with his new metal detector, and buddy Biff Hooper, turn up a clue that sends the young detectives on an exciting search in another direction—to the Honeycomb Caves, on the seacoast. A hot-tempered hermit who considers the caves his private domain complicates this seacoast mystery and challenges every sleuthing skill Frank and Joe possess.

The case that their famous detective father is working on—suspected sabotage at the new radar station near the Hardys’ home town of Bayport—further complicates the mystery, which grows more baffling with every chapter.

After many dangerous encounters, including a nearly disastrous patrol on the stormy ocean, Frank and Joe discover a powerful searchlight in one of the craggy caverns along the seacoast. In the brilliant white glare of the searchlight, the startling secret of the caves is dramatically revealed.

Chet let out a bloodcurdling cry

Copyright © 1992, 1964, 1957, 1929 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New

York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07622-4

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Telescope Hill Trouble

“DON’T kid me, fellows,” chubby Chet Morton said, moving his metal detector about the Hardys’ front lawn. “You can find all kinds of swell things on the beaches with this gadget.”

“Like what?” blond-haired Joe asked, winking at his brother Frank.

“Lost jewelry, money, gold-plated pens—”

Chet was interrupted by the arrival of a tall, broad-shouldered youth.

“Hi, Biff!” Frank called out. “Chet’s trying to find a treasure.”

Biff Hooper examined the new device and raised his eyebrows. “I know just where you can use this, Chet. You might find a lot of valuable stuff.”

“Where?”

“At the Honeycomb Caves. My grandfather told me a freighter was sunk off the point during a hurricane. Lots of stuff was washed up.”

“Just what I told you,” Chet said with a supercilious glance at the Hardy brothers.

Frank, eighteen, and Joe, a year younger, looked skeptically at their enthusiastic friends.

“There are a lot of important things to be found!” Chet burbled. “How about the four of us going on a trip together?”

“To the Honeycomb Caves?” Joe asked.

“Sure. Why not? It’s only fifty miles down the coast. Good swimming and fishing there, too.”

“I’ll explore the caves for hidden jewels,” Joe said dryly, “while you and Biff pick up a million dollars’ worth of rusty nails.”

“It’s a deal,” Biff said, laughing. “Let me try that gimmick, Chet.”

The stout boy removed the earphones from his head and handed Biff the long, thin tube with a metal disk at the end.

“When you hear a loud clicking,” Chet said, “you know that something metallic is under the ground.”

His face intent, big Biff moved about the grass with the detector. Suddenly a voice from inside the house called, “Frank! Joe!”

“Okay, Dad, we’re coming,” Joe answered. He leaped up the front steps three at a time, with Frank at his heels.

Inside, Mr. Hardy, a tall athletic man, motioned his sons into his study.

Fenton Hardy’s reputation as a sleuth was worldwide. A former crack New York City police officer, he had moved to Bayport to become a private detective. Now his sons seemed destined to follow in their father’s footsteps.

“What’s cooking, Dad?” Frank asked as the two boys sank into comfortable seats.

“Another mystery?” queried Joe.

Mr. Hardy flashed a smile, then became serious and opened a dossier before him on the desk. “I’ve got important news,” he said.

“About what, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Telescope Hill.”

“Where the U. S. is erecting the Coastal Radar Station?” asked Frank.

“Exactly.”

“What’s going on there?” Joe asked.

“Trouble. That’s all I know so far,” Mr. Hardy replied. He told his sons that he had been deputized by the U. S. Government to aid in security at the gigantic installation designed to protect the coast of North America.

“To hunt out spies?” Joe asked.

“More likely saboteurs. There have been some strange, unexplained accidents at the site.”

“Attack from within?” Frank queried.

“Yes. Perhaps a guard. That’s my guess. So I’m going to reorganize the guard security system and nip any trouble in the bud. I thought you boys might like to help.”

“Sure, Dad!” Frank said. “Will we need disguises or anything?”

“Not exactly.”

“But,” Joe began, “Chet wants us to—”

“That can wait,” Frank interrupted impatiently. “Can’t you see, Joe, we might be heading into a dilly of a mystery?”

Just then the quiet of the balmy June afternoon was shattered by a wild shriek in front of the Hardys’ home. Frank and Joe jumped up, startled.

“Good grief, something’s happened!” Frank exclaimed.

Both boys dashed out of the house, followed by Mr. Hardy. Chet was jumping up and down on the front lawn, while Biff, looking excited, made the metal disk hover above a spot on the lawn.

“He’s found a treasure!” Chet cried out. “This thing’s clicking like fury. We’ve really got something, Frank!”

Several cars passing the Hardy home slowed down as the drivers watched Chet’s antics. Then a huge trailer truck, carrying a load of construction steel, came to a halt while the driver honked for the cars to move on.

“More material for the radar installation,” Frank thought as the long vehicle rumbled out of sight down the street.

“Look, it’s right about here,” Biff said. He took off his earphones and marked an X on the grass.

“He’s found a treasure!” Chet cried out

“Do you expect us to dig up this fine lawn to satisfy your tomfoolery?” Joe said in mock seriousness.

“We just can’t let it lie there,” Chet protested. “Suppose it’s an old coin worth hundreds and hundreds of dollars.”

Now Mr. Hardy was interested. With a wink he said, “Okay, boys, dig it up. Let’s see what good detectives Chet and Biff are.”

Chet ran to the garage and returned with a shovel. With it he carefully cut the turf, placed it to one side, and probed the dirt with the point of his shovel. He hit something hard and metallic.

“What did I tell you?” Chet beamed. “This detector is the greatest. Oh boy, are we going to have fun at Honeycomb Caves!” He dug up a shovelful of dirt, which he deposited beside the hole.

From the soil fell the metallic object. The Hardys recognized it as a tiny toy fire engine, rusted and corroded.

As the others crowded about, Joe picked up the toy and wiped off the crumbling earth which clung to the wheels. “Thanks, Chet,” he said gravely, “I lost this fire engine seven years ago when I was ten.”

“You were probably trying to hide it from me,” said Frank, and laughed.

“Well,” said Biff, “we’ve found Chet’s Number One treasure. What’s next? A ship’s compass at Honeycomb Caves?”

Chuckling, Mr. Hardy excused himself, while the boys chatted about the trip.

“I’m afraid we can’t go, fellows,” Joe said.

“Not at this time, anyhow,” Frank chimed in. “We have to work on a case with Dad.”

“Say, what is going on?” Biff demanded.

“We can’t tell,” Frank replied. “It’s confidential.”

“Whatever it is,” Chet said, “count me out of any dangerous stuff.” Their stout friend bemoaned the fact that every time they were about to have fun, some sort of detective work had to come up.

Chet already had been involved in some deep mysteries which the Hardy boys had solved. But in each case, although reluctant at first, their staunch friend had joined in the sleuthing as an invaluable ally.

“When can you come with us?” asked Biff, evidently as eager as Chet to explore around Honeycomb Caves.

“That depends,” said Frank, “on—” His eyes were suddenly diverted by someone walking up the street.

The other three boys turned to see an attractive girl, about their age, hurrying along the sidewalk. She had wavy jet-black hair, flashing brown eyes, and a gait that told the world she was in a hurry.

“A new neighbor?” Biff whispered, grinning.

“I’ve never seen her before,” Joe said.

The girl, heels clicking, hastened to the Hardys’ front walk. There she stopped suddenly, turned toward the boys, and took a few steps forward.

Chet gave a low whistle and rolled his eyes. The girl, although she had a pretty face, wore a sad, worried look. “I would like to speak to the detective,” she said nervously.

Joe’s face brightened. “My brother Frank and I are detectives,” he replied. “May we help you?”

“Don’t mock me,” said the girl, and her lower lip quivered.

Frank and Joe were taken aback. But they were even more nonplused when their caller suddenly burst into tears!

CHAPTER II

Over the Fence

“HEY, wait a minute!” Joe blurted. “Don’t cry!” But tears continued to course down the girl’s face.

As the boys looked on in embarrassed silence, Mrs. Hardy hurried out of the door, followed by her husband.

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Laura Hardy, a slim, good-looking woman. She hastened to the girl and put an arm about her shoulder. “Come inside, dear. Perhaps we can help you.”

Frank whispered to Chet and Biff, “Wait here until we find what this is all about.”

Mrs. Hardy sat on the living-room sofa beside the young caller. The girl dried her eyes and announced that her name was Mary Todd. She sobbed once more and said, “My father was a friend of yours, Mr. Hardy.”

“Oh, yes. George Todd of the Redding Machine Company. A fine man. I haven’t seen him for years.”

“Well, Dad passed away, and Mother, too,” the girl said.

The Hardys all expressed sympathy. Then Mary explained, “That’s not why I’m crying, though. It’s about my brother.”

Mr. Hardy leaned forward in his chair and said, “His name is Morgan, isn’t it? As I recall, a very bright boy. A little older than my sons.”

Bravely fighting back tears, Mary told the Hardys that her brother, Morgan Thomas Todd, an instructor of foreign affairs at Kenworthy College, had disappeared.

“And I want you to find him, Mr. Hardy,” Mary said pleadingly. “The police are working on the case, but have discovered no leads.”

The girl explained that she was a freshman at Kenworthy College, which had just ended the spring semester. Her plan had been to spend the summer with relatives on the West Coast, but since her brother had disappeared several days before, she had canceled her trip and come to Bayport.

“I just don’t know what to do, Mr. Hardy,” she said. “Please help me.”

Frank and Joe looked at their father. What would his decision be? He thought for a moment before speaking. “As I recall, your brother spent some time studying political methods in a foreign country.”

“Yes, he did,” Mary said, and mentioned the nation, which was unfriendly to the United States. She added that while he was there, Morgan Todd had suffered a fall and injured his head. “He seemed all right when he came back, but now I’m afraid he’s lost his memory and just wandered away from the college.”

“You mean as the result of his fall?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Yes. Sort of a delayed reaction.”

“Fenton, I hope you take the case,” Mrs. Hardy said earnestly.

The detective now gave Mary a reassuring smile. “Of course I will.” He turned to Frank and Joe. “You know I have already accepted an important case, but if you boys pitch in, I can also undertake the search for Morgan.”

“Dad, you know we will!” Joe said eagerly.

Mary Todd’s face brightened. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” she said. “Boys, please forgive me for being such a crybaby.”

“That’s all right,” Joe replied, a little embarrassed.

“Sure,” Frank put in. “I don’t blame you. Maybe we acted a little too smart. Have you a picture of your brother?” he added.

Mary took a snapshot from her purse and gave it to Frank. “Just don’t lose it,” she said, smiling. Then she rose to bid them good-by. “I’ll be staying at the Bayport Hotel,” she said.

At that moment the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy answered it and an attractive dark-haired girl walked in. She was Iola Morton, Chet’s sister, who was a schoolmate of the Hardys and a particular favorite of Joe’s.

“Hello, Iola,” Joe said, reddening slightly.

Then Frank said, “Iola, this is Mary Todd.”

The two girls smiled and exchanged greetings. Then Iola said, “Joe, what did you and Frank do to my poor brother? He’s simply crushed that you two won’t go treasure hunting at Honeycomb Caves.”

“You can guess what the reason is,” Frank said.

Iola giggled. “A mystery?”

Frank and Joe, after a nod of approval from their father, told her about Mary Todd’s problem.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Iola said kindly. Her eyes sparkled. “I have an idea! Suppose you stay at our home until Mr. Hardy and the boys find your brother.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose.”

“You don’t know my mother,” Iola said. “She’ll insist that you stay. I hope you don’t mind being a little ways out in the country. We live on a farm.”

“I’d really love it,” Mary said. “You’re all so wonderful to me.”

The two girls left the house together. Frank and Joe followed and quickly briefed Chet and Biff on the missing instructor.

“Another mystery! That settles it!” Chet exclaimed. He turned to the Hardys and said gravely, “Gentlemen, the Hooper-Morton treasure expedition will be forced to take off without you.”

“Come on, Chet,” Iola ordered. “Get that old jalopy of yours running, destination Bayport Hotel.”

“What for?” her brother asked, putting his metal detector in the back of the car.

When Iola told about their new guest, Chet opened the door gallantly with a bow. “The two of you can squeeze into the front seat with me,” he said, then gave Biff a big wink and murmured, “Some guys have all the luck.”

“That’s you, pal.” Biff laughed.

At the dinner table that evening Frank and Joe discussed with their father what steps to take first in both mysteries. The brothers, it was decided, would leave the next day for Kenworthy College, in upper New York State. It was located in a town of the same name, about a six-hour drive away.

“And now getting back to my case at the radar site,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’ll show you around the place tonight.”

“Great!” Joe exclaimed eagerly.

Ever since the brothers had been old enough to engage in sleuthing, there had been a great camaraderie among the Hardy “menfolk,” as Laura Hardy referred to them. Frank and Joe had first demonstrated their detective ability in an adventure known as The Tower Treasure. Their most recent challenge was The Shore Road Mystery. By now, crime detection had become the boys’ chief avocation.

The three left the house and Frank backed the boys’ car down the driveway. The vehicle was old but well kept by the brothers, who preferred it to their father’s late-model sedan.

Frank drove five miles north of town to an elevated spot overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and directly below, Barmet Bay.

From the road, they could see Bayport hugging the coast with its many docks stretching like dark fingers into the bay. Frank drove for half a mile farther. Now the road was bordered by a high steel-mesh fence. Presently he stopped in front of a gate guarded by two uniformed men. Mr. Hardy got out and showed his badge, then introduced his sons to the guards. “I’d like to show the boys around,” he said.

“Okay, Mr. Hardy,” one of the guards replied, saluting.

The three Hardys tramped along a wooded lane which snaked upward to the top of Telescope HilL

“Little did the old pioneers know that their telescope lookout would be used for this giant radar,” Frank said as they approached the summit.

Here the trees had been felled, and the area was covered with heavy construction equipment and piles of steel framework. Already, the radar tower had risen more than a hundred feet into the air, its girders sticking up weirdly into the evening sky.

“Looks like nobody’s around,” Joe said, glancing about. “Sure is quiet.”

“Don’t be fooled,” Mr. Hardy told him. “There’s a large corps of watchmen on duty.”

“Still, it’s a pretty big place to be patrolled one hundred percent efficiently, isn’t it, Dad?” Joe asked.

“You’re right.”

Just then another uniformed guard walked quietly past the construction equipment twenty yards from them. “Evening, Mr. Hardy,” the man said.

“Evening, Bill.” Fenton Hardy returned his salute, then walked on with his sons. They encountered three more guards before they bad circled the hilltop.

Each man was immediately recognized by the detective, although he had met the entire staff only that morning.

On the way back to the gate, Frank left the lane. Walking waist-high through weeds and brush, he observed the fence. “I wonder if they’re planning to electrify the fence?” he called out to his father.

Before Mr. Hardy could answer, Frank was startled by rustling noises. A dim figure rose up from the brush about ten feet away. Stealthily as a cat, a man raced to the fence.

“Stop!” Frank yelled and sprinted after him. The fellow clawed his way to the top of the steel mesh and leaped down with the agility of a panther. He hit the ground with a thud on the other side and bounded off into the woods. Mr. Hardy and Joe dashed to Frank’s side.

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Joe declared. “You’ve already flushed one of the spy pack.”

“I hope not for good,” Frank said. “I’d rather have grabbed him.”

Suddenly his eye was caught by an object snagged on a bush. Frank plucked it off and triumphantly held out an odd-looking cap. “We’ve got a clue, anyhow.”

The trio examined the cap. It was dark red with a small green peak. There was no label inside.

“I’ve never seen one like this,” Joe commented. “It could be an import.”

“Good guess,” Frank agreed.

It was growing dark, so Mr. Hardy voted against pursuing the intruder. He kept the cap, however, for more careful study.

Next morning Frank and Joe were up early. They hastily packed for the trip to Kenworthy College, then had breakfast with their parents.

“You have a plan mapped out, boys?” Mr. Hardy asked.

Frank nodded and laid down his fork. “We’ll see the police and the dean, then get permission to examine Morgan Todd’s quarters.”

“Check carefully on any close associates he might have had,” Mr. Hardy advised.

“And do be careful,” Mrs. Hardy added. “Of course, I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourselves.”

“You can say that again, Laura,” Mr. Hardy remarked as a smile crinkled his eyes.

Joe checked the gas and oil in their car while Frank loaded the baggage into the trunk. “All set.”

“Okay.” Joe took the wheel and zigzagged through the Bayport streets until they came to the highway which led directly west. Early-morning traffic was light, consisting mainly of large trucks heading east toward the radar construction.

The road, level at first, rose in a long curve toward the top of a hill, three miles out of town.

Joe kept far to the right side as a truck crested the hill and headed down. It was pulling a long flatbed trailer, on top of which was balanced a huge crane.

As it approached, Frank suddenly cried out, “Joe ... the trailer ... it’s cut loose!”

The flatbed veered toward the center of the road on a collision course with the Hardys’ car.

Joe tried desperately to swerve out of its way. To make matters worse, the huge crane began to topple over.

“Look out!” Frank cried in warning.

CHAPTER III

Bouncy Quill

FRANTICALLY Joe looked about for a way to dodge the runaway trailer. He spied a small turnout and spun his wheel sharply. But before he could reach that haven, the crane hit the top of the Hardys’ car with a ripping crash!

Joe clutched the wheel as the car swerved and shuddered, finally coming to rest on the dirt shoulder. Both boys glanced back. The huge crane lay twisted in a ditch, the flatbed trailer alongside on its back. Frank and Joe hopped out to look at the damage.

“Wow! Look at this. Pretty close!” Frank said, pointing to a long jagged cut in the roof of the car.

A quarter mile down the hill, the truck driver had stopped his vehicle and walked back. He came up to the Hardys and the three talked over the strange accident. As they surveyed the broken crane, and the trailer with upturned wheels still spinning, the truck driver said glumly, “More bad luck. We’re really getting it on this radar job!”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked. “Have things like this happened before?”

The driver hooked his thumbs into his suspenders and gave a low whistle. “Happened before! I’ll say!” He told the boys that in three days this was the third accident to heavy equipment bound for the radar project.

“So now I’ve got to make out more papers and reports for the construction company,” the driver said, as if this were even more difficult than driving his unwieldy rig.

Joe took out his wallet. “We have to report to our insurance company,” he said. “They’ll take care of everything.”

After Joe and the trucker had exchanged information, the boys set off again. As they drove along the highway, the Hardys speculated on the unusual accident. Was this a case of sabotage? Did it have anything to do with their father’s assignment, or the intruder they had seen the night before?

“I don’t see how it could have been aimed at us personally,” Joe said.

“I agree,” his brother replied. “Could’ve been a weak coupling. Or perhaps the trailer brakes didn’t hold. The claims investigators will find out.”

The brothers stopped for a quick lunch along the way, and arrived at the outskirts of Kenworthy an hour later with Frank at the wheel.

“Keep an eye open for a place to stay,” he said as he reduced speed.

They passed several motels, none of which looked particularly inviting.

“Hey, Frank, what about that place up ahead?” Joe suggested. A large billboard announced that the Palm Court Motel offered the traveler the latest luxuries.

“Not a bad-looking place.” Frank pulled into a driveway which led to a cottage with a simulated thatched roof. It bore the sign OFFICE. To the left stretched a long, low building made up of the motel units. Before each door stood an artificial palm tree. Frank and Joe got out and looked around. To the right of the office they counted twelve neat little cottages of the same thatched-roof variety. The ubiquitous palm tree stood before each one.

“Kind of corny,” Joe remarked.

“But comfortable looking,” his brother said. “We might do worse.”

In the office they were greeted by a middle-aged man with a thin fringe of hair circling his head an inch above the ears. He stroked his bald head and greeted the boys with a smile. “College students visiting from somewhere else?”

Frank evaded the question and asked the price of a motel room. When he was told, Frank registered for himself and his brother, took the proffered key, then drove the car in front of Unit Seven.

As the boys entered with their baggage, Joe grinned. “Some people are pretty nosy.”

“The less people know about our business the better,” Frank said as he put his suitcase on a rack, then opened it.

After they had refreshed themselves, the boys went out, locked the door, and hopped into the car.

“First port of call,” Frank said, “will be the police station.”

“Good idea.” Joe nodded. “Let’s learn what the local cops found out.”

Police headquarters was in the basement of the newly built town hall. The chief was out of town so the boys introduced themselves to the desk sergeant and asked for background regarding the Todd case.

“Morgan Todd just walked out and disappeared,” said the sergeant. “Absent-minded professor kind of stuff, you know.”

“Any clues at all?” Joe asked.

“Nope, nothing,” the sergeant replied. “But we’ll probably hear from him in a few days.” He leaned forward. “Confidentially, I think he was one of these overworked eggheads. You know, studying all the time. Too much strain!”

The boys did not comment, but thanked the officer and left.

“Talk about jumping to conclusions!” said Joe when they were in the car again. “The sergeant takes the cake!”

They decided next to talk with the dean.

After getting directions from a passer-by, Frank drove to the outskirts of town, where the small college nestled on a wooded knoll. Frank stopped in front of the administration building. He and Joe climbed the marble steps and entered the lobby.

They quickly found the office marked DEAN EASTLAND, and went inside. After telling a receptionist that the nature of their business was confidential, the Hardys were ushered into the official’s private office.

Dean Eastland was a tall, spare man with a shock of unruly gray hair. He rose as they entered. “Be seated, young men. You say your mission is confidential? That sounds mysterious.”

The brothers took chairs before the dean’s desk, and Frank began by saying that they were trying to find Morgan Todd.

“Yes, yes, good for you,” the dean said. “Matter of fact, we’re all trying to locate him.”

“Our father, Fenton Hardy, has taken on the case,” Frank explained “and we are here to do a little spadework.”

“Ah, yes, yes. I hope you have better luck than we have had,” the college official said. “Strange! Very strange, indeed!” He shook his head.

“How’s that?” Frank asked.

“Well, I mean, the circumstances surrounding his departure.” As the boys listened intently, Dean Eastland told how the instructor apparently had prepared an examination for his students, left it on his desk, and disappeared into the night.

“We found the test there next morning,” the dean said, “or rather a colleague found it, had it mimeographed, and Mr. Todd’s students took the examination that day.”

The dean picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk. “But, as you know, Mr. Todd never returned. Quite disturbing.”

“Who found the exam?” Joe asked impetuously.

The dean looked up in surprise. “Mr. Quill did. Cadmus Quill is Mr. Todd’s colleague and close associate.”

Frank and Joe exchanged meaningful glances. They would have to question Cadmus Quill.

“Well, that is about as much as I can tell you, boys,” said the dean, rising. “Morgan Todd, I’m afraid, is suffering from loss of memory.”

“We’d like to meet Cadmus Quill,” Frank said, “and also examine Todd’s room if we may, Dean Eastland.”

The educator jotted down the address and handed Frank the slip of paper. He walked to the window and pointed across the quadrangle. “Shelly Row is behind that building. It’s where we house graduate students and instructors.”

The boys thanked the dean and hurried out. As they walked across the quadrangle, they passed groups of students who had just registered for the summer session.

Presently the brothers found themselves behind a short man in his early twenties, noticeable because of his tiptoed bouncy gait and a loud sports jacket. Joe could hardly keep from imitating the peculiar walk as he fell in behind him.

Frank nudged his brother, and as they stepped past the man, Joe could not restrain himself from taking a backward glance at the fellow’s intelligent, round face.

Quickly finding Shelly Row, the boys made their way to Number 19 and rang the doorbell. They were so intent on listening for someone inside that they did not hear a person walking up behind them. “Looking for me?” asked a cheerful voice.

Frank and Joe whirled about to face the bouncy fellow with the sporty clothes. “Are you Cadmus Quill?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I am. May I help you?”

The boys introduced themselves, and Quill ushered them into his room. Frank quickly told all that they had learned about the case and asked Quill if he knew anything further.

“I do indeed,” he replied, “but the local police think it isn’t important!”

“Do you have more facts?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Not exactly,” Quill replied. “You might say it’s confidential information.” He motioned the boys to be seated, then drew up a chair close to them. “Todd was going to be married soon. Did you know that?”

Taken by surprise, the Hardys said No.

Quill told them that Todd had confided in him that he was going to return to Europe to marry a girl he had met while studying in the unfriendly country. “He didn’t even tell his sister for fear she might object.”

“Then you don’t believe he lost his memory,” Frank said.

Quill shook his head. “Not at all.”

The graduate assistant had no further information to offer, whereupon the Hardys asked if he would show them to Todd’s quarters.

“Indeed,” Quill said with an officious little smile. “Right next door.”

He produced a key and entered the adjoining apartment.

“You see? Everything is neat and orderly,” he pointed out. “It’s very obvious to me that Morgan deliberately planned to leave.”

“What’s this?” Frank asked, bending down to look at some mimeographed sheets on Todd’s desk.

“I put those there,” Quill replied, “—a few of the examination papers which were left over the day after Morgan disappeared.”

The young sleuths scanned the room, but did not wish to examine it closely with Quill present.

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Guess that’s all for now. May we come back later and check the room further?”

“Indeed, yes, be my guests,” Quill said, and he handed the key to Joe.

As they returned to their car, Frank teased his brother. “Joe, you nearly made a faux pas when we first saw bouncy Quill walking across campus.”

Joe laughed. “He’s kind of odd, but I suppose a very smart cooky.”

The boys stopped for supper at an inn near the campus, then returned to their motel. Frank opened the door and gasped. Inside was an elderly couple. The man was reading a newspaper while the woman primped her hair before the mirror on the dresser.

“Excuse me!” Joe said. “We must be in the wrong room!”

“No, we’re not,” said Frank. “This is ours—Number Seven.”

The woman turned and smiled. “Oh, you must be the Hardy brothers,” she said. “The manager moved your baggage out.”

“What for?” Frank asked, puzzled and annoyed. “We’re registered here overnight.”

Then he realized there was no use in arguing. It apparently was not the couple’s fault. Frank and Joe hastened to the manager’s office. The man smiled broadly. “Well, I’ve done as you asked. You have a very nice little bungalow and I know you’ll enjoy it.”

“Wh-what?” asked Joe.

“Your college friends relayed your message,” the man said, stroking his bald head.

The Hardys were dumfounded but listened to the manager’s explanation. “Three boys came here and told me you Hardys wanted one of the cottages where it would be quieter. So we moved you in there bag and baggage.” The man added, “It only costs two dollars more a night. You’re getting a bargain.”

“Where is this cottage?” Joe asked.

“Over there,” the man said, pointing to one of the little houses. It was lighted inside.

The boys hastened over, and as they passed the window they saw a stocky youth standing inside. Frank flung open the door. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The young man whirled around. Frank and Joe saw that he was wearing a black half-mask. At the same time, the closet door burst open and out jumped four other masked youths.

“Hey, what kind of a joke is this!” Joe cried out as the intruders jumped both Hardys. They struggled furiously, but the combined weight of the masked boys finally bore Frank and Joe to the floor. They were bound and gagged, then tied securely to two long planks.

Without saying a word, the Hardys’ assailants loaded them into a station wagon parked behind the cottage. They were driven out of the motel grounds and along the main highway for several miles. Then the driver turned left onto a dirt road and stopped a mile farther on.

The brothers were lifted out, carried a short distance through some low brush, and laid crosswise on a railroad track. Then the masked quintet vanished into the darkness.

Frank squirmed and tugged at his bonds. Joe did too, but neither boy could loosen the ropes which secured them. Beads of perspiration stood out on their foreheads. Then came a sound which struck terror into their hearts. In the distance they heard the ominous growl of an approaching diesel locomotive!

CHAPTER IV

A Hazing Trick

CASTING hopeless glances at each other, Frank and Joe struggled desperately at their bonds while the diesel locomotive drew closer.

The rumble of the wheels grew deafening. But then, as if by a miracle, the engine throbbed past, leaving only the clickety-clack of freight cars trailing in its wake.

Unscathed but shaken, Frank and Joe continued to work at the ropes which secured them to the planks. By straining until his muscles ached, Frank stretched his bound wrists to where he could dimly see a spike protruding from a railroad tie. Over and over he snagged the knot upon the spike. Each effort loosened the rope a little more. Finally it fell open.

With his wrists released, Frank tore out his gag and reached over to do the same for Joe.

“Whew!” Joe gasped. “I thought our goose was cooked!”

“It would have been an awful way to say good-by to mother earth,” Frank replied grimly, quickly freeing himself from the plank.

Then he released his brother. The two boys stood up and stretched painfully, massaging their cramped muscles. Twenty yards away the polished rails of another railroad line glimmered in the moonlight.

“Look, these tracks we were on are rusty,” Frank noted.

“Must be a spur line,” Joe said, “which isn’t used any more.”

“A great way to give a guy gray hair at a tender age,” Frank remarked.

“It wasn’t funny,” Joe said, between clenched teeth.

“I’ll say not,” his brother agreed. “I’d like to find the nut who planned this trick!”

“If I see him first, I’ll take care of that joker,” Joe said.

After walking along the tracks some distance, the boys came to the highway. There they flagged a friendly trucker, who readily agreed to drive them to their motel.

Jouncing up and down in the cab beside the driver, the Hardys continued to speculate.

“You suppose what happened to us was just a crazy mix-up?” Joe asked in low tones. “Why should those fellows pick on us?”

Frank frowned. “I have a hunch the whole thing was intended to scare us away from Kenworthy before we could find a good clue.”

“Then you think Todd could have been kidnapped?”

“Let’s not rule out that possibility,” Frank said.

As the truck approached the Palm Court grounds, Joe suddenly chuckled. “If Chet and Biff wanted excitement—they should’ve been with us tonight. Honeycomb Caves must be pretty tame compared with the Kenworthy capers.”

Frank grinned widely. “Chet would’ve lost ten pounds from fright.”

The truck swung over and stopped. The Hardys hopped out, thanking the trucker for the lift.

“Sure thing, fellows. So long.”

The brothers made a beeline for the office.

“Now to question Baldy,” Frank said. He stabbed the buzzer beside the door repeatedly until a light shone inside. The manager, sleepy-eyed and holding up his trousers with one hand, opened the door. He was not in a good mood.

“What do you mean waking me up at this hour?” he asked crossly. “If you’re going to check out, wait till morning, for Pete’s sake.”

“Somebody else checked us out,” Frank said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

Alarmed by the boys’ determination, the manager let them in. There the Hardys learned that the instigator of the room switch was a member of a local fraternity at Kenworthy College.

“I thought these college kids were just going to have some fun with you,” the man said.

“The police might give it a different label,” Frank replied grimly. “Now what’s this fellow’s name and where does he live?”

After the man had jotted down the information, Frank and Joe drove directly to the Delta Sigma fraternity house. Dawn lay like a pink halo on the eastern horizon, but the Hardys’ thoughts were anything but heavenly as they rapped on the fraternity-house door. No one answered. Joe rang the bell while Frank continued banging.

Finally a young fellow in pajamas opened up and yawned in Frank’s face. “Whatever it is, we don’t want any,” he said, then started to close the door.

Frank reached for his shoulder and whirled him about. “This isn’t any joke,” he said. “We’re looking for Jack Hale.”

“Oh, the president,” the youth said, stifling another yawn. “I can’t wake him up—he’s special.”

“I’ll say he is,” Joe declared.

“But you fellows don’t understand.” The college boy regarded the Hardys earnestly with his pale-blue eyes. “We don’t wake the fraternity president until eight o‘clock. He doesn’t have his first class until nine.”

“He’s going to have a lesson right now,” Frank said sternly. “Get him up!”

The youth shrugged, and padded off in bare feet to the second floor. Listening below, the boys heard shouts and angry words, preceding the appearance of a thick-set youth several years older than the Hardys. In red-and-white striped pajamas he thumped down the stairs. When he saw Frank and Joe, he stopped with a startled expression.

“Isn’t it kind of early—” Jack Hale started to say.

“Not for a punch in the jaw,” Joe declared hotly, and stepped forward with fists cocked.

“Wait a minute, Joe,” Frank said. “Let’s get some questions answered before you start swinging.” He walked over to Hale, who backed away nervously. “I’ll put it on the line,” Frank said. “What’s the idea of leaving us on the railroad track? And why did you switch our motel room?”

“Wait a minute, fellows! Hold it!” Hale said. “We thought you’d guess it was just a little pretesting job. Anyway, why are you working up such a head of steam—”

“Yes, why?” the blue-eyed youth put in.

Hale continued, “You two were never in any real danger. We had a lookout posted to keep an eye on you in case you needed help. Say, you are going to be Delta Sigma pledges, aren’t you?”

“Of course not,” said Joe, his biceps still flexed.

“So you were hazing us?” asked Frank. “Who told you to do that?”

Jack Hale looked embarrassed. He cast a fleeting glance up the stairs and seemed relieved when several other Delta Sigma boys moved quietly down behind him.

“I can’t tell you who it is,” Hale said.

The blue-eyed youth nodded vigorously. “We’re honor bound not to reveal his identity.”

“We thought you were going to be Delta Sigma pledges,” Jack said. “Honest we did.”

“Well, then you ought to let prospective pledges in on it, too,” Frank said. He turned away. “Come on, Joe. Let’s get out of here. We have work to do.”

Looking somewhat the worse for wear after their strenuous night, the Hardys nonetheless planned another bit of sleuthing before returning to their cottage for sleep.

“Let’s examine Todd’s room before Quill gets up,” Frank suggested.

Joe readily agreed. “At six A.M. Quill’s probably still asleep.” Joe reached into his pocket. “I have the key to Todd’s apartment.”

The Hardys encountered a few milk-delivery trucks and one newspaper boy as they made their way to Shelly Row. Joe inserted the key quietly and turned it in the lock. The boys entered. Frank pressed his ear against the apartment wall. Silence.

“He’s still in the arms of Morpheus,” Frank whispered.

“Okay,” Joe said. “Let’s look around.”

Enough daylight filtered through the two front windows to allow the boys to examine the apartment carefully. While Joe concentrated on objects of furniture, Frank looked through notes and textbooks lying about. But the boys could find no evidence of where Morgan Todd might have gone.

“I guess the police search was pretty thorough, after all,” Joe commented. “What are you looking at, Frank?”

His brother held one of the mimeographed examination sheets in his hand and was scrutinizing it. Joe watched Frank as he scanned sentence after sentence on the white paper. Then a strange expression came over his face. Joe had seen it before when Frank was on the trail of a clue.

“You found something?” Joe asked excitedly.

“I’ll say I have!” Frank declared, sucking in his breath. “Wow! Look at this!”

CHAPTER V

Counterattack

JOE glanced over his brother’s shoulder. “All I see is an exam paper—the fill-in type.”

“Yes,” Frank replied. “But there’s a clue right under your nose.”

“I don’t get it, Frank. You must have super vision.”

“Look. Read this first question, Joe.”

“ ‘Russia’s present political system was founded by—.’ ”

“I don’t care about the answer,” Frank said. “Now read the second question.”

‘“Only——men from California have been named to the Supreme Court.’”

Joe frowned. “It’s still a riddle to me.”

Enjoying the game he was playing, Frank asked, “How many questions are there?”

“Eight.”

“And the first letter of the first word in each question spells what?”

Joe’s eyes quickly roved down the side of the exam sheet. “R-O-C-K-A-W-A-Y.” He whistled. “The name of a town!”

“That’s it—Rockaway,” Frank said. “Todd did leave a clue. And I don’t think the police found it, either.”

“Good for you,” Joe said, slapping his brother on the back. “I guess I’m too bushed for any deep brainwork.”

“We’ll have breakfast and sack out,” Frank said. “Then we’ll go to the post office and find out from their guidebook how many Rockaways there are in the U. S.”

“There’s probably at least twenty-five,” Joe said with a sigh. “By the time we check on them, Morgan Todd could be in Timbuktu.” He yawned deeply, then placed his ear to the apartment wall.

“Hear anything?” asked Frank.

“Bouncy Quill is up,” Joe said. “Let’s get out of here before he discovers us. He’d be sure to ask a lot of questions.”

Because the campus cafeteria was not yet open, Frank and Joe stopped at an all-night diner on the outskirts of town. After eating a hearty breakfast, they returned to their cottage.

“Oh boy, now for a peaceful sleep,” Joe said. He kicked off his shoes and flung himself on top of the bedspread.

Too exhausted to undress, Frank did the same. The boys slept soundly for several hours.

Frank awakened first and thought he was having a nightmare. A pillow was pressed hard over his face and a powerful hand pinned his shoulder to the mattress.

Trying to cry out, Frank kicked wildly and flung the intruder away from the bed. Someone hit the opposite wall with a thud and crashed to the floor. The noise aroused Joe who sprang up, wild-eyed, and looked around the room.

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Joe glared at the stunned figure on the floor. “Biff Hooper, what’re you doing here?”

Biff aroused himself and shook his head. “Got to clear the cobwebs,” he said. “I was only fooling, Frank. You jumped me like a wounded panther.”

Frank laughed. “You got off easy, boy.”

At that moment Chet sauntered through the doorway, munching noisily on potato chips. He dipped into a huge cellophane bag and pressed another handful into his mouth. Still munching, he asked, “What’s all the racket?”

“Biff making a grand entrance,” Frank said wryly. “Sit down, fellows. We’ll tell you our latest news. How about some chips, Chet?”

The stout lad proffered the crinkly bag, and the Hardys helped themselves. As they ate, they briefed Biff and Chet on their findings at Kenworthy College and their harrowing experience of the previous night.

“Wowie!” Biff exclaimed. “You Hardys sure stir things up!”

“And now,” Joe said, “we have to find out how many Rockaways there are in the U. S. A.”

“I can tell you one,” Chet said. “It’s near Honeycomb Caves.”

“I never heard of it,” Frank said in surprise.

“Neither did I,” said Chet. “It’s a dinky place.”

Biff explained that they had driven down the coast early that morning and stopped at a small gas station a couple of miles north of Rockaway. “We asked the attendant how to get to Honeycomb Caves,” he went on, “and he warned us not to go.”

“Why?” Frank asked.

“He said awful things might happen to us if we did.”

“Something very strange is going on there,” added Chet with a great air of knowledge. “It sounded like a real mystery so we thought maybe you’d like to take time out and look into it.”

“I knew you’d try to snag us into going to those caves,” said Frank, chuckling.

Chet flung out his arms dramatically. “After all, Biff and I thought sure you would’ve found Morgan Todd by this time!”

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Joe exclaimed. “Biff Hooper, what’re you doing here?”

“It’s not going to be so easy,” Frank said. With a wink at his brother, he added, “But thanks for thinking about us. Come on, Joe! Our first stop’s the post office.” He glanced down at his disheveled clothes and grinned. “I mean, after the shower.”

Fifteen minutes later both boys were in fresh clothes and Joe said, “Okay, let’s go.”

He was about to step out the door when he suddenly closed it and motioned to the others. “I think we’re in for a fight, fellows, so get ready.”

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked and looked out the window.

Across the broad lawns of the Palm Court Motel strode four youths. In the lead was Jack Hale!

“Delta Sigmas,” Joe said tersely. “Maybe the ones who made trouble for us last night. If they think it’s four against two, they’re mistaken.”

“Right!” said Biff, who liked nothing more than playing tackle on the Bayport High football team.

“Okay,” said Frank. “You and Chet hide in the closet.” Then, opening the door, he politely invited the four fraternity men to enter.

“Hi,” Jack said with a half-smile. “We have a little surprise for you.”

But before he could utter another word, the closet door was flung open. Biff bolted across the room, putting a rolling block on two of the collegians. Chet pounced on the third. Only Jack remained standing. His face bore a pained expression.

“We don’t want to fight!” he said.

“Then what did you barge in on us for?” Joe demanded.

Biff dragged two of the students to their feet, and Frank said, “Okay, let’s smoke the peace pipe. What’s up, Jack?”

Embarrassed, the fraternity president said that he had come to offer Frank and Joe invitations to join Delta Sigma should they decide to attend Kenworthy College.

“You’re the kind we like,” he said. “Plenty of sand!”

“Thanks for the invite,” Joe said coolly. “We’ll keep it in mind if you tell us who put you up to that low-down trick last night.”

Jack looked at the floor and the Hardys could see that he was torn between loyalty to the unknown perpetrator and regard for them.

“Really, I can’t tell,” he said finally. “You wouldn’t want me to rat on a pal.”

“No hard feelings,” said Frank, though he thought the youth was foolish to protect such a person. Then he introduced Biff and Chet.

“Wow!” said one of the college boys. “We could use you two on the Kenworthy football team.”

With that, the Delta Sigmas left.

Frank drove the Bayporters to the post office, located beside the town hall. A helpful clerk passed the postal directory over the counter and Frank thumbed through its pages.

“Hey, look at this,” he said. “There are only three Rockaways—one in Oregon, one in New Jersey, and the other on the coast down from Bayport.”

“It’s a cinch we won’t go to Oregon or New Jersey first,” Chet said. “You fellows will investigate the closest one or I miss my bet.”

“O genius of a treasure hunter!” declaimed Joe as he placed the right palm of his hand on his forehead and bowed low. “We, your humble servants, salaam!”

The others guffawed at the sudden look of embarrassment that swept over Chet’s face as he cast his eyes quickly around the post office to see if anybody was watching. Seeing no one, Chet joined in the laughter.

Frank handed back the directory to the grinning clerk and thanked him. The boys, still laughing, trooped out of the post office.

“Well, our next destination—Rockaway!” Frank said. He added thoughtfully, “You know, this isn’t a bad move. We’ll leave here as if we’ve been stymied on our investigation.”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “So if anyone has been tracking us, they’ll think we’ve given up.” As an afterthought he added, “We ought to thank Cadmus Quill and the dean before we leave.”

“Let me go, too. Maybe I won’t see the inside of a college again,” Chet quipped.

The four drove to the campus, parked, and entered the administration building.

Dean Eastland, as before, was courteous to his callers. After thanking Frank and Joe for their interest in the case, he promised to relay any new information to them.

“By the way, Dean Eastland,” Frank said, “would you send us the roster of Delta Sigma fraternity?”

“Of course,” the dean replied, and jotted down their Bayport address.

As the boys walked into the hallway they met Cadmus QuilL

“We’re going back to Bayport,” Frank told him. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find your friend Todd.”

“Anyhow,” said Joe, “thanks for your help, Mr. Quill.”

“Not at all,” replied the instructor as he shook hands with the two boys. “I’m sure there’s no need to worry. I feel strongly that he’s in Europe—probably already married.”

“It’s possible,” Frank said. “Well, perhaps we’ll see you again.”

“Come on, fellows,” Biff said as they left the building. “If I hang around this college campus any longer I’ll be as smart as you are.”

“I’m itching for Honeycomb Caves,” Chet ban tered. “I feel in the need for some ready doubloons.”

As the boys hastened back to the Hardy car, Frank had the feeling that Cadmus Quill had followed them out of the building. When he slid behind the wheel he glanced into his rear-view mirror.

There stood Quill on the steps, gazing at them intently. Then he turned back to the door.

Suddenly, above the sound of the starting motor, Chet let out an Indian war whoop and yelled, “On to Rockawayl”

Frank, with his eyes still on the rear-view mirror, saw Quill stiffen and spin around.

CHAPTER VI

The Toppled Tower

CADMUS QUILL stood on the steps and stared at the boys with a startled look on his round face.

“That remark hit home!” Frank thought. He got out of the car, and ran up to Quill before he had a chance to retreat. “You seem interested in Rockaway,” Frank said bluntly, hoping to catch him off guard. “Do you know somebody there?”

Quill smiled. “I thought for a moment,” he replied casually, “that your friend had said Far Rockaway, in New York. I have an uncle who lives there.”

Frank was momentarily at a loss about how to pursue his line of questioning. This gave Quill time to turn on his heel. He strode off, saying, “I have a lecture to prepare. Good luck to you!”

Frank returned to the car, and as the boys drove back to the motel, he discussed with them Quill’s peculiar actions.

Joe spoke up. “That uncle bit doesn’t ring true. Quill is keeping back something, I’ll bet.”

“Why should the name Rockaway strike him?” Chet wondered.

“Who knows?” Joe said. “Maybe he discovered the Rockaway clue in Todd’s exam.”

“I don’t get it,” Frank said as he parked in front of the cottage. “Quill knows we’re detectives. If he did find the Rockaway clue, why didn’t he tell us?”

“Maybe he wants to follow it himself,” Joe replied.

“This Cadmus Quill will bear watching,” remarked Biff, now thoroughly caught up in the excitement of the mystery.

Chet suggested that while the Hardys were packing, he and Biff would take his jalopy to a service station. “We want to check it out before starting the trip to Rockaway,” Chet said.

The brothers entered their quarters. While Joe tossed his belongings into his suitcase, Frank telephoned Bayport. Mr. Hardy answered.

“Frank,” he said, “I’m glad you called!” The boy was surprised at his father’s clipped tone.

“What’s the matter, Dad?” he asked.

“I’m afraid you and Joe will have to come home right away. It’s urgent, and I’d rather not take time to explain it.”

“Okay, Dad. But just one thing,” Frank added quickly. “We’re suspicious of a fellow named Cadmus Quill. Will you get us a confidential report on him, please?” Mr. Hardy promised and Frank hung up. “Something’s gone haywire in Bayport,” he said to his brother, then repeated their father’s message.

While Frank packed his belongings, Joe hustled over to the motel office to pay their bill. He returned to the car just as Frank was stowing the luggage into the trunk. At the same moment, Biff and Chet drove up.

“All set for the big adventure at Honeycomb Caves!” Chet sang out exuberantly. “Joe, I bet I get better mileage than you on the way to the coast.”

When the Hardys did not smile at the boast, Biff sensed something was wrong. “What’s the matter, fellows?”

“We can’t go with you—at least not now,” said Frank.

“Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this,” Joe added as he slid behind the wheeL

Frank told them about their father’s cryptic message.

“Well, if you’re needed in Bayport, I guess that’s that,” Chet commented.

“We’ll join you as soon as we can,” Frank promised.

“We’ll be camping on the beach,” Chet said.

Grinning, Joe started the car. “So long, and don’t join any fraternities!”

Joe held the speedometer needle at the maximum speed allowed, and the countryside flashed by. When they hit the turnpike, Frank spelled his brother at the wheeL Now, with greater speed, the miles melted past.

“She purrs like a kitten,” Frank said. “A great car, Joe.”

“Good thing we had the motor tuned up,” Frank remarked as the wind whipped through his hair.

After a quick stop for lunch, Joe drove away from the roadside restaurant.

“Want to listen to the news?”

“Okay. What country’s having a war today?”

“Maybe someone has landed on the moon,” Frank said as he clicked on the high-powered transistor.

The first word to hit their ears was “Bayport.” Joe took his foot off the accelerator and Frank tuned the volume louder. The newscaster’s report sent a shiver up their spines: The radar tower on Telescope Hill had toppled over in a high wind!

“This must be the emergency Dad meant,” Frank said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Joe guided the car expertly along the freeway, and, slightly under six hours since they had left the town of Kenworthy, the Hardys pulled into their driveway.

As the boys carried their luggage in the back door, Mrs. Hardy met them.

“Hi, Mother,” said Frank. “Where’s Dad?”

“At the radar site. He didn’t have time to tell you all about it on the phone.”

“We heard the report on the car radio,” said Joe.

“Your father wants you to go right over,” Mrs. Hardy said.

The boys carried the suitcases to their rooms, splashed cold water on their faces, and hurried back to the car.

As they neared the construction site, traffic was slowed by the large trucks plying back and forth to the installation.

Finally they reached the gate. Frank parked the car, and he and Joe approached the guard. The brothers identified themselves.

“Our father is waiting for us inside,” Frank said.

With a nod of recognition the security man admitted them. Briskly Frank and Joe trotted up the incline which led to the top of Telescope Hill.

Joe gave a low whistle as they neared the toppled tower. It had cut a jagged scar in the woodland and lay twisted and broken. A number of men were inspecting it. Mr. Hardy, with a magnifying glass in one hand, was examining a girder at a point about five feet from the ground, where the steel superstructure had snapped off.

“You made good time,” the detective said as his sons ran up. He added quickly, “I’m sorry, but I won’t need you, after all, boys. I found what I was looking for, soon after I summoned you.”

“What’s that, Dad?” asked Frank.

“Look here,” the detective said, and handed him the magnifying glass.

The young sleuth studied the break in the steel. “I’ll say you found something! Here, take a look, Joe.”

The younger boy also was amazed as he noticed that the break was smooth and clean except for a burr at the edge of the girder.

“This was cut almost all the way through to weaken the structure,” said Joe, “but I don’t see any saw marks.”

“It was probably done with an electronic cutter,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “I’ve already reported this to the government men. Their chief engineer agrees with my theory.”

“And the high wind finished the job?” asked Joe.

“Exactly,” his father replied. He added that the saboteur had cut the line so straight and deep that the girder had been snapped off like a crisp cracker.

“We’re up against a daring and well-equipped ring of saboteurs,” Frank commented as the three walked alongside the fallen tower.

“But I wasn’t sure of that at first,” Mr. Hardy said. “That’s why I needed you. I wanted you to do some undercover work to help me find out whether it really was sabotage.” He added that he had not revealed the nature of his urgent request for fear someone might have tapped his phone line. “I didn’t want anyone to find out what I suspected.”

“Any information on Cadmus Quill?” Joe asked as they passed beneath a tall pine tree, the top of which had been sheared off by the tower.

“Nothing yet,” Mr. Hardy said. “A very reliable agency is checking into it. They’ll send me the report in code.”

Suddenly the detective yelled, “Look out!” and gave Joe a push which sent him sprawling headlong onto the grass. Simultaneously a huge chunk of metal thudded to the ground inches from his body.

“Good grief! Where’d that come from?” Frank cried, looking up into the tall pine.

“A piece of the tower must have broken off and gotten stuck in the branches,” Mr. Hardy said. “You all right, Joe?”

The boy picked himself up, took a deep breath, and grinned. “Being a detective can be dangerous!” he said. “Thanks for the assist.”

The three Hardys went out the main gate. “Our car is parked close to yours, Dad,” Frank said.

A short time later father and sons entered their house together. After a late dinner with Mrs. Hardy, the tired sleuths turned in.

When the boys came down for breakfast the next morning they found their father already up.

“There’s a letter for you, boys,” he said, pointing to the hall table.

Frank picked up the long, heavy envelope. “It’s from Dean Eastland,” he said. “Must be the fraternity roster.”

As he spoke, the doorbell rang and Joe hurried to answer. It was a telegram for Mr. Hardy.

“The report on Quill,” Joe said eagerly.

“Bring it into my office,” his father said, leading the way.

The detective opened the telegram and studied the mysteriously coded message. Taking a pencil and pad, he unscrambled the code letter by letter. His sons looked on intently over his shoulder. The information was concise. “Cadmus Quill. Good student. Good family. Good reputation. Likes to travel. Made an extended tour of study abroad three years ago.”

“But look at the country he studied in!” Frank said excitedly.

Joe whistled. “The same one Todd visited last summer!”

“Dad,” Frank exclaimed, “do you know what this could mean?”

CHAPTER VII

The Palais Paris

“I GET it!” Joe burst out. “Both Quill and Todd were brainwashed into helping a foreign power!”

Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Frank, what’s your opinion ?”

“My theory,” Frank said, “is that maybe Todd and Quill had opposing views about this unfriendly country. Joe’s jumping to conclusions and maybe I am too, but—”

Frank dropped into a thoughtful silence.

“Go on,” Mr. Hardy encouraged him. “You may be on the right track.”

“If Todd was against the country and Quill for it, maybe they had a quarrel.”

“Which could have led to Todd’s disappearanre?” Joe asked.

His brother nodded. “And whoever ordered the fraternity to haze us in order to scare us off,” he added, “is in on the plot.” Frank was still holding the letter from Dean Eastland. “Maybe this will give us a clue.” He slit open the envelope and withdrew a printed pamphlet.

Frank’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh—oh!” he exclaimed. “Here’s our answer!” He slapped the booklet down on his father’s desk and pointed to the words on the cover: Delta Sigma Fraternity—Cadmus Quill, Faculty Adviser. “He probably was behind the hazing.”

Mr. Hardy glanced at Frank and said, “That certainly fits in with your theory.”

“Yes,” Joe agreed. “I think the police ought to question Quill.”

Mr. Hardy also thought this would be a good idea, so Frank telephoned the police chief at Kenworthy. He told the officer what he had just learned. The chief thanked him and promised to call the Hardys back after he had interrogated QuilL

Later, just as the family was sitting down to breakfast, the phone rang. Frank answered. “Oh, hello, Chief,” he said. “Any luck with Quill?”

Mr. Hardy and Joe jumped up from the table when they heard Frank exclaim in astonishment:

“He did? ... All right. Thanks a lot.... You’ll keep us posted? ... Right. Good-by.”

“What’s the scoop?” Joe asked eagerly.

“More mystery,” Frank said. “Now Quill has disappeared!”

Joe gave a low whistle. “Kidnapped?”

“Maybe.”

Mr. Hardy’s brow furrowed. “You boys could be close to the truth about that foreign country’s being involved,” he said. “Maybe both Todd and Quill were whisked away because of some political information they gleaned.”

Frank went on to report that the Kenworthy police had issued a seven-state missing-person alarm for Cadmus Quill. “Only when he’s found,” Frank added, “can we tell whether Quill is friend or foe.”

Various aspects of the case were discussed by the detective and his sons during the meal. What move to take next was the question. Mr. Hardy said that since sabotage had been definitely indicated at the radar site, he could free his sons to concentrate on the Todd matter.

“I vote we look for Quill,” Joe suggested as Mrs. Hardy sliced a broad wedge of homemade coffee cake for Frank.

“Umm! Great as usual, Mom,” Frank remarked, having disposed of a generous bite. “What do you say, Dad? Shall we follow up the Rockaway clue?”

“Maybe Joe has a point,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I have a definite feeling that if you find Quill you’ll find Todd.”

Joe grinned at his brother. “Lucky our bags are still packed.”

The boys had gone to their room to bring down the luggage when the phone rang again. Fenton Hardy was first to pick up the receiver in his study.

The caller was Chet Morton, who said that he wanted all three Hardys to hear his story.

“Hold on. I’ll get Frank and Joe on the other wires.”

In a few moments Frank was at the hall phone, and Joe at the upstairs extension. “Are you all there now?” Chet’s voice was edged with excitement.

“Right,” Joe said. “What’s up?”

“Maybe you can tell me,” Chet said. “What is this guy Quill anyhow? A maniac?”

“Quill?” Frank echoed as his father and brother gasped in amazement. “Have you seen him?”

“Seen him! I’ll say so,” Chet replied. “I think he’s out of his head.”

“Come on, boy! Give us the lowdown!” Joe prompted.

“Quill forced our car off the road on the way to Rockaway, that’s what!” Chet said.

“Did he follow you all the way from the college?” Fenton Hardy put in.

Chet said that must have been the case. “After a while Biff noticed somebody tailing us.”

“How did you know it was Quill?” asked Frank.

Chet told of stopping for a traffic light. The other car had lingered several lengths behind. “But we recognized his moonface!” Chet said triumphantly.

Several miles farther on, as he and Biff rounded a curve, Quill’s car had cut them off.

“My old jalopy scraped against a tree,” Chet went on. “Biff got a bump on the head, but otherwise we weren’t injured. It ruined the paint job, though.”

“I’m sure glad it wasn’t any worse,” Frank said.

“Did Quill keep on going?” Joe asked.

“Yes. In the direction of Rockaway. Say, why don’t you fellows come down here and protect Biff and me?”

“Not a bad idea,” said Frank. “Where shall we meet you?”

“We’ll go on to Rockaway and set up our tent on the beach,” Chet replied.

“Okay,” Joe put in. “Get there soon as we can.”

After Mr. Hardy added his approval to the plan, the Hardys said good-by and hung up.

The three detectives were perplexed about Biff and Chet’s brush with Cadmus QuilL “Why would he pick on them?” Joe mused.

Frank shook his head. “My hunch is Quill thought you and I were in that car, Joe!”

Mr. Hardy added a word of caution. “Don’t take unnecessary risks, boys. Your enemies are dangerous.”

As the brothers were about to leave, their mother said, “Oh, by the way, I have an errand I’d like you to do.”

“Anything for you, Mother,” said Frank, kissing her on the cheek.

“Well, it’s really for Aunt Gertrude.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Oh—oh. Is Aunty coming for another visit?”

When Mrs. Hardy nodded, Joe remarked, “It’s just as well we’re leaving for Rockaway now. Aunt Gertrude wouldn’t approve of this mystery, I’ll bet!”

Miss Gertrude Hardy was actually a great favorite with the boys despite her tart tongue and frequent predictions of dire mishaps overtaking her sleuthing nephews.

Frank chuckled. “What’s the big deal for Aunt Gertrude?”

“Get her a spinning wheel.”

“But—” Joe gulped. “Where’re we ever going to find one?”

“Perhaps at the Palais Paris,” Mrs. Hardy replied with a twinkle.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds real fancy—what is it?”

Mrs. Hardy explained that there was a new and very attractive French restaurant on the main highway near Rockaway. “I understand,” she added, “that the restaurant has an antique shop connected with it. It’s only a few miles from where you’re going. I checked it on the road map.”

The boys grimaced slightly at the idea of having to bargain for an old spinning wheel, but assured their mother they would pick one up if available.

“Wonderful,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I think your aunt will be here by the time you return.”

Frank and Joe hurriedly stowed their luggage in the car. Their parents came to say good-by. “Watch out for those saboteurs at the radar site, Dad,” Frank said.

“I intend to. Good luck yourselves.”

Both boys hugged their mother, shook hands with their father, and hopped into the car.

“The tenting equipment is already in the trunk,” Joe said. “Have we forgotten anything, Frank?”

“We’re all set,” his brother replied, giving the circle sign with his thumb and forefinger.

The morning was gray and foggy as the boys set off with Joe at the wheel, but an hour later the sun shone through and burned off the mist.

The coastline now assumed roller-coaster proportions as they approached the Honeycomb Caves area. The highway was about two hundred feet above sea level. A short plateau extended to the lip of the palisades to the left of them before dropping down abruptly into the Atlantic Ocean.

“The caves are below these cliffs somewhere,” declared Joe, motioning toward the coastal side. The sea, hidden most of the time by a thick stand of woods and undergrowth, occasionally flashed through in brilliant glimmers.

Presently they approached a rambling, attractive building with stone trim and a wide porch. “There’s the Palais Paris,” said Frank, pointing to a sign on a lamppost announcing the fashionable restaurant. It was set thirty feet back from the right side of the road with a neat parking area beside it. The lanes, marked with white paint, were nearly filled with expensive, late-model cars.

“A good luncheon crowd,” Joe remarked as he pulled in and parked.

The brothers got out and walked toward the entrance to the antique shop located next to the restaurant in the same building. As they passed the open door, Frank noted the well-dressed patrons seated at the tables. There was also a sign tacked to a post beside the door. It read: WAITRESSES WANTED.

“A ritzy place, I’d say, Joe,” he remarked. “And if they have a big selection of antiques we ought to be able to find Aunt Gertrude her spinning wheel.”

The boys entered the shop and looked around. The broad floor boards were pegged, giving the place an old-fashioned appearance. Several long tables were filled with ancient-looking articles such as candle molds, clocks, pewter pieces, and bed warmers. From the low ceiling hung a black iron pot and several oil lamps.

“Hey, over there, Frank!” Joe pointed to one corner of the room, where a spinning wheel was suspended on two hooks fastened to the ceiling.

“Just what we’re looking for.” Frank walked over to inspect the wheel. Joe followed.

“Why have they got it hanging in mid-air?” he wondered.

“For the effect, I guess,” Frank replied. He looked about for a salesclerk. Meantime, Joe tried to lift the wheel from its supporting hooks.

A resounding crack made Frank whirl about, just in time to see the spinning wheel fall to pieces over Joe’s head. They landed on the floor with a clatter.

“Leapin’ frogs!” Frank exclaimed. “How’d that happen?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I only touched it.”

The noise brought a woman running from the back of the shop. She was tall, with dark eyes and black hair which was pulled back into a knot. “Oh, what did you do!” she cried with a pronounced French accent.

“Nothing!” Joe protested. “The old wheel just came apart like matchsticks.”

“We wanted to buy it,” Frank said. “It must not have been very well made.”

“That piece was valuable?” the woman declared indignantly. “It was not for sale.” She wrung her hands. “It was for show only—to set off our beautiful antique display.”

Joe was embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe we can put it back together again.” He picked up the large wheel and the spindle, still intact.

“Non!” The woman’s eyes flashed. “You do not get away so easily. I am the manageress here. You will have to pay for this wheel.”

Joe groaned. “Why didn’t I keep my hands off it!”

“You will pay!” the woman repeated. She hastened into the back of the shop and returned seconds later with a tall, burly, well-muscled man.

“Marcel,” she said, “you will know how to handle this.”

“These the kids?” he growled.

“Yes,” the woman replied. “They refuse to make good for this spinning wheel which they have so carelessly broken.”

Joe opened his mouth to object, but Frank nudged him to silence. The muscular man advanced on them threateningly. In a low voice he rumbled, “I advise you to give us the money and be on your way!”

CHAPTER VIII

The Old Man’s Warning

FRANK, although angry, wished to avoid a fight. He and Joe were on a sleuthing mission—this must come first. “How much do we owe you?” Frank asked the belligerent man. At the answer, Frank shook his head. “We don’t have enough money, but I’ll leave my watch for security.”

Marcel sniffed. “Let’s see it.”

Frank slipped off the handsome stainless-steel timepiece which he had received the Christmas before. “It’s a good Swiss make,” he said.

As Marcel examined the watch, Joe took twenty dollars from his pocket. “How about two sawbucks and the watch?” he asked. “That should be enough for a broken old spinning wheel.”

Marcel glanced at the woman and she gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Okay,” he said. “But don’t come around here again breakin’ up our antiques.”

“We’ll be back,” Frank said, “with the thirty dollars to redeem my watch.”

The shop manageress grudgingly produced a cardboard carton into which Frank and Joe placed the spinning-wheel parts. Then they put the box in the trunk of their car.

As Frank drove off, he said, “Something phony going on here. That spinning wheel was only slapped together.”

“Looks like the whole shop might have been set up in an awful hurry,” Joe remarked. “I’ll bet most of the other stuff is junky too.”

“I wonder how Aunt Gertrude’s going to like her antique,” Frank said with an ear-to-ear grin.

“I hate to think!” Joe said wryly, taking a road map from the glove compartment.

After studying it for a moment, he announced, “We’re not far from Rockaway now. Boy! It’s really a small speck on the map!”

Frank laughed. “I hope we don’t miss the place ”

Presently he drove down a long hill, and the Hardys found themselves in kockaway. It was nothing more than a small crossroads village on the shore adjacent to a fishing pier. The brothers soon came to the campsite on the beach and parked. They spotted Biff and Chet sunning themselves before their tent. As the Hardys parked on the shoulder of the road, their friends hurried over.

Frank and Joe got out and looked at Chet’s damaged jalopy.

“Wow! That’s a bad dent!” Joe said. “Cadmus Quill didn’t pull any punches.”

“You can say that again!” Biff retorted.

“I think he’s got it in for all of us!”

“Have you looked for him around here?” Frank asked.

“Look for yourself,” Chet replied with a sweep of his hand. “There’s nothing but a couple of stores and a few shacks.”

True, Rockaway could hardly be called a town. It was a sleepy little place, quite picturesque and redolent of fish. A weather-beaten frame building stood across the street. Above the door was a large sign: TUTTLE’S GENERAL STORE.

“Let’s stock up on grub,” Frank said. He and Joe took rucksacks from their car and the four boys headed for the store.

A venerable man with whiskers was seated behind a counter. He was intently scrutinizing a newspaper.

The old gentleman put aside the newspaper and regarded them through his thick-lensed spectacles with grave curiosity, as though they were some new specimen of humanity.

“You’re Mr. Tuttle?” Frank ventured.

“Yup. What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to know how far it is to Honeycomb Caves.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Honeycomb Caves!” he repeated in a high, cracked voice. “You lads going to pass by there?”

Chet spoke up. “No, we’re going to camp in the caves and do some beachcombing.” He told of his metal detector and how they hoped to locate some washed-up treasure.

Mr. Tuttle leaned over the counter. “You—You’re goin’ to camp in Honeycomb Caves!” he exclaimed incredulously.

“Why, yes,” Joe said.

The storekeeper shook his head solemnly. “You’re new in these parts, aren’t you?”

“From Bayport,” Frank offered. “This is the first time we’ve been down this way.”

“I thought so,” returned the bewhiskered man with a great air of satisfaction, as though his judgment had been verified.

“Tell us,” Frank said patiently, “how much farther do we have to go to reach Honeycomb Caves?”

“It’s a matter of five miles by the road. Then you’ll have to walk a ways.”

“Is there a place we can pitch our tent?” Chet asked.

“Oh, yes. A fisherman lives nearby—name of John Donachie. He might allow you to camp near his cottage. But if I was you I wouldn’t do no campin’ thereabouts. That is,” Mr. Tuttle added, “unless you stay away from the caves.”

“We’d like to explore them,” Joe said.

The old fellow gasped. “Explore ‘em! Lads, you’re crazy!”

“Is it against the law?” Chet inquired.

“No, it ain’t. But it’s against common sense.”

“Why?” asked Biff.

“It just is,” the storekeeper retorted, as though that explained everything.

“You mean the caves are dangerous?” queried Frank, enjoying the conversation.

“Maybe, maybe,” returned their informant mysteriously. “If you take my advice, you’ll stay away from ‘em.”

Joe rested his elbows on the counter. “Can’t you at least tell us the reason?”

Mr. Tuttle seemed to relish the boys’ attention. “Well,” he went on, “some mighty queer things been happenin’ down there lately. A fisherman I know was scared near to death. There’s been some peculiar lights around the caves and shootin’ too.”

“Shooting!” Frank exclaimed.

“Guns goin’ off!” the storekeeper said emphatically, as if they had failed to understand him. “Two men already tried to find out what was goin’ on there and got shot at.”

Frank pricked up his ears. He wondered whether either of these men was Cadmus QuilL The boy described the college assistant to the old fellow and asked if he had seen such a man.

“Naw. These were local citizens. But they won’t go back to those caves again, I’ll tell you.”

Still mumbling his disapproval, Mr. Tuttle nonetheless supplied the boys with the provisions they needed. These were packed into the rucksacks, which the boys slung over their shoulders.

They returned to the campsite and ate lunch. Then they took down the tent, stowed it into Chet’s car, and set off in two vehicles, following the directions the storekeeper had given them.

They retraced their route over the highway, then turned to the right down a steep rutted lane that ended on the open seashore near the fisherman’s cottage.

The small house was built at the base of the hill two hundred yards from where the beach ended abruptly against towering cliffs. The waves battered against the sheer wall of rock. The quartet could make out a winding path leading up the hill directly in back of the cottage.

“I know what they call this place,” Chet said gravely.

“Does it have a name?” Biff asked.

“Sure. Fish Hook.”

“Fish Hook? Why?” Biff asked, neatly falling into Chet’s trap.

“Because it’s at the end of the line.” Chet guffawed and slapped Biff on the back.

Biff groaned. “You really hooked me on that one, paL”

“Okay,” said Joe. “Let’s cut the comedy and see if we can park here.”

The boys approached the door of the cottage and knocked. It was opened by a stocky, leather-faced man of middle age. He had a look of surprise on his good-natured countenance.

“Mr. John Donachie?” Frank asked.

“Correct. What can I do for you boys?” he inquired.

“May we leave our cars here for a while?” Frank asked.

“Sure. For an hour or so?”

“Perhaps for a few days,” Frank replied.

The fisherman’s expression changed instantly to one of concern. “You’re not goin’ over to the caves are you?”

When Frank said Yes, the man shook his head gravely. “You’d best be goin’ back home,” he warned. “There’s strange doin’s in the caves these days. It’s no place for boys like you.”

The fisherman was joined by his plump, rosy-faced wife, who repeated the admonition.

Frank felt his spine tingle. His hunch persisted that Cadmus Quill might be mixed up in the mysterious occurrences at Honeycomb Caves.

“What’s been going on there?” Frank pressed.

“Lights mostly and shootin’.”

“Haven’t any people been seen?”

“Not a livin’ soul.”

“That’s strange,” Chet said.

“Strange ain’t the word for it,” declared the fisherman. “It’s downright spooky, like ghosts or somethin’.”

“Have you been down to the caves yourself, Mr. Donachie?” Frank asked.

“Just call me Johnny.” The fisherman said that a few days before, his boat was washed ashore there in a squall. “When I got back in the sea again,” he went on, “I saw a couple o’ lights down near the caves. Next I heard two or three shots and then a yell.”

“A yell?” Frank asked.

“The most awful screechin’ I ever heard,” the fisherman said.

“Well, that proves somebody’s there,” Biff remarked.

Despite the Donachies’ warnings, the boys were determined to set out.

“Can you show us the quickest route?” Joe asked.

With a resigned look, the fisherman led the boys a short distance along the beach and pointed to the path leading up the hill. “You’ll have to follow that to the top of the cliffs. From there look for a deep ravine. That’ll take you down to the caves.”

The campers thanked the couple, and with knapsacks and blanket rolls over their shoulders, began the ascent. The hill was steeper than it looked and it was more than an hour before the boys reached the summit.

Here a magnificent view awaited them. Far below lay the fisherman’s cottage like a toy house. The ocean was a flat blue floor.

Venturing close to the edge of the cliff, Joe peered over. He saw a sheer wall of rock with a few scrubby outcroppings of gnarled bushes.

“No wonder the caves can’t be reached by skirting the shore,” Joe said. “The only way along the base of the cliff is by boat.”

Chet looked up at the sky. “Come on, fellows,” he said. “We can’t afford to lose any time. We’re in for a storm.” The breeze bore to their ears the rumble of distant thunder.

“Chet’s right,” Joe said. “These squalls come up suddenly. Let’s move!”

Without further ado, the boys hastened along the faint trail that led among the rocks. They could see no sign of the ravine, but judged that it would be almost invisible until they came upon it.

A few raindrops hit the faces of the boys as they plodded on. Flashes of lightning zigzagged across the darkening sky, followed by a terrific thunder-clap. Then rain started falling heavily.

The wind rose, and far below, the surf boomed and crashed against the base of the cliff. The foursome stumbled on, scarcely able to follow the path in the gloom. The wind howled, lightning flashed, and thunder crashed constantly.

With Frank in the lead, the boys plunged forward into the streaming wall of rain. Chet and Biff were next and Joe brought up the rear. On and on they went, heads bent to the storm. Would they ever find the ravine?

Suddenly Frank came to a stop and looked behind. “Where’s Joe?” he shouted above the clamor of the gale. The others looked about. Joe had vanished!

CHAPTER IX

The Cavern

“WHERE on earth did Joe disappear to?” exclaimed Biff.

He, Frank, and Chet peered through the teeming rain, but the gloom was so intense that it was impossible to see more than a few yards away.

“We’ll have to go back,” Frank decided quickly. “Joe probably sat down to rest and got lost when he tried to catch up with us.”

The trio retraced their steps over the rocks, keeping close together. They shouted again and again, but in the roar of the storm they knew there was little chance that Joe would hear them.

“Perhaps he fell down and hurt himself,” Biff suggested. “He may be lying behind one of these big rocks where we can’t see him.”

“Maybe he fell over the cliff!” said Chet, voicing the thought for all of them. For a heartsick moment the boys just stood there, faces pale and streaming with rain. Suddenly, above the roar of the storm, they heard a faint cry.

“Listen!” Frank exclaimed.

Breathlessly, they waited.

Again came the cry. “Help! Help!”

The three boys ran to the edge of the cliff, stopped, and peered down. Over to one side, about four feet below, they spied a dark figure.

It was Joe, clinging to a small bush growing out of the sheer cliffside. “Hurry!” he called in a strained voice.

“Hang on! We’ll get you!” Frank shouted. But his heart sank when he saw that Joe was beyond his reach.

“There’s only one thing to do,” he said to Biff and Chet. “You two hang on to me while I lower myself over.”

“You’ll never make it,” Biff protested as Frank shrugged off the gear he was carrying. “You’ll both be killed.”

“It’s the only chance, and I’m going to take it!” Frank flung himself down and began to edge forward until he was leaning far over the edge. Biff and Chet seized his ankles and braced themselves.

Bit by bit, Frank lowered himself headfirst. He dared not look down, for he was hanging at a dizzy height. “A little more!” he called out.

He swung lower, gripped Joe’s wrists, and secured a tight hold. “Ready, Joe?”

“Okay,” was the hoarse reply.

Frank lowered himself toward his brother

“Haul away!”

Chet and Biff began dragging Frank back. There was a double weight now, but the Hardys’ staunch friends were equal to it!

Inch by inch the boys were hauled nearer safety. It seemed ages to Frank before he was over the top again.

At that moment, with his brother just below the rim of the cliff, Frank felt Joe’s wrists slipping from his grasp.

But Chet and Biff scrambled forward and seized Joe’s shirt. Together the three pulled him over the edge onto the rocky ground.

For a moment the boys were too exhausted to say a word.

“Boy, that was a narrow squeak!” Chet said solemnly.

“We’ll stick closer together after this. How did it happen, Joe?” Frank asked.

“I stopped to tie my bootlace. When I looked up again I couldn’t see you at all, so I began to run. I didn’t realize I was so near the edge of the cliff. Then some of the rock must have broken off under my feet, because everything gave way and I felt myself falling.”

When Frank and Joe had recovered from their grueling experience, they got to their feet and the adventurers resumed their journey over the rocks. This time no one lagged behind and all stayed well away from the edge of the cliff.

In a short time Frank gave a cry of relief. “The ravine!” he yelled.

Through the pouring rain, just a few yards ahead, the others discerned a deep cut in the rocks, and they all scrambled down into it.

Far below, they could dimly see the beach and the breaking rollers. Slipping and stumbling, the Bayporters made their way down the steep, winding ravine.

Joe was first to reach bottom.

“A cave!” He pointed right toward the base of the cliff. There, but a short distance from the breaking waves, was a dark hole in the steep wall of rock.

Frank took a flashlight from his pack and led the way into the dark mouth of the cavern. In its gleam he saw that their shelter was no mere niche in the face of the cliff, but a cave that led to unknown depths.

“Looks as if we can start exploring right here and now,” he said.

“Explore my neck!” grumbled Chet. “Let’s build a fire. I’m wet clear through!”

“What do we do for firewood?” practical Biff inquired.

This had not occurred to the others. They glanced at one another in dismay.

“That’s right,” Joe said. “There’s not much wood around and it’s soaked by now, anyway.”

Frank moved farther back into the dark cave with his flashlight. Suddenly he exclaimed in mingled astonishment and delight. “Well! Can you beat this, fellows?”

“What?” called Joe.

“Firewood!”

“Where?”

The others came hastening over to Frank.

“Look!” He cast the flashlight beam against the cave wall to his left.

In the center of the circle of radiance, they saw a neat pile of wood.

Joe whistled in surprise. “That didn’t get here by accident—someone stacked it.”

Frank stepped over and picked up one of the sticks. “Good dry driftwood. We’ll have a swell fire now.”

“I wonder who piled it in here,” Biff remarked.

Chet shrugged. “Why worry about that?”

“Probably the mystery men who are doing all the yelling and shooting,” Biff said. “We’ll be in for it if this is their cave we’ve stumbled on.”

He, Chet, and Joe began carrying wood over to the center of the cave. Frank, meanwhile, set down the flashlight, took out his pocketknife, and whittled a particularly dry stick until he had a small heap of shavings. Over these he built a pyramid of driftwood. Then he took a match from his waterproof case and ignited the shavings. They flared up brightly.

Anxiously the boys watched the small blaze. Frank had been afraid that lack of a draft might cause so much smoke that they would be almost suffocated. To his relief, the smoke spiraled upward and was carried off. “Must be an opening in the roof,” Frank observed.

Soon the fire was burning briskly. As its warmth penetrated the cave, the boys took off their drenched clothes and spread them about the blaze, then wrapped themselves in the heavy blankets they had brought with them.

The rest of the afternoon the rain continued unabated. The clothes dried slowly. Once Biff went to the cave mouth and looked out at the wind-lashed sea.

“Do you think the water comes in here at high tide?” he asked.

“No,” Frank replied. “The cave floor was dry when we came.”

At dusk Chet produced the frying pan, and the fragrant odor of sizzling bacon soon permeated their refuge. The boys never enjoyed a meal more than their supper in the cave. The driftwood blazed and crackled, casting a cheerful glow which illuminated the rocky ceiling and walls of the underground chamber. With crisp bacon, bread toasted brown before the fire, hot chocolate, and jam, they ate ravenously, and at last sat back with deep sighs of sheer content.

Although part of the floor of the cave was rocky, much of it was sand, which provided a fairly comfortable resting place. The boys were tired after their long journey, so they stretched out in their blankets and were soon drowsily chatting, while the fire died lower and lower. At last it was only a glow in the dark and the voices ceased.

An hour passed. Two hours.

Suddenly Joe was awakened. He was just about to turn over and go to sleep again, wondering vaguely what had aroused him, when he heard a footstep close by.

He raised himself on one elbow and peered into the gloom, but could see nothing.

When he heard a rustle, he spoke up. “Is that you, Frank?” The words rang out clearly in the deep silence.

Instead of the reassuring voice of his brother, Joe heard a muffled exclamation and scurrying footsteps. Someone was running across the floor of the cave!

CHAPTER X

A Terrifying Loss

“WHO’S that?” demanded Joe, scrambling to his feet.

There was no answer.

“Fellows! Wake up!” Joe exclaimed as he stumbled about in the darkness, trying to find his flashlight.

“What’s the matter?” came Chet’s sleepy voice. “It isn’t morning yet. Let me sleep.”

“Wake up! Someone’s prowling around here.”

“Maybe it was Biff,” came Frank’s voice. “Biff, you here?”

There was a deep sigh. Then Biff said drowsily, “Of course I am, why?”

Frank switched on his flashlight and played the beam around the cave. Biff and Chet sat up in their blankets and blinked. “What’s wrong?” Biff demanded.

Joe told about the intruder.

“Did he go out the front way?” Biff asked.

Joe shook his head. “No. He seemed to go farther into the cave.”

“Well, then,” Frank said decisively, “we’ll go look for him.”

The boys hurriedly dressed, and taking flashlights, followed Frank deeper into the stygian cave. Thirty paces ahead they were confronted by an arch in the rock, an opening that seemed to lead into a tunnel. They walked into it cautiously, and Frank kept his light focused on the floor to make sure no pitfalls lay before them.

The tunnel was about fifteen feet in length and six feet high. As the floor was of solid rock, they were unable to find any footprints indicating that someone had passed that way.

The tunnel led to another cave. “Maybe there’s a regular chain of caves!” Joe exclaimed as the boys stepped out into a massive underground chamber.

“I guess ours is only the beginning,” Chet remarked.

In the glow of their flashlights the foursome saw that the huge room in which they now stood had a number of dark openings in the walls. These were, presumably, tunnels leading into caves beyond.

Frank frowned. “There are at least a dozen different passages out of here. The prowler might have taken any of them.”

“Let’s tackle the biggest,” Biff suggested.

“Good idea. If we don’t get anywhere, we’ll try the others.”

The largest tunnel was straight ahead. The boys crossed the cavern and Frank led them into the dark passage. Seconds later he exclaimed softly, “Look!”

“What?”

“A footprint.”

Clearly discernible was the imprint of a boot in a patch of wet sand.

“We’re on the right trail,” Joe said quietly. “Come on!”

With increasing excitement, the searchers pressed forward and in a few moments emerged into another cave. This was an enormous underground vault, the largest they had seen yet. Even the four flashlight beams failed to reveal all of the rocky walls and ceiling.

As they started to cross it, Biff’s light went out. He muttered in annoyance and tried to coax a gleam from the silvery tube. No luck.

“Take mine,” Frank offered, but Biff declined. “Stay close, then,” Frank said as they continued across the huge cavern.

The floor of the cavern was piled high with rocks, evidently from cave-ins over the years. In other parts it was pitted with gullies and holes. In trying to avoid these, the boys gradually became separated.

Biff stumbled along behind. He felt the loss of his flashlight, but said nothing, relying on the radiance provided by the others.

Soon, however, the three lights became widely scattered. Biff found himself in total darkness.

He stood uncertainly for a moment, then called out, “Hey, fellows, wait for me!”

He took a step forward and stumbled. As he fell, he groped wildly for a firm rock, but there was nothing there.

With a cry of terror Biff hurtled down into blackness.

For a moment the other three boys froze in their tracks. Then they shouted for Biff, time and again, but there was no answer. They searched frantically among the rocks and crevices, but found no sign of him.

In the glow of the flashlights they looked at one another anxiously and listened in vain for a faint cry. There was no sound but the echoes of their own voices.

“We won’t give up!” Frank vowed. “We’ll search every pit and hole in here!”

With desperate patience they scoured the cave, but at last were forced to admit that it was no use.

“This place is too big,” Chet said dejectedly. “We need more light.” He sat down on a rock and buried his face in his hands.

“I have an idea,” Frank offered. “Let’s build a fire. That’ll help.”

Chet brightened. “Good idea!”

“Come on,” Frank said. “We have lots of wood left in the outside cave.”

“That’s not a bad stunt!” Joe declared hopefully. “With a roaring bonfire we’ll be able to light up the whole place enough to see what we’re doing.”

The boys retraced their steps into the outer cavern where they had slept. They filled their arms with wood and were about to re-enter the tunnel when Joe noticed something that made him drop his wood on the stone floor with a clatter.

“What’s wrong?” Chet asked.

“That’s funny,” Joe returned. “I was sure we left our supplies right near this woodpile.”

“We did,” Frank assured him.

Joe turned his flashlight on the place where the greater part of their supplies had been stacked. A loaf of bread and a tin of sardines lay on the rock, but that was all.

“They’ve been stolen!” Frank exclaimed.

“By that prowler, I’ll bet!” Joe said. “He probably hid himself until we passed, then sneaked back here and stole our food.”

“We can’t worry about that now,” Frank said grimly. “Let’s go!”

Swiftly Joe gathered up his firewood and the boys returned to the big vault.

Hastily the fire was built and soon the flames flared high. The companions were surprised at the number of holes and crevices now revealed.

“It’s a wonder we weren’t all killed,” Chet said. “We were prowling around this chamber without any idea of the real danger.”

Methodically the boys resumed their search, investigating each opening, deep or shallow. But in spite of the extra light and all their shouting, their efforts were in vain.

“I’m afraid it’s no use,” Chet said, gulping. “It’s as if Biff was swallowed up.”

“We need help,” Frank said tersely. “We’ll go to the village and get some men with ropes and searchlights.”

Disconsolately the boys turned back. But as they did, Chet let out a bloodcurdling cry.

On the wall of the cavern flickered the huge shadow of a hand!

CHAPTER XI

No Trespassing!

THE ghostly shadow caused the boys’ hearts to pound until they saw the reason for it. A hand was reaching up from one of the pits, and the bonfire’s glow threw its silhouette on the cavern wall.

“Biff!” Joe cried out.

Only a groan answered. The Hardys and Chet leaped toward the faltering hand as it groped for the lip of the pit. Frank grasped it and together the boys pulled Biff out. He lay dazed for a moment.

“You’re hurt!” said Joe, bending down to examine a large egg on Biff’s left temple.

“I’m all right now. A little dizzy yet, but it isn’t serious.”

“What happened?”

“I fell into the pit and struck my head against the rocks. When I came to, I was lying beneath an overhang. I must have been out for a few minutes.”

“A few minutes!” Chet exclaimed. “We’ve been hunting for you over an hour.”

Biff looked incredulous, and shook his head in dismay when told about the stolen supplies.

“Boy! What a mess we’re in,” he said as his companions helped him out of the cavern.

They returned to the outer cave and fell fast asleep. When morning came, a diligent inspection of their quarters failed to reveal any clues as to the thief.

“We’re out of luck, that’s all,” Frank concluded. “Our light-fingered friend fooled us neatly.”

“At least the storm is over,” said Biff, who was feeling better.

From the cave they could see the sun shining on the blue waters of the sea. As Chet unlimbered his metal detector he moved it over a rocky part of the floor. “Hmm. That’s funny,” he said.

“Did you find a pirate’s chest?” Joe grinned.

“No. But I hear a buzzing noise. Maybe this thing’s broken.” He moved outside and began to swing the disk back and forth over the beach.

All at once Chet dropped his detector, fell to his knees, and dug furiously in the sand. His astonished companions watched from the cave entrance.

Finally the stout boy pulled something out and held it aloft in his right hand. “Ha! I told you!” he shouted.

“What is it?” Biff asked as he, Frank, and Joe hurried over.

“A pistol. Probably a pirate’s. Or maybe from the sunken ship.”

“By golly, Chet, I have to hand it to you,” said Frank as he examined the piece and wiped wet sand from it. “Hey, wait! This isn’t old.”

“You’re right!” Joe burst in. “It’s hardly rusted at all.” He handled the weapon. “Looks like a Smith and Wesson.”

“But see the marking,” Biff said. “Made in Spain.”

Chet looked wisely at his companions. “What do you make of it, boys?”

“Perhaps this very pistol caused all the shooting we’ve heard about,” Biff offered.

Chet beamed. “Well, fellows, I guess I found a mystery. Want to solve it?”

“And leave the trail of Todd and Quill?” Joe asked. “Nothing doing!”

“Just a minute,” Frank put in. “How do we know Cadmus Quill didn’t drop the pistol?”

“Wow!” Joe clapped a hand to his forehead. “That’s a pretty wild guess for you, brother.”

“You’re dreaming, Frank!” Chet chimed in.

Biff, too, thought Frank’s guess was farfetched, and added, “Enough of deductions. How about some chow? I’m famished.” He looked hopefully up the ravine, but Chet, for once, was more excited about detecting than eating.

“Please, fellows,” he begged, “let’s go a little way up the beach yet. Who knows what I’ll find!”

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “Only a quarter of a mile. Then we turn back.”

The sandy shore wound about the face of a great bluff of black rock, and when the boys had skirted this precipice they were confronted by a dark opening at the base of the cliff just a few yards away.

“Another cave!” Frank exclaimed.

Chet gave a cheer and ran ahead with his detector.

When they were just in front of the entrance the boys halted with exclamations of surprise.

Tacked on a board stuck in the sand beside the cave mouth was a tattered sheet of paper. Scrawled in heavy black letters were the words No Trespassing.

The companions looked at the sign in astonishment, then Chet grinned. “By order of the Rockaway chief of police, no doubt. Maybe somebody put it here for a joke,” he said. “Let’s take a peep inside.”

Frank was first to reach the cave and peer inside. Then he turned back to the others. “This sign isn’t a joke,” he said quietly. “Somebody does live here!”

Curiously the boys crowded into the mouth of the cave. In the gloom they could see a crude table and a mattress with blankets. On a ledge of rock was an improvised cupboard consisting of an old soap carton containing canned goods and other provisions.

“Well,” Chet declared, “we have a neighbor who might offer us some grub.”

“We certainly have,” Biff said, looking down the beach. “And if I’m not mistaken, here he comes now.”

Along the shore strode a tall, gray-haired man wearing a blue shirt and overalls, the legs of which were tucked into high rubber boots. The man, oblivious to the boys, held a bugle in his left hand. He stopped, looked at the sea, and blew a loud, clear call. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and continued toward the cave.

When he spotted the four boys he stopped short, blew another flurry on the bugle, and hastened up to the Bayporters.

“I’m Commander E. K. T. Wilson, Queen’s Navy, retired,” he announced. “You should have saluted, but I guess you didn’t know.”

To make up for this breach of etiquette, the boys saluted smartly. This appeared to gratify the man immensely.

“You’re landlubbers, eh?”

“I suppose so,” Frank admitted with a smile.

“Well, we can’t all be sailors. It isn’t often people come to see me.”

“Do you live here?” Joe asked, indicating the cave.

“This is my home when I’m ashore. I’m resting up between cruises just now. What are your names?”

The boys introduced themselves.

“Glad to meet you,” returned Commander Wilson. “I get used to being alone, but it’s a pleasure to have visitors.”

“It’s lonely enough here,” Frank agreed.

“Isn’t bad. Not half as lonely as the time I got marooned in the South Seas.”

The boys looked at him with new interest.

“You were really marooned?” Chet asked.

“Aye. It was when I was in command of a destroyer cruising the South Seas a good many years ago. We landed for water on a little island that you won’t find on any map. It was a hot day—very hot. Must have been over a hundred degrees in the shade. So while my men were loading the water on my ship I sat down in the shade of a cactus tree. Before I knew it, I was asleep.”

“And they went away and left you?” Joe put in.

“They did.”

“But you were the captain!”

“I guess they thought I was in my cabin, and of course none of ‘em dared disturb me. When I woke up, the ship was gone.”

“Ee-yow!” Biff exclaimed.

“Well, sir, I didn’t know what to do. I was like this here fellow Robinson Crusoe that you read about. But I had to make the best of it, so I fixed myself up a little house and lived there for nearly six months, all by myself.”

“Didn’t the ship come back for you?”

“They couldn’t find the island again. Anyway, the quartermaster who took charge of the ship didn’t want to find me, I guess. He wanted my job.”

“Did you have anything to eat on the island?” Biff asked.

Chet interrupted. “Speaking of food, Commander, could you help us out with some breakfast?”

“Sure, me hearties. Growing boys should eat plenty. Now what was I talking about? Oh, well, doesn’t matter.”

A wink passed around the circle of friends as the man went inside and returned with a slab of bacon. Chet volunteered to start a fire, and got it going quickly as the old man cut strips of bacon and put them into a skillet.

“How about a swim while we’re waiting?” Frank suggested.

“Let’s go!” Joe shouted.

The boys skinned off their clothes and ran into the surf. Joe swam beside his brother. “Frank, Wilson doesn’t sound much like an Englishman.”

“I don’t think he has all his marbles,” Frank replied.

“Do you think Wilson helped himself to our supplies?”

“I didn’t see them in his cave,” Frank said, adding, “He seems harmless. I’d like to ask him some questions, though.”

“And could I go for some crisp bacon! Race you back to shore!”

Using the Australian crawl, the brothers streaked over the wave tops and hit shore together. There Biff and Chet joined them, and after they dressed, the refreshed quartet trotted up to Commander Wilson, who sat near the fire. The skillet lay at the sailor’s side—empty, and Wilson was chewing on the last piece of bacon. He looked up.

“Who are you?” he asked bluntly.

“The Hardy boys,” Frank began in surprise. “And—”

“Well, beat it! Scram! I don’t want you around here!”

CHAPTER XII

Undercover Work

COMMANDER WILSON’S gruff order to leave caused the four boys to stare at him in wonderment.

“But, Commander,” Joe protested, “you—”

“Don’t ‘Commander’ me!” the man said, rising to his feet and shaking his fist at the boys. “I want to be left alone! That’s why I’m a hermit.”

Frank shook his head. “No use arguing, fellows,” he murmured. “Come on.”

They strode away across the sand, with Chet muttering about the loss of a good meal.

“That old sailor’s a real lulu,” Biff said, disgruntled. He glanced at Frank. “What’ll we do now?”

“First thing is to get some food.”

“And where is the food?” Biff asked sarcastically.

“Maybe we can grow mushrooms in the cave,” Joe quipped.

Chet trailed behind. The headphones were clamped to his ears, and once more he swung his metal detector back and forth over the sand.

“If you have strength enough,” Frank told Biff, “we can climb up the ravine, cross the cliffs, and go back down to Johnny the fisherman’s place. Maybe he’ll give us chow, or else we can drive back to Rockaway for more supplies.”

“Bright prospects!” Biff grumbled. “I thought I could do some fishing today. It’s great after a storm.” Then suddenly Biff recalled that his fishing gear had been stolen with the rucksacks. “Doggone it!” he exclaimed. “That burns me up! I’ll bet that Commander Wilson took our stuff and stashed it out of sight!”

“I doubt it,” Frank said. He turned and called to Chet, who was now a hundred paces behind. “Come on, hurry up!”

Chet waved and nodded, but still continued to swing his detector. Then he gave an excited bellow.

“Sounds like the mating call of a walrus,” Biff commented.

“He may have discovered another weapon,” Joe said as they hastened back to their stout pal.

“Hey, fellows, there must be a whole arsenal underneath here,” Chet said. “You should have heard the terrific noise in my ears.”

All four boys dropped to their hands and knees and dug like fox terriers in a bone yard. Biff was first to reach something solid. He tugged and yanked, finally coming up with a rucksack!

“Look!” Biff cried out. “It’s mine!” He brushed the wet sand from the knapsack, opened it quickly, and pulled out his collapsible fishing gear.

The other three quickly recovered their supplies, a little damp, but none the worse for their burial in sand.

Chet unscrewed the lid of his canteen and took a long swallow of water. “I told you this metal detector would pay off,” he said.

Biff grinned. “I could kiss you, Chet, for finding my tackle.”

Chet stepped backward in mock horror. “Please, please, not here,” he said, and the others roared with laughter.

As their own cave was not far from the spot, the boys hastened back and broke out the rations. A fire was quickly started and Chet presided over the skillet filled with crisp bacon. “Phooey on the commander,” Chet said smugly.

“Which reminds me,” Frank put in, “I’m not finished with that old codger yet.”

“What more could you learn from him?” Joe asked. “He’s as nutty as a fruitcake.”

“Maybe he is, maybe he isn‘t,” Frank replied. “In either case, I’d like to study him a little closer and ask some more questions.”

Joe looked thoughtful as he spooned a portion of scrambled eggs into his mess kit. “Do you think he might have seen Cadmus Quill or some other mysterious prowlers around here?”

As Frank broke off a piece of crusty bread from a long loaf, he said that was exactly his idea.

“Well, you fellows go about your sleuthing,” Biff said. “I’m going fishing.”

“Where?” asked Chet.

“From the top of the cliff,” Biff replied. “I can heave my line a mile out from that point. Maybe I’ll catch something big where the water’s deep.”

“I’m with you,” Chet said. He turned to the Hardys and added, “If you fellows run into trouble with Wilson, just call us.”

During the rest of the meal, the boys talked about the thief who had buried their supplies in the sand.

“If he didn’t keep them for his own use, what was the point of stealing ‘em?” Biff mused.

“To get us away from here,” Joe said promptly. “Somebody doesn’t want us around.”

“Like Commander Wilson,” Biff said. “What do you think, Frank?”

The young sleuth shrugged. “There might be one man or two—maybe a whole gang operating around here. But we’ll find out sooner or later.”

“You’d better find out sooner,” Chet declared, “else we’ll be starving again.”

“If you mean somebody’s going to steal our supplies a second time,” Joe said, “you’re mistaken.” He told of having seen a small crevice fifty yards away at the base of the ravine. “We’ll hide our stuff there until you two get back with the whale you’re going to catch.”

When the fire had been put out and their camping place policed up, the four adventurers hid their rucksacks and parted.

Frank glanced over his shoulder to see Chet and Biff trudging up the ravine, as he and Joe trotted toward Wilson’s cave. They saw the old sailor standing in front of his cave, sketching something in the sand with a slender stick. When he saw them approach, he quickly rubbed the sole of his boot over the sand and hailed the brothers. “Hello there! Have you come to visit me?”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances, and walked up to the man. “Why, yes,” said Frank. “Do you remember us, Frank and Joe Hardy?”

“Of course I do. Where did you go after I invited you to breakfast?”

“Why, we came—” Frank began. “Didn’t see hide nor hair of you. Thought you went back to Bayhill, or Portside, or wherever you came from. Where are your two friends?”

“They went fishing,” Joe replied.

“Where?”

“To the top of the cliffs.”

“Dangerous. Mighty dangerous. I hope they come back all right,” Wilson said.

He shook his head, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked in circles before his cave.

“Commander Wilson,” Frank began slowly, “have you seen any people prowling around Honeycomb Caves?”

Wilson stopped short and looked Frank squarely in the eyes. “I’m alone. A hermit. That’s what I am. I haven’t seen anybody. Nobody comes near me. They think I’m queer.”

Joe described both Todd and Quill. “Have you seen anyone resembling them?” he persisted.

“No. But come to think of it, there was a fellow—”

The Hardys looked alertly at the old sailor. Had he seen one of the missing men?

“Yes, go on,” Frank encouraged. “What did he look like?”

“The first one you mentioned.”

“Todd?”

“Yes. I once knew a fellow like that. He was second mate on my cruiser in the Philippines.”

Joe turned aside and made a wry face as the man continued:

“Come to think of it, his name was Todd. Yes, it was,” the commander went on. “He shipwrecked me deliberately and I had to climb a pineapple tree until the natives stopped beating their drums and went home.”

Joe leaned close to Frank and said in a low voice, “He’s off again. What’ll we do now?”

As Commander Wilson rambled on, Frank edged closer to the mouth of the cave and glanced inside. He gave an involuntary start as he saw something he had not noticed before. But before he could whisper to Joe, Wilson wheeled about. “A man’s cave is his castle,” he said tartly.

Frank tried to manage a grin. “Well, I guess we’d better be going, Commander,” he said. “Those fellows must have caught a fish by now.”

Without saying a word, the old salt went into his cave. The Hardys continued down the beach again. When they had gone a dozen yards, Frank seized Joe’s arm and pulled him behind a large rock.

“What’s the matter, Frank?”

“Joe, I saw a cap in Wilson’s cave—the same foreign style that was dropped by the fellow at the radar site!”

“Do you think there’s some connection?”

Frank suggested that they hide and watch the old fellow’s cave. “You notice he got mighty excited when I looked into his quarters.”

“I’ll bet he’s got something in there he doesn’t want us to see,” he said, peering over the rock. Suddenly he hissed, “Watch it! Here he comes!”

The two boys crouched low. Joe poked his head around the boulder for a quick look. “Frank, he’s going down the beach the other way—probably to look in our cave.”

“Now’s our chance to explore his,” Frank said. “Is he out of sight yet?”

“Yes.”

Frank and Joe scrambled out of their hiding place and dashed into Wilson’s cave.

“Boy, is it ever deep!” Joe exclaimed. “It goes way back!”

“And look here,” Frank said, picking up the cap from the floor. “This could be more than a coincidence.”

“Wow! He’s got an arsenal, too!” whispered Joe. He pointed to a shotgun lying on a rock ledge.

“So that’s where the mysterious shooting came from,” Frank guessed. “And how about this?”

He picked up a dog-eared notebook from beside the gun and leafed it.

“It’s a code book! Let’s take it to the light so we can study it.”

The boys had been well schooled in cryptography by their father. Eagerly the two moved nearer the mouth of the cave.

All at once the interior darkened and Commander Wilson stood at the entrance! “Spies! You’re all spies!” he boomed. “Give me that book, you—you young pirates!”

As Frank and Joe stood tongue-tied, Wilson lunged toward the stone ledge.

“Look out!” Joe cried out. “He’s going for the shotgun!”

CHAPTER XIII

A Straight-Line Clue

FRANK dropped the code book and leaped to intercept Commander Wilson before he could reach the shotgun. But the old man was as agile as an athlete! He dodged and twisted out of Frank’s way like a piece of spring steel and grabbed the weapon.

“Frank! Run!” Joe shouted as he ducked toward the front of the cave.

Realizing it was now impossible to cope with Wilson, Frank dashed after his brother. But as the two boys reached the cave mouth, there was a loud explosion. Frank stumbled and fell to the ground.

“You killed him! You killed my brother!” Joe cried out. He bent down over the prostrate form. But instead of finding blood on the back of Frank’s red shirt, Joe saw a large, round white patch. At the same time Frank shook his head, got to his knees, then stood up.

“Are you all right?” Joe asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the smoking shotgun in Wilson’s hand. The old man had a gleeful expression on his face.

“I’m okay,” Frank said. “Let’s get out of here!” The boys retreated halfway to the water’s edge before stopping.

“The blast knocked me down,” Frank said, reaching about gingerly to touch his back. “What was the gun loaded with?” He removed his shirt and the brothers examined it closely. “Joel This looks like flour! It is flour!”

“So that’s what Wilson used for ammunition!” Joe said. “Now I know for sure he’s a candidate for the booby hatch.”

With mixed feelings of embarrassment and chagrin, Frank donned his shirt and the Hardys looked back as Wilson emerged from the cave. Again he shook his fist.

“That’s what you spies get for snooping around Commander Wilson’s cave!” he shouted. “You have some nerve trying to read the code book of the Queen’s Navy!”

“We were only looking at that funny cap,” Frank called back. “Where did you get it?”

“In Rockaway, of course—where I get all my supplies,” Wilson said. “That’s where I go when the Queen’s Navy forgets to send the supply ship.”

Shaken by the weird incident, the brothers headed for their cave.

“That cap will bear some investigating,” said Joe.

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “If they’re sold at the general store in Rockaway, maybe the Bayport prowler bought his there too.”

“Look who’s coming,” said Joe. They glanced up to see Chet and Biff scrambling down the ravine toward them. Biff had a monster of a fish slung across his shoulder.

“Hi, fellows!” Chet called out. “Look what we caught!”

Joe grinned. “It’s almost as good as a whale!”

Puffing and beaming, Chet and Biff hastened up to the Hardys. The sea bass which Biff carried weighed more than thirty pounds.

“Will we chow down today!” Chet said gleefully, then added quickly, “And I discovered a mine, too.”

“A gold mine, I suppose,” Joe said.

“I don’t know what kind,” Chet said seriously, “but my detector picked up some funny noises.”

“Chet’s right,” Biff said. “Something’s buried up there. Fellows, you ought to go hear for yourselves. I’ll show you the place.”

“Okay. You win,” Frank said skeptically.

“I’ll cook some of the fish while you’re gone,” Chet said. He added wistfully, “I wish we had some flour to sprinkle on it.”

Frank gulped and Joe pounded him on the back.

“Did I say something wrong?” Chet asked.

“Oh, no!” Frank said hastily. “Give us the detector, Chet.”

Joe took the device and in a few minutes the three boys were clambering up the ravine toward the top of the cliff.

When they reached it, Joe donned the earphones and held the detector several inches off the ground. “Over there,” Biff directed. Joe went toward the spot. A moment later he winced as a clicking chattered like a machine gun in his ears.

“No kidding, there is something underneath here,” he said. “Listen for yourself, Frank.”

Frank complied, then moved the detector from right to left. “That’s strange,” he muttered. “This mine, or whatever it is Chet discovered, runs in a straight line.”

“Maybe a water pipe,” Biff said. “Wouldn’t that be a joke!”

“A water pipe from where to where?” Joe countered. “Why put a drain underground at a place like this?”

“Whatever the thing is,” Frank said, “it lies east to west, apparently from near the coastline to the highway.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Joe said. He moved to a stand of pine trees growing several hundred yards back from the precipice and selected the tallest. “Give me a boost, Frank.”

After getting a lift from his brother, Joe shinned to the first branch, scrambled to the top of the tree, and looked intently westward.

“What do you see over there?” Frank called up.

“You’d be surprised!” said Joe.

“Come on,” Biff said. “You’re tracing an imaginary line. What does it point to?”

“The Palais Paris,” Joe replied. In a few moments he was back on the ground. “Frank, I have a strange feeling about that place. Let’s investigate it.”

“Not this minute,” his brother replied. “I’d like to do some digging.”

“But with what?” asked Joe.

“I’ll get some tools,” Biff volunteered. “Johnny the fisherman will lend us his.” He hastened off and returned presently with a shovel and pickax over his shoulder.

The boys took turns wielding the pick and shovel. Rocks and dirt flew up out of the hole they fashioned. But they reached three feet down without striking metal.

Biff leaned on the shovel and ran his thumb along his brow like a windshield wiper. “We might dig all day and not find anything,” he said. “Frank, do you suppose it is a metallic substance which makes the detector click like that?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank replied. “It might be an electrical conduit. Let’s check in Rockaway.”

“Okay.” Joe chuckled. “As soon as we’ve eaten that feast Chet’s preparing for us.”

The boys left the tools near the edge of the cliff where they could find them, then retreated down the ravine to the cave. Chet had made a spit, on which large chunks of the freshly caught sea bass were broiling over hot coals.

“Smells great, Chet,” Joe said. “Let’s eat and be on our way.”

“We’re going back?” Chet asked in dismay.

“To Rockaway for the time being,” said Frank, and told what they had observed on the cliff top.

“Then I did find a good clue, eh?” Chet asked proudly. “First the pistol and now this. What would you fellows do without me?”

“We’ll make an operative out of you, like Dad’s assistant, Sam Radley,” Frank said.

“Just so long as it isn’t dangerous,” Chet said, and passed out portions of the succulent fish. Frank, Joe, and Biff had to admit it was one of the finest meals they had ever tasted.

“It’s great brain food,” said Chet. “I think we’re going to need it on this case of yours,” he added with a wink at the Hardys.

“Don’t worry,” Biff said. “They’ll get to the bottom of this—someday.”

The banter flew back and forth until the meal was finished. Then Chet put out the fire and the boys packed for the return trip. Camping in the salty sea air seemed to give them extra energy. They sang their way along the top of the cliff, where they picked up the digging tools and made the long descent to the fisherman’s house.

“We might dig all day and not find anything,” Biff said

Mrs. Donachie came out to greet them. “Oh, I’m so glad all you boys returned safely from those awful caves,” she said.

“We’re still in one piece.” Joe grinned. “Is Johnny here? We’re returning his tools.”

“He’s out fishing,” the woman said. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

The boys said good-by and headed for their cars. “Come back when you please,” Mrs. Donachie called after them.

The Bayporters waved good-by and drove quickly back to Rockaway, where they pulled up in front of the general store. Frank led the way inside.

Mr. Tuttle, the proprietor, was sitting behind the counter, his chair tipped back. “Well, what did I tell you?” he greeted them, shaking his head vigorously. “You got into trouble at the caves, so you came back!”

“Who said anything about trouble?” Chet demanded.

“Well, you’ve got somethin’ on your minds.” The whiskered man squinted. “I can tell by the way you barged in here.”

“To tell you the truth,” Frank said, “we have. I wonder if you could direct us to the town engineer‘s office. We’d like to study some public maps and surveys.”

The old fellow raised himself expansively and snapped his suspenders. “Seein’ that I’m the mayor of Rockaway,” he said, “I can show you to the archives.” With a flourish of his right hand, he indicated a door in the back of the store.

“In there?” asked Joe.

“That’s the office of the mayor and the town engineer,” the storekeeper said.

The boys followed him into the room. To their surprise they found it neatly arranged, with a desk, a filing cabinet, and large survey maps on the walls. These showed the adjoining countryside, complete with service lines of all kinds.

Frank and Joe studied the maps carefully as Biff and Chet looked over their shoulders.

“No, I can’t see any electrical conduits or water lines,” said Frank as his finger followed the area from the cliffs to the Palais Paris. “Joe, you may have a good hunch about that place. I’ve got an idea.”

When Mayor Tuttle asked about their interest in the maps, Frank deftly turned the question aside, saying what a good campsite they had in Rockaway.

After buying more supplies, the boys drove to the campsite.

“Hey, Frank, what’s this big idea of yours?” Joe asked impatiently.

Frank grinned. “Gather round and listen. It may work.” He said that Joe and Chet would be dispatched to Bayport, while he and Biff continued sleuthing in Rockaway. “Your mission,” he told his brother, “will be to get Callie and Iola to apply for waitress jobs at the Palais Paris.”

CHAPTER XIV

Startling News

JOE whistled. “A great idea, Frank. The girls can be our undercover agents.”

“Exactly,” Frank said. He turned to Chet. “Maybe you can convince Iola she should do this for Hardy and Sons.”

“I think she’d do it just for Joe,” Chet said, and guffawed.

“All right, all right,” Joe said, “let’s go.” He called over his shoulder. “Find out about that cap, Frank!”

He and Chet hopped into the jalopy and drove away. Two hours later they pulled into the driveway of the Morton farmhouse.

Iola and Mary Todd hastened out to greet them. Mary, although happy to see the boys, had a wistful air. Joe realized she was disappointed that her brother had not been found, and wished he had good news for her.

When the four young people had gathered in the cool spacious living room, Joe asked Iola, “Will you get Callie Shaw to come right over?”

“I’ll phone her now. Why?”

“Tell you later.”

While they waited for Callie, tall frosty glasses of lemonade were served by Iola, who grew more curious with each cool sip. Twenty minutes later Callie Shaw arrived. She was a good-looking blond girl whom Frank Hardy often dated.

“Hi, everybody,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Why the mysterious summons?”

“Yes, Joe Hardy,” Iola put in. “Don’t keep us in suspense any longer.”

With a dramatic gesture Joe began. “We have something exceptional to ask you girls.”

“I know! You want us to go on a picnic at the caves,” Callie said hopefully.

Joe shook his head. “We want you and Iola to apply for waitress jobs at the Palais Paris.”

“So you can spy on what’s going on there,” Chet burst in.

Dumfounded, the three girls listened raptly to the story of the boys’ adventures.

“You mean you want us to help you on a detective case?” Iola said happily. “Oh, we’d love to!”

A determined look crossed Mary’s pretty face. “If Callie and Iola are going to help you boys find my brother, I want to help, too.”

“But—but—” Chet started to protest.

“No buts about it,” Mary said emphatically. “All three of us girls will be detectives!”

Mary’s enthusiasm amused Joe and Chet. But Callie and Iola were delighted to have her join them in applying for waitress jobs at the Palais Paris.

“We’ll call ourselves the three musketeers!” Iola said proudly.

“Ugh!” said Chet. “I can just see you now dueling with steak knives.”

Iola gave her brother a withering look, then turned to Joe with a bright smile. “What do you want us to do when we get there? Shall we go under assumed names?”

“To answer your second question first,” said Joe. “You and Callie give your names, but I don’t think Mary should use her last one—just in case these people have read about her brother’s disappearance.”

“All right,” Mary said promptly. “I’ll call myself Mary Temple.”

“Good,” Joe replied. “In answer to your first question, lola—if and when you get to be waitresses, just keep your ears and eyes open for anything suspicious going on at the Palais Paris.”

“And not too much giggling, either,” Chet said with a brotherly wave of his hand.

“Of course not, silly!” Iola retorted. “When do we start?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Joe said. “We’ll meet here at eight o‘clock.”

“Meantime”—Iola’s eyes twinkled—“we gals can practice balancing trays.”

Afterward, Joe rode to Bayport with Callie in her sports car. “I’ll pick you up in the morning,” she said, pulling up at the Hardy home. “Bye now.”

Joe was disappointed to learn that his father was out of town. “Your dad won’t be back until sometime tomorrow,” said Mrs. Hardy. “By the way, did you boys find a spinning wheel?”

“Well—er—yes,” Joe replied. “But it needs a little work. We’ll fix it up, though, Mom.” He added apprehensively, “Aunt Gertrude hasn’t arrived yet?”

“No, but I expect her any day.”

Joe quickly briefed his mother on their recent adventures, including the cap clue and the plan to return to Rockaway. “There’s a phone at the general store in case you want to reach us,” he said. Joe had supper and retired early. Right after breakfast he took enough money from the brothers’ safe to cover the balance on the spinning wheel and retrieve Frank’s watch.

Promptly at eight o‘clock Joe and Callie arrived at the Morton farm, and the five young people set off in Chet’s jalopy. Iola sat next to Joe as the teen-agers drove happily along the highway to Rockaway.

Frank and Biff met them at the campsite, somewhat surprised to see Mary Todd.

“I have news for you,” Frank said. “Old Man Tuttle doesn’t sell those foreign caps.”

“I told you Wilson was nutty,” Joe commented.

It was then decided that Biff should drive the three girls to the restaurant. Frank explained, “The Palais Paris people already know Joe and me. They might get suspicious if we show up with you.”

“Well, I don’t see why we girls can’t drive alone,” said Iola. “We have our licenses with us.”

Although the Hardys knew that Callie and Iola were good drivers, they insisted that Biff go along as a precautionary measure.

“There may be a bunch of gangsters hiding out there,” Chet quipped. “And Biff can take care of them, eh pal?”

“One-handed!”

“And don’t forget—you are Mary Temple,” Joe emphasized. The girls waved as Biff drove them away in Chet’s car.

“Do you suppose they’ll all get jobs?” Joe asked as he, Frank, and Chet watched the car disappear around a bend.

“Even if only one is hired,” Frank said, “we’ll have an undercover agent on the spot.”

“She can always check on those phony antiques,” said Chet as he pulled up a stalk of grass and nipped it between his teeth. “So, what do we do now?”

The boys were strolling past Tuttle’s General Store. Chet answered his own question. “I could go for some ice cream.”

“Okay.” Joe grinned. “It’s hot and we’ll have to wait, so why not fuel up, eh Chet?”

“We can ask Mr. Tuttle about Commander Wilson, too,” Frank suggested.

Chet treated to ice cream on a stick. In between bites, the boys queried the storekeeper.

“Mr. Tuttle,” Joe spoke up, “do you know anything about that ex-sailor hermit who lives at the caves? His name is Wilson.”

The mayor gave Joe a sideways look. “Hermit? Lives in a cave? Never saw the likes of such in my town, and never heard of a soul livin’ down there.”

The trio said good-by and left. Chet said, “Let’s go to the car. There’s a good jazz program from Bayport.”

But as they approached the car, Mayor Tuttle raced out after them. “Hey, come back!” he called excitedly.

“Oh—oh, what now?” said Frank, turning.

The old man went on urgently. “The telephone,” he said. “Somebody’s calling you—your father.”

Frank dashed back inside, followed by Joe and Chet. He ran to the public booth and picked up the receiver, “Dad, this is Frank. What’s up?”

The reply creased a furrow between his eyes. “Leapin’ lizards!” he exclaimed. “Okay, Dad. We’ll get over there right away. Thanks for calling.”

Frank stepped out of the booth, and faced the other boys, who were bursting with curiosity.

“Tell us what happened,” Joe demanded.

“Remember that rundown on Cadmus Quill?” Frank said. “Well, Dad learned something else. Guess what—the Palais Paris is owned by a corporation, with Cadmus Quill listed as secretary!”

Joe let out a long whistle. “Then something fishy is going on around there,” he said. “The girls might be in danger! Let’s go!”

Chet sprinted as fast as the Hardys and all three bolted into the car together. Joe spun the rear wheels in haste to get rolling!

In the meantime, Iola, Callie, and Mary were being ushered through the restaurant of the Palais Paris to the manager’s office at the rear. In order to avoid being conspicuous. Biff Hooper had parked Chet’s car at the far end of the lot. Biff himself crouched down out of sight on the floor of the back seat.

The girls were greeted by a suave-looking slender man with a small black mustache. “Made moiselles,” he said, rising from his desk, “do I understand that you wish to work as waitresses at the Palais Paris?” The manager spoke with a French accent. He added quickly, “Ah, pardon. I am Pierre Dumont.”

“Yes, Mr. Dumont,” Callie Shaw spoke up. “A friend of ours saw your sign. We would like to apply for jobs.”

“You speak French?”

“Oui,” Iola replied. “We’ve studied it in high school.”

“Trés bien.” Pierre Dumont nodded. “And you have had restaurant experience?” He turned his glance to Mary and asked quickly, “What is your name?”

“Mary Todd—Temple!” she said, flustered.

“Todd-Temple,” the manager said, lifting his eyebrows. “An English name, I presume.”

“Yes, yes,” Mary stammered.

Mr. Dumont murmured, “One moment, s‘il vous plait.” He pressed a buzzer. The girls stood nervously. A moment later the door opened and a muscular, brawny man entered.

“You wanted somethin’, boss?”

Mr. Dumont drew the man aside and whispered.

“Got yuh, boss,” the man said, then hurried outside.

The manager once more turned his attention to the girls. “So sorry. Now—if you will leave your names with me,” he said, “I shall let you know. I have had several other applicants.”

He handed a pad across the table and the girls wrote their names, addresses, and phone numbers.

The three applicants thanked the restaurant manager and left his office. On the way through the restaurant, Callie, who was last, glimpsed three well-dressed men pushing open the swinging doors to the kitchen. Their voices floated back and Callie caught a few words in a foreign tongue. “That’s not French,” she thought, surprised.

When the girls were outside, Mary whispered, “Oh, what a goose I am for giving my right name.”

“Don’t worry,” Callie said.

“Do you think Mr. Dumont was suspicious of us at all?” Iola mused. “He kept looking at me sort of funny.”

“It’s just your imagination because we’re play ing detective,” Callie said.

The girls were nearly to the jalopy when Pierre Dumont hastened from the restaurant toward them. Iola whirled. “He’s after us. Run!”

CHAPTER XV

A Growing Suspicion

THE frightened girls raced toward the car, but their speed was outmatched by Pierre Dumont. He overtook them halfway across the parking lot.

“Wait!” he commanded. “Why are you running away?” He extended a purse toward them.

“Oh dear,” said Mary. “It’s mine. I must have left it on your desk. Thank you.”

“I return it with pleasure, mademoiselle,” Dumont replied. With a slight bow, the manager walked away.

Callie sighed in relief, and the girls hastened toward Chet’s car.

“Biff! We’re here!” Iola said in a loud whisper.

No reply.

“What happened to our chauffeur?” Callie said, and opened the car door. She looked into the back seat and gasped.

Biff Hooper lay in a heap on the floor, with an ugly welt on the back of his head!

“Biff! What happened!” Iola cried. “Come on, girls. Let’s lift him up.” It took the combined strength of all three to heft big Biff onto the back seat.

“Thank goodness he’s breathing!” declared Mary Todd, her hands trembling in fright.

While Callie chafed Biff’s wrists, Iola patted his face gently until the youth opened his eyes.

“Ow, my head,” Biff said, wincing. He touched the welt and winced again.

“Someone gave you an awful whack,” said Iola. “Did you see who it was?”

“I didn’t see anything but stars!” Biff commented wryly.

“There’s something very odd going on around here,” Iola said with a determined set of her chin. “I’m going right back and talk with Mr. Dumont.”

“Wait a minute,” Callie said, putting a restraining hand on Iola’s arm. “If Dumont is in on all this, as I think he is, it won’t do us any good. Let’s report to Frank and Joe, quick.”

“I think that would be better,” Biff said. “Boy, am I groggy!”

“I’ll drive back,” Callie said. She hopped into the front seat while Mary and Iola remained in the back, on either side of Biff. Callie started the car, drove out of the parking lot, and soon was whipping along the highway toward Rockaway. She slowed down slightly for a right-hand curve. At the same instant a groundhog plodded into the road. Desperately Callie swerved toward the center of the road to avoid the creature. Just then another car sped toward them from the opposite direction.

Callie gripped the wheel and turned it hard. The cars passed with less than an inch to spare. With squealing brakes, both vehicles pulled over and stopped.

Frank, Joe, and Chet hopped out of the Hardys’ car and ran over to the girls and Biff.

“Whew!” said Joe. “That was a close call.”

“I’m sorry,” Callie said. “I—I didn’t want to hit that poor animal.”

“Forget it,” said Joe. “What’s the matter with you, Biff?”

“I’m all right now,” the tall boy said, stepping out of the car with Iola and Mary. “Somebody conked me on the head. That’s all!”

“What!”

The girls told what had happened at the Palais Paris, and Mary said, “I don’t trust that Pierre Dumont, in spite of his fancy French manners.”

A quick comparison told the Hardys that the burly man to whom Dumont had whispered must have been Marcel.

“He might have been the one who hit you, Biff,” Frank said. “Maybe Dumont ordered him to case the car and when he spotted you hiding in the back he let you have it.”

When Callie told about the three men speaking in a foreign tongue, Frank and Joe exchanged meaningful glances.

“Good for you, Callie,” Frank said. “But think hard, can’t you identify the language?”

“No. I couldn’t even guess,” Callie replied.

“Let’s go back and have a look-see,” Joe said. “Besides, Frank, I brought along enough money to bail out your watch.”

Chet transferred his gear, including the detector, to his jalopy, then took the wheel and followed the Hardys’ car to the Palais Paris. By this time the parking lot contained many cars.

“They must have really good food here,” Iola commented.

“I hope it’s better than their antiques,” Joe said.

All three girls said they would like to see the antique shop.

“Okay,” Joe said. “But don’t try to buy any. thing. It’ll fall apart!”

When the woman shopkeeper saw the Hardys she frowned, hastened into the back room, and reappeared with MarceL Frank gave the girls a questioning glance. A nod from Iola told him it was indeed Marcel whom Dumont had summoned during their interview.

The muscular man did not bat an eyelash when he noticed Biff.

“Well,” Marcel growled at the Hardys, “what do you want?”

“I came back to claim my watch,” Frank said.

As Joe opened his wallet and took out the money, the woman reached under the counter.

“Thanks,” Frank said after the exchange was made. “Now all we have to do is put the spinning wheel together.”

Marcel smirked. “Tough luck.”

“By the way,” Joe said suddenly to the sales-woman, “where can we find Cadmus Quill?”

Her dark eyes darted to Marcel before she replied, “Cadmus Quill? Never heard of him.”

Marcel thrust his head forward menacingly and said, “All right. You got your watch, so scram out of here.”

“But the girls want to look at your antiques,” Frank persisted.

“Some other time,” Marcel said, jerking his thumb toward the door. “We don’t want you kids in the way of the payin’ customers.”

Several diners, having finished their luncheon, had wandered in and were looking about the shop.

“Okay,” Frank said to the others. “Let’s go.” When they reached the cars, Frank said, “Joe, I don’t think you should have mentioned Quill.”

“I thought I might catch them off guard,” Joe replied.

“I think you did—trouble is, now they’ll really be suspicious of us,” Frank said, “provided Dad’s report of Quill’s connection here is correct.”

“Where do we go from here?” Joe asked.

The young detectives held a hasty conference. “I suggest we pack up and go back to Bayport,” Frank said. “Joe and I should talk with Dad and then decide on our next move.”

The Hardys made a speedy trip to Rockaway for their gear and rejoined the others.

Biff rode in the Hardys’ car with Frank and Joe while Chet chauffeured the girls in his jalopy. Five miles later they stopped at the Hamburger Haven, piled out of the cars, and occupied counter stools.

After the girls had ordered, Chet boomed, “Three burgers for me, a double order of French fries, and a thick chocolate malted.”

While they chatted over their refreshing luncheon, the young detectives were amused by a small boy tumbling on a grassy plot next to the road-stand. As Joe paid for the meal, the youngster ran up, crying.

“What’s the matter?” Iola asked.

“I lost all my pennies,” he said. “They dropped out of my pocket.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find them for you,” Chet said importantly. He winked at Frank. “You see what I mean when I say that everybody should have a metal detector?”

“Okay, Sir Galahad,” said Frank, “do your good deed for the day.”

Chet hastened to his car. The others saw him frown. Then he ran to the Hardys’ car and rum· maged through it.

“What’s the matter, Chet?” Biff called.

“My metal detector! It’s gone!” Chet cried out in dismay.

CHAPTER XVI

Deadly Clicking

“YOUR detector must be in one of our cars,” Joe said. “Come on. Let’s look again.”

But despite a thorough search of both vehicles, Chet’s prized possession could not be found.

“There’s only one answer,” Chet said. “My metal detector was stolen while we were parked at the Palais Paris.”

“You’re telling me!” Biff put in. “That place is a jinx for us.”

“I think Chet’s right,” Frank agreed. “Joe, you, Chet, and I will go back to the restaurant. Biff can drive the girls to Bayport in the jalopy and take our gear, too.”

“Okay,” Biff said. “But be careful of those monkeys at the Palais Paris. You know what one of ‘em did to me.”

Callie and Iola were reluctant to leave the Hardys, but conceded it was best that they return home with Biff.

“After all, we don’t know how long the search will take,” Iola said.

“Besides,” Callie remarked with a twinkle, “I think we girl detectives have had enough excitement for one day!”

“Too much!” Mary declared.

After the girls and Biff were on their way, Frank, Joe, and Chet hopped into the Hardys’ car and drove directly to the Palais Paris.

Frank parked and the three boys entered the restaurant and walked briskly to the manager’s office. They could see Dumont through the open door. He beckoned. “Entrez. Come in.”

“We’d like to talk to you,” Frank said seriously.

Dumont smiled. “No doubt you are seeking jobs as busboys,” he said. “I am sorry to say that we do not need any—at present, that is. But you may give me your—”

“We don’t want to work here!” Chet broke in tartly. “All I want is my metal detector. It was stolen from my car!”

“Metal detector? Ah, so that’s what it is. You say stolen? Ma foi! Indeed, such is not the case.”

Chet’s eyes bugged as Dumont rose, walked to a small closet, and pulled out the missing detector.

“That’s mine, all right,” Chet said as the man handed the device over. “Where did you find it?”

“Precisely where you left it.”

“It was left in the car,” Frank said tersely. “Who swiped it. Do you know?”

A pained expression crossed Dumont’s face. “It was not ‘swiped,’ as you Americans say,” he retorted. “The detector was left standing in a comer of our antique shop.”

Chet scratched his head and looked perplexed. “That’s funny. I don’t think I carried it in there—or did I?”

Now even the Hardys were stumped. Chet was so fond of his new gadget he might conceivably have taken it inside. Frank gave their stout friend a questioning look. “Well, I can’t remember tak ing it from the car, but I couldn’t say for sure,” Chet said. “Well, anyhow, thanks a lot, Mr. Dumont,” he added. “Mercy buckets, as you French say.”

The manager rubbed a forefinger over his black mustache. “Merci beaucoup,” he corrected, smil ing. “Feel free to visit us any time.”

The boys went outside and hurried toward their car. “He seemed like a nice enough guy,” Chet remarked. “Compared to that Marcel character, anyhow.”

Frank and Joe did not reply. Both were deep in thought about the strange incident. If Dumont had had the metal detector stolen, then why would he return it so graciously?

“As Shakespeare says, there’s something rotten in Denmark, Joe,” said Frank as he slid behind the wheel.

“Denmark alias Palais Paris,” Joe muttered.

Chet put his metal detector on the back seat, then sat in front between the Hardys. “Come on, Frank.” he urged. “Let’s see if we can catch up to my jalopy.”

“Relax,” Frank said. “I’m not going to break any speed limits.”

“You can say that again,” Joe replied. “We’ve had enough hard luck for one day.”

The boys enjoyed the cool offshore breeze as they headed north toward Bayport along Shore Road. After ten miles, Frank stopped for a red light at an intersection. The motor purred quietly. All at once Joe’s keen ears detected another sound.

Something was clicking on the back seat!

Joe jerked his head around. Nothing there but the metal detector. The boy reached back to turn it off. To his astonishment, the switch was already in “off” position.

“Frank!” Joe said tersely. “Quick! Pull over!”

The light had just shown green and Frank drove across the intersection and stopped on the shoulder of the road. “What—”

“Get out! Hurry!” Joe cried, opening his door and diving onto the ground. Frank did the same and Chet followed a split second later.

Boom! A thunderous roar rent the air!

For a moment the Hardys lay half-stunned. Then Joe looked up. Smoke poured from the back of the car, which was a shambles. Frank raised his head and groaned at the sight. The brothers slowly got to their feet, but Chet remained face down in the dirt. The Hardys hastened to his side.

“Wh-what happened?” Chet asked in a weak voice, turning his head slightly.

“That detector of yours was booby-trapped,” Joe said. He bent down to pick up the twisted metal, still warm from the blast.

Carefully Frank helped Chet get up. He swayed uncertainly, unable to regain his balance. “Everything’s going in circles,” he said. “Boy, I‘m—I’m woozy!”

The Hardys sat him down beside the road, and flagged the first car that passed.

“Get help. We need the police and an ambu lancel” Frank commanded.

“In a jiffy!” The driver sped off and the brothers placed Chet gently on a grassy spot beneath an oak tree.

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Joe declared. “Our car’s a wreck, Frank. What’ll we do?”

“Have it towed back to Bayport for repairs. Hey, wait a minute!” Frank lifted the shattered trunk lid. In the carton lay the pieces of spinning wheel. These had not suffered any damage. Frank took out the carton.

Chet was very quiet. He merely stared at the sky until a siren sounded in the distance. First to appear on the scene was a state trooper car with two officers. It was followed by an ambulance, its red light blinking rapidly.

The brothers quickly identified themselves to the policemen, who recognized the Hardy name immediately. The officers gave their names as Starr and Dunn.

“What happened here?” Trooper Starr asked.

“An explosion,” Frank said, pointing to the car. “Joe and I are okay, but our friend may be hurt.”

Chet was lifted to a stretcher and placed in the ambulance. “We’ll take him to Bayport Hospital,” the driver said.

Frank and Joe tried to cheer their pal. “You’ll be fine, Chet,” said Joe. “Just relax and obey the doctor’s orders.”

“We’ll see you soon,” Frank added.

Chet attempted a grin. “You sleuths will have to get along without me, I guess.”

The ambulance doors were closed, and with siren wailing, it sped north along the highway.

Trooper Dunn then radioed for a wrecker to tow the damaged car to a repair shop in Bayport. “It won’t be here for another hour,” Dunn told the boys. “No use your waiting. We’ll take you home after we hear your story.”

Frank and Joe briefed the troopers about the strange disappearance of the metal detector at the Palais Paris and the officers promised to make an investigation. They took the detector as evidence. Then, at top speed, Trooper Starr drove the boys —and their spinning wheel—to their front door.

Mr. Hardy himself came out and shook hands with the officers, old friends of his. After Starr and Dunn had driven off, the detective and his sons went into the living room. Frank took the wooden pieces from the carton and put them on the floor.

“Dad, we’ve had a terrible time,” Joe began.

“I know something about it,” Mr. Hardy said. “Mr. Morton phoned me. You’ll be glad to know that Chet is suffering only from shock and has been taken home.”

“Thank goodness!” Frank said.

“Now come up to my study, and we’ll go over this whole situation,” Mr. Hardy said.

Mrs. Hardy brought glasses of lemonade, and the three sleuths discussed every angle of the Todd-Quill case, while sipping the cool beverage.

“I’m convinced the Palais Paris is involved in some way,” Frank concluded.

“It would seem so,” Fenton Hardy agreed. “Tell me more about this Commander Wilson.”

The boys took turns relating their weird experiences at the Honeycomb Caves.

“E. K. T. Wilson’s just plain loony,” Joe stated flatly.

“I wouldn’t agree with you one hundred percent,” his father said. “If Wilson is as insane as he seems, I think he would be in an institution.”

“You mean maybe he’s not crazy at all?” asked Frank. “It’s an act?”

Their father thought that this was a possibility, however remote, and advised his sons to pursue the Wilson angle with all their power.

“I’ll tell you why, boys. Your enemies are on the run!”

“You really think so?” Joe asked.

“Absolutely. They’re desperate. The booby-trapped detector proves it. When they find that you three escaped, the criminals will show their hand again. Mark my words. So be extra careful.”

Fenton Hardy went on to say there were no new developments in the radar-station case. “Things have been quiet,” he said. “Too quiet.”

“Like the calm before the storm,” Joe said.

Just then the Hardys’ doorbell chimed. The boys heard their mother answer it and exclaim, “Gertrude Hardy! I’m so glad to see you!”

Frank and Joe exchanged wry grins. “Speaking of storms,” said Frank, “Aunt Gertrude has arrived.”

The detectives broke off their conference and went down to greet the visitor. Gertrude Hardy was a tall, angular woman with a strong personality. She was most emphatically not in favor of her nephews following in the footsteps of her famous brother.

“Chasing criminals is no pastime for young boys” was one of her favorite expressions. But beneath her peppery manner, Aunt Gertrude held a warm affection for Frank and Joe, and they for her.

“Hi, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe said.

“Good to see you again,” said Frank.

Without any ado whatsoever, Aunt Gertrude pulled a hatpin from her hairbun, removed her flowered hat, set it on the sofa, and demanded, “Where’s my spinning wheel?”

“Why—why—Aunt Gertrude—” Joe began.

“Don’t stall,” Miss Hardy said sternly. “Your mother just told me that you purchased a spinning wheel.”

“We did,” Frank said.

“Well, where is it?”

Joe feebly pointed to the spindles and other accessories lying on the floor.

“That? That’s my spinning wheel?” Aunt Gertrude gasped.

CHAPTER XVII

A Bold Warning

WITH the withering directness of a district at torney, Aunt Gertrude questioned her nephews about the broken spinning wheel. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy did a magnificent job of suppressing smiles as their relative relentlessly pursued her cross-examination.

“You say you broke it, Joe? How?”

“It was hanging from the ceiling and I touched it.”

“Now, Joe, refresh your memory!” Aunt Gertrude said. “A spinning wheel on the ceiling! Bosh!”

Frank sprang to his brother’s defense. “But it was only on display,” he explained. “It wasn’t for sale.”

“Sakes alive! Then why did you buy it?” Aunt Gertrude said.

“We had to,” Joe said. “There was this big husky fellow, Marcel—”

Aunt Gertrude threw up her hands. “What imaginations!” she exclaimed.

“It’s the truth, every word of it,” Frank insisted. “We can prove—”

“Oh, I believe you.” Aunt Gertrude tossed her head vigorously. “Although the whole thing is beyond me!” Without another word, Miss Hardy scooped up the pile and marched from the room into the kitchen. In a moment her footsteps could be heard descending to the basement.

Frank and Joe looked at their parents and shrugged in embarrassment.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Hardy smiled. “Your Aunt Gertrude really appreciates what you boys have done.”

A telephone call to the Morton home that evening revealed Chet was progressing nicely. “His hair was singed a little in back,” Mrs. Morton told Frank. “But otherwise he’s pretty much recovered from the shock. Why don’t you and Joe come over and see him tomorrow morning?”

“Fine. We will.”

Before going to bed, the brothers went to the kitchen for a snack. Aunt Gertrude was there. Still embarrassed about the spinning wheel, Frank and Joe grinned sheepishly. But their aunt seemed to be in good spirits and handed them her personal check for fifty dollars in payment for the antique.

“Junipers!” Joe said. “That’s swell of you, considering the condition it’s in.”

Thoroughly rested after a good night’s sleep, the brothers had breakfast and made ready to visit their stout friend. Frank took a few moments to call Biff. “Sorry I can’t join you fellows today,” Biff said. “Too much work around the house. But in case of an emergency don’t hesitate to holler. And tell Chet to keep his chins up.”

Mr. Hardy had given his sons permission to use his car, but as they were about to step out of the backdoor, their mother stopped them. “Aren’t you taking Chet some flowers?”

“Flowers?” Joe said. “Oh, Mom, of course not.”

“Well, you should take the patient something,” Mrs. Hardy persisted.

“You’re right. How about a fruit basket?” Frank suggested.

Their mother nodded approvingly. “A good idea—cater to Chet’s appetite.”

“He takes pretty good care of that himself,” Joe said. “All right, we’ll stop at the store on our way.”

The boys drove to the heart of Bayport, where they stopped at a fancy food shop. There the proprietor made up an attractive basket of fruit, covered with transparent plastic and topped by bright-red ribbon.

As they drove out of town over the country road to the Morton farmhouse, Frank and Joe discussed their next step in solving the mystery of the missing Morgan Todd.

“Dad thinks we should investigate Commander Wilson further, so we’ll do it,” said Frank. “Remember Todd’s riddle of the word Rockaway. We still have more sleuthing to do around Honeycomb Caves.”

“When do we start?” Joe asked impatiently.

“As soon as we visit Chet.” Frank turned off the road into the driveway of the Morton home and parked. Between them, the Hardys carried the large fruit basket into the house. They were met at the front door by Mary Todd.

“Oh, how gorgeous!” she said, admiring the colorful gift.

Mrs. Morton came downstairs and greeted the boys warmly. “I think Chet can see you now,” she said, adding that Iola was out shopping.

Mary and the brothers mounted the stairs to the second floor. “I hope he’s feeling better,” Frank said.

“He’s quite comfortable,” Mary said. “That poor, brave boy!”

When they entered Chet’s room, Frank and Joe looked about, amazed. His bed was flanked by two bouquets of flowers. On the nightstand lay a half empty box of chocolates and a quart bottle of raspberry soda, four-fifths consumed.

Reclining on three fluffed pillows lay Chet, with a cherubic look on his round face.

“Hi, fellows,” he said feebly with a wave of his hand. “How’s tricks?”

“Jumpin’ catnsh!” Joe exclaimed. “You got the best trick of all. How about it, Frank, let’s get ourselves blasted too?”

“It isn’t any fun,” Chet said, and with a look of pain held his hand to his forehead.

Instantly Mary Todd sprang to his side with a cool, damp cloth which she placed over his brow. “You poor dear,” she said, and Joe gulped.

Frank stifled a grin. “We’re going back to the caves,” he announced. Chet’s reaction was startling. He whipped off the compress and sat up.

“You are? Take me along, will you? That fishing was great!”

“We’re not going fishing—not for fish, that is,” Frank said.

“More sleuthing? Ugh!” Chet groaned and sank back on the pillows.

“Well, now that you’re a celebrity,” Joe said joshingly, “enjoy it while you can, Chet old boy.”

This seemed to revive the chubby patient. “May I have another drink of soda, Mary?” he asked. His young nurse nimbly moved to the other side of the bed and poured a glass of the sparkling beverage. Chet drank it and lay back again. “Yes, I guess I am a celebrity, fellows. The reporter got my personal story this morning.”

“Reporter?” Frank said quickly.

“Yes,” Mary put in, “from the Bayport Times.”

“Mary made a big hit with him,” Chet went on with a grin. “He asked a lot of questions about her, too.”

“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “What was this fellow’s name?”

“Otto Lippincott.” Mary supplied the answer.

“I never heard of anyone by that name on the Times,” Frank said.

Frank excused himself to make a phone call and hurried downstairs. He returned ten minutes later, his face flushed with excitement.

“There is no Lippincott who works for that newspaper,” he said. “Chet, you’ve been duped.”

Disappointment, then indignation, crossed Chet’s face. “Do you mean that guy was a phony?” he blurted.

“Nothing else but. He came here to fish for information,” Frank replied.

Joe turned to Mary and asked, “How much did you tell this man?”

“Oh, have I done the wrong thing again?” Mary wailed.

“Well, maybe,” Frank declared. “But it’s too late to worry over spilled milk. From now on I advise both of you to keep mum on anything you know.”

Just then the front screen door slammed and Iola’s cheerful voice floated up the stairs. “Frank, Joe. Are you here?”

Joe blushed a little. “Yes, Iola, come on up.”

Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs and Iola hurried into Chet’s room. In her hand she held a white envelope. “I found this in the mailbox,” she said. “No stamp or anything. It just says ‘Chet Morton’.”

“Another well-wisher, I suppose,” Chet said importantly, and took the envelope. He tore off one end, blew into the slit, and removed the note.

“Good grief! Listen!” He read, “‘Get Hardys off case or your life will be in danger.”’

Iola gasped and clutched Mary’s hand. “Oh, this is terrible!” she cried out.

Frank frowned and bit his lip. “I didn’t want to get your family involved, Chet.”

“What’ll we do?” Joe asked.

Frank’s mind worked rapidly. “We’ll get Sam Radley to stand constant guard on the house here,” he said. “After dark tonight we’ll smuggle Mary to our house. Mother and Aunt Gertrude can stand watch over her there.”

“I’ll say!” Chet said. “I wouldn’t want to be the one to cross your Aunt Gertrude’s path.”

A telephone call to the Hardy home confirmed Frank’s protection plan, and Sam Radley, who fortunately was in town, told the boys he would report to the Morton farm.

When Mr. Hardy’s operative arrived about noon, Frank and Joe excused themselves and returned home.

Frank telephoned Bayport Police Headquarters and notified Chief Collig about the impostor and the threat Chet received. Collig promised to dispatch a squad car to patrol the area during the night and relieve Radley.

“What about Honeycomb Caves?” Joe asked after his brother had finished the call.

“We’ll tackle them tonight,” Frank said. “As soon as we have Mary safely here.”

“Shall we go in the Sleuth?”

Frank mulled over the question. Finally he shook his head. “Going by water is a good idea, Joe, but these crooks are keeping close tabs on us and would probably recognize our boat.”

“How about using Biff’s?” Joe suggested. “He says the Envoy just got a new motor job and it’s in swell shape.”

Frank phoned Biff immediately, and arranged to use his speedboat for the brothers’ sleuthing adventure.

The Hardys thanked their pal, who kept his craft in a boathouse half a mile from the Hardys’. After supper Frank and Joe packed their gear to have it in readiness. Then they drove out to Chet’s place.

“Is Mary ready to come with us?” Joe asked Iola as they stepped into the hall.

“Just about.”

The Hardys heard footsteps on the stairs and glanced up to see a slim, handsome young man descending. He wore dungarees, work jacket, and farm hat.

“Hey!” Frank cried out. “That’s not a guy, that’s a gal!”

Mary Todd grinned in her disguise. “Iola and I thought up the idea. Like it?”

“Terrific.” Joe nodded approval. “You two have the true detective spirit.”

Chet, who appeared fully recovered, now came downstairs.

“I thought you were still shell-shocked,” said Joe with a sly look at their stout friend.

“Without a nurse I’m better already,” quipped Chet. Then he took on a serious demeanor. “Now look, fellows, be extra careful of Mary, won’t you?”

With a promise that they would, the Hardys left the Morton house and drove Mary to their own home.

Aunt Gertrude and Mrs. Hardy received the girl kindly, and showed her to the second guest room.

Biff Hooper arrived minutes later and drove the brothers to his dock. In a few minutes the two sleuths and their gear were aboard the Envoy. Joe started the motor.

“I checked the running lights,” Biff said. “Everything is okay.”

The Hardys thanked him and shoved off, with Joe at the wheel. The Envoy knifed through the waters of Barmet Bay, its shore front twinkling with lights. As the boys passed the boathouse where the Sleuth was kept, Frank called out, “Throttle down, Joe. What’s that light over there?”

Joe brought the Envoy about and saw a light flickering from the window of their boathouse. “Jeepers! I don’t know!” He extinguished the running lights and crept quietly over the dark waters.

As they neared the boathouse Frank suddenly exclaimed in alarm. Smoke was seeping out from beneath the door. Their boathouse was on fire!

CHAPTER XVIII

Searchlight

THE wailing of a police siren drifted across Barmet Bay, followed by the clanging bells of a fire engine. Now the window glass of the Hardy boathouse broke from the heat, and flames licked out, illuminating the water.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Joe reached over for the fire extinguisher clamped on the side of the Envoy. Throttle open, the craft leaped through the water until Frank called out:

“Joe! Slow down.”

“Why? Our whole boathouse will burn up.”

“The fire department will take care of it.” Frank had hardly spoken before an arch of water sprayed against the building and the flames were quenched.

As Joe slackened speed and circled about, Frank explained, “This blaze could have been set for two reasons. One, to keep us from using the Sleuth, and two—”

“I get you already,” Joe said. “A diversionary action!”

“Exactly.” Frank nodded. “If our enemies are up to something tonight, they’ll want to pin us down in Bayport.”

By now the smoke, too, had abated, and firemen raised the door of the boathouse. In the glow of their lanterns, the brothers could see that the Sleuth was still afloat.

“She may not be badly damaged,” Frank said. “At any rate, we can’t stop to see now. On to Honeycomb Caves, Joe.”

Unfortunately, the Envoy did not have a ship-to-shore radio, as did the Sleuth. The brothers therefore could not communicate with their home, but knew that Mr. Hardy would be notified of the boathouse fire soon enough.

Joe snapped on the running lights again, and the Envoy purred through the rolling waves as its pilot guided the craft expertly along the coast he knew so well.

After the Envoy passed a blinking buoy marking the entrance to Barmet Bay, the run south was nearly in a straight line. But even with smooth sailing, it was nearly two A.M. before the great cliffs loomed in shadowy silhouettes on their starboard side.

Joe throttled back, and the Envoy rocked in the waves as the young detectives discussed their next move.

“Let’s cruise past the caves as close as we can get,” Frank said. “After that, we can put in at John Donachie’s dock.”

Frank spelled his brother at the wheel, and, guiding the Envoy silently toward shore, the boys studied the Honeycomb Caves. The half-moon illuminated the shore just enough to make the dark cave openings look like the baleful eye sockets of a skull.

The craft ran parallel to the shore, and as they neared Commander Wilson’s cave house, Joe chuckled. “I’ll bet the old boy is sawing wood right now—For Pete’s sake, Frank!”

The brothers were startled by a brilliant finger of light which suddenly shot from the cave mouth across the water.

“A giant searchlight!” declared Frank.

The bow of the Envoy nearly touched the edge of the powerful beam, and Frank turned hard on the wheel to reverse his course. The light moved away from the boat, giving its churning wake a chance to settle in the darkness unseen. Frank and Joe bent low, hoping the wave troughs would conceal the Envoy. Then the light disappeared as suddenly as it had swept the green sea.

“Junipers!” said Joe. “That was a close squeak!”

“Came right from Wilson’s cave!” Frank exclaimed. “Dad hit it on the nose. Wilson’s not nutty at all. He’s as sane as we are, and up to something sinister.”

“Do you suppose he picked us up on radar, or heard our motor?” Joe pondered as Frank made a big circle and headed for the fisherman’s dock.

“It might have been a signal,” Frank said. “And we just happened on it by luck.”

“A signal for what,” Joe asked, “or to what?”

“Maybe a ship lying offshore, or men waiting in a small boat. Who knows?”

“How can we find out?”

Frank replied with determination, “Maybe Johnny Donachie can help us. If he’ll take us fishing with him tomorrow, we can lie low offshore and spy on the caves with binoculars.”

“Great idea,” Joe said approvingly. “Too bad we’ll wake him up in the middle of the night.”

When the Envoy docked at Johnny’s pier, Frank and Joe got their first good look at the fisherman’s craft. It was a little more than thirty feet in length, with a cabin sticking up like an inverted cheese box.

“A pretty old tub,” said Joe as he hopped out of the Envoy and made fast.

“Looks sort of top-heavy,” Frank said. “But if it suits Johnny Donachie, it’s okay with me.”

The brothers walked up to the dark house. Frank took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Seconds later a yellow light blinked on and a sleepy voice sounded behind the closed door. “Who’s there?”

“Frank and Joe Hardy.”

The door opened a crack and the fisherman looked out.

“Thunderation!” he said, opening the door to admit the boys. “What brings you out at this hour?”

“We’re doing some more detective work,” Joe replied. “Did you see the light down the coast tonight?”

The fisherman said that he had noticed a glow in the night sky several times. “It’s weird. That’s why I stay away from that spooky place.”

“We have a favor to ask,” Frank said. “Will you take us fishing tomorrow?”

“Sure, don’t see why not. Hey, you boys must be tired. We have an extra room.”

“Thanks, but we can sleep in our boat,” said Frank.

By this time Mrs. Donachie had been awakened, and insisted that the Hardys stay for the rest of the night.

Secretly Frank and Joe were glad to accept and slept soundly until they were aroused for breakfast.

After they had eaten, the boys covered the Envoy with a tarpaulin, then joined Johnny on his boat, which bore the faded name Lena. The fisherman started the noisy motor, and with a clink-clunk-clink-clunk the old craft limped seaward.

At Frank’s request, Johnny headed down the coast parallel to the caves but far enough out to avoid suspicion. Frank and Joe crouched behind the gunwales, keeping their binoculars trained on shore.

A half hour elapsed. Suddenly Joe straightened. “I see some people!” he said.

“Me too. And look. Isn’t that Wilson up there?”

“Moving around like an athlete!” Joe observed.

The commander and three other men were carrying boxes into the cave mouth.

The boys’ arms ached from their steady surveillance. At last, two hours later, Wilson reappeared. He sat in front of his cave for a while, then moved off to the cavern in which the Hardys had stayed and appeared to examine it briefly before returning to his own headquarters.

“Frank, we have to get ashore and find out what’s going on,” Joe said.

“That may come sooner than we expect,” his brother replied, glancing up into the lowering sky.

The waves became a deeper green and the lacy tops were flicked off by the freshening breeze.

“Fishin’s over for the day,” Johnny told the boys. “We got to go back.”

“How about a little longer look,” Joe coaxed, seeing Wilson stride along the shore.

“These storms come up awful fast,” Johnny said. “We’d best be puttin’ back.” But the Hardys finally convinced the fisherman to remain for a short while in order to spy on Wilson. Almost immediately, the fishing boat began to lurch as the waves grew higher.

“Can’t stay another second,” Johnny said. “It’s gettin’ dangerous.”

With a clink-clunk the old motor-powered Lena chugged slowly back toward the fisherman’s wharf.

“Can’t you give her more gas, Johnny?” Joe called out as the waves grew taller and the wind whistled about their ears.

“Six knots is the best she can do.”

They were halfway to their destination when a huge wave crashed upon the deck, nearly washing Joe into the sea. But the boy clung to a railing post until Frank dragged him into the safety of the cabin.

The old tub now listed badly. “We’ll never make it!” Johnny said gloomily, as the rough sea bullied the boat about and rain lashed the waves.

Just then Joe looked toward shore and exclaimed, “Frank! Is that the Envoy I see?”

Frank raised his binoculars. “It sure is. Well, what do you know? Johnny, your wife’s coming to our rescue.”

Minutes later, Mrs. Donachie came about in the Envoy. Joe threw a line to her, and, with the sea heaving about them, the woman towed Lena to shore. When both craft had been moored at the dock, they hastened inside the house, soaking wet.

Frank shook his head. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Mrs. Donachie. You certainly have a lot of courage.”

“And skill, too,” Joe said admiringly.

The woman pushed back wisps of damp hair and replied with a smile, “What do you expect from a fisherman’s wife?”

By early evening the rain had ceased and the skies were clear. After a hearty supper John Donachie pushed his chair back from the table, lighted his pipe, then said, “Now that the storm’s over, are you boys takin’ the Envoy back to Bayport?”

Joe shook his head. “Frank and I want to get closer to those caves and see what’s going on.”

“At night?” The Donachies looked fearful.

“Yes. As soon as it gets dark enough,” Frank said.

“We should be back before daybreak,” Joe added, testing his flashlight.

After many admonitions to be careful, the boys disappeared along the trail in the darkness. The climb to the top of the cliffs was arduous, but the way was clear in the moonlight.

“Here’s the ravine,” Joe said finally, and the brothers made their way down to the sandy beach. There they stopped for a moment to get their bearings.

“We’ll have to crouch low and stay as close to the cliff as possible,” Frank advised. “I’ll lead the way.”

The Hardys passed the mouth of their old cave, and crept stealthily toward Wilson’s cavern. Suddenly Frank pulled Joe back into a crevice of rock. “Good night!” he whispered. “Look out there!”

Three hundred yards offshore a small red light winked like the eye of a sea monster. But even in the gloom the boys recognized a conning tower.

“A submarine!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER XIX

A Raft of Trouble

THE magnitude of the mystery they had uncov ered hit Frank and Joe like a stunning blow. This was it! Commander Wilson was a fraud, a cover-up for some sort of gang receiving supplies and men by secret submarine at the Honeycomb Caves.

Another light winked from in front of Wilson’s cave. Slowly the sub surfaced, its whaleback silhouette standing out in the darkness.

“They’ve contacted each other,” said Joe. “If we only had a boat.”

“I have an idea,” Frank said. “We’ll swim out to the sub.” He stripped down to his shorts and Joe did the same. “We might make it if Wilson doesn’t turn on the big searchlight.”

The brothers concealed their clothes behind a rock, then waded into the surf. They dived into a wave, and, with strong overhand strokes, rapidly swam toward the submarine. Silently the Hardys came up to the undersea craft, and treading water, clung to the hull.

Tensely the boys waited. A few moments later the hatch opened. Frank and Joe held their breaths as six men piled out, dragging a large rubber life raft. They flung it into the water with a plop, and stepped inside, where two of their number manned paddles.

Hearts thumping wildly, Frank and Joe pressed back against the sub, their faces barely showing above water ten feet away from the raft.

The men spoke a strange foreign language, but suddenly one said sternly in English, “Do not use the mother tongue. It is dangerous. We are now in America!”

Frank decided on a bold strategy, and nudged his brother. “Come on!”

Swiftly the boys pushed off and swam underwater to emerge silently right behind the raft. They reached up and gripped it with one hand, scissor-kicking so as not to be a drag on the rubber craft as the paddlers guided it across the waves toward shore.

The brothers glanced back, to see the conning tower of the sub disappear beneath the waves.

“Ah, there’s Wilson’s light,” came a voice from the raft.

“Yes, our calculations were correct,” said another man. “We will show these Americans!”

Finally Frank and Joe felt their toes touch bottom. When the men hopped out, the boys swam underwater away from shore, then surfaced and once more treaded water. This time their eyes fell upon a most unusual scene. In the glow of the light inside Wilson’s cave, they saw the commander greet each of the new arrivals, pumping their hands as they stepped inside.

But there was something different about Wilson. His face looked younger. And ... his hair was black.

“Wilson’s no old man. That was a gray wig he was wearing!” hissed Joe. “He used face make-up, too.”

“There’s no time to lose!” Frank said, and both boys swam to the beach. The only evidence of activity was the dim glow coming from the cave mouth. Now and then it faded as if those inside were milling about.

The Hardys quickly got their clothes and slipped them on. “If we only had some help,” Frank said as they inched closer to the entrance of the cave. From within came the hum of voices.

They halted and looked about in the darkness. “I think they would have posted a sentry,” Frank said. “Do you see anybody, Joe?”

Joe flashed his light up and down the beach, but could see no one. “What now, Frank?”

“Into the cave. We’ve got to see what this is all about.”

The brothers listened, but the voices had receded. Only muffled sounds emerged from the cavern. Clutching their flashlights, Frank and Joe slipped inside. At first the interior looked much the same as the first time they had seen it. The shotgun lay on the ledge, the code book was still in evidence, and the food supply was stashed as it had been previously.

But as the boys penetrated deeper, their mouths fell open in wonderment. To the rear of the cave was a thick electrical conduit which snaked back into the cavern. Tiptoeing forward, Frank and Joe finally came to a thick wooden partition with an iron door.

“Good night!” Joe declared. “Frank, this is set up like a hidden city.”

“I think those men might be spies, or saboteurs,” Frank whispered. “Maybe they’re connected with the trouble at the radar site.”

“But what about Quill and Todd?” Joe asked. “How do they fit into all this?”

“I don’t know yet. But we’ve found the mine that Chet discovered,” Frank said. “That metal conduit. And it makes a beeline to the Palais Paris.”

“I could just smell something phony about that whole place,” Joe declared, moving closer to the iron door. “Frank, let’s go in!”

“Okay, I’m game. But we’d better stick together.”

Joe’s hand reached for the door handle. Suddenly a voice behind them froze the boys into immobility.

“Hardys, you’re through!”

The boys wheeled about. Joe gasped. “Cadmus Quill!”

The short, bouncy college instructor leered at them. Behind him stood four henchmen.

“You’re trapped!” Cadmus Quill said.

Frank whispered to his brother and Joe nodded. As Quill and his strong-arm men advanced, the boys uttered a bloodcurdling war cry and charged like halfbacks! Joe tackled two of the men, bowling them over. They scrambled to their feet and grabbed Joe. He twisted frantically to escape their grip. Frank doubled Quill with a blow to the solar plexus, then dashed past the other two men toward the cave mouth. They darted after him.

Frank’s plan was working! With speed born of desperation, the boy leaped toward the ledge and grabbed the shotgun. Then he aimed it overhead, close to the electrical conduit.

Frank pulled the trigger. There was a deafening blast and a shower of sparks. The lights went out and an acrid pall of smoke filled the cavern.

CHAPTER XX

Loyal Pals

THE sudden blast and blackout threw the Hardys’ assailants into confusion. The next moment, youthful shouts were heard from the entrance, and two flashlights illuminated the cave.

“Frank! Joe! What’s going on?” came Chet’s voice.

“Wow! They need help!” cried Biff.

Quill and his four thugs, seeing the reinforcements, dashed to the iron door and jerked it open. The four young sleuths raced after them, but were too late. The fugitives disappeared inside, the door clanged shut, and a bolt clicked fast. The brothers, then Biff and Chet, tried the handle to no avail.

“How did you know we were here?” Frank asked.

“Chet and I got to thinking about you two working on this case all alone,” Biff said. “So we drove down to Johnny Donachie’s. We missed you by minutes.”

“So we climbed up the cliffs and down the ravine,” Chet added.

“And made it here just in time,” Joe said. “I don’t think we could have scared them off much longer without you.”

“That isn’t all,” Biff went on. He said that before they had left Bayport, Mr. Hardy had alerted the State Police to search the Palais Paris. “Some of the cops are on their way to the caves, too.”

The boys heard scuffling sounds coming from behind the iron door.

“Sounds like somebody running,” Joe said.

“And stumbling about in the dark,” Frank added.

The brothers reasoned that the short-circuited conduit had also blacked out the area beyond Wilson’s cave.

Just then the ruckus inside was accompanied by frantic shouts. The bolt clicked, and as it did, Frank and Joe grabbed the handle and held it tightly.

“We’ve got them trapped, and we’re going to keep them that way!” Frank declared.

The melee within grew in intensity. It was punctuated by a shot. Someone groaned. Then came banging on the iron door.

“Frank and Joe, if that’s you, open up!”

“Dad!” Joe exclaimed, hardly daring to believe his ears.

“Open up, boys. We’ve caught the gang.”

The brothers let go the handle, and stepped back as the door swung inward. Several great searchlights illuminated the chamber and Fenton Hardy stepped out. He was followed by six policemen, each of whom had a manacled prisoner in tow. One of the prisoners the boys recognized as E. K. T. Wilson. He glowered at them balefully.

“Great going, Dad!” Frank exclaimed. He now reported the submarine incident and had just finished when two state troopers dashed in through the beach entrance. They were officers Starr and Dunn. “Have you got them all rounded up?” Trooper Dunn asked.

“I think so,” Fenton Hardy replied. “But there’s one man still missing—Morgan Todd. We think he’s around here somewhere.”

Upon learning of the sub, Trooper Starr switched on his portable radio transmitter and broadcast an urgent request to intercept the undersea prowler.

Revelations came so thick and fast that Frank and Joe were dazed by the hornets’ nest which they had uncovered. At Fenton Hardy’s direction, the troopers took up positions at the mouth of the cave while the rest of the party pressed deeper into the passageway behind the iron door.

The gradient was up, and as the boys marched along they could see that the tunnel was man-made. The walls and ceiling bore the marks of excavating tools, and here and there, the passage was shored with planks.

Finally Fenton Hardy led the young sleuths to a flight of concrete steps. They ascended to a metal door, opened it, and found themselves in the kitchen of the Palais Paris!

There, on the floor and manacled back to back, sat Dumont and Marcel. They glared at the Hardys with hate-filled eyes.

“They’re the ones who did this to us!” Marcel said bitterly. “If they hadn’t come snooping—”

“Shut up!” Dumont snapped. “Fool!”

“It’s okay for you, big shot,” Marcel complained. “You’ve got plenty of dough to help you. But not me!”

Police Chief Collig of Bayport and two of his men stood by with drawn pistols as three other gang members were flushed from upstairs rooms at the Palais Paris.

“I think we have them all rounded up now, Fenton,” Collig said.

“Good work. The Federal men will be here any minute.”

A sound of sirens from a distance reached their ears. They howled like banshees as they drew closer, then petered out in front of the Palais Paris. Car doors banged shut, and ten Federal agents burst into the restaurant.

Dumont and Marcel were pulled to their feet, and stood in line with the rest of the prisoners as the government men entered the kitchen.

“You’ve done a splendid job for us, Fenton,” said a tall man with hair graying at the temples.

Mr. Hardy turned to his sons. “This is Special Agent Alberts,” he said, and made the introductions. Then the detective added, “Actually, my sons and their friends cracked this case. My credit is secondary.”

“Well, you all did a magnificent job,” Alberts told the four boys.

“But we still haven’t solved the mystery of the missing Morgan Todd,” Frank said.

“You found Morgan Todd all right,” Agent Alberts said, grinning at the young detectives.

“What?” they chorused.

The tale which the Federal men unfolded nearly defied imagination. The Hardys’ warning about the sub had been relayed instantly to the Navy and Coast Guard. Destroyer depth charges in the area off the caves had forced the craft to the surface.

“The Navy has caught a nice prize,” Alberts said. “And your friend Todd, who’d been imprisoned on the sub, is aboard one of our de stroyers this moment, safe and sound.”

Hearing this, Joe dashed to the telephone and called the Hardy home. He spoke to his mother, who relayed the good news to Mary. He could hear Mary’s cry of delight, and then sobbing, as she broke down and wept with joy.

A police van carried the prisoners to Bayport for further interrogation. Biff Hooper went back in the Envoy, while the Hardys, Chet, and Agent Alberts returned in a police car. It was then the boys learned the true magnitude of their case.

“Morgan Todd was the key to the whole mystery,” Mr. Hardy told them. The young instructor had, while abroad, stumbled upon bizarre information. The foreign country in which he was studying had set up a spy and saboteur center in the Honeycomb Caves. Also, they had engineers working on a project designed to nullify the effect of the new U. S. Coastal Radar Station at Telescope Hill.

“A device was to be raised out of the cave area at night,” Agent Alberts said, “and would have jammed the radar signals.”

“But where does the Palais Paris come in?” asked Frank.

“That was a front,” Mr. Hardy said. “The gang’s engineers constructed the tunnel to lead directly from the Palais Paris to the shore, and enlarge the caves.”

“And credit for that discovery goes to Chet,” Frank said, slapping the stout boy on the shoulder. “His metal detector did the trick!”

“And the U. S. Government,” the Federal agent said, “is going to reimburse you, Chet, for your detector, and also for repairs to your car, Frank and Joe.”

Alberts went on to explain that Morgan Todd, being cautious and conservative, had decided to conduct a solo investigation of the caves before turning over his information to the U. S. Government.

“I’ll bet that’s where he made a mistake,” Chet commented.

“Right. Cadmus Quill, who had been brainwashed by the foreign spy ring into being a traitor, helped to kidnap Todd. But before they carried him away that night, Todd begged them to allow him to prepare the examination for his students.”

“A pretty clever fellow,” Mr. Hardy conceded, “to leave that Rockaway tip. And you boys did a grand job in discovering it.”

“Commander Wilson had me fooled,” Joe said wryly as the car neared Bayport.

“Dad had the right angle on him,” Frank said.

When the limousine pulled up in front of the Hardy house, Alberts said he would drive Chet home. They would all meet Chief Collig for a conference at Bayport Police Headquarters at ten o‘clock the next morning.

It was nearly daylight when Frank and Joe fell asleep. They awakened later to learn that all of Bayport was buzzing with the excitement of the great coup the boys had pulled off.

Frank and Joe went to headquarters with Mary Todd. In Chief Collig’s office they were joined by Chet, Biff, Iola, and Callie. Then two Federal agents appeared with Morgan Todd. He and his sister flung themselves into each other’s arms in a fond embrace.

Morgan Todd shook hands vigorously with the Hardys. “I can’t thank you enough for saving my life!” he said warmly. Todd revealed that the submarine was to have taken him to a remote part of the world, where he would have been incarcerated for the rest of his life.

“We have some other interesting details, too,” Alberts said. “Commander E. K. T. Wilson was a phony, of course. In his younger days he was an actor, who defected while in the service of his country on a foreign tour of duty.”

“That nutty bit of his nearly paid off,” said Joe, “with that shooting and all.”

Frank grinned. “Good thing he overdid it somewhat, at least enough so Dad caught wise.”

Chief Collig reported that Wilson, under relentless quizzing, had admitted losing the pistol on the beach the night he had prowled about the boys’ cave. As for the stacked wood, it had been left there by picnickers months before. An expert on explosives, Wilson had been called by Dumont to booby-trap the metal detector.

When Iola Morton asked if there would be any international complications as a result of the Hardys’ victory, the agent said, “The State Department has already successfully negotiated the matter.”

It was also revealed that Pierre Dumont, the spies’ chief man in the U. S. came from a French-speaking part of the world and had applied for U. S. citizenship. Marcel had worked under him abroad and was merely a strong-arm dupe. The woman shopkeeper at the Palais Paris was found to be innocent of any wrongdoing.

“And what about the foreign caps?” Joe asked.

“A careless mistake on the saboteurs’ part,” Fenton Hardy answered.

The boys learned that the henchman who had dropped his cap at the radar site also had posed later as the newspaper reporter. The same foreigner also had set the boathouse fire.

Mr. Hardy smiled proudly. “You boys were really on the ball!”

“And I’d say that the U. S. Government is in debt to all of you who worked on this case,” Agent Alberts added.

The Bayport Times had already bannerlined the Hardys’ feat, and the telephone rang with congratulatory messages all day.

That evening Mrs. Hardy was hostess at a get-together in the detectives’ home. Happy, ex cited voices filled the living room as Laura Hardy and Aunt Gertrude served refreshments. In the midst of the gaiety, a telegram was received by the Hardy boys. It came from Kenworthy College and stated that the fraternity had expelled Cadmus Quill. The message also contained an apology to the Hardys, and congratulations on their patriotic efforts.

Then Joe turned on the record player. Chet, usually bashful with girls, asked Mary Todd to dance, and soon the living room was a blur of motion as the young people gyrated to the latest steps.

“I guess your brother wasn’t planning to get married after all,” Chet said.

“What!”

“Oh, nothing. Just another one of Quill’s lies.”

When the music was over, Mrs. Hardy smilingly called for attention. The young folks gathered in a circle, and Aunt Gertrude emerged majestically from the kitchen, carrying a spinning wheel.

Frank and Joe gaped in surprise. “Is that the one we bought?” Joe burst out.

Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips and looked proud. “Indeed it is,” she said. “I put it all together myself. And I might add it’s a rare antique you two found!”

When the claps and cheers died down, Frank Hardy spoke up. “Then you are in favor of our detective work,” he said.

Aunt Gertrude’s answer could not be heard amid the laughter that followed, nor could the boys foresee that their next big adventure would be The Mystery of Cabin Island.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Threat on Cabin Island

CHAPTER II - An Angry Caller

CHAPTER III - Missing Grandson

CHAPTER IV - A Christmas Visitor

CHAPTER V - Two Suspects

CHAPTER VI - Troublesome Trio

CHAPTER VII - Cry for Help

CHAPTER VIII - The Mysterious Messenger

CHAPTER IX - Warning by Code

CHAPTER X - Puzzling Theft

CHAPTER XI - A Cryptic Notation

CHAPTER XII - An Iceboat Clue

CHAPTER XIII - The Fleeing Ghost

CHAPTER XIV - Chimney-top Discovery

CHAPTER XV - The Shah’s Prize

CHAPTER XVI - The Intruder’s Revenge

CHAPTER XVII - The Dangerous Climb

CHAPTER XVIII - The Crash

CHAPTER XIX - A Frightened Thief

CHAPTER XX - The Hazardous Search

THE MYSTERY OF CABIN ISLAND

THE HARDY BOYS are elated over their good luck when wealthy Elroy Jefferson invites them to spend Christmas vacation at his private retreat on Cabin Island. But when Frank and Joe make a reconnaissance trip in their iceboat the Sea Gull to the island, a belligerent stranger orders them off. Why?

Before twenty-four hours have passed, the Hardys find themselves involved in two mysteries: the first concerns the recent disappearance of Mr. Jefferson’s grandson, Johnny; the second, the baffling theft of a priceless collection of antique medals which took place two years ago. The young detectives, with their pals Chet Morton and Biff Hooper, pursue both cases on the icebound, snow-covered island.

Sabotage to the Sea Gull, danger to themselves, and a ghostly prowler do not daunt Frank and Joe in their search for Johnny Jefferson and for clues to the stolen antique medals. How the teen-age investigators outwit a ruthless foe and succeed in solving both mysteries makes for mounting suspense in this brisk-paced adventure.

“We’re going to hit!” yelled Joe

Copyright © 1994, 1966, 1957, 1929 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07623-1

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Threat on Cabin Island

“WHAT a reward!” Joe Hardy exclaimed. “You mean we can stay at Cabin Island over the winter vacation?”

“Right. Starting the day after Christmas,” said Frank. “The whole place is ours, and Mr. Jefferson says he’ll throw another mystery our way.”

“About what?”

“Wouldn’t say. He’ll tell us at his home tomorrow when we get the key.”

The Hardy boys were elated over their good luck. The young detectives recently had broken a car theft ring, and in gratitude for the return of his automobile, Elroy Jefferson, a wealthy resident of Bayport, had made the offer of his private retreat near the entrance to Barmet Bay.

Impulsive, blond-haired Joe snapped his fingers. “Frank, let’s call Chet and Biff and take our iceboat over to the island. I’d like to give it a quick preview.”

“Okay. We can meet ‘em at our dock.”

Dark-haired Frank, eighteen and a year older than Joe, was just as eager to set foot on Cabin Island and also to skim over the ice, now glossy smooth after a long siege of zero weather.

Joe dashed to the hall telephone and dialed the number of the Morton farmhouse. In a moment he was speaking to Chet Morton, a beefy team-mate on the Bayport High football eleven.

“What’s up?” the stout youth asked.

“Get your long johns on,” Joe told him. “We’re going to whip out to Cabin Island on the Sea Gull. That wind on the bay’ll really start your blood circulating!”

Frank and Joe had designed and built the iceboat during the previous summer. They had saved their money to buy materials and had worked slowly and carefully on the project. The craft was made so that it could be taken apart and compactly stored in the boathouse where the brothers’ motorboat, the Sleuth, also was housed.

“Sounds great, but I don’t know.” Chet hesitated wistfully. “Mom’s just mixing a batch of maple fudge.”

“Save it till we get back—think of the appetite you’ll work up!” Joe added with a chuckle, “Think of your waistline, too. We’ll meet you at the boathouse in twenty minutes.”

“Well—okay—as long as you don’t go poking into any more mysteries.”

“No promises, pal!” Grinning, Joe slammed down the receiver before Chet could object.

Moon-faced Chet Morton, who was much fonder of eating and relaxing than he was of dangerous adventures, was constantly bemoaning the Hardys’ habit of becoming involved in crime cases. But the stocky youth was a loyal pal and could always be depended on in a tight spot.

After calling Biff Hooper, who agreed to the trip enthusiastically, Joe dressed warmly and hurried outside. Frank was already backing their convertible out of the garage.

The Hardys drove to the boathouse on Barmet Bay. Chet and Biff were waiting for them. Biff, a muscular youth whose hobby was amateur boxing, was dancing about, attempting to persuade plump Chet to spar with him.

Chet held up his hands to fend off the blows. He grinned as Frank and Joe walked toward them. “Glad you’re here!” he exclaimed. “This guy is trying to use me for a punching bag!”

“Do you good,” Biff rejoined. “Get you in shape!”

Frank laughed. “If you keep this up, Cabin Island won’t be big enough for both of you—and us.” He gave them hearty slaps on the back. “Let’s get going!”

Joe opened the doors of the boathouse and led the way inside. The Sea Gull was chocked on boards which lay over the ice between the cat-walks. Suspended above it in a steel cradle was the Sleuth.

From a gear shelf the boys took iron-pointed creepers and attached them to their boots, then donned crash helmets and goggles. As they pulled the iceboat outside, the wind whipped hard at their backs. Joe tilted the brake on the outside of the hull, so that the point dug firmly into the ice.

Ten minutes later the four had fastened the long runner plank crossways under the bow, raised the mast, and set the sail. Quickly they climbed into the stern’s cockpit.

“Strap yourselves in tight,” Frank warned as he took the tiller. “That wind’s strong and the Gull’s rarin’ to go!”

He released the brake and the sleek white craft glided swiftly out into the bay, now solidly frozen except for the channel, which was kept open by the shipping lines and the Coast Guard.

Cold clear air stung the boys’ faces and they were showered with ice chips from the bow runner. They waved to friends who were skating near shore.

“Where is Cabin Island, anyway?” Biff called to the Hardys.

“In a cove off the bay,” Frank shouted, as he guided the Sea Gull in a swooping half circle around a hole that had been cut in the ice by a fisherman.

“Ever been there before?” Chet asked, straining to get his words out against the cold air that whipped across his face.

Joe shook his head. “We’ve never tried to take our motorboat into that cove. It’s shallow and you’d rip the hull unless you knew for sure where every rock is. But we shouldn’t have any trouble now.”

Presently the iceboat swooped up the inlet. “We’ll go around for a look-see,” said Frank.

Skillfully he circled the heavily wooded island. The shoreline facing the bay dropped off in an icy cliff, but the side opposite the mainland road to Bayport sloped gradually. At the edge of the shore Frank spotted a tall pine.

“Let’s land there,” he said.

He put the speeding craft into a wide semicircle opposite the tree. The sails slackened and the iceboat slowed up, then drifted straight to the pine, where Frank put on the brake and Joe lashed the craft to the tree.

“Right on the nose,” Biff said admiringly as they clambered ashore.

The four started up the hill. Soon they glimpsed the cabin, perched in a clearing on the highest point of the island.

Joe stopped abruptly and pointed to a set of large bootprints in the light snow. “How can anyone else be here?” he asked. “There’s no other iceboat around, and it’d be a long, slippery walk from the mainland.”

Frank shrugged. “I doubt that the person is still here. It hasn’t snowed for a week, so those prints could have been made several days ago.”

“But they only lead upward,” Joe observed. “There are none going back down the hill.”

“Maybe whoever he was went down another way,” Frank suggested.

The boys resumed their ascent. As they approached the cabin, a broad-shouldered figure in a plaid Mackinaw coat appeared from behind a clump of brush and strode toward them.

He was a surly-looking man in his early thirties, who walked with his neck thrust forward. His off-balance, lumbering gait amused Joe, but the man’s words were not funny.

“Get off this island!” he shouted. The Hardys were taken by surprise, but only for seconds.

“Who says?” Joe retorted.

“I say so, and I’ll show you!” came the reply as the man thrust his right hand into the Mackinaw’s deep pocket. He strode closer, glaring at the foursome.

“Don’t threaten us!” Biff said angrily, cocking his right fist.

“If it’s a fight you want,” Frank said coolly, “the odds are one to four. So don’t be foolish. Besides, we have permission to be on this island.”

The hostile man hesitated, looking from face to face. “What makes you think I don’t have permission, too?” he asked. Then the stranger made the mistake of advancing a step farther. Biff feinted with a quick left hand and sent his right fist into the man’s midriff. With an “oof” the man sat heavily in the snow, then scrambled to his feet, muttering threats.

“Aw, knock it off,” said Chet.

“We won’t get anywhere arguing with him,” Frank said quietly. “Come on!” The boys turned and retraced their steps to the Sea Gull. Frank and Joe kept glancing back, but the hostile stranger did not follow.

Back in the iceboat, Joe said, “I wonder if Mr. Jefferson knows that man and gave him permission to come to Cabin Island.”

“I doubt it,” said Frank. “Say, maybe this has something to do with the mystery.”

“Some welcoming committee!” Chet grumbled.

Joe scowled. “He sure was eager to chase us away. I have a hunch he’s up to no good.”

Soon Frank guided the Sea Gull out of the cove and sent her skimming along Barmet Bay.

Suddenly Chet gasped. “Look at that iceboat! Must be a crazy man steering it!”

Heading toward them was a large craft which weaved across the ice in a dizzying path. Suddenly it dipped over and one runner plank lifted off the ice into the air.

“Wow! That’s a tall hike!” exclaimed Frank.

“He’ll capsize!” Biff cried out. Just then the pilot let go the sheet and the runner came down hard, spattering ice.

Joe groaned. “Anybody who gives a boat that slam-bang treatment doesn’t deserve to own one.”

An instant later the other craft streaked straight for the Sea Gull.

Frank looked grim. “We’re in trouble,” he said. “That’s the Hawk!”

The Hawk was owned by two belligerent youths, Tad Carson and Ike Nash, who had been in the Hardys’ classes at school until they had dropped out early in the term. The two often returned to loiter about the school grounds, bullying younger boys. They were known to be fast, reckless car drivers.

“Ike is steering,” Joe observed. “He’s even more dangerous on the ice than he is on the road.”

“If he doesn’t change his course, he’ll hit us!” Chet said.

Frank set his jaw. “If Ike won’t turn, I will.” He bore down on the tiller and swung out of the Hawk’s path.

A second later the bigger craft also changed course. It was hurtling toward the Sea Gull, gaining momentum every second!

“They mean to run us down!” Biff shouted.

“Or else they just want to scare us,” Joe said, clenching his fists.

Frank swerved once more. Again the other steersman mimicked him, and the Hawk still came at them. By now it was less than fifty yards away. The boys could see mocking grins on Ike’s and Tad’s faces. In another few seconds the Hawk would crash into the Sea Gull.

Suddenly Ike’s grin changed to a look of terror. In a flash Frank realized what had happened. The reckless youth had tried to swerve off the collision course. But the maneuver had caused the Hawk’s tiller to jam. Ike held up his hands to show that he had lost control of his craft.

In a moment the boats would collide!

CHAPTER II

An Angry Caller

FRANK leaned hard on the tiller, while Joe trimmed sail. The Sea Gull veered sharply. The other boys held on so tightly to the gunwales that their knuckles were white. The boat careened, and the ice seemed to leap toward them.

The Hawk zoomed past in such a violent rush of wind that Frank thought his craft would surely turn over. But he kept a firm hold on the tiller and Joe eased the sheet. Slowly the craft pulled out of the tall hike and Frank was able to slow to a stop.

For a moment no one spoke. The boys stared at one another, numb with relief. Then Joe glanced over his shoulder and exclaimed, “They’ve piled up!”

“Serves them right,” Biff declared. “They might have killed us all.”

“Still, we’d better go over and see if they’re badly injured,” Frank said.

The four got out of the Sea Gull and made their way across the ice to the troublemakers, who were surveying the Hawk’s broken mast.

Ike Nash limped toward the Sea Gull’s crew, his eyes blazing. “You jerks are going to pay for this damage!” he shouted. “Besides, I’ll have to see a doctor about my ankle. It’s probably broken. You’ll get all the bills, that’s for sure!”

“It was your fault,” Joe declared. “And if your ankle were broken, Ike, you couldn’t walk.”

“Save that stuff!” Tad snapped back. “If we wanted to hear a lecture, we’d have stayed in school!”

Biff turned away in disgust. “We can’t tell these idiots a thing,” he muttered. “Let’s go!”

“We may as well,” Joe agreed. “Nobody’s seriously hurt, so they can make their own way to shore.”

The Hardys and their pals headed back for the Sea Gull, ignoring the threats and angry remarks the bullies shouted after them.

“Let’s go home,” Chet said. “It’s almost sup pertime, and man, I’m starved!”

The four boarded the craft and sped on toward Bayport. Frank’s face wore a thoughtful frown as they glided over the ice.

“What’s the matter?” Joe shouted above the wind. “Not worried about those two blowhards back there, are you?”

Frank shook his head. “No, just thinking about that fellow in the Mackinaw. I’d sure like to know who he is and what he’s doing on Cabin Island.”

“Same here.” Joe was about to suggest that the quarrelsome stranger might have something to do with the mystery promised by Elroy Jefferson. But, smothering a grin, Joe decided he had better not alarm Chet unnecessarily!

The stout youth almost seemed to read Joe’s mind. “I just hope that tough guy isn’t around to make trouble if we’re going to be spending Christmas vacation on the island,” Chet muttered.

“Don’t worry. If he tries anything, we can handle him,” Biff said confidently.

Reaching Bayport harbor, they stowed the Sea Gull in the boathouse. Frank locked up and the boys climbed into the Hardys’ convertible.

On the way to the farm where Chet lived on the outskirts of Bayport, Joe suggested, “Why not pack our supplies for the trip into the Sea Gull the night before we leave? Then we’ll be able to get a quick start.”

“But that’s Christmas Day!” Biff objected. “We’ll want to be home.”

“True. How about tomorrow?” Frank asked. “We could pack in the afternoon, in plenty of time for Christmas Eve.” This suggestion was agreed upon.

“What shall we bring?” Chet inquired.

“Oh, sleeping bags, extra blankets, snowshoes —that sort of thing,” Joe replied.

“And flashlights!” Frank added. “Mr. Jefferson did tell me the cabin is primitive—no electricity, no running water. We’ll be roughing it.”

“I was thinking of the meals,” Chet persisted. “Who’s in charge of food?”

Frank grinned. “You! But we’ll all bring some.”

“Sounds fine to me,” said Biff, and the others nodded assent.

As they pulled up in front of the Mortons’ farmhouse, Chet asked, “What time do we meet tomorrow to pack the Sea Gull?”

“About four o‘clock,” Joe suggested. “Frank and I ought to be back from our visit with Mr. Jefferson by then.”

“Okay. See you!”

The Hardys next drove Biff to his house. As they headed for their own home, Joe said, “I can’t wait to know the details of Mr. Jefferson’s mystery! Haven’t you any idea what it’s about?”

Frank shook his head. The brothers had become fascinated with detective work at an early age, because their father, Fenton Hardy, was a private investigator whose skill had won him fame all over the country.

Mr. Hardy frequently praised Frank and Joe for their ability to recognize significant clues and to make intelligent deductions. The boys had solved their first mystery when they had discovered The Tower Treasure, and, more recently, had uncovered The Secret of the Caves after a series of spine-chilling adventures on a lonely part of the Atlantic coast.

The boys went into the house and found Mr. and Mrs. Hardy in the living room. After greeting their parents, Frank said, “I’m afraid Joe and I have a confession. We’ve made some vacation plans without consulting you.”

“I guess we got excited and forgot,” Joe admitted. “But it all happened this afternoon.”

Tall, muscular Fenton Hardy, his eyes twinkling, winked at his slender, attractive wife. “Laura, do you have the same hunch I do?”

Mrs. Hardy smiled ruefully. “Another mystery. Am I right, boys?”

“Yes. But we don’t know what kind yet,” Frank replied.

The brothers took turns telling of Mr. Jefferson’s offer. When they had finished, Mr. Hardy said, “I think the trip is a reward you deserve.”

“Then it’s okay, Dad—Mother?” Joe asked.

“All right. But I do hope there won’t be any danger.”

“We’ll be careful,” Frank assured her.

“Well,” Mrs. Hardy said, “I’ll have to make a trip to the market for your food supplies.”

“You’ll have to take a truck to bring home all that food!” exclaimed a tart voice from the doorway. The boys’ Aunt Gertrude entered the living room and added, “I know what it is to feed Chet Morton.” She sniffed. “I only hope all you boys won’t catch your death of cold!”

Aunt Gertrude was Fenton Hardy’s unmarried sister, a tall, angular woman who often made long visits with the family. She liked to affect strictness, and it provoked her that she often found herself smiling when she had intended to be stern with her nephews.

Underneath her peppery manner, Miss Hardy held a deep affection for the boys. She also was interested in their sleuthing, although always predicting dire results.

Joe could not resist teasing her. “Now, Aunty, how about you coming along as our cook?”

“Humph,” Miss Hardy mumbled, and hastened to the kitchen.

Soon after supper Frank and Joe excused themselves and went upstairs to pack. “We may as well stow everything aboard the Sea Gull tomorrow except the food,” Frank said. “That should give us an early start Saturday.”

The boys stuffed their clothes and gear into duffle bags. Next morning everything was placed in the trunk of the convertible.

Shortly after lunch Frank and Joe drove to the Jefferson home, a large colonial dwelling on Shore Road. A housekeeper answered their knock, took their coats, and asked the visitors to be seated in the spacious front hall.

“Mr. Jefferson is busy,” the woman said. “He will be with you shortly.”

After the housekeeper had left, Joe exclaimed in a low voice, “Mother and Aunt Gertrude would sure go for this place! Look at that fancy carved table and gilded work. And those paintings on the walls! The whole house must be furnished in antiques.”

“I think it is,” Frank told him. “I’ve heard that Mr. Jefferson has a large collection. In fact, he’s regarded as an expert on antiques.”

Suddenly the boys stopped talking. Loud voices came from the living room adjoining the hall. The Hardys exchanged quizzical glances.

“Wonder what’s going on?” Joe muttered.

“Trouble, from the sound of it,” Frank replied.

The speakers seemed to be growing angrier with every sentence. Soon their words were clearly audible.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Jefferson, why you won’t sell. You’ll regret this!”

“Cabin Island is not for sale, and that is final, Mr. Hanleigh. Now, please leave my home!”

The first voice snapped back, “You haven’t heard the last from me!”

Startled, the Hardys stood up. At the same instant a large man stomped into the hall. Frank and Joe were nearly elbowed aside by the angry caller as he strode toward his coat, which was lying on a chair.

The boys nudged each other in excitement. It was the belligerent young man who had chased them off Cabin Island!

As he shrugged violently into his coat, his eyes fell on Frank and Joe. “You two again!” he shouted, glaring at the boys. “Keep out of my way!”

Then he flung open the door and was gone.

CHAPTER III

Missing Grandson

“GOOD afternoon, boys.” An elderly man, tall and thin, with shining white hair, stepped into the hall. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, and also to subject you to Mr. Hanleigh’s bad manners.”

“Oh, we don’t mind,” Frank said, shaking hands, and added, “I’d like to introduce my brother Joe.”

“How do you do, Joe? Boys, I overheard what Mr. Hanleigh said to you a moment ago. Whatever did he mean?”

“After you offered us your cabin,” Frank explained, “Joe and I were eager to look at Cabin Island, so we went over. Mr. Hanleigh was there and ordered us to leave.”

Mr Jefferson’s smile disappeared and deeper wrinkles formed in his face. He said somberly, “Come in and sit down in the living room. We’ll talk more about this.”

Frank and Joe followed their host into a large room, richly furnished with antiques. Heavy, wine-red draperies muted the afternoon sunlight, and a miniature crystal chandelier sparkled at either side of a marble fireplace.

Mr. Jefferson motioned the Hardys to be seated in velour-upholstered chairs and went on, “If that fellow Hanleigh shows up while you are staying on the island, you’re to chase him off at once!”

“Then you didn’t know Mr. Hanleigh was on your island?” Frank asked.

“No, indeed,” Mr. Jefferson replied vehemently. “Mr. Hanleigh lives some distance from Bayport. He has come here repeatedly, insisting that I sell Cabin Island to him, but I have refused. Unfortunately, the man is persistent.”

“I imagine the island is fairly valuable,” Frank commented.

“It is,” the elderly man admitted. “But it is not worth as much as the price Hanleigh offers. Besides, the place means more to me than money. My wife and I spent many happy vacations in that cabin with our orphaned grandson, Johnny —my son’s boy. And now—” He sighed. “Mrs. Jefferson has passed away.”

“We’re very sorry,” said Joe, then added, “It’s really great of you to invite us to vacation on Cabin Island.”

“Not at all,” the old man assured him. “I can’t thank you sufficiently for saving my automobile from those thieves. You boys have a great deal of courage.”

The Hardys looked embarrassed, and Frank replied, “We enjoyed the case. Joe and I seem to thrive on excitement.”

Mr. Jefferson’s smile changed to an expression of disapproval. “I’m surprised your parents permit you to pursue criminals, however much you appear to—er—thrive on danger,” he declared. “I’d never allow my grandson to do such a thing, although he, too, is fascinated by mysterious crimes.”

The elderly man’s sudden criticism made the Hardys a little uncomfortable. Frank changed the subject and said quickly, “I’d like to hear more about Cabin Island, Mr. Jefferson. We weren’t there long enough to see much.”

Their host relaxed as he spoke of his property. “The cabin itself is well built and cozy, as long as there are logs on the fire. You’ll find a good supply of wood in the shed at the back of the cabin. Use all you need.”

“I suppose we cook with wood?” Joe inquired.

“Oh, yes!” Mr. Jefferson declared with gusto. “The kitchen is warm as toast when the old cookstove is fired up! My wife and I talked of modernizing, but we liked things the way they were, and decided not to. Incidentally, you’ll find all the cooking utensils you’ll need.”

“That’s good,” Frank said. He hesitated before adding, “Mr. Jefferson, may we invite two of our friends to join us?”

“All the better,” the old man said with enthusiasm. “The place is large enough. It has two bedrooms, each with a pair of cots. By the way, how did you fellows get to the island?”

“We have an iceboat,” Joe explained.

Mr. Jefferson frowned. “Iceboats are too risky for youngsters. My Johnny always wanted one, but of course I refused him. Prudence is what young people lack. If my Johnny had learned prudence, things wouldn’t be as they are now.”

Frank and Joe exchanged quick glances, sensing that the mystery was about to be revealed.

The old man sighed and passed his hands over his eyes. In a low voice he added, “My Johnny has disappeared!”

The Hardys were both shocked and sympathetic. “That’s terrible!” Joe exclaimed, then asked, “How old is Johnny?”

“Fifteen, but he’s a big boy. You’d take him for older.”

“How long has your grandson been missing?” Frank questioned.

“When I returned from Europe recently,” Mr. Jefferson replied, “my housekeeper reported that Johnny had left school two weeks before.”

“Was he living away from home?” Joe inquired.

“Yes. I’ve always sent him to boarding school, thinking he’d be safe and in good company. At first I expected that Johnny would return to school, but the headmaster has not heard a word from him.”

“Have you, Mr. Jefferson?” Frank asked.

“Yes, recently I received a letter from Johnny, saying that he was on a secret mission. The letter was postmarked Dallas, Texas, but the detectives I retain found no clues to him there.”

“Have you any idea what he meant by a secret mission?” Frank queried.

“Not the slightest.”

“Have you reported Johnny’s disappearance to the police?” Joe asked.

“Only the harbor police. My detectives advised me to give the matter as little publicity as possible. And of course I am positive there has been no criminal act. That’s why I felt this mystery would be feasible for you boys to work on. There are no dangerous individuals involved.”

“Mr. Jefferson, you surely don’t want us to delay the search for Johnny,” Frank said. “We’ll postpone our vacation on Cabin Island.”

“No, I suggest that you go to Cabin Island because I have a strong feeling it may take a boy to find a boy. Johnny loved the place, and knows every nook and cranny of it well.”

Joe nodded. “Sounds like a good spot to start.”

Frank asked, “The detectives you mentioned —do they work for you all the time?”

“Yes, I have engaged these two private investigators for quite a while, but for a different reason. They are searching for a priceless collection of antique medals which were stolen from my wall safe two years ago.”

“Athletic medals?” Joe asked.

“Oh, no. These were commemorative medals from many lands, made by the world’s finest craftsmen. They had been presented by kings and potentates to those who had served with greatness in war and peace.”

“An odd hobby,” Frank commented.

“And expensive. That’s why I’m still continuing the search privately. The police have all but given up.”

Upon further questioning by Frank and Joe, Mr. Jefferson revealed that his collection comprised twelve medals, kept in a handsome rosewood box. “And when you open it, what a dazzling sight!” the man went on. “Some are set with gems, which sparkle in the burnished metal. And apart from their great beauty, what stories behind each of those medals!” He sighed deeply.

Joe asked, “Could they have been fenced somewhere—sold to a disreputable coin dealer?”

“I think not,” came the reply. “My collection was so famous, any dealer would recognize the pieces.” He added that all the important dealers knew about the theft.

The Hardys were more fascinated than ever. “Did anything else unusual happen at the time your medals were taken, Mr. Jefferson?” Frank asked.

“Amazing. How did you guess? As a matter of fact, something odd did occur then. One of my servants, the houseman—John Paul Sparewell—dropped out of sight and nothing has been heard of him since.”

“Quite a coincidence,” Joe said. “You think Sparewell may be the thief?”

“I don’t like to suspect anyone without proof,” Mr. Jefferson replied. “But at this point, the detectives and I feel that he probably is. Indeed, it’s a most baffling crime. However, you boys aren’t to concern yourselves with it.”

“But there may be some connection between the missing medals and your grandson’s disappearance,” Frank suggested.

“The only connection is Johnny’s silly notions,” Mr. Jefferson asserted. “I suppose it was because he heard the detectives discussing the theft of the medals so often at the house here. The boy began to think he could solve the mystery, and started seeing clues everywhere. Ridiculous.”

“Then Johnny may be working on the case right now!” Joe exclaimed. “Perhaps that’s his secret mission.”

“You could be right.” Mr. Jefferson looked despondent. “And who knows what harm may come to him! Johnny can be stubborn. When he sets his mind on something, he doesn’t give up easily.”

The old man sighed wearily and the Hardys felt that further questions might be unwise.

“We must get back now,” Frank announced. “Thanks again for your invitation, Mr. Jefferson.”

Their host smiled wanly, crossed the room, and opened the drawer of a small, ornate table. From it he took a key which he handed to Frank. “Have a fine vacation, all of you!”

“We’ll do our best to find Johnny,” Joe added, “and let you know of our progress.”

They all shook hands, then the boys retrieved their overcoats and said good-by.

As the brothers drove away from the Jefferson home, Joe turned to Frank, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “A big assignment!” he declared.

“Just the kind we like!” Frank grinned. “One thing I have a hunch about—Johnny is not in Texas! At least, not now. If he doesn’t want to be found, he’d never let on where he really is.”

“You’re probably right,” Joe conceded. “Wow! I wish it were the day after Christmas!”

Frank drove silently for a few minutes, seemingly intent on threading his way through the pre-holiday traffic. But Joe guessed from his brother’s expression that the mystery was in Frank’s thoughts.

“Give you a penny for ‘em,” Joe said with a grin.

Frank smiled. “I’ve been thinking about Mr. Jefferson’s idea that there are no dangerous individuals involved in this case. I don’t agree.”

“Why not?”

“Joe, two years ago a man disappeared, probably because of those medals. Now a boy who was interested in them is gone. Then Hanleigh turns up, trying to force Mr. Jefferson to sell the island.”

“I see what you mean. Sounds like the old case is still plenty hot.”

Frank nodded. “And with a priceless treasure at stake, we’d better watch out for danger.”

CHAPTER IV

A Christmas Visitor

As the Hardys drove on toward the bay area, they continued to discuss the missing boy.

“Mr. Jefferson appears to be very strict with his grandson,” Joe observed. “I’m not surprised that Johnny wanted to go off and prove he’s old enough to be on his own.”

Frank frowned. “Could be. But he’s also old enough to realize fully the grief he’s causing his grandfather.”

Upon reaching their boathouse, Frank parked behind a green sedan which the Hardys recognized as belonging to the Hoopers. Biff and Chet hopped out to greet their pals.

Joe and Biff unlocked both car trunks, and they all looked over the gear each had brought. “It’ll take some engineering to stow all this on the Sea Gull,” Joe said with a groan.

“And don’t forget, we have to leave some space for food,” Chet reminded him.

Biff scratched his head. “It’s all necessary, including my snowshoes. Chet has his, too.”

“You’re lucky,” Frank replied. “Ours gave out last winter and we haven’t had the money to get new ones.”

The four boys hauled their gear into the boathouse. The streamlined hull of the Sea Gull had been designed with plenty of space for cargo. Nevertheless, they repacked it three times before they found places for everything. When they had finished, there remained only a few niches for boxes of food.

“That took at least an hour!” Biff exclaimed. “We’d better get going.”

Joe locked the boathouse. The friends wished one another a Merry Christmas, and Frank called out, “See you Saturday!”

At dinner Frank and Joe told their family about Mr. Jefferson’s mysteries. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude expressed concern about Johnny and hoped the missing boy would be found soon.

Frank and Joe went upstairs early in the evening to wrap their gifts before going to bed. In the morning the brothers awakened soon after the sun was up.

“Merry Christmas!” Joe called.

“Same to you!” Frank shouted as he leaped out of bed. The boys dressed and ran downstairs.

“I can smell the turkey roasting already!” Joe exclaimed as he reached the bottom step.

Aunt Gertrude bustled out of the kitchen and scolded cheerfully, “I should hope you do! That gobbler weighs thirty pounds! Now, I’ve made pancakes and sausage, and I want you both to eat properly before the confusion begins. Oh, Merry Christmas!”

The boys ate the tasty breakfast with zest.

Mrs. Hardy looked at her sons. “Mr. Jefferson was so kind to make your outing possible,” she mused, “it’s sad to think of him being alone on Christmas. Why don’t we invite him to join us at dinner?”

Joe grinned and said, “Mother, that’s a great idea!”

“I’ll phone him!” Frank hurried off to make the call.

He returned shortly to announce that Mr. Jefferson had accepted the invitation. “I said Joe and I would pick him up on our way back from church.”

“Now for our presents!” Joe urged impatiently.

The Hardys went into the living room where the lights and ornaments shone brilliantly on the tall balsam. The boys were thrilled to discover that their mother had bought each of them a pair of snowshoes. Mr. Hardy gave his sons a self-developing camera.

The brothers were overjoyed. “It’s terrific! But what’s this?” Joe asked, holding up an object that resembled a gunstock.

His father explained that the attachment was a gun-type mounting to use in conjunction with the camera’s high-powered telescopic lens. “You should find it very useful for long-range shots,” he added. “A number of private investigators have purchased them.”

“Thanks!” they chorused, and Frank added, “We’ll take it to Cabin Island.”

From her sons Mrs. Hardy received a colorful skirt and blouse set, Mr. Hardy was the happy recipient of handmade doeskin slippers, and Aunt Gertrude beamed over a tan cardigan sweater presented by her nephews.

As for Frank and Joe, they were amused to discover that each had given the other a handsome leather watchband. “I thought you’d like it, because it appealed to me,” Joe explained.

“Same here,” Frank replied.

“Time for you to open my presents,” said Aunt Gertrude as she handed each nephew a brightly wrapped package. “Now you won’t catch your death of cold on this foolish winter vacation!”

Joe opened his box first and drew out a pair of full-length red ski underwear! “Well—uh—thanks!” he managed to blurt out.

Frank’s gift was a duplicate. “Aunty, I can’t wait to wear this!” he said, grinning. He unbuttoned the bright crimson suit and pulled it on over his clothes. Joe did the same, and the boys clowned until even Aunt Gertrude was laughing hard.

When Frank and Joe drove up to the Jefferson home later, the elderly man greeted them with “Merry Christmas, boys!” But there was an agitated ring in his voice.

“Has anything happened, Mr. Jefferson?” Frank asked quickly.

The reply was startling. “This morning I found a package on the doorstep. It’s a present from Johnny.” The old man held up the gift card bearing his grandson’s name. “This is Johnny’s printing.”

The Hardys were astounded. “Is there any clue to where it came from?” Joe asked.

“There’s no postmark, so the package wasn’t mailed,” Mr. Jefferson answered, “and none of my neighbors lives close enough to have seen the person who left it, but there is a clue in the gift itself.”

From the hall table he took a round box and opened it.

“A can of plum pudding!” exclaimed Joe.

“My favorite dessert,” said Mr. Jefferson. “But this is the significant thing,” he added, pointing to a cluster of fir cones tied clumsily onto the can with red ribbon. “These are blue spruce cones and Cabin Island has many trees of that variety. More than ever, I feel sure my boy is—or was—there.”

“Perhaps your housekeeper could tell us when and how the parcel was delivered,” Frank suggested.

“No,” Mr. Jefferson replied. “Mrs. Morley is away on a week’s vacation.”

Mr. Jefferson donned his coat and locked the house. Then the three got into the car and Frank started for home. On the way he tried to reassure the distraught man. “Perhaps the gift is a sign that Johnny plans to come home soon. He probably wanted to get back into your good graces before returning.”

Mr. Jefferson frowned. “That boy won’t be back as long as he has the detective bug.”

Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude welcomed their guest warmly, and he soon appeared to relax and enjoy the holiday atmosphere.

By the time Frank and Joe drove their visitor home that evening, he was smiling. As Frank brought the convertible to a stop in front of the Jefferson house, Joe said, “Sir, I have a strong feeling that Johnny is in this area. Will you describe him in detail?”

“I’ll do better than that. Come into the house and I’ll give you a recent snapshot.”

The Hardy boys followed Mr. Jefferson up the walk. He unlocked the door, stepped into the hall, turned on the light, then cried out in alarm.

Frank and Joe gasped. Furniture had been overturned and drawers hung open, their contents scrambled and strewn about the floor. The antique wall ornaments had been ruthlessly torn down.

The three hurried into the living room. It, too, was completely disordered. The thick rug was littered with articles that had been in drawers or displayed on shelves. The rich red draperies hung at crazy angles, and one of the crystal chandeliers had been shattered.

Mr. Jefferson’s face was white and his hands trembled. Frank suggested anxiously, “You’d better sit down, sir. Joe and I will see if the person who did this is still on the premises.”

“No, I’ll be all right. I have some valuable antiques I must check on immediately. You boys look about.”

The Hardys soon discovered that entry had been made by jimmying the rear door. They made a thorough tour of the house and circled the grounds. Although the moon shone brilliantly, the young sleuths could find no clue to the marauder.

“There isn’t even a footprint.” Joe sighed as he and Frank entered the house again. “Whoever it was evidently went right around the sidewalk to the back!”

Mr. Jefferson reported that nothing was missing, although many valuable objects had been broken. He handed Frank a snapshot of a tall, well-built boy. “Here is the picture of Johnny.”

Frank placed the photograph in his wallet. “You had better report this damage to the police, Mr. Jefferson,” he advised.

When the elderly man left the room to telephone, Joe murmured, “I know it sounds crazy, but—do you think Johnny is mixed up in this?”

“No,” Frank replied promptly, “I can’t believe he’s that kind.”

A short time later Lieutenant Daley of the Bayport Police Department arrived. He inspected the damage, took fingerprints, and then questioned the Hardys and Mr. Jefferson. The officer left, saying headquarters would notify them if any clues to the vandal turned up.

The brothers went to bed as soon as they had told their father about the incident. “We’d better get to sleep pronto if we’re going to start early tomorrow,” Joe said.

The boys’ alarm clock rang just as the sun was rising. Frank and Joe dressed, ate a quick breakfast and gathered their supplies, among which were the Christmas gifts they had received.

Chet and Biff were waiting outside the Hardys’ boathouse when the brothers drove up. “Hey!” Joe exclaimed as he and Frank hopped out to meet them. “What’s all that?” He pointed to a pile of packages on the ground.

“Our Christmas presents!” Biff replied.

“I got super binoculars,” Chet crowed. “And look! A portable ultraviolet light for identifying rocks and minerals.”

“How about this?” Biff broke in, holding up a large box. “Barbells! I have the weights, too. And-”

“Fellows!” Frank interrupted. “We’ll never fit all this stuff onto the Sea Gull!”

“I see you and Joe brought some of your Christmas loot,” Chet grumbled.

“Only what’s really needed,” Frank insisted. “Snowshoes and a camera. Chet, your binoculars will be great! The rest will have to stay in Bayport.”

Biff and Chet gave in grudgingly. “My father drove us here,” said Biff. “But you’ll have to drive us back to drop these things off.”

“Sure. First let’s put the food in the Sea Gull,” Frank said. The boys did so, then Joe locked the boathouse. The four went off in the convertible and the extra items were returned to the Morton and Hooper homes.

As Frank once more reached the bayfront parking area, a startled expression crossed his face. “Didn’t you lock up before we left?” he asked Joe.

“Sure I did!” Joe gulped. All four boys stared in disbelief at the area between the parked cars and the Hardys’ boathouse.

Their supplies which had been stowed in the Sea Gull were scattered in all directions over the ground!

CHAPTER V

Two Suspects

STUNNED, the boys could only stare at one another. Frank turned to Joe and declared, “This reminds me of the damage at Mr. Jefferson’s place last night!”

“It’s too similar to be just coincidence,” Joe agreed. “And yet, I can’t think of any logical connection between the two break-ins. Who’s our suspect, in either case?”

“What are you two talking about?” Chet asked impatiently.

Joe quickly told of the incident at Mr. Jefferson’s house.

“Good night! That sounds a lot worse than this mess,” said Chet. “Who’d do such a thing?”

“Search me.” Joe frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe someone who wants revenge on Mr. Jefferson ransacked his house—then found out Frank and I are going to work on his mystery, so the same creep did this to spite us.”

“But who?” Chet persisted uneasily.

“What about the wise guy we met on Cabin Island?” Biff put in. “The one who tried to get tough.”

Joe shrugged and threw a glance at his brother. “Any hunches, Frank?”

Frank nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that big fellow myself. We found out his name, by the way—it’s Hanleigh. He’s been trying to buy the island from Mr. Jefferson.”

Suddenly Joe gave a start. “Say! We ought to check the boathouse! Maybe—” He stopped in midsentence and sprinted off. The others followed, catching up to Joe as he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

A chorus of groans came from the boys as they looked from the broken single window to the iceboat. The sail lay unfurled on the floor and had been slashed. It was completely useless!

“I’d like to get my hands on the skunk who did this!” Biff stormed angrily.

Joe was furious. “Some nerve—smashing his way in!”

Just then a voice spoke from the doorway. “Hi, fellows! What’s going on?”

The four turned to see their friend Tony Prito. Tony, a slender, dark-haired youth of Italian descent, stared at the damage with astonishment in his black eyes.

“Hi, Tony,” Joe said dejectedly. “We were gone for a short time and just got back to find this mess!”

Tony shook his head. “Tough break! I heard about your trip and came down to see you off.”

“Any chance you could join us?” Frank asked. “We’d be glad to sail back for you.”

“No, but thanks,” Tony replied. “I promised Dad I’d help him out during Christmas vacation and drive one of the trucks.” Mr. Prito was a busy building contractor in Bayport.

Despite the unpleasant situation, Chet could not resist a joke. “What’s going on in construction this time of year? You building an igloo?”

The others chuckled, and Tony said, “When I pulled up in Dad’s truck, I noticed Ike Nash and Tad Carson running down the road from here.”

“Ike and Tad again!” Joe exclaimed.

The Hardys’ minds filled with questions. Were Ike and Tad the malicious visitors? Did they seek revenge for the damage to the Hawk by disabling the Hardys’ iceboat? Or was there a more sinister motive?

“They’re not going to stop us,” Joe said deter minedly. “Come on! We’ll just have to stow all our gear onto the Gull again.”

“And we need to make repairs,” Frank added. “Chet and Biff, will you take our car and pick up the spare sail in our garage? In the meantime, Joe and I will repack.”

“Right,” Chet agreed, taking the ignition key which Frank handed him.

“On the way,” Joe put in, “why not buy us four police whistles? We may need them for signaling on the island.”

“And we’d better replace that windowpane,” Frank said.

“Don’t worry about the glass,” Tony said. “I have some spare in the truck. I’ll fix the window.”

Frank and Joe resumed packing the Sea Gull, while Tony worked on the boathouse window.

As Frank arranged the supplies, he noticed that the seat belts had been cut.

“That’s tough,” said Joe. “We have no spares.”

The boys worked in silence for a while. Then Frank said, “Joe, this case troubles me. I can’t help wondering if there may be something more behind Johnny Jefferson’s disappearance than his grandfather suspects.”

Joe glanced at his brother keenly. “What do you mean? Do you have a theory?”

“No, not yet. But if Johnny is on Cabin Island —or has been there—his disappearance may be tied in somehow with Hanleigh’s desire to buy the place.”

“Could be,” Joe conceded. “Personally, I’d like to get a line on Ike and Tad. I have a feeling those guys are up to something besides getting even with us—but don’t ask me what.”

When the Hardys had finished stowing everything aboard the Sea Gull, Tony was picking out the last bits of jagged glass from the window frame. Joe helped him install the new pane, and the Hardys reimbursed their friend for the glass.

“I’d better go now,” Tony said. “I’m due to meet Dad on a job. Have a swell time!”

“You bet. Thanks for pitching in,” said Frank. Presently he turned to Joe. “I have a hunch that we’ll find a lot of answers to the mystery at Cabin Island.”

“Yes, if we ever get there!” Joe grumbled impatiently. “One more delay and this’ll be a spring vacation!”

Frank grinned. “I think we’re in business. Here come Chet and Biff with the spare sail!”

The boys put on creepers and took the Sea Gull outside, where they began replacing the torn sail. They worked dexterously, though their hands grew red and numb from the cold.

“This is a rough job,” Biff said grimly.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Frank replied, “but some of the rigging’s been slashed, too.” Joe brought a coil of rope from the boathouse and helped his brother repair the damage. Then they reinforced the ruined seat belts with rope.

“Not only did those troublemakers delay us, they’ve made me wait overtime for my lunch!” Chet complained. “Hey! Was any of the food stolen?”

Frank laughed. “As far as we can tell, Chet, every morsel is intact! Evidently Ike and Tad aren’t thieves or gluttons.”

“That’s the best you can say for them,” Biff said scornfully.

“Well, we’re set for some hard-water sailing!” Joe announced.

The Hardys replaced their tools in a kit. They made sure that the convertible and the boathouse doors were locked. Then the four put on goggles and helmets. Frank took his place at the tiller while Chet and Biff climbed aboard. Joe shoved the Sea Gull before him with short, running steps until the sail caught the wind.

“Wow! Some load!” he gasped, jumping in beside Frank.

“Full speed ahead for Cabin Island!” Chet cried out. “I’m starving!”

The Sea Gull swooped downwind near the shore of Barmet Bay. It was a clear, sharp day, and the sparkling sun made the ice gleam like glass.

As the boat passed through the narrow inlet and glided toward Cabin Island, Chet chortled. “I’d like to see Hanleigh try to throw us out this time! We have the key!”

“Anyone who causes trouble—let me at him!” Biff sang out gaily.

But Frank looked grave. He pointed to the pine tree where they had parked the Sea Gull on their first visit.

An iceboat was outlined against the dark evergreens. “The Hawk!”

“It’s been repaired,” Frank observed.

“And ready for more trouble!” Joe groaned.

CHAPTER VI

Troublesome Trio

FRANK eased the tiller over and made a deft 90-degree turn to port. As the Sea Gull passed the Hawk, the boys noted that there was no one in the vicinity.

“Maybe Ike and Tad are hiding,” Chet suggested.

“Could be,” said Frank. “I’ll circle the island and find a more secluded place to tie up.”

Joe nodded. “Then we can try to find out what’s going on without being seen.”

Chet and Biff were disgruntled. “What are that grubby pair doing on Cabin Island, anyway?” Biff asked.

Frank frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe Ike and Tad have some connection with Hanleigh.”

Joe nodded. “Perhaps they taxi him to the island whenever he wants to come.”

“That’s right,” Biff agreed. “Last time we were here we wondered how Hanleigh made it without a boat.”

“Yes, and he might’ve been behind their trick on us at the boathouse,” Joe said. “I can’t figure out, though, how they knew we were heading for Cabin Island today.”

Biff grinned. “One more puzzle for us to work on. I have a feeling that the mystery is getting hotter by the minute!”

Presently Frank slowed the Sea Gull toward a spot on the island’s shore where a thick growth of pines and evergreen bushes would conceal the iceboat. Then he braked and Joe slackened the sail.

The boys got out and trudged up a slope toward the rear of the cabin. Their footsteps crunched crisply in the snow, but the four Bayporters were careful to keep their voices down.

Suddenly Joe stopped and pointed toward a clearing on the right. “Look! Footprints!”

A line of tracks could be seen all the way to the cabin. Whoever had made them had evidently come up through the clearing from some point along the shore below. Trees farther down the slope, however, blocked the boys’ view.

“Maybe Ike or Tad,” Chet suggested.

“Or Hanleigh himself,” Joe said quietly. “Whoever he is, he must have come here on the Hawk.”

“Probably,” Frank agreed. “Let’s make sure, though, before we tackle him. We can backtrack on the prints and find out if anyone came with him.”

“Good idea,” said Joe.

With Frank leading, the companions followed the footprints downward to a small, windowless boathouse about a hundred yards from the Sea Gull.

Nearing the building, Frank motioned for silence. Voices could be heard from inside.

The four boys crept closer and soon every word sounded clearly. The speakers were Tad Carson and Ike Nash!

“Hanleigh is sure paying us a lot,” Ike was saying. “I’d like to find out what for.”

“Who cares, as long as we get our money?” Tad responded lazily.

“Look—figure it out. All we’re doing is giving him a boat ride now and then.”

“So maybe Hanleigh likes our company.”

Ike was evidently becoming impatient with his partner’s indifference. “If he likes us so much, why does he make us freeze in this boathouse while he’s inside the cabin? I’d like to sneak up there and see what cooks.”

“You worry too much, pal,” Tad drawled. “We bring him here, we get our money. It’s simple.”

“Well, stop being simple and maybe we’ll learn what’s so valuable that Hanleigh’s after!” Nash exploded. “We can cash in even more on this deal if we play it right!”

Now his buddy sounded annoyed. “To me, play it right means follow Hanleigh’s orders. Trip up the Hardsy, stay in the boathouse, don’t ask questions.”

“You’ll do what I say,” Ike threatened harshly, “-or else!”

“Okay, cool off,” was the quick reply. “Have it your way.”

The Hardys and their pals were excited. So Tad Carson and Ike Nash were working for Hanleigh. That was why they had slashed the Sea Gull’s sails!

Frank beckoned the others away from the boathouse. When the four were out of earshot of the troublemakers, he urged, “We’ll deal with those two later. Let’s go up to the cabin and see what Hanleigh’s doing!”

“Right!” Biff declared fiercely. “And if that guy gives us trouble, just let me handle him!”

“Easy, Biff,” Frank cautioned. “We’ll never learn anything if we tangle with him.”

Quietly the boys climbed the tree-covered slope. At the edge of the woods they stopped and peered at the cabin. Stealthily the quartet moved to a window and looked into the long living room at the front of the building.

Hanleigh stood with his back to the boys, facing a huge stone fireplace. He held a measuring tape and was apparently determining the dimensions of various sections of the stone chimney. Frequently he paused to write in a small notebook.

The big man began to pace back and forth, then stood still. By the motions of his right forefinger, the watchers could tell that he was counting the stones in the height and width of the fireplace, mantel, and chimney. Finally he got down on hands and knees and explored the interior of the fireplace.

Once Hanleigh shook his head as if baffled. The boys were so intrigued, they unconsciously crowded closer to the window until their faces were pressed against the pane.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew open the door of the cabin, which Hanleigh evidently had left ajar. Startled, the man leaped to his feet and whirled around. He glanced toward the door, then gave a shout of consternation, glimpsing the boys a second before they ducked out of view.

Hanleigh strode across the room and rushed outside. “Hold your ground!” Frank advised his companions. “Don’t let him bluff us.”

The intruder was red with wrath as he confronted the boys. “Can’t you pests mind your own business?” he snarled. “I told you to stay off this island!”

“So you did,” Frank returned coolly.

Startled, Hanleigh whirled around

“Then what are you doing here?” roared Hanleigh. “You’re a bunch of meddlers! Now, get out! And if I catch you again, I‘ll—”

“You’ll do nothing, Mr. Hanleigh,” Joe interrupted. “You have no right to be on this island, but we have.”

“Prove that!” Hanleigh scoffed.

Joe took the key to the cabin from his pocket and said, “Mr. Jefferson gave this to us. Do you have a key, too? Or did you break in?”

“Young punks!” the man snarled.

Quickly Joe examined the front door and saw that it had not been forced. “My guess is that Mr. Hanleigh has a skeleton key,” he said. “The lock is a simple one.”

The intruder flushed but said nothing.

“Suppose you tell us what’s so interesting about Cabin Island, Mr. Hanleigh,” Frank suggested. “And what’s special about the fireplace?”

Hanleigh licked his lips nervously. “Jefferson collects antiques. Maybe I collect fireplaces, that’s all. I made him a good offer for this place. He’s a fool to turn it down.”

“Well, stay off this property!” Joe snapped. “Mr. Jefferson instructed us to order you to leave if we found you here.”

Hanleigh clenched his fists and glared at the boys. “Think you’re pretty smart! Well, you fellows are going to be sorry! This spooky place is no picnic. You’ll be glad to clear out!”

Before the boys could retort, the man turned on his heel and strode down the hill toward the boathouse. The sleuths watched from outside the cabin until they saw the Hawk glide out of the cove into the open bay with the trio aboard.

“We made short work of that crew!” Biff said cheerfully.

The Hardys did not comment, but inwardly felt certain they had not seen the last of Hanleigh.

“Short work nothing!” Chet exclaimed. “It’s starting to get dark, and we still haven’t had lunch! Come on, have a heart! I need supper.”

“You won’t be able to eat until we get our supplies unloaded and organized,” Frank reminded him.

Joe grinned. “I’m starved, too. Let’s get the stuff.”

Everyone set to work with a will and plodded back and forth between the Sea Gull and the cabin. Joe noticed that Chet was less talkative than usual. “Thinking about your meal?” he asked.

Chet shivered. “Not now. I’m thinking about Hanleigh’s warning. What did he mean about ‘this spooky place’?”

“Probably meant it’s haunted,” Biff said somberly. “You wouldn’t mind a couple of ghosts for company, would you, Chet?”

“Cut it out!” Chet quavered, glancing around into the deepening shadows.

“If there’s a ghost here, I wish he’d show himself,” Frank put in, chuckling. “We could use an extra hand. But this should be the last load.” He unreeved the main sheet completely, so the sail would be free to swing in the wind.

The four were halfway to the cabin, their arms filled with provisions, when suddenly Chet stopped short and gave a startled cry. The provisions he had been carrying fell to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Joe asked.

For a moment Chet could only point. Then he declared in a strange, hollow voice, “There! In the woods! A ghost!”

CHAPTER VII

Cry for Help

CHET stood rooted to the spot. He kept staring straight ahead. The other boys looked but could see no sign of the ghost.

Finally Joe said, “You sure talked yourself into that one, Chet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Hanleigh planted the idea in your mind and your old brain conjured up a ghost for you,” Joe explained.

Chet looked scornful. “Is that so? Well, you’re wrong, Joe Hardy. I saw a ghost.”

Frank winked at his brother to stop his needling. To Chet he said, “Let’s get to the cabin—and some food.”

The trudge was continued without any further evidence of a ghost. When the boys reached the living room of the cabin, Joe lighted a large oil lamp that stood on the table, and a mellow glow spread over the room.

Chet declared he felt better, but added, “Honest, fellows! I did see this white thing—moving 1-like a ghost!”

Frank spoke up. “Okay. Biff and I will go out and take a good look around while you and Joe put away our things and start supper.”

“Fine ideal” Joe agreed. “I was thinking that we ought to appoint Chet cook, anyway. Then we’ll never miss a meal!”

Chet brightened at once. “Kitchen, here I come!” he said with enthusiasm.

Frank and Biff rummaged among the gear for flashlights before leaving the cabin.

“This’ll be a good chance to go over the island thoroughly,” Frank remarked to his brother. “I still have a hunch that Johnny Jefferson may have come here.”

“You could be right,” Joe agreed. “If we’re lucky, maybe you’ll pick up a clue.”

“Be on your guard,” Chet cautioned as Frank and Biff started out the door.

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep our eyes open-especially for spooks!” Biff called back over his shoulder.

When the two boys had left, Joe went into the kitchen, opened the back door, and discovered the woodshed Mr. Jefferson had mentioned. It was an enclosed lean-to and had a door that locked with an outside bolt.

Joe carried enough wood into the cabin to stoke both the living-room fireplace and the cookstove. Soon the cabin began to warm up and Joe and Chet removed their heavy parkas.

Chet lighted the oil lamp which stood on the kitchen table and unpacked enough of the food for several meals. “I’ll leave the rest in the cartons,” he said, and set them on the bottom shelf in the cabinet.

Meanwhile, Frank and Biff had decided to separate in order to scout the whole area more quickly. Each was to search half the island, then meet the other boy at the boathouse.

“Watch out for white things!” Biff warned jokingly.

“You mean like snowballs?” Frank returned with a grin. “Seriously, Chet may not have imagined that spook—so don’t take any chances, Biff. If you spot anything suspicious, give a blast on that police whistle.”

“Wilco!”

The two boys started off in different directions. Frank trudged through the crusted snow, playing his flashlight beam ahead of him among the pines and underbrush. The wind had picked up, its icy chill stinging his face to a raw numbness.

As Frank plodded on through the dusk, he stopped to listen as each new sound caught his ear. Once he was sure he had heard someone cough and hurried in its direction. Nobody was in sight. But just then, an owl flew past, and Frank jumped back startled.

“I’m getting as jittery as Chet,” Frank berated himself. He squared his shoulders and went on, beaming his light.

Half an hour later the two searchers met at the boathouse. “Any luck, Biff?”

“None, Frank. Cabin Island evidently has visitors only in the daytime. How about you?”

“I didn’t find a clue, but I—” Frank stopped speaking as an object on the ground caught his attention. He bent over to pick it up.

“Wow!” said Biff. “A model of an iceboat.”

“And expertly carved,” Frank remarked, examining the intricately made model.

“Do you think Tad or Ike or Hanleigh lost this?” Biff asked. “Or could it belong to Mr. Jefferson?”

Frank examined the little boat, then declared, “It probably belongs to some very recent visitor to the island. The wood doesn’t look as though it has been exposed to the elements very long. In fact, it seems to be newly carved.”

“Anyway, it’s a beauty,” Biff commented. “Why don’t you take it along and put in on the cabin mantel?”

It was fully dark by the time Frank and Biff reached the cabin and reported that they had found no one on the island.

“Well, I’m willing to forget the ghost, now that we’re about to eat,” Chet called from the kitchen.

“How long before chow’s ready?” Frank asked. “The wind has started to blow pretty hard. I’d like to take the Sea Gull around to the boathouse.”

“You have time,” Chet replied. “But hurry.”

Frank showed Joe and Chet the iceboat model, then set it on the mantel before stepping outside and hurrying to the shore. Quickly he jumped into the iceboat and trimmed the sail. The instant the brake was released, the craft glided off like a phantom and in a short time Frank reached the boathouse. It was unlocked and empty. The boy stored the boat inside, then tramped back to the cabin.

There he found Joe and Biff staring at the massive stone chimney. “We’re trying to figure out what interested Hanleigh,” Joe remarked.

“Beats me,” Biff added.

Chet interrupted from the kitchen. “Chow time!” he called, and ushered his buddies to the table on which stood bowls of steaming beef stew. There was plenty of milk and a big basket of warm, crusty bread.

“Delicious!” exclaimed Biff after tasting the stew. “I’ll bet that ghost was just hungry and hoping for an invitation!”

“It’s an old family recipe,” Chet boasted.

“You mean an old family can opener?” Joe rejoined. “I saw all those cans you brought!”

“I had to add special spices, though, and salt and pepper,” Chet said defensively. “That’s what makes it taste so good.”

When the meal was finished, Biff was elected dishwasher. “Scrub hard and you’ll develop your boxing biceps,” Chet teased. Frank volunteered to help, and soon the kitchen was in order.

The wind was howling louder now, but the interior of the cabin was snug. The boys sat in front of the briskly burning logs in the fireplace and listened to the creaking of low branches against the cabin.

“I wish we could learn what Hanleigh hopes to gain by coming to this place,” Joe mused, “or by purchasing it.”

“One thing I’m convinced of,” said Frank. “He wasn’t studying the fireplace just for its artistic look.”

“He’s certainly nervy with other people’s property,” Biff remarked.

Frank nodded. “I keep wondering if it was he who ransacked the Jefferson home.”

“Again, the question is why?” Joe said.

“I’d think you guys would be more worried about that ghost I saw pussyfooting around here,” Chet spoke up plaintively.

“What’s more important,” said Frank, “is that we don’t forget the mystery we’re supposed to solve, to find Johnny Jefferson. Joe and I believe he’s hiding in this area.”

Joe added, “I’ve a hunch this mystery will be solved near Bayport. Johnny is bound to run out of money, and if he looks for a job, somebody will become suspicious because he’s so young.”

“Besides,” Frank said, “if we stick to our theory that Johnny is searching for the stolen medals, we can be pretty sure he hasn’t given up. Not if he’s as keen on sleuthing as his grandfather says he is. As far as we know, no one has located Mr. Jefferson’s collection or the servant suspected of stealing it.”

Biff looked puzzled. “I’m glad we’re going to stay. But what’s this talk about stolen medals and a suspected servant? You’ve been holding out on us.”

“Yes, explain!” Chet gave the Hardys a sideways look. “I have a feeling that once again you two have taken me along to a double-header mystery!”

The brothers related the story of the missing rosewood box and the priceless collection of honorary medals. As Joe told of the suspect, and of Johnny Jefferson’s desire to be a detective, the storm suddenly grew in violence. Snow hissed against the windows and the sashes rattled ominously.

Then, in the distance, the boys heard a muffled crash.

“A big tree must have gone down!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank looked at the fire. “Let’s each bring in an armload of logs before we go to bed. This is going to be a long, cold night.”

The four donned their parkas and took flashlights. Pushing hard, they managed to open the back door and hurried to the woodshed. Abruptly the boys stopped and listened intently. Through the darkness and the wind-driven sleet and snow came a faint cry.

“Help!”

CHAPTER VIII

The Mysterious Messenger

STARTLED, the boys stood motionless in the swirling snow, scarcely able to believe that someone was crying for help on that dark, ice-locked island.

Then the faint sound came again above the tearing wind. “Help!”

“Where’s it coming from?” Biff asked anxiously.

“Hard to tell,” Frank replied. “Let’s fan out and make a search. Hurry!”

Each boy started off in a different direction. When the pleading cry was repeated, Joe shouted as loudly as he could, “Fellows! This way! Down by the shore!”

He kept following the call for help, trudging through the blowing snow which stung his face. The flashlight’s beam did not penetrate the dense whiteness, and Joe could barely see a step ahead. Frequently he tripped over roots and nearly went sprawling.

Joe was becoming uncertain of his direction. Perhaps his ears had played tricks on him!

The young sleuth stood still until he heard the desperate voice again. “Help!”

“This way!” shouted Joe, moving forward, certain that the cries were coming from somewhere near the boathouse.

Who could the person be? What was he doing on Cabin Island? How could anyone have crossed the ice in the violent storm? Joe beamed his light about in hopes that the other boys would find him.

All at once he realized that the surface had become level and slippery beneath his feet. “I must have stepped onto the ice,” Joe thought, and made his way back to land. Where was the stricken person? He must be close by!

A groan came suddenly from Joe’s left. Moving the flashlight in a slow arc, he called out, “Hello? Where are you?”

There was another moan, which trailed off weakly. As the youth moved toward the sound, his foot struck something soft. Joe dropped to his knees and flashed the light downward. The beam revealed a stranger, barely conscious, his legs pinned beneath the limb of a fallen pine tree.

The man had gone face downward and his right cheek was crunched into the snow. Joe scrutinized him, but could not place the man from what he could see of his features.

“Frank! BIS! Chet!” Joe called out again. “Here, by the boathouse!”

Meanwhile, Joe attempted to free the victim, but all his strength could not budge the heavy branch. To lift it, the whole tree would have to be levered.

“I’ll just have to wait for the others,” Joe realized, panting. He crouched alongside the man, trying to shield him from the biting wind and the snow.

At last Joe saw the dim glow of flashlights moving down the slope. “Over here!” he called. “Hurry!”

“Joe!” came Frank’s voice above the wind. “I can see your beam now! We’re coming!”

Biff and Chet were close behind Frank, and the three soon reached Joe and the stranger.

“Who is he?” Chet puffed excitedly.

“I never saw him before,” Joe replied. “See if you fellows can hoist this branch a bit so I can pull his leg free.”

While Joe continued to shelter the man, the others laboriously managed to raise the tree limb.

“Okay—that’ll do it!” Joe said, easing the victim free. “Now let’s get him to the cabin pronto.”

As gently as possible, the Hardy boys lifted the stranger and started up the slope—Joe supporting the man’s head and shoulders, while Frank carried his legs. Chet and Biff went on ahead to light the way and forge a trail through the drifting, deepening snow.

Inside the cabin, Frank and Joe placed the limp form on the sofa. “The poor fellow may be in shock from exposure and pain,” Frank declared. “Chet, bring some blankets. No—don’t prop him up, Biff! Keep his head low.”

“Shall we try to take off his jacket?” Joe asked.

“No,” said Frank. We don’t want to move him too much. I’ll just loosen the jacket.“

Frank did so and also pulled off the man’s boots and cap. The stranger’s hair was bristly and carrot-colored. His round face was blanched, but its rough, weather-beaten features, thickly peppered with freckles, gave him the look of an outdoorsman.

The boys covered their patient with blankets and took turns rubbing his hands and feet to stimulate the circulation. “He’s mighty pale!” Chet whispered fearfully.

“What do you suppose he’s doing out here on a night like this?” Biff asked.

“We’ll have to wait until he’s able to tell us,” Joe replied, and added, “I wish we knew if there are any bones broken.”

“We can’t get him to Bayport until this storm lets up,” Frank said ruefully.

Presently the man began to stir and attempted to mumble something. “Take it easy. You’re all right,” Joe said soothingly.

As gently as possible, the Hardys lifted the stranger

The victim began to make weak, convulsive motions, and his mouth twitched. Finally he gasped, “Message—Hardys!”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances of astonishment. Why had the man spoken their name?”

The stranger, with a painful effort, articulated, “Must bring—message—to—Hardy boys!” Utterly exhausted, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

“A message!” gulped Chet. “From whom?”

Frank shook his head. “I’ve never seen this man before.”

“We’d better learn about the message,” Joe declared. “It must be urgent!”

The Hardys gently explored the victim’s pockets, but found nothing. “We’ll have to wait until he can tell us,” Frank finally conceded.

“Trying to speak may have been too much for him,” Joe said with concern. The man’s breathing had become irregular, and his pallor had increased.

“His hands feel so cold!” Chet murmured.

“It’s probably from shock and exposure,” Frank told him. “We’ll just have to keep him quiet and warm until we can get him to a doctor.”

The stranger soon began to mumble again, but what he said was unintelligible. The boys kept an anxious vigil for an hour. At last the man gave a sigh and began to breathe more deeply and regularly. A little color returned to his face.

“I think he’s sleeping normally now,” Frank said. “He’s worn out.”

“So am I!” Chet exclaimed with a yawn. “What a day! Let’s go to bed.”

“We can’t leave this man alone,” Joe objected. “We’ll have to take turns watching him.”

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “Besides, someone should keep an eye on the fire. We can’t let it go out tonight! I’ll stand first watch.”

Everyone agreed, and Frank sat by the fire while the others readied their sleeping sacks. Chet and Biff shared the north bedroom. The Hardys were to occupy the one across from it.

The patient continued to sleep soundly, and after two hours, Frank placed a large log on the fire and went to rouse his brother. “Your turn!” he told Joe. “All’s well!”

Joe put on a bathrobe and took his place near the fire. The snow had stopped, but the wind was still tearing viciously at the trees and cabin.

As time passed, questions again filled Joe’s mind. Where was Johnny? What was Hanleigh’s interest in Cabin Island? Did the two have any connection? Who was the injured man and what did his cryptic utterance mean? Who had sent the message?

“Lots of questions but no answers,” Joe thought with a feeling of frustration. He scowled intently into the fire burning steadily in the grate.

Gradually the warmth radiating from the fireplace, together with the comforting hiss and crackle of the logs, had a soothing effect. The mystery continued to nag at Joe’s brain, but he found it harder and harder to focus his thoughts.

“Boy, Chet can sure saw wood!” he said to himself with a grin as a faint sound of snoring drifted from the north bedroom. At last Joe’s own eyelids began to droop.

Suddenly the young sleuth gave a start and leaped to his feet. Somewhere in the cabin an eerie noise was shrilling. “Owoooooo!”

Joe did not move, but tensely looked around the room. The weird sound began again with a plaintive quality that was almost human. What could it be?

The boy sternly told himself, “I’m imagining things! It must be one of the fellows. Biff’s playing a practical joke on poor old Chet!”

“Owoooooo!” came the wail once more.

Joe walked softly into the bedroom, resolved to surprise the prankster. To his astonishment, he found both Chet and Biff wide awake in their bunks, worried looks on their faces. The two youths were sitting upright and listening to the sound which moaned and then rose to a howl.

“W-what did I t-t-tell you?” Chet quavered. “Th-the ghost—it’s right here in the cabin!” He burrowed into his sleeping bag like a woodchuck diving for its hole.

The noise came again just as Frank strode in to join them from the Hardys’ bedroom across the hall.

“Sure is unnerving!” Biff admitted, glancing about uneasily.

“We’re going to find out what’s happening,” Frank declared. “If this is somebody’s idea of a joke, I want to get my hands on him.”

“You said it!” Biff’s momentary apprehension vanished. “We’ll rout out that phony spook and really give him something to joke about!”

As the lanky youth hopped out of bed, Chet spoke up fearfully, “Be careful, you guys! You may be asking for all kinds of trouble!”

Frank and Biff donned bathrobes. Then with Joe they took up flashlights and searched the cabin for the source of the sound.

In the kitchen Joe cast his light on the ceiling beams. “I think it’s coming from somewhere up in the rafters!” he said.

The sinister shriek seemed to grow louder with every gust of wind.

“You’re right!” Biff agreed.

The boys moved their flashlights slowly over the ceiling. Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “Yes, look!” He pointed out thin lines forming a rectangle across the boards.

“It must be a trap door!” Joe said excitedly.

“To the attic, I suppose,” Frank reasoned.

He grabbed a chair, stood on it, and pushed the trap door open. “I’ll need a boost,” he said.

Biff gave him a lift. Frank scrambled into the dark opening, then disappeared. His footsteps made the boards creak ominously above Joe and Biff.

The wailing noise came again with a kind of taunting quality. “Owoooooo-oo!”

“Hey, what’s going on?” Joe called out.

There was no response.

CHAPTER IX

Warning by Code

JoE broke out in gooseflesh as the wailing abruptly ceased. The attic floor creaked again and Frank looked down through the opening into the kitchen. “I’ve captured the ghost!”

“No kidding. Show me,” Biff said.

“Here!” Frank replied. He handed down an empty soda bottle.

“What do you mean?” Joe asked as Frank swung himself through the open trap door and dropped to the floor.

“Listen,” Frank said.

He held the neck of the bottle to his lips and blew hard. The others heard a low, thin version of the doleful sound that had terrified Chet.

“Where did you find this?” Biff asked.

“The bottle was being used to plug a hole in the roof,” Frank explained. “When the wind blew across it in a certain way—it hooted!”

Joe laughed. “I wonder if Hanleigh heard that sound and that’s why he said the place has spooks!”

Frank took a piece of wood from the box beside the stove. “This’ll do to plug the opening,” he said. With a boost from Joe, he went into the attic again. After plugging the hole, he lowered himself onto Joe’s shoulders and closed the trap door before jumping down.

The three returned to the north bedroom. Biff pulled Chet from his cocoon of blankets. “Here’s your wailing ghost,” he said, handing the soda bottle to his friend. Then he explained how the wind had produced the noise.

Chet placed the bottle on the floor and gave the others a scornful look. “Maybe this is what we heard,” he said, “but it’s not what I saw running through the woods in a white sheet!”

“Now that you’re awake, Chet, why don’t you take your turn standing guard?” Joe suggested.

“Oh, all right!” Chet grumbled, crawling from bed. When he reached the living room, he called out, “Hey, everybody! Come here! Our patient is waking up!”

The three rushed to the sofa. “W-where am I?” the stranger asked, blinking his eyes and staring in bewilderment at the boys’ faces hovering above him.

Joe took a match and lighted the kerosene lanterns, then sat on the floor beside the sofa.

“Easy,” he cautioned. “You had a close call!”

“The sudden storm!” the man muttered. “The wind and the snow—I couldn’t see—”

“We know,” Joe said soothingly. “But you’re safe now, and the storm is over.” The boys realized for the first time that the wind had stilled.

“How do you feel?” Frank asked.

“I’m all right,” the man insisted, as he started to rise.

“Be careful!” Chet warned, but the stranger chuckled and sat upright. They noticed that the man’s eyes were bright blue, and had a merry twinkle.

“You may be injured,” Frank said. “Please lie down. We can take you to see a doctor.”

“I don’t need any doctor!” the red-haired man declared cheerfully. “I feel a little sore and I must have bumped my head, but that’ll do no damage!” He moved his arms and legs. “See? I’m okay.”

“Who are you?” Frank inquired again.

“My name is Mack Malone. Call me Mack.”

The boys introduced themselves and the man’s face crinkled into a big grin. “So you’re the Hardys!” he said to Frank and Joe. “I came out to give you a message.”

“Who sent you?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Your father,” Mack replied. “You see, I often do errands for the Bayport police. Fenton Hardy asked me to bring his sons a message. I drove my car to the mainland road across the cove from here and walked over on the ice.”

“Didn’t you realize the danger?” Joe asked.

“The storm hit suddenly. For a while I nearly gave up. But then I thought I’d finally reached Cabin Island. The ground was so slippery I couldn’t get out of the way of that falling tree.”

“Lucky we found you,” said Joe. “And the message—?”

Mack Malone chuckled. “It’s a funny one—doesn’t seem worth the trouble we’ve all been through! Well, here it is: ‘The alley cat is after the mice, but feed him well!’ ”

“Very strange!” Joe commented.

“I’ll say!” Frank agreed.

“Boy! It’s a riddle to me!” Chet declared, then added, “It’s almost daylight, and you Hardys will probably puzzle your brains over that message, anyway. How about some breakfast?”

“Good idea!” Biff agreed.

The boys dressed and a short time later Mack Malone joined them for a hearty meal of fried eggs, bacon, and toast. When they had finished, the man stood up and said, “Well, fellows, the sun is rising. I’d better be on my way.”

“We’d be happy to take you to Bayport for a checkup,” Frank reminded him.

“No, thanks. I’m fit as a fiddle, except for a few bruises,” the red-haired man assured him. “I’ll stroll over to my car and be home in no time!”

“Watch your step crossing the ice,” Joe cautioned.

“You bet your boots I will!” Malone gave a wry laugh and added, “One accident is enough—and besides, I’d sure hate to spend New Year’s Day on crutches!”

“Thank you for bringing the message,” Frank said as their visitor left the cabin. Malone responded with a parting wave.

When he was out of sight, Biff turned to the Hardys. “What about that double-talk?” he questioned. “Do you really believe your father would send a man to tell you some nonsense about cats and mice?”

“Somebody’s pulling your leg!” Chet put in.

“No, it’s on the level,” Frank assured them. “Joe and I were pretending we didn’t understand while Mack was here. Dad sent the message in code because he wanted it to be kept secret.”

“Then what does it mean?” Chet asked impatiently.

“That someone is out to get Frank and me—we’re the ‘mice,’ ” Joe explained. “We’re to play along with the person—he’s the ‘cat’—and trap him. In other words, ‘feed’ him and avoid being ‘eaten’ by him!”

“Fine!” declared Biff. “But who is this cat? How will you find out?”

“We already know,” Frank said.

“You do!” Chet exclaimed.

“Dad frequently uses the phrase about the cat in secret communications to us,” Joe explained. “The clue is in the adjective. Here, it’s ‘alley cat’ —the second syllable, ‘ley,’ could stand for the ‘leigh’ in Hanleigh!”

“Wow!” Chet was wide-eyed. “So Hanleigh is out to get you!”

“How does your dad know?” Biff asked.

Joe shrugged. “He must suspect the fellow is after something in the cabin or on the island.”

“Hanleigh’s a rough customer,” Frank said grimly. “That’s probably why Dad used code. He was afraid Hanleigh might intercept Mack and force the message from him.”

Chet groaned. “Maybe we ought to pack up and go home while we can!”

“We can’t leave,” Frank insisted. “If Hanleigh is trying to steal something from Mr. Jefferson, we must stop him.”

“But aren’t you supposed to keep looking for Johnny?” Biff asked. “And he doesn’t seem to be on Cabin Island. So what do you do next?”

“First, I’d like to search more thoroughly,” Frank replied, “to make sure Johnny hasn’t come here since yesterday.”

The boys donned their outdoor clothes and spread out over the whole island. Each examined a separate area, searching among bushes, trees, and rocks. Then they combed the entire shoreline. When they finally rejoined each other, none had any clues to report.

After they returned to the cabin, Chet asked, “Now what?”

“We could investigate the mainland near here, and inquire if anyone has seen Johnny,” Frank proposed.

“But I’m leery of leaving the place unguarded, especially after getting Dad’s message,” Joe said with a look of concern.

“We can use my binoculars from the main-Iand,” Chet reminded him, “to keep an eye on the island while we’re away.”

“Good idea!” Joe exclaimed. “And I’ll bring the camera Dad gave us. Maybe we’ll get some good photos with the telescopic lens.”

Frank remarked, “Our going away might lure Hanleigh here, and that may be what Dad wants.”

“Let’s have lunch before going off on this wild-goose chase.” Chet urged. “I’ll make some sandwiches.”

“Good and thick, please,” Biff begged. “All that tramping around has really given me an appetite!”

“Same here,” said Joe.

The boys ate quickly, then set off in the Sea Gull. The strong wind of the previous evening had blown most of the snow to the land, so the iceboat tacked across the surface at a fast clip.

Looking back at the island, Chet remarked, “It’s sure a pretty place.”

Tall pines looked like white pyramids, and bare branches were coated with ice which glittered in rainbow colors.

On the mainland directly opposite, the four boys spotted a shack built of sun-bleached boards. Smoke was drifting upward from its rickety stove-pipe chimney.

Frank slackened sail and let the Sea Gull drift to a complete stop.

“Let’s talk to the person who lives here,” he suggested, putting down the brake.

A bearded man came out and called, “What can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for a boy who is missing from his home in Bayport,” Joe replied. “His name is Johnny Jefferson. He’s fifteen, and big for his age.”

The shack owner shook his head. “I haven’t seen a soul as long as I’ve been here this winter. Say, have you asked Pete Hagan? He lives in a fishing hut just about a mile down shore.”

Frank thanked the man and sailed the Sea Gull in that direction. The boys found Hagan fishing through the ice just beyond his home. He had seen no boy of Johnny’s description.

As the four companions glided away, Joe said, “This is discouraging. Only thing we can do is cruise up and down the coast.”

Frank tacked skillfully to keep the Sea Gull close to shore while Biff scanned the woods with his binoculars. “No one’s in there,” he reported.

“Let’s hike up that hill,” Joe finally suggested, pointing to a section where pine trees grew down to the shoreline of the inlet. “From the top we can see Cabin Island and keep an eye on it.”

Frank brought the Sea Gull in and braked it. The boys strapped on snowshoes and made their way up the densely wooded slope. At the top, they found themselves in the back yard of a weathered log cabin which perched on the edge of the precipice.

“Wonder who lives here,” Biff said.

“No one, from the looks of it,” Frank replied. “But let’s go see.”

The four approached the cabin. It was small and crudely built, with large chinks between the logs. The place had a desolate appearance.

The boys knocked several times at the door, then Joe went to look through a window. “I think the place has been abandoned,” he reported. “There’s not much furniture, and everything is covered with dust.”

“Let’s go in!” Chet urged. “My feet hurt and I’m freezing!”

“I suppose if nobody’s living here, it’s all right,” said Frank. He tried the door, which opened creakily.

The boys took off their snowshoes and went inside. At once Chet plopped into a sagging easy chair. A cloud of dust spewed up from the faded cushions. He coughed and the others laughed.

“What a view!” exclaimed Biff, looking out the front window. Below, the curve of Barmet Bay lay like an ice-blue jewel, with Cabin Island a white pearl in the distance. Biff focused the binoculars on the spot. Suddenly he cried out, “Hey, fellows! An iceboat’s pulling up to the island! It’s the Hawk!

CHAPTER X

Puzzling Theft

BIFF’S report on the iceboat sent a thrill of excitement through the Bayporters.

“Who’s aboard?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Hanleigh and his two stooges,” Biff replied. “He’s climbing out now, but Ike and Tad are staying in the boat.”

Biff handed the binoculars to Frank. Clamping them to his eyes, he saw Hanleigh moving alone up the slope toward the cabin. A sudden inspiration struck Frank.

“Let’s get the goods on him, Joe. How about using your self-developing camera? You can photograph Hanleigh from here with the telescopic lens.”

“Great idea!” Joe exclaimed. “He’d probably deny he was on this island. If we have proof he was there, we may be able to bluff him into telling us what he’s after.”

Joe, too, took a hasty look through the binoculars before passing them on to Chet, then removed the camera from its case, focused it, and clicked the shutter. “I’ll leave the print in the camera until we get back. Let’s go!”

“Wait a second!” exclaimed Frank, who had taken over the glasses again.

“What’s Hanleigh doing now?” Biff asked as Frank shifted the binoculars slightly.

“He’s circling the cabin—hey! He’s stopping at the chimney! Looks as if he’s examining it.”

Hanleigh had a stick with which he tapped and poked at the stonework. Presently he stopped and disappeared among the trees.

“Bet he’s leaving,” said Frank. “Come on, fellows!”

The boys hurried from the cabin, donned their snowshoes again, and made their way down the slope. Soon they reached the Sea Gull. All climbed aboard except Biff who pushed the iceboat to a running start.

As the Gull swooped across the cove to Cabin Island, Joe pointed toward the entrance to the bay. “Hanleigh’s leaving. There goes the Hawk!”

Biff turned the binoculars on the speeding craft and shook his head. “Hanleigh isn’t aboard. Ike and Tad are alone.”

“Hanleigh must still be on the island!” Joe cried out. “Hurry, Frank!”

“Right!” His brother skillfully maneuvered the Sea Gull, taking full advantage of every gust of wind. “No doubt Ike and Tad will come back for Hanleigh later,” Frank added as he steered for the boathouse.

“Later? It’s nearly evening already!” Chet observed. “I’ll bet that guy plans to stay all night!”

Biff hooted. “Where would he sleep? Under a rock?”

Joe looked thoughtful. “Maybe you have something, Chet. Hanleigh may know of a secret shelter on the island—perhaps a cave somewhere along the shore.”

Frank brought the Sea Gull to the boathouse, and as he put it inside, the boys discussed the strange action of Ike and Tad.

“I wonder why they took off,” Joe said. “We heard them agreeing to spy on Hanleigh, but now for some reason they seem to have changed their minds.”

“Maybe those two have deliberately stranded Hanleigh!” Frank exclaimed.

“You mean,” said his brother, “Ike and Tad tried to cash in on Hanleigh’s deal, and he told them to get lost.”

“Right,” said Frank. “So now they’re getting even by leaving him marooned here.”

Carrying their snowshoes, the four strode through the deep snowdrifts toward the cabin. Darkness was coming on rapidly, and they moved like stealthy Indians, keeping a wary lookout for the intruder. However, they saw no sign of their enemy either on the way or near the cabin.

Cautiously Frank opened the door, entered, and lit the lamp. The place looked untouched. Everyone crowded in.

“Brr-r!” Chet shivered. “It’s icy in here. Let’s get a fire going.”

Soon a cheerful blaze was crackling in the fireplace, and a woodstove fire added its warmth.

“Boy, that heat sure feels good,” Chet said gratefully, rubbing his hands together over the potbellied stove. “Now for some chow!”

“Hold it!” Frank said. “We still haven’t located Hanleigh. If he’s not here in the cabin—”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Joe cut in. “There’s one place we still haven’t looked.”

“Where?” Biff asked.

“The attic.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “You’re right—I forgot that. We’d better check.”

“Give me a boost,” Joe said, “and I’ll soon find out.”

Frank and Biff each took one of Joe’s legs and hoisted him toward the ceiling. Pushing open the trap door, Joe clambered up into the attic and shone his flashlight all around through the chilly, musty darkness.

“How about it?” Frank called impatiently from below.

“No sign of him.”

The others were uneasily silent as Joe lowered himself through the ceiling opening again and dropped to the floor, letting the trap door fall shut behind him.

Then Biff voiced what each boy was thinking. “Hanleigh’s got to be somewhere on this island—unless he hiked back to the mainland.”

“Well, there’s only one way to make sure,” said Joe.

Chet gave a groan. “Good grief! Don’t tell me we have to go out and beat the bushes again. I’m starved!”

“Guess we all are,” Frank said with a wry grin. “But I agree with Joe. If Hanleigh’s skulking around the island anywhere, we’d better find him —and the sooner the better.”

“Check! We sure don’t want that creep coming back in the middle of the night to play any dirty tricks on us,” Biff pointed out.

Chet’s plump, ruddy cheeks turned a shade paler at the prospect of another night of ghostly episodes. “Okay, okay,” he said hastily. “Let’s get it over with.”

Pulling on their heavy jackets again, the boys went outdoors to make a thorough search. Flashlight beams probed behind trees and into clumps of bushes. An hour later they met inside the cabin, tired and cold. They had not found their quarry, nor any hiding place where he might take shelter overnight.

Frowning, Joe flung off his outdoor clothes and sat down cross-legged on the braided rug in front of the hearth.

“Hanleigh must have sneaked across the ice,” he concluded, poking the fire.

Frank thrust his fists into his pockets. “I’m going to find out what that guy was doing here!” he declared.

“Well, I’ve had enough mystery for a while,” Chet spoke up. “I’m starting dinner!” The plump boy headed for the kitchen. A moment later he came running back to the living room. “It’s gone!” he wailed.

“What’s gone?” Frank asked.

“The food! There’s not a bit left!”

“Hanleigh, I’ll bet!” Biff declared angrily.

“Chet,” Joe queried, “are you sure the food is not there?”

“Yes! Last night I put the cartons of grub we didn’t use in the cabinets. You fellows saw me!”

For a moment the four hungry boys stared at one another in dismay. Then Frank said, “I can’t believe Hanleigh came here to steal our food. Probably he hid the supplies just to inconvenience us so we’d leave. Let’s check to see if they’re stashed somewhere in the cabin.”

The food could not be found. “We’ll have to go to town for more groceries,” Chet urged.

“It’s too dark to take the Sea Gull out,” Frank reminded him.

“We could always go home for supplies,” said Chet.

“Not me!” exclaimed Joe. “No sirree!” He grinned wryly. “I can hear Aunt Gertrude saying, ‘I told you so.’”

“We’d look like great detectives,” his brother agreed, “when somebody can steal the food right out from under our noses.”

“That’s right,” said Biff. “Besides, it’s a long cold walk to the car.”

“Oh, no!” Chet moaned as he sank down on the sofa, his hands on his ample stomach. “I’ll starve!”

“Not for a month or two,” Biff assured him.

“Hanleigh’s mighty eager to have us give up this vacation,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I wish we knew why.”

“Of course we don’t know for sure he did steal the food,” Frank stated. “Maybe somebody else was here and took it.”

“Well, at least we have proof Hanleigh was on the island while we were away,” Joe reminded the others. “I’ll get that photo!”

He opened the camera and removed the snapshot. The young detective studied the picture, then gave a low whistle of surprise.

“What is it?” Frank asked as he, Chet, and Biff hurried over.

“Hanleigh’s not alone!” Joe exclaimed.

The photograph showed him standing by the chimney, holding the stout stick with which he had been tapping and poking. Some distance behind him, partially hidden among the trees, was another figure. The stranger was dark and slim and was dressed in a long, flowing white robe. A turban covered his head!

CHAPTER XI

A Cryptic Notation

“THE ghost that Chet saw!” Frank exclaimed as he stared at the snapshot of the white-robed man.

“Y-you think so?” Chet asked incredulously.

“It could be!” Joe declared. “I wonder who this person is, how he got here, and where he is now.”

“Perhaps he came with Hanleigh,” Biff suggested.

“I doubt it,” Frank replied. “Look at the way the fellow’s standing back in the shadow of the trees, almost as if he was spying on Hanleigh.”

Frank paused, then added, “First thing tomorrow Joe and I will go to the mainland and phone Ike and Tad. If they’re sore at Hanleigh, maybe they’ll give us a lead on what his game is.”

“Yes, and we’ll ask if they’re running taxi service for a ghost!” Joe grinned.

“Maybe this turbaned fellow stole our food,” Chet remarked. “Say, what are we going to do about that?”

Frank laughed. “Tomorrow Joe and I will buy supplies. But you and Biff will have to stay and guard the island.”

“I’ll admit I’m hungry as a bear, too,” Joe said.

“Likewise!” Biff put in.

“Well, fellows,” Chet began sheepishly, “I—er—forgot about this until now, but—er—we can have a snack.”

The others stared at the rotund youth, who reddened as he explained. “When I made sandwiches for lunch, I put some away—in case of emergency!”

“Where are they?” asked Joe. “We searched all over this place!”

Chet went into the bedroom he and Biff shared and returned with five thick sandwiches in a large plastic bag.

“Come on! Where’d you hide them?” Biff asked.

“In the bottom of my sleeping bag.”

“You weren’t thinking of an emergency!” Joe scoffed. “This was to be your midnight snack!”

“Aren’t you glad!” Chet countered.

“You win,” Frank said, and they devoured the sandwiches.

Early the next morning Frank and Joe felt insistent fingers tapping them awake. “Get up!” Chet implored. “You have to go after groceries.”

The Hardys dressed hurriedly. Frank told Biff and Chet, “While we’re away, you might search the island for our stolen grub. Chances are that Hanleigh hid it all in one place not far from the cabin.”

Frank and Joe glided off in the iceboat, steered out of the cove, and soon were tying up at a nearby coastal summer resort named Surfside. The boys walked to the deserted main street. “Place is really hopping, isn’t it?” Frank chuckled, surveying the tiny, weatherworn houses, many of them boarded up.

“Anyway, here’s a phone.” Joe pointed to an outside booth. He stood by and listened while his brother dialed Ike Nash’s number.

“No answer,” Frank reported. “I’ll try Tad.”

The Carson boy was home, but his responses to Frank’s queries were rude and uncooperative.

“I don’t know anything,” Tad insisted. “Hanleigh told us to scram and not to snoop around. So we left.”

“How about a man wearing a white robe? Did you taxi him to Cabin Island too?”

“White robe? You’re nuts!” Tad guffawed and hung up abruptly.

“That didn’t accomplish much,” Frank said wryly as he and Joe walked away from the booth. “Let’s see if we can find a place to buy food.”

Presently the boys stopped at a small frame building. A sign above the door proclaimed:

GENERAL STORE, AMOS GRICE, PROP.

As the boys entered, a short, elderly man with a bald crown and skinny wattled neck eyed them intently from his chair beside a black potbellied stove.

“And what might you lads be after?” he chirped.

“Hello,” said Frank. “We’re here for some groceries. Are you Mr. Grice?”

“Yep. Odd to see strange faces around these parts here this time o’ year,” the storekeeper remarked.

“We’re roughing it near here,” Joe told the man.

Amos Grice clucked. “Most folks prefer sittin’ by a fire when winter comes on. Well, you’re out early this mornin‘!”

“Necessity,” Joe replied. “Somebody stole our supplies.”

“I declare!” The old man looked startled. “Don’t tell me there’s more folks trekkin’ about in all this cold and snow!”

“Seems that way.” Joe grinned as he and Frank began to pick out canned goods and other food items.

“Where’d you boys say you’re stayin‘?” the storekeeper asked when the Hardys brought their purchases to the counter.

“On Cabin Island,” Joe replied.

“Cabin Island!” Mr. Grice repeated in surprise. “Has Elroy Jefferson sold the place?”

“No,” Frank told him. “Mr. Jefferson is letting us use his cabin during our Christmas vacation.”

Frank paid the storekeeper, who then commented, “Elroy Jefferson’s a fine sort. Haven’t seen him in a while. What’s he doin’?”

“He seems to keep busy traveling and collecting antiques,” Joe replied.

Mr. Grice propped his elbows on the counter and said thoughtfully, “Elroy Jefferson used to come in here every Tuesday for supplies, and the little fellow with him. He loved Johnny like his own son. And where’s the youngster nowadays?”

“We don’t know, Mr. Grice,” Frank answered, not wishing to reveal anything about their case to the friendly but gossipy proprietor.

“Mr. Jefferson was always crazy about antiques,” the storekeeper went on. “I recall how upset he was when his medal collection disappeared.”

“Have you any idea what happened to it?” Joe asked.

“Nope. All I know is the medals disappeared and so did John Sparewell.”

“Do people believe he stole the medals?” Frank asked.

“Not that I’ve heard. But it was odd he van ished at the same time.”

The Hardys exchanged glances but did not comment, and Grice went on:

“You know, boys, just about a week ago a fellow was in here askin’ about Jefferson’s medals. I hadn’t thought of ‘em in years, before this fellow came by. Somehow I didn’t feel right to tell him a thing, so I didn’t.”

“Who was this man?” Frank asked.

“Don’t know. Never seen him before. He was a scary sort—dressed up like Halloween. He had somethin’ wrapped around his head.”

The Hardys’ thoughts flew to the “ghost.” Joe asked, “Do you remember anything else about the person? Did he tell you why he was interested in the medals?”

Amos Grice wrinkled his brow. “I got rid of that spooky fellow soon’s I could.”

After a few more minutes of conversation, the boys said good-by and left. They walked quickly toward the Sea Gull.

“What do you think of Mr. Grice’s ‘scary’ visitor?” Joe asked his brother.

Frank replied, “I’m sure it was the man in the turban and the white robe. And he’s apparently interested in the medals, too.”

“Say!” Joe exclaimed. “Maybe he is in league with Hanleigh. I’ll bet they’re both after the collection and think there’s some clue to it on the island.”

The boys climbed into the Sea Gull with their bags of groceries. “I’ll concentrate on your hunch while you take a turn at the tiller,” Frank told Joe.

“Swell with me!” Joe grinned.

Out on the bay, the Sea Gull swerved and dipped like a live thing. “The wind’s picked up!” Joe called out.

“I’ll say!”

Joe deftly guided the iceboat toward the narrow inlet, the wind pushing them faster every moment. But suddenly it changed direction sharply. A wild gust whacked the Sea Gull‘s sail. The craft hiked crazily and streaked straight for the rocky shore !

“Lean!” Joe shouted. The boys shifted their weight, and Joe threw all his strength against the tiller while Frank trimmed the sail. The boat began to turn, but the jagged rocks loomed close.

“We’re going to hit!” yelled Joe, bracing himself for the splintering crash.

But the iceboat skimmed past—safe by no more than two inches.

“Whew!” Frank said with a big sigh of relief.

Joe looked grim. “We’re not out of trouble yet. This wind is tricky!”

Strong gusts continued to buffet the craft, but the boys were able to control it. At last the wind moderated and Joe steered the iceboat through the narrow inlet to the island.

When the Sea Gull was safe inside the boathouse, Chet and Biff came bounding through the snow to meet the Hardys.

“That was great sailing!” Biff exclaimed. “We were watching you.”

“It was rough,” Joe admitted, handing the groceries to Chet, who reached out eagerly for the bags. “I’m afraid the eggs are scrambled!”

“If they aren’t now, they will be!” the cook replied, and headed straight for the kitchen. A short time later the four sat down to a delicious breakfast.

After the Hardys had reported on the trip to Surfside, Biff and Chet told of their failure to locate the stolen supplies.

“Let’s look once more,” Frank suggested, and explained that Tad and his pal knew nothing of Hanleigh’s departure from the island.

“And he certainly didn’t carry those heavy cartons across the ice!” Joe stated. All footprints had been obliterated by the wind-drifted snow, so their task was more difficult.

“Chances are they’re hidden nearby,” Frank said. “We’ll go without snowshoes this time so we can kick up the drifts.”

As soon as breakfast was over, they set out. First they searched in the snow which had piled against the cabin, but found nothing.

“Hanleigh probably carried the boxes out the back,” said Frank, leading the way to the kitchen door. “Where is the nearest big drift?”

The boys looked around. Joe pointed to a mound of snow banked high against a large spruce at the edge of the clearing.

The four hurried over and began kicking into the drift. Suddenly Biff cried, “Ouch!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Joe.

“Stubbed my toe on the tree!” Biff answered. “Hey-no! It’s a can of fruit!”

Chet dug eagerly into the snow and gave a whoop of joy. “Here’s the chow!”

The boys carried the containers of food to the kitchen. “This time we unpack everything,” Chet declared. “Then it won’t be so easy for someone to cart off!”

As Frank helped to remove the contents, his hand came upon a small brown notebook lying askew between two cans of beans. He plucked it out.

“Look at this!”

“Whose is it?”

Frank thumbed through the damp pages, most of which were torn loose.

“Could this be the notebook we saw Hanleigh using?” asked Joe.

Frank examined a few more pages and gave a low whistle of surprise. “I doubt it. See here. The name on the inside cover is John Paul Sparewell!”

“Sparewell!” Joe exclaimed.

Biff shook his head, bewildered. “What was Sparewell doing here? Did he take our stuff? How many people are wandering around this island, anyway?”

Frank placed the notebook on the table where they all could examine it and began turning more pages.

“Wow! See this!” Biff exclaimed.

One of the loose pages contained a crudely drawn map. “That’s Cabin Island!” the boys cried out In unison.

Another entry concerned rental of a boat.

“Whether or not Sparewell has been here recently, it looks as though he was coming to Cabin Island regularly at one time,” Joe remarked. “Just like Hanleigh is now!”

On a page near the back of the notebook, the boys found a list of receipts for small sums. “Sparewell evidently had very little money,” Frank commented.

“He had problems, though,” Joe observed. “Read the next item.”

The scrawled script said, “Appointment with Dr. Bordan on Sat. My condition worse. Would appeal to J but am afraid.”

“I wonder if J is for Jefferson,” Frank mused. “It sounds as though Sparewell was very ill. Perhaps he didn’t live long after making these notes.”

“I don’t believe Sparewell was the one who dropped this notebook,” Joe reasoned. “He’d have frozen to death over here.” The boy frowned in perplexity as he turned to the last page. All four stared at it in astonishment.

“What kind of lingo is that?” Biff gulped.

The letters at the bottom of the page were:

HJOSW SHRJWN HLSEWPA RPAO A, EWO WSWP APPO LSUL

“A coded message!” Frank exclaimed.

CHAPTER XII

An Iceboat Clue

“IT’s a coded message, all right!” Joe declared as the four boys continued to stare at the mysterious letters in the tattered notebook.

“How will we ever figure it out?” Chet asked.

“There are several methods of deciphering,” Frank replied. “Dad has told Joe and me something about it, and we’ve read a few of his books on cryptography.”

“Can you make anything out of this message?” Biff asked.

“Not right off,” Frank replied. “It’s some kind of substitution system, at any rate.”

“The first thing to look for is transposition,” Joe explained. “All the letters of the actual text —what’s really meant—may be present, but reversed or scrambled.”

“There must be countless possibilities,” remarked Biff, “once you start putting one letter in place of another.”

“Yes, which makes deciphering very difficult,” Frank agreed. “But I remember several of the standard patterns. I’ll use some of the blank pages in the notebook and try them.”

Frank worked for more than half an hour, while the others looked on and made various combinations of the letters he jotted down.

“I’m stymied,” Frank admitted finally.

Biff frowned. “How did Hanleigh get hold of this notebook? Does he know Sparewell?”

“Hanleigh might have swiped it,” Joe said.

The Hardys pondered their next move. Joe suggested they take the iceboat model and the photo of the turbaned prowler to Mr. Jefferson for possible identification.

“And on the way show Amos Grice the picture, too,” Frank added.

A stop at the Hardy home also was included in the day’s plans, in case the boys’ father had any more information on the “alley cat.”

Chet heaved a huge sigh. “Which means Biff and I stand guard here.”

Joe grinned. “How’d you guess?”

After a quick lunch the Hardys put on their parkas and boots. I’m taking the camera along,” Joe said. ”It may come in handy again.”

The Hardys climbed into the Sea Gull and headed for Surfside. At the dock, Joe tied up while Frank braked and slackened sail. Then they strode off to the general store.

Amos Grice, seated by the stove, slapped his knee when Frank and Joe walked in. “Glad to see you two. Thief steal your food again?”

“No, sir,” Frank said. “We came to show you this.” He handed the snapshot to Mr. Grice. The storekeeper stared at it, then handed the picture back without comment.

“Mr. Grice,” Joe inquired, “is this the man who asked you about Mr. Jefferson’s medals?”

Amos Grice drew his lips into a thin, firm line.

“Yep. It’s him. But there’s some spooky busi ness goin’ on, and I don’t want any part of it.”

“Did this man say something to frighten you?” Joe persisted. “Did he threaten you?”

Mr. Grice looked grim. “No. But I’m not mixin’ in with any scary masqueraders.”

The Hardys could see that the storekeeper would say no more on the subject. They thanked him and returned to the Sea Gull. A brisk wind sped them toward Bayport. They tied up outside their boathouse and drove home.

Mrs. Hardy greeted her red-cheeked sons with big hugs, while Aunt Gertrude looked on apprehensively, as if trying to find something wrong with her nephews. Noting their excellent health, she turned her worrries to their companions.

“Has something terrible happened to Chet or Biff?”

“No. Why, Aunty?” Joe asked.

“That sudden snowstorm. I was scared stiff for you boys. Some trees blew down over here.”

Frank grinned. “We weathered it—howling banshee and all.”

“A what?” Mrs. Hardy asked, and her sons told of the whistling bottle.

“Well, I’m relieved to know that’s all the trouble you ran into,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“Oh, there was more,” Joe said. “By the way, where’s Dad?”

“Out of town. But he left a message. It’s in a sealed envelope on his desk.”

Frank and Joe hastened to their father’s study, found the envelope addressed to them, and tore it open. Inside was a terse note telling his sons that fingerprints found by the police in Mr. Jefferson’s ransacked house were those of Hanleigh. They had been identified by the FBI in Washington, where the federal agency had a record of interstate frauds involving Hanleigh several years before. The local police were looking for him.

“Aha! A con man. We might have known,” mumbled Joe.

The message went on to warn the boys again to be cautious and ended, “Just as in fishing through the ice, you have to be patient. I’m confident that you’ll land this big one.”

Frank and Joe were more excited about the case than ever. With a quick “good-by” to their mother and Aunt Gertrude, they hastened into their car and drove directly to Mr. Jefferson’s place.

“Frank and Joe!” the elderly gentleman exclaimed when he answered the doorbell. “Nice to see you! Let me take your jackets—my housekeeper is still away. Come right in. I hope you are enjoying your trip.”

“We’re having a fine vacation,” said Frank as they took seats. “We wanted to ask you about a few things.” Frank handed over the snapshot. “Have you ever seen this fellow?”

Mr. Jefferson stared at it in perplexity. “What in the world!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen any such individual! Did you take this photograph on Cabin Island?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe replied, and explained about the camera with the telescopic lens. The Hardys also told how they had observed Hanleigh examining the fireplace, and of overhearing Ike and Tad’s conversation in the boathouse.

“The police informed me it was he who broke into my house,” Mr. Jefferson said indignantly. “The rascal! He should be punished.”

The boys promised to do their utmost to apprehend him, and Frank told Mr. Jefferson of finding the carved iceboat.

Their host’s voice trembled with excitement. “Johnny used to make iceboat models!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, oh!” Joe said s eepishly. “Frank, I forgot to bring the model. It’s still on the mantel.”

“I must see it,” Mr. Jefferson said.

“Can you come to the island with us?” Frank asked.

“By all means!”

The three set off in the convertible for the boathouse. When he saw the Sea Gull, Mr. Jefferson looked apprehensive. “I’ve never been in one of these contraptions. I understand they move rather swiftly.”

“We’ll put a rope seat belt on you and we’ll be careful,” Joe assured him. He gave the elderly gentleman a spare helmet and goggles from the boathouse, then helped him aboard.

After a few moments of uneasiness at the speed of the Sea Gull and the nearness of the ice which flew beneath them, Mr. Jefferson appeared to relax and enjoy his ride. By the time they swept up to Cabin Island he was almost enthusiastic. “I never made better time in a motorboat!” He laughed.

When the three entered the cabin, Frank introduced Chet and Biff. Mr. Jefferson took a long, slow look around the room, then spotted the carved iceboat on the mantel. At once he hurried over to see it.

“Johnny made this!” he said with certainty, lifting the boat and running his fingers over its polished surface. “I’m convinced he did this carving recently. It’s by far his finest.”

“Did Johnny teach himself woodworking?” Chet asked in admiration.

“Yes,” Mr. Jefferson replied proudly. “The boy became intrigued with iceboats when he was very small. He used to spend hours watching them on the bay, and frequently went to the local boat shop to see how the iceboats were made. Johnny would come home and carve until late at night.”

Next, the Hardys showed Mr. Jefferson the notebook containing the mysterious code and explained how they had found it. The man studied the book, shaking his head in amazement. “This is the first I’ve heard of Sparewell in two years!” he declared. “The cipher is a complete puzzle to me, but the book is exactly like him—methodical to the last detail.”

“Why would Sparewell make a map of Cabin Island?” Frank queried.

“I can’t imagine what interest he might have had in the island.” With a sigh the old man pushed the book away. “I’m weary,” he said. “I’d better return.”

Once more the Hardys and Mr. Jefferson set off in the Sea Gull toward Bayport.

Suddenly Joe shouted, “Look out!” Frank glanced about and saw another iceboat skimming straight for them. Its two occupants wore woolen face masks, giving them a grotesque appearance.

With swift teamwork the Hardys swung the Sea Gull out of the collision path.

“It’s the Hawk!” Joe gasped.

Mr. Jefferson gave a hoarse cry. “Here they come again!”

As the other iceboat swooped alongside, one of the men lifted a short stout log from his lap and hurled it at the speeding Sea Gull.

Thud! It was a square hit on the bow. With a sickening swerve, the Sea Gull capsized. The temporary seat belts gave way. The Hardys and their passenger were flung across the ice!

CHAPTER XIII

The Fleeing Ghost

THE trio skidded across the glassy surface, with arms and legs flailing, until they came to a halt several yards from the overturned Sea Gull.

The Hardys had the breath knocked out of them but had suffered no injuries. Mr. Jefferson, however, lay motionless. Greatly concerned, the boys jumped up and hurried to the elderly man’s side.

“He’s unconscious!” Frank said, and pointed to a swelling lump on Mr. Jefferson’s temple.

Joe ran to the Sea Gull and returned with a blanket, in which they quickly wrapped the man. Frank chafed his wrists until Mr. Jefferson began to stir and moan. “We’re going to crash!” he whispered.

“No, Mr. Jefferson,” Frank said in a reassuring tone. “The iceboat turned over, but we’re all safe.”

Their passenger raised his head and looked around. “Will you help me up, boys?” he asked. “I’m sure I haven’t broken anything.”

Carefully the brothers assisted him to stand. “Take it easy,” Joe cautioned. “You had a bad spill.”

“I’m all right. Just a bit shaky.”

“We’ll get you back to the cabin where it’s warm just as fast as we can,” Frank promised. “You’re in no shape for a run to Bayport.” He and Joe righted the Sea Gull and saw with relief that the mast was not damaged.

“The runner plank’s a little out of alignment,” Frank noted.

“That won’t delay us,” Joe said. “The bow’s scraped, too, but there’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Frank eyed the improvised seat belts which had torn loose. “They couldn’t take the strain,” he remarked. The boys retied the ropes.

“That’ll have to do for now,” Joe said. “We were lucky this accident wasn’t worse,” he added as the boys helped Mr. Jefferson into the cockpit.

“I’d like to report those ruffians,” the elderly man fumed, “but we couldn’t see their faces.”

Frank said grimly, “We know the owners of the boat. They covered up the name, but I’d recognize the Hawk anywhere.”

“That’s no help, though,” Joe added glumly. “We still can’t prove Ike and Tad were the ones who attacked us.”

In a few moments the Sea Gull was skimming toward Cabin Island. As they approached the boathouse, Joe suddenly pointed. “Frank!” he cried out. “Do you see what I see?”

“Yes! The ghost!”

The mysterious white-robed figure was halfway up to the cabin. It was proceeding stealthily through the bushes and pines that grew thickly on the incline. As Mr. Jefferson stared ahead startled, Joe grasped the camera to which the telescopic lens was still attached. “I’m going to take another shot of that fellow.”

His brother restrained him. “Wait! You’ll only get his back. Let’s sneak up close to him and see if we can snap him face view.”

“Good idea,” Mr. Jefferson said approvingly. “You boys go ahead. I’ll wait in the boat.”

A moment later the Hardys braked the craft and tied it to a tree alongside the boathouse. Silently they hurried up the wooded slope until they were a short distance behind the ghostlike figure.

A sudden idea struck Frank. He took out his police whistle and showed it to his brother. “Maybe this’ll help us nab him,” he whispered.

Joe nodded. “Got you.” Cautiously the two advanced toward the prowler, who had now stopped and was peering out at the cabin from behind a tree. When the boys were a couple of yards away they paused also. Frank gave a signal, and as Joe raised the camera, blew a shrill blast on the whistle.

The “ghost” whirled about, and Joe snapped the picture. Frank blew several more blasts in rapid succession, and the robed figure bolted across the slope. At the same instant, Chet and Biff burst from the cabin and looked around wildly.

“Catch him!” Frank cried as he and Joe broke into a run.

All four boys bounded after the ghostly form, who darted nimbly in and out of the trees like a frightened deer. Dusk was beginning to fall and it was not long before the boys lost sight of the white robe against the snow.

They paused for breath, straining their eyes to pierce the gathering gloom. Then Frank barely made out the fleeing figure at the bottom of the hill. The pursuers plunged downward, but by the time they reached the spot, the “ghost” had vanished. There was not a sign of him on the ice.

Doggedly the boys continued to search along the shoreline, but had no luck. At last Joe said glumly, “No use going any farther. It’s too dark to see.”

Frank agreed. “We’d better get back and pick up Mr. Jefferson.”

On the way to the boathouse, the Hardys told Biff and Chet of the accident to the Sea Gull, deliberately caused by the Hawk.

Biff knotted his fists angrily. “I’d sure like to give those two guys a good stiff wallop.”

“Of course we don’t know for sure that they were Ike and Tad,” Joe pointed out.

“Who else?” Chet groaned. “Some relaxing vacation this is!”

The young sleuths reached the Sea Gull and found Mr. Jefferson waiting anxiously for news. “Afraid the ‘ghost’ escaped again, sir,” Frank said regretfully, helping the old gentleman from the boat.

As the group walked slowly up the hill, Mr. Jefferson shook his head, plainly disturbed. “Something very sinister is happening here. I certainly want to find out who is responsible, and what his motive is, but I do not want you boys getting into danger on my account.”

“We’ll keep on our guard,” Joe assured him. “But we’re all determined to see this mystery through.”

“You can bet on that!” Biff declared stoutly.

Inside the cabin, Chet added logs to the fire as Joe eagerly took the picture from the self-developing camera. “Now we’ll get a look at our ghost,” he said.

The others crowded around and Joe held up the photograph of a young, dark-skinned man with startled eyes.

“We must catch him!” Frank cried out

“Seems to be the same as the one in the first picture I took,” Joe observed.

“At least we’ll recognize his features if we spot him again,” Frank said.

Mr. Jefferson sank down on the sofa and sighed wearily. “I give up. This mystery is too much for me.”

Frank urged him to rest for a while. The elderly man, smiling wanly, stretched out.

“You’d better plan to stay overnight, Mr. Jefferson,” Joe advised.

“I’d like to. I haven’t spent a night on Cabin Island in years.”

Meanwhile, Chet had gone into the kitchen and in a short time announced that supper was ready. Everyone did full justice to the hearty meal of fried chicken and hot biscuits. Afterward Frank offered their host the use of his sleeping sack.

“Thanks a lot, but I don’t like to put you out.”

“I insist, Mr. Jefferson,” Frank said. “We fellows will take turns standing guard tonight, anyhow, so only three of us will be sleeping at a time.”

A nervous look crossed Chet’s face. “And I can guess why! You’re expecting another visit from that ghost!”

Biff could not resist needling his chunky pal. “Just think, Chet. You might even have the honor of nabbing him.”

“Oh swell! I can hardly wait!” Chet rolled his eyes dramatically and the others laughed.

“Or,” Joe remarked, growing serious, “Hanleigh may return for the notebook, if he’s the person who lost it.”

When Mr. Jefferson had retired, Frank said, “Let’s try to decipher the message!”

The boys sat down with pencils and paper. The Hardys told their friends more about solving substitution ciphers, and they all worked diligently for nearly two hours.

Finally Joe declared, “This code is a tough one. I’ve tried a number of combinations, but so far no luck.”

Biff stretched and yawned. “My brain won’t work any more. Let’s get some sleep.”

Joe offered to take the first watch, and Frank the second.

“I’ll put in for last!” Chet requested wearily. Everyone laughed, and the plump boy protested. “Well, I’ve been doing all the hard work in the kitchen!”

Biff grinned. “Okay. I’m third.”

“We’d better be ready for action,” Frank advised. “Don’t get undressed.”

But hours later when Biff finished his watch, the place was still quiet. He awakened Chet, who wandered drowsily into the living room. Yawning, he stared into the steadily burning fire.

“I have to keep alert!” he told himself with determination.

Chet began to pace around the room, trying to shake off his sleepiness. At last, when night was beginning to lift in the east, he sat down in a big soft chair near the fireplace.

The cabin’s stillness and the warmth from the crackling logs was lulling. Chet’s lids grew heavy, his head dropped, and he dozed.

Suddenly a loud bang jolted him awake. For a moment he was speechless, then a yell of fright burst from his lips. Before his chair hulked a dark figure!

CHAPTER XIV

Chimney-top Discovery

As Chet shouted, the intruder streaked across the cabin and out the door, which was swinging wide open.

“Help! Fellows!” Chet bounced out of his chair, heart thumping with excitement, and dashed wildly in pursuit. But by the time he reached the doorway, the figure was already disappearing into the woods.

“What’s up?” cried Frank as he burst into the room. Joe and Biff were close at his heels.

“Somebody was in here!” Chet said, shivering as the wind whipped into the cabin. “I drowsed off, and when I woke up, the guy was standing right in front of me! He ran down the hill!”

“It may be a ruse to get us out of the house,” Frank said. He and Joe hastily pulled on their parkas and boots. “Chet, you and Biff stay on guard—he may try to circle back!”

Rushing outside, the Hardys quickly spotted the intruder’s tracks—clear bootprints in the thin layer of fresh snow that had fallen during the night. They followed the trail down the wooded slope.

“He headed across the ice!” Joe exclaimed as they reached the shore. Pressing forward, the Hardy boys strained their eyes to peer through the gray dawn mist, but it was not light enough for them to see the fugitive.

“His tracks lead toward the mainland,” Frank observed. “Come on!”

As the young sleuths crossed the frozen cove, they found that the snowy prints were more widely spaced.

“Oh, oh,” said Joe. “He started running here.” When the brothers reached the mainland, breathing heavily, they exchanged looks of disappointment. The trail ended at a place where tire prints showed a car had been parked.

“That fellow didn’t waste any time!” Frank exclaimed in chagrin. “He must have had a big lead on us, or we’d have heard the motor.”

“I guess we may as well go back,” Joe said.

The two trudged across the ice. The sun was rising as they hiked up the slope to the cabin. Inside, a fire was blazing and Chet, Biff, and Mr. Jefferson sat in front of it drinking hot cocoa.

“No luck,” Joe said, and reported what they had found.

“Fellows, I’m sorry I let you down,” Chet said sheepishly. “I dozed off and never knew the guy was in here until the door banged against the wall. He must have left it unlatched and the wind blew it open.”

“That’s okay, Chet,” said Frank. “What did he look like?”

“I was too scared to notice, except that he was big. Besides, he was facing the fireplace. I don’t think it was the ghost, though,” Chet added, “because he didn’t have on white.”

“Could have been Hanleigh,” Frank remarked.

“It must have been,” Chet admitted.

“He still is interested in the fireplace,” Frank observed.

“But why?” Mr. Jefferson asked. “I built this place. Nothing’s in the fireplace.”

Frank hesitated, unwilling to raise the old gentleman’s hopes. “That remains to be seen. Is there a chisel here?”

“Yes,” Chet replied, “in the toolbox in the kitchen.” He hastened out and returned at once with the tool.

Despite the heat, Frank stepped close to the fireplace with the chisel and pried at the stones, hoping to find one that moved. Meanwhile, Joe brought a ladder from the kitchen and climbed up to test the chimney rocks which Frank could not reach.

“No use,” Joe finally admitted. “They’re cemented in tight.”

Frank agreed. “If there is a loose stone, it might be outside. Let’s take a look!”

Chet cooked breakfast while the other boys were gone. The wind was blowing hard as the trio carried the ladder around the end of the cabin to the chimney.

“Let’s check the bottom first,” Frank said. This time Joe used the chisel as they poked and pushed at each of the large stones.

Biff shook his head. “No luck there.”

“I’ll go up on the roof and examine the chimney,” Joe said.

Biff and Frank lifted the ladder and placed it beside the chimney. The legs sank into the snow and slid on the ice beneath, so that the boys had to brace the ladder with their feet to keep it from falling.

“You two’ll have to be my anchor man,” Joe said. He put the chisel into his pocket, and as Biff and Frank leaned their weight against the ladder, he climbed to the roof. Joe crawled onto the edge and stood up gingerly. The heat from the fire below had melted the surrounding snow and the wet shingles were slippery. Joe made his way around the chimney, testing each stone patiently with his chisel, but none was loose.

As he rested a moment Joe noticed a fragment of yellow material caught between two stones just inside the chimney top.

Squinting against the smoke, Joe reached in and worked the material loose. With watering eyes, he stuffed it into his pocket and turned his face away. After a few moments his vision cleared and he could see the entire island below—blanketed in white.

Suddenly his glance was caught by a dark patch ringed by tall rocks on the brow of the cliff. As he stared hard at it, the wind suddenly cut sharp across his face and showered him with snow from the roof. Half-blinded, he felt his way around the chimney to the ladder.

“Be careful!” Frank called, but the wind whipped the words away. The next moment Joe slipped and he fell with a cry. Instinctively he grabbed for a rung and caught it. The ladder skidded at the jolt and the boys below struggled to hold it steady. Shakily Joe climbed down.

“Thanks,” he gasped, reaching the ground.

Buffeted by the wind, the three boys made their way into the cabin.

“Any luck?” Mr. Jefferson asked as they took off their parkas.

“I found this inside the chimney,” said Joe, and took the piece of yellow material from his pocket.

“It’s a piece of a tape measure!” Frank exclaimed. “See, it’s marked one inch.”

“It was stuck tight,” Joe said. “Someone must have torn the tape trying to pull it lose.”

“But why measure the inside of the chimney?” Chet asked.

“Maybe the person thinks the loose stone is in the chimney lining,” Mr. Jefferson suggested.

“You mean there are two layers?” Biff asked, surprised.

“Yes. My stone mason insisted on a lined chimney as a safety measure.” Then he added, “What makes you so sure there is something hidden in the chimney?”

“We’re not certain,” Frank confessed. “We suspect it because of Hanleigh’s interest in the fireplace. But for all we know, he may be on the wrong track.”

“We must crack the code,” Joe declared. “That will probably give us the answer.”

“Not before breakfast,” Chet said firmly. “I’m about to make the pancakes.” He hurried to the kitchen and a short time later served stacks of golden-brown cakes, with a pitcher of hot maple syrup and a platter of spicy sausages.

“Chet, you’ve redeemed yourself!” Joe exclaimed, between mouthfuls. “This hits the spot after our early-morning exercise!”

Mr. Jefferson was quiet during most of the meal. Finally he said, “Do you know? It has just occurred to me that Sparewell mentioned a relative named Hanleigh.”

Frank asked eagerly, “What did he say about him?”

“It was so long ago—I can’t remember,” Mr. Jefferson replied.

“That may be an important clue!” Joe exclaimed. “Perhaps Johnny stumbled onto the connection somehow and decided to start trailing Hanleigh.”

“Yes,” Frank went on, “if Johnny was determined to solve the puzzle of your missing medals, he may have dug up information about Sparewell’s past and learned the names of relatives. Then, when Hanleigh showed up at your home, Johnny had his chance to follow him.”

“It’s all supposition,” Mr. Jefferson said with a sigh. “What we need are facts.”

“Well, speaking of facts,” said Joe, “are there hot springs on this island, Mr. Jefferson?”

The man looked at him in amazement. “Hot springs! Certainly not! My goodness, Joe, whatever made you ask that?”

“Oh,” Joe mumbled vaguely, “nothing—just an idea.” But his eyes met Frank’s and the older boy bit back a grin.

“Nothing, my foot!” he said to himself. “Joe’s found a clue!”

CHAPTER XV

The Shah’s Prize

“WHAT can Joe’s lead be?” Frank wondered. He knew his brother was not ready to talk about it in front of the others.

Frank turned to Mr. Jefferson, who seemed sunk in despair. “Don’t give up hope,” the boy said kindly. “We’ll keep trying to find Johnny and your medals, too.”

“If anyone can locate ‘em, the Hardys can,” Chet put in.

“I know that. You’re all fine lads, and will do your best,” Mr. Jefferson said, brightening somewhat. “I think I’d better return home now.”

“Are you sure you feel strong enough, sir?” Biff asked anxiously.

“Yes, indeed,” the man assured him. “I’m warm now, too. And if you don’t mind, I’ll take along this iceboat model. It will give me reassurance that Johnny will come home.”

“Certainly, Mr. Jefferson,” Frank said, taking the boat from the mantle.

“And Sparewell’s notebook,” Mr. Jefferson added suddenly. “It may contain clues for my detectives.”

Frank spoke up. “We’d like to keep the notebook a little longer. Joe and I want to study it carefully and crack that code.”

Mr. Jefferson nodded. “Of course. You’ve certainly earned the right to examine it first. But please be careful, boys. Possession of the notebook may be dangerous, if someone else wants it badly enough.”

Joe offered to stand guard on the island while the others accompanied Mr. Jefferson to the mainland.

A short time later the Sea Gull went whizzing out of the cove, with Frank at the tiller. They made a quick trip to the Hardys’ boathouse, then drove to the Jefferson home.

As Frank parked the convertible, Chet suddenly gave a gasp of disbelief. He pointed a quivering finger at the wide front porch and cried out, “It‘s—it’s the ghost!”

Frank leaped from the car, with Chet and Biff close behind him and Mr. Jefferson following slowly.

The white-robed, turbaned figure darted away from the door as the boys dashed up the front walk. He jumped off the far end of the porch and disappeared around the side of the house. The three youths sprinted in pursuit, but soon stopped short, scanning the landscape. Their eyes roved over the snow-covered walks and flower beds, the birdbaths capped with ice, and the bare bushes and trees. The “ghost” could not be seen.

“That white robe is great camouflage against the snow,” Biff commented glumly.

“Let’s split up and search!” Frank directed quickly.

The boys hunted while Mr. Jefferson stood and watched in tense silence. Suddenly Frank noticed a blur of whiteness moving behind a hedge of low junipers.

The young sleuth stepped backward, took a running start, and vaulted the shrubs. A loud cry split the air as he landed on top of a crouching figure. The two rolled over, struggling.

“Hold ‘im, Frank!” yelled Biff. He and Chet sprinted up and yanked the slender, white-robed man to his feet. The boys gasped as they got a clear look at the prisoner’s dark-skinned, frightened face. No doubt about it, he was the man in the photo!

“Okay, Mister Ghost—what’s your story?” Biff blurted angrily. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Take it easy,” Frank told his friend. “Let’s get him inside first.”

Panting, the captive was led into the house.

“Now then,” said Mr. Jefferson when they had all gathered in the living room, “who are you? And why have you been prowling on my property?”

The swarthy man replied in a soft, slightly accented voice, “I apologize for my seeming intrusions. I ran because I was startled, and also these young men have pursued me previously. The last time one of them was carrying a firearm.”

The Hardys grinned and Frank said, “My brother Joe was holding a camera with a telescopic lens. From a distance it does resemble a rifle.”

“Ah,” said the man, “I see.” He smiled faintly. “I am seeking Mr. Elroy Jefferson.”

“I am he,” said Mr. Jefferson. “Just what is it you want?”

The stranger now stood up and took an official-looking red-and-gold diplomatic passport from inside his robe. With a slight bow, he showed it to Mr. Jefferson.

“I am Yussef ben Karim. I represent the ruler of my country—our great Shah Ali. I understand that among your valuable medals is one that was given many years ago to the Shah’s grandfather. This medal is most prized by my master and he has authorized me to pay whatever sum is required to obtain it.”

Mr. Jefferson shook his head. “I’m sorry to say that I don’t have your medal. I once owned it, but unfortunately my collection was stolen. I’m still searching for it.”

Yussef looked bewildered. “But I was given to understand that Mr. Hanleigh would have the medal for me.”

The boys and Mr. Jefferson exchanged startled looks. “What do you mean?” Mr. Jefferson asked.

“Mr. Hanleigh sent word to the Shah last summer saying that you had appointed him to act as your agent, and I was instructed to meet him here, which I did. You, sir, were not at home. Mr. Hanleigh first told me that he had the medal, but later he declared it was not in his hands—that he would have it soon. I beg you, what is the truth?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Frank interjected. “Yussef, that man Hanleigh was lying to you. For one thing, I’m quite sure he had no right to pose as Mr. Jefferson’s agent—”

“He most certainly did not,” the elderly man stated emphatically as Frank turned to him for confirmation. “Hanleigh is the last man in the world whom I would entrust with such a matter, even if I still had the medals and wished to sell them.”

“What’s more,” Frank added, “Hanleigh probably doesn’t have the medals, either, and never did have them.”

Yussef’s face registered concern. “I was afraid of that. The Shah will be grievously angered.”

Frank told Yussef that the boys were working on the mystery, and added, “My theory is that Hanleigh’s scheme in contacting the Shah was to set up channels through which he could sell the medals—if he found them—without being prosecuted. We suspect Hanleigh has been searching for the collection on Cabin Island.”

“Tell me, Yussef,” Biff put in, “what were you doing on the island?”

The man said apologetically, “I am sorry. I did not intend to trespass. I had begun to suspect Mr. Hanleigh’s story about the medal, and followed him there on two occasions. Like you, I could not escape the impression that he was seeking something hidden and wondered if it might be the Shah’s medal.”

“And you looked for it yourself?” Frank asked.

“That is correct. But I had no success, and finally I deemed it wise to come directly to Mr. Jefferson.”

“How did you get to Cabin Island?” Chet asked.

“But of course, I walked,” Yussef replied with a smile. “I overheard Mr. Hanleigh talking with the two young men whom I have seen transporting him to the island in an ice-going craft.”

“Now you understand the whole situation, Yussef,” said Mr. Jefferson. “I agree with my young detective friends that Mr. Hanleigh evidently hopes to locate the medals for his own gain—including the one desired by your ruler.”

“It is a great misfortune to have lost so fine a treasure,” Yussef declared sympathetically, “and to be persecuted by an unscrupulous person such as Mr. Hanleigh.”

“At least we won’t be off chasing ghosts!” Chet added a little sheepishly. “When I first saw you, I thought you were a spook!”

The foreign visitor laughed along with the others, then Frank said, “We’d better get back to the island and see how Joe’s making out.”

Yussef’s expression became somber. Gravely he said to Frank, “If your brother is alone there, you must hurry to him. I have a feeling he is in danger. Mr. Hanleigh can be violent.”

“We know it,” said Frank. “We’ll leave right away.”

Meanwhile, Joe had left the cabin with the binoculars and was trudging toward the cliff, eager to test the theory that had been forming in his mind.

As he stepped from the shelter of the woods, the sunlight was dazzling on the snowy ground which led to the cliff edge. Beyond lay the frozen bay.

Joe’s eyes sought the circle of tall stones he had seen from the roof. They stood near the edge of the cliff about fifty yards to his right. With a surge of excitement, he strode toward them. “Now—” he said to himself, “we’ll see!”

Suddenly Joe stopped. Below, an iceboat was skimming across the inlet. He swung his binoculars up and trained them on the craft. Joe stiffened.

“The Hawk!” he muttered. “Ike, Tad, and Hanleigh!”

Quickly Joe made his way downhill and hid in a clump of bushes near the dock. He watched as the craft was guided ashore and tied up. The three paused close enough for Joe to hear Hanleigh say:

“You punks keep an eye out for the Hardys and their pals. Give a shout if you see anyone coming.” Then the man started toward the cabin.

Joe waited until Ike and Tad had walked off down the shore, then returned noiselessly up the slope. Cautiously he peered into the living room of the cabin—no one was there. Joe hurried to the rear and crouched among some bushes below the window of the Hardys’ bedroom. He raised his head and peered in.

Hanleigh was rummaging through the brothers’ belongings! “Bet he’s looking for the notebook,” Joe thought. “Good thing Frank has it with him.”

Suddenly Hanleigh spun around and Joe ducked. He heard the man’s outraged bellow. “Spying again, are you!”

CHAPTER XVI

The Intruder’s Revenge

“How did Hanleigh spot me?” Joe thought desperately, crouched low amidst the bushes. Moments later, the kitchen door opened and footsteps scrunched toward him on the snow.

To Joe’s surprised relief, the big man strode past his hiding place and disappeared around the side of the cabin. Before Joe could move, Hanleigh’s angry voice rang out.

“Couldn’t resist snooping, could you?” he snarled. “I haven’t paid you two just for taxi service—I’ve been paying you to mind your own business.”

Ike Nash and Tad Carson!

Joe smiled wryly. “They must have been looking through that little end window in my bedroom.”

Ike’s whining voice came to his ears. “We were freezing! There’s a fierce wind off the ice.”

“That’s a real shame!” Hanleigh retorted. “You fellows come with me. I’ll show you a place to keep warm!”

The three rounded the corner and Joe held his breath as they plodded past him. He poked his head from the bushes in time to see Hanleigh open the woodshed. “Wait in there!” he ordered.

Unsuspecting, the two roughnecks stepped inside. Hanleigh pushed the door shut and bolted it. “I’ll take good care of the Hawk for you!” he sang out tauntingly.

From within the shed came angry yells as Ike and Tad pounded violently on the door. Chortling, Hanleigh turned toward the kitchen.

“Let us out of here!” Ike screamed.

“You don’t know how to run the iceboat!” Tad cried frantically.

“Oh, stop your chatter!” Hanleigh shouted. “I won’t wreck it! Do you think I’d take a chance with my own skin?”

Again the two prisoners pounded and kicked at the door. “You got no right to hold us!” Ike yelled. Hanleigh paid no attention.

Joe came to a sudden decision. “I must hold Hanleigh here until the others get back!”

The young sleuth stood up resolutely and called out, “So you’re trespassing again, Mr. Hanleigh!”

The man gave a start. Upon seeing Joe, his face contorted in rage. “You meddling spy!” he shouted. “I’m not trespassing. I came after my own property! Get out of my way!”

Joe walked up to Hanleigh and asked calmly, “Did you lose a notebook? One that has John Sparewell’s name inside?”

Again Hanleigh started guiltily. “I don’t know anything about a notebook,” he replied sullenly. “I came for my wallet. I lost it last time I was here. You probably found it, and you’d better turn it over or I’ll have the law on you!”

“Did the message in code tell you to come looking for something valuable on Cabin Island?” Joe persisted.

Hanleigh swung his fist. Joe ducked and butted the man hard in the chest. With a grunt Hanleigh staggered back against the cabin.

“You’re a scrapper, eh?” he panted.

“Anything you start, I’ll finish,” Joe said. He watched the man warily, but Hanleigh only gave an ugly smile. “I’ll fix you later,” he said softly. “No use hanging around now.”

He turned and plunged down the hill. Joe followed, keeping an eye on him. At the dock Hanleigh untied the Hawk and sped for the inlet.

“Too bad I couldn’t hold him here,” Joe thought. Then he remembered Ike and Tad in the woodshed, and grinned. “But I still have his buddies!”

He headed quickly up the hill toward the cliff. At the top Joe looked down, but could see no sign of the Hawk. “Hanleigh made good time,” he said to himself, then the young detective’s thoughts returned to the cluster of stones he wanted to investigate.

When Joe reached the spot, he quickly circled the tall rocks and spotted a narrow opening between two of them. He stepped through and found himself on a small patch of rocky ground, damp with melted snow. He knelt and felt the stones. They were warm! From several crevices arose wisps of smoke.

“Somebody has built a fire below,” he murmured. “Clever! Nobody’d ever notice the smoke.”

The thin streams drifting to the top disappeared in the wind.

The next moment Joe heard a noise and a soft laugh behind him. For an instant he froze. Hanleigh! Too late the boy flung himself sideways. A hard blow landed on the back of his head. He sank into darkness!

When Joe regained consciousness, he was first aware of the intense cold and of a throbbing sensation in the back of his head. His aching eyes saw a low roof of snow above him. Then he realized his wrists and ankles were tightly bound.

“Hanleigh!” Joe thought. “Where is he?”

The big man was nowhere in sight. Joe struggled to free himself, but every movement tightened the stout cords.

“Boy, what a mess!” Joe muttered in disgust. “I’ll just have to wait until Frank and the others come back.” He noticed that his feet and hands were growing numb, but managed to wiggle his toes and fingers. “I’ll have a swell case of frostbite if they don’t show up soon.”

At that moment Frank, Chet, and Biff were streaking toward the inlet in the Sea Gull. Suddenly Chet pointed. “Look!”

Out of the narrow channel sped an iceboat with a lone occupant at the tiller.

“Hanleigh!” Frank exclaimed. “I wonder what happened to Ike and Tad!” A chill went through him. “And what about Joe?”

“Let’s go after Hanleigh!” Biff cried out.

Frank shook his head. “We should get to the island pronto. Something’s fishy about this whole business. Joe may be in danger.”

In a short time the Sea Gull was tied up, and the three boys hurried straight up the slope to the cabin.

Frank threw open the door. “Joe!” he called anxiously. “Hey, Joe!”

There was no answer.

“Listen!” Chet exclaimed. Loud bangings and scufflings could be heard.

“Joe might be locked in the attic!” Biff said. They all rushed into the kitchen, then paused in confusion.

“Not the attic,” Frank said. “Those sounds are coming from the woodshed!”

The others followed as he dashed outside and unbolted the door of the lean-to. “Joe—” he began, then stopped abruptly as Ike and Tad half stumbled into the open.

“What are you two doing here?” Biff demanded in amazement.

“Where’s Joe?” Chet asked.

“Joe?” Tad snapped. “Where’s Hanleigh? And the Hawk?”

“Yeah!” Ike put in. “That guy’s a dirty double crosser. He tricked us into this icebox and locked us up.”

“Right now Hanleigh’s taking off in your boat,” Frank told them, then added sternly, “Never mind about him. What happened to my brother?”

“Don’t look at us—we never saw him!” Tad replied. “We thought you were all away from the island.”

“After Hanleigh trapped us in that shed, we don’t know what he did,” Ike added, whining. “We just kept banging and yelling.”

“Maybe you’ll be more careful what kind of people you take up with after this,” Chet said. “And think twice about causing boat accidents, too.”

“Aw, cut the lecture, fatso,” Ike sneered.

Frank turned to Biff and Chet. “I’m going to find Joe. Something’s happened to him. You take those two inside, and don’t let them go. I want to question them later.”

“You think Joe is in danger?” Chet asked fearfully.

Frank looked worried. “I’m afraid so. It’s a big island,” he added grimly. “I hope we’re not too late.”

CHAPTER XVII

The Dangerous Climb

“JOE!” Frank called repeatedly as he slowly circled the island searching for his brother. The young sleuth had nearly reached the cliff when his shouts were answered by a faint cry.

“Here! Over here!” Then silence.

Frank thought the sounds had come from a clump of tangled underbrush and hastened to it. Pulling aside the snowy branches, he saw Joe. The blond boy was so numb that he could barely move his lips. Quickly Frank untied the cords on his brother’s ankles and wrists.

“Think you can walk?”

“I’ll try,” came the faint reply.

Joe leaned heavily on his brother and the pair made their way haltingly toward the cabin. When they drew near, Frank shouted, “Biff! Hurry!”

The muscular youth came sprinting outside and together he and Frank carried Joe into the living room and placed him on the sofa. Chet, heaving a sigh of relief, rushed to get a blanket.

After a few minutes, Joe felt stronger. Presently he drank a cup of hot cocoa, then said, “I’m okay.”

Just then he noticed Ike and Tad, standing glumly next to the fireplace. Joe grinned. “Did you have a nice warm wait in the woodshed, fellows?” As they scowled, Joe told his story without mentioning why he had gone to the cliff or what he had found there.

When Joe had finished, Biff strode over angrily to Ike and Tad. “What’s Hanleigh after on Cabin Island?”

“That’s what we wanted to find out,” Ike answered. “Say, won’t you guys give us a lift to Bayport so we can find the Hawk?”

“Are you kidding?” Chet retorted scornfully. “You expect a ride in the Hardys’ iceboat after you tried twice to wreck it?”

“How did Hanleigh find out we were going to stay on Cabin Island?” Joe queried.

“We were picking him up down the road when he spotted you packing the Sea Gull,” Tad explained. “Hanleigh eavesdropped on you near the boathouse and heard your plans.”

“We’ve just been doing his dirty work,” Ike said sourly.

“You could have injured someone seriously throwing that log at the Sea Gull,” Frank said. “Mr. Jefferson was knocked out.”

“Don’t blame me. I wasn’t there!” Ike whined.

“It’s true,” Tad admitted. “Hanleigh and I wore masks. It was his idea to disable your boat.”

“But how could you be sure we would be coming out in the Sea Gull at that time?” Joe asked.

“We were on our way to the island when we saw you,” Tad replied. “Hanleigh changed his mind about the trip and decided to ram you. He made me take him ashore to pick up a log. Then we lay in wait near the inlet. We didn’t realize you had the old man until too late.”

Despite further intensive questioning, Ike and Tad stuck to their statement that they knew nothing of Hanleigh’s quest on Cabin Island, nor had they seen a boy answering Johnny Jefferson’s description. Finally the troublemakers departed, grumbling, to walk home.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Joe swung off the couch. “Fellows,” he said, “I’ve something to tell you.”

“And about time!” exclaimed Frank. “I’ve been burning with curiosity. Why did you ask Mr. Jefferson about the hot springs?”

“And what were you doing on the cliff?” Chet put in.

Joe interrupted. “Take it easy. Let me explain. I think I know where Johnny Jefferson is.”

“Where?” chorused the others.

“In a cave in the cliff.”

“How do you figure that?” Biff asked.

Joe told about spotting the patch of dark ground from the cabin roof. “At first I figured there was a hot spring melting the snow. Later it occurred to me that, instead, there might be a cave under the spot. If someone built a fire in it and there were crevices in the roof leading to the surface, the smoke would come up and the heat would melt the snow.”

Frank’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Great deduction, Joe!”

“I got only as far as the circle of stones,” Joe went on. “Smoke was coming up, so I’m sure somebody was in the cave—probably Johnny. But Hanleigh knocked me out before I could look for the entrance.”

“Then he dragged you to a place where you could freeze waiting to be rescued,” Biff put in grimly.

“The mouth of the cave is probably in the cliff face!” Frank declared. He jumped up and started pulling on his parka. “Come on! We’ll surprise Johnny and bring him back here!”

“Wait!” exclaimed Chet. “First lunch!”

After a quick snack, the boys headed for the cliff. On the way, Frank told his brother about the meeting with Yussef.

Joe whistled. “Hanleigh’s a sharp operator, all right. I wish I could’ve made him admit he was after the medals. He was plenty upset when he found out we had the book and the coded message. I’m sure he hasn’t solved the cipher yet,” Joe added.

When the boys reached open ground at the top of the cliff, they were met by an icy blast from the bay. Frank glanced anxiously at the leaden sky.

“Storm coming,” he muttered.

Joe showed them the sheltered spot in the circle of stones. No smoke was rising.

“The fire must have gone out,” Frank commented.

“Since the cave is right under here,” said Chet, “the way down may be nearby.”

“Let’s look for footprints leading to the edge of the cliff,” Biff suggested.

“It won’t be much use,” Frank said, shaking his head. “This wind will have swept them away.”

The boys walked to the rim and looked down at the jumble of ice-coated crags which jutted out, hiding the sheer wall below.

Biff shivered. “One slip and good-by!”

“Maybe we’d better forget about it,” Chet said hopefully.

“No,” Frank answered. “If Johnny Jefferson can get down there, so can we. But we need our creepers and flashlights.”

“I’ll go back and get them,” Chet volunteered quickly, and started toward the cabin.

“Hurry!” Frank called after him. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“It’s dark in here already,” Chet muttered as he entered the woods. He plowed along the trail the boys had made earlier, wishing he had not come alone. The white woods was eerie and the pines moaned and tossed in the wind, showering him with snow.

Once Chet put up an arm to protect his face and stumbled off the trail into a clump of brush. He fought clear, found the path again, and went on.

Suddenly the wind stopped. Startled by the silence, Chet paused.

Why did he feel he was not alone?

As he stood, breathing heavily, he heard a low moan behind him. It rose into a weird cry and trailed off into silence.

Chet’s lips opened and closed, but he made no sound. With effort he forced himself to look back. Was there something tall and white standing against a snowy bush? As he strained to see, the thing vanished among the trees. With a hoarse cry Chet plunged down the trail and did not stop until he was in the cabin. Gasping, he locked the door and leaned against it.

“Can’t be sure I saw anything,” he had to admit, a little ashamed. “But I heard that weird cry, I know.”

The thought of his companions waiting on the cold cliff top forced Chet to gather up the creepers and flashlights and go out again. By the time he came to the end of the woods, he was red-faced from running.

“Over here!” Frank called, and Chet hastened along the cliff top to where his friends were waiting.

“Fellows,” he burst out, “there’s another ghost here! I saw it in the woods!”

Joe grinned and took the equipment from his plump friend. “Great joke, Chet, but we’ve heard it before.”

“I’m not kidding! It gave a terrible—”

“We’ve no time to waste,” Frank broke in, hanging a flashlight on his belt. “Get your gear on.” Grumbling, Chet obeyed.

“We think this is the best place to start down,” Frank told him.

He walked to a crevice in the cliff edge about six feet deep, and lowered himself to the bottom. From there he stepped to a flat icy ledge, digging in hard. Beyond it stood another jutting stone. Frank moved ahead, and, one by one, the others followed him on rough footholds across the cliff.

Occasionally they stopped and examined the rocky wall for an opening, but saw none. Once Chet glanced toward the inlet and froze at the sight of the drop-off.

“Don’t look down!” Joe shouted.

Frank, making his way along a ledge, stopped to look back at his companions. Just behind him was a narrow opening between the cliff and a slab of rock which angled out from it. About twenty feet above, Frank could see the circle of stones.

“This may be the cave!” he thought, and signaled to the others.

As they stood in a line on the ledge, he indicated the opening and gestured for silence. Then Frank led the way into a dark passage which opened into a rock chamber, dimly lit by a pile of glowing embers.

“Nobody here!” exclaimed Joe, his voice sounding hollow.

Against one wall was a stack of cans, food boxes, and pots. Nearby lay a sleeping bag, a carton of tumbled clothes, and an unlit kerosene lantern.

“This is the hideout, all right,” Frank said. “We’ll settle down and wait for Johnny.”

“It might take a long time,” Biff remarked.

“I doubt it,” said Frank. “With a storm coming up, he’s probably heading for here right now.”

For a while the boys sat in silence, then suddenly they tensed. A footstep in the passage!

As they scrambled to their feet, Biff stumbled over the lantern. It turned over and clattered across the stone floor. Instantly the footsteps in the passage stopped, then hurried away.

“Chet! Don’t look down!” Joe shouted

“After him!” Frank cried out. “Johnny!” he called. “Come back! We’re friends!”

As the boys emerged from the passage they were met by roaring wind and swirling snow. Frank shouted again, but the words were lost. Daylight was nearly gone. The boys peered back across the cliff, but there was no sign of anyone.

Anxiously the Hardys looked upward. Had the boy tried to climb to the crags above the cave mouth?

“No one there!” said Joe.

“Don’t see him anywhere!” shouted Biff.

With sinking hearts the four looked around the drop-off, each with the same unspoken fear.

Chet suggested, “Maybe he’s hiding behind a rock.”

“Let’s hope so,” Frank thought grimly, then said aloud, “No one could survive a storm on this cliff. If Johnny’s hurt or hiding, we must find him.”

It was decided that Joe and Biff would examine the cliff from above. Frank and Chet clambered down toward the drop-off. Now and then they stopped and shouted, and looked for a figure among the crags. But Johnny was not in sight nor did he reply.

When they reached the jutting rocks at the drop-off, the boys lay down and peered over the ledge. With a gasp Frank pointed. Something white lay among the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.

“A wreck!” Chet said. “An iceboat!”

“And there’s somebody in it!” exclaimed Frank.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Crash

“SOMEBODY’S hurt!” said Frank. “Come on! Let’s get Joe and Biff.”

He and Chet climbed to the top of the cliff, where their companions were waiting.

“Any sign of Johnny?” Joe asked anxiously.

Frank shook his head and breathlessly told about the wrecked iceboat.

“We’ll find the nearest spot we can to climb down,” said Joe.

Frank took the lead. The foursome, their flashlights turned on, plodded through the deepening dusk and wind-whipped snow. Finally Frank stopped at the far end of the cliff, where the terrain sloped more gently. “I think we can make it here.”

The descent seemed interminable, since the boys had to wind their way around boulders, high drifts, and in and out of thickly growing pines. At last they reached the shore and stepped onto the ice. Facing into the screaming wind, they headed toward the cracked-up boat.

As the boys drew near the scene, Joe shone his beam on the tilted hull and yelled, “It’s the Hawk!”

“Who’s the man?” Biff called as the others rushed up.

“Hanleigh!” Frank exclaimed.

As the Hardys and their friends carefully freed the man, he regained consciousness. Groaning loudly, he clutched his right leg. It did not appear broken, so the Hardys helped him to his feet. Hanleigh took a few steps, then insisted he was in too much pain to walk.

“I think it’s just a wrenched muscle,” Frank muttered to Joe. “But give me a hand and we’ll carry him.”

Making a chair of their hands, Frank and Joe transported their heavy burden to the cabin, where they settled him on the sofa. Hanleigh grimaced with pain as Biff pulled off his boot. “I know my leg is broken,” he complained bitterly. “And I nearly froze to death out there!”

“You had no qualms about leaving Joe to freeze in the snow this afternoon,” Frank said.

Hanleigh’s only response was a prolonged groan.

“Why’d you take the Hawk out in this storm?” Joe asked. “You must have been desperate to pay us another visit! And in a stolen boat at that.”

“I only borrowed that old boat,” Hanleigh growled.

“We know that isn’t true,” Frank retorted.

Hanleigh raised his head to glare at the boys. “Cut it out!” he snarled. “Can’t you see I’m in terrible pain? You’d better get me to a doctor fast!”

“That’s out of the question,” Frank said, “until the storm lets up.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances. They realized that the violence of the storm also made it impossible to search for Johnny Jefferson.

“Hanleigh,” Joe said sharply, “it’s high time you leveled with us. Have you seen Johnny Jefferson on this island?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Frank described the boy. “Now what about it? Have you seen him?”

“No,” barked Hanleigh. “I’ve seen nobody, but—” He broke off and looked uneasy.

“But ghosts?” Joe asked with a grin.

“You think it’s funny? You’ll find out!”

“We’ve already caught the spook in the attic,” said Biff. “It was the wind blowing over a soda bottle.”

At the look of astonishment on Hanleigh’s face, the boys laughed. “Let me alone!” he burst out. “I don’t want to talk.”

He would say no more, but ate greedily of the hearty supper which Chet prepared. He maintained a stubborn silence, refusing to answer further questions put to him by the young sleuths.

The Hardys learned nothing from him about his interest in the fireplace or his meetings with Yussef. The boys noticed, however, that his eyes traveled frequently to the chimney.

Finally the injured man fell into a deep sleep. “At least he can’t escape,” Joe remarked. “Too bad we can’t get some information out of him.”

“There’s one thing we can do,” Frank said in a low tone. “Break that code.”

The boys hurried into the kitchen, and Joe closed the door. They settled down at the table with pencil and paper, the notebook turned open to the page bearing the cryptic letters. Soon all four became oblivious to the storm’s increasing fury as they concentrated on the task.

Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “I think the first and second words are ‘Cabin Island’!”

“How can you tell?” Chet asked.

“The number of letters are the same,” Frank pointed to the HJOSW and SHRJWN of the code.

“Look. The words cabin and island both contain A, I, and N. So, the letter J stands for A, S for I, and W is N.”

“Terrific!” Joe exclaimed. “Then, H is C, O is B, R equals L, and W stands for N.”

“Let’s try to find the key,” said Frank. “I’ll set up the alphabet.” The others watched intently as he wrote:

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ JOHN SRW H

“John Sparewell! Joe burst out. ”But what does H stand for?”

“Houseman, maybe,” Frank replied. “Try that. There’s a comma in the cipher,” he added. “It may stand for R.”

“John Paul Sparewell, Houseman,” Joe read. “That’s the key. Now substitute those letters for the ones in the code.”

Frank printed rapidly and held up the result:

HJOSW SHRJWN HLSEWPA RPAO

CABIN ISLAND CHIMNEY LEFT

A, EWO WSWP APPO L SUL

FRONT NINE FEET HIGH

“We’ve got it!” Joe exulted.

“But,” said Biff, “we’ve gone over all the chimney stones.”

“Remember, there’s an inner lining,” Frank pointed out. “As soon as the fire dies down, we’ll check.”

“You think Hanleigh deciphered the code?” Chet asked.

“No,” Frank replied. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so eager to recover the notebook.”

“I’d still like to know how he got his hands on it,” said Biff. “Did he steal it from John Sparewell?”

“I don’t know,” Joe replied, “but I vote we zero in on the medals pronto.”

The boys’ discussion was broken off by a signal for silence from Frank, who pointed to the door.

From the other side came the sound of creaking of floorboards. Swiftly the Hardys scooped up the notebook and the papers and hid them in a cupboard. Then Frank and Joe went over and pushed open the door a crack.

They peered out and saw Hanleigh limping to the fireplace. He pulled aside the screen from the fire, now burning low, took a poker and thrust it up inside the chimney.

“Bet he was eavesdropping,” Joe muttered.

“Well, the code directions won’t do him much good without tools,” said Frank, and stepped into the living room.

“Looking for something, Mr. Hanleigh? Glad to see your leg is better.”

The big blond man wheeled, his face purple with rage. “I’m sick of being hounded by you pests. I’ll fix you-”

Hanleigh lunged forward, brandishing the poker, but tripped on a rug and went sprawling. The poker flew from his hands. Quickly Frank retrieved it.

“I wouldn’t try that again,” Joe said in warning tones as Chet and Biff rushed in.

Scowling, Hanleigh dragged himself over to the sofa and sank down heavily. “All right, all right. I was just going to stir up the fire,” he mumbled. “It’s cold as an iceberg in here.”

The boys had to agree, because the wind had risen to great velocity and gusts shook the cabin. Chill drafts seeped beneath the outside door and the windows were half covered by driving snow.

“Maybe I’d better stoke the fire,” Chet said.

Joe nudged him. “Later. We have something to do first.”

Chet grinned. “That’s right. Well, I can turn out a snack, anyway. That’ll warm us.”

The stout boy headed for the kitchen, but the next instant stopped in his tracks as a shrieking blast of wind struck the front window full force.

With a loud crash the entire pane shattered inward. The frigid wind roared inside, knocking over all the oil lamps. Fire flared along the spilled fuel and Joe leaped forward, flailing at the flames with his parka.

Hanleigh rolled off the couch as his terror-stricken voice shrilled through the darkness. “Get me out of here! The whole place is going to collapse. I’ll be killed!”

CHAPTER XIX

A Frightened Thief

“QUICK! Into the kitchen!” Frank ordered. “Grab the parkas!” Hanleigh limped out hastily and the others followed. Having smothered the flames, Joe entered last and locked the door.

Their prisoner sprawled onto a chair and listened apprehensively to the roaring wind. “I never heard anything so bad before. What’re we going to do?”

“Stick it out,” Frank replied coolly. He eyed the rattling window over the sink. “We’d better board that up,” he said, “and the ones in the bedrooms, too. Come on! We can rip up some of this flooring.”

Chet brought two hammers, some nails, and a pinch bar from the toolbox. For half an hour the sound of ripping boards and hammering could be heard through the noise of the storm.

As the four boys worked, they saw that the snow had drifted almost to the tops of the windows. Their thoughts went again to Johnny Jefferson.

Frank visualized the boy lying injured behind a crag on the icy cliff. “Joe,” he said quietly, “as soon as the wind lets up we must go looking for him again.”

His brother nodded. “I know.”

When everyone gathered in the kitchen once more, Chet said, “I think we’d better fill the wood box and bring in some extra logs. If the drifts get any higher, we won’t be able to open the back door.”

He put on his parka, took a flashlight, and plunged outside.

Suddenly there was loud pounding on the door. Joe looked surprised. “What’s he doing back so soon?”

Biff opened the door and Chet fairly fell inside.

“The ghost!” he gasped. “In the woodshed!” The boys stared at their trembling chum in amazement.

“I guess he’s not kidding,” said Frank. “There’s something out there. Come on, Joe!”

The Hardys stepped out and trudged through Chet’s tracks to the woodshed.

Frank pulled the door open and flashed his light inside. Cowering in the corner was a white turbaned figure!

“Yussef!” Joe exclaimed.

But a moment later he saw that he was mistaken, as Frank pulled the white-robed figure of a young boy to his feet. Johnny Jefferson!

The Hardys knew him instantly from the photograph Mr. Jefferson had given them. But he was more sturdy and better looking than they had imagined.

“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Quick, into the cabin!” Frank commanded.

Wordlessly, the boy stumbled ahead of them toward the kitchen. Biff, Chet, and Hanleigh looked up in astonishment as the trio entered.

“Here’s your ghost, Chet,” said Joe. “Johnny Jefferson. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Johnny nodded, a frightened look on his face.

Chet found his voice. “You must be frozen, Johnny. I’ll get some soup.”

“Thanks,” The boy removed the turban and the white robe. Underneath he wore a heavy jacket, ski pants, and boots with creepers.

“Who are you?” he asked the boys, then nodded toward Hanleigh. “Friends of his?”

“Certainly not,” said Frank. He introduced everyone and explained why they were on the island.

Johnny looked at them anxiously for a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll buy that.”

“Good. Mr. Jefferson sure will be relieved to hear you’re okay,” Frank said.

Then Johnny turned to Hanleigh. “You lied to me,” he burst out. “You promised to teach me to be a detective, so I could find my grandfather’s medals. But I know now you wanted them for yourself.”

Hanleigh pretended he was not listening.

“Sit down and eat, Johnny,” said Chet, serving a steaming bowl of soup. “Cheese sandwiches coming up.”

The lad broke into a smile. “Gee, thanks.” He began eating hungrily. “I thought you fellows were working with Hanleigh,” he said, between bites. “So I decided to play ghost and scare you off. I got the idea from somebody else in a white robe and turban who was prowling around here and scared Chet.” He glanced at Chet. “I’m sorry. That howl in the woods really shook you!”

As Chet grinned, Johnny could not repress a chuckle. “The trick worked so well that I decided to scare Hanleigh, but I couldn’t find him. When I got back to my cave I heard a noise inside, so I ran away.”

“Where did you hide?” Frank asked.

“In a crevice I knew about in the rocks above the passage. Later I saw you hunting for me, but I kept out of sight.”

“Suppose you start from the beginning,” Frank said. “How did you get mixed up with Hanleigh?”

“Well, one day last summer when Gramp was in Europe, Hanleigh came to the house to see him about buying Cabin Island. Our housekeeper sent Hanleigh away, but some loose pages fell out of a notebook he was carrying.”

“And you found them?” Frank asked.

“That’s right. There was a map of this island and a plan of the cabin. Next time he came to the house I gave him the papers he had lost. I questioned him, too.”

Hanleigh looked up. “I thought he knew something about the value of the medals so I kidded him along. Turned out he didn’t know anything.”

After a few more bites Johnny continued:

“At first I believed Mr. Hanleigh was a detective and when I got back to school I wrote to him several times, but he didn’t answer. I began to suspect that he was trying to find the medals for himself. About two weeks before Christmas I ran away from school and came to Cabin Island to see if Hanleigh was here. I hoped I could find Gramp’s medals myself.”

“He’s worried about you,” Frank said. “You should have seen his face when we gave him that iceboat you carved. We found it by the boathouse.”

Johnny looked concerned. “I didn’t mean to worry Gramp. I’m glad he liked the iceboat. I carved it to pass time in the cave. I wondered where I’d lost it.”

“You’ve been living in that cave all this time?” Chet asked.

“No. At first I lived here in the cabin, but when Hanleigh started coming around, I moved out fast. I had a key and came back for a couple of blankets.” As to the cave, Johnny said he had played in it for years, but had kept its location a secret.

“What about the letter from Texas you wrote your grandfather?” Joe asked.

Johnny smiled. “I read about that trick in a detective story. I sent the letter to a friend of mine in Texas and asked him to mail it—and not to tell anyone. I was afraid Gramp might suspect I was here at Cabin Island and would send his detectives after me.”

As Johnny finished, the wind suddenly shrieked and a strong draft made the oil lamp flicker. Hanleigh turned pale.

“If this keeps up,” Frank said, “we’ll have to dig our way out. It’s going to be rough.”

“But I can’t do that!” Hanleigh exclaimed. “I’m hurt! And I’ll die if you leave me here alone!”

Joe looked disgusted. “We’d send somebody back for you, of course.”

Hanleigh’s eyes filled with suspicion. “No you won’t. Why should you? What’s in it for you?”

As Biff was about to retort, Frank winked at him and shook his head. “I’ll tell you what’s in it for us, Hanleigh,” he said, assuming a hard tone. “Information! You tell us your whole story and I promise you’ll be rescued.”

The man looked up in relief. “Now you’re talking my language. It’s a deal. Here!” With trembling fingers he pulled a long envelope from his pocket and shoved it across the table. “Read this.”

Frank reached into the envelope and took out a document and a letter. He scanned the document first.

“Good night! This is John Sparewell’s last will and testament!” Frank exclaimed. “Hanleigh is his nephew and sole heir.”

“Sparewell dead!” Johnny said sadly. “When did that happen?”

“Last spring,” Hanleigh volunteered. “Now read the letter from my uncle’s lawyer.”

Frank did so. “This letter,” he told his companions, “which is dated last April, explains that Sparewell stole the medal collection when he was pressed for funds. Then he realized that no dealer would touch it.”

Hanleigh interrupted. “Uncle John never tried to find a private outlet for the medals, the way I did.”

“On his deathbed,” Frank went on, “he requested that his nephew return the collection to Mr. Jefferson.”

“Why didn’t he do it himself, earlier?” Chet asked Hanleigh.

“Because he was chicken, that’s why. Uncle John was afraid old man Jefferson would try to bring him to justice. He wanted the medals to be in an absolutely secret place, so he thought of this cabin. On one of Jefferson’s trips my uncle spent a weekend hiding the collection out here in the chimney lining. But at the time he didn’t tell me where,” Hanleigh complained. “The next I heard about the collection was when he died and I came into possession of the notebook with a clue to this island and the secret code.”

“Was it part of your tape measure we found in the chimney?” Frank asked.

Hanleigh nodded. “I guessed the medals were in there or the fireplace, but I couldn’t crack the code.”

“We know it was you who ransacked Mr. Jefferson’s house at Christmas,” Joe said. “You’re wanted by the Bayport police.”

“I was a fool!” Hanleigh confessed. “I thought maybe the old man had found the medals and was keeping them in the house.”

“After you stole our food,” Biff said, “where did you go? We scoured the island for you.”

“I walked back to the mainland road and hitched a ride to Bayport. Those two young punks with the iceboat ran out on me.”

“I guess it was you who came in here the other night,” Chet spoke up. “You knew we were here. Why did you risk it?”

“I had a feeling you were getting close to where the treasure was hidden,” Hanleigh replied. “I wanted to find out if you were searching the chimney, and also to retrieve the notebook. It’s rightfully mine. I figured you’d all be asleep.”

Johnny sighed. Joe flung a quizzical look at the boy. “What’s the matter?”

“We still haven’t solved the main part of the mystery. Nobody knows for sure where the medals are.” Johnny added wistfully, “And I did so want to find them for Gramp.”

Joe grinned. “I’ve got news for you, Johnny-we’ ve cracked the code.”

As the boy exclaimed in delight, Hanleigh groaned and put his head on the table.

“As soon as the storm dies down, we’ll start hunting,” Frank said. “If the collection is here, we’ll find it.”

They remained in the kitchen for warmth and managed to snatch a couple hours’ sleep. The rest of the night passed fitfully.

Shortly after daybreak, Frank awoke and stretched his aching muscles. Noticing that the wind had abated, he opened the door to the big room. Things were topsy-turvy and under a blanket of snow. “The fireplace of the chimney first,” he thought. Returning to the kitchen, he awakened the others. “Rise and shine, fellows! We have some treasure hunting to do, remember?”

After a quick breakfast, Frank said, “Joe-Biff, how about giving me a boost up the fireplace chimney?”

Frank turned on his flashlight and started to crawl into the fireplace.

At that moment the front door burst open. Two men stepped in.

“Hold it!” said a sharp voice. “You’re under arrest! All of you!”

CHAPTER XX

The Hazardous Search

WHIRLING in astonishment, the boys saw two stern-faced harbor policemen striding toward them through the debris in the living room.

The Hardys recognized them as Lieutenant Daley and Officer Thorne.

“We’re taking you all into custody!” barked Daley. “Where’s the stolen iceboat?”

At that moment Hanleigh appeared at the kitchen door. “What’s going on?” he asked, then gasped at the sight of the policemen. Despite his injured leg, he bolted for the back door.

Frank and Joe dashed forward and seized him. “Here’s your thief, Lieutenant Daley,” Joe said as they hustled the big man into the living room.

The officer stared, astonished, upon recognizing the brothers. “The Hardys!” Daley exclaimed. “Didn’t know you at first. You all look a little beat up.”

Joe introduced the others. “We’ve been roughing it and trying to solve a couple of mysteries.”

“They solved them, too,” Chet put in proudly.

Johnny Jefferson stepped forward. “That’s true,” he said. “Frank and Joe and their pals have been working on a case for my grandfather, Elroy Jefferson.”

“Then you must be Johnny Jefferson!” Lieutenant Daley exclaimed.

“Yes, the Hardys found me.”

“Well, I’ll be a frozen rookie!” Officer Thorne burst out. “We’ve been on the lookout for you!”

“Leave it to the Hardys,” said Daley, tilting back his hat and scratching his head. “A couple of chips off the old block. How’s your dad?”

“Fine,” Frank replied, then told their story which included the wrecking of the Hawk. Hand-cuffs were snapped on Hanleigh.

“You can’t take me to jail,” he argued. “I’m a sick man.”

“You’ll be taken care of,” Daley said firmly.

“By the way,” Joe spoke up, “who accused us of stealing the iceboat?”

Lieutenant Daley explained that an anonymous phone call to headquarters had reported the theft, and revealed that the culprits were hiding on Cabin Island.

“Ike or Tad made that call, no doubt,” Frank said.

Biff grinned. “Those two would be burned up if they knew they’d done us a favor tipping off the police.”

Chet gave a wry chuckle. “Those guys will have a real surprise when they see the Hawk.”

Daley added, “We didn’t want to bother Mr. Jefferson until we found out what was going on here, so we came straight over.”

Hanleigh declared he was unable to walk. The police were unsympathetic. “You seemed to manage okay when you were trying to get away,” Daley said. “So you certainly can hike across the cove to where our squad car is parked.”

The lieutenant smiled at Johnny. “We’ll tell your grandfather you’re safe and in good hands.”

Johnny pleaded that he himself wished to surprise his grandfather. “Besides, I want to take him his medals. I know the Hardys can find them.”

“We’ll give it a good try,” Frank promised.

The two policemen agreed to keep the secret, and left with their prisoner, who complained bitterly as he was escorted from the cabin.

Without further delay the boys gathered around the hearth. “Now for the rosewood box!” exclaimed Joe, and went for a flexible tape measure he had seen in the toolbox.

“What do you look for first?” Biff asked.

“A loose stone, nine feet up the front,” Frank replied. He ducked into the soot-blackened fireplace and stood up. “Lucky it’s a wide chimney,” he remarked, picking up his flashlight. “Well, here goes. Give me a boost, somebody.”

Biff crouched down in the fireplace and Frank sat astride his broad shoulders. Slowly Biff stood up, grasping his friend’s legs. Frank unwound the tape, and with the aid of his flashlight, found the nine-foot level. He marked this off with chalk and handed the tape to Biff.

Then Frank began testing the stones in order from right to left. All felt tightly in place, but suddenly Frank touched a joint of mortar which crumbled beneath his fingers.

“This looks much lighter in color,” he observed, “as if too much sand was used in the mix.”

“Any luck?” came Joe’s eager voice from below.

“Not yet. But I’ve come across something I want to investigate.”

“Need help?”

“You can hold this light.”

Joe squirmed in beside Biff and took the flashlight from his brother. Frank drew out his pen-knife and inserted the blade tip into the mortar, which surrounded a large oblong stone. The substance fell off readily. Frank then grasped the rock and pulled hard. It gave a little.

“Hey!” exclaimed Joe. “What’s cooking?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank replied, “but I’ve just dug out some mortar I think was mixed by an amateur.”

“Sparewell?”

“Yes. He must have mortared the back of this rock, though. I need a lever.”

“Hold on. I’ll get something.”

Joe hurried to bring the chisel. Frank placed it beneath the rock and worked the tool up and down. Finally the big stone moved. Now Frank used the chisel on both sides, prying the rock loose still more. Again he pulled hard on it. This time the stone came out in his hands. Quickly he gave it to Joe, who beamed the light upward into the space. Frank saw that his guess had been correct! Working carefully, he succeeded in extracting a long, flat box.

“I’ve found it!” he gasped.

Frank scrambled down from Biffs shoulders and the trio emerged from the fireplace with sooty grins of triumph. Breathless, Frank flipped open the catch and raised the lid. Set in velvet was an array of handsome, gleaming medals!

For a moment all the boys stared at the treasure, then Chet exclaimed, “Wow! They’re real beauties!”

Biff pounded the Hardys on the back while Johnny burst out, “Frank and Joe, you’re the world’s greatest detectives!”

His face shining with joy, he urged that they return to Bayport immediately. “I can’t wait to give the medals to Gramp.”

“We ought to clean up some of this damage before we go,” Frank said.

“Chet and I will take care of that,” Biff volunteered. “We’ll board up the broken window and sweep out the snow and debris.”

Frank grinned. “Okay, then. As soon as Joe and I wash this chimney dirt off and change clothes, we’ll hit the road.”

“I wish we could whiz home in your iceboat,” Johnny said, “but it’s impossible with all that snow.”

“We’ll come back for the Sea Gull when the ice is clear,” said Joe. “You can ride in it then.”

In a short time the Hardys were trudging across the cove with Johnny between them, clutching the rosewood box.

On the main road they hitched a ride to the Hardy boathouse. The trio were just about to climb into the convertible when Joe spotted a familiar sedan pulling into the parking area.

“It’s Dad!” he exclaimed. The boys hurried to meet Mr. Hardy.

The investigator smiled broadly upon being introduced to Johnny Jefferson and learning of the successful outcome of the Cabin Island mystery. “Great work!” he praised his sons, and added, “I’ll confess I’ve been uneasy ever since I sent that message and left you the note at home. So when I returned today I decided to go to the island, even if I had to hike!”

“You were right, Dad, about Hanleigh. He was out to get us,” Frank declared. “Where did you learn about him?”

“I asked Chief Collig to brief me on the Christmas night break-in at Mr. Jefferson‘s,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Shortly after you boys had left on your camping trip, the fingerprint report came back. So I hurried to the dock here, hoping one of your friends would give me a lift.

“Just then I saw an iceboat put in near our boathouse. I recognized the Nash and Carson boys aboard and soon realized the big blond man with them was Hanleigh. They were talking loudly about you and made some pretty nasty threats. They were gone before I could nab Hanleigh myself.”

“So you sent Mack Malone to warn us!” Joe said.

“Right,” his father replied. He had alerted Chief Collig and the Bayport squad had been on the lookout for Hanleigh. “He was a crafty customer with that iceboat taxi,” Mr. Hardy said, “and gave everybody the slip until you fellows nailed him.”

The famous detective also told the boys that just before leaving home he had received directly from Collig word of Hanleigh’s arrest. The prisoner had made a formal confession-to taking the Hawk, breaking into Mr. Jefferson’s house, and scheming to steal the medals. “He also admitted the attack on Joe,” Mr. Hardy concluded.

“What about Ike and Tad?” Frank asked.

“They won’t be charged as accomplices, since they did not know what Hanleigh was up to,” Mr. Hardy replied.

“But twice those two tried to wreck our boat,” Joe said hotly. “And they accused us of stealing the Hawk!”

“I know,” said Mr. Hardy. “But both say they were only joking. Don’t worry,” the detective added with a grin, “Chief Collig gave them a stiff lecture. They won’t dare get out of line for a long time.”

Frank smiled. “Anyway, they’ll be too busy repairing their iceboat to make any more trouble.”

A short time later the Hardys and Johnny stood at the front door of the Jefferson home.

As Frank reached toward the doorbell, Johnny cried out, “Wait! I—I can’t go in! Gramp will be angry!”

“No, he’ll be happy to see you,” Frank reassured the younger boy. “Besides, you have a surprise for him, remember?”

Johnny gazed at the rosewood box he held tightly and smiled. “You’re right.”

Frank rang the bell. When Mr. Jefferson answered, he stared at his grandson incredulously. “Johnny!” The old man’s voice rang with joy.

The Hardys stood by beaming as they witnessed the happy reunion. It was not until they were seated that Mr. Jefferson became aware of the box Johnny carried.

Mr. Jefferson was so overcome with emotion that it was several moments before he could speak. He turned to Frank and Joe.

“How has all this happened?” he asked, taking the box and opening the lid.

As the young sleuths and Johnny rapidly recited the amazing events, Mr. Jefferson sat back in the crimson velvet chair, stroking the medals and looking affectionately at Johnny. “Wait until my detectives hear of your success, Frank and Joe. They’ll be thunderstruck!”

Johnny said admiringly, “I’d sure like to learn from the Hardys how to solve mysteries!”

Mr. Jefferson eyed his grandson proudly. “I underestimated you, my boy. You’ve proved you can take care of yourself very well.”

Johnny beamed, then said worriedly, “You should see the cabin, Gramp. The storm did a lot of damage.”

“No matter,” replied the old man. “We’ll start repairs and improvements this spring.” He turned to the Hardys. “I want you both to feel free to stay on the island any time you wish to. Johnny and I are going there as soon as possible together —that is, if he’ll take me along when he gets his new iceboat.”

“Gramp! Do you mean it?”

“Indeed I do! Since my ride in the Sea Gull, I’ve been looking forward to another spin on the ice.”

Frank and Joe exchanged smiles. Mr. Jefferson was not so old-fashioned after all! Their sleuthing had done something to change his attitude. The young detectives did not know that events were already occurring which would soon involve them in another challenging case, The Great Airport Mystery.

Mr. Jefferson added, “I intend to present the Shah’s medal to Yussef. But first—” He lifted two handsome pieces from the box and said to the Hardys, “I wish to give you each a remembrance, in gratitude.”

“Thank you, sir, but we can’t accept,” Frank protested. “They’re too valuable.”

“Besides, we’ve had our reward returning Johnny and the medals to you,” Joe added.

Mr. Jefferson smilingly insisted, “These are rightfully yours. Remember, their purpose is to reward exceptional merit and courage. No one ever earned them more than you Hardy boys!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Mysterious Flare

CHAPTER II - Factory Detectives

CHAPTER III - The Ghost Pilot

CHAPTER IV - Police Orders

CHAPTER V - Warehouse Crash

CHAPTER VI - Aerial Mission

CHAPTER VII - A Strange Request

CHAPTER VIII - Masked Attacker

CHAPTER IX - Alley Escape

CHAPTER X - Startling Discoveries

CHAPTER XI - A Questionable Friend

CHAPTER XII - The Cave Clue

CHAPTER XIII - The Tornado

CHAPTER XIV - Amazing Camouflage

CHAPTER XV - Capture

CHAPTER XVI - Telltale Initials

CHAPTER XVII - A Revealing List

CHAPTER XVIII - Air-Chart Secret

CHAPTER XIX - Hideout Trap

CHAPTER XX - Runway Victory

The Great Airport Mystery

Valuable electronic parts containing platinum are being stolen from shipments made by Stanwide Mining Equipment Company’s cargo planes, and Frank and Joe Hardy are called upon to assist their world-renowned detective father solve the baffling case.

At Stanwide the boys pose as employees, and become suspicious of their boss’s hostility toward them. Is he involved in the racket? And what is the truth behind the plane crash at sea in which Clint Hill, chief pilot for Stanwide, was killed?

Frank and Joe launch an aerial search for clues to the platinum thieves’ hideout, believing that they will also uncover the mystery behind Hill’s accident. The puzzling trail of clues leads the young sleuths to an uninhabited Caribbean island, near the scene of the plane crash—then to a mountaintop in Montana and a danger-filled show-down with the band of thieves. But the final discovery—and most startling and exciting revelation of all—is made in the boys’ home town of Bayport.

Franklin W. Dixon fans will find suspense, action, and many breath-taking flying episodes in this thrilling story.

“Those ropes will snap any minute!” Frank thought fearfully

Copyright © 1993, 1965, 1957, 1930 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07624-8

2007 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Mysterious Flare

“Too bad we lost so much time fixing that flat, Joe. Dad wanted us home in a hurry to start work on a case.”

Frank Hardy speeded up the brothers’ convertible.

Joe studied a road map. “We’re coming to a turnoff that could save us thirty miles,” he said. “Let’s try it.”

The boys kept a sharp lookout in the gathering dusk. Presently Frank slowed and spun the wheel. The entrance to the turnoff was narrow and flanked by heavy trees and brush. If they had not been watching for it, they could easily have missed it.

A second later Frank slammed on the brakes. The glare of their headlights showed a wooden barrier several yards ahead.

“Oh, no! A roadblock!” Joe groaned.

“That’s strange,” Frank murmured. “There’s no sign to explain why the road’s cut off.”

“Maybe it’s only for minor repairs,” Joe said hopefully. “Let’s take a chance.” He jumped out to move the wood barrier.

“Okay, but keep your fingers crossed,” Frank said. “I’d sure hate to get stuck in some pothole and break an axle—especially at this time of night.”

Joe, blond and a year younger than dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank, dragged the barrier aside. Frank drove past, then Joe replaced the roadblock to its original position.

Climbing into the convertible again, he asked, “Any idea what this new case Dad’s working on is about?”

“No, but the way he sounded, it must be urgent.”

Fenton Hardy, the boys’ father, was a former crack detective of the New York City Police Department. After retiring from the force to the waterfront town of Bayport, he had become a famous private investigator.

Frank and Joe, who seemed to have inherited their father’s sleuthing talents, often aided him in his investigations. The brothers had also solved several cases largely on their own, beginning with The Tower Treasure, and, most recently, the strange Mystery of Cabin Island.

Now a summer vacation trip had been cut short by the upcoming assignment. The boys continued their journey in the deepening darkness. Ahead, the road wound through isolated, hilly country. Here and there they encountered patches of light radiation fog, a phenomenon common to this type of terrain. After several minutes the Hardys were puzzled not to see any road construction, or any other reason for the barrier they had encountered.

“Maybe the roadblock was just somebody’s idea of a joke,” said Joe.

Frank was about to answer when suddenly the brothers were startled to see an intensely bright red glow appear on the road ahead. Temporarily blinded by the light, Frank jammed on the brakes. The car skidded crazily, then came to a halt up on the side of a steep embankment that bordered the road.

“What’s that?” Joe shouted.

“Looks like a flare!” Frank answered, turning off the ignition.

The boys’ eyes became accustomed to the bright light just in time to spot a man scurrying off the road and into the woods. The stranger vanished quickly, but not fast enough to prevent the Hardys from getting a glimpse of his face. A split second later they heard a series of loud cracking sounds.

“Those are rifle shots!” Joe yelled. “But where are they coming from?”

“The woods. And they may be aimed at us! This car is too good a target. We’d better get out pronto!”

But before either of the boys could move, a new sound captured their attention. The mounting, throaty drone was unmistakable.

“That’s an airplane coming down!” Frank cried out.

“And it’s headed this way!” Joe yelled.

At that moment the boys saw two bright lights approaching obliquely from the right and very low. Frank and Joe were able to make out its silhouette against the night sky, even through the glow of the flare. The plane had two engines and a sleek, streamlined fuselage that terminated at the rear in a high, swept-back tail section. Its landing gear was fully extended.

“That pilot’s trying to set her down here!” Frank declared as he stared in disbelief.

“He’s so low his wheels won’t clear the top of our car! Get down!” Joe yelled frantically.

No sooner had the brothers dived to the floor of the car than the plane passed overhead with an earsplitting roar. Its left wheel grazed the roof of the car. Already tilted on the embankment, the convertible toppled over with a smash. The Hardys blacked out.

Several minutes passed before either of them regained consciousness. Frank was the first to move. With great effort he and Joe managed to push themselves to an upright position.

“Get down!” Joe yelled

“You all right?” Frank asked weakly.

“I feel as if I’d taken a ride inside a cement mixer.” Joe groaned.

As their heads cleared, the brothers realized that the car was lying on its side. They forced open the door on Joe’s side and scrambled onto the road, then glanced about them. The flare was gone, and the woods remained dark and silent. As far as they could tell, there was no sign of the airplane.

Frank bent down, and with his pocket flashlight, examined a deep crease across the roof of the overturned car. “It’s from the wheel that turned us over,” he commented.

“What was that idiot pilot doing?” Joe snapped.

“I don’t know,” Frank answered. “If he was trying to make a forced landing, he would have crashed into the trees on the other side of the road. Yet there’s not a trace of any wreck.”

“It vanished just like everything else,” Joe said. “The flare, the man who ran into the woods as we drove up, and whoever was using the rifle.”

“Did you get a look at the face of the man with the flare?” Frank queried.

“Yes, but only for an instant,” Joe answered. “I think I’ve seen him some place before, though.”

“Me, too,” Frank agreed. “Maybe we saw a photo of him in Dad’s files. Let’s take a look when we get home.”

Except for several deep dents and scratches, the car did not appear to have suffered any serious damage. The boys decided to try rolling it back to an upright position.

“We’ll need a couple of long poles for leverage,” said Frank.

“Maybe we can find something in the woods,” Joe suggested.

The boys took a flashlight from the car and started into the wooded area. They searched the ground carefully for fallen trees to serve as poles. Suddenly they were startled by a sharp, snapping sound, like the breaking of a twig, behind them.

“Did you hear that?” Joe whispered.

“Yes. Listen!”

There was a second snap. Then silence. The boys stared into the darkness, but could see nothing.

“Probably some animal,” Frank said.

“I guess so,” Joe agreed.

The Hardys were about to resume their search when the snapping of twigs was heard again. Frank switched off the flashlight. The boys listened. From nearby came the faint rustle of leaves. It was as if someone, or something, were approaching stealthily.

They turned and looked behind them. Suddenly the outline of a man appeared against the heavy brush. He seemed to be pointing something at them. Was he the man with the rifle? The Hardys stood frozen in their tracks.

CHAPTER II

Factory Detectives

“WHO are you?” Frank demanded. He snapped on his flashlight and directed the beam toward the mysterious figure. He was not the man who had set the flare.

“Drop that light!” the stranger ordered gruffly.

Frank tossed the flashlight to the ground. The man then played a bright light of his own on the Hardys’ faces and slowly stepped toward them. As he approached, the boys could see that he was armed with a double-barreled shotgun.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

“Our car turned over,” Frank began, “and we’re looking for—”

“What’s that you say?” the man shouted, cocking an ear toward Frank. “Speak louder!”

“I said our car turned over,” Frank shouted, “and we are—”

“Your car turned over?” the stranger interrupted. “How did that happen?”

“The wheel of an airplane struck the roof.”

“Airplane? What airplane? Speak louder!”

The stranger was apparently so hard of hearing he had not heard the noise. On the other hand, the boys wondered if he could be connected with the mysterious events that had occurred earlier and was bluffing. They decided to force the issue. Frank told him briefly about the roadblock, the red flare, and the low-flying plane. He also mentioned seeing a man run off the road into the woods, and said that later they had thought they were being shot at.

“You’re both crazy,” the stranger sneered. “I didn’t see any airplane or red flare.”

He then motioned with his flashlight for the boys to walk on past him. “You’d better get out of here right now, if you know what’s good for you! You’re on private property!”

“We didn’t notice any fences or signs around here,” Joe retorted.

“I don’t care what you didn’t notice!” the man shouted. “Get going!”

As the boys walked past him, they managed to catch a closer glimpse of his face. They saw that he was middle-aged, and pale and haggard.

Frank asked that he and Joe be allowed to find a couple of poles. The stranger hesitated, then gave permission.

Frank and Joe soon located several fallen saplings. They picked two of the strongest and dragged them to the car. They then positioned the saplings under the convertible and pushed against them with all their strength. At first it seemed hopeless, but after another powerful lunge, the car began to move, then shivered to an upright position.

The brothers stopped for a moment to catch their breath. They noticed that the stranger was watching them from the edge of the woods.

“Get going!” he yelled angrily.

Frank tugged at the jammed door on the driver’s side. Finally it opened. The boys got in and Frank turned the ignition key. After a few seconds the engine came to life. Except for the draining off of some fuel and oil, the car seemed to be in safe-driving condition. Frank maneuvered it carefully for a few minutes, then gathered speed and set off for home.

“Wow!” Joe sighed. “I like excitement, but tonight was enough to last me for a month.”

Trying to find some answers to all that had happened, the brothers discussed the mystery, but were unable to arrive at any conclusions. As they got closer to home, their thoughts shifted to the telephone call from their father. What could the case be? Their faces lit up in anticipation.

Nearly three hours later the boys reached Bayport, where they lived. As they entered the living room of the Hardy house, their mother greeted them. She was an attractive, slender woman, who tried to take the adventurous life of her family philosophically. Mrs. Hardy could not help worrying, however, over the dangers she knew they must encounter.

“Hello, sons,” she said in a relieved voice.

“Hello, Mother,” the boys answered, and Frank added, “Sorry to be so long driving back, but we took a short cut that turned out to be time consuming.”

“My goodness, what happened to you two?” she asked in alarm as they bent down to kiss her. She pulled them closer to a lamp. Joe had a large swelling near his temple, Frank an ugly bruise under his left eye.

Mrs. Hardy wanted to call the doctor, but the boys assured her that their injuries were not serious. In order not to upset her further, Frank said they had been bruised when he had stopped the car short.

Miss Gertrude Hardy, sister of the boys’ father, entered the room. She was a tall woman who secretly adored her nephews but constantly scolded them for not being cautious enough in their sleuthing. Occasionally her dire predictions of danger came true! At seeing their injuries, she immediately said, “Ice packs for both of you!”

“Please, Aunty, not until we talk to Dad,” Frank pleaded.

The brothers hurried to their father’s study. Mr. Hardy looked up as they entered.

“Hello, boys,” he said. “Glad to see you back. Sorry I had to break up your visit.” Noticing their injuries, he asked, “What happened?”

Joe told Mr. Hardy about their adventure while Frank began to hunt through the identification files. Several minutes later he held up a card.

“I found it!” he exclaimed. “Joe, I’m sure this is the man with the flare who ran into the woods!”

Joe looked at the photograph mounted on the card. “You’re right!”

Frank handed the card to his father. Mr. Hardy took it and leaned back in his chair. He was a handsome, athletic-looking man.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I seem to remember this man. He’s an ex-convict known only by the name of Bush Barney—no aliases. He served a three-year term for robbery.”

“I wonder,” said Joe, “if there’s some connection between Bush Barney and that airplane we saw. Could the pilot have been dropping stolen merchandise to him?”

“It’s a possibility,” Frank replied. He reached for the telephone and began dialing a number. “I’m going to check with the control tower at Bayport Airport to see if they know of any aircraft that is overdue.”

Frank identified himself to the tower operator on duty, then questioned him. He was told that all flight plans to and from Bayport had been properly closed. The tower operator also said that transient aircraft, as well as those permanently based on the field, had been accounted for. Frank hung up, disappointed that he had not uncovered a lead.

Meanwhile, Mr. Hardy had been jotting down a few notes on Bush Barney. “Perhaps,” he said, “the incidents you have told me may be linked to a new case I have coming up. That’s why I asked you boys to come back.”

Mr. Hardy stated that earlier in the day he had received a visit from a Mr. Albert Allen, president of the Stanwide Mining Equipment Company. The plant was located on the north edge of Bayport Airport, and manufactured mechanical and electronic tools and other equipment for the mining industry.

Mr. Allen had told the detective he was certain he had unearthed a racket within his company. He had been getting complaints from customers about shortages in orders. In each instance, a typed note had been enclosed in the shipment promising that the shortage would be made up at a later date. But the promise had never been kept, the customers said, and they needed the material.

“What sort of material have the shortages involved?” Frank asked.

“Mostly small, but expensive, components,” his father answered. “Especially electronic parts with a high platinum content.”

Mr. Allen, the detective continued, had ordered an examination of the company’s books. Everything had tallied.

Recently he had had a meeting with a Mr. Cosgrove, whose firm was one of Stanwide’s largest customers. Mr. Cosgrove had threatened to sever business relations with Stanwide because of the shortages. The publicity resulting from such a move could be extremely damaging to Stanwide, Mr. Hardy said—even more damaging than the loss in orders.

“It sounds like an interesting case,” said Joe. “When do we begin?”

“Tomorrow,” Mr. Hardy said. “First we’re going to stop at the doctor’s office and have him check those bruises of yours. Then we’ll drive out to Stanwide to meet Mr. Allen. I’m arranging to have you boys pose as company employees.”

“Employees?” queried Frank.

“Yes,” his father answered. “Actually, you are going to be doing a factory investigation job.”

CHAPTER III

The Ghost Pilot

THE next morning, after the doctor had assured Mr. Hardy that the boys were fit, the detective and his two sons proceeded to the Stanwide Mining Equipment Company for a meeting with Mr. Allen. Soon they were being ushered into a spacious, paneled office.

A graying, distinguished-looking man arose from behind a desk and extended his hand in greeting. Mr. Hardy introduced Frank and Joe. After handshakes Mr. Allen gestured for all of them to take chairs.

The tall executive studied the boys for a moment, then glanced at Mr. Hardy. “I’ve already made arrangements for your sons to be hired as summer employees of our firm.”

“Good,” Mr. Hardy answered. “I’m convinced that this is the only way the case will be solved—by someone working on the inside.”

“Our posing as employees,” Frank spoke up, “will allow Joe and me to investigate without anyone becoming suspicious.”

“I hate to think that any of my employees may be mixed up in this,” Mr. Allen said with a sigh. “However, I’ll do anything to help clear up the mystery.”

“Dad tells us that most of the shortages are of parts that contain platinum,” Joe remarked.

“That’s correct,” replied Mr. Allen. “It’s understandable, too, for they would be the most valuable.”

“Where do you obtain your platinum?” Frank queried.

“We purchase it in large quantities from a firm in Canada.”

As they discussed the case, Mr. Allen noticed the brothers glancing at a strange voodoo figurine mounted on the wall.

“I see you boys are interested in my little curio,” he said.

“Yes, we are,” Frank admitted.

“The figurine is more to me than just an ornament,” Mr. Allen said sadly. “It is also a reminder of a tragedy that occurred several months ago.”

The Hardys listened intently as he related the story. His firm owned a subsidiary company known as Stanwide Research and Development Laboratories. Its function was to conduct exploratory mining work in various parts of the world.

Recently, an expedition had been sent in one of the firm’s aircraft to Ile de la Mer, a small uninhabited island far out in the Caribbean. During the return trip the plane had developed engine trouble and crashed into the sea. Only the copilot, Lance Peterson, had survived. The pilot, Clint Hill, and three mineralogists had gone down in the sinking aircraft. Lance Peterson was now chief pilot for the company.

“I considered Clint Hill not only a loyal employee,” said Mr. Allen, “but also a close friend. It was Clint who sent me the figurine. I was shocked and grieved when he was lost.”

Mr. Allen sat silent for a few seconds, then came back to the case at hand.

“Now, about your employment,” he said to the boys. “Your father asked me to select jobs that would give you as much freedom to roam around the plant as possible. I think an assignment as plant messengers would fill the bill.”

“That’s perfect,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

Mr. Allen asked the boys when they would like to start.

“How about tomorrow?” Frank suggested. “The sooner the better.”

Mr. Hardy informed his sons that right now he and Mr. Allen were going .to examine the firm’s employee files for possible suspects. He suggested that in the meantime Frank and Joe become acquainted with the layout of the plant.

Mr. Allen had one of his office clerks take the young detectives on a brief tour of Stanwide. Then they were introduced to Art Rodax, the man who was to be their boss. Rodax was heavy-set, with thinning hair and a sour-faced, belligerent expression. He seemed to develop an immediate dislike for the two new employees.

“Factory messengers, eh?” he blurted. “I don’t need any more help.”

“But we’ve already been hired,” said Joe. “We start tomorrow morning.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing I can do about it,” Rodax growled. “But let me catch you lying down on the job just once and you won’t last a day.”

He was still grumbling when the boys left to return to Mr. Allen’s office.

“Boy!” Joe exploded. “I’m sure glad we aren’t really going to be working for that sourball.”

“Me too,” said Frank. “He’d make a starving man lose his appetite!”

Mr. Hardy told the boys that his examination of the employee files would take longer than expected. Since Mr. Allen had offered to drive him home later, he suggested that his sons take the car and go now.

“When I get home I’ll let you know if I find out anything,” the detective promised.

“Okay, Dad,” said Frank. “Joe and I want to stop at the airport on the way back to double-check with Lou at the tower on all of last night’s flights.”

Light rain was falling, and a heavy prefrontal fog was beginning to move in as the Hardys arrived at the field. They walked to the tower and climbed the winding steps to the top.

As they entered the control room, Lou Diamond, the tower chief, waved a greeting. A short, stocky, good-natured man, with crew-cut red hair, he nevertheless had an air of authority.

“You boys picked a fine day to pay us a visit,” he said with a laugh. “In a little while that fog will be so thick you can walk on it.”

The Hardys peered through the tinted panes of glass enclosing the control room. Already the ramp area immediately below was vanishing in a milky fog.

“We’re not here just for a visit,” Frank announced. “We thought you might help us by giving out some information.”

The young detectives then told the tower chief about their encounter with the low-flying aircraft the night before.

“Were you able to identify the type of aircraft, or get its registration number?” Diamond asked.

“It was too dark for positive identification,” Joe replied. “Anyway, we were both busy ducking!”

Diamond looked thoughtful. “Funny. I know of no private landing fields in that area.” He paused. “There have been several strange things going on in the air around here lately,” he said.

“What kind of strange things?” Frank asked.

“At night we’ve picked up messages between planes that must be in code. They sure make no sense.”

Suddenly a light flashed on the console and one of the radio speakers crackled to life. It was the unicom frequency used by flight students for practice and by pilots wishing to communicate with one another in the air.

“Bayport tower! This is Highflite One-Four-Alfa!” the pilot identified his craft, using Alfa for A. “How do you read?”

To the boys’ astonishment, the tower chief’s normally ruddy face turned pale. He picked up a microphone, then stood motionless, apparently unable to speak. Finally, in a quivering voice, he responded:

“High ... Highflite One-Four-Alfa! This is Bayport tower. Reading you loud and clear.”

“This is One-Four-Alfa. Not on an instrument flight plan. We are on top at thirteen thousand. Can you get us cleared for an ILS approach at Bayport?”

“Negative, One-Four-Alfa,” replied the tower chief. “Bayport is now below ILS minimums. Advise you contact Air Traffic Control on the proper frequency.”

There was no answer from the aircraft. Diamond seemed to be under a great strain. He placed the microphone on a table and mopped perspiration from his face.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked anxiously.

“The aircraft that just called! That identification number!” the tower chief said in a shaky voice.

“What about the identification?” Joe urged.

“That’s the number of the plane once owned by Stanwide Mining! The one that crashed in the sea several months ago!”

“M-m-m, that surely is strange,” Frank said, frowning.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” replied the tower chief. “But I’m sure of one thing. The pilot who called sounded exactly like Clint Hill!”

Just then the radio speaker again crackled to life. A weird sound, like a disembodied chuckle, came eerily from it. Then a voice spoke. “The dead can tell no tales!”

“That is Clint Hill!” Diamond murmured, looking like a ghost himself.

“What do you make of it?” Frank asked.

“Only one thing,” said Diamond in a frightened voice. “I never used to believe in ghosts. But now I do!”

CHAPTER IV

Police Orders

FRANK and Joe, startled by the unearthly voice, were equally amazed by the tower chief’s admission that he believed in ghosts!

“There must be some other explanation,” Frank said.

“Well, maybe. I guess I lost my head for a moment. But there’s no way we can check on the aircraft,” Diamond declared. “Our field doesn’t have airport surveillance radar, and the pilot said he wasn’t on an instrument flight plan, so Air Traffic Control wouldn’t have any record on him.”

“You are required to keep a record on tape of all two-way communications between the tower and aircraft, aren’t you?” asked Frank.

“Yes,” Diamond replied.

“Could it be arranged for us to borrow a copy of the tape with Hill’s voice on it?”

“I’ll have to check with our regional office,” said the tower chief. “But in view of the circumstances, I’m sure it will be all right.”

The boys, puzzled by this airport mystery, left the control tower and headed for the terminal building.

“Let’s find a telephone and call Mr. Allen,” said Frank. “I want to tell him what happened, and also ask him where we can find Lance Peterson.”

Mr. Allen was astounded at hearing the news about Clint Hill. He was certain that it was someone’s gruesome idea of a joke. Frank then asked him if he had heard anything about the strange coded messages that Lou Diamond had mentioned.

“No, I haven’t.”

Frank next inquired where he could find Lance Peterson, and was told that he should be in his office at the Stanwide hangar.

The Hardys walked along the north side of the Bayport field until they came to the Stanwide hangar. It was a huge metal and stone structure with a high convex roof. On each side of the building were lean-tos which housed the shops and offices of the company’s flight operations. The door to one of these offices was marked CHIEF PILOT.

The Hardys knocked, then opened the door and walked in. Standing near a window was a man of average height, with sandy-colored hair and a hard, weathered face. He turned and stared at the Hardys as they entered.

“Mr. Peterson?” asked Frank.

“That’s right,” the man replied. “What can I do for you?”

The boys introduced themselves and announced that they would like to ask him a few questions. Peterson agreed, and appeared quite calm and pleasant until Frank asked him about the crash at sea in which Clint Hill had been lost. Peterson’s face paled. He nervously sat down behind his desk and clutched both sides of the chair.

“We crashed, and that’s all there is to it!” he snapped. “Let’s drop the subject.”

“What was the cause of the crash?” Joe asked.

“The airplane’s at the bottom of the ocean,” said the pilot. “There’s no way I can check for the reasons.”

“You were in the plane,” Frank countered. “Can’t you make a guess?”

“Both engines quit,” Peterson said. “In those circumstances, fuel contamination is the most probable cause.”

“Are you certain Clint Hill is dead?” Joe queried.

“Of course he is!” Peterson answered impatiently. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because his ghost contacted the tower just a little while ago,” Frank announced.

“I’m not in the mood for bad jokes,” shouted the pilot, leaping to his feet. He glanced at his wrist watch. “Anyway, I’m scheduled to fly in a few minutes. I’ll have to go.”

The boys left the office, with Peterson trailing close behind them. He pulled the door shut, locked it, then walked off without saying another word.

“What do you make of him?” Joe asked his brother.

“Our questions sure made him uneasy. If you ask me, he’s trying to cover up something.”

The young detectives decided to look around the hangar for possible clues to the mystery. They entered by a side door and acted very casual, as if interested only in seeing the aircraft stored there. They had covered nearly half the premises when a young man came strolling out of the pilots’ lounge.

“Hey, look!” said Joe. “There’s Jerry Madden!”

The young pilot was a wiry, good-looking youth whose brother was a teammate of the Hardys on the school’s varsity football squad.

“Hello, Jerry!” called Frank.

Jerry turned. When he saw the boys, who ran to meet him, his face broke into a wide smile.

“Hi! What are you fellows doing out here at our lil ole aerodrome?” he asked with a laugh. “Getting the yen to do some aviating?”

“We’d like nothing better than a short hop in a sightseeing plane,” Frank said with a grin, in an effort to explain their presence without arousing Jerry’s curiosity. “But the weather has other ideas. So we decided just to roam around and look at the planes.”

“What are you doing here?” Joe asked Jerry.

“I have a job flying for the Stanwide company,” Jerry explained. “I was hired soon after I received my instruments and multiengine ratings last spring.”

As they talked, the boys were not aware that a uniformed policeman was approaching from behind. The officer hailed them.

“What are you fellows doing here?” he demanded.

“I work here, Officer,” Jerry said.

“And who are you two?” the policeman said, eying the Hardys carefully.

“They’re Frank and—” Jerry began.

“Let them speak for themselves,” interrupted the policeman.

“I’m Frank Hardy. This is my brother, Joe. We’re going to work for Stanwide.”

“I’ll have to see some identification.”

The boys extracted cards from their wallets and handed them to the policeman. He examined the cards, then suddenly became apologetic.

“I know of you and your father by reputation,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

Suddenly Joe sensed that they were being watched. He glanced to his left, without turning his head, and out of the corner of his eye glimpsed a man’s face peering at them from behind an airplane near the entrance. But the face drew back out of sight before Joe could distinguish the features.

“Are you boys here on a case?” the policeman asked.

“We’re on vacation. This is a summer job,” Joe replied, speaking more loudly than usual for the benefit of the man behind the plane. “We were just looking at the company’s airplanes.” He nudged Frank to agree.

“What seems to be the trouble, Officer?” Jerry questioned.

“Our desk sergeant received a call saying that two prowlers had been seen in this hangar,” the policeman explained.

“Do you know who made the call?” Frank asked.

“No, it was anonymous.”

Joe glanced in the direction where he had seen the face. It did not reappear. He motioned Frank to keep talking, then darted to where he had spotted the eavesdropper. No one was there.

The young detective quietly moved in the direction he thought the stranger must have taken. Joe found it awkward trying to maneuver, unseen, around the closely packed aircraft. Suddenly he spotted a stocky man in mechanic’s clothes walking quickly toward Lance Peterson’s office. Joe hid behind the tail section of an aircraft and watched. Upon reaching Peterson’s door, the mechanic anxiously jiggled the knob. Finding it locked, he walked away and out of sight.

Joe returned to Frank and the others. He apologized for going off so abruptly. “Thought I saw one of the real prowlers, but I must have been mistaken.”

“How many mechanics do you have working here, Jerry?” Frank asked.

“Eight,” he answered. “But there’s only one on duty in the hangar today—Mike Zimm. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I’m just curious,” Frank said nonchalantly. “Joe, it’s time we started for home.”

The boys, accompanied by Jerry and the policeman, walked toward the door of the hangar. As they neared it, Frank and Joe noticed something that brought them to a stop. On the floor lay a splintered section of wooden board.

The boys thought it strange that a piece of debris like that should be left on a floor so spotlessly clean.

Apparently the policeman thought so too. He bent down and picked up the board. Under it was a set of footprints, embedded deeply in the concrete.

“I wonder whose they are,” said Frank.

Jerry Madden moved closer and gazed down at the floor.

“I know whose footprints they are,” he said. “Clint Hill’s.”

CHAPTER V

Warehouse Crash

“CLINT Hill’s footprints!” Joe exclaimed. “How do you know, Jerry?”

“The head of our company, Mr. Allen, was very fond of Clint,” the pilot explained. “Shortly before he was lost in a crash at sea, the hangar floor was resurfaced with new concrete. Mr. Allen, perhaps partly in fun, asked Clint to make the prints. I wasn’t here at the time, but it’s a well-known story around the flight department.”

The Hardys studied the footprints carefully. They noticed that the instep of the right foot was narrower than that of the left.

The policeman, who had to get back to his regular duties, said good-by. Jerry watched his young detective friends as they continued their study of the prints.

“I saw something just before I met you fellows that perhaps I should tell you,” he said.

“What’s that?” Frank asked.

“A man’s arm reached in through the door and placed that board over the prints,” Jerry explained.

“That’s funny,” Frank commented.

Jerry went on, “I didn’t attach any importance to it at the time. In fact, I’d forgotten about it until I saw how interested you were in those prints. Maybe the person is still around.”

The boys dashed outside the hangar, but saw no one.

“We’ve heard of Clint Hill a couple of times today,” Joe told Jerry, but did not explain further.

After requesting Jerry to keep his eyes open and report to the Hardys any unusual goings-on around the hangar, the brothers left for home. Both were quiet, pondering over all that had happened during their visit to the hangar. Why had Hill’s footprints been covered? Was it to make certain the boys would not see them? And who had reported the presence of two prowlers to the police? Then there was the mechanic, Mike Zimm. Had he been the man who had eavesdropped on their conversation? The case, the boys agreed, was becoming even more puzzling.

During supper they related their day’s adventure to the family.

“Mighty queer business,” Aunt Gertrude commented. “You boys had better watch your step. I don’t know what we’re coming to when a company’s employees can’t walk around its private hangar without someone setting the police on them!”

The boys and their parents smiled. They were used to Aunt Gertrude’s outbursts. Frank and Joe assured her they would try to duck any danger.

The next morning, Thursday, the boys rose for an early breakfast, eager to start their work at the Stanwide factory. Dressed in light khaki work pants and shirts, and equipped with appetizing lunches prepared by their mother and Aunt Gertrude, they drove off to the plant.

Frank and Joe reported to their boss, Art Rodax, exactly on time. Apparently this was not good enough.

“I want all new workers in my department to be here twenty minutes early!” Rodax growled.

“Is that a company rule?” Joe asked in surprise.

“It’s my rule!” Rodax announced angrily. “Break it just once and you’re out!”

He then thrust two large handfuls of work orders at Frank and Joe.

“You’ve got thirty minutes to deliver these and get back here!” he bellowed.

The boys moved quickly and just managed to return on time. Rodax appeared to be disappointed. He had underestimated the Hardys’ efficiency. To make their task harder, he gave them a number of other chores in addition to their regular duties.

That evening the brothers went to bed immediately after supper, completely exhausted. Their second day on the job did not differ much from the first. Frank and Joe noticed that other employees of the department were given little to do.

“Good thing the weekend’s coming up,” Joe grumbled. “The way Rodax drives us, he could have had all the Cape Kennedy gantries finished in two weeks!”

“What bothers me most,” Frank complained, “is that we’re not getting much of an opportunity to investigate.”

Yet the boys did not want to report the situation to Mr. Allen. There would be little the executive could do to help, they thought, without arousing suspicion.

Monday the young detectives had an unexpected change in luck. Rodax was assigned for the day to another section of the factory to help supervise the installation of a new duplicating machine. Grateful to have comparative freedom, even if just for the short time, the boys divided the work orders assigned them.

“Meet me in the warehouse at lunch hour,” said Frank. “We can compare notes then, and at the same time look around the building.”

“See you there about twelve o‘clock,” Joe answered as he picked up a bundle of the orders and started off on his rounds.

Both boys watched carefully for anything suspicious in each department they visited. Not a single clue was uncovered to the mystery of the disappearance of Stanwide’s platinum components.

A few minutes past noon Frank and Joe greeted each other in the firm’s large warehouse. It was divided into two main sections for incoming and outgoing shipments. Stacks of cardboard boxes and wooden crates towered almost to the ceiling. There were also several pieces of heavy machinery stored along one wall in a neat row.

The Hardys found a wooden crate and sat down side by side to eat their lunches. They glanced around to make sure there were no other workers about. The only sound was the steady hum of the warehouse’s ventilating system. As a precaution, the boys spoke in low voices.

“Did you have any luck?” Frank queried.

“I didn’t come up with a single clue.” Joe sighed with disappointment.

“I didn’t find anything, either,” Frank confessed.

He told Joe he had investigated the handling of shipments from beginning to end, even to checking the bills of lading to see if they had been tampered with. His examination had revealed nothing.

“Whoever’s running this platinum racket is a slick operator,” Joe remarked.

Unheard by the boys over the hum of the ventilating system, an overhead hoist was being put into operation. It was only a short distance behind the two young detectives. A heavy piece of machinery was slowly lifted off the floor, then edged to a position directly above Frank and Joe.

Suddenly the boys were startled to hear the sharp, metallic snap of a release clutch. This was immediately followed by a deep whirling sound directly above them. Frank and Joe looked up instantly. A massive bulk of metal was plunging toward them!

The boys made a frantic leap and went tumbling across the floor. The hurtling object pulverized the crate on which they had been seated, and sent splinters of wood and metal in all directions.

“That was close!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank said grimly, “Someone did that on purpose!”

As the boys scrambled to their feet, a door slammed violently at the far end of the warehouse. The Hardys ran to the door and flung it open. No one was in sight. They hurried outside and were about to search the area when they were confronted by a company guard.

“Hold it!” he ordered. “What’s going on here?”

“Did you see anyone run from the warehouse just now?” asked Frank.

“No one but you two!” the guard retorted. “I thought I heard a loud crash inside the building. What happened?”

The boys told him of the incident, and added that immediately after the crash they had heard someone fleeing from the building.

The guard eyed them with suspicion. “We’d better go inside and take a look.”

Frank and Joe were annoyed at being delayed but had no choice in the matter. The man herded them into the warehouse and peered down at the huge, twisted piece of machinery on the floor. It not only had crushed the wooden crate, but had embedded itself deep in the concrete floor.

“What’s the big idea of lying about this?” he thundered. “You caused this accident, but you’re blaming it on someone else!”

“We had nothing to do with it!” Joe protested angrily. “And besides, we might have been killed. We were sitting on that very crate.”

“Oh, yeah?” the guard sneered.

Frank looked hard at the man. “We demand to see Mr. Allen!” he said.

“The head of the company?” the guard asked. “Fine chance of that. Mr. Allen’s a busy man. He wouldn’t have time to talk to a couple of kids.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that!” Joe warned.

The massive bulk of metal plunged toward the boys

The guard was bewildered by the demand. He broke into a nervous grin.

“We don’t have to bother Mr. Allen,” he said. “Somebody might lose his job because of this. Besides, this equipment is being discarded. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

The young detectives did not answer. They left the warehouse and returned to their jobs.

“That guard certainly changed his attitude in a hurry when we asked to see Mr. Allen,” Joe remarked.

“Perhaps he’s afraid that he’d lose his own job for not keeping a closer eye on things,” Frank suggested. “After what happened, we’d better watch our step around here!”

After supper that evening Frank and Joe joined their father in his study. The boys told him about their narrow escape, and of their failure to uncover any clues.

“I’m sure our real reason for working at Stanwide is suspected,” said Frank.

Mr. Hardy agreed, and added, “As long as you continue to work at Stanwide, the thieves will probably lie low and you won’t learn anything. Besides, it’s too dangerous for you there. Your close call in the warehouse sounds as if the thieves are already trying desperately to get rid of you.”

The sleuth advised his sons to report to Mr. Allen everything that had happened, then resign their jobs.

“Work on the case from the outside,” he advised. “I’ll arrange to obtain a clearance for you at the airport, so you can roam around just like the regular personnel.”

Frank smiled. “Then we’ll have lots of time to keep a close watch on Stanwide’s hangar.”

Joe nodded. “And also, I’d like to investigate the wooded area where we saw Bush Barney. That mystery hasn’t been solved.”

“Good idea,” Frank replied. “And let’s make our first look an over-all one—from the air.”

CHAPTER VI

Aerial Mission

“THE meterologist at the airport says it should be clear tomorrow,” Frank announced as he put down the telephone.

“I’ll call Ace Air Service first thing in the morning and arrange to schedule an airplane,” said Mr. Hardy. “What time do you boys want to take off?”

“We plan to photograph the wooded area with our aerial camera,” Frank answered. “If we arrive there shortly after twelve o‘clock, the sun will be almost directly overhead. There won’t be any shadows from trees and other objects.”

“Good thinking,” Mr. Hardy said approvingly. “You’ll be less likely to miss important details that might be hidden if there were shadows.”

The investigator said that, meanwhile, he would check into the ownership of the land.

“If it is private property,” said Joe, “I doubt it belongs to that fellow who chased us.”

At that instant Aunt Gertrude entered the study, carrying a large tray of brownies and lemonade. She placed it on Mr. Hardy’s desk.

“I’m sure you can all forget about your new case long enough to have a snack,” she said in a cajoling voice.

“Frank and I have to watch what we eat,” Joe said jokingly. “We don’t want to get airsick tomorrow.”

“Airsick?” the tall woman exclaimed, her eyes opening wider. “My word! So you boys intend to go flying around in a bouncy plane?”

“We’re just going up to take some pictures of crooks,” said Frank, grinning.

“Isn’t your detective work dangerous enough here on the ground?” Aunt Gertrude asked sharply.

Mr. Hardy reached out and patted his sister on the shoulder. “Doing detective work while flying isn’t any more of a risk than it is while riding in a car,” he told her reassuringly.

But Miss Hardy was not convinced. “At least in an automobile”—she sighed—“you can get out and walk if the motor stops!” Shaking her head, she left the study.

“By the way,” said Mr. Hardy, “a fellow from the Bayport control tower delivered a small package for you boys this morning.”

He extracted a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked his desk drawer, and took out the package. Frank eagerly opened it while Joe went to fetch their tape recorder.

“This,” Frank explained, “is the tape containing the conversation between the control tower and someone who sounds like Clint Hill. I thought if we listened to the recording several times, we might be able to identify the ‘ghost’ with one of our suspects.”

At that moment a stout, cheerful-looking boy strolled into the study.

“Hi, Chet!‘ The Hardys grinned at the new arrival.

Good-natured Chet Morton was one of Frank and Joe’s best pals. Although comfort-loving and not fond of danger, he was loyal and had often helped the brothers in solving mysteries.

“Hi, everyone!” Chet responded. Spotting the tray of refreshments, he eyed them hungrily.

“You’re just in time for a little snack,” said Frank, chuckling. Their friend’s large appetite was well known to all!

“Thanks. I thought I’d stop by and see what you and Joe are up to!”

Just then Joe returned with the recorder. Frank put the tape on the machine and snapped the “Start” switch. Seconds later a ghostly voice issued from the speaker.

“What is that?” queried Chet with a look of genuine astonishment.

“You’re listening to a ghost.” Joe grinned.

“Ghost!” Chet replied scornfully. “That caterwauling wouldn’t even scare a nervous cat.”

They played the tape several times. Chet tried to imitate the eerie voice.

“The dead can tell no tales!” said the tape.

“The dead can tell no tales!” Chet repeated.

“That’s a pretty good imitation.” Frank laughed. “Maybe you can get work haunting houses.”

The Hardys listened to the tape a few more times, but were unable to associate the “ghost” with any of the suspects they had encountered.

Chet, who by now had consumed most of the brownies, glanced at his watch and announced it was time for him to go home. As he left the study, the boys were amused to hear him mumbling, “The dead can tell no tales!”

The next morning Frank and Joe drove to the Stanwide Mining Equipment Company. Mr. Allen welcomed them with a smile as they entered his office.

“How has the case been coming?” he asked. “Have you managed to uncover any clues?”

“We haven’t found much to go on,” Frank said regretfully.

The boys told him about their visit to the Stanwide hangar, and described all that had happened during their masquerade as employees. Mr. Allen expressed deep concern over their narrow escape in the warehouse.

The Hardys said they were certain that, somehow, information had leaked out as to their real reasons for working in the plant. He agreed that it might be too dangerous for them to continue their undercover work there.

“I’m disturbed to hear about Art Rodax’s conduct,” Mr. Allen declared. “I won’t have a man of his character working for my company!”

“I suggest you say nothing to him,” Frank urged. “Every one of your employees is a suspect at present. If Rodax is fired, it may spoil our chances of getting to the bottom of the platinum thefts.”

Frank also pointed out that it would be unwise for Joe and himself to resign suddenly from their jobs. This might make it appear that their investigation had uncovered some clues and would put whoever was involved in the thefts doubly on guard.

“Then what will you do?” Mr. Allen asked.

“We’ll get ourselves fired,” said Frank.

“How?” his brother questioned.

“From the beginning, Rodax has resented our being hired,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s because he’s mixed up in the racket, and he knows about us. Anyhow, I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t need much of an excuse to fire us.”

Frank glanced at his wrist watch. “You know how fussy he is about having us report for work twenty minutes early. Well, we’re now nearly an hour late. That should do it.”

After telling Mr. Allen that they would keep him posted on any new developments in the case, the young detectives went off to the messenger department. When they came face to face with Rodax, Frank could see that his plan was working out even better than he had expected.

“Do you know what time it is!” shouted Rodax. Although he seemed furious, the boys could sense that he was actually pleased with the situation.

“We couldn’t get here any earlier,” said Joe.

“You won’t have to worry about that any more!” Rodax bellowed. “You’re fired!”

The boys pretended to be angry and concerned. “We’ll report this to the main office!” Frank blazed.

“Go ahead!” Rodax yelled. “See how far that will get you!” He turned and stalked off with a self-satisfied air.

The boys left the factory and started for the airfield. On the way they discussed Rodax briefly.

“I wonder how pleased old sour face would be,” Joe remarked, “if he realized he’d played right into our hands!”

A few minutes later the Hardys were walking toward a small frame building. A sign reading “Ace Air Service” spanned its entire width along the roof. Another, smaller sign, “Office & Operations,” hung above the doorway. On the aircraft parking ramp the boys saw three single-engine and two multiengine aircraft bearing the firm’s name. As they entered the building, a voice called to them:

“Frank and Joe Hardy?”

The boys turned to see a tall, lean man walking toward them. He wore a tan cloth jacket and sunglasses with green-tinted lenses. He extended his hand in greeting.

“I’m Randy Watson,” he said. “I fly for Ace Air Service. I have a plane all set.” The pilot added he had often flown their father on trips. “I’ve heard a lot about you fellows,” he added, smiling. “Are you on a case, or just going on a sightseeing ride?”

Before answering, Frank walked over to a large aeronautical chart attached to the wall. With his finger he circled an area, colored in shades of light green and brown, northwest of Bayport.

“We want to take some aerial photographs in this locale,” he said. “Joe and I are sure we spotted an ex-convict there. We’re curious to know what he’s up to.”

Randy stepped close to the chart and estimated the distance between Bayport and the area Frank had indicated.

“That’s not far by air,” he observed. “We can use one of the single-engine ships.”

“We’d like to reach the area about noon,” said Frank.

The pilot checked his wrist watch. “That means we’ll have to take off within the next ten or fifteen minutes.”

Joe hurried to the airport restaurant to order sandwiches and milk for their lunch, while Frank returned to the brothers’ car to pick up the aerial camera and films. The boys reached the flight line just as Randy was completing a preflight check of the aircraft. In a few minutes they were strapped in their seats and taxiing toward the active runway.

The pilot remarked, “Because of the direction of the wind, that runway is the only one I can use to head the plane into the wind.”

He tuned his radio to the proper frequency and contacted Bayport tower. An immediate reply crackled from the plane’s receiver.

“Ace Service Flight Two-Six is cleared to runway One-Niner. Wind’s from the southeast at fifteen knots. Altimeter setting, Two-Niner-Eight-Six.”

Randy paused to check his instruments, controls, and engine magnetos. The tower then cleared him for immediate take-off. Turning into the runway, he eased the throttle ahead. Soon he and his passengers were airborne and taking a course to the northwest.

The boys gazed down at the earth below. The terrain became more hilly with each passing mile. The expanses of wooded areas looked like rumpled deep-green carpet. Here and there, lakes and small streams reflected the sun in bright flashes almost blinding in their intensity.

The pilot adjusted his course, checked his watch against the small clock mounted on the instrument panel, then said to Frank and Joe, “We should be coming up on the area you’re looking for in a few minutes.”

The Hardys scanned the surface below more intently. Far to the left, Frank saw a narrow ribbon of paved road that he surmised to be the highway from which he and Joe had turned onto the secondary road. Frank requested the pilot to fly closer to the highway.

“There it is!” declared Joe. “That must be the secondary road we drove along!”

Frank peered directly downward. The road itself was not visible, but a telltale cleft that snaked among the trees told him it was there. Randy banked steeply to the right and paralleled the road.

“Can we fly lower?” Frank asked.

Randy examined the terrain. “It seems to be pretty desolate. I think we can drop to a lower altitude without breaking any air regulations.”

The pilot eased back on the power and allowed the nose of the airplane to drop a few degrees below the horizon. The large hand of the altimeter slowly moved counterclockwise, indicating a descent.

Randy leveled out at about five hundred feet, skillfully avoiding the hills. The cleft in the trees grew wider, bringing the road into view.

“Look!” Joe yelled. “That’s where our car turned over. The saplings we used for leverage are still there!”

“Start taking pictures,” Frank ordered. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything of special interest.”

Joe gripped the camera and pointed it downward. Randy banked the plane so the young detective could take more direct aim. Joe made several exposures as the pilot circled the area, gradually widening his turns.

“I just spotted something!” Frank shouted.

“What is it?” Joe readied the camera.

“It looks like the roof of a small cabin,” Frank replied. “If the sun weren’t directly overhead, it would be hidden in the shadows. It’s surrounded by trees and brush.”

“I see it!” exclaimed Joe. He focused the camera and released the shutter.

“The cabin is near the spot where we saw Bush Barney,” Frank declared.

“Do you think he could be hiding out there?” Joe questioned.

“It’s possible. And perhaps our friend with the shotgun too!5”

The pilot rolled out of the turn. “We’ll fly straight and level for a few seconds,” he said. “If we continue those tight turns for too long, we might get vertigo.”

Their straight course took them over an area on the opposite side of the road. Frank suddenly noticed a rectangular-shaped field that looked like a pasture.

“Fly over that way,” he said to Randy, pointing almost directly ahead.

The pilot eased the plane into a course around the narrow clearing. Frank and Joe saw that the grassy field was bordered by trees and dense brush. At one end loomed a high, steep hill.

“What do you make of it?” Frank asked, glancing at the pilot. “Do you think a small plane could land there, and take off?”

“I doubt it,” Randy said. “But let’s go down for a closer look-see.”

He dropped the plane’s nose steeply, pulling out over the clearing below tree level. He carefully dragged the field, then applied full power and turned sharply away from the steep hill ahead.

“That clearing is only about nine hundred feet long,” he told the boys. “The approaches are very bad. I doubt whether anyone could get a plane in there without rolling it up into a ball. And even if a landing were possible, he’d never be able to take off again.”

The boys’ thoughts turned back to the airplane they had encountered on the road. If it had crashed, where was the wreckage? It must have pulled up and gone off. Did the roadblock and the red flare have something to do with the maneuver ?

Frank took over with the camera. Quickly reloading it, he photographed the open area. Joe peered through his binoculars. Suddenly he snapped up in his seat.

“Down in the clearing!” he shouted. “See those two men stalking along the edge!”

The pilot banked the plane and lined up for another low pass. As they approached, Frank also spotted the two figures. Joe focused his binoculars more sharply.

“I’m not sure,” he yelled excitedly, “but I think one of those men is Bush Barney!”

As the plane roared closer, the two men whirled around. They glanced up, then turned and ran into the woods.

“Quick!” Frank shouted to Randy. “Pull around and make another low pass!”

The pilot again pulled up steeply to turn away from the hill ahead. But just as he pushed the throttle forward for more power, the engine suddenly sputtered, then quit completely. Randy immediately dropped the nose in an effort to keep flying speed and avoid a stall.

The boys looked ahead. Through the windshield all they could see was a formidable array of trees, dense brush, and hills strewn with rocks and boulders. They tightened their seat belts and braced themselves for the worst. There was no place to land. They would have to crash!

CHAPTER VII

A Strange Request

RANDY Watson, his face grim, desperately switched fuel tanks. He pumped the throttle but the engine failed to react.

He put the plane into a gentle turn and headed down a narrow valley. The propeller slowly wind milled in the slipstream, as the anxious Hardys watched the ominous terrain rising steadily toward them.

The pilot continued to manipulate the fuel valves, mixture control, and throttle. Frank nervously glanced at the altimeter. They were rapidly losing altitude.

Finally Randy reached for a toggle switch marked “Booster Pump” and snapped it to the “On” position. He pumped the throttle vigorously. Suddenly the engine backfired—once, then twice. The boys held their breaths. There was a chugging sound for a few seconds! Then the engine roared to life.

Randy pushed the throttle to full power. Already the tops of trees were whipping against the plane, leaving green-colored streaks along the leading edges of the wings. The pilot eased back on the control stick and managed to pull away from the treetops. Ahead, he saw that the valley bent sharply to the right.

He banked the plane into a tight turn and followed the valley’s course. It seemed to grow narrower second by second; the steep hills flanking each side squeezed closer. Randy checked the airspeed indicator, then raised the nose to gain altitude. Soon the hilltops were flashing by below them.

“Whew!” Joe exclaimed. “That was too close for comfort.”

“What happened to the engine?” Frank asked the pilot.

“Fuel-pump failure, I think,” Randy said. “Right now, we’re operating on the booster. It’s acting as a kind of auxiliary pump, and should keep the engine running long enough to get us back to Bayport.”

During the return trip Frank removed the second roll of film from the camera, and placed it with the other one on the seat beside him. Eventually the airport came into view, and Randy radioed the control tower for a straight-in approach. The boys could see an emergency truck stationed near the runway as they touched down.

A small crowd had already collected on the parking ramp as they taxied in. One of the group was Jerry Madden.

“What happened?” he queried anxiously.

“The pilot thinks it was fuel-pump failure,” Frank answered.

“I heard him declare an emergency on the radio in the hangar,” said Jerry. “When Lance Peterson heard you fellows were aboard, he asked to see you right away.”

“Lance Peterson?” Frank said wonderingly. “He wants to see Joe and me?”

The Hardys were so amazed at hearing Peterson’s request that they momentarily forgot about their photographing mission and near crash. They hurried immediately to the chief pilot’s office.

When the brothers arrived, Peterson greeted them with a smile. His attitude had apparently undergone a complete change since they had met the first time.

“I hear you boys had a pretty dose call,” he remarked.

“Close enough!” Frank responded tersely. He was eager to find out why Peterson had asked to see them.

The chief pilot looked haggard and worried. He sat down and nervously tapped the top of his desk with a pencil.

“I learned only recently that you two are amateur detectives,” he said.

“Yes, we are,” Frank admitted. “But what has that to do with your asking to see us?”

“I want you to take a case for me,” said Peterson. “Please don’t refuse.”

Frank and Joe were startled at the request. There was silence for a moment, then Frank spoke up. “What kind of case?”

Peterson spoke in a hushed voice. He repeated the story about the crash at sea in which Clint Hill had been lost.

“I was copilot on that trip, and the only survivor,” he said.

“We know all that,” Joe said impatiently.

Peterson’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. The boys had difficulty hearing him.

“As pilot in command,” he said—almost plead ingly, the boys thought—“Hill was responsible for the accident.”

Peterson grew even more tense. Perspiration began to show on his face.

“But for some reason”—he went on in a quavering voice, then paused as he got up and came to stand directly in front of the boys—“Clint Hill has started to haunt me!”

“Haunt you?” Frank exclaimed. “In what way could a dead man haunt you?”

“Clint used to whistle a lot,” said Peterson. “His favorite tune was ‘High Journey.’ Now I keep hearing him whistle it—here, at home, over my plane radio. Sometimes he breaks off and laughs!”

“Are you sure somebody isn’t just playing a joke on you?” Joe suggested.

“No!” the pilot answered. “A few days ago I heard him radio the tower for landing instructions. Then he flew off, saying, ‘The dead can tell no tales.’ It all came in clearly on my office radio receiver over there,” he said, pointing to a box-shaped unit which stood on a table across the room. “I realize now you boys weren’t joking.”

“This is very unusual,” said Frank. “But what can Joe and I do for you?”

“I know I’m not hearing things,” Peterson stated. “Somebody is trying to drive me out of my mind, probably to get my job. I want you boys to find out who it is!”

“Chasing ghosts is a bit out of our line,” Frank said. “We’ll have to think it over.”

Peterson appeared desperate. “I wish you would start on the case now,” he said. “But if you must think it over, let me know as soon as you decide.”

The Hardys left Peterson’s office and started back to the Ace Air Service parking ramp. As they walked, the brothers discussed this new and puzzling development.

“I’d say he was off his rocker,” commented Joe, “if it weren’t for the fact that we too heard the voice of Clint Hill’s ghost.”

“Could be,” said Frank. “But I don’t go along with Peterson’s idea that someone is trying to drive him out of his mind in order to get his job.”

Joe agreed and asked Frank if he thought they should take the case. Frank replied that it would be best to discuss the matter with their father before making any decision.

As they arrived at the parking ramp, the young sleuths saw Randy Watson standing near the airplane with a mechanic.

“Find the trouble?” Frank called.

“It was the fuel pump that caused the engine to fail!” Randy replied.

“Thanks to your skill,” Frank said with a smile, “we avoided becoming a permanent part of the landscape!”

Randy said he hoped the trip had not been a waste of time.

“Oh, no. We managed to get plenty of pictures before the engine quit,” Frank answered. “Incidentally, we’d better get the films developed just as soon as possible,” he said to Joe.

The young detectives climbed into the cabin of the plane. They were puzzled not to find the camera and containers of film where they had left them.

Frank shouted to Randy, who was standing on the ramp, “Did you take the camera and films into the operations building?”

“No,” the pilot responded with a startled air. “Are you certain they’re not in the cabin?”

The boys searched again, becoming more frantic with each second.

“Were you away from the plane at any time?” Frank asked Randy.

“Only for a few minutes when I went to get a mechanic.”

The Hardys stared into the empty cabin.

“Those valuable pictures!” Frank burst out. “Our films! They’ve been stolen!”

CHAPTER VIII

Masked Attacker

THERE was a moment of thunderstruck silence. Who had stolen the Hardys’ camera and films and why?

Randy was apologetic, saying he felt responsible for leaving the plane unattended. “I’ll pay for the loss,” he declared.

“We wouldn’t consider it,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Besides, it’s not so much the camera we’re worried about.”

“The films?”

“Right,” Joe added quickly. He cast a glance at his brother. “You probably have the same suspicion I do, Frank. The thief might have wanted to prevent us from developing those pictures.”

“Then why did he take the camera too?” was Randy’s next query.

“Because he figured there was more exposed film in it,” Frank explained.

“Good reasoning,” Randy agreed.

The boys recalled the small crowd that had collected on the ramp when their plane taxied in. Jerry Madden had been among them. Perhaps, Frank thought, he might know who some of the other onlookers were. The young detectives returned to the Stanwide hangar to question Jerry.

“I recognized only two faces in the crowd,” said Jerry, after the boys told him about the theft. “Mike Zimm, the mechanic, and Aaron Lieber, a copilot mechanic, who seems to be a special pal of Lance Peterson’s.”

“Zimm again.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Odd, the way he keeps popping up in our case.”

“Sure is,” said Joe. “I’ll bet that snoopy mechanic is somehow mixed up in the platinum business, but why would he want our films?”

The Hardys finally decided to trail Zimm and Lieber when the two men quit work for the day. Frank asked Jerry for a description of Lieber, then requested the pilot to check the men’s lockers for the stolen camera.

“They keep them locked,” Jerry said. “Everyone around here does. But the doors have slats a little wider than is usual. Maybe I can peer in through the openings. I’ll try after Zimm and Lieber leave.”

The Hardys hurried from the hangar. Frank hid behind some engine crates a short distance away. Joe, at his brother’s direction, went to the airport terminal building to telephone Chet Morton and another friend, Biff Hooper. Their pals’ help might come in handy if the Hardys ran into trouble while tailing Zimm and Lieber.

It was not long before Joe returned. “We’re in luck,” he said. “Chet can use his father’s produce delivery truck, which will be a good cover-up. He’s starting for the airport immediately, and will pick up Biff on the way. I told Chet to wait for us near our car in the visitors’ parking lot.”

Nearly half an hour passed before Zimm and a thin, bony-faced man with beady eyes emerged from the Stanwide hangar. “Aaron Lieber,” muttered Frank. The young sleuths watched the men carefully. Neither of them carried anything, and the aerial camera was too bulky to be hidden beneath their coats. The pair stopped for a few minutes and talked in low tones, then got into separate cars and drove off.

Frank and Joe dashed to the visitors’ parking lot. There they recognized the Mortons’ farm truck and ran to it. Behind the wheel was the Hardys’ stout chum, and seated next to him, was tall, lanky Biff Hooper. Biff was an energetic boy, who prided himself on his boxing ability.

“There’s no time to lose!” Frank declared. “Joe, you go with Chet in the truck and follow Lieber. I’ll take Biff with me in our car and tail Zimm!”

The two vehicles drove off and headed toward the airport exit, through which the two suspects would have had to pass. The boys’ timing was perfect. They neared the exit just as the cars driven by Zimm and Lieber pulled out onto the main road.

After driving a short distance, the two men took different routes. Frank followed Zimm, dropping behind as far as possible so as not to be conspicuous. Joe and Chet went in pursuit of Lieber.

As Frank and Biff rode along, Frank briefly outlined the situation to his friend, who nodded enthusiastically. “You can count on me if there’s any trouble.” He set his jaw and skillfully executed several left jabs in the air.

“Save your energy,” Frank told him with a grin. “You might need it.”

The young sleuth kept his eyes fixed on the car ahead. As they entered town a short while later, he saw it slow down and stop. Zimm got out and went into a photographic shop. “Freeman’s Camera House,” Frank observed. He wondered if this was just a coincidence, or was Zimm planning to have the stolen films developed?

“When Zimm comes out,” he told Biff, “you take the car and follow him. I want to question the shop owner.”

“But when will we join up?” his friend asked.

Frank reached into his pocket and took out an emergency detective kit. From it he extracted a packet containing small pieces of vivid red paper, and handed it to Biff.

“As you drive,” he told him, “drop some of this paper every few seconds. That will leave a trail I can follow later.”

“But what if I run out of paper?” Biff asked.

“If you have to follow Zimm that far,” said Frank, “stay with him and find out where he goes. Then retrace your route. I’ll be following the trail on foot for as far as it takes me.

“In the meantime,” Frank went on, “I want to call Jerry Madden at the Stanwide hangar and ask him if he’s had an opportunity to check the men’s lockers.”

Frank got out of the car. He found a public telephone across the street, where he was able to call and still keep an eye on the camera shop.

Summoned to the phone, Jerry Madden told Frank that he had found no sign of the aerial camera in either of the lockers. Frank requested Jerry to keep his eyes open and to call Mr. Hardy should anything turn up.

Frank had just completed the call when he saw Zimm come out of the shop and get into his car. He drove off, with Biff trailing behind.

Frank hurried into the camera shop. A man of medium height, with dark hair, was jotting notes in his order book. He proved to be the owner, Mr, Freeman.

The young detective identified himself, and asked if Mr. Zimm, who had just been there, had left film to be developed. Mr. Freeman said the man had left four rolls to be developed, but had given him the name R. C. Williams.

Frank realized that it was possible the films really did belong to a man named Williams, and that Zimm was merely having them developed for him. There would be no way of knowing until the pictures were developed.

“Mr. Freeman,” said Frank, “we Hardys are suspicious these are films that were stolen from us.”

The proprietor was eager to help the boys find out. He promised that when the negatives and prints were returned from the laboratory he would notify Frank immediately.

“Thanks a lot,” Frank said, then left the shop. Daylight was beginning to fade, prompting him to hurry in search of the trail he had instructed Biff to mark. Almost immediately, he spotted the first bit of red paper. Then another piece, and another.

Frank estimated that he had walked nearly a mile when the trail led him onto a quiet residential street. He quickened his pace as darkness increased and a breeze sprang up, threatening to erase the paper trail. Dead ahead, he was suddenly elated to see his car parked on the street. As Frank neared it, he could see Biff at the wheel.

“How did things work out?” Frank asked in a low voice, as he eased into the seat beside his pal.

“Luckily your suspect reached his destination before I ran out of paper,” Biff said.

He pointed to a house a short distance away and told Frank that Zimm was inside.

“He lives there,” said Biff. “I got out and walked past the house. His name plate is posted on the lawn.”

Frank said that he wanted to watch the house a while. “Biff, how about your driving to the nearest store and picking up some sandwiches, milk, and ice cream for us? We may be here a long time.”

Biff went off and Frank stationed himself behind a tree. Daylight was now completely gone. The area was quiet, and light radiation fog was beginning to drift from the trees and shrubbery. Frank folded his arms against a chill that was developing in the air. He hoped that Biff would not be too long getting back.

Suddenly the stillness was disturbed by the sound of someone whistling. It seemed to be coming from the far side of Zimm’s house. Frank recognized the tune.

“High Journey!”

An eerie feeling gripped him. Was he hearing the ghost of Clint Hill?

The young detective bent low, crossed the street, and carefully edged toward the house. The sound, he was now certain, was coming from the far side of the dwelling. Frank slowly crept to the rear and listened. The whistle was louder now. He braced himself, then broke into a fast sprint.

As Frank rounded the corner of the house, he suddenly collided with a tall man. The force of the contact threw both of them to the ground. Dazed for a second, Frank took a deep breath, then scrambled to his feet.

The stranger also got up. He was wearing a mask! The man turned to run, but Frank was too fast for him. He managed to catch him by the collar. As the two tumbled and rolled across the ground, the stranger swung his fist.

Frank received a hard body blow that badly stunned him. The stranger leaped to his feet and ran. Frank made an effort to pursue him, but was too late. With consternation, he watched the masked figure vanish into the darkness.

CHAPTER IX

Alley Escape

MEANWHILE, Joe and Chet had followed Aaron Lieber to his apartment house. It was a small stone building with doors to the outside at both the front and rear.

They parked the truck half a block beyond it and hurried back. Joe quickly scrutinized the premises. Then he assigned Chet to guard the rear door, while he himself would watch the front.

“If Lieber has our camera hidden in his apartment, he may sneak it out,” Joe told him, “so keep your eyes open.”

“Okay,” Chet answered. “Say, this kind of work sure can give a man an appetite,” he hinted.

Joe knew that once his chum had felt the pangs of hunger, it was hopeless to try taking his mind off food. It took little prompting to send Chet rushing off to get both of them something to eat.

The young detective watched both the front door and the service alley of the apartment house. No one came out, and it was not long before his stout pal reappeared carrying sandwiches, cartons of chocolate milk, and fruit.

He handed Joe an apple. “This will do for an appetizer,” he announced.

Chet then divided the rest of the food and carried his portion down the narrow alleyway to take up his post at the rear door of the building.

Actually, Chet found two doors there. One was located at the top of a short iron stairway and led into the first floor of the apartment house.

The second, which obviously led to the basement, was situated directly below the other. Chet looked around and selected a vantage point in the shadow of an adjacent building.

“Guess nobody can see me here,” he thought.

As Chet began munching on his third sandwich, his eyes suddenly focused on the upper door. It was, he realized, being eased open. The figure of a man carrying a large package under his arm slowly emerged. Closing the door quietly behind him, he crept down the stairway.

“The camera!” Chet decided.

He bolted from the shadow of the building. The man spotted him immediately. Startled, the stranger turned and broke into a fast run up the alleyway coward the street. Chet took off after him, still holding his sandwich and carton of chocolate milk.

The distance between Chet and the man he was pursuing rapidly closed. In desperation, the stranger stopped and whirled about. Chet was caught off guard.

“You—you—!” the man hissed at him.

Holding the package with one hand, he reached out with the other and wrenched the carton of milk from Chet’s grasp. Then he threw its contents full force into the boy’s face!

“That’ll teach you!” the man snarled.

Chet was blinded by the deluge. He stood sputtering, vigorously wiping the liquid from his eyes. By the time he could see again, the man had disappeared.

In disgust Chet dashed out of the alleyway and around to the front entrance of the apartment house, to warn Joe. No one was there! The farm truck was gone.

Chet was in a quandary. Not only had the stranger disappeared, but so had Joe!

“Perhaps,” Chet thought, “Joe spotted the man running from the alley with the package and drove after him. I sure hope so.”

The stout boy took up a position across the street from the apartment house. From there, he could watch for Joe and guard the front of the building at the same time. The only people he saw come out were two women carrying small handbags. He observed nothing suspicious.

Finally Joe pulled up in the truck and hopped out. Chet ran to meet him. “I was beginning to worry,” said the plump boy. “Where did you go?”

“That’ll teach you!” the man snarled

“While watching from here, I saw a man running out of the alley,” Joe answered. “He was Lieber! Before I could catch him, he jumped into a car parked up the street. I chased him in your truck, but I got mixed up in a traffic jam and lost him.”

Chet told Joe about his encounter with Lieber, and pointed to his chocolate-stained clothes. He apologized for having been caught by surprise.

“It couldn’t be helped,” Joe excused him. “The car that Lieber jumped into was waiting for him, I’m sure. I managed to get the license plate number. We can check it out tomorrow with the motor vehicle department.”

By now the boys were convinced that there was little to be gained by continuing to watch the apartment house, so they decided to go home.

“What do you think Lieber was up to?” Chet asked as they rode through the Bayport streets.

“I don’t know,” Joe responded. “But whatever it was, he certainly wasn’t wasting any time.”

“Do you think that was the camera he was carrying?” Chet questioned.

“Yes. Some pal might have sneaked it from the airport to Lieber’s place. We have no proof, though.”

Chet stopped at the Hardy house and dropped Joe off. Then he sped for home, his face beaming with anticipation of the hearty meal he knew would be waiting for him.

Joe was about to enter the house when he saw Frank turn into the driveway. “Hil” he called.

“Did you just get back?” Frank asked as he climbed out of the convertible.

“Yes. Did you have any luck following Zimm?”

“Enough to make me more suspicious of him,” Frank replied. “I’ll put the car in the garage and then let’s talk.”

In a few moments the boys went into the house. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were relieved to see them, since it was long past dinnertime.

“You must be starved,” Aunt Gertrude remarked. “And besides, the food’s half ruined, standing here for over an hour!”

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “I don’t think the boys will mind.”

The boys did not mind. They found the roast lamb, mashed potatoes, peas, and strawberry short-cake delicious. All the Hardys laughed over Joe’s description of Chet’s encounter with Lieber and the chocolate milk.

After dinner the brothers joined their father in his study. Frank was the first to tell his story, then Joe. Mr. Hardy listened with great interest.

“You say the man who knocked you down wore a mask?” he asked Frank.

“Yes! And if he was a ghost, he was a pretty solid one! By the way, Peterson has asked us to find the ghost! Shall we take his case?”

Mr. Hardy thought for several seconds before answering. “Yes, take it. This so-called ghost seems to bob up a good deal. He’s worth pursuing.”

The detective and his sons also agreed that the mysterious behavior of Zimm and Lieber could not be coincidence. It must be linked with the case, and the two were working together in some sinister plot.

Mr. Hardy warned his sons that they should be extra careful. “If Zimm and Lieber are involved in the platinum thefts, and think you suspect them, they may make it sticky for you.”

“We’ll try not to flub again,” Frank promised.

“What do you plan to do next?” their father inquired.

“I’d like to drive out to Zimm’s house tomorrow’ morning,” Frank replied, “and investigate the area. We might be able to come up with a clue or two.”

“Good idea. I’ll keep on investigating at Stanwide itself.”

Early the next day Frank and Joe drove to Zimm’s house and cruised slowly past it. They saw that the garage, in which Zimm kept his car, was empty, and surmised that he had already left for work. The boys parked their car on the next block, then walked back toward the house. They tried to act nonchalant.

“That’s where I ran into the masked stranger,” Frank said, pointing. “You investigate that side of the house, and I’ll reconnoiter the grounds.”

Frank scanned the premises carefully, inch by inch. He saw the area of ruffled grass where he and the masked stranger had tumbled in their struggle. Unfortunately, even his trained eyes failed to detect a single clue.

As Frank continued the examination, his brother suddenly spotted something which startled him.

“For Pete’s sake!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER X

Startling Discoveries

FRANK rushed over to Joe. His brother was staring at something in a flower bed. Frank glanced down and was astonished at what he saw. There, deeply impressed in the soft dirt, were two footprints.

The instep of the right foot was narrower than that of the left. The prints appeared to be duplicates of those the boys had discovered in the concrete floor of the Stanwide hangar.

Clint Hill’s footprints!

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked his brother excitedly. “Could Clint Hill be alive?”

“The reports certainly don’t indicate it,” Frank replied. “But if he is, why would he be sneaking around like this?”

“I wonder if the whole thing is a hoax,” Joe said. “Maybe Lance Peterson is using us to cover up a crooked deal he and Hill are involved in. They feel safe because they didn’t count on our picking up the footprint clue in the hangar. Someone tried hard to keep us from seeing the prints. Maybe it was Hill himself!”

Puzzled, the boys decided to have another talk with Peterson. As they were about to leave, a window in the house was flung open, and a woman poked her head out.

“What are you doing here?” she shouted.

Startled, the boys looked up. “We wanted to see Mr. Zimm. Is he at home?” Frank replied coolly.

“Then why didn’t you come to the door, instead of prowling around out there?” demanded the woman in a rasping, unpleasant tone. “I’m Mrs. Zimm. What do you want with my husband?”

The Hardys realized that they could not reveal to Mrs. Zimm their reasons for being there. Perhaps she was in the plot with her husband! On the other hand, she might not know anything about his mysterious behavior, nor have heard any talk about Clint Hill’s ghost. In that case, the boys did not want to upset her.

“We’re working on a job for Lance Peterson,” Joe ad-libbed, “and we wanted to ask Mr. Zimm some questions.”

“He left for work about an hour ago,” his wife said indignantly.

“Then we’ll see him there,” Frank told her.

She demanded that the boys leave at once. Glad to get away, they did not argue and returned to their car. Frank started for the Stanwide hangar.

“I could see by her face that Mrs. Zimm didn’t know whether to believe us or not,” Frank commented.

Joe agreed. “I hope that when she tells Zimm we were here, it doesn’t put him on guard.”

“It won’t make much difference one way or the other,” Frank observed. “Either Zimm knows we suspect him of something—which means our prowling around wouldn’t surprise him—or else he might really believe we came out to ask him some routine questions.”

When the boys arrived at the airport, they went at once to the Stanwide hangar. Lance Peterson’s office door was locked. As Frank and Joe strolled back across the hangar, they saw Jerry Madden come out of the operations room.

“I’ve got a message for you!” he called to the Hardys. “Mr. Allen has been trying to find you. He wants you to call him right away.”

Frank asked Jerry if he knew where Peterson had gone. Jerry said No, Peterson had taken the day off. Frank went to telephone Mr. Allen.

“We are sending a large shipment of parts containing platinum to the Sun-Plat Tool Company in California tomorrow morning,” the executive told him. “Our company cargo plane will make the delivery. Lance Peterson and Aaron Lieber will be flying it. Because of the great value of this shipment, and the trouble we’ve been having, as an extra precaution I would like you boys to follow in another plane. Can you do it?”

The Hardys excitedly agreed. “Don’t worry about arranging for a pilot and plane—we’ll handle that ourselves,” Frank said.

A short time later he and Joe were in the operations room of Ace Air Service, discussing the trip with Randy Watson.

“The Stanwide cargo plane is a pretty fast ship,” Randy said. “We don’t have any equipment at Ace that would keep up with her. I’ll have to lease a special plane.”

“Go ahead and make the arrangements,” Frank told him. “But keep it quiet.”

On the way home the Hardys stopped at police headquarters to ask them to check the license plate number of the car Joe had seen Lieber jump into. Detective Lieutenant Obels, a determined but pleasant man, sent the number to the motor vehicle department by police teletype. In a little less than an hour Lieutenant Obels called the boys at their home.

“Here it is!” the officer announced. “The report says the car belongs to a Mr. Art Rodax.”

Frank thanked the detective, then hung up. “Art Rodax, our former boss!” he exclaimed, repeating the news to Joe.

“Good night! He’s a pal of Lieber!” Joe cried out. “Well, we’re rounding up quite a group of suspects!”

Hoping to turn up another clue, the boys began calling all the camera stores listed in the telephone book. Not one of the shops reported having seen the stolen camera.

At five o‘clock Mr. Freeman called Frank. The camera-shop owner said that the developed pictures had just arrived. “Mr. Williams, the name under which the pictures were left, has already telephoned that he’s coming by for them.”

“We’ll be right over,” said Frank. “If Williams shows up first, try to stall him.”

“Okay.”

When the boys drove up to the camera shop, they saw a large, burly man who seemed to be arguing with Mr. Freeman.

“That isn’t Zimm!” observed Joe. “Maybe he really does have a friend named Williams and he was delivering the rolls of film for him.”

“Possibly,” Frank agreed. “Then again, it might all be part of a clever plan to throw us off the track.”

The boys decided to demand a chance to inspect the films. As they entered the shop, Mr. Freeman turned to them with an air of relief.

“This is Mr. R. C. Williams,” he said, indicating his customer. Then he turned back to the man. “These boys believe that at least some of these pictures belong to them.”

“What!” shouted Williams. “That’s crazy!”

“Then you won’t mind if we have a look at the prints,” Frank said politely.

“Touch my pictures,” Williams bellowed, “and I’ll sue every one of you!”

Mr. Freeman looked hesitant. He was thinking that perhaps the Hardys were being a bit hasty. At the thought of being involved in a lawsuit, he began to hedge.

“Maybe we have no right to ask Mr. Williams to—” he began.

“We’ll take the entire responsibility,” Frank interrupted. “Mr. Williams can show us the pictures himself. We won’t touch them.”

Williams protested strongly. But seeing that the boys were determined not to let him out of the shop without seeing the pictures, he ripped open the big envelope, peered in, selected a few prints, and scattered them on the counter. None of the pictures belonged to the Hardys, they admitted.

“There!” Williams sneered. “You see? You guys ought to be thrown in jail!”

He quickly gathered up the prints and stuffed them back into the envelope.

“How much do I owe you?” he snapped at Mr. Freeman.

“Just a minute!” Frank said coldly. “We want to see all the pictures!”

“Get out of my way!” Williams shouted.

The shop owner, now more suspicious of Williams himself, offered to call the police. But at the word “police,” Williams paled.

“You won’t have to do that!” he blurted. Reluctantly he reached into the package and displayed several more prints.

“I said we want to see all of them!” Frank demanded.

“That’s all there are,” Williams insisted.

Joe reached out and seized the envelope. Shaking it vigorously, he spilled more prints onto the counter. The boys were elated to find that their suspicions were justified. Among the pictures were several aerial views they had taken!

Suddenly Williams let fly with his fists. He caught Mr. Freeman under the chin, and the shop owner slumped down behind the counter. Williams then whirled around and rushed the boys with his head down and arms flailing.

Frank and Joe, taken off guard, skidded on the highly polished floor and went down. Williams grabbed the pictures in his large fist and crammed them hastily into a pocket.

As the boys sprang to their feet, they saw Williams fleeing toward the rear exit of the shop!

CHAPTER XI

A Questionable Friend

FRANK and Joe darted after Williams and succeeded in intercepting him before he reached the rear exit. A wild struggle followed.

The boys and their burly opponent crashed to the floor in a mass of entangled arms and legs. Mr. Freeman, having recovered from the blow he had received, rushed over to give his support. Williams was exceptionally strong, but three against one was too much for him.

“That’s enough!” he panted. “Don’t hit me again!” He dropped and lay on the floor like a whipped dog.

“You’d better do some explaining!” Frank said angrily as he and Joe stood up and brushed off their clothing.

Joe grabbed the envelope and extracted several pictures. “The aerial shots!” he exclaimed, and handed them to his brother.

“I’ve nothing to say.” growled Williams, trying to catch his breath. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair.

“Who stole our camera and films?” Frank demanded, glaring at their captive.

“I don’t know about anything being stolen!” Williams insisted.

“Okay! Have it your way!” Frank declared. “Maybe you’d rather talk to the police!” The young sleuth walked to the telephone and began dialing a number.

Williams turned pale. “No! Wait!” he pleaded. “I’ll tell you all I know! Honest I will. Don’t call them!”

Frank put down the phone. “Go ahead!” he ordered.

“My name isn’t Williams. It’s Richard Tyson,” the man said, taking out his wallet. He displayed his driver’s license and a few credit cards.

The boys examined the cards and found the man’s address was the same as that of the apartment house in which Lieber lived.

“Then who is Williams?” Frank asked.

“Williams rents a room across the hall from my apartment,” Tyson answered. “Early this morning he asked me if I would pick up his pictures when they were ready. He told me to use his name.

“He explained that the pictures were confidential and not to let anyone see them. I’m sorry now I ever agreed to do it. I should have suspected something phony.” He got to his feet, brushed himself off, and looked at the boys nervously. “I’d like to leave,” he said, moving toward the door.

“Not until you tell us everything,” said Frank. “Who stole our camera?”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Does Williams live alone?”

“No, he rents the room from Mr. and Mrs. Lieber. The Liebers seem like nice people. I think Williams is Mrs. Lieber’s brother.”

The Hardys did not disclose that Mr. Lieber was already one of their strong suspects in the case.

“Well,” Frank announced, “you can leave, but we’re going with you to your apartment. We want to check your story.”

“By all means! Come along!” Tyson urged. He seemed eager for a chance to prove his innocence.

Frank asked Mr. Freeman to put the aerial pictures in his safe until the boys called for them. “We don’t want to risk their being stolen again.”

The brothers took Tyson with them, explaining that they would bring him back later to pick up his own car. As they drove, Tyson volunteered the information that Lieber was an airplane mechanic and stand-by copilot. As a result, he was away a lot. In fact, he often slept at the airport.

In a short time the group arrived at the apartment house. Tyson unlocked the main door with his own key. As they climbed the stairs, Frank said that he would like to find out whether Lieber was at home.

Tyson pointed to the door of the man’s apartment and Frank knocked. The door opened, revealing a stocky, handsome woman, with a tremendous amount of blond hair.

“Hello, Mr. Tyson,” she said, seeing her neighbor.

“Is Mr. Lieber at home?” Frank inquired.

“No,” she responded. “My husband has to fly very early tomorrow, so he decided to stay overnight at the airport.”

“Is Mr. Williams at home?” Joe asked.

“He’s not here, either,” the woman said. “Is it anything important? Can I take a message?”

“No, thank you.”

Mrs. Lieber eased the door shut. Tyson led the Hardys to his apartment across the hall. There they met Mrs. Tyson, a short, middle-aged woman. She invited them to come in.

Frank casually conversed with her, selecting his words in such a way that the woman was not aware that he was probing for information. She told the young sleuth that Mrs. Lieber was a very secretive person who seemed extremely frightened of her husband.

“She tries to forget her worries,” Mrs. Tyson said confidingly, “by always going to the movies and to parties. Poor thing. The Liebers never have any company.”

Momentarily satisfied with Tyson’s story, the Hardys drove the man back to the camera shop to pick up his car. He said little more to shed any new light on the mystery and was obviously relieved when the boys drove off.

When they reached home, Frank and Joe discussed the information they had gathered that day. “I’m convinced,” said Frank, “that Lieber and this Williams are mixed up in the Stanwide case.”

“So far, nearly all our suspects are company employees,” Joe commented. “How does this fellow Williams figure in?”

“It’s possible that he’s part of the racket, but working from the outside,” Frank suggested.

The boys recalled Jerry Madden’s remark about Lieber’s being Peterson’s pal. They wondered if this meant that the chief pilot himself was involved in the thefts.

“And it doesn’t surprise me that Art Rodax fits into the picture,” said Joe. “I knew he had a secret reason for not wanting us around the plant.”

At that moment the telephone rang. The caller was Randy Watson. The pilot said that he had managed to rent an aircraft suitable for a long-distance flight from an operator at Lockwood Airport. This field was about two hundred miles from Bayport.

“I’ve already been there and flown the plane back,” he said. “She checks out fine. We’ll be ready to roll any time in the morning.”

“Good,” Frank answered. “Joe and I will be at the airport early. We can’t risk missing Peterson and Lieber’s departure.”

At dinner the boys packed some light luggage. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude tried to hide their anxiety when they heard the coming flight was to trail Peterson and Lieber, but an expression of concern crossed Mrs. Hardy’s face.

“Don’t take any unnecessary chances,” she begged. “And keep in constant touch with us.”

Frank and Joe promised to do this. They assured the women that the trip was only routine, and that they would be away not more than two or three days.

“Two or three days!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “If you catch those thieves the first day, why can’t you come home? That’s where you belong, anyway!”

The boys grinned and Joe said, “Why, Aunty, the longer the chase the more fun.”

“Fun nothing!” she stormed. “A lot of danger—unnecessary danger for a couple of growing boys!” Miss Hardy’s tirade ended only because she was called to the telephone.

Mr. Hardy, on the other hand, made no objection to the trip. “Best of luck, boys,” he said.

The following morning the boys started for the airport as soon as dawn broke. When they arrived, the Hardys spotted a sleek, highly polished twin-engine turbo-prop plane parked on the Ace Air Service ramp.

“That must be the plane Randy rented!” Joe exclaimed, pointing. “My, what a beauty! Wish I could fly her!”

Frank grinned in anticipation. “It sure looks as if we won’t have any trouble keeping up with Peterson in that!”

The boys put down their bags and approached the plane for a closer look. Just then Randy Watson came running out of the operations building.

“Hey, fellows!” he shouted excitedly. “Come here, quick!”

The young detectives ran to meet him.

“What is it?” Frank called. “Something wrong?”

“I just tried to phone you at home,” Randy answered, “but you had already left. It’s about the Stanwide cargo plane!”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“Peterson and Lieber left hours ago!” Randy said, trying to catch his breath. “They took off late last night!”

CHAPTER XII

The Cave Clue

THE Hardy boys wasted no time. Moments later, they were dashing up the circular stairs to the Bayport control tower.

“Is Lou Diamond here?” Frank asked as they burst into the room.

“No,” answered a lean, middle-aged man, who was seated at a desk. “The chief doesn’t come on duty for another hour yet.”

The brothers explained the situation to him and requested his help.

“I remember the Stanwide plane taking off,” the tower man recalled. “It departed soon after I came on duty.” He quickly checked through his listing of aircraft movements. “Here it is,” he said, pointing out a small card. “The plane took off shortly after midnight.”

“Did the pilot file a flight plan?” Frank questioned.

“Yes—an instrument flight plan to a field in California,” the operator responded. “I can’t tell you exactly, because normally we don’t keep a record of flight plans here in the tower.” He picked up a telephone and snapped a toggle switch mounted on the desk. “I’ll check with our communications station.”

It was several minutes before the operator received the information he requested. Then he placed the phone down and turned to the young sleuths. “The Stanwide pilot canceled his flight plan at Chicago,” he said. “After taking on fuel, he departed without filing a new flight plan.”

Frank and Joe were dismayed. After thanking the tower man for his help, they left hurriedly.

“I want to call Mr. Allen right away and let him know what happened,” Frank said.

Mr. Allen’s voice was heavy with sleep as he answered the telephone. When he heard the news, however, he snapped awake.

“What!” he exclaimed. “Peterson didn’t have authority to leave before the scheduled time. Meet me at the Stanwide hangar! I’ll be right over!”

The boys next called their father and informed him of the incident. Then they started walking toward the Stanwide hangar.

“Peterson and Lieber decided to vanish and keep everything for themselves,” Frank said. “That was a valuable load they were carrying. It could make them rich.”

“Peterson might also be trying to escape Clint Hill’s ghost,” Joe added.

Mr. Allen arrived at the hangar and was aghast at the situation. He immediately placed a long-distance call to the Sun-Plat Tool Company in California, which was supposed to receive the air shipment. An official there told him the cargo plane had not arrived at the nearby airport. He assured Mr. Allen he would notify him the instant any information concerning the flight was received.

Turning from the telephone, Mr. Allen said to the Hardys, “I don’t mind telling you I’m pretty worried about this whole thing.”

The boys followed him to Peterson’s office, which they thoroughly searched. In the top desk drawer, Frank discovered a notation stating that Mr. Allen had ordered an earlier departure.

“I never gave such an order!” the executive declared. The young sleuths noted that the notation was typed, making it difficult to identify the writer.

They next went with Mr. Allen to interrogate the night watchman, who said Peterson had told him nothing. “I thought it was a funny time for him to be taking off, but it’s not up to me to question the actions of our company’s chief pilot.”

“No, of course not,” said Mr. Allen.

Using a master key, he searched Lieber’s locker but found no clues. Frank suggested they check the bills of lading for the Sun-Plat shipment. They scrutinized the records for more than an hour, but the results gave no hint of any tampering.

“Well,” Frank said, sighing, “there’s nothing more we can do here.”

After assuring Mr. Allen they would continue tracking every possible lead locally, the Hardys returned to Randy.

“Sorry our flight has been grounded,” Joe said wryly.

“Too bad. Well, I’ll just return the plane,” the pilot replied philosophically. “I’ll be around if you fellows need me again—maybe next time we’ll have better luck.”

The boys, feeling somewhat let down, drove off. Frank suggested they go to the camera shop and examine the photographs Mr. Freeman was keeping for them.

“It’s a long shot,” he said, “but maybe those pictures will tell us something.”

The boys arrived just as Mr. Freeman was opening his shop. He went to the wall safe, opened it, and handed them the negatives and prints. Joe picked up a magnifying glass from the counter. Mr. Freeman handed Frank another.

Meticulously the Hardys studied each of the aerial photographs. Several minutes passed before Joe suddenly cried out, “Look at this!”

Frank took the print and peered at it through his glass. Joe pointed to the rectangular pasture over which they had flown low before the engine of their aircraft had failed. “What do you see in the pasture area?”

Frank moved his magnifying glass slowly for a better focus. “I don’t notice anything special,” he announced. “Unless you mean those three parallel lines running through the center of the pasture. They appear to be ruts, or grooves.”

“Exactly!” Joe said. “What are they?”

“The lines could have been made by a three-wheeled farm tractor,” Frank answered.

“Or maybe a small airplane!” Joe suggested.

“I wonder,” said Frank, then added, “Randy Watson told us the pasture was too short for any airplane to operate out of.”

“I know. That’s what has me baffled.”

Mr. Freeman, who had been watching the boys with interest, began glancing at some of the photographs. He asked in what locality the pictures had been taken. When the Hardys told him, his face broke into a wide smile.

“I thought I recognized the area,” he remarked. “When I was a boy, spelunking was one of my favorite pastimes. I used to go there a lot.”

“Spelunking?” Frank asked curiously. “You mean you went exploring caves in that area?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Freeman answered, obviously pleased at recollecting some of his childhood activities. “There are several fine caves to be found in those hills. However, it’s been so many years since I was there, I wouldn’t be able to locate any of them now.”

“How large are the caves?” Frank asked, with increasing interest.

“The ones I explored were rather small,” the shop owner explained. “I promised my parents I wouldn’t tackle anything too deep. So I can’t say just how large the bigger caves are.”

The boys thanked Mr. Freeman for his help, then started for home. Both were excited at learning of caves being in the area where they had seen Bush Barney. Perhaps, they speculated, the thieves were using a cave to hide their loot!

“There might even be one near the pasture we flew over!” Joe exclaimed. “And if I’m right about the deep grooves having been made by the wheels of a small plane, maybe it’s possible the pasture is being utilized as a makeshift runway after all!”

“I have an idea!” said Frank. “Why don’t we rent a helicopter and get a really close look at that area? But first let’s go home and tell the folks about our change of plans.”

Mrs. Hardy was elated to see her sons and to learn that their plane trip had been canceled.

Aunt Gertrude wore a self-satisfied grin. “Good thing,” she said. “Now you boys will have time for a lunch that will make up for the breakfast you raced through this morning.”

The Hardy family sat down to a meal of delicious homemade soup, followed by hamburgers, then gingerbread topped with applesauce and whipped cream. While they were eating, Frank and Joe related their conversation with Mr. Freeman, and told of their theory concerning a cavern hideout.

Mr. Hardy was interested at once. “A cave would be perfect for storing stolen merchandise,” he agreed. “Incidentally, I’ve learned that tract of land is part of an abandoned farm, but the whereabouts of the owner is not known.”

The boys discussed their plan to explore the area by helicopter. Their father approved, and suggested that they ask Randy Watson to make arrangements for hiring a craft and pilot.

Frank was about to make the call when the telephone rang. He picked it up. An eerie voice at the other end said, “Is this the Hardys’ house?”

“Hi, Chet!” Frank said with a chuckle. His friend was imitating Clint Hill’s voice.

But as the unearthly voice continued, Frank realized it was not Chet‘s! The words it spoke turned his blood cold.

“This is not Chet,” intoned the speaker. “This is the ghost of Clint Hill. Where is Lance Peter· son?”

CHAPTER XIII

The Tornado

CHILLS ran up and down Frank’s spine and he stood motionless. He was about to answer that he did not know the whereabouts of Peterson, but then his momentary fright left him and he changed his mind. Frank decided to question the mysterious caller and perhaps get a lead as to his identity.

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” the young sleuth proposed.

“What kind of bargain?” asked the voice, still in an eerie tone.

“I’ll give you some information about Peterson,” said Frank, “if you’ll tell me who you really are.”

There was a long pause.

“Forget it!” said the sepulchral voice. “I’ll find that double-crosser myself!”

“Wait!” Frank urged. “Don’t hang up!”

But a sharp clicking sound brought the conversation to an abrupt end. Disappointed, Frank shrugged, then dialed and made arrangements to rent a helicopter. In a few minutes he rejoined his family. They discussed the weird call from the “ghost.”

Mrs. Hardy looked distressed, while Aunt Gertrude expressed contempt. “These people who play tricks on the telephone!”

“You say that this person called Lance Peterson a double-crosser?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“That’s right, Dad,” Frank answered. “I wonder if our ‘ghost’ actually is in cahoots with Peterson and Lieber, and was supposed to go with them aboard the plane, then found they’d suddenly left without him.”

Father and sons continued to discuss this new development and its connection with the case, but failed to arrive at any conclusion. Presently Randy Watson telephoned and said he had made arrangements for Frank and Joe to fly in a helicopter the following morning. A minute later Mr. Allen called to tell the boys that authorities in the United States, Canada, and Mexico had been alerted to look for the missing company plane.

“As yet nothing has been reported,” he said.

The next day Frank and Joe went to Bayport Airport. As they walked onto the parking ramp of Ace Air Service, Randy met the brothers and introduced them to Mack Carney, their pilot, young and well-built. A short distance away stood a small, three-place helicopter. Its cockpit was enclosed in a fishbowl-shaped Plexiglas canopy.

As the boys walked toward the craft, they glanced at the sky and noticed that a cloud cover was developing. Conditions to the south and southwest appeared especially bad. There, the bases of some clouds were darkening to an almost bluish black.

“Looks like a storm,” Joe commented. He feared that their flight might be delayed because of weather.

“There shouldn’t be any problem,” Mack reassured him. “I’ve already checked the forecast. Ceilings and visibility are not expected to drop below visual flight rules at any time.”

He told the Hardys that scattered thunder-storms were predicted for the area, but that these could easily be avoided. By midafternoon the weather system was expected to move out to sea, with rapid clearing behind it.

Minutes later, the helicopter was aloft. The loud clapping of the whirling rotor blades, mixed with the noise of the engine’s muffler, bothered them for a few minutes. But gradually, as the craft gained height, turned and headed northwest, they ceased to think about it. The brothers settled back to enjoy the unobstructed view offered by the transparent canopy, and to watch the pilot.

“I’d like to learn to fly one of these,” Joe commented.

The flight took a bit longer than their previous trip to the area by airplane. As they flew into the sector they wanted to investigate, Frank scanned the ground below. He spotted the pasture in the aerial photograph and pointed it out to Mack. The pilot bent the helicopter into a series of turns around the field.

As he leveled the craft out on an easterly heading, Joe glanced to his right. Suddenly the boy detective sat rigid in his seat and stared from the window with an expression of disbelief.

“Look!” he shouted frantically.

The pilot spun the helicopter around to face in the direction Joe was pointing. Moving toward them was a black, funnel-shaped column of air, stemming from the base of an intensely dark cloud.

“It looks like a tornado!” Frank yelled.

“It is!” Mack exclaimed. “They generally move in a northeasterly direction, about thirty to forty miles an hour. We might be able to outrun it.”

He whirled the craft around, but was greatly alarmed to find that their route of escape was blocked by the surrounding hills. The dark cloud base moving swiftly overhead cut off the possibil ity of climbing out over the top of the higher terrain.

“The tornado’s getting closer!” Joe shouted

“What’ll we do? That tornado is getting closer!” Joe shouted.

“We’ll have to head for the ground!” the pilot replied grimly.

As the menacing funnel approached, the surrounding air became turbulent. Mack struggled with the controls as the craft was thrown about viciously. Frank and Joe braced themselves as best they could, while the pilot tried to establish a controlled descent.

Suddenly Frank and Joe looked out to see a strange phenomenon. The funnel-shaped column seemed to divide in half, as if sliced by an invisible knife. The upper half veered off in a northeasterly direction, while the lower half maintained its original path, passing close to the bobbing helicopter.

“I’m losing control!” Mack shouted. “Hang on! We must be close to the ground!”

The violent jolt of landing almost knocked the helicopter’s occupants unconscious. They sat dazed for several minutes before regaining their senses.

Then, gradually, the three became aware of a complete calm. The tornado and dark cloud had disappeared, and not even a breeze was stirring. The sky showed signs of clearing.

“Wow!” said Joe. “I hope that never happens to me again!”

“We’re lucky to have got out of this in one piece,” Mack said grimly

He got out of the helicopter, followed by the Hardys, and began to examine the craft for damage. The boys, glancing around, realized that they had landed on a corner of the pasture.

“How’s the copter?” Frank asked.

“The landing gear is sprung, and there’s some structural damage here and there,” Mack observed. “It doesn’t appear to be serious, but I’d better give the craft a thorough inspection before we attempt to fly it out of here.”

Frank and Joe decided to investigate the area while the pilot conducted his inspection. They started walking down the pasture toward the high hill situated at the far end.

“Here are those grooves we saw in our photos,” Frank remarked. “They go from one end of the field to the other.”

He took a tape measure from his pocket and carefully noted the width of the grooves and the distance between them. Pulling out a pencil, he jotted down the figures in his notebook for future reference.

“I still think these grooves were made by the wheels of an airplane,” said Joe.

“But how? The length of the pasture rules out the possibility that a plane could land here,” Frank objected.

The boys continued heading for the hill at the far end. Just short of the tree line they stopped and peered into the murky shadows of the woods. The hill began to slope sharply upward at this point.

“I don’t see any caves around here,” Joe observed.

The boys were about to proceed closer when suddenly a man darted out from the woods. The boys recognized him immediately as the stranger who had previously challenged them near this spot. He was now unarmed.

“What are you doing here?” he bellowed. “Get off of this land! It’s private property!”

“We were forced down by a storm,” said Joe, pointing toward the helicopter just visible in the distance.

“The storm is over!” the man retorted. “Now you’d better climb into that bird and get out of here!”

“But we don’t know if we can take off,” said Frank. “We got bounced around pretty bad in the storm. The copter was damaged—how much, we don’t know. Our pilot is inspecting it now.”

“If it won’t fly, you’ll just have to leave it!” the man growled, his face purpling with anger. “I want you to get out of here—and fast!”

Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, Joe glimpsed a flicker of movement in the woods. He turned his head cautiously in an effort to get a better view. What he saw caused him to grab his brother’s arm as a signal not to argue further.

Concealed behind a tree was someone with a vicious-looking hunting bow. An arrow had already been fitted to the string, and was now aimed directly at the boys!

CHAPTER XIV

Amazing Camouflage

WITHOUT further protest, the Hardys turned and started walking back toward the helicopter.

“Take a quick look to your left, Frank,” whispered Joe. “Someone’s aiming an arrow at us!”

After taking a few more steps, Frank glanced over his shoulder. At that instant the man armed with the bow and arrow darted from behind one tree to another. The boy detective’s keen eye recognized his face immediately.

“Bush Barney!” Frank said softly.

The brothers reached the helicopter just as the pilot was completing his inspection.

“There’s some minor damage,” Mack reported, “but not bad enough to prevent us from flying if we have to. You in a hurry?”

“Yes,” said Frank, “we must notify the police about two men who chased us!”

“I can’t radio from here,” Mack told him. “But as soon as we’re airborne, there won’t be any interference.”

“Afterward,” said Frank, “we can come down again and land somewhere out of sight of the pasture and walk back here to meet the officers.”

“Suits me,” said Mack. “I don’t like the sound of this motor yet and I’d just as soon come down and work on it some more.”

In a few minutes the whirling rotor blades were carrying the young detectives skyward. Frank asked Mack to radio Bayport tower.

“Our transmitter doesn’t have enough wattage to reach that far,” the pilot said. He extracted a sectional air chart from his kit and examined it. “There’s an omni radio station with voice facilities much closer to us,” he announced. “If we climb above these hills, we should be able to establish contact, and have them relay a message for you.”

Mack tuned the radio dials to a standard aviation communication frequency, then picked up the microphone and gave his identification number and approximate position. In seconds the speaker on his receiver crackled a response. Mack handed the microphone to Frank and told him to proceed with his message.

Frank requested that word be relayed to the State Police to meet the Hardys at the pasture. He estimated the pasture’s location along the secondary road, and as a double check gave its longitude and latitude coordinates from the air chart. Several minutes passed before a response came through.

“The State Police,” the station operator reported, “have been notified. Several officers are on their way to the location you indicated.”

Frank asked Mack to land them close to the pasture, but to approach the area from behind a hill so their craft would not be seen. Mack nodded and began a rapid descent between the hills. He followed a valley that led them back in the general direction of the spot where they had been forced down. Approaching from behind a hill close to the pasture, he maneuvered the helicopter to a soft landing in order not to strain the already partially damaged landing gear.

“Mack, you’d better wait for us here and guard the copter,” Frank suggested.

“Will do.”

The boys carefully picked their way among the trees and brush toward the pasture. Soon it came in sight. Frank and Joe did not speak. They communicated by sign language, which they had practiced until they could use it to perfection.

As silently as a couple of Indians, the Hardys edged their way to the hill situated at the end of the pasture. They stopped for a moment and scanned the dim shadows of the woods. Both of them listened for unusual sounds, but neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary.

Frank signaled his brother, indicating that they should proceed on up the slope of the hill. Suddenly he tugged at Joe’s arm and pointed directly ahead.

Joe stared before him, but could see only an unbroken mass of trees and bushes. As he stepped closer, however, the trees in the foreground gradually took on an unnatural aspect. It was difficult to tell exactly why, but there was something odd in the way the trunks and leaves reflected the light.

Approaching still closer, the Hardys were amazed to see what really confronted them. Spread across a portion of the steep slope was a huge piece of heavy canvas! Painted on its surface were trees, grass, boulders, and bits of brush. The representation was so well done that it was not detectable unless viewed from within a few feet of the canvas.

“It’s fantastic camouflage!” Joe remarked, breaking their silence for the first time.

“Sure is,” Frank agreed, gazing at the canvas almost in disbelief. “I’m willing to bet that behind this is the opening to a cave!”

The young sleuths traced the canvas to where it terminated at one side. Together, they carefully pulled it aside far enough to get a glimpse of what lay behind.

A huge opening was revealed. The Hardys peered inside. Although the interior was practically in blackness, they could see that it was the entrance to a very deep cave of immense size!

Each boy took a pocket flashlight and directed the beams into the darkness. So deep was the cave, however, that the lights appeared to fade off into nothingness.

“I don’t hear a sound,” Frank said. “It must be empty.”

“Let’s take a look around!” Joe suggested, his voice tense with excitement.

“Okay!” Frank agreed. “But we’ll have to let the police know where we are. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the cave. You go back to the copter, tell Mack about this place, and ask him to send the police here.”

Joe started off at a sprint. Frank positioned himself behind some real brush near the camouflaged entrance. It was not long before Joe came bounding back.

“Everything’s all set,” he said.

The boys pushed their way around the edge of the canvas and stepped into the cave. As their eyes became accustomed to the dark interior, they could make out rough rocky surfaces curving into an arch high above their heads. The faint sound of their footsteps was amplified in a series of echoes that seemed to bounce back at them from all sides. Frank played his beam of light toward the floor.

“Look!” he said. “There are wheel grooves in here, just like the ones we spotted on the pasture.”

The Hardys followed the ruts deeper into the cave. After advancing for several yards, Joe suddenly came to a stop.

“An airplane!” he exclaimed, astounded.

Frank pointed his flashlight in the same direction. The beams picked from the darkness a sleek, multiengine plane with tricycle landing gear.

“It was taxied in here!” Joe marveled.

“From the pasture,” said Frank. “The floor of this cave is about on the same level as the field, and is right in line with it. The pasture itself is too short to land on or take off from. But this cave floor serves as an extension of the runway. When a plane lands, someone on the ground merely pulls the canvas camouflage aside and—presto—a plane has several hundred feet more to roll on!”

Joe nodded. “And when it comes to rest, inside the cave, it’s automatically hidden. Very clever. Could this plane be the same one that toppled our car?”

“I can’t say for sure,” his brother responded, “but there’s a good chance it is.”

The Hardys continued exploring the cave. A little farther on they spotted a large wooden door. It was padlocked, but they noted that the hinges were not very strong. Each boy pushed hard against a section of the wood. It began to crack, then finally gave way with a resounding smash.

Frank and Joe stepped into a room formed out of the natural rock. They were astonished to see stacks of sturdy wooden boxes piled along the walls. Stamped on the side of each was: STANWIDE MINING AND EQUIPMENT COMPANY.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “There must be fifty or more of these boxes here!”

“And they may contain the stolen platinum parts!” Frank said as he played his light across the stacks. “Let’s break open one of the boxes and check.”

The boys placed their flashlights on the floor and positioned the beams toward one stack of boxes. They then walked over, dragged off the box on top, and set it on the floor.

“Whew!” Joe was puffing. “It sure is heavy.”

“We’ll need something to pry open the lid,” Frank said, glancing around.

Joe noticed a rusted metal rod lying on one of the stacks. He took it and forced the end under the lid of the box. Then both boys put all their weight against it. After much exertion, they began to loosen the top.

“It’s beginning to give a little,” Joe said.

They had nearly accomplished their task when the sound of footsteps interrupted them. The Hardys froze.

“Hands up!” growled a gruff voice from behind them.

CHAPTER XV

Capture

THE surprised boys whirled to find themselves face to face with Bush Barney and the man they had recently encountered in the pasture.

“What are you guys doing here?” the latter snarled. “I told you to get out!” The man fingered the muzzle of his shotgun, which now was pointed at the ground.

Frank and Joe were at a loss for an excuse as to their presence in the cave. Frank realized that nothing he could say would sound believable. But anything was worth a try at this point, he thought.

“We took off in the copter,” he explained nonchalantly, “but it wasn’t working right so we landed again. While our pilot was checking the engine, my brother and I decided to walk around a bit. It was quite by accident that we stumbled on this cave.”

Bush Barney turned on a bright electric lantern and hung it on a metal spike hammered into the stone wall of the storeroom. His expression was grim.

“I don’t believe a word of it!” he snapped, glancing at his companion. “I’ll bet these punks already knew about the cave. They might have even been in here before.”

His confederate gripped the shotgun more tightly. To the boys’ relief, he did not raise it.

“Is that right, boys?” he bellowed. “Were you ever in here before?”

“No!” Joe cried out. “As my brother told you, we discovered the cave just now—by accident!” But the Hardys could see that the two men were not convinced.

Frank tried to estimate the time that had passed since the police were notified. They should be arriving soon, he told himself. In the meantime, he and Joe must keep these men talking.

“Anchor!” said Barney, addressing his partner. “You keep ‘em covered while I find some rope.” He went out.

The young detectives stood helpless, churning with anger at their predicament. There was no chance for them to attempt to rush at Anchor—he was watching too closely.

Minutes later, the ex-convict Bush Barney returned to the room, carrying a large coil of rope. He took the shotgun, then handed the rope to Anchor.

“I’ll hold this while you tie ‘em up,” he said.

Barney motioned the boys to put their hands behind their backs, and Anchor uncoiled the rope. Suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps caused the two men to stiffen.

“Anyone in here?” shouted an authoritative voice. “We’re the police!”

“Quick! Dowse that light!” Anchor growled to Barney, pointing to the electric lamp hanging from the spike. He then reached out to retrieve his shotgun from Barney.

The Hardys glanced at each other. This was their chance to act! Joe spun around, kicking the shotgun out of Anchor’s hands just as it was handed over.

Frank rushed Barney. Before the ex-convict could turn out the lamp, the young sleuth sent him crashing to the floor with a perfect tackle.

Joe managed to catch Anchor in a tight head lock and tumbled across the floor with him. Barney reached for the shotgun, but Frank grasped it first and threw it a distance away. With his free arm he then swung at Barney, catching the ex-convict directly on the chin. His opponent fell back, stunned.

At that instant four state troopers rushed into the room and helped the boys drag the two men to their feet. The suspects were immediately handcuffed.

“Now how about answering a few questions?” Frank demanded.

The captured men glared at the boys malevolently.

“We don’t know anything!” Barney growled.

“Who owns the airplane that’s kept here in the cave?” Frank pressed.

“You won’t get anything out of us!” boasted Anchor.

“Do the boxes in this room contain merchandise stolen from Stanwide?” Frank continued.

The men remained stubbornly silent. The Hardys guessed it would be a waste of time to keep on trying to elicit any information from them. So they decided to get in touch with Mr. Allen and ask him to come to the cave. The boxes would be opened in his presence with the police officers as witnesses. This might help to build an airtight case against the racketeers.

“We can reach headquarters on our car radio,” said one of the troopers when Frank explained the boys’ plan. “Want to come along and send the message yourself?”

“Thanks.”

Leaving the others to guard the two prisoners, Frank and an officer walked to the police car, parked on the road. The trooper established contact with his headquarters and Frank described the situation to the chief. Shortly a response was received telling them that Mr. Allen had been reached and would leave at once for the cave. In order to save time, a police helicopter would bring the executive to the site.

Meanwhile, Frank and the officer returned to the cave. Barney and Anchor appeared increasingly nervous. The boys hoped they would break down and answer the Hardys’ questions. They still refused to speak, however.

After what seemed like an eternity of restless waiting, the sound of a helicopter’s whirling rotor blades was heard faintly in the distance. The Hardys darted from the cave and into the center of the pasture. They waved their arms vigorously as the craft passed overhead. In response, it turned into a descending spiral and the pilot set the craft down gently a few yards away from the boys. The door opened and Mr. Allen stepped out.

“You two have discovered something of great importance?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, we have,” Frank answered. “We’ve captured two members of the gang we think is involved in the platinum thefts, and what may be the stolen merchandise.”

“Congratulations!” Mr. Allen said. “You don’t waste any time when working on a case.”

“Thanks,” Frank replied. “But the mystery is far from being solved. There’s a great deal more that we’ll have to uncover.”

The sleuths took the executive to the cave. “Incredible!” he commented, awe-stricken. “How did you ever manage to discover this hideout?”

“We’ll fill you in on the details later,” Frank said. “Right now, we’d like you to check out the contents of the wooden boxes we found here.”

As they came to the plane, he stared in astonishment, but did not pause. The three hurried on to the waiting group, and the executive was introduced.

As Mr. Allen and the two boys entered the storage room, Barney and Anchor looked very uneasy. The president of Stanwide took several folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket.

“These are copies of the bills of lading of the missing shipments,” he said. “I’ve checked off what materials made up the shortages.”

The Hardys lifted the lid of the box they had been opening, and Mr. Allen read off a list of items and quantities. The contents tallied exactly with some of the missing platinum parts! Two other boxes were opened, disclosing more of the items on the list!

Frank spoke to the officers. “I’d say there’s enough evidence here to arrest Barney and Anchor.”

“You’re right,” said one of the State Police officers.

Gripping each of the handcuffed men by an arm, two of the troopers began walking them out of the cave.

Suddenly Anchor broke his silence. “Wait a minute!” he shouted. “You can’t do this! We’re not the head guys in this racket!”

“Who else is in this with you?” Frank prodded. “Give us their names!”

Barney nudged Anchor with his elbow, signaling him to keep silent. “I don’t know who they are,” Anchor mumbled meekly.

Refusing to say any more, the two suspects were led away. Mr. Allen clapped the Hardys on their shoulders. “This has been a great job on your part, fellows.” The brothers grinned.

With their help Mr. Allen checked several more boxes and found that they also contained stolen parts. Joe suggested that they load as many of them as they could aboard Mack’s helicopter for transport back to Stanwide. One of the troopers offered the use of the police helicopter to aid in the operation. He also told the Hardys that several men would be assigned to stand guard over the cave.

Still amazed by the camouflaged hideout, Mr. Allen took a flashlight and scanned the surroundings. For the first time he took a close look at the airplane stored there. What he saw seemed to startle him.

“It’s hard to believe!” the executive murmured. “But it is!”

“What is?” asked Frank, curious.

“‘This airplane!” Mr. Allen answered, playing the beam of light across its sleek lines. “This was Clint Hill’s!”

“But I thought that crashed!” Joe said in amazement.

Mr. Allen beckoned the Hardys to step closer to the plane. He pointed a trembling finger at something on the side of the cowling. It appeared to be a small decal, in the shape of an eagle.

“Clint put this emblem here,” the executive said. “This was his personal airplane.”

The boys did not speak, noting that Mr. Allen’s face expressed deep sadness. Slowly walking around the plane, he stopped at the cockpit door, opened it, then climbed inside. He sat there quietly, as if expecting the lost pilot suddenly to appear.

CHAPTER XVI

Telltale Initials

GLANCING at each other, the Hardys kept silent as Mr. Allen continued to stare sorrowfully into space. They were eager to ask him more about Clint Hill’s plane, but out of respect did not disturb him. He sat quietly in the cockpit for several minutes, then finally climbed out.

“I assume the airplane was sold after Hill’s accident,” Frank said. “Who bought it?”

“It wasn’t sold to anyone,” Mr. Allen replied. “The plane was stolen soon after Clint crashed.”

“Stolen!” the boys cried out.

“Yes,” Mr. Allen answered. “I had almost forgotten the incident.”

He went on to explain that local and government authorities had investigated the theft, but had turned up nothing.

“We finally came to the conclusion,” Mr. Allen said, “that whoever stole the plane either crashed in it, or shipped it out of the country.”

“Maybe Hill’s ghost stole it,” Joe muttered derisively.

Then another angle occurred to the boys. If Clint Hill had survived the crash at sea and was involved in the platinum racket, had he come back to steal his own airplane for use in the thefts?

Returning to the business at hand, Frank and Joe, aided by Mr. Allen and two troopers, dragged some of the boxes from the cave and the task of loading the stolen material aboard the police helicopter was begun. When the craft was packed to capacity, its pilot quickly departed for the trip back to Stanwide.

Meanwhile, Joe had hurried off to get Mack and his helicopter. Soon the craft arrived, landing on the pasture near the cave entrance. The pilot jumped out and went into the thieves’ hideout to pick up more boxes for loading. As they emerged from the cave, an eerie, disembodied sound brought them to a stop. Someone unseen was whistling “High Journey.” Mr. Allen’s face turned ash white.

The whistling stopped. It was followed by a ghostly sounding voice. “You can’t escape from a man you’ve killed!”

“That’s Clint Hill’s voice!” Mr. Allen gasped. He was trembling.

“Where is it coming from?” Joe asked.

“Listen!” Frank ordered as the whistling began again. He made an effort to determine its source. Suddenly Frank, followed by his brother, broke into a fast run toward the helicopter. They reached the craft just as the whistling ceased.

“It’s coming from the radio receiver!” Frank shouted in amazement.

“What’s going on around here?” asked Mack, completely baffled.

“I wish we knew,” Frank responded, staring at the receiver.

Mr. Allen now joined the boys and Mack. “If I wasn’t so sure that it was Clint Hill’s voice we heard, I’d say the whole thing is a hoax,” said Mr. Allen with a grimace.

“I don’t believe it’s just a hoax,” Frank assured him. “And now shouldn’t we start loading the boxes aboard?” he suggested, hoping to take Mr. Allen’s mind off Hill’s ghostly message.

The work was arduous, but soon the helicopter was filled to capacity, reserving enough space so that Mr. Allen could return to Stanwide with his property. The Hardys asked Mack to pick them up later.

“While we’re waiting, we’ll do more sleuthing in this area.”

When all the cargo was secured, Mr. Allen shook hands with the boys, thanked them again, and boarded the helicopter. The pilot started the engine and set the rotor blades at a high RPM for take-off power. The craft lifted off the ground, then headed on a course to the southeast. It quickly disappeared beyond the crest of hills.

Frank and Joe returned to the cave. Two troopers had posted themselves at the entrance. The brothers went inside to take a closer look, beaming their flashlights at every inch of the rocky interior. They found nothing of significance.

Finally Joe went to the very rear of the cavern to search.

Frank, meanwhile, walked over to the airplane and climbed into the cockpit. Looking toward the rear, he spotted a small but powerful electric hoist mounted on rails that straddled a hatch in the floor of the cabin. Several hundred feet of light cable were wound around the hoist’s spindle.

“What’s a device like this doing in a passenger airplane?” the young detective puzzled. “And what’s it used for?”

Making a mental note of the hoist, Frank turned his attention to other areas of the cabin and cockpit. He searched through all the compartments but all he found were some air charts and an old navigational plotter.

“Whoever stole this plane made sure he left nothing around to identify him!” Frank muttered.

He extracted a fingerprint kit from his pocket and dusted the wheel, instrument panel, throttle, and other normally exposed areas for telltale prints. As he had expected, there were none; the occupants had been clever enough always to wear gloves.

Frank now bent low with his flashlight and searched underneath the seats. Suddenly he noticed a small leather object jammed between those of the pilot and copilot. He had difficulty reaching it, but finally managed to grasp the object and pull it out. A leather glove!

The young detective examined the lining of the fairly new glove. What he saw caused him to shout in excitement. Marked on the lining with indelible ink were the initials L.P.

“Lance Peterson!” Frank exclaimed, bolting out of the plane.

Excitedly he called to Joe, who came running. “What’s up?”

“Look!” Frank cried, thrusting the glove toward his brother.

Joe’s eyes widened as he spotted the initials. “They must stand for Lance Peterson!”

“Right! Mr. Allen should know about this as soon as possible!”

The boys hurried from the cave and told the troopers of their discovery. One of the policemen took his walkie-talkie radio out of its case, pulled the telescopic antenna from its housing, and flipped a toggle switch.

“These units can’t transmit more than a mile or two,” the trooper said. “But one of our patrol cars might be within range somewhere. They can get a call through to Mr. Allen.”

The trooper succeeded in reaching a patrol car and transmitted the message. While awaiting a response, the boys discussed Peterson’s connection with the racket.

“He must have stolen Clint’s plane himself,” Joe surmised.

“It sure looks that way,” said Frank. “But if Peterson is using the plane to fly in the stolen loot, I wonder where he makes the pickup. It certainly couldn’t be Bayport. The airplane would be recognized there at once.”

A crackling sound from the trooper’s walkie-talkie signaled them that a message was about to come in. The policeman put the receiver to his ear and listened intently. After a couple of minutes he put down the instrument and turned to the boys.

“Mr. Allen has just arrived back at Stanwide. He has received your message and congratulates you on the new clue. Also, he wants you to know that he checked with Bayport tower and was told that nothing new has turned up on the whereabouts of Peterson and Lieber.”

“Thanks,” said Joe.

He suggested to his brother that since it would be another couple of hours before the helicopter returned to pick them up, they do some investigating outside the cave.

“Good idea, Joe. Say, do you remember the small cabin I spotted when we flew around here with Randy Watson?”

Joe nodded.

“I’d like to take a look at that place for clues,” Frank told him. He pointed off across the road, in the direction of the heavy woods there. “If I remember correctly, the cabin should be located about a mile from here.”

The Hardys told the troopers where they were going, and said they should be back in about an hour. They started off at a fast pace.

“This sure is tough traveling,” Joe remarked as they picked their way up a hillside among closely spaced trees and tangled brush.

“It’s rugged,” Frank agreed. “But we ought to be getting close to the cabin soon.”

The boys continued to plod ahead. Finally Joe tugged at Frank’s arm and pointed to a small clearing a little to his right.

“The cabin!” he whispered.

The boys proceeded cautiously and stopped at the edge of the clearing. The cabin was weather-beaten and dilapidated.

Again Joe pointed. “Look! The door’s halfway open!”

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone around,” Frank answered in low tones.

The boys bent down and edged their way closer. They stepped with meticulous care to avoid making any noise. Suddenly the cabin door slammed shut with a loud bang. Startled, the boys quickly dashed for cover behind a large tree and focused their eyes on the building.

CHAPTER XVII

A Revealing List

TENSE and excited, Frank and Joe watched the cabin door. Suddenly it swung open, then slammed shut again. During the next few moments this cycle was repeated several times.

“What’s going on?” Joe whispered.

Frank glanced at the surrounding trees. He noticed that the leaves were moving, and grinned.

“It’s the wind,” he said. “The door is being blown open and shut. It must have a faulty latch.”

The boys studied the cabin for a sign somebody was around. When they were fairly certain that no one was nearby, they stepped from behind the cover of the tree.

“I’m going into the cabin,” Frank announced. “You stay on guard here.”

“Be careful,” Joe urged. “If you need help, just yell.”

Frank slowly approached the cabin. The door swung open and was about to slam shut again when the young sleuth grabbed the knob. Stealthily he poked his head inside the building.

The cabin’s one small room was in deplorable condition. Unwashed dishes were piled in a metal basin, articles of clothing were scattered about, and dust lay everywhere. “Wouldn’t Aunt Gertrude fuss if she could see this mess!” Frank said to himself, chuckling.

He stepped into the room and looked around for clues. At one end was a stone fireplace in which were scattered several charred logs. Flanking each side of the fireplace were numerous boat anchors of varying shapes and sizes. “This is Anchor’s place, all right,” thought Frank. “I can see how he got his nickname.”

The young detective spotted a supply of canned foods, stacked on a wooden shelf above the sink. Realizing he was hungry, Frank opened a couple of cans of meat. He then took them outside and shared their contents with Joe.

“Anchor brand meat, eh?” Joe grinned. “Remind me to thank that crook!”

Frank returned to the cabin to continue his investigation. After a thorough search, he found nothing. Frank was about to give up when something in the fireplace caught his eye. It was a charred piece of paper. Lifting it carefully out of the ashes, he placed it gently on the floor.

Bending down, the young sleuth saw that it contained a list of names. The printing was extremely faint, but he could make out the names Peterson, Anchor, and Rodax. At the bottom of the list was a skull and crossbones and the initials C.H.

“C.H.,” Frank repeated. “Could they stand for Clint Hill?”

On a hunch Frank picked up a bucket of fire-wood located nearby and dumped the contents on the floor. Among the wood was a crumpled fragment of paper which appeared to have been torn from a small loose-leaf diary. Frank smoothed out the paper and found written on it:

That ghost knows too much!

Excited, Frank rushed outside to show Joe his discovery. Joe examined the note, then pointed to a patch of ground near the cabin.

“I’ve made an interesting discovery of my own,” he said, and led Frank to the spot. Impressed clearly in the earth was a set of footprints. The instep of the right foot was narrower than that of the left.

“Clint Hill’s footprints again!” Frank exclaimed.

“And they appear to be quite fresh,” Joe said.

Frank stared at the prints. “Now I’m convinced Clint Hill is alive! If he was double-crossed by the gang, maybe he’s plaguing them for revenge, or to extort money from them in return for keeping quiet about their activities.”

“That could be the reason why Peterson wanted us to track down the ghost,” Joe replied. “Once we found Hill, he could get rid of him.”

“Possibly,” Frank said. “Then again, we could have Hill all wrong. He could be working to bring the gang to justice in his own way.”

Frank took an envelope from his pocket and gently inserted the charred piece of paper he had found.

“Mack should be here soon to pick us up,” he said. “We’d better get back to Bayport pronto and show this new evidence to Mr. Allen.”

The boys returned to the pasture. They had waited only a few minutes when they saw the helicopter skimming over the tops of the hills. The pilot descended directly over the pasture and touched down a few yards away. The boys climbed into the cabin and the craft lifted off the ground.

A brisk tail wind carried the helicopter along at a ground speed greater than that normally experienced, shortening the return flight by almost fifteen minutes. Mack set the craft down on a grass-covered area near the Ace Air Service ramp, and the Hardys hurried off to telephone Mr. Allen.

“I’ll meet you at Peterson’s office in a few minutes,” he said.

Minutes later, the two detectives were walking through the company hangar. They noticed that all of Stanwide’s aircraft were out except one. As the Hardys passed it, a man suddenly jumped from behind the plane and, unnoticed by the boys, lobbed a spherical-shaped metal object at them. It struck the concrete floor, bounded hard once, then rolled directly toward the brothers.

“Hit the floor! Quick!” Frank shouted as he recognized the object. “That’s a hand grenade!”

The boys hurled themselves flat and folded their arms over their heads. A split second later they heard an ear-shattering explosion, then the piercing whine of shrapnel flying above them.

The concussion rocked the hangar. Metal fragments from the grenade tore into the wings and fuselage of the plane. The high-octane fuel gushed out of the plane’s wing tanks, buckled by the blast.

Half dazed, the boys scrambled to their feet. The churning dust and smoke choked them.

“We’d better get out of here!” Joe cried out. “If that fuel catches fire, this place will go up like a torch!”

Outside the hangar, the Hardys glanced around to see if the man who had thrown the grenade was in sight, but he had vanished. A small crowd had gathered, attracted by the explosion.

An airport fire truck rolled into the hangar. Its crew quickly sprayed the plane and the floor with chemical foam to prevent the fuel from igniting.

Just then Mr. Allen arrived. “What happened here? What’s all the commotion?” he asked.

“Someone tossed a grenade at us in there!” Joe answered, wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead.

“The gang we’re after sure plays rough!” said Frank, angered.

Mr. Allen’s face showed his apprehension. “Things are becoming too dangerous. Maybe you boys should give up the case.”

“We’re not quitting now!” Frank declared. “We have the gang worried. They’re desperate, and want us out of the way. This grenade business proves it.”

The Hardys and Mr. Allen walked together to Peterson’s office. There, Frank showed the executive the names on the paper he had discovered in the cabin.

“This ties in with some news I have for you,” Mr. Allen said. “I have just learned that Rodax has suddenly resigned his job. He told the payroll master, who was the last to see him, that he had been offered a better job with another firm.”

“Did Rodax say where?” Frank queried.

“No, only that it was a long distance from here. He collected what pay was due him and disappeared.”

“How about Mrs. Rodax?” Joe asked. “Has anyone questioned her yet?”

“I telephoned his home,” Mr. Allen said. “Mrs. Rodax informed me that her husband left and did not say what his destination was. He told her only that he was going on a confidential trip.”

“What time did Rodax leave the plant?” Frank asked.

“Late this morning, according to the payroll master.”

“Then it’s too late to try tailing him,” Frank said, disappointed.

“Another thing,” the executive said. “One of the shipping-room clerks, John Unger, also quit his job suddenly.”

Frank remarked, “He too could be working with the gang.”

Joe stood nearby in deep thought. “I have a hunch,” he said. “It’s pretty obvious they never did reach California, and no word has been received of their landing anywhere else in this country—or Canada or Mexico.”

“Where do you think they are?” Mr. Allen asked with interest.

“Ile de la Mer,” Joe answered. “Since it’s uninhabited, it would make a great hideout—and Peterson would remember the air route from the trip he and Clint Hill were making when their plane crashed at sea.”

Both Frank and the company president were impressed by Joe’s theory.

“It’s worth looking into!” Frank exclaimed, and turned to Mr. Allen. “Could you arrange for Joe and me to go there?”

“I certainly can,” Mr. Allen said. “But not without protection. I’m going to assign a husky body guard to accompany you!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Air-Chart Secret

ELATED at the prospect of the trip, the brothers hurried home to discuss the island hop with Mr. Hardy. The ace detective was apprehensive, especially after hearing about the grenade incident. He agreed, however, that a search of lie de la Mer would certainly be worthwhile.

“I’d like to make the trip with you,” their father said. “But there are too many loose ends in the case to be taken care of here.” His expression became grave. “Be on your guard,” he warned his sons. “This is a clever gang we’re up against.”

The Hardys were just finishing dinner when Mr. Allen telephoned. “I’ve obtained the use of a twin-engine amphibian aircraft to take you boys to Ile de la Mer. Jerry Madden will be your pilot,” the executive announced. “I’ve also managed to get two big, strapping fellows from the plant to go along.”

“Great,” Frank answered. “And thanks. We’ll need only a day to get ready.”

“Keep me posted on developments,” said Mr. Allen, “and good luck!”

Only a few minutes passed before the telephone rang again.

“Hello?” said Frank.

“This is the ghost of Clint Hill,” an eerie voice announced. “I warn you, dead men tell no tales.”

Frank gripped the phone tighter. “Who is this?”

There was a moment of silence, then a loud burst of laughter.

“Chet!” Frank exclaimed. “You had me fooled.”

“You’re speaking to a master impersonator,” Chet boasted.

Suddenly Frank was struck with an idea. “Listen, pal, your ghost imitation may come in handy. How’d you like to fly down to Ile de la Mer with Joe and me?”

“Count me in!” Chet responded excitedly. “Just make sure there’s enough food aboard!”

The next day the brothers went to the Morton farmhouse to give Chet more details concerning the trip. They found IoIa Morton, Chet’s pretty, dark-haired sister, and Callie Shaw, an attractive blonde, seated in the living room. Callie was Frank’s favorite date, while Joe liked Iola very much. Standing in the middle of the room was Chet. He was whistling “High Journey.”

“Hi, fellows!” he called, interrupting his performance long enough to take several bites out of the massive sandwich he was holding.

“Hi!” Frank and Joe grinned as they took seats near the two girls.

“As you can see,” Iola said with a smile, “Chet is probably one of the best-fed ghosts in the business.”

“I need all the energy I can get,” Chet defended himself. “I might even start my own ghost-to-ghost network!”

By this time he had finished his sandwich, and hurried to the kitchen. Seconds later, he reappeared holding a large roasted turkey leg. Using it as a baton to mark the tempo, he resumed whistling.

“What if the real ghost gets mad at you for imitating him and decides to haunt you?” said Joe, chuckling.

Chet stopped whistling. He paled slightly. “Uh, come on, fellows,” he quavered. “You don’t think Clint Hill is a real ghost, do you?”

“We can’t say for sure,” Frank answered, trying to act solemn. “After all, we’ve never seen him. We’ve only heard him speak.”

Chet suddenly found his turkey leg unappetizing. He laid it down on a plate. The girls began giggling.

“This is no laughing matter,” he said with a frown. But suddenly his expression brightened. “I know what I’ll do if Hill is a ghost! If he tries to scare us, I’ll scare him right back!”

Chet dashed from the room. Moments later he reappeared, his stout form draped in a white sheet. The others roared with laughter as Chet leaped playfully about the room with the sheet swirling behind him.

“Better watch where you’re going!” Frank warned the cavorting phantom.

Chet now spread his arms wide under the sheet. Looking like a huge white bat, he took a high running jump across the room. Coming down hard, he tripped on one corner of the sheet. Chet lost his balance, stumbled, then fell and rolled across the room in a tangled mass of cloth. The girls joined in the Hardys’ fresh outburst of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Chet groaned as he struggled to free himself. “I thought I looked pretty scary.”

“If Hill’s ghost ever saw you in that get-up,” Frank said, “he’d laugh so hard he wouldn’t be able to haunt anyone.”

Chet finally extricated himself and plunked down into a chair with a disgruntled expression. Just then Mrs. Morton appeared and invited everyone to have lunch. As they all ate, the three boys discussed the trip to Ile de la Mer,

“Wish I were going,” Iola said wistfully.

A little later Chet accompanied the Hardys to the airport so they might check the plans for the trip. As they approached the Stanwide hangar, the boys spotted a twin-engine amphibian aircraft parked on the macadam ramp in front of the building. As they walked up to the craft, Jerry Madden’s head suddenly popped from a window in the cockpit.

“Hello, fellows!” he called. “How do you like her?”

“A beauty!” Joe responded as they all admired the craft’s graceful lines and bright painted surfaces.

Jerry’s head vanished into the cockpit. A moment later a door opened in the side of the fuselage and he reappeared.

“We just finished installing the long-range tanks,” Jerry announced. “As it stands now, we can make Ile de la Mer nonstop and still have a couple of hours’ fuel in reserve.”

“What about the return flight?” Frank asked. “Won’t we have to refuel?”

“According to Mr. Allen,” Jerry explained, “the exploratory team he sent to the island took a sizable supply of aviation gasoline with them. It was stored in 55-gallon drums. Some of them may have been unloaded and might still be there. However, if we find it’s gone—or is unusable—the company will have more fuel flown down to us.”

After finding that everything was in roadiness, Frank said he thought they should plan to depart as soon as practicable. “Tonight, maybe?”

“Okay!” Jerry replied. “I’ll give the plane a final check, then see what the weather bureau will give us in the way of a route forecast. It would be good to leave tonight. Then we’d arrive at the island after sunrise tomorrow.”

The boys hurried off to make final preparations. The Hardys dropped Chet at his house, telling him they would return within a couple of hours. After arriving at their own house, Frank and Joe learned that their father had gone out of town.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude began preparing a substantial supper for the boys while they packed some light luggage. The two women tried hard to conceal their apprehension, but it showed on their faces. The boys assured them everything would be all right.

Finally they departed for the airport, picking up Chet on the way. As they walked toward the Stanwide hangar, the boys spotted Jerry Madden standing near the airplane. There were two men with him—tall, muscular fellows who appeared to be in their late twenties. The pilot introduced them as Bill Vogel and Kurt Lerner, the men Mr. Allen had selected to go on the trip. Bill and Kurt greeted the boys with hard, firm handshakes.

“Wow!” Chet whispered as he straightened out the fingers of his right hand. “I’m glad those two are on our side.”

Soon everyone was aboard the amphibian and the engines were started.

“How is the weather forecast?” Frank asked Jerry as they waited for the motors to warm up.

“Excellent!” Jerry replied. “However, there is a strong low-pressure system situated southwest of Ile de la Mer. It could develop into quite a storm center. Right now, it’s hard to say in just what direction it may move. But at present it shouldn’t give us any trouble.”

He told the boys that once out of the continental United States, he would have to ask for Defense Visual Flight Regulation. After scanning the instrument panel methodically, Jerry picked up the microphone and communicated with Bayport tower. He asked for taxi and take-off instructions, and requested that his DVFR flight plane be activated.

Upon lining up the craft on the active runway to which he was cleared, Jerry eased the throttles ahead to maximum power. After a short run, the plane lifted off the ground easily. Jerry pulled up a small lever, which retracted the wheels into the fuselage.

When he reached the selected cruising altitude, Jerry set the plane on course. Hour after hour passed as it bore through the sky. Lulled by the drone of the engines, the boys caught up on some sleep.

When they awoke, the first light of dawn was breaking in the east. Gradually the light grew brighter, revealing a fascinating mosaic of deep blue and jade green on the surface of the ocean below.

“How long have we been flying over water?” Frank asked.

“Quite some time,” Jerry replied. “We left the United States coast about three hours ago.”

“You must be tired,” Frank said.

“Not really,” Jerry responded. “I slept most of yesterday. Also, the automatic pilot gives me a chance to stretch my arms and legs once in a while.”

Chet had wasted no time looking into the food supplies for breakfast. The meal, consisting mostly of fresh fruit, was divided among the group.

“We must be getting close to Ile de la Mer,” Jerry told the boys. He examined his chart closely. “Of course I’m basing that on dead reckoning, which is not always as precise as we would like it to be. But do you see those cumulus clouds ahead?”

The boys nodded.

“Clouds like that generally form over patches of land, such as an island,” Jerry said.

He maintained his course. Gradually the irregular outline of a small island loomed on the horizon.

“That’s Ile de la Mer!” Jerry exclaimed. “I’ve seen aerial shots of it that Clint Hill sent to Mr. Allen. It has a particular wedgelike shape which is unmistakable!”

He eased the nose of the plane down and descended to a lower altitude. Then Jerry aimed at the island and approached it at treetop height. Zooming in over the rocky coast, he pulled the nose of the plane sharply upward and followed the contour of the hills inland.

“There doesn’t appear to be any level terrain to land on,” he observed.

“Nothing suitable along the coast?” Frank asked.

“Much too rocky!” Jerry responded. “We’ll have to make a water landing.”

The pilot searched the coastline for a cove or inlet that would shelter the plane from the rougher waters of the open sea. Finally he spotted a small cove on the south side of the island.

Carefully studying the surface conditions, Jerry approached the cove and flared out several feet above the water. He now eased the throttles back and let the hull of the plane settle into the water. Taxiing into the cove, he called for the anchors to be heaved, then shut off the engines.

“The island looks deserted,” Joe commented.

“Just the same we had better be careful,” Frank warned. “Members of the gang could be in hiding somewhere.”

Jerry assured himself that the aircraft was secured firmly, then he inflated a large rubber raft to take the group to shore.

“I’m sure I can find the old campsite of the exploratory team,” Jerry said. “Mr. Allen described it to me in detail.”

The Hardys, Chet, Kurt Lerner, and Bill Vogel followed the pilot through the thick trees and brush. Luckily it was not long before the group broke out into a clearing. There they found a small wooden shack, various pieces of machinery, and a number of 55-gallon drums marked “Aviation Gasoline.”

Chet and Jerry examined the fuel supply, while the Hardys, accompanied by Bill and Kurt, went into the shack. They found it to be in good condition, and cans of food were stored on shelves along one wall.

“By the looks of things here,” Frank observed, “I’d say this place has been occupied recently.”

The boys scrutinized the interior closely for clues to the occupant but saw nothing unusual. Then Joe noticed something white sticking out behind a row of cans on the top shelf. He reached up and pulled down two large folded sheets of paper. As he unfolded them, his eyes widened with excitement.

“Frank!” he exclaimed. “Take a look at this!”

Joe pointed to his discovery. “Planning charts for aerial navigation! And here are course lines drawn on them!”

Frank dashed outside to summon Jerry and Chet. The pilot examined the charts with avid interest.

“The course lines start at the exact latitude and longitude of this island,” Jerry declared.

He traced the line with his finger. It ran off the first chart, and continued on the second. The course led back into the United States to the approximate location of the camouflaged cave the Hardys had discovered. From there, it went to a point in a sparsely settled region of Montana.

“How do you figure this mystery?” Jerry asked.

Frank answered. “The gang must have been operating between the cave and this island. After we discovered the cave and things got hot for them, they decided to establish a new hideout in Montana.”

“Let’s go there!” Joe exclaimed.

Even Chet was enthusiastic about the idea. “Maybe I’ll still get a chance to play ghost!”

“Can the plane make it to Montana nonstop?” Joe questioned.

“With full fuel tanks, and favorable winds, we can make it at least most of the way,” the pilot replied. “We may have to stop once to refuel.”

Suddenly they all became aware that a strong wind was building up. Jerry ran out of the shack and scanned the sky. A dark, threatening layer of clouds was moving toward the island.

“That storm center I told you about!” he shouted to the others. “It has started moving—and it’s coming right across this place!”

The storm now seemed to be approaching with increasing speed. The winds grew stronger, and intermittent droplets of rain began to pelt the area.

“Quick!” Jerry ordered. “Let’s get back to the plane! Those anchors won’t hold in a big storm!”

Followed by the Hardys, Chet, and the two Stanwide men, he ran off into the brush and back along the path over which they had come.

The wind became more violent and the rain was falling steadily. It quickly increased to a heavy downpour which stung the faces of the boys and their companions.

Reaching the cove, the group leaped into the raft and started paddling toward the plane, which was already being tossed around like a cork. Despite all their efforts, progress was slow. Each stroke of the paddles took the raft only a few inches ahead.

Finally, they managed to reach the plane. Jumping onto it from the raft was a precarious operation. The craft rolled and pitched violently under the pounding of the waves.

The Hardys glanced at the anchor ropes anxiously. They were being strained taut.

“Those ropes will snap any minute!” Frank thought fearfully.

CHAPTER XIX

Hideout Trap

THE storm had now become a raging fury. Huge waves crashed against the hull of the amphibian, causing it to heave violently.

“Those anchor ropes aren’t going to hold!” Jerry yelled.

“What about putting out more lines?” suggested Frank.

“We have extra rope aboard,” said the pilot, “but what do we attach it to? We haven’t any more anchors.”

“I can carry the other ends of the ropes to shore in the raft and tie them to the rocks,” Frank replied.

“Too dangerous!” Jerry shouted above the wind. “The raft would be swamped in a sea like this!”

“We have no choice,” Frank answered. “We’ll have to take the chance.”

Frank worked his way aft and picked up two coils of rope. Joe and the others pitched in to help. Climbing outside and clinging to the heaving fuselage, they fastened one end of a coil of rope to the tail, the end of the other to the bow.

Carrying both coils with him, Frank jumped into the raft and began paddling toward shore, feeding out lengths of rope behind him. The raft pitched violently in all directions. Then suddenly a towering wave crashed over the young detective. The paddle was yanked from his hand and the raft turned over.

“Frank! Frank!” shouted Joe.

Suddenly his brother’s head bobbed up in the tossing sea. He still clung to one of the ropes. Joe and the others grabbed it at their end and began hauling him in. As Frank neared the hull, another wave hit and slammed him against the plane. Although dazed by the blow, he continued to cling to the rope. Finally he was hauled aboard. They all climbed back inside the airplane.

“Good try, Frank!” said Kurt Lerner.

“Too bad I got swamped.”

“What’ll we do now?” Joe asked as he felt the plane lurch hard against the anchor ropes.

“I have an idea!” said Jerry. “It’s our last chance!”

Scrambling forward, he strapped himself into the pilot’s seat. There he pumped the throttles a few times, worked the fuel primers, and turned on the engine ignition switches.

“What are you going to do?” Frank asked.

“Try to meet the storm on its own terms!” Jerry said grimly. “If we can get started, I can head into the wind and try to ride it out!”

He engaged the engine starters. The propellers turned slowly, but the engines failed to respond.

At that instant a series of massive waves spilled over the plane. The craft heaved violently, snapping first one anchor rope, then the other. The plane began to drift rapidly toward the jagged rocks on shore.

Jerry continued to work the starters, but the engines would not respond! “The ignition harnesses must be wet!” the pilot’s voice held a note of helplessness.

Chet looked out. The rocks were getting closer! “We’ll be smashed to pieces!” he yelled, taking a deep breath.

Frank rushed forward and climbed into the seat beside Jerry’s. Frantically he tried to help with the starting procedure.

“We’d better get ready to jump overboard!” Jerry declared as he glanced at the deadly rocks looming up in front of his window.

Frank and Jerry continued to work the throttles and engage the starters. Suddenly the right engine backfired a few times, then burst into life.

Using the one engine, Jerry swung the plane around and headed into the wind and oncoming waves. By applying full power, he was able to halt the craft’s drift toward the rocks.

“That was close!” Frank said, sighing in relief.

“We’re not out of this yet,” Jerry said. “With only one engine running, we have to apply so much power to hold our position that we’re likely to burn out the motor!”

He again tried starting the left engine. Finally his persistence paid off. The engine backfired once, then roared in response.

Jerry eased the throttles ahead and pulled still farther away from the rocks. He reduced power sufficiently to hold their position, yet prevent the engines from overheating.

“Great job!” said Frank, and Jerry gave a wry smile.

The waves continued to batter the plane. Water seeped in through seams around the windows and the door, making it necessary for the occupants to bail constantly.

“How can the plane take this pounding?” Frank asked.

“It’s a strong ship,” Jerry answered. “Also, the fact that we’re in a cove is helping to take some of the kick out of the waves.”

The wind and the rain continued to rage. Jerry glanced at the fuel gauges.

“If this storm doesn’t end soon,” he observed gloomily, “we’ll run out of fuel. Then we’ll really be in trouble!”

Gradually, however, the rain and gusts of wind seemed to diminish in activity.

“I think the storm is moving off!” Joe said happily.

“You’re right,” Jerry agreed.

As night fell, the rain stopped and the wind subsided to a gentle breeze. Switching on the plane’s bright landing lights, the pilot carefully taxied to a narrow part of the cove. Retrieving the rope which they had attached to the bow of the plane, Frank and Joe swam ashore and tied the end around a rock. Meanwhile, Lerner and Vogel had tied the stern line to another rock at the opposite side of the cove.

Satisfied that the airplane was now secure, the whole group fell exhausted on the beach and slept soundly through the remainder of the night.

The next day, after a breakfast from the plane’s store of provisions, Jerry began an examination of the craft for damage. The Hardys, with Chet, Lerner, and Vogel, set out to collect the drums of aviation gasoline. It was long, arduous work. Each of the drums had to be rolled through the brush to the shore of the cove, loaded onto the raft, which had washed ashore undamaged, then ferried to the plane. There the contents were emptied into the fuel tanks.

It was late afternoon before the refueling operation was completed. The boys then made a quick tour of the small island, but found no one hiding there. Jerry, meanwhile, had examined every inch of the plane and reported it to be airworthy.

“I suggest we take off immediately, while we still have some daylight,” he said.

Soon they were airborne again, headed for Montana. They flew throughout the night. Shortly after daybreak, Jerry landed once to refuel, then set off again. By late morning he announced that they were over Montana.

“I’ll head for the area indicated on that chart you boys found on the island,” said the pilot.

When they reached it, he established a search pattern by maneuvering the aircraft into a series of weaving courses. The boys looked with fascination at the twisting valleys and rivers below. Mountains jutted up all around them.

“Exactly what is it we’re looking for?” Chet questioned.

“The gang’s hideout would have to be near a long, level stretch of ground which could serve as a runway,” Frank answered. “This particular area is rugged, so there can’t be too many spots for landing.”

Jerry applied more power and climbed to a higher altitude to clear some of the lower mountains. He continued the search pattern.

“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Chet mumbled.

“Wait a minute,” said Frank. “Let’s take a closer look at that spot over there.” He pointed slightly to his right.

Jerry rolled into a turn and straightened out in the direction Frank had indicated.

“See the timber line on the side of that mountain ahead?” Frank asked. “There’s a stretch of level ground right above it.”

“I see it!” Joe exclaimed. “And say, there’s a shack in a clearing in those woods about half a mile away.”

The pilot also sighted the spot. He maneuvered the plane closer to the level area.

“What do you think?” Frank asked Jerry.

“It’s level enough and plenty long for a landing. I’d say it would make an ideal runway. And that grove of trees at the far end would be a perfect hiding place for an airplane.”

Frank suggested that they land and investigate the area. Jerry headed the plane down and flew at a height of less than a hundred feet above the ground.

“The surface looks smooth,” he said. “I’m going to swing around and make a long approach for a landing.”

He rolled the plane into a turn and then lined it up with the level stretch of ground, reduced power, extended the landing gear, and lowered full flaps. The craft touched down smoothly and rolled to a stop with plenty of room to spare. Jerry taxied toward the grove of trees, shut off the engines, and parked. The Hardys, followed by the others, got out and glanced around at the hard, bare ground.

“It doesn’t look as if anyone has been here before,” Frank remarked glumly.

“I guess we’re just on a wild-goose chase,” Joe said with a frown.

“Hey, fellows!” yelled Chet, who had been reconnoitering an area that sloped away from the grove of trees where the ground was softer.

Frank and Joe rushed over to their chum.

“Look!” Chet said, pointing at the ground. “Footprints!”

All the boys examined the tracks closely. The heavy impressions of a man’s shoes were clear, and led down the slope. “The prints were made recently!” Joe concluded.

Excitedly the young detectives followed the trail of prints. Lerner and Vogel tagged along a short distance behind. Jerry Madden remained with the plane.

Suddenly Frank stopped and gazed straight ahead. He gestured for everyone to be quiet. Through the trees they could see a small shack.

Motioning Joe to follow him, Frank began to creep toward it. Reaching the shack, the boys peered through a knothole in the wall. What they saw startled them. Seated inside were Lance Peterson and Aaron Lieberl Tensely the Hardys each pressed an ear to the wall in hopes of overhearing the men’s conversation.

“Why should we divide the loot equally?” the boys heard Lieber growl. “We did most of the work.”

“We’ll only divvy up what we’ve already unpacked,” Peterson replied. “The stuff we buried in the old dry well won’t be missed by the others. We’ll keep that for ourselves.”

“The rest of the guys ought to be flying in soon,” Lieber said.

This remark startled and worried the boys. They must hurry to capture these men before the new arrivals might capture the Hardys and their companions!

When the brothers reported what they had heard, Lerner and Vogel offered to rush the place and seize Peterson and Lieber.

Frank did not agree. “They may be armed,” he said. “By the time we broke into the shack, they’d have a chance to use their weapons. Let’s get them to come outside.”

“How?” Joe asked.

Frank grinned at his brother, then turned to Chet. “Here’s your chance to play ghost.”

Chet and the Hardys hid behind some brush located a short distance from the shack. Vogel and Lerner took up concealed positions nearby.

“Okay.” Frank quickly whispered something to his stout friend. “You’re on.”

Chet cleared his throat, then called out in deep, eerie tones:

“This is the ghost of Clint Hill! You cannot escape a man that you have killed!”

A second later Peterson and Lieber bolted from the shack. Terror-stricken, they looked around.

“The ghost! It’s the ghost!” Peterson screamed. “We’ve got to get away!”

Lerner and Vogel sprang out from a bush. Leaping on the two thieves, they quickly overpowered them.

“What—what’s going on?” Lieber shouted, dumfounded.

The captured men were even more startled to see the Hardys striding toward them.

“What are you two doing here?” Lieber yelled.

“How did you find us?” blurted Peterson. “And where’s the ghost?”

“Never mind,” said Frank. “Who else is in the gang with you?”

“We’re not talking,” growled Lieber.

“If you won’t tell us, we’ll find out anyway,” said Frank. “Bush Barney and Anchor are in jail. We know some more of your pals are due here shortly.”

The prisoners glanced at each other apprehensively. They were herded into the shack, seated in chairs, and their hands tied firmly behind their backs.

Frank said that he and Joe would guard the two captives. He instructed Lerner, Vogel, and Chet to go back and warn Jerry that more members of the gang were flying in.

“Make sure our own plane is hidden,” Frank commanded. “Then wait there and nab whoever arrives.”

Alone with Peterson and his henchman, the Hardys began to question them. Peterson offered to make a deal, but the boys refused to listen. The only concession Frank would make was that it might go easier for the men if they would cooperate.

That seemed to make up Peterson’s mind. “I can give you a complete list of everybody who’s in this with us,” he said, “and how the whole operation worked. You’ll find it all in that metal box up there on the top shelf.” He nodded toward the opposite end of the room.

Frank walked over to the shelf Peterson had indicated. He looked up at the box. It was not very large, but difficult to reach.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Joe said, coming over.

They stepped closer and began lifting the box. The next instant there was a click, and suddenly the floor beneath their feet gave way! A trap door! The boys plunged helplessly into a dark hole. Landing with a thud on soft ground some ten feet below, the Hardys scrambled up just as the door slammed shut above them. At once they became aware of a hissing sound in the darkness.

“What’s that odor?” Joe asked frantically.

“It must be some kind of gas, Joe!”

In the room above they heard the two men break into raucous laughter. As the hissing sound continued, the boys realized with horror that they were losing consciousness!

CHAPTER XX

Runway Victory

MEANWHILE, Chet and the two men had arrived back at the plane. Jerry was amazed to hear that Peterson and Lieber had been captured.

“And more members of the gang are expected to land here at any time,” Chet added. “Frank says to hide the plane.”

“We’d better push it under the trees,” Jerry said.

Together, they rolled the aircraft deep into the little grove. Then they watched the sky and waited.

“I hope there aren’t too many of them,” Chet said nervously.

Nearly an hour passed before the droning sound of an airplane was heard in the distance.

“There it is!” Jerry shouted. “Let’s take cover!”

They watched the craft as it circled and headed in for a landing. The pilot set the plane down gently, then taxied toward the grove. The plane came to a stop and three men climbed out.

“One of those men is Rodax,” Vogel whispered. “He worked at the Stanwide plant.”

“And I’ve seen the short guy around the plant too,” added Lerner. “Name’s Unger—he’s one of the shipping clerks.”

Neither he nor Vogel recognized the third man, who had piloted the plane.

“I don’t recognize him, either,” said Jerry.

The three men started walking toward the trees. When they sighted the amphibian, they came to an abrupt stop.

“I didn’t know we had another plane working with us,” Rodax was heard to say.

The men walked forward for a closer look.

“Let’s get them!” Chet whispered.

He and the others leaped on the thieves. Rodax and his companions were caught completely unawares. They were quickly subdued, almost without a struggle.

“What is this?” bellowed Rodax.

At that instant Chet had an idea. He realized that Rodax and the other two henchmen had never seen him before. However, they did recognize Jerry Madden, Lerner, and Vogel as employees of Stanwide. Perhaps if the thieves were led to believe that Peterson and Lieber had talked them into coming in on the deal without their confederates’ knowledge, it might make Rodax and the others angry enough to talk.

“You might call it a double cross!” Chet said.

“Double cross? What do you mean?” Rodax demanded.

The man Lerner had recognized as the shipping clerk appeared greatly alarmed.

“Maybe Peterson has brought these guys in on the deal,” he said, “and plans to push us out!”

“Is that right?” Rodax shouted angrily.

“Why don’t you ask Peterson and Lieber about that?” Chet taunted with a grin. “Ask them about the little—er—agreement we made with them.”

Jerry and the others quickly caught on to what Chet was trying to do, and played along.

“If those guys did double-cross us, it’ll be just too bad for them!” shouted Rodax. He was now in a furious mood.

The three thieves were marched off to the shack. As they approached, Peterson and Lieber, who had freed themselves from their bonds, came running out the door.

“It must be true!” growled Rodax. He leaped toward Peterson with clenched fists and knocked him to the ground. The shipping clerk rushed at Lieber. The pilot did not attempt to join in, but merely stood watching nervously.

“Let them fight it out among themselves!” yelled Chet. Concerned about the Hardys, he ran into the shack. “Frank!” he called in a worried voice. “Joe!”

Chet rushed outside.

“Jerry!” he cried out. “Frank and Joe are gone!”

Exhausted from their violent struggle, the four thieves painfully got to their feet.

“What has happened to the Hardys?” Chet demanded angrily.

Peterson and Lieber remained silent.

“Let’s tie them up!” said Jerry.

Peterson and the others were taken into the shack, firmly bound and seated in chairs.

Chet searched the room. He was in a frenzy.

“You’d better tell us where the Hardys are,” Jerry said angrily, addressing Peterson and Lieber. “Otherwise—”

Still the men refused to speak. The strange pilot, who had been getting more nervous by the minute, finally broke down.

“I was dragged into this racket!” he yelled. “I don’t want to go to jail! I’ll turn state’s evidence!”

“What’s your name?” Chet asked him.

“Kyle Rodney,” he responded. “And I’ve been in this shack before. They have a trap door in the floor, over by those wood shelves, with a special catch that automatically releases when anyone steps on the door. Lieber designed it that way, in case snoopers did come here. Before stepping on it himself, he locked it. Your friends are probably down below.”

“Shut up!” growled Lieber.

Chet, with the aid of Lerner and Vogel, pushed hard on the trap door. It swung downward. “I smell gas!” Chet exclaimed.

“It’s harmless,” Lieber said. “When the trap door opens, it uncorks a bottle rigged to the underside.”

Chet peered into the hole. “There they are!” he shouted. “They’re unconscious!”

“Only asleep,” Peterson put in. “That gas wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

Chet grabbed a length of rope, handed one end of it to Lerner and Vogel, then lowered himself to where Frank and Joe were lying. He quickly looped the rope under Frank’s arms, and called to the men to haul the young sleuth up. Then it was Joe’s turn.

The boys were carried outside the shack. After several minutes in the fresh air, the Hardys began to regain consciousness.

“What happened?” Frank murmured in a weak voice.

“You and Joe fell through a trap door in the shack,” explained Chet. “Some kind of gas was released that knocked you both out.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” Frank said, holding his head. Then he sat bolt upright. “How’s Joe?” he asked.

“Okay,” Chet assured him. “He’s just a little groggy. Lucky that gas wasn’t deadly!”

Within a few more minutes the boys had fully recovered. They went into the shack and questioned their prisoners.

“Why did you steal Clint Hill’s airplane—the one we found in the cave?” Frank asked.

The captured men glared at the young sleuth in silence.

Frank decided to play a hunch. “That hoist in the plane—you used it to transfer the stolen goods while in flight, didn’t you?” Slyly he played on Peterson’s vanity. “I have to hand it to you. That was some trick! How did you manage it?”

“It was simple! I got the idea after watching some newsreel films on air-to-air refueling,” Peterson boasted. Too late, he realized that he had been tricked into confessing. With nothing further to lose, he began to spell out the details of the scheme, as if wanting the boys and their friends to admire his cleverness.

“I stole Hill’s plane to use in the operation, and we rigged a hoist to it. When we planned a job, I’d arrange to fly the shipment at night so we wouldn’t be seen. Then Kyle Rodney, in the hoist plane, would rendezvous with me over some predetermined point, lower a light cable, and we’d transfer a few boxes of platinum parts from the Stanwide plane to his.”

“I had to do it!” exclaimed Rodney. “Peterson found out that I had once been in trouble with the law and served a prison term. I was afraid I’d lose my pilot’s license!”

“Your hoisting operation was pretty risky, wasn’t it?” Jerry asked.

“It was the only way,” Peterson confessed. “If I had had to land the cargo plane to unload the stuff, the delay would have shown up on my flight plan. That would have been a dead giveaway.”

Lieber stared at Peterson. He was flushed with anger at his partner’s betrayal.

“After the air-to-air heist,” continued Peterson, ignoring him, “Rodney would fly the stuff to our cave hideout. Bush Barney and Anchor would then set up a roadblock to prevent motorists from using the road near the cave, for fear they might see the plane land in the pasture. If a motorist ignored the roadblock, they would set off flares to warn Rodney not to come in.”

“So it was you who hit our car with the wheels of your plane the night we drove along the road!” Frank said accusingly to Rodney.

“That was an accident,” Rodney answered. “Bush Barney was late in lighting the flare, and I was too low to pull up and go around.”

Peterson then asked the Hardys a question. “How did you learn about this hideout?”

“That was easy,” Frank replied. “We found an air chart on Ile de la Mer with a course to this place marked on it.”

“You fool!” Lieber bellowed at Peterson. “Why did you have to forget that chart!”

“What were you doing on Ile de la Mer?” Frank asked Peterson. “Did you hide any loot there?”

“No,” Peterson responded. “We had planned to use it as a hideout. But then we changed our minds—we were afraid Mr. Allen might decide to send another exploratory team there.”

“Bunglers!” mumbled Rodax.

“Then I remembered this spot,” Peterson continued. “My grandfather used to bring me hunting here when I was a kid. I thought it would make a perfect hideout. We high-tailed it from Ile de la Mer so fast that I forgot to take the chart I had plotted the flight on.”

“Who threw the hand grenade at us?” asked Joe angrily, remembering their close call in the Stanwide hangar.

“That was Rodax,” Peterson said quickly, eager to disclaim responsibility for the brutal attack. “And it was his idea to get you boys to my office so he could have Lieber steal your camera and films from the plane. You’ll find the camera in a Bayport pawnshop.”

“Shut up!” shouted Rodax.

Joe, taking a guess, said, “Zimm, too, worked with you. He spied on us, and covered Clint Hill’s prints in the hangar in case he was still alive and we might trace him. Also, Zimm tried to drop that hunk of machinery on us in the warehouse.”

“Yes,” Peterson replied.

Frank turned to Lieber. “Your brother-in-law is innocent, isn’t he? You just used him for a dupe?”

“Yes.”

The Hardys asked Peterson the location of the dry well where he and Lieber had hidden the loot that they intended keeping for themselves. On hearing this bit of treachery, Rodax and the shipping clerk were ready to tear Peterson and Lieber apart.

Frank whispered to Jerry Madden that he should summon the State Police on the plane’s radio, and also request them to relay word to Bayport Police Headquarters to have Zimm arrested. The pilot left the shack. A few minutes later he returned and nodded to the young sleuth that he had been successful.

Before long, a large Montana police helicopter arrived and the thieves were taken into custody. As Peterson left, he stopped for an instant and turned to the boys.

“Remember,” he said threateningly, “Clint Hill’s ghost is still on the loose! You never solved that mystery!”

“No, but we mean to learn the truth,” Frank answered, and added, “You left a note to Lieber in that cabin saying the ghost knew too much, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I got a lot of radio messages that were—er—too revealing. They came over my office set that was always tuned to unicom.” Peterson would not explain any further.

When the Hardys and their friends returned to Bayport, they received a joyous homecoming. Mr. Allen was overwhelmed by the sleuthing ability of the boy detectives. Frank and Joe refused to accept the handsome check he offered them, but said that their friend Chet would settle for the biggest meal he could find in Bayport!

Two days later the brothers received a telephone call from Mr. Allen, asking them to come to his office. When they arrived, his secretary looked at them with a big smile.

“Go right in,” she said.

As the boys opened the door to Mr. Allen’s office, they were astounded to hear someone whistling “High Journey”!

“Come in!” said Mr. Allen as he rose from behind his desk. He nodded toward a bearded young man at the end of the room. “Meet Clint Hill, boys!”

The Hardys stood speechless for a moment, unable to believe their ears. Clint Hill shook hands with them, then after they all sat down, he began to relate his story.

“As you know, Peterson and I and our passengers crashed at sea during a return flight from Ile de la Mer. After we hit the water, the three mineralogists drowned almost instantly. Peterson took the one available life raft and left me clinging to the wing of the plane. I was slightly injured and couldn’t swim after him.”

“What did Peterson hope to gain by abandoning you?” Frank asked curiously.

“As he paddled off in the raft, he shouted to me that now he would become chief pilot of Stanwide. And that he would fix Mr. Allen. Then I fainted. I must have unconsciously clung to a piece of wreckage, because the next thing I knew I was on an island, being cared for by some natives. They spoke only their own language, which I couldn’t understand.”

“Lucky the natives were friendly,” Frank said.

“Oh, yes,” Clint replied. “After I recovered, they took me to another, bigger island in a dugout canoe. It was there that I managed to get a job and earn enough money to buy boat passage back to the United States. I decided to keep my identity a secret and stay in hiding until I found out what Peterson was up to. I didn’t even get in touch with Mr. Allen—I wanted to be sure of my ground before making any accusations.”

“When did you decide to become a ghost?” asked Joe, grinning.

“I knew Peterson was superstitious,” the pilot said, “so I got a job with the ground crew at a field near Bayport. I began to bug him with the ghost business, hoping to make him confess not only that he had left me to die, but what he was doing to ‘fix’ Mr. Allen.”

“Great idea!” Frank said with a chuckle. “It even had us worried for a while. I guess Peterson asked us to work for him to throw us off the track. By the way, was it you who wore a mask one night at Zimm’s house and gave me a punch?”

“Was that you?” Hill asked, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I thought it was one of Peterson’s pals!”

“No harm done.” Frank grinned. “Go on with your story.”

“After I’d been here a while,” Clint continued, “I took the airport operator I was working for into my confidence. He allowed me the use of an airplane to do some investigating, and I succeeded in tracking Peterson to Anchor’s cabin, but I couldn’t find the cave. I see you boys did, though! And when he skipped, I phoned your house to find out where he’d gone. But you tried to bargain with me and of course I couldn’t do that.”

“No.” Frank laughed. “Of course you couldn’t.”

The young pilot congratulated the Hardys on the fine job they had done in uncovering Peterson’s scheme against Mr. Allen. The boys felt gratified, but longed to solve another mystery. It was to come as they worked to find out the riddle of a story about What Happened at Midnight.

Mr. Allen heartily echoed Clint Hill’s praise. “And since you Hardy boys are the best sleuths in the business,” Mr. Allen added, “you’ve probably figured out that you are now looking at Stanwide’s permanent chief pilot! That is,” he added, with a grin in Clint’s direction, “if our ghost gets around to shaving off those whiskers!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Burglars

CHAPTER II - Amazing Invention

CHAPTER III - Warning Message

CHAPTER IV - The Cold Trail

CHAPTER V - The Hunt

CHAPTER VI - Fogged In

CHAPTER VII - The Escape

CHAPTER VIII - An Astounding Report

CHAPTER IX - Smuggler’s Trail

CHAPTER X - Elevator Chase

CHAPTER XI - Discovered !

CHAPTER XII - Tunnel Scare

CHAPTER XIII - Exciting Assignment

CHAPTER XIV - Identification Diamond

CHAPTER XV - Pursuit

CHAPTER XVI - Bail Out!

CHAPTER XVII - The Trapped Pilot

CHAPTER XVIII - Outsmarting the Enemy

CHAPTER XIX - Anchor Pete

CHAPTER XX - Captives’ Hideout

WHAT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT

FRANK and Joe Hardy receive an unusual assignment from their detective father. They are to “break into” the house of a Bayport neighbor, Malcolm Wright, and retrieve a top-secret invention that the scientist had hidden in his study before leaving for California. The invention is in danger of being stolen, and the boys race against time to beat the thieves at their own game.

But the young detectives soon discover that they are involved in a mystery far greater in scope than just retrieving the invention. Their investigations put them on the trail of a dangerous gang of jewel thieves and smugglers. When Joe is kidnapped, this incident starts Frank off on a chase that almost ends disastrously for him and his pals.

The exciting capture of several members of the gang during a stormy night on Barmet Bay and a perilous encounter with the insidious Anchor Pete concludes one of the most complicated cases of the Hardys’ career.

The subway train rapidly gained on them!

Copyright © 1995, 1967, 1959, 1931 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07625-5

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Burglars

“WHAT an assignment! And from our own Dad!”

Joe Hardy grinned at his brother Frank as the two boys slipped into ripple soled shoes and put on dark jackets.

“First time we’ve ever been asked to play burglar,” Frank answered with a chuckle.

A few days before, their father, an ace detective, and Malcolm Wright, an inventor, had left for California to hunt for Wright’s valuable stolen antique plane. Because they would be delayed in returning, the inventor had requested the brothers to “break into” his home and retrieve a top-secret invention before thieves took it.

“A little second-story work around midnight,” Joe mused, “and all because Mr. Wright left his keys inside the house and locked everything but that one bedroom window with a broken lock.”

“The invention must be something super or Dad and Mr. Wright wouldn’t have asked us to guard it with our lives,” Frank remarked. “I wonder what it is.”

“Dad gave us permission to find out. Say, suppose we can’t locate that secret compartment we think is in Mr. Wright’s desk before those thieves arrive?” Joe asked. “I wish Dad could have given us all the details before the call was cut off and we couldn’t get it back.”

Joe, who had blond hair, was a year younger than his dark-haired, eighteen-year-old brother Frank. Both had solved many mysteries, some of them for their father.

Fenton Hardy had told the boys on the telephone that just before Mr. Wright had left Bayport, where they all lived, he had been threatened by a mysterious gang. They had learned about the invention from a worker in a factory that had made some of the parts. He had breached the confidence placed in him.

The caller had told Mr. Wright that if he did not voluntarily turn over his invention before a certain time, “visitors” would come for it. The date they had set was the following day!

“Mr. Wright didn’t have time to put the invention in a safe-deposit box, so he hid it in his study,” Fenton Hardy had said. “He’s afraid the thieves may break into his house, so he has alerted the police to be there tomorrow morning. But he’s worried and he wants you boys to get the small box containing the invention before then. Don’t leave it at our house when you’re not there. Keep it with you at all times but well hidden.”

Frank and Joe relayed the conversation to their pretty, understanding mother, and to Aunt Gertrude, their father’s maiden sister who lived with them. She was inclined to be critical of her nephews involvement in detective work.

Instantly she said, “Be burglars! The idea! Why, suppose you fall off that house—I”

“Gertrude, please!” Mrs. Hardy broke in. “Don’t even mention such a possibility. I know the boys will be careful.”

“Of course,” said Joe. “Let’s go, Frank!”

The brothers hurried to the garage where their shiny convertible gleamed in the light of a street lamp on the corner of High and Elm streets. Frank took the wheel and drove to within a block of Mr. Wright’s rambling, old-fashioned house. The boys walked to it and were glad to see that the building stood in deep shadows.

They reconnoitered the grounds in silence. No one was around. Finally Frank whispered, “I guess our best bet to the second floor is that trellis. It looks sturdy. We’ll go across the roof over the kitchen door and edge around to the unlocked window.”

“I’ll stay close by and hold onto your legs until you make it,” Joe answered.

They followed each other up the trellis and crossed the narrow roof. Fortunately there was not much pitch to it. Joe crouched and grasped his brother’s right leg.

“All set,” he announced in a whisper.

Frank stretched over to the window ledge but could not reach the top of the sash to raise it.

“Give me a push upward,” he murmured to Joe, who hoisted his brother until his fingers reached the top of the sash.

The window lifted easily. Frank pulled himself sideways through it. “Your turn, Joe.” He reached out and grasped his brother’s outstretched hands.

Joe, a little shorter than Frank, found he could not reach the window without swinging precariously in space. If Frank couldn’t hold his brother’s weight, he would be dragged outside. Both boys would plunge to the ground!

“No use being silly about this,” Frank said. “I’ll open the rear door for you.”

Joe was about to climb down the trellis when a strong light suddenly lit the area.

“A car!” Frank exclaimed as the driver beamed a searchlight on their side of the street. “Maybe the thieves are in it! Duck!”

Frank quickly closed the window, while Joe flattened himself face down on the roof. He did not stand up until the area was in darkness again. Then he hurried down the trellis and through the rear door.

“Duck!” Frank exclaimed. “Maybe the thieves

are in that car!”

“Close call!” said Frank.

Joe nodded. “I thought maybe it was a police car, but I guess not. It had no revolving top light.”

His brother agreed. “I’m sure Mr. Wright’s enemies are casing this place!”

“Yes. And they’ll probably be back soon! We’d better get moving.”

Holding their flashlights low to the floor, the boys sped up the stairs and found Mr. Wright’s study. A large walnut desk stood in the center of the room. Frank and Joe walked to the front of it, where there were drawers to left and right of the wide kneehole.

“The secret compartment may be in one of them,” Joe suggested.

“They’re not locked,” Frank whispered in amazement.

The boys searched diligently, lifting aside letters and other papers. They found nothing.

“Now what?” Joe asked.

Frank had an idea. “I’ll look in the kneehole while you hunt for movable panels on the outside of the desk.”

Again there was silence as the two boys began to finger the woodwork. Minutes went by, then Joe said, “I’ve found something that moves.”

Frank crawled out and watched as his brother slid open a panel, revealing a long, narrow space.

“Anything in it?” Frank asked.

Joe beamed his flashlight inside. A look of disappointment came over his face.

“Nothing,” he announced. “There might have been at some time, though.”

“You mean the invention?”

“Maybe. How are you making out?”

“Something in the kneehole looks suspicious,” Frank answered.

Just then the boys heard the crash of glass and immediately clicked off their flashlights. Someone had broken a windowpane, and at this moment was no doubt reaching inside for the lock. Any minute one or more men might mount the stairs and enter the study!

The boys looked for a hiding place. There were no draperies, sofa, or large chairs, and no closet.

“Let’s hide in the kneehole,” Frank whispered, “then use our hand signals.”

Some time before this, the Hardys had devised a series of hand-squeeze signals. One hard squeeze meant, “Let’s attack!” Two indicated caution. Long, short, long meant, “We’d better scram.” An ordinary handshake was, “Agreed.”

“If there aren’t more than two men, let’s attack,” Joe said in a barely audible tone.

“Okay.”

Quickly the two crawled into the kneehole and pulled the desk chair into place. The boys were well hidden when they heard footsteps on the stairs, then voices.

“No failing this time or Shorty’ll take us on our last ride,” said a man with a nasal voice.

Frank and Joe wondered if the men had tried to break in earlier but failed.

The man’s companion spoke in lower tones of disgust. “Oh, you’d believe Shorty invented fire if he told you he did. He ain’t so great. Takes orders from the boss, don’t he?” The other did not reply.

The two men entered the room and beamed flashlights around. “Where did Wright say he kept the invention?” the deep-toned man asked.

“I got in late on the conversation when I tapped that telephone call to the Hardy house,” the other answered. “But I did hear the words ‘secret compartment.’ Where would that be? The desk?”

Frank and Joe froze. Were they about to be discovered?

“No, not the desk,” the other man said. “The safe.”

For the first time the boys noticed a small safe standing against the wall opposite them. Frank and Joe were fearful the men would detect their hiding place, but the attention of the burglars was focused on the safe. In a moment they squatted and the boys got a good glimpse of their faces. Both were swarthy and hard-looking.

At that moment the tower clock of the town hall began to strike. It was midnight!

The men waited until the echo of the twelfth stroke had died away, then the one with the nasal twang put his ear to the dial of the safe and began to turn the knob.

After a few moments his companion asked impatiently, “What’s the matter? That safecrackin’ ear of yours turned to tin?”

“Tumblers are noiseless,” the other said. “Guess we’ll have to blow it.” He began to take some wire from his pocket.

Frank and Joe were trapped. If the door of the safe were blown off, it might head right in their direction!

Quickly Joe felt for Frank’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze, meaning, “Let’s attack!”

Instantly Frank answered with the “Agreed!” handshake.

In a flash Joe flung the desk chair at the two men, then the boys jumped them!

CHAPTER II

Amazing Invention

TAKEN by surprise the burglars were at a disadvantage. Frank and Joe knocked them to the floor and sat on their backs.

“Ugh! What’s going—?” one mumbled.

The men were strong and with great heaves they tried to shake off the boys. Frank and Joe pressed down hard.

“Who are you?” Frank demanded.

No answer. Then suddenly the man Joe was holding rolled over and tried to sit up. Joe kept him down and the two, locked in a viselike grip, twisted to and fro across the floor.

Frank, meanwhile, had found his deep-voiced opponent a kicker, who viciously jabbed his heels into the boy’s back. Angry, Frank sent two swift blows which grazed the man’s chin.

The other two fighters bumped into them. In the mix-up the burglars were able to throw off their attackers and scramble to their feet. The four began to exchange punches.

“Finish off these guys!” the nasal-voiced man rasped.

For several seconds it looked as if they would. Their blows were swift and well-aimed. Then both men, breathing heavily, relaxed their guard. In a flash Frank and Joe delivered stinging upper-cuts to their opponents’ jaws. The burglars fell to the floor with thuds that shook the house. They lay quiet.

The boys grinned at each other and Joe said, “Knockouts!”

Frank nodded. “We must notify the police to get out here before these men come to.”

“We can wait,” Joe answered. “They’ll sleep for at least half an hour. Let’s find that invention first!”

“Good idea.”

Though bruised and weary the boys eagerly searched the side of the kneehole where Frank thought he had found a clue. There was a slight bulge in the wood. After pressing it in several directions, a panel began to slide counterclockwise. There was a click.

Just then one of the burglars groaned. The Hardys tensed. Was the man coming to? Joe leaned forward and beamed his flashlight on the two figures. Both were still unconscious.

Meanwhile, Frank had lifted out the panel. The space behind it contained a small metal box. Written on the box was: Property of Malcolm Wright. Valuable. Reward for return.

“I’ve found it!” Frank exclaimed.

“Then let’s go!” Joe urged.

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “You’ll find a phone in the lower hall. Call the police while I slip this panel back. Take the box.”

In a minute Joe was dialing headquarters. Without giving his name, he said, “Come to Malcolm Wright’s house at once. There are burglars in it.” He hung up.

Frank joined him and the boys dashed out the rear door. They took a circuitous route to their convertible to avoid being questioned by the police. At a cross street they saw a police car apparently speeding to the inventor’s house.

“Where do you suppose the burglars’ car is?” Joe asked. “You’d think they’d have a lookout.”

“Maybe it’s cruising,” Frank suggested.

The boys hopped into their convertible. As an extra precaution against a holdup and possible loss of Mr. Wright’s invention, they locked themselves in.

“Boy, a lot can happen in an hour,” Joe said, looking at the car clock. He reached over and turned on their two-way radio to police headquarters. “I wonder if there’s any news yet from the Wright house.”

The boys were just in time to pick up a broadcast. An officer was saying, “Send the ambulance to Wright’s house.”

“Ambulance?” Frank echoed. “Joe, we didn’t hit‘em that hard—or did we?”

The policeman went on, “These guys aren’t bad off, but they sure got knocked out. Looks like a gang feud. The men who kayoed them may have done the stealing.”

Frank and Joe chuckled. “Someday we’ll tell Chief Collig,” Frank said, “but right now—”

He stopped speaking as a loud crack of static burst from the radio and a vivid flash of lightning made the night turn to day momentarily. A long roll of thunder followed.

“Looks as if we’re in for a bad storm,” Joe commented, and Frank put on speed.

A few minutes later the car was parked in the Hardys’ garage. They were mounting the steps of the back porch when the storm broke. Quickly Frank inserted his key in the kitchen door and turned the knob. At once the burglar alarm rang loudly and all the first-floor lights went on.

Joe chuckled. “That’ll bring Mother and Aunt Gertrude down in a hurry.” He flicked off the alarm.

“And bring the police, too,” Frank added. He picked up the kitchen phone and dialed headquarters. “This is Frank Hardy. Our alarm went off by accident. Forget it.”

“Okay. You sure everything’s all right?” the desk sergeant asked.

“Yes. Thank you. Good night.”

By this time the two women had appeared and Mrs. Hardy said, “I didn’t know the alarm was turned on.”

“Well, I did,” Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “I wanted to be sure to wake up and see how you boys made out. You must be starved. I’ll fix some cocoa and cut slices of cake while you tell—Frank, look at your clothes! Your jacket’s torn. And you, Joe, where did you get that lump on your forehead? And your faces—the two of you look as if you’d been rolling in the dirt.”

“We have.” Joe grinned. “Had a big fight. But we saved this!” He pulled the box from his pocket.

As the boys related their adventure, crashing thunder lent a booming orchestration to the story.

“This is the worst storm we’ve had in years,” Mrs. Hardy remarked. “I’m glad you boys didn’t have to be out in it.” When Frank and Joe finished eating, she added, “And now you must get a good night’s sleep.”

“But first I’d like to open Mr. Wright’s box and see just what we have to guard so carefully,” Frank said.

Everyone watched excitedly as Joe unwrapped the package. Inside was a small transistor radio.

“Is that all it is?” Aunt Gertrude burst out. “You risked your lives to get that?”

The boys were puzzled. Surely their father would not have made such a request if this invention were not unusually valuable.

“Let’s turn it on,” Frank suggested.

Joe clicked the switch. A man was speaking in Spanish from Madrid, Spain, and announcing the start of a newscast. His voice was very clear.

Frank grabbed his brother’s arm. “Do you hear that?” he cried. “The receiver is not picking up one bit of static!”

“You’re right!” Joe agreed. “It must be designed to work in the high-frequency bands.”

“But how can we be receiving a broadcast direct from Madrid? That Spanish station must be transmitting by short-wave. Yet, we’re hearing it loud and clear. This is amazing!”

Joe gazed at the miniature radio with great interest. “I’ll bet there’s a lot more to Mr. Wright’s invention than just being able to hear overseas stations without static,” he observed. “After all, why is he so anxious to keep it a secret?”

Just then there was a loud knock on the back door and a voice from outside said, “Let me in! I’m a ham! I have a message for you!”

CHAPTER III

Warning Message

FOR a few seconds none of the Hardys spoke. They were trying to decide if the caller at the kitchen door really was a radio ham with a message. Or a member of the burglary gang?

Finally Mrs. Hardy said, “We can’t let the man stand out there in the rain.”

Frank called, “Where’s the message from?”

“Mr. Hardy in San Francisco.”

“Open the door,” Mrs. Hardy said quietly.

Joe hid the box containing the invention, then he and Frank stood on either side of the door, poised for any attack. Aunt Gertrude had armed herself with a broom. Joe turned the knob and a water-drenched figure in raincoat and hat stepped into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” the man said, removing his hat. “What a night! My wife told me I was crazy to come out.”

The speaker was an honest-faced man of about thirty-five. He noticed Aunt Gertrude’s broom and smiled. “You can put that away,” he said. “I’m harmless.”

Miss Hardy looked embarrassed. “Take off your coat,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

The man nodded. “I could use it. I got cold walking over here. My car wouldn’t start.”

“Did you come far?” Joe asked.

“About five blocks. I’m Larry Burton, 69 Meadowbrook Road. I’ve always wanted to meet the Hardy boys. This all came about in a funny way. I have a short-wave set. Tonight I picked up your father. He said he couldn’t get through to you or the police on the phone—lines tied up—and you didn’t answer his signal on your short-wave set.”

“We weren’t expecting a call,” Frank answered. He did not say that the boys had not been at home and that their mother and Aunt Gertrude rarely paid attention to the set unless specifically asked to do so.

“By the time I phoned you, the lightning was fierce,” Burton went on. “My wife’s scared to death of lightning. She wouldn’t let me use the phone, so I walked over.”

Aunt Gertrude served the caller coffee and cake as they all sat around the big kitchen table.

“What was the message, Mr. Burton?” Joe asked.

“That you boys are in great danger. A gang is after you and will stop at nothing to get what they want.”

“How dreadful!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed. “Did my husband name this—this gang?”

“No. That’s all there was to the message,” Burton replied. “I’m sorry to bring you bad news, but I guess that’s to be expected in a detective’s family. Well, I must get along.” He stood up.

Frank shook the man’s hand. “We sure appreciate this. Maybe some time we can return the favor.”

“Forget it,” Burton said. “I only hope that gang doesn’t harm you fellows.”

Joe helped him with his coat and he went out. The storm had moved off.

For a few minutes the Hardys discussed the caller and confirmed his address in the telephone directory. Joe was a bit skeptical, however. “Either he made up the whole story, or else Dad is really concerned for our safety.”

Frank was inclined to think Burton had told the truth. Had he and Joe already encountered two members of the gang at the Wright home?

Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “How in the world did my brother Fenton hear this in California?”

“News travels,” said Mrs. Hardy. “Especially among detectives and police.”

“Hmm!” Aunt Gertrude murmured, then announced she was going to bed.

Ten minutes later Frank and Joe were asleep and did not awaken until ten o‘clock. At once Frank got up and opened a wooden chest of sports equipment under which he had hidden the box containing Mr. Wright’s invention. It was still there.

“Where do you think we should keep this?” he asked Joe as they were dressing. “Dad said not to leave the box at home.”

“A tough problem, Frank. With that gang after us, we can’t take the chance of carrying it around with us,” Frank answered.

“Right. And they may not be after us, but after the invention,” Frank answered.

While they were having breakfast, Frank came up with the idea of a unique hiding place for the invention. “Let’s put it in the well under the spare tire in the trunk of our car,” he said.

Joe laughed. “Now you’re using that old brain of yours. Best place you could have picked. The car’s vibrations can’t hurt the radio and no one would think of looking there.”

Mrs. Hardy asked her sons what their plans were for the day.

“Dad told us to drop into the antique airplane show and see if we could spot anybody who seemed overly interested,” Frank replied. “He thought the person who stole Mr. Wright’s old plane might be planning another theft.”

“Tonight,” Joe continued, “we’re going to Chet’s party and stay until tomorrow. Okay?”

“Of course,” his mother answered.

Chet Morton, an overweight, good-natured schoolmate, lived on a farm at the edge of Bayport. A group of boys and girls had been invited there to a barn dance and late supper. Frank and Joe would pick up Callie Shaw, a special friend of Frank’s. His brother’s date was usually Chet’s sister Iola.

Mrs. Hardy remarked that since the boys would be away, she would spend the night with a friend. “Your aunt plans to visit Cousin Helen in Gresham, anyhow.”

During the conversation Aunt Gertrude had left the table. She returned holding the local morning newspaper. “Well, you boys are in for real trouble!” she exclaimed. “Listen to this!”

Miss Hardy read an account of the captured burglars at the Wright home and the mysterious summons to the police. The item stressed the fact that the men’s assailants, when caught, should be dealt with severely.

“When caught, eh?” Joe burst into laughter. “We’re going to be mighty hard to find, aren’t we, Frank?”

His brother grinned, but Mrs. Hardy looked worried. “Maybe you boys should explain everything to Chief Collig.”

“Not without Dad’s and Mr. Wright’s permission,” Frank answered. “For the time being—”

“I haven’t finished,” Aunt Gertrude interrupted. “It says here that the police think this incident might be part of a gang feud.” She removed her reading glasses and gazed at her nephews. “You two are now considered to be part of a gang and the rival gang is about to harm you.”

“Wow!” said Joe, pulling his hair over his eyes and striking the pose of a belligerent “bad guy.” “We’d better look the part!”

Since the antique airplane show did not open until two o‘clock, the boys did various chores during the morning. They also hid Mr. Wright’s invention in the tire well and bolted the spare back into place.

After lunch Frank and Joe drove Aunt Gertrude to the train. From there they went directly to the Bayport Air Terminal where the antique airplane exhibit was housed in the spacious lobby. The first person they saw was Chet Morton.

“Hi, fellows!” he greeted them. “Say, take a look at those old planes. Aren’t they beauties?”

“Sure are,” Frank agreed. “I notice that most of them are biplanes. It must have been fun flying in the days of the open cockpits.”

“You can say that again!” Chet declared. As he stepped back for a better view, his foot slammed down on the toe of a man standing directly behind him.

“Ow!” the stranger yelped.

The boys turned to see the man hopping around on one foot. “You stupid, overgrown kid!” he screamed.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Chet said apologetically.

The tall, muscular man, who had blond hair and hard features, looked at the youth menacingly. “You idiot!” he snarled.

Frank and Joe stepped in front of Chet as he stammered, “Who—who are you calling an idiot?”

“Now just a minute!” Joe interrupted. “It was an accident. No sense getting upset about this!”

“Can I be of any help?” the boys heard someone say. They looked around to see a lanky young man walking toward them. He had rust-colored hair and leathery skin that was deeply tanned.

“What are you butting in for?” snapped the stranger.

“This boy didn’t step on you intentionally,” the young man insisted. “I saw the whole thing. You were trying to listen to their conversation and got too close.”

The tall stranger was about to say something, but hesitated. For a moment he glared at Chet and his companions, then stomped out of the lobby, swinging his brief case.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Why had the man been listening to their conversation? Did he belong to the gang they had been warned about?

Meanwhile, Chet was saying, “Thanks for your help, Mr.—”

“My name is Cole Weber,” the young man introduced himself. “I’m president of the Central Antique Airplane Club. We own the exhibit and are taking it to several airports. We’re trying to encourage public interest in vintage aircraft.”

“Sounds like a great club,” Joe remarked.

“We think so,” Weber said. “The majority of the models you see here are replicas of real airplanes owned and operated by our members.”

“You mean that some of those old crates still fly?” Chet asked.

Weber grinned. “Well ... we don’t think of them as crates. When properly rebuilt, most antique planes are as safe and reliable as the day they were originally made. I own one myself. It’s outside on the ramp. Would you like to see it?”

“Would we!” Joe exclaimed.

Mr. Weber led the boys to the airport ramp. A short distance ahead stood an orange-and-white biplane. The boys peered into the two open cockpits.

“This is cool!” Joe declared.

The pilot smiled. “Compared to modern planes, mine doesn’t have many instruments. But since we fly the antiques only for fun, we don’t need elaborate equipment, such as that required for all-weather operations.”

The boys looked closely at the diagonal pattern of wires stretching between the wings. Then they examined the plane’s radial engine and the long, slender wooden propeller.

“How many passengers can you carry?” Frank asked.

“Two in the front cockpit,” Weber answered. “Say! Would two of you like to go for a ride?”

The boys’ eyes widened with excitement. Then Frank and Joe remembered the sleuthing they had promised to do for their father.

“Thanks just the same,” Frank said, “but I’m afraid Joe and I can’t go this time.”

“But I’d like to,” Chet spoke up. “Say, fellows, could you drive me to the farm afterward?”

“Farm?” Weber interrupted. “Are there any level stretches of ground in the area?”

“Plenty of them. Why?”

“I’ll fly you home if you’d like.”

Chet tingled with excitement. “Great! Thanks.”

The flier opened the baggage compartment and took out a parachute, helmet, and goggles. “Put these on and climb into the front cockpit.”

“Mr. Weber, do you know Mr. Malcolm Wright?” Frank asked.

“Yes, indeed. He’s a member of our club.”

“Did you hear that his antique plane was stolen?” Joe put in.

Weber nodded. “Too bad. I understand he has some secret invention he was trying out in the plane. I hope that wasn’t stolen too.”

The boys caught their breath in astonishment but said nothing. They had not heard this. Weber did not seem to notice. He donned his own parachute and summoned a mechanic to twirl the propeller and start the engine. Then he climbed into the rear cockpit.

“Brakes on! Switch off!” the mechanic called.

“Brakes on! Switch off!” Weber echoed.

The mechanic pulled the propeller through several times. Then he stepped back and yelled:

“Contact!”

“Contact!” the pilot responded.

The engine caught on the first try. A staccato popping developed into a steady roar. Chet’s goggled face turned toward the Hardys. He waved wildly as Weber taxied out for take-off.

“See you at the party!” Chet shouted over the roar of the engine.

Minutes later the plane, looking like a box kite, was climbing above the Bayport field. As the Hardys turned to leave, Frank caught his brother’s arm.

“There’s that man Chet stepped on! He’s watching us from the doorway! This time I mean to find out why.” Frank started to run. “Come on, Joe!”

CHAPTER IV

The Cold Trail

As soon as the man saw Frank and Joe, he turned to hurry off. In doing so, he hit the doorframe and dropped his brief case, which burst open. At a distance the boys could not read any of the printing on the letters that fell out, but one had red and blue stripes at the top.

The tall, blond man snatched up the papers and stuffed them into the brief case. He quickly zipped it shut and began to run.

“He sure isn’t on the level,” Joe remarked, “or he wouldn’t race off like that. We can’t let him get away!”

The stranger’s long legs and agility helped him cover a wide stretch in a short time. Before the Hardys could catch up to him, he reached the exit and jumped into a waiting car which zoomed off.

Frank and Joe stopped short, puzzled. Was the man afraid of them? And if so, why?

“Maybe that brief case had something to do with his running off,” Frank said.

The boys went inside the terminal building. They continued to look at the planes while keeping their eyes open for any other suspicious characters. They saw none and finally returned home.

“You must be hungry,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I have hot apple pie, but it’s getting cold.”

Joe patted her shoulder. “Shall we eat dessert first?” he teased.

Later the boys went upstairs to change for Chet’s barn dance. Both put on jeans, plaid shirts, and big straw hats. They packed overnight bags, then joined their mother who was waiting to be driven to her friend’s home.

Just before leaving the house, Frank heard a signal from their private short-wave set. “Dad must be calling,” he said, and raced to Mr. Hardy’s second-floor study.

“FH home,” he said into the mike. “Over.”

“Frank,” said his father, “how’s everything?”

“Okay, Dad. How about you?”

“Fair,” the detective said. “But I have a new lead to follow. You won’t be able to get in touch with me for a couple of days. Did you get my message from the ham operator?”

“Yes, Dad.” Frank told him all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, including the wiretapping.

Mr. Hardy whistled. “Then the gang knew where you were going.”

“Shall Joe and I tell Chief Collig we were the first burglars?” Frank asked.

“I guess you’d better,” the detective agreed. “But warn him the information is confidential and don’t tell him what the invention is you were after.”

He now explained that he had been tipped off by Chicago police that a gang suspected of robbery there had suddenly vanished. A “squealer” had reported they were out to “get” the Hardy detectives. The boys’ father did not know why, but surmised it might concern Mr. Wright’s invention.

“And now let me speak to your mother,” Mr. Hardy said.

Half an hour later Frank and Joe stopped at Chief Collig’s home and made their report. The chief burst into laughter. “So you’re the ones who knocked out those men. I guess they had a real scare. They haven’t talked since.”

By the time the boys reached the Mortons’ farm with Callie Shaw, the dance was under way. A Bayport High School combo was playing.

“Hi, masterminds!” Chet shouted as the Hardys strolled in. “I thought you’d never get here. Boy! Wait till I tell you about my flight!” He began to describe the adventure, supplementing his words with swooping motions of both hands.

His sister Iola joined Callie and the boys. She was a slim, dark-haired girl and very pretty. “Hi, Joe, Frank, Callie!” Then hearing her brother, she said laughingly, “Oh no! Is Chet talking about his flight again? He hasn’t stopped since he landed.”

“You just don’t know anything about real flying,” her brother said, “until you’ve been in one of those old biplanes.”

“Our turn’s next,” Joe reminded him.

The following hours passed quickly. When it was time for supper, Joe and Iola decided to eat outside. They filled their paper plates with sandwiches, chocolate cake and cups of lemonade, and went to sit on the steps of the Mortons’ front veranda.

As they ate, Iola glanced toward the driveway in which many of the guests had parked their cars. The Hardys’ convertible was near the end of the long queue.

Suddenly Iola touched Joe’s arm. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I saw someone lurking behind your car,” Iola replied. “Yes. There he is.”

Joe peered into the darkness. He saw a man, his hat pulled low, pop up from behind the car, then duck down again. At once the young detective sprang to his feet and ran toward the mysterious figure. The fellow might be after the secret radio!

“Who are you?” he shouted, seeing the trunk lid rise and the light go on. “What are you doing?”

The intruder ran from behind the car and disappeared into the darkness. Joe dashed after him.

“Keep your distance or you’ll get hurt!” the man shouted. But Joe went on.

Iola screamed for help. Frank, Chet, and their classmates, Biff Hooper and Jerry Gilroy, raced from the barn.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

“We saw a man lurking behind your car,” Iola answered in a trembling voice. “Joe ran after him through the woods but was warned away.”

At once Frank and his companions rushed in that direction. The boys had not gone far when they heard a muffled cry for help, followed by the roar of a car speeding off.

Coming to a halt, Frank signaled to his friends for silence. The sounds of the car faded away. Everything was still, except the big grandfather clock in the hall of the Morton home. It began to strike. Midnight! Frank thought of what had happened just twenty-four hours earlier.

“Joe!” he shouted. “Joe! Where are you?”

His call went unanswered. The young detective stood frozen in his tracks. Had his brother become the victim of the gang?

By this time everyone at the party had raced outside to learn what had happened. They joined in a frantic search but without success.

“I’m afraid he was kidnapped,” Frank said grimly.

“In the car we heard roar off?” Biff Hooper asked.

“Yes.”

Jerry Gilroy chimed in, “But by whom? And for what reason?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said. He turned and rushed back to the convertible. Seeing the trunk open, he immediately looked in the tire well. The secret radio was still there.

“Joe must have blocked an attempted theft and been taken away so he couldn’t identify the man,” Frank thought.

He slammed the trunk shut, asked his friends to guard the car, and ran to the house. He scooped up the telephone and dialed the home number of Chief Collig.

“What!” the officer exclaimed when Frank told him about Joe’s probable kidnapping. “I’ll call the FBI and also get some of my own men out there right away! And I’ll come myself.”

He and three officers arrived shortly and were given a briefing. The place was carefully examined, but searchlights picked up little.

There was such a profusion of tire tracks on the main road that those of the mystery car could not be detected. Iola, the only one except Joe who had seen the suspect, could give little information other than that he was tall, heavy set, and wore gloves.

“Then we won’t find any fingerprints on your car,” the chief said to Frank.

Frank nodded. “He could be the man who ran from Joe and me at the airport.” Frank told the police about him and gave a fuller description.

“We’ll be on the lookout for him, as well as for Joe,” Collig said. “There’s nothing more we can do here, but I’ll leave two of my men.”

Solemnly the group left the barn dance and each guest expressed a hope for Joe’s speedy return. The Mortons tried to comfort Frank and discussed whether or not they should call Mrs. Hardy and tell her the disturbing news.

“I don’t see that anything can be gained by that,” Chet’s mother said. “Let’s wait.”

She insisted Frank try to get some sleep, but he lay wide awake, hoping the phone would ring with good news from Collig. But none came. Chet, in the same room, was restless.

Finally at five o‘clock he said, “Where do we go from here?”

“I’m not sure.” Frank sighed. “We’ve absolutely no clue. In fact, we don’t even have a description of the car we heard drive off last night.”

“Joe could be miles from here by now,” his chum remarked.

Frank thought for a moment. “Let’s drive down the road and make some inquiries at the farm-houses along the way. There’s a slim chance someone may have spotted the kidnap car.”

The boys left the house quietly and jumped into the Hardys’ convertible. They waved to the patrolling police guards. Frank drove along the narrow, tree-lined road. As they feared, all their inquiries were fruitless. Most of the farmers they questioned had retired long before midnight, and had neither seen nor heard anything.

“Guess we may as well go home,” Chet suggested.

But Frank was not ready to give up. “Let’s drive on a little farther,” he said.

About six-thirty the boys spotted a farmer cutting weeds by the roadside and stopped to question him. He rubbed his chin dubiously while listening to their story.

“Quite a few cars go past my place every night,” he said. “Now you come to mention it, there was an automobile come whizzin’ along and stopped here right after midnight. It woke me up, what with two men in it shoutin’ at each other.”

“Did you see the car?” Frank asked.

“No. I didn’t get up. Course my home is right beside the road, and I couldn’t help but hear some o’ what the men were sayin‘. The car come along at a mighty lively clip, but when it got in front of the house, the driver slammed on the brakes and stopped.

“There was an argument. I heard him tellin’ somebody they must have gone past the crossroads in the dark. The other man started jawin’ at him and they had quite a row. Finally they turned the car around and went back.”

“To the crossroads?” said Chet.

“Yes. That’s about two miles back.”

“I remember. One road goes to Gresham, the other heads up through the truck farms.”

Frank and Chet returned to the crossroads. But which way should they go? Right to the farms, left to Gresham?

“The kidnappers might have hidden Joe on one of the truck farms,” Chet suggested.

“Yes, except that all those farms are close together and everybody knows everybody else’s business,” said Frank. “I’d rather tackle the road to Gresham. If we don’t find Joe, we can come back and try the other road.” He took the turn to the left.

As they sped along, the boys spotted the wreckage of a black car in a roadside ditch. Afraid this was the kidnap car, Frank pulled up.

“Some accident!” Chet observed.

The license plates had already been removed from the badly smashed-up car.

“If anybody was hurt,” Frank said, “they’ll know it in Gresham. We’ll ask the police there.”

Suddenly a black sedan swung out of a lane some distance ahead and roared off toward the town. Frank stared fixedly at the rear seat.

“Look!” he exclaimed, gripping Chet’s arm. “Do you see what I see?”

“What?”

“A hand. Isn’t that someone signaling?”

Chet gazed ahead and saw a hand wave frantically for a moment at the rear window, then suddenly withdraw.

“You’re right!” Chet snapped. “Joe!”

Frank started the convertible and sped off in pursuit.

The other car had a good lead and was increasing speed. It was almost obscured by a cloud of dust, but Frank memorized the out-of-state license number.

“We’re gaining on them!” Chet declared.

Frank nodded. Inch by inch the intervening distance lessened. Trees, farms, and hedges flashed by. At times the boys could hardly see the sedan through the swirling clouds of dust.

Suddenly the steady hum of the convertible’s engine changed its rhythm. The motor sputtered.

Chet groaned. “Now what?” he muttered as the car slowed down.

The boys’ hearts sank when the engine quit completely. They looked dismally at the other car as it disappeared around a distant bend in the road.

CHAPTER V

The Hunt

FRANTICALLY Frank flung open the hood and examined the engine. In a few minutes he discovered the trouble.

“Fuel pump,” he announced.

“Oh—oh!” Chet sighed. “And we’re miles from a service garage.”

“We’re not stranded,” Frank assured him. “I suspected the pump was going so I put a spare in the trunk. But it’s going to take fifteen or twenty minutes to change the pump, and—”

“And by that time the kidnap car will be far away,” Chet finished.

“I’d better notify Bayport Police Headquarters.” Frank turned on the car’s two-way radio to the proper frequency and gave the license number of the suspect’s car.

“We’ll get busy on it right away,” came the answer. “Incidentally, FBI men have been here and out to the Morton farm. I’ll contact them. There’s no news so far.”

Frank replaced the mike. He and Chet worked feverishly to install the new fuel pump and soon had the engine running.

“No chance of our catching up with the sedan now,” Chet remarked as the boys once again got under way. “It has nearly a half hour’s head start.”

“I’ll bet that the kidnappers won’t stop at Gresham, now that they’ve learned we’re after them.”

Ten minutes later Frank stopped the car. He backed into a side road, pulled out again, then turned to retrace his route. “I want to go up that lane the kidnap car came out of and see what we can find.”

Reaching it, Frank turned in. The ground was stony and full of holes. Progress was slow.

Half a mile farther on, an old inn, apparently closed, came into view. It was a long, low white building with a wide veranda. The boys got out of the car and Frank knocked several times, hoping someone might be inside. There was no response.

“Nobody’s home,” Chet mumbled.

Just then the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard. The door sprang open and a surly-faced man confronted them.

“What is it?” he growled.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Frank said, “but have you seen a black four-door sedan within the past hour?”

“You’ve got nerve waking me up to ask such a stupid question!” the man snapped. “I don’t know anything about a sedan!”

“Have you had any visitors recently?” Frank persisted. “There’s a wrecked car lying in a ditch close to the spot where your lane leads in from the road. Did anyone come here for help?”

The man looked at the boys suspiciously. “Get out of here before I kick you off the porch!”

“Have it your way!” Frank retorted. “I’m certain there were kidnappers in that sedan I asked you about. If you know anything, you’d better tell me, or be held as an accessory!”

“Kidnappers?” the man cried out. “Okay! So there were some guys walked in here late last night.”

“How many were there?” Frank demanded.

“Three. One said they’d had an accident, and asked if they could stay at my place for a while. They paid me real good, so I let ‘em come in.”

“Please describe these men.”

“One was tall, one short,” the proprietor replied nervously. “The big guy said they’re brothers named Wagner. They were carrying the third guy—he was wrapped in a blanket ‘cause he got knocked out. I couldn’t see his face. The big guy made a telephone call to Gresham. A car picked ’em up about an hour and a half ago. I can’t tell you any more!”

He stepped back inside the house and slammed the door in the boys’ faces.

“Sociable guy,” Chet commented as the boys drove off.

“He did give us one lead,” Frank said. “The wreck was theirs and the pickup car came from the direction of Gresham. Chet, I’m afraid Joe was hurt. We’re going to Gresham. I’ll call Collig and tell him what we just heard.” He tuned in Bayport headquarters and left the message.

On reaching Gresham, Frank cruised up and down the side streets flanking the main boulevard, hoping to spot the sedan but had no luck. He then headed for the local police headquarters. “Dad introduced me to Police Chief Stanton when we were passing through this town several months ago,” he said.

The boys entered the neat, red-brick building and Frank introduced himself and Chet to the desk sergeant on duty. They were ushered into the office of the chief.

“Frank Hardy, how are you?” Stanton said, extending his hand in greeting. “Sit down.”

“Has Chief Collig in Bayport been in touch with you?” Frank asked.

“Yes. So far we have no word on the sedan or the men traveling in it, one of them injured. You’re sure your brother was kidnapped?”

“Get out of here!” the man growled

“Without a doubt!”

“Hmm!” Stanton muttered. “The sedan’s probably miles away by now with a different license plate. But our men will keep on the lookout.”

Realizing they could do no more here, Frank and Chet decided to return to Bayport.

“What’s our next move?” Chet asked.

“Whoever kidnapped Joe might ask for ransom, Chet. I’d better stick close to the phone at home in case someone tries to establish contact.”

Then Frank’s heart sank as he thought of having to tell his mother and father and aunt that Joe was missing! When he pulled into the Hardy garage some time later, Frank shut off the ignition and sat quiet for several seconds. Then he took a deep breath and climbed out of the car.

He had no sooner entered the house when Mrs. Hardy rushed to meet him. “What happened to Joe?” she cried.

Frank was startled by her question. Before answering, he hugged his mother and led her into the living room.

“I just got home, and decided to telephone the Morton farm. I spoke to Iola,” Mrs. Hardy explained. “She seemed terribly upset and started to tell me something about Joe, then stopped. She said you were on your way here and would explain.”

Frank related the whole story of Joe’s disappearance. Mrs. Hardy was stunned by the news and tears filled her eyes.

“I would have told you sooner,” Frank said “but I was hoping to find Joe before this.”

Although Mrs. Hardy worried about the dangers involved in her family’s sleuthing activities, she rarely displayed her concern openly. But now she could not hide her anxiety. She began to tremble.

“We must do something!” she pleaded. “Have you notified the police?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “And the FBI.”

“Your father! He should be told about this at once!”

“But we can’t reach him,” Frank reminded her.

The hours dragged on into early evening. Mrs. Hardy continually walked the floor, saying over and over, “This is dreadful, dreadful!”

Frank paced around nervously, mulling over in his mind the events that had taken place during the past two days. The telephone rang. Was it the kidnapper calling? Frank rushed to answer the call.

“Frank, this is Chief Collig!”

“Yes, Chief! Any news?”

“Not much. The police managed to detect the scratched-off serial number on the engine block of the car lying in the ditch. It was traced through the State Bureau of Motor Vehicles. The car was stolen yesterday evening from a man in Lewiston. No one saw the thief.”

“Well, we’re right back where we started,” Frank said.

After a light late supper, Frank settled himself into a wing chair within reach of the telephone. The hours ticked by with no word from Joe or his abductors. Finally, through sheer exhaustion, Frank dozed off.

When he awoke, the sun was already sending bright, warm rays into the room. Frank got up and began to pace back and forth. He and his mother ate a sketchy breakfast. They grew more uneasy when the morning passed without any news of Joe.

Shortly after noontime a taxi stopped in front of the Hardy home. A tall, angular woman, carrying a small suitcase, got out of the cab and hurried toward the house.

“It’s Aunt Gertrude,” Frank announced to his mother.

“I’m glad to be home!” Miss Hardy exclaimed as she entered the house like a rush of wind.

She glanced at Mrs. Hardy and immediately sensed that something was troubling her. “Laura! You look exhausted. Haven’t you been getting enough sleep? What’s wrong?”

“We have something to tell you,” Frank declared. “You’d better sit down.”

He broke the news about Joe’s disappearance as gently as he could. His story, however, sent Aunt Gertrude springing from her chair.

“That’s terrible! Poor Joe! Call the police!” she cried. “Call the FBI! Do something!”

“Try to be calm,” Frank pleaded. “The police and the FBI have already been notified.”

“I felt it in my bones!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “Something like this was bound to happen.”

“Now, Gertrude, please,” Mrs. Hardy interrupted.

Aunt Gertrude continued to rattle on. “You can’t be too careful these days. The world is full of rude and nasty people. Now you take this morning, for example, when I was walking on the platform at Gresham. Suddenly this big fair-haired man stepped right in front of me, carrying a bulging brief case. Part of its zipper was torn and some of the papers inside were sticking through.

“Well, this clumsy ox gave me a hard bang on my arm with that dirty, beat-up brief case. I was about to give him a piece of my mind, when he deliberately pushed me aside!”

Her words had seized Frank’s attention. The man sounded like the one that Chet had stepped on in the airport terminal and Frank and Joe had chased later. He might be one of the kidnappers! The suspects’ car had gone toward Gresham!

“Then came the crowning insult,” she went on. “He called me—he called me—an old whaler! Can you imagine? I never fished for a whale in my life! Next, this big fair-haired lummox walked over to two other men and handed them the brief case,” Aunt Gertrude continued. “I was so furious, I decided to demand an apology. I went up to the big man and tapped him on the shoulder. He must know me because just then he said ‘Hardy.’ Well, he turned and glared at me, then hurried off with his friends. The nerve, indeed!”

Frank had already jumped to his feet. He was obviously excited. “Did you see what was written on the papers in the brief case?”

“I wasn’t close enough to read them. But one had red and blue stripes on it.”

“He’s one of the men we suspect!” Frank cried out. “Aunty, did you hear any more of the men’s conversation? Anything at all?”

“No, not really,” she answered, somewhat puzzled by her nephew’s questioning. “I only caught a word or two. The fair-haired man said something about caves. Yes, that’s it—caves! I remember because it struck me at the time that with his bad manners, he should be living in one.”

Frank darted to the telephone and called Chet. “I’m sure I’ve latched onto an important lead,” he told his chum. “I’ll need your help.”

“I’m ready to go any time you say.”

“Okay! I’ll be right over!”

CHAPTER VI

Fogged In

FRANK leaped into the convertible and headed for the Morton farm. He began piecing together the details of Aunt Gertrude’s story about the fair-haired man at Gresham. He had said, “Hardy!”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean Aunt Gertrude. He could have meant Dad or Joe!”

Then the man had made a reference to caves! There were many to be found in the cliffs which formed the north shore of Barmet Bay. Was Joe being held in one of them? Frank smiled, recalling his aunt’s indignation at being called an “old whaler” by the big fair-haired man.

“He might not have been referring to whales at all,” Frank thought. “There’s a small, flat-hulled motorboat known as a motor whaler. Maybe that’s what he had in mind.”

Frank told himself that using such a term would be unusual for any person unless he was familiar with boats. The young sleuth was certain that he had a real lead at last!

As Frank drew up before the Morton house, Chet came down the steps on a run. “What’s up?” he asked eagerly.

Frank repeated Aunt Gertrude’s story of the man mentioning the name Hardy and making the mysterious reference to whaler and caves.

Chet whistled, then suddenly his eyes widened. “You mean Joe might be a prisoner in a shore cave?”

“Exactly!” Frank answered. “And I’ll search every one of them if I have to!”

“I’m with you! How about the other fellows? Let’s get Biff and Jerry to come along. They’d be mad as hornets if they weren’t in on the search.”

“Okay!” Frank replied. “We’ll use the Sleuth.” This was the Hardys’ sleek motorboat.

“Let’s go!” Chet said briskly. Then the ever-present problem of food occurred to him. “If you’ll wait a few minutes I’ll ask Mom to fix up a lunch for us. We may get hungry. At least you may, but I’m sure I will.”

Both boys dashed into the house. While Mrs. Morton was making up a package of sandwiches and cake, Frank reached Jerry and Biff by telephone and gave them an inkling of what was afoot. They were eager to help and promised to be at the Hardy boathouse within twenty minutes.

In a short time Chet was ready and scrambled into the convertible beside Frank. At the boathouse Jerry and Biff were waiting for them. Biff was a tall, lanky blond whose perpetual good humor was indicated by the slight tilt to the outer corners of his lips. Jerry, medium height and dark, was wiry and more serious. Both boys were agog with curiosity.

“What’s the clue?” Jerry asked, and Frank gave the details as he unlocked the door of the boathouse.

The boys quickly unmoored the Sleuth and jumped aboard. The engine sputtered spasmodically a few times, then burst into a roar. Frank opened the throttle and the craft shot into the bay, gradually increasing speed.

“If we don’t find Joe, then what?” Jerry asked.

Frank answered promptly, “Go down the coast tomorrow. There are a few caves along the beach. You fellows game?”

“You bet,” they chorused.

There were clouds in the sky and far off toward the open water at the distant end of the bay was a hint of fog. Frank eyed the mist doubtfully. It would take some time to make a close search of the caves on the north shore, and if fog came up, a hunt would be difficult. Chet, thinking the same thing, mentioned it aloud.

“We’ll just have to hope for the best,” Biff spoke up.

As they zipped along, the boys talked over Miss Hardy’s encounter with the fair-haired man.

“He may be tall,” said Biff, “but he sure sounds short on brains!”

“He’ll need all the brains he has if we get on his trail,” Chet affirmed.

“But why would he be mixed up in Joe’s disappearance?” said Biff. “Surely he wouldn’t kidnap Joe just because Chet stepped on him.”

“There’s something deeper behind it,” Frank said, thinking of the secret radio, “but I’m not at liberty to tell you fellows. Sorry.”

The Sleuth sped on toward the north shore and gradually drew closer to the high cliffs that rose sheer from the waters of the bay. The fog was coming up the bay now in a high, menacing gray wall.

Chet grimaced. “We’re not going to make it. That fog will be on us before we get within a quarter of a mile of the caves.”

“I’m afraid so,” Frank said. “But I hate to give up now that we’ve come this far.”

“I’ve had a few experiences in fog out on this bay,” Biff Hooper remarked, “and I don’t want to repeat ‘em if it can be helped. You never know when some other boat is going to come along and run you down. You can’t see it until the boat’s right on top of you. Let one of those big ships wallop you and you’re done for!”

“A horn isn’t much good,” said Jerry, “because the fog seems to make the sound come from a different direction than the true one.”

The fog swirled down on the boys, hiding the shore from view. It enveloped them so completely they could scarcely see more than a few yards ahead. Frank had already turned on his yellow fog light and suddenly they saw a small tug a short distance up the bay. The craft was heading toward the city, but now it vanished. Frank reduced speed and pressed the horn. No sound!

“This,” said Jerry, “is bad. If it weren’t for Joe, I’d say go home. I wonder how long the pea soup will last.”

No one ventured a guess. Frank said tensely, “Watch for that tug, fellows. My horn won’t blow.”

As the Sleuth groped blindly through the clammy mist, Frank thought he heard the faint throb of the tug’s engines. His light did not pick up the craft and it was impossible to estimate its distance or direction.

Then came the blast of the tug’s whistle, low and mournful through the heavy fog. It seemed to be far to the right, and Frank hoped to avoid it by going straight ahead.

When the whistle sounded again, it was louder and seemed to come from a point just to their left. It was drawing closer!

“That old tug must have traveled about two miles clean across the bay in half a minute,” Chet remarked. “Frank, 1-look out!”

As he spoke, the whistle sounded again. This time Biff straightened up in alarm. The tug seemed to be directly ahead.

“How do you figure its position, Frank?”

“I think the tug is mighty close. It’s hard to tell where the sound’s coming from. We’ll just have to go easy and hope we see it first.”

Biff could hardly make out the stern of the Sleuth. “This is worse than a blackout,” he commented.

Once more the whistle blew, this time so terrifyingly loud that the tug seemed to be only a few yards away. The boys could hear its engines. Still their light revealed nothing.

“Up in front, Chet!” snapped Frank. “If you see it, sing out!”

Chet scrambled onto the bow and peered into the gray gloom ahead. Suddenly he gave a yell of terror.

“It’s bearing right down on us!”

Even as he shouted, a heavy dark shadow loomed out of the fog. The Sleuth was about to be rammed!

The tug was sweeping down on the boys. It was only a few yards away! The boys could see a man on deck, waving his arms wildly. The whistle shrieked.

No time to lose! The engine of the Sleuth broke into a sudden clamor as Frank opened the throttle wide. At the same instant he swung the wheel hard to port. The motorboat swerved and shot directly across the bow of the larger boat.

For a breathless second it seemed that nothing could save the boys. They waited for the jarring impact that seemed only seconds away!

But the Sleuth had speed, and Frank handled his craft masterly. His boat shot clear!

The tug went roaring astern. It had missed the Sleuth with less than a yard to spare! The Hardys’ boat was caught in the heavy swell and pitched to and fro, but rode it out.

Chet Morton broke the silence. “Wow, that was a close call!”

Jerry Gilroy, who had been thrown off balance when the Sleuth altered its course so suddenly, scrambled to his feet, blinking. “I’ll say! Were we hit?”

“We’re still here.” Biff grinned. Nevertheless, he had been badly frightened. “That’s the last time I’ll ever come out on the bay when there’s a fog brewing,” he announced solemnly. “That was too narrow a squeak!”

Chet, now that the peril had passed, leaned down from the bow. He shook hands with the other three boys, then gravely clasped his own.

“What’s that for?” Jerry asked.

“Congratulating you—and myself on still being alive.” The others smiled weakly.

Frank steered the Sleuth back to its previous course. Again the boat crept toward the north shore, invisible beyond the wall of mist. Frank did not dare venture close for fear of piling his craft onto the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. He cruised aimlessly back and forth, but within half an hour the fog began to lift. It thinned out, writhing and twisting like plumes of smoke.

“The cliffs!” Chet cried in relief as the boys caught sight of the land rising sharply just ahead. They were less than two hundred yards off shore and already far down the bay, abreast of the caves.

“We can make our search after all,” Frank said.

He brought the Sleuth as near the base of the cliffs as he dared, skillfully avoiding the menacing black rocks that thrust above the water.

Jerry, who had scrambled out on the bow, gestured toward an outcropping of rocks about a hundred yards away.

“Here’s our first cave,” he announced.

“I remember it,” said Frank. “Joe and I went into that one when we were on a car-theft case. It looks like a cave, but is only a few feet deep. No use looking here.”

The searchers passed several shallow openings, but at last Chet gave a jubilant shout. “Here’re the deeper ones!”

They had rounded a little promontory and the boys saw a ragged row of gaping holes in the face of the rock. Most were just a few feet above the waterline.

Chet said, “I know them. Some are small but others are big enough for an elephant to walk through sideways.”

Frank brought the Sleuth in still closer to the base of the two-hundred-foot-high cliffs.

“Great place to hide someone,” Biff commented. “I bet there are hundreds of those caverns.”

“We have our work cut out for us,” Frank agreed.

Some distance on, he spotted the first of the larger holes in the rock. The cave was six feet wide and high above the water. Frank ran the boat in close enough so that by scrambling over its bow one could land on the tumbled heaps of rocks and boulders just beneath the opening.

“Let’s take a look,” he said eagerly. “Jerry, will you hold the boat here?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Within a few minutes the others were climbing up the boulders toward the cave mouth. Presently they vanished into the dark interior.

CHAPTER VII

The Escape

JERRY held the nose of the Sleuth inshore and maneuvered so that the propeller remained in deep water. He waited impatiently for news of Joe.

It did not take the others long to find that the big cave they had entered was unoccupied. They reappeared a few minutes later.

“Did you find him?” Jerry called.

“No luck,” Biff reported.

Chet was discouraged and said so. “We’re working on the slimmest of clues,” he said. “The fair-haired man and his friends might not have meant the Shore Road caves. Don’t forget, there are hundreds of subterranean caverns between Gresham and Bayport.”

“But the caves here are the best known,” Frank remarked. “Let’s look some more. I’ll cruise along the shore and pick out the more likely caves to hide a prisoner.”

The motorboat edged its way along the face of the cliff. Whenever the boys noticed one of the larger openings that could be reached easily from the shore, Frank ran the boat in among the rocks. Then, while one boy stayed in the Sleuth, the others would scramble up to investigate the cave.

The hours dragged by. Finally they navigated to a place where the cliff sloped and began to give way to sandy hills and wooded inclines.

Biff gave a sigh. “Guess we’ll have to give up. There’s only one small opening left to investigate.”

“But why would kidnappers go way up to that cave when there are so many that are easier to reach?” Chet protested. “They’d have to climb fifty feet up to the mouth.”

“It isn’t so steep as it looks,” Frank remarked thoughtfully. “And I can see a sort of winding trail up the slope.”

“I’m game,” Jerry said.

“Me too,” Biff added.

Frank brought the Sleuth in toward the rocks. The boys craned their necks to look up at the tiny opening in the face of the cliff above.

“I guess you’re right, Chet,” Jerry admitted. “Joe’s kidnappers wouldn’t climb all the way up there, with so many better caves to pick from.”

Chet gave a loud groan. “I’ve lost about three pounds already, climbing these cliffs.”

Despite the worry over Joe, Biff could not refrain from saying, “Then, Chet, you’d better tackle about fifty more caves.”

Frank, meanwhile, had seen something that had gone unnoticed by his friends. A piece of newspaper was lodged among the stones under the cave’s mouth. The scrap of paper might be significant! The fact that it was within a few feet of the cave was suspicious and warranted investigation.

This time Chet volunteered to stand watch and maneuvered the boat around so the others could reach the shore from the bow. Frank went first. Biff and Jerry followed.

They climbed the slope, following the trail Frank had spotted. But the incline was so steep and winding that they could make only slow progress in a diagonal direction. The path ended abruptly at a ledge some fifteen feet below the cave. From there they had to climb directly upward over the rocks.

When Frank reached the piece of newspaper, he picked it up. The sheet was wet and soggy from the fog, but he recognized it as a copy of the Gresham Times, dated the previous day.

His hopes rose with this discovery. Gresham! For the third time since Joe’s disappearance the name of that town had come into the mystery! Excited, Frank thrust the paper into his pocket and scrambled up toward the entrance of the cave.

“What did you find?” Jerry demanded, panting.

“Newspaper. It looks like a clue.”

Frank reached the cave mouth and stepped inside. The interior was larger than he had thought. Though the entrance was small, the cave widened and seemed to be very deep.

The young detective took a flashlight from his pocket and clicked it. He played the beam on the rugged, rocky walls, the fairly level floor, and finally focused on a wooden box like those used for shipping food.

“Someone’s been here!” he shouted eagerly as the others entered the cave. “Look at that box! Fresh bread crusts around it!”

“Don’t see anyone now,” Jerry observed. “Listen!”

The boys heard a peculiar sound, which seemed to have come from the back of the cave. The sound was repeated. They listened, staring at one another in surprise.

“Someone’s groaning!” Frank exclaimed.

Biff pointed a trembling finger toward a large section of rock about twenty feet away. “From there.”

Again they heard groaning.

“Somebody’s behind there!” Frank declared.

He ran toward the mass of rocks and directed the light into the shadows beyond. Frank gasped as its radiance fell upon a figure lying bound and gagged on a crude pallet of sacking.

“Joe!” Frank shouted. He sprang forward and removed the gag.

His brother answered feebly, “Frank!”

Biff and Jerry gave a joint yell of delight. They scrambled in behind the wall of rocks and bent over their friend.

Joe looked white and ill. He could scarcely talk to them. His feet were bound together with rope and his hands were tied behind his back.

“To think that we weren’t going to search this cave at all!” Biff exclaimed. “And wait until Chet learns we found you. He’s down guarding the Sleuth.”

Frank had already opened his pocketknife and was hacking at the ropes that bound his brother’s ankles. Jerry was working at the other knots.

“I’m hungry,” said Joe, when all the ropes had been loosened and he was able to sit up. “I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday noon.”

The boys helped him to his feet. “They drugged me,” Joe went on shakily, “and I can still feel the effects. But tell me, how did you find me?”

“Aunt Gertrude gets the credit.” Frank quickly told of her encounter with the fair-haired man at Gresham, and his reference to “Hardy” and “caves.”

“But Frank put two and two together,” Biff spoke up, and mentioned the newspaper clue.

“It was lucky for me you saw the paper,” Joe declared. “One of the kidnappers had some food wrapped in a newspaper yesterday. He must have dropped one of the sheets.”

“Was the big fair-haired man really mixed up in it?” Frank asked.

Joe nodded. “He was in it, all right. But there were others. They were after that secret in our car. It’s a long story. Let me tell you about it later.”

The boys refrained from asking more questions.

“Do you feel strong enough to come with us now?” Frank asked.

Joe, with a flash of spirit, started to walk. He wavered a moment and would have fallen if Frank had not caught him.

“If you can’t make it, we’ll carry you,” Jerry offered.

Joe shook his head and sat down weakly. “My legs are so numb from being tied up, I don’t seem to have any strength in them. I’d better wait a few minutes.”

At that moment they heard a loud noise. It was a clattering, rolling sound, as if a rock had been dislodged and gone tumbling down the steep incline.

“What was that?” Biff whispered.

Joe got to his feet. “My captors are coming back! Quick! We’ll have to clear out!”

“Can they get in here through the rear of the cave?” Frank wanted to know.

“Yes, a passage leads down from the top of the cliff.”

Frank and Jerry each slipped an arm around Joe’s shoulders and helped him toward the mouth of the cave. Biff ran on ahead.

When Chet saw Joe, he gave a war whoop of joy. The others motioned frantically for silence, but their jubilant chum did not understand their urgent signals. He proceeded to put on a noisy celebration. He yelled, waved his arms, and then, to their horror, began whistling shrilly.

The men coming down the passage into the cave would certainly hear the commotion and hurry to investigate. The boys must flee quickly!

Frank and Jerry scrambled down the slope with Joe. They reached the first ledge in safety, with Biff slipping and sliding along the path ahead of them. As they commenced the second half of the descent the boys heard a yell behind them.

Frank looked back. A man was standing at the mouth of the cave. He glared at the boys a moment, then turned and shouted to someone behind him. Two other men quickly joined him.

“Go on!” Joe cried. “I’m holding you up! If they catch us, we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Leave you, my eye!” Jerry growled.

By this time Biff had nearly reached the boat. He called out to Chet, who apparently had not seen the men in the mouth of the cave. At Biff’s warning, Chet stopped his noise. Frank and Jerry clung to Joe on the narrow path, with loose rocks sliding treacherously beneath their feet.

Frank glanced back again. One of the men had drawn a revolver from his pocket and was pointing it at them. Another had stooped and was snatching up stones.

The revolver barked. A bullet whistled overhead. Frank and Jerry ducked and almost lost hold of Joe. A heavy stone hurtled past them and splashed into the water beside the boat.

A hail of stones followed. The man with the revolver fired again and again and several bullets came dangerously close to their mark.

Chet had revved up the engine, ready to take off as soon as his passengers climbed aboard.

“Hurry!” Biff yelled. “Only a few yards more!”

Frank and Jerry scrambled to the bottom of the incline with Joe. One of the three men was stumbling down the path in pursuit.

Jerry leaped onto the bow. With Frank on the shore and Jerry helping from the boat, Joe was hauled aboard. Frank was about to jump onto the bow when he felt a heavy, sharp blow on his left leg. He lost his balance and fell partly into the water. When he tried to rise, his leg doubled beneath him. One of the rocks hurled by the men had found its mark!

Shots sounded again. A splinter flew from the bow of the boat.

“Hurry, Frank!” Chet urged.

“Give me a hand,” Frank said grimly.

Biff scrambled over the side, seized Frank, and laid him on deck. Frank’s leg throbbed and he could scarcely keep from crying out.

The man on the path was only a few yards away now! He showered the air with rocks!

CHAPTER VIII

An Astounding Report

SMACK! A large rock hit the water with a resounding crash only inches from the Sleuth. A deluge of spray drenched the boys.

Chet, at the helm, could hardly see. Wiping the water from his eyes, he gunned the motor and took off. The Sleuth made sternway from shore.

“Gadzooks!” cried Jerry, mopping his face and looking toward the kidnappers. “They’ve gone!”

“They sure disappeared in a hurry,” said Jerry. “I wish we could have captured them. Frank, how’s your leg?”

“Oh, it’ll be all right, but it sure hurts.” He gave a wan smile. “Never mind that, though. The main thing is we found Joe.”

“Yes, thank goodness,” his brother said weakly.

Chet had taken the Sleuth into deep water and was now speeding toward Bayport. Jerry and Biff were busy trying to make Frank and Joe comfortable on one of the long seats.

“To think I missed finding Joe!” Chet said in disgust. “I climbed those cliffs every other time and searched. When Joe was found, where was I? Sitting in the boat!”

“Good thing you were,” Jerry retorted. “It’s lucky for us someone was here to have the Sleuth ready for a fast getaway.”

“Why did it have to be me?” Chet complained. “Some fellows have all the luck. Joe, tell me about your capture. Who were those men who shot at you and heaved all those rocks? When did they take you to the cave?”

“Better let Joe rest awhile,” Frank advised.

“I think we ought to go back and clean up on that gang!” Jerry put in.

“I’d like to learn more about them myself,” Frank said, “but I think we’d better leave it to the police. Those kidnappers are a tough outfit, and we have Joe to look after. He’s in bad shape. We should get him home.”

“He looks hungry,” Chet observed sympathetically, as Frank tuned in their radio and called police headquarters to report the rescue.

Joe opened his eyes. “You bet I’m hungry.”

Chet grabbed the package of sandwiches he had brought with him and handed them to his chum. “I knew these would come in handy,” he said. “Dig in.”

“Hold it!” Frank warned. “No solid food until the doctor says it’s all right.”

“Then how about the milk in this Thermos?”

“Okay.”

Joe drank the milk slowly and gratefully while Jerry satisfied Chet’s curiosity about their experience in the cave rescue.

Chet whistled. “That was a close squeak.”

When the Hardys reached home, their mother was overwhelmed with relief at seeing Joe safe.

Aunt Gertrude hugged her nephew and said, “Well, this time you deserve sympathy. At least you didn’t do something harum-scarum and propel yourself right into a mess of trouble.”

Dr. Bates, the family physician, was summoned to examine the young detectives. “No internal damage,” he declared. “Just exhaustion. Joe’ll be fit in just a day or two. Frank has a deep bruise which will be sore for a while.”

Joe was given a steaming bowl of hot soup, then put to bed. He immediately fell asleep.

Frank related the story of the rescue and gave Aunt Gertrude credit for the clue. She smiled and blushed but said nothing.

It was not until late that evening, after he had been refreshed by a long, sound sleep, that Joe was able to tell the others what had happened to him. He still looked pale, but good food and rest were beginning to do their work and a trace of color had returned to his cheeks.

“As you know,” he said, “at Chet’s party I chased into the woods after that man who was looking in our car trunk. As I got near, someone reached out and grabbed me. I couldn’t see his face.”

Joe said a gag had been jammed into his mouth and a hand clapped over his mouth. Then he was dragged to a car.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Aunt Gertrude.

“But why did he kidnap you if he was only after the secret radio?” Frank asked.

“There’s another reason,” Joe replied. “I’ll come to that. When we got to his car I tried to fight him, but he’s strong as an ox and managed to tie me up and put me in the back seat.

“Then he drove away. We went down the road for some distance and stopped. Two men came out of the bushes and walked over to us. One said, ‘Is that you, Gross?’ and my captor growled at them, ‘No names.’ When they saw me in the car, the men wanted to know who I was. It seems they didn’t know Gross was going to kidnap me.”

Joe said there had been a row about it. The other two men had wanted Gross to bring him back, but he was stubborn. “This kid knows too much,” Gross had said. “He saw the rocks. Besides, his father is a detective.”

“The other men called him a fool and said he should have left me alone and let the other thing go.

“One of them told Gross they didn’t want the authorities after them for kidnapping. Then they realized it was too late to let me go, because there would be trouble when I got back to Bayport and told my story.”

Joe said that the two men got into the car and they all rode for about two miles. Then one of the men climbed out and headed across a field toward the bay.

“We went on, but we hadn’t gone far when Gross lost control of the wheel and we crashed into a ditch. The car was wrecked but no one was hurt. Gross and the other man seemed worried because they were afraid somebody would come along and find them. They took off the license plates.

“Gross knew there was an old inn nearby. They agreed to go to it and telephone a friend of theirs to bring a sedan. They took a blanket out of the car. We walked up the road and into a lane where the inn was. Without any warning one of them slugged me from behind.”

Frank said, “And put you in the blanket.”

Joe said that later, as he started to come to in the inn, a drug was forced into his mouth and he was made to drink some water. He passed out, and did not wake up until morning, when they were carrying him in the blanket to their friend’s sedan.

“Just as we drove out of the lane and onto the Gresham road,” Joe continued, “I heard a car coming and managed to raise up. It looked like ours, so I tried to signal. Then Gross shoved me down.”

Joe had been driven to Shore Road and taken to the cave through an abandoned shaft.

“You were there nearly two whole days!” Frank said.

“Most of the time I was alone. They fixed up a few sacks for me to lie on, but they didn’t pay much attention to me. Once in a while they would bring in sandwiches and water and feed them to me.”

“Did you find out what they’re up to?” Frank asked.

“At night, when they thought I was asleep, I overheard enough to learn one of the gang’s secrets. They’re smugglers!”

Aunt Gertrude opened her mouth wide. “Smugglers!” she gasped. “What kind?”

“Diamonds and electronic equipment. That’s probably why they wanted to get Mr. Wright’s special radio.”

Joe paused and Mrs. Hardy asked if he were too tired to go on. “No, I’m okay, Mother. I also learned that one of the top men is named Chris. From what was said, I’d guess he’s that big fair-haired man who’s been watching us.”

Frank was excited by this news. Now they had something definite to go on! If Joe were right, they could concentrate on finding Chris and turning him over to the police.

Joe spoke up. “There are four or five in the gang working with Chris, and others offshore. Chris delivers smuggled diamonds. His pals in the cave—one tall and dark, one red-haired, and one short—mentioned that he had diamonds in his brief case. Chris thought we had seen them when the case burst open. Gross saw a chance to kidnap one of us to keep us from talking.”

“A stupid move,” Frank commented. “Even if we had seen the diamonds, we wouldn’t have known they’d been smuggled. What about Mr. Wright’s secret radio? Did they talk about that?”

“I’m not sure,” Joe answered. “Gross mentioned a secret gadget, but since they smuggle electronic equipment, it could be anything. Do we still have the transistor?” he asked.

“Yes. But it’s my guess someone connected with the smugglers figured out we have the radio and thought it might be in our trunk. Do you know the names of any of the others in the gang?”

Joe shook his head. “I’m sure there’s a big boss, but they never mentioned him. One man who came to the cave had a nasal voice. He sounded like one of those burglars at Mr. Wright’s house.”

“And he’s afraid of someone named Shorty,” Frank added. “This is a real clue.” After a moment he said thoughtfully, “So we’re up against a gang of smugglers.”

“I think,” Aunt Gertrude said firmly, “that you boys should leave well enough alone. Joe is back safe and sound, and we ought to be satisfied. If you try tracking down those smugglers, you’ll only end up in trouble. Leave it to the police.”

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Frank answered the call.

“Are you one of the Hardy boys?” a strange voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“The inventor of the secret radio.”

“What’s your name?” Frank asked.

“You know I don’t want to mention it on the phone. All I want to find out is whether you still have it,” the man replied.

Frank was suspicious at once. He beckoned his mother and wrote on the telephone pad, Go next door and try to have this call traced. Then call the police and give them Joe’s clues to the kidnappers.

Aloud Frank was saying, “Why are you so interested, sir?”

“ ‘Cause I’m the inventor and I want the radio back.” The stranger spoke sharply.

A long parley followed. Finally, when Frank was sure his mother had had time to call the police, he said, “Sorry not to help you, sir, but you’ll have to get your information from my father. He isn’t here right this minute.”

“Your father!” the man shrieked. “Why, you impudent young pup! I’ll be right over and you’ll give me that radio or I‘ll—I’ll—”

The caller hung up.

CHAPTER IX

Smuggler’s Trail

THE evening passed with no further word from the mysterious caller who had phoned from a public booth but had disappeared before the police could track him down. Frank and Joe discussed the situation.

“Maybe he was scared off,” Joe suggested. “And what about the secret radio? Someone may look in that trunk again.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “I’ll bring it in here. But each time we leave the house let’s take the invention along.”

Before the family went to bed, Mrs. Hardy turned on the burglar alarm, which was connected to every door and window in the house and garage. There was no disturbance during the night.

“We’re safe so far,” Frank remarked at breakfast. “Maybe the police have caught Chris and the others. I’ll phone Chief Collig.”

“Sorry, Frank,” came the report from headquarters. “None of my men has picked up a clue.”

Almost a week passed. Still there was no news. The kidnapper-smugglers had covered their tracks well.

Joe had recovered from his experience and Frank’s injured leg had healed. The brothers were ready to continue their sleuthing. They asked Chet, Jerry, and Biff to help them.

“Gross and the others may sneak back to Bayport,” Frank prophesied. “They’ll get nervy soon and we may have a chance to trip them up.”

“Where do we go from here?” Biff asked.

“A tour of the docks,” Frank answered, “to hunt for a whaler.”

A long but wary search of Bayport’s busy waterfront yielded nothing. Finally all the boys went home.

Frank and Joe found that Aunt Gertrude had been shopping. “Who is that new young man working in Bickford’s jewelry shop?” she asked abruptly.

“I never saw a young man working in there,” Frank replied. “The only clerk I know of is elderly and he’s in the hospital right now.”

“A young man, I said,” Aunt Gertrude repeated in a tone that did not invite contradiction. “A very suspicious-looking young man. He wasn’t there the last time I went in.”

“He’s new to me,” Joe remarked. “What happened?”

“You see this diamond pin I’m wearing?” Aunt Gertrude pointed to a small one on the shoulder of her dress. “Well, this clerk kept eying it while I was looking at some inexpensive watches.”

“He was probably just admiring it, Aunty,” Frank suggested.

“Admiring it, yes. With the thought of stealing it!” Aunt Gertrude was warming to her subject. “You can’t fool me about young men. Besides, I’ve seen that clerk somewhere before.”

“Where?” Joe asked.

“I’m not sure, but I know I saw him.”

“Is that all you have against the poor fellow?” Frank asked jokingly.

“It’s enough. Mark my words, that young jewelry clerk is bad. Next thing we hear of him he’ll be in the penitentiary for robbing his employer!”

This dire prediction left the Hardy boys wondering. Aunt Gertrude’s intuition was amazing. They would drop into Bickford’s tomorrow and talk to the clerk.

The following morning the boys decided to walk downtown. They made sure their mother and aunt would be at home to guard Mr. Wright’s invention.

On the way Frank said, “I wonder why those smugglers operate in Bayport. Wouldn’t you think they’d pick one of the larger cities?”

“Perhaps they are known in those places,” Joe suggested. “I wish I could have heard more when I listened to them in the cave—like where the diamonds and electronic stuff came from and where they make their headquarters.”

Suddenly Joe gripped his brother’s arm. “Look!” he said tensely.

He gestured toward a man walking on the other side of the relatively deserted street and Frank almost shouted with excitement. The man was tall and muscular, with a shock of fair hair protruding from beneath his hat. He was the person who had been at the airport—the one they now suspected might be part of the kidnap-smuggler gang.

“I’ll bet his name is Chris!” Frank whispered.

“Let’s trail him and see where he’s going.”

“We’d better cross the street. He may catch sight of us.”

Excitedly the Hardys hurried to the opposite side and fell in behind the fair-haired man. “Chris,” apparently unaware that he was being followed, strode along at a rapid gait.

“Perhaps he’s going to meet some of his pals,” Joe said.

“We won’t let him out of our sight,” Frank said, “and if we meet a policeman I’ll ask him to notify headquarters.”

They were careful to remain far enough behind so that there were always several people between them and their quarry. The fair-haired man did not look back. He seemed to be in a hurry.

“You’d think Bayport has no cops,” Joe complained when the boys had gone several blocks without meeting one.

The Hardys trailed the big man for several blocks. Abruptly he struck off down a side street. The boys had to run in order to keep him in sight.

“Perhaps,” Joe said, “he saw you and me and is trying to shake us.”

“I don’t think so. I believe he’s going to the railroad station.”

“Good night! If he takes a train out of town, we’ll lose him.”

“I don’t intend to lose him,” Frank declared. “How much money do you have with you?”

Joe groped in his pockets. “About seven dollars.”

“Luck’s with us. I have thirty. We can take the train if he does, but I hope he won’t go far.”

It was soon evident that Chris was indeed bound for the station. When he came in sight of the big brick building, he broke into a run and disappeared through the massive doorway.

The Hardys hastened in pursuit, still looking for a policeman. Just before reaching the station, they saw one of their father’s friends. Quickly Frank told him the story and added, “Call headquarters and my mother.” He dashed after Joe.

When the boys entered the station they saw Chris just leaving one of the ticket windows. He ran across to an exit, raced through it, and darted toward a waiting train.

Frank stepped up to the window which the fair-haired man had just left.

“Where to?” the agent asked.

“We wanted to meet a man here,” Frank explained. “He’s a big fellow with blond hair. Have you seen him?”

“Just bought a ticket to New York City a minute ago.”

Frank was taken aback. He had not anticipated that Chris would be going as far as New York. However, having once picked up the trail, the young detective decided to follow it.

“Two one-way tickets,” he said.

“You’ll have to hurry,” the agent said. “The express is due to leave right away.”

Frank grabbed the tickets. He heard a whistle and saw that the train was beginning to move.

The boys dashed to the platform. Joe, in the lead, scrambled up the rear steps of the last coach. Frank followed.

When the boys had recovered their breath, they went through to the coach Chris occupied. They halted in the rear doorway and made a quick survey of the occupants.

Alone in a front seat they saw a familiar thatch of yellow hair. Chris was unaware that he had been followed.

The boys took seats at the rear of the car, and settled down for the journey.

CHAPTER X

Elevator Chase

“I hope the Bayport police communicate with the authorities in New York,” Frank remarked. “If they meet the train and arrest Chris, our worries will be over.”

“And if they don’t?” Joe asked.

Frank gave a wan smile. “Our troubles will just be starting. There’ll be crowds and it’ll be tough to keep track of him.”

The train did not make many stops, but each time it did, Frank and Joe were ready to hop off in case Chris should alight. At length the train reached the suburbs, clattering past miles of factories and houses, and finally lurched to a halt in the underground station in New York City.

The boys watched Chris intently as the passengers prepared to leave. The fair-haired man did not look back once. He put on his hat and strolled toward the front of the car.

“We’ll get out at the back and keep an eye on him from there,” Frank said.

The Hardys scrambled onto the platform where passengers were just beginning to file up the ramp to the waiting room. Chris had not yet appeared, so the brothers, shielding their faces, made their way quickly to the exit gate.

“I don’t see any police,” Frank remarked, disappointed.

“No,” Joe replied. “I guess we’ll have to take over.”

The boys emerged into the concourse. There, in the enormous, high-vaulted station, booming with hollow echoes, they waited for Chris to appear.

He stalked through the gate, looking neither to right nor left. The boys quickly fell in behind him. He towered above the throng, and they had little difficulty following him. Despite the crowds that jostled them, the Hardys managed to keep Chris in view and pursued him out into the street.

“What’ll we do if he hops into a taxi?” Joe asked.

“Hop into one ourselves and hope we can trail him,” Frank said.

“I’d feel better if we had more money with us,” Joe mumbled.

The man they were trailing still seemed unaware that he was being followed.

“It’s going to be mighty hard for one taxi to follow another in this traffic,” Frank remarked.

“Maybe we won’t need one,” his brother suggested. “Anyhow, these New York taxi drivers are pretty clever. I think if we tell one to follow a car we point out and make it worth his while, he could do it.”

“Going to cost a lot of moolah,” Frank said.

They were relieved when their quarry continued walking.

“Come on!” Frank called.

The two sleuths had a twofold problem: to follow Chris and be careful he did not suspect they were after him. Twice he swung around while they hurried along the crowded sidewalk, and it seemed as if he were suspicious.

On these occasions the boys dodged back of passers-by. After two momentary surveys, Chris hastened on again.

“I don’t believe he saw us,” Frank murmured as they again took up the chase.

“No, evidently not. But we’re coming to heavy congestion. Look at the crowd and there are traffic signals. If he gets across the street ahead of us and you and I are held up by a red light, we’ll lose him.”

The boys were anxious as they approached a busy corner where a policeman was directing the flow of automobiles and pedestrians.

“Shall we ask his help?” Joe asked.

“I doubt he could leave his post,” Frank answered.

Just what Joe had feared took place. Chris was among the last to slip across the thoroughfare before the lights flashed from green to red and the officer blew his whistle sharply. Joe groaned.

“Just our luck!” he cried.

“Look!” Frank exclaimed. “We’re in luck!”

Chris was speaking to a man on the other side of the street. Evidently the stranger had asked directions and Chris had halted to explain and point out the location of a certain street. He took such pains with the man that by the time he finished, the traffic light had again flashed green.

“Let’s go!” Joe cried.

They trailed Chris along the street for several blocks, then he turned into a large office building. Inside was a row of elevators opposite the entrance. Frank and Joe hesitated a few seconds about following Chris.

“Come on!” Joe urged. “If he gets in an elevator, and we aren’t there, we won’t know what office he’s going to.”

“You’re right!” Frank agreed.

They hurried into the lobby just as Chris stepped into one of the cars. The door closed and he shot upward. Fortunately he was the only passenger and the boys watched the dial. The car stopped at the tenth floor.

“I hope he doesn’t get away,” Joe murmured excitedly.

“We never would have dared get into the same elevator with him,” Frank said. “He’d have recognized us.”

The boys stepped into the next car. It soon filled and shot up leaving passengers off at various floors. The boys left it at the tenth. Each wondered if they could locate Chris in the maze of offices.

Again luck was with them. As Frank and Joe looked down a corridor, Chris was just entering an office. Evidently he had been delayed looking for his destination.

The Hardys hurried to the door as it closed behind the suspect. It was a green-painted steel door with an open transom. The sign read:

SOUTH AFRICAN IMPORTING COMPANY WHOLESALE ONLY

“I wonder what he’s doing in there,” Joe murmured.

Frank put a finger to his lips. The sound of muffled voices could be heard from the office. Apparently Chris and the others inside were so far from the door that their conversation was indistinct.

A moment later Chris’s voice came loud and clear. He must be walking toward the outer door!

“We’d better scram,” Frank advised.

“When he comes out, shall we grab him?” Joe asked.

Frank shook his head. “If those are buddies of his in there, they may grab us.”

The boys scooted up the corridor and watched Chris over their shoulders. He did not notice Frank and Joe. The suspect was looking intently at some papers in his hand as he went to the elevators and pushed a button for an ascending car. He was going to a higher floor

“Shall we follow him?” Joe whispered.

“Too risky. Let’s go down and wait in the lobby, then take up the trail again.”

After Chris had gone up, the boys took a Down car. On the ground floor they watched each descending elevator. After half an hour had passed, their patience was rewarded. Amid a carload of businessmen, they saw the burly form of the big blond man towering above all the others.

“Come on!” Frank whispered to Joe as Chris moved toward the street doors.

Again the chase was resumed in the crowded street. For several blocks Chris maintained a straight course. Then he swung around a corner and stalked down a side street. The sleuths hurried after their quarry and saw him dip beneath a restaurant sign below street level.

“Oh—oh!” Joe muttered. “If we follow him in there, he can’t miss us.”

“Let’s see if there are many customers inside,” Frank suggested. “If so, we just might be able to get away with it. Could be he’s meeting someone there.”

Frank went down the steps leading to the restaurant and made a quick survey of the place through the door. It was almost full.

“Chris is taking a table in the rear, and he’s not facing the door. Come on, Joe! We’re not letting him out of our sight.”

Boldly Frank and Joe entered the place. It was a cheap restaurant, with a row of booths along one side. The boys slipped quickly into one of the compartments. They could watch Chris but he could not see them.

“This is a break!” Joe whispered.

An untidy-looking waiter came over and they gave their orders. After he had gone to the kitchen, the boys put their money on the table.

“There’s enough to pay for a hotel room if we have to stay over, and a few more meals.”

“We can’t afford to hang around New York long,” Joe remarked, eying their available cash. “I guess we’d better tell the police about Chris and forget trying to spot his buddies.”

Suddenly Frank sat bolt upright. “Chris is getting up from his table.”

“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “He’s heading right for us!”

CHAPTER XI

Discovered !

JOE pretended to be searching for something he had dropped and quickly ducked his head underneath the table as the fair-haired man approached. Frank snatched up a menu and held it in front of his face.

There was a tense moment as Chris drew nearer. To the boys’ relief, he brushed past without noticing them and walked directly to the cashier’s counter. The Hardys got ready to pursue him, but he only stopped to glance at a newspaper lying there, then returned to his own table.

“Whew, that was close!” Joe murmured as he raised his head.

“It sure was,” Frank agreed. “But we have one thing in our favor. We’re the last persons in the world Chris would expect to find trailing him in New York City.”

The Hardys watched as a waiter walked up to the big man’s table. Apparently Chris was well known in the restaurant, for the two exchanged a few words laughing all the while. Presently a slim, sharp-featured man emerged from a door to the kitchen and went directly to Chris. He sat down, then began to talk.

“I think,” Joe whispered, “it’s time for some action. How about my going outside and looking for a policeman?”

“Good idea, Joe. I have a feeling the man with Chris should be investigated, too. He may be one of the smugglers.”

Joe slid from the booth and went outside. No officer was in sight, but there was a public-telephone booth nearby. “I’ll call headquarters from here,” Joe decided and dialed the number.

He was connected with a lieutenant, who said they had been alerted by Chief Collig, but the boys’ message to him had been delayed, and the call to New York had come too late for the police to meet the train from Bayport. “I will send two officers to the restaurant. If this man Chris hasn’t started to eat yet, he’ll be there a while. By the way, we got a message that you are to phone your home at once.”

“Thank you,” said Joe and hung up.

He immediately dialed the Hardy house. Aunt Gertrude answered. “My, you boys certainly take off fast! You ought to be right here taking care of the secret radio mystery.”

“What do you mean, Aunty?”

“I mean that I can’t understand your father. He sent a telegram saying, ‘Inventor will phone. Do as directed.’ Well, the inventor called and said we should leave the radio on the front steps at ten o‘clock tonight.”

Joe was astounded. After a moment’s thought he said, “I think the telegram was a hoax. Dad would never do such a thing. Somebody may be listening in on this call, but I’ll take a chance. Put a package on the steps but not the radio. Then ask the police to shadow the house and pick up this fake inventor. I have to say good-by now. Frank and I have one of the gang almost nabbed. Give my love to Mother. Tell her we’re sorry we couldn’t call before this.”

Joe returned to the restaurant and in whispers repeated his whole conversation. Frank nodded, then pointed to Chris’s table.

“I heard that thin guy call him Chris, so we know for sure we’re on the right track.”

The smuggler and his companion were busily engaged with pencil and paper. Chris seemed to be explaining something that did not please the other man, for he shook his head doubtfully and crossed out what Chris had already jotted down.

“I’d give anything to know what those two are talking about,” Frank said in a low tone.

“So would I,” Joe replied and started to eat.

At that instant the boys’ attention was diverted to a stocky man who had just entered the restaurant. He glanced in their direction, then made his way toward them. He planted himself in front of their table and glared at the Hardys.

“What’s the idea of sittin’ at my table?” he demanded.

“Your table?” Frank asked in surprise.

“Yes. This is my table you’re sittin’ at. You’d better clear out!”

“There are lots of other tables,” Frank retorted in a low voice.

“Sure. And you can have any one of ‘em you want.”

Frank decided that nothing would be gained by arguing with the stranger. Both boys returned quietly to their meal and did not look up.

“Well,” the man roared, “are you gonna move?”

“As soon as we’ve finished our lunch,” Joe snapped.

“You’ll move now! This is my table you’re sittin’ at, and I mean to have it!”

The young sleuths were infuriated by the intrusion. Unknowingly the man was putting them in a difficult position. If they stood up to walk to another table, Chris would surely spot them and might escape before the police arrived! If they remained where they were, they probably would be discovered, since the incident was beginning to attract attention.

Frank signaled a waiter standing nearby.

“What’s the trouble, Mr. Melvin?” he asked.

“These kids are sittin’ at my table,” Melvin protested. “Make‘em move!”

The waiter looked uneasy. “I can’t ask these young men to move, Mr. Melvin. They were here first.”

“Ain‘tIagood customer of this restaurant?”

“Yes, indeed. But there are plenty of other tables, sir. If you don’t mind—”

“I do mind. These boys can get outta here or I won’t come back to this restaurant again!” Melvin shouted.

Frank saw that Chris and his friend had turned and were looking in the Hardys’ direction. At once Chris spoke to the sharp-featured man, who nodded. Then both darted toward the kitchen door and disappeared through it.

Joe said to the waiter, “We’re not afraid of this fellow, but we’ll leave just to save trouble.”

The boys got up. Melvin, breathing defiance and declaring that no person could sit at his table and get away with it, promptly sat down in the seat Frank had just vacated.

Joe dashed to the back of the restaurant and whirled into the kitchen. Chris and his friend were not in sight, but a back door was open and Joe assumed the men had ducked outside and up a delivery alley to the street. He hurried back into the restaurant.

Frank had hastened to the cashier’s desk and paid the boys’ check. Then he ran up the front steps and into the street. The police had not arrived.

Joe joined his brother. “Chris left by the back door,” he said. “He should be coming up that alley.” When the two men did not put in an appearance, he added, “You stay here, Frank. I’ll run down.”

Joe returned in a short time. “Come on!” he cried, and explained that the alley joined another one that led to the busy street beyond. They followed it to the sidewalk, which was teeming with pedestrians. Chris was not in sight.

“We’ve really lost him this time,” Joe commented in disgust.

“I have an idea,” Frank said. “Let’s walk along this street in opposite directions for about ten or twelve blocks. I’ll head downtown, you uptown. There’s a slight chance one of us might spot Chris.”

“But he might have gone cross town,” Joe argued.

“You’re right. But what have we to lose?”

“Okay, Frank, I’m game. But there’s just one hitch. If I should see Chris, how do I let you know and vice versa?”

Frank looked around and pointed to a public-telephone booth. He walked over and jotted down the number.

Rejoining his brother, he said, “We’ll meet back here in half an hour. However, if one of us gets back and the other isn’t here, I say stay by the phone and wait for a call.” He handed Joe a copy of the number and took one himself.

“Here’s hoping!” Joe declared with a grin as the boys went their separate ways.

Frank walked along slowly, dividing his attention between weaving among pedestrians and searching for his quarry. When he had covered nearly fifteen blocks, Frank decided to work his way back on the opposite side of the street.

He stopped for a moment at an amusement arcade to watch the people playing the various coin-operated machines.

As Frank was about to continue walking, his eyes widened in surprise. Toward the rear of the arcade a big fair-haired man was engaged in conversation with three ominous-looking characters. Frank carefully edged his way inside the arcade for a better look. He was certain now.

The man was Chris!

CHAPTER XII

Tunnel Scare

FRANK mingled with the crowd in the arcade and cautiously worked his way toward the spot where Chris and his companions were standing. He kept glancing toward the street, hoping a policeman would come along. Soon the young sleuth was close enough to overhear the men’s conversation.

“Sounds like you got in with a gang that’s going places,” declared one of Chris’s companions. “How about talkin’ to your boss and gettin’ us in on the action?”

“Sorry, but I can’t help you guys,” the fair-haired man answered. “The big boss has all the men he needs.”

“Keep us in mind if anything comes up,” one of the trio chimed in.

Just then a man who had been playing one of the game machines alongside Frank shouted, “Whee! I’ve won ten in a row. I musta broke some kind o’ record!”

The outburst caused Chris and his friends to look in the man’s direction—and therefore right at Frank. The boy turned quickly and gazed into one of the coin-operated machines. In its highly polished surface he could see Chris’s reflection.

“He must have recognized me!” Frank thought, noting a look of surprise on the smuggler’s face.

Frank watched while the fair-haired man whispered something to his friends, then turned to go back to the street.

Determined not to let the big man out of his sight, and to contact the first police officer he met, the young detective started off in pursuit. To his dismay, he was intercepted at the entrance by Chris’s three companions.

“Where d‘you think you’re goin’, kid?” one of them growled.

Another said, “We don’t like the idea of our pal being shadowed.”

“Get out of my way!” Frank demanded.

One man stepped behind the youth. The other two each grabbed an arm and led him out of the arcade.

“We’re goin’ for a little walk,” one of them snarled, “and if you make one sound, it’ll be curtains for you!”

Frank was forced to walk about half a block, then he was led into a dark, narrow alley.

“You need to be taught a lesson, kid,” the man behind Frank said. “We don’t like snoopers.”

Frank was in a desperate situation, but he did not panic. With catlike speed he thrust out his leg and tripped the man on his right, then flung him down so hard the grasp on the youth’s right arm was broken. With his free arm Frank jabbed an elbow into the midriff of the man behind him.

“Ouch!” his opponent grunted loudly.

The third man, who still had a firm grip on Frank’s left arm, was unable to dodge the boy’s blow. It caught him on the chin and he crumpled to the ground.

Frank had only a second to collect his wits. One of his stunned opponents had recovered quickly, scrambled to his feet, and lunged at him. Just as Frank dealt the man a staggering blow, he heard a noise behind him. Before Frank could turn, he was struck on the head with a hard object.

Several minutes passed before Frank regained consciousness. He slowly got to his feet and looked around. The three men were gone. Frank grimaced as he felt a large swelling on the back of his head. Then he noticed that his wrist watch and wallet were missing.

“Chris has some rough playmates,” he thought. “And they’re petty thieves to boot.”

Still a bit unsteady on his legs, Frank finally started uptown to rendezvous with his brother. Frank’s body ached, but a light rain which was falling seemed cool and refreshing to him.

When Joe saw Frank’s condition, he exclaimed, “Leaping hyenas! You look as if yuu’d fallen into a cement mixer!”

“Not quite,” Frank replied. “I ran into some of Chris’s pals.”

“What! You mean you caught up with the smuggler?”

“Yes, but lost him again. I’ll tell you all about it later. But first let’s find some shelter from this rain. I’m cold.”

They ducked into a doorway. Frank straightened his tie and brushed off his clothes in an effort to look more presentable.

“My wallet was stolen,” he said. “How much money do you have left?”

Joe dug into his pockets. “Exactly six dollars and thirty-seven cents.”

“I’m starved,” Frank announced. “And we’ll need most of that to get a good meal. Anyway, it’s not enough for our fare back home. Let’s find a restaurant and a phone. We can call Mother collect and let her know what has happened so far. Hope she can wire us some money.”

The rain lessened and the boys hurried along the street in search of an eating place. They examined the menus posted in the windows of several restaurants, hoping to find one that would not exceed their budget.

“Here’s a possibility,” Joe said. “The menu looks good and the prices are reasonable.”

The boys entered the restaurant and sat down. Shortly a waiter walked over to them. He eyed Frank’s rumpled clothes and the man’s manner became abrupt. The Hardys had already selected a dinner listed on the window menu and ordered immediately.

“I have a feeling he’s in a hurry to get rid of us.” Joe grinned as the waiter walked off.

“Did you see the way he stared at me when he came over?” Frank laughed. “I admit I look a little shabby. He probably thinks we’re not going to pay our bill.”

After finishing dessert, Frank rose. “Give me some change and I’ll place a call home,” he told Joe. “Meanwhile, you take care of the check.”

Locating a phone booth at the rear of the restaurant, the young detective deposited the coin and dialed the operator.

“I’m sorry,” said a feminine voice when Frank tried to make a collect call to Bayport. “Violent storms up there have temporarily affected the service. I suggest you try again in about an hour.”

Disappointed, Frank returned to the table. To his surprise, Joe was involved in an argument with their waiter.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

“There seems to be a misunderstanding about our check,” Joe declared. “It’s almost double the amount listed on the menu we saw in the window.”

“I already told you,” the waiter growled. “Those prices are good only up to three o‘clock. After that, you pay more.”

“I’ll say you do,” Joe retorted. “But how were we supposed to know?”

The waiter picked up a copy of the menu the boys had seen in the window and thrust it at them “Can’t you read?” He pointed to a line of fine print at the bottom of the menu:

THIS MANAGEMENT RESERVES THE PRIVILEGE TO CHANGE LISTED MENU PRICES AFTER THREE P.M.

“Wow! You almost need a magnifying glass to read it!” Joe snapped.

“Don’t try to squirm out of this,” the waiter said harshly. “I had you kids sized up the minute you walked in here. I’m going to get the manager!”

The waiter reappeared shortly with a short, stocky man wearing a dark suit and a bow tie.

“I hear you boys can’t pay your check,” he said.

Joe started to explain. “We can pay you half of it now and ...”

“We don’t sell meals on the installment plan,” the manager stated tersely.

“Give us a little time,” Frank pleaded. “Just as soon as we can get a call through to our home, we’ll have some money wired.”

“A lot of good that will do me,” the manager answered. Suddenly his expression changed. His face broke into a wide grin. “Tell you what! I’m in need of a couple of dishwashers right now. Each of you work for three hours and I’ll call it square. You keep your money.”

The Hardys were reluctant, but being short on funds, with no place to go, and unable to get through to Mrs. Hardy yet, they agreed.

After working a while Joe said in disgust, “A couple of private detectives end up in New York as kitchen police!”

“I wouldn’t complain too much,” Frank said, grinning. “What if we had to wash these dishes by hand!”

“Why do we have to do them at all?” Joe complained. “Dad has several friends here in the city. They’d be willing to help us out with some money.”

“I know! But I think we should go to them only as a last resort.”

Frank waited nearly four hours before getting a call through to Bayport. Finally the lines were repaired, and a long-distance operator connected him with Mrs. Hardy.

“Your Aunt Gertrude and I have been worried sick about you and Joe,” she said. “There’s been a bad storm here. Where are you?”

“Still in New York. But guess what? Joe and I are washing dishes to pay for our dinner.”

Mrs. Hardy laughed and promised to wire them money right away.

“Send it to the telegraph office at Grand Central Terminal,” Frank requested. “And don’t worry about us. We’re fine, and we’ll probably be home tomorrow. Now tell me, did that fake inventor show up?”

“No. I guess the storm was too bad. The detectives stationed here were needed elsewhere and had to leave. The box on the steps is soaked. We turned the lights off and have been watching from the window. Maybe we can catch a glimpse of whoever comes.”

“Good. ‘Bye now. I hope nobody tapped this call.”

When Frank and Joe finished their work, they hurried from the restaurant. It was still raining when they stepped onto the street. “It’s almost midnight. What now?” Joe asked.

“Let’s take the subway to Times Square,” Frank said. “Then we can get the cross-town shuttle to Grand Central. At least we can keep dry there until our money arrives.”

There were only a few people waiting for the shuttle train when the boys arrived at Times Square. Several minutes passed, then suddenly Frank clutched his brother’s arm.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“That man behind the post!” Frank whispered. “He’s one of Chris’s friends!”

Just as Joe glanced up, the man brushed against one of the strolling passengers on the platform. The young detectives’ keen eyes saw him lift a wallet from his victim’s pocket.

“Hey! You!” Frank shouted, rushing toward the pickpocket with Joe close behind him.

Startled at Frank’s outcry, the thief quickly removed the money and dropped the wallet. He leaped off the platform onto the tracks and disappeared into the dark tunnel. The boys took off in pursuit.

“Watch that side rail!” Frank warned his brother. “It’s charged with high-voltage electricity!”

The young detectives had run a considerable distance into the yawning tunnel when they halted abruptly.

“What’s that rumbling noise?” Joe asked.

“It’s the shuttle train!” Frank screamed. “And it’s coming our way!”

Seconds later the fast-moving train loomed from around the bend. Would the Hardys escape in time?

CHAPTER XIII

Exciting Assignment

“RUN for it!” Joe yelled.

The boys whirled and dashed through the tunnel. As the train rapidly gained on them, its headlight illuminated the walls. Stretching along one side was a power line encased in metal piping. Frank spotted it.

“That’s a conduit line!” he shouted. “Grab it and flatten yourself against the wall!”

They made a desperate leap, caught hold of the narrow piping, and stiffened themselves hard against the wall. Seconds later the train sped past them. The roar was deafening and the mass of air that was pulled along lashed the Hardys like a gale. The sides of the cars were barely inches away as the lighted windows passed by in a blur.

Soon the last car disappeared around a bend. The youths jumped onto the tracks and made their way back to the Times Square station plat form. Both were trembling.

“What do you think happened to the man we were chasing?” Joe asked finally.

“Probably he’s used this tunnel before as a means of escape,” Frank replied, “and knows the layout well. I’m sure he’s heading for Grand Central station.”

Arriving at the platform, the boys spotted the man Chris’s pal had tried to rob. He was talking to a police officer.

“These are the two boys who chased the pickpocket into the tunnel,” the man told the policeman as the brothers walked toward them.

The officer turned to Frank and Joe. “This man claims someone stole his wallet.”

“That’s right,” Frank said, “and he’s probably the same one who lifted mine this afternoon. We chased him but he got away.”

“By now he has no doubt reached Grand Central,” Joe added.

“I’ve alerted a couple of the men on duty there,” the policeman said. “They’ll be on the lookout for him.” He stared at the boys curiously. “Say, that was a risky job for you fellows to take on!”

The boys introduced themselves to the officer and showed him their credentials.

“So you’re the Hardys,” the policeman remarked.

“I’m Reilly. Your father’s name is something of a legend around the department.”

“Dad is a great detective,” Joe said proudly.

At the officer’s request, the boys gave him a description of the pickpocket. Reilly then took the name and address of the man who had been robbed.

Shortly the next train arrived and the Hardys stepped aboard. When they got off at Grand Central station, Frank and Joe noticed a commotion at the far end of the platform. A group of spectators had assembled.

“Let’s see what’s going on,” Frank suggested.

As the boys walked forward, Joe’s eyes widened. “Hey, look!” he yelled. “There’s the pickpocket we chased!”

“He’s being questioned by two policemen,” Frank observed. “That was quick work. They must’ve nabbed him coming out of the tunnel.”

The boys pressed their way among the spectators.

“I ain’t done nothin‘,” they heard the pickpocket snarl.

“That’s not true!” Joe declared. “He tried to steal a man’s wallet. My brother and I saw the whole thing!”

“And I suspect he took mine and is a pal of some smugglers,” Frank added.

“Who are you?” one of the policemen asked.

The boys identified themselves once more, then related the incident at the Times Square station.

One of the officers nodded. “We were alerted to be on the lookout for this guy.”

“We know all about him,” the second policeman said. “His name is Torchy Murks. Has two convictions for petty larceny. We had reports of a pickpocket that looks like him working the subways recently.”

“You’re crazy!” Murks growled. “I’m being railroaded!”

“We’ll see about that.”

The officers requested the boys to accompany them. At the precinct Murks was marched off to the interrogation room.

A few minutes later a tall, muscular, square-jawed man emerged from the squad room. He walked directly to the Hardys and extended his hand in greeting.

“One of the officers just told me you’re the sons of Fenton Hardy,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Detective Lieutenant Danson. I joined the force as a rookie just before your father left the department. A great detective. Come into my office.”

The youths were ushered into a small but comfortable office, where Danson offered them chairs and seated himself behind his desk.

“I hear you fellows had a scrap with Torchy Murks,” he said. “Slippery character. Well, tell me, what brings the famous Hardys to New York City?”

The boys related their experiences of the past two weeks, ending with an account of how they had trailed the smuggler-kidnapper Chris to New York.

Lieutenant Danson sat thoughtful for several moments. “That’s strange,” he mumbled to himself.

“What is?” Joe inquired curiously.

“It might be just a coincidence,” Danson muttered. “Then again ...”

The boys watched with interest as the lieutenant thumbed through his private list of telephone numbers. “An FBI agent I know, named Emery Keith, dropped into my office a couple of days ago and told me about two suspects his office wants for questioning. From his description of the men, one of them sounds like this big blond fellow Chris. Of course our men have been on the lookout, but I’d like Keith to hear your story.”

Twenty minutes later two neatly dressed men arrived at the lieutenant’s office.

“I’m Agent Keith,” the tall, light-haired one said to the Hardys. Then he introduced his shorter, dark-haired companion. “And this is my assistant, George Mallett. I’ve heard a lot about your father. Some of our agents have worked with him.”

After the formalities, they all sat down to discuss the case. Frank and Joe told their story about the kidnapping and smuggling.

“Hmm!” Keith muttered. “Interesting lead!” The agent eyed the Hardys for a moment before speaking again. “Does the name Taffy Marr ring a bell with you fellows?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Frank replied.

“Taffy Marr,” Keith said, “is one of the slickest crooks in the country. He’s the leader of the smuggling ring and I suspect is the boss of Shorty, Chris, and their pals. Marr is young—the innocent-looking type—but as clever and cold-blooded a crook as you’ll ever come up against.”

“What else can you tell us about his looks?” Frank asked.

“Not much. Taffy is slender, of average height, and uses a lot of disguises, so we’re not exactly sure what he does look like. One of our men did spot a triangular scar on Marr’s left forearm. No doubt he’s self-conscious about this identification and he usually wears long sleeves.

“Taffy came from the West Coast a few months ago and organized a gang,” Keith went on. “The group’s been flooding the country with smuggled diamonds. It’s so bad that the Jewelers Association is offering a sizable reward to anyone who can trip up Marr. As for me, I’d give a year’s salary to put him in prison.”

Joe volunteered the information that the gang also smuggled electronic equipment, and added, “Have you any leads on Marr’s whereabouts?”

“The last report shows he was here in New York,” the agent answered. “Before that, it was Florida, then Virginia, Connecticut, New Jersey, and the Carolinas.”

“He certainly gets around,” Frank commented.

“Apparently he’s confining his operations now to the East Coast,” Keith said. “But the problem is where. He has dropped out of sight completely.”

“How long do you two plan to be in New York?” Keith asked the Hardys.

“Not much longer,” Joe said. We called home for money, and it should be at the Grand Central telegraph office by now. We plan to take the first train back to Bayport.“

“Tell you what,” Keith said. “Why not let us put you up at a hotel tonight at our expense? Then you can catch the morning train. I’d like to have breakfast with you fellows and discuss the possibility of your working with us. But I’ll have to talk with my chief first.”

Frank and Joe were excited at this prospect and quickly consented. Lieutenant Danson drove them to Grand Central, where they found their money waiting, then they went to a nearby hotel. Completely exhausted, Frank and Joe were sound asleep within minutes.

Early the next morning they met Keith in the hotel restaurant and enjoyed a breakfast of sausage, wheat cakes, and fruit. Then the agent reviewed the facts on Marr and his gang.

“I realize our information is sketchy,” the agent said. “But you’ve given us some good leads and maybe you can dig up a few more.”

“We’ll certainly try,” Frank said.

“I’d like you fellows to be on the lookout for Marr in the Bayport area. The same goes for Chris. He may turn up there again—perhaps to meet Marr, if they’re in the same racket.”

“You can count on us!” Joe said eagerly.

Keith reached into his pocket and took out a small business card. On the back he jotted down a series of digits.

“I suggest you memorize this telephone number,” he said. “You’ll be able to get in touch with me or my assistant Mallett at any time.”

“Right!” The Hardys repeated the digits several times until both were sure they would not forget them.

Frank telephoned to check the trains and learned that one would depart for Bayport within half an hour. Keith drove them to the station and shook hands.

“Good luck, and good hunting,” he said with a smile. “I can assure you that the entire Bureau will be grateful for whatever help you can give it.”

When the boys arrived home, Joe jokingly stuck out his chest and said to Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, “Meet a couple of Federal men!”

“Whatever do you mean?” his mother asked.

Frank told of Keith’s request and the women smiled. “It’s a big assignment,” Mrs. Hardy remarked, and Aunt Gertrude added, “You’d better watch your step. This Marr fellow sounds pretty dangerous for you to tackle.”

“Now tell us,” Joe requested, changing the subject, “about that fake inventor. Did the mysterious caller ever come for the box with the secret radio in it?”

“Yes,” their mother replied.

“Was he caught?” Frank asked eagerly.

CHAPTER XIV

Identification Diamond

AUNT Gertrude answered Frank’s question. “Of course that crook was caught. The police came back and nabbed him. Inventor, nothing.”

“Hurrah!” Joe shouted. “Who is he?”

“He won’t talk and he had no identification on him. But I’ll bet he belongs to Chris’s gang,” Miss Hardy said.

“You’re probably right,” Frank agreed. “And they may all belong to Marr’s racket.” After a few moments’ thought, he added, “I think I know a way to find out.”

“How?” Joe asked.

Frank grinned. “I’ll pretend I’m a fellow gang member and go talk to him.”

The young detective telephoned Chief Collig, who gave his consent to the plan.

“What can you tell me about this man?” Frank asked.

Hearing that the prisoner was very short and strong, Frank instantly thought of the man the burglars at the Wright home had mentioned.

“Sounds like Shorty,” he said. After hanging up, he asked Mrs. Hardy, “Have you an unmounted diamond?”

“Yes. One that fell out of a ring. Why?”

“I’d like to borrow one as a sort of identification with the gang.”

“Swell idea,” said Joe. “I’ll help you get fixed up.” The boys went upstairs and rummaged through their father’s supply of disguises.

When Frank emerged from the house, his best friends would not have recognized him. He wore a long cut wig and beard, tight-fitting slacks, and a turtleneck sweater. He roared off on his motorry cle, and on purpose went past the cell block.

As prearranged Chief Collig met him at the entrance to headquarters and escorted Frank to the prisoner, who looked idly through the bars.

“Friend of yours to see you,” said the chief. “Maybe he can persuade you to unbutton your lips.”

Frank gazed through the bars. “Like nuttin’ I will,” he whispered to the prisoner in a tough voice as soon as Collig had moved off. “Hi, Shorty! I’m sorry the dicks got yuh. But yuh didn’t tell ‘em nuttin’, did yuh?”

“Naw.”

Frank was jubilant. He had scored one point The man’s nickname was Shorty.

“Did yuh hear my new motorcycle?” he asked.

“Yeah, I heard it,” Shorty answered. “Whad daya pay for it with?”

Frank pulled the diamond from his pocket. “With some o’ dese.”

Shorty seemed impressed. “Say, what’s yer name?”

Frank assumed an air of annoyance. “Ain’t Taffy told yuh ‘bout me yet?”

“Naw.”

The young sleuth’s heart was thumping with excitement as he said, “Name’s Youngster. I got a bonus on the last haul. Just joined up with Marr-when smacko!—I run into the toughest setup.”

Shorty, apparently convinced by Frank’s story, said, “I was lookin’ fer some chips, too. But Marr’ll probably have me rubbed out for gettin’ in here.”

“Did the dicks take the Hardys’ package from yuh?” Frank asked.

“Yeah. Before I could open it.”

“How’d yuh like me to lift it? I could do it easy,” Frank boasted.

“From the dicks?” Shorty asked, astonished.

“Naw. The Hardys. The chief’ll give it back to ‘em.”

Shorty’s thin lips broke into a smile. “Then Taffy’ll think I didn’t bungle after all?“ His face clouded again, however. ”Lessen yuh double-cross me,“ he added.

“Name’s Youngster,” Frank told the prisoner

“I won’t squeal,” Frank said. “I’ll tell Marr yuh give it to me to deliver. Say, where’s he holin’ up now? I seen him in New York an’ he told me to come here an’ wait till I heard from him.”

“Guess he’s still at Bickford‘s,” Shorty answered, and added with a smirk, “Best place to hide out with a wad o’ rocks.”

At that moment a voice called, “Time’s up for visitors.” A guard came in Frank’s direction.

“Okay, but don’t rush me,” the elated boy said in a tough voice.

He swaggered out of the police station and walked toward his motorcycle. What should he do now? Divulge the information to Collig at once and have the police pick up Taffy Marr?

“I’ll call him, anyway,” Frank decided, “and he can notify Keith.”

Collig said he would stake plainclothesmen at the shop. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

When Frank reached home, Aunt Gertrude met him at the door. “I’m glad you’ve come,” she said excitedly. “We must do something at once about that young clerk at Bickford’s.”

“We are going to,” her nephew assured her. “That is, the police are.”

“Well, I can tell them something,” Aunt Gertrude said. “I was going to tell you what I remembered about him.”

“You know something about him?” Frank asked.

“I’ll say I do. You recall the tall, fair-haired man who bumped into me at the Gresham railroad station and called me an old whaler? Well, it suddenly came to me that one of the men he was talking to was the very same young man who’s working at Bickford‘s!”

“What!” Frank exclaimed. “You’re sure?”

“Now listen here,” his aunt said sharply. “When I’m sure, I’m sure.”

“Aunty, this is great news!” Frank exclaimed.

Her announcement changed the whole scheme of attack. “Does Joe know about this and where is he?” Frank asked.

“He hasn’t heard my story because I just remembered. Joe went—Here he comes now.”

As Joe came in, he asked, “Frank, how did you make out?”

“Great! Listen ! Taffy Marr is working at Bickford‘s!”

“No kidding?”

“It’s straight. I got the tip from Shorty, the prisoner,” Frank answered. “And listen to this. Aunt Gertrude saw Marr with Chris in Gresham! While I remove my disguise, will you call Chief Collig and tell him this?”

“Okay, and let’s go down and watch the fun when Marr is arrested,” Joe urged.

It took Frank only five minutes to take off his costume and makeup. Since Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude planned to leave the house, Joe put Mr. Wright’s invention in the tire well of the boys’ car. Then he and Frank rode downtown in the convertible. When they reached Bickford‘s, there was a good-sized crowd in front of the jewelry store.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked a bystander.

“Don’t know. An attempted holdup, I guess. Police arrived and circled the building. We’ve been waiting for them to bring somebody out.”

A siren began to wail and seconds later an ambulance raced up the street. It stopped in front of the jewelry store. A hush fell over the crowd as they waited for the victim to be brought out. Would it be Taffy Marr, or a policeman who had gone in to arrest him or would it be the shop owner?

A stretcher was carried in and a little later it was brought out bearing a man. His eyes were closed and his face ghostly white.

“It’s Mr. Bickford!” Joe exclaimed.

Instantly the boys pushed through the crowd and rushed up to an officer just emerging from the store. He knew the Hardys and beckoned to them.

“We were just a little too late arriving to catch Marr,” he said. “Marr must have attacked Mr. Bickford and cleaned the place out before he skipped.”

“A complete haul, you mean?” Joe asked.

“Took everything.”

“How bad off is Mr. Bickford?” Frank inquired.

The officer shrugged. “He’s unconscious and his pulse is weak.”

Joe spluttered angrily, “If I get my hands on Marr, I‘ll—I’ll—”

“It’s going to be rough tracking him down,” Frank predicted. “I’ll bet by this time he’s wearing a disguise and has already left town.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “If he owns a suitcase full of disguises, he probably went back to wherever he’s living to pick them up. Officer, have you any idea where he’s living?”

“No, but our men are questioning people in the neighborhood.”

As the ambulance pulled away, the boys asked permission to check out the jewelry shop for a clue to Marr’s address.

The officer smiled. “Go ahead. You fellows may manage to pick up a lead before the police check. I’m to stay on duty outside so take all the time you want.”

Frank told his brother he was sure Mr. Bickford had some kind of records concerning his assistant. No doubt they were under an assumed name. “Let’s have a look.”

The boys found a drawer full of papers. Under them was an account book. They read each name listed in the book and at last came to one with recent, regular notations of payments.

“This might be his new clerk,” Frank observed. “Ray Stokeley, 49 New Street.”

“It’s worth following,” Joe said.

Frank and Joe briefly told the officer on duty they might have a lead and dashed off to their car. They soon reached New Street, where most of the old-fashioned houses had “Rooms for Rent” signs in windows. Number 49 was a large run-down mansion, set far back from the street.

Frank and Joe climbed the high steps and rang the bell. A neatly dressed, middle-aged woman opened the door.

“Is Mr. Stokeley at home?” Frank inquired.

“No, he has left-moved out, not ten minutes ago.”

The woman started to close the door, but Frank, smiling at her, said, “We think he’s the man we’re looking for, but we’re not sure. Would you mind describing Mr. Stokeley for us?”

Her description fitted Marr. Frank nodded. “He’s our man. Do you know where he went?”

There was no answer for a few seconds, then the woman said, “Who are you? Boy detectives?”

“Yes,” Joe replied promptly, “and Mr. Stokeley is wanted by the FBI and police. You’d be doing them a great favor if you tell us all you know.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “I know very little about Mr. Stokeley. But I did hear part of a phone call he made early this morning. He said, ‘Then to the airport.’ Does that help you?”

“Yes indeed. Thanks,” Frank answered as he and Joe raced down the steps.

They arrived at the airport in record time. As they rushed through the terminal lobby, the boys glimpsed the pilot, Cole Weber, looking at the antique craft and waved.

“If Marr’s wearing a disguise, how can we spot him?” Frank said.

Joe was staring at a man with gray hair, mustache, and a beard. He stood near a counter, talking to a red-haired fellow.

“Frank, look! That guy the gray-haired man’s talking to looks like one of the kidnappers!”

“Sure?”

“Positive! And I’ll bet Gray Beard is Taffy Marr!”

The men turned and went out to the field. Frank and Joe followed. The suspects started running toward a small white single-engine plane that was ready for take-off. They climbed aboard quickly.

“Now what’ll we do?” Frank asked.

“Only one thing we can do,” Joe replied. “Follow them!”

CHAPTER XV

Pursuit

“BUT how can we follow Marr?” Frank asked. “If only Dad’s plane were here, we could do it easily.”

He was referring to the sleek, six-place aircraft owned by their father. However, Mr. Hardy and his pilot Jack Wayne had flown it to California with Mr. Wright.

“Keep an eye on that white bird,” Joe ordered. “I’ll run into the administration building and telephone Agent Keith. Then I’ll go to Manson’s Charter Service and see if we can rent a plane.”

“You’d better make it quick!” Frank warned.

Joe rushed to a phone booth inside the administration building and dialed Keith’s code number. It took only seconds to make the connection.

“Agent Mallett speaking!” crackled a deep, firm voice.

“This is Joe Hardy. Is Agent Keith there?”

“No, but he should be back in a few minutes.”

“Can’t wait!” Frank declared. “Tell him my brother and I are trailing a man we’re sure is Taffy Marr. We’re at Bayport field. The suspect and another man are about to take off in a white single-engine job. We’ll try to follow them. I’ll keep you posted!”

“Good work!” Mallett said. “Try to get the registration number of their plane so we can trace its owner.”

“Right!”

Joe hung up quickly and went directly to one of the terminal’s counters. Behind it stood a plump ish, pleasant-faced man. On the wall hung a sign which read:

MANSON’S CHARTER SERVICE

“Well, if it isn’t Joe Hardy!” the man declared.

“Hello, Mr. Manson.”

“Where have you been keeping yourself? Haven’t seen you around the airport lately.”

“We’ve been sleuthing,” Joe answered with a wink. “I’d like to charter one of your planes right away!”

“Gosh, Joe, I’m sorry, but all my aircraft are out on flights,” Manson said apologetically. “Haven’t had such a busy day in months.”

Suddenly Joe had an idea. How about Cole Weber? He rushed off and in a few moments found the lanky owner of an antique plane.

“Nice to see you again,” the pilot greeted him. “What’s the rush?”

“I’m looking for a ride.”

“You’ve come to the right man. I’ll be glad to fly you wherever you want to go,” Weber told him.

Joe drew the pilot aside and in a low voice briefly explained the situation to him. “Could your aircraft keep up with a fast plane?”

Frank rushed into the lobby. “Marr and his friend are getting ready to take off!” he exclaimed.

Followed by his brother and Weber, Joe ran to a window overlooking the field. They spotted the small, single-engine plane taxiing to the active runway for take-off. Frank jotted down the registration number.

“Is this the one you want to follow?” Weber commented. “That type isn’t too fast. I’m sure I could keep up with it.”

“Great!” said Frank.

“We’ll have to make it snappy!” Joe urged.

“Maybe not,” Weber answered. “There’s a long line of planes waiting for take-off clearance. It’ll be at least ten minutes before those men can clear ground. That’ll give me time to telephone the control tower. Since my plane is not equipped with radio, they’ll have to okay me for take-off by flashing a green light.”

Frank said, “How about warning the control tower not to let Marr take off?”

Weber looked surprised. “Are you completely sure that one of those passengers is Marr?” he asked.

“Well, no, we’re not,” Joe confessed.

“Then I think we’d better not make such a request,” the pilot advised. “All of us might get in trouble.”

The boys nodded and Joe said, “We’ll just make a chase of it.”

Weber went off but soon returned. “Everything’s set,” he said. “And we’re in luck! The control-tower boys are going to let us take off from the grass shoulder of Runway Six. It means we won’t have to wait in line for clearance. Chances are we’ll be off the ground ahead of your friends.”

The Hardys followed the pilot to his orange-and-white biplane. He drew three parachutes from the baggage compartment and instructed Frank and Joe to put them on while he fastened his own.

“Climb aboard!” he said.

The boys seated themselves side by side in the front cockpit. Weber signaled a mechanic to help start the engine, then jumped into the rear cockpit.

“Brakes on! Contact!” the mechanic shouted.

“Brakes on! Contact!” Weber replied.

With a single whirl of the propeller, the engine roared to life. The boys were so thrilled by the chance to fly in an old biplane that for a moment they had almost dismissed Taffy Marr from their minds.

Weber began to glide his wood-and-fabric craft down the taxiway. Nearing Runway Six, he veered onto the grass shoulder which paralleled it.

“All set?” the boys heard him shout over the sound of the engine.

“All set!” Frank and Joe answered.

Their pilot pivoted the craft around and pointed its nose into the wind. Shortly a bright disk of green light beamed from the control tower. The engine emitted a loud, steady roar as Weber advanced the throttle. The plane bounced across the grass surface, then cleared it. Frank looked down and spotted Marr’s craft just taxiing into position for take-off.

After reaching a couple of thousand feet, Weber circled the airport. He and the Hardys watched intently as the other plane sped down the runway and became airborne far below them.

Weber maneuvered his craft a safe distance behind Marr’s plane, which was now heading on a northeasterly course.

“So far so good!” Frank exclaimed, noting that their quarry was not outdistancing them. The boys waved at Weber, who responded with a wide grin.

Nearly half an hour had passed when they noticed a build-up of haze ahead. It seemed to thicken as they drew closer. Soon the antique craft was skirting an ocean of milky-white mist which obscured the countryside below.

“What a cloud!” Joe shouted.

“And we’ll head right into it on our present course!” Frank observed.

Weber signaled that he would try flying above it. By now Marr’s plane was also climbing. To the Hardys’ dismay, their quarry vanished behind a screen of whiteness.

Weber signaled that he was going to turn back. But as he banked the biplane, it suddenly plunged into a misty void!

CHAPTER XVI

Bail Out!

WEBER struggled to keep the aircraft under control in the fog. He shifted his attention to the turn-and-bank indicator mounted on the instrument panel. What the dial showed would help prevent the pilot from rolling into an uncontrollable spiral.

Then, suddenly, the plane broke out into a cavity of clear air. The boys spotted the other aircraft and saw that it had altered its course. It was now heading south. Weber immediately banked and took the same direction, hoping to close the gap and come in on the tail of the other plane.

It was then that the Hardys realized the extent of the fog bank. Already obscuring a great area of the coast, it stretched far out to sea. Ahead they saw their quarry flying directly toward a looming wall of thick mist.

Weber altered course again and headed northwest in an effort to skirt the edge of the fog bank. But the mist built up rapidly in swirling clouds.

“I guess if we hope to keep the other plane in sight, we can’t go too far to the west,” Frank observed.

Weber began to climb, hoping to get above the fog. But as he turned north to meet the advancing cloud, his craft was enveloped in mist before he could gain altitude. Marr’s plane had vanished.

“The other ship is equipped to fly on instruments !” Weber shouted. “We’re not!”

Their pilot held to a straight course and increased his speed, hoping to run through the fog and pick up the other plane when visibility improved. The great bank of mist evidently extended over a greater area than he had first supposed.

Minutes ticked by and still the opaque grayness persisted. Frank and Joe turned to watch the pilot. Weber was peering at the instrument panel.

“At least we’re flying straight and level,” he announced.

Frank and Joe tried to remain calm but inwardly they were worried. Their craft might ram another plane at any moment!

Weber continued on into the limitless white wall. Not a glimpse of blue sky. Not a patch of earth to be seen.

“I guess we’ve lost Marr for sure,” Joe remarked.

“Yes,” Frank agreed. His voice showed his disappointment.

Suddenly the roar of the engine stopped. The only sound was the hum of the rigging. The nose of the plane dropped sharply and the craft went into a dive.

“The engine quit!” Joe yelled.

The pilot waved to them in an encouraging gesture. He had thrust the stick far forward and the plane was plunging through the fog at terrific speed.

On and on it went. The boys were alarmed. They knew engine trouble had developed and a forced landing in the fog would be perilous. But there must still be some hope; otherwise their pilot would have signaled to abandon ship.

The rush of air took their breath away. Then, as abruptly as it had ceased, the roar of the engine broke out again.

“Boy, what a welcome sound!” Joe exclaimed.

Weber eased the stick back slowly and the plane gradually recovered from the dive. It flattened out and began to climb again. Frank took a deep breath. Joe grinned.

But their relief was short-lived. Again the engine began to act up. It sputtered, balked, misfired, and picked up again. No longer was it throbbing with its previous regularity.

The boys looked back at the pilot’s anxious face. They all knew a blind landing could be disastrous! For a moment the Hardys stiffened as the engine died, then coughed once more.

“Carburetor ice, I’ll bet,” Frank said to himself.

The plane they had been pursuing was forgotten. Their whole concern now was safety—to escape the gray blanket. If only they could sight ground to attempt a forced landing!

Frank felt for the harness of his parachute. “We may have to jump,” he thought, not relishing the prospect. To leap from a crippled plane, with fog blanketing the earth below, was an experience he could do without.

Joe was alarmed too. “If only the fog would lift!”

The pilot was desperately trying to revive the engine’s old steady clamor. But it was useless.

The engine quit again. The nose of the machine dropped and the plane repeated a long, swift dive. It straightened out, banked, then dived again at screaming speed.

Coming out of the second dive, the nose rose abruptly. They all waited for the reassuring catch of the engine but it remained mute.

The speed gained in the dive steadily decreased as the craft soared upward in a steep climb. Then it fell off on one wing and went into a descending spiral.

“I have a feeling we’re going in circles!” Joe shouted to his brother. “I think Weber is becoming disoriented.”

“We’re sunk!” Weber yelled at the boys. “You’ll have to take to the chutes!”

“Jump?” Joe shouted.

The man nodded. “The engine is done for. Choked up. I don’t dare try a landing in this fog. We’ll crack up sure. Hurry! I’ll keep her under control as long as I can. Crawl out on the wing, watch for my signal, then jump clear! Count ten, then yank the rip cord!”

The boys scrambled out on the swaying wing in dead silence as the plane coasted through the gray mist.

“Jump clear!” Frank reminded his brother.

“It’s not the jumping that worries me,” said Joe. “It’s the landing.”

The boys knew that they had no control over their direction and had no idea of what lay beneath. They might be plunging directly toward a lake or into a city street!

Out on the wing Frank and Joe clung for a moment, their eyes on the pilot. Weber raised his hand, then brought it down sharply.

“Jump!”

Since the parachutes could easily become entangled if the boys jumped together, Frank went first. He leaped away from the swaying plane and plummeted through the fog. Then Joe shot downward.

Twisting and turning through the air, the boys plunged toward the earth. Desperately Frank groped for the rip cord. It eluded his grasp. Sudden panic gripped him.

He was falling toward the earth at terrific speed and could not find the parachute’s Dee ring!

Every second was precious. He knew that even if he found the ring, it would be a few moments before the parachute opened. By then he might already have reached an altitude too low to permit the chute to billow out in time!

Then his groping hand found the ring and he tugged. Nothing happened. He was still tumbling through the clouds of mist!

About to give up hope, Frank heard a crackling sound above him. There was a sudden jerk as though a gigantic hand had grabbed him. Frank found himself floating gently through space.

Through the wreaths of mist he glimpsed another object. It was a parachute similar to his own, dropping slowly through the fog. Joe, at least, was safe.

But what of the pilot and the crippled plane? Where were they?

CHAPTER XVII

The Trapped Pilot

FEAR gripping them, the Hardys drifted down silently through the fog. The only sound was an occasional flapping of the canopies looming above their heads.

“The ground can’t be too far below!” Frank thought. “What kind of terrain? Sharp rocks? Trees? Open water?”

He and Joe heard a muffled explosion some distance away.

“Weber’s biplane must have crashed!” Joe concluded. “Hope he bailed out in time.”

Suddenly the milky void vanished. The Hardys blinked in relief. They were less than a hundred feet above a farmland area.

They settled down in a plowed field a short distance from each other. Frank tumbled across the soft ground a couple of times, then hauled in a section of shroud lines to spill the air from the canopy of his chute.

“You all right?” he shouted to Joe, throwing off his harness and running toward him.

“I’m okay! That was wild! But I wouldn’t want to do it again under the same conditions!”

Frank pointed to a plume of smoke rising behind a hill about half a mile away.

“That must be the explosion!” he yelled. “Let’s see if it’s Weber’s plane.”

They raced toward the spot. In a few minutes they came to a charred, twisted mass of wreckage. A pool of oil still burned.

“At least Weber wasn’t in the crackup,” said Joe. “But where is he?”

At that instant the pilot called out to them. “Hey, fellows!” he shouted. “Give me a hand!”

The voice seemed to come from a small clump of trees located about five hundred feet away. When the boys reached it, they saw Weber dangling in his harness high among some branches.

“Are you hurt?” Joe asked with concern.

“No—only my pride,” the pilot answered. “I’m supposed to be an expert at handling a parachute. And where do I land and get trapped? In the only grove of trees within a mile!”

“You’re too far above the ground to try dropping free,” Frank warned. “We’d better get help.”

People from the surrounding farms who had seen the smoke began to arrive at the scene. When the boys asked for some rope, one of the farmers rushed off. He returned in a few minutes with a coil of one-inch hemp.

Joe took it and began shinning up the tree in which Weber’s chute had been snagged. Everyone watched the rescue as he edged out along a branch directly above the pilot and tied one end of the rope to it. Seconds later they both were sliding to the ground.

The farmer on whose property they had landed stepped up. “My name is Hank Olsen,” he said. “Was anybody injured?”

“No,” Frank replied. “Sorry about the plane coming down on your land.”

“That’s all right. I haven’t done any planting in that section yet,” the farmer explained.

Weber spoke up. “I’d like to telephone a report of the crash.”

“You can use the phone at my house,” Olsen offered. “I’ll drive you there. My pickup truck is just on the other side of the hill.”

When they arrived at the farmhouse, the pilot called the control tower at Bayport field to report the accident. Frank phoned Mrs. Hardy to let her know where he and Joe were, and then got in touch with Chet Morton for a ride home.

“What!” Chet exclaimed in disbelief when he heard about the Hardys’ adventure. “Say that again.”

“I said we had to bail out of Weber’s biplane,” Frank declared.

Everyone watched the rescue

“Aw, come on,” his chum muttered, unbelieving.

“It’s true,” Frank replied. “We need a ride home. Do you think your jalopy would hang together long enough for you to pick us up?”

“Hang together?” Chet retorted. “That’s no way to talk about one of the finest pieces of machinery going. Where are you?”

Frank asked the farmer for their exact location. Olsen unfolded a road map and pointed to a spot about ninety miles northeast of Bayport. Frank traced the route with his finger and relayed instructions to his friend.

“Okay! I’m on my way!” Chet answered.

Nearly three hours passed before the Hardys spotted their chum’s yellow jalopy bouncing along the narrow road leading to Olsen’s house. Weber and the boys thanked the farmer and his wife for their hospitality, then started for Bayport.

As they rode along, the Hardys and Weber discussed their pursuit of Marr’s plane. “I wonder if he ran into any trouble,” Joe mused.

“When I called control tower, I asked if they knew about the stretch of fog north of them,” Weber explained. “They did, and said it was only two or three miles across, with clear air on the other side.”

“And since Marr’s plane was equipped with radio,” Frank interrupted, “the pilot would have received the latest weather reports. He knew he could fly through the fog bank and be in the clear again within a few minutes.”

“Do you think Marr knew he was being followed?” Joe asked.

“My guess is he didn‘t,” Weber said. “At least his pilot wasn’t attempting any evasive action.”

“Sorry about your plane,” Joe said sympathetically.

“It was a great ship,” Weber declared sadly. “But I have enough parts to rebuild another one. That’s some consolation.”

Chet dropped off Weber and the Hardys at Bayport field, where the pilot made arrangements to fly home. After expressing their thanks to him for his help and saying good-by, the boys walked toward their car.

“We’d better call Agent Keith before we go home,” Joe suggested, and they went inside to telephone.

“Too bad Marr got away,” the agent said when Frank told him about their recent adventure. “But I’m glad you and your brother are safe.”

Frank drew a notebook from his pocket and opened it. “I have the registration number of the getaway plane.”

“Good!” Keith said. “Let’s have it. I’ll check it out with the Federal Aviation Agency.”

Frank gave it and hung up. The boys went to the parking lot. In a moment Frank frowned. “I thought I left our car here.”

“You did,” Joe said with a sinking feeling. “It—it’s been stolen!”

The Hardys were momentarily paralyzed. Not only their fine convertible, but Mr. Wright’s highly secret invention was gone!

Frank spoke first. “Come on, Joe! We must call the police.”

The boys ran to the administration building and telephoned. They were told by the sergeant on duty that state troopers had picked up a car fitting the convertible’s description. “Will you Hardys go out to the end of Pleasantdale Road and look at it?” the officer requested.

Frank hailed a taxi which took them to the spot, then back to Bayport. The convertible was a sorry sight. Every bit of the upholstery had been slashed and the contents dumped out. Articles had been removed from the front compartment and the trunk. The spare tire had been ripped open.

“Too bad, fellows,” a trooper said.

“Yes,” Frank answered, testing the rack.

It was still bolted in place, but he winked at Joe, a signal he wanted to be alone for a further search. On a pretext Joe got the trooper around to the front of the car. Quickly Frank looked under the tire well. The box and invention were still there

Frank slammed the lid shut. He called out, “Joe, if this baby still runs, let’s go home.”

The engine started promptly and the steering mechanism was undamaged. Frank signed a paper for the police, saying he was the owner of the car, then the boys rode off. As soon as they reached home, Joe carried the invention to the boys’ room and hid it.

“I’m afraid that next time the gang’s going to find this,” he told his brother.

“I agree,” Frank answered. “What say we ask Mother to put it in her safe-deposit box? I’m sure Dad would agree.”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude approved this idea and as soon as the bank was open the next morning took the invention downtown. A little later the phone rang. Mrs. Hardy was calling to assure her sons of its safety.

A few moments later Agent Keith telephoned. “We’ve lost Marr again,” he said. “The FAA looked up the registration number of his plane. It belongs to a fixed base operator at a small airport in Connecticut. Marr’s pilot rented the plane for the day.”

“Did the owner see the pilot’s flying license?” Frank inquired.

“Yes,” Keith replied. “The name listed was Harold Clark. It’s a forgery! Such a license was never issued!”

“What about the plane?”

“It was returned sometime last night. The owner found it tied down on his ramp when he went to the airport early this morning.”

The Hardys were downcast by the situation. Marr had vanished and they did not have the slightest lead on him. Furthermore, their car was a wreck. They reported the damage to the insurance company and waited for an investigator to come.

“We’ll have to rent a car while ours is being repaired,” Frank said.

He made the arrangements by phone and within half an hour a car stood in the driveway.

The boys had just sat down to lunch in the dining room when the telephone rang. Aunt Gertrude went to the kitchen to take the call.

“Yes, they’re at home,” the others heard her say. Presently she darted into the room. “It’s about Mr. Bickford!” she said quietly.

CHAPTER XVIII

Outsmarting the Enemy

MRs. HARDY and her sons lowered their eyes. They were sure Aunt Gertrude was about to announce that the kindly jeweler had died because of Marr’s beating.

“Mr. Bickford is—is—?” Frank asked.

“He wants to see you at the hospital,” his aunt replied.

“Then he’s alive!” Joe exclaimed.

“Of course he’s alive,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Very weak naturally, so I don’t think you boys should stay long.”

“When are we to go?” Frank asked.

“Mr. Bickford got permission for you to come any time. He has something urgent to tell you.”

Curious as to why they were being summoned, Frank and Joe left immediately to see the elderly man. Mr. Bickford was partially propped up in bed. He looked ill, but he gave his visitors a warm smile.

“I’m so glad you came,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “The doctor said a ten-minute visit so I’ll get right down to business. Sit down, please. I feel it my duty to warn you boys.”

“Warn us?” Frank asked. “About what?”

“That clerk who slugged me and his pals are determined to get you,” Bickford answered. “Stokeley thought he was in the shop alone, but I came in the back door quietly. He was talking on the phone and seemed to be giving orders.”

Mr. Bickford stopped speaking and closed his eyes. He began to gasp a little. Frank jumped up and pressed a cup of ice water to the man’s lips. Mr. Bickford sipped it gratefully.

“Perhaps we should go,” Frank suggested.

“No, no, not yet. This won’t take long,” Mr. Bickford insisted, opening his eyes again. “I must tell you. Stokeley was saying, ‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t help your bonehead mistakes. Just don’t make any more! I want the Hardys on the whaler.’

“Just then Stokeley caught sight of me and hung up the phone. He turned livid, and before I could defend myself, he punched me, kicked, hit me with a stool, and acted like a crazy man. I blacked out and awoke here.” He closed his eyes and shuddered a little.

Frank and Joe stood up, sensing that Mr. Bickford was exhausted and had told all he knew.

“Thanks a lot,” Frank said. “Joe and I are certainly sorry we were the cause of the attack on you.”

“And we’ll profit from your warning, you can bet,” Joe added. “Now take care of yourself.”

When Frank and Joe reached home, they at once told their mother and aunt about Mr. Bickford’s report. “So you see, Aunt Gertrude,” said Joe, “that man Chris wasn’t calling you an old whaler. He was talking about trying to get us boys on their motor whaler.”

“Hmm!” said Aunt Gertrude. “Well, just the same he has very bad manners. Doesn’t know how to treat a lady.”

Mrs. Hardy was extremely concerned and said so. “I believe if Joe hadn’t been rescued from that cave, those dreadful men would have put him aboard the whaler and taken him far away. Frank would have been next.”

“Exactly,” said Aunt Gertrude, “and I’m sure your father never intended you boys to become so deeply involved in this horrible case. I believe my brother would thank you, Laura, to forbid these boys from any further detective work against such men as Taffy Marr.”

Frank and Joe were fearful their mother might take Aunt Gertrude’s advice. After several moments of silence, Mrs. Hardy answered. “Fenton expects his sons to follow through and see justice done. He doesn’t want me to pamper them into being cowards. However,” she added, “I expect them to be cautious and alert. Frank and Joe don’t deliberately run into trouble.”

The boys were relieved. Each kissed their mother and thanked her for her confidence. Now that the tension was over, Joe grinned and said, “Mother, we should have been born with extra eyes in the back of our heads, so we could see in all directions.”

“You could wear those special spectacles that reflect what’s in back of you,” Aunt Gertrude suggested.

“But they don’t work at night,” Joe replied, “and that’s when most of the sluggings take place.”

The conversation was interrupted by the door-bell. Frank answered and was handed a special-delivery letter.

“It’s for you, Mother. From Dad,” he called.

Mrs. Hardy opened the envelope quickly. Presently she said, “Good! Your father’s coming home. That will solve a lot of problems.”

She read farther. “But not right away. He and Mr. Wright have to testify against two men suspected of stealing the antique plane.”

“Dad found it?” Joe burst out.

“Yes. Listen to this: ‘I have good reason to believe the hijackers are part of the gang I’ve warned the boys about. I’m sure these men have pals who are watching me, tapping my phone, and intercepting radio messages, so I decided to use the mail. In an emergency you can contact me in care of Elmer Hunt, president of the Oceanic Electronic Company, San Francisco.’” The rest of the note was for her personally.

Frank and Joe went upstairs and discussed their next move. Both agreed they should do everything possible to learn where the whaler was moored.

“I guess it wouldn’t be too smart to use our Sleuth to hunt down the whaler,” Frank remarked. “We’d be spotted in a moment. And anyway we haven’t fixed the horn yet.”

“I don’t think it’d be good to take Tony’s boat, either,” Joe said. He was referring to their school friend Tony Prito.

“How about arranging with somebody who has a cabin cruiser to help us make a search?” Frank suggested.

Joe’s eyes twinkled. “Pretty expensive. How about the tug that nearly rammed you in the fog. Was there a name on it?”

“I’m not sure, Joe. I was pretty busy getting out of the way! But it seems to me I saw the word Annie on the side.”

The boys decided to go to the docks on their motorcycles. These were easier to maneuver and hide than their rented car.

Soon after they left, Frank and Joe noticed that a car with three men in it was following them. None of the passengers looked familiar.

“We’d better do something fast and shake off those men!” Frank advised.

“Guess we’ll have to play hare and hounds,” Joe observed. “What do you suggest?”

“Head for Biff Hooper’s and pretend to be staying there,” Frank answered. “We can sneak out their rear door before those men have a chance to go around to the garden.”

Joe nodded. “And take a back street to the docks. Score one for us!”

They explained their plan to Mrs. Hooper, who let them out the kitchen door. Frank and Joe hurriedly crossed the rear lawn, which was out of sight of the street. They jumped the hedge. Twenty minutes later the Hardys were in Harbor Master Crogan’s office inquiring about a tugboat named Annie.

The man flipped open a large ledger and ran down a list. “I guess you mean the Annie K. She comes in here once in a while.”

“Is she docked now?” Joe asked.

“I’ll see.” Crogan consulted a chart on the wall. “Yes, she is. Waiting for some kind of shipment that’s been delayed.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. There might be a chance of chartering the tug!

“Does the captain own the Annie K?” Frank inquired.

“Yes, and a real nice man he is too. Name’s Captain Volper.”

The Hardys got directions on where to find the tugboat, thanked Crogan, and left. Captain Volper was seated cross-legged on the deck of the Annie K, reading the morning paper. He was a ruddy- complexioned, slightly plump, good-natured man.

“Howdy, boys!” he greeted the brothers. “And what can I do for you?”

Frank made their request.

“So you want to take a cruise around the bay, up and down the coast, eh? Well, I guess I could do it.” He laughed. “You fellows got some money with you?”

“Sure thing,” Frank replied. “Can we cast off now?”

“Soon’s I can get my crew out o’ the coffee shop across the street.”

He ambled off down the gangplank and was gone nearly fifteen minutes while the boys walked up and down impatiently. Then Volper returned with two sailors, whom he introduced as Hank and Marcy.

A few minutes later the old tugboat pulled away from the dock. The boys decided to stay in the cabin so as not to be seen by anyone going past in other boats.

“Captain Volper, did you ever notice a motor whaler around here?” Frank asked.

“Yes, about two weeks ago. Then I got caught in the fog and plumb near run somebody down.” Frank and Joe glanced at each other.

“Does the whaler have a name on it?” Joe asked.

The captain tilted back his cap and scratched his head. “Seems to me it did. That’s harbor regulations, you know. Let me see now.” Unable to recall the name he summoned Hank and Marcy and asked them.

“Sure I remember it,” Marcy replied. “Man alive, I wish I could own one o’ them plastic boats. They got speed. The name o’ this one I seen anchored up near the caves was Water Devil.”

“I’ll bet it is, too,” Joe commented, but did not explain the double meaning in his remark.

The tug went directly to the spot and the boys gazed at the sleek whaler, which was anchored in shallow water. No one seemed to be around.

“Ship ahoy!” Volper shouted. There was no answer.

“I’m going aboard,” Frank announced. When the captain reminded him that the law dealt harshly with snoopers, the young detective said, “Did you know smugglers are operating in this territory?”

Volper and his crew were amazed.

“And you think this is their boat?” the captain asked.

“We suspect so,” Frank replied. “We’d like to go aboard and hunt for clues.”

The captain sighed. “Boys today are too smart for me. Go ahead.”

He pulled up close to the whaler and the Hardys jumped down onto the deck of the Water Devil. At first they made a casual surveillance. Seeing nothing suspicious, the boys began opening lockers.

“This is the gang’s boat all right,” Joe sang out, holding up a piece of paper with red and blue stripes on it. A few figures had been scrawled on it.

“Say, Frank, do you suppose there are any diamonds or electronic equipment hidden aboard?”

“Let’s look!”

Nothing came to light until they opened a dashboard compartment. A sack lay inside. Both boys reached for it at once. The next second they were hurled violently across the deck. They blacked out and toppled into the water.

CHAPTER XIX

Anchor Pete

ON the deck of the Annie K, Captain Volper and his crewmen stood stunned by the sudden accident. But not for long. Instantly Hank and Marcy jumped into the water.

“I’ll get this one,” Hank called, indicating Joe as the boy’s limp form bobbed to the surface.

Marcy set off with fast strokes to rescue Frank. In less than a minute the two Hardys were lying on the deck of the tugboat and being given first aid. They did not respond.

“We’d better get these boys to the hospital as soon as possible,” Captain Volper said worriedly.

He set the ship’s engines to maximum capacity and sent a radio message for an ambulance to meet him at the dock. By the time Frank and Joe regained consciousness, they were in a Bayport Hospital room and Dr. Bates was there, as well as Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.

Relief spread across the watchers’ faces as the boys managed wan smiles. “I guess we gave you all a good scare,” Joe remarked. “Say, where are we?”

When the boys were told, Frank said, “Joe and I must have been out a long time. I remember we touched a sack in that whaler and then-wham! What happened to us?”

“You fellows got a bad electric shock,” Dr. Bates explained, “and were thrown into the water. If Captain Volper hadn’t been there, you would have drowned. Hank and Marcy rescued you.”

“Thank goodness,” Mrs. Hardy murmured.

“The person who rigged up that device got a shock of his own,” Aunt Gertrude said crisply, “and I’m glad he did.”

“He was caught?” Joe asked. “Who is he?”

“Your kidnapper—at least this is what the police think from your description of him,” Aunt Gertrude said. “When you feel well enough, you’re to go down to headquarters and identify this man you call Gross.”

“How was he captured?” Joe asked impatiently.

The boys sat open-mouthed in astonishment as they listened. Captain Volper had notified the Coast Guard and the Harbor Police. Both had gone out at once to the spot where the Water Devil was moored. Nothing had been disturbed and the men were sure no one would show up until the launches moved away.

“The police decided to leave a couple of their skin divers to watch,” Dr. Bates told Frank and Joe. “Soon after the others had left, a rowboat came from shore. The man in it boarded the whaler. He looked worried at seeing the compartment open, but seemed relieved that the sack was still there. He clicked off a switch, then picked up the sack with no harm to himself. As he reboarded the rowboat with it, the man was overpowered by the two skin divers.”

“What was in the sack?” Joe queried.

“Exactly what you might expect,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Diamonds and valuable electronic equipment.”

Mrs. Hardy told her sons that both the Water Devil and the rowboat had been impounded by the authorities and were being examined for further clues since the prisoner would reveal nothing.

Joe wanted to go right down to headquarters and see the man, but Dr. Bates forbade this.

“May I call Chief Collig?” Joe asked.

A phone was brought to the room and plugged in. Soon Joe was talking to the chief, who was amazed and delighted that the Hardys had recovered.

“I want to see the prisoner,” Joe told him. “Dr. Bates says I can’t come down. Could you possibly bring him here?”

The others in the room gasped at the request, but Dr. Bates nodded his approval after the chief had said, “If the doctor thinks it’s okay.” The physician left but Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude remained.

Twenty minutes later the prisoner arrived with two officers, one of them with a tape recorder already turned on.

“He’s Gross all right!” Joe burst out. “My kidnapper!”

The man was sullen. He murmured defiantly, “You can’t prove a thing.”

“Proof?” Joe scoffed. “I heard plenty in the cave. And somebody else besides me got a look at you when you were snooping in our car.” He did not mention Iola’s name.

When Gross made no answer, Aunt Gertrude cried out, “You ought to be horsewhipped! Jail’s too good for people like you. Kidnapper, smuggler, and goodness knows what else!”

As she paused to take a deep breath, Frank spoke up. “Gross, you tried to starve my brother and you doped him.”

The prisoner finally began to talk. “I—I had to do what I was told or risk being killed myself.”

“You mean by Taffy Marr?” Frank shot at him.

Gross winced. “Yes. I shouldn’t tell you, but it don’t matter now. I got nothing to lose. Marr takes away every diamond and electronic gadget we steal and smuggle in and threatens us besides. I’m better off in jail.”

One of the officers remarked, “Things will go a lot better for you if you tell everything. Where is Marr now?”

“I don’t know. He was watching me from shore with binoculars. When I got caught I’m sure he ducked into hiding. That’s the way he does. When things get too hot, every man for himself. Then in one month we meet up again.”

“What’s the next place?” the officer asked.

“Portland, Maine.”

“No plans until then?”

Several seconds passed before Gross answered. Finally he said, “Each man was ordered to get the Hardy boys one way or another. Maybe some of ‘em will still stay around here and try it.”

“Oh, I hope not!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed.

Frank asked the prisoner, “Who do you think will get after us first? And where?”

Gross did not answer directly. “I don’t want to see you guys get hurt, but I can’t help you. Chris might decide to stick around or Anchor Pete.”

“Anchor Pete?” Joe repeated.

“Yeah—he’s a sailor and a smuggler. Used to pitch an anchor like you’d pitch horseshoes and bet he could throw one farther’n anybody else. He could, too. You guys had better watch out.”

Gross, who finally said his first name was John, had no record. Marr had saved him from being beaten up by a gang, so Gross had felt indebted to him. “But I was wrong. He made a no-good out o’ me. And what do I get? Jaill”

The bitter prisoner was led away. A nurse came in with food for the boys and announced that as soon as they had eaten they were to go to sleep.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude kissed Frank and Joe good night and left. As the boys ate, they discussed the latest developments in the case and how they should tackle them when they resumed their detective work.

“I have an idea,” Frank said. “How about asking Chet and Biff and Jerry to shadow us while we let ourselves be seen around?”

Joe grinned. “Hoping to be attacked, you mean?”

“Right.” Frank thought it doubtful this would occur in daylight. “We’ll reverse our schedule—sleep in the daytime and roam at night.”

From his bed Joe shook hands with himself, indicating, “Agreed.”

Three days went by before Dr. Bates told the boys they were “as good as new. And stay that way!” he advised with a meaningful laugh.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had arranged with their friends to carry out the sleuthing program.

“Okay,” said Chet, “but I think your scheme is pretty risky. Taffy Marr may have shadows following his men and they could be behind the other fellows and me.”

“We’ll just have to take that chance,” Biff had said.

The first night was spent along the waterfront where the Hardys were sure Anchor Pete would be stationed. Frank and Joe walked together at times, then would separate. They deliberately went into dark areas and deserted spots. No one bothered them and later their friends reported having seen nothing suspicious.

“Tomorrow night,” said Frank as the group separated, “we’ll try the high school and athletic grounds and football stadium.”

Again the boys were not disturbed and so far as they could judge were not followed.

“What’s next?” Biff asked.

Joe felt that perhaps Marr’s gang had learned the Hardys’ friends were helping them and suggested he and Frank try the sleuthing alone.

“Nothing doing,” Chet spoke up.

It was decided that the third night would be spent in the heart of town and would last only until just before midnight. It rained, but once more Frank and Joe led the way through dark streets and up and down deserted alleys. Finally, at ten minutes to twelve, they heard Biff whistle, Jerry give the sound of a hoot owl, and Chet yip like a dog.

“Quitting time,” Frank remarked.

“Yes,” Joe said. “Three nights of walking and not one thing happening. By this time Marr and the rest of his gang could be halfway around the world.”

Frank sighed from weariness and disappointment. “Let’s take a short cut across the square.”

They headed for the small park which lay in the center of Bayport. Various municipal buildings, including the town hall with its large illuminated clock, outlined the four sides.

Frank and Joe reached the square and took a diagonal path through it. The place seemed empty. Part way across, Joe suddenly said, “I just saw someone dodge behind that big tree ahead.”

“We’d better wait,” Frank answered.

The Hardys jumped back of a wide-trunked maple. When no one ventured toward them, the boys peered out, looking in opposite directions for a possible attacker. Seconds later there was a shuffling sound behind them.

“Look out!” a voice yelled.

Frank and Joe turned in time to see a masked sailor swinging a heavy anchor. He was about to crash it on Frank’s head!

CHAPTER XX

Captives’ Hideout

THE sailor’s diabolical move was accompanied by the midnight striking of the clock, shouts from all directions, and a prolonged war whoop that could come from no one but Chet Morton. As Frank and Joe dodged the anchor, footsteps pounded in their direction.

The boys grabbed the sailor and held him tightly. In a moment Chet, Biff, Jerry, and Mr. Hardy rushed up.

“Dad!” his sons cried. “When did you get home?”

“I haven’t been home yet,” the detective answered. “Came from the airport and dropped off Mr. Wright. As I rode past here, Chet hailed me.”

Frank stared at the other boys and said, “I thought you’d gone.”

“What do you take us for?” Chet asked. “Did you think we’d run out on you? We were planning to follow you to your house.”

All this time the sailor was wriggling, trying to break away from his captors.

Joe looked at him hard. “Hold still, Anchor Pete!” he ordered. “You’ll stay right here until the police come for you.”

“And his pal,” Biff put in. “I kayoed him back by that tree.”

The sailor’s jaw dropped. “Ben?” he said unbelievingly. “And you know my name too?”

“Sure,” Frank answered. “Your buddy Gross squealed.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Hardy had pulled his two-way short-wave set from a pocket and began talking to police headquarters. He told what had happened and asked that Keith and Mallett of the FBI be notified. The sergeant agreed and said he would send a squad car and four men to the park immediately.

While waiting, Frank and Joe asked the other boys to hold the captive sailor so they could go look at Biff’s victim. When Joe beamed his flashlight on the man’s face, he exclaimed, “This guy was in the cave with my kidnapper!”

The boys dragged the man back to where Anchor Pete was standing. The sight made the sailor blanch and the Hardys figured that maybe he was so frightened he might talk if quizzed.

“Pete, the game’s up!” Frank said. “You can tell us about Taffy Marr now.”

The sailor squinted his eyes and looked into space, as if trying to make up his mind what he should do. At last he said, “I’ll talk. Marr’s gone to make a pickup.”

“Diamonds? Electronic parts?” Joe asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Along the bay. Maybe near the caves.”

At that moment the police car arrived and the two prisoners were put inside. Before the driver pulled away, he said to the Hardys, “Sergeant asked me to give you a message. Keith and his assistant Mallet are already in town. They’re at your house.”

The Hardys said good night to Chet, Biff, and Jerry, thanking them for their fine work.

“Any time,” the three responded.

On their way home Frank and Joe asked their father how he had learned about the gang. “I got a tip from a detective friend in Chicago, but he wasn’t sure just which gang it was.”

When the three reached home they found Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude with the two FBI agents. They had already briefed the men on the latest developments in the case.

“Our night’s work isn’t finished,” Frank spoke up. “We have a new lead to Taffy Marr.”

“We’ll go right after him,” Keith said.

“As soon as we put on dry clothes and get raincoats,” Mr. Hardy said.

Within ten minutes the five were ready to leave the house. Mr. Hardy drove his car. The gentle rain had now changed to a severe storm. Thunder boomed and vivid flashes of lightning streaked down from the black sky.

When the Hardys and the two agents reached the area of the caves, the detective parked and the searchers groped their way down the hillside.

“There’s a narrow path between the cliffs just ahead,” Frank told the others. “It leads directly down to the water.”

He led the way to the path and started down it. The teeming rain made the footing treacherous. Occasionally a flash of lightning illuminated the entire hillside, forcing the sleuths to crouch low to avoid detection.

During one of the flashes, Joe pointed to the shore below. “I saw a man standing down there! He could be Marr!”

The searchers continued to stalk their way along the steep path. When they were a little more than halfway to the bottom, Mr. Hardy signaled for his companions to stop.

“Keith, how about our sitting here for a while and seeing what that man is up to,” Mr. Hardy whispered. “This spot is a good vantage point, and there are enough bushes to provide cover.”

“Good idea.”

As they watched the shore below, the watchers suddenly saw a flashlight beam flicker on and off several times.

“Marr must be signaling to someone,” Mallett said.

“What’s that?” Keith snapped, pointing off into the distance.

There had been an answering gleam from far out in the bay. The light flashed once, twice, then out completely.

A few minutes later there was a flash of lightning that bathed the entire area in a livid glare. In that moment the boys and their companions caught a glimpse of a small rowboat making its way inshore across the choppy waters.

“Did you see that?” Frank cried. “Four men in that boat.”

“Let’s go down for a closer look,” Joe suggested.

They descended cautiously, edging their way through the bushes toward the spot where the man was standing. Through the storm they heard a faint shout. Again the suspect signaled with his flashlight. He was guiding the boat inland.

As it drew closer, the sleuths heard the rattle of oarlocks and advanced a bit. Then, about forty feet away, they could clearly distinguish the waiting figure near the water’s edge.

The gangleader switched on his flashlight again. The rowboat was approaching. It rocked to and fro with its bow high.

“That you, Marr?” someone called.

“Yes, but shut up!”

At last they were going to confront Marr!

“We can’t risk letting those men get away,” Keith muttered. “When the boat lands, we’ll arrest them!”

The agents drew their pistols. With Mr. Hardy they poised for action. The detective ordered his sons to step back.

The rowboat was now in shallow water. Two of the occupants leaped out and pushed the craft onto the beach.

“This is it!” Keith declared. “Let’s go!”

He sprang from the bushes with Mallett and Mr. Hardy.

“Put up your hands!” the agent shouted. “And don’t make a move!”

There was a yell from the dim figures on the beach. One of the men was about to push the rowboat back into deep water, when Mallett fired two shots over his head.

As the agents ran toward the suspects, Frank caught sight of a man running down the beach and raced after him. Behind him he could hear shouts, another shot, then the sounds of a struggle.

The fleeing man plunged on into the darkness, but the young detective overtook him quickly. His quarry suddenly turned, crouched low, and as Frank came up he lashed out with his fists.

The boy dodged the blow, then grappled with the man. A clenched fist struck the young sleuth in the face and sent him sprawling.

Frank recovered instantly and scrambled to his feet. His opponent turned and fled. Again Frank overtook him and brought the man down with a flying tackle. In a tight clinch they rolled across the beach and into shallow water. Finally Frank managed to get in a blow that knocked his opponent unconscious. He dragged him out of the water.

Joe, meanwhile, had plunged knee-deep into the water and grabbed a man who was trying to haul the boat away from shore. They lashed out at each other. Joe was knocked down. He struggled to his feet, choking and gasping, and followed his tall, muscular opponent onto the beach. The man aimed a blow, but Joe side-stepped it, then rushed in and drove his fists into the other’s body. The gangster grunted and doubled up with pain.

Joe noticed that Mallett was sprawled on the ground apparently unconscious and that Mr. Hardy and Keith were still battling two men.

Joe suddenly realized that Taffy Marr had escaped and was now rowing off in a sheet of rain.

“Marr is getting away!” he shouted.

“What!” Keith yelled. “And we don’t have a boat to go after him!” He fired a shot in the air, but the suspect did not halt.

Mallett recovered and got to his feet just as Frank arrived, shoving his prisoner ahead of him.

“Marr escaped in the rowboat!” Joe told his brother, and picked up the flashlight Marr had dropped. He directed its beam on the prisoners.

“I recognize three of these guys!” he exclaimed as Keith and Mallett handcuffed the men. “They visited Chris in the cave when I was there.”

They were frisked and bags of diamonds and small electronic equipment removed from their pockets.

“Where’d you get these?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“They’re legit,” one man said.

“We know you’re smugglers,” the detective said, “and we can trace these.”

“Okay. They were dropped to us off a ship. In this storm I didn’t see the name of it.”

“Where’s Marr going?” Frank asked one prisoner.

“You’re not gettin’ anything more out of us!”

“That’s not being smart,” Keith said. “After all, Marr left you behind to face the music. It might help you get off with lighter sentences if you cooperate.” Silence.

“Why don’t you tell us what you know?” Frank queried.

“I—I want to,” the man stammered. “But I’m afraid of—of the boss.”

“You mean Marr? Where is he?”

“I guess up on the north shore of Barmet Bay. Place called Rocky Point. Marr had me rent an old shack there. He uses it as a hideout.”

“Where’s Chris?” Joe questioned.

“Probably waiting for Marr.”

Mr. Hardy radioed Bayport Police Headquarters again and said they had captured more of the smugglers. The sergeant promised to notify the Harbor Police to pick them up.

“I hope they come soon,” Joe said. “We must go after Marr before he skips.”

The launch arrived in an incredibly short time and the prisoners were handed over. Then Frank said to the captain, “We may need you again soon. Up at Rocky Point.”

“Let us know,” the skipper said and chugged off.

The Hardys and the FBI agents climbed the cliff, then rode along Shore Road to Rocky Point. In this area the bluff was not so steep and the sleuths had no trouble descending it. They were just in time to see a man with a lantern meeting an arriving rowboat.

“That’s Chris!” Frank whispered.

“And Marr,” Joe added. “Let’s rush ‘em!”

“Not yet,” Keith said. “I have a tape recorder in my pocket. We may find their conversation useful.”

As Keith had hoped, the two smugglers talked freely.

“I guess now we clear out of Bayport for good,” Marr said. “Chris, when we get to Portland, you set up a whole new gang. Make friends with the crew of a new ship and pick out one like Beef Danion on the Rizzolo. Too bad to chuck him.”

“But, Taffy,” said Chris, “you goin’ to leave here without getting Wright’s secret radio? You said that if you used that, nobody could ever catch us. It would scramble messages among the gang and from ship to shore. And the dicks couldn’t interfere, or a bad storm stop your orders from reaching us.”

“I know,” Marr answered, “but right now our skin’s more important. Maybe I shouldn’t have hung around after I slugged Bickford. But I needed tonight’s haul.”

“What about your stealin’ Wright’s antique plane?” Chris asked.

Marr gave a sardonic laugh. “It served its purpose—kept Mr. Wright and Mr. Hardy away from here. But those kids, Frank and Joe, are pests. All the Hardys are too clever.”

The boys were smiling. Marr did not know that one of the secret radios was hidden in Wright’s plane, and now it had been recovered!

By this time Marr and Chris had reached the one-room shack and went inside. Again the boys wanted to rush the place, but their father held them back.

“You watch through that window,” he ordered.

Going off a little distance, the detective radioed the Harbor Police.

Then he and the FBI men got set to burst open the unlocked door. Inside, the smugglers were busily packing suitcases. They had stopped talking.

At a signal Keith opened the door and dashed into the room with Mallett and Mr. Hardy. Taken by surprise, Marr and Chris had no chance to put up any resistance and were handcuffed to await the Harbor Police. When Frank and Joe came in, they received looks of furious resentment from the prisoners.

Meanwhile, the smugglers’ tricky suitcases were examined. Many secret pockets and a false bottom were found, each containing a fabulous quantity of jewels and electronic equipment.

Joe broke the silence. “Wowee, these smugglers could have retired rich!” he remarked.

Presently the police arrived and the two men were taken away. Keith and Mallett went with them. As the launch departed, Frank and Joe realized that another mystery had also departed. They were to experience a “lost” feeling until their next case, While the Clock Ticked, came along.

On the way home, the boys and their father filled in the gaps of the present mystery. “Mr. Wright is very pleased with your work,” said Mr. Hardy, “but he’s ready to sell his antique plane.”

“We know who will buy it,” Joe spoke up. “Cole Weber.”

“What about the special radio, Dad?” Frank asked. “Surely there’s more to it than what we know.”

Mr. Hardy chuckled. He did not answer directly and they guessed the secret was a highly classified one. Instead, he said, “Someday how would you boys like to own pocket radios that can pick up signals from outer space?”

“You mean that’s what Mr. Wright has done?” Joe cried out.

The detective gave his sons a broad wink.

WHILE THE CLOCK TICKED

“Mr. Wandy!” Joe shouted. “Wait! I’ll help you. Don’t move.”

The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

WHILE THE

CLOCK TICKED

BY

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Publishers • New York

A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

Copyright © 1990, 1962, 1960, 1932 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the U.S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-101-07626-2

10

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I

A MYSTERIOUS TIP

II

PUZZLING CLUES

III

GRIM WARNINGS

IV

STORMY SLEUTHING

V

STOLEN TREASURE

VI

WATERFRONT CHASE

VII

CRAFTY THIEVES

VIII

A PERILOUS PLUNGE

IX

THE SECRET ROOM

X

THE SHADOWY FIGURES

XI

A SUSPICIOUS CAPTAIN

XII

METEOR SPECIAL

XIII

THE EAVESDROPPER

XIV

SUDDEN ATTACK

XV

THE VANISHING CAR

XVI

A MISSING CLIENT

XVII

A DANGEROUS TICKING

XVIII

THE SLIPPERY ROOFTOP

XIX

A NARROW ESCAPE

XX

HIDDEN LOOT

CHAPTER I

A Mysterious Tip

“I WONDER who that man is, Frank,” whispered blond Joe Hardy, peering curiously from a second-floor window of their home. “He looks worried.”

His brother glanced down at the stranger just departing from the front door. “Let’s ask Aunt Gertrude. She talked with him.”

Joe, a year younger and more impetuous than his eighteen-year-old, dark-haired brother, bounded downstairs. Frank followed.

“Aunt Gertrude,” Joe cried excitedly, “who was the man who just left?”

Fenton Hardy’s sister shrugged. “I don’t know,” said the tall, black-haired woman. “He wanted your father to solve a mystery. I told him Fenton was away.”

The boys waited to hear no more. As they dashed out the door, Frank said, “Why, Auntie, we’re detectives too, remember?”

Joe was first to reach the stranger, who was about to drive off in a convertible. “Sir,” he said earnestly, “please wait!”

As Frank caught up with his brother, the tall, vigorous-looking man stared at them through rimless glasses. The boys saw a wary look come over his face. “Well, what is it?” he demanded impatiently.

Quickly Frank explained. “We’re Frank and Joe Hardy. Our aunt told us you wanted Dad to solve a mystery. Since he isn’t at home, we thought maybe we could help you.”

“Mr. Hardy’s sons!” the man burst out. “Listen! I’m in real trouble, and I must see your father. I’ll pay any amount to contact him. Just tell me where he can be reached.”

Joe shook his head. “No use, Mr.—?”

“Dalrymple. Raymond Dalrymple of Lakeside. I’m in the banking business. Look here, why can’t I get in touch with Fenton Hardy?”

“Dad and Mother have gone on a camping trip up in Maine. They can’t be reached by telephone or telegraph.”

A look of desperation came into the banker’s eyes. “I can’t entrust this business to boys,” he muttered, as if thinking aloud.

“It’s not as if we were beginners at sleuthing,” Joe said persuasively. “Frank and I have helped Dad on many cases.” He gave a sudden grin. “Even Aunt Gertrude would admit we’ve had some success, too.”

Mr. Dalrymple smiled faintly, then gave the boys a swift, penetrating look. “Like to follow in your world-famous dad’s footsteps, eh—be detectives yourselves, would you?” His keen eyes took in the hiking boots and khaki outfits they wore. “Fine summer morning for a hike.” He added abruptly, “Which direction are you taking?”

Before either boy could answer he went on:

“Try Shore Road, past the harbor. Turn off and follow Willow River Road out into the country.”

“Why?” Frank queried, intrigued.

“You’ll pass the old Purdy place. Know the one I mean?”

“Big stone house,” Joe answered. “Slate roof. Stands back from the road a way. Nobody’s been living there for some time, though.”

“You’re observant,” the banker commented. For a moment he was silent, as if trying to make a decision. He pulled nervously at his hatbrim. “Okay, boys,” he said finally. “You want to be detectives. Take a look around there on your hike.”

The brothers waited expectantly for further explanation. But instead of giving any, the banker started his car and drove off.

“Boy, oh boy!” Joe exploded. “We have a mystery, and we don’t know what it’s about!”

Frank, too, was baffled. “Well, let’s get back to the house. The fellows will be here soon.”

The Hardys found Aunt Gertrude waiting for them in the living room. “Well, I suppose you’re head over heels in another case. I can tell by your faces. What did that man want?”

Frank and Joe gave her a quick report. “We didn’t find out why he wanted to see Dad,” Frank admitted. “But one thing’s certain. We’ll hike right to the Purdy place.”

Miss Hardy cast her eyes upward. “Well, if you’re bound to get yourselves involved in another risky case, I should know there’s no stopping you until you solve it!”

The boys exchanged knowing winks. Beneath her peppery manner, their aunt was actually very proud of her nephews’ sleuthing abilities.

Suddenly there came a loud banging from the back of the house and a clomp, clomp of heavy footsteps through the kitchen. The next moment a chunky, jolly-looking boy marched into the living room. He had a knapsack on his back, and wore big high-top boots.

“Ready?” he sang out. “Tramp, tramp, the boys are marching! I got the provisions, so don’t worry.”

“My only worry is, Chet, that you’ll eat ‘em before the rest of us have a chance.” Joe laughed. Chet Morton was one of the Hardys’ best friends.

“Decided where you want to go?” inquired Biff Hooper, another chum, who had come in behind Chet.

“Let’s try Willow River Road,” Joe suggested offhandedly.

“Suits me,” lanky Biff agreed readily.

With a hasty farewell to Aunt Gertrude, the four pals set out. Brisk walking brought them swiftly out of town on the Shore Road, which followed horseshoe-shaped Barmet Bay. Looking back, they could see the docks of the harbor.

Some distance ahead of them was the bridge which spanned the mouth of Willow River where it emptied into the bay. The boys turned right down the river road, which had deep ditches on both sides. They rounded the sharp corner Indian file, Frank leading, then crossed to the left-hand side of the road so they would be facing any oncoming traffic.

Suddenly there was a screeching of tires behind them. The hikers whirled to see the gleaming chromium grille of a black limousine. The big car had swerved wide around the turn, hugging the left shoulder of the road.

“Jump!” shouted Frank. He shoved Chet Morton into the ditch and landed on top of him. Joe and Biff dived to the side also.

Even in the instant of leaping to safety, Joe had taken a penetrating glance at the driver of the car. Now, as the boys picked themselves up, he was able to report.

“Mean-looking customer—husky, with a big jaw. Close crew cut.”

“Well, he nearly flattened us!” complained Biff. “What’s a tough guy like that doing in a limousine?”

“Running down innocent hikers,” Chet answered indignantly.

They climbed back to the road, and started out once more. Presently they came to a section of large houses, set back on extensive grounds. Some of the estates were well kept, but a few had fallen into disrepair. Those on the left, the boys knew, were bounded in the rear by Willow River.

Half an hour later, as they rounded a sharp bend, a long, high stone wall came into view. A tangle of ivy clung to the stones, and close-growing young trees partially screened the wall from the road. Here and there, however, the boys caught a glimpse of a bluish slate roof.

“The Purdy house,” said Joe, looking with intent curiosity.

“Gone to seed, since the old man died,” Biff Hooper added. “I hear he was a queer fellow.”

Something in Joe’s lingering tone had warned the easygoing Chet Morton that there was an underlying significance to the remark.

“Wait a minute, fellows,” he began. “Something tells me we didn’t come this way just by accident. If it’s another mystery, you can count me out! I’m not over the last one yet!”

“Well, to be honest, Chet,” Frank said with a chuckle, “we did have a visitor, just before you showed up. He suggested we look over this place.”

“No fooling!” Biff exclaimed eagerly.

The boys had reached the main gate to the place. To their surprise, they found it open, with the marks of automobile tires in the driveway.

As the four walked up the drive, which was lined with the dense green foliage of thick bushes and trees, the silence was broken by a gruff voice:

“Hey, you fellows!”

A figure in the white helmet and black boots of a motorcycle patrolman strode toward them.

“It’s Mike DiSalvo,” said Joe, recognizing the officer. “What’s up, Mike?” The Hardy boys, through their father’s detective work and their own, knew all the Bayport policemen.

“Harbor thieves,” said the officer briefly. “I was driving up Willow River Road when I spotted them roaring toward me. Then they hit that sharp bend, and I lost sight of them. I was sure they’d ducked in here, but I can’t find the car. It was a big, black limousine.”

CHAPTER II

Puzzling Clues

“A BLACK limousine! One nearly killed us half an hour ago, Mike!” Frank exclaimed.

As they walked on to the high, rambling gray stone house, Joe gave a description of the tough-looking driver. Mike DiSalvo nodded thoughtfully.

“Sounds like one of the gang,” he agreed. “They’ve been stealing goods from the ships and warehouses for months. We suspected they’d been using that black car, but today was the first time I had a chance at them. Well, that limousine is hot now!”

The officer straddled his motorcycle, which stood before the entrance of the old mansion. There was a deafening roar as he started the motor.

“Thanks for the tip, boys!” Mike shouted. “By the way, what are you doing out here?”

“Hike!” shouted Frank in reply.

“Case?” the policeman guessed, grinning.

“Maybe. Know anything about this place?”

The officer throttled down. “Not much, except it’s been closed for years. Peculiar that gate being open, though. I still think I saw the limousine duck in here. Couldn’t be, I guess, since the car is nowhere around.”

As the motorcycle rumbled out the driveway, Frank called, “We’ll close the gate!”

The roar of the motorcycle died away, and the boys were left in the brooding silence of the rundown, neglected estate.

“Funny,” commented Biff Hooper, looking around him. “I never heard of anything mysterious about this place. It’s not even supposed to be haunted.”

“Well, let’s have a look around,” Frank suggested. “Mr. Dalrymple acted as though something funny might be going on out here.”

“You do have a case then!” declared Biff.

“Not exactly,” Joe admitted wryly. “I have a hunch that since he couldn’t see Dad, Mr. Dalrymple is testing us. He doesn’t really expect us to turn up anything.”

“He doesn’t!” Biff echoed incredulously. “Doesn’t he read the newspapers?”

Frank and Joe, though still in high school, had already earned a name for themselves as sleuths. They had been trained by their father, who had been a crack detective in the New York City Police Department. After retiring to go into private practice in the city of Bayport, Fenton Hardy had enhanced his reputation by handling difficult and dangerous cases for the government, large corporations, and private individuals.

From him Frank and Joe had learned the need for careful observation and the importance of laboratory work. In fact, they already had a small but well-equipped lab of their own in the loft above the Hardy garage.

The Tower Treasure, the first mystery the brothers had solved on their own, was one that had puzzled all Bayport and baffled the police. As Fenton Hardy became busier, he allowed his sons to help on his cases. But they worked best on their own, following their own clues and meeting dangers resourcefully. Recently, the young sleuths had encountered several harrowing adventures before they rounded up a gang of jewel thieves in What Happened at Midnight.

Frank shrugged. “I guess Joe and I will just have to prove ourselves to Mr. Dalrymple.”

“Right. Let’s get started,” Joe urged. “How about Biff and me checking doors and windows?”

Frank agreed. “Meantime, Chet and I will look over the grounds.”

The boys separated. Frank and Chet, examining the earth carefully, moved around the big house until they came to the back.

“Whoops!” Frank exclaimed suddenly, bending down.

“What? I don’t see anything,” Chet said. “Just matted grass!”

Frank pushed aside the limp blades and pointed out the distinct impression of a footprint in the earth.

“Somebody came through here last night,” he said. “The grass was flattened and broken when it was dewy.”

“Pal, you sure have X-ray eyes,” Chet marveled.

By tracking carefully, Frank followed the prints down the yard and into a belt of thick woods where a path, apparently a well-used trail, led to Willow River.

“Whoever was here probably came to do some fishing,” Chet remarked.

“Could be,” Frank murmured. To himself he added, “Or the person might have been after something besides fish.”

Presently the four boys met once more.

“Find anything?” Frank asked his brother.

“All the doors and windows seem to be locked,” he replied. “But there are scratches around the front-door lock. Somebody must have tried to open it in the darkness.”

Briefly, Frank described his own findings. “Doesn’t add up to much,” he admitted. “Not enough to impress Mr. Dalrymple.”

“Well, thank goodness!” declared Chet. “That’s one mystery we’re rid of! Now let’s do what we started out to do.”

“Chet means let’s eat.” Biff grinned.

But Joe stood silent, looking up at the rambling stone house. “It’s such a big old place,” he mused. “For all we know, somebody could be inside it right now, watching every move we make.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “I wouldn’t write off the footprints and key scratches. Take them together, with Mr. Dalrymple’s queer hint—I’ll bet they do mean something.”

Chet cast an uneasy glance at the blank dark windows above his head. “Let’s go! Are we hiking, or aren’t we?”

“So good for your appetite,” Biff teased.

“Okay, okay. I just don’t like the idea of something peeking at me out of windows,” the stout boy blurted.

Frank grinned. “All right. We’ll get away from the spooks.”

With his knapsack jiggling up and down, Chet eagerly turned and marched down the driveway to the road. Laughing, the other three boys followed. Secretly, the Hardys felt a strong urge to investigate further, and hoped they would have the chance to do so.

As they left the driveway, Frank closed the heavy wooden gate behind them. But there was no way for him to lock it, since he did not have the key. Soon the four friends again reached the sunshine of Willow River Road and resumed their hike.

“I don’t understand why a sensible banker like Mr. Dalrymple would be interested in a run-down place like that,” said Joe.

“Forget it!” Chet begged. “Think about something pleasant. Forget mysteries!”

“Concentrate on important things,” Biff needled him. “Eating and sleeping, for instance.”

“Yes, eating and sleeping.” Chet defended himself. “Who can live without food? Luscious, delectable food! And sleep—soothing sleep! We grow when we sleep.”

“You grow much more, and you’ll be a giant beach ball.” Biff grinned.

But Chet was now scanning the countryside. The boys had left the estates behind. A heavily wooded hill rose up on their right. A field of fresh-cut, drying hay fell away on the left. At the bottom of the field a huge oak tree spread its shading limbs invitingly.

“Now there is the place for both,” Chet said. “First our lunch. Then, refreshing sleep—before our walk home.”

Frank, Joe, and Biff looked at one another, eyes twinkling. There remained a full hour until lunchtime!

“No,” said Biff. “Thumbs down.”

“Why?” Chet pleaded.

“No water. What’s a picnic without water?”

Another half hour went by. Chet sighted a clear stream, flashing in the sun, pouring through a green meadow. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph.

“Uh-uh!” said Joe, poker-faced. “No shade. I can’t eat in the blazing sun. Hurts my digestion.”

“Oh-h,” the stout boy moaned, but proceeded doggedly ahead. Presently the woods closed in on both sides, and the road crossed a small creek.

“Now?” Chet sighed hopefully.

“No.” Frank shook his head.

“Oh-h! Now why?”

“Too many trees. No sun. Can’t eat without a little sun.”

But at last, when Frank, Joe, and Biff had agreed, by a wink at one another, that the proper time for lunch had come, they simply jumped into a ditch at the side of the road. “Chow time!”

“But …” Chet stammered. “There’s no water!” Biff pointed to a trickle in a culvert nearby.

“Well, there’s no shade!” Chet argued. Joe grinningly indicated a tree twenty feet away.

“And under this bank, it’s not even really sunny!” Chet pointed out.

“Just right.” Frank chuckled and dug into Chet’s knapsack.

“Say, cut it out!” Chet bellowed. “I have half a mind not to give you fellows any lunch at all!”

“Ho! Now you want us to starve!” Biff laughed as he and the Hardys lifted out succulent sandwiches, a jar of home-preserved peaches, a gallon Thermos of chilled milk, and slabs of chocolate cake.

“Lucky for you, Chet,” Joe teased, “you brought enough so there’s some food left for you.”

The heavy-set boy, though pretending indignation, settled down to enjoy his share of the lunch. Then the Hardys and Biff followed Chet’s example and took a nap after the hearty meal. “Not a bad idea,” Joe murmured as he dozed off.

An hour later, however, the four chums were hiking back to Bayport.

Once in town, Frank and Joe said good-by as Chet and Biff went off toward their own homes. When the brothers reached home, they were met at the door by Aunt Gertrude.

“About time!” she greeted them impatiently. “Get in here, quick!”

Bewildered, the boys followed her into the living room. To their astonishment, Mr. Raymond Dalrymple was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

The tall man wheeled as they entered. “You boys still want to handle my case for me?” he demanded gruffly. “Well, it’s yours!”

CHAPTER III

Grim Warnings

“I ASKED people about you,” the banker said as the startled Hardy boys took seats. “Mind you, I wouldn’t have done that if I weren’t desperate. You looked like a pair of inexperienced kids to me.”

“And what did you find out, Mr. Dalrymple?” Joe asked politely.

“That you really have done some fine work on problems like mine. In fact, the police here told me that if Fenton Hardy were out of town, I couldn’t do better than to call in his sons.”

Although Frank and Joe were proud to hear this, both remained quiet and attentive.

“You say nothing,” Mr. Dalrymple noted. “Good. I like that. Now, to business. Did you stop at the Purdy estate on your walk today?”

“Yes,” Frank answered.

“Well—notice anything?” Dalrymple eyed him narrowly.

“When we got there,” Frank explained, “the gate was open. A motorcycle policeman looking for harbor thieves was in the driveway. After he left we found some footprints—”

“Footprints?” Mr. Dalrymple interrupted, suddenly very agitated. “When were they made?”

“Sometime in the night, after the dew fell.”

“But the gate!” the banker broke in. “I locked that gate when I left the place last night!”

At this the boys sat bolt upright with surprise. “You were out there, sir?” Joe burst out.

“Of course. I own the house.”

“You!” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes. I was out there yesterday until shortly before dark. Now, from what you tell me, someone else was there later—perhaps to injure me!”

“Wait a minute!” Frank said. “Why don’t you tell us your whole story, Mr. Dalrymple?”

“Right. You’re absolutely right,” the banker agreed, regaining his composure. After a moment’s thought, he began:

“Mr. Jason Purdy was a wealthy and eccentric man, as you no doubt know. His estate was left to the Bayport Library. I recently purchased the house and grounds on speculation—hoping to sell them later at a higher price. However, when I inspected the house, I discovered a strange thing!”

Frank, Joe, and Aunt Gertrude leaned forward excitedly. “What?” Joe pressed.

“A secret room on the second floor,” the man replied. As the boys listened intently he went on, “It was built right into the middle of the house. When Mr. Purdy inherited the property, he had the hidden chamber fixed up like a bank vault, fireproof, with insulated walls and no windows. Air is provided by hidden ventilators. The only door is made of heavy steel, and is closed with a time lock.”

“But why would Mr. Purdy have wanted a room like that?” asked Joe in amazement.

“He was eccentric, remember?” Mr. Dalrymple smiled. “He didn’t trust banks. He kept all his valuables in the secret room. He used it as a kind of retreat, too. I looked for any hoard of valuables that might be hidden there, but found none. Purdy’s servant, who knew of the room, had faithfully turned over everything to the executors.

“Well,” the Hardys’ visitor confided, “I did not plan to live in the house, or use the other rooms, but I liked the hidden retreat. Many times I have to handle propositions that demand close figuring and solitary work. As soon as I discovered that secret room, I realized it would make an ideal private office. So I decided to use it.

“I moved in a small table, a typewriter, and my private files. When I left the room, I would set the time lock, and then no one, not even myself, could get in until the appointed hour.”

“Of course,” Frank agreed. “That’s the principle of a time lock.”

The banker looked at him sharply. “What would you say if I told you that this room has been entered several times—in my absence?”

“Is the lock reliable?” Joe questioned.

“I’m sure of it! I know these locks.”

“I’d say,” Frank deduced, “that you couldn’t have expected us to find out much about a secret room in a house we couldn’t enter.”

Mr. Dalrymple nodded his approval. “I see you’ve earned your reputation. I’ll have duplicate door and gate keys made for you.” He looked somber. “You see, there have been threats to my life!”

“Where? How?” Joe cried, springing up.

In grim silence, Mr. Dalrymple removed two small, carefully folded sheets of paper from his wallet and handed one to each boy. Joe opened his first. Written in pencil was a warning:

“You must leave this house forever or death will overtake you.”

Frank, with a puzzled expression, read the other threat:

“Death while the clock ticks!”

He looked up. “What does this mean?”

“That,” replied Mr. Dalrymple somberly, “is what I need a good detective—like your father—to find out. But there is one further point. Where do you suppose I found those messages?”

“In the secret room with the time lock!” Frank answered promptly.

The visitor gasped. “How did you know?”

“That was the one place which would make the whole mystery a tough one,” Frank replied.

“When did you find these notes, Mr. Dalrymple?” asked Joe, undaunted.

“The first one, four days ago. The second, about eight o’clock last night. That’s why I came here this morning.” Mr. Dalrymple’s face paled. “If there was a man on the grounds last night, he may have come to kill me!”

Frank frowned. “At any rate, whoever wrote this note seems to know when you’re there and when you’re not. Could someone with whom you’re acquainted be out for revenge?”

“I have no enemies, so far as I know. I have always been scrupulously fair in my dealings.”

Joe tried another tack. “There’s no other way into this room, Mr. Dalrymple? Have you checked the walls? What else is in it?”

“Nothing but my things, and a fireplace. But the flue is barred, and besides, the chimney is altogether too narrow to admit a man.”

Joe suggested that the notes might have been dropped down the chimney. Mr. Dalrymple shook his head. “I found the messages on the rug in the exact center of the room.”

“Who else but you knows about the room?” Frank put in. “Can anyone else but you operate the time lock?”

“I have told no one about the room,” the banker retorted somewhat irritably. “So nobody knows of the lock, either! Purdy’s servant is dead. It’s a fantastic story, but true.”

“We certainly want to help you,” Frank said. “For safety’s sake, why don’t you stay away from the house, until you hear from us?”

“All right. I’ll let you know when the keys are ready.”

After their new client had left, the Hardys discussed the mystery. “He’s sincere, I guess,” Joe concluded. “But the whole thing doesn’t make sense.”

“I vote we go out to the Purdy place tonight, at least for another look,” his brother said.

Although Aunt Gertrude gloried in her nephews’ reputations as detectives, she was inclined to worry a great deal about the boys. Nevertheless, she grudgingly agreed to the proposed expedition.

Darkness found Frank backing the boys’ convertible out the Hardy driveway. Five minutes later they had stopped for a traffic light on the main street of Bayport.

Suddenly there was the roar of another engine, a rattle of tin, the raucous bark of an air horn. An old jalopy drew up beside the Hardys.

“Get a load of the fancy machine!” shouted a familiar voice.

The face of Tony Prito, a high school friend, grinned at them. Another pal, Jerry Gilroy, seated at the wheel of the jalopy, added, “Nothing like this old crate.”

The brothers grinned back, “Where’re you all heading?” Joe asked.

“Party, over at Chet Morton’s. Tried to get you. Your line was busy. Come on!” Tony urged.

“Can’t,” Frank called over.

“What do you mean—can’t! What are you fellows up to? Callie, Frank says he can’t come!”

Through the back window of the jalopy, Frank caught sight of the sparkling brown eyes and pretty face of his favorite date, Callie Shaw.

“Don’t give us that!” Phil Cohen, another friend, stuck his head above the old car’s roof on the other side.

“What’ll we do?” Frank asked his brother.

“Joe, Iola Morton’s expecting you!” Tony shouted coaxingly.

“We’ll go,” Joe decided. “But we can’t stay long.”

The two cars drove to the Morton farm, about a mile outside Bayport. Several other cars were parked there already. The Hardys’ friends marched the brothers into the house.

“Here they are—the sleuths themselves!” Phil announced triumphantly, as the group entered a large room filled with young people. “Caught red-handed, trying to make a getaway!”

“What is it, another mystery?” demanded a pretty, blue-eyed girl, coming over to Joe. “You weren’t trying to get away from me, were you?” she asked teasingly.

“You know better than that, Iola!” Joe laughed. “May I have this dance?”

The couple swung into a lively step as someone started a record player. Frank danced off with Callie. In a moment the party was in full swing.

About an hour later Frank managed to nudge his brother while dancing. “Move to the French doors, and meet us on the porch,” he directed.

“You Hardys are certainly romantic,” observed Callie, as the two couples stepped onto the moonlit side porch. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

“We have to leave—work to do,” said Frank. “Honest, Callie and Iola, we hate to go. But we have to. We’ll explain when we can.”

“You are on detective business!” Iola exclaimed. She sighed. “Well, be careful. We’ll see you one of these days!”

The brothers said good-by, leaped from the porch, and ran to their car. Soon they had passed through Bayport again and were driving rapidly out along the shore onto Willow River Road.

“Don’t look now,” Joe said tensely, turning slightly in his seat, “but a car’s tailing us!”

CHAPTER IV

Stormy Sleuthing

FRANK glanced in the rear-view mirror at the trailing car, which was some distance behind. “We’ll test to find out if he’s really after us.”

He braked the convertible, slowing quickly. For a moment the strange headlights rushed nearer, then dropped back. The other car was keeping the same speed as the Hardys were!

“Okay,” said Frank with determination. “We’ll settle this right now.” Quickly he swung off the road and stopped. The two boys sat watching, with the car top down.

An ordinary-looking sedan rolled toward them. Watching it approach, Joe caught sight of a high aerial at the back.

“Police!” he announced with a surprised laugh. In a moment the brothers were looking into the round, cheerful face of Officer Callahan of the Bayport Police Department. The officer shook his head in mock disgust.

“I was just saying to Tomlin, here,” he remarked, “that’s a suspicious car speeding out Willow Road. So it’s you Hardys, is it? And us expecting a pair of fleeing harbor thieves!”

“Don’t think we’re any happier than you are about it,” Joe joked in return. “We thought you were a couple of crooks following us.”

“Harbor thieves still busy?” Frank asked. “We met Mike DiSalvo chasing them this morning.”

“Busy!” Officer Tomlin exclaimed. “Day and night they’re busy, and not a lead on ‘em yet, except that big, black car. We’re sure they’ve given up using it now, so we have no lead. For that reason, we’re tailing everything we see on this road.”

At that moment a large, cream-colored sedan pulled around the unmarked police cruiser and roared into the country.

“Here we go,” barked Callahan, as Tomlin pulled away to pursue the car. “Maybe that’s the one!”

“Good luck!” the Hardys called.

Frank and Joe now noticed that the moon had been obscured by clouds. The grounds of the nearby estates were completely dark. The air had become hot and sticky.

“It’s going to storm,” said Frank. “We’d better get going.” As though in answer to his remark, there came a faraway rumble.

The boys decided to walk to the Purdy place, since it was only a quarter of a mile away, and they would attract less attention. After switching off their parking lights and putting up the convertible’s top, the young detectives walked along the dark road. Soon they came to the high wall of the Purdy estate.

They skirted it until they reached the big wooden gate. It was open.

“Wait!” said Frank in a low voice. “We closed that gate this morning. Somebody’s been here since then and might still be around.”

“The driveway may be watched,” Joe warned. “We’d better find some other way in.”

They walked back a distance to a place where the wall was heavily overgrown.

“Shall we climb it?” Joe whispered, testing the vines with a pull.

“No. I had a look at that wall this morning. There are pieces of old jagged, broken glass all along the top. Apparently Jason Purdy didn’t like company!”

Frank grasped one of the young trees that had sprung up next to the stone fence. In a moment he had shinned up higher than the wall. The tree bent with Frank’s weight, swinging him clear of the dangerous glass. Then Frank dropped to the ground on the other side and the tree snapped back into place.

“Come ahead!” he directed Joe in a whisper.

In a moment Joe was beside Frank, crouching among the bushes along the inside of the wall. The rumble of thunder was closer now. A brief white flicker passed over the black sky, showing the bottoms of thick clouds and the big Purdy mansion off to the left.

Creeping slowly and carefully through the dark brush, no longer daring to talk to each other, the two young sleuths gained the open yard in front of the house. They halted at its edge.

By now the rumble in the sky had given way to cracking, booming thunder. A gusty wind was rushing through the leafy trees over their heads. Flickers of lightning, some bright and some faint, played across the open sky and caused weird, momentary shadows on the walls and roof of the silent mansion. The storm was about to strike.

“Listen!” Frank clutched Joe’s arm. “Sounded like someone running.”

The brothers strained their hearing to the utmost. Despite the strong wind, the thunder, and the sharp patter of raindrops hitting the leaves like a shower of pebbles, Frank and Joe could hear footsteps. Someone was running, now stepping on a dead branch, now kicking a stone.

A tall man’s silhouette crossed the open space in front of the boys and mounted the porch. There a flash of lightning revealed him, bent a little, inserting a key in the lock.

“Dalrymple!” breathed Joe in amazement.

“Are you sure? We warned him to keep away from here! Seems to be having trouble getting in.”

The man was turning the key and pulling on the knob. Finally the door opened and he went inside. Expectantly, the boys waited in the rain, which had begun to fall in a heavy rush. To their surprise, the house remained in darkness.

“Why doesn’t he turn on a light?” Joe muttered impatiently. “Is he afraid somebody will see it? He said he owned the house. Why should he care?”

“Maybe it isn’t Dalrymple.”

“Sure looked like him. I got a glimpse of his face. Same build, too. Funny we didn’t hear a car coming in. He must have gotten here before we did.”

“Well, he must know the place pretty well to move around inside without a light,” Frank observed. “Unless,” he suggested, “he has gone up to the secret room!”

“Or maybe something’s happened to him,” Joe said in concern. “The secret room was where he found those threatening messages. The person who wrote the notes might have been there waiting for him!”

Alarmed for the safety of their client, the boys started to make a rush for the house.

But Frank stopped abruptly. “Hold on!” he cautioned. “That man might not be Dalrymple. He could be the person who’s been threatening him. This fellow seemed very calm as he went in. You remember how nervous Dalrymple was. Let’s wait and see.”

“Okay,” Joe agreed. “But if it is Dalrymple, I’d like to know what his game is.”

The boys waited by the edge of the brush while the rain, illuminated by lightning, fell in silver sheets.

“Sh!” signaled Joe suddenly. “I heard something. Footsteps again.”

As the boys listened they were startled by a light suddenly turned on in a large room with a bay window.

“Come on!” Frank urged. Bending low to avoid being seen, the boys raced across the lawn. The rain pelted their backs, drenching them. In a moment Frank and Joe reached the side of the house and stood under the lighted bay window. Here the Hardys were sheltered from the rain, and invisible to anyone in the room.

Cautiously they moved underneath one of the smaller windows in the bay. Frank made a cradle of his hands. Joe stepped into it with one foot and was hoisted up. Warily, Joe raised his head above the sill.

“What do you see?” Frank hissed.

“A living room—the overstuffed furniture’s covered with sheets. Walls are paneled. Big glass chandelier. Nobody’s there!”

Warily, Joe raised his head above the sill

“Who turned on the light?”

“Could be the storm caused a temporary power failure, and the current just came back on,” Joe surmised.

“Where’s Dalrymple or whoever it is we saw? What else is in the room?”

“Big heavy doors—and wow! An enormous grandfather’s clock near one corner. Glass front with a swinging brass pendulum. I can hear the clock ticking from here!”

“Ticking?” Frank repeated, shifting under Joe’s weight. “A clock ticking in a vacant house!” The same thought flashed through the brothers’ minds at once.

“Death while the clock ticks!” was the second threatening message Mr. Dalrymple had received.

“Let me look,” Frank said eagerly, and Joe dropped to the ground. They quickly reversed positions.

“I wonder who started the clock and when?” Frank said quietly. “It’s the right time,” he added, glancing at his wrist watch.

Suddenly, as Frank peered in, the room was plunged into darkness once more. In the same instant the whole house was lit up by a vivid sheet of lightning. A resounding clap of thunder smashed directly overhead. Then an unearthly, bloodcurdling scream rang out from within the mansion!

CHAPTER V

Stolen Treasure

As THE scream died away, footsteps scuttled across the wooden porch. A figure, visible to Frank and Joe in the lightning, leaped into the yard and sprinted down the driveway.

“After him!” shouted Frank, springing to the ground.

But already the fugitive had disappeared between the dark trees bordering the drive. The Hardys heard his heels click on stones, and his heavy breathing. Suddenly Joe tripped in his headlong sprint and went down. Frank doubled his speed. Before he knew it he had run into the fleeing man’s back.

“Got you!” he cried, locking his arms about the man’s body. Joe came pounding up.

There was a groan of terror from the man. At that instant a streak of lightning made everything bright as day. The boys saw a frightened, familiar face staring at them wildly.

“Mr. Applegate!” the brothers exclaimed.

They could not have been more astonished if the fugitive had been Aunt Gertrude! Their elderly captive was Hurd Applegate, a wealthy collector of art objects and one of Bayport’s most eccentric characters. Once Frank and Joe had recovered a valuable stamp collection for him, and he had been their friend ever since.

“The Hardy boys!” Applegate gasped, and went limp with relief in Frank’s grasp.

“What are you doing here at this hour of the night, Mr. Applegate?” Joe asked in amazement.

The old man, recovering his strength, lurched forward as though eager to put distance between himself and the Purdy house.

“Oh… Frank, Joe …” He begged, almost incoherently, “home, get me home … it’s terrible, awful!” The old man shuddered violently as they supported him down the driveway.

When the three reached the wet, glistening road, he hastened unsteadily across it to his car, parked behind some high bushes. It was a big, old-fashioned automobile. Trembling, he started to open the door.

“Hold on, Mr. Applegate!” Frank commanded. “Can’t you tell us what happened? Maybe we can do something about it.”

One thing the boys were sure of: Hurd Applegate was not mixed up in anything dishonest. But he was too distraught to do more than stammer over and over his desire to go home.

“Oh! Terrible! Never should have come … my jade … dreadful. Couldn’t just let it go. …”

“It’s something about his jade collection,” said Joe. “But we’ll never get a thing out of him at this rate.”

“What’s more, he’s in no shape to drive,” Frank said quietly.

“And we should find out about that scream,” Joe reminded him. “Mr. Dalrymple may be inside—and in trouble.”

“I’ll go back and investigate,” Frank offered. “You drive Mr. Applegate to our house in his car. He’s chilled to the bone. Aunt Gertrude will look after him. I’ll follow in our car as soon as I can.”

The boys helped Mr. Applegate into his car. As Joe started the motor, his brother ran back through the downpour toward the Purdy mansion.

When Frank reached the driveway he saw that the house was dark. He raced to a front window and looked in, but could see nothing. He sounded the big brass door knocker, and when there was no answer, pounded on the door and shouted for Mr. Dalrymple. Frank tried the handle but it was locked. He hurried around to the rear of the house and tried first the back door, then the cellar door, calling continuously. Still there was no response. The house remained dark and silent.

Realizing his efforts were useless, Frank went to his car. The rain had abated and he drove swiftly back to town.

In the meantime, Joe, anxious to get his badly shaken passenger home, chafed at the moderate speed which was the best the old car could do.

When he finally pulled up in front of the Hardys’ house he was surprised to find the downstairs brightly lighted. Quickly he assisted Mr. Applegate up the front steps.

“Goodness gracious!” cried Aunt Gertrude, when she opened the door. “Coming home half drowned in the middle of the night!” But at sight of the white, drawn face of the old man, the goodhearted lady changed her tone instantly.

“Here, Joe, bring Mr. Applegate into the kitchen,” she ordered crisply. “Luckily I have some hot coffee.”

Mr. Applegate was seated in a chair in the cheerfully lighted room. Joe went off for towels and a blanket, while Aunt Gertrude persuaded the elderly man to sip the hot coffee. Mr. Applegate seemed to revive instantly. His eyes cleared. He sat straighter.

“Have to be a regular nurse in a household like this.” Miss Hardy smiled. “Where’s Frank?” she asked suddenly, but before Joe could answer, she said, “Oh, and here I am, forgetting. There’s a man to see you. You go right into the living room. I’ll take care of Mr. Applegate.”

Surprised, Joe was about to go when the back door opened and Frank entered. Aunt Gertrude whirled to survey her dripping nephew.

“Don’t bother to explain,” she said wryly. “That man is waiting.”

“What happened at the Purdy house?” Joe put in quickly.

“Nothing,” Frank replied. “I couldn’t get in and got no answer when I called.”

“There is a man waiting for you boys in the living room,” their aunt interrupted firmly.

Joe beckoned to Frank. Puzzled, they went into the living room. There, turning to greet them, was the tall figure of Raymond Dalrymple!

“Mr. Dalrymple!” gasped Joe. “You’re all right!”

“Of course I’m all right!” snapped the banker. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Well … that’s good,” stammered Frank. “But how did you get here so fast?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t get here fast at all. I took my time. I always take my time, even in emergencies.”

“We didn’t see you leave the Purdy place,” Joe blurted out. “And nobody passed me on the way back here.”

“Purdy place!” repeated the banker, incredulous. “Why, I’ve been waiting right here for you two boys an hour and a half.” Mr. Dalrymple looked sharply at the brothers’ drenched clothes. “Is this your method of handling a case?” he demanded.

“Why, we’ve just been out on your case,” Joe retorted heatedly. “We saw someone resembling you go into the Purdy house, which was pitch dark. Then a light went on—and off again. The next instant somebody screamed inside, as though he was being murdered. We were afraid it was you. One man ran out—we caught him. He’s right here.”

The tall banker looked from Frank to Joe in openmouthed amazement. “I assure you, I haven’t been near there. You yourselves told me to stay away.”

“You came straight here from Lakeside?” queried Joe.

“Directly from the bank. I was working late.”

As the boys exchanged baffled glances, Aunt Gertrude appeared, leading in a considerably stronger Hurd Applegate. The old man’s eyes traveled around the room until they rested on Raymond Dalrymple.

“You!” shrieked Hurd Applegate in sudden fury. He leaped across at the astounded banker, who quickly retreated behind a chair. “You, you sneak thief! Give me back my jade! Give it back, I say!”

“Calm yourself, whoever you are,” responded the banker with dignity, but obviously angry. “I’m sure I have nothing whatever of yours. Be careful. I’ll have the law on you for slander!”

“All my beautiful carvings,” Mr. Applegate pleaded, turning to Joe. “Make him give me back my jade figures!”

“I tell you I haven’t got your infernal jade!” roared Mr. Dalrymple.

“Now, sir,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly, “that’s enough! Hurd Applegate,” she snapped, fixing him with her eye, “sit down and tell your story.” Calmed by her tone, the excited man sank meekly into an easy chair and began:

“A fellow I never saw before—looked just like this man—came to my house to examine my rare jade collection. He said he was a dealer and might be able to get me some fine pieces. I was alone in the house.”

“Where was Adelia?” asked Aunt Gertrude, referring to the sister who lived with Mr. Applegate.

“Visiting, out of town,” he explained. “I showed the man all my figurines, and he asked if I had more. I went into the next room and got my greatest treasure out of the safe, a carved jade chess set, worth a fortune. When I came back in the room, all the figurines were gone and so was he!

“I rushed outdoors and saw him get in a car on the road. Mine was in the drive, so I took after him. I couldn’t keep up with the man but I saw him turn down Willow River Road and later into a gate. I parked behind the bushes so he wouldn’t spot me. I waited several minutes, then got out and walked right after him.”

“That was a risky thing to do,” Frank said with a frown.

“I know,” Mr. Applegate replied, “but all I could think of was getting back my jade. Well, his car was nowhere in sight, but there was a light in the house. I was scared he’d run if I knocked, so I went around back. The rear door was open, and I went in. I was in a hall. There was a light ahead in one room. I was sneaking up. Then it was pitch black all of a sudden; and right behind me, there was that scream!”

Hurd Applegate trembled violently at the memory. But when Aunt Gertrude eyed him once more, he went on, “I just ran, I didn’t know where. I thought it was right behind me, going to get me! Then I got caught—by you boys!”

Frank looked at the others. “Well, that clears up a lot. You have a double, Mr. Dalrymple, and he stole Mr. Applegate’s jade!”

“I don’t like it,” said the banker, shaking his head. “A double who’s a thief.”

“This is a case for the police,” Frank said, picking up the telephone.

“Do we have to drag my trouble into it?” Mr. Dalrymple asked quickly.

“For now,” Frank replied, “we won’t mention your case. We’ll just report the theft of the jade.”

When he hung up he told the others that Chief Collig was going to send men out to search the Purdy house and grounds for the thief.

A few minutes later, as Mr. Dalrymple was getting ready to leave, he said, “I came by tonight to see how you boys were getting along with my problem and to ask you to meet me at the house tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock. The lock on the secret room is set for that time.”

“We’d be glad to,” Frank replied. “After tonight we’re especially eager to get inside the place ourselves.”

As soon as the banker was gone, the boys helped Hurd Applegate into his car. Frank took the wheel and headed the old-fashioned automobile toward the big stone house on the bluff where Mr. Applegate lived. Joe followed in the Hardys’ convertible.

As Frank started up the driveway, he noticed the front door was wide open and the lights on.

“Oh,” Mr. Applegate said with alarm, “I remember now. I left it open when I ran out.”

The boys parked the two cars, and shaken as he was, the old man hurried up the steps into the house ahead of them.

As he led the way into the library he stopped with a cry. “The chess set!” he gasped, clutching his heart. “I left it on the table! It’s gone!”

CHAPTER VI

Waterfront Chase

JOE helped the shocked man sit down, then got him a drink of water. Frank, meanwhile, called the doctor.

While Joe stayed with Hurd Applegate, Frank entered the next room to check on the open safe he had spotted there. As he came back into the room, he heard Mr. Applegate, his eyes closed, whisper, “Rest of the jade in the safe.”

Frank looked at Joe and shook his head. “Cleaned out,” he said softly. “We’d better not tell him till after the doctor comes.”

While they were waiting, the older boy called Chief Collig and reported what had happened.

“I think this second theft may be a cleverly planned part of the first one,” Frank told him. “The thief got Hurd Applegate to open the safe and bring out his jade figurines. Then when he went back for the chess set the man fled, knowing Mr. Applegate would come after him. Once he was out of the house, it was easy for the thief’s confederate to move in and take the chess set and rifle the open safe.”

“Jade figurines!” the chief’s voice crackled. “Reminds me of the harbor thieves. They’ve switched to small valuables. Anything they can slip into a pocket, or hide under a coat. They’re still boarding the ships and getting into the warehouses. And this kind of loot is more precious than the bulky stuff.”

“Yet they get off the piers with it,” Frank put in.

“That’s what beats us!” declared the chief angrily. “We frisk every person leaving the docks, and still the stuff gets out.”

“But how can that be?” Frank asked, puzzled.

“I don’t know. We spotted their black car, so they stopped using it,” Chief Collig replied. “We’re still watching all roads. Yet the stealing is worse than ever!”

“Hm,” Frank considered. “This has been going on for months now, Chief. Has any of the loot turned up on the contraband market?”

“Nothing,” the chief replied. “Still too hot to peddle. They’re storing it some place.”

While Frank had been talking to the police chief, the doctor had arrived and Joe had explained the situation quietly.

As Frank hung up, the medical man told the boys, “Mr. Applegate will be all right after a few days’ rest. It’s been a shock, though. I’ll tell him about the rest of the missing jade tomorrow. No need for you to stay longer.”

The boys thanked the doctor and promised the sick man they would help him get his property back. When they walked out to their car, the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared.

“You know,” Frank said thoughtfully as he got behind the wheel, “Chief Collig says the harbor thieves are lifting small valuables now. There’s a slim chance there might be a connection between the jade thieves and the harbor gang. What do you say we go down to the docks and have a look around?”

Joe agreed readily, and Frank headed the car along Shore Road toward town.

“Seems queer, so many things going on around the Purdy mansion all at once,” Joe said. “First, Mr. Dalrymple’s mystery, and next Hurd Applegate traced the jade thief there. Maybe those two cases are connected.”

“Maybe all three mysteries are hooked up,” said Frank thoughtfully.

In a short time the boys arrived at the waterfront. At least half a dozen freighters were tied up at the long piers that extended like fingers into the waters of Barmet Bay. In front of one vessel huge piles of freight were stacked on the dock in the glare of floodlights. The ship’s cranes were busily swinging more cargo onto the pier.

“Must be a rush job,” Frank commented as he parked the car.

The boys walked over to watch. There was a cool breeze from the sea and the tangy smell of salt water in the air.

Joe sniffed appreciatively. “Boy! Where are those harbor thieves? I’m ready for ‘em!”

“Yes, but are they ready for you?” Frank said with a chuckle.

“You know the one I’d like to get my hands on,” his brother added in high spirits. “The guy that almost ran us down yesterday!”

“Yes? What would you do to him?”

Joe considered his choice of punishment carefully. “Get him behind bars,” he declared.

As the boys started to walk out on one of the docks, they were stopped by a weary-looking, steamship company guard in a gray uniform.

“Okay, you fellows. Where d’you think you’re going?”

“We’re just looking,” Joe replied in a friendly tone.

“Well, you can’t look here,” the watchman said in a loud voice, which attracted a blue-shirted policeman nearby.

“Catch some of ‘em, Charlie?” he asked, coming over. It was Officer Callahan. “Oh, it’s the Hardy boys again. Let ‘em in, let ‘em in, Charlie!”

The boys thanked the policeman and started toward the black-hulled freighter. Frank and Joe watched the burly longshoremen moving some of its cargo away on hand trucks to the warehouses.

“The man who drove that limousine was husky,” Joe recalled. “He easily could have been a longshoreman.”

But Frank noticed that even these men were searched by Officer Callahan as they came off the pier. The boys boarded the freighter, and learned from the officers posted there that nothing had been missing that day.

Unhurriedly the Hardys moved from ship to ship. Police and company guards were on the alert everywhere. Frank and Joe walked back to the freighter from which merchandise was still being unloaded.

Several men on the deck were busy operating the huge cargo derrick. Suddenly, as the crane swung dockward with its load, a short, square-built man with a white sailor cap perched on his black, curly hair, leaped ten feet from the deck to the pier and dashed toward the warehouses.

“Hey!” cried the other men. “Stop!”

Instantly the whole area rang with the shrilling of police whistles. Frank noticed a suspicious bulge at the back of the man’s baggy trousers.

Luckily, he and Joe were near enough to give chase. At the same time, Callahan and the watchman named Charlie came dashing onto the pier. All four piled into the fugitive at once! Everybody went down. Arms and legs thrashed. Callahan got up first, dragging the laborer, wild-eyed and breathless, to his feet.

“Now,” growled the officer. “Talk, you! Where is it?”

“Talk?” stammered the man in confusion.

“What’s that in your back pocket?” Frank demanded.

“Why were you running away?” Joe asked tersely.

With a look of intense discomfort and dismay on his face, the man reached gingerly behind him. As Frank, Joe, and the two policemen watched eagerly, he brought out a brown paper bag, sodden and squishy.

“I’d promised to call my wife long-distance at seven o’clock and had forgotten. I was having a late supper, so I just put the rest of the food in my back pocket,” he explained dolefully. “Three big, ripe pears. Sat down on it. Please, fellas, let me off. I’ve got to change my pants!”

In complete disgust Officer Callahan waved the man away. Frank and Joe, grinning at the ridiculousness of the scene, left the big commercial docks.

“Let’s take a spin in the Sleuth,” Frank proposed, referring to the brothers’ motorboat. “Maybe we can pick up a clue by cruising around the harbor.”

The boys pushed open the boathouse door, switched on the light, and looked with pride at their sleek craft. The Sleuth rocked gently on the water. The far door, opening on the bay, was down.

“Warm in here,” Joe complained. “Funny, the sun’s been gone for hours.” He jumped into the boat and called, “Get the key, will you, Frank?”

Joe, proud of the craft, put his hand affectionately on the big motor. Quick as a flash he withdrew it.

“Hot!” he exclaimed, amazed. “Frank, somebody was using the Sleuth not long ago!”

CHAPTER VII

Crafty Thieves

QUICKLY Joe unscrewed the gasoline cap and peered into the tank of the Hardys’ speedboat.

“Almost empty,” he reported.

“That’s not so strange,” Frank reminded him. “Chet or Biff or one of the other fellows might have taken the Sleuth for a spin. Funny they didn’t replace the gas, though.”

As he spoke, Frank walked to the back of the boathouse and felt around on a small shelf, placed high up. Here the Hardy brothers had hidden a key for friends who might want to use their boat.

“Gone!” he exclaimed.

Meanwhile, Joe saw that the boat was, as usual, secured with its chain and padlock.

“Lucky I have the spare key in my pocket,” said Frank. “We’d better gas up, then report this to the police.”

“You think the Sleuth may have been ‘borrowed’ by the dock thieves?” Joe queried excitedly.

“Good chance, unless some pal of ours took a real long ride.” Already Frank, kneeling, had unlocked the padlock and removed the chain.

“But why would the thieves keep the key?”

“Because our boat would always be available to them. Very handy, if you’re a thief and need transportation in a hurry!”

Joe walked quickly to the front of the little building, and by pulling a rope, raised the door fronting on the bay.

“Suppose we look for some signs of the ‘borrower’ before we rush off,” Frank advised.

He stepped into the front seat of the craft, and examined the compartments in the dashboard. Joe, meanwhile, checked every inch of the interior of the boathouse. But he found nothing. Turning, he saw his brother on his hands and knees under the rear seat of the Sleuth.

“What’re you up to?”

“Here, steady the boat,” was the reply. “Everything’s sloshing around.”

Like all such boats, the Sleuth had a wooden rack placed a few inches above the real bottom of the vessel, so that a certain amount of wash could be collected without the passengers’ getting their feet wet. Frank was probing the murky water under the bars of the rack.

Suddenly he snatched up something. “Got it!”

With a triumphant smile, he handed his brother an empty matchbook.

“‘Bayport and Eastern Steamship Company,’” read Joe from the cover. “It’s a clue, all right!”

The younger boy joined Frank and took the wheel of the craft. He switched on its powerful lights, and with a low purr the Sleuth headed out into the calm waters of Barmet Bay. The Hardys steered first for the dock of the Bayport Yacht Club, where they had the night pump attendant fill the fuel tank.

“Wait here!” said Frank, and he jumped to the dock, then dashed away and entered the clubhouse.

About fifteen minutes later Frank was back. Joe had spent the time checking the motor, which seemed to be in perfect condition.

“I called every single person who knew where that key was,” Frank reported. “Nobody has used the boat in the past week, let alone tonight! It’s a case of thievery, all right!”

Joe nodded, and started the motor. “Where to now?”

“Commercial docks.”

Joe opened the throttle with a roar. The trim craft lifted her head and sprang forward. Twin arcs of white spray fell away from her bows. Heavy suds churned at her stern.

The whole bay was bathed in bright moonlight. Far ahead they could make out the black line of rock marking the edge of the harbor, and the open gap revealing its entrance from the ocean.

A short distance from shore lay the imposing white hulk of the Sea Bright, a passenger vessel which had just come from the Far East. Here and there floated buoys marking the channel for the ocean-going freighters. As the boys advanced, the whole harbor spread out astern of them. They could see the big ships in their piers, and over on the right, the wide mouth of Willow River, with the bridge crossing it.

“Where did the guy who borrowed our Sleuth take it?” Frank called to his brother above the sound of the motor. His eyes swept the horizon. “That’s a big harbor!”

“You’re not kidding!” Joe shouted. “Where else could they go?”

Frank pointed toward the mouth of Willow River. “Up there. It’s navigable for miles and miles. And don’t forget all the tributary streams.”

“Whew! You think they went up there tonight in the Sleuth?”

“Could be!”

Joe piloted the craft out to the middle of the bay, then headed in toward the black hull of the freighter which was being unloaded. He nosed the boat smoothly in between two jetties. On one side was the pier where they had caught the laborer with the squashed lunch.

“We’re in luck,” Frank cried suddenly. “There’s Chief Collig with Tomlin and Callahan!”

Bayport’s chief of police had come to take charge of the case which had been vexing his department for months. He was pacing along the dock when he heard Frank shout:

“We picked up a lead, Chief!”

Carefully Joe brought the speedboat over to one of the huge piles, where Frank made her fast. In another moment the Hardys and the three policemen were standing in eager consultation.

“Somebody’s been using our boat,” Joe explained quickly as he handed over the matchbook. “We’ve a hunch it could be your thieves. One of them left this behind.”

Chief Collig, a big, bluff man, tipped back his cap and examined the matchbook thoughtfully. Suddenly he made a wry face. With a broad palm he smacked his forehead.

“Great Scott!” he declared. “You’re right, of course! Know why we haven’t found these crooks on any boats, Officer Callahan?”

“No, sir,” answered the policeman.

“Because they’ve taken to the water in wellknown Bayport boats. We’ve been looking for strange craft! Frank and Joe, you’ve given us a real break. I’ll get police launches out on the bay immediately!” He went off to phone orders and soon returned.

“See any unfamiliar people in pleasure boats around here?” Frank asked Officer Tomlin.

“Well,” responded the policeman thoughtfully, “one or two launches I know were around earlier. There were men in them, but I didn’t pay any particular attention—thought they were guests of the owners.”

“Would you consider our boat suspicious?” Frank continued.

“Of course not.”

“But that’s the crooks’ idea!” Chief Collig said. “I gave orders to check all boats and the people in ‘em. I don’t care if they’ve been cruising the bay for twenty years!”

At that moment a steamship company guard came over to the group. Seeing Frank and Joe, he gave a friendly nod. “Came back, eh?”

“We’re back,” Joe admitted with a sheepish smile. “Catch anybody else escaping with a ruined lunch?” He had mistaken the guard for Charlie, the one they had met earlier. But when the man looked mystified, Joe realized his mistake.

“Don’t know about anybody’s lunch,” the guard said. “Weren’t you two around here before, while it was raining, in that blue-and-white speedboat?” He peered at the brothers closely. Then he shrugged. “No, I guess it was a couple of older fellows. They waved to me when they were pushing off.”

“Did you hear that, Chief Collig?” Frank exclaimed. “Whoever took our boat was snooping around here with it tonight, looking for a chance to steal something from one of the ships or warehouses.”

Chief Collig immediately quizzed the guard. The man replied that the Sleuth had lingered in the harbor for some time. The two men had come on the docks briefly. “I didn’t see ‘em leave with anything,” he concluded.

“Better check the warehouses and ships,” advised Joe.

“Good idea,” agreed the chief.

With that, he strode off the pier, and the other officers resumed their posts.

Frank turned to his brother. “I’ll walk back to the car and drive home,” he volunteered, “and bring back a new padlock for the Sleuth. That’ll keep the thieves from using our boat, anyhow. This time we won’t leave the key on the shelf.”

“Right. I’ll poke around here and see what I can dig up,” Joe proposed.

Frank Hardy knew that his father, as a detective, had found it necessary to keep a supply of all sizes of locks—types that could not be opened by ordinary skeleton keys.

When he reached home Frank saw that all the windows were dark, except for a dim light in Aunt Gertrude’s bedroom. He let himself into the house quietly and tiptoed down to his father’s basement workshop and chose a suitable lock. Suddenly the boy was startled by a voice demanding sharply:

“And just what do you think you’re up to, young man?”

“Why—I was getting a lock, Aunt Gertrude.”

“Lock! At this unearthly hour? What for?”

“To change the lock on the Sleuth.”

“Is that where you two were? On a boat ride? Frank Hardy, it is one-thirty in the morning!”

“I know, Auntie,” he said cheerfully as he started for the stairs. “We’ll tell you about it later. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry!” she echoed tartly. “I’ll only die of it!”

Frank grinned. “In a nutshell—thieves borrowed the Sleuth and took the key. We’re going to lock them out—with this!” He held up the gadget. “We’ll be home soon.”

When he arrived at the harbor, Frank parked the convertible and strode swiftly onto the pier where he had left his brother. Only a few workers were left on the dock, but he could see no sign of Joe.

Frank hurried to the end where the boat had been moored, and peered into the water. The Sleuth was missing, too!

CHAPTER VIII

A Perilous Plunge

“LOOKING for your buddy?”

Frank whirled to face the same steamship company guard who had spotted the Sleuth hovering near the docks earlier.

“Yes! He’s my brother. Have you seen him? Joe was supposed to wait for me.”

“I kind of wondered about that,” said the guard. “First he went all the way out to the edge of the pier and sat down. Just looking. All at once—about ten minutes ago—he comes running back here like crazy. Jumped in the blue-and-white boat and took off like a shot, straight out into the bay.”

“Was Joe alone?” Frank asked quickly.

“All by himself.”

“He must have seen something suspicious,” Frank decided.

At that very moment Joe Hardy was bending tensely over the steering wheel of the Sleuth, which was cutting along at top speed. Her prow stuck far out of the water. Great waves of spray were thrown up on both sides.

But Joe seemed unconscious of the tremendous speed of his craft. His eyes were fixed with determination upon a powerful motorboat running several hundred yards straight in front of him. Two men were seated aboard, one at the wheel, the other looking back frequently as if nervous.

Ten minutes before, as Joe had sat at the edge of the dock, legs dangling, he had noticed this same boat bobbing beside the big white hull of the Sea Bright. One man had already boarded the motor craft and a second was climbing toward it down the ladder of the passenger vessel.

Suddenly Joe had leaned forward with sharp interest. In the moonlight he had seen the name on the prow of the motorboat. It was the Napoli, which belonged to Tony Prito’s father. Joe had seen that neither of the pair in the boat was Mr. Prito or his son.

Now Joe heard a loud, whining roar, as the boat ahead picked up speed. Apparently the men realized they were being followed. The Napoli was showing her power.

“Come on, girl,” Joe urged his own trusty craft affectionately. He jammed the throttle wide open. The race was on!

Skimming over the smooth surface, throwing showers of glistening white spray, neither craft could gain on the other. Dark shapes of buoys marking the harbor channel shot by them. The wet, black rocks at the harbor’s entrance came nearer and nearer, with the water of the Atlantic Ocean, lined with white crests of waves, just outside.

Squinting through the windshield, Joe considered his strategy. The fleeing boat was a swift one. But it would doubtless turn soon, and then, he knew, the lighter, easier-to-handle Sleuth would have the edge. He would cut them off without trouble.

To his amazement, however, the men held straight toward the mouth of the harbor. “They know their boat is heavier,” Joe reasoned. “They’re going out to sea, hoping I’ll have to slow down or swamp among the swells!”

Already the big rocks were closing in on both sides. Ahead, the ocean waves broke with a resounding smash along the barrier. The Napoli veered crazily in and out among the closely placed harbor buoys.

“He doesn’t know the channel!” flashed across Joe’s mind. “He’ll tear out the bottom on those submerged rocks.” Frantically the boy sounded three long warning blasts on his own horn.

Too late! The other boat, trying to cut round the rocky point into the Atlantic, abruptly stopped short in the water as though a brake had been applied. A harsh grinding noise reached Joe’s ears. Immediately the Napoli’s hull settled stern first into the deep water.

Approaching the spot, Joe slowed down the Sleuth. But the two men had already jumped overboard, and after swimming a few strokes, splashed to shore and scrambled to the top of the breakwater. There, for a moment, they were silhouetted against the sky: a short, burly fellow and a slender man almost a foot taller.

“That short one looks like the man who drove the limousine!” Joe exclaimed, as both men quickly scampered off the embankment and disappeared.

Carefully Joe marked the position of the sunken boat. Then he turned the Sleuth back toward the piers. As he pulled in, Frank hailed him in relief.

“Say! What made you take off, anyway?”

“Plenty!” Joe gasped. “Wait’ll you hear!”

The tide was coming in, and he scrambled onto the dock unaided. Breathlessly Joe poured out the story of the chase.

“And the short, burly man,” he added, “was the driver of the limousine that almost ran us down!”

“Are you sure?” Frank asked.

“He looked back and I saw his face in the moonlight,” Joe said.

“We must find Chief Collig,” Frank said. “Maybe his men can still catch them.”

Joe shook his head doubtfully. “Too easy for those fellows to lose themselves among the rocks along shore. They’re free for the moment. But I know the spot where Tony’s boat is!”

Just then Chief Collig walked onto the pier. The boys hurried over to him and described Joe’s adventure.

“We’ll salvage the Napoli first thing by daylight,” the chief said. “How about coming along? Meet me at the police wharf.”

The boys agreed at once and volunteered to call Tony Prito and tell him what had happened. Then Joe returned the Sleuth to her berth while Frank drove the car there to meet him. Together, they put the new lock on their craft.

In a short time they were both in the convertible and heading homeward through the deserted streets. A few minutes later they crawled wearily into bed.

But in a few hours the boys were up. Frank called Tony, who gasped in dismay. “The Napoli! That’s a crime! … Yes, I’ll go with you to see it.”

The Hardys picked him up and they rode to the police wharf.

Chief Collig was waiting for them. “Sorry about your boat, Tony. Those thieves are getting nervier by the minute.”

“What about the Purdy place?” Joe asked him eagerly. “Did your men find anything when they searched last night?”

“Nothing,” Collig replied wryly. “No thieves, no cars, no loot.”

Just then a police boat equipped with a winch and cable for minor salvage operations came alongside the pier. The three boys and Collig clambered in, and the vessel headed for the mouth of the harbor.

Frank said, once more picking up the thread of the case, “Do you suppose Tony’s boat was stolen by the same men who were seen in our boat earlier last night?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Chief Collig answered.

“Anyhow,” Joe spoke up, “we’re pretty sure the short fellow in Tony’s boat was the man who drove the limousine, and one of the harbor thieves. Sure like to know where he and his pal are hiding out.”

By now the police boat had reached the mouth of the harbor. The officer at the wheel eyed the nearby shore warily.

“You’re lucky you didn’t stave your own boat in,” he told Joe. “The underwater rocks are really treacherous along here.”

“Don’t I know it!” Joe agreed.

The officer throttled down and slowly approached the place that Joe indicated to him. A red harbor buoy bobbed nearby.

“I’m not going inside that marker,” announced the pilot flatly, slowing to a halt.

“Where is the Napoli from here, Joe?” Tony asked.

“Just the other side of the red buoy, I’m afraid.”

Around the police craft the water was clear and bluish green. Its surface was broken and dancing slightly from the effect of the waves outside the harbor. By leaning forward, the boys and Chief Collig made out a long white shape on the bottom.

“My boat! Can we get her up, Sergeant?” Tony questioned anxiously.

The second policeman assigned to the cruiser had been estimating their chances. “If we get her to the surface we can tow her in. The question is, can we get her to the surface? Looks pretty deep here to me. How are we going to put a line on her?”

Regretfully, the chief agreed. “You’re right. We’ll have to go back for a skin diver.”

Here Joe broke in with a suggestion. “If I go down and attach a line, can you raise her with the winch?”

“But we haven’t any diving equipment,” protested the sergeant. “Not even a face mask.”

“Faces were made before face masks,” Joe observed, grinning. Already he had kicked off his shoes. Now he was pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his tan, lithe body. “Got your line ready?”

“You Hardys sure won’t give up.” Chief Collig nodded. “Okay. Try it.”

The sergeant readied the salvage equipment. He extended the boom of his winch, then handed Joe a steel cable with a heavy steel hook at the end.

The boy was now stripped to a pair of white shorts. “I’m ready.”

“I figure it’s about twelve feet down,” the sergeant told him gravely. “There’ll be some pressure.”

“And look out for the tow,” Tony cautioned.

Joe accepted the cable. “I’ve done a lot of skin diving, and had experience with both,” he assured them. “Any special place I should attach this?”

“Loop it around something solid on the Napoli, then snap the hook around the cable like this,” the sergeant replied, demonstrating.

“Right.”

With the cable in one hand, Joe climbed to the rail of the launch. There he balanced for a moment as he took a series of tremendous deep breaths. Then he plunged into the water.

Those on board the launch watched anxiously, while the pilot tried to hold the boat steady. Joe soon became an indistinct blur against the sunken white craft.

Once submerged, Joe drove himself forward with powerful kicks. He kept his hands free for the cable. He began to feel the increasing pressure, mostly on his temples and chest. Joe penetrated deeper. Finally he could touch the Napoli.

Now he felt around it for a place to attach the cable. He moved forward and explored the front seat. There was no likely place—the steering wheel might rip out. Joe felt a pounding in his ears and he began to yearn for a breath of air. Still he groped around, feeling for something solid under the dashboard of the craft.

At this point Joe was directly under the steering wheel, the cable beneath his body. As he rolled over on his back to investigate the under part of the dashboard, the cable wound around his body. Suddenly and painfully, the cable had tightened against his flesh. The hook, that dangled from a length of cable in Joe’s hand, had caught around a slat of the floor boards.

Joe yanked at the hook, but was unable to loosen it. He thrashed to release himself from the cable. But he was bound fast under the steering wheel, twelve feet below the water’s surface!

CHAPTER IX

The Secret Room

BACK on the launch, Chief Collig, Frank, Tony, and the sergeant waited tensely.

“Hold this boat still!” Collig barked at the pilot.

“Sorry, Chief. She’s drifting.”

“The cable’s gone taut,” noted Tony. “Do you think Joe has attached it?”

“If he has, he ought to be up any second,” Frank answered hopefully.

But the glittering surface of the water gave no sign of the swimmer underneath. More seconds passed.

“Something’s wrong!”

As the words burst from Frank he, too, slipped out of his shoes and quickly stripped. In spite of anxiety for his brother, he was too wise to dive fully clothed.

Frank knifed into the cold water. With a powerful breast stroke, he swam quickly down to the Napoli. Almost immediately Frank spotted his brother’s legs kicking from under the dashboard, and the steel cable encircling Joe’s waist, holding him fast.

Shooting downward to the floor of the boat, Frank groped till his hand found the hook caught in the floor boards. With a tug he released it, flung away the line, grabbed Joe, and propelled him to the surface.

As Joe’s head and shoulders popped above water, he exhaled, then gasped in a lungful of air, too exhausted to swim. The strong arms of Chief Collig and Tony hauled Joe into the boat. He lay on the deck, breathing heavily.

Meanwhile, Frank’s head bobbed into view. “Joe okay? Hold steady. I’ll fix the cable.”

“You come out of there,” Chief Collig roared, “before you almost drown!”

But Frank was already well under water. Seizing the hook, he stroked toward the prow of the Napoli. There he detected a steel eye for mooring. Passing the hook through it, he looped the cable again, and surfaced.

“Grind away,” he called cheerfully to the sergeant at the winch. Then he climbed aboard.

By this time Joe was sitting up and slapping the water out of his ears. Chief Collig shook his head. “It’s lucky there are two of you left!”

“I second that,” Joe said weakly. “Thanks for the rescue, brother.”

Now the engine of the winch began grinding. The steel cable was reeled in steadily. The Napoli rose toward the surface like a big, inert fish. Quickly the pilot started the launch’s engines and pulled away. The disabled craft trailed behind, half under water.

Back at the police wharf, Tony was informed that his boat could be repaired, although he would be without the use of it for a while.

“I wonder if the gang used the Sleuth to steal anything,” Joe said, in a worried voice, as he, Tony, and Frank left the wharf with the chief.

“Prepare yourself for a shock,” advised Chief Collig. “Last night there was a big theft from the captain’s cabin on one of these passenger ships. We’ve been keeping it quiet, hoping for a lead.”

“Whew!” Frank gave a whistle. “What ship?”

“The Sea Bright, under Captain Stroman’s command.” Here Chief Collig paused deliberately. “That ship is owned by the Bayport and Eastern Steamship Company.”

Instantly Joe remembered the matchbook. “Then it was our Sleuth they used,” he declared.

Frank observed a familiar look in their old friend’s eyes. “Chief,” the boy asked suddenly, “what did the gang steal?”

“They stole,” Collig pronounced slowly, “a very valuable jade necklace, which the captain had bought for his wife.”

It took a split second for this information to hit home. Both Hardys exclaimed together:

“Hurd Applegate! His stolen collection!”

Chief Collig signified agreement. “First thing I thought of. Two thefts of jade within a few hours. It’s only logical the same person is responsible.”

“Where’s Captain Stroman now?” Frank asked. “Can we talk to him? Does he know what the thief looked like?”

“Whoa! He’s gone to New York to consult with the insurance company. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“All this begins to fit together,” Joe pointed out thoughtfully. “Mr. Applegate’s case is tied up with the old Purdy mansion.”

“Yes,” Chief Collig agreed. “But how?”

“Getaway by water!” Frank answered excitedly. “The Willow River runs right behind the Purdy property. These crooks can go there from the docks without touching dry land.”

“And that’s where they transfer the loot to cars or trucks!” Joe finished eagerly.

“Look, Chief,” Frank said, “Joe and I are going out to the mansion at five o’clock.” The youth checked his watch. “It’s almost noon now. We’ll see if we can turn up anything there, and get in touch with you afterward.”

On the way home the boys dropped Tony Prito off at his father’s construction company. As he got out of the car he thanked the Hardys again for their help in raising the Napoli, and Frank and Joe wished him good luck with the repairs.

When they reached home, Aunt Gertrude was waiting in the living room. “I never know when you’re coming back, or if you’re coming back at all,” she complained at once, heading for the kitchen. “So you needn’t be surprised if there isn’t much lunch ready!”

Frank winked at Joe. A moment later Miss Hardy entered the dining room with a tray of sandwiches, relishes, potato salad, chocolate milk, and a whole fudge cake.

“This is all there is,” she announced, and sat down with her nephews.

The boys grinned. During the meal Frank and Joe told her in detail about their adventures the night before and that morning. She snorted and clucked and shook her head, but the boys knew she was enjoying every word of it.

The brothers spent the afternoon making and studying notes about the case. At four thirty they headed the yellow convertible toward the Purdy mansion.

When they reached the estate, Frank parked his car behind the high bushes on the other side of Willow River Road, where Hurd Applegate had hidden his old automobile.

“No use being conspicuous,” Joe said approvingly.

The brothers got out and walked to the heavy wooden gate. Frank gave a low whistle of surprise. “We left this open last night. Now it’s closed.”

Cautiously the Hardys slipped through.

“I want to check for footprints behind the house again,” Frank said as they kept to the trees along the drive. “That shut gate means somebody’s been coming or going.”

“Probably the police closed it after they searched last night,” Joe said.

“That’s true,” Frank replied. “But I want to look, anyway.”

He made his way to the path in the woods where he had first seen footprints. Frank stooped to examine the ground.

“New footprints,” he announced. “Quite a few of them. Look at those deep ones. A heavy-set fellow must have made them. Could be the limousine driver—the one you saw in the Napoli!”

“You’re sure those aren’t the same tracks you found yesterday?” Joe inquired doubtfully.

“Couldn’t be—not after all that rain. No, these are fresh.”

The young sleuths followed the trail among the trees down to the water. At this point the river was fairly wide. The boys looked for signs of a boat. A minute later they heard the sound of an automobile engine coming from the driveway.

“It may be Mr. Dalrymple,” Joe said tersely. “But it could be the harbor thieves. We’d better sneak up.”

The boys left the path and picked their way noiselessly through the thick green brush until they had reached a spot at the side of the house. From there, they could see the front porch.

A tall man in a lightweight suit and straw hat, obviously impatient, stood in the yard before the house, glancing around. Several times he looked directly at the boys’ hiding place but failed to see them.

“Dalrymple?” Joe breathed. “Or his double?”

Next time the man turned his back, they ran silently forward and stopped just behind him. Joe touched his shoulder.

“What!” the man spun around.

“Mr. Dalrymple,” Joe greeted him. “Sorry! But we wanted to be sure who you were.”

“You boys did give me a start,” the banker confessed. “I didn’t see your car, so thought you weren’t here. But come along. We can’t waste a minute. The time lock is set for five o’clock exactly. We have to get in now, or lose our chance.”

The banker opened the front door with his key. After a hasty look into the living room, which contained the grandfather’s clock the Hardys had seen through the window the night before, they hurried upstairs.

“Another warning! he cried out, snatching up the paper

“The secret room is down the hall,” Mr. Dalrymple explained.

Briskly the banker entered a sitting room. While the boys watched, fascinated, he pushed aside a small framed photograph and put his fingernail into a tiny hole behind it. A very small round door opened, revealing the dials of a time lock!

After twirling these, Mr. Dalrymple stepped back. Before the boys’ eyes, what had seemed a line in the wallpaper now developed into a crack that grew wider and wider as a door swung outward.

“The entrance to the secret room!” Frank thought.

Mr. Dalrymple stepped through into a small, windowless chamber. Frank, then Joe, followed closely. Joe was the first to spot a folded sheet of white paper in the exact center of the rug.

“Another warning!” he cried out, snatching up the paper.

In stunned silence, Frank, Joe, and Mr. Dalrymple read the penciled warning:

“Death while the clock ticks!

This is your last warning!”

CHAPTER X

The Shadowy Figures

FRANK examined the threatening message for fingerprint smudges, but there were none. The lettering was like that of the first two warnings.

“We’ll keep this note if you don’t mind, Mr. Dalrymple,” he said. “May need it as evidence.”

The banker nodded gravely. “You know, boys,” he said, “it’s not so much the threat of death that bothers me. It’s the idea that somebody hates me enough to want to kill me! Who could it be?”

Frank and Joe, too, wondered about the motive behind the strange notes.

“What about robbery?” Joe ventured. “Has anything been disturbed?”

Quickly Mr. Dalrymple riffled through the papers on his table, and then checked his filing cabinet.

“No,” he muttered. “Same as before—a mysterious note in the middle of the floor. But nothing has been touched.”

Frank Hardy looked carefully around the square, windowless room. “Well,” he said, “if someone is going in and out, we ought to be able to find out how! Please close the door, Mr. Dalrymple. Let’s get busy, Joe.”

The banker pressed a switch, turning on an overhead light. Then he pulled shut the heavy, steel-plate door.

The Hardys went into action. First, Frank walked to the fireplace and peered up the chimney.

“You’re right, sir, it’s barred,” he observed. “The opening’s too small for even a baby to come down. No intruder came in this way.”

Joe took a small mallet from his pocket and tapped the walls gently for a hollow sound. Meantime, Frank rolled up the rug and checked the floor for a trap door or movable boards. The entire room, however, seemed perfectly tight.

“It doesn’t make sense!” Frank declared. “Somebody got in here with those notes.”

“I know.” Mr. Dalrymple sighed.

“One more possibility,” said Frank abruptly. He pulled a tape measure from his pocket and quickly took the dimensions of the room. Then he said, “Now, Mr. Dalrymple, will you let us out?”

The banker opened the secret door and Frank took a measurement of the wall’s thickness. After they left the secret room, Mr. Dalrymple closed the door, set the time lock, and replaced the photograph. Meanwhile, Frank was measuring the sitting room. Then he slipped into the hall and measured that.

“What’s the idea?” the banker asked.

For a moment the boy calculated swiftly in his head. “I thought there might be some kind of secret passage behind the vault,” he explained. “But it’s impossible. All the measurements check out.”

“I guess we’re stumped,” Joe admitted ruefully. “But you’d better take the warning seriously, Mr. Dalrymple. Stay away from here unless we’re with you.”

The three descended the long, wide stairway in silence. Pausing at the bottom, they were startled by the only sound audible in the big, empty house.

Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Tick-tock!

“‘Death while the clock ticks’!” Joe exclaimed, and bolted across the hall into the living room. There stood the tall grandfather’s clock, its pendulum swinging steadily. Tick-tock!

Mr. Dalrymple wrinkled his forehead. “I never wind that clock,” he declared.

“Somebody has,” Joe said. “It was going last night when we were here. Maybe the same person who’s writing the notes winds it. He says he’s going to kill you while the clock ticks and he might mean this very one! We’ll spoil his game whatever it is!”

Joe looked into the glass door of the lower case where the pendulum hung. Nothing lay inside. He cautiously opened the upper door and peered into the works behind the face.

“Nothing here,” he announced.

Suddenly Frank remembered something. “Mr. Dalrymple,” he said, “do you have a set of keys for us?”

The banker looked dismayed. “Oh, tosh!” he exclaimed. “I’ve so much on my mind. I forgot all about it. I’ll have them made first thing tomorrow.”

A short time later the boys’ yellow convertible rolled up the Hardy driveway and into the garage. From directly overhead came the sound of loud laughter, people talking, and a series of heavy bumps on the floor.

“What’s going on!” Joe exclaimed. The brothers rushed upstairs.

The door of the Hardys’ laboratory opened on the spectacle of Jerry Gilroy rolling about on the floor. Chet Morton seemed about to step on Jerry with his whole weight. Tony Prito and Biff Hooper were howling with delight, and Phil Cohen was photographing the scene with one of Joe’s cameras.

“Strong stomach muscles, you say?” Chet roared. “Hold still, and I’ll test ‘em for you.”

“No! No!” pleaded Jerry. “Not that. They’re weak. I give in!”

Phil Cohen was the first to notice the newcomers.

“Gentlemen!” he cried out. “There will be a moment of silence while we all observe the arrival of the Hardy boys! Look at them closely, gentlemen! Feast your eyes! Do not neglect this opportunity. For the Hardys come, and the Hardys go, but what they’re up to, does anybody know?”

“Hear, hear—poetry!” Tony applauded.

“Does anybody know what the Hardys are up to?” repeated Phil, gesturing like an orator. “I wait for a reply.”

“I have one, and it’s not about the harbor thieves.” Jerry grinned. “I think Frank and Joe are going romantic. Did you see ‘em ducking out with their girls in the moonlight last night?”

“Sure enough,” Chet drawled. “I also heard from Iola that soon as they were on the porch, Frank and Joe made a break for the car. Iola says she and Callie don’t know what it was all about, but it had better be mighty important!”

Joe looked noncommittal. “Well, you can tell her it was.”

Their stout friend moved closer, with a glint in his eye. As the Hardys well knew, Chet’s curiosity was almost as great as his appetite.

“Sure, pals,” he went on. “If I can just get a few details, I’m sure the girls will—er—be very much interested. Let’s see—you couldn’t stay at the party because you had to go out to the old Purdy place …”

Frank and Joe smiled at Chet’s effort to coax information from them. Though he was sometimes afraid, he liked nothing better than to be included in their adventures.

“Is that right?” Frank inquired casually. “Tell us more, Chet.”

“You went to the Purdy place because … because … uh … old Purdy buried all his money out there and you’re looking for it!” Chet had to grin at his own bluff.

“Nice try!” Joe laughed.

“Oh, leave ‘em alone,” Jerry Gilroy said good-naturedly. “We’ll wake up some morning and read all about it in the papers.”

But Chet Morton persisted. “Aw, come on, fellows. Aren’t you going to let me in on your case?”

“Guess you’ll have to turn detective yourself,” Joe teased, shaking his head.

“You look out,” Chet warned them. “I might just do that! Meanwhile, it’s suppertime. Let’s go, everybody.”

When he and the other boys had departed in Jerry’s jalopy, Frank and Joe stayed in the lab and discussed the mystery until Aunt Gertrude summoned them to eat. Afterward, the brothers decided to visit the Purdy house.

“Even if we don’t have a key, we’ll see if there’s any activity out there tonight,” Joe said.

Frank agreed. “Let’s walk. We can take a short cut.”

The brothers waited until it was dark. After equipping themselves with flashlights, they started out at a rapid pace in the bright moonlight. Soon they had left the town behind. Once on Willow River Road, they hugged one side, and when cars passed, the boys melted into the brush to avoid detection.

As they reached the Purdy gate, Joe crouched and looked back. The road lay clear and pale in the moonlight, but the long ivy-covered wall was shadowy and dark.

“Hey, Frank!” he whispered. “Somebody just ducked from one tree to another back there. We’re being trailed!”

“Let him follow,” Frank answered. “We’ll hide in the bushes near the house and spy on him.”

Quickly the brothers scrambled over the gate. Soon they were well concealed in the same spot from which they had first seen Mr. Dalrymple that afternoon. They could see both the front and back doors of the high old house, with its slate roofs gleaming in the moonlight.

Minutes passed in silence. Then a heavy-set figure sneaked across the open space in front of the house. Frank and Joe watched tensely. The figure slipped stealthily around to the back. Here the windows were closer to the ground. As the intruder raised his head to peer in, moonlight fell full upon his face.

“Chet Morton!” Joe hissed, astonished. “We’d better get hold of him before—”

“Sh!” Frank signaled tersely. “Somebody else coming!”

A white-shirted figure now came from the woods and approached the back of the house. The man walked swiftly, as though sure of his way. At the same time, Chet backed cautiously away from the window—until he had backed right into the stranger!

“Eeek! Help!” Chet cried shrilly.

At this outcry the white-shirted figure turned and dashed for the woods.

“After him!” Frank shouted, breaking cover. “He’s heading for the river!”

Frank and Joe plunged down the path they had discovered earlier. But already an outboard motor was kicking into life. The brothers raced to the river’s edge in time to see a small green boat carrying one man put-put out onto the bright, moonlit water.

The man crouched in the stern, anxiously watching the shore. The moonlight revealed his features.

“The limousine driver!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER XI

A Suspicious Captain

BOTH boys stared after the motorboat, now only a dark spot in the distance. It was headed down the river toward the bay. Soon it had disappeared around a bend.

“Are you sure it was the limousine driver?” Frank demanded.

“Positive. It’s the third time I’ve seen him. This proves our theory, Frank. The harbor thieves are using this house. Are they responsible for the scream and the warning notes?”

Just then they heard a rustle of brush from the top of the wooded path. “Frank … Joe?” called Chet’s quavering voice. “Is that you I hear talking?”

“No!” Frank shouted laughingly. “We’re two ghosts!”

Switching on their flashlights, the brothers climbed back up the path. “Hi, detective!” Joe greeted a somewhat crestfallen Chet Morton revealed in the beam of his flashlight. “What’s the big idea of scaring off our quarry?”

“Oh-h,” Chet moaned. “Me—scaring him! I was standing here, and this ghostly white thing—”

“What you’re talking about is a man in a white T-shirt,” Frank wryly informed him. “And, thanks to you, he’s made a clean getaway down the river.”

Joe made a grimace of mock despair. “What were you up to, tailing us?”

In a meek voice Chet explained. “When you said I’d have to turn detective to find out about your case, I took your advice. So I shadowed you out here all the way from your house.”

“Okay, you win, Chet,” Frank sighed.

The three boys started together down Willow River Road for home. “You might as well work with us. Better give us a day or two, though. By then we should have an assignment for you— Detective Morton.”

The chunky boy agreed with alacrity. A block from their house Chet picked up his jalopy.

“We’ll keep you posted,” Frank promised him.

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, the boys drove downtown to the Bayport and Eastern Steamship Company offices.

“Captain Stroman?” repeated the secretary at the reception desk. “Yes, he’s here, boys, but I’m afraid he’s too occupied to see you.”

“Tell the captain it’s about a jade necklace,” Frank said.

The girl gave the Hardys a startled look and retreated to an inner office. She returned shortly and directed them to go in.

A tall, red-haired man, wearing the black uniform of the merchant marine, with gold bars and stars on the sleeve to indicate his master’s rank, stood behind a heavy mahogany desk. Before the Hardys had a chance to speak, Captain Stroman demanded gruffly:

“What do you boys know about the jade necklace?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” Frank answered. “We were hoping you would tell us about the theft.”

“Why should I? Who are you, anyhow?”

Quickly Frank introduced himself and Joe, then went on, “We have a motorboat here at the harbor, a blue-and-white outboard called the Sleuth.”

“What?” the captain’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “A blue-and-white boat? Just a minute!” Watching the boys closely, he picked up a telephone. “Give me police headquarters. Chief Collig.”

“Wait! You don’t understand!” Joe protested.

Frank restrained his brother. “Maybe it’ll be easier this way.”

“Chief Collig?” the captain spoke into the phone. “Two boys named Hardy are in my office. Say they own that boat my mate spotted hanging around the Sea Bright the night of the theft. They’re asking about the jade. I’ll hold them till you get here. … What? What’s that you say?”

By the captain’s change of expression from suspicion to amazement, Frank and Joe could tell that Chief Collig was setting him straight on the events of the day in question.

“Right, Chief,” said Stroman and hung up. He turned to the boys and said, “Seems I’ve made a mistake. When you lose a rare collector’s item that has taken you a lifetime to find, you’re apt to be suspicious of people. I apologize.”

“Chief Collig told us you’d gone to the insurance company,” Frank said.

The captain nodded. “They’re putting a private detective on the case immediately.” He paused. “By the way, what is your interest in this matter?”

“A friend of ours had a jade collection stolen the night before last,” Joe explained. “We think your necklace may have been taken by the same man. Did you happen to get a look at him?”

“Unfortunately, no. It was the busy time of night and I was superintending the unloading of cargo. Several new dock workers were on board. Any one of them might have slipped unnoticed into my cabin.”

“But what’s this about the Sleuth?” Frank queried.

“My mate saw your boat, but thought nothing of it at the time. There were two men aboard. The mate had only a brief glimpse of them.”

Though disappointed at the captain’s lack of further information, Frank and Joe promised to do all they could to recover the precious jade. When they were outside, Frank suggested that they make the rounds of the art and jewelry stores in Bayport to see if the thieves had tried to sell any of the jade. They started near the docks where there were a number of shops specializing in imported and unusual goods. The two made queries in one after another. None of the dealers, however, had bought any jade objects within the past two months.

“We’ll move uptown,” Joe said.

Doggedly they went to two large stores of the same type in the center of Bayport. Still no results.

“If I’d stolen a valuable collection,” Joe said suddenly, “I wouldn’t try to sell it here, either.”

“Well—where would you go?”

“To Mr. Swarts!” Joe declared.

“Of course!” Frank exclaimed. “Just the place! Let’s go!”

Quickly he headed their car across town to a little out-of-the-way antique shop which the boys had checked for stolen goods on several occasions. Frank parked in front of the drab brick building, and the boys hurried down the steps to a small store below street level. In the window piles of odds and ends were jumbled with genuine treasures.

As they entered, a gray-haired man with steel-rimmed spectacles looked at them across a wooden counter.

“Hello, boys!” he called in greeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Swarts,” said Joe. “Say, has anybody tried to sell you some fine jade lately?”

The man started. “Funny you should ask that. Fellow was in just this morning, early. He had a nice set of chessmen and a necklace with him.”

“Did you buy them?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Ho, ho! No.” Mr. Swarts laughed. “He wanted too much for them. Needed money, he said. So? Am I supposed to overpay him out of charity?”

“What did he look like, Mr. Swarts?”

The owner considered a moment. “Oh, big tall fellow, middle-aged, wore rimless glasses. Had on a summer suit and straw hat.”

“Sounds like Mr. Dalrymple!” Frank exclaimed.

“Oh—you know him?” asked the proprietor, mistaking the reason for their outburst. “Good. I just remembered these.”

He fished in his pocket, then laid on the counter a little chain with three keys. “See that he gets these back, will you?”

Joe glanced at the keys quickly and pocketed them. “I certainly will!”

After thanking the man, the Hardys hastened from the store to the convertible.

“How do you like that!” Joe exclaimed. “Must have been Mr. Dalrymple’s double. He had the chessmen and the necklace! That proves one gang pulled both thefts!”

“Let’s see those keys,” Frank said, starting the car. “Hey! I recognize one.”

“You bet!” his brother crowed. “It’s the key to the old lock on the Sleuth! We’ll soon find out about the other two. Make tracks fast to our laboratory, driver!”

“Yes, sir!” responded Frank in high spirits.

Soon the car pulled into the Hardy driveway. Before they could start upstairs to the lab, however, the kitchen door slammed. The thin, energetic figure of Aunt Gertrude fairly flew at them.

“There you are! What are you up to? Oh, I knew when your parents went to Maine, there’d be trouble. Don’t stand there gaping. Out with it!”

“Aunt Gertrude,” Frank begged, “out with what?”

“No use trying to hide it. A private detective has just been here—to investigate you boys!”

CHAPTER XII

Meteor Special

SPEECHLESS, Frank and Joe could only stare at each other. Nervously Aunt Gertrude continued:

“Imagine! A strange man coming to this house and asking all kinds of questions as though you were criminals!”

The boys piloted their excited aunt into the kitchen and made her sit down.

“What kind of ‘investigation’ do you think this is?” Joe asked his brother with keen curiosity.

“Maybe the fellow was from the insurance company,” Frank suggested. “Captain Stroman probably reported the Sleuth incident to him. Can you tell us more about it now, Auntie?”

Miss Hardy composed herself. “I was dusting the living room when the doorbell rang. A young man stood there and said his name was Mr. Smith.”

“Mr. Smith!” Joe hooted. “How phony can you get?”

Aunt Gertrude continued, “He said, ‘I’m a private eye.’ Then he flashed a wallet at me and showed his credentials.”

“Private eye!” Joe repeated indignantly. “He’s been reading too many corny detective stories.”

“What does this Mr. Smith look like, Aunt Gertrude?” Frank asked.

“Well he’s about thirty, I’d say. Not tall, not short. He wore a nice suit, and a gray fedora hat. And … he had a little toothbrush mustache!”

“Was it false?” Joe queried.

“How should I know?” their aunt snapped, her energetic self again. “I didn’t study him through a magnifying glass!”

“That’s what we need now,” said Frank. “A magnifying glass.” He looked at Joe significantly. “Because I think we have the keys to this mystery!”

In answer, Joe jingled his pocket. “Let’s go!”

“Don’t you dare!” cried Aunt Gertrude. “No detective work until you have a decent lunch.”

The brothers were famished, and gladly complied. Twenty minutes later there was not a crumb left of the roast-beef sandwiches and the apple pie Miss Hardy had made.

“Delicious, Auntie,” Frank declared.

“Thanks for stopping us,” Joe added.

Their aunt beamed. The boys excused themselves and hastened to their lab. Joe brought out the three keys for examination.

“The first is the key to the Sleuth all right,” Frank confirmed, fitting it to the original lock. “This second one is the kind used in ordinary door locks.”

“The third is an automobile ignition key,” Joe reported. “We’ll soon find out what kind of car it’s for.”

In Fenton Hardy’s laboratory next to the boys’, he kept a photograph file of ignition keys for all automobiles of domestic and foreign manufacture. Frank and Joe went to compare these to the key dropped by Mr. Dalrymple’s mysterious double at Swarts’ shop.

“Start with the American makes,” Frank proposed, “and take this year’s models first.”

The suggestion proved a good one. In less than five minutes the key had been identified as belonging to the current year’s Meteor Special.

“The Special—that’s the big Meteor—the limousine!” Joe noted with excitement. “Frank, it could have been the car that nearly hit us!”

“And there probably aren’t too many of them around,” Frank reasoned. “The next step is to find out who owns Meteor Specials in this area. We’ll need police help.”

Joe agreed. He suggested that Frank make the trip to headquarters. “I want to stay here and do some lab work. Mr. Dalrymple lent me those first two threatening notes. Let me have the third one. I’ll do a handwriting analysis on it.”

Accordingly, Frank drove to the handsome stone building that housed Bayport’s police headquarters. He was allowed to see Chief Collig immediately.

“Anything new on the harbor thieves?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” the chief replied tersely. “As you recall, Joe reported he’d seen a man climbing down from the Sea Bright into the Napoli just before he went after it. I had Captain Stroman check his ship to be sure that nothing more was gone. None of the crew reported anything missing, so we assumed the thieves came away empty-handed that time.”

“Didn’t they?” Frank asked.

“They did not. They took a diamond ring and several fine gold gifts from one of the crew members.”

“Why wasn’t it noticed before?” Frank queried.

“The night the jade was stolen, the sailor was taken ill suddenly and removed to sick bay. He had left his locker standing open when he was stricken. Of course he didn’t miss his valuables until he returned to his quarters this morning.”

Frank looked serious. “The thieves must have spotted that open locker when they took the jade, but were afraid to take the time to go through it.”

The chief nodded. “So they came back. They’re getting bolder and bolder!” Collig frowned deeply. “Well,” he said, “you wouldn’t be down here, Frank, unless you’d turned up something.”

Frank told him what they had found out at Swarts’ antique store, and of the keys dropped by the man resembling Mr. Dalrymple.

“Good work!” exclaimed Chief Collig. “So the fellow was trying to peddle Stroman’s necklace and Applegate’s chess set! That certainly links the two thefts.”

Frank nodded. “Look at this key. It’s the ignition key to a late model Meteor Special.”

Chief Collig understood immediately. “Very likely the car the harbor thieves used!”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “Could we get a list of all the owners of such cars in the area? Then we can check them out, one by one.”

“I’ll call the State Motor Vehicle Bureau right away.” The chief looked troubled. “With all my men in the harbor, I can’t spare anybody to run down this lead.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Frank promised, “as soon as you can give me the owners’ names.”

Relieved, Chief Collig remarked with a smile, “So Captain Stroman suspected at first you were crooks?”

“That’s not all.” Frank laughed and briefly told of “Mr. Smith’s” call on Aunt Gertrude.

Here the chief eyed Frank with a twinkle. “And how’s your other business coming?”

“What other business, Chief?”

“The appointment you had yesterday at the Purdy place—”

He was interrupted by the buzzing of the desk telephone. The policeman picked up the instrument and listened a moment.

“For you,” he said, handing over the phone.

“Frank?” Joe’s tone was insistent.

“What’s up?”

“Can’t tell now. Just get home—fast.”

Frank drove back as rapidly as he could through the afternoon traffic. He found Joe and Aunt Gertrude in the living room.

“One thing after another,” Miss Hardy was complaining. “First that private eye, and now this! It’s enough to make a person wish she didn’t have a detective in the family.”

“What happened?” Frank demanded. Joe’s face was serious as he handed his brother a sheet of stationery.

“Came in the mail just now,” Joe said, “addressed to Aunt Gertrude.”

Frank read the warning scrawled on the sheet.

“If you value your nephews’ lives, tell them to mind their own business.“

“A death threat,” Aunt Gertrude declared vehemently. “Now maybe you’ll give up chasing harbor thieves!”

“Not a chance, Auntie!” Joe exclaimed. “I checked the handwriting. This note was written by the same person who threatened Mr. Dalrymple!”

“Oh, my lands, what’s the difference? It’s still a death threat!” Aunt Gertrude cried.

“There’s a big difference,” Joe stated. “I’m glad you got this letter.”

His aunt stared at him in bewilderment but Frank nodded understanding. “I get it,” he said. “We thought we weren’t making headway on Mr. Dalrymple’s case. This note proves that we are. We have somebody worried!”

“You have me worried.” Aunt Gertrude sighed. “Mr. Dalrymple is in danger and so are you!”

At that moment the telephone rang. Aunt Gertrude started. “If it’s another threat—” She broke off as Frank took the call. He picked up a pencil from the stand and jotted something on a pad.

“That was Chief Collig,” Frank announced after he had hung up. “The motor vehicle office has eight owners of Meteor Specials registered in this area. Here’s the list. One is a Mr. Henry Nichols, who lives closest to us. Come on, Joe. Let’s go!”

CHAPTER XIII

The Eavesdropper

MR. HENRY NICHOLS’ home turned out to be a large one in Bayport’s most attractive residential section.

“Frank!” Joe grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed to the garage. Showing through the open door were the black fenders and shining grille of a new Meteor Special!

“Good afternoon, boys!” called an old man seated in a rocking chair on the front porch. “Hot weather.”

“Sure is,” Frank agreed. “Are you Mr. Nichols?”

“Yes sirree.” The old man was very thin and weak looking, but his light-blue eyes were lively.

“I’ve been Henry Nichols seventy-nine years, now; eighty next April. Never minded it either, ‘cept when I was young. Then I used to wish I was somebody famous—”

“Henry!” called a voice just inside the screen door. “That’s enough!” A small, white-haired woman stood there. “What is it you boys want?”

Frank said politely, “We came to ask about your car.”

“Don’t drive those machines myself,” Mr. Nichols piped up. “I drove a team of horses and did some harness racing.”

Mrs. Nichols interrupted proudly, “Boys, I drive the car.”

“How do you like your Meteor Special?” Joe asked her.

“Rides nice. And it’s fast. I love a speedy car!”

Frank and Joe were amused by the couple, but did not smile. “Do a lot of driving?” Frank asked.

“Well, shopping downtown, and to church.”

Mr. Nichols chuckled. “When Ma gets to going, I say to myself, ‘Henry, buckle your seat belt!’”

Frank and Joe grinned, but thought Mrs. Nichols’ Meteor clearly was not the one they were after. “Thanks for your time,” Frank said to the couple. “We’re very much interested in Meteor Specials.”

Back in their convertible, the Hardys looked at the seven remaining names on the list. It was now late in the afternoon.

“We’d better split up, if we’re going to cover these people,” Frank advised. “I’ll drive you home, so you can get Dad’s car.”

When the Hardys returned home from their quest, each reported no luck. None of the owners of Meteor Specials had resembled Mr. Dalrymple.

“There’s one possible answer,” Frank deduced. “The car this key belongs to may have been brought here from a distance. Probably it’s using stolen plates.”

“Yes, but where is it?” Joe wondered.

The young detectives were forced to go to bed with the question unanswered.

The next morning after breakfast Frank and Joe found a bright and eager Chet Morton seated on the Hardy doorstep. “You said to give you a day or two, so here I am!” he announced.

“Right on schedule.” Joe grinned as the brothers sat down with their friend. They told him of their efforts to catch the harbor thieves, solve Mr. Dalrymple’s mystery, and find the missing jade articles.

“Wow! I can hardly keep ‘em all straight!” said the stout boy. “Well, I’ll be on the lookout for that Meteor Special!”

“Good,” responded Joe. “If you spot it, let us know on the double.”

“Count on me!” Raising his right hand, and placing his left over his heart, Chet declaimed, “Let it never be said that Chet Morton forsook his companions in the hour of distress. Let the thieves do their worst! Chet Morton defies them!”

“Okay, okay!” Frank laughed. “Is Chet Morton ready to go now?”

“Lead on,” Chet said, waving. “I follow. But where?”

“To see Mr. Dalrymple,” Frank replied. “It’s time he knew his property’s being used by the harbor thieves.”

“And we’ll show him the warning that was sent to Aunt Gertrude,” Joe added.

Soon the Hardys’ convertible was carrying the three boys along the highway from Bayport to Lakeside. Once in town, they drove to the leading bank, of which Mr. Dalrymple was an officer.

He received the boys in his office, and listened intently as the Hardys told of their suspicions.

“Criminals using my house!” he exploded. “Outrageous! But it explains the notes. Those thieves are trying to scare me away, and you boys, too!”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “But it still doesn’t explain how the messages were put into the time-locked room.”

“That’s true,” the banker admitted. “What else have you found?”

Frank described the theft of the jade necklace Captain Stroman had purchased for his wife in the Orient. “Probably by the same thief who stole Hurd Applegate’s collection.”

To the boys’ surprise, Mr. Dalrymple disagreed sharply. “No connection at all!” he snapped. “I’m convinced that Applegate is suffering from hallucinations. His whole story is preposterous!”

The boys rose to leave, promising to keep the banker posted. To their disappointment, he had again forgotten to have a set of house keys made. Back on the road to Bayport, the young detectives considered Dalrymple’s remark about Mr. Applegate.

“What do you think, Frank?” Joe asked. “Did Hurd Applegate really lose any jade?”

Frank said emphatically, “I think Mr. Dalrymple’s still angry about being called a thief. But it won’t hurt to have another talk with Mr. Applegate.”

Suddenly both Hardys noticed that Chet’s attention had been diverted. He stared longingly ahead.

“What’s so interesting?” Joe asked.

“Don’t pass it,” pleaded Chet.

“Pass what?”

“That milk bar up there. They serve a terrific sundae, covered with whipped cream, cherries, and nuts. It’s called a Bigloo Igloo. Come on, fellows. It’s lunchtime.”

“Okay.” Frank laughed.

The yellow convertible turned in and stopped before the little white building. Soon the boys were seated together in a booth.

“Four Bigloo Igloos,” ordered Chet, when the waitress came over.

“But there are only three of you, sir,” the waitress protested.

“Four sundaes, miss,” Chet repeated grandly. “Never fear—we shall dispose of them!”

The waitress shrugged and went off. The place was filled with people on their lunch hour, and there was a lively hubbub. A juke box was playing continuously. Suddenly, through the noise, Frank heard a voice behind him say:

“… it will happen while the clock ticks.”

The youth abruptly stood up, whirling, for a look at the speaker. His foot swung out into the aisle, tripping the waitress, who was returning with the boys’ order!

Crash! Down went the girl. Up went four enormous Bigloo Igloo sundaes. Chet Morton stared aghast as two of them came down on his head. The others had found resting places on the floor.

Above the shrieks of the waitress, and the roars of laughter from the other customers, Frank cried, “Joe! Those two men who just went out—we must catch them!”

Pushing through the clogged aisle, the brothers paid the disconcerted waitress, then emerged from the milk bar in time to see a black car carrying two men speed away in the direction of Bayport.

“The fellow driving was tall—looked a lot like Dalrymple!” called Frank as he sprinted for the convertible.

Joe followed, hurrying Chet, head still streaked with ice cream, along in front of him. They climbed into their car and gave chase.

The convertible slewed into the road with a squeal of rubber on concrete. By this time the other car was only a black dot on the highway ahead. Grimly, Frank pressed the accelerator to the floor.

“If it’s the Meteor Special, you’ll never catch it,” Chet grumbled.

“That car wasn’t a Meteor,” Frank told him.

The highway rose, dipped, and turned. Sometimes the black dot was visible, sometimes not. Then, with a long straightaway in sight, it seemed to have disappeared altogether.

“They’ve ducked into the Willow River Road!” Frank guessed.

In a moment he made the turn himself, and raced along the familiar route. At the Purdy estate the gate was closed, and no car stood inside. Frank went on. He reached Shore Road without seeing a sign of the strange car.

“Lost them,” Frank muttered in disgust.

Joe, too, frowned dejectedly. “Well, we may as well go see Mr. Applegate at Tower Mansion,” he suggested. “It’s right on this road.”

The boys continued driving for some distance until finally they glimpsed an immense stone structure high on a hill, overlooking the bay. The palatial building had the appearance of a feudal castle because of the two huge stone towers which arose from the far ends of it. Joe and Frank never failed to be impressed by the enormity of the old Tower Mansion and its well-kept, fence-enclosed grounds whenever their car climbed the wide driveway that led to the front entrance.

The elderly Mr. Applegate looked sad as he opened the door, yet he seemed glad to see the Hardys and their friend. He invited them into his living room.

“Boys,” the old man said, “you helped me when my stamps were stolen, and I would have been lost without you the other night. If you can possibly get back my jade, I’ll see that you’re rewarded.”

“You mean you want us to take the case, Mr. Applegate?” Joe asked.

“You can find my jade collection, if anybody can!” the elderly man declared firmly.

Suddenly Joe, Chet, and Hurd Applegate stared at Frank Hardy in astonishment. He had risen quietly from his chair and was tiptoeing stealthily toward the side window!

“What—what is it?” Chet gasped.

“Somebody in the yard—listening to us!” Frank whispered. With that, he raced through the house toward the rear door.

CHAPTER XIV

Sudden Attack

As FRANK burst from the back door, a man hurdled the hedge at the end of the Applegates’ garden and sprinted through the rear of the property. The eavesdropper’s tan sports jacket flapped behind him as he ran. He scaled the iron picket fence with the agility of a monkey and dropped to the roadway beyond. The man glanced backward, and Frank saw that he was heavily bearded.

“Up we go, fellows!” Frank urged.

In seconds the young sleuth, too, had cleared the fence. Behind him came Joe’s pounding footsteps. Chet Morton, panting audibly, brought up the rear. They, too, scaled the fence.

Frank was looking up and down the roadway, puzzled. His quarry was no longer in sight. A young man wearing a striped blue jacket stood on the opposite side of the road, staring at two large, newly constructed houses.

Instantly Frank called to him. “Hey! Seen a man with a beard?”

“Right there … between those houses.” The young man pointed. “Was he running away from you?”

Frank and his companions did not reply, but raced on between the houses. Still no sign of the stranger. The boys were in the midst of a housing development.

While Frank hurried forward to inspect the next street, Joe and Chet searched every possible hiding place in the yards. But it was no use. The boys had lost the eavesdropper completely.

“Bad break for us,” Joe grumbled.

As the breathless trio retraced their steps, they noticed that the stranger in the blue jacket had disappeared. “Do you suppose he was telling the truth?” Chet asked. The Hardys shrugged.

Hurd Applegate was waiting for them on his back porch. “No luck, Mr. Applegate,” said Joe to the old collector. “But we’ll take your case. We’ll find the stolen jade!”

Ten o’clock the next morning found the Hardy boys on the sidewalks of downtown Bayport. They were on their way to police headquarters to check on any new developments in the harbor mystery.

It was a hot, sunny day. Already the stores were lowering awnings over their display windows.

“Frank, look!” Joe pointed to a tall figure in a straw hat. His back was turned as he inspected the contents of a store window across the street. “It’s Dalrymple. Wonder what’s he doing in town?”

“We’d better speak to him,” responded Frank. “He might be on his way to the Purdy place in spite of our warning.”

Crossing at the corner, the boys went up and touched their client’s shoulder. As the man whirled, Frank and Joe stepped back in surprise. He was not Mr. Dalrymple!

“What d’you want?” the stranger demanded roughly.

“You’re the man who stole Hurd Applegate’s jade!” Joe fearlessly accused him.

“What jade? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never saw you before! You watch your tongue. I could sue you!”

Shoving past the boys, he darted around some pedestrians and threw himself into the front seat of a black car parked at the curb. At that moment the light changed to green. The stranger’s automobile was sucked into a river of traffic which surged forward until the light changed.

“Why did we let him go?” Joe stormed.

“We could be wrong,” Frank told his brother. “Anyway, I got the license number. We’ll give it to Chief Collig.”

“It wasn’t a Meteor Special,” Joe noted. “Maybe that’s the car we chased yesterday!”

Eagerly the boys hurried to headquarters.

“So you think you may have seen the thief!” Collig exclaimed. “Your friend Dalrymple just called. He doesn’t believe such a man as his double exists.”

“He exists all right,” answered Frank. “Here’s the number of the car he was driving.”

Immediately the resources of a modern police department were brought into play. The strange car was found to be registered in the name of James Black of Bayport. When questioned on the telephone, Mr. Black said he was about to call the police himself—to report that his car had been stolen!

“Better come down and tell us about it, Mr. Black,” said the officer into the phone. Within half an hour a well-dressed, slight, middle-aged man was escorted by a patrolman into the chief’s office. Frank and Joe, meanwhile, had concealed themselves in an adjoining room.

“Tell us about your car, Mr. Black,” the chief began. “Where do you keep it?”

“Why … in my garage.”

Frank and Joe noted that, while facing the chief, the man kept averting his eyes.

“Mighty bold thief, to take your car from your garage,” Chief Collig remarked.

“As a matter of fact, it was parked at the curb in front of the house.”

“When? Last night?”

“Yes—that’s it—last night.”

“So, Mr. Black, your car was stolen sometime last night. Must have upset you!”

“Yes,” the man stammered. “I—I’ve been a nervous wreck ever since I discovered it was gone—right after I got up this morning.”

“Of course. What time do you get up?”

“About seven.”

“And you noticed the car was gone then?” pursued the chief. “It was ten-thirty when I called you, Mr. Black. You say you were upset about your car being stolen, yet you let three hours go by before reporting it to the police!”

For a moment James Black blinked in silence, obviously disconcerted.

“Here, you can’t browbeat me this way,” he blustered. “I—I just didn’t realize my car was actually stolen, that’s all. You act like you’re trying to accuse me of a crime!”

“If you ask me, Mr. Black, you act like a man who’s been accused of a crime.”

“Well, you haiven’t anything on me,” the stranger snapped suddenly. “I don’t have a record. You can’t hold me without charges.”

“Charges?” said Collig politely. “I thought you came to make a complaint, Mr. Black. Now that you’ve made it, you may as well go.”

As soon as the man had left, Frank and Joe stepped into the office.

“That guy might be on the level,” declared Joe. “But he sure doesn’t give me that impression.”

Chief Collig nodded agreement. “We’ll watch him,” he promised. “Best way to catch a crook is to make him believe you’ve decided he’s innocent.”

When the brothers reached home, Aunt Gertrude was on the phone talking with Chet. “Here they come now,” she said. “But no sleuthing this afternoon. Our grass is high enough to turn a herd of cows into, and the flower beds are full of weeds. Frank and Joe aren’t going off this property until the place looks respectable again.”

As Miss Hardy turned the phone over to Frank, she gave him a look which plainly meant, “No arguments!”

For this reason dusk was falling before the two detectives were free to leave. As the street lights winked on, a ten-year-old car pulled up in front of the Hardys’ house. Flashlights in hand, Frank and Joe came down to join Chet Morton, who sat at the car’s wheel.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Tonight we try out the third key on the chain the jeweler gave us,” Frank replied as they drove off. “My guess is that it fits the front door in the Purdy homestead.”

It was totally dark when the friends concealed Chet’s car a distance down Willow River Road, and walked to the Purdy grounds. They crept stealthily along the wall. Finding the gate unlocked, they slipped through it.

The old mansion looked up, solid and dark, against a star-filled sky. The moon had not yet risen. Silently Frank tiptoed up the front steps and tried the key.

“Doesn’t fit,” he whispered, rejoining the other boys. “Wish Dalrymple hadn’t forgotten the spare set of keys.”

The three slipped around to the back door. But again the key would not fit.

“Cellar door,” suggested Joe, feeling his way to the bulkhead nearby.

Frank inserted the key. “It works!” he whispered excitedly. “The fellow must keep the front-door key separate.”

Silently he and Joe raised the heavy doors. Frank pocketed the key, and the three cautiously went down the steps into the blackness below.

The boys dared not use their flashlights, lest the beams be seen through the chinks in the flooring overhead. Frank and Joe led the way across the dank, musty cellar. Chet, shuddering a bit, followed as closely as possible. Suddenly the plump boy gave a choked cry and sprang sideways.

Crash—clatter!

Silence. At once the Hardys turned on their flashlights. In the circle of light was Chet, lying half underneath a jumble of wooden boxes.

In a hoarse, terrified voice he gasped, “S-s-some-thing alive ran over m-my feet!” Frank looked about quickly. Then he pointed. “There it is—in the corner. A rat!”

Even as he spoke, the creature scurried out of sight. Chet, a bit shaken, was hauled to his feet, and the three advanced toward a stairway.

“Wait!” Frank commanded. “Someone’s upstairs!”

There were the sound of voices and the creaking of floor boards above them.

“The—thieves?” Chet gulped.

Joe started up the steps. “Let’s find out!” he said grimly.

The three boys found the door at the top of the stairs locked.

“All right,” Frank whispered. “If we can’t get in, we’ll get them out. Make all the racket you can. We’ll nab whoever comes out.”

Instantly the three boys pounded on the door, hammered the walls, shouted, and stamped on the steps. In a minute, above the pandemonium, came loud voices from inside.

“Hey! What’s goin’ on? Cops! A raid! Beat it!” Heavy footsteps tore through the house.

Still shouting, the three youths clattered down the steps and dashed across the cellar. As they emerged from the bulkhead, two black forms leaped from a window and made for the river.

Two black forms leaped from a window and made for the river

“Come on!” cried Joe. “We’ve got ‘em now!”

Pell-mell the brothers raced into the woods and onto the path. Chet followed as best he could. At the river the Hardys found a big, empty motorboat floating on the dark surface.

“The men are still around here,” said Frank tensely. “I—”

He never finished the sentence. The brothers were grabbed from behind by powerful arms and knocked to the ground. Their flashlights flew from their hands. A moment later Frank and Joe were gagged and bound tightly. Then they were dragged off and tumbled into the boat.

There was the sound of a man grunting. Then the motor whirred, caught, and roared.

The boat moved out on the water. Joe and Frank saw the black, receding shore on their right, and realized they were heading upriver. The brothers hoped fervently that Chet had escaped. The outlines of their captors rose above the prostrate boys. Against the stars they saw that one was tall. The other, at the tiller, was broad and husky, with a huge jutting jaw.

“The man who drove the limousine!” Joe told himself.

“What’ll we do with ‘em?” muttered the tall man, crouching down.

Frank and Joe waited with pounding hearts for a reply. It came.

“Dump ‘em overboard!”

CHAPTER XV

The Vanishing Car

TO FRANK and Joe, lying bound in an inch of water at the bottom of the boat, it seemed they had been speeding up the dark river for hours. The boys’ arms and fingers were numb where the coarse ropes bit into their flesh, cutting off circulation. The tall man sat guard over them on a middle seat. At long intervals he would argue with the tough, large-jawed man steering the boat.

“We’d be crazy to dump these kids, Sid,” he muttered. “Kidnaping’s bad enough—it’s a Federal offense.”

“Shut up, Benny. You’re yellow,” sneered his companion. “We’ll sink ‘em right along here somewhere. Get the sea anchor ready. That’ll do it.”

A chill went through the Hardys. Joe’s head was jammed between the side of the boat and the middle seat. Frantically he rubbed his head against both, hoping to loosen his gag.

“I tell ya I won’t have any part of it!” said Benny.

“Don’t then. I’ll do it myself!”

The muscular crook throttled down and stood up to move forward. Just as he did, Joe finally worked his gag loose.

“Help!” he shouted. “Help! Quick!”

As the two thieves advanced on the boy, powerful lights flashed on along shore. The full-throated roar of a big launch was heard. A siren wailed, and the motorboat was caught in the long beam of a spotlight.

Instantly the heavily built man leaped back to the stern and jammed his throttle wide open. The boat raced into the darkness.

“That won’t save you,” yelled Joe, fearful that the two desperate men might throw their captives overboard to slow up their pursuers. “The police have stations all along this river. You’re as good as caught.”

In answer, the big-jawed driver slammed the tiller from side to side. The craft lunged crazily, trying to escape the search beam.

“You’ll wreck us!” screamed the tall man in terror.

“Yes—just like you two wrecked the Napoli in the bay,” cried Joe on a sudden hunch. “You don’t know this river any more than you knew the harbor. It’s night and you’re running without lights. The water’s deep here. You won’t get out of this wreck alive!”

“He’s right—we haven’t a chance, Sid,” the tall man pleaded. “Stop her!”

There was a quick warning burst of machinegun fire. Muttering, Sid killed his motor. A white glare bathed the whole boat. The heavy hull of the police launch drew alongside, and a stout figure jumped into the thieves’ craft.

“Chet!” Joe cried joyously.

“You’re here—and safe!” Chet cried out in relief. Quickly he freed his two chums, while their captors were handcuffed by two officers and taken aboard the launch.

As the launch turned and headed for Bayport, the Hardys leaned back in relief. Frank said, “Good work, Chet. You and the police got here just in time!”

“I saw those toughs jump you and start up-river,” the plump boy explained. “I ran like mad for the car and raced to the police substation up here. They radioed for a launch. Soon as it arrived, I got on. We started checking all boats and docks. Then we heard you yell, Joe.”

“Lucky for us, partner,” Frank declared gratefully, rubbing his wrists.

The police launch docked briefly at the up-river substation.

“You boys pick up your car here,” said the commander of the boat. “We’ll meet you at Bayport headquarters with these two customers.”

After a bracing cup of hot broth at the substation, Frank, Joe, and Chet left for Bayport in Chet’s car. At police headquarters they found Chief Collig and the officers with him thwarted by the thugs’ refusal to admit anything.

“We don’t know nothin’ about any waterfront robberies,” Sid snarled. “You got evidence? You can’t touch us without evidence!”

“We’ll charge you with kidnaping!” snapped Chief Collig. “That’ll do for a start.”

The man called Benny looked uncertain, but his accomplice taunted, “Yeah? That won’t tell you what you want to know.”

At this point Frank spoke up. “Chief, I have a strong hunch there’s evidence at the Purdy place. Let Chet, Joe, and me get it!”

“Good idea,” agreed the chief. “Tomlin, take a prowl car and go with them.”

For the second time that night the friends drove out to the old house. On this visit they rode up to the house, following Officer Tomlin, and let themselves in through the open window from which the thugs had escaped.

Soon lights were blazing in every room of the old mansion as the three boys and the policeman went from room to room, searching.

“Look here!” Chet yelled, as he pulled open the door of a corner cupboard in the dining room and revealed a number of cardboard cartons.

Tomlin and the Hardys lifted them down and opened one. It proved to contain carefully wrapped pieces of solid silver imprinted with a foreign hallmark.

“It’s part of the stolen loot, all right,” Tomlin pronounced. “But it wasn’t here the last time we searched.”

Eagerly the four peered into the other boxes, and found an assortment of fine china, expensive jewelry, and a diamond ring and gold articles which matched the description of the crewman’s missing valuables.

Joe frowned. “I don’t see Hurd Applegate’s collection or Captain Stroman’s jade necklace.”

Again the searchers went to work. They examined the third floor, the attic, and the cellar, but found nothing more.

“This is enough evidence to confront those two crooks with, anyhow,” said Tomlin finally. “They must’ve stowed the stuff here right after the chief’s search. I’ll run it in now.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “We’ll follow you as soon as we pick up our flashlights. We lost them on the riverbank.”

They retrieved the two flashlights at the foot of the river path. The three boys passed the big house, now dark and silent once more, and walked down the driveway.

“That place gives me the willies,” muttered Chet, as Frank closed the gate. “I still have the creepy feeling that somebody’s in there, watching everything that goes on.”

They reached Chet’s car and piled in. While Chet was digging for his keys, the boys heard the roar of an approaching automobile. The vehicle raced toward them without lights, veered sharply, and sped up to the Purdy gate. The driver leaped out, yanked open the gate, jumped back into the car, and drove through.

“After him!” urged Joe.

In a moment Chet had his ancient motor running and his headlights on. He made a quick U-turn and sped in pursuit through the gate, up the driveway to the house, and around to the other side where the road apparently ended.

Quickly the boys jumped out. Before them was the dense brush which covered most of the estate. Saplings, heavily draped with leafy vines, rose up like a wall in the glare of the headlights.

Frank got down and examined the ground. “Tire tracks leading straight into the brush,” he reported, puzzled.

Joe impulsively stepped up to the leafy wall. He grasped a hanging vine and pulled hard. The whole green tangle slid along a tree branch, like a drapery!

“A hidden road!” declared Chet in wonder.

He turned out the lights of his car. Then, cautiously, the three set out on foot along the mysterious road.

At intervals they could make out bits of sky through the leaves overhead. They halted abruptly when something black and solid loomed up ahead of them. After listening carefully and hearing nothing, Frank risked the use of his flashlight.

In its beam they saw a small tumble-down barn with a gaping doorway. Frank stooped to examine the ground. Tire tracks led straight to the dilapidated building!

Joe flicked on his flashlight and the three boys stepped warily inside the barn. The front of the old structure was empty to the roof, but in the far half of the barn was an old haymow.

The front beam supporting the loft was sagging, and the dusty hay, closely matted together, spilled forward over it like a stationary waterfall. The cascade of hay formed a curtain reaching almost to the floor of the barn.

“Boy!” said Chet. “Bet that hay’s been here since Jason Purdy died.”

“Then why is this pitchfork so new?” Joe pointed to a tool nearby with three slender steel tines, and a clean-grained wooden handle.

“And where’s that car?” asked Frank.

He had a sudden inspiration. Frank pushed his arms through the hanging of old hay. His knuckles rapped wood. Tearing the hay aside, the boy laid bare a broad sheet of plywood with a handle.

Eagerly Frank grasped the handle. A door rolled smoothly open.

Joe and Chet gasped. There, in a secret garage underneath the hayloft, was the back end of a late-model Meteor Special!

Frank already had penetrated to the other end of the garage. “Motor’s still hot,” he called back. “She must have just been driven in.”

Chet and Joe rushed over. “I get it,” said Joe. “After the car’s in, they pull down some more hay from the loft to hide the plywood. That’s what the pitchfork is for.”

“Sh!” Chet put a warning finger to his lips. “Hear something? A kind of moaning?”

Frank played his light around the garage. Nothing. He shone the flash into the back seat of the Meteor Special.

“Good night!” he exclaimed, staring.

On the floor of the car a man lay bound and gagged.

CHAPTER XVI

A Missing Client

CHET gulped. “S-somebody got him, too!” While he and Joe held the flashlights, Frank reached into the car and cut the groaning man’s bonds. Slowly and painfully he clambered out, smoothing his rumpled clothes.

“Say!” Joe cried. “We’ve seen you before!”

He was the young man in the striped blue jacket they had encountered while chasing the eavesdropper. At this moment, instead of being grateful for the rescue, the man glared angrily. He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his glistening forehead. As he did, something fell to the ground.

Joe recognized the object instantly and scooped it up. “A false beard!”

“You were the one listening under Hurd Applegate’s window!” Frank accused the stranger. “Okay. Now spill it! Why the disguise—what’s your game?”

The Hardys gripped the man’s arms. His angry manner changed to one of sullen defeat. “All right, all right. Let go of me,” he muttered. “So I was the eavesdropper. A fat lot of good it did me! Even this jacket didn’t help except once.” He pulled open the jacket. “See? Tan on the inside. When you guys came after me I just reversed it and took off my beard.”

“And sent us on a false trail,” Joe scowled. “Keep talking!”

“I’m a private detective—at least, I thought I was. After this, I feel like giving up the business!”

Frank’s mind raced. “Private detective, eh? You’re the ‘Mr. Smith’ who questioned our Aunt Gertrude!”

The young man nodded. “Sam Allen is my real name. I’m supposed to find out about Captain Stroman’s stolen necklace. I heard you’d been to see him—that’s why I was checking on you. Well, I learned old Applegate had lost some jade, too. That big guy with the glasses—Arthur Jensen—was the one who took ‘em. That much I found out.”

“Arthur Jonsen?” repeated Frank, exchanging glances with Joe. It was the first time the Hardys had heard the name. But each wondered if Jensen and Mr. Dalrymple’s double were the same man.

“Yeah. I’ve been tailing him all over town,” Allen went on. “Finally I hid under a rug in the back seat of his car. I thought he’d lead me to Stroman’s necklace. Then I sneezed. Next thing, Jensen conked me and I was out like a light. When I came to, there I was all trussed up, with a lump on my head. Some detective!”

“Nobody’s perfect.” Frank smiled, satisfied that Sam Allen was telling the truth. “Let’s combine forces and search the estate for Jensen.”

Allen brightened. “You bet!”

The three boys and the humbled “private eye” entered the Purdy house through the still-open window, and made a thorough, but unsuccessful, search of the interior.

“He could be hiding anywhere in the underbrush,” Frank observed as they left the house. “We probably wouldn’t find him tonight. I suggest we report this to headquarters.”

The four drove back to town in Chet’s car.

“You can let me off at my motel,” Sam Allen told them. “I’ve had all the detective work I can stand for one night.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet headed for police headquarters. They found Chief Collig and his officers considerably more cheerful. The two thugs, Benny and Sid, sat uncomfortably on straight chairs in Collig’s office. A police clerk was taking notes rapidly in shorthand.

“These birds have been singing ever since I brought in the loot we found,” Officer Tomlin told the Hardys in an undertone. “The husky one is Sid Bowler. The string bean is Benny Vance.”

The boys took seats and listened intently.

“Yeah, we used to ‘borrow’ motorboats,” Bowler was saying. “We used ‘em to see if the coast was clear, and then to steal from the ships.”

“Steal what?” Collig prodded.

“Everything.”

“Including jade?” Frank Hardy suddenly broke in.

Bowler gave him a baleful glare. “Jade, too.”

“Who’s your leader?” Joe demanded.

“There ain’t any leader,” was the sullen answer. “There’s just me and Benny.”

“You mean you and Benny stole thousands of dollars’ worth of jade and other stuff on your own?” Joe snorted. “What a laugh! We know all about your big boss—Jensen.”

The two prisoners almost jumped from their chairs. “H-how did you find—”Benny began.

Sid turned on him. “You fool! Shut up!”

As Benny slumped in his seat, Frank pressed, “No use denying it, Bowler. Now, where’s Jensen—and the jade?”

“Find out yourself,” Bowler muttered. “If you do, you can pin the whole idea on Jensen.”

Chief Collig and his men were looking at the Hardys in amazement. The chief signaled them to continue questioning, if they wished.

Joe nodded. “What were you doing in the boat the night I chased you and Bowler?” he demanded of Benny Vance.

“We—we were looking for a chance to get on board the Sea Bright again that night and steal some stuff we’d missed.”

“Stuff you missed when you borrowed the Sleuth?”

“Yes. It was a double job, see,” Benny Vance explained, evidently eager to co-operate. “We stole Stroman’s jade necklace and old Applegate’s collection, too. Sid and I robbed the Sea Bright, Jensen and Black went to Applegate’s.”

“So Black’s in your gang?” Joe interrupted.

“Sure. Jensen went in and got Applegate to show him some of his best jade. Then he ran off with it, see? The old man chased him, and left his house empty.”

Sid Bowler put in with disgust, “That’s when Black was supposed to sneak in and get the rest. But he chickened out, so Jensen went back and got it just before you guys brought Applegate home. Black was supposed to meet us at the docks, but never showed. We had your blue-and-white boat ready to take him upriver to the Purdy place.”

Joe nodded. “And you met Jensen out there. He had the jade and you had the other loot.”

“Yeah.”

“Whose idea was it to start using privately owned boats?” Chief Collig asked the prisoners.

“Jensen’s,” Vance replied. “Soon as the cops started patrolling the roads, he had us ‘borrow’ different boats so we couldn’t be identified and the owners would be suspected.” The thief shook his head. “Things were getting hot, with the cops and these Hardy pests here. When we heard ‘em in the cellar tonight we thought for sure it was a raid.”

On Chief Collig’s orders, Bowler and Vance were led back to their cells. Then the officer turned to the boys and grinned. “Bring me up to date. How’d you unearth all this about Jensen?”

While the chief and other officers listened in astonishment, the Hardys poured out the story of the hidden garage and private detective Sam Allen. Frank handed over the ignition key.

“This practically wraps up the case!” declared Chief Collig enthusiastically. Rapidly he issued orders to one of his captains:

“Take every man available. Wait till daylight, and then search the house and grounds with a fine-tooth comb for Jensen and Black and the loot! Bring in the black Meteor when you come back.

“But in case those two thieves have already skipped town,” the chief turned to another officer, “I want a dragnet out beyond Bayport. Contact the county sheriff patrols and state police. We’ll send out an interstate alarm for these men.”

After the policemen had hurried off to carry out orders, Frank, Joe, and Chet were left alone with their old friend.

“You boys have done a job Fenton Hardy will be proud of,” Chief Collig told them. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. By tomorrow we’ll have this case wrapped up. Check with me tomorrow afternoon.”

The chief then proposed assigning a twenty-four-hour police guard at the Purdy place. The Hardys felt that this might hamper them in solving Mr. Dalrymple’s mystery.

“It may keep the crooks from returning,” Frank said quietly.

“True. I’ll let the place appear to be deserted,” Collig agreed. As the friends drove home through the quiet streets of the sleeping city, both Frank and Joe expressed misgivings.

“I don’t know,” said Frank, troubled. “Jensen and Black are still on the loose. And we don’t know where the jade is.”

“Also,” Joe reminded him, “the notes threatening Mr. Dalrymple haven’t been explained, or that weird scream we heard from the Purdy house the first night we went there.”

“Yes,” mused Joe. “I have a feeling this case is a long way from closed.”

“Some sleep will help,” grumbled Chet, yawning.

Early the next morning Frank telephoned to Mr. Dalrymple’s home in Lakeside. He wanted to report the previous night’s events at the old house, and also let him know about the cellar key. Receiving no answer, he called their client’s bank.

“Sorry, sir. Mr. Dalrymple hasn’t come in this morning. No one here knows where he is.”

All morning the two brothers remained at home, calling Lakeside at intervals. Shortly after lunch they drove down to police headquarters.

There they found Chief Collig weary from lack of sleep, and much less optimistic than he had been the previous night. He said Black had been picked up in a motel in another town. He was being brought to Bayport.

“We went over every inch of the Purdy place,” the chief complained. “Got the Meteor, but not a trace of Jensen, nor of the loot, either. The gang must have it hidden some place else. As for Jensen, we can only hope our dragnet will work.”

After the brothers left headquarters, Frank stepped into a public telephone booth to make another call to Dalrymple’s home. No answer. Then he tried the bank again. An assistant reported:

“Sorry, sir. Nobody has heard from him yet.”

“I don’t like it,” Frank told his brother with a frown. “We’d better get over to Lakeside.”

By late afternoon the Hardys’ yellow convertible was parked in front of the banker’s residence in the nearby city. But their knocks and calls went unanswered. All the doors were locked.

“We’d better get the police,” Frank said gravely, as he and Joe drove off.

Half an hour later the young detectives returned with a squad of policemen. “We suspect something’s happened to Mr. Dalrymple,” Frank told the sergeant in charge. “You’d better search the place.”

Two big policemen quickly forced the door. The handsome rooms of the house were in perfect order. There was no sign of Mr. Dalrymple.

The police sergeant promised to notify the boys of any new developments, then he and his men left. The Hardys somberly climbed into their own car. As they drove off, Frank confessed his worst fears. “I’m afraid Mr. Dalrymple’s been decoyed to the Purdy place, and is in danger. We’d better head for there.”

By now it was early evening. The Hardys’ car raced through the countryside. Storm clouds were piling up in the west. Suddenly, without warning, the car’s engine coughed and died.

In disgust, the Hardys got out and pushed the convertible to the side of the road. When a quick examination failed to locate the trouble, Frank said, “We can’t wait. We’ll have to walk.”

Dusk came on rapidly, as the two boys hurried along the highway. An hour’s hike brought them to the Willow Road turnoff. Finally they reached the darkened Purdy mansion. No police stopped them, nor were any in sight. Frank and Joe went to the cellar entrance.

“Lucky we have this key, anyhow,” said Frank.

Thunder rumbled in the black sky above as he unlocked the bulkhead. To their surprise, the brothers found the door to the kitchen unlocked. They opened it and tiptoed inside.

As the Hardys moved forward in the darkness into the living room, they were suddenly seized and thrown to the floor by someone of enormous strength. Though weary from their long walk, the boys fought back, but were overpowered by blows on the head. Frank, semiconscious, was dragged across the floor, shoved into a chair, and bound to it. A piece of cloth was tied tightly over his mouth. Then the sounds of struggling near him ceased. Joe too had been over-powered. There was silence, broken by a single repetitious:

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

There was something ominous about the steady, measured sound. Frank, still half dazed, wondered if his brother was in the same room, or had been taken to another part of the house.

Suddenly Frank became aware of stealthy footsteps approaching and heavy breathing. The boy felt the hairs on his scalp stiffen as he sensed the presence of someone next to his chair.

Was the person the boys’ attacker? Frank seethed with chagrin at being unable to defend himself. He tensed, expecting the worst.

CHAPTER XVII

A Dangerous Ticking

FRANK HARDY’S spine tingled as he waited for the unknown person’s first move. Then from the darkness came a gloating voice.

“So, we have trapped the young snoopers! How fortunate that we were ready for your arrival!”

Suddenly a low light was turned on, illuminating the living room. In a flash, Frank took in the whole scene. The old draperies had been drawn shut.

There was the immense grandfather’s clock in the corner. Nearby was his brother Joe, tightly lashed, like himself, to an old-fashioned high-backed chair. Confronting both boys was a tall, rather heavy-set man wearing glasses.

The brothers recognized him instantly—the person who resembled Mr. Dalrymple. He introduced himself as Arthur Jensen, ringleader of the harbor thieves!

“He must be the one who clobbered us when we came in,” Joe told himself. “The sneak!”

Now the man looked from one of his captives to the other. “Surprised you, didn’t I? Ha! That’ll teach you to meddle in other people’s business!”

Joe felt a sudden surge of anger. “Business!” he exclaimed to himself. “If we ever get out of this mess, I’ll show him!”

Meanwhile, Jensen went on triumphantly, “Yes, my young sleuths, we have many more surprises for you this evening. Your friend Dalrymple will be surprised, too. And, I might add, my resemblance to him has come in very handy.”

He gazed at the brothers mockingly. “You Hardys thought you were so bright. Yet you never dreamed that every time you and the police came in here, we were watching you.”

Although Frank and Joe gave no visible indication of fear, both realized that they were at the mercy of a clever, unscrupulous gangster. In spite of their predicament, however, the boys wondered who else had been “watching” them with Jensen, and from what point in the house.

Just then there came a squeaky noise from the direction of the clock. Jensen whirled around.

“Oh, Amos!” he called. “Come on out. We have visitors.”

While Frank and Joe stared in utter amazement, the huge clock and the wall section behind it began sliding to one side.

“Why,” Frank gave an inward gasp, “it’s a door, hidden by the clock attached to it!”

In another moment there emerged from the opening a gaunt, white-haired old man. He was clean shaven, and had kind blue eyes. He started forward, then stopped upon noticing the two boys.

“Mr. Jensen,” he said uncertainly, “these young men—visitors? But why are they bound up in this fashion?”

Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. Was this gentle-mannered, elderly man connected with Jensen’s racket? Somehow, he did not seem the type, they thought.

“You’ll understand in due time, Amos,” the gangster leader said with a sneer. Then, noticing the Hardys’ curious looks at the old man, Jensen added with mock courtesy, “Oh, excuse me. You haven’t been introduced. This, boys, is Mr. Amos Wandy, an inventor. Very clever, too. Amos, these young men are the Hardy brothers.”

Mr. Wandy nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember having seen them here. You said they were out to wreck your project. But really, they seem like harmless lads. I don’t think—”

“Never mind what you think!” Jensen told the old inventor in a ruthless tone. “Have you finished your job?”

“Yes, yes, I have.” Amos Wandy looked at Jensen with a perplexed expression. “It’s finished. No need to get excited.”

“Who’s excited!” snapped Jensen. “Bring that gadget out here!”

Mr. Wandy hastened through the opened wall section. Arthur Jensen turned to the Hardys. “One of the surprises I mentioned,” he told them with a leer. “Even you didn’t figure there might be two secret rooms here, did you? Or that I was sitting behind the clock while you or the police snooped around. Only this morning I waited in there, while half the Bayport force inspected the place.”

Silently Frank berated himself. “Why didn’t I think there might be a hiding place behind that clock! Especially after those threatening notes to Mr. Dalrymple.”

In the meantime, Joe was trying to make sense of what was taking place. Was Arthur Jensen the one who had sent the threatening notes to Dalrymple? And was Wandy in league with him? Joe could not imagine the elderly inventor causing anyone harm.

At that moment Amos Wandy reappeared, gingerly carrying a heavy object that looked like a black box, except that it had a number of electrical terminals on one side.

“Ah, good!” declared Jensen, rubbing his hands. “Know what this is?” he asked the Hardys, pointing to the black box.

Frank and Joe realized at once what the object was. A time bomb! The brothers felt a mounting apprehension.

“I see you are familiar with this type of apparatus,” Jensen went on, chuckling. “Well, old Amos here knows all about bombs, too, don’t you, Amos?”

The old man answered readily, “Yes, I told you that, Mr. Jensen. In the course of my work with electronically activated devices, I naturally—”

“Cut the fancy talk,” the other man broke in roughly. “All I care about is whether that bomb you’re holding has enough ‘juice’ in it to wipe this pile of bricks right off the map!”

A hideous wave of panic swept over the Hardys. “Does Jensen mean to blow us up?” Frank asked himself unbelievingly.

It was then that the boys noticed Amos Wandy’s face. It had turned deathly pale. For a moment he swayed, as if about to faint. Then he clutched the deadly looking device tightly.

“What did you say, Mr. Jensen?” he quavered. “You told me this bomb was for some construction work. I—I don’t understand—”

“You soon will, Amos,” said the gang leader in a sinister voice. “Put down the bomb. I’ll take over.”

But the old inventor did not comply. He retreated a few steps backward. “No, Mr. Jensen,” he objected. “I fear you are going to use this for some other purpose. An evil purpose. What’s more, you have lied to me about these boys—they are your prisoners. In fact, you’ve lied to me about everything—you never intended to help me market my new invention, as you promised!”

Without warning, Jensen made a lunge for the elderly man and ripped the box from his grasp. The next instant, he knocked the inventor to the floor with a sweep of his big arm. Amos Wandy lay still, stunned.

Jensen then put down the bomb and whipped from his pocket a length of rope. He bound the white-haired man’s arms and legs securely.

“Yes, Amos,” he taunted. “These boys are my prisoners. And now, so are you—you have been all along. Only you were so wrapped up in your precious invention you never suspected it. Lucky I found you here, and had you hoodwinked long enough to put this bomb together.”

The big man straightened up and, his eyes burning strangely, went on, “Now all three of you will have the privilege of sharing the success of the explosive—at the proper time.”

Amos Wandy had recovered sufficiently to murmur brokenly, “You—you’re insane, Jensen. You—you can’t get away with it.”

“Can’t I? You’ll see. But I’d better shut you up before I get to work.”

Jensen dashed from the room and was back with a piece of cloth with which he gagged Mr. Wandy.

“Now, I will proceed with my—er—operation.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Too bad my pals got caught. I could sure use their help now.”

The three silenced prisoners watched in growing horror as their captor took several wires from another pocket. He squatted down over the heavy black box. His fingers worked swiftly, attaching the wires to the terminals. He then moved the whole device closer to the clock and ran the wires up into the works.

“You see, Amos,” he looked slyly over his shoulder, “I’m pretty good at this sort of thing myself.”

Jensen stood up, smirking. Dramatically he pointed to the face of the huge timepiece and faced his captives.

“You will note the hour,” he said. “I have arranged that when the hands of this clock reach three, the bomb will be set off!”

The Hardys stared at the clockface. It was already past one o’clock in the morning! For a second both boys were engulfed by a wave of panic. Through their minds flashed the words of the ominous notes:

“Death while the clock ticks!”

But their natural instinct of keeping cool in crises asserted itself. Frank and Joe furtively tried to move their wrists to loosen their bonds.

In the meantime, Jensen continued to talk, growing more pleased with himself by the minute. “You remember what you boys overheard in that restaurant?” he reminded them. “Of course, I didn’t expect you’d be my guests—or that you’d found my key ring. But you’ve asked for it. You’ll never interfere with me again after tonight. Nor will that pest Dalrymple.”

“Dalrymple!” the name echoed through the boys’ minds. What had happened to the banker? Was he too a captive somewhere in the shadowy old mansion?

All this while Frank, Joe, and Amos Wandy were acutely aware of the inexorable swinging of the clock’s pendulum as the minutes ticked by.

Again the brothers wriggled their wrists and fingers in an effort to loosen the ropes. But the result was only to rub their skin raw. The bonds were cruelly tight.

If only, they thought desperately, someone would become anxious because of their long absence, and figure out where they were! “Aunt Gertrude must be frantic by now,” Joe thought hopefully.

In the meantime, Arthur Jensen had been eying his prisoners smugly. “Well,” he said, “I suppose you wonder how I came to discover the hidden room behind the clock, and how nicely it has served my purpose—thanks to Amos, here.”

The gangster went on to explain that when he had first started to use the Purdy place to hide stolen valuables, he had come upon Mr. Wandy in the house.

“You see,” Jensen went on, “Amos told me he was Jason Purdy’s cousin. They played here as youngsters—that’s how he came to know about both secret rooms. All these years he kept a key to the place. When he retired, old Amos still wanted to fool around with inventing, so he decided to come here and work on some gadgets. He thought nobody would bother him.

“Well, we met here by accident. I thought his talents would be useful to us, so I told him I’d help him get his inventions on the market when they were ready, if he’d do some work for us.”

Jensen looked scornfully down at Mr. Wandy, whose blue eyes blazed with anger.

“So,” the thief continued, “I set up the clock room as a lab—and also a storage place for our loot. Everything went smoothly until that Dalrymple guy came along and bought this place. It was a pain in the neck with his nosing around. That’s why I left those notes in the secret room upstairs. Then he had to drag you kids here.”

The man paused and a cunning gleam came into his eyes. “Bet you boys would like to know how I got the notes in there. Well, that’s something you’ll never find out now!”

At least, Joe was thinking bitterly, Jensen was not getting away with most of the stolen goods. “He must have the jade stashed behind that clock section,” the boy surmised.

“No doubt you’d like to know about that scream you heard one night. Well, I did that—pretty effective, wasn’t it? Sure scared the wits out of that old fool who came after me. Serves him right.”

“He means Hurd Applegate,” Frank thought, thinking wryly that not only were he and Joe unable to help themselves, but in their present state were of no use to Applegate or Dalrymple. “Wonder how Dad would get out of such a mess!”

At this point Jensen ceased his narrative and glanced at the big clock. The hands stood at quarter past two.

“Well,” he said briskly, “time is fleeting. I’m going to get out of here but fast.”

He hastened to the hidden room behind the clock. The Hardys could hear muffled thumping, as if Jensen were moving cartons. Finally he reappeared, with a heavy canvas sack slung over his shoulder and an armload of small boxes.

Suddenly they all became aware of vivid flashes of lightning, followed by the deafening boom of thunder. Then came a torrential downpour of rain. “Storm’s hit,” Jensen said. He added meaningfully, “But it’s nothing compared to what you’ll see at three o’clock!”

He gave a triumphant laugh when he noticed the Hardys staring at his bag and boxes. “Oh, yes,” he went on, “you didn’t think I’d leave all this precious jade behind! Not after the trouble I went through to get it. The police can keep that other stuff!”

Jensen’s eyes swept the room, and came to rest on the three bound and gagged figures. “I’ve enjoyed your visit.” He laughed again. “I’ll leave the light on so you can watch the time. Good-by!”

He left the room. In another moment the boys heard the front door open, then slam shut.

Almost automatically, the three captives turned their gaze toward the grandfather’s clock.

“A quarter to three!” Joe’s mouth felt parched and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

He and Frank and Amos Wandy could only wait and listen to the deadly sound of the clock.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Slippery Rooftop

“THE fiend!” Frank gritted his teeth. “Jensen’s really left us here to be blown sky-high!”

Desperately he strained his arms and legs against the rough ropes that cut into his flesh. It was to no avail. Then he lurched forward, trying to overturn the chair with the thought of working himself across the floor toward the time bomb. This attempt proved futile, too.

Joe, meanwhile, was squirming and twisting his body in an effort to get his penknife. But his fingers would reach no farther than the edge of his pocket.

Old Amos Wandy lay still, as if resigned to their horrible fate. The clock ticked on relentlessly. With a shudder the Hardys noted the time.

Five minutes before three!

The boys sank back, exhausted from their struggles. Only a miracle could save them now!

A tremendous crashing of thunder shook the entire house. As it died away, Joe stared in fascination at the big front window. Strangely, one of the panes continued to rattle. Was it his imagination or did he see a face pressed against the streaming glass where the draperies had parted a little?

Joe squinted his eyes, hardly daring to believe them. There was a face peering in—a familiar one!

Chet Morton!

Frank had seen him, too. The brothers looked at the clock. Less than two minutes left!

“Please, Chet!” Frank begged silently. “Get in here!”

The stout boy did not hesitate. He pushed with all his weight upward against the sash. The window flew up. Chet clambered over the sill.

In seconds, his sharp jackknife had sliced through Frank’s ropes. Without a word Frank dived forward, seized the wires running from the black bomb to the clock, and tore them away.

For a moment he stared at the wires, lying tangled on the floor. Before either Chet or Frank could say anything, the clock struck. Bong! Bong! Bong!

“Three o’clock!” Frank gasped, weak with relief. “Chet, you sure got here in time to save our necks.”

Chet, who had set to work cutting away Joe’s bonds, did not yet realize the disaster he had averted. Frank, by now, had pulled out his own knife, and freed Amos Wandy. The old man sat up with a groan, shaking from the recent ordeal.

“Thank heaven!” he said fervently. “Your friend is indeed a lifesaver!”

Joe rose from his chair and yanked the cloth from his mouth. “Chet!” he pounded his pal on the back. “If we said thanks a million times, it wouldn’t be enough. Whew! That was the closest squeak we ever had!”

Heaving a deep sigh of gratitude, he asked, “How’d you know we were here, partner?”

“Well,” the chunky boy said, “since I hadn’t heard from you fellows by late afternoon, I went to your house right after supper. Aunt Gertrude was real worried—said you hadn’t come home to eat. I waited with her until after midnight. Then she called the police. All of a sudden, I had a funny feeling you were here, and in trouble, and thought I’d better come pronto to see what was up. So I did.”

“And are we glad you had that funny feeling,” Frank pointed. “See that black thing? It’s a time bomb. If you’d been a minute later, we’d all have been blown to bits.”

Chet’s ruddy face went white. He stared at the bomb, goggle-eyed.

“Oh—oh!” he squeaked, leaping backward as though fearful it would go off. “Let’s get out of here! Quickly! Miles away!”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Amos Wandy wryly, slowly getting to his feet. “But first I must retrieve my invention.”

Frank rushed to assist him. “Are you all right, Mr. Wandy? Jensen gave you a hard knock before he tied you up.”

“Don’t worry about me, young man. I’m just glad you two boys weren’t—were saved!” The elderly man looked troubled. “To think, it really would have been my fault—I constructed that terrible bomb.”

“But you didn’t realize what it was for—that those crooks would use it on people who got in their way, and would destroy this house and all the evidence of what they’d done,” Joe assured him solemnly.

“Hey, you detectives,” Chet broke in. “About time you filled me in on the latest doings in this zany place.”

“We will. But first we’d better take cover. Dollars to dimes Jensen’ll be back when he realizes the bomb didn’t go off. Remember,” Frank added, “the police have his car—so he has no means of escape except on foot.”

Joe nodded. “That low-down guy’s really out of his mind, too. He may come back armed.”

Chet looked worried. “Where do we hide?”

For answer, Frank pointed to the secret room behind the clock. Chet, noticing the open wall section for the first time, gaped in astonishment. “Whoever thought of that?”

Amos Wandy turned off the overhead light, and the boys clicked on their flashlights. Then the old inventor led the way into the concealed room. Joe, who was last, clicked off the living-room light, then pulled the wall section after him, leaving it open a crack.

The boys glanced around the room. It was fairly large and well ventilated with air ducts. The Hardys figured it was directly under the secret chamber on the second floor. Their flashlight beams shone on a few pieces of furniture, a workbench, some tools, a hot plate, and a tiny refrigerator.

“All the comforts of home,” Joe quipped.

“It did make a fairly good lab,” Mr. Wandy recalled wistfully.

As the group crouched in waiting at the door, the Hardys gave Chet a rapid account of the evening’s adventure.

“Ee-yow!” their friend whistled in a stage whisper. “I hope Mr. Dalrymple appreciates all the necks that have been risked on his case.”

Again the Hardys pondered the possible whereabouts of the banker. But they dared not search the mansion for him at present. Eventually the four became silent as they kept their vigil.

The thunder and lightning had diminished. Through the darkness came the familiar tick-tock. Tick-tock. But now, to Frank, Joe, and Mr. Wandy, it was no longer a dreaded sound.

Suddenly the four tensed. They had heard the front door being opened stealthily. Footsteps entered the living room, and the light came on. Joe put his eye to the crack.

“Jensen!” he reported softly.

The others crowded behind to peer out as well as they could. The ringleader had stopped short in his tracks and was staring fixedly at the disconnected bomb with its torn wire. Slowly his gaze traveled to the two empty chairs and the cut ropes that had held his captives.

“Shall we jump him?” Joe asked eagerly.

Frank shook his head. “Wait.”

All of a sudden Jensen seemed to go into a frenzy. His face was livid with rage as he lifted one of the chairs and smashed it to the floor.

“Escaped!” he shrieked. “How could they—”

Beside himself with anger, the man pulled a revolver from his pocket. Aiming it at the ceiling, he shot repeatedly, until the bullets were expended.

“Good place for ‘em!” Joe whispered.

Panting, Jensen looked about him wildly, dropping the pistol to the floor. Then suddenly he laughed. “There’s one thing they can’t prove—that is, if I destroy the invention!” His voice took on a note of cunning. “Amos Wandy—I’ll smash his precious invention. Smash it to bits.” With that the man wheeled, dashed out of the room, and raced up the stairs.

“No!” gasped Mr. Wandy. “I won’t let him do it. I must stop him.”

“We all will. Come on!” Frank gave the signal and the four quickly emerged from their hiding place. They raced into the front hall. From the dark stair well they heard Jensen’s voice bellowing:

“Those snoopers! They’ve ruined everything. I’ll show ‘em. Can’t get the best of me that easy!”

The four pursuers ascended the steps, with Amos Wandy in the lead. So eager was the elderly man to rescue his invention that he even outdistanced the boys.

“Mr. Wandy! Be careful!” called Joe in warning.

“I—I must stop that scoundrel!” returned the inventor, “before he reaches the roof.”

On the third-floor landing he had to pause for breath. The boys soon caught up to him. Above stretched the flight of stairs leading to the attic.

Frank aimed his flashlight upward into the inky blackness. Its beam revealed Arthur Jensen standing at the top, his back to them.

“Okay, Jensen. You’re outnumbered. Get down here and make it snappy!” Frank shouted.

Their enemy jerked around. For a split second the man looked at them almost incredulously.

“Come on, Jensen!” snapped Joe. “You’re finished!”

Unexpectedly, the big man plunged down the stairway toward them. He came at such terrific speed that the sheer force of his weight and descent knocked them all down. He landed on top of the heap, grabbed the banister, got up, and pounded down the steps.

“We mustn’t let him get away!” Frank yelled. “Chet, you and I will go after him. Joe, you rescue Mr. Wandy. He’s heading for the roof! We can’t let him climb out there! He’s in no condition to do that!”

The boys scrambled apart, and went in two directions. When Joe reached the attic it was empty. But a damp breeze blew in from an open window. He rushed over and peered out.

The rain was still falling steadily, and a cold wind had sprung up. Flickers of distant lightning cast a pale light across the sky.

“Jeepers!” Joe thought. “The poor old man must be out there already. It’s very slippery, too!”

The open window faced the ridge of one of the steep slate roofs. In the faint light, halfway out along the ridge, Joe saw a brick chimney.

“Mr. Wandy!” Joe gasped.

Clinging to the chimney with one arm was the drenched, gaunt figure of Amos Wandy. Feet upon the sharp ridge, the old man stood in the chill wind and pelting rain, his free hand reaching for something.

“He might fall!” the boy thought. “I must save him!”

Joe did not wait. He stepped out onto the rainsoaked ridge. Balancing himself carefully, he trod as swiftly as he dared toward the inventor.

“Mr. Wandy!” he shouted. “Wait! I’ll help you. Don’t move.”

The elderly man looked up. “All right. I—I guess I can’t get it now.”

Finally, Joe was at Amos Wandy’s side, “Easy,” he cautioned. “Hang on to me. We’ll go back slowly.”

No sooner had the pair turned away from the chimney, than a powerful gust of wind struck the ridge, catching the inventor off guard. He lost his footing and fell, pulling Joe with him.

Man and boy went tumbling down the slick slate surface toward the edge of the high roof!

CHAPTER XIX

A Narrow Escape

FRANK and Chet had raced pell-mell after Jensen in his flight from the old Purdy mansion. Once outside, the boys trained their flashlight beams in every direction. But the fugitive had already been swallowed up in the darkness beyond.

Chet sighed. “Looks as if Jensen had enough headway to give us the slip,” he said in disgust.

Frank nodded. “Afraid so. His bulldozer charge at us gave him a break.”

Nevertheless, the boys ran over the grounds, aiming their lights rapidly at trees and shrubbery. But everything appeared serene and quiet in the slackening rain.

Suddenly there came the sound of an automobile roaring full speed up the driveway. With a screech of tires it came to a halt, its headlights on high, in front of the house.

“Police!” Chet cried as six officers leaped from the car and came toward them.

Leading the squad was Bayport Police Chief Collig. “Am I glad to see you!” he exclaimed when he spotted the boys. “We started out as soon as I could get enough men together. Your Aunt Gertrude—”

Frank broke in hastily. “I know. Chet told me she’s mighty worried. But we were—er—slightly delayed.”

Quickly he related what had taken place that evening to the astonished and horrified chief. “Now,” Frank concluded, “I’m convinced Jensen’s still on the grounds, hiding. We’ve had our flashlights on continuously. And if he saw you come in, he probably won’t dare try escaping right away.”

Chief Collig instantly barked orders to his assistants to begin a hunt for the gang leader. “Search the area all around the house. Just to be sure he hasn’t sneaked back inside,” he went on, “you, Callahan, turn on every light in the place and scour it from top to bottom.”

“Be on the lookout for Mr. Dalrymple,” Frank urged, explaining his fears about the banker.

Chief Collig had reassuring news. “Don’t worry about him. He telephoned us just before we left. He’d been out of town all day, and called your home. Your aunt told him that you boys were missing. Dalrymple probably will show up here.”

By this time the big house was ablaze with lights. The police chief moved off to direct his search detail. Suddenly Frank noted an expression of terror on Chet’s face. The stout boy pointed wordlessly toward the roof of the house. Frank turned and froze.

Two figures, swaying back and forth, were hanging onto the edge of the mansion roof.

“Joe! Mr. Wandy!” Frank cried, noting that Joe had one arm around Amos Wandy, and, with his other, was clinging to the gutter.

In a twinkling he was inside the house and taking the steps to the attic two at a time. Chet pounded close behind him.

“If they can only hang on!” Frank thought.

Finally the two boys reached the attic window. “I’ll go down for ‘em. You straddle the ridge and grab my ankles,” Frank directed Chet tersely.

“Got you.”

They clambered out onto the rain-slick slates. A dank mist had settled down. Frank crept along the ridge to a spot which he judged to be just above where his brother and Amos Wandy were clinging to the gutter. Chet, directly in back of him, anchored himself on the peak by clamping his legs and heels against either side of the roof.

“Here goes!” Frank maneuvered himself into position, headfirst, on the steep slope. Now Chet grasped his friend’s ankles and Frank began his downward slide.

“Joe!” he shouted. “I’m coming after you. Hold on!”

Frank’s eyes strained against the blurry mist. Fortunately, the glow from the house lights enabled him to see a little distance ahead. With Chet maintaining an iron grip, Frank Hardy stretched his body full length and reached out toward his brother. He could dimly discern the hands of the dangling pair clutching the roof edge.

But, with a stab of despair, Frank found them inches beyond his grasp. “Chet!” he called. “I—I can’t make it.”

Above, the chunky boy shifted his position so that he could lean to one side. This gave Frank the needed leeway. Now he slid forward and secured a hold on his brother’s hand.

“Joe!” he gasped. “Grab my wrist. See if you can hoist Mr. Wandy up.”

He felt Joe’s fingers groping, then encircling his lower arm. Joe placed his other hand on the elderly man’s elbow and pushed while Frank pulled him by the arm. Slowly and painfully the inventor was dragged up and over the eaves.

Then Joe, with Amos helping despite his weakened state, was hauled back onto the roof. Chet’s powerful hold never once failed. For a minute all four remained motionless, catching their breaths.

Then the arduous ascent began. A sort of human chain was formed. Joe held onto Frank’s arm, and the inventor onto Joe’s ankle. Each had a hand and foot free to help ease the strain on Chet, as they hoisted themselves.

Another inch, and another. Six inches—a foot. At last Frank sat on the ridge beside Chet. A moment later Joe had hooked one leg over the top, and all three assisted Mr. Wandy until he too was astride the peak.

Utterly exhausted, they were silent for several minutes, breathing deeply of the damp air. Finally Joe managed to gasp:

“Guess we put on a real circus act. Trapeze artists have nothing on us.”

Mr. Wandy groaned. “I’ve brought you boys nothing but trouble. I never should have come back here.”

“None of us should have come here—ever,” was Chet’s emphatic comment.

“Just be thankful we’re still in one piece,” Frank put in dryly. “Let’s get going. Collig and his men are below, searching for Jensen—he got away from Chet and me.”

Fortunately, the wind had died away, so the trip across the ridge to the attic window was not so hazardous. In vast relief, each of the four clambered back inside.

Mr. Wandy turned to the boys. “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done to help me—at your own peril.”

“And don’t think I’m not grateful you two got to us when you did,” Joe told Frank and Chet. “I thought Mr. Wandy and I were on our way down—and out.”

Frank smiled at Chet. “Remind me to remind you to keep on eating sirloin steak! You’ve got arm muscles, pal!”

“You’ll buy me a steak after tonight,” the stout boy retorted. “Especially if we’re going to tangle with loony Jensen again.”

The boys started down. As they did, Joe saw Mr. Wandy give a wistful backward glance over his shoulder. Joe suddenly realized that the old man had not yet recovered his invention. In their narrow escape on the roof, the boys had completely forgotten it.

“He doesn’t want to bother us again,” thought Joe with a pang of pity.

Before anyone could object, he dashed back into the attic, and soon was out on the roof. Back across the ridge he went, straight to the chimney. He felt around it, as Mr. Wandy had done.

Finally Joe’s fingers touched a coil of wire with some kind of contraption at the end. Quickly the young detective slipped them into his pocket. Then he hustled back through the window. The others waited for him with perplexed looks.

“Say, haven’t you had enough roof travel for one night?” demanded Chet indignantly.

Joe reached into his pocket. “Mr. Wandy—”

The next moment, to the boys’ consternation, the inventor slumped unconscious to the floor.

“We’d better get him downstairs,” Frank said worriedly. “He’s been through too much.”

He and Joe lifted the elderly man and, between them, carried him to the first floor into the living room. Gently they lowered the inventor onto a draped sofa.

Just then Chief Collig strode in, followed by a familiar, straw-hatted figure. “Mr. Dalrymple!” Joe exclaimed.

The banker hurried forward, his face lined and haggard. “Thank heavens you boys are safe!” he cried out. “I’d never have forgiven myself if—”

“We’re all right,” Frank assured him hastily. “Right now, Mr. Wandy needs help. He fainted.”

The police chief instantly summoned one of his men to administer first aid. Briefly, the boys recounted their harrowing experience on the roof. Joe patted his pocket. “I found Mr. Wandy’s invention. We’ll give it to him later.”

Chief Collig, in turn, reported that so far there had been no sign of Arthur Jensen. “I’ve thrown out a roadblock, too. He’s a slippery customer, I must admit.”

“To think a would-be murderer was using my property!” Mr. Dalrymple shuddered. “The chief told me everything that happened here. That bomb—awful, awful!”

Assured that Mr. Wandy was rallying satisfactorily, Frank said to Chief Collig, “Okay if we have a try at locating Jensen? I’d like to settle a few scores with him.”

“Me too,” Joe added grimly.

Chief Collig assented readily. “I can tell you two have a hunch. My men will be on the alert if you need help.”

The Hardys and Chet hastened out into the chilly air. The lighted windows of the house became eerie rectangles of hazy yellow in the drifting mist as the trio skirted the dense bushes edging the lawn.

“You figure Jensen eluded the police and circled back to the hidden barn where the gang kept their car?” Joe asked his brother.

“Right,” said Frank. “It’s worth a look, anyhow.”

Chet shivered as they left the lighted house behind and entered the darkness of the road. “Some light would help,” he suggested, pulling out his flashlight.

“It would,” said Frank in a whisper, “but it might also warn Jensen. We’d better make this trip without lights if we want to take him by surprise.”

The three boys stealthily made their way along until they came to the wall of tangled vines where the road ended. Joe pulled aside the vine “curtain.” Cautiously they stepped beyond it and moved forward, every sense alert for sound or movement of any kind.

Jensen came toward the boys, lowering the three-pronged tool threateningly

By now the first faint hint of dawn had lightened the sky. It made the going easier, but at the same time, the Hardys hoped it would not enable Jensen to spot them.

Shortly the boys reached the big hulk of the ramshackle barn. They stopped to listen. Except for the chirping of crickets, all was silent.

At Frank’s signal, the three stepped into the black interior. “We’ll have to risk flashlights now,” Frank whispered.

Three circles of light stabbed the darkness. The mound of dusty hay was still in the loft above the sagging beam. But most of the camouflaging hay had been thrown aside. The plywood door was open, so the boys peered into the alcove in which the thieves’ car had been kept.

A sudden clatter against the wall of the barn caused them to whirl. Chet swung his flashlight swiftly around. Its beam rested on the tall form of Arthur Jensen!

The man’s suit was rumpled and soaked. On his face was an expression of mingled rage and hatred. Clutched in his hands was the pitchfork. This was what had caused the clatter—when Jensen had pulled it from its hook.

He came toward the boys, lowering the three-pronged tool threateningly.

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done,” the gang leader cried in a voice filled with menace.

CHAPTER XX

Hidden Loot

THINKING quickly, Chet shone his flashlight straight into the eyes of the gang leader as he advanced on the boys with the deadly pitchfork.

Blinded by the glare Jensen stopped.

“Let’s separate,” Frank whispered. “He can’t get all three of us at once!”

The brothers dropped their flashlights and rushed to opposite sides of the old barn. They wheeled and jumped the man from both directions.

Joe came in with a hard-driving tackle that caught Jensen just below the knees. As the man crumpled, Frank stepped in, snatched the murderous pitchfork, and threw it to one side.

Chet had stayed rooted to the spot, keeping his light trained on their would-be attacker. Now he rushed forward, flinging the flashlight away, to help subdue Jensen.

In the darkness a terrific struggle took place. The boys’ opponent seemed possessed of an iron strength. Just when they believed they had overpowered him, Jensen would yank loose, flailing his fists violently.

“Don’t let him get away!” shouted Frank.

Joe frantically groped in the darkness for the flashlight. He found it and flicked it on. The unexpected beam of light caught Arthur Jensen staggering up the ladder to the haymow. In an instant the boys had pounced on him.

“We’ll take no more chances,” Frank cried out, whipping off his belt.

Joe quickly unbuckled his also. As Chet held their prisoner in a viselike hold, the Hardys lashed the man’s hands firmly behind him with their belts before dragging him out.

The man was sputtering and threatening. “Keep still or we’ll gag you!” Frank warned.

Frank and Joe pocketed their flashlights, and the boys marched Jensen along the hidden road back to the house. The old Purdy place was still blazing with lights in the gray dawn. More police cars had arrived, and men were hurrying about in every direction. Chief Collig stood on the front porch directing search operations.

“Good news, Chief!” Frank greeted him as the boys came forward with Jensen.

Collig stared in pleased astonishment. Then he turned to Officer Tomlin, “Call in the men!”

A police whistle shrieked. Immediately the boys were surrounded by officers, two of whom handcuffed Arthur Jensen. The ringleader stood in sullen silence, his eyes burning with hate.

Fleece-lined storm coats were thrown around the chilled boys when the entire group entered the living room. There they saw Mr. Dalrymple looking thoughtfully upon the face of Amos Wandy, who was now sleeping peacefully.

The banker turned to the Hardys. “I thought I recognized Mr. Wandy. I remember him years ago as a brilliant inventor. He came to me once for money to finance an electrical invention of his. I was glad to lend it, knowing that the device would be beneficial to many people. To think he was forced to work on an instrument of destruction by this despicable person.”

Mr. Dalrymple gave Jensen a withering look. “But at least,” he added, “I’ll give Amos any monetary help he may need now, and he can work here any time he wishes, undisturbed!”

The Hardys were pleased to hear this. Joe then said, “We thought something had happened to you today, sir. That’s what brought us out here tonight.”

The banker explained that he had been called out of town on a business emergency early that morning and had no chance to notify his office. “I didn’t return until after midnight. When I learned about the Lakeside police having searched my home and why, I contacted your aunt and Chief Collig right away.”

The banker addressed the handcuffed Jensen. “How did you—you thugs get into my house?”

“Simple.” The gang leader gave a short laugh. “We took wax impressions of the locks, and had keys made in town.”

“Yes. But how did you manage to leave threatening notes in my secret room?”

“As I told these snooping kids—find out yourself,” was the sullen answer.

Joe had a sudden idea. He drew from his pocket the coil of wire with the mechanism at one end, and examined them for a moment.

The others in the room crowded around. “So this is the invention Amos was keeping on the roof,” Frank said, “I wonder why.”

The device consisted of a pair of weatherproof batteries mounted side by side on a little platform about three inches long. The platform had wheels, and at one end a pair of little movable jaws.

“If I’m right,” Joe observed, “the jaws will open after so many revolutions of the wheels.”

He clicked a switch. With a little hum, the metal wheels turned. After a few seconds the jaws opened, and the wheels stopped. When the jaws closed together once more, the wheels turned again—but in the opposite direction!

“Clever,” Mr. Dalrymple said. “I think our government’s intelligence department would be interested in this.”

“Very clever,” Joe replied, “and it’s also the method used for delivering those warning notes to your secret room!”

“What!” the banker cried.

Everyone listened intently as Joe explained his theory. “You see, the message was placed in the jaws. Then the whole contrivance was lowered by wire down the chimney. The gadget is small enough to fit through the bars. As soon as it reached the bottom of the fireplace, this platform rolled out into the room and deposited a note! Then it rolled back into the fireplace and was pulled up the chimney by Jensen, on the roof.”

Raymond Dalrymple’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “No wonder we couldn’t figure it out,” he declared. “Nobody but myself was entering my secret room!”

Frank wheeled on Jensen. “You convinced Mr. Wandy you wanted to try out his invention. Of course, he didn’t know for what purpose.”

The prisoner remained stubbornly silent. But Frank’s guess was backed up by Amos Wandy himself, who had awakened.

“Mr. Jensen told me he was conducting an experiment,” said the inventor. “What a fool I was!”

The captured thief gave a derisive snort. “That’s true.”

“Quiet!” thundered Collig. “You’ll have plenty of time to laugh where you’re going.” The chief signaled two patrolmen, who stepped up to lead Jensen away.

“Wait a moment!” Frank spoke up. “What about the jade? Jensen had it all when he got away from us.”

Chief Collig strode over to the gang leader. “Spill it. Where did you stash that jade?”

But no amount of prodding would elicit any reply from Jensen. Finally the chief, in disgust, ordered him to be taken off to jail.

“Looks as if another search operation’s in order,” Officer Callahan spoke up. “Shall I get the men started, Chief?”

“Right. Also, better douse that disconnected bomb.”

“Great jumping Irishmen!” Callahan exclaimed. “I’ll say. No use taking any chances!”

Immediately a respectful space was cleared around the formidable black box, and two men carried it outside. Frank, Chet, and Joe followed.

The three boys, although dog-tired, had already determined to conduct their own hunt for the precious jade.

“Where to start?” Chet inquired of his friends.

The Hardys scanned the grounds, still wet from the rain. The sun had risen and was starting to burn off the mist. Frank pointed to a bush area about five hundred yards from the mansion.

“That would’ve been a good spot for Jensen to hide and watch us get blown up,” the boy reasoned.

“Dandy,” Joe agreed. “Come on!”

The trio trudged through the wet grass and up the slope. They circled the bushes, and poked among the branches. But there were neither boxes nor a canvas sack. Disappointed, the searchers cast around for another likely place.

Joe’s eyes lingered on a huge old maple tree, with low, spreading limbs. “I think I’ll climb up,” he murmured.

Sprinting to the tree, he swung himself onto the lowest branch. Standing up, he could see the mansion clearly. He then reached out to a stout limb above him and ran his hands along it toward the trunk. His heart leaped as his fingers touched something that felt like canvas!

“Found it!” he shouted.

Frank and Chet dashed up and waited excitedly below. Joe shinned up the trunk. There, tucked in the forked space, was the sack and a pile of small boxes.

“Yippee!” Joe yelled triumphantly. Quickly he lowered the sack and the boxes to his brother and Chet, then jumped to the ground.

Joyfully the Hardys and Chet sped back to Chief Collig. One look at the boys and what they were carrying told him of their success.

“Congratulations!” he said warmly.

“Thanks, Chief,” Frank said modestly, then grinned. “We don’t like to disappoint clients.”

The recovered treasures were taken into police custody. Hurd Applegate’s collection and Captain Stroman’s jade piece proved to be intact. Their property would be returned to them the following day.

“Oh!” Frank clapped a hand to his head. “I forgot about our stranded car!”

Chief Collig promised to send a tow truck to pick it up. “You fellows had better get some sleep,” he advised.

“Swell idea.” Chet smothered a huge yawn. “Come on, you detectives! My jalopy still runs.”

It was seven o’clock that morning when the Hardys wearily entered their home. They had an affectionate reunion with Aunt Gertrude, who had been informed by telephone of their safety.

“Not a word more!” she ordered. “Off to bed! I’ll have a good meal ready when you wake up.”

Frank and Joe did not argue. They were too tired to be hungry. Soon they were deep in slumber.

The boys were jolted awake in what seemed only a short time by the telephone jangling insistently.

“Oh!” moaned Frank groggily. “Somebody answer the phone!”

But the ringing continued. Joe was still sound asleep. Finally Frank reached out his arm and lifted the receiver of the extension on the night table. “Hello?”

“It will happen while the clock ticks,” came a low, menacing voice, “on the dot of six this evening. At the old Purdy place.”

“What?” cried Frank, instantly wide awake. “Who is this? Hello! Hello!” The caller had hung up.

“Joe!” he shouted, and shook his brother awake. “Sounds like trouble.”

Quickly he told of the sinister phone call. The boys glanced at their clock.

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “It’s five-fifteen! Almost suppertime!”

Hurriedly the two boys dressed and went downstairs. Aunt Gertrude was not around. They rushed outside to the garage.

“We’ll have to use Dad’s car,” said Joe.

Soon Fenton Hardy’s sedan was speeding out Willow River Road. The dashboard clock showed a few minutes before six.

Frank, at the wheel, turned sharply through the open gate and sped up the drive. The old house waited, silent as usual. They went up and tried the front door. To their surprise, it was open!

Cautiously the brothers tiptoed across the empty hall to the closed door of the living room. Frank and Joe paused. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock came the sound of the clock from within.

“Ready?”

“Ready!”

They set their shoulders to the door and burst into the room.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Six o’clock!

“Hooray for the Hardy boys!” came a chorus of voices. “Three cheers for Frank and Joe!”

A crowd of familiar smiling faces confronted the utterly astounded young detectives.

“Aunt Gertrude!” Frank cried out, as his aunt came forward.

“Yes, we’re all here.” She beamed. “I told you there’d be a good meal waiting for you.”

She led the way to the dining room. The long table in the center of the room was fully set with glittering glass, china, and silver. Two huge, golden-brown turkeys rested upon oval platters at either end of the table.

At the head sat Raymond Dalrymple. At his right was a happy Amos Wandy. Also present were Chief Collig and Chet Morton, who was grinning from behind one of the turkeys, Hurd Applegate, Captain Stroman, and others of the Hardys’ best friends. Among them were Biff Hooper, Tony Prito, Phil Cohen, and Jerry Gilroy. Pretty Iola Morton and Callie Shaw smiled and waved to Frank and Joe.

Speechless with surprise, the brothers were escorted by Aunt Gertrude to chairs beside the girls, then Miss Hardy took her own place.

“All I can say,” Joe burst out, “is that this is the best ending to a mystery a fellow could want.”

Frank agreed. “There’s one more mystery.” He grinned. “Who telephoned us today?”

Both boys stared meaningfully at Chet. His suddenly reddening face gave them the answer, and everyone laughed.

“You’re not only showing promise as a detective,” Frank said with a chuckle, “but you’re not a bad actor, either, Chet!”

At this point Mr. Dalrymple, growing serious, stood up. First he read a telegram of congratulation to the boys from Mr. and Mrs. Hardy. Then he said, “I’d like to extend my great appreciation, and that of many others, to the Hardy brothers for helping to rid not only my property, but this whole area, of the harbor thieves. Also, to Chet Morton for his assistance. And all done despite my bad memory about keys. The only one they had was the key they got from the thieves!”

“Hear! Hear!” Captain Stroman and Hurd Applegate led the loud applause.

Mr. Dalrymple continued, “I’d now like to introduce the new permanent resident of this house—Mr. Amos Wandy.”

Smiling, he turned to the inventor, who was almost overcome with emotion. Finally, in a trembling voice, Mr. Wandy said, “I can hardly believe my good fortune. A large part of it is due to my three young rescuers.”

Amid the excited chatter that ensued, Frank and Joe learned that the banker planned to outfit a regular laboratory for Mr. Wandy. Chief Collig then reported to the boys that Jensen had broken down and given a full confession.

“Was he the rascal who sent me that warning?” Aunt Gertrude demanded.

“Yes, Miss Hardy. But he won’t be sending any more threats for a long, long time.”

Iola Morton, her eyes dancing, said to the Hardys, “This is one party you won’t run out on!”

Callie giggled. “They can’t. There’s no more mystery.”

The boys laughed, and gazed up at the huge clock. Silently, they wondered when another case might come their way. Sooner than they expected, they were to find out, when Frank and Joe spotted strange FOOTPRINTS UNDER THE WINDOW.

Mr. Dalrymple rapped for order. “The time has arrived for action. “Do you know what’s going to happen—while the clock ticks?”

“We eat!” Chet piped up.

Everyone roared with laughter. Then Mr. Dalrymple said, “Hurd Applegate and I are ready to give the Hardy boys their well-earned reward—a fine vacation trip whenever they can take it.”

There was loud applause as Frank and Joe stepped up to receive a check made out to the Bayport Travel Agency.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Shots Offshore

CHAPTER II - Night Prowler

CHAPTER III - Missing Papers

CHAPTER IV - Peril in the Air

CHAPTER V - Suspect at Large

CHAPTER VI - Waterfront Sleuthing

CHAPTER VII - Reward or Bribe?

CHAPTER VIII - Cobblewave Cove

CHAPTER IX - Thief in the Crowd

CHAPTER X - Discreet Intruder

CHAPTER XI - A Secret Revealed

CHAPTER XII - “Stranger” Sighted

CHAPTER XIII - Ragged Caller

CHAPTER XIV - Blind River

CHAPTER XV - City of Silence

CHAPTER XVI - The Gate of Doom

CHAPTER XVII - Homestretch

CHAPTER XVIII - A Sinister Meeting

CHAPTER XIX - Ghost Ship

CHAPTER XX - Countdown

Footprints Under the Window

A plot to steal a top-secret instrument vital to the United States space program poses a challenging case for Frank and Joe Hardy. The whereabouts of their famous detective father is a mystery, so Frank and Joe are on their own to foil the plotters.

After rescuing a South American stowaway who mutters a cryptic warning about “Footprints,” then flees, the boys learn they are up against a ruthless espionage ring. The next day Frank and Joe discover that documents belonging to Mr. Hardy are missing, and, noting strange footprints under a window, they suspect the stowaway.

The young detectives’ search for the diabolical mastermind of the “Footprints” spy ring takes them on a flight to a group of islands off the coast of South America. Here they risk the wrath of a cruel dictator, and also make a grisly discovery deep in the jungle.

During a spine-chilling vigil in a cemetery, followed by entrapment in the flooded compartment of a wrecked ship, the courage and resourcefulness of the Hardys and their pal, Chet Morton, are tested to the utmost.

Hardy Boys fans will find this exciting tale crammed with suspense, intrigue, and action.

“Th-the tomb door! It’s opening!” Chet gasped

Copyright © 1993, 1965, 1960, 1933 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New

eISBN : 978-1-101-12758-2

eISBN : 978-1-101-12758-2

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Shots Offshore

“FRANK—I’ve never seen so many guards at Micro-Eye beforel And that steel wire fence is new. Think something is up?”

Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy, at the convertible’s wheel, had stopped for a red light. His brother, dark-haired and a year older, peered out at Bayport’s sprawling photographic plant.

“Must be a special project,” Frank suggested.

The traffic light showed green and the Hardys’ car moved past the block-long complex of buildings. Three uniformed guards were inspecting a departing Corporated Laundries truck at the gate.

Frank whistled. “Micro-Eye must be working on something that’s top secret,” he said. “I wonder if Dad knew about it before he left—” Frank broke off as the boys approached the rear of the main plant. A man was crouched on the outside of the fence. He was trying to cut through it with a pair of powerful shears!

“Joe! Stop!”

Joe instantly braked. Even before the car screeched to a halt alongside the curb, Frank had opened his door. He jumped out and sped toward the crouching figure. Joe swiftly followed.

“Guards!” Frank shouted.

Startled, the broad-nosed, stockily built man whirled to his feet, then glanced quickly back at the alerted guards. The next instant he hurled the shears directly at Frank.

“Look out!” Joe yelled in horror.

His brother ducked as the lethal blades spun crazily past, missing his head by inchesl Frank and Joe sprinted in pursuit of the fleeing man. A guard’s voice rang out.

“Stop him!”

But the fugitive was darting across the street, heedless of the heavy traffic. When the boys reached the other side, Joe spotted their quarry leaping into a black sedan a block away. It roared off in a cloud of gas fumes.

“Did you get the license?” Frank panted.

Joe shook his head. “There was another man at the wheel and the motor was running.”

Three security guards ran up to the Hardys.

“We certainly owe you boys our thanks,” a tall, round-faced officer said, holstering his pistol. “Confidentially, it’s internal security that seems to be our problem.”

“You mean there’s a security leak at Micro-Eye?” Frank asked as the group walked back toward the main gate.

“We have reason to think so,” a burly guard replied, “despite the careful screening and clearance of all plant workers.”

Two other guards had already retrieved the wire cutters but admitted they probably had no fingerprints, since the man had worn gloves. At the Micro-Eye guardhouse Frank and Joe gave a detailed description of the escaped man, who had sideburns and a dark complexion.

“He may be foreign-born,” Joe remarked.

At this, the round-faced officer glanced at the other guards, then turned to the Hardys. “We already suspect that aliens who entered the country illegally are operating in this area. Your description may be a great help to us.”

“You mean—spies?” Frank inquired.

The officer nodded, but did not reveal any more details. He thanked the boys for their vigilance, then the Hardys returned to their car and headed homeward.

“Spies!” Joe exclaimed. “Just our luck to let one get away! He had some nerve, trying to cut through the fence in broad daylight.”

Frank grinned. “Maybe we can pick up another clue for Micro-Eye.”

A sharp eye for clues came naturally to the brothers. They were sons of Bayport’s renowned private detective, Fenton Hardy, formerly of the New York police force. Joe was impetuous by nature, Frank more deliberate. Ever since solving the mystery of The Tower Treasure, they had helped their father track down criminals and proven their courage and abilities as independent sleuths. Recently they had faced a dangerous challenge in a case known as While the Clock Ticked.

“Too bad Dad isn’t here,” Joe said. “He’d certainly be interested in what happened at Micro-Eye.”

“Yes. His new case really must be hush-hush. He didn’t even leave an address.”

The car turned into the drive of the Hardys’ attractive, tree-shaded house at the corner of High and Elm streets. The boys lugged two huge boxes of groceries into the kitchen.

“Whew! I’ll be glad when Mother gets back!” Joe exclaimed. “We keep running out of everything.”

Mrs. Hardy was away visiting relatives, and was expected to be gone for two weeks.

“I wonder how Aunt Gertrude’s enjoying Rio,” Frank mused. Their peppery maiden aunt, Mr. Hardy’s sister, had been in South America since earlier in the summer.

“Brazil will never be the same again,” Joe quipped, “but I can’t wait until she’s back. If I have to live through any more of your cooking—”

Frank laughed, and went for the mail. He returned with a stack of envelopes. “Guess we can’t forward these to Dad.” He held out four letters addressed to their father.

There was also a blue envelope for the boys. When Frank read the enclosed note, his hand flew to his head.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked in alarm.

“It’s from Aunt Gertrude! She says she’ll arrive in Bayport on the Dorado in eight days. This is postmarked eight days ago!”

“Today!” Joe groaned. “And this place looks as if a hurricane hit it!”

Frank phoned the North Lines office and learned that the Dorado, a freighter, was due to dock early that evening. “Joe! The dishes and beds! Where’s the furniture polish? If Aunty finds the house in this shape, we’ll really get a lecture!”

The whisk of brooms, the whirring of the vacuum, and the clang of pots and pans filled the air as the boys feverishly cleaned the house from attic to basement.

“Well, that should do it.” Frank sighed as the exhausted pair sat down to a light supper. But suddenly Joe jumped up.

“The laundry! There must be a mountain of it upstairs in the hall closet!”

The boys charged up the stairs and gathered the crumpled garments and linen. While Joe tied it up, Frank checked his father’s closet and removed two pair of slacks which needed cleaning. As he did so, Frank noticed some papers bulging from the inside pocket of one of Mr. Hardy’s suit coats.

“Looks as if Dad forgot these,” he called. “Hope they weren’t important. Say, we’ve only ten minutes before the cleaner closes!”

“We can go from there to the pier.”

Frank drove into town and parked in front of Corporated Laundries’ large new shop which handled dry cleaning.

As Joe ran in with the bundle, a burly, middle-aged man pushed ahead of him to the counter.

“I want these shirts done special. Charge it to my account,” he announced loudly.

“Yes, sir, Mr. North!” said the clerk, a thin, man with bushy eyebrows. But the overbearing customer had already stalked outside. Joe left his bundle, then rejoined Frank.

“Some nerve!” Joe growled. “Orrin North just elbowed me out of the way in there,” he told his brother as they headed toward the Bayport waterfront. “Even if he does own a shipping line, he could use some manners!”

“They say his passenger business isn’t doing so well these days,” Frank said. Both boys knew North as a prominent Bayport resident who prided himself on being a successful man.

When the Hardys reached the waterfront, Frank parked at the North Lines pier where the Dorado would dock. The customs area bustled with officials. At several piers the boys noticed watchful plainclothesmen.

“There must be something to what that Micro-Eye guard said about illegal immigrants,” Joe observed.

“A person would have to be pretty clever to get through all these precautions,” Frank said. He turned to a customs inspector and learned that the Dorado was expected in an hour. The man added that the ship was taking very few passengers these days.

“I guess Aunt Gertrude was lucky,” Joe said. “What say we take a spin in the Sleuth? We can watch the Dorado coming in and still be back here by the time she docks!”

“Good idea!”

In minutes the brothers reached the boathouse where their sleek craft was berthed. Frank started the motor and pulled out into the sunset-golden waters of Barmet Bay.

Darkness was falling by the time they headed down the coast. Soon Frank sighted the big hulk of an approaching vessel, plying lazily through the long swells. Joe grabbed the binoculars.

“She’s the Dorado all right. Maybe we can spot Aunt Gertrude on board.”

Frank circled nearer the lighted ship, and followed a parallel course, hugging the coast. The boys looked in vain for the tall, straight figure of their aunt. Above the deck a ghostly plume of smoke curled up into the night sky.

“She may still be below,” Frank began. “If—”

Crack! Crack!

“Joe! Those sounded like pistol shots!”

“From the Dorado! Look, there’s a commotion at the stern!”

The boys saw several men scuffling at the fantail of the freighter. The next instant a figure leaped over the rail and plunged into the dark waters!

Instinctively Frank sent the Sleuth speeding to the rescue. Soon Joe spotted a bobbing form, and a few minutes later pulled a gasping, sputtering man aboard.

Slender and dark-complexioned, with a thin mustache, he was dressed in a crewman’s blue uniform. A quick examination showed no wounds, but the stranger seemed too exhausted to speak. The boys made him comfortable and Frank sped past the Dorado and in the direction of Barmet Bay.

Joe shouted above the noise of the engine, “I wonder who he is and what all the excitement was about.”

“Beats me. But we’ll have to contact authorities on shore pronto,” Frank said worriedly. “Let’s just hope Aunt Gertrude’s all right!”

Frank sent the Sleuth speeding to the rescue

Instead of going to their own boathouse, he pulled into the end of the public dock. The crewman revived, and the boys helped him out of the Sleuth.

Frank said, “I’m Frank Hardy and this is my brother Joe. We don’t know what—”

“Hardy—you said—Hardy?” The man, speaking broken English, was plainly startled.

Before he could say more, a stranger strode briskly up to the trio. He was short and bald, and he wore a badge on the lapel of his black raincoat. He grasped the crewman’s arm and snapped:

“The Dorado radioed us about you. I’m an immigration officer. Come along! You kids can beat it now.”

Suddenly the crewman shook loose and his fist rocketed against the stranger’s jaw! The officer staggered back with a grunt.

Frank grabbed at the sailor, but the man dodged and ran, turning only for a fraction of a second to hiss, “Footprints will get—”

He raced off the dock onto the road and was swallowed up in the darkness.

CHAPTER II

Night Prowler

“AFTER him!” Frank shouted.

He and Joe ran from the dock and down the road in pursuit of the crewman. They heard footsteps pounding rapidly ahead, then Joe saw a shadow dart between two small bay-front buildings.

“There—to the right!”

The Hardys dashed through back lots and a deserted alley. But the man had vanished. Finally Frank and Joe gave up the chase and hastened back to the docks. “We’d better see if that immigration officer is hurt,” Frank said.

When they reached the dock, there was no sign of the short man with the badge.

“Maybe he went to alert his office that the man escaped,” Joe said.

“If he was from the immigration office,” Frank cut in. “There was something phony about his telling us to ‘beat it.’ ”

Joe agreed. “At any rate, we’ll report this.”

“ ‘Footprints’!” Frank mused, recalling the crewman’s strange words. “What could that mean? And whom are they going to ‘get’—us?”

Joe shook his head. “That man seemed to know our last name! Where did he find out? Did you notice his accent? Sounded like South American Spanish.”

The Hardys hurried to the customs office and gave a detailed account of the recent events. The man in charge took down the information. When Frank described the bald man who had claimed to be immigration officer, the customs man made a quick telephone call. He hung up, puzzled.

“No one like that works for Immigration,” he said. “We’ll look into this. Thanks, boys.”

The Hardys hurried to the pier where the Dorado had just docked. Only a handful of passengers debarked from the gangway, but Miss Hardy was not among them. Worried, Frank and Joe spoke with a uniformed customs inspector.

The official consulted a short list of passengers. “We have no such person listed.”

Frank and Joe exchanged dumfounded glances. “Are you sure there’s no mistake? We’re expecting our aunt,” Frank insisted. Just then a heavy-set man wearing a blue cap approached.

“Boys, here’s the Dorado’s skipper—Captain Burne. You can ask him.”

The newcomer seemed to be distressed as he hurried up to the inspector.

“Mr. Clark, we have a missing stowaway thief to report!” the captain announced. “We tried to stop him but he jumped overboard, and—”

“We picked him up but he got away again,” Joe put in quickly. He and Frank introduced themselves, then related their experience.

The captain stared in surprise at the boys.

“Captain,” said Frank, “isn’t there a Miss Gertrude Hardy on your ship—from Rio de Janeiro? She’s our aunt, and wrote us she’d arrive tonight on the Dorado.”

Burne shook his head. “Nobody by that name aboard. Only nine passengers this trip—the last time we’ll take on passengers.”

“Maybe your aunt decided to stay longer in Rio,” Mr. Clark suggested. “Don’t worry, boys.”

“I guess she must have changed her mind,” Joe said, relieved that their aunt had not been exposed to the shooting incident. The Hardys now asked the captain about the escaped stowaway.

“Is he really a thief?” Frank asked.

“You bet he is!” Burne fumed. “Stole a crew uniform, cleaned out a cashbox in my office, then shot at us when we went after him. He must have sneaked aboard in Cayenne.” The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Did you boys get any leads on where he went?”

“No.” Frank signaled Joe with a glance not to mention the stowaway’s peculiar warning to them about “footprints.”

The captain shrugged. “Well, at least you got descriptions of him and that phony immigration officer. If you two get any clues, will you inform Mr. North’s office?”

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Frank promised.

Still a bit uneasy about Miss Hardy, the brothers returned the Sleuth to their boathouse, then drove home.

“Aunt Gertrude must be having a ball,” Joe ventured.

Frank laughed wryly. “All that housecleaning for nothingl But,” he went on, “this stowaway thief puzzles me. Why was he so startled at hearing our name? I think we’d better find out more about it before we mention ‘footprints’ to anybody.”

The boys decided to try getting word to their father by phoning Sam Radley. Sam was an ace detective and assistant to Fenton Hardy.

“I’ll do my best to contact him, Frank,” Sam promised. “Sounds very strange. Keep me posted.”

After a snack of milk and crackers, the brothers went to bed. A fresh summer breeze came through the window of their second-floor room in the quiet house.

Sometime later, Joe awoke from a sound sleep. He squinted groggily at the radium clock. “Two A.M. What—” He stiffened. Was it his imagination or did he hear a noise downstairs?

A muffled, scuffing step was barely audible, then there was silence. Joe sat up and listened. Clump, clump! This was followed by the creaking of a floor board!

Joe shot out of bed and roused his brother, who was awake in a flash. They stood poised at the doorway.

Scuff, scuff! Silence again.

“A prowler!” Joe whispered.

“Let’s jump him—quiet!”

With fists tightly clenched, both boys inched out into the hallway. Peering into the darkness downstairs, Frank could barely make out a tall figure starting up the stairs! Crouching forward, Frank and Joe waited, tensing their bodies like taut bowstrings.

“Now!”

Instantly the two thundered down the stairs. As Frank grabbed the shoulders of the intruder, a high scream filled the hallway.

“Eek! Stop! Help! Murder! Bandits!”

Utterly astounded, Joe darted to a wall switch. Light flooded the scene, revealing a disheveled, struggling woman wildly swinging her pocketbook.

“Stop! Let go of me—my goodness! Frank Hardy!”

“Aunt Gertrude!”

Wordless with amazement, the two boys helped Miss Hardy into an easy chair.

“Gee, Aunt Gertrude, we thought you were a prowler!” Joe said sheepishly.

“Are you all right, Aunty?” Frank gulped. “Can we get you anything?”

“Of course I’m all right!” their exasperated aunt puffed, fanning herself with a ribboned straw hat. “Through no thanks to you, Frank and Joe Hardy! A prowler—humph! Fine greeting from my two nephews after all these weeks!”

The boys apologized profusely, and Frank added, “We’re sure happy to see you home safe. We’ve been pretty worried about you.”

Joe spoke up. “Aunty, when and how did you get here? We met the Dorado tonight but you weren’t on it.”

“I should have cabled you that I wasn’t coming on that run-down old freighter,” she explained. “They wouldn’t take any more passengers than they had already booked.”

Miss Hardy had sailed instead on a North Lines passenger ship, the Capricorn, which had docked just before midnight. The ship had been due the following day but had made better time than expected. Her traveling companion, Mrs. Berter, had driven her home.

“I tried not to disturb you boys, but look what happened! I thought I was being attacked by Amazon head-hunters!”

“You pack a pretty mean pocketbook yourself, Aunty.” Frank laughed. “Did you have a good time? How was Brazil?”

“Wonderful,” replied Miss Hardy. She arose and gave the room an appraising glance, then nodded slightly, as if pleased to see no dust on the furniture.

Joe grinned. “Pretty good housekeepers, aren’t we? But we still had time for running into some mysteries.”

“Mercy! I should have known!” Aunt Gertrude pretended to disapprove of her nephews’ sleuthing, but secretly was proud of their successes.

Frank and Joe described the day’s events, concluding with the escaped stowaway. “You missed all the excitement, Aunty, by not sailing on the Dorado,” Joe added.

“Not exactly,” Miss Hardy said in a mysterious tone. “I had an adventure on shipboard myself.”

No amount of persuasion would induce her to explain further. “It’s far too late. You’ll have to wait until I’m rested.”

With that, Aunt Gertrude marched upstairs. The boys, bursting with curiosity, picked up her bags and followed.

CHAPTER III

Missing Papers

AUNT Gertrude had another surprise waiting for her when she entered the kitchen the next morning.

“Breakfast is served!” Joe’s voice rang out. She stared in astonishment as her younger nephew turned away from the stove. “Morning, Aunty! Here’s bacon. Frank will have your eggs ready in a minute.”

“Less than that!” Frank lifted a skillet from the range. He grinned. “Sizzling omelet!”

“Well, you two must be up to something,” she said as Joe pulled out her chair and she sat down. “But this is thoughtful of you,” she conceded. “You must have awakened early!”

Their aunt was customarily the first one up in the morning. Frank stifled a yawn as he served the slightly burned omelet, then winked at his brother.

“Of course this is temporary, isn’t it, Joe?”

“You bet. We wouldn’t put one of the world’s best cooks out of a job—no sir!”

Aunt Gertrude eyed the boys suspiciously as they took their places. The two immediately besieged her with questions. “Was South America exciting?” Joe began.

“Very. And perilous,” she replied. “Full of animals, insects, spies—” She picked a piece of shell out of her omelet and sniffed.

“Aunty,” Joe coaxed, “what about this—er—adventure you had on board ship?”

Miss Hardy put down her fork. “Well, first of all,” she said, “there were those luggage thieves.”

“Luggage thieves?” Joe echoed.

“Yes. I met poor Mr. and Mrs. Taylor at a stop-over in Cayenne—the capital city of French Guiana. They’re from around here—Harper-town, and were traveling by plane. Almost the minute they arrived at the airport, all their bags were stolen. The thieves got away.”

The discussion was interrupted by the squeal of brakes outside.

“Chet!” Frank exclaimed. “He’s never up this early during vacation!” But a rap on the back door and the appearance of a plump boy with a round, freckled face affirmed the fact that the caller was the Hardys’ best friend, Chet Morton.

“Howdy, breakfasters!” he sang out. “Why, Miss Hardy, welcome home!”

“Thank you, Chester.” Aunt Gertrude smiled and invited the newcomer to join them.

“What brings you out of the sack so early?” Joe asked him.

Chet explained that he was on an errand for his father at Oak Hollow, where a housing development was nearing completion. Mr. Morton, a realtor, was handling prospective sales.

“But I sure worked up an appetite on the way,” Chet added, looking hopefully at Miss Hardy. He sniffed the aroma of toast and bacon. “Any crumbs left over?”

“Aunt Gertrude’s our guest this morning,” Frank informed him, handing over three eggs, “but you’re welcome to cook your own grub.” In a flash Chet had eggs scrambling in the pan.

Joe asked him, “Say, have you seen any stray stowaways floating around?”

“Wha-at?” Chet stared at his pals. “Oh, no! You’re not mixed up in another mystery!”

The stout boy was not fond of danger, but had often become involved with the brothers’ cases, and always proved a loyal assistant. While Chet ate, the Hardys brought him up to date.

“I’d like to track down that fellow who jumped overboard,” Joe said. “Something tells me he was trying to give us a message.”

Miss Hardy, obviously enjoying herself, continued her story. “Even stranger doings on the Capricorn, though. A man disappeared.”

“Disappeared!”

The boys waited patiently while Miss Hardy paused for a sip of coffee. Then she told of having met a very nice gentleman on the homeward trip, a Mr. Ricardo. She had not learned his first name. “He had heard of your father and asked me questions about Fenton’s latest case—even wanted to know where he was.” Miss Hardy described the man as tall, with an angular face and wearing a white suit and dark glasses.

“He was very pleasant,” she continued, “but of course I couldn’t answer his questions. Then—all of a sudden—he vanished.”

“From the ship?” Joe asked, incredulous.

“Yes. I went to say good-by to him a few hours before we docked and he was gone!”

“Maybe he was ill,” Frank suggested. “Did you try the ship’s infirmary?”

“Yes—not a sign of him. And the stewards weren’t very helpful. I’ll never travel North Lines again,” she added. “I only hope nothing awful happened to the poor man.”

“Sounds weird to me,” Frank mused, recalling the Dorado stowaway’s familiarity with the name Hardy. Was there any connection?

Their aunt stood up. “Before you start sleuthing, I have some work for you to do.”

“But, Aunty,” Joe protested, “we’ve already cleaned the house!”

“We’ll see about that.”

Chet chuckled as the brothers shrugged helplessly. After the dishes were rinsed and put in the washer, Chet grabbed an apple and the trio trailed Miss Hardy through the downstairs rooms. Armed with a dustcloth, she probed with eagle eyes into every corner and under the cushions of the living-room furniture.

“Well,” she conceded, “maybe you did touch the high spots—tsk, look at this dust!” She ran a finger along a chair leg and held it up disapprovingly. The boys exchanged grins.

“We even swept out the closets,” Frank defended himself.

Next, Miss Hardy inspected the rooms on the second floor.

A little later Frank opened the closet in his father’s room. Suddenly he stared at the suit coat which had contained the papers.

The inside pocket was empty!

Frantically the boys checked the entire closet, but the papers were not there. Aunt Gertrude said she knew nothing about them.

“Are you sure they were here?” Chet asked.

“Positive!” Frank said. “Joe and I both noticed them yesterday. Somebody else has been in this house!”

Immediately a thorough search was begun. Finding no clues to the intruder, the boys went outside.

“Whoever he was, he’s a pretty slick operator,” Joe said, “but he may have dropped something on our grounds.”

While he looked around the garage, Frank and Chet inspected the area near the house. Suddenly Frank yelled, “I’ve found something!”

The others rushed to where he was kneeling beneath a window. Frank pointed to the ground.

Several impressions were visible in the soil directly beneath the sill of a dining-room window.

“Footprints!”

“Just the front part of the soles,” Frank observed. “These marks look fresh, and neither Joe nor I was out here recently. The prowler had an easy time getting in since the window’s unlocked.”

Joe ran up to their lab over the garage and returned with a fingerprint and cast kit. Together, the three boys checked the window sill and the dining room, but the thief appeared to have left no clues.

“He must have been wearing gloves,” Frank said, recalling the man they had chased at the Micro-Eye plant. In the next instant another thought struck him. “Joe! The Dorado escapee!”

“Jimminy, I forgot all about him!”

“What do you mean?” Chet asked, puzzled.

Frank repeated the cryptic reference to “footprints.”

“You think he’s the one who stole your dad’s papers?” Chet asked.

“It’s just a guess,” Joe replied. “He’s been accused of stealing money on the freighter, and besides, he did seem to know our name.”

“But why would anyone warn us in advance if he meant to break into the house?” Frank argued. “It could have been a warning about somebody else. But it sounds crazy that he could’ve known what sort of clues that person would leave, when he had just jumped off a ship from Cayenne.”

The others watched as Joe took a moulage of the shoe tip. The Hardys were dissatisfied. “If only he had left a heel print!” Joe complained.

“It looks like about a size ten shoe,” Frank remarked, making a mental note of the distinctive cracks in the sole.

Chet shrugged. “That narrows it down to a few million men. Were your dad’s papers important?”

“We don’t know,” Joe said. “They must have been for somebody to steal them. We’ll be lucky if we can get in touch with Dad to tell him.”

They took the completed cast to the garage lab, then went to the house. Frank telephoned Sam Radley again, but was disappointed to learn that Radley had been unable to locate Mr. Hardy.

After telling the operative about the theft of the papers, Frank asked, “Shall we notify the police?”

“I’ll talk to them,” the assistant said. “If I hear from your dad, I’ll call you.”

As Frank reported the conversation to the others, the brothers became apprehensive. Had anything happened to their father?

“Well, I certainly hope not,” Aunt Gertrude said. “But don’t you worry about any more desperadoes getting into this house! I’ll be on guard!”

The boys smiled. “We’ll Ieave that to you,” said Joe, “while we pursue the mystery.”

Chet sighed. “Look, fellows, I’ll help. But first, how about you driving out to Oak Hollow with me?”

“Okay!”

The three boys piled into Chet’s jalopy and in minutes were heading toward the outskirts of Bayport. Oak Hollow was a small, shrubbed valley which had lain remote from the town’s progress for many years.

The construction of attractive, medium-priced homes there had been undertaken by the father of another close pal of the Hardys, Tony Prito. Frank and Joe had not visited the site since the early stage of development, and were interested to see the completed houses.

“When will owners be able to move in?” Joe asked as they wound up a hill road.

“In a week or so,” Chet replied. “This development will be great for Bayport, and Dad’s real excited about it.”

They turned down a muddy road past large construction vehicles and a row of handsome frame houses, each separated by wide, newly seeded lawns.

“Wow!” exclaimed Joe, impressed.

“And they’re not all alike,” Chet added. “I’ll show you a model.”

As the jalopy neared the end of the street, the boys were startled to hear a chopping sound, followed by the tinkle of glass!

“That sounded like a windowpane!” Joe cried out. “Hey! Look!”

Astonished, the boys saw two men in dungarees outside one of the houses. They were hacking at the wood with machetes!

“Vandals!” Chet gasped, skidding to a stop.

He and the Hardys jumped out and rushed the men. As Frank tackled one, Joe side-stepped a swinging blow and grabbed the other around the neck. But the thug threw him off. Joe lost his footing in the mud and went down on his back.

Stunned, he looked up to see an ugly face and an extended arm. Sunlight glittered off a raised machete!

CHAPTER IV

Peril in the Air

AN instant before the man swung the machete down in a vicious chop, Joe rolled aside.

Thwack! The blade crunched resoundingly into the ground.

Joe immediately kicked out at his attacker. The man dodged, but Frank and Chet grabbed him, and Joe scrambled to his feet. The next instant the man’s partner, swinging his machete, forced the three boys back.

“Come on. Let’s beat it!” he snarled.

The two vandals ran behind the house and disappeared into thick woods covering the slope. The three boys took off in pursuit. But as they emerged from the woods, a motor roared to life from around a bend in the dirt road.

“We’re too late!” Frank groaned. He pointed to automobile tire tracks and a cloud of dust.

Back at the development, the boys found Mr. Prito and two other men inspecting the damage. Jagged holes gaped in numerous windows, and splintering slashes had been made in the walls and moldings of many houses.

“The windows are easily replaceable,” Mr. Prito said, his face grim, “but repairing the other damage will take time. We’ll have to delay occupancy for weeks!”

“What a vicious trick!” Joe stormed, stepping over broken glass and fingering a huge notch in a freshly painted door.

“But why would they do it?” Chet said, equally disconsolate.

“I don’t know. The whole thing is senseless,” Mr. Prito said. “We’ll have to put on a watchman.”

When Mr. Morton and the police arrived, the boys provided descriptions of the hoodlums and pointed out the tire prints. The motive for the vandalism was a puzzle to everyone.

“I know of no rival contractors who might be bitter at not having landed this job,” Mr. Morton said. “If this was malicious mischief, it’s pretty expensive mischief for us.”

On a hunch Frank inspected several footprints left by the thugs, but there was no similarity to the partial ones found under the window at their home. The Hardys had just climbed into Chet’s jalopy when a man’s smirking face peered in at them.

“The early bird gets the worm, eh? Any clues?”

Oscar Smuff, a plump, would-be detective, was well known to Frank and Joe. Keen on proving his ability to Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, he actually succeeded more in muddling cases than in solving them. Although he was meddlesome, the Hardys good-naturedly humored him.

“Nothing much yet,” Joe replied.

Smuff cocked his head knowingly. “Well, I’ll take a look around and try to clear this thing up. Call me if you need advice.”

“Oh, sure.” Joe stifled a grin.

Chet’s motor started with a whine, and the jalopy headed east from Oak Hollow.

Joe spoke up. “Now to get down to business. First, we must trace the guy who took Dad’s papers, then look for that stowaway, and—”

Chet broke in. “Okay. You two can hunt crooks. I’m off to study the clouds.”

“The clouds!” Joe echoed. “You’re kidding!”

“I am not. Listen, clouds are really interesting—and I want to learn more about them.”

The Hardys grinned. They were accustomed to their friend’s taking up one hobby after another. “But why clouds?” Joe asked.

“For weather forecasting. What else?”

Frank had a suggestion. “Say, Chet, you’ve given me an idea. Maybe we can go for a plane ride. You could study clouds, while Joe and I look at the Micro-Eye setup from the air.”

“Great!” Joe said eagerly. “Let’s see if Jack Wayne can take us.”

Jack was a young charter pilot who often flew Mr. Hardy on long trips. Chet needed no persuasion and drove west toward the airfield. Presently Joe noticed a shabby green sedan behind them. Two turns later it was still in sight.

“Chet, double back at the next corner—I think we’re being tailed!”

Chet obeyed. “Creeps! I hope it isn’t those machete men!” he said nervously.

But when the jalopy rounded the block, there was no sign of the sedan. “Guess I was wrong,” Joe apologized. They drove on to the airport.

The boys spotted Jack’s blue, silver-winged plane inside its hangar. They met the lean, tanned pilot near the end of the field.

“Be glad to take you fellows up,” he said after greeting them warmly. “You’re lucky to catch me between taxi jobs.” Jack explained that he had been flying scientists in and out of Bayport.

“For Micro-Eye’s secret project?” Frank asked.

“Yes. What’s going on over there is really hush-hush. Give me twenty minutes to finish some flight reports. Be right back.”

As Jack disappeared into the building, the boys strolled over to the terminal. They noticed an elderly man complaining to an official about a stolen suitcase. The Hardys’ keen ears caught the phrase “in Cayenne.”

“That’s where Aunt Gertrude’s friends had all their luggage taken,” Frank said.

Minutes later, the four were airborne in Jack’s sleek Skyhappy Sal. Chet chattered excitedly and pointed out various cloud formations.

“They’re cumulus clouds,” he said, indicating large fluffy masses extending eastward. “And to the south is the stratus layer. The wispy, curly ones you see way up high are cirrus.”

“Sounds like a fruit,” Joe teased. “But I must say you talk like a scholar, Chet.”

The chubby boy beamed as Jack banked into a smoky, towering bulge of cloud. “Boy, at sunrise it must be like diving into cotton candy!”

When the Sal emerged into the clear ocean of air again, they spotted the Micro-Eye plant below. The panorama revealed long roofs, multiple fenced-off areas, and numerous moving dark specks—workmen and guards.

“Looks just as secure from up here,” Frank remarked. “How about a quick pass above Oak Hollow, Jack?”

“Roger! If we start buzzing Micro-Eye, they’ll have me on the carpet—and I don’t mean a cloudy one!”

High over the outskirts of Bayport, the boys saw the new houses nestled among the wooded slopes, along which ran a winding dirt road. Jack took the plane lower, and Frank and Joe scanned the surrounding terrain. Except for a private, fenced cemetery in the valley and a few picnic areas, there were only woods.

“Do you have some special interest in the housing development?” Jack asked.

The boys told of the vandals, and the pilot whistled. “I wouldn’t buy a house there,” he remarked, “until those thugs are caught.”

Frank said thoughtfully, “That’ll be hard on Chet’s father. Do you suppose the men using machetes are from a tropical country?”

“Like somewhere in South America?” Joe guessed. “The guy that spoke had an accent.”

Jack was now flying south along the coast. He dropped down and circled a large inlet surrounded by a pine barren. Whitecaps washed against countless black rocks which barely projected from the water.

“Cobblewave Cove—and there’s the wreck of the old Atlantis.” Joe recognized the tilted hulk of a freighter which lay in the midst of the rocks.

Cobblewave Cove had been a danger to incoming vessels for years. When the Atlantis had foundered on the sharp rocks during a violent gale, the wreck had been left as both a memorial to its crew and a warning to other seamen.

“I’d like to explore that wreck someday,” said Chet. “Maybe we’d find treasure aboard.”

“What!” Joe said in mock horror. “You don’t believe the legend of the Atlantis?”

Chet waved a disdainful hand. “You mean about wails of dying mariners inside the hold? I don’t believe that ghost stuff.”

“Brave words, pal.” Joe grinned.

Jack began circling to turn northward. “I’m due back at the field, fellows.” But when the craft banked steeply into a stiff wind, they all felt a sudden lurch. Then another!

“What’s wrong?” Joe exclaimed, alarmed.

“Don’t know—she’s not flying right!” Frantically Jack worked the controls. Despite his efforts, the plane snapped to the left. The boys peered out and gasped with horror.

Shredded pieces of metal were streaming from the outboard section of the left wing. A bend appeared about three feet in from the tip.

The outer section then began to flutter violently in the wind, as if making ready to separate itself from the airplane!

CHAPTER V

Suspect at Large

“The wing!” Frank cried out. “It’s breaking up!”

Simultaneously the Hardys and Chet were flung against their seat belts. The engine screamed. The plane plunged into a downward spiral. After four turns, the gyrations tightened into a spin.

“We must be losing nearly a fourth of our lift on the left wing!” Jack shouted. “Our aileron is almost useless!”

He chopped engine power, shoved full right rudder, and snapped the stick forward. Recovery was slow, but Jack finally maneuvered the plane back to straight and level.

Looking out, the boys saw the damaged wing section still attached. But jagged ribbons of metal were trailing from its lower surface.

“Will we make the airport?” Joe asked.

Jack stared tensely ahead, then glanced back. “We’ve already stretched our luck, but if we take it slow, we should make it. Don’t move around!”

Carefully he guided the craft back to the outskirts of Bayport. Chet, his face white, crouched next to Joe with his fingers crossed. “M-me and m-my big hobbies!” he groaned.

In silence Jack maneuvered the plane skillfully out over Barmet Bay. Descending, he banked west toward the airport. Minutes later, he brought the craft to a safe landing. Relieved, everyone climbed out.

Jack and the boys looked at the damaged wing. The pilot frowned. “I don’t understand how it could’ve happened.”

The outer section of the wing hung slightly awry from an uneven breach in the metal. Aghast, Joe spotted several dents around the cut.

“This was no accident—the wing was slashed!”

Jack grimly affirmed Joe’s suspicion of sabotage. “One clean blow—clean enough for us not to notice it before taking off. The wind did the rest. It could have been an ax—”

“Or a machete!” Frank broke in. “That green sedan behind us on the way here—maybe those vandals were tailing us, and did this job.”

“For revenge!” Chet said, rolling his eyes in fear.

Frank disagreed. “That’s a pretty strong dose of revenge coming from vandals—unless they aren’t just vandals.”

Jack led them back to the hangar. “Whoever slashed the wing was willing to take me into the nose dive too. I’m wondering if it had any connection with my taxiing scientists who are working for Micro-Eye. I’ve flown several of them.”

“You mean somebody intended to put a cog in the plant’s project—to slow it down?” Joe asked.

“It’s possible,” the pilot said grimly. “I hope he doesn’t try again.”

At the hangar one of the ground crew informed Jack and the boys he had seen two swarthy strangers leaving the field in a run-down green sedan. His descriptions fit the vandals.

Joe whistled. “You’re right, Frank. Those two are mixed up in something worse than house-wrecking.”

Frank nodded. “All we have to find out is—what?”

Jack promised to notify them of any leads, then the three sleuths returned to the jalopy and headed back to Bayport.

Chet spoke up glumly. “From now on, I’ll study clouds from the ground!”

Frank nudged his brother. “We can always use a weather prognosticator. Right, Joe?”

“You bet. How’s the forecast for sleuthing?”

“Stormy! That I can tell you.” Hopefully Chet changed the subject. “Say, don’t forget about our going to Cobblewave Cove!”

“Okay, we’ll make it soon,” Joe said.

Chet dropped the brothers off at Elm and High and chugged along homeward. Frank and Joe headed up the walk to their house.

“Maybe there’ll be some word from Dad,” Frank said. “We’ve—” He broke off abruptly. A man was peering at them from behind a large spruce tree across the lawn. The Hardys started toward him, but the man ran off.

“He’s the stowaway!” Joe cried out. “Stop!” But the slender fugitive leaped a hedge and tore across the street. Joe bounded off the curb in pursuit, but was grabbed by Frank just as a car swerved to avoid hitting him. By now their quarry had disappeared. After searching the neighborhood for twenty minutes without luck, the brothers returned home.

“Boy, he’s a slippery eel,” Joe said as they went inside.

“I can’t figure him out. Was he spying on us, or—”

“Spies!” Aunt Gertrude sailed into the hall “Who? Where?”

Frank quickly explained. Miss Hardy’s lips tightened. “More desperadoes!” she exclaimed. “What is this house coming to?”

Frank and Joe had decided not to mention the machete attack or plane sabotage. Their aunt told them Sam Radley had called. “He still hasn’t heard from your father,” she added..

Disappointed, the boys followed their aunt to the luncheon table. Joe sighed. “Well, if we wanted a mystery, we sure got one. Do you think that fellow was casing our house?”

“He acted that way. I wonder if he took Dad’s papers, and came back to steal some others,” Frank speculated. “Could be he’s part of a plot against Dad.”

“But why? Dad’s not even home. But maybe the guy doesn’t know that.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “The Dorado thief’s from South America,” he reasoned. “And maybe those vandals are, too.”

“I wouldn’t bet against it. Sure wish we could consult Dad.”

“First thing we’d better do is report to the immigration people,” said Frank.

When the meal was over, the brothers drove to the dock area and pulled up at a small building which housed the office of the United States Customs and Immigration departments. The boys were directed into an inner office where a young immigration officer named Scott sat at a desk.

The Hardys introduced themselves and Frank explained their two contacts with the Dorado’s escapee.

The officer nodded. “We’ve been giving your first report close attention. You’re sure it was the same man you saw this morning?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe replied. “Dark-complexioned, slender, with a thin mustache. But this time he had on old faded clothes.”

Scott snatched a sheet of paper and quickly took down the information. Suddenly Joe noticed two well-dressed men standing at a nearby desk, obviously taking an interest in the boys’ statements.

The young officer, meanwhile, knit his brows and drummed his pencil. “Very odd,” he said. “The switchboard operator reported a man came here this morning to see me. I was out. Her description of him matched the one you gave of the stowaway last night—except today’s caller wore no uniform, and was poorly dressed.”

The revelation was perplexing. “It sounds crazy,” Frank remarked. “A wanted thief daring to show up at your office. What did he want?”

“Information, apparently. He mentioned several South American names and asked if any such persons from the Huella Islands had ever sought political asylum in this area.”

The Huellas, Frank and Joe recalled, were an island group off the coast of French Guiana, South America. The largest of them, Baredo, had been in the news recently due to the repressive actions of its ruler, Juan Posada, a dictator known to be unfriendly to the United States.

“But we have no record of anyone arriving from the Huellas,” the officer added. He showed the list of names to the Hardys, but they recognized none of them.

Mr. Scott shook their hands. “We appreciate your help. We’re concerned these days with illegal entrants, since some of them may be sent here for espionage purposes. This escaped man could actually be assigned to spy on Huellan refugees, some of whom may be in or near Bayport without our knowledge.”

He added that the bald immigration officer the boys had met was an impostor. “The authorities would like to get hold of him too.”

“We’ll keep a sharp lookout for both men,” Frank promised.

The Hardys said good-by and hurried across the office. “We must find out more about this ‘footprints’ business,” Joe muttered.

As they reached the doorway, the Hardys were astonished to find their path suddenly blocked by one of the two strangers they had noticed.

“Just a minute!” he said. “You boys aren’t going anywhere!”

CHAPTER VI

Waterfront Sleuthing

THE HARDYS stood dumfounded as the tall, expressionless stranger rooted himself firmly in the doorway.

“There must be some mistake—” Frank began. A voice from behind cut him off.

“No, there’s not, boys. Come with us. We’d like to have a word with you.”

They turned to face a distinguished-looking, gray-haired man, the other stranger Joe had seen. The boys started to protest, then saw Scott nod reassuringly. Puzzled, the Hardys followed the two men into an unoccupied file room.

As the taller man closed the door, the other held out a leather identification case. “Roy Dykeman, United States Intelligence.”

Frank and Joe examined the credentials, then handed them back. Dykeman introduced his companion as Mr. Crothers, also of Intelligence.

“I’m sorry to detain you, but something you said to Mr. Scott caught our attention.” Dykeman looked directly at the Hardys. “What do you two know about ‘footprints’?”

“Footprints?” Frank glanced at Joe. “Not much, sir. We heard the word last night, and then we found something at our house later that made us wonder whether there was a connection.”

“Will you give us complete details?” Mr. Crothers asked. “It’s important.”

Frank told the men of their experience with the Dorado stowaway, including his mysterious “footprints” warning. “We didn’t mention this in our statement. We thought it might have to do with a private case of our father, Fenton Hardy.”

“Fenton Hardy?” Mr. Dykeman glanced at Crothers. “Please continue, boys.”

Joe related the theft of Mr. Hardy’s papers.

“We’ve been trying to put two and two together,” Frank explained, “but we haven’t been able to contact Dad. The papers must be important, if somebody wanted to steal them!”

Mr. Dykeman paced the floor. “You were right not to reveal anything that could be detrimental to your father,” he stated.

“Do you know where Dad is?” Joe pressed.

“Not exactly,” the agent replied. “Let me explain. I am here in Bayport to supervise security for a vitally important project.” He paused and smiled. “We owe you two boys a debt of thanks for your alertness yesterday.”

“You mean—at Micro-Eye Industries?” Frank exclaimed.

“That’s right. I know you both can be trusted to keep this matter confidential. Micro-Eye is in danger of espionage by aliens, internally as well as externally. We are counting heavily on your father’s help.”

“Then Dad’s assignment is for Micro-Eye?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Yes—but as a field agent. Even Mr. Crothers and I don’t know where he is. The plot we are up against appears to be extensive geographically.”

“You believe that somehow ‘footprints’ are involved with this plot?” Frank queried.

The intelligence officer glanced at his associate, who nodded slightly. “I can tell you this much—we are aware of a conspiracy to uncover, and perhaps steal Micro-Eye’s secret work. We believe it to be centered in South America, and directed from there, and it operates, we think, under the code name Footprints.”

“Footprints!” Joe echoed. “Then the stowaway may be part of this plot! And that phony immigration officer too!”

“We’ll have to track them down before we know,” Mr. Crothers replied. “We’ve had our men constantly watching incoming ships and planes for people entering the country illegally, but they manage to slip in, nevertheless.”

Frank and Joe promised their full cooperation. After giving the boys a card with their secret telephone number, the two agents thanked them for the assistance. Outside the building, the Hardys hurried to their car.

“Well, at least we’ve found out what Dad’s working on,” Joe remarked. “Hey! Do you think he’s in South America?”

“Could be. I wonder if the Footprints members may have infiltrated Micro-Eye. Question is, where do the stowaway and the immigration impostor fit into the scheme?”

“And the machete men,” Joe added.

Frank remembered Scott’s mention of the Huella Islands. “I’m wondering if those South American names that the stowaway asked about belong to spies or refugees.”

“Either way, he sure took a risk showing up at the immigration office,” Joe stated.

“We’d better warn Aunt Gertrude to keep an eye out for suspicious-looking South Americans,” Frank suggested.

Joe grinned. “Or vice versa.” They reached the car and headed home.

As they turned the corner at a warehouse, Frank’s attention was suddenly caught by a tall, white-suited stranger crossing the street.

Frank pulled over to the curb. “That man matches the description Aunt Gertrude gave of the vanishing Mr. Ricardo!”

Joe peered out the window as the stranger stepped onto the sidewalk a few yards ahead. Suddenly the man glanced at them through dark glasses and hurried past the car.

“You’re right!” Joe whispered. “Angular face and all! Do you think it’s just a coincidence?”

“Maybe, but let’s see where he’s heading!”

The boys waited a few moments, then stepped out and followed the man. They kept a block’s distance. But the stranger looked back again, and pulled his panama hat lower over his hawk-nosed face. His pace quickened.

“Looks as if he’s on to us. Let’s go!” Frank urged.

The white-suited man suddenly cut sharp right and disappeared down a narrow side street.

“Don’t let him get out of sight!” Joe urged.

Pretense abandoned, the boys broke into a run. With Frank at his heels, Joe nimbly dodged two laborers shouldering a long metal pipe and whipped around the corner.

Wham!

Joe had collided full tilt with a man, and he fell backward onto Frank. Both boys landed in a sitting position on the pavement. They looked in astonishment at the roly-poly figure of the man, who was slowly getting to his feet.

Oscar Smuff!

“Oowwww!” Groaning, the would-be investigator glared at the Hardys. “You! You! You would get in my way!”

Smuff, muttering furiously, snatched up a notebook from the sidewalk. He continued to sputter. “You Hardys! Who else would interfere just when I was on the track of conspirators!”

“Of consp—” The boys stared in dismay past the self-styled detective. Their own pursuit seemed hopeless. The side street was deserted.

“What conspirators?” Frank asked, gritting his teeth to hide his irritation.

“Don’t know yet,” Smuff raged, “but I’m hot on their trail—or was until you two meddling amateurs bumped into me.”

“You sort of got in our way yourself,” Joe retorted.

Smuff ignored him. He peered around the corner, then darted off after the workers carrying the pipe. Despite their annoyance, Frank and Joe were curious and followed.

“What’s up?” Joe asked. Smuff gave him a reproving look, then whipped out a pencil. His round face glowed with importance.

“The code of the underworld!” he whispered, and waddled faster. “I’m trying to break it!”

Frank frowned. “The what?”

“You’ll see. Stick with me and learn something about detecting!” Smuff motioned them ahead to overhear the laborers’ conversation.

“You Hardys would get in my way!” Smuff groaned

“If they don’t take the pennant this year,” one was saying, “they’ll never win it. The league is getting too tough.”

“Say,” the other replied, “I’ve got peanut butter and jelly today. What’d you bring?”

“Sardine, and a bacon and tomato.”

Smuff, perspiring heavily, frenziedly wrote in his notebook.

“Don’t you get it?” he asked the boys. “That’s all a secret lingo. ‘Pennant’ is a munitions plot—and ‘league’ is the explosive! ‘Tough’ means it’s hard to get!”

Frank bit off a smile. “I see. But how about the peanut butter and jelly?”

“Haven’t figured ‘em out yet—the ‘sardine’ means the plot’ll take place at sea.” He detected Joe’s grin and grimaced. “You won’t laugh when I crack this case wide open.”

The workmen placed the pipe in a truck, then leaned against it and opened paper bags. Smuff edged closer as the men took out thick sandwiches. They now noticed the pudgy fellow peering curiously at them. “Want somethin’, Mac?” one of the workers called out. Smuff flushed and backed away. The men shrugged and bit into their sandwiches, resuming their conversation.

Joe clapped Smuff’s shoulder. “Good luck on the bacon and tomato! Hope they’re not too dangerous.”

Smuff stalked off indignantly, and the Hardys returned to their car. Joe roared with laughter. “Wow, talk about wild-goose chases! ‘Underworld code’—in sandwiches!”

“Think what Oscar the Sleuth could make of a whole menu!” Frank said, chuckling.

The brothers still chafed over the disruption of their chase.

“If only we could have found out where that man was headed!” said Joe. “And if he actually is the Mr. Ricardo from Aunt Gertrude’s ship.”

“He certainly wanted to get away from us,” Frank added. “It’s possible Ricardo planned to disappear from the ship. And I don’t like it that he quizzed Aunt Gertrude about Dad.”

The brothers’ discussion ended abruptly as they approached their car and Frank said, “Flat tire!” He pointed to the scraps of rubber near the left-rear wheel. There was a gaping gash in the tire.

“Somebody did this on purpose!” he exclaimed.

Joe yanked open the front door and gasped with alarm. “Frank, look at this!”

Rolls of gouged-out stuffing covered the entire seat. Driven deeply into the driver’s seat was the long blade of a black-handled machete!

As Joe grimly whipped out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the handle, a piece of paper fluttered from the seat. Pasted on it were bits of newsprint forming the message:

A warning: Mind your own business.

Joe asked angrily, “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”

“If you mean the vandals are responsible—Yes.” Frank opened the trunk and grabbed a jack. The boys rolled out the spare, changed the tire, then headed home.

“Ricardo—or whoever that stranger is—saw us park here,” Joe pointed out. “Do you think he could have doubled back and done the damage?”

Frank doubted this. “I’m sure the man wasn’t carrying a machete.” He looked at Joe. “It’s possible Ricardo and the vandals are in cahoots, though.”

The Hardys reached home and hurried inside. Frank glanced into the living room and gave a cry of alarm.

Aunt Gertrude lay motionless on the floor!

CHAPTER VII

Reward or Bribe?

“AUNT Gertrude!”

The boys rushed to her side. With a slight shriek Miss Hardy jumped to her feet.

“Aunty, what happened?” Frank asked with relief. “Are you all right?” The tall spinster quickly removed a curtain rod stretched between two chairs.

“Of course I’m all right!” she snapped, apparently flustered at the boys’ sudden entry. “Just—er—slipped and lost my balance. Knocked the wind out of me a moment.”

“Whew, you gave us a scare!” said Frank.

Aunt Gertrude walked quickly to the hi-fi set, snatched a disc from the turntable, and slipped it into an album. Frank peeked at the garish orange-and-purple cover.

“‘Limbo for Hot-spirited Latins!’ Wow!”

The boys glanced at the curtain rod in their aunt’s hands and grinned widely.

“Aunt Gertrude! You weren’t trying to do the Limbo!” Joe exclaimed, referring to the “dance” in which one arched backward beneath a horizontal bar held lower and lower.

“The what? Nonsense!” Miss Hardy picked up a dustcloth and began vigorously polishing a table. “Silly voodoo music! I was just playing that record out of curiosity.”

Joe and Frank winked at each other as their aunt propped the curtain rod in a comer. “How about a Limbo lesson, Aunty?”

“Never you mind, Joe Hardy,” she remarked, and changed the subject. “Why, look at that dirt all over your trousers! Where on earth have you two been?”

The boys told of having seen the man they thought was Mr. Ricardo, and of their futile pursuit. Aunt Gertrude was astonished.

“You mean he really didn’t disappear?”

“It’s possible he just wanted it to seem that way,” Frank reasoned.

“You boys have too much imagination,” Miss Hardy scolded. “I suppose you think Mr. Ricardo is a pirate in disguise or some other kind of villain.”

The boys asked if there had been any word from Mr. Hardy.

“No. Oh, I almost forgot,” she added. “There was a telephone call for you boys.”

“Where from?” Frank asked.

“Mr. North, the shipping magnate, of all people. He called three times, and was very brusque. I almost told him a thing or two about how inefficiently his ships are run!”

“Did he leave a message?”

Miss Hardy reported that North wanted the brothers to come to his office the next morning at ten o’clock to discuss some “important business.” The boys were puzzled.

“Maybe he wants some information about the Dorado stowaway,” Joe said.

After supper the boys checked the machete for fingerprints. There were none.

“But look at this!” Joe exclaimed. “A Cayenne trademark on the blade! This is from South America! We must report our find to Mr. Dykeman!”

Frank took a world atlas from a bookshelf, flipped to the back index, and ran a finger down the list. “The Huella Islands,” he said, “are off the coast of Cayenne!”

“The stowaway got aboard there,” Joe said. “He could be one of the higher-ups in the gang. Anyhow, we’d better get our car fixed.”

The Hardys drove to an auto accessories place, and were told that repairs would be finished by morning.

The next day the brothers picked up their car and drove to the grimy North Lines Building. They were ushered into Orrin North’s large, plushly furnished office on the top floor. The bulky magnate was relaxing behind a mahogany desk near a picture window overlooking Barmet Bay.

“Glad you could come. Have a seat.” Without getting up, North waved the Hardys toward a small sofa. “Like my setup, boys?”

“Very comfortable, Mr. North,” Frank commented. Both he and Joe were at once struck by the disparity between the lavishness of the office and the run-down exterior of the building. They recalled the reports of North’s failing business.

“Like it myself,” the shipowner admitted proudly. “And it’s all mine—planned by me, earned by me, and preserved by me. Shows what incentive will do. Smart kids like you could do as well—if you play your cards right.”

Frank and Joe made no comment. It was rumored in Bayport that North’s rise to wealth had not been entirely honest. Each boy wondered what he was leading up to.

The husky tycoon leaned back in his chair. “I understand you boys ran into that thief who jumped ship from my Dorado.”

“We did,” Joe affirmed.

“That’s why I called you in. The hoodlum not only stowed away, but stole a good deal of money. The whole business could give my line a bad name! You two got a good look at him and I’ll make it worth your while if you can find him for me. By the way, did the fellow say anything?”

Frank replied cautiously, “Not much. He was too weak to talk.”

North seemed satisfied. “Too bad. We might have had more luck if you had gone straight to Captain Burne.” His voice showed irritation. “Let me hear first if you get any leads.”

“Do you know the stowaway’s name—or background?” Joe countered.

The burly magnate shrugged. “Not me. Burne thinks he sneaked on at Cayenne. Personally, I have a feeling he’s a spy!”

“It’s possible,” Frank agreed, a bit startled. Had North a motive in saying this? Or was it merely an offhand remark?

North escorted the brothers to the door, where Frank reservedly said they would “keep in touch.”

“I guess you boys know the ropes, being sons of Fenton Hardy.” He smiled. “What’s your dad up to these days? Haven’t seen him around. Big case?”

“He’s always busy,” Frank answered.

Mr. North nodded. “Well, boys, don’t forget about that reward! By the way, I’d like to keep this thing out of the newspaper.”

As the boys walked back to the car, they mulled over the meeting. “Something about Orrin North rings false,” Frank concluded. “He doesn’t seem to want the authorities to get to that stowaway before he does. Why?”

“Good question,” Joe answered. “I’ll bet the stowaway stole something besides money, or maybe he’s got something on North!”

“Like what?”

“North himself might be part of the Footprints plot Mr. Dykeman told us about.”

Frank looked doubtful. “He may be involved in some shady financial dealings, but North’s too prominent to risk being in a spy racket.”

“Guess so,” said Joe. “Did you notice how he tried to fish something out of us about Dad?”

“I sure did! Come on. We have some checking to do.”

The Hardys drove to the freighter pier. Here they learned that the Dorado was on its way back to Cayenne and other South American ports. At the passenger office they found that the name Ricardo was not on the Capricorn’s manifest, nor on that of any other ship arriving recently.

The boys returned to their car. “He must have registered under another name,” Joe said.

Frank slipped behind the wheel. “We’ve got to find that stowaway! He’s the key to this whole thing.”

“Fine, but we haven’t any kind of lead.” Joe hopped in beside his brother.

Frank snapped his fingers. “Our boathouse! He learned about our owning the Sleuth and might have gone there to hide out—or to snoop!”

“Roger!”

Frank followed the road which wound around the bay to the dock area. Suddenly the boys noticed three men in black raincoats stealthily approaching a run-down boathouse. As Frank and Joe watched, two of the men disappeared around the far side of the building. When the third moved along the near wall, they recognized the short, bald man!

“That phony immigration officer!” Frank jolted the car to a halt. “It looks as if they’re after someone!”

The impostor by now had scurried inside. At once the Hardys jumped out. Frank signaled Joe to head left. He went to the right of the boathouse. Cautiously they stole through the high weeds surrounding the building.

A harsh voice was audible from within. “You won’t get away this time, Gomez! We’ll teach you to run out on us!”

Joe was the first to reach the waterside of the boathouse. He inched along the narrow walkway and peered cautiously inside the entrance.

Three men, spread out on the catwalk, were facing a solitary, slender figure crouching on the rear platform. One of his opponents slowly pulled a rope from his pocket. Together, the men converged on the cornered man.

The Dorado stowaway!

CHAPTER VIII

Cobblewave Cove

THE men’s steps echoed eerily in the shadowy boathouse as they advanced on the stowaway. Joe glanced over at Frank, who had posted himself at the other side of the entrance.

The fat, bald man paused and rasped out, “Don’t give us trouble. Valdez, Walton, and I are going to take real good care of you!”

The speaker’s two companions—one stocky, the other huge and bushy-haired—kept stalking their prey. The stowaway braced himself defensively. Frank nodded to Joe and shouted, “Hey!”

Startled, the attacking men whirled. “Greber! It’s those Hardy kids! Get ’em!” snarled the stocky thug. The boys recognized him at once as the swarthy-faced Micro-Eye trespasser!

His bushy-haired partner lunged at Joe. The youth dodged nimbly and tripped the man, who fell sprawling onto the rickety dock. But he grabbed Joe’s leg and pulled the boy down. The two grappled, rolling perilously close to the water.

Frank, meanwhile, had charged inside the boathouse. He landed a blow in the midriff of the stocky man, who staggered, half-stunned. A second later the stowaway raced outside!

“Wait!” Frank’s cry was choked off by a rope whipped around his throat from behind. Gasping, he tried to get his fingers inside the rope, but it was drawn tighter!

Desperate, Frank jabbed his elbow full force into his assailant’s stomach. Taken off balance, the pudgy man teetered, let go the rope, and landed in the water with a splash.

But the next instant something heavy crashed down on Frank’s head. He sank to the floor, unconscious.

The young sleuth had no idea how much time passed before he revived and saw Joe’s worried face looking down. “Frank, are you all right?”

“Guess so, except my head hurts.” Frank stood up and touched a swelling bruise.

“No wonder! You got conked with this.” Joe picked up a brick.

“Oh great!” Frank grimaced. “Hey—the stowaway and those other men—where are they?”

“Gone,” Joe said glumly. “All three lit off after Gomez. I started to chase them, until I realized you weren’t following me.”

The Hardys hurried outside. There was no sign of Gomez or his pursuers.

Frank said, “At least we know there’s some link between Gomez and the wire-cutter fellow. He must be the one called Valdez—and the big guy is Walton. The other’s Greber.”

“But why the attack on Gomez by the others?” Frank asked.

“My guess is he cut out from the gang and wants to blow the whistle on his pals. That could explain his stowing away and jumping ship. Also his warning about Footprints.”

“But why would he have stolen Dad’s papers?”

“Maybe somebody else did.”

“Another puzzler. If Gomez does want help, why run away from us?”

The brothers returned to the car and Joe took the wheel. “Better get you home to take care of that bump,” he advised his brother.

“Okay. But we’ll make some reports on the way. What do we tell Mr. North?”

“Just let him know we saw the stowaway. Maybe we can get some information out of him.”

A few minutes later they stopped at a drugstore and hurried inside to the two phone booths. Joe dialed the secret number of Mr. Dykeman, and told him of their experience at the old boathouse. The agent was doubly alarmed when Joe mentioned the earlier machete warning.

“At least we know the four men are in the vicinity,” said Dykeman. “We’ll redouble our efforts to track them down.”

Frank, meanwhile, had phoned Orrin North.

“Humph!” the magnate sounded displeased at the boy’s report. “Too bad you didn’t get Gomez—can’t pay you for no results.”

“Joe and I aren’t worried about the money,” Frank said coolly. “We’d like to find out what’s at the bottom of all this.” Hoping to draw the man out, he described the trio pursuing the runaway. “Do you know any of them?”

“Of course not!” North snapped. “If you get something new on that thief, post me at once.”

Frank hung up thoughtfully. Did North have another reason for wanting the stowaway captured other than the thefts from the Dorado?

Back at the house, the boys told Aunt Gertrude a mild version of how Frank had received his bump. She looked worried, however, and insisted Frank apply a cold compress to his head.

Just after lunch they heard the loud squawk of a horn outside. A moment later Chet bounced jauntily into the house. “All aboard for Cobblewave Cove—in the Sleuth, I hope!”

“Not today,” Joe protested. “We have a few spies to catch up with.”

Chet was crestfallen. “Oh, come on, fellows. You prom—” He stopped and stared at Frank. “Wow, what collided with you?”

“A large brick and a few thugs.”

Chet’s eyes bulged as the brothers brought him up to date. “Whew! Sounds like a fistful of ugly customers! Say,” he added coaxingly, “some fresh salt air is just what you need!”

“Well, all right,” Frank agreed finally. “We’ll take a run out to Cobblewave Cove.”

Joe grinned. “What’s the weather outlook from the Morton Cloud Bureau?”

Chet held his palm upward and eyed the ceiling intently. “Excellent! All clear!”

Aunt Gertrude cautioned the boys, “Now don’t take chances climbing around that old shipwreck. It’s dangerous.”

Chet drove the boys in his jalopy to the Hardy boathouse. They were greeted by dark-haired, good-looking Tony Prito. He hurried over from where his motorboat, the Napoli, was moored.

“Hi, mates! You missed the excitement!”

“What? Where?”

Tony explained that police and plainclothesmen had been combing a deserted boathouse up the road. “Must have been some kind of trouble there,” Tony said.

“We can vouch for that,” Frank said ruefully.

Tony whistled at the Hardys’ account of their struggle. “Spy suspects!”

The Hardys asked him if there had been any more vandalism at the Oak Hollow housing development. “No,” Tony replied, heaving a sigh. “But Dad is sick about it. Making repairs is costly.”

He looked somber upon hearing of the suspected machete sabotage on Jack Wayne’s plane. “What does your dad think?”

Frank explained that his father was working incommunicado for the present.

“So you and Joe are prime targets, apparently,” Tony said.

“Looks that way.” Joe scowled. “Those thugs must be hiding out around Bayport.”

Chet impatiently urged that the boys start for the cove, and Tony gladly accepted an invitation to join his pals aboard the Sleuth.

Twenty minutes later the sleek craft, with Frank as helmsman, was streaking into a brisk wind down the coast. Its bobbing bow cut blue waves into jewels of salt spray and left behind a foamy, meandering wake.

While Frank, Joe, and Tony discussed the mysteries, Chet stretched out in the stern. “A perfect cumulus!” he announced, pointing to a white fluffy cloud as he munched a chocolate bar. “Yes, it’s fair weather ahead, my friends.”

Frank throttled down for the turn into Cobblewave Cove. “Too bad Iola and Callie didn’t come along.” Iola, Chet’s sister, was Joe’s favorite date, while pretty Callie Shaw was Frank’s.

Chet sat up and grinned. “You two detectives have competition—sea shells.”

“What?” Joe pretended indignation.

“The girls wanted to go combing for some old shells. Besides, they’re scared of the spooky legend about the shipwreck.”

By now the Sleuth had entered the cove, and was approaching the hull of the foundered ship.

“You don’t mean Iola and Callie are really scared by that ghost business,” Joe said.

The chunky boy gestured dramatically. “Listen! Just yesterday Iola said she heard reports of horrible cries from deep inside!”

“I thought you didn’t believe that hogwash, Chet,” Joe said, chuckling.

“Of course I don’t!” Chet retorted, but he shifted uncomfortably.

“Ship ahoy!” Frank sang out.

He guided the Sleuth past glistening black rocks, banking around the bulky, weather-torn stern of the half-sunken freighter. Beneath thick rust the name Atlantis was faintly visible.

The barnacled hull leaned to the north, shored up by a small sand bar beneath the gashed-in port bow. The foreship hung against a toothlike rock formation. Above, two toppled booms angled over a crushed deck rail. The wreck lay some hundred yards out from shore.

“Old man North must have had a fit when this crate cracked up,” Tony remarked.

The Hardys were surprised. “The Atlantis was a North Lines ship?” Frank asked.

Tony nodded. “My dad was talking about it the other day. He said the wreck happened shortly after Mr. North started in business.”

Frank cut the engine as they inched between the rocks near the bow of the ship.

“Let’s see if we can board her and have a look around,” Joe said eagerly.

He and Tony clambered forward. Tony was first to spot a rusted ladder against the freighter’s prow. “We can go up there!”

But Joe had seen something else. “Oh—oh!” He pointed to a warning sign which hung from the bow anchor:

DANGER—DO NOT BOARD THIS VESSEL

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

ORDER OF U.S. COAST GUARD

“Guess that’s official,” Frank observed, nudging the Sleuth near the ladder. The rung crumbled into flakes.

“It’s pretty dangerous all right,” he admitted. The boys were disappointed.

Chet shrugged. “There probably isn’t any valuable cargo. We’d better go back.”

The other boys exchanged winks. “Let the ghosts have the treasure, eh?” Tony needled.

Chet opened his mouth to retort. But instead his eyes widened in fear. “Listen!” Chet squeaked. “I—I heard a scream.”

The four listened intently. But the only sound was the gentle lap of the waves. Chet sank back. “Guess it was only my imagination.”

The Hardys and Tony laughed as Frank guided the Sleuth toward the cove entrance. A white yacht, churning northward, arced slowly to turn in. Frank steered out of its path. Suddenly the boys noticed the yacht swing about, and at increased speed head directly toward them!

“The skipper must think this is a drag strip!” Frank said, and honked the Sleuth’s horn. Still the powerful boat bore down on them.

“What does he think he’s doing!” Joe cried out.

Frank signaled again, steering closer to the rocky shore of the cove mouth to make way for the yacht. But still it churned relentlessly toward them, the sleek jaw of its prow slicing out wings of froth. Forty yards! Twenty!

Frank frantically swerved the Sleuth to the left, past jagged rocks. Joe, Chet, and Tony waved desperately to the heedless pilot.

Then with horror Tony saw a swirling, shadowed eddy dead ahead of their bow. A massive ledge of rock! “Frank! Look out!”

But the waves kicked up by the onrushing yacht rolled against the Sleuth, driving it straight for the submerged rock!

CHAPTER IX

Thief in the Crowd

“THE rock!” Joe shouted. “We’re going to hit!”

Grimly Frank swung the wheel hard right, and the Sleuth missed the deadly rock by inches. The yacht curved away at the last minute. Now it approached the Sleuth at slackened speed.

The craft was handsomely trimmed in brass and about forty feet in length. The boys saw the name of the ship in red letters: Northerly.

“Orrin North’s yacht!” Joe shouted.

A man in blue uniform stepped out on the bridge as the craft drew parallel with the Sleuth.

Frank cupped his hands. “What were you trying to do—run us into the rocks?”

“No, I was trying to warn you about them.”

“Warn us!” Frank yelled angrily.

“Yes. Sorry if I shook you up. You ought to keep away from that old wreck. This isn’t a safe place to go boating.”

“With you around it isn’t!” Chet piped up.

There was no response from the Northerly. Instead, it swept around in a wide circle and plowed out of the cove southward. Frank revved up the engine and steered the Sleuth into the open sea.

“Whew!” Chet breathed out. “I could just feel us scraping Davy Jones’s locker. You sure did some smart piloting, Frank.”

Joe burst out, “Does Mr. North think he owns the whole ocean?”

Tony’s eyes widened. “Maybe his crew has orders to keep anyone from getting hurt near the Atlantis.”

“To keep him from getting sued you mean,” Joe said, still fuming. “‘Warn us’! I’d like to go back and ‘warn’ him!”

“I didn’t notice North on deck,” Chet observed.

Tony nodded. “But I’ve seen him at the helm sometimes, plowing around Barmet Bay as if he were a fleet commander!”

The Hardys were perplexed. Why had the Northerly’s helmsman risked a collision in order to “warn” the boys? Why not signal?

“There’s sure something fishy about North.” Joe scowled. “Especially his asking us to find that stowaway.”

Frank had steered the Sleuth into the mouth of Barmet Bay and cut speed. Now he said thoughtfully, “I have a hunch we should scout around Cobblewave Cove again.”

Chet perked up. “Iola and Callie want to do some shell hunting near there tomorrow, at Barren Sands. Why don’t you fellows come along?”

“It’s a date,” Frank agreed.

Tony said he could not join his friends because he would be helping his father at Oak Hollow.

“Call us if there’s any more trouble,” Frank urged.

“Will do!”

The Sleuth was soon docked, and Chet drove the Hardys home. “See you tomorrow.” The plump boy waved and the jalopy chugged away.

Later, Frank phoned Jack Wayne at the airport. The pilot reported he had been in touch with Micro-Eye Industries about the plane sabotage. No clue to the culprits had yet been found, but his plane had been repaired satisfactorily. “And just in time. I’m due to fly to South America in about two days to investigate luggage thefts in Cayenne!”

“Cayenne!” Frank echoed.

“That’s right. The airline people here are concerned about the pilfering of baggage there. I know some French, was available, and—thanks to my detective training working with you Hardys—the investigators here think I can handle it.”

“Need any help?” Frank asked hopefully.

Jack laughed. “As a matter of fact, I have some extra space. Would you and Joe like to come along? Chet Morton, too.”

“Count us in!”

Frank at once spoke to Aunt Gertrude, who gave her consent for the trip. Next, Joe called Mr. Dykeman, then Chet, whose response was excited, although apprehensive.

“Don’t we have enough danger around here?” he argued. But in a few minutes their friend reported he had obtained permission to go.

“Swell. Lucky we all have up-to-date health certificates and passports.”

“Passports to trouble!” Chet prophesied.

During supper the brothers elatedly discussed the prospective trip. Aunt Gertrude said with a sigh, “I don’t know what your father will say about your flying recklessly into the wilds.”

Joe grinned. “Dad wouldn’t stand in the way of our solving a mystery. Besides, Aunty, you were in Cayenne, and got home okay.”

Aunt Gertrude looked at her nephews. “Never mind. I wasn’t trailing thieves—or spies.”

The boys feigned surprise. “What makes you think we are?” Frank asked.

“Humph. The trouble at Micro-Eye—the stowaway from South America—that man you think is Mr. Ricardo—” Her nephews laughed.

After supper the boys tried to fathom what the Micro-Eye project could be.

“It must be a camera of some kind—a real powerful one,” Joe surmised, “or else a telescope.”

“Whatever it is, I wish we knew,” Frank said. “Everything we’ve run into points to this Footprints spy plot. Yet we don’t even know what it is they’re after!”

Later the boys drove around the waterfront, hoping for a glimpse of the escapee, Gomez. But there was no sign of him. They returned home at ten o’clock and went to bed.

The next morning Frank and Joe drove to the Morton farm to meet Chet and the girls for their shell-hunting date. As the Hardys pulled up the broad drive, Chet and pretty, blond Callie Shaw came to meet them.

“Hi!” Callie smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I hear you boys are off for South America!”

Joe looked around. “Where’s Iola?” he asked.

Chet said his sister had driven into town earlier with Mr. Morton to do some errands. “We’ll meet her at the dry cleaner’s.”

The Hardys noticed that Chet seemed downcast. “What’s up?” Joe asked him.

“Trouble at the agency,” Chet explained. He referred to the Voyager Travel Bureau of which Mr. Morton was part owner. The office had been broken into during the night but nothing had been stolen. “It’s happened to other agencies, too,” Chet added.

“Sounds queer,” Joe noted, intrigued. “Wonder what the intruder was after.”

“That’s what we’d like to know,” said Chet as the four young people piled into the Hardys’ convertible.

“Try not to worry,” Callie told Chet. “Just think of the luscious picnic your mother and I packed.”

The plump boy brightened and everyone laughed. Later, Frank parked not far from the Corporated Laundries store. Joe spotted Iola hurrying up the street and went to meet the attractive, dark-haired girl. She carried a large shopping bag filled to capacity.

“Hi, Iola! Here—I’ll take that.”

“Thanks, Joe. It weighs a ton.”

They headed back to the car. Chet’s brown-eyed sister chatted excitedly about the sea shells she and Callie had already collected.

“You’ll probably find lots more at—Hey!” Joe suddenly felt a jolt from behind. The shopping bag was snatched from his grasp!

Joe whipped around. A stocky man in a black raincoat was running down the street, the bag clutched in one hand. Iola screamed.

“Stop, thief!” Joe yelled, and instantly took off after the fleeing figure, who darted in and out of the throng of pedestrians, and sprinted over a crowded crosswalk.

Leaping ahead, Joe just made the yellow light. The fugitive had spun around the corner onto State Street. Dodging waves of shoppers, Joe ran full steam along the curb, skirted two parked cars, then made the turn. People kept surging into his way, but he squeezed through the startled crowd and broke into the open. By now the thief was out of sight.

Joe stopped. The bag snatcher could have taken any direction. Disgusted, Joe ran back to Iola. The others were grouped around her.

“Did you get a good look at him?” Frank asked his brother quickly.

“Not his face. From his build, he could be the fellow we chased at Micro-Eye.”

With a nervous look around, Chet muttered, “No matter where we go, those spies turn up.”

At this, the girls were visibly upset. “Spies!” Iola gasped.

The Hardys explained as much as they felt was politic. Then Frank asked, “Iola, what did you have in the bag?”

“A box of clothes from Corporated Laundries—mostly Chet’s, some things for Mother, and a magnifying glass,” she murmured nervously. “I think that’s all.”

“Too bad to lose them,” said Joe. “But why would anyone else want them?”

Two policemen arrived on the scene and were given an account by Joe and Iola. The officers, whom the Hardys knew, were especially interested to learn that Joe thought he recognized the thief. “Let us know if you spot him again. We’ve been working on that boathouse investigation,” one policeman said.

Callie put a comforting arm around Iola and the group returned to the car.

Chet groaned. “He would have to filch my duds.”

“And our magnifying glass,” Iola added, managing a smile. “Callie and I were going to use it to study sea shells. Joe, we’ll have to depend on your eagle eyes instead!”

Joe called Mr. Dykeman. Chet telephoned home. His mother was disturbed by the incident, but she insisted the group not cancel their plans.

Soon they were driving south toward Barren Sands. They talked of the theft.

“Why should he pick on me?” Iola complained. “Did he figure I had a treasure in the bag?”

“Maybe he took the bag because Joe was carrying it,” Frank suggested. “He might have hoped to get some clue to what we’re doing.”

Half an hour later Frank turned off Shore Road and parked in a little-used dirt lane. The boys and girls trekked through high, coarse grass and came out on the wide, deserted beach of Barren Sands. Just south of it they could see the mouth of Cobblewave Cove.

Callie and Iola immediately kicked off their shoes and began prowling through the surf to find interesting shells. The boys, meanwhile, walked farther down the beach toward the cove. A brisk wind had come up, lashing the breakers. Thunder-heads reared up on the horizon.

“Oh, oh,” said Chet. “Storm’s brewing. But it’ll blow over.”

Presently Callie called, “Boys, help us search!”

“Let’s eat first,” Chet insisted.

After a hearty lunch the teen-agers spread out, meeting occasionally to inspect one another’s discoveries—ark shells, clam shells, channeled whelks, snail shells, and many more varieties.

“This is probably a New England Nassa.” Iola excitedly held up a yellowish, spiraled shell.

Joe grinned. “You sound like a professor.”

“Look at this one, everybody!” Callie waved from atop a slope that led down to the water. The others ran up and admired an unusual, conelike shell she had plucked from the sand.

“That’s a honey!” Chet said. “What kind is it?”

Callie studied the whitish univalve, about two inches wide with a keyhole groove in its blue interior. Neither girl could identify it.

Just then Frank looked down and noticed something that aroused his curiosity. A circular pattern of large, barefoot prints surrounded the spot where the shell had lain. Before he could comment, someone ran up behind them. They turned to face a swarthy stranger, unshaven and wearing patched clothing and sandals.

He cried out angrily, “Give me that shell! It’s mine!”

To everyone’s astonishment, he snatched the shell from Callie’s grasp!

CHAPTER X

Discreet Intruder

“IT’S my shell—I found it!” Callie protested. But at the unkempt stranger’s savage expression, she stepped back in fright.

“She did find it,” Joe asserted firmly. “What’s the big idea, mister?”

The man’s eyes gleamed suspiciously at the teen-agers. Gripping the shell tightly, he started down the slope.

Frank blocked his path.

“Just a minute,” he said evenly. “What right do you have to this shell? Who are you?”

“I’m called Sandy,” the man said sullenly. He jammed the object into his pocket. “I found this shell earlier and put it here.”

“That’s not likely,” Frank disagreed, pointing toward the incline. “Those footprints up there are too big to be yours. Besides, why would you have left the shell here?”

As the others stepped closer, the man shifted uneasily, as if groping for an excuse.

“Please,” Iola spoke up, “my friend Callie and I collect shells. There are lots of other pretty ones left on the beach.”

Sandy shook his head stiffly. “No. I must take this to Mr.—” He broke off, then continued, “You see, I sell shells to get enough money so I can eat. It’s my only job.”

So sudden was his change of manner that Callie relented. “All right, you may keep the shell.”

She had scarcely finished speaking when the man marched quickly away. He soon disappeared around a bend in the beach.

“You shouldn’t have given it to him, Call” Chet insisted. “He as much as admitted he was lying!”

Callie sighed. “Well, he’s evidently very poor, and needs the shell more than I do. Maybe we can find another!”

Both Frank and Joe were studying the circle of footprints. “They’re damp,” Frank observed. “What strikes me is the perfect pattern, as if to mark where that shell was.”

Joe then noticed a jumbled series of prints leading toward the water. The brothers followed the trail down the slope. Here they diverged into two distinct sets of tracks—one coming and one going. Both ended at the water’s edge.

“Let’s separate and see if there are more prints along the beach,” Frank suggested.

The Hardys combed the surf in opposite directions. When they rejoined the others later, neither boy had spotted any further trace of footprints.

“Whoever made the prints must have either swum a long distance,” Joe said, “or come ashore from a boat.”

Chet glanced at the Hardys. “I’ll bet you two have some theory cooking,” he said.

Frank nodded. “That beachcomber’s fishy story, these footprints—I’ll bet something important was inside that shell.”

“A message?” Callie asked.

“It’s a good guess,” Frank replied.

Secretly he and Joe were wondering if the mysterious prints and shell had a connection with the Footprints plot! “Wild hunch,” Frank told himself. “But I’d like to know who’s buying that shell.”

For the next hour the young people hunted shells, but found none like the beachcomber had taken. Frank and Joe scanned the area in vain for any further sign of the stranger.

Suddenly Chet shouted, beckoning to the others. “Storm’s coming up fast!”

The sky was rapidly filling with black clouds. Rumbles of thunder could be heard. Iola gathered the collection of shells into a large kerchief. By this time drops of rain had become a downpour.

The girls and boys dashed to the car and clambered in. Torrents of rain drummed on the steaming roof as they rode homeward. Joe reminded Chet of his optimistic weather forecast.

Chet, in back with Joe and Iola, asked innocently, “So what am I, a barometer?”

After dropping Chet and the girls off, the Hardys stopped at the immigration office to inquire about Gomez. No trace of him or of the three thugs had been found.

“We’ve been turning this town upside down,” Scott told them. “If the gang hasn’t left Bayport, it has certainly found good hideouts.”

Back home, the Hardys determined to return to Barren Sands and watch for another possible “pickup” by the beachcomber.

After supper an urgent phone call came from Mr. Morton. The realtor asked the brothers to hurry to the Voyager Travel Bureau. Frank and Joe lost no time in driving downtown.

Mr. Morton quickly let them into the street-level office. He looked worried.

“Frank and Joe! Glad to see you! Somebody has broken in here again!”

“When did you find out?” Frank asked.

“Just before I called you. We’d closed up, but I came back for some papers. I was just in time to spot a stocky, flat-nosed man dropping out the back window. I couldn’t catch him.”

Joe whistled at the description. “Frank! Sounds like the fellow we chased at Micro-Eye—and tangled with in the boathouse!”

Frank asked what had been taken. Mr. Morton led them into the back office, switched on a light, and looked around, perplexed.

“That’s just it—nothing. Same as before.” The police, he added, had found no fingerprints.

“Was anything disturbed tonight?” Frank asked.

“Yes.” Mr. Morton pointed to a thin sheaf of papers on top of a desk. “Records of our travel customers this week. I found the papers flipped over when I returned from chasing the intruder.”

Frank sat down and studied the booking list. It included destinations, tour plans, prices, and means of travel. Most of the clients were Bayport residents.

“What use could these be to an outsider?” Joe wondered, peering over his brother’s shoulder.

Mr. Morton sank wearly into a chair. “I can’t imagine. That’s why I called you boys.”

Frank continued reading the list. Suddenly he pointed to an entry near the bottom:

Mr. Raymond Martin. Cayenne. Jetliner.

“Hmm.” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the only South American destination listed for tonight!”

“Do you think this is significant?” Mr. Morton asked quickly.

“Possibly,” Frank replied. He asked Chet’s father about Mr. Martin.

“I don’t know him personally. I believe the arrangements were made by phone.” Mr. Morton sighed. “The Oak Hollow trouble and now this!”

“It’s a puzzle,” Frank agreed. “I have an idea, but I’m going to let it simmer until we do some legwork.” He asked Mr. Morton to notify Micro-Eye Industries of the prowler he had seen.

“Sure will. Thanks for your help, boys.”

Outside, Joe started to ask Frank about his idea, but his brother rushed him into the car. “I’ll tell you on the way to the airport.”

“The airport!”

Frank slipped behind the wheel and headed west. “Raymond Martin,” he explained, “is scheduled to leave by plane tonight. We might be in time to get a look at him.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “You figure the intruder was after something in particular—like Mr. Martin’s name?”

“Right—and that could be an alias.”

Frank recalled the luggage thefts Jack Wayne was to investigate. “This plane stops over in Cayenne. Martin could either be slated as a possible victim of the thieves—or in league with the spy ring!”

The Hardys parked near the main terminal at Bayport Airport. Inside the spacious building, they quickly found the passenger gate for Flight 54.

“Martin should come through here,” Frank whispered, checking his watch. “The plane takes off in ten minutes.”

Frank asked the gate attendant if a Mr. Martin had yet boarded the plane. The man shook his head. “I doubt it. Nobody by that name has shown me a boarding pass. But he’d better hurry—plane’s readying for take-off.”

The attendant agreed to nod to the Hardys if Martin appeared. Frank and Joe went to stand inconspicuously against a baggage locker nearby and watched boarding passengers file through the gate. Beyond a steel-laced glass wall, landing planes blinked like huge fireflies.

Both boys felt tense. Would they recognize Raymond Martin? Was he an ordinary traveler, or could his name be an alias for Gomez or any of the other elusive suspects?

Five minutes passed. The jets of the silver Brazil-bound liner screamed to life.

“No, you haven’t missed him,” the attendant assured the Hardys. “Mr. Martin’s the only passenger not aboard.”

“It looks as if he’s not going to show,” Joe concluded, disappointed.

“Maybe he spotted us here,” Frank said. “Quick! Let’s pretend to leave.”

The boys hurried off through the crowd. Joe turned his head casually. The next second he grabbed Frank’s arm. “Look!”

A middle-aged, well-dressed man was rushing toward the Flight 54 gate, trailing a white raincoat from his arm.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Hold the plane!”

The Hardys were close enough to see that the man’s face was completely unfamiliar. As the passenger darted through the gate, his coat hem caught on the end of the metal railing. The man snatched the coat free, but a large piece of lining was torn off and dropped to the floor.

The man did not stop. He ran to the landing ramp and climbed into the jetliner. A minute later the huge craft taxied off and soon rose into the night sky. Frank and Joe stood at the gate staring in chagrin after the plane.

“That was Mr. Martin, all right,” the attendant affirmed. “Too bad you boys didn’t get a chance to visit with him.”

Frank retrieved the piece of bright plaid lining, and the brothers walked back across the terminal. “Well, I guess I led us on a wild-goose chase,” Frank apologized.

But as he examined the torn material, he noticed a glossy, black edge protruding from a ripped seam.

“Joe, look at this!”

Frank pulled at the edge. A small roll of celluloid fell to the floor!

CHAPTER XI

A Secret Revealed

FRANK stooped and picked up the celluloid coil from the floor of the air terminal.

“Joe, it’s film!”

The Hardy boys examined the torn patch from the stranger’s raincoat. A tiny pocket, now ripped, was visible in the plaid lining.

“Pretty clever,” Joe murmured. “The film must have been sewn in to avoid detection.”

“Something tells me we’d better take a good look at this film,” said Frank.

The brothers hastened to a quiet corner of the terminal. Frank unfurled the strip of small film and held it up to the overhead lighting.

“What does it show?” Joe asked excitedly.

“It’s hard to make out.” Frank squinted up at the tiny frames. “Machinery of some sort—maybe a factory interior—wait! Jumping crickets, look at this!”

Joe grabbed the bottom of the strip and inspected the frame near his brother’s thumb. It was an outdoor view showing a high, steel fence and two uniformed figures. Joe gasped.

“The Micro-Eye plant!”

“You bet it is—and taken from inside the fence!”

Half-incredulous, the Hardys scrutinized the film’s other frames—close-ups of the complex and labeled diagrams.

“Blueprints!” Joe whispered as Frank quickly wrapped the spool in the scrap of raincoat.

The boys had no doubt of the importance of what they had come upon: chilling evidence of espionage at Bayport’s top-secret project!

“But if Raymond Martin is a spy,” Joe wondered, “why didn’t he stop to pick up the torn piece?”

“He may not have realized it contained the film. Come on! We’re going to get this to Mr. Dykeman pronto!”

Frank and Joe surveyed the terminal. Satisfied that nobody had been watching them, they walked to an outside telephone booth where Frank contacted Roy Dykeman.

He urgently related what had happened, but, as a precaution, omitted precise details of the film. The intelligence agent reacted immediately.

“Stay right where you are,” he directed tersely.

Minutes later, the Hardys were greeted by two plainclothesmen, who quickly identified themselves with credentials as Miller and Kyle. The boys followed the men out to the parking lot.

Inside the agents’ sedan, the boys related what had happened. The men rapidly jotted down notes. When Frank turned over the film, both agents were impressed.

“Great going, boys! Too bad Martin slipped by, but he’ll be watched when he lands. This evidence could shed light on the Footprints plot. Be careful! We’ll be in touch.”

The sedan roared off, and the Hardys went to their car. Back home, Joe checked the Bayport telephone directory. A Raymond Martin was listed at a residential address. The brothers took turns dialing the number at intervals, but there was no answer. They found that Mr. Hardy’s criminal files had no record of the suspect.

The brothers tumbled into bed, but neither fell asleep immediately. Speculations raced through their minds. Who was the mysterious Mr. Martin, now airborne to South America?

The next morning after breakfast the Hardys had a phone call from Mr. Dykeman. He asked them to come at once to the photographic plant.

Excitedly Frank and Joe dashed outside to their car and in twenty minutes drew up at the Micro-Eye gate. Agent Kyle, to whom they had given the film, looked in their window, then nodded to the guards.

“Mr. Dykeman’s expecting these boys,” he said.

The Hardys were waved through. They parked in the employees’ lot and were escorted by a guard to a second-floor office adjoining the main plant.

Mr. Dykeman, looking tired, rose from his desk in the small, map-lined room. His expression was grave as Frank and Joe took seats.

“What you two came upon at the airport last night is a major breakthrough for us,” the agent said. “But it’s also given us cause for serious concern.”

“Then that film was taken by a spy?” Frank asked.

“No question about it. This is proof of an internal security leak at Micro-Eye.”

Joe told of the boys’ futile efforts to phone Raymond Martin’s home.

Dykeman smiled. “It seems he is a highly respected insurance executive who was recently transferred to Bayport. He has no family.”

“So he probably isn’t knowingly involved in the film business?” Frank queried.

“We believe that’s the case,” replied Dykeman. “He is going to Cayenne supposedly on business. Of course, Martin could be a courier for the espionage ring in Bayport, told to wear the raincoat but not why.”

“Which would mean,” Joe put in, “that the film was meant to be picked up in Cayenne.”

“Yes.” Dykeman went on, “We’ve wired our people there to watch for Martin, and also, for anyone who tries to get his coat. We’re hoping the spies won’t learn of our recovering the film until after Martin’s arrival.”

The Hardys were also told that no trace of Gomez or the other three men had as yet been uncovered. The intelligence officer walked to the window and looked across at a long brick building. He turned and smiled at the boys.

“I imagine you’re curious about the nature of the Micro-Eye project.”

Joe and his brother exchanged glances. “I guess we’d have to admit that!” Frank grinned.

The agent nodded. “We’ve already had you cleared. You have a right to know the basics of the project, considering your involvement and cooperation in the Footprints case. And because your own lives stand in considerable danger.”

Frank and Joe waited tensely.

“In simple terms,” Dykeman continued, “Micro-Eye is building a powerful satellite camera.”

The boys leaned forward, their interest doubly aroused. “How powerful?” Joe inquired.

“One so strong in range and definition it will be capable of telescoping terrain from the highest altitudes. Even”—he chuckled—“a baby’s footprints on a gravel path.”

“Wow!” Joe repressed a whistle. “A camera like that would have terrific military value! No wonder spies are after it.”

Mr. Dykeman explained that after secret project drawings were found missing, the satellite camera’s completion had been delayed by “decoy” work undertaken at the plant.

Dykeman held up the familiar spool of film. “Fortunately, whoever took these pictures fell for some phony blueprints. But we cannot delay the project any more. The government is pressing us.”

Frank spoke up thoughtfully. “Since the code name of this spy ring is Footprints, maybe there is a link with the Huella Islands.”

“Huella,” Joe repeated, then snapped his fingers. “You’re right. Huella is Spanish for ‘footprint’!”

Mr. Dykeman and the boys studied a detailed map of South America. Like jagged footprints, the small Huella island group extended north off French Guiana.

Since the dictator there is unfriendly to the United States, he may well be a party to the plot,” Joe suggested.

“Perhaps,” Dykeman agreed. “We’ve discovered that there is great dissatisfaction among the people, even though Posada did away with the infamous prison colony on the island as a concession to them.”

“Have you any idea who took the pictures?” Frank asked Mr. Dykeman.

The agent motioned the Hardys to accompany him. He led them downstairs and across the yard some distance from the building.

“To answer your question, Frank,” he said in a low tone, “we’re turning this place upside down for clues. There are several hundred employees, including engineers and technicians. We’re running a check on everyone. So far, no suspects. The outside concessions for food and laundry service are kept to restricted areas, and there are constant spot checks at the gate.”

“How about the guards?” Joe inquired.

“Thoroughly screened, and all trustworthy,” the agent declared. He added that the men’s posts were frequently shifted as a double check.

“You think we could have a look around?” Frank asked, glancing over at the main plant.

“I was just about to suggest that.” Mr. Dykeman fastened visitors’ badges to the boys’ lapels.

“These will allow you the run of the place,” he said, smiling. “Stop back at my office if you come up with any hunches!”

Minutes later, Frank and Joe were touring the interior of the one-story plant, which hummed with intense activity throughout its extensive interior. Technicians, intent on their work, scarcely looked up at the boys.

The Hardys were impressed by the steady vigilance of the guards stationed in every department. “How could anybody take unauthorized pictures with them around?” Joe murmured.

“Seems impossible,” Frank agreed.

Next, the young sleuths walked through the grounds of the complex. At the isolated maintenance building they were stopped by a heavy-eyebrowed, mustached security guard. He apologized.

“Sorry, boys. Didn’t see your badges at first.”

After examining the steel fences, the Hardys went back through the main plant.

Joe shook his head. “I can’t see a kink in this whole setup,” he remarked as they entered the design and drafting section. “This place is as tight as a drum!”

“Sure looks that way,” said Frank. “Mr. Dykeman has—Joe, look! Up there!”

At the end of the room a security captain and two guards had just seized a slender man in overalls. Draftsmen gaped in astonishment and the Hardys rushed to the scene. The technician was protesting violently.

Grim-faced, one of the guards snapped, “I just found this in your work jacket, Pryce! You’ll have some explaining to do.”

He held out a tubular, glass-capped object, then turned to a second guard.

“It’s a camera!”

CHAPTER XII

“Stranger” Sighted

“BUT I know nothing about this camera!” the technician protested. He tried to wrench free from the guards.

The Hardys looked on tensely. Each had the same thought. Had the film they had found come from this odd-looking camera in the employee’s jacket? Was he in league with the spies?

The security captain turned the device over in his hands. “Clever disguise. It looks like a tool. All right, Pryce. Come along!”

“Somebody put it into my pocket!” the technician insisted. “This is all a horrible mistake!”

Mr. Dykeman was summoned and given a full report. The intelligence agent inspected the camera, then nodded to the guards. Pryce was led away, still maintaining his innocence.

The men went back to their drawing boards, and Mr. Dykeman beckoned the Hardys to one side. “Could be a big break in our case.”

Frank whispered, “Do you think Pryce is the security leak?”

“Good chance,” the agent replied. “But we’ll check out the camera for prints and see if we can find anything to indicate it held the film you boys found. Right now, we’ll interrogate Pryce. Keep everything you’ve seen here today strictly confidential.”

“Will do!” Frank agreed. “By the way, sir, have you any word from Dad?”

Mr. Dykeman shook his head. “But I’m sure he’ll be contacting us.”

“One more question,” Frank said. “Do you know Mr. Orrin North?”

“North—the shipping magnate? Not personally. I understand he’s prominent in town. Why?”

The Hardys told the agent of North’s reward offer for finding Gomez. Mr. Dykeman seemed interested but puzzled. He looked at the boys keenly. “You suspect he has an ulterior motive?”

“Yes, we do,” Frank replied promptly. “We’ll play along with his request and see what happens.”

The boys said good-by and left. On the way to their car they saw the Corporated Laundries truck parked near the maintenance building.

“Guess they have the concession here,” said Joe.

At the gate the Hardys turned in their badges. They noticed the laundry truck behind them. It was stopped, inspected, and logged out.

“Those security guards would find a needle in a haystack!” Joe commented as he turned into the street.

“If one is in the haystack,” Frank quipped.

On the way home the young sleuths excitedly talked about Raymond Martin, the suspected employee Pryce, and the secret Mirco-Eye project.

“Some camera!” Joe remarked. “I’ll bet the Footprints gang will try anything to get it.”

“Speaking of prints, I vote we return to Barren Sands right after lunch.”

“Me too! That beachcomber may come back for another pickup. Let’s buzz Chet.”

Aunt Gertrude had plates of sizzling hamburgers and crisp French fried potatoes ready for the boys at home. They grinned in anticipation and ate hungrily.

“This hits the spot, Aunty!” Joe said.

Miss Hardy unfolded her napkin. “Glad to hear that,” she remarked. “I suppose you two are up to your ears in more mysteries.”

Frank laughed. “Over our heads, I’d say.”

“Ran into a mystery myself today,” Aunt Gertrude announced a bit smugly.

“A mystery!” Frank echoed. “Where?”

“Downtown, while I was shopping. I met Mr. Ricardo.”

“Mr. Ricardo! You’re sure?”

“Of course. I never forget a face.” She paused. “But that’s not all. Guess whose car he was getting into?”

Joe groaned. “I give up. Whose?”

“Mr. Orrin North’s,” she replied. “And do you know—Mr. Ricardo said he had never seen me before!”

The boys plied their aunt for details. She told them the South American had seemed uncomfortable at her greeting, brusquely insisting she had made a mistake. The two men had driven off quickly.

“The cheek of him!” she huffed. “And here I had thought he was so well-mannered!”

“Then it was Ricardo we chased the other day!” Frank exclaimed.

Aunt Gertrude went on indignantly, “I should have realized there was something suspicious when he asked me on the Capricorn about your father.”

After lunch the boys traded ideas. “Two bits says this Ricardo is in the country illegally,” Frank ventured. “And another two says he’s from the Huella Islands!”

“And North helped him disappear by smuggling him off the ship!” Joe exclaimed. “But why? Oh, there’s the phone.”

Orrin North’s voice came harshly through the receiver when Joe answered. The shipowner asked if the boys had any news of the missing stowaway.

“No.” At a signal from his brother, Joe added, “We have a hunch Gomez is from the Huella Islands—a refugee, maybe.”

“Refugee!” North snorted. “I’m convinced he’s a dangerous criminal. You boys had better nab him, and quick!”

Joe hung up, saying to Frank, “I was tempted to throw Ricardo’s name at him.”

“Good thing you didn’t,” Frank cautioned. “We’d better not show our full hand. Now let’s call Chet and get out to Barren Sands!”

The Hardys had decided to reach the area before two o’clock, the time the beachcomber had arrived the day before.

Chet was waiting outside when the Hardys drove up and jumped into the car. Soon the three were heading south along the coast.

When Chet learned of his friends’ trip to Micro-Eye, he looked at his pals in awe. “You really rate!” he exclaimed.

Although curious about the project, he realized that the Hardys could tell him nothing further for the present.

Half an hour later Frank parked the car in the lane leading to Barren Sands. The trio made their way swiftly through the tall grass onto the deserted beach. Soon they reached the spot where Callie had found the sea shell.

“No circle of footprints today,” Joe said.

“Let’s scout the rest of the beach,” Frank suggested.

Farther along it, the boys stopped short. A double path of fresh, damp footprints, ending at the water, led to and from a circular pattern of prints!

“Look!” Joe pointed to the circle. In the center lay a small spiral shell.

“The same kind Callie found!” Chet observed. “Now what?”

“Get out of sight before the beachcomber shows up,” Frank decided. He stooped and picked up the shell. “Come on. Let’s have a look!”

The three boys backtracked, brushing over their own footprints. They hid in a sandy hollow, screened by reeds and coarse shrubs.

Frank took out his penknife. As the others watched closely, he carefully worked the small blade into the shell opening. Then he heard the crisp scratch of paper.

“Something’s inside.”

Slowly Frank extracted a rolled-up piece of white paper. Joe and Chet stood by breathlessly as he unfolded it.

CHAPTER XIII

Ragged Caller

“IT’S a message!” Joe cried as Frank held up the paper from the sea shell.

“What does it say?” Chet asked eagerly.

Frank read the handwritten message aloud:

“‘To Huellas—Finally got something:

Santilla, Colombo’ ”

Joe jumped at the first words.

“The Huella Islands!”

“But what could ‘Santilla’ and ‘Colombo’ mean?” Frank murmured. “They’re not the names Gomez inquired about at the immigration office.”

“Beats me.” Chet shrugged. “Maybe they’re—”

“Down! Get down—quick!”

At Joe’s whispered warning they all ducked low. “Wh-who’s coming?” Chet quavered.

“Sh! Sandy, the beachcomber.”

Cautiously the boys peered from the hollow. The ragged figure was scuffing along the beach past their hiding place. Occasionally he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

The boys watched intently as the man started up the slope. Reaching the top, Sandy feverishly combed through the sand near the circle of footprints.

“It’s—Where is it?” he shouted, looking frantically in every direction.

Finally the beachcomber scrambled down the incline. He stopped for a moment as if trying to decide where to search, then headed for the hollow. Frank quickly pocketed the shell and the boys crouched, motionless.

They could hear the man muttering as he drew near, and the sound of bushes being slapped angrily aside. Presently the muttering ceased.

Frank raised himself stealthily and looked out. Sandy was hastening up the beach.

“Come on! Let’s see where he goes!”

“Whew, that was close!” Puffing hard, Chet climbed out of the hollow behind the Hardys.

Bent low, they ran forward, keeping shielded from view by clumps of high grass. Suddenly the beachcomber veered up the beach toward the road, and the next moment dropped out of sight behind a dune. Seconds later the boys heard a car start. They raced to the top of the dune and saw a red-and-white hardtop pull away from the side of the road and head in the direction of Bayport.

“There he goes!” Joe cried out.

The three dashed to the convertible. Frank took the wheel and spun out of the lane after the hardtop. He kept far enough behind so its driver would not suspect pursuit.

“That’s a jazzy wagon for a beachcomber to own,” Joe remarked. “He must get good money for his sea-shell pickups.”

“I’ll bet he’s heading straight to the person who hired him,” said Frank. “And that person must know something about the Huella Islands.”

“And the spy plot!” Joe finished. “This note clinches it.”

Chet was skeptical. “That beachcomber doesn’t seem smart enough to be a spy.”

“Maybe he isn’t,” Frank replied. “Could be he doesn’t even know what’s in the shells.”

“You mean the gang is using Sandy as they probably did Raymond Martin,” Joe said.

Frank nodded, keeping his eyes on the red-and-white car. Soon it turned into the street which ran to the center of Bayport. The trail led through the business section of town and finally into a wealthy residential area. To the boys’ surprise, their quarry turned into the drive of a hedge-bordered estate.

Frank, now a block away, pulled to the curb and the boys hopped out. Joe pointed to a gold-lettered sign at the front of the driveway which read “North Manor.”

“Orrin North’s home!” he exclaimed.

Excitedly the trio hurried along the quiet street and stopped at the estate’s winding drive. They saw the unkempt beachcomber rush to the front door of the brick mansion.

The boys ducked back and peered around the hedge. The door was flung open and the angry face of Orrin North appeared. “You—you fooll” he rasped. “I told you never to come here!”

He irately surveyed the grounds, then pulled the man inside and slammed the door.

“For Pete’s sake!” Joe exclaimed. “North is tied in with the spies!”

“Apparently the shells are delivered to him at some other place,” said Frank. “Wonder where.”

The boys crept up to the house. The first-floor windows, high off the ground, were shut.

“Shall we take a peek in?” Joe proposed.

“Better not risk it—we can’t overhear anything,” Frank replied.

Chet agreed. “Come on, fellows! They might spot us.”

“Wait!” Frank whispered. He went over to scrutinize a jumble of footprints in the soil beneath a side window overlooking the drive. The others joined him.

“They’re probably our prints,” Chet said.

“No, they’re not. Look at those cracks near the front of the sole, Joe. They’re just like those of the intruder at our house!”

“You’re right! Think they’re North’s?”

“No—unless he sneaks around his own house,” Frank murmured. “Whoever left these was trying to get in through that window.”

The Hardys were baffled. “Which means,” Joe said, “the person who took Dad’s papers must also be up to something in connection with North. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Figure it out later,” Chet said nervously. “Let’s go!”

Before the boys could move, footsteps came from the rear. The three friends darted behind some ornamental evergreens in front of the house. A moment later the beachcomber shuffled down the driveway to his hardtop.

“Let’s grab him!” Joe whispered impulsively.

Frank shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t want to alert North we suspect him.”

After Sandy had left, the young sleuths waited, wondering if Orrin North would emerge. Half an hour went by with no sign of the shipowner, so the boys returned to the convertible.

“What next?” Chet asked.

“The sea-shell note,” Frank replied. “We must find out who Santilla and Colombo are.”

“I’ll make a wild guess,” Chet offered. “They’re men North wants kidnapped and shipped to the Huella Islands!”

“Not bad,” Frank conceded. “One of the names could even be an alias for Gomez.”

Joe took up the speculation. “Or the words ‘To Huellas’ could mean the note itself is to be sent there.”

“In which case, the names might refer to people now on the islands,” Frank reasoned. “If we only knew who wrote the note!”

“Maybe Mr. Ricardo,” Joe ventured. “Another puzzle—do those names belong to spies or refugees?”

The Hardys decided to report to Mr. Dykeman and drove directly to Micro-Eye. Chet waited in the car outside the gate while the Hardys hastened into the agent’s office. They showed him the shell, handed over the note, and gave complete details, including their suspicions of the man called Ricardo.

“Good work!” the agent said, returning the shell to Frank. “I’ll have the note analyzed.” He frowned. “We have records of every South American refugee in the Bayport area, but Santilla and Colombo don’t ring a bell.”

“Then unless they’re in hiding here—they may still be on one of the islands,” Joe suggested.

“Yes. Unluckily, the dictator, Posada, is not cooperative with United States Intelligence—we’ll have a rugged time finding out.”

“Are you going to question Orrin North?” Frank asked.

“Not at present. I suggest you boys play it cooL We’ll keep a tail on him, in hope that he’ll lead us to the whole spy nest if he is guilty. But North will be doubly alert, since he knows someone else picked up the shell.”

Joe asked about the suspected Micro-Eye employee, Pryce. Dykeman shook his head.

“The camera discovered in his jacket took the pictures on the film found in the torn piece of Martin’s raincoat. Certain defects on that roll showed up on a fresh film we ran through. But Pryce still claims he knows nothing and we gave him a thorough grilling.”

Dykeman added that the camera had revealed no fingerprints. “Of course Pryce could have worn gloves. Then, again, the camera could have been planted.”

The agent had shocking news for the Hardys: Raymond Martin had disappeared.

“Disappeared!”

“Yes, in Cayenne. Martin was kept under surveillance, but nevertheless he vanished from a small hotel yesterday after he checked in.”

“Spies in Cayenne may have seized him when they found out about the torn raincoat,” Frank said.

The Hardys spoke of their planned flight to Cayenne with Jack Wayne. “We’ll try to uncover some clues to Martin and to his captors.”

“Fine. You may find out more than our department could, since you can pose better as tourists. Meantime, I’ll circulate a description of Ricardo. He’s here illegally, I’m sure, and for no good reason.”

Back at the car, Frank handed the sea shell to Chet. “Thanks!” He grinned. “Callie and Sis will be happy.”

On the way home Joe voiced another idea. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Huella Islands are headquarters for this Footprints gang.”

Frank agreed. “I have another theory, too. We’re pretty sure North smuggled Ricardo in—so he may be smuggling in spies from Cayenne, too.”

Chet shifted uncomfortably. “Golly, fellows. You still want to go there?”

“You bet!” Joe replied. “And to the Huellas, if possible.”

Chet heaved a sigh. “I smell trouble already.”

That evening Frank and Joe packed. Aunt Gertrude hovered about them, offering a constant stream of advice and warnings.

“Don’t worry, Aunty,” Joe assured her. “We four will stick together down there.”

Frank in turn offered his aunt a suggestion. “Aunt Gertrude, maybe you’d like to visit your friend Mrs. Berter while we’re gone, and compare notes on your trip.”

Miss Hardy gave him a sharp look. “You think I can’t take care of myself? I’m not afraid to stay here alone, young man!”

Nevertheless she finally agreed to the idea, and made plans to leave the following day. The boys were getting ready for bed when the telephone rang. “Maybe it’s Dad!” said Joe, picking up their extension phone.

The caller was Chet Morton. “Guess what!” he exclaimed. “Sis and Callie looked up that shell in a book. It’s unusual all right—it’s the shell of a Cayenne keyhole limpet!”

“Cayenne!” Joe repeated.

“Right. ‘Diodora cayenensis,’ and it’s not native to this area!”

The Hardys were excited. One more link in the chain of espionage!

Would their visit to Cayenne reveal others?

CHAPTER XIV

Blind River

FRANK, Joe, and Chet clambered excitedly out of a taxi at Bayport Airport the next morning. They tipped the driver and scooped their suitcases out of the trunk.

“There’s Jack!” Joe announced, spotting the plane at the end of a runway. The boys trotted across the field.

“All set?” the pilot greeted them.

“You bet!”

The luggage was hoisted aboard, then the Hardys and Chet climbed in. Jack swung behind the controls and turned to Chet. “How’s the weather forecast, Mr. Morton?”

“Doing just fine!” Chet parried. “Undercast, with blue clouds expected by dayfall.”

Amidst the laughter, the propeller clacked over, then spun at top speed. The craft took off, steadily gained altitude, and leveled off at ten thousand feet. Jack said he would land it in Cayenne the following afternoon.

Then Frank asked about the repaired wing, Jack replied, “I had her carefully checked out this morning. Also, I’ve been keeping a sharp lookout for visitors with machetes.”

“That’s a relief!” Chet said emphatically.

Joe asked Jack if he had had anv leads on the luggage thefts at Cayenne.

“Only that the victims so far have come mostly from the Bayport area.”

Hours passed as the plane flew southward through a bright, clear sky. The boys talked about what to expect in Cayenne. At noon they broke out sandwiches and a thermos of lemonade.

Jack landed that evening at San Juan, Puerto Rico, and they spent the night at an airport motel. Shortly after sunrise they were airborne again.

“Next stop—French Guiana!” Chet mumbled as he dozed off. When he awoke later, he sat up, yawned, and squinted out the window. Instead of endless, gray sea, lush green terrain drifted slowly beneath them.

“Wow!” Chet’s eyes flew open. “Jungles!”

When the plane headed briefly out to sea, the Hardys recognized a line of staggered islands below. “The Huellas!” Frank exclaimed. “That big one must be Baredo.”

Jack banked inland over dense jungle broken only by twisting brown rivers. There seemed to be no sign of life.

When the Cayenne airfield came into view, the Bayporters fastened their seat belts. There was a wait while a jet from the United States landed; then Jack touched down and brought his craft to a smooth stop.

Joe pushed open the cabin door and caught his breath. It was like stepping into an oven!

Chet grimaced. “I feel like a broiled hamburger already.”

The boys dropped onto the glaring, sunlit field. After Jack had handed down the baggage, they went quickly through customs.

Passengers from the jetliner thronged outside toward waiting buses and taxis. Around the small airport only wild, green jungle could be seen. The air seemed dead with heat.

A woman’s shrill cry startled the boys. Frank wheeled around to see two ill-dressed, swarthy men break out of the crowd, each carrying a blue suitcase.

“Help! Help! Thief!”

“Joe! They’ve stolen that woman’s luggage!”

Like lightning, the Hardys tore after the thieves. A police whistle shrieked. An officer fired two warning shots in the air, then joined the chase.

“Attendez! Attendez!”

The thieves skirted the control tower and ran across the airfield. Frank and Joe soon outdistanced the pursuing policeman. But the thieves reached the end of a runway and in a moment disappeared into the jungle.

“Come on!” Joe plunged into the thick growth. The next instant he felt a crashing blow on the head, toppled over, and lay half stunned.

“Okay, monsieur?”

“Joe! Are you all right?”

The policeman’s and Frank’s voices pierced a ringing blackness. Groggy, Joe was helped to his feet. “The thieves—”

“They got away,” Frank told him grimly. The officer said he had tracked the men for a short distance, but lost them in a tangle of vines.

“How’s your head?” Frank asked.

“I’ll be all right after the ache stops. One of those lugs must have landed a suitcase on me.”

The Hardys and the officer emerged from the jungle. Jack, Chet, and two more policemen joined them and they all walked back to the terminal.

Chet wiped his moist face and groaned. “I tried to catch up with you but no go.”

Later, the boys and police officers spoke with the victims of the robbery, a middle-aged American couple named Griffin. Mr. Griffin could not add much to the thieves’ description, except that he judged them to be natives.

Joe felt a crashing blow on the head

“Alice had expensive jewelry in her bag,” he said disconsolately. His wife wept quietly.

The police were apologetic, and assured the Griffins that anyone spotted trying to sell the stolen items in Cayenne would be arrested.

Jack explained his mission to the police, who promised full cooperation. He and the boys then hailed a taxi. On the way to the city they mulled over the incident.

“Five minutes here and we’re right in the thick of the luggage thefts,” Jack said. “Did you know the Griffins were from Taylorville?”

“Near Bayport?” Joe asked.

“That’s right.”

Frank said thoughtfully, “Why are people from our area the only targets? There must be a good reason!”

Jack’s plan was to confer with local airline people and try to trace possible suspects. The boys would work independently. Soon the taxi turned into a dirt road on the outskirts of Cayenne and pulled up at a modest hotel.

Chet brightened. “Civilization at last!” he rejoiced.

The four checked into comfortable rooms overlooking palm-covered slopes. Chet immediately rushed into the shower and turned on the cold water full blast. The Hardys followed in turn.

After changing into fresh clothes, the boys walked down to the center of Cayenne. Jack had already headed back to the airport.

“Say, how about some chow?” Chet suggested.

“After we scout around,” Frank said.

The boys had decided first to seek some clue to Raymond Martin’s whereabouts in Cayenne. The next day they would go to Baredo. Frank inquired about transportation and learned that a launch ferried passengers to and from the island.

The trio reached the centrally located Place des Palmistes, and strolled through the cool park, shaded by towering palm trees. Botanical gardens and a sports stadium were visible to the east.

The Hardys recalled that Cayenne, populated by a mixture of peoples, lay at the mouth of the Cayenne River, which curled inland through wild, heat-drenched wilderness.

Presently the boys came to the beach, along which stretched a row of summer homes. To the north they could barely make out the forbidding Huellas. Frank and Joe looked for the Dorado, but the freighter was not in port.

At a restaurant, shaded by a grove of bamboo trees, the visitors stopped for fruit drinks. On the way back to town they purchased straw hats from a vendor and asked directions to the hotel from which Martin had disappeared. They found it without difficulty.

“Dykeman’s already checked this place,” Frank said. “But let’s see what we can find out.”

The young sleuths entered the dim, stuffy lobby and went up to the desk. Casually Frank asked the clerk if Mr. Martin had returned. The thin-faced man looked sullen.

“I already tell everybody—he just disappear—poof! And not pay his bill either.”

Further questioning proved futile and the boys left. “Our best bet now is to keep looking for him in town,” said Joe.

Hindus, Arabs, natives, and Europeans milled past the boys. Flies buzzed at fish stands and butchers’ meat stalls. Near some gray stone public buildings Chet gasped as a huge bull-like beast with curved horns clopped by hauling a cart.

“A water buffalol” Frank exclaimed.

“If he’s taking to land, I’ll take to water!” Chet shuddered.

“There are piranha—flesh-devouring fish—in the river,” Joe informed him challengingly.

“Flesh-devouring!” Chet’s eyes bulged.

“—Not to mention centipedes, poisonous snakes, scorpions, and crocodiles in the jungle,” Frank added somberly.

The Hardys grinned as they strolled on. The Bayporters paused beneath a handsome mahogany tree. A scar-faced vendor was hawking cheap garments at a nearby shop front. The vendor, spotting the boys, held up one piece after another.

“Pants—shirts—cheap?” he offered in broken English.

Joe shook his head. The peddler shrugged and next proffered a wrinkled white raincoat.

Suddenly Frank hastened over. “Joe! Chet! Come here!” Frank had flipped over the coat to reveal a bright plaid lining and a large jagged hole at the hem!

“Raymond Martin’s raincoat!” Joe gasped.

“This hole matches the piece we found at the airport!”

Frank asked the puzzled vendor where he had obtained the coat. The man summoned a tall ear-ringed Guianan from the shop and spoke with him in rapid French.

“La fleuve,” the peddler told the boys, pointing to the river. “Down two, three mile. You buy?”

“Oui.” Frank brought out several francs and handed them over.

“But how will we get down the Cayenne River?” Joe whispered. “That’s real jungle.”

“He take you—for price,” the vendor confided, motioning to the native.

Arrangements were made for the trip and the boys followed their guide toward the river. On the way Chet bought some tropical fruit.

Soon they came to a short wooden dock. Next to it was a dugout canoe with hornlike stern and bow curving upward. The native beckoned the boys to climb in. “To coat man—I take you.”

Chet was uneasy. “Do you think we can trust him?” he whispered to the Hardys.

“I think so,” Frank replied. “We haven’t much choice if we want to find Martin.”

With Frank and the guide paddling, and Joe and Chet seated in the middle, the canoe glided out into the motionless, mud-colored water. A searing sun burned down as they slipped past lush green jungle banks. White clouds were mirrored in the still river surface.

Presently they passed a clearing of thatch-roofed Indian huts. Farther along, several native women were beating laundry with flat sticks at the waterside. After a while the only sound was the chatter of birds from the depths of the jungle. Something in the primeval stillness prompted the boys to speak in whispers.

“It’s like another world!” Joe said, awed.

Past a bend a flock of beautiful flamingos scattered at the canoe’s approach. Several crocodiles lay sleepily along the banks. Chet held his breath until they had left the ugly creatures behind.

Several miles farther, the native pointed to a channel off to the right. Frank nodded and they steered in. Enormous mangrove trees arched overhead, blocking out the sun. Gnarled vines hung in trailing loops. The travelers ducked as low-hanging branches tore at their shirts and faces.

“Here!” The guide steered toward a bank covered by thick roots. The boys sat breathlessly, their hearts pounding. Were they about to meet the missing Raymond Martin?

The canoe glided against the bank, where the Guianan pointed to a long, overhanging branch, then at the torn raincoat. Frank understood.

“He means he found the raincoat hanging from that branch!”

“A distress signal by Martin!” Chet guessed.

“The coat man—where is he?” Joe asked the guide.

The native hopped out, secured the craft, and motioned the boys to follow. They clambered after him up the bank into the jungle. Something in his expression made the boys uneasy. Was he leading them into a trap?

“Stick together,” Frank cautioned Joe and Chet.

Patches of blue sky broke through the dense foliage. The guide stopped at a small clearing and the boys peered ahead at the remnants of a campfire. A laceless black shoe lay nearby.

Joe picked it up and read the faded brand name, one familiar to the boys. The clearing seemed eerily deserted. The Guianan led them to a patch of thick shrub. “Here—coat man!”

With a sweep of his arm he threw back the dropping mass of leaves, disclosing a long white form. The Hardys and Chet gasped.

A human skeleton!

CHAPTER XV

City of Silence

THE three boys peered, shocked at the skeleton. Frank stepped back as a centipede slithered out of the skull.

Chet backed away, shuddering. “L-let’s get out of here!”

The Hardys, too, had instinctively recoiled, but now inspected the skeleton more closely.

“This can’t be Raymond Martin.” Frank pointed out the parched discoloring and cracks in the bones. Several fragments were missing. “These are old—maybe a year or more. Look how the grass has grown around them!”

Joe also recalled their fleeting glimpse of Martin. He was a taller man than the skeleton would indicate. Frank turned to their puzzled guide and said, “Not coat man.”

The native looked disappointed and shrugged. Through gestures he indicated that he knew nothing more.

The boys searched for clues. Finding none, they returned to the dugout. Joe took the bow paddle this time and they headed back upriver.

Frank said he felt that the raincoat had been left there as a trick by the person or persons who had kidnapped Martin; also, that the shoe and campfire were part of the scheme.

“You think he’s still alive?” Joe asked.

“Yes, though it’s just a hunch. Spies may be holding him to find out what happened to their missing Micro-Eye film.”

“Or to keep him from telling Dykeman’s men how the film got into his coat—if he even knows that,” Joe ventured.

Chet had a guess. “Maybe they sneaked into his house the way the intruder did at Dad’s travel agency,” Chet suggested.

Frank snapped his fingers. “If he wanted the names of persons flying to Cayenne, maybe Martin was to be a victim of the luggage thieves—only they planned to take his coat instead of his suitcase.”

Chet whistled. “Then the suitcases stolen down here may carry spy messages?”

“That’s right—brought in by innocent people.”

‘A sudden wind came up and the bright blue skies turned to a smoky leaden hue. The paddlers increased speed and reached the dock at Cayenne just as the clouds opened in a blinding downpour.

The boys and their guide leaped ashore and dashed to a nearby shop for shelter. Torrents of rain drummed on the roof like thunder, and the tall coconut palms swayed and bent in the gale.

“Chet, you didn’t forecast this cloudburst,” Joe needled.

“How could I? Tropical storms come up out of nowhere!” Chet defended himself.

In several minutes the squall ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Frank paid their guide, who grinned widely and ambled off. The boys walked back through the town to their hotel, where they dried off and once more changed clothes.

Refreshed, the boys joined Jack at supper in the hotel restaurant. He listened with interest as they recounted their adventure in low tones. When Frank presented his theory on the luggage thefts, the pilot was intrigued.

“It’s possible,” he admitted, frowning, “that travelers from Bayport and nearby towns unwittingly transmit Micro-Eye secrets. But how are the films or devices put into the suitcases?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Joe confessed. “Somebody probably sneaks into the person’s home and conceals the information in the baggage.”

“Could be,” said Frank.

“My conferences today didn’t bring me any clues,” Jack told the boys. “But if you’re right, fellows, this is a job for United States Intelligence. I’ll case Cayenne tomorrow, myself, and try to follow out this new angle. We’ll have to fly back the day after.”

The Hardys reviewed what they must learn: the real identity of Gomez, the meaning of the names in the sea shell, some clue to North’s tie-in with the Huellas, and the whereabouts of Martin.

“It’ll be a tight schedule,” Frank said. “We’ll catch the earliest launch for Baredo tomorrow morning.”

Jack said, “Let’s report to Mr. Dykeman.”

He cabled the intelligence officer, using guarded language. Later, as they again discussed the mystery, Jack expressed concern over the boys’ proposed trip to Baredo.

“Be extremely cautious,” he warned. “Dictator Posada has lookouts all over the place.”

At his suggestion the boys signed a statement that they were entering Baredo the following day. “At least this will be evidence if we’re—er—detained,” said Frank, handing the paper to Jack.

“What a cheerful thought!” Chet muttered.

The young sleuths soon went to bed, and despite the sultry heat, slept soundly. Chet had a nightmare. He was trying to step into the river for a swim, but hungry fish nipped his toes.

Suddenly he awakened with a violent start. Something was on his right foot! He reached down and touched a furry object.

“YYYYoooowwwww!”

At Chet’s howl the others leaped out of bed, and Joe switched on the light. Chet was hopping up and down, shaking his foot. A dark winged creature flew out the window.

Jack examined Chet’s foot and smiled with relief. “No blood. Fortunately, you shook him off in time. I think it was a vampire bat.”

“A v-vampire b-bat?” Chet clapped a hand to his brow. “Oh man! That’s all I need!” With a groan he got back into bed and wrapped himself tightly in the sheet.

The boys rose at six and breakfasted quickly downstairs. Then they walked to the coastal docks. Frank said he had promised Jack they would be back by ten that evening.

Chet, apprehensive, followed the Hardys to the dock where the tourist launch was berthed. The boys were met by a fat, thick-lipped man in uniform, evidently a Huellan official.

“American tourists?” he said, sneering. “You go just for day to Baredo?”

“Yes.”

The official scrutinized the travelers, then their passports. “Very well,” he said finally. “See you mind your own business and no pictures.”

“Friendly guy,” Chet whispered as the boys climbed aboard.

The whistle blew and a few minutes later the launch moved away toward the mist-covered Huellas. There were no other passengers.

The thickset helmsman and his assistant were taciturn. After a sharp glance at the boys they paid them no further attention.

The Hardys and Chet stood at the rail as they approached the palm-lined shore of Baredo. A hill of green jungle rose above the roofs of the capital town. Was their destination the stronghold of the Footprints spy ring?

The boat’s whistle tooted three times, and chugged into the harbor. This consisted of several weather-beaten piers and a few small docks. The launch pulled alongside one of them.

When the boys clambered onto the dock, the helmsman grunted, “Up there.” He pointed to a small guardhouse at the foot of the dock. Here a surly port officer studied their passports at length. “Tourists only allowed on Baredo one day!” he snapped. “You must leave tonight!”

“Gracias,” Frank murmured, and the trio headed up the bleak main street.

“With that kind of welcome, they must do a crashing resort business here,” Joe remarked.

The boys had noticed numerous motorboats marked Policia cruising about the island, apparently to control passage out of the Huellas.

“No wonder the people here want to leave,” Chet whispered.

Impressive public buildings fronted the harbor. But in the town itself the boys saw rows of tottering, unpainted shacks along unpaved roads. Shabbily dressed people wandered past dingy stores, many of which appeared to be closed. The atmosphere was both tense and depressing.

“Boy, this place gives me the willies,” Chet murmured as he noticed a gray-uniformed man watching them from one of the few cars.

“Never mind. Let’s just try to look like happy tourists,” Joe advised.

They climbed to the top of a hill outside town and surveyed the harbor. Only their launch and a battered fishing vessel were tied up.

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “It would be impossible for a big freighter to dock here.”

“You mean like the Dorado,” Joe said.

His brother nodded, then suggested they try to track down the names Colombo and Santilla, and also ask about Gomez.

Back in town, the boys located a rickety public telephone booth. Casually Frank entered it and opened a thin directory. None of the names he sought was listed. “There can’t be more than a hundred or so names in here,” he reported. “I guess most of the citizens can’t afford phones, or else Posada’s tight on giving them out.”

“Doesn’t leave us much of a starting point,” Joe said. “Let’s try asking around.”

They stopped an elderly man and mentioned the three names, but he shrugged, stared blankly, and walked away. The boys continued their quest. But they always met the same response.

“Let’s try a different part of town,” Joe recommended. They headed into a small market place and made more inquiries without success.

“Colombo—Santilla—Gomez?” Frank repeated to a poorly dressed boy.

The youth’s expression stiffened. He shook his head and quickly hurried off.

“I don’t get it,” Joe fumed. “Are the people so afraid of something that they won’t talk at all? Or is there something special about Colombo, Santilla, and Gomez that scares them?”

“It’s the secret police!” Chet declared uneasily. “Why else would everybody clam up?”

The boys noticed another man in a gray uniform striding past. He eyed the boys suspiciously. The trio immediately pretended to be sightseeing. Chet whistled shakily as they nonchalantly left the market place.

“We’d better call it quits for a while,” Frank whispered. “And—” He broke off. “Look!”

Crossing the main street, not far from the boys, were two men carrying blue suitcases.

“The luggage thieves!” Joe gasped.

“Come on! We’re going to find out where they’re headed!” Frank urged.

CHAPTER XVI

The Gate of Doom

THE Hardys and Chet walked faster, keeping the two thieves ahead in sight. When the men turned swiftly up a hilly, sun-baked street, the boys paused briefly at the corner, then followed.

“Wherever they’re going, they mean business!” Frank said.

The men hastened up the hill. At the top they made a beeline to a large white stone building, surrounded by a spiked iron fence with a huge gate in front. The pair stopped and spoke briefly to an armed guard, who let them in. The men hurried through and disappeared around the side of the building.

“There’s probably a rear entrance,” Joe murmured as the guard slammed the gate shut.

The boys approached the building. Carved over the portal was: EDIFICIO ADMINISTRATION DE LAS HUELLAS

“Huellas Government Building!” Frank translated. “And I’ll bet a cool shower it adds up to ‘Footprints Intelligence Bureau’!”

“The spy headquarters!” Joe added in a low voice.

A chill went up Chet’s spine. “You think those men really are delivering Micro-Eye secrets hidden in the suitcases?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “This must be the receiving end for the security leak at the plant!”

The Hardys speculated about the two thieves—were they Colombo and Santilla? Noticing the guard, who eyed them with mistrust, the boys sauntered nonchalantly toward the rear of the building.

“Where do we go from here?” Joe asked. “We can’t break in.”

Chet agreed heartily. “And we sure can’t hang around waiting for those spy agents.”

At his urging they stopped at a dingy restaurant to have lunch. But the trio felt too edgy to eat much. Back outside, the afternoon sun burned down on the perspiring boys. Two oxcarts rolled lazily down the dusty street.

“If only we could get some lead on these names!” Joe chafed. “Time’s running out.”

The trio walked on to a section they had not visited before—consisting mostly of small shops and rickety dwellings. The three separated in order to appear less conspicuous while they continued their inquiries. After an hour they met. Each reported no luck.

Just then the boys noticed a dark, well-built man in khakis resting beneath a palm tree across the road. They went over and Frank once more repeated the three names. The Huellan’s eyes focused intently on his questioner, then studied Joe and Chet.

“No, lo siento,” he said finally, quickly moving away. He looked back once, then disappeared into a ramshackle store.

“At least we got an answer,” Joe said wryly. “He’s ‘sorry.’ ”

“He didn’t act frightened like the others,” Frank observed. “I have a feeling he knew the names, all right, and was trying to size us up.”

They renewed their inquiries. But after another sweltering hour, the boys had reached a dead end. They had covered the town itself, and now found themselves on the western outskirts.

“I’m ready to throw in the towel,” Chet announced. “This is no man’s land.”

The Hardys did not reply. They had noticed the door of a small building slowly opening. A face peered out. It was the same khaki-clad man Frank had approached earlier!

“Maybe he’s tailing us!” Joe whispered.

The stranger stared at the boys for a second, then suddenly burst outside and sprinted for the nearby jungle. Joe and Frank sped after him, with Chet following reluctantly.

In minutes the boys found themselves on the bare semblance of a trail. There was no sign of the Huellan.

“He’s probably waiting to jump us!” Chet declared.

Frank set his jaw. “Let’s follow this trail. It may be risky, but we can’t give up any possible lead.”

The three were forced to proceed single file. Progress was slow and arduous over twisting roots and through masses of hanging vine. A dense cloud of mosquitoes enveloped them, attacking Chet in particular.

“Ouch!” Swat! “Get away from me!” Chet flailed desperately at the buzzing pests.

“Ssssh!”

“I can’t help it. They’re eating me up.”

Frank, in the lead, stopped abruptly and held up his hand. There came a faint rustling ahead. Cautiously the boys crept around a bend in the trail. To their surprise, a large section of jungle was hacked away. In the middle was an abandoned quarry.

“Looks like an old bauxite deposit,” Frank whispered.

Chet pointed to several rusted pickaxes on the ground. “Wonder what happened to the workers.” He shuddered.

The boys skirted the yawning pit, treading over crumbling red rock, then re-entered the jungle. There was still a barely perceptible path. The high grass growing along it was freshly trampled.

“Bet that guy’s right ahead of us,” Joe said softly. “He must be used to trekking the jungle.”

Chet was all for turning back, but the Hardys persuaded him to press on. The trail ended abruptly at a high, crudely constructed stucco wall. Farther along it was an arched gateway with a faded splintered sign: LA PUERTA DE LA MUERTE.

“‘The Gate of Doom’!” Joe translated. “The old prison!”

Reluctantly Chet trailed the Hardys along the wall and through the gateway. Interspersed among towering bamboo trees which blotted out most of the sunlight were long, thatch-roofed shacks.

“Probably the old prison barracks,” Frank whispered. “That man may be hiding out in one.”

They advanced cautiously, catching occasional glimpses through the foliage of the encircling wall. Lonely bird caws echoed around the deserted compound. The air hung hot and still. Pickaxes and broken machetes littered the ground. Looking up, the boys saw several ugly vultures hunched in the trees.

Chet gulped. “Ugh!”

The trio paused behind a bamboo tree, then slipped between two shacks facing a large clearing. In the center of this stood a platform and atop it was a guillotine.

Chet stood rooted to the spot, quaking with fright. Frank pointed to a shack across the clearing. At his signal the boys darted over to it and crouched low. A trail of footprints ended beneath the single small window.

“They’re fresh!” Joe whispered.

The boys crept to the window and Joe slowly arose to peer inside. His eyes had just reached the window level when gasps from the others made him spin around.

A dozen armed, grim-faced men in khaki stood spread out in the clearing.

“Don’t try to run,” Frank said in an undertone. “Act calm.”

“Oh, s-sure,” Chet stammered, white as a sheet.

The men advanced threateningly. Some wore bandoliers and battered straw hats, and several carried gleaming machetes. Among them the boys recognized the man they had pursued. The Hardys felt a cold chill of terror, but stood outwardly calm.

Were these men soldiers of Dictator Posada? An older, bearded man with a military bearing stepped forward and uttered a brisk command in Spanish.

The boys were marched off toward the guillotine!

Chet’s knees almost buckled, but he relaxed as the Bayporters were led past the gruesome platform and into an isolated shack. The first objects they saw were cots and old leg irons which were attached to a center bar the length of the hot, dusty room.

The Hardys and Chet were prodded to a wooden table. Lighting a kerosene lantern, the bearded man sat down and addressed the prisoners brusquely in English.

“Who are you? What is your business here?”

Frank hesitated. He must choose his words carefully!

“We’re Americans, just visiting here for the day. I’m Frank Hardy, this is my—”

“Americans—” The man’s steely eyes relaxed for a moment, then tightened. “You ask in town for Colombo, Santilla, Gomez. Why?”

“We don’t really know,” Frank said. “We came across the names in our town of Bayport and thought—”

“Names—in Bayport!”

The leader’s astonished exclamation was accompanied by a rapid stream of excited Spanish conversation among his followers.

“Do you know the three men?” Joe spoke up.

“My friend who led you here is Carlos Santilla,” the bearded man replied. “I am Miguel Colombo.”

Despite their dangerous position, Frank pressed further. “Are you under orders from Dictator Posada?”

Suddenly the table rocked under Colombo’s fist. “Posada—that mercenary spy—that tyrant robber of our people? No! We of the underground will unseat him one day!”

The men roared approval.

Frank shot a look of relief at Joe and Chet. An underground movement! They were among friends! Colombo and Santilla then shook the boys’ hands cordially.

“I am sorry for your unpleasant reception,” said Colombo, “but we have always to be careful.”

“Then you thought we might be working for Posada?” Frank asked.

Santilla nodded. “One is always afraid these days in the Huellas. That is why the lips are closed in town. If Posada knew we meet here, he would send his army to crush us!”

Colombo then directed one of his men to go outside and stand guard. “We do not wish to be caught by surprise,” the leader said. “Posada’s soldiers often search the jungle.”

Joe asked the Huellans whether or not the dictator was the power behind the Footprints ring.

“Indeed he is.” The leader leaned forward. “But I am troubled. My name, Santilla’s—how do you young men learn these? And what do you know of Gomez?”

Omitting confidential details, the Hardys related the events which had led them to Baredo.

“And in that sea shell, you found my name and Santilla’s?” he murmured.

“Yes,” Frank answered. “Later, a beachcomber led us to the house of a rich American in Bayport. We suspect this man to be involved in the Footprints plot. His name is North.”

“North! Orrin North?”

“Yes, the shipowner. You’ve heard of him?”

“Heard of him!” The bearded leader of the underground held up his hands with pride. “Senor North is our greatest ally!”

CHAPTER XVII

Homestretch

THE Hardys and Chet could scarcely believe Colombo’s words. Orrin North—an ally!

“Then North is not in league with Posada—but is in your underground movement?” Frank asked.

“Certainly. For months he has helped our people to escape on his ship Dorado to America.”

Joe looked at Frank. “So Gomez isn’t a spy!”

“No,” Colombo said. “He is one of our best men, sent to rally American support. Days back, he by himself escaped to North’s ship. But from what you say, he is in bad trouble.”

Carlos Santilla’s face showed alarm. “Something is wrong! These people Gomez asked about at your immigration office are Huellan refugees who escaped earlier on Senor North’s Dorado!”

“They never reached the immigration officel” Joe exclaimed.

Colombo walked to the window, stunned. “It cannot be!”

“Have you heard from any of the refugees since they escaped?” Frank asked.

“No. For a while we thought it is because of Posada’s mail censorship. But now,” Colombo added gloomily, “I am not so sure.”

The Hardys and Chet exchanged looks. Their suspicions of Orrin North were confirmed!

“North is double-crossing you!” Joe burst out.

Colombo and Santilla stared in shocked disbelief. “He deceives us?” Santilla said hoarsely.

“Señor Colombo,” countered Frank, “have any of your men been arrested lately by Posada’s police?”

“Si, two last week,” Colombo said grimly. “We do not know how Posada found them out.”

It was the answer Frank had dreaded. “I think I do—from the Footprints spies! North got the names for Posada from the refugees.”

“And Gomez must have found out about it on the Dorado—that’s why he jumped ship,” Joe added.

“But,” Colombo protested, “our compatriots would never betray us!”

“They may have been tricked into revealing the names!” Frank said.

The leader’s face was pale. “Posada may have ordered them—killed!”

The Hardys did not agree. “I think it’s more likely they’re prisoners, and that North will ship them back for Posada to deal with!” Frank turned to Chet and Joe. “We’ve got to find those refugees before it’s too late!”

Joe said, “That explains why Gomez wanted to keep out of sight—to find the refugees North has sold out.”

Santilla relayed the boys’ words in Spanish to the other men, who had been looking on intently. Angry mutters ran through the group.

The boys learned that Colombo and his lieutenant did not know about Raymond Martin or the luggage thefts. But at Joe’s description of the mysterious Mr. Ricardo, they both gasped.

“Manuel Bedoya is his real name!” Colombo almost shouted. “He is the feared mastermind of Posada’s spies.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive! We know Bedoya left the Huellas a week past.” The underground chief added somberly, “He is a dangerous and cruel man. It is not good for your government’s secret project, amigos!”

“But why would the small Huellas be after the Micro-Eye secret?” Chet wondered. “Doesn’t figure.” to

Joe had a theory. “Maybe to sell the information to a larger power—as part of a deal.”

Colombo agreed, adding that Posada was known to be friendly with certain anti-American regimes.

Suddenly the lookout came bursting into the cabin and spoke rapidly to his leader. Colombo scowled and extinguished the lantern.

“Everyone be silent!” he commanded.

The Bayporters and the Huellans obeyed. Voices could be heard faintly in the distance, then they died away. The chief relighted the lantern.

“Who was that?” Joe asked.

“Posada’s men,” Santilla replied.

A few more minutes elapsed in tense waiting, but there was no further disturbance. Colombo then bade the visitors relax, and had simple rations of bread and dried beef served for supper. The boys ate hungrily. When they finished, it was growing dark.

“We have to get back,” said Frank, remembering their promise to Jack.

Colombo, Santilla, and two other Huellans led the boys through a jungle route toward the docks. The hot tropical night was silent, speckled by fireflies. Miguel Colombo and his aide stopped at the jungle’s edge. They thanked the boys fervently for their support.

“But what about you and Señor Santilla?” Frank asked in concern.

“We shall be all right,” Colombo assured them, smiling. “We shall soon escape to the mainland. But one day we will return triumphant.”

After hearty handshakes with their new friends, the boys hurried to board the waiting launch.

“I’d like to get my hands on that skunk North right now!” Joe muttered with fierce resolution.

“We will,” Frank declared. “But we’ve also got to find Gomez and stop Bedoya’s plot against Micro-Eye!”

In relief the boys finally stepped off the launch in Cayenne. At the hotel Jack Wayne listened to their story in amazement. “So Posada may be behind these suitcase thefts,” he exclaimed, “and be selling the smuggled information to a major power hostile to the United States!”

Jack whistled. “You fellows have done the work of a squadron. Ready to head back tomorrow?”

“You bet!” Chet gingerly touched his mosquito-bitten face.

Jack reported that he had uncovered no leads to Raymond Martin, but that Dykeman’s men would continue the search in French Guiana.

After a satisfying night’s sleep, the four reached the airport early the next morning. As Jack zoomed into the sun, the boys looked back at the trail of green islands. Could they find, and save, Colombo’s missing friends?

Following an overnight stop, they landed in Bayport the next afternoon. The Hardys found Aunt Gertrude back home from her visit. She sighed with relief at seeing her nephews safe.

“Thank goodness!” she gasped. “The newspapers are full of Posada’s villainous threats.”

She informed the boys that Mrs. Hardy would be home in a week. There was still no clue to the whereabouts of their father.

“But that rude Mr. North!” she fumed. “Somehow he found out that I was at Mrs. Berter’s. He phoned me there and demanded to know where you boys were!”

“Did you tell him?” Frank queried.

“I should say not!”

After unpacking, Frank and Joe decided to inform Mr. Dykeman at once about their trip. On their way to Micro-Eye the brothers stopped at Corporated Laundries and Joe took in a bundle of soiled clothing. As he was leaving the counter, he noticed a man with thick eyebrows in the back working room who seemed familiar.

“Funny,” he mused. “I have a feeling I’ve seen him recently somewhere else, yet something’s different.”

At the Micro-Eye gate the Hardys were quickly admitted, and escorted to the intelligence office. Roy Dykeman welcomed them cordially.

“Glad to see you back! Mr. Wayne’s report of your theory about spies smuggling secrets in luggage may break our case wide open!”

Mr. Dykeman listened attentively as the brothers related all that had happened in Cayenne and in the Huellas. At hearing the information on Orrin North and Manuel Bedoya, the intelligence officer grabbed a pencil and jotted down notes.

“Posada’s master spy—on our soil!” he exclaimed. “He must have been whisked off Orrin North’s Capricorn!”

“Can North be arrested now?” Joe asked.

“No. We don’t have an ounce of tangible proof—yet. He’s acted clean as a whistle since we’ve been watching him. But more important, we want to get the whole bunch without risking the lives of these missing Huellans!”

“How about Bedoya, alias Ricardo?” Frank asked.

“I’m sending out an alert to find him at all costs—also to apprehend Captain Burne and crew immediately in South America.”

The agent reported that Gomez’s whereabouts were not known, and the Micro-Eye security leak was still a mystery. His men failed to locate the United States headquarters for the Footprints conspiracy.

“Pryce may be our man,” he admitted, “though I’m not convinced of it. At any rate, we’ve reached the homestretch. Micro-Eye’s satellite camera was completed this morning!”

The project was finished! Frank and Joe were elated. The top-secret instrument was to be moved under heavy protection to Washington late the following day.

“We don’t want anybody to get wind of it,” Dykeman added, “so we’re running the usual guard shifts and concession deliveries. Once that camera is on the truck, Micro-Eye’s problems are over.” He gave a dry chuckle. “But not mine!”

The Hardys vowed to continue their search for Gomez, but the agent cautioned them: “Wherever Gomez is, the Footprints gang is looking for him too. Until we have Bedoya, be very careful!”

Frank and Joe gave their assurances and drove home. The boys enjoyed a delicious dinner, but all the while were trying to figure out a way to track down Gomez. Later Chet arrived and insisted that they drive out with him to Oak Hollow. The damage to the houses had been repaired.

“Dad says Mr. Prito’s men finished and left after supper tonight,” Chet said as they rattled along in his jalopy. “Occupancy in a week!”

It was dusk when the boys reached Oak Hollow. They parked and got out to survey the houses at close range. The hacked doors and windows and broken windows had been completely replaced.

Frank looked puzzled. “It still beats me why those machete fellows picked on this place.”

The night watchman strolled by with a wave, then the trio walked to the rear of one house. It overlooked the valley, now in black shadows except for brilliant patches of moonlight.

“Nice view,” Joe observed.

Suddenly the boys saw a clump of bushes stir below them to the left. A man’s face looked out, then vanished.

Gomez!

“Wait!” Frank yelled.

They rushed down to the bushes. But there was only silence. Frank called Gomez’s name several times. No response.

“It’s useless,” Chet muttered. “He has probably high-tailed it into the woods.”

Just then, through a grove of trees to their right, Joe spotted several upright white objects. “Come on!”

The others followed him through the grove, emerging at the foot of a grassy hillock. Frank bumped into an iron fence before he recognized the objects as gravestones. “The cemetery!”

Finding the gate, the boys slipped through and crouched near a large gravestone. Was Gomez hiding somewhere within the cemetery itself? Atop the slope stood a square building with no windows and a single door of bronze and glass. Chet shuddered. “A mausoleum.”

“This must be a private cemetery,” Frank whispered. “But what’s Gomez doing around here?”

“W-what are we doing around here? Let’s go!” Chet begged.

“Nothing doing. If Gomez is here, it’s for a reason.”

Suddenly Frank felt Chet tug at his arm. “What is it?” he asked.

The chunky youth pointed up the slope, his eyes glazed with fear. His words would hardly come.

“Th-that tomb up th-there! The d-door is opening!”

CHAPTER XVIII

A Sinister Meeting

As if hypnotized, the three boys watched the tomb. Slowly its metal door opened wider.

They froze as a tall, shadowy figure emerged and walked in long strides to the edge of the hill. The boys crouched lower. Chet tried to swallow the lump of fear in his throat.

The gaunt figure stood in ghostly silhouette. There was no mistaking the dark-spectacled, hawk-nosed profile.

Manuel Bedoya!

The three boys were dumfounded. Had he actually appeared from the tomb! Or were they seeing things?

“He’s no ghost!” Joe whispered finally.

The spy appeared to be waiting for someone. He glanced frequently at his wrist.

Moonlight painted the cemetery in an eerie, silvery glow. As the boys huddled behind the large gravestone, Joe squinted to make out its inscription. He nudged the others. They gaped at the name beneath the birth and death dates:

JAMES NORTH

“This might be Orrin North’s private family cemetery! Maybe James was his father.”

“And North lets the gang hide out in the tomb!” Frank exclaimed. “That would explain the Oak Hollow sabotage.”

“To keep people from occupying the houses!” Chet added, “until—”

The boys spoke in whispers, keeping an eye on Bedoya. Soon they heard faint voices from beyond the cemetery. The gaunt spy disappeared down the other side of the slope.

“He’s meeting someone!” Frank said.

“Now’s our chance!” Joe urged. “If they go inside the tomb, we’ll never hear anything.”

Chet gulped. “You m-mean we go inside?”

“Yes!”

“But—but somebody else may be in there,” Chet objected. “We’d better get the police!”

“Bedoya might leave in the meantime,” said Frank. “Even if two of us stayed, there’d be no car to follow him. I say we chance it!”

They looked up the hill at the half-opened tomb door. A red glow from within was visible. The boys decided that one of them should remain as lookout at the gravestone. Frank turned to Chet. “Would you rather wait here?”

“Alone? Not on your life!”

“I’ll stay,” Joe offered.

Frank and Chet started cautiously up the slope. Chet, his heart pounding, kept close at Frank’s heels. At the top Frank paused, then broke for the tomb. Reaching it, he signaled Chet, who quickly followed. They peered around one corner toward the rear. Voices still drifted up from below. There was not a sound from inside.

“Okay, here goes!”

Frank slipped through the door, then Chet. They stopped and looked around the square, stone chamber.

The air in the vault was dead and musty. In the middle of the room stood a wooden table strewn with newspapers in Spanish. The reddish glow came from a kerosene lamp on the table. Several machetes lay near a locker stocked with canned foods. A small short-wave set stood in one corner.

“The last place anybody’d suspect of being a hideout,” Frank murmured. “But no Gomez, or Huellan refugees.”

Voices could be heard approaching. “Bedoya’s coming back!” Chet quavered. “And he’s not alone!”

It was too late for the boys to slip out unseen! They looked desperately around for a hiding place. Frank’s keen eyes spotted a small descending spiral stairway in the shadows.

“Down here!”

Quickly the boys swung down the metal steps, Chet first. Frank’s head dropped below floor level just as the first man entered the tomb. The two boys crouched tensely.

In a moment a jumble of voices echoed from above, some speaking in Spanish, others in English. The talking died down as the heavy door clanked shut. Chet’s throat went dry, and Frank felt a twinge of fear. Below them, they discerned several cots in the dimness, but no sign of any prisoners.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said a suave, accented voice. “Everyone accounted for? Bueno. Let us begin.”

The voice was undoubtedly Bedoya’s! It continued:

“Everything is ready to carry out Posada’s order—to get the satellite camera at all costs. By eight tomorrow morning Dykeman’s precautions will have been for nothing and our Footprints mission completed!”

“Not soon enough for me,” a gruff voice commented. “I’m sick of this bone house!”

Frank caught his breath. A plot to steal the government camera itself—tomorrow!

“Never mind that,” the first voice said coldly. “Decker, will 41 be offshore for delivery at the given time?”

“Precisely. I reached them by radio from the Northerly two hours ago. There will be room for all of you.”

“Good. We cannot fail! With this fool Pryce under suspicion, the plant may have false confidence in their security. Are your plans set, Valdez?”

“Si. The smoke bombs are ready. We will knock out the guards. Mr. North has two cars for us—Rodriguez and I will take one, while Greber and Walton will use the other.”

A voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Frank added, “The uniforms are ready, Senor Bedoya. The change will take only an instant.”

Frank racked his brain. Where had he heard the voice before? Carefully he mounted the steps until he could just see into the vault.

Bedoya, alias Ricardo, wearing a white suit, stood at one end of the table, encircled by seven men. Hunched over the flickering red lantern, Posada’s chief spy seemed poised like a vulture. Frank looked over the rest of the group.

Of three, ill-kempt, swarthy men, he recognized two as those who had vandalized the Oak Hollow houses. One must be Rodriguez. The third was the stocky man with sideburns—Valdez.

The huge, bushy-haired thug, Walton, was present, and a short, bald man whom Frank also recognized—the impostor who had tried to arrest Gomez.

To Bedoya’s left, near the door, sat the pilot of North’s yacht. “He must be Decker,” Frank reasoned, “since he has the ‘offshore’ job.”

The boy’s attention was finally riveted on a thin, heavy-browed man speaking at the opposite end of the table. His was the voice Frank had recalled hearing before.

The man complained, “This luggage business has been too sticky—and now we find out from the boss those blueprints we photographed were phonies!”

“That camera will be no phony,” Bedoya remarked gloatingly. “You are sure it will fit into our waterproof bag, Al?”

“Certain of it,” was the reply.

Suddenly Frank visualized a mustache on Al’s clean-shaven face and stiffened. Of course!

“He’s the guard who stopped Joe and me near the plant’s maintenance building on our tour!” Frank recalled. “He’s the Micro-Eye security leak. We must stop them!”

Bedoya and his henchmen spoke for some time in Spanish. Frank caught the name “Martin” several times. Now the chief spy leaned forward.

“One unpleasant item,” he said, raising his voice. “I received word tonight that those meddling sons of Fenton Hardy went to Baredo seeking Gomez, and two subversives, both of whom I regret to say escaped to French Guiana. Posada is not pleased.”

The men muttered uneasily. Chet had crept up behind Frank. The two boys felt a surge of joy. Colombo and Santilla had gotten away!

“Those young punks,” Walton growled. “Too bad Greber and Valdez and me didn’t finish ’em off at the boathouse.”

Bedoya’s lips curled scornfully. “You were all fools to muff the chance!”

“Next time I get my hands on the Hardy pests and their fat friend—” Walton clenched and unclenched his huge fists. Chet felt a trickle of sweat running down his brow.

There was a sudden sharp cry from outside the tomb. Manuel Bedoya straightened up. “That was José! He must have caught somebody snooping!”

An icy chill went through Frank and Chet. Was Joe in the enemy’s clutches? The next instant Bedoya doused the lantern and the eight men rushed outside.

“Chet! Come on!”

Frank whipped up the stairway and leaped for the closing tomb door, but too late. It clanked firmly shut! Frantically the boys pushed against it to no avail. They were sealed in!

Chet gasped. “We’ll never get out alive!”

Frank noticed a fine slot near the door handle. “Bedoya must have had a key!”

Suddenly a click sounded from outside, and the door began to open. The two boys braced themselves for battle.

“It’s all right—it’s me!”

“Joe!”

“Thank heavens!” Chet sighed, faint with relief.

Frank started to speak, but his brother motioned them out of the tomb. In the woods to their right, the boys could hear a commotion of voices. They circled to the back of the vault and ran down the slope into a stand of pine trees.

“They’ve—got—Gomez,” Joe panted.

“What?”

“Yes. Bedoya had two guards hidden near the cemetery. I saw Gomez a second before they captured him. The others rushed out of the tomb before I could do anything!”

“Joe, they’ve hatched a plot to get the Micro-Eye camera tomorrow morning!” Quickly Frank recounted all they had heard. “We’ve got to tell Dykeman—but we can’t leave Gomez helpless!”

The boys listened intently. Now only silence met their ears. Swiftly and silently, the Hardys and Chet circled the cemetery. Still no sounds, or sign of anyone.

“Funny,” Joe muttered. “I didn’t hear a car start up.”

Chet again urged they go for the police.

“Guess we’ll need help,” Frank agreed. “And we have to warn Micro-Eye!”

They pushed through the dark woods, Chet plowing ahead like a tank in a thicket. “Boy, am I glad to get out of here!”

Joe had just started up the rise toward the housing development when a beam of light flashed out from the right. Then another! To their left, still another!

“Look out!”

Before the boys could retreat, rough arms seized all three from behind. Frank and Joe bucked and kicked at the men holding them. Joe grimaced with pain as his captor applied a vicious arm lock. Frank, helpless in a choking grip, saw Chet had been thrown to the ground after a valiant struggle against two assailants.

The boys, hopelessly outnumbered, were gagged and dragged a short distance. Frank was first to sight the limp, gagged form of Gomez at the feet of a white-suited figure.

Manuel Bedoya’s voice uttered one menacing word. “Strike!”

The next instant blows crashed upon the boys’ heads. They sank down, unconscious!

CHAPTER XIX

Ghost Ship

SLOWLY Joe revived. His arms were bound tightly behind his back.

He felt the steady throb of a motor and a rocking motion. As a splash of water hit his face, he sat up but fell back as a strong gust of salty wind hit him. Joe now realized he was in the stern of a boat moving at top speed through the darkness.

Frank and Chet, also tied up, lay inert on deck next to him. As a wave leaped the rail and doused them, they both sat up groggily.

Frank winced. “My head—where are we?”

Joe whispered, looking around, “I think we’re aboard the Northerly!”

Two Huellan thugs, whom the boys recognized as the machete men, glared at the trio from the taffrail. Nearby lay the unconscious form of Gomez. To starboard, the boys could just see the mainland. They were heading south, but where? The Hardys strained futilely against their bonds. Prisoners! And a sinister spy scheme to be executed against Micro-Eye within a few hours!

“Watch the rocks!” a voice called out. The boys spotted Bedoya standing on the bridge above. Chet’s teeth chattered.

Presently the yacht turned into a slow arc, then the engines stopped. The Northerly’s lights were cut, except one beam to the fore.

The shoreline was in complete blackness. Suddenly, ahead, the three boys made out a huge, hulking outline. They drew closer to the enormous shadow.

Frank gasped. “The Atlantis!”

Moments later, the captives were rudely pulled to their feet and untied. The Huellan, Rodriguez, prodded them with a blunt instrument.

“One sound and you are finished.”

In grim silence the Hardys and Chet were thrust into a dinghy with one man at the oars; then Gomez, still unconscious, was lifted in. The two thugs climbed in and the oarsman pushed off. Bedoya and his other henchmen followed in a second boat.

The two craft made directly for the old wreck. Nearer and nearer it loomed, until the tilted hull hovered over them. A rope ladder was lowered from the portside.

“Up!” Rodriguez ordered the captive youths.

Frank, Joe, and Chet gripped the swaying ladder and climbed to the freighter’s deck. The three men seized and handcuffed them.

Chet crouched against the strong wind, trying desperately to keep his balance on the slanted deck. A shaft of light pierced the darkness as one of the men opened a hatch.

“Down there!” he barked.

The trio obeyed, with their captors following. Below, the boys were led aft through a dim passageway lined with broken rusted piping to an open doorway. Here an olive-skinned muscular man yanked the boys inside.

They found themselves in a large compartment, illuminated dimly by several lanterns. Cots and chairs were scattered about. A battered desk stood near a rack of rifles. On the desk lay a crate of fruit, several sea shells of the keyhole limpet variety, and a riding crop.

The boys’ attention was quickly drawn to a group of weary-looking people seated on blankets at the rear of the hold. The eight men and three women looked Latin American. Their wrists and ankles bound, they seemed too exhausted to show much surprise at the new arrivals.

One of the men moaned. Seeing lash marks across his face, Frank grimaced. “The Huellan refugees!” he whispered. “Thank heavens they’re alive!”

“Up!” Rodriguez ordered the captive youths

“Not by much!” Joe commented, appalled. “Bedoya must have them beaten. I wonder how long they’ve been kept here.”

“Weeks, probably,” Frank estimated. “We’ve got to get all of us out of here!”

“Then I really did hear voices out at the cove that day!” Chet whispered, nudging both Hardys. “Probably these prisoners’ cries!”

Frank nodded. “With Bedoya at work here, it would explain the Atlantis ‘ghost screams’!”

Gomez, now conscious, was led in by the muscular man. The refugees cried out joyously:

“Gomez!”

“Luis!” “Pedro!” “Amigos—”

Gomez’s greeting to his captive countrymen was cut short by a brutal slap from the thug. Reeling, Gomez was thrust next to the boys, who in whispers quickly established friendly terms with him.

“We owe you some apologies,” Frank said, and briefly explained what they had learned.

Gomez was astonished upon hearing of the boys’ visit to Baredo. “If only I had not become frightened and run away from you!” he muttered ruefully to Frank and Joe. “I was afraid to trust anybody before finding my missing friends.”

The news of Colombo and Santilla’s escape cheered Gomez. He had not been aware of the plot against Micro-Eye, nor of Bedoya’s presence in Bayport. Gomez had learned of North’s double-dealing while on the Dorado and also overheard Captain Burne speak of “the investigator, Fenton Hardy.” The Huellan added that the search for his betrayed compatriots had finally led him to the cemetery at Oak Hollow and his capture.

The four stopped talking as Manuel Bedoya entered, followed by a heavy-set figure with his coat collar up. As the second man faced them, they gasped. Orrin North!

The magnate squinted balefully at the boys and Gomez. “You three have been a headache to us,” he rasped angrily. “And you!” He strode over and shook his fist at Gomez. “You almost wrecked my ‘refugee’ business!”

“Business!” Joe retorted. “You mean kidnapping and treason!”

“Shut up!” North snapped, his eyes blazing. “You Hardys will regret not cooperating with me. Too bad you would not heed the machete warning of Rodriguez and his friend.”

“What’s your motive in this spy game, North?” Frank asked coolly.

“Let’s just say money.”

Frank went on, “You pretended Gomez was a thief, provided the tomb hideout, plus the Atlantis for Posada’s Footprints plot?”

“You catch on fast,” North said mockingly. “The warning sign I put up here, and the ghost legend helped keep people away—but not you nosy kids. My pilot saw you snooping around the cove last week. I’ll bet you copped that sea shell, too!”

North went on, boasting that leaving messages in the sea shells had been his idea. He pointed to the brawny thug. “Musco here swam the shells ashore.”

“After you tricked these Huellans into giving names of underground friends,” Joe accused him.

“Not me personally,” North qualified, “but you’ve got the idea. Sometimes Bedoya had to be more—persuasive.” He chuckled. “Nice system, eh? The shells were picked up, the names and other information hidden in clothes, and sent to Cayenne. How do you like my title: Orrin North, Liberator of the Huellas?”

Gomez’s eyes blazed and he kicked at the magnate. “You dog!”

North stepped back, laughing raucously. He turned to Bedoya. “Manuel, I’m not hanging around here any longer than I have to. Everything ready for this morning?”

“Everything—if the Northerly is.”

“It’s shipshape.” North rubbed his hands and said to the boys, “Too bad you’ll miss seeing us pull off our big job today. Manuel, they’re all yours!” he added, and left.

Chet nervously watched as Bedoya leaned against the desk and fingered the riding crop. Frank glanced up at a clock on the wall. Four A.M.! He decided to take the offensive.

“So Posada sneaked you in here via the Capricorn to get the Micro-Eye camera!” he said.

“Yes,” Bedoya said, cracking the whip against the desk. Chet jumped.

The master spy continued, “I failed to learn from Miss Hardy on shipboard of your father’s whereabouts, but I understand he is far from here, unfortunately for you!”

“You think you’re going to break into Micro-Eye?” Joe taunted. “You don’t have a chance!”

“I think we have a perfect chance,” Bedoya countered blandly. He laughed.

Frank suddenly recalled Al, the spy, he had seen at the tomb meeting.

“We know you have an inside man,” the young detective spoke up. “How did he get clearance as a guard?”

“Oh, but Al Raker’s not a guard,” Bedoya said, raising his brows. “He’s a laundryman.”

“A laundryman!”

“Of course!” Joe burst out. “The man I thought I recognized at Corporated Laundries! And I saw North in there—probably leaving a message!”

“Corporated Laundries!” Frank exclaimed. “So that’s how Raker took photos inside the plant. But the maintenance building is isolated—where did Raker suddenly get a guard’s uniform?”

Bedoya cracked the riding crop again, close to Frank’s face. “You are very inquisitive.” He smiled. “But I can afford to tell you.”

The Huellan reached into a foot locker and pulled out a white work outfit. Stitched over one of the jacket pockets in red was the word “Corporated.”

“Simple,” he began. “Raker rides with Gale—also one of our men—in the truck to Micro-Eye. Raker sits in the back with the clean laundry. They are admitted by the gate guards. Then”—the chief spy grinned—“comes our little miracle.”

Bedoya quickly turned the white jacket and trousers inside out. The boys gasped. They were identical to a Micro-Eye guard’s uniform!

“The rest is easy,” Bedoya continued. “Raker dons a mustache and forged badge, then he is let out at the maintenance building by Gale. Next, he walks to the main plant. Dykeman’s guard-shifting plan helped—Raker goes about unsuspected.”

“And with a miniature camera!” Joe cut in.

“Correct. Raker then returns to the maintenance building and Gale sneaks him back into the truck, where he once more reverses the uniform.”

“But,” Frank interrupted, “the gate has logged in two laundry employees in the truck. If Gale handles the laundry alone, wouldn’t any guards watching be suspicious?”

“Gale doesn’t work alone,” Bedoya said smugly. “Since our laundrymen collect and deliver regularly at the maintenance building, the gate guards do not inspect the bundles.”

“Inside one of which is another spy!” Joe finished. “He takes Raker’s place until he gets back!”

“Ingenious, no?” Bedoya boasted. “Our third man comes in as ‘clean’ laundry and leaves in a pickup bundle. But today that bundle will leave with the satellite camera.”

“Then why did you have Valdez try to cut through the fence that day?” Frank asked. “He didn’t have a chance of getting in.”

“Of course not,” Bedoya agreed. “But it helped to make Dykeman think we were working from outside.”

Frank pressed further. “And you used the luggage—and clothing—of innocent travelers to smuggle out the films and stolen data to Cayenne?”

“Correct,” Bedoya affirmed. He admitted that Valdez had broken into travel agencies and obtained names of tourists flying to Cayenne.

Their agents at Corporated Laundries would wait for the travelers to leave dry cleaning there, the Huellan added. The Micro-Eye secrets were then cleverly sewn into some of the garments which the customer indicated he would take on the trip. In certain cases Valdez would have to risk entering the person’s home to make sure the information was in the suitcase.

“And what happened to Raymond Martin?” Joe demanded.

“Oh, we have him safely tucked away.” Bedoya would explain no further. Just then Musco whispered something in his ear. Leaving two armed thugs with the boys, the men left the compartment.

Frank, Joe, and Chet looked around for some means of escape. Their heads throbbed with pain. Gomez and the refugees slumped into dejected silence.

Suddenly clanking sounds from below and the gurgle of rushing water aroused the four prisoners. Frank again looked at the clock.

“Six-thirty!” he thought. “We have to get free!”

At that moment Bedoya re-entered with Musco. The boys and Gomez were unhandcuffed and pushed through the door toward a companion-way.

“And now, we must part,” Bedoya said jeeringly.

The Hardys, Chet, and Gomez were jostled down the rusted stairs. Musco, Rodriguez, and Bedoya followed closely. The sound of rushing water became louder. The group came to a halt outside a watertight door.

“I would have enjoyed testing your endurance at greater length,” said the spy leader. “But time is short. All right, Musco!”

Musco threw open the steel door to the thundering din of gushing water. It was a dark aft compartment flooding from gashes in the hull!

“You’ll never get away with this!” Frank shouted.

But the next instant the boys and Gomez were thrust savagely into the turbulent chamber. Torrents of ice-cold sea water enveloped them as Bedoya’s mocking voice rang out. “If you are found, it will appear as an accident. Remember—this is a ghost ship!”

His laughter reverberated. Then the heavy door swung shut and clinked. The icy water rose higher and higher, swirling about the foursome.

CHAPTER XX

Countdown

THE Hardys, Chet, and Gomez floundered in the darkness, trying to keep their heads above the rising water. They clawed around, groping blindly for a way out.

“This whole stem section must be submerged!” Frank realized.

The Hardys tried yanking at the steel door, but it would not budge. By now, none of them could stand. “I—I can’t stay up much longer!” Chet gasped. As a furry rodent brushed his cheek, he choked on a mouthful of salt water.

Frank said, “Try to find out where the water’s coming in! It’s our only way out!”

The three dived again and again, desperately seeking a breach in the hull large enough for them to squeeze through. Their breathing grew labored.

Gomez groaned. “It is no use! The openings are too small!”

“Keep looking!”

Joe, bursting above water, touched the overhead with his hand. There was almost no room left!

Then suddenly Frank felt a strong pressure against his feet. He plunged beneath the surface, fingering the bulkhead. An inrushing stream of water led him to a jagged hole about two feet high and a foot wide. Frank shot above.

“I’ve found the opening!” he shouted. “But we’ll have to widen it!”

Joe and Chet wrenched loose a section of rusted pipe near the overhead and swam toward Frank’s voice. “Here!”

With not a second to lose, the two boys dived and battered at the side of the opening. As they came up for air, Joe gasped, “We can’t get enough force behind the pipe!”

Desperate, the four prisoners submerged again, each gripping the pipe. They pushed it against one end of the gash and tried to bend out the edge. Suddenly, to their amazement, the lever began to jockey with new force.

Someone on the outside was trying to help them!

The opening grew wider!

The boys felt as if their lungs would burst, but finally Gomez wriggled through, then Joe. He pulled Chet outside, and Frank followed.

When they broke the sunlit surface of Cobblewave Cove, the four drew in long, shuddering gulps of air. Utterly exhausted, they floated to a large hump-shaped rock and collapsed onto it.

Who had been their rescuer? Frank sat up.

“Fellows, look!” From the shadow of the Atlantis, somebody was swimming toward them! As the figure neared the rock, the Hardys cried out in astonishment:

“Dad!”

“Frank! Joe!”

Fenton Hardy grasped his sons’ hands and climbed up. He wore old, torn clothes.

“Dad! How?—Where?—”

The well-built, keen-dyed detective was equally amazed at seeing his sons. Catching his breath, he explained, “I spotted Orrin North’s yacht out here an hour ago from a motorboat I’d rented, and swam to the Atlantis. Are you all right?”

“Barely,” Chet said with a weak smile.

Gomez was quickly introduced, then Mr. Hardy continued his story. Upon hearing men’s voices from the wrecked freighter, he had dived near the stern. “When I saw the pipe coming through the hole, I knew someone was trapped, so I pitched in, not dreaming it was you at the other end!”

“You saved our lives!” Frank said. “But, Dad—you haven’t been away? You’ve been in Bayport?”

“Yes, in order to watch North’s activities. But tell me what you’re doing here.”

The boys tersely recounted their involvement with Micro-Eye, and explained Bedoya’s imminent plot to steal the camera.

“At eight o’clock!” the detective repeated, shocked. “I saw the Northerly start up the coast a short while ago.”

“With Bedoya and his men aboard!” Joe guessed. “Come on!”

Overcoming their fatigue, the five swam to shore. They raced across the beach, through the pine barrens, and up a dirt road.

Fenton Hardy looked at his waterproof watch. “It’s almost eight now!”

Frank urged, “Let’s flag the first car!”

Gomez, concerned for his imprisoned friends, was reluctant to leave. “You wait here,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’ll notify the Coast Guard and have them send a boat to the Atlantis.”

“Gracias!”

A sedan approached, and the boys signaled frantically. The car stopped, and the Hardys and Chet jumped in.

“Micro-Eye Industries! Quick! Emergency!”

The young driver recognized the Hardys, and though puzzled at their bedraggled appearance, reacted instantly. “You bet!”

The sedan shot north along the coast. It was now ten after eight! Reaching town, the driver sped up a boulevard leading directly to the Micro-Eye plant. They heard sirens wailing. Eight-fifteen!

As the plant came into view, they gasped. Billowing smoke almost obscured the buildings. Squad cars idled along both curbs. Policemen and armed plant guards seemed to be everywhere.

“Bedoya’s smoke bombs!” Frank exclaimed. He directed the driver to stop at the main gate, as Joe yelled, “There goes the laundry truck!”

The brown vehicle was just turning the comer at the far end of the block!

“They’ve stolen the camera!” Joe cried out.

“Chet,” Mr. Hardy snapped, “find Mr. Dykeman! Have him call the Coast Guard!”

“Yes, Mr. Hardy.”

As Chet hopped out, the detective addressed the driver. “We need to borrow this car. Will you trust us with it?”

“Sure thing!”

The young man alighted and Frank slipped behind the wheel. He sped off, heading directly for the waterfront. As they neared Bay Street, the Hardys saw the laundry truck ahead. It swerved around a corner. Frank followed just in time to see a large white bundle tossed from the rear of the truck. It landed in an empty lot!

“The camera!” Joe cried out.

“This may be a trick!” his father argued.

Frank had already screeched to the curb. Joe sprinted over and tore open the bundle. Empty!

In a flash he was back in the car, and Frank made for the boathouse area. He braked to a halt at the Northerly’s dock. The yacht was nearing the mouth of Barmet Bay.

“They’ve made the pickup!” Joe cried out. “Let’s get the Sleuth!”

The boys and their father leaped out and started for the Hardy boathouse. Suddenly, from behind a green car parked nearby, two figures rushed toward them. The hulking Walton, and behind him Greber, wielding a machete!

The huge man lunged for Mr. Hardy, but the detective side-stepped nimbly and jarred him to the ground with an uppercut. Frank and Joe tackled Greber. Two punches to the midriff sent the machete flying and he sank to his knees.

“Leave them for the police!” Mr. Hardy said.

He and his sons rushed into their boathouse and boarded the Sleuth, with Frank at the wheel. He sped across the bay. The yacht had already reached the open sea.

“They’re going to transfer the camera to another boat!” Joe shouted, recalling the spies’ planned “offshore pickup” by “41.”

“Probably in international waters!” the investigator guessed as the Sleuth streaked from the bay.

The Northerly now raced full speed ahead, some hundred yards to port. In the distance the pursuers saw a small, net-draped sailing vessel. The Northerly plied directly for it, cutting speed.

“A fishing trawler!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed. “‘41’!”

“I’ll try to get between them!” Frank steered straight for the tip of the Northerly’s bow.

The yacht’s pilot swung left to avert a collision. The maneuver had worked! But as Frank looped back toward the yacht, the larger ship veered sharply, and came at the Sleuth. The Hardys could see Manuel Bedoya, enraged, shouting to the pilot, Decker.

Joe yelled at his brother, “Look out, they’ll cut us in two!”

Frank was forced to turn aside, and the Northerly resumed course for the trawler. Suddenly there came a thunderous boom!

The Hardys looked south at a rising patch of smoke. Two sleek, gray cutters with forward guns were advancing at full steam.

“The Coast Guard!”

Instantly the trawler’s motors chugged to life. It headed out to sea, away from the Northerly. Bedoya’s frantic shouts could be heard.

“Stop! You cannot desert us! Wait!”

But already one of the cutters blocked the Northerly’s path, and a stern voice blared out:

“Heave to!”

The yacht throbbed to a halt. At the same instant, Bedoya darted to the rail and flung a bundle overboard.

“The camera! Frank, quick!”

The Sleuth shot to where the object splashed into the sea. Joe dived and grasped the sinking bundle. He brought it up and was helped aboard by his father. By this time the trawler was a speck on the horizon.

Meanwhile, six Coast Guard men had boarded the Northerly and ordered Decker to head back. Manuel Bedoya stood sullenly in the grip of two officers.

With a Coast Guard cutter on either side, the Northerly returned to Barmet Bay. The Sleuth kept close behind. Within an hour after docking, Bedoya and all his cohorts had been arrested, and the camera found intact in a waterproof bag.

Soon afterward, a large jubilant group sat in the Hardy living room, awaiting lunch. Aunt Gertrude was spellbound by the whole story.

Mr. Dykeman arose from a chair. “Fenton,” he said warmly, “words can’t express what you, your sons, and Chet Morton have done for our government.”

The boys beamed, then Joe remarked, “The great ‘liberator,’ Orrin North, is out of business for good, I guess.”

“I should think so,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly. “And to think that I actually was on board ship with Posada’s head spy!”

Dykeman reported that the smoke bombs had caused little damage to Micro-Eye and no one had been injured. “But the confusion did allow the phony guard Raker to take the camera—supposedly to safety, then to knock out two plant guards before he put the camera in the truck.

“By the way, Pryce has been exonerated,” the intelligence man said. “Raymond Martin was found half-starving but alive in a remote shack outside Cayenne. The two suitcase thieves were with him. They confessed to having left ‘his skeleton’ to fool any prowlers.”

Captain Burne and the Dorado crew had been apprehended in South America. The boys were pleased to learn that Gomez and the Huellan refugees had been assured of homes and a new start in the United States.

“Let’s hope the spies’ failure puts a big dent in Posada’s power,” Frank said. “By the way—that fishing trawler—does it just get away?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Hardy replied, “but empty-handed, at least. Authorities believe the vessel belongs to a large, anti-American country—and, as you and Joe suspected, that Posada did plan to trade the satellite camera for money and arms.”

Mr. Dykeman chuckled. “Not even I suspected your whereabouts, Fenton.”

Chet was still puzzled by the theft of Iola’s shopping bag. “I can explain that,” Mr. Dykeman said. “When your dry cleaning was left at Corporated Laundries, Bedoya’s spies mistakenly sewed the film into your clothing. They confused Morton for Martin, so Valdez had to get them back.”

“One more unsolved mystery,” said Joe. “Those footprints under the window, both at our house and North’s.”

Mr. Hardy burst into hearty laughter. “Remember, you weren’t the only sleuths around here.”

“Dad! They were your footprints?”

“Guilty.” The detective’s eyes twinkling. He added, “To crack this spy plot, it was important that no one knew I was in town.” The “stolen” papers, he revealed, were part of a dossier on North which he had to pick up.

Joe gaped. “Well, if that doesn’t beat everything!” Unknown to him, however, the Hardys would soon be challenged by an even more baffling case, The Mark on the Door.

“Anyway,” Chet said, sighing and relishing the prospect of a titanic meal, “one thing’s sure about this mystery. There was an awful lot afoot!”

The others laughed heartily.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - The Attack

CHAPTER II - The Missing Witness

CHAPTER III - The Strange Symbol

CHAPTER IV - The Hostage

CHAPTER V - Danger Path

CHAPTER VI - Mysterious Vigil

CHAPTER VII - Night Rendezvous

CHAPTER VIII - Bullfight

CHAPTER IX - The Trail to Baja

CHAPTER X - A Villager Speaks!

CHAPTER XI - Mountain Pursuit

CHAPTER XII - The Search

CHAPTER XIII - A Charging Donkey

CHAPTER XIV - A Threatening Message

CHAPTER XV - Tunnel Escape

CHAPTER XVI - Face to Face

CHAPTER XVII - A Hot Melee

CHAPTER XVIII - Outwitting a Crew

CHAPTER XIX - The Trapper Trapped

CHAPTER XX - Helicopter Capture

THE MARK ON THE DOOR

IN their motorboat the Sleuth Frank and Joe Hardy search Barmet Bay for a dangerous stranger who has stolen a valuable boat. Suddenly, in the eerie fog, they spot the craft drifting aimlessly out to sea. What happens next starts the young detectives and their pal Chet Morton on an intriguing adventure that takes them to Mexico and into the comparatively unexplored desert and mountain regions of Baja California.

The search for the meaning behind a mysterious symbol that terrorizes the people of an entire village, a daring escape from a submarine, perilous encounters with a band of renegade Indians, an unusual smuggling operation—all combine to make this one of the Hardys’ most exciting cases.

Frank and Joe dangled precariously

above the rocky chasm

Copyright © 1995,1967,1961, 1934 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07627-9

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

The Attack

“LOOK! A periscope!” Joe Hardy shouted.

“Are you sure?” asked his brother Frank, who was at the wheel of their motorboat.

“You bet. Look over there!”

The Hardys were skimming across Barmet Bay in the Sleuth, checking it out before going on a fishing trip to Maine with their father.

Frank spotted the thin, tapered metal mast to starboard, generating a tiny wake as it moved through the water.

“I see it now, Joe!”

“Let’s take a closer look!” his brother cried.

Frank turned the wheel and advanced the throttle as they sped toward the periscope, but suddenly it sank beneath the waves!

Frank looked disappointed, and cruised around in a tight circle. “It must belong to the U.S. Navy.”

“Maybe not,” Joe replied.

The blond boy was seventeen, one year younger than dark-haired Frank. Both had learned from their detective father to be constantly on the alert.

A better instructor in police matters was nowhere to be found. Fenton Hardy, a former member of the New York City Police Department, was renowned as a super-sleuth.

Frank and Joe had become so preoccupied with the periscope that they failed to take notice of a speedboat approaching them from the rear. The craft made a close pass, then suddenly turned away so sharply that its stern skidded and struck the bow of the Sleuth. The boys hung on as sheets of water showered over them.

“What does that cowboy think he’s doing?” Joe sputtered.

Frank rammed the throttle ahead and raced off in pursuit of the other boat. The Sleuth gained at first, enough for the Hardys to glimpse the name Ira Q painted on the stern. But the pilot of the fleeing craft applied more power and pulled away.

“That boat is too fast for us!” Joe shouted.

“I know,” his brother agreed. “But I managed to get a good look at the guy behind the wheel. He looks Spanish. But the boat’s name isn’t.”

“Ira Q? Never heard of it,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s a transient.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, I’m sure that speed demon is heading back to shore,” Joe replied. “Let’s go in and make some inquiries.”

“We’d better telephone the Coast Guard station and tell about that periscope, too,” Frank added.

The boys arrived at their private boathouse and tied up the Sleuth. An examination showed that she had a dent in her side. Then Frank went to a telephone booth and dialed the Barmet Coast Guard Station.

A man’s voice crackled from the receiver. “Coast Guard. Lieutenant Parker speaking.”

Frank told him what he and Joe had seen.

“Thank you for the information,” the lieutenant replied. “Since no sub is expected here, I’ll have one of our cutters start an immediate search!”

The respect and cooperation extended to the Hardys was typical of all who knew them. Frank and Joe often worked with their father on his cases, and their ability in solving baffling mysteries had won the youths an enviable reputation of their own.

After Frank had hung up, the boys made a reconnaissance of the piers and docks stretching along the shore of Barmet Bay.

Presently Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “I see the speedboat!” he said excitedly.

“Where?”

“At Sandy MacPherson’s place!”

The boys ran to the dock of MacPherson’s Boat Rental Service, where Sandy, an elderly Scot, seemed to be talking to himself.

“The brigand!” he stormed. “He bashed in the stern of me new boat! I’ve had the Ira Q but three days, and already it’s damaged! He’ll pay for this!”

“Who?” asked Frank.

“That Mexican fellow!”

“We’re after him, too,” Frank said. “He damaged your boat when he ran into ours.”

“What!” MacPherson exclaimed. “He’ll no get away with this!”

“Calm down, Mr. MacPherson,” Joe pleaded. “You say the fellow was Mexican?”

“Yes,” the proprietor answered. “Pancho Cardillo was the name he gave me. He seemed to know quite a bit about boats. So I paid no mind when he asked me to rent him the Ira Q.”

“Did he give you an address?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” MacPherson said. “He’s at the Hotel Bayport. That’s where he is.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “Joe and I’ll go there right away. This Cardillo fellow might suddenly get the idea to leave town.”

After learning that Cardillo had driven off in a car, the boys hastened to their own convertible, which they had left near the boathouse. Frank headed for downtown Bayport. He parked in front of the hotel, then the young detectives darted into the lobby and approached the desk clerk.

“May we have Pancho Cardillo’s room number, please?” Frank asked.

“You mean Senor Cardillo,” the clerk replied. “He checked out just a few minutes ago. Paid his bill in pesos. Highly irregular. I had no alternative but to accept. Figuring out the exchange is always a nuisance.”

Frank interrupted the clerk. “What address did he list in your register?”

The man glanced at his card file. “Tampico, Mexico,” he answered. “And that’s all I can tell you. The gentleman paid his bill and hurried to a car that was waiting for him outside.”

“Can you give us a description of the car?” Frank prodded.

The clerk became irritated. “What do you fellows think I am—the FBI?”

“Well, thanks anyway,” Frank said, and the boys hurried back to their own automobile.

Night had come on quickly, but Frank and Joe decided to make one more inquiry about Cardillo’s car. If they had a description, Police Chief Collig could issue a bulletin to pick him up.

“I’d like to get my hands on that wise guy, if only for Sandy MacPherson’s sake,” Joe said. “He works hard to keep his boats in good condition.”

Frank brought the car to a stop in front of a telephone booth. “I’m going to phone Sandy now. Just by chance, he might be able to give us a description of the car.”

Frank dialed the boatman’s number, but there was no answer. “That’s funny,” the boy remarked. “MacPherson doesn’t answer—and he lives in the rear of his office.”

“Maybe he’s out on the dock and can’t hear the phone ringing.”

“Perhaps,” Frank said. “Let’s drive back there.”

In a few minutes the boys arrived at MacPherson’s dock. They noticed a dim, irregular pattern of light streaming through his office window, as if from a lamp that had been overturned. The boys hastened to the small building and peered inside.

MacPherson was lying face down on the floor.

“I think he’s unconscious!” Frank exclaimed.

The Hardys rushed inside to help him. As they turned him face up, the boatman groaned. “That brigandl He was here again!”

“What happened?” Frank asked quickly.

“Cardillo came back! He wanted me speedboat. I told him no. That devil said he would take the Ira Q, anyway.”

“Easy now,” Frank told the distraught man. “Then what happened?”

“I told him he’d have to step over me to get to it. He must’ve had friends with him, because I was suddenly hit from behind!”

Sandy MacPherson rose shakily and rubbed his head.

“Call the harbor police, Mr. MacPherson!” Frank said quickly. “Joe and I’ll take the Sleuth and search for your boat. There’s a chance it still may be out on the bay.”

“Watch out for fogl” MacPherson said. “It’s forecast.”

“We will,” Frank assured him.

The boys drove to their boathouse, untied the Sleuth, and sped out onto Barmet Bay. Joe manned a portable searchlight, and swept the beam back and forth across the water.

“MacPherson was right about the weather forecast,” Frank observed. “Fog is beginning to move in.” Joe used the portable light intermittently so as not to be dazzled by its glare.

Nearly an hour passed. By now the Hardys were far out in the bay. They were about to turn back when Joe directed the beam of his searchlight slightly off the port bow.

“I’ve spotted something!” he exclaimed. “It looks like a boat!”

Frank swung the Sleuth toward the object. It presented a ghostlike image through the haze.

“It’s the Ira Q!” Joe yelled triumphantly.

“Nobody’s aboard!” Frank responded.

The boys guided the Sleuth alongside the craft. Joe was about to board it when three men suddenly sprang from behind the gunwale. One struck Joe on the head with a blow that sent him crashing back into the Sleuth. A split second later two of the men clobbered Frank. He slumped unconscious.

CHAPTER II

The Missing Witness

“WHAT—what happened?” Joe moaned as he regained consciousness.

Frank, still groggy, had already managed to get himself to his feet. “We were jumped by three men hiding aboard the Ira Q.”

“Cardillo must’ve been one of them,” Joe surmised.

The boys reached into the salty water and bathed their bruises. Then they scanned the dark sea.

The mist had thickened and there was no sign of the Ira Q. Before they could start their stalled motor, the Hardys heard the piercing sound of a foghorn. It was followed by shouts.

“Ahoy! Ahoy! Is anybody out there?”

“Must be the harbor police!” Joe said.

The boys yelled in reply. Soon the running lights of the police boat loomed out of the fog. A small radar antenna revolved atop a mast on the cabin roof.

“You must be the Hardys!” an officer cried. “MacPherson said you were out here! We found his boat!”

The boys glanced over the stern of the police craft. In tow was the Ira Q.

“Did you find anyone aboard?” Frank asked.

“No. The boat was abandoned. We almost ran it down!”

Frank and Joe were mystified. Where could the three men have gone?

After telling the harbor police officers what had happened, the Hardys followed them back to MacPherson’s dock. Sandy, along with Police Chief Collig, greeted them.

“What’s all this about?” Chief Collig asked, and was promptly brought up to date on the Cardillo case.

“There’s not much to go on,” the chief commented. “But I’ll alert my men. Chances are those scoundrels will show up again.”

The boys thanked the harbor police, berthed the Sleuth for the night, and drove home.

They were met at the door by their mother, a slim, attractive woman. “We’ve been worried about you—out in this fog,” she said. “Oh, look at those awful bruises! What happened?”

“Nothing serious, Mother,” Frank told her. “Joe and I just tangled with some crooks and came off second best.”

“Crooks? Criminals, you mean!” The voice was that of Aunt Gertrude Hardy, a tall, angular woman who breezed into the room. “Good gracious! I hope you’re not involved in another mystery!”

“Hello, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said with a grin. “Don’t worry about us. We can take care of ourselves.”

“Indeed!” Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “What about those bruises on your heads?”

“We just forgot to duck,” Joe quipped.

“Oh! Teen-agers!” Aunt Gertrude scolded. “Your mother and I have been keeping a fine dinner warm. Come on. Sit down.”

Gertrude Hardy, unmarried sister of Mr. Hardy, had come to live at her brother’s home. She was fond of her nephews, but thought that detective work was too dangerous for them.

The boys’ mother smiled affectionately. “Yes. Come eat. Aunt Gertrude made you an apple pie for dessert.”

Frank and Joe had just finished their second helping of pie when Fenton Hardy arrived home.

“Hi, Dad!” Frank said cheerfully.

“Hello, boys. You look well-fed.”

“How was your visit to New York?” Joe asked as they went into the living room.

“Fine,” replied the tall, middle-aged detective. “I’d have been home earlier, but I had to take the train. The airport was fogged in.”

Mr. Hardy, youthful looking for his years, greeted his wife, then sat in a large wing chair.

“Wait till you hear what happened to us today,” Joe said. He recounted the stories about the periscope and the Ira Q.

“Very mysterious,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “And you say you saw the periscope in the bay? Maybe it had something to do with Cardillo.”

Joe frowned in disbelief. “Do you think that’s possible?”

“We’d have an awful time proving it,” Frank said, “unless the Coast Guard comes up with something.”

“What about the Sleuth?” their father asked. “Was it badly damaged?”

“A dent, that’s all,” Joe replied. “But not serious enough to keep us from our fishing trip.”

The detective leaned forward, slapped both his knees, and looked disappointed. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to go.” He sighed. “I must start working on the New York case right away.”

“Oh nuts!” Joe exclaimed.

“Can you tell us about your case?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy’s brow creased. “It seems that a group of scoundrels has been peddling worthless stock in New York and New England. It has been sold in the name of a Mexican firm called Costa Químico Compañia. That’s Spanish for Coast Chemical Company.”

“I read something about that fraud,” Frank interrupted. “Didn’t several Bayport people buy some of the stock?”

“Yes. Like others, they were extremely gullible people who can be talked into a fast deal.”

Mr. Hardy told the boys that the authorities were not certain as yet how the fraud was being worked. However, the Securities Exchange Commission had filed indictments against three men in New York.

“But to get a conviction,” the detective explained, “the authorities are depending on the testimony of Elmer Tremmer, a Bayport bookkeeper, who kept records for the swindlers. Tremmer’s not too bright, but he’s honest. It’s believed he was innocently involved in the fraud.”

“What’s the problem?” Joe questioned. “Won’t he cooperate?”

“On the contrary,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m told he was eager to testify. Four days ago he went to New York and checked in at a hotel. He was scheduled to appear at a preliminary hearing the following day. However, Tremmer disappeared shortly after his arrival and hasn’t been seen since. My job is to try and find him.”

“Do you think he was kidnapped?” Frank asked.

“Perhaps,” his father replied. “Or scared off.”

After Mr. Hardy finished outlining his new case, it was late and the boys went to bed. Early the next morning they received a telephone call from their buddy Chet Morton.

“Hi, Chet!” Joe said. “This is a great honor—your getting up so early to phone us.”

“Stow the funny talk. I called to ask if you and Frank are going out in the Sleuth today?”

“We didn’t plan to, but we can. Why?”

“I’ll tell you later. It’s a surprise!” Chet announced excitedly. “Meet me at your boathouse in an hour, and you’ll witness the marvel of the century!”

As the Hardys drove off to the rendezvous, Joe said, “What do you think Chet is up to?”

“He probably has some new hobby,” Frank replied. “Whatever it is, we can be sure of one thing. It’ll be good for a laugh.”

Chet, plump and jovial, lived on a farm outside Bayport. He was always experimenting with one hobby or another. Many were short-lived, but once in a while they were useful for the Hardys in solving a mystery.

The young detectives arrived at their boathouse just as Chet came rumbling along in his father’s farm truck. On the rear of it was an odd-shaped contraption hidden under a tarpaulin. Chet pulled up and hopped out.

“Now for the unveilingl” he announced. “If you fellows were wearing hats, I’d tell you to hold onto them real tight. You’re in for a whale of a treat!”

He flung aside the tarpaulin with one swoop. Resting on top of two metal pontoons was a bare wooden frame, triangular in shape. At the apex was a delta-wing of thin, light fabric.

“Well, what do you think of it?” Chet asked proudly.

Joe stared at the contraption. “It’s neat. But what is it?”

“You’re looking at the Marvelous Morton Water Kite!” Chet said.

“Sounds impressive,” Frank commented. “What does it do?”

“That should be obvious! My masterpiece will float on the water—see the two pontoons? You guys are supposed to tow me around the bay. Then, when we get up enough speed, the delta-wing will carry me into the air like a sea gull.”

“Pretty dangerous!” Joe muttered.

“Nothing doing!” said Frank. “That gadget looks too tricky to be handled by an amateur.”

“Aw, come on,” Chet pleaded. “I’ve spent a lot of time building this.”

Chet was so persistent that the Hardys finally consented to tow him. But they urged their friend not to try anything fancy until he acquired some experience in controlling the kite.

While the Hardys untied the Sleuth, Chet changed into his swim trunks and extended a long line of nylon rope from the kite to the Sleuth’s stern. Then he strapped himself to a small seat aboard the winged contraption.

“All set?” Joe yelled to his friend.

“Haul away!” Chet responded.

Frank advanced the throttle and the Sleuth moved ahead.

“Faster! Faster!” Chet shouted.

Frank increased speed, then he glanced back to see how the experiment was progressing. The fabric wing became rigid and the kite bounced a couple of times, then lifted a few feet off the water.

“Leaping lizards! Look at that!” Joe exclaimed.

“More speed!” Chet ordered.

Frank increased the power. Suddenly the kite went into an abrupt climb high above the water.

“Chet! Be careful!” Joe shouted.

At that instant the towline went limp and fluttered down toward the water.

“Help!” Chet shouted as the towline snapped.

“He’s in free flight!” Frank yelled. ‘And gliding toward the shore!“

As the kite passed over land, a warm, vertical air current carried it up even higher. The boys watched helplessly as Chet vanished over the crest of a hill.

“Help!” Chet shouted as the towline snapped

Speeding back to the boathouse, they leaped into their car and drove off in pursuit. Five minutes later Joe pointed to a knot of people peering at a factory chimney. Cries for help were coming from the stack. Chet was hanging on courageously.

Sirens wailed as the Bayport Fire Department and Police Emergency Squad vehicles screamed to the scene. Reporters and photographers rushed to record the rescue as Chet and his kite were untangled and brought to safety on a towering aerial ladder.

Chief Collig arrived to make sure the situation was under control. When he spotted the Hardys, he hurried over to talk to them.

“I tried to contact you boys a couple of hours ago,” the chief said. “One of my men came across an unlocked car in a parking area near MacPherson’s dock. No one knew who owned it, so we decided to run a routine check. The car was sold by a dealer in New York to a man named Pancho Cardillo! The address on the registration is fictitious.”

“I’ll bet Cardillo is not his real name either,” Joe commented.

“If you boys would like to take a look at the car,” Collig said, “you’ll find it at the police garage.”

“We’ll do that,” Frank answered.

The Hardys drove a subdued and badly frightened Chet back to his truck, then hastened to the police garage. There they examined the car minutely. Frank noticed a small object jammed underneath the gas pedal. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a broken finger ring with a strange insignia on it.

“Look, Joe. Indian craftsmanship, I’ll bet.”

“Aztec, I’d say,” Frank said.

The insignia was a cluster of faggots from which a flame issued, with a large letter P in the center of the design.

“Maybe it’s a family crest,” Joe suggested.

Frank dropped the ring in his pocket. Then he and his brother drove home. As they entered the house, intending to show the ring to their father, he summoned them to his study. Mr. Hardy was holding a white sheet of letter-size paper.

“This just came a few minutes ago,” he said. “Frankly, I’m baffled. I don’t know what to make of it.”

He handed the letter to his sons. Their eyes widened when they saw the typewritten message:

BEWARE OF THE MARK ON THE DOOR!

CHAPTER III

The Strange Symbol

“WHAT mark on the door?” Frank asked. Joe hastened out to examine their front and back doors and the garage as well.

“No signs there,” Joe said when he returned.

“The envelope was postmarked Bayport,” Mr. Hardy said, “which brings the mystery right to our doorstep.”

“It could be a prank,” Frank said.

“You might be right,” their father replied. “But I suggest we all be very careful.”

As the boys took comfortable chairs in their father’s study, Mr. Hardy filed the mysterious warning and turned his attention to a thick dossier on his desk.

“I’ve been going over the information given me concerning the stock-fraud case,” he said. “Very interesting. I’m sure you boys would like me to fill you in.”

“We sure wouldl” Frank answered quickly as he and Joe pulled their chairs closer.

“I’ve already told you,” the detective went on, “that the worthless stock was sold in the name of the Costa Químico Compañia.”

The boys nodded.

“According to this information, the plan to start the chemical firm was the idea of Señor José Marcheta, a retired chemical engineer and a highly respected resident of Vivira, Mexico.”

“What made a man with his reputation go wrong?” Joe queried.

“That’s just it!” the detective answered. “The facts indicate that Marcheta is not really part of the fraud.”

He explained that the engineer was sincere in his efforts to create a firm for the refining of chemicals. His principal aim was not only to develop one of Mexico’s great natural resources, but to bring work to the people of the area. It appeared, however, that Marcheta had become the target of extremely clever swindlers, who used his efforts as a front for a stock fraud.

“What does Senor Marcheta have to say about all this?” Frank asked.

“He was questioned by the United States consul in Guadalajara, Mexico,” Mr. Hardy explained. “He denied knowing anything about the scheme, or any of those involved.”

“But he must know something about the men behind the plot,” Joe insisted.

“I’m sure he does,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Nevertheless, Marcheta isn’t saying anything. And it’s obvious why. The consul’s report states that he appeared badly frightened. Whoever’s behind the fraud must have come up with a strong enough threat to keep him from talking.”

Frank and Joe mulled over the situation until bedtime. The next morning, Sunday, was chilly and rainy. The boys planned to do nothing more that day than to attend church, catch up on their reading, and ponder the mysterious events of Friday and Saturday.

After a leisurely dinner, the Hardys began to skim through the voluminous Sunday newspaper. Joe burst out laughing when he saw that Chet’s water-kite escapade, complete with pictures, had made page two.

Frank was scanning another section when he suddenly sat bolt upright. “Wow!” he exclaimed, and quickly tore out a small news item. “Take a look at this!”

Joe’s eyes widened in amazement at what he saw. The news story, datelined Mazatlan, Mexico, read:

A local fisherman has reported sighting an unknown submarine off the Sinaloa coast, approximately 140 miles northwest of Mazat-Ian. The sighting, according to police here, took place on Friday, but the report was not released at that time, pending an investigation by the Mexican Coast Guard.

Questioned by the authorities, the fisherman described an insignia painted on the conning tower of the craft. In his words, it “appeared to be flames issuing from a bundle of sticks, with the letter P in the center.”

A spokesman for the Coast Guard said that a search revealed no evidence of a submarine in the area.

“It sounds impossible!” Joe said as Frank dashed to get the broken ring he had found in Cardillo’s car. The boys showed it to their father, along with the clipping.

The detective was amazed as he examined the ring. “Why, the design is similar to the one the fisherman described!”

“Exactlyl” Joe exclaimed. “There must be some connection between Cardillo and the sub. Maybe he escaped in the one we saw in the bay.”

“Now hold on a moment,” Frank said. “If Cardillo did escape from Barmet Bay by submarine, it couldn’t possibly be the same craft the fisherman spotted. It would take weeks for it to sail there!”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “But there could be more than one. What if Cardillo is a member of a gang that uses submarines?”

“Intriguing theory,” Mr. Hardy mused.

As they continued to discuss the mystery, the telephone rang. Frank scooped up the receiver. “Oh, hello, Chief Collig.... What’s that you say?” Frank listened for a few seconds, his expression taut with excitement. “Okay, Chief. I’ll tell him. Good-by.”

Frank whirled around. “Dad! Joe! Listen to this! The chief said that one of his men from the crime lab examined Cardillo’s car for fingerprints. It was clean except for one clear specimen on the handle of the right rear door. The print belongs to Elmer Tremmer!”

“That’s a tremendous clue!” Mr. Hardy cried. “This means Cardillo might have had something to do with Tremmer’s disappearance!”

“Which suggests,” Frank added, “that Cardillo could be mixed up in the stock fraud!”

“But what about the submarine angle?” Joe said. “There are faster and easier ways of escaping.”

Mr. Hardy rested back in his chair to think. “I’m beginning to believe there’s more to all this than a missing bookkeeper and the peddling of worthless stock,” he said finally. “Also, the various bits of information we’ve collected so far have one thing in common—their connection with Mexico!”

Joe sighed. “That’s a long way off.”

“True,” Mr. Hardy said. “But it might prove worth while for us to go to Mazatlan.”

“Us?” Frank cried out. “You mean Joe and me?”

“Of course. This is an important case. How about it, Joe?”

“Roger, Dadl”

“Señor Marcheta’s home in Vivira is not far from Mazatlan,” Mr. Hardy went on. “I’d like to take a crack at talking to him myself. Perhaps I could get Marcheta to give me some useful information.”

“And Joe and I can check on the fisherman’s story,” Frank suggested. “If we can track down the sub, you can be certain the trail will lead us to Cardillo ...”

“And Tremmer!” Joe interjected.

“Exactly what I had in mind,” Mr. Hardy said. “Your lead is strong enough to make it worth the try. But since I’m working with the investigators of the Securities Exchange Commission, I’ll have to get their okay.”

Next morning Mr. Hardy made a telephone call to a man in New York. He then joined his sons at breakfast to tell them that he had been given the green light to go to Mexico. Frank and Joe let out a loud cheer.

“Fiddlesticks!” Aunt Gertrude snapped as she placed a heaping platter of hot wheatcakes on the table. “Rushing off to the ends of the earth again! I just don’t know what to make of this family.”

“They’re certainly on the go,” Mrs. Hardy said, serving the griddlecakes.

Joe laughed. “Mexico isn’t so far off.”

“But enough to cause your mother and me a lot of worry,” Aunt Gertrude retorted. “I should think there’d be plenty for detectives to do right around here.”

Mr. Hardy planned to use his own sleek, single-engine airplane for the trip. He instructed his sons, both fliers themselves, to contact Jack Wayne, their pilot, to make arrangements. “Let’s try to get off today,” he said.

Joe rushed to the telephone. Soon he had Wayne on the line.

“Mazatlan, Mexico, you say? Hold on while I get my air charts.” There was a brief silence, then the pilot’s voice came on again. “As I see it, we’ll have to make two refueling stops. The first at Memphis, Tennessee, and the second at Brownsville, Texas.”

“How long do you estimate the entire trip will take?” Joe asked.

“Roughly, about fourteen hours of flight time to Mazatlan,” Jack replied. “If we leave within the next couple of hours, we can be in Brownsville by eleven or twelve o‘clock tonight, Texas time. Then we’ll hole up there till morning. It’ll not only give us a chance to get some sleep, but also we won’t have to tackle those Mexican mountain ranges in the dark.”

“Good! We’ll see you at Bayport field as soon as we pack.”

“One more thing,” the pilot added in conclusion. “Mexico requires that everybody have a tourist card to visit the country. Also, I’ll have to file a special flight plan to Mazatlan. But we can take care of all that in Brownsville.”

Frank rushed into the room just as Joe finished his telephone call. “Guess what?” he said. “Dad suggested we ask Chet to go along.”

“Great idea!”

Chet readily accepted and received permission from his father.

The Hardys began packing. Finally they were ready to leave for the airport. Mrs. Hardy kissed her husband and sons as they said good-by. She was aware of the dangers involved in their work, but seldom allowed her concern to be known to them.

Aunt Gertrude shook her head dolefully. “No good will come of this! Mark my words!” she prophesied. “But please be careful,” she added, pecking the embarrassed boys on their cheeks.

Chet was ready when the Hardys drove up, and soon the group arrived at Bayport field. They found Jack Wayne seated in the plane. Within minutes the craft took off. The weather was exceptionally clear, and the terrain below presented a vivid picture in the sparkling sunlight.

The refueling was made without incident, and it was nearly midnight when the Hardy plane touched down on the runway at Brownsville. Jack and the others wasted no time checking in at a nearby hotel.

After breakfast the next morning they went directly to the Mexican Tourist Bureau to obtain their tourist cards. Jack Wayne filed the necessary flight plan to Mazatlan and soon the travelers were winging off on the final leg of their flight.

Frank and Joe were particularly awed by the country over which they were flying. Beneath them was a mixture of open plains and bleached deserts. Mountains jutted up on all sides, and some of these seemed to Chet to be higher than their own altitude.

As they neared their destination the group gazed down on a solid layer of stratus clouds.

“Looks like bad weather rolling in from the coast,” Frank observed.

Jack agreed. “I’ve been watching it. I’d better contact Mazatlan and see what’s up.”

The pilot switched on the radio. It crackled for an instant, then was silent. He turned on the stand-by radio. Nothing! Jack tapped the radio compass and other navigational equipment vigorously. “Oh, nol” he muttered.

“Trouble?” Mr. Hardy queried.

“All our radios have gone out!” the pilot replied anxiously. “We must have a short in the electrical system.”

“And we don’t know what the visibility is like below that cloud layer!” Frank declared. “If it’s zero-zero, we’d have to make an instrument approach. That’s something we can’t do without our radios!”

“At least we’re west of the Sierra Madre Mountains,” Joe commented. “We don’t have to worry about running into those.”

“What about turning around and going back?” Mr. Hardy suggested. “The weather is clear east of the mountains.”

Jack turned and scanned the area behind him. “I’m afraid that’s out! Take a look yourselves!”

The Hardys and Chet turned to see a frightening sight. Towering cumulo-nimbus clouds—thunderstorms—were already developing along the windward side of the mountains.

“We could never climb high enough to get over those storms!” the pilot said. “And to fly through them would be suidde!”

“Then we’re trapped!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER IV

The Hostage

FRANK frantically tried to get the radios working, while Jack Wayne flew in a continuous circle to maintain their position over Mazatlan.

“No good!” Frank finally declared, “We’ll have to do the best we can without the radios!”

Chet groaned and Mr. Hardy looked grim. Jack suddenly straightened the plane out on a westerly course. “I’m going to try something,” he said.

“What?” Joe questioned nervously.

“The cloud layer doesn’t extend too far out to sea,” Jack answered. “I’m going to let down over the water in the clear. From there, we can see whether there’s enough of a ceiling for us to get into Mazatlan.”

The boys stared ahead as the pilot began his descent. After they had passed beyond the edge of the cloud layer, he dived the plane as low as he dared, then turned east toward the coast.

“We’re in luck!” Frank exclaimed. “There’s a ceiling of at least two or three hundred feet!”

“Yes,” Jack agreed. “But the visibility isn’t too good. However, if we’re careful, we should be able to make it. Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse.”

The plane was now flying just above the surface of the water. Frank and the others peered ahead into the mist.

Suddenly Joe pointed off to his left. “I see something out there! Or is it just a band of dark clouds?”

The pilot leaned forward in his seat. “That’s the coast of Mexico!” he cried jubilantly.

As they flew closer, various features of the terrain became more clearly defined. Frank unfolded a chart and compared the coastline they were approaching with the map profile.

“That wide inlet directly ahead, with a peninsula of land jutting out from the left, matches the shape of the coastline on the map where Mazatlan is located!” he exclaimed.

Gradually a sprawling city began to appear out of the mist.

“It is!” Mr. Hardy shouted. “Congratulations, Jack! You’ve hit it right on the nose!”

“Lucky again,” the pilot said jokingly. He rolled the plane into a left turn. “The airport should be a couple of miles north of the city.”

In less than a minute they spotted a bright, white rotating beam from a beacon atop a building. Immediately adjacent to it, the outlines of runways began to take shape.

“There’s the field!” Jack declared.

“I was never happier to see anything in my whole life.” Chet sighed with relief.

“Since our radios are out, I can’t communicate with the control tower,” Jack explained. “I’ll circle the field and wait for a green light.”

The pilot had just completed two circuits of the airport when a disk of green light glared from the tower. The pilot responded by banking the wings of the aircraft to the left and right several times. He then checked the wind tee to determine which runway was being used for landings. Shortly thereafter the Hardy plane touched down at Mazatlan.

In the terminal building the group underwent a routine check by customs officials, then Mr. Hardy called for a taxi.

“There wasn’t time to make hotel reservations in advance,” he announced. “But we shouldn’t have too much trouble this time of year.”

Soon the group was in a cab heading for the city proper. Despite the gray skies, the vivid green of the lush tropical scenery raised their spirits. As they sped along the Avenue del Mar, they could see the choppy waters of the Pacific and the mouth of the Gulf of California. People strolled slowly along the streets, men wearing colorful sarapes and women with rebozos draped over their heads and shoulders.

Arriving at a hotel, Mr. Hardy dashed inside. He reappeared after a long wait. “The hotels are busier than I thought,” he told Jack Wayne and the boys. “We’ll have to take a suite. The clerk phoned several other places for me, but they don’t have anything else either.”

When they were ushered into the rooms, Chet plunked himself into a comfortable chair. “Now this is what I call real luxury,” he said “When do we eat?”

“Just as soon as we freshen up,” Frank answered.

“Good! I’m not used to going without food this long,” Chet complained. “We missed lunch, and my watch tells me it’s almost time for supper.”

Joe glanced at his chum’s corpulent waistline. “You’re stocked with enough reserve to last for weeks!”

Frank turned to his father. “What’s first on your agenda, Dad?”

“A talk with Senor Marcheta,” Mr. Hardy replied. “In the morning I’ll rent a car and drive to Vivira to see him.”

“Meanwhile,” Frank said, “Joe, Chet, and I will try to locate the fisherman who reported sighting the sub. Perhaps the police will tell us where we can find him.”

“I have my work cut out for me too,” announced Jack Wayne. “I’ll head for the airport first thing tomorrow to see about getting the radios repaired.”

When they left the hotel to find a restaurant, the weather had improved and a magnificent sunset was visible. Palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze and the chatter of myna birds and parrots could be heard.

As the group strolled along, Chet gazed at the first seafood restaurant they came to with such a hungry expression that the others permitted him to lead them into it. After a hearty meal they walked back to the hotel. Chet, burdened down by the two large lobsters he had devoured, trailed behind the others at a snail’s pace.

As they entered the lobby, the desk clerk handed Mr. Hardy a message. The detective ripped open the sealed envelope, read the letter inside with a startled expression, and quickly handed it to Frank and Joe. They were equally surprised. The hand-printed message read:

GET OUT OF MAZATLAN, ALL OF YOU! YOU’RE IN GREAT DANGER!

Mr. Hardy turned to the desk clerk. “Who gave you this message?”

“A boy came in with it about twenty minutes ago, sir,” the clerk answered. “He said some man paid him two pesos to deliver it.”

The Hardys and their companions hurried to their suite.

“Who could possibly know we’re here?” Frank muttered as he examined the message again.

“Perhaps someone at the airport saw the flight plan I filed to Mazatlan,” Jack Wayne suggested. “I not only have to list the number of passengers aboard, but also your father’s name and address as owner of the plane.”

“Even so,” Mr. Hardy commented with a puzzled expression, “no one here knows who I am.”

“Tremmer does,” Joe stated. “And that means Cardillo would also.”

“I thought you fellows said that those guys left Bayport by submarine,” Chet interrupted. “They’d have to travel like a rocket to beat us to Mazatlan.”

“You’re right,” Frank said with a sigh. “But hey! What if Cardillo didn’t stay with the sub? He might have traveled just a short way, then gone ashore near an airport where he could catch an airliner to Miami. From there, he could fly direct to Mexico City, then by private plane, or feeder line, to Mazatlan.”

“But if Cardillo intended to fly,” Joe queried, “why bother with the sub at all?”

“That’s a question I can’t answer right now,” Frank admitted.

“Maybe he suddenly discovered that he had claustrophobia,” Chet quipped, “and couldn’t stand to be boxed in.”

“In any event,” Mr. Hardy announced, “we have to assume that Cardillo and Tremmer know we’re here. And that calls for an immediate change in my plan! I’m going to try and see Senor Marcheta tonight. I hope it isn’t too late already!”

“We’ll go with you,” Frank declared. “There may be trouble.”

Jack Wayne was instructed to tend to the plane’s radio repairs, while the boys leaped into a rented car with Mr. Hardy.

“Vivira is less than forty miles north of Mazatlan,” Frank said, examining a road map. “Just off the main road.”

A little over an hour passed before the Hardys and Chet arrived in Vivira. It was a quiet little village with many trees, and a fountain in the center of a small plaza. Standing near the fountain was a young man.

“Donde esta el hacienda de Señor Marcheta?” Frank asked the Mexican in his best high school Spanish.

The man did not answer. He eyed the Hardys and Chet for a moment, then pointed toward a large hacienda surrounded by a high stone wall, at the far end of the street.

“Gracias!” Frank said.

“Adios!” Chet called from the rear window.

At the spot the man had indicated, Mr. Hardy and the boys got out of the car and walked toward a decorative wrought-iron gate. Set in the wall beside the gate was a metal handle. Joe gave it a hard yank and a bell tinkled. Shortly a slim, tall man appeared, silhouetted in the doorway of the hacienda.

“Quién es ello?—Who is it?” he asked.

“Are you Senor Marcheta?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Si!”

“We’re visitors from the United States. My name is Fenton Hardy. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Norte Americanos? You wish to talk to me? Why?”

“Please, Senor Marcheta,” the elder detective pleaded. “I won’t take much of your time. It’s important!”

The senor slowly walked toward his visitors. As he approached in the dim light the boys saw that he was an elderly, gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. He had a kindly face and a manner that immediately commanded respect.

Mr. Hardy introduced his sons and Chet. Marcheta studied them for a moment. “I cannot deny you the hospitality of my home,” he said finally. “Come in.”

He led the visitors into his hacienda and motioned to them to be seated. “Now what is it you wish to speak to me about?” he queried.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m working on a case connected with a stock fraud involving the Costa Quimico Compañia.”

Marcheta turned pale. “I have already been questioned by members of your consulate in Guadalajara!” he cried. “I tell you, as I told them, I have no information to givel”

“Señor Marcheta, please be patient,” Mr. Hardy replied. “We’re only trying to help you. If you can tell me anything at all—”

“No! I cannot!” the elderly man retorted. “You must understand. It is not for myself that I am afraid. I fear for the life of my son Juan. They have taken him away! I ...” His words trailed off. He buried his face in his hands and sank into a chair.

“So that’s it,” Mr. Hardy muttered. “Those scoundrels are holding your son as a hostage!”

“That should be reason enough for you to give us your cooperation,” Joe put in.

“No, no!” Marcheta exclaimed. “I did not know what I was saying! You must go now!”

“We realize the situation you’re in,” Frank said solemnly. “But if you think you’re going to help your son by keeping this to yourself, you‘re—”

At that instant a large stone came crashing through the window and landed in the middle of the room.

“What’s that?” Chet cried.

“Everybody get down!” Frank shouted.

Mr. Hardy pulled Marcheta out of his chair to the floor. Then Frank, followed by Joe and Chet, ran out of the house.

“Spread out and search the area!” Frank ordered. “Yell if you see anything!”

The boys groped their way through the darkness. As Frank neared the rear of the hacienda, a man suddenly sprang from behind a bush several yards away and pulled what looked like a coiled bullwhip from his belt. Then a long raw-hide tentacle lashed out toward Frank!

CHAPTER V

Danger Path

SWISH! The end of the whip stung Frank’s ankles and wound tightly around them! The man gave a sharp tug, and the boy crashed to the ground.

Quick as a cat, the man retrieved the whip and lashed out at a branch of a nearby tree. The slender tentacle coiled around the branch to form a clove hitch. As Frank scrambled to his feet, the intruder used it to swing himself, trapeze-fashion, to the top of the wall. The next instant he was gone!

The other boys came running. “What happened? Are you all right?” Joe shouted.

“I ran into the man we’re looking for,” Frank explained, rubbing his ankles. “And he’s mighty handy with a whip.”

The three boys returned to the hacienda to find Marcheta in a state of panic. “All is lost!” he cried. “I shall never see my son again!”

When Mr. Hardy heard Frank’s story, he handed the boys a piece of paper. “This was wrapped around the rock,” he said.

On it was a drawing of flames issuing from a cluster of branches with the letter P in the center. The symbol again! Under the drawing was a message written in Spanish. Translated, it read:

We are aware you have visitors! This could mean Juan’s doom!

“Señor Marcheta,” Frank said quickly, “do you know what this symbol stands for?”

“I do not! Nor do I care! The safety of my son is all that concerns me!”

“If you really mean that,” Mr. Hardy said, “you’ll let us help you.”

“It is because you are here that my son is in greater danger than ever!” Marcheta insisted.

Mr. Hardy stroked his chin thoughtfully, and turned to the señor. “There’s one way we might be able to protect your son—fight fire with fire. Señor Marcheta, you must go into hiding!”

“You mean leave here? Never! Never! Not while Juan is in their hands!”

“But it’s for your son’s sake,” Mr. Hardy urged. “If you were to disappear, the kidnappers would begin wondering what you’re up to. Until they knew, I’m certain they wouldn’t harm your son. He’s their only insurance that you won’t go to the authorities.”

The senor nervously shifted in his chair. After thinking the plan over, he said slowly, “Perhaps you are right. But I will not leave Mexico.”

“How about Mexico City?” Joe suggested. “It’s easier to hide out in a populated place.”

“Good idea,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

“What about Señora Marcheta?” Frank inquired.

“I sent my wife away for her own protection. Only I know where she is. As for your plan, it is a fine one. How do you propose to do it?”

“We’ll have to figure out how to get you away without being seen,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Then you can be flown to Mexico City in my plane.”

“But we can’t risk going to Mazatlan Airport,” Frank warned. “We already suspect that the gang has a spy there.”

“How about having Jack fly here?” Joe said. “There must be lots of level country nearby.”

“There is a large cattle ranch approximately six miles north of Vivira,” Marcheta replied. “It is very flat and would be ideal for your purpose.”

“Then it’s settled!” Mr. Hardy declared. “But to insure absolute secrecy, we’ll have Jack fly to the rendezvous point after dark. It’s too late now, so it will have to be tomorrow night.”

The Hardys outlined their plan. The detective and the boys would remain with Marcheta that night to make sure no harm would come to him. In the morning one of the boys would drive to Mazatlan to give Jack Wayne his instructions, then return to the hacienda to take Mr. Hardy and Senor Marcheta to the cattle ranch.

“But there’s still the problem of getting Senor Marcheta out of the hacienda without being seen,” Joe commented.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Frank said. “And I have an idea.”

“How about letting us in on it?” Chet urged.

“I’m almost the same height and build as Senor Marcheta,” Frank declared. “If you will lend me some of your clothes, senor, I’ll improvise a disguise that might fool whoever’s spying on us.”

“Could such a plan work?” the señor asked.

“It’s worth a try,” Frank replied. “Joe and Chet should go with me to make it appear that I’m in need of protection. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

The Hardys and Chet took turns standing guard during the night. In the morning Frank donned a suit of clothes Marcheta gave him, then ground some white chalk into powder and sprinkled it into his hair.

“Very clever,” Marcheta commented with a grin. “Your hair is now almost as white as mine.”

Next, Frank pulled a bit of stuffing from a worn chair, whitened it with chalk, and fashioned a mustache and a goatee for himself. A straw hat completed the disguise.

“You’ve done a terrific job,” Mr. Hardy said.

“Thanks, Dad. Keep your fingers crossed. I hope it works.”

“Just one question,” Joe interposed. “Whoever’s watching the hacienda must know that there are five of us here. Won’t it look suspicious if we don’t all leave together?”

“I’m hoping he’ll think that two of us stayed behind to nab him if he shows himself,” Frank explained. He pulled the brim of the straw hat low over his eyes. “I’m all set to go! Hope this disguise works!”

The three boys hurried out of the house and made a beeline for their car. As they sped away, Joe, who was behind the wheel, glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw a man leap out from behind a tree.

“At least one villager is interested in our departure,” Joe said. “I wonder if he’s our man.”

“We can’t take the time to find out,” Frank answered, and removed his disguise. Within the hour they arrived at the airport and quickly located Jack Wayne.

“Hi, fellows!” the pilot exclaimed. “You’ll be glad to hear the plane’s radios are working again. There was a defective circuit breaker in the system.”

“Good,” Joe replied. “We’re going to need you and the plane.”

The Hardys described their plan for the eve ning to Jack. When they had finished, the pilot told them how to set up the rendezvous point.

“Hope this disguise works!” Frank said

“Find a long, level stretch of ground. Make sure there are no obstructions near the spot. Then aim the headlights of your car in the direction you want me to land. Once I’m lined up, the plane’s landing lights will show me the way.”

“Try to make your departure as inconspicuous as possible,” Frank said.

“I’ll file a flight plan back to Brownsville, Texas,” Jack replied. “That should confuse anyone who’s curious. I can always cancel it later.”

The boys drove into the city for a leisurely lunch. Then they went to their hotel to wait until dark. It was well into evening when Frank, Joe, and Chet joined Mr. Hardy and Señor Marcheta at the hacienda.

“Your disguise worked like a charm,” the detective told Frank. “Shortly after you left, a man with a coiled bullwhip in his belt rode off on a horse. He certainly was in a hurry, judging by the amount of dust he was kicking up.”

“We’d better get out of here,” Joe warned. “He might decide to come back.”

The Hardys and their companions got into the car and took the road leading north from Vivira. Soon Senor Marcheta pointed to flat areas of land flanking both sides of the narrow road.

Frank pulled the car to a stop and got out, followed by Joe and Chet. Together, they searched for a suitable landing spot, and found one that was flat and as smooth as a table. Frank returned to the car and maneuvered it to point in the direction Jack Wayne was to land.

Several hours passed before the droning sound of a plane’s engine was heard. Frank switched on the headlights, then flicked them on and off several times. Minutes later the plane’s landing lights illuminated the area ahead, and the craft touched down in a gentle landing.

Jack Wayne taxied the plane in and Mr. Hardy and Senor Marcheta climbed aboard. Soon they were airborne. Chet and the young detectives watched as the plane disappeared in the night sky.

The Hardys and Chet drove back to their hotel in Mazatlan and turned in for several hours of sleep. After breakfast they went to the police station and asked for the name of the fisherman who had sighted the submarine.

The officer in charge told them that the report had not been kept on file and he himself had never seen it. He suggested, however, that they inquire along the docks.

The boys hastened to the area and made some inquiries. They had little success, until a Mexican youth, about Joe’s age, approached them.

“Señores,” he said, “excuse me, please, but I understand that you are looking for the fisherman who saw a submarine.”

“That’s right,” Joe answered.

“My name is Tico,” the Mexican boy extended his hand in greeting. “The man you seek is Senor Ricardo. He is now fishing and will not be back for two or three days.”

The Bayporters introduced themselves and Frank asked if Tico knew anything about the fisherman’s report.

“Only that he says he saw a submarine. I believe him, for I am sure that I have seen it too.”

“You’ve seen a sub?” Chet blurted. “When? Where?”

“My father, who is also a fisherman, and I took our boat up the coast as far as Ensenada del Pabe lion about two weeks ago,” Tico explained. “On the way back I was certain that I saw what looked like a submarine in a cove.”

“Why didn’t you report it?” Frank asked.

“I had too small a glimpse of it to be sure what I saw,” the youth replied. “It was nearly sunset, and my father insisted the shadows were playing tricks with my eyes. I forgot about it until Señor Ricardo said he saw a submarine a few days ago.”

“You speak very good English,” Chet commented.

“Thank you,” Tico said with a smile. “My father sends me to a fine school in Mexico City. He does not wish me to become a fisherman, but perhaps a lawyer. I study English.”

Frank thought for a moment. “Do you think you could find that cove again?”

“Yes—yes, I think I could do this,” Tico assured him. “The cove is best reached by boat. Unfortunately my father is away fishing, and I’m on my own for about a month. We have a small craft with an outboard that will serve our purpose. The journey will take about four or five hours.”

“Good. Wait here for us,” Frank said.

The Hardys and Chet first went to the Mazat-Ian shopping district to buy clothes suitable for their intended expedition. By the time the boys returned to the dock, Tico was in his boat, ready to depart. They hopped in, and the Mexican boy set off.

Frank and Joe marveled at the scenery along the coast. It was extremely craggy, and geysers of white foam shot up from the sea splashing against the jagged rocks.

Soon the wind became more brisk. The surface of the water grew choppy, and Tico had to increase the power to keep from drifting toward shore.

“It’s blowing up a storm!” Joe warned. “We’d better beach this boat!”

“Too rocky!” Frank disagreed. “The boat would be smashed to pieces.”

As the small craft was being tossed violently about, the motor mount suddenly pulled free from its fittings. The entire unit disappeared into the water!

“Caramba!” Tico cried.

Frank and Joe found two paddles stowed underneath the seats. They grabbed them and made a valiant effort to keep the boat away from the craggy shore. But their attempt was futile. Despite their frantic paddling, the boat continued to be swept toward the jagged rocks!

CHAPTER VI

Mysterious Vigil

JoE’s paddle suddenly was ripped from his hands by the raging sea. The small boat was carried to the crest of a wave, and went skimming down the lee side toward the jagged rocks.

“Hang on!” Frank shouted as water spilled over the gunwales.

Suddenly the craft capsized and the four boys were tossed into the sea.

“Swim for it!” Frank cried. “Head for—!” He swallowed a mouthful of brine and coughed violently as he struggled through the maelstrom.

For a while the boys bobbed like corks in the turbulent sea, progressing for a few strokes, then being tossed back again. With arms flailing, they finally made it. Frank and Joe were the first to be hurled onto solid ground. Chet came next, fol lowed by the Mexican youth.

Tico lay panting for a few minutes. “I am happy to see that everyone is all right,” he finally said.

“Sorry about your boat,” Joe remarked.

“It could not be helped,” Tico said philosophically. “Do not worry.”

The boys walked a short distance inland. There the wind was less brisk, and a warm sun began to send shimmering waves of heat up from the bleached sand and rocks.

“It’s very desolate around here,” Frank observed. “Where are we?”

Tico took a moment to orient himself. “We are not far from the cove I spoke about,” he said. “It is less than an hour from here on foot.”

“No sense in turning back as long as we got this far,” Joe commented.

The boys agreed to continue on. With the Mexican youth in the lead they trekked ahead, and arrived at their destination in the time Tico had predicted.

“There it is!” he exclaimed. “I know by that tall point of rock. It looks over the cove.”

They slowly worked their way down a steep incline of rock to the shore. At once the young sleuths began searching the area for clues.

“If a sub was here,” Chet said, “you’d never know it. There’s not a trace of anything but fish!”

He held his nose and pointed to a half-eaten sea trout that had been washed ashore.

Frank, passing a large rock nearly buried in the sand, noticed deep scratches on its surface. “Take a look at this, fellows,” he called out.

“Hm! Looks like some kind of heavy objects were dragged over the ground,” Joe stated as he studied the marks.

“Notice that they continue,” Frank replied, “in a straight line toward that big boulder at the base of the incline.”

As the boys began walking toward the spot, a shot suddenly rang out! Then another! Splinters of rock sprayed in all directions.

“Jumping jackals!” Chet yelled. “Hit the dirt!”

Frank and Joe whirled to look up at the high rim of rock surrounding the cove. Two men, one taller than the other, mounted on horses, were silhouetted against the sky. Each carried a rifle, aimed in the boys’ direction.

Bam! Bam!

Two more bullets struck nearby as the boys scrambled along the craggy shore of the cove.

“Quick!” Frank ordered. “In here!”

Followed by his companions, he darted into a narrow crevice. It led up the side of a steep hill, and eventually opened into a place which served as an excellent vantage point. From there, the boys could look up and see their attackers clearly.

“Why did those men shoot at us?” Joe hissed angrily. “Are they bandits?”

Chet crouched low behind a rock. “I’m not curious enough to go out and ask them,” he declared.

“Everybody be quiet!” Frank commanded.

They watched as the two men, dressed in ragged clothes and sombreros, got off their horses and scurried down the rocky incline to the cove.

“They’re coming after us!” Tico whispered nervously.

“There are many crevices along the shore,” Frank muttered. “Let’s hope they don’t find the right one.”

Minutes ticked by slowly as the men searched. Once they came uncomfortably close to the boys’ hiding place. The taller man, his voice barely audible in the distance, said something to the other in Spanish. Then, apparently giving up the search, they climbed back up the rocky incline to their horses.

“Did you hear what that fellow said?” Frank asked Tico.

“It was difficult, but I heard most of what he said,” the Mexican boy answered. “He told the other man that we were scared off by the shooting. They think we have run far from here by now.”

“I wish I was far from here,” Chet mumbled.

Frank suddenly pointed toward the men. “Look!” he blurted. “They’re not getting on their horses and leaving. They’re just sitting on the groundl”

“What are they up to?” Joe queried.

“Waiting for us to come back,” Chet said ruefully.

“Maybe they’re not waiting for us at all,” Frank said. “But whatever the reason, we’ll have to stay here till they leave.”

Huddled in their hiding place, the boys spent several agonizing hours under the hot sun. By now their clothes were practically dry. But they were hungry, thirsty, and exhausted by the intense heat. Even after sunset the armed men maintained their vigil.

“Are they going to sit there all night?” Chet grumbled. “I want something to eat!”

“When it is very dark,” Tico said, “perhaps we can sneak away without being seen.”

Frank now appeared less anxious to make an immediate getaway. “I’d like to stick around a little while longer and see what those two guys are up to,” he announced. “We might learn something interesting.”

Another hour had passed when a muffled, rumbling sound drifted in from the sea just beyond the cove.

“What’s that?” Chet asked, craning his neck to look out.

“Sounds like engines,” Joe said. “Get down, Chet!”

Suddenly a point of light began flashing from the position where the men were sitting.

“They’re signaling someone!” Frank observed.

Carefully they turned to look out into the cove. A flashing light pierced the darkness in response.

Gradually the rumbling became louder. Chet’s eyes popped and Joe gasped as the faint outline of a submarine slowly approached the cove!

CHAPTER VII

Night Rendezvous

THE BOYS gazed fascinated as the submarine drew closer to the shore.

“It’s hard to believe,” Frank whispered excitedly, “but there it isl”

“Leaping lizards!” Chet gasped.

“So that’s what those two bandits were waiting for,” said Joe.

All at once there was a burst of activity on the deck. Flashlights, carried by members of the crew as they scurried about, looked like a swarm of agitated fireflies.

“Pronto! Pronto!” a crewman barked. Then came an incoherent mumbling of many voices.

Beams of light were directed at the big boulder which Frank and Joe were about to examine when the two armed men had fired at them.

“Come on! Push this thing aside!” shouted a crewman in English. “Hurry it up!”

Four husky fellows shoved the rock to one side. Behind it was a large cavity in the incline. Despite their distance from the hole, the boys could clearly see stacks of wooden boxes in the hiding place.

“The cove is a rendezvous for picking up some sort of supplies,” Joe said.

Frank remarked that it was too dark to see whether the strange symbol was painted on the conning tower, but Joe had an answer for that.

“I’ll sneak down to the cove for a closer look.”

“I’ll go with you,” Chet offered.

“No, it’s better if only one of us goes.”

Joe slowly worked his way down through the crevice, then quietly stole along the craggy shore toward the submarine. Crawling on hands and knees, he made his way to a jumble of rocks near the water’s edge. Joe crouched down and peered over the damp rocks.

“Keep movin‘. Get that stuff aboard!” ordered a bearded, heavy-set man wearing a battered visor cap. It was obvious to Joe that he was not a Mexican. Neither were most of the other crewmen, who carried the wooden boxes to the sub.

Then one of the riflemen approached the bearded man. “Qué tal van las cosas—” the Mexican was saying.

“Talk English!” the other snapped. “You know I can’t speak much Spanish.”

“Sentirlo—sorry. I do as you wish, senor.”

Loud enough for Joe to hear, the Mexican told of spotting the boys in the cove. “But we scare ‘em off. We have no trouble.”

“That’s what you think!” Joe told himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” the bearded man went on. “We’ve got all the supplies we need and won’t be comin’ back here any more.”

“What about me and my amigo?” the Mexican inquired.

“The boss needs more men back at headquarters. He said you and your friend were to go back with us. We’d better get goin’ cause the trip takes about twelve hours.”

The crewmen hurried to load all the boxes aboard. The beam of one flashlight swept across the conning tower and Joe squinted intently to get a glimpse.

There it was! The same mysterious symbol!

Joe tingled with excitement. The identical sub, or a sister ship at least, both here and in Barmet Bay!

Satisfied that he had seen and heard enough, he decided to rejoin his companions. As Joe moved, his hand brushed against a loose rock. It splashed into the water loud enough for the crewmen to hear the sound.

“What was that?” one man shouted.

Joe froze, waiting anxiously while beams of light crisscrossed the shore.

“See anything?” another asked.

“Naw. It must’ve been a fish.”

“Okay!” the bearded one shouted. “Let’s get goin‘! Cast off the lines!”

The two riflemen unsaddled their horses and sent them galloping off on their own. Then they quickly boarded the submarine.

Joe gave a sigh of relief and crept off. By the time he returned to his companions, the sub was already on its way out of the cove. Breathlessly, Joe related his findings to the others.

“I wonder where it’s headed,” Chet said.

“That’s anybody’s guess,” Joe replied.

“The bearded guy said it would take twelve hours to get where they’re going?” Frank queried.

“Right,” Joe replied. “But in that time the sub could be anywhere from one hundred to more than two hundred miles away, depending on whether the trip is made submerged or on the surface.”

“What do you think are in those boxes?” Tico asked.

“Hard to tell,” Joe said, shaking his head. “They appeared to be heavy. I’d say they contain metal tools, or maybe parts for machinery.”

“This is one of the craziest situations I ever saw,” Chet declared. “A sub sneaks into a cove at night to pick up a lot of wooden boxes hidden in the rocks. Why not use a regular boat?”

“Secrecy for one thing,” Frank replied. Obvi ously it’s a renegade sub. And—“

“And you can be sure,” Joe interjected, “that it’s being used for something more than just hauling cargo around.”

“And then there’s the question of Cardillo,” Frank said. “How does he fit into the picture, if at all?”

“Before you masterminds begin building up a case,” Chet interrupted, “how about giving some thought to our food and water problem?”

Joe glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch. “It’ll be light in a couple of hours. We’d better wait till then before we go trekking around the countryside.”

“That is wise,” Tico agreed. “We would gain little by trying to make our way through the darkness.”

The four boys stretched out in the shelter of some scrubby bushes and fell fast asleep. At the first light of day they awakened and began climbing up the steep, rocky incline. They rested at the top for a moment and peered across the parched and barren plain.

“There isn’t much to eat and drink out there,” Chet muttered.

“There’s lots of cactus around,” Frank said. “That’ll take care of our water problem.”

“And we are sure to find plants which can be eaten,” Tico added, “such as acerolo.”

“Acerolo?” Chet blurted.

“That’s Spanish for hawthorn,” Joe explained. “It’s a plant which bears small red and yellow apples. They’re very good.”

As the sun rose higher, the boys’ hunger and thirst grew more intense. Tico led his friends to a cactus plant, removed a fisherman’s knife from his belt, and sliced off the top. He dug out some of the pulp from which he squeezed a small quantity of water.

“You certainly picked a good one,” Frank remarked with a grin.

As Tico began digging out more pulp for his friends, he saw Chet, a sharp stone in his hand, working on another cactus plant.

“Caramba!” the Mexican youth screamed. “Do not touch that plant! It is muy malo!”

Chet was startled. “It’s what?”

“Very badl” Tico shouted. “The liquid is poison!”

“Poison?” Chet muttered nervously. His face turned pale. “Why—why I’ve already drunk some of it!”

CHAPTER VIII

Bullfight

Tico and the Hardys rushed to Chet. He staggered around, as if in great pain, and gripped his chest. “I don’t feel too well,” he said in a quavering voice.

“We must do something!” Joe yelled frantically.

“The nearest doctor will be miles away!” Frank said.

Suddenly Tico pointed to a figure in the distance. “I see something! I believe—Yes, it is a man on a horse!”

“Oh, oh!” Joe muttered. “Maybe he’s a friend of those two guys who shot at us.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take!” Frank said.

The Hardys and Tico waved their arm wildly and called out to the distant rider. Finally he headed in their direction.

“Buenos dias!” the horseman shouted as he rode up and dismounted. He was short and wiry and had a handsome face.

“Necesitamos un doctor!—We need a doctor!” cried Tico.

“Qué pasa? What is going on?” the stranger asked.

Tico quickly told the man what Chet had done and pointed to the cactus plant. The man walked over to it, studied the plant for a moment, then he scooped out some of the pulp and squeezed the liquid into his mouth.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Joe yelled.

The man grinned. He glanced at the Hardys, then at Chet, who by this time was rolling on the ground. “Americanos?” he inquired.

“Yes!” Frank replied, and added, “You speak English?”

“I do,” was the calm reply.

Chet moaned and his eyes rolled. “Please help me!” he pleaded. “Just don’t stand there and talk.”

Tico turned excitedly to the horseman. “Why did you drink from the poison cactus, senor?”

“The water is good,” the man said. “The plant looks like a poisonous kind. But it is not.”

They all sighed, and Chet blurted, “Are you sure?”

“I am,” the man answered.

Chet recovered quickly and got to his feet. “I— I guess I am all right, after all,” he said. “Boyl That was a bad scare! Thank you, Señor—”

“Alvaro Cortines Garcia,” the horseman announced with a courtly bow.

“How do you do, Señor Garcia?” Frank said. He introduced himself and the boys.

“We never expected to see anyone out here in the desert,” Joe remarked. “You certainly surprised us.”

“I am returning to my ranchero from the town of El Dorado,” Garcia said. “My hacienda is about six miles from here, near the village of La Brecha.”

Garcia told the boys that he bred horses and burros on his small ranch. He had gone to El Dorado to close a business deal involving the sale of some of his stock.

“I would like to offer you muchachos the hospitality of my home,” the horseman added. “You all look very tired.”

The boys did not have to be coaxed. They immediately accepted the offer.

By taking turns riding Señor Garcia’s horse, the travelers had time to rest their exhausted bodies. Nearly two hours later they arrived at the adobe-walled hacienda. It was set in a green patch of semidesert, surrounded by poplar trees nearly as high as the twirling windmill.

The dusty bovs hastened to a trough of sparkling clear water at the base of the windmill. After gulping handfuls of water, they splashed their arms and faces.

As they finished refreshing themselves, a pretty woman and a good-looking boy of about sixteen came from the house. Señor Garcia introduced them as his wife and son Alfredo.

Tico and Alfredo began to chatter in Spanish. The visitors were ushered past the corral and inside the cool hacienda. Here Señora Garcia asked a maid to set the dining-room table and prepare food for the visitors.

Garcia sat with the hungry boys while they were eating. Presently he said, “We must give a little fiesta tonight to celebrate my success in El Dorado!”

“Bueno!” declared Alfredo. “We will invite some of our amigos from the village.” His father turned to the boys. “And you, muchachos, must stay as my guests.”

“I’m all for that!” Chet exclaimed, beaming. “Muchas gracias!”

After a long nap, the Americans spent the rest of the afternoon watching preparations for the fiesta. They helped set up large wooden tables on the patio. Bananas, oranges, limes, and avocados were heaped on some of the tables. Food that was cooking gave off tantalizing odors.

“This will be a gastronomic adventure!” Chet exclaimed as he viewed the preparations hungrily.

Joe grinned. “We might never get Chet to leave this place!”

Guests from the village began coming shortly after sunset. As the festivities got underway, torches were lighted to illuminate the area. One man arrived leading a bull and put it in the corral. Many of the younger villagers swarmed around the enclosure to see it.

“What’s going on?” Chet asked Alfredo.

“Some of our amigos like to show their skills as matadors,” he replied.

“Bullfighting?” Joe asked.

“They are not real matadors,” Alfredo explained laughingly. “It is just a game. The bull does not have sharp horns, and he is not harmed in any way.”

The boys hurried over to the corral and saw that one young man had already leaped into the enclosure. He waved a muleta, a small red cloth draped over a stick, in front of the bull.

“Toro! Toro!” shouted the would-be matador.

The animal rushed toward him, but the young man side-stepped gracefully.

“Olé! Olé!” the spectators cheered.

The boys watched the fun for several minutes. Then as Frank and Joe walked back to the tables they suddenly became aware of Chet’s absence. “Toro! Toro!” came their chum’s voice from the corral.

“Oh, no!” Joe yelled. “Don’t tell me Chet’s playing matador!”

As the Hardvs ran back they saw their hefty pal inside the enclosure waving a muleta.

“Get out of there!” Frank shouted. “Or we’ll have to carry you out in pieces!”

At that instant the bull rushed toward Chet, who side-stepped. But he lost his footing and fell to the ground. The bull sped on past and turned to make another charge.

Chet scrambled to his feet, dropped the muleta, and began running. The bull raced after him and the spectators cheered.

“Head for the fence!” Frank yelled.

Chet did not hear. Instead, he kept running in circles with the bull in pursuit. Finally he made a dash for the fence and tried to force his way between the wooden slats, but he got stuck!

“Watch out for the bull!” Joe warned.

He flung himself over the fence, picked up the muleta, and attracted the animal’s attention away from the panting Chet. Several spectators leaped into the enclosure to help.

With the bull diverted, Frank and Tico pulled Chet loose. The only damage was a couple of buttons missing from his shirt.

“Do you still want to be a matador?” Frank asked with a frown.

“I’ll stick to football,” Chet muttered.

“That waistline of yours almost got you into real trouble with the fence,” Joe added.

“Yes, and now I’m hungry again,” Chet said. “Let’s have some chow.”

It was after midnight when the fiesta ended. After the villagers had left, the boys and their hosts sat on the patio of the hacienda to chat.

“We enjoyed the fiesta very much, Senor Garcia,” Frank said.

“Gracias,” the man replied. “And you are all welcome to stay here as long as you wish.”

“We’d like to,” Joe said apologetically, “but we must get back to Mazatlan as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry you cannot remain longer,” Garcia said. “But if you must leave, I will help you. There is an autobus which travels to the city along a road about fifteen kilometers east of here. I will furnish you with horses and take you there myself.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Could we leave in the morning?”

“Of course,” Senor Garcia replied.

“Senor, are you familiar with the Sinaloa coast near the spot where you found us?” Joe queried.

“Yes, I travel along it many times on my way to El Dorado,” Garcia answered.

“Have you ever seen a submarine in the area?” Joe continued.

“A submarino?” the man muttered with a quizzical expression on his face. “No, I have not.”

Frank grinned. “I know it sounds like a strange question, but we have good reasons for asking.”

“I do not think it strange,” Garcia assured the boys. “I am certain the navies of many countries sail into our waters from time to time. Why do you ask?”

“We’d rather not say at present,” Frank replied. “But we’re sure the submarine we asked you about does not belong to any navy.”

“This sub has a mysterious insignia painted on its conning tower,” Joe explained. He leaned down and outlined the symbol in the sand.

Señor Garcia studied it in the light of the flickering torches. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. “Caramba!” he cried, and an expression of fear spread across his face.

“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, startled.

“You must leave here at once!” the man shouted.

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“I say you must go!” Garcia demanded. “You might have brought the curse of the symbol to my home!”

CHAPTER IX

The Trail to Baja

“CURSE of the symbol?” Frank blurted. “What do you mean?”

“I do not wish to talk about itl” Garcia snapped. “You must all leavel”

“But you can’t just order us out into the desert in the middle of the night,” Joe said angrily.

At that moment Garcia’s wife intervened. She pleaded with her husband to let the boys stay until morning and he reluctantly agreed.

The four companions were led to a jacal, a hut, which contained several empty bunks. Chet and Tico dozed off immediately, but Frank and Joe remained awake for some time discussing Garcia’s strange behavior.

“What could be bothering him?” Joe questioned. “He looked scared out of his wits when I outlined the symbol.”

“Obviously it has some connection with a fright he’s had,” Frank surmised. “I wish we could get him to tell us about it.”

“From his reaction, I’d say our chances are nil,” Joe said.

In the morning the Hardys were relieved to find that Senor Garcia had calmed down considerably. He even invited them and their friends to have breakfast with him.

“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said. “As I promised, I will guide you to the road where you can board the autobus to Mazatlan.”

After eating, Garcia and the boys started out on their journey. It was early afternoon when they arrived at their destination, a narrow, unpaved road stretching north and south through a lonely expanse of desert country.

“Only one autobus a day travels this road to Mazatlan,” Garcia explained. “It should pass this way within the next hour or two.”

While they waited, Frank decided to take another chance at questioning their host.

“Señor, I don’t want to upset you again,” he said, “but is there nothing you can tell us about the symbol?”

Garcia glared. “No! There is nothing!”

Then, without mentioning Marcheta by name, Frank described how the engineer’s son had been kidnapped. “He is about your own son’s age. And we suspect that there’s some connection between the symbol and the kidnapping. If you tell us what you know, it may solve this mystery.”

Garcia did not reply. He stared blankly into space for a long moment, then said, “I am a coward for not speaking. Perhaps I should have gone directly to the authorities.”

“What do you mean?” Joe queried.

“You must first promise that you will not reveal who told you what I am about to say,” the rancher declared.

The Hardys nodded.

“Several weeks ago,” Garcia continued, “I went to visit my cousin who lives in the village of Montaraz in Baja. But when I arrived there I was told that he had mysteriously disappeared the day before. Painted on the door of his hacienda was the symbol you described to me.”

“Did you speak to any of the villagers about your cousin’s disappearance?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I tried to. But they were all badly frightened and refused to speak.”

“What were they frightened about?” Joe asked.

“I learned that five other men in the village had also vanished in the same way,” Garcia answered. “And the symbol was painted on the doors of their haciendas!”

“Why didn’t you notify the police?” Frank questioned.

“I intended to do so, of course,” the man answered. “But there are no police in Montaraz. I therefore planned to go to the city of Ensenada the following day to notify the authorities. I went to my cousin’s to spend the night and the next morning found a message under the door.”

“What did it say?” Tico asked.

“It warned me that if I talked to the authorities,” Garcia said nervously, “the curse of the symbol would find me wherever I go!”

“Leaping lizards!” Chet exclaimed.

“I am not a cowardly man,” the rancher continued, “and it is not for myself that I am frightened. I fear for my family!”

“We understand,” Frank said sympathetically.

Soon the bus arrived. The boys thanked Señor Garcia for his hospitality, then boarded the bus for the bumpy, dusty ride back to Mazatlan. When they reached their hotel, the desk clerk handed the Hardys a telephone message. It read:

Remaining with our friend for a while. Will contact you later. F.H.

“Dad’s staying with Senor Marcheta in Mexico City for a while,” Frank said as he handed his brother the message.

“I hope he’s not running into trouble,” Joe replied.

“I don’t think so,” Frank said. “He’s probably hoping to worm more information out of Marcheta.”

“When do we eat?” Chet interrupted.

Frank grinned. “Tell you what. The hotel has room service. Why don’t we have supper in our suite?”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. He turned to Tico. “And you must join us as our guest.”

“Thank you,” the Mexican youth answered. “I would like to very much.”

The boys had a hearty dinner, after which Frank unfolded an air chart of Mexico.

“Here’s Montaraz, the village where Senor Garcia’s cousin disappeared,” Joe said eagerly. He inspected the map more closely. “Sure is rugged country. The desert area covers about six thousand square miles I understand.”

“And many of the mountains to the east are comparatively unexplored,” Tico added. “One could easily disappear in that area and, perhaps, never be found.”

Frank took out a pair of measuring dividers and calculated the distance to the village. “Hm! We might be on to something,” he said, and thought for a moment. “Let’s assume that the sub we saw in the cove maintained an average speed of twelve to fifteen knots. In twelve hours it would reach a point on the east coast of Baja not too many miles from Montaraz.”

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “This could be an important lead!”

“At least it’s worth checking out,” Frank concluded. “Why don’t we go there and see what we can find?”

“Too bad Dad’s plane is in Mexico City,” Joe remarked. “We could fly there in two hours.”

“There aren’t any airports near the village,” his brother observed as he examined the chart. “Anyway, it would be less conspicuous if we went by boat.”

“Maybe we can rent one,” Joe suggested.

“I can be of help to you,” Tico put in. “A friend of my father’s has a boat rental service. He can provide you with a small cabin boat. But you must let me come with you. I have some knowledge of the waters in the area.”

“It’s a deal!” said Frank.

Early the following morning the boys prepared for their trip. Before departing, the Hardys left a message for their father with the desk clerk. It read:

Gone Fishing. Wish us luck. We should be back in two or three days.

Tico proved to be an excellent seaman and navigator, and they made the journey in record time. As the craft neared its destination, the boys scanned the craggy coastline for a place to land.

Joe examined a map. “Montaraz is about six miles inland from our present position. We’d better find a place to tie up around here.”

Just then Chet pointed toward the shore. “I see a little hut! And a small boat’s tied up to a dock in front of it!”

“There’s a man, too,” Joe said.

The boys headed toward the spot. As they drew nearer, they saw that the dock was in a run-down condition. The hut was also decrepit, and appeared undecided as to which way it was going to fall.

“Buenas dias, amigo!” Frank shouted to the elderly man who was resting against a cirio tree.

The old fellow raised the brim of his sombrero and peered at his visitors.

“Do you speak English?” Joe called out.

“He does not understand,” Tico observed. “I will talk to him.”

The Mexican youth chatted with the man for several minutes. He then returned to his friends. “The old man lives here by himself,” Tico ex plained. “He says we may use his dock for eighty pesos a day.”

“Did you ask him the way to Montaraz?” Frank inquired.

“Yes. There is a trail behind his hut which will take us to a road leading to the village. But I am afraid we will have to walk, since there is no transportation available.”

“Oh, no!” Chet bellowed.

The boys started off on their journey, taking with them an emergency kit of camping equipment, food, and water. It was almost sunset when they reached Montaraz. The village, consisting of about sixty adobe-walled houses, appeared quiet and peaceful.

Most of the structures surrounded a wide, circular piece of ground which served as the plaza. On the south side of the plaza was a sun-baked mud-brick building that served as a cantina and general store. There were no villagers in sight.

“Where is everybody?” Joe queried.

“I don’t know,” Frank muttered with a puzzled expression.

“Perhaps we will find someone in the cantina,” Tico suggested.

The boys strolled over to the structure and found two of the villagers inside. They were middle-aged men and wore sombreros and colorful sarapes. Tico conversed with them in Spanish. Then he turned to the Hardys and Chet.

“The men say that the people of their village all remain in their haciendas from sunset to sunrise,” the Mexican youth said. “It is because they fear Pavural”

“Pavura?” Joe questioned. “What’s that?”

“It means ‘terror,’ ” Tico said. “The men also say that we should leave because strangers are not welcome here. Anyway, there is no place for us to stay.”

“That’s hospitality for you,” Chet grumbled.

Tico tried to question the villagers further, but he and the other boys were ordered out of the cantina.

“It’s a cinch we’re not going back to Mazatlan without trying to get some information,” Frank said angrily.

“Why don’t we make camp for the night,” Joe suggested. “Maybe we’ll have better luck in the morning.”

The boys pitched their tent on the outskirts of the village, then prepared supper from a variety of canned foods included in the camping kit. Soon after eating, they all fell asleep. The following morning the young sleuths got ready to return to the village.

“Chet,” said Frank, “you stay here and break camp. Tico, Joe, and I will go in town and see what we can find out.”

Several villagers were walking about when the boys arrived in the plaza. It was impossible, however, to get any of the people to talk.

“Whatever, or whoever, this Pavura is,” Joe remarked, “it sure has these villagers scared.”

As they continued walking, Frank suddenly pointed to one of the houses. “Look!” he declared. “That must be the home of one of the villagers Señor Garcia told us disappeared. There’s the symbol painted on its doorl”

They walked forward to examine the door more closely when a stocky Mexican man seemed to appear from nowhere and blocked their path.

“Who are you?” Joe demanded.

The man did not reply. He drew a large, gleaming machete from his belt and raised it threateningly !

CHAPTER X

A Villager Speaks!

“Váyase ustedes!—Leave here!” the man with the knife shouted.

“Por qué?—Why?” Frank retorted.

The Mexican pointed to the symbol painted on the door. He then let go a volley of words so rapid that even Tico had difficulty understanding him.

“What’s bothering him?”

“He says that the presence of strangers in the village will bring Pavura down upon them,” Tico explained. “He wants us to leave at once.”

The man wielded the machete menacingly.

“Let’s not push the issue,” Frank advised. “It would only make things more difficult for us if we got involved in any trouble.”

The man glared at the boys as they walked off.

“I don’t think we’re going to get any information out of these people,” Joe concluded, disappointed.

“But there must be at least one villager with enough courage to talk,” Frank said.

“Garcia said there aren’t any policemen here,” Joe commented. “How do they keep law and order?”

“Usually the elders of a village appoint a man to be, what you call in your country, a sheriff,” Tico explained.

“Then why don’t we find out who he is and ask him some questions?” Joe suggested.

“Good idea!” his brother replied.

At the Hardys’ suggestion, Tico approached an old man they spotted walking across the plaza. After a brief conversation, the Mexican youth returned to his friends.

“He says the man we seek is Senor Miguel Santos,” Tico said. “But luck is not with us, for Senor Santos is one of the villagers who disappeared. Only his wife remains at home.”

“Where is it?” Frank asked.

“On the south side of the plaza, the one with the strange symbol painted on its door.”

The boys quickly located the house. They examined the painted symbol for a moment, then Frank rapped on the door. It creaked open, revealing a thin, handsome woman. Her face was taut and pale.

“Senora Santos?” Frank asked.

“Si,” she responded with a bewildered expression.

The boys introduced themselves, and after stating their business, asked the woman if she would help them.

Señora Santos seemed eager to discuss her husband’s disappearance. She announced, much to the delight of the Hardys, that she spoke a little English.

“My husband and I once live in Mexicali,” she said, forcing a smile. “We have much opportunity to learn your language there.”

Senora Santos invited the boys inside and asked them to be seated in the tall wicker chairs that were scattered about the room.

“What can you tell us about your husband’s disappearance?” Frank questioned.

“I know very little,” Senora Santos informed her visitors regretfully. “One night he returns from a hunting trip and tells me he see something strange in the mountains.”

“What sort of thing?” Joe asked.

“He says that he see a group of men walking through the mountains,” she explained. “Many were dressed like the Aztec warriors of old days. They were all chanting mysterious music.”

“Did your husband talk to any of them?” Frank inquired.

“No,” the woman replied. “But then some of the men see my husband. They chase him, but my Miguel escapes.”

“When did you last see your husband?” Joe queried.

“The night he return from the mountains,” she answered. “After eating his supper, he went to the cantina to tell his amigos about the men he see.” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “My Miguel never come back. In the morning I find mysterious symbol painted on the door.”

“What about the other villagers who vanished?” Frank asked.

“They are my husband’s amigos,” the woman said. “Each of them go to search for Miguel and never return. The doors of their houses are also marked with the symbol.”

“And now the people of the village are too scared to do anything about it,” Frank commented.

“That is right,” Senora Santos agreed. “I should have notified the authorities myself, but I do not wish to endanger the others in the village. Then when you boys ask me to help, I decide not to remain silent any longer. I know you try to help. I trust you.”

The boys thanked the señora and returned to their camp, where Chet had already finished packing the equipment. “It’s about time you masterminds got back,” he blurted. “Did you pick up any information?”

The Hardys told about Senora Santos. “As I see it,” Frank said, “the mystery is somehow linked to those men Señor Santos spotted in the mountains. It’s a slim lead, but I’m all for going there and having a look.”

“I’m game,” Joe announced.

Frank turned to Chet and Tico. “Of course it’s not fair of us to ask you fellows to come along on such a dangerous mission. If you want to ...”

“What!” Chet exclaimed. “Me stay here without you? And who’s going to keep you out of trouble? Count me in!”

“Me too!” Tico chimed in.

“Good,” Frank said with a grin. “But well need more supplies.”

“Maybe we can buy them at the general store in the village,” Joe suggested. “Let’s hope they’ll let us in.”

“If we are going into the mountains,” Tico said, “I would recommend we use burros.”

“Hold on!” Joe commanded. “We might not have enough money with us to swing it.”

“Perhaps we can pay in traveler’s checks,” Frank remarked jokingly.

The Hardys quickly examined their funds. Chet and Tico offered to chip in what cash they had.

“That should be more than enough to buy what we need,” the Mexican youth observed. “Burros are not expensive here.”

The boys returned to the village and headed directly for the store. Much to their surprise, the proprietor seemed too eager to assist them. He not only sold them the supplies they needed, but he also arranged for the purchase of burros at a reasonable price.

“The proprietor certainly went out of his way to help us,” Joe commented.

“Naturally,” Frank replied. “He and the villagers are glad to get rid of us.”

Shortly the boys were off on their journey toward the distant mountains. As they jogged along, the terrain became more difficult to travel.

“This must be the slowest form of transportation in the world,” Chet said as he tried to get his burro to move faster.

“These animals are slow,” Tico explained. “But they are reliable and sure-footed.”

The air became cooler as the riders moved higher into the mountains. Near sunset, Frank suggested that they stop and make camp.

“There’s a flat piece of ground over there,” Joe observed.

It was dark by the time they had pitched their tent and gathered firewood to cook supper.

Chet struck a match and was about to light the tinder when Frank suddenly hissed, “Put that out!”

“What’s the matter?” Chet asked, flicking out the glow.

“I see a campfire!”

“Where?” Joe asked.

The proprietor seemed too eager to sell them supplies

“On the other side of that gully. About half a mile away!”

“Maybe it’s a party of hunters,” Tico suggested. “There are mule deer, antelope, and mountain lions in this area.”

“Could be,” Frank answered cautiously. “Then again, it might not be. We’ll have to check it out. Chet, you and Tico stay here and guard the camp. And don’t light a fire. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Be careful,” Tico warned. “The ground is dangerous.”

Frank and Joe started off, moving slowly across the craggy terrain. In places the ground was gouged with narrow crevices and holes. They worked their way up a slope, then across a level stretch covered with tangled brush. Finally they dropped to hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way.

“There’s the campfire in that clearing just ahead,” Joe whispered. “Keep your head down!”

As the excited boys crept closer, a weird sound of chanting voices drifted to their ears.

CHAPTER XI

Mountain Pursuit

THE SOUND sent a chill through the Hardys! Was this the strange music Santos had told his wife about?

More cautious than ever, Frank and Joe crawled forward on elbows and stomachs. In a few minutes they had the campfire in sight. Seated around it were eight men. Two, who wore sombreros and sarapes, were not Indians, but the others appeared to be Indians. Their colorful garb looked like that worn by ancient Aztec tribes.

Beyond the fire and barely perceptible in its glow stood an Indian, with a rifle nestled in the crook of his arm. He seemed to be guarding the prone figure of a man, wrapped in a blanket and lying on the ground beside him.

Suddenly the two men wearing the sombreros got to their feet and began walking toward the spot where the boys were hiding. Quickly Frank and Joe moved behind a clump of brush and waited, their hearts pounding.

The two men came to a stop within a few feet of them. “No me queda bien,” one said.

Fearing they might have been discovered, the Hardys poised themselves for action.

“Sh—speak English, amigo,” the man’s companion ordered. “If the others hear us, they will not know what we talk about.”

“I do not care,” the first man replied defiantly. “Pavura does not frighten me. He has broken his promise. We were to be paid for our work. Yet I have not seen a single peso.”

The boys gave inward sighs of relief! The men were unaware of their presence!

“Let us speak to Pavura when we return with the American,” said the second man. “We will demand payment!”

The two men returned to the campfire, and the Hardys crept back to their own camp and reported what they had learned.

“You say they have an American with them?” Chet said.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “He must be the one we spotted lying on the ground.”

“I wonder who he is,” Chet said.

“Will you try to rescue him?” Tico inquired.

“Not right away,” Frank replied. “First we’re going to follow those men and see where they’re going.”

“In rough country like this?” Chet countered. “Impossible.”

“I can be of help to you,” Tico said. “My grandfather was Indian. As a young child he taught me much about tracking. I am sure I can follow their trail.”

Frank outlined a plan. He, Joe, and Tico would go to keep an eye on the men. When their quarry made ready to leave, Joe would return to their own camp and tell Chet.

“Tico and I will mark a clear trail for you two as we go along,” Frank told his brother. “You can then follow us at a safe distance with our burros and equipment.”

“Sounds like a workable plan to me,” Joe commented. “By the way, I noticed those fellows didn’t have any horses or burros. They must be traveling on foot.”

“That’ll make it a lot easier for us,” Frank concluded.

Since the situation prevented them from lighting a fire, the boys had a cold supper of canned meat and vegetables. Then Frank started back across the gully with his brother and Tico. When they spotted the encampment, they saw that the men had gone to sleep. One Indian remained awake to stand guard.

“We have a long night ahead of us,” Frank said in a hushed voice. “Let’s rotate a watch. I’ll take the first shift. You two get some sleep.”

At dawn the camp suddenly became alive with men scurrying about. Tico, who was the last to keep watch, shook his companions awake.

“I believe the men prepare to leave,” he whispered excitedly.

Frank and Joe spied on the activity. One of the two men, wearing a sombrero and sarape, walked over to the prone figure wrapped in a blanket.

“I think you have enough siesta, senor,” the man snapped sarcastically. “We go now.” He pulled off the blanket to reveal a thin, gray-haired bespectacled man, tied hand and foot.

Elmer Tremmer! The Hardys gasped at sight of the pathetic figure, whom they recognized from a photograph in their father’s dossier.

“Why did you tie me up?” Tremmer complained timidly. “I wasn’t trying to run away!”

The man with the sombrero bent down and untied him. “I take no chances. Pavura would not like it if we return without you.” He then pulled his prisoner to his feet.

According to plan, Joe hurried off to rejoin Chet. Frank and Tico watched as their quarry broke camp and headed in a direction that would take them deeper into the mountains.

“We’ll give them a head start,” Frank remarked.

Tico proved to be an excellent tracker. He quickly picked up the trail and followed it with ease. Frank marked their course by forming directional arrows on the ground with stones and twigs.

It was just about midday when Tico suddenly came to a halt. “Look!” he said in a low voice. “There are the men!”

Just ahead Frank saw their quarry. The men were seated on the ground. One Indian was distributing dried maize among them.

“They’ve stopped to eat,” Frank said. “We’d better do the same, Tico.”

The boys pulled several cans of rations from their pockets and ate quickly, then waited until the men set off again. It was almost dark before Frank and Tico had their quarry in sight once more.

The men were assembled in a clearing surrounded by steep, rugged hills. At the base of one hill was a large boulder which several Indians shoved aside. Behind it was the entrance to a cave. The men entered, pushing Tremmer ahead of them. Several Indians remained outside to replace the boulder and stand guard.

“This is their hideout!” Frank said excitedly. “Let’s backtrack and meet Joe and Chet before they reach this spot. The burros are likely to make noise and give us away.”

Returning along the trail, the two boys traveled nearly a mile before they met the others.

“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed as his brother told where the trail had led. “You say they went into a cave?”

“That’s right,” Frank answered. “Let’s recon noiter the area in the morning. Maybe we can find out what they’re up to.”

The boys made camp close by and ate supper. All slept soundly. Shortly before dawn, Frank awakened and aroused the others.

“We’ll go back to the place where Tico and I spotted the cave,” he said. “It’ll be better if we go before daylight. Also, one of us will have to stay here and guard the camp and burros.”

“I guess I’m elected again,” Chet grumbled.

Tico observed his expression of disappointment. “I shall stay here,” he announced with a smile.

The Hardys started out with Chet along the marked trail. When they arrived at their destination, they selected a hiding place from where they could view the cave. Within the hour the sun began to appear above the crest of the mountains.

“There are the Indian guards,” Frank whispered as light spilled into the clearing.

“They’re all asleep,” Joe observed.

“Those guys don’t seem to be taking their jobs seriously,” Chet added.

“Obviously they don’t expect outsiders to be roaming around these mountains,” Frank said.

Finally the guards began to awaken. They scrambled to their feet and rolled aside the boulder covering the cave entrance. Soon, about forty Indians emerged and hurried off as if on an urgent mission.

“Look at all those men,” Joe hissed. “Where could they be headed?”

The boys watched as the guards went into the cave and, seconds later, reappeared with Tremmer. They marched off after the others, leaving only one man behind. The Indian found a shady spot at the edge of the clearing and promptly went to sleep again.

“Now’s our chance to take a look inside,” Joe whispered.

The boys crept from their hiding place and across the clearing. They froze in their tracks when the sleeping Indian grunted, but he did not wake up.

When they reached the cave entrance, Frank whispered, “Be careful. There might still be someone in there.”

The searchers crept cautiously through the entrance. Inside, they found a spacious cavern. Through the gloom, faintly illuminated by several nearly burned-out torches, the boys saw that the cave was empty.

Joe suddenly grasped his brother’s arm. “Look! In the center of the floor ! It’s the sym bol!”

They all stared in awe at a large stone altar. On it was carved a cluster of branches or faggots. And mounted on top was a stone inscribed with the letter P.

Quietly Joe climbed up the side of the altar. At the top, he saw that a deep, circular channel had been cut into the stone. Charred bits of wood indicated that the channel was used to hold a fire.

“Holy crow!” he said to himself. “I wonder if this is some kind of cult.”

Frank, meanwhile, in searching for clues, came upon a large section of damaged stone at the base of the altar. The broken fragment had been set back loosely into place. He pulled it away slightly and peered in through the opening.

The lower portion of the altar proved to be hollow.

“Hey, fellows!” Frank whispered. “Take a look at this.”

“Caramba!” Chet exclaimed. “And see this, Frank.” He moved toward the far corner of the cave. In the shadows was a stack of empty wooden crates marked MACHINERY.

“These look like the same type of boxes we saw being loaded aboard the submarine in the cove,” Frank said.

Nearby were a number of small, wooden barrels with the word muestra painted on their sides.

“Muestra!” Joe remarked. “That means ‘sample’ in Spanish, doesn’t it?”

Frank nodded, then sniffed at one of the barrels. “Smells like crude oil to me,” he muttered.

“What a discovery!” said Chet. “Come on. Let’s look around some more.”

At the rear of the cave, Frank found a cavity in the wall. Its opening was covered by a door of metal bars.

“Looks like a prison cell,” said Joe.

At that moment Frank spotted a small fragment of paper on the floor. He picked it up. There was a single line of print:

The practicability of the draco ...

“This must have been part of a page from a magazine,” he said, handing the fragment to his brother.

Joe examined it. “You might be right,” he agreed. “Too bad we don’t have the rest of it.”

“I’d like to see the complete spelling of the last word which begins with draco,” Frank commented. “Something about it rings a small bell! I‘m—”

“Listen!” Chet interrupted. “I hear something!”

The boys remained perfectly quiet for a moment.

“I hear it too!” Joe said finally. “Men talking!”

The three darted toward the entrance but halted abruptly when they saw the shadows of three men on the ground outside.

“Oh, oh!” Frank whispered. “It must be the guards!”

“And they’re armed,” Joe added. “It would be too risky to try and make a break for it now.”

“But we can’t stay here!” Chet whispered nervously. “That crowd of Indians might come back any time now.”

Chet’s fears were warranted. Soon many men could be heard approaching the cave entrance. The boys frantically searched for a place to hide.

“Quick!” Frank commanded, remembering the altar. “Follow me!” He pulled aside the broken fragment of stone at its base. “Inside! Hurry!”

The boys squeezed through the opening and into the hollow portion of the altar. A split second later the Indians poured into the cave.

“Fuego!” one of them shouted. “Fuego por Pavura!”

The boys were horror-stricken. The Indians were about to build a fire on top of the altar!

CHAPTER XII

The Search

“WE’LL be roasted alive!” Chet quavered.

“Quiet,” Joe warned, nudging Chet with his elbow.

Frank fully realized their desperate situation. If they left their hiding place—capture! Yet to remain—destruction!

The fire was started, and the boys waited tensely for the temperature to rise. But much to their surprise, the heat was not intolerable.

“Of course!” Frank said to himself. “The altar is made out of volcanic rock. It is radiating the heat of the fire too rapidly to get very hot itself!”

From outside came the same kind of weird chanting they had heard the previous night.

“They must be performing some kind of ceremony,” Joe whispered into his brother’s ear.

Suddenly the chanting stopped.

“Pavura! Pavura!” the Indians shouted in unison.

The deep voice of a man, obviously that of their leader, addressed them in Spanish.

“What’s he saying?” Chet hissed.

“I can only pick up a few words,” Frank whispered. “He thanks them for their work, and says they’ll be rewarded soon.”

After the ceremony the Indians left. Their footfalls faded away. Frank was about to push the broken stone aside when he suddenly stopped at the muffled voices of two men speaking in English.

“Why am I being treated like a prisoner?” one man asked.

“You tried to run away, Senor Tremmer,” the other replied. “Perhaps you go to the authorities. I do not like that.”

“You’re wrong, Vincenzo! I didn’t try to run away! Didn’t I come to Mexico with you of my own free will? I just went out for a walk and got lost.”

“Odd, then,” Vincenzo replied, “that my men find you more than a day’s journey from here. I do not believe you. However, I will give you one more chance. But if you run away again, I shall send my men after you with orders not to bring you back.”

“Don’t threaten me, Vincenzol”

“Ah, but I will. And do not speak my name in the presence of my men. To them I am known only as Pavura!”

Vincenzo and Pavura! One and the same! The boys quivered with excitement. And Vincenzo was the leader of the Indians, who worshiped him.

More footsteps. Then silence.

“They’ve gone!” Joe whispered.

The boys cautiously crawled from their hiding place, and edged toward the cave exit. Seeing no sign of the guards, they dashed across the clearing and headed back to their own camp. After eating and taking a short rest, the young detectives mulled over the situation and discussed a new plan.

“Tico, you take one of the burros and go back to Montaraz,” Frank instructed him. “Ask Senora Santos to help you get in touch with the authorities. Tell them what we’ve found out.”

“Si, I will do as you say,” the Mexican youth promised. “But what do you plan to do?”

“Chet will guard the camp, while Joe and I re connoiter the area,” Frank explained. “We’d like to find out what those Indians are up to.”

After Tico departed for the village, the Hardys began a systematic search of the surrounding territory. They carefully threaded their way across the difficult, lunar-like terrain.

“When the Indians leave the cave,” Joe said, pointing off to his right, “they go in that direction.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “But let’s stay close to this ridge. The rocks will give us good cover.”

Nearly an hour had passed before the boys heard sounds of activity somewhere ahead of them.

“What’s that?” Joe asked curiously.

“Sounds like men digging,” Frank replied.

The Hardys continued on slowly. Soon they came upon a startling scene. In a small clearing ahead, Indians were working busily. Some were digging with picks and shovels. Others carried heavy wooden crates.

“Looks like some kind of mining operation,” Frank said in a hushed voice.

The boys crept ahead for a closer look. They saw several Mexicans, not dressed as Indians, assembling various pieces of machinery. Nearby was a narrow-gauge railroad that stretched out of sight down an incline to the east. Resting on the track was an unusual-looking vehicle. It was an elongated wooden platform with sides that angled outwards and was set on eight small rail road-type wheels.

“What’s that?” Joe blurted.

“I’ve never seen anything like it used in mining,” Frank whispered. “It must be ninety feet long.”

“And about six feet wide,” Joe added.

“Let’s work our way around to the other side of the clearing. Be careful. We don’t want to run into any of these guys.”

The boys edged their way along, studying the scene with increasing interest. Then Frank began to sniff the air. “I smell crude oil.”

“I do, too,” Joe said.

Just then the Hardys heard a man shout from somewhere behind them. “Fare—Halt!”

The boys whirled to see an Indian with a rifle standing at the top of a knoll.

“We’ve been spotted!” Joe gasped.

A shot rang out, and the Hardys ran. More shots. A bullet ricocheted off a rock close by.

“Head for the ridge!” Frank cried.

By now the Indians in the clearing had dropped their tools and were racing off in pursuit of the boys.

Joe stumbled and fell. Frank stopped and yanked him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—I’m okay! Let’s keep going!”

In the next instant the Hardys were startled to see several more Indians blocking their path to the ridge.

“This way!” Joe shouted as he started down a slope to the right.

The boys zigzagged through the craggy terrain. After a grueling race, they gradually outdistanced their pursuers.

“We’re losing them!” Frank shouted.

Despite their exhaustion the boys forced themselves to maintain their rapid pace. But they had traveled only a little farther when they suddenly came to a halt.

“It can’t be!” Joe yelled, pointing directly ahead.

There was the clearing where they had spotted, the Indians.

The youths had run in a complete circle. Soon shouts began to come from all sides.

“We’re surrounded!” Joe cried out in dismay.

CHAPTER XIII

A Charging Donkey

As THE Hardys ran toward the clearing, Joe moaned, “We’re trapped!”

“Hold on!” Frank shouted. “We might have one chance—that railroad car! Maybe we can ride it out of here!”

Amid shots from their pursuers, the Hardys darted to the odd vehicle, which was anchored by two heavy chains. They quickly unfastened the car and pushed it down the slope with all the strength that they could muster. Once it had picked up momentum, the boys leaped aboard.

Bam! Bam!

Frank and Joe ducked as bullets thudded into the sides of the wooden platform. The car gained speed. Indians appeared along the sides of the track, shouting and waving their arms, but they were helpless to do anything. Soon the pursuers were left far behind.

The boys raised their heads to look about. They were traveling downhill at breakneck speed.

“Now how do we get off this thing?” Frank shouted. “We’re moving too fast to jump!”

Joe pointed ahead and gasped. “Look!” Farther down the slope the track came to an abrupt end. Fifty feet from there lay a stack of rusting rails, directly astride the car’s path.

“There must be a brake system somewhere on this!” Frank said.

The ground rushed by in a blur as the boys frantically searched for a way to stop the car. Joe stumbled to the rear and looked over the side. Spotting a long metal lever just within reach, he grabbed it and pulled upward with all his strength. The rear wheels of the car locked, throwing up a shower of sparks.

“I found it!” he exclaimed.

Frank discovered a similar lever on the right side and yanked up on it hard. The center wheels of the car locked, also producing a geyser of sparks.

Anxious moments followed as the car continued to coast down the slope, but slower and slower. Finally it came to a stop a few feet short of the track’s end.

“Whewl” Joe sighed. “That was close.”

Frank mopped his brow. “If we hadn’t found those brake levers, we’d have ended up in little pieces.”

The boys leaped out and trotted over to the stack of rails.

“Apparently they’re still in the process of building this road,” Joe observed. “I wonder where the track will lead when it’s finished.”

“That’s something we’ll try to figure out later,” Frank said. “Right now, we’d better get out of here. Those Indians are probably on their way!”

They set off at a brisk pace, and after about a mile, stopped to rest.

“Our camp shouldn’t be too far from here,” Frank commented. He took a compass from his pocket to estimate the direction they should head. “We’d better get back before Chet starts worrying.”

When they reached their camp the Hardys found Chet propped up against a rock, whittling a stick of wood. He appeared dejected.

“I’m bored,” muttered Chet. “When are you going to let me in on some action? I’m tired of playing baby sitter to a bunch of burros,” he complained.

Joe laughed. “We want to keep all you donkeys together.”

Moving like a charging lineman, Chet dropped his whittling and tackled Joe below the knees. The blond boy hit the ground with a thud, then rose grinning.

“I guess I asked for that,” he admitted ruefully, and added, “Chet, did you ever think of playing pro football?”

The horseplay lifted Chet’s spirits, and he listened eagerly as the Hardys told him about the runaway rail car. Then he opened some cans of food and they ate, seated on the ground.

“I hope Tico had luck contacting the authorities,” Joe remarked.

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” said Frank. “Meanwhile, we’ll stay here and keep an eye on the Indians.”

It was late afternoon when the Hardys crept back to the spot from where they could view the cave.

“Oh, oh! They have more guards,” Joe observed.

“Just a precaution,” Frank surmised. “Vincenzo isn’t taking any chances after his men reported a couple of outsiders in the vicinity.”

“One thing is sure,” Joe added, “we’re safe here. This is the last place they’d expect to find us.”

As darkness came on, the Hardys saw Tremmer emerge from the cave. He strolled casually around the edge of the clearing and sat down on a boulder.

Frank leaned close to his brother. “I’m going to crawl down there and try to speak to him.”

“But he might give you away.”

“I have a feeling he won‘t,” Frank said. “But if anything does happen to me, get back to our camp and wait for Tico to return.”

“Okay. Be careful!”

Frank crept cautiously toward where Trem mer was seated. He maneuvered himself into a position directly behind the boulder, checked to see if the guards were at a safe distance, then called out in a low voice.

“Elmer Tremmer!”

“Who—who’s that?” stammered the startled bookkeeper.

“Sh—I’m a friend,” Frank assured him.

“Qué pasa?—What is going on?” one of the guards shouted.

“Er—er—nothing! Nothing at all!” Tremmer answered, turning his head away from Frank.

The guard appeared satisfied and resumed his conversation with a companion.

“Who are you?” the bookkeeper whispered excitedly.

“My name is Frank Hardy.”

“Hardy? The Bayport detective?”

“I’m his son. My brother and I are here to help you.”

“Help me? How?”

“To escape.”

Tremmer shifted uneasily. “No! I don’t want to escapel” he said in a frightened voice.

“If you’re afraid to go back to the States,” Frank whispered, “don’t be. The authorities only want you to testify as a witness in the stock-fraud case.”

“But Vincenzo told me I’ll go to jail. I ...”

“Who is this man Vincenzo?” the young detective queried.

“He’s a very dangerous man,” the bookkeeper warned. “He leads these Indians under the name Pavura. They’re very superstitious and think he’s some kind of god. When I first met him, he used the alias Cardillo.”

The young detective was startled. Another alias! So Cardillo, Pavura, and Vincenzo were really one! Frank pushed himself closer to the boulder.

“What is he using the Indians for, Mr. Tremmer?”

“I—I can’t tell you. And I’m not going to try to escape again. If Vincenzo caught me ...” His words trailed off. He got up and walked toward the cave.

Greatly disappointed, Frank rejoined Joe.

“Any luck?” Joe whispered.

“I’m afraid not,” Frank answered, then told him about the conversation with Tremmer.

“He might go straight to Vincenzo and warn him about us,” Joe said worriedly.

“I don’t think he will. My guess is that Vincenzo scared him into coming to Mexico. He probably told Tremmer he’d go to jail with the rest of them if they were caught.”

“While all the time he just wanted to get Tremmer out of the way so he couldn’t testify,” Joe declared.

“Right!”

“Do you think he’ll stick with the gang?”

“I’ve given Tremmer reason to doubt Vincenzo,” Frank said. “If he realizes he’s only wanted as a witness, he might come over to our side.”

The Hardys decided to return to their camp. It was dark when they arrived.

“Funny,” Frank murmured. “I’m sure this is where we had our campsite.”

The boys exchanged puzzled glances.

“Chet!” Frank called in a subdued voice. “Chet!” No response.

“Where are you?” Joe called louder.

“This has got to be the right spot,” Frank said in alarm. He pulled a pencil flashlight from his pocket and played its beam on the ground. “Look!” He quickly bent over and picked up a small object. “This is the stick Chet was whittling!”

“But there’s no sign of him or the burros and equipment!”

Joe spotted footprints in the soft dirt. Their pattern was scrambled, indicating that a struggle must have taken place.

Meanwhile, Frank made another discovery. Revealed in the bright, narrow beam of his light was a small heap of ashes. “Chet must have built a fire after we left,” he called out to his brother.

Joe felt the ashes with the palm of his hand. “Cold!” he declared. “This fire has been out at least a couple of hours.”

“That means it would still have been daylight.”

“But the smoke! The Indians must have spotted it!”

There was a hollow feeling in the pits of their stomachs. The boys knew that there was only one explanation for Chet’s disappearance. He was in the hands of Vincenzol

CHAPTER XIV

A Threatening Message

“WE MUST rescue Chet—and fast!” Joe exclaimed. “No telling what Vincenzo will do to him!”

“Simmer down. Let’s keep our heads,” Frank advised. “If we end up getting captured ourselves, we won’t be able to help anybody.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “But we can’t stay here without food, water, and equipment. I’d say our best chance is to start back to Montaraz as soon as it’s light. We might even meet Tico on the way.”

The boys cut some brush to improvise beds, and fell asleep. At dawn they began the long journey to the village. At one point they crossed a wide, parched stretch of desert plain. Their thirst became unbearable.

“I don’t even see a cactus plant around,” Joe said weakly. “We’ve got to have water.”

“Try not to think about it,” Frank advised. “Just keep moving.” They plodded on.

A few minutes later the boys spotted an abandoned vehicle partially buried in the sand.

“It must be a mirage,” Joe said.

“Mirage nothing. It’s a jeep.” Frank observed, and hastened to it.

“This thing’s as hot as a griddle,” Joe remarked as he touched a portion of metal exposed to the sun.

“Looks as if the driver got bogged down in the sand and had to leave it,” Frank said. “This thing must’ve been here for months.”

On the rear floor of the vehicle, Joe found several wrenches wrapped in a large plastic sheet.

“If only we could squeeze water out of these,” he commented, trying to force a smile. He flung the plastic aside.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Frank commanded. “Don’t throw that plastic sheet away. It might be the answer to our problem!”

Joe eyed his brother curiously. He retrieved the plastic sheet and handed it to him.

“Yes! This might just do the trick,” Frank muttered as he examined it.

“Are you sure the heat hasn’t gotten to you?” Joe asked.

“I’m fine,” his brother assured him. “I just remembered an article I read some time ago in a science magazine. It described a water generator which uses a plastic sheet just like this.”

Joe’s eyes widened. “Say! Now that you mention it, I remember you showing me the article. You start by digging a hole three or four feet across and about half that deep. Then you spread the plastic sheet over it and set a stone in the center. This causes the sheet to sink and form an inverted cone.”

“Exactly,” Frank replied. “It’s based on the principle that even the driest soil contains some moisture. As the sun evaporates it, the water vapor condenses on the underside of the plastic sheet. The droplets then begin to trickle down to the point of the inverted cone and fall into a container.”

The boys grabbed a couple of wrenches and began scraping a hole in the soft earth. Frank removed a headlight from the jeep and broke off its stem to serve as a container. He placed it at the bottom of the hole.

“Now help me spread the sheet over it, Joe.”

When the job was finished, Joe picked up a stone and laid it in the center of the sheet, which sank down toward the container in the shape of a cone.

“Now all we have to do is wait,” Frank said.

“How long will it take?”

“According to experiments, about a quart is produced every twelve hours. But we should have enough water to quench our thirst long before that.”

The Hardys sat beside the jeep. Removing their jackets, they spread them over their heads in order to ward off the hot rays of the sun. After several hours they checked on the progress of their water generator.

“It worked like a charm,” Frank said, pointing to the clear water that had collected in the container.

Joe grinned. “There must be at least a pint there.”

Frank took the first swig. “Finest water I ever tasted,” he quipped, and handed the container to his brother.

“You’re right. Great stuff!” Joe glanced at the position of the sun. “It’ll be dark within a couple of hours,” he continued. “Let’s try to cover a little distance by then. We’ll take the water generator with us.”

The boys got underway. Soon they found them selves moving into an area where they saw increasing signs of plant life.

“I see hawthorn bushes!” Joe exclaimed. “They have those small red and yellow apples Tico told us about.”

The Hardys picked a supply of the fruit and ate heartily.

“It’s a far cry from Mother’s or Aunt Gertrude’s home cooking,” Joe commented, “but at least it’ll keep us from starving.”

Exhausted, the boys fell asleep and did not awaken until dawn. As they continued their journey, Frank and Joe saw that they were moving into cactus country.

“We won’t have to depend on our generator for water after all,” Joe observed. “There’s enough in those cactus plants to fill a lake.”

As the Hardys were plodding over the top of a sandy knoll, Joe suddenly stopped and pointed. Frank looked down at the bottom of a shallow gully to see two Mexicans wearing sombreros. Nearby was a canvas lean-to for shelter, and over a fire was suspended a black kettle in which something was cooking.

“Just campers,” Joe muttered.

“Maybe,” Frank whispered. “But we’d better not take any chances. They might be members of Vincenzo’s gang.”

Unaware of the Hardys, one of the men picked up a walkie-talkie and began speaking into it. Under cover of the brush, Frank and Joe crept closer to eavesdrop.

“Montaraz! Montaraz!” the Mexican exclaimed. “No comprendo! Repita, por favor!-I do not understand! Please repeat!” There was a moment of silence. “Bueno! Bueno!” he continued. “Pavura aguardar!-Goodl Good! Pavura awaits!”

“Did you hear that?” Joe hissed. “He’s talking to someone in Montaraz. And he mentioned Pavura!”

Frank did not reply. He signaled for Joe to withdraw a safer distance away, and they crept back across the knoll.

“What do you make of it?” Joe inquired. “We’re still several miles from Montaraz. That walkie-talkie can’t transmit so far.”

“My guess is that Vincenzo has a string of men, spaced just within range of one another, extending from his headquarters to the village,” Frank replied.

“You mean a chain of communication?” Joe asked.

“Right! Pretty clever, too. If Vincenzo used a single transmitter at his headquarters, it would have to be more powerful. That would increase the danger of his messages being picked up by the authorities. This way the signal range is very limited.”

“Why don’t we grab those two guys?” Joe snapped.

“No,” Frank answered. “It would cause a break in the chain and warn Vincenzo that something is wrong.”

“Well, at least we’ve learned one fact. He must have a spy in the village.”

The boys resumed their journey, estimating that they would reach Montaraz by nightfall.

“We’d better change our course slightly,” Frank advised, “so we don’t stumble across any of Vincenzo’s men.”

“They might be members of Vincenzo’s gang!” Frank whispered

Tired and dusty, the Hardys trudged into the outskirts of the village shortly after dark.

“There’s only one person we can trust in Montaraz,” Frank said. “That’s Señora Santos. But we must be extra careful. Now that we know there’s at least one spy in the village, we can’t risk being seen.”

The boys crouched low and headed for Senora Santos’s home. At that hour the streets were deserted, but as the young detectives skirted the plaza, a man emerged from the cantina. The boys darted behind a tree until he walked by. When they reached the Santos house, Frank tapped lightly on the door.

“Quién vive?—Who is there?” came the muffled voice of a woman from behind the door.

“The Hardys,” Frank said.

“Ah, los muchachos! One moment. I shall open the door,” announced Senora Santos.

“Put out your light first,” Frank replied. “We don’t want to be silhouetted in the doorway.”

The woman obeyed. Then she admitted the boys and relit the small oil lamp.

“Do you bring news of my husband?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” Joe said sympathetically.

“Has our friend Tico been here?” Frank inquired.

“No, I not see him,” Senora Santos answered.

The Hardys glanced at each other worriedly.

“I do not think I see you again,” she muttered nervously.

“Why not?” Frank questioned.

“This morning I find a note under my door. It say I no speak with you if you come to our village. I not obey!”

“Is that all the message said?” Joe queried.

“No,” the woman replied. Her face turned pale. “It say that your two friends are in hands of Pavura. If you try to contact police, you never see them again, and I will not see my husband!” She burst into tears.

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “Vincenzo has Tico as well as Chet!”

CHAPTER XV

Tunnel Escape

“Now we’re really in trouble!” Joe declared.

“It’s a cinch we can’t go to the authorities,” Frank said nervously. “We’d be risking the lives of Chet, Tico, and Señor Santos.”

The woman continued to sob and the Hardys tried to comfort her. “Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We’ll figure out some way to rescue them.”

“I’m for going back to the cave,” Joe said.

“So am I,” Frank agreed. “It would be better if we had some help, but we’ll have to do without it.”

“What about supplies?” Joe said.

Señora Santos turned to the boys. “I give you food, and my husband has things to make camp. You may take what you need.”

She led the way to another room and pointed to a large wooden chest. Inside it, the boys found a pup tent, canteens, a small hatchet, and other useful items. Joe selected some rock-climbing tools, pitons and a coil of rope, and tucked them into his belt.

“My uncle lives three miles north of the village,” Senora Santos said. “He is elderly and cannot help you. But he has horses which you may borrow.”

“Thank you, señora,” Frank said with a bow.

The woman jotted a note in Spanish, which she handed to Joe, along with a golden locket. “Give my uncle this,” she instructed. “He will know I have sent you.”

The Hardys decided to start immediately. They stalked out of the village and headed north. An hour later they found the hacienda of Senora Santos’s uncle without any difficulty. The old man took the note and locket, spoke rapidly to the boys in Spanish, and beckoned them to follow him to the corral. There he provided them with two chestnut-colored horses. The Hardys mounted and rode off, smiling and waving their thanks.

“This is sure better than walking,” Joe declared.

“You can say that again,” Frank replied. “But we’d better not try traveling too far in the dark. We’ll put a little more distance between us and Montaraz, then stop to rest.”

After they had ridden an hour, the Hardys made camp and feasted from a supply of tortillas and dried fruit Señora Santos had given them.

The next day the journey continued in a direction designed to avoid the men in Vincenzo’s chain of communication. The ride was dusty, hot, and fatiguing. The boys pushed on, however, at a rapid pace and reached their destination late that afternoon.

“We’d better not get any closer to the cave than this,” Frank advised. “Vincenzo is certain to have extra guards watching for intruders.”

“Here’s a good place to make camp,” Joe said as he examined a deep cleft in the rocks surrounded by heavy brush.

“Good,” Frank answered. “And there’s enough vegetation around for the horses.”

Next day, before dawn, Frank and Joe started out on foot toward Vincenzo’s hideout. Cautiously they crept to the spot from where they could view the cave entrance in secret.

“They’ve doubled the guard,” Joe observed.

“That complicates matters,” Frank whispered. “But first we’ll have to find out where Chet and the others are being kept before we can plan a rescue.”

Just as the sun began to rise above the crest of the mountains, the Indian workers emerged from the cave.

“Right on schedule,” Joe remarked in a low voice.

“And some of the guards are going with them,” Frank said.

The workers were immediately followed by six Mexicans who were obviously captives. Two guards prodded them along with their rifles.

“They must be the men who disappeared from the village!” Joe whispered excitedly.

“I’m sure of it,” his brother agreed. “One of them must be Senor Santos.”

Suddenly something attracted Frank’s attention. “That’s odd,” he muttered. “I hadn’t noticed it before.”

“What?”

Frank pointed to a ledge farther up the slope above the cave. Two Indians had just appeared from behind a curtain made of twigs and brush.

“It looks like the entrance to another cave,” Joe muttered in surprise.

“Maybe that’s where Chet and Tico are being held prisoners,” Frank surmised. “If we could reach that ledge, we could crawl along it without being seen.”

The boys decided to make an immediate attempt. They scanned the area and elected to work their way around the east side of the clearing, then up the craggy face of the slope.

“There are plenty of rocks to give us cover,” Frank concluded.

The Hardys inched their way along. Progress was painfully slow when they reached the slope and began the grueling climb to the ledge. The boys’ pulses quickened as one of the guards in the clearing below looked up in their direction. But he turned away without spotting them.

Finally the Hardys reached their goal. They flattened themselves out on the ledge and pushed their way toward the place from which they had seen the Indians emerge. Frank carefully lifted up the lower corner of the curtain woven from twigs and brush.

“What do you see?” Joe whispered.

“It’s a cave all right,” Frank answered in a hushed voice.

“Carefull There might be more Indians inside.”

“I don’t see any. We’re in luck!”

The boys cautiously crawled in through the entrance. Then they got to their feet and examined their surroundings in the dim light. They were in a spacious chamber which narrowed toward the rear to form a corridor about the size of a subway tunnel. It appeared to lead deeper into the center of the mountain.

“This must be another of Vincenzo’s storage rooms,” Joe remarked, noticing several rows of wooden crates.

Frank gazed curiously at a number of strange-looking, elongated objects stretched along one wall of the cave.

“These seem to be rubber-coated nylon containers of some kind,” he said, examining them more closely.

“And they’re about as long as that crazy rail car we took a ride on,” Joe added.

Suddenly the curtain covering the entrance moved aside. Two Indians walked into the cave. Unable to find a hiding place in time, the boys crouched low.

“Cuando estará listo?—When will it be ready?” one of the Indians asked his companion.

The other was about to answer, when the two men came to an abrupt halt. They stared directly at the Hardys with startled expressions.

“After them before they warn the others!” Frank exclaimed.

The boys sprang up and hurled themselves toward the Indians. They crashed into the midriffs of the men and sent them tumbling to the ground. Frank lashed out with a right that knocked his opponent unconscious. The second Indian broke from Joe’s grasp. He darted to the cave entrance and shouted a warning to his companions. Joe rushed after him and dealt the Indian a blow that sent him sprawling.

“How do we get out of here?” Joe cried as he and his brother heard the sound of shouting men drawing closer.

Frank peered at the long, dark corridor leading from the rear of the cave. “That wayl” he ordered.

The boys stumbled through the inky blackness of the tunnel for a short distance. Then they pulled out their pencil flashlights and examined the path ahead.

“This tunnel might lead to a dead end!” Joe declared.

“We have no choice but to go onl” Frank replied.

Already many Indians could be heard entering the tunnel in pursuit. In desperation, the Hardys broke into a frantic run. Finally they had to stop for a moment to catch their breath. As the boys did so, they gradually became aware of a new sound.

“Do you hear that?” Joe asked. They listened more intently.

“Sounds like flowing water!” Frank replied.

Continuing on, they noticed that the sound became louder. At a point where the tunnel grew wider, the boys directed the beams of their flashlights a distance ahead.

Joe gasped. “Look! It’s an underground river!”

They whirled to see the flickering glow of torches approaching from far down the tunnel.

“Let’s chance it and try swimming downstream!” Joe suggested frantically.

“Okay!”

The Hardys quickly removed their shoes, tied the laces together, and draped them around their necks. They jumped feet first into the water. No sooner had the icy current swept them away, when several Indians arrived on the scene.

“They’re not coming after us!” Joe sputtered.

The boys fought hard to keep their heads above the churning water as the river carried them through a dark tunnel. Minutes later, they saw a bright circle of light ahead.

“Sunlight!” Frank shouted, but his joy suddenly froze to horror.

The underground river gushed through the opening and cascaded out of sight with a thunderous roar!

CHAPTER XVI

Face to Face

THE SWIFT current tumbled the Hardys toward the river’s drop. They were about to be swept through, when Joe, in the lead, grabbed a segment of rock projecting from the wall of the tunnel about three feet above his head.

“Hang on to me!” he shouted.

Frank clung to Joe’s waist and gazed through the opening. The water cascaded to jagged rocks below.

“Don’t let go!” he screamed, “or we’re finished!”

“I’ll hang on as long as I can!” Joe shouted.

The water pounded against the boys and threatened to carry them with it into the chasm.

“The rock-climbing tools!” Frank cried out.

Joe hooked his left arm around the projection of rock and pulled a piton from his belt. Using the small hatchet in his right hand and holding the pin in the other, he hammered the piton into the tunnel wall. Then he took the coil of rope and threaded one end through the eyelet of the piton to form a double line.

Grasping it firmly with both hands, Joe let go of the rock and slowly fed out line. With the current pulling the boys’ bodies forward, they were swept outside the opening. They dangled precariously above the chasm as water gushed over them.

“There’s a narrow ledge to our left!” Frank yelled. “It looks just big enough for us to stand on if we can get close enough to reach it.”

He kicked out hard and the boys started to swing back and forth like a human pendulum. Frank, with only one hand around his brother’s waist, reached out for the ledge with the other.

“Almost!” he called as they arched up toward it.

Finally, after a hard swing, Frank managed to grab hold of the ledge. He and Joe pulled themselves up onto it. Then Joe released one half of the double line and pulled the rope free from the piton inside the tunnel.

“It’s about two hundred feet to the bottom of this waterfall,” Frank remarked. “And another two hundred to the top of the mountain,” he said as he peered at the sheer rock wall stretching above them.

“And it’s too far to the bottom for the amount of rope we have,” Joe observed. “Our best chance is to try making it to the top.”

Joe took one of his four remaining pitons and hammered it into the rock wall above the ledge. Using it as a foothold, he carefully lifted himself up. Then he drove another piton into the wall and repeated the procedure.

Frank began the dangerous climb immediately behind his brother. When Joe had used the last of his pitons, Frank reached down, loosened the lowermost one from the wall, and handed it to him. Each time the cycle was repeated, the boys edged a few feet closer to their goal.

Finally they reached the top and dragged themselves onto a level stretch of ground. “Whew!” Joe gasped. “I was beginning to think this hill was higher than Everest.”

The Hardys rested for a moment to regain their strength. Several minutes had passed when suddenly they were startled to see the shadows of two men fall across the ground from behind.

“Oh, oh!” Frank muttered. “We have company!”

Turning around, the youths saw two Indians standing just a few feet away.

“You come!” one of them demanded. “Pronto! Pronto!” He made a menacing gesture with his rifle.

“Some of Vincenzo’s men must’ve spotted us climbing the wall,” Frank said to his brother.

“And planned this little reception for us,” Joe added. “It looks as if they mean business.”

The Indian repeated his order, then forced the boys to march in front of him. They slowly made their way down a steep, treacherous slope on the opposite side of the mountain. When they reached the bottom, the Indians took the captives back to their leader’s hideout.

The Hardys were prodded into the cave and led directly to the chamber which served as a prisoners’ cell.

“Chet and Tico are in there!” Joe exclaimed as one of the Indians unlocked the door of metal bars.

Frank and his brother were shoved inside and the door slammed behind them. Two Indians posted themselves outside as guards. Despite the boys’ predicament, they were overjoyed by the reunion.

“Sorry I messed up your plans, fellows,” Chet said apologetically. “But I didn’t think a small campfire would raise much smoke.”

“It’s too late to think about it now,” Frank replied.

“What happened to you?” Joe asked Tico. “How were you captured?”

“I had almost made it to Montaraz,” the Mexican youth explained, “when I came upon two men camped in the desert. They took me prisoner. One of them brought me back here after contacting Pavura on a small radio.”

“You ran across a couple of men in Vincenzo’s communication chain,” Frank said. The Hardys then told the others about their own adventure.

“Juan, Marcheta’s son, is being held prisoner here,” Chet announced. “And also six men from the village of Montaraz.”

“And one of them is Señor Santos,” Tico added.

“That’s what we figured,” Joe said. “We saw them being taken from the cave.”

“Did they say anything about what Vincenzo and his workers are up to?” Frank queried.

“They know only that they are made to work with the Indians on a small railroad,” Tico answered.

“Why aren’t you two forced to go along?” Joe asked curiously.

Tico grinned. “I overheard one of the guards say that Vincenzo thinks we are cleverer than the others,” he said. “He does not feel it is worth the extra guards it would take to watch us.”

“I’d say Vincenzo is a good judge of character,” Chet muttered proudly.

Later, the Indian workers began to swarm into the cave. Then Juan Marcheta and the six prisoners from Montaraz were returned to the cell. Tico introduced them to the Hardys.

Juan, a lean, dark-haired boy, told the young detectives how he had been kidnapped by Vincenzo in order to stop his father from cooperating with the authorities.

“Your father is in hiding,” Frank told him. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you where he is, but he’s safe.”

Santos, a tall, pleasant-looking man with a thick mustache, anxiously asked the Hardys if they had any news of his wife.

“We saw her just two days ago,” Joe said. “She’s well.”

“Ah! That is goodl” he replied with a sigh of relief.

“Why did Vincenzo take you prisoner?” Frank asked him.

Santos said he had accidentally stumbled upon the gang leader’s hideout while on a hunting trip. When he returned to Montaraz, he told some of his friends about his discovery.

“Upon leaving the cantina that night,” the Mexican continued, “I was struck on the head and knocked out. I was brought here.” He pointed to the other five men. “My amigos came to look for me and were also captured.”

Joe remarked, “Obviously Vincenzo wanted to keep you from telling anyone about his hideout.”

“And he put the strange symbol on the doors of your houses to terrorize the other villagers,” Frank surmised. “It was meant to discourage them from getting curious.”

An Indian appeared and handed each of the prisoners a plate of dried maize. When they had finished eating, the weary captives fell asleep.

They were awakened the next morning by the sound of the Indian workers as they left the cave. Several guards came and escorted Santos and the other five men from the cell.

The Hardys’ thoughts turned to the possibility of escape. With Tico acting as their interpreter, they made an attempt to cajole their two guards into releasing them.

Joe creased his brow. “We’re not going to get anywhere with those guys,” he said.

At that instant two men entered the cave and approached the boys’ cell. One of them was a tall, angular man with thinning black hair. His close-set eyes and sharp features gave his face an expression of evil. The Hardys recognized him as the Mexican they had encountered in Bayport.

“It’s Cardillo!” Joe declared.

“You mean, Vincenzo!” his brother retorted.

The gangleader’s companion, a short, wiry Mexican, stepped forward. “You are in the presence of Pavura!” he exclaimed. “You do not speak unless he bids you to do so!”

“Don’t give us that Pavura stuff!” Joe snapped. “We know his real name!”

Vincenzo glared at the boys. “You think you are clever,” he snarled. “But what you have learned will not do you any good.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Frank retorted.

“I have no time for idle talk,” Vincenzo growled. He stepped closer to the cell door. “You will tell me the whereabouts of Mr. Hardy and Senor Marchetal”

“They went fishing in Tampico,” Chet interrupted with a laugh.

“You will advise your fat amigo to be quietl” shouted Vincenzo’s companion.

“I order you to answer my questions!” the leader barked impatiently. “Does your father know you are here in Baja?”

“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself!” Frank replied.

“You force me to take stronger measures,” Vincenzo announced. “Perhaps the fiery brand of Pavura will loosen your tongues!”

The gangleader signaled the two guards, who immediately prepared a small pit of hot coals. Into it, one of the Indians thrust what appeared to be a branding iron. Minutes later he withdrew it from the pit. On the end of the iron, glowing white hot, was the mysterious symbol.

“Now!” Vincenzo cried. “Which one of you would like to be the first to know the terror of Pavura?”

CHAPTER XVII

A Hot Melee

“You won’t get away with this!” Joe shouted.

“Oh, no?” Vincenzo snarled. “And since you are so quick to speak, I think you should have the honor of being first.”

Joe was led out of the cell and his hands were tied behind his back.

“He’s not blufEng!” Chet cried in a quavering voice.

The gangleader signaled the Indian holding the branding iron, who then walked slowly toward Joe.

“Stop!” Frank demanded angrily.

Suddenly, in a lightning move, Joe darted forward. Head low, he smashed into the midriff of the Indian, who jackknifed onto Joe’s shoulder. Then, snapping to an upright position, he flung the man to the floor.

“Grab the others!” Frank shouted to his companions.

The guards had neglected to relock the cell door. Flinging it open, the boys sprang into action. Frank caught the second guard squarely on the chin and knocked him unconscious, then he quickly untied his brother’s hands.

A wild melee followed. Vincenzo lashed out and sent Tico sprawling to the ground.

“Socorro! Socorro!—Help! Help!” screamed the gangleader as he started to flee from the cave.

Frank gave chase and downed Vincenzo with a flying tackle. They rolled across the ground, locked in a fierce struggle.

Chet, who had selected Vincenzo’s companion as his opponent, had pulled the Mexican’s sombrero down over his eyes. The stocky man ran around the cave frantically trying to pull up the hat.

“I hear men shouting outside! They’re coming to help Vincenzo!” Tico exclaimed.

Several Indians appeared in the cave entrance. Joe grabbed one of the small barrels marked MUESTRA, and hurled it at them. The barrel smashed against the rocky wall above their heads and drenched the men with crude oil.

“Nice going!” Chet yelled.

Joe picked up another barrel and threw it onto the pit of hot coals. It shattered, throwing up a huge orange ball of flame and thick smoke.

“Aheee!” screamed an Indian in terror as he saw the fire.

Frank pulled Vincenzo to his feet and flung him into the path of two Indians about to attack. The men crashed to the ground in a tangled mass of arms and legs.

Meanwhile, Joe threw another barrel into the pit. The fire and smoke became more intense.

“Salga! Salga!—Get out! Get out!” Vincenzo shouted to his men.

Choking from the smoke, the Indians followed their leader out of the cave. Chet’s opponent finally managed to pull his sombrero free and raced out after the others.

The boys threw themselves down and placed their faces close to the ground where there was a shallow layer of clear air. When the fire and smoke subsided, they got to their feet.

“Come out! There is no escape!” they heard Vincenzo shout from outside the cave.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Chet asked nervously.

“Vincenzo and his men have us cornered,” Frank admitted. He glanced around. “And there’s no way out of this place except by the entrance.”

“Come out at once!” the gangleader screamed. “Or I shall send my men in after youl”

With no alternative but to obey, the boys walked out of the cave. As they emerged, the captives saw that Vincenzo was in a mad rage.

“You’re too troublesome to be kept here! I shall have you all sent to a place from which you will never escape!” he growled. “You’re going to take an undersea voyage!”

The boys were marched off with several guards prodding them along with rifles. Soon they were walking down a steep slope close to the narrow-gauge railroad the Indian workers had built. Frank and Joe noticed that the track now extended well beyond the point where they had stopped the speeding rail car.

“Hm! They’ve finished the project,” Joe commented.

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “We wondered where it went. I guess we’re about to find out.”

“You no talkl” shouted one of the guards.

Finally they came to a cove on the east coast of the Baja Peninsula. The Hardys noticed that the track continued to the water’s edge. Nearby a group of Indian workers was seated on the ground as if waiting for something.

The boys’ captors ordered them to sit down. Two guards were posted to watch them.

It was almost sunset when the Hardys and their friends were startled to see a submarine come to the surface out at sea. It slowly made its way into the cove.

“I can see the symbol on the conning tower,” Joe said in a hushed voice.

“It must be the same sub we spotted in the cove in Sinaloa,” Frank added.

At that instant there came a rumbling sound. The boys looked to see several of the odd-looking rail cars come rolling down the track. Each of them carried a sausage-shaped object measuring about one hundred feet long.

“They must be the rubber-coated nylon containers we found in the other cave!” Joe whispered to his brother.

Frank suddenly sat bolt upright. “Say! Do you remember the scrap of paper we found in Vincenzo’s hideout?”

“Yes, I have it right here.” Joe pulled a fragment of paper from his pocket. They again looked at the printed words which read:

The practicability of draco ...

“The word draco must be dracone!” Frank declared.

Joe’s eyes widened. “You’re right! That must be it! I recall your showing me an article about dracones several months ago. They’re rubber-coated nylon containers designed to carry oil. A whole train of them can be towed behind a ship!”

“Except in this case, they’re being towed by a submarine!”

“So that’s what Vincenzo is up to. He must be smuggling oil out of the country,” Joe surmised. “But where is he getting it from?”

Frank thought for a moment. “My guess is that he got his hands on an oil well. He’s keeping it a secret to prevent the Mexican government from taking over control.”

Chet was wide-eyed. “Vincenzo wants it all for himself! So he’s selling oil to whoever will pay his price!”

The boys watched as the Indian workers began attaching triangular-shaped metal plates to the front and rear sections of the containers. The devices looked similar to the diving planes of a submarine.

“Very clever,” Frank whispered. “Those gadgets are used to keep the dracones under water when the sub is submerged.”

The Indians eased each of the containers into the water and linked them together by means of a special cable. The long train looked like a huge floating sea serpent.

The boys were now ordered to walk toward the submarine, which had tied up at the shore of the cove. Then they were forced to get aboard.

“Lock ‘em in the aft cabin!” shouted a bearded crew member.

After climbing down through a hatch, the Hardys and their friends were led along a narrow passageway, then ordered into a small compartment. The door was slammed behind them and locked. A guard was posted outside.

“Where could they be taking us?” Chet asked worriedly.

“We’ll soon learn if we don’t figure out some way to escape!” Joe declared.

“Let’s think fast!” Frank urged.

Suddenly the boys felt a vibration and heard the rumbling sound of the craft’s diesel engines.

“It is too late to do anything now!” Tico cried.

A feeling of panic gripped the four boys as the sub got underway. Where were they going? And what was in store for them when they arrived?

CHAPTER XVIII

Outwitting a Crew

THE BOYS searched frantically for an answer to their dilemma.

“We must escape before the sub gets too far out to sea!” Frank declared.

Just then they heard the muffled voices of two men talking outside the cabin door.

“The boss wants you to stay here on guard,” a man said. “I don’t know why he picked you. You’re always falling asleep.”

“What’s the difference?” the guard snapped. “Those kids are locked in. And even if they got out, where can they go aboard a sub?”

“Keep awake just the same,” the other man warned.

Then silence. The boys waited and listened. Less than an hour had passed when they detected the sound of snoring.

“He’s asleep,” Joe whispered. “Here’s our chance.”

“But the door’s locked,” Chet said in a hushed voice. “We can’t break it down—every crewman on this tub would hear us.”

Frank glanced around. “We won’t have to,” he answered. “Our captors forgot one thing. The door hinges are on our side. All we have to do is force the pins out!”

Frank took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the base of the hinge pin to reduce noise. Then he removed one shoe, and using the heel as a hammer, began to tap away lightly. Joe went to work on the second hinge.

The job was slow and demanded all the patience the Hardys could muster. Finally the pins were loose enough to be pulled free of the hinges.

Cautiously the boys eased the door aside. Outside they saw a grubby-looking man in a sailor’s cap and jacket propped up against a bulkhead. He was sound asleep.

The boys pounced on him at once, and before the surprised guard could utter a sound, he was gagged, then bound, and dragged into the cabin.

“Set the door back in place,” Frank whispered to Chet and Tico, “in case any of the crewmen come along.”

“What’s our next move?” Chet asked.

Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Somehow we must force the crew to turn around and go back to Baja.”

“Maybe we can disable the sub,” Joe suggested.

“Leaping lizards!” Chet exclaimed. “Don’t do anything to sink us!”

“If only we could put the electric motors out of commission,” Frank remarked.

Tico looked at the Hardys with a quizzical expression. “How could we then return to Baja without power?”

“Submarines have two sources of propulsion,” Joe explained. “Diesel engines are used when traveling on the surface, and battery-operated motors when under water.”

“If we could sabotage the batteries somehow,” Frank said, “I’m sure the crew would turn back. They wouldn’t risk going on without being able to submerge.”

Joe glanced down at their prisoner. “I have an idea!” he declared. “The guard is about my size. I’ll put on his jacket and cap and try to work my way aft. None of the crew expects to see any of us outside the cabin. I might just get away with ruining the electric motors.”

“It’s worth a try!” Frank agreed. “But we’ve got to work fast. Somebody might check on the guard.”

Quickly donning the man’s jacket, Joe stepped out into the passageway. He pulled the cap low on his forehead and cautiously moved toward the rear of the submarine. There was not a single crewman in sight. As he edged his way along, the humming sound of the craft’s diesel engines gradually grew louder. Then the young detective spotted a compartment door directly ahead. It was partially open.

“That must lead to the engine room,” he thought.

He crept closer to the door and peered through the crack. There he saw a single crewman checking gauges and making control adjustments.

Realizing he had to act instantly, Joe leaped in through the doorway. The startled crewman whirled and hurled a wrench at him. Joe ducked, then sprang toward his opponent. He caught the man with a sharp uppercut that sent him crashing to the floor and left him unconscious.

“Now, to put the motor batteries out of commission!” Joe thought.

He glanced about until he spotted a drum of lubricating oil. Joe shoved it close to the long row of batteries that operated the sub’s electric motors. After quickly removing the caps which covered the battery cells, he pushed the drum over on top of them. Oil gushed into the batteries, and soon a thick, acrid smoke began to billow up.

At the same instant Frank, Chet, and Tico were confronted by a crewman who had been sent to check on the guard. But before he could warn his cohorts, the fellow was seized. In the brief struggle which followed, Frank kayoed him.

Joe sprang at his opponent

“Let’s get out of herel” Frank whispered to Chet and Tico. “Head aftl”

They raced down the narrow passageway. The three had not gone far when they saw Joe coming to meet them.

“Go the other way!” he warned. “The engine room will be swarming with men in a minute!”

Already the smoke from the oil-soaked batteries was beginning to cause a commotion aboard the sub. The frantic shouts of crewmen could be heard echoing through the passageway.

“We must find some place to hide!” Joe declared.

Frank pointed to a compartment door just ahead of them. “That’s the forward torpedo room,” he said. “Quick! Inside!”

The boys dashed into the small room and eased the door shut behind them. Seconds later they heard crewmen scurrying through the passageway outside.

“The captain wants everybody to report to the engine room!” a man shouted. “Make it snappy!”

Joe clutched his brother’s arm. “Do you feel a change in the sub’s motion?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes!” Frank replied excitedly. “They’re turning around. We must be going back to Baja!”

“Leaping sailfish!” Chet blurted. “Your plan worked!”

Tico creased his brow. “That is good,” he agreed. “But we are still prisoners. How do we escape from here?”

At that instant the boys again heard shouts from the crewmen.

“The kids broke out of the cabin!” one of them yelled. “They’re still aboard somewhere. Start searching every inch of this sub. Begin aft and work forward.”

The boys grew tense as the crewmen began their hunt through the various compartments. Gradually the men drew closer to the youths’ hiding place.

“After you guys check the cabins, take a look in the forward torpedo room,” someone ordered.

“We’re trapped!” Chet muttered nervously.

Joe glanced around. “Wait a minute! There might be a way out of here!”

Frank immediately sensed what his brother had in mind. “You don’t mean the torpedo tubes?”

“Why not?” Joe insisted. “By now we can’t be too far from shore. I’ll fire you fellows out through the tubes. I understand there’s nothing to it.”

“But it means leaving you behind,” Frank retorted. “Nothing doing!”

“Don’t worry about me,” Joe replied. “I’m sure I can get away.”

“How?”

Their discussion was suddenly interrupted by sounds of the crewmen getting closer.

“No time to explain now,” Joe said. “This is our only chance. Hurry! Get into the tubes!”

Reluctantly Frank, Tico, and Chet selected one of the four torpedo tubes and climbed inside. Joe slammed the hatches shut behind them, grabbed the release lever, and fired. There was a loud whoosh of compressed air.

“What was that?” came the voice of a crewman from the passageway outside.

Joe flattened himself against the bulkhead adjacent to the compartment door. A split second later it was flung open and three crewmen rushed past the youth and into the torpedo room. Joe dashed out into the passageway unseen. He adjusted the cap and jacket and made his way amidships.

“Take it easy!” he mumbled to himself. “Don’t look conspicuous!”

Joe located the control room, then climbed a narrow ladder leading up to the conning tower. Several crewmen saw him, but in the confusion, they obviously thought he was one of their group.

“The kids have escaped!” came a voice from below.

All the deck hatches had been opened to help clear the air inside the sub. Joe climbed out, jumped from the conning tower onto the deck, and dived into the water. The craft glided on in the darkness, with the dracones slithering past like giant sausages.

Joe swam quickly toward the shore, which was silhouetted darkly against the night sky. It was not long before he sloshed out of the water onto the pebbly beach.

“I hope the others are all right,” he thought, peering along the shoreline.

Joe began walking in a direction away from the cove where he knew the sub was headed. His concern for his brother and friends increased. Then he heard a familiar bird call in the distance.

Joe cupped his hands over his mouth and returned the call. Shortly three figures loomed out of the darkness.

“Is that you, Joe?” came Frank’s voice.

“Yes,” his brother responded. “Are you fellows okay?”

“Just fine!” Frank answered.

“Speak for yourself, mastermind!” snapped Chet. “So being shot out of a torpedo tube is easy, you said. Next time I’ll try it from a cannon.”

“Chet just swallowed a bit too much water,” Frank remarked, laughing. “So we rode on one of the dracones for a few minutes until he got his breath. Then we swam ashore.”

After Joe had told of his escape, Tico said, “There are some awful mad men out there.”

“Right! Now we must plan our next move,” Joe said.

“I’d like to sneak back to the cove and see what’s going on aboard the submarine,” Frank replied. “But this time let’s not get caught. Some of Vincenzo’s Indians may still be around.”

The boys edged their way along the coast toward the cove. Gradually they began to detect the jumbled voices of many men talking from some distance away.

“It’s the sub’s crew,” Joe whispered.

Frank peered through the darkness. “The cove must be just beyond that low ridge of rocks ahead. If we climb to the top, we may be able to see what’s going on.”

As the boys started up the side of the ridge, they suddenly heard a metallic, clicking sound behind them.

“Pare!—Stop!” a man ordered in a hushed, but determined voice.

The Hardys and their companions froze in their tracks!

CHAPTER XIX

The Trapper Trapped

Tico turned around, then looked straight ahead as the man uttered a rapid volley of words in Spanish.

“Who is he?” Frank demanded.

“I saw only the outlines of two men behind us,” Tico said. “One of them has a rifle. He orders us not to turn around and to walk where he directs.”

The boys were forced to comply. But much to their surprise they were instructed to walk away from the cove.

“If those guys are a couple of Vincenzo’s men,” Joe remarked, “we’re going the wrong way.”

“Silencio!” the man ordered.

The boys were marched toward a dense thicket slightly inland from the coast. On the other side was a small clearing. In the darkness the boys could make out the faint shapes of four horses. Nearby were three men dressed in military uniforms. One of them stepped forward.

“Quién están ustedes?—Who are you?” he demanded.

Tico told him that his friends were Americans.

“Ah, Americanos!” he said. “What are your names, please?”

When the Hardys identified themselves and Chet, the man’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are the sons of Señor Fenton Hardy?” he asked.

The boys were startled by his question.

“Why—er—yes, we are,” Frank stammered. “But how did you—?”

“I am Lieutenant José Arandas of the Mexican Army,” the soldier announced, adding that he was leading one of several units sent to Baja on special assignment.

He explained that several reports had been received about a mysterious submarine in the area. The Army had been asked to cooperate with the Mexican Coast Guard in an investigation.

“We were just about to make camp for the night,” Arandas continued, “when one of my men saw a submarine offshore. I sent out two scouts to watch it, and now they return with you muchachos.”

“But how did you come to know our father’s name?” Joe asked.

“Señor Hardy recently arrived in Mazatlan to find that you were missing,” the lieutenant explained. “The only information he was able to obtain was that you were last seen sailing off in a boat. But no one knew where you were going.” The soldier said that Mr. Hardy had notified the police, who in turn contacted the Army. All units were alerted to be on the lookout.

“We’re sorry we caused Dad a lot of worry,” Frank sighed, “but we didn’t expect to be away for more than a couple of days. We’d like to get word to him as soon as possible.”

“Sí, sí,” Arandas said. “A helicopter will be in this vicinity tomorrow. We have a radio to talk with the pilot. He will relay a message to your father.”

“Thanks,” Frank replied. “And now, Lieutenant, I believe we can help you.” The Hardys told the officer about their recent adventures in Baja.

“Caramba!” Arandas exclaimed. “And you say this hombre Vincenzo is smuggling oil out of Mexico?”

“We’re certain of it,” Joe assured him.

The lieutenant barked an order to his men. He then turned to the boys. “I go to the cove to seize the submarine and its crew!”

“Wait a minute!” Frank urged. “That would only serve to warn Vincenzo. He’d be sure to escape.”

“Anyway, the sub is out of commission for a while,” Joe added. “You can grab it later.”

“Then you must lead me to Vincenzo’s hideout,” Arandas stated.

“We will,” Frank agreed. “But you’ll need more men than you have now to capture him and his gang.”

The officer thought for a moment. “I shall contact our helicopter in the morning,” he said finally, “and have the pilot instruct all other scouting units in Baja to rendezvous with us. Perhaps Montaraz would be the place to meet. I have already sent two of my men there to question the villagers.”

Frank stiffened. “What?” he shouted. “You sent two men to the village? This means trouble!”

“I do not understand,” Arandas said.

“We believe Vincenzo has a spy in Montaraz,” Joe explained. “News of soldiers arriving there will surely send Vincenzo running!”

“Our only hope is to find the spy!” Frank declared.

“How?” Joe queried.

Frank quickly outlined a plan. They would rig up a directional antenna on Arandas’s walkie-talkie and use it to obtain a bearing on the spy’s radio signals if he should communicate with Vincenzo’s headquarters.

Early the following morning the loud, fluttering sound of a helicopter was heard approaching the coast. When it came within sight, Lieutenant Arandas picked up the walkie-talkie and contacted the pilot. He first requested that a message from the boys be relayed to Mr. Hardy in Mazat-Ian. Then he asked that the other scouting units rendezvous with him approximately one mile west of Montaraz.

When he had finished transmitting, Arandas handed the walkie-talkie to the Hardys. They quickly improvised a directional antenna from a length of wire and attached it to the radio.

“That should do it,” Frank commented as he observed the rig. “Now we’d better start out for Montaraz.”

The soldiers mounted their horses. Each of the boys doubled with a rider and galloped off. Within a couple of hours the group arrived at the spot where Arandas was to meet with the other units.

“We’ll go the rest of the way on foot,” Frank informed the lieutenant. “If we come up with anything, we’ll let you know right away.”

“Buena suerte!—Good luck!” Arandas said.

Together with Chet and Tico, the Hardys rapidly walked the remaining mile to Montaraz. They did not enter the village, but posted themselves on the outskirts.

“Since we don’t know what frequency the spy is transmitting on,” Frank remarked, “we’ll have to keep sweeping through the entire band. We’re close enough to the village to pick up a strong signal.”

The boys patiently and slowly worked the frequency knob of the walkie-talkie back and forth. An hour passed. Then suddenly a conversation between two men crackled from the speaker.

“Can you make out what they’re saying, Tico?” Joe asked anxiously.

“Yes!” the Mexican boy answered. “One man says he has an urgent message for Vincenzo. He warns that there are soldiers in the village asking questions!”

Frank quickly turned the walkie-talkie until the axis of the circular directional antenna pointed toward the village. He then maneuvered the radio to the left and right until the signal faded completely. At that instant Joe recorded the direction of the bearing with his magnetic compass.

“Hurry!” Frank ordered. “Let’s go to another spot and take a second bearing!”

The boys circled the village for some distance, then repeated the procedure. Now the voice of another man came from the speaker. “Stay there and keep an ear open. Find out what they’re up to and report to me.” Seconds later the transmissions ceased.

The Hardys drew a rough sketch of the village to scale. Then they plotted the two bearing lines.

“They intersect at the extreme southeast corner of the village,” Joe said.

“And there are only two haciendas in that area,” Frank stated. “That simplifies our search. The spy has to be at one or the other.”

Frank instructed Tico to hurry back to Arandas. “Ask him to meet us here with some of his men as soon as possible.”

It was already dark by the time Tico returned with the soldiers. The Hardys told the lieutenant about their discovery.

“We must search the haciendas at once!” Arandas declared.

The boys and the three soldiers made their way toward the southeast corner of the village. As they edged toward their goal, they saw two rundown houses. They were in darkness and there was not a sound.

“Nobody home,” Joe whispered.

“Let’s split up into two groups and search each of the homes,” Frank said.

Chet, Tico, and two of the soldiers crept toward one structure, while the Hardys and Arandas headed for the other. Frank carefully lifted the latch on the door and it eased open. He and the others stepped into an untidy room.

They pulled out their pencil flashlights and began a search. Arandas posted himself at the door.

After they had searched for several minutes, Joe sighed. “There’s nothing here to give us a lead.”

Frank walked over to a large earthen jar resting in a corner of the room. Reaching inside, he let out a cry of surprise.

“We’ve come to the right place!” he exclaimed. “Look what I foundl” He pulled out a walkie-talkie.

“Tell the others to call off their search,” Frank told Joe. Soon Chet and the others arrived to inspect Frank’s discovery.

“I wonder where the spy is now,” Tico said.

“Maybe he flew the coop,” Chet suggested.

“Possibly,” Frank replied. “But we’ll wait for a while and hope he shows up.”

The watchers sat quietly in the darkened room. Less than an hour had passed when they heard the door latch being lifted. Then a short, stocky Mexican entered the room.

“Grab him!” Joe yelled.

The startled man cried out as two of the soldiers seized him. The boys directed the beams of their flashlights into the frightened man’s face.

Frank blurted out, “He’s the guy who threatened us with a machete the first time we came to the village!”

Arandas was about to question him when the Mexican, slithering like a cornered snake, broke away from the soldiers. He leaped through an open window and headed for the center of the village, with the boys after him. Arandas pulled out his pistol but held his fire as the fugitive and his pursuers became blurred in the darkness.

The fleeing man raced across the plaza toward the cantina. In front of the building were two saddled horses. The fugitive leaped onto one and galloped off. Frank, who was closest to him, quickly mounted the second and started after him.

It was a bright moonlit night, so Frank had no difficulty keeping the escapee in sight. Gradually he closed the gap between them. As the chase continued, the young detective was startled to see about a dozen horsemen appear on the crest of a hill. Before Frank had a chance to wheel his mount around, he and his quarry were surrounded by the riders.

“They look like some of Vincenzo’s men!” Frank thought. The man he had been chasing was obviously known to the riders. He whispered something to a lanky horseman, who then approached Frank.

“You are one of zee Hardeez,” he said. “Pavura weel want to see you! You come!”

He grabbed the reins of Frank’s horse and started off. The other riders trailed behind.

“We are going to Vincenzo’s headquarters,” Frank mused. “That’s the first place Joe will look for me. He can lead Arandas and his men right to it.”

But Frank’s hope was suddenly shattered when he noticed that they were going in a direction away from the hideout that he and his brother had discovered.

“Vincenzo has relocated his headquarters!” he thought, trying not to panic.

Several of the riders behind him were dragging clumps of brush along the ground to erase the hoofprints. Not even Tico’s tracking abilities could help him now!

CHAPTER XX

Helicopter Capture

FRANK ruled out making a break for it. The odds were too risky, since many of the men were armed. Others carried walkie-talkies.

“These men must have made up the communication chain to Vincenzo’s old headquarters,” Frank thought.

With only a short rest in between, they rode all night. By morning their journey had taken them into a flat, dusty desert area. The sun was already intensely hot. Many of the men drank from canteens, but not one of them offered Frank a drop of water. By now he felt faint from thirst and hunger.

Presently the leader of the horsemen held up his hand. “Stop!” he shouted. “Oigal—Listen!”

They heard a faint, fluttering sound. Gradually it became louder. The men turned and looked back apprehensively. A helicopter shot into view from over the crest of a hill.

“Caramba!” one of them screamed.

The craft circled the group several times, then made a low pass overhead. Many of the horses reared up and began to mill around, stirring up thick clouds of dust. The startled riders completely forgot about Frank and galloped off frantically in all directions.

“Nice going!” the young detective yelled.

Shortly a second helicopter appeared. It hovered over the scene for a moment, then gently settled to the ground. Frank rode toward it as two of the occupants scrambled out of the cabin. His eyes widened in surprise when he recognized them.

“Dad! Joe!”

“Are you okay?” his brother asked anxiously.

“I’m fine.” Frank nodded wearily. “But, Dad! How did you—?”

“I received the message you boys relayed to me in Mazatlan,” Mr. Hardy interrupted, “and Jack flew me to Baja right away. There the Mexican Army had a helicopter waiting to take me to Arandas’s camp.”

“Dad arrived just in time to take part in our search for you,” Joe said. “When the other helicopter pilot spotted the horsemen he radioed us and we flew here to see what it was all about.”

The pilot of their craft, a young Mexican officer, called out to Mr. Hardy and the boys.

“I am in contact with the other helicopter,” he announced. “The pilot says that some of the horsemen are heading toward what appears to be a large encampment in the hills east of here.”

“Vincenzo’s new hideout!” Frank exclaimed.

“He is flying back to report to Lieutenant Arandas,” the pilot continued. “He says we should return also.”

Frank left his horse and the Hardys climbed aboard the craft. In less than fifteen minutes they arrived at Arandas’s camp, which was now crowded with soldiers.

Chet and Tico ran to meet the helicopter as it landed. They were elated to see that Frank was all right. Then the boys and Arandas discussed plans for the capture of Vincenzo and his gang.

“I shall have the helicopters fly my men to the encampment,” the lieutenant declared. “Several trips will be required, but we will save much time.” He ordered the airlift operation to begin at once.

“How about letting us go with the first group?” Joe asked excitedly.

Arandas grinned. “I know you are very eager to capture this Vincenzo,” he said. “But I am now responsible for your safety. First let me transport my men, then you shall follow.”

While the boys waited their turn, Mr. Hardy opened a large carton of fried chicken. “I had this prepared in Mazatlan,” he told them. “It’s the nearest thing to home cooking I could think of.”

“Let me at it!” Chet shouted jubilantly. The appetites of Frank and Joe, as well as Tico, equaled that of their hefty comrade. As they ate, Frank asked his father about Senor Marcheta.

“He’s still in Mexico City,” Mr. Hardy replied. “And while I was with him, he told me what he knew about Vincenzo.”

The detective stated that Senor Marcheta had met Vincenzo in Spain several years before. The gangleader at that time was posing as a buyer for a Mexican textile firm.

“It wasn’t until the stock-fraud case came up,” Mr. Hardy explained, “that Senor Marcheta discovered Vincenzo was actually a very clever confidence man. He has been involved in everything, from selling stolen goods on an international scale to peddling worthless stock in a diamond mine.”

Then the boys related their own adventures. Mr. Hardy was surprised to hear about the oil-smuggling operation.

“That’s a new one even for Vincenzo,” he remarked. “He’ll have a lot to answer for.”

Finally Arandas announced that the Hardys and their companions could fly to the encampment. When they arrived, they saw that the soldiers had moved in on the gang. Indians were being lined up and questioned.

“Where’s Vincenzo?” Frank asked quickly.

“He fled before we could surround the encampment,” one of the soldiers replied. “We have men searching the area for him now.”

Another soldier whispered something to Arandas. The lieutenant turned to the Hardys. “One of your countrymen is among the captives,” he said.

“It must be Elmer Tremmer!” Joe declared.

The boys and Mr. Hardy were led to a tent. Inside they found Tremmer in a state of panic.

“You’ve got to help me!” he pleaded. “I don’t want to go to jail!”

“Then why did you run away?” Mr. Hardy asked.

Tremmer nervously mopped his brow. “I was frightened! Vincenzo said I would go to prison if I testified. Please, Mr. Hardy. I’m not a member of Vincenzo’s gang! After all, it was I who sent you that note to beware of the mark on the door!”

“How did you know what it meant?” the detective queried.

“To be truthful, I wasn’t sure,” Tremmer replied. He explained that before leaving Bayport, he had overhead one of Vincenzo’s men say an enemy had been dealt with—that he had received the mark on the door!

“I feared for you and your sons,” Tremmer went on. “And again I sent a warning note to you at your hotel in Mazatlan.”

Interrogated about the oil deal, Tremmer said the gangleader had learned of an old Indian legend which described thick “black water” of the mountain. Vincenzo guessed correctly that it was crude oil. While searching for the deposit, he had stumbled upon an isolated band of Indians. Being part Indian himself, Vincenzo quickly gained their confidence.

“Eventually they showed him the source of the black water,” Tremmer continued. “It was a rich pool of oil which oozed to the surface and did not have to be drilled.”

When Frank asked who was buying the oil, he was told that several Latin-American groups were bidding for it.

“The price was low,” the prisoner said, “but still Vincenzo was making a big profit.”

“Quite an operation,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “It must have cost a lot of money to set up.”

“Most of it came from the Costa Quimico stock fraud,” the bookkeeper admitted.

Leaving Mr. Hardy to continue his detailed questioning, the four boys left the tent and were greeted by the villagers who had been kidnapped from Montaraz. With them was young Juan Marcheta. Amid voluble expressions of their gratitude, a rifle shot sounded, and soldiers ran toward the place where the helicopters had parked.

Suddenly rotor blades of one helicopter began to whirl. Seconds later it was airborne.

“Caramba!” screamed Arandas. “Vincenzo is a clever scoundrel!”

“What happened?” Frank asked quickly.

“Vincenzo was hiding nearby,” the lieutenant answered. “He has just forced one of our pilots to fly him away!”

“We can follow them in the other helicopter!” Joe suggested.

Arandas pointed at the fuel tank of the craft. “Vincenzo thought of everything. He shot a hole in the tank. The fuel has already spilled away.”

“Where could Vincenzo be headed?” Joe said.

“That helicopter doesn’t have enough range to take him very far,” Frank replied. “I’ve a hunch he’s going to the cove to rendezvous with the submarine.”

“Let’s plug up the tank and go after him,” Joe urged.

Arandas creased his brow. “It would not help to make such a repair. We do not have any more fuel available here.”

“Then we must do it the hard way,” Frank declared. “We’ll use horses.”

“But it’ll take us hours to reach the cove,” Joe argued.

“Maybe the sub crew hasn’t finished repairing the damaged batteries,” Frank spoke up. “The delay might be long enough for us to catch up with Vincenzo.”

The Hardys, Arandas, and twelve of his soldiers galloped off. It was already dark when they arrived on the coast a short distance south of the cove.

“Hadn’t we better go the rest of the way on foot?” Frank said in a hushed voice.

“Yes,” Arandas replied.

They crept toward a low, rocky ridge, then scrambled up the slope to the top, with an excellent view of the cove.

“The sub is still there,” Joe whispered.

“But it looks as if the crew is busy getting ready to leave,” Frank observed as he watched men, carrying flashlights, scurry around the deck. Their voices could be heard plainly in the still, night air.

“We must leave at once!” came Vincenzo’s voice.

“But we haven’t finished replacing the batteries,” shouted a crewman.

“You can complete the work at sea,” the leader insisted. “If we wait here until morning, the whole army will be on us!”

“There’s not a moment to lose,” Frank urged. “We must stop them.”

“I shall have my men spread out and converge on the submarine from all directions,” Arandas declared.

Cautiously they stalked toward the shore of the cove. Then, at Arandas’s signal, the soldiers charged ahead. The crewmen were caught completely off guard. Chaos followed.

“There’s Vincenzo!” Frank yelled. “He’s climbing out of the rear deck hatch! Don’t let him get away!”

He and Joe rushed after the thief. Two crewmen who attempted to intercept the boys were bowled over by Joe, and all three splashed into the water.

Frank kept after Vincenzo, who leaped off the deck onto the shore. As the youth closed the gap between them, the man picked up a small boulder and hurled it at his pursuer.

Frank ducked, then lunged ahead and struck Vincenzo on the chin with a straight right. The man crumpled to the ground in a daze.

“This is the end of the line for you!” Frank cried, yanking Vincenzo to his feet.

The action stopped as quickly as it had started. Arandas and his soldiers were lining up the crewmen on the shore of the c ove.

“We found Arturo, the pilot of the helicopter, locked in a cabin aboard the submarine,” the lieutenant told the boys. “He said he landed with Vincenzo just north of the ridge. I suggest you fly with your captive back to my camp near Montaraz when it’s light enough.”

The boys rested the remainder of the night. At dawn they took the handcuffed Vincenzo to the helicopter. The pilot started up the engine, engaged the rotor blades, and made a quick take-off. When they arrived at their destination, Arturo was dispatched to pick up Mr. Hardy and the others.

“Hello, Dad!” the young detectives chorused as their father, Chet, and Tico were delivered back to the camp.

“I hear you boys did a great job,” Mr. Hardy said.

“We were lucky,” Joe replied.

“Did you get any more information from Tremmer?” Frank inquired.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy said. “And he’s eager to return to Washington to testify. We’ll have to wait our turn with Vincenzo, though. The Mexican government gets first crack at him.”

“There’s still one thing I can’t figure out,” Joe said. “How did Vincenzo get his hands on a couple of submarines?”

“Tremmer told me about that too,” his father answered. “He bought two obsolete subs in the States for scrap metal. Then he smuggled them out of the country for reconditioning. It wasn’t difficult for him to dig up a few ex-submariners who weren’t particular how they earned their money.”

“By the way,” Chet said, “I wonder what happened to the other sub you spotted in Barmet Bay.”

“My guess is that it’s headed here by way of Cape Horn,” Frank said. “The trip will take several weeks.”

“We’ll notify the Mexican government to be on the lookout for it,” Mr. Hardy announced.

Leaving their prisoners with the soldiers, the Hardys, Chet, Tico, and Juan Marcheta were taken by helicopter to the small airport, where Jack Wayne was waiting.

“I just heard a flash you’ll be interested in,” the pilot told them. “The Argentine Navy boarded an unidentified submarine they spotted off their coast. The only markings it had was a strange symbol painted on the conning tower with the letter P on it. They seized the sub and its crew.”

“That winds up the case,” Joe said with a wide grin. But he was looking forward to another challenging mystery to solve. In the near future, the young detectives would tackle The Hidden Harbor Mystery.

Soon the Hardy plane was winging back to Mazatlan with happy news for Señor Marcheta.

“I’m sure Father will want to celebrate with a feast,” Juan said.

“We’re all for it,” Joe said, laughing. “But don’t have any bulls around. We don’t want Chet getting more ideas about becoming a matador.”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - The Libel Suit

CHAPTER II - A Vanishing Victim

CHAPTER III - Water Monster

CHAPTER IV - Skin-Diving Sleuths

CHAPTER V - Marooned!

CHAPTER VI - Signal Fire

CHAPTER VII - Amusement Park Trouble

CHAPTER VIII - Campfire Eavesdropper

CHAPTER IX - Fishing Boat Clue

CHAPTER X - Hidden Passageway

CHAPTER XI - Acrobatic Detectives

CHAPTER XII - Alligator!

CHAPTER XIII - Hurricane

CHAPTER XIV - A Revealing Argument

CHAPTER XV - Sea City Hoax

CHAPTER XVI - Enemy Tactics

CHAPTER XVII - Underwater Prison

CHAPTER XVIII - Dangerous Cargo

CHAPTER XIX - Sinister Absence

CHAPTER XX - Feud’s End

Joe gave a mighty swing, carrying both boys into the air

Copyright © 1990, 1962, 1935 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07628-6

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

The Libel Suit

“Wow! That fellow sure was in a hurry to get past us!” exclaimed Joe Hardy, who had been pushed against the railing of the cruise ship’s gangplank.

“Practically knocked us overboard!” agreed his brother Frank.

The two boys, descending the gangplank from the brightly lighted deck, looked curiously after the young man who had shoved them aside.

Joe, fair-haired and seventeen, and dark-haired Frank, a year older, heard the stranger cry out to a deck attendant:

“I tell you, I must come aboard!”

“Sorry, sir,” was the firm answer. “It’s past midnight. We sail at dawn. No more visitors.”

The Hardys continued down to the pier. Suddenly they stopped and whirled. The visitor was saying excitedly, “I must see Mr. Hardy before he sails!”

“Maybe it’s about a mystery,” Frank remarked.

The brothers had just said good-by to their parents, the well-known detective, Fenton Hardy, and his wife Laura, who were leaving from New York City on a Caribbean cruise. Mr. Hardy was making a combination business and pleasure trip, since he planned to see a client in Jamaica.

While Frank and Joe listened intently to the conversation on deck, a powerfully built man came from behind a stack of baggage and sauntered to the foot of the gangway. The Hardys’ attention was attracted by the man’s heavy, wheezy breathing and his flat face turned upward to the deck.

“All right, all right. I give up,” came the dejected voice of the stranger above. As he came down the gangplank, the rough-looking man gave him a swift glance, then shuffled off quickly.

By now the young man had reached the pier. He was slim in build, with reddish-brown hair. Nervously he kept slapping his palm with a rolled-up newspaper, as if in utter frustration.

“Excuse me,” said Frank, stepping in front of him. “We heard you mention Fenton Hardy. We’re his sons, Frank and Joe.”

“You are?” The man’s eyes brightened. He had a soft, slow way of speaking that marked him as a Southerner.

“I just about knocked myself out, trying to speak to your father,” he continued. “I have a case he must handle!”

“He won’t be back for ten days,” said Frank.

“I know.” The young fellow sighed. “I called your home in Bayport. A Miss Hardy there told me about the cruise but begged me not to pester your father!”

“That’s Aunt Gertrude.” Joe chuckled.

“I rushed here to New York, thinking I might at least talk to him for an hour,” the man went on. “You see, I’ve read in the newspapers of Mr. Hardy’s great successes—”

The stranger paused, apparently suddenly recalling something.

“I’ve also read,” he continued, “that his sons often help him out, and that they have solved some tough cases on their own. How about it? Would you all be willing to help me?”

“We’d like to. But,” Joe replied doubtfully, “we’ve promised to go camping soon with a buddy.”

“Let’s hear your case, anyway,” Frank suggested eagerly. “Maybe we can take it, Mr.—”

“I’m Bart Worth,” the man said, his face showing relief. He looked about him.

“Is there a place near here where we can eat and talk?” he asked. “I was in such a hurry to catch your dad before he sailed I didn’t have time for my supper.”

“Sure. We’ll listen while you eat,” Joe said.

The Hardys led Mr. Worth up a side street. They stopped at a wide, steamy window bearing the lettering:

CHARLIE’S CLAM HOUSE

“I hear the food’s good,” Joe remarked, and the trio entered the restaurant.

It was a typical waterfront eating place, with sawdust on the floor. The place was crowded with diners, despite the late hour. In one corner sat a group of well-dressed people who, like the Hardys, had just left a farewell party on board the liner. But most of the customers were rough-looking men of the waterfront district. The noise of lively conversations and the odor of frying fish filled the air.

Frank, Joe, and Bart Worth seated themselves at a plain wooden table in the middle of the room. As soon as the waiter had taken a dinner order for Mr. Worth and sandwiches for the Hardys, the Southerner began his story.

“I’m owner, publisher, and editor of the Larchmont Record. You all probably never heard of us, but it’s the only newspaper in the town of Larchmont, Georgia, on the Atlantic coast. Pretty soon there won’t be any Record, though, if a certain man named Samuel Blackstone has his way!”

“How so?” Joe queried, as he and Frank leaned forward, deeply interested.

“Mr. Blackstone’s suing me for libel,” Worth answered. “He”s about the wealthiest businessman in Larchmont—the leading citizen.“

“So his influence is considerable?” Frank prompted.

“You might say he about runs the town,” admitted Bart Worth. “Besides, he’s trying to ruin me and my newspaper.”

“Why? Does Mr. Blackstone have a grudge against you?” Joe asked.

“I’ll tell you more about Blackstone first,” said the editor. “He lives on a large estate which is only half the original Blackstone property. Professor Ruel Rand, another Blackstone descendant, lives on the other half in the old family mansion. Clement Blackstone, the great-grandfather of both men, started the whole trouble. In his will, he divided the plantation between his son Benjamin and his daughter Blanche, who married a Rand. The difficulty began with the boundary line he set up.”

Using a paper napkin, Bart Worth made a quick sketch.

“The only landmark mentioned in the will to indicate the property line was ‘the great oak beside the big pond,’ ” the newspaperman pointed out. “Unfortunately there were two great oaks—one on either side of the pond.”

“So both heirs claimed the pond!” Joe deduced.

“You’ve hit it exactly. The heirs bickered and feuded and went to court for years, but nothing was ever settled. Finally, in the time of Samuel Blackstone’s grandfather, they gave up the dispute. Nobody in the family was interested in the pond any more. The Blackstones went into business and made money, and the Rands—well, they’ve been going downhill financially ever since. The old plantation house is pretty run-down now, although I guess Professor Rand doesn’t mind it, being a bachelor.”

“What about the libel suit, Mr. Worth?” Frank asked, intrigued.

“Well, a few weeks ago, I heard a rumor that Professor Rand had become interested in the disputed property all of a sudden, and that the old feud was on again!”

“You couldn’t print a rumor, of course,” Frank observed.

“No,” the editor agreed, “but I went to the courthouse, where I learned that Rand had come in to examine old Clement’s will. Then Jenny Shringle came to see me. Jenny’s a seamstress, who worked many years for the Blackstones. Samuel’s wife, who had been very fond of her, died about two years ago. Recently Jenny was discharged. Just before that, she told me she had personally overheard a quarrel between Blackstone and Professor Rand over the pond. Well, I acted very cautiously. I simply wrote a story that there was a rumor circulating—nothing more. That was a true fact, you see.”

“And it’s not libelous,” Frank commented. “So you shouldn’t have any problem there.”

“That’s not all,” said the editor with increasing agitation. “When the story appeared in the Record it mentioned another rumor—a rumor that the Blackstone family fortune had been built on smuggling, and receiving stolen goods from pirates!”

“You didn’t put that in?” Frank asked quickly.

“I certainly didn‘t!” Bart Worth exclaimed. “I wrote the original story myself. Everyone on my staff denies changing it. This pirate rumor has been common talk around Larchmont for years. Now that it’s been printed in my paper, though, Blackstone is suing. He’s touchy and proud—vain of his family’s position. My only chance is to prove that the pirate rumor is true, which I honestly believe it is. If you fellows can’t help me do that, I’ll lose my newspaper!”

“Why not just apologize?” Frank asked. “Can’t you explain things to Mr. Blackstone?”

The editor shook his head. “No. I’ve opposed his views and policies in the past in my paper, which has infuriated him. Now he has a motive for destroying it. Besides”—here the young man looked up with fire in his eyes—“Samuel Blackstone has called me a liar. I don’t take that from anyone without a fight! And if he succeeds in ruining the Record, he’ll have Larchmont completely bullied.”

Just then the waiter arrived with the food. While the editor went to wash his hands, Joe sounded his brother out:

“What do you think? Shall we take the case?”

“I don’t like it,” Frank answered thoughtfully. “After all, this apparent libel was printed in Worth’s paper. His claim that he doesn’t know how it got there seems pretty weak. An editor should know what comes off his press.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I think we should know more about this business before we commit ourselves, that’s all,” Frank declared.

Suddenly a huge hand and burly forearm stretched across the Hardys’ table. “How about the ketchup?” demanded a rasping voice from the next table just behind Joe.

For the second time that night the boys heard heavy, wheezing breathing. They looked up and saw that the hand belonged to the husky man they had noticed near the gangplank.

“Sure. Help yourself,” Joe said.

The stranger grunted and took the bottle.

A few moments later the young editor returned, and the three began to eat. Later, as they left the restaurant, Worth asked, “Well, will you take my case?”

He and the boys stood together on the sidewalk in front of the lighted window. A few customers, including the powerfully built man, came out the door and then disappeared down the dark street.

“Someone in there is hurt!” Frank exclaimed

“We’ll have to think about it, Mr. Worth,” Frank answered, “and let you know.”

Immediately the Southerner’s face registered his disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he said a little stiffly. “I had hoped at least that Mr. Hardy would give me some advice. Since I couldn’t reach him, I thought you’d help me. However, here is my New York address.” He wrote it on a piece of paper from a pocket notebook.

Then he said good night and walked away briskly. The Hardys started off in the opposite direction.

Huge warehouses lined the street on both sides. A single street light burned dimly on a distant corner. Suddenly, as the brothers came abreast of a dark doorway, a hoarse groan from inside reached their ears.

“Someone in there is hurt!” Frank exclaimed.

The boys stepped cautiously into the building. No sooner had they entered than the door slammed abruptly behind them. Four strong arms seized the Hardys, and rough palms were clapped over their mouths. The boys heard heavy, wheezy breathing.

“I’ll teach you to mind your own business!” a threatening voice rasped.

Then came two quick, hard blows. Frank and Joe had been struck on the head. They slumped, unconscious, to the floor!

CHAPTER II

A Vanishing Victim

JoE was first to revive in the pitch-black warehouse. He listened tensely for the wheezy breathing of one of their attackers. Hearing nothing, Joe groped for his brother and shook him slightly.

“Joe ... you all right?” Frank stammered, still groggy.

“Sure. We were decoyed in here by that groan and then knocked out. Remember?”

“Of all the greenhorns!” Frank murmured in disgust. “Caught by a trick like that!”

Joe rubbed his head gingerly. “At least it didn’t leave a lump,” he reported. “The fellows were experts. And did you hear that rasping breathing? Sounded like the tough guy we saw at the pier and in the clam house. He must have overheard Bart Worth talking to us, and tried to scare us off the case. But why?”

“Don’t know. He picked the best way there is to encourage us,” Frank retorted grimly. “We’ll make that gorilla and his pal sorry they ever tangled with the Hardy brothers!”

This was no empty threat. Since solving their first mystery, The Tower Treasure, the brothers had built up a solid reputation as detectives by their shrewd sleuthing and resourcefulness in the face of danger. A recent case, The Mark on the Door, was their thirteenth successful adventure.

The boys picked themselves up, and made their way from the warehouse into the street. Luckily, an all-night cruising taxicab came by in a few minutes, and took them to their hotel.

Ten o‘clock the next morning found Frank at the room telephone. “We’ve decided to accept your case, Mr. Worth,” he told the editor. “We’ll start by car for Larchmont early tomorrow, and probably arrive in two days.”

“Fine! And thanks. I’m flying back tomorrow. Come to my office when you get there.”

Next, Frank called the telegraph office and dictated a cable to Fenton Hardy in Jamaica:

STARTING NEW CASE TOMORROW FOR MR. BART WORTH, LARCHMONT, GEORGIA

Joe now took over the phone and dialed the Bayport number of their plump, good-natured friend, Chet Morton. His cheerful voice answered. “Ready to go camping, now that your mother and dad have left?” he asked.

“Sure thing, Chet,” Joe replied heartily. “Only, instead of Maine, we’re going to the coast of Georgia. How’s that sound?”

Several seconds of silence followed. Then came a suspicious query, “How come the switch?”

“A little business matter turned up.”

“Business matter!” exploded Chet. “You don’t fool me. Another mystery is what you mean. Another crazy, dangerous wild-goose chase that you’re trying to drag poor ole Chet into!”

Chet Morton always insisted he hated danger, though he had shared most of the Hardy boys’ hair-raising adventures.

“Then we can count you out?” asked Joe with a smile.

“Well ...” came the grudging answer. “I’ve never been to Georgia. I could lie on the beach and leave you two to your narrow escapes.”

“We’ll pick you up at dawn tomorrow.”

After a late breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, Frank and Joe, eager to start their sleuthing, took a train to Bayport. As soon as they reached home, the boys kissed their tall, angular aunt, then told her the plans. Aunt Gertrude, at times sharp-tongued and peppery despite her pride in her nephews, gave her opinion of the whole expedition.

“Foolishness,” she declared. “It’ll end in trouble, you mark me. And then Fenton will have to rush away from the Caribbean to help you. My poor brother!”

“Oh, Auntie! You know Dad wouldn’t want us to turn down a challenging case!” Joe said.

“Humph! I guess not. Well, you’d better have a good meal, anyway. And maybe you’d like to invite Chet.”

This was done, and it was decided that Chet and his gear would spend the night at the Hardys’ because of the early start. Then Frank backed the boys’ powerful yellow convertible into the driveway. He and Joe packed sleeping bags, tents, cooking equipment, spare clothing, and the Hardys’ skin-diving equipment into it.

Aunt Gertrude prepared one of her delicious dinners. Chet, as usual, had second helpings of everything.

“You’d better know,” Miss Hardy told them later, “that there was a big, tough-looking man hanging around here this afternoon before you boys returned. He even came up our driveway. I called out to see what he wanted. Apparently that scared him away.”

“For good, I hope,” Frank said. The same thought occurred to him and Joe. Had their hoarse-voiced attacker preceded them to Bayport? The boys changed the subject, however, not wanting to worry Aunt Gertrude unnecessarily.

Just at dawn the next morning, after breakfast and good-bys to Miss Hardy, the yellow convertible, with Frank, Chet, and Joe in the front seat, purred through the quiet Bayport streets. Soon it entered the superhighway heading north.

“Now,” said Frank, who was driving, “if anybody’s watching us, he’ll think we’re still going to Maine!”

“I wish we were,” declared Chet. The brothers had given him the details of their new case.

About ten miles farther, however, Frank sent the car down an exit ramp, passed underneath the thruway, and entered the highway on the other side. Now they were bound for Georgia!

The remainder of that day, and the next, they sped along the smooth concrete under a warm sun and blue sky. About noon on the last day of the boys’ journey, a cluster of police cars, with red lights winking, warned of an accident ahead. Passing by slowly, the brothers and Chet saw a yellow convertible, the same model as the Hardys‘, turned upside down on the center grass strip.

“Gives me the creeps!” Chet shuddered. “It might have been us!”

When Frank reached the next service area, he pulled in to have lunch at the counter. The boys had just finished eating when two state troopers came in and took seats nearby.

“A bad smashup,” said the first officer. “The driver and passenger thrown clear, lucky for them. It was deliberate, too. A blue sedan forced them right off the road. The driver of the car behind them saw the whole thing, but didn’t catch a glimpse of the license number.”

“Can’t our boys stop the sedan farther along?” asked the other trooper.

“No. It must have turned off at the next exit. The witness caught a glimpse of the driver, though. Big, flat-faced fellow. Had a blond-haired man with him.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet paid their check and filed out quietly. They climbed into the convertible with serious faces.

“That ‘accident’ was meant for us!” declared Joe as they started once again. “The driver sounds like our suspicious friend with the wheezy breathing.”

Constantly alert, the young detectives continued their journey. Joe, now at the wheel, turned off the highway and continued south on the secondary road, to throw off pursuit.

Late that afternoon they rolled into Larchmont, an old town built around a main square containing the courthouse and a Civil War monument. Stores lined the edges of the square, and the boys soon spotted the building which housed the Record’s offices, which were on the second floor. While Frank and Chet waited in the car, Joe ran inside and came back with a smiling Bart Worth.

“Glad to see you!” said the young editor. He was, introduced to Chet and shook hands with him. “Joe says you all want to camp. I’ll take you out now and show you the best spot.”

He directed Frank to follow the same road by which the boys had entered town. About a mile out of town, he said, “Turn right on this lane. It leads to the beach about a mile away. Only fishermen use the lane.”

Bart Worth explained that half a mile farther along the main road was the entrance to the Blackstone home. “It’s about halfway between the shore and the public road. Professor Rand has his own driveway some distance from Blackstone’s.”

The lane made its way among scrubby pine trees. Finally the car came to the beach where the fishermen’s road, barely discernible, turned left.

“Boy, that ocean smells good!” Chet declared.

Presently Bart Worth said, “This road ends at the dunes ahead. They spread along the shore and I figured it would be an ideal spot for you all to camp out. Nobody will know you’re around.”

The boys selected a secluded spot between two high dunes, then quickly pitched their camp. Leaving Chet to unpack provisions, Frank and Joe drove the editor back to town.

A tall, pale man with blond hair, wearing a linen suit and straw hat, stopped them as they entered the newspaper office.

“Hello there, Mr. Worth,” he said. “I see you have company.”

“Yes, a couple of visitors from up North,” Worth responded. “Boys, this is Mr. Henry Cutter—a Yankee like yourselves. Mr. Cutter and his partner, Mr. Stewart, are in the antique business. They’re down here looking over business opportunities.”

“That’s right,” agreed Cutter, appraising the Hardys with hard blue eyes. “Once in a while we put an ad in the Record for people interested in helping us start a profitable business. We make trips into the countryside around Larchmont.”

After shaking hands, the Hardys followed Worth into his private office. Here they discussed the Blackstone case and how the young sleuths would first tackle it.

“We’ll take a little tour of the grounds tonight,” Frank decided.

“Okay,” Bart said. “Keep me posted.”

When the brothers were driving back on the lane, Joe asked, “What did you think of Mr. Cutter?”

“Seemed to me we got a good once-over from Cutter for just a casual meeting,” Frank commented.

Back at camp, Chet and the Hardys took a swim. Then, using their camp stove, they prepared a tasty meal of hash and brown bread. After eating, and burying the debris, the three sat and talked in low tones until dusk came on. The continually moving sea had darkened, as the sunset’s afterglow gave way to stars. The air grew close and murky.

“I think it’s time to inspect the Blackstone property,” Frank proposed. “It’s dark enough now.”

“You two go,” Chet suggested quickly. “I’ll stay and guard camp.”

A few minutes later the brothers set off on foot among the dunes toward the Blackstone house. It was difficult walking through the high grass and loose sand. Here and there a lone scraggly pine endeavored to exist.

Presently the earth became less sandy. The scraggly pines gave way to thick vegetation, more and more tangled.

“According to Bart’s directions, we ought to come to the pond soon,” muttered Joe, beaming his flashlight ahead.

The thick, forbidding tangle made hard going, even with flashlights. At last the brothers struck a path through clumps of swamp grass, matted vines, and huge rotting trees. Then an open space appeared ahead. Their lights shone on an expanse of still, brackish-looking water.

“Blackstone’s place should be to the right,” said Frank, plunging forward in a northerly direction.

Some distance beyond, the brothers discerned house lights ahead. There was a narrow path which they followed through swampy ground. An ominous growling reached their ears, and they skirted a pen containing two big, fierce-looking dogs.

“Look, Joe!” Frank exclaimed, pointing to the large, imposing white-pillared mansion before them.

The boys stopped and stared at a brightly lighted, partially open window. Through it they saw three men. One, facing them, was large and portly. The other was tall, dark, and gangling. A Negro servant, wearing a white butler’s coat, stood near the door.

As the Hardys approached stealthily, the men’s voices reached them.

“Rand, you’ll get it over my dead body!” shouted the heavy-set man.

“The big one’s Blackstone, no doubt,” Joe whispered. “Wonder what Rand is after.”

The tall man, obviously furious, said something indistinguishable. Suddenly Blackstone, his face livid, seized a heavy china vase from a desk and smashed it against the professor’s head!

Instantly the light went out. Frank and Joe dashed up the steps and pounded on the door. Within twenty-five seconds it was opened.

“Yes?”

The Negro servant who had been in the room stood looking at the boys calmly from the hallway.

“We’d like to see Mr. Blackstone—right away!” Frank cried.

Without a word, the servant ushered the brothers into the bay-windowed room. There, comfortably seated in an easy chair and reading a book, was the large man. To the Hardys’ profound astonishment, they found no trace of Professor Rand.

Even more astonishing was the fact that the china vase which had been smashed against his head stood whole upon the desk!

CHAPTER III

Water Monster

FOR A moment Frank and Joe remained too astonished to speak. The heavy-set man put down his book and stood up.

“You want to see me?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes. You are Mr. Blackstone?” Frank spoke up.

“I am. What do you want?”

“We ... we heard a cry, and thought maybe there had been an accident!”

“Accident?” The man gave the brothers a steely look of suspicion. “No, there’s been no accident that I know of. I’ve been spending a quiet evening reading. You’re the first visitors I’ve had tonight. By the way, what are you doing on my property?”

“We’re visiting the area,” Joe answered promptly. “We’ve just been exploring the beach and came up here.”

“Treacherous swamp around here,” Mr. Blackstone commented. “Incidentally, my dogs are usually let loose at night, so I wouldn’t advise your getting lost in this direction again. Minnie! Show these young men to the door.”

A young Negro maid entered the room. The Hardys were surprised. They had expected to see the somewhat elderly man who had answered their knock. They looked around for him on the way out. But he, too, was gone.

“If we hadn’t both seen that fight I’d think I was crazy,” Joe muttered, as he and Frank left.

“Oh—oh,” Frank whispered. “Mr. Blackstone has another caller.” A linen-suited figure was approaching on foot up the drive.

“Mr. Cutter!” Joe exclaimed.

A moment later tall Henry Cutter mounted the steps. He glanced at the boys sharply, but merely nodded as he went past them into the house.

“Wonder what he’s here for,” Frank mused.

For a few minutes the brothers lingered under a huge spreading cypress near the house. They saw Blackstone draw the curtains across the bay window, but still his gruff voice could be heard clearly.

“Those boys? Just a couple of nosy Northerners. I got rid of them. Look here, Cutter, it’s no use coming around. I won’t sell.”

The men apparently moved away from the window, for the young detectives could hear no more. As quickly as possible they retraced their steps to the pond, and toward camp.

“What happened to Professor Rand?” asked Joe. “I thought he got a knockout wallop. And how did Blackstone mend that broken vase so fast?”

“I couldn’t even see a crack in it,” Frank added.

“I wonder what Cutter wants to buy from Blackstone,” Joe said. “Something for his antique business?”

“Wish I had an answer,” his brother replied wryly. “Let’s try our luck at Rand’s home tomorrow.”

As they ate an early breakfast, Chet pointed out a dilapidated fishing smack some distance off shore. “Wonder what’s running,” he murmured.

Frank and Joe did not reply. They set off for the pond. Reaching it, they turned left.

“We’ll get Rand’s story about last night,” Frank declared.

Huge live oaks, hung with Spanish moss, partly hid a stately white Southern mansion in need of paint. Wisteria blossoms hung bell-like from vines climbing the walls. The Hardys mounted the steps of the still stately portico, supported by high, once-white round columns.

Frank knocked repeatedly on the door. There was no response. As they circled the neglected structure, they rapped on windows, called out, pounded on side and back doors, with no results.

“The professor’s not here—or he just doesn’t want visitors,” Joe concluded. “All right, then—back to Blackstone‘s!”

Samuel Blackstone’s estate, with its carefully tended flower beds and pruned shrubbery made a sharp contrast with his cousin’s run-down property. When Frank spotted a young gardener pushing a power mower, he strolled over to him.

“Lookin’ for somebody?” The pleasant-faced young man squinted at them in the bright sunshine.

“Yes—the elderly butler who works for Mr. Blackstone,” Joe answered. “We can’t find him.”

“Grover?” the gardener drawled. “Well, now, he’s gone on vacation—just this morning, I hear. First one in thirty-five years. Don’t it beat all?”

“Sure does.” Joe laughed. But the minute he and Frank were alone, Frank noted, “Mighty sudden vacation, if you ask me.”

“Very,” Joe agreed tersely as he followed the drive, which looped around the house before leading to the road. The route took them past the dog pen. The police dogs leaped and whined as though eager to attack the boys.

“I’d sure hate to have them at my throat!” Joe remarked, grinning.

Meanwhile, Frank had been thinking out the boys’ next step. “We’d better head for Larchmont,” he advised, “and look up Jenny Shringle. She overheard Rand and Blackstone quarreling before, and according to Bart, she also told him the rumor that the Blackstone money originally came from smuggling.”

“Why did she tell Worth all this?” Joe wondered, as he and Frank hurried toward their camp.

“Revenge,” Frank reasoned. “She’d been a seamstress in the family for years, and just lately Blackstone fired her. She probably wanted to get square with him.”

The brothers brought Chet up to date on the news, then set off in the convertible for Larchmont. Frank consulted a slip of paper, then watched the street signs until he found the one he wanted. He turned onto an unpaved road that ended in a steep railway embankment. The houses along the road were small and dingy.

“Here we are,” Frank announced, pointing to a boxlike cottage overgrown by scraggly bushes. The Hardys went to the door and knocked.

“Meow!” A black-and-white cat came around the corner and rubbed herself against the boys’ legs. Once more Frank rapped urgently.

“Meow,” was the only answer.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” sang a voice nearby.

Turning, the Hardys saw a heavy, middle-aged woman calling from the porch of the house next door. In her hands she held a saucer of milk.

“Miss Shringle?” Frank inquired.

“No. And I don’t know where Jenny is,” replied the woman, who appeared willing and even eager to talk. “But it’s right strange about her going. She left here without providing for her cat.”

After placing the saucer on the ground, the neighbor continued, “Now this is why it’s funny. She left the house yesterday morning just after dawn. That’s not a time for law-abidin’ folks to be about. Jenny had no suitcase, and not even a pocketbook. Just slipped out in her best dress—really a little old shabby black one—and an old flowered hat.”

“Do you know where she went?” Joe asked.

The woman shrugged. “I reckon she walked out to the main road. Maybe somebody sent for her. Maybe not. But why be so sneaky about it?”

The Hardys were noncommittal in order not to arouse the woman’s suspicions. Soon the brothers said good-by and returned to camp for lunch.

After eating, and telling Chet about the strange disappearance, the chums rested under some pines near the tent.

“Three people involved in this case have disappeared,” Joe summed up in exasperation.

“And no leads as to where they might have gone!” Frank added.

Chet yawned. “Maybe we should report these disappearances to Mr. Worth or the police.”

“Let’s wait one more day,” Frank urged. “I want to explore the pond tonight. After all, it’s the central issue in this whole case. If we don’t turn up anything, we’ll call in the authorities.”

“Well, I’ll hold the fort here,” Chet offered cheerfully. “Fishing’s great.”

That evening, the hazy light of dusk found the two detectives advancing quietly among the sand dunes and the tall grass. Because of the insects, they had smeared their arms and faces with repellent. Also, as a precaution against an onslaught by Blackstone’s dogs, Joe carried a stout club.

In the dim light the dead trees and hummocks of swamp grass assumed fantastic shapes. Frogs croaked, and now and then one would slip with a gurgle into a brown, stagnant pool. At last the boys reached the pond between the two properties.

“This way,” whispered Frank, turning left. “Let’s try Rand’s side first.”

He and Joe pushed through the dense growth around the pond’s edge. It was totally dark when they emerged at a flat, open space. Before them rose the branchless trunk of an ancient oak tree, nearly twenty feet high. It was silhouetted against a moonlit but partly clouded sky.

Carefully the boys examined the remains of the old tree. “This must be one of the trees mentioned in the will,” Frank said, as the boys made their way back along the pond until they came to the Blackstone side of the water. Here the oak stump was shorter.

Disappointed, Frank and Joe switched off their lights and looked around. Overhead, moonlight glowed silver around the fringe of a cloud. Suddenly Joe grasped Frank’s arm and whispered, “Over there!” The yellow beam of a flashlight could be plainly seen on the far rim of the pond.

The light moved around the oak stump like some giant firefly. Once, when the moon sailed free of clouds, the boys caught a glimpse of a tall, dark figure, pacing back and forth.

“He’s looking for something!” Frank whispered.

“Suppose it’s Rand?”

The light began moving around the edge of the pond toward them. Nearer and nearer it came. The boys waited breathlessly. But before they could make a move, heavy, crashing steps retreated through the underbrush and died away.

“We should’ve nabbed him!” Joe said in disgust.

“At this distance?” Frank said. Then he pointed in amazement toward the middle of the pond.

The white moon, thinly veiled by a few mackerel clouds, showed up a sudden roiling disturbance on the glassy surface. Large circles of rippling water were expanding outward. At their center a gleaming row of finlike humps slid into view. A fantastic, monstrous head rose briefly, dripping, into the moonlight. Then it sank beneath the dark waters!

CHAPTER IV

Skin-Diving Sleuths

THE Hardy boys could almost believe they had beheld a prehistoric creature with its jagged fin and enormous head. Frank and Joe peered in fascination at the swamp-bordered pond.

“There it is again!” Joe whispered in awe.

The grotesque shape had again surfaced, and now cut through the water to the rear bank. Here it wriggled up and disappeared.

“Come on!” Joe cried, switching on his flashlight. “Let’s go after that thing!”

They found the swamp at the rear of the pond almost impassable. Stumbling over roots, dodging under hanging moss, sinking in the rank mire, the two boys doggedly made their way along.

“That monster must have come out near here!” Frank panted, shining his light around.

In this spot the thick vegetation grew right to the water’s edge. The Hardys plunged through the tangle until they felt the tepid water lap over their sneakers.

Their flashlight beams picked out crushed leaves and stalks where something large must have dragged itself ashore. But the trail ended a few feet from the water, in the thick growth. No further signs of the strange creature could be found.

“Maybe the monster slipped back into the pond,” Joe whispered apprehensively.

Suddenly Frank snapped off his flashlight and signaled his brother to do the same. At the edge of the gloomy pond, where the big swamp stretched toward the main road, a light was moving!

In a moment the Hardys were fighting their way through the dense undergrowth toward the figure. The moon was their only light, as they crept forward silently and swiftly. Soon a glow about fifty yards ahead of them lit up a grove of weird, moss-covered cypress trees. Underneath one of them, Frank and Joe discerned a tall figure in a long coat and floppy hat, his back to the boys.

Scarcely breathing, Frank and Joe slipped forward. In one hand the strange figure carried a small lantern. He frequently stooped to examine the ground. Once he crouched for a long time looking at something. The boys crept closer.

Suddenly the figure stood to his full height, as if listening keenly. Then, like a shot, he went off at a swift, long-legged run through the swamp.

“He’s heading for Rand‘s!” Frank whispered tensely, as the boys raced forward.

A protruding root suddenly sent Joe sprawling. Frank, behind, piled on top of him. Ahead, the figure with the swinging lantern gained ground. Leaping to their feet, the boys ran on, out of the swamp and up a slight hill toward the Rand estate. Presently, a high, solid hedge, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, came into view. At the same moment, the pursued man and his lantern disappeared into the dense shrubbery. Panting, the boys pounded up and plunged through it.

“Whoa!” cried Frank.

Beyond the hedge the ground dropped off sharply about seven feet. Below them lay a broad meadow. The man with the lantern was not in sight.

“Given us the slip,” Joe admitted.

Still breathing hard from the chase, the brothers walked directly toward the ocean. They found Chet at camp, lying on his stomach, munching an apple and reading a mystery story.

“Hi! Good night! Where have you been? Swimming in mud?” he needled, looking at their soggy, spattered clothing.

Joe grinned. “Chet, you must go up to the pond and see the monster!”

“The—what? No, thanks. But you’re kidding?”

“We mean it,” Frank replied, and he told the story, exaggerating it a bit to tease Chet. “You’re really missing all the excitement, Chet.”

“It’s okay with me. I’ll pull a fish out of the water—that’ll be monster enough for me.”

He arose, lighted the camp stove, and prepared mugs of steaming cocoa. Suddenly he said, “Wait a minute, fellows! Did you really see some kind of prehistoric ... dinosaur ... in that pond?”

“Well, not quite that big.” Frank had to laugh. “But the thing was as big as a man, at least.”

Chet looked around fearfully. “Do you think the monster might be connected with the mystery?”

“Search me,” Joe shrugged. “I wonder if that prowler out there tonight saw the creature.”

“Funny business.” Chet shook his head.

The campers finished their cocoa, then crawled into their bags and slept soundly. After breakfast next morning, the boys attended Sunday church service. They had lunch in town, then Frank said, “Let’s drive to Professor Rand’s house. If the professor isn’t there, we’ll go to the police. I don’t care what Blackstone says. We saw Rand take a nasty crack on the head. He may be seriously injured, or worse!”

When the three boys reached the run-down plantation house, they found it as empty as it had appeared the day before. They headed at full speed for Larchmont and went to Bart Worth’s home.

“You have news?” he asked expectantly.

Joe related the fierce quarrel the Hardys had witnessed in the Blackstone mansion two nights before. “Bart,” the boy went on, “has anyone mentioned having seen the professor lately?”

The young editor shook his head and grabbed his hat in one movement. “It’s a case for the police now,” he said, rising. But Frank restrained him.

“You’d better not become involved,” the boy advised. “After all, Joe and I were the witnesses. The police know you have a feud with Blackstone, and might not believe you. Also, we don’t want Blackstone to know we’re working for you.”

Bart agreed, and the boys left to make a report to the authorities.

Larchmont’s police station was a trim building of whitewashed brick, just across the square from the courthouse. A desk sergeant led the three into the office of Police Chief Gerald. Frank gave an account of the attack to the middle-aged law officer, who listened intently.

“Hmm ... by the time you entered the room, the vase had been mended,” the chief repeated. He stared ahead in deep thought. “What do you young fellows want me to do?” he asked.

“We think you should procure a warrant and search Blackstone’s house,” Frank urged promptly.

The chief smiled, picked up the telephone, and dialed a number.

“Hello?” he began politely. “Mr. Blackstone, this is Chief Gerald. Some visitors to our town have been telling me about a fight at your place two nights ago. One of the men-Professor Rand, by the sound of it—is supposedly missing. I’m afraid I’ll be obliged to get a warrant and make a search of your place.”

The three boys watched the officer’s face eagerly for some hint of Blackstone’s reaction. But they could tell nothing until the chief hung up. He looked at the boys quizzically and reported, “Mr. Blackstone says I don’t need a warrant. Told me to come on out there right now, and bring the visitors with me—that he hasn’t anything to hide.”

Chief Gerald summoned one of his patrolmen and led Frank, Joe, and Chet to a police car outside. Within twenty minutes they were parked in front of the large brick house. Samuel Blackstone stood waiting on the porch.

“This way, Chief,” he greeted the law officer, not waiting for an introduction to Chet Morton. “I want you to see everything.” The heavy-set man did not address the boys directly.

Mr. Blackstone conducted them to every part of his house. Frank and Joe kept a sharp watch, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Finally, he led the group to the front door.

“You’ve seen the house,” said Blackstone. “Now read this.”

He produced a note written on Professor Rand’s stationery. The chief read it aloud:

“ ‘Dear Samuel, if you want me I’m at the Storm Island Lighthouse for a few days, doing some research. Ruel.’ ”

“My cousin is an archaeologist,” Blackstone explained. “His specialty is American Indian civilization. He’s always looking for old relics.”

“Well, this note sounds friendly enough,” commented Gerald as he handed it back.

“And are you satisfied?” The big man suddenly turned hard, antagonistic eyes on the Hardys.

“Not yet,” Joe spoke up without flinching. “We’d like to talk to your man, Grover. He saw that fight, too.”

“Grover’s older brother in Chicago is very ill,” Blackstone returned promptly. “He begged me to let him go to see him, and I did. It’s his first vacation in many years, and I won’t have him brought back for any such nonsensical reason.”

Blackstone accompanied the boys and the police officer when they returned to the waiting patrol car. “Chief Gerald,” he said warningly, “these boys have already trespassed on my land. Now they practically accuse me of something underhanded. If they ever set foot on my property again, or annoy me in any way, I’m going to ask you to arrest them!”

Turning quickly, he strode back to the house. Then the police car drove out of the long private road and back toward Larchmont.

“Well, boys,” the chief told them, “you’ve made a powerful enemy.”

“That doesn’t bother us,” Frank said. “Not if we find out the truth.”

That afternoon, back at their camp, the three young detectives held a conference. “We must find out why that pond is so important,” Frank insisted. “I’m for going back there tonight with our skin-diving gear, and tracking down the monster!”

That evening, as a big, round yellow moon rose above the trees of the dark swamp, the three boys stood at the pond’s edge. Frank and Joe, in bathing trunks, held diving face masks and flippers. Each had an aqualung strapped to his back. Chet stood by with a Thermos of hot broth.

“Well, here goes,” said Frank quietly. He put on his mask, adjusted his breathing hose, and slipped into the black water.

The next instant Chet and Joe were startled by a sudden crash of brush on the far side of the pond. As the boys stared almost hypnotized, a huge shape making remarkably little noise wrig gled off the bank into the water.

Seconds later, a saw-tooth fin broke the smooth moonlit surface of the pond and headed straight for the spot where Frank had gone underl

CHAPTER V

Marooned!

“THE monster! It’s after Frank!” cried Joe as the creature’s long serrate fin disappeared beneath the pond’s surface.

Quickly adjusting his own face mask and breathing tube, Joe plunged into the dark, menacing water. He kicked powerfully with his flippers, and shot down through the water. The bottom of the pond was absolutely black, but just enough of the moon’s pale light filtered down through the murk for him to distinguish violent thrashing motions dead ahead.

Instantly Joe encircled his brother’s shoulder with one arm. At the same time, he came to grips with something cold and slippery that was tugging Frank’s limp body deeper into the pond.

Fearlessly Joe attacked. But the creature possessed great power and gradually wrestled him down into the thick ooze at the bottom.

Joe gritted his teeth but never let go his hold on Frank. In a moment he wrenched himself loose from the monster. It closed in again. Desperately, Joe shook off his flippers and kicked with all his might against the cold, slimy body of the attacker.

This propulsion speeded the boys upward through the water to the surface. With a frantic one-arm stroke, Joe swam to the shore, still grasping his unconscious brother. Chet waded out and helped pull them in. A few minutes later Frank was sitting up and shaking his head groggily.

“Drink this,” ordered Chet, handing over the Thermos of beef broth. “What happened?”

“That thing got me from behind,” Frank reported, after a gulp of the hot broth. “My air line was nicked. Started to get a trickle of water. I held my breath till I blacked out!”

Joe, meanwhile, had removed his own equipment and was examining his brother’s air hose. “A jagged cut,” he told them. “Could be from several things—knife, claws, shears, teeth.”

“Teeth!” echoed Chet. “You mean—an alligator?”

Joe shook his head. “The monster’s head we saw was no alligator’s.”

Chet shuddered. “That’s enough sleuthing for one night,” he declared firmly. “Let’s go!”

The Hardys agreed, but they were more determined than ever to discover the pond’s secret.

In spite of his close call, Frank awakened fit and alert the next morning. “Let’s hire a boat and go out to Storm Island today,” he proposed at break fast. “I want to see if Rand is really there. I don’t trust Blackstone’s ‘friendly note.’ Anybody might have written it.”

After cleaning up camp, the three friends headed for town in the convertible. As they drove through to the far side of Larchmont, they saw masts, cables, and booms of fishing boats, with sea gulls flapping their wings among them.

“Larchmont docks,” Frank announced.

They had no trouble in hiring a boat for the day. While Frank was settling a deal with the owner of a motorboat, Chet and Joe bought some bread, cheese, and cold cuts at a nearby grocery. Just as the boys were ready to shove off, a tall, familiar, pale-faced man approached them.

“Where to, fellows?” Henry Cutter asked. His tone was friendly, but he watched them sharply. Another man, whom the boys assumed was Cutter’s partner, Mr. Stewart, joined him.

“Oh, it’s such a swell day,” replied Frank, casually squinting overhead, “we thought we’d take a sightseeing cruise.”

“Hmm. Well, have fun. Come along, Stewart.” The two men walked off.

“They’re a nosy pair,” Chet complained, settling back in the boat, an old wooden craft with deep sides and a high windshield. Eagerly Joe took the wheel, which resembled a ship’s helm. Frank and Chet sat on the wooden box housing the engine. Soon the craft was moving toward the mouth of the inlet into the Atlantic.

“Storm Island is a little south of here,” explained Frank, opening a chart. “It’s nothing but a pile of rocks in the sea, according to Worth. The light hasn’t been used in years, since there’s no more shipping from Larchmont.”

They left the harbor and headed the boat south on the blue-green sea. The white dunes of the beach were far over to their right. The horizon was a line where the powder-blue sky met the darker hue of the ocean. Then a pile of jumbled rocks came into view.

“Must be Storm Island,” Frank said briefly.

As they came closer, they saw that the islet was indeed nothing but a mass of rock, about a hundred yards long. From its center rose a conical wooden tower with a black roof and gaping windows.

They landed at a little stone jetty and tied up the boat, then mounted some stone steps that apparently led to a path to the lighthouse. Quickly the boys looked around for the gangling figure of the professor. No one was in sight.

“Professor Rand!” Joe called out. No answer.

The boys walked around the islet, peering into crevices of jagged rocks, and calling out periodically. There was no response.

“Maybe he’s inside the lighthouse,” Chet said.

The young sleuths entered the deserted rooms at the bottom of the now run-down tower, where lighthouse keepers had made their home in years past. Finding nothing, they climbed the winding enclosed staircase. At one point two steps were missing and the three friends had to reach up to the third one above.

At the top of the lighthouse was a round platform with the large, old-fashioned light in the center of it. Several of the broad glass window-panes had been broken.

Suddenly Joe cried out. “Hey! Our boat!”

He pointed down to the landward side of the islet. Drifting rapidly away from the jetty was their rented craft! In the distance, a pleasure speedboat plowed away from the island.

Turning, Frank and Joe clattered down the old wooden steps. Chet followed close behind. “Our food’s aboard!” he groaned.

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

“I’m sure I tied those lines tightly!” Frank declared. “They were cut—by somebody in that speedboat, I’ll bet.”

“But why?” Joe burst out. “Boy, what a mess! Not only have we come way out here on a wild-goose chase, but to top it off, we’re marooned!”

Chet was so dejected at this thought he could only groan again, “All our food gone!” The boys returned to the lighthouse and took stock of their situation. From every point of view it seemed desperate.

“We have one quart of drinking water in my canteen,” Chet informed them, “and one package of cookies I brought in my pocket. Oh, all that wonderful cheese, meat, and—I can’t stand it!”

“No ocean-going vessels pass anywhere near here,” Frank put in glumly. “And I guess this isn’t a popular spot for pleasure cruising. The water’s too rough!”

“The boat owner thinks we’re on a pleasure ride,” Joe added, “but he doesn’t know where. And somehow I doubt that Cutter and his pal will advise anyone if they find out we’re missing.”

Frank jumped up. “Let’s go outside and see if there’s anything on this island we can rig for a signal!”

All afternoon the youths explored their sea-locked prison. The island was composed of sharp, craggy rock faces with steep drops in between. The surf on the ocean side had made a network of shelving ledges and hollow caves.

At suppertime they sat down on the rocks and Chet doled out to each boy a ration of two chocolate cookies and two swallows of water. As they chewed their meager meal, staring idly at the old tower, Frank burst out:

“I know what! We always carry match packets with us when on a camping trip, so let’s light the beacon tonight as a distress signal. All these old-fashioned lighthouses used acetylene beacons. If we can’t make this one work, what good is the chemistry we’re learning in high school?”

Eagerly Frank led the way into the lighthouse. Sure enough, in a small ground-floor room directly at the center of the tower, they found a big tank with a pipe rising up toward the light.

“But where will we get the gas for the tank?” Chet wanted to know.

At that moment Joe pried the lid off an old drum. “Here we are—calcium carbide!”

Frank explained. “Wc put some of this chemical in the tank and pour sea water over it. The chemical reaction produces acetylene gas, which burns with a bright white light.”

Already dusk was falling. They sent Chet out with a bucket for sea water. Meanwhile, Joe climbed the staircase to the beacon. There he found a big metal ring with multiple jets. Looking out one of the broad, paneless windows, he saw Chet returning with his bucket of water.

Then Joe heard the tinkering of metal far below. He took a packet of matches from his pocket and held one ready to strike.

“Okay!” came the muffled signal. “Light her!”

Crouching, Joe held his flaring match to the jets. The stiff breeze, whipping through the wide window, snuffed it out. Again and again he brought a flame over the holes, but without result. Finally, all his matches were gone. At that moment the boy heard the floor creak nearby.

As Joe turned, something lifted him up and rushed him toward the wide-open window. With a wild cry of “Help!” Joe felt himself plunging into space!

CHAPTER VI

Signal Fire

DEEP in the tower, Frank and Chet were electrified to hear a wild cry for help, and then another fainter call, which seemed to come from outside the lighthouse.

“Fra-ank!”

“It’s Joe!” cried Frank. He sprinted up the rickety staircase so fast that the structure shook underneath him. Chet ran behind.

The two piled into the empty beacon room. For a moment Frank and Chet heard only the strong wind sweeping through and the sound of the sea breaking on the rocks below. Then came a kicking sound outside.

Frank rushed to the window. Two tanned hands clung to the sill. Over the side, in the early evening darkness, he could see Joe dangling ninety feet above the sharp rocks.

“Chet! Over here!” Frank yelled, at the same time seizing his brother’s wrists. The hefty boy was at his side in a second. Together, they hauled Joe in to safety.

“Somebody—threw me—out!” the boy gasped as he sank to the floor to rest. “I managed to grab the sill.”

“Thank goodness you did,” said Frank.

Chet said in astonishment, “But there’s nobody on the island!”

“Wait!” Frank signaled abruptly. “Quiet!”

Speechless, the three boys listened. The sea crashed over the rocks. The wind hummed through the room. Did they also hear creaking on the old staircase below?

Frank hurried stealthily halfway down the steps. But he neither saw nor heard anything and returned to the platform.

“You sure the wind didn’t blow you out?” Chet asked Joe. “It’s pretty strong.”

“No.” By now Joe had recovered from his close call. “I was grabbed and pushed through the window. No doubt about it.”

“But how could anybody have climbed the stairs without our knowing it?” Frank frowned.

“There’s got to be an answer,” Joe returned. “Let’s have a look at the stairs. Anybody got a flashlight?”

Chet produced a tiny one from a pocket, but it would not light. “Guess it needs new batteries,” he apologized.

Frank brought out a packet of matches and lighted their way down. When he reached the two missing steps, Frank cautiously leaned down into the open space and struck another match. A network of thick diagonal supporting beams was revealed in the flickering light.

“A risky place to hide,” he said. “But it could be done by a strong and agile person.”

“We’d better face up to it,” Joe said somberly. “We’re being dogged by a dangerous enemy, and he’s on this island with us!”

“Yes,” Frank agreed, swiftly piecing together recent events. “He must have been dropped off by that speedboat we saw heading away. Then he untied our boat and hid among the rocks until he heard us mention lighting the beacon.”

“You mean he slipped up to the tower ahead of us?” Chet asked.

Frank nodded. “He stayed behind these supports until Joe climbed to the beacon, then followed. He slipped down the stairs while we were pulling Joe in. That was the creaking we heard.”

“All right,” agreed Joe. “But we’ll have a hard time finding him at night if he’s hiding out in those rocks. We have nothing but matches.”

Frank and Chet pulled out their packets, which were only partly filled.

Most of these matches were used to hunt for the fourth person who, they learned, was not inside the lighthouse.

“Only one thing for us to do,” said Frank. “We’ll lock the door and bunk in the keeper’s quarters. Whoever our enemy is can spend the night on the rocks! Then in the morning we’ll find him.”

“Good plan,” Joe assented. “We’ll take turns standing guard.”

As Frank took the first watch, Joe and Chet stretched out on the floor to sleep. At midnight Frank awakened the stout boy. Joe took the early-morning shift. There had not been a disturbing sound during the night.

At dawn the three stranded sleuths emerged from the lighthouse. A red ball of sun was coming out of the steel-gray sea. A light mist hung over the water.

“The third straight meal I’ve missed,” moaned Chet in a voice of genuine suffering.

Manfully, however, he handed round a breakfast of cookies and two gulps of water apiece. “Just enough for lunch and supper,” he said, and carefully stored the provisions again. “Maybe I can catch a fish later.”

“Now, let’s find our enemy,” said Frank. “And stay together, so we can handle him when we do!”

All morning, as the sun rose higher, the boys combed the deep cuts and passageways in the rocks.

“How could anybody hide here?” Chet wondered.

“He couldn‘t,” Joe assured him. “I believe someone came back here in a boat and took the intruder away. Probably turned off the motor and used oars so we wouldn’t hear what was going on.”

Chet now asked, “Why didn’t the beacon work last night?”

“Gas didn’t get up to the light,” Joe reported. “I never did smell it. Probably there’s a break in the old line.”

“How about the lamps up there?” suggested Chet. He referred to a circle of oil lamps, backed by once-shiny tin reflectors, extending all around the tower platform.

“No oil,” Frank said. “Those go back to the days when this light was built—long before it was converted to acetylene.”

At that moment Joe, in his dark-blue jersey, gazed at the tower. Frank looked at his brother, then at his own maroon shirt. Finally he stared with sudden hope at Chet’s white garment, which blazed with a wild, colorful design.

“Say, what are you up to?” the chunky boy asked uneasily.

“We need your shirt,” replied Joe. “It’ll be a perfect distress flag.”

With a martyred air, Chet pulled off his shirt, and the Hardys rigged it on the shaft of an old broom in the lighthouse. They mounted the signal on the tower.

“So far, so good,” Joe said when they were on the ground once more. “What about a signal for tonight? Let’s find something to make a fire.”

Another tour of the island turned up only a few sodden bits of driftwood. After a cheerless lunch of water and cookies, Frank and Joe went to scour the lighthouse for fuel, while Chet tried his best to snare a fish but failed.

After a time the brothers dragged out a heavy armchair with the stuffing about to burst from the seams. While they kicked this apart, Chet looked curiously at a little brick structure about the size of a dog kennel.

“Hello—an old brick oven,” he thought.

The opening had been sealed up with brick and masonry. Chet worked at the mortar with his pocketknife. It crumbled, and Chet pulled out the bricks. He peered inside.

“A tin box!” he yelled. “Treasure!”

Instantly Frank and Joe left their demolished chair and rushed over.

“There’s more than treasure,” Joe said excitedly, peering in. “Look at that pile of newspapers! Now we’ll get a fire going tonight!”

He yanked out a great stack of old papers, somewhat damp and moldy with age.

“What’s new in the world?” quipped Chet. “Say, these are funny newspapers. No headlines.”

“ ‘The relief of General McClellan from command of the American Federal armies has been announced,’ ” Joe read from one of the small-print columns. “Hey! It’s all about the Civil War. These papers were published in London.”

“Our history teacher will shoot us if we burn these,” Chet objected.

“If we don’t burn them, we may never see our history class again,” Frank reminded him. “Let’s just hope we won’t have to. Open that tin box, Chet.”

Using his knife, the stout boy complied. Inside was a package of papers, carefully tied with a printed note on top.

“It says these papers were saved from the Sally Ann, an English ship returning to America, when she was wrecked on the reef,” he announced.

“Dull stuff, probably,” commented Joe. With Chet’s help, he began spreading the old newspapers in the sun to dry, weighting them with bricks from the oven.

Frank, meanwhile, leafed through the little package of documents. They were mostly shipping invoices and insurance papers for the ship’s cargo. Dull stuff, as Joe had said. But then, tucked among them, a note on plain white paper caught his attention. Suddenly he leaped to his feet.

“Joe! Chet! Listen to this! It’s a memo from the Sally Ann‘s captain to himself!”

When the other two had dashed over, astonished, Frank read the memo:

“ ‘Last voyage—my friend, Clement Blackstone, embarked with his entire family for England, from Hidden Harbor. Before sailing, Clement informed me, as his boyhood friend, that the family fortune and papers were hidden nearby, and gave me directions for finding them, in case he should never return. Memorized directions in order to avoid committing them to writing.’ ”

Joe gave a whistle. “Maybe you didn’t find a treasure, Chet, but you’ve given us a clue to one. But where’s Hidden Harbor? There’s nothing hidden about Larchmont’s inlet.”

“Hidden Harbor,” Frank mused. “Wherever it is, the Blackstone fortune is nearby.”

Joe sighed. “If we don’t get off this island, we’ll never find it,” he reminded the others. “Let’s spread out the rest of these papers to dry, and then get the chair stuffing out in the sun, too.”

They waited hopefully throughout the day for their distress signal to be noticed, but no one appeared. Finally, when evening came, the three boys carried the stuffing, the papers, and pieces of the wooden chair-frame to the highest point on the rocks. A starlit sky spread overhead, but a hard wind and a heavy sea had set in. The high-dashing spray was caught by the wind and whipped over the little island like gusts of fine rain. While Frank and Chet acted as shields, Joe lighted one of their few remaining matches. A feeble flame began to lick at the crumpled papers, only to be extinguished by the driving spray. Another match was used, with the same result.

“Shall we use our last two matches?” Joe asked.

“Try one more,” Frank answered.

This time a bluish-yellow finger of flame climbed, spread out, caught at the chair stuffing, and began to lick at the wood.

At that moment a shout, followed by the sudden roar of a motor, brought the boys to their feet.

“It came from the jetty!” cried Joe.

Racing around the lighthouse, they saw a dark figure leap into a motorboat, which then churned out from the island.

Frank and Joe ran at top speed to the end of the stone dock, plunged into the rough water, and struck out after the fleeing boat.

For a while the heavy waves slowed the boat more than the swimmers. But just as Joe came within grabbing distance, it suddenly spurted ahead and roared off into the darkness.

“Where was that guy hiding?” Frank asked himself dismally.

Thoroughly soaked and chattering with cold, the Hardys returned to their fire, only to find darkness.

“I did my best to keep it alive,” Chet apologized.

The heavy spray had quenched the flames, and the high wind had scattered the remaining paper all over the wet rocks.

CHAPTER VII

Amusement Park Trouble

MISERABLY, the three boys plodded back to the shelter of the lighthouse. Hunger and the lack of dry clothes combined to make a fitful night’s sleep. Next day, as the marooned trio stepped into the morning sunlight, a faint droning sound alerted them to a silvery object passing high overhead.

“A seaplane!” Joe cried wildly. “Hey! Help!”

Stripping off their shirts, Frank and Joe waved madly, while Chet bellowed at the top of his lungs. The plane continued toward the mainland.

“No breakfast ration today, boys,” Chet said grimly. “No cookies, no water. I won’t put up with it. There are fish in this ocean, and I’m going to get one somehow!”

While the stout boy lumbered off with a determined frown, Frank and Joe discussed the case once more.

“Who’s trying to get rid of us?” asked Frank. “Blackstone? Then he sure will go to any length to keep Bart from proving the rumor.”

“It must be Blackstone,” Joe decided. “He deliberately let us think Rand was out here. He must have faked that note.”

“He could have been fooled by it,” Frank commented. “Who else might have guessed we’d come here? Cutter? Stewart? The boat owner?”

“Maybe Cutter and Stewart,” Joe agreed. “That pale-faced Cutter seems mighty interested in us. Maybe he’s working for Blackstone.”

A shout from Chet interrupted their speculations. Dripping wet, the stout boy hustled toward them. In his arms gleamed a big mackerell

“It was washed into a tide pool,” he cried excitedly. “I waded in after it!”

A few minutes were enough to rip out part of the railing of the wooden staircase and build a fire. “Here goes my last match,” said Chet. Soon he had planked the mackerel in fine style. Using sea water for salt, the boys regaled themselves on the tasty fish.

As they finished, a drone overhead announced the return of the silver seaplane. The boys signaled frantically. This time the craft circled once, then settled down on the calm water.

“Hot dog!” yelled Chet in fervent relief.

The seaplane taxied up to the stone dock, and the cabin door opened. “Hello, there,” called the slim, sunburned young pilot, leaning out. “I didn’t see your signals earlier, but my passenger did. He didn’t tell me until we landed—thought it was a joke.”

“Some joke!” said Chet as the boys clambered in.

“Figured ”I’d better check,“ said the pilot. ”My name’s Al West. I’ll take you to Larchmont Airport and drive you to town, if that’ll help.“

“Thanks a million!” Joe said gratefully.

“Same here!” Frank exclaimed. “We thought we were stuck on that rock pile for good!”

Exactly one hour later the Hardys and Chet, who was still shirtless, stepped from Al West’s car, waved good-by, and trooped into the Larchmont Record office.

Bart Worth stared at them, flabbergasted, and upon hearing their story, expressed still further amazement. “You come home with me for a change of clothes and a solid meal,” he ordered. “And you’d better forget my case. This newspaper isn’t worth risking your lives.”

“We’ll accept that meal,” Frank answered for the three, “but if you think anything could keep us from this job now, you’re mistaken. We have several scores of our own to settle.”

While the hungry youths feasted at Worth’s bountiful table, the editor paced the floor.

“The lawsuit against me is coming up for trial, and I haven’t a shred of proof that some outsider tampered with my editorial,” he said. “Jenny Shringle first told me that story. She may have something to back it up, if we could find her.”

“Somebody besides her neighbor must have seen her leave,” Frank reasoned. “We’ll comb the town.”

“Good!” said Worth. “I’ll come along.”

The boys set out, accompanied by the editor. First, Chet bought a blazing yellow shirt with a pattern of zigzag lightning on it.

“This’ll make a swell distress signal”—he grinned—“if we need one again.”

They started from the town square and questioned everyone who might have noticed the seamstress departing a few mornings before. No one had. Gradually the four worked their way to the docks, where the man from whom the boys had rented the boat eyed them suspiciously.

“Where’s my boat?” he asked.

“Drifted off,” Frank answered.

“Drifted off! Then you all will pay for her!”

Bart Worth immediately drew out his checkbook. “You boys were working in my interest when you lost it,” he insisted, despite the Hardys’ protests.

Once more they pressed the search. Suddenly Frank halted before a small gift shop not far from the docks.

“Those two oriental vases,” he said, pointing to the window. “They’re the same kind as the one Blackstone used to hit Rand!”

Eagerly the party went into the store. Chet noticed a small, shy-looking Negro boy, who had been tagging them constantly, enter after them.

“Oh, those china vases,” the shopkeeper said in answer to Frank’s question. “Yes, they’re always sold in pairs.”

“That explains how Blackstone replaced his,” Frank murmured to the others, as they turned to go. Quickly the little lad slipped out in front of them.

“That kid’s been eavesdropping on us for half an hour,” Chet finally remarked.

“That youngster?” Bart shook his head doubtfully. “He’s doing no harm, I’m sure.”

Next, the Hardys and their friends stopped at an open-air fish market. While Frank, Joe, and Bart questioned the paunchy vendor, Chet watched the little boy sneak up behind the high wheel of a loaded cart of fish, and listen with bright, inquisitive eyes.

“Jenny Shringle?” the vendor repeated. “Sure, I saw her. Just the other day, early—”

Crash! Chet had made a frantic dive at the little eavesdropper. The boy had dodged nimbly, but Chet had caused the whole cartload of fresh, wet fish to tip forward on its two wheels. The fish cascaded in a heap on top of Chet!

“My fish!” cried the vendor.

“My new shirt!” Chet wailed.

“Get that kid!” cried Joe to others on the street. But the little boy disappeared.

After Chet had been helped to his feet, and the Hardys had paid for the fish, the vendor, mollified, went on with his story.

“I was settin’ up my stall t‘other morning. Pretty soon I saw Jenny come by and get on the six-o’clock bus for Sea City. She’s got kin there, you know, Mr. Worth. Right funny, though, she didn’t carry a suitcase.”

“That settles it,” said Frank with satisfaction. “We’re off for Sea City!”

They hurried back to the Record’s parking lot, where the four got into Worth’s green sedan and sped out to the boys’ camp among the dunes. Here Chet quickly changed his fishy shirt, and the party drove off.

They traveled at the highest legal speed toward Sea City. Suddenly Bart slowed down.

“That parked car back there on the shoulder!” he exclaimed. “Professor Rand was in it!”

“Really?” asked Frank, amazed. “Cutter was at the wheel!”

Impatiently Bart sped forward looking for a chance to turn back, but traffic was heavy in both directions. At last he found a chance, but when they retraced their route to the spot, the parked car was gone.

“You’re sure it was Rand?” Frank asked as they headed for Sea City once more.

“Yes,” Worth stated. “He saw me, too.”

“Well, why doesn’t he want anyone to know he’s still around?” Joe wondered.

Nobody could answer this question. When they reached the main street of Sea City, Frank hopped out and went into a drugstore with a phone booth.

Returning, he reported, “Only one Shringle listed in the telephone book,” and gave Bart the address.

Soon they pulled up before a little white bungalow on a side street. The Hardys and Bart alighted and knocked on the door.

A bald, middle-aged man answered. “Oh, you all want to see my cousin Jenny?” he said. “Yes, she’s staying here, but she’s gone for the day to the amusement park on the boardwalk.”

Now the trail was getting hot! When they reached the amusement section, Bart parked his car, and the four walked onto the crowded boardwalk.

It was just after lunchtime. Crowds of vacationers were just leaving a cluster of tables shaded by great beach umbrellas near a boardwalk restaurant.

“There!” cried Bart, pointing.

A middle-aged woman with gray hair was seated at one of the tables. She was sipping an ice-cream soda. As Worth called to her, she looked up at him. Instantly she jumped up, grasped a black purse, and scuttled away.

“Jenny! Wait!” called the editor, as he and the boys dashed after her.

With surprising speed, Jenny Shringle dodged in and out of the throng. Frank gained on her.

“Miss Shringle!” he cried out.

She glanced back with a panicky look but did not slow down.

Suddenly she darted off the walk and halted at one of the amusement ticket windows. The next minute the four friends, running toward her, saw her disappear into a brightly painted “fun house” billed as Bluebeard’s Palace.

At one side of the high, bizarre building, a well-greased wooden slide shot the screaming customers down to the boardwalk.

Chet folded his arms. “Well,” he said, “all we do is wait here till Jenny Shringle comes out. She can’t stay in there forever.”

Bart shook his head. “This fun house is too rough for a woman of Jenny’s age.”

“We’d better go in,” Frank agreed, “before she gets hurt. Bart, you wait here.”

He quickly purchased admission tickets, and the three boys entered the fun house. Frank led the way through a dark, narrow tunnel. Chet followed, then Joe.

As fast as possible, they stumbled forward. Weird screams startled them. Hanging cobwebs brushed their faces. Slithery, snakelike forms writhed underfoot. Finally reaching a level place, they walked ahead rapidly—only to find themselves on a treadmill carrying them backward!

At last, Frank, stepping off the treadmill after the others, entered a dimly lighted chamber with distortion mirrors around the walls.

Suddenly he stopped short. Confronting him was a wide-shouldered, giant figure with a very narrow waist. Frank burst out laughing. It was his own image, greatly exaggerated! Then, reflected behind him loomed another figure of gorilla-like proportions, with a familiar flattened face.

“I warned you!” a hoarse voice rasped.

As the huge arms grabbed for him, Frank ducked nimbly into the next room. In the weird half-light the boy saw that the floor tilted sideways, and the walls were tipped crazily. Frank found that he was forced to run downhill without being able to stop himself.

In another instant he bowled, helpless, into Chet and Joe, who had just picked themselves up at the far wall. The next second, the heavy bulk of the flat-faced man hurtled into their midst. All four went down on the floor in a heap.

Frank, who had been struck hard in the pit of the stomach, gasped for breath. As the four rolled about in a violent struggle, he caught the gleam of a knife in the big man’s hand!

CHAPTER VIII

Campfire Eavesdropper

“LOOK out!” Frank yelled. “He has a knife!”

The boy threw himself on the man’s brawny forearm, seized his wrist, and clung to it grimly.

As their antagonist struggled for a foothold, Joe dived under the blade for an ankle-high tackle. The man smacked heavily into the inclined floor, where Chet pounced on his chest.

All this time Frank had clung to the man’s arm. Now he gave the thick wrist a sudden twisting wrench. The man gave a roar of pain. His big fist opened, and the knife slid harmlessly away over the tilted floor.

“This fun house isn’t much fun any more!” Joe exclaimed.

Savagely the big man kicked and lashed out. The boys gave hard, chopping blows in return.

New customers paused at the entrance to the tilted chamber. With one desperate heave, the flat-faced man shoved the boys aside and fled.

“Look out!” Frank yelled. “He has a knife!”

Recovering, Frank, Joe, and Chet plunged into a dark passage in pursuit. Excited screaming reached their ears from the blackness ahead. Suddenly they found themselves clambering on hands and knees, for the passage now sloped sharply upward. Above them appeared a round hole with the bright daylight showing beyond.

“It’s the exit with the steep chute!” Joe warned. “Hurry!”

Suddenly the short, pudgy figure of a woman teetered in the opening at the top of the slide.

“Oh, oh!” she shrieked in terror. “Please, somebody please help me!”

Just ahead of the boys the hoarse-voiced man climbed into the light. Hastily he dived for the chute, knocking the frightened woman off balance, and going ahead of her. With a scream, she too began to slide down backward.

Frank, quick as lightning, stretched forward, grabbed the woman, and hauled her back to safety.

“Where’s the man?” Joe asked, reaching the top.

“Just went down,” Frank answered.

Immediately Joe, followed by Chet, whisked down the chute to continue the chase.

“I can’t do that!” sobbed the woman.

“It’s all right, Miss Shringle,” Frank said soothingly. “You are Miss Shringle?” She nodded, as he went on, “There must be a stairway nearby.”

As other customers pressed behind them, the boy detected a camouflaged door just beside him. He guided the shaken seamstress through it onto a well-lighted flight of steps. They led down behind the façade of the building.

As Frank, supporting Jenny, returned to the boardwalk, Joe, Chet, and Bart Worth hurried up. “Lost that big guy in the crowd,” Joe reported. “How’s Miss Shringle?”

“She’ll be all right,” Frank assured them as he led Miss Shringle to a bench.

“Yes, yes—thank you so much,” the seamstress mumbled. But she avoided meeting their eyes—especially Bart Worth’s.

“Why did you run away from me, Jenny?” he asked presently.

The woman folded her hands in her lap and stared ahead. “Because—because I’m not allowed to speak to anyone now.” She spoke the words defiantly, but there was fear in her voice.

“Not allowed by whom?” the editor prompted. “Did you come here only to visit your cousin?”

The seamstress shook her head emphatically.

“Is it Blackstone—something to do with the rumors you told me about?”

The woman simply pressed her lips together in stony silence.

“All right. Have it your way.” Bart sighed. “If you want to freshen up, we’ll wait and drive you back to your cousin’s.”

Miss Shringle nodded and hurried off.

“Anyway, we’ve learned something,” Frank pointed out, “just from the questions she won’t answer. We know she’s trying to keep certain information from us.”

“Yes. The name Blackstone is the signal for Jenny to clam up completely,” Joe remarked.

“Did you notice her dress?” Frank went on. “It was new—nothing like the ‘best dress’ her neighbor described. The same with her handbag and hat. Somebody paid her to get out of Larchmont and keep still!”

“Blackstone,” Worth put in with satisfaction. “It must mean he knows my story can be proved!”

Riding back to her cousin’s with them, Jenny Shringle preserved an obstinate silence.

“Jenny, you’ve got to understand how serious this is,” the editor pleaded. “Professor Rand disappeared right after these boys saw Blackstone strike him during an argument.”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “Yet, when we brought back the police for a search of Blackstone’s place, your former employer showed us a friendly note from the professor—to prove the two of them are on good terms.”

A flicker of surprise showed in the woman’s gray eyes. Abruptly she addressed Frank.

“You helped me,” she said, “so I’ll tell you this much. In all the thirty years I worked in that house, the Blackstones had nothing to do with the Rands. Oh, they weren’t feuding. They just ignored each other—never even sent greeting cards. Ruel Rand would as soon write Blackstone a friendly note as jump into that pond I heard them quarreling about!”

“Then you don’t think Rand wrote it?” Frank asked as he escorted the woman up to her cousin’s little white house.

“Impossible,” said Jenny, slipping inside.

In thoughtful silence the young detectives and their client drove back to Larchmont. Night had fallen before they reached the high dunes around the campsite. As the sound of Bart’s car died away on the road back to town, the boys busied themselves with supper preparations.

The camp stove was lighted. Meanwhile, Chet broke a dozen eggs into a bowl and beat them furiously. Joe heated a greased deep skillet over the flame. While the Hardys watched, Chet poured his omelet mixture, muttering all the time like a witch over her brew.

“Ah ... bits of ham—so. Chopped onions ... potatoes ... salt ... Now, with the turner, flip!”

A few minutes later, each boy was balancing a tin plate filled with a huge steaming third of the puffy omelet, and eating by flashlight.

Finishing, Chet gave a sigh of appeased hunger. At that moment, in the rays of the light, Joe saw a pair of white eyes in a dark face. Quickly he signaled the others to remain still. After a moment, the face disappeared.

“It’s the boy who was eavesdropping on us today,” Joe whispered. “Now our campsite is known.” He and Frank decided to trail the lad.

The small figure proved easy to follow among the dunes, for the moonlight was already bright.

“He’s carrying a package,” Frank noted.

The boy had struck across the sand toward the pond. With the help of the moon, the young sleuths kept him in sight all the way.

“He’s heading for the Rand place,” Joe observed as the lad turned left at the pond.

The little boy, however, merely skirted the water and went into the swamp.

“I’ll bet he knows we’re following him,” whispered Frank. “He’s trying to throw us off.”

The lad took the same trail over which the Hardys had chased the tall figure in the long coat a few nights before. The hedge loomed up at the end of the path. The boy disappeared through it.

“Let’s wait here,” Frank suggested. “He’ll think he’s rid of us and come back.”

The brothers crouched behind a bush. Presently a light rustling in the hedge alerted them. In a moment the small boy passed by them. Without his package, he scuttled alongside the pond and over to the Blackstone property. Frank and Joe saw him pause near the big house and look back. Then he vanished into its cellar.

“That’s funny. He sure knows his way around here. Wonder who he is,” Frank muttered.

“Mysterious character number seven.” Joe chuckled. “Let’s have another look at the pond.”

Noiselessly the two boys walked on until they reached the westerly edge of the still water. Suddenly, in the moonlight, a ripple marred the surface very near them.

“The monster!” Joe whispered excitedly.

The saw-tooth fin emerged eerily in the moonlight. The huge creature remained visible for a few seconds, then slipped out of sight into the depths of the pond.

“Back to camp,” Joe said excitedly. “We’ll get our diving gear and bring underwater lights. We’ll find out what that thing is yet!”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “Let’s cut through Blackstone’s property and go to the beach that way. It’ll be easier going, and we’ll save time.”

When the Hardys reached the wealthy man’s well-kept yards, they silently sprinted across the dark lawns, keeping away from the lighted house. But as they raced toward the beach, two enormous, bounding black shapes suddenly flew at them from the side. Blackstone’s two ferocious watchdogs had been turned loose!

With a vicious snarl, the larger of the police dogs leaped at Frank and knocked him to the ground.

CHAPTER IX

Fishing Boat Clue

THE huge dog bared its teeth as it hovered over Frank. Rolling to the side, he seized the animal’s throat to hold the fangs away from his body.

Joe had already whipped off his sweat shirt. He rushed in and bagged the dog’s head with it.

While the baffled animal leaped about, giving short, confused barks, the brothers sprinted toward the ocean. They expected the smaller dog to streak after them, but it remained with its pal.

“That was close!” Joe panted. “You okay, Frank?”

“Yes, but I sure had a good scare. Say, wonder if somebody inside told Mr. Blackstone we were around, and he deliberately set his dogs on us.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Joe grumbled.

In camp once more, the young sleuths told Chet their plan, then loaded aqualungs, masks, weighted belts, Frank’s flippers, and underwater lights into rucksacks. With Chet carrying their fishing spears, they set out for the pond.

To avoid Blackstone’s dogs, the boys went by way of the tangled underbrush directly to the pond. The Hardys rigged themselves out for their plunge. Each brother grasped a spear in one hand and an underwater lamp in the other.

“Chet,” Frank said, “if anybody comes, or if you see that monster surface, knock two stones together under water to warn us.”

“Check.”

The two divers submerged. For a while Chet could see their lamps moving in ever-widening arcs away from him. Soon the lights grew dim and finally vanished altogether. Chet felt very much alone with the gloomy swamp across the pond, a mysterious, deserted mansion to his left, and fierce dogs to his right.

A splash startled him. An unearthly looking creature suddenly reared up from the water close by and came toward him.

“Yi! Help!” he bellowed.

“Keep still, for Pete’s sake!” came Joe’s calm voice. “I got some mud on me, that’s all.”

Soon Frank, also looking like some sort of monster in his mud-covered equipment, waded ashore.

“Nothing,” he reported. “No sign of the prehistoric critter. We covered the whole pond.”

Quickly the brothers washed and dressed. Shouldering their packs, they hiked back to camp for a well-earned night’s rest.

In the bright sunshine of the next morning, the waves rolled in from the blue Atlantic. Frank and Joe, in bathing trunks, dashed across the beach and dived into the breakers.

“Terrific!” Joe yelled, riding in on the crest of a wave. “Where’s Chet?”

“Getting breakfast!” Frank shouted as he swam. “Since when can he wait to eat?”

Suddenly Frank swam over to Joe. “There’s that fishing smack again,” he said, glancing seaward. “It’s closer this morning.”

Joe nodded. “I just realized that boat’s been out there ever since the morning after we set up camp. Once in a while I’ve spotted a figure on deck, but mostly the boat looks deserted.” Suddenly he stared at his brother. “You don’t think somebody’s anchored out there to spy on us?”

“That’s a good hunch,” Frank answered as the boys swam ashore. “Let’s look into it later,” he proposed. “First, though, we’d better see if we can locate Grover or Professor Rand. I’m convinced both know something important to Bart’s case.”

Later, as the chums ate breakfast, Frank said, “I wonder if that little boy is a relative of Grover‘s, and was taking that package to him?”

“Mm.” Joe pondered this. “What do you suppose was in the package?”

“Food,” Chet said promptly. “What else?”

Though the Hardys laughed, they considered Chet’s conclusion a good one. “If Grover is in hiding for some reason,” Frank said, “maybe the little boy brings him his meals. Let’s go over to Professor Rand’s this morning and scout around that hedge.”

An hour later Joe was slipping through the hedge opening where the Negro boy had disappeared the night before. He slid down to the meadow beneath. Frank and Chet followed.

Once in the field, they saw that the high bank of shrubbery extended from the back of the old mansion deep into the swamp. The boys moved along the base of the seven-foot rise toward the house.

A thick blackberry patch choked the end of the meadow. Picking and eating the fruit as he tramped through the patch, Chet suddenly called out, “Say, here are some bricks, fellows. Looks like a chimney. And here’s a corroded copper pot. Must be the ruins of an old kitchen.”

“That’s it!” Frank cried, running over.

“What?” Joe asked.

“We’re right behind the big house,” his brother pointed out. “Chet has just found the remains of the old plantation kitchen.”

“So?”

“That’s how the prowler in the long coat vanished! There must be an underground passage from this spot to the house which was used for carrying the cooked food in olden days.”

“Come on!” cried Joe. “Let’s find it!”

Carefully the boys scoured the surrounding terrain, but they saw no evidence of any passage.

“We’ll come back tonight,” Joe proposed, “and watch for the little boy. He’ll lead us to it.”

“Right,” Frank said. “Our next move is to investigate the fishing smack.”

Once more the friends returned to camp. After lunch they mapped out careful plans for their sleuthing maneuvers. Then the Hardys piled their skin-diving gear into the yellow convertible and, with Chet, drove to the Larchmont docks.

“Another boat!” repeated the man at the boat livery. “Why, you fellers didn’t bring back the first one you rented!”

“We will this time,” Frank assured him. “We’d like to buy some fishing tackle and bait, too.”

The transactions were completed. Soon the young detectives were chugging over the blue-green water past the buoys. When the boat had left the inlet behind, it turned along the shore line.

As planned, Chet at the wheel guided the craft gradually in the direction of the fishing smack. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe put on their diving gear and lay down out of sight below the gunwales. Presently Chet anchored a few hundred yards from the suspicious fishing vessel. Quietly the Hardys slipped over the side into the ocean, hoping they had not been seen. Nonchalantly the plump boy began to fish.

A short time later Frank and Joe came noiselessly to the surface beside the smack’s hull. Treading water, they listened intently as hot, angry voices reached their ears.

“We’ve given you every opportunity, Jed,” came one voice louder and sharper than the others. “You muffed them all. First the warehouse trick, then you wrecked the wrong car. They got away from the lighthouse alive and slipped through your fingers in Sea City. What good does it do for Stewart and me to watch their movements and inform you?”

“I couldn’t help it,” complained a familiar hoarse voice. “Those kids are a tougher job than I expected.”

Excitedly Joe whispered, “So the flat-faced guy is named Jed—and he’s in cahoots with Cutter!”

Frank nodded tensely. The argument aboard continued. “Well, see that you don’t fail next time,” barked Cutter. “We’ll never get what we want if we don’t stop those meddling snoopers!”

The speakers lowered their voices, making it impossible for the boys to hear more. Submerging, Frank and Joe stroked back to their own boat.

“Boy, have I got fish,” Chet announced proudly as he helped his friends aboard. “Look at these!”

“We made a catch, too.” Joe told him what they had overheard at the fishing vessel as the little boat chugged back to harbor.

“All of which means,” Frank added, “that Cutter is out to get us, and that hoarse-voiced fellow is in league with him, and was the ‘ghost’ on Storm Island!”

Chet looked mystified. “You think Cutter’s antique business is just a cover-up and he’s in Blackstone’s pay?”

“Could be,” Frank replied. “Also, he could be in Rand’s pay, for that matter. Though I still have a hunch the professor isn’t a crook. Maybe Cutter’s working some game of his own.”

After returning the boat, the boys drove straight back to the dunes.

“Out of the way!” Chet ordered as the Hardys offered to help with supper. “These are special fish. Ole Chet caught ‘em, Ole Chet will cook ’em, and Ole Chet will serve ‘em!”

“Okay.” Frank laughed. “Just so Old Chet doesn’t do all the eating, too.”

“Time to work!” Joe grinned, as they finished supper. “On we go to Professor Rand’s.”

Though it was still daylight, the boys took their flashlights and set off. When they reached the meadow, they hid in the berry patch and settled down to wait for the little Negro boy to appear.

Frank’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the surrounding area. “You know,” he whispered, “these old kitchen fragments may have been moved here. This may not have been a kitchen at all. Let’s try those other bushes—at the base of the bank.”

“Good deduction,” said Joe.

The youths arose and searched carefully behind the thick screen of brush Frank had pointed out.

“Here!” Joe signaled, his fingers touching a stone frame set into the steep rise under the hedge. The other boys joined him.

Elatedly, the three stared at a heavy wooden door. “The entrance to the passageway, I’ll bet!” Chet exclaimed.

“Sh!” Frank warned. “Someone’s coming!”

The three shrank into the bushes and waited breathlessly. There was faint rustling, and the little boy came by with a newspaper-wrapped package. He went through the door!

As soon as they dared, Frank, Joe, and Chet noiselessly followed, and entered a dark brick-walled passageway. Ahead and to their left, a dim shaft of light knifed into the darkness, then vanished as the small boy went through a low door.

The youths crept forward. Chet and Joe tensed expectantly as Frank placed his hand on the door ready to shove it inward.

“Here goes!” he whispered.

CHAPTER X

Hidden Passageway

AT FRANK’S push the heavy door swung inward and banged against the wall.

“Oh—oh—go away, sir. Go away!” sang out a child’s dear voice.

The Hardys and Chet stared in astonishment at the scene before them. The yellow light of a kerosene lamp on a small wooden table revealed the seated figures of the little Negro boy and the old servant, Grover. In the man’s hands, partially opened, was the small package, containing meat and bread.

In his confusion the lad almost tipped over backward in his chair. He leaped up and scampered into the shadows of several huge wooden barrels ranged sideways upon racks.

But the elderly man stood up calmly and faced the boys across the glass chimney of the lamp. “What is it you want?” he asked in a low voice.

“You must know, Grover,” Frank answered as Joe and Chet stepped into the light. “You saw Mr. Blackstone strike Professor Rand, and you saw us come to ask about it. We know there’s something peculiar going on, and we are trying to find out what it is.”

“I’m not talking to you.” The thin old man’s eyes flashed in sudden anger. “You’ve got no business here. Timmy!” He turned to the lad. “Did you show these folks where to find me?”

An eye and a forehead peered around a cask. “No, Grandpa,” came Timmy’s small voice.

“You come on out here,” Grover ordered. “We’ve been found. There’ll be a heap of trouble for you and me now.”

“We’re sorry,” Frank said kindly, as the little boy crept timidly to his grandfather’s side. “We don’t intend any harm. I don’t think you realize how important it is for us to talk to you. Somebody’s been trying to kill us, or at least scare us off this case. Professor Rand might tell us why, but he has evidently disappeared. Unless you help us, we haven’t a chance of straightening things out.”

As briefly as possible, Frank explained to the elderly retainer why the boys had come to Larchmont. While he spoke, the old servant watched him closely. The anger faded from his eyes, and the lines of his face deepened with concern.

“I just knew, if they started that feud up again there wasn’t any good going to come of it!” Grover sighed. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you folks what I can. I don’t like trouble. The faster everything’s cleared up, the happier lots of folks will be.”

“Did Mr. Blackstone send you here to hide from us?” Joe queried.

“Yes, sir, he did,” Grover admitted. “From Mr. Worth, too. And he sent Miss Shringle some money to go off and visit her relatives.”

“So you were here the whole time, instead of in Chicago,” Joe continued.

“Mr. Blackstone wanted me to go out there,” Grover admitted. “But when a body gets as old as I am, he’s kind of scared to ride in trains or airplanes way off a thousand miles away from where he’s been living all his life. So I said I’d keep snug in this beverage room, instead. I suppose you guessed this is the old plantation kitchen passage. Both sides of the family know about it.”

“You’ve been with the Blackstones a long time?” Chet spoke up.

“All my life, sir. My father served the Blackstones, and his father did, too. Used to be a grand family, way back.”

“But why did this Mr. Blackstone make you hide out?” Joe prompted. “Because we’d ask you about the quarrel we saw?”

“Yes. The two gentlemen are fighting over that pond again. But somehow they don’t want people to know they’re fighting over it. Soon as Mr. Blackstone hit Mr. Rand with that vase, I switched off the lights—in case somebody was watching.”

“But how did you cover it up so fast?” Joe wondered.

“Oh, Mr. Blackstone and I carried Professor Rand into the next room. Then we swept the broken pieces of the vase under a rug. Mr. Blackstone put on his relaxing jacket and set that twin vase on his desk. He opened up his book. Then I went and let you boys in.”

“Professor Rand’s all right, then?” Frank inquired.

“Yes, he came round after an hour, mad as a wet hen. Couldn’t complain much though, because they didn’t want to attract anybody’s attention about their arguing over the land. After Professor Rand left, Mr. Blackstone said that he wanted me to go to Chicago for a while.”

“Do you know where the professor is staying?” Frank asked.

Grover shrugged. “If he’s gone, I don’t know where he’s keepin’ himself. Timmy, have you seen Mr. Rand around lately?”

“No, Grandpa,” replied the lad meekly. With round eyes, he watched the boys.

“Timmy’s been sort of shadowing you,” the old man explained. “He was afraid you’d make trouble for me if you found me.” Grover smiled at his grandson. “These gentlemen are all right, Timmy. No need to fear.”

At this point Joe decided to try a new lead. “Grover,” he began, “do you know why the Rands and Blackstones are fighting over the border line property again? Is it because the Blackstone family fortune is buried on it somewhere?”

“Also, where’s Hidden Harbor?” Frank added.

For a moment Grover blinked at the boys in amazement. “How’d you all know about that?”

Quickly Joe recounted the discovery of the captain’s note while the boys were marooned at the lighthouse.

“You all know about as much about it as I do,” Grover informed them. “Old Mr. Clement Blackstone, they say, buried his money and family papers before he sailed away to England. That was while the Civil War was going on. Mr. Clement never came back. He died over there—after the war. Then the Rands and Blackstones started feuding about that land.”

“Where was the treasure buried, exactly?” Joe pursued. “Didn’t anybody ever dig it up?”

“Seems they kind of lost track of things, somehow,” the old man answered, obviously puzzled himself. “My daddy told me when I was a boy he once heard it was buried at the mouth of Hidden Harbor, but I don’t know any Hidden Harbor.”

“Hmm, that’s something new, anyhow,” Joe observed. “At the mouth of the harbor.”

“It’s the key to the whole case,” Frank declared earnestly. “Not the money, but the papers. They’ll tell us how the fortune was made. They might prove Bart’s story!”

After a moment’s reflection, he injected a new idea. “You say everybody ‘lost track’ of the fortune, Grover,” Frank said. “Didn’t the feud die down just about the same time? There must be some connection.”

“You mean,” Joe put in, “both families wanted the disputed land in order to locate Clement’s buried fortune. But after they ‘lost track’ of it, the land wasn’t important to them any more?”

“Right,” Frank said. “The feud has started up again because somebody found a clue to the fortune.”

“I can’t be rightly sure,” Grover suddenly declared, “but it seems to me Professor Rand is kind of looking for that money. Fact is, he was the one started up this feuding. Mr. Blackstone, he’s a rich man—he doesn’t need any more money than he’s got. But Mr. Rand—well, you boys have seen his house. He sure could use a fortune.”

“That’s a logical idea,” Joe agreed.

“Then what is Blackstone making such a fuss about?” demanded Chet, bewildered.

“Oh, Blackstone may not want the money,” Joe pointed out. “It’s those family papers he doesn’t want found, because they contain proof of something he doesn’t want publicized.”

“I get it! The piracy and smuggling charges!” Chet exclaimed. “The evidence Bart needs!”

Frank nodded decisively. “All this boils down to one thing, fellows: We must find Hidden Harbor and find it fast, before Bart’s case comes to court!”

Suddenly Joe held up his hand, warning for silence. From outside the room, the sound of leather heels striking upon brick reached them.

“Somebody’s comin’ down the passage,” Grover whispered nervously.

Quickly the old man bent over the lamp chimney and gave a strong puff. The old beverage room was plunged into total darkness. The footsteps passed by, unhurried, in the direction of the plantation house.

“Who could it be?” Frank asked Grover.

“I don’t know, sir,” was the answer. “Nobody knows this place except the family and the servants.”

“Joe, you and I will follow that man!” Frank decided quickly. “Chet, stay out in the passage by this room. Just make sure the fellow doesn’t slip back and escape.”

Cautiously Frank pulled back the door, and the three slipped into the dark passageway. Ahead, the footsteps sounded on the brick floor with a regular, hollow ring.

“Knows his way,” Joe murmured as the brothers crept along in pursuit.

Abruptly the sharp heel taps ceased. A moment later came a steady scraping sound.

“He’s climbing stairs,” whispered Frank.

Hurrying forward, the young sleuths found that the passage branched into two corridors. One led to a narrow brick stairway.

“Must go to the second story,” Frank deduced. “The other branch probably leads to the kitchen of the house.”

Afraid to turn on their flashes lest they be detected, the boys mounted the steps. A narrow slit of light indicated a door slightly ajar above them. After listening carefully a moment, Frank pushed it lightly, and he and Joe stepped into an empty closet.

At the front of the closet was another door, opened a crack. Warily, the brothers stepped into a lamplit room.

As the young detectives looked curiously around them, a sudden sound on their right caused them to whirl sharply.

The hall door to the room they had entered was just closing. The Hardys heard the metallic click of a key turning, and a lock bar sliding into place.

Fearing trouble, Joe raced to the tunnel entrance. It was locked.

CHAPTER XI

Acrobatic Detectives

“LOCKED in!” exclaimed Joe, rattling the door handle. “What’s the idea?” He and Frank heard the booted footsteps retreating along the hall and down a stairway.

The boys surveyed their little prison. A narrow bed and broad writing table were the extent of the furniture, except for well-stocked bookshelves that covered two walls from floor to ceiling.

“This must be Professor Rand’s study,” Frank whispered. He examined the volumes briefly. “They’re all on ancient Indian civilizations,” he noted. “And look! Here are some written by Professor Rand.”

“Very interesting,” Joe said wryly. “Right now I’m more interested in getting out of here.”

“Let’s try the window,” proposed Frank.

He pulled open two narrow french doors. A gust of cold wind from the sea struck the boys as they stepped onto a railed balcony.

“No ground supports,” Joe noted, leaning out over the rail. “We’re too high to jump.”

The brothers looked around from their perch, located on the front face of the mansion. The huge trees were out of reach, as was the roof above them.

Suddenly, below them, the Hardys distinctly heard the sound of a door closing.

“Over there!” Joe pointed toward a tall man’s figure. The man paused to jerk a flashlight from his pocket. In the same motion, something white fluttered to the ground. Then the man, carrying a spade, slipped around the corner of the house..

“Must be Professor Rand!” Joe hissed excitedly. “I wish we could get hold of that paper he dropped.”

Frank nodded. “Wonder if he locked us in.”

Just then a swift gust of wind carried the white square upward. It wavered, and spiraled around directly toward the boys!

The Hardys clutched and pawed the air. Maddeningly the paper swooped high, sideslipped, and landed on another little balcony two window widths from their own.

“Too far to jump,” Frank judged. “See if we can bridge it. We must get that paper. I’ve a hunch it’s important!” he declared grimly.

They stepped over the top rail together. As Frank wedged his toes under the bottom rail and grasped the lower sections of two of the sturdy spindles, Joe, facing outward, bent down and took hold of his brother’s ankles.

“Ready!” he called.

Frank loosened his foothold but held fast to the spindles as Joe gave a mighty swing, carrying both boys into the air. Joe, finding he could reach the next balcony, hooked his knees over its railing, let go his grip on Frank, and pulled himself up. But just as he stepped to safety, a fresh gust of wind whirled the white paper upward and away.

The paper sailed farther and farther. Finally it disappeared around the corner of the house.

Now, trying the french windows on his own balcony, Joe found them locked securely. The boys groaned and Frank said, “This would have been a swell time to follow the fellow in the raincoat.”

“I’ll bet he locked us in,” Joe reasoned. “He left the secret door through the closet open and the light on in the study, to trap us.”

Frank had another theory. “Maybe it wasn’t Rand whose steps we heard. Someone else could’ve set the trap. The professor might’ve been here the whole time and never realized what was going on.”

Suddenly, between rushes of wind, a faint whistling came to the boys’ ears from the grounds.

Who could that be? the Hardys wondered.

Again the whistling came. Then a white-shirted figure crept cautiously out in front of the house.

“Chet!” called Frank with relief.

“Here I am,” came the reply. “Got tired of waiting in that old passage. What are you two doing up there, anyhow?”

“We’re locked out,” Joe told him. “See if you can get into the house and free us.”

The stout boy marched up to the front door, and tried it. “Locked,” he muttered. Almost automatically he stooped and looked under the mat. “Yes. Here we are—a key.”

Inserting it in the lock, Chet opened the heavy door and vanished inside. In two minutes he freed Joe, then Frank. “That was easy,” he said. “Where do we go now?”

“Back outside,” Frank answered. “We have a flying clue to bring down!”

After bolting the room door, the three raced downstairs, locked the front door, replaced the key, and ran around the house. By now the dusk had deepened.

“No flashlights,” said Frank. “We’ll have a better chance to see the paper against a dark background.”

Frank turned his gaze upward. “There it is!” he announced.

High in the wisteria covering the wide chimney, fluttered the white square of paper.

“Oh-h,” moaned Chet. “Three of us standing on each other’s shoulders couldn’t reach that high.”

“No, but if the top man had a stick, he might,” Frank pointed out.

While Chet and Frank kept watch on the unpredictable paper, Joe found a fallen branch.

“You’re elected anchor man, Chet,” Joe said, returning. Frank hauled himself up to stand on the stout boy’s shoulders. Then Joe hoisted himself up onto his brother’s. He clutched the wisteria vine for balance and began to fish upward with the stick.

“Can’t ... reach it.” Joe grunted, extending to his utmost length.

“You’re stepping on my ear,” warned Frank.

In desperation, Joe took aim and flung his branch upward. With a rustling of leaves, the paper came free. The human ladder collapsed, the Hardys breaking their fall by somersaulting. The trio dashed after the white square, which now sailed toward the back of the house.

Here the wind was not so strong. The paper lost altitude, and Joe, rushing up with a cry of triumph, made a neat two-handed catch.

While Chet held his flashlight, the Hardys examined their find. Two sheets of white paper were stapled together. The one on top appeared to be a carefully hand-drawn map.

“It’s the Rand property,” said Frank. “Here’s the house, with the pond and swamp behind. But what’s this encircled area?” Squinting closer, he read the small printed words which covered the pond and part of the swamp:

SITE OF ANCIENT INDIAN VILLAGE

“What’s on the second page?” Joe asked.

“It’s a letter to Professor Rand from State University,” Frank reported, after scanning the document briefly. “It says they have no funds for excavation of the site indicated, without more proof that something of archaeological value exists.”

“So that’s what Rand wants to find!” Joe exclaimed. “An ancient Indian village—not the buried family fortune!”

“Don’t be too sure,” Frank cautioned. “He may be trying to kill two birds with one stone. Maybe he wants the money to finance the excavation.”

After tucking the two papers in his pocket, Frank led the way toward the pond. A light moved slowly among the big, moss-hung cypresses of the swamp.

As the boys crept nearer, they spotted the tall figure digging, and stooping to examine each spadeful.

“That must be Professor Rand!” Joe whispered. Impetuously he started forward, but Frank pulled his brother back.

“What’s the matter? We’ve been trying to catch up with Rand for days!” Joe argued.

“It’s not the right time,” Frank countered. “He’s doing his best to hide his activities, besides dodging us! Do you think we’d learn anything from him at this point?”

“Well, I guess he wouldn’t be very friendly,” Joe admitted.

“He’ll be more on his guard than ever,” Frank went on. “It would be better to let him think we’ve given up. But we’ll spy on him, starting right now.”

“Still, we can’t wait too long,” Joe insisted. “The trial against Bart Worth is getting closer, and we haven’t turned up the evidence he needs.”

All this time the boys had been moving forward and presently were in an advantageous position to watch the digger. To their disappointment the man stopped his work almost immediately, swung the shovel over his shoulder, and started back in the direction from which he had come.

“I guess he’s through for tonight, and we didn’t learn a thing,” Chet complained, sloshing in and out of the mucky swamp.

The digger, familiar with the area, outdistanced them. When the boys reached the Rand house, it was in darkness.

“Let’s get back to camp,” Chet begged. “I’ve had it. Besides, there’s food back there.”

The Hardys, feeling they could learn nothing more at the moment, agreed. Next morning found them driving to Larchmont on a new angle.

“Guess Joe and I will have a history lesson at the library,” Frank told Chet, “while you stock up on food.”

They stopped at the town’s public library and the Hardys went inside. Chet continued on to shop for food. Soon Frank and Joe were engrossed in a thickly bound stack of yellowed newspapers dating back before the Civil War.

“Plenty of piracy and smuggling going on along this coast just before the war,” Frank observed.

“Yes,” Joe corroborated. “Officials couldn’t tell where all the stolen goods and contraband were coming from.”

“The name Blackstone seems to have become more and more prominent in business, social, and civic events,” Frank went on. “Anything else interesting?”

“This paper reports a tremendous hurricane just after the Civil War ended. Nothing to do with our case, I suppose.”

The boys finished their research and left the library. Chet was waiting outside in the convertible.

“Saw Mr. Cutter hanging around the supermarket,” he reported. “Think he saw me but didn’t let on.”

“He’s so busy keeping tabs on us he doesn’t have time for his own business,” Joe stated.

“Why don’t we trail him?”

Frank had another idea. “I think now we ought to look for Hidden Harbor—from the air, where we’ll have a better view. The Blackstones could have done all the smuggling mentioned in the newspapers by means of such a secret harbor. That would explain their sudden prosperity, and also why Rand and Blackstone, despite their differences, are so hush-hush over everything.”

“You fellows go on,” Chet said. “I’ll take this stuff back to camp. What’ll you do for a plane?”

“Engage Al West,” Joe answered. “I’ll check with the airport.”

The boy made his call from a booth in a store. He learned that the young pilot would be glad to take them up. “Come right over,” Al said.

When Joe left, he spotted Mr. Stewart seated in the adjoining booth! “Did he overhear me?” Joe wondered.

Chet drove the convertible back to camp with the supplies, while Frank and Joe hailed the rather antiquated yellow-and-black town taxi. Soon they were heading along the main road to the airport. Frank watched carefully, but nobody seemed to be following them.

At the airport Al greeted the Hardys affably and invited them to lunch in the airport cafeteria. Afterward, the three boarded Al’s trim amphibian. Frank sat beside the pilot, Joe behind him in a comfortable leather seat. After getting clearance from the tower, Al gunned the plane down the runway, eased back on the wheel, and they were air-borne. For some minutes the ship gained altitude. Then, without warning, it lurched violently to portside and nosed down.

Frank was thrown against the pilot, who slammed sideways against the cockpit window.

“What’s wrong?” Joe shouted.

“Don’t know,” Frank replied, then suddenly he said, “Al’s out coldl We’ll crash!”

CHAPTER XII

Alligator!

WITH engines roaring, the amphibian was heading toward the ground at a steep angle.

“Good night!” Joe yelled.

Frank sprang into action. He pushed Al back into the seat with his left arm, seized the wheel with his right hand, and pulled back. No response !

Joe reached forward, grasped Al’s shoulders, and straightened the limp pilot in his seat. Frank, with both hands on the wheel now, strained to level the faltering plane. Sweat stood out on his forehead as the wooded swamp beneath them seemed to rush upward.

Barely at treetop level, the craft recovered from its sickening dive.

Al’s eyes fluttered open. He shook his head, then he came fully alert as several branches scraped the bottom of his craft. He grasped the wheel from Frank, and with his jaw set grimly, fought for altitude.

Nobody spoke until Al banked toward the airport.

“Thanks,” he said, “I think we’ll make it.”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“Control failure. Something went haywire.”

Al radioed for emergency clearance.. and brought the plane in for a rough landing. When they climbed out, shaken by their close brush with death, Al summoned the maintenance crew. Together they went over the controls.

“Here’s your trouble,” one of the mechanics said finally. “A stabilizer cable has been cutl”

“Sabotage!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank nodded understandingly. “Stewart must’ve heard you telephone the airport. But how did he have time to get here and cut the cable before we arrived?”

Joe, seeing a puzzled look on Al’s face, told him of Cutter’s and Stewart’s apparent attempts on the boys’ lives.

The pilot frowned. “What road did you take out here?” he asked.

“The main highway from Larchmont.”

“There’s a shorter way, over back roads. That old taxi probably crawled like a snail, too. Stewart could easily have beaten you here, and tampered with the ship while we ate lunch.”

Al brought out his tool kit and quickly fixed the damaged cable. He threw a calculating glance at the sky, where dark clouds were forming in the west.

“Storm’s coming up,” he said. “But I guess we still have time to look around before it hits.”

Once more, the silver amphibian raced down the runway and lifted into the air.

“I hope Chet nails things down at camp,” Frank remarked.

“He’d better. Haven’t you heard?” Al asked. “Hurricane warnings have been out since last night. There’s a big one working up from the Gulf of Mexico, but she shouldn’t arrive here for several hours.”

The craft passed high over Larchmont, then winged above the ocean. The choppy water was a deep, black-tinged green. White lines of foam stroked far up on the beach.

“There’s our tent!” Joe called out.

“Yes, and there’s our enemy’s observation post.” Frank pointed to the fishing smack bobbing at anchor on the rough water.

Al West banked the ship inland across the pale, high-peaked sand dunes. From this height, all the huge ancestral Blackstone plantation was visible at once. On the right, the shiny slates of Samuel Blackstone’s home peeped through well-spaced trees. Rand’s mansion, nearly overgrown, was harder to pick out. Between the two houses, the pond reflected the troubled gray sky. At the edge of the water on the ocean side, black-cypress foliage indicated the swampland.

“You say you’re looking for a harbor?” Al was perplexed. “A harbor means a break in the coast, fellows. It’s solid beach and dunes along here.”

Frank was eying the fingers of water leading from the pond, some wide, some narrow, which lost themselves among the dunes or stretched into the swamp among the cypresses.

“Go lower, Al,” Frank directed. “Let’s see where some of those bayous lead.”

“Okay,” said Al. “But none of those little inlets reaches to the ocean or ever has so long as I’ve been around here—and that’s all my life!”

A closer view appeared to upset a theory Frank had that at one time there might have been a channel leading to a harbor. But now every finger of water was choked by stumps or ended in a mass of vegetation.

The amphibian spiraled slowly upward again, then made another run over the area.

“Say,” Frank cried out suddenly, “the pond does have a big loop in it directly in the center of the ocean side, and one of these fingers runs straight toward the sea.”

The others agreed. Then Frank added, “I see something else. That finger of water is of a lighter shade than the pond. There may still be an underground stream running from the ocean to the pond—but not enough to cause any perceptible rise and fall of the pond with the tide.”

“Why is the inlet lighter?” Joe asked.

“Probably a different kind of soil underneath,” remarked Al. “Well, fellows, do you all want to head back now?”

“Hold it!” Joe cried suddenly. “There’s a boat! On one of those strips of water!”

Al kicked his ship into a sharp wing over that brought his craft low over the spot. A rowboat was quickly pulled out of sight in the hanging moss.

“What would a boat be doing in there?” Frank wondered.

“Yes,” Joe put in. “I’d like to go down and find that man!”

“Maybe we can,” Frank suggested. “How about it, Al? Could you set us down on the pond?”

Apprehensively the pilot checked the clouded skies. He looked at his watch.

“Okay,” he agreed. “But don’t make it long. When that storm hits, she’ll be a honey. I want this ship safe in her hangar long before then!”

Veering round, the silver craft came in just over the cypresses, glided onto the pond, and floated toward shore.

Quickly the Hardys rigged mooring lines. Then the brothers waded ashore and plunged into the swamp.

Ducking under vines and hanging moss, leaping from one solid foothold to another, they pushed toward the spot where they had seen the rowboat disappear.

Under the cypresses, silence prevailed. In spite of the unsettled weather above, the thick mossy curtains scarcely moved. Frank and Joe forged ahead and presently found themselves beside a wide stream, which was running toward the pond.

Frank tasted the water. “Fresh,” he announced.

Narrowing and branching, the little stream led them deeper into the treacherous area. At last Joe halted, crouching, behind a huge fallen tree trunk. Ahead, through the moss, he had spotted the rowboat.

A blue-shirted, slightly built man with his back to the boys leaned over the stern. He wore gloves. Hand over hand, he brought up a dripping object in a net.

“A baby alligator!” Frank whispered.

The man dropped the reptile into a deep box on his boat, and lowered his net again. Twice more the Hardys watched him bring up a similar catch.

“That’s illegal,” Frank commented quietly. He slipped over the huge tree trunk and crept ahead. Joe, following, supported himself against one of the tree’s low-hanging limbs. Suddenly the branch gave way with a loud crack.

Instantly the stranger dropped low in his boat. The next moment he came up again with a blue shotgun barrel trained in the Hardys’ direction. A blast and a puff of gray smoke followed rapidly. Deadly pellets ripped shreds in the hanging moss and leaves just beside the brothers.

Frank and Joe were hugging the mucky earth when the second blast sounded. This time the shot rattled into a fallen tree trunk right behind them.

“Keep down!” Frank warned. “He may have another shell ready!”

But now the stranger was bending low over his oars. With quick pulls on them he sent the boat up the little stream, and in a moment was out of sight around a bend.

“Better let him go if we don’t want to get shot,” Frank said. “Let’s look at the alligator nest.”

Frank and Joe clambered forward to the mud-bank.

“Besides poaching baby alligators,” said Frank, “he was stealing the eggs, too. Look. There’s the nest he was rifling.”

The boy pointed to a freshly dug mound of mud at the very end of the oozy bank. Half sunk in the muck and water was a fallen tree trunk. Balancing themselves, the boys walked out on it for a look.

“I guess these poachers sell the baby alligators to tourists and pet shops,” Joe said.

“Well, the fellow should be reported,” Frank stated flatly. “Alligators in this country are protected by law against poaching. That’s why he shot at us.”

Stooping, Frank peered into the muddy hole, but no eggs were visible. He straightened up, then looked around, puzzled.

“Say, which way is the plane? We couldn’t have come far, but I’ve lost my sense of direction in this place.”

“Yell,” Joe suggested. “When Al answers, we’ll know which way to go.”

“Al! Al West!” The boys’ voices echoed through the silent swamp.

“Louder!” Joe urged, cupping his hands and taking in a tremendous breath. “Hey‾All Where are you?”

In his strenuous effort, the boy lost his balance on the slippery trunk. With a splash he went down into the water. Grabbing the trunk with both hands, he tried to hoist himself out.

“My legsl They’re caught in some vines!” he gasped.

Stooping to aid his brother, Frank spotted a sudden movement on the surface of the stream. Then he recognized the snout of an alligator. The angry reptile was swimming straight toward Joe!

CHAPTER XIII

Hurricane

JoE, trapped, blanched when he caught sight of the oncoming alligator. Frank balanced himself on the fallen trunk and glanced quickly about for a means of rescue. A stout log about four feet long floated by. Seizing the log, Frank lifted it over his head in both hands.

When the alligator’s ugly snout came into range, Frank hurled his weapon with a mighty thrust. A solid crack told him that the heavy log had struck the animal’s head. The huge reptile rolled over, its short legs flailing helplessly and tail lashing from side to side.

Meanwhile, Frank jumped into the water beside his brother. Three quick slashes with his jack-knife severed the underwater vines, and the two boys scrambled onto the trunk in safety.

“Whew!” Joe gulped. “Thanks, lifesaver! Let’s go.”

The brothers once more started off in the direction they judged the seaplane to be. “All” they kept shouting. “Al West!”

No answer from the pilot came through the dim swamp. But now, the tops of the cypresses swayed and the hanging moss quivered as the advance winds of the storm began to pick up. Suddenly, from some distance behind the Hardys, an airplane engine roared.

“We’ve been heading in the wrong direction!” Frank cried out. “Come on! Hurry!”

The treacherous, boggy ground prevented quick progress, however. All around the light was quickly dimming. Frank and Joe forged doggedly on, and finally the throb of the plane’s engine grew louder.

“We’re getting there!” Frank panted in relief.

At last they broke through to the shore of the pond. Overhead, dark shreds of clouds were being driven across the sky like streams of smoke. A light rain slanted across the water and Al West, with a worried frown, was just about to take off.

Upon seeing Frank and Joe, he gave a joyful shout. “You were gone such a long time,” he called, “I got scared, and revved up the motor for a signal. Storm’s arriving ahead of schedule. If we take off now, we’ll just about make it!”

Quickly the boys climbed aboard. Turning the plane, Al ran it down the pond until she rose, bucking, into the stiff gusts of the approaching storm.

Now the lead-gray sea, crossed with white foam, was running high up the beach below.

“Chet!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. “He’s had no warning of the hurricane. We must get to him. Al, can you set us down near our camp?”

The pilot looked out his window, against which the rain was beating hard. “Sea’s getting too mean for this ship,” he said. “Even that fishing smack has run for shelter somewhere. I know! There’s a flat, firm beach a little way up from your place.”

Minutes later, the skilled pilot brought his plane down in a neat landing only yards from the big breakers now crashing higher and higher up the sand.

“So long—good luck!” the Hardys called as Al lifted his craft into the buffeting air currents once more, and winged for the airport.

Frank and Joe plowed through the sand toward camp. “Wow!” Joe exclaimed, struggling against the wind. “It must be blowing at forty miles an hour already!”

Whirling sand and gale-driven rain slashed at the boys as they raced along the beach and rounded the big dune. Just as they did, Frank gave a shout.

“Our tent!”

Their canvas shelter, straining from its one remaining rope, suddenly jerked loose and was carried off by the howling wind.

Fearfully the brothers looked around the devastated camp, now a confusion of ropes, poles, and blowing sand. There was no sign of Chet.

“Maybe he’s taken shelter,” Joe yelled above the screaming gale. “We’d better find some ourselves!”

“Let’s try the underground passage to Rand‘s,” Frank decided quickly. “It’s the safest place.”

As the winds increased to hurricane force, making a continual eerie wail in the scrubby pines, the boys set out on a loping run from the beach toward the pond.

The storm rose to full fury. The sky had become pitch dark, although it was only about six o‘clock. Cold, heavy sheets of rain drove in sideways from the sea. The wind pressed relentlessly at the boys’ backs.

They were forced to break into a fast run along the pond toward Rand’s. Suddenly, above them, came an explosive splintering sound.

“Look out!” Frank yelled, yanking Joe aside.

The next instant an enormous dead oak, throwing up its network of roots, landed right in front of the boys!

“Close call!” cried Joe.

They skirted around the fallen tree, and pounded uphill toward the hedge. Then they rolled down the steep embankment on the other side, and groped their way until they found the heavy wooden door. At last, exhausted, they stumbled into the dry darkness of the old brick passage.

The winds increased to hurricane force

The sound of voices and a flickering light came from the old beverage room ahead. As the Hardys dashed in, a bulky, comical-looking person was taking off hat after hat, coat after coat, blanket after blanket, shirt after shirt. Looking on and laughing were Grover and his grandson Timmy.

“Chet Morton!” Frank cried with mingled relief and amusement. “Clowning it up in the middle of a hurricane!”

Their friend turned his grinning face to them. “Had to do something to keep from worrying about you fellows. Thank goodness you’re okay!”

Then he explained cheerfully, “Couldn’t waste time carrying clothes. Had more important things to carry.” Chet pointed to a well-packed carton of groceries. “So I just wore everything I could.”

“Why didn’t you wear the tent, too?” Joe needled. “We just saw it blow away!”

Chet had rescued enough shirts and trousers for Frank and Joe to change into dry clothing.

“Guess you all could use a bite to eat,” said Grover. Immediately Chet went into action. The stout boy dug into his supplies, and using Grover’s little stove, soon had a steaming supper of stew, bread, and hot coffee for everyone.

Afterward, the five drew chairs up to the wooden table and listened to the shrieking of the wind outside.

“Man, that’s some storm!” Chet commented.

“Yes, sir, it sure is,” Grover agreed. “But I reckon it’s not so bad as the one grandpappy used to tell about when I was just a mite of a boy. That big storm came when he was a young fellow, just after the Civil War. Waves were as big as houses, he said. Knocked down so many trees and blew things so every which way, nobody could recognize this place after it was over!”

“It must have been the same blow we read about this morning in the old town newspapers,” Frank said.

The old man took a thoughtful look at his ceiling. “Yes, sir,” he went on, “that old storm did such a powerful lot of damage, it was all folks could do to straighten things out.”

While Grover went on to tell of other bad storms, little Timmy listened with wide eyes. Now and then he fingered some little trinket from his pocket.

“What have you there, Timmy?” Joe asked curiously. “May I see it?”

Shyly the boy lowered his eyes and shook his head.

“Come on,” Joe coaxed. “I won’t hurt it, cross my heart.”

But the youngster retreated behind his grandfather and plunged both hands into his pockets.

“I have an idea,” said Frank in a short time. “Let’s play a game. Each person has to take two things he doesn’t especially want out of his pocket, and put them on the table. He must tell where he got them. Afterward, each player chooses one thing from somebody else and keeps it.”

Chet and Joe exchanged comprehending glances with Frank. “Here’s a chocolate bar and a lucky rabbit’s foot,” said the stout boy. “I bought the candy and the rabbit’s foot at a stationer’s.”

Soon the wooden table was covered with small articles. Timmy, eying them excitedly, laid out a chipped arrowhead and a flat stone blade.

“That’s a hide scraper,” Frank thought excitedly. “An Indian one!”

“Found‘em in the dirt,” Timmy said hurriedly, “near the pond by a big old dead oak.”

“Okay, Timmy,” said Frank, trying to conceal his excitement. “You’re sure you want to part with these?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Okay. Now you choose something you’d like.”

Eagerly the little boy snatched up a flashlight key chain that Joe had put down. Joe picked up the chipped arrowhead and Frank chose the hide scraper. The boys offered the rest of the items to Timmy, who scooped them up happily.

Later, Chet, sensing that the Hardys wanted to examine their “winnings,” encouraged Grover to reminisce some more about local events.

Frank and Joe bent over the artifacts. “These must be from the lost Indian village Professor Rand is looking for,” Joe surmised.

Frank agreed. “If we could only find the actual site,” he said, “maybe we could bargain with Rand. We’ll trade him relics for information about the Blackstone family.”

The storm continued unabated. As the night wore on, old Grover and Timmy lay down on cots at the back of the beverage room. Frank, Joe, and Chet, not sleepy, sat up around the kerosene lamp and talked in low voices. At last the sound of the wind dropped off, and finally stopped altogether.

“Must be about over,” said Joe. He checked his watch. “It’s almost morning.”

Leaving the old man and the boy asleep, the three blew out the lamp and slipped into the passage. Cautiously they pushed open the heavy door and emerged into the meadow.

A light rain still fell, with short gusts of wind. But overhead, the first light of dawn was showing in the gray-white sky.

“The worst is past,” Frank announced. “It’ll clear off later.”

The boys made their way with difficulty toward the pond. Enormous uprooted trees lay on the ground, some crisscrossed atop one another. Logs and leafy debris floated on the surface of the pond.

The boys headed for the beach. Even from a distance they could see huge waves still running up much farther than usual.

“Where’s our campsite?” Chet gasped. “And the two big dunes?”

A completely flat beach lay around them for hundreds of yards.

“Vanished!” declared Frank, astounded. “You’d never know they’d been here!”

Suddenly his own words seemed to electrify the youth. Frank whirled and began to run. “Back to the pond,” he called to the others.

Mystified, Joe and Chet raced after him. Soon, breathing hard, they gazed again on a completely changed scene of fallen trees, uprooted brush, and new pools of water. Portions of the bank had been broken down and washed into the pond.

“Yes, of course!” Frank exclaimed. “This is it!”

Joe’s eyes lit up with excitement as he, too, suddenly understood.

“Is what?” Chet asked blankly.

“Hidden Harbor!” Frank exulted. “We’ve found it!”

CHAPTER XIV

A Revealing Argument

“WE’VE found Hidden Harbor?” asked Chet, eagerly looking around. “Where is it?”

“Right here!” Frank answered jubilantly. “The pond is Hidden Harbor!”

The stout boy appeared more puzzled than ever.

“It just occurred to me,” Frank explained, “if the hurricane we had last night could wipe out those big sand dunes and knock over trees the size of these around here, what a terrific amount of damage the tremendous Civil War storm must have caused. It could have changed the topography around this whole bay! Probably closed up the channel from the ocean with silt, trees, brush, and sand. If pirates did use Hidden Harbor, they had to stop their smuggling into it.”

Excitedly Joe snapped his fingers. “Remember the wide strip of lighter water we spotted from the air? That’s part of the old channel! After the Civil War hurricane it became clogged with sand.”

“Whoopee!” Chet cried, elated at the discovery. “When do we start looking for the buried fortune? Grover said it’s at the mouth of the harbor. That would be the side of the pond nearest the ocean.”

“Yes,” Frank confirmed. “We start right away. But first we’ll need our skin-diving equipment.”

“I hope there’s something left of it,” Joe said gloomily.

“Oh, I put the gear in the trunk of the car,” Frank reminded him. “It ought to be all right. Say! Where is the car, Chet?”

“Parked in some pines a few hundred yards from the beach.”

“I’ll bring back the equipment,” Frank offered. “Meantime, why don’t you two take a half hour’s rest? I’ll see you at the pond.”

Accordingly, Frank hiked to the pine trees alone. He found the yellow convertible undamaged, but half covered by drifting sand. Frank cleared the car, and took out the diving gear. It was intact. He hoisted the rucksack containing the outfits to his shoulders and headed for the pond.

As he neared it, Frank passed the huge fallen oak. He looked about for Chet and Joe. He was about to call out when the sound of an angry voice made him duck behind an old gnarled tree. The harsh tones were those of Samuel Blackstone!

With a crash of brush the heavy-set man broke into the open space in front of Frank’s hiding place. Behind him trailed the beanpole figure of Henry Cutter.

“No!” roared Blackstone. “I positively will not sell my rights to this pond. Can’t you get that through your head, Cutter?”

“You’ll have to admit, though, the pond has been nothing but trouble to you,” Cutter said unctuously. “Indirectly, it has damaged your family name, and led you into bringing a lawsuit. Why, it’s even caused you to reopen the old family quarrel with Rand. What good is it to you?”

“And what use is it to you, sir, may I ask?” Blackstone retorted.

“Mr. Stewart and I,” Cutter said patiently, “as I’ve told you, would like to purchase this water, with the surrounding land, to set up a small private fishing club. We would stock the pond, open a channel to the ocean, and bring parties in by motorboat.”

“Fishing club!” snorted Blackstone. “Do you think I was born yesterday, Cutter? What’s your real game? You’re in with Rand, aren’t you? The two of you—trying to get my property. That intellectual thinks he knows where to find the lost fortune, and wants it for himself!”

Infuriated, Blackstone seized his pale companion and shook him.

“No one is getting a square inch of my land or a drop of this pond while I’m alive!” he thundered. “You hear? Not while I’m alive!”

With that, he released the thinner man and strode off. Cutter, paler than ever, glared after the retreating Blackstone. Then he turned abruptly and disappeared into the swamp.

“Wish I had time to follow Cutter,” Frank thought. “But right now I have another job.”

After waiting a few minutes, Frank emerged from behind the tree. A familiar low whistle came from above. He looked up. Peering at him from a strong tree limb, sat Joe and Chet! Quickly the two boys dropped to the ground.

“We heard Blackstone shouting,” Joe told his brother, “so we shinned up out of sight.”

“Saw the whole thing,” Chet added.

“Some hot argument!” Joe remarked. “Seems to prove Cutter isn’t working for Blackstone. Do you make anything else out of it?”

“Only this,” Frank replied. “The old feud was caused by both the Blackstones’ and the Rands’ knowing about Clement’s buried treasure. The feud started not just because of the division of land, but because each side thought the treasure was buried somewhere between those two oak trees, and wouldn’t give up one foot of ground.”

Chet sighed. “Boy, this thing’s sure getting complicated. Well, are you ready to go diving?”

“Ready.”

Chet helped Frank and Joe put on their diving equipment.

“This will be the first time we’ve been down in daylight,” Frank noted. “Visibility ought to be a lot better.”

“You’d better take your spears in with you,” Chet warned, “in case that monster is lurking underwater!”

Soon the boys submerged off the ocean side of the pond. The sun had broken through, and Chet, straining his eyes, could see the boys kicking along with their flippers, testing the bottom. But finally they moved off into deeper water.

For two hours the search went on. The swimmers dug into mud and sand, and poked their spearheads into caverns formed by twisting cypress roots. Occasionally, they surfaced to rest.

During one of their pauses, Frank said, “The money and papers are probably in a metal chest. Hard to guess the size, since we don’t know how much is in it.”

“A tremendous amount of silt could have settled over it since the stuff was buried.” Joe remarked.

The brothers continued the underwater search but were unable to find any metal object.

“There’s a mess of sand down there,” said Joe as the divers removed their gear. “What we need are some real digging and scraping tools.”

“Yes, and a metal detector,” Frank added. “We ought to be able to pick up one in Larchmont.”

“We’ll go shopping later,” Frank said, “if we can get our car started.”

“Why don’t we go right away, fellows?” Chet complained. “We haven’t eaten in ages. I’m all hollow inside.”

“Why, Chet!” Joe grinned, fully dressed once more. “Who wants to eat when we can spend profitable hours looking for Indian relics?”

“Relics,” Chet lamented. “You can’t eat a relic.”

Joe took the arrowhead from his pocket and examined it. “Timmy says he found it right near the dead oak at the left of the pond,” he said.

“Sounds logical,” Frank reasoned. “The tree probably stood there for a couple of centuries. If there ever was an Indian village in this spot, it might have been a favorite place for the men to sit and chip arrowheads.”

“I’d like to chip my teeth on a nice big steak!” muttered Chet.

Frank took pity on their suffering friend. “We’re hungry, too. We’ll eat soon, honest. But as long as we’re here, let’s dig around the tree.”

“All right!” Chet sighed. “But you still haven’t any tools.”

“We won’t need tools,” Frank assured him. “The hurricane’s done our digging for us.”

He led the way along the pond toward the Rand property to the upper branches of the fallen oak. They followed the enormous trunk to the huge round hole in the earth, where the tree had stood. The pit, nearly five feet deep at the center, yawned open in front of them.

Stepping down into it, the boys began to sift the still-damp earth through their fingers.

“Found something!” Joe called after a few minutes. “Thin and flat, like a dime.”

“It’s a bird point,” Frank announced after a brief examination. “A small, fine arrowhead for killing birds.

“We’re getting somewhere, all right,” Frank said cheerfully. As he shifted his position in the pit, his canvas sneaker seemed to catch on something solid. Stooping, he loosened and drew out the muddy fragment of a curved surface.

“Pottery!” he exclaimed. “Here’s another piece. There seems to be more stuff at this lower level!”

Working swiftly, the boys unearthed several more large pieces of old clay vessels. In addition, Joe found a wedge-shaped stone that might have been used as an axhead.

He straightened up suddenly. “Fellows, I think we’ve found the site of the ancient Indian village!”

CHAPTER XV

Sea City Hoax

THE HARDYS and Chet felt a thrill of discovery. “So this is the lost Indian village!” Frank said as the three climbed from the relic-filled depression.

“Now,” said Joe, “we’ll have something to offer Professor Rand in exchange for information.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “Also, Rand, or a trained archaeologist, will consider our find more valuable if it’s relatively undisturbed. We’ll take these arrowheads and pottery shards as proof we’ve found the site.”

The boys carefully covered over the place they had dug up. After cleaning the relics in the pond, Frank asked Chet to get a bag or carton from Grover in which to carry them.

“If it means we’re heading for town—and food,” the hungry boy said, “I’ll do it.”

When Chet returned with a carton, they packed it and started back for the beach. Chet and Joe carried the diving gear while Frank clutched the precious relics.

They reached the yellow convertible and Frank opened the door to place the carton on the rear floor. He groaned. “There’s a ton of sand in here!”

The hard-driven sand had filtered into the vehicle and piled up regular mounds on the seats and floor !

“Hope the engine isn’t full of sand, too,” Joe said, after the boys had cleaned out the interior. He took the wheel and tried to start the car. Nothing happened.

The mechanically minded Hardys wasted no time in getting the hood raised. Joe cleaned and wiped the spark plugs, then checked the wiring for short circuits. Meantime, Frank and Chet, drawing some gasoline from the tank, bathed the parts which had become clogged by the driving sand.

Soon the pistons were operating smoothly. Slipping into low gear, Joe gunned the engine. With Frank and Chet pushing, the convertible plowed steadily through the drifted sand to the road.

“We’d better report to Bart Worth first thing,” said Frank.

They found Larchmont in the midst of mop-ping up after the hurricane. Power-line crews were busy, and throughout the town fallen trees were being cut up with roaring power saws, and hauled away.

The boys parked and went up to the offices of the Larchmont Record. “What a madhouse!” Chet exclaimed.

The place was filled with the din of clacking typewriters and typesetting machines, jangling telephones, and shouting between copy-desk editors and reporters. Printers with ink-smeared aprons rushed in and out of the composing room. Bart Worth, looking exhausted, moved about in shirt sleeves giving directions.

He hailed the Hardys and Chet with a shout of relief and hustled them into his private office. “I was sure worried about you fellows. Hope you found shelter. We’ve been busy all night covering this storm.”

“We made out okay,” Joe assured him.

“Good.” Bart gave a weary sigh and began pacing the floor. “I have more trouble. Blackstone’s used his influence with the court, and had the trial moved up! If I don’t get proof soon, I’m sunk.”

“We may have some helpful news for you,” Frank announced quietly. “In the first place, we’re convinced that the smuggling story is true.”

He and Joe went on to give a full account of their experiences and discoveries since they had last seen Bart.

The editor’s eyes brightened with amazement and hope. “So,” he said, “the Rand-Blackstone pond was once a secret harbor, connected to the sea by a channel! What a perfect setup for the Blackstones to conduct their smuggling operations.”

Then Bart Worth’s face clouded. “But how can we prove all this?”

“By finding the family papers,” Frank replied. “They’re buried at the mouth of the old Hidden Harbor. The only problem is,” the boy admitted, “how to locate that.”

At this point Joe held up the box of ancient Indian artifacts.

“We’ll try to set up a trade with Professor Rand,” he explained, “by telling him where to find the Indian village, providing he’ll tell us where to find the proof we need—if he knows.”

Bart nodded. “It’s the way to Rue! Rand’s heart, all right,” he agreed. “But can you catch up with him in time?”

“We’ll do our best,” Frank promised.

“Say! I have another lead,” the editor burst out suddenly. “Almost forgot with this hurricane business. This morning I received a call from a man who claimed to be Jenny Shringle’s cousin in Sea City. According to him, Jenny has changed her mind—wants to tell me something important about the case. I’m supposed to meet her late this afternoon in the lobby of the Surfside Hotel in Sea City, and bring you fellows with me.”

“Sounds phony to me!” was Joe’s prompt reaction. “A convenient way to get us all in one place, then get rid of us!”

“Still, it may be a real lead,” the editor insisted. “We can’t afford to pass it up.”

“Then why the secrecy?” Joe demanded. “And why does she want Frank and me along?”

“She may be afraid of Blackstone,” Worth argued. “Besides, I think she’s grateful to you boys for rescuing her in the fun house.”

“We’ll go, then,” Frank assented, “but I wouldn’t be too hopeful about it, Bart.”

While Bart Worth toiled feverishly to get his hurricane edition on the presses, the three hungry friends went to a restaurant which Chet Morton had selected well in advance. After a hearty steak and dessert of fresh peach shortcake, Chet revived noticeably.

“One little thing bothers me,” he said. “We don’t have a camp any more. No tent, no food. Our clothes and blankets are at Grover’s hide-out, and most of our utensils were buried in the sand. Besides,” he added, “you fellows need digging tools and a metal detector.”

“In other words,” Frank said, laughing, “you’re volunteering to stay here, buy what we need, and set up camp again.”

“You’ve guessed it!” Chet admitted. “I’m more sure of regular meals and sleep, too.”

Soon the trio separated, and Chet took the yellow convertible to do his errands. A little later Frank, Joe, and Bart Worth set out for Sea City in the editor’s green sedan. Clouds had covered the sun again, and gusts of wind shook the car as it sped along the highway.

“We’re early,” Frank noted. “We may as well pick up Jenny at her cousin‘s, Bart.”

The three went up and knocked at the little white bungalow. The same middle-aged man they had met previously opened the door.

“We’ve come about your phone call this morning, Mr. Shringle,” Bart explained.

“Phone call?” the man repeated, bewildered. “Jenny! Did you telephone and ask these folks to come here?”

Now the short, plump woman appeared at her cousin’s side. She peered at the visitors suspiciously.

“I told you all once—I’m not allowed to talk to you,” Jenny said.

The Hardys and Bart Worth exchanged meaningful glances. The phone call had been a hoax!

Frank turned to the seamstress. “Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Shringle. Guess it was a mix-up.”

When the three returned to the car, Joe urged, “Let’s go to the hotel, anyway. Maybe we can turn the tables and nab the gang we told you we heard on the fishing boat.”

The others agreed and soon Bart parked near a long, two-story wooden building that was badly in need of fresh paint. Old-fashioned, high-backed rocking chairs, mostly empty, were distributed along a front porch which was as wide as the old hotel itself.

“Bart, you go up on the porch and wait,” Frank proposed, “Joe and I will circle the place to see if anybody’s lurking outside.”

Quickly the Hardys moved around the run-down hotel. In the rear were several wings, also with porches, looking toward the beach. No one was in sight.

“Must have been quite a place in its heyday,” Joe observed. “Sure is dead now, though.”

The brothers returned to the porch to look for Bart Worth. But the editor was not in sight. A bald old man, seated in a rocking chair next to the main entrance, eyed them with open curiosity.

“Maybe Bart went back to the car,” Joe suggested. “I’ll check.” He soon came back, shaking his head.

“Let’s go into the lobby,” Frank said.

Perplexed, the two boys walked into the dark shabby foyer, with its worn carpets. A curtain of hanging strands of bright-colored beads covered a doorway at the back of a hall next to a stairway. The place seemed empty; even the room clerk’s desk was deserted. Frank and Joe strolled out to the porch, where the bald man in the rocking chair stared at them once more.

“Was there a man with reddish hair waiting here when you sat down?” Joe asked him.

The elderly man did not answer immediately and continued to gawk at the boys. Finally he drawled, “Yes. One was standing here. Bellman came out—said the stranger had a phone call. Must still be talkin‘, I reckon.”

“Where’s the phone?” Joe asked quickly.

“Go though the hangin’ curtain,” the man directed. “Phone’s in the corridor there—right beside the back stairs.”

“Bart must have walked right into the snare!” Frank whispered worriedly as the brothers stepped to the entrance.

Suddenly Joe grasped Frank’s arm and pointed into the dim lobby. A man had appeared behind the reservations desk. The boys recognized him instantly: Mr. Stewart, Henry Cutter’s partner. Now Stewart leaned across the counter to talk to a uniformed bellman.

“What’s he doing here?” Joe muttered. “Working? Antique business must be bad.”

The next moment, to the boys’ surprise, the bellman came striding out to the porch.

“Frank and Joe Hardy?” he asked them. “Telephone call for you in the back hall. It’s by the stairs.”

CHAPTER XVI

Enemy Tactics

QUICK as a flash Frank decided on a plan of action. “I’ll take the call,” he told the bellman.

As the employee walked off, Frank murmured to Joe, “If it’s a trap, I’ll chance it alone. You stay free in case I need help.”

“Okay. I’ll go up the main staircase in the lobby,” Joe volunteered, “and look for the back steps next to the phone.”

Re-entering the lobby, the boys noted that the room clerk’s desk was vacant once more. Joe climbed the wide stairway, while Frank ducked through the curtain of hanging beads.

He found himself in a dim hallway lighted only by a tiny window at the end. Near the rear, Frank spotted an old-time wall telephone, with the receiver dangling almost to the floor. Warily, he approached it.

Frank noted that all the room doors were closed except one just across from the phone. This was slightly ajar. Watching the door carefully, he reached the telephone. Frank stood listening intently. The old hotel was almost unnaturally quiet. Suddenly the young sleuth stiffened. From behind the open door came the familiar sound of hoarse, wheezy breathing!

“Jed!” Frank thought.

Deliberately, the boy turned his back. At the same time, he grasped the telephone cord in his right hand.

His straining ears caught a footfall on the carpet. Whirling, Frank swung the heavy receiver by its cord and caught the flat-faced man a smashing blow on the ear. With a cry of pain, the angered thug lurched forward and seized Frank’s right arm in an iron grip. Frank immediately sent three chopping left jabs into the fellow’s midriff. Now another figure came racing down the dim hallway. Stewart!

“Got him!” he cried, reaching Frank and pinning the boy’s arm behind his back.

At the same instant there was a screeching whoop from above! Both assailants’ heads jerked upward. Joe Hardy had vaulted onto the backstairs banister, and slid down full speed, crashing feet first against the burly man’s chest. Frank wrenched free and landed a stiff uppercut on Stewart’s jaw. The two boys bounded up the staircase and along the second-floor corridor.

“Here!” cried Joe, ducking into an open, vacant room. From the staircase came the pounding steps of their pursuers. Then the boys heard the opening and slamming of doors along the hall.

Passing from one suite to another through connecting doors, the boys dodged their enemy. When the chase was over, and it was quiet in the corridor, they cautiously tiptoed outside.

The next instant Joe cocked his head. “I’m sure I hear groans—in here!”

He yanked open the door to a large linen closet. Bart Worth, bound and gagged, lay on the floor. Quickly Frank and Joe released him. Overhead, the ceiling shook under heavy running footsteps up and down the third floor.

“Good! Those crooks are looking for us upstairs!” Joe said.

But before the trio could slip out of the hotel, they heard Stewart and Jed dashing downstairs. Pulling the closet door shut, the three friends lay low while the men rushed past and down to the lobby.

Frank, Joe, and Bart stepped into the hall. Frank, carrying a large hamper of clean linen, went to the second-floor landing and looked around. The floor boards creaked loudly beneath him.

“There they are!” cried Stewart from the foot of the stairs.

As the thugs, followed by the bellman, charged up the wide staircase again, Frank suddenly heaved the big hamper at them. A blizzard of white sheets, towels, and pillowcases billowed down upon the men. While they struggled to disentangle themselves, Bart cried, “Leave them alone. We’ll get the police!”

He and the boys sprinted for the front door. They ran to Bart’s car and roared away from the old hotel.

“Sorry to get myself caught like that,” the editor apologized. “But I’d told my office to reach me here if I received an important phone call I’ve been expecting. So I really fell for it, when the bellman paged me.”

“Who jumped you?” Joe asked. “Stewart and his crony Jed?”

“Yes. I heard them talk about somebody they called ‘the boss,’ who wanted the ‘three troublemakers gotten rid of this time without fail!’”

“We were sure Blackstone wasn’t behind this scheme,” Joe remarked. “Now, I don’t know what to believe, after that faked call from Jenny Shringle.”

By this time Bart had pulled up at the Sea City police headquarters. Inside, the editor reported the assault on himself and the boys. Two squad cars were dispatched with sirens screaming. The chief asked the Hardys and Bart to remain in case they should be needed to identify their assailants.

Frank and Joe, however, felt sure that Stewart and Jed had already left the hotel. Their conclusion proved to be correct. When the officers returned, they reported that the thugs and the bellman, whom the men evidently had bribed, had fled. The manager, who doubled as clerk, had been away during the fracas.

“We’ll find those hoods!” Frank declared as Bart and the Hardys drove off. “They can’t get away with this!”

Bart said he would treat the Hardys to supper in Larchmont. As they ate, the brothers tried to cheer the young editor, who appeared greatly depressed.

“I’ll bet Blackstone was behind this ambush,” Bart insisted. “He’d be most apt to use Jenny Shringle’s name. But I can’t prove that, either!”

“Somehow I doubt he’d go to such lengths to win a libel suit,” Frank stated. “Even if his family’s reputation is at stake. Don’t forget,” he reasoned, “Cutter’s men worked this trap. We did overhear Cutter in a real argument with Black stone this morning. Of course, they could be working together to get rid of us, and still fighting among themselves.”

“In any case, the three of us are in real danger,” Bart stated grimly.

“Yes, the three of us,” cried Frank, rising suddenly from the table, “and Chet! He’s all alone! Those hoods know we’d do anything to rescue Chet if they kidnaped him!”

Hastily Bart paid the check and they ran to the car. All maintained an anxious silence as they sped for Larchmont. At last the sedan was on the fishermen’s road, heading for the campsite.

When they reached it, Frank, Joe, and the editor leaped from the car and turned on flashlights. A scene of devastation such as that caused by the hurricane met their eyes. Food, clothing, equipment lay strewn around. A brand-new tent slashed in ribbons hung from its pole. In the sand was a confusion of footprints.

“We’re too late!” Joe groaned. “Chet’s gone!”

Suddenly, on the shore road, two yellow headlights approached the stunned trio.

“They’re coming back!” Frank said.

Quickly the three put out their lights and ducked behind a clump of small pines. The car drew up and stopped. The door slammed. Someone shuffled across the sand. An unmistakable tuneless whistle warbled on the night air.

“Chet!”

Frank, Joe, and Bart rushed forward in joyful relief to greet their friend.

“Sure it’s me,” replied the stout boy. “Who else? Hey!” He clapped a hand to his head. “Leapin’ lizards! What went through this place? The new tent ruined! My pots and pans! My food!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frank said. “The main thing is, you’re okay. Where did you go?”

“Got lonesome and went to the movies. I’m sorry, fellows. Guess I’m a punk guard.”

“You did the right thing,” Frank assured him. “You wouldn’t have stood a chance against those crooks! They wrecked this place.”

The boys then told their friend of the Sea City adventure.

Chet gulped. “I sure was lucky. We can always get a new tent—and more food!”

Everyone laughed, including Bart, whose spirits seemed to have lifted. Some minutes later, the editor said good night.

As the taillights of Bart’s car disappeared down the road, Chet and the Hardys set about restoring what order they could. Suddenly Joe called out, “Hey—a light! Way in the distance. Might be in the swamp around Rand’s property!”

Immediately Frank ran over to his brother. “Maybe it’s the tall fellow we think is the professor! Let’s take the Indian relics and have a talk with him!”

Fortunately, the valued artifacts had been locked in the convertible’s trunk. The boys lifted out the carton and set out. Soon, with flashlights off, they were treading carefully around the pond.

“Sh!” Frank warned the boys and stopped. “I thought I saw something move in the swamp!”

The searchers peered intently ahead. Everything appeared motionless. Again they went forward. Out of nowhere, it seemed, a gleam of light darted about in the swamp just ahead. As the boys crept steadily closer, they made out a familiar hat.

“Must be Rand!” Joe hissed. “He’s examining something in his hand.”

Wordlessly Frank motioned Joe to move up on one side of the man, and Chet the other. The boys set themselves to surround him in hopes of preventing a sudden flight.

“Help—help!”

A strangled cry followed by a heavy splash came from the dark pond behind them!

The long-coated man straightened up and started forward. But he stopped when the three boys broke from cover and dashed toward the pond in the direction of the cry. Now a child’s terrified scream rent the night air.

Joe, in the lead, reached the bank of the pond first, and beamed his flashlight full ahead. To his astonishment, Grover and little Timmy were running back and forth, wailing and looking in panic toward the water.

“Quick, quick!” cried Timmy as Joe came up. “Some devil just pulled Mr. Blackstone under the water!”

CHAPTER XVII

Underwater Prison

“WHERE did Mr. Blackstone go down?” cried Joe. At the same time, Frank and Chet crashed through the bushes onto the bank of the pond.

“Th-there!” Timmy pointed to a swirl in the dark water about twenty feet from shore.

Chet held two flashlights while the Hardys plunged in. They submerged and stroked downward. Joe, groping his way through the underwater darkness, suddenly grasped what felt like clothing.

He could barely make out the shape of a heavy-set person. Samuel Blackstonel Seizing one of the big man’s arms, Joe tried to push upward. But he could make no progress. Blackstone was being dragged deeper!

While Joe kept tugging, Frank spotted his brother, glided in, and grasped Blackstone about the waist. Suddenly the boy came in contact with something soft and slippery, that was tightly clamped around the victim’s body and holding him down!

“The monster!” Frank thought.

With all his might he wrenched at the slimy form until its grip was loosened. Though it wriggled back threateningly, Joe pulled Mr. Blackstone free.

Their lungs bursting, the swimmers bore the unconscious man to the surface. Chet quickly waded in and helped haul all three to shore.

“Timmy,” ordered his grandfather, “you run up to the house and bring back help. Git, now!”

Meanwhile, Frank loosened Mr. Blackstone’s clothing and administered artificial respiration. Joe, Chet, and Grover worriedly looked on, watching for signs of life.

Finally, to everyone’s vast relief, Mr. Blackstone gasped, sputtered, and began breathing.

“Easy, sir,” Frank cautioned him. “Just lie still and rest.”

Joe turned to the elderly servant. “Did you see what happened? Tell us everything.”

“I was taking my walk, as I do every night, when me and Timmy met Mr. Blackstone on the path. He hurried to the edge of the pond like he saw something. Next thing we knew, he gave a yell, and something dragged him right into the water!”

Now the waiting group heard excited voices, then a series of lights could be seen winding toward them through the brush.

In a moment three of Mr. Blackstone’s servants, carrying flashes, blankets, and axes, and led by little Timmy, reached the bank.

“Quick! Cut two saplings,” Frank directed.

When this was done, the Hardys and Chet constructed an improvised stretcher, and Blackstone was lifted onto it and carried up to his house.

“Rand,” he muttered incoherently as the boys and Grover waited in his spacious bedroom for the family physician to arrive. “Rand—did it.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet stared at one another in puzzlement. They listened as Blackstone rambled on, “Rand—sent note—meet him at pond—talk over our differences—Rand did it.”

At that moment the doctor entered and hurried to the man’s bedside. After a quick examination, he warned, “Mr. Blackstone mustn’t talk or be questioned. I must ask you all to leave.”

The boys and Grover filed out. Joe whispered, “But Professor Rand couldn’t have been responsible! He wasn’t near the pond.”

“Grover,” Frank asked, “where does Mr. Blackstone keep his mail? We’d like to see that note from Professor Rand he just mentioned. I assure you we’re trying to help Mr. Blackstone.”

“He might not like it if I do what you ask,” the butler objected.

“We’ll have to take that chance,” Frank said.

The servant nodded and led them downstairs to the study where the Hardys had witnessed the quarrel between the cousins. Grover handed Frank a spindle of papers from the desk. On top was a hand-printed note signed, “Ruel.”

“I’ll keep this for evidence,” the boy told Grover. “I’ll write a receipt for it.”

After doing this, the three boys hurried back to camp. There Frank drew Professor Rand’s map from the glove compartment of the convertible, and compared the printing to that on the note.

“Not the same!” Joe explained. “The note’s a fake! Whoever sent it probably thought forged printing wouldn’t be detected. But on this map Rand uses a little flourish at the beginning of each word.”

“We must find Rand,” Frank said soberly. “He’s innocent, but not in Blackstone’s eyes.”

The boys headed for the pond. Off in the swamp they noticed the solitary light still moving about.

Joe started forward, but Frank restrained him, saying, “No—leave him there. Follow me.”

The boy led the way to the Rand property and into the underground passage. They then entered the beverage room and lighted the lamp. Frank took care to leave the door ajar.

“Now,” he said, “we’ll wait for the professor here. He’ll probably come home this way.”

Some time later the boys heard the door to the passage creak open. Slow, weary footsteps came along the corridor. Abruptly, the steps stopped in front of the beverage room.

“He’s seen the light!” Joe whispered.

The Hardys and Chet shrank back behind the door, which moved inward. A tall figure in a raincoat and a floppy hat stepped toward the table.

Quickly Frank pushed the door shut, and the boys stood against it.

“Wh-what!” The man whirled.

“Please sit down, Professor Rand,” said Frank. “We’re sorry to startle you, but it’s very important that we have a talk with you.”

The tall man sank into a chair. Recovering his composure somewhat, he exclaimed, “Talk with prowlers and intruders! Never!”

“You are Professor Rand?” Frank queried.

“Of course I am. Who are you? And why are you snooping around?”

Pleasantly Frank made introductions, and explained that the boys had been retained by Bart Worth. “He asked us to help him prove that a certain story printed in his newspaper about the old Blackstone family was the truth.”

Rand nodded. “What has that to do with me?”

Joe replied, “Mr. Blackstone nearly drowned in the pond tonight. Somebody or something pulled him in, and he’s blaming you!”

The professor looked shocked. “How terrible! I did not realize that cry I heard was Samuel’s. I was about to see who it was when I spotted you boys going toward the pond.” Rand added emphatically, “Samuel and I may be at odds, but I would not resort to such tactics.”

“You may be in danger yourself from the same thing,” Frank told Rand. “You and Mr. Blackstone both claim this pond and the land around it. We boys have a hunch your cousin’s assailant may be a person who has a nefarious interest in this property.”

The boys then told of someone’s locking them in Rand’s room. The professor’s startled reaction convinced them he had not done it. “To think the scoundrel followed me in and out of the house,” he said worriedly.

“His accomplice must have locked the closet door from the tunnel side,” Frank added. “They probably planned to harm us later, and didn’t expect us to escape!”

“It was a close shave!” Joe murmured.

“We believe the person is doing all he can to block us,” Frank said. “As you know, Professor, we must prove that the Blackstone fortune was made originally by smuggling. We understand the bulk of it is buried at the mouth of a hidden harbor.”

“Humph! It’s true,” Professor Rand broke in, “if that’s what you want to know. The pond between our properties was old Clement’s harbor.”

“So we’ve learned. But we need proof,” Frank told him. “If you’ll furnish some, we may be able to give you a start toward unearthing the Indian village you’re looking for.”

The scholar’s eyes lighted with interest and surprise, although he asked dubiously, “How do I know you can do what you say?”

In answer, Frank handed over the professor’s own map, while Joe held out the arrowhead and hide scraper.

This time Rand did not restrain his enthusiasm. “Wonderful! Perfect! Where were these found?”

“In a spot not far away from where we found plenty of other relics,” Joe spoke up. “But we left most of them undisturbed.”

There was a moment’s silence while the professor weighed the offer. Finally he said, “I agree to the trade. And I’ll carry out my end of the bargain first.”

The Hardys and Chet listened eagerly as the professor went on. “I never had the slightest interest in the disputed property until I realized the area near the pond was probably the site of an old Indian village. Before excavating, I wanted a clear title to the land, and that started my quarrel with Samuel. He claimed I actually intended to dig for the buried fortune.”

“Didn’t you?” Joe asked.

“Not at first. But when nobody would underwrite the excavation, I decided I would have to find the treasure myself in order to finance it. Then, because I wanted no interference, and Samuel is so touchy about his family name, we agreed to cover up our disagreement. I ‘disappeared’ so I could hunt undisturbed for the money I hope to find.”

“Both of you want the property for different reasons,” Frank said. “Mr. Blackstone’s mainly concerned about anyone else finding the treasure, because of the family papers concealed with it. Is our deduction right?”

Professor Rand nodded. “Exactly.”

“Do you know where the fortune is, sir?” Joe asked suddenly.

“I’ve known it all my life, but it hasn’t done me any good.”

“Why not?” Chet burst out.

“I once read in a letter of my grandmother’s that it was buried beneath a giant cypress at the mouth of the Hidden Harbor. The problem is, where was the cypress?”

For a moment, all four frowned in deep thought.

“I know!” Frank exulted.

Professor Rand, Joe, and Chet turned to him eagerly. “Tell us, pal!” Chet begged.

“Each time we’ve made a search of the pond, I’ve noticed a section of tangled root ends,” Frank explained, “and, way underneath, a long irregular outline I knew was a huge fallen tree. That must have been the cypress which once stood beside the old channel at the harbor’s mouth!”

“What are we waiting for?” Joe cried out.

The professor, as excited as the boys, hurried with them toward the beach. Soon the four, carrying tools, lights, diving equipment, and a metal detector, made their way eagerly back to the edge of the pond. Frank offered to dive first.

“Look out for the monster!” Joe warned.

Quickly Frank put on his outfit. He attached the lamp to his forehead and slung the metal detector at his belt. Then, taking a long-handled spade, he submerged.

Deeper and deeper Frank stroked. His lamp showed up the enormous fallen tree’s mass of roots. Suddenly the detector began to click!

Frank swam under the huge roots and jabbed the spade into the silt. The steel tool thudded against something solid. Adjusting his lamp, Frank saw by its murky gleam what appeared to be the corner of a wooden chest.

“The treasure!” he thought elatedly. “The box is probably made of cypress wood to protect a metal chest!”

The object proved to be out of Frank’s reach. Tough, gnarled roots well over a hundred years old had grown so closely around the chest that try as he might, Frank could not move it by hand or shovel.

Disappointed, he turned back through the tangle of roots. As Frank twisted in and out, his air line became fouled. It was tightly snagged between two roots! Frank struggled to free the line, but to no avail.

“Joe and the others expect me to stay down for a while,” the trapped boy thought frantically. “Unless I can signal, they won’t come after me until it’s too late!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Dangerous Cargo

HOLDING his breath, Frank again fought desperately to free his air line from the binding roots. He thrashed his arms and legs in a futile effort to jerk it loose.

At last he worked one hand down to his lead-weighted belt, where his fingers tore open a small plastic compartment. From it he plucked a white ping-pong ball, which he sent bobbing through the roots toward the surface of the pond. This ball was a trouble signal the Hardy brothers had worked out.

“If only Joe’s light picks it up!” Frank thought.

At the pond’s edge, meanwhile, Joe, Chet, and Professor Rand watched the smooth surface.

“I’m actually going to see the long-lost family fortune,” the professor declared. “I can hardly believe it!”

“Also,” responded Joe, who stood by in his diving apparatus, “we’ll have this case licked!”

Suddenly Chet exclaimed, “A white bubble!”

The next instant Joe spotted the ping-pong ball. “Frank’s in danger!” he cried out and plunged underwater. He stroked down, his light beam piercing the dark water. As he approached the fantastically twisted cypress roots, Joe caught sight of Frank, struggling to free himself.

Joe drew his knife and moved in, cutting a path as he went. The two stout roots holding Frank gave way before the razor-sharp blade. Seizing his brother’s limp arms, Joe maneuvered him through the roots to the surface.

For a moment the treasure was forgotten completely, while Chet and the professor worked to revive Frank. Luckily he had held his breath a long time, and had swallowed very little water. In a little while he was sitting up and being rubbed vigorously with a towel.

“I saw part of a chest,” Frank told the others. “It’s enmeshed in the silt and tree roots. We’ll have to blast it out.”

The boys suggested that they obtain dynamite and return the following day. Professor Rand agreed to the idea but reminded them that the next day was Sunday. “No stores will be open. We’ll have to wait until Monday.”

The group agreed to keep the matter a secret, then separated. The boys went back to their campsite, had a late snack, and bedded down on the sand under the open sky.

Monday morning was clear and sunshiny, as they headed for town in the yellow convertible.

First, Frank parked in front of a drugstore and went into the phone booth to call the Sea City police. In a few minutes he came back and reported, “They’ve had no luck tracking down those thugs who attacked us in the hotel.”

The trio decided to enlist the editor’s help in obtaining the dynamite. They went to his office and told of their discovery at the pond. Highly excited, Bart was glad to accompany the trio to make the purchase.

“Anything to retrieve that chest,” he exclaimed as they entered Larchmont’s only hardware store. Bart made his request to an elderly clerk.

“Dynamite, hey!” the shopkeeper repeated in a loud voice of surprise. Other customers turned to look. “One thing we don’t have. Just a minute, though.”

The clerk went to the cellar doorway and shouted down the stairs. “Henry! Folks here need some dynamite! Know where they can get some?”

Uneasily, the Hardys, Chet, and Bart glanced at the curious faces peering at them.

“What say?” came a voice from the cellar.

“Dynamite,” roared the clerk. “Folks here want to do a little blasting!”

“Oh, dynamite!” Henry shouted back. “They can get it in Dobbsville!”

“Thanks very much,” said Bart, and the four hastily left the store.

As they stepped into the car, Joe noted ruefully, “Well, if anyone in town doesn’t know we need dynamite, they will in a few minutes!”

“You said it. Around here they don’t need a loud-speaker!” Chet grinned.

Bart Worth directed the way to Dobbsville. Once there, he and the Hardys entered the hardware store, while Chet went off to make a purchase of his own. He returned with a paper bag just as the others were gingerly placing a small wooden case marked dynamite on the rear floor of the convertible.

“Dangerous cargo,” Chet remarked.

“It sure is,” Bart agreed, then asked the Hardys, “Do you fellows know how to handle this stuff?”

Frank nodded. “Dad has taught us about explosives.”

“Right now,” Chet put in, “let’s eat!” Happily the stout boy pulled out some huge sandwiches filled with several layers of ham, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese. “I got four of these for our lunch.”

“Looks like a seven-course meal!” Joe teased.

Bart smiled. “I’d like to join you boys, but I have to do an errand, You go on ahead. I’ll take a taxi back and meet you at the pond in an hour.”

A few minutes later the Hardys and Chet were heading for Larchmont. The car crossed a crystal-clear brook winding through a shady stand of pines set back on a knoll.

“Stop!” ordered Chet. “Here’s the place for our submarine sandwiches.”

Laughing, the boys parked off the road and got out. Soon they were sprawled on the soft pine needle carpet of the grove, where they could just see the sunlight flashing on the front of the convertible.

To Chet’s amusement, the Hardys relished the four hearty sandwiches as much as he.

“Wow! I must’ve been hungry!” Joe chuckled.

A short time later they were en route again. Suddenly Joe exclaimed, “I smell something burning. Whew!” The next instant he cried, “Pull over, Frank! Quick!”

Frank swerved the big car onto the shoulder. It lurched to a stop. “Look in the back!” Joe shouted. “The dynamite!”

To their horror, a crude string fuse, inserted into the box, was sputtering up to the lid. Joe leaped over the seat, yanked the string, and flung it from the car.

“I thought I heard a car slow up while we were eating,” he said grimly. “But it never came into view.”

“It probably dropped someone off,” Frank reasoned. ‘‘He,could have put in that fuse, working on the road side of the convertible to keep out of our sight.“

“He waited until he saw us coming back,” Joe added. “Then he lighted the fuse and slipped into the woods across the road.”

“Yes. Where his pal in the car will pick him up again,” Frank concluded. “Remember, everybody in Larchmont knew we’d gone to Dobbsville for the explosive. Some of the gang followed us, although there was no car in back of us before we parked.”

Shaken, the boys went on. Soon they were speeding along the fishermen’s road toward their camp.

Here they encountered the tall figure of Professor Rand pacing nervously up and down. “I’m so excited, I couldn’t sit at home and wait!” he confessed.

“We’re all set. Operation Dynamite’s under way!” Joe announced.

In a matter of minutes the small procession headed for the pond. Chet toted the rucksack of diving gear. Professor Rand carried digging implements and the metal detector. Frank and Joe took turns carrying the box of dynamite.

At last they reached the water’s edge. The professor had already concurred with the Hardys that it would be best to attempt raising the chest first. Later the boys would show him the place where they had unearthed the Indian relics. “I realize,” he said, “that by now the gang knows you lads have escaped their malicious trap. They may try something worse at any time.”

The Hardys had just put on their underwater gear when Bart arrived. Then Frank opened the wooden case and checked the paper-wrapped sticks of dynamite.

“We’ll rig one stick,” he decided quickly. “It may be all we need. Besides, it’s safer that way.”

With Frank carrying the explosive, the brothers submerged. Joe swam ahead, cutting a path through the cypress roots. Frank followed, and carefully planted the charge near the base of the tree trunk, but at sufficient distance not to damage the chest. While Joe stood by, Frank took a blasting cap from his belt and quickly inserted it into the dynamite. He then connected the cap’s wires to a battery. This done, the brothers struck out swiftly to the surface.

Swimming ashore, the Hardys led Rand, Worth, and Chet around the bank away from the blasting area. Frank checked his waterproof watch. “Any minute now.”

Tensely the five stared at the placid waters.

“There she blows!” Joe sang out as a muffled rumble shook the ground. A sudden agitation showed on the water’s surface as if a geyser had gushed up from below. A grotesque, clawlike root rose into the sunshine, then sank back into the muddy waters.

Anxiously the onlookers wondered if the explosive had freed the chest. “We’ll let things settle down a bit,” Frank advised.

When the water had cleared somewhat, many old, long-submerged trees could be seen pushed up into shallow water.

Frank and Joe, after another minute, plunged in. Knifing downward, they darted nimbly between and under loosened logs and chunks of rotted trees. To the impatient boys, the pond seemed bottomless.

Determinedly the brothers sought out the site of the ancient cypress. Eagerly they scanned the muddy area, still churning from the blast. Simultaneously Frank and Joe spotted the square wooden box protruding from the silt. They tugged and finally lifted it out. The boys carried it between them, as they swam to the surface.

On shore, Professor Rand leaped with excitement, while Chet gave a whoop of joy. Bart Worth shouted, “Nice work, fellows!”

At last Frank and Joe placed the old chest safely on the pond’s bank. The professor grabbed a hammer ready to knock off the sturdy cypress lock!

CHAPTER XIX

Sinister Absence

“WAIT!” Frank ordered. The boy placed one foot on the lid of the box. “Nobody opens this chest now!”

“Why not?” Bart Worth asked in amazement. “This is what we’ve all been working for!”

“Bart,” Frank explained, “your libel suit is involved. The chest has been found on disputed ground. If we break the lock, Blackstone can claim we inserted the papers that prove your case.”

“But Professor Rand is a witness!”

“Not a very good one, from the court’s point of view,” Frank answered. “He has a quarrel of his own with Blackstone, who could claim some of the money in the chest had been stolen. If we open the box now, both of you stand to lose what you want from it.”

The professor seemed unwilling to take his hands from the valuable chest. “Surely the law will allow us at least to open it and look inside.”

“It will,” Frank assured him, “as long as we do so in Blackstone’s presence. There’s no other safe way.”

“Frank’s right,” agreed Joe.

Although Professor Rand continued to protest, Bart Worth gave in with a sigh. “I see the point,” he admitted. “After all, I don’t want to damage my own evidence. But suppose the papers aren’t there?” he added anxiously.

“We’ll have to take that chance,” Frank replied.

Soon the yellow convertible was heading back swiftly toward town. The cypress box rested on the front seat between Frank and Joe.

Accompanied by Bart and the professor, the boys carried the chest up to the Record office. Meantime, Chet ran off to the hardware store. Soon he returned with a new padlock, which Frank promptly snapped on the box, slipping the key into his pocket.

“Now, Bart,” he asked, “will you open your safe and put the chest inside, please?”

Silently, the young editor complied. Then Frank picked up the telephone and called Blackstone’s residence.

Everyone in Bart’s little office was silent as Frank waited for an answer. Finally the receiver at the other end was picked up.

“Hello. This is Blackstone.” The big man’s voice sounded considerably weaker than usual.

“Mr. Blackstone, this is Frank Hardy,” the boy began.

“Hardy—yes, yes, the young fellow who pulled me out of the water.” The businessman hesitated, then added gruffly, “Have to thank you.”

“Glad we could help, sir,” Frank replied. “I have some news for you. We’ve found the chest which I believe contains your ancestor’s hidden fortune and family records.”

“Found it! Where?”

“At the bottom of the pond, this afternoon.”

Instantly the merchant’s tone grew aggressive. “You must have trespassed on my property. If you’ve opened that box, or taken anything from it, I’ll have the law on you!”

“Don’t worry. We haven’t opened it,” Frank told him calmly. “The box has just been placed in a safe here at the Record office. A new padlock has been put on. I assure you the chest won’t be opened until you’re here to watch. How soon can you come, sir?”

Blackstone’s voice faltered. “Look here, I—I’m still a bit shaky from the close call I had. My doctor insists I can’t leave the house for another day.”

“Tomorrow night, then?”

“At nine-thirty,” Blackstone agreed.

Frank went on, “A disinterested person will stay at the office until then to guarantee that nobody tampers with the chest.”

As soon as Frank had hung up, Bart protested hotly, “I wouldn’t dream of tampering.”

“I know,” Frank calmed him. “But we must give Mr. Blackstone a safeguard, so he can’t dispute your evidence later.”

“Who’s this ‘disinterested person’?” Chet spoke up suspiciously.

Frank and Joe simply grinned at him.

“Oh, no!” the stout boy protested. “All day and all night I have to stay in this little office?”

“You’ll learn the newspaper trade,” Joe told him.

“Sure, sure. What will you two be doing all this time?” Chet demanded.

“First,” Frank replied, “we’ll show Professor Rand where the Indian village is. We’ll be back here about nine-thirty to keep you company.”

“That’s better,” Chet said, mollified.

At a signal from the Hardys, Bart Worth lifted out a cardboard box from behind his desk and set it on top.

“Here’s a treasure you can open,” he said to Professor Rand.

The others stood by smiling as the professor undid the wrapping and examined with delight the Indian artifacts unearthed by the boys.

“Excellent! Marvelous specimens!” he exulted. “I’d like to see the Indian site right away!”

Accordingly, Frank, Joe, and Rand left the building. Rand climbed into the convertible, but suddenly Frank remembered something. “We’ll need a good rake for sifting.”

The brothers hurried up the street to the hardware store. Several minutes later they came out with the tool. At the same time, the boys saw a familiar figure leaning over the convertible door. He was carrying on a heated discussion with Rand.

“Cutter!” Joe exclaimed, and the Hardys hurried forward.

“No, no,” the professor was saying in a loud voice. “I’ll positively not sell my rights to the pond. Especially not now. That’s final!”

Cutter’s face took on an ugly look. Before the Hardys could reach him, he caught sight of the boys. He ran down the street, and disappeared around the corner.

“Let’s go after him!” Joe urged. “I want to ask him a few questions about his partners, Stewart and Jed!”

Frank held his brother back. “We’ll catch up with him later, after we keep our promise to the professor.”

As they drove toward the beach camp, Joe said casually, “Sounded like Cutter was offering to buy your claim to the pond, Professor Rand.”

The gangling scholar nodded impatiently. “Yes. He wants to make it into a fishing club, or some such nonsense. The man’s an infernal nuisance! Just another of Samuel’s hirelings.”

“That’s funny,” Frank mused. “Mr. Blackstone thinks Cutter’s working for you, and you think he’s working for Blackstone. And he gave both of you the same line about the fishing club.”

The professor looked up, startled. “What! How do you know that?” he demanded sharply.

“We overheard Cutter try to buy Mr. Blackstone’s rights,” Frank explained. “Your cousin gave him a final No, and a shaking besides. That was the same night Mr. Blackstone was dragged into the pond!”

“You suggest I should be afraid of that pest Cutter?” asked Rand with contempt. “Absolute nonsense. I have one enemy in the world: Samuel Blackstone. Even he wouldn’t go so far as to—er —harm me, either with his henchman’s help or without it.”

The boys did not mention having seen Blackstone strike Rand. But Frank said, “Someone else might—the person who nearly drowned Mr. Blackstone.”

“Samuel should keep away from the water,” Rand stubbornly retorted. “He always thinks somebody’s out to get him.”

They had no sooner reached the camp than, to the Hardys’ great surprise, Rand asked them to drive him home.

“I do want to see the Indian site,” explained the professor in some agitation. “But—well, I want to explore it without interruption. If we go there now, this fellow Cutter might show up and start badgering me about the land. I’ll meet you boys by the pond tonight, at seven-thirty. We’ll go then.”

Shrugging, the Hardys agreed, and took the scholar to his house. “Be on your guard,” Frank warned him.

It was just seven-thirty when Frank and Joe, equipped with digging tools, arrived at the pond. They also carried diving gear, in case they should need it.

“Professor Rand!” Joe called out.

There was no reply. The boys waited. The sun sank lower. Presently bullfrogs began croaking from the pond and deep within the swamp. Still the tall man did not arrive.

When almost an hour had elapsed, the young detectives felt a twinge of concern. What was delaying the professor? He had been so eager to visit the Indian spot.

“Maybe he’s at home and forgot the time,” Joe said hopefully. “I’ll check.”

He made his way up toward the old house. But in a few minutes he returned alone.

“I called and knocked,” Joe reported. “No answer.”

A sudden thought crossed Frank’s mind. “Suppose the professor was so eager he came early,” he suggested.

“And the same thing happened to him as happened to Blackstone!” Joe finished.

Feverishly the boys stripped off their clothes and donned their flippers, lungs, and face masks. Then Frank took an underwater light in one hand and submerged.

He swam steadily along the pond’s shore line. His light showed up the usual stones and sunken trees, but no trace of the missing professor. Frank turned and worked back deeper along the bottom.

Joe stood waiting tensely as the moon climbed over the swamp trees. Finally Frank’s head popped above the surface and he stood up in the shallows.

“What luck?” Joe called. “Did you—”

But horror choked off the words. A dark, slithery creature had loomed out of the water behind his brother. Now, with sharp fins glistening and fantastic head waving from side to side, it advanced on the unsuspecting Frank.

“Look out!” Joe shrieked. The next moment something struck him on the back of his head, and he fell, unconscious.

Just as Frank whirled, the monstrous creature sprang upon him.

CHAPTER XX

Feud’s End

SLOWLY Joe opened his eyes. He found himself lying on the floor of a small room. The boy thought he must be dizzy from the blow, for he felt a rocking motion. Then he became aware of a soft lapping noise and sat up gingerly.

Despite his throbbing head, Joe’s keen eyes took in his surroundings. A dim light was burning in the room. In one wall were two round windows.

“A boat’s cabin!” he thought.

Somebody groaned beside him. Frank raised himself up and shook his head. “Where are we?”

“Wish I knew,” Joe answered.

Frank made a face. “From the smell, I’d say we’re in the fishing boat Cutter’s been using to spy on us. Say! Professor Rand is here too!”

A long, angular figure on the floor beneath the portholes stirred, then sat up also. The professsor blinked at the Hardy boys in bewilderment.

“Are you all right?” Joe asked him.

“Yes—I think so, considering I was struck on the head.”

“I was conked, too,” said Joe. He turned to his brother. “Did that monster knock you out?”

“Must have,” Frank replied. “Last thing I remember is when it grabbed me. Hmm. I wonder—”

Frank crawled over to a black foot locker with a pool of water spreading out from it.

“I thought so,” he muttered, peering inside.

The boy pulled out a large black rubber diving suit, with a sharp serrate fin and enormous rubber head attachment!

“Here’s our ‘monster’!” he announced. “I thought I smelled rubber when it got me.”

“Some costume!” Joe exclaimed wryly. “But who was wearing it?”

“I was!” came a voice from the doorway.

“Mr. Cutter!” gasped the professor.

The tall, pale man sneered at them as he entered the cabin. “Better come down, Jed,” Cutter called. “The prisoners are awake.”

A moment later the burly, flat-faced man shuffled into the cabin. “You kids won’t be so cocky after this!” Jed rasped triumphantly.

The Hardys kept cool heads. Now Frank said, “Why not tell us your real scheme, Cutter, since we’re your prisoners?”

The erstwhile antique dealer answered readily. “I’m after the Blackstone fortune, too. Read about it in a book of lost American treasures. The money, plus the main value of the pond, make it a desirable body of water!”

“Main value,” Joe repeated. “You mean for your fishing resort?”

“Won’t tell you that.” Cutter laughed. “But thanks for raising the buried chest. One of my helpers saw you carry it into the Record office and heard you make that nine-thirty date. Through him, too, I kept constant track of you three, your fat friend, Worth, and Blackstone.

“I made up my ‘monster’ suit to search the pond and frighten away any curious intruders,” he went on. “That included you Hardys the night I made my second dive. See this rope with the weights on both ends? That’s what I used to drag Blackstone into the water. By the way, I was a printer by trade. I managed to sneak into the Record office’s composing room and insert the extra bit in Worth’s story. Thought I’d make Blackstone so tired of the pond he’d be glad to sell.

“And now,” the man said, as he flashed a self-satisfied smile, “I’m on Easy Street. You’ve done it. At nine-thirty tomorrow night, Stewart, Jed, and I go to that meeting at Worth’s office, settle Blackstone, tie up your friends, and come out with the money!”

“What happens to us?” Joe demanded tersely.

“By then you’ll all be out of the picture—permanently. With Rand here, and Blackstone gone, I’ll buy up the pond area. Neither man has heirs. The executors will be glad to sell.”

“Guess again,” Joe retorted defiantly. “Chet will miss us and think of this boat!”

“Let him,” said Cutter. “We’re far from our usual anchoring place. Stewart has sent a note to Bart Worth, supposedly from you Hardys, that you’re in a nearby town and will be back for the meeting.”

“So Stewart’s the one who did the other phony notes,” Joe broke in.

Cutter nodded. “Too bad they didn’t work, and that you escaped when we ‘fixed’ the plane, and lit the dynamite fuse in your car; also at the lighthouse—that was Jed and Stewart’s job. You were lucky getting out of Rand’s house before Jed and I returned. But this time we’ll be very thorough!”

For the remainder of the night and into the following day, Frank, Joe, and Professor Rand sat on the cabin floor. They were given only a little water and stale bread. Desperately the boys waited for a break. But their guards were vigilant. At noon, and again as the light faded outside, the captors spelled one another for meals.

“Okay, Jed,” Cutter signaled later that evening. “Get busy!”

The powerful man left the cabin. Soon the boys heard several sharp, splintering blows. “All set!” called the hoarse voice.

“Good-by. Enjoy yourselves!” said Cutter pleasantly, as he stepped out and locked the cabin door.

In a few minutes the three captives heard the put-put of a motorboat.

“The gang’s pulled out and we’re not even tied up!” Joe exclaimed.

Simultaneously the cabin tilted over to one side. “The boat’s sinking!” Frank cried out. “That’s why! They mean to drown us and destroy the evidence!”

The Hardys’ minds raced for a way out of their predicament. One chance occurred to Frank. “Help me with this foot locker, Joe!” he cried.

The brothers swung the heavy chest with all their strength at the door, so that its sharp corner smashed through the wood. Joe reached through the jagged hole and turned the lock.

The Hardys, followed by Professor Rand, rushed up on deck. Here they found sea water filling the afterpart of the vessel.

“I can’t swim!” cried Professor Rand.

“I have a plan,” Frank assured him. “Joe, take the fire axe and knock loose whatever pieces of wood you can.”

Frank, meanwhile, ran to the cabin, now ankle-deep in water, and returned with a bottle of rub bing alcohol. On deck, where the gang had apparently eaten, was an opened five-pound box of sugar.

Soon the ocean was pouring over the gunwales of the sinking boat

As Joe whacked off the big chunks of wood, Frank sprinkled them with sugar and saturated them with alcohol. As he worked, the boy asked the professor to ignite the pieces.

Feverishly Rand struck one match after another. As the wood flared up, Joe slid the eerie, green-burning floats onto the dark surface of the sea.

“Hope somebody spots them,” Joe said tensely. “It’s our only chance, and maybe Chet‘s!”

Soon the ocean was pouring over the gunwales of the sinking boat. Joe launched his last green flare. The boys heaved the cabin door overboard, and plunged after it with Professor Rand. Behind them, the fishing smack settled quickly below the sea.

“Hold on to the door, Professor,” Frank directed. “Joe and I will stay on either side of you. All we can do now is wait.”

The strange, green-flaming floats bobbed all around them. Stars twinkled overhead. Suddenly Joe sighted red and yellow lights moving in the distance. As the vessel drew closer, he shouted in relief, “Coast Guard!”

Soon the long, trim cutter bore down on them, its powerful searchlight sweeping the water.

“Ahoy!” shouted a crewman. “We’ll drop a ladder. Hang on.”

Within minutes the exhausted trio had been hauled aboard.

“Larchmont!” Frank gasped. “We must get there right away. It’s a matter of life or death!”

The cutter plowed through the water at full speed. As it glided alongside the dock at Larchmont, Frank, Joe, and Rand leaped over the side and set out at a dead run for the town square. Frank’s watch showed nine-thirty!

The three raced along the sidewalk toward the newspaper office. As they reached it, a car sped up and screeched to a stop.

“Get them!” called a firm voice.

Two men jumped from the automobile and grabbed the Hardys. “Policel” cried Joe. “What—?”

“Frank! Joe!” came a familiar voice behind them. “You here, and all right?”

“Dad!” burst out the astounded brothers as Fenton Hardy stepped forward.

“It’s okay,” he said to the officers. “These are my sons.”

“We’ve no time to lose, Dad!” said Frank. Briefly, he brought his father up to date. With revolvers drawn, the men followed as Frank and Joe tiptoed upstairs.

They were just in time to see four masked men backing away from Bart Worth’s office! One, a brawny, broad-shouldered fellow, carried the cypress chest. The tall, thin leader was in the doorway, his pistol leveled at Samuel Blackstone!

Frank and Joe dived forward and brought the armed man to the floor. A shot rang out. A bullet whacked into the ceiling. Then Joe tore off the fellow’s mask. Henry Cutter lay glaring at them. The other thugs turned to flee.

“Drop your weapons!” Fenton Hardy ordered crisply. “You’re covered. You there—put down that chest!”

Chet, Bart, and Blackstone rushed from the office.

“You got my SOS, Mr. Hardy!” cried Chet. “I knew when Bart showed me that note it wasn’t from Frank and Joe!”

Quickly the policemen unmasked Cutter’s henchmen. They proved to be Jed, Stewart, and the man the Hardys had seen catching alligators. The prisoners were handcuffed and led away.

“How did you get here so fast, Dad?” Frank asked.

“Fortunately I got a reservation on a jet from Jamaica as soon as I got Chet’s wire,” the detective explained.

The Hardys clapped their stout friend gratefully on the back, and the others thanked all three boys for the rescue.

Now Samuel Blackstone stepped forward. “I wish to settle the matter of the chest. Remember, whatever is in it belongs to the Blackstone family.”

“Not at all,” Rand returned hotly. “The money was made by smuggling through Hidden Harbor, which is at least partly my property!”

Blackstone thundered, “Ruel, you’ll find yourself up against a slander suit if you insinuate that my side of the family was dishonest!”

“They were smugglers of pirate goods!” the professor insisted vehemently.

Bart Worth spoke up. “Open the chest. If the papers are there, you won’t be suing anybody, Mr. Blackstone.”

Frank quickly opened the locks and raised the lid, disclosing another, smaller chest. Unlatching this, the boy untied a cloth pouch and opened it.

“Money!” Chet whooped. “Millions!”

Mr. Blackstone and Professor Rand both reached for the bag. “Mine!” they cried together.

Suddenly an odd expression crossed Frank’s face. He held up one of the packages of bills. “Confederate States of America,” he read slowly.

A stunned silence followed. Wordlessly, Frank and Joe removed the stacks of worthless Civil War bills. Then Frank drew out a flat oilskin envelope. Inside was a leather book. Swiftly the boy leafed through the pages.

“Well?” Bart Worth asked tensely. “What does it say?”

Frank looked up. “Everything: dates, amounts, and prices for stolen goods received from pirate ships at Hidden Harbor. Look for yourself, Mr. Blackstone.”

The big man quietly took the ledger. His face darkened as he read the notations. His aggressive manner disappeared.

“I’m a proud man,” he admitted in a low voice. “I’ve always suspected this was true, but I—I couldn’t admit it, even to myself.” He turned to Worth. “I apologize to you, sir. Of course, I’ll cancel my suit.”

“So there was no treasure in the pond after all,” Rand concluded sadly.

“Yes,” Frank said unexpectedly, “there is!”

Everyone stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?” Chet asked.

Frank’s amazing announcement came as a surprise to Chet. He had been deep in thought wondering when he would be involved with the Hardys in another mystery. Sooner than he expected, THE SINISTER SIGNPOST was to be their next challenge.

In answer to Chet’s question, Frank said, “When I was searching for Professor Rand in the pond last night, I noticed that all the trees exposed by the blasting were cypress. Most of them have stood there for centuries, and will bring a huge fortune in valuable wood—to persons who can get it out and market it!”

“So that’s what Cutter meant!” Joe exclaimed. “The cypress is the pond’s ‘main value’!”

Frank nodded, and turned to the cousins. “You know where your treasure is.” He smiled. “You’ll both profit from it by working together.”

“I have some money,” Blackstone objected, “but not enough for a project this size. Besides, I don’t think I could work with Ruel as a partner.”

“Same here!” snapped Rand.

“Try this idea,” Fenton Hardy suggested suddenly. “My client in Jamaica deals in valuable lumber. He’d like to branch out in this country, and I know he’d make a third partner for you both. He would contribute the necessary capital, but not unless you two settle your squabble.”

“I’ve no money,” Professor Rand said thoughtfully, “but we could build the working plant on my land, and I’d give my home over for business offices. But the Indian village must be excavated first. State University will certainly finance it, when they see what the Hardy boys have dug up!”

“Well—” grumbled Blackstone, “all right. But I’ll bet we can’t work together!”

“You can make the deal work,” Bart spoke up. “Don’t forget, Frank and Joe saved both your lives. The least you can do is make peace.”

“That’s so,” Blackstone admitted.

Silently, he reached across and shook Rand’s outstretched hand. The old feud was over. Hid. den Harbor had given up its secret!

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Danger on Wheels

CHAPTER II - Threats

CHAPTER III - Prime Suspect

CHAPTER IV - Fingerprint Hunt

CHAPTER V - A Close Call

CHAPTER VI - Final Warning

CHAPTER VII - The Elusive Stranger

CHAPTER VIII - Stolen!

CHAPTER IX - Demand for Ransom

CHAPTER X - Suspicious Rendezvous

CHAPTER XI - A Prize Catch

CHAPTER XII - A Startling Lead

CHAPTER XIII - No Trespassing!

CHAPTER XIV - Daring Escape

CHAPTER XV - Plea for Help

CHAPTER XVI - Dilemma

CHAPTER XVII - Emergency Landing

CHAPTER XVIII - Night Chase

CHAPTER XIX - Breaking the Code

CHAPTER XX - Jet Action

THE SINISTER SIGNPOST

Racing cars! Mystery! Adventure! These elements combine to give Frank and Joe Hardy one of the most dangerous and intriguing cases of their careers.

It all starts when their father, Fenton Hardy, is engaged by an experimental race car and motor designer to investigate a series of mysterious accidents. Three of his drivers have crashed because the windshields of their cars were suddenly crazed, thus cutting off forward vision. Frank and Joe uncover one slim clue. Each of the drivers had seen a signpost marked DANGER shortly before his accident. The young detectives investigate, only to discover that the signposts have vanished. What happened to them? And what sinister purpose did they server

The attempted theft of a secret experimental motor and the kidnapping of a famous race horse are part of this thrilling case, which proves to be as sinister as the signposts themselves.

The Hardys’ escape took the men completely by surprise

Copyright © 1996, 1968, 1936 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07629-3

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Danger on Wheels

“Do you see what I see?” Joe Hardy asked his brother.

“It’s a dragster,” Frank replied. “They’re not supposed to be driven on public roads. At least not in this state.”

The Hardys were driving home from Taylorville along Shore Road in their open convertible. It was a sunny summer afternoon. So far, they had encountered almost no traffic. Now Frank was gaining on the slow-moving, bright-orange racing car. In the driver’s seat, situated aft of the car’s massive rear wheels, sat a helmeted, black-jacketed figure.

“He’s sure traveling at low speed,” Joe remarked. “I wonder why.”

Frank, dark-haired and eighteen, stepped on the gas and attempted to pass the other vehicle. The driver of the dragster increased his own speed and prevented the convertible from going by.

“What’s he trying to do? Cause an accident?” Joe said angrily.

Frank was forced to return to his position behind the dragster. As he did, the driver again reduced speed to a snail’s pace.

Blond-haired Joe, who was a year younger and more impetuous than Frank, stood up and cupped his hands over his mouth. “Okay!” he shouted at the other driver. “You’ve had your fun! Now let us by!”

Frank made another attempt to pass. Suddenly the driver of the dragster maneuvered his vehicle in such a way that its left rear wheel slammed up against the right front wheel of the Hardys’ car.

“We’re out of control!” Joe yelled.

Their car swerved violently as a result of the impact. Frank struggled with the steering wheel and managed to regain control. He quickly came to a stop. The boys watched as the dragster sped down the road out of sight.

“I’d like to get my hands on that clown!” Joe said, fuming.

“So would I,” Frank agreed. “But the dragster had no license plates. We’d have a hard time trying to track down the car.”

The boys inspected the damage to their convertible. The right front fender was crumpled and the rim of the wheel badly bent.

“We’d better replace the wheel with our spare,” Frank suggested.

The Hardys jacked up the car. While they worked, a large, open-panel truck approached on the opposite side of the road. As it flashed by, Joe caught a glimpse of a bright-orange dragster in the rear of the vehicle.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “That must be the same race car that rammed us!”

Frank jumped to his feet and peered in the direction his brother was pointing. By now the speeding truck had vanished around a bend in the road.

“Everything happened so fast,” Joe said disappointedly, “I wasn’t able to get the license number of the truck.”

“Too bad,” Frank commented. “It’ll be miles away by the time we finish putting on the spare.”

When the job was completed, the boys continued their journey home. Mrs. Hardy, a slim, graceful woman, greeted them when they arrived.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she announced. “Your father wants to see you right away.”

The boys sprinted up the stairs to their father’s study on the second floor. Mr. Hardy, a distinguished-looking, middle-aged man, was seated behind his desk.

“Hi, Dad!” Joe greeted him. “Mother said you wanted to see us.”

“Hello, boys,” he replied. “I just accepted a new case that I’d like to discuss with you two.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other excitedly. Then they took seats near Mr. Hardy’s desk. He sat quietly for a moment, studying a myriad of notes he had spread out in front of him.

Fenton Hardy was an extremely meticulous man. Formerly a member of the New York City Police Department, he now worked as a private detective. His exceptional skill in solving baffling crimes had made him famous. In fact, many of his methods were studied and adopted by law-enforcement agencies throughout the world. Frank and Joe had inherited their father’s talent, and often assisted him with his cases.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy said finally as he glanced up from his notes. “I believe we’re in for a challenging case.”

“We?” Joe exclaimed. “Did you say—we?”

Their father smiled. Although in his mid-forties, he appeared much younger than his years. “That’s right,” he assured his sons. “I’m going to need your help.”

“That’s great!” Frank declared. “What kind of case is it?”

Mr. Hardy leaned back in his chair. “Have you ever heard of the Alden Automotive Research and Development Company?”

“Yes,” Joe answered quickly. “It’s a firm just a few miles south of Clayton. I believe they experiment with high-speed cars.”

“Correct,” the detective replied. “The company makes components for regular stock automobiles as well. Also—”

“Isn’t Keith Alden the president of the company?” Frank interrupted. “I remember reading about him in the newspapers. He was once a famous racing driver.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Hardy replied.

He went on to tell his sons Alden had designed an experimental turbine motor for his high-speed race cars.

“The power plant is so revolutionary that the government has shown an interest in it. However,” the detective continued, “despite his efforts to keep the motor a secret, Mr. Alden suspects that someone has learned about it and is trying to steal the plans.”

“Does he have any idea who the person is?” Joe asked.

“None,” his father replied. “And here’s something else. Two of his cars, in which the motor was installed, met with accidents of a very mysterious nature.”

Mr. Hardy stated that Alden wanted to put his motor and car designs to a real test by entering them in road race competitions. “It was during test runs that the vehicles were totally destroyed. The drivers barely escaped with their lives.”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“The windshields of the cars suddenly crazed,” he said, “and cut off the drivers’ forward vision. As a result, they went out of control and crashed.”

“Windshields crazed?” Joe muttered.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy answered. “They turned almost a milky white.”

“But how could that happen?” Frank asked.

“We don’t know,” his father admitted. “At first, Alden thought the windshields might have been made of a faulty material. But after a laboratory test, that theory proved to be wrong.”

“What’s Frank’s and my assignment?” Joe questioned eagerly.

Mr. Hardy rose from his chair and slowly paced the floor. “I’m going to run a check on all of Alden’s employees,” he said. “That’s just a matter of getting hold of the personnel files at the plant. However, such information seldom reveals the whole story about a man. I’d like to place as many of the workers as possible under close observation, especially the men in the research department.”

“And you want Joe and me for an undercover job!” Frank exclaimed.

Their father grinned. “You’re way ahead of me,” he replied. “But you’re right. It’s exactly what I have in mind.”

“That means we’ll have to act as employees ourselves,” Frank said. “The problem is how can we do it without arousing suspicion?”

“I have an idea,” his brother answered. “Bayport High introduced a basic automotive engineering course last term. Suppose we say we want to work at the plant to get some practical experience.”

“That’s it,” Frank said. “And the timing is perfect, since our school vacations have just started.”

“Sounds good,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “You’ll have a chance to meet Mr. Alden tomorrow. He’s permitting an automobile club to use his private race track for a dragster and a stock-car competition. We’re invited to be his guests.”

“Great!” Joe exclaimed. “Would it be all right to ask Chet to come along?”

“I don’t see why not,” his father replied.

Chet Morton was a school chum of the Hardys. He was a plump, good-natured boy, who lived with his family on a farm near Bayport.

Just then Mrs. Hardy announced that supper was ready. The boys and their father were about to leave the study when an object crashed through one of the windows. It landed in a corner of the room.

“Get down!” Frank yelled.

A split second later there was a muffled explosion!

CHAPTER II

Threats

INSTANTLY the room was filled with thick, boiling clouds of smoke.

“What happened?” Joe shouted.

“It must have been a bomb!” Frank cried out.

The Hardys held their breaths and groped their way through the choking smoke. There was no sign of fire. Frank, Joe, and their father soaked handkerchiefs with water, held them over their faces, then began flinging open all the windows on the second floor. Gradually the smoke cleared.

“Eek!” they heard a woman scream. The boys turned to see the tall, angular form of their Aunt Gertrude rushing up the stairs, followed closely by Mrs. Hardy.

“Everything’s all right!” Frank announced, in an effort to calm the women.

“Smoke!” Aunt Gertrude cried. “Call the fire department! Call the police! Do something!”

“No need to get excited,” Mr. Hardy said. “There’s no fire. Please go back downstairs. We’ll explain everything later.”

The boys dashed from the house to look for the thrower of the smoke bomb. Not finding him, the young detectives searched in a widening circle. Presently Frank noticed a small glittering object some distance away. He ran to the spot and picked it up.

“Take a look at this!” he called to his brother.

“Why—it’s a rifle cartridge case,” Joe said as he examined Frank’s discovery.

“Let’s show it to Dad.”

The boys returned to their father’s study. Mr. Hardy was examining fragments of the bomb. He held up a metal tube about a foot long. “This is all that’s left of what I’m certain was a rifle grenade.”

Frank’s eyes widened with astonishment. “A rifle grenade?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. “The explosive section is attached to one end of this tube. The other end fits over the muzzle of a rifle. It’s then fired from the weapon by means of a blank cartridge shell.”

“A shell like this?” Frank said, handing his father the cartridge case he had picked up.

An expression of surprise spread across the older detective’s face. “Exactly!” he declared, studying the small object. “Where did you find this?”

“Just a few yards beyond our own grounds,” Frank said. “That explains why we saw no footprints on our property.”

Mr. Hardy handed his sons a fragment of paper. “This was tied to the shaft of the smoke grenade,” he told them.

Frank and Joe were amazed to find that it was a handwritten message which read:

You are being watched. Drop the Alden case, or the next smoke will be lethal!

“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “We haven’t even started on the case yet, and already we’re being threatened!”

“This is something we can’t ignore,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’ll have to be extra cautious. And as for your mother and aunt, I’m going to ask them to take a little trip. We can’t risk leaving them alone in the house.”

During supper the two women rebuked the boys’ father for suggesting that they go away.

“Would a sea captain be the first to leave his sinking ship?” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “Not on your life! I, for one, will not budge from this house!”

Mr. Hardy’s sister, unmarried, had a peppery temperament. She was always quick to express her opinions openly, and often made dire predictions about the horrible fate awaiting all detectives.

“We know you’re concerned for our safety,” Mrs. Hardy added in her soft-spoken voice. “But we will not leave here.”

“Well—all right,” her husband conceded reluctantly. “However, I’m going to call Chief Collig at headquarters and request that a couple of guards be posted near the house day and night.”

The next day, Saturday, Mr. Hardy and the boys had an early breakfast. Then, after driving to the Morton farm to pick up Chet, they headed for Alden’s private race track near Clayton.

“I can’t wait to see the stock-car competitions,” Chet said as he peeled a large banana. “In fact, I’ve been thinking of getting into the sport myself. There’s an old car in my father’s barn I’m planning to fix up.”

“Oh-oh,” Joe remarked jokingly. “That’s one hobby you had better stay away from.”

“Don’t worry,” Frank added with a laugh. “Chet’s car will end up as a diner on wheels, rather than a threat to the racing world.”

“Cut the small talk,” their friend retorted. “You two masterminds are jealous because I’m the daredevil type. We’re a species that eat more because we need tons of energy.”

The Hardys and Chet arrived at the track in less than an hour. The area was a beehive of activity. Bright-colored stock cars and dragsters gleamed in the sun as drivers prepared their vehicles for the day’s competitions.

“You fellows enjoy yourselves looking at some of these cars,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll locate Mr. Alden and bring him back here.”

“Okay, Dad.”

The boys began to stroll around the area. Suddenly Joe grabbed his brother’s arm and exclaimed, “There’s the dragster that rammed us!”

“It sure looks like it,” Frank agreed. “Same color. But let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ll ask the driver some questions first.”

The Hardys and Chet walked toward the dragster. A slim, sandy-haired young man was working on the engine of the car.

“Are you the owner of this dragster?” Frank queried.

“Yeah,” the young man sneered. “What’s it to you?”

“Now hold on!” Joe interjected. “No need to get hot about it. He just asked a simple question.”

“Were you driving along Shore Road in Bayport yesterday?” Frank continued.

The drag-strip racer hesitated a moment. “Why don’t you guys take a walk?” he shot back finally. “Especially the fat one with you. He looks like he could use some exercise.”

“Why don’t you take a walk?” the young man snarled

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Chet snapped.

“Just a second,” Joe said. He ran his hand around the outer surface of the vehicle’s left rear wheel. “The wall of this tire is roughed up. It must have rubbed hard against something.”

“Such as our car!” Frank stated.

“Get away from that wheel!” the young man growled.

He gave Joe a shove that sent the boy crashing to the ground. Like a flash Joe was up on his feet. He rushed at his attacker and pinned his opponent’s arms behind his back in a jujitsu maneuver.

“Let me go!” the young man cried.

At that moment Mr. Hardy appeared with Keith Alden. He was a tall, slim man with patrician features. His dark hair was slightly gray at the temples.

Mr. Alden looked troubled “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“Are you boys having trouble?” Mr. Hardy asked quickly.

The car manufacturer spoke to Joe in a displeased voice. “Why are you holding onto my son like that?”

“Your—your son?” Frank stammered.

Joe released his grip on the young man.

“Yes,” Alden continued. “This is my son Roger”

Mr. Hardy introduced his client to the boys. Except for Roger, everyone was mutually embarrassed.

“These guys,” the young man shouted, “are trying to pin some sort of car accident on me!”

Alden eyed Roger suspiciously. “I don’t think the Hardy boys would accuse anyone without good reason. If you were involved in an accident, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. It seemed wise not to force the issue. They told Mr. Alden about their encounter with a dragster the previous day, but could not say for certain that the driver of the bright-orange car was Roger.

“Then only my son can clear up this matter,” Alden said. He put the question to Roger.

The young man became even more arrogant. “I didn’t ram into anybody’s car, and I never heard of Shore Road!”

His father was in a quandary. Finally he said, “Until this matter can be investigated further, I forbid you to drive your dragster in the competitions today.”

“We’ll see about that!” Roger muttered defiantly. He glared at the Hardys, then turned and walked off at a furious pace.

“I don’t know what to do about my son,” Alden said with remorse. “His mother died several years ago, and I haven’t been able to spend much time with him. He’s been getting more difficult to live with every day.”

“I’m sure he’ll straighten out,” Mr. Hardy remarked sympathetically.

“I hope so,” Alden replied. Suddenly his mood changed. He turned to Frank and Joe. “Now down to business. Your father tells me you two are going to work with him on the case,” he said.

“That’s right,” Frank replied.

“Excellent! I’m sure you have some questions of your own you’ll want to ask me. However, I must fly to Washington immediately after the competitions. How about all of us meeting in my office Monday morning?”

The Hardys nodded.

Alden looked at his wrist watch. “It is time for me to get to my post. I’m the official timekeeper for the stock-car runs. Perhaps you would like to join me out on the track.”

“Would we!” the boys answered excitedly.

As they started to Walk off, Frank bent down and picked up a small packet which had fallen from his brother’s pocket during the scuffle. It was Joe’s detective kit. Each of the Hardys carried one. Among the items that had spilled out was a magnifying glass and a metal signaling mirror. He handed the kit to Joe.

Suddenly a voice crackled from the loudspeaker of the P.A. system.

“The first trial run will be made by car number twenty-two. The driver is Roger Alden!”

“What!” exploded Alden. “How did he get his hands on a car? I must stop him! Roger doesn’t have enough experience for closed-circuit racing!”

CHAPTER III

Prime Suspect

ALDEN rushed toward the starting line with the Hardys close at his heels.

“Stop that car!” he shouted.

But it was too late. Roger roared off.

“Flag that car down!” Alden ordered one of the track officials.

“I’ll try to signal him with my mirror when he comes along the straightaway,” Joe said.

Frank and Joe ran alongside the track opposite to the direction Roger was headed. They watched him as he skidded dangerously on the far turn.

“Did you see that?” Frank yelled.

“Yes. He took that curve too fast.”

The boys hurried down the straightaway. As Roger came around the second far turn, his car spun out of control and crashed through the fence on the sideline. A huge geyser of dust erupted from the spot.

Frank and Joe rushed to the scene of the accident. An ambulance sped by them with its siren screaming. They arrived just as two white-coated men were helping Roger move away from the damaged vehicle.

“Is he hurt?” Joe asked quickly.

“No,” one of the men replied. “He’s lucky. I think he just had the wind knocked out of him. But we’ll take him to the hospital for an examination, anyway.”

Shortly Roger’s father and Mr. Hardy came running up.

“Are you all right?” Alden asked his son nervously.

“I—I guess so,” Roger gasped, still trying to catch his breath. Then he glared at the Hardys and pointed an accusing finger at them. “You guys are the cause of this!” he screamed. “You reflected sunlight into my eyes with that mirror of yours!”

“You’re crazy!” Joe retorted.

A rangy young man appeared and gazed at the wrecked car in disbelief. “My car!” he groaned. “It’s almost totally demolished!”

“Are you the owner?” Alden queried.

“Yes, I am.”

“How is it my son was driving your racer?”

“Roger offered me a hundred bucks if I would let him make the trial run,” the young man explained. “Now all I have is a pile of junk.”

“Serves you right,” Alden snapped, “but I’ll pay for the damage.”

Roger was helped into the ambulance and taken to the hospital. Although his father was greatly upset over the incident, he did not request that the competitions be discontinued. Instead, Alden told the participants to carry on. At the signal, engines began roaring to life. The Hardys and Chet watched the day’s activities and were thrilled by the performance of the skillful drivers.

After dropping Chet off at the Morton farm, the three detectives headed home. When they arrived, Mrs. Hardy announced that supper was ready to be served. As they ate, the boys discussed the day’s events.

Aunt Gertrude looked at them scornfully. “Racing of any kind is just dreadful! It should be outlawed!”

“When properly organized,” Frank put in, “it’s a fine sport.”

“I call it utter nonsense!” Aunt Gertrude retorted. She hurried out of the room before her nephews could argue the point.

The next day the boys rose late. After eating a hearty breakfast and attending church services, they settled down to read the voluminous Sunday newspapers. Shortly the telephone rang. Frank scooped up the receiver. The caller was Iola Morton, Chet’s sister.

“Chet won’t be able to see you later,” she sobbed. “He’s had an accident!”

Frank and Joe leaped into their convertible and drove to the Morton farm. They arrived to find the entire family standing on the front porch of the house. Chet was seated on the steps, exclaiming that he was all right. His face was blackened with soot.

“I don’t need a doctor!” the chubby youth insisted.

“What happened?” Frank asked worriedly.

Mr. Morton, a good-looking, normally jolly man, turned to the Hardys. “Chet was experimenting with a highly volatile fuel on the engine of that old car I keep in the barn. He was pouring some into the carburetor when it suddenly blew up.”

“It seems the racing bug has bitten him,” said Iola, a slim, pretty girl. She was a witty, light-hearted person and was a school chum of the Hardys. Iola was Joe’s favorite date.

“I was afraid something like this would happen,” Frank remarked. “However, I didn’t expect it so soon.”

Mrs. Morton, an attractive, dark-haired woman, hurried to meet Dr. Mills, a Bayport physician, as he drove up to the house. He examined Chet, then left after saying that fortunately the boy had not been injured.

“You’d better call off your experiments,” Joe advised his friend.

“I’ll make sure he does,” Mr. Morton said. “I’m getting rid of that old car right away.”

“But you can’t!” Chet protested. “I’m on the threshold of producing the Morton super-duty racing car!”

Frank and Joe helped to convince him that such experiments should be left to the experts. Chet was crestfallen for a moment, then his face suddenly brightened.

“I’ll drop the race-car project in favor of another idea,” he said. “A rocket-propelled bicycle!” The Hardys shook their heads in despair and returned home.

Monday morning found Mr. Hardy and his sons in Keith Alden’s office. The company president was seated comfortably behind his desk, ready to discuss the case with them.

Frank was the first to speak. “Dad says that you suspect someone is trying to steal your experimental motor. Why?”

“My motor,” Alden replied, “uses a valve of a very unusual design. In fact, we’re not equipped here at the plant to make one. However, I learned of a company on the West Coast that specializes in valve manufacturing. They said they could do the job, so I gave them the green light.”

He went on to say that one day Mr. Dillon, president of the valve company, had telephoned him excitedly. A stranger, who refused to identify himself, had appeared with the specifications of a valve exactly like the one to be used in Alden’s experimental motor.

Keith Alden rubbed the back of his neck. “Beats me how the fellow got hold of my design.”

“What’s the name of the company, sir?” Joe asked.

“Exeter Valve. It s a small outfit and, lucky for me, very reputable. Mr. Dillon told the guy he’d like to study the specifications further before agreeing to handle the job. The stranger refused and scooted off.”

“Did you get a description of him?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Alden replied. “He was tall, wore black rimmed glasses, and had a beard and mustache that looked phony.”

“Obviously a disguise,” Mr. Hardy commented.

“I’m certain it was by sheer accident that the stranger went to the same company I was dealing with,” Alden declared. “And I’m also sure that his valve sketch was a direct copy of my own design.”

“Leaping lizards!” Joe interjected. “Maybe the stranger has the plans to your whole motor!”

“We doubt that,” Mr. Hardy said.

Alden grinned. “Your father is referring to the precautions I have taken to prevent the plans from being stolen.”

“What kind of precautions?” Frank asked.

Alden explained that there were only two sets of plans in existence. “One set, the original, is safely hidden. The other is recorded on film slides.

“The work is divided among the technicians here,” the man continued. “No one worker knows what the other is doing. Each receives his assignment in the form of a slide, which is placed in a burglarproof projector. He displays it on a small screen and uses it for his job.”

“Sounds foolproof,” Joe commented.

“That’s what I thought,” Alden said. “Yet somehow specifications for my motor must be leaking out of the plant.”

“So far,” Mr. Hardy told his sons, “only half of the slides have ever been seen by anyone other than Mr. Alden. That’s why we doubt that the entire design has fallen into the wrong hands.”

The boys asked Alden if he had the slightest reason to suspect any of his workers.

“No,” he replied. “And just to be sure, I had them all double-checked.”

“What about ex-employees?” Joe suggested. “Have you had any trouble in the past?”

Alden rubbed his chin dubiously. “Come to think of it, I did. But that was several months ago.”

He stated that Vilno Sigor, an engineer and designer, had worked in his research department. The man had created a number of small, but clever inventions which were used by the company.

“Then one day Vilno came to my office and accused me of picking his brain,” Alden said. “I told him that was what I was paying him for, and reminded him of the generous bonuses he received for his ideas. Vilno wanted more. He demanded a partnership in my firm. When I refused, he became furious and left. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Too bad,” Frank muttered. “He might have been our man.”

“Now take his twin brother Barto,” Alden remarked. “He’s still employed in my research department as a sheet-metal worker. An excellent craftsman. His job is to fabricate the bodies of our experimental race cars.”

“A twin brother?” Frank exclaimed. “That’s a lead. Barto could be in cahoots with Vilno!”

Alden grinned. “You’d be wasting your time investigating him. He’s the direct opposite of Vilno in engineering knowledge and in temperament. Even if he got a look at the plans of my motor, he’d never be able to understand them.”

Despite Alden’s opinion of Barto, the boys were determined to list the sheet-metal worker as a prime suspect.

The young detectives asked about the two experimental cars that had met with accidents after their windshields had been mysteriously crazed. Alden told them that each of the vehicles was powered by a prototype of his motor.

“But whether the accidents were the result of sabotage, I can’t say,” he added.

Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Right now let’s tackle this case one step at a time,” he advised his sons. “We have to assume that somewhere in this plant there’s a clever crook. He’s managing to steal specifications of the experimental motor. Our first job is to find out who he is. And we’ll have to find him fast!”

CHAPTER IV

Fingerprint Hunt

“So YOU want to work in my plant as undercover agents,” Alden said, when told about the boys’ plan. “I like the idea.”

“Thanks,” Frank replied. “When do we start?”

“Tomorrow, if that’s all right with you fellows,” Alden said. He glanced at his wrist watch. “I see it’s nearly lunchtime. Let’s have some food.”

After a delicious meal in the company’s cafeteria, Alden conducted the Hardys on a tour of the plant. The boys watched with interest as various machinists turned out parts for the experimental motor. Each of the men worked from a plan projected on a small screen.

The last item on the tour was a visit to the research department. There Alden introduced the boys and their father to Barto Sigor.

“I am pleased to meet you,” Barto said in a quiet voice. He was a short, stocky man with bushy eyebrows and dark, wavy hair. His steel-gray eyes were fixed on the young detectives.

“These two lads will be working here in the plant for a while,” Alden told him. “They’re taking an automotive engineering course at school and would like to get a little practical experience.”

“Ah,” Barto responded. “So you want to learn the automobile business. That’s good. Do not hesitate to call on me if you have any questions.”

“We won’t,” Joe answered.

Later, while driving home to Bayport, Frank and Joe discussed the case with their father.

Then Joe said, “What’s your opinion of Barto, Frank? He seems pleasant enough.”

“I agree he’s a weak suspect, but—”

“You have something on your mind, son,” Mr. Hardy guessed. “What is it?”

“Mr. Alden said that Barto would not understand the motor specifications even if he got a look at the plans,” Frank replied. “However, since Vilno and Barto are twins, it’s possible that they could have switched identities.”

“There’s only one flaw in your theory,” Mr. Hardy said. “Vilno is not a sheet-metal worker. How could he perform his brother’s job at the plant?”

“I didn’t think about that,” Frank admitted. “Still, I’d like to check it out.”

“There’s one way of settling the question,” the older detective suggested. “Try to get Barto’s fingerprints. But do it without his knowledge. We don’t want Barto, or anyone else in the plant, to suspect you’re working on a case.”

The boys retired early that night. The next morning they started for the Alden plant immediately after breakfast. Mr. Hardy, who had been supplied with a microfilm report of all the employees’ records, remained at home to check the information against his files on criminals.

The boys spent the morning watching the skilled machinists perform their various tasks. Finally they positioned themselves so they could peer into the research department to observe Barto. The young detectives noticed that he wore a pair of thin rubber gloves constantly. Joe made a casual remark about this to another mechanic.

“Barto always keeps those gloves on,” the man said. “He uses certain acids in his work. Also, he says the gloves give him a better grip on his tools.”

Eager to discuss the situation, the young detectives retreated to a secluded corner of the plant.

“Those gloves of Barto’s make it impossible to get his fingerprints,” Joe commented.

“He’ll have to take them off sometime,” Frank pointed out. “Maybe when he has his lunch.”

At noon most of the workers went to the cafeteria. Barto, however, did not leave the shop. Instead, he walked to a clothes rack in one corner of the room and pulled a sandwich, wrapped in wax paper, from the pocket of his jacket. He then sat down on a bench, removed his gloves, and unwrapped the sandwich. The boys watched from a distance.

“We might get a good print from that wax paper,” Joe whispered.

“Right,” his brother agreed. “Let’s see what he does with it.”

After Barto finished eating, he crumpled up the wax paper, put his gloves back on, and strolled out of the shop through an exit door. The young detectives rushed to a window and peered outside. There they spotted the suspect walking toward a flaming incinerator. The man tossed the wax paper into it and returned to the shop.

“Well, that’s that,” Joe muttered disappointedly.

“We can’t waste too much time trying to get Barto’s prints,” Frank said. “Let’s follow him when he quits work for the day.”

A few minutes before five o’clock the boys hurried to the parking lot to pick up their car. Then they posted themselves outside the main gate. Workers began to spill out of the plant.

“There’s Barto!” Joe said.

The boys watched their suspect walk to a street corner and wait. Soon a bus came along and Barto climbed aboard. The boys followed the vehicle. Eventually the trail led them to the center of Clayton. The bus stopped and Barto got off.

“We’ll park the car and follow him on foot,” Frank declared.

They shadowed their suspect in the best detective fashion. Barto bought a newspaper. Then he stopped at a refreshment stand and ordered a glass of orange juice. When he had finished and walked off, Joe rushed to the stand to seize the glass. But before he could do so, a counter-man swept up the tumbler and plunged it into a sink filled with soapy water.

“Out of luck again,” Joe grumbled.

Finally Barto led the boys to a small, red-brick apartment house off the main street and entered the building. Frank and Joe waited a few minutes, then dashed into the lobby. They quickly checked the mailboxes and found that Barto lived in apartment 6B.

“Well, there’s nothing more we can do today.” Frank sighed. “We may as well go home. Maybe we’ll come up with an idea before tomorrow.”

After supper the young detectives joined their father in his study.

“Sorry to hear you haven’t had any luck with your investigation today,” Mr. Hardy said. “Neither have I. So far, none of Alden’s employees show up in my criminal files.”

“Did you check on Barto and his brother?” Frank queried.

“Yes, I have.”

Mr. Hardy said that according to their records, the twins had been born in a small Midwest community. When they were still very young, their father had moved the family to Switzerland, where he accepted a job as an engineer. It was there that Vilno attended a university, and Barto had learned the sheet-metal trade.

“The twins returned to the United States several years ago and started a business called Inventions, Incorporated,” Mr. Hardy continued. “They didn’t do very well and finally closed the shop. After that, it was a matter of job-hopping until they joined the Alden company.”

“Hm! Not much to go on there,” Frank muttered. “However, I still want to follow through on the fingerprint angle.”

“Maybe we could get into Barto’s apartment!” Joe suggested.

“We’d need a court order to do that,” his brother said. “At present we haven’t any reason for justifying such a move.”

Frank thought for a moment, then suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair. “Wait a minute! I have an idea!” he exclaimed. “Barto has to grab the doorknob to enter his apartment. I can hide in the hallway and wait until he comes home, then simply lift his prints from the knob.”

“Say! That might work!” Joe agreed.

“Go to it, boys. But be careful,” Mr. Hardy warned.

The hours dragged by slowly during the boys’ second day at the plant. At lunch they reviewed their plan. Frank would leave an hour before quitting time and take the bus to Clayton. Joe would drive their car and shadow Barto as they had done the previous day.

A few minutes before four o’clock Frank hurried from the plant and caught the bus to Clayton. Within half an hour he was climbing the stairs to the sixth floor where Barto’s apartment was located. He found 6B, then stepped out through the exit door at the far end of the hallway. The young detective inched the door open so he could watch for his suspect.

“I hope Barto doesn’t come home late tonight,” he thought.

While Frank waited, an elderly woman in work clothes appeared with a vacuum cleaner and a small trash disposal cart. She unlocked Barto’s door and went inside. Shortly she reappeared with a wastebasket and dumped its contents into the cart. Then she went back into the apartment. The whirling sound of a vacuum cleaner could be heard.

“I wonder what was in the wastebasket,” Frank mused. “Maybe I’ll find a clue.”

He dashed to the cart and found several pieces of crumpled paper. Frank jammed them into his pocket and returned to his hiding place.

Eventually the cleaning woman emerged from the room, locked the door, and disappeared down the hallway with her paraphernalia. Frank ran to the door and wiped it clean so that Barto’s prints would be the only ones present.

Half an hour passed. Then, from his hiding place, Frank spotted Barto walking down the hallway. The stocky man unlocked his door, twisted the knob, and went inside. When the door closed behind him, Frank sprang into action.

He dusted the knob with a fine, gray powder. Next, he took a strip of sticky tape from a celluloid container and carefully pressed it on the knob. A split second later he lifted off the tape, placed it back in the container, then rushed down the stairs and out of the building. He saw Joe in their car about a block away.

“Whew!” Frank said, out of breath. “I was afraid Barto was going to open his door any second.”

“Mission accomplished?” his brother asked half-jokingly.

Frank held up the celluloid container. “Here are his fingerprints. Let’s take them to Chief Collig and have him check them right away.”

The boys drove directly to Bayport Police Headquarters. Chief Collig told them that he would send the data to the FBI by teletype and call the Hardys as soon as he received a reply.

Arriving home, the boys had a leisurely supper, then went to their crime lab located above the garage. There they examined the crumpled pieces of paper Frank had found in the disposal cart. All of them proved to be discarded advertising circulars, except one blank page.

“This looks like the backing sheet for a typewritten letter,” Joe observed as he carefully flattened it out on a table.

“Then there must be word impressions on it,” his brother replied. “Let’s put it under the ultraviolet light.”

The boys treated the blank sheet with a chemical solution and placed it under a special lamp. Gradually, words began to show up clearly. The letter read:

6/2

Dear Eric:

Forgive me for taking so long to write you, but I’ve been so exhausted from work the last few days that I didn’t feel I could write a coherent sentence. How I wish I had the stamina of two hard-working boys who have taken summer jobs at the plant. Any family would be proud to have sons like that.

As I already told you, my brother has left the Alden company. It came as a surprise to me because I did not detect anything in his behavior to lead me to believe he was dissatisfied with his job. I hope he manages to survive his own idiosyncracies. His reasons for leaving were extremely unreasonable, and I hope he eventually sees the error of his ways.

Because of my brother, I feel a bit embarrassed about continuing to work here. I’m sure they’re expecting me to leave also. I must admit I have been investigating other possible jobs, but now I realize it would be foolish of me to quit.

Hoping that luck will not continue to evade us, I am

Your friend,

Barto

The Hardys wondered to whom the letter had been sent, and if it might contain a coded message. After close examination, they concluded that the letter was quite ordinary. They kept it on file, nevertheless.

Later Chief Collig telephoned the boys. “I just got a reply on those prints you wanted checked,” he announced. “They belong to a Barto Sigor.”

The news was shattering. The Hardys no longer had a prime suspect!

CHAPTER V

A Close Call

THE next day and a half at the plant proved disappointing for the boys. Despite their meticulous investigation, they failed to come up with a suspect.

“I’m ready to tackle this case from another angle,” Frank said. “We may as well give up our undercover work here at the plant. Nothing more we can do.”

“What do you have in mind?” Joe asked.

“Looking into the accidents involving Alden’s experimental race cars.”

“Do you think there’s some connection between the accidents and the stealing of the motor specifications?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know. Each of the cars was equipped with a prototype model of the motor. Yet why would anyone risk destroying the cars if that’s what they were after?”

“Let’s have a talk with Alden,” Joe suggested.

In a little while the boys were seated in the president’s office.

“So you want to investigate the accidents,” Alden said. “That’s okay with me.”

“We’d like to have a talk with the drivers,” Frank replied.

“You’ll find them in the garage opposite the research department,” Alden told them. “They’re getting another of my cars ready for a road race competition that’s coming up. Their names are Jim Markus and Speed Johnston.”

Frank and Joe made their way toward a large, metal-covered building. Inside, a crew of mechanics was busy working on a bright-red experimental race car. Two wiry young men, in their mid-twenties, were watching the proceedings. They turned when the boys called out the names of the drivers.

“I’m Jim Markus,” one of them said.

“And my name’s Speed Johnston,” announced the other, extending his hand in greeting. “What can we do for you?”

Frank and Joe questioned the drivers about their accidents. They told the Hardys that Alden had entered the experimental vehicles in the competitions in order to match their performance against other makes of cars. The explanation of the accidents were the same as Alden had given, except for a couple of interesting facts. First, each of the drivers had experienced a crazing of the windshield immediately after turning a sharp bend in the road. Shortly before it happened, each of them recalled seeing a sign marked DANGER.

“Would you show us on a map where the accidents took place?” Frank asked.

“Sure thing,” Johnston replied.

He took out a road map and spread it on the floor. “Mine happened here,” he said, jabbing a finger at the spot along a winding red line.

Markus stooped beside his companion. “And my accident took place right here,” he added, marking the location with a pencil.

The boys thanked the drivers for their help, then left, taking the map with them.

“The road isn’t far from here,” Frank commented. “Joe, let’s drive there and take a look around.”

Half an hour later the Hardys were guiding their convertible along a narrow, winding road. They arrived at the sharply curved segment indicated by Johnston and stopped.

“This is the spot,” Frank remarked. “But I don’t see a sign marked DANGER.”

The boys got out and walked along the shoulder of the road.

“Look!” Joe exclaimed, pointing down at the ground. “There’s a little mound of dirt. Someone has filled in a small hole.”

“You’re right,” his brother agreed. “That’s where the sign must have been. But why was it taken away?”

Puzzled, the boys returned to their car and drove on to the spot where Markus had said he had his accident. It proved to be another sharply curved segment on the road. The Hardys again examined the shoulder and found a similar mound of dirt.

“Strange,” Frank muttered. “I think we’re on to something. The only problem is—what?”

It was getting late, so the boys decided to drive home. When they arrived, Mrs. Hardy rushed out of the house to meet them.

“Something has happened to your Aunt Gertrude!” she cried out.

“Where is she?” Frank asked.

“In the living room!”

The boys quickly followed their mother inside. There they found Aunt Gertrude slumped in a chair. Mrs. Hardy had placed a wet towel on her forehead.

“What’s wrong, Aunt Gertrude?” Frank asked.

Miss Hardy suddenly came to life. “The telegram I just received!” she moaned. “What a dreadful inheritance! Read it!”

The boys looked down and saw the telegram on the floor beside her chair. Joe picked it up and they read the message. Both tried hard not to laugh.

“What a dreadful inheritance!” Aunt Gertrude moaned

“So that’s what this is all about,” Frank said finally. “You’ve inherited a stable of race horses.”

“A stable of retired race horses, you mean!” she exclaimed. “They’re the worst kind. They’ve already fleeced the public!”

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “I think it’s wonderful,” she commented. “You might get to like horses. They seem to grow on you in time.”

“Laura! How can you say such a thing!” Aunt Gertrude rebuked her. She slumped back in her chair. “And to think that this was wished on me by an old friend I forgot even existed. She apparently has no heirs.”

“Where is the stable located?” Joe queried.

“In Baltimore,” his aunt replied. “Even that is too close for me.”

“What do you plan to do with it?” Frank asked.

“Sell the place!” Aunt Gertrude shot back. “And the quicker the better!”

“Now calm down,” Mrs. Hardy urged. “Tomorrow we’ll telephone the attorney handling the estate and see what this is all about.”

Aunt Gertrude remained silent all through supper. Finally a teasing cry of “Giddap!” from Joe sent her storming out of the room.

The next morning the boys went straight to Alden’s office. They told him about the signs the drivers had mentioned and of their own investigation.

“Sounds mysterious,” Alden remarked. “But what harm could a sign do?”

“I can’t answer that at the moment,” Frank admitted. “But I’ve a hunch it has something to do with the accidents.”

Alden eyed the boys with interest. “How do you plan to follow up your hunch?”

“The last time we talked,” Frank recalled, “you said that another of your experimental cars was being readied for a road race competition.”

“That’s right. In fact, the race is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Where is it to take place?” Frank asked.

“On a road not far from the one where the accidents happened. Why?” Alden asked.

“If you’ll point out the road for us on a map,” Frank explained, “Joe and I will travel the route shortly before the race starts. Maybe we’ll spot one of ose signs. At least it’s worth a try.”

Alden pulled a map from his desk drawer and indicated the road to be used for the competition. Then the boys returned home and discussed the plan with their father.

“You might be on to something,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll drive the route with you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Frank replied. “But we weren’t going to use the car.”

“You’re not planning to walk all the way?” the detective asked with a look of astonishment. “The race will be over a course of several miles.”

“We discussed it on the way home, Dad,” Joe put in. “We plan to use our old bicycles. They’re still stored in the garage.”

Mr. Hardy leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I get it. Bicycles are noiseless. And if there is anything behind this sign theory of yours, you won’t scare off whoever’s setting them up.”

“Exactly,” Frank replied.

Before retiring for the night, the boys went to the garage and inspected their bicycles.

“The tires have to be inflated, and a few drops of oil are needed here and there,” Joe observed. “Otherwise, they’re in good shape.”

It took only a few minutes to do the job, then they rode their bicycles once around the block for a quick test run.

“Let’s load the bikes in our car,” Frank suggested, “so we’ll be all set to go first thing in the morning.”

Frank and Joe got an early start. Mr. Hardy accompanied them to the starting line. There were about twenty stock cars lined up for the race. Each was painted in a different color scheme. Drivers and mechanics were milling around, waiting for the contest to begin. Alden was there and greeted the Hardys.

“How much time do we have before the race gets under way?” Frank asked him.

“About thirty minutes. My car will be the first one off. Johnston is the driver.”

“Then we’d better get going right away,” Frank declared.

“Be careful,” Mr. Hardy urged.

The young detectives lifted their bicycles from the trunk, then pedaled down the road.

After they had covered most of the route, Joe sighed. “I’d forgotten how slow bicycling can be.”

“Keep going,” his brother said. “The race will be starting any second now, and it won’t take the cars long to travel this far. We should cover as much of the route as we can before they do.”

As the boys continued, they noticed that the road was becoming treacherous for racing. It was flanked on one side by a rocky wall, and on the other by a sloping embankment with a drop of nearly a hundred feet.

Eventually Frank and Joe came to a sharp bend in the road. As they rounded it, Frank suddenly locked his brakes. Joe did the same. Just ahead was a large sign marked DANGER!

“Leaping lizards!” Joe declared in a hushed voice.

“That sign is exactly like the ones Johnston and Markus described to us,” Frank observed. “Let’s take a look at it.”

“Maybe we’re being watched.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

The boys laid their bicycles on the embankment and began walking toward the sign. When they reached it, they stopped and gazed at its face.

“What do you make of it?” Joe queried.

“Seems quite ordinary, except for one thing,” Frank answered. “It’s much thicker than most signs.”

At that instant the young detectives heard a faint, whirring noise.

“What’s that?” Joe said.

Frank listened. “I’d say it’s a generator of some kind,” he concluded.

“It’s coming from a spot a little farther down the road.”

The boys began to inch their way toward the source of the sound. Suddenly the roar of a motor became distinct. Each second it grew louder.

“The first of the race cars is coming!” Joe exclaimed.

The Hardys turned just in time to see Alden’s entry tearing around the sharp curve in the road. Suddenly it began to swerve out of control. The vehicle bounced into the air and hurtled directly toward the boys!

CHAPTER VI

Final Warning

THE racing car plunged toward Frank and Joe like some horrible monster eager to crush its prey. In a desperate move the boys leaped down the embankment and went tumbling head over heels to the bottom. They lay stunned. The next thing they knew, Mr. Hardy and Alden were leaning over them.

“Are you all right?” their father asked anxiously.

“I’m—I’m okay,” Frank assured him.

“Me too,” Joe added, rubbing his head gingerly.

“One of the other drivers saw that there had been an accident and reported it,” Alden said. “We got here just as fast as we could.”

Frank sprang to his feet. “Your driver Johnston! How is he?”

“Fine, except for a few bruises,” Alden replied. He grinned. “I build very strong cars. My drivers are well-protected.”

The boys told the two men what they had seen.

“And you say there was a signpost marked DANGER?” Mr. Hardy asked curiously. “Where?”

Frank pointed toward the top of the embankment. “The one right—” His words trailed off.

“Why—it’s gone!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys led the way up the embankment. Then they slowly walked along the shoulder of the road. In a minute they discovered a small hole that had been hastily filled in.

“Here’s the place,” Frank said. “This is where we saw the sign.”

“I’d call it a sinister signpost,” Mr. Hardy remarked, rubbing his chin dubiously. “It’s here one minute, and gone the next. Obviously someone has carried it off.”

Joe casually thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. A moment later his face showed surprise and he pulled a piece of paper from one of his pockets. On it was a printed message:

THIS IS A FINAL WARNING!

HANDS OFF THE ALDEN CASE!

“This must have been put in my pocket while we were lying at the bottom of the embankment,” Joe said.

“We can be sure of one thing,” Frank added. “Whoever’s after Mr. Alden’s experimental motor is also responsible for the accidents.”

A car roared up and screeched to a halt. Its driver, one of Alden’s race car mechanics, leaped out.

“Mr. Alden!” he shouted excitedly. “We just received a call from one of your watchmen at the plant. The research department is on fire!”

“We’ll drive you there,” Mr. Hardy offered. “There might be a connection with the accident here.”

He and his sons hopped into the boys’ convertible with Alden. By the time they arrived at the plant, the flames were completely extinguished. Firemen began to rummage through a charred area that once was Alden’s research shop.

“This is a terrible blow to my experimental project,” he muttered.

The Hardys expressed their regret, then went to talk with the fire chief.

“I can’t say what caused the fire,” the chief told them. “We’ll have to conduct an investigation first.”

“Approximately when did it start?” Frank asked.

“We got the alarm about an hour ago.”

“I’d appreciate knowing the results of your investigation,” Mr. Hardy said as he presented his credentials to the fire chief.

The man recognized the name immediately. “It sure is a pleasure to meet you, sir. And these two boys must be your sons, Frank and Joe. My name’s Fred Evans.” There was an exchange of handshakes. “You can count on me,” the fire chief continued. “I’ll let you know if we uncover anything.”

The Hardys thanked him, then rejoined Alden who was picking his way through the rubble of his burned shop.

“There’s nothing left to salvage,’ he said dejectedly. ”However, I’ll set up a temporary research shop in one of the other buildings.”

The Hardys expressed their regrets at Alden’s loss and returned home. Aunt Gertrude was still greatly upset over her inheritance of a stable filled with retired race horses.

“Fenton!” she exclaimed. “You promised to call the attorney who’s handling the estate, and you never did. Please do it right away. I can’t rest thinking about that awful place.”

Mr. Hardy went to telephone, while the boys had a snack of sandwiches and milk in the kitchen. A few minutes later their father hurried into the room.

“I still have the attorney on the line,” Mr. Hardy said. “He’d like us to take a look at the stables. However, I have too much work to clean up here, and I’m sure your aunt won’t go. So why don’t you two boys hop down to Maryland?”

“Sure thing, Dad,” Frank replied.

Mr. Hardy completed his call, then gave Frank and Joe their instructions.

“You can catch an early train to Baltimore in the morning,” the detective explained. “The attorney will meet you at the station there. He’ll be waiting in front of the information desk. His name is Steve Benson.”

Frank and Joe left Bayport aboard the seven-o’ clock train. It was nearly noon when they arrived in Baltimore. The boys went directly to the information desk and noticed a tall, even-featured man standing nearby. He appeared to be in his late fifties, and was impeccably dressed.

“Mr. Benson?” Frank queried.

“Yes,” the man answered. “And you must be the Hardys. I’ve heard a lot about you and your father.” He extended his hand in greeting. “My car is just outside. The stable isn’t far from here.”

The boys enjoyed the drive through the lush, green countryside. During the journey, the attorney discussed Aunt Gertrude’s situation.

“Your father says that she wants to sell the stable as soon as possible,” Benson remarked. “We shouldn’t have any trouble doing that. In fact, Norman Fowler, the temporary manager out there, would like to buy the place. Unfortunately he doesn’t have the money right now.”

Nearly an hour passed before Benson guided his car through an arched gateway. Spread across the arch, in gold letters, was the name:

SOUTHERN PINES STABLES

“All told, there are about twenty acres here,” the attorney announced. “It’s not very big, but it’s adequate for the purpose.”

Ahead, the boys saw a small house and two other wooden structures. All were painted white and appeared to be in excellent condition. The largest of the buildings contained the stalls for the horses. To the left was a large grassy area surrounded by a wooden fence. About a dozen fine-looking horses were lazily grazing there.

Benson brought the car to a stop near the house and got out. The young detectives followed. Standing on the porch was a bulky, deeply tanned man whom the attorney introduced to the boys as Norman Fowler.

“The Hardys have come to take a look around,” Benson told him.

“Glad to be of service,” Fowler said cordially. “As you probably know, all the horses here have seen the last of their racing days. The owners want to provide a comfortable retirement for them. That’s our job.”

The manager invited his guests into the house to lunch, then took them on a tour of the stables. As the day drew to a close, Fowler suggested that the boys remain overnight and return to Bayport in the morning.

“All my stable hands are away for the evening at a local affair,” he said, “and the bunkhouse is empty. You can sleep there.”

Benson announced that he had to leave, but promised to return in the morning to drive the Hardys to the railroad station. After a quick supper prepared by Fowler, Frank and Joe went to the bunkhouse. At ten o’clock they retired for the night. Little more than an hour had passed when the boys were awakened by the muffled sound of men talking.

“That’s odd,” Frank whispered. “I thought all of Fowler’s stable hands were away for the evening.”

The boys dressed and crept out of the bunkhouse toward the source of the voices.

“We want fifty percent of the take,” they heard one man say.

Joe accidentally stepped on a twig, which snapped with a cracking noise. The boys froze in their tracks and listened. There was only silence.

“Let’s move ahead and try to get a glimpse of the men,” Frank hissed.

The young detectives cautiously edged their way through the darkness. They saw no one. Then suddenly a voice boomed out from behind them.

“Stay where you are!”

The boys turned to find themselves peering into the muzzle of a rifle.

“Who are you?” Joe demanded.

The armed man directed the beam of a flashlight into the faces of the Hardys.

“Oh, it’s you boys,” he said. “I thought you were asleep.” The man flicked the beam of light onto his own face.

“Mr. Fowler!” Frank exclaimed.

“We heard some men talking out here,” Joe explained, “and came to investigate.”

“Did you see them?” the manager questioned.

“No,” Frank replied. “We never got close enough.”

“Well, I heard them too,” Fowler said. “But I’m sure they were workers from the farm just across the way. They often use our area as a short cut when they walk back from town.” He then said good night and went into the house.

Frank and Joe rose early the next morning. They had just finished breakfast when Benson arrived to take them to the railroad station. The boys thanked Fowler for his hospitality, then hurried off to the train. During the drive, the attorney explained some of the legal points involved in their aunt’s intended sale, and handed them some documents that she was to examine.

When they arrived in Bayport, the boys wasted no time in telling Aunt Gertrude and their parents what they had seen.

“It’s too bad you want to sell the stable,” Joe said. “The place is beautiful.”

“Say no more!” their aunt retorted. “Just give me the documents the lawyer wants me to read, so I can get it over with!”

“Once your aunt makes up her mind,” Mr. Hardy commented, “there’s no changing it.”

The following morning Alden telephoned Mr. Hardy. “Come to the Clayton Police Station right away,” he requested. “There’s a thief down here who’s been stealing information on my experimental motor!”

CHAPTER VII

The Elusive Stranger

MR. HARDY and the boys drove to Clayton immediately. Alden met them at the police station.

“Where is the suspect?” Mr. Hardy asked him.

“Detective Lieutenant Swaze is questioning him in the interrogation room,” Alden answered. “He said we were to join him the minute you arrived.”

Inside, a thin, untidily dressed man was seated in a chair. Lieutenant Swaze, lanky and middle-aged, was pacing the floor in front of him. Alden introduced the detective to the Hardys.

“This man is charged with burglary,” Swaze announced. “He was caught rifling Mr. Alden’s office safe by one of the watchmen at the plant.”

“When the police searched him,” Alden interrupted, “they found several hollow-core impeller blades for my experimental motor in his pocket. I always keep a supply of them in the safe until an engine is ready for assembly.”

Mr. Hardy turned to the suspect. “Whom are you working for?” he demanded.

“I ain’t workin’ for nobody!” the prisoner shouted. “And I don’t know nothin’ about any experimental motor!”

“Then why did you take the impeller blades?” Frank asked quickly.

“Them things were made out o’ shiny metal,” the man replied nervously. “I thought it might be silver and I could get some money for ’em.”

The interrogation continued for another two hours. The prisoner stuck to his story. Finally the boys and their father left the room with Alden.

“I’m convinced the suspect is telling the truth,” Mr. Hardy concluded. “He’s obviously just a small-time crook who would steal anything.”

“Then you don’t think he’s part of a gang trying to get the plans for my motor?” Alden queried.

“At this point, no,” the detective said. “But let’s see what the police come up with when they check his record.”

Alden glanced at his watch and announced that he would have to return to the plant. The Hardys walked to their car and started back to Bayport, disappointed that nothing had come of their trip.

While driving through the center of Clayton, Joe suddenly pointed toward two men standing on a street corner. “Look!” he exclaimed. “There’s Barto talking to someone!”

“I wonder why he’s not at work,” Frank remarked.

“Maybe he has the day off,” Joe answered.

The boys noticed that Barto’s companion had the collar of his jacket turned up high, and his hat pulled low over his eyes.

“That guy he’s with sure looks suspicious,” Joe commented.

Frank stopped the car at the next corner. “I’ll walk past Barto and try to get a glimpse of the other man’s face,” he said. “The sidewalk is crowded with pedestrians. Chances are he won’t spot me.”

Frank made his way toward the two men. When he was within a few feet of them, Barto suddenly gave his companion a hard shove. The man turned and ran down the street. Frank, figuring this was strange, raced off in pursuit.

“Did you see that?” Joe said to his father.

“Yes! Come on! Frank might need our help!”

They leaped out of the car and joined in the chase. Mr. Hardy stopped long enough to fire a question at Barto.

“Who was that man you were talking to?”

Barto appeared surprised. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “He was looking for a handout. When I refused, he insulted me and I gave him a shove.”

Mr. Hardy hurried on and found his sons standing at the entrance of an office building.

“He ran in here,” Frank told his father.

“Let’s go after him!” Joe urged.

“I’ll stay outside,” Mr. Hardy said. “In case he gives you the slip, I’ll go after him.”

The boys ran into the building and discovered that the elevator was out of order. They bounded up the stairs. High above them, the two sleuths heard heavy footsteps.

“He must be heading for the roof!” Joe whispered.

Continuing the chase, the boys soon reached the roof. Their quarry was not in sight, but they heard what sounded like a metal door being slammed shut.

“It came from over there!” Joe said, pointing to the roof of an adjacent building.

The boys leaped across the narrow gap separating the two structures, and found a door leading inside. Pulling it open, Frank and Joe rushed down the stairs to the ground floor. Their father met them as they dashed outside.

“Your man came running out of this building,” Mr. Hardy said. “I was too far away to stop him. By the time I realized what had happened, he disappeared in the crowd.”

“Too bad,” said Frank.

As the Hardys drove home, the detective told his sons what Barto had said.

“Do you believe him?” Frank asked.

“We have no choice but to take his word for it,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Yet Barto doesn’t strike me as the type that goes shoving people around.”

“And why would a man just asking for a handout run off like a fugitive?” Joe interjected.

“There’s something fishy about this,” Frank added.

The Hardys had just finished supper when the telephone rang. Frank answered.

“This is Mr. Alden,” the caller said. “I have one more completed race car fitted with my experimental engine. Luckily it was in the garage when the research shop burned down. I plan to give it a test run tomorrow.”

“Another competition?” Frank asked.

“No, this will be a private test. I have permission from the highway department to use a straight stretch of road near the plant. I’d like you boys and your father to be present. I don’t expect any trouble, but it pays to be safe.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to use the drag strip at your track?” Frank suggested. “You’d be less likely to find intruders there.”

“The strip is too short for my purpose,” Alden explained. “Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“We’ll be there,” Frank assured him.

The next day the boys and their father drove to the test site. Alden’s experimental race car was unpainted, and its highly polished metal surface gleamed in the sun. Mechanics were giving the vehicle a final inspection.

“We’ll be ready to start in about twenty minutes,” Alden told the boys. “I intend to drive the first couple of runs myself. They will be acceleration tests.”

He said that the car was a two-seater designed to carry a mechanic in addition to the driver.

“Since I won’t be taking a mechanic with me,” Alden said, “how would one of you boys like to go along?”

He suggested that the boys draw straws to decide which one would accompany him. They did, and Frank won.

“That’s settled,” Alden remarked, then added, “Joe, would you mind helping us with the tests?”

“How?”

“Normally, there’s not any traffic using this road,” Alden replied. “But we can’t be sure. So I’d like to post a man with a walkie-talkie at the far end of the stretch to warn me if anything comes along. I have a radio receiver in the car for that purpose.”

“I’m your man,” Joe assured him.

He could not help but feel a bit envious of his brother as he watched Frank climb into the sleek car with Alden. Mr. Hardy drove Joe to his post a couple of miles down the road, which at that point was flanked by heavy woods.

As the detective drove off, Joe heard a voice crackle from the speaker of his walkie-talkie. “All clear ahead?”

“All clear!”

Minutes later, Joe could detect the sound of Alden’s car approaching. Then he spotted it far down the road. It was a shining speck of silver that grew larger and larger each second.

As Joe watched, he was startled to see a battered automobile emerge from the woods.

“Stop!” Joe cried frantically. “Mr. Alden, stop!”

CHAPTER VIII

Stolen!

THE dilapidated car turned onto the road, picked up speed, and headed directly for Alden’s car. Joe raced after it, calling out into the walkie-talkie.

His pleas went unheeded. Joe was horror-stricken at the small gap between the two vehicles. A head-on collision seemed inevitable.

“Frank! Mr. Alden!” Joe screamed. “Watch out!”

Suddenly the mystery car swerved out of control. It went hurtling off the road and tumbled over into a ditch. A split second later the vehicle was a mass of flames.

Alden brought his racer to a screeching halt. He and Frank leaped out and followed Joe toward the disabled vehicle. They managed to get close enough to pull open one of its doors. The three were amazed to find that there was no one inside.

“Get back!” Alden shouted. “The gas tank may explode any second.”

His warning came just in time. As Alden and the boys got clear, there was an explosion. A large ball of orange flame rose above the burning car. It quickly transformed into a thick cloud of black smoke.

Minutes later a pickup truck arrived on the scene, carrying a crew of Alden’s mechanics. Mr. Hardy was with them. The men scrambled out with fire extinguishers, and directed streams of chemical foam at the burning car. Soon the flames and smoke disappeared.

“You gave us a bad scare,” Mr. Hardy said, turning to Frank and Alden. “We saw the smoke and came running. We thought you’d had an accident with the car.”

“They almost did,” Joe said shakily. He told his father what had happened.

When the car cooled sufficiently to be touched, the Hardys examined it. The heat had turned the vehicle into a charred mass of twisted metal.

Frank, looking underneath, made a startling discovery. To the underside was attached the remains of an elaborate radio-controlled system. Wires ran from it to the throttle and steering mechanism.

“So that’s how the car was operated with no driver!” Joe exclaimed. “But why did it go hay-wire all of a sudden?”

Frank had an answer. “When Joe used the walkie-talkie to warn us, the signal must have interfered with the radio frequency used to guide the car.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “Whoever operated the transmitter would have needed a clear view of the road, and at a point not too far away from this spot.”

Frank looked toward a high hill, the top of which loomed above the treetops. “There’s a perfect spot,” he said, pointing to it.

The boys lost no time in climbing to the summit to investigate. The area was covered with thick brush and grass.

“These bushes would provide good cover for anyone watching the road,” Frank stated.

“Look! Over here!” Joe cried out. “Some of the grass has been trampled flat. I’d say it was done recently by two or three men.”

Frank examined the spot. “This is where the transmitter was set up,” he concluded. “From here you get a perfect view of the road.”

A further search revealed no other clues. The boys rejoined their father and Alden. Mr. Hardy stated that he had given the mystery car a thorough going-over, but found nothing that would permit them to trace its owner.

“The vehicle wasn’t carrying license plates, and the serial numbers on the engine and chassis had been removed,” he continued. “Also, the fact that it was burned to a crisp doesn’t help either.”

Alden decided to carry on with the tests. When he had finished, the Hardys offered to drive him to his office.

As they started off, Alden rested back in the seat. “After all the excitement we’ve been having lately, I need a little diversion,” he said. “I think I’ll spend Saturday giving my race horse a work-out.”

“Race horse?” Joe queried.

“Yes,” Alden answered. “I’m interested in racing of all kinds. I bought the horse several months ago. Great animal! I keep him in a rented stable near the plant.”

“Our aunt would tell you off quick if she knew this,” Frank remarked laughingly. He then told Alden about Gertrude Hardy’s recent inheritance.

“A stable for retired race horses? Sounds like a great idea,” Alden said. “I’ll keep it in mind. Perhaps someday I’ll send my horse down there.”

“Not if Aunt Gertrude has anything to say about it,” Joe muttered with a grin. “Anyway, she will have sold her stable by that time.”

Alden asked the Hardys if they would like to see his horse. The boys’ father had to decline because of a business appointment, but Frank and Joe eagerly accepted the invitation.

“And would you mind if we bring our friend Chet?” Frank asked.

“Please do,” Alden replied. “Drop by any time. I’ll be at the stable most of the day.”

Chet was not able to go until the afternoon because of Saturday chores to do. The Hardys picked him up at the Morton farm.

“A real race horse, eh?” Chet said with a grin. He pulled three apples from his pockets and offered one to each of his friends. “What I wouldn’t give to own one!”

When they arrived at the stables, Alden was leading a beautiful, haltered thoroughbred around the paddock. His owner spotted the boys and led the animal toward them.

“How do you like him?” he called out. “His name is Topnotch.”

“Nice piece of horseflesh,” Chet commented, trying to act like a seasoned equestrian.

The horse was completely chestnut in color, except for small white areas above its two front hoofs. The boys watched in admiration as Alden removed the halter and permitted Topnotch to trot freely around the paddock.

As Joe glanced toward a row of stalls nearby, he noticed a sandy-haired young man pitching hay into one of them.

“Mr. Alden, isn’t that your son Roger over there?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Alden replied in a determined voice. “I arranged to get him a job here so he could help pay for the race car he damaged. It’s about time he developed a sense of responsibility. I’d have given him something to do at the plant, but he can’t get along with the other workers.”

Chet followed the Hardys to the stall.

“Hello, Roger,” Frank said in a friendly voice.

The young man looked surprised. Then his eyes narrowed as he glared at the boys.

“Oh, it’s you guys again!” he snapped. “You keep popping up like bad dreams.”

“So you’re still carrying a chip on your shoulder,” Joe retorted.

“You bet I am,” Roger shot back angrily. “I’ve got to work in this lousy place to pay for that stock-race car I had an accident in. You Hardys were the cause of it all!”

Frank kept his temper, but said, “Don’t tell us you’re sticking to that fairy tale of yours. You know we didn’t reflect sunlight into your eyes while you were driving.”

“It’s my word against yours,” Roger snarled. “But what chance do I stand? Because you’re the Hardy boys you think you can get away with anything.”

Joe’s face flushed with anger. However, he managed to exercise self-control. “It’s useless trying to talk sense into Roger,” he said. “We’d better go.”

As they walked away, Chet remarked, “That fellow is about as friendly as an enraged cobra.”

Roger, who overheard the comment, gave Chet a black look. He picked up a large mass of hay with his pitchfork and flung it on top of the chubby youth.

Chet scrambled from underneath the pile. He quickly brushed strands of hay from his eyes, ears, and hair. Then, angry, he grabbed a feed bag nearby and pulled it over Roger’s head, down to his elbows. The imprisoned boy stumbled around the stall in a frenzy.

“I’ll get you for this!” Roger yelled after his tormentor when he finally pulled the bag free.

The Hardys and their chum strolled back to the paddock. Mr. Alden had been too preoccupied with Topnotch to notice what had happened.

“Let’s not say anything to him about Roger,” Frank suggested.

The boys spent the balance of the afternoon watching Alden exercise his horse, or taking turns riding the mount themselves.

“He’s super,” Chet remarked. “Sure beats our farm horses.”

At sundown the boys thanked the owner and left.

Frank and Joe spent a relaxing Sunday at home and retired early. The family had been asleep only a short time when the telephone rang. Frank got up and rushed to answer it. His father had already picked up the extension by his bed.

“This is Alden,” an excited voice was saying. “Sorry to disturb you. But something terrible has happened and I need your help. I’m at the stable. Topnotch has been stolen!”

CHAPTER IX

Demand for Ransom

FRANK wakened his brother to tell him about Topnotch. The boys and their father dressed quickly, rushed to their car, and headed for the stable.

“This sounds to me like some of Roger’s work,” Joe suggested.

“Possibly,” Frank agreed. “He’s pretty mad at his father. Roger could have done it for spite. But stealing a horse is not easy. He’d need help.”

“My advice is to wait until we get the facts before coming to any conclusions,” Mr. Hardy interjected. “I realize Roger would never win a popularity contest. Yet it’s hard to believe he’d be mean enough to do a thing like this.”

They arrived at the stable to find Alden still greatly distraught over the theft of his horse.

“The police were here to investigate,” he told the Hardys. “They left a few minutes ago.”

“What did they come up with?” Joe asked.

“Nothing,” Alden replied disappointedly. “The thieves were careful not to leave a shred of evidence behind. Even the foot- and hoofprints leading from Topnotch’s stall were swept away.”

“But they must have used some kind of a vehicle to carry the horse off,” Frank said. “Did the police find any tire tracks in the area?”

Alden nodded and asked the Hardys to follow him. After walking a short distance, he directed the beam of his flashlight toward the ground and pointed to a set of deep, parallel ruts pressed into the soft earth.

“They must have been made by a truck or a horse van,” Joe said.

Mr. Hardy stooped down and examined the ruts carefully. “Obviously the thieves covered the wheels with canvas or other heavy material,” he concluded. “There aren’t any tread marks. Too bad.”

“Were there any witnesses to the crime?” Frank queried.

“Only one of the grooms,” Alden answered. “But he can’t help us. He lives in a room above the stable. When he heard a strange noise in one of the stalls, he came down to investigate and was struck from behind. The police took him to the hospital.”

“Has the groom been able to tell when the theft took place?” Mr. Hardy questioned.

“Yes. He regained consciousness. The theft was about five hours ago. The groom had been tied and gagged. It took him over four hours to work himself free after he regained consciousness.”

Joe let out a whistle. “Five hours!” he exclaimed. “The truck could be hundreds of miles away by now.”

The Hardys did not want to upset Alden any further by asking him about Roger’s whereabouts that evening. Instead, they discussed the case from another angle.

“We don’t know if this was an inside job or not,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “But we can be reasonably sure what the motive is. Ransom!”

“In that case, the thieves will try to contact me,” Alden said. “If they do it by telephone, they’ll call my office, since I have an unlisted number at home.”

“I suggest we go there right away and wait,” Frank put in. “The horsenappers may start early to call.”

Alden accompanied the Hardys in their car. During the drive, Mr. Hardy outlined a basic plan.

“If you should receive a call demanding ransom,” he advised the horse’s owner, “stall him off. Tell him you want proof that they actually have Topnotch. That’ll give us more time to hunt a lead.”

Arriving at the plant, Alden led the way to his office. There he and his companions each selected a comfortable chair and settled down to wait.

“Have you a private line here in addition to your regular company phone?” Mr. Hardy asked the executive.

“Yes, I do,” Alden replied, pointing to one of two phones on his desk.

“Good,” the elder detective said. “I’ll use it to have the call traced if the thieves should contact you.”

The night dragged on slowly. The boys were restless and found it difficult to sleep. When morning finally came, Alden arranged to have breakfast served in his office.

It was a little after nine when there was a short buzz on the company phone. Alden scooped it up, listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

“It’s my secretary in the outer office,” he informed the Hardys. “She says a man wants to speak to me. He refuses to identify himself.”

“This might be the call we’re waiting for!” Joe exclaimed softly.

Mr. Hardy rushed to the private phone. “I’ll get to work on having the number traced,” he announced quickly. Seconds later, he signaled Alden to proceed.

“Okay, put him on,” Alden ordered his secretary

The boys fixed their eyes on the executive and waited anxiously.

Alden suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair. “You want fifty thousand dollars’ ransom to return Topnotch?” he shouted into the phone. “You’re out of your mind! I’d want absolute proof before I handed out that kind of money!”

A few seconds later the executive placed the phone down. “He hung up,” Alden announced.

Mr. Hardy frowned. “Too bad. There wasn’t enough time to trace the call. Obviously we’re not dealing with amateurs.”

“What did he say when you asked for proof that they had Topnotch?” Frank put in.

“He said he’d think about it and let me know later,” Alden replied.

Mr. Hardy stretched out his arms and yawned. “You boys must be as exhausted as we are,” he said. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? I’ll stay here. You’ll hear from me immediately if anything comes up.”

His sons readily agreed. But it was not rest that interested them. Their father’s suggestion offered an excellent opportunity for them to question Roger without Alden’s knowledge.

“Let’s go back to the stable and see if he’s working today,” Frank said as they drove off in their convertible.

When the Hardys arrived, Roger was busy painting a section of the fence that surrounded the paddock.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Frank called out.

Roger quickly glanced at his visitors without interrupting his work. “It’s you guys again!” he snapped. “Haven’t you got a home? Get lost! I don’t have time to answer any of your stupid questions.”

“Come off it!” Joe shot back angrily. “You must know your father’s horse was stolen last night. That’s what we want to ask you about.”

There was a momentary pause. Roger nervously fingered his paintbrush and kept his face turned away from the Hardys. “Yes, I heard about it,” he muttered defiantly. “But you’ve come to the wrong guy for information. And even if I did know something about it, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Where were you last night?” Frank demanded.

“Why don’t you try looking into a crystal ball to find out?” the young man retorted.

“Cut the comedy!” Joe exclaimed. “This is serious. A theft has been committed, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be among the suspects.”

“Okay! If you have to know, I was working on my dragster all evening,” Roger snapped.

“Where?” Frank questioned.

“At home!”

“Can you prove it?” Joe asked. “I mean, was there anyone with you who can back up your statement?”

“You want fifty thousand dollars’ ransom?” Alden shouted

“No. I was alone,” Roger answered.

“What about your father?” Frank put in. “Didn’t he see you?”

“He was visiting friends till late. I was already in bed when he got home.”

“For your sake,” Joe remarked, “I hope you’re telling the truth.”

Roger suddenly hurled his paintbrush to the ground. His face was flushed with anger. “I’ve had enough of you two!” he rasped. “What I do is none of your business!”

“We’re making it our business,” Joe told him.

Frank wanted to avoid a scene. “Simmer down,” he said calmly. “We’ll have to take your word for what you told us. But if you should run across any information concerning the theft, I advise you not to keep it to yourself.”

The Hardys walked back to the convertible and returned to Bayport. Their mother and aunt were disappointed to see that the boys’ father had not come with them.

“I suppose he’s chasing after some horrible criminal!” Aunt Gertrude remarked. “Your father won’t remember where he lives if he keeps up this sort of thing.”

“Now calm down, Gertrude,” Mrs. Hardy pleaded in a soft voice.

Joe playfully sniffed the air. “Smells like roast turkey for supper.”

“And coconut-custard pie for dessert,” announced Mrs. Hardy.

“Let’s hope your sons can stay put long enough to eat it,” said Aunt Gertrude.

The boys went to bed early that night. They spent the next day puttering around their crime lab and mulling over the case. It was midafternoon when their father telephoned with an urgent message.

“Mr. Alden just received another call from the thieves,” said the detective. “He was told that the proof he had asked for would be found in a book entitled Famous Horses of the World, at the Clayton Library. Meet us there just as soon as you can.”

The boys started out immediately. At the library they found their father and Alden seated at one of the reading tables examining a large book.

Mr. Hardy handed his sons a photograph. “This was tucked in between the pages,” he whispered.

The boys’ eyes widened with surprise. “It’s a picture of Topnotch,” Frank said.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Joe asked.

“No doubt about it,” Alden replied in a low voice.

“And it’s a cul-de-sac when it comes to getting a line on who placed the photograph in the book,” Mr. Hardy said. “I questioned the librarian, but she has been too busy to take note of any strangers.”

“May we keep the picture for a while?” Frank queried. “It might provide us with a clue.”

“You’re welcome to it,” Alden replied. He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get back to the plant. The thieves will surely call me again.”

Mr. Hardy explained that Alden had had one of his drivers bring them to the library. He turned to the executive. “Why don’t you send him back to the plant? You and I can go along with the boys in their car.”

“Very well,” Alden agreed.

As they drove, Mr. Hardy urged his client to stall for more time. “Tell those crooks that you can’t get the ransom money until Friday morning,” he said.

“I’ll try.” Alden sighed. “But I don’t want to endanger Topnotch any more than I have to.”

Soon the plant came into view. As they drove toward the main gate, Alden’s experimental race car suddenly sped out of the driveway.

“I didn’t give anyone permission to drive that car!” he shouted.

Frank pressed down on the gas pedal and the convertible shot off in pursuit!

CHAPTER X

Suspicious Rendezvous

“THAT racer is too fast for us!” Joe yelled. “We’ll never catch it.”

“Turn onto that side road just ahead!” Alden ordered. “We might be able to head him off!”

Frank followed instructions. It was a wild, bumpy ride and kept the occupants hanging on to their seats. After a couple of miles, the route led them back to the road along which their quarry was traveling.

“There’s the experimental car!” Mr. Hardy called excitedly as he peered out the rear window. “It’s about quarter of a mile behind us and coming fast!”

Frank skillfully maneuvered his convertible to prevent the other driver from passing.

“Hang on!” he cried out. “I’m going to start slowing down!”

As the Hardy car came to a stop, the other driver was forced to do the same.

“Good work!” Alden exclaimed, and leaped out of the convertible. The Hardys followed.

“Roger!” Joe exclaimed as a sandy-haired young man slowly emerged from the experimental dragster.

Alden was furious. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“I—I was just taking your car for a little spin,” his son stammered.

“Why aren’t you working at the stable?” Alden fumed.

“I took the afternoon off,” Roger replied.

Alden glared at his son with a look that would melt ice. “You know my racer is a secret project. How dare you take it for a drive?”

He turned to the Hardys. “I’ll meet you back at my office. I’m going to ride to the plant with Roger just to make sure he doesn’t get any more wild ideas.”

The Hardys reached the office just as Alden finished reprimanding his son.

“Don’t send me away to that lumber camp,” Roger was pleading.

“I don’t see what else I can do with you,” his father replied. “I’m fed up with your shenanigans!”

“But I promise to stick with my job at the stable,” Roger replied, “and I won’t go near your experimental car again.”

Alden rubbed his chin dubiously for a moment. “Well—all right,” he finally agreed. “But step out of line once more and off you go.”

Roger thanked his father. Then he rushed past the Hardys and out of the office.

At that instant the telephone rang. Alden picked it up. From his expression the Hardys knew it was another call from the thieves.

“Yes, I saw the photograph of Topnotch you placed in the book at the library,” Alden informed the stranger.... “Will I pay the ransom you demand? I suppose I’ll have to. But you must give me until Friday. It’ll take me that long to get such a large sum of money.”

When the telephone conversation ended, Alden glanced at the Hardys. “They’ve agreed to wait till noon on Friday. I’m to receive further instructions then.”

Frank jumped up. “That gives us two and a half days to find out who stole your horse.”

“We’ll get to work on it right away,” Mr. Hardy said.

“I hope you’re successful,” Alden commented. “Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. But I’ll pay it if I have to.”

The Hardys hurried home to Bayport. There the elder detective began going through his criminal files. “I’ll check to see if I have information on anyone whose specialty is horsenapping,” he said.

Meanwhile, his sons hurried off to their crime lab and studied the photograph of Topnotch.

“What are we looking for?” Joe inquired.

“I thought we might find something in the picture that would help us identify the locality,” Frank replied.

“Slim chance. Other than the horse, there’s nothing but a few bits of shrubbery.”

“Wait a minute! That’s it! Perhaps a botanist could tell us if the shrubs are indigenous to a particular region.”

“Let’s call Mr. Scath, curator of the Howard Museum.”

Frank rushed to the phone and dialed a number. Soon he had the curator on the line.

“We recently added a botanist to our staff,” Scath said. “His name is Mr. Ronald Clause. I’m sure he can be of help to you.”

“Would it be possible to see him right away?” Frank asked. “It’s urgent.”

“Yes,” the curator assured him. “We’re about to close the museum for the day, but Mr. Clause plans to be here for a couple of hours to work on a new exhibit. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

The boys hurried to their car and drove to the museum, located in the northwestern section of Bayport. A lanky, scholarly-looking man admitted them.

“I’m Mr. Clause,” he announced. “Mr. Scath said you wanted to see me.”

The boys introduced themselves, then stated their business. They handed the botanist the photograph of Topnotch.

“Hm! The shrubs are a bit out of focus,” Clause muttered, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

“We realize you’re very busy,” Frank said. “However, we’re racing against time. We’d appreciate it if you could give us an answer as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get to work on it right away,” the botanist answered. “Might take me a day or so. If I come up with something, I’ll call you.”

The Hardys thanked him and left. As they drove back home, Frank’s thoughts returned to Alden’s son.

“I’m still not convinced that Roger had nothing to do with the theft of Topnotch,” he remarked.

“I’m not either,” Joe added. “Say, why don’t we shadow him tomorrow? If he is in with the crooks, he might try to contact them.”

“We’ve nothing to lose,” Frank agreed. “But it would be safer to have Roger shadowed by someone he doesn’t know. That eliminates us and Chet.”

“What about Biff Hooper and Tony Prito?” Joe suggested. “They’ve done a good job of following suspects for us before.”

“Good idea. Let’s call them when we get home.”

Like Chet, Biff Hooper and Tony Prito were classmates of the boys at Bayport High. They always welcomed a chance to work with the Hardys on their cases.

“What’s up?” Biff asked eagerly as he and Tony joined the Hardys in their crime lab. “From your telephone call, I’d say it was important.”

“It is,” Frank assured him. “And we need your help.”

Tony Prito, a dark-haired, lively boy, declared, “Count me in!”

Frank and Joe gave their friends a quick rundown on the case, then furnished them with a description of Roger.

“We’d like you to shadow him and give us a report on everything he does,” Joe said.

“You’ll find Roger at the stable in the morning,” Frank added. “Try to be as inconspicuous as possible. We don’t want him to suspect he’s being watched.”

Biff, a tall, blond, athletic-looking youth, beamed with enthusiasm. “You can depend on us!” he exclaimed.

The next day the Hardy boys stayed close to the telephone. It was almost one o’clock in the afternoon when a call came. Frank answered.

The caller was Biff Hooper. “Tony and I followed your suspect to a restaurant in Clayton. He’s inside talking to a couple of suspicious-looking characters.”

“Are you calling from the restaurant?”

“No. I’m in a public phone booth across the street from it, on the corner of Stanton and Winthrop streets.”

“Joe and I will come there right away!” Frank declared. “If Roger leaves in the meantime, stick with him. You can let us know where you are by leaving a message with Mother or Aunt Gertrude. We’ll check with them every fifteen minutes.”

The boys leaped into their car and headed for Clayton. When they arrived, Biff and Tony were still at their posts across the street from the restaurant.

“Your suspect hasn’t left yet,” Biff said.

Frank pointed to a building behind him. “Let’s hide in that doorway, Joe,” he advised. “We don’t want Roger to spot us when he comes out.”

The Hardys and their companions became impatient as the minutes ticked by. Finally Roger emerged from the restaurant with two rough-looking men. Each of them walked off in a different direction.

Frank turned to Biff. “You and Tony follow Roger,” he ordered. “Joe and I will split up and trail those two men he was with.”

Each boy hurried off on his assignment. Frank trailed his quarry for several blocks. Suddenly the man darted into an alley.

“He must know he’s being followed,” the young detective thought, and cautiously stalked toward the spot. He peered into the alley. There was nothing in it but a pile of discarded wooden crates at the far end.

“That man must be hiding behind them,” Frank decided.

As he edged his way forward, the man leaped from back of the crates and flung a small object toward Frank. It hit the ground a few feet from the boy and exploded!

CHAPTER XI

A Prize Catch

A THICK, white cloud of smoke erupted from the spot. Frank felt a burning sensation in his eyes and began to cough uncontrollably.

“It’s tear gas,” he thought. “I must get out of here!”

Frank stumbled backward away from the smoke. At that instant he saw the blurred figure of a man running past him. The young detective lashed out with his fist and made contact. Then someone grabbed his left arm. Again Frank lashed out with his fist, but his punch was blocked.

“Hold it!” came the voice of his brother. “It’s Joe!”

As the effects of the tear gas wore off, Frank saw a man lying unconscious on the ground. Joe pointed at the prone figure. “Looks as if you got your man,” he said. “Wish I could say the same.”

“You lost the other guy?” Frank asked.

“I had to let him go. He led me around the block and down this street past the alley. Then the smoke attracted my attention and I saw you were in trouble. So I ran to help.”

The man regained consciousness. “Who—who are you guys?” he groaned as he struggled to his feet.

“Never mind that,” Frank answered. “Suppose you tell us who you are?”

“My name’s Marty Tempson, if it’s any of your business,” the man growled.

“Why did you toss that tear-gas bomb at me?”

“I thought you were some guy out for a heist.”

“What kind of business did you and your pal have with Roger Alden?” Joe shot at him.

Tempson glared at the boys. “Roger Alden? I don’t know no guy by that name,” he snarled.

“You’re lying,” Frank declared. “He’s the young man you and your friend were with in the restaurant.”

“Never saw him before,” Tempson replied. “The restaurant was crowded and he let us share his table.”

At that moment a police patrol car arrived on the scene. One of the officers got out and approached the Hardys and Tempson.

“A shop owner across the street reported seeing smoke in this alley,” the policeman announced. “What’s going on here?”

The boys gave their names and Frank explained what had happened. When Tempson was unable to produce identification, the policeman searched him and discovered a tear-gas bomb in his pocket.

“I’m taking you in!” the officer declared.

Tempson turned pale. “You—you can’t arrest me!” he stammered. “I ain’t done nothing!”

“That’s what you think,” the policeman retorted. “There happens to be a law against tossing bombs at people.” He glanced at the Hardys. “Will you come to the station and make a statement?”

“Glad to,” Frank answered. “We’ll pick up our car and meet you there.”

Tempson was already being fingerprinted when the boys arrived at Clayton Police Station. The desk sergeant took down their statement, then said that a complete check would be made on the prisoner.

“You boys must be in court when he’s brought up for a preliminary hearing,” the sergeant added. “That’ll be tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll be here,” Frank assured him.

He and Joe left the building and returned to their car.

“What’s our next move?” Joe asked.

“Let’s find out if Roger went back to the stable,” Frank suggested. “If so, I want to question him.”

Arriving at their destination, the boys found Roger seated in front of a stall repairing a harness. He was as belligerent as ever and became enraged when Frank declared that they had seen him in Clayton with two men.

“You lousy snoopers!” Roger yelled. “What right have you to spy on me?”

“Never mind that,” Joe put in. “Who were the two men you were with?”

“I don’t know,” snapped the young man. “I went to the restaurant for lunch. The place was crowded and I let them share my table.”

“Very considerate of you,” Joe said sarcastically. “What made you so friendly all of a sudden?”

Roger jumped to his feet. “I don’t have to take that from you!” he shouted.

In the next instant he swung the harness at Joe. The young detective stepped back, caught the end of the gear, then wrapped it tightly around his opponent’s arms.

“Let me go!” Roger demanded.

“Not until you calm down!” Joe shot back.

Frank spoke up. “I don’t think you’re telling us the truth about not knowing those men.”

“I am!” the young man cried out.

“Clayton is about ten miles north of here,” Joe said. “Isn’t that a long way to go just to have lunch? I’ve noticed a couple of local restaurants within walking distance.”

“I like the food in Clayton,” Roger replied mockingly.

“Why did you three walk off in different directions when you left the restaurant?” Frank questioned.

“I went my way, and they went theirs. How am I supposed to know where they were going?”

By now several grooms had collected around the boys. “Hey! Roger’s wisecracking must have finally got him in trouble!” one of them yelled to his companion.

“Yeah! And he sure looks funny with that harness wrapped around him,” another said, laughing. “I think he should keep it on permanently.”

Joe felt a bit embarrassed and released Roger, who glared at the faces around him. Then he stormed off.

The Hardys headed back to Bayport. As they rode along, Joe said, “What do you think about Roger’s story?”

“At least it jibes with what Tempson told us,” Frank remarked. “But it could have been a prearranged alibi between him and the two men.”

“If you ask me, there’s something fishy about the whole thing.”

When the boys got home, they went directly to their father’s study.

“Glad to see you’re back,” Mr. Hardy said. “Detective Tanner of the Clayton police telephoned a few minutes ago. He wants to talk to you two.”

“What about?” Joe inquired.

“Marty Tempson. Tanner told me all about the tear-gas incident,” their father replied. “They checked up on him. Seems his name is not Tempson, but Marty Seegan. He’s wanted in Michigan for robbery.”

“Then it means that Seegan will be extradited,” Frank remarked, “and we won’t have a chance to talk to him.”

“Afraid so,” Mr. Hardy commented. “Since the Clayton police are holding Seegan on a lesser charge, the Michigan authorities get first crack at him. I was also asked to tell you,” the detective continued, “that the preliminary hearing scheduled in the morning is off.”

At that moment the telephone rang. Mr. Hardy answered it. “It’s for you, Frank.”

“This is Mr. Clause of the Howard Museum,” the caller announced. “I have some information concerning the shrubbery you asked me to identify in the photograph.”

CHAPTER XII

A Startling Lead

“WHAT did you find out?” Frank asked quickly.

“I’ve identified the shrubs as Rubus Diparitus,” Clause told him. “They’re indigenous to Maryland and parts of Virginia.”

Frank thanked the botanist for his help. He then informed his brother and Mr. Hardy about Clause’s discovery.

“Maryland!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s a coincidence. Aunt Gertrude’s stable is located there.”

“Let’s go see Mr. Fowler, the manager, first thing in the morning,” Frank suggested. “Maybe he can help us find Topnotch. Is it all right if we have Jack Wayne fly us there, Dad?”

“You have my okay.”

Jack Wayne, a tanned, lean-faced man, was the pilot of Mr. Hardy’s personal single-engine plane. The boys telephoned him and requested that he be ready for an early departure the next day. Dawn was just breaking as Jack began his take-off roll at the Bayport field.

“Too bad Dad couldn’t come with us,” Joe remarked as he watched the ground drop away beneath them.

“Yes,” Frank agreed, “but he wants to be within reach of Mr. Alden if something should come up.”

It took little more than an hour to reach their destination. Jack landed the plane on a small field located about four miles from Aunt Gertrude’s stable. The airport operator, a genial man, lent the Hardys a car which he kept for the convenience of visitors.

“We might be gone for several hours,” Frank told the pilot.

“Don’t worry about me,” Jack said. “I’ll stick around here and do some hangar flying with the fellows.”

As soon as the boys arrived at Southern Pines Stables, they spotted a short, wiry man standing in front of one of the stalls. His hard features and deep-set eyes gave him a foreboding appearance.

“We’d like to see Mr. Fowler,” Joe informed him.

“Whatcha want to see ’im about?” the man asked in a raspy voice.

“It’s confidential,” Frank said. “We’d appreciate it if you would tell us where we can find him.”

The man stared coldly at the boys for a moment. Then he pointed toward a knoll in the distance. “You’ll find ’im on the other side of that hill. He’s practice shootin’ with his rifle.”

The muffled sound of rifle shots could be heard in the distance. Frank thanked the man and the boys started off. As they crossed over the crest of the hill, they spotted Fowler at the bottom of a shallow gully. He was firing at a paper target.

“Well, if it isn’t the Hardys!” Fowler called out when he saw them approaching. “What brings you to this neck of the woods? Business?”

“Not exactly,” Frank replied. He then told the manager about the theft of Alden’s race horse.

“Why are you telling me all this?” Fowler snapped. “I’ve never heard of Topnotch.”

“We’re pretty sure that the horse is being kept somewhere here in Maryland or Virginia,” Joe explained. “You must come in contact with lots of stable owners. We thought you might have heard rumors that ...”

“Sorry! Can’t help you,” the manager interrupted. “Maryland and Virginia cover a lot of territory. That horse could be anywhere.” He squeezed off a couple of shots, then turned to the Hardys. “I regret I can’t spend more time with you, but I’ve lots of work to do. I’m sure you understand.”

As the boys followed Fowler out of the gully, Frank picked up one of the spent cartridge cases from the manager’s rifle. He quickly stuck it into his pocket.

A few minutes later they were back at the stable. The short, wiry man the boys talked to when they first arrived was nowhere in sight.

“Sorry to cut your visit so short,” Fowler said, shaking hands with the young detectives. “Come again when I’m not tied up.”

The boys walked back to their car.

“Fowler was certainly in a hurry to get rid of us,” Joe commented. “He acted mighty suspicious. Why don’t we stick around and see what’s going on?”

“No. We’re flying back to Bayport right away,” Frank announced. “If my hunch is right, we’ll save a lot of time in our investigation.”

“What hunch?”

Frank dipped into his pocket and pulled out the cartridge case he had picked up. “This shell is of the same caliber as the one we found the day the smoke bomb was fired into Dad’s study,” he said. “But I can’t tell whether it was fired from the same rifle until I make a microscopic comparison.”

“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “If they do check out, it would connect Fowler with the gang that’s after Alden’s experimental motor!”

“And the same gang might have stolen Topnotch,” Frank added.

Soon the boys and their pilot were winging back to Bayport.

Mrs. Hardy greeted her sons when they arrived home. “I didn’t expect you so soon. Your father left on an errand a few minutes ago. Then he’s going directly to Mr. Alden’s home. He told me he can be reached there in about two hours.”

The boys hurried to their crime lab. Frank took the first cartridge case he had found, and placed it with the second in the comparison microscope. He peered into the eyepieces of the apparatus for several minutes.

“What’s the verdict?” Joe asked impatiently.

Suddenly Frank leaped to his feet. “My hunch has paid off!” he exclaimed. “Take a look! The markings on the cartridges match exactly!”

“Wait till Dad hears this!”

Frank glanced at his watch. “Let’s drive to Alden’s home,” he suggested. “Dad should be there by the time we arrive.”

The boys dashed to their car. An hour went by before they pulled into a driveway leading to a large, white house. It was set back from the road on a spacious, tree-covered lawn.

An elderly servant responded to a single press of the doorbell “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’re Mr. Hardy’s sons,” Joe explained. “We must see our father right away.”

“Oh, yes,” the servant answered as he pulled the door open all the way. “He arrived with Mr. Alden a few minutes ago. Please come in.”

The boys were ushered into Alden’s study. Mr. Hardy was surprised to see them.

“Back from Maryland already?” he said. “Have any luck.”

“You bet!” Frank replied excitedly.

Their father and Mr. Alden listened with interest as the two boys told them about their startling lead.

The executive sat bolt upright in his chair. “If what you suspect about this man Fowler is true,” he said, “then we must do something right away.”

“I’m going to call Chief Collig,” Mr. Hardy declared. He dialed a number and shortly had the officer on the line.

“Those cartridge cases are strong evidence,” the chief remarked when told about Fowler. “I’ll contact the Maryland State Police and have him picked up for questioning. You should hear from me within a couple of hours.”

Alden arranged to have dinner served while they waited. Nearly three hours passed before the phone rang. Mr. Hardy rushed to pick it up.

“This is Chief Collig,” the caller said. “Looks like your suspect flew the coop. The Maryland police went to the stable and found no one around.”

“In that case, will you issue an APB on him?” Mr. Hardy asked. “Frank and Joe can give you a detailed description of Fowler.”

“I’ll send it out immediately,” Collig assured him.

Frank got on the phone and furnished the police chief with the necessary information. Then he and his companions mulled over the situation.

“No wonder Fowler was eager to get rid of us,” Joe muttered. “He was planning a getaway. But we still don’t know if he had anything to do with the theft of Topnotch.”

Frank was casually gazing at some photographs mounted on the wall of the study. Suddenly his eyes widened in amazement.

“I—I don’t believe it!” he shouted.

CHAPTER XIII

No Trespassing!

“WHAT is it?” Joe asked, surprised at Frank’s outburst.

Frank pointed to a photograph showing a small group of men. “Take a look at the face of the man standing next to Mr. Alden in this picture,” he urged.

Joe peered at the photograph in astonishment. “Why—it’s Fowler!” he exclaimed.

“The picture you’re looking at was taken three years ago during a fishing trip I went on with some friends,” Alden interjected as he gazed at the boys curiously. “That man’s name is not Fowler. It’s Norman Dodson. He’s a distant cousin of mine.”

“I’m sure we’re not mistaken,” Frank insisted. “He’s the suspect we’re after!”

“The idea is utterly ridiculous,” the executive countered. “Why would Norman get mixed up with a gang of crooks? He—”

“Think back,” Mr. Hardy interrupted. “Did you and Dodson ever have a falling-out in the past?”

There was a momentary pause.

“As a matter of fact we did,” Alden said finally. “About a year ago.”

“What happened?” Frank asked.

“Norman was once a junior partner in my firm,” the executive explained. “However, he became more interested in the raising of race horses than in automobiles. One day he asked to be bought out so he could purchase a stable. Unfortunately, his venture failed and Norman lost all his money.”

“The pieces are beginning to fit together,” Joe observed.

“Then about a year ago,” Alden continued, “he came to my office and demanded more money. He said that I hadn’t paid him enough for his share in the firm. I refused, and we had a bitter argument. I haven’t seen him since.”

“No doubt about it!” Frank declared. “Dodson must have masterminded the theft of Topnotch. And his motive is clear. He’s out to get more money from you one way or another.”

“I still find it hard to believe.” Alden sighed.

The Hardys returned to Bayport. Aunt Gertrude went into a frenzy when she heard about Topnotch and their suspect. “My stable is not only a haven for retired race horses,” she cried, “but for stolen ones as well!”

“Let’s call Mr. Steve Benson, attorney for the estate,” Frank suggested to his father. “He should be able to give us more information on Dodson.”

Frank dialed the number. It took only seconds to reach the lawyer in Maryland. Benson was shocked to hear about the missing stable manager. He stated that Fowler had worked several months for the previous owner before their aunt inherited the business.

“But I only knew him by the name Fowler,” Benson added. “He was the most competent of all the workers there. When I was placed in charge of the estate I made him temporary manager.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?” Frank asked.

“Only that he was interested in buying the stable when he learned it was for sale,” the lawyer said. “However, he was unable to raise the cash. Later he asked if I would help him sell a piece of land that he owned.”

“A piece of land?” Frank blurted. “Where?”

“In northern Vermont,” Benson replied. “He showed me the exact spot on a road map. It consists of about twenty acres and a cabin. But I wasn’t really interested in handling the matter.”

Frank quickly obtained a map of Vermont. He then asked the attorney to describe where Fowler’s land was located. Benson stated that it was just west of Highway 15, twelve miles north of the town of Haversville.

After Frank had hung up, he said, “I’ll bet Fowler-Dodson has gone to his cabin!”

“It would be a perfect place to hide out with Topnotch,” Joe agreed. “But wouldn’t he be taking a big chance? After all, he told Mr. Benson where his land was located.”

“Dodson might be hoping the attorney forgot about it, or wouldn’t think it important enough to mention,” Mr. Hardy said.

“How about requesting the police up there to check the area?” Frank spoke up. “It’s been more than fourteen hours since we last saw Dodson. He could easily be in Vermont by now.”

Mr. Hardy telephoned Chief Collig again. Two hours passed before the Bayport officer called back.

“A couple of officers searched the cabin and some of the surrounding land,” he informed the detective. “Afraid you’re out of luck. They found nothing.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Mr. Hardy replied. “By the way, our suspect would have to transport Topnotch in a horse van. Would you send out an alarm to have all such vehicles—spotted within a six- or seven-hundred-mile radius—stopped and inspected? Although I’m sure it’s too late for that now.”

“I’ll do it, anyway,” the chief assured him.

“Guess we’ve run into another blank wall,” Joe muttered.

“Not necessarily,” Frank commented. He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go to Vermont and take a look ourselves. Dodson’s pretty clever. He certainly wouldn’t keep Topnotch there at the cabin. It’s possible he’s hiding somewhere nearby.”

“I’m with you,” his brother said.

“Go to it,” Mr. Hardy told them. “I’ll have to stay behind and sit it out with Mr. Alden. Remember! Noon tomorrow is the deadline for him to pay the ransom.”

The boys alerted Jack Wayne for another flight the next morning. After an early breakfast, they drove to the airport and boarded the plane.

“Flight time should be approximately two and a half hours,” the pilot announced. “The nearest field is about twenty miles from where you want to go.”

Jack’s estimated time to their destination proved to be correct. After landing, the Hardys arranged to rent a car.

“You stick close to the phone here in operations,” Frank instructed Jack. “If you don’t hear from us in two hours, notify the police.”

“Roger,” Jack replied. “Good luck!”

Soon Frank and Joe were driving north on Highway 15. When they were twelve miles north of Haversville, they spotted a crude fence a few yards west of the road. On it was a large sign which read:

PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING

“This must be Dodson’s land,” Joe concluded.

Frank turned the car onto a narrow, dirt trail which jutted off the highway. After traveling a short distance he brought it to a stop.

“We’d better continue on foot,” he advised.

The Hardys picked their way through an area of dense woods and brush. Soon they came to a small clearing.

“There’s the cabin!” Joe declared, pointing to a dilapidated log structure directly ahead.

“Let’s watch it from here for a while,” Frank said. “There might be someone inside.”

Half an hour went by. There was no sign of life, and the only sound was that of the wind rustling through the trees.

“I think it’s safe to go in,” Joe remarked impatiently.

“Okay. Let’s go!”

They skirted the clearing and approached the cabin from the rear. When they reached it, Frank cautiously peered through a window.

“The place is empty except for a couple of pieces of furniture,” he told his brother.

The boys walked around to the front of the cabin and climbed two steps to the porch.

“Careful,” Frank warned. “These planks are pretty creaky. Step lightly.”

The door of the cabin did not have a lock. The boys pushed it open and went inside. A wooden table stood in the middle of the floor with worn-out chairs set at each end. Suspended from the ceiling above the table was an old kerosene lamp.

Joe walked over to a cupboard mounted against the wall. He pulled open the door. “Look at this!” he exclaimed. “A supply of canned food!”

Frank inspected his brother’s discovery. “These cans look as if they haven’t been here long. No dust on them.”

Suddenly the boys heard the voices of men in the distance.

“Someone’s coming!” Joe said excitedly. “Sounds as if they’re approaching from the woods behind the cabin.”

“Let’s get out of here!” Frank said.

The boys dashed through the door and across the clearing to the edge of the woods. They took cover in a clump of thick brush. A moment later three men appeared from around the corner of the cabin.

“That tall guy is the one I trailed from the restaurant in Clayton,” Joe whispered.

“And we met the short one at the Southern Pines Stables when we went to see Dodson,” Frank hissed.

Neither of the Hardys recognized the third man, who remarked, “Dodson would nail us to a wall if he knew we came to the cabin!”

“I’m hungry,” another said. “I can’t wait till dark to get some of that canned food!”

The three men hurried into the log structure and slammed the door behind them.

“I’m going back and try to hear what they’re saying,” Joe announced.

“It’s too risky in daylight,” his brother warned.

But Joe was already on his way. Frank watched him scoot across the clearing and carefully step up onto the porch of the cabin.

Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound. Frank’s pulse quickened. “Some of the planks are giving way underneath Joe!” he thought.

The next instant there was a crash as Joe fell through the porch floor up to his waist. Frank rushed to his aid. As he reached his brother, the three men spilled out of the cabin!

CHAPTER XIV

Daring Escape

THERE was a violent struggle. Frank lashed out at one of the men and sent him hurtling back into the cabin. The remaining two pounced on the dark-haired youth.

“Run for it!” Joe shouted as he frantically tried to free himself from between the planks.

One of Frank’s assailants caught him from behind with a headlock. The young detective flipped him high over his shoulder in judo fashion.

“Hold it!” came an order. Frank suddenly found himself staring into the face of Dodson, who patted a rear pocket significantly.

“Er—hi, Boss,” one of the men said nervously. “We came to get some canned food and caught a couple of snoopers.”

“What did I tell you guys about coming here in daylight?” Dodson yelled. He glared at the Hardys. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Trade secret,” Joe snapped as he finally worked himself free of the planks and rejoined his brother.

“These kids probably told somebody they were coming here!” Dodson said to his cohorts. “We’d better move the horse van to another hiding place.”

“But what about the ransom money?” said one of the men. “Kurt will be comin’ here after he picks it up.”

Dodson looked at his watch. “It’s early yet. He’ll still be in his room at the hotel in Clayton.” He turned to the short, wiry man the boys had met at the Southern Pines Stables. “Beaver! Get to a telephone and call Kurt. Tell him to go ahead as planned, then to drive to the bus terminal in Haversville. We’ll meet him there tonight.”

“Okay, Boss,” Beaver replied as he hurried off.

The boys were ordered to walk ahead of their captors.

“Where are you taking us?” Frank demanded.

“You two went to a lot of trouble to find Topnotch,” Dodson snarled. “I’m going to give you a chance to see him.”

The Hardys were marched along what appeared to be a very narrow trail through the woods. Actually they saw it was a wide, dirt road, cleverly covered with brush.

Soon the boys were ordered to halt. A huge mound of dried brush loomed in front of them. One of their captors pulled it aside.

“Why—it’s a camouflage net,” Joe whispered to his brother.

“And it’s covering a horse van,” Frank answered in a low voice.

“Shut up!” Dodson demanded. “Get inside!”

The boys walked up a ramp which formed the rear door of the van when closed. To the right in the back of the van was a small bedroom for the trainer. Ahead, another door with bars at the top opened into a stall. Inside was Topnotch who began to whinny at the disturbance.

Frank and Joe were roughly pushed into the van. A quick glimpse at the race horse revealed that his distinguishing white marks above the front hoofs had been dyed chestnut to match his coat.

“This animal,” Dodson remarked with a laugh, “has been living like a king. After all, he means fifty thousand dollars to me.”

“You won’t get away with this!” Joe vowed.

“Who’s going to stop me?” Dodson retorted. He then barked an order to his pals. “Tie these wise guys up!” His henchmen shoved the boys inside the small room and uncoiled lengths of rope.

“No use resisting,” Frank told Joe. He winked. “Just relax.” Joe nodded in response.

As they were being tied up, the boys took deep breaths and flexed their muscles hard. The men wound the ropes tightly around the boys’ bodies, then they left with Dodson. The rear door was slammed shut.

Instantly the Hardys exhaled and relaxed their muscles. The ropes went slack and the boys had little difficulty freeing themselves.

“Thanks for reminding me to relax,” Joe said with a grin. “I had almost forgotten that old trick Dad taught us.”

“We’re lucky Dodson’s men don’t know much about tying up prisoners,” Frank remarked.

A scraping sound outside told the boys that their captors were removing the camouflage net covering the van.

“They’re getting ready to move,” Frank said. “We must get out of here fast!”

“Let’s make a break for it! It’s our only chance.”

The boys dashed from the small room, but were dismayed to find the door of the van locked.

“There’s no other exit!” Joe said frantically.

“I have an idea!” Frank whispered. “We’ll ride Topnotch out of here!”

“What! Through a locked door?”

“We’ll force Dodson and his men to open it!”

“How?”

“By raising such a racket that they’ll let down the door to investigate.”

The boys opened the door to the stall, patted the horse, who seemed to recognize them, then bridled him. Quickly they led Topnotch to within a few feet of the rear door.

“Hey!” came the voice of one of their captors. “Do you hear Topnotch movin’ around?”

“Probably just restless,” Dodson replied. “He’ll calm down.”

Frank leaned close to Joe. “All set?” he whispered.

His brother nodded, and the boys began pounding on the door with their fists.

“What’s that?” they heard a man shout. “It’s comin’ from inside the van.”

“Maybe the kids got loose!” Dodson declared. “We’d better check. Quick! Open the door!”

The Hardys leaped onto Topnotch and flattened out on his back. As the ramp was pulled down, they nudged the race horse forward. He sprinted down the ramp, taking the men completely by surprise. Before they could recover, Topnotch had covered a hundred yards.

“They’re getting away!” one of the men yelled.

Suddenly Topnotch stumbled and the Hardys were thrown to the ground. They scrambled to their feet just in time to see Dodson take a small object from his pocket and throw it toward them.

“Looks like a tear-gas bomb!” Frank yelled.

Joe darted ahead and caught the object, then tossed it back at their captors. On contact with the ground, the bomb exploded and engulfed Dodson and his henchmen in a thick, white cloud of smoke.

The men wound the ropes tightly

As the choking gas began to drift away, the boys, holding their breaths, pounced on them and wrestled the men into the van. They shut and locked the door.

Joe glanced around. “Where’s Topnotch?”

“He ran off!” Frank said. “You stay on guard here. I’ll go look for him.”

After a brief search Frank found the horse behind a clump of trees, entangled in heavy brush. He freed him and led the animal back to the van.

At that moment the Hardys were startled to hear their names called. “Frank! Joe! Where are you?”

“Sounds like Jack Wayne,” Joe said. “He must be at the cabin.”

Frank sprinted down the brush-covered trail. Reaching the clearing, he saw the pilot and two state troopers standing near the cabin.

“Jack!” Frank shouted as he ran to greet them.

“Am I glad to see you!” Jack said with a sigh of relief. “I jumped the gun a bit. Didn’t quite wait out a full two hours. Thought you’d call me long before that. I began to worry and notified the State Police.”

“Glad you did.” Frank told Jack and the officers what had happened, then led them to the van.

“You’re under arrest!” one of the troopers announced as the boys pulled the door of the vehicle down. Dodson and his henchmen staggered out and were handcuffed.

“There was a fourth man with them,” Joe put in. “He went to make a call.”

“Where’s the nearest telephone?” Frank asked the officers.

“There’s a public booth about a mile and a half down the highway,” one of them replied.

Frank checked his watch. “Let’s drive in that direction,” he suggested. “Beaver was on foot. He should be on his way back by now.”

“We’ll use the patrol car,” one of the troopers said, and added, “I’ll have to radio headquarters for more help.”

Leaving Jack and the other officer behind to guard the prisoners, the Hardys and their companion hurried to the highway. Soon they were cruising in the patrol car.

Minutes later, Joe pointed to a wiry figure trekking back along the highway. “There he is! That’s Beaver!”

The officer brought the car to an abrupt halt and leaped out, with the boys close at his heels.

“What—what’s this?” Beaver shouted as he was placed under arrest. “How did you kids escape?”

“Save your breath,” Joe snapped. “You’ll soon have enough talking to do.”

It was not long before more troopers arrived on the scene. Two grooms from a nearby stable were summoned to take charge of Topnotch until his owner could claim him.

Dodson and his cohorts were driven to Haversville Police Headquarters. There Frank telephoned Alden’s plant.

“Sorry,” said the executive’s secretary, “but Mr. Alden and Mr. Hardy left a few minutes ago on urgent business. I don’t know when they’ll return.”

“They’re probably on their way to pay the ransom money,” Frank remarked as he hung up.

“The guy named Kurt is in for a surprise when he arrives at the bus terminal tonight,” Joe commented with a grin. “He’ll have quite a reception party waiting for him.”

“You can say that again,” Frank said. He then turned to their pilot. “Jack, fly back to Bayport and keep trying to contact Dad and Mr. Alden. When you do, bring them here.”

“Okay.”

The Hardys interrogated the prisoners but without success. After an early dinner at a restaurant in town they returned to police headquarters. They were elated to find their father waiting for them.

“Just got here,” Mr. Hardy said. “Heard you boys cracked the horsenapping case. Good work.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Frank answered. “Where’s Mr. Alden? Didn’t he come with you?”

“He intended to. But just as we were leaving his office, he received word that Roger was involved in an automobile accident,” the detective explained. “Jack went back to Bayport and will fly Mr. Alden here in the morning if Roger isn’t seriously hurt.”

“What about the ransom?” Joe asked.

“Mr. Alden decided to pay it,” his father replied. “He received a call precisely at noon today and was instructed to leave the money in a public locker at the Clayton railroad station. I wanted to stick around and try to nab the pickup man, but Mr. Alden wouldn’t hear of it. He was afraid of losing Topnotch if anything went wrong.”

The boys told him about Kurt.

“This is a great piece of luck!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed.

Frank glanced at his watch. “If Kurt picked up the money and departed from Clayton by one o‘clock this afternoon, he should reach Haversville about ten or eleven o’clock tonight.”

As the hour neared, the three Hardys posted themselves across the street from the bus terminal. Several plainclothesmen were assigned to accompany them.

The time ticked by slowly. It was almost midnight before a car approached and parked in front of the terminal building. A burly man climbed out.

“That could be our man,” Mr. Hardy whispered.

“Trouble is, we don’t know what Kurt looks like,” Joe muttered.

Frank was struck with an idea. He stepped out of the shadows and nonchalantly walked toward their suspect. “Hi, Kurt!” he said.

The man whirled. “Hi! Er—who are you?” he responded with a startled expression.

“You’re under arrest!” the young detective declared.

The man tried to make a break for it, but Frank seized him. Plainclothesmen closed in from all sides.

“What is this?” their captive shouted. “I ain’t done nothin’.”

“We know who you are!” Frank shot back

“Where’s the ransom money?” Mr. Hardy demanded.

“What money?” Kurt sputtered.

“It’s probably in his car,” Joe put in. He quickly searched the vehicle and found a package stuffed underneath the front seat.

“That’s it,” Mr. Hardy observed.

The prisoner was taken to police headquarters. There he was brought face to face with Dodson.

“Gosh, Boss,” Kurt began, “I ...”

“Shut up!” Dodson screamed. “Idiot! You walked straight into a trap!”

“But nobody warned me! How was I supposed to know?”

“As long as you’re in the mood for talking,” Frank spoke up, “suppose you answer a few questions.”

“I told you before,” Dodson retorted, “you’re not getting anything out of me.”

“Is there someone else in this with you?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

A smirk spread across Dodson’s face. “Why don’t you ask Alden’s son?”

CHAPTER XV

Plea for Help

“WHAT do mean by that remark?” Frank demanded.

“You guys think you’re so smart,” Dodson snapped. “Figure it out for yourselves.”

After the prisoners were escorted to their cells, the Hardys went to a local hotel to spend the night. The next morning Mr. Alden and Jack Wayne arrived just as the boys and their father were finishing breakfast.

“You’ve done a terrific job,” Alden said. “And I’m glad to know that Topnotch is all right.”

“We’ve recovered the ransom money too,” Joe announced.

“What!” Alden exclaimed. “That’s incredible.”

After a pause Mr. Hardy inquired, “How’s your son?”

“Fine, thank you. It was just a minor car accident, and I was happy to hear it wasn’t his fault. Fortunately Roger escaped injury and reported for work at the stable this morning.”

Frank said quietly, “We’re sorry that your cousin is one of the thieves.”

Alden also expressed some remorse for Dodson. He hinted that he might drop the charges against him.

“But you can’t let him go free,” Mr. Hardy objected. “We’ve reason to suspect that your cousin is involved with someone who is trying to steal your experimental motor. He might turn out to be our only link.”

Alden finally agreed.

Then the detective said, “We’re going to take another crack at questioning Dodson before we fly back to Bayport. You’d better come to headquarters with us. The police will want a statement.”

“All right.” Alden sighed. “But please don’t ask me to be at the interrogation. You understand. Anyway, I want to arrange to take Topnotch home today.”

When Dodson was grilled by the Hardys, he continued to be uncooperative.

“You were the one who fired the smoke grenade into our father’s study, weren’t you?” Frank said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dodson insisted.

“No use denying it,” Joe interjected. “We have evidence to prove that the grenade was fired from your rifle.”

The prisoner nervously gripped the arms of his chair. “You’re lying!” he screamed.

“Who’s trying to steal Mr. Alden’s experimental motor?” Mr. Hardy demanded.

“I don’t know anything about a motor!” Dodson shouted. He jumped to his feet. “I want to go back to my cell!”

Shortly he was ushered out of the room. The Hardys then questioned each of the other prisoners in turn. But they too refused to talk. Obviously Dodson had frightened the men into remaining silent.

After lunch Jack Wayne flew the Hardys back to Bayport. When they arrived, Frank suggested that they drive to the stable near Alden’s plant and tell Roger about Dodson’s remark.

“I’d like to see what his reaction will be,” Frank added.

“You boys go ahead. I must get back to another case,” Mr. Hardy told them. “I’ll take a taxi home.”

The boys hurried to the airport parking lot and climbed into their car. Soon they were at the stable confronting Roger with Dodson’s insinuation.

“I barely know my father’s cousin,” the young man yelled. “He’s crazy!”

“Then what reason would Dodson have for trying to involve you?” Frank asked.

Roger grew pale. “Don’t ask me!” he retorted. “Maybe he’s trying to get back at my father through me.”

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about—if you’re not involved,” Joe said.

“Leave me alone!” The young man nervously fumbled with a bucket he was carrying. “Get out of here! I have work to do!”

“Okay,” Frank replied. “But don’t forget this. When Dodson and his gang are put on trial, your name is likely to pop up again. If so, the prosecutor will have you subpoenaed.”

When the boys returned home, Chet Morton was waiting in the driveway with his bicycle.

“Hi, fellows!” Their friend was bubbling with excitement. “Long time no see!”

“Hello, Chet!” Frank said. “What’s with the bicycle? Car break down?”

“No,” the plump youth answered. “Remember the rocket cycle I told you I was going to design? Well, this is it!”

Frank and Joe noticed a square canister attached underneath the seat of the bicycle. A long, funnel-shaped nozzle protruded from it.

“Don’t tell us it works,” Joe said.

“I don’t know yet,” Chet admitted. “I wanted to wait until you masterminds could be on hand to witness the supreme test.”

“Forget it,” Frank advised. “That thing looks dangerous.”

Chet shrugged off the warning. He leaped onto the seat of the bicycle and flicked a small toggle switch mounted on the handle bar. A crackling sound came from the canister. Then suddenly a long tongue of flame shot out from the nozzle. Chet was carried off with a roar. He maneuvered the bicycle through several wide circles as its speed rapidly increased.

“Cut off the motor!” Joe cried anxiously.

“I—I can’t!” their friend stammered.

In the next instant Chet steered on a straight course and vanished down the street in a trail of smoke. The Hardys jumped into their car and took off in pursuit.

“Where did he go?” Joe said anxiously after they had traveled about half a mile.

“Look! Over there!”

Frank pointed to a bicycle, minus its rider, turned over on a spacious lawn. The wheels were still spinning.

“There’s no sign of Chet,” Joe muttered worriedly.

“I see him!” Frank declared.

He led his brother to a thick hedge a short distance away. Chet’s legs were protruding from the top.

“Are you all right?” Joe yelled.

“Yes, I’m okay! Get me out of here!”

The boys pulled their chum free of the hedge. He was badly shaken by his experience, but other than a few scratches he had suffered no injuries.

“Better stick to the old-fashioned way of propelling a bike,” Frank urged.

“Guess you’re right.” Chet sighed. “It wasn’t such a good idea, anyway.”

The Hardys drove their friend and his rocket bike to the Morton farm. Then they returned home in time to enjoy a delicious dinner. The meal was interrupted by the telephone. Frank answered it.

“This is Roger,” the caller announced. He seemed frightened. “I’ve got to see you right away. But I don’t want to come to your home. Meet me at the municipal parking lot in Bayport.”

The boys quickly finished eating, then drove off to rendezvous with Alden’s son. They found him seated in his car. At Roger’s request the boys climbed into the rear seat.

“What’s this all about?” Frank demanded.

“You must help me,” the young man pleaded.

“Help you?” Joe snapped. “Why should we?”

“I’m in terrible trouble,” Roger said shakily. “I was in on the theft of Topnotch. But I didn’t know the horse was to be held for ransom.”

“Then why did you get involved?” Frank asked.

“I wanted revenge for the way my father has been treating me.”

“How did you get mixed up with Dodson?” Joe questioned.

Roger stated that he met his father’s cousin one night in Clayton. “I realize now that it was not a chance meeting. He must have followed me there after work. Said he’d heard I wasn’t on friendly terms with my father. I never thought to ask him how he knew that.”

“Hm! Interesting,” Frank muttered.

“Dodson then told me that he also had a grudge against my father,” Roger continued, “and asked me if I would like to play a joke on him.”

“Like stealing Topnotch?” Joe interjected.

“Yes. But Dodson promised that the horse would be returned in a few days. It wasn’t until they attacked the groom the night we took Topnotch that I realized the theft was meant to be more than a joke.”

“Why did you meet two of Dodson’s henchmen in that restaurant in Clayton?” Frank inquired. “By then you knew they were crooks.”

“I had to,” Roger replied. “Dodson sent them to warn me not to talk; otherwise he’d see that I went to jail with them.”

“What made you change your mind?” Joe asked.

“When you told me Dodson had mentioned my name, I thought it over and decided to tell you what I know. I would have before, but I was afraid.”

“You made a wise decision,” Frank assured him. “And if you continue to cooperate, we’ll do everything in our power to see that you get a break.”

“What should I do now?” Roger asked.

“I suggest you tell your father everything you’ve told us,” Frank advised. “You’re going to need his help as well as ours.”

Roger thanked the Hardys and drove off.

“Roger’s completely changed,” Joe commented as he and his brother returned to their car.

“He’s scared,” Frank said. “And it’s a good thing. Maybe this will teach him a lesson.”

When the boys arrived home, their father greeted them with alarming news.

“Dodson has escaped!” he announced.

CHAPTER XVI

Dilemma

FRANK and Joe were startled by the news.

“I can’t believe it!” Joe exclaimed.

“How did he manage to get away?” Frank asked quickly.

“That’s the most fantastic part of what I have to tell you,” Mr. Hardy replied.

He told his sons that Lieutenant Monroe of the Haversville police had telephoned. The officer had informed him that Dodson escaped while he and his men were being transferred to the county jail in Myles City.

“The prisoners were sent in a patrol car,” Mr. Hardy continued. “When they were about halfway to their destination, the windshield suddenly crazed. The driver lost control, skidded off the road, and turned over in a ditch.”

“Leaping lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s exactly what caused Mr. Alden’s race cars to crash!”

“Then what happened?” Frank asked.

“The occupants were badly shaken up,” the detective replied. “But one of the officers faintly recalls seeing two masked men run toward the patrol car. They pulled Dodson out and disappeared. That’s all he remembers.”

“What about the men with him?” Frank inquired.

“They were left behind,” Mr. Hardy answered.

“That’s strange,” Joe muttered. “I wonder why.”

“I don’t know,” their father admitted. “But I suggest we fly to Myles City tomorrow and have another talk with Dodson’s pals.”

At that moment Aunt Gertrude entered the room and began one of her tirades.

“Horsenappers! Ransom money! It’s all too horrible to imagine,” she sputtered. “And to think those criminals were connected with that awful stable I inherited.”

“It’s not really as bad as all that,” Mrs. Hardy commented in a soft voice. “Horses are wonderful animals. Think how pleasant it must be for them to have a lovely place in which to retire.”

“Fiddlesticks!” Aunt Gertrude retorted. “I’ll have no part of it.” She glanced at Mr. Hardy. “Are you sure Mr. Benson is doing his best to sell the stable?”

“Yes, he is,” the detective assured her. “You’ll probably be hearing from him any day now.”

“I certainly hope so,” his sister said. “The next thing you know, they’ll be setting up public ticket booths and holding races in the paddock.”

The others smiled, then Frank changed the subject.

Early the next morning Jack Wayne and the Hardys were streaking down the runway on take-off at the Bayport field. Less than three hours later, the boys and their father were at the county jail in Myles City. Lieutenant Monroe was there to greet them.

“We’ve checked on the prisoners,” he said. “They all have police records a mile long.”

“We’d like to question them one at a time,” Mr. Hardy requested.

“Okay,” the lieutenant replied. “We can use the chief guard’s office.”

Beaver was the only one among the three prisoners willing to talk. “Dodson’s left us holding the bag!” he growled. “That rat won’t get away with this. Whatcha’ want to know?”

“When did you first meet Dodson?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“A couple of months ago in Maryland,” Beaver answered. “I was on the lam at the time and came across the stable he was managin’. He was lookin’ for workers and offered me a job. I took it ’cause I thought it would be a good place to lay low for a while.”

“Was it his idea to steal Topnotch?” Frank questioned.

“Yes,” the prisoner admitted. “I got to be on friendly terms with Dodson. Told ’im I had a police record. He said not to worry about it. Later he asked me if I would help his men steal a race horse, and get a couple o’ my friends to come in on the deal. Needin’ money, I jumped at the chance.”

“Do you know if he was involved in any other shady activities?” Joe asked.

“Not that I know of,” Beaver replied. “But he was away from the stable two and three days at a stretch sometimes. Maybe he was up to somethin’ that he never told me about.”

“Think hard,” Mr. Hardy urged. “Did Dodson ever mention anything about experimental race cars or motors?”

“Not to me he didn’t,” the prisoner answered.

When the interview was over, the boys and their father discussed the information.

“I believe he was telling the truth,” Frank commented.

“So do I,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “And it explains why Beaver and the other two prisoners were left behind.”

“What do you mean?” Joe queried.

“I’m convinced that Dodson is part of a gang that’s trying to steal Mr. Alden’s experimental motor. The theft of Topnotch must have been his own private deal. As a result, the gang knew nothing about his horsenapping plans or the men who were helping him.”

“Makes sense,” Joe remarked. He thought for a moment. “But how did the guys who helped him escape know he was being taken to Myles City?”

Frank turned to Lieutenant Monroe, who was seated nearby. “Did Dodson have any visitors, or make any phone calls from Haversville?” he asked.

“He didn’t have any visitors,” the officer told him, “but he was permitted to make a call. When I informed him that we were taking him to Myles City, he demanded that he be allowed to contact his lawyer. I dialed the number for him.”

“Did you check the number?” Frank asked.

“No,” the lieutenant replied. “But I have a record of it back at headquarters. I’ll call the desk sergeant and have him check it immediately.”

Monroe picked up the phone. Twenty minutes went by before he obtained the information. “It’s an unlisted number in Clayton,” he said, “registered in the name of Barto Sigor.”

“Barto!” Joe exclaimed. “Mr. Alden’s chief sheet-metal worker!”

Mr. Hardy jumped to his feet. “There’s no time to lose!” he told his sons. “We’re flying back to Bayport immediately!”

Shortly Jack Wayne and his passengers were airborne. When they reached their destination, the Hardys drove at once to Alden’s plant. They found the executive in his office. He was greatly upset.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

“Barto drove off in my experimental car!” Alden declared.

“When?”

“A few minutes ago! I’ve already notified the police.”

“Have you any idea which way he went?” Joe asked.

“No.”

“Your car has a bright silver finish and a distinctive shape,” Frank commented. “We should be able to spot it from the air.”

“Good idea!” Mr. Hardy said. “You boys go aloft. I’ll stay here with Mr. Alden in case the police come up with anything.”

Frank rushed to the phone and dialed the number of Jack Wayne’s office at the Bayport field. Luckily he caught the pilot just as he was about to go home.

“Sorry to ask you to go up again,” he said. “You’ve been doing so much flying the past couple of days you’re likely to sprout wings. But this is an emergency!”

“I don’t mind,” the pilot assured him.

Frank glanced at Alden. “Is it okay if Jack lands the plane on your private drag strip?” he asked. “It’ll save time.”

“By all means,” the executive said.

Soon the boys and their pilot were cruising high above the plant.

“Where do we start searching?” Joe inquired.

“My guess is that Barto will stick to the back roads,” Frank explained. “There are lots of them to the west.”

Jack maneuvered the sleek aircraft to a westerly direction. Frank and Joe scanned the terrain below. Thin ribbons of secluded roads cut across the hills and through the heavy forests.

“I’ll climb a bit higher so you can take in more area,” the pilot said as he advanced the throttle.

More minutes passed. Then suddenly Joe pointed down toward a bright speck moving along one of the narrow roads. “Look!” he cried. “That might be the car!”

“I’ll go down on the deck and make a head-on pass,” Jack announced.

Descending to almost ground level, the pilot headed toward the oncoming vehicle. The tall trees that flanked the road seemed just inches away from the wing tips.

“It’s Mr. Alden’s race car all right!” Frank observed. “Barto is pulling it off to the side.”

The plane swept by the vehicle at high speed. Then Jack pulled up into a climbing turn and came around for a second pass. As he did this, Frank saw a man run out onto the road. “Must be Barto!” he shouted.

As Jack flew closer, the boys noticed that the man was aiming a long, cylindrical object at them.

“Be careful!” Frank warned the pilot. “It might be a weapon of some kind!”

In the next instant the windows of the plane crazed completely. The occupants were unable to see through the milky whiteness.

“We’re flying blind!” Jack cried as he hauled back on the control wheel and soared skyward.

“How can we land?” Frank asked tensely.

CHAPTER XVII

Emergency Landing

THE Hardys sat frozen in their seats. They heard the loud, thudding sound of the treetops whipping against the underside of the wings.

“I veered off course slightly!” Jack cried. “We just managed to clear the trees!”

Seconds later a large, dark shadow flashed over the top of the plane’s canopy. This was followed by a severe buffeting that rocked the craft violently.

“What was that?” Joe shouted.

“We almost collided with another plane!” the pilot declared nervously. “I must contact air traffic control. They’ll have to handle us just as if we were flying in bad weather!”

Jack switched the radio transceiver to emergency frequency. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” he declared. “Bayport Center! Do you read me?”

There was an immediate reply as the radio’s loudspeaker crackled to life. “This is Bayport Center!” came a voice. “Aircraft calling Mayday! Give position, altitude, and identification!”

“This is Skyhawk One-One-Eight-Howe-Boscoe!” the pilot responded. “Now inbound on the two-eight-four-degree radial of Bayport Omni, approximately forty miles from the station! Present altitude, three thousand!” He then explained their predicament.

“Roger, Eight-Howe-Boscoe!” the air traffic operator replied. “Maintain present heading and altitude! Will advise when we have radar contact!”

It was several minutes before the air traffic controller informed Jack that the plane had been identified on the radar screens. He was also told that his craft would be brought down for a landing by means of a Ground Approach. Frank and Joe knew this meant radar operators would detect their aircraft’s heading, descent, and distance from a landing runway. Jack Wayne would be literally “talked down.”

The boys watched in admiration as he skillfully maneuvered the plane. When finally advised by the controller that he had just crossed the threshold of the runway, Jack chopped the power and settled to the ground.

“Whew!” Joe sighed, mopping his forehead. “I don’t want to go through that again. For a while it was like driving in heavy traffic with your eyes shut.”

Jack brought the plane to a stop. “We’ll wait here until a tractor arrives to tow us back to the hangar.”

After this was done, the Hardys and their pilot examined the windows of the plane curiously.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Joe declared.

“It looks as if something had upset the molecular structure of the material in the windows,” Jack said.

“Whatever caused the crazing,” Frank concluded, “must have had something to do with that gadget Barto was aiming at us.”

“Let’s search his apartment in Clayton,” Joe suggested. “Maybe we’ll find a clue.”

“Just what I had in mind,” Frank said. “I’ll call Dad at Mr. Alden’s office and ask if he can arrange to get a search warrant.”

“I almost forgot,” Joe interjected. “Our car is at the plant.”

“Use mine,” Jack said, tossing a set of keys to the boys. “I’ll stay here and see about getting the windows replaced.”

The boys hurried off to meet their father at Alden’s office.

“The warrant’s all set,” Mr. Hardy said. “Clayton Police Station is sending a man to meet us at Barto’s apartment.”

They were greeted by a jolly, sturdily built policeman. “I got a master key from the superintendent,” he informed them. “Makes it easier.”

The Hardys were not surprised by what they saw when entering the apartment. A chest of drawers had been emptied of its contents and the closets were bare. The general untidiness of the rooms indicated that the tenant had left in a hurry.

“Barto didn’t waste any time getting out of here,” Joe commented.

“Dodson’s call from Haversville obviously scared him away,” Frank concluded. “He knew the police might check his number.”

“This proves one thing,” Mr. Hardy put in. “Barto must be in with the gang that’s after Alden’s motor. In fact, he might even be the leader.”

Frank discovered a single fingerprint on the telephone. He lifted the print with his special tape and placed it in a celluloid container. “Must be Barto’s,” he remarked. “But I’ll ask Chief Collig to check it just to be sure.”

Meanwhile, Joe was rummaging through the wastebasket. He pulled out a crumpled, typewritten letter and two sheets of carbon paper. “I’ve found something,” he called to his brother and father. They examined the letter together. It read: Dear Barto: I’m sorry to hear that your brother had trouble with his employer and moved on. Perhaps the strain of his labors was too much for him.

I wish you could visit me. I’m still operating my old mansion as a restaurant. One night I had forty customers. They came from miles around. However, I have competition about two miles north of my place. It is called the Claymore. Tonight I intend to go there to see how well they are doing. It is located just off the main highway. I must go now, since it is getting late and I always make a point of retiring by twelve.

Write soon.

Your friend,

Eric

“I wonder who Eric is,” Joe mused.

“Too bad we don’t have the envelope the letter came in,” Mr. Hardy said. “It would tell us where it was mailed.”

“What’s written looks innocent enough,” Frank observed. “Just the same, I want to examine it more carefully, and for luck I’ll take these two sheets of carbon paper.”

A further search of the rooms revealed nothing more. The Hardys thanked the Clayton policeman who had been assigned to accompany them and returned to Bayport. Frank stopped to give Chief Collig the fingerprint he had lifted from Barto’s phone.

“I’ll check it right away,” the officer said.

“Thanks,” Frank responded. “I’ll be at home. Please call me there.”

The boys and their father arrived home to find Aunt Gertrude in a jovial mood. “I have wonderful news!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Benson telephoned. He’s found a buyer. My stable is as good as sold.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Hardy told her. “That should put your mind at rest.”

“Indeed it will,” Aunt Gertrude agreed. “But I hope the new owner is an expert in caring for horses. I would dislike the thought of those poor animals being neglected.”

“Do I detect a change of heart?” Joe asked with a grin. “How come you’re so fond of horses all of a sudden?”

“I always have been,” Aunt Gertrude defended herself. “I just don’t think they should be raced around a silly track for people’s amusement.”

Joe said, his eyes twinkling, “Someday I’m going to take you to a race!”

After supper the boys went to their crime lab and examined the letter they had found in Barto’s apartment.

“Do you think it contains some kind of a code message?” Joe asked his brother.

“Not any more than the first letter I found in Barto’s wastebasket the day I took his fingerprints from the doorknob,” Frank replied. “What about the sheets of carbon paper?”

“Haven’t had a chance to examine them carefully yet,” Joe said. “So far, it looks quite ordinary.”

At that moment Chet Morton entered the lab. “Hi, masterminds,” he greeted the Hardys. “Got a few minutes to talk?”

“We always have time for you,” Frank assured his friend with a smile. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s about my rocket cycle,” Chet announced.

“Oh, no!” Joe exclaimed. “I thought you gave that up as a bad idea.”

“I intended to,” Chet replied. “But then I had a brainstorm.”

Frank winked at his brother. “This ought to be good,” he remarked.

“Okay!” Chet protested. “If you don’t want to hear about my invention, just say so.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “Go ahead.”

The chubby youth took a rolled sheet of paper from his hip pocket and spread it out across the table. On it was the rough sketch of a bicycle. “See these tubes underneath the seat?” he -began.

“Yes,” Joe told him. “How could we forget? They’re your rockets.”

“Wrong!” Chet declared with a flourish of his hand. “What you see are jet engines. And I won’t even have to build them myself. The hobby shop sells these units for model planes and boats. About four of them will produce enough thrust to propel my bike.”

“If you insist on going ahead with the project,” Frank warned, “just make sure that there are plenty of hedges around for you to fall into.”

“Stow the comedy,” Chet retorted. “The bike won’t run away with me again. Since the jets are operated with liquid fuel, I’ll be able to control the power.”

“When do you plan to unveil this great invention of yours?” Joe inquired skeptically.

“In a couple of days,” Chet announced proudly.

“This calls for a celebration,” Frank said. “Aunt Gertrude baked an apple pie today. What say we go to the kitchen and have some?”

“Lead me to it!” their friend exclaimed.

As the boys were being served, Chief Collig telephoned. “I just got the results on the fingerprint you gave me,” he said to Frank.

“I assume it’s Barto’s,” Frank commented.

“No,” the chief replied. “The print is from his brother Vilno!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Night Chase

“THAT’S incredible!” Frank declared.

He and Joe rushed to their father’s study to tell him the news.

“Then Vilno was in his brother’s apartment,” Mr. Hardy concluded. “But why?”

“To help Barto steal the experimental car,” Joe suggested.

“If so,” Frank argued, “why wasn’t Vilno with his brother when we spotted the car from the air?”

“Maybe they decided to go their separate ways after the theft,” Mr. Hardy said.

Frank frowned. “I wonder,” he muttered, “if Vilno has been posing as his brother all the time.”

“Impossible!” Joe said. “Those were Barto’s fingerprints you lifted off the doorknob the day you followed him to his apartment. And don’t forget, Vilno is not a sheet-metal worker. How could he do his brother’s job at the plant?”

“Guess you’re right,” Frank finally agreed. “But it’s an interesting theory.”

Mr. Hardy rubbed his chin dubiously. “I’m going to try getting more background on those two,” he said. “It may lead up a blind alley. Yet I might discover some useful information.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a telephone call from Alden.

“The police have retrieved my experimental car,” the executive told Mr. Hardy. “Unfortunately Barto got away.”

“What happened?” the detective asked.

Alden explained that a state trooper, who was patrolling the road indicated by the boys, had spotted the car traveling at great speed. He gave chase, but found that his motorcycle was not fast enough to close the gap.

“Then Barto blew a tire and spun out of control,” Alden continued. “By the time the officer reached the spot, Barto was gone.”

“Was the car damaged?” Mr. Hardy queried.

“A little,” Alden answered. “But nothing that can’t be repaired in a few hours. In fact, I had considered entering it in a road race that’s scheduled near here a couple of days from now. However, I don’t think I will.”

After hanging up, the detective told his sons what Alden had said.

“I wonder where Barto was taking the car,” Joe mused.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Mr. Hardy admitted.

Frank thought for a moment. “I have an idea,” he said finally. “Let’s ask Mr. Alden to enter his car in the road race. Then the night before the event Joe and I will inspect the route. We might spot one of those signposts.”

“It’s worth a try,” their father agreed.

The following morning Frank telephoned Alden and told him his plan.

“I’ll do anything to help clear up the mystery,” Alden stated. He agreed to the plan, then described the route of the race.

After Frank put down the phone, Joe said, “I hope you don’t plan on our using bicycles like the last time. If you do, I’m going to ask Chet to install a couple of his jet engines on mine.”

Frank grinned. “We’ll use our car.”

“But if there are members of the gang around, they’ll hear us coming,” Joe objected.

“So far, the signposts have been set precisely beyond a sharp curve in the road. There’ll be a full moon. We can cruise along with our lights out, and every time we come to a curve we’ll stop and inspect it on foot.”

It was clear and cool the night before the event. The boys waited until midnight before starting out for the race site, which was situated a few miles west of Clayton. When they arrived, Frank turned out the headlights and drove slowly along the route described by Alden.

“Maybe we’re too early,” Joe warned. “If the gang does intend putting up a signpost, we might finish our search before they get here.”

“We’ll keep patrolling the road till dawn,” Frank said. “If they haven’t set one up already, they’ll have to do it before daylight.”

The boys stared into the darkness. As they approached the first sharp bend in the road, Frank stopped the car. He and his brother edged their way around it on foot.

“Nothing there,” Joe observed.

The Hardys returned to the car and continued on. They had almost covered the entire route when another sharp bend appeared ahead of them. They climbed out of the vehicle and walked forward.

“Hold it!” Joe ordered in a low voice. “Do you hear something?”

Frank listened, then nodded. “Sounds like several men mumbling to one another,” he whispered.

Crouching low, the boys cautiously worked their way around the bend. Then suddenly the Hardys came to a stop. The shadowy images of five men could be seen standing near a pickup truck a short distance down the road. A signpost stood nearby.

“Rotten luck,” one of the men growled in a hushed voice. “This generator we brought doesn’t work.”

“We should’ve checked it out at the lab,” another man added.

“I know those voices,” Frank hissed. “It’s Dodson and Barto!”

“I wonder if Vilno is with them,” Joe whispered.

A couple of men lifted a heavy object onto the back of the truck.

“Slade! You and Tadlow go back and get another generator,” Barto ordered. “But be quick about it. Everything has to be set up before it gets light.”

Two men leaped into the truck and started off. The driver executed a U-turn and headed in the direction of the Hardys.

Frank pointed to a clump of brush a few feet away. “Take cover!”

The boys managed to conceal themselves just before the truck flashed by.

“They’re bound to spot our car!” Joe said anxiously.

A moment later he and Frank were panic-stricken to hear the truck screech to a halt. Soon one of its occupants came running back to rejoin his companions.

“Barto!” the man exclaimed. “There’s a car parked beyond the bend. It wasn’t there before!”

“Maybe it’s the police!” Dodson sputtered.

“I don’t think so,” Barto argued. “They would’ve driven up and asked us what we’re doing here.” He turned to his pals. “Spread out and start searching the area. There must be snoopers around.”

The men took out flashlights and began walking down the road toward the Hardys.

“What’ll we do?” Joe said.

“Our only chance is to make a break for it,” Frank decided. “Head for the car. There’ll be only one man to get past.”

The boys leaped to their feet and sprinted down the road as fast as they could.

“Look!” Barto yelled as he directed his beam of light toward the fleeing youths. “There go a couple of guys!”

“It’s those Hardy kids!” Dodson shouted. “Don’t let them get away!”

As Frank and Joe rounded the bend, they saw the driver of the truck standing beside their car. Joe crouched low, shot forward, and buried his right shoulder into the man’s midriff. The fellow went crashing to the ground.

Frank leaped behind the steering wheel of the car and started the engine. Joe climbed in beside him just as Barto and his friends bore down on the boys.

“Stop them!” Dodson yelled.

After making a quick U-turn, the boys sped along the road and away from their pursuers. Joe peered out the rear window. “They’re coming after us in the truck!”

Frank gave the convertible more power. “Are they gaining on us?”

“No!” Joe answered. “But we’re not losing them either!”

After rounding another sharp bend in the road, Frank noticed a trail ahead which struck off to the right and into a wooded area. “Hang on!” he cried. “I’m going to try something!”

Swerving sharply, Frank turned onto the trail. After they had traveled a short distance, he switched off the engine and lights. A moment later their pursuers raced past and continued down the road.

“Your maneuver worked!” Joe said with a grin.

“We’re not out of this yet,” Frank warned. “Barto and his men are sure to figure out what happened. We’ll get back on the road and drive in the opposite direction.”

He restarted the engine and rolled only a few feet when he brought the vehicle to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” Joe queried.

“I’m afraid we have a flat!”

The boys climbed out of the car and were dismayed to see that the left front tire had been punctured by a sharp rock.

“What a time to have this happen!” Joe muttered.

The Hardys made a break for it!

At that instant they heard the sound of a vehicle approaching in the distance.

“It must be Barto and the others!” Joe concluded.

“Quick! Let’s hide!”

“Where?”

Frank glanced around. “We’ll climb a tree. That one over there should be the easiest. Get going! I’ll follow you!”

Soon the Hardys were pulling themselves up through the branches, high above the ground. A thick mass of leaves provided excellent cover. There was one small clear spot which permitted them to view the road.

“We made it just in time,” Joe said. “There’s the pickup truck. Barto and his men are turning in here!”

The boys’ pulses quickened as they watched the truck come to a halt immediately behind their car.

“I told you those kids must’ve turned in here after we didn’t see them on the road ahead!” Dodson declared. “Good trick. Lucky I remembered our passing this trail.”

“But where are they?” Barto growled. He examined the damaged tire. “I see they have a flat. Why didn’t they try to fix it?”

“Probably heard us coming and ran off,” Dodson replied. “Just the same, let’s take a look around.”

Frank and Joe were almost afraid to breathe as they watched their pursuers take out flashlights and search the area. At one point, a beam of light was directed toward the place in which the boys were hiding.

“That was close,” Frank thought as the beam was finally turned downward.

“We’d better not waste any more time here!” Barto shouted. “Those snoopers may be on their way to call the police!”

“They’ve ruined everything,” Dodson snarled. “We’ll have to forget about using the signpost on Alden’s car during the race. Let’s pick it up and get out of here.”

One of the men walked to the rear of the Hardys’ car with a sharp-pointed tool. He proceeded to punch several holes into the fuel tank. Gasoline began to stream from it. “That’ll stop ’em from usin’ this in case they come back.”

Barto and his henchmen climbed into the truck and drove off. The Hardys waited a few minutes before leaving their hiding place.

“Here we are in the middle of nowhere without transportation,” Joe said angrily.

“Won’t help to complain about it.” Frank sighed. “Must be five or six miles to the nearest telephone. Let’s start walking.”

They began trekking along the road. It had been daylight for more than an hour when they saw a sedan approaching.

“Oh-oh,” Joe remarked. “I hope none of Barto’s men are in it.”

As the car came to a stop, the boys were elated to see Alden behind the wheel and their father seated beside him.

“Am I glad to see you two!” Mr. Hardy called out. “I became worried when I didn’t hear from you. I decided to look for you and asked Mr. Alden to come along.” He peered at his sons curiously. “Why are you walking? Where’s your car?”

The boys climbed into the rear seat of Alden’s car and told the men what had happened. Then they drove to the spot where they had seen the signpost.

“This is where it was,” Frank announced, pointing to a small hole on the shoulder of the road.

“The gang made certain that they didn’t leave any clues behind,” Mr. Hardy observed.

“You boys have saved my experimental car from being wrecked,” Alden interjected.

“You must be tired,” Mr. Hardy said to his sons.

“I insist you come to my home for breakfast and a few hours’ sleep,” Alden added.

The young detectives readily agreed. They rested until midafternoon, then returned to Alden’s office. They had been there only a few minutes when the phone rang. Alden picked up the receiver. He turned pale as he listened to what his caller had to say.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Hardy asked after his client hung up.

“That—that was Barto’s brother Vilno!” Alden stammered. “He has Roger! He said unless I give him my experimental motor, he’ll harm my son. He’s calling again in two hours for my answer.”

CHAPTER XIX

Breaking the Code

THE Hardys were shocked by the news.

Alden was almost at the point of collapse. “If Vilno and his gang want my motor that badly, I’ll give it to them.”

The three detectives were angry. Mr. Hardy exclaimed, “I’d like to get my hands on those scoundrels! They’ll stop at nothing!”

“If only we had a lead to where their hideout is,” Joe put in.

Frank frowned. “Maybe the lead is right in our files at home.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“Maybe the letters we found in Barto’s apartment do contain a code after all,” Frank answered.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “Why don’t you boys go back to Bayport and work on that angle?” He handed them a set of keys. “Take my car. It’s in the plant’s parking lot. I’ll stay here and be on hand when Vilno calls back.”

“Meanwhile,” Alden told the boys, “I’ll send one of my tow trucks to pick up your car.”

Frank and Joe hurried home, took Barto’s letters from the file, then went to their crime lab to study them.

After an hour had passed, Joe sighed. “We’re no closer to discovering a key than we were the last time we examined the letters.”

“Looks hopeless,” Frank agreed. “But let’s keep at it a bit longer.”

Shrugging, Joe turned his attention to the sheets of carbon paper found in Barto’s apartment. He scrutinized them carefully and thought they looked a bit different from the usual carbon paper. Suspicious, Joe sandwiched a sheet between two sheets of white paper, picked up a pencil, and began scribbling on the upper one.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright. “This is odd! The carbon doesn’t produce a copy except in a few isolated spots.”

Frank jumped to his feet. “Joe! You may have discovered the key to the code!”

“I hope so. Fortunately our typewriter has pica type like Barto’s machine. I’ll type an exact copy of the first of his letters,” Joe said. “If our hunch is correct ...” His words trailed off as he inserted two clean sheets into the typewriter. Then he began tapping out the words.

Dear Eric:

Forgive me for taking so long to write you, but I’ve been so exhausted from work the last few days that I didn’t feel I could write a coherent sentence. How I wish I had the stamina of two hard-working boys who have taken summer jobs at the plant. Any family would be proud to have sons like that.

As I already told you, my brother has left the Alden company ...

When Joe finished typing the letter, he pulled out the sheets and quickly examined the carbon copy.

“That’s it! We’ve broken the code!” he exclaimed. “Trick carbon paper!”

Joe showed Frank the copy. “Notice that the carbon has transferred only certain words and portions of words onto the copy sheet. First we have the word ‘hard.’ Next, the ‘y’ and ‘s’ from the word ‘boys.’ ”

“Spelling out ‘Hardys’!” Frank declared.

“And the next word is ‘sons,’ and so on.”

The boys observed that the complete message read:

Hardys, sons of detective, here. I’m sure they’re investigating.

Tingling with excitement, Frank handed his brother the second of Barto’s letters and the other sheet of carbon paper. “Quick! Make a copy of this!”

Joe repeated the procedure. The carbon copy revealed the following message:

moved lab to old mansion forty miles north of Clayton on route twelve.

“It must be the location of the gang’s hideout !” Frank exclaimed.

He rushed to the telephone and dialed Alden’s private office number. There was no answer.

“It’s after office hours,” Joe said. “Mr. Alden’s secretary must have left. Why don’t you try the company’s main number?”

Following his brother’s suggestion, Frank finally got a response from the plant’s chief watchman. “Sorry, I can’t help you,” the man told Frank. “Me and my men just came on duty. I haven’t seen Mr. Alden or anyone else.”

Next, Frank tried the executive’s home. Again there was no answer.

“I wonder where Dad and Mr. Alden are,” Frank muttered.

“Maybe they went to meet Vilno.”

“Dad would have called us. I don’t like this.”

“If they’re delivering the experimental motor to Vilno, he and his gang may try to make a getaway after they have it. Let’s go to their hideout.”

“Okay!” Frank agreed. “But since Mother and Aunt Gertrude won’t get home from the theater till late I’ll ask Chet to stand by the phone here. He can tell Dad where we are if he should call.”

Twenty minutes later Chet’s ancient yellow car rumbled to a stop in front of the Hardy home. The boys noticed that their friend had his jet-propelled bicycle lashed to the rear bumper.

“I’m taking my bike to a secret spot early tomorrow morning,” Chet announced. “It’s ready for the supreme test.”

“Lots of luck,” Frank said. “I hope the job we’re asking you to do isn’t going to interfere with your plans.”

“Not at all,” the chubby youth replied grandly. “What is it you want me to tell your father if he calls?”

Frank handed him the message they had decoded revealing the location of the gang’s hideout.

“I’d rather be going with you,” Chet muttered, “instead of having to sit at the telephone.”

“We wish you could too,” Joe assured him. “But your job is an important one. We’ll check with you later.”

It was already dusk when the Hardys drove off. Forty miles to the north of Clayton, Joe pointed to a dimly lighted building in the distance. “I think I’ve spotted the mansion! It’s behind those trees over to the right.”

Frank brought the car to a stop near the foot of a long wooded driveway. He and his brother continued on foot. The house was situated quite a distance from the main road.

“I don’t see anybody or signs of activity,” Joe whispered as they neared the building.

“Just the same, be careful. If this is Vilno’s hideout, he’s sure to have one or more guards posted.”

The boys crept forward toward the front of the house, keeping in the darkness of the trees. Suddenly Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “Look!” he whispered. “There’s a man up ahead, seated on that big rock. He’s armed!”

“It’s a guard all right, Joe. He’s Tadlow, one of the men we saw with Barto and Dodson at the sinister signpost!”

“Then we’re at the right place. Let’s nab him.”

“Okay.”

The Hardys stalked their quarry. When they were within arm’s reach of the man, he jumped to his feet and whirled around to face them.

Quick as a flash Joe leaped and caught the man squarely on the jaw with a right uppercut. He tumbled to the ground, unconscious. Nearby lay his rifle, which Frank flung into a clump of brush.

The boys dragged the man to a slim tree, put his arms around the trunk, and tied his wrists together with a belt. The placing of a handkerchief gag completed the job.

Moving cautiously, the boys continued toward the mansion. They kept a sharp lookout for other guards, but there were none. When the Hardys reached their goal, they detected a humming sound.

“What do you think that is?” Joe hissed.

“Offhand, I’d say it’s some kind of machine,” Frank answered. “Seems to be coming from the basement.”

The boys started to creep around the outside of the mansion. Soon they discovered a metal air vent in the foundation. Frank peered through it in amazement.

“See anything?” Joe asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes. Looks like a physics or electronics laboratory.”

Joe crouched just as three men came into Frank’s view. They were Vilno, Barto, and Dodson. The boys pressed their ears against the vent in an effort to hear what the men were saying.

“This is a good setup here,” Barto remarked. “Too bad we have to leave it.”

“Now that we have the experimental motor,” Vilno put in, “there’s no reason for us to stick around.”

“What about the prisoners?” Dodson inquired. “Alden and his son don’t worry me, but that detective Hardy can be dangerous to us.”

Frank and Joe gasped. Their father had been captured together with Mr. Alden and Roger!

“Forget it,” Vilno told Dodson. “We’ll be miles away before anyone finds Hardy.”

Frank turned to his brother. “We must rescue them!”

“We can’t do it alone! There are probably more members of the gang inside.”

Suddenly the tall figure of a man loomed up behind the boys. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Frank and Joe leaped to defend themselves. A wild struggle followed. They crashed against the side of the house several times. Then Frank dealt the man a blow that sent him crumbling to the ground.

Suddenly the young detectives heard another, but louder, humming sound. In the next instant they were horror-stricken to find that they could not move.

“What’s happening?” Joe exclaimed.

The boys were frozen in their tracks. Some powerful, invisible force was holding them!

CHAPTER XX

Jet Action

“IT’S THE Hardy kids!” Dodson shouted as he, Barto, and two other men arrived on the scene.

“Don’t get too close to them,” Barto warned his pals, “or you’ll get caught in the sonic trap yourselves. Tadlow! Go tell my brother to turn it off.”

Within a couple of minutes the boys were released from the mysterious force that had prevented them from moving. The aftereffects, however, caused Frank and Joe to fall to the ground exhausted. Dodson and the others pounced on them and tied the boys’ hands behind their backs.

“So! How do you like our little sonic trap?” Barto sneered.

“Sonic trap?” Frank said weakly.

“Yes,” Barto replied. “It’s another of Vilno’s inventions. A device which encloses objects of our choosing within a solid shell of hypersonic vibrations. Your father also had the honor of experiencing its effects.”

Frank and Joe were marched into the mansion, then down a flight of stairs leading to the basement. They were awed by what they saw. The area had been converted into a large laboratory, and was filled with various pieces of electronic equipment. In one corner of the room lay several signposts marked DANGER.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Vilno exclaimed with exaggerated politeness. “Looking for your father? Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

“If you’ve harmed him,” Joe began, “or ...”

“He’s perfectly fit,” Vilno interrupted, “and is in our storage room with Alden and his son. You shall join them shortly.”

For the first time the boys had an opportunity to see Vilno and Barto together. They were identical twins. Other than for a difference in dress, it was difficult to tell who was who.

“Perhaps our guests would like to see some of the things we invented,” Barto sneered.

“That we invented? You’re forgetting it was my genius alone that made our devices possible!” his twin said boastfully.

“How did you manage to craze the windshields of Mr. Alden’s race cars?” Frank interjected.

Vilno seemed pleased by the question. He led the Hardys to the signposts. “Inside each of these is a hypersonic generator of my own design. I found that I could disturb the molecular arrangement in some materials with the waves it produces. They are what crazed the windshields of Alden’s cars.”

“And the windows of our plane!” Joe said angrily.

“Ah yes,” Vilno said. A sinister smile spread across his face. He walked to a table and picked up a long, cylindrical object. “Your plane was among the first objects on which I tried the portable version of the hypersonic generator.”

“Then it was you, and not Barto, who stole Mr. Alden’s experimental car,” Frank remarked.

“Precisely,” Vilno replied.

At that moment Barto began to roar with laughter. “They still don’t know,” he told his brother, “that it was you who was working at the plant all the time, posing as me!”

“But how could you carry on the deception?” Joe sputtered. “You’re not a sheet-metal worker.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Vilno shot back. “My brother and I were both trained in sheet-metal work as youths. But I never claimed it as one of my skills. My ambition was to become a scientist.”

“Why are we standing around here talking?” Dodson said impatiently. “These snoopers might have told the police they were coming here!”

“Then where are they?” Vilno countered. “You worry too much.”

“I don’t care what you say!” Dodson retorted. “I ... ”

“Shut up!” Barto broke in. “We should’ve let you stay in jail for stealing Alden’s race horse. Why did you do it? Aren’t we paying you enough?”

“And your stupidity didn’t end with the horse theft,” Vilno added with a touch of irritation. “You made the mistake of telephoning me at my apartment from Haversville Police Headquarters. Idiotl I knew the Hardys were bound to check the number.”

Dodson grimaced but said, “You’re not so smart. You started a fire in the experimental lab.”

Frank broke in. “Vilno, you say you were posing as your brother all the time. Yet it was Barto’s fingerprints I found on the doorknob of your apartment the day I followed you home from the plant.”

“Quite simple,” Vilno answered proudly. “Barto and I were dressed exactly alike and switched places in the lobby. It was he you saw enter the apartment.”

“But how did you know you were going to be followed that day?” Joe asked quickly.

“Your taking summer jobs at the plant didn’t fool us,” Barto put in. “We knew you were probably investigating the Alden case. Vilno guessed that he would be a suspect, and that you would undoubtedly shadow him. So, each day, we wore similar clothes in the event we had to switch places. The plan paid off. You followed the wrong one on the street in Clayton. Vilno pretended a friend was a bum and shoved him away.”

“We’ve told them enough,” Vilno growled. “Put them in the storage room with the others.”

Dodson and two men marched Frank and Joe out of the laboratory and down a narrow passageway. They came to a stop in front of a heavy metal door. Dodson pulled it open.

“Inside!” he ordered.

The boys entered a small, windowless room made of stone. Before the door was closed, they saw their father, Alden, and Roger.

“Dad!” Joe exclaimed.

“I see you two also had some bad luck,” the detective said remorsefully.

The metal door clanged shut and the Hardys and their companions were in total darkness.

“We were surprised to learn that you and Mr. Alden had been captured, Dad,” Frank remarked.

“I walked into Vilno’s sonic trap,” Mr. Hardy explained.

“How did you find the gang’s hideout?” Joe asked.

“After you left Mr. Alden’s office, I went to Clayton Police Station in Mr. Alden’s car to tell them about the situation, and to arrange for help in case we needed it. I planned to return to the plant in time for Vilno’s telephone call. When I was driving back, I saw Mr. Alden go by me from the opposite direction in a truck.”

“Sorry about that.” The executive sighed. “This is how it happened, boys. Vilno called me again shortly after your father left. He told me he’d been watching the plant and saw Mr. Hardy drive off. Vilno was worried he was going to the police and demanded I deliver the experimental motor to him immediately. For Roger’s sake, I had no choice.”

“What happened then?” Frank asked.

“Vilno ordered me to bring the motor to the Bryant crossroads north of Clayton,” Mr. Alden replied. “There, two of his men jumped into the truck with me and told me to drive on. We came here to the mansion.”

“I followed the truck,” Mr. Hardy interjected. “Too bad I didn’t have my own car, or I would have contacted you boys by radio. And unfortunately I couldn’t stop to use a telephone.”

“You people wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me,” Roger muttered.

Frank began to grope around their enclosure, hoping for a way of escape. His father said, “The walls are solid, and you couldn’t budge that metal door with a bulldozer.”

“The room is completely sealed,” Mr. Alden added, “except for an air vent. Thank goodness for that.”

“Air vent,” Frank repeated, looking for it.

“It’s near the ceiling,” Mr. Hardy said. “But if you’re thinking of an escape route, it’s too small for any of us to crawl through.”

“Let me try,” Joe urged. “I’ve managed to squeeze through some pretty small spaces before.”

Mr. Hardy guided his sons to the rear wall of the room. “The vent should be directly above this spot.”

Frank hoisted his brother onto his shoulders. Joe ran one hand along the upper portion of the wall. “I’ve found it! The vent is covered with a metal grating.” There was a momentary pause. “I think I can pull it loose.”

Joe tugged the grating hard. Finally it broke free of the wall. “The opening is small, but I’m sure I can manage to get through. Boost me up higher.”

Frank grabbed his brother’s feet with both hands and shoved him upward. An instant later Joe was gone.

“Be careful, son,” Mr. Hardy called.

But Joe was not free yet. He was in an air duct. His arms stretched out in front of him, Joe forced his way through the narrow passageway. Minutes seemed like hours. Finally he was elated to find that the vent led directly outside the mansion.

Another grating, however, barred his way. He grasped the bars with both hands and shoved with all his strength. The grating loosened and dropped outside to the ground.

After climbing out of the vent, Joe scanned his surroundings. Several yards away he saw Vilno and his henchmen preparing to depart in Alden’s truck.

Stealthily, the young detective stalked toward the front door of the mansion. Luckily it was unlocked. He raced inside and ran down to the storage room to free his companions.

“Quick! Vilno and his men are getting ready to leave!”

The three Hardys and their friends rushed outside the mansion. They were crestfallen to see that the truck had already pulled away.

“We’ll never catch them!” Frank declared.

“Look!” Joe yelled. “What’s that glow?”

His companions were startled to see a bright ball of light approaching the truck head-on. Just as a collision seemed imminent, the vehicle veered off the lane. This was followed by a loud crunching sound.

“What’s that?” Alden shouted.

They detected a roar as the glow grew closer. Then it suddenly vanished. Seconds later Chet Morton coasted out of the darkness on his jet-propelled bicycle.

“Hi, fellows! Am I glad to see you!”

“Chet! What are you doing here?” Frank exclaimed.

“I began to worry when I didn’t hear from you,” the chubby youth explained. “So did your mother and aunt. I decided to see what was going on. My car ran out of gas about a mile from here, so I came the rest of the way on my jet bike.” His eyes widened. “By the way, I almost ran into a truck! What happened to it?”

The Hardys hurried to the spot where they had seen the vehicle veer off the lane. They found it tightly wedged between two stout trees. Vilno and his pals were desperately trying to open the doors but without success.

Just then a State Police car arrived on the scene. One of the troopers got out. “Did any of you see a wild kid on a bicycle?” he questioned. “We think it turned in here. Looked as if it was on fire.”

“I’m the one,” Chet admitted sheepishly.

“What were you trying to do?” the officer demanded. “You went by us as if you’d been shot out of a cannon.” His attention was attracted by the disabled truck. “What happened here? Accident?”

Mr. Hardy stepped forward. “Let me explain,” he said.

After hearing the story, the officer radioed for additional men, then the troopers took Vilno and his henchmen into custody.

“We’d have escaped if it hadn’t been for that crazy friend of yours and his bicycle,” the gang leader growled.

“That’s your hard luck!” Joe told him.

Mr. Hardy said, “We know that specifications of Mr. Alden’s motor were leaking out of the plant. How did you manage it?”

Vilno’s egotism caused him to forget his predicament for a moment. “Easy! Alden’s machinists worked from plans recorded on film slides. I just roamed around the plant and photographed the projected pictures with a spy camera in my wrist watch. Other components I committed to memory and put them down on paper later.”

Soon more troopers arrived. The prisoners were herded into patrol cars. The case of The Sinister Signpost was over. Frank and Joe always regretted such a moment. They were not restless for long, however, because the mystery of A Figure in Hiding soon came their way.

Before departing, one of the officers walked up to Chet. “I should give you a ticket for speeding,” he announced, winking at the Hardys.

“I—I wish you wouldn’t,” Chet stammered, “It won’t happen again.”

“Well, under the circumstances, I think I can overlook it this time.” The trooper sighed, trying not to grin. “Anyway, I wouldn’t know how to describe your jet-propelled bike to the judge,”

“We warned you about that invention of yours,” Joe whispered, nudging his chum, “Lucky for us you didn’t listen!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Blind Lead

CHAPTER II - Trouble on the Wire

CHAPTER III - The Gatepost Eye

CHAPTER IV - Muscle Man

CHAPTER V - The River Spy

CHAPTER VI - Oriental Curse

CHAPTER VII - Beach Battle

CHAPTER VIII - DZ7—

CHAPTER IX - A Cruise in the Sea Spook

CHAPTER X - Dangerous Dobermans

CHAPTER XI - A Midnight Deal

CHAPTER XII - Doom Ride!

CHAPTER XIII - Airport Vigil

CHAPTER XIV - Sinister Flower Gift

CHAPTER XV - The Brass Crescent

CHAPTER XVI - The Walking Mummy

CHAPTER XVII - Secret Signals

CHAPTER XVIII - News of a Racket

CHAPTER XIX - The Figure at the Window

CHAPTER XX - Mystery Madhouse

A FIGURE IN HIDING

A blind peddler’s warning and a weird glass eye plunge Frank and Joe Hardy into one of the most bafiling ’cases they have ever tackled.

The young detectives’ investigation takes them to a walled estate guarded by savage dogs, where a wealthy businessman is hiding out in fear of his life. Later, a midnight telephone tip leads to a strange encounter on a lonesome hillside-and a hair-raising escape from death at the bottom of Barmet Bay.

The theft of a valuable Oriental idol called the Jeweled Siva, a daringly designed hydrofoil speedboat the Sea Spook, the strange disappearance at sea of a prime suspect, and a walking mummy all figure excitingly in this complex case.

In a climax that will hold the reader spellbound with suspense, Frank and Joe find themselves trapped in a sinister house of mystery from which there seems to be no escape!

“Signals are coming over this glass eye!”

Copyright © 1993, 1965, 1987 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07630-9

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Blind Lead

EXCITED fans were still milling about the Bayport High athletic field as the Hardy boys came out of the dressing room after their team’s post-season win over the Alumni All-Stars.

“Great pitching, Frank!” a. schoolmate yelled. “You really bore down in the clutches!”

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy grinned and waved. “Don’t think that double of Joe’s with the bases loaded didn’t help!”

As the boys reached the street, a blind peddler approached them. He was wearing dark glasses and tapping a white cane. “Buy a pencil, please?” he mumbled.

Joe Hardy, blond and a year younger than his brother, fished in his pocket for a coin and dropped it into the man’s tin cup.

“Thank you, sir!” The peddler pressed a pencil and a small white card into Joe’s hand as the boys hurried past him toward their red convertible, parked several yards up the street.

Joe glanced at the card as they were climbing into the car. “Hey! What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“Take a look. The blind man gave it to me.”

Frank’s joking smile changed to a bewildered frown as he studied the card. It bore the picture of a human eye and a printed plea for better eye care from a national health society.

The picture had pencil marks over it. The pupil had been changed to a catlike oval shape with zigzag spark lines radiating from it. Some of the words in the printed heading had been crossed out:

WATCH OUT

FOR THE FIRST SIGNS OF

BAD EYESIGHT!

Frank turned the card over. Scribbled in pencil on the blank side was the notation: Tell FH!

“‘FH’ must mean Dad!” Frank exclaimed.

Fenton Hardy, the boys’ father, had been an ace detective on the New York City police force before he retired to the coastal town of Bayport and became a famous private investigator.

“But what about those crossed-out words?” Joe queried. “This way, it reads ‘Watch out for bad eye!’ ”

“Let’s try to find that blind man!” Frank suggested.

The boys dashed back down the street, but the peddler was already lost to view among the throng outside the field. Frank and Joe circled the block without catching sight of him.

“I’ll bet he’s one of Dad’s underworld informers,” Frank stated. “He didn’t want to be seen talking to us, so he got lost in a hurry.”

“That’s probably the answer,” Joe agreed as the boys headed back to their parked car. “But if the peddler was so afraid of being spotted, why didn’t he phone his message?”

“Maybe he tried and got no answer, so he tracked us down. Let’s go home and see if Dad’s back from his trip yet.”

Frank and Joe hopped into their car and Frank drove off.

Two blocks farther on, as they stopped for the traffic light, a truck owned by the Prito Construction Company pulled up alongside. Tony Prito, a lanky, black-haired school chum, was at the wheel.

“How’d the game come out?” he called.

“Frank handcuffed ’em! Three-nothing shut-out!” Joe waved his clasped hands in a victory sign.

“Nice going! Wish I could’ve seen it!” As Tony shifted gears to start up again, he added, “If you fellows want to see something pretty, take a spin out on the bay. Bill Braxton has his Sea Spook on a shakedown run.”

“Hey! That’d be worth watching,” Joe said.

Frank toed the accelerator. “Maybe we can catch it if we hurry.”

The Sea Spook, a new, rakish hydrofoil craft, was the talk of Barmet Bay. Bill Braxton, a young mechanic and stock-car racing driver, had designed and built it in his spare time.

A few minutes later the convertible turned up the driveway of the Hardys’ pleasant, tree-shaded house. Frank and Joe leaped out and bounded up the front steps. The door was locked. Frank quickly opened it with his key.

“Anyone home?” he called. His voice echoed emptily through the house.

“I guess Mother and Aunt Gertrude aren’t back from that bazaar yet,” Joe said. “We can leave a note for Dad.”

He hurried to the hallway telephone stand and began jotting a message on the memo pad.

“Tell him we’ll be out in our boat so he can call us,” Frank suggested. “Then we can give him the details over our radio.” The Hardy boys’ motorboat, the Sleuth, was equipped with a powerful marine transceiver.

After pausing in the kitchen for glasses of milk and a handful of cookies, the brothers locked up and headed in the convertible for the Bayport waterfront. As they rolled along through the hot June sunshine, Joe flicked on the dashboard radio. A newscaster was saying:

“A daring robbery in New York City last night netted thieves a small Oriental idol called the Jeweled Siva, valued at over twenty thousand dollars. The owner of the art curio shop from which it was taken said the ivory figure stood only six inches high but was studded with valuable gems.”

“Wow! That’s some haul!” Joe murmured. “I wouldn’t mind working on a case like that.”

The two boys, who had inherited their father’s zest for crime puzzles, had already solved a number of baffling mysteries starting with The Tower Treasure. On one of their most challenging cases, The Sinister Signpost, they had restored a stolen race horse to its owner.

When they reached the waterfront, Frank pulled into a parking lot and the brothers strode off toward the Hardy boathouse. In a few minutes the Sleuth was knifing through the harbor toward open water.

Joe grinned in delight at the feel of their boat leaping along through the waves. Frank was scanning the blue expanse of the bay through binoculars. Presently he picked out a fast-moving hull that was throwing up plumes of spray.

“There’s the Sea Spook! Man, look at that baby go!”

Joe gunned the Sleuth. Soon it was close enough for them to view the Sea Spook clearly without the glasses. The hydrofoil was streaking over the surface at a speed that made the boys’ eyes pop.

“She must be doing fifty knots!” Joe gasped.

The Spook’s hull stood well above the waves, on struts connected to her curved foils. They were planing along through the water.

“Watch your course!” Frank cautioned Joe.

The Sea Spook began to execute a graceful figure eight, so tightly and smoothly that the Hardys could scarcely believe their eyes. It rounded the final turn, then headed seaward again.

Joe opened the throttle wide, trying not to lose the other craft, but it sped off. “It’s hopeless!” he groaned.

A moment later the hydrofoil reversed course again. Apparently its pilot was going to do another figure eight. This time, the execution was not nearly so smooth.

Frank snatched up the binoculars. “That’s not Braxton at the wheel,” he reported. “He turned it over to another fellow.”

The new pilot was sweeping a much wider curve that brought the Sea Spook almost abeam of the Sleuth. He closed the top half of the eight so erratically that Joe was taken by surprise.

“Look out!” Frank yelled. “We’re on a collision course!”

The hydrofoil was bearing down on the Sleuth at blinding speed. Joe glimpsed two frantic faces at the cabin window. Frank could see Braxton pushing his shipmate aside to take over as Joe swerved the Sleuth hard a-starboard.

In the nick of time, the Sea Spook banked to port. But the turn threw up a sheet of spray that hit the Sleuth like the slap of a giant hand. Already heeling, the motorboat turned turtle and both boys were thrown into the water!

Frank and Joe swam to the surface, gasping and blinking. The hydrofoil’s hull was slowly settling into the waves as Braxton reduced speed. He brought the craft around and halted it near the Hardys. Then he dashed out of the cabin to the open afterdeck, his passenger at his heels, to haul Frank and Joe aboard. In a few moments they stood on deck.

“Are you okay?” Bill Braxton asked anxiously. He was a tanned, muscular young man, wearing a seaman’s jersey and faded dungarees.

“Sure. No harm done,” said Frank. “Just soaked to the skin. Good thing it’s such a hot day.”

Braxton started to apologize for the accident, but the man with him interrupted. “What in blazes is wrong with you punks?” he stormed at the Hardys. “Haven’t you got brains enough to keep out of the way? This thing isn’t a paddle boat, you know!”

Joe’s quick temper flared. “A paddle boat’s all you should handle, mister!” he retorted.

“Relax, Joe,” Frank cut in. “We probably did come closer than we should have. Got too interested in watching, I guess.”

“Let’s all forget it,” Braxton said hastily. “We’d better do something about your boat.”

He maneuvered the Sea Spook close to the Sleuth and helped the brothers right it. But the motorboat had shipped too much water to be used again immediately, so a towline was attached and the hydrofoil started back to port.

“By the way,” Braxton told his passenger, “these two boys are Frank and Joe Hardy. Their dad’s a famous detective. Maybe you’ve heard of him.... Boys, meet Mr. Lambert.”

The man gave a surly grunt. Frank and Joe nodded coolly. Lambert was about forty, with a gaunt, hard-looking face that seemed strangely pale. His long, thin nose was slightly crooked, as if it had once been broken.

On the way into the harbor, the Hardys asked Bill numerous questions about his interesting craft. He explained that as it got up speed, the water exerted an upward lift on the foils, just like air on the wings of a plane.

“Is this an ocean-going job?” Joe asked.

“Sure, except that it jolts a bit’ in heavy seas,” Braxton replied. “Most designers use submerged foils for that type of service, but I’ve worked out ones that are pretty smooth.”

He added that Mr. Lambert was interested in buying the craft and that today’s run had been a demonstration.

After they had pulled alongside the dock, Lambert said curtly, “I’ll get in touch with you later, Braxton.” He picked up his sports jacket which had been flung on one of the seats, put it on, and scrambled up the dock ladder.

“Nice guy,” Joe muttered. “Not even a thank-you for the ride!”

Bill grinned wryly. “He’s a possible customer, so I had to be nice to him. Actually, it was his fault your boat got swamped. He froze at the wheel.”

“I know—I saw you take over,” Frank said. As he spoke, Frank saw something glittering on the deck and stooped down to pick it up. “Say, is Lambert blind in one eye?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Someone dropped a glass eye. It isn’t yours, is it?”

Braxton shook his head. “Good grief, no. That thing doesn’t even look wearable!”

He stared at the object in puzzlement. So did Joe. It seemed larger than a glass eye should be and had a queer-shaped pupil with reddish vein lines radiating outward.

Suddenly Joe gasped. “Jumpin’ catfish, Frank!” he exclaimed. “That looks just like the eye on the blind man’s card!”

CHAPTER II

Trouble on the Wire

FRANK was startled. “You’re right, Joe. The eye has the same oval-shaped pupil.”

“And these veins are just like the spark lines penciled on the picture.”

Braxton was mystified. “I suppose you two know what you’re talking about,” he said dryly, “but it makes no sense to me.”

The Hardys grinned. Frank explained briefly about the blind peddler’s card. Then he asked if the young mechanic knew Lambert’s address.

“No, and he doesn’t live in Bayport,” Braxton replied. “He came here just to see the Spook. I believe he’s staying at the Bayview Motel.”

“Joe and I will take the glass eye there and see if it’s his,” Frank said.

The Hardys changed into swimming trunks, which they got from their car, then wrung out their drenched clothing and spread it to dry while they bailed out the Sleuth. By the time they were ready to start for home, the boys looked fairly presentable again.

“Good thing this wash-and-wear stuff dries so fast,” Joe said, “or we’d get a lecture from Aunt Gertrude.”

Frank chuckled. “She’d have us turning blue with pneumonia, and then bawl us out for going near such a crazy contraption as the Sea Spook!”

The boys parked in the Hardy driveway and hurried into the house. Their pretty mother and tall, angular Aunt Gertrude Hardy had returned. Mrs. Hardy informed her sons that their father had sent a telegram saying he would not return home until the next morning.

Aunt Gertrude, though strict, was very fond of her nephews and always interested in the mysteries they were solving. “What’s that card you boys left on the telephone stand?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing very important,” Frank said, his eyes twinkling. “It’s just something a peddler gave us for Dad.”

“Humph.” Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips.

The boys smothered grins, knowing she had already gleaned as much from Joe’s note and was curious to know more.

Mrs. Hardy laughed. “Now stop teasing, you two,” she admonished.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Laura,” her sister-in-law said airily, and started for the kitchen.

Frank and Joe followed her and related the whole episode of the blind peddler.

“The fellow probably spotted a one-eyed murderer in town,” Miss Hardy said. “In fact, the killer may be after him and he wants your father to rescue him.”

The boys became serious. “Honestly, Aunty,” Joe said soothingly, “we did pick up a clue. It’s sort of gruesome.”

Curiosity overcame Miss Hardy. “I don’t scare easily. Show it to me.”

Joe took out a folded clean handkerchief and unwrapped it, disclosing the glass eye. Aunt Gertrude gasped, but quickly demanded, “Where did you get that?”

When Frank explained, Aunt Gertrude wagged her head. “This is a sinister omen. You two be careful.”

After supper the boys drove to the Bayview Motel. The manager, a fat, balding man, shook his head when they inquired for Lambert.

“Sorry, boys. You just missed him. He checked out not more’n fifteen minutes ago.” The manager frowned. “Certainly looked upset.”

“How come?” Joe asked.

“Search me. When he stopped in after dinner and told me to get his bill ready, he looked calm enough. Then about half an hour later when he came to check out, he was red in the face and acted sore at something. Kind o’ worried, too.”

“Maybe he got a disturbing phone call,” Frank suggested.

Again the manager shook his head. “No—if he’d had a call, I’d know it because they all come through this switchboard here.”

Frank explained that he and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, the private investigator, and asked if Lambert had left any forwarding address.

The manager leafed through the card file of registrations. “No. He left that space on his card blank.”

The boys thanked him and walked out. As they drove away, Frank said, “When Lambert went to pack, he may have discovered he’d lost the glass eye. That could be what upset him.”

“Maybe,” Joe agreed. “But so what?”

“He may go back to Braxton’s boathouse to find out if he dropped it on the Sea Spook.”

“Hey, that’s an idea! Step on it, Frank!”

“There’s an easier way.” Frank swung off the road toward a hamburger drive-in. “I’ll give Bill a ring. He’s probably still tinkering.”

Setting the brake, Frank jumped out of the convertible and hurried to the small building. He thumbed through a directory, then dialed the number on a pay telephone. Braxton answered.

“Bill, this is Frank Hardy. Has that fellow Lambert been back to your boathouse asking for the glass eye?”

“Lambert? No. I haven’t seen him. Why?”

Frank hastily explained.

“You want me to stall him if he shows up, eh?” Bill said. “Okay, Frank, I’ll—”

Braxton’s voice broke off with a groan. There was a crashing noise as if the phone had fallen from his hand. A moment later came a click. Frank jiggled the hook frantically, but the line was dead.

He dashed out to the convertible and told Joe how the call had been cut short.

“What do you suppose happened?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know—but someone hung up and I doubt if it was Bill!”

Frank sent the car roaring out of the lot. As it sped back into Bayport, the summer evening traffic seemed even worse than usual. Three red lights in a row left both boys fuming with impatience at the delay.

When they finally reached the waterfront, Frank parked and they ran to Braxton’s boathouse. The shedlike structure extended over the water on piles. The dockside door was unlocked. The brothers burst in and gasped when they saw the young mechanic sprawled face down near his desk. Frank reached him first.

“Is he alive?” Joe murmured fearfully.

“Still breathing.” Frank fingered Braxton’s scalp. “There’s a big lump on the back of his head. Someone must have sneaked up and conked him while he was talking to me.”

The Hardys noticed signs of a hasty search. Desk drawers had been yanked open and ransacked. Blueprints lay scattered about.

“Bill’s attacker wanted something pretty bad,” Joe remarked. “I wonder if it was that glass eye.”

Using a handkerchief so as not to smudge any fingerprints, Joe phoned the police and asked for an ambulance. Meanwhile, Frank was working on Braxton and soon revived him.

“You didn’t see who hit you?” Frank asked.

Bill shook his head painfully. “It became stuffy in here so I opened the door. I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear the guy come in.”

Beyond the working platform, the Sea Spook lay rocking gently in its berth, enclosed by a wooden walkway on each side. The Hardys went aboard and saw that Braxton’s storage lockers in the cabin also had been rifled.

A police car and an ambulance soon arrived. The intern insisted that Braxton be taken to the hospital for X-rays and observation. The police then took charge, and the boys went home. No report came during the evening and finally the brothers went to bed.

Next morning when Frank and Joe came down to breakfast, they found their father already at the table. Fenton Hardy, a tall, big-shouldered man, greeted his sons with a grin.

“When did you get back, Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Flew in about an hour ago. I hear you fellows had some excitement yesterday.”

“It was pretty grim,” Frank said. He and Joe gave their father all the facts.

Mr. Hardy had the blind man’s card on the table near his plate. “This must have come from Zatta,” he remarked. “Henry Zatta.”

“One of your regular informers?” Frank asked.

“Yes, he picks up a good many underworld tips for me. In fact, he’s an ex-con himself.”

“He must have heard our names and spotted us as your sons,” Joe said. “That is, if his blindness is phony.”

Fenton Hardy nodded. “It’s partly an act, although he is missing one eye.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances, then Joe excused himself to hurry out to the boys’ laboratory over the garage. He brought the glass eye back to the table. “Could this be Zatta’s?”

Mr. Hardy studied it, then shook his head. “Too large and grotesque to be wearable.... Hmm. This eye business may have something to do with the Goggler gang. They wear spectacles with bulging eyes on all their—Say, wait! Did you say Lambert had a crooked nose?”

“That’s right,” Frank answered. “Why?”

“Sounds like a hoodlum named Spotty Lemuel.”

As soon as the Hardys finished breakfast, the boys accompanied their father to his study. He leafed quickly through his criminal file and soon produced a photograph.

“That’s Lambert, all right!” Joe exclaimed. “No wonder he’s called Spotty. His face here is covered with freckles.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “He probably had them bleached off by a dermatologist.” The detective suggested that the boys try to locate Zatta, since he himself would be busy on a new case. Joe asked hopefully if this had anything to do with the theft of the Jeweled Siva. Mr. Hardy said No, saying he had been engaged to run down a swindler named Pampton.

Soon afterward, as Mr. Hardy left the house, Frank called the hospital and learned that Bill Braxton was better. A moment later the doorbell rang loud and long.

“Sufferin’ cats! Who’s that?” said Joe.

The boys went to answer it. A startling sight greeted them. Their visitor was a thin old man with a hearing aid. Bare from the waist up, he wore Bermuda shorts and a floppy straw hat and carried a Malacca cane.

“Out of my way, boy!” Nudging Frank aside with his cane, he rushed in and rasped, “Quick! Shut the door! They’re after me!”

Frank looked out in astonishment. “There’s no one after you-just a station wagon cruising along the street.”

With a moan, the old man fainted.

CHAPTER III

The Gatepost Eye

FRANK and Joe carried the old man to the living-room sofa.

“Who in the world is he?” said Joe.

“And who was after him?” Frank added.

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came from the kitchen. Both women gasped in alarm at sight of the old man, who was breathing heavily.

Mrs. Hardy felt his pulse and Aunt Gertrude said, “Get some water.”

As Frank hastily brought a glass, the man began to revive. With one of his bony hands he fumbled in a pocket of his shorts and plucked out a bottle of pills.

“Sh-sh-shake me out t-two, son.”

Frank obeyed and the old man gulped them down. Presently his color returned and he struggled to sit up. Aunt Gertrude attempted to make him comfortable, but the old man yanked the sofa cushion from her hand.

“Leave me alone, woman!” He added in a mutter, “Confounded females! Just like my daughter! I wouldn’t be in this fix if she hadn’t shanghaied me to that blasted farm!”

“You’re very independent,” Laura Hardy said with a smile.

The elderly man glared at her. Then, as she continued to smile, a twinkle came into his watery blue eyes and he cackled, “Yes, I am. But I can see that doesn’t impress you.”

Glancing out the window, Frank saw the station wagon cruise past again. The gold lettering on it read: DOC GRAFTON’S HEALTH FARM. He remembered hearing of the place—a luxurious resort overlooking Barmet Bay where older men of means came to regain their health.

“Say, is that where you’re staying?” Frank asked. “Doc Grafton’s Health Farm?”

The man’s face darkened with wrath. “Doc Grafton’s Vegetable Farm they should call it—or loony bin! Figured I’d go loony myself if I had to sit around there listening to my arteries harden. So I sneaked off.”

The man snorted and fished a large cigar from his pocket. He unwrapped it, bit off the tip, and lit the cigar with a gold lighter.

“You say you sneaked away from the health farm?” Joe asked.

“Uh-huh. Had my chauffeur meet me outside. Then some fellow down at the harbor told me to get in touch with the Hardy boys.... You two are the Hardy boys, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.” Frank introduced everyone, and the old man explained that he was Zachary Mudge, a financier and businessman from New York.

“My daughter and her husband claimed I needed a rest,” Mudge went on, “so like a fool I let ’em ship me down here to this vegetable farm. Claimed I’d have a heart attack if I didn’t stay away from that stock-market ticker tape.” The elderly man’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “Which reminds me! Have to call my broker! You, boy”—waving to Joe—“help me to the phone!”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude retired to the kitchen while Frank and Joe waited for their eccentric visitor to make the call. Finally he returned to the living room, contentedly trailing clouds of smoke.

As he sat down, Aunt Gertrude marched into the hall. She flung open the front door and stood vigorously fanning the hall air. Mudge grinned merrily and took another deep puff.

“You—er—were saying that you wanted to get in touch with us, sir,” Frank reminded him.

“Oh, yes. About that—what did you call it?—hydrofoil.” Mr. Mudge explained that he had watched the Sea Spook through binoculars the day before, and had heard several people talking about it. “Looks to me like the coming thing for water travel—maybe a good investment opportunity.”

He explained that he had had his chauffeur drive him to the waterfront to talk to the craft’s designer. But someone near the boathouse had told him about the assault on Braxton and advised him to see the Hardys. Mudge said he had looked up their address and told his chauffeur to drive him to their house.

“Then I noticed that health-farm station wagon on our tail—somebody at the place must have spotted me leaving. I slipped out of the car when we stopped for a traffic light and hoofed it the rest of the way.” The elderly tycoon grimaced. “Guess I overdid things a bit.”

“Bill Braxton is still in the hospital,” Frank said. “We called just before you got here. But he should be out in a day or two. By the way, another man is interested in the Sea Spook.”

“What’s that?” Mudge stiffened, his eyes glinting suspiciously. “Who is he?”

“He gave his name as Lambert,” Frank said.

Mudge scowled. “Never heard of him.”

At this point, a limousine pulled up in front of the house. Zachary Mudge explained that he had ordered his chauffeur to pick him up here.

“Appreciate your help, boys.”

They grinned. “Glad to give it.”

As soon as Mudge had gone, Frank and Joe drove off in search of Henry Zatta. They cruised back and forth through Bayport without catching sight of the pseudo-blind man.

“Dad did say he works in other towns along the coast,” Frank reminded Joe.

“Right. Let’s try Ocean City next.”

A couple of miles outside the town limits of Bayport they sighted a pudgy figure in a heavy sweat suit jogging alongside the road.

Joe gasped. “Don’t tell me that’s Chet Morton!”

“Working out off-season, too!” Frank chuckled. “Boy, now we’ve seen everything!”

Although Chet made a good lineman on the Bayport eleven, he was not noted for his physical activity. Chet’s chief hobbies were food and relaxation whenever he had a chance.

The Hardys pulled up and their chum stopped to greet them. His moonface was lobster red and dripping with perspiration. Chet pulled out one end of the thick towel draped around his neck and mopped his forehead.

“You out of your mind?” Joe teased. “I thought you’d engaged a hammock for the summer.”

“I’m getting in shape,” Chet retorted. Plopping himself down on a boulder, he plucked out a candy bar, peeled off the wrapper, and began munching it hungrily.

“That chocolate bar will put you in shape,” Frank said with a grin, “like a lead balloon.”

“Aw, cut it out! I have to have some quick energy, don’t I?”

“Listen, what’s this roadwork all about?” Joe asked. “You’re not doing it for fun.”

Chet looked smug. “Just wait and see, wise guys. Certain people needed a powerfully built young fellow for an important athletic post, and I was their natural choice.”

“Choice for what?” Joe gibed. “A before-and-after model for one of those diet ads?”

“Okay, pal. Have your laugh.” Chet got up, and this time set off at a brisker pace.

The Hardys grinned and drove on. They spent the day searching Ocean City and a number of other places but found no trace of Zatta. Finally they returned to Bayport for a late supper.

Just as they were leaving the table, the telephone rang and Joe answered. The caller was the manager of the Bayview Motel.

“That fellow Lambert just came back here and left a forwarding address for mail,” the man said. “I thought you boys might want to know.”

“We sure do!” Joe said eagerly. He copied down the address and was surprised when it turned out to be a street on the outskirts of town. “Thanks a lot.”

Joe showed the address to Frank. “Let’s go see what Lambert—or Spotty Lemuel—has to say.”

“Okay, but we’d better pass this information along to Chief Collig in case he wants to follow up on what happened to Bill Braxton.”

Police Chief Collig was an old friend of the Hardys. After leaving a message for him with the police operator, Frank and Joe hurriedly started off in their convertible.

The address was on Malabar Road, a quiet street of old houses which were set well back from the pavement and screened by big trees and heavy shrubbery. Dusk had fallen as the boys cruised along slowly, aiming their spotlight at the house numbers. The one they sought—25—was visible in brass letters on a tall gate.

“Look!” Joe gasped, and Frank pulled over.

The spotlight glow revealed a large eye chalked on the gatepost!

In seconds the boys were out of the car. To their surprise, a FOR SALE sign was posted on the fence. The house looked dark.

“Apparently Lemuel hasn’t moved in yet,” Joe murmured. “But what about that eye?”

As the brothers walked to the gate, a figure moved on the front porch and came down the drive. He was a boy about sixteen—a wiry, cocky-looking youth in tight jeans and motorcycle boots.

He leaned on the gate and stared up and down at the Hardys with a mocking grin, his jaws chomping on a wad of gum. “Know what that means?” he said, pointing to the chalked eye.

“Maybe,” Frank said evenly. “Who are you?”

“The checker, stupid. Who d’you suppose?” the boy retorted. “Look, are you guys here for the meeting or just snooping around?”

Joe glanced at his brother. “We’re here for the meeting.”

“Then let’s see your pass.” As the brothers hesitated, the youth pointed to the eye again and rasped, “Come on, don’t try to con me. Have you got one or haven’t you?”

On a sudden hunch, Frank took the glass eye from his pocket. The boy nodded. “Okay. Go on around to the back and knock twice.”

As he spoke, he opened the gate. The Hardys entered and walked up the drive.

“Looks as though we made the grade!” Joe whispered triumphantly.

The boys’ hearts were thumping as they went to the rear of the house. Here the weed-grown yard was shrouded in gloom. Joe was about to knock on the back door when Frank stopped him.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know exactly, Joe, but there’s something about this setup I don’t—”

He broke off with a cry of alarm as two figures sprang at them out of the darkness! Both boys were seized and rough hands were clamped over their mouths!

CHAPTER IV

Muscle Man

THE brothers struggled wildly to break loose from the steely hands that clutched them and dug into their faces. As the two boys twisted around, they saw that the thugs were wearing nylon stocking masks drawn tightly over their heads.

Joe managed to brace himself long enough to deliver a stinging kick on the left shin of his foe. The man yelped with pain and loosened his hold. Joe promptly jerked his face free and let out a volley of piercing yells.

“Help! ... Help! ... Help!”

Frank’s attacker was a thickset, barrel-chested brute. The man was scrabbling at Frank’s pockets as if groping for the glass eye, which gave Frank an opportunity to wrench one arm loose. He swung a chopping right hook that caught his assailant on the side of the head.

Furious, the man let go of Frank and dealt him a stunning backhand cuff that left the boy’s right ear ringing. But Frank, too, was able to shout for help.

The Hardys’ cries seemed to throw their attackers into a frenzy. Joe’s opponent had tried to rip his pockets, but now bent all his efforts on silencing the youth. The other man clutched Frank’s neck in his huge paws and tried to throttle his yells. The brothers fought back like wildcats, kicking, punching, and clawing.

Suddenly a police siren shrilled nearby. Brakes screeched to a halt and footsteps came pounding up the drive. The thugs hurled the boys aside and raced across the yard. Vaulting a back fence, they vanished into the night. Two policemen dashed up to Frank and Joe.

“They went that way!” Frank panted. “A couple of masked men!” The officers plunged in pursuit.

“Hey, Frank! Let’s not forget that kid out front!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys ran around to the front of the house, but the “lookout” had disappeared. By now, neighbors’ doors were opening and heads were popping out of windows along the street. The officers soon came running back.

One said to the Hardys, “Hop in with us and we may be able to nail those hoods before they get too far away.”

Joe went with the driver while the other policeman accompanied Frank in the convertible. On the way, each of the boys gave an account of what had happened and the police driver turned in a radio alarm.

Frank kept in touch with the prowl car via the Hardys’ own two-way radio. The searchers sped up and down streets, crisscrossing the whole surrounding area. But after the officers had stopped to question a number of people, the pursuit was finally given up.

“How did you get to us so fast?” Joe asked the police driver.

“Chief Collig told us to go to 25 Malabar Road and pick up a man calling himself Lambert for questioning,” the driver replied. “Some neighbor must have heard you two yelling, because we got another emergency call on the. way.”

The car returned to the scene of the attack and the policemen entered the house, using a strip of celluloid to open the door lock. The place proved to be empty. Frank and Joe were asked to accompany the two officers to police headquarters and report to the chief.

Collig, a big, grizzled veteran of the Bayport force, listened intently to the boys’ story. “You think this whole caper was arranged by Spotty Lemuel, alias Lambert, to get hold of the glass eye?” he asked.

“Sure looks that way,” Frank said. “Assuming he was the one who conked Bill Braxton, he must have heard enough of the phone conversation to guess that we had the eye. He also knew we were already looking for him, so he gave that phony address to the motel manager in hopes we’d fall for it.”

Collig nodded. “That figures, all right.” He asked to see the glass eye and studied it for a moment. “Any idea why Spotty’s so eager to get this back?”

“Not yet,” Frank said, “but Dad got a lead that may give us the answer. We’d like to hang on to the eye till we find out for sure.”

“Okay. I’ll have to admit it’s got me stumped.” As the boys walked down the stone steps of headquarters, Frank said, “How about a milk-shake?”

Joe grinned. “You read my mind. I can sure use one!”

They drove several blocks to the Hot Rocket, a favorite eating spot of their high school crowd. A familiar yellow jalopy was parked outside.

“Well, well! Look who’s in there!” Frank said.

The chunky figure of Chet Morton, the jalopy’s owner, was seated in one of the booths. He was poring over a magazine and munching a hamburger.

“Hi, fellows!” he mumbled.

The Hardys gave their order and slid onto the seat across from him. Frank flipped up the cover of Chet’s magazine and saw that it was Muscle Man. A weight lifter with bulging arms and torso decorated the cover.

“Wow! You really are going in for physical culture!” Frank chuckled.

“And he-man food,” Chet said, as the Hardys milkshakes were served. “That stuff you’ve got is for sissies. From now on, I’m sticking to ground beefsteak, milk, raw fruits, and leafy vegetables. No more candy.”

He paused to flex a bicep and compare it to a photograph in the magazine.

“Boy, this is serious!” Joe said. “What’s suddenly made you so hip on body-building?”

“Just for that wisecrack, I’ll tell you,” Chet said proudly. “Meet the new Assistant Supervisor of Physical Training at Doc Grafton’s Health Farm!”

Frank and Joe stared in astonishment. “Assistant Supervisor of Physical Training!” Frank echoed. “Are you kidding?”

“Do I sound like it?” Chet bragged. “The chef there comes to our farm and buys all his vegetables. He told the doc about me and he offered me a job bouncing medicine balls to the guests and helping them work out. I start tomorrow morning.”

Joe burst out laughing. “Now I get it. You mean they hired you as an exercise boy!”

Chet scowled. “Well ... I’ll be helping Doc Grafton train the people who come there, so Assistant Supervisor is what the job amounts to. The doc used to be a real boxing trainer!”

Joe winked at his brother. “Can you picture Chet putting Zachary Mudge through the exercise bit?”

At Chet’s puzzled look, the Hardys told him of their eccentric visitor. They also briefed him on their new mystery, ending with the recent attack on them.

The chubby boy whistled. “Glass eyes! Strong-arm crooks on the loose! Not for me!”

Frank grinned. “We may have to call on your muscles for help!”

“Oh, I’ll be too busy for detective work,” Chet said hastily. Although not eager to get involved in any dangerous situations, he had often joined the brothers in their sleuthing, and was a loyal friend.

“If you start tomorrow morning, Chet, how come you aren’t home and asleep?” Frank asked. “Muscle men need their rest.”

“Aw, I got roped into picking up Iola and Callie after the movie,” Chet explained. “They went to the Bijou to see some creepy love picture.”

The Hardys perked up. Joe liked Chet’s sister, Iola, and her friend Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite date.

“Uh—look, old buddy,” said Joe, “why don’t you stay put and study some more valuable health tips? Frank and I can pick up the girls and bring them back here.”

Chet looked up slyly. “Will you guys treat?”

“What a chiseler!” Frank groaned. “But okay.”

“Then sure—go ahead.”

“What time does the show let out?” Joe asked.

“Ten-fifteen,” said Chet, and signaled the waiter for another hamburger.

Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Twelve minutes. Let’s scram, Joe.”

The Bijou, a small neighborhood theater, closed its box office early and the marquee lights were already out. The Hardys found a parking spot down the street. Then they walked toward the theater.

As they approached it, a weird figure came dashing out the lobby. The man was clutching a tin box under one arm. His head was covered with a stocking mask. Over this was hooked a pair of comic-disguise glasses with bulging eyeballs that glowed in the dark!

“Good grief! Who’s that nut?” Joe gasped.

Almost at the same moment came a scream from somewhere inside the lobby. The boys dashed forward just in time to see the woman cashier rush out of the office, waving her arms hysterically. “Stop him, someone!” she shrieked. “He’s a thief!”

The masked man was already leaping into a car -a sleek, racy-looking blue hardtop. Before the Hardys could reach him, the engine roared and the car shot away from the curb.

“That was one of the Goggler gang!” Frank shouted. “Come on, Joe!”

The boys ran back to their convertible, jumped in, and sped in pursuit. They could see the hardtop’s taillights twinkling in the distance. Luckily the street was almost deserted.

“Radio the police!” Frank said, hunching over the wheel. Joe did so.

The hardtop shot through a red light ahead. Frank had to slam on the brakes as a car turned in front of him. Then he gunned after their quarry. Rounding a corner on screeching wheels, the getaway car sped eastward.

“He’s heading for the Willow River bridge!” Joe exclaimed.

The river gleamed in the distance as the boys entered a wooded park section at the town’s edge. Suddenly there was a deafening bang in front of them.

“A punctured tire!” Joe cried out.

The car ahead lurched and spun out of control, then careened into a ditch!

CHAPTER V

The River Spy

FRANK swung off the road and braked to a screeching halt. Both boys sprang out.

The blue hardtop was lying on its side, the wheels still spinning. Before the Hardys could reach it, the upper door swung open and the holdup man climbed free. But it was clear he was dazed or injured. He took a few staggering steps and toppled face forward.

The boys were at his side in a moment. The man moaned, then lifted his head painfully. The faint moonlight revealed a swarthy, hook-nosed face. Apparently he had jerked off his spectacles and stocking mask while driving.

“Are you hurt?” Frank asked.

“I ... I don’t know.” Wincing, the man struggled to push himself upright.

Frank hastily frisked him. “Grab his arm, Joe, and help me swing him over so I can search his other coat pocket.”

The boys noticed that the man was wearing gloves. As they maneuvered him into a sitting position, he screeched in agony. “Ow! ... My knee!”

“Sorry,” Joe murmured.

The boys propped the stranger as comfortably as they could against a nearby tree. Frank felt in his other pocket and found no weapon. Noticing the youths’ calm, expert manner, the holdup man snarled, “Who are you punks, anyhow?”

“Frank and Joe Hardy, if that makes any difference,” Frank replied evenly. “Our dad’s a private investigator.”

The man’s eyes gleamed as if in recognition.

“I’ll watch him, Joe. Go give the police another call.”

“Right!”

But as Joe turned away, the man plucked at his trouser leg. “No! Wait!” the thief exclaimed desperately. “I’ll make a deal with you! This job didn’t amount to much—the cash box is in the wreck somewhere. But if you guys let me go, I’ll put you onto something big—really big! I’ll tell you who copped the Jeweled Siva!”

“The Jeweled Siva?” Joe paused in surprise.

“We’ll listen, but we’re making no deals,” Frank said. As the holdup man glared at them, Frank jerked his head toward the convertible. “Go ahead and make that call, Joe.”

His brother strode back to their car. The thief was groaning and clutching his knee. Frank glanced up the road to see if any other cars were approaching.

Without warning, one of his feet was yanked off the ground! Frank landed heavily on his back. “Joe! Help!” he yelled.

The thief sprang up and raced toward the bridge.

“Stop him!” Frank scrambled to his feet and both boys sprinted after the fleeing holdup man.

But the fugitive reached the bridge far ahead of them. In one swift movement he hoisted himself to the steel railing and dived headfirst into the water.

The Hardys reached the spot moments later. By now, the moon had clouded over again and the river was shrouded in darkness. Nothing could be heard except the lapping of the water against the bridge piers. The boys were furious at themselves.

“We would have to fall for that hurt knee gag!” Joe stormed.

“I sure fell,” Frank said in disgust.

The police soon arrived and a search was made along both banks, but without success. Then the boys went to headquarters to check over the mug shots, but the thief’s picture was not among them. By the time Frank and Joe got back to the Bijou, the show was long over. Eventually they found Iola and Callie with Chet at the Hot Rocket.

“Joe! Help!” Frank yelled

“Well! At last!” lola, a slender, dark-haired girl, greeted the Hardys with an eager smile. “Instinct tells me you two got involved in that movie holdup!”

“How’d you guess?” asked Joe.

Chet groaned. “I knew it! Send these two on a perfectly innocent errand and they get mixed up with a gang of crooks!”

“Not a gang.” Frank smiled. “Just one—and he got away.”

“Sounds exciting! Tell us about it!” begged Callie, a pretty brown-eyed blonde.

The Hardys related what had happened and apologized for leaving the two girls stranded. “You’re excused.” Iola giggled. “It didn’t take us long to locate my brother!”

“Listen, I should be in bed by now, getting my rest,” Chet complained.

“Okay,” Joe said. “But at least give us time for a hamburger if we’re going to foot the bill.”

When the brothers reached home, their mother and Aunt Gertrude had already retired for the night. But Fenton Hardy was going over some case reports in his study. Frank and Joe told him of their exciting adventures.

“You boys have had a full night,” Mr. Hardy commented. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and added, “It’s odd that a member of the Goggler gang should rob a small movie theater.”

“How come, Dad?” Frank asked.

“That gang has pulled some of the biggest jobs in this part of the country—bank stickups and jewel thefts. A petty crime like this is something new for them.”

“Do you suppose that deal he offered us was on the level—to tell us who stole the Jeweled Siva?” Joe put in.

“Hard to say,” the investigator replied. “It almost sounds as if he’d broken with the gang and was out for vengeance. Incidentally, I’ve been asked to take on that Jeweled Siva case.”

The boys were elated. But their father told them he would be unable to handle the case until he found the swindler, Ace Pampton, whom he had been engaged to track down.

“Pampton’s trail led here to Bayport,” Mr. Hardy went on, “but I found out this evening he hopped a plane for St. Louis, so I’m going there myself on the first flight tomorrow morning. Suppose you boys go to see the owner of the Jeweled Siva and get all the preliminary facts.”

“Do you mean it, Dad?” Joe said eagerly.

“Certainly. That would be a real help. The owner’s an elderly woman named Mrs. Lunberry. She lives at a little place called Brockton up Willow River.”

“Great! We’ll go there on the Sleuth first thing tomorrow,” Frank promised.

By eight o’clock the next morning the Hardy boys were steering their motorboat out of Barmet Bay into the mouth of the river. As they neared the bridge, the brothers saw a tow truck hoisting the movie thief’s getaway car out of the ditch.

“Let’s see if there’s any news of the holdup man,” Frank proposed.

Joe swerved toward shore and they moored the boat to the bridge abutment. A police detective named Reilly was supervising the hoisting operation.

“Find any clues?” Frank asked.

Reilly shook his head. “The cash box was in the car with the money spilled out, but I guess you fellows know that. No fingerprints.”

“We noticed the thief wore gloves,” Joe remarked.

“His gun must’ve been lying on the seat—it fell out the window when he tipped over,” the detective added. “It was under the car.”

“Lucky break for us, I guess,” Frank said. “Have you traced the car yet?”

“It was stolen from a new-car storage lot. The company is Izmir Motors over in Ocean City.” Reilly gestured toward the tow truck which bore the name of the same firm. “The license plates were stolen too.”

The car was a brand-new Torpedo V-8.

“Too bad it had to get banged up that way,” Joe said, admiring its sleek lines.

As the Sleuth proceeded upriver, Frank noticed a shiny green sedan parked on the road overlooking the shore. Farther on, he saw it cruising along slowly. As their boat passed a grove of trees, he was surprised to find it parked again.

“That car must be tailing us!” he exclaimed.

As Joe gunned the Sleuth toward shore for a closer look, Frank snatched up binoculars. The car sped off and he had time to spot only the first part of the license number—DZ 7.

“That’s odd,” he muttered, lowering the glasses.

“What’s odd?”

“Joe, it may be just a coincidence, but that job was a brand-new Torpedo V-8!”

CHAPTER VI

Oriental Curse

“Dm you get a look at the driver?” Joe asked.

Frank shook his head ruefully. “I was trying to focus on the license, but got only part of it—DZ 7. I think there was a man at the wheel waiting, and another fellow jumped in.”

Puzzled, the Hardys continued upriver. Forty minutes later they reached the little village of Brockton and tied up at the public boat landing. A little boy with a sunburned nose who was fishing off the dock with a bamboo pole scowled at them.

“Can you tell us where Mrs. Lunberry lives?” Frank asked him with a smile.

“That gray cottage over near the woods.” The lad indicated the direction with a jerk of his head and kept on scowling. “You guys realize you just scared off a big fat bluegill?”

Joe grinned. “Sorry, pal. Next time we’ll keep our big fat boat out of your way.”

The Hardys strode to the cottage. Their knock was answered by a silver-haired, elderly woman, bent and careworn.

“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank explained. “You called our father about the Jeweled Siva.”

“Oh, yes! Come in, come in!” she replied. “Will Mr. Hardy be able to take the case?”

“Not yet. But he asked us to get the facts.”

Mrs. Lunberry invited the boys to sit down. Frank and Joe glanced about the small living room. The furnishings were comfortable but meager. They noticed well-worn books, some antique-looking pottery, and framed photographs of people apparently in outdoor foreign scenes.

“I can imagine what you’re thinking,” said Mrs. Lunberry as she seated herself on the faded chintz-covered sofa. “You’re wondering how someone as poor as I am ever happened to own such a priceless object as the Jeweled Siva. Well, there’s a long story attached to it.”

“We’d like to hear it,” Joe murmured.

“My late husband, Clarence Lunberry, was an archaeologist,” the woman began. “He went on expeditions all over the world, to dig among ancient ruins. Often I went with him.”

“Did he bring the Jeweled Siva back from one of his expeditions?” Frank asked.

“Yes, from a remote jungly part of India called Tripura. He had heard of a lost temple there and after many hardships he found it. The temple had fallen into ruins, but a beautiful little jeweled carving of the god Siva was still inside. The natives told him a curse would fall on anyone who disturbed the figure, but Clarence ignored their warnings and got permission to take the idol with him.”

“The curse didn’t come true, I hope,” said Joe.

Mrs. Lunberry shook her head sadly. “Indeed, it did. Two members of the expedition died—one from malaria and one from being mauled by a leopard. Clarence himself had all sorts of bad luck after that. He was crippled in an accident and had financial troubles, but he always refused to give up the Jeweled Siva.”

The widow said that she had kept the figure after her husband’s death. But with her funds almost gone, she had finally been forced to put it up for sale. The tiny idol had been on display in the shop of an art and antique dealer named Fontana in New York City.

“Won’t Fontana’s insurance company pay you for the loss of the figure?” Frank queried.

“Ordinarily the company would pay for such a theft, but not in this case,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “You see, when I arranged to let Mr. Fontana handle the sale of the Siva, a business contract was drawn up to cover our agreement. But I know little about such things and I was slow in getting the papers signed.”

“You mean, there was no contract in force when the Jeweled Siva was stolen?” Frank asked.

“Exactly. And the insurance company requires one on all items that Mr. Fontana takes into his store to sell for an outside owner. So, I shan’t get a penny. I don’t know what I’ll do if your father or the police don’t find the Siva!”

Mrs. Lunberry’s voice broke and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh, dear! I almost believe there is a curse on that figure!”

Frank and Joe did their best to comfort her.

“Dad will certainly do everything he can, Mrs. Lunberry,” Frank promised. “And so will we.”

Suddenly the woman’s face went white. She sucked in her breath sharply, then gave a piercing scream!

“What’s wrong?” Joe cried out. Both boys sprang up from their chairs.

“The window! I saw something!” she gasped hysterically. “Like a head with no face! It was horrible!” The elderly woman was trembling.

“We’ll see who’s out there!” Frank told her, and the boys dashed outside.

“There he goes!” Joe yelled, pointing as they rounded a corner of the cottage.

A man with a stocking mask over his head was running toward the woods! Frank and Joe sprinted in pursuit. They plunged in among the trees. At first they were guided by faint sounds of rustling shrubbery and steps trampling dry leaves. Then, as the Hardys groped and darted about in the forest gloom, the sounds faded. The boys were forced to slow down and search the crushed underbrush for signs of the fugitive’s trail.

“It’s hopeless,” Frank groaned at last. “He could be a mile from here by now!”

Disgusted, the Hardys walked back to Mrs. Lunberry’s cottage. Frank stopped short.

“Look there, Joe! Under the window!”

The crude drawing of an eye had been chalked on the gray clapboard siding! The oval pupil and spark lines were instantly recognizable.

“Just like the glass eye and the drawing on Zatta’s card!” Joe said grimly.

When the brothers went back to the cottage, they found Mrs. Lunberry pale but much calmer. She offered the boys some tea.

“No, thanks,” said Frank. “We’d like to show you something if you’re feeling all right.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Lunberry sounded a bit apprehensive, but she accompanied the boys outside. The sinister drawing of the eye seemed to frighten her again.

“Ever seen anything like it before?” Joe asked.

“Yes, I’m almost certain I have,” she said shakily. “Perhaps it was in connection with my husband’s work, but—oh, dear, I just can’t think right now. It may come back to me later.”

Frank promised that their father would get in touch with her as soon as he was free to work on the case. He also asked Mrs. Lunberry to let them know if she recollected where she had seen such an eye.

“I’m sure it signifies something terrible!” she said uneasily. “It’s probably connected with the curse on the Jeweled Siva!”

Frank and Joe said good-by and walked back to the boat landing. They hoped the fisherboy would be there. The mysterious man might have quizzed him. But the lad was gone. The Hardys got into the Sleuth and headed for Bayport.

“Do you suppose that guy in the stocking mask was the same one who trailed us in the green Torpedo car?” Joe mused.

“I don’t know,” Frank replied, “but let’s check on that auto dealership in Ocean City.”

When working on a case, the brothers usually kept the Sleuth’s radio turned on to pick up any calls from home. Just as they neared the mouth of Barmet Bay, Tony Prito’s voice came over the speaker:

“Napoli calling Sleuth! ... Come in, please.”

The Napoli was Tony’s own speedy little craft.

“Sleuth at mouth of river,” Frank replied, picking up the microphone. “What’s happened, Tony?”

Their chum asked, “When will you be back?”

“We’re on our way now. Why?”

“Somebody was asking for you. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here,” Tony replied. “Over and out.”

“Hmm. Wonder what that was all about,” Frank muttered as he put down the mike. Joe shrugged.

Rounding out of the river into the bay, the Sleuth bounded over the waves toward their boathouse. As they neared it, another motorboat put-putted out to meet them.

“It’s the Napoli!” Joe remarked.

Tony drew alongside. “Chet Morton wants to see you two as soon as possible,” he reported.

“He’s the one who was asking for us?” Frank inquired.

“Right. Chet says it’s urgent. He wants you to meet him at Doc Grafton’s Health Farm at eleven-thirty.”

Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Only a quarter to eleven. What say we stop at the hospital first and see how Bill Braxton’s making out?”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed as he berthed the Sleuth.

The boys drove to Bayport General Hospital and went to Braxton’s room.

“Hi, fellows!” he greeted them. The mechanic was lounging in a chair, reading a magazine.

Frank grinned. “You don’t look very sick.”

“Me? I’m rarin’ to go. Luckily I have a very thick skull—from being a racing driver, I guess.”

“No aftereffects from that clout on the noggin?” Joe asked.

“Not a bit. The doctor was afraid I might have suffered a concussion, so they kept me for observation. But they’re discharging me today.”

The boys discussed with Bill the mysterious attack on him. “So Lambert’s a crook named Spotty Lemuel,” Bill said. “Wonder why he picked on me!”

Frank asked, “How did Spotty first hear about your hydrofoil, by the way?”

Bill wrinkled his forehead. “Don’t know exactly. I met him at the track once in Ocean City. I drive stock cars over there, you know—for Izmir Motors.”

lzmir Motors! Frank and Joe looked startled at hearing the name of the auto dealership.

“Something wrong?” Bill asked, puzzled.

“We’re not sure,” Frank said. “But it happens we were planning to check on that same place.”

Leaving the hospital, the Hardys drove out of town to the health resort. It was located on a hillside overlooking the bay. Its wooded rolling acres were enclosed by a high wire fence. Brass letters arching over the driveway proclaimed: DOC GRAFTON’ S HEALTH FARM.

Chet was waiting at the entrance for the Hardys. His usually calm face looked excited.

“I just found out you guys are going to be kidnapped!” he said.

CHAPTER VII

Beach Battle

“KIDNAPPED?” Joe echoed. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious!” Chet retorted.

The chubby youth was wearing white trousers and a green gym shirt with the name of the health resort in white letters across his chest.

“Okay, tell us,” Frank said.

Chet gave a worried glance behind him. “I can’t talk about it here,” he whispered. “I quit at noon. Wait and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“If you’re not going to tell us till twelve o’clock,” Joe said, exasperated, “why’d you get us up here at eleven-thirty?”

“‘Cause you two are always chasing around on some goofy mystery case, that’s why. I wanted to make sure you’d be here in plenty of time.” Chet regarded the young sleuths somberly. “Boy, if this tip I got is right, you fellows have really got yourselves in a spot. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes!”

“Stop looking so smug,” Frank said. “What are we supposed to do—park here and just worry?”

“Come on inside and I’ll show you around,” Chet invited. “Wait a second.”

He hurried over to a small stone gatehouse and spoke to the uniformed gatekeeper. The man gave Frank and Joe a brief once-over and nodded. “Okay. Just this once.”

The Hardys hopped from the convertible and the three boys started up the curving graveled drive.

“How come you get off so early?” Joe asked.

“Well, it’s my first day,” Chet replied, “so all they had me come in for was to learn my way around and get a uniform and stuff like that. Besides, I have an after-dinner athletic period tonight.”

The emerald lawn swept upward to a large white porticoed building. On a stone-flagged terrace in front, guests were sunning themselves in deck chairs. Several outbuildings could be glimpsed, set back among tall oak trees.

“Some layout,” Frank murmured admiringly.

“You bet! It’s strictly for guys with big bankrolls,” Chet boasted.

As the boys stood chatting and looking around, a burly man with a shock of thick black hair came toward them. He also wore a green gym shirt, revealing sloping, muscular shoulders and furry, apelike arms. His nose was flat and almost shapeless. Cauliflower ears stuck out of his bulletlike head.

“Good grief, who’s he?” Joe muttered.

“The bouncer, probably,” Frank said. “I’ll bet he’s coming to give us the heave-ho.”

“Relax—he’s harmless,” Chet assured them.” ”His name’s Rip Sinder. Used to box heavyweight when Doc Grafton was a fight manager and trainer. Now he’s sort of a general handyman. Incidentally, don’t be surprised at the noises Rip makes. He got punched in the Adam’s apple and it damaged his vocal cords so he can’t talk.”

The ex-pug approached and handed Frank a note penciled in spidery handwriting. It read:

I’d like to talk to you about

Braxton’s hydrofoil.

Z. Mudge

Frank looked surprised. “Where is Mr. Mudge?”

Rip Sinder gave a guttural grunt and made stabbing gestures toward the terrace.

“Thank you.” Frank restrained a start as he took in the boxer’s huge, sausage-fingered hands.

“Come on. Let’s go see him,” Joe said. He whispered to his brother, “What’s wrong?”

“Did you get a look at Sinder’s hands?”

“Big, aren’t they?” Chet said.

“I’ll say they’re big,” Frank retorted under his breath. “Just like the pair of hands that tried to throttle me last night!”

Chet shuddered. “You don’t mean Rip did it?”

Frank shrugged. “Probably a coincidence. But I’d like to get my hands on the person—whoever he is.”

The pudgy lad groaned. “Remind me to keep away from you two. You attract trouble!”

Zachary Mudge was seated in a deck chair with his spindly legs stretched out. As before, he was clad only in shorts and a straw hat.

“Did you want to see us, sir?” Frank said.

“What? Speak up, boy!” As Frank repeated his words in a bellow, Mr. Mudge fiddled with his hearing aid. “All right, all right! You don’t have to shout—I’m not deaf. Certainly I want to see you. Why do you think I sent for you?”

“Well, here we are, sir,” Joe said, grinning.

“What about that fellow Braxton? Is he out of the hospital yet?”

“He’s getting out today, sir.” Suddenly Joe snapped his fingers. “Frank! We forgot to tell Braxton about Mr. Mudge!”

The elderly man snorted contemptuously. “Typical! You young whippersnappers wouldn’t remember to come in out of the rain if someone didn’t remind you. How about Lambert? Has he made Braxton an offer yet?”

“No, sir. Braxton hasn’t seen him,” Frank replied.

Mudge cackled and rubbed his hands in glee. “Fine! Then there’s still time to sew things up! All right, sonnies.” Settling back, Mudge pulled his straw hat down over his face.

“What a character!” Chet Morton whispered as the boys walked away.

Chet hurriedly showed Frank and Joe through the splendid gymnasium building. This included a pool, steam room, tiled showers, and handball courts. The main room was equipped with exercise mats, trampolines, pulley weights, and other apparatus. Chet dropped several broad hints about his prowess as a gymnast.

“Okay, let’s see you perform on that,” Joe challenged, pointing to a leather horse.

“Not now. I have to change.” Seeing the Hardys’ grins, Chet burst out, “Okay, if you think I can’t! I’ll show you!”

Seizing the steel grips, he hoisted himself off the floor, getting somewhat red in the face. Then he tried to swing his legs around the horse. But as he let go with one hand, his grip with the other loosened.

“Oops!” Frank cried, and Chet landed heavily on the mat in a sitting position.

“That doggone handgrip was slippery!” Chet explained, wincing as he got up.

“Sure.” Joe repressed a smile. “Anyhow, it was a good try.”

Chet changed clothes in the locker room and the three boys walked back down the drive.

“Well, it’s noon and you’re through here,” Frank reminded Chet. “How soon do we get briefed on that kidnapping tip?”

Just then Chet’s yellow jalopy drove up outside the gateway. Two girls sat in the front.

“Hey! Iola and Callie!” Joe exclaimed.

The girls waved gaily and the trio hurried to meet them. Chet was chuckling as he ran.

“Well, fellows, it’s like this,” he said. “You’re about to be kidnapped by two dangerous dolls—for a beach party!”

Frank and Joe stopped short, their jaws dropping open in surprise. Chet, Iola, and Callie burst into peals of laughter.

“Man, did I ever have these guys going!” Chet informed his two conspirators. “They were expecting some big underworld trap!”

“Who’s complaining?” Frank retorted with a grin. “Callie can kidnap me any day.”

“They even brought our surfboards!” Joe said.

“And your trunks and two picnic hampers!” Chet added, peering into the back seat. “Let’s go!”

Callie rode with Frank in the convertible, while Joe piled in with Iola and Chet. They drove to a spot just north of Barmet Bay, called Gremlin Beach, which had become popular for surf-riding because of its high swells.

“What a day for surf-birds!” Joe cried as the foursome jumped out onto the clean white stretch of sand. An onshore breeze was blowing, and the waves from some distant storm were piling into high-crested breakers. Two boats came into view, kicking up plumes of spray.

“Tony and Biff!” Frank exclaimed. Biff Hooper was another Bayport High pal.

The Napoli and Biff’s boat, the Envoy, soon arrived. Both boys had brought dates. In a few minutes the young people were frolicking in the water. Frank and Joe, expert surf-riders, brought screams of delight from the girls. They soared and dipped like skimming sea gulls.

Biff tried and did a “wipe out,” coming up from the spill with a mouthful of salt water.

Presently the girls went ashore to broil hamburgers and frankfurters. Joe, glancing shoreward, noticed a youth with sun-bleached hair talking to Iola. She looked annoyed. Suddenly Joe’s pulse skipped a beat.

“Hey, Frank!” he called. “It’s that wise guy who checked our ‘pass’ at the empty house last night!”

The Hardys bounded out of the water. The stranger saw them coming and beat a hasty retreat. But Joe grabbed his arm. “Hold it, Buster! You have some explaining to do!”

In answer the youth swung a surprise blow at Joe’s jaw, knocking him off balance. But Frank darted after the attacker and tackled him.

“Now start talking!” Frank ordered, letting him get up.

The youth said his name was Fred Hare and that he was spending a week at a resort hotel in Bayport with his parents. He told the Hardys he had been paid five dollars to act as lookout at the house on Malabar Road.

“By whom?”

“Some man I met on the street. I never saw him before,” Fred Hare whined. His description of the man was vague.

“Could have been Spotty Lemuel,” Joe said.

At a call from Tony, the Hardys turned their heads. Fred seized his chance and sprinted toward a sand dune. Frank and Joe took after him, but as they topped the dune they saw him leap into a boat.

“I fed you guys a pack of lies!” he jeered, and gunned the motor. “I know plenty more!” The boat sped off.

Joe was furious, but Frank calmly strode back to their convertible to call Chief Collig. As the radio warmed up, the Hardys were startled to hear Aunt Gertrude’s voice over the speaker.

“Boys! Come home at once!” she said. “I’ve caught the scoundrel who’s behind this mystery!”

CHAPTER VIII

DZ7—

“THIS is Frank, Aunt Gertrude! Who is the fellow you’ve caught?”

“I’ve no time to explain!” Miss Hardy’s voice snapped back. “Just get home here at once and help me attend to him! Your mother is out. Over and out!”

The Hardy boys looked at each other in stunned surprise.

“Good night!” Joe gasped. “I wonder who it is she’s nabbed.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. “Whoever it is, we’d better blast off in a hurry!”.

Iola and Callie looked stricken when the Hardys announced they had to rush home. But Iola quickly recovered her impish good spirits. “Even detectives must eat!” She quickly handed hamburgers to Frank and Joe.

The Hardys ate quickly, then sped off along the highway. Reaching town, they wove their way through traffic to the house at Elm and High.

Frank and Joe dashed inside. The place seemed strangely quiet.

“Aunt Gertrude! Where are you?” Joe yelled.

The boys hurried downstairs to the basement where the Hardys’ short-wave set was located. No one was there.

“Something must have happened to her!” Frank said fearfully.

They ran up from the basement, then mounted the hall stairway two steps at a time. Faint noises drew Frank to their father’s study. He burst in and stopped short with a gasp.

“She’s in here, Joe!” he called.

Miss Hardy was bound to a chair. Her mouth was covered with a man’s handkerchief, but her eyes flashed fire. A warning had been lettered on a piece of paper and clipped to the collar of her blouse:

TAKE MY ADVICE AND KEEP THIS

BLABBERMOUTH GAGGED ALL THE TIME!

Frank and Joe hastily untied their aunt.

“Well! It’s about time you two got here!” she fumed as the handkerchief was removed. “Thank heavens you finally did!”

“What happened, Aunty?” Frank asked.

Miss Hardy was not ready to tell her story just yet. Declaring that she felt faint, she sank into an easy chair and called for smelling salts and a cup of strong tea. At last she began to tell what had happened.

“Your mother went downtown this afternoon,” Aunt Gertrude began. “Then a bit later a meter reader from the lighting company knocked at the back door and went down into the basement. I was busy straightening up and didn’t hear him go out. But I assumed he had left after a couple of minutes.”

“Go on!” Joe urged.

“Would you believe it, I discovered him here in your father’s study trying to crack open the safe!”

For the first time, the boys looked over at the steel safe.

“Leapin’ lizards!” Joe cried.

Chalked on the door was the same drawing of an eye that Frank and Joe had found under Mrs. Lunberry’s window!

The safe door seemed to be securely closed, but the metal showed deep gouge marks and a broken drill bit lay on the floor nearby amid fragments of metal and some pottery.

“Looks as though he never did manage to get into the safe,” Frank remarked.

“Indeed he didn’t!” Gertrude Hardy retorted. “I snatched up a vase from the hallway table and struck him over the head with it. The man was—out cold, I believe you two would say.”

Frank’s and Joe’s faces broke into broad grins. “Nice work, Aunty,” said Frank. “Is that when you went downstairs and called us over the radio?”

“Yes,” Aunt Gertrude went on, “but when I came back up to check on him, the scoundrel had revived. This time he waved a small bottle of nitroglycerine that he’d brought to blast open the safe, and threatened to blow up the house. I—well —became faint with nervous shock and that was when he tied me up. But not before I gave him a good piece of my mind!”

The two boys darted a glance at each other. They admired Aunt Gertrude’s spirit, and pictured her scolding the intruder roundly as long as she could. No wonder he had clipped on the blabbermouth sign!

“I guess he cleared out suspecting you’d called for help,” said Frank. “What did he look like?”

Miss Hardy replied promptly, “The man was clearly a criminal type—I could tell that from the shape of his ears!”

Joe smiled. “And the fact that he was cracking a safe,” he said innocently.

“Never mind the jokes, young man. Features do reveal character.” Miss Hardy asked for pencil and paper and sketched the intruder’s ears. She added, “He was about five feet eight, blond, broad-shouldered, and had a tooth missing in front.”

“You’re very observant, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said sincerely. Turning to his brother, he remarked, “It sure wasn’t Spotty Lemuel.”

Joe agreed, suggesting the intruder might have been the masked man who had eavesdropped at Mrs. Lunberry’s house. Suddenly Joe slapped his forehead. “Boy, we’re really batting a thousand today! We never did call the chief about Fred Hare!”

“We’d better phone him right now.” Frank made the call, giving Collig a complete rundown.

The brothers, although eager to resume their sleuthing, decided to stay at home for the day in case the safecracker returned.

The next morning after breakfast the Hardy boys drove to Ocean City and asked directions to Izmir Motors. The automobile dealership was located in a low, white, modernistic building with a glass-fronted showroom. At one side was the used-car display lot. Parked in an open field at the rear were row upon row of gleaming new Torpedo sedans, station wagons, and convertibles awaiting sale.

“This outfit must do a big business,” Joe remarked.

The boys prowled around, peering at the license number of every green Torpedo sedan. Those on the new-car lot had no plates, but there was one on display among the used cars and another—evidently a salesman’s demonstrator —standing near the building. Neither checked out. Around the corner, however, they spotted a third green sedan parked at the curb.

Its license number was DZ 736-421!

“Wow! Maybe we’ve struck oil!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys hurried into the showroom and were greeted by a dapper-looking salesman.

“We’d like to speak to the manager,” Frank said.

“Right over there in the office.”

The manager, a balding and middle-aged man with rimless glasses, was speaking on the telephone. A desk name plate identified him as H. J. Sykes, Sales Manager. As he finished talking, he gave the Hardys a cold, narrow-eyed stare. Finally he hung up. “Something I can do for you?”

Frank then began, “We’re trying to trace a car, sir.”

“What for?” Sykes broke in curtly.

“Our father, Fenton Hardy, is a private investigator—it’s in connection with one of his cases,” Frank explained. “I think the car we’re after is parked right around the corner. It’s a new green Torpedo sedan, license number DZ 736-421. Can you tell us who owns it, please?”

“No, I can’t!” the manager snapped. “My time’s valuable. I have other things to do than to help amateur private eyes.”

His rudeness stung Joe into retorting, “Maybe you’d rather have us go to the police!”

“The police?” Sykes cleared his throat uncomfortably and finally stood up. “Oh, very well. Wait here. I’ll check our files.”

He strode to an adjoining office and returned a few minutes later. “Sorry, I can’t help you. None of our personnel owns the car.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances and Frank said, “Thanks for your trouble.”

They walked out of the showroom, feeling Sykes’ eyes on their backs.

“Think he was keeping something back?” Joe muttered.

“I’d bet on it,” Frank said. “Let’s go take another look at that car.”

They rounded the corner and stopped short. The green sedan was gone!

“That creep tricked us!” Joe blurted angrily. “I’ll bet he had someone drive it away while he was pretending to check license numbers!”

Frank scowled. “Maybe the car will come back, once they think we’re gone. Let’s stake out the place and see what happens.”

“Good idea!”

The boys drove off, past the showroom. Frank kept going until they were sure no one was tailing them. Then he circled around and parked on a side street near Izmir Motors.

“I noticed a diner right near where the green sedan was standing,” Frank said to Joe. “How about you going in there and keeping watch? I’ll take that drugstore right across from the showroom.”

“Roger!”

The morning dragged by. The boys met each other from time to time to exchange reports, and switched positions occasionally. All day long they kept up their dogged watch. The showroom remained open in the evening.

At last their vigilance paid off. Shortly before nine o’clock both boys noticed the green sedan they were watching for cruise slowly around the block. In the dusk it was difficult to make out the driver’s face.

Frank and Joe hastily got their convertible. As they drove back toward the showroom, they saw the green sedan suddenly speed away.

“He must have spotted us!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank gunned in pursuit and kept the car in view. The driver wove his way through the mid-town traffic. Near the outskirts of Ocean City, the Torpedo increased speed and lengthened the distance between the two cars. Frank and Joe saw by its taillights that it had turned up a side road.

By this time, darkness had fallen. Frank had switched off their headlights as they left the trafficked streets behind, so as not to be seen in the sedan’s rear-view mirror.

The turnoff taken by the Torpedo was an unpaved road, with only a few widely separated street lights. One side of the road was wooded. On the other could be glimpsed the skeleton frames of several new houses under construction.

“Where’d he go?” Joe said, straining his eyes in the darkness. “Has he given us the slip?”

Frank toed the accelerator. “May as well turn on the lights,” he muttered.

As the yellow head beams illumined the road, both boys gasped. Just ahead was an open excavation!

“Look out!” Joe yelled.

Frank tried to brake and swerve but there was no time. The convertible plunged downward, its front wheels landing with a jolt as the body banged against the frame! Shaken, the Hardys climbed out onto the road.

Frank groaned. “What a mess! It’ll take a tow truck to—”

Both boys whirled suddenly at the sound of rushing footsteps. Two stocking-masked figures had darted from behind the trees fringing the road! Up-raised arms swung hard, and Frank and Joe sank to the ground, unconscious!

CHAPTER IX

A Cruise in the Sea Spook

WHEN Joe opened his eyes he found himself looking up at the night sky. It took him a moment to collect his wits. Then he realized he was lying in the road and struggled upright.

“Sufferin’ snakes!” he muttered to himself. “How long have I been out? ... Oooh!” His head throbbed from the blow he had received.

A faint moan nearby drew his attention.

“Frank!” Joe sprang to his feet and hurried to his brother’s assistance. “Are you okay?”

“Sure, I—I guess so.... Whew! I’m still seeing stars, though.”

Joe gave Frank a hand while he got up. Ruefully the brothers took stock of their position. Their car was nose down in the huge pothole.

“Boy, are we ever a couple of bird brains!” Frank said in disgust. “Take a look.”

He pointed to several overturned wooden barriers beside the road. Evidently they had been used to block off the excavation. Nearby lay lanterns and warning flares—all extinguished.

“The whole setup was arranged beforehand—and that green sedan led us right into the trap,” Joe said.

“Which means someone must have spotted us during the day when we were staked out at Izmir Motors,” Frank speculated.

“Right. And it could have been Sykes himself.”

The Torpedo sedan, the boys reasoned, had pulled off the road and among the trees before reaching the excavation. Then the thugs had waited for the Hardy’s car to appear, hoping it would plunge into the hole.

“What do you suppose they were after?” Joe asked his brother.

“I can guess,” Frank said. “The glass eye.”

“Lucky we left it home.”

Frank tried their convertible’s two-way radio and found it undamaged. He contacted the Ocean City police operator. A prowl car arrived, followed soon after by a tow truck from an all-night garage. The convertible was hauled out of the excavation and examined. Its front wheels had been jarred out of alignment and the frame needed straightening, so the Hardys had to return to Bayport by bus.

It was after midnight when they walked into their house. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had already gone to bed. Frank found a note in his mother’s handwriting on the telephone pad.

“Hey, look at this, Joe!”

It said: Bill Braxton tried to reach you twice this evening.

“Wonder what’s up,” Joe said.

“It’s probably too late to get him now. We’ll have to wait until morning.”

Next day, before breakfast, Frank called Braxton’s boathouse.

“Boy, I’m glad you called early!” Bill said. “How’d you two like to take a cruise to Long Point with me on the Sea Spook?”

“Sounds terrific!” Frank said. Then he asked, “By the way, Bill, have you heard from a man named Zachary Mudge?”

“I sure did, and he told me he’d talked to you fellows. That’s what this cruise is all about.”

Braxton explained that Mr. Mudge was interested in forming a partnership to put the young mechanic’s hydrofoil design into production. The craft would be built by one of Mudge’s present companies—the Neptune Boatworks at Long Point. First, however, he wanted Braxton to take the boat there to be looked over and tried out by Neptune’s chief engineer.

“There’s to be a conference at one o’clock and a trial run at three—so we ought to shove off pronto. I’d like to get there by noon and have time to grab some lunch.” Braxton added, “There’s a swell beach at Long Point. You two could have a swim while I’m at the boatworks.”

An idea popped into Frank’s mind. “Swell, Bill —count us in!”

Frank hurried to the table, where he and Joe excitedly discussed the cruise over breakfast. “Look!” Frank proposed. “We could hop a train at Long Point and be in New York City in less than an hour. That would give us a chance to talk to that art dealer about the Jeweled Siva and still get back in time for the trial run.”

“Keen idea!” Joe agreed.

Mrs. Hardy had no objection to the trip, but Aunt Gertrude expressed grave doubts about the seaworthiness of Braxton’s “contraption.” “And what’s all this about the Jeweled Siva?” she inquired, giving the boys a piercing stare.

“The Jeweled Siva is a valuable little idol from India. It was stolen,” Frank explained. “Dad’s going to take the case and we’re doing some preliminary legwork for him.”

“The idol has a curse on it, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe said. He proceeded to give her a blood-chilling version of the story the boys had heard from Mrs. Lunberry.

“Humph,” said Miss Hardy. “If you think I believe one word of that nonsense about a curse, you’re mistaken.” But the boys could tell she was disturbed when she almost poured maple syrup into her coffee.

“What Joe told you is true, Aunty,” Frank said, straight-faced but with a twinkle. “When we were at Mrs. Lunberry’s a faceless figure peered in the window.”

Mrs. Hardy became worried and begged the boys not to have anything more to do with the case. After much wheedling and reassurance, however, she was persuaded that they should continue.

“Whew!” Joe breathed as the boys started off for the boathouse. “Next time I start teasing Aunt Gertrude with any chills-and-thrills stuff remind me to keep my big mouth shut!”

“Ditto!” Frank said, grinning.

The Sea Spook was fueled and checked by the time they reached the bay. Soon it was scudding out of the harbor—rising on its hydrofoils as it picked up speed.

“Is the deal with Mr. Mudge all set?” Joe asked the Spook’s skipper.

“Well, not quite. The slide-rule boys at the boatworks are going to look over my blueprints with a fine-tooth comb. Then the chief engineer will probably give this job a real workout on Long Point Sound.” Braxton added with a confident smile, “But I think I can convince him.”

The sun beat down hotly out of a cloudless sky and the Atlantic was running in calm swells as the Sea Spook tooled along the coast at thirty knots. Frank and Joe enjoyed the cruise immensely.

It was not yet noon when the craft docked at Long Point. The Hardys hurried off to catch their train. By ten minutes to one it was pulling into New York City. They taxied through skyscrapered canyons to Fontana’s art shop in Lower Manhattan. A sign in the window said:

OBJETS D’ART

Federico Fontana

Inside, the store was filled with paintings, pieces of sculpture, and tapestries. A clerk directed the boys to Mr. Fontana, a tall, distinguished-looking man with graying dark hair and beard.

“Of course I have heard of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy!” he said, shaking hands with Frank and Joe. “And I am most happy to hear that he will be taking the case.”

“Will you tell us about the theft, please?” Frank asked.

Fontana related that the shop’s burglar alarm had been cunningly disconnected by the thief or thieves, who had jimmied the back door.

Joe remarked, “Whoever did it must have cased this place pretty thoroughly beforehand.”

“Exactly. No doubt he was one of the many people who came into my salon to browse around during the past few weeks.”

“But you didn’t notice anyone who struck you as suspicious?” Frank asked.

Fontana frowned and stroked his beard. “I recall one dark-skinned man. He wore a turban and appeared to be an East Indian. He asked many questions and fingered the Siva as if he hated to put it down. But unfortunately”—Fontana threw out his hands in despair—“I have no idea who he was.”

“Nothing was taken except the Siva?”

“Nothing at all. A policeman passing by on his beat thought he saw a glimmer of light in the shop and tried the door. He went inside, but found the place dark and empty.”

“Do you think the thieves could sell the Siva anywhere?” Joe asked.

“Definitely,” Fontana replied. “There are many collectors who would buy such an exquisite object with no questions asked. The gems alone would bring ten thousand dollars.”

Frank suddenly took out the glass eye. “Have you ever seen anything like this, sir?”

“But how intriguing!” The art dealer examined the eye with keen interest. “No, I have never seen such an object before. It is a most beautiful piece of craftsmanship—like the fine quality of Murano glass. Would you care to sell it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Frank replied. “Have you any idea where it may have been made?”

Fontana shrugged, but suggested that it might have come from Venice, Italy. He asked the boys where they had obtained it. Frank said merely that they had found it and politely evaded any further questions. He and Joe thanked the art dealer and prepared to leave the shop.

As Joe was opening the door, he stopped short with a gasp. “Frank! Look!” he hissed.

A blind man with dark glasses and a tray of pencils was standing just across the street!

“That’s Zatta, all right!” Frank exclaimed. “Let’s go talk to him!”

The boys waited for a break in traffic and darted across. The blind man hastily walked away, tapping with his white cane. Joe plucked his sleeve.

“Get away from me!” Zatta snarled under his breath. “Go on! Beat it! ... I’ll get in touch with you later!”

Joe looked at his brother. Frank gave a puzzled shrug and the two boys dropped back among the other pedestrians. Frank flagged a taxi and told the driver, “Penn Station.”

On the way, they continued to puzzle over the blind man’s reaction. “Zatta sounded scared to death,” Joe remarked. “I wonder if he was on the level about getting in touch with us.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Frank replied. “Maybe he’s afraid of having talked too much already.”

The brothers arrived at Long Point in plenty of time for the trial run. Bill Braxton, Frank, Joe, and the engineer Kurt Rummel started off in the Sea Spook on the dot of three. Boaters gaped as the hydrofoil streaked across the Sound.

Rummel seemed much impressed. “If she can perform anything like this in heavy weather, you really have something here, Braxton!” he said.

Bill put the craft through a series of tight maneuvers. Plumes of spray flew in the air as the Spook pirouetted about gracefully. Suddenly she refused to come out of a turn.

“What’s wrong?” Rummel asked with a frown.

“I don’t know,” Braxton muttered anxiously. “The rudder must be jammed!”

He dashed out of the cabin toward the fantail. Frank went aft with him to help. Braxton bent over the rail to peer down at the rudder linkage. At that instant the craft lurched and swung sharply to port! As it heeled over, Frank and Braxton were hurled into the water!

Terror chilled Joe. His brother and Bill Braxton might be mangled by the propeller or the foils!

CHAPTER X

Dangerous Dobermans

THE Sea Spook was spinning around Frank and Bill Braxton in a tight circle—completely out of control!

“Stop the engine!” Joe yelled to Rummel, and made his way out onto the tilting afterdeck.

The engineer flung an angry retort over his shoulder. He had already closed the throttle and was probing at the steering controls, hoping to get some response to the helm.

Joe could see the two figures floundering in the water. Flying spray from the Spook was blinding and half-drowning them. Joe was slipping and teetering on the wet deck, but he managed to unhook a life ring from the rail and toss it into the water.

The craft had so much way on from the high speed that it took the Spook some time to slow. Gradually her hull settled into the water. In a few moments the Spook came to a dead stop.

Frank and Bill Braxton, apparently unhurt, stroked their way over to the hydrofoil, blinking water out of their eyes. Joe and Rummel hauled them aboard.

“What went wrong, Bill?” Frank asked as they dried off with towels from the storage locker.

The young mechanic shook his head gloomily. “I don’t know yet, except that the steering system failed. The rudder must have broken and slapped over to one side.”

Kurt Rummel refrained from making any comment, but his face showed professional disapproval. A harbor patrol launch had observed their difficulties and was speeding out to their aid.

“Give us a towline!” Bill called over.

The Sea Spook was towed to the dry dock of the Neptune Boatworks. Here, Bill and the engineer gave the craft a thorough inspection.

“Well, there’s the answer,” Bill said angrily. “A sheared rudder pintle. It doesn’t look to me like an accident, either!”

Rummel looked skeptical. “Your hydrofoil design is new enough to be revolutionary, Braxton. Those high-speed turns may put more stress on the steering than you realize. I think this calls for a whole new study of your design.”

A new pintle was installed and the Sea Spook started home to Barmet Bay. Braxton was downcast over the outcome of the test.

“You really think it was sabotage?” Joe asked.

“Sure. But I can’t prove it,” Braxton replied.

“When was it done?” Frank asked. “It was docked in plain sight during your conference at the boatworks, wasn’t it? There probably were people gawking at it every minute of the time.”

“The dirty work could have been done right in my own boathouse,” Braxton said bitterly. “The pintle was probably sawed partway through, but it took a few hours of operation to break off.”

“Any idea who might have done it?” Frank asked.

Braxton shook his head. “Not a clue—unless it was someone who doesn’t want the Sea Spook to go into production.”

Frank and Joe exchanged thoughtful glances. “A figure in hiding!” Joe declared, and Frank added, “Who must be found!”

Nevertheless, both boys were wondering if the sabotage might have been committed for a different purpose—to injure them! Had someone guessed—or overheard—that the Hardys would go along on the Spook’s next cruise, and had this person tried to cause an accident at sea?

Frank and Joe arrived home in the evening and learned that Chief Collig had telephoned. Frank called back but was unable to reach him at headquarters until the next morning. The chief reported that he had had word from the Ocean City police on the green Torpedo sedan.

“That license number you gave was registered in the name of Malcolm Izmir, the owner of Izmir Motors,” Collig informed Frank. “But the car had already been reported stolen.”

“When did that happen—the theft, I mean?”

“The police weren’t sure. Izmir’s butler reported the theft the same evening he found the car missing. But he said it hadn’t been used for a couple of days, so it might have been taken from Izmir’s garage a day or two earlier.”

Frank was disappointed. This left the question still unanswered as to who had been driving the green sedan on Wednesday during their trip upriver to Mrs. Lunberry’s.

“Another thing,” Collig said. “We called the hotels and found that kid, Fred Hare. He’s staying with his parents at the Summerfield.”

“Does his story check out?” Frank asked.

“It seems to. That crack about knowing more than he told you was just bragging. His father promised to give him a good talking to.”

Frank grinned and thanked the chief. When Frank discussed the news with Joe, however, neither was satisfied with the story that Izmir’s car had been stolen.

“Somehow it sounds phony,” Frank said. “Especially the butler’s not being sure when the car was taken!”

“It strikes me the same way,” Frank agreed. “I vote we do some more checking when we go to Ocean City to get our car.”

Frank called the repair garage and was told that their convertible was ready for pickup. Meanwhile, Joe had had a sudden idea.

“We’ve been passing up an easy lead on this case!” he exclaimed.

“What’s that?” Frank queried.

“Checking the calls Lambert made from his motel. The manager said all calls passed through the central switchboard, remember?”

Joe promptly leafed through the telephone directory and dialed the number of the Bayview Motel. His hunch paid off.

“Sure, we keep a record of all outgoing phone calls,” the manager said. “The time and the number go right on the guest’s bill after the desk clerk gets his party for him.”

“Will you please look up and see if Lambert placed any calls while he was staying there?”

“Easy. Hold the phone.” There was silence, then the manager’s voice returned to the line. “Well, according to his bill, he made three calls—all to the same number.”

Joe copied it down, thanked the motel manager, and hung up.

“That looks like an Ocean City listing,” Frank remarked as he read the number. “Hmm. I wonder ...”

Frank dialed Information and asked for the number of Izmir Motors in Ocean City. It checked with the number on the pad!

“Now we’re getting some place!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s hop over to Ocean City right away!”

The boys caught a bus which dropped them not far from the repair garage. They got their car and drove to Izmir Motors.

This time, the Hardys walked straight through the showroom to Sykes’ office. His face seemed to turn a shade paler as he caught sight of the brothers. He gave them a smile, took off his glasses, and began polishing them nervously.

“Come in, boys! ... Please sit down.”

Frank and Joe were struck by his change in manner.

“I suppose you’ve heard what happened to us the other night,” Frank said coolly.

“Why, yes—yes, I did. The police informed me. A terrible thing! It upset me very much.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that was your boss’s car when we gave you the license number?” Joe demanded.

Sykes looked embarrassed. “Believe me, I didn’t know. Our office only keeps a record of the licenses of salesmen’s cars and demonstrators—and Mr. Izmir wasn’t here at the time.”

“You sure weren’t very cooperative.”

“To tell the truth, I’d had a call about you two fellows,” Sykes said sheepishly.

“What sort of a call?” Frank asked.

“An anonymous phone tip the previous afternoon—Wednesday, that is. It was a man’s voice. He warned me that two young fellows might drop in, trying to trace a license number. He said you were really a pair of gyps—shakedown artists. You were just setting things up to make a fake accident claim against a car owned by someone connected with Izmir Motors.”

Joe gave the sales manager a scornful look. “You didn’t even try to get his name?”

Sykes shrugged. “He hung up before I could ask. But I was still on my guard when you two walked in. Naturally I wasn’t going to go out of my way to help you.”

“Well, maybe you can help us now,” Frank said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Lambert—or Spotty Lemuel?”

The sales manager shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Here’s a picture of him.” Frank held out a photograph, borrowed from Mr. Hardy’s files.

Sykes looked at it and again shook his head. “Never saw him in my life. Why?”

“Because he’s mixed up in the case we’re working on,” Frank said, “and we have proof that he called Izmir Motors three times recently.”

Sykes seemed startled and offered to check the firm’s file of customers and prospects. But he soon came back and reported that his clerks could find no record of either name.

“We’d better speak to Mr. Izmir,” Frank said.

The savage guard dogs raced toward them!

Sykes gulped. “Uh—I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s not here.”

Joe started to ask where they could get in touch with him, but Frank quickly interrupted and said they would call back later. When they got outside, Frank explained, “I figured it might be better if Sykes didn’t know our next move. He might tip off Izmir we’re coming.”

“Quick thinking,” Joe approved. “Maybe we can catch the boss man when he’s not expecting us.”

The boys checked Malcolm Izmir’s name in a phone directory and drove to his home address. This proved to be a palatial walled estate in the hills overlooking Ocean City. Joe jabbed the gate bell repeatedly, but no one answered.

“You game to go over the top?” he asked Frank.

Frank sized up the situation warily. “Okay. At least we can find out if he’s home.”

The boys shinned directly over the gate.

“Good thing we didn’t try climbing the wall,” Joe muttered, pointing to a cheval-de-frise of broken glass strewn along the top.

Dropping down inside, they walked toward the house, which could be glimpsed beyond the trees. Suddenly the Hardys were chilled by ferocious snarls. They whirled, then froze in terror. Four sleek, fierce-eyed Doberman pinscher guard dogs were racing toward them!

“They’re killers!” Frank cried out.

CHAPTER XI

A Midnight Deal

THE Hardys looked around wildly. There was no chance of getting back to the gate—the dogs were already cutting off their line of escape.

“That tree!” Frank yelled, pointing to a nearby copper beech with low-hanging branches.

The boys sprinted madly. Each grabbed a limb and swung himself off the ground.

The Dobermans came on like demons. Although lean and long-legged, they were powerful, deep-chested brutes. The dogs hurled themselves at the lower branches, baying and straining every muscle to reach their prey.

“Sufferin’ catfish!” Joe quaked. “Those babies mean business!”

“If we fell out of this tree,” Frank agreed uneasily, “we’d be hamburger in two minutes!”

“Just don’t let go, that’s all,” Joe advised.

“Great. But what do we do for food and water?”

Both boys were perspiring as they stared around for signs of help.

“Ah! Thank goodness! Here comes someone!” Joe said.

A man—evidently a servant, wearing a house-boy’s white jacket—was striding toward them. He was carrying a braided whip which Frank and Joe assumed was to use on the dogs in case they got out of hand.

“Heel!” he called sharply.

The Dobermans stopped barking and slunk close to his side. Then he glared up at the boys.

“What’re you two doing up that tree?”

“Boy, there’s a foolish question if I ever heard one!” Joe muttered. Out loud he retorted, “What does it look like?”

“Get down out of there and beat it before I call the cops!” the houseman ordered.

“Wait a minute—we’re not burglars,” Frank said. “We rang the bell at the gate but no one answered, so we had to climb over. We came here to see Mr. Izmir—on important business.”

The servant studied the boys suspiciously. “That’s out of the question,” he said. “Mr. Izmir can see no one. He has suffered a nervous breakdown. He’s living in complete seclusion under a doctor’s care.”

Frank thought fast. “What we have to see Mr. Izmir about is very important,” he said. “It has to do with a glass eye.”

The servant’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. He wet his lips slowly, then said in a more respectful voice, “Your names, please?”

“Frank and Joe Hardy.”

“I’ll inquire inside. Wait right there.”

He turned and walked toward the house, leaving the dogs behind. The four Dobermans sat watching the boys in eager silence, tongues lolling.

“Wait right here, he says,” Joe echoed resentfully. “What does he think we’re going to do—climb down and play tag again with those four-legged meat grinders?”

In a few minutes the servant returned. “Mr. Izmir will see you,” he announced. Turning to the dogs, he said simply, “Guard!”

Frank and Joe climbed down warily, keeping an eye on the Dobermans. The servant accompanied the boys to the house and led them inside to a richly furnished drawing room. There was a white, thick-piled carpet on the floor and modernistic paintings on the walls.

A man who was pacing back and forth restlessly turned abruptly to face the boys. He was of medium height, with a thick neck and bulging froglike eyes.

“Mr. Izmir?”

“Yes.” He gave them each a quick handshake and waved them to a sofa. “Sit down, boys!”

Frank and Joe obeyed while mentally sizing up their host. They both thought Malcolm Izmir looked healthy enough, although he seemed rather tense and jumpy.

“I understand you fellows want to see me about a—a glass eye?”

“That’s right, sir,” Frank said. “Also about a man named Lambert—or Lemuel.”

Izmir’s hooded eyes blinked. “Lambert? Lemuel? ... Who’s he? Does he have something to do with this—er—glass eye?”

“We’re not sure. We think the eye may belong to him.” Frank told briefly how he and Joe had found the eye aboard the Sea Spook and what had happened later when they tried to trace Lambert through the Bayview Motel.

“That’s interesting. Very interesting,” the auto dealer commented. “But what makes you think I might know anything about this fellow?”

“We know he called Izmir Motors from his motel three times,” Joe said. “But your sales manager knows nothing about him and says he’s not a customer or a prospect.”

“Strange.” Izmir frowned. “I can’t imagine what his business with us would be—unless he knows someone who works for me. I’ll have Sykes check into it. Do you have this glass eye with you?”

Frank shook his head. “No, sir. We left it back home for safekeeping. You see, the thieves who stole your car waylaid us the other night—and we think they were after the eye.”

The Hardys watched Izmir’s reaction closely. Again his reptilian eyes blinked. He seemed disappointed. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I was hoping it might give us a clue—in fact, I had hoped you boys might even be able to help me.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other.

“How do you mean, sir?” Frank asked.

“No doubt you were wondering about my watchdogs,” Izmir replied, “and the fact that no one answered your ring at the gate. Well, it’s because I’ve been receiving threats lately.”

“What sort of threats?” Joe asked.

“Messages threatening my life. They come unsigned—except for a drawing of a horrible-looking eye.” Izmir licked his lips. “That’s why I agreed to see you at once when I heard you’d mentioned a glass eye. I thought there might be some connection.”

The Hardys were startled.

“Our dad’s a private detective,” Frank said. “He’s going to look into all this as soon as he winds up another case. We’ll certainly let you know if we find out anything, Mr. Izmir.”

The auto dealer nodded. “I appreciate that. But I won’t be here after tomorrow.”

“You’re going away?” Joe asked.

“Yes, on a long cruise.” Izmir stood up and began pacing about restlessly. “These threats have left my nerves all shot. I can’t eat or sleep. So my doctor has advised a complete rest and change of scene. I’m sailing from New York Monday on the ocean liner Cristobal.”

The Hardys thanked him for his time, and the houseman escorted them back to the gate.

“What do you make of Malcolm Izmir?” Joe asked his brother as they drove away.

“He must be scared of something, all right,” Frank mused, “or else he wouldn’t be holed up with those dogs guarding the place. Also, how did that car thief get past them? Anyhow, I’d like to know more about Izmir. Maybe Chief Collig can help us.”

As soon as they reached Bayport, the boys drove to police headquarters. They told the chief what had happened at Ocean City and asked him if he knew Malcolm Izmir.

“I’ve heard of him,” Collig replied. “He’s one of the biggest businessmen in Ocean City—and quite a community leader. Has all sorts of projects. Izmir Motors is just one.”

Joe shot his brother a puzzled glance. “He doesn’t sound like the kind of person who would be mixed up in anything crooked.”

Collig chuckled. “Not likely. I’ll check on him, though, with Ocean City police.”

Frank and Joe had a postponed picnic supper with Iola and Callie and it was close to midnight when they reached home. The hall telephone was ringing. Frank answered it as Joe waited.

“You’re one of the Hardys?” a muffled voice asked.

“Yes—Frank Hardy. Who’s speaking, please?”

“Never mind that. You know a peddler named Zatta? He’s a stoolie for your father.”

Frank was instantly alert. He signaled Joe to listen in. “What about Zatta?”

“I’m offering you Hardys a chance to save his life—if you promise not to call in the cops.”

“What do you mean ‘save his life’?” Frank said.

There was moment’s silence. Then another voice, which Frank recognized as the one-eyed peddler’s, came on the line.

“These guys are holding me prisoner!” Zatta croaked fearfully. “You’ve gotta help me! They’ll kill me if you don’t! Do what they ask you—please!”

Zatta’s voice was choked off suddenly, as if he has been yanked away from the phone. The muffled voice returned. “Okay. You heard him. We’re offering you his life for that glass eye.”

Frank tried to stall for time, but the voice cut him short. “Yes or no? Is it a deal?”

“What are the terms?” Frank asked.

The voice instructed the Hardys to drive to a certain spot atop Lookout Hill, leave their car, and walk down to a meeting spot on the open hillside. The transfer would then be arranged.

Frank looked at his brother. Joe nodded. “Okay, we accept,” Frank said.

“Remember—no double cross! You bring in the cops and Zatta’s a dead pigeon! Be there in fifteen minutes—after that, it’ll be too late.”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had awakened and asked what the message was. After a family conference it was decided that the boys would call Sam Radley, a trusted operative of their father’s. He agreed to approach the hillside cautiously from the opposite direction and be ready to cover them in case of trouble.

Frank went upstairs for the glass eye, then the brothers hurried outside to their convertible and drove to Lookout Hill. They parked at the appointed spot near a narrow turnoff which led steeply downward to Shore Road, bordering Barmet Bay.

Frank and Joe left the car and made their way cautiously through a screen of trees. A dark figure on the hillside waved his arms. Hearts thumping, the Hardys walked toward him.

The figure had glowing eyes!

CHAPTER XII

Doom Ride!

As THE Hardys came close enough to make out the figure, they saw the reason for the glowing eyes. The man was wearing spectacles with bulging phosphorescent eyeballs. His head was shrouded in a stocking mask.

“Someone from the Goggler gang!” Joe hissed.

In the midnight silence the boys’ footsteps crunched loudly in the grassy underbrush. Far below them, moonlight glinted on the waters of the bay.

“Okay. Stop right there!” the man ordered.

Frank and Joe obeyed. Both thought the masked man’s voice sounded faintly familiar. They wondered if he might be Spotty Lemuel, but neither could be sure.

“Did you bring the glass eye?”

“We brought it,” Frank said, “but we’re not handing it over till we have Zatta.”

The man turned and shone a flashlight down the hillside. He flicked the beam on and off twice.

The Hardys watched tensely. They saw an answering glow from Shore Road.

The masked man removed a pair of binoculars which were slung around his neck. He handed them to Frank and pointed toward the light. Frank raised the glasses to his eyes, then gasped.

“What is it?” Joe whispered.

“Zatta! They have him tied up down there at the foot of the drive!”

Frank passed the binoculars to Joe, who peered through them. The light on Shore Road was evidently coming from a bull’s-eye lantern. It was aimed to illuminate the captive peddler. Zatta was lying bound and gagged.

“It looks as if he’s unconscious!” Joe muttered. “His eyes are closed!”

“Don’t worry—he’s alive,” the masked man said.

“He’d better be,” Frank said. “You’ll get the glass eye when we have him in the car and we’re sure he’s all right. Not before.”

“And you two had better not try pulling any fast ones,” the masked man retorted. “Wait right here till I get down the hill. Then drive your car there. You can load Zatta aboard and hand over the glass eye. After that, clear out and don’t look back. Get me?”

Frank nodded. “Check.”

The gangster strode off into the darkness, picking his way down the incline.

“I wonder if Sam got here,” Joe whispered.

“I sure hope so,” Frank replied. “Goggle Eyes could be pulling us right into a trap!” He added, “We’d better go through with it, though, for Zatta’s sake. He must have stuck his neck out, giving Dad that tip.”

Crickets chirped in the stillness. The eerie call of a night bird sounded somewhere overhead. Presently the light on Shore Road went out.

“That must be the signal,” Frank murmured. “Let’s go!”

The boys hurried back to their convertible and climbed in. The engine roared to life. Frank swung out from the curb, then turned right into the long, steep drive leading to Shore Road. Beyond was nothing but a gleam of water as the cliff sheered abruptly into the bay.

The car headlights revealed Zatta’s motionless figure still lying across the foot of the drive. The masked man and whoever had come with him were nowhere in sight.

Joe glanced over at the grassy hillside. In the distance his eye caught a darting figure.

“Sam Radley!” Joe guessed.

Frank toed the brake pedal as he turned to look. The pedal caught for an instant—then sank to the floorboard without slowing the car!

Horrified, Frank pumped the pedal. No response! He yanked the hand brake and it gave easily without the slightest effect!

“Joe! Something’s happened to our brakes!”

The convertible was gathering speed—hurtling straight down toward the helpless peddler!

“You’ll go right over him!” Joe gasped.

“And off the cliff!”

The boys were paralyzed with fear. With no way to slow the car, it would be impossible to negotiate a turn onto Shore Road.

Frank shifted into low gear. The car bucked and lost a little speed. Noticing that the narrow drive was high-banked on either side, Frank swung right, scraping the convertible’s side against the grassy slope.

Zatta lay less than fifty feet ahead!

As the bank flattened, Frank spun the wheel hard right. The car leaped from the drive onto the grass, bumping and jolting over the uneven ground. It shot across the corner of the hillside, slowing bit by bit. Then it slewed out across Shore Road.

Frank kept it parallel to the pavement, but suddenly there was a hard jolt as the left rear wheel went over the edge of the cliff. With a shudder, the convertible came to a dead halt—its body quivering on its springs!

The two boys sat still, white-faced and gasping. Then Frank slumped over the wheel.

“Whew!” he breathed. “I thought sure we’d had it!”

“We would have,” Joe said, “if you hadn’t downshifted and grazed that bank! Man, that was fast thinking!”

Frank shook his head dazedly. “I wouldn’t even have known the brakes were gone if you hadn’t called out about Sam!”

A streak of light shot up from the hillside, exploding into a starburst of red fire!

“It’s Sam firing a Very pistol!” Joe cried out.

Gingerly the boys crawled out of the car, fearful of dislodging it from its poised position on the edge of the cliff. Another spray of light burst overhead revealing the road and the hillside with daytime brilliance. Three figures could be seen, far down the road past the foot of the drive, sprinting toward a parked car. They leaped in and sped away.

Sam Radley came running toward the boys. The muscular, sandy-haired detective’s face was taut with worry. “You two all right?” he exclaimed.

“Shaken up but okay,” Frank said. “What about that masked guy and his pals? Can we go after them?”

Sam shook his head “My car’s a quarter of a mile back—I didn’t dare park closer. By the time we could get to it, we wouldn’t stand a chance of catching them. Better call the police!”

Joe hastily radioed an alarm. Then he hurried to join his brother and Sam who had gone to untie Zatta. The one-eyed peddler was unconscious but bore no visible marks of injury.

“Maybe he fainted,” Frank said.

“It’s more than that,” Sam murmured. “Looks to me as if he’s been drugged.”

The operative went off to get his car and brought it to the spot. They lifted Zatta into the back seat, then sped to the Bayport General Hospital.

While the unconscious man was being examined, the three sat tensely in the waiting room.

“We really walked into a neat setup,” Frank said. “One of those two guys with the masked man was standing by Zatta with the lantern. The other must have been hiding up on the hill, waiting to sabotage our brakes.”

“Right,” Joe agreed. “That screen of trees gave him perfect cover, once we went off to talk to his partner.”

While they waited, the boys gave Sam Radley a complete account of the events leading up to the night’s excitement. Sam asked, “Do you have the glass eye with you?”

“Right here.” Frank took the eye out of his pocket and handed it over.

Radley examined it closely. “Hmm. And you have no idea why Lemuel—or whoever’s behind all this—is so eager to get it back?”

Frank shook his head thoughtfully. “The thing’s fairly light. It could be hollow. I’ve been wondering if something’s hidden inside.”

Radley held the glass eye close to his ear and shook it. “Nothing rattles. Of course that doesn’t prove much. It could be wadded in.”

“Trouble is, there’s no way to unscrew the eye or pry it apart,” Joe remarked. “The only chance to find out would be to break the glass.”

Conversation stopped as a white-coated intern came into the waiting room to report on Zatta’s condition. “He was definitely drugged,” the medic informed Sam and the Hardys. “There’s a puncture mark from a hypodermic needle on his right arm. Otherwise he’s in good shape, so I think we’ll let him sleep it off.”

Radley agreed to stand guard in Zatta’s room. He told the boys he knew of another operative with whom he could take turns in shifts.

Frank and Joe left the hospital and found a twenty-four-hour service station open a block away. Luckily it had a tow truck available. The boys rode with the mechanic to Shore Road and had him tow their convertible to his garage. The boys walked home.

“That’s funny,” Joe muttered as he tried to turn his key in the side door.

“What’s funny?” Frank asked.

“The lock has been jimmied!” he exclaimed.

The Hardys stared at each other in alarm.

“Whoever did it may still be here!” Frank whispered.

Joe gave his brother a startled look, then hastily pushed the door open and snapped on the light.

The boys began a cautious search of the house, switching on the lights in each room as they went along. The first floor was empty. Tensely they mounted the stairs.

When they came to Aunt Gertrude’s room, Frank gave a gasp. “She’s gone!”

They dashed to their parents’ room. Mrs. Hardy, too, had apparently left the house! The brothers’ room was also empty—no figure in hiding. Last, they tried their father’s study.

“Oh, great!” Frank groaned. “Dad’s safe has been cracked!”

CHAPTER XIII

Airport Vigil

MR. HARDY’s safe door had been blown open. The door hung lopsided and the contents lay strewn about. Frank and Joe rushed to examine the situation.

“Anything missing?” Joe asked.

“Doesn’t seem to be,” Frank replied.

Joe said worriedly, “I wish we knew what happened to Mom and Aunt Gertrude. You don’t suppose they—were kidnapped?”

“No,” Frank said. “My hunch is they were lured away by some phony message—to give the safecracker a clear field. If they don’t come back soon, though, we’d better phone an alarm. Now we’d better check Dad’s list of secret papers.”

The brothers got this from Mr. Hardy’s desk, and when they had gathered up the scattered documents, took inventory. “They’re all here,” said Frank in relief. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Wait! Dad stowed some cash in the safe when he left town, but I sure don’t see it now!”

“The safecracker probably took it,” Joe said, “but I’ll bet that’s not what he came for.”

Frank agreed. “Ten to one he was after the glass eye.”

Joe hurried to their garage laboratory and returned, bringing their fingerprint kit. He and Frank dusted the safe carefully but found no traces of prints.

“It has been wiped clean,” Joe said in disgust.

Just then they heard a car pull up outside the house. Frank dashed to the window.

“It’s a taxi,” he reported. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude!”

The boys, vastly relieved, went down to meet them.

“Oh! Thank goodness you’re safe!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed, as first she, then Aunt Gertrude gave Frank and Joe a hug.

Frank said, “We were worried about you.”

“We received a phone call from a man at about twelve-thirty that you boys had had a car accident over in Riverville,” Mrs. Hardy explained. “I knew that wasn’t where you planned to go and we were frightened out of our wits.”

She said that after taking a taxi to Riverville, she and Aunt Gertrude had been unable to find any trace of the boys. Finally, after checking by telephone with the Bayport police, the women had learned about the Shore Road incident and had returned home at once.

Upon hearing of the blown-out safe, the boys’ mother and aunt were greatly upset. Frank telephoned headquarters and gave a full report. It was almost three A.M. when the weary family at last retired for the rest of the night.

“Joe, it’s a cinch what happened here at the house and that business on Lookout Hill were all part of the same plan,” Frank remarked thoughtfully as the brothers undressed for bed.

“Sure. The timing proves that,” Joe agreed.

Frank frowned as he went on, “Lemuel, or the Goggler gang, was out to get rid of us tonight and also seek revenge on Zatta. But I still don’t see how the glass eye figures.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if they’re really after the glass eye, they must have sent the safecracker for it in case we hadn’t brought the eye along.”

Joe stretched out on the bed and clasped his hands under his head. “So?”

“So it doesn’t make sense. For all they knew, we had the glass eye with us. And if we’d gone over the cliff, the glass eye would’ve wound up at the bottom of Barmet Bay.”

“Hey, that’s right!” Joe sat up. “Then maybe it’s not the eye they’re after!”

Frank took the glass eye out of his trouser pocket and studied it again. “That wouldn’t explain the attack on us at the empty house,” he reasoned.

“Okay!” Joe exclaimed. “So maybe it is the glass eye they’re concerned with—but not because it’s valuable.”

“Then why so much trouble to get hold of it?”

“Because there may be something about it that would incriminate them—evidence that would put the gang behind bars! That way, they’d be just as happy to have it sunk in the bay!”

Frank gave his brother a startled glance. “Joe, you may have hit the answer!” He held the glass eye up to the light. “If there is something inside,” he speculated, “the opening may have been covered up with the iris. Then the whole thing was glazed over smoothly.”

Joe switched off the light and settled back. “When Dad gets home, maybe he’ll agree to breaking the eye open.”

“Right. In the meantime, I’ll keep it under my pillow at night until the safe is repaired.”

Exhausted by their strenuous activity, the Hardys slept late Sunday morning and awoke just in time for church. After that, Frank and Joe went to the service station. Their car was ready. They were told that both the hydraulic brake lines and the hand brake cable had been cut.

As they reached home, Mrs. Hardy came out to tell them their father was radioing from St. Louis.

“We’ll be right there,” Frank said, and dashed inside.

Fenton Hardy listened with keen and worried interest as his sons related everything that had happened since he had left Bayport. “Be on guard at all times, boys,” he advised.

The private investigator told Frank and Joe that Ace Pampton, the swindler whom he was after, might be doubling back to Bayport.

“An airline clerk says a man answering Pampton’s description bought a ticket to Bayport via New York,” Mr. Hardy explained. “He took off on the noon flight. I hate to leave here in case it’s a false alarm. So I’d like you boys to cover the airport and keep watch.”

“Sure thing, Dad,” said Frank. “What does he look like?”

“Medium height—quite bald—and he’s been growing a brown beard as disguise. He was wearing a light-blue summer suit and no hat.”

“Should be easy to spot,” Joe put in. “What time is he due in Bayport?”

“Three-ten if he makes the connection in New York,” Mr. Hardy replied. “If he doesn’t show up, stick around and watch for the next flight.”

“Roger!” Frank acknowledged.

The brothers set off for the Bayport airfield minutes later and arrived at 2:57. Presently a loud-speaker blared:

“Flight 401 from New York is now arriving at Gate 12.”

Frank and Joe joined a stream of people hurrying out to the apron to watch the plane discharge its passengers. Suddenly Frank spotted a burly, mash-nosed figure in a chauffeur’s uniform.

“Hey, Joe,” he muttered, “that’s Rip Sinder from the health farm!”

“He must be here to meet a new guest,” Joe whispered.

The apelike ex-pug saw them looking at him. He nodded and casually scratched his jaw with an odd gesture, using the forefinger and little finger of his clenched hand.

The Hardys nodded in return and shifted their gaze. The next instant Joe gasped. “Frank! There’s that guy who held up the Bijou!” he exclaimed.

The swarthy, hook-nosed man had been standing just inside the doorway to the terminal building. Apparently he had spotted the Hardys, for he turned and quickly strode away. Meanwhile, the disembarking passengers were already coming down the plane’s ramp.

“Go after him, Joe!” Frank said. “I’ll keep watch for Pampton!”

Joe darted into the building. The holdup man was disappearing into the crowd. Joe sidestepped and elbowed his way through the jostling throng. But he made little progress. In a moment his quarry was lost from sight.

“Gangway, please!” A skycap was pushing a hand truck loaded with baggage directly across Joe’s path. The boy groaned.

In desperation Joe yelled, “Stop, thief! Stop that man!”

People sprang up from benches to gape in all directions and the crowd began to mill even more excitedly. By the time airport guards made their way to the scene, the whole terminal was in wild confusion.

A thorough search was made, but the darkcomplexioned man had vanished. Joe rejoined his brother to report failure. Meanwhile, Frank had seen no sign of Pampton. As they walked up and down outside the terminal building, they saw the health-farm chauffeur, Rip Sinder, drive off. His station wagon was empty.

“Looks as though his man didn’t arrive either,” Joe remarked glumly.

Two more flights were due from New York that afternoon—one at five-thirty and another at seven-fifteen. The Hardys waited for both. But no one resembling Ace Pampton arrived on either flight.

“Great. This is what I call a well-spent afternoon,” Joe grumbled as they drove off.

“Let’s stop at the hospital,” Frank proposed. “Zatta should be conscious by now.”

Joe agreed, eager to learn whatever information the peddler might be able to provide.

The brothers had a quick supper in town, then went on to the Bayport General Hospital. They took the elevator from the lobby to the fourth floor. Zatta was in Room 410.

The Hardys stopped outside with puzzled frowns. A crudely drawn sign had been taped to the closed door. It showed a hand with the fore and little fingers raised, middle fingers clenched over the thumb.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joe said.

Suddenly Frank’s eyes widened. “That’s the same gesture Rip Sinder made at the airport!”

CHAPTER XIV

Sinister Flower Gift

“WHAT gesture?” Joe said to his brother.

“Don’t you remember when Sinder nodded to us, the way he scratched his jaw—with two fingers?”

Joe’s eyes kindled thoughtfully. “That’s right -I do remember now! It could be just a coincidence, though.”

“Maybe,” Frank said. “Let’s find out who put this sign up—and why.”

The boys opened the door and went into the room. Sam Radley was watching the doorway warily, but at sight of the Hardys he relaxed and grinned.

“Hi, Sam!” Frank greeted him. “Did you find someone to spell you on guard?”

“Yes, an operative named Vickers—he’s worked for your dad before,” Radley replied. “I just came on again at four.”

Zatta sat propped up in bed, with a black patch over one eye instead of his usual dark glasses. He had been playing checkers with Sam, and the board lay on the bed beside him. He seemed tense and fearful, and his one good eye stared at Frank and Joe with feverish intensity.

“Hi, Mr. Zatta!” Joe said cheerfully. “Feeling better?”

“Naah! I feel terrible!” the peddler croaked. “If I get out o’ this alive, it’ll be a miracle!”

Frank shot a questioning glance at Radley. “What about that sign on the door?”

The operative indicated Zatta with a slight jerk of his head. “He wanted it up—drew it himself. Then he raised a rumpus till the nurse agreed to stick it on the door.”

“But why?” Joe said.

Radley shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me. Said he’d talk to you fellows or your dad—no one else.”

The Hardys turned toward the peddler. The talk about the sign seemed to have stirred up his fears. Zatta’s good eye darted anxiously from one to another of the trio.

“Do you feel like talking to us now, Mr. Zatta?” Frank asked gently.

“Sure, I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything,” the peddler said in a shaky voice. “Come closer so I don’t have to speak so loud.... Yeah, that’s better.... Now, about that sign on the door—the hand with the two fingers stickin’ out—”

Someone rapped on the door. Zatta broke off with a fearful jerk that sent the checkerboard and checkers clattering to the floor.

Radley strode to the door and opened it—only a crack at first, then wide enough for a nurse to enter. She came into the room holding a large circular bundle wrapped in florist’s paper. “For you,” she said, handing it to Zatta. Surprised, the peddler tore off the paper, disclosing a wreath of white lilies. Their heavy perfume filled the air with an almost sickly fragrance.

“Lilies!” Zatta screamed. “This-this looks like a funeral piece! Where’d it come from? Who sent it?” He shoved the wreath at the nurse.

She took the wreath with a shocked look. “Well, I-I don’t know,” she faltered. “The florist’s deliveryman brought them up to our station. There’s an enclosure card here addressed to you, Mr. Zatta.”

She detached a small white envelope from the ribbon on the wreath and handed it to the patient. With trembling fingers he opened it and plucked out the card.

Zatta took one quick look at the card, then let out a hoarse screech. His gaunt frame began to quiver, as if with a sudden chill.

“What is it?” Frank exclaimed. “What’s wrong?” He took the card from Zatta’s shaking hand. Joe and Radley pressed close to see it.

The card bore the drawing of an eye. It had a catlike oval pupil with zigzag spark lines!

“What does it mean?” Joe gasped. All three looked at Zatta.

“I’m not talkin’!” he whined. “I’m not sayin’ another word, see? They almost got me once, but I ain’t stickin’ my neck out again!”

“Who are they?” Frank asked. Seeing the peddler’s look of stubborn panic, he pleaded, “You must tell us. How can we find the people who sent this and turn them over to the police if you won’t help us?”

But Zatta shrank back in terror, huddling among the bedclothes. “I told you I’m not talkin‘! So stop askin’ me!” His unpatched eye rolled wildly. “Don’t let anyone in here! Lock the windows and lock the door and keep ’em locked!”

Seeing the patient working himself into a frenzy, the nurse hastily called a doctor. Zatta was given sedation and the medic advised the Hardys to break off the interview. Frank and Joe reluctantly went back to their car, leaving Sam Radley on guard.

“What a break! Just when he was going to tell us what that sign meant!” Joe grumbled.

“It’s pretty clear what the eye means,” Frank said ruefully. “It must be a warning from the same gang that captured him before—probably the Gogglers.”

Joe agreed and added, “Those funeral lilies were warning enough, but the eye really sent Zatta up in smoke. That reminds me—the eye drawn under Mrs. Lunberry’s window must have been meant as a warning, too, for her not to talk any more to us.”

Frank nodded. “It was bound to scare her, even if she didn’t know what it meant. For that matter, the guy was probably trying to scare us, too.”

As Frank slid behind the wheel of their convertible, he went on, “There’s one thing we can check out right now, Joe.”

“You mean, who sent the flowers?”

“Right. The card said Barmet Bay Floral Shop.”

The two boys drove to the shop, which was near the hospital and remained open on Sundays. They arrived just as the owner was about to close for the evening. Frank explained who the boys were and mentioned the wreath of lilies.

“We’d like to know who sent it.”

The shop owner shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, boys—I don’t know myself.”

“How come?” Joe queried.

“The order was stuck under the door while I was at lunch.”

“No name or return address on it?” Frank said.

“No. None on the envelope and none inside. Just a twenty-dollar bill and a printed note saying to send a wreath of lilies to Mr. Henry Zatta at the Bayport General Hospital.” The florist scratched his head thoughtfully and added, “Oh, yes. There was something else on the note, too—a funny-looking drawing of an eye. The note asked me to copy that on a gift card and enclose it with the wreath.”

“Do you still have the note and the envelope around somewhere?” Joe asked eagerly. “We’d like to see them, please.”

“Sorry. They got burned up in the incinerator less than ten minutes ago when I cleaned up.”

Frank and Joe thanked the shop owner and went back to their car. They were completely disgusted.

“There goes another good lead,” Joe said.

As soon as the Hardys arrived home, they hurried to the basement and warmed up their short-wave radio. Frank sent out a code call and soon made contact with their father, who always carried a small but powerful pocket transceiver with him when traveling. Frank reported the hospital incident and also the fact that no one resembling Ace Pampton had arrived at the airport.

Fenton Hardy was surprised and disappointed. “I can’t understand it,” he said. “Since I talked to you this afternoon, I’ve picked up other clues which convinced me the man who bought the airline ticket here was Pampton. Of course he may have stopped over in New York. The last lap of his flight may have been a red herring to throw us off his trail.”

“Or he may have used the stopover time in New York to disguise himself, Dad,” Frank suggested.

“Sure,” Joe put in. “He could have gone into the washroom at the airport terminal and changed to different clothes—or maybe even changed his facial appearance in some way.”

“That’s a thought,” the investigator agreed. “The name he used in buying the ticket was Brown—Otto Brown. I should have told you before. Better call the airport and find out if he was on any of those incoming flights from New York.”

“Right. We’ll check and let you know, Dad,” Frank promised.

Joe hurried upstairs to make the telephone call and returned a few minutes later, looking glum. “Pampton fooled us, all right,” he reported. “The airline clerk said Otto Brown landed on the three-ten flight.”

Mr. Hardy received the news without losing his good humor. “Just one of those setbacks a detective has to expect, boys,” he said. “I’ll explore his trail here for another day or so. I may turn up a clue to what he’s after in Bayport. Keep your eyes open for him.”

Next morning Frank and Joe set out for the airport again with the faint hope of tracing Pampton’s trail from the terminal. On the way, they stopped off at Bayport Police Headquarters to find out if Chief Collig had anything to report on Malcolm Izmir.

“Yes, I received a written report from the Ocean City chief about half an hour ago. Then I talked to him on the phone. As I told you, Izmir is a respected businessman and quite active in community affairs. But there was one odd discrepancy I noticed.”

“What’s that?” Frank asked.

“You said he told you he had received a number of threatening messages. If so, he must have clammed up about them to the police—they knew nothing of any such threats.” Collig paused to pull an envelope from his drawer. “However, a prowler was caught several days ago, trying to break into his house. Here’s a mug shot of him the police sent over.”

Collig held out the photograph of a dark-haired, hook-nosed man. Frank and Joe were thunderstruck.

Frank cried out, “That’s the Bijou holdup man!”

CHAPTER XV

The Brass Crescent

COLLIG looked hard at Frank. “Are you certain this is the theater thief?” he asked the Hardys.

“Positive,” Frank replied. “We spotted the man at the airport yesterday. Joe chased him, but he got away. We thought the airport guards would report it.”

“It’s possible they did,” the chief replied. “I haven’t gone over all this morning’s reports.”

Joe noticed that the name on the photograph was Nick Cordoza. “If he was caught trying to break into Izmir’s pace, how come the police didn’t hold Cordoza? Joe asked.

“Izmir refused to press charges, so they had to let him go,” Chief Collig replied. “Cordoza has a record—he served time for armed robbery—but he wasn’t wanted for anything else when they picked him up at Ocean City. However, we’ll put out a general alarm for him on the Bijou job.”

As the boys came out of headquarters, Frank remarked. “That makes two things about Izmir that need explaining.”

“Name them,” Joe said.

“First, why didn’t he report those threatening letters to the police?”

“Maybe he never got any,” Joe theorized. “He may have been lying to us.”

“But we know he’s frightened,” Frank pointed out. “Why else would he have those savage Dobermans? Which brings up the second question,” he went on. “Why did Izmir let Cordoza go?”

“Maybe he was afraid of gang revenge,” Joe said. “Remember, Cordoza wore a Goggler disguise on the movie holdup.”

“Could be,” Frank said doubtfully. “But if Izmir’s already in fear of his life, what has he got to lose by putting Cordoza behind bars?”

Just then a horn tooted across the street.

“There’s Tony Prito,” Joe said.

A smart-looking white panel truck made a U-turn during a break in traffic and pulled up behind the Hardys’ car.

Tony stuck his head out, grinning proudly. “How do you like our new panel job?”

“A real beauty!” Frank said as the Hardys looked it over. “When did you get it?”

“Saturday. She’s not even broken in yet.”

“What’re you doing with that brass crescent over the grille?” Joe asked. “You had that on your old panel truck, didn’t you?”

Tony chuckled. “Sure—we always mount it on one of our trucks. Dad brought it over from Italy with him as a keepsake. He used it as a hood ornament on the first car he owned.”

“What’s it supposed to be?” Frank put in.

“It’s a corno. That means—well, I guess you’d call it an amulet.”

“An amulet?” Joe echoed. “You mean, like a lucky piece?”

“That’s right. It’s for warding off the malocchio— the evil eye.”

In spite of themselves, Joe and Frank were startled by Tony’s remark. Both were reminded instantly of the “blind” peddler’s warning: “Watch out for bad eye!”

Tony continued, “There are people called jettatori, see? That means ‘throwers’—they’re the ones who have the evil eye. Sometimes they know it and sometimes they don’t. But everyone else knows it, or at least the word soon gets around.”

“How come?” Frank asked.

“Because these jettatori put the double whammy on everyone they look at. For instance, you let a jettatore look crooked at you and the next thing you know, you break a leg or come down with measles or flunk your exams!”

The Hardys stared at their friend and shook their heads. Tony burst out laughing.

“Look! I’m not saying I believe it, pals. But a lot of people over in the old country still do-especially around Naples. If they meet a jettatore, they make a quick sign to foil the whammy—like, say, the mano cornuta.”

Tony held out his hand with the fore and little fingers extended and middle fingers clenched over his thumb. Frank and Joe gaped.

“Hey, relax, you fellows!” Tony exclaimed. “I don’t really believe you two have the evil eye. Of course Joe does look a bit—”

“What did you call that sign?” Frank broke in.

“The mano cornuta,” Tony said, making it again. “It means the ‘horned hand.’ Why?”

“Jumpin’ goldfish!” Joe gasped. “That’s the sign Zatta made for his hospital-room door!”

As Tony gave him a baffled look, Joe hastily told him about the one-eyed peddler.

“You mean Zatta is really trying to keep off the evil eye?” Tony inquired.

“He’s trying to keep off something, but it may not be the same kind of evil eye you were telling us about,” Frank said. “I’ll bet this explains what happened at the airport yesterday!”

“How do you mean?” asked Joe.

“You remember that gesture Rip Sinder made, scratching his jaw?”

“You mean when Sinder spotted us he made that ‘keep away’ sign to warn Nick Cordoza!”

“Could be,” Frank said, “but I was thinking of Ace Pampton. Sinder came to meet somebody on that three-ten flight and yet we saw him drive away with his station wagon empty.”

“You mean he came to meet Pampton?”

“Yes. Cordoza was inside the terminal and could see us before we saw him—he didn’t really need a warning to make him scram. But Pampton was coming off the plane and would have to walk right past us. So Rip made the ‘keep away’ sign to warn Pampton not to approach him. He didn’t want us to see the two of them together.”

Joe was excited. “That adds up. Pampton walks into the airport building, and Sinder drives off, as if the person he came to meet never arrived.”

“Cut out the double-talk, you detectives,” Tony pleaded. “What’s this all about?”

The Hardys told how they had gone to the airport the day before to keep a watch for the swindler their father was hunting.

“If you’re right, Frank, that explains why Pampton came back to Bayport,” Joe said. “He was planning to check in at Doc Grafton’s Farm—and hide out until the heat’s off.”

Tony whistled. “Chet will sure have a shock when he hears this!”

“There’s a way we may be able to find out quickly,” Frank said.

“How?” Joe asked.

“Pampton probably took a taxi out to the health farm.”

“So we can check the cab companies!” Joe exclaimed. “Swell idea, Frank!”

“If it works,” said Frank, “we’ll have your info to thank, Tony.”

Their pal grinned. “You two ‘private Evil Eyes’ go to it! I have to pick up a set of blueprints from an architect.”

He gunned the truck’s motor, made a U-turn, and sped off down the street.

The Hardys hurried to a phone booth in a nearby drugstore and called each of the three taxi-cab companies which operated in Bayport. Joe suggested a soda while the dispatchers were checking their drivers’ log sheets from the day before. Then Frank called each company again.

On the third call, to the Eagle Cab Service, the dispatcher said:

“Yeah, one of our drivers picked up a fare at the airport at three-fifteen Sunday and drove him out to Doc Grafton’s Health Farm.”

“Who was the driver?” Frank asked. “Could I get in touch with him?”

“Sure, he’s out at the airport right now, in fact. A little man named Mike Doyle. Cab twenty-two. I’ll tell him to wait for you.”

“Thanks a lot!”

Frank and Joe drove quickly to the airport. They soon found the driver.

“The health farm ... yesterday afternoon ... lemme see now.” Mike Doyle shoved back his cap and scratched his head. “Oh, sure. I remember now. A red-haired gent, soft-spoken. Wore big horn-rimmed glasses.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “I remember him, Joe! I saw him get off the plane.” Turning back to the driver, he said, “Clean-shaven fellow, wasn’t he?”

Mike nodded. “That’s right. What’s he done?”

“If it’s the man we’re after, he’s wanted for swindling,” Frank replied.

“Wow!” Mike exclaimed. “Glad I could help.”

The two boys sped home excitedly.

“Pampton must have shaved off his beard at the New York air terminal and put on a red wig and glasses,” Joe reasoned.

Frank gave a tense nod. “And if Rip Sinder knew Pampton was dodging the law, the health farm may be a regular hideout for criminals!”

Reaching their house, the boys hurried down to the basement and tried calling their father by radio. Luckily he was in his hotel room and responded at once.

Frank informed him of what they had learned, then said, “Dad, Joe and I have a plan we think you should try!”

CHAPTER XVI

The Walking Mummy

FENTON HARDY was eager to hear the boys’ plan. “If it’s as good as some of the other stunts you two have dreamed up for cracking a case,” he told Frank, “I might give it a whirl.”

“Well, here goes,” Frank began. “If Doc Grafton is running a criminals’ hideout on the side, you sure can’t walk right in and arrest Pampton.”

“Probably not,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “They may have a clever warning system in case of a raid, and no doubt some foolproof hiding places on the grounds. In fact, Grafton would be crazy not to, if your theory’s correct.”

“Then it might help if you could case the layout from the inside first. Right, Dad?”

“No doubt about it. What do you suggest?”

Frank said, “By checking into the health farm yourself—say, posing as a tired businessman from St. Louis.”

Fenton Hardy was instantly taken with the scheme. To avoid suspicion that he might be a detective on Pampton’s trail, Mr. Hardy decided that he would first fly to Cleveland.

“I’ll make the arrangements from there over the phone, then hop a plane to Bayport and check in at the health farm under a disguise. I’ll call myself—hmm—let’s say, Foster Harlow.”

Frank said, “Try to keep in touch with us by radio. We’ll tell Chet to be on the lookout, in case you need any help there at the farm.”

The talk with their father made both boys eager for another look at Doc Grafton’s health resort. Frank also hatched an idea for gleaning further information on Malcolm Izmir.

“Remember what Bill Braxton was telling us about Zachary Mudge on the way to Long Point?” he remarked to Joe.

“You mean about Mr. Mudge being a big wheeler-dealer in the financial world?”

“Right. With his contacts, he could probably find out plenty about Izmir.”

Joe gave a puzzled nod. “Maybe so, but what makes you think he’d tell us? Businessmen are pretty closemouthed about that sort of thing.”

“Usually, but I think I know how we can get Mr. Mudge to help us.” As Frank explained his plan, Joe grinned approval.

As soon as lunch was over, the brothers drove to the health farm. Frank told the gatekeeper who they were and asked if they might see Mr. Zachary Mudge. “It’s about a boat he was thinking of buying, called the Sea Spook,” Frank said.

The gatekeeper relayed their message over the telephone. After a few minutes he received Mudge’s reply and turned back to the boys.

“Okay. Mr. Mudge says he’ll be waiting for you on the terrace. Go straight up the drive.”

On their way up, the Hardys saw Chet heaving a medicine ball back and forth to several guests on the lawn. The men looked cool and relaxed in shorts and summer shirts, but Chet was red-faced and puffing.

Joe grinned as they waved to their chum. “Looks as though poor Chet is getting more of a workout than the patients,” he murmured.

Zachary Mudge was pacing with his cane on the stone-flagged terrace, a large cigar clenched between his teeth.

“Finally got here, did you?” He shook hands briskly with the boys. “Took you long enough to get up that hill. Could’ve made it twice as fast myself.”

“I guess we haven’t your energy, sir,” Frank said with a smile.

Mudge grunted, then followed Joe’s gaze toward two men standing near the front door of the building. One was Rip Sinder. The other was a small, foxy-faced man wearing a large diamond ring. They had been watching the Hardys, but as they saw Mudge looking at them, the smaller man broke into a gold-toothed smile and waved.

“Who’s that man?” Joe asked.

“That weaselly little twerp? He’s Doc Grafton, the quack who runs this vegetable farm.” Mr. Mudge sneered. “Nosy, too. Let’s take a stroll.”

The trio walked out across the lawn.

“Now then, what’s all this about the Sea Spook?” Mudge asked. “The engineer who checked her out says she broke down on the test.”

“That’s partly what we came to tell you about,” said Frank. “Braxton believes she was sabotaged and we think he may be right.”

“Y’ think so? My man Rummel doubts it.”

“Well, we can’t prove it,” Frank admitted. “But don’t forget, Braxton was attacked at his boathouse and knocked unconscious. There may be no connection, but—well, something mysterious is going on.”

Mudge paused and peered at Frank from under bushy eyebrows. “What’re you suggesting, son?”

Frank shrugged. “You remember us mentioning a Mr. Lambert who was interested in the Spook?”

“Are you saying he was behind the sabotage?”

“We don’t know,” Frank said. “We’ve been doing some investigating, though, and the trail seems to lead to a wealthy businessman over in Ocean City. His name is Izmir.”

“Malcolm Izmir?”

“That’s right,” said Joe. “Do you know him?”

“I’ve heard the name.” The old man’s eyes kindled with interest as if he sensed a hint of financial skulduggery. Suddenly Mr. Mudge was right in his element. “Let me get this straight, boys—do you think Izmir could have had the Spook sabotaged to keep me from investing money in Braxton’s design?”

Again Frank shrugged. “We didn’t say that, sir.”

But the financier had already made up his mind —exactly as the Hardys had hoped.

“So Izmir thinks he can put one over on me—Zack Mudge, does he?” The old man cackled and thumped his cane on the ground. “Well, we’ll see about that. You leave it to me, sonnies. In twenty-four hours I’ll know all there is to know about Malcolm Izmir, including what he eats for breakfast!”

The Hardys escorted Mr. Mudge back to the terrace, then said good-by. A smile was twitching at Joe’s lips as the brothers started down the drive. He muttered to Frank:

“I’ll bet Mr. Mudge is a whirlwind when he goes into action! You sure revved him up with that line you gave him!”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Frank replied. “For all we know, there may be some connection between Spotty Lemuel and Izmir.”

“Guess we’d better post Chet on the latest,” said Joe.

The medicine-ball session was over and Chet was now leading his group of guests in a series of push-ups.

“Eleven-uh ... twelve-uh ... Ummh-thirteen -uh ...” The last came out in an agonized grunt as Chet, beet-red, barely hoisted himself off the ground.

Joe chuckled. “We’d better rescue Chet before he folds up.”

He and Frank caught their pal’s attention and he quickly struggled to his feet. “That’s f-f-fine, gentlemen,” he panted. “You’re doing great. I hate to interrupt these exercises, but I have to see what these two fellows want. Just keep going, please, or take a short rest period.”

Chet trotted gratefully over to join the Hardys.

“Looks as if we came just in time,” Frank said.

“Boy, you’re not kidding!” Chet mopped his forehead. “Whew! I’m not sure I like this job as well as I thought I would! Handball, water polo, body-building, and now this! And the lunch they feed you wouldn’t keep a flea alive. Boy, am I ever sick of cottage cheese and lettuce!”

“You’ll be down to a mere two-hundred-pound shadow by the time summer’s over,” Joe said.

Joe chuckled, “We’d better rescue Chet before he folds up.”

“Lay off, Joe,” Frank said with a smile. “Assistant Morton is really earning his salary.” He lowered his voice and added, “Listen, Chet, did you see a red-haired man check in here yesterday?”

The stout boy shook his head. “I wasn’t here Sunday. Why?”

Joe hastily told their chum about Ace Pampton and their suspicion that the health farm might secretly be a hideout for wanted criminals. Chet’s face was a picture of consternation.

“Good grief!” he gulped. “Don’t tell me I’ve got myself mixed up with a nest of crooks! I’m going to quit right now!”

When he learned, however, of the role Mr. Hardy was to play, Chet promised to stick it out and keep his eyes open for the fugitive swindler, as well as to be on the lookout for the detective.

As the two young sleuths drove back to town, Joe remarked, “Do you remember Mrs. Lunberry saying she had seen something like that chalked eye before?”

Frank nodded as he steered the car. “She thought it might have been somewhere in connection with her husband’s work. Why?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about what Tony told us, and the ‘horned hand’ picture Zatta put up. Do you suppose that drawing of an eye could represent the evil eye?”

“Maybe. Let’s check with Mrs. Lunberry.”

The boys drove to their boathouse, took out the Sleuth, and headed up the Willow River to Brockton. Mrs. Lunberry was happy to see them and listened eagerly to Frank’s report of their visit to Fontana’s art shop.

“That really isn’t why we came, though,” Frank said. “We’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of a superstition about the evil eye.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “That’s a very old—” Suddenly she broke off in surprise. “Of course! That’s what that eye chalked under my window reminded me of!”

She explained that when on digging expeditions with her husband she had often seen similar eyes. “They were carved in mud-brick walls or inlaid in mosaic on ancient ruins.”

“You mean people would carve evil eyes on their own houses?” Joe asked, puzzled.

The elderly woman smiled. “It’s hard to explain, but Clarence told me once that it’s a very common kind of superstitious thinking. The idea is that a harmless form of the thing you’re afraid of can help to ward off the real thing.”

The boys instantly thought of Zatta and the drawing on the hospital door. Aloud Joe asked, “Is there any chance the evil eye could be connected with the curse on the Jeweled Siva?”

“I’m sure it must be,” she said. “Superstitions about the evil eye have existed in many parts of the world, probably including India.”

Mention of the curse seemed to upset Mrs. Lunberry, so Frank changed the subject and asked the woman how she had happened to make arrangements with Fontana to sell the precious idol.

“I wrote to several dealers before making up my mind,” Mrs. Lunberry replied. “In the meantime, I was keeping the Siva in a safe-deposit box at the bank. Then one day Mr. Fontana came all the way to Brockton to see me, and I decided to let him handle the sale.”

“Did he bring references?” Frank asked. “Or persuade you that he could sell it for the highest price?”

“Nothing like that, I’m afraid.” The boys asked for a description, which fit the man they had seen in New York. Mrs. Lunberry smiled. “He seemed like such a nice man. Why, he even took me for a ride in his brand-new car. He’d bought it that very day in Ocean City.”

“Not a new Torpedo?” Joe asked sharply.

“Why, yes—I believe that was the make.”

The boys were startled but said nothing, about this new development until they were aboard the Sleuth, heading downriver.

“This proves to me that Malcolm Izmir, or someone at Izmir Motors, is mixed up in the theft of the Jeweled Siva,” Joe declared.

“And maybe Fontana himself,” Frank speculated.

That evening Chet Morton stopped at the Hardys’ house in his jalopy and honked his horn urgently. Frank and Joe rushed outside.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“Plenty!” The stout youth’s eyes were wide with fear. “I j-just saw a walking mummy!”

CHAPTER XVII

Secret Signals

“A WALKING mummy?” Joe echoed. Then he grinned. “Seems to me I recall we were going to be kidnapped once. What’s the joke this time?”

“It’s no joke!” Chet retorted indignantly. “I tell you I saw a walking mummyl”

“Okay, okay. Where?” Frank asked.

“At the health farm, that’s where. It was all on account of you guys, too.”

“How come?” Joe said.

Chet explained that he had had no luck in finding out if a new guest had checked in at the health resort on Sunday, nor had he seen anyone answering Ace Pampton’s description. And so he had purposely hung around on the job until long after his usual quitting time.

“I figured I might be able to do some snooping while dinner was being served,” Chet went on. “There was one particular building I wanted to get a look at.”

“Which one?” Frank put in.

“I don’t think you fellows have seen it. An old, two-story frame building, set back among the trees on the north side of the grounds.”

“What’s special about it?” Joe asked.

“The place is always kept locked. I’ve seen only one other person at the farm besides Doc Grafton and Rip Sinder ever go in there—in fact, today Doc told me it was off limits.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other with rising excitement.

“Well, go on! What happened?” Joe urged as Chet paused to munch a candy bar.

“For Pete’s sake, don’t rush me!” Chet retorted. “I’m half starved. I haven’t even had dinner yet.”

He went on, “Anyhow, I thought I’d try to peek inside, so I sneaked up through the trees. And then all a sudden this—this mummy walked past the window!” Chet’s face turned paler at the recollection. “The—the head was all wound around with bandages!”

The stout boy shuddered and his voice shook with fear. Joe tried to reassure him. “Easy, Chet! You’ve been seeing too many horror movies, like ‘The Creature from the Tomb’!”

“This was worse than any movie!”

“Who’s the other person allowed into the building?” Frank asked Chet.

“Some old man named Dr. Vardar. He’s the health-farm physician.”

Joe chuckled. “Chet, I think you’ve been working too hard out there.”

“Okay. Don’t believe me.” The stout boy gunned his engine. “Count me out of this case!” he exclaimed. “You two can investigate that creepy joint alone next time!”

“Come on, Chet,” Frank said soothingly. “We appreciate your help. You can’t back out now. Dad might arrive at the farm any time.”

Somewhat mollified, Chet consented, and a moment later the yellow jalopy roared off.

Frank and Joe gazed after it. Both were mystified at Chet’s story. “I’d like to have a look at that ‘mummy’ myself,” said Joe.

“Me too. But we’d better wait until we hear from Dad.”

Shortly before ten o’clock that evening a loud buzz from the basement announced an incoming call over the Hardys’ short-wave. Frank and Joe hurried down to receive it.

“Fenton calling Elm Street!” a low voice crackled from the speaker.

“Elm Street to Fenton,” Joe responded over the microphone. “We read you. Come in, please.”

“Hi, fellows!” said Mr. Hardy. “Just wanted to let you know that I arrived safely.”

“You’re at the farm now?” Frank put in.

“Right. I flew in on the eight-forty-five plane from Cleveland, got picked up by the chauffeur, and checked in under the name I gave you. This is the first chance I’ve had to get in touch. I’m calling from my room.”

The boys quickly reported Chet’s story.

“Good lead. I’ll follow it up.” Mr. Hardy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think someone’s coming. Over for now!”

Late that night Frank awoke from a sound sleep. He lay drowsily for a few moments, wondering what had aroused him. Suddenly he became aware of a muffled clicking sound.

“Where’s that coming from?” Frank wondered.

He sat bolt upright in bed. The clicking sounds seemed to fade out. Puzzled, Frank lay back on his pillow. At once the clicks became louder!

“Under my pillow!” Frank realized.

He pulled it aside and the clicks became still louder and clearer. Something on the bed glittered in the moonlight streaming in. The glass eye! Frank snatched it up with a stifled cry and held it to his ear.

The clicks were coming from the glass eye!

“Joe! Wake up!” he exclaimed, switching on his table lamp.

His brother raised up sleepily from his bed across the room. Joe blinked in the sudden glare. “Wh-what’s up?” he muttered.

“Signals are coming over this glass eye!” Frank whispered. “There must be a miniature receiver inside! Sounds like Morse code!”

As Joe came dashing across the room, Frank held out the eye so his brother could hear it. In a moment the signals ceased.

“Did you get anything?” Joe asked.

“Numbers and letters—but they didn’t make any sense to me, offhand,” Frank replied.

“Maybe there’ll be more!” Joe hastily got pencil and paper from his desk.

The signals began again. The transmission seemed slow and amateurish, and Joe copied down the message easily. It read:

12PM 4112N 7059W 13K 080 1227

As the glass eye fell silent, the Hardys stared at the numbers and letters in puzzlement.

“Get anything out of it?” Joe asked.

“Not much,” Frank admitted. “The ‘twelve PM’ must stand for a time—twelve o’clock midnight. The rest looks like some sort of secret code.”

Abruptly the glass eye resumed its ticking. Joe again copied down the Morse signals and found that the same set of numbers and letters were being repeated. While the boys were excitedly discussing the mysterious message, another transmission began with the same contents.

“Frank, that ‘N’ and ‘W’ could stand for ‘North’ and ‘West,’” Joe mused. “Maybe a position.”

“Right! In latitude and longitude!” Frank exclaimed. “That would be forty-one degrees, twelve minutes north latitude and seventy degrees, fifty-nine minutes west longitude.”

“Let’s see where that is.” Joe bounced up from his chair and strode to a map of the world which the boys had tacked to one wall. His finger traced out the nearest parallel and meridian. “Well, what do you know! It’s in the Atlantic Ocean—about halfway between Montauk on Long Island and Nantucket Island, Massachusetts.”

“In that case, it must be a ship’s position,” Frank reasoned. “But what about the last part?”

The Hardys stayed up for another hour, puzzling over the message, but could deduce nothing further. The radio signals being picked up by the glass-eye receiver had long since stopped when the two young sleuths finally went back to bed. It was two o’clock.

Early the next morning Chief Collig telephoned the Hardy home. “I have a follow-up on Izmir that may interest you fellows,” he said when Joe answered. “Last night two more men tried to break into Izmir’s estate. His watchdogs trapped them and both were caught.”

“Who are they?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Their names are Kane and Yaddo. They’re both dangerous hoods with police records.”

“What’s their story?”

“They have none. Neither one will talk.”

“Does Izmir know them?” Joe inquired.

“The Ocean City police couldn’t tell me that,” Collig replied. “It was some servant on the estate who turned them in. Yesterday morning Izmir left for New York to go on a European vacation cruise.”

“That’s right—I’d forgotten,” Joe replied. He frowned for a moment, then added, “Just for the record, are you sure he did leave?”

The police chief chuckled. “I thought you might ask me that, so I called the shipping line in New York and checked. Izmir definitely sailed on the Cristobal yesterday afternoon.”

“Okay. Thanks a lot for letting us know.”

Joe relayed the information to his brother as the two boys sat down to breakfast. The morning newscast was just coming on over the Hardys’ portable television set. The family grew silent at the announcer’s first words.

“A late bulletin states that a prominent East Coast businessman has been lost at sea. The ocean liner on which he had embarked Monday on a Scandinavian cruise, the Cristobal, reported by radio that Mr. Malcolm Izmir of Ocean City was missing this morning. His cabin had not been slept in, and he is presumed to have fallen or jumped overboard sometime during the night.”

CHAPTER XVIII

News of a Racket

FRANK and Joe were stunned by the news flash on Izmir’s disappearance. As they looked at each other in amazement, Frank’s eyes suddenly kindled with suspicion.

“Lost at sea!” he exclaimed to his brother. “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”

“Probably. This could have something to do with that message we picked up on the glass eye last night!”

“Message? Glass eye?” Aunt Gertrude darted an inquisitive glance at the boys. “What’s all this nonsense?”

“The glass eye started talking last night, Aunty,” Frank explained with a wink at his mother.

Miss Hardy’s voice was barbed with suspicion. “Are you trying to scare me, young man?”

“No. It’s on the level. That glass eye must have a miniature radio receiver inside it. Last night Joe and I heard it picking up signals in Morse—”

The telephone jangled in the hallway. Joe bounded up from the table to answer it.

“Are you one of the Hardy boys?” someone asked in a croaking voice.

“Yes, sir. Joe Hardy. Is this Mr. Mudge?”

“Certainly, I’m Mudge! Zachary Mudge. Who do I sound like?”

“Well, nobody, sir. That is, I mean—”

“Never mind nattering at me!” Mudge rapped out. “I have news for you two. On Izmir.”

“Malcolm Izmir?” Joe was startled.

“Yes, Malcolm Izmir.” The elderly man added in a burst of exasperation, “Do you know of any other Izmir we’ve been talking about?”

Joe grinned. “No, sir. It’s just that I—”

“Then stop talking so much. You think I have nothing better to do than waste my time answering tomfool questions?” Mr. Mudge seemed to pause for breath and then rattled on, “Now, listen. If you and your brother want to hear what I have to say, you’d better get up here right away. Understand? ... Can’t talk over these phones at the vegetable farm. Probably ears flapping all over the line.”

“Right, sir,” Joe said. “We’ll drive right over.”

The Hardy boys hastily finished their bacon and eggs under a barrage of questions from their mother and Aunt Gertrude, then backed their convertible out of the garage and took off.

“Wonder if Doc Bates’ office would be open yet,” Frank remarked as they sped down Elm Street.

“Sure, I guess so—it’s after nine,” Joe said with a glance at his wristwatch. “He’d see us, even if it wasn’t. But why?”

“I’ve been wondering if he might be able to tell us anything about that Dr. Vardar who Chet mentioned last night.”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “Let’s stop off and ask him.”

Dr. Bates, the Hardys’ family physician, had his office at home, a rambling stone house a few blocks from Elm Street. The boys found the office entrance open, and the secretary-nurse allowed them to see the doctor at once. Frank explained why they had come.

“Hmm. Dr. Vardar.” The physician frowned thoughtfully. “Seems to me I’ve heard the name, and yet he’s not a member of our local medical society. I can look him up in the medical directory and inquire about him later on today.”

“That’ll be fine, Doctor,” Frank said. “Thanks a lot.”

The Hardys drove on to the health farm. After stopping at the gatehouse, they were told to walk on up to the main building. Zachary Mudge was pacing the terrace with his cane.

“Half an hour it took you,” the elderly financier complained. “I’d still be grubbing for small change if I moved as slowly as you young whippersnappers move these days.”

“Sorry, sir,” Frank said, deciding it would be better not to mention their stop at Dr. Bates’ office. “We’re eager to hear what you’ve learned about Malcolm Izmir.”

Mudge shot a glance over his shoulder at Rip Sinder, who appeared to be watering some potted plants on the terrace. “There’s ape man over there, dying for an earful. Got so he follows me around like a confounded lap dog. Probably hoping for a tip on the stock market.” Mr. Mudge broke into a pleased cackle. “I gave him a bum steer on Consolidated Steel yesterday, just for kicks. Anyhow, let’s move on.”

They strolled off across the lawn toward the tennis courts, where several guests were lobbing balls back and forth.

“Had a call from New York this morning, just before I phoned you,” Zachary Mudge began. “My man there gave me the whole picture on Izmir.”

“He has quite a financial empire, doesn’t he?” Frank asked.

“He did have,” Mudge said. “Got his finger in a dozen or more pies. His different companies and enterprises are all linked together under a setup called the Izmir Syndicate. But here’s the rub—the whole structure’s about to tumble down around his ears.”

“You mean he’s gone broke?” Joe asked in surprise.

“I don’t know if he’s gone broke, but the Izmir Syndicate certainly has,” Mudge replied. “My agent says it’s near bankruptcy. Apparently Izmir’s been defrauding his investors and rigging the books for the past year or so. Now the government’s on his trail and he’s likely to wind up behind bars.”

The elderly financier rubbed his hands gleefully. “If Izmir was interested in the Sea Spook, more than likely he was hoping to float a new company and raise a packet of money on the strength of Braxton’s hydrofoil design. But just let him try it now! I’ll soon cut him down to size!”

“You won’t have to, sir,” Frank said. “Izmir was lost at sea last night from an ocean liner.”

Mudge stopped short and stared at the boys as Frank told him about the news flash. “Well, well, well. Can’t say I’m surprised. Man gets in his position, I dare say jumping overboard seems like the best solution.”

The Hardys considered this gruesome thought as they walked back toward the terrace with Zachary Mudge. The boys noted a tall man in swim trunks with a towel draped around his neck, striding across the lawn. Apparently he was returning from a swim in the outdoor pooL He was gray-haired, wore glasses, and had rather prominent teeth.

Joe looked at him casually and caught a wink. Then he did a quick double-take and exchanged a startled glance with Frank.

“Did you see who that swimmer was?” Joe asked his brother later, as they started down the drive.

Frank nodded. “Dad—or rather, Foster Harlow. Pretty neat disguise! Those phony teeth and the dyed hair changed his appearance completely.”

Joe suggested that they stop off at the Bayport General Hospital and check on Zatta. Sam Radley opened the door of the peddler’s room in answer to their knock.

“You two got here at just the right time,” Sam muttered as they entered. “I’ve been working on Zatta. I think he’s about ready to talk.”

The one-eyed man regarded the Hardys fearfully as they advanced toward his bed.

“How about it, Mr. Zatta?” Frank said. “Don’t you think it would make sense to tell us what you know? I promise you the police will give you complete protection from the men who tried to kill you. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner those thugs can be put behind bars.”

The peddler gulped and ran his tongue nervously over his lips. “All right,” he rasped. “I sure can’t stay holed up here for the rest of my life.” His eyes darted over his three listeners. “You guys ever heard o’ the Goggler gang?”

The Hardys and Sam Radley nodded.

“The Goggler gang is what the newspapers call ‘em,” Zatta went on. “Guys in the rackets call ’em the Evil Eyes or the Bad Eyes.”

“How come?” Joe asked.

Zatta shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe on account o’ them eyeballs and glasses they wear when they pull a job. Anyhow, that name ain’t no joke —they’re bad medicine. Every other mob on the East Coast is scared to death of ’em.”

“What about that horned hand you stuck up on the door?” Frank put in.

Zatta flushed. “That’s a ‘lay off’ sign they use. They’re in the protection racket, too, see? Every merchant who buys protection from ’em has a sign like that showin’ somewhere in his shop. And there ain’t a hood dumb enough to touch a place when he sees that hand ‘cause he knows the Bad Eyes would carve him up in a hurry if he tried muscling in. I figured if I stuck one of ’em signs up on my door, they’d think I was keepin’ my mouth shut and leave me alone.”

“Who’s the head of the mob?” Radley demanded.

“Nobody knows. I don’t even think the Bad Eyes themselves know who their boss is. All I heard is they work for some really hush-hush setup called the Eye Syndicate.”

“Okay. Now how about that card you gave us for Dad?” Frank inquired.

“It’s like this,” the peddler explained. “I been hearin’ rumors that something big was about to pop with the Bad Eyes. I don’t know whether it’s a job they’re plannin’ to pull or trouble in the gang or what. Anyhow, I spotted one o’ the Bad Eyes right here in Bayport.”

Joe tried a random shot. “Spotty Lemuel?”

“That’s right.” Zatta looked at the two boys in astonishment. “I didn’t know you kids were wise. When I saw Spotty, I figured the tip might be worth something to your old man. I tried to phone him and got no answer. Then I heard some kids talkin’ about you two bein’ in that high school game, so I went lookin’ for you at the ball field.”

Later, Zatta went on, he had heard a remark passed in a dive frequented by gangsters and hoodlums that the Bad Eyes were mixed up in a job involving Fontana’s art shop. So he had decided to keep watch on the place in the hope of picking up a further lead.

“But someone must have spotted you two talkin’ to me,” the peddler ended, “because that night two hoods cornered me and took me for a ride. You know what happened after that.”

Leaving Sam Radley on guard, Frank and Joe went down to the hospital lobby and telephoned Collig. The chief promised to send a squad car to the hospital at once and to keep the peddler in protective custody until the case was cleared up.

As the brothers walked out to their car, Frank remarked, “I’ll bet the man who spotted us talking to Zatta was Fontana himself.”

Joe nodded. “And try this for size. What if the Eye Syndicate is the same as the Izmir Syndicate? The word ‘eye’ standing for the letter ‘I’ in Izmir -get it?”

“I get it,” Frank said excitedly. “Joe, I believe you’ve hit the nail right on the head. What say we take the Sleuth out on the bay and talk this over? Maybe we can come up with a few more answers if we think it all out!”

“Swell idea!”

The two boys drove to the harbor. As they walked toward the boat dock, Bill Braxton hailed them excitedly.

“Just the guys I’m looking for!” he exclaimed.

“What’s up?” Joe inquired.

“I have a new mystery for you two to solve!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Figure at the Window

“A NEW mystery?” Frank said wryly. “We have our hands full now! But let’s hear it!”

“Someone took the Sea Spook out of her shed last night,” Braxton informed the boys.

“You mean she was stolen?” Joe asked, wide-eyed.

“Well, let’s say borrowed. That’s the funny part of it. She’s back in her berth right now. But I’m sure she was taken out during the night.”

“How come?” Frank said.

“For one thing, the lock on the waterside door was busted. For another, the bilge is full of sea water—and she was dry as a bone when I left here yesterday.”

Intrigued, the two boys eagerly accompanied Bill Braxton to his boathouse. Here they boarded the hydrofoil. Its afterdeck was still wet. Bill also showed them a tin dish from the locker.

“This was on the chart bench,” he explained. “Someone used it as an ash tray. You can still see the stain. The person probably emptied it over the side and gave it a quick wipe-off, but I found a stray butt that fell on the deck.”

“If the bilge is full,” Frank said thoughtfully, “your boat must have shipped a lot of water. Would she do that on the bay?”

Braxton shook his head. “Not a chance. It was calm as a millpond last night. The only way that could happen would be in a fairly heavy swell-maybe along the coast somewhere.”

“Did you check with the Coast Guard?” Joe suggested.

Braxton snapped his fingers. “That’s a thought.” He climbed out onto the catwalk, strode to his desk, and picked up the telephone. After calling the Barmet Bay Coast Guard Station, he hung up and turned back to the Hardys. “Well, that cinches it. Their lookout saw the Spook sail out of the bay around ten o’clock last night. The watch that came on at midnight is off duty now, so they’re not sure when my boat returned.”

Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances.

“How about the fuel tanks?” Joe asked.

“I think they’re down a bit, but I’m not positive what the level was when I left,” Braxton replied. “That wouldn’t tell us much about the range, anyhow. Whoever took the Spook could have filled her tanks and burned it all up before he brought her back.”

“Have you a chart of the coast around Nantucket?” Frank asked. “I’d like to see it.”

“Sure.” Bill Braxton climbed back aboard and led the way into the cabin. He removed a chart from a drawer and spread it out on the bench.

Frank fingered a spot about midway between Montauk and Nantucket. “Would your tanks have enough capacity to get the Spook there and back?”

Bill nodded. “Sure. Easy.”

“How long would the run take—say at top speed?” Frank inquired.

“Three hours each way. Maybe less—say two and a half if I really opened her up and didn’t run into any heavy seas. Why?”

“Joe and I have the same wild hunch, I think.” Frank told about the news report that Malcolm Izmir had been lost overboard from the Cristobal, and also about the mysterious radio signals he and Joe had picked up over the glass-eye receiver. “Izmir’s loss overboard at sea could have been faked to get him out of a financial jam,” Frank reasoned. “Someone could have taken your hydrofoil, picked Izmir up near the Cristobal, and brought him back to shore.”

“And the ‘someone’ could have been Lemuel,” Joe added. “That would explain why he pretended to be interested in buying the Spook and then never showed up again. All he really wanted was for you to take him out on the bay and show him how to operate this job.”

Bill Braxton was stunned. “Could be, all right,” he said slowly. “But to pull a trick like that, Izmir would need the cooperation of the master and crew of the Cristobal, wouldn’t he? That’s pretty hard to swallow.”

Frank was not so sure of this. “Would you, by any chance, know who owns the Cristobal?”

Braxton shook his head.

“Never mind,” Frank said. “We’d better notify the police, anyhow, and see if they can lift any fingerprints off the Spook.”

All three climbed off the hydrofoil and Frank telephoned Chief Collig. He reported the overnight theft of the Sea Spook and obtained the name of the company the chief had called to inquire about Izmir’s sailing.

“Thanks, Chief.” Frank hung up and turned back to the others. “He’s sending a detective right over. Joe, let’s blast off for home. I have an idea I’d like to follow up.”

Driving back to Elm Street, Frank explained, “The Cristobal is owned by the Trans-Ocean Line. Dad handled a case for them once, rounding up a gang of card sharks, remember? I think they should be willing to help us.”

As soon as they arrived home, Frank made a telephone call to the office of the Trans-Ocean Line in New York. After listening to his story, an executive of the company assured him that Captain Rowley, the master of Cristobal, had a long, spotless record of service. He could be considered above suspicion. The executive promised, however, to call the liner by radiotelephone and arrange a short-wave interview between the Hardys and the captain. Within an hour, the boys made contact.

“When was Izmir last seen, sir?” Frank asked him.

“Soon after midnight last night,” Captain Rowley replied. “He came up on the bridge and chatted with the officer on watch.”

“What about?”

“Oh, the usual things passengers talk about. He asked the ship’s position and course, what the weather outlook was, and so on.”

Frank glanced excitedly at Joe. “What was the ship’s position, sir?”

“Hold on a moment.” A short while later Rowley’s voice came back on. “Our midnight fix put us at forty-one degrees, twelve minutes north latitude and seventy degrees, fifty-nine minutes west longitude.”

Joe had a sudden inspiration. “Could you give us your course and speed at that time, sir?” he put in eagerly.

“According to the log, our course was 080, speed thirteen knots.”

“Is there any indication that Izmir went back to his cabin after that?” Frank asked.

“Apparently not, since his bed wasn’t slept in, although we don’t know,” Rowley replied. “He may have fallen over the rail or jumped right after leaving the bridge.”

The Hardys thanked the captain and signed off.

“I’d say that’s it, Joe!” Frank exclaimed. “The midnight position was the same as the one we picked up over the glass eye!”

“And the next two groups in the message tell the ship’s speed and course,” Joe pointed out.

Frank went on breathlessly, “And the last numbers—twelve twenty-seven—could be the time Izmir went over the side. Knowing the Cristobal’s course and speed, Lemuel could plot the exact spot where Izmir jumped.”

“Right. But did he stay afloat until the Spook arrived?”

“He probably had a life jacket, or even an inflatable raft,” Frank guessed. “It would be risky, all right, but not too risky if Izmir felt he was in a real jam and might wind up facing a long prison term.”

“Sure,” Joe agreed. “He and Spotty could easily have figured out beforehand, from the Cristobal’s sailing time, about where she’d be around midnight. All Izmir had to do was radio his exact position and shine a flashlight every so often. The Spook could have picked him up in fifteen minutes.”

Just then Mrs. Hardy called to her sons that Dr. Bates was on the phone. Frank hurried from the basement to answer, with Joe close at his heels.

“I’ve just found out about Dr. Vardar,” the medic reported. “He was a prominent plastic surgeon in New York City up until two years ago. Then he became involved in some sort of scandal. I couldn’t find out the details, but his license was revoked for malpractice.”

“Thanks a lot, sir. That tells us all we need to know.” Frank hung up and turned excitedly to his brother, who had been listening in. “Did you get that? Vardar was a plastic surgeon!”

“No wonder Chet thought he saw a mummy!” Joe replied. “Vardar must have operated on someone’s face and the patient was still wrapped in bandages.”

“Do you realize what that means?” Frank said. “Doc Grafton’s Health Farm isn’t just a hideout for criminals on the run—it’s even a place where they can buy a new face. What a racket!”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “That malpractice bit just gave me an idea, Frank.”

“Like what?”

“Remember Tony said the Italian name for the evil eye is malocchio?”

“So?”

“Well, mal must mean ‘bad’ or ‘evil.’ And if you shorten Malcolm Izmir’s name to one syllable plus a letter, you get ‘Mal I.’ That could be where the gang got its name—the Evil Eyes!”

“Wow! We’re really hot today!” Frank said, socking his fist into his palm. “I’ll bet anything the Sea Spook brought Izmir back to Bayport and he’s hiding out at the health farm right now, getting his face changed!”

“Great, but all this is just theory,” Joe reminded his brother. “We have no proof.”

“Right,” said Frank. “But if Dad can get a peek inside that building Chet told us about, he may be able to wrap up the case. Let’s see if we can raise him on the radio!”

The boys hurried back downstairs and tried to contact their father by short-wave, but got no response. After lunch they tried again without success. They continued calling throughout the afternoon, but Mr. Hardy failed to answer. By dinnertime Frank and Joe were worried.

“Let’s find out if Chet knows anything,” Frank suggested.

He telephoned the Morton farm and hung up a few moments later with a shrug of disappointment. “Chet’s mother says he doesn’t finish work this evening till nine o’clock. I don’t want to risk a phone call to him at the health farm.”

“Listen. If we can’t reach Dad by that time,” Joe said, “let’s go meet Chet and do a little scouting.”

“Okay with me.”

Soon after nine o’clock Chet came ambling through the arched gateway of the health farm. A slight honk drew his attention to the Hardys’ parked convertible. He trotted over.

“Hi, fellows!” he exclaimed. “I thought Iola was coming to pick me up.”

“We volunteered,” Frank said. “Hop in.”

As the car drove off, the Hardys gave Chet a quick fill-in. “I think your dad’s okay,” he assured them. “I saw him. He gave me a wink. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known him.”

“What time was that?” Joe asked.

“Around five-thirty. Just before chow.”

“Let’s try him again,” Frank said hopefully.

He pulled over to the side of the road and Joe beamed out a call over their short-wave. This time Fenton Hardy responded. After hearing their story, he said, “Good work, boys. I’ve already got hold of a key to that building and I’m going to try slipping in after lights-out at ten P.M. But it may be dangerous. Think you fellows could climb over the fence?”

“Sure. What do you want us to do?” Joe said.

“Keep watch for a signal—just in case I run into any trouble.”

“Roger!”

Chet was nervous but agreed to help. The boys waited until after ten o’clock, then parked the convertible on the north side of the wooded estate. Scaling the fence, they made their way silently among the trees toward the suspicious two-story frame building. The health farm lay shrouded in darkness. Other than faint gleams from a few shaded windows, most lights on the estate were out. Only the chirping of crickets broke the silence.

“Seen any sign of your dad?” Chet whispered as the three youths joined one another after circling the building.

“Not yet,” Frank murmured.

Suddenly they heard the noise of a violent scuffle inside the house—then a muffled cry! The boys’ hearts thudded. A light flashed on in an unshaded upper-story window.

“Good grief! What happened?” Joe exclaimed.

Fearing for his father’s safety, Frank darted closer to the building. Joe and Chet followed. All paused in the shadow of a dead, gnarled elm tree.

“I’m going to take a peek in the window!” Frank whispered. He scooped up a stone. “Also try to find out with this who’s up there. Give me a boost, Joe. Chet, you watch the door!”

Joe laced the fingers of his hands together for Frank to step on, then gave him a quick hoist. Frank grabbed a tree limb and swung himself upward. Meanwhile, Chet had crept to a position which gave him a clear view of the front door.

Frank hurled the stone at the lighted window. Crash! Chunks of glass from the broken pane tinkled to the ground. The next moment a figure stepped into sight at the sill—a thick-necked man wearing a dressing gown. He was partly silhou etted against the light, but Frank recognized him.

Malcolm Izmir!

At that instant the door of the house burst open! Two men came rushing out!

Chet hastily retreated, but stumbled over a rock and fell. Scrambling up, he fled toward the trees and shrubbery.

“Get him!” yelled one of the men.

Frank slid down the tree trunk and he and Joe dashed to their pal’s aid. As the men whirled, the Hardys tackled them full force. But the man who had not spoken thrust the boys back with the force of a battering ram, then seized them in a crushing grasp. His partner now dealt the brothers several stunning blows.

“Inside!” he snapped. “Quick!” Squirming and kicking, the Hardys were dragged into the building.

Their captors were Spotty Lemuel and Rip Sinder!

Lemuel’s lips twisted in a cruel sneer. “Now you’ll get the same treatment your father got—in our steam room!”

CHAPTER XX

Mystery Madhouse

SINDER released Frank and Joe, but the ex-pug stood glaring at them watchfully, his huge hands clenching and unclenching.

“You can’t get away with this!” Joe panted. “Our friend will have the police here in two minutes!”

Lemuel’s eyes glittered in his pale face. “Don’t kid yourself, junior! The fence around this joint is electrified—and Sinder turned on the juice as soon as we spotted you punks.” He gestured toward a wall switch. “Your buddy will sizzle the second he tries to climb out!”

Frank and Joe went white with fear at the thought. They were in the vestibule of a gloomy, high-ceilinged hallway which appeared to split the large, rambling house into two wings.

“Okay, upstairs, both of you!” Lemuel ordered. He gestured toward a steep staircase just beyond the vestibule. “And no funny business! We’ll be right behind you, every step of the way!”

The Hardys obeyed, but their minds were working at top speed. As they mounted the stairs, side by side, they could hear Sinder and Lemuel clumping behind them.

Suddenly Frank sagged, as if still stunned from the blows he had received. He seemed to miss his footing, and sprawled wildly against the steps.

“Hey, on your feet, punk, before I crease your skull!” Lemuel snarled. The gangster prodded Frank with his foot.

Frank moved like lightning. His hands grabbed Lemuel’s upraised foot while the man was still off balance and jerked it high in the air! With a scream the man went flying down the staircase!

Sinder grunted with rage and tried to seize Frank, but Joe whirled and gave him a terrific kick on the shoulder. The thug toppled backward, wide-eyed with terror. He clawed vainly for the stair rail, but rolled, thumping and pounding, down the full flight.

“Come on, Joe!” urged Frank, springing to his feet.

The boys bounded to the top of the stairs. The upper hallway was dark and lined with doors. Frank and Joe ran through it, heading toward the rear of the building. Joe suddenly spotted a side passage on their right.

“This way!” Joe hissed, tugging his brother’s sleeve. As they turned, they could hear confused sounds coming from the stairwell.

The passage connected to another corridor. Frank sighted a flight of steps leading downward and steered his brother toward it. “We must get back to that switch and turn off the electricity to the fence!” he whispered hoarsely.

The brothers plunged down the stairs to the first floor, then along a corridor that turned right and opened into the main hallway. It appeared empty and the Hardys raced along. They could hear pounding steps on the second floor, fading toward the rear.

“Whew! Let’s hope we’re not too late!” Joe breathed as they darted into the vestibule.

Frank flicked off the fence power switch.

“If only we could find Dad!” Joe muttered. “This place is like a maze!”

“Maybe Izmir will tell us!” Frank headed back to the stairs, with Joe at his heels, and ran lightly up the steps.

This time, instead of going straight through the second-floor hall, they turned toward the front of the house. A connecting corridor branched both ways. The Hardys followed it to the right.

Suddenly Frank grabbed Joe’s arm and pointed to a doorway at the comer of the hall. A thin line of light seeped out below the door.

“That’s the room I saw from the tree,” Frank explained in a whisper. “Izmir’s in there!”

The boys crept closer. Frank put his hand gently on the knob and flung the door open.

Inside, Malcolm Izmir was standing at a bureau, putting a small jeweled ivory figure into a pouched money belt. He whirled and his jaw dropped in surprise.

Before he could cry out, Joe snatched a pillow from a bed near the door and flung it at him. Izmir ducked, but the pillow caught him in the face. In a split second the Hardys were on him like tigers!

Frank crooked an arm around the startled man’s neck and threw him heavily to the floor. Joe knelt on top of him, pinioning Izmir with knees and hands. Meanwhile, Frank poised a hard-knuckled fist directly over Izmir’s face. “One yell out of you and—” he warned. “Just tell us where we can find the steam room.”

“Second floor back,” Izmir croaked. “Last door to the left—main hallway!”

“Tear up some sheets, Joe. Quickly!” Frank ordered. “We’ll tie him up!”

In a few minutes the fugitive lay bound and gagged. The boys hurried from the room, and dashed back to the main hallway. At the end, Frank opened the last door on the left. A glare of light dazzled their eyes.

“Dr. Vardar’s operating room!” Joe exclaimed.

The white-gowned surgeon stood at an operating table on which a patient lay outstretched. Another man in white, evidently the doctor’s assistant, stood near the foot of the table. Both wore surgical masks. Above these, their eyes stared in complete astonishment at the Hardys.

Frank slammed the door before either man could make a move. “Izmir tricked us!”

The boys fled down the back stairs. They could hear running footsteps now in several parts of the house. “We must find Dad!” Frank said grimly.

Desperately he and Joe dashed down a rear hallway. At the end of the corridor were a pair of swinging doors. The boys burst through them and stopped short with exclamations of horror.

A row of steam cabinets stood along one wall of the white-tiled room. From one cabinet protruded the head of a gray-haired man. It was drooping to one side. His eyes were closed and his red face was dripping with perspiration.

“Dad!” Frank cried in a choked voice.

While Joe turned off the steam, Frank quickly opened the front of the cabinet and raised the top flaps so they could pull out the unconscious investigator. He had been thrust inside fully clothed, his arms tied behind him.

“Look at this lump on his head,” Joe said. “They must have knocked him out first!”

The boys untied their father’s hands, then Frank got some cold water from a nearby basin and bathed the detective’s head. After the brothers had worked over him for a few minutes, Mr. Hardy began to regain consciousness. Soon he was able to talk and stand up. Frank and Joe briefed him quickly on all that had happened.

“Thanks, boys,” the detective said tensely. “I couldn’t have lasted much longer in there.”

“You won’t last much longer—period!” a voice snarled. The three Hardys whirled in dismay as a group of men burst into the room.

At their head was a small, foxy-faced individual clutching a gun. With him were Lemuel, Sinder, and Dr. Vardar’s surgical assistant.

“Better not try anything, Grafton,” said Fenton Hardy in a taut voice. “Your number’s up. You won’t stand a chance of getting away.”

Doc Grafton’s face twisted into a gold-toothed smile. “Don’t make me laugh, Hardy!” he jeered. But at this moment a siren wailed outside.

“The cops!” gasped the surgical aide. “Let’s blow!”

“Not till I take care of these three rats!” Grafton snarled. He started toward the detective and his sons, but Lemuel grabbed his sleeve frantically.

“Don’t be a sap! We don’t want a stretch in prison!”

As Doc’s gaze shifted for a moment to Lemuel, Fenton Hardy snatched up a wet towel and hurled it at Grafton. It caught the criminal in the face and chest, checking his advance.

Lemuel and the others were already dashing from the room. Before Grafton could regain his wits, two more towels caught him in the face. Joe brought him down with a flying tackle and Frank pinned his arms.

While the two boys quickly subdued Grafton, Mr. Hardy raced in pursuit of the other criminals. They were running out the front door when they blundered straight into the arms of Chief Collig and a trio of husky policemen!

In a few minutes the fight was over. Doc Grafton and his cohorts stood panting and handcuffed, facing the Hardys and the police.

“How did you get here so fast?” Joe asked the burly chief.

“Well, for one thing, your father radioed us to stand by,” Collig replied.

“That was right after I heard from you fellows,” Mr. Hardy explained. “I figured the case was about to blow wide open, and as soon as I had the evidence, it would be time for Chief Collig to take over.” He added that he had been seized by Lemuel and Sinder soon after entering the building. Upon close examination the men had recognized the detective’s features.

“Then we got a second call from Chet Morton to get here in a hurry,” Collig told the boys. “He contacted us over your car radio.” The chief turned as Chet himself came bustling in through the front door. Frank and Joe pounced on him joyfully with bear hugs and handshakes.

“I’m glad you’re okay!” Frank exclaimed.

“Chet, old buddy, you’re the greatest!” Joe told him.

“I’m glad you fellows realize it,” their chum said, his moonface splitting into a wide grin.

“Incidentally, we caught Nick Cordoza tonight and he talked plenty,” Collig went on. “Seems he was a member of the Goggler gang—or the Evil Eyes, as they call it—and Malcolm Izmir was the head. Izmir had also been acting as banker for the gang’s loot. But suddenly he told them it was time to break up—and then double-crossed them by paying them off in counterfeit money. No wonder they were trying to get him!”

Collig was astounded as the boys told him how Izmir had been picked up at sea by Lemuel and brought back to hide out at the health farm and have his face altered by Dr. Vardar.

“You two were way ahead of us,” the chief commented wryly to the boys. “But that was a great job of detection, Frank and Joe. And you helped a lot, Chet.”

A search was made of the building and half a dozen wanted criminals were taken into custody. All had been staying at the health farm—unknown to the regular guests—and were in process of recovering from facial surgery. The patient whom Frank and Joe had seen on the operating table turned out to be Pampton.

A figurine found in Izmir’s money belt was indeed the Jeweled Siva. Also secreted, in other waterproof pouches, were diamonds and thousand-dollar bills.

Glumly the captured ringleader told his story. Lemuel, whose help he needed to stage his fake drowning at sea, was the only member of the gang not included in the double cross. Doc Grafton, Sinder, and the surgical aide—an ex-convict named Frosh who had worked as a prison orderly —knew all about the Evil Eyes and Izmir’s plan. He had promised them fat sums for their services.

“Some of the mob found out who I really was,” Izmir said, “and my business investments were about to collapse. That’s why I had to clear out. I figured I could start a new life with a new name and a new face.”

“And become a figure in hiding,” Frank remarked.

Izmir said that before sailing he had converted all his remaining funds into cash and diamonds. He had learned through Fontana about the Jeweled Siva being for sale and had concocted a scheme with the art dealer to get hold of it through a fake robbery.

“I paid Fontana with a new car,” Izmir went on, “and he was also going to keep the insurance payoff for the theft. He lied to Mrs. Lunberry that his insurance didn’t cover it.”

All members of the gang possessed glass-eye receivers. Izmir had had them made in Japan as a means of signaling instructions to his men on criminal jobs. But Spotty Lemuel had dropped his glass eye aboard the Sea Spook and had returned to the boathouse to inquire about it.

“So Spotty did overhear Bill Braxton talking to us on the phone and knocked him out,” Frank put in.

“Yes.” Izmir went on to say that Lemuel had then guessed that the Hardy boys had become suspicious of him. Unable to find the eye after a frantic search, he realized it must be in the Hardys’ possession.

This had thrown Izmir into a panic. He feared the boys or their father might foil his scheme to jump off the Cristobal with an inflatable life raft by picking up his radio signals once overboard. Frantic efforts had been made to get back the glass eye before he sailed—first by luring the boys into the ambush at the vacant house, later by having Frosh, disguised as a meter reader, attempt to crack the Hardys’ safe. Finally he had tried the midnight summons to Lookout Hill.

Rip Sinder and Doc Grafton had assisted Lemuel at the Lookout Hill rendezvous while Frosh had decoyed Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude into leaving the house in order to blow open the safe.

After learning that one of the double-crossed gang members had held up the Bijou in a car stolen from Izmir Motors, Malcolm Izmir had come to keep watch on the police’s activities near the crash scene. While there, he had spotted the Hardy boys, trailed them to Mrs. Lunberry’s home, and left the warning sign chalked under her window. Fontana had reported the Hardys’ attempt to talk to Zatta and this had led to the peddler’s kidnapping.

Izmir guessed that the boys might trace the green sedan and had had a fake call made to his sales manager so that Sykes would get rid of them. Izmir himself had been in the automobile showroom that day and had spotted the boys approaching. He had left by a rear door, and later had had Lemuel and Sinder lure them into the road trap.

Hoping for a lighter sentence, Izmir willingly identified all members of the Evil Eye gang. Two of them were the men who had tried to break into his estate.

“We should be able to round up the rest of them without too much trouble,” Collig said. “And that art dealer, Fontana, too.”

Mr. Hardy accompanied the police and their prisoners to headquarters. Frank and Joe, with Chet, drove off in their convertible. As they passed through the arched gateway, Joe remarked, “Boy, it sure was lucky we got the juice to the fence switched off in time!”

“Juice? What do you mean?” Chet queried.

When their stout friend learned of his narrow escape from the electrified fence, Chet’s face went white. “You mean ... you mean ...” He gulped and slumped back on the seat.

“Good grief! Chet’s fainted!” Joe cried out.

Frank winked and said sadly, “Too bad Chet had to pass out. I was all set to buy him all the banana splits he could put away.”

Chet’s eyes opened and he sat up indignantly. “Well, for Pete’s sake, why didn’t you say so?” he complained.

Joe grinned. “No more rugged diets, eh pal?”

“You said it! And no more getting mixed up in any dangerous Hardy cases!”

But this resolution of Chet’s was soon to be forgotten when Frank and Joe were confronted with THE SECRET WARNING.

“Come on!” Chet urged. “My mouth’s dry as cotton. Let’s get over to the Hot Rocket!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Ghost Walks

CHAPTER II - Close Combat

CHAPTER III - Mystery Map

CHAPTER IV - Danger Signal

GHAPTER V - The Golden Pharaoh

CHAPTER VI - A Madman’s Scrawl

CHAPTER VII - The Midnight Wrecker

CHAPTER VIII - Egyptian Fake

CHAPTER IX - The Shattered Cat

CHAPTER X - A Four-legged Menace

CHAPTER XI - A Clever Dodge

CHAPTER XII - Key 273

CHAPTER XIII - A Lost Anchor

CHAPTER XIV - A Cave Clue

CHAPTER XV - Trouble Ashore

CHAPTER XVI - Double Disappearance

CHAPTER XVII - Secret of the Mummy Case

CHAPTER XVIII - Danger Below

CHAPTER XIX - Strong-Room Surprise

CHAPTER XX - Rhamaton’s Curse

THE SECRET WARNING

STRANGE events involve Frank and Joe Hardy in a mystery which shrouds an ancient treasure—the golden head of the Pharaoh Rhamaton IV. First, a cryptic unsigned warning from Egypt; second, the ghost of a bloodthirsty pirate of the eighteenth century, who, according to legend, haunted nearby Whalebone Island years ago and recently has reappeared.

The owner of the million-dollar golden Pharaoh’s head claims it was aboard the freighter Katawa, which sank not far from Whalebone Island. But suspicious developments indicate that Mehmet Zufar may be trying to defraud the shipping line’s insurance company. Frank and Joe enthusiastically accept the challenge of their famous detective father to assist him in investigating the complex case for Transmarine Underwriters.

A puzzling clue leads the Hardys to Whalebone Island, where they almost lose their lives in a violent explosion. Someone desperately wants to get rid of them. But who? Is it the ghostly pirate?

Frank and Joe’s perilous scuba-diving search in the ocean depths off the island yields electrifying discoveries that cap the climax of this exciting mystery.

A chill of fear struck the Hardys as they approached the

trapped diver

Copyright © 1994, 1966, 1938 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 66-12695

eISBN : 978-1-101-07631-6

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Ghost Walks

A LOUD ring of the doorbell startled the Hardy boys as they sat watching a TV mystery. Joe tuned down the volume. “Who could that be at this time of night?” the blond, seventeen-year-old youth wondered aloud.

“Maybe a client of Dad’s. It can’t be Mom and Aunt Gertrude—they have a key.” Frank, dark-haired and a year older than his brother, got up and strode to the door.

A telegraph messenger was standing on the front porch. “Cablegram for Fenton Hardy.”

Frank signed for the message and took it back to the living room. “For Dad,” he reported. “Coming from overseas, this may be urgent.”

“We’d better open it,” Joe suggested.

Frank slit the yellow envelope and read the contents. “Good grief!” he exclaimed. “ ‘Beware the Pharaoh’s head. Doom to all who seek it!”’

“The Pharaoh’s head? What does that mean?”

Frank shrugged. “Search me.”

“Well, who sent it?”

“I don’t know that, either,” Frank said, perplexed. “There’s no name on the message, but it came from Cairo, Egypt.”

Joe took the cablegram, studied it intently, then hurried out to the hallway telephone and called the local telegraph office. When he hung up, he frowned in puzzlement.

Frank, coming into the hall, queried, “What did they say?”

“The message was received just that way—unsigned. Apparently there’s no rule requiring a sender to include his name.”

“I think we’d better contact Dad right away,” Frank decided.

Fenton Hardy, formerly a detective in the New York City Police Department, had retired to the seaside town of Bayport and soon had become nationally known as a crack private investigator. His two sons, Frank and Joe, who had inherited their father’s sleuthing talents, often helped out on his cases.

The boys hurried upstairs to switch on the powerful short-wave radio in the detective’s study. Mr. Hardy always carried a compact transceiver in order to be able to communicate with his home in cases of emergency.

Frank beamed out the usual code call repeatedly. But the only response was a jumble of static.

“He must be away from his hotel, or wherever he’s staying,” Joe said.

“Could be.” Frank glanced at the window as a flash of lightning brought an extra loud crackle from the speaker. “Or maybe we’re not getting through. That storm brewing out there may be interfering with our transmission.”

After a few more minutes, the boys gave up for the time being and went back downstairs. A loud clap of thunder sounded as they reached the living room.

“Boy, looks as if we’re in for a real cloudburst,” Frank remarked anxiously. “I sure hope Mom and Aunt Gertrude don’t get caught in it.”

He was about to resume his seat in front of the television when he heard Joe gasp.

“Thought I saw something at the window.”

Frank stared quizzically at his brother. “You mean a person—or what?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “It was just a fleeting impression. May have been my imagination. Is the prowler alarm on?”

“Not yet. Mom said to leave it off till they got home.” Frank added with a grin, “You know Aunt Gertrude—she’d really pin our ears back if the alarm system went off just as they were coming up to the house.”

Joe chuckled as he imagined his tall, peppery aunt’s reaction to being caught in a blaze of floodlights, accompanied by a shattering alarm signal. “Think I’ll take a look outside, anyhow,” he told Frank. “It won’t hurt to make sure.”

Joe was just starting into the hallway when the doorbell rang. “Now what?” he muttered as he switched on the porch light. He yanked open the front door. A man stood clutching a cane. He wore a felt hat and Navy officer’s raincoat.

“Captain Early! Welcome aboard, sir!”

The man’s ruddy, weather-beaten face broke into a wide grin. “Howdy, Joe!” He saluted and gave the boy’s hand a brisk squeeze as he limped inside.

Hearing their voices, Frank hurried to greet the visitor. “Dad will be sorry he missed you,” he said as they shook hands.

Captain Phil “Pearly” Early was an old friend of the Hardys. Now retired, he lived alone in a house on the coast, north of Barmet Bay, and devoted his time to writing books on sea lore.

“I probably should have phoned,” the captain apologized, “but I had to come to Bayport on an errand, anyhow, so I took a chance.” He doffed his hat and coat, revealing a crisp gray crew cut and a slight but wiry build.

As Joe took his things, there came the sudden sound of a drenching downpour. Rain pelted the roof and splattered against the windows.

“You got here just in time,” Frank said.

Captain Early nodded and tapped his thigh. “Hurricane weather. My game leg always tells me when we’re in for a blow.” His ruddy face turned serious. “By the way, did you boys just have a visitor?”

Frank shook his head. “No, sir. Why?”

“When my taxi drew up here, I saw a man standing just outside the hedge around your grounds. He darted off as the headlights beamed on him.”

Joe exchanged a quick, startled glance with his brother. “What did he look like?”

“Rather odd,” said Captain Early. “I suppose that’s really why I mentioned him. He had a black cloak or coat, a bushy red beard, and—well, something strange about the eyes.”

The boys escorted their visitor into the living room. As Frank turned off the TV, Captain Early asked, “You fellows home alone?”

“We are just now,” Joe replied. “Mom and Aunt Gertrude have gone to a concert.” Seeing the captain’s thoughtful frown, he added, “Did you want to see Dad, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. But I might as well put the case in your hands.”

Frank settled eagerly into a chair. “You have a mystery you want investigated?”

The captain nodded as he filled his pipe. “Doesn’t amount to much, probably, but all the same I’d like to know what’s behind it. Twice recently, my house has been broken into at night.”

“Was anything stolen?” Joe inquired.

“No, because both times I woke up and scared the intruder off.” The first time, Captain Early related, his study had been ransacked. On the second occasion, the burglar had come into his bedroom.

“Did you see him well enough to give us a description?” put in Frank.

“No, I hardly saw him at all. By the time I switched on the light, he was out the window and away over the back porch roof.”

“When did this happen?” Joe asked.

“The first time was on Friday, and the second attempt was just last night—Sunday.”

Frank said, “Any idea what the thief was after?”

“None at all. I never keep any large amount of money in the house.” Captain Early puffed on his pipe for a moment. “Incidentally, I’ve had a strange feeling of being followed several times lately—including tonight on my way to Bayport. But that may be pure bosh.”

Again the boys exchanged glances. Captain Early, with his brilliant war record, was certainly not a man given to fearful flights of imagination.

“Jumpin’ Jupiter, you really have given us a mystery to work on,” said Joe. “Have you told the police about the break-ins?”

“Yes, but naturally there wasn’t much they could do, except check for fingerprints—and there weren’t any.”

“Look,” Frank said. “We were trying to contact Dad earlier on another matter. Suppose I try again.”

Leaving Joe to entertain their guest, Frank hurried to the short-wave set in their father’s study. This time, his code call brought an immediate response. Mr. Hardy, speaking from Philadelphia, explained that he and his operative, Sam Radley, had just returned to their hotel.

When Frank mentioned the mysterious cablegram, the sleuth reacted with keen interest. “That message relates to the case we’re working on, son, and it could provide an important lead. I’ll fill you and Joe in on all the details as soon as I return.”

Next, Frank told about Captain Early’s visit.

“Hmm. Certainly sounds as if something more is involved than an ordinary case of breaking and entering,” Mr. Hardy said. “But there’s not much I can do from here. You and Joe will have to handle it for the time being. Say, there is one thing you can do for me.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Ask Captain Early what he knows about the legend of Whalebone Island.”

Mystified, Frank signed off and returned to the living room. At the mention of Whalebone Island, Captain Early’s ruddy face paled.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “It can’t be!”

“What’s wrong, sir?” Frank asked.

The Navy man hesitated before replying. “Whalebone Island, as you probably know, lies off the coast, south of here. In colonial days it was the hideout of a ruthless pirate named Red Rogers. Of course you’ve heard the term ‘Jolly Roger’?”

Frank said, “The skull and crossbones?”

“Right. And the same name was sometimes given to Red Rogers because of his bloodthirsty sense of humor.”

Captain Early went on slowly, “Red Rogers always wore a black cloak and had a bushy red beard and a scar which pulled down the corner of one eye.”

“Wow!” Joe gasped. “Just like that fellow you saw outside tonight!”

Captain Early nodded. “Exactly. After Rogers was killed in a sea fight, the island was pretty much avoided. In fact, it was said to be haunted.”

At that moment the captain’s story was interrupted by a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening clap of thunder which seemed to shake the whole house. A second later the darkness outside was lit up by a blinding flash of lightning.

“Look!” Joe yelled and pointed.

A red-bearded figure in a black cloak was peering through the window!

A ghostly figure was peering through the window!

CHAPTER II

Close Combat

THE lightning flickered out, and the ghostly figure was gone almost instantly. Frank and Joe leaped to their feet and rushed to the front door, followed by Captain Early hobbling on his cane.

Ignoring the gusty torrents of rain, the boys dashed out into the stormy darkness and around the corner of the house. Not a soul was in sight. The Hardys separated to search the whole yard, but even when another jagged flash of lightning lit up the night with daylike brilliance they could see no sign of the figure which had appeared at the window.

“It’s hopeless!” Frank groaned. “Let’s get back inside before we drown!”

Drenched to the skin, the brothers changed into dry clothes before resuming their conversation with Captain Early.

“Did anyone live on Whalebone Island in those old days that you were telling us about?” Frank asked.

“No, except for fishermen who camped there overnight or put up temporary huts from time to time. I suppose the stories of ghosts on the island may have arisen because members of Red Rogers’ crew were said to be returning there secretly.”

“Maybe to dig up buried treasure!” put in Joe.

“Possibly,” the Navy man agreed with a smile. “Or fugitives from the law may have hidden there occasionally. At any rate, the spooky legends of Jolly Roger and his cutthroats finally died out, and sometime in the eighteen-hundreds a lighthouse was erected on Whalebone Island. Then, in the closing days of World War II, a lighthouse keeper there named Tang went out of his mind.”

“How come?” Frank asked.

Captain Early gave a shrug. “He claimed the island was being haunted again by Red Rogers’ ghost. More likely, he’d just cracked up under the loneliness and isolation, I suppose. Anyhow, soon after that the lighthouse was closed down.”

“Because of what happened to Tang?” Joe asked.

“No, no. The equipment was outdated and a new light, much more powerful, had been built on Dory Point to serve that same general coastal area.”

“What’s on the island now?” Frank inquired.

“Nothing. It’s abandoned as far as I know.”

The brothers were greatly intrigued. Any hint of mystery attracted them, and many times had plunged them into exciting sleuthing adventures. One of their first had been locating The Tower Treasure. Recently, they had successfully uncovered the secret of A Figure in Hiding.

Captain Early tucked his pipe into his pocket. “Well, boys, it’s been a pleasant visit, but I’d better be starting back. As a matter of fact, this is far later than I intended to linger in town.”

The navy officer explained that he had had motor trouble while driving to Bayport. “I had to call for a tow car from a garage. That’s why I arrived here by taxi. By the way, may I use your phone?”

“Of course. Help yourself,” Frank replied.

The captain checked with the garage and hung up, frowning. “Drat the luck, my car needs a new distributor, and they can’t get one till morning.”

Frank and Joe immediately urged Captain Early to stay overnight. Grateful but embarrassed, he accepted. Frank showed the captain to the first-floor guest room and laid out pajamas and bathrobe, while Joe wrote a note to his mother and aunt telling them about the unexpected overnight guest. He stuck it on the hall mirror.

Then the boys went upstairs to bed, leaving only a hallway light burning for their mother and Aunt Gertrude. Soon the household was dark and silent, except for the steady patter of the rain.

Some time later Frank awoke with a start. From below came confused sounds, topped by a shrill angry voice and punctuated by the sudden clash of china being broken. The latter noise roused Joe.

“Good night!” he muttered. “What’s going on?”

“That’s Aunt Gertrude’s voice!” Frank exclaimed. “Come on! We’d better get down there!”

The boys dashed downstairs, almost colliding with their slim, attractive mother, who was on her way up.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Joe cried out.

“G-g-goodness, I hardly know!” Mrs. Hardy stammered. “Somebody peeked out of our guest room as we entered the house, and Aunt Gertrude went after him.”

Gulping with dismay, Frank and Joe ran to the scene of combat.

“Take that, you scoundrel!” they heard Aunt Gertrude shriek. “I’ll teach you to break into houses.”

Frank groped for the wall switch and instantly the guest room was ablaze with light. Captain Early was backing toward a closet, striving to protect himself, while the boys’ tall, angular maiden aunt poked at him with her wet umbrella.

“Aunt Gertrude! Please!” Frank exclaimed. “This is Captain Early—our guest!”

“Oh, my goodness, it is!” said Aunt Gertrude, adjusting her spectacles. “Why on earth didn’t you say so?”

“Madam, I’ve been trying to,” the captain replied, slipping into his bathrobe.

He explained that when he had heard footsteps in the hall, he thought it might have been the intruder they had seen at the window.

“So I peered out the door,” he said, “and—wham!” Then, to the relief of the Hardys, Captain Early burst into hearty laughter. Even the women had to chuckle at his predicament, and when Joe mentioned the note on the mirror, Miss Hardy confessed she had not seen it.

When the hilarity quieted down, the captain had tea with his hosts before retiring again.

The next morning at breakfast time, the doorbell rang in loud, persistent spurts.

“I’ll get it,” said Frank, rising from the table and hurrying to the front door.

The caller was a large, burly man with iron-gray hair. “Where’s Fenton Hardy?” he demanded roughly.

“My father’s not home,” said Frank. “May I—”

“Get out of my way!” The man shoved him aside and started into the house.

Frank reacted angrily. “Wait a minute!” he said, grabbing the man’s arm. “Just who are you and what do you want?”

The man’s jaw jutted. “You’ll find out—and mighty soon!”

The two might have come to blows, if the sounds of their altercation had not reached the dining room. Joe came hurrying to see what was wrong, the captain limping after him.

At sight of the Navy man, the visitor stopped short. His threatening snarl changed to a sullen scowl. For a moment there was dead silence, then the stranger muttered to Frank:

“You tell Fenton Hardy that if Gus Bock ever finds him, he’s in for trouble!”

Without another word, the visitor turned and stalked out the door.

CHAPTER III

Mystery Map

BOTH the Hardys and Captain Early were too taken aback to speak for a moment.

“What the dickens was that all about?” Joe said finally.

“This man wanted to see Dad about something and got sore when I said he wasn’t home.” Frank turned to the captain. “The sight of you seemed to quiet him, sir. Do you know him?”

Captain Early shook his head slowly. “No. He did look a bit familiar, but I can’t seem to place him—Wait a minute.”

Suddenly the Navy man snapped his fingers. “Gus Bock! Of course! He was a bos’n third on the last destroyer I commanded. Always did have an ugly temper. Had him up before the mast many times. Believe I heard later he was court-martialed for threatening an officer.”

“Any idea what he’s doing now?” asked Joe.

“Hmm. Well, I know he put in for frogman training—he and another young chap who served under me on the Svenson. And much later I heard he was working as a commercial diver—but that was several years ago.”

“Wonder what he has against Dad,” Joe mused.

“Nothing serious, I hope,” said Captain Early. “That fellow’s a bad customer.”

“Dad can take care of himself,” Frank said confidently. “Let’s go finish our breakfast. Sorry for the interruption, Captain.”

Their aunt peered at the boys inquisitively as they returned to the table. When neither spoke, she said, “Sounded like some troublemaker. Who was he?”

Frank and Joe assumed blank, innocent expressions. Although their aunt would never admit it, she secretly followed the Hardys’ mystery cases with avid interest, and both boys could see that she was consumed with curiosity over the caller.

“Just someone to see Dad,” Frank said casually.

“I assumed that. I asked who he was.”

“He said his name was Gus Bock.”

Miss Hardy fixed Frank with a gimlet stare, then turned to Joe. The boys’ eyes were twinkling. Captain Early ahem-ed awkwardly.

“Oh, very well. The matter’s of no real concern to me.” Gertrude Hardy sniffed. “But if anything serious happens as a result of that fellow’s call, don’t come to me later for advice or sympathy!”

The boys choked with laughter, and Frank hastened to explain all to his offended aunt. When he had finished, she commented, “Humph! So Bock is a diver. That probably means your father is on the trail of some sunken treasure, and Bock is trying to scare him off. This modern underwater craze is entirely too dangerous, anyhow. If Fenton is wise, he’ll have nothing to do with the case.”

With a slight smile, the boys’ mother gently changed the subject. After breakfast Joe suggested to his brother that they check outside for footprints of the person they had seen in front of the window the night before. As they expected, however, the few faint traces had been all but obliterated by the rain.

“Tough luck,” Frank said. “Well, at least the storm’s over and the sun’s out. Hey, here comes the mail!”

The postman was just ambling up the walk with his leather pouch. He greeted the boys with a cheery hello and handed over a sheaf of letters. Joe thumbed through them.

“Anything for me?” Frank asked.

“No. Just ads, mostly, and business stuff for Dad.” Suddenly Joe stopped to stare at one envelope. “Say, here’s a queer one—Leapin’ lizards! Look at the sender’s name on this, Frank!”

The older boy examined the envelope. It was addressed to Fenton Hardy in crudely printed, red-inked letters. Far more startling was the sender’s name and address in the upper left-hand corner:

R. ROGERS

WHALEBONE ISLAND

“Good night!” Frank gasped. “The same name as the pirate Captain Early told us about!”

“Whose ghost we saw at the window!” Joe added. “And don’t forget, Dad wanted to know about the legend of Whalebone Island. This may tie in with the case he’s working on!”

“It’s postmarked Seaview,” Frank noted. “That’s the town on the mainland right across from the island. Come on, Joe. Let’s try to raise Dad on the radio!”

The two hurried to their father’s study. By luck, they were able to make short-wave contact almost at once. Fenton Hardy listened to their account of the previous night’s events and exclaimed when he heard of the letter.

“Go ahead and open it, boys! This should be interesting!”

Joe slit the envelope and pulled out a rumpled, stained piece of paper. Both boys gasped when they saw what was on it.

“It’s a map of Whalebone Island, Dad!” Joe reported. “No writing, except for the label—and a red X mark at one spot!”

“Any indication of what the mark stands for?”

“Not a hint. But if you want a guess, how about pirate treasure?”

“Take it easy, Joe,” Frank said. “For all we know, this map may be a fake—or somebody’s idea of a practical joke.”

“Could be,” Mr. Hardy agreed, “but I think it should be investigated—promptly. Tell me, were you two planning to go back with Captain Early to check his house for clues?”

“Yes, Dad,” Joe said. “He’s downstairs telephoning the garage to see when his car’ll be ready.”

“All right, here’s a suggestion. You fellows cruise along the coast in the Sleuth, and then proceed on to Whalebone Island. I’ll meet you there this evening.”

“Swell! You’ve got a date, Dad!”

After signing off, the boys hurried downstairs to inform their mother. Captain Early was just hanging up the telephone.

“They have the distributor and the car will be ready in half an hour,” he said.

“That’s great,” Frank remarked. “Joe and I will drive you to the garage and then take our motorboat to your place. We’re going to meet Dad later on Whalebone Island.”

The boys hastily packed some supplies and camping gear in the trunk of their convertible, amid a stream of advice and dire warnings of pirate peril from Aunt Gertrude. A short time later they drove off with Captain Early to the repair garage on the outskirts of Bayport.

“Ah, there’s my car! Must be all set,” said the captain, pointing to a blue sedan parked on the adjoining cinder lot.

After dropping their guest, the boys drove to the Bayport harbor. They parked and locked the convertible. Then, shouldering their camping equipment, they headed for the boathouse where the Sleuth was berthed.

As they neared the waterfront, a sleek, bright red motorboat came put-putting up to the pier.

“Hey, that’s the Napoli!” Joe exclaimed. “Hi, Chet! Hi, Tony!”

Dumping their gear on the boardwalk for the moment, the Hardys hurried out to greet their two friends. Tony Prito, at the wheel of his craft, was an agile, dark-haired youth. His passenger, stowing away some tackle, was Chet Morton, chubby-faced and solidly built.

“How was the fishing?” Frank called.

Tony turned thumbs down. “Terrible!”

“We didn’t catch a thing,” Chet added, climbing out on the dock. “And I had my mouth all set for some nice broiled bass for lunch, too!”

“Pretty sad, pal.” Joe grinned and patted the stout boy’s midriff. “But think of the pounds you’ve saved!”

Before Chet could protest, Joe said, “Look! How would you fellows like to come with us on a search for pirate treasure?”

Tony swung eagerly up onto the pier. “You kidding?”

“See for yourself,” said Joe, taking out the map.

Chet stared at it, round-eyed. “Whalebone Island! Is this really on the level?”

“The map came through the mail,” Frank explained. “We don’t know anything about it, but we want to find out.”

Tony, whose father owned a construction business, hesitated, then shook his head. “I’d sure like to come, but my dad needs me to drive the truck.”

“Well, I’m game,” said Chet. “Let’s hear the whole story.”

“We’ll tell you on the way,” Joe promised.

Chet sped home to the Morton farmhouse in his jalopy to get some items of clothing and supplies. By the time he returned, the Hardys had fueled the Sleuth and were ready to shove off.

“Okay, now fill me in,” Chet demanded as they cruised out across the calm, blue waters of Barmet Bay.

Frank scratched his head and shot a glance at Joe. “Where should we begin?”

“Let’s start with us seeing the Jolly Rogers’ ghost last night,” Joe suggested mischievously. “You see, Chet, he haunts Whalebone Island.”

“H-h-haunts?” Chet paled a bit and he looked from Frank to Joe, hoping for signs of a joke. “I knew there was some catch to this. But go on.”

As the story unfolded, Chet gulped and grew more nervous. His enthusiasm for the expedition seemed to be fading fast.

“Oh boy, this is just great,” he complained. “Not only a ghost, but probably crooks too, if this is connected with some case your father’s working on! Why is it that every time I get mixed up with you Hardys, I run smack into—”

At that moment a familiar voice crackled from the speaker of the Sleuth’s short-wave marine radio. “Aunt Gertrude calling Frank and Joe! You must come home at once!”

CHAPTER IV

Danger Signal

FRANK seized the microphone. “Sleuth to Elm Street! What’s wrong, Aunt Gertrude?” He added with a sudden pang of fear, “Has anything happened to Mother?”

“To Laura? Certainly not!” Miss Hardy snapped. “Your mother’s right here in the house with me. In fact, she was the one who found it.”

“Found what?”

“Captain Early’s cane.”

“Captain Early’s cane?” Frank repeated, mystified. “But he took his cane with him.”

“He took a cane with him,” Miss Hardy corrected. “Your father’s walking stick, to be exact—the one Fenton had to use last month when he sprained his ankle.”

“You mean the captain got them switched somehow?”

“Of course. What else would I mean? Your father slept in that room when he couldn’t get up and down stairs—don’t you remember? His stick was hanging on the back of a chair in there. It’s that rough, knobbly brown wood, so I suppose it was easy for the captain to confuse it with his own carved cane.”

“Especially with all the excitement in there last night,” Frank muttered, grinning.

“What was that?”

“Er, nothing, Aunty.”

Joe gave his brother an exasperated look. “Nuts! Do we have to go back, Frank? We’ll lose at least an hour.”

Frank thought for a moment. “No, I guess not.” He spoke into the microphone. “Aunt Gertrude —the switch in canes isn’t important if the captain himself didn’t notice any difference. We can take the cane to him some time later or even send it.”

“Humph. Well, suit yourself. At least I’ve informed you of his mistake.”

The Sleuth cruised on out of Barmet Bay into the sweeping rollers of the Atlantic, then turned northward along the coast. It was nearing one o’clock when the boys finally sighted Captain Early’s snug white villa perched on a bluff, amid a grove of gigantic, silvery-green poplar trees.

At the foot of the bluff was a wooden dock, to which the captain’s motor cruiser was moored. As the boys brought the Sleuth alongside and tied up, the captain emerged from the villa and waved excitedly.

The trio scrambled onto the dock and hurried up the flight of stone steps which led from the beach to the villa.

Captain Early greeted the boys hastily and acknowledged the introduction to Chet with a quick handshake.

“By the way,” Frank added, “we had a radio call from Aunt Gertrude saying you left your cane at our house and took—”

“Yes, yes, I’ve already discovered my mistake,” Captain Early cut in. “But something more important has happened. Please come inside!”

The boys stepped into the comfortably furnished front room and saw at a glance the reason for their host’s disturbance. Books had been yanked from shelves, drawers pulled out of an antique writing table, and a painting plucked down to expose a small wall safe—the door of which hung open.

“Wow!” Joe gasped.

“As you see, the place was ransacked,” said Captain Early. “The study and my bedroom upstairs seem to have gotten an extra-thorough going-over.”

He led the boys to the various other rooms to show them the havoc.

“Have you taken inventory yet to see what’s missing?” Frank asked.

“Just a hasty one. But that’s what’s so strange—apparently the burglar took nothing.”

“What do you keep in the house that is of value?” Joe put in.

The captain gave a perplexed shrug. “Can’t think of anything, really, except the silver—and that wasn’t touched. Of course there are notes and manuscripts of books that I’m working on. But they’d hardly be of value to anyone except me.”

Frank said, “What about the safe?”

“Just personal papers, diaries, documents—such as my will—and two insurance policies. I had the combination jotted down in a notebook in my desk.”

Joe, who had brought along the Hardys’ detective kit, looked at his brother. “Let’s try for some prints.”

The two young sleuths dusted a number of spots in several rooms, but the only fresh prints were found to belong either to Captain Early or to Mrs. Calhoun, his part-time maid who came in on Tuesdays and Fridays.

“I’d say it’s pretty obvious that the intruder wore gloves,” Frank concluded.

“Well, thanks anyhow for your efforts,” said the captain. “At least the fellow didn’t leave me any poorer.”

“This may be locking the barn after the horse is stolen, sir,” said Frank, “but it might be a good idea to install a burglar alarm, or at least get a watchdog—just in case the intruder comes again.”

“Hmm. Good suggestion.” Captain Early nodded. “Meantime, how about some lunch?”

Chet brightened immediately. “Sure thing, sir, if you insist!”

The boys enjoyed plump lamb chops served by Mrs. Calhoun, and listened with keen interest to the captain’s exciting sea yarns.

“By the way,” said Captain Early as he sat back and filled his pipe, “a rather odd thing happened this morning.”

“After we left you?”

“Yes. On the way home, my car ran out of gas.”

Chet paused in polishing off the last morsels of lemon meringue pie. “That’s happened to my jalopy three times. I found out my gas gauge was stuck.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with my gauge,” said the captain. “The needle showed empty. But it happens that I filled up yesterday, so there should have been quite a bit of gasoline still left in the tank.”

“Sure your tank wasn’t leaking?” Joe inquired.

“Positive. I checked that later.”

The Hardys exchanged puzzled glances. Their father had taught them to disregard no possible clue, however slight, when working on a mystery.

“What happened, sir?” said Frank. “I mean after you ran out of gas.”

“Oh, no trouble, luckily. I was picked up almost immediately by a motorist who gave me a lift to the next gas station. Then one of the station hands drove me back in a tow truck with a can of gas.”

Frank’s forehead creased thoughtfully. “If the garage mechanic parked your car on the outside lot overnight, someone could have drained most of the gas.”

“Why should anyone do that?”

“I don’t know. But it might have been done to give someone a chance to get at your car after you stalled and left it parked along the highway.”

Joe objected. “That doesn’t add up. If someone was able to drain the tank during the night, he could have got at the car right then and there.”

“Maybe he did, but couldn’t find what he was after,” Frank argued. “Captain, when you went for gas, did you leave anything in the car that wasn’t in it last night?”

Captain Early shook his head. “No, nor can I think of anything valuable that I’d be likely to leave in the car at any time.”

Another mystery—and again the Hardy boys had to confess they were baffled. However, Frank and Joe promised to continue work on the case after they returned from Whalebone Island.

Captain Early stumped down the stone stairs to the dock with the three Bayporters and waved good-by as the Sleuth headed on up the coast.

It was late in the afternoon when they finally reached the town of Seaview. The boys put in to a commercial dock to replenish their fuel, then turned seaward toward Whalebone Island, which lay about twenty miles offshore.

Dusk settled over the ocean and a few stars came out.

Presently the vague mass of Whalebone Island loomed ahead through the darkness. The tower of its old stone lighthouse stood out against the velvety purple sky.

“Where do we land?” Chet inquired.

“Dad said there’s a little natural cove or harbor around on the southern side,” Joe replied. “He’s going to meet us there on the beach.”

Suddenly a red glow flashed from the lighthouse tower. It disappeared—to be followed by two shorter blinks, then others. The boys were startled.

“That’s no ordinary light!” said Chet. “Red means danger!”

“It’s a code signal,” Frank murmured. He spelled out the letters of the message as they were flashed in Morse blinker:

D-A-N G-E R! K-E-E-P A-W-A-Y H-A-R-D-Y-S!

GHAPTER V

The Golden Pharaoh

AWESTRUCK by the weird red-light signals, the boys sat hunched in their seats as the Sleuth plowed onward through the darkness toward Whalebone Island. Joe was the first to break their stunned silence.

“I don’t get it. Was that meant as a warning for us to stay away from the island—or an order to someone to keep us away?”

“What’s the difference?” moaned Chet. “Either way, we’re asking for trouble if we go ahead and land at that spooky place!”

Joe—who knew his friend’s sterling qualities could be depended upon in a tight spot—reached out and gave Chet a reassuring whack. “Relax, Strongheart!” Joe chuckled. “A spook wouldn’t stand a chance against a beefy bruiser like you!”

“Oh, no? Well, I still vote we head back to the mainland.”

“Take it easy,” Frank said soothingly. “Remember, Dad will be on the island to meet us.”

The Hardys knew, from the mystery map and their chart, that Whalebone Island was shaped like a crescent. It curved from southwest to northeast, with the outward bulge to the north. Frank steered for the southern horn of the crescent. As the splash of breakers told him they were nearing land, he cut the engine and allowed the Sleuth to drift the rest of the way to shore.

An eerie silence lay over the island. It was broken only by the faint sighing of the night breeze and the sounds of the surf. When they had reached the shallows, Joe kicked off his sneakers and climbed over the side to help beach the boat among some reeds.

When they were safely ashore, Chet said, “Now what?”

“We’ll cut across the tip of the island to the cove,” Frank said, “and meet Dad.”

The boys made their way over a ridge of dunes, topped by scrub. On the other side lay the inward curve of the crescent, indented by a sheltered cove near the center. A small blaze flickered on the beach.

“Dad’s campfire!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys hurried along the shore, but as they came closer, they could see no one at the fire. Vaguely alarmed, they broke into a sprint, forgetting all caution.

Reaching the campfire, they saw that a stoutly built boat with an outboard motor had been drawn up on the sand. Near the fire lay a sleeping bag, supplies, cooking utensils, and a short-wave transceiver.

“That’s Dad’s radio!” said Frank.

The boys stared about through the darkness. If Mr. Hardy was concealed among the scattered trees and brush, he gave no sign of his presence. Joe gave the Hardys’ special whistle, and repeated it several times, but there was no reply.

“Hey! Mavbe he saw those signals and went to the lighthouse to investigate,” Joe said in a hushed voice.

“Perhaps he sent the signals himself to warn us away,” Chet conjectured.

“Could be,” said Frank. “We’d better go there and take a look.”

The brothers had brought powerful flashlights, but used them as little as possible in making their way across the island. The terrain was humped with low hills, fringed with patches of stunted oak and pine. At the northern horn of the crescent, the land rose to a rocky eminence topped by the Whalebone Light.

Cautiously the trio approached the forbidding stone tower, trying to keep their feet from scrunching on the grit and gravel. Frank tried the door, then pushed it open. Something blocked it partway—an obstruction that yielded slightly as he shoved harder.

Frank inserted his head and right shoulder into the opening and switched on his flashlight. “Dad!” he cried out.

Joe squeezed in behind his brother, and Chet followed. The beam of Frank’s flashlight revealed the figure of Mr. Hardy sprawled on the concrete floor. A thin trickle of red from his scalp had clotted across the left temple.

“Somebody knocked him out!” Frank said worriedly.

The three squatted down anxiously and Frank checked his father’s pulse. It was beating strongly. Joe hurried outside, scrambled down to the water’s edge, and returned a few moments later with his handkerchief soaked with cold brine. After the boys had applied it to their father’s forehead and chafed his wrists, Mr. Hardy began to revive.

“Joe—Frank—Hi, Chet.” The detective gave them a rueful smile, then slowly raised himself to a sitting position.

“What happened, Dad?” asked Frank.

Mr. Hardy frowned and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Let me see—Oh, yes, those red-light signals from the tower here.”

“We saw ’em too!” declared Chet.

“Somebody knocked out Dad!” Frank said worriedly

“So did I—from my campsite on the other side of the island,” Mr. Hardy went on slowly. “I came over to investigate, entered this doorway, and—wham!”

“How do you feel now?” Joe inquired.

“Not too bad, except for this throbbing lump. Lucky for me I have a thick skull.”

The boys helped Fenton Hardy to his feet, then began a search of the tower. They checked every floor, up to the lantern room, but the assailant had vanished. Warily, the detective and the three youths tramped back across the island to his camp on the cove.

The fire had long since burned down to glowing embers. After it had been replenished with drift-wood and dry brush, Frank showed his father the cablegram from Egypt and the map which had been sent through the mail by “R. Rogers.”

“What’s this Pharaoh’s head you’re supposed to beware of, Dad?” asked Joe.

“It’s a solid gold bust of the Egyptian Pharaoh, or Emperor, Rhamaton IV—valued at one million dollars.”

Chet let out an awed whistle. “A million bucks! Wow! Where is this head, Mr. Hardy?”

“A good question, Chet,” the detective replied wryly. “I’d better start at the beginning. About two weeks ago, a freighter named the Katawa sank off the coast. Maybe you fellows recall hearing about it in the news. Several of the crew, including the purser, drowned.”

“It was rammed in a fog by some cruise liner, wasn’t it?” said Frank.

“That’s right—by the Carona. Well, the spot where the freighter went down is just a couple of miles north of Whalebone Island.”

Mr. Hardy explained that the Katawa had been carrying not only cargo, but also a dozen passengers—one of them a foreign art dealer named Zufar, who had boarded the ship at Beirut in the Middle East.

“Zufar was bringing the golden Pharaoh’s head with him,” the detective continued, “to sell to a customer in New York. And the head was allegedly in the ship’s strong room when the Katawa sank. Zufar has lodged a claim with Transmarine Underwriters, the line’s insurance company, for a million dollars.”

“The news stories on the sinking never mentioned the Pharaoh’s head, did they?” Joe asked.

“No. As a security precaution, Zufar had purposely avoided any publicity about the treasure, and since the sinking, the line has also tried to keep the matter out of the news for the same reason.”

“You said the head was allegedly in the ship’s strong room,” said Frank. “Is there some doubt about it?”

“That’s where the mystery comes in, and that’s why Transmarine has engaged me to investigate the case,” Mr. Hardy replied. “They’ve been tipped off that a gold head of Rhamaton IV is secretly being offered for sale.”

“Was the tip on the level?” Joe asked.

“So far we don’t know. I’ve been checking it out, but may not know the answer until divers get at the Katawa’s strong room. Meantime, the tip brings up a number of interesting possibilities.”

“Right,” Frank said. “The head being offered for sale might be a fake. Either that, or the one that went down with the Katawa was a phony.”

Mr. Hardy smiled at the rapid-fire deductions, as Joe added, “Maybe the treasure already has been salvaged from the sunken hulk.”

Chet joined in. “Hey! The head might not have been on the ship at all!”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Hardy. “It may have been filched from the Katawa back in Beirut—or even in Le Havre, France, where she stopped before the crossing to New York.”

Frank grinned and inquired, “How come you were so interested in the legend of Whalebone Island, Dad?”

“Because I have a feeling it may tie in with this case.” Fenton Hardy stirred up the fire, adding, “Before we do any more talking, let’s have another look at that map.”

Joe handed him the paper.

“Hmm. The X mark appears to lie between two hills directly back of this cove,” said the detective.

Frank bent close to peer at the map. “And these trees form a sort of arrowhead triangle pointing right at the spot.”

Mr. Hardy rubbed his jaw. “I’m wondering if we should investigate now or wait until morning. I’d feel a lot better knowing who knocked me out —and just where he’s lurking.”

“If you ask me, that’s a good reason for checking out the X mark right now,” said Joe. “Suppose something valuable is stashed there, Dad. The person who conked you may be after it—and he might just snatch it during the night.”

“You have a point there, son,” the detective conceded. “Very well. If you’re all willing, let’s go look.”

Dousing their campfire, the group headed inland. Beyond the screen of trees sheltering the cove, the ground rose slightly, then flattened again amid a tangle of brush that made their going difficult in the darkness.

Presently Frank halted and touched his father’s arm. “Look! Those must be the three trees, Dad!”

His beam, moving back and forth, showed three scrubby trees, positioned like the points of a triangle.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “No doubt about it. Those humps on the skyline up ahead are two shallow hills.”

The four advanced cautiously past the trees. In a few moments they came to the brink of a steep ravine, cupped between the hills.

They began clambering down the slope into the gully. Joe shifted his flashlight to his left hand in order to seize hold of some underbrush and steady his descent. As the yellow beam veered toward the left bank of the ravine, he let out a sudden startled yell.

“Look! There’s somebody!”.

The others turned hastily, but the figure had darted out of sight.

“Where did he go?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Among that shrubbery. I didn’t get a good look, but he—”

Joe’s words were drowned out by a terrific blast! The left wall of the ravine exploded with a shattering force!

CHAPTER VI

A Madman’s Scrawl

THE blast knocked the sleuths flat against the bank of the ravine as fragments of rock and earth showered down upon them.

“Are you all right, boys?” gasped Fenton Hardy.

Three voices reassured him. Frank lay on his flashlight, and when he pulled it free, the beam still shone. Joe’s light had been buried somewhere in the debris.

“Whew!” Chet gulped as he struggled upright. “Feels like I just got creamed by a whole football line!”

“Let’s get out of here,” Mr. Hardy said.

Shaking the dust from their clothes, the four clambered back up to level ground. Frank turned and shone his beam down into the ravine, the bottom of which was heaped with rubble.

“That fellow you saw, Joe—what did he look like?”

“I hardly had time to see his face at all,” Joe replied, “but two things I did notice were—a red beard and a black cloak!”

Chet groaned. “The Jolly Roger ghost again!”

“I doubt if ghosts are capable of planting explosives,” Mr. Hardy said dryly. “It was probably the same person who hit me.”

“Think we should try to hunt him down, Dad?” asked Frank, aiming his flashlight beam toward the brush-covered hillside left of the ravine.

“No. We wouldn’t stand a chance of finding him in this darkness. Worse yet, we’d make easy targets. Better switch your light off, son.”

“For that matter, we’d be sitting ducks around a campfire,” Joe reasoned.

“True enough—which is why we’re not going to risk it,” said Mr. Hardy. “Our safest bet is to hole up in the lighthouse until morning. After that, we can decide our next move.”

Under cover of the darkness, the group made their way slowly northeast toward the Whalebone Lighthouse, using the dim outline of the tower as a direction guide.

Not until they reached the lighthouse did Joe realize that one of their party was missing.

“Hey! Where’s Chet?” he exclaimed, wheeling about.

All three Hardys peered back anxiously the way they had come. The glow of the misty half-moon, low in the sky, revealed no sign of Chet.

They exchanged glances of dismay. Had somebody bushwhacked Chet?

“Joe and I’ll go back and find him,” Frank said.

“Not without me,” their father replied.

Stealthy as Indians the trio began to retrace their steps. Frank and Joe moved along cautiously at their father’s side—sick with fear that at any moment they might discover their pal’s motionless body.

They had just reached a dense thicket of shrubbery near the ravine when a crackling noise caused them to halt abruptly.

“Hit the ground!” Mr. Hardy murmured. Silently the three sleuths flattened themselves in the brush.

The noise came closer and the form of a man materialized out of the gloom. Without hesitation, Joe hurled himself through the darkness. There was a grunt of impact, and as he butted against solid flesh, Joe felt a heavy stick swish past his ear and whack him hard on the shoulder. He went down in a tangle of arms and legs just as Frank snapped on a flashlight.

“Hey, what’s the big Idea! You guys trying to ambush me or something?”

“Chet!” Frank gasped.

Grinning ruefully, Joe got up while Frank helped Chet to his feet. Mr. Hardy was already retrieving several cans, a squashed loaf of bread, and other supplies which lay scattered over the ground.

“Where the dickens have you been, Chet?—as if we couldn’t guess,” Frank said.

“And what’s the idea of trying to brain me with that stick?” Joe added.

“You think I’d be dopey enough to let that red-whiskered nut jump me, without being set for him?” Chet retorted.

Mr. Hardy found it difficult to restrain a smile. “Good for you, Chet—but you did have us pretty badly worried, disappearing like that without a word of explanation.”

Chet gulped. “I was afraid you wouldn’t let me if I asked to go back for grub. But—well, gosh, how could we get through the whole night without something to eat? I haven’t had a thing since lunch.”

Joe chuckled. “You put away enough lamb chops at Captain Early’s to hold you for a week!”

“Oh, yeah? I only had four of those little bitty things.”

“All the same,” said Mr. Hardy, putting on a straight face, “it was a foolish risk going back to the campfire after what happened.”

“Oh, I didn’t go back there,” Chet explained. “I got this stuff off the Sleuth.”

“Okay, I guess we can all use some food,” Frank said. “Now let’s make tracks for the lighthouse.”

Although the Whalebone Light had been abandoned years before, the keeper’s living quarters still contained various furnishings—a battered table and chairs, a cast-iron stove, and a glass-chimneyed kerosene lamp. The storeroom below contained two rusty lanterns and several tins of oil and kerosene, evidently left behind for the use of stranded fishermen.

With the tower door securely barred behind them, the group soon cooked a tasty supper and fell to with keen appetites. Afterward, they sat around the table talking.

“Can you tell us more, Dad, of why you were interested in the legend of Whalebone Island?” said Frank.

“A good detective,” Mr. Hardy replied, “should always be concerned when something odd happens at or near the scene of a case he’s investigating.”

“You mean, something strange went on here before tonight?” Joe asked.

“Yes. Several days ago I saw an item in the newspaper about a fisherman who’d reported being scared out of his wits by the ghost of Whalebone Island when he put in one evening.”

Frank said, “So you suspected that something funny might be going on here.”

“Exactly. It seemed far more likely that the so-called ‘ghost’ might be someone who was using the circumstances of the legend as a cover-up for some secret activity—and also, of course, to scare people away from the island.”

“What kind of secret stuff?” Chet asked.

“Somebody might be using the island as a base for diving operations to the Katawa.”

“Which would explain why the golden Pharaoh’s head was secretly being offered for sale!” Joe declared.

“Not only that,” said Mr. Hardy. “The Katawa’s hulk is vitally important for another reason. You see, there’s a fortune in lawsuits at stake over the losses and injuries suffered in the collision, particularly claims being brought by relatives of those who lost their lives.”

“But how does that make the sunken hulk so important?” Joe questioned.

“The Katawa’s master claims his ship was stopped dead in the water after they picked up an approaching vessel on radar. If he’s right, Transmarine is free and clear of responsibility. But the captain of the Carona alleges that the Katawa was proceeding at full speed in spite of the fog—in which case Transmarine could be liable for several million dollars in damages, not even counting the loss of the gold Pharaoh’s head.”

“And the answer lies aboard the sunken freighter?” put in Frank.

“Right—with the engine-room telegraph and tachometer,” Mr. Hardy answered. “If the telegraph shows ‘Stop’ and the tachometer reads ‘Zero,’ the Katawa was not at fault. If they indicate full speed ahead, it’s a different story—a difference worth several million dollars.”

Joe gave a low whistle. “Some difference!”

Suddenly Frank snapped his fingers. “That mention of diving reminds me, Dad—in all the excitement about the pirate map, we clean forgot to tell you about the visitor you had this morning!” He quickly described Gus Bock’s appearance at the Hardy home and the threat which the diver had uttered before leaving.

Mr. Hardy took the news calmly. “I think I have the answer to that.” He explained that Transmarine Underwriters had asked him to run a security check on several competing diving companies before letting the contract to salvage the Katawa.

“Gus Bock,” the sleuth went on, “is chief diver for an outfit called the Simon Salvage Company. They tried hard to get the contract, even put in a ridiculously low bid. But the company has a shady reputation. They’ve been involved in outright fights and several other unsavory incidents on salvage jobs, so I advised against them.”

Instead, Mr. Hardy told the boys, he had recommended that the contract go to the Crux Diving Company. As a result, Gus Bock was no doubt out for revenge.

“How about what happened tonight?” Chet said, looking around the table uneasily. “Do you think Bock or Simon Salvage was behind that explosion in the ravine?”

“It’s a cinch the map was just bait to lure us there,” Joe declared.

“I agree,” said Fenton Hardy. “The real question is who sent it—and who has been posing as Red Rogers’ ghost.”

“What’s our next move, Dad?” Frank asked.

“Come daylight, we’ll search the island for clues to the person who tried to kill us. After that, we’d all better return to the mainland. I have to get back to work with Sam Radley, tracing that tip on the Pharaoh’s head.”

Next morning, while Chet Morton and Mr. Hardy were preparing breakfast, Frank and Joe started up the winding stairway of the tower to check the lamp room for possible traces of the person who had sent the red warning signals.

As they neared the top, Frank suddenly halted and pointed to the wall. “Take a look at that, Joe!”

A message—faded and almost illegible—had been scrawled in pencil on the whitewashed surface of the stone. It said:

I’ve seen Rogers again. No mistake this time. He’s come back and he’s trying to drive me out of my mind. Heaven help me!

R. H. Tang 4/17/45

CHAPTER VII

The Midnight Wrecker

“TANG!” Joe gasped. “The lighthouse keeper who went out of his mind!”

“I wonder,” Frank said slowly, “if he was suffering from hallucinations.”

Joe stared at his brother. “Are you implying that Tang wasn’t crazy?”

“Suppose we told a doctor we’d seen the Jolly Roger ghost—a red-bearded spook in a black cloak. And not just here on Whalebone Island, but even back in Bayport. Would he call us crazy?”

“The explosion last night wasn’t our imagination!” Joe said flatly.

“Maybe. But that wouldn’t prove we had or hadn’t seen a ghost.”

“Still,” Joe persisted, “Tang must have been examined before he could be declared insane.”

“True, but the question is what really drove him out of his mind?” Frank argued. “Suppose you or I were cooped up in this tower alone for weeks and months, not another soul on the island —so far as we knew. Yet every time we went for a walk to stretch our legs, that spook kept popping out at us—especially at night. Maybe even inside the lighthouse. I’ll bet we’d be flipping our wigs too before long!”

Joe frowned reflectively, then blurted out, “But, good night, Frank! All that was years ago. The person Tang saw couldn’t have been the same one we saw—”

As Joe’s voice trailed off, Frank gave a wry chuckle. “You mean—or could it? That’s the same question I’m asking myself.”

The lamp room had been empty ever since the Whalebone Light was taken out of service. The boys inspected it thoroughly, but found no clues to the signaler.

“He must have used an ordinary bull’s-eye lantern. Let’s try the outside platform and see if—” Joe broke off with a gasp. “Hey, Frank!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Look there—out to sea!”

Lying off the southern shore of the island was a small steamer. Larger than a tug, it was equipped with cargo booms.

The two boys dashed to the floor below and outside to the railed platform around the light tower.

“It’s not under way,” Joe observed. “What do you think it’s doing out there?”

“Could be a fishing vessel,” Frank said doubtfully, “but it sure doesn’t look like one. Let’s get Dad.”

On hearing the news, Mr. Hardy and Chet hurried topside. The detective broke out his powerful binoculars and focused on the mysterious vessel.

“It’s a salvage ship!” Mr. Hardy said tensely. “It belongs to the Simon Salvage Company.”

“Gus Bock’s outfit!” exclaimed Joe.

Mr. Hardy passed the binoculars to the boys. Each of the three in turn examined the vessel. The name at its stern read:

SIMON SALVOR

NEW YORK

On deck, a diver had apparently just suited up. Helpers were closing the glass ports of his helmet and checking the air hose and telephone cable. As Frank watched, the diver strode to the side of the ship and climbed down a ladder into the water.

“That must be Bock himself,” Frank muttered. “But what’s he diving for there, Dad? You said the Katawa went down north of the island, didn’t you?”

Mr. Hardy frowned. “That’s right. And I can’t figure Simon Salvage engaging in a diving operation just for the fun of it.”

“I wonder when the ship arrived,” Joe mused, “We didn’t see it last night.”

“Maybe it was on the other side of the island,” put in Chet. Suddenly a look of comprehension crossed his face. “Oh—oh! You think maybe somebody off that ship was the dynamiter last night?”

“Sure, and also the one who flashed those red signals,” Joe replied.

“It’s possible, all right,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

“Dad, I have an idea!” Frank exclaimed.

“Let’s hear it, son.”

“When you go back to the mainland, why don’t we three stay on the island? We can watch the Simon Salvor and maybe find out what it’s up to—and also keep a lookout for the ‘ghost’!”

Mr. Hardy looked troubled. He shook his head. “That would be dangerous, Frank. There’s no telling what might happen with a possible killer at large.”

Frank and Joe pleaded earnestly. Mr. Hardy finally promised to wait until they searched the island before making a final decision.

After breakfast they scoured the Whalebone crescent from tip to tip, but the ghostly dynamiter had apparently slipped away during the night. The detective was now half inclined to let the boys stay.

When they approached the cove campsite at the end of their search, Fenton Hardy stopped short and blanched.

“My camp’s been ransacked!”

The four rushed forward. Scattered across the sand were the smashed fragments of what had been his transceiver.

“Who—” Joe began, appalled. The sleeping bag was burned to a charred crisp. All food supplies were violently trampled.

The detective’s boat, too, seemed to be gone. But suddenly Frank’s sharp eyes spotted the craft.

“There it is!” he said, pointing offshore.

The boat lay bottom-up in a few feet of water, a gaping hole in its hull!

Fenton Hardy’s jaw tightened grimly. “That settles it,” he said. “You boys are not staying on the island. We’re going back in the Sleuth together—if our ghost hasn’t wrecked that, too.”

Anxiously they trekked back to the southern tip of the island. All four heaved sighs of relief when they found the sleek motorboat still safely hidden among the reeds.

Before leaving, they cruised back to the cove to salvage the outboard motor from Mr. Hardy’s stove-in craft. Chet, using the binoculars, saw a man on the bridge of the Simon Salvor watching them intently through a telescope.

Later, as the Sleuth put-putted out of the cove, the Salvor moved away from shore. “Not taking any chances on us coming out to snoop,” Joe observed.

The Bayporters headed to the mainland at a fast clip.

Ashore, Mr. Hardy reported the loss of his rented craft to the boat livery and returned the water-logged outboard engine.

The owner took the news philosophically. “Don’t matter too much—she was insured,” he said. “Have to hold your deposit, though, till I settle with the insurance company.”

The detective nodded, then asked, “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know if any boat put in here during the night—or maybe early this morning?”

“You figure that mighta been the party who scuttled your boat?” The liveryman squinted shrewdly at Mr. Hardy. “So happens I did hear o’ one comin’ back last night. Try Lawson’s Livery down the wharf a ways—it’s the only other boat rental place in town.”

Mr. Hardy thanked him, then strode along the wharf with the three boys. At the other boat livery, the investigator repeated his question to the proprietor, Eli Lawson.

“Sure, there was a boat come in,” Lawson said grumpily. “Must’ve been sometime between midnight and four o’clock. It was a boat that’d been stolen from me the night before.”

“Stolen!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed.

Frank and Joe looked at each other excitedly. More than likely, the boat thief had been the island ghost!

“How come you’re so interested?” Lawson asked the detective.

Mr. Hardy told briefly how his rented boat had been sabotaged on Whalebone Island, but said nothing about the rest of the night’s events.

“Say! By any chance, is your name Fenton Hardy?” the proprietor inquired.

“That’s right. Why?”

Lawson went into the boathouse and emerged a moment later holding a soiled envelope. “When I found the boat this mornin’, this was lyin’ on one o’ the seats.”

The envelope bore the name “Fenton Hardy” lettered in pencil. The detective opened it and took out the enclosed note. His face hardened as he read. Then he handed the message to the boys. It said:

Keep away from Whalebone Island. Next

time you won’t escape.

Instead of a signature there was the crude drawing of an Egyptian-looking head surmounted by a Pharaoh’s headdress.

“The Pharaoh’s head!” Chet gulped.

Frank and Joe silenced him with warning looks, and Mr. Hardy thanked the liveryman. The four walked away under Lawson’s inquisitive gaze.

“Is that what the golden head of Rhamaton looks like, Dad?” Frank inquired when they were out of earshot.

“Yes, almost exactly. I’ve seen a photograph of it.”

The boys accompanied Mr. Hardy to the parking lot where he had left his car overnight. It was decided that Frank and Joe would return to Bayport with Chet and wait for the arrival of Sam Radley.

“I’ll send Sam back from Philadelphia as soon as I can spare him,” the investigator promised. “Then he can go to Whalebone Island with you.”

“Right, Dad!”

Mr. Hardy climbed into his car and sped off in the direction of the turnpike. Frank, Joe, and Chet embarked in the Sleuth and were soon cruising down the coast toward Barmet Bay.

It was late in the day when the Hardy boys arrived home. Aunt Gertrude’s face was anxious as she greeted them.

“Well! Thank goodness you’re home at last! Why didn’t you answer my radio call last night?”

“Sorry, Aunty,” Frank apologized. “We were away from the Sleuth most of the time.”

“Anything wrong?” Joe asked.

“Indeed there was! Someone tried to break into the house!”

CHAPTER VIII

Egyptian Fake

Art attempted break-in while they were gone! Startled, Frank and Joe wondered what the thief had been after.

“Tell us about it, Aunt Gertrude!” Frank said.

“Well, to begin with, I was all alone in the house—”

“Alone! What about Mother?” Joe broke in.

“She was called away yesterday afternoon,” Miss Hardy explained, “to stay with a sick friend over in Bartonsville, Mrs. Filer. Gloria Filer, that is—Laura’s old schoolmate. Well, I was sound asleep and suddenly the burglar alarm went off full blast!”

The boys’ aunt shuddered at the recollection. “Heavens! It must have wakened the whole neighborhood—that shrill racket and all the floodlights blazing on!”

“Did you get a look at whoever touched it off?” Frank asked.

“No, I rushed to stick my head out the window, but the rascal was nowhere in sight. Probably ran off the instant the lights went on.”

Miss Hardy eyed her nephews severely. “I tried at once to contact you two or Fenton on the radio, but got no answer.”

“We were holed up in a lighthouse with a spook after us,” Joe explained.

“Humph.” His aunt gave him a suspicious glare through her spectacles. “Be that as it may, I was here alone—helpless. I might have been murdered in my sleep!”

The boys managed to mollify her by complimenting her on her courage and presence of mind.

“Did you call the police, Aunty?” Frank asked.

“Naturally. But they found no footprints, no clues of any kind.”

Suddenly she again looked annoyed. “Which reminds me. The curator called from the new Howard Museum.”

“Mr. Scath?” said Frank, immediately interested. “What did he want?”

“Wouldn’t tell me. Just asked to speak to Fenton or one of you.” Miss Hardy sniffed. “I suppose he thought not being in the detective business I wasn’t bright enough to take a message.”

“I doubt that, Aunt Gertrude.” Grinning, Frank went to the phone and called the Howard Museum. In a few moments he reached Mr. Scath.

“Glad you called, Frank,” the curator said. “Something rather odd has come up. Since your father serves as our security adviser, I thought I’d better pass the word along.”

“What’s it about, sir?”

Mr. Scath explained that he had received a telephone call just before lunch. “The man wouldn’t give his name, but he warned me that someone might contact the museum soon and try to sell me a fake Egyptian art object.”

Frank’s eyebrows shot up. “Did he say who this phony was, or what the object would be?”

“No hint at all. In fact, he hung up before I could ask any questions.”

“Thanks for letting us know, Mr. Scath,” said Frank. “Dad’s out of town right now, but that tip could be very important. If any such art faker does show up, I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know right away.”

“I’ll certainly do that.”

After completing the call, Frank told his brother the news.

“Wow! A fake Egyptian art object!” Joe exclaimed. “It could be an imitation of the Pharaoh’s head Dad’s looking for.”

“Just what I was thinking,” Frank said.

The Hardy boys decided to sleep downstairs, in case the unknown prowler might make another attempt to break into the house. But the night passed without incident.

The next morning the two boys decided to go to the beach for a swim.

“Let’s stop off at Chet’s and see if he wants to come,” Joe suggested.

Under a blaze of dazzling sunshine they started off in their convertible. Presently they turned up a dirt lane that led to the Morton farmhouse, just outside of Bayport. Two girls were seated on the front porch.

Iola, Chet’s pixie-faced, dark-haired sister, was Joe’s favorite date. She hopped up from the porch swing to greet the visitors. “Hi, you two ghost hunters!”

Her friend, Callie Shaw, a pretty brown-eyed blond girl, chimed in, “What’s the latest on the Whalebone spook?”

“Last we heard, he needed a shave,” said Frank, climbing out of the car and smiling at Callie, whom he liked very much.

“Where’s Strongheart?” Joe asked.

At that moment Chet burst out through the screen door, munching on a large Danish pastry.

“Somebody call me? Oh, hi, fellows!”

“What’s that—breakfast or lunch?” Frank asked with a grin.

Iola laughed. “With Chet, there’s no hard and fast distinction.”

“Aw, cut it out,” the chubby youth said good-naturedly. “I’m just finishing breakfast.” He added to the Hardys, “Slept late, that’s all. Who wouldn’t after that rugged expedition you guys roped me into!”

“Okay, you’re excused,” Frank said. “But get your trunks. We’re going to the beach.”

“You girls like to come?” Joe asked casually.

“We’d love to, but how can we?” said Callie. “We have to put our hair up for the party.”

“What party?” Frank asked.

“What party! This afternoon, at Biff Hooper’s. Don’t tell me you forgot!”

The Hardys exchanged blank looks, then recalled Biff’s word-of-mouth invitation during a sandlot baseball game last Monday afternoon.

The Hoopers were leaving Friday on a two-week vacation trip to California, so Biff had decided to have a going-away party on Thursday. The affair was to be an early barbecue supper, since he and his parents had to pack and prepare for a seven-o’clock take-off the next morning.

“I guess we did forget,” Joe admitted. “We’ve been sort of busy.”

“Sure, sure, we know,” Iola said, dimpling. “Incidentally, Biff told us yesterday he has a surprise announcement to make at the party.”

“Announcement about what?”

Iola threw up her hands. “Don’t ask us. It all sounded very mysterious. Maybe he was just trying to whet our curiosity.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t whet Chet’s appetite,” Joe needled.

Everyone laughed and Chet went back into the house to get his swim trunks.

The Hardys could hear the sound of a telephone ringing. A few moments later, as they were chatting with the girls, Mrs. Morton put her head out the back door.

“Frank and Joe—”

“Yes, Mrs. Morton?”

“Your aunt just phoned. She asked me to tell you that Mr. Scath from the museum called again —some man is on his way to the house to see you.”

The boys jumped to their feet. “Did Aunt Gertrude say who he was?” Frank asked.

“No, but I guess it must be urgent. She advised you both to come home at once.”

As they were thanking Chet’s mother for the information, Chet returned, holding a rolled towel under one arm. “What’s the matter?” he inquired plaintively. “Is the swim off?”

“Maybe not,” said Frank. “Come on back to the house with us. We can whip over to the beach as soon as Joe and I talk to this visitor, whoever he is.”

The three boys climbed into the convertible and sped back to the Hardy home at High and Elm streets, where they hurried into the kitchen.

“What’s up, Aunty?” Joe inquired. “Did Mr. Scath tell you who’s coming to see us—or why?”

Miss Hardy looked up from the pie dough she was rolling and pursed her lips. “He didn’t, and I’m sure I have no idea of the reason for his visit, since none of you has seen fit to take me into your confidence about this mystery.”

The boys’ grins faded as the front doorbell rang. Frank and Joe hurried to answer it.

The caller was a fat, balding, dark-complex-ioned man in a white silk suit. “Is this the Hardy residence?” he asked.

“Yes. Please come in,” Frank said.

The man stepped inside and handed the boys an ornate visiting card, which read:

Mehmet Zufar

Dealer in Middle Eastern

Antiquities and Objets d’Art

Cairo, Egypt

Frank and Joe glanced at the card, then looked at each other excitedly. Their visitor was the owner of the golden Pharaoh’s head!

CHAPTER IX

The Shattered Cat

“I SHOULD like to see Mr. Fenton Hardy, the detective,” said the stout visitor.

Joe found himself staring with fascination at the man’s tiny black mustache, which twirled upward at each end.

“Our father’s out of town just now, working on a case,” Frank explained. “If you’ll have a chair and tell us why you came, perhaps we can help.”

Mehmet Zufar glared irritably, but nonetheless seated himself in the living room. Plucking out a handkerchief, he dabbed the beads of perspiration from his large forehead.

“My dear young man,” Zufar snapped, “Fenton Hardy was recommended to me as the ablest private investigator in America. In fact, I was referred to him on a matter of the utmost importance by Mr. Scath, the museum curator. I did not come to deal with boys!”

Frank said evenly, “I just thought we might help.”

“If you’ll tell us what you want,” Joe put in, “we’ll inform Dad as soon as we can get in touch with him.”

Zufar glared for a moment, then said abruptly, “My card, please!”

The art dealer fished a gold pencil from an inside pocket and jotted something on the back of the card. “When Mr. Hardy is free,” he said, “please have him contact me at this address in New York.”

With a final swipe of his handkerchief, Zufar clapped his straw hat back on his glistening dome and rose to depart.

“May we call you a taxi?” Frank offered.

“No, thank you. My car is outside.” The stout man stalked off without another word.

As the door closed behind him, Frank and Joe dashed to the front window for a better view. They saw Zufar climb into a black limousine. A hulking, granite-faced chauffeur slammed the car door, returned to the wheel, and drove off.

“Who was that sourpuss?” inquired Chet, coming up behind the Hardys.

“The owner of the golden Pharaoh,” Joe replied. “I’d sure like to know what he was so worked up about—he wouldn’t tell us.”

“Maybe Mr. Scath can give us the lowdown.” Frank glanced at his watch. “Come on! We can stop off at the museum on our way to the beach!”

Ten minutes later the Hardys’ convertible turned into the curving driveway of the Howard Museum, which stood well back from the street among landscaped grounds. The three boys hurried up the broad marble steps of the ivy-clad building and went straight to the curator’s office.

Mr. Scath, a slender man with wispy strands of hair and rimless pince-nez, rose to greet his visitors as they entered.

“Come in, boys, and sit down. I take it you’ve just talked to Mr. Zufar.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Frank. “But he insisted on seeing Dad and wouldn’t tell us what he wanted. We hoped you might fill us in.”

“Hmm, yes. Well, he came here this morning and introduced himself as an art dealer specializing in Middle Eastern antiquities. Then he tried to interest me in a blue faience Egyptian cat, dating back to the Twentieth Dynasty.”

“Faience?” Joe repeated. “What’s that?”

“Earthenware, coated with an opaque glaze.”

Frank then asked the curator, “Did you tell Mr. Zufar about the warning you received—that someone would try to sell you an Egyptian fake?”

“Indeed, I did. I told him so bluntly.” Mr. Scath gave a shrug of distaste. “The result was quite upsetting.”

“What happened?” Frank asked.

“Zufar became very emotional. He said that some enemy—he didn’t know who—was trying to ruin his reputation.”

“Meaning,” Joe guessed, “the anonymous tip you received?”

“Yes. And he said someone had evidently spread a similar rumor about a much more valuable object which he had hoped to bring to this country.”

Frank bent forward eagerly. “Did he mention what the object was?”

“Not then,” Mr. Scath replied, “But he did later—a solid gold head of the Pharaoh Rhamaton IV, valued at one million dollars.”

Chet’s eyes bulged.

The curator went on, “However, as I say, that came later. At the moment he was too worked up trying to convince me of his spotless reputation.” Mr. Scath sighed. “Anyway, Zufar gave me various personal references to call and urged me to inspect the faience cat as carefully as I pleased.”

“What did you do?” Joe asked.

Mr. Scath looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t quite know what to do. Finally I called two of the references he gave me—another museum and a private collector. They both assured me that their dealings with Zufar had been entirely satisfactory. They both felt he was too keen to be taken in by a fake and wouldn’t risk trying to palm one off.”

“How about the cat?” said Frank. “Did you test it in any way?”

“No. It seemed authentic. Zufar offered to let me keep it for a detailed examination, but I told him we had no funds available for such a purchase at this time.”

The curator paused to polish his glasses. “Then came a dreadful piece of bad luck. Zufar went to put the cat back in the carrying case—but, in his disturbed state, he let it slip from his fingers.”

“Did the cat break?” Chet blurted out.

“Shattered to bits.” Mr. Scath shook his head unhappily. “What followed was even worse. Zufar himself went all to pieces.”

The curator related that Zufar had then begun pouring out his troubles. He told of the golden Pharaoh’s head which had been lost when the Katawa sank, and said he had heard that the shipping line’s insurance company thought he was trying to defraud them, because of some false rumor about a duplicate head.

“Did he strike you as putting on an act?” Frank asked.

“I don’t believe so. He said he’s had nothing but bad luck ever since the gold treasure first came into his possession. Then he asked me to recommend a good detective agency to run down the scoundrel who was defaming him. Naturally,” Mr. Scath ended, “I suggested your father.”

“Zufar still seemed pretty tense when he came to our place,” Joe mused. “How much is the Egyptian cat worth, Mr. Scath?”

“Hard to say. But at least five hundred dollars.”

“Wow!” Chet broke in. “That’s a high price for butterfingers.”

“Incidentally,” Mr. Scath went on, “Zufar’s tale of bad luck may well be true if you accept superstition.”

Frank said, “How so?”

“When the tomb of Rhamaton IV was opened, a curse was supposed to fall on those who had violated the royal crypt,” Mr. Scath explained, “and the curse actually seemed to be fulfilled. The newspapers made much of it at the time.”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“Soon after the discovery, the leader of the excavating party died of a heart attack. And several others in the party became ill or suffered accidents.”

Chet shifted uneasily.

“The Rhamaton head eventually came into the possession of a wealthy Lebanese businessman in Beirut,” Mr. Scath went on. “He was later ruined financially. Then when Zufar bought the head and was bringing it to this country, the ship sank.”

Frank said dryly, “Seems to bear out the curse all right, except I don’t believe in ancient curses.”

“Well, I’m not so sure I don’t,” Chet said.

After thanking the curator, the boys left the museum and drove to the beach. An hour of swimming and sunbathing, topped off by a lunch of hamburgers, soon put even Chet in a more cheerful mood.

At four-thirty that afternoon the Hardys picked up Iola, Chet, and Callie for Biff’s barbecue.

The Hoopers’ wide yard, which sloped down to a pleasant, woodsy creek, was already noisy with the gay chatter of boys and girls when the Hardys’ group arrived.

Eager shouts greeted them. Chet was promptly given a chef’s hat and apron.

“This is my style!” he said laughingly, and soon was busy stoking the portable grill.

Biff, a tall, blond, and rangy youth, ambled among his guests, handing out soft drinks. Then he cupped his big hands and bellowed for attention.

“Now hear this, you guys and gals!”

Suddenly :Biff’s jovial expression turned to one of dismay. Startled gasps and squeals came from the other guests.

“Joe, look out!” warned Tony Prito.

Before Joe could react, something struck him hard in the back, sending him sprawling to the ground!

CHAPTER X

A Four-legged Menace

“HEY! What gives?” Joe spluttered. He tried to get up, but felt paws trampling his back.

As he turned his head, a large wet tongue licked him across the face. His assailant was an ungainly Great Dane!

“Down, Tivoli! Here, boy!” Biff shouted as he ran to his guest’s assistance. Everyone else was roaring with laughter.

Joe finally struggled to his feet. “For Pete’s sake,” he gasped, wiping his face, “where’d that monster come from?”

“He’s no monster—he’s my big surprise,” said Biff, hanging on to the huge dog with both hands. “I’ll have you know this magnificent creature comes from champion—Oof!”

Biff broke off with a grunt as the Dane pulled free from his grip and went bounding off among the young people. “Hey, come here! I said, come, Tivoli!”

The dog paid no attention. He pranced happily about the lawn, barging into several teen-agers and spilling their soda pop. Biff pursued his pet, but the Great Dane eluded him as nimbly as a swivel-hipped quarterback.

“Watch it, Chet!” Tony Prito shouted. “He’s going for the hot dogs!”

The party was in an uproar. Phil Cohen, at Biff’s frantic request, ran into the house and got a chain-link training collar.

With Frank helping, Biff finally put the collar around Tivoli’s neck—but not before the dog had gulped five frankfurters and a package of hamburger meat.

“Don’t you ever feed the poor thing?” Tony joked.

“Feed him?” Biff said indignantly. “Listen, he’s had three big meals today already!” Then he added hastily, “Tivoli’s not really such a terribly big eater—”

A chorus of disbelieving laughs greeted his words.

“He’s not!” Biff insisted. “It’s just that he got half-starved when he was being shipped here, so now he’s making up for lost time.”

Iola giggled. “And how! I’ll bet even Chet has a canary’s appetite by comparison!”

“You still haven’t told us how you got him, Biff,” said Jim Foy, a Chinese youth.

“I won him in a mail-order contest.” Biff explained that he had submitted the winning slogan for a new cereal and had received Tivoli as first prize.

“How old is the mutt?” asked Jerry Gilroy.

“Mutt my eye!” Biff retorted. “This dog comes from purebred stock. His father and mother were both international champions—and Tivoli will be, too, someday. He’s just nine months old.”

“Nine months?” Chet echoed. “Good night, he’s as big as a colt already! How big will he be when he’s full grown?”

“Big enough to make the best watchdog in Bayport,” Biff said proudly. He cleared his throat. “Ahem! It just happens that Tivoli—er—arrived at a bad time, with us going on vacation. So as I was about to announce, one of you lucky people can have the privilege of keeping this future champ while I’m gone.”

Another chorus of laughter arose.

“Did you say lucky?” teased Callie.

“Does the offer include a cage?” Phil added.

“ ’Fraid you’re wasting your time, Biff old pal,” added another boy. “You’ll have to board him at a kennel—if you can find one big enough.”

Summoning up a hearty pitchman’s smile, Biff went on, “Listen, gang. Think what an impression Tivoli will make when you take him out on a leash.”

Tony chuckled. “He’ll make an impression all right. Everybody’ll run for cover.”

“You’ll have to admit he’d make a great guard dog,” Biff persevered.

Frank turned to Joe and remarked thoughtfully, “You know, he’s right. I’ve been worried about us leaving Aunt Gertrude alone when we go back to Whalebone Island—in case that prowler shows up again. Tivoli might be just the answer!”

Joe nodded. “You have a point there.”

“Okay, Biff,” Frank said in a louder voice. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“You mean you’ll take him?”

“For two weeks.”

Biff gave a whoop of joy and the other teen-agers began crowding around the Hardys to offer joking words of warning and advice.

When the party broke up at seven-thirty, Frank and Joe drove Tivoli home in their convertible with the top up and the windows raised.

“We’d better go in first and break the news gently,” Frank said as they parked in the driveway.

Joe chuckled. “We may need Tivoli to protect us.”

As the boys went in the front door, Aunt Gertrude came into the hallway. “Do either of you know if your father was expecting some sort of shipment?” she asked.

“A shipment?” Joe said blankly. “Of what?”

“That’s just what I’m trying to find out. A crate came for him while you were gone. I didn’t know what else to do with it so I had the truck driver and his helper carry it down to the basement.”

“It’s news to us, Aunty,” said Frank. “Let’s take a look.”

Miss Hardy led the way down the cellar stairs. She pointed to a large wooden crate standing against the wall. It was about four feet high. Stenciled on one side was the name FENTON HARDY and the address of the Hardy home.

“What about the receipt?” Joe suggested. “Wouldn’t that tell us the contents?”

“Oh dear! I forgot to ask for the carbon copy when I signed it,” said Miss Hardy. “But, anyway, the handwriting on the receipt was illegible.”

“Didn’t the driver even know where the box came from?” Frank asked.

“He said he’d picked it up at some New York warehouse. That was all he could tell me.”

Frank eyed the mysterious crate. “Maybe we should call Dad.”

“Oh, I didn’t neglect that,” said Miss Hardy. “I tried to contact Fenton over the radio but he didn’t answer.”

“No wonder—his radio got smashed on Whalebone Island,” Joe explained. “But we can probably call him at his hotel.”

As Joe picked up the basement extension telephone, his aunt said, “Will you also tell him a man phoned about five o’clock? He didn’t leave any name.”

Joe placed the call to Philadelphia, but hung up with a shake of his head a few minutes later. “No luck. Dad and Sam Radley are both out of their rooms. I left a message for them to call back.”

The Hardy boys looked at each other and took deep breaths.

Trying to sound casual, Frank said, “Er—we’ve brought a visitor, Aunt Gertrude.”

“A visitor?”

“Uh—yes. He’s coming to stay for a couple of weeks. We’re sure you’re going to like him.”

Detecting something odd in Frank’s tone, Miss Hardy swept her nephews with a suspicious glance. “Well, speak up. Who is he and where is he?”

“He’s out in the car,” Joe said. “Aunty, he’s a Great Dane.”

“A Great Dane?” Miss Hardy echoed unbelievingly. “You mean one of those—those huge dogs?”

Frank tried to be reassuring. “Actually, he’s not full grown. Only nine months old.”

Gertrude Hardy launched into a vigorous tirade against the problem of tending large, untrained animals. Frank finally managed to explain why they had brought Tivoli, stressing that he would serve as a watchdog while he and Joe were away.

“And just where do you expect me to keep the creature?” Miss Hardy demanded. “Certainly not in the house.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Aunty,” Joe said, chuckling. “Tivoli can stay out in the yard or down in the cellar.”

“Well, he’d better earn his board and keep,” Aunt Gertrude commented tartly.

With that, she marched upstairs to the kitchen. Joe glanced at his brother and rolled his eyes expressively.

“Well, let’s bring in our visitor,” Frank said, grinning.

When the boys returned to the car, they found Tivoli comfortably lolling on the back seat, fast asleep. Joe jerked the ring on the end of his training collar. “Come on, boy. We’re going to introduce you to Aunt Gertrude.”

Tivoli preferred not to be disturbed. Only the combined physical persuasion of Joe and Frank succeeded in dislodging him, and even then he proved skittish. Moments later, as they were hauling him in the door, the boys heard a shriek from their aunt.

“What’s wrong?” Frank called out. Tivoli now lunged for the kitchen, tugging the boys behind him.

“That prowler—he’s back again!” Miss Hardy’s eyes widened in fright at the sight of the Great Dane, but she went on, “I heard a noise out back and saw a man dask across the yard!”

“It’s your big chance, Tivolil Go get him!” Joe commanded.

The two boys and the dog dashed out the back door. But the prowler had vanished in the gathering dusk. Now Tivoli strained toward the house and the boys were forced to follow.

“Maybe the fellow dropped something or left a clue, and Tivoli’s spotted it by scent!” Joe said hopefully.

The real reason soon became evident as the Great Dane headed for the kitchen. Once inside, he strode toward the refrigerator and began sniffing at the door.

Aunt Gertrude gave the boys a withering glance. “A fine watchdog he’ll make!” Resolutely she advanced on Tivoli. “Outside this instant!”

The dog regarded her with its pale-yellow eyes. He made no move to obey, but a faint rumble sounded in his throat. Miss Hardy stood her ground. “Frank and Joe,” she said, “take this creature out of the housel Immediately!”

Her nephews complied, and coaxed Tivoli into the back yard once more.

Joe laughed. “He’s as iron-willed as Aunt Gertrude.”

Aunt Gertrude’s eyes widened in fright at sight of the

Great Dane

“Time will tell,” Frank said philosophically. He got a length of chain from the garage and secured one end to Tivoli’s collar and the other to a tree.

Back in the kitchen, the boys had just fixed a snack for themselves and Aunt Gertrude when a mournful howl assailed their ears. They looked at each other, then glanced at Miss Hardy. Her face spoke volumes but she said nothing.

Tivoli continued to bay at the rising moon. Aunt Gertrude winced. The baying persisted without letup. After several minutes she pursed her lips and got up from the table.

“Very well. You’d better bring that so-called watchdog inside before the neighbors complain. But put him in the cellar, mind you!”

Frank and Joe did so. As they came back upstairs, Aunt Gertrude gave an indignant sniff. “Now perhaps we’ll be able to get some rest. I, for one, am retiring.”

She swept out of the room.

The boys finished eating, then tried several times to reach their father. No luck. They were just about to go upstairs when Tivoli came trotting into the hallway!

Joe burst out laughing. “He must be able to turn the doorknob with his jaws!”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Frank said hastily. He caught Tivoli just in time to deter the huge dog from settling himself comfortably on a newly upholstered sofa in the living room.

“You know, I’m beginning to think Aunt Gertrade is right about this pooch! He may be more hindrance than help.”

“Let’s give him a chance.” Joe grinned. “It’s only his first day here.”

Frank took the Great Dane back to the cellar.

Yawning, the boys switched off the lights, turned on the burglar alarm, and went to their room.

Some time later came the sound of paws padding up the staircase. Joe raised his head from the pillow incredulously. “Good grief! Tivoli again!”

Apparently sniffing out his two protectors, the dog stalked into the boys’ room. He leaped onto Joe’s bed with a single bound and draped himself across the middle.

Joe groaned. “Oh great! Well, I guess you might as well stay here so we can get some sleep. But at least give me a little room, you big lummox.”

Frank shook with stifled laughter.

It was past midnight when the boys were suddenly awakened by the loud barking noise of Tivoli from downstairs. They heard the dog snarl —then the sounds of a violent struggle.

“Come on!” Frank exclaimed, jumping out of bed. “Let’s find out what’s going on!”

CHAPTER XI

A Clever Dodge

THE boys sped downstairs in their pajamas to investigate the commotion. As Frank switched on the light, Joe let out a gasp. “Look! Tivoli!”

The Great Dane lay sprawled across the threshold of the guest room! The brothers ran to the dog.

Frank and Joe experienced pangs of fear upon seeing that Tivoli was motionless. But closer examination showed the Dane was breathing. Then Joe’s eyes fell on Captain Early’s carved cane lying on the floor nearby. “Someone beaned him with that stick!”

“And got away!” Frank said, pointing to the open window of the guest room. Both boys dashed toward it and Frank thrust out his head.

The stillness was unbroken except for the thrum of crickets. There was no sign of the intruder.

As the boys turned back to the unconscious dog, Aunt Gertrude arrived on the scene, wearing a bathrobe and hair net. “Mercy! What on earth has happened?”

Frank said, “Someone broke in. Tivoli went for him, but got conked.”

Miss Hardy drew in her breath sharply. “The nasty brute!”

“Tivoli?”

“No, the dreadful person who struck him!”

“Poor old fellow!” Joe squatted down beside the Great Dane. “Wonder what you do for an unconscious dog. Give him smelling salts?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly. “I’ll attend to this brave creature.”

Joe rose to his feet and exchanged amused glances with his brother. Aunt Gertrude’s change of attitude toward Tivoli was a pleasant surprise.

“What I’d like to know,” Frank said thoughtfully, “is how the prowler got inside without touching off the burglar alarm.”

“It’s still on!” Joe reported, after glancing at the wall switch in the hallway. “That must mean the alarm system is dead!”

The boys rushed to the cellar to inspect the master control panel. When Frank opened the switch box, the answer was immediately evident. A wire had been disconnected!

“Who did that?” Joe exclaimed.

“It sure didn’t come loose by itself.” Frank frowned. “Remember that fellow Aunt Gertrude saw running across the back yard? He may have been coming from the cellar, after having yanked this wire loose so he’d have a clear field tonight.”

“Hmm. Could be, if one of the cellar windows isn’t fastened.”

The boys examined each of the four windows. The catch on one in the rear was unhooked!

“This is the way somebody got out,” Frank said. “But how did he get in? I checked all these windows when you were telephoning Philadelphia—and they were locked.”

Joe looked baffled and leaned against the crate. “Maybe he just oozed through the walls.”

Frank had to admit he couldn’t figure out an answer, but added, “There is a way, and we’re going to find out.”

The young sleuths went back upstairs. In the kitchen they halted in astonishment. Tivoli was devouring a pan of stew. Aunt Gertrude occasionally would bathe the bruise on his head with a damp cloth. The dog stopped eating long enough to give the boys a brief look of content.

“Poor thing,” Aunt Gertrude murmured. “Such a stouthearted protector deserves a good meal.”

Tivoli happily continued gulping the stew.

As the boys went back to the guest room to search for clues, Joe said with a chuckle, “Boy, what a change! Aunt Gertrude can’t do enough for him.”

Frank smiled. “I guess she’s convinced his heart’s in the right place.”

Neither the room nor the carved cane yielded any fingerprints, nor had the intruder left any trace of his identity. Presently the boys and Aunt Gertrude returned to their rooms. Frank and Joe noticed with amusement that their aunt had said nothing further about putting the Great Dane back in the cellar.

Early the next morning while Miss Hardy was preparing breakfast the telephone rang. Fenton Hardy was calling from Philadelphia. “Sam and I didn’t get back to the hotel until one this morning,” he explained, “so I decided to wait till later to phone you fellows back. What’s up?”

Joe hastily reported the midnight break-in and the delivery, earlier, of the mysterious crate.

Mr. Hardy was perplexed. “I’ve no idea what’s in it,” he said. “You and Frank had better open it right away. Then call me back.”

Eagerly the boys went down to the basement, where they got a claw hammer and pry bar to rip open the crate. To their amazement, one side of the box suddenly dropped like a trap door! Empty!

The Hardys stared at each other, speechless; then at the crate. “Are you thinking what I am?” Joe asked.

“There must have been a man hiding in here!” Frank exclaimed, indicating the hinged side of the crate, which had an inner hook. “After he got out, he wedged the side in place.”

“Then he was all set to rob the house!”

“Sure,” agreed Frank. “But when he heard you telling Aunt Gertrude the dog could stay down here, he decided to scram before Tivoli could detect him. So he ducked out the cellar window.”

“You’re right!” Joe said, snapping his fingers. “But first he disconnected the burglar alarm so he could get back in later.”

With a puzzled look, Joe added, “This crate gag seems like an awfully elaborate dodge for a house-breaker.”

“It was an ingenious way to sneak past our alarm system,” Frank pointed out. “He learned about that when he tried to break in while we were away on Whalebone Island.”

Frank promptly telephoned his father to report the boys’ discovery.

“You’re sure nothing was taken last night?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Not as far as we could find out, Dad,” Frank replied. “I think Tivoli jumped the fellow too fast. Then he heard us coming and had to scram.”

“Hmm. So we’re still in the dark about what he was after.”

The detective was keenly interested when Frank went on to describe Mehmet Zufar’s visit. “I’d certainly like to know more about this alleged defamation of character he complains of,” Mr. Hardy mused. “It might open up some new angles on the Pharaoh’s head mystery.”

“Then why not take the case for Zufar?” Frank proposed. “He’s eager to engage a top-flight detective.”

“That wouldn’t be ethical, son. I could hardly go to work for Zufar when he’s already under suspicion in the matter I’m investigating for Transmarine Underwriters. From what you say, he evidently doesn’t know about my assignment.”

Joe, who was listening with one ear close to the phone, broke in. “But, Dad, why should there be any conflict? If Zufar is on the level, he wants the Pharaoh’s head mystery cleared up as much as you do.”

Mr. Hardy was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Tell you what. Suppose you fellows go to New York and talk to Zufar again. Tell him I’m not at liberty to take his case just now, but I’ll try to help as soon as possible if he’ll give you fellows all the facts.”

“Swell idea!” Frank agreed. “Maybe we can pick up some good leads!”

“Incidentally,” Mr. Hardy added, “I think Sam should be free this afternoon. He’ll fly to Bayport and the three of you can go to Whalebone Island as we planned.”

“Great!”

Both Frank and Joe were eager for the trip to New York. After a hasty breakfast they drove to the railroad station and caught an early train. By ten minutes after eleven they were stepping out of a taxi at Zufar’s address in Lower Manhattan.

The address proved to be a grimy loft building. On the card Zufar had given them he had also written the name “Fritz Bogdan, Curio Dealer.” The same name was lettered on the windows of a ground-floor shop.

Frank and Joe entered the shop and found themselves in a long, dimly lighted room filled with Oriental carpets, statuary, paintings, and curios.

A tall, hawk-faced man with iron-gray hair eyed them curiously.

“May I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Bogdan?” Frank asked. When the man nodded, he went on, “We’re looking for Mr. Mehmet Zufar.”

“Oh, yes. I’m his American agent. He occupies office space here on his visits to this country.”

Bogdan led the boys past a huge green Buddha figure to an inner corridor and pointed to an office doorway bearing Zufar’s name. Frank thanked Bogdan and rapped on the door.

“Come in!”

Zufar looked up startled from his desk as the Hardys entered. He listened with obvious impatience as Frank repeated what Mr. Hardy had said. Then he pounded a fist on the desk.

“Now listen! Something has come up that changes everything. Your father must help me!”

CHAPTER XII

Key 273

THE mustached art dealer’s reaction took the Hardys by surprise.

“Do you have some kind of clue?” Frank asked.

Zufar’s eyes narrowed. “A good deduction.” His fingers nervously plucked an envelope from his desk. “This letter came in the morning mail,” he said, handing it over. “See for yourself.”

Frank took the envelope, which bore a typewritten address and was postmarked New York, N. Y. Inside was a note and a small key stamped with the number 273.

The note, which also was typed, read:

We have the gold head of Rhamaton IV.

We will sell it back to you for $100,000.

Be ready with your answer. SHOW THIS

NOTE TO NO ONE IF YOU VALUE

YOUR LIFE!

The Hardys exchanged baffled glances.

“If the gang who sent this have the Pharaoh’s head, Mr. Zufar,” said Joe, “why should they offer to sell it back to you?”

The dealer mopped his brow with a lavender silk handkerchief. “Who knows? Maybe the thieves have been unable to find a private buyer willing to pay such a price for a stolen art object. Do not forget—the deal would entail great risk on both sides, and the buyer would never be able to display his acquisition.”

“Maybe,” Frank suggested, “the thieves think you’re aiming to collect from the insurance company, then sell the head secretly for much more than a hundred thousand.”

Zufar shot him a sharp glance. “It is possible,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Do you think it’s likely that the persons who sent the note really have the authentic head?” Joe inquired.

The dealer threw up his hands in despair. “Alas, I fear so. The head may have been salvaged from the Katawa’s strong room, or stolen or switched by some trickery before the ship left port.”

“Would there have been time for anyone to do either?” Frank asked.

“Of course. I purposely arranged to have the head brought aboard several hours before any passengers embarked, in order not to attract attention. That was in Beirut. Again there was a chance for trickery when we stopped at Le Havre. If the purser was dishonest—who knows?”

Zufar shrugged unhappily. The purser, he added, had been lost in the sinking.

Frank replaced the note in its envelope, then said, “Personally, I think you should take this note to the police, Mr. Zufar.”

The art dealer’s eyes bulged fearfully. “You think I am a fool?” he said shrilly. “If I did, my life would be in danger!”

“But you’ve showed the note to us,” Frank pointed out.

“That is different. Your father is not the police. If these—these thieves contact me, I can say simply that I have hired him to act as my go-between.”

Dabbing his face with the handkerchief, Zufar went on, “Furthermore, once this became an official matter for the police, the news might leak out. I cannot afford to endanger my reputation any further!”

The telephone on Zufar’s desk rang. “Excuse me.”

He scooped it up. “Hello? ... Yes, this is Mehmet Zufar speaking.”

Suddenly the dealer’s face grew pale. He beckoned frantically to the Hardys and held the telephone away from his ear so they could listen in.

“You heard me! Speak up!” a harsh voice was saying on the other end of the line. “I asked if you’re ready to make a deal.”

Zufar looked pleadingly at the boys.

Frank and Joe hesitated. Then, with a glance of mutual understanding, reached a quick decision. Frank nodded emphatically.

Zufar gave a sigh of relief. “Very well,” he said into the receiver. “What do you wish me to do?”

“Listen carefully. Have the money ready in small bills. Take that key to the Philadelphia Airport. Use it to open a public-storage locker there and stand by.”

There was a sudden click as the caller hung up. Zufar, too, put down the phone and turned his eyes to the Hardys. “You keep the note and the key, and you will inform your father immediately?”

“We’ll get in touch with him,” Frank promised, pocketing the envelope. “Good-by.”

Frank and Joe left the office. In the corridor they almost bumped into Fritz Bogdan. The proprietor gave them a thin smile and walked on quickly down the hall to a rear storage room.

As the boys went through the display area, their gaze swept over the exotic assortment of merchandise. A tigerskin rug hung on one wall between dusty carpets and tapestries. Near the green Buddha, the painted face of an Egyptian mummy case stared back at them sightlessly. Both boys felt there was something sinister about the dingy place.

An employee was moving a large, murky-col ored landscape painting in a gold frame. The Hardys recognized him as Zufar’s granite-faced chauffeur.

When they reached the street, Joe muttered, “Do you suppose that fellow Bogdan was eavesdropping?”

“Don’t know. I was wondering the same thing,” Frank replied. “You know, I have a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“Me too. I thought his face seemed sort of familiar.”

Neither of the Hardys could explain the impression.

“Well,” Frank said, “we’d better get in touch with Dad and then get a bite to eat. I could sure use a couple of hamburgers.”

Sighting a drugstore on the next corner, the boys went inside where Frank phoned their father. Mr. Hardy readily approved of his sons’ action.

“Don’t worry, you and Joe used good judgment,” he said. “The Philadelphia Airport angle strikes me as a good omen, too.”

“How so, Dad?”

“There are only a few private collectors in the eastern United States who might be avid enough and rich enough to buy something like the gold Pharaoh’s head, even if it was stolen,” the detective explained. “The two most likely purchasers live within fifty miles of Philadelphia. That’s why Sam and I have been concentrating on this area.”

“Sure hope this lead pays off,” Frank said. “What’s our next move, Dad?”

Fenton Hardy instructed the boys to take the letter with the key to La Guardia Airport and leave it with a friend who worked for one of the airlines. Sam Radley, he went on, would fly there, pick up the envelope, and bring it back to Philadelphia.

Frank asked, “Does that mean Sam won’t be coming to Bayport this afternoon?”

“I may need his help on this new development with Zufar,” Mr. Hardy said. “Anyhow, I’ve made a slight change of plans for you fellows.” Excited, Frank signaled Joe close to the receiver.

“The Crux Diving Company’s salvage ship is leaving New York today to begin operations on the Katawa. Captain Rankin has agreed to take you and Joe along and drop you on Whalebone Island.”

The vessel would be close at hand in case of emergency, the detective added. They could pursue the Jolly Roger’s mystery and keep in touch with the salvage operations.

“That’s great, Dad!” said Frank. “But wouldn’t it be better if we had the Sleuth along with its radio?”

After a hasty discussion, they decided that Joe would board the Crux ship alone. Frank would return to Bayport, get Chet and the Sleuth, and then proceed to Whalebone Island.

After a quick lunch at a coffee shop, the Hardys split up. Frank headed for La Guardia Airport, while Joe went straight to the pier where the Crux ship, Petrel, lay berthed.

The dock was bustling with activity as supplies were loaded aboard. Joe hurried toward the gangplank to announce himself to the deck officer.

A heavy oil drum, slung from a cargo hook, was just being hoisted from the pier. Joe passed underneath as the boom swung inward toward the ship’s hold.

“Hey! Watch it!”

Joe whirled at the sudden cry of alarm. In that instant the oil drum plunged straight toward his head!

CHAPTER XIII

A Lost Anchor

As JOE whirled around, somebody rammed him hard. He reeled backward under the impact, and together with his tackler sprawled on the dock as the oil drum crashed inches from them.

“Sufferin’ snakes!” Stunned, Joe sat up limply. His thumping pulse almost blurred out the ensuing shouts and confusion.

The man who had rescued him—a husky, middle-aged six-footer in dungarees—called over reassuringly, “Take it easy, lad. No harm done.” He got up nimbly and helped Joe to his feet.

“Thanks. . . thanks a lot,” Joe gasped. “You saved my life.”

The man’s freckled face broke into a grin. “Maybe you saved mine. I was rushing across the dock and had to slow down when you got in my way. If you hadn’t, I’d have been right under that drum myself!”

Meantime, stevedores had captured the dented rolling drum and were wrestling it back into position while a crewman examined the hoisting sling.

The captain shouted wrathfully from the ship, “How’d it happen, bos’n?”

“Chine hook seems to have fractured, sir! Never seen one give like that before!” Red-faced, the bos’n aimed a torrent of salty comments at the loading crew for not having spotted the cracked hook when they rigged the sling.

“You there, young fellow!” the captain called down to Joe. “You one of Fenton Hardy’s boys, by any chance?”

“Yes, sir! I’m Joe Hardy—my brother won’t be making the trip.” Accompanied by his rescuer, Joe mounted the gangplank and shook hands with the tall, lean officer.

“Welcome aboard! I’m Captain Rankin. Sorry about the accident.”

“Guess I should’ve kept a sharper eye out.”

“Cargo handling can be as dangerous as salvage work sometimes,” the skipper acknowledged. “This bucko who saved you, by the way, is our master diver, Roland Perry. He’s used to danger. That’s how his hair got so thin.”

Perry chuckled and touched the sun-bleached reddish fuzz on his freckled pate. “Don’t believe him, Joe. It’s the chow they serve and the hard time he gives us salvage boys that made my hair fall out.”

Joe laughed, and soon he and Perry were engaged in friendly conversation. The diver had first learned his trade at the Navy’s Deep-Sea Diving School in Washington, D. C.

Late that afternoon, the ship, secured for sea after loading, churned away from its pier. Captain Rankin allowed Joe to come up on the bridge and watch as they sailed out through the busy waters of the Port of New York.

The next day Perry gave Joe a guided tour of the Petrel. The steel salvage vessel, he explained, was of a type specially designed by the Navy for offshore salvage work and carried equipment for handling any imaginable marine emergency.

Its electronic gear included radio, radar, loran, radiotelephone, fathometer, and radio direction finder. On its main deck was a salvage workshop with a forge, welding machine, lathe, pipe-threading machine, and various other equipment. In the engine room was a complete machine shop.

“Our towing engine has a forty-thousand-pound-line pull capacity—we can make lifts over the bow sheaves up to a hundred and fifty tons,” Perry went on proudly. “We can pump more than a million gallons of water an hour—furnish electric power to a disabled vessel—and there are two miles of steel cable in our wire stowage room.”

“Wow! Some setup!” said Joe, much impressed.

The diver chuckled. “We’re really a floating construction warehouse. We carry everything from nuts and bolts to a concrete mixer—not to mention timbers for making patches to seal off holes in ships’ hulls.”

Joe was fascinated when Perry showed him the diving locker, forward on the main deck. It held several sets of diving suits, scuba gear, submarine telephone equipment, underwater burning torches, and a full stock of spare parts.

“Does Captain Rankin boss the diving operations?” Joe asked.

“No. When we reach the salvage scene, Matt Shane, our salvage master, takes over. Under him is a salvage foreman, myself, my tender, a pump engineer, a carpenter, and nine wreckers—the specialized salvage workers, that is.”

It was nightfall when the Petrel reached curving Whalebone Island and dropped anchor in the cove. Another ship—which Joe recognized immediately as the Simon Salvor—was lying to the southward. But the Salvor was now in a different position from where it had been when the Hardys first visited the island.

“What do you suppose they’re doing?” Joe asked, scanning the Salvor through field glasses.

“Good question, son.” Matt Shane, the grizzled salvage master, chewed thoughtfully on his pipe. “There’s no wreck in that area, or we’d know about it. Salvage men keep pretty close tabs on such matters.”

Roland Perry growled, “Something phony about them being here, if you ask me. Could be they came to throw a monkey wrench into our operations. I wouldn’t put anything past Bock!”

“Take it easy, Rollie,” said Shane.

Joe was startled by the mention of the Simon Salvage Company diver. “Do you know Gus Bock, Rollie?” he asked.

“Do I know him?” Perry snorted. “We were shipmates once on a tin can, the Svenson. Later on, we went through Navy diving school together. When we finally got out of service, we worked for the same salvage outfit. I actually thought we were buddies—till the time I caught him trying to split my air hose!”

The incident had occurred when both men were on the bottom, searching for a sealed cashbox aboard a sunken hulk.

“You could’ve been mistaken, Rollie,” Shane cautioned. “Just because he had his knife in his hand—”

“I tell you I saw him going for my air line! He’s a slimy shark, that Bock!”

Joe put in, “If you were on the Svenson with him, you must have served under Captain Phil Early.”

The diver nodded. “For a while, right at the end of the war. The skipper was transferred to another command a few months after I joined the ship. Good old Pearly Early!”

“How’d he get that nickname?” Joe asked with a grin. “From his first initial and last name?”

“That was part of it.” Perry chuckled. “Ever been in Greece?”

“No. Why?”

“Over there, you’ll see Greek men fussing with what they call ‘worry beads.’ They carry these beads and finger them all the time. Captain Early did the same thing—only he used pearls.”

“Real ones?” Joe asked in surprise.

“Sure, he collected them. Had some beauties he’d picked up in the South Pacific. In fact, when he was transferred, the crew gave him a cane—”

“A cane?” Joe cut in. “How come?”

“To carry the pearls in. The handle unscrewed, you see, and there was a hollow space inside. It was specially made, and handsomely carved by our old quartermaster.”

Joe’s brain was in a whirl, thinking of the burglary attempts.

“What’s the matter, lad?” Matt Shane asked, noticing his odd reaction.

“Funny coincidence. Captain Early’s a family friend of ours, and I’ve seen that cane. In fact, he left it at our house.”

Since there was no sign of a campfire on the island or any light in the Whalebone tower, it was apparent Frank and Chet had not yet arrived, so Joe did not ask to be put ashore.

At daybreak the next morning, when he awoke in his bunk, Joe heard the muted throb of the ship’s engines and sounds of frenzied activity on deck. He hurried topside to see what was going on.

In the water nearby was one of the ship’s life-boats. While two seamen rowed it slowly, Roland Perry peered over the gunwale into a glass-bottomed box, which enabled him to see the shallow ocean floor.

“What’s Rollie doing?” Joe asked Shane.

“Looking for our bower anchor. We lost it during the night.”

“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “How’d that happen?”

Shane grinned wryly. “That’s what the old man would like to know.”

Joe could see Captain Rankin standing on the wing of the bridge, tight-jawed with fury over the mishap.

After a while Perry located the anchor. Donning scuba gear, he went down to reconnect the anchor to its chain. By the time the job was completed, almost half the morning had been spent.

“Someone took apart the detachable link on the swivel shot of the chain!” Rollie explained to Joe after returning topside.

“But who?”

“Who do you think?” the diver retorted with an angry scowl seaward at the Simon Salvor. “It could only have been done by a frogman. Captain Rankin has already been on the radio to the Salvor, but all he got was a horselaugh.”

Joe mulled over the mystery. Were Gus Bock and his mates responsible for the loss of the anchor —or had someone else been the saboteur and swum out from the island under cover of darkness? If the latter was the case, Joe reflected, Red Rogers’ “ghost” might have returned to Whalebone!

Much as he would have liked to watch the search for the Katawa get under way, Joe asked to be put ashore. He waved good-by from the cove as the Petrel sailed out around the island toward the scene of the sinking. Then he began to scout cautiously for possible traces of another occupant on Whalebone.

Shortly before noon Joe heard the put-put of a motorboat engine. He dashed to the cove in time to see Frank and Chet just beaching the Sleuth.

“Hi, you guys!” Joe shouted to them.

“Hi, Joe!”

“What cooks, Robinson Crusoe?” Chet asked.

“Not lunch, if that’s what you were hoping,” Joe replied with a grin. “How come it took you so long to get here?”

Frank explained that Chet had been unable to leave until late Saturday afternoon. “I figured we could stop off overnight at Captain Early’s, but he wasn’t home so we had to sleep on the beach.”

“Did you bring the captain’s cane?” Joe asked, his voice suddenly tense.

“Sure, I wanted to give it back to him, but—say, what’s so special about that cane?”

As Frank and Chet stared in surprise, Joe told what he had learned about the captain’s collection of pearls and the hollow receptacle in the cane. “That’s what the burglar must have been after all the time!”

Frank hastily fished the cane out of the Sleuth. Sure enough, a metal ring showed where the cane came apart in two pieces!

Joe and Chet watched eagerly as he unscrewed the handle, then peered into the hollow.

“Well—?”

Frank turned the cane barrel upside down and shook it. “Empty. The pearls are gone!”

CHAPTER XIV

A Cave Clue

A DISMAYED silence followed Frank’s discovery that the captain’s cane was empty.

Then Chet spoke up. “Are you sure the pearls were in there?”

“All I know,” Joe said, “is what Roland Perry told me—that the captain collected pearls and his crew had that cane specially made for him to keep them in. Besides, don’t you remember last Tuesday after his house was broken into, he said there was nothing in it of value except the silver?”

“If you’re right,” Frank said thoughtfully, “whoever broke into our place Thursday night must have had time to remove the pearls before Tivoli attacked him!”

“Sure,” Joe reasoned, “and that would explain the mystery of what our intruder was after.”

Gloomily Frank screwed the cane together again. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just have to tell Captain Early as soon as we get in touch with him.”

Frank put the cane back in the boat and began unloading sleeping bags, supplies, and scuba gear. “First of all, let’s lug this stuff over to the lighthouse. We can use that as our base.”

“Fine,” Joe agreed. “And we’d better hide the Sleuth again, too—just in case.”

The boys could not carry the entire load in a single trip, so after leaving Chet at the tower to prepare lunch, the Hardys returned to the cove for the remainder of their gear. Then the three ate with hearty appetites all the frankfurters and beans which Chet dished out, sizzling, on tin plates.

Afterward, Frank proposed another systematic search of the island. “If that fake ghost stayed here,” he pointed out, “we ought to be able to find some evidence.”

“Good idea,” Joe said.

Starting out from the headland, the boys began slowly working their way around the shore of the entire crescent-shaped island.

They found no trace of other boat landings, so they started combing the inland areas.

“Hey! Fresh water!” Joe announced as they came to a tiny spring trickling out of a hillside. Hot and perspiring from the trek, he cupped his hands and bent down to scoop up a drink.

Chet couldn’t resist some fun. “How about a good face-wash, too?” Gleefully he gave Joe a prod with the toe of his sneaker.

With a cry of surprise, Joe tried to catch his balance. No luck. He lurched forward, lost his footing, and plunged headfirst out of sight into a mass of brush on the other side of the spring.

“Hey! Where’d he go?” Chet exclaimed. He and Frank ran to the spot where Joe had vanished. Up popped a blond head through the thick vegetation.

“Look here!” Joe shouted, beckoning excitedly. “I landed in a cave. Come on. Let’s look this over.”

All three crowded into the well-concealed cavern mouth and Frank took out a flashlight. Its beam revealed a cavity about twenty feet in length.

“Oh—oh!” Joe gasped. “Someone has been here, all right!” He pointed to the charred remnants of a cooking fire. Nearby was a scatter of small bird bones and rusty food cans.

“Boy, this place gives me the willies!” Chet muttered.

As Frank played his light upward from the floor, the boys saw a series of whitish marks on the wall of the cave—evidently scratched there with a piece of limestone.

“Tally marks!” said Frank. The scratches were in groups of six, each group crossed with a seventh line. “Whoever stayed here must have kept count of the days and weeks that way.”

“Wow!” Chet said. “He must have lived here quite a while!”

Frank nodded. “Yes, but from the looks of things, it must have been a long time ago, so he couldn’t have been the ‘ghost’ who tried to blow us up.”

“You’re right,” Joe said. “Still, this might explain the spook that drove the lighthouse keeper Tang out of his mind.”

“Could be,” Frank agreed. “Maybe some fugitive from the law hid out here.”

“Or some hermit,” Joe added, “who only wanted to get away from it all.”

Chet shuddered. “Imagine being alone at night in that lighthouse with some creep prowling around.”

“You think about it,” Joe quipped. “It’ll give you food for thought when we turn in tonight, in place of your usual bedtime snack.”

“Cut it out,” Frank advised, grinning, “or all three of us may start seeing things.”

By the time the adventurers pushed their way back through the entrance of the gloomy hideout, it was late in the afternoon, and gathering clouds in the southwest hid the sun. The boys marked the location of the cave with a stake, which Chet drove into the sand. Then they decided to cruise out to the Petrel before supper to check on the progress of the salvage operations.

Hauling the Sleuth out of its hiding place, they launched it into the surf and Frank started the motor. The sleek craft put-putted out of the cove, then around the island and northward to the ship.

“That sky’s getting darker,” Joe commented.

“Wind’s whipping up, too,” said Frank. “We’d better not stay out too long. We might have a rough time getting back.”

Soon the Petrel came sharply into view and the companions saw that a boom for a diving stage had been rigged out. Frank brought their motorboat alongside and Joe made fast a line.

“Ahoy there! Coming aboard!” Chet called up. When a head popped over the side, they climbed a series of steel rungs onto the deck.

Captain Rankin greeted them cordially and shook hands with Frank and Chet as Joe made the introductions.

“Have you located the Katawa yet, sir?” Joe asked.

“Not yet. Rollie’s down on the bottom right now. Follow me.”

He led the boys around to the portside where the diving crew was standing by, under the command of Matt Shane. Here the young sleuths met Perry’s tender, a husky Negro named Sid Carter, who was manning the undersea telephone. The return phone lead was plugged into a loudspeaker.

Carter smiled at the boys and jabbed a finger toward the bottom. “Rollie’s been down long enough to have found Davy Jones himself.”

“It’s slow going,” Matt commented, his eyes glued to the bubbles erupting on the sloping green waves.

Suddenly Perry’s voice came through: “Think I see her! ... Wait—yes! It’s the Katawa, all right!”

“Nice going!” said Joe.

Matt hastily donned a headset. “How is she positioned, Rollie?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Way over on her portside—almost bottom up. Looks like quite a mess. The Carona really sliced her!”

Silence again as the diver made his way closer to the wreck. Suddenly there was a startled exclamation, and Perry’s voice crackled over the speaker:

“Matt! Someone got here before us.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a hole cut in her side!”

CHAPTER XV

Trouble Ashore

So the Katawa had been raided by an unauthorized diver! Frank’s and Joe’s eyes widened. Did this explain how the golden Pharaoh’s head had come into the possession of the thieves who sent the ransom note to Zufar?

“Where was the hole cut, Rollie?” the salvage master called down.

“Can’t see too clearly, Matt, till I get closer—but it looks from here like the engine room.”

The Hardys and Chet clung tightly to the rail as a gust of wind swept the ship. The sea was getting rougher by the moment. They saw the radioman emerge from his shack and hurry across the deck to speak to Captain Rankin. The captain listened and glanced at the threatening sky, then came over and spoke to Matt Shane.

“That hurricane’s veering our way, Matt. We’ll just get the fringes, I think, but it may be pretty hard to hold our station. Can you secure from diving for now?”

“Sure, Cap’n. We’ve found the wreck—that’s the main thing. Rollie can start fresh in the morning and get the lay o’ things inside.”

Orders were called down for the diver to come aboard the stage, or platform. After the Petrel dropped a marker buoy, the slow process of raising Perry to the surface began.

Being experienced scuba divers, the Hardys knew that this was done gradually to prevent a diver from suffering an attack of the bends, caused by nitrogen bubbles forming in the blood when a diver is decompressed too quickly.

By the time Perry stepped aboard from the diving stage, the sky was almost as dark as night and the ship rolled and pitched violently.

The Sleuth, meanwhile, had been hoisted aboard. At Captain Rankin’s invitation, the boys had decided to return to the island on the salvage ship.

Perry sat on the diver’s stool while his tender unsuited him. Joe introduced Frank and Chet to Perry as soon as his helmet was removed.

“From the looks of this weather, I should have stayed at the bottom,” Perry remarked.

Bucking heavy seas, the Petrel plowed back to Whalebone Island. Soon after it had dropped anchor in the cove, the Simon Salvor also put in for shelter. Gale-force winds were now bending the trees on shore, and within minutes solid sheets of rain came lashing down on the two ships.

Frank and Joe enjoyed a hearty dinner in the crew’s mess. But, for once, Chet seemed to lack appetite. He said nothing, but his pals guessed the heaving motions of the ship were responsible.

“Say, I wonder if Captain Early might be home by now,” Joe mused.

“Maybe,” Frank said. “Why?”

“We might be able to contact him by ship-to-shore telephone. I’d like to find out for sure about those pearls.”

“So would I—if we can get along the deck without being blown overboard.”

“Wind’s died down quite a bit,” Sid Carter spoke up. “Go ahead—you can make it to the radio shack without any trouble.”

Chet, welcoming the chance for fresh air, accompanied the Hardys as they scooted forward, hugging the deckhousing for shelter. The rain, too, had abated, and the boys reached the radio compartment without much difficulty.

The radioman, Harry Egner, readily agreed to put through their call. In a few moments Captain Early was on the line.

Frank related their theory that the pearls might have been the object of the burglary attempts and told how they had found the cane to be empty.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t carried any pearls in the cane since I retired from the Service,” Captain Early replied. “You fellows deserve credit for a smart guess, though.”

The captain explained that the pearls which he had collected had been made into a necklace for his late wife, and now were owned by one of her relatives.

Frank, somewhat letdown, observed, “Even so, the burglar must have thought the cane still held a fortune in pearls, just as we did.”

“Hmm. I suppose that’s possible,” Captain Early agreed, “if he’d heard about me from some acquaintance in the Navy.”

“One thing has us stymied,” Frank went on. “How did he know the cane was still at our house? If he trailed you there Monday night and saw you leave the next day, I should think he would’ve been fooled by seeing you carry Dad’s walking stick.”

“Hold on! Maybe he was!” Captain Early said excitedly. “You remember my telling you about that motorist who picked me up?”

“Yes.”

“The fellow seemed interested in my cane—even asked to take a look at it after I got into his car. It was then I first noticed I’d taken the wrong one, and I mentioned the mix-up.”

“Wow! That could mean he drained the gas tank Monday night!” Frank exclaimed. “He may have counted on picking you up when you ran out of gas, swiping your cane, and pushing you out of the car!”

Joe, who was listening in on the conversation, broke in, “So he knew where to look for the cane—at our house.”

“Well, boys, your theory seems to explain all the angles of the case,” Captain Early said. “At any rate, the burglar hasn’t come back. And I hope he doesn’t.”

Frank ended the call after getting a description of the motorist and his car.

The rain ceased and the skies began to clear soon after the boys emerged from the radio shack. Roland Perry met them out on deck.

“Looks as though we’re in luck,” he remarked. “Captain says the hurricane’s moving out to sea again.”

“Hmm! That air sure smells good,” said Chet, who was rapidly regaining his usual healthy appetite. “Think I’ll go see if the cook has any leftovers.”

“Watch it. He may put you to work washing dishes,” Joe joked.

“Who cares? It’ll be worth it!” Chet said breezily, and trotted off toward the galley.

Stars were now twinkling brightly and the cove lay silvered with moonlight. Voices carried across the water from the Salvor anchored nearby.

Perry eyed the other boat suspiciously. “I’d sure give a lot to know what those bilge rats are after.”

The Hardys, recalling Bock’s threat to their father, expressed the same interest. Frank then told the diver about the cave on the island. “It looks as if somebody lived in it.”

“And it may be the answer to a ghost mystery,” Joe stated. “You want to have a look at it?”

Perry, intrigued, quickly agreed to accompany the Hardys ashore. The Sleuth was lowered over the side and a few spurts of her motor brought them quickly to the beach.

When they reached the cave, Frank led the way inside. He shone his flashlight beam over the campsite traces on the floor, then upward to the tally marks scratched on the wall.

“Poor guy. Must have had a pretty rugged diet,” said Perry, toeing the scattered bird bones. “I’d say he was probably a shipwrecked sailor or a stranded fisherman.”

“In that case, why live in a cave when there’s a perfectly good lighthouse handy?” Joe countered.

“Hmm, you have a point there.” The diver rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “What’s this ghost mystery you mentioned?”

“A lighthouse keeper here years ago claimed he saw—” Suddenly Joe broke off and pointed to the mouth of the cave.

A glow of light was visible outside!

Perry strode through the cave entrance, Joe and Frank pressing close behind. A dazzling glare struck their eyes. The boys countered with their own flashlights, revealing two figures in the darkness. One was a lanky, baldheaded man with tufted, sandy eyebrows.

The other was Gus Bock!

“Well, well! I might’ve known,” Perry said coldly. “Sneaky as ever—eh, Bock?”

The burly diver’s face took on an ugly scowl. He shot a glance at Frank and Joe and grunted. The boys saw his hamlike fists clenched.

“Stow it, Perry!”

“Maybe you’d like to tell us what you’re doing here,” Perry retorted. “Besides eavesdropping, that is.”

Bock advanced, his jaw jutting furiously. “Maybe you’d like a mouthful of knuckles!”

“Nein, Bock! Lass das!” With a guttural growl, the baldheaded man tried to hold back his companion. “We do not want trouble!”

“He’s asking for it!” Bock shook off the man’s restraining hand.

“Looks as if we don’t have to ask,” Perry said evenly. “Someone slipped our anchor for us last night.”

Bock let out a hoot of raucous laughter, but it broke off abruptly, as Perry added, “At least that’s a change from cutting air hoses.”

With a snarl, Bock hurled a punch at his former shipmate. Perry ducked fast enough so the blow only grazed his jaw. Then his own fist smashed out at Bock and the burly diver went sprawling on the ground.

Bock’s face was contorted with rage as he picked himself up. “Okay, Perry! This time you really get the works!”

“Hold it!”

Everyone turned at the barked-out order. Captain Rankin had materialized out of the darkness, accompanied by his brawny bos’n.

“That’ll be enough!” Rankin’s tone of command had the desired effect. Bock froze sullenly. “On your way, you two.”

“We’ll go—for now,” Bock snarled. “But I ain’t finished with you, Perry.” He glared at Frank and Joe. “And you better watch it, too.”

He turned and slunk off with his companion.

Perry watched until they were out of earshot, then said to Captain Rankin, “What’s the idea, skipper? You on shore patrol?”

“You might call it that, Rollie. I saw Bock and his friend go ashore after you three did and figured there might be trouble. Seems I was right.”

Perry retorted dryly, “Bock and I are in for a showdown sooner or later.”

Frank told the men of the hostile diver’s visit to their home. Rankin looked concerned and suggested, “Maybe you boys had better bunk on board tonight—just to be on the safe side.”

The Hardys accepted, eager to learn what Perry would find on his next descent to the Katawa.

The next morning they tried to persuade the diver and Matt Shane to let them accompany Perry down and help search the hulk.

Shane shook his head. “Not a chance, lads. The engine room’s one of the most dangerous places for a diver to go on a wreck. It’s a regular tangle of pipes and machinery, and the spilled oil makes it twice as hazardous.”

“At least let us watch,” Frank pleaded. “We’ve had plenty of experience scuba diving, and we’ll promise not to go aboard.”

Shane and Perry finally gave consent. The Hardys made a quick trip ashore with Chet to retrieve their scuba gear from the lighthouse. Then, in the Sleuth, they sped out to the marker buoy, where the salvage ship had already taken up its position.

Chet stood by, fascinated, while Frank and Joe donned rubber suits, flippers, masks, and breathing apparatus. Roland Perry was already encased in his diving dress on the stool, a red wool cap on his head.

“You’re going in through the engine room?” Joe asked.

“I’ll have to. The top hamper’s all smashed and half buried in silt, the way she’s lying. Remember now, you fellows take care.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Frank grinned and saluted.

Perry’s helmet was screwed on, the glass faceplate attached, and the air supply checked. Then he clumped onto the diving stage in his lead-weighted boots and was lowered into the water.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had pulled down their masks, inserted their mouthpieces, and tested their regulators. Both leaped over the side.

The Hardys cleaved their way steeply downward into the cold depths, trying to keep Perry in sight. The water darkened to a murky gray-green as they descended. At last the shattered hulk of the Katawa came in sight.

Both boys felt a chill of awe at their first view of the dead ship. Already coated with barnacles and scum, it lay upended on the ocean floor, stacks and superstructure rammed deeply into the mud. The high bow of the Carona had knifed clean through into the Katawa’s bridge and deckhousing, and the resultant wreckage had evidently crumpled further under the weight of the foundered vessel.

“No wonder Rollie has to go in through that hole in her side!” Joe thought.

The diver waved to them as he stepped off the platform, then plodded slowly toward the hulk, trailing his air hose and lifeline. The Hardys saw him close his outlet valve slightly to make his suit more buoyant so as to float himself upward toward the gaping hole. A startled school of fish came darting out as Perry made his way cautiously inside.

Frank and Joe swam closer. Dark swirls of oil were rising from the engine room, churned up by Perry’s movements, and they could see little except the glow of his portable undersea lamp.

Meanwhile, the boys were flutter-kicking their way around the ship, peering at it from all sides. Somewhere in the sunken freighter was the strong room—did it still contain the gold Pharaoh’s head?

The Hardys’ air supply was getting low when Perry finally emerged. He made a thumbs-up gesture to return topside. Pausing at intervals to decompress, they made the ascent.

As soon as Frank and Joe were hauled aboard, they could see from the excited faces of the diving crew that Perry had telephoned important news from the wreck. The young sleuths waited impatiently until his helmet was removed.

“What’s the dope, Rollie?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Whoever cut that hole in the Katawa stole her engine-room telegraph and tachometer—the only evidence that can prove who’s responsible for the collision!”

CHAPTER XVI

Double Disappearance

“THE telegraph and tachometer—gone!”

Joe gave a startled whistle and glanced at Frank. The discovery of the missing instruments below boded ill for Transmarine Underwriters and could result in heavy claims!

Chet had already heard the diver’s telephoned report from the bottom. “Say!” the stout lad spoke up. “Isn’t there another telegraph and tachometer on the bridge?”

“Sure,” said Perry, “but they wouldn’t amount to much now, except scrap metal—even if I could pry them out. The bridge is nothing but a mass of junk, and the whole ship’s perched right on top of it.”

“How about the strong room?” Frank asked.

“That’s probably pretty badly smashed, too,” the diver said. “I couldn’t get to it from the engine room—at least not yet. A lot of debris will have to be cleared away first.”

The Hardy boys went below to change out of their scuba dress.

“What do you suppose Rollie will find when he gets to the strong room?” Joe mused aloud. “Think the gold Pharaoh’s head is still there?”

“I don’t know. Looks as if we’ll have to wait a while to find out. The question is, Why were those indicators stolen?”

Joe shot his brother a surprised look. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? Whoever took them was trying to cover up responsibility for the collision.”

“Maybe. It could also be a red herring—to cover up the theft of the head! Remember, the thief knew that hole in the Katawa’s side was bound to be seen by any salvage diver later on.”

“Yes!” Joe said excitedly. “Then, if nothing was touched in the engine room, that would practically prove the thief had gone down for the head. Which, in turn, might touch off a big search by the police!”

“Right. So he may have figured that by misleading the insurance company, he’d have more time to dispose of the head safely.”

“But all this is assuming the thief could get to the strong room,” Joe pointed out.

“Rollie said the way to it is blocked.”

“From the engine room it’s blocked,” Frank corrected. “Maybe there’s some other way to get at the room.”

When the Hardys returned topside, they learned that Shane, Perry, and Captain Rankin were holding a meeting in the captain’s cabin to map salvage plans. The three Bayporters were invited to attend.

Around the oval wooden table, Frank told his theory that the instrument thief’s real objective might have been the Pharaoh’s head.

“Is there any other way he could have reached the strong room?” the young sleuth asked.

Roland Perry hesitated. “He might have worked his way in through a deck hatch or companionway—I’ d have to check. But offhand I doubt if that would have been any easier.”

“Besides, lad,” Captain Rankin put in, “would he have bothered to cut the hole in her side? The hole is the only tip-off that a thief was down there at all.”

“That’s true,” Frank conceded.

“There could still be a reason,” said Joe. “Maybe he figured the hole would throw us off the track for a while—at least long enough for him to sell the head.”

Shane remarked wryly, “I’d say we’re up against a pretty shrewd operator.”

“Rollie,” said Frank, “is there any chance the thief could have gotten the head—and then himself blocked access to the strong room?”

The three salvage men were startled by this idea.

“By George, I guess that’s possible,” Perry admitted. “With a small explosive blast, he might have shifted the debris inside the ship quite a bit. It’d be hard to tell now.”

The Hardys and Chet exchanged quick glances. They had already found out—almost at the cost of their lives—that someone on Whalebone Island knew how to handle explosives!

“Well,” Frank said, “to sum up, it looks as if there are four possible answers to the question of who cut that hole in the Katawa.”

“Let’s hear ’em,” said Matt Shane.

“One: the thief may have been someone hired by the owners of the Carona, to help them duck responsibility for the collision. Two: he may have been a free-lance diver after the head—or maybe just after brass scrap. Three: he may have been hired by Mehmet Zufar, the owner of the head, to help him gyp the insurance company.”

“You don’t have to name the fourth,” Perry broke in. “That I can already guess.”

Joe nodded. “You mean Gus Bock?”

“I do. Bock’s been my candidate for the thief ever since I first saw that hole.”

“I realize Simon Salvage is not famous for square dealing,” Captain Rankin said, frowning. “But do you believe even they’d risk such a maneuver?”

“Sure,” Perry reasoned. “What else can they be doing around Whalebone Island? We know they wouldn’t pass up any chance of big loot.”

Before the discussion could continue, there was a knock on the door of the captain’s cabin.

“Come in!” Rankin barked.

A deckhand stepped inside. “Sparks says there’s a radiotelephone call from shore for the Hardy boys, Cap’n.”

Frank and Joe excused themselves and hurried to the radio shack, Chet puffing along eagerly behind them. The call was from Sam Radley in Philadelphia.

“What’s up, Sam?” Frank asked his father’s operative.

“A couple of news items I thought I’d pass on to you fellows. For one thing, your dad has found out, through Interpol, who sent that warning cablegram from Egypt.”

Frank’s eyes lighted with interest. “Who?”

“The Egyptian police traced it to a Dutch goldsmith named Van Hoek who was living in Cairo.”

“Was living?”

“That’s right. He seems to have disappeared.”

Frank glanced at Joe and Chet, who were listening in. Chet gulped.

“A goldsmith!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds as if there might’ve been some funny business with the Pharaoh’s head. Van Hoek may have made a duplicate!”

“And he may also be another victim of the Pharaoh’s curse,” Chet croaked gloomily.

“What’s the rest of your news, Sam?” Frank asked, turning back to the telephone.

The detective hesitated before replying. “The truth is, your dad’s missing, too. At least I haven’t heard from him for over twenty-four hours.”

“What! Haven’t you any idea where he went?”

“None,” Radley admitted worriedly, “except that he was following up on that lead from Zufar. Look, I’d rather not talk too much over the phone. Do you think you boys could break off what you’re doing and fly here to Philadelphia?”

Alarmed for their father’s safety, the Hardys readily agreed. Radley promised to arrange a special charter flight with the Ace Air Service, which would be standing by as soon as the youths could get back to Bayport.

Chet was sympathetic and immediately offered whatever assistance he could give his pals.

Frank gave him a grateful slap on the back. “Thanks, Chet. You’ve been a swell sport to help us this far. You deserve a break. We’ll drop you off in Bayport, but stand by.”

“You bet.”

After a hasty farewell to their friends on the Petrel, the boys embarked in the Sleuth.

It was evening when they finally reached home. Here Frank and Joe ate a quick supper with Aunt Gertrude. Not wanting to worry her, they made no mention of Fenton Hardv’s disappearance, saving only that they were needed urgently in Philadelphia to help on his current case.

“Any word from Mother?” Joe asked.

“Her friend is better, but Laura plans to stay on in Bartonsville a few days,” Miss Hardy replied. “Don’t eat so fast, boys! You’re as bad as Tivoli.”

Frank grinned. “How’s Tivoli’s appetite these days?”

“Humph! He does eat rather a lot, but he’s proving to be a very well-behaved dog. I’m seeing to that!” Aunt Gertrude added with pride.

The two boys sped to the airport in their convertible and were soon taking off into the dusk aboard the charter plane.

Sam Radley met them at the Philadelphia air terminal, but waited until the Hardys were settled in a hotel room before telling them the whole story

“When your dad and I opened that airport locker,” he began, “we found a walkie-talkie inside.”

“A walkie-talkie!” Frank exclaimed.

“Yes—with a note saying to keep listening in. But it wasn’t till Saturday that anything came through.”

“What did you hear?” Joe asked.

“Not much the first time. The voice that spoke sounded pretty suspicious—wanted to know why Zufar himself didn’t answer. Your dad said he was acting as Zufar’s agent or go-between for the pickup of the head.”

“Then what?” Frank inquired.

“He was told to stand by for instructions—while the gang did some snooping around, I suppose, to make sure there was no trap.”

“Then,” Sam went on, “early yesterday morning another message came. Fenton was told this time to grab a taxi immediately, have the driver go down Market Street, and then turn north onto Johnson Avenue. The voice said he would receive further instructions en route.”

The sandy-haired, muscular detective rose from his chair and paced anxiously about the room.

“I tried to follow him in another cab, but lost him in traffic. I haven’t heard a word from him since.”

Frank said, “Have you told the police?”

Radley nodded. “Yes, your father kept them informed all along, but there was no time to rig a trap. A police operator was tuned in on the same frequency, but he heard nothing.”

“Some of the gang probably got close behind Dad’s cab and broadcast at very low power, so the transmission wouldn’t carry far,” Joe declared.

Both boys felt sick with worry, but knew there was little they could do except await developments. Frank told Radley about Captain Early’s cane and passed on the description of the “helpful” motorist and his car. Radley promised to have this circulated by the police.

“Better get some rest, fellows. We may need all our energy tomorrow,” the operative advised after they had listened to the eleven-o’ clock news report on TV.

Radley left to return to his own room. Frank and Joe undressed and went to bed. Exhausted by their strenuous day, they fell asleep quickly.

Joe awoke suddenly some time later. Was the floor creaking—or had he only imagined it? He raised his head from the pillow and peered around.

A shadowy figure was darting toward the window!

CHAPTER XVII

Secret of the Mummy Case

JOE was out of bed in a flash. He sprang clear across his brother’s bed and leaped at the intruder in a flying tackle.

With a snarl, the man kicked backward. His heel connected full force with Joe’s jaw and the boy crashed to the floor in a daze.

By this time Frank had awakened. He jumped out of bed just as the man was disappearing through the window. Frank ran over and stuck out his head. “Stop! Thief!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The intruder was already darting down the fire escape into the pitch-dark alleyway below.

Frank raged in frustration. He had started to put on his bathrobe, in order to give chase. But he checked himself, not daring to leave Joe alone.

Dashing to the room telephone, he signaled the operator. “A man just broke into Room 3211 He got away down the rear fire escape and went through the alley!”

Hurrying to his brother’s assistance, Frank was relieved to find Joe groggily raising himself from the floor.

“Whoa! Easy, boy! Better stay put for a bit,” Frank advised. He switched on the light, got Joe a glass of water, then helped him onto a bed.

“Feel okay?”

“Guess so. Slightly foggy, that’s all.” Joe waggled his jaw. “I guess it’s not broken.”

His eyes widened and he sat up again as Frank reached for a sheet of white paper propped on a table. “Our visitor left a message,” said Frank.

“What’s it say?”

Frank read aloud: “‘Leave town at once or there’ll be trouble!’ ”

“More on the other side, isn’t there?” Joe said.

When Frank turned the sheet over, his jaw tightened. Without a word, he handed the paper to Joe. The remainder of the message was:

AND DROP THE PHARAOH’S HEAD CASE IF YOU HOPE TO SEE YOUR FATHER AGAIN—ALIVE!

“If only I could’ve nailed that creep!” Joe complained bitterly.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No, it all happened too fast.” Joe scowled. “But—there was something familiar about him, at that. Just his general shape, or the way he moved, I’m not sure what.”

Frank went down the hall to rouse Sam Radley, whose room was several doors away. On the way back, they encountered the house detective.

“A couple of scout cars are cruising around, looking for likely suspects,” the hotel security man reported. “Can you give us any description to go on?”

“Not a very good one, unfortunately,” Frank said. “The man was tall and had on a dark suit, that’s about all. He was pretty much in shadow going down the fire escape.”

The house detective took down a complete account of the incident from both boys and offered the services of a doctor for Joe, who vigorously declined. “I’m fine, now.”

Radley, meanwhile, had been prowling about the room, looking for clues. A moment after the hotel detective had left, Radley bent down and plucked something from behind the wastebasket near the window.

“Did either of you throw this away?”

The Hardys shook their heads. “What is it?” Frank asked.

“A notice of an art auction sale,” Radley replied, holding out a small brochure, “from the Holt-Hornblow Galleries in New York.”

“An art auction sale!” Joe exclaimed, looking at his brother excitedly. “The fellow must have dropped it going out the window.”

“That would figure, all right,” Frank said. “If the men who kidnapped Dad really have the gold Pharaoh’s head, they may be in the art business!”

They found no marks or jottings on the brochure which might provide a further clue.

“You know something?” Frank said suddenly. “There’s an angle to this business we’ve been overlooking all along.”

“What’s that?” asked Radley.

“The gang behind all this must have had some real inside knowledge if they salvaged the head from the Katawa’s strong room. Remember, no story about the head being aboard was ever published in the newspapers.”

Radley nodded. “True.”

“One of the Katawa’s crew may have let the secret slip out,” Frank went on. “Then word was passed along, either to a museum, or an art dealer —maybe someone who knows Zufar.”

Joe suddenly leaped up off the bed as if he had been stung. “Sufferin’ snakes!” he blurted. “Bogdan! Fritz Bogdan!”

“What?” Frank exclaimed.

“I mean, he was the man I saw—the guy who broke in tonight!”

Radley and Frank stared at Joe.

“How can you be sure,” Radley asked, “if you didn’t see his face?”

“I’m not sure,” Joe admitted, “but at least I’m positive that’s why the figure looked familiar. Tall, slightly stooped, right shoulder higher than the other—just like Bogdan!”

Frank was impressed by his brother’s theory. “That definitely adds up,” he said. “Bogdan could have learned from Zufar about the head going down on the Katawa—maybe heard about it the same day that it happened. So he decided to steal a march on the insurance company and hire somebody to grab it before they could send down a diver of their own.”

“And remember, we suspected Bogdan was eavesdropping on us at Zufar’s office,” Joe said.

Sam Radley paced back and forth worriedly. “Boys, if you’re right, we’d better move fast,” he decided. “We might be able to nail Bogdan on his way back to New York from here.”

“What’s your plan, Sam?” Frank asked.

“We’ll have police cover the airports, and the train and bus stations,” the operative replied. “Meantime, we’ll fly back to New York in our charter plane. If he’s driving, we’ll still get to New York before him.”

The Ace Air Service pilot had planned to stay overnight at a motel near the Philadelphia airport. Sam telephoned him and arranged to have the plane readied for take-off immediately.

In less than an hour Radley and the boys were bound for La Guardia Airport.

As soon as they landed, they checked telephone directories to find Bogdan’s home address, but could find no listing.

“Wait a second,” Frank said. “Maybe Zufar can tell us.”

He plucked out the art dealer’s calling card. Zufar had jotted two telephone numbers on the back, along with the address of Bogdan’s curio shop. One was the shop’s number. The other proved to be that of Zufar’s hotel.

A few moments after Frank had dialed it, Zufar’s voice came hoarsely over the line, sounding as if he had just been awakened. “Yes? Who is calling?”

Frank explained the situation hastily. Zufar seemed to be flustered and incredulous at the idea that Bogdan might be involved in the Pharaoh’s head plot. But he gave Frank the curio-shop proprietor’s unlisted home number and address, which he said was an apartment not far from the shop.

“Let’s try Bogdan by phone first,” Joe suggested.

Frank called the number but got no response. Nor was there any answer from the shop number. The three sleuths hailed a taxi and sped into Manhattan.

Bogdan’s apartment was on the first floor of an old converted brownstone. Its windows were dark, and the doorbell could be heard ringing hollowly inside.

“Maybe he hasn’t come back from Philadelphia yet,” Frank conjectured.

“We’d better keep a stakeout,” said Radley. It was decided that he would remain on watch outside the brownstone while the Hardys covered the curio shop.

The boys taxied to the address and settled down to wait in an all-night drugstore across the street, which commanded a clear view of the shop entrance. The early morning passed slowly with no sign of Bogdan.

By ten o’clock neither the proprietor nor any of his employees had appeared to open the shop.

Finally Sam Radley arrived on the scene. Frank and Joe hurried across the street to meet him. The operative reported that he had called the Holt-Hornblow Galleries and confirmed the fact that a notice of the art auction sale had been sent to Fritz Bogdan. “I think we’d better call the police,” Radley told the boys.

“Hold it!” Joe said. “Here’s Zufar!”

The art dealer was just stepping out of a taxi. He looked upset at sight of the trio and twiddled his mustache nervously as they apprised him of the situation.

“Do you have a key to the shop?” Radley asked. When Zufar nodded, he went on, “Then suppose we go inside and search the premises.”

“B-b-but we have no right to do that!” the dealer spluttered. “I merely occupy office space here as a favor from Bogdan.”

“Look,” Frank said angrily, “our dad was kidnapped carrying out a dangerous assignment for you. Your friend Bogdan may be behind the whole thing—including the theft of your golden Pharaoh’s head.”

Joe broke in. “We’ll call the police and get a warrant.”

Zufar fished out a silk handkerchief and daubed his perspiring face. “No, no—please! Let us do as you wish.” He unlocked the front door of the shop and they went inside.

Radley made a hasty survey of the premises—showroom, offices, and storage space at the rear—to make sure that no one was about.

“What do you expect to find?” Zufar asked.

“Evidence,” said Radley. “If Bogdan did mastermind this plot, the Pharaoh’s head may be hidden here somewhere!”

The three sleuths began a thorough search. Would they find solid evidence linking Bogdan to the plot—and would it lead them to their missing father?

The boys and Sam probed into closets, crates, desks, rolled-up rugs—all in vain. Their hopes began to dwindle.

In the dusty showroom Frank paused and stared around despairingly. Once again, the faded, upright Egyptian mummy case caught his eye. On a sudden hunch, he strode toward it.

“Joe! Sam!”

His cry brought the others rushing over. Frank pointed to several tiny borings in the case. “These look like air holes!”

Together, the three pried at the mummy case, until Joe found a catch. When Frank and Sam wrenched off the lid, the trio gasped.

Wedged inside, with eyes closed, was the bound and gagged form of Fenton Hardy!

CHAPTER XVIII

Danger Below

THE boys were shocked at the sight of their father in the mummy case.

“Dad!” Joe cried in great alarm.

Frank felt Mr. Hardy’s wrist and found a weak pulse. Carefully they eased the unconscious detective from the case.

“There’s a sofa in Bogdan’s office,” said Sam. “Let’s carry him in there.”

They had taken only a few steps when Joe’s eyes suddenly bulged. “That green Buddha!” he exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked.

“Wait till we attend to Dad and I’ll show you!”

The three laid Fenton Hardy on the sofa in Bogdan’s office. Mehmet Zufar, visibly shaken, watched as Radley loosened the investigator’s collar, then checked his respiration.

“I’d say he’s been drugged,” Sam declared. “We’d better get him to a hospital!”

While the operative telephoned for an ambulance and notified the police, Joe led Frank back to the Buddha figure.

“Take a look at that. Does anything about it strike you as odd?”

The large figure was coated with the pale-green patina of weathered bronze. It was seated in the “lotus” position, legs crossed, hands cupped in the lap.

Frank studied the Buddha intently for a moment. “Hmm. The head doesn’t seem to match somehow—it’s canted slightly to the left.”

“Exactly. As if it was made separately from the body and then fitted on.”

Frank’s face suddenly lit up. “Jumpin’ Jupiter! You think—?”

“I think this Buddha needs his skull X-rayed, that’s what!”

As Joe seized the statue’s head with both hands, Zufar came rushing up to the boys.

“Ya khabar!” he gasped. “What are you doing? You may damage the—”

“Relax, Mr. Zufar. If this is one-piece bronze, I can’t damage it. If not—” As he spoke, Joe applied a slight twisting pressure to the statue’s head.

Suddenly the neck seemed to move inside its tight-fitting necklace. An instant later the whole head came off in Joe’s hands!

“You were right!” Frank shouted.

The lower portion of the neck, which had fitted inside the necklace, showed none of the greenish bronze patina of the rest of the figure. Instead, it appeared to be hard-baked clay!

Frank lifted the head. “Wow! Heavy as lead!” he exclaimed. “The weight alone proves it was never part of the original hollow bronze casting.” He turned it upside down to examine the base of the neck.

“Looks like solid clay,” said Joe.

“It’s clay, all right,” Frank agreed. “The surface has been bronzed over and doctored with paint to give it the same weathered look as the body. But whether the clay’s solid or not is another question.”

“Let’s find out!” Joe urged.

He lugged the head back to the storage room, followed by Frank and Zufar. Here Joe laid the head on a worktable, then picked up a hammer and chisel, evidently used for prying open crates.

“Wh-wh-what are you going to do?” Zufar stuttered, wringing his hands anxiously.

“See if this Buddha has a split personality.” Joe poised the chisel on the head and gave it a sharp rap with the hammer. The face cracked and the clay fell away. They saw a yellow gleam of metal.

“The golden Pharaoh!” the boys cried out.

Zufar stared in stunned silence as the boys extricated the head from its broken clay shell. Frank and Joe were awed by the sheer beauty of the centuries-old statuette.

A tiny vulture and cobra protruded side by side from the Pharaoh’s headdress. A long, slender goatee hung from the chin of the masklike golden face.

“Great Scott! What’s going on!”

All three turned as Radley strode, wide-eyed, into the room. He told the boys that an ambulance was on the way, then they quickly related what had happened.

“The Pharaoh’s head!” Sam exclaimed in astonishment. He turned to Zufar and asked, “Is it authentic?”

The perspiring art dealer lifted the object in trembling hands and examined it carefully.

“I should say it is unquestionably the same head that I was bringing to America—or, if not, the cleverest imitation I have ever seen. Of course, only a detailed examination by an expert Egyptologist—”

“Even that wouldn’t prove it was the same one that went down on the Katawa, would it?” Joe broke in. “What if Rhamaton IV had two of these heads made—is that possible?”

Zufar shrugged. “Who can say?” Mopping his brow, the dealer added, “Anything is possible if my trusted friend and associate, Bogdan, could be party to such a villainous plot!”

The piercing wail of a siren came from the street outside. In a moment two ambulance attendants strode in, carrying a stretcher. Soon afterward, the police arrived.

“The golden Pharaoh!” the Hardys cried out

Frank and Joe insisted on accompanying their father to the hospital. Radley elected to stay behind to acquaint the police with the situation.

“After we turn the Pharaoh’s head over to the proper authorities, I’ll meet you at the hospital,” the operative promised.

It was past one o’clock in the afternoon and the Hardys had just finished eating a long-delayed breakfast in the hospital coffee shop when Radley finally rejoined them.

“How’s your dad?” was his first question.

“Okay,” Frank replied, “although he’s still unconscious. The doctor says he was definitely drugged and he may not come out from the effects for hours.”

Radley breathed a deep sigh of relief. The golden Pharaoh’s head, he told the boys, had been entrusted to the Egyptology Department of the Metropolitan Museum for expert examination.

“Whew! This mystery is a real cliff-hanger!” Joe remarked. “I can hardly wait to find out what Perry will discover aboard the Katawa, too!”

The boys were torn between wanting to stay near their father and to keep an eye on the salvage operations as Mr. Hardy had wished.

Finally Radley convinced the two young sleuths to return to Whalebone Island.

“There’s not much you fellows can do here except wait,” he said. “So don’t worry. I’ll stick around till your dad revives.”

Frank and Joe taxied to La Guardia where Sam’s pilot was standing by. Soon they were winging their way to Bayport. Back home, Joe phoned Chet to bring him up to date and make plans for the island trip. Frank, meanwhile, told Aunt Gertrude of the recent events, then the brothers tumbled into bed.

The alarm clock awakened them at three o’clock the next morning. The boys showered, dressed, and hurried down to the kitchen to find a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs awaiting them.

“You’re a swell sport to get up just on our account, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said. “We sure appreciate it.”

“Humph! Somebody has to see that you two get the proper nourishment,” Miss Hardy said tartly, yet with a pleased look in her eyes.

The boys sped off in their convertible to the boathouse, where Chet soon joined them.

“I m-must be out of my mind to c-crawl out of the sack at this time of night!” he complained, shivering in the brisk, cool breeze of the bay.

“You wouldn’t want to miss out on all the excitement, would you?” Joe said with a chuckle. “This may be the day we ferret out the final answer to the whole mystery—including the riddle of the Jolly Roger’s ghost!”

Chet groaned loudly. “Now I know I should have stayed in bed!”

The Sleuth streaked out across Barmet Bay through the pre-dawn darkness. Late in the morning, they reached the Petrel, lying at the scene of the sinking, just north of Whalebone Island.

Roland Perry was resting on deck before going down for his second dive of the day.

“What’s the picture, Rollie?” Joe asked.

“Better than we had any right to hope, fellows! I discovered the cargo had shifted enough so that I was able to cut a way through from the forward hold. Barring trouble, I should be able to get into the strong room itself on my next trip down!”

The Hardys and Chet were elated at the news.

“That’ll be terrific!” Frank said enviously. “I wish we could be down there watching. Say, Rollie, did you do any salvage work for the Navy after the war?”

The diver nodded. “All along the coast here. A lot of ships are still resting on the bottom out in those waters. In fact, I remember seeing one enemy raider that your friend Captain Early accounted for.”

“He must have been quite a skipper,” Joe said admiringly.

“A real tiger, from the stories I’ve heard about him,” Perry agreed. “Had four enemy ships to his credit—in the Atlantic. On that cane we gave him when he left the Svenson, the quartermaster carved the latitudes and longitudes of all four sinkings.”

The Hardys stared at the diver.

“Latitudes and longitudes?” Frank echoed.

“Sure. You know—same as a fighter pilot painting his kills on the plane. We figured old Pearly Early had as much to boast about as any sky jockey.”

The diver broke off as his tender and Matt Shane approached. “Looks as though it’s time for my next dunk, fellows,” Rollie said. “Stick around. I may have good news before the day’s over.”

The Bayporters walked off toward the rail while Sid Carter fitted the diving helmet over Perry’s head.

Chet shot a quizzical glance at the Hardys. “What’s up? I saw the way you both looked just now when Rollie mentioned the cane.”

“Don’t you get it?” said Joe.

“No,” replied Chet. “Let me in on the secret.”

“If Joe’s thinking the same thing I am,” said Frank, “the burglar who did those break-ins may have been after that information carved on the captain’s cane—not his pearls at all.”

“The location of those sinkings!”

“Right!” Joe turned to his brother. “You brought the cane along, didn’t you, Frank?”

“Yes, it’s in our boat. We’ll take a look pronto!”

The three boys hurried across the deck and climbed down into the Sleuth, which was moored alongside. Moments later, they were exclaiming in surprise as they studied the markings on the cane.

Joe reached into a locker and pulled out a map which he unfolded.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Frank remarked as he held the cane close and studied the latitude and longitude of Captain Early’s first sinking. He read the numbers off carefully and Joe’s finger swept across the map.

“Here it is! Off Newfoundland.”

Frank read the next set of markings and Joe translated the position into a spot off North Carolina.

The next prey to the firepower of Captain Early’s destroyer had been sunk ten miles off the New Jersey coast.

“Wow!” said Chet. “My history book says that was called the graveyard of the Atlantic!”

Frank had a little difficulty making out the latitude and longitude numbers representing the fourth sinking. Inscribed near the handle of the cane, they were dim from wear. Frank relayed the position, and as Joe pinpointed the location, he suddenly exclaimed, “Good night! That’s right where we are!”

“Those lines nearly dissect Whalebone Island!” Chet said excitedly.

“I wonder what kind of craft the captain sent to Davy Jones’s locker here,” Joe remarked.

“Let’s get hold of him on the radiotelephone,” said Frank. “He can give us the answer.”

At first there was no response. After several tries, however, Frank finally reached the officer.

“Captain Early!” he said excitedly. “That last bag made by your destroyer—was it off Whalebone Island?”

The boy heard the captain chuckle. “Yes, I guess it was. Our radar picked up that U-boat in the dead of night.”

“A submarine?” Frank asked.

“Right! We dodged her torpedoes and sank her with ashcans—depth charges, that is. The enemy left an oil slick bigger than a circus tent. We found debris the next morning. A certain kill.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Frank. “That’s great news, Captain. We’ll tell you all about it later and return your cane, too.”

Frank signed off and dashed out of the radio shack.

“You look as if you’re about to jump out of your skin,” said Joe.

“Boy, I am!” Frank exclaimed, and told about the German sub.

“Then you mean—?” Joe’s question was broken off by the high-pitched voices of excited crewmen running toward them.

“What’s wrong, Sid?” Joe asked Perry’s tender.

“An explosion down below!”

“Good night! Was Rollie hurt?”

“Doesn’t seem to be from what he said on the phone,” Carter replied. “We’re not sure just what happened. He’s on his way up now.”

Tension ran high on the Petrel as the crew waited out Perry’s gradual ascent. Finally he was hauled out of the water.

“Sure you’re okay, Rollie?” Matt asked as the diver’s helmet was removed.

Perry’s face was flushed with rage. “Not a scratch—but it was sheer luck!” The diver related that as he was about to enter the Katawa’s hold, he had sighted a huge squid which had apparently come prowling into the hulk. Perry had backed off to give it a wide berth. As he waited outside the sunken freighter for the squid to swim away, a sudden small explosion blew the creature to fragments!

Perry went on, tight-lipped, “Must have been a booby trap planted near the edge of the hold —gelignite, probably—and the squid brushed against it. Could’ve been me—which was probably the idea of whoever set the trap. Or, if I hadn’t touched it off myself, my air line would have, while I was moving around inside. You know what that would have done!”

The boys grimaced. With a sudden loss of compression from a ruptured air hose, the diver would have been crushed to a jelly inside his helmet by the ocean pressure!

“Get this suit off me fast, Sid!” Perry directed, grim-faced.

Matt Shane looked apprehensive. “What are you going to do, Rollie?”

“I’ve got a score to settle with someone, Matt, and I aim to do it right now!”

“Hold on!” Captain Rankin stepped forward and gripped the diver’s shoulder. “If you’re implying Gus Bock’s responsible for the explosive, you have no proof!”

“I don’t need proof!” Perry growled. “You heard him threaten me the other night. Who else could’ve set that booby trap—the squid?”

Both Shane and Rankin pleaded in protest, but Perry refused outright to continue diving until he had dealt with Bock.

Finally the two older men agreed to accompany him to the Simon Salvor for a showdown. The Hardys volunteered to take them to the other salvage ship in the Sleuth. Chet, too, went along.

Moments later, they drew up alongside the Salvor. There was no attempt to block the party from the Petrel as they climbed aboard.

But the boys noticed a strange air of tension and anxiety among the Salvor crewmen who faced them.

“We weren’t expecting visitors, Mr. Rankin,” said the Salvor’s skipper coldly. “What’s on your mind?”

“An explosive was planted on the Katawa by someone who wanted to kill our master diver,” Rankin replied. “Perry here thinks Gus Bock had something to do with it.”

“Where is he?” Perry spoke up harshly. “I’ll tell him what I’ve come to say—face to face!”

“Not on this deck you won’t,” the skipper said. “Gus is not here.”

“Then where is he?”

The eyes of the Salvor captain focused on the water. “Trapped on the bottom. He’ll be lucky to see daylight again!”

CHAPTER XIX

Strong-Room Surprise

GUS BOCK trapped! The Hardys and Chet were startled. Roland Perry stared in disbelief.

“Don’t give us that,” the diver snarled. “Bock may be on the bottom, but he’ll come up again. We’ll wait till he does.”

“You’ll have a long wait, then,” the Salvor’s captain retorted.

“We’ll wait,” Perry maintained.

“Anyhow, you’re barking up the wrong tree. The only way one of our hands could have gotten to the Katawa is with scuba gear. And neither Bock nor anyone else has been off this ship except in a hardhat at the end of an air hose—not since the night he went ashore on Whalebone with Kraus.”

As he spoke, the captain jerked his thumb toward the baldheaded man with sandy eyebrows whom the Hardys had seen outside the cave with Bock. “Go ahead and talk to Gus on the phone if you don’t believe me.”

“Might as well, Rollie,” Frank advised.

Perry scowled uncertainly for a moment; then, accompanied by the others, strode around the afterdeck to the opposite side of the ship where the diving crew was stationed.

He took a headset from one of the tenders and spoke into the microphone.

“This is Perry, Bock. You in trouble down there?”

Bock’s voice came back weakly over the speaker, “What do you care?”

“Answer me!”

“All right, I’m pinned, if you want to know. Come on down and help me feed the fishes.”

“I’ll be down, don’t worry—just so I can settle a score with you, once we get topside again!”

Perry turned to the Simon company’s salvage master. “What happened?”

“Like Gus told you—he’s pinned. Our apprentice diver Ryan is trying to help him, but it looks hopeless.”

“Got another diving suit aboard?” Perry asked.

The Salvor’s captain said brusquely, “Forget it, Perry. You’re not going down there.”

“There is nothing you can do,” Kraus added in his guttural accent.

Frank sensed another reason for the men’s strange attitude. “If you aim to keep us from finding out what you’ve been working on,” he spoke up, “you’re out of luck. We’ve already learned there’s a German sub down there.”

Frank’s words seemed to fall like a bombshell. Kraus and the Salvor’s skipper gaped at him in dismay.

“Now how in thunder do you figure that, son?” asked Matt Shane.

“From the American captain who sank her,” Frank said. “I guess you never knew it happened so close to Whalebone, Rollie,” he added. “That was before you joined the Svenson.”

Perry turned to the Simon salvage master, Fosburg. “Okay, you heard him. What’s the picture?”

Fosburg explained that the shattered U-boat had been lying on its side. Its stern was sunk deep in the muck and its bow was tilted upward, resting on the ledge of an undersea reef. But an explosive charge which Bock had set off inside the sub earlier that morning had partially dislodged it.

On his next dive, the wreck had suddenly slipped off the ledge completely. Bock had been pinned under a flap of hull metal.

“It’s gradually squashing him downward as the ship settles into the silt,” Fosburg ended grimly. “Ryan says it’s only a question of time till he’s crushed or his suit punctures.”

“Can’t you take a purchase on the bow and hoist it enough to free him?” Perry asked.

The salvage master shook his head. “Bock’s lying under the after edge of the flap. Raising the bow would just push him down worse. The only way would be to parbuckle the whole U-boat so’s to raise the keel—but there’s not a chance of getting wires under her. Not in time, anyhow.”

“Then what about cutting away the flap with a torch?”

“Too dangerous. Bock was carrying another charge of explosive and dropped it when the hulk fell on him. Dynamite and primacord, all set to blow if the flame comes anywhere near it!”

“Then what’re you going to do—let him die?” Perry flared angrily.

The salvage master shrugged. “Ryan’s afraid to risk it. Personally, I don’t blame him.”

“Then break out a cutting torch and another diving rig—I’ll do it myself!” Perry snapped.

Fosburg called down to Bock to ask if he would agree.

“You kidding?” the trapped diver called back. “What have I got to lose!”

Perry dropped the phone and instantly suited up.

The Hardys and Chet waited, tense and silent, as Perry made his descent. For a time there was no word from him after he reached the bottom.

Then his voice came over the deck speaker!

“There may be another way to do this, Fosburg. Ask Frank and Joe Hardy if they’re willing to come down with face masks and air lines.”

Both boys quickly volunteered to do so, and were informed the air lines also contained a phone connection.

Perry went on, “Have each of them bring down an iron needle with a hoisting wire attached to it.”

Removing their clothes, Frank and Joe donned skin-diving suits from the Sleuth and special face masks from the Salvor’s diving locker. Meanwhile, the needles had been laid out on deck—each a huge iron rod with a wire rope shackled to an eye at one end. The rods were lowered over the side, with Frank and Joe clinging to them. Then the wires were payed out slowly.

The green ocean water grew darker and dimmer as they descended. At last, like a still, ghostly monster, the long, slim hulk of the dead U-boat could be made out on the bottom.

Perry and Ryan—the Salvor’s apprentice diver —stood waiting for them.

The Hardys felt an ominous chill of fear as they saw Bock’s helmet and shoulders extending out from under the jagged flap of metal below the keel.

Fosburg transmitted Perry’s orders over the boys’ phone lines. “He wants those needles jammed way under the flap. Frank, you help Ryan with one rod—and, Joe, help Perry.”

With grunting effort, the four divers at last got the needles wedged into position. Then Perry’s voice reached the crew on deck:

“Okay, put a strain on those wires!”

As winches heaved the wires taut, the rods slowly came upright, levering the metal flap upward. In moments the rescuers had pulled Bock free!

Then came the long, slow ascent back to the Simon Salvor. Safe on deck with his helmet off, Bock gasped out his thanks.

“Still want to break my neck, Rollie?”

Perry, somber-faced, shook his head. “Not yet, anyhow. Too much trouble saving it. Just tell me one thing—did you have anything to do with a gelignite booby trap on the Katawa?

The rescued diver swore fervently that he knew nothing about it. “Haven’t been near her. I’ll admit I was the frogman who slipped the Petrel’s anchor—but that’s all. And listen, Perry. About that old score you’ve been wanting to settle—be—lieve me, I didn’t try to cut your air line.”

“Okay, Gus. I’ll take your word.”

Bock stuck out his huge paw. “I’m willing to call it quits.”

“Guess I go along with that,” said Perry, shaking hands.

“Now,” Frank said to Bock, “how about telling us what you fellows are after aboard the U-boat?”

The diver opened his mouth to reply, but Kraus cut him off sharply. “Tell them nothing, Bockl Nothing—do you hear?”

“Shut up, Kraus!” Bock retorted. “These guys saved my life. I’m not only gonna tell ‘em—we’re gonna cut ’em in, see?”

Ignoring Kraus’s protests, he turned back to the boys and Perry. “You know what’s down in that sub? Five hundred grand in American currency—that’s what—a cool half million!”

Chet’s eyes grew big as saucers, and the Hardys were just as startled as their chum.

“A half million—how do you know?” Perry asked Bock.

“Kraus here was a torpedoman on it!”

Bock went on to explain that in the closing months of World War II a group of top Nazis had fled Germany aboard the U-511 with a fortune in American currency.

“Heading where—to South America?” Frank broke in.

“Right—until steering trouble and dogged pursuit by Allied sub-killers took them far off course.”

The U-boat had then hove to off Whalebone Island for repairs one night and sent a reconnaissance party ashore.

“Kraus got separated from the party and was stranded when his mates were suddenly called back to the ship.”

“Because of the Svenson!” Chet spoke up.

Bock nodded. “The Germans sighted Captain Early’s destroyer. Then the Svenson engaged the U-511 and sank her, but Kraus thought it got away.”

“So Kraus was the red-bearded apparition who scared the wits out of Tang, the lighthouse keeper!” put in Joe.

Bock chuckled. “You guessed it, kid. He hid in a cave and finally got to the mainland in a boat swiped from a fisherman.”

Kraus, the boys learned, had met Bock by chance years later. An exchange of information between the two had led to the present salvage effort.

“I remembered the sinking,” Bock went on, “and knew that Captain Early’s cane gave the exact location.”

In response to further questioning by the Hardys, Bock admitted his group was responsible for the various break-ins and the highway incident involving Captain Early’s car. But their search for the sunken submarine had been fruitless until their prowler came upon Early’s carved cane at the Hardy house.

“That’s the guy right over there,” Bock said, pointing to a muscular member of the salvage crew. “You won’t hold it against him, will you?”

Frank and Joe shook their heads. “No hard feelings as long as you’re giving us the whole story,” said Frank. “But Kraus will have to square himself with immigration authorities.”

Bock, however, denied any knowledge of the “ghost” at the Hardys’ house or the island explosion trap.

“Then why did you threaten Dad?” Joe asked.

“I was plenty sore that he kept us from getting the salvage contract for the Katawa,” Bock admitted. “It would’ve given us swell cover for this job and kept you guys out of our hair. Right now, I’m sure glad you were around!”

The Petrel party, eager to resume their own diving operation, soon headed back in the Sleuth to their ship.

It was nightfall when Perry telephoned electrifying news from the bottom: He had succeeded in forcing an entry to the Katawa’s strong room!

“What about the head?” Frank called down tensely.

“It’s here, all right. At least there’s a case that looks like the one the insurance company described—and there’s something heavy inside!”

Some time later, a breathless group gathered in Captain Rankin’s cabin. On the desk lay a metal carrying case. Frank, acting for his father as the representative of Transmarine, was allowed to open it. Inside was an object wrapped in green velvet cloth.

“J-j-jeepers! Unwrap it quick!” Chet urged.

Frank stripped away the velvet cloth, revealing a gleaming gold head.

“Is it the real McCoy?” Perry asked.

“Sure looks like it,” Frank murmured. He hesitated, then took out his jackknife and made a tiny scratch in the base of the statuette.

Grayish metal could be seen beneath the gold!

“It’s gilded lead!” Joe cried out. “A fake!” He stopped short as sudden confused noises and shouts were heard on deck.

“What’s going on out there?” Captain Rankin exclaimed. He and the others sped from the cabin. As they reached the deck, the five shielded their eyes and staggered. Dense clouds of fuming vapor were billowing over the deck!

“Tear gas!” Frank gasped. “Look—those men!”

Near the glowing deckhouse, ghostly figures with gas masks could be seen darting about, swinging clubs and blackjacks! Petrel crewmen rushing topside were promptly clubbed as they came on deck.

“We’ve—got—to stop them!” Joe yelled, his eyes stinging with pain. He groped forward past a fallen sailor, then felt himself roughly thrown to the deck.

Frank and Chet battled valiantly. But an instant later they were seized from behind in a grip of iron. Half-blinded and choking, the boys were helpless!

Soon the entire Petrel crew was subdued. Many, including Roland Perry, were unconscious. Frank, Joe, Chet, Captain Rankin, and one other man stood on deck with their hands tied.

“But who—?” Frank murmured to himself.

Dazed, the captive group squinted through the darkness as two of the mystery raiders approached them.

When they removed their masks, the Hardys gasped.

“Mehmet Zufar!” Joe cried out. “And Fritz Bogdan!”

The fat, mustached art dealer rubbed his hands and sneered triumphantly. Then he commanded, “Captain, you will now hand over the head which your diver brought up from the sunken Katawa before—”

“Before what?” Captain Rankin snapped back.

Zufar chuckled and glanced over the rail at the dark water.

“Before,” he whispered, “we—as you say—scuttle this ship and send you all to the bottom!”

CHAPTER XX

Rhamaton’s Curse

“THIS is piracy!” Captain Rankin exploded. “Piracy and murder! You’ll all pay for it with your lives!”

Zufar twirled his mustache smugly. “Ah, but no, my dear captain—not with all the evidence lying on the bottom of the ocean. Your ship will disappear without a trace.”

“Don’t count on that!” Rankin stormed. “Chances are my radioman got off a call for help before you thugs took over.”

“I hate to disillusion you.” Zufar smiled. “But your radioman has been in my pay all along. He has been most useful to us.”

“Harry Egner? I don’t believe it!”

“It is true, nevertheless. He, of course, will die with you, now that his usefulness is at an end.”

The Hardys clenched their fists, forgetting fear in their anger at being trapped. Chet Morton threw them a despairing glance.

Frank’s jaw tightened. He thought, “We’ll have to play for time.” In a loud voice he asked Zufar, “How did you and your gang get here?”

“From a coastal hideout,” Zufar replied with a gloating smirk. “As soon as Egner radioed us that the Rhamaton head was on the way up from the Katawa, we lost no time.”

Bogdan put in boastfully, “Thanks to my idea of using tear gas, our task was made easier.”

Frank ignored the curio dealer and kept his eyes fixed on Zufar. “You had to keep the fake head from coming into the hands of the insurance company, is that it?”

“Exactly. Even though you and your brother detected the authentic head in New York, I still look forward to collecting one million dollars insurance from Transmarine Underwriters, you see.”

“But why were you shipping the fake in the first place?” Chet asked. “You couldn’t have known beforehand the Katawa would sink in a collision.”

“To palm it off on somebody!” Joe put in.

“Quite so. I intended to sell the—er—reproduction to a wealthy South American collector—whose agent had examined the original in Beirut.” Zufar laughed. “Clever? At any rate, I felt the chance of doubling my profits was worth the risk.”

Meanwhile, Zufar explained, the real head had been sent on to Bogdan to sell secretly elsewhere.

“Then came the sinking.” The art dealer shook his head sadly. “But it enabled me, of course, to claim a million dollars in insurance—if the fake head were never salvaged.”

“So you sent down your own diver?” Frank interjected.

“Exactly. But unfortunately our man was unable to get through to the strong room before the Petrel arrived.”

Captain Rankin, who had been standing grim-faced, now broke out in an angry voice, “Then Frank and Joe were right! You took out the telegraph and tachometer instead—as a cover-up for the hole in the Katawa hull!”

At this, Bogdan stuck his face close to the Hardys. “Smart kids! We’ll see how smart you are when we sink you forty fathoms under!”

Chills crawled up the boys’ spines, but Frank, undaunted, pressed further. “Who was your diver?”

Zufar pointed to a swarthy, thickset man. One of Bogdan’s employees! He chuckled. “And also the ‘ghost’ who gave you such a hard time on Whalebone Island.”

Joe glared at the diver. “So you blinked the signals, conked our Dad, and set off the explosion.”

It was further learned that he also had stolen Lawson’s rental boat, left the warning note, ransacked Mr. Hardy’s camp, and stove the hole in his boat.

Zufar went on, “Our diver’s ‘ghost’ camouflage was quite useful, since he had to stay on the island while working on the Katawa. He returned, you see, after you left the island the first time.”

“What about the ghost we saw at home?” Joe put in.

“That was me,” Bogdan spoke up.

“So there were two of you playing the ghost game,” said Frank.

“Yes,” Bogdan replied. “It was another of my brilliant ideas. I had heard the legend of Whalebone Island, and thus thought of reviving Red Rogers’ spirit.”

“No wonder you looked familiar the first time we saw you at your shop!” Frank muttered.

Joe glared at the grinning art dealer and his cohorts. “You’re a slick actor, Zufar! I suppose the broken-cat business with Mr. Scath was just an act to set the stage for my father’s kidnapping.”

“Mostly that—but also, partly, to make myself appear innocent of any hint of fraud.”

Frank spoke up, “That gelignite booby trap on the Katawa this morning—did your man plant it?”

Zufar nodded. “Thanks to Egner’s timely warning by radio that your diver was close to the strong room. A pity it failed.”

“How about the warning cablegram from Cairo?” Joe said. “Was Van Hoek in your pay too?”

“Not only that—he made our counterfeit Pharaoh’s head. We hoped the cablegram might serve as a false lead, perhaps even frighten your father off the case.” Zufar sneered. “Unfortunately, Van Hoek himself is a superstitious fool! The thought of the Pharaoh’s curse began to prey on his mind and he finally fled from Cairo. We have lost track of him.”

“We’re wasting time, gabbing with these brats, Zufar!” Bogdan snarled. “Let’s open the seacocks and sink this tub!”

“Quite right, quite right, my friend. But first we must have these five drag their shipmates below. It will be much better, I think, if no bodies float to the surface.”

“Oh yeah?” a harsh voice broke in. “Maybe that’s what you bilge rats will be doin’ when we get through with you!”

Men were suddenly swarming over the rail!

Joe let out a yelp of joy. “It’s Gus Bock and his buddies!”

The burly diver leaped aboard, with fists swinging. Kraus, Fosburg, Ryan, and the Salvor’s captain joined the fray. Bock paused long enough to free the Hardys and the others.

Zufar’s henchmen, stunned by the swift turn of events, fought back, wildly brandishing their weapons.

“Stop them! Stop them!” the fat ringleader shrilled, his voice rising hysterically. The next instant Bock seized him and drew back a mighty fist. Zufar begged for mercy. “D-don’t hit met I give up.”

Frank spotted Bogdan about to swing himself over the rail. The young sleuth leaped toward him and pinioned the curio dealer’s arms. Kraus, nearby, sent a rocketing uppercut to the jaw of the “ghost” diver, who crumpled to the deck.

Joe and Chet had succeeded in disarming and capturing two more of the enemy.

Finally Zufar’s gang were completely subdued. By this time most of the Petrel’s unconscious crewmen had revived. Roland Perry also had come to.

With Zufar, Bogdan, and the other prisoners tied and locked in a cabin, warm handshakes were exchanged between the Petrel’s men and their rescuers.

“Looks as though we’re all square now—eh, Gus?” Perry said with a grin.

“Who says, bubblehead?” Bock retorted. “I told you we were gonna cut you guys in on the U-boat dough and we are! In fact, we were just bringin’ it over to you when we got wind of what was goin’ on aboard.”

He emptied a canvas bag onto the captain’s desk. The Hardys and Chet gasped as bundles of water-soaked green currency came tumbling out!

“There you are, pals! Your share—a hundred grand. Divvy it up any way you like. The stuff got a bit water-logged in the chest, but you can still spend it.”

Perry and his mates stared in astonishment, unable to find words. Then Frank peeled off a soggy bill and held it up.

“Careful,” Bock advised. “That dough’s been down in Davy Jones’s locker so long it almost comes apart in your fingers.”

Frank nodded, kneading the fibers of the bill. “I know—that’s what I want it to do. Gus, unless I’m off-base, this money’s counterfeit, probably manufactured by the Nazis themselves.”

“What!” Bock seemed on the verge of apoplexy.

Joe inspected the bill. “I think Frank’s right,” he said. “We once helped our dad in a case involving counterfeit money and learned a few pointers about detecting phony currency. One way is from the paper itself. I’ll bet anything this isn’t the same composition as paper used for American money.”

Bock stared glassy-eyed at his companions. At first the Hardys thought he might put his fist through the bulkhead in sheer rage. But suddenly the big diver tossed his head back and burst into bellows of laughter.

“What a bunch of saps we are! All that trouble we went to, and the dough turns out to be fake!”

Kraus could only shake his head and mutter, “Ach du lieber Himmel!”

“We could be wrong,” Frank said.

“Somehow I got a feeling you ain’t.” Bock slapped him on the back. “But never mind, we’ll all hang onto this funny money till we find out for sure.”

A little later the Hardys contacted Sam Radley. They were overjoyed to learn their father had fully recuperated and would be out of the hospital the next day. Sam assured the boys he would give Mr. Hardy full details of their sleuthing success.

“Splendid work, fellows,” the operative added.

Two days later Fenton Hardy confirmed his sons’ verdict about the money when he and Sam Radley boarded the Petrel at its pier in New York.

“Bock and Kraus aren’t the only ones who were misled,” Mr. Hardy added. “That goldsmith Van Hoek is now under arrest.”

“No kidding!” Joe exclaimed. “Where’d they nail him, Dad?”

“In Amsterdam, on several counts of art forg. ery. He stepped off the plane from Cairo and walked straight into the arms of the Dutch police.”

Chet flashed a wise look at his two chums. “When you received the secret warning I had a hunch the Pharaoh’s curse was no laughing matter. It sure caught up with Zufar and his gang.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Now that this case is closed,” he said with an air of satisfaction, “we can relax a little. Hey! How about going to Captain Early’s place and—”

“Eating more juicy lamb chops, I suppose,” Joe put in with a quick smile.

“Aw! Quit reading my mind!”

“Wait! I Chet has a point,” Frank concluded. “I think Captain Early should get a firsthand report of the final salvo.”

“And I’ll present the cane,” Chet said.

With a victory whoop, the boys set off, unaware at the moment that The Twisted Claw, their next mystery, soon would plunge them into another harrowing adventure.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Shadowed!

CHAPTER II - The Black Parrot

CHAPTER III - Trapped at Sea

CHAPTER IV - Good Old Chet

CHAPTER V - Solo Assignments

CHAPTER VI - A Desperate Moment

CHAPTER VII - Mysterious Cargo

CHAPTER VIII - Fire!

CHAPTER IX - A Daring Plan

CHAPTER X - Deck Watch

CHAPTER XI - Unknown Ally

CHAPTER XII - Swim to Freedom

CHAPTER XIII - Trouble on Tambio

CHAPTER XIV - Morton’s Geyser

CHAPTER XV - Impostors

CHAPTER XVI - An Unfortunate Scoop

CHAPTER XVII - An Unexpected Visitor

CHAPTER XVIII - A Hidden Target

CHAPTER XIX - The Pirate King

CHAPTER XX - Island Rescue

THE TWISTED CLAW

A series of museum thefts launch the Hardy Boys on this baffling mystery. Rare collections of ancient pirate treasure are being stolen. Who is doing it? And how is the loot being smuggled out of the United States?

Frank and Joe’s celebrated detective father is working on the case and asks the boys to stake out the Black Parrot, a suspicious freighter docked in Bayport Harbor. Disguised as crewmen the teen-age sleuths board the ship, determined to investigate its cargo hold.

Clues that the boys unearth take them on a whirl-wind chase after a self-styled pirate king—a chase that leads to their imprisonment in the fantastic Caribbean island stronghold of the Empire of the Twisted Claw. How Frank and Joe cleverly outmaneuver the pirate king and his cohorts makes a gripping tale of suspense and high adventure.

Frank grabbed the steel girder just in time!

Copyright 0 1997, 1969, 1939 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-86667

eISBN : 978-1-101-07632-3

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Shadowed!

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Frank Hardy shouted to his brother Joe as the track meet ended. “You’ve won the trophy for Bayport High and set a new record for the hundred-yard dash!”

“You helped, too,” Joe called, jogging along the cinder track. “What about your gold medal in the 440?” he said as he came to a halt.

“Don’t forget me!” exclaimed Chet Morton. He was a stout, round-faced youth and a good friend of the Hardys. “I collected a few points in the shot-put.”

“You were great, Chet,” Frank said with a grin.

The trio had taken part in the annual track-and-field meet with Hopkinsville at a stadium near their home town of Bayport. The contest also marked the beginning of summer vacation.

“Well, are we going over to the soda shop to celebrate?” Chet asked.

“Sure, some of the other guys want to come, too,” Joe replied. “Let’s go and change—”

He was interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeaker. “Frank and Joe Hardy to the telephone, please.”

“Oh, oh. We’d better forget about the celebration,” Frank said. “Let’s go, Joe.”

They went to the manager’s office, who handed Frank the phone. “It’s your father,” he said.

Frank scooped it up. “Hello, Dad. We won!”

“Nice going.” There was a pause. “Frank,” Mr. Hardy went on, “I’d like you and Joe to come home soon. It’s important.”

Within minutes the boys had showered and changed and were in their convertible, driving toward Bayport.

“I hope there’s nothing wrong,” Joe remarked anxiously.

“I don’t think so,” Frank answered. “I have a hunch it has something to do with a new case.”

Their father, Fenton Hardy, had once been a member of the New York City police force. But now he was engaged in private practice as a detective and was often assisted by his. sons. Working as a team, they had solved many baffling crimes, beginning with The Tower Treasure. Their last case was The Secret Warning, which had added even more renown to the Hardy name.

“Hi, Mother,” the boys called when they arrived home.

Mrs. Hardy, an attractive, soft-spokeu woman, greeted her sons with a smile. “How did the meet go?” she inquired.

“Just great!” Joe declared. “We won the trophy!”

“We’ll tell you about it later,” Frank interrupted. “Where’s Dad?”

“Upstairs. He’s waiting for you.”

The boys rushed to the second floor and entered their father’s study. He was seated at his desk. Mr. Hardy was a distinguished-looking man who appeared much younger than his years.

“We came as fast as we could,” Frank said.

“Thanks,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. I’m going to need your help in connection with a new case.”

“What did I tell you!” Frank exclaimed as he playfully slapped his brother on the shoulder.

“What kind of a case?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I can’t go into detail at this point. Besides, I’ll be leaving on a trip shortly,” his father said. “Here it is briefly. Right now there is a ship in Bayport Harbor called the Black Parrot. I know nothing about it other than it might have some connection with my case. I’d like you to keep an eye on the freighter while it’s in port. Record anything about the crew or cargo that looks even slightly suspicious.”

Frank, dark-haired and eighteen, a year older than his blond brother, looked at his father quizzically. “That sounds sort of tame, Dad.”

“I know. But it could turn out to be a pretty wild case, as you boys say.”

“Should we contact you if we find any information ?”

“No. I’ll get in touch with you.”

At that instant Mrs. Hardy entered the room. “Fenton,” she said nervously, “I’m worried. There’s a man across the street. I’m sure he’s watching our house. He’s hiding behind a tree, but I caught several glimpses of him.”

Joe, the more impetuous of the brothers, jumped to his feet. “Let’s go and have a talk with that guy. We’ll soon find out what he’s up to!”

“Hold it!” Mr. Hardy ordered. “It’s possible he has been assigned to shadow me. I don’t want him to know he has been spotted. It’ll put his cohorts on guard.”

Joe nodded. “This must be quite a case. Wish you could tell us more about it.”

The detective did not answer. He glanced at his watch. “I’m due at the airport soon. Somehow I’ve got to get out of the house without being seen.”

“How about the back door?” Joe suggested.

“No good,” his father said. “Chances are there’s another man posted behind the house.”

“Maybe some kind of a disguise would work,” Frank said.

“I’m afraid it would be a bit too obvious under the circumstances,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Unless someone—” His words trailed off as he reached for the telephone book, looked up a number, and dialed. “I’m going to call Mr. Callahan and ask him to come over right away.”

“Our plumber?” Joe asked.

The boys glanced at each other in bewilderment. What could their father possibly want with a plumber at this time?

“You’ll see,” Mr. Hardy said with a wink. About ten minutes later a small panel truck came to a stop in front of the Hardy home. Mr. Callahan, a middle-aged man wearing a visor cap and overalls, climbed out. He had a rather large nose and bushy eyebrows.

He walked toward the house, carrying a tool kit in his right hand. The young detectives led him to their father’s study, where Mr. Hardy quickly told him of his predicament.

“Now this is my plan, Mr. Callahan,” Mr. Hardy continued. “You and I are about the same size and weight. If you’ll lend me your cap and overalls for a while, I can disguise myself well enough to pass as your double—at least at a distance.”

The plumber was an old acquaintance and readily agreed. They left the study and went to the master bedroom. A few minutes later they reappeared. With a putty nose and false eyebrows Mr. Hardy looked amazingly like Callahan.

“A good makeup job, Dad!” Frank exclaimed. “You and Mr. Callahan could be twin brothers.”

At that instant Gertrude Hardy entered the room. She was the tall, angular, peppery sister of Mr. Hardy. “My word! I’m seeing double!” she exclaimed. “Two Mr. Callahans in this room!”

“You’re not seeing double,” Joe assured her with a laugh. “One of them is Dad in disguise.”

“And a pretty good likeness too, don’t you think?” Frank added.

Aunt Gertrude turned to face the plumber. “Fenton, what on earth are you up to now? Something to do with a new case I take it. One day something awful is going to happen. I’m sure of it!”

Mr. Hardy stepped forward. “I’m afraid you’re scolding the wrong man.”

Aunt Gertrude shook her head and marched out of the room. The boys roared with laughter.

“Now back to the business at hand,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll leave here in Mr. Callahan’s truck. You boys take him to the airport in an hour to pick it up. Please bill me for the time, Mr. Callahan.”

“I won’t think of it. It’s a favor,” the plumber said.

“I insist,” said Mr. Hardy, then addressed his sons, “Any questions before I leave?”

“No, Dad,” Joe replied.

“Let’s hope,” the detective continued, “that our friend across the street falls for my trick.”

“The trick worked!” Frank exclaimed triumphantly

After saying good-by to his family, he picked up the plumber’s tool kit, took a deep breath, and left the house.

The boys cautiously peered through a window. Across the street they saw a man’s head pop out from behind a tree, then vanish again as their father drove off. Obviously the stranger was remaining at his post.

“The trick workedl” Frank exclaimed trium phantly.

“Right,” Joe agreed. “But I wonder how long that guy is going to stick around.”

Frank chuckled. “One thing is certain. He’s in for a long wait.”

While Aunt Gertrude prepared a cup of tea for Mr. Callahan, Frank and Joe discussed the case.

“The Black Parrot,” Joe mused. “Sounds eerie.”

“Let’s go down to the harbor first thing in the morning,” Frank said. “Right now we’d better keep an eye on that fellow across the street.”

The boys hurried downstairs and peered through one of the living-room windows. Minutes passed.

“No sign of him,” Joe muttered. “Maybe he’s gone.”

“Could be,” his brother replied. “But let’s wait awhile longer, just to be sure.”

While Frank kept his post at the window, Joe paced up and down impatiently. Finally he could not suppress his curiosity any longer. “I’m going to see if that spy’s still there,” he said and ran out of the house. He looked behind the tree across the street, then signaled Frank that the coast was clear.

When he came back Frank met him at the door. “You shouldn’t have run out like that, you know.”

“Sorry. I thought it was about time for a show-down.”

“You might have—”

Frank was interrupted by a terrifying scream from the kitchen.

CHAPTER II

The Black Parrot

“HOLY crow!” Joe exclaimed. “That was Aunt Gertrude!”

The boys rushed into the kitchen and almost collided with their mother who had heard the scream, too.

They found Miss Hardy shaking like a leaf. She pointed to an open window. “A-a strange man was looking in at me! Call the police! Do something!”

Frank and Joe spotted a man running down the street. They dashed out of the house and gave chase, but before they could close the gap, their quarry leaped into a car and sped off.

“There were two men in that car!” Frank declared. “One of them must have been watching the rear of the house as Dad suspected. He tried to get a look inside and frightened the wits out of Aunty.”

“I wonder what he was up to,” Joe put in.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank replied.

They returned to find their mother pressing a cold wet towel on Aunt Gertrude’s forehead.

“How do you feel?” Joe inquired.

“Awful! Simply awful!” exclaimed Aunt Gertrude. “Who was that cutthroat?”

“Probably just a peddler,” Frank replied, hoping not to upset her further. “Your scream frightened him more than he frightened you.”

“Some nerve!” Aunt Gertrude snapped. “Imagine! Peering into people’s houses.”

Frank looked at his watch. “I think we can leave now,” he said to Mr Callahan “Come We’ll take you to the airport to pick up your truck.”

“Okay.” As they got into the boys’ convertible, the plumber said, “Tell me, is there always that much excitement at your house?”

Frank winked at his brother. “This is a rather quiet day, wouldn’t you say, Joe?”

Mr. Callahan shook his head and asked no more questions.

The boys retired early that night and were up at six the next morning. After breakfast they drove to Bayport Harbor. They found the area bustling with activity.

“There’s the Black Parrot,” Joe said, pointing.

They watched as stevedores pushed handcarts, loaded with wooden crates, up a gangplank to the ship. A hoist was putting heavier cargo aboard.

“We won’t be able to get much information for Dad unless we can board the ship,” Joe remarked.

Frank did not speak. Instead, he signaled Joe to follow him and walked toward a crewman who was standing at the base of the gangplank checking a manifest.

“My brother and I are very much interested in ships,” Frank began nonchalantly. “Do you think your captain would let us go aboard for a few minutes?”

The man glared at them in surprise. “Get outta here!” he roared.

“Why get mad at us?” Joe queried. “We were just—”

“You heard mel Get outta here before I take a club to ya!”

Joe was about to challenge the man, but Frank grabbed his brother’s arm and led him away from the ship.

“That guy’s about as pleasant as a rattlesnake,” Joe said angrily.

“Take it easy,” Frank warned. “We can’t risk getting involved in a row. We’ve got to remain as inconspicuous as possible.”

“What’ll we do now?”

“Wait and hope for a break.”

The young detectives watched the Black Parrot from a distance. Then came a stroke of luck. A crewman placed a sign at the base of the gangplank announcing that more help was needed to load the ship. The Hardys were among the first to volunteer.

“So! It’s you two again!” growled the man they had encountered earlier. He stared at them for a moment. “Well—you kids look pretty strong.” He named a price for every crate carried aboard and told them to take it or leave it.

“We’ll take it,” Frank said quickly. “But what about union cards?”

“Forget the union and get movin’!” the crewman ordered. “We haven’t got any more handcarts, so you’ll have to bring the crates aboard one by one.”

“Thanks a lot,” Joe muttered.

The job was extremely hard. The boys stuck to it most of the day, hoping to learn something, but their sleuthing was hampered by the constant surveillance of the crew.

That afternoon, while carrying a crate aboard, Joe tripped and fell. The wooden box crashed to the deck. At that instant the first mate of the Black Parrot appeared and demanded to know what was going on.

“Just an accident,” Frank explained. “My brother tripped and—”

“I’m not interested in excuses!” the officer yelled. He gave Joe a shove. “Now pick that up. And be quick about it!”

“Pick it up yourself!” Joe retorted as he scrambled to his feet.

The first mate was about to lash out with his fist, but Frank stepped in and grabbed him by the arm. As he did, he noticed that the man was wearing a strange ring on his finger. It consisted of a heavy silver band with what looked like a red, twisted bird’s claw on top.

“Let go of my armi” the man demanded. Frank released him. “Now get your pay and get off the ship!”

“We haven’t finished our work,” Joe said.

Several crewmen moved toward the Hardys. “You heard him,” one of them snarled. “Get goin’.”

The boys had no choice but to comply.

Joe sighed. “I certainly messed things up.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Frank said. “Anyway, we couldn’t have done much investigating with all those guys around.”

As they walked down the gangplank to the pier, they heard a familiar voice call out, “Hi, master-minds !” It was Chet Morton. “Your mother said you were down here,” he went on. “What’re you doing?”

Frank and Joe drew the stout boy aside and told him about their assignment and their adventure onboard.

“And you fellows were ordered off the ship, eh?” Chet reflected. “Let me see.” He began walking toward the Black Parrot. “I’ll get some information for you.”

“Wait a minute!” Frank said. “Come back here!” His words went unheeded.

“Ahoy, mates! Make way for a real seaman!” Chet shouted to a group of crewmen as he hurried up the gangplank.

“Oh, oh. Now we’re really in for trouble,” Joe muttered anxiously.

Chet disappeared into the midst of the group. Shortly scuffling broke out among the men. Before Frank and Joe could aid their friend, he came rolling down the gangplank like an oversized bowling ball.

“Are you all right?” Frank cried as he and Joe rushed to Chet.

The stout youth got to his feet and began brushing off his clothes. “I’m—I’m okay. Those guys aren’t very friendly.”

Frank frowned. “Right now, our chances of getting back aboard the ship are nil. Let’s go home and try to figure out another plan.”

The boys had an early supper, then went to their father’s study to discuss their next move.

Joe thought for a moment. “I’ve got an idea,” he said finally. “Why don’t we disguise ourselves as a couple of crewmen and just board the ship?”

“I don’t know,” Frank muttered, rubbing his chin dubiously. “Then again, it might work if we try it after dark.”

“I’ll dig up the caps and seamen’s jackets we used on that sailing trip last year.”

“Okay. But let’s disguise ourselves in the car. We don’t want Mother and Aunt Gertrude to see us. They’ll only worry.”

The boys lost no time putting their plan into action. Within half an hour they had completed their disguise.

“You look as if you’ve been at sea for years,” Frank said laughingly as he gazed at his brother.

Joe grinned as he started the car. “And no one would take you for a landlubber either.”

It had been dark for nearly an hour when the Hardys arrived at the harbor. They were startled to find the Black Parrot gone.

Frank leaped out of the convertible and approached a watchman who was walking along the pier “Where’s the Black Parrot?” he asked.

The man eyed the young detective. “Sailed about an hour ago. Were you supposed to be on board?”

“Er—no,” Frank replied. “Heard the ship was in port. Just wondered if the captain needed a couple of extra hands.”

“Then you ain’t missed nothin‘,” the watchman told him. “Strangest crew I ever did see. Weren’t friendly toward nobody. You’d be better off signin’ on with another ship. Try the Nomad. It’ll be dockin’ here in the mornin’.”

Frank hurried back to the car. “Well, that’s that.” He sighed. “The ship’s gone and we have nothing to report to Dad.”

“This was a tough assignment,” Joe commented. “If only we had had more time.”

They removed their disguises and returned home. Aunt Gertrude had a message for them. “Your father telephoned while you were gone. He wants you to get a book for him.”

“Sure,” Frank said. “What is it?”

“It’s called Essays in Criminology, by Weaver. He said you might have some trouble finding it since it’s out of print.”

“We’ll try. How’s Dad?”

“Fine. He’ll call again in a few days.”

The boys spent the following day canvassing the second-hand bookstores in Bayport. Their search was unsuccessful, however.

“Let’s go to New York City,” Frank suggested. “If there’s a copy of the Essays anywhere, we’re likely to find it there.”

That evening Joe telephoned Jack Wayne, pilot of Mr. Hardy’s single-engine aircraft. The plane was based at Bayport Airport. Wayne readily agreed to fly the boys to New York.

“By the way, I understand your father recently left on a trip by airline,” the pilot said jokingly. “What’s wrong? Doesn’t he like his own plane any more?”

“Not necessarily,” Joe answered with a laugh. “Maybe he thought you needed a vacation. We’ll see you in the morning.”

The following day was crisp and clear. Jack Wayne was already warming up the plane’s engine when the Hardys arrived at the airport. Soon they were off the ground and headed for their destination. A little more than two hours later the pilot made a smooth landing at La Guardia Airport.

Frank and Joe got on a bus that took them into the city. There they looked in the classified telephone directory and made more than a dozen calls to various bookstores, but to no avail.

Finally they went to a street well known for second-hand bookstores. After hours of searching, they finally discovered a copy of the book their father wanted.

“What luck!” Frank exclaimed as he flipped through its pages.

Joe, meanwhile, glanced casually toward the rare-book section. Suddenly his eyes fastened on a certain volume. He grabbed Frank’s shoulder. “Look! Over there!”

CHAPTER III

Trapped at Sea

“IT’S the symbol!” Frank exclaimed. “Just like the one I saw on the first mate’s ring!”

The boys stared at an old volume entitled Empire of the Twisted Claw. The strange, red-colored insignia was stamped on its cover. Thick glass doors with sturdy locks prevented the Hardys from examining the book more closely.

At that moment the proprietor of the shop appeared. “Find something that interests you?” he inquired.

“How much are you asking for that book?” Joe asked.

The man adjusted his eyeglasses and peered at the volume. “I’ll have to look up the exact price. But nothing on this shelf goes for less than fifteen hundred dollars.”

Frank and Joe looked glum. Buying the book was out of the question.

The proprietor saw that they were greatly disappointed. He regarded them for a moment, then smiled. “Tell you what. Promise to be careful, and I’ll let you see the volume.”

The Hardys were elated. They thanked the man as he pulled the book from the shelf and placed it on a reading table nearby.

“It’s dated 1786,” Frank observed as he and Joe examined the opening page.

The text that followed revealed a fascinating story. It concerned the adventures of an early eighteenth-century pirate named Cartoll. The sight of his ship, the Black Parrot, struck fear into those who sailed the Atlantic trade routes of that era.

“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “Whoever named the freighter we tried to investigate must’ve known about Cartoll.”

“Kind of weird. What do you make of it?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s go back to the story.”

Reading on, the boys learned that Cartoll discovered an island somewhere in the Caribbean. He used it not only as a base of operations for his pirating activities, but also for the creation of a private kingdom. Cartoll referred to his realm as the Empire of the Twisted Claw.

“Wow!” Joe declared. “He certainly was an ambitious guy.”

“It says here,” Frank stated as he ran his finger along the page, “that the few natives on the island were forced to become his subjects. Later, his kingdom was enlarged by bringing captives there from the ships he had plundered.”

The story also revealed that Cartoll had formed an elite personal guard. Each of the men had the symbol of the twisted claw on the breastplate of his armor.

As the Hardys turned the next page, they found that the remainder of the text was so faded it was impossible to read. Apparently the last section of the volume had been damaged by seawater.

“Bad luck.” Frank sighed. “I was hoping we’d learn more about Cartoll and where his island was located.”

“If we could take the book to our crime lab,” Joe suggested, “the rest of the text might show up under ultraviolet light.”

“The owner will never go along with it,” Frank replied.

“What’ve we got to lose? Let’s try, anyway.”

The proprietor flatly refused their request. He quickly placed the book back on its shelf. “You fellows must think I’m crazy!”

“Not at all, sir,” Frank said apologetically. “We can’t tell you why at the moment, but it’s important that we see the rest of the text.”

“Only the buyer of that book will leave my shop with it!” the man snapped. “Anyway, I’d never permit it to be exposed to chemicals and lights.”

The young detectives decided not to press the issue any further. They paid for the volume of essays and started back to the airport.

“I wonder if there’s another copy of that Twisted Claw book around somewhere,” Joe remarked as Wayne lifted the plane off the runway at La Guardia.

Frank glanced at his brother. “The bookshop owner claimed that it’s the only one known to be in existence. If there is another one, it could take years to track it down.”

It was early evening when they arrived home. After supper Frank settled down to look at the book they had bought for their father. Joe, meanwhile, leafed through the evening newspaper.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his chair. “Frank! We’re due for a break! This is great!”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s an item here which says the Black Parrot has developed engine trouble and is returning to Bayport Harbor for repairs!”

“When?”

“Sometime tomorrow afternoon,” Joe replied, tossing the paper to his brother.

Frank read the article. “According to this, the captain doesn’t expect repairs to take more than twenty-four hours.”

“This might be our last chance to investigate the ship,” Joe said. “We’ll have to work fast.”

The following afternoon the boys drove to Bayport Harbor, hopeful that the ship would arrive as scheduled. Their spirits soared when they spotted the Black Parrot easing into a dock.

Members of the crew spilled down the gangplank to help secure the lines.

“Let’s stick to our original plan,” Frank sug gested. “We’ll disguise ourselves as seamen again and board the ship after dark.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll call Chet and ask him to meet us here later,” Joe said.

As night approached, the young detectives began putting on their disguise and facial makeup. They finished just as Chet arrived. Their friend was dumbfounded when he saw his two chums.

“How do we look?” Joe asked him.

“Great!” Chet declared. “You’d fool anybody into thinking you’re a couple of old salts.”

The Hardys then told him what they wanted him to do. “And remember,” Frank urged, “stay out of sight and keep your eyes open. Don’t run for help unless we really get into a tough spot.”

“Roger. You can count on me,” Chet replied. The boys braced themselves and started down the pier toward the Black Parrot. They climbed the gangplank and stepped onto the deck.

A crewman came toward them. He stopped and glanced at the youths. “I ain’t seen you guys aboard before.”

Frank mumbled in doubletalk.

“Better check with the first mate then,” the fellow advised. “You’ll find him in the forward galley.”

“Thanks,” Joe replied.

The crewman continued on his way. Casually the boys walked along the deck for a short distance, then dashed down a passageway.

“Whew!” Joe sighed. “That was close. I was afraid that guy would insist on taking us to the first mate.”

Frank creased his brow. “There’s a chance he might check later to see if we did report. We’d better not risk staying aboard too long.”

“What should we investigate first?”

“The cargo hold. I’d like to see what sort of load they’re carrying.”

Stealthily they made their way midships, pulled open a hatch, and descended a ladder into the cargo hold. Taking out their flashlights, the boys began to scan the area. The room was filled with wooden crates. They carefully pried the top off one of the boxes and found that it contained a coil of electric cable.

Examination of the labels on other crates indicated that the merchandise varied from leather goods to automobile parts. Most of the shipments were slated for Iceland.

“So far,” Frank remarked, “there’s nothing suspicious about this cargo.”

“Maybe it’s all a cover-up for some kind of an illegal operation,” Joe said.

As they continued their search, the beam of Joe’s flashlight fell upon a metal enclosure. It formed a small, separate room at the far end of the hold.

“Wonder what’s in there,” Joe said.

“Let’s take a look,” Frank suggested.

The Hardys unlatched the door of the enclosure and went inside.

Joe let out a low whistle. “More crates. And they’re marked ‘Explosives’!”

Frank tugged at the top of a box. “We’d need a long crowbar to break into one of these.”

Suddenly the area outside the enclosure was filled with light and crewmen descended the ladder into the hold.

The boys listened anxiously as one of the men shouted an order to the others. “Double check to see everything is secure!”

Frank and Joe held their breath. The door of the enclosure was partially open. They stiffened at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Hey!” a man yelled. “Someone left the door to the special storeroom unlatched. Won’t you guys ever learn?”

An instant later the door was slammed shut. The Hardys were left in total darkness.

Frank switched on his flashlight. “Oh, oh. Now we’re in for it. There’s no latch on the inside. We’re trapped!”

“Wh-what’ll we do?” Joe stammered.

“Either yell for help and get caught, or wait until the hold is clear and try to find a way out. What say?”

“Let’s wait.”

Ten minutes later they heard the men leave.

“Okay, let’s move some of this stuff to see if there’s another exit,” Frank suggested.

He placed his flashlight on the floor near the door and with Joe’s help moved the heavy crates away from the walls. The work was backbreaking, but to no avail. There were no other doorsl

Dripping with perspiration, the Hardys sat down on the floor and leaned against a crate to ponder their next move. As Joe made himself comfortable, his fingers touched an object and he picked it up.

“Hey,” he cried out, “look what I found!”

Frank beamed his light on a large screwdriver which Joe held in his hand.

“Maybe we can open the latch with this,” Frank said. “Here, let me have it.” He scrambled up and tried to ram the tool through the narrow slit between the door and the wall. No luck. The screwdriver was much too thick.

“Oh, nuts!” Joe said.

“Let’s see if we can’t locate something else,” Frank said hopefully.

They shifted the crates again and scoured the floor. Their hands were black with dirt, and they coughed as dust assailed their nostrils. But not another tool was to be found.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until someone comes down again, and then play it by ear,” Joe muttered.

Presently the boys sensed a strong vibration. The engines of the Black Parrot had been started.

“The ship’s getting underway!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER IV

Good Old Chet

“WIE’VE got to get out of here!” Frank declared.

The Hardys tried to force the door, but their efforts were useless. They thought of Chet. Would he give the alarm? Perhaps he’d send the Coast Guard to free them.

Finally, drowsy because of the lack of fresh air, they dozed off. Hours passed before they awoke.

Frank glanced at his watch. “The ship must be eighty or ninety miles out of Bayport by now,” he said weakly.

“We can’t stay in here much longer,” Joe answered. He was breathing heavily. “Our only chance is to let them know we’re in the storeroom.”

“You’re right. Start pounding on door. We’re bound to attract someone’s attention

Each of the boys removed one of the shoes and used it to hammer away at the door. But no one heard them.

“It’s no use,” Joe muttered in despair.

They were ready to give up, when Frank suddenly whispered tensely, “Wait! I hear footsteps!”

An instant later the door was pulled open. The boys found themselves facing three startled crew. men.

“Who are you?” one of them demanded. “Watcha doin’ in here?”

The Hardys did not answer. Hungrily they gulped in fresh air.

“Stowaways, eh?” the man snarled. “The cap’n will know how to deal with you!” He stared at the youths curiously. “What’s that you got on your faces?”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. They realized with dismay that the hours they had spent in the warm, stagnant air of the enclosure had caused their makeup to streak. They had no choice but to remove it completely.

“Why, they’re a couple of kids!” one of the men shouted in surprise.

The boys were ordered to march off with one of the crew members leading the way to the captain. He was a middle-aged man with a thin beard and skin that looked as tough as an elephant’s hide. His eyes were deep-set and piercing. The Hardys felt uncomfortable in his presence.

“Cap’n,” the crewman reported, “we found these two guys hidin’ in the special storeroom.”

“What were you doing there?” the officer demanded. “How did you get aboard?”

At that moment the first mate appeared on the scene. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the Hardys. “What are those troublemakers doin’ here?” he thundered.

“You know them?” the captain asked.

“Yes, sir. Had to run them off the ship when we were takin’ on cargo in Bayport Harbor. They asked for work and I hired them to help load. Then that blond-haired one tried to pick a fight with me.”

“You’ve no right shoving people around!” Joe said.

“Quiet!” the captain shouted. “Now that you’re aboard, you’ll stay. And you’ll work without pay

“We demand you let us off this ship!” Frank exclaimed.

The first mate roared with laughter. “It’s a long swim back to Bayport!”

“What’s your next port?” Joe asked. “We’ll go ashore there.”

“None of your business,” the captain retorted. “What’s more, if you give us any trouble you won’t eat. Now I’m turning you over to my first mate. His name is Marik. You’ll be responsible to him.”

“I warn you,” Frank protested. “You’ll regret it if you try to keep us aboard!”

Marik stepped forward and shoved them on ahead of him. “Stow the talk and get goin’. We can use a couple of hands in the galley. Some hard work will take the starch out of you.”

When they arrived in the galley, the first mate ordered the Hardys to begin scrubbing the floor. “I want the job finished before the cooks come on duty to start breakfast. That gives you only an hour.”

“But we need some sleep and food!” Joe protested.

“No back talk!” Marik growled.

Frank and Joe were given brushes and pails. They finished their task just minutes before the cooks appeared.

“So you’re the stowaways Marik told me about,” one of the men boomed. “I’ve got orders to see that you’re kept busy. Look lively now!”

As soon as one galley chore was completed, the boys were assigned another. The aroma of food nearly drove them mad with hunger. Finally they were permitted a few moments to eat.

When they had finished, one of the cooks shouted to Frank, “Hey, yout Take this tray of food to the skipper!”

Frank picked it up. As he approached the captain’s cabin he heard voices inside. Cautiously he pressed his ear against the door.

“I don’t like havin’ those kids aboard, Cap’n,” a man grumbled. Frank recognized the voice. It was Marik. “They might be a couple of snoopers tryin’ to find out about the setup.”

“Stop worrying,” was the reply. “They’re just stowaways looking for a free ride. Well, that’s what they’re going to get. They won’t get off this ship till we reach the island.”

“You’re takin’ ‘em all the way?” Marik asked. “I hope you know what you’re doin’.”

“Leave it to me. But just to be safe, lock the kids up in the storeroom when we put into Stormwell tomorrow morning.”

“Stormwell!” Frank thought. “That’s a port on the Canadian coast!” He waited a few seconds before knocking on the cabin door. Summoned by the captain to enter, he delivered the tray, then hurried back to the galley.

It was late evening before the boys had an opportunity to talk. Frank told his brother what he had overheard.

“So! They intend to keep us prisoners!” Joe said angrily.

“Yes! Somehow we’ve got to make it ashore when the ship docks at Stormwell!”

“Slim chance of that if we’re locked in the storeroom.”

Frank thought a moment. “We’ve one thing in our favor,” he said finally. “The captain and Marik don’t know we’re onto them. And they’re not planning to lock us up until the ship docks, or shortly before—”

“I get it!” Joe interrupted. “We’ll wait till the last minute, then make a break for it.”

Just then the boys heard footsteps. They whirled around to see Marik and four crewmen walking toward them.

“I’ve been watchin’ you guys,” the first mate growled. “You’re up to somethin’.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“Shut up!” Marik shouted fiercely. “The cap’n gave me orders to lock you up in the mornin’. But I’m not takin’ any chances. You’re goin’ to the storeroom right now!”

“That’s what you think!” Joe protested. He flung himself at the first mate and together they went crashing to the deck.

Frank joined in the fight. He bent low and rammed his shoulder into the midriff of one of the crewmen. Then he struck out with a blow that sent another hurtling against the bulkhead. The melee attracted more members of the crew. Outnumbered, the Hardys were finally subdued.

“Take ’em to the storeroom!” Marik yelled as he struggled to his feet.

The boys were marched off to the cargo hold and shoved into the metal-walled enclosure. Then the door was slammed shut and locked.

“It’ll take a miracle to get us out of this,” Joe said.

Though hours dragged by, Frank and Joe were only able to sleep for short periods. They were anxious about what would happen next. Glumly they talked of Chet. Maybe something had befallen him, too. Perhaps he never had a chance to report where they were!

Frank glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. “Holy crow! It’s morning. Nearly eight o’clock!”

“Listen!” Joe said. “The ship’s engines. They’re slowing down.”

“We must be putting into Stormwell.”

“If only we could get out of here!”

For a while there were sounds of activity on the deck above. Then, almost an hour passed before they heard footsteps again.

The storeroom door was pulled open. A crew man ordered the youths to follow him and led them up on deck. Two Canadian policemen were standing with the captain of the Black Parrot.

“Are you the lads from Bayport?” one of them asked.

“Yes!” the Hardys answered excitedly.

“Stowaways, you mean!” the captain barked. “I locked them up to teach them a lesson. We were going to put them ashore later.”

“Liar,” Joe muttered.

The policemen ushered the boys down the gangplank and toward a waiting car.

“Hello, sons,” came a familiar voice from inside the vehicle. “Climb in.”

“Dad!” Frank cried out, nearly speechless.

“What—what are you doing here?” stammered Joe. “How did you know where we—?”

Mr. Hardy grinned. “Get into the car and I’ll explain.”

As they drove off, the detective told his sons that he had been working in Montreal in connection with his case. By coincidence he had telephoned home only seconds after Chet had arrived to inform Mrs. Hardy that Frank and Joe had sailed off in the Black Parrot.

“Good old Chet!” Joe exclaimed.

“He didn’t take immediate action,” Mr. Hardy said, “because he thought it might be part of your plan to sail with the ship a short distance, then dive overboard. But he began to worry after an hour and decided to tell your mother what had happened.”

“Lucky for us,” Frank commented.

Their father went on to say that he checked with Bayport Harbor and learned that the Black Parrot was to make a stop in Stormwell.

“And so,” Mr. Hardy concluded, “I requested the help of the Canadian police, just in case the captain had any ideas about making you boys permanent members of the crew.”

“And he decided to turn us loose,” Joe added, “rather than risk an investigation.”

“That’s just what I hoped would happen,” Mr. Hardy said.

He noticed Frank’s eyelids start to droop. “Try to catch a few winks,” he went on. “We’ll continue our discussion when we get to Montreal.”

When they arrived, the detective obtained accommodations for Frank and Joe at the hotel where he was staying. The boys slept for a few hours, then had dinner served in their room. Their father entered as they finished eating.

“Feeling better?”

“I’ll say,” Joe assured him.

“And now, Dad, we’d like to tell you what information we dug up,” Frank began, and they described their adventures aboard the Black Parrot. Then they informed their father that they had found the book he wanted and about the rare volume they had looked at in the New York bookstore.

Mr. Hardy was stunned. “An island kingdom called the Empire of the Twisted Claw, you say?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “It was ruled by a pirate named Cartoll.”

The detective began to pace the floor. Finally he spoke. “What an amazing story. And it seems to tie in with my case!”

“How?” Frank asked.

“I’m not certain yet. But from what you told me, this might prove to be one of the strangest mysteries we’ve ever encountered!”

CHAPTER V

Solo Assignments

FRANK and Joe waited in andcipation as their father settled into a chair opposite them.

“Boys,” Mr. Hardy began, “I’ve been engaged by the Reed Museum Association to investigate a series of thefts. Four museums have been robbed within a few days, three in the United States and the Abbey Museum here in Montreal.”

“What were the thieves after? Gems? Precious metals?” questioned Frank.

“That’s one of the strange facts about the case,” the detective explained. “Each of the museums had a portion of the DeGraw collection on display. It was only those items that were stolen. Nothing else in the buildings was touched.”

“What’s the DeGraw collection?” Joe queried.

Mr. Hardy explained that Elden DeGraw was a wealthy financier who took an interest in archaeology. Several years before, he had discovered a sunken galleon in the Caribbean. The ship was filled with priceless royal treasure, including scepters, crowns, and orbs. Of particular interest were suits of armor which had red, twisted claw symbols on their breastplates.”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “The armor might have belonged to Cartoll’s elite guard!”

Mr. Hardy leaned forward. “That’s why I was a bit stunned when you told me the story about the pirate and his Empire of the Twisted Claw.”

“Are there any other museums that have portions of the collection?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” his father replied. “DeGraw divided up the items and donated them to ten different museums—the Abbey Museum here and nine in the United States.”

“Do you think the thieves will try to rob the other six?” Joe inquired.

“I’m sure of it,” Mr. Hardy said.

He then told his sons that he had a hunch the loot was being taken out of the country, but how was mystery. Each portion of the collection was bulky and would be difficult to smuggle.

“I considered the possibility of a ship being involved,” Mr. Hardy continued. “Checking, I learned that the freighter Black Parrot and its sister ship Yellow Parrot were suspected of carrying on some sort of illegal operation. But no one has ever come up with a shred of evidence. That’s why I asked you to investigate.”

“Without much success,” Frank muttered dejectedly.

“At least we know Dad’s hunch was right,” Joe put in.

“Hold it,” Mr. Hardy ordered with a grin. “There’s lots to learn about the case before mak ing any conclusions.”

The boys accompanied their father to the scene of the recent theft. The curator of the Abbey Museum was greatly upset over the loss of the collection. “I don’t understand how they could have gotten into the building without setting off the alarm,” he said.

“I don’t either,” Mr. Hardy admitted. “The system wasn’t tampered with and is in perfect working order.”

At that moment the telephone rang. The curator picked up the instrument, then handed it to Mr. Hardy. “It’s for you. Mr. Hertford of the Reed Museum Association.”

The detective stiffened when he heard what his caller had to say. Finally he hung up and turned to the boys. “We’re flying to New York immediately! The Standon Museum has been robbed. Its portion of the DeGraw collection is gone!”

The Hardys quickly made airline reservations and were on their way within the hour. When they arrived at the museum, the young detectives assisted their father in searching for clues.

“Hm! This robbery is like all the others,” Mr. Hardy observed. “The alarm system is intact, and there’s been a clean sweep of the collection.”

“How does the system work?” Frank asked.

“When turned on,” his father explained, “invisible beams of light crisscross the exhibit rooms from all directions just inches above the floor. It operates on the photoelectric cell principle.”

“I get it!” Joe interrupted. “Anyone walking into the room would break the light beams and set off the alarm.”

“Pretty effective,” Frank added. “A thief would have to be able to float through the air like a balloon to escape detection.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “I’d give anything to know the gang’s modus operandi.”

After completing their investigation, the Hardys spent the night in New York, then returned to Bayport the following morning. The boys joined their father in his study to hear a plan he had in mind.

“Five museums still have their DeGraw collections,” Mr. Hardy said. “And we don’t know which is next on the thieves’ list. The local police can’t spare men to be on constant surveillance, and the museum guards need help. My plan is to have each of us cover one and prevent a robbery, if possible.”

“We can have Chet help us out, too,” Joe suggested.

Mr. Hardy appeared somewhat dubious. “Do you think he can handle an assignment like this?”

“I’m sure he can,” Frank replied.

“All right.” The detective unfolded a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of the museums. Four of them are in neighboring states. The fifth is in California. I’ll have Sam Radley take care of that one.”

Frank and Joe had often worked with Radley, their father’s assistant, and knew he would do a good job.

Then Frank telephoned Chet to tell him about the plan. The stout boy was jubilant.

“I’m ready to leave any time!” he declared. “It’ll be a sorry day for those crooks if they try to rob the place with me on guard!”

By evening Mr. Hardy had completed all the necessary arrangements. Early the next morning Frank, Joe, Sam Radley, and Chet met in his study for a final briefing. After reviewing his plan, Mr. Hardy gave a word of warning. “Remember, we don’t know where the thieves will strike next. They’re clever and dangerous. So don’t take any chances.”

After wishing each other luck, they started out on their individual assignments. Frank was to cover a museum in Philadelphia. He arrived in the afternoon and introduced himself to the curator, Bruce Watkins.

“Ah, yes,” said the scholarly looking official. “Your father phoned that you were coming. I feel comforted that such famous detectives as the Hardys are investigating the recent robberies.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your DeGraw collection.”

The curator led him through a series of exhibit rooms. It was a magnificent old building with marble columns and floors. They entered a large room filled with ancient artifacts. One section of it contained the DeGraw collection.

“Here we are,” the curator announced.

Frank stared in awe at the scepters, crowns, and orbs displayed in a large glass case. Then his attention was drawn to a suit of armor with a red, twisted claw symbol on the breastplate.

“This is our most popular exhibit,” the curator said proudly.

Frank examined his surroundings. “What kind of an alarm system do you have here?” he queried.

“The windows, doors, and most of the glass cases are well-protected,” the man answered. “We are planning to install a photoelectric cell just as soon as appropriations are made available to us.”

“What about guards at night?”

“We have four, but will get more from an agency as soon as we can.”

At that moment a staff member told the curator that he was wanted on the phone. He excused himself and hurried off.

“This is our most popular exhibit,” Watkins said

Frank returned to the DeGraw collection and examined it more closely. Then he strolled around the other rooms. He entered one which contained large monoliths from a Pacific island, and stopped for a moment to admire the exhibit.

As he stood there, one of the stone columns behind him silently began to topple forward. Frank was directly in its path!

CHAPTER VI

A Desperate Moment

FRANK suddenly spotted the reflection of the falling column in the highly polished floor of the room. He gasped, and in a lightning move, he threw himself to one side.

Crash! The column hit the floor with an ear-splitting impact.

Frank was sprayed with bits of shattered rock as he tumbled across the floor. The curator, a guard, and several staff members came running.

“What happened?” one of them shouted.

Frank sprang to his feet. “I was almost flattened by that column,” he said grimly. “It toppled over.”

The curator stared in disbelief. “How could such a thing happen?”

“The column had rather a broad base,” a staff member interjected. “It stood firmly in the upright position.”

“Someone must have pushed it over,” Frank remarked.

“Nonsense!” Watkins exclaimed, obviously startled by the suggestion He hesitated for a moment. “Although I suppose it could be done by a man with exceptional strength.”

“See here!” another staff man interrupted. “Are you suggesting that someone deliberately toppled the column?”

“Under the circumstances,” Frank mused thoughtfully, “I must consider it a possibility.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“For reasons I can’t divulge right now,” Frank replied.

He drew the curator aside. “I have a hunch this museum is next on the thieves’ list. Somehow the gang must have discovered who I am, and why I’m here. Pushing that column over could have been an attempt to get me out of the way.”

“Oh, come now,” Watkins retorted. “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions? I’m sure the whole thing was just an accident.”

“All the same, we’d better assign more men to guard the DeGraw exhibit,” Frank urged.

“I’ve already decided on another course of action,” the curator said. “The entire collection will be taken to our basement storeroom immediately. It’ll stay there until this whole affair of museum robberies is ended.”

Watkins ordered all available staff members to begin work at once. Nearly two hours went by before the last item of the collection was carried into the storeroom and the door securely locked by Watkins.

“I still recommend that guards be posted,” Frank said. “A locked door alone is not going to stop the thieves.”

“Well—all right,” Watkins agreed, shrugging his shoulders. “But I can spare only two men. The rest will have to go about their regular duties.”

“We can ask the local police to help,” the young sleuth suggested. “Perhaps they can spare a couple of—”

“Out of the question!” the curator declared indignantly. “Policemen attract newspaper reporters. I’m not going to risk wild rumors being circulated that something is wrong here at the museum.”

Frank was annoyed by the man’s attitude. Watkins was more worried about his personal image than about the protection of the collection.

“Anyway,” the curator continued, “you’re only acting on a hunch.”

“Have it your way,” Frank said tartly. “I hope you won’t have reason to regret your decision.”

“Hardly,” Watkins assured him. He grinned. “You detectives tend to be overly suspicious. I doubt if the thieves are within a thousand miles of this museum.”

At that moment a tall, muscular, hard-faced man entered the basement. He was carrying a pair of shears which he placed in a tool chest. Then he hurried away. Something about the man made Frank uneasy.

“Who was that?” he asked the curator in a low voice.

“Our gardener,” replied Watkins. “He takes care of the grounds around the building as well as other odd jobs.”

“How long has he been employed here?”

“Less than a week, actually. We’re lucky to have him. We can’t pay very much and it’s difficult to find someone to do the work.”

The curator added that the man’s name was Starker, and that he had excellent references.

After the guards were posted, Watkins invited Frank to his home for dinner.

“Thank you. But I’d better stick around here. I’ll have a quick meal at one of the local restaurants later.”

As night approached, Frank had the guards help him check all doors and windows. Then he decided to have some food. One of the men recommended an eating place about seven blocks from the museum.

Frank strolled out of the building and down the street. He had not walked very far when he realized that two men were following him.

As he quickened his pace, so did his pursuers. Gradually they gained on him. As the gap between them narrowed, Frank arrived at the restaurant and dashed inside.

“Soup’s all gone, and so are the menu specials,” a waiter announced as Frank quickly sat down at a table. “We’re closing in half an hour.”

Frank did not speak He stared at the door apprehensively. The men did not follow him into the restaurant. Obviously they wanted to avoid being seen, and were waiting for him outside.

“How about a sandwich?” the waiter went on as he glanced at his watch impatiently. “Best I can do.”

Frank made a selection and was quickly served. As he ate, he desperately tried to think of a way to escape his pursuers. He finally decided to call the police.

“Where’s the telephone?” Frank asked the waiter.

“There’s none here in the restaurant,” the man replied. “You’ll find a public booth on the comer half a block down the street.”

“But you must have a phone here somewhere!” the boy insisted.

“Sure,” the waiter said icily, eyeing Frank with suspicion. “We have one in the kitchen. It’s strictly for business, not for customers.”

“This is an emergency! You must let me make a call!”

“Don’t give me that,” the man snarled. “What’s wrong? Too lazy to walk half a block?”

The situation was becoming more desperate. It was now closing time and several of the employees were preparing to leave.

Frank did not like what he was about to do, but he had no choice. “I—I don’t think I could walk that far. I feel sick. It—it must’ve been the sandwich I just ate.”

“Just a second, kid,” the waiter fumed. “Don’t accuse us of serving bad food. All our stuff is the best.”

Frank settled into a chair. “Maybe,” he groaned. “But I felt fine till now. Ugh—this is awful.”

The waiter rushed off and returned with the proprietor of the restaurant.

“What’s going on here?” the man demanded. “I hear you don’t feel good. I’ve been in this business twenty years and never poisoned a customer yet!”

“There’s always a first time,” Frank muttered weakly. “Somebody get me a taxi.”

The proprietor turned to the waiter. “Call him a cab,” he ordered. “This kid must be some sort of mental case. The sooner we get rid of him the better.”

Minutes later a taxi rolled up in front of the restaurant. The owner and several of his employees accompanied Frank as he trudged toward it and climbed in.

“Take me to the museum,” he told the driver. As they sped off, he peered out the rear window in time to see two men leap out from a dark alley-way.

Arriving at his destination, Frank went to the basement to check on the storeroom. There the two guards were engaged in idle conversation.

“Everything okay?” Frank asked.

“Yeah,” one of the guards replied. “Our only problem is trying to stay awake.”

“Whatever you do,” Frank warned, “don’t fall asleep. I’ll get a couple of the other men to relieve you in two hours.”

He then hurried to the curator’s office to telephone his father and report what had happened.

“You had a close call,” Mr. Hardy commented. “From what you tell me, I don’t think the column fell over by accident, either. And what about the men who followed you?”

“No sign of them,” answered Frank. “But I did catch a glimpse of one man. He was tall and muscular. I’m sure he was Starker, the museum gardener.”

“Get help,” his father urged. “Call the police in on this. Never mind what the curator said. This could be serious!”

Just then a loud noise echoed through the museum. Frank asked Mr. Hardy to stand by for a moment and quickly placed the phone down on the desk.

“Who’s there?” he shouted.

No answer. Frank raced down into the basement. The two guards were on their feet, poised for action.

“We heard a noise!” one of them said excitedly. “What was it?”

Frank was about to reply when his attention was seized by a hissing sound. Then a white, odorless smoke began to filter into the room.

“What’s that?” a guard shouted.

In the next instant several men wearing gas masks appeared. Frank lunged at the intruders, but his body seemed to be drained of energy. He fell to the floor, unconscious!

CHAPTER VII

Mysterious Cargo

“WHAT—what happened?” Frank asked groggily as he regained consciousness. He found himself staring into the face of a police sergeant.

“You were knocked out by some kind of gas,” the officer replied. “So were all the guards in the building.”

Still dazed, Frank struggled to sit up. “But how come you’re here?” he inquired. “Who notified you?”

“Your father called headquarters,” the sergeant explained. “He said you’d heard a noise in the museum and went to check it out. When you didn’t return to the phone, he suspected something was wrong.”

Frank glanced around. He saw several policemen inspecting the area. Others were helping to revive the two guards posted at the storeroom door.

Suddenly Frank sprang to his feet. “The DeGraw collection!” he cried. “Is it gone?”

“The storeroom is empty, if that’s what you mean,” the sergeant replied.

At that instant the curator arrived on the scene. “I received a telephone call to come here at once. What’s—?” His words trailed off as he peered into the empty storeroom.

“The collection’s been stolen,” Frank said.

Watkins’s face turned pale. “This is outrageous!” He glared at Frank. “Why didn’t you stop the thieves?”

Frank fought hard to control his temper. “I warned you, sir. We should have called in the police.”

“Are you trying to blame me for what happened ?”

Frank said nothing. He did not want to waste precious time by getting involved in an argument with Watkins. Instead, he began to search the area for clues.

On the floor he spotted a short piece of rope. He examined it closely, then showed it to the police sergeant. “Do you mind if I keep this for a while?” he asked.

The officer looked at it, then returned it to Frank. “We might need it later.”

“Certainly.”

“I have a couple of men coming over from the crime lab to check for fingerprints,” the sergeant went on. “You get some sleep. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“Think I will,” Frank agreed wearily. He went to the curator’s office and settled down into a comfortable chair.

He slept several hours before he was gently shaken awake. “Hello, son,” came his father’s voice.

“Dad! When did you get here?”

“A couple of hours ago. I decided to let you sleep a while longer.”

Frank grimaced. “Then you know about the robbery.”

“It wasn’t your fault. I had a talk with the curator. Never met such a stubborn man. He should have given you more cooperation.”

Frank filled his father in on all the facts. Then Mr. Hardy said, “We’re dealing with a shrewd ring of thieves. But they must know we’re on to their game. I have a hunch the gang will wait for a while before they pull off another robbery.”

“What’s our next move?”

“Breakfast and then back to Bayport. I’ve already called Joe and the others. The local police have agreed to take over in the other towns and will guard the museums heavily for an indefinite period of time.”

Fenton Hardy and Frank arrived in Bayport in the early afternoon. Joe had just come home and was in the study with Chet.

“Hi!” Chet greeted them. “Heard you had a run-in with the museum thieves.”

“And they won,” Frank replied ruefully.

“By the way,” Joe said, “Sam Radley telephoned from California. He had trouble getting an airline reservation and won’t be here till tomorrow morning.”

At Joe’s request, Frank repeated the story about the robbery. Then he produced the piece of rope he had found on the floor of the storeroom.

“Looks like ordinary rope to me,” Chet muttered.

“It does,” Frank agreed. “My guess is that it’s part of the rope the thieves must have used to tie up the loot. But here’s what I find particularly interesting. Notice that it’s neatly spliced.”

Joe shrugged his shoulders. “So what?”

“Doesn’t it suggest anything to you?” Frank questioned.

Suddenly Joe’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I get it. Experienced sailors are usually good at splicing ropes. Maybe the crew of the Black Parrot have been committing the robberies!”

“Could be,” said Mr. Hardy. “But I have a hunch that they’re only involved in transporting the loot.”

Frank agreed. “The thefts seem to be the work of a skilled gang.”

Joe eagerly suggested that they try again to investigate the Black Parrot. Their father was reluctant. He warned the boys that they would surely be recognized by the captain and most of the crew.

“We won’t attempt to board the ship,” Frank explained. “We’ll observe it from a distance. With luck, we might pick up some useful information.”

There was a long pause. “All right, I’ll go along with your plan,” Mr. Hardy said finally. “But you must be extremely careful.”

“We will,” Frank promised.

Joe was jubilant. But an instant later his enthusiasm disappeared. “Wait a minute. We’ve overlooked something. Where do we find the Black Parrot?”

“I have a hunch that the ship will be back at the East Coast sooner or later,” Frank said. “Let’s try all the ports up to Canada.”

During the next few days the Hardys checked the shipping schedules in the newspapers, and kept in constant contact with the various harbor authorities. A week went by before Frank’s prediction proved to be correct.

“You were right!” Joe said. “The Black Parrot is due to dock at Stormwell again day after tomorrow.”

“We’ll leave for Canada in the morning,” Frank decided. “Too bad we can’t use Dad’s plane. But Jack’s flying him to Philadelphia tomorrow. He wants to have another talk with Watkins.”

Chet needed no persuading to go along. They arrived at their destination late the following afternoon and checked in at a hotel near Stormwell.

“How about something to eat?” Chet suggested.

“Okay,” Frank answered, smiling. “I noticed a dining room just off the lobby.”

“So did I,” the stout youth admitted.

“You didn’t expect Chet to miss any spot where food is served,” Joe said to his brother jokingly. “He has a built-in compass that would lead him to all the restaurants within fifty miles.”

“Cut it out, fellows,” Chet said.

They entered the dining room and sat down at a table. A waiter handed each of them a menu. While they were trying to decide what to order, Frank could not help overhearing a conversation between two men sitting at an adjacent table.

“The Black Parrot wasn’t due in till tomorrow,” one of them said angrily. “So what happens? The ship shows up a couple of hours ago. It’s forcing me to rearrange my docking schedule.”

“I don’t like those Parrot ships, anyway,” the other man commented. “There’s something strange about them. Wish they’d stay away from Stormwell.”

“Luckily the Black Parrot won’t be in port long. It isn’t picking up much cargo, and the crew looked as if they were in a big hurry to get underway again.”

Frank leaped to his feet. Followed by Joe and Chet, he rushed past the startled waiter and out of the restaurant.

The hotel manager quickly secured a rental car, and the boys headed for the docks.

As they approached the waterfront, Joe pointed toward the pier. “There she is! What’s that they’re hauling aboard?”

“Looks like a pile of logs,” Chet said. “I’d say about a dozen.”

Frank’s attention was focused on a flatbed truck from which the cargo was being lifted. On the side of the vehicle was the name Norland Lumber Company, Cloud Lake, Canada.

The boys watched as the logs were lowered into the hold of the Black Parrot. Then crewmen began to scurry around the deck. Shortly the ship’s engines rumbled and a boiling caldron of foamy water appeared at the stern.

“That was a short visit,” Chet muttered as he and the Hardys watched the freighter glide away from the pier.

“Odd,” Joe remarked. “Why would the ship come here just to pick up a dozen logs?”

Frank’s thoughts were elsewhere at the moment. “Norland Lumber Company,” he said to himself. “This might be worth investigating.”

The boys saw two men climb into the truck and drive off.

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Frank said. “But right now, I think we’d better check out that lumber company.”

After returning to the hotel, Frank phoned the local police.

“Yes. I can tell you something about the Norland firm,” an officer said in response to his question. Actually, it’s a lumber mill. I hear it may close down.”

“Where is it located?”

“Thirty miles northwest of here—just off the Old Pine Road.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. He hung up and turned to his companions. “Let’s drive out to the mill.”

“But it’ll be dark when we get there,” Joe pointed out.

“I know, but time is important.”

They hurried to the car and started off. The Old Pine Road was unpaved and driving was difficult.

Suddenly the car began to wobble. Frank stopped and jumped out. Seconds later he gave a cry of dismay, “We have a flat!”

“Great!” Joe muttered in disgust. “Just what we need!”

He and Chet helped Frank to take out the spare tire. While Frank jacked up the car, Chet flopped down on the spare. Pffft! The tire collapsed under his weight.

“Oh, nol” Joe shook his head. “The spare’s no good!”

“We’re stuck,” Frank admitted. He furrowed his brow. “The mill can’t be more than a mile from here. Let’s walk.”

Chet did not think much of this suggestion, but he did not want to stay in the car, either. “I’d better go along,” he mumbled. “Somebody has to see to it that you guys don’t get into trouble!”

The trio trudged on. Darkness had settled over the trees and progress was slow.

Joe took out his flashlight and scanned the area. “Look,” he said. “Tire tracksl”

“They were made by a heavy truck,” Frank concluded. “Like the one we saw at the pier.”

He motioned Joe and Chet to halt, and listened intently.

“What’s the matter?” Joe whispered after a few minutes of tense silence.

“I thought I heard something in the underbrush.”

“Like what, for instance?” Chet quavered.

Frank shone his light at the trees, but all was still. “Maybe it was just a squirrel.”

“I think we should wait till tomorrow,” Chet suggested. “This looks like trouble!”

“Why don’t you walk back to the car and Joe and I’ll go alone,” Frank said.

Chet shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “No,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

Proceeding cautiously, they finally spotted a small group of wooden buildings ahead. Light came from a window in one of them.

“That must be the mill,” Joe whispered. Frank nodded, then signaled to his brother and Chet to follow.

All at once the ground gave way beneath them. A split second later the boys plunged into a deep hole!

CHAPTER VIII

Fire!

THE boys lay stunned. Shortly, beams of light pierced the darkness from the rim of the hole above.

“We have visitors,” a man’s voice snarled.

“Three, to be exact,” said another.

“Who are you?” Frank demanded as he struggled to his feet.

There was no response. Instead, a rope was tossed down into the hole.

“Start climbin’ out of there!” one of the men ordered. “And don’t try anythin’. We’re armed.”

Frank helped his brother and Chet to their feet. Then they hoisted themselves up out of the hole. The boys could only make out the vague images of three men holding pistols and powerful flashlights.

“Now talk!” one of the men growled. “What’re you kids doin’ here?”

“Sightseeing,” Chet said innocently.

“The fat one’s a comedian!” the fellow boomed. “He won’t think it’s so funny when we throw them back in the hole.”

They stepped closer and the tallest of the three stared at Frank and Joe. “I recognize these two!” he shouted. “They were taken off the Black Parrot by policemen in Stormwell.”

“They’re snoopers!” the man to his right exclaimed nervously. “We’d better get outta here. They might be workin’ for the police!”

“Okay. But first, let’s take these kids to the shack and tie ‘em up. We don’t want ’em trailin’ us.”

The Hardys and Chet were herded to one of the wooden structures and shoved inside. Then their arms and legs were tightly bound with ropes. When the job was finished, the three men left. For a few seconds they stood outside talking in the dark.

Joe rolled over and pressed an ear to the wall.

“What’ll we do now?” one man whispered.

“Head for Port Manthon. The Yellow Parrot’s docked there for repairs,” said another. “We’ll board it and sail out of the country. Let’s get the truck. We can make it in three or four hours if we hurry.”

When they moved on, Joe excitedly relayed the conversation.

Frank said, “Port Manthon is about a hundred miles farther up the coast. If only we could get loose and—” His words were interrupted by the sound of a truck’s engine being started.

“They’re leaving!” declared Joe.

As the men drove off, a shower of glowing carbon sparks spouted from the vehicle’s exhaust pipe. The red-hot particles landed in some dry brush. Smoke appeared, then flames.

Unaware of what was happening, the boys tried to free themselves.

Chet suddenly yelled, “I smell smoke!”

“So do I!” Joe said.

“Fire!” exclaimed Frank.

Outside, the flames were spreading at a furious rate. Soon the boys could feel the heat radiating through the thin, wooden walls of the shack.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Joe cried. He rolled across the floor toward the door of the structure and kicked it open. “Come on!” he urged his companions.

Frank and Chet quickly followed. Outside, Joe found the sharp edge of a partially embedded rock and used it to cut the ropes binding him. Then he freed the others.

The boys looked around in horror. They were completely encircled by a raging inferno. The heat was almost unbearable.

“We’re done for!” Chet shouted.

“The mill is beginning to catch fire!” Frank cried.

Desperately the Hardys sought some means of escape. There was none!

Then Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “Listen!”

A flapping noise came from the distance. As the sound grew louder, they looked up to see a Royal Canadian Air Force helicopter hovering overhead.

“Wh-what’s going on?” Chet stammered weakly.

“We’re getting out of here!” Frank shouted to him.

The boys waved their arms wildly. A rescue sling was lowered from the chopper, and, one by one, they were hoisted aboard.

Then the craft hovered over the site of the fire, pouring ribbons of white foam on the blaze. Another helicopter joined it, and together they extinguished the fire.

“We reached you just in time,” said one of the crew members. “What were you fellows doing in the middle of a forest fire?”

The Hardys told him what had happened. They said that they were not sure how the fire had started.

“Perhaps one of the men threw a match, either carelessly or intentionally, on the dry brush,” Frank concluded.

“Looks that way,” the crew member agreed. “Anyway, the glow was sighted all the way from Stormwell. We were asked to help.”

After several minutes the helicopter landed on a small airfield well beyond the scene of the fire. Provincial police were on hand when they arrived. The young sleuths identified themselves and repeated their story.

“What you fellows told us fits in with an arrest we made an hour ago,” explained one of the officers. “Three men were stopped for speeding outside of Stormwell in a truck. I recognized two of them as being wanted for larceny and fraud. They’re already on their way to Montreal for questioning.”

Then Frank, Joe, and Chet were driven back to their hotel. They had a quick meal, after which Frank placed a telephone call to his father. Mr. Hardy listened to his sons’ adventure with great interest.

“You’ve really come up with something,” he said. “I’ll have Jack fly me to Montreal tomorrow. I want to interrogate these three men.”

“Meanwhile, we’ll go to Port Manthon to check on the Yellow Parrot,” Frank told his father.

“Good idea,” Mr. Hardy replied.

Next morning Frank rented another car and arranged for the first one to be recovered. Then they started off. The trip took a little more than two hours. When they arrived in Port Manthon, they drove along a road looking down onto the water. Frank pulled into a turnoff and parked. Then the boys got out to scan the waterfront.

Joe spotted the Yellow Parrot tied to a pier.

“There she is,” he said.

Frank nodded. “Port Manthon is not very big. Doesn’t appear as if it could accommodate more than two or three ships at a time.”

“That might be the reason she came here,” his brother said. “More privacy.”

The boys observed the freighter for a while. There was a gaping hole in its hull near the bow. Several crewmen were repairing the damage.

“Strangers around here, aren’t you?” came a voice from behind them. “Interested in ships?”

They whirled around to see a bewhiskered old man who had walked up quietly behind them.

“Why—er—yes,” answered Joe.

“We were just passing through,” Frank added, “and stopped to take a look at the port.”

“Not much to see these days,” the man replied with regret. “Used to be mighty active around here years ago.” A smile spread across his face. “But it’s always good to meet up with lads who like the sea.”

“Not me!” Chet interrupted. “I’m—”

His words were cut off by a sharp nudge of Joe’s elbow.

“Are you from this area?” Frank put in quickly.

“Born in Port Manthon, and sailed my first ship from here nearly sixty years ago,” the man said proudly. “Name’s Falop. Captain Falop.”

There was an exchange of handshakes. The boys gave only their first names. Then Frank pointed toward the Yellow Parrot and asked, “What happened to that ship?”

“Don’t quite know,” Falop answered. “Never saw it in here before. Odd crew. Don’t want to talk much. Different from my day.” He rubbed his chin dubiously. “I asked one of ’em about the damage. Can’t understand why he’d try to get away with such a lie.”

“Lie?” Joe echoed. “What do you mean?”

“The fella told me their ship’d run aground,” explained the man, “and that the hole was caused by a sharp rock. Nonsense!”

“Why do you say that?” Frank asked.

“The hole’s well above the water line and is too neat,” Falop replied. “If you ask me, I think it was done by a shell.”

“You mean the ship was fired on?” Chet questioned excitedly.

“As far as I’m concerned it was.”

“Wonder how long it will take to repair the damage,” Frank remarked, trying to act nonchalant.

“I’d say at least two or three days,” Falop replied.

The boys continued to watch the activity aboard the Yellow Parrot. After a while they said good-by to the captain and checked in at the only hotel in Port Manthon. That evening Frank telephoned the authorities in Montreal and asked if his father had arrived there. A police officer stated that he had, and gave Frank the number of Mr. Hardy’s hotel.

When Frank reached him there, his father said, “Hope you had better luck than I did, so far. If those three men know anything about the museum robberies, they’re certainly not admitting it. I’m going to try again tomorrow.”

Frank then told him about the ship, and what Falop thought had caused the damage to her hulL “Hm! Very interesting,” said Mr. Hardy. “Perhaps I’d better request a complete investigation.”

“I’ve another idea,” Frank went on. “If it works, we might learn once and for all if the Parrot ships are involved in the case.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Joe and I want to sail aboard the Yellow Parrot!”

CHAPTER IX

A Daring Plan

MR. HARDY strongly objected to Frank’s plan. “It’s too dangerous!” he insisted. “You and Joe have been seen by crew members of the Black Parrot. What if some of them switched ships in the meantime?”

“I doubt it, Dad,” his son answered. “Their sailing schedules were such that they never came within miles of each other during the past few weeks.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“We’ll be careful.”

There was a moment of silence. “Okay,” Mr. Hardy finally said reluctantly. “But make sure your plan is foolproof before going ahead with it.”

“We will,” Frank promised.

Chet tingled with excitement as he listened to the plan. “This is going to be fun!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to get aboard!”

Frank patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, old friend,” he said sympathetically. “No reason why you should risk your neck. You’ll have to go back to Bayport.”

“What?” the chubby boy shouted. “I’ll do nothing of the sort!”

“We know how you feel,” Joe said. “But two of us will have a better chance of getting jobs than three.”

Chet’s pique gradually changed to a feeling of great disappointment. He continued to plead with the Hardys without success.

“Okay, have it your way,” he muttered. “When do you want me to leave?”

“After the Yellow Parrot sails,” Frank replied. “We might come up with some useful information for Dad in the meantime. Then you can give him a report.”

Next day they went to the pier and watched the ship from a distance. Repairs were progressing well. Some crewmen were working with acetylene torches, while others were positioning new metal plates over the gaping hole in the hull.

“Looks as if the job is almost finished,” Joe observed.

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “We’d better start putting our plan into action.”

They found a general store in town and purchased work clothes, then returned to the hotel to eat and change.

“We’d better put our plan into action,” Frank said

“I hope there’s no one from the Black Parrot aboard,” Joe remarked as he pulled on a denim jacket.

“I’m sure there isn’t,” Frank said.

Chet listened quietly to their conversation. He grunted a couple of times to let his friends know he was still unhappy about being left out.

Frank and Joe had finished dressing and the three went back to the pier.

“What do you want me to do?” Chet muttered.

“Keep an eye on the ship when we go aboard,” Frank instructed. “I don’t expect trouble, but it’ll be good to know you’re around to help—just in case.”

Chet could not suppress a slight smile. “You can depend on me.”

The Hardys walked toward the Yellow Parrot and climbed the gangplank to the main deck.

“What are you fellows doin’ aboard?” called out a stocky, tough-looking man.

“We’d like to see the first mate,” Joe said.

“What about?”

“Jobs.”

The man laughed. “Hey, Rawlin!” he shouted sarcastically. “Here’s a couple of old salts wantin’ to sign on.”

The young detectives turned to see a tall, wiry man march down the deck toward them. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Frank and Joe ... Karlsen,” Frank replied.

“From around here?”

“No,” Joe said. “We’ve been traveling and doing odd jobs. But what we really want is a chance to go to sea.”

Rawlin was hesitant. “I’ve got to think about it first. ”

“Why not sign ’em on?” the crewman suggested. “The king can always use a couple of more hands—”

“Shut up!” Rawlin growled.

“King?” asked Frank. “What king?”

“Well—er—I meant the cap’n,” stammered the crewman. “Sometimes I call him the king.”

Much to their surprise, Frank and Joe were hired and ordered to report the next morning. Elated, they hurried to tell Chet of their success.

“Dad should be home by the time you get to Bayport,” Frank told his friend. “Tell him our plan is going well. We’ll try to establish contact as soon as we can.”

Still disgruntled, Chet departed for home that evening. Early the next day Frank and Joe reported aboard the Yellow Parrot. Rawlin was the only one on deck when they arrived.

“So you two were serious about going to sea,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“We wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Joe replied.

“I’m assigning you to general duties,” Rawlin went on. “We’ll be sailing in two hours.” He shouted through a hatchway. “Evans! Get up here!”

A thin middle-aged man appeared. “Yes, sir?”

“Find a couple of bunks for these two up forward. Then take ’em to the cargo hold with you. Make sure everything’s secured.”

Evans led the boys down a passageway and into a small cubicle which was to serve as their quarters.

“Not much room,” Frank observed.

“Barely enough space to breathe,” Joe replied.

“Don’t complain,” Evans snapped. “There’s a lot of things you won’t like aboard this ship.”

The Hardys exchanged glances. Then they stowed their gear and followed the crewman to the cargo hold.

“Look!” Joe whispered. He pointed to a pile of logs tied down at the far end of the hold. “They’re just like the ones we saw hoisted aboard the Black Parrot.”

“Start checking this stuff!” Evans yelled. “Make sure it’s all battened down!”

The boys did as they were told. Gradually, during the course of their inspection, they edged their way toward the pile of logs. Frank began to examine them closely.

“What are you doing?” Evans shouted in annoyance.

“Checking the cargo,” Frank answered.

“Then keep moving!”

“You want us to do a good job, don’t you?” Joe retorted.

“None of your back talk!” Evans gave Joe a hard shove.

Frank stepped in and the crewman lashed out with his fists. The young detective grabbed his opponent’s left wrist, and with a lightning move, pinned the man’s arms behind his back.

“Let go of me!” Evans yelled.

“Not unless you calm down.”

“Okay! Okay!”

Frank released him. “Now I suppose you’re going to report us to the captain.”

Evans was embarrassed by having been overpowered. “Naw,” he growled. “I’ll get even with you two later. Go to your quarters and wait for further orders.”

“This should be a pleasant voyage with him around,” Joe said, shaking his head.

“We’ll just try to stay out of his way,” Frank replied. “Trouble is what we don’t want.”

When they arrived at their quarters, Frank spotted a note on his bunk. He snatched it and a cold chill quivered down his spine as he read aloud:

“ ‘Get off this ship before it’s too late!’ ”

CHAPTER X

Deck Watch

“WHO could have written this note?” Joe exclaimed.

“I don’t get it!” Frank said. “I’m sure none of the crew knows who we are. Yet someone’s trying to warn us.”

The ship’s engines started and the hull vibrated.

“We’re getting underway,” Joe observed. “That was a pretty quick repair job.”

Frank stuffed the note into his pocket. “Too late to worry about this now. We’ll have to take our chances.”

“You kids!” came Evans’s voice. “Get up on deck and help haul in the lines!”

The Hardys hastened topside, where they saw the bow of the Yellow Parrot swerving away from the pier.

“Come on! Come on!” Evans barked. “Get working!”

Frank and Joe assisted the other crewmen. Soon the heavy lines were pulled aboard and stacked in neat coils.

The job was hardly finished when Evans began shouting orders again. “Now get below and report to the ship’s carpenter. Ask him to give you some paint. There are a few vents around here I want redone.”

“We won’t have time to do any investigating with him around,” Joe said under his breath.

“We’ll have to be patient and hope for a break,” Frank replied.

The Hardys were kept busy painting. Later that day Joe was high on a ladder daubing the top of a door when his paint can slipped.

Splat! It hit the deck with a thud, spattering a gray mess in all directions.

What was worse, Rawlin walked past the spot at that very moment. He was decorated with gooey blobs.

Enraged, he looked up and shouted at Joe. “Hey, you! Come here!”

Joe quickly climbed down the ladder. Frank, who had been working nearby, ran over to see what had happened.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Rawlin roared.

“It was an accident,” Joe said.

The man’s face reddened. “I don’t believe you! I think you saw me coming and dropped that can on purpose. You’ll—!”

“Now wait a minute,” Frank interrupted.

“Shut up! You stay out of this!” Rawlin shouted. He turned to Joe and grabbed the boy by the lapel of his jacket. “I oughta wipe up the deck with you!”

In a sudden move Joe broke away from the man’s grip.

“What’s going on here?” a voice boomed.

The boys turned to see a burly man of medium height approaching. He had a large graying mustache and cold blue eyes.

“Hello, Cap’n,” Rawlin said. “These two kids just signed on. The blond-haired one almost hit me with a can of paint.”

“That true?” the officer demanded as he glared at Joe.

“It was an accident, sir.”

“That’s what he says,” snarled Rawlin. “And what’s more, he tried to get tough with me just now.”

“Oh, yeah?” the captain growled. “Lacks discipline, eh? A couple of days on bread and water in the brig will take the fight out of him.”

Frank pleaded with the men on his brother’s behalf. It was useless. Joe was taken to the brig below decks. It was a small enclosure with a door of metal bars. No guards were posted.

Late that night Frank secretly made his way to the ship’s galley and collected some food. Then he sneaked quietly to the brig.

“Joe!” he whispered. “I brought some chow.”

“Great! I’m starved.”

Frank passed the food through the bars and watched as Joe ate heartily. Then they discussed the situation.

“I hate leaving you in there,” Frank said. “But if you were to break out, it would only rile the captain further and possibly ruin our chances to investigate the ship.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe replied. “I won’t upset the applecart.” He forced a grin. “Just keep the food coming every night and I’ll be able to put up with anything.”

“It should only be for a couple of days,” Frank assured him. In the meantime, I’ll get our investigation underway.”

“What do you plan to do first?”

“Examine those logs we saw in the hold. I’ve a hunch that’s not an ordinary pile of lumber.”

“What about the warning note? Any idea who wrote it?”

“No, not yet,” Frank admitted. “But if we were recognized by someone aboard this ship, then I think the note was meant to be a friendly warning. Otherwise he would have turned us over to the captain by now.”

“If you’re right, I wish that that someone would come out into the open. I don’t like having mystery friends for too long.”

Frank agreed. “Now I’d better be on my way. See you tomorrow night.”

“Good luck.”

Frank began to edge his way in the direction of the cargo hold. As he rounded the comer of a passageway, he suddenly found himself face to face with Rawlin.

“What are you roaming around for?” the first mate demanded.

“Well—er—I was just getting acquainted with the layout of the ship,” Frank stammered.

“Get back to your quarters!” Rawlin commanded.

Crestfallen, Frank obeyed, but decided that he would try again the following night. He fell into his bunk and was soon asleep. To him, it seemed only seconds later that he was being shaken awake.

“Up on deckl” a hefty crewman yelled.

Frank pulled on his pants and quickly followed the man up the ladder. Dawn was just breaking as Rawlin’s voice boomed through the crisp, fresh morning air.

“Everyone’s to carry on with his regular duties! Frank Karlsen is to report to me!”

Frank went up to the first mate.

“I’m assigning you to deck watch,” Rawlin told him. “Four hours on, and four hours off. Now report to the bridge.”

Frank was bored with his new duty. But what bothered him even more was the fact that he had to remain in one spot and could not wander about to search for information.

It was well after midnight when he was relieved from his third watch of the day. He hurried off and repeated his secret journey to the brig with food for Joe.

“I thought you’d forgotten me, Frank,” Joe said jokingly.

“Never, old buddy.” Frank told him about his new assignment and his encounter with Rawlin the night before.

“That guy seems to be everywhere at once,” Joe remarked. “When do you plan to try again?”

“Now. I noticed a storm to the east when I left watch. Rawlin is on the bridge keeping an eye on it. He won’t be back this way tonight.”

The ship began to roll gently. “The sea is beginning to get a bit rough,” Joe commented.

“I’d better head for the cargo hold,” Frank said. “There’s no telling how much weather we’re in for.”

“Be careful,” Joe warned. “And if this storm gets too rough, ask the captain to let me out of here.”

Frank nodded. As he went down the passageway toward the cargo hold, he heard the clamor of footsteps ahead and looked around for a place to hide. He spotted the door of a small equipment locker, opened it, and ducked inside.

“Come on! Come on!” a crewman yelled. “Rawlin wants us forward. Looks like we’re in for some real weather!”

Frank estimated that about half a dozen men rushed past his hiding place. Fortunately they were headed away from the cargo hold.

He crept out of the locker and reached the cargo hold. By now the intensity of the storm had increased and the ship rolled violently.

Frank took out his flashlight and directed its beam toward the pile of logs. As he did, the ship lurched under the impact of the heavy sea. The logs broke loose from their bindings and came avalanching toward him!

CHAPTER XI

Unknown Ally

LOUD, crashing sounds thundered through the hold as the logs hurtled across the deck.

Frank looked up and spotted a steel girder that spanned the beam of the ship. Making a desperate leap, he grabbed it and swung his body upward. The logs rolled beneath him.

Crash! Bang! They collided with the bulkhead on the portside, then tumbled back across the deck in the opposite direction as the ship listed to starboard. The cycle was repeated again and again —solid thuds with an occasional hollow boom.

As Frank clung to the girder with all his strength, the storm seemed to become even more violent.

“Can’t hang on much longer,” he said to himself. “But if I let go—”

The lights in the hold were turned on. Several crewmen poured in through the hatchway. For a moment they stared at the logs hurtling back and forth across the deck. then set about tying them down again.

Frank watched as they gradually brought the situation under control. Then he released his grip on the girder and dropped to the floor.

“What are you doin’ in here?” shouted one of the men.

At that instant the captain entered the hold. “Everything under control?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. But we were wonderin’ what this kid’s up to. He was hangin’ from that girder when we got here.”

The captain glared. “Your place is up forward!”

Frank frantically searched his mind for an explanation. “I’d just gotten off deck watch and couldn’t sleep,” he said. “So I decided to take a walk.”

“In this storm?”

“The weather wasn’t too bad when I started out,” Frank answered. “Then it got worse. I heard a lot of noise here in the hold and wanted to see what it was.”

“Why didn’t you call for help when you saw that the logs had broken loose?”

“I was going to, sir,” Frank replied. “But when the logs rolled toward me, I jumped for the girder.”

The captain rubbed his chin dubiously for a few seconds. Finally he accepted Frank’s explanation and ordered him to return to his quarters.

By daylight the storm had subsided and the Yellow Parrot was churning its way through calm waters. Frank was returning from deck watch when he saw his brother walking down the passageway toward him.

“Hi, Joe!” he called out. “When were you sprung from the brig?”

“A few hours ago. But they put me to work right away in the engine room. I’m bushed.”

“I don’t have to be back on watch till midnight,” Frank said. “Let’s get some sleep. Then we’ll plan our next move.”

The boys slept soundly for several hours. After a late lunch in the galley Frank told his brother that he was still determined to examine the logs.

“I’m with you,” Joe said. “But you’ve already been caught there once.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Frank told him. “Come on.”

They edged their way toward the hold and were elated to find no crewmen in the area.

“It’s pitch black in here,” Joe whispered as the two entered the hold and closed the hatch behind them.

“We don’t want to turn on the lights,” Frank said. “Use your flashlight.”

They directed their beams of light at the pile of logs.

“Funny thing,” Frank muttered.

“What’s that?”

“I might have just imagined it, but when the logs rolled back and forth across the deck, some of them sounded as if they weren’t completely solid. They sounded hollow.”

“You mean,” Joe began, “that the—” A faint noise caused him to stop abruptly.

“Switch off your light!” Frank hissed.

The boys’ pulses quickened as they stood motionless and waited in the darkness. Then they heard the noise again. This time it came from a point directly behind them.

The Hardys whirled around. At the same instant they were blinded by an intensely bright flash of light.

“I’m trying to help you!” a man said. “Stop your investigation. Get off this ship as soon as you can!”

Before either boy could question the man, there was the sound of the hatchway door being slammed shut as he exited from the hole.

“What now?” Joe asked.

“We’d better get out of here,” Frank said. “That guy might’ve been spotted leaving. He could bring someone to check this place out.”

The boys hurried to the hatch. They eased open the door, saw that the area was clear, and darted out. Back in their quarters, they discussed what had happened.

“Whoever it was,” Joe remarked, “he must be the one who wrote the warning note.”

“Without question,” his brother replied. He paused for a moment. “But I’d like to know what his game is. If he knows who we are, why is he being so mysterious about it?”

“Could be he’s holding out for money,” Joe suggested. “I mean, he might be planning to demand payment in exchange for being quiet.”

Frank pondered this. “I doubt it. If that was his motive, he certainly would have approached us with a deal by now.”

“What’s our next move?”

“Let’s go on deck and take a walk around the ship. We might come up with a lead.”

Strolling along in a nonchalant manner, the Hardys watched as the sailors went about their duties. As they were passing the radio room, Frank suddenly grabbed his brother’s arm.

“Listen!” he whispered excitedly.

The door was partially open. Inside, two men were engaged in conversation. One of the voices belonged to the stranger they had encountered in the hold!

“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed in a low tone. “That must be the guy we’re after!”

“Looks that way!”

A few seconds later the two men appeared in the doorway, still talking. One of them looked like an ordinary sailor. The other was a lean, red-haired young man with pleasant features. Apparently he was the ship’s radio operator. It was his voice the Hardys had identified.

“Okay,” the crewman told him. “I’ll have the antenna checked right away.”

“Good.” The young man turned and went into the radio room. Before he could shut the door, the boys dashed in after him.

“Hello,” Frank said. “Mind if we have a few words with you?”

There was a pause before the startled operator spoke. His face had turned pale. “You—you want to talk to me? What about?” he stammered.

“What’s your name?” Frank asked.

“Clay—Clay Ellis. I’m the ship’s radioman.”

Joe got straight to the point. “Writing warning notes and creeping around dark cargo holds must be a hobby of yours.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Ellis countered.

Frank, meanwhile, had peered around the room and spotted a camera flash gun on a shelf.

“Is this yours?” he asked, picking up the object.

“Er—no—one of the crew must have left it here,” the operator said nervously.

Frank looked closely at the base of the flash gun and noticed the letters C.E. scratched on the metal surface. “This is a coincidence,” he commented. “These seem to be your initials.”

Perspiration oozed from Ellis’s forehead. “All right! It’s mine. So what?”

“You took our picture in the cargo hold a little while ago,” Joe accused.

The young man let out a deep sigh. “Guess there’s no sense in trying to lie to you,” he muttered. “I didn’t take your photograph, just wanted not to be seen. That’s why I blinded you with the flash gun. You see, I know you’re the Hardy boys.”

“How did you learn that?” Joe asked.

“I’ve been interested in crime stories and the work of famous detectives for years,” Ellis explained. “Photographs of you and your father have appeared in many publications I’ve read. I recognized you the minute you boarded the ship.”

“Why are you trying to warn us?” Frank questioned impatiently.

“You fellows are here to investigate the Yellow Parrot, I’m sure,” the operator went on. “But believe me, you’ve walked into a lion’s den. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“We appreciate your concern for our safety,” Joe put in sarcastically. “What’s your game? Why haven’t you reported us to the captain?”

“I—I can’t give you my reasons,” Ellis said apprehensively.

“Are there any other crew members here who know who we are?” Frank asked.

‘I’m sure I’m the only one. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “Isn’t there any more you can tell us about yourself, or the Yellow Parrot?”

An expression of fear spread across Ellis’s face. “I’ve nothing to say,” he insisted. “Anyway, you don’t realize what you’re getting into. Take my advice and get off this ship just as soon as you can. I’ll help you.”

“You seem anxious to get rid of us!” Joe stated.

At that instant a sailor entered the room and handed a folded sheet of paper to Ellis. “The cap’n wants you to send this out right away,” he announced.

As he hurried off, the operator read the message. Then he walked over to the radio and flicked a switch.

“I’d better start warming up the transmitter,” he said. “This message looks important.”

“What does it say?” Joe asked quickly.

Ellis gazed at the boys for a moment. Then he handed them the sheet of paper. “You realize that I’m not supposed to do that,” he said quietly. “But I trust you.”

Frank took the message while Joe looked over his shoulder. After he had finished reading it, he said gravely, “Oh, oh. This could mean real trouble.”

Ellis stared at him in surprise. “What’s wrong?” he inquired. “It only says that I’m to contact the captain of the Black Parrot and arrange for a rendezvous with the ship tomorrow off Tambio Island.”

“That’s just it,” Frank muttered.

CHAPTER XII

Swim to Freedom

Nor without some misgivings on Frank’s part, the Hardys took Ellis into their confidence, telling him briefly about their adventure aboard the Black Parrot.

The radioman was amazed. “This does mean trouble. We’re bound to be visited by some of the Black Parrot’s crew.”

“Maybe we can hide somewhere during the rendezvous,” Joe suggested.

“That won’t work,” Ellis warned. “Any time we put into a port, or get close to a landfall, the captain double-checks to make sure all crew members are accounted for. You’d be missed immediately.”

Frank began to pace the floor. “We’ve got to think of something. There must be a way out of this.”

“You’d better go back to your quarters,” the operator urged. “Meanwhile, I’ll get this message off to the Black Parrot. Meet me in an hour on the main deck, amidships on the portside. I should have more information by then.”

The boys left and made their way forward.

“What do you make of Ellis?” Frank asked.

“First impressions can be misleading,” admitted Joe, “but I like the fellow and feel we can trust him. Anyhow, we haven’t much choice.”

“I agree. But if he is on our side, why doesn’t he tell us more about himself?”

“He is frightened of something. I think he’s being forced to sail aboard this ship.”

Time passed slowly for the Hardys. Finally an hour went by, and they headed amidships for their meeting with the radioman. He was already waiting when they arrived.

“The situation is worse than I thought,” Ellis announced in a low voice. “The Parrots are going to exchange a few crew members.”

“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “We’re bound to be recognized.”

“Your only chance is to get off this ship at Tambio Island.”

“And be marooned?” Frank protested.

“You won’t be,” Ellis assured them. “I hear there’s a hermit, or some kind of nutty guy living on the far side of the island. He’s said to be friendly. I’m sure you could stay with him until you flag down a ship.”

“That would be taking a long chance,” Frank said.

“Your chances are nil if you don’t get off this ship,” the radioman warned.

“When does the meeting take place?” Frank inquired.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Oh, oh.” Joe sighed, eyeing his brother. “Something tells me we’re in for a swim.”

“I don’t see any other way out,” Frank admitted.

“Good,” Ellis put in. “I’ll meet you fellows here tomorrow night and help you get away. Make it about ten o’clock. That’s when we’re scheduled to arrive.”

The Hardys were kept busy all the following day, and it was well after dark before they were released from duty.

Ding! Ding! came a tinkling.

“Two bells,” Joe said. “It’s nine o’clock.

“Only an hour to go,” remarked Frank. “Let’s try to get a few minutes’ rest before we meet Ellis.”

The boys were walking to their quarters when the first mate shouted to them. “Hey! You kids! Come here!”

“I wonder what he wants,” Joe whispered apprehensively as they obeyed Rawlin’s command.

“You two are spending the night in the brig,” Rawlin growled.

“Why?” Joe demanded angrily. “What’ve we done?”

“Shut up!” He summoned four members of the crew. “Take them to the lockup.”

The men escorted the Hardys below, secured them in the brig, and hurried off.

“Now we are in a spot!” declared Joe. “Do you think Rawlin found out about our plan?”

“I doubt it. He’s probably being cautious. He’s not sure we can be trusted not to jump ship.”

A few minutes later a faint shuffling sounded outside the brig. Frank and Joe made out the vague figure of a man approaching.

“Frank! Joe!” Clay Ellis whispered.

The boys sighed in relief.

“I saw what happened,” Ellis went on. He produced a small crowbar. “I’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

The radioman pried away at the door, and it finally sprang open.

“Follow me,” Ellis ordered. “The meeting is working out slightly ahead of schedule. We’re about a quarter of a mile off Tambio Island.”

“Clay—thanks a lot,” Frank murmured.

“Any time.”

Ellis led the Hardys up on deck and to their previous meeting point amidships. At that instant the Yellow Parrot’s engines stopped.

A shout came from the bridge. “Let go the anchor!”

There was a clatter of heavy chains, followed by a loud splash as the anchor plunged into the water.

“You’ll have to swim for it,” Ellis said. “The shore isn’t far off. Think you can make it?”

“Easily,” Joe said.

Ellis pointed to a coil of rope he had stowed near the rail. “It will be better if you lower yourselves into the water. If you dive overboard, the crew might hear you.”

Frank nodded. “We appreciate all you’re doing for us and won’t forget it. But I think you’re in some kind of trouble.”

“You don’t seem to belong aboard this ship any more than we do,” Joe put in. “Why don’t you come with us?”

“I—I can’t,” the radioman stammered.

Frank pulled a pencil from his pocket and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. He handed it to Ellis. “We have a radio setup in Bayport. Can you transmit on this short-wave frequency?”

“Yes,” Ellis replied. “Why?”

“We’ll listen in every evening from seven to midnight,” Frank told him. “If you should need help or want to give us any information about the activity of the Parrots, will you promise to contact us?”

Ellis hesitated for a moment. “I—I promise,” he muttered finally.

The Hardys removed their shoes, tied the laces together, and hung them around their necks. Then they knotted one end of the rope around the railing and fed the balance over the side.

“Good luck!” Ellis said in a hushed voice as Frank and Joe quietly lowered themselves into the water.

They waved in response, then began swimming toward the island. In less than half an hour they were trudging up onto a sandy beach.

“Well, we made it,” Joe said triumphantly.

Frank gazed silently at his surroundings. The island was covered with trees and thick brush. Finding a couple of fallen branches, he handed Joe one of them. “We’d better start erasing our tracks. Otherwise they’ll stand out like road signs when daylight comes.”

When the job was finished, the boys walked into the brush and found a clear spot where they could rest. It was not long before they were sound asleep.

Morning was ushered in by a bright, hot sun. The boys woke up to the sound of chirping birds and the rustling of palm trees stirred by an offshore breeze.

Then they became aware of another sound. Men’s voices I

“Hear that?” Joe whispered excitedly.

Frank nodded. Stealthily they crawled toward the edge of the brush. On the shore they spotted a dinghy. Several men were scattered along the beach nearby.

“I don’t see any sign of ’em!” one of them said to his companions. “No tracks, either. I doubt that they came ashore. They’re probably hidin’ on the Parrot somewhere.”

“Yeah!” said another. “Rawlin worries too much. So the kids escaped from the brig. Who cares? And even if they did make it here to the island, what’s the difference? They can’t cause us any trouble.”

“I’m hungry!” exclaimed another man. “We had to miss breakfast because of those brats. Let’s go back and get some chow.”

The crewmen piled into the dinghy and began rowing toward the Yellow Parrot. Frank and Joe looked out to see its sister ship the Black Parrot anchored a short distance away.

“Those guys must’ve been looking for us while we were still asleep,” Joe said.

“Lucky you don’t snore,” Frank quipped.

Eager to locate the hermit, they immediately started trekking easterly across the island.

“Shouldn’t take us too long,” Joe stated. “Tambio doesn’t seem to be very big.”

But the thick brush made the going extremely rough. More than three hours passed before they came to the opposite shore. Barely five hundred yards away stood a crude hut, set well back from the high-water mark.

It looked no larger than four by four feet and its door was of sturdy oak.

“What do you think of that?” Joe asked as they came closer.

“It’s strange, all right,” Frank admitted.

“Should we call out?”

“No, we’d better not. If we startle the guy, he might react violently, especially if he’s some kind of unstable recluse.”

Frank and Joe walked cautiously around the hut. To their surprise, it had no windows.

“There’s no sign of a human being here anywhere,” Frank remarked.

“Maybe our hermit left a long time ago.”

Frank stopped short in his tracks. “Look, Joe, footprints,” he said, pointing to the sandy soil partly covered with tufts of coarse grass.

Joe bent over. “They’re headed toward the beach. Maybe the fellow’s out nshing!”

Frank grinned. “In that case, perhaps we could peek inside.” He took hold of the door handle and pulled. It did not budge.

“Here, Joe, give me a hand!”

Joe grabbed the handle, too, and they both tugged. With a creaking noise, the door came open. It took a few seconds for the boys’ eyes to adjust to the dim interior. There was nothing but a flight of steep stairs leading into the ground.

“Hey! What’s this?” Joe asked.

“Come on. We’ll find out.”

With Frank in the lead, they carefully descended ten stairs until they came to another door.

Frank knocked gingerly. No one replied.

“Let’s go in,” Joe whispered.

Frank nodded and opened the door. At the same instant, lights went on in a large room. The boys gasped!

CHAPTER XIII

Trouble on Tambio

ON the far side of the room sat a man in a huge high-backed chair. He did not move, did not even bat an eyelash.

“Hello!” Joe blurted out There was no reply.

Joe looked at Frank. “Is he for real?”

Frank shrugged, and they walked closer.

There was a frozen grin on the man’s ebony face and he did not seem to breathe at all. He was attired in a red-and-white-checkered sport shirt, ragged slacks cut off at the knees, and white tennis shoes.

“Wow!” Frank whispered. “He must be right out of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum!” He stepped forward and touched the man’s face. The next moment he yelled, “Joe! He’s alivel”

“Of course,” said the man. “What made you think I was not?” The grin disappeared from his face and suddenly he looked menacing.

Despite their usual coolness and presence of mind, the Hardys shrank back before the recluse.

“Please do not break into my home again,” he said.

With that, a trap door sprang open and the boys were dropped into a shallow pit. Half stunned, they were set upon by the powerful hermit, who sprang at them like a cat. He tied their hands with a piece of rope which he pulled out of his pocket, then brought them back into the room.

It was filled with all sorts of modern appliances. There was an electric stove, a refrigerator, ventilation system and many other devices.

After he had tied the boys by one wrist to sturdy oaken chairs, their captor said, “You are impressed with my home, yes? Perhaps you are wondering how I receive the electrical power for all my treasures? Well, there is an underground generator located just behind the hut.”

“Why are you holding us prisoner?” Joe asked.

“As a precaution. First let me ask what you are doing on this island,” the man countered.

The Hardys did not want to tell him that they had escaped from the Yellow Parrot. There was a possibility, after all, that he was connected somehow with the ship.

A trap door sprang open and the boys were dropped

into a pitl

“Er—we were sailing our ketch on a long voyage,” Frank replied. “A storm came up, blew us off course, and finally shipwrecked us not far from here.”

“Ah, I see,” the man said. “My name is Katu.”

The Hardys introduced themselves by their aliases, Frank and Joe Karlsen.

“It is not often that I have guests,” Katu went on. “I am about to prepare lunch. Will you eat with me?”

Eagerly the boys accepted his invitation. They watched with mixed feelings of surprise and amusement as Katu took a package of hamburgers from the freezing compartment of his refrigerator, then switched on the electric stove.

Joe was overwhelmed with curiosity. “How did you come by all these gadgets?” he asked.

“That is not for you to know,” Katu answered, displaying annoyance.

He avoided further conversation during the meal. When he finally spoke, it was to announce that they would remain prisoners until his amphibious friend returned.

“Amphibious friend?” Frank repeated. “What do you mean?”

“He flies a plane that can float on the water like a boat,” Katu explained proudly, “or roll on the land with wheels.”

“An amphibian aircraft!” Frank exclaimed. “It comes here to the island?”

A blank expression spread over Katu’s face. He looked as if he had unintentionally revealed some deep, dark secret.

Before Frank and Joe could ask any more questions, they heard an airplane overhead. It passed low, then seemed to turn toward the sea. Katu left in a hurry.

“Must be the amphibian he told us about,” Joe declared.

Frank sighed. “I sure hope he’ll let us out of here!”

Twenty minutes later the door to the room opened. A tall, wiry man with sandy-colored hair entered. He was wearing coveralls and leather flight boots.

“Hello,” he said, smiling broadly. “My name’s Dan Tiller. Katu tells me you fellows were shipwrecked.”

The boys nodded. “You must be the pilot of the amphibian,” Joe put in.

“That’s right,” said Tiller. “And who are you?”

Frank and Joe introduced themselves. On a hunch they decided to play it straight and did not use their aliases.

The pilot’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you the sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous detective?”

“Yes,” Frank replied. “But—”

“Say!” Tiller interrupted. “I’ve heard lots about the Hardys. An airline friend of mine met you and your father once. It was on one of his flights that you caught a couple of smugglers aboard the plane.”

“Oh, yes. I seem to remember that,” Frank muttered, hoping to avoid a lengthy discussion of the case.

“Sorry about the way you were treated. Katu was being a bit overcautious,” Tiller said as he loosened their bonds. There was a worried expression on his face.

“Were you fellows really shipwrecked?” he asked. “Or did you come to Tambio to investigate me?”

“Investigate you?” Joe asked curiously. “Why? Have you done anything wrong?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. But I don’t pay any real-estate taxes.” Tiller explained that two years before he had been caught in a storm and was blown off course. When the weather finally cleared, he had spotted a capsized dugout canoe below him. A man was clinging to the craft.

“I landed the amphibian to rescue the fellow,” he continued. “It was Katu. I flew him back to my base on Cambrian Island, which is about six hundred miles north of here.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Joe interjected. “It’s become a popular place for tourists, and its capital is one of the most modern cities in the world.”

“Right. Katu liked it there and stayed for a year and a half. He went to school, learned English, and worked in a hoteL We became great friends and flew a lot. One day we discovered this island and decided to make it our Shangri-la, some place where we could get away from the world. It’s pretty good, don’t you think?”

“Terrific!” Joe said.

“But I don’t know if this land belongs to anyone. This underground complex was already here you see. We might be trespassing on someone’ property. But I thought as long as we’re not being chased off, it’s ours.”

“I don t believe you’ll have any trouble,” Frank assured him.

Now Katu joined them. He grinned as the Hardys praised him for his tricky defense of Tiller’s hideout.

The boys took a liking to the pilot and decided to tell him about their escape from the Yellow Parrot.

He listened to their story with great interest. “I’ve never heard of the Parrots before,” he said. “Ships are a bit out of my line.”

“There’s something fishy going on with those two,” Joe told him. “They’re anchored near the west side of Tambio right now.”

“How soon will you be flying back to Cambrian?” Frank asked.

“This afternoon.”

“Will you take us with you?”

“Of course. From there you can get one of the scheduled flights to Florida.”

The Hardys talked a while longer to Tiller and Katu, until the pilot finally said, “Come on, fellows. I want to make it back before dark.”

Katu paddled them out to the amphibian, and waved good-by.

“All aboardl” Tiller cried as he led the young detectives through a small hatchway and into the cabin of the plane.

Then he climbed into the cockpit and started the first of the craft’s two engines. When it was running smoothly, he fired up the second.

“Here we go!” he shouted and eased the throt tles forward. The idling engines erupted into a loud steady roar. The plane bounced across the water and then lifted gracefully into the air.

As the amphibian gained altitude, Frank dashed into the cockpit. “I know you’re in a hurry to get back to Cambrian,” he said to Tiller, “but I just had an idea. Would you fly to the other side of the island? We’d like to see if the Parrots are still there.”

“Sure,” Tiller answered as he turned the plane to a westerly heading.

Soon they had reached the coast. A look of disappointment spread over Frank’s face when he saw that the ships were gone.

“Too bad,” he mumbled. “I thought we might pick up some kind of clue.”

“Wait a minute,” Joe exclaimed, and pointed to an object in the distance. “That looks like a ship over therel”

Tiller swung to the direction Joe had indicated. As the distance closed, Frank shouted, “It’s the Yellow Parrot!”

As they started to circle the ship, thin trails of smoke streaked past the aircraft.

“Tracers!” Joe cried out. “They’re shooting at us!”

An instant later a column of thick black smoke began to stream from the plane’s left engine!

CHAPTER XIV

Morton’s Geyser

“FIRE!” Frank exclaimed.

Tiller turned the plane sharply away from the Yellow Parrot. Then he pulled a knob marked “Extinguisher.” Immediately faint trails of frozen carbon dioxide streamed from beneath the engine cowling. The boys were relieved to see the black smoke gradually disappear.

“Are you going back to Tambio?” Joe asked.

“No!” replied Tiller. “We can make it to Cambrian on one engine. However, it’ll take longer than usual because our speed is reduced.”

Hours ticked by. The young detectives were dozing off when Tiller leaned forward for a closer look at one of the instruments on the panel.

“Oh, oh,” he muttered. “The right engine’s starting to overheat.”

“Is it serious?” Joe inquired anxiously.

“Not yet,” the pilot answered. “But I’ll have to reduce the power setting slightly.”

As he eased back on the throttle, the amphibian gradually began to lose altitude.

“We’re going down,” Frank observed nervously.

“I’ll let the plane settle,” Tiller decided. “The air is thicker below. It will help to develop a bit more power and lift. Also, we’re getting lighter every minute as the fuel burns off.”

This statement was of little consolation to the Hardys. They watched the altimeter slowly unwind. Then, at 1,000 feet, the plane acquired new life. The instruments no longer indicated a descent and the engine was now operating at normal temperature.

“Whew!” Joe sighed. “For a while I thought we were going to have to paddle the rest of the way.”

“We can relax,” Tiller remarked with a wide grin. “The worst is over. I estimate we’ll reach Cambrian in about another hour.”

It was dark by the time the island came into view. The lights of its capital city twinkled like a small cluster of stars on the horizon.

“I’ll use the wheels and land at the airport rather than set down on the water,” announced the pilot. He contacted the control tower and was cleared for a straight-in approach.

The landing was smooth, and after parking the aircraft, Tiller obtained a ladder. He climbed up to the left engine, removed the outer cowling, and inspected the damage.

“We’re awfully sorry about what happened,” Frank said apologetically. “It’s our fault and we’d like to pay for repairs.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the pilot. “As far as I can see, we received one hit in the crankcase. Oil was being splashed over the engine. That’s what caused the smoke.”

Tiller escorted the boys to the airport terminal building. There they were told that a shuttle flight to Miami would be departing within the hour. After a quick bite to eat, Frank and Joe bid their new friend good-by and took off on the first leg of their journey back home.

They stayed overnight in Miami and arrived in Bayport the following afternoon. Aunt Gertrude let out a cry of surprise when they entered the house.

“Mercy! It’s been days and days since we’ve had any word from you!” she exclaimed. “Where were you? Chasing after some awful criminals, I suppose.”

The commotion brought Mr. and Mrs. Hardy to the living room. The boys’ mother gave them affectionate hugs and Mr. Hardy greeted them warmly.

“You’ve had me worried,” he said. “I was going to notify the authorities and request a search.”

An early dinner was prepared while the boys showered and changed their clothes. During the meal they described their adventures aboard the Yellow Parrot.

“You placed yourselves in a very dangerous position,” Mr. Hardy remarked with concern. “I’m thankful you decided to escape.”

“And, Fenton,” Aunt Gertrude interjected, “you should also tell them not to go running off for days at a stretch without letting us know where they are. Even a postcard would be of some consolation.”

“Sorry,” Joe quipped, winking at his brother. “There wasn’t postal service where we were.”

“The situation was sort of grim,” Frank admitted to his father. “And, the worst of it all is that we didn’t come up with any real evidence to link the Parrots with the robberies.”

“But I wouldn’t say our trip was a complete loss,” Joe said. “Remember, we do have a possible contact in Ellis. He might still change his mind and tell us what he knows.”

The boys talked to their father about the tentative arrangement they had made with the radioman.

“We’ll have to set up a listening watch,” commented Mr. Hardy. “Count on me to do my share. I’ll stand by the radio tonight. You two get some rest.”

“I’ll take my turn tomorrow night,” Joe volunteered.

“And we can get Chet to pitch in,” suggested Frank.

The brothers retired early and slept until late the following morning. After breakfast they drove to the Morton farm to see Chet.

They were startled to see a geyser of water spouting thirty or forty feet into the air near Chet’s home. A police car and an emergency truck were parked nearby.

“What’s going on?” Joe exclaimed as they leaped from their convertible. They were met by Iola Morton, a slim, pretty, dark-haired girl. She was Chet’s sister and a favorite date of Joe’s.

“I’m so happy to see you two!” she cried out. “Isn’t this terrible?”

“What happened?” Frank asked quickly.

“Chet became interested in archaeology,” explained Iola. “This morning he said that he was on the brink of a great discovery and began digging with a pick. I’m afraid he struck a water main!”

“Oh, no!” Joe shouted.

The boys ran to the scene. There they saw Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, a close friend of the Hardys. He was standing transfixed at the sight of the column of water as it gushed upwards.

“Hello, Frank and Joe. Well, your buddy really did it this time. Lucky for him that his parents are visiting friends in Clayton today.”

“Where is Chet?” Joe asked.

“On the other side of the geyser,” Collig replied.

Frank and Joe edged their way around and looked down into the deep hole that Chet had dug. He was kneeling near the water main at the point where it had punctured, and was trying to step the flow with his hands.

“Chet! Get out of therel” Joe yelled. “You can’t stop it that way!”

Their friend looked up with a startled expression. Then he scrambled out of the hole, dripping wet.

“Hi, fellows,” he said, embarrassed. “When did you get back?”

“Never mind that,” Frank answered. “What’s the archaeological discovery you were digging for?”

Chet glanced about sheepishly. “I—I read that there are lots of old Indian artifacts in our area. I was on the brink of finding something that would’ve astounded the scientific world.”

“Cheer up. You might still have accomplished something,” Joe said jokingly “If that leak isn’t fixed soon, you’ll have created one of the greatest tourist attractions in Bayport.”

“Right,” Frank added. “Morton’s Perpetual Geyser!”

“Aw, cut it out,” Chet said.

At that instant truck from the water department rolled to a stop. The driver leaped from his vehicle.

“We’re shutting the water off at the main junction!” he shouted to Chief Collig.

Then he walked toward the boys. “Which one of you is Chet Morton?”

“Well—er—I guess that’s me,” Chet stammered nervously

“I understand you’re responsible for this. What were you doing? Digging for gold? Or trying to sabotage the water company?”

“It was an accident,” Frank interrupted.

“Just wait till his father gets the bill for repairs,” the man went on. “This kid will look like an accident!”

“There goes your allowance for the next two years,” Joe needled.

Dejected, Chet strolled slowly to the house and sat down on the porch steps. The Hardys felt sorry for him and followed.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Frank said sympathetically. “Things could be worse.”

“That’s what you think,” Chet countered.

“Snap out of it,” Joe urged. “We’re going to need your help.”

Chet appeared to perk up a bit. “What kind of help?”

The young detectives told him about their arrangement with Ellis aboard the Yellow Parrot.

“You can count on me!” their chum declared. Then he hesitated. “That is, you’d better wait until my parents come home tonight. I don’t know how my father will take the water-main business. He might not give me permission.”

“Well, I’m sure he will,” Joe said. “This is an important assignment.”

The Hardys returned home. After dinner they had just sat down to read the evening newspaper when the telephone rang. Frank answered.

“I’m off the hook!” Chet said jubilantly. The water company found several defects in the pipe I punctured. They said they would have had to make repairs soon, anyway.”

“That is good news!”

“I’ve a good mind to charge them for services rendered,” Chet went on. “After all, I did part of the work for them by digging the hole.”

“If I were you,” Frank advised, “I’d leave well enough alone.”

“Okay. How soon do I begin my assignment?” Chet inquired eagerly.

“We’ll let you know.”

Frank hung up and rejoined his brother. Later Mr. Hardy came bounding down the stairs from the study.

“I just received a phone call!” he exclaimed. “Another museum has been robbed of its DeGraw collection!”

CHAPTER XV

Impostors

“WHERE?” Frank asked excitedly.

“The Shillman Museum in Connecticut,” his father answered. “Mr. Sedley, the curator, said the guards were knocked out by some kind of gas.”

“Again! Just like in Philadelphia,” Frank put in.

“Right. I’ll have to leave at once. I’d like at least one of you to come with me.”

Joe turned to Frank. “You go,” he said. “I’ll stay here. It’s my night to stand radio watch.”

Jack Wayne was notified to have the plane ready at the airport. Soon the pilot and his two passengers were airborne.

It took less than an hour to reach their destination. When they landed, Frank and his father took a taxi directly to the museum.

“The alarm system failed to work, yet it showed no signs of having been tampered with,” Mr. Hardy explained on the way.

When they arrived at the museum, there were no patrol cars or policemen in the area.

“This is odd,” remarked Mr. Hardy. “If a major robbery took place here less than two hours ago, where are the police?”

“Strange,” Frank agreed. “But there must be an explanation. At least the curator must be here. He’s probably inside waiting for us.”

Father and son pounded on one of the large metal doors at the front entrance of the museum. Minutes went by before a door was eased open and an elderly guard peered out.

“What do you want? The museum closes at five o’clock,” he said testily. “Come back tomorrow!”

“I received an urgent telephone call from the curator,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’re here to see him.”

“The curator? Mr. Sedley?” the guard replied, eyeing the Hardys suspiciously. “He went home shortly after we closed for the day. Who are you?”

The detective produced his credentials. Suddenly the guard straightened his cap and gave an informal salute. “Mr. Hardy!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard of you. I’m Jeremy Turner, chief of the night guards. What can I do for you?”

Bewildered, Frank stared at the man. “Wasn’t there a robbery here a couple of hours ago, Mr. Turner?”

“A robbery?” the guard queried with a look of astonishment. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“I assure you it is not,” Mr. Hardy answered impatiently. “I’ll have to call Mr. Sedley at once! Take me to a telephone!”

Turner quickly led the detectives to one of the museum’s offices. There Mr. Hardy pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it to a list of telephone numbers, and began to dial. Seconds later he had the curator on the line.

“You say I called about a robbery at our museum?” Mr. Sedley said, after hearing the story. “Preposterous! I did no such thing!”

“That’s all I need to know,” the detective replied. “Forgive me for being abrupt, but I must leave right away.”

He put the phone down, then picked it up again and dialed another number.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“I’m calling home,” his father told him. “I want to talk to your brother.”

Joe answered the telephone. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “What about the robbery? Did you—?”

“There wasn’t any!” Mr. Hardy quickly told Joe what had happened. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he went on. “Call the other museums that still have their DeGraw collections and warn them. Frank and I are flying back to Bayport right away.”

“Okay, Dad. Will do.”

Frank and his father hurried back to the airport. When they landed at Bayport, Joe came running toward them as Jack taxied the plane to the parking ramp.

“Dad!” he cried. “We’re too late! The State Museum in Delaware was robbed of their collection around ten-thirty!”

Frank cried out in dismay.

“I was afraid of this,” Mr. Hardy said angrily. “As soon as I learned the call from Mr. Sedley was a phony, I suspected it was a trick to draw us away.”

He turned to the pilot. “We’ve got to fly to Delaware right away. While you refuel the ship, I’ll check with the curator and the police down there. One wild-goose chase is enough.”

“Sure, Mr. Hardy.”

The detective rushed off to a telephone. Minutes later he returned. “This time it’s the real thing!”

“May I go along?” asked Joe. “Chet’s at our house standing by the radio.”

“Climb in,” his father replied.

The sleek Hardy plane streaked down the Bayport runway on take-off for the second time that night. After an hour plus a few minutes they landed at their destination and headed for the State Museum.

There they found the building swarming with uniformed police and plainclothesmen. As the trio walked inside, a tall, neatly dressed man blocked their way.

“Sorry,” he announced. “Only the police are allowed in here.”

Mr. Hardy presented his credentials and introduced his sons. A broad smile appeared on the man’s face. “This is a pleasure,” he said. “Never thought I’d have an opportunity to meet you. I’m Seth Spencer, chief of detectives.”

There was an exchange of handshakes, then Frank spoke up. “Have you uncovered any leads?”

“Not yet. The thieves seem to have made a clean getaway.”

“What about the guards?” Mr. Hardy queried.

“All were knocked out. Since gas was used in the other robberies, they wore masks. But every single mask was punctured!”

“Was the alarm tampered with?”

Spencer rubbed his chin dubiously, “No,” he replied finally. “And that’s something I can’t figure out.”

“Were there any eyewitnesses?” Joe asked.

“None who saw the robbery being committed,” the officer replied.

“Who notified the police?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

“A passer-by became suspicious when he spotted a trailer-truck race out of the museum drive-way with its lights off,” Spencer explained, “so he called headquarters. Unfortunately he was unable to give us the license-plate number or a detailed description of the vehicle.”

“One thing is certain,” Joe remarked. “It was carrying the stolen DeGraw collection.”

“Our men and the State Police are checking all trailer-trucks leaving the area,” the detective chief said.

After the museum and police officials had completed their investigation, Spencer and the Har. dys questioned the guards.

“That’s all any of us remember,” one of the guards declared. “There was what seemed to be a cloud of gas, and then—”

“By the way, how is Mr. Fosten?” another asked. “Is he all right?”

Spencer looked at the man quizzically. “Mr. Fosten, the curator?”

“Yes, of course.”

“My men have been trying to reach him since we learned about the robbery. He’s not home and none of his friends know where he is at the moment.”

The guard seemed surprised. “He was in his office last time I saw him,” he said. “That was right before the robbery. He came back here about an hour after we closed for the day. Said he was going to spend the evening catching up on some paperwork.”

“Good night!” Spencer shouted. He summoned his men. “I want you to go through this place again with a fine-toothed comb. Mr. Fosten might be lying unconscious in the building somewhere!”

A thorough search, however, revealed nothing. The detective chief scratched his head in bewilderment.

“Maybe the thieves took the curator along with them,” Frank suggested.

“If so,” Spencer said, “they’ll have a kidnapping charge added to their crime.”

Nearly an hour had passed when the telephone rang in the curator’s office. A policeman scooped it up, then shouted to Spencer, “You’d better take this call, Chief!”

“I’m Avery Fosten,” a voice crackled from the receiver. “Just heard a TV newscast saying the museum was robbed. What’s going on?”

“Where are you?” Spencer demanded. “We’ve been trying to reach you for hours!”

“My wife and I are spending a couple of days at a friend’s summer home in Maryland,” the curator replied.

“How long have you been there?”

“Since about seven o’clock. The drive took less than two hours.”

“But one of the guards here told us he’d seen you working in your office up until the time of the robbery,” Spencer said.

“That’s absurd!” the curator insisted. “My wife and I left immediately after the museum closed.”

“You’d better come back right away. There’s something fishy going on here.”

After hanging up, Spencer told the Hardys about Fosten’s call.

“If he’s telling the truth,” Frank put in, “there’s only one explanation. The man the guard reported seeing in the curator’s office was an impostor!”

“You’re right,” his father agreed. “And a clever plan, too. Disguised as the curator, the impostor had no trouble entering the building after hours. Then he was free to let his cohorts inside without attracting attention.”

At that moment a patrolman rushed up to Spencer. “Sir, a trailer-truck was found abandoned on a side road twelve miles north of here,” he said. “The crime lab has been checking for fingerprints and other clues. So far they’ve uncovered nothing.”

Frank turned to the detective chief. “Would you issue an alert requesting a check of any flatbed trucks carrying logs?” he asked.

Spencer was a bit puzzled. “Sure—I can do that. But why a truck carrying logs?”

“I can’t explain now,” Frank replied. “It’s only a hunch of mine and may not amount to anything.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer walked to a telephone, called headquarters, and ordered a general alert.

Exhausted, the Hardys went to the curator’s office and settled down into comfortable chairs. Soon they were asleep.

It was nearly dawn when a policeman awakened them. “Chief Spencer is back at headquarters,” he said. “He just called. The State Police in New Hampshire stopped a flatbed truck hauling logs outside the town of Newland. It was headed north. They checked and found that the license plates were phonies.”

“Where’s the truck now?” Frank asked quickly.

“At the police garage in Newland. They’re also holding the driver and another man who was with him.”

The Hardys were driven to the airport in a patrol car. They found Jack Wayne sleeping soundly on a sofa in the operations room.

“Jack!” Frank said as he gently shook the pilot awake. “We’ve got to fly to Newland, New Hampshire, right away. Is there a field nearby?”

“New-Newland, New Hampshire,” Jack murmured as he rubbed his eyes wearily. “I’ll check my chart.”

He unfolded a map and examined it. There was a small airport located two miles north of the town.

“I’ll call the police in Newland and ask if they can have one of their men pick us up at the field,” Mr. Hardy said. “How long will it take to get there?”

Jack measured the distance and made a quick mental calculation. “Approximately two hours.”

They had a quick breakfast at the airport before taking off.

When they landed, a uniformed policeman was waiting for them. He led the Hardys to a patrol car and drove to Newland Police Headquarters.

There they were shown the flatbed truck. About a dozen huge logs were piled aboard it.

Frank stared for a moment, then picked up a large stone and walked toward the vehicle.

“What are you up to?” Joe asked.

“If my hunch is correct,” his brother replied, “you’ll see in a minute!”

CHAPTER XVI

An Unfortunate Scoop

FRANK began to hammer away at each of the logs in turn. Suddenly he struck one that gave off a slightly hollow sound. Then he found another, and another.

“They’re not solid!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy.

After close examination Frank gripped the end of one of the logs and began twisting it.

“Give me a hand!” he said to Joe.

Together, they worked on the log. Presently its butt started to turn like a threaded bottle cap. Soon it dropped free.

“Good grief!” Joe cried. “It is hollowl”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Hardy looked on in amazement as his sons reached inside the log and pulled out crowns, orbs, and several jeweled scepters. Labels on the items proved they were from the DeGraw collection.

“Now we know,” Frank said excitedly, “how the thieves transported their loot right under the very noses of the authorities.”

“Congratulations!” his father interjected. “Your hunch has solved one aspect of the case.”

Arrangements were made to place the truck and its cargo under strict guard. Then the Hardys asked to see the driver and his companion. The policeman who had picked them up at the airport led them into the interrogation room, and the prisoners were brought in.

The driver, who gave his name as Gaff Parkins, was a stocky, tough-looking man. The second man identified himself only as Miker. He was tall, lean, and the deep lines on his face emphasized his hard features. The men were asked if they wanted a lawyer, but both shook their heads.

“Why are we bein’ locked up in a cell?” Parkins demanded. “We don’t know anythin’ about bad license plates. We’re just a couple of hired hands.”

“Yeah!” Miker added. “Tell us what the fine is and we’ll get outta’ here.”

“You’re involved in more than just a motor-vehicle violation,” Mr. Hardy informed the prisoners.

“What do you mean?” snarled Parkins. “We ain’t done nothin’.”

“Except help to rob the State Museum!” Joe snapped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Miker declared. “We didn’t steal anything. Our job is to haul logs.”

“Filled with stolen loot?” Frank put in.

The prisoners glanced at each other with startled expressions.

“I knew there was more to this than we were told,” Miker addressed his companion nervously.

“Shut up!”

“I won’t!” Miker exclaimed in defiance. “This sounds like big trouble, and we’re caught in the middle. Before we get in any deeper, I’m for telling what we know.”

Parkins settled back in his chair and sighed. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Understand,” Mr. Hardy told him, “you’re not being asked to give a confession. But if you help us, it’ll go in your favor.”

“Okay,” Miker agreed. “A little over a year ago Gaff and I tried to break into the freight-hauling business. Money was a problem, and the only thing we could afford was one flatbed truck.”

He went on to explain that recently they ran out of funds and were unable to renew their vehicle registration and to pay for other annual fees necessary to operate the truck.

“Then late yesterday afternoon we got a call from a stranger,” Miker continued. “He asked if we could pick up a pile of logs that had been shipped to Wilmington. The money he offered would’ve put us back in business for at least a year.”

“Didn’t that make you suspicious?” Frank questioned.

“I was too excited to think straight,” the man answered. “He offered to pay us half in advance. But then I remembered we couldn’t legally run the truck. I asked the stranger if he could wait a day or two so that I could clear up the matter. He said not to worry, he would give us a special set of Canadian license plates that would get us through.”

“I didn’t like the whole thing from the start,” Parkins put in. “But the guy said the job had to be done that night, or the deal was off.”

“Finally we decided to take a chance because the money was just too good to turn down,” Miker added. “So we picked up the logs at a dock in Wilmington.”

“Where were you supposed to deliver them?”

“To Stormwell, a port in Canada. But first we were to meet a van outside of Wilmington.”

The Hardys looked knowingly at one another. Frank asked what took place at the rendezvous.

“When the van arrived, some guy told us to take a walk and return in an hour,” said Miker. “We started out, then doubled back to see what was going on. We spotted those guys loading all sorts of junk into the logs. I was ready to call the deal off right then and there.”

“Why didn’t you?” Mr. Hardy inquired. “Since it looked crooked, you should have called the police.”

“I talked him out of it,” Parkins admitted. “I know hoods when I see them. Those guys would never let us quit!”

“And that’s all we know,” Miker insisted.

“Can you give us a description of any of the men you saw?”

“No,” Parkins replied. “It was too dark.”

The prisoners were led out of the room. Then the Hardys discussed the situation.

“I’ll call the police in Wilmington,” Mr. Hardy said. “I would like to find out how the logs got to the dock.” He put through a call and the police chief of Wilmington promised to track it down.

“The logs were to be taken to Stormwell,” Frank said. “That means one of the Parrot ships must be heading there for the pickup.”

“You can bet on it,” agreed his father. “And our first concern is to prevent information about this from leaking out. We don’t want to alert the thieves before the ship docks.”

The desk sergeant called out to the Hardys as they hurried from the interrogation room. “It looks as if you fellows are going to get your names in the newspaper today,” he announced with a grin.

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“Ed Watts, the police reporter for the Newland Record, was here about half an hour ago,” the sergeant replied. “He checked the police blotter as he usually does. Sure got excited when he learned that you had found the museum loot inside those logs. Didn’t even wait for an interview. You should have seen him dash off to make the morning edition with his scoop.”

Mr. Hardy rushed to telephone the managing editor of the newspaper. He pleaded with the man not to print the story.

“Sorry,” the editor informed him, “but the presses are already rolling. Anyway, it wouldn’t do any good. The wire services have picked it up.”

The boys were crestfallen when their father told them the situation. He suggested they all return to Bayport and plan a new course of action.

The drivers were released in bail and drove away with their truck, but the logs were kept as evidence.

It was evening by the time the Hardys arrived home. Too exhausted to think clearly, they decided to retire immediately after supper, since Chet had agreed to stay on radio watch one more night.

Before they undressed, a telephone call from the Wilmington police advised that there had been no record of the log shipment. “It obviously was strictly illegal,” the officer reported.

Next day the boys rose early and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then joined their father who was already at work in his study.

“The morning edition of the Bayport News came a little while ago,” he said with a frown. “Take a look at the front page, third column.”

Frank and Joe looked glum when they saw the headline:

HARDYS FIND MUSEUM LOOT IN HOLLOW LOGS

It read in part: “The Hardys did it again! Officials of the State Museum in Delaware were astounded to learn that the famous Bayport detectives had uncovered an invaluable collection recently stolen from the institution. The loot was cleverly hidden in hollow logs which were being hauled aboard a flatbed truck with Canadian license plates. Police are looking for a possible Canadian contact....”

“This ruins everything!” Joe declared angrily.

Mr. Hardy picked up the phone and placed a call to the Port Authority in Stormwell. He requested any recent information they might have concerning the Parrot ships. From the expression on their father’s face, the boys concluded that the news was not encouraging.

“You’re in for another letdown.” Mr. Hardy sighed as he hung up the phone. “The Black Parrot was due to dock last night. So far there’s no sign of her.”

“Someone must have radioed the captain,” Frank said, “and told him about our finding the loot.”

“He must be making a run for it,” Joe added. “And you can be sure Stormwell has seen the last of the Parrots.”

“If only we had more leads,” Mr. Hardy said. “The Stormwell authorities tried to find the location of the ship but to no avail. And where to look next is a problem, because the Black Parrot did not report its last position.”

“Too bad Parkins and Miker couldn’t give us more information about the gang,” Joe muttered. He glanced at his brother. “I wonder where the thieves are now.”

“Scattered like geese in a hurricane, if they read the newspapers,” Frank said glumly.

“As I see it,” Mr. Hardy announced, “our only hope of ending this case quickly depends upon one thing.”

“What’s that, Dad?” Frank asked.

“That your friend Ellis contacts us.”

CHAPTER XVII

An Unexpected Visitor

“By this time,” Joe said dejectedly, “Ellis might not even be aboard the Yellow Parrot any more.”

“Possibly,” Frank agreed. “He might have decided to escape from the ship. Or the captain could have found out that he had helped us and took him prisoner. But we’re just guessing. We have nothing to lose by sticking close to the radio.”

That afternoon Chet’s jalopy screeched to a halt in front of the Hardy house. The stout youth leaped from his car and jabbed at the doorbell excitedly.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked as he admitted his friend to the house. “You look as if you’ve just discovered the secret of perpetual motion.”

“Everybody brace themselves for the unexpected!” Chet declared. “I’ll be acclaimed by archaeologists in every corner of the globe!”

“You haven’t been digging again?” Joe questioned apprehensively.

“Well—er—yes,” his pal admitted with a certain aloofness. “But I made sure there weren’t any water mains around.”

The commotion brought Mr. Hardy and Frank to the scene. It was then that Chet pulled a small, weathered bowl from his pocket and displayed it proudly.

“Consider yourselves privileged to be among the first to set eyes upon this ancient artifact,” he announced. “Study its lines closely.”

“Where did you find it?” Frank asked, trying to suppress a grin.

“On the farm,” Chet replied.

“How old do you think it is?” Mr. Hardy queried.

“Probably dates back to the preglacial period,” Chet replied with a confident air. “A Carbon 14 test will determine its age more exactly.”

Aunt Gertrude appeared and stared at Chet’s discovery curiously. “Oh, I see you’ve found it,” she said finally.

“Found what?”

“My little sugar bowl,” Miss Hardy answered. “Don’t you remember? The boys borrowed it when they had a family picnic at your parents’ farm.”

“I remember now,” Joe said. “That must’ve been two or three years ago. You were awfully upset when we told you it had been lost.”

“Impossible!” Chet shouted indignantly.

Aunt Gertrude hurried away, then reappeared with a bowl in her hand a moment later. It was almost identical in size and shape to Chet’s. “You see, it was part of a set. Mercy! Imagine finding the bowl after all this time. But, of course, it’s too weathered and cracked to be of use to me now.”

Chet’s face turned a ruby red. “I—I don’t feel too well,” he stammered.

The Hardys howled with laughter. Chet dashed out of the house and sped off in his jalopy before the boys could stop him.

“Poor Chet,” Joe said with regret. “He took it pretty hard.”

“We’ll call him up later and apologize,” Frank suggested.

After supper the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy went to answer it and came back seconds later.

“Fenton, there’s a man to see you,” she said. “Gertrude doesn’t like his looks and is watching him from behind a drape.”

Mr. Hardy and the boys accompanied her to the door. Standing on the porch was a man of medium height and weight. He had removed his hat and was clutching it nervously.

“Mr. Hardy?” he quavered.

“That’s right.”

“You gotta help me. I’m in serious trouble.”

The Hardys led the caller to the study and offered him a chair.

“Now suppose you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in,” asked Mr. Hardy, “and how I can help you.”

“My name is Barney Egart,” the man started. He seemed reluctant to go on for a moment, but then continued. “I got myself into a terrible mess.”

“What mess?” Frank questioned.

“Going with those guys to the State Museum,” Egart replied. “You’ve got to believe me! It was my first job with the gang!”

His statement struck the Hardys like a thunder-bolt.

“You mean you were in on the robbery?” Joe exclaimed.

“Where’s the rest of the gang?” Frank wanted to know.

“On their way to Canada. After the stuff was loaded inside the logs, we split up. Orders were to meet in Stormwell for the payoff.”

“Go on,” Mr. Hardy said quietly.

Egart shifted in his chair nervously. “When I saw all the news about the robbery, I chickened out of the Stormwell meeting. So I decided to come here.”

“Why?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

“I don’t have any friends who can help me. No money. Nothing!” came the reply. “Your reputation is well known. You see that a guy gets a break. So when I read you were connected with the investigation, I decided to talk to you.”

“How did you get involved with the gang in the first place?” Joe asked.

“I was in Wilmington a few days ago looking for work,” Egart explained. “Things were pretty bleak. Then I ran into a guy I’d met in California once. Name is Starker.”

Frank turned to his father. “That’s the big fellow who was employed at the museum in Philadelphia as a gardener!”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Egart commented. “All I know is that the guy asked me if I wanted to make some easy money. Said his friends needed an extra man for a job coming up. I was too broke to turn it down.”

At Mr. Hardy’s request, Egart gave him a description of six other men who made up the gang. He said that since it was his first meeting with them, he knew nothing about their operations, or if they had a permanent hideout.

“Do you know anything about two ships named the Yellow Parrot and the Black Parrot?” Frank queried.

They gazed at the message excitedly

The man appeared surprised by the question. “I overheard a couple of the guys talking about them,” he said. “They pick up the loot and make the payoffs. And I can tell you this. From what I’ve heard, the gang doesn’t know any more about the ships than I do. They’re hired to steal the stuff and deliver it, that’s all.”

“It’s a safe setup,” Frank said. “Whoever wants the DeGraw collection doesn’t risk getting caught at the scene.”

When the questioning was over, Mr. Hardy said, “I promise to do whatever I can for you. But the first thing is to turn yourself in.”

“You—you mean to the police?” Egart stammered.

“Yes. Otherwise there’s nothing I can do to help. Also, the fact that you surrendered on your own will be to your advantage.”

Reluctantly Egart agreed. The Hardys drove him to Bayport Police Headquarters, where he officially gave himself up. Chief Collig was off duty, but quickly appeared in response to a telephone call.

“I’ll get this out on the teletype right away,” the chief said when Mr. Hardy gave him Egart’s descriptions of the men.

When they returned home Frank elected to stand by the radio. He carefully tuned the receiver to the prearranged frequency, then settled back in his chair with a book.

It was almost midnight when a faint signal in Morse code crackled from the receiver. Frank sat bolt upright in his chair and copied down the dots and dashes. Deciphered, the message read: Ellis 0200 GMT tomorrow.

Frank rushed to awaken his father and Joe. They gazed at the message excitedly.

“It must mean that Ellis is going to contact us at oh-two-hundred hours Greenwich Meridian Time tomorrow,” Joe concluded. “That would be nine o’clock our time.”

The following day dragged on slowly for the boys. Then, as the appointed hour arrived, the Hardys crowded around the radio receiver. Soon they began to hear: dit dit-dah-dit-dit dit-dah-dit-dit dit-dit ...

Frank jotted down the message: Ellis need help. Urgent. Will transmit 200 KC 1700 CW to 2100 GMT daily. Should pick up at Cambrian. Must go.

“He’s in trouble!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER XVIII

A Hidden Target

FRANK transmitted an immediate reply, but there was no response from Ellis.

“Maybe our equipment isn’t powerful enough to reach his receiver,” Joe said. “We don’t know how far away he is.”

Mr. Hardy studied the message. “Ellis will be transmitting on a frequency of two hundred kilocycles,” he observed. “But for what reason? And I’ve forgotten what the CW means.”

“Continuous or Carrier Wave,” Frank explained. “It’s the modulation of these waves that make it possible to transmit.”

“Quite right.”

“What it amounts to, Dad,” Joe put in, “is that Ellis will be transmitting a continuous signal on which we can take a directional bearing or home in with an aircraft radio compass.”

“And ‘Should pick up at Cambrian,’ ” Mr. Hardy concluded, “must mean that you can begin receiving the signal in the vicinity of that island.”

“Exactly,” agreed Frank.

“Then there’s no time to lose,” his father decided. “We must go there as soon as possible.”

“Shall we use your plane?” Joe asked.

“I’ve another idea,” Frank said. “Dan Tiller’s amphibian is better suited for an over-the-water search. We can offer to hire his services when we get to Cambrian. If he’s not available, there’ll be other amphibians for charter.”

“Good,” Mr. Hardy said. “Right now, I’d better telephone the airline and make reservations. By the way, ask Chet if he wants to come along. We’re going to need all the help we can get. I’ll get a seat for him too.”

“Great!” Frank said. “I’ll call him as soon as you’re finished.”

Chet was still a bit miffed at the way they had laughed about the sugar bowl. But his attitude quickly changed when he heard of the proposed trip to Cambrian Island.

“When do we leave?” he shouted excitedly.

“We’ll let you know just as soon as Dad has our reservations confirmed. It’ll be tomorrow morning some time.”

Soon the phone rang and the boys hurried to Mr. Hardy’s study. He was just putting down the phone. “Everything’s set,” he said. “We’ll depart tomorrow at eight A.M. from La Guardia. Jack can fly us there.”

The atmosphere at breakfast the next morning was charged with suspense. Although Mrs. Hardy did not share her family’s excitement regarding the trip, she gallantly took it in stride.

Aunt Gertrude, however, could not restrain herself. “Mark my words!” she exclaimed brusquely. “Don’t press your luck too far. Nothing good can come of this foolish trip!”

“Where’s your spirit, Aunty?” Frank teased.

“Humph!” was her only answer.

After urging the two women not to worry, Fenton Hardy and his sons drove off to pick up Chet at the Morton farm, then hastened to Bayport Airport. Jack Wayne was already waiting, and soon they were in the air, heading for New York.

“There will be a slight delay because of heavy air traffic,” Jack announced as they neared their destination.

Upon landing, the Hardys and Chet hurried to the terminal building. Their flight to Miami was being announced over the public-address system. They checked in their luggage and boarded the jet.

“I didn’t think we’d be seeing Cambrian again so soon,” Joe remarked as the aircraft lifted off the ground.

“Let’s hope we’ll find Tiller there,” Frank added.

In Miami, the four changed planes as scheduled and departed on the last leg of their journey.

It was midafternoon when the plane touched down on the runway at Cambrian. By telephone Mr. Hardy made arrangements for them to stay at a new hotel located near the airport.

“Dad,” Frank said, “Joe and I would like to go to the other side of the field to see if we can locate Tiller. We’ll meet you at the hotel later.”

“Certainly. Go ahead. Chet can stay with me and help with the luggage.”

The boys dashed out of the terminal building and headed toward the south side of the field. It was in that area that Tiller had parked his amphibian after they had returned from Tambio.

“There he is!” Joe yelled, pointing.

“Boy, am I glad we found him,” Frank said and called hello to the pilot.

Tiller was surprised to see the Hardys.

“What are you fellows doing here?” he asked with a wide grin. “I thought you were back in Bayport hunting criminals!”

“We were,” Joe replied.

“Have any trouble repairing the engine?” Frank inquired.

“None at all,” the pilot assured him. “Spare crankcases are one thing I’m not short of. It was just a matter of replacing it.”

“That’s great,” Joe put in, “because we’d like to hire your services.”

“I’m available. What is it you want me to do?”

The boys told him about Ellis’s message and of the possibility of using his signal to locate the Yellow Parrot.

“And you say he’ll be transmitting on CW between the hours of 1700 and 2100 Greenwich Time?” Tiller queried.

“Right,” Frank answered. “What’s the time zone difference here?”

“Cambrian is three hours earlier than Greenwich,” Tiller replied. “So that would make it two P.M. to six P.M. local time.” He glanced at his watch. “If your friend is keeping to his schedule, he should still be transmitting. Want to take a trial hop in my plane and see if we can pick up the signal?”

“Sure. That’s a good idea,” Frank said.

“I’ll go and give Dad a ring at the hotel,” Joe volunteered. “Be right back.”

Ten minutes later they were streaking down the runway on take-off in the amphibian.

Tiller climbed to five thousand feet, leveled off, then tuned his radio compass receiver to two hundred kilocycles. There was no response.

“If the ship’s a great distance away,” Frank remarked, “the signal will be very weak.”

Tiller increased power and eased the nose of the plane upwards. “I’ll climb to a higher altitude,” he said.

The amphibian was approaching ten thousand feet when the indicator needle on the radio compass began to flicker. A low, steady humming sound came from the speaker of the receiver.

“We’re getting something!” Joe exclaimed.

“It must be the signal from the Yellow Parrot,” Frank said.

The pilot watched the instrument. “The needle is reacting sluggishly,” he observed. “The ship’s quite a distance away. But we can determine the direction.”

“Have any idea about how far?” asked Joe.

“No. But I’ll fly a time-distance problem. It will only give us a rough estimate. However, that’s better than nothing.”

As Tiller began the maneuver, he explained that the procedure involved flying in a direction which would be exactly at right angles to that of the ship. “The heading is then maintained until the radio compass shows at least a 10-degree change in relative bearing,” he said.

The boys listened eagerly as Tiller went on, “This change in bearing, together with the time flown in order to obtain it, is used in a very simple mathematical formula to get the distance to the source of the signal, or in this case, the Yellow Parrot.”

Several minutes passed. Then the pilot jotted down some figures.

“According to my calculation,” he announced finally, “the ship is from three hundred and fifty to four hundred miles away.”

Joe let out a low whistle. “Does your plane have enough fuel to make it there and back?” he queried.

“Barely,” Tiller replied. “But I have a long-range tank I can install in the cabin. It’ll give us plenty of reserve.”

“There’s one snag,” Joe interjected. “Won’t the tank cut down the number of passengers you can carry?”

“Yes,” the pilot agreed. “I’ll be limited to two.”

“Dad and Chet won’t be happy to hear that,” Frank muttered.

Tiller returned to the airport. After parking his airplane, he asked, “When do you want to make this flight?”

“Tomorrow, if possible,” Frank said. “But I want to be sure you realize the danger. The crewmen aboard the Yellow Parrot are rough customers. If we should run into trouble and get caught—”

“Don’t worry about me,” Tiller interrupted.

The boys rejoined their father and Chet at the hotel and told them about their flight.

“And you say the long-range tank will permit only two passengers,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ve a feeling you’ll suggest that Chet and I go and you two stay behind.” He winked at Frank.

Chet let out a whoop and patted Mr. Hardy on the back.

“Well, not exactly,” Joe said.

“We know the Yellow Parrot,” Frank explained. “It’s better that we go.”

Chet sat down, looking disappointed.

“If you locate the ship, you must promise to be careful,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “Don’t try boarding the freighter. Get what information Ellis has and return here as soon as possible.”

“We will,” Joe promised.

It was late the following morning when Tiller telephoned the boys to tell them that he had just finished installing the long-range tank.

“That’s great,” Frank said. “Let’s plan to take off a few minutes before Ellis is scheduled to begin sending his signal.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Hardy and Chet accompanied Frank and Joe to the airport. As departure time neared, Tiller started the engines and his two passengers climbed aboard the plane.

“Good luck!” Mr. Hardy shouted above the noise of the propellers. “And remember what I told you!”

His sons waved from side window as Tiller taxied toward the active runway.

Soon the amphibian was climbing out to sea. Then it turned on a southerly heading.

“It’s exactly two o’clock,” Joe announced, glancing at his watch. “Ellis should be transmitting.”

The pilot switched on his radio compass receiver and tuned to the proper frequency. A low, humming sound crackled from the speaker. Gradually the needle of the instrument started to seek out the source of the signal.

“A course of 165 degrees should take us in the right direction for the moment,” Tiller said. “The indication will become more accurate as we get closer to the ship.”

Three hours went by. The boys watched the radio compass as it grew more and more sensitive to Ellis’s signal.

“I’m going to work another time-distance problem,” the pilot declared.

He swung the plane onto a new heading, and within a few minutes, completed his calculation. “We’ve got about eighty miles to go,” he concluded.

The boys tingled with excitement. Less than half an hour had gone by when Frank pointed directly ahead.

“Cumulus clouds!” he exclaimed. “That could mean an island or a group of islands.”

“Right,” Tiller agreed. “And according to our radio compass, we’re headed toward them.”

As they continued, small rocky islets began to slide beneath them. Ahead, a mass of somewhat larger islands came into view.

“We’re getting a strong signal,” the pilot said. “We must be very near the ship.”

“Stay on your present course and keep going,” Frank said. “If the crew spots our plane, we don’t want them to know we’re searching for the Yellow Parrot.”

An instant later the needle of the radio compass whirled around and pointed toward the tail of the aircraft.

“We’ve just passed over the ship!” Tiller shouted.

The boys quickly scanned the islands below. They saw no sign of the freighter, but noticed an odd-shaped island with a narrow inlet that was heavily covered with vegetation.

“I’ve a hunch the Yellow Parrot is hidden down there,” Joe said.

“So do I,” Frank agreed. “Let’s land and take a look.”

Tiller continued on his original course for a few more minutes, then descended to within a few feet of the water and turned back toward the islands.

“We’ll stay down low to avoid being spotted,” he told them. “Then I’ll land about a mile out and taxi the rest of the way.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “The island we want is in the center of the group. After dark, Joe and I will use your rubber raft and paddle to the inlet we saw.”

After a smooth water landing, Tiller and the boys settled down to await sunset.

Tiller reached behind his seat. “Here’s some chow I brought,” he said. “And over there are cans of soda.”

“Am I glad you thought of food,” Joe replied with a chuckle. “This flight sure stimulated my appetite!”

After they had eaten, they talked until it was dark. Then the pilot inflated the raft and eased it over the side.

“Lots of luck,” he said in a hushed voice as Frank and Joe started toward their objective.

The next hour was spent weaving in and out of a series of small islands. Finally the Hardys had the inlet in sight. They could make out the vague image of a ship anchored beneath a camouflage net covered with vegetation.

“It’s the Yellow Parrot!” Joe said excitedly.

“Let’s paddle closer,” Frank whispered. “But we’d better stay near the shore for cover.”

They came within a hundred yards of the ship and Frank’s right hand, gripping the paddle, dipped deep into the water. Their eyes were strained at the figures moving about the deck.

“We can’t make a sound,” Frank whispered. “Feather your paddle in the water, Joe, don’t lift it out!”

“Roger. I see they have guards posted near the rail.”

Just then a sharp whack hit the side of the raft. There was a swishing sound in the water, and something grabbed Frank’s paddle just below his fingers.

“A shark!” he cried out. He had hardly uttered the warning when a huge dorsal fin knifed under the bottom of the raft, half-lifting it out of the water. The boys tried to hang on, but were hurled over the lip and into the briny sea.

Silence was now out of the question. Frank and Joe knew that they must kick, scream, and flail their arms in an effort to scare the shark away.

“Swim for it!” Joe shrieked.

The shark made another pass, brushing past him with a tail slap which made Joe feel as if the end of the world had come.

The Hardys were too terror-stricken to notice what was going on at the ship’s deck. The noise had alerted the crew. Bright beams of light pierced the darkness and swept toward the raft.

“Do you hear something?” yelled a crewman aboard the freighter.

“Someone’s out there!” shouted another. “And a shark’s after him!”

“Get a rifle!” came a third voice.

As Frank and Joe struggled frantically to reach the shore, a shot whizzed past Frank and hit the shark with a thud.

Joe, who was behind his brother, saw the monster roll belly up and stain the sea with red, in the glare of the spotlight.

An instant later the boys reached a patch of sandy beach. They scrambled ashore and glanced around for a place to hide.

“Head for cover!” Frank whispered, pointing to a clump of rocks nearby.

Before they could make a run for it, a group of bronze-skinned natives seemed to appear from nowhere. They quickly surrounded the youths. There was no escape!

CHAPTER XIX

The Pirate King

THE Hardys were seized and marched off. The group walked along the beach for a short distance, then turned onto a trail leading inland.

“Where are you taking us?” Joe demanded.

The natives did not speak. Instead, they gestured to the boys to keep moving.

After traveling about a mile, they came to a village tucked in a valley ahead. The community was comprised of small stone buildings, boxlike in shape. Coconut palms dotted the area.

In the center of the village was a medieval-looking structure. The boys were led toward it.

“Look!” Joe exclaimed in disbelief.

Two guards flanked a set of heavy wooden, arch-shaped doors with massive iron hinges. They wore conquistador-type helmets and breastplates, which bore the bright-red symbol of the twisted claw!

At a signal from one of the natives, the guards pushed open the doors and ordered the prisoners inside.

The interior of the building was magnificent. The walls soared upwards and met in a series of gentle arches. These, combined with towering columns and polished stone floors, gave the area a palatial appearance.

“Amazing!” Joe whispered.

“I could do without it!” Frank muttered.

They were marched toward another set of wooden doors flanked by helmeted guards. On the wall above were carved the letters ETC.

“Empire of the Twisted Claw!” Frank muttered, recalling the rare volume they had seen in the New York bookstore.

The doors were pushed open to reveal a large room which looked much like a medieval banquet hall. Seated on the far side on a throne was a man wearing a fur-collared red robe. His aquiline nose jutted out from between a set of dark, glacial eyes. Standing to his right was Rawlin, first mate of the Yellow Parrot!

The man rose and stared at the boys menacingly. “What have we here?” he shouted. “Prisoners?”

Rawlin gazed at Frank and Joe as if he were seeing ghosts. “I know those kids!” he yelled. “They’re the Hardy boys!”

“Sons of Fenton Hardy the detective?” asked the man in the robe.

“Yeah!” Rawlin answered. “They sailed aboard our ship once. I didn’t know who they were at the time. Then we got the message from the Black Parrot saying that the loot from the State Museum heist had been found by the Hardys.”

“Tell me more!” the man in the robe said in an ice-cold voice.

“Well, I put two and two together. I asked for their descriptions and, sure enough, it checked with the kids who jumped ship at Tambio.”

“News travels fast, doesn’t it!” snapped Joe.

The red-robed man seated himself again in chilly composure. “I am Cartoll, king of this island,” he announced. “I demand to know how you got here!”

“You don’t really expect us to tell you!” Frank shot back.

“We were sightseeing,” Joe wisecracked. “It’s a nice island.”

Rawlin fumed. “Let me take care of these guys!”

“Calm yourself,” Cartoll ordered with a smirk. “I admire audacity. However, I’ve no time to question them now.” He clapped his hands.

Two guards responded. “Take the prisoners to the east tower room!” Cartoll commanded.

“I still think we oughta find out how they got here first!” Rawlin protested. “There might be others!”

“It’s obvious they came by boat or plane,” Cartoll concluded. “Have your men conduct a search of the area as soon as it is light.”

“If only there was some way to warn Tiller,” Frank thought frantically as he and his brother were led away by the guards.

The east tower room was situated at the top of a long, winding stone stairway. One of the guards unlocked the door and ordered the boys inside. The other one brought some bread and a jug of water, then the door was shut behind them.

When their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they were startled to see an elderly man with shaggy gray hair and a beard seated at a wooden table.

“Are you prisoners of Cartoll too?” he asked in a weak voice. “I have not seen you before.”

“Yes,” Frank replied glumly. “And who are you?”

“Leroy Ellis.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other in surprise, then Frank introduced himself and his brother. “Any relation to Clay Ellis?” he added.

“He’s my son. You know him?”

“We’ve met him not long ago. Why are you a prisoner?”

“Because I refuse to help Cartoll with his crazy schemes. And I’m being used as a hostage so my son won’t go to the authorities.”

“So that’s why Clay wouldn’t tell us anything,” Joe said, munching on a piece of bread.

“Perhaps you can tell us what’s going on around here,” Frank said. “Who is this Cartoll?”

The old man explained that Cartoll was the great-great-great grandson of a notorious eighteenth-century pirate who had established a kingdom on the island.

“We read about him and his Empire of the Twisted Claw in an old book,” Joe interrupted.

“If you’re familiar with that part of the story,” Ellis said, “I’ll bring you up to date.”

He explained that he came upon the island more than a year before while sailing his ketch around the Caribbean. He was accompanied by his son, who was on vacation from his job as radioman for a reputable shipping firm. They were impressed with the old buildings of the village and the friendliness of the natives.

During their stay, Cartoll arrived on the island and declared himself heir to his ancestor’s kingdom. He forced the natives to be his subjects and revived the Empire of the Twisted Claw.

“He’s mad and must be stopped!” Ellis insisted.

“What about the Parrot ships?” asked Frank.

The old man scowled. “Cartoll owns the ships and uses them for smuggling purposes. It’s that scoundrel’s way of financing his so-called royal enterprises.”

Frank went on, “Do you know why he’s so determined to get his hands on the DeGraw collec tion?”

“It’s another of his crazy quirks,” Ellis replied. “The items in that collection were owned by the original pirate king. They were being brought here to the island by a galleon when a sudden storm came up and sank the ship.”

“And now Cartoll thinks the stuff belongs to him by reason of inheritance?” Joe queried.

The old man nodded. “Of course the idea is absurd. But such things are meaningless to a person of his mentality.”

After their talk, the Hardys’ thoughts turned to the possibility of escape.

“Your chances are slim,” Ellis warned. “There are too many guards inside the palace.”

Joe pointed to the only window in the room. It was a small, lancet-shaped opening covered with metal bars. “Maybe we can get out through there,” he suggested.

Ellis smiled. “I had the same idea once.” He reached inside his sleeve and pulled out a pointed piece of metal about the size of a pencil. “I began using this to dig away the stone around two of the bars. After that, I could stick my head through and realized escape was hopeless. There’s a forty-foot drop to the ground.”

The boys examined the window and saw where Ellis had scraped away the stone at the base of the bars. He had cleverly filled the depressions with loose dirt to prevent his work from being discovered.

Joe pushed away the bars and gazed down. “It is quite a drop,” he said.

“I have an idea,” Frank put in. “We’ll tie our jackets and belts together to form a line. It won’t reach all the way to the ground, but at least it’ll lessen the height.”

“I have a blanket you can use,” Ellis added.

The boys quickly knotted the articles together. Then Frank estimated its length. This will take us within fifteen feet of the ground.”

“A cinch,” Joe commented with a grin.

Frank glanced at his watch. “It’ll be daylight within a couple of hours. We’ll have to work fast.”

Frantically the Hardys dug away the stone until the lower ends of two more bars were exposed. Then they pushed and pulled with all their strength until the upper ends loosened and tore free.

“All set?” Joe asked as he secured the line to one of the remaining bars.

“I—I’d like to go with you,” Ellis said shakily. “But I don’t know if I can make it.”

“We’re not leaving you behind,” Frank said firmly. “You can do it. My brother and I will go first. We’ll be waiting to help break your fall.”

The Hardys slid down their makeshift line, then dropped the remaining distance to the ground.

Next, Mr. Ellis emerged from the window above. He gripped the line and started to descend.

But at the halfway point he came to a halt. The man obviously was frightened.

“Don’t stop now,” Frank muttered anxiously.

There was a short pause. Then Ellis continued and finally made a soft landing with the boys’ help.

“Now what?” Joe asked in a hushed voice.

“Let’s head back to where the Yellow Parrot is anchored,” Frank urged. “Somehow we’ve got to get hold of a raft or a boat and warn Dan Tiller.”

Dawn was breaking as the trio dashed out of the village and along the rugged trail leading to the beach.

Upon reaching their destination, they were stunned by what they saw. Tied to a mooring close to the Yellow Parrot was Tiller’s amphibian!

“Dan’s been captured!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank was too shocked to speak. He stared at the plane, realizing that their only means of escape had fallen into the hands of Cartoll!

CHAPTER XX

Island Rescue

AT the sound of men approaching from behind, the boys and Mr. Ellis quickly hid in some brush.

“I don’t like what you’re planning to do,” came Rawlin’s voice. “It’s too risky.”

“Your opinion couldn’t interest me less,” a second man replied.

“That’s Cartoll!” Joe whispered.

“But you already have most of the DeGraw collection,” Rawlin went on. “And the gang you hired has been arrested. Why take chances?”

“You don’t understand,” Cartoll countered. “That portion of the collection at the Norwood Museum in Connecticut is of special interest to me. The armor was made for my ancestor’s exclusive use. I must have it.”

“So you’re bent on stealing the stuff yourself,” Rawlin said in disgust.

“Not exactly. You and some of the crew are going to help me. And thanks to the Hardys, we have a plane at our disposal. We’ll be there in no time!”

The men walked by the hidden trio. They halted when they reached the beach. The Hardys could still overhear their conversation.

“But I’ve never done anything like that before,” Rawlin protested.

“There’s always a first time,” Cartoll said sarcastically. “Don’t worry,” he added. “With the gang captured, the museum will surely be off its guard. We won’t have any trouble.”

Rawlin shouted to a crewman on the deck of the Yellow Parrot and ordered him to bring a dinghy ashore. Soon the men were being rowed out to the ship.

Frank’s and Joe’s pulses quickened as they waited and watched. Suddenly Tiller appeared on the deck. He was being pushed along by two hefty crewmen. They ordered him over the side and into another dinghy. Then they took him to his amphibian.

“Tiller’s removing the long-range tank,” Joe observed after a while.

“Right. He’s making room for Cartoll and his cohorts,” Frank added. “But he still has enough reserve in his main tanks to reach Cambrian and refuel before going on.”

“Maybe he’ll try to make a break for it there,” Joe said.

“I doubt that your friend will get a chance to escape,” Mr. Ellis warned. “Cartoll is clever. He’ll be watching like a hawk!”

More than two hours had passed when the Hardys saw Cartoll, Rawlin, and three other men leave the ship and board the plane. Then Tiller started the engines and taxied out to clear water. He applied take-off power and the craft left a churning wake behind as it sped along. Soon it rose off the water and disappeared to the north.

Frank sighed. “We’re in bad shape! Tiller and his plane might never come back here, and even if Cartoll brought him back, how could we contact him?”

“Might as well resign ourselves to being hermits from now on,” Joe quipped in dark humor.

Mr. Ellis turned to the boys. “I’ve got an idea,” he said slowly. “There’s a good chance it might work.”

“What’s that?” Frank inquired.

“I have earned the respect of many of the natives, including the village leader. Their fear of Cartoll prevented them from getting together and ousting the tyrant. Now that he’s away, maybe I can talk them into action!”

“If only you could!” Joe said excitedly.

“It’s awfully chancy,” Frank warned.

“But it’s our only alternative. I’m going back to the village,” Ellis declared. “At least it’s worth a try.”

“We’ll go with you,” Frank said.

“No, it’s better I go alone,” the man insisted. “You fellows keep an eye on the Yellow Parrot. Maybe you’ll spot my son.” He scrambled to his feet and disappeared down the trail.

The Hardys grew more impatient as the hours dragged by. All was quiet aboard the ship. Sunset was less than an hour away when the boys heard sounds of commotion from the direction of the village. They sprang to their feet just as two guards in shiny breastplates came running down the trail. The young detectives flung themselves at the men and caught them above the knees. Their opponents somersaulted into the air and crashed to the ground.

A split second later two more guards appeared. The boys attacked. Locked in a struggle, they and the men tumbled down the trail and onto the sandy beach. A crowd of natives arrived and seized the guards.

“It worked!” Mr. Ellis shouted joyfully as he pushed his way through the group. “We’ve got the scoundrels on the run!”

“Look!” Joe yelled to his brother as he pointed toward the Yellow Parrot.

Frank turned to see the ship getting underway.

“My son is still aboard!” the old man cried out.

A minute later an amphibian, much larger than Tiller’s, roared low overhead. It turned and landed on the water nearby.

As the plane taxied toward the beach, its aft cabin door sprang open. The boys were startled to see their father’s head appear. “Hello, sons!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”

“Starved, but okay otherwise,” Frank called back.

A rubber raft tossed over the side. Mr. Hardy climbed into it. Then Chet emerged and joined him. Together they paddled ashore.

“Are we glad to see you!” Joe declared with relief. “But how did you know we were in trouble?”

“I have an excellent view of the airport from my hotel room in Cambrian,” the detective explained, “and happened to spot Tiller’s amphibian come in for a landing. Naturally, I thought you had returned. When Chet and I went to the field, we were startled to see the plane taking off again. I knew something was wrong.”

The detective said that he then contacted air-sea rescue and an aircraft was made available for an immediate search.

“Luckily,” Mr. Hardy added, “Ellis hadn’t stopped sending his signal.”

“Looks as if you’ve had a bit of excitement around here,” Chet observed. He stared at the captured guards. “Who are these characters in the tin coats?”

Frank and Joe told him about their recent adventure. Then they introduced Mr. Ellis

“We owe a lot to you and your son,” Mr. Hardy told the gray-haired man.

“Thank you,” Mr. Ellis replied. “But Clay is still aboard the ship. What can we do?”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m going to request an international alert. The Parrots will be seized wherever they try to put into port. Your son will be all right.”

Darkness was approaching rapidly. Frank glanced at his watch. “We still have Cartoll to deal with,” he interjected. “He and his men have several hours head start on us. We’ll have to move fast!”

Mr. Ellis joined the Hardys on the flight back to Cambrian. While en route, the pilot contacted Miami on his high-frequency transmitter at Mr. Hardy’s request. He asked that a message, warning about the intended robbery, be relayed to the authorities in Norwood. A full description of the thieves was included.

Upon arriving at their destination, Mr. Hardy and his party quickly gathered their luggage. After saying good-by to Mr. Ellis, they boarded the last shuttle flight of the evening to Miami.

“I’ve never traveled so many miles in so short a time before,” Chet remarked wearily as the plane approached the Florida city.

In Miami, Mr. Hardy telephoned Jack Wayne and instructed him to meet them at La Guardia. Then he and the boys boarded a jetliner and were soon speeding northward.

The flight to New York was smooth and fast. Jack was waiting when they arrived and flew them directly to Norwood. There a patrol car was standing by to take Mr. Hardy and the boys to the museum.

“We caught all but one of the thieves,” the policeman announced as they drove, “thanks to the information you sent us.”

“Which one of them got away?” Frank asked quickly.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the chief,” the officer replied. “They were real amateurs. Broke open a door at the rear of the museum and set off an alarm hooked up to headquarters.”

“The gang forced a pilot by the name of Tiller to fly them here,” Joe said anxiously. “Any news from him?”

“He landed his plane on the lake near here. Later a state trooper happened to spot it anchored close to shore. He investigated and found the pilot tied and gagged in the cabin. The fellow’s okay and is at headquarters.”

When they arrived at the museum, several patrol cars and a police van were parked at the curb. Inside the van were Rawlin and the three crewmen. Cartoll was missing!

“Where’s your boss?” Joe demanded.

“I don’t know,” Rawlin snarled. “And don’t ask me any more questions because I’m not talking.”

Frank rubbed his chin dubiously. “Cartoll couldn’t have vanished into thin air!” He turned to the police chief. “Mind if we go inside the building and have a look around?”

“Go ahead,” the officer answered. “But I doubt that you’ll find anything.”

Joe and Frank entered the museum and hurried to the exhibit room where the DeGraw collection was displayed.

The room was dark. Frank found the switch and turned on the lights. The boys looked around. Everything was intact. On the far side of the room, armor engraved with the symbol of the twisted claw stood on a pedestal.

As they turned to leave, Joe suddenly grabbed his brother’s arm. “Hold on!” he whispered. “I might be seeing things, but I’m sure that figure on the pedestal moved!”

Cautiously they walked toward the spot. Frank stepped forward and lifted the visor.

A face stared at him. Cartoll! With a curse, the man sprang at the youths. A violent struggle followed. Joe screamed for help. The noise brought Mr. Hardy and several policemen to the scene.

“What’s going on here?” one of the officers demanded.

The boys hauled the metal-clad man to his feet. “Meet Cartoll!” Joe declared.

Frank pulled the helmet from their captive’s head. “Clever way to avoid being captured. And he almost got away with it.”

Cartoll was furious. “You’ll regret having meddled in my affairs!” he shouted. “Too bad Starker didn’t succeed in squashing you like an ant in the Philadelphia museum.”

“That’s another charge against you,” Joe said. “Attempted murder.”

As the police marched the prisoner away, Mr. Hardy held up a box-shaped object. At one end was what appeared to be a photographic lens.

“What’s that?” Frank inquired.

“It’s the secret as to how the museum thieves avoided setting off the photoelectric alarm systems during some of their robberies,” his father replied. “Rawlin and his cohorts were carrying a supply of these when the police caught them.”

“How does the gadget work?” asked Joe.

“You know that the alarm system operates by aiming a beam of light at a photoelectric cell,” Mr. Hardy began. “The cell and light source are on opposite sides of the room. As long as the beam is not interrupted by someone walking through it, nothing happens. But if the beam is broken, off goes the alarm.”

Joe nodded. “I get it,” he said. “That box you’re holding is a device which produces a beam of light. If aimed at the photoelectric cell, it simply replaces the original light source across the room.”

“Exactly,” his father said. “Then the thieves were free to move around the area without setting off the alarm.”

“Simple,” Frank muttered. “But not all the museums had this type of system!”

“True, but one of the gang’s members was an expert in alarm technology. They tackled each one according to how it was set up.

“Once that problem was solved,” Mr. Hardy continued, “the rest was comparatively easy. Some of their hirelings got jobs at the museums they planned to rob. They punctured the gas masks, making sure the knockout fumes would be effective.”

“Like Starker, who worked as a gardener,” Joe interjected.

“Right. In other cases they threatened the guards to let them in. They used a different approach each time, and that’s what made the case so hard to crack.”

“There’s one more thing that bothers me,” Frank said. “What caused that shell hole in the Yellow Parrot?”

Mr. Hardy grinned. “I found that out, too. She was shot at by a Central American smuggler patrol boat one night, but got away without being identified.”

At that moment Chet wandered into the museum. He had been dozing in th squad car and was rubbing his eyes. “Find any clues?” he asked with a yawn.

“A few,” Frank quipped. “You’re a little bit late.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I was supposed to help you with this case.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “We’re all pretty tired. Let’s head for home. The mystery is ended.”

The boys nodded. Frank and Joe had no idea at that time that a new mystery would soon take up all their time, namely The Disappearing Floor.

It was morning when they arrived in Bayport. Mr. Morton greeted them when they dropped off Chet at the farm.

“I’m glad to see my son’s back,” he said. “I’ve lots of work for him.”

“But I need a chance to recuperate!” Chet protested.

“Okay,” his father replied. “I’ll give you till tomorrow. Then you’d better start turning over a patch of crabgrass on the front lawn.”

“That should be right down your alley, Chet.” Joe laughed. “You might be lucky and discover another sugar bowl!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Weird Screams

CHAPTER II - Telephone Tip

CHAPTER III - The Purple Stone

CHAPTER IV - The Jigsaw Face

CHAPTER V - Spook Hound

CHAPTER VI - Symbol in Brass

CHAPTER VII - A Fast Fade-out

CHAPTER VIII - Rock Hounds’ Shadow

CHAPTER IX - Secret Cruiser

CHAPTER X - The Ghostly Figure

CHAPTER XI - A Parcel of Gems

CHAPTER XII - The “Seacat” Clue

CHAPTER XIII - Snoop Camera

CHAPTER XIV - Tigers’ Lair

CHAPTER XV - Puzzling Reports

CHAPTER XVI - Riddle With Three Answers

CHAPTER XVII - The Second Specter

CHAPTER XVIII - A Strange Machine

CHAPTER XIX - Jewel Cache

CHAPTER XX - Trapped!

THE DISAPPEARING FLOOR

Once again Frank and Joe Hardy accept the challenge of a puzzling case when their famous detective father asks the boys to assist him in tracking down a notorious jewel thief and his accomplices. The trail leads to the outskirts of the Hardys’ home town and to a weirdly guarded mansion on the old Perth estate.

With their chubby, ever-hungry friend Chet Morton, Frank and Joe tackle another mystery—one which has baffled the town of Bayport for many years: What caused the sudden death of Old Man Perth’s nephew who inherited the mansion when his uncle died?

A disappearing floor, a huge, savage-looking hound, a galloping ghost, a college professor’s startling invention are just a few of the strange elements that complicate the boys’ efforts to solve both mysteries.

Before Frank and Joe finally discover the mysterious circumstances under which Perth’s nephew died and also bring the jewel thieves to justice, the young detectives need all their sleuthing instincts to extricate themselves from one of the most harrowing situations they have ever faced.

“Frank! The room has no floor!”

Copyright © 1992, 1964, 1940 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07633-0

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Weird Screams

“HEY, Frank! Isn’t that the black car Dad told us to watch for?” exclaimed Joe Hardy.

A sleek foreign sports car with a dented trunk had just whizzed past the Hardy boys’ convertible as they drove through the downtown section of Bayport.

“Sure looks like it!” Frank speeded up in pursuit.

Dark-haired Frank Hardy, eighteen, and his blond brother Joe, a year younger, had been cruising the streets on an errand for their detective father. The August evening was warm, and the boys had put down the top of their convertible.

A few blocks farther, the sports car stopped for a red light. The Hardys pulled up behind the trim vehicle. In the glow of a nearby street light they were able to scrutinize the automobile more closely.

“That must be the right car,” Frank muttered. “It’s not likely there would be two of the same model in Bayport with dented trunks.”

The lone occupant of the sports car was the man at the wheel. He wore a dark hat. Frank and Joe could see only the back of his head.

“Did Dad give you any details on the case when he phoned?” Joe asked, as the sports car spurted forward on the green signal.

Frank toed the accelerator and shook his head. “No, he didn’t have time—it was just a hurried call from New York.” Mr. Hardy had said that before leaving Bayport he had spotted a car like the one the boys had just seen. He thought he had recognized the driver as a notorious jewel thief named Noel Strang, and had told his sons to look up the criminal’s photograph in Mr. Hardy’s private criminal file.

The boys’ father formerly was an ace detective in the New York Police Department. He had moved to the town of Bayport to open his own agency and soon had become known as the ablest private investigator in the country. Frank and Joe had inherited Fenton Hardy’s detective abilities and often helped him on his cases.

The boys drove on, staying behind the sports car which now sped into a residential area. The streets here were less well lighted, but the boys were able to keep their quarry in view without tailing it too closely.

“Looks as though he’s heading out of town,” Joe remarked.

“Did you get the license number?”

“Yes. I jotted it down at the traffic light.”

In a few moments the black sports car shot out of the Bayport area. Soon it disappeared from view around a bend in the road. Frank switched off his headlights, hoping to make the convertible less noticeable. But the driver of the other car seemed wary of pursuit. As the convertible rounded the bend, its driver increased his speed. The distance between the cars was widening.

“He must have spotted us!” Joe said.

“He’s sure opening her up,” Frank agreed. “That baby looks powerful! Good thing we tuned up this engine last week.”

The convertible’s speedometer needle rose as Frank gunned the engine. Slowly the gap began to close. They were approaching another bend in the road. Suddenly the sports car’s exhaust belched out a thick purplish mass.

“It’s a smoke screen!” Joe cried out. “He’s using a fogger attached to the exhaust pipe!” A split second later the boys’ eyes began to smart and water.

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed.

Hastily he switched on their headlights again, but the beams could not pierce the thick pall of acrid smoke that enveloped the road. The convertible was almost at the sharp bend!

Frank slammed on the brakes. Half blinded, he could only guess at the location of the white line. He spun the steering wheel and the car slewed wildly across the pavement. With a jarring thud it finally came to rest on the far shoulder of the road.

“Jumpin’ jiminy!” Joe sat quivering with shock, trying to steady his nerves.

Frank, also shaken, drew a long breath. “Good thing there was no car coming the other way or we’d be junk by now!”

“Can we risk getting back on the road?”

“We’d better not,” Frank decided. “I can’t see a foot away from us. If there’s any traffic coming, we’d be asking for a crash.”

Joe agreed and added, “Let’s make sure we’re clear of the pavement.”

Clutching handkerchiefs over their noses and their tear-streaming eyes, the boys climbed out. In the smoke and darkness, it was impossible to determine their exact position, but Frank checked with his foot and found that they were well off the pavement. The convertible had landed against a hillside bordering the road.

Frank and Joe chafed at the delay, but there was nothing to do except wait for the smoke to clear. Meanwhile, they clambered up the hillside, coughing and choking, to reach clear air.

“Did you notice the smoke’s color?” Joe gasped. “That was no ordinary smoke screen!”

“It’s a smoke screen!” Joe cried out

“Right. Sort of a combination of smoke and tear gas.”

After a few minutes the murk had dissipated enough for the boys to return to their car and swing back onto the road.

“Not much chance of finding that man now,” Joe said glumly.

“Let’s keep our eyes open, anyhow. There are houses along here and a few turnoffs. We might spot the car parked somewhere.”

The Hardys followed the road for several miles but did not see the sports car. Disappointed that they had lost their quarry, Frank and Joe turned around and headed for Bayport.

Halfway back to town, they saw a flashlight being waved frantically from the roadside. “Wonder if there’s been an accident,” Frank said.

“I don’t see any car,” Joe replied. “Must be a hitchhiker.”

Frank slowed to check. The person who was signaling immediately jumped into the glare of their headlights. He was a chunky, round-faced youth about their own age.

“Chet Morton!” Joe exclaimed in surprise.

The stout boy looked excited as he flagged them down. Frank braked to a halt and Joe flung open the car door. “What’s wrong, Chet?”

“Joe! Frank! Boy, what a lucky break you two happened along!” Chet was puffing and trembling and looked pale. He was wearing hiking shorts and had a knapsack slung over his shoulders.

“Just see a ghost?” Frank asked as their friend climbed into the back seat.

“I d-d-didn’t see a ghost—but I sure heard one! ”Chet replied.

Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled looks. “What do you mean, you ‘heard’ a ghost?” Frank asked.

“Just what I said. It screamed at me.” Chet shuddered. “O-oh, it was horrible!”

“Are you kidding?” Joe put in.

“Do I look as if I’m kidding?”

“No,” Frank said. “You look as if you’d been scared out of your wits. How about telling us the whole story?”

Chet explained that he had been on a rock-collecting hike. Late in the afternoon he had stopped to eat a picnic snack and then had dozed off.

“Snack my eye!” Joe chuckled. “You probably stuffed yourself so full you couldn’t move, and dreamed about this ghost.”

“All right, all right,” Chet retorted indignantly. “So I like to eat. Do you want to hear my story or don’t you?”

“Go ahead,” Frank urged.

“Well, I slept longer than I expected to,” Chet went on. “When I woke up, it was dark. I was somewhere over in the hills west of here. I had trouble finding my flashlight. Then I saw a funny-looking tiled surface.”

“Tiled surface?” Joe repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

Chet shrugged. “I don’t know what else to call it. It was flat—like a floor, about ten feet square—and inlaid with little colored tiles. But the funny thing is, there was nothing else around except trees and shrubs.”

The colored tiles, Chet added, formed a curious design resembling a dragon.

“I went over to get a closer look at it,” Chet continued, “and wow! Out of nowhere came a horrible bloodcurdling shriek!”

“So you scrammed, I suppose,” Frank said, grinning.

“You bet I did! The voice shrieked after me, but I didn’t catch what it said.” Chet’s eyes bulged with fright at the recollection. “I kept running till I hit a dirt lane, and followed that out to this road. I was hiking home, then you guys came along.”

“How about taking us back there?” Joe said.

“You think I’m nuts? Honest, if that wasn’t a spook, it must have been some bloodthirsty lunatic!”

“Oh, come on!” Frank urged. “Maybe it was just someone playing a trick on you. Let’s find out.”

Chet was unwilling, but finally gave in. He directed Frank to a dirt lane turnoff which the Hardys had passed about fifty yards back. Frank drove slowly along the lane until Chet said, “Right here! I remember that big oak tree!”

Frank stopped the convertible. The boys took flashlights and climbed out. They went up a slope which gradually flattened. The area was wooded with hemlock and cypress trees, and the ground between them was overgrown with weeds and brush.

“There’s Chefs trail,” Joe said, shining his flashlight on some trampled grass. “It leads over that w—”

A hideous scream split the darkness! Then came a weaker scream, followed by a hoarse, croaking voice. “Th-th-the floor!” It sounded like the gasp of a dying man!

Chet froze in terror, but Frank and Joe immediately ran toward the sound, playing their beams back and forth amid the undergrowth.

“Over here, Joe!” Frank exclaimed suddenly.

Joe ran to his brother’s side and saw a man lying face down on the ground. Frank turned him over gently. The man was big and balding, with thin, sandy-colored hair. His face looked deathly pale. Frank tried his pulse as Chet came lumbering up.

“Is he d-d-dead?” Chet stammered.

“No, but his pulse is weak,” Frank murmured. “His skin feels clammy, too. Looks as if he’s suffering from shock.”

The Hardys could detect no signs of injury or broken bones.

“What’ll we do with him?” Joe asked his brother.

“Better get him to a hospital.”

The boys carried the limp figure to their car and laid him on the back seat. Chet sat up front with the Hardys. Frank swung the convertible around and sped toward Bayport.

As they reached a wooded area on the outskirts of town, their passenger revived and sat up. “Please—stop the car!” he begged weakly.

Frank pulled over. “We were taking you to the hospital,” he explained.

“You were unconscious,” Joe added. “What happened?”

“I’ll—I’ll tell you in a moment,” the man said. “Right now I feel woozy. I think the motion of the car was making me sick. Would you mind if I get out and walk up and down a bit?”

“No—go ahead,” Joe said sympathetically.

Chet leaned back and opened the door. As soon as the man’s feet touched the ground, he slammed the door. His face contorted into an ugly expression.

“If you boys know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouths shut about this!” he snarled. “And I’m warning you—don’t try to follow me!”

He darted off into the darkness of the surrounding trees!

CHAPTER II

Telephone Tip

THE three boys were stunned by the man’s unexpected threat and actions.

“Of all the creeps!” Chet spluttered when he found his voice. “How’s that for gratitude?”

“I’m going after that guy!” Joe exploded. He yanked open the door and started to jump out, but Frank stopped him.

“Hold it, Joe! You’ll never catch him now. Besides, he may be armed.”

Joe realized the wisdom of his brother’s advice and reluctantly climbed back into the car. The neighborhood was run down. It was poorly lighted and had numerous vacant lots and small factory buildings. The stranger already was out of sight and doubtless could find plenty of hiding places if pursued.

“I’d sure like to know what that fellow was afraid of,” Joe muttered as they drove off. “Also, how he came to be lying back there, unconscious.”

“So would I,” Frank said. “We’d better notify the police.”

“Look, fellows, I—uh—I’m pretty tired,” Chet said uneasily. “Could you drop me off home first?”

“What’s the matter?” Joe teased. “Afraid the police may hold you as a suspect?”

“I told you I’m bushed!” Chet retorted. “Besides, you Hardys are always getting mixed up with crooks and mysteries. That kind of stuff makes me nervous!”

Frank and Joe grinned in the darkness. It was true that they had worked on a number of exciting cases since their first one, The Tower Treasure. On their most recent adventure they had solved the mystery of The Twisted Claw.

After dropping Chet off at the Morton farm, the Hardys drove to Bayport Police Headquarters. Here they found Chief Collig working late. The husky man smiled broadly as they walked into his office.

“You boys busy on another case?”

“We’re helping Dad,” Frank explained. “But something else came up.” He told about the unconscious man who had later revived in their car and fled after threatening them.

Collig agreed that while the episode was strange, apparently no crime had been committed. He telephoned the fugitive’s description to the police radio dispatcher to be flashed to all prowl cars, with orders that the man be picked up for questioning.

Frank told him about the boys’ pursuit of the black sports car and the smoke grenade that had forced them off the road.

“Noel Strang, eh?” The chief frowned. “I’ve heard about him. Slick operator, but he’s not on the ‘Wanted’ list right now. Do you know why your father is after him?”

“No, we don’t,” Frank said. “Dad just asked us to trail him and try to get a line on what he’s up to.”

“We got the license number,” Joe added. “But we’d like to know if the man we were following was Strang. We didn’t get a good look at him.”

Collig jotted down the number. “I’ll check it with the Motor Vehicle Bureau. I appreciate your stopping by.”

The boys went outside to their convertible. As Frank felt in his pocket for the car keys, his expression changed to one of annoyance. “I’ve lost my pocketknife, Joe. Wonder if it dropped out back there when I was bending over that fellow?”

“Could be,” Joe said. “We can search for it tomorrow. I want to take a look at that tiled square Chet told us about.”

“Same here!”

Frank took the wheel and drove off through the late-evening traffic. Suddenly a red light flashed on their dashboard short-wave radio. Joe picked up the microphone.

“Joe Hardy here.”

“Good evening, son.” Fenton Hardy’s voice came over the speaker.

“Dad! When did you get home?”

“Just arrived. Where are you fellows now?”

“We’re downtown in the car. In fact, we’re headed for home.”

“Good. This case I’m working on looks pretty tough and I may need your help. I’ll have to leave again first thing in the morning, so I’d like to fill you in on the details this evening.”

“We’ll be there pronto, Dad!”

A short time later the convertible pulled into the driveway of the Hardys’ large, pleasant house on a tree-shaded street. The boys jumped out and hurried inside.

Fenton Hardy, a tall, rugged-looking man, was in the dining room having a cup of coffee. Seated at the table with him were Mrs. Hardy and the boys’ Aunt Gertrude, his unmarried sister.

The detective greeted Frank and Joe with a warm smile. “Sit down, boys, and I’ll tell you what this case is all about.”

Mr. Hardy explained that he had been asked by a group of insurance underwriters to investigate a series of jewel thefts. The latest had occurred in New York the day before.

“We heard a news flash on that, Dad!” Joe exclaimed.

“Undoubtedly all the thefts have been pulled by the same gang,” the detective went on. “And there’s an odd feature. On every job, the guards or other persons involved seem to have lost their memory for a short period of time while the robbery was taking place.”

“You mean they passed out?” Frank asked.

Fenton Hardy shrugged. “None of them recalls passing out. But they all report a sensation of coming to, or snapping out of a deep sleep, as if they had lapsed into unconsciousness without realizing it.”

Gertrude Hardy, a tall, angular woman, pursed her lips and frowned shrewdly. “If you ask me, they were gassed,” she declared. “Some kind of nerve gas, probably—squirted at the victims through a blowpipe.”

Frank and Joe tried hard not to grin. Their aunt had definite opinions and never hesitated to express them.

“They may have been gassed,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But if so, it’s strange that police experts were unable to discover any traces in the atmosphere afterward.”

“Maybe the crooks sucked it all back into their blowpipes,” Joe said mischievously.

Aunt Gertrude gave him a withering look. “Making fun of me, are you? Well, maybe you have a better theory, young man!”

Laura Hardy, a slim and pretty woman, exchanged a fleeting smile with her husband. Both knew that Aunt Gertrude loved to talk about detective cases with her brother and the boys, even though she pretended to disapprove of such dangerous work.

“Matter of fact, we got gassed ourselves tonight,” Frank put in quietly. He told about their chase of the black sports car, but glossed over the part about skidding across the road.

“Hmm.” Fenton Hardy knit his brows. “Do you think the driver could have recognized you—maybe from seeing your pictures in the paper?”

Frank shook his head. “I doubt it, although he may have glimpsed us in his rear-view mirror when we passed a street light. I think that when he spotted a car tailing him, he used the smoke screen to shake us.”

“Why, that man’s a menace!” Aunt Gertrude blurted out indignantly. “Why didn’t you radio the police at once? Mark my words, you’ll—”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted Aunt Gertrude’s prediction. Joe jumped up to answer it.

“Let me speak to Fenton Hardy,” said a curt, muffled voice.

“Who’s calling, please?” Joe asked.

“None of your business! Just tell him to get on the phone if he wants to learn something important!”

Fenton Hardy strode quickly to Joe’s side and took the receiver. “All right, I’m listening.”

“Another jewel heist has been planned. It’s going to be pulled aboard a yacht named the Wanda. She’s due in at East Hampton, Long Island, late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Got that?”

“I have it,” the detective replied. “But who is this speaking?”

“A friend. And don’t bother trying to trace the call!”

There was a cutoff click at the other end of the line. Mr. Hardy hung up thoughtfully and told the boys what the informer had said.

“I’d better follow up that tip-off,” he added. “I’ll drive down to East Hampton.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, Dad?” Frank asked worriedly. “The call may be a trick.”

“It’s a chance I’ll have to take, son.”

Mr. Hardy telephoned Suffolk County Police Headquarters on Long Island to report the tip. Before leaving the house, he suggested that the boys restudy the photo of Strang in his file, and also the typewritten data on the reverse side of it.

“Mind you, we have nothing on him,” the detective said. “But I think he’s one of the few jewel thieves in the country capable of master-minding a series of robberies like the ones I’m investigating.”

“Do you want the police to take him in for questioning?” Joe asked.

“No, that would only put him on guard. But I would like to know what he’s doing in Bayport!”

“We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Frank promised.

Mr. Hardy then placed a long-distance call to his top-flight operative, Sam Radley. Sam had flown to Florida with a charter pilot named Jack Wayne to wind up another case. Fenton Hardy instructed Sam to join him at East Hampton the following day.

Next morning, Frank and Joe ate a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade muffins, then started off in their convertible to pick up Chet Morton. After some grumbling, the stout boy agreed to help them search for the curious tiled square he had seen the night before. Frank pulled up on the dirt lane near the big oak tree.

“I don’t know why I let you two talk me into this,” Chet complained as they started up the slope. “I can’t seem to stay out of danger when you’re around.”

Joe laughed. “Stop griping. You don’t expect to hear any spooks in broad daylight, do you?”

When they reached level ground, Frank remarked, “Say, I see a house over there!”

Joe and Chet looked in the direction he was pointing. A large, weather-beaten mansion was visible through the trees some distance away.

“Didn’t notice any lights over that way last night,” Joe said. “Wonder if anyone lives there.”

“Maybe not,” Frank said. “Looks pretty run down.”

For half an hour the boys searched among the tall weeds and overgrown shrubbery. They failed to sight the tiled surface Chet had described, or to find Frank’s knife.

“Sure you weren’t just seeing things last night?” Frank asked Chet.

Joe chuckled. “Maybe just hearing things, too?”

Before Chet could reply, a voice barked out, “Stand right where you are! Now turn around, all three of you!”

The boys whirled in surprise. A tall, hawk-faced man with a thin, prominent nose was standing among the trees watching them. He had one hand in his suit-coat pocket, as if concealing a gun.

Frank and Joe gasped. The man looked like the one in the photograph of Noel Strang their father had in his files!

CHAPTER III

The Purple Stone

“DON’T stand there gawking!” the man snarled. “What are you kids looking for?”

Chet gulped. “W-well—uh—you see, 1-last night—”

“I lost my pocketknife,” Frank spoke up. “We were trying to find it.”

“Your pocketknife, eh?” The man scowled at the boys suspiciously. “You had no business nosing around here last night or anytime. This is private property. Now clear out!”

Chet, overcome with jitters, hastily started walking back to the car. Frank and Joe did not budge, and continued to stare at the man.

“You heard me!” he said in a loud, belligerent voice. “Beat it! And don’t come back!”

He took a few steps toward the Hardys and crooked his arm as if he were about to jerk his gun hand out of his pocket. Without a word, the brothers turned and followed Chet.

“That is Noel Strang!” Joe whispered. “Think we should call his bluff?’”

Frank shook his head. “Not now. Remember what Dad said.”

“He may not own this property,” Joe argued. “If he does, maybe we can find out what he’s doing here.”

“I intend to,” Frank said. “But let’s try to do it undercover, without making him suspicious.”

Chet had already climbed into the car. He was sitting stiffly in the back seat—still pale and nervous, but whistling off-key and trying to look casual.

Frank slid behind the wheel and Joe got in beside him. As they glanced back up the slope, the boys could see Strang watching them intently.

“Oh—oh,” Joe muttered. “I just thought of something!”

“Like what?” Frank asked.

“If he’s the one who used that smoke screen last night, he may recognize our convertible.”

“Smoke screen!” Chet gasped. In the rear-view mirror, Frank could see that the fat boy’s eyes were bulging with fear. “You mean that guy’s a gangster?”

“Not exactly,” Joe said, as Frank turned the car around. “Just a notorious jewel thief named Noel Strang.”

Chet groaned as the Hardys told him the details. “Oh, this is great! I don’t want to get mixed up in another one of your cases! You’d better take me home.”

The Hardys grinned. “Chet, you know you eat up excitement as well as food,” Frank said.

“It helps to keep your weight trimmed down,” Joe suggested.

“Listen! I’ll probably lose ten pounds just worrying about this thief,” Chet retorted. “Strang may even send his men after us!”

Joe chuckled. “Just threaten to sit on ’em—that’ll be enough of a scare.”

Frank suddenly looked troubled. “Now I just thought of something, Joe.”

“Bad?” Joe glanced at his brother.

“Not good. That knife has my name engraved on it. If Strang finds the knife, he may connect us with Fenton Hardy.”

Joe gave a low whistle. “Let’s hope he doesn’t find it!”

A short time later Frank swung up the graveled driveway leading to the Mortons’ farmhouse. Chet’s pretty, dark-haired sister Iola was seated on the front porch with her blond, brown-eyed friend Callie Shaw.

Iola bounced up from the porch swing as the boys stepped from the car. “Hi!” she exclaimed. “Wait’ll you see the surprise Callie and I have to show you!” The girls’ eyes sparkled with excitement.

Joe grinned at Iola, whom he considered very attractive. “Sounds pretty important.”

“Aw, it’s probably some new doodads for their charm bracelets,” Chet scoffed.

“Like fun!” Iola retorted. “It’ll make you turn green with envy—I mean purple!”

As the boys followed the two girls into the house, Callie explained that she and Iola had been rock hunting the day before. With a giggle, she also whispered to Frank that Chet and Iola were rivals at rock hounding.

In the dining room, Iola went straight to the old-fashioned punch bowl on the buffet and took out a stone about the size of a grape. It was pale violet and roughly crystalline in form.

“Feast your eyes!” she said, waving the stone under Chet’s nose.

“Well, hold it still so I can see it.” The chubby youth stared in grudging admiration.

“It’s beautiful,” Frank said. “Is that an amethyst?”

Iola bobbed her head proudly. “A real one!”

“We took it to Filmer’s Gemstone Shop this morning to make sure,” Callie added. “Mr. Filmer identified it for us.”

Chet’s eyes bugged out in awe. “Wow! A real jewel!” he gasped. “Where’d you find it?”

Iola and Callie blushed with embarrassment. “We don’t remember,” Iola confessed.

“You don’t remember?” Chet echoed. “How goofy can you get! Why, there might be a whole lode of amethysts around the spot!”

“But we picked up oodles of stones in several places,” Callie explained. “The light wasn’t good in the late afternoon and we didn’t realize that this one might be valuable.”

“We’re not even sure which one of us found it,” Iola put in. “We didn’t get excited until we sorted the stones this morning.”

Chet was about to make a wisecrack when Joe happened to glance out the window.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Your barn’s on fire!”

The others stared and gasped. Black smoke was billowing out through the open barn door!

“Good grief!” Chet shouted. “And Dad’s over at the vet’s this morning! Quick! Get some fire extinguishers and buckets of water!”

The five teen-agers dashed outside, followed by Mrs. Morton, who had hurried upstairs from the cellar when she heard their cries.

There was no sign of open flames from the barn, so Frank and Chet plunged inside to get a pair of fire extinguishers hanging on the wall. Joe and the girls, meanwhile, prepared to form a bucket brigade from the pump.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Morton cried distractedly as she hovered outside the barn. “Shall I call the fire department?”

“Don’t bother, Mom!” Chet shouted back. “This looks like a false alarm!”

Soon the smoke began to clear and the two boys emerged, grimy from the thick fumes. “A bucket of oil was burning,” Frank explained, coughing.

“Sure beats me how it started,” Chet added. “I wouldn’t think heavy tractor oil could ignite by spontaneous combustion.”

Relieved, they all trooped back to the house. Mrs. Morton provided soap and towels so Chet and Frank could wash in the kitchen. Joe and the girls returned to the dining room.

Iola went to pick up the amethyst but could not find it. “Callie, did you take our jewel outside with you?” she asked.

“No, you left it on the table, didn’t you?”

“I thought I did.” Iola hastily checked the punch bowl, then turned an anxious face to the others. “It’s not here!”

A frantic search followed, with Joe scrabbling on the floor and the girls going through every drawer and compartment of the buffet. The amethyst was gone! Frank and Chet heard the news as they came into the dining room.

“Oh, fine!” Chet groaned. “First a fire, and now you girls lose the only valuable stone we’ve ever found!”

Frank and Joe looked at each other with the same thought in mind.

“I’ll bet that fire was a trick to get us out of the house!” Joe exclaimed.

“You mean the stone was stolen?” Iola gasped.

“I’m afraid so,” Frank said. “By the same person who set fire to that bucket of oil.”

Callie’s eyes glowed with a sudden recollection. “I heard a car start up down the road just as we came back to the house!” she said. “I’ll bet that was the thief getting away!”

Chet plumped himself down in a chair. “Boy, this is turning out to be one swell day.” He grunted, then brightened. “Guess we may as well have lunch.”

Frank telephoned a report of the theft to the police and then called home to notify his mother that he and Joe would be lunching at the Mortons’.

Aunt Gertrude took the message. “By the way,” she said, “Tony Prito has called twice, trying to get hold of you and Joe. Wouldn’t tell me what he wanted, but he did say it was urgent.”

“Where can I call him?” Frank asked. “At his dad’s office?”

“Mmm—no, I believe he said he was phoning from the boat dock.”

“Okay, Aunty. Thanks.”

Frank and Joe apologized to Mrs. Morton for hurrying through the hearty lunch she served them. As soon as they had finished, the brothers excused themselves to go and find Tony Prito.

Tony, a dark haired, good-looking boy, was a close pal of the Hardys and they often went out on Barmet Bay with him in his motorboat, the Napoli. Frank and Joe drove quickly to the boat basin but could not see Tony anywhere.

“I’ll bet he’s out in the Napoli,” Joe said, staring out across the harbor.

“Probably so.” Frank glanced up at the sunny sky and then at the gently white-capped blue waters of the bay. “Let’s get the Sleuth, Joe, and try to find him.”

“Suits me.”

The Hardys hurried off to the boathouse where they kept their own motorboat.

At that moment Tony was just driving up to the Mortons’ house in his father’s pickup truck.

“Hi, Chet! Have you seen Frank and Joe today?” he called to the stout youth, who had come out to the porch.

“Sure. They had lunch here. Left about fifteen minutes ago, heading for the boat dock to find you.”

Tony suddenly went pale. “Man, I hope they don’t go out in the Sleuth!”

“Why not?” Chet asked, puzzled.

“Hop in and I’ll tell you. We’d better get there fast!”

Chet hardly had time to get into the cab before Tony threw the truck into reverse and backed up. As he swung the vehicle around and sped down the road, he explained, “I saw two tough-looking guys sneak out of Frank and Joe’s boathouse. Somehow I have a hunch those men were up to no good!”

“Did you recognize them?” Chet asked, wide-eyed.

“No, but I’m afraid those men may have sabotaged it!”

“Didn’t you warn Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude?”

“Guess I should have,” Tony said ruefully. “But I didn’t want to alarm them.”

As the truck pulled up on the quay, Chet exclaimed and pointed toward the water. “There they go now!”

The Sleuth, with two figures aboard, was put-putting out across the bay.

“We’re too late,” Tony groaned.

The boys leaped out of the truck and began shouting and waving frantically to their friends. But the Hardys’ boat was too far out for the brothers to hear the cries.

Suddenly a loud explosion shook the Sleuth!

CHAPTER IV

The Jigsaw Face

THE force of the blast jerked the bow of the Sleuth up out of the water! Both its occupants were hurled overboard and the boat itself overturned. Smoke billowed from the scene.

“Come on!” Tony cried to Chet. “We must get out there and pick them up!”

“Where’s the Napoli?” Chet puffed as they ran along the quay.

“I left it tied up at the North Dock.”

People were already gathering excitedly along the waterfront. The two boys reached the North Dock and leaped into the motorboat. Chet cast off and Tony gunned the outboard into life. In a moment they were speeding out on the bay.

Chet, who was seated in the bow, shouted in relief, “Looks as if Frank and Joe are okay!”

The Hardys had been struggling in the water, but could now be seen clinging to their overturned craft. The Napoli came alongside.

“Boy, this is what I call service!” Joe said as he and Frank were hauled aboard.

Tony explained, “We came to give you a warning.”

“Tony, we came out here looking for you,” Joe replied. “Your boat wasn’t in the basin.”

“No, I took it out this morning and tied up at the North Dock when I came back.”

“What did you mean about warning us?” Frank put in.

Tony hastily told about seeing the two men sneak out of the boathouse. Just as he finished, a Coast Guard rescue launch reached the scene. Other boats were approaching also.

“Everybody okay?” the chief petty officer called out from the Coast Guard launch.

“They’re okay but plenty wet,” Chet replied.

“What happened?” the officer asked.

“Some kind of explosion in the forward compartment,” Frank told him. “We suspect sabotage.”

The chief ordered his coxs’n to maneuver the launch closer to the overturned craft. A hole had been blown in the hull near the bow, but the boat’s special flotation apparatus in the forward space had kept it from sinking.

“Can your friends tow the boat to a repair dock all right?” the chief asked the Hardys.

“We can manage, if someone will give us a hand,” Tony spoke up.

“I’ll help you, lads!” called a man from a nearby motor cruiser.

“In that case, I’d like you fellows to come back to the Coast Guard station with me and make a report,” the officer told Frank and Joe.

The Hardys transferred to the Coast Guard launch, which immediately sped off to its base. Meanwhile, Tony and Chet tackled the job of putting a towline onto the Sleuth, with the help of the man in the motor cruiser.

At the Coast Guard station Frank and Joe told their story to a lieutenant named Anson. “You’re Fenton Hardy’s sons, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Joe answered.

“Is this sabotage connected with one of his cases?”

Frank hesitated. “We think so, sir, but we don’t know yet.”

Lieutenant Anson asked, “Any theories?”

“Someone was trying to kill us, or at least scare us off our investigation,” Frank said. “My guess is the bomb was detonated chemically in some way by the salt water. But I have a hunch it went off too soon—the saboteurs hoped we’d be farther out in the bay.”

“Right,” Joe agreed. “I’ll bet the blast was supposed to swamp the boat fast, drown us, and send all our evidence against them to the bottom. But luckily for us, the boat overturned and stayed afloat, giving us something to cling to—”

Lieutenant Anson took down their statements, then said, “For the record, I’ll say you’re carrying out your own investigation. But please keep us informed.”

He had an enlisted man drive the boys back to their car. Frank and Joe went home, where Aunt Gertrude greeted them with clucks of disapproval.

“Well, I never! It’s a good thing your mother has gone to the library board meeting!” Miss Hardy ordered the boys to take off their soaked shoes to avoid tracking up the carpet, then went on anxiously, “What happened? Did that crook you’re after make you walk the plank?”

Frank chuckled and gave her a damp hug, which Miss Hardy tried to fend off. “Slight accident, Aunty—a dunking we didn’t expect.”

The boys had just changed into dry clothes when the telephone rang. Joe answered. The caller was Chief Collig.

“Got a report from the Motor Vehicle Bureau on that sports-car license number,” he said. “It’s registered in the name of Aden Darrow.”

“Never heard of him,” Joe replied.

“Nothing on him in our files, either.”

“What about the address?”

“A street number in Eastern City,” Collig said. “I checked with the police there but they couldn’t help. The whole street’s been demolished for an expressway.”

“Dead-end clue. Well, thanks a lot, Chief.”

A short time later Tony Prito and Chet arrived. They reported that the Sleuth had been safely towed to the repair dock. Frank telephoned to determine the cost of repairing the boat, then the boys gathered to discuss the day’s events. Frank and Joe quickly told Tony about the case.

“You figure the men who planted the bomb were working for Strang?” Tony asked.

“Could be,” Frank said. “Especially if he found my knife and learned our name.”

“I’ll bet he recognized us last night!” Joe put in.

“How about that sneak who took Iola and Callie’s amethyst?” Chet asked. “Maybe Strang did that too. You said he’s a jewel thief.”

Frank frowned. “That’s true. But he’s a big-time operator. I doubt if the amethyst’s worth enough to tempt him.”

“Anyhow, Strang’s definitely got business in this area,” Joe said. “Do you think he could be hiding out at that old house—the one we saw him near this morning?”

“Could be,” Frank said.

Tony asked where the place was located. When Joe told him, Miss Hardy exclaimed, “Why, that’s the old Perth mansion!”

“Do you know who lives there?” Frank asked.

“No one, far as I’ve heard,” she replied. “Hasn’t been occupied for years. The place had what you might call a sinister reputation.”

“How come?” Joe inquired.

“Seems someone died there under mysterious circumstances. Don’t recollect just who. But there was talk about the place being haunted.”

“Haunted?” Chet swallowed and turned pale.

Miss Hardy sniffed. “All stuff and nonsense. Some folks will believe anything. That was years ago—even before you boys were born.”

“Tell us some more, Aunty,” Frank urged.

Gertrude Hardy settled into her favorite chair. “Well, the house originally belonged to a man named Jerome Perth. Not a nice person at all, from what folks used to say.”

“Who was he?” Frank asked.

“Some sort of big business tycoon—but a shady operator. People accused him of all sorts of things—stock swindles, patent infringements. I don’t know what all. But I guess no one ever pinned anything on him.”

“Must have been pretty slick,” Tony remarked.

“Oh, he was,” Miss Hardy agreed. “And he made a lot of enemies—in fact, some of the people he’d cheated even tried to kill him. Finally he retired to that mansion he built and lived there in fear of his life.”

“So his swindles didn’t bring him any happiness,” Joe remarked.

“No, indeed. I recall hearing he had his study on the ground floor fitted up with a bed and hardly ever stirred out of that one room.”

“But you still don’t remember who died there under mysterious circumstances?” Joe said.

Aunt Gertrude shook her head. “Some relative, I think. But I don’t recall the details.”

Frank, meanwhile, had a sudden hunch. He telephoned Iola Morton to ask if anyone else had been in the gemstone shop when the girls showed the proprietor their amethyst.

“Why, yes, there was,” Iola replied. “Another customer came in right after we did. I remember he asked us where we had found our stone.” Suddenly Iola gasped. “Oh! You mean maybe he was the one who stole our amethyst?”

“Could be,” Frank said. “He might have shadowed you back to your house. Is Callie still there with you?”

“Sure. Want to talk to her?”

“We’ll come out.”

Five minutes later Frank, Joe, and Chet were on their way to the farm in the Hardys’ convertible. Tony had to go back to work at his father’s construction company.

When the boys arrived at the Mortons’ house, Frank carried in his father’s facial identification kit. Besides an illuminated viewing screen, the kit contrained strips of film showing hundreds of different hairlines, eyes, ears, noses, chins, eyeglasses, and hats.

Iola and Callie were fascinated as the Hardys began asking them to describe and identify the features of the stranger at the gem shop.

“It’s like putting together a jigsaw puzzle!” Callie exclaimed.

Bit by bit, the film strips showing the man’s features were laid together over the viewing screen until a whole face had been assembled.

“For Pete’s sake!” Joe exclaimed. He and Frank stared at each other. “That’s the guy we picked up unconscious last night!”

Chet peered over their shoulders, open-mouthed with surprise. “It is for a fact!”

“Joe,” Frank said, “suppose you take that face to the gem shop and ask Mr. Filmer if he knows the man.”

“Okay. How about you?”

“I want to go to the Bayport Times office and see if I can dig up any stories on the Perth mansion from their back files.”

Joe dropped his brother off at the newspaper office and a few minutes later pulled up in front of Filmer’s Gemstone Shop. He carried the kit inside and spoke to the proprietor.

Mr. Filmer, a skinny man with thick bifocal eyeglasses, seemed oddly nervous. “I—uh—rreally don’t recall anyone else being in the shop when Iola and Callie were here,” he stammered.

“Please try to remember,” Joe begged.

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“All right. At least let me show you a picture of the man’s face and see if you—” Suddenly Joe broke off. The door to the back room was ajar and he had just seen it move slightly.

Someone was eavesdropping behind the door!

“So that’s why Filmer won’t help me!” Joe thought. “I’ll bet he’s afraid of the person hiding back there!”

The young detective wondered what to do. If he asked Mr. Filmer’s permission to look into the back room, it would forewarn the eavesdropper. But if he acted on impulse—Joe darted behind the counter and yanked open the door.

A tall, sandy-haired man, who looked like the one in the picture, streaked across the back room toward a window! Joe rushed forward and lunged at him. The stranger grabbed a stool and hurled it at Joe.

The stool struck Joe on the temple and he sank to the floor unconscious!

CHAPTER V

Spook Hound

As JOE regained consciousness, he felt something cold and damp on his forehead. He was propped in a corner of the gem shop’s back room and Mr. Filmer was bending over him, applying a wet towel to the bruise.

“Feel all right?” Mr. Filmer asked anxiously.

“I—I guess so, except for a sore head.”

“Dear me! You have quite a lump there!”

“Never mind that.” Joe struggled to his feet. “What about that guy who slugged me with a stool?”

Mr. Filmer pointed helplessly to an open window. “He got away and ran off down the alley.”

“I suppose he’s the one who was here when Iola and Callie brought in their amethyst?” Joe said, repressing an angry comment.

Mr. Filmer reddened. “I’m terribly sorry I had to lie to you. He was hiding back here all the time, listening. I was too frightened to talk.”

“Well, he’s not here now—so who is he?”

“I really don’t know,” Mr. Filmer said, looking bewildered. “He often drops into the shop to talk to the local rock hounds, and always seems especially interested in amethysts. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“When did he get here?” Joe asked.

“Just a few minutes before you did. He asked me if anyone had been inquiring about him. When I said No, he warned me to keep my mouth shut or else he’d have me beaten up. Then he saw you coming and ducked into the back room.”

“If he ever shows up again,” Joe said, “will you try to notify the police right away?”

“I certainly will!” Mr. Filmer nodded vigorously, eager to make amends.

Joe thought of trying to lift some fingerprints, but he remembered that the man had been wearing gloves. Before leaving, Joe telephoned a report of the incident to Chief Collig.

When Joe reached home, his mother insisted upon applying a soothing dressing to his swollen temple. Aunt Gertrude hovered close by, supervising the treatment and muttering darkly about the dangers of detective work. Joe merely grinned at her sharp comments.

Soon afterward, Frank arrived home. He took one look at Joe, who was curled in an easy chair watching TV, then let out a whistle.

“Where’d you get that decoration?”

“I connected with a stool,” Joe said wryly. He told Frank what had happened at the gem shop and added, “I still can’t figure how that man knew we’d go there to check on him.”

“Probably followed the same line of reasoning we did,” Frank replied. “The girls just picked up the amethyst yesterday—so the shop is the only place where an outsider could have learned about their find. Besides, he had quizzed Iola and Callie about the stone, and you say Filmer knew of his interest in amethysts.”

“In other words, he guessed we might put two and two together. Rather than take any chances, he decided to bulldoze Filmer into silence.”

Frank nodded, and Joe added, “Now how about telling me what you found out.”

“I got the full story,” Frank said eagerly. “The person who died at the Perth mansion under mysterious circumstances was Old Man Perth’s nephew. Must have been quite sensational. The Times had a flock of old write-ups on it.”

Joe’s eyes brightened with interest. “What happened?”

“Well, the nephew—Clarence Perth—moved into the mansion after Jerome Perth passed away from a heart attack. He took over the old man’s bedroom-study. But he lived only a few days to enjoy his inheritance.”

“How come?”

“One night, long after midnight, the servants heard him scream in terror,” Frank continued. “They broke into the room and found him lying on the floor with his skull fractured. And get this—just before he died, the nephew muttered something which sounded like ‘the floor’!”

Joe gave a whistle. “Wow! When Chet hears that, he’ll be positive it was a ghost that screamed at us last night.”

“There’s more,” Frank went on. “Both the door and the windows of the room had been locked from the inside and none of them broken—so there was no way a killer could have entered the room or escaped.”

“How about trap doors or trick wall panels?”

Frank shrugged. “The stories said the police looked for secret exits but didn’t find any. Of course, criminal-detection methods then weren’t what they are today.”

“What about the ghost angle?” Joe queried.

“There are several follow-up news items. They said that a number of persons had reported seeing a ghostly figure prowling about the Perth estate.”

“Humph! No doubt there’ll always be gullible simpletons!” said a peppery voice. Aunt Gertrude planted herself in an easy chair and began darning socks. “Don’t mind me.” She sniffed. “Just go right on with your wild talk.”

Frank and Joe exchanged grins, knowing their aunt was eager to hear more. She looked gratified when Frank repeated the information he had gleaned from the Bayport Times.

“Yes, I remember now about Perth’s nephew,” Miss Hardy said reminiscently. “Poor fellow! Almost seemed as if Fate had marked him out to pay for his uncle’s misdeeds.”

At dinner Frank and Joe were silent and thoughtful. Neither believed that the weird screams they had heard near the Perth mansion could have been made by the nephew’s ghost. Nevertheless, it was an eerie notion!

“I’d like to go back to that mansion,” Joe said as the family finished dessert. “I have a hunch we’ll find some answers there—about the ghost and Strang too.”

Frank agreed. “We’ll go as soon as it’s dark.”

Two hours later the brothers climbed into their convertible and headed toward the outskirts of Bayport. Their tires hummed in the still, moonlit night air and wispy clouds covered the sky. When they turned onto the dirt lane, Frank switched off their headlights and soon afterward pulled in close to a screen of shrubbery.

“Better take our flashlights,” Joe murmured.

The boys got out and headed up the slope. In the distance they could see a few gleams of light from the house.

“Come on! Don’t argue with it!” Frank muttered

“Someone’s in the haunted house!” Joe remarked. “Maybe Strang. We’d better watch our step!”

The Hardys threaded their way among the trees and underbrush. Suddenly a ferocious snarl made them whirl to the left.

A huge, savage-looking hound stood facing them, its eyes glowing in the dark like coals of fire! Again it snarled, and seemed about to spring at the two intruders!

“Come on! Don’t argue with it!” Frank muttered. He started to back away hastily, but Joe clutched his arm.

“Wait, Frank! That thing’s not alive—it’s just a mechanical dummy!”

Incredulous, Frank did a double-take. Then he realized that Joe was right. “Well, I’ll be a moldy dog biscuit!” he gasped. “That hound sure looks real enough to bite your head off!”

“We must have crossed an invisible beam that made it light up and snarl,” Joe surmised. He reached out a hand to touch the device, as if to reassure himself that the “dog” was not flesh and blood.

“Hold it, Joe!” Frank jerked his brother’s hand away. “That thing looks like metal—it may be electrically charged.”

Stripping off his belt, Frank held the leather end and swung the buckle lightly against the mechanical hound. A hissing blue-white spark illuminated the darkness as metal touched metal!

“Wow!” Joe gasped. “That really would have given me a jolt! Say, Frank, do you suppose the guy we found here could have been shocked unconscious by some electrified gadget?”

“Sounds like a good guess. And that gives us another reason for watching our step.”

More cautiously than ever, the Hardys approached the old mansion. The house, covered with fading clapboards, was fronted by a low veranda and topped off with turrets and decaying latticework. Ragged clumps of shrubbery grew close to the walls.

“Let’s try those lighted windows on the first floor,” Frank suggested.

The boys crept close enough to peer inside. Bookshelves, a desk, chairs, a bureau, and a bed lined the walls of the room.

“This must have been Jerome Perth’s bedroom-study,” Joe whispered.

He brought his face up closer to the pane for a better view, then gave a cry of astonishment. “Frank, look! The room has no floor!”

CHAPTER VI

Symbol in Brass

FOR a moment Frank thought his brother must be joking. Then he, too, put his face to the window-pane. Beneath the room’s furniture he could see only gaping darkness!

“This is crazy!” Frank muttered. “That furniture can’t just stand in mid-air!”

“If only we could see better,” Joe said, flattening his nose against the glass in an effort to peer downward. Suddenly Frank gave a warning hiss and yanked Joe into a crouched position.

“What’s wrong?” Joe whispered.

Frank pointed off beyond the rear of the house. In the distance a tiny light could be seen moving among the trees. The boys shrank back into the shadows of some shrubbery.

As they waited, Joe’s eyes fell on what looked like an old coin. It was lying on the ground in the patch of light outside the window. Joe reached out and pocketed it.

Meanwhile, the oncoming beam was zigzagging slowly about the grounds. Minutes went by. A night breeze sighed eerily among the hemlocks and cypresses. Bit by bit, the light moved closer to the boys’ hiding place.

Frank strained his eyes in the darkness. Suddenly his scalp prickled. “Joe!” he gasped. “Do you see what I do?”

“I sure do!” Joe gulped.

The light was being carried by a ghostly white-robed figure! But common sense told the boys the figure must be human.

“This is our chance to lay that spook story to rest once and for all,” Frank whispered.

Joe glanced at his brother. “You mean we rush the ghost?”

“Right—but not yet. Wait till I give the word.”

The white figure flitted along, pausing every so often amidst the tall underbrush. For a time it seemed to be approaching the house. Then the light moved off in another direction.

Frank put his mouth close to Joe’s ear. “Let’s sneak up and take Mr. Spook by surprise now!”

Silent as shadows, the Hardys darted out from the shrubbery. Moving with swift steps, they closed in toward the phantom figure. But Joe, overeager, caught his foot in a tangle of underbrush and thudded to the ground.

The “ghost” whirled, evidently startled by the noise. The flashlight it was carrying raked the two boys, then winked out abruptly. An instant later the figure had slipped away into the darkness!

Frank halted only long enough to make sure his brother was unhurt, then raced in pursuit. Joe scrambled to his feet.

By now the white-robed figure was nowhere to be seen. Then Joe suddenly glimpsed something pale among the trees. Was the spook trying to evade them by doubling back toward the house? Joe sprinted to intercept it.

He saw the phantom figure pass between two trees. Instantly the faint ringing of an alarm bell could be heard from inside the mansion!

“There must be another electronic-eye beam between those trees!” Joe realized.

Floodlights blazed on around the house. The front door burst open and three men dashed outside. The ghost, meanwhile, had veered to the left and was disappearing into the darkness again—this time toward the road, but away from the Hardys’ car.

Joe halted, uncertain what to do next. If he continued the pursuit, he would risk being cut off by the men from the house before he could get back to the convertible.

“For all I know, they may be the ones who blew up our boat!” he said to himself.

As the men came closer, Joe made a fast decision and darted off among the trees. A moment later he was startled by a rustle of shrubbery close by. A shadowy figure was running alongside him! “You okay, Joe?”

“Yes. But wow! Don’t give me heart failure like that!”

The sounds of pursuit grew fainter and presently the two boys reached sloping ground and headed toward their car.

Both boys hopped into the convertible. Frank keyed the starter and the engine came alive with a roar. Spinning the wheel, he sent the car zooming down the lane. “Talk about fast getaways—!” Joe panted as they reached the highway.

“Did you get a look at those men from the house?” Frank asked.

“Not too good a look, but I think one of them may have been Noel Strang.”

As the brothers came in the kitchen door of the Hardy home, they heard a loud buzz from the basement.

“The short-wave radio signal!” Frank exclaimed. He and Joe hurried downstairs and switched on the powerful set which the Hardys used for secret communications.

“Fenton H. calling Bayport. Come in, please.” The last words swelled to stronger volume as Joe tuned the receiver.

“Bayport to Fenton,” Frank said. “We read you loud and clear!”

“Good! I hoped I’d catch you boys in.”

“How’d that telephone tip pan out?” Frank inquired eagerly.

“It hasn’t so far,” Mr. Hardy reported. “The Wanda didn’t arrive until six this evening. Its passengers are all wealthy people, and there’s a fair amount of jewelry aboard. But as yet we haven’t turned up a single clue that might indicate a robbery is planned.”

“Do you think the tip was phony?”

“Too early to tell yet. The police have a dragnet out but they haven’t spotted any likely suspects. Of course it’s possible the jewel thieves called off the job for some reason.”

“Dad, it’s also possible the gang wants you stymied there in East Hampton while they prepare to pull a job somewhere else,” Frank pointed out.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Meanwhile, Sam and I can’t do much. What’s the picture there in Bayport?”

Frank rapidly briefed his father on the day’s developments. Mr. Hardy was stunned to hear about the bombing of the Sleuth and the attack on Joe at Filmer’s Gemstone Shop. Also, he was intrigued by the Motor Vehicle Bureau’s report.

“I’m sure I’ve heard that name, Aden Darrow, but I can’t place it,” the detective said. “Try checking my criminal file.”

After a hasty conference with his operative, Sam Radley, Mr. Hardy added, “Son, the way things are popping there in Bayport, I think Sam had better fly back and help you boys with your investigation. I’ll get hold of Jack Wayne. He should be able to land Sam there by midnight.”

“Okay, Dad. We’ll meet Sam at the airport.”

After signing off, Frank and Joe hurried upstairs to their father’s study. A thorough check of his file revealed no criminal listed under the name of Darrow.

“Dad must’ve been mistaken,” Joe concluded.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were watching a movie on television. The brothers joined them.

“I suppose you boys would like a snack,” their aunt said after the program ended.

“We wouldn’t object,” Frank replied with a grin.

As Miss Hardy went out to the kitchen, Joe suddenly remembered the coin he had picked up near the mansion window. As he examined it the young sleuth gave a cry of excitement.

“Frank! Take a look at this!”

The coin appeared to be a brass lucky piece. On both sides it bore the design of a dragon!

“Wow! The same design Chet saw on that tiled square!” Frank exclaimed.

The boys began to discuss their new clue excitedly. Mrs. Hardy also looked at the lucky piece and pointed out the design of a violet above the dragon’s head. Soon Aunt Gertrude returned to the living room, carrying a tray of sandwiches, cookies, and milk. She, too, became curious and asked to see the brass coin.

“Why, this belonged to old Jerome Perth!” she announced triumphantly.

“How do you know?” Joe asked.

“From the design—that’s how,” Aunt Gertrude retorted. “It was his personal trademark.”

“Aunty, you’re wonderful!” Frank exclaimed.

“That swindling old reprobate used to hand out these pieces right and left,” she went on. “Especially when anyone asked him to contribute to charity! Used to say these would bring the holder luck, which was more important than money.” Miss Hardy sniffed. “The dragon was appropriate!”

“Well, since this is the design Chet described—the one he saw on the tiled square—we know he didn’t imagine it,” Joe said to Frank.

“But we still don’t know its purpose,” Frank pointed out.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were keenly interested when they heard of Chet’s experience. Mrs. Hardy puckered her brow thoughtfully. “Gertrude, wasn’t there once a summerhouse near the Perth mansion?” she asked.

“I believe there was, Laura. Seems to me it fell into neglect and was torn down. Why?”

“I was just wondering if that tiled surface might have been the floor of the summerhouse.”

Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “I’ll bet you’ve hit it, Mother!” he exclaimed.

Frank nodded in agreement. “But in that case, why couldn’t we find it this morning?” he mused.

Before anyone could answer, the TV late news came on. “A bulletin just handed me,” said the newscaster, “states that a daring jewel robbery was pulled in Chicago at ten o’clock tonight. More than one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of uncut gems were stolen from the Spyker Jewelry Company. No further details as yet.”

“Wow! That phone tip of Dad’s must have been a fake!” Joe exploded. “I’ll bet Strang wanted to make sure Dad was safely sidetracked on Long Island before the gang pulled this new job!”

Frank sprang to his feet. “Come on, Joe! We can do some more detective work tonight!”

CHAPTER VII

A Fast Fade-out

“WHAT do you have in mind, Frank?” Joe asked.

“You weren’t sure Noel Strang was one of those men at the mansion tonight,” Frank explained, “but we do know we saw him this morning.”

“So?”

“If he was involved in this latest jewel robbery, he must have flown to Chicago. It’s the only way he could have reached there in time. Maybe we can check that out at the airport.”

“Smart idea!” Joe agreed. “Wait—I’ll get the photo of Strang—we can use it if we need to ask the airlines’ personnel whether or not they’ve seen him.”

The Hardys reached the airport a few minutes before twelve. Joe said, “Let’s start by checking the passenger lists for today’s flights to Chicago.”

“Strang wouldn’t have used his own name if he were en route to commit a crime,” Frank objected.

“Maybe not, but how about one of his aliases?” Joe pointed to a paper with typewritten data pasted on the reverse side of Strang’s photo.

“Hey! That’s a thought!”

At each of the airline desks, the boys asked to see passenger lists for all flights to Chicago since that morning. Neither Strang’s name nor any of his known aliases was listed.

Joe showed one desk clerk the photo of Strang, but the man shook his head. “All the airline employes who are here now came on duty within the last hour.” Then he pointed to a porter who was lounging near a flight gate. “You might ask that skycap over there. And try Benny at the newsstand.”

“Thanks. We’ll do that.”

The boys showed their photograph to the porter and the newsstand operator. Neither recalled seeing such a man.

“How about charter flights?” Joe asked, “Let’s check on that at the information desk.”

The attendant on duty told the boys that they would have to inquire about this at the control tower. “That’s where the flight plans are filed,” he explained.

Before the Hardys could visit the tower, Joe spotted a plane coming in. “Skyhappy Sal!” he exclaimed.

This was a charter ship of the Ace Air Service, operated by Jack Wayne. Jack was a veteran pilot who often flew assignments for Fenton Hardy. The brothers were soon shaking hands with Jack and his passenger, Sam Radley.

“Good flight?” Joe asked the wiry investigator.

Sam nodded. “Fast and smooth. Your dad thought you boys might brief me right away so we can plan some action.”

“We can start now,” Frank told him, then gave an account of the events that had taken place in Bayport. He told of the jewel robbery in Chicago, and added, “Joe and I were about to ask the tower if Strang might have taken off for Chicago on a charter flight.”

“I can do that,” Jack offered. “I know the dispatcher.”

“Swell,” said Frank. “Here’s a photo of Strang—one of the men in the tower may recognize him, if he took a special flight out of here today. In the meantime, there’s something the rest of us can be doing.”

“What’s that?” Radley asked.

“Check the airport parking lot and see if Strang’s foreign sports car is here.”

“Good thinking, Frank,” Radley said approvingly. “Your dad will tell you that a smart detective never takes anything for granted.”

While Jack Wayne started off to the control tower, the Hardys and Sam Radley headed for the parking area. Although it was now past midnight, there were still several cars on the lot.

As Sam and the boys began their inspection tour, a man stepped into view from between two rows of parked cars. Bull-necked and powerfully built, he had crew-cut hair and was wearing a loud sports jacket. At sight of the detectives, he hastily turned and retreated.

Sam Radley was startled. “That was Duke Makin!” he whispered.

“The racketeer and con man?” Joe asked, having heard his father mention the name.

“Yes,” Sam replied. “I wonder what he’s doing here.” His sleuthing instincts aroused, the detective strode forward to investigate. Frank and Joe followed eagerly.

Suddenly an engine roared and a car came zooming out of the darkness. Sam and the Hardys had to leap out of the way as it screeched past!

“That’s Strang’s sports car!” Frank shouted.

Makin was hunched at the wheel. A figure appeared to be huddled in the space behind the front seat, but the car whizzed by too quickly for a clear view. It swung out onto the road.

“Come on! Let’s follow him!” Frank urged.

The Hardys and Radley ran to the boys’ convertible, leaped in, and took off. But the chase seemed hopeless from the start. Makin, speeding recklessly, already was out of sight.

Frank gunned the convertible along for a few miles, but after they had passed several crossroads and turnoffs, all three agreed to abandon the pursuit as hopeless. Glumly, Frank headed back to the airport.

“What do you suppose Makin was up to, Sam?” he queried. “Think he could be in with Strang on the jewel robberies?”

Radley frowned and shrugged. “Must be some kind of tie-up, if he’s using Strang’s car. Trouble is, we don’t even know for sure that Strang’s involved in the robberies.”

“Looked to me as if someone was hiding in the car,” Joe remarked. “Maybe that was Strang himself, trying not to be spotted.”

“Could be,” Radley agreed. “But if so, why was he hanging around the airport parking lot at this time of night?”

When they arrived back at the airfield, Jack Wayne had important news. A charter plane—owned and piloted by a man named Al Hirff—had taken off at 9:37 P.M. The flight plan listed its destination as Chicago, and the ship was carrying a passenger named Norbert Smith.

“One of the tower operators was down on the field at the time,” Jack went on, “and he saw the passenger getting aboard. He says the guy looked just like this photograph of Strang!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Joe exclaimed. “For one thing, Strang wasn’t the fellow hiding in his own car.”

“Do you know this man Hirff?” Frank asked Jack.

“I’ve seen him,” the pilot replied. “He rented hangar space here about a week before I flew Sam down to Florida.”

“Jack,” said Radley, “could you stick around here and let us know when the plane gets back?”

The pilot nodded. “Sure. I have a cot in the office. Maybe I can get chummy with Hirff and pick up some information for you.”

“Good idea,” said Frank. “One thing more, Jack—keep an eye out for a black foreign sports car with a dented trunk. It may come here to pick up Strang when he gets back.”

“Wilco!” the pilot promised.

Radley was to bunk in the Hardys’ guest room overnight. As they drove home, the boys discussed the situation with him.

“The plane took off at 9:37,” Joe mused. “And the robbery took place at ten o’clock. It’s a cinch Strang couldn’t have made it to Chicago in time to pull the job!”

“Maybe he planned it that way,” Frank reasoned, “so he’d have a clear alibi in case his movements were checked. He could have had confederates steal the jewels. Then Strang showed up in Chicago immediately afterward to take charge of the loot and give the robbers a fast lift out of town.”

“You may have the answer,” Radley agreed.

When they arrived home, Mrs. Hardy greeted them with the news that her husband had radioed again. “He heard about the Chicago jewel robbery right after you left Long Island, Sam. He wants you to contact him at once.”

Radley and the boys hurried downstairs and warmed up the transmitter. Soon Fenton Hardy’s voice came over the speaker. Frank and Joe quickly reported the latest developments.

“Great work, sons!” the detective congratulated them. “This is the first solid clue we’ve had that may link Strang with the jewel thefts.”

“Want us to have him picked up for questioning if he comes back to Bayport?” Frank asked, taking the microphone from Joe.

“No, the local police would have no jurisdiction. Anyhow, they’d need a warrant from Chicago,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Besides, unless Strang were foolish enough to be carrying the loot with him-which I’m sure he isn’t—we still have no real evidence against him. Until we do, there’s no sense tipping our hand.”

“How about me, Fenton?” Sam Radley put in.

“I’ll probably need your help to cover all the angles in Chicago. Tell you what, Sam. If Strang is back in Bayport by eight tomorrow morning, stay there and work with the boys. Otherwise, hop the eight-thirty commercial flight to Chicago and I’ll meet you at O’Hare Airport. Tell Jack to stick around and give the boys a hand.”

Radley breakfasted early with the Hardys next morning, then the brothers took him to the airport. Hirff’s plane still had not returned, so Radley boarded the eight-thirty flight to Chicago.

Frank and Joe drove home and looked up Duke Makin in their father’s crime file. They learned that Makin had served time on three different convictions, and recently had been released from Sing Sing. Since then, so far as the dossier showed, no charge was pending against him.

Next, Frank called a real-estate agent who was a friend of Mr. Hardy’s and learned that the Perth estate had been handled by a realtor named Cyrus Lamkin. The boys drove to his office.

Lamkin sat at an old-fashioned roll-top desk. He was a pudgy white-haired man, whose vest was littered with cigar ash. “You’re the Hardy boys, eh?” he said, rising to shake hands. “Fine man, your father! What can I do for you?”

Frank asked guardedly if he could tell them the present status of the Perth mansion.

“Why, I sold that just a few months ago,” Lamkin replied. “Good price, too. I imagine the owners were glad to get that white elephant off their hands! They’re distant relatives of the original owner. Live out in Ohio.”

“Who bought it?” Joe asked.

“Man named Aden Darrow.” Frank and Joe gave a start of surprise as Lamkin went on, “He’s rather quick-tempered, but a very brilliant man apparently. Used to be a professor at Western State University.”

The Hardys looked at each other in amazement. Why would a college professor associate with a known crook like Strang?

Lamkin went on, “Funny how a piece of property can suddenly arouse interest in the real-estate market,” he mused conversationally. “Take that Perth place. Vacant for years. Then Darrow comes along and buys it. And now you lads are asking about the place. Second inquiry I’ve had in just a few days.”

“You mean someone else besides us has been asking about it?” Frank inquired.

“Yes, a prospective tenant came in the other day. He wanted to rent it.”

“Someone local?” Joe asked.

“No, from New York.” Lamkin paused to consult his calendar pad. “A Mr. Delius Martin.”

Again Frank and Joe were startled. The name was one of Duke Makin’s aliases!

After a short further conversation with Mr. Lamkin, the boys thanked the realtor and went out to their convertible.

“What do you make of it, Frank?” Joe said.

“Nothing—the puzzle’s getting more complicated all the time. A college prof rents the place, a notorious jewel thief moves in with him, and now we have to fit Makin in somewhere!”

The boys decided to check into Darrow’s background. But first they drove to the repair dock to see how work was progressing on the Sleuth. The manager promised to have the boat ready in three days.

Frank and Joe spotted the Napoli moored nearby. They were hailed by Tony Prito, who suggested they all go for a brief swim.

“How about it?” Joe said, turning to his brother. “Our trunks are in the car.”

“Okay with me!”

Tony took the Napoli down the bay a short distance and they anchored at a pleasant spot in a sheltered cove. A cabin cruiser lay at anchor not far away. Frank and Tony took a quick plunge, then climbed back aboard to sun-bathe. Joe continued swimming by himself.

Like a seal, Joe cut his way down through the cool, refreshing water. Then he swirled back toward the surface.

Suddenly he felt himself seized from underneath. A brawny arm clamped itself around his neck in a choking grip and pulled him down!

CHAPTER VIII

Rock Hounds’ Shadow

JOE struggled desperately. He had already used up most of the air in his lungs even before he was attacked. Now he was being gripped beneath the surface, unable to call or signal for help!

Joe kicked and threshed, but he could not free himself from his attacker’s iron grip. The only result was a tightening of pressure against his Adam’s apple and a vicious jab in the ribs. When Joe tried to squirm around to face his assailant, the man rolled with him.

Joe’s lungs were soon near the bursting point. If only he could reach the surface!

Aboard the Napoli, Frank began to worry. “What’s Joe doing down there?” he muttered.

“Maybe he met a mermaid,” Tony quipped lazily.

As Frank scanned the waters, he noticed an uprush of air bubbles about a hundred yards away. Wordlessly, he plunged over the side.

Cutting his way downward, Frank peered intently through the wavering transparent greenness. His heart pounded at what he saw. Joe was helpless in the grip of a goggled frogman!

As Frank stroked swiftly toward them, the frogman released his victim and swam off.

“Good grief! I hope I’m not too late!” Frank thought frantically.

Joe was limp, his head sagging as he slowly floated upward. Frank grabbed him under the arms and hauled him to the surface.

“Tony! Give us a hand!” Frank shouted as he broke water.

Tony had been watching anxiously for a sight of the Hardy boys. At Frank’s call, he sent the Napoli gliding toward them. In a few moments they had Joe safely aboard.

“Get back to the dock! Fast!” Frank exclaimed. He positioned Joe as best he could in the bottom of the boat and quickly began applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

The Napoli went planing over the water toward shore. The jouncing made Frank’s efforts doubly difficult, but by bracing himself against the side he managed to hold Joe fairly steady.

Tony cut the engine and yelled for help as he brought the boat alongside the dock. Four men assisted the boys in lifting Joe out of the Napoli, then laid him full length on the dock. Frank quickly resumed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“I’ve called an ambulance!” someone shouted.

But Joe was already reviving. Frank breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

“Boy! You sure had a close call!” Tony said, squatting down beside Joe.

“You’re telling me.” Joe grinned weakly. “I must’ve swallowed half of Barmet Bay!”

By the time the ambulance arrived, Joe was on his feet. He allowed the intern to examine him but refused to be taken to the hospital.

“Nothing doing. I’m okay,” he insisted.

“Well, I can’t force you.” The intern grinned and turned to Frank. “At least take him home and put him to bed for a while.”

Once they were seated in the convertible and the ambulance had departed, Joe protested, “Listen, I’m not sleepy! Why should I go to bed?” he argued. “Then we’d have to tell Mom what happened. And think of the fuss Aunt Gertrude would make!”

“Okay, if you’re sure you feel all right.”

As the boys walked back to the dock, Joe said, “The frogman who attacked me must have come from that cabin cruiser in the cove,” he reasoned.

“I think that cruiser pulled out before Frank and I started sun-bathing,” Tony objected.

“Joe could still be right. The cruiser could have left and arranged to pick up the frogman somewhere else,” Frank pointed out. “It’s a cinch he couldn’t have been lurking on shore, just waiting for us to show up. We didn’t even know, ourselves, that we’d be going to that particular spot to swim.”

“I guess you’re right,” Tony agreed, frowning thoughtfully. “Must’ve been just bad luck. The cruiser spotted us, and whoever was aboard decided this was a perfect chance to nail at least one of the Hardys.”

The boys boarded the Napoli and made a quick scouting trip back to the cove. The cruiser was nowhere in sight. Neither Tony nor the Hardys had paid enough attention to the craft to be able to identify it. Nor had Frank seen the frogman clearly enough to provide the police with a useful description.

The boys dressed aboard the Napoli and headed back to the dock. Frank and Joe then said good-by to Tony and drove home. Chet Morton’s tomato-red jalopy was parked in front of the house. A girl was seated in one of the porch rockers.

“That’s Iola!” Joe exclaimed as they drove up.

She came running to meet them as they got out of the car. “Oh, thank goodness!” Iola said excitedly. “I was afraid you might not get back in time!”

“Something wrong?” Frank asked.

“I think we’ve found the man who stole our amethyst—at least we think we know where he is!”

“Where?” Joe blurted.

Iola explained that she, Callie, and Chet had gone rock hounding again that morning in the hills outside Bayport. While they were trying to locate the spot where the girls had picked up the amethyst, they had glimpsed a man trailing them at a distance.

“Did he look like the fellow who questioned you at the gem shop?” Frank put in,

“He was skulking too far behind—and ducking out of sight whenever we looked back,” Iola said, “so we couldn’t be sure.”

“Where are Chet and Callie?” Joe asked.

“They stayed behind. We made a fire and now they’re having lunch—acting as if nothing’s wrong. But Chet told me to sneak back to the car and get you two.”

“Okay. Hop in your jalopy and lead the way,” Frank said. “We’ll follow you.”

Iola drove into the hills west of Bayport. Frank and Joe stayed close behind in their convertible. Finally the jalopy pulled off the road. The Hardys parked nearby.

“We’ll have to do some walking,” Iola said.

A five-minute hike brought them to a hill overlooking a narrow ravine. Iola explained that Chet and Callie were waiting just beyond. “And the man who’s been shadowing us is down there somewhere among all those rocks and shrubs—at least, he was when I left to get you.”

“A perfect setup,” Joe gloated. “Frank, suppose you and I go into the ravine at this end and flush him out? Then he’ll either have to break for high ground or go right out past Chet.”

Frank agreed to the plan, and the boys wound their way down the hillside and up the floor of the ravine. Iola headed along the brow of the hill to rejoin Chet and Callie.

The Hardys spread out, searching among the brush and boulders. Twenty minutes later they emerged at the opposite end of the small canyon, their faces registering disappointment. Chet and the girls ran to meet them.

“Did you find him?” Chet asked.

Frank shook his head. “No, but there are signs he was there.”

“We spotted a trail of broken brush where someone climbed out of the ravine,” Joe added.

Chet’s moonface sagged. “Rats! I thought sure we could nab him!”

“I’ll bet he guessed that Iola went for help,” Callie put in, “so he decided he’d better not stay around.”

The Hardys drove home, eager to tackle their investigation of Aden Darrow. Mrs. Hardy informed them that Jack Wayne had telephoned from the airport. Frank called him back.

“Strang landed about an hour ago,” Jack reported. “I tried to reach you, but couldn’t.”

“Anyone with him?” Frank inquired eagerly.

“Just the pilot, Al Hirff. That black sports car didn’t show up, but another car did. A tough-looking guy met them and drove off with Strang.”

“What about Hirff?”

“Still here at the airport. I tried to strike up a conversation with him, but no luck.”

“Good work, Jack,” Frank said. “Keep trying.”

Frank passed the news to Joe. The boys ate a quick lunch of sandwiches and lemon pie, and then prepared to place a long-distance call to Western State University. Before they could do so, the telephone rang. Joe answered.

“This is Mr. Filmer at the gem shop,” said the voice at the other end.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Filmer. Is anything up?”

“Well, a man came into my shop a while ago with three stones that he wanted me to appraise. I don’t know what sort of mystery you boys are working on, but I thought you might want to know—the stones were amethystsl”

CHAPTER IX

Secret Cruiser

JOE’S pulse quickened when he heard of this promising new lead. “We’ll be right over to talk to you, Mr. Filmer!” he exclaimed.

Hanging up, he told Frank what the gem-shop proprietor had said.

“Maybe we’re onto something,” Frank agreed.

Aunt Gertrude paused in the midst of trimming a pie crust as they rushed out through the kitchen door. “Land sakes! Where are you boys off to now?” she scolded. “Don’t you realize you’ll ruin your digestions?”

“On your cooking? Why, Aunty!” Joe grinned and ducked out before she could retort.

The boys hopped into their convertible and drove to the shop on Bay Street. Although Mr. Filmer again looked somewhat nervous, and obviously had no desire to become involved in a criminal case, he seemed eager to be helpful.

“This man who brought the stones—had you ever seen him before?” Frank inquired.

“No, and he gave no name,” Mr. Filmer replied. “The amethysts were uncut stones—quite large.”

“Genuine?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Did you ask where he got them?” Joe put in.

“Well, I tried to find out where they came from, but he was very evasive. And he wouldn’t leave the stones for cutting and polishing, although I offered to do it very reasonably.”

“What did this fellow look like?” Frank asked.

“Oh, he was big and husky.” The proprietor’s Adam’s apple bobbed as if the thought made him uneasy. “And he was dressed rather sportily. His hair was bushy and he had on a plaid sport coat.”

Frank darted a surprised glance at Joe. The description clicked!

“Sounds like Duke Makin,” Joe muttered. Hoping for a further lead, he asked Mr. Filmer, “Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”

“I don’t think he came in a car,” the proprietor replied, “although someone may have dropped him off, I suppose. But I watched when he left and I saw him get into a taxi at that stand across the street.”

“How long ago was that?” Frank asked.

“Mmm, say half an hour.”

“Thanks, Mr. Filmer! You’ve been a big help!”

“Don’t mention it, boys.”

Frank and Joe hurried across the street. A taxi driver was slouched in his taxi, reading a newspaper. The boys described Makin to him and asked the man if he had seen what cab driver had driven off with him.

“That was Mike, I think. Should be back here soon, unless he picked up another fare.”

The Hardys returned to their convertible to wait. They fidgeted impatiently as twenty minutes went by. At last another taxi pulled into the stand. The first driver looked up from his paper, gave the boys a two-fingered whistle, and jerked his thumb toward the other taxi. Frank and Joe strode across the street and questioned the man who had just arrived.

“Sure, I know the guy you mean,” he told them. “I took him out to some little picnic ground on Shore Road.”

“Picnic ground?” Joe echoed in surprise.

“Yeah, it did seem like a funny place for him to get out,” the driver said. “I figured he probably planned to meet someone there.”

At Frank’s request, the driver described the spot and sketched a map. Frank tipped him, and the boys hurried back to their own car.

“Let’s take a look at the spot right now,” Joe proposed. “We might pick up a clue.”

“Right!” Frank took the wheel and soon their convertible was rolling along Shore Road.

In a few minutes they came to the spot the driver had described, a small clearing laid out for picnickers. A family was eating at one of the tables. Otherwise, the site was deserted.

The Hardys got out to look around. Beyond the clearing, the ground was wooded and sloped steeply down to the shore of Barmet Bay.

“I wonder what Makin was doing around here,” Joe said.

“He must have had some reason,” Frank said. “Maybe we can find it.”

The two boys wandered around the fringes of the picnic area, peering among the trees and shrubbery. Suddenly Joe gasped and pointed toward the water.

“Look, Frank!”

Far below, and about a hundred yards to seaward from the point of the bay at which they were standing, the shore was indented by a reedy inlet. A cabin cruiser lay anchored close to shore.

“Oh—oh! I’ll bet that’s the answer, all right,” Frank agreed. “Maybe it’s the same cruiser the frogman came from!”

The Hardys scrambled along the brow of the slope until they were overlooking the inlet. Even here the cruiser was not completely visible. Its hull was screened by heavy clumps of reed and rushes, and the boys’ view was further blocked by the thick growth cresting the slope.

“Sure picked a good place to hide,” Joe muttered. “Let’s go down closer.”

The Hardys began picking their way cautiously down the steep hillside. But as the trees and brush thinned out, they themselves were exposed to view as they moved close to the cruiser. Suddenly they saw a man emerge from the cabin and cock one arm.

“Look out!” Frank cried out. “That may be a bomb he’s throwing!”

The boys flattened themselves in the underbrush as an object spun through the air.... Whoosh!

“A gas grenade!” Joe yelled to his brother. The boys sprang to their feet and hurried back up the slope as the throb of a boat engine reached their ears. In seconds the hillside was filled with billowing purple smoke!

Gasping, choking, and with tears streaming from their eyes, Frank and Joe finally reached the top of the hill and ran toward the picnic ground. The family at the table stared at them in wide-eyed excitement.

“What’s happening?” the man shouted.

“Some prankster in a boat down there threw a tear-gas grenade,” Frank said, so as not to alarm the group.

“Why, that’s terrible! Someone should call the police!” the man’s wife said.

“We’ll report it,” Frank promised.

Fortunately, an offshore breeze was blowing the smoke away from the picnic ground and out onto the bay. But the smoke screen hid the cruiser completely from view.

The Hardys hurried to their car and warmed up the short-wave set. Frank contacted the Coast Guard station and the radio operator on duty promised that an effort would be made to spot the cabin cruiser. There seemed little hope of identifying it, however, among all the other craft on the bay, especially since the boys had noticed no special features, not even the cruiser’s name.

Frank and Joe were glum as they drove home. “Do you suppose Makin was aboard?” Joe asked.

Frank shrugged and frowned uncertainly. “I don’t know. That inlet was practically a swamp—it sure didn’t look like an easy place to get on or off the cruiser. But the purple smoke was the same kind we ran into the other night. That would seem to link the cruiser itself to Strang.”

Joe glanced at his brother. “Incidentally, why did you ask Mr. Filmer if those amethysts were genuine?”

“Makin’s a confidence man plus his other rackets—remember? I thought he might be planning to use the stones for some con game.”

As soon as the brothers arrived home, Frank placed a call to Western State University. He explained that he wanted information about a former professor named Aden Darrow.

“I’ll connect you with Dean Gibbs,” the switchboard operator replied.

Frank identified himself to the dean.

“Oh, yes. I’ve often heard of your father,” Gibbs said. “What can I do for you?”

Frank explained that Darrow’s name had come up in connection with a case the Hardys were investigating. He asked if the dean could tell him anything about Darrow’s background.

“Up until last term, Professor Darrow taught a special course in crime-detection methods here,” Dean Gibbs replied. “He has a background in both physical and organic chemistry. Before he joined our faculty, he worked in police crime labs in several western cities.”

“Why did he leave the university?”

“Well, that was rather unfortunate,” Gibbs said. “You see, he had been trying to raise funds for research on a project which he claimed would be of great value to the police.”

“What sort of project?” Frank inquired.

“To be honest, we know very little about it. Professor Darrow had become secretive and suspicious. In fact, we felt he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. After the school refused to allot any money for his project, Darrow became extremely upset and resigned.”

“I see.” Frank was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “We were told he recently bought a house here in Bayport. Did he say what his plans were when he left the university?”

“No, not a word. In fact, we had no idea of his present whereabouts before you called.”

Frank was just hanging up when a plane roared low over the house. The boys could hear it turn and zoom back as if it were buzzing the Hardy residence.

“That may be Jack Wayne!” Joe exclaimed. He rushed to look out a window. “It’s Skyhappy Sal, all right. Maybe Jack wants to talk to us!”

The boys dashed downstairs and switched on their two-way radio. Joe took the microphone.

“Hardys to Sal.... Can you read us?”

The pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker, “Loud and clear, Joe! Listen, I think I’ve picked up a hot lead from Hirff. It may tie in with those jewel robberies your dad is—”

Jack’s voice was drowned by a sudden burst of static. When it came through again, it was so faint the Hardys could catch only a few words:

“If the tigers bite ... amethyst ...”

There was another burst of static. The radio message died out completely!

CHAPTER X

The Ghostly Figure

JOE tuned the receiver anxiously, trying to restore a clear signal.

“Hardys to Sal! Come in, please! ... Hardys calling Sal!”

There was no response. The two boys looked at each other, worried and mystified.

“What do you suppose went wrong with the transmission, Joe?” his brother muttered.

“Search me. What I’m wondering is whether Jack’s okay!”

The brothers ran up the basement stairs and dashed outdoors. Shading their eyes, they scanned the sky. Jack’s plane was now a mere speck in the blue, rapidly dwindling from sight. It was heading on a southerly course.

“At least he’s still up there!” Frank said, half under his breath.

Joe added, “Let’s hope he makes it all the way—wherever it is he’s going!”

The boys went indoors and tried for a while longer to re-establish radio contact with Skyhappy Sal, but their efforts were unsuccessful. Frank and Joe returned to the living room and slumped into comfortable chairs.

“I’d sure like to know what Jack was trying to tell us,” Frank brooded.

“So would I. That message was weird!” Joe furrowed his brow, trying to make sense out of the few words that had filtered through. “If the tigers bite ... What could he possibly have been referring to, Frank?”

“Don’t ask me. It’s strictly Greek as far as I’m concerned.” Frank scowled in deep thought. “‘Tigers’ might refer to animals in some zoo, I suppose. Or maybe to tigers being brought into the country by some animal importer.”

Joe shook his head. “Sounds pretty farfetched. Jack was flying south. That might mean he was heading for the Caribbean area.”

“Maybe. So what?”

“Well, they have jaguars down in Central America. And, in Spanish, the jaguar is called tigre.”

“For that matter, what about tiger sharks?” Frank broke off abruptly and sprang up from his chair. “Wait a minute! We must be getting daffy with the heat. We can find out where Jack’s going just by checking with the airport tower!”

Frank strode to the telephone in the front hall and dialed. He talked for a few moments, then hung up and returned to the living room, wearing a frustrated expression.

“The tower operator says Jack didn’t file a flight plan—which probably means he’s just making a brief local flight.”

“Then we should be hearing from him soon,” Joe suggested.

“We hope!” Frank added, crossing his fingers.

Just then a car pulled up in front of the house with a squeal of tires and a series of loud backfires.

“Don’t tell me—let me guess. It’s Chet Morton,” said Frank.

Joe grinned and glanced out a window at Chet’s red jalopy. “Who else?” He went to open the front door as their chunky friend came bounding up the walk. “Hi, Hercules! How’d you make out on the amethyst trail?” Joe asked.

“We didn’t.” Chet went on into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. “Those girls still can’t remember where they picked up the stone—and we didn’t find any new ones, either.”

“Tough luck,” Frank sympathized.

The Hardys gave Chet news of the latest developments, including Jack Wayne’s radio message.

“Tigers?” Chet’s eyes bulged. “I hope you’re not going to be bumping into any of those on this case!” He paused to sniff the aroma wafting from the kitchen. “Mmm! Do I smell chicken?”

“Fried chicken.” Mrs. Hardy had paused at the door and smiled as she glanced in. “And there’ll be honey to go with Aunt Gertrude’s hot biscuits. Would you like to have dinner with us, Chet?”

“Would I? Boy, and how! But I’d better call Mom and let her know.”

An hour later, the meal just over, the doorbell rang. Frank went to answer it.

“Telegram for Frank and Joe Hardy,” said a messenger.

Frank signed for it and ripped open the yellow envelope as he brought it into the living room.

“Hey! It’s from Dean Gibbs at Western State University!” He read the telegram aloud:

PROFESSOR DARROW’S SISTER EAGER TO FIND HIM. IF POSSIBLE PLEASE CONTACT PROFESSOR. ASK HIM TO CALL HER.

“Wow! What a break!” Joe exploded.

Chet looked puzzled. “How do you figure that?”

“This gives us a perfect excuse to go right up to the Perth mansion and find out what’s going on!” Frank explained. “Want to come along?”

“Well, I dunno.” Chet squirmed uncomfortably. “Maybe you’d better count me out.”

“Don’t be chicken. You’re coming with us!” Joe said, slapping the plump youth on the back.

Frank said, “I just thought of something. If Professor Darrow taught crime-detection methods, maybe we can find some articles by him in Dad’s journals. That’ll give us material to work up a conversation with him. It might even furnish us a clue to his research project!”

“Good idea!” Joe agreed enthusiastically.

In their father’s study the Hardys checked the annual index of each of the three criminology journals to which their father subscribed. They could find only one article authored by Aden Darrow. It dealt with new data on the power of light beams.

Although the article gave no hint of Darrow’s present field of research, it did include a photograph of the professor demonstrating some ultraviolet equipment. He wore eyeglasses and was bald, with a rumpled fringe of gray hair.

“Well, at least we know what he looks like,” Joe remarked.

The boys hurried to the Hardys’ convertible. A red glow of sunset suffused the western sky as they drove out of Bayport’s residential district and into the wooded outskirts of town. Soon they pulled up on the dirt lane directly in front of the Perth mansion.

“You fellows handle it,” Chet said. “I’ll stay in the car.”

Grinning, Frank and Joe walked up the tree-covered slope to the house. Joe pressed the doorbell. Moments passed. He was about to ring again when the door suddenly opened. A tall, dark-haired, hatched-faced man confronted them.

Noel Strang!

“Well, what do you want?” he demanded, giving the boys a hard stare.

“We have a message for the man who lives here,” Frank said boldly.

“I live here,” Strang retorted. “What is it?”

“We mean Professor Aden Darrow,” Frank said, displaying the telegram.

Strang reached out to take it, but Frank made no effort to give him the paper. “Sorry, but the message is personal. It’s from his sister.”

“Too bad!” Strang snapped. “Professor Darrow suffered a breakdown from overwork and had to leave on a long vacation. I have no idea how to reach him.”

“Did he go out of the country?” Joe spoke up. “If so, maybe we could—”

The door slammed in the boys’ faces!

Frank and Joe looked at each other uncertainly then turned and started down the veranda steps. In the gathering dusk a light suddenly blazed on in an upstairs window. Joe glanced up over his shoulder, then clutched Frank’s arm.

“Look!” he exclaimed.

Through the window curtain, they glimpsed a man who seemed to resemble Professor Darrow! An instant later he moved out of sight.

“Strang’s probably watching us,” Frank muttered. “Let’s go!”

At the car they discussed their next move.

“Let’s drive around till it gets dark, and then come back and keep watch on that window,” Joe suggested.

“Okay,” Frank agreed.

Leaving the dirt lane, the boys cruised back and forth along the main road until darkness had closed in. Then they returned and parked their convertible well out of range of the house. Taking flashlights, the boys started up the slope. Chet was not enthusiastic but agreed to accompany them.

Suddenly Frank paused as moonlight glinted off something on the ground. He switched on his flashlight cautiously, covering the lens with his fingers to shade the glow.

There lay the square tiled surface Chet had described to them! The dragon design was formed in colored mosaic.

“That’s it!” Chet whispered excitedly.

“How come we couldn’t find it before?” Joe said.

“Maybe sometimes it’s covered over with brush and loose shrubbery—on purpose,” Frank reasoned.

Before they could examine the spot more closely, Chet gasped and pointed off to the left. A white figure was moving slowly among the trees!

“It’s that spook again!” Joe exclaimed. “This time, let’s nail him!”

Chet moved his lips in speechless terror, but rather than be left behind, he went lumbering off after the two Hardys.

Frank and Joe sprinted straight toward the ghostly figure, determined not to let it elude them a second time. But the phantom had already seen them and went darting off like a vanishing wisp of mist.

The pursuit circled and zigzagged about the mansion grounds. Chet soon lost all fear as he became convinced that the fleeing specter was only flesh and blood. He joined in the chase with zest, his sturdy legs pumping as if he were pursuing a rival team’s ballcarrier on the Bayport High football field.

Frank was in the lead, with the other two boys on either side searching swiftly among the trees.

“Joe! Can you see him?” Frank called back. “I think he went that way!”

There was no answer. Frank glanced over his shoulder, then gasped.

Joe had disappeared!

CHAPTER XI

A Parcel of Gems

FRANK skidded to a halt and peered intently through the darkness. “Joel” he called in almost a whisper. “Joe! Where are you?”

Chet hurried to Frank’s side. “What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously.

“I don’t know. Joe was only a few yards from me just a minute ago. Now I can’t see him.”

Chet glanced around. The white phantom had also disappeared—swallowed up in the gloom.

Suddenly Joe’s muffled voice reached their ears. “This way, you guys! But watch your step! I fell down a hole!”

Frank and Chet hurried toward the sound, with Frank beaming his flashlight over the ground in front of them. Both boys stopped as the yellow glow revealed a large, square hole.

“Hey! There’s that tiled thing!” Chet exclaimed. “But it’s open!”

Frank saw that the whole tiled surface had flapped downward. It was now hanging flush against one side of the hole, its colored mosaic glistening in his light.

“I’m down here,” called Joe. “That tiled square must be hinged like a trap door. Either its supports gave way, or someone must’ve opened it by remote control. And that’s not all—there’s a tunnel down here!”

Frank shone his flashlight down the hole. It was brick-walled and about twelve feet deep. In the side opposite the flap-down tiled surface was an opening just large enough for Joe to enter without stooping. Alongside this opening, a metal ladder was attached to the wall, for climbing in or out of the hole.

“Wow!” Chet dropped to his knees and peered below. “Where do you suppose that opening leads?”

“I’ll bet there’s a tunnel going all the way to the house,” Joe answered, shining his own beam through the opening.

Frank told Chet of Mrs. Hardy’s theory that the tiled surface had been the floor of an old summerhouse. He added, “The summerhouse was probably built on purpose to hide this end of the tunnel.”

“That’s quite a drop,” Frank said anxiously. “Are you hurt, Joe?”

“No! I managed to break the fall. It was easy after some of those judo slams we’ve takent Besides, this floor feels spongy. It must have been padded in case of an accident.”

Frank peered in all directions. “Looks as though we’ve lost our spook for good.”

“Then let’s search this tunnel,” Joe proposed.

Chet gulped uneasily. “How do you know what we’ll find at the other end?”

“We don’t. That’s why we want to find out.”

“B-b-but you said yourself that someone may have opened this by remote control,” Chet said shakily. “How do we know the crooks aren’t using the tunnel right now? And—and they may even be trying to lure us into a trap!”

Joe chuckled and aimed his flashlight into the tunnel entrance. “There’s some kind of phone in there, hanging on a hook—probably an intercom to the house. Want me to call and ask?”

Frank looked serious. “I think Chet has a point, Joe. Maybe one of us should stay here—outside the tunnel—in case of emergency.”

“Okay, you two flip a coin. Me for the tunnel!”

Frank spun a nickel, caught it, and slapped the coin on the back of his other hand. “Winner goes with Joe. You name it, Chet.”

“Uh—well—heads.”

Frank shone his beam on the coin. “Heads. Guess you’re elected, Chet. But look—you don’t have to go! Why don’t you stay here and I’ll—”

“Nothing doing,” Chet protested bravely. “I won the toss, so I’ll go.” With the look of a condemned man en route to the electric chair, the pudgy youth climbed down the metal ladder. He could smell the dank, musty passageway.

Joe was already inside the tunnel entrance. “Come on!” he called back over his shoulder.

As Chet followed Joe into the tunnel, his bulky form brushed the intercom phone off its hook. Instantly a red light flashed on, evidently a signal to indicate that the circuit was now “live”—no doubt a buzzer was ringing at the other end of the line!

Chet clutched Joe. They stared at the unit as if it were a rattlesnake about to strike.

Suddenly a voice crackled from the phone. “Hello ... hello!” Joe snatched up the instrument as the voice went on, “Is that you, Waxie?”

Joe responded in a curt, flat tone, “Yeah?”

“Well, what do you want now?” the voice inquired irritably. “What did you come back for?”

Joe glanced helplessly at Chet; then, snatching at the first inspiration that came into his head, he replied nasally, “Orders.”

“Orders? What’s the matter with you, Waxie? You gettin’ absent-minded? The boss gave you all the dope—about the disappearing floor—” The voice broke off as if the speaker had suddenly become suspicious. “Wait a minute! What’s going on out there? Who is this?”

Joe dropped the phone and gave Chet a shove. “Come on! Let’s go!” he muttered urgently. “Now we’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest!”

The boys scrambled up the ladder and told Frank what had happened. All three ran for the car. In moments Frank was gunning the motor and the convertible was roaring off down the lane.

“What a bad break!” Joe grumbled as they turned onto the main road.

“It was my fault,” Chet admitted, “and I’m sorry. But I sure learned something—namely, not to get mixed up in any more of your nutty cases! So next time count me out!”

The Hardys chuckled and Joe apologized for his remark. Between them, the two young sleuths managed to make Chet change his mind by telling him they could not get along without him.

The mantel clock in the living room was just chiming nine when Frank and Joe arrived home. A note propped on the dining-room table explained that their mother and Aunt Gertrude had gone to visit a neighbor down the street.

The boys got apples and milk from the refrigerator. Frank poured two glasses and they sat down in the kitchen to discuss their case.

“Think we should notify the police?” Joe said.

“About Darrow?” Frank shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know. We’re not sure it was he that we saw. For all we know, he may have told Strang not to admit any visitors. Remember, Dean Gibbs said he had become very huffy.”

Joe nodded. “I sure wish Dad or Sam Radley were here to advise us.”

A moment later the radio signal buzzer sounded from the basement. “Maybe that’s Dad now!” Joe exclaimed, setting down his glass and tossing his apple core into the garbage can.

The boys rushed downstairs and soon established radio contact with their father, who was calling from Chicago.

“Sam and I are still sifting leads here,” Fenton Hardy reported. “The thieves seem to have covered their tracks pretty well. Incidentally, the same method was used as on all the other jobs. The private patrolman guarding the place blacked out and has no recollection of what happened.”

The detective listened as Frank and Joe brought him up to date on events in Bayport. He, too, was baffled by Jack Wayne’s interrupted radio message. When the boys asked what to do about the situation at the Perth mansion, he was silent for a moment, then said:

“That window at which you think you saw Darrow—was it barred or heavily screened in any way?”

“No, it was partly open,” Joe replied.

“Then if the man was Darrow, it hardly sounds as if he’s being held against his will. Strang undoubtedly has some kind of undercover setup there at the mansion. Darrow may not be aware of it. And we still have no proof Strang’s involved in these jewel thefts. Proof is what we need before we move in on him. Meantime, I have another job for you boys.”

Mr. Hardy explained that he had just received another anonymous phone tip. “The caller simply said ‘Go to Haley Building—Bayport’ and then hung up. Sounds to me like another fake lead, but I wish you boys would check it.”

“We’ll do it right away, Dad,” Frank promised.

Two minutes later the brothers’ convertible was speeding downtown. It pulled up in front of a new office building on Main Street.

An elderly night watchman was seated at a desk in the lobby. As Frank and Joe entered, he glanced up at the wall clock, which read 9:41.

“Kind o’ late, you fellers. This place’ll be closin’ up in about twenty minutes—in fact, the building’s practically empty now. Someone you wanted to see?”

When Frank showed his identification, the watchman’s face brightened. “Oh, Fenton Hardy’s boys, eh? Well, I’m pleased to meet you!”

Frank told why they had come and asked if anything unusual or suspicious had happened that evening. The watchman shook his head.

“No. Except a parcel o’ gems was delivered to Paul Tiffman up on the fifth floor ‘round eight-thirty. But I knew beforehand that was comin’. Tiffman’s a diamond merchant, y’see. When he stays late like tonight to receive a delivery, he always tells me. Most nights, everyone’s gone by six.”

Both Frank and Joe had stiffened at the mention of gems. Before they could comment, the elevator signal rang. The watchman rose.

“ ’Scuse me, boys. I have to double as elevator operator after six o’clock. That must be Tiffman now, wantin’ to go home.”

The Hardys asked to ride up. When the watchman opened the elevator door on five, they saw a worried-looking man, plump and dark-mustached. “Hasn’t that messenger arrived yet?” he asked.

The watchman looked surprised. “Why sure, Mr. Tiffman. He was here at eight-thirty. I took him up, and then brought him down again later after he delivered those gems to you.”

Tiffman’s jaw dropped open. “Are you crazy?” he spluttered. “I haven’t received any gems. No one has come to my office this evening!”

CHAPTER XII

The “Seacat” Clue

THE watchman stared at the diamond merchant. Both their faces were turning an angry crimson.

“Mr. Tiffman, I don’t know what kind of a joke you’re playin’,” the watchman said, “but I saw that messenger with my own eyes!”

“And I don’t know, Mike, what kind of a joke you’re playing!” Tiffman roared back. “I tell you no messenger came to my office!”

“Can’t help that! He came here and left!”

“I think you’d better call the police at once,” Frank put in quietly.

“Who are you?” Tiffman snapped.

“We’re sons of Fenton Hardy, the private detec tive.” Frank explained about the anonymous phone tip. Tiffman’s attitude promptly changed.

The watchman called the police. A prowl car was at the building within moments, and Chief Collig arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by a plain-clothes detective.

“You boys watch the door,” Collig told the two prowl car officers. “The rest of you come upstairs to Mr. Tiffman’s office.”

The five crowded into the elevator and rode up. Tiffman’s office door was flush-paneled with a pane in one corner. It was marked “507” in modernistic metal numbers, and the name plate below said: PAUL TIFFMAN, Gemologist.

After the Hardys had told Collig about the anonymous tip-off and the two men had told their stories, the police chief commented, “Sounds to me as if that messenger pulled a fast one.”

“You mean he simply walked off without delivering the gems?” When Collig nodded, Tiffman frowned and shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. If he were planning to flee with the diamonds, why bother coming to Bayport at all?”

“Is there any chance he could have been waylaid between the elevator and this office?” Joe put in. “If so, the thug might have dragged his body somewhere out of sight, and then gone down in the elevator posing as the messenger.”

Collig turned to Mike. “How about it? You sure the man you took down was the same man you brought up here?”

“Sure was,” the watchman said tartly, “unless he was awful good at disguises. That messenger had red hair, freckles, and a wart on his cheek. So did the man who rode down.”

“Have you ever seen this messenger?” Collig asked Tiffman.

“Wouldn’t know him from Adam.”

“Who sent him?”

Tiffman named a firm of diamond importers in New York City.

“Ever had deliveries from them before?”

Once again Tiffman shook his head. “Normally I make buying trips to New York once a month and select my gems right there,” he explained. “But it happens I want to show a special selection to a wealthy client out in Dorset Hills tomorrow. The New York firm was expecting a new shipment from South Africa today, so they promised to make up a parcel and rush it down here tonight.”

“How was the messenger traveling?” Collig inquired.

“By train—at least they told me he’d get in on the eight-fifteen.”

Collig picked up the phone and called New York City Police Headquarters and asked them to watch the incoming trains. He also called Bayport Headquarters and told his desk sergeant to put out a statewide alarm for the messenger. Finally he tried to contact the diamond importers, but evidently their office was closed for the night.

“Well, that’s about all we can do now,” Collig said, hanging up. “But we’ll have that messenger here with some answers tomorrow morning or my name’s not Clint Collig!”

Frank and Joe hurried home, intending to radio their father immediately and report the mystery. But their mother, who had returned with Aunt Gertrude, told them he could not be reached.

“Your father called while you boys were gone,” she explained. “He and Sam Radley had to rush down to Gary, Indiana, to follow up some urgent clue, and they probably won’t get back to Chicago before tomorrow afternoon.”

Next morning, the Hardys still had no further word from Jack Wayne, so they drove to the airport to make inquiries about him. At the office of the Ace Air Service, they found a young freelance pilot named Tom Lester, who often handled charter flying assignments for Jack.

“Are you boys looking for Jack, too?” he asked.

“We sure are,” Frank replied. He told Tom about the puzzling interrupted radio message.

Tom could offer no explanation. “It certainly sounds strange. What worries me is that Jack filed no flight plan. Ordinarily, under those circumstances, I would have expected him to be back last night.”

“Do you think he may have crashed?” Frank inquired anxiously.

“It’s possible—especially if his radio conked out. That would explain why he hasn’t called for help.” Tom rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you boys feel like telling me any more about this case you’re working on?”

Knowing the young pilot could be trusted, the Hardys filled him in on the mystery. Tom Lester’s keen blue eyes showed interest at once.

“Sounds to me as if Jack’s onto something big,” Tom surmised. “Maybe he even managed to worm himself into Hirff’s confidence. If he went to meet some of the gang, maybe he just hasn’t had a chance to contact you again.”

“That makes sense, all right,” Joe said.

“He didn’t leave any message for you on his desk?” Frank asked Lester.

The pilot shook his head. “I didn’t notice anything. Let’s take another look.”

Almost at once Frank pounced on Jack Wayne’s phone pad. “Look at this!” he exclaimed.

The pad bore a scribbled notation in Jack’s handwriting: Amethyst calling Seacat.

Tom read the message with a frown. “That word ‘amethyst’ ties in with his radio call!”

“Do you know this guy Al Hirff?” Frank asked.

“I know of him, and I’ve seen him,” Lester replied, “but I’ve never met him.”

“Let’s look for him,” Frank suggested. “If we could work him into a casual conversation, we might fish out a clue.”

The private rented hangar in which Al Hirff kept his own plane was locked. The Hardys and Tom Lester wandered around the airport, looking into other hangars and the passenger terminal, but could not find Hirff. When Frank and Joe finally left, Tom promised to keep his eyes open for the pilot.

From the airport, the boys drove straight to Bayport Police Headquarters for news on the previous night’s diamond mystery. On the way they discussed the curious notation on Jack’s phone pad.

“That word ‘Seacat’ sounds to me like the name of a boat,” Joe speculated.

Frank agreed. “You know, Joe, it might even be the name of that mystery cabin cruiser!”

At headquarters the desk sergeant told them to go on into Chief Collig’s office. A red-haired man, freckled, and with a wart on one cheek, was seated in front of the chief’s desk.

“Glad you’re here, boys,” Collig told them. “This is Dan O’Bannion, the messenger.”

The Hardys listened to O’Bannion’s story.

“Like I told Chief Collig,” the messenger said, “I took that parcel of gems straight up to Tiffman’s office. I delivered them to him and went right back to New York on the next train.”

“Did you get a receipt?” Frank asked.

“You bet I did! It’s on the chiefs desk.”

Collig held up an official receipt form. It was signed “Paul Tiffman.”

“I’ve called Tiffman and asked him to come over here,” Collig added.

When the diamond merchant arrived, O’Bannion looked astonished. “This isn’t the man I gave the gems to!” he exclaimed.

“And I’ve never seen you before, either,” Tiffman said tartly.

“You certainly weren’t in the office when I arrived,” the messenger agreed.

“I was in my office every minute of the evening. And nobody could have taken my place!”

Tiffman added that the signature on the receipt form was not his, and proved it by displaying his driver’s license and other identification cards. O’Bannion shrugged, tight-lipped.

Frank suggested they all go to the Haley Building. “If we reconstruct what happened last night, it may throw a new light on the mystery.”

“Good idea, Frank!” Chief Collig said.

In ten minutes they were on their way to Tiffman’s office. As they stepped off the elevator, the messenger’s expression changed.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked him.

O’Bannion pointed to a large, unsightly crack in the wall plaster. “I’m positive that crack wasn’t there last night,” he said.

“It’s been there for the past two weeks,” Tiffman said. “Some careless workmen banged into the wall when they were delivering furniture.”

When they entered Tiffman’s office, O’Bannion looked more bewildered. “This wasn’t the office I came to!” he exclaimed. “The furnishings were altogether different!”

“Maybe you need glasses!” Collig snapped. “Didn’t you look at the sign on the door?”

“I did look!” O‘Bannion flared back. “The office number was 507 and the sign said, ‘Paul Tiffman, Gemologist’!”

Chief Collig’s face took on a tinge of purple. “I’m sending for the county polygraph expert!” he roared, thumping his fist on the desk. “You and Mr. Tiffman and the night watchman are all going to get lie-detector tests!”

“That suits me fine!” O’Bannion snapped.

Frank and Joe were mystified as they drove away from the Haley Building. Both boys would have liked to go out in their boat to sift through their thoughts in the fresh salt air and sunshine. Since the Sleuth was not yet repaired, they settled for a drive to the harbor.

The Napoli was moored at the dock. Tony was touching up worn spots with varnish, while Chet Morton lolled on a thwart, practicing knots. Frank and Joe strolled out to chat with them.

“Anything new on the case?” Tony asked.

“Plenty,” Joe grumbled. “The problem is how to unravel it all.”

“Rats!” Chet muttered. “I just can’t seem to tie a bowline on a bight!”

Suddenly Frank let out a gasp. “Maybe that’s what Jack Wayne’s message meant!”

CHAPTER XIII

Snoop Camera

JOE gave his brother a puzzled look, at first seeing no connection between Chet’s remark and Jack Wayne’s interrupted radio message.

“What do you mean, Frank?”

“Look! We’ve been assuming all along that when Jack said ‘tigers’ bite’ he meant the kind of biting that’s done with teeth,” Frank observed.

Joe exclaimed, “I get it! You think he was talking about the kind of bight spelled b-i-g-h-t!”

“Exactly.”

“You mean the message had something to do with a rope or line?” Chet asked blankly.

Frank shook his head. “That wouldn’t make much sense. But remember, ‘bight’ can also mean a sort of bay or indentation in a coastline. In other words, maybe Tigers’ Bight is the name of a place.”

Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “Sure! Tigers’ Bight could be the name of the place Jack was heading when we saw him fly south!”

“Any of you fellows ever hear that name before?” Frank asked.

Chet shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Not me.”

Joe also had to admit that the name was new to him. But Tony frowned thoughtfully. “That rings a bell. I have a hunch I have heard it.”

“Where?” the Hardys asked in chorus.

“I don’t know. But if you’re right, it must be some place along the coast. Maybe I’ve been there in the Napoli. Why don’t we look on a map?”

Tony opened his boat locker and took out a sailing chart of the Barmet Bay area. He and Chet then climbed up onto the dock, and the boys spread out the chart. But after poring over it for several minutes, they could find no such name as Tigers’ Bight.

“Another clue conked out!” Joe muttered.

“Let’s not give up too soon,” Frank said. “Maybe it’s not important enough to show on the map—or maybe the name’s not official.”

“Why don’t you ask old Clams Dagget?” Chet suggested.

“That’s an idea,” Joe said. “He’d certainly know if anyone would.”

Dagget was a retired seafaring man, who now operated a ferry service to Rocky Isle in Barmet Bay.

Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Clams won’t be here to pick up any more passengers before one-thirty. Let’s go home and have lunch, Joe. We can stop by later and ask him.”

“Okay. I can sure use some chow!”

Each of the boys ate two hamburgers and a generous portion of French fried potatoes. They were just finishing helpings of Aunt Gertrude’s old-fashioned strawberry shortcake when the telephone rang. Tom Lester was calling from the airport.

“Al Hirff just showed up,” the pilot told Frank. “If you want to talk to him, now’s your chance.”

“Where can we find him?”

“Right now he’s in the hangar, checking his plane. He has a pug nose and wears his hair in long sideburns. You can’t miss him.”

“Okay. Thanks, Tom.” Frank hung up and told Joe. “It’s not one o’clock yet. Let’s whip out to the airport before we see Clams Dagget.”

“Suits me. And say, why don’t I take my new camera along and snap Hirff’s picture? Dad might recognize him.”

“Good idea.”

Joe had recently bought an ultraminiature camera from money he had saved. It could be attached to his lapel for taking secret photographs. Both boys slipped on sport jackets to allay suspicions on Joe’s maneuver.

A short time later they pulled into the airport parking lot and headed for Hirff’s hangar. The door was open, and inside they could see a big, twin-engined amphibian plane. But the pilot was not in sight.

The boys walked cautiously into the hangar to look around for him. Joe shot an inquisitive glance at the airplane’s cabin, but the fuselage was too high for a full inside view. He climbed up and noticed a folded navigation chart, with penciled markings, clipped above the pilot’s seat.

“Hey, Frank!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “I see a chart of the Bayport coastal area—and it has some markings on it!”

Frank warned, “Watch it, Joe! Here he comes now!” A man who answered Tom Lester’s description of Hirff was striding toward the hangar!

Joe quickly unhooked his lapel camera, held it up, and snapped a picture of the map. Then he jumped down.

“What’re you punks doing here?” the pilot yelled, charging into the hangar almost at a run.

Joe calmly snapped Hirff’s picture, then slipped the camera into the sport-coat pocket. The pilot, livid with rage, tried to hurl Frank aside and get at Joe.

Instead, Frank met the attack. He spun him around with a judo grip and followed with a punch to the jaw that landed the man on the floor. Hirff sat up and blinked in surprise.

Frank repressed a grin. “If you want me to step out of the way, just ask politely.”

Hirff got to his feet, scowling. “All right, wise guys! Suppose I call the cops!”

“Go ahead,” Frank said coolly. “The hangar was open so we walked in to say hello. Didn’t touch a thing.”

“When the police get here,” Joe added, “maybe we can chat about Tigers’ Bight.”

The remark was a shot in the dark. Joe had hoped it might startle Hirff or provoke some interesting reaction. But the effect was out of all proportion to what Joe had expected. Hirff’s face paled and all the bluster seemed to go out of him.

“I ... I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hirff faltered. “Sorry if I lost my temper. Thought maybe you kids had sneaked in here to strip the plane or something. Go on now, scram, and we’ll forget all about it!”

“Sure, if that’s the way you want it.” Frank turned to his brother. “Come on,” he said.

Joe could not resist a parting taunt. “If you change your mind about calling the police,” he needled, “they can find us at the boat dock.”

Both boys could feel Al Hirff’s eyes burning into their backs as they walked toward the parking lot. Driving away, Frank remarked, “Boy! You sure struck gold that time ! But I hope it wasn’t a mistake, telling him our next move.”

Joe shrugged. “I doubt if the gang would try any dirty work in broad daylight. Anyhow, if they do, so much the better. That’s one way to draw ’ em into the open!”

Frank met the man’s attack

At the boat dock a few passengers had already boarded the Sandpiper. But Clams Dagget was leaning against a bollard, smoking his corncob pipe, apparently in no hurry to shove off. He greeted the Hardys with a nod. “Hi, lads! How’s the detective business?”

“Booming,” Frank replied with a smile. “Maybe you can help us. Ever hear of a place called Tigers’ Bight?”

“Sure. Down south of the bay. I once lost an anchor there.”

The Hardys became excited.

“We couldn’t find it on the map,” Joe said.

“Ain’t surprised,” Clams said, without taking the pipe out of his mouth. “That’s just a nickname. ’Bout ten years ago there was a coupl’ attacks on swimmers by tiger sharks that come in the bight, so folks thereabouts took to callin’ it Tigers’ Bight. No one goes there much any more. Pretty desolate now.”

Frank took out a pencil and a scrap of paper, and asked Dagget to draw a map so he and Joe could find the place. The old ferryman obliged.

The Hardys thanked him and started back to their convertible, which they had parked in a vacant lot on the opposite side of the road. As the two boys passed a roadside stand facing the road, Joe let out a startled yelp.

“Frank! Look!” Their car door was open and a man was pawing through the glove compartment!

Frank and Joe started to dart across the road but had to pause for a break in traffic. The man glanced around warily, saw them, and immediately fled through the lot. By the time the Hardys crossed the road, he was leaping into a waiting sedan. It sped off with a roar.

“Let’s go!” Frank shouted, rushing toward the convertible. He slid behind the wheel and Joe slipped in beside him. Frank whirled the car around, sent it bumping and bouncing across the lot, then shot out onto the road.

The chase continued for over a mile, with the sedan clearly in view. Then the Hardys saw it turn off to the right.

Moments later, the convertible reached the same spot and Frank swung the wheel. The car took the turn with a screech of rubber. They were now in a winding dirt lane with woods on both sides, and the sedan was out of sight.

Bang! The convertible suddenly spun out of control. Frank jammed on the brakes, seesawed the wheel, and managed to bring it to a lurching stop just before it crashed into some trees.

“Whew!” Joe let out a gasp of relief.

Somewhat pale and shaken, the boys climbed out to survey the damage.

“Left front tire’s flat,” Frank announced.

“And there’s what did it.” Joe pointed to a wicked-looking array of tacks, bent nails, and broken glass scattered across the lane. “Those crooks must’ve tossed the stuff out of their car before we turned into the lane.”

Disgusted, the Hardys got a jack out of their trunk and set about changing the flat tire.

Suddenly a small object flew spinning from the trees across the lane. It landed near the convertible and sent up a gush of purple smoke!

Frank stiffened in anger. “Look out, Joe!” he warned. “We’re being attacked!”

Three men wearing gas masks had burst out of the woods and were charging toward the boys!

CHAPTER XIV

Tigers’ Lair

As THE smoke bomb burst and Frank yelled his warning, Joe was getting the spare out of the trunk, his back turned to the lane.

Joe whirled at Frank’s cry and saw the gas-masked men only a few yards away. He struggled to hoist out the spare wheel and hurl it at them, but two of the thugs pounced on him.

Frank rushed to his brother’s assistance, clutching the lug wrench. The third man grabbed his arm, twisted the wrench away from him, and knocked Frank sprawling in the ditch.

In moments, purple smoke blanketed the area. The Hardys gasped and their eyes watered.

Joe’s assailants overpowered and searched him, one yanking the lapel camera from his pocket.

Frank was vainly trying to scramble to his feet, but every attempt met with a kick or blow that sent him toppling again. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the gas-masked thugs darted away through the smoke.

Joe picked himself up, clawed out a handkerchief to hold over his eyes and nose, and groped his way toward his brother. Frank met him, and hand in hand they ran from the smoke area. In the distance they heard a car start and drive off.

Frank and Joe finally reached clear air. Coughing, the boys slumped against a tree and looked at each other through swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

“Wow! We fell into a trap that time, Frank!”

“Sure did. Joe, we ought to get back to the car and radio the police.”

“Okay, but let’s wait till the smoke clears.”

Presently they were able to return to the convertible. Frank warmed up the short-wave radio and gave the police a description of the sedan.

Joe, meanwhile, was mounting the spare. “Sorry I got us into this, Frank,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have said anything to Hirff about Tigers’ Bight.”

“Never mind. They still wouldn’t have nailed us if we’d used our heads.”

“How do you figure?”

“That guy rifling our glove compartment was probably a decoy,” Frank reasoned. “If he didn’t find what he was after, I’ll bet his orders were to let us spot him. They knew we’d go after him, so they had the tire-puncture trick and the gas attack all set up beforehand.”

Joe shook his head ruefully. “Boy! Now I really feel like a chump!”

“Did they get your camera?”

“Yes. I’m glad it was insured!” Joe grinned. “But there’s one thing they didn’t get.”

“What’s that?”

“Take a look in the glove compartment.”

Frank did so, then turned in astonishment. “The film ! How did that get in here?”

“Simple. I unloaded the camera while you were wheeling after ’em.” Joe chuckled as he wrestled the spare into the trunk. “I had a hunch there might be trouble if we caught up with those characters——and the glove compartment looked safe because it had already been searched.”

“Nice going, Joe!”

As they were driving home, Joe remarked, “Hirff called the signals on that attack.”

“Sure, but try and prove it. He probably phoned his pals the second we left the airport and has a nice, clear-cut alibi for himself.”

As soon as they arrived home, the boys developed the film and made an enlarged print of the chart. As expected, it showed the Bayport coastal area. A notch in the coastline south of Barmet Bay had been circled in pencil.

“It’s the place on Clams Daggett’s map—Tigers’ Bight!” Frank exclaimed, then frowned. “I don’t get it, Joe. Hirff knew we’d heard about Tigers’ Bight, and we were bound to locate it. So why was he so eager to get the film back?”

“You’re overlooking something, Frank—right here.” Joe pointed to an X mark near the bight, barely visible on the print.

Frank gave a whistle. “Wonder what’s there!”

“Maybe enough evidence to put the gang behind bars,” Joe surmised. “This photo would link them to whatever that X stands for.”

“Wow!” Frank was jubilant. “I have a feeling we’re really getting somewhere now, Joe!”

“If only we knew what those words on Jack’s phone pad meant—‘Amethyst calling Seacat.’ ”

“Sounds like a radio call,” Frank mused. “It would tie in with our guess about ‘Seacat.’ ”

“In other words, a radio call to a boat.”

“Right. But the ‘Amethyst’ part stumps me—unless that’s the name of another boat—or maybe of a plane that’s doing the calling.”

“That’s it, Frank!” Joe snapped his fingers excitedly. “It could be a code name for Jack’s own plane—or even for Jack himself!”

“Right. Let’s assume Tom Lester’s hunch is correct—that Jack managed to worm his way into Hir$’s gang. And let’s assume your hunch is correct that he was flying to Tigers’ Bight.”

“Okay. So what then?” Joe asked.

“Don’t you see? Maybe Jack was flying there on Hirff’s instructions. Hirff told him to contact a boat named the Seacat by radio and then rendezvous with it in Tigers’ Bight!”

“Perfect!” Joe exclaimed. “Frank, if Jack was flying a mission for the gang, that radio message wasn’t sabotaged. It must have been interrupted accidentally.”

“I’ll check right now!” Frank said. He called the Bayport radio station and learned that it, too, had experienced freakish transmission difficulties the day before—apparently due to sunspots.

“Frank, let’s go to Tigers’ Bight and find out what that X stands for,” Joe proposed. “While we’re at it, we may spot Jack’s plane!”

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “But let’s call Dad first. He may be back at the hotel by now.”

The boys were able to contact Fenton Hardy. “How’d you make out in Gary, Dad?” Frank asked.

“We ran into a blank wall,” the detective replied. “The getaway car was traced there. But I’m sure now it was just a false scent to make us think the thieves had fled to that area to hide out.”

When Mr. Hardy heard about the Haley Building mystery and the vanished diamonds, he concluded that the same jewel thieves had struck again.

“Sam and I had better fly back there as soon as possible,” he told Frank. “We’ll try to be in Bayport sometime tonight.”

Mr. Hardy listened with keen interest to Frank’s report about Al Hirff, the notation on Jack’s phone pad, the gas-bomb attack on the boys, and their theory about Tigers’ Bight.

After concluding the conversation, the boys drove to Bayport harbor. They rented a motorboat and started into the bay. As they passed the jetty, they sighted the Napoli, with Tony and Chet aboard.

The boys hailed one another, and brought their boats alongside. Frank told them where he and his brother were heading.

“Why pay rent on that job?” Tony exclaimed eagerly. “I’ll take you there in the Napoli!”

Frank considered a moment, then shook his head. “There’s another job you can do.”

“Name it.”

“We have a hunch that ‘Seacat’ may be the name of the gang’s cabin cruiser,” Frank explained. “How about cruising all the coves around here and see if you can spot a boat by that name?”

Tony and Chet agreed, and the Hardys resumed their course. Reaching the mouth of Barmet Bay, they headed southward along the coast. After a half hour’s run they sighted Tigers’ Bight.

“If Tigers’ Bight is just a local nickname, I wonder how the gang picked it up,” Joe mused.

“They must have heard it from some local boatman or fisherman,” Frank reasoned.

Joe slowed the motor as they cruised into the bight. The cove was wooded on all sides, with a strip of flat sandy beach extending for about a quarter of a mile. The rest of the shore was rocky.

“Frank, that beach would have made a good landing strip for Skyhappy Sal,” Joe suggested. “What say we take a look for plane tracks?”

“Good idea.”

Joe brought the motorboat in close and anchored. The boys pulled off their loafers and socks and waded ashore. The sand appeared unmarked.

“You could still be right,” Frank told his brother. “The tracks may have been washed out during high tide.”

Returning to their boat, the Hardys consulted their photographic blowup of Hirff’s chart. The X mark lay inland from the bight on a narrow creek which flowed not far from the beach. Aside from a few gulls screeching overhead and the noise of the surf outside the bight, the area was calm and silent.

Frank frowned at the racket of the motor as Joe steered toward the creek. “If any of the gang’s around here, we sure won’t take ’em by surprise,” he remarked.

Joe nosed the boat gently into the creek. Frank moored it to a rock and they headed inland on foot. The brothers had hiked only a short distance along the winding stream when they sighted a dilapidated cabin nestled among trees.

“So that’s what the X mark stood for!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys advanced cautiously to reconnoiter the cabin. Suddenly they were startled by the sound of a plane engine revving up along the bight. A moment later the plane soared into view among the trees.

“It’s Skyhappy Sal!” Frank yelled.

The craft was heading seaward. To the boys’ astonishment it banked and circled sharply, then came swooping in low—straight toward them! The pilot cut the motor, and the Hardys caught a fleeting glimpse of Jack Wayne and another man in the plane’s cabin. Jack waved to them frantically.

“Don’t go into that cabin!” he shouted.

The pilot gunned the engine, trying to work up flying speed again—but the plane dipped and went into a stall.

“He’s going to crack up!” Joe yelled.

An instant later the boys heard a terrific impact and the crash of crumpling metal!

CHAPTER XV

Puzzling Reports

FEARING the worst, Frank and Joe ran along the creek bank. As they emerged from the trees, they saw that the plane had hit the beach about two hundred yards away. Its nose was high in the air and one wing had crumpled.

The Hardys ran toward the crashed aircraft. Jack was evidently still in the plane, but his companion had been hurled from the cabin by the force of the impact. He was getting dazedly to his feet and brushing off the sand that smeared him from head to foot. At the sight of the boys, the man began groping frantically on the ground.

“He may be hunting for his gun!” Frank warned. “We’d better nail him fast!”

Frank’s guess seemed to be correct, for as the Hardys closed in, he gave up his search and fled into the woods. Joe would have chased him, but Frank grabbed his brother’s arm and pointed to Skyhappy Sal. Flames were licking the fuselage!

“Never mind that guy! Help me get Jack out!”

The right side of the plane, from which the gunman had been thrown, was uppermost. The door was hanging wide open. Frank climbed inside, careless of the sizzling flames. Jack lay wedged behind the control column, bleeding and motionless.

“He risked his life to signal us!” Frank thought. “I sure hope he’s still alive!”

There was no time to be gentle. Frank maneuvered the limp form out as best he could. Legs first, Jack was passed through the cabin doorway Both the Hardys were streaming with perspiration as they lurched away from the plane, lugging the pilot between them.

At a safe distance from the wrecked aircraft, they laid Jack down on the sand and turned back to stare at Skyhappy Sal. The blaze was now crackling furiously.

“Some of the electrical gear must have shorted,” Joe said.

“We’ll never know,” Frank muttered. “Once the fuel tank blows, she’ll—”

His words were cut short as the plane exploded into a ball of fire. A column of smoke and flame shot high in the air.

“Wow! We made it just in time!” Joe gasped in a shaky voice.

The boys turned their attention to Jack Wayne. His face and shirt were streaked with blood from a scalp wound. Frank felt the pilot’s pulse and knelt to listen for a heartbeat.

“Thank goodness! He’s still alive!” Frank reported tensely.

Joe ripped off a piece of his own shirttail to make a bandage. Fortunately, although the pilot’s hair was matted with blood from the wound, active bleeding appeared to have ceased.

Frank wiped off Jack’s face with a scrap of cloth moistened with water. Presently the pilot stirred and opened his eyes. As he saw Frank and Joe bending over him, his lips twitched into a smile of relief.

“Sure glad you boys are safe,” he murmured.

“Glad we’re safe!” Joe echoed. He flashed his brother a puzzled glance.

“Must have something to do with the cabin,” Frank said. “You were trying to warn us—is that it, Jack?”

Their friend gave a faint nod. “I was waiting there with that other guy ... to meet the boss. Then he ... he got word by radio that you two might show up. Radio message said to booby-trap the cabin w-with explosive ... and pull out.”

“Wait, let’s get this straight,” Frank put in hastily. “You flew here because Hirff offered you a chance to join the gang?”

Again the pilot nodded.

“And your plane was hidden in the brash so no one would spot it?” Joe added.

“Th-that’s right,” Jack mumbled. “We were just about to leave when your boat pulled in. Barney, he’s the guy who was with me ... he said we should lie low till you were out of sight ... then take off ...”

Jack’s voice was getting weaker. Frank urged him not to talk, but the pilot, now lapsing back into unconsciousness, seemed not to hear.

“B-Barney was holding a gun on me ... test ing me to s-see what I’d do. Only way I could warn you was to—”

Suddenly Jack’s head lolled to one side.

“He’s passed out again, poor guy,” Frank said, checking the pilot’s pulse.

“He saved our lives, Frank,” Joe murmured. “With that cabin deserted, we’d have walked inside and been blown sky-high if Jack hadn’t—”

The wilderness quiet was suddenly shattered by the staccato noise of a boat engine. The Hardys leaped to their feet and saw their own motorboat shoot out from the creek! Aboard was the man who had been hurled clear of the plane—the man whom Jack had called Barney.

“What a couple of nitwits we are!” Joe burst out furiously. “While we were talking here, we let him circle through the woods and grab our boat!”

There was no possible chance of retrieving the craft. It was already picking up speed—heading out of the bight toward the open sea.

“The prize boner of all time!” Frank groaned. “We’re stranded here, Joe! And Jack needs medi cal attention!”

The photographic print of the map was in the boat, and neither boy could remember any inland details, but Joe felt sure the nearest road was at least ten miles away.

“Looks as though we have two choices, Joe,” Frank said thoughtfully. “We can wait here till the folks back in Bayport get worried and come looking for us. Or one of us can try to find a road and flag down a car for help.”

Joe shook his head. “Pretty long shot. Whoever went might not be able to find his way through the woods before dark. But there’s one other possibility, Frank.”

“Such as?”

“Try to get into the cabin without exploding the booby trap and use the gang’s radio.”

“You’re right! I never thought of that.” Frank rubbed his jaw worriedly and considered.

The boys’ debate was cut short as they saw a small cruiser heading into the bight. Frank and Joe jumped up and down, yelling and wigwagging their arms, but they soon realized the signals were unnecessary. The cruiser evidently had been attracted to the scene by the smoke and flame of the burning airplane.

The skipper of the cruiser brought his craft in close to the boys and shouted through cupped hands, “What happened? Do you need help?”

“We sure do!” Frank yelled back. “A plane crashed and the pilot’s injured! We’re stranded here! Can you get us to Bayport?”

“You bet I will!” the skipper replied heartily.

Normally the Hardys would not have risked moving a man in Jack’s condition. But they felt they had no choice. Using a tarpaulin from the cruiser as a makeshift stretcher, they carried him through the shallow water and loaded him gently aboard the boat.

Mr. Webb, the elderly, white-haired owner of the cruiser, revved his engine and they started out of the bight.

“Too bad I have no radio, boys, or we could call ahead and have an ambulance waiting.”

“We’re mighty grateful, anyhow, sir,” Frank replied. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what we would have done.”

There seemed little chance of sighting or overtaking the stolen motorboat. But as they approached the bay, Joe thought he glimpsed the craft and asked to borrow Mr. Webb’s binoculars.

“That’s our boy, all right!” he said a moment later, passing the glasses to Frank. “He’s heading somewhere near Sea Gull Cove!”

Minutes after they docked, an ambulance came screeching to the scene in response to a phone call by Frank. An intern gave Jack emergency treatment. Then the injured pilot was transferred from the boat on a stretcher. The Hardys followed in their convertible as the ambulance sped off, siren wailing.

From the hospital, Frank telephoned Police Chief Collig and made a full report. The chief promised to have state troopers dispatched at once to the cabin to disarm the booby trap and search for clues. He also promised an immediate search for the stolen boat.

“Incidentally, Frank,” Collig went on, “Tiffman, the messenger, and the watchman were all given lie-detector tests this afternoon.”

“How’d they make out?” Frank asked.

“Believe it or not, all three are in the clear.” Collig sounded thoroughly irritated and baffled. “I don’t know what kind of trick was played, but I’ll get to the bottom of this yet!”

After hanging up, Frank called the boat livery and explained what had happened. “I’m sure the police will recover it,” he added.

A few minutes later a doctor stepped out of the emergency ward. “Your friend seems to be in fair shape—no broken bones,” he told the boys. “However, he’s still unconscious and may have a concussion.” The Hardys felt relieved that the news was no worse.

It was now past six o’clock, and the boys were due home for dinner. But Frank had an idea which he urgently wanted to check out with Mike, the night watchman at the Haley Building. He telephoned home, then the brothers drove from the hospital.

“What can I do for you, boys?” Mike greeted them. “Still huntin’ clues to what happened here last night?”

“Well, sort of,” Frank said. “I’d like to ask you some questions and find out exactly what took place before and after the messenger came.”

“Okay, shoot!”

Probing insistently, Frank had the watchman go over everything that had happened the night before. It turned out that Mike’s recollection was hazy for two periods of about twenty minutes each—one around seven o’clock and the other around eight-forty-five.

“Guess I must’ve dozed off,” the watchman admitted a bit shamefacedly. “I remember comin’ to with a start both times.”

As the boys left the building and got into their car, Joe remarked, “So he blacked out twice! That sounds like the same method used on all the other jewel robberies!”

“Which backs up Dad’s hunch.” Frank’s voice was tense. “Joe, I think I can explain the mystery of what happened here last night!”

CHAPTER XVI

Riddle With Three Answers

JOE glanced eagerly at his brother as their convertible pulled away from the curb. “Let’s hear your theory, Frank!”

“Chief Collig says the lie-detector tests show that all three people involved are telling the truth,” Frank began. “The watchman, the messenger, and Mr. Tiffman.”

“So?”

“Therefore,” Frank continued, “we can assume the watchman did take the messenger up in the elevator—but not to the fifth floor. And O’Bannion did deliver the gems—but not to Tiffman’s office.”

“Now wait a minute,” Joe said. “If O’Bannion didn’t take the diamonds to Tiffman’s office, where did he take them?”

“To an office on the sixth floor—or possibly the fourth.”

“How do you figure that?”

“The watchman blacked out twice,” Frank replied. “During that time, someone could have tampered with the elevator controls and also with the office numbers.”

Joe frowned. “So Mike thought he was letting the messenger off on five. But actually it was one floor higher or lower.”

“Right ”

“Could the elevator setup actually be doctored to fool the operator that way?” Joe asked.

Frank nodded as he braked for a red light. “I’m sure it could, Joe. That elevator is a push-button job with solid doors—not an old-fashioned cage with manual control. A smart mechanic could make the elevator stop at the wrong floor just by switching a few wires beforehand—and the person inside wouldn’t know the difference-even the watchman himself—unless he timed the ride.”

“How about when the messenger rang to go down?” Joe asked.

“That makes a light flash on the control panel,” Frank replied. “But let’s say the wiring had been tampered with. O‘Bannion rings from Six, but the light shows Five. Mike pushes the button for Five—but the elevator actually goes up to Six, where O’Bannion is waiting. Neither one realizes anything is wrong.”

“Wow! Pretty slick!” Joe exclaimed. “And the office numbers were switched too, eh?”

“Yes—probably by a confederate, to speed up the job. The doors aren’t glassed, with the numbers and names painted on them. They have metal numerals and name plates screwed on.”

“Which would be easy to change,” Joe agreed. “The crooks could have had duplicate name plates made up beforehand to match the ones on Five.”

“And they wouldn’t have needed to substitute all of them,” Frank added as he swung off Main Street into the residential area of Bayport. “Just on the doors the messenger would see. And, of course, substitute fives for the sixes.”

“Sounds foolproof,” Joe said. “One of the crooks waits in the phony office and takes the gems. Then after the messenger leaves, they black out the watchman again and switch everything back the way it was before.”

“Right,” Frank replied. “Now the question is—how do the crooks do their blackout trick?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Joe brooded. “Frank, that may be where Professor Darrow and his scientific know-how come into the picture.”

“You mean he’s in cahoots with Strang?”

“Maybe.” Joe shrugged. “Perhaps he’s even trying to work off a grudge against society because no one would back his research, or he may have been brainwashed.”

“Could be,” Frank agreed. “He sounded a bit odd from what Dean Gibbs told us.”

Frank swung into the Hardys’ drive. “Another thing, Joe—what did that remark you heard on the tunnel phone mean?”

“About the ‘disappearing floor’? I have a hunch it referred to the Haley Building job.”

“That’s one possibility. Actually, there are three ‘disappearing floors.’ One—that phonily numbered floor at the Haley Building. Two—the hinged tiled summerhouse floor. And three—that invisible floor of Old Man Perth’s bedroom-study at the mansion.”

Joe chuckled. “A riddle with three answers!”

Aunt Gertrude suddenly thrust her head out the side door. “Are you expecting dinner to be served in the car? Food’s cold already!”

“Sorry, Aunty,” Frank said. “It’s my fault.”

Miss Hardy was curious about the latest developments in the case. At the table she listened eagerly as the boys told about the startling events at Tigers’ Bight. Both she and Mrs. Hardy expressed concern over Jack Wayne.

“Oh, I hope there won’t be any aftereffects,” said the boys’ mother.

Before the brothers could be served dessert, Tony and Chet arrived with more exciting news.

“We found a cruiser called the Seacat!” Tony announced breathlessly. “It looks like the one we saw before that frogman attacked Joe!”

“Where is it now?” Frank asked.

“In one of those coves just off Shore Road,” Chet blurted out.

Aunt Gertrude sputtered indignantly as Frank and Joe hurried away without waiting for any pie à la mode. They jumped into their convertible and followed Chet’s jalopy.

Dusk was falling as the four friends pulled up near the cove. An old, rather battered-looking coupé was parked among the trees.

“Must belong to someone on the cruiser,” Tony speculated. “There’s nothing else around here.”

“I have an idea,” Joe said. “Let me take the convertible, Frank. Chet, you park in that next grove, and I’ll meet you fellows in a few minutes down in that clump of willows on the cove.”

The others agreed, wondering what he had in mind. After Joe had made a U-turn and driven off, Chet parked his own car, then started down the hillside toward the cove with Frank and Tony.

The three boys hid among the willows and looked out across the water. The cruiser lay silently at anchor amid the deepening twilight, with a dinghy tied alongside. A faint, wavering light came through the cabin portholes.

Ten minutes went by. At last Joe joined them.

“I borrowed Dad’s radio signal-sender,” he explained, “and attached it to the axle of that coupé so we can trail it.”

“Smart idea,” Frank said approvingly.

A few more minutes passed. Then the light aboard the cruiser went out. Presently a shadowy figure emerged from the cabin, but it was now too dark for the boys to make out the man’s features. He glanced around furtively, then climbed into the dinghy and began rowing ashore.

“He sure acted sneaky,” Tony whispered.

“He’s probably not the owner,” Frank surmised. “I’ll bet he had no right to be aboard.”

The man rowed across the cove, moored the dinghy to a tree, and started up the hillside.

“He must be the person who parked that coupe,” Joe muttered excitedly.

The boys hurried back to their own cars. Joe had parked in the grove, close to Chet’s jalopy. Almost instantly they heard the coupé start up, and a moment later it drove past. Joe switched on the special receiver for the radio-tailing device. A low, steady whirring wail issued from the speaker.

“Okay, let’s go!” he told Frank.

The convertible swung out onto the road. Chet’s jalopy followed. Frank kept his headlights dimmed and stayed a safe distance behind the coupe. It circled Bayport and turned onto the road the black sports car had taken three nights earlier. Joe traced the coupé’s course by manipulating a loop antenna.

“He’s going to the Perth mansion!” Joe exclaimed as a sudden fade in the radio howl announced a turn by their quarry.

The boys pulled off the road and waited a few minutes so as not to betray themselves. Then they, too, entered the dirt lane. After parking in some shrubbery, they began searching for the coupe. Frank soon spotted it standing half-hidden among some trees farther down the lane.

“Looks as though he’s trying to stay undercover himself,” Tony muttered.

“I’m sure he’s not one of Strang’s men,” Frank agreed as Joe jotted down the license.

“How are we going to find him?” Chet asked.

“Scout around and use our eyes,” Joe replied.

The four boys started up the slope. They all swung around with a start as a bloodthirsty snarl sent their pulse rates skyrocketing. Frank had to clamp a hand over Chet’s mouth to prevent the stout youth from shrieking.

“Steady, pal! That’s just a mechanical spook hound—to scare off people like us.”

Chet gulped as the fiery-eyed hound snarled again.

“It just succeeded with one person!” the fat boy announced and started back down the slope. Frank calmed him and they went on. Tony and Chet waited in the shadows as Frank and Joe made their way to the house. They had just reached the porch when they heard a muffled “Ssst!” from Tony and turned.

A white phantom was moving toward the house.

“The galloping ghost!” Joe gasped.

The boys went racing toward it, but the ghostly figure detected their approach and Bed.

“That ghost must have eyes in the back of his head!” Joe muttered angrily, still running.

The specter soon disappeared from view among the trees. Frank acted on a hunch. He shortcut back to the coupé and hid among some bushes. A white figure suddenly loomed out of the darkness. It headed straight for the car and yanked open the door. Before the phantom could climb inside, Frank pounced on him!

The spook-masquerader battled wildly, but the other three boys quickly arrived on the scene and helped Frank pin him against the car.

“Pretty solid for a ghost!” Chet remarked.

“Not as solid as you,” Joe quipped. “But there’s flesh under that spook costume!”

“Let’s have a look at him,” Frank added, and pulled off the prowler’s hood.

CHAPTER XVII

The Second Specter

CHET let out a gasp of surprise as Tony shone a flashlight at the man’s face. “It’s that creep we picked up unconscious the other night!”

“And also the thief who stole Iola and Callie’s amethyst,” Frank added.

The man cowered in the glare of Tony’s beam. “Please, boys,” he whined, “I meant no harm. This ghost masquerade was just intended as a hoax. Nothing more than a joke.”

“Some joke,” Tony said dryly.

“How about stealing that amethyst?” Chet growled. “That was a joke too?”

The man’s face turned pale. “No, it—it was wrong of me, tricking you with that oil smudge and snatching the stone right out of your house.” He wet his lips nervously. “But I had to have it! By rights, the stone belongs to me.”

The boys were puzzled.

“How does it ‘belong’ to you?” Joe asked.

The man squirmed uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, “You’ll find what you’re after in my right-hand coat pocket.”

Joe reached inside the white robe. A moment later his hand emerged holding a purple stone.

“The amethyst!” Chet exclaimed. Joe turned it over to him to give back to the girls.

“You still haven’t answered my brother’s question,” Frank said in a cold voice. “Why did you say the amethyst belonged to you?”

The prisoner had an angry look, like that of a trapped animal. “I told you it doesn’t matter!” he retorted. “I know what you boys are up to! You’re trying to worm information out of me, hoping you can get all the stones for yourselves!”

“Now listen,” Frank snapped, “I don’t know what you mean by that remark, but you’d better talk fast or we’ll call the police! I think we should, anyhow.”

“No, no! Please!” The prisoner seemed to crumble. “I can’t afford to go to jail now—there’s so much to do! I can explain. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“You can begin by answering Joe’s question—and then tell us why you’ve been prowling around in that spook getup.”

“All right.” The man gulped and tried to pull himself together. “My name is Karl Nyland Jr. Years ago, my father discovered an amethyst lode somewhere near Bayport. He went to old Jerome Perth for financial backing—they even signed a partnership agreement. But that swindler, Perth, double-crossed him!”

“How so?” Frank asked.

“Perth bought the site in his own name, then kept stalling my father off—said he was waiting for a geologist’s report. Finally my father got fed up. They quarreled and Perth had my father thrown out of the mansion. But first Perth taunted him. He said the partnership papers, and some amethysts my father had brought him, were kept in a place outside the mansion where anyone could get at them—but my father wouldn’t be smart enough to find it.”

“Boy! Sounds as if Perth was a real snake in the grass!” Tony muttered.

“That man was evil,” Nyland declared, “but he got his just desserts. The quarrel brought on a heart attack and he died the next day.”

“Didn’t the partnership papers turn up when the old man’s estate was settled?” Frank asked.

“No, his lawyers claimed that no such papers, nor the amethysts, were among Perth’s effects. My father kept searching secretly for a long time after that, but he never could find the hiding place.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “He must have been the ghostly figure that people thought was haunting this place!”

“Yes, he was searching here the night the nephew died,” Nyland admitted. “That’s what gave him the idea of dressing as a ghost. He thought it might help to scare tenants away and keep the mansion unoccupied until he could locate the secret cache. But he never found it.”

“At least his scheme to scare people away worked,” Chet put in. “And now you’ve been trying the same stunt?”

Nyland nodded guiltily. “I received a bad electrical shock when I was searching here the other night. That’s when you boys found me unconscious. Since you’d seen my face, I decided I’d better use a ghost costume as a disguise, in case you came back to look for me.”

“How come you waited so long to begin searching?” Joe inquired.

“I was a child living with relatives in another state when Perth swindled my father,” Nyland explained. “It was only recently that I ran across my father’s diary and read the whole story. My wife’s been very ill, and I was in debt from the hospital bills—so I decided to come to Bayport and try to find the lode and the partnership papers.”

“Sounds like a wild-goose chase,” Frank said.

The man nodded. “That’s just what it’s been. All I have to show are these.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a dozen small metal disks. Each bore a picture of a violet above a dragon’s head I

“Perth’s lucky pieces!” Joe exclaimed. “We found one near the mansion—you must have dropped it there!”

“Could be,” Nyland admitted.

“Do you know what the design was supposed to signify?” Frank asked.

“Not really,” Nyland said, then added ruefully, “To me, the dragon is Perth—and the violet’s a symbol of the lovely purple stones he tricked my father out of.”

Joe frowned. “Was there only one copy of the partnership agreement?”

“Exactly. Perth was sly about that. My father foolishly trusted him and didn’t insist on two copies being drawn up.”

“Then why wouldn’t Perth simply destroy the agreement when the deed was in his name?”

“He was using it to soft-soap my father and keep him quiet—also to keep him on a string. You see, my father had made two earlier gem strikes for a mining company. Perth no doubt hoped he might make other valuable finds. And I’m sure Perth was cruel enough to keep the agreement after their quarrel—just to tantalize and torment my father.”

“You have no idea where the amethyst lode was located?” Joe asked.

Nyland shook his head dejectedly. “No, Perth owned a great deal of property, but it was all sold off after his death. And the diary didn’t say. That’s why I shadowed those two girls after I overhead them telling the gem-shop proprietor about finding a large amethyst. I hoped they might lead me to the lode.”

“What were you doing aboard that cruiser tonight?” Tony inquired.

Nyland shrugged. “Just a hunch. There’s something strange about those people living at the mansion now. This afternoon I saw two of them in town and heard them mention the word ‘amethyst.’ I thought maybe they had found the papers relating to the lode, so I shadowed one of them. He went to that boat, and after he left, I climbed aboard myself. But it was a waste of time—I found nothing.”

Nyland’s shoulders sagged. Half sobbing, he began to tell the boys about his wife’s illness and the debts that had made him desperate. He pleaded with them not to turn him over to the police. The Hardys, Chet, and Tony felt perplexed and embarrassed. They decided to leave the decision to Mr. Hardy.

Suddenly a light went on in an upstairs window of the mansion. Joe exclaimed, “It’s the window where we spotted that man who looked like Professor Darrow! Frank, let’s stay here—we may see him again!”

Frank glanced at Chet and Tony. “Dad’s due in tonight. Would you two take Nyland to our house and keep him there till Dad arrives?”

“Sure. I can call my folks,” Tony replied.

“Same here. And maybe your Aunt Gertrude will make us all a snack,” Chet said hopefully.

Nyland, anxious to avoid arrest, agreed to accompany them with his hands tied and to make no trouble. All three went off in Chet’s car.

“The man’s odd, but I think he was telling the truth,” Frank said. “He sure sounds as if he’s been under a nervous strain.”

The Hardys started back up the slope. Cautiously they began making their way through the wooded grounds toward the mansion.

Suddenly there was a weird scream from close by—then another, weaker scream, ending in the same gasped-out words they had heard before:

“Th-th-the floor!”

Frank and Joe froze. “It’s only a trick,” Frank muttered as they started forward again.

They were nearing the house when both boys went cold with shock. A glowing white figure had risen from the ground!

“We caught the spook already,” Joe whispered.

“It’s a fake, Joe.... It must be a fake!” Frank stared in horrified fascination.

The thing was moving toward them, flapping!

Resisting an impulse to run, the Hardys closed in. They clutched at the specter. Joe gave a chuckle of relief as he felt the wire framework underneath. It was covered with some kind of synthetic cloth, which evidently had been dipped in white phosphorescent dye.

“Just a pop-up scarecrow, Frank! We must have stepped on the release mechanism back there.”

“Right, Joe. And look at the wheels. The breeze blew it toward us!”

They went on. In the shadow of a tree they paused and looked up at the lighted window. Shelves with bottles and test tubes, and some electrical apparatus, could be seen.

“A laboratory!” Joe murmured.

Behind the shaded windows on the ground floor a radio was blaring dance music.

Suddenly a man moved into view at the upper-floor window. Bald and bespectacled, he was holding an open book in one hand.

“There he is!” Frank whispered.

“That’s Darrow, all right,” Joe agreed. “If only we could talk to him!”

“Fat chance with Strang and his gang around. Anyhow, we’ve seen all we need to. Let’s go home and wait for Dad.”

Turning, the brothers started back across the grounds to their car. Halfway down the slope, they heard the screams and the choking voice again.

“Hold it, Joe,” Frank hissed. “That tiled floor’s around here somewhere. Did you notice that we always hear the screams near here?”

The boys shone their flashlights carefully about the ground. Suddenly Joe’s beam disclosed a small metal object sticking up from the grass.

“I’ll bet that’s it, Frank! Must be some kind of sensor—maybe infrared—that triggers off a tape recording when anyone comes near.”

Joe moved closer to examine it. Again the voice shrieked! Startled, Joe backed off hastily and his foot struck a rock.

Frank gave a cry of dismay as the ground gave way under his feet. Down he plunged!

“The tunnel exit!” Joe exclaimed. “My foot hit a rock—same thing that happened last night. That must be what opens it from the outside.”

“Right. And look at all this sod and brush that fell in with me—they do camouflage the tiled floor.” Frank shone his flashlight into the tunnel. “Wonder if we could get into the house this way, past Strang and his henchmen, and talk to Professor Darrow?”

Joe leaped down beside Frank. “I’m game! Let’s find out where the tunnel leads!”

CHAPTER XVIII

A Strange Machine

FRANK had been only half serious when he spoke of trying to enter the house through the tunneL But Joe’s excitement communicated itself to him. This might be a chance to get information or a clue that would break the case!

“Okay. Let’s take a look.”

They started into the tunnel, one behind the other. Frank led the way, probing the darkness with the yellow beam of his flashlight.

“Watch that intercom!” Joe warned. “We don’t want another chat with Waxie’s pal!”

The brick-walled passageway went on for hundreds of feet. The boys came at last to a door. It had a lock but opened freely when Frank tried the knob. “It must unlock automatically when the tiled floor opens,” he whispered.

“In that case, why the intercom?”

Frank shrugged. “Someone might want to hide in the tunnel but still be able to communicate with the house. Or maybe they post a lookout at the tunnel exit sometimes and have him report back by phone.”

The boys played their flashlights around. “We must be in the basement of the mansion,” Joe murmured.

The huge, cement-floored area was dank and musty. There was a coalbin, a grimy-looking, cobwebbed furnace, and an air-conditioning unit that looked brand new. Far at the rear was a flight of stairs leading upward.

Frank asked his brother, “Should we risk it? Or turn back?”

“Don’t be silly! We’re going to talk to Professor Darrow, remember?”

The boys walked cautiously toward the stairway and tiptoed up. They found that the first flight ended at the kitchen of the sprawling mansion. From here another flight led upward. The stairs creaked under the boys’ tread, but fortunately the radio music racketing in the ground-floor front rooms covered their noise.

Reaching the upper floor, the boys went along a corridor toward the front of the house. The hallway twisted and turned as if the mansion had been designed with an eccentric floor plan. After passing several doors, the Hardys stopped at one which showed light underneath.

“This must be the laboratory,” Frank whispered.

Joe held up crossed fingers. “Okay. Let’s find out.”

Frank opened the door. Professor Darrow was holding a test tube of colored liquid up to the light. He turned as the boys entered—and gave such a violent start that the liquid splashed on his workbench!

“Professor Darrow—?” Frank inquired. Joe closed the door softly behind them.

The scientist’s hand trembled as he placed the test tube in a rack. He stared at the Hardys through his steel-rimmed eyeglasses and his eyes were full of fear.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he blurted out in a shrill, staccato voice.

The muffled strains of the radio music could be heard through the floor.

“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy, sir,” Frank began. “Our father is Fenton Hardy.”

He assumed the name would be familiar to a crime-detection expert. But Darrow glared at them, giving no sign of recognition.

“Fenton Hardy—the private investigator,” Joe emphasized. “Maybe you’ve heard of him.”

“Maybe.” The scientist’s eyes bored through the boys. He wore a white lab coat and his wispy fringe of gray hair frothed out wildly around his narrow skull. “Why did you come here?”

“Dean Gibbs of Western State asked us to locate you and—” Frank started to explain.

“He would! You’ve come here to spy on me!”

“That’s not true!” Frank exclaimed.

“The dean wired us on behalf of your sister,” Joe put in hastily. “She’d like you to get in touch with her. She’s probably worried because she hasn’t heard from—”

Joe broke off suddenly as he noticed the professor’s hand inching toward a strange device on his workbench. It looked somewhat like a round, portable electric heater.

“Look out, Frank!”

Joe leaped clear in the nick of time as Professor Darrow snatched up the device. But Frank did not react fast enough. A dazzle of light flared from the machine. Instantly Frank stiffened and froze statuelike.

He had blacked out!

An electric cord ran from the machine to a wall socket. Joe yanked the plug before Darrow could aim the device at him.

“Help! Help!” the professor shouted.

Joe glanced around frantically. The radio music from below had stopped. A moment later came the sound of feet pounding up the stairs!

“Strang and his boys!” Joe thought. “I’ll have to duck fast! But where?”

Suddenly Darrow lunged at him and tried to pin the boy’s arms. Joe wrenched free and gave the professor a hard shove that sent him reeling backward. Darrow crashed into a corner of the workbench and went down in a cascade of glass tubing, retorts, and other laboratory apparatus.

Like a flash, Joe darted out through a doorway that led to an adjoining room. The door slammed behind him just as Strang and several henchmen came surging into the laboratory.

“That way!” Darrow shrilled, pointing in the direction of Joe’s flight. “Through that door!”

The gang rushed through a maze of connecting rooms. Joe, concealed behind the heavy, dark-red window drapes in the room next to the lab, could hear Strang barking out orders.

A moment later the master jewel thief strode past Joe’s hiding place on his way back to the laboratory. Through the open doorway, Joe heard him talking to the professor.

“Yes, I know the boy. Recognized him at once,” came Strang’s voice, evidently referring to Frank. “He and his brother are the sons of a clever spy who must have been sent to Bayport purposely to steal your invention.”

“Just what I feared!” Darrow replied. “Then it’s not true that they’re connected in any way with Fenton Hardy?”

“Certainly not! In fact, Hardy’s now on my payroll, working undercover to safeguard your research.” Strang’s voice became firm and persuasive. “Don’t worry, Professor! My men are bound to catch the other boy. Then we’ll hand them both over to the FBI.”

“Frank, look out!” Joe yelled

“I certainly hope you’re right!” Darrow sighed heavily. “First the university authorities and jealous colleagues blocked my research grant at school! And now spies hounding me!”

“By the way,” Joe heard Strang ask, “how deeply did you black this kid out?”

“Just a light dose. But it should hold him long enough to—”

A loud alarm bell rang on the first floor, cutting short the professor’s words. Both Strang and Darrow dashed from the lab.

Joe waited until he heard their steps fading down the stairs. Then he burst from the drapes and rushed into the laboratory. Frank was still rigid. Joe filled a beaker with cold water from the workbench sink faucet and flung it in his brother’s face. Frank seemed to shudder.

“Frank! ... Frank, can you hear me?”

Joe shook his brother and gave him several light slaps. Gradually Frank came out of the trance but appeared to have no recollection of what had happened. Joe explained hastily, adding, “Strang has the prof convinced that he’s surrounded by spies—including us. An alarm just went off downstairs, and they’ve gone to investigate.”

Frank was still a bit dazed. “I must have been blacked out by the same device used in the jewel thefts, Joel”

“Sure, and Darrow thinks we came to steal it. We must find a way out of this place!”

“Wait a second, Joe! That alarm you mentioned could have been Dad coming here—maybe even the police!”

“Right,” Joe agreed. From the sounds he had heard, he knew there must be a front stairway. The Hardys soon found it and strained to hear what was going on below.

“Here they come now!”. Strang was saying. ”Looks as though they’ve nabbed whoever triggered the alarm!”

Frank and Joe leaned around the corner of the stair well and peered down into the front hall. Strang was at the front door with Professor Darrow. Presently three of Strang’s henchmen came in, prodding a burly prisoner at the point of a gun. Their captive had crew-cut hair and wore a gaudy plaid sport coat.

“Duke Makin!” Joe whispered in amazement.

“No sign of that kid who got away, boss,” the gunman reported. “But we caught Makin here snooping around outside.”

“Good work, Barney!” Strang said approvingly.

“Barney’s the man who was with Jack Wayne at Tigers’ Bight!” Frank murmured in Joe’s ear.

Duke Makin looked self-assured, which appeared to infuriate Strang.

“I warned you once before, Makin, to keep out of my hair!” the jewel thief rasped.

Makin laughed contemptuously. “And I told you, Strang, that I’m dealing myself in on this jewel racket of yours.”

“You’re not muscling in on anything, Makin, except big trouble.”

Again Makin laughed. “You’re the one who’s got trouble. After you learned Fenton Hardy was on your case, a pal of mine in Chicago found out he was there. I asked my pal to tip off Hardy about the Haley Building job. How did I know about it? I overheard you blokes talking after you cased Tiffman’s office. And there’ll be more tip-offs if I don’t collect a share on every jewel haul you make from now on. I want to know what your blackout gimmick is, too.”

“What’s he talking about?” Professor Darrow asked Strang. “What does he mean by ‘every jewel haul you make’?”

“Get back up to your lab, Professor!” Strang ordered roughly. “This man is another foreign agent—he’s simply trying to pull the wool over your eyes. I’ll handle him!”

Darrow obeyed meekly, but he looked bewildered as he started up the steps. Frank and Joe shrank back into the shadows. Darrow reached the top of the stairs and turned toward his laboratory without noticing them.

Meanwhile, Makin had resumed his sneering argument with Strang. “I mean business!”

“Shut up!” Strang exploded. “We know you conked Waxie at the airport and swiped those amethysts from my car—but it’s the last trick you’ll pull, Makin! Take him to our ‘guest room,’ boys. I’ll attend to him later, after we find the other kid!”

They herded Makin off toward the rear of the house. Frank and Joe tiptoed cautiously down the stairs, hoping to make a break through the front door.

But suddenly Darrow called from his laboratory, “That boy we left in here—he’s gone!”

With a snarl of rage, Strang came charging back into the front hall toward the stairway. Before the Hardys could retreat, he had spotted them!

CHAPTER XIX

Jewel Cache

FRANK and Joe ran wildly up the steps, two at a time—then fled down the corridor to their right, away from the laboratory. Below, Strang had just gained the stairway and was starting up in pursuit, bellowing to his men for help.

Selecting a room at random, Joe flung open the door and the boys darted through, slamming the door behind them. Here, too, the rooms seemed to interconnect in mazelike fashion.

“Good thing Perth built such a crazy house!” Frank panted, as they darted from one room to another.

The pounding footsteps of their pursuers could be heard from various directions as if the men were spreading out. But the mansion was immense, and the boys managed to reach the back stairway and dart down to the ground floor without being seen. Joe tugged at the back door which led to a rear porch, but it refused to budge.

“They must have locked it when they were searching for us earlier—to keep us from getting out!” he muttered to Frank. The tunnel now seemed to be their best hope.

Halfway down the stairs to the basement, the boys saw A1 Hirff entering through the tunnel door. With a shout, he ran toward them. Frank and Joe fled back up the stairs. In the kitchen Frank grabbed up a garbage container and flung it toward the stair-well doorway. Then the brothers raced through a side hallway toward the front of the house.

Crash! They heard Hirff stumble over the garbage container.

A moment later an angry voice began shouting orders. It sounded like that of Strang. Steps came pounding down the front stairway, cutting off hope of escape through the front door.

“In here!” Frank urged, pausing at a room on the left. He turned the doorknob and the brothers slipped inside, went through a small room, opened another door and entered a larger chamber.

In a few moments the door to the Hardys’ hiding place was jerked open again. Noel Strang flicked a switch and glanced hastily around. “They must have made it out the front door!” he exclaimed to someone in the hallway. The light went out again, the room door was shut, and footsteps hurried off.

Frank and Joe emerged from behind the heavy window draperies. They dared not switch on their flashlights, but gradually their eyes became accustomed to the darkness.

“It’s Jerome Perth’s room,” Frank said. “The same one we saw from outside!”

“But now the floor feels solid,” Joe murmured.

Frank was frowning as he peered about the room. “Joe, do you notice anything funny about this furniture?”

“No. What?”

“Except for that chair at the desk, every single piece of furniture in the room is placed smack up against the wall—even the armchairs.”

“That is odd, Frank,” his brother murmured. “Does that suggest something to you?”

“It sure does. It suggests that the furniture may be bolted to the wall!”

Frank tried to move an armchair, the desk, and a wardrobe. None budged!

“Well, this explains one thing,” he remarked. “We know now how the furniture was able to stay suspended in mid-air when the floor wasn’t there.”

“Wasn’t there?” Joe echoed. He was examining the way in which the headboard of the bed fitted flush to the wall. He spoke over his shoulder. “You mean you think the floor of this room really does disappear?”

As Joe turned to face Frank, his elbow rubbed against some ornamental carving in the wall paneling. The next moment both Hardys gasped.

The floor was sinking straight down under their feet!

“What did you do, Joe?” Frank exclaimed.

“Search me! My elbow just brushed the wall somewhere up there by the light switch. There must be a hidden push button or something that operates this floor!”

By this time, the whole floor had descended like an elevator to basement level, carrying the boys and the unbolted desk chair with it. A familiar, musty odor came suddenly to the boys’ nostrils.

Frank turned on his flashlight and beamed it about the walls. To his right was a moldering wooden door. This was the window side of Perth’s room.

“An entrance to the tunnel!” Joe whispered.

“Did you say there’s a light switch up there by the bed?” Frank inquired.

“Yes, probably a two-way switching arrangement, so the light can be turned on or off either from the doorway or from the bed.”

“Joe, I think I can explain how Perth’s nephew was killed!” Frank said excitedly.

“How?”

“Remember, the nephew only lived in the mansion for a few days before his death. He probably never discovered the secret of this sinking floor.”

“Wouldn’t he have been curious when he saw that the furniture in his room was bolted to the walls?”

“Maybe—if he noticed. But his uncle had been a queer old cuss, anyhow. And evidently the servants didn’t know the secret of the room, either.”

“No, I guess they didn’t, if they never told about it,” Joe agreed. “But I wonder how come they never touched the switch accidentally—say while they were cleaning the wall paneling.”

Frank shrugged. “Maybe Old Man Perth told them not to clean it—or to use only a feather duster.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that. Go on.”

“We know that Nyland’s father, Karl Nyland, was snooping about the grounds the night the nephew was killed. It could be that he made a noise outside the windows, and the nephew heard him and woke up.”

Joe nodded. “Sounds reasonable. So?”

“So the nephew gropes in the dark to turn on the light switch—and in doing so, accidentally presses the floor button, but doesn’t know it.”

“Wow! I get it!” Joe blurted out. “The floor starts sinking, but since the furniture is still up there, he doesn’t realize what has happened!”

“Right. So he jumps out of bed, falls clear down to the basement, and fractures his skull, poor guy! Then later, when the servants came to investigate, the opening of the anteroom door raised the floor back to its normal level.”

“I’ll buy that.” Joe nodded. “But what if Perth had to get the floor back up from the basement? How would he do that?”

“Easy, I think. He probably had a timer set that automatically raised the basement floor if the anteroom door was out of action.”

“Sure,” Joe agreed. “That would be a natural feature if Perth designed this setup as an emergency escape system—living in fear of his life as he did.”

“Exactly,” Frank said. “If any of his swindle victims ever forced their way into the mansion to get revenge, Perth could lower the floor to the basement and duck out through the tunnel. If the assassin actually broke into his room, he’d find it empty, the windows locked from the inside, and no trace of Old Man Perth!”

“Frank, I’ll bet you’ve solved the mystery!” Joe said enthusiastically. “Everything fits—even the nephew’s dying gasp about the floor. He was trying to tell the servants what had happened.”

“The—the floor! It’s going up!” Frank cried excitedly. “Into the tunnel—fast!”

The boys leaped out through the tunnel doorway and began making their way along the brick-walled passage to the summerhouse outlet. Frank was in the lead. They had gone about two-thirds of the way when he halted suddenly.

“Hold it, Joe!” Frank whispered. “Maybe this way out isn’t so smart after all!”

“How come?”

“Strang knows now that we got into the house through the tunnel.”

Joe gave a low groan. “Which means there may be a guard posted near the tiled floor!”

He mulled over the possibilities. “Boy, we wouldn’t have a chance to spot anybody in the dark, either. Unless we used our flashlights—which would give us away!”

The boys quickly decided the risk was too great.

“I vote we try sneaking back up the basement stairs and see if we can talk Professor Darrow into helping us,” Frank said.

“He was the one who gave us away in the first place,” Joe objected. “And he shouted to Strang that you had escaped from the lab.”

“I know, but we’d given him quite a surprise,” Frank argued. “The way he looked coming up the stairs after hearing what Makin said—well, I have a hunch he’s been doing a lot of thinking.”

“I guess we have no choice,” Joe said. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Say, Frank! Take a look at that brick your light’s shining on—the one that’s a little darker than the others.”

“What about it?”

“Looks to me as if the mortar is loose around it,” Joe said tensely. “Didn’t Nyland tell us that Old Man Perth boasted the partnership papers were stashed outside the mansion—in a place that anyone could get at?”

Frank gave his brother an excited look. “Give me your jackknife, Joe!”

The knife blade passed easily around all sides of the loose brick. In a moment Frank had removed it. Behind the space where the brick had been was a deep recess. It was crammed with papers and small cloth pouches!

Frank fished them out, one by one. The pouches contained a dazzling assortment of gems, cut and uncut—diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires.

There were also stock certificates, bonds, and papers relating to various business deals. Among the latter was the partnership agreement between Perth and Karl Nyland, and a map of the lode site, signed with Nyland’s name.

“Wow!” Joe muttered. “Do you suppose those jewels were Old Man Perth’s and did Strang locate this cache, as Karl Nyland Jr. thinks?”

“Nyland’s right. Strang found it and he’s also using the tunnel as a place to hide his loot till the heat’s off. One of those bags of diamonds is labeled for delivery to Paul Tiffman.”

“This would also explain about Karl Nyland’s amethysts—the ones his father brought to Perth,” Joe reasoned. “Strang found them here and decided to peddle them, since they weren’t ‘hot.’ But Makin stole them from the glove compartment of Strang’s car.”

The boys crammed their pockets with part of the loot, and stuffed the rest inside their shirts. They also took the partnership papers. Then they headed back through the tunnel to the basement.

The house was quiet. Frank and Joe wondered if the men were searching the grounds. The boys tiptoed up the back stairway to the top floor, then made their way down the corridor to the laboratory.

Professor Darrow was seated at his workbench, holding his head in his hands. He looked up with a start as the boys entered. His face was drawn and pale. To the Hardys’ relief, he showed no sign of hostility, and made no effort to call for help.

“Are you really Fenton Hardy’s sons?” he asked, then brushed aside the boys’ attempt to show him identification from their wallets. “Never mind—papers of any kind can be forged. The important thing is, I believe now that you and not Strang are telling me the truth.”

“I suppose what Duke Makin said convinced you,” Frank said quietly.

Darrow nodded listlessly. “I’ve been a terrible fool. Strang led me to believe that he would finance my work for the public good. Instead, he was only interested in using my paralyzing-ray device to commit crimes.”

“If you need any other proof,” Frank said, “we found where he had hidden the loot from his jewel thefts, and we have it all right here.”

“The main thing now,” Joe said, “is to call Dad and the police. Can I use that phone over there?”

Again Darrow nodded. “Do so, by all means.”

Joe lifted the telephone from its cradle and started to dial. Suddenly a cold, menacing laugh came over the receiver and the line went dead!

CHAPTER XX

Trapped!

JOE hung up with a gasp of dismay and turned to Frank. “Someone just broke in and cut me off!” he exclaimed. “It sounded like Strang!”

“Would Strang know what room the call was coming from?” Frank asked the professor.

Darrow looked at the boys unhappily. “Yes. My phone line evidently is tapped—perhaps a signal device warns Strang when I lift the receiver. Sometimes when I’d attempt to make an outside call, he would cut me off. His excuse was that he was keeping me safe from detection by foreign spies.”

“Come on!” Joe broke in. “Run for it!”

Darrow made no effort to escape, but the Hardys darted down the corridor toward the back stairs. Strang, Barney, and another henchman already were on their way up. Frank and Joe fled toward the front of the mansion, only to find Hirff and two others dashing up the front stairs.

“Into the lab!” Frank urged. “We’ll try the window—maybe we can slide down the drain-pipe!”

The boys hastily retreated to the laboratory. They were just flinging up the window sash when the criminals burst through the door and aimed two small, portable ray guns at them.

“Hold it or we’ll freeze you stiffer than iced mackerels!” Strang shouted as the boys turned to confront their captors. “These little rods we’re holding are miniature models of that fancy gadget the prof used on you before. We’ve found them extremely handy on jewel heists.”

“Please!” Darrow protested weakly. “These boys have done you no harm. Let them go. Perhaps they’ll agree not to turn you in.”

“Shut up, you sap!” Strang’s voice cracked like a whiplash. “You’re in this as deep as any of us! Do you think we can let these kids go now, knowing all about our racket?”

Darrow shrank back as Strang proceeded to jeer at him.

“I conned you from the start, you egghead! Did you really think I’d sink good money into this setup just so you could develop these blackout guns for national defense? And you swallowed all that junk about spies.

“What you were really doing here, Darrow, was getting us ready for the biggest jewel-theft operation in history. Those purple tear-gas grenades you cooked up were an extra bonus!”

Strang’s henchmen roared with laughter. Their response spurred him to greater boasting and he answered Frank’s and Joe’s questions freely. The first hint that the Hardys might be on his trail had come when the boys had followed him in his car.

The ghostly screams had warned the gang that someone was prowling near their tunnel exit, so next morning they had camouflaged the tiled floor with sod and brush. In doing so, they had found the jackknife bearing Frank’s name. Then later, one of the men had used the exit and had left the tiles uncovered. When Strang had found Frank’s pocketknife, he thought the Hardys had seen the floor.

Knowing from newspaper accounts of their earlier cases that the boys owned a boat, Strang had ordered two of his men to sabotage it. “I figured then it was time to scare you punks off or get rid of you for good,” Strang went on. The brothers had escaped with their lives—but later, when the Napoli had happened to anchor near the Seacat, one of the gang, known as Moose, had attacked Joe in the bay.

As the Hardys had suspected, Strang had sent two of his men, Kelso and Trigger, to Chicago to pull the Spyker robbery, after telephoning a false clue to Mr. Hardy.

Strang had arranged to be aboard the chartered plane at the time of the robbery, in order to establish an alibi in case he was charged with the theft. He had arrived in Chicago in time to organize the transfer of the loot, stowing it in a secret compartment of Hirff’s plane and later taking it to the Perth mansion hideout.

Kelso and Trigger had gone to Gary, Indiana, to plant the decoy getaway car, then returned to Bayport by commercial airliner.

“How did Makin happen to be at the airport the night of the robbery?” Frank asked.

“He trailed Waxie, who was waiting for me to fly in from Chicago. But he didn’t wait long before Makin jumped him, and made him unlock Hirff’s hangar so he could search it.

“Then he took Waxie back to the car and found the amethysts in the glove compartment. He knocked Waxie out and was going to leave him there, unconscious, as a warning that we should cut him in. But when you kids and that private eye showed up and spotted him, Makin took off. And when I came in, I had to leave the loot in Hirff’s plane and take a taxi back to the mansion.”

The gang had rented the cabin at Tigers’ Bight as an emergency hideout, intending to flee there in their cruiser if the police should close in. Jack Wayne had been taken there by Barney after he had contacted the Seacat by radio.

“What were you planning to do with Jack?” Joe asked.

“He told Hirff your dad owed him money and wouldn’t pay up—so now he was sore at you Hardys and looking for some quick dough. We thought if he was telling the truth, he might tell us how much you knew. If not, we’d get rid of him fast. Barney was keeping him at the cabin till I got a chance to question him.”

After Joe had photographed the chart found in Hirff’s plane, Hirff had phoned the news to Strang, and the gang had tried to snatch the film. When that move failed, Strang had radioed Barney to booby-trap the cabin and take off in Skyhappy Sal before the Hardys could get there.

On the Haley Building job, Kelso had learned about the delivery from a stooge in the jewelry company. Kelso had entered the building during business hours and had hidden in a washroom. Later, he had let Waxie in by the fire-escape door.

The two had sneaked downstairs to the lobby, where the watchman had been seated at his desk with his back to the stairway. They had blasted him with the ray gun.

Kelso then had tampered with the elevator and Waxie had installed duplicate fifth-floor numbers and name plates on the sixth-floor offices. Kelso had posed as Paul Tiffman to receive the diamonds from the messenger. The robbery accomplished, they had again blacked out the watchman and removed all traces of their ruse.

“How did Makin learn you were planning to pull the job?” Frank asked.

Strang chuckled. “We squeezed that out of him before we blacked him out. He was watching the mansion that day and trailed Kelso to the building. When Kelso never came out, he figured we were planning to pull a job there.”

“How about that voice I heard over your tunnel intercom?” Joe put in, to keep Strang talking.

The jewel thief laughed. “Pretty fast thinking on your part, kid—I’ll hand you that much. Trigger thought Waxie had forgotten his orders and was calling for a quick fill-in.”

“Good thing I realized the guy on the line wasn’t Waxie,” Trigger said. “He’s a nut! Crazy about the gadgets in this place. Calling on the intercom. Pushing the floor release in that rigged-up room.”

“Maybe Waxie forgot to put the floor back in place the night we first saw it through the window,” Frank suggested, still playing for time.

“Waxie forgot once too often,” Strang grunted. “Last time, I about broke a leg. Got fed up. Lucky for Waxie he scrammed when he did.”

Meanwhile, Professor Darrow had furtively plugged in his blackout invention. Suddenly he snatched it up and aimed the machine at the thieves. But Trigger saw the maneuver.

“Look out, boss!” the gangster yelled, whipping out his own ray gun to fire.

Strang jumped clear in the nick of time. But Trigger had no chance to use his own gun. The blaze of brilliance from the professor’s machine paralyzed all five of Strang’s henchmen.

Strang’s own leap had left him momentarily off balance. The Hardys seized their chance. Frank stunned the gang boss with a hard right to the jaw. Joe wrested away his blackout gun, and in a few moments the two young sleuths had punched Strang into submission.

“It would be safer, if I blacked him out,” Professor Darrow suggested to the boys. “The rays from my device do no permanent damage. They simply affect certain brain centers and temporarily immobilize the subject until the neural circuits have time to clear themselves.”

“Maybe he has a point there,” Joe remarked to Frank with a grin. “We have no handcuffs.”

As the professor was blacking out Strang, Frank spotted car headlights through the trees surrounding the mansion. A short time later Fenton Hardy, Chief Collig, and a squad of police rushed into the house to take over. They stared in amazement when they saw the helpless members of the gang.

“Looks as though we missed the preliminaries and the main event,” the tall investigator remarked to Collig with a chuckle. “They’re all out cold.”

The chief and his men grinned in satisfaction. “I’d say six KO’s are enough of a show for any evening!” Collig quipped.

“Seven.” Joe grinned. “I think you’ll find another KO in the ‘guest room.’ ”

After hearing the whole story, Mr. Hardy and the chief were warm in their praise of Frank and Joe. But the boys pointed out that it was Professor Darrow who had brought victory at the last moment.

“I’m afraid you’ve been badly misled, Professor,” Mr. Hardy said. “Some facts you may not know are these: Strang and his men had their eye on the Perth mansion as a hideout. When you bought it, they arranged to move in with you and used the ray gun as an excuse.”

Frank added, “And Makin, in trying to worm his way into the gang, offered to rent the place. He only wanted to find out if Strang’s group were just helping themselves to the mansion.”

Mr. Hardy went on, “But, Professor, you certainly turned the tables on the gang! I’m reasonably sure that any charges against you, for your part in Strang’s operation, will be dropped.”

“How did you happen to get here, Dad?” Frank asked as the police were removing the prisoners.

“After I heard Tony and Chet’s story, and you two failed to return, I decided it was time to blow the whistle on this setup at the mansion,” Fenton Hardy replied, throwing an arm around each of his boys.

“What I’d like to know is who rigged all those spooky alarm devices,” Joe spoke up.

Professor Darrow gave a wan smile. “I did, partly to keep off intruders and partly for my own amusement,” he explained. “It was while I was wiring them into the mansion’s electrical system that I stumbled on the bedroom-study’s disappearing floor and told Strang about it.”

Next day the stolen, rented motorboat was located, and the Hardys went to the hospital to see Jack Wayne, who had regained consciousness and was rapidly recovering.

“So you’ve wrapped up the case, eh?” the pilot said.

“Frank and Joe have,” Mr. Hardy answered. “But we all feel bad about the loss of Skyhappy Sal.”

Jack grinned. “Don’t worry. She was insured, so I’ll have a new Sal pretty soon.”

“Dad says there’ll be a good bit of reward money,” Frank put in, “and you’ll get half, Jack. That should buy your new Sal a lot of fancy trimmings.”

“We’re still curious about that interrupted radio message of yours, Jack,” said Joe. “How about spelling the whole message out for us?”

Jack thought for a moment, then asked for pencil and paper and wrote down the message as nearly as he could remember it. The boys bracketed the words which had been lost in transmission. The result read:

[I’M FLYING DOWN TO TIGERS’ BIGHT TO SEE A GUY HIRFF TOLD ME ABOUT. HE SAYS THAT] IF THE TIGERS’ BIGHT [SETUP CAN USE A PILOT, I COULD MAKE A LOT OF DOUGH. I’M TO USE THE CODE NAME] AMETHYST [TO IDENTIFY MYSELF].

A few days later the stones Makin had stolen were recovered, and an expert survey of the amethyst location showed that the lode, while not highly valuable as a source of ornamental gems, was worth developing for commercial purposes. The story was repeated at the Morton farm to Tony and Chet.

“That’s a break for Nyland,” Frank commented. “Joe and I had decided to use part of our share of the reward money to pay his wife’s hospital bills—but now—”

“My share’s going to help my folks buy a new car,” said Tony.

“You guys have no imagination,” Chet retorted.

“Listen, Chet, how about using your part to buy some detective equipment so you can help Frank and me on our next case?” Joe teased, not knowing that they would soon be called on to solve THE MYSTERY OF THE FLYING EXPRESS.

“Oh yes?” Chet retorted. “Hop over to the Bayport Soda Shop with me, and I’ll show you what I’m investing in—a year’s supply of the biggest banana splits you ever saw!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Stargazer

CHAPTER II - First Warning

CHAPTER III - Hot Merchandise

CHAPTER IV - A Near Miss

CHAPTER V - The Mysterious Artist

CHAPTER VI - Collision Course!

CHAPTER VII - Diver’s Peril

CHAPTER VIII - An Unheeded Horoscope

CHAPTER IX - A Buddy Lost

CHAPTER X - Beware of the Claw!

CHAPTER XI - An Unequal Match

CHAPTER XII - Baiting a Trap

CHAPTER XIII - Disappearing Act

CHAPTER XIV - Anchors Aweigh!

CHAPTER XV - Under the Bed!

CHAPTER XVI - Clever Clues

CHAPTER XVII - Zodiac Zig

CHAPTER XVIII - A Growing Suspicion

CHAPTER XIX - Key to a Capture

CHAPTER XX - End of the Road

MYSTERY OF THE FLYING EXPRESS

A sleek new hydrofoil is scheduled to start ferrying passengers between Bayport and Cape Cutlass. But business enemies of the hydrofoil owner have stirred up a hornets’ nest of violent opposition among small boat owners. Fearing sabotage, he begs Frank and Joe Hardy to guard the Flying Express on her maiden trip.

Startling developments plunge the teen-age detectives into a dangerous chase by sea, air, and land in pursuit of a gang of hardened criminals who operate by the signs of the Zodiac. The Hardys’ close pal Chet Morton tries to help them by using his newly acquired knowledge of astrology.

Tension mounts when the Flying Express vanishes-and so does Sam Radley, Mr. Hardy’s skilled operative. Has Radley been kidnapped? Is he a prisoner aboard the stolen hydrofoil? Peril stalks Frank and Joe’s every move as they hunt down the terrifying gangleader Zodiac Zig and his vicious henchmen.

The hydrofoil plowed into the boat amidships!

Copyright © 1977, 1968, 1941 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library Of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-106327

eISBN : 978-1-101-07634-7

2007 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Stargazer

LOUD explosions, like a fusillade of gunfire, echoed through the quiet streets of Bayport. An old jalopy careened around the corner. The driver, plump and freckle-faced, pulled up before the home of Fenton Hardy, private detective.

Frank Hardy, eighteen years old, and his brother Joe, a year younger, guessed who was coming before they spotted their visitor.

“Chet Morton, for sure,” said blond-haired Joe, looking out a window. “And is he excited!”

Chet waved and beckoned. “Hey, fellows! Big doings at the waterfront! Let’s go!” he called out as the Hardy boys bounded down the front steps.

“What is it all about?” asked dark-haired Frank.

“Hop in and I’ll explain on the way.”

The three crowded into the front seat. Chet started the car, which lurched away from the curb, jouncing its passengers as it picked up speed and headed for Bayport Harbor.

Joe braced himself with a hand against the dashboard. “Okay, we’re on our way. You’d better clue us in before this ancient heap decides to pause for a rest!”

Chet chuckled. “Sir, you are referring to the vehicle I love, but I’ll overlook the remark in view of the circumstances! Seriously, though, there’s real trouble down there. Something to do with the big hydrofoil.”

Joe looked surprised. “The Flying Express? I thought she was all set for her maiden spin the day after tomorrow.”

Chet shifted gears as he turned onto Bayport’s main street. “Right. She’s scheduled to begin her new commuter service to Providence. Wish I had a ticket, but they’re all sold out.”

Providence was a port at the tip of Cape Cutlass, seventy miles south of Bayport. The three youths often spun down there and back aboard the Hardys’ motorboat, the Sleuth.

“What’s wrong with the Flying Express?” Frank wanted to know. “Mechanical failure?”

“Not the way I understand it,” Chet replied. “Something to do with public relations. Seems that quite a few people would like to foil the hydrofoill”

“Owl” Joe said. “Pretty corny pun.”

Chet stopped at a red light near Condor’s Photo Store. “Hey, Frank, let’s pick up the passport pictures while we’re here,” Joe suggested.

“Good idea. Chet, pull over for a minute, will you?”

Fenton Hardy and his operative Sam Radley had had their photos taken to renew their passports, which were always kept up to date. Chet parked in front of the shop and the Hardys hastened inside. Frank took Sam’s pictures, while Joe pocketed his father’s. They paid the photographer and soon were off again for the waterfront.

As they approached the dock where the Flying Express was berthed they could hear the tumult of the crowd gathered there. Small boat owners milled around, shouting and gesturing at the shiny white fiberglass vessel riding low in the water. Chet parked the car nearby and they all got out.

The ship’s sleek hull had enclosed cabins forward and aft, and a rakish pilot’s bridge. The windshields of the wheelhouse looked out over a metal deck. This forward deck obviously was not for passengers. The rear deck was slightly lower and guarded by white pipe railing.

“Quite a boat,” Frank said admiringly.

“She’s a hundred feet long and has accommodations for sixty passengers,” Chet explained, “with a top speed of seventy miles an hour.”

“I wonder what they have against a beauty like that,” Joe said, pointing toward a picket line carrying placards. In bold lettering one sign read:

STOP THE FLYING EXPRESS

MAKE BARMET BAY SAFE

“Beats me,” Frank replied. “I can’t see that she’ll get in anybody’s way as long as she slows down when she enters the harbor. Barmet Bay’s big enough for everybody.”

Chet had been inspecting the rest of the crowd. “Those kids near the slip are painting signs. I think I’ll mosey over for a closer look at their artistic productions—Hey, what’s this?”

One of the sign painters suddenly pushed a placard into his hand. Frank and Joe received the same treatment from a couple of paint-smeared teen-agers. Before they realized it, the Hardys and Chet were holding slogans of protest against the hydrofoil.

“Say, we have nothing to do with you guys!” Chet shouted angrily.

“Watch it!” Joe warned. “Here comes a TV news truck! Let’s get out of here!”

Hurriedly the boys threw down the placards. But it was too late! The truck had swept past, its lens pointing directly at them!

“Holy catfish! They got us!” Joe groaned.

Some of the pickets were yelling for a raid on the Flying Express. “Scuttle the hydrofoil!” one of them shouted. The rest took up the chant: “Scuttle the hydrofoil! Scuttle the hydrofoil!”

They were about to go into action when a police car rolled into the middle of the mob. Bayport’s chief of police got out and surveyed the disorder.

“We’ve got a complaint about this dock being blocked illegally,” Chief Collig boomed through a bullhorn. “I want some explanations. Let’s start with you two fellows- Well, if it isn’t Frank and Joe Hardy! How did you get involved?”

Chief Collig knew the Hardy boys well because they frequently helped their father with his detective cases. Their ability as amateur sleuths was known to practically everyone in Bayport, and they cooperated with the police whenever they could.

While Frank spoke to the chief, Chet slipped away to a group of sign painters, and began work ing with a brush and a piece of cardboard.

“Some pal, leaving us to face the music,” Joe thought.

“We’re not in this fracas, Chief!” Frank said. “We’re the most innocent bystanders you ever saw.”

A middle-aged woman rushed forward brandishing a finger at the Hardys. “Innocent my foot. I saw them! They were right in the middle of it.”

Chet, carrying a sign behind his back, edged his way into the group around Frank and Joe.

The woman was running out of breath. She finished by pointing to a placard on the ground, and declared triumphantly, “There, that’s one of the signs they were carrying! Look for yourself.”

“I’ll get it,” Chet said quickly. Stooping, he deftly switched placards and straightened up with the one he had been carrying. He pushed it into Frank’s hand, and raised the boy’s elbow so that everybody could read the words he had painted:

FRANK HARDY FOR MAYOR

A roar of laughter came from the crowd. Even Chief Collig showed the trace of a smile.

Frank glanced at the sign and winked at Chet.

By now the ugly mood of the protestors was evaporating. They began to drift away from the dock. Seeing that everything was under control, Chief Collig drove back to headquarters.

Frank, Joe, and Chet returned to the Hardy home. They were met at the door by the boys’ Aunt Gertrude, Fenton Hardy’s sister, who had come to live with the family some time ago. She was tall, angular, and had a no-nonsense look behind her spectacles. Although Aunt Gertrude scolded the boys for taking what she considered too many risks, she held her nephews in deepest affection.

“I hear there has been trouble at the waterfront,” she said sternly. “No doubt you were there!”

A roar of laughter came from the crowd

“Of course we were, Aunty.” Joe grinned. “But we spent most of our time with Chief Collig—on the right side of the law!”

Chet rolled his eyes at Aunt Gertrude. “How’s the food situation today? You wouldn’t happen to have any of my favorite pies in the house, would you?”

“Maybe I would, Chet. Come on into the kitchen!”

While she put big slices of rhubarb-and-strawberry pie on three plates, Frank took milk from the refrigerator. Then the trio carried their refreshments into the living room.

“You know,” Chet remarked between mouth fuls, “I still don’t know how a hydrofoil works.”

“At slow speeds, it floats on the surface like a boat,” Frank explained. “When the pilot revs up the motor, the hull rises clear of the water and skims along like a low flying aircraft. Neat invention, made by Enrico Forlanini in 1906.”

“You mean it actually takes off?” Chet asked.

“No. It never loses contact with the water because it stands on struts attached to submerged foils. They are shaped like wings to give a balancing effect.”

“I think I get it.”

“You see, Chet,” Frank continued, “as speed increases, the water flowing over the rounded top of the foils travels faster than the water underneath. That causes less pressure above, and gives the hull the lift to get clear of the surface. Same principle as a plane in the air.”

Chet downed his last piece of pie. “What about propulsion?”

Joe took up the explanation. “The U. S. Navy has done a great deal of experimenting, using everything from gasoline to jet engines. The Flying Express happens to be diesel-powered. The motor turns the screw propellers at the stern. A hydrofoil provides a fast, smooth ride, and it doesn’t create much of a wake.”

“Exactly,” Frank pointed out. “So why should the small boat owners object to a hydrofoil on Barmet Bay? It’s not going to swamp them. Accidents will happen, but you can say that of anything that sails. Today’s protest was mystifying, to say the least.”

Joe sighed. “You said it. Anyhow, it’s too bad we won’t be aboard on her first trip. We had planned to take Callie and Iola, but went for tickets too late.”

Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite date, and Joe enjoyed being with Chet’s sister Iola.

Chet put his glass down with a clank. “Jumping Gemini! I could have told you to save your time and energy. You and Callie are both Aries. Your horoscopes indicate that bad news is all you can expect right now since you were born under the sign of the Raml”

Frank and Joe exchanged knowing smiles. Chet was always involved in some new hobby. Just now it was astrology—casting horoscopes to discover the influence that the stars and planets are supposed to have upon a person’s life.

“So you’re reading Joe’s fate in the stars?” Frank joshed.

“Don’t laugh.” Chet spoke with an owlish air of solemnity. “You’re Scorpio. The sign of the Scorpion. The planets aren’t in the right conjunction for you this month either!”

“Do you really believe all that?”

“Sure I do. What was good enough for the ancient Egyptians is good enough for me.”

Chet adopted the tone of a professor lecturing to rather dimwitted students. It was a pose he enjoyed. “Listen carefully. A Scorpion likes to think things out, taking into account all the factors of a problem. He’s good at analyzing clues and motives. He’s a born leader. That’s you, Frank.”

Chet cleared his throat and went on, “An Arian is more of an activist. He dashes into all kinds of situations without worrying too much about consequences. He’s full of enthusiasm and good humor. That’s you, Joe. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

The Hardys agreed that it did. On many of their cases, Frank tended to be the leader because he could figure out the logical steps to take. Joe, on the other hand, was impetuous and refused to admit anything was impossible.

“Still,” Frank mused, “there are times when I’m more impulsive and—”

“Hey. Looks as if we’re getting company,” Joe interrupted his brother.

The other two boys joined Joe at the window. A man stopped and looked at the Hardy house. He strode past, turned around, paused, and squinted at the number again. Then he approached the front door.

“Here comes more bad news!” Chet quavered.

CHAPTER II

First Warning

THE bell rang. Joe headed for the door and admitted the stranger.

“I’m looking for Frank and Joe Hardy,” the man said.

“I’m Joe. Come on inside.”

Joe escorted the visitor into the living room and introduced Frank and Chet. The man seemed a bit jumpy, as if his nerves were on edge. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and twisted the brim of his felt hat between his fingers.

“My name is Spencer Given,” he began. “I’m here because I want you boys to ride on the Flying Express for a few runs, starting the day after tomorrow!”

Frank and Joe stared at each other in surprise. “Are you kidding?” Frank said. “We tried to get tickets days ago. They’re all sold out!”

“Don’t joke,” Given replied. “I happen to own the hydrofoil. And I’d like to hire you as detectives!”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “You expect trouble?”

“Well, the small boat owners of Bayport, the railroad, and the bus companies all resent the competition. That’s why they spread the rumor that the Flying Express wasn’t safe and that was the reason for the demonstration down at the dock today.”

Frank nodded. “We know.”

“Completely unfair!” Given exploded wrathfully. “Boats on Barmet Bay won’t be in any danger from my craft. And I won’t be taking any substantial number of patrons away from the trains and buses. Yet they won’t listen. They’re determined to drive me off the run to Cape Cutlass.”

The boys listened with growing interest.

“I don’t believe they’d stop at anything,” Given continued. “What’s got me worried is the possibility of sabotage—those foils and propellers are vulnerable.

“That’s why I want you on board. You could circulate among the passengers and keep your eyes open. If you spotted anyone up to mischief, you could blow the whistle on him.”

Frank pinched his lower lip. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “Since you’re looking for a detective, why didn’t you contact my father? Dad’s an old master at sabotage cases.”

“Fenton Hardy would be ideal,” Given admitted, “but he’s too high-priced for this assignment. Amateurs should be able to handle it. I want you two fellows because I’ve checked your records. You’re pretty good detectives who’ve cracked quite a few cases.”

The boys’ accomplishments in crime detection were almost as well known as those of their famous father. Their first success was solving the mystery of The Tower Treasure, and their recent adventure was known as The Disappearing Floor.

Frank turned to his brother. “What do you think, Joe?”

“I’m all for it,” Joe declared enthusiastically. He turned to Chet. “Want to give us a hand?”

Chet looked doubtful. “This—er—saboteur won’t be able to blow up the boat or something drastic like that, will he?”

Frank chuckled. “That’s what we’re hired for. To prevent any funny business he might have in mind. Well, Chet, you want to come or not?”

“Sure, sure. Somebody’s got to look after you!”

“Another point,” Joe put in. “Our girl friends would never forgive us if we traveled to Cape Cutlass without them. Do you think you could get us a couple of extra tickets, Mr. Given?”

Given wagged his head approvingly. “That’s not a bad idea! With your girls along no one will suspect that you’re there for any other purpose than the joy-ride. But I don’t want you to pay all your attention to the girls, now. Remember, you’ve got a job to do!”

“Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We’ll be on the ball.”

Given sighed in relief and extended a hand. “It’s a deal.”

Just then footsteps were heard on the stairs and Aunt Gertrude bustled into the living room. When she saw Given, she stopped short.

Frank introduced their visitor. “Aunt Gertrude, this is Mr. Given. He owns the hydrofoil.”

“Oh,” Aunt Gertrude said. “How do you do? I was just about to tune in the five-o‘clock news. There might be something on the waterfront trouble. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Given said as she snapped on the television set.

Frank and Joe exchanged appalled glances, remembering how the TV camera had isolated them in the midst of the anti-hydrofoil picketers. What would Given think of that? Better ease him out of the house pronto!

“No need for us to hold you any longer, Mr. Given,” Frank hinted broadly.

“Here’s your hat, Mr. Given,” Chet said quickly.

“Let me show you to the door, Mr. Given,” Joe offered as calmly as he could.

Their visitor started to leave but turned back to the living room. “Come to think of it, I’d better hear the news too. The trouble your aunt mentioned is of great concern to me. Let’s see if they show the Flying Express on the screen.”

“Good night, we’re sunk!” Joe whispered to Frank.

Too late to do anything about it now! The camera swept across the milling crowd on the dock, then focused on a group of three—Frank, Joe, and Chet! Each was holding an anti-hydrofoil placard!

Spencer Given turned purple with rage. “You were with the pickets trying to run me out of businessl” he shouted. “And to think I offered you a job! Well, you fooled me once, but never again! The deal’s off!”

“Mr. Given,” Frank pleaded, “this wasn’t our fault. Somebody pushed those signs—”

The TV picture changed to Chet doing his sleight-of-hand with the placards. In a moment he was holding up Frank’s arm. The lettering on the placard could be seen clearly:

FRANK HARDY FOR MAYOR

Aunt Gertrude chuckled at the antics of her nephews and their friend. “I think you owe the boys an apology, Mr. Given,” she said.

“Well, perhaps I do,” Given said sheepishly. “For a moment I thought somebody was stabbing me in the back. Anyway, the deal’s on as far as I’m concerned.”

The boys nodded their agreement.

All the while Chet had been sizing up the caller. Suddenly he blurted, “Mr. Given, when’s your birthday?”

The question took the boat owner by surprise. “What’s that got to do with my hydrofoil?”

“It might have a lot to—” Chet began, but Given was impatient.

“Cut the comedy,” he said and turned away.

Aunt Gertrude chuckled and said, “Now I’m curious, Chester,” she said. “Mr. Given, please give the boy your birth datel”

“March first,” Given grumbled.

Chet clucked sympathetically. “Too bad! You’re a Pisces, governed by the sign of the Fishes. That bodes ill at this phase of the moon!”

“Bah, what nonsense!” Given shook his head in disgust, said good-by to Aunt Gertrude, pulled on his hat, and left.

“I don’t think he takes your astrology very seriously, Chet,” Joe remarked with a laugh.

“Not as seriously as he takes his hydrofoil. That’s for sure,” Frank observed.

“But they go together!” Chet protested. “The unfavorable conjunction of the heavenly bodies relates to everything he does—and that includes his commuter service to Cape Cutlass. There’s a lot of trouble ahead for Given.”

Gertrude Hardy had been listening with mounting interest. “Chet Morton, what’s all this about you taking up astrology? Can you really cast horoscopes? How about mine?”

“Sure, Aunt Gertrude. But it takes time to read the stars. I can tell you a few things right off the bat, though. Day and month of birth, please.”

“Well, since you’re not asking for the year, I don’t mind telling you that I was born on August twenty-fifth. Which sign is that?”

Chet gulped, blushed, and evaded the gaze of his questioner.

“You—You’re a—a beautiful young goddess!” he stammered.

Aunt Gertrude blushed. “Chet Morton, you’re impossible!”

“Well, it’s Virgo, the sign of the Virgin,” Chet said lamely.

Aunt Gertrude smoothed her hair with one hand. “Go on!”

Chet continued the analysis. “Virgos have great analytical ability. They know how to get to the heart of important matters without wasting time on inconsequential details. They’re also sensitive persons who enjoy dealing with other people, and they prefer the simple life. They talk a lot, which is all right because they often have something to say that’s really worthwhile.”

Miss Hardy looked pleased.

“The stars insist you’d make a good critic or perhaps a repairman!” Chet went on.

Miss Hardy looked at him through her steel-rimmed spectacles and giggled. “Thank you, Chet. I can’t say that I’m charmed by that repairman bit! The rest, however, is quite satisfactory. If every horoscope you draw up is as complimentary as mine, you’ll have more friends than you need.”

Chet grinned.

“I’ll see that you get a big slice of my angel food cake as a reward,” Aunt Gertrude concluded as she pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen.

“How about your own horoscope, Chet?” Joe inquired teasingly.

“I’m Cancer. The sign of the Crab. You fellows can probably guess that I’m fated to be a good cook! The signs haven’t been on my side recently, but I’m happy to report that a change is coming. The moon and the Crab ...”

The ringing of the phone interrupted Chet. Joe picked it up. An unfamiliar voice came through.

“Hardy?”

“Joe Hardy speaking.”

“I have a message for you and your brother.”

“Go ahead.” Joe motioned Frank and Chet to put their ears close to the receiver.

“We’ve heard about you gadflies. Take a friendly word of advice. If you’re smart, you’ll have nothing more to do with Spencer Given. Turn down whatever deal he offered you and get out while you’re still in one piece.”

“Who are you?” Joe demanded.

“Never mind. And by the way, don’t ride on the Flying Express. It’s dangerous!”

The man hung up.

CHAPTER III

Hot Merchandise

“LEAPING Librasl” Chet blurted out. “Who was that?”

Joe replaced the instrument. “No way of telling.” He frowned. “But he doesn’t like Hardy and Company.”

“Still he wasn’t really interested in us,” Frank said. “His purpose was to give a warning about the Flying Express. I’ve a hunch he’s one of Spencer Given’s enemies.”

“Could be,” Joe said. “Probably tailed Given to our house, figured out a deal was in the offing, and made his move to scare us off before we got near the hydrofoil. He must have phoned from somewhere near the house after he saw Given leave.”

“The corner phone booth two blocks away!” Frank exclaimed. “He may still be there!”

The three raced out of the house and down the street. They were a block away from the phone booth when the doors folded inward. They saw a flash of blond hair and a maroon dress on the figure that emerged, slipped hurriedly into a foreign sports car, and sped off.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! It’s a woman!” Joe gasped. “But the caller sounded like a man!”

“Maybe she has a deep voice,” Frank said. “Let’s see if she left any clues to her identity.”

The Hardys gave the booth a rapid once-over without finding anything. Then Chet went in, flipped open the coin return slot, and extracted a dime.

“Jupiter is fully aligned with Uranus!” He chuckled. “No wonder my luck has changed! If it holds up from here on out, I’ll only need a one-way ticket to Cape Cutlass!”

“Now what does that mean?” Frank inquired.

“Can’t tell you yet,” Chet replied mysteriously. “My horoscope says I’d better stay mum for the time being. I’ll let you in on it when the signs are more favorable.”

Joe, who had been scrutinizing the area, bent over and plucked something from the gutter. He held the object up with a significant wink. It was a thick cigar butt, still burning. The other end was smudged with lipstick.

“That was no lady,” he quipped. “It was a man with a taste for smelly black stogies.”

Frank nodded. “Pretty clever way to trail friend Given. He’s in a tizzy about boatmen and trainmen and bus drivers. But he wouldn’t suspect a blonde in a sports car.”

Chet looked worried. He realized that the threat was not an idle one. And Chet had an aversion to danger, even though the Hardys could always count on him when help was needed.

“Maybe he or she or whatever it was will blow up the Flying Express after all,” he said. “Do you suppose we should get the police in on it?”

“No. Given certainly doesn’t want that. It would be bad publicity for his boat. Also, there’s nothing definite to base a complaint on,” Frank decided.

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you, Chet?” Joe teased.

“Who, me? Of course not.”

“All right, then let’s go on with the game.”

That evening Fenton Hardy returned home. He was surprised to learn that his sons had made a deal with Spencer Given to guard the Flying Express.

“I’ve heard about the man,” Mr. Hardy said. “He’s a shrewd operator. Speculates in real estate and hopes he can trigger a land boom on Cape Cutlass by means of his hydrofoil. You can see why he’s concerned. He’s staking a fortune on the success of the Flying Express.”

“He must have quite a bit of money,” Frank put in.

“He does. But he’s known to be rather stingy.”

Frank and Joe laughed. “We noticed that. He told us that he couldn’t afford to hire you. That’s why we got the job.”

Mr. Hardy grinned. “Well, you know what you’re doing. No doubt you’ll have an exciting ride to Providence. Just keep an eye open for that wolf in disguise you mentioned, or it might be too exciting for comfort.”

“We will,” Joe promised.

“Meanwhile, I’m leaving for Shark Island. The State Police have asked me to track down a gang who specialize in stripping small craft. They’re clever pros with a profitable gimmick.”

“What is it?” Joe asked eagerly.

“It seems that first they go around taking orders for engines, props, radios, anything needed to keep a boat operating in the water,” Mr. Hardy said. “Then they case the shoreline for unprotected boats.”

“What a racket!” Frank reflected. “Satisfaction guaranteed! Orders filled right on time with hot merchandise!”

“That’s about the size of it,” Mr. Hardy concurred. “They haven’t gotten this far north yet, so I’m going down to Shark Island to do some undercover work.”

“That’s about fifty miles below Cape Cutlass, isn’t it?” Joe asked.

“Right. It seems like a logical lair for the gang, especially since most of the activity is going on around there.”

“Dad, maybe we can help you,” Frank suggested. “We’ll only be tied up with Given for a few runs!”

“There’s not much you boys can do for me at this point in the case. I won’t have a clear picture until I’ve snooped around Shark Island. However, it would be a good idea for you to keep in touch. Here’s my phone number.” Mr. Hardy handed Frank a slip of paper.

“Also,” he went on, “you’d better activate the electronic beeper on the Sleuth. Even though there haven’t been any thefts up here yet, the gang might expand at any time.”

Frank nodded. “And we certainly don’t want to lose our boat!”

Mrs. Hardy packed her husband’s bag. She was a slender, pretty woman who had long since learned what a detective needed in the field. Disguises, bugging devices, emergency rations—all went into the suitcase before she snapped it shut.

Shortly afterward Fenton Hardy was on his way to Shark Island.

At breakfast the next morning the phone rang. Joe reached for the instrument with suppressed excitement. “If it’s Dad, perhaps he’s got an assignment for us already!”

The voice of Chet Morton bubbled through the receiver. “Guess what? Lady Luck is really smiling today. I’ve got a job!”

“No kidding? As an astrologer?” Joe asked.

“Of course not. I wanted to work for the summer, so I had applied at the Starfish Marina in Cape Cutlass a while ago. Naturally I didn’t expect any answer while the Cancerian conjunctions weren’t right.”

Joe whistled. “I see. But now they are?”

“Yes sir. The moon is marching on through the Zodiac. The owner phoned and told me to report immediately. That’s what I meant yesterday when I said I might only need a one-way ticket.”

“Well, that’s great, Chet. But what about our sleuthing on the hydrofoil? If you’re leaving right away—”

“Who said I won’t wait till tomorrow?” Chet pretended to be hurt. “I promised you I’d come along. I’m a man of my word!”

“Okay. We’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Frank and Joe started out early the next day to pick up their friends. Callie and Iola were waiting in front of the Morton farm.

“Chet left already,” Iola called out. “He said he had some sleuthing work to do—on his own!”

The two girls were attractive in different ways. Iola Morton, a brunette, had mobile features, sparkling eyes, and a lot of vitality. She was wearing a pink suit. Callie Shaw was blond, tall, and slender. She wore a yellow skirt and striped jacket.

As they were driving toward the dock, Iola remarked, “I think it was just swell of you boys to invite us along on the Flying Express.”

“I think so, too,” Callie declared. “How did you ever manage to get the tickets?”

Joe did the explaining while Frank drove. Callie sat up straight, her hands in her lap, and stated primly, “Well, we might have known! Whenever Frank and Joe take us out, we’re bound to end up in the middle of a mystery!”

“I’m not complaining.” Iola laughed. “A ride on the Flying Express is worth a mystery!”

Frank parked the car and the four got into the line of passengers boarding the hydrofoil. Joe presented the tickets that Spencer Given had provided, and they stepped onto the deck.

Everything was new and shiny, an attractive combination of fiberglass, chromium, and highly polished wood. The pilot, a salty man about thirty, sat behind the wheel. Given stood beside him, beaming with satisfaction.

“I hope Chet gets here on time,” Joe remarked. “Didn’t he tell you anything about where he was going?”

Iola shook her head. “No. He said he’d meet us on the Flying Express. He was sure he wouldn’t have any trouble getting aboard, since Given invited him.”

Frank and Joe walked around the narrow rear deck while Callie and Iola stepped down into the long cabin, where comfortable seats were arranged in rows on either side of a center aisle. The passengers were chatting gaily, but Chet was not among them.

Finally the Hardys came inside. “Chet didn’t make the scene,” Frank reported.

As he spoke, the engine started with a muffled roar and the Flying Express began to move. Slowly it churned away from the pier and out into Barmet Bay.

“Chet’s got me worried,” Joe said anxiously as the waves flashed by more quickly.

The hull rose above the surface of the water and the foils beneath came into view. Soon the Flying Express was skimming at top speed out across the bay on its way to Providence.

“Certainly no sabotage on that take-off,” Iola commented with a thrill in her voice.

“So far so good,” Joe agreed. “If the rest of the trip is like this, Mr. Given should be a happy man by the time we get to Cape Cutlass.”

Frank rubbed his cheek. “That’s where we come in. It’s our business to see that the Flying Express does have a smooth trip. The take-off is only the beginning. There’ll be many more chances for sabotage farther down the bay.”

He turned to the girls. “You two can enjoy yourselves while we have a look-see. Joe, suppose you take the bow and find out if anything’s stirring. I’ll take the stern. We can compare notes afterward.”

Iola and Callie settled into comfortable lounge seats. Joe went forward. Everything seemed peaceful throughout the vessel.

Frank stepped onto a catwalk at the stern. The wind buffeted him and he had to hang onto the railing. Below him a foil hissed along the surface and the propellers kicked up white foam. Fascinated by the hydrofoil’s principle of physics, he leaned over for a better look.

Suddenly Frank sensed someone creeping up behind him. He tried to dodge. Too late! A pair of hands struck him heavily between the shoulders, flipping him over the side!

Down he plunged toward the protruding foil —and toward the churning propeller beneath it!

CHAPTER IV

A Near Miss

WILDLY Frank threw his arms out. His hands clutched the upper end of the foil and braked his descent.

For a moment he teetered there, straining every muscle to save himself from falling onto the deadly propeller, whirling like a buzz saw only a few feet below. His grip held! Frank pulled himself against the foil. He wrapped his arms tightly around it, lifting his feet clear of the foaming water which tore at his body. His shouts for help were soundless in the din.

How long could his strength endure? The foil was slippery under his fingers because of the spray washing over it. Desperately Frank tried to hold on. But his grip was beginning to weaken! He started to slide down the foil toward the water! In a moment he would be caught in the propeller !

Frantically he glanced up, and with hazy vision was amazed to see a girl looking down. Spotting Frank half in the water, she froze momentarily, then shouted for help.

“Man overboard! Man overboard!”

Joe had gone to the stern to join Frank. He had just climbed to the rear deck when he heard the warning cry. Instinctively he knew that Frank was in trouble and rushed to alert the pilot, who cut the power.

The propellers stopped whirling and the Flying Express settled slowly to a stop in the middle of the bay. Joe and the pilot lowered a line and Frank was pulled onto the deck.

“Just in time,” Frank gasped as he sat down, exhausted.

Spencer Given pushed through the knot of gawking passengers. His face showed the familiar tinge of purple that the boys had noticed the day he had come to the Hardys’ house.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he fumed. “You might have damaged my boat!”

“Mr. Given,” Frank protested, “your boat might have damaged me! It was touch-and-go down there!”

“Is this any time for joking? How’s the foil and the propeller?” Given asked. Told that they were in good working condition, he stalked back to the bridge.

“Real huff he’s in,” Joe remarked.

“I guess he has a right to be,” Frank said in a low voice. “A detective should know better than to go up on a catwalk alone when he suspects there’s a saboteur on the prowl. We’re here to prevent trouble not to invite it.”

He stood up shakily as the engine sent vibrations along the metal deck. “By the way, where’s the girl who gave the alarm? I’d like to tell her how grateful I am.”

They inquired among the passengers, but no one had noticed the girl.

“Was she pretty?” Callie asked, sounding a trifle jealous.

“I didn’t have time to notice,” Frank replied.

The crowd dispersed slowly and the young detectives stepped down into the rear cabin.

By now the Flying Express had picked up speed again. The passengers were relieved that the man overboard had been rescued so quickly.

But they were greatly disturbed by the incident. Complaints and criticism flew back and forth. Would they get to Cape Cutlass on time? No one knew. Would they get there at all?

The hydrofoil passed dozens of small craft sailing the bay or riding at anchor. The appearance of the big boat caused a sensation. Boys and girls cheered. Women waved gaily colored handkerchiefs. But quite a few skippers shook their fists and glared as the Flying Express flashed by.

Spencer Given came up behind the Hardys while they were viewing the spectacle. “There!” he erupted violently. “See those fellows on that launch shaking their fists at us? That’s the kind of thing I have to expect. Stay on guard! This trip’s not over by a long shot! We can’t trust anybody who navigates anything on Barmet Bay!”

“What about anybody who flies over Barmet Bay?” Joe pointed at a plane overhead. “That guy in the sky is definitely playing tag. He’s been following us right down the bay, sticking to us like a guided missile homing in on target.”

“Wonder what’s he up to?” Frank asked.

The pilot provided the answer. Lining his plane up, with the hydrofoil about a mile astern, he gave it the gun, and swooped down.

“That plane’s going to crash into us!” someone shouted in terror. Panic broke out. There was a headlong dash for the exit.

With jaws clenched Frank and Joe waited for the impact, holding on firmly to Callie and Iola.

“Oh, Joe, I’m so scared!” Iola shuddered.

At the last possible moment the pilot leveled out. The plane roared over the hydrofoil from stern to bow, coming so close that the sounds of its engines were deafening.

“No markings!” Joe registered the fact instantaneously. “They must be covered with tape, otherwise they’d be clearly visible at the altitude that fellow flies!”

Frank nudged him and pointed to the bottom of the fuselage where a heavy wooden log was fastened with clamps just behind the wheels. The next second the clamps opened and the log plummeted into the sea directly in front of the speeding hydrofoill

The skipper of the Flying Express twisted the wheel and swung his craft sharply to one side. Some passengers were knocked down; others slid off the seats.

The big boat shuddered as it turned, but the pilot pulled her bow away from the log. It grazed and bumped the foils on one side, then disappeared astern.

“Quick thinking by the fellow in the wheelhouse!” Frank exclaimed. “If we’d hit that log, the hull might have been staved!”

“There goes the plane! No hope of identifying him now!” Joe said. “Well, I’d better let Dad know about this incident. I can contact him on Shark Island through the ship’s radiotelephone.”

Mr. Hardy answered the call. Joe related Frank’s near accident and the plane episode to his father, who agreed that the whole affair was becoming dangerous. He advised the boys to be extremely alert and not to take any chances.

“There are dozens of planes of that make at the airfields near Bayport,” Fenton Hardy pointed out. “On the other hand, it could have been flown in from some place else just for this job.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “The pilot might be a lone wolf with a contract to knock off the Flying Express.”

“If so, that makes it all the worse. It means that the ringleader will stop at nothing. You’d better warn Given. Stay on guard and keep in touch!”

Joe reported the conversation to his brother.

“Mr. Given can expect trouble,” Frank said. “Big trouble. And I don’t need Chet’s star charts to make that prophesy!”

Joe nodded. “Let’s go talk to our client.”

They found Given in the rear cabin. He complained that he would be ruined financially if the Flying Express suffered any more delays.

“Trouble!” he snorted derisively. “Of course I’ve got trouble! But there might be less of it if you two would show me some real detective work. And don’t forget I have a return trip this evening! I expect you to do better on the way back to Bayport than you’ve done since we left it!”

“We’ll be on the alert, Mr. Given,” Frank assured him. “You can depend on it.”

As the Hardys walked up the narrow steps to the apparently deserted stern deck, Joe said soberly, “We’ll have to come up with something double-quick to show Given he didn’t make a mistake by hiring us. But what?”

“Like stopping a fight!” Frank exclaimed. “Look!”

Near the stern railing two females were fighting like cats.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Rather unladylike ! Let’s break it up before one of them loses her hair! ..

The two were wrestling along the rail, kicking and punching wildly. One was a blonde in a dark-green dress. The other was a rather heavy-set brunette in a light-blue dress torn in several places.

Suddenly the brunette struck a blow with her fist straight from the shoulder. The blonde took the full force of the punch, reeled backward, hit the rail, and flipped over into the water.

Frank and Joe grabbed her assailant. The torn dress shredded in their grasp. The black hair came loose and fell to the deck. The Hardys gaped.

Standing before them, blowing and wheezing, and nursing a skinned knuckle, stood Chet Morton!

CHAPTER V

The Mysterious Artist

CHET had a pained expression on his usually beaming countenance. He puffed like a porpoise, his torn dress revealing a checkered shirt and blue jeans. Between gasps he explained that he had come aboard the Flying Express in disguise to do some sleuthing of his own.

“But you were fighting with a lady, Chet,” Joe protested indignantly.

“Lady! Are you kidding? That’s the man we spotted coming out of the phone booth in Bayport. He wore a maroon dress before!”

“Ouch!” Joe exclaimed. “What numskulls we’ve been! Better start a rescue operation pronto!”

“Save your energy,” Frank said. “It’s too late.” He pointed to the man in the water, who had no intention of being picked up by the hydrofoil. While his blond wig drifted away on the tide, he ripped off his dress and with vigorous strokes swam rapidly away from the hydrofoil.

“Expert at the Australian crawl,” Frank commented. “But he’ll have a problem making it from this distance.”

“He won’t have to,” Joe said. “Look!”

A speedboat came racing over the wave tops. Its driver curved around in a circle of foaming white water and threw out a line. The swimmer climbed in and the boat made for shore.

The boys watched glumly.

“That boat must have been tailing us all along,” Frank observed. “Maybe the skipper was watching the fight through binoculars.”

“How did you latch on to our ‘girl friend,’ Chet?” Joe wanted to know.

“I drove into town this morning to get a prescription for my mother. Blondie was in the drugstore, asking for motion-sickness pills in her lovely deep voice. She mentioned the hydrofoil. So I thought it might be fun to tail the disguise in disguise.”

Joe laughed. “Considering how little time you had, you did a good job on your outfit.”

“I borrowed one of my mother’s dresses and Iola’s wig. They don’t know it, though.”

“Wait till your sister finds out. She won’t like this!”

Frank picked up the disheveled hairpiece and handed it to Chet, who stuffed it inside his shirt. Then he pulled off the tatters of his mother’s dress and deposited the bundle of rags in the sea.

“We thought you had missed the boat,” Frank said as the dress disappeared in the wake.

“No. As a matter of fact, I got here early. Spotted Blondie on board and tailed her. I lost her once, briefly, and then found her again leaving the stern in a hurry. I looked down and saw you riding the foil, Frank! So I yelled for help.”

Frank whistled. “And Callie wanted to know if my female rescuer was pretty!”

The boys laughed.

“Let’s go get some chow,” Chet suggested. “That sea air and this nerve-racking detective work gave me an appetite!”

They met Iola and Callie in the lounge. While they were munching on sandwiches they had brought along, Chet explained his private sleuthing to the girls, leaving out the part of the disguise, however.

“Hey,” Joe said after a while, “we’re losing speed!”

The motors of the Flying Express diminished to a low purr and the hull sank gradually until it hit the water, moving forward in the manner of an ordinary boat.

Through the loudspeaker boomed the voice of the pilot: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to dock at Providence! Watch your step going ashore.”

The Hardys and their friends filed onto the dock, and walked up into the quaint town with its gray-shingled houses. Souvenir shops and seafood restaurants lined the main street. Tourists milled around and mingled with the denizens of the Cape Cutlass artists’ colony—good-looking girls in slacks with wind-blown hair and suntanned men wearing beards and sandals.

Callie and Iola were entranced by the artcraft shops. They dragged the boys into one after the other until Chet protested, “This hike is too much for me. You girls appear to be in training. Suppose you go it alone!”

Frank and Joe agreed. They were standing in front of a place called the Decor Shop, which specialized in feminine attire. Knickknacks filled the display window, along with carved driftwood and mannequins in colorful swimsuits, beach-wear, and casual summer dresses.

“Okay, fellows.” Iola said. “You disappear for a couple of hours while we look around.”

“We’ll meet you later at the Pizza Palace down the street,” Callie added.

The boys moved off as the girls vanished into the Decor Shop.

“What shall we do now?” Joe asked.

Chet glanced at his watch. “I’m just about due at the Starfish Marina. How about coming with me? I’ll introduce you to my new boss.”

The owner of the marina was A1 Hinkley, a typical seafaring type, tanned from years of exposure to wind and salt air, crinkle-eyed from hours of gazing at distant horizons from ships beyond sight of land. He gave the Hardys a friendly welcome, and said that Chet’s job would be that of an all-around assistant.

The youth would check the boats as they were hired, keep them tanked up with gas, rent fishing rods and nets, and service the skippers who moored there.

“Quite a responsible position,” Chet boasted to his friends. “Hardly a sailor will be able to make it out into the bay without my expertise!”

A1 Hinkley corrected him mildly. “Not quite, Chet. We have strong competition. Still, I do run a profitable business here, and I want to stay in business. So be careful about counting the boats every day. I can’t afford to lose any.”

Frank and Joe strolled around the Starfish Marina and admired the boats at anchor.

Joe noticed a man about fifty yards away. He sat at an easel, wielding a brush. But there was something odd about him. Each time a person walked close enough to see his painting he quickly put a blank canvas over it.

“Frank, look at that guy. Wonder why he’s so secretive?” Joe asked.

Frank observed the artist for a while and shrugged. “Maybe he’s shy.”

“I’m going to take a stroll and check out his masterpiece if I can,” Joe said.

When he approached, the man hurriedly picked up his blank canvas, placed it over the painting on the easel, and gave Joe an angry glare. Baffled, Joe walked back to the Starfish Marina.

“I know artists are supposed to be sensitive,” he told his brother, “but this guy is a little too jumpy to be for real. I vote that we go all-out to see what his art work looks like.”

Borrowing a pair of high-powered binoculars from Chet, who was now in charge of the marina, the Hardys found a vantage point behind a pile of fish nets, from where they had a clear view of the easel.

Joe focused on the painting, studied it, and handed the glasses to his brother. Frank peered through them.

“Why, it’s a detailed drawing of the marina!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “From the jetty to the boats at anchor!”

“It’s not a painting, it’s a layout. And he’s trying to conceal it,” Joe summed it up. “Fishy?”

“Fishy. Let’s talk to him.”

Just then the man folded his easel, jammed it under his arm with his canvasses, jumped from the dock into a speedboat tied up there, and roared off.

“Too late!” Joe grumbled.

“It’s a detailed drawing of the marina!”. Frank exclaimed

They went back to the boathouse. Chet listened to their story about the mysterious stranger, and promised to keep an eye on him if he should return to the area.

“Incidentally,” Chet went on, “Mr. Hinkley is an interesting character. He’s a Lion.”

“So what? Dad’s a Rotarian,” Joe said.

“That’s not what I mean. Mr. Hinkley was born under the sign of Leo. Trouble is, that makes him fire!”

Joe frowned. “Quit your doubletalk, Chet. Is that some more astrological lore?”

Chet stated authoritatively. “Each sign of the Zodiac is either earth, air, fire, or water. Mr. Hinkley is fire because he’s Leonine. As a Cancerian, I’m water. Not a good combination! Water goes better with earth. Now if only he were earth! Between us we’d be growing a bumper crop of—”

“Grass!” Joe interjected.

“No siree, fat green dollar bills. One of us was born at the wrong time.” Chet sighed mournfully. “Well, see you later.”

He went off to take care of a customer, and the Hardys walked back into town for their appointed meeting with the girls. But Callie and Iola were not in the Pizza Palace.

“They must still be on their shopping spree,” Frank complained. “Let’s go back where we left them!”

The Decor Shop was closed when they got there.

“What now?” Joe inquired irritably. “Do we have to look all over Cape Cutlass for them?”

Frank peered through the window. Suddenly he started as if he could not believe his eyes. “The girls are inside!” he cried. “I can see them, but something’s wrong! They’re sitting on stools with their heads on a display case! I’d swear they’re unconscious!”

The boys banged on the door and shouted. But the only response was the echo of their own voices. The figures did not move.

Thoroughly alarmed, Frank told Joe, “You stay here and do what you can! I’m going for the police.”

He ran down the street, through the crowds that had dwindled with the closing of the shops. Music drifted out of the Pizza Palace. People were turning off the sidewalks into the restaurants for dinner.

At the end of the avenue Frank caught sight of a blue uniform. He ran to the policeman. “Officer, am I glad to see you!” he burst out. Quickly he explained what had happened—how the girls had failed to keep their rendezvous after shopping and how they were now locked in the Decor Shop.

“We’ll see about this!” the policeman said, leading the way up the street on the run.

When they joined Joe at the Decor Shop, the police officer forced the door open.

The burglar alarm went off with a terrific racket, bringing a crowd of passers-by to the scene. They craned their necks for a view of the interior. More policemen came in a patrol car and cor doned off the area.

The Hardys took no notice of the turmoil. They hastened over to the motionless figures on the floor and halted dumbfounded.

They were mannequins—dummies wearing Callie’s and Iola’s jackets!

CHAPTER VI

Collision Course!

FRANK and Joe scurried through the Decor Shop in search of Callie and Iola. Frank peered under the counters, opened closets, and fingered his way along rows of dresses hanging on the racks. Joe took the office first, and then went into the storeroom, where he rummaged through crates and barrels.

Converging in the middle of the store once again, they shook their heads in distress. The policeman had been inspecting the doors and windows. There was no indication of forced entry.

“Hank,” the officer called to one of the men from the patrol car, “let’s get Mrs. Lane down here. She owns the place.”

“Roger.” Hank got into his car and drove off. About fifteen minutes later he was back with a gray-haired, middle-aged lady. She gasped in amazement when she saw her mannequins in Callie’s and Iola’s jackets.

“Those dummies were in the window when I went home,” she insisted. “I can’t imagine why anyone would set up a fake scene like that.... The two girls? ... No, I don’t remember seeing them. But then I see so many girls during the day. I do hope nothing has happened to them!”

“Amen to that!” Frank said anxiously. “But we’ve got to find them pretty soon or else sound a general alarm that they’ve been kidnapped!”

While the policeman talked to Mrs. Lane, Joe took Frank aside.

“It’s only an hour and a quarter until the Flying Express starts for Bayport. We’ve promised to be on board! What’ll we do?”

Frank replied, “We can’t go without Callie and Iola. Wait a minute! Mrs. Lane doesn’t remember the girls. But maybe one of her employees does. Suppose we get on the phone and question all of them?”

They told their plan to the policeman. “Good thinking,” he said. “You boys man the phones in the office while I make out my report.”

Mrs. Lane supplied a list of her employees and the boys began dialing.

“Zero!” Joe reported, breaking the connection after his first call.

“Same here,” his brother said disconsolately. “Let’s hope we have better luck with the rest.”

Thoroughly dejected, Joe reached the last name on his list. A part-time clerk answered.

“Yes,” she replied to Joe’s query. “I remember those two girls.”

Beckoning Frank to listen in by way of the extension, Joe begged the clerk to go on.

“Not much to add,” the voice said. “All I saw was that they were having a conversation with a man. Then the three of them left together.”

“Who was he? Do you know his name?”

“Yes—Rance Nepo. He runs the photography store around the corner.”

“Thank you,” Joe said, and hung up. “There’s our lead, Frank!” He grabbed the jackets, and together the boys ran to the photography store. It was a small place, with dust-covered cameras, rolls of film, and art books in the windows. As they entered, a warning bell jangled.

From the back room emerged a red-haired man with a stubble beard. “Are you Rance Nepo?” Frank asked.

The man cracked the knuckles of one hand in the palm of the other.

“Why, yes,” he said. “Need some film?”

“No,” Frank said and quickly introduced himself and Joe. Then he inquired about the girls. “We heard you talked with them and that they left with you,” he said.

Nepo admitted that Callie and Iola had accompanied him out of the Decor Shop.

“Nothing wrong with that, was there?”

“Of course not, Mr. Nepo. But please try to remember. Perhaps the girls mentioned where they were going next?”

Nepo went on. “The blonde was interested in miniature flash bulbs. She’d just bought some kind of figurine decorated with them. I heard her ask where she could get more. The clerk said she had no idea, so I introduced myself and said I had that sort of information at my place.”

“So they came here with you?” Frank asked, surprised.

“Yes. I let them look up the company in Photographer’s Guidebook. When they found what they were looking for, they left. Said they were going to the Pizza Palace to meet a couple of fellows who would probably be late.”

“Thanks. That’s us!” Frank said.

Nepo snickered. “Good luck with the girls! I think you may need it!”

Frank and Joe thanked him and left. “Let’s try the Pizza Palace again,” Frank said tensely.

They entered and scanned the restaurant anxiously.

“There they are!” Joe said.

They found Callie and Iola seated at a table for four.

“Where have you two vagabonds been all this time?” Callie demanded irately.

“Don’t you realize,” Iola added, “that the Flying Express is leaving in a little while?”

“Wait a sec,” Joe retorted. “Frank and I were here on time. You were nowhere on the horizon, so we went looking.”

“Must have just missed you,” Callie said, smiling.

“What worrywarts!” said Iola. She beckoned to a waiter, who instantly brought the pizzas pies they had ordered. Frank’s and Joe’s were loaded with pepperoni.

“Your reward,” Callie teased.

Before they started to eat, Frank called the police and reported that the girls had turned up, then went back to the table.

“This hasn’t been our day!” Iola said. “Our jackets were stolen while we were in the camera shop. I can’t imagine—”

She broke off as Frank produced the two garments from behind his back. “How did you ever—?”

“We’ll tell you later,” Frank interrupted. “Let’s get going or we’ll miss the boat!”

Joe paid the check and they dashed through Providence to the dock.

The Flying Express was still there. Two minutes later she moved out into deep water, gathered speed, and gradually raised her hull into the air for the run back to Bayport.

Spencer Given approached Frank and Joe with a forlorn expression. “Notice anything different this trip?”

Frank looked around. “Obviously we don’t have as many passengers.”

“That’s the point. A lot of people think that the Flying Express isn’t safe. They’ve dropped us! They’re traveling home to Bayport by bus. You understand what I’m up against.”

“We understand, Mr. Given,” said Joe. “We’ll do our best to restore confidence in your commuter service.”

“So will we,” Callie said. “Iola and I would recommend the Flying Express to anybody!”

Given permitted himself a thin smile. “Thank you. We’ll see how your boy friends do on the return trip.”

The four settled down in the lounge and the Hardys told of their harrowing experience at the Decor Shop.

“So! You thought we were dummies!” Callie said. “Iola, I don’t know how we should take that!”

“It’s not funny,” Frank said. “We thought you were hurt.”

“We know,” Iola said, and put her head on Joe’s shoulder.

Frank asked, “Are you sure you didn’t lose the jackets?”

“They were definitely stolen!” Callie declared. “We had them when we went into Rance Nepo’s shop. While we were getting the address of the flash-bulb company, they disappeared. We thought one of the customers had taken them.”

“Or,” Iola conjectured doubtfully, “it could have been Mr. Nepo. We didn’t exactly keep him under surveillance while we were going through Photographer’s Guidebook.”

“You’re right. We can’t count out anyone at this point.”

“The whole thing seems so childish,” Iola said.

Frank shook his head. “I doubt that it was merely a prank,” he said. “There’s more behind it.”

“It could be a warning of some kind,” Joe said.

“Or else someone wanted to keep us here. Delay us enough so we’d miss the boat. Maybe some dirty work has been planned for this trip!”

The group fell silent, thinking it over, and Frank broke the spell.

“All we can do right now,” he said, rising, “is circulate and keep a sharp eye on all the passengers.”

“Let’s separate,” Callie suggested. “Iola and I’ll go forward; you boys go aft.”

They strolled around, casually pausing to chat with people. Frank and Joe passed the girls twice, but neither had anything to report.

Later Joe remarked to his brother, “We’re almost at Bayport. Nothing has happened so far.”

“Keep your fingers crossed!” Frank replied.

Dusk was beginning to fall as the Flying Express headed into Bayport Harbor. The lights of the city flickered in the distance and a rising moon cast silvery rays over the water. Small craft were converging on the docks from every point in Barmet Bay.

The pilot of the Flying Express cut his engines and the hydrofoil slowed for the approach to her berth, a few hundred yards off the bow.

People began to stir, collecting their belongings or simply waiting for the moment when the gangplank would be lowered.

The Hardys stood on deck, near the pilot and Spencer Given, watching the activities in the harbor. Through the dim light two powerboats, one behind the other, streaked in at right angles to the hydrofoil’s course.

“I hope those guys have the common sense to change their course!” Joe muttered.

A moment later Frank yelled the warning:

“They’re not veering off! They must be a couple of lunatics! Hold on tight. There’s going to be a crack-up!”

It was too late for the pilot to do anything but watch in horrified incredulity. Given winced, and ducked as if he could not bear to see what was about to happen.

The first powerboat flashed across the bow of the Flying Express, missing the bigger craft by a hair‘s-breadth, and vanished into the darkness of the bay.

The powerboat following behind never had a chance. As the hydrofoil plowed into it amidships there came the sickening sound of splintering wood!

CHAPTER VII

Diver’s Peril

THE whistle aboard the Flying Express shrieked as the pilot threw the hydrofoil into reverse. Passengers screamed in fright and questions flew back and forth.

“How did it happen?”

“Was anybody killed?”

Frank and Joe did not wait for answers. Instead they raced for the life preservers hanging from the cabin walls and flung them into the bay.

After kicking off their shoes, they dived into the cold water.

The boys scanned the gloomy waters for the sight of a bobbing head. Nothing. Not even a piece of flotsam could be seen in the semidarkness.

“This job is too big for us!” Frank called to Joe. “They’ll have to bring in the Coast Guard!”

By the time the Hardys had climbed back aboard, a message for help had been sent. Within half an hour two Coast Guard cutters converged on Barmet Bay. Their searchlights probed the misty darkness, illuminating the place where the powerboat had been hit. An officer directed the search from the pilot house of the Flying Express. He ordered his subordinates to scout the bay in a crisscross pattern.

The Hardys had worked with the Coast Guard on previous cases. They knew these professional sailors would find anything afloat. Their faith was soon rewarded.

“Debris here, sir,” came a voice from the darkness. “The stern and part of the sides of the powerboat. Shall we tow it ashore?”

“Roger! We’ll be coming right behind you for an inspection of the wreckage.”

Spencer Given had been waiting, pacing up and down in despair. “Thank goodness for that order! My passengers are threatening to swim to shore if we keep sitting out here in the bay. I’m just thankful that the hydrofoil hasn’t been ruined—only a dent in the bow that can be repaired. I wish my nerves could be repaired as easily!”

The Coast Guard officer nodded to the pilot, who started the motors again and brought the Flying Express slowly up to the dock. Ropes were cast onto the jetty and quickly secured around the metal bollards. The gangplank fell into place and the passengers streamed ashore, many of them grumbling that they were late for dinner.

Frank told the girls to drive home in the Hardys’ car, while the boys went over to the Coast Guard office for the official examination of the debris.

The nose of the hydrofoil had caved in one side of the powerboat, and smashed through the opposite side. The stern had been twisted around and battered by the force of the collision.

“Any idea who she belonged to, Officer?” Joe inquired.

“No. And if this is all that’s left, we may never find out. The impact of the hydrofoil ripped the license number off the powerboat!”

“What next?” Frank put in.

“The Bayport Police Department will have to send frogmen down to see what’s on the bottom of the bay. If they find the motor, we may be able to fix the identity of the owner from the serial number.”

“We’re experienced scuba divers,” Joe said quickly. “Perhaps we could help.”

“Good thought. Get your gear and be here at six A.M. sharp!”

“Yes sir!”

The police launch was already revved up when Frank and Joe arrived the next morning. Two divers were testing their equipment; a third read ied grappling hooks. Last-minute instructions were being given about the site and the mission. Then they pushed off into the bay.

“The water looks more friendly at sunrise than during the night,” Frank commented.

Joe yawned. “Maybe it does, but somehow I don’t feel my best this morning.”

Frank laughed. “Come on, wake up. The bay is kind of deep at this spot, and we’ll need all our energy to survey the bottom.”

The boys peeled off their clothing down to their swim trunks, edged their feet into flippers, tested their aqualungs before pulling them on, and eased over the side into the bay along with three frogmen. Down they swam through the sun-lit water to the murky depths.

As they drew within sight of the bottom, Joe dropped behind. He felt woozy. He was losing his ability to concentrate. A warm comfortable feeling swept over him.

Joe closed his eyes, stopped moving his hands and feet, and surrendered himself to the gentle movement of the current. Why was he down there? He couldn’t remember and didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to go off into a deep sleep.

Suddenly a hand jerked his arm violently. Frank was staring into his face.

“Good night!” Frank thought. “Rapture of the deep! Joe has nitrogen narcosis!”

He and Joe had read about nitrogen narcosis, one of the main hazards of skin divers going to great depths. This condition usually becomes evident below a hundred and thirty feet, but can also occur at lesser depths if a diver goes down at a time of low vitality.

Frank grabbed Joe’s elbows from behind and gave a hard kick with his flippers. The two rose straight up through the water in a cloud of bubbles.

Joe’s brain gradually cleared as they ascended. Realizing what had happened to him, a chill ran down his spine. When they cut the surface, Joe had command of himself again.

The boys clung to the side of the boat, breathing hard.

“Thanks for the assist,” Joe gasped.

“Get into the boat,” Frank ordered. “You’ve had enough.”

Despite Joe’s protests, he helped him into the launch, then dived again. Near the floor of the bay Frank spotted it. Half concealed in the mud lay the motor from the powerboat.

At Frank’s signal the frogmen came swimming in. They put a cradle of rope around the motor, tugged on the line, and watched it move toward the surface. Then all the divers came up and boarded the launch.

“No serial number,” Frank said in disgust after examining the engine. “It’s been filed off!”

“Undoubtedly the powerboat was stolen,” said the officer in charge. “Anyway, we’ve got the one piece of equipment we were looking for. Since we haven’t spotted any bodies, we might as well return to port. The case belongs to the police chief from here on.”

In his office at headquarters Chief Collig toyed with a pencil while Frank and Joe related all that had happened. He frowned.

“It’s a real mystery,” he said. “Have any ideas, boys?”

Frank spoke up. “I have a hunch that the powerboat was empty when the hydrofoil hit it.”

“Empty, you say? Why do you think that?” Collig asked.

“Well, I think it was being towed by the other boat.”

“Hum!” The chief nodded. “You mean the accident was planned?”

“It’s entirely possible. That would explain why we didn’t find any survivors of the crash. Nobody was in the water because nobody was in the boat.”

Collig nodded soberly. “It’s possible. Maybe you boys can bring in the proof. You’ve been involved in this case from the beginning.”

“We’d be glad to help,” Frank said.

“Good,” Collig replied. “For starters, I’d like you to talk to the men who are opposed to Given’s hydrofoil ferry. Pick up the Bayport Times at the street corner and you’ll see what I mean!”

“Okay, Chief,” Frank said as they left to buy the newspaper.

It carried a screaming headline: HYDROFOIL SINKS POWERBOAT ON BARMET BAY. The subtitle read: NO SURVIVORS. The story said nothing about the smaller craft cutting across the bow of the Flying Express, which, the reporter hinted, had come barging into the harbor expecting every other vessel to get out of the way.

Enemies of the hydrofoil were quoted as calling it “a menace to the citizens of Bayport” and “a reckless venture that ought to be stopped.” One man said bitterly, “We’ve already lost a powerboat. How many lives must be lost before we get rid of the hydrofoil?”

“Wow!” Joe commented. “They’re really after Given’s scalp. I feel sorry for him. This incident certainly wasn’t his fault. Let’s go talk to the group of small boat owners mentioned here. They’re meeting at the yacht club right now.”

The Hardys arrived at the club just in time to hear a speaker angrily denouncing the hydrofoil. “Here’s the evidence!” he stormed, waving a newspaper. “The Flying Express must go!”

“To Cape Cutlass tomorrow morning!” Frank heckled from the rear of the hall.

“And back to Bayport!” Joe needled.

Heads turned and necks craned for a view of the individuals interrupting the proceedings.

“I don’t know who these gentlemen are,” the speaker snorted contemptuously, “but I imagine they’re part owners of the Flying Express!”

“I wish we were!” Joe parried the accusation. “We’d be pretty sure of a good return on our investment. The commuter service to Providence is going to be a success!”

“I hope they believe you!” Frank remarked under his breath. Aloud he said: “We’re just a couple of passengers who happen to have been on board last night. We saw the accident. How many of you did?”

“He’s right,” a voice called out. “Charlie, were you there?” The speaker flushed and refused to answer.

Seizing the opportunity, Frank mounted the rostrum and explained the events of the previous night. “We suspect an arranged accident,” he declared. “Somebody tried to put the Flying Express out of commission by towing that powerboat across its bow.”

A murmur went through the audience.

“Certain groups fear the hydrofoil’s competition and want it out of the way,” Frank went on. “They’re spreading rumors about its danger. Any idea who could be behind it?”

“Sounds as if you’re accusing us!” one man said. “Sure, we don’t like the hydrofoil but we’re not criminals! No one here would sabotage her!”

A chorus of assent came from the rest of the audience.

“I’m sure of it,” Frank told them. “But you sound as if you’d been sold a bill of goods concerning the hydrofoil. Why not give her proprietor a chance to prove that he won’t interfere with any other boat on Barmet Bay?”

There were cries of “Fair enough!” and the meeting broke up.

Frank mopped his brow and joined his brother. “Think I convinced them?”

Joe nodded. “For the moment, anyway. But these guys could forget everything you said if any more incidents occur. Solve the case—that’s the way to make them stay convinced.”

The boys had scarcely reached home when the phone rang. Joe picked it up. “Chet’s calling from Cape Cutlass,” he said. “What’s the matter, fellow? You sound as if some ill-starred disaster had struck.”

“That’s just it! Disaster beyond belief! I’ve lost my job! Somebody stole a cruiser from the Starfish Marina, so Mr. Hinkley fired me for negligence. What’ll I do?”

“Hold on a minute,” Joe said and briefed Frank. “You know,” he told his brother, “it could have been stolen by the gang Dad’s after. Maybe they’re working their way north!”

“It’s worth investigating,” Frank agreed. “Tell Chet to stay put until we get there!”

Not long after the conversation, the Hardys were whizzing down the bay in their motorboat, the Sleuth. The trip to Providence was smooth, and Chet was waiting for them at the public dock.

The three held a council of war. If Frank and Joe could find the missing cruiser, perhaps Chet would get his job back.

“We’ll go see Mr. Hinkley,” Frank said. “Want to come along?”

“Uh—no. I’ll wait here. Pick me up later,” Chet replied.

The Hardys guided the Sleuth to the Starfish Marina. Al Hinkley greeted them at the landing.

“Back again, eh?” he said. “Well, you won’t find your pal here. He fell down on the job.”

“We know,” Frank said. Going straight to the point, he asked, “Mr. Hinkley, if we find your cruiser, will you rehire him?”

“Maybe,” Hinkley hedged. “How do you expect to get my boat back?”

“We’ll do some sleuthing around here,” Joe explained. “No time left today, but we’ll stay overnight.”

“Hm!” Hinkley looked at them closely. “Go right ahead. That cruiser was very valuable. Tell you what. There’s a cabin about a quarter of a mile from here. Look, you can see it.”

He pointed and the Hardys took note of the place, which was little more than a fisherman’s shack. “It belongs to a friend of mine who’s out of town,” Hinkley went on. “You can sleep there.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “We’ll make the cabin our headquarters.”

They berthed the Sleuth and walked back to the jetty, where they briefed Chet.

“Gee. Thanks, fellows,” he said.

“Want to stay with us in the cabin?” Frank asked.

“Sure,” Chet replied.

On their way to the shack, a youth walked up to them. He was thin, lanky, and had sandy hair.

“Hi,” he said. “My name’s Skee. Say, are you interested in buying some marine equipment—secondhand and cheap?”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances.

“Why not?’ Joe replied. ”We could use a foghorn for our cabin cruiser.”

“Okay. What’s your name?”

“Joe Hardy. When will you deliver the goods?”

“Soon.”

“Well, how do we get in touch with you?” Chet inquired.

“Don’t bother. I’ll find you.”

Skee ambled off in the gathering darkness and the boys proceeded to the cabin.

When Chet saw it he said, “This isn’t the Cutlass Hilton.”

“Forget it,” Joe chided. “Didn’t you think that Skee is a suspicious character?”

“No. Why?” Chet replied.

Before Joe had a chance to reply, Frank spoke up. “You think he’s involved with the marina thieves Dad’s after?”

“It’s possible. That’s why I ordered the foghorn. Maybe we can find out more about this stranger.”

As Chet had said, the cabin was far from luxurious. It was small and dingy, but they were too tired from the day’s events to care much. Flopping down on rickety cots, they were soon fast asleep.

When Frank awakened, the sun was already up. He stretched and was about to tumble out of bed when he heard a loud, grinding noise. It came from just outside the cabin. He roused Joe and Chet.

“Good grief, what’s that?” Frank sprang up just as the side of the shack caved in with an ominous whack.

“Look out!” Joe yelled. “It’s a bulldozer!”

CHAPTER VIII

An Unheeded Horoscope

FRANK pulled Chet from his cot, an instant before it was cut in half by the bulldozer’s blade. All three dived out a window to safety.

The bulldozer’s operator stared bug-eyed as his machine crunched to a halt.

“I’m sorry, boys. I had no idea anyone was inside.” The operator said his job was to flatten the shack for a housing development.

“Who told you the cabin was empty?” Frank asked.

“The Fidelo Corporation. Did anyone know you were in here?”

“Al Hinkley from the Starfish Marina. He said we could use the place.”

“Where can we find Mr. Fidelo?” Joe inquired.

“There’s no Mr. Fidelo. That’s just the name of the company.”

“Who’s the boss?”

“Big Malarky. He has an office in Providence.”

The man waited until the boys retrieved their meager baggage before backing his machine for another thrust at the cottage.

Frank, Joe, and Chet hastened to the marina, where they talked to Al Hinkley. He shook his head in disbelief at their narrow escape.

“I heard yesterday that the building was due to be demolished,” he admitted. “But no one told me they’d start so soon.”

Convinced that there was nothing more to be learned from Hinkley, the boys left their suitcases at the marina and boarded the Sleuth for a reconnaissance expedition around the basin of the docks.

“The sooner we find the cruiser, the sooner our stargazer gets his job back,” Frank said.

They had been searching along the coast for over an hour when Chet stood up and pointed toward the shore. “There’s the boat!” he yelled.

The stolen craft was rocking in a swell, heading dangerously toward a rocky promontory.

“Full speed, Joe!” Frank ordered.

His brother headed the Sleuth toward the cruiser.

“Nobody’s aboard! She’s abandoned!” Chet cried as Joe pulled alongside. A quick inspection showed no damage had been done.

“What a load off my mind! Must have been taken by some joy-riders who left it here after they’d had their fun!”

The cruiser was out of gas, so the boys towed it to the marina. Al Hinkley was as good as his word. Happy to have the missing boat back safe and sound he rehired Chet as his assistant.

As the Hardys helped Chet fuel the boat Frank spotted an outboard motorboat chugging back and forth in front of the marina.

“Recognize the fellow in it?” he asked Joe.

“Sure do. The artist who won’t let anyone see his work. Wonder what he’s doing out there. Want to go see?”

“Not yet. Chet can keep an eye on him. First we’d better visit Big Malarky. I’m still not convinced that the demolition business this morning was really an accident.”

Joe nodded. “We’ll see you later, Chet.”

Frank and Joe found the office of the Fidelo Corporation. It was in the only high-rise building in Providence. A secretary ushered them into a room with oak paneling, a thick carpet on the floor, and a large kidney-shaped desk.

A big man sat behind it. He was at least six-three and two hundred fifty pounds, Frank thought.

Malarky got up. “What can I do for you?”

Frank told the story of their narrow escape.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Malarky said. “Yes, I ordered the demolition. But I had no idea that the cabin was occupied.”

Frank changed the subject. “You’re in real estate, Mr. Malarky?”

“Right. We’re developing a large area on the cape.”

“Do you know Spencer Given?” Joe asked.

“Sure, sure. He’s my only competition. One of us will do real well. Look here,” he added abruptly, “I’d like to offer you my hospitality. I own a couple of cottages. One’s empty, and no one’ll knock it down, either!”

“Thanks, Mr. Malarky,” Frank said. “We’d be happy to accept.”

The builder handed him the key. “The cottage is close to the Starfish Marina, not far from the site of the wrecked cabin. Stay as long as you want.”

As they emerged from the lobby a familiar face passed by in the crowd.

“Our mysterious friend the artist!” Joe hissed. “Let’s trail him!”

The man led them down the main street to Rance Nepo’s photography shop. He entered and spoke to the owner. The boys paused before the window but close enough to the open door to hear the conversation.

“I’d like to rent a camera for aerial photos,” the artist said. “And I’ll need some film.”

Nepo replied, “I have an old Speed Graphic somewhere. Let me look in the storage room. I’ll be right back.”

Gesturing for Joe to follow, Frank walked into the shop. Close up the artist looked like a friendly individual—sandy hair, light-blue eyes, and a pleasant smile. He responded readily when Frank began to talk about photography.

Frank introduced himself and Joe. The stranger stuck out his hand. “Henry Chassen’s the name. Profession: photography. Hobby: painting. Prospects: good, if I succeed on my present assignment, taking aerial pictures of Cape Cutlass, the kind that can be reproduced on post cards.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was the stranger really as harmless as he sounded?

Frank was not convinced. He wanted to find out more about Chassen. An idea came to him. “Tell you what,” he said to Chassen. “We’re renting a plane for a spin this afternoon. Would you like to come along and take some pictures? We’re licensed pilots.”

Chassen jumped at the opportunity. “That’ll be a big help. Save me a pilot’s fee!”

“Okay. We’ll meet at two o‘clock at the Providence airport.”

Just then Nepo walked in with a camera in his hand. He looked at the Hardys and grinned. “Did you find your girl friends?”

“Of course,” Joe said breezily. “No sweat. So long, Chassen.”

Frank and Joe had lunch before returning to the marina, where Chet was finishing a large pizza. They told him of their plan.

“Jumping Gemini, you can’t do that!” Chet protested through a mouthful. “This is not the day for you to have anything to do with air travel!”

“Why not?” Joe demanded. “Is the sky about to fall?”

“Saturn has just moved out of Aries and—”

“Oh cut it out!” Frank sounded irritated. “The solar system can’t be all that concerned about our doings here at Cape Cutlass. Saturn is millions of miles away. I doubt that it’s going to interfere with one little airplane.”

Chet shook his head sadly. “Mark my words, Saturn has set the stage for you today. There’s no escape. Your trip will be ill-fated.”

“We’ll chance it,” Joe said.

Leaving Chet to grumble about his disbelieving friends, the Hardys deposited their baggage at Malarky’s borrowed cottage, then joined Chassen at the Providence airport, a short strip that handled nothing bigger than two-engine planes. They rented a four-seater model and took off with Frank at the controls.

As the plane zoomed over Cape Cutlass, Chassen snapped a series of photos.

“Good flying,” Chassen complimented Frank. “I’m getting just the scenes I need.”

After a while Joe remarked casually, “We saw you painting near the Starfish Marina. Something in oils?”

Chassen smiled. “Nothing but an outline for a picture to be filled in later. It’s hard to work on the docks. People continually come up to see the picture. And I can’t stand that.”

“I see,” Frank said. To himself he thought, “Seems we were on the wrong track to suspect this guy. He’s on the level!”

“Could we fly along the coast?” Chassen asked. “I still need shots of the coves and inlets.”

Frank complied. The plane passed over the indented coastline—flying and photography both going smoothly—until the engine began to sputter.

“Out of fuel!” Joe exploded, with a glance at the instrument panel.

Frank looked grim. He picked out a level stretch of shoreline and nosed down gradually. The wheels touched with a thump in the grip of wet sand, causing the aircraft to bounce wildly until it swerved around and came to a halt.

The three occupants were shaken but unharmed. They climbed out of the cockpit onto the sand and surveyed their situation. Frank noticed a stain on both sides of the fuselage where the fuel had been leaking out of the wing tanks. “Somebody sabotaged our plane!” he declared.

“Lucky for us this terrain was firm enough to land on,” Chassen observed.

“Unlucky for us that we’re so far from the nearest town,” Joe replied.

Chassen shaded his eyes in the direction of the sea. “Say, isn’t that a speedboat out there?” he asked.

“Sure thing!” Joe exclaimed. “They must have seen us land.”

“They’re coming to help,” Frank said.

The boat beached itself and three men jumped out. They strode up the beach, smiling. They wore skivvies and dungarees, like fishermen out on a holiday.

“Perfect timing, gentlemen,” Chassen saluted them. “We’ve had an accident. Could you help us get back to Providence?”

One of their rescuers made a quick move and the Hardys gasped.

They were staring into the muzzle of a revolver!

CHAPTER IX

A Buddy Lost

“OKAY, reach!” snarled the man with the gun. The smiles had vanished. “And no tricks!” His confederates frisked Frank, Joe, and Chassen.

“All clean, no rods on them,” one reported.

“What’s going on?” Frank demanded. “Is this a holdup?”

“They think they’re on TV,” Joe said.

“Real pop-offs, ain’t you?” rasped the gunman. “How’d you like a taste of this?” He moved as if to pistol-whip Joe.

“Don’t lose your cool, Spike!” the tallest man warned him. “We got nothing to gain from messing them up until later.”

Frank, Joe, and Chassen were tied up, blindfolded, and carried aboard the speedboat, then it purred away from the shore.

Side by side on the floor of the cabin the trio discussed their predicament in low whispers.

“What are they going to do with us?” the photographer murmured.

Frank moved his wrists to get relief from the chafing caused by the rope. “Who are they? That’s the question.”

Joe shifted a cramped shoulder and managed a grin. “Our predicament lies squarely with Saturn!”

“How’s that again?” Chassen asked.

“A friend of ours dabbles in the signs of the Zodiac,” Frank said. “He warned us not to fly today.”

“What are we going to do?” Chassen whimpered.

“Play it by ear, that’s all we can do right now,” Frank said.

After what seemed like a very long ride, two of the men removed the ropes and blindfolds and herded the captives on deck. It was growing dark. The speedboat pulled alongside a weather-beaten dock on the rocky coast.

“Out!” the leader commanded and pushed the boys toward a shabby boathouse.

Frank tried to get his bearings. High above the boathouse on the side that faced the road, he saw what seemed to be the glow of a red neon sign. The next instant he was shoved inside. The building was filled with dust and cobwebs. Joe started to sneeze.

“Okay, into the cabinet,” ordered the leader, and the boys were quickly marched toward a large closet.

The door swung shut with a clang. The lock grated into place. They were left in darkness. Moments later they heard the speedboat roar off.

“Not much air in here,” Joe stated grimly as he felt his way around.

“We’d better get out quickly,” Frank warned. “We’ll suffocate if we don‘t!”

Henry Chassen was terrified. “You have any ideas?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Not yet,” Joe replied. “Let’s find out what’s in here besides us.” He crouched down and began a minute examination of their prison with his hands. Frank followed his example.

“There’s something under my heel,” Chassen said. “Wait a minute—Oh, a book of matches!”

“Great,” Frank said. “Light one, Henry!”

Chassen struck a match and held it up so that it threw a flickering light over the interior. Peering around, Frank and Joe spotted a pair of dirt-stained license plates nailed to the door.

“Real antiques,” Joe remarked.

Frank read the year of issue on the plates. “Twenty years old.”

True to their training in detection, the boys memorized the numbers on the plates.

“Ouch!” Chassen dropped the burnt match-stick as the flame licked his fingertips. Frank lit another one.

Chassen fumbled around the shelves lining the sides of the closet. “This might be useful,” he suggested. “A blowtorch!”

“Nice going!” Joe said. “Here, let me see if I can cut through this door!”

He lit the torch, knelt down, and applied the blue flame to the area around the lock. Smoke rose from the heated metal.

Joe wiped the perspiration from his eyes and kept working. He was finding it difficult to breathe.

Frank’s voice sounded far away. “Joe, I’m feeling faint! We’re using up all of our oxygen! We may never get out alive! We‘ll—”

The two collapsed onto the floor of the cabinet —unconscious!

Later—how much time had elapsed they did not know—they regained their senses. Cold water was being splashed on their faces. A voice rang through the buzzing sound in their ears. “Fellows, are you all right? You had a close call!”

They opened their eyes to see Chassen bending over them. The door of the cabinet was open. They could breathe again!

Joe stood up rather shakily. “Henry, you’re a lifesaver!”

Frank rose beside him. “Put it there, pal. We would have been goners if you hadn’t got the door open. How did you do it?”

“It was taking too long to do anything with the blowtorch, and I was feeling faint myself. So I ran my fingers around the edge of the door in a final attempt to get out—and presto! I tripped a catch at the top.”

Frank patted him on the back. “We’re out of the cabinet,” he said, “but we’re not out of the boathouse. Let’s have a look at the doors!”

“Nuts!” Joe said. “They’re locked.”

“We might swim under them,” Frank suggested. “I’ll go first and see.”

He lowered himself into the water, took a deep breath, and plunged straight down, feeling along the wooden door as he went. Finally he found the bottom and popped up on the other side of the barrier.

Everything was dark and silent. The surface broke again as Joe’s head popped up beside him.

“One to go,” Frank spluttered, “and we can all get away from here.”

“Henry had better make it quick!” Joe said. “Here comes the speedboat! What’ll we do, Frank?”

“We can’t leave without Henry. Not after what he did for us. Wonder what’s keeping him. He was supposed to come right after me.”

“Probably couldn’t make it under the doors. It’s a tough swim for anyone. Look, we can’t do him any good by staying here. Let’s hide until the boat goes away and rescue him later.”

Frank let himself quietly down in the water on the side of the dock away from the boat. Joe did the same. Only their fingertips and upturned faces showed, but the Hardys felt sure the darkness would complete their cover.

“We may never get out alive!” Frank said

They listened. The motor was throttled back and the boat bumped the other side of the dock, sending ripples over the surface. Joe was taking in a breath when he shipped a mouthful of water.

He coughed and spluttered, breaking the tense silence like a cannon shot! Three men leaped from the boat and were on the Hardys like sharks. Two of them seized Joe, overpowered him, and hustled him into the boat.

Frank, threshing around in the water, felt a cold steel claw close over his wrist in a vicelike grip, and he, too, was hauled into the speedboat. As the claw released its grip on him, he collapsed beside Joe.

The boat sat dead in the water while the men debated their next move.

“We had three of them. Where’s the third?”

“Guess he didn’t make it out of the boathouse.”

“That’s fine. We can take care of him later.”

“What do we do with the two birds we’ve got? The bottom of the bay is awful close, and it would solve the problem once and for all.”

“That’s not the way just now,” said the man in charge. “There’s a better way. Listen.”

His voice sank to a whisper for a minute or two. Then they started the boat and headed out. The leader spoke to the boys. They couldn’t see his face in the darkness as he warned:

“We’ll give you a chance this time, Hardys. But you’re on notice that you’ve received your final warning. Keep your noses out of Cape Cutlass. Next time it’ll be Davy Jones’s locker for you!”

When the boat reached a point nearly out of sight of land, one of the thugs came back to the boys.

“On your feet, punks!” he growled. “Here, put these on!” He shoved a couple of life preservers around their waists, then each received a stiff push that sent him toppling into the water. The boat sped off into the darkness.

“No sense trying to swim,” Frank said as he bobbed up and began to float. “We can’t see the shore, and we might head for Europe!”

“Fortunately, it’ll be light soon,” Joe answered. “We should be able to get our bearings.”

The rising sun began to light up the sea. Dimly at first, then more sharply, the contours of land began to take shape about two miles away.

“Cape Cutlass!” Joe could hardly believe it.

“More than that!” Frank shouted. “We’re off the Starfish Marina!”

It looked like an easy swim. The boys removed their life preservers and headed toward shore.

As Joe started the crawl stroke he sighted something that chilled his blood—three fins cutting the surface of the water!

“Sharks!” he shouted.

Frank had already spotted them. He and Joe kicked furiously in a panic-stricken effort to ward off an attack by the tigers of the sea. This was one race they could not afford to lose!

CHAPTER X

Beware of the Claw!

ONE of the fish circled the two swimmers, cutting between them and the shore! Then it erupted from the surface and leaped high into the air. Sunlight glittered on the creature. It had a pointed snout with a mouth drawn up at the corners, as if smiling, and big round eyes.

Joe relaxed and grinned. “Hey, Frank. It’s a porpoise!”

Frank brushed salt spray from his eyes. “Thank goodness!” He had just started to swim again when Joe called out:

“Look, there’s a catamaran! Maybe we can thumb a ride.”

The sailboat scudded before a strong breeze. The youth at the tiller brought her around to windward at a signal from his girl passenger, and came to a halt where the Hardys were bobbing in the waves.

“Ahoy there. Need help?”

“Sure do!” Frank shouted, and the girl tossed out a line.

The boys pulled themselves aboard the catamaran, and sprawled dripping on the deck.

“Thanks,” Frank puffed.

“Don’t mention it,” the youth said. “I’m glad we sighted you. What happened?”

“We—er—were out in a speedboat and got dumped,” Frank said.

The girl smiled. “We came out to watch the porpoise.”

“Glad you did,” Joe said.

“If you like,” the boatman offered, “we can drop you off at the Starfish Marina. That’s where we rented this catamaran.”

“The assistant there is very amiable,” the girl confided. “A little on the heavy side, but cute. He went out of his way to be helpful and had our boat ready in a jiffy.”

Frank responded dryly, “Yes, we’ve met him. We’ve found him helpful, too!”

The sailboat deposited the Hardys at the dock, and then skimmed back out in search of the playful porpoise.

Chet Morton came running along the dock to meet them. He was accompanied by a man walking briskly behind him.

“Look! It’s Dad!” Joe exclaimed.

Fenton Hardy grinned broadly as he greeted his sons.

Frank said, “We thought you were on Shark Island!”

“I was until Chet phoned home to say you were missing. Your mother passed the information on to me. She was greatly worried. So was I.”

“We ran into a bit of trouble for a while,” Frank admitted.

“But we’ve latched on to some good clues,” Joe added.

They related all that had happened.

“We’ll put out a missing-person report on Chassen,” Mr. Hardy said. “Incidentally, the plane was found.”

“Didn’t I tell you trouble was coming?” Chet said. “Gosh, I’m sorry about Henry.”

“I have some news, too,” Mr. Hardy said. “Last week the maritime gang raided boats at Shark Island and picked them clean. I’ve got a list of what was stolen.”

The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket and read off dozens of items. Suddenly Joe interrupted. “Dad, hold it! You just said foghorn. We ordered a foghorn from a guy who tried to peddle secondhand goods. He said his name was Skee.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “I suspected the thieves would peddle their merchandise all along the coast. Keep an eye out for that fellow. Perhaps you can learn who his associates are.”

“Will do,” Frank promised.

“Now tell me,” his father went on, “what’s the best clue to the kidnappers who seized you?”

“One of them grabbed me with a hook when I was in the water,” Frank said.

“A hook?”

“That’s right. It felt like a steel trap on my wrist.”

Their father was silent for a few moments. “That sounds like Hooks Zigursky,” he said. “If so, this whole affair is more sinister than I imagined!”

“Who’s Hooks Zigursky?” Frank asked.

“One of the most dangerous criminals in this part of the country. He used to be a smuggler and bank robber. Had his hand blown off the last time he tried to crack a safe with a charge of nitroglycerine.”

“What a pity,” said Chet.

“Yes, a real tragedy,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Brought on by himself. Since then he’s worn a hook, a mechanical claw with which he has been known to throttle a man or beat him unconscious.”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Now he’s more dangerous than ever!”

“For another reason, too,” Mr. Hardy said. “I was responsible for sending him to prison. The claw was the clue in that case also. Hooks received a stiff sentence, and he swore he’d be revenged on me someday. He served most of his time, and is out on parole now.”

“I get it,” Frank put in. “If he’s up to some caper on Cape Cutlass and we’re getting in his hair, he has two powerful motives to liquidate us. Interference and revenge!”

“But why didn’t he kill us when he had the chance?” Joe mused.

“Maybe he’ll watch us from now on, in the hope of locating Dad.”

Mr. Hardy thought it likely and added, “I’d advise you to contact Mr. Given immediately. Warn him that thieves might attempt to steal fittings from the hydrofoil. There she is now, about to dock. Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

The hydrofoil was on schedule. By the time the Hardys reached her, the passengers already had debarked. Frank and Joe noticed an acrid smell in the air, and saw Given pacing up and down, obviously agitated.

“Where have you been?” he stormed. “When I needed you most, you disappeared.”

“What happened?” Frank asked.

“Arson. That’s what! Somebody started a fire on the dock. Not bad, but enough to scare my passengers. It’s out now.” He pointed to some charred timbers.

“Sorry,” Joe said. “We were unavoidably detained.”

Frank warned him about the raiders, adding that he and Joe would ride the hydrofoil whenever they had time, which might not be often.

Given eyed them shrewdly. “Working on another case?”

Frank chose not to reply directly, saying only that they had an appointment to keep. They hastened back to Mr. Hardy, who stood alone on the marina wharf.

“Boys,” he said, “I called Sam Radley and put him to work on the old license numbers you saw in the boathouse. He’ll check them out. That way we may come up with a fix on the place where you were held.”

Sam Radley was a skilled and highly dependable detective.

“We’re going to work on it, too,” Frank said. “We’ll look for a red neon sign that throws a glow over the road behind the boathouse. I noticed it just before we were locked inside.”

“That’s a good idea. Meanwhile I’ll get back to Shark Harbor to do some more investigating.”

The boys went to the cottage to shower and put on dry clothes. After a quick breakfast they returned to the marina to ask Mr. Hinkley if he knew where they could rent a car. Both boys were surprised to see a familiar car pulling into the parking area. In it were Callie and Iola.

“So—the bad pennies have turned up once more,” Callie said breezily as Frank and Joe greeted them with big smiles. “Actually we’re relieved to see you. It’s no fun wondering where in the world you are!”

“Tell us what happened,” Iola said.

As Frank and Joe related the latest developments, Callie wrinkled her nose. “I think you’re missing one of the most important clues. Why haven’t you investigated the Decor Shop? I’d like to know who stole our jackets and set up those dummies.”

“The Decor Shop?” Joe said. “Are you kidding? It’s run by a sweet little old lady who couldn’t possibly be implicated.”

Frank looked reflective. “I think the girls have a point. Let’s not jump to conclusions. I vote for a closer look at the Decor Shop.”

“All right,” Joe said. “But first things first. I think we should look for the neon sign before anything else.”

“There’s only one problem,” Frank said. “We need transportation.”

Callie grinned. “I know what you’re getting at. Okay. Be my guest and use the car. We’ll take the hydrofoil home.”

“Thanks, Callie. You’re a doll!”

An hour later Frank and Joe were driving down a dirt road thirty miles from the cape, the segment of the coast, as near as they could judge, where they had been held captive.

Frank broke the silence. “This could be just about right. And look! There’s a red neon sign with a boathouse behind it!”

In bold letters it advertised Calderon’s Shore Restaurant. The place was nearly deserted.

Frank pulled off the road, parked in the shadow of some trees, and led the way past the neon sign to the boathouse behind the building. The doors were open, and a catwalk provided easy entrance.

“Wait a moment, Joe,” Frank said. “It’s pretty dark in here. There’s a light switch near the door. Flick—”

His foot hit a net piled up on the floor and he stumbled into a pool of shallow water. Something nipped at his legs!

At the same time Joe said, “Hey, this isn’t the right place.” Then he burst out laughing. “Frank, you’re in a lobster tank!”

CHAPTER XI

An Unequal Match

FRANK waded out of the tank, with lobsters clinging to the legs of his pants.

Joe laughed uproariously.

“Go ahead, make fun of me!” Frank said, shaking them off. “I’m lucky I escaped those crawly creatures alive!” Then he grinned. “I guess we had the wrong boathouse, all right.”

Frank took off his shoes and poured water out of them. He set them aside while he removed his socks, then squeezed water from the bottom of his pants legs.

“Listen, Frank,” Joe urged, “we’d better get out of here. If someone sees us, we might have trouble explaining why you went swimming with the lobsters.”

“Right.” Frank grabbed his shoes and they returned to Callie’s car.

Next they scoured the shoreline farther down the coast. Spelling each other at the wheel, they passed several red neon signs and plenty of boat-houses, but not one looked familiar.

“We certainly weren’t this far down when we had our encounter with Zigurski!” Frank observed glumly. “We’re nearly at Shark Harbor.”

Joe agreed. “But since we’ve come this far, how about paying Dad a visit?”

“Good idea. It’s only a short run to the bridge.”

Fenton Hardy was staying at a small motel on Shark Island, a narrow spit of sand paralleling the mainland for about ten miles. He was not in his room. The desk clerk said he was at the State Police barracks nearby.

The boys found their father in the crime lab, where members of the felony squad were inspecting about fifty pieces of marine equipment. Mr. Hardy made the introductions.

“Quite a lot of goodies you collected,” Joe remarked.

“But only a small part of what was stolen,” a detective said. “This loot was found in an abandoned house.”

Fenton Hardy pointed to a foghorn. “That will interest you.”

Frank held it up. Someone had marked it in rough letters with the one-word notation: Hardy.

Joe exclaimed, “This must be the foghorn I ordered from Skee the other day!”

“Skee?” said another detective. “We know a Skee, too. Let’s hear about yours first.”

Frank described the youth who had offered to sell them used maritime equipment cheap. “Joe ordered a foghorn, and that’s the last we’ve seen of Skee.”

“Your description fits Skee very well,” the detective stated. “He’s the leader of a gang of young thieves who run in a wolf pack along the coast.”

“Dad, that may be the cue for us!” Frank exclaimed. “Skee doesn’t know we’re on to him, and he’ll probably turn up with another foghorn. As far as he knows, Joe is still his customer.”

“If we nab him red-handed,” Joe added, “we should be able to break up the wolf pack! And if by any chance Skee’s tied in with that gang you’re after, we may hit a double jackpot.”

“And possibly find Henry Chassen,” Frank said.

One of the policemen nodded. “That seems to be the ticket, Fenton. Your boys have developed a sound strategy. Attack the problem at both ends —Shark Harbor and Cape Cutlass—and see if the two lines of investigation converge on a single solution to all the robberies.”

Frank and Joe drove back to Providence early the following morning, and went straight to the Starfish Marina. They found a mournful Chet Morton slumped in a beach chair. “Leaping Libra, fellows, am I in a jam this time!”

“What now?” Joe asked.

“A gang of hoodlums raided this place,” Chet mumbled. “They boarded half a dozen boats, stripped them, and sped off before the police arrived.

“The Harbor Patrol says it will have a dickens of a job finding them,” he added. “Too many coves and inlets along the coast where they could be hiding.”

“Probably Skee and his boys!” Frank said.

“Just our luck,” Joe complained. “We came back to Providence all primed to deal with this gang. But they pulled off the job while we were snoozing at Shark Harbor!”

“We’ve been outfoxed all right,” Frank declared.

Chet’s expression became even more forlorn. “You can say that again, Frank. They took the Sleuth with them, and a big rubber raft, too.”

“What?” Joe blurted.

“The Sleuth’s gone,” Chet said. “You must admit it’s a prize.”

“Joe, did you activate the electronic beeper as Dad suggested before we left Bayport?”

“Sure did. And the receiver’s in my suitcase at the cottage.”

“Good. Let’s get it and drive along the shore. We might get a response from the Sleuth, and maybe even pinpoint Skee’s hideout.”

Twenty minutes later they were cruising around Cape Cutlass, with Frank at the wheel, and Joe twisting the dials of the receiver in an effort to pick up a beep-beep.

“Hey, look,” Frank said, gazing over the harbor. “There’s something doing dockside. The Flying Express is surrounded by a flotilla of small boats!”

“Let’s see what’s up,” Joe suggested.

Frank drove down to the wharf and parked the car. The two walked to the hydrofoil’s berth, where some men were standing around arguing.

Joe elbowed his brother. “What do you know! There’s our generous friend from the Fidelo Corporation!”

“It’s Big Malarky all right,” Frank replied. “He towers over everybody. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

In response to Frank’s question, Malarky said, “Yes, I’ll tell you. You’ve heard about the vigilantes of the Old West? They knew how to deal with horse thieves. Well, we’re the aqualantes of Cape Cutlass, and we know how to deal with boat thieves!”

“But your flotilla doesn’t seem to be chasing boat thieves,” Joe commented mildly. “The skippers are circling the Flying Express as if they had nothing better to do.”

Malarky’s big face flushed. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I know why,” piped a voice at the edge of the crowd, and Spencer Given strode up to the builder. “You want to put me out of business, Malarky!”

The two men began a savage debate, full of mutual denunciations. A shoving match started.

“We’d better break this up!” Joe whispered. He stepped between the two men just as Big Malarky thrust a straight-arm at Given. Joe took the force of the blow, staggered, and fell to the ground.

Malarky helped him to his feet. “Sorry I hit you. I hope you’re not hurt!”

“Not a bit,” Joe replied sarcastically. “And I’ll feel a lot better if you two will cut it out!”

“I’ve said all I had to say,” growled Malarky, moving off with his men.

“I’ve got more to say,” Given called after him, “and I’ll say it next time I get the chance! Thanks for the assistance,” he said to Joe. “I should have more sense than to get into a fight with that jerk. Well, see you later.”

Frank and Joe ate lunch, then drove back to the road to continue their quest. It was evening and they were ready to give up the search as hopeless when suddenly—beep—beep, beep-beep, beep-beep came from the receiver of the electronic detector.

“We’ve located the Sleuth!” Joe exulted.

The sounds increased in intensity as they came to the top of a steep cliff. The boys got out and peered down into the darkness.

“The Sleuth must be at the foot of this precipice,” Joe said. “I’ll get the flashlights.”

“No, we can’t use them. The gang may have left someone on guard. Better take him by surprise. I’ll go first.”

“Okay.”

Frank eased himself over the edge, gripping the top of the cliff until he found a toehold on a protruding root and began the descent. Cautiously he put his foot on a jutting rock, tested it, and moved down to a sapling.

Frank’s weight was too much. The small tree pulled loose and he plunged down the side of the cliff !

CHAPTER XII

Baiting a Trap

FRANK hit something soft, bounced into the air, and came down on his feet. His knees were bent and his hands extended, ready for an attack.

Nothing happened.

Then Joe called from the cliff. “Are you okay, Frank?”

“Yes. Get a flashlight.”

The beam of the flashlight illuminated the base of the cliff, casting a soft glow on the Sleuth. A large yellow rubber raft lay upside down on the sand.

“I landed on the raft,” Frank said. “Come on down, Joe, but watch yourself.”

Quickly Joe found his way to the beach and doused his light. Together the boys put their shoulders against the bow of the Sleuth and began to push the craft back into the water.

Suddenly Frank stopped. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”

They ducked behind their boat and waited in the dim moonlight. A figure appeared, dragging something heavy across the sand.

Frank and Joe jumped up and shone the light in the stranger’s face.

It was Skee.

“Hello,” Joe saluted him nonchalantly. “Long time no see!”

The youth grinned weakly. “You scared me!” He set a power tool down and rubbed his hands. “I’ve been away for a while,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“Oh, here and there,” Joe replied airily.

Frank said, “Where’s the foghorn you said you’d get us, secondhand and cheap?”

“Ain’t got it yet.” With a sidewise glance he added, “How’d you know where to find me?”

“Maybe Big Malarky’s aqualantes told us,” Frank replied.

Skee was poker-faced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Never heard of the outfit.”

“How about this motorboat?” Joe inquired. “You own it?”

“Sure thing.”

“Is it for sale?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we’re on the lookout for this particular model. But we don’t want to buy a pig in a poke. Let’s take it out for a trial spin on the bay, and if it runs smoothly, maybe we can arrange a deal.”

“Are you crazy?” Skee protested sullenly. “Whoever heard of trying a boat at this time of night? It doesn’t make sense!”

“Why not?” Frank retorted. “No time like the present. You’ve got something to sell, and we’re out to buy.”

“To tell the truth,” Joe added slyly, “I’m not convinced this is much of a boat. Probably has a bad engine.”

Skee took the bait. “Works like a charm. I’ll show you!”

They pushed the Sleuth into the water and climbed aboard. Joe took the controls. Everything worked all right, so he upped the power and roared away from the shore.

“Let’s see what she can do!” he sang out.

The boat responded to his touch like a spirited cow pony. It zoomed into a cove, turned broadside to the beach in a caldron of frothy water, and sped out. It skimmed nimbly among several small islands, slackened speed, went into reverse, and zipped forward again.

Skee was impressed. “You know how to handle this boat better than I thought.”

“She’s easy to handle!” Joe said. “I feel right at home behind the wheell”

Realizing that Skee’s attention was concentrated on the motorboat—which he hoped to sell for a good price—Joe maneuvered toward Cape Cutlass, and made a long curve right into the Starfish Marina.

Skee stood up in alarm. “What’s going on? Oh no you don‘t!”

He plunged toward the side of the Sleuth in an attempt to jump clear, but Frank wrestled him to the bottom of the boat. They threshed around in a tangle of arms and legs.

Skee broke loose and leaped up to the jetty—almost right into the hands of Chet Morton.

“Get him, Chet!” Frank called.

A blow to the midsection and another to the chin decked the surprised Skee. Chet pulled the prisoner to his feet.

“Groovy!” Joe said admiringly and Frank put in a call to the State Police. A squad car came screeching to the scene and Skee was arrested, but he clammed up when questioned about his gang.

“He’ll talk later,” the trooper said and drove off.

“Good thing I was guarding the marina tonight,” Chet said proudly. “How’d you like that belt to the breadbasket, Frank? Pow!”

“You did great, Chet.”

The Hardys told what had happened and they all went to bed.

The next morning Chet had some time off, so Frank and Joe took him down the coast in the Sleuth where they had left Callie’s car.

“You can drive it back,” Frank said, “while we scout around for some clues.”

“Okay, fellows,” Chet said.

First thing the Hardys did was to examine the power tool left by Skee. It was an electric grinding machine.

“I’ll bet Skee was going to remove the Sleuth’s serial number,” Joe deduced.

“Remember the motor we picked up from the bottom of the bay?” Frank said. “Its number had been filed off! Well, Skee won’t have any further use for this tool. We’ll take it back with us.”

They put the grinder in the boat, and were about to shove off when someone shouted at them from the cliff top.

“Suffering swordfish!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds like Henry Chassen!”

“It is!” Frank answered excitedly.

“Stay where you are, fellows!” the artist called. “I’ll be right down!”

“What brings you here?” Joe asked him.

“I saw an abandoned car early this morning. But it’s gone now. Where are you going?”

“To the marina.”

“Take me along?”

“Hop in,” Joe said, and they arrowed out to sea.

“Now tell us what happened to you,” Frank said.

“To begin with,” Chassen said, “I couldn’t swim under those boathouse doors. So I went back inside and waited. Those three thugs returned, forced me into their boat, transported me out to sea, and pushed me overboard.”

“Just what they did to us,” Frank told him.

“I thought they were going to let me drown,” Chassen went on, “but one of them threw a life preserver into the water. Except for that, I wouldn’t be here. I drifted ashore ten miles south of Cape Cutlass. What an experience! I holed up for a couple of days just to rest!”

“You sure had us worried,” Joe said. “We’ll have to tell the police you’re safe.”

Chassen resumed his account. “After I reached shore, I heard that you both had landed from a catamaran at the Starfish Marina. I also heard that your father was there.

“I was hoping to meet him—I’ve never seen a famous private investigator in the flesh,” Chassen went on. “It would be quite a thrill to meet the great Fenton Hardy. Where is he now? Providence, I hope.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Joe said, maneuvering the motorboat to the dock. “Dad’s down at Shark Harbor.”

“I’ll take a raincheck. You must introduce me sometime. So much for now. I’m off to the Decor Shop. The owner has commissioned me to do some paintings. She thinks they’ll sell very well. Hope to see you soon. So long.”

Chassen strode up the street.

Frank looked at his brother reprovingly. “Joe, you shouldn’t have let on where Dad is!”

“Why not? Don’t we agree that Henry Chassen is as honest as the day is long?”

“Maybe so. But suppose he tells somebody else, who tells somebody else—until half of Cape Cutlass has a book on Dad’s activities.”

“Sorry,” Joe said soberly. “I should have been more careful.”

Frank picked the electric grinder up and turned it over. “Here’s the name of the hardware store it came from. Address on Main Street. This is one clue we can deal with in a few minutes.”

“Right. Let’s go there now.”

The clerk at the hardware store examined the tool and then ran a finger down his register. “We sold this to the Atlas Garage. It’s on the corner of Bayshore and Halibut.”

The Atlas Garage was a large and busy place. One car stood on treads over the grease pit. Several others had been dismantled and mechanics were working on them. Two cars were being tanked up with gas.

Frank and Joe headed for the manager’s office, where they explained that they wanted to inquire about an electric grinder purchased recently at the hardware store.

The manager ceased pretending to smile and became surly. “I’m too busy for questions like that!”

“But can’t you simply tell us what happened to the grinder?” Frank asked.

“How should I know? Now get going!”

Joe grimaced as they left. “Boy, he’s not out to win friends!”

“Well, maybe he really didn’t know,” Frank said. “But this needs further investigation. What say we come back tonight and look the place over?”

Joe grinned. “And what’ll we do meanwhile?”

“We promised Callie to check out the Decor Shop.”

“Okay, let’s pay a visit there.”

The girl at the gift counter was free. She readily answered the questions put to her by Frank and Joe. Mrs. Lane, the store’s owner, was a pillar of local society and had a spotless reputation.

“What about Rance Nepo?” Joe queried. “He comes in here.”

“Why not? He’s a customer.”

“Then there’s Henry Chassen the artist,” Frank said. “Can you tell us anything about him?”

“Mrs. Lane likes him, and likes his work. But then, we all do. We’re glad she’s buying some of his paintings.”

The girl turned to an impatient customer. Frank and Joe went back to the cottage to await the zero hour of their next venture.

Midnight found them at the Atlas Garage.

“Kind of spooky!” Joe said in an undertone.

They sneaked around to the back, found an unlocked window, pushed it up, eased over the sill, and dropped into the interior.

“Forget the cars,” Frank advised as he snapped on his flashlight. “Just look at the rest of the stuff.”

The light flickered through the darkness and picked out a row of engines in one corner.

“Outboard motors!” Joe whispered hoarsely.

“What could be the reason—?”

Suddenly the room seemed to be flooded with stars. Frank and Joe slumped to the floor, knocked out!

CHAPTER XIII

Disappearing Act

THE split image in Frank’s brain finally converged, and the blur changed to a vision of a plush office. Joe, sprawled beside him on a sofa, also was regaining consciousness.

Frank blinked at the oak-paneled walls and deep-piled carpet underfoot. Across from them, behind a kidney-shaped desk, sat Big Malarky.

Joe immediately became fully alert. He glanced at Frank and then at the building tycoon.

“Wh-what happened?” he asked, gingerly touching the back of his head.

“You were kayoed by a couple of my aqualantes. They spotted you prowling around the Atlas Garage at midnight, kept you under surveil lance—then bingo!”

Frank shook his head sadly. “What a deall We were there because we had traced the boat thieves to one of their hideouts!”

Malarky’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have proof?”

“Sure!” Frank replied. “We saw several outboard motors in the back of the garage!”

Malarky was impressed. “I tell you what,” he offered. “I’ll have the local constable meet you there. We’ll get to the bottom of this!”

Malarky picked up the phone and put in a call to the constable’s office. “All set,” he declared finally. “He’ll be waiting for you.”

The constable met the Hardys at the front of the garage. He took them directly to the office of the manager, who also had been called in.

“I have nothing against you taking a look around, Constable,” the manager said. “These guys were making a nuisance of themselves yesterday, but now that it’s official, go ahead.”

The boys hastened to the back room with the constable.

Without even looking, Joe pointed to the corner. “There!” he blurted.

The constable scratched his head. “Where?”

Frank groaned. “Joe! The corner’s empty! The outboard motors have been removed!”

“If you weren’t Fenton Hardy’s sons,” the constable snapped, “I’d suspect some sort of game. As it is, I’ll say you made a mistake, and let it go at that!”

Much depressed, Frank and Joe returned to the cottage, where Chet greeted them.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t look too happy.”

“Someone threw us a curve,” Frank said morosely.

“And I suspect Big Malarky,” Joe declared. He told Chet what had happened.

“That figures,” Chet replied. “I’ve checked up on Big Malarky’s birthday. Found it in the annual listing of the leading citizens of Cape Cutlass.”

“What is he?” Frank inquired.

“Virgo! Governed by Mercury, and Mercury rules the hands. So I’d keep an eye on what Malarky does with his hands.”

Joe nodded. “We’ll have to be extra careful from now on. The crooks know we got close to them this time. They could decide to give us a one-way cruise next time. Maybe they’ll come swarming through the windows tonight!”

“No problem,” Chet argued. “We can rig up an early-warning system. You brought your bug, didn’t you, Frank?”

“Sure thing.” Frank went to his suitcase and removed a kit. Then the three hastened to the marina dock. After planting a detection microphone under a fish net, they strung a wire back to the cottage, through a window to a nightstand between the beds, where they placed the receiver.

Chet inspected the device with satisfaction. .“There! Nothing can move outside without us being cued in electronically. Safe as a good horoscope!”

There were no visitors before bedtime, but when the boys were sound asleep, the receiver began to crackle ominously.

Frank snapped wide awake. “Joe! Chet! Something’s cooking at the dock.” They dressed hurriedly, crept out the back door, and edged silently through the darkness toward the microphone.

Suddenly a quack broke the silence. There was a rustling of feathers, followed by splashing.

“A duck!” Chet exclaimed in disgust. “That’s what brought us out at this time of night.” He shook his head and the boys returned to the cottage.

The next morning Frank and Joe hastened over to the hydrofoil’s berth. Spencer Given looked upset.

“He had less sleep than we did,” Joe thought.

“I’ve got a court order,” Given announced, “to keep those aqualantes away from the Flying Express. But Marlarky hasn’t stopped hounding me. My plans for a real-estate development on Cape Cutlass are going up in smoke. People are turning down my discount offers on lots. They’re afraid to buy at any price!”

“Why is that?” Joe asked.

Given waved a Bayport newspaper at them. “Here, read this!”

An advertisement had been placed by Big Ma-Iarky. It read: “Come to Cape Cutlass in safety by car, train or bus. What good is a discount if you don’t live to enjoy it?”

“A duck!” Chet exclaimed in disgust

Joe folded the paper and handed it back. “Rather unethical, Mr. Given, but I’m afraid it isn’t illegal.”

“Not illegal,” Given retorted testily, “but it’s a threat, wouldn’t you say?”

“No doubt about that,” Frank agreed. “Malarky intends to run you out of business. We’ll do our best to prevent him from doing it.”

“Your best is what I’ll need! Keep trying!”

The Hardys discussed what to do next.

“Let’s talk to Henry Chassen again,” Frank suggested. “Maybe there’s something—some kind of clue—he forgot to tell us when he described his rescue yesterday.”

“You know, we never even asked him where he lives,” Joe reminded his brother.

“You’re right. Maybe we can find out from the Decor Shop.”

When Frank and Joe arrived there, Chassen and Rance Nepo were standing in front of the door talking.

“Hi, fellows,” Henry said. “Rance is trying to sell me another camera.”

Nepo smiled cordially and extended one of his instant models on the palm of his hand. “Here’s a beautiful example of the art. Have a look through the range finder.”

Frank raised the camera and began to take some practice views while Joe struck up a conversation with Nepo and Chassen. They spoke about the technique whereby a snapshot could be taken and developed almost immediately.

“We’ve come a long way in photography,” Nepo remarked. “No more need to take pictures outside and develop them in a darkroom.”

There was something about Nepo that made Frank uneasy, something he could not quite put his finger on. “How about letting me work this lovely gadget myself,” he said. “Suppose I take a snapshot of you two.”

“By all means,” Nepo invited him. He was eager to show off this new and expensive model he had just received from the manufacturer.

Frank took a picture of Nepo and Chassen standing together. Sixty seconds later he removed a clear picture of the two men and held it up for inspection.

Nepo grinned. “Ever see a clearer photo?”

“Can’t say I have,” Frank admitted. He handed the camera back. While the other three were deep in the technicalities of photography, he pocketed the picture.

“Incidentally, fellows,” Chassen said, “have you any pictures of your family? It would be interesting to see your parents together.”

“The only one I happen to have is of Dad,” Joe answered. He reached into his pocket for the passport picture of Fenton Hardy that he had picked up in Bayport and forgotten to give to his father.

Frank nudged him. “Wait a minute, Joe. You gave it to me. Here it is.”

He brought out Sam Radley’s passport photo and showed it to Nepo and Chassen. They scrutinized it intently before handing it back. “Looks like a man of action,” Nepo commented. “Well, I’ll have to go now. See you later.” With that he left.

Frank and Joe questioned Henry again about his escape, but Chassen could shed no more light on their captors. He told the boys that he lived in a boarding house on Maple Street, then said good-by.

Joe was mystified on the walk back to the cottage. “Frank, why the exchange of the photos of Dad and Sam Radley?”

“I’m suspicious of Nepo. I don’t want him to be able to identify Dad.”

“Why do you suspect Nepo?”

“I’m not sure.”

At the cottage Frank brought out the instant photo, placed it flat on the table, and studied it carefully. Joe and Chet looked over his shoulder.

“Somehow—somehow this guy looks familiar,” Chet mused. Suddenly he exclaimed, “I’ve got it. Frank, quick, give me a pen!”

Frank handed him one and Chet went to work on the figure of Rance Nepo. With a few skillful strokes he put a fluff of curls around the head and sketched a flouncy dress.

Joe watched, fascinated. “What in the world are you doing, Chet?”

“Don’t you see? This is the lady in the case. The one who phoned you in Bayport and knocked Frank off the hydrofoil catwalk!”

Frank whistled softly. “Of course! Rance Nepo is our phony blonde!”

CHAPTER XIV

Anchors Aweigh!

“CHET, you’re a genius,” Joe said. “You’ve got a great memory!”

Chet bowed modestly. “Thanks for the compliment. But after all, I had one advantage, Joe. I’m the only one who saw Nepo close up in his disguise. Shall we report him to the police?”

“No, not yet,” Frank said. “Nepo thinks he has us fooled, which gives us a chance to fool him. Joe and I’ll visit his shop tomorrow, and add a few loaded questions to the chatter about cameras.”

Nepo’s place was shut tight when they got there. A heavy green shade covered the glass panel of the front door and a large sign dangled by a wire cord. It said: Closed—On Vacation.

“Strange, he didn’t say anything to us about taking off,” Joe remarked.

“Not so strange, Joe, if he’s up to something. But Henry Chassen might be able to tell us what’s cooking.”

Chassen was not in his room at the boarding house nor at the Decor Shop. No member of the staff had seen him since the previous day.

“Did he say he was going on vacation with Rance Nepo?” Joe inquired.

The clerks said No.

“Something’s fishy,” Frank said gravely as they paused at the curb.

“We ought to warn Henry about Nepo,” said Joe. “If he’s traveling with Nepo, he should know that his companion doesn’t wear a white hat. Let’s tell the police now.”

Frank shook his head. “There’s no proof that Nepo’s committed a crime,” he pointed out. “We need solid evidence before we can go to the police.”

Back at the Starfish Marina, the young sleuths found Chet in a tizzy again, and Al Hinkley hopping mad.

“More thievery!” the man fumed. “They came in here and lifted the outboard motors from a couple of my boats.” He stalked off muttering to himself.

“I’m as burned up as Mr. Hinkley,” Chet mum bled fretfully. “I hardly turned my back before the motors were gone.”

“They just didn’t fly away,” Joe said. “Didn’t you see anybody snooping around?”

“Not a soul.”

“Don’t throw in the sponge, Chet,” Frank said. “Joe and I’ll cruise around for a look-see.”

Chet still seemed depressed. “Being a Cancerian,” he said, “I’m bound to have some bad luck now. It’s nice to have an Arian and Scorpion on my side. You’re in the right House of the Zodiac this month to make discoveries and uncover plots.”

“I hope so!” Frank said as the Sleuth churned out into the bay. Joe handled the controls. Frank sat at the bow, scouting the area around the Starfish Marina through high-powered binoculars.

He sighted a rowboat with two men holding fishing rods over the side. There wasn’t another boat within half a mile, so Frank watched them for a few minutes.

“Slow down, Joe. I want a better look at those fishermen. They haven’t moved their lines at all. See for yourself.”

The Sleuth slowed to quarter speed. Joe locked the controls and joined Frank in the bow. Taking the binoculars, he surveyed the rowboat from stem to stern.

The two men hastily pulled in their lines, tossed them under a seat, unlimbered the oars, and began to row shoreward.

Frank took the binoculars. “They’re going awfully slow,” he said in a perplexed tone. “That rowboat can’t be all that heavy. It’s as if they were trailing an anchor.”

Joe exclaimed, “Frank, you’ve hit on the answer! They’re dragging stolen motors. I’ll bet my sweet Scorpion!”

Joe went back to the controls and guided the Sleuth in the direction of the rowboat. As they drew closer, he asked Frank to take over. Then he skinned down to his shorts, lowered himself into the water, gave a hard kick, and arched below the surface in a long underwater dive that brought him beneath the rowboat.

He saw two chains extending down from the sides. Following one chain hand over hand, he reached the end—where an outboard motor was tied!

Joe’s breath was giving out! His heart pounded, and there was a buzzing in his ears! He needed air!

Summoning all his remaining strength, he tugged hard on the chain and zoomed to the surface.

Gulping in air, he surveyed the scene. The rowboat had capsized and its occupants were flounder ing in the water.

“Help!” one of them shouted. “Help! Save us!”

Joe quickly swam over to one of the men, got a lifeguard’s grip on him with an elbow under his chin, and boosted him up into the Sleuth. Frank leaned over the side, grasped the hand of the other man, and pulled him in.

Both collapsed in bedraggled heaps. Frank quickly bound their wrists.

“Let’s not forget the motors,” Frank said. “They’re what we came here to get.”

Joe got out a towrope, swam back to the overturned rowboat, fastened one end of the rope to a ring at its bow, and swam back.

Frank had the Sleuth moving as Joe climbed in. The rope tightened, and the motorboat moved toward the dock with the rowboat in tow.

Pulling into the Starfish Marina, Frank shouted to Al Hinkley, “Call the police! We’ve found your stolen motors.”

Chet came running up. His round face broke into a big grin as Frank and Joe hauled the motors up onto the wharf.

“Well, that gets me off the hook, doesn’t it, Mr. Hinkley?” he said as his boss emerged from the office after phoning the police.

“It does, as far as I’m concerned, Chet. But you’d better apply some elbow grease to those two motors. They need a lot of work after their dunking in the bay!”

The men from the rowboat were back on their feet by the time a squad car rolled into the Starfish Marina. Frank and Joe went along to headquarters to make a statement about the theft and recovery of the two outboard motors.

The prisoners were given dry clothing and then brought in for questioning. They were advised of their rights to legal counsel, then the police sergeant asked the first man:

“What’s your name?”

“Eric Anderson.”

“Where do you live?”

“No place in particular. I work at odd jobs wherever I happen to be.”

The police sergeant turned to the second man, who said his name was Robert Meyer. He, too, had no steady job.

“You’re both drifters?”

“Yeah. And we ain’t talking.”

Anderson shifted in his chair. “Give us a break, will you?” he whined. “The boss will drown us if we spill the beans!”

Frank poured a glass of water and held it out to him. As he started to drink, Frank fired a question.

“Is your boss Hooks Zigurski?”

Anderson choked over the water he was drinking. Sputtering and coughing, he reached for his handkerchief, blew his nose, and regained his breath.

“Never you mind who our boss is!” he growled. “Look. I want a lawyer.”

“Okay,” the sergeant said. “Book them for being in possession of stolen goods and supply oounsel.”

“I guess there’s nothing more we can do here,” Frank remarked. They set off for the cottage, where Chet was waiting for them.

Much to their surprise, so was Fenton Hardy!

“Hi, Dad!” Joe said. “Short time no see.”

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

The private investigator looked grim. He went right to the point.

“Boys,” he said huskily, “Sam Radley has disappeared!”

CHAPTER XV

Under the Bed!

SAM Radley missing! Frank and Joe exchanged startled glances.

“We thought he was checking those license plates we saw in the boathouse,” said Frank.

“He was,” Fenton Hardy answered. “In fact, he reported back that he was on to something that would interest all of us.”

“Maybe Sam found out who owned the plates!” Joe said excitedly.

His father nodded. “That’s possible. Trouble is, he never passed the information on to me.”

“Tell us what happened, Dad,” Frank urged.

“Not much to tell. We were supposed to meet at Shark Harbor. Sam’s car turned up in the parking lot near where I’m staying. The attendant remembers seeing him park. After that—no sign of Sam!”

Frank was about to speak when Chet interrupted. “Leaping Libra! What sign of the Zodiac was Sam Radley born under?”

Joe turned to him in annoyance. “What difference does that make? We’re not reading horoscopes now. We’re dealing with a man who’s disappeared under mysterious circumstances!”

“Mysteries are my specialty,” Chet responded. “When was Sam Radley born?”

Frank said resignedly, “We might as well get it over with. Sam was born in early December.”

“Then he’s a Sagittarian—the sign of the Archer. They are generally smart cookies. But the planets are out of kilter for them this month!”

Chet produced a small book from his pocket, flipped the pages to the sign of the Archer, and read in a booming voice, “‘This is a time of suffering from a big mistake. Retaliation is due.’ ”

“That’s not too far off,” Frank commented. Quickly he told his father about Rance Nepo being “the lady” in the case. “I made a mistake when I showed Sam’s picture to Nepo. And Nepo captured Sam by mistake, thinking he was you, Dad.”

Chet looked at him with an air of authority. “Well, whoever did it is in for big trouble this month. The book says retaliation. He’ll pay for kidnapping Sam.”

Fenton Hardy nodded. “The question is, Who does Nepo work for? Obviously he’s connected with the gang trying to sabotage the hydrofoil. But they’d hardly be interested in Radley. Nor in me, since I’m not working on the Given case. My only enemy at large now is Zigurski. He swore he’d get revenge when I sent him up the river. Perhaps he grabbed Sam to get back at me!”

Chet cleared his throat. “Mr. Hardy, Hooks Zigurski can’t be the guy who grabbed Sam Radley!”

“Oh no? Why not?”

“Because Zigurski isn’t near Shark Harbor! He’s in Miami, Florida!”

“And how did you come by that vital piece of information?”

Chet looked apologetic. “I didn’t mean to step out of line, Mr. Hardy. But I needed to know Zigurski’s birthday to figure out what he’s up to. So I used you as a reference with the State Parole Board. They told me Zigurski is in Florida. I hope you’re not mad at me.”

Fenton Hardy chuckled. “It’s hard for anyone to get mad at you, Chet. What did the parole people tell you about Zigurski?”

“They said he was born on July twentieth. That makes him a Cancerian. The sign of the Crab.”

Frank grinned. “That puts you and Hooks under the same sign, Chet! Makes you two of a kind, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all, Frank. Zigurski was born on the cusp!”

“The cusp?”

“That means three days before or after the last day of a sign of the Zodiac. People born on the cusp have the characteristics of both signs.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Hooks Zigurski. He was born between Cancer and Leo. He may look like a Cancerian on the outside, but he’s Leo inside. I’m sure of that!”

“Is that good or bad?” Frank wanted to know.

“Bad news, in this case. A Leo likes to give orders. He has a habit of taking what he wants. Isn’t that how you read Zigurski, Mr. Hardy?”

“Right on the button, Chet. If Zigurski is in Florida, he must have delegated the job of kidnapping me to someone else. He himself knows me and wouldn’t have made the mistake of capturing Sam.”

“Which brings us back to Nepo,” Frank concluded.

“Right ”

“I wonder why Hooks went to Florida in the first place,” Joe mused.

“Could be to establish an alibi,” Frank suggested.

Fenton Hardy nodded. “Yes it could,” he agreed.

“If we only knew what caper he’s planning now!”

Joe sounded desperate. “He might be tied in with the boat thieves and the attempt to sabotage the hydrofoill How can we stop him, Dad?”

“It won’t be easy. But for a start, alert all the Cape Cutlass marinas. They’re sitting ducks right now. But if we’re lucky, the gang may be caught in the act!”

The detective got up from his chair and peered out the window. “I came up here secretly to give you the news about Sam Radley. Now I’d better get back to Shark Harbor and see if I can pick up his trail.”

“How do we fit in, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Up here, you can watch out for Nepo and Zigurski. Either of them could be the key to this puzzle.”

Suddenly Frank put his finger to his lips. “Sh! Listen! A prowler!”

Someone was moving around outside the cottage. Footsteps sounded softly as if the person was trying to avoid detection.

Fenton Hardy whispered, “I can’t let anyone see me here. I’ll hide under the bed.” He got down on the floor and squirmed out of sight.

Frank stepped quietly to the door and jerked it open. A bent figure stumbled into the room.

“Mr. Malarky!” Joe exclaimed as the big man caught his balance.

“What a nice surprise,” Frank added with a smile. “We’d like you to meet Chet Morton.”

They shook hands and Frank went on, “We thought you had forgotten about us using your cottage. So you remembered after all!”

Big Malarky was embarrassed. “I nearly did forget you,” he confessed. “When my secretary reminded me you boys were here, I came over to see if you were comfortable.” With a sly grin he added, “See any more outboard motors?”

The Hardys laughed and Joe said, “Guess we all can make a mistake, Mr. Malarky.”

Frank assured him that everything about the cottage was just fine. There was a bit more small talk about boating and then Malarky left.

“That’s a Virgo for you,” Chet observed. “Passion for details.”

“Think Malarky’s on the up-and-up, Dad?” Joe queried as his father crawled out from under the bed.

Mr. Hardy brushed his palms across the knees of his trousers, and straightened up. “I’m not too sure. He certainly sounded like a prowler. On the other hand, this is his cottage and you fellows are his guests. He had a plausible enough reason to be down here.”

“I still suspect him,” Joe asserted. “He may be a Virgo with a passion for details, as Chet says. But we know him as a tough operator who doesn’t like competition. He’s practically admitted that he’s out to ruin Spencer Given and destroy the hydrofoil.”

“I agree,” Frank said. “Why should Big Malarky be concerned about our comfort? It’s just as likely that he was snooping around for information about our connection with the Flying Express!”

“I’ll leave that point to you,” Fenton Hardy told them, “and take off while the coast is clear.”

He opened the back door, took a look around to be sure no one was lurking near the house, and quickly slipped out.

The boys turned in early, and were fast asleep when their alarm system came to life. Frank was the first to hear it.

He shook Joe and Chet, and the three gathered around the receiver.

“No ducks this time,” Chet murmured. “Men are out there on the dock.”

“Let’s listen,” Joe advised in an undertone. “Maybe they’ll give themselves away if we don’t go barging in on their summit conference.”

Several voices came through at once until one, who seemed to be the leader, called for silence.

“Get the boats going!” he ordered.

“What about the Flying Express?” another voice demanded. ”Isn’t that caper still on?”

There was a scuffling noise as if the speaker was being roughed up.

“You fool!” the leader raged. “Mention that again and you’ll end up keeping company with the flounders!”

“Okay, okay! Leave me alone! It was only a slip of the tongue! Won’t happen again!”

“It better not!”

“Forget it,” came a third voice. “We’ve got enough to do tonight. No sense fighting among ourselves when we’ve got the Hardys to deal with!”

The men fell silent. Motors began to purr.

“They’re probably going to raid the Starfish Marina!” Chet exploded. He dashed from the cottage.

Joe followed him, while Frank rushed to the nearest public phone and called the police. Then he joined Joe, Chet, and Al Hinkley at the marina. They were standing on the jetty counting the lines of boats at anchor.

“They’re all accounted for.” Hinkley was puzzled. “Are you fellows sure you heard a gang of raiders?”

“I’d like to ask the same question,” said a stern voice behind them. It was the constable. “You said boats were being stolen. Well, how many are gone?”

Frank gulped. “It seems like none.”

“But there’s something fishy about this,” Joe burst out. “Half a dozen motors were running.”

Frank slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “A diversionary tactic. That’s what it was! They foxed us into congregating here, while they’re making the real hit elsewhere.”

“But where?” Chet asked.

“Good night!” Joe exclaimed. “The Flying Express! We’d better get over there double-quick!”

They piled into cars and sped to the hydrofoil dock. Spencer Given was standing there, gazing forlornly over the water. Shoulders sagging, he turned toward the group running toward him.

“You’re too late!” Given’s features contorted with rage. “The Flying Express has been stolen!”

CHAPTER XVI

Clever Clues

“I wAs in my office at the dock when I heard the hydrofoil motors rev up,” Given explained. “She was in port all day for minor repairs. I snapped on the lights and came running out to the berth—just in time to see the Flying Express vanish.”

“Did you get a look at the thieves?” Frank asked. “Could you identify them?”

“No. They were already in the pilot house before I realized what was happening.”

“We’ll put out an all-points bulletin,” the constable promised him. “A hydrofoil’s not easy to hide. Yours must be somewhere along the coast not far from here. Someone will spot her.”

He went off to sound the alarm, setting in motion an intense search by squad cars and Coast Guard boats. By dawn, however, they all had failed to find the Flying Express.

“We don’t have any idea where they are,” the constable informed Given by telephone. “But we’ll keep trying.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet, who had joined the search by car, came back with the same disturbing news. Given, wringing his hands, finally went to his lodgings in Providence. The boys remained alone on the dock as the sun began to rise over the bay.

“Is this Malarky’s work?” Chet wondered aloud.

“Nothing’s impossible where Malarky’s concerned,” Frank replied. “But we have no evidence tying him to the theft. That’s what we need—evidence. Let’s look around.”

“Any idea what we’re looking for?” Chet asked.

“Could be anything. I don’t imagine these pirates left a calling card. But maybe they accidentally dropped a clue.”

Joe stooped and pulled a greenish paper from between the boards of the dock. “Here’s something—a dollar bill! Might not help us with the case, but it’ll help fill my piggy bank. Finders keepers!”

The bill was neatly folded. Joe opened it, turned it over, and started to put it in his pocket. Suddenly something caught his eye.

“Frank! Chet!” he called to the others. “There’s an odd bit of writing on the reverse side. I can make out a few letters.”

The three put their heads together and Joe pointed to the bottom of the bill where the words ONE DOLLAR were printed in large capitals.

“Take a gander at the N in ONE,” he said. “Underneath it somebody has marked the letter I in black pencil. And below that, the letter G.”

“Notice this,” Frank added. “The first S in STATES has a circle around it. So has the R in AMERICA. Joe, I’ve got it! Those letters make the initials SR!”

“Sam Radley!” Joe blurted. “He must have dropped the dollar bill to give us a lead!”

“What about the rest of the message?” Chet asked.

Frank studied the bill carefully. “I wonder if we’ve been trying to read these other letters the wrong way around. Let’s try it this way.”

He turned the dollar bill lengthwise. “When we put the bald eagle at the top, the N in ONE ceases to be an N. It becomes a Z. Right?”

“Right!” Joe agreed. “And with the I and G we get ZIG!”

“Zigurski!” Frank exclaimed excitedly. “Hooks and his gang grabbed Sam Radley!”

Joe was galvanized. “Let’s look around some more,” he urged. “Sam may have dropped another clue. He’d want to leave us a clear track to follow.”

Finding nothing more on the dock, the boys climbed down a ladder to where the water lapped against the pilings. Paper, sticks, and other debris floated on the tide.

“I think I see something,” Frank said. At the bottom of the ladder, he took a firm grip on one rung. Leaning far over he snatched a brown leather object from the water.

“Look, Joe, a wallet!”

They climbed back to the dock. Frank spread the wallet out on his knee. The initials SR were stenciled in gold letters on one flap.

“Sam Radley!” Chet gasped.

“Not much doubt about that,” Frank said, “but this will be the final proof.”

He carefully slid a number of papers from the inner pocket. They were sodden from their stay in the water, but still legible. Frank extracted a driver’s license and held it up for the others to see.

The name Radley was perfectly clear!

Frank looked grim. “Now we’re certain that Sam is in the clutches of Hooks Zigurski’s gang! And they think Sam is Dad!”

“That means Sam is in real danger!” Chet finished the thought.

“No doubt,” Joe said. “But where did the gang take him?”

“My guess is the hydrofoil,” Frank said. “Chances are that Sam dropped his wallet into the bay before boarding it to keep his kidnappers from learning his true identity. Could be that they called him Fenton Hardy and he decided to play along with the mistake.”

“That means we’d better catch up with the Flying Express fast and rescue Sam!”

The sun was well up by now. Word that the hydrofoil was missing had spread in Providence, and curious people came down onto the dock. They buzzed around, exchanging rumors and gossip.

“That’s where she was,” one man remarked, pointing to the empty berth of the Flying Express.

“She must be jinxed,” another argued. “She’s had too many accidents!”

“Will she ever make the run back to Bayport? Or is she gone for good?” asked a third.

Frank said, “This talk’s getting me down. I see Mr. Given has come back. Let’s find out if he’s learned anything new from the authorities.”

Given obviously had not slept. He had dark circles under his eyes and a strained look on his face.

“No,” he answered their questions, “I haven’t had any further contact with the police or the Coast Guard. For all the good they’ve done, the Flying Express might have vanished from the earth!”

“Still, they’ve only been on the case for a few hours,” Frank pointed out.

“And in the darkness,” Joe added.

Chet started to say something about the cor junction of the planets in Pisces—Given’s sign of the Zodiac—but Joe nudged him sharply and whispered, “This is no time to talk astrology!”

Just then Big Malarky came striding up, surrounded by a group of his husky aqualantes. Feet apart and hands on hips, he confronted Given with a mocking smile.

“So,” he smirked, “the Flying Express has flown the coop! Now isn’t that just too bad!”

Given turned purple with rage. “You won’t be laughing for long, Malarky! I’m having you arrested on charges of harassment and robbery. You’ve stolen the Flying Express!”

Malarky stopped grinning. “Are you accusing me of being a crook? Why you little punk, I oughta toss you into the bay!”

“Just try it! Just try it!” Given shouted, forgetting his vow never to tangle with his bigger opponent.

Malarky pushed him toward the end of the dock. Chet stepped forward to pull Given back, and took one of Malarky’s blows full in the chest. Chet fell over backward, hit his head with a sharp crack on the edge of the dock, and went over into the bay.

“He’s unconscious!” someone yelled. “He’ll drown!”

Frank and Joe both leaped forward, but a man from the crowd got there before them. Hitting the water in a clean dive, he grabbed Chet and pulled him to the pier. Helped by a dozen willing hands, Chet was lifted onto the dock. There a policeman who had just arrived gave him first aid. When Chet’s rescuer climbed out of the water, the Hardy boys gasped. He was Henry Chassen!

“Seems we owe you another debt of gratitude,” Joe commented.

Chassen smiled modestly. “Think nothing of it. You were ready to go in after Chet Morton. I just happened to beat you because I was nearer to the scene of the accident. I’m glad to see Chet’s coming around.”

“We thought you’d left town,” Frank said, “since we didn’t see you around the Decor Shop. Your landlady didn’t know where you were, either.”

“I was doing some landscapes of the cape. One day’s trip down the coast, that’s all.”

“You didn’t happen to go with Rance Nepo, did you?”

“No. In fact, I understand he’s away on his vacation. Why do you ask?”

Frank and Joe explained their suspicion of Nepo. Chassen expressed surprise and added, “I really don’t know him very well. I’ve bought some equipment in his store, but that’s about it.”

“Oh my head!” Chet groaned. He was sitting up, none the worse except for a bump on his head and a pained expression on his round face.

“Okay, Chet?” Chassen inquired anxiously.

“Okay, thanks to you. I’m told you fished me out of the drink. Remind me to do as much for you someday!”

Frank, Joe, and Chet went back to the cottage, where Chet changed into dry clothes, and Joe phoned Mr. Hardy in Shark Harbor.

“Dad, you were right about Zigurski. Here’s the pitch.” Joe reported the hydrofoil theft, and the clues they had found in the dock area. “The marked dollar bill and Sam Radley’s wallet floating in the bay point to the conclusion that—”

“Hooks Zigurski’s gang has Sam Radley!” the Bayport sleuth broke in. “No need to spell it out. We’ll have to move fast now. I’ll ask the Miami police to put Zigurski under surveillance—if he’s still there.”

“What do you think we should do at this end?”

“Go to the state prison. Talk to the warden. Since Zigurski did time there, the warden may have a clue about what he’s up to.”

“Okay, Dad,” Frank said. “What’ll we do about Sam?”

“Keep mum for a while. Let Zigurski’s gang think they have me. It may backfire on them.”

“That all, Dad?”

“All for now. And incidentally, my compliments to you and Frank for some expert detective work!”

Frank and Joe hurried to police headquarters to find out if there were any new developments. There were none.

They were about to leave when they heard a loud commotion. A police escort came in with Big Malarky. He was to be booked on a charge of harassing Given.

The head of the Fidelo Corporation scowled fiercely as the charges were read. Suddenly he raised his hands and stiff-armed the officers on either side of him. They went over like tenpins in a bowling alley.

Malarky lunged for the door, but Frank hit him with a flying tackle, and Joe landed on his shoulders. The policemen pulled the big man to his feet and he stood there foaming with rage.

Turning to the Hardys, he shouted, “I’ll get even with you if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

CHAPTER XVII

Zodiac Zig

FRANK drove Callie’s car to the prison, located in hilly country about fifty miles away.

“I’d hate to try a jailbreak here,” Joe commented, pointing to the high walls with watch-towers and armed sentinels.

“Even Hooks Zigurski couldn’t escape,” Frank said. “He did most of his time and waited for a parole before setting out to get Dad.”

The guard on duty at the outer gate examined their credentials. “Fenton Hardy’s sons, are you? That name’s as good as a free pass. Your father helped us capture an escapee once.”

He waved them on through to the administration building. A secretary escorted them into the office of Warden Scott Ogburn, who motioned them to a couple of chairs.

“What can I do for you?” the warden asked.

Frank explained. “Sir, it’s about a former prisoner who served his time here.”

“Name?”

“Zigurski.”

The warden smiled grimly. “You boys are playing in a fast league! Hooks Zigurski is one of the most dangerous criminals we’ve ever had. Sorry I can’t introduce you to him. He’s out on parole.”

“We know that,” Joe said, “but Zigurski is a hot suspect in our current case. However, we can’t prove anything unless we learn more about him. Perhaps you can give us some inside information.”

Warden Ogburn went to a filing cabinet, pulled out a thick manila folder, and began thumbing through a sheaf of papers.

“Zigurski’s dossier,” he said and briefed the Hardys on the man’s background. “When he got out, he went to Miami, Florida,” he concluded.

Nothing in the file was new to the boys, and Frank looked disappointed. “Can’t you tell us anything about his personality?” he inquired. “Or his friends, for instance?”

“Well,” Ogburn said thoughtfully, “Zigurski had a hobby which took up lots of his time here in prison. Astrology.”

The young detectives looked at each other in amazement. “If only Chet were here nowl” Joe thought. Aloud he said, “Astrology, sir?”

“Yes, Zig was a student of the star and planetary influences,” Ogburn explained. “He was so interested in the signs of the Zodiac that the other prisoners nicknamed him Zodiac Zig. He used to say he wouldn’t make a move without consulting his horoscope.”

“He was really that serious about astrology?” Frank inquired.

“Come with me and I’ll show you how serious he was.”

Ogburn led his visitors out of his office, through the administration building, to the cell blocks. Inmates glowered from behind bars as they passed by along the corridor.

The warden conducted the Hardys into an unfurnished cell. “This one hasn’t been occupied since Zigurski was here. He certainly left us a memento of his stay. Take a look in this corner.”

On the wall was a row of drawings in black ink. “The signs of the Zodiac!” Frank exclaimed.

“They’re all accurate,” Joe added, “from the rough Y that stands for Aries to the rough H that stands for Pisces.”

Ogburn nodded. “Zigurski showed exceptional interest in the subject and, of course, had plenty of spare time to read up on it. Let’s go over to the library. You’ll see the books he borrowed.”

The assistant librarian on duty at the time was a trustee who looked more like a college professor than a convicted forger.

“Zigurski?” he said to them. “I remember him well. Came in regularly. Always wanted books on astrology, horoscopes, that sort of thing. I even borrowed some books from other libraries for him.”

“Did he have a favorite book he read more than the others?” Joe queried.

“Yes, indeed. Here it is.” The trustee took a volume from a shelf and handed it over.

Joe looked at the printing on the spine. “It’s called Basic Astrology.” He leafed through the pages. “What sign of the Zodiac did Chet say Zigurski was born under?”

“Cancer,” Frank recalled.

Joe found the chapter on Cancerians. Near the heading a note was inscribed in pencil.

It read: ZIG, Milwaukee, July 20, 11 P.M.

“That’s Zigurski’s handwriting,” the librarian remarked. He spoke tartly to indicate that he disapproved of borrowers writing in library books.

“Zodiac Zig must have been describing himself,” Joe observed. “The place where he was born, the day of the month, and the hour.”

Frank agreed. “Take a look through the chapter, Joe, and see what kind of advice he might have gotten from it.”

Joe read from the book. “ ‘A Cancerian is not impulsive. He plans carefully for future action, no matter how long it may take. Being ruled by the moon, the sign of the Crab is favorable to enterprises involving water, especially bays and inlets where the moon governs the tides. He bides his time, and then acts vigorously.’ ”

Joe closed the book. “That could explain why Zigurski never tried to break jail. He was biding time until his parole.”

Frank nodded. “And his horoscope foretold success for his enterprises when he got out. He headed for the coast to set up another racket.”

While the boys were talking, another trustee hovered near them on the other side of the row of bookshelves. Pretending to read a book, he listened intently to the remarks about Hooks Zigurski.

Joe noticed him, and was about to say so when the warden spoke. “I’ll show you around the prison when you’re finished. You can tell your famous father that the criminals he catches are in good hands!”

They left the library and went through the dining room, past the laundry, and into the recreation area. Glancing back, Joe noticed the trustee tagging along. Realizing he had been seen, the man slipped into another room.

When the group moved on, the man reappeared, staying close behind them during the tour of the prison.

Joe decided that the warden ought to know. “We’re being shadowed,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the trustee.

“Martin?” Ogburn said. “Pay no attention. He used to be Zigurski’s crony. Never gives us any trouble. He’s probably on some assignment that brings him to this part of the prison.”

The warden pushed open a door. “Here’s something we’re very proud of—the workshop.”

The huge area was abuzz with activity. Convicts were busy with power tools, heavy wrenches, and mechanical screwdrivers. Some were carving pieces of wood into shape for furniture and lawn decorations. Others were fitting parts together to form tables, chairs, bookcases and book ends.

“This is good training for civilian life,” Ogburn explained. “Every man has an opportunity to go straight and make a good living when he gets out of here.”

Frank was attracted to a shear that no one was using. The long blade hovered motionless above a sheet of metal on the plate beneath. He admired the beautiful clean lines of the machine and leaned over for a better view.

The blade began to move!

“Look out, Frank!” Joe yelled. He grabbed his brother by the arm and hurled him to the floor. Just missing Frank’s head, the blade plunged down in a wicked flash of steel biting into steel!

As Frank rose shakily to his feet, Joe looked accusingly at the convicts nearest to the shear.

The warden whirled around and faced them. “Who started that machine?” he demanded.

“Look out, Frank!” Joe yelled

No one answered. There was a scuffling of feet outside the door. Two guards appeared, dragging Martin between them.

“We saw him trip the release and then run out of the room,” one guard explained.

“Tell me why you did it!” Ogburn commanded.

The trustee stood with a hangdog look. “I ain’t spilling nothing,” he spat out viciously.

“Take him to my office,” the warden ordered the guards. “Sorry, boys,” he said to Frank and Joe. “I was wrong about Martin. Looks as if he’s still on Zigurski’s side. Anyway, that’s one more piece of information you can take back with you.”

“I trust Martin isn’t due for parole very soon,” Frank commented.

“No fear of that,” the warden stated emphatically. “He’ll be in residence here for a long time!”

“That’s some comfort,” Joe remarked as he and Frank drove back to the cottage. “Martin’s got too much imagination to be loose. Who else would have used a shear as a weapon?”

Frank nodded. “By the way, remind me to give you an assist if you’re ever in a hairy situation like that.”

“Sure will, Frank. Now let’s go over to the marina and give Chet the low-down on Zodiac Zig!”

Chet exploded with excitement when he heard the news. “Jumping Gemini! This changes everything. Now I know what Hooks is going to do!”

Joe was skeptical. “How’s that again?”

“Look. Zigurski’s birthday is coming up. No Cancerian in his right mind would go into action now. I’ll bet you ten to one that Zodiac Zig is lying low until the hour of his birth is over. Right after that would be a good time for him to act and—”

“All right,” Joe interrupted, “let’s assume that everything stays quiet until his birthday. What happens then?”

“Anything can happen!” Chet declared.

Frank became serious. “This gives us a fix on the timing. Zigurski was born at eleven at night. He may strike around midnight, then. That’s when his sign of the Zodiac becomes favorable, and he’s not the type to wait any longer than he has to.”

Frank went to the phone, dialed Spencer Given, and was informed that no trace of the Flying Express had yet been found. Then he put in a call to his father in Shark Harbor.

“Zigurski has dropped out of sight down in Florida,” Fenton Hardy reported. “The police tailed him to the Miami airport and lost him. You and Joe get down there and see if you can pick up a clue.”

“To Miami?”

“Yes, and as fast as you can.”

The Hardys roared away from the cottage in Callie’s car, parked it at the Starfish Marina where she could pick it up, caught a taxi to the Providence airport, and flew to Miami.

“We’ll check with the reservation clerks first,” Joe suggested as the big plane taxied up to the terminal. “Suppose you take the domestic flights, and I’ll take the foreign.”

They drew a series of blanks until Frank reached the desk of Coastal Airways, a company flying between Miami and Canada. The clerk shook his head at the name Zigurski, but Frank’s description of the criminal rang a bell.

“That mechanical right hand!” the man exclaimed. “He took off from here under the name John Read.”

“Where did he go?”

“He bought a ticket to Boston.”

Frank hustled over to Joe with the news.

“Holy catfish, Frank! We’d better stay right on his heels!”

“Then let’s go! We just have time to catch the next flight to Massachusetts!”

The plane zoomed into the air and headed north. The boys unfastened their seat belts, yawned, and settled back for the flight.

A moment later the voice of the pilot came through the loudspeaker. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we’re returning to Miami. Please fasten your seat belts and observe the No Smoking sign.”

There was no further explanation, but the buzz of excited chatter among the passengers continued until the pilot landed the jet. Everyone was asked to leave the plane. They were directed to the terminal building, where an airline representative spoke to the group. He apologized for the delay and said, “We had a report that there’s a bomb hidden aboard. The plane will be checked immediately.”

The passengers gasped.

Joe turned to Frank. “Do you suppose one of Zigurski’s men has been trailing us?”

CHAPTER XVIII

A Growing Suspicion

“I’D say so,” Frank answered grimly. “Now we’re the pursued. Hooks has turned the tables on us.”

“Well, his plan succeeded,” Joe said glumly. “Except for the bomb scare, we’d be heading into the Boston airport instead of cooling our heels in Miami.”

“Better than being blown up in mid-air,” Frank observed. “Still, the scare may have been a hoax. Zigurski may want to delay us just long enough for him to pull off his caper.”

“Right, Frank. Let’s see if the bomb squad found anything aboard the plane.”

The baggage had been removed by now, and experts were giving the big jet a thorough going-over. Police and fire vehicles clogged the runway. An airport maintenance truck stood by with a tank full of chemical foam in case of an explosion.

“Anything doing?” Frank asked the head of the bomb squad.

“Nothing so far. But I won’t sign a bill of health for this plane until every square inch has been searched.”

The Hardys walked back to the waiting room.

“Let’s give Chet a call,” Frank suggested. “We can find out what’s happening at the Starfish Marina.”

“And we can brief him on what’s going on here,” Joe added.

They crowded into a pay phone booth. Joe dialed the number. After a moment Chet’s voice came on at the other end of the line. Their stocky pal was surprised to hear from them.

“I thought you were in the wild blue yonder. All’s quiet here. Whatever excitement there is must be at your end.”

“Excitement is right,” Joe said, and went on to describe the bombscare on the plane.

Chet whistled. “Say, that means you’re getting hot! You’ve singed Zodiac Zig’s tail feathers, and he’s trying to shake you off!”

“That’s the way we read it,” Frank declared. “But we intend to keep after him.”

“How about letting me give you a hand? I’ve got a few days’ leave coming for overtime. Suppose I fly up to Boston as a one-man reinforcement!”

The Hardys willingly agreed. As Joe put it, “We may have a hot potato on our hands when we corner Zigurski.”

Chet chuckled. “Don’t forget I’m an expert at dealing with hot potatoes, preferably French fries. Maybe we’d better mash this one!”

Joe laughed. “Mashed Zigurski is a dish I’d like to see. Still, this is no joke, Chet. You’d better come prepared for some rough stuff.”

Chet became serious. “Roger. Where shall I meet you?”

Frank and Joe conferred in the booth, and suggested the Boston Airport Motel at 7 A.M. the next morning. Chet promised to be there.

By now the plane had been cleared and reloaded. The passengers went aboard, and the flight north resumed.

“We need Chet,” Frank said as he and Joe settled into their seats once again. “If Zig is in Boston, chances are that the Flying Express is headed in that direction with Sam Radley. And we don’t know how many of Hooks’ hoods are with him.”

“They’ve probably arranged a rendezvous along the coast,” Joe remarked. “We could run into a gang of toughs. That’s the kind of situation when it’s nice to see Chet Morton throwing his weight around.”

The jet roared on. After a while Frank gestured out the window. “We’re having beautiful flying weather, Joe. Just look at Cape Cutlass down there.”

Below them, the cape spread out in bright sunlight. Not a cloud blocked their view. They could see every turn and twist of the coast, every cove and inlet, for miles in either direction. The landscape zipped past beneath the wing tips as the plane streaked north.

Joe settled back for a snooze. “Wake me when we get to Boston,” he said.

When the plane landed, the Hardys went to the airport motel and turned in early. Next morning there came a knock at the door.

Frank glanced at his watch. “Chet is early. It’s only six o‘clock.”

Joe stepped to the door and flung it open.

“Henry Chassen!” Frank and Joe exclaimed together.

The artist smiled apologetically as he entered. “Sorry to disappoint you. I know you’re expecting Chet Morton. I’m substituting for him.”

“Anything wrong with Chet?” Joe inquired.

“Nothing at all. He got in touch with me and said he was on to the boat thieves. Felt he should stick with them.”

Frank rubbed his chin. “That’s the best thing to do in a case like this. When you’ve got the criminals in sight, keep them in sight.”

“How about yourself?” Joe queried.

Chassen spread his hands as if to say the explanation was all quite simple.

“I’ve just finished my commission for the Decor Shop. So when Chet asked me to fly up here in his place, I had no reason to say no. Incidentally, he gave me a message for you.”

The Hardys leaned forward eagerly.

“Here it is. The trail leads to a town on the Maine coast. Place called High Rock. A deputy police chief is waiting there with a vital clue!”

Frank was excited. “Sounds as if Chet’s picked up a lead to the Flying Express!”

Joe looked doubtful. Even though Chassen had dispelled their earlier suspicions, he suddenly felt that something might be wrong. Saying he had to make a call, he went to the lobby and dialed the Starfish Marina. Not a sound came through from the other end. Even the operator failed to get a response. Giving up, Joe returned to the motel room.

“Something bothering you?” Henry asked, studying his glum face.

“Well, I tried to call Chet to see if he had any new dope, but couldn’t get through to him.”

The artist smiled sympathetically. “Don’t be alarmed. There was a big storm yesterday in the Cape Cutlass area. Thunder and lightning, and gale-force winds. Knocked out electric and phone services.”

“Oh?” Frank asked. “The weather was perfectly clear when we flew over the cape en route to Boston!”

“The storm started later,” Chassen explained.

“Well, let’s head for High Rock,” Frank suggested. “No use wasting time.”

The three left the motel and started to walk to a rent-a-car garage on the comer. Frank stopped abruptly.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be right back.”

Entering the building, he raced up the steps two at a time and went to their room. Seizing a laundry slip, he wrote on the back: Chet—High Rock, Maine. He left the piece of paper on the table, weighted with an ashtray. Then he phoned the manager and asked him to let Chet Morton in when he arrived.

“Just in case Chassen’s story is phony,” Frank thought. Then he rejoined the others and they strode quickly to the rental agency.

Frank took the wheel of the hired car. Joe sat on the opposite side and Chassen in the middle. They made good time heading north from Massachusetts to Maine.

“This is a new experience for me, trailing criminals to their hideout,” Chassen remarked cheerfully after a short stop for lunch. “But it must be routine in the Hardy family.”

“We’ve worked on a few cases,” Joe admitted.

“We give Dad a hand from time to time,” Frank added.

“How’s he doing this time?”

Frank spun the wheel, stepped on the gas, and whizzed around a tractor-trailer in the right lane of the highway. “We’ve lost touch with him in the past couple of days.”

“He’s still at Shark Harbor, isn’t he?”

Frank frowned. “Maybe yes, maybe no. We just don’t know.”

“Could be he’s figured out the Maine angle,” Chassen persisted.

“Could be.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Joe put in. “Remember Chet’s warning! The stars aren’t right for hasty judgments!”

A sign with the name High Rock loomed before them.

“Turn here,” Chassen advised. “That dirt road will take us to a lane leading to the barn where we’re to meet the deputy police chief after dark.”

Frank drove about five miles before cutting to the left down the lane. Following Chassen’s instructions, he parked under a clump of trees. He turned off the ignition and pocketed the car key.

“Joe and I will take a look around,” Frank said. “Get the lay of the land while it’s still light.”

“Okay,” the artist answered. “I’ll wait in the car.”

A hundred yards into the woods Frank pulled Joe to a halt and muttered, “We’re not going back to the car. We can learn more by ourselves. Besides, I don’t quite trust our buddy any more.”

“Neither do I,” Joe replied.

They waited for darkness to fall, and then slipped cautiously through the undergrowth to the barn, a derelict building surrounded by weeds, pitted with woodchuck holes along the foundations.

A sudden glow inside the barn told them that someone had lighted a kerosene lamp. Signaling Joe to follow, Frank crept stealthily up to a window. With bated breath the boys peered over the sill.

Two men faced each other in the dim light. One had a hook instead of a hand—Zigurski!

The other was Henry Chassen!

“All right, brother,” Zigurski said harshly, “where’s the merchandise?”

Chassen spoke defensively. “They gave me the slip. I don’t know where they are, except that they can’t be far away.”

The reply came like a clap of thunder.

“You stupid Capricorn!”

CHAPTER XIX

Key to a Capture

FRANK and Joe stared at each other. Chassen was in league with Zigurski! But what did the word brother mean? Were the two men related?

Chassen was speaking loudly. “Don’t call me stupid! I cut the phone line at the Starfish Marina! I got the two punks up here where we could grab them, didn’t I?”

“What d‘ya mean grab them?” Zigurski stormed. “You let them get away! I shouldn’t have let you handle the job.”

“Well, what do we do now?”

“The Hardys will probably tip off the local gumshoes if we don’t work fast. We gotta clear out of here. Got the car key?”

Chassen nodded. “I pocketed the duplicate we got from the rental agency.”

“Okay, let’s make tracks,” Zigurski growled. He blew out the kerosene lamp. Darkness settled over the barn. Footsteps thumped across the floor and a door creaked open.

Frank and Joe hastily pulled away from the window. They ran through the woods intending to reach the car first and make their getaway. Behind them they could hear Zigurski and Chassen crashing through the undergrowth in the same direction.

“There’s the car!” Joe panted. “Hurry up! They’ve heard us. They know we’re here!”

Frank fought for breath. “Where‘s—the—key?” Desperately he rummaged around in his pocket until he felt the metal between his fingers. With a sigh of relief he jerked the key out.

Then, with a gasp, he lost his grip on it. The key fell to the ground, disappearing into a tangle of weeds and small bushes.

“No use searching in the dark,” he grated. “We’ll have to make a run for it!”

Their pursuers pounded after them in a frantic chase down the lane. Frank and Joe heard the roar of an approaching motorcycle. Catching them in the glare of his headlight, the cyclist came hurtling to meet them. His tires squealed as the rider skidded to a halt, removed his crash helmet, and jumped off.

Chet Morton! His round, freckled face broke into a grin. “I found your message! Zoomed right up here on my trusty rented bike! Seems as if I arrived just in the nick of time. What’s up?”

“Douse that light!” Frank hissed.

Chet seemed mystified. “What in the world—?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Joe interrupted, jumping onto the rear seat. Frank squeezed in behind him. Chet, realizing that the situation was serious, frantically tried to start the bike. The engine would not turn over!

“Try again!” Frank urged.

But before Chet could get the engine going, Zigurski and Chassen were on them. Jumped from behind, Frank and Joe were handcuffed before they could defend themselves.

Chet leaped off his motorcycle and charged the assailants. He bowled Chassen over, and was giving a good account of himself when Zigurski’s steel claw clamped around his wrist. It twisted his arm behind his back until he groaned with pain.

Keeping a tight grip on Chet, the ex-con snapped orders. Chassen pulled the motorcycle up on its wheels and rolled it behind a pile of underbrush. Producing the duplicate key, he walked to the car, got in, and started the motor.

“All right, brother,” he called out. “I’m ready for the ride whenever you are.”

“Half brother,” Zigurski snarled. “Don’t make our relationship closer than it is!”

“Well, is this a family quarrel or isn’t it?” Joe needled them.

Chassen glared. “Maybe I should have taken care of you earlier. Like when I drilled a hole in the fuel tank of your plane and made you come down on the beach. Or when you were stone-cold in the boathouse.”

“Why didn’t you?” Frank challenged.

“Our plans called for me to be friendly with you until we were ready to make our move,” Chassen said shortly.

“Which is why you hauled me out of the drink,” Chet stated.

“Right. No harm in letting you know the truth now.”

Zigurski turned to Joe. “You—get in the back.” Then Zodiac Zig forced Chet next to Frank, and wedged himself in last of all.

Chassen started the car. They rode down the lane to the dirt road, and on toward the highway.

Chet broke the silence. “Now I know how a fish feels when a lobster gets a claw on it,” he complained.

Zigurski sneered. “That’s what you get for poking your nose into my affairs. I only brought two pairs of handcuffs, enough to take care of the Hardys. I’ll have to hang on to you myself.”

He tightened his grip as he spoke. Chet winced. “I’d just as soon keep my arm if you don’t mind,” he said ruefully. “I’m quite attached to it.”

Zigurski merely snickered. The boys got a good look at their captor for the first time.

He had a thick shock of blond hair and a deep scar across his forehead. His pale-blue eyes moved constantly as if to indicate he trusted no one.

Zigurski had heavy shoulders and muscular arms. His one good hand opened and closed as he flexed the muscles. He settled back with a pleased expression on his face. “Everything’s going according to the book,” he exulted.

“The book on basic astrology?” Joe asked.

“How did you know about that? Well, it’s all there. The stars are right for me and wrong for you. It’s great to be a Cancerian!”

Chassen turned onto the highway and looked at Zigurski in the front mirror. “Be careful of Morton. He’s a Cancerian too.”

“Oh yeah?” Zigurski was impressed. He considered the point for a moment before relaxing. “You can’t rely on the stars to do everything,” he told Chet. “You gotta work with them. You must have done something stupid to put yourself in this fix.”

Chet assumed a solemn look. “Suppose we go back to Cape Cutlass and consult my horoscope.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke? Cape Cutlass is out. I’ve got the Hardys, and I’ve got you too, for a bonus.”

“Where are we going?” Frank asked.

“To the Flying Express. I have a surprise waiting for you.”

Chassen suddenly speeded up and swerved past a patrol car. Joe could see in the mirror that it was following them.

“Take a chance!” he thought. “It may be the last one!”

Violently he threw himself against the door, reaching for the handle with his manacled hands, desperate to attract the attention of the officers in the patrol car.

Chassen grasped his collar and dragged him back, twisting until Joe gasped for breath.

Had the officers spotted the struggle in the car ahead of them? Apparently not. The mirror showed them turning off the highway.

Joe slumped dejectedly in his seat.

Zigurski chuckled. “See what I mean? The stars are never wrong!”

Everyone in the car fell silent now as Chassen drove north along the coastal highway of eastern Maine. Finally he turned into a lane leading down to the beach. Then he switched off his lights and continued on under a full moon.

“We should be near,” Chassen commented.

“We are,” Zigurski agreed. “That’s it over there.” He pointed to a mound that resembled a huge rock rising out of the water offshore.

Chassen parked the car. The five got out and walked across the sand. As they drew near the mound, the rocklike image dissolved. It was clever camouflage made of painted wood and canvas! Behind the camouflage a hydrofoil rode at anchor.

“So we’ve finally located the Flying Express!” Joe muttered.

“Too bad we can’t pass the word to Mr. Given,” Frank replied.

A launch carried the group to the hydrofoil. Henry Chassen bowed to the three prisoners when they stepped onto the deck. “Welcome aboard,” he mocked them. Several members of the gang were already there, busily preparing for a voyage.

“Before we sail, comes the surprise,” Chassen sneered. “This is on me. I made the identification from the snapshot you so unwisely showed me.”

“Bring out the fuzz Hardy,” Zigurski commanded. “Boys, here’s your famous father!”

A couple of strong-arm men pushed a man out of the pilot house. He looked pale and haggard from ill-treatment, but he raised his head without flinching.

“Hello, Sam,” Frank said quietly.

Zigurski’s jaw dropped. He struggled to say something. Finally words came out.“ Wh-what—?”

“Happy birthday, Mr. Zigurski!” chortled Chet Morton.

CHAPTER XX

End of the Road

Zigurski released Chet and whirled savagely on Chassen. The steel claw flashed out. Chassen cringed as it gripped his arm.

Bellowing like an enraged bull, Zigurski dragged his screaming half brother to the rail and pitched him over the side.

“What’s up, Zig?” someone asked.

“That idiot grabbed the wrong man at Shark Island. This isn’t Hardy you’ve been holding! It’s the guy who works for him!”

Water splashed along the hull of the hydrofoil. Chassen was struggling to climb back. His hand slipped and the crew rushed to help him.

The commotion gave Chet a chance to escape. Leaping onto the rail at the opposite side of the Flying Express, he dived in and began to swim underwater toward shore.

Zigurski heard him hit the water. “Stop him!” Zig shouted furiously. “Plug him when he comes up for air!”

Rifles were quickly handed out of the pilot house and three of the. crew began shooting.

“They’re getting too close for Chet’s safety!” Frank whispered to Joe and Sam as the fusillade churned up the water. “Let’s make it a little harder for them!”

Stepping forward, he jarred the elbow of one of the marksmen. “Sorry to spoil your aim,” he murmured sarcastically.

Following Frank’s lead, Joe and Sam bumped into the two other thugs with rifles. Their shots went wild. Cursing their captives, they reloaded their weapons.

Too late! Chet staggered from the surf, rushed ashore, and threw himself behind some driftwood.

Joe taunted Zigurski. “Is this your big surprise? Arranging a get-together with Sam Radley?”

Zig scowled. “I was gonna ship your nosy old man to Siberia. Now Radley’ll be making the trip with the Hardy boys for an escort!”

“You’ll never get away with it,” Frank retorted. “Siberia is quite a distance from Maine!”

Zigurski grinned wickedly. “Yeah, but a trawler from Siberia is fishing just a few miles out in Canadian waters. We’ll make the transfer from the hydrofoil to the trawler tonight. And by morning you’ll be on your way!”

A beam of light stabbed through the darkness.

“Morton’s reached the car!” Zigurski screamed. “He’s turned on the emergency blinker lights! Smash ‘em or we’ll have the Coast Guard on our backs!”

Shots rang out and bullets kicked up puffs of sand near the car. Chet started the engine and drove the vehicle down the beach. He turned sharply and careened to a stop beside a large boulder.

“It’s safer here,” he told himself as slugs car omed off the boulder. “And I can still work these blinker lights. If only the Coast Guard spots them!”

Zigurski raged around the deck of the hydrofoil, cursing Chassen, the crew, and the captives. Then, calming down, he gave orders to start the vessel. Down came the camouflage of canvas and wood. The motor started to purr. The Flying Express moved away from the shore, picking up speed.

Joe nudged Frank and pointed over the stern to a speedboat in the distance. “Rescuers?” he asked.

“Affirmative!” Frank answered. “They can’t miss Chet’s blinkers.”

“But they’ll never catch up!” said a triumphant voice behind them. Zigurski had overheard the conversation. “This boat will run away from anybody!” he bragged.

Poking his head into the pilot house, he snapped an order. “Full speed ahead!” The Flying Express rapidly widened the gap between it and its pursuer. The gang’s attention was centered on making a getaway and the three captives were momentarily forgotten.

Frank motioned to Joe and Sam. “We’ve got to stop the hydrofoil,” he urged. “I have an idea. Let’s bombard the foils with life preservers!”

“I get it!” Joe said excitedly. “We’ll snarl the propellers!”

Sam nodded. “The props are close to the surface since we’re riding so high without cargo. I’ll create a diversion,” he promised, “while you two start pitching!”

Darting to the front deck, Sam tackled one of the crew. The others pounced on him. A battle royal raged near the pilot house.

As quickly as their handcuffs would allow, Frank and Joe pulled life jackets with attached ropes from their niches along the rail. They took aim at the frothy water below and threw—and missed.

Frantically they ripped down more preservers. The next pair missed, and the next. No time left. The crew, realizing what they were up to, came barreling down on them.

Desperately Frank made one last throw. A rope caught in the whirling mechanism of the propeller and the life preserver whipped into the blade. Suddenly the blade snapped!

The hydrofoil lost momentum and the hull settled down in the water. The speedboat rapidly drew near. A helicopter came buzzing overhead, and a voice called through a bullhorn, warning the criminals that men of the Coast Guard were coming aboard.

Zigurski and his gang surrendered without offering any resistance. “No use fighting the stars!” Zigurski complained. “What’s wrong with the Zodiac, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Joe retorted. “But there’s a lot wrong with Zodiac Zig!”

A Coast Guard frogman replaced the broken propeller with a blade from the Flying Express spare-parts locker. Then the officer in charge ordered his pilot to chart a course to Portland.

Meanwhile the prisoners were handcuffed and informed of their legal rights. Seeing that the game was over, Zig readily answered the boys’ questions.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been running the racket along the coast. Skee only pulled off jobs when I gave him orders!”

“How did the hydrofoil fit into your plans?” Joe wanted to know.

“Ask my smart brother!”

Chassen looked completely deflated as he spoke. “Big Malarky wanted the Flying Express out of the way. He asked me to get rid of it.”

“And you took the problem to Zig?” Frank said.

Chassen shrugged. “Zig’s the strong-arm member of the family!”

“I wanted to kill two birds with one stone,” Zigurski spoke up. “I was gonna grab Fenton Hardy, and make him pay for sending me up. When my men stole the Flying Express, I gave them orders to kidnap Hardy.”

“All the loose ends tied up in a neat package,” Sam Radley observed.

After seeing the prisoners locked up in jail the next day, Frank, Joe, Chet, and Sam flew to Cape Cutlass. Mr. Hardy was at the cottage near the Starfish Marina along with Callie and Iola. He was greatly relieved to hear of Radley’s rescue.

Frank and Joe quickly described the recovery of the Flying Express and the capture of Zodiac Zig and his gang.

“Great work,” Mr. Hardy praised them. “Meanwhile, I’ve rounded up Hooks’ group at Shark Island and here, with some ingenious and unexpected help from the girls!”

Frank and Joe were surprised. “How so?” Frank asked.

“We saw Rance Nepo sneaking out of the cellar of the Decor Shop,” Callie explained. “No one in the shop knew he was there. But we blew the whistle on him! The cop on the beat nabbed him when he tried to flee.”

“Nepo put our jackets on the dummies,” Iola added. “He thought we’d all be so mystified that we’d miss the hydrofoil trip back to Bayport. And without the Hardy boys on board, his pals could do in the Flying Express.”

Fenton Hardy took up the account. “Malarky was responsible for the plane that dropped the log in front of the hydrofoil, and for the boat that got cut in two. In fact, you can chalk up a lot of skulduggery to him!”

“Such as the bulldozer that nearly ran us down in the cabin?” Frank inquired.

“And the fire at the dock that threw a scare into Given and his customers?” Joe guessed.

“Right on both counts.”

“What about the disappearing outboard motors in the garage?” Frank continued.

“That was Zigurski’s doing. He laid all the plans for the thievery. Also, it was his idea to plant Chassen in our camp as a spy.”

Joe nodded. “And to think that we trusted that jerk in the beginning!”

Frank got up. “That reminds me. We’d better go over to Mr. Given’s office and tell him the good news about the Flying Express.”

Joe placed a hand on his arm. “There’s one mystery that hasn’t been cleared up. Sam, what’s the story on those twenty-year-old license plates we saw in the boathouse where they held us prisoner?”

Sam Radley smiled. “You won’t believe this, but they were issued to your Aunt Gertrude!”

The boys gaped. “You’ve got to be kidding!” Joe said.

“No, it’s the truth,” Sam replied.

Mr. Hardy burst out laughing. “Wait till Gertrude finds out she’s involved in this mystery! She won’t believe it!”

“Imagine Aunty being investigated by us!” Frank said. “Boy! That’s funny!”

Mr. Hardy shook his head. “My sister was quite a driver in her day,” he said. “In a ladylike way of course. She had her own car, I remember it clearly. A bright-green sedan. Washed it every other day. Come to think of it, she even got a summons once.”

“For speeding?” Joe asked.

“No. She was driving too slow on the turn-pike!”

When the laughter subsided, Mr. Hardy turned to Sam. “Tell us, Sam, how did you track down the license plates?”

“Well,” Sam Radley began, “first I tried the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. They couldn’t find any record of them. They were destroyed in a fire years ago. Finally, through a friend, I located a man whose hobby is collecting discarded license plates. As a boy, he found Miss Hardy’s plates in a trash can, where she had deposited them.”

“He didn’t by any chance own the boathouse?” Joe prodded.

“Well, he did for a while. That was when he put the plates on the cabinet door where you saw them. He left them when he sold the place, and nobody bothered to take them down after that.”

“That’s a funny twist to the mystery,” Joe said. But their next adventure, The Clue of the Broken Blade, was to be anything but humorous.

Frank had one last query. “You found the boathouse, didn’t you, Sam?”

“Yes I did.”

“Is there a red neon sign near it?”

“Not a neon sign, but one with red incandescent bulbs which road construction companies use. A new highway is being built in that area. The warning sign is large and that’s why you spotted the glow beyond the boathouse,”

“What does it say?”

Sam chuckled. “It says End of Road.”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Foiled

CHAPTER II - Curious Strangers

CHAPTER III - The Legacy

CHAPTER IV - A Phony Voice

CHAPTER V - Gang War

CHAPTER VI - A Pretty Welcome

CHAPTER VII - Danger in the Delta

CHAPTER VIII - A Library Clue

CHAPTER IX - The Old Map

CHAPTER X - A Treacherous Fence

CHAPTER XI - Faked Out

CHAPTER XII - The Sword Adalante

CHAPTER XIII - A Blunt Warning

CHAPTER XIV - The Cellar Museum

CHAPTER XV - Star-Struck!

CHAPTER XVI - Weird Attackers

CHAPTER XVII - Treasure in the Dust

CHAPTER XVIII - Cool Steele

CHAPTER XIX - Shadowy Figures

CHAPTER XX - Duel in the Dumps

THE CLUE OF THE BROKEN BLADE

FRANK and Joe Hardy become involved in an intriguing mystery which revolves around their fencing master, Ettore Russo. Proof that Russo is the rightful heir to his grandfather’s estate hinges on retrieving the guard end of a broken saber lost many years ago in California.

The young investigators’ quest is complicated by a bank robbery during which some of their father’s important records are stolen. Using Mr. Hardy’s recently purchased scientific device, a sound spectrograph, the boys identify the voiceprints of the leader of the masked robbers. A chase ensues that takes Frank, Joe, and their pal Chet Morton to the grape-growing region of California and involves them in a dangerous game of hide-and-seek with the bank robbery gang, who also are searching for the broken saber.

A startling discovery at a movie location leads to the solution of this thrilling, fast-paced mystery.

Frank was pushed directly into the path of the motorcycle

Copyright © 1977, 1969, 1942 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Pumam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-119043

eISBN : 978-1-101-07635-4

13-Digit: 978-1-101-07635-4

579 1086

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Foiled

FRANK and Joe Hardy, masked and gloved, confronted each other with crossed foils. Ettore Russo, the slim, erect fencing master, was coaching them. He seemed nervous.

“Frank, you attack. Joe, you parry. On guard. Bend your elbow a little bit more, Frank. Now thrust. Lunge!”

While Frank carried out the instructions, he murmured to himself, “Something’s bothering Russo. He’s not himself today.”

“Look, Frank,” came Russo’s voice. “Thrust first until your arm is fully extended, then lunge. Okay. You can take a break now.”

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank and his blond brother Joe, who was a year younger, removed their masks and gloves. They were about to join a group of friends when Russo called them aside.

“What’s on your mind, maestro?” Frank asked as they walked up to him.

“I won’t be here for the tournament,” Russo said glumly.

Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “How come?”

“My grandfather’s will is being probated in Switzerland. I’ll have to be there.”

“Your grandfather just died?” Frank asked.

“No, many years ago. It’s my step-grandmother who just died. She was in her eighties.”

Russo smoothed his wiry black hair with his hand and continued, “You see, Granddad married a young girl late in life. In his will he left his fortune in trust, the income going to her during her lifetime. But the capital was to revert to his blood heirs after her death.”

“And now you’ll get an inheritance?” Joe asked.

“Maybe. My grandfather’s will states that upon her death the estate is to be divided according to the terms specified on the sword Adalante.”

“Now what does Adalante mean?” Joe wanted to know.

“Adalante is a championship saber that grandfather owned. Unfortunately it was broken and lost in a duel he had in California in the late eighteen hundreds. The tip end was found and is now in the possession of a cousin in Tessin, the Italian part of Switzerland. But there is no will etched on it, so it must be on the guard end.”

“Do you think your grandfather was playing a joke?” Frank asked. “How could he expect anyone to find the other half of the broken blade?”

“He was eccentric all his life,” the maestro said. “Maybe his idea was to test the ingenuity of his grandsons.”

“Could be. Now what happens?”

“My grandfather often told my father that his first grandson would get three-fourths of the estate, the balance to be divided among his other grandchildren. I’m the eldest grandson.”

“That’s terrific!” Joe said.

Russo shrugged. “My father is no longer alive to testify. And my cousin Fabrizio Dente, based on a claim by his mother, who is still living, declares that he is the sole heir.”

Frank shook his head. “It certainly leaves you in a fix. Unless you find the other end of the saber, of course.”

Russo sighed. “Did you ever look for a needle in a haystack? All I can do is go to Switzerland and fight my cousin in court. That means I’ll have to close the school.”

The Hardys’ friends, Biff Hooper, a blond six-footer, and olive-skinned Tony Prito, joined them.

“Close the school?” Biff said. “That means we can’t take part in the tournament!”

Russo nodded sadly. “I’ve no one to replace me.”

“We could keep the school open for you,” Biff offered. “We can’t give lessons, but we can supervise training a few evenings a week!”

Frank grinned. “That’s a good suggestion. We’ll mind the store for you, maestro!”

Russo looked rather relieved. “Maybe it would work,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, and if I close down too long, I might lose most of my students.”

Phil Cohen and rotund Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best pals, had joined the group and Chet spoke up. “Stop worrying, maestro. I’ll pitch in, too. But I want a handicap from now on!”

Russo looked puzzled. “Why?”

“Well,” Chet explained, “I’ve got a lot more surface to touch!”

Everyone laughed, and Biff needled Chet about his giant-sized appetite.

“We’ll work the extra weight off you!” Russo promised. “Come on. You and Tony have a practice bout.”

The two donned their wire-mesh masks and suede single gloves worn on the weapon hand. They took positions on the salle strip which was quite close to regulation size, six feet wide and forty feet long.

The maestro acted as bout director, taking his place about eight feet from the strip and halfway between Chet and Tony.

“Biff and Frank, start out by watching Chet,” he said. “Phil and Joe, watch Tony.”

Frank and Joe had studied the rules for fencing with foils, which were slightly different from those for épée and saber. In foil, the first to score a total of five touches was the winner. Touches were counted only if they were on the trunk of the body. Those on arms, legs, and head were off target. The latter incurred no penalty, but did not score, either.

If a contestant was hit, the judges would raise an arm and call out hit or touch.

The boys made a few lunges, bent the blades to the floor to test their flexibility, then saluted each other by raising the blades vertically in front of their masks.

“Ready?” the director said.

Tony and Chet assumed their guard positions, right foot forward, knees slightly bent, sword arm bent into a V, foils crossed and touching. Both boys answered, “Yes.”

“Fence!” the director commanded.

Chet advanced, making a feint as he did. Tony retreated one pace, guessed that Chet’s move was a feint rather than a real attack, thrust and lunged instead of parrying.

Biff and Frank raised their right arms and said, “Touch!”

“Halt!” the director ordered and called one against Chet.

The next two touches were off target, one off Chet’s right shoulder, the other on Tony’s left arm. Although they were not counted as penalties, the director halted the action each time, just as he did for good touches.

At the command “Fence!” Chet immediately moved to attack. Tony retreated, the blades clashing as lunge was met by parry, and parry by counterparry.

Chet scored the next two good touches, then Tony made three in a row. Chet took three more to win!

“Bout!” the director said. “Chet, you don’t need a handicap!” He turned to Tony. “You failed to anchor your left foot when you made that last advance lunge. Next time hold it flat on the floor and you’ll keep your balance if you’re parried.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony said ruefully, “I’ll remember.”

The fencing lessons were one hour for each group. Frank and Joe got home in plenty of time for dinner. As they turned into the driveway, they saw a truck backed up to the stairway leading to their laboratory over the garage. Two men were unloading a large crate.

The boys got out of the car and went over to them. The wooden crate was about two feet square and more than two feet high. It was marked “Fragile.”

“What’s that?” Frank asked the men.

“Mr. Hardy ordered it,” one of them replied. “He told us to put it in the lab.”

Tony thrust and lunged

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Their father had been out of town for two weeks. As a famous private investigator Fenton Hardy had many enemies, and this would not be the first time someone had used a ruse to get into their expensive lab and damage it.

Joe asked, “What’s in that crate?”

The man who had spoken shrugged. He and his colleague dragged the crate off the truck and began to carry it up the stairs. It looked as though it weighed well over a hundred pounds.

“Wait a minute!” Joe said, following them.

Frank ran after Joe. The men continued on, paying no attention to them. Then, halfway up, one of them missed a step.

The heavy crate teetered dangerously toward Joe!

CHAPTER II

Curious Strangers

JOE grabbed the man about the waist to steady him. At the same time Frank reached past his brother to catch a corner of the crate and keep it from falling. After a heart-stopping moment, the man recovered his footing.

From below a voice called up, “Careful there. That equipment’s quite expensive!”

They all looked down. A taxicab was backing out of the driveway and Fenton Hardy, a suitcase in one hand and a small package in the other, stood at the bottom of the stairway.

Frank ran down. In a tone of relief he said, “Are we glad to see you, Dad! We didn’t know if these deliverymen were on the level or not.”

“They’re only carrying out my instructions,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I’ll be back as soon as I take my suitcase inside. Meantime you can uncrate my new acquisition. But be careful. It’s delicate.”

By the time Fenton Hardy returned to the lab, the deliverymen had left in their truck and the boys had uncrated the object.

“This is a complicated piece of equipment,” Joe remarked as they set it gently on the floor.

Four dials were on the front panel. Three were labeled Monitor Level, Scan Playback Level, and Recording Level. The fourth could be turned to any of three stops, which were marked Mark Amp, Scan Plbk, and Rec Amp. There were also four plug-in holes—Scan Output, Line In, External Speaker, and Microphone Input.

Joe wondered whether it was a special radio or a secret decoder.

“Neither,” said Frank. “Look here.” He pointed to a small, round speaker, a meter with a needle pointer, a pair of tape-recording spools, three rows of push buttons, and a drumlike contraption with heavy white paper rolled onto it.

Mr. Hardy came in, still carrying the small package.

“What is it, Dad?” Joe asked. “Some new outer-space device?”

His father set down the package and gave the machine a fond pat. “It’s a sound spectrograph,” he said. “The latest gadget to combat the world of crime.”

“What does it do?” Frank wanted to know.

“It converts voices into picture patterns,” Mr. Hardy explained, “and records them on that roll of paper in the form of graphs. It is based on the fact that no two persons have identical vocal cavities. That is what gives each person’s voice its distinctive tone.”

Joe said, “Couldn’t a criminal beat it just by disguising his voice?”

Mr. Hardy shook his head. “The spectrograph can’t be fooled. Experiments have been conducted with the best voice imitators in show business, and the device always instantly identifies them.”

“What do you intend to use it for?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy opened the package. It contained several reels of sound tape. “I have collected recordings of the voices of top criminals in the country, and plan to make spectrograms of all of them and keep them on file. Just like fingerprint files are kept.”

“Don’t the various police departments have records like this?” Frank asked.

“Some do, with great success. In cases of kidnapping, for instance, the kidnapper’s voice can be taped when he phones a ransom demand, and then be checked against the file.”

“Say, that’s great!” Joe exclaimed. “Will you show us how to use it?”

“I insist,” Mr. Hardy said with a smile. The detective had tutored his sons in anti-crime technology ever since they had shown an interest in the subject. Fenton Hardy, his skills honed to a fine edge in the New York Police Department, had gained renown as a super sleuth. He left the force to set up a private practice, and when Frank and Joe grew old enough, they assisted him. Their first case was known as The Tower Treasure, and their latest success was called the Mystery of the Flying Express.

Both boys were eager to learn more about the sound spectrograph.

“Let’s start right away!” Joe said.

“Take it easy,” Mr. Hardy replied. “It’s quite complicated. The manufacturer conducts a two-week training course in New Jersey. I’ll phone to Somerville in the morning and arrange for you to attend.”

Frank and Joe were enthusiastic.

“Incidentally,” their father added, “by the time you come back from Voiceprint School, your mother and I won’t be here.”

“New case?” Frank asked.

“No. Just a plain old vacation. Don’t you think we deserve one?”

Frank grinned. “Where are you going, Dad?”

“Grand Canyon. Aunt Gertrude will be here, however; so the house won’t be empty when you return.”

“Oh, don’t worry about us, Dad. And have a good time,” Joe said.

The Voiceprint Identification Course, as it was officially called, began the following Monday. The boys arrived in Somerville on Sunday evening and registered at a motel next to the school.

When they reported to their first class at the Voiceprint Laboratories early the next morning, they learned that the course involved seventy hours of classroom lectures and laboratory work, plus twenty hours of homework.

“Looks as if we won’t have much spare time,” Joe said during lunch.

Frank nodded. “My head’s spinning already with all the new info. They really cram it into your skull!”

The boys spent the next few days either in class or in the lab, and did not relax until evening when they had dinner in the motel’s restaurant.

On Thursday night they called their father. He told them that he had completed the voiceprint records and stored them with the tapes in the Bayport Bank and Trust Company for safekeeping.

“That was a good idea,” Frank said. “Especially since you won’t be home for a while.” He told his father of their progress, wished him a good trip, and hung up.

“Okay, let’s get some chow,” Joe suggested.

They had just settled themselves for dinner in the dining room, when two men entered and took a table next to their booth. One was tall, thin, and had a sad face, the other was burly with a swarthy complexion.

At the same time the boys heard someone slide into the booth next to theirs on the other side of the dividing partition.

After the waitress had taken their orders, the burly man smiled at Frank and said, “Evening, boys.”

They politely returned the greeting.

“We’ve noticed you in here before,” the man continued. “Are you staying at the motel?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “We’re taking the Voiceprint Identification Course next door.”

“Oh?” the man said. “I thought that was only for people in police work. Aren’t you a little young for that?”

“Well, our Dad...” Joe started to reply when Frank kicked him under the table.

To Joe’s relief the waitress interrupted the conversation by bringing the food. They all ate in silence for a few minutes.

Then the burly man said, “I’ll bet those machines are quite expensive.”

“Nearly fifteen thousand dollars,” Frank said.

The thin man asked, “Can anyone buy them?”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Were they being pumped? Had the two men followed them into the restaurant on purpose?

Even though he was suspicious, Frank decided there would be no harm in answering the thin man’s question. He said, “The machines are sold chiefly to law-enforcement agencies and government offices. But a few have been purchased by private individuals. People who apply for machines are thoroughly investigated, however. If they are found to have any criminal connections, they’re turned down.”

The strangers asked no more questions. They finished eating before the Hardys, gave them polite good-bys, and left.

Frank said, “I think they were fishing for information, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Joe said. “But I wonder why. Do you think they are some kind of criminals?”

“I’m pretty sure of it. Did you see how they looked at each other when I told them anyone who wanted to buy a spectrograph was investigated? In the morning we had better warn the people at the Voiceprint Lab to take extra precautions against burglary.”

“But why would criminals want a sound spectrograph?” Joe asked.

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know. Anyway, it’s a good thing you didn’t spill the beans about Dad’s project.”

“Right,” Joe said. “First time I’ve ever been thankful for a kick in the ankle.”

They discussed Mr. Hardy’s catalog system. “I’m glad he put it in the Bayport Bank and Trust Company,” Frank said.

Just then they heard the sound of someone leaving the booth on the other side of the partition. Suddenly realizing that whoever had been there had heard their conversation, the boys rose and peered over the top.

They could only see the man’s back as he went out the door. He was broad-shouldered and thin-hipped, and wore a dark-blue suit. A black Homburg was perched on the back of his head.

As the Hardys sank back into their seats, Frank said, “I hope he wasn’t a crook, too. We sure gave him an earful.”

The boys were in bed by ten that night, but at three o’clock in the morning Joe suddenly sat up. He shook Frank and whispered, “Hey! I think I just heard a truck pull in behind the lab next door!”

Frank got up at once and put his trousers on over his pajamas. In less than a minute both boys were dressed and out of the motel room. Silently they moved toward the back of the Voiceprint Laboratories.

As they reached the corner of the building, they saw the outline of a truck. Even though it was a moonless night they could make out the figure of a man sneaking into the back entrance.

“Come on,” Joe whispered. “Let’s get him.”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know how many are inside. If there’s a half dozen of them, they’ll clobber us.”

“Then I’ll go for the police.”

Frank put a hand on his brother’s arm. “Look, they’re coming out.”

One man emerged slowly, walking out backwards and straining under a heavy load. Then a second figure came into sight. Between them they hefted a large crate.

“Hurry,” one of them said hoarsely. “The wood’s cutting into my fingers!”

“Shut up,” came the reply. “What about me? My back’s breaking!”

Frank whispered, “On your mark, Joel”

CHAPTER III

The Legacy

THE men set the crate down, apparently to rest before lifting it onto the truck. As they stooped to pick it up again, Frank signaled Joe and the two moved forward.

“What are you doing here?” Frank called out.

The men dropped the crate and whirled. One swung a fist at Frank. The other leaped toward Joe.

Ducking, Frank drove a left, then a right into his attacker’s stomach. The man doubled over with a gasp and his hat fell to the ground.

Meantime Joe and the other man were standing toe to toe, trading blows. In the darkness they could not see each other’s faces. The man grunted when Joe landed a hard blow on his chest. But then he caught Joe in the middle of the forehead and knocked him down.

Frank was ready to finish off his man when he saw Joe fall. He turned to attack Joe’s opponent, whereupon his adversary hit him from behind with a rabbit punch, driving Frank to his hands and knees.

“Let’s get out of here!” the thug shouted.

Though dazed, Frank was aware of both truck doors being slammed shut. Then his head cleared and he looked up just as the vehicle started to pull away. The driver switched on his lights. This illuminated the rear license plate—New Jersey, FHB-548. Frank memorized it.

As he scrambled to his feet, Joe also got up. “Are you all right?” his brother asked.

“Okay,” Frank mumbled. “How about you?”

“I’ll live,” Joe said, fingering a growing lump on his forehead.

Frank went over to look at the crate the thieves had left behind. Its label showed that it contained a sound spectrograph of the same model owned by their father.

Joe whistled. “Hey, one of those guys left his hat,” he said, picking it up.

“Bring it along,” Frank said. “We’ll go back to the motel and call the police.”

When they returned to their room, Joe exclaimed, “This is the same kind of hat as the one the man was wearing in the restaurant tonight!”

Frank took the black Homburg. He examined the inside. He lifted out a hair and studied it closely. It was thick, red, and rather greasy. Taking an envelope from the writing desk, he placed the hair inside and slipped the envelope into his pocket.

“We’ll save that for the police,” he said, picking up the phone.

While Frank was calling, Joe examined the hat further. From inside the band he pulled out a folded newspaper clipping.

When his brother hung up, Joe said, “Look at this, Frank!” He showed the clipping, headlined KIDNAPPER TRAPPED BY VOICEPRINT. “It tells how a guy was arrested on account of a spectrogram,” Joe went on. “He kidnapped a young boy and telephoned the father for ransom. His voice was taped by the police and later the boy was found unharmed!”

Frank put the clue in his pocket next to the envelope. “The police will want this, too,” he commented.

Two officers arrived in a squad car five minutes later. When the boys explained what had happened, one of them put out an all-points bulletin for the truck. Then they drove the police car behind the Voiceprint Lab and illuminated the scene with their spotlight.

Along with the boys, they searched for further clues. The rear door had been jimmied, but the burglars had left no other marks.

“A robbery squad officer will be over shortly,” one of the policemen told Frank. “He’ll make the investigation inside.”

Soon a tall, leathery detective, who introduced himself as Lieutenant Howell, arrived at the scene. Frank and Joe described their encounter with the thieves, then accompanied him to their room, where they gave him the hat, the news clipping, and the strand of hair.

“I’ve called the lab manager,” Lieutenant Howell said. “He’ll be right over. We’ll go and check the building with him.”

They went back to the lab and met the manager at the door. He thanked the boys for their alertness and led them through the building. The alarm system had been cleverly disconnected, but nothing aside from the spectrograph had been disturbed.

One of the policemen came in to report that a bulletin had just come over the radio about the truck. “It was reported stolen earlier in the evening,” he said, “and has just been found abandoned at the airport.”

“Well, that’s that,” the lieutenant said gloomily. “If it hadn’t been too dark for you boys to see the faces of those men, we could have all flights checked for persons answering their descriptions.”

He told the lab manager he would arrange for a police guard until morning, since the rear door lock was broken, then left.

During the following week Lieutenant Howell had no news for the boys on the would-be thieves. Frank and Joe finished their course and received certificates attesting to the fact that they were qualified voiceprint operators.

The boys’ plane landed at the Bayport airport at noon on Saturday. Chet Morton picked them up in his jalopy. It backfired as usual, sounding like a gang war in progress. When he pulled into the Hardy driveway, the uproar brought Aunt Gertrude to the front door.

Fenton Hardy’s unmarried sister, who lived with the family, was tall and lean and had a heart as soft as a marshmallow under her decisive demeanor. She was also the best cook in Bayport, and that made her one of Chet’s favorite people.

Aunt Gertrude showed how glad she was to see the boys back safely by making a flurry of dire predictions.

“Well,” she declared as they carried their suitcases into the house, “you survived another trip in Chet’s mechanical monster, I see. You’ll all blow up in it yet, if you don’t get yourselves stabbed at that fencing school first. Or killed by robbers like those in Somerville.”

“How’d you hear about that, Aunt Gertrude?” Frank asked.

“The Somerville police phoned your father. He and your mother got away on their vacation, incidentally, so there will be only the three of us for lunch. Unless you’ve invited guests.”

She looked pointedly at Chet, who sniffed the aroma of freshly made chili coming from the kitchen. He grinned. “I’m available if you’re looking for somebody to invite.”

“Then wash up and hurry,” Aunt Gertrude commanded. “Lunch is in ten minutes.”

Shortly before three that afternoon Frank and Joe were on their way to the Russo School of Fencing.

“You know,” Frank said, “I’ve been thinking about the maestro’s problem. I wonder if we couldn’t give him a hand in finding the missing piece of that saber.”

Joe grinned. “You just want to have a little vacation on the West Coast!”

“Well, if he has any idea at all of the area where the saber was broken, it might be a good idea!”

They parked the car and went inside. Biff, Tony, and Phil came in a few moments later.

Russo beckoned to the Hardys while the others were changing to fencing suits. “I’ll have to leave tomorrow for Switzerland,” he announced. “Are you boys still willing to keep the school open for me?”

“Mr. Russo,” Frank began, “I’m sure the others can handle that. How would you like my brother and me to find the Adalante?”

“How do you expect to do that?”

“We thought if you had any clue at all—”

Russo shook his head. “I just don’t know. All I can tell you is there’s an old recluse named Miguel Jimenez who lives in the delta region of northern California. He is supposed to know the details of my grandfather’s duel and also where the tip end of the broken sword was found.”

“Haven’t you asked him about it?” Frank put in.

“He refuses to talk to me,” the fencing master said. “I don’t know why.” He scratched his head and looked thoughtfully at the boys.

“If I paid your fare to California, perhaps you could get the old man to tell you!”

“What’s his address?” Joe inquired.

“I don’t know. I only met him once in Stockton. He lives near there on a houseboat.”

After some discussion, the Hardys decided to leave for California on Monday.

“You’ll find that my grandfather was well known in that area,” Russo said. “There’s a book in the Stockton Public Library about him. His name was Giovanni Russo, and he was one of the richest men in the delta at the time he died. He made his fortune from the extensive vineyard he owned there.”

“Okay, maestro,” Joe said with a grin. “You just hired yourself a couple of detectives.”

Russo smiled. “Good luck,” he said. “And now you’d better change. This will be your last lesson before I leave.”

That evening Chet stayed for dinner at the Hardy home. Aunt Gertrude had baked rhubarb pie, which was his favorite, and he ate three pieces. Miss Hardy pretended to be worried that he would burst, but secretly she was pleased that he liked the pie so much.

When the boys told her they were flying to California on Monday, her concern was not feigned. She imagined all kinds of dire things that could happen to them, including getting caught in an earthquake.

Fortunately Bayport’s Chief of Police Ezra Collig stopped by after dinner and allayed her fears. The husky, keen-eyed friend of the family told her that he did not believe the doomsday prophets who kept predicting that California would slide into the ocean. “They’re the same ones who always predict the end of the world.” He chuckled. “And neither event is likely to happen in the near future.”

Collig assured Miss Hardy that the boys were well able to take care of themselves.

He had come by to see the sound spectrograph. The boys took him and Chet to the lab to demonstrate it. After recording all their voices on tape, they made spectrograms of them.

“So that’s my voice!” Chet said in amazement. “Look at those funny shapes.”

“Your voice isn’t the only thing about you that has a funny shape,” Joe needled.

“Lay off,” Chet grumbled. “I’m still growing, that’s all.”

On Monday morning Frank and Joe were packing when the phone rang.

“Maybe it’s Dad,” Frank said hopefully. They had tried to reach their parents to tell them about their trip, but with no success.

Frank scooped up the phone. It was Chief Collig.

“Bad news,” Collig said curtly. “The Bayport Bank and Trust Company was just robbed. They got three hundred thousand dollars in cash, plus the box your father had in the storage room!”

CHAPTER IV

A Phony Voice

FRANK and Joe rushed downtown to meet the chief at the bank. They found the place in an uproar. Everyone was talking at once, trying to tell what happened.

Holding up both hands for silence, Collig said, “Take it easy. First I want to hear Mr. Dollinger’s story.”

Plump Henry Dollinger was the bank’s vice-president. He said, “There were four bandits, all with nylon stockings over their heads. How they got in I don’t know, but they were concealed in various places inside the bank when we got to work.”

“When was that?” Collig asked.

“At eight-thirty. The bank doesn’t open until nine, but employees get here a half-hour early to prepare for business. One of the gang was hiding in my office closet. I was dictating a letter into my dictaphone about a quarter of nine when he stepped out, put a gun to my head, and said, ‘This is a stick-up. Make a wrong move and you’ve had it!’”

Dollinger mopped his forehead and went on. “He made me open the vault. I’m sure he must have known the time lock was set so it could be opened at a quarter of nine.”

“Where were the rest of the bandits hiding?” the chief asked.

“I don’t know. When we came out of my office, they were covering the other employees with guns and making them lie face down on the floor.”

A woman teller said they had been hiding in the bank president’s office.

A squat, muscular man who spoke with an accent said, “That was a good place for them to hide. The president is on vacation.”

Chief Collig peered at him. “Who are you?”

Mr. Dollinger answered. “He is Signor Zonko, from the Ticino Bank in Bellinzona, Switzerland. He’s here on an exchange program to study United States banking methods.”

While the Swiss and the chief were shaking hands, Joe whispered to Frank, “His accent sounds Italian to me!”

“He’s from the Italian section of Switzerland,” Frank whispered back. “That’s where Mr. Russo is going. Ticino is Italian for Tessin.”

Chief Collig asked Zonko what he knew about the bank robbery, but the man said he had arrived after it was all over, a few minutes past nine.

The chief turned his attention back to the bank’s vice-president. When he asked for descriptions of the bandits, Mr. Dollinger said the man hiding in his closet had been heavy-set, about five feet eight, and a hundred and eighty pounds. He had not particularly noticed the other three men.

The woman teller spoke up again. “One of them was tall, wide-shouldered, and had narrow hips. I noticed a wisp of red hair where the stocking was tied together over his head. It looked kind of greasy.”

Joe blurted out, “Our eavesdropper in Somerville!”

“Your what?” Chief Collig looked blank.

Joe quickly explained about the man who had been sitting behind the partition in the motel restaurant and how later that night they had found a hat left at the spectrograph burglary scene.

“A strand of hair Frank found in the hat was red and greasy,” Joe concluded. “We turned it over to the Somerville police.”

Chief Collig agreed that it could be the same man. Then bank employees described the other two bandits. One was tall and thin, the other a heavy-set, burly man. Frank and Joe said the description fitted the two strangers who had pumped them about the Voiceprint Identification Course. When they described the men, the chief sent an officer to put all four descriptions on the air.

Frank now voiced a question that was uppermost in his mind. “What happened to the alarm system?” he asked.

“It was put out of commission,” the chief replied. “Telephone lines were cut, too.”

“I had to send one of my people out to call the police from a pay phone,” Mr. Dollinger told them.

“Therefore,” Chief Collig went on, “the thieves had been gone from the scene a full ten minutes before we even heard about it. And apparently no one saw the car they escaped in.”

Frank turned to the bank’s vice-president. “Mr. Dollinger, tell us about my father’s records.”

“The box was in our storage room in the basement,” the man began. “Things like that are not kept in the vault. The basement is protected by iron bars and locked, of course.”

A detective came over to report that there was no sign of forced entry.

“Looks as if they had inside help,” the chief said. “Knowing how to put the burglar alarm out of commission and knowing when the lock on the vault was to be opened makes it almost certain. I’ll want a complete rundown on all your employees, Mr. Dollinger.”

Joe said, “Why don’t we tape their voices and make voiceprints, Chief?”

“What for, Joe?” Frank asked. “We couldn’t compare them with anything because Dad’s catalog is gone!”

“Well, maybe we’ll get it back,” Joe said.

Chief Collig said, “It won’t hurt. We’ll also fingerprint everyone and have their prints checked by the FBI in Washington. Do you have your tape recorder with you?”

“No, sir,” Joe said, “but we can rush home and get it while you’re taking the fingerprints.”

En route to the house, the boys discussed whether or not to get in touch with their father.

“I’d hate to spoil his vacation,” Frank said. “Besides, what can he do?”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed.

They also decided to postpone their trip to the Coast until they found out the results of the police dragnet for the bank robbers. While Joe was getting the tape recorder, Frank called the airport and canceled their flight reservations.

When the boys got back to the bank, the police had finished fingerprinting all employees. Frank and Joe asked everyone to speak into the microphone of the tape recorder, saying the words: it, me, you, the, on, I, is, and, a, and to. These were the ten standard sounds used in making voiceprints.

When they had finished taping the last voice, Frank suddenly had an idea. He turned to the bank’s vice-president. “Mr. Dollinger, didn’t you say you were using your dictaphone when the bandit stepped from your office closet?”

“That’s right.”

“Was the dictaphone still on when he spoke to you?”

Mr. Dollinger said thoughtfully, “I see what you’re getting at. Yes, it was. I switched it off before I got up from my desk, but it was on when he told me it was a stick-up.”

“Then his voice would be recorded!”

“Come on, let’s see!” Dollinger said eagerly and led the boys and Chief Collig into his private office. He set the dictaphone on playback.

After the last two sentences of the letter a guttural, obviously disguised voice broke in. “This is a stick-up. Make the wrong move and you’ve had it!’”

“Great!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank asked Dollinger to run it once more so they could record it.

“That’s just fine,” he said when he was finished. “If the stick-up man is one of your employees, we’ll find out soon!”

When Frank and Joe got home, it was lunch-time. They took a sandwich to their lab and made spectrograms of all the employees on the tape, including the one on the dictaphone.

The latter matched the voiceprint of the visiting Swiss, Signor Zonko! Obviously the man’s Italian accent had been assumed, because the voice on the dictaphone was American.

“How do you like that for nerve?” Frank said in amazement. “He helped rob the bank, then took off his mask and walked right back in. No doubt he was the heavy-set member of the gang that Dollinger described.”

Frank phoned Collig to report their discovery. The chief thanked him and said he would call back as soon as Signor Zonko was under arrest.

The phone rang an hour later. Frank answered.

“Zonko didn’t return to the bank after lunch,” Chief Collig reported. “We raided his apartment, but it was empty and all his belongings gone!”

“Oh brother!” Frank said. “As soon as we mentioned voiceprints, he must have known the jig was up.”

“Right. And here’s another piece of news. I telephoned the president of the Ticino Bank in Bellinzona. They were closed, because it’s nine o’clock at night there now, but the operator got him at home. There’s a bank officer there named Zonko, but he never left Switzerland. Our Zonko’s credentials were faked.”

“Looks as if we’re dealing with international criminals,” Frank said. “Since the only real evidence we have against them is the fake Zonko’s voiceprint, I think we’ll put it and the other spectrograms in Dad’s safe-deposit box at the bank.”

“Good idea,” Collig replied. “You’d better hide that sound spectrograph somewhere, too. After failing to steal one in Somerville, the gang may try for yours!”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Frank said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

When Frank hung up, he and Joe carried the spectrograph into the master bedroom and hid it behind a secret panel in their father’s closet. Then they drove down to the bank and put the tape and voiceprints they had made that day into Fenton Hardy’s safe-deposit box.

Next morning, after breakfast, the boys went to the lab to get some notes they had left there. When Joe opened the door, he stopped dead in his tracks and gaped.

The place had been torn apart. Every cabinet door stood open, the locks broken, and papers were strewn all about!

CHAPTER V

Gang War

“GOOD night!” Frank exclaimed. “And we never heard a thing!”

Joe shook his head. “I’m glad we didn’t leave that tape and the voiceprints here.”

“The spectrograph, too,” Frank added. “Whoever did this obviously never thought of looking in the house for it.”

“Well, let’s clean up the mess,” Joe said. “And then we’d better check on a flight to California!”

When the boys finished putting the laboratory back in order, Frank phoned Chief Collig, who had no news, then called the airport and made reservations for the ten-o’clock flight the next morning. He had just hung up when a well-dressed young man looked in the door.

“Hi, Scoop,” Frank said. “Come on in.”

Cub reporter Scoop Scales of the Bayport 35 Times entered the living room. “My editor sent me over to do a feature story on you guys,” he said.

“On us?” Joe said in surprise. “What for?”

“You’re too modest,” Scoop replied with a smile. “The way you two identified that fake Swiss at the Bayport Bank and Trust Company as one of the robbers deserves a special story.”

“Look, Scoop,” Frank began, “we’re not too keen on any publicity. We don’t want the whole world to know what we’re doing!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it general enough. No trade secrets. Just the regular stuff, you know. Whether you like baseball and chocolate shakes, et cetera.”

Frank sighed. “All right. Go ahead if you must.”

The boys answered questions about their recent activities, including their attendance at the Voiceprint Lab, but said nothing about their impending trip. Scoop told them he would like to have a newspaper photographer take a picture of the Hardys’ house the next day.

“Aunt Gertrude will be here,” Frank said. “Just contact her.”

The following morning Callie Shaw came by in her car to drive the boys to the airport. Slender, blond Callie was Frank’s steady date. With her was Iola Morton, Chet’s dark-haired sister, whom Joe regarded as his best girl. Chet did not come along because he was on duty at the fencing school.

When it was time to say good-by at the loading gate, Callie said, “You boys stay out of trouble, hear!”

“You know they never do that,” Iola remarked with a laugh. She turned to the Hardys. “Just get out of any trouble you get into!”

As the plane passed over Denver, Joe was commenting on the amazing speed of jet travel compared to the covered wagons of a hundred years ago.

Suddenly Frank interrupted him. “I just thought of a possible motive for the bank robbers going after those tapes and voiceprints!” he said excitedly.

“What?”

“Wouldn’t the criminals whose voices are recorded gladly pay to have the tapes and their spectrograms destroyed?”

After thinking it over, Joe said, “The old shakedown racket, you mean?”

“Exactly. The gang could make big-shot crooks all over the country pay through the nose for those parts of Dad’s catalog that apply to them!”

“You may have hit it,” Joe agreed.

When they landed at San Francisco they were paged over the public-address system. “Frank and Joe Hardy please come to the United Air Lines counter,” a pleasant voice said.

While the announcement was being repeated, the boys were already entering the terminal. At the reservation desk they found a message to call Aunt Gertrude immediately.

“That’s strange,” Joe commented. “I wonder what’s so urgent.”

“Let’s find out,” Frank replied, pointing to a telephone booth. The boys squeezed in and Frank called home.

Aunt Gertrude sounded panicky. “Come back immediately!” she demanded. “Someone’s going to blow up our house!” She spoke so loud that Joe could hear her too.

“What?” Frank asked incredulously. “Who’s going to blow up the house?”

“I don’t know. A man called a little while ago. What should I do, Frank?”

“Did you call Chief Collig?”

“N-no. Didn’t think of it. All I could think of was getting in touch with you!”

“All right. Call him immediately. We’ll be at the Occidental Hotel. Phone us there. There’s nothing we can do for you from here, but the chief can give you police protection. Okay?”

“Yes,” Aunt Gertrude said weakly. “I’ll do it right away.”

Frank hung up. “Trouble,” he muttered glumly.

“Who’s going to blow up the house?”

Frank asked

Joe nodded. “Let’s get to the hotel and wait for her call.”

While the boys were getting settled in their room at the Occidental, Joe had an idea. “I’ll call Chet,” he said. “Maybe he can run over to our house and see what’s going on.”

Chet answered the phone. When Joe explained the situation to him, he promised to check on Aunt Gertrude right away.

A half-hour later Chet called back. Joe held the receiver so Frank could listen in.

Chet was laughing so hard he could hardly get out what he wanted to say. Between guffaws he wheezed, “Aunt Gertrude—the paper—she misunderstood—”

Joe said to Frank, “I take it she isn’t in any danger.” Then he spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is probably costing you about a dollar a minute, Chet!”

This instantly sobered their pal. “It was Scoop Scales,” Chet said. “He phoned your aunt because he wanted to take a picture of your house for the feature he’s writing. When he said he was going to shoot the place and blow it up, she panicked and hung up on him. He meant blow up the negative into an enlargement!”

Relieved that Aunt Gertrude was not in any danger, Frank and Joe could not help laughing, too.

“Thanks, Chet.” Toe chuckled.

“That’s only one of the things I called about,” Chet went on. “My father says he’ll pay my fare out there if you need me.”

“Why should we need you?” Joe asked.

“Aw, come on,” Chet said. “I have him all talked into it. Tony, Phil, and Biff will handle the fencing school without me. You need my help, don’t you?”

“All right,” Joe said, relenting. “I guess we could use you.”

“I’ll be in tomorrow on the same flight you took. Meet me at the airport.”

“We’ll be there,” Joe told him.

Since they would have to drive to Stockton, which was eighty-three miles from San Francisco via the freeway, the boys decided to rent a car. They got a new Ford sedan and drove to police headquarters to check in as visiting detectives.

When the officer on duty at the information desk learned they were the sons of the famous Fenton Hardy, he took them to see Chief of Detectives Henry Copeland.

Copeland was a muscular, ruddy-faced man. He greeted the boys cordially and inquired about their father, whom he knew well. Frank told him Mr. Hardy was in fine health and was presently on vacation at the Grand Canyon. Then he explained their reason for being in California.

“You may have trouble locating this Miguel Jimenez if he lives on a houseboat,” Copeland said thoughtfully. “Do you know anything about the delta region?”

Both boys shook their heads.

“It’s a triangular area of about five hundred square miles between Stockton, Sacramento, and Antioch. Once it was all under water, but many years ago it was partially drained, leaving hundreds of small islands surrounded by about a thousand miles of waterways.”

“Good grief!” Joe said. “We’ll never find him.”

“The thing is,” Copeland went on, “if he’s a recluse, he might not be listed at the Stockton Post Office.”

Frank looked glum. “It would take us a year to search all the waterways.”

“Try the mailman,” Copeland suggested.

During the conversation the boys mentioned that they had recently attended the Voiceprint Laboratories school in New Jersey. Copeland was greatly interested, since the San Francisco Police Department had just acquired a sound spectrograph.

They discussed voiceprint technology for a while, then Frank and Joe thanked the detective for his advice and left.

When Chet Morton arrived by jet the next afternoon, he brought with him a cablegram addressed to the Hardy boys from Bellinzona, Switzerland. It read:

OLD BOOK IN LIBRARY HERE HAS PHOTO TIP END OF ADALANTE WITH ADAL ON IT. GUARD END SHOULD HAVE ANTE. HAVE NOT LET COUSIN KNOW I AM HERE BECAUSE FEAR FOUL PLAY. CABLE ME HOTEL ANGELO IF YOU FIND GUARD.

ETTORE RUSSO

“Any news, so far?” Chet asked his friends.

“None, except that we might have trouble locating our man.”

“Well,” Chet said breezily, “you didn’t expect this job to be easy, did you?”

When they got back to the Occidental Hotel, a uniformed policeman was waiting for the Hardys in the lobby. He said he had been sent by Chief of Detectives Henry Copeland.

“What’s up?” Joe asked.

“Our voiceprint identification expert is in the hospital with a broken leg,” the officer said. “The boss wants you to look at the spectrogram of a suspected extortionist.”

He drove the three boys to headquarters in a squad car. The Hardys introduced Chet to the detective chief, then were led to the crime lab. It took Frank and Joe only a few minutes to decide that the voice of the extortionist was not that of the suspect who had been arrested.

“Well, that leaves the case still open,” Copeland said ruefully. “But I’m glad to be able to free an innocent man. Thanks for your help, fellows.”

The Hardys were about to leave when a call came over the “hotshot” speaker, saying: “Attention all units in vicinity of Chinatown. Gun battle between rival gangs reported across from Fat Ching’s Chinese Theater.”

“Gang war!” the chief exclaimed. “I’d better get over there.”

“May we come along?” Frank asked eagerly.

Copeland hesitated, then said, “All right, but let’s get rolling!”

He and another officer jumped into a squad car. The three boys squeezed into the back and they were on their way, with siren squealing.

Soon they reached the northeast corner of the city, where San Francisco’s famous Chinatown was located. Its narrow streets were crowded with restaurants, theaters, temples, and small shops selling everything from herbs to dried fish.

“There’s Fat Ching’s Chinese Theater,” Copeland said, pointing, as they turned into a narrow street.

At that moment a machine gun began to fire from a nearby building. Bullets blew out both front tires of the squad car!

CHAPTER VI

A Pretty Welcome

THE car slewed out of control, skidded sideways through the street for about fifty yards, and halted with a jolt when its left rear side slammed into a lamppost.

Both doors on that side popped open. All five passengers dived through them and crouched behind the car for protection.

Copeland and the policeman driver drew their guns.

The building from which the shots had come was a warehouse which looked deserted, directly across the street from Fat Ching’s Chinese Theater. Four figures ran from the warehouse.

They were too far away for the boys to make out their faces. All wore hats. One was tall and thin, one squat and muscular, the third was heavy-set and burly, and the fourth had broad shoulders and narrow hips. The latter two carried Thompson submachine guns.

The tall, thin man and the squat man jumped into the front seat of a black sedan parked in front of the abandoned warehouse. The burly fellow sprayed the Chinese theater across the street with another round of fire. The broad-shouldered man threw a burst of shots at the wrecked police car.

The boys and the two officers flattened themselves against the pavement as bullets ripped into the vehicle from one end to the other. Then there was the roar of a motor. Cautiously getting to their knees to peer over the hood and around both ends of the car, they saw the black sedan speeding away.

On his feet now, Detective Copeland said, “Let’s see who they were shooting at in the theater.”

Gun thrust out before him, he led the way toward the building. The driver followed, his pistol ready, too. The Hardys and Chet brought up the rear.

Squad cars with sirens screaming roared to a halt from both directions as they reached the theater. Officers armed with riot guns spilled from them. Copeland ordered the team from one car to check the warehouse and to send out an alert for the black sedan. Then he sent the other team around back of the theater to cut off the escape of anyone who might still be inside.

Ordering Frank, Joe, and Chet to stay outside, the chief and his driver went into the theater. Moments later the driver came out and motioned the boys to come in.

In the lobby Copeland was bending over the figure of a small, ferret-faced man. He was bleeding from a bullet wound in his chest.

Looking up, the chief said, “Ziggy Felton, a member of the Rocky Morgan gang. He says three of his buddies were with him, but they ran out the back way.” Glancing at the driver, Copeland said, “Go call an ambulance.”

As the policeman moved away, Copeland turned back to Felton. “What was it all about, Ziggy?”

In a weak voice the little man replied, “It’s a new mob from the East Coast. They’ve got a tape of Rocky’s voice and also his voiceprint. They wanted fifty grand, or else they were going to turn both over to the cops.”

Ziggy wheezed. “We got the word they were holed up in that warehouse across the street, and Rocky decided to hit them instead of paying off. They were too tough, though. Drove us in here, then they got me’

Joe said to Frank, “Did anything seem familiar about those four men?”

Frank nodded. “Same sizes and shapes as our Bayport bank robbers. The thin man who drove the getaway car and the burly machine gunner could have been the pair who quizzed us in the restaurant in Somerville. The other machine gunner could have been the guy with the red, greasy hair. And the squat one looked like Signor Zonko!”

Under further questioning Ziggy Felton denied knowing the identities of any of the East Coast mob. However, he admitted having heard via the underworld grapevine that gangleaders in Chicago and New Orleans had also been shaken down.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the police, who had checked the warehouse, reported no one was there now. The theater building also was empty.

Copeland had one of the squad cars at the scene take him and his driver back to headquarters. En route the Hardys and Chet were dropped off at their hotel.

The following morning the three boys drove to Stockton in the rented Ford. The post office had no record of a Miguel Jimenez, but they were told by a clerk that mailman Herbert Shay would probably know him.

On a map the clerk showed them Shay’s sixtyfive-mile route and pointed out a waterway. “In about an hour you should catch up with him around here,” he said. “There’s a marina where you can rent a boat.”

The boys thanked him and a short time later were chugging along in a twelve-foot skiff at barely fifteen miles an hour.

Frank sat in the stern, running the fifteen-horsepower engine, Joe sat in the bow, and Chet was amidship.

“I’d prefer the Sleuth,” said Chet, referring to the Hardys’ fast, sleek motorboat.

Joe nodded. “Especially since someone’s been following us ever since we left the marina,” he said apprehensively.

The others glanced back at an eighteen-foot inboard boat about a quarter mile behind them. It was idling along at a speed no greater than theirs. Through the windshield they could see only one person, but they were too far away to make out his features.

The boys’ skiff had chugged to about the center of the lakelike area, a good three hundred yards from shore, when the speedboat suddenly roared with power and came leaping after them.

Traveling at about forty miles an hour it took their pursuer less than a minute to close the quarter-mile gap. It shot past on their left only twenty feet away, then swung across their bow so close it barely missed ramming them.

The pilot was hunched low and had a peaked white yachting cap pulled down to hide his face. As he swung in front of them the yachting cap blew off, and they had a brief glimpse of red hair.

A wave caused by the speeding boat hit them simultaneously from the left side and the front. Frank made a valiant attempt to head the bow into it, but the skiff handled too sluggishly. The boat rode up the wave sideways to its crest and overturned.

The boys struggled to the surface a few yards apart just as the capsized boat sank from sight. They treaded water for a while until the waves subsided. The speedboat was rapidly disappearing in the distance.

When it was out of sight, and the water had calmed, Chet sputtered, “Now what?”

“We swim for shore,” Frank said. “But first let’s take some sightings so we can find this spot again.”

Looking east toward a large island, he saw a flagpole before a row of small cottages. Glancing west, he noticed that the south edge of a boat dock on a smaller island exactly lined up with the flagpole. Then he looked north and south and fixed his position by means of trees on islands in both directions.

“Okay,” he called. “Let’s head for that larger island.”

Weighted down by clothing, it was a long swim. Finally they waded ashore and walked across the sandy beach.

Suddenly Chet, who was in the lead, stopped dead in his tracks. Behind a sandy dune, stretched out on a blanket, were three girls in swimsuits. They looked up in surprise, and the brunette on the left said, “Look who’s here. Neptune and two of his mermen!”

“Wow!” Chet said, a grin spreading over his face. “We sure came to the right place!”

The plump blonde in the middle laughed. “I doubt it. This is a girls’ camp.” She added impishly, “Boys aren’t allowed.”

“Sorry about that,” Joe said. “We’re shipwrecked.”

The slender redhead on the right gave Chet a searching look through long lashes.

“I’m Chet Neptune—I mean Morton,” Chet introduced himself. “These two mermen are Frank and Joe Hardy. We’re from Bayport back East.”

“Hi, there,” said the blond girl, whose name was Susie Wade. The redhead introduced herself as June Fall, and the brunette was Kay Dover.

“You look pretty sad,” Kay decided, eying the boys’ dripping clothes. “Come on. The Murrays might help you out.”

“Who are they?” Frank asked.

“The camp owners.”

The girls led the way to a large building surrounded by small cottages.

“Look what we found,” June said to the tall, friendly woman inside.

Mrs. Murray shook her head in mock horror. “You find boys everywhere!” she said with a chuckle. Then she produced three pairs of swim trunks for the visitors to wear while she dried their clothing. Mr. Murray loaned them a canoe, a coil of stout rope, and a pair of pliers.

“This might help you get your boat ashore,” he said.

Frank grinned. “Thanks. We sure appreciate it.”

Frank sat in the stern of the canoe with one of the paddles, Joe scrambled amidship with the other, and Chet sat down in front. When they neared the point where the boat had sunk, Frank asked Joe to let him handle the canoe alone. He went back and forth, checking his landmarks, until all four lined up exactly.

Shipping his paddle, he said, “Okay, this is it.”

Chet rose to a crouch and dived over the bow. It was about half a minute before he came up again.

“We’re right on top of it,” he sputtered. “Give me the pliers and the end of the rope.”

Joe handed him both. Chet dived again. This time he was down for a full minute. A moment after he came up, the boat, minus its motor, rose to the surface upside down. Gasping for air, Chet dropped the pliers into the canoe and hung on to its side.

Joe pulled on the rope from the other side and hauled the outboard motor up. They righted the boat and attached the motor and towed the disabled craft ashore.

“Good work, Chet,” Frank praised.

“Admit it, you’d be lost without me!” Chet began to sing. “Back to paradise...”

“Listen, Don Juan, we’re here on a job,” Joe reminded him.

“Who says you can’t combine work with pleasure?” Chet replied loftily.

When they reached the beach, the boys received a very pleasurable surprise. The girls had prepared a delicious picnic lunch. There were plenty of sandwiches, and a good thing too, because Chet and the plump blonde ate four each. She kept urging more food on the husky boy, obviously having picked him as her particular companion.

“They’re sure suited to each other,” Joe whispered to Frank. “I’d hate to pay the grocery bill, though!”

Kay, overhearing the whispered remark, giggled.

Frank asked June if the mailman had been there yet. She told him that he stopped at the camp on his return trip and would be along about two in the afternoon.

The boys decided to wait for him there rather than trying to catch up with him on his route.

After lunch they drained the mixture of gasoline, oil, and water from the outboard’s tank and cleaned the motor. Mr. Murray supplied them with fresh gas and oil.

By then their clothing was dry. When the mailman arrived, they were ready to leave. Herbert Shay was a well-built, middle-aged man. His boat was a sixteen-footer with a powerful seventy-five-horsepower outboard motor and front-seat controls.

He told the boys that old Miguel Jimenez’s houseboat was moored in a secluded lagoon off Hank’s Tract Lake, and described how to get there. The lake, he explained, had once been the site of numerous farms and orchards. But in 1936 the levees surrounding the area broke, flooding the tract so badly that attempts to redrain it had to be abandoned.

“The lake can get awfully rough,” he warned. “And if fog comes up, you can get lost without a compass. Do you have one?”

When the boys confessed they did not, he suggested that if there was any sign of fog when they reached the lake, they should stay near the shore instead of crossing directly to the lagoon.

Then the mailman moved on. The Bayporters thanked the girls and the Murrays for their hospitality and resumed their journey. They reached Hank’s Tract Lake without incident, and, since the sun was shining, headed directly across to the shallow lagoon.

There was only one houseboat in sight, a rickety old contraption tied to a tree. They beached the motorboat and climbed out. A plank led from shore to the wobbly porch of the houseboat.

As they approached, a tiger-colored cat emerged from a nearby clump of tules, padded up the plank, and stood before a hole in the screen door. The feline paid not the slightest attention to the boys, but peered intently into the interior of the houseboat. Then it crept through the ripped screen and disappeared inside, its tail swishing.

“Probably the old man’s cat,” Chet mused. “I understand that all hermits have some kind of pet. They’d go nuts living absolutely alone. Take Robinson Crusoe for example. He—”

“Sh, sh!” Frank commanded.

“What’s up?” Chet whispered, stopped short in his philosophical observation.

“I heard something.”

“Like what?”

The three stood still and listened. From inside came a loud noise. This was followed by a shrill high-pitched voice. “Go away! Go away!”

The shriek sent shivers through the boys.

CHAPTER VII

Danger in the Delta

“IF that’s old Jimenez, he sounds like a fiend,” Chet whispered.

A cracked voice behind them said, “That’s not old Jimenez, young man. It’s Don Quixote.”

The boys turned to face an elderly but straight-backed man with snow-white hair. His deep-set eyes burned at them.

“You heard Don Quixote,” he said. “Get going!”

“Are you Mr. Jimenez?” Frank asked.

“What’s it to you, boy?”

“I’m Frank Hardy. This is my brother Joe, and Chet Morton. We’re trying to get some information on Giovanni Russo, and his sword Adalante. We heard you know all about it.”

The old man glared at him for a second before saying, “I have no information. Go away.”

“Help! Help!” the shrill voice shrieked from inside.

“Por dios!” Jimenez exclaimed. “Don Quixote!”

He started up the plank, but moved so stiffly that it was obvious he would not arrive in time to save Don Quixote from whatever danger he was in. Frank leaped past him, jerked open the screen door, and rushed inside.

A large black myna bird was perched on a bookcase, flapping his wings and screeching in terror. The tiger-colored cat crouched on a table, ready to spring.

Frank’s outstretched arm blocked the cat’s leap. It dropped to the floor, hissing, then fled between the legs of Miguel Jimenez as the old man pulled open the door.

“You saved Don Quixote,” he said gratefully. “Thank the young man, Don Quixote!”

The bird ruffled his feathers and squawked, “Good-by and good riddance!” Then he cocked his head at Frank and said, “Welcome aboard, mate!”

“Thanks, Don Quixote,” Frank replied with a grin.

Jimenez glanced over his shoulder at Joe and Chet, who had paused in the doorway. “Come on in,” he invited them.

The rescue of his bird completely changed the recluse’s attitude. When the Hardys offered to mend the hole in his screen door, he mellowed even more. He produced a piece of wire screening and they patched the hole. As they were working, he told them the true story of the so-called duel in which the sword Adalante had been broken and lost.

“There never was a duel,” the old man began. “That’s a story told to conceal what really happened. Giovanni Russo was kidnapped by a bandit and was held for ransom in a secret place in his own vineyard.”

He paused, then continued thoughtfully. “Fearing death, Giovanni wrote his will on his saber. Or so he later said, anyway. The blade was broken when he fought his way free. Then he swam from the island on which his vineyard was located to another island.”

“Where was his property?” Frank asked.

Jimenez explained that it was near a place called Paradise Point, and described how to get there.

As he finished, the myna bird suddenly flapped his wings and shrieked toward a window, “Go away! Go away!”

“Someone must be out there!” the old man declared. “Don Quixote never says that unless we have a visitor.”

The boys rushed outside to investigate. But there was no sign of anyone around.

When they returned to the houseboat, Joe asked, “How do you know all about the kidnapping, Mr. Jimenez?”

In a sad voice the recluse replied, “To my shame the bandit who kidnapped Giovanni Russo was named Miguel Jimenez, too. He was my great-uncle.”

“We heard there’s a book about Russo in the Stockton Public Library,” Chet put in. “Do you know about that, Mr. Jimenez?”

The old man nodded. “It’s in the school library of the College of the Pacific in Stockton, not the public library. It has a description of the sword Adalante in it.”

The recluse eyed the boys curiously. “Why are you so interested in all this?”

Frank quickly told him the reason. Jimenez shook his head doubtfully and said, “I can’t imagine how you expect to find the saber. But good luck, anyway.”

The boys thanked him for his information and left. When the skiff chugged out of the lagoon, Frank shifted the motor into neutral and glanced up at the sky. It had become quite overcast.

“Looks as if a storm’s brewing,” he said.

“The mailman only warned us against fog,” Chet remarked. “Rain shouldn’t stop us.”

“I guess so,” Frank agreed and headed away from shore.

As they neared the center of the lake, a speedboat emerged from a hidden cove near the mouth of the lagoon and arrowed straight for them.

“That’s the one that swamped us before!” Chet exclaimed.

“There’s another boat coming from the opposite direction!” Joe called.

Frank and Chet turned to look. A sixteen-footer with a powerful outboard motor was also heading toward them.

The speedboat reached them first. This time, even though he was crouched low, the boys could see the driver’s face because he was hatless. It was a coarse, brutal face surmounted by red hair!

On the previous occasion Frank had not realized until too late that the man was deliberately trying to swamp them. But this time he was prepared. As the boat zoomed near, Frank cut sharply left to aim the bow at the point he judged the speedboat would swing in front of them.

There was a near collision. The speedboat curved no more than a foot from the skiff’s bow. Then, as it swept past, the skiff nosed over the crest of the wave and plunged down its other side without capsizing.

But just as the water began to calm, the speedboat roared toward them again! By now the other boat had reached the spot, too. The boys recognized mailman Herbert Shay. Realizing what was happening, he came to their rescue. He headed for the approaching craft at full throttle.

Although smaller than the speedboat, Shay’s seventy-five-horsepower outboard motor made his boat just as fast. And the mailman showed reckless courage. He bore head-on at the larger craft, forcing the redhead to spin his wheel in panic to the right.

Then Shay swung sharply left as the speedboat was turning. The two canted side by side, showing their bottoms to each other and almost touching before veering apart again.

The larger boat nearly capsized before its pilot managed to get it back under control. Unable to stomach the dangerous game, he opened his engine wide and roared away.

The mailman pulled alongside the Hardys. “Who was that idiot?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Frank called out. “The same kook gave us some trouble on the way out to the Jimenez houseboat.”

“It’s getting to be a wacky world,” Shay said, throttling down to keep his boat abreast of the boys’ skiff. “Some people take pleasure in hurting others for no good reason.”

Joe said, “I think there’s a reason behind this.”

“And we’ll find out what it is, too!” Chet said emphatically.

“Take care,” Shay said. “By the way, what luck did you have with Jimenez?”

“We saved his myna bird,” Frank said with a grin. “There seems to be a shortage of cat food around here.” He told what had happened.

The mailman grinned. “Your good deed for the day!” Then he glanced up at the sky. “You’d better get across the lake fast. It’s going to storm any minute.”

With a good-by wave, he sped off. Frank headed the skiff for the far end of the lake.

A few seconds later there was a light patter of rain, accompanied by a distant rumbling sound. Then came a blinding flash of lightning and almost simultaneously an earsplitting crack of thunder!

CHAPTER VIII

A Library Clue

THE lightning bolt hit so dose in front of them that they could smell the ozone. Frank instinctively steered around the spot.

This was a lucky move. The lightning’s target had been a nearly submerged log, now split in two by the bolt. Both halves were large enough to drive a hole in the bottom of the skiff.

The trio reached the marina without further incident, turned in their boat, and drove back to Stockton. They checked into a motel on the outskirts of town.

Saturday morning, while breakfasting in the motel dining room, they discussed plans for the day. It was decided that Joe and Chet would check out the vineyard once owned by Giovanni Russo while Frank investigated the book old Miguel Jimenez had told them was in the library of the College of the Pacific. Joe and Chet dropped Frank off at the campus, then drove on to Paradise Point.

The college was coeducational and had an enrollment of only about fifteen hundred students. It had a beautiful campus, with a mixture of ancient vine-covered buildings and recently constructed modem ones. The school was open because summer sessions were being held.

In the library Frank checked the card catalog. Under Russo, Giovanni he found listed a book titled Master of the Vineyards by an author named José Flores. It was in the basement stacks, in the rare-book section.

Frank went downstairs. At the end of an alcove formed by floor-to-ceiling shelves he spotted a girl seated at a reading desk. Her back was to him, but there was something familiar about her slim figure and red hair. He walked over for a closer look.

Hearing his footsteps, the girl looked up. It was June Fall from the girls’ camp!

“What are you doing here?” Frank asked in surprise.

“I have a summer job as a research assistant for one of the professors,” June replied with a smile. “He’s doing a paper on early vineyards in the delta area. But what about you?”

“Oh, just looking for a book,” Frank said vaguely. He glanced at the heavy, leather-bound volume open on the desk before the girl. “What’s that?”

“It’s called Master of the Vineyards and is about an Italian Swiss named Giovanni Russo, who was once the richest vineyard owner in the delta. Professor Von Stolk is particularly interested in him.”

Was this just coincidence? Frank wondered. Or was the professor also on the trail of the sword Adalante?

Before he could ask any questions, a tall, thin, aesthetic-looking man with a distinguished head of gray hair appeared at the end of the alcove. He wore a sports coat and an elaborately knotted scarf around his throat.

“Oh hi, Professor,” June said. “I think I’ve found something.”

The man gave Frank a suspicious look, so the young detective said good-by and discreetly departed. He went into the next alcove and stood with his ear to the shelf. All he could hear was a low murmur of conversation.

Then the professor and the girl left. As soon as they disappeared up the stairs, Frank returned to the first alcove. The book still lay open on the reading desk.

The left page was 254. The right page was numbered 2591 Frank realized four pages were missing!

Checking the index, he discovered that the missing pages contained a description and a photograph of the sword Adalante, plus the story of how the sword had been lost.

Professor Von Stolk must be on the trail of the guard end of the sword, too, Frank thought. Was the girl an accomplice, or merely an unwitting tool? He decided the quickest way to find out was to ask her and hurried outside.

Frank roamed up and down the shaded walks of the campus looking for either the professor or the pretty redhead. Finally he spotted her walking along a few yards ahead of him.

He strode up behind her and called, “Hey, wait a minute!”

Halting, the girl turned around, smiled, and said, “Yes?”

She was just as pretty as June, but Frank had never seen her before in his life!

“Sorry,” he stammered. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I am someone else,” the girl replied, still smiling. “I’m Holly Brewer.”

Frank smiled back. “My name is Frank Hardy. Can you tell me where the administration building is?”

“I’ll show you. I work there. I’m the faculty records clerk.”

“Oh?” Frank said. “Then you are the one I’m looking for. Where will I find Professor Von Stolk?”

Holly looked puzzled. “We have no one by that name.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. We have a hundred and twenty-three instructors, and I keep the records of all of them.”

Frank described the man, but Holly could think of no one on the faculty that fitted the description. When Frank explained that he had seen the professor in the library, the girl suggested that perhaps he was from another college or university, and merely had been doing research here.

After thanking her, Frank decided to return to the motel. There was a bus stop across the street from the campus.

Frank stood at the curb waiting and idly watching traffic, when a motorcycle approached at high speed on his side of the street.

Just before it reached the corner, someone butted Frank hard in the back. He stumbled to hands and knees, directly into the path of the oncoming cycle!

It swerved in time, missing Frank by inches, and roared on across the intersection.

Leaping to his feet, the boy spun to see a broad-shouldered, thin-hipped man with red hair running down a side street. Frank raced after him.

The fleeing man leaped a fence and dashed across a yard. As Frank cleared the fence right behind him, out of the comer of his eye he saw a cruising police car pulling to the curb. Two officers got out to investigate what was going on.

The redhead vaulted another fence with Frank close at his heels. Halfway across the second yard the boy made a flying tackle and brought the man down with a crash.

He was sitting astride his assailant’s back, twisting his arms behind him, when the two policemen approached. Each grasped one of Frank’s arms and lifted him erect.

“What’s going on?” the older officer inquired.

Then the redhead pushed himself to his knees and glanced over his shoulder. When the policemen saw his face, they released Frank and collared his prisoner.

“Red Bowes!” the younger officer exclaimed, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He turned to Frank. “You caught yourself a prize. This guy’s wanted for a half-dozen bank robberies.”

“I’m not surprised,” Frank said. “He’s one of a gang that robbed the Bayport Bank and Trust Company. He tried to push me in front of a motorcycle just now!”

Frank explained who he was and why he was in California. Then he turned to Bowes. “You were listening outside the window when we talked to old Jimenez yesterday, weren’t you?”

“What if I was?” the bank robber asked sullenly. “That’s no crime.”

“Why did you follow us?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Red Bowes snarled.

The younger policeman said, “Who was with you on the Bayport job, Red?”

“None of your business!”

“And who was your buddy in Somerville when you tried to rob the Voiceprint Lab?” Frank put in.

“You can’t tie me to that.”

“The Somerville police can,” Frank assured him. “You left your hat at the scene. A red hair was in it.”

Bowes stared at the boy, fear in his eyes. Then he said defiantly, “I’m not the only guy with red hair.” But Frank knew that Bowes realized his game was up.

The policemen asked Frank to come along to headquarters. Bowes was booked on a number of counts and informed of his legal rights.

“Yeah,” he snarled. “I won’t say a word without a lawyer!”

As an officer led him toward the cellblock, Bowes changed his mind, however. He sneered at Frank as he passed him. “How did you like the shape I left your lab in?” he asked.

“So it was you, was it?” Frank replied. “Was Zonko with you?”

Bowes walked on without answering.

Frank asked one of the policemen if he could use the telephone, and called the motel.

Joe answered. “Did you find a clue in the library?” he wanted to know.

“Yes. Also the guy who played games with us yesterday when we visited Jimenez,” Frank replied, and told his brother what had happened.

“I’ve got news, too,” Joe said when he had finished. “But it can wait until we get there. Chet and I’ll pick you up.”

“Is it good or bad news?” Frank inquired.

“Bad. You might even say terrible!”

CHAPTER IX

The Old Map

JOE was driving the Ford when he and Chet picked up Frank outside police headquarters.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Frank asked, “What’s this bad news?”

“The vineyard’s gone,” Joe said. “Part is already a suburb, and the last of it is being used for a new housing development.”

“As far as we could find out,” Chet put in, “the only original building left is a wine storage cellar, and they’re going to bulldoze it down this afternoon.”

“That could be the secret place where Giovanni Russo was held prisoner by his kidnapper!” Frank exclaimed. “Did you ask to see it?”

“The foreman wasn’t there,” Joe said. “He was off trying to hire a bulldozer.”

“Drive out there now,” Frank said.

The island on which the Russo vineyard had been was somewhat north of Paradise Point. Although it was in the delta area, it could be reached by car via a series of bridges. The boys arrived at the planned housing development about twelve-fifteen.

Streets had been laid out in the tract, although they were not yet paved. The unroofed raw wood skeletons of about two dozen houses were in various stages of construction. Work crews sat near them eating their lunches.

Joe parked in front of the contractor’s office, a small prefabricated sheet-iron hut. A short distance away was an ancient one-story stone building.

“That must be the wine storage place over there,” he said to Frank, pointing.

“Right. And next to it is a bulldozer!”

“Just in time,” Joe said as they got out of the car and walked into the office.

Seated at a desk sipping coffee from a Thermos bottle was a lean, suntanned man. Another fellow had already finished his lunch. He was tall, blond and heavy-set and stood at the far end of the room, lunging with a fencing foil at a rope hanging from the ceiling.

The man at the desk glanced up as the boys entered, but the blond man continued to practice without paying any attention to them.

Frank asked, “Are you the foreman?”

The lean man nodded. “Jim Emory’s my name.”

“I’m Frank Hardy,” the boy replied. He introduced Joe and Chet, then explained that they wanted permission to search the wine storage building before it was bulldozed down.

“Why?” Emory asked.

Frank told about their search for the broken blade.

“It’s all right with me,” the foreman said with a shrug. “We’re only going to tear the place down, anyway.”

The blond fellow stopped his practice and came over, still carrying the foil. In a surly voice he said, “You’d better be out of there by one o’clock. If you aren’t you’ll be buried under a heap of stones!”

“What’s your hurry?” Joe asked, anger rising in him at the man’s attitude.

“This is Harry Madsen, the bulldozer operator,” Emory said soothingly, and gave the boys’ names.

Madsen made no effort to acknowledge the introduction. Instead he said, “I have another job later this afternoon. So that building comes down at one o’clock whether you’re out of it or not.”

Looking at his watch, Frank said, “Let’s get busy then, fellows. We only have a little over a half-hour.”

On the first floor of the wine storage building there was nothing but some moldering, empty wine casks. They found a narrow stone stairway leading to the cellar. Joe went to the car and came back with a flashlight before they descended the stairs.

The cellar had vaulted ceilings and high, slitted windows which let in only dim light. Cobwebs hung everywhere. Most of the rooms were empty, but a couple contained rotting wooden racks and a few ancient, empty bottles.

The boys searched thoroughly. Finally Chet said, “Nothing here.”

“There’s one more room we haven’t checked,” Joe reminded him. They walked through a doorway and noticed a small wooden chest with rusty hinges just ahead of them.

“Let’s have a look in there,” Joe said, beaming his flashlight on the chest while Frank lifted the lid.

At first it appeared to be empty, but then they saw that the dirt in the bottom covered a single sheet of ancient brown parchment paper. Chet took the paper out and blew the dust off it. Then he held it for Joe to shine the light on.

“It’s a map of the island!” Frank exclaimed.

“You’re right. It shows Giovanni Russo’s home, a barn, and some other structures,” Joe said.

“This is the place we’re in now,” Chet remarked, pointing. “And there are two similar buildings, one on the northern part of the island, the other on the eastern edge.”

“That means originally there were three wine storage cellars here,” Frank declared. “I wonder if the other two are still in existence.”

At that moment they heard a heavy engine starting outside. Joe turned the light on his watch.

“It’s one o’clock,” he said. “We’d better get out of here. Our pal means business!”

They heard the bulldozer back a few feet. The motor began to race, and suddenly exhaust fumes poured through one of the slitted windows.

Choking and coughing, the boys ran for the stairs. When they got outside, the bulldozer engine was still running, but Harry Madsen was out of the cab, standing next to it. He threw them a nasty grin.

“You did that on purpose!” Chet said angrily. “You deliberately backed up so exhaust fumes would go through that window!”

“So what, Fatty?” the blond man asked contemptuously. “Want to make something of it?”

Chet took a step toward him. Harry Madsen reached into the cab of the bulldozer and whipped out the foil he had been practicing with. He slashed it at Chet, who leaped back out of the way just in time to avoid getting it across the shoulders.

The foreman, who had come from the contractor’s hut, said sharply, “That’s enough, Harry!”

Ignoring him, Madsen looked from Frank to Joe. “Either of you want trouble?” he challenged.

“Hand me a foil and I’ll give you all the trouble you can handle,” Joe said heatedly.

“You think so?” Madsen sneered. “I’ll meet you any time you say.”

“Right now!” Joe suggested.

“I only brought one foil with me. After I finish work I’ll go home and get another one. Gloves and masks, too. Then I’ll meet you here about four-thirty.”

“That’s fine with me,” Joe told him.

Jim Emory was dubious. “You’re letting yourself in for something, young fellow. Harry takes lessons!”

“So do I,” Joe replied. “I’ll be here at four-thirty, Madsen!”

When they left the housing development site, the boys drove to the east end of the island to see if they could locate the second wine storage building shown on the parchment map.

A number of homes had been erected in the area, but there was nothing resembling the storage place. The map had not been drawn to exact scale, so there was no way of telling precisely where it was located.

“No luck,” Frank said after a while, disappointed.

“Let’s try the other one,” Joe suggested and drove to the north end of the island. This area

Exhaust fumes poured through the window had not been built up because of its steep hills. But they could not find the exact site, and after driving up and down a few mountain roads, they gave up.

“Let’s go somewhere for lunch,” Chet said plaintively. “You realize it’s after two o’clock?”

Joe grinned. “You just can’t take all that sleuthing, Chet!”

They found a roadside restaurant and stopped for sandwiches.

When they had finished, Frank said, “Let’s try the county clerk. There ought to be some kind of record of the buildings on the property when it was sold by old Giovanni.”

Stockton was the county seat of San Joaquin County. They drove back into town and went to the courthouse. When they walked up the steps, Joe stopped suddenly.

“Frank—they’ll be closed. It’s Saturday.”

“You’re right. Well, since we’re here, let’s try anyway.”

They were in luck. The county clerk was in to catch up on some work. He was a thin little man who wore glasses on the end of his nose. Frank showed him the parchment map and asked if there was a way to check if the other two wine storage buildings were still in existence.

“Sure,” the clerk replied. “They would be on the original plats when the island owner deeded it over to whoever bought it from him. I’ll start from there and go forward through subsequent property transfers.”

He took the map and went into another room, while the boys settled into chairs. About ten minutes later he came back.

Handing the map back to Frank, he said, “They’re still extant.”

“Where?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Well, the one on the north part of the island is on a ski slope. It’s now used as a hilltop station, and belongs to Carson’s Lodge off Burns Mountain Road.”

“What about the other one?” Joe asked.

“That’s been converted into a private home.”

“Who owns it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you without the owner’s permission!”

CHAPTER X

A Treacherous Fence

FRANK said, “Aren’t these public records?”

“Well, yes,” the clerk admitted.

“Then anyone has access to them,” Frank pointed out.

Reluctantly the clerk said, “The home is owned by a movie scenario writer named Vincent Steele. The reason I didn’t want to tell you is that I happen to know him. He’s an absolute nut about privacy. Please don’t let on that I gave you this information. He might make trouble for me.”

The boys assured him they would not tell Steele and the clerk gave them the address, which was 125 Port Street.

Shortly before four-thirty they returned to the construction site. There was no sign of the bulldozer, but Harry Madsen, Jim Emory, and a small, sinewy man stood next to a car. To the boys’ surprise the wine storage building was still standing!

“How come this place hasn’t been razed?” Frank asked.

“The contractor phoned,” Emory answered. “He wants us to postpone the job till Monday.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Some archaeologist is supposed to come and talk to Harry at six o’clock.”

Madsen was impatient. “You ready?” he asked.

“Any time you are,” Joe said coldly.

Madsen had brought a set of foils, masks, and gloves. He pointed to the small man. “This is my friend Amos Cain. He’ll direct the bout.”

“What does he know about fencing?” Joe inquired.

“He happens to be the maestro of my school!” Madsen replied with a superior air.

Joe suggested that if Madsen was going to have a personal friend act as bout director, his brother and Chet should be judges. When Cain learned that both boys knew the rules, he agreed.

Then he marked an area six feet by forty feet in the dirt street to serve as the arena.

Joe and Madsen donned their wire-mesh masks and gloves and made some parries and counter-parries to get the feel of their blades.

By now the workday had ended. Instead of going home, the construction crew crowded around to watch the bout.

Madsen casually moved nearer to Joe as he began to make parries and thrusts and lunges. Then he swished the blade of his foil through the air.

Suddenly Chet shouted, “Look out, Joe!”

Joe leaped aside just in time to avoid a slash across the legs. Harry Madsen said mockingly, “Sorry, Hardy. Accident.”

“That was no accident!” Chet said angrily, stepping toward the blond man.

Madsen swung the foil back over his shoulder with the evident intention of whipping Chet with it. Instead, Chet threw a rolling block into the man’s knees. His feet were knocked out from under him. Madsen pitched forward over Chet, dropping his foil.

Both jumped to their feet and faced each other. Madsen swung a roundhouse right at Chet’s head. The stocky boy ducked and punched Madsen in the stomach. Harry grunted and doubled over.

Frank pulled Chet away, but the blow had cooled Madsen’s desire to bedevil Chet any more. He blustered and threatened but made no further attempt at violence.

“Forget it and pick up your foil,” the foreman ordered.

Eventually the contestants were ready to begin fencing. Amos Cain took up the director’s position.

Joe and his opponent both raised their foils vertically before their masks.

“Ready?” Cain asked.

The fencers got on guard, crossed their foils, and nodded Yes.

“Fence!” the director ordered.

The blades engaged, disengaged again. Madsen extended his arm and Joe parried. Then he engaged his opponent’s blade in rapid order in what were called the fourth, sixth, and second positions and executed a filo and patinando with a disengage from the last position.

Madsen parried the blade but not before it struck his mask. The blond man stumbled backward, clutching at his mask with his left hand. Concerned that the tip of his foil might have penetrated and inflicted a face wound, Joe lowered his foil.

Instantly Madsen extended his arm and lunged.

“Halt!” Amos Cain ordered. “First touch against Hardy.”

“Wait a minute!” Chet protested. “Madsen pretended to be hurt. Anyway, you should have halted the action as soon as Joe made that foul touch.”

“You judges should have called the foul touch,” the director pointed out. “Since you didn’t, and I saw none, no halt was called. Harry’s hit was perfectly legal.”

“Legal, maybe,” Chet muttered. “But not ethical.”

“On guard!” the director ordered.

The foils crossed again. After several lunges and parries by both opponents, the blond man suddenly stepped back, lowered his foil, and began to remove his mask. Regarding him inquiringly, Joe lowered his foil too.

Madsen’s blade instantly came up again, he stepped forward, thrust, and lunged.

“Halt!” the director ordered. “Point two for Harry. Two against Hardy.”

Both Chet and Frank protested loudly.

“I hadn’t called a halt,” Amos Cain said reasonably. “Hardy shouldn’t have dropped his guard.”

“Let it go, fellows,” Joe said grimly. “He won’t catch me with any more sneaky tricks.”

It was an accurate prediction. Several more times Madsen pretended to be hurt, but each time Joe kept his foil raised defensively when he disengaged. In rapid order Joe made five touches in a row.

Madsen objected to each one as off target, but by now the watching workmen realized what a poor sport Madsen was and booed him down every time.

After the fifth straight touch, Cain said reluctantly, “Bout. Hardy wins.”

“On five fouls!” Harry yelled. “He cheated!”

“You’re the cheater,” Chet said. “The only two hits you made were by dirty play.”

The blond man turned on Chet, his foil raised. Joe stepped forward, his raised also. But Madsen decided not to risk tangling with Joe again.

“I’ll get even with you guys,” he muttered as he turned away.

Joe tossed his foil and glove on the ground, dropped his mask next to it, and went over to get his coat from the workman who had been holding it for him.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he said to Frank and Chet.

The boys said good-by to Emory and his men, then Joe slid behind the wheel of the Ford.

They drove in silence for a few moments. Then Frank said, “We should definitely go back there at six and see who the archaeologist is.”

“You fellows can go,” Chet said. “At six I plan to be eating.”

“We can eat later,” Joe told him.

“Not me,” Chet declared. “I need something to keep up my strength after protecting you guys!”

Frank and Joe left Chet at a hamburger stand and returned to the construction site just before six. They parked a short distance away and crossed through a stand of trees edging the development. Halting near the housing area, they peered toward the contractor’s office.

They were perhaps fifty yards from the sheet-metal shack. No one was around except Harry Madsen, who was leaning against the fender of his car in front of the office.

“Now why would this archaeologist talk to Harry instead of the foreman?” Joe asked in a low voice.

Frank shrugged. “The whole thing seems fishy to me,” he said.

A sleek sports car drove up and a tall, thin, gray-haired man got out.

“Professor Von Stolk!” Frank murmured in surprise. “Now I’m sure his research in the library was not for an academic reason. That guy’s after Russo’s sword too!”

They watched as the professor showed two sheets of paper to Madsen.

“Maybe those are the pages torn from that book!” Frank speculated.

“Could be,” Joe said. “Too bad we can’t get closer to see.”

Von Stolk and the bulldozer operator conversed for some time. Then the professor disappeared into the wine cellar. He emerged a few minutes later, handed Madsen something, and left. Harry followed in his own car.

Frank and Joe once more searched the cellar, but to no avail. “We may as well get Chet,” Frank said.

It was six-thirty when they picked up their pal at the hamburger stand. Chet had consumed two cheeseburgers and a milk shake, and announced that he was now ready for dinner.

The boys found a restaurant and ate. During the meal Frank and Joe described the meeting they had observed between Harry Madsen and Professor Von Stolk. Chet shook his head in despair. “No doubt this professor is on the trail of our saber,” he said. “But what possible motive could he have?”

“What are we going to do next?” Joe inquired.

“Yes,” Chet put in. “Now that I’ve eaten, I’m ready for action again!”

“Let’s look up this guy Steele,” Frank suggested.

The boys paid their check and drove to 125 Port Street.

When they arrived, Chet said, “This place doesn’t resemble the wine storage building, except for the ancient stone.”

A second story with a peaked roof had been added, and there was a huge picture window in front. The house sat on about an acre of ground, surrounded by a split-rail fence. The driveway leading to a garage behind was blocked by an iron gate, and another iron gate barred the way to a walk leading to the front door.

Joe parked and they all got out. It was nearly eight o’clock, but still light. Drapes on the picture window in the living room were wide open. A woman seated on a couch was reading a magazine.

Joe tried the gate. It was locked.

Chet said, “The fence isn’t very high. Let’s climb it.”

He put one hand on the top rail with the intention of swinging his legs over it. Instead he emitted a gasp and fell to the ground unconscious!

CHAPTER XI

Faked Out

FRANK pulled Chet away from the fence, while Joe stooped to look up under the top rail. A bare copper wire ran beneath it.

“It’s electrified,” Joe stated. “What a dirty trick!”

Frank had been holding an ear to the unconscious boy’s chest. “His heart’s still working all right,” he said. “I guess the shock just knocked him out.”

Rolling Chet over on his stomach, Frank began to give him artificial respiration.

The front door of the house opened and a middle-aged woman with graying hair came out. She walked to the gate, wringing her hands.

“I didn’t know that was switched on,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry. Is your friend hurt?”

Without stopping his rhythmic movements, Frank said, “You can see he’s out cold. That fence is dangerous!”

“Oh dear!” the woman said. “I told my husband he was going too far with his desire for privacy. Are you going to sue us?”

“Depends on how our friend recovers,” Frank replied.

Chet opened his eyes and said, “Hey, who’s that sitting on my back?”

Frank rose to his feet. Chet rolled over and sat up.

“What happened?” he asked.

“The fence was charged with electricity,” Joe told him. “It knocked you out. This lady wants to know if you’re going to sue her.”

Chet looked at the woman, then lay back down on the grass and put a hand to his forehead. “I think my brain is fried,” he said dolefully. “How much can you sue for when your brain is fried?”

“For yours, about fifteen cents,” Frank quipped.

Sitting up again, Chet gave him a reproachful look. He climbed to his feet and regarded the fence darkly.

“It’s shut off now,” the woman assured him. “Won’t you come in the house while we discuss this?”

When they agreed, she unlocked the gate and led them inside. While they took seats in the living room, she went into the kitchen and returned with a tray of Cokes and a bowl of cookies.

“How are you feeling now?” she asked Chet as he reached for a handful of cookies.”

“I think I’ll live,” he said.

It was apparent by the way he attacked the cookie bowl that he was fully recovered from the effects of the electrical shock. The woman looked relieved.

“Then you won’t sue us?” she asked.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Chet said. “You leave that fence switched off and I won’t sue you.”

“Oh, I will,” she assured him. “I’m going to make my husband disconnect it.”

The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Myra Steele, and the boys told her their names. Mrs. Steele explained that her husband was the famous movie writer Vincent Steele, and that he went to such great lengths to maintain his privacy because he was constantly being bothered by aspiring actors who wanted to break into the business.

“I can understand that,” Chet said. “I’d like to be in the movies myself.”

“What role would you play?” Joe asked. “A mountain?”

“He could play the body in murder mysteries,” Frank suggested. “He put on a pretty good act outside.”

“You fellows just don’t appreciate real talent,” Chet said in a patronizing tone.

Spotting an ashtray in the shape of a skull on a nearby end table, he rose to his feet and picked it up. He stared down at it with a sad expression and intoned, “Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him well.”

Mrs. Steele laughed along with the Hardys.

Joe said, “Maybe you knew poor Yorick, Chet, but you don’t know your lines. ”It goes, ‘I knew him, Horatio,’ not ‘I knew him well.’ Don’t you remember our English teacher saying that was one of the most commonly misquoted lines in all literature?”

“I was out sick the day we studied Hamlet,” Chet said.

He set down the skull-like ashtray, returned to his seat, and took another cookie.

“Are you expecting your husband soon?” Frank asked Mrs. Steele.

“He won’t be home tonight at all,” she said. “He’s away doing research for a script. Actually the script was all finished and the film is already being shot on location, but the director wanted Vincent to rewrite part of it.”

She looked at the boys curiously. “Why did you come here? Did you want to speak to Vincent about something?”

Before Frank could answer, a car horn started to blow in front of the house. When it continued steadily, Frank stood up and walked over to the window. “Hey, that’s our horn!” he exclaimed.

“Is somebody signaling for us?” Joe asked, moving to his brother’s side.

“Nobody’s out there!” Frank replied.

“Excuse us please, Mrs. Steele,” Chet said. “We’d better go stop that awful noise.”

When the woman nodded, Joe said, “We’ll be right back.”

The three hastened outside. By now it was beginning to turn dark. Frank reached the car first. He opened the door at the driver’s side and banged the horn. It still continued to blow.

“There must be a short in it somewhere,” Chet said.

Joe had already lifted the hood, and Frank got a screwdriver and a flashlight from the glove compartment. He handed them to Joe, who examined the wiring.

Meanwhile people appeared in the windows of several houses across the street, and one man came out to his front steps. “Stop that confounded noise, will you?” he shouted impatiently.

“We’re trying to, sir,” Chet replied.

Finally Joe said, “Look, this is no accidental short. Somebody attached a wire bridge across the connection.” He removed the wire quickly and the horn stopped blowing.

Frank slammed the hood down as Joe returned the flashlight and the screwdriver to the glove compartment.

“Now who do you suppose did that?” asked Chet.

“There must be a practical joker living in this neighborhood,” Joe said.

“Probably some kids,” Frank declared.

Chet gingerly opened the gate and they started up the walk toward the front door of the Steele home.

Suddenly it dawned upon Frank that the drapes had been drawn tight over the front windows. Not even a crack of light could be seen from the interior.

Frank put his hand on the doorknob and tried to turn it. The door was locked. He pushed the bell, and heard it ring loud and clear, but there was no answer.

Impatiently Joe pressed the bell a couple of more times but to no avail.

“Maybe she’s on the phone,” Chet said.

“Could be,” Frank agreed.

They waited a few more minutes, then Chet put his ear against the door. “I don’t hear anything,” he reported.

Frank wore a worried frown. “You know, fellows,” he said, “I think we were deliberately faked out of the house by the guy who shorted our horn.”

“But for what reason?” Chet asked.

“Maybe he wanted to duck in the back way as we went out the front,” Frank replied.

“You mean a burglar?” Joe asked.

“Right,” Frank said. He imagined the scene as it might have taken place inside. Perhaps Mrs. Steele was bound and gagged and a thief was ransacking her house!

“The prowler might have closed the drapes, too,” Joe said. “Come on. Let’s see what’s in back!”

All the drapes in the house had been drawn. The rear door was locked. Frank rang the bell while Chet pounded on the door.

“Mrs. Steele,” Frank called out, “are you all right?”

Chet tried to open the kitchen window, but it was locked too. As he tried to force it, a cry came from inside the house.

“She really is in trouble!” Chet said. “Frank, do you think we ought to break in?”

“Mrs. Steele,” Frank called again, as loud as he could.

“Listen,” Joe said. “If someone’s in there, he might try to escape by the front door. I’ll go around to guard it.”

But before he had a chance, the boys heard a car quietly drive up to the side of the house. Two doors slammed almost simultaneously, then a bright beam of light, like the eye of a giant cyclops, shone on the trio. It blinded them momentarily.

A deep voice said, “Hold it right there, you guys. Put your hands on the side of the house, quick!”

Frank started to go forward.

“Don’t move or we’ll shoot!”

Joe thought, “Accomplices of the fellow who’s robbing the house!” His natural instinct was to resist, but the men might be armed and it could be a foolhardy move.

All three obeyed. Frank said, “What’s your game?”

“Who are you?” Chet added.

“We’re police officers. And you’re under arrest!”

CHAPTER XII

The Sword Adalante

THE Bayporters placed their hands against the back wall of the house. One of the officers patted their bodies to see if they carried guns.

“They’re clean,” he growled to his companion. “All right, you can straighten up now.”

Frank and Joe noticed that two more policemen had emerged from the car and were going into the house. Seconds later a floodlight over the garage door went on. Obviously they had switched it on from inside.

The two officers standing next to Frank and Joe holstered their guns. They wore the uniforms of deputy sheriffs.

The back door opened and Mrs. Steele stepped out.

“These are the ones!” she said. “Thanks for getting here so fast, Officers.”

“Did you call the police about us?” Frank asked in astonishment.

“That’s right!”

“But why?”

“You’re thieves, aren’t you?” the woman said tartly.

The boys looked at each other, then back at Mrs. Steele. “Where did you get that idea?” Joe inquired.

“While you were outside fixing your horn, the phone rang. It was a man. He wouldn’t tell me his name, but he said to watch out for three young thieves who were working the neighborhood. He described you perfectly.”

Frank said to the deputies, “Someone must be trying to get us in trouble. We were visiting with Mrs. Steele when our horn started blowing. We went to fix it and found it had been shorted on purpose. Probably the same person did it who phoned Mrs. Steele while we were outside!”

The deputy with the deep voice said, “Do you have any identification with you?”

“Certainly,” Frank said, and all three handed over their driver’s licenses.

After examining them, the deputy said, “I see you’re all from Bayport. And two of you are named Hardy. Any relation to Fenton Hardy, the famous detective?”

“He’s our father,” Joe replied.

The deputy frowned at Mrs. Steele. “I don’t think the Hardy boys would steal anything, ma’am. You’ve heard of Fenton Hardy, haven’t you?”

“Yes, of course. They didn’t tell me they were his sons.”

“Well, now that you know, how do you feel about it? We’ll run them in if you want to sign a complaint.”

Mrs. Steele hesitated. “Couldn’t their identifications be faked? The man who phoned said they were thieves!”

Chet suddenly sat down on the back steps and put his hand to his forehead. “My brain’s beginning to feel fried again,” he said in a weak voice.

The deputy looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Frank and Joe both realized Chet was acting. Joe said, “Aftereffect of the shock, I guess.”

“What shock?”

Mrs. Steele said hurriedly, “I suppose the boys really are who they claim, and whoever called was just trying to cause a lot of trouble.”

She gave Chet a fleeting glance and went on, “Perhaps I acted too hastily in phoning the sheriff. As you say, Fenton Hardy’s sons wouldn’t be thieves. Shall we just forget it? Will you boys come back inside?”

“What’s wrong with him?” the deputy repeated.

Chet made a miraculous recovery. Standing up, he said, “I had a little too much sun today, Officer, but I’m all right now. Let’s go in, fellows.”

The deputy still seemed suspicious, but there was nothing he could do except take Chet’s explanation at face value. Since Mrs. Steele had decided to withdraw her charge, the officers left.

The woman switched off the light over the garage door and led the boys into the living room. She left them there while she carried the cookie bowl back to the kitchen to replenish it.

“You’re some actor,” Frank said to Chet. “Maybe you should be in the movies!”

“My fried brain sure got us invited back in the house fast, didn’t it?” Chet said with a grin. “Mrs. Steele didn’t want the deputies to know about that electrified fence.”

“It can’t be legal,” Joe said. “These people would be in real trouble if the police found out about it.”

“Who do you think shorted our horn and then phoned Mrs. Steele?” Chet asked. “Could it have been the same person who eavesdropped on us when we were talking to old Jimenez on the houseboat?”

“No,” Frank replied. “That was Red Bowes, and he’s in jail.”

“How about Jimenez himself?” Chet inquired. “His great-uncle was a bandit. Maybe he’s one, tool”

“That’s silly,” Joe said. “All that guy wants is to be left alone.”

Mrs. Steele returned with the cookie bowl piled high and with fresh Cokes. When she had seated herself, she said to Chet, “Thanks for not telling the sheriff’s men about our electric fence.”

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble,” Chet said. “But you ought to disconnect it.”

“I’ll insist that my husband do it,” she promised. “He’s due home Sunday—tomorrow.”

Frank asked, “What’s the name of the movie your husband is working on?”

“It’s working title is The Sword Adalante,” Mrs. Steele replied.

Chet nearly choked on his drink. When he recovered his breath, he sputtered, “Does he know where it is?”

“Where what is?” Mrs. Steele asked.

Joe, who was sitting next to Chet on the sofa, kicked his shin and said smoothly, “He means where is the movie being shot, don’t you, Chet?”

“Uh—yes, that’s what I meant,” Chet said.

“Oh. The interiors are being done in a San Francisco studio. For the exteriors they’re using a vineyard.”

Frank asked, “What’s the movie about?”

“It’s based on the life of a legendary Swiss swordsman of the last century, Giovanni Russo. In the movie he is called something else, though, because there are living relatives who might object to the use of his name. I forget what they call him in the movie.”

“What is the meaning of the movie’s title?” Joe asked.

“The sword Adalante was a famous saber owned by Russo. In real life it was broken in a duel and lost many years ago. But in the movie this doesn’t happen. The hero still has his sword at the end.”

“We’re interested in old swords,” Frank said. “One of our teachers is writing a magazine article on the history of swords, and we’re doing some research for him. Perhaps your husband can give us some information about this sword Adalante.”

“I’m sure he’d be willing to,” Mrs. Steele said. “It’s the least he can do in return for your silence about the fence. Why don’t you stop by here again tomorrow evening when he’s home?”

The boys agreed to do this. After a few more minutes of conversation, they thanked her for the refreshments and left.

On their way to the car, Chet said, “I thought the reason we came here was to search the cellar for the guard end of that sword.”

“I couldn’t think of any excuse to ask to see the cellar,” Frank said. “Why didn’t you think of one?”

“My brain’s fried, remember,” Chet told him. “You and Joe are supposed to be the smart ones.”

“We’ll get her husband to show it to us tomorrow,” Joe put in. “I just had an idea about who might have shorted our horn and phoned Mrs. Steele.”

“Who?” Frank asked.

“Harry Madsen.”

“The bulldozer operator?” Chet asked. “Why would he want to do anything like that?”

“He threatened to get even with us.”

In a thoughtful voice Frank said, “Could be.” He looked around in all directions. “I don’t see anyone lurking about, but then we didn’t notice anybody before our horn was tampered with. Whoever it was may be watching us right now.”

“Well,” Chet decided, “it won’t help to stand here. Let’s go pick up a sack of hamburgers and head for the motel.”

“Getting tired?” Joe queried. “All that sleuthing too much for you?”

“I almost lost my life!” Chet said indignantly.

He opened the rear door of the car and climbed in. Frank walked around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. As Joe got in next to him, his shoe came down on something soft and live that writhed beneath his foot and emitted a spine-chilling rattle!

CHAPTER XIII

A Blunt Warning

CAR doors burst open as all three boys jumped out. The dome light blinked on, revealing their uninvited guest. It was a thick rattlesnake, more than two feet long.

Hissing angrily, the reptile coiled and struck at Joe. But he slammed the door in time, severing the snake’s head from the body.

“Whew!” he said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

Chet leaned weakly on the fender. “You can say that again.”

Frank came around to look at the headless rattler. “Somebody is starting to play rough,” he muttered. “You can’t pass this off as just a practical joke!”

“Seven rattles,” Chet counted. “Doesn’t that mean it was seven years old?”

“I think that’s a myth,” Joe replied. Lifting a foot, he gingerly scraped the dead snake out into the gutter.

The boys got back into the car. Frank drove toward the bridge that led south off the island. In the rear-view mirror he had noted a pair of headlights that stayed about a half block behind them.

“Somebody’s tailing us,” Frank remarked.

The other two looked back. Chet said, “Must be whoever planted that snake. Let’s stop and find out who it is.”

“If it’s that bank-robber gang, they’re probably armed. We’d better shake them instead,” Joe said.

“I agree with Joe,” Frank decided.

He increased the Ford’s speed. The car behind them started to go faster, too. By the time they reached the bridge, both were moving at sixty miles an hour.

Fortunately there was little traffic. They roared across to the next island and to the following bridge. Their tail stayed with them.

As they crossed the second bridge, the headlights of two approaching vehicles could be seen driving onto the other end. From the first one’s size and height from the ground, the boys could tell that it was a large truck.

Passing on any of the bridges was against the law, but the driver of the vehicle behind the truck was impatient. Misjudging the speed of the Hardys’ Ford, he started to swing around the truck.

All of a sudden headlights were glaring right into Frank’s eyes. He hit the brakes hard. At the same instant the truck’s tires squealed as its driver applied his air brakes. The reckless passer squeezed in by a hair’s-breadth.

Frank was furious. “That idiot!” he said through clenched teeth.

Joe shook his head in disbelief.

Frank bore down on the accelerator again. Until they were out of the delta area, there was no way to shake the tailing car, because there was only one route to take.

On the outskirts of Stockton, however, Frank slowed in order to let the pursuing car get close behind them. Then he suddenly swung into a closed gas station. The other car shot on past.

As Frank circled around the pumps to swing back in the direction they had come from, his headlights shone briefly on the other car. Two men were in the front seat, but the boys could not make out who they were.

Their pursuers made a U-turn at the next intersection, but by then Frank had swung into a side street. After a series of random turns, he pulled over to the curb and cut his engine and lights.

“That should do the trick,” Chet said, relieved.

“Let’s wait and make sure,” Joe suggested.

When several minutes had passed with no pursuer in sight, Frank drove to their motel.

It was a complex consisting of individual cabins. Frank pulled the Ford around behind theirs so it could not be seen from the road.

As they entered the cabin, Chet said, “We forgot to stop for hamburgers!”

“Doesn’t anything make you forget food?” Joe asked. “A couple of killers are after us, remember?”

“Well, I don’t want to die on an empty stomach,” Chet complained.

“The motel restaurant is open all night. Go over there and get something if you want to.”

After considering, Chet asked, “How do we know the killers aren’t watching the restaurant?”

“We don’t,” Frank told him. “But it’s unlikely they know where we’re staying. They must have picked us up when we left the construction site after Joe’s bout with Madsen. And we haven’t been back here since, until now.”

After weighing the possible danger of running into killers against satisfying his appetite, Chet decided to chance going to the restaurant. He returned with three hamburgers in a bag. Frank and Joe both declined, so Chet ate all three.

Even though they were fairly sure that their tails did not know where they were staying, the boys decided to take no chances. They divided the night into three watches, and each stayed awake for a couple of hours. Fortunately the night passed without incident.

The next morning after breakfast the boys decided to change cars. “That’ll throw our tail off,” Joe said.

They checked the yellow pages of the classified telephone directory and discovered that Stockton had a local branch of the car rental agency from which they had rented the Ford in San Francisco. It advertised twenty-four-hour service, seven days a week.

They drove down to the rental office, turned in their car, and selected a Chevrolet.

As they pulled out of the lot, Frank gave a grin of satisfaction. “That ought to throw those guys off our trail!” he said.

When they came back to the motel, they found a note under their door, requesting them to come to the office. Frank went.

The clerk said, “There was a phone call for either Frank or Joe Hardy. The man didn’t tell me who he was, but he’ll call back at eleven o’clock.”

“How did anyone know we were here?” Frank wondered aloud, mystified.

“I don’t know. He just asked if either of you were registered, and when I told him ‘Yes,’ he gave me the message.”

“Thanks,” Frank said and returned to the cabin.

When he relayed to the others what he had just heard, Joe said thoughtfully, “The man must have called all the motels in the neighborhood, asking if we were registered, until he hit pay dirt. Maybe we’d better move and check in somewhere else under false names.”

“That’s a good idea,” Frank said. He looked at his watch. “It’s five to eleven. So let’s wait for the call before we leave.”

The man phoned promptly a few minutes later, Frank answered, but held the receiver so that the others could hear, too.

A low, obviously disguised male voice said, “Is this one of the Hardy brothers?”

“Yes, this is Frank.”

“If you value your lives, you’ll get out of California before it’s too late!”

There was a click as the man hung up.

Joe said ruefully, “Too bad we didn’t have a recorder with us to tape the voice.”

“We ought to pick up a portable job in case anything like this happens again,” Frank suggested.

“Are any stores open on Sunday?” Chet wanted to know.

“There’s a big shopping plaza a couple of blocks from the car rental office, and the parking lot was crowded when we went by,” Joe said.

“It won’t hurt to inquire,” Frank said.

The boys checked into another motel a few blocks away. They let Chet register under his name, figuring that if the mysterious threatener called motels again, he would ask for the Hardys as he had before, not for Chet Morton.

Then they left for the shopping plaza. After they bought a pocket-sized tape recorder, they had lunch in a nearby restaurant. Chet suggested that since they were not due at the Steeles’ house until that evening, they had time to check out the third wine storage building.

Frank grinned. “You’re right on the ball, Chet! I was going to suggest that.”

They drove across the various bridges to the island once owned by Giovanni Russo, and to the mountainous area at its north end.

They had no trouble finding Burns Mountain Road. It wound along about a mile before they came to a narrow gravel road leading off to the right. Chet pointed to a wooden sign that read: Carson’s Ski Lodge, 300 Yards.

Frank parked in front of the building and they all got out. The lodge was at the base of a long slope, which obviously served as a ski run during the winter months. Their eyes followed the cable up the hill, where the lift ended at a low stone building.

“That must be the wine storage place,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “There’s no other building in sight. But why would anyone store wine at the top of a hill?”

“Hey, guys!” Chet called out. “Look at this!”

“Vineyards might have covered all the slopes at one time,” Chet reasoned. “But what a climb!”

“Too bad the lift isn’t operating now,” Joe said.

Chet noticed a sign posted on the porch of the lodge and went over to look at it.

“Hey, guys! Are we ever in luck!” he called out. “Look at this!”

Frank and Joe hastened over to read the notice. It said that the lift would be in service the following week. For a dollar people could ride up the mountaintop and enjoy the view.

“Bring the whole family on a picnic. Upper lodge will be open!” the sign invited.

“Now there’s an idea just made to order for Chet,” Joe said.

Chet ignored the gibe. “Do we have to climb now?” he inquired.

“I think we’d better wait,” Frank replied. “No doubt the place up there is locked, so we couldn’t get in anyhow. But it’ll be open when the lift’s running.”

The boys drove back and had dinner at the same restaurant they had eaten the night before, then they drove to the screenwriter’s house.

Chet glanced up and down the street, looking for anyone who might be a practical joker. But the street was empty.

When Frank rang the bell, Mrs. Steele came to the door. She greeted them cordially and ushered them into the living room.

“My husband is in his den,” she said. “Make yourselves comfortable while I get him.”

“What do you suppose he’s like?” Chet whispered after she had left.

“We’ll soon find out,” Frank said.

“I’ll bet he looks like Ernest Hemingway,” Joe said. “You know, very distinguished, like writers are supposed to look.”

A few moments later footsteps sounded and Mrs. Steele returned. Behind her was a tall, thin, gray-haired man. A yellow scarf with tiny black polka dots was knotted around his neck.

Frank stared at the man’s face in utter astonishment.

“Professor Von Stolk!” he blurted out.

CHAPTER XIV

The Cellar Museum

THE man reacted as if he had walked into a brick wall. “You’re—you’re the boy who was talking to June at the college library,” he said limply to Frank.

Mrs. Steele spoke up. “Why did you call him Professor Von Stolk? This is my husband—Vin—cent Steele.”

“Something needs a lot of explaining,” Frank said. “Your husband called himself Von Stolk when I saw him the first time.” In afterthought he added, “You used the same initials when you changed your name, didn’t you, Mr. Steele?”

Turning to his wife, Vincent Steele said in a placating tone, “Don’t let this upset you, my dear. I hired a young woman to do some research for me.”

His wife looked at him slit-eyed. “Yes, go on!”

“I knew if I told her who I really was, she and all her friends would be plaguing me to get them into the movies.”

“Oh, that again,” she said. “Now I understand.”

To the boys she said apologetically, “Vincent is so publicity shy. You can see why, can’t you?”

She introduced the boys by name and the screenwriter formally offered a hand to each.

Then Frank asked, “Was it you or June Fall who removed four pages from the Master of the Vineyards book, Mr. Steele?”

“Neither,” he replied, looking uncomfortable. “They were already missing.” Suddenly he became belligerent, and fired a burst of questions at the boys.

“Why are you interrogating me like this? What did you come to my house for? What business is it of yours that I go to the library?”

Frank realized that perhaps they had pushed their case too fast. Nothing would be gained by antagonizing the writer, even though he was a suspect. In a calm voice Frank said, “Mr. Steele, we came here to ask your assistance.”

“What assistance? I don’t even know you.”

“It’s about your home. It was once a wine cellar.”

“That’s right. How did you find out?”

“From an old map.”

The Steeles looked confused. Joe felt sorry that the writer’s wife had become involved in the deepening mystery. Would Frank tell them about the sword? Or would he sidestep the real intent of their visit?

When his brother hesitated, Joe said, “You can’t blame us for becoming suspicious when you use two names, Mr. Steele. And about those pages missing from the library book, weren’t you showing them to Harry Madsen at the construction site last evening?”

Steele frowned. “Were you spying on me then?”

“Only by accident,” Joe replied. “We didn’t expect to see you there.”

“What were you doing there?”

“We were watching the bulldozer operator,” Frank put in. “He had been causing us some trouble. But you haven’t answered the question.”

“Look, you’ve got it all wrong,” Steele said with a sigh. “They weren’t the pages from that book. I have a hobby of collecting vineyard implements. For some time I’ve been meaning to go through that building at the housing construction site which was once used to store wine. But I never got around to it.”

He stood up, left the living room, and came back with two sheets of paper.

“These are sketches of a particular type of barrel I’ve been looking for. When I heard that the wine storage place was going to be razed yesterday, I called the contractor.”

“And he promised to postpone the bulldozing,” Joe said.

“Correct. As long as I would pay for the expense. I met with Madsen last night, showed him the sketches, took a look in the building, but did not find what I wanted.”

He put the sketches on a table. “Come,” he offered. “I will show you the museum.”

He led the way to a central hallway and opened a door to a narrow stone stairway leading downward. Flicking a light switch at the top, he descended. Chet went second, then Frank and Joe. Mrs. Steele remained in the living room.

The cellar had been converted into a museum. The rooms were similar in shape to those of the other wine storage building, except there were no cobwebs and the interiors were clean and well illuminated by overhead lights.

“Quite an exhibit,” Frank said, looking around in surprise.

The rooms were crammed with artifacts of grape farming and wine making. There were wooden racks, ancient hand-blown bottles, wine presses, casks of various sizes and shapes, wooden aging vats and many other items.

At the rear of one room the boys spotted an ancient, ornately carved oaken door.

“What’s in there?” Joe asked.

“Nothing,” Steele replied. “It’s merely an empty storage room. We don’t use it. Shall we go upstairs again?”

When they returned to the living room, Steele apologized to Chet for the electric fence incident, and thanked the boys for not getting him in trouble with the police.

“Are you fully recovered?” he asked solicitously.

“Except for a little dizzy spell now and then,” Chet replied. “But I don’t think it’s anything serious.”

Vincent Steele said worriedly, “I’d be glad to pay for a doctor if you want to see one.”

“I’ll be all right,” Chet assured him. Then he had an inspiration. “There’s something else you could do for me, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Get me into the movies!”

The man winced slightly. In a resigned voice he said, “I might have known. Do you have any acting experience?”

“No, but I’m willing to start at the bottom.”

“That would be as an extra,” Steele said. “I might be able to arrange that. This coming Tuesday we’ll start shooting some exteriors and we’ll need a lot of extras as grape pickers. If you could get there at six in the morning, I think I can fix it for all three of you to get jobs.”

“We could sure use the money,” Joe said. “We’re running pretty low. Where do we report?”

“We’re on location at a farm called the San Mathilde Vineyard a little over a hundred miles southeast of here on Highway 99. It’s just beyond Fresno. You’ll see the sign.”

“Whom do we ask for?” Frank inquired.

“Jason Andrews, the casting chief.”

Mrs. Steele changed the subject. “The main reason the boys came here tonight is to ask you about the sword Adalante.”

For the second time that night, Steele was brought up short. He stared from one boy to another in dumbfounded silence.

“A teacher of theirs is doing a magazine article on the history of swords,” Mrs. Steele explained. “The boys are helping with the research. I happened to mention the title of your current movie and they thought their teacher might use something about the sword in his article.”

“Oh,” Vincent Steele said with evident relief. “Actually I don’t know a great deal about the sword. It was broken in a duel and lost many years ago. The tip end eventually was found, and now is in the possession of Russo’s family in Switzerland. The guard end was never recovered.”

A phone on a small table next to Mrs. Steele rang. She answered it.

“Someone’s asking for either Frank or Joe Hardy,” she said.

Frank looked perplexed. They had told no one where they were going.

Taking out the pocket recorder, Joe said, “I guess we ought to tape this.”

He took the phone from Mrs. Steele, switched on the recorder, and held it close to the receiver. As Frank and Chet crowded around him, he said, “Joe Hardy speaking.”

“This is a warning. Get out of California if you want to continue breathing!” a disguised voice said. Then there was a click as the caller hung up.

Joe winked at Chet for silence and Frank, too, betrayed no reaction.

“Anything wrong?” Mrs. Steele asked in a motherly tone.

When Joe shook his head, the woman continued, “Why did you tape the call?”

“It’s our hobby,” Frank said. “Well, I guess we’d better be going.”

The boys thanked the Steeles for their hospitality and departed. On the way back to their motel, they discussed the second threat.

“Probably the same goon as before,” Chet said.

Joe disagreed. “His voice was not as deep as the first man’s,” he said.

Frank, who was driving, asked, “Any sign of a tail?”

“No,” Joe replied. “I’ve been watching ever since we left.”

“What do you think about Steele?” Chet wanted to know. “He looks clean to me. His explanations seemed okay.”

Frank and Joe were dubious.

Joe said, “He was glib enough, but there’s something about that man I don’t trust.”

Frank had a more specific reason. “Did you notice,” he said, “that Steele never pressed us for the real reason for our first visit?”

“Searching for the broken blade, you mean?” Chet said.

“Right.”

“I never thought of that,” Joe stated. “Frank asked for his assistance at one point, and Steele never came back to it.”

“He did that on purpose,” Frank said. “Didn’t want to raise the issue. I think he suspects we’re looking for the Adalante.”

“Then we’ve got to be careful of him,” Chet said.

“Very careful,” Frank agreed.

When they reached the motel, Chet said, “Are we going to move again?”

“We’ve already paid for tonight,” Frank pointed out. “And we’re running pretty low on money. Let’s stay here and stand watch again.”

Joe played back the taped conversation. The caller’s voice came over strong and Clear.

“That’s good enough to make a spectrograph,” Frank said with satisfaction. “Tomorrow we’ll run into San Francisco and use the police department’s machine.”

Again they divided the night into three shifts, but it passed peacefully. Next morning they checked out of the motel and drove to San Francisco.

Chief of Detectives Henry Copeland was glad to see them. They had no trouble getting permission to use the spectrograph. Frank made three voiceprints. They left one with Copeland, mailed the second to Chief Collig, and kept the third.

Instead of returning to Stockton, they decided to drive to Fresno so that they would be near the movie location Tuesday morning. Again there was no sign of a tail, but they took no chances. In their Fresno motel they repeated their night watch. Nothing happened.

Promptly at six the next morning they arrived at the San Mathilde Vineyard. It consisted of several thousand acres. There was a Spanish-style hacienda in which the owner and his family lived, but the grape pickers were housed in a row of tar paper shacks. Row after row of grapevines stretched off into the distance.

A number of trailers were parked near the workers’ shacks. These were being used as dressing rooms for actors. Several Nissen huts had also been set up to serve as offices. One of them had a sign on its door: Casting Office.

The boys went in and found a thin, harried-looking man seated behind a desk. He glanced up from the magazine he was reading.

“Mr. Andrews?” Frank asked.

“Yes, yes,” the man replied somewhat testily, as if he were annoyed by the interruption. “What do you want?”

“I’m Frank Hardy, this is my brother Joe and our buddy Chet Morton. Mr. Steele told us to report to you for extra work.”

The casting chief squinted his eyes as if searching his memory. “Oh yes,” he said. “Vincent mentioned it.” He looked the boys up and down.

“You’ll need some old clothes,” he added, “because you’ll be cast as pickers.”

“Where do we get’em?” Chet inquired.

“Maybe you can borrow some from the vineyard workers. Report back tomorrow at six.”

“Tomorrow?” Frank said. “Mr. Steele told us shooting was supposed to start today.”

“It was, but there’s been a delay.”

The boys looked disappointed and were about to leave when Joe turned to the movie man. “There’s nothing seriously wrong, I hope,” he said.

“Serious enough,” Andrews grunted.

The Hardys’ curiosity was piqued.

“Can you tell us what’s wrong, sir?” Frank asked.

“Ettore’s been injured.”

“Ettore?” Frank said, puzzled.

Jason Andrews seemed impatient that they did not know whom he was talking about.

“The fencing master who acts as the star’s double,” he explained. “Ettore Rossi.”

“You mean Ettore Russo?” Chet said weakly.

“Of course not. Trouble is, you young people don’t listen. I said Ettore Rossi!”

CHAPTER XV

Star-Struck!

THE Hardys and Chet were amazed at the similarity of names between Hollywood’s fencing master and their own coach.

Frank said, “We know a fencing master named Ettore Russo. Is this man a Swiss?”

“No. He’s an Italian.” Andrews replied. “Ettore has been a stuntman for years. Also drives race cars.”

“Where do we find Mr. Rossi?” Frank asked. “We’d like to talk with him.”

“In trailer four,” the casting chief said.

As they started out, the door opened and a beautiful blond woman dressed in a Spanish costume came in. The boys stepped aside to let her pass.

The woman gave them a dazzling smile as she swept by.

“Do you know who that was?” Chet said in an awed voice, when they were out of the office.

“Sure.” Frank grinned. “Brenda White. She must be starring in the picture.”

Chet halted and stared at his two friends. “Aren’t you impressed?”

“Of course we are,” Joe replied. “She’s very beautiful. But we’re not going to go ape over her.”

“You guys have no feelings,” Chet retorted. “Don’t you realize we’re going to be working in the same picture as Brenda White?”

“She won’t even notice us,” Frank said. “We’re only going to be extras.”

They moved on to trailer number four. When Frank knocked on the door, a strong voice called, “Come in!”

Inside they found a black-haired man in a half-reclining position on a bunk with a pillow under his back.

“Mr. Rossi?” Frank asked.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

Frank introduced himself and the others. Then he said, “We’ve just been hired as extras. Mr. Andrews told us you were hurt, so we dropped by to cheer you up. What happened?”

“A practical joke,” the stuntman said ruefully. “Someone sprayed banana oil on the trailer floor while I was asleep. When I got up this morning, I slipped and wrenched my back.”

“That wasn’t a very funny joke,” Chet commented.

“None of them are,” Ettore Rossi said grimly. “If I ever find out who’s behind all this, I’ll teach him what’s funny and what isn’t.”

Joe said, “Things like this have happened before?”

“Twice. Once the brakes on my racing car were tampered with, almost causing a crash. Another time a sandbag was dropped from an overhead catwalk on an interior set, nearly braining me.”

“They don’t sound like practical jokes!” Frank exclaimed. “It looks as if somebody’s out to kill you!”

All at once the Italian’s expression became withdrawn. “I shouldn’t be talking about it anyway,” he said. “Mr. Zeller told me not to.”

“Who’s Mr. Zeller?” Joe asked.

“The director of the movie.”

“Why doesn’t he want you to discuss it?”

“He’s afraid it’ll give the picture bad publicity. He’s having a quiet investigation made.”

There was a knock on the door and a short, fat man came in. He looked worried. Rossi introduced him to the boys as movie director Gene Zeller.

After shaking hands, Mr. Zeller said, “I just learned of your mishap, Ettore. How long will you be laid up this time?”

“At least two or three days, according to the doctor. You’ll have to get someone else to double in the fencing scenes you planned to shoot today and tomorrow.”

“Where?” the director said, wrinkling his brow. “There’s no one around here who knows how to fence. I’ll have to send either to Hollywood or San Francisco. By the time we locate somebody you’ll be up and around again.”

Frank said, “We know how to fence.”

The director looked him up and down. “You’re about the same height and weight as Douglas Clark, our leading man. Makeup can take care of other physical differences. Are you good at fencing?”

Joe answered for him. “He sure is.”

“Any experience with sabers?” Rossi asked.

“We know all three weapons,” Joe replied. “Saber, foil, and épée.”

“But these will be real sabers, not fencing sabers,” Rossi told him. “Of course the points and blades will be dulled, but you’ll wear no masks or gloves. Before the camera your performance has to look like real dueling. You have to be pretty expert not to hurt your opponent or get hurt yourself.”

“I’m sure my brother and I could put on a good act,” Frank said. “We’ve fenced together so often. I don’t know how it would be with some stranger, though.”

“Your brother could work as your opponent in the scenes we shoot today—and tomorrow—if you’re good enough,” the director said. “It involves a duel with a bandit who doesn’t appear in any other scenes.”

“Gene, why don’t you get a pair of sabers and let them show what they can do right outside my window?” Rossi suggested.

“Good idea,” Zeller replied and called a prop man. He instructed him to bring the weapons.

Soon the man returned with the sabers. They were thirty-four and a half inches long, the tournament length to which the Hardys were accustomed.

After hefting them, Frank and Joe were sure they could handle the bout.

“Okay, go to it,” Zeller said.

The boys took up positions outside the window next to Rossi’s bunk.

“We’d better warn each other what to expect before each attack,” Frank suggested. “This way the defendant will know what type of parry to make.”

“Right,” Joe said. “On guard!”

“Beat attack!” Frank called out, striking Joe’s blade aside.

Joe parried. “Pressure glide.”

Parrying, Frank called, “Envelopment.”

They continued to attack and parry in turn, the blades clashing and sliding against each other in the cadence of a deadly dance. The audition soon drew a crowd of spectators.

Neither boy attempted to score, knowing it would have drawn blood, but their performance was colorful and convincing. When they finally paused after several minutes of intricate swordplay, the audience applauded loudly.

“They’ll do fine,” Rossi called out. “Sign ’em up, Gene.”

“That solves that problem,” the director said with relief. “I guess we’ll be able to shoot today after all.”

While the swordplay had been going on, Chet kept glancing around in the hope of spotting one of the film’s stars. But neither Douglas Clark nor Brenda White appeared.

Gradually it penetrated Chet’s consciousness that every time he looked over the crowd, the shadowy figure of a man seemed to be just fading out of his range of vision.

When he deliberately looked for the man, the figure immediately drifted behind one of the trailers. Chet noticed that he wore a peaked cap pulled low over his face.

Was he one of the fellows who had been tailing them? Chet wondered. Or the one who had phoned Steele’s house and threatened them?

Pushing his way through the crowd, Chet circled around to the spot where he had lost sight of the shadowy figure. He was just in time to see the man duck behind the next trailer.

Chet followed. The man quickened his pace and disappeared around the far end. When Chet ran around the corner, he saw the trailer’s door close.

“I’ve got him cornered!” Chet muttered. He climbed the steps and flung open the door.

Instantly a yapping ball of fur attacked his ankles, nipping with tiny sharp teeth.

“Go away, dog!” Chet commanded. He backed through the door, tumbled down the steps, and sat in the dust. Someone scooped up the furious little Pomeranian in time to prevent it from leaping at Chet, who looked up ruefully.

Brenda White stood in the doorway, clutching the tiny dog!

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “Did naughty little Fifi hurt you?”

Examining his ankles and finding no trace of blood, Chet said, “No, ma’am.” Embarrassed, he got to his feet and brushed himself off. “It was my fault, Miss White. I shouldn’t have burst in that way. But I was chasing a man and thought he ran in there.”

“Into my trailer?” the movie star said with a tinkling little laugh. “There’s no one here but me and Fifi. We just came in ourselves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Chet said. “Sorry I disturbed you.”

“It’s all right,” Brenda White said. “I’m glad you’re not hurt.” She closed the door.

Chet circuited all of the other trailers, the Nissen huts, and the grape pickers’ tar-paper shacks, but he failed to spot the man wearing the cap. By the time he got back to the Hardys, their fencing demonstration was over. The audience had dispersed and the director explained to Frank and Joe what the scene would be.

“You’ll get a better idea when you read the script,” he said. “Before you go to Wardrobe for your costumes and to Makeup, stop by Production and get a copy of exterior scene four from the script girl.”

“Yes, sir,” Frank said.

They started toward the Nissen hut containing the Production Office. Chet fell in at their side.

Zeller called after them, “The script girl’s name is Laura.”

Frank and Joe waved acknowledgment.

Chet said, “Some man in a cap is sneaking around spying on somebody—maybe us. I tried to catch up with him to see what he looked like, but he got away.”

“Think it’s one of our tails?” Joe asked.

Chet shrugged. “He realized I was after him and took off like a scared rabbit.”

They reached the Production Office and went in. Frank told the brunette at the reception desk that they had been sent by Mr. Zeller to see Laura, the script girl.

“In there,” the receptionist said, pointing to a door. The boys entered and saw a woman sitting at a desk with her back to them.

Hearing their steps, she glanced over her shoulder.

Frank and Joe stopped dead in their tracks. “Mom!” they exclaimed in unison.

The script girl was their mother, Laura Hardy!

“But—but you’re supposed to be at the Grand Canyon!” Joe said as Mrs. Hardy rose to hug her sons.

CHAPTER XVI

Weird Attackers

STUNNED by the discovery of his mother on a California movie location, Frank’s next thought was of his father. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

As he spoke, a door marked Maintenance Department just beyond Laura Hardy’s desk opened and Fenton Hardy stepped out. He was carrying a cap in his hand.

Joe rushed over to put an arm around Mr. Hardy’s shoulder, while Frank grinned at the famous detective.

“Dad, what’s going on here?” Joe asked.

Mr. Hardy smiled at them without the least sign of surprise. But before he could reply, Chet exclaimed in amazement, “That was you I was chasing, Mr. Hardy! Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I was testing your running ability, Chet.” Mr. Hardy looked at his sons. “Tell me, what are you doing here?”

“After you, Dad,” Frank insisted.

Fenton Hardy explained that he and his wife had met Zeller at the Grand Canyon, where the director had begged him to investigate the attempts on Ettore Rossi’s life.

“Gene was so upset that I agreed,” Mr. Hardy said, “and we cut our vacation short. As a cover-up I was hired as a maintenance man and your mother is here as a script girl.”

“That’s a neat idea,” Chet stated. “You get to meet all the important stars!”

Joe laughed. “Mom, Chet’s ga-ga about Miss White.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Chet said dreamily.

Frank changed the subject. “I was wondering about those planned accidents plaguing Mr. Rossi. Maybe the people responsible for them have the wrong man. It could be that they’re really after Ettore Russo.”

“Your fencing instructor in Bayport?” the detective asked in surprise. “Why would anyone be after him?”

The boys explained about their maestro being one of the grandsons of Giovanni Russo; about the will written on the sword Adalante; and how Russo had paid their way to California to search for the guard end of the broken blade.

When they finished their story, Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully, “Frank, your deduction is sound. That must be the explanation. Ettore Russo’s greedy cousin in Switzerland probably hired these criminals to dispose of him, and they picked the wrong man because of the similarity in names. Besides, I remember Russo telling me that he lived in California before opening the school in Bayport.”

The boys told their father about the Bayport bank robbery and the theft of his voiceprint file. But he already knew, because he had been in touch with Chief Collig. However, the capture of Red Bowes was news to him. Frank and Joe related everything else that had happened since their arrival in San Francisco.

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Hardy said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

Mr. Hardy said, “It sounds to me as though the answer to all this lies in Stockton, not here. You can’t leave Zeller in a spot after agreeing to act in those sword-fighting scenes, but as soon as your work in the movie is finished, we’ll all go to Stockton.”

“How about Mr. Rossi?” Mrs. Hardy asked. “Shouldn’t you stay here to protect him from danger?”

“He won’t be in any if we let his tormentors know they’re bugging the wrong man,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I’ll suggest to Gene that he issue a publicity release about his stuntman. Mention can be made that his name is very similar to Giovanni Russo’s grandson.”

“The newspapers would like that,” Laura Hardy said.

“Not to mention radio and TV,” Frank added. “It’s a good feature story, and the goons will be sure to hear it.”

“It won’t place Mr. Russo in any danger either,” his father went on, “because he’s out of the country.”

Mrs. Hardy smiled at her sons. “How’s your money holding out, incidentally?”

“They’re almost as broke as I am,” Chet volunteered.

Frank and Joe frowned at him. “We’re earning plenty for our movie work,” Joe said. “We don’t need any money.”

“I’m going to see Gene about that publicity release,” Mr. Hardy declared. “Well talk about Stockton later.”

Joe said, “Come on, Frank. We’d better get out of here, too. We have to go to Wardrobe, then to Makeup, and we’re due on the set in an hour.”

Mrs. Hardy gave them a copy of the exterior scene script and they left with their father.

Chet lingered behind to talk to Mrs. Hardy. She opened her purse and took out some bills.

“Put this away in case of emergency,” she said.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hardy,” he replied with a grateful grin. “If we don’t need it, I’ll return the cash in Bayport.”

The sword-fighting scene went well. Zeller told Frank and Joe that they would be needed for a similar scene the next morning. After that they would be through.

That afternoon the vineyard scene was shot. The boys played grape pickers. They had borrowed suitable clothing from some of the workers on the farm, who had all been hired as extras, too.

By noon the next day they were finished and had been paid. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy took them to lunch at the Golden Gate Restaurant near the vineyard, where all the motion-picture personnel ate. During the meal they discussed their next move.

“I think we’d better drive to Stockton separately,” Mr. Hardy said. “If your enemies pick up the trail again, there’s no point in their knowing about Mother and me.”

“Suppose we meet somewhere in Stockton for dinner tonight?” Joe suggested.

“All right. Where?”

“Swanson’s Drive-in Restaurant on the north side would be a good place,” Chet said. “We could park our cars next to each other and talk without being overheard.”

It was decided to meet at Swanson’s at six o’clock that evening.

The boys went to Stockton and checked into a motel near the restaurant. Promptly at six they drove to the drive-in’s parking lot and waited.

A carhop had just taken their orders when a black Plymouth slid into the next spot. In it were Mr. and Mrs. Hardy.

Mr. Hardy did not even say hello until their order was taken, too. Then he said, “Any sign of a tail on you?”

“We didn’t see any,” Joe replied.

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Delta Motel.”

“We’re at the Northside Plaza,” Mr. Hardy said. “When do you plan to search that old wine storage building at Carson’s Ski Lodge?”

“According to the sign they had up last week,” Frank said, “the lift should be in operation till eight o’clock. So let’s do it right now.”

“I’m all for that,” Mr. Hardy agreed. Turning to his wife, he said, “I’ll go in the boys’ car, Laura, and you can drive back to the motel in this one.”

“All right, Fenton.”

When they had finished eating and paid their checks, Mr. Hardy slipped into the back seat of the Chevrolet with Chet. Mrs. Hardy moved over to take the wheel of the Plymouth.

At that moment a green Buick drove in on the other side of her car.

“Oh, oh,” Frank said in a low voice. “There’s Harry Madsen and his friend Amos Cain.”

After a quick look, Joe and Chet averted their faces so that the pair would not recognize them. Joe whispered, “Don’t back out yet, Mom. Wait until we leave.”

Mrs. Hardy nodded.

Frank started the engine and pulled out. Joe and Chet kept their heads turned, but Mr. Hardy got a good look at the two men as Frank drove off.

“I’m pretty sure they weren’t tailing you,” Mr. Hardy said. “It must have been a coincidence that they came in.”

“Probably,” Chet agreed. “It’s a popular place.”

Nevertheless Frank kept one eye on the rear-view mirror whenever he could, and the others watched out, too. But there was no sign of pursuit.

Soon they reached the ski lodge. No one was in sight. The place was no longer boarded up, but it was closed for the day. Frank parked in front of the lodge and they all got out.

Joe looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after seven, and still light. “They must have closed early,” he remarked.

Pointing to the stone building atop the mountain, Frank said to his father, “That’s it up there, Dad.”

They went to look at the chair-lift engine. To their surprise it was not locked. After examining it for a few moments, Fenton Hardy started it.

Joe got a flashlight from the car and thrust it under his belt. Then he and Frank took seats on the lift. Mr. Hardy shifted the engine into gear, and with a slight jerky motion the boys started the long trip upward.

They rose higher and higher over the slope, until halfway up they were more than thirty feet above the grade. Then the distance to the ground diminished as they neared the peak.

They stepped off the lift only a dozen yards from the oaken door of the stone building. Their double seat continued on, took a hundred and eighty degree turn around a stanchion, and headed back down the hill on the moving cable.

Frank tried the door of the lodge. It was locked. They walked around and discovered that a window had been broken.

“Somebody’s been in here!” said Frank.

“I wonder how long ago,” Joe mused.

“It must be since the place closed today,” Frank replied. “Otherwise the operators would have noticed the break and boarded it up.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet that’s why the lift engine wasn’t padlocked! Whoever broke in here, probably busted the lock and used the lift to get up and down again.”

“Well,” Frank said, “as long as the window’s broken, we might as well take advantage of it.” He climbed inside, careful to avoid the jagged pieces of glass jutting from the frame. Joe followed.

As they stepped onto the floor, Frank grabbed Joe’s arm and put a finger to his lips.

“What’s the matter?” Joe whispered.

Frank sniffed. “Smell the smoke?”

“From a cigarette!”

“Right. Someone’s in here!”

The young sleuths tingled with a mixture of fright and excitement. If somebody had just preceded them, why? How many were there? And where were they hiding?

As the odor of cigarette tobacco drifted out through the broken window, the boys surveyed the dim interior. The room they were in was small and rimmed with benches. At one end was a potbellied stove for the skiers in winter.

In addition to the locked front door there was another door. What lay beyond? they wondered. Somebody was there, they felt sure.

After a whispered consultation the boys decided to climb out, circle the building, and spy into the mysterious room from a window on the far side.

Frank had one foot through the broken windowpane when a bloodcurdling yell sounded behind them.

Immobilized by surprise, the Hardys froze for a moment, then turned to see two weird faces, grotesquely flattened by nylon stocking masks. One man was tall and thin, the other burly.

The tall man held a pistol in his hand. “Look what we’ve caught, Homer!” he said.

“The Hardy boys! What a catch, Charlie!”

The voices sounded familiar in spite of the slightly muffled tone.

“Pretty far from New Jersey, aren’t you?” Frank asked.

For a moment there was stunned silence, then Joe delivered his shot. “You won’t find any spectrographs here, Charlie!”

With that the men ripped off their masks. “Okay, so you recognize us,” Charlie said. “Little good it’ll do you.” He waved his gun at the boys. “Cross your hands in front of you!” he ordered, and pulled two cords from his pocket.

CHAPTER XVII

Treasure in the Dust

FROM down below, Mr. Hardy and Chet watched Frank and Joe climb through the broken window. Suddenly the sound of a breaking twig made them turn around.

A squat, muscular man had stepped out from behind the ski lodge. He pointed a revolver at them.

“Up with your hands!” he ordered.

Mr. Hardy and Chet obeyed. Commanding them to turn their backs, the man checked them for weapons.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Never mind,” the man replied. “Just keep quiet!”

He kept his gun on them while he periodically peered up at the mountaintop. Several minutes passed, then four people emerged from the stone building. Frank and Joe were first, their wrists bound together in front of them.

Charlie got on the lift with Frank.

“All right,” the squat man with the gun told Mr. Hardy. “Bring the next seat into position so the other two can get on.”

Perspiration stood out on the detective’s forehead as he obeyed. When everyone was on the lift, he started the engine again, furiously trying to think of a way to escape.

When the four were halfway down, the cable stopped moving. Mr. Hardy attempted to get the lift operating again, but could not.

“What’s the matter?” the gunman asked gruffly.

“Don’t know. Give me a minute to check it out.”

Up on the lift, meanwhile, Homer and Charlie became impatient. “If he can’t get it going,” Charlie called to his accomplice, “we’ll have to reduce the weight and throw these kids overboard.”

“You can’t do that!” Frank cried out.

“Oh no?” Homer sneered. “It would save us a lot of trouble. Let’s not waste any time!”

He lifted Joe’s safety bar and pushed him off the seat. Frantically the boy grasped the bottom of the chair and hung on for dear life. His captor pulled out a gun and smashed it on Joe’s fingers. Joe winced in pain. Desperately he swung one foot around and kicked his adversary in the shin.

All at once the ski lift started moving again. While Homer grabbed at his legs with both hands, Joe quickly pulled himself back into the seat.

As the lift neared the base of the hill, Frank and Joe saw their father and Chet held at bay by the thug.

Homer chortled, “Kell’s got the kids’ old man and the fat boy!”

When they reached the ground and had stepped down, Charlie turned to Kell. “What now?” he asked.

“You take the two boys with you,” Kell replied. “I’ll follow with these two birds in their car.”

Frank and Joe were marched a distance from the lodge to a small parking area concealed from the road by trees and bushes. They were forced into the back seat of a dark sedan. Homer slid behind the wheel and Charlie climbed in next to him. Seconds later they pulled out and roared away.

Meanwhile, Kell ordered Mr. Hardy and Chet into the front of the Chevy. “You drive!” he growled at the detective and took his position in the back seat, gun trained on his captives.

Slowly Mr. Hardy eased the car onto the gravel road.

Joe hung on for dear life!

Chet turned halfway around. “You think you’re real smart, eh?” he said, fuming.

“Oh, shut up, Fatso,” Kell replied. He leaned forward, and rested his gun hand on the back of the boy’s seat. “You’re so stupid you walked right into our arms!”

“You mean you knew we were coming?” Chet demanded.

“Naw. But you made so much noise before the two kids even got on the lift that we had plenty of warning. We—”

Suddenly Chet whirled and smashed his fist into the man’s ear. The gun dropped on the front seat. But Kell instantly recovered his wits. He hit Chet in the side of his neck, opened the back door in a lightning move, and threw himself out of the car.

Before Mr. Hardy had skidded to a halt and taken up pursuit, he had melted away in the darkness.

Chet, who had been stunned for a few moments, looked dejectedly at the detective as he came back to the car. “Sorry about that, Mr. Hardy. I was hoping we could reverse roles and take this jerk to headquarters!”

Mr. Hardy put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Listen, Chet, you were great. You may have saved both our lives!”

“Now we’ll have to rescue Frank and Joe.” Chet sighed.

“Right. Only we haven’t any idea where they are!”

Frank and Joe were in the back seat of the sedan, unconscious. A slight odor of chloroform hung in the air.

An hour later Joe awakened. He found himself on his back in pitch darkness, his hands still bound in front of him. The air was chilly. It felt as though he was lying on loosely packed dirt.

The sound of deep breathing came from his right. As he sat up, he felt the flashlight still tucked under his belt. Their captors must not have noticed it. He took it out and flicked it on.

Playing it around, he realized they were in a cavelike chamber about twenty feet across. The walls and the domed ceiling were of solid stone. The floor, as he had suspected, was dirt. The only entrance was blocked by a heavy oaken door.

The deep breathing had been coming from Frank who was lying next to Joe. Now it quieted. Frank opened his eyes and sat up.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Shrugging, Joe said, “I haven’t the faintest idea. Let’s get these ropes off our wrists.”

Setting down the flashlight, he struggled to his feet. It was difficult without the use of his hands.

Frank managed to get up, too. He worked at his brother’s bonds until he got them loose, then Joe untied him.

He picked up the light again and shone it on the door. Frank tried it and found it locked. He threw his weight against it, but it did not budge. It was far too thick to break down.

Joe shone the light on the hinges. They were made of thick leather, rutted and dry from old age. These were attached to the door by huge brass studs.

“Wow!” Joe said. “These hinges were made to last an eternity.”

“Don’t say that,” Frank muttered. “We might be in here that long.”

The boys felt the thick leather. Joe said, “If we had a knife, we could cut through them.”

“But we don’t have one,” Frank said. “Any other suggestions?”

Joe shone the flashlight all around. “The dirt on the floor is fairly loose, Frank,” he said. “Maybe we could dig our way under the door with our hands.”

“It’s worth a try,” Frank conceded.

Joe put the light on the ground, pointing at the door. Both boys dropped to their knees. They began to scoop handfuls of dirt away from the door’s base. Joe worked furiously. Under the first layer of soil, the earth was powdery dry. Particles filled the air, making them cough violently.

“Joe! Not so fast. Don’t scatter the dust!” Frank warned.

They tied handkerchiefs over their nostrils and Joe dug more cautiously. But the bottom of the door was so far down in the earth, it would take considerable time to make an opening large enough to crawl through.

After they had excavated a hole of about six inches, Frank’s hand touched something solid.

“Hey, Joe, what’s this?” Pushing the dirt away from the object on either side, he pulled out a rusty blade about a foot and a half long. At one end was a moldy saber handle.

Excitedly Joe focused the light on his brother’s find. “Holy crow! It can’t be!” he exclaimed. The letters A-N-T-E were dimly visible on the blade.

“It’s the sword Adalante!” Joe cried.

“Is the will engraved on it?” Frank asked eagerly.

After peering at the blade, Joe said, “We’ll have to wait until we get it in a better light. And we’ll have to clean it up a little. It’s pretty tarnished. Probably we’ll be able to see the engraving after we shine it up a bit.”

“Is the blade sharp enough to cut those hinges?” Frank asked.

Joe tested it with his thumb. “I think so.”

He began sawing at the lower hinge while Frank held the light. It took ten minutes to penetrate the hardened leather, but eventually both hinges were cut.

Joe used the blade to pry the hinge side of the door inward a couple of inches. Then he shoved the broken sword under his belt. He and Frank grasped the edge of the door with both hands. They gave a strong pull, then stepped aside to let it crash inward.

It hit with a loud plop. Instantly a cloud of dust filled the air, half blinding the boys. They stum bled out, but were unable to see where they were. The air, however, smelled fresh.

Frank and Joe coughed and wiped their tearing eyes. Finally they could see. To their utter amazement, they realized that they were in Vincent Steele’s cellar museum!

CHAPTER XVIII

Cool Steele

FRANK led the way up the stairs. The door at the top was unlocked. Quietly they stepped out into the central hall, where lights shone from the living room.

Tiptoeing on the soft carpet, they peered into the front room of the house. Two lamps were burning, but no one was there.

“We’ll have to be careful,” Frank said. “Looks as if nobody’s down here. Let’s go upstairs.”

They searched the whole house. It was empty. Returning from the second floor, the Hardys went into the kitchen, where they washed the dirt from their hands.

“Let’s take a good look at that saber,” Frank suggested.

They had just begun to examine the blade when a car turned into the driveway, its headlights shining through the windows.

The boys peered out the rear door. By the light reflected from the garage, they could see Vincent Steele and his wife emerge from the car. She waited while he opened the garage door and drove the car inside.

“Shall we leave by the front way?” Joe asked.

“We can handle Steele,” Frank said. “Let’s see what he has to say about our kidnapping. But we’d better get that saber out of sight.”

Taking it from his brother, Frank tucked the blade beneath his shirt and down under his belt.

Vincent Steele opened the back door, then let his wife precede him into the house. She did not notice the boys on either side of the doorway as she walked by. When the writer entered and closed the door behind him, Frank and Joe grabbed him.

“What’s this?” Steele cried out and struggled to get free.

Wheeling around, Mrs. Steele let out a long keening wail. Her husband gave up his efforts and stood as though transfixed. Staring at her, he shouted, “For goodness’ sake, be quiet!”

She stopped as abruptly as she had begun. There was a long moment of silence. Then the woman said in a high voice, “I knew all along these boys were thieves and weren’t really Fenton Hardy’s sons. I should have let the sheriff’s men take them in!”

“We’re not thieves,” Frank said. “And we are Fenton Hardy’s sons.”

“Then why did you break in here while we weren’t home?” she demanded.

“We didn’t,” Joe told her. “We were kidnapped and brought here.”

After staring at them for a moment, Mrs. Steele said, “I don’t believe that!” She strode into the central hallway and picked up the phone.

“Wait a minute!” her husband called after her. “Let’s find out what this is all about before you go calling the sheriff again.”

Mrs. Steele hesitated, then hung up the phone. She came back to the kitchen.

“What do you boys want here?” she inquired.

In a grim tone Frank said, “We want to know why we were kidnapped and locked in that storeroom in your cellar!”

Steele stirred. “Do you mind letting me go while we discuss this? I assure you I won’t run away.”

Frank and Joe released their grips on the screenwriter’s arms, but watched him closely.

Fastidiously brushing both coat sleeves where he had been touched, Steele said, “Now what was that about kidnapping?”

“Two men captured us at Carson’s Ski Lodge,” Joe said. “You must have been in on it, or they wouldn’t have brought us to your house!”

“I know nothing whatever about it,” Steele stated indignantly. “And I haven’t the slightest idea why you were brought here.”

“How could they get us in without your knowing?” Frank asked. “We must have been carried through the house. Unless your cellar has a secret entrance. Has it?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Who else has seen that cave in the cellar?” Joe asked.

Steele shrugged. “As I told you before, it’s supposed to be a storeroom, but we’ve never used it. If the cellar has a secret entrance, I would like to find out about it too. Suppose we all go down there and search for one?”

Was this a trap? Joe wondered. He looked searchingly at Frank, who nodded imperceptibly.

“Okay, Mr. Steele,” he said. “But you’d better go first. Your wife, too.”

“You don’t trust me,” Steele said flatly.

“No,” Frank replied.

They descended in single file, the Steeles first, then Frank, with Joe bringing up the rear.

Downstairs, the writer frowned when he saw that the oaken door was lying on the floor with its hinges cut.

Noting his expression, Frank said, “Sorry about that, but we had no choice.”

“What did you cut them with?” Steele asked.

“A knife,” Frank said vaguely.

The four of them searched the cellar thoroughly. They found no evidence of any secret way into it.

“We’ve both been gone all evening,” Steele declared. “If you were brought in through the house, your kidnappers must have picked the lock. They had no permission from us to enter the place.”

“The back door was open,” Mrs. Steele reminded her husband. “We don’t usually lock it.”

“I still don’t see why anyone would use the house of an innocent person,” Joe declared.

Steele shrugged. “It’s an ancient building. Many people could know about the storeroom. Perhaps they figured we wouldn’t have discovered you there until long after you had died of starvation.”

Mrs. Steele shuddered. “How awful!”

Joe said, “Frank, I guess we’ll have to presume that they’re innocent, since we can’t prove otherwise. Let’s get out of here.”

In a courteous voice Steele said, “You don’t have any transportation. I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”

“Thanks, but we’ll call a cab,” Frank said.

They started up the stairs in the same order that they had descended, Mrs. Steele in the lead. Halfway up, Frank felt the blade under his belt begin to slip. He made an attempt to hold it, but it was too late. It dropped down his pants leg and clanged against the stone step.

Vincent Steele turned quickly and picked up the broken sword. His wife looked over his shoulder.

“What in the world is this?” she asked in astonishment. “Where did it come from?”

“Under my belt,” Frank said.

“You mean you had it all the time? Or did you find it in the cellar?”

“It was buried in your so-called storeroom,” Joe said. “We found it while trying to dig our way out.”

“Then it belongs to us,” the woman declared.

Her husband interceded. “My dear, I think the law on treasure trove says that it belongs to the finder. But let’s take a look at it in a better light before we all get excited.”

They continued into the kitchen, where the writer examined the blade under a strong light. After turning it over and over, he shrugged and handed it back to Frank.

“It isn’t worth arguing about,” he said. “What good is half a sword?”

Frank said, “It’s worth something to us. Our teacher may be able to use it in his magazine article.”

“Yes,” Joe agreed. “I’m sure he’ll be interested in it. May we use your phone to call a taxi?”

When the cab came Steele accompanied the boys outside. He gave them a cordial good-by and apologized for their having been locked up in his house. Again he disclaimed any knowledge of how they got there.

The taxi pulled away. Frank told the driver to take them to the Northside Plaza Motel in Stockton.

Joe said, “Did it strike you as strange that Steele gave up the sword so easily? He must have known what it was!”

“What choice did he have?” Frank said. “We were two to one. He knew that if he didn’t give it up voluntarily, we could take it away from him.”

“No doubt he’s in with Homer and that bunch,” Joe said. “But what on earth would he have to do with the spectrograph gang?”

Frank shrugged. “It’s a puzzle all right.”

When they arrived at the motel, they learned that Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were in Room 103. They knocked and their mother opened the door.

“Frank! Joe!” she exclaimed with relief. “I’m so glad you’re safe! How did you get away from those kidnappers?” She put an arm around each boy. “Come inside and tell me all about it.”

The boys told her briefly what had happened, and showed her the broken saber. Then Frank asked how she had known about the kidnapping.

“Dad phoned from the sheriff’s office. He and Chet are out with the deputies and city police searching for you two.”

“Then they escaped from that goon who took them in the car!” Frank exclaimed.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hardy replied and told how Chet had outwitted their captor.

“We’d better call and let the police know we’re safe,” Joe said.

“I’ll do it right now,” Mrs. Hardy offered.

While she was on the phone, Frank and Joe wiped the blade with a soft cloth and examined it closely. They held it under the light and slanted it at various angles.

Frank shook his head. “No wonder Steele let us have this without a struggle. There’s no will inscribed on this blade!”

CHAPTER XIX

Shadowy Figures

MRS. HARDY hung up the phone and said, “Your father and Chet are out in a patrol car. The sergeant I talked to said he would inform them by radio that you’re safe.”

“Good,” Frank said. “But I don’t think we should wait for them to get back here. I’m sure Steele is in with the thugs who captured us. Chances are he’s called them to his house for a conference. Joe and I’ll go back there to listen in.”

“We could use one of Dad’s bugs for that,” Joe said. “Did he bring any with him, Mom?”

“He always does, no matter where he goes,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “I’ll check his suitcase.”

She found two small metal disks about the size of shirt buttons which could be clipped onto window drapes or to the backs of upholstered furniture. The receiver was a small, oblong box about the size of a pocket transistor radio, and had a retractable antenna. When one of the tiny microphones was placed in a room, the metal ear would pick up all conversation and broadcast it to the receiver.

Putting the device in his pocket, Joe said, “We’ll have to take your car, Mom, because Dad and Chet have ours.”

“All right,” Mrs. Hardy said. “But be careful. If Mr. Steele is part of the gang, prowling around his house could be dangerous.”

She gave Frank the keys to the Plymouth. They placed the guard end of the saber in the closet and left.

It was close to ten o’clock when the boys neared the Steeles’ house. They parked a block away and walked the rest of the distance.

The front gate was locked. Frank was reaching for the split-rail fence when Joe stopped him. “Suppose Steele lied about disconnecting the electricity?”

“We’d better check,” Frank agreed. “Give me the receiver for the listening device.”

Joe handed him the small box. His brother extended the antenna to its full length of about three feet, then unscrewed it from the box. Setting one end on the ground, he dropped the other end against the fence.

A blue spark crackled along the narrow steel tube. Frank kicked the antenna away from the fence and screwed it back into the receiver.

“Well,” Joe said, taking the box and putting it back in his pocket, “what now?”

“We hurdle the fence,” Frank decided.

Backing up, he ran toward it and cleared it like a track hurdler. Joe followed suit. Silently they crossed the lawn to the large picture window. The drapes were drawn, but not completely closed. Frank and Joe peered in. The living room was empty.

Joe opened the window, reached in, and clipped one of the tiny microphones to the back of one of the drapes.

He had barely pulled the window down when Mr. and Mrs. Steele entered the room. The boys faded around the corner of the house to the back.

A light burned in the kitchen, but shades were drawn over both the window and the glass pane in the back door. Frank tried the door and found it unlocked. Inching the door open, he peered in. No one was in sight.

“Give me the other mike,” he said to Joe.

Joe handed it to him and Frank went inside. He clipped the disk under a kitchen curtain and slipped out again.

The boys retreated behind the garage. Joe flicked on the switch of the receiver. Both put their ears close to it.

Mrs. Steele’s voice came through. “If your friends are coming here tonight, I’m going to my sister’s. I can’t stand them.”

Vincent Steele said patiently, “They’re not friends, merely business associates. And they won’t be staying long.”

“Even five minutes is too long to suit me,” his wife replied sharply. “When they arrive, I leave!”

Just then five shadowy figures moved past the garage. Obviously the other gate was not electrified. It was too dark to see the men’s features. They entered the house by the back door. A few moments later the door opened again, then slammed shut. Mrs. Steele went straight to the garage and drove off.

The voices from inside the house came over the bug distinctly. Someone with an Italian accent said, “Why didn’t you keep the blade, once you had your hands on it?”

“There were two of them,” Steele replied. “Besides, I examined it carefully. There was no will inscribed on it!”

“Then it can’t be the Adalante,” a familiar voice spoke up.

Joe whispered, “I think that’s Charlie.”

“Right,” Frank replied. “Listen.”

“Yes, it is the Adalante,” Steele insisted. “The letters A-N-T-E were clearly visible. But there was nothing else.”

“Why did you let them escape from the cellar?” Homer asked.

“Me?” Steele said. “I wasn’t even here. You locked them in. You can’t seem to do anything right. First you caused poor Ettore Rossi all that trouble for nothing, because you thought he was Russo. Then you can’t even lock up a couple of kids so they stay locked up!”

“Shut up!” It was Kell speaking. “You haven’t done so hot either.”

“I did what I was hired to do. I found the broken blade. So I’ll take my payoff now.”

There was a derisive laugh, then the man with the accent said, “You have not delivered the blade.”

“I only agreed to locate it,” Steele said. “I’ve done that. I walked the boys outside when they left here and got the cab’s number. Then I phoned the taxi company and found out from the dispatcher that he took them to the Northside Plaza Motel in Stockton. You’ll find the blade there.”

The man with the accent said, “Hugo, I wish to speak to you alone. Come with me in the kitchen.”

There was a short silence, then the man said in a whispering voice, “If Steele is right and there is no inscription on the saber, we could put our own on it once we get the blade!”

Hugo replied, “Not a bad idea, Hans. We could have it engraved so as to leave everything to Fabrizio Dente. Shall we pay off Steele?”

“Not until we have the sword!”

A door shut. Apparently they were returning to the others in the living room.

“I wonder who those two are,” Joe said in a low voice.

“Maybe the leaders of the gang,” Frank ventured.

They listened attentively, but nothing more of importance was said. Hans announced they were leaving and promised Vincent Steele he would get his money as soon as the Adalante was in their hands.

“We’ll get it tomorrow,” Hans said. “It should be no problem to find out which room the Hardys are in. We’ll watch until they leave, then break in and steal the blade.”

The five men left by the back door. Joe switched off the receiver and the boys slipped around the comer to the far side of the garage until the shadowy quintet had gone past them and into the alley.

As the back gate clicked behind them, Frank and Joe followed. A car was parked about twenty yards from the house. The men climbed in and drove away without lights. It was impossible to see the license number.

“Too bad we couldn’t get a look at their faces,” Joe said.

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “But we still learned a lot. Now back to the motel and report to Dad.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “But let’s stop at Swanson’s and pick up some hamburgers. I’m hungry.”

“All right,” Frank consented.

They left by the driveway gate and made their way back to where they had parked the car. It was nearly midnight when Frank pulled into the drive-in restaurant and gave their order. As they were waiting, a green Buick drove in next to them.

Both boys turned to look. “Well, well,” Frank said. “If it isn’t our buddy Harry Madsen!”

“Are you guys still hanging around here?” Madsen snarled.

“Have you been following us?” Frank demanded.

“None of your business,” the bulldozer operator snapped. “You’d better just watch your step.”

The carhop came with their sack of hamburgers. Joe paid and Frank started the car.

As they backed out, Madsen called after them, “Remember what I said! Watch out!”

The boys did not reply and Frank drove toward the Northside Plaza.

“You think he’s in with that mob?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. He could have stayed outside Steele’s house tonight and kept watch, then followed us here.”

Joe thought about this for a moment, then said, “I doubt it. If he was tailing us, why did he make himself known?”

“True, too.”

As they neared the motel, they saw the blinking red lights of three police cars parked in front.

“Holy Toledo!” Joe exclaimed. “More trouble!”

Frank parked the car in front of their parents’ room. Three policemen were standing there, guarding the door!

CHAPTER XX

Duel in the Dumps

“WE’RE Mr. Hardy’s sons,” Frank said to the patrolmen. “What happened?”

“Your father can tell you,” one of the officers replied. “He’s inside.”

They found the motel room crowded with people—Mr. and Mrs. Hardy, Chet, two more policemen and four handcuffed prisoners.

Frank and Joe identified Charlie, Homer, Kell and the fake Signor Zonko, mastermind of the Bayport bank robbery.

“His real name is Hugo Hausner,” Mr. Hardy said. “He’s a Swiss citizen and an international thief, according to the police here.”

“How did you catch them?” Joe asked.

“Chet and I arrived just after five of them entered to steal the sword Adalante,” Mr. Hardy replied. “We rushed in when we heard your mother scream. I knocked out Charlie with a karate chop. Chet got Homer with an uppercut and your mother banged Kell on the head with the telephone. Then Chet and I subdued Hausner. Unfortunately, in all the confusion, the fifth man escaped taking the broken blade.”

“We’ll catch up with him,” one of the officers declared. “From your description, he must be Hugo’s brother Hans. He’s got an Italian accent. Hugo sometimes speaks with an accent, too, but his is phony. We’ve put out an all-points bulletin on Hans.”

The other policeman said, “Let’s get these guys down to headquarters. Maybe one of them will talk.”

The suspects were hustled into a police car. Mr. Hardy and the three boys followed in the Plymouth. Mrs. Hardy remained at the motel.

At headquarters the bank robbers were informed of their legal rights to consult a lawyer, then were put in separate cells. It was not long before Charlie agreed to turn informer in return for a recommendation of leniency when he came to triaL

“Hans Hausner came to the States because some guy in Switzerland had hired him to locate the guard end of the sword Adalante,” Charlie began. “Also, he was supposed to prevent Ettore Russo from going to Tessin to claim his grandfather’s estate.”

Joe said, “But Hans chased the wrong man at first!”

“Right. Then a publicity story on Ettore Rossi appeared in the newspaper and pointed out the similarity in names,” Charlie said. “So he realized his mistake.”

“What about Hugo Hausner?” Frank asked.

“He pulled a number of bank robberies. The last one was in Bayport. Somehow his voice was taped, so he cut out. Came to the Coast and worked with Hans.”

“And how does Steele fit into all this?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

Charlie said Hans had contacted the writer to help him locate the sword because Steele knew a lot about the area that had once been Russo’s vineyard. Steele agreed, for a price, to try to find the blade.

Charlie added, “I understand Steele’s wife didn’t know anything about this.”

The story continued to unfold. After the Bayport robbery, Red Bowes was ordered to shadow the Hardys. Two more of Hugo’s men had gone to Chicago, where they successfully shook down a top racketeer for a large sum by selling him his own voiceprint from Mr. Hardy’s file. From there they had continued on to New Orleans for the same reason.

Homer, Charlie, and Kell had come to San Francisco to work on gang boss Rocky Morgan. But instead of paying off, Morgan had sent his gang after them, with the resulting gunfight in Chinatown.

“Do you know anything about the three hundred thousand dollars the gang stole in Bayport?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“That’s hidden at our motel, the Sundance,” Charlie replied.

A police team was dispatched immediately to recover the loot.

“What do you know about Harry Madsen?” Frank asked.

“Who?” Charlie looked blank. “Never heard of him.”

When the boys explained to the police who Madsen was, they decided to bring the bulldozer operator in for questioning. But since it was now long past midnight, they agreed to wait until the morning.

Mr. Hardy and the three boys drove back to the Northside Plaza, where the boys picked up their rented Chevrolet and headed for their own motel. It was not until they were almost there that Joe remembered something.

“Hey!” he said. “That sack of hamburgers we bought is still in the Plymouth!”

“You forgot our food?” Chet said in an outraged voice. “And I haven’t eaten since dinner-time!”

“Forget it,” Frank told him. “Unless you like cold hamburgers!”

Next morning the trio was up early.

“Let’s drive to the Northside Plaza and have breakfast with Mom and Dad,” Frank suggested.

“Good thought,” Chet agreed.

As soon as they were seated in the motel restaurant, Mr. Hardy reported that he had already talked to the police by telephone.

“Steele has been arrested for allowing his property to be used by kidnappers,” he said. “Also they questioned Madsen but released him.”

“They should have held him for attempted murder!” Joe said, eyes blazing.

“Well, he had no connection with the Hausner gang. He was merely teed off because you beat him at fencing,” Mr. Hardy replied.

“Didn’t he put the rattler in our car?” Joe demanded.

“He did. But it was not venomous because its poison sacs had been removed,” Mr. Hardy replied. “He just wanted to scare you. He told us where he got the snake and the police checked out his story.”

“And he shorted our horn and called Mrs. Steele telling her we were thieves, right?” Frank said.

“Yes.”

“I just love that guy!” Joe grumbled.

“We ran into him a couple of times at the drive-in restaurant and last night he told us to watch our step!” Frank said.

“That was coincidence,” Mr. Hardy stated. “He stops there for a sandwich now and then, and the threat was just talk.”

“Did he phone our motel one time and tell us to get out of the state?” Joe asked.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “But he was not the one who called you at the Steeles’ house.”

“Then who was it?” Frank wanted to know.

“Hugo Hausner. I found out from Chief Collig. He had the voiceprint you sent him checked against the ones you made in Bayport. Mr. Dollinger let him have the whole set. It matched Hausner’s.”

Mr. Hardy went on to say that the police had also informed him that his voiceprint file, minus the two spectrograms that had been peddled in Chicago and New Orleans, had been recovered from the gang’s motel. The Bayport bank loot had been found there intact, too. Hugo Hausner’s two hoods who had sold the spectrographs were arrested in New Orleans.

“There will be a good-sized reward for recovering the bank money,” Fenton Hardy said. “And you boys are entitled to most of it.”

After breakfast they discussed the problem of the missing Hans Hausner. The police had not found a trace of him yet. Suddenly Joe recalled something.

“Frank, remember when Hans took Hugo into the Steele kitchen for a private talk? He said once they got hold of the blade, they could have a will engraved on it!”

“Of course!” Frank exclaimed. “If we check local engravers in the classified telephone directory, we might get a lead on him!”

Quickly they made a list from the yellow pages of places where engraving was done in the Stockton area. Then they divided the list, Mr. Hardy and Chet taking half, Frank and Joe taking the rest. They agreed to meet again at the motel around noon.

The Hardy boys went to engraver after engraver with no luck. At eleven o’clock, with only a couple of places remaining on their list, they entered a small jewelry store.

When they told the middle-aged proprietor who they were and what they wanted, he said, “A man with an Italian accent? Why, you just missed him. He left no more than a minute ago, as soon as I finished the work. He had me inscribe on a broken blade that the Russo fortune would go to somebody named Fabrizio Dente.”

“Which way did he go?” Joe asked eagerly.

“He said he wanted to catch a noon plane, so I imagine he headed for the airport. I noticed him getting into a dark sedan parked out front.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Let’s get moving, Joe.”

Joe took the wheel of the Chevy, started the engine, and shot away from the curb. He took the most direct route to the airport, reasoning that Hausner, who had plenty of time before his plane took off, would not be hurrying. The boys spotted the dark sedan halfway to the airport.

“That’s his car,” Frank said. “I recognize it. The one they used to transport us to Steele’s after the kidnapping.”

“Right,” Joe said and poured on the gas.

The fugitive gave a startled look when the Hardys’ car pulled up alongside of him. Joe slowed, cut in, and forced the sedan off the road onto the shoulder. Hausner panicked.

He jumped out and started to run across the city dump which stretched to the right. Frank and Joe took after him, scrambling across mountains of trash. They gained steadily.

“Hausner! You can’t get away!” Frank called out.

The fugitive turned his head to utter an oath, but kept climbing over the mounds of debris.

The gap narrowed with each step, however. Now Hausner’s labored breathing could be heard by his pursuers.

“Halt! Stop!” Joe cried. The Swiss was nearly in his grasp.

Hausner spun around. In his right hand he held the broken saber, with which he lashed furiously at Joe while making guttural noises.

Frank spied a stripped umbrella lying in the junk. He picked it up and leaped in front of Joe, brandishing the handle like a sword.

The Swiss turned and slashed at him with the saber. Nimbly skipping aside, Frank thrust and lunged. Hausner let out a grunt as the tip of the umbrella poked him in the stomach. Then Frank cracked the umbrella frame across Hausner’s wrist and knocked the saber from his hand.

Frank and Joe subdued their quarry without any further resistance. After they turned him over to the police, they drove back to the motel.

They found their father, mother, and Chet waiting. Quickly they told what had happened.

“Great job!” Mr. Hardy praised his sons. “Now let’s have a look at that saber.”

He examined the hilt under a powerful magnifying glass. Nothing besides the letters A-N-T-E and the inscription was on either side of the stubby blade.

“Can I see it, Dad?” Frank asked. He studied the hand guard carefully. It had a leather protective lining. Frank pulled it out. Nothing was hidden beneath it.

Suddenly Joe said, “Hey, what’s that?”

“Where?” Frank asked.

“Something’s written on the underside of that piece of leather.”

Frank examined it. “It’s the will! Dad, we’ve found it!”

Mr. Hardy took a close look. “It sure is,” he confirmed. He read the tiny inscription. It left three-fourths of Russo’s fortune to his first grandson.

“That’s Ettore Russo!” Chet exclaimed. “We’ve solved our case!”

The boys sent a cable to the fencing master, telling him the good news. They included the information that Mr. and Mrs. Hardy would personally deliver the saber to Russo in Bellinzona, Switzerland.

“You haven’t finished your vacation,” Frank said to his parents. “This way you can tour Switzerland.”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “We might just do that!”

“There’s still one loose end that bothers me,” Joe said. “I wonder if it was June Fall who tore those pages from the book about Giovanni Russo.”

“Why don’t you phone the college library and ask if they know the pages are missing?” Mr. Hardy suggested. “Now that the big mystery is solved, you’ve got plenty of time.”

Joe went to the telephone, little knowing that more excitement would soon come their way in The Flickering Torch Mystery. When he had finished the call, he grinned.

“Guess what?” he said. “Those pages have been missing for three years!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Mysterious Accidents

CHAPTER II - Engine Trouble

CHAPTER III - Frank Springs a Trap

CHAPTER IV - Boat Crash

CHAPTER V - Fire in the Night

CHAPTER VI - The Stolen Fuselage

CHAPTER VII - Down the Cliff

CHAPTER VIII - The Emergency Exit

CHAPTER IX - Callie Plays a Trick

CHAPTER X - Shots in the Dark

CHAPTER XI - No More Rocks

CHAPTER XII - Jam Session

CHAPTER XIII - Lefty the Squealer

CHAPTER XIV - Sky Chase

CHAPTER XV - Dangerous Contraband

CHAPTER XVI - False Alarm

CHAPTER XVII - The Payoff

CHAPTER XVIII - Diamond Dust

CHAPTER XIX - Needle Man

CHAPTER XX - Airport Ambush

THE FLICKERING TORCH MYSTERY

TWO unexplainable plane crashes near an airport on the East Coast plunge Frank and Joe Hardy into a bizarre case.

When their famous detective father is called to New York City by a group of insurance companies to investigate air freight thefts at Kennedy International Airport, Mr. Hardy asks Frank and Joe to take over his current case of the suspicious plane accidents.

From the moment Frank and Joe find a radioactive engine in an airplane junkyard, unexpected dangers strike like lightning. Despite the repeated attempts on their lives, the teen-age detectives pursue their investigation and make a second startling discovery involving contraband uranium isotopes. These two vital clues and others that Frank and Joe unearth provide the solution to one of the most baffling mysteries the boys and Mr. Hardy have ever encountered.

The force of the man’s blow caused Joe to lose his balance!

Copyright © 1971, 1943, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07636-1

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Mysterious Accidents

“BOYS, I’m on a new case and I’ve run into a problem,” Fenton Hardy said. He had walked into his sons’ second-floor bedroom, which was vibrating from the sounds of Joe’s guitar.

“Sorry, Dad,” said the seventeen-year-old blond boy. “Didn’t hear you come in. Frank and I were testing this new amplifier.” He set down the guitar as Mr. Hardy took a seat.

“What’s the matter?” asked Frank, dark-haired and a year older than his brother. “Can we help in any way?”

“I think so,” his father replied. “This case has me up a tree. It’s a baffling mystery. In fact, two of them. A couple of light planes crashed recently near Marlin Crag Airport outside Beemerville. They were coming in from the sea for a landing and hit the cliffs. Both pilots died.”

“What a shame,” Frank said. Both he and Joe were licensed pilots and shared the comradery of fliers.

“Any theories?” Joe asked.

“Weather conditions were bad in both cases. Heavy fog. But the two men, Jack Scott and Martin Weiss, were experienced and could have come in on instruments.”

“I take it the Federal Aviation Agency has investigated?” Frank said.

“Right. Now Scott’s family has asked me to look into it. Sam Radley’s done some preliminary work.”

Fenton Hardy was world-renowned as a sleuth. Trained in the New York City Police Department, he had resigned to become a private investigator in Bayport, a medium-sized town on the East Coast.

His sons were following in his footsteps. Starting with the mystery of The Tower Treasure, Frank and Joe had proved their detective ability. Most recently they had cracked a tough case, The Clue of the Broken Blade.

Sam Radley was Fenton Hardy’s assistant. A skillful operative, he could be relied on to stick to a case till it was solved.

“Sam obtained taped interviews with the Scott family,” Mr. Hardy continued. “I’d like you boys to listen to them when he returns to Bayport in a few days.”

“Meanwhile our assignment is to snoop around Marlin Crag Airport,” Frank concluded.

“Exactly. Ask questions. Talk to the manager and find out if anyone knows any details about the crashes. You can fly up in our plane.”

“It would be easier to go by car,” Joe said.

“I know. But with the plane you can take the same approach as those pilots did and perhaps learn something as to why they crashed.”

Mr. Hardy showed his sons a piece of paper with the flight route of the two planes.

“Now all we need to start out are the aircraft and engine numbers,” Frank said.

“I’ve got them right here,” Mr. Hardy said and handed him another piece of paper. The numbers were neatly typed in two columns.

“What about you, Dad?” Frank inquired. “Will we see you in Beemerville?”

“No. I’ll be in New York working on a case for some insurance companies. They’re worried about a ring of freight thieves who have been hitting the airports. Millions of dollars are involved.”

“So we’ll be on our own,” Joe commented.

Fenton Hardy nodded. “Play it by ear, and I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I can.”

He rose from the chair and slapped Frank on the shoulder. “Continue your guitar practice. You both can drive me to the airport in a couple of hours and start your case tomorrow.”

As their father went down the stairs, Frank said, “Okay, let’s try the amp again.”

Joe started playing a folk rock number. The amplifier picked up the sound and sent it reverberating through the house.

Frank and Joe were getting ready for a rock festival at the local park. They had a combo, in which Joe played the lead guitar. Frank handled the rhythm guitar. Three of their friends were on the other instruments—Biff Hooper bass guitar, Phil Cohen at the portable organ, and Tony Prito on the drums.

Moments later, above the sound of the twanging strings, the boys heard the rackety cough of a back-firing motor. A battered jalopy bucked along and jolted to a stop in front of the Hardy house. A plump youth with a freckled face eased out from behind the wheel.

Joe went to the window and chuckled. “Chet’s music doesn’t turn me on, Frank. I wish he’d trade the ancient heap in for a later model—like 1950, perhaps.”

The Hardys ran downstairs and met their friend on the porch. Chet Morton, who lived on a farm outside of Bayport, was bubbling with excitement.

“What’s up?” Frank inquired.

“Up is right! Up in the air! I’m building me a flying machine!”

Frank and Joe knew all about Chet’s mania for hobbies. Almost every time they saw their chum he was involved in a new project.

“Okay, let’s try the amp again!” Frank said

“It’ll take a jumbo jet to lift you off the ground,” Joe needled their hefty visitor.

“Aw, cut it out,” Chet protested. “I’m serious. Look. You know Beemerville?”

The Hardys exchanged glances. “Sure, it’s sixty miles up the coast from here,” Frank replied. “What about it?”

“It has an airplane junkyard. Mountains of old motors, fuselages, wheels—everything. Just the place for me to collect the parts for my plane. But I need your help.”

“Why?” Frank queried.

“Well, you guys are licensed pilots, right? You even fly your father’s plane. I want you to come along and help me pick out what I need.”

“We’ve got a few weeks before the rock festival,” Joe mused and gave his brother a knowing wink.

Frank clapped Chet on the shoulder. “All right, we’ll go with you.”

“You will? Terrific!”

“See you at the airport tomorrow morning at eight,” Frank said.

“You want to fly? But it’s only a little over an hour by car!”

“Well, we’re combining the trip with a little assignment for Dad,” Joe said and explained their mission to Chet.

“Oh, I see. I’m only second fiddle,” Chet said with a grin. “Well, I don’t mind. See you tomorrow!”

The next day was Saturday. Chet was waiting when the Hardys arrived at the airport. Frank, at the controls of their single-engine aircraft, took off smoothly and the shoreline flashed past beneath their wings. The sixty miles passed quickly. When they came in sight of Marlin Crag Airport, Frank swung out to sea in a big arc.

Then he turned back inland again toward the airport about two miles ahead. “This is the approach Scott and Weiss took,” he said to Joe.

“Boy, these cliffs are for real!” Chet exclaimed. “They’re like an accordion, the way the rocks wave in and out.”

“And that oil refinery to the right looks like a beacon,” Joe said. “You can’t miss the high pipe burning off gas.”

Glancing down, they saw the surf breaking over a rugged headland studded with huge boulders. The high escarpment fell in a sheer drop to the rocks below.

“Frank, watch it,” Joe cried suddenly.

A light plane zoomed up under their left wing. They could see the face of the pilot, a square-jawed fellow with a long scar along his left cheek. Frank veered to the right to let the other pilot swish past under his left wing with little room to spare!

“Some nerve that guy’s got!” Chet exploded.

“He just wasn’t paying any attention,” said Frank. Wiping some beads of perspiration from his face, he added, “At least I hope it was just negligence and he didn’t do it on purpose!”

“He’s going into Marlin Crag,” Joe observed. “Maybe we can have a little talk with him when we land.”

“I’ll talk to him all right!” Chet said, flexing his muscles. “I’ll show him—Hey, there’s the airplane junkyard!”

Excitedly he pointed below to a large enclosed area with piles of plane parts strewn about.

“Okay, Chet, we’ll check it out as soon as we’re finished at the airport,” Frank promised and radioed the tower for permission to land.

Soon they were in the office of Airport Manager Steve Holmes, a short, slender man with a high forehead. He identified the reckless pilot as Dale Nettleton. “But he’s left already,” Holmes added, “so I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak to him.”

“Too bad,” Frank said, then changed the subject. “Mr. Holmes, can you give us any information on the Scott and Weiss crashes?”

“Both flights originated in Morrisville, New Jersey. The reason for the accidents must have been bad weather conditions.”

“Where are the wrecks now?”

“I have no idea.”

A man came into the room and was introduced as Bill Zinn, the assistant manager. Of average build, he walked with a rolling gait, and his manner was breezy.

“Why are you interested in those two accidents?” he asked with a quick smile.

“We might be using this airport in the future,” Frank said casually. “So we’d like to know if there’s any danger.”

“Like hitting the cliffs,” Joe said.

“No danger at all,” Zinn said affably. “Not if you know how to fly.” He turned and left the office seconds before a teen-age youth entered.

“Hi, Hal,” Holmes greeted him. “We were just speaking about the crashes.” He turned to his visitors. “Boys, this is Hal McGuirk. He’s an airport buff and hangs around here all the time.”

“What do you know about the accidents?” Joe asked Hal.

“Really nothing. Except about a week before he crashed, I saw Scott spin down out of an overcast. He pulled up in time, but I wondered what caused it.”

Holmes looked surprised. “Did you tell the FAA investigators?”

Hal shook his head. “Nobody asked me.”

Frank said, “That definitely sounds like instrument trouble.”

“Well, fellows,” Chet pleaded, “let’s get on to the airplane junkyard.”

“Okay, flyboy,” Joe said.

“Have you got enough energy to walk over there? It’s at least a couple of miles,” Frank teased their chubby friend.

“Oh,” Hal said, “you flew in. I can drive you in my car, if you want.”

“Hey, that’s great. Thanks a lot!” Chet grinned.

As the Hardys were saying good-by to the airport manager, Chet, impatient to get to the junkyard, opened the door and strode out. He nearly collided wth Zinn, who mumbled something and hurried off.

When Frank, Joe, and Hal came out of the office, Chet whispered to the Hardys, “That guy Zinn was eavesdropping on us!”

CHAPTER II

Engine Trouble

FRANK and Joe were dumbfounded. As they walked through the lobby, they saw Zinn enter a telephone booth at the other end of the long hall.

“I wonder what he’s up to,” Frank mumbled to Joe.

They stopped for a quick sandwich, then continued on to the junkyard. It was located on gently sloping land surrounded by a sheet-metal fence. The place was crammed with fuselages, wings, engines and other parts from planes that had either been wrecked or retired because of old age. In one corner stood a boxlike structure, obviously the office. A giant crane was moving parts from one spot to another.

“Boy, this place is cool!” Chet exulted.

“The owner’s name is O. K. Mudd,” Hal said. “Here he comes now.”

Approaching was a thick-set man in work clothes with a bullethead and bushy black brows. His slit eyes took in the visitors with quick movements. Then he flashed a wide smile.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

When Chet expressed an interest in buying airplane parts, Mudd invited them to look around while he went over to talk to the crane operator.

As Chet examined some fuselages, Joe poked through a pile of small engines. Suddenly Joe straightened up and gestured to Frank.

“Know what this is?” he asked, running a finger across the number of an engine.

Frank gasped. “Scott’s engine. What do you—?” He broke off when he saw Mudd approaching.

“Have you found anything that interests you?” he asked. “This engine here’s no good, but if you want to look over there, you’ll see a few in pretty decent shape.”

He pointed to a corner of the enclosure, where a mound of parts was covered with a heavy tarpaulin. As Frank and Joe walked toward the heap, Chet suddenly screamed, “Watch out!”

The giant crane had swung up over their heads with an airplane wing. The jaws opened, and the wing came hurtling down at the Hardys!

Frank threw himself to one side in a judo roll. Joe lunged in the opposite direction, but slipped in a patch of oil and hit the ground face down. Instinctively he clasped his arms over his head for protection.

The heavy plane wing smashed between the Hardys, sending up a cloud of dust.

Frank got up. “Are you all right, Joe?” he called out.

Chet and Frank pulled Joe shakily to his feet. He flexed the fingers of his left hand before replying, “I got a pretty good bang on the arm from the wing tip, but I’ll live.”

They looked around. The crane had stopped. The operator was scowling at them from his cab and Mudd rushed over. “What do you guys mean getting in the way?” he stormed. “You might have been killed!”

The boys were flabbergasted. Joe exclaimed, “It wasn’t our fault!” He pointed to the crane. “It was that stupid—”

The junkyard proprietor flushed angrily. “Don’t give me any of your lip, wise guy! Now beat it!”

Frank was suspicious of Mudd’s unreasonable behavior, but decided that further argument would be futile.

“Let’s go,” he muttered to his companions.

Hal, who had watched the whole thing in a state of frozen shock, led the way back to the car. “I don’t know what got into old Mudd,” he said. “He’s usually a pretty agreeable guy. He should have apologized instead of yelling at you. If I were you, I’d sue him for negligence!”

“He might have been afraid of just that,” Frank said, “and therefore wanted to shift the blame on us. By the way, what time is it? My watch stopped.”

“Four-thirty,” Joe replied.

“Five o‘clock,” Chet said.

“That’s funny,” Joe observed. “Mine stopped too!”

“And at the same time as mine,” Frank stated.

“Maybe it was the shock when you hit the ground,” Hal suggested.

“Possible. We’ll have to take them to the watchmaker Monday.”

The Hardys thanked Hal. “We’ll be back here soon,” Joe said. “See you then.”

“I won’t be around for a while,” the boy replied. “Going to California to visit my aunt for two weeks.”

Joe grinned. “Lucky you. Have fun!”

Early Monday morning the Hardys took their electric watches to the jeweler. He examined their interior mechanisms and whistled in disbelief.

“The quartz crystal oscillators have been damaged,” he said. “Have you been fooling around with any radioactive material?”

“Not that we know of,” Frank replied.

“Maybe there was some in that junkyard,” Joe said.

The watchmaker was curious. “What junkyard has fissionable material? That could be quite dangerous.”

Frank evaded the question and said, “Can you fix the watches?”

“Yes. But it will take a couple of weeks.”

He took their names and address promising to send a postcard when the timepieces were ready.

As the Hardys drove home, Joe mulled over the jeweler’s theory concerning the cause of the trouble with their watches. “We didn’t get much chance to case Mudd’s place,” he said. “He could have an atom smasher hidden somewhere for all we know.”

“There’s something fishy up in Beemerville,” Frank agreed. “We’d better have another look-see.”

Sam Radley was waiting for them in the house. Fenton Hardy’s assistant drew a cassette from his pocket. “I recorded this at Jack Scott’s home,” he said. “I got interviews with his wife, son, and daughter. What they said doesn’t solve the mystery of Jack’s crash, as far as I can tell. Well, you boys might spot something I missed.”

The three adjourned to the Hardys’ lab, where Joe placed the cassette in the machine and pressed the “on” button. They could hear Sam asking questions, and the members of Scott’s family answering as best they could.

The first side of the tape told about Scott’s background. His wife and children insisted he was an honest, hard-working man who enjoyed being a pilot. They stressed his clean flying record, which showed no accidents until his fatal crack-up against the cliff at Marlin Crag.

The tape petered out. Joe turned it over. Mrs. Scott’s voice came through. She told about her husband’s job.

“Jack flew a taxi service from Morrisville to Marlin Crag.”

“Mrs. Scott, did Jack always carry passengers?” Sam asked.

“No, sometimes he made deliveries.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Radley.”

“Do you have any clues at all?”

“There’s only one thing I can think of. Several weeks before his accident Jack received a call. He took it in the hall while the rest of us were in the dining room. He carried on a long conversation, and sounded excited and angry.”

“What did he say?”

“Something about a flickering torch.”

“Did you hear any explanation?”

“No. Jack put the phone down, came over, and closed the door. We couldn’t hear any more.”

“Did he mention the subject when he returned to the dining room?”

“No. He seemed upset, though. Obviously didn’t want to talk about it. So I didn’t ask.”

“Was that like Jack?”

“No, not at all. That’s why I remember the incident.”

The tape went dead. “That’s it,” Sam declared, snapping off the machine. “What do you make of it?”

“The flickering torch might be the vital clue we need,” Frank said.

“Sure,” Joe added. “Maybe Jack Scott meant a beacon. He might have referred to that oil refinery near Marlin Crag Airport!”

“The high pipe burning gas!” Frank exclaimed. “It’s a flickering torch if I ever saw one.”

“Maybe the flame from the pipe lured Scott off course,” Joe said.

Sam agreed. “That’s a possibility.”

“But how can we explain Scott’s spin out of the overcast at the airport before his accident?” Frank asked. “Oh, I forgot you haven’t heard about that, Sam.” Quickly he clued Radley in about Hal McGuirk’s observation.

“That’s odd,” Sam commented. “An experienced pilot isn’t supposed to go into a sudden spin like that.”

“Maybe his gyro horizon conked out,” Joe said. “That would mean big trouble.”

The three probed the problem for a while without finding any solution. Sam promised to investigate the oil refinery before he left, and the boys decided to go ahead with their plan to revisit Mudd’s airplane junkyard in Beemerville. They phoned Chet, who agreed to come along.

They got out their Geiger counter, a metal box about as large as a medium-sized dictionary. They made sure it was in working order and stowed it in the trunk of their convertible.

Then they donned special coveralls under their clothes to protect themselves against possible radiation.

“I’ll take one for Chet, too, just in case,” Frank said.

Chet Morton was waiting when they arrived at his house. He quickly put on the coverall, then they set out for Beemerville.

“The car makes more sense than the plane on this trip,” Frank said as he kept the convertible wheeling steadily along.

“Better for a quick getaway, too,” Joe noted.

Chet glanced suspiciously at his two pals. “Listen, you guys, if this is a getaway car, don’t get away without me!”

Joe grinned. “What’s the matter? Getting cold feet?”

Chet pretended to be hurt. “When did I ever get cold feet?” he asked plaintively.

“This is your last chance to quit,” Frank said as he brought the car to a stop in a vacant alley behind the airplane junkyard. “We’re headed for enemy country.”

He took the Geiger counter out of the trunk and led the way to the back gate.

“The place seems deserted,” Joe said. “Not even a watchman on duty.”

“Maybe Mudd’s in the office,” Frank said and tried the gate handle. “Unlocked. Come on.” He pushed the barrier open and slipped through, closely followed by his companions.

They looked cautiously around. The crane was parked near the office. Frank gestured toward the pile where Joe had discovered the engine to Jack Scott’s plane.

“That’s our objective,” he said. “Let’s not waste any time. No telling when we’ll have Mudd’s hired hands breathing down our necks. Chet, you and Joe stand guard. I’ll make the test as fast as I can.”

Joe and Chet moved off while Frank advanced to the engines. Reading the numbers, he finally spotted the one from Scott’s plane.

Gingerly he shifted the Geiger counter close to the engine. The box began to emit a clicking sound. Frank glanced knowingly at Joe and Chet, who were positioned some distance away.

Scott’s engine was radioactive!

Suddenly the office door slammed loudly. Footsteps could be heard coming around the building at a rapid pace.

Joe signaled to Frank, who ran toward Chet and tossed the Geiger counter to him. “Quick,” he whispered, “stash this in the car.”

As Chet darted back to the gate, Mudd came around the corner and strode up to Frank and Joe. Had he spotted the Geiger counter?

CHAPTER III

Frank Springs a Trap

“JUST a minute!” O. K. Mudd called out. “I want to talk to you!”

He walked with his jaw thrust out and his fists clenched. Coming to a halt a couple of feet away, he broke into a friendly smile.

“I didn’t want you to get away before I had a chance to show you some new things,” Mudd declared. “A shipment of airplane parts came in early this morning.”

The Hardys were surprised by the man’s change of demeanor.

“Oh, I know what you think,” Mudd continued. “The other day I wasn’t exactly a bosom buddy of yours. Got up on the wrong side of the bed, I expect. It just wasn’t my day. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“Forget it, Mr. Mudd,” Frank replied. “We weren’t bothered by what happened.”

“But your brother got hurt when the airplane wing fell. How’s the arm, young man?” he asked, turning to Joe.

“Bruised, but otherwise ready for a fast game of tennis,” Joe assured him.

“That accident wasn’t your fault,” Mudd said. “The crane operator shouldn’t have let the wing drop. Now, back to business. Do you see anything you’d like to buy?”

“There’s one item we’re interested in,” Joe answered. He pointed to Scott’s engine.

Mudd smiled again. Rubbing the palms of his hands together, he responded, “But of course. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll have. How much were you thinking of paying for this model?”

Frank promptly mentioned a ridiculously low figure.

Mudd hesitated and frowned. He looked down at the engine and then at Frank, finally flashing his smile again.

“It’s yours. I admit it’s battered, so I’ll let it go at a sacrifice. How will you cart it away?”

“We have our car outside,” Joe said.

“I doubt that it will fit,” Mudd objected.

“Well, let’s try it anyhow.” Joe went to get the convertible and rode back with Chet.

By now Frank was holding his checkbook in one hand and a pen in the other, ready to pay for their purchase.

Frank had barely written the date on the check when the boys heard a thundering rattle of heavy wheels. Startled, they turned around in time to see a junkyard truck bearing down on them. Nobody was at the wheel!

The boys leaped aside and the truck smashed into their convertible with a sickening crunch!

Frank groaned. “It just had a new paint job!”

“Good night! What rotten luck!” Mudd declared.

Chet walked around the two vehicles, examining them with a practiced eye. “Your car isn’t ruined, Frank,” he said. “But it’ll sure need some repair work!”

“So will my truck,” Mudd declared. “However, I’ll see that they’re both fixed. My driver parked without setting the hand brake, so I’ll be glad to pay up. I admit it’s my responsibility.”

“We’ll be without a car for a while,” Joe said glumly.

Frank shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”

“No sense in getting uptight about it,” Chet declared.

“Nice of you to take the accident so calmly,” Mudd commented. He summoned a tow car and had the convertible taken to a repair shop in Beemerville. The three boys rode along.

“This job’ll take a week,” said the mechanic.

“Okay, we’ll leave it,” Frank told him. He opened the trunk and removed the Geiger counter, then gave the key to the mechanic.

The boys left and strolled down Beemerville’s Main Street.

“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.

“Well, we still own the engine in the junkyard,” Joe observed. “And we don’t want to lose track of it after all our trouble. We’ve got to find out why it’s radioactive.”

“Let’s take it now!” Frank urged. “I noticed a trucking firm down the street. We can have a pickup truck haul the engine to Bayport.”

“Sure thing,” the trucker said when they explained the assignment to him. “I haul lots of airplane parts from the junkyard. In fact, Mr. Mudd just called me about a job. It’ll tie me up for an hour or so. But I can make the run down to Bayport later this afternoon.”

“Fair enough,” Frank said. “We’ll meet you at the junkyard in an hour. We haven’t had lunch yet, anyway.”

Chet beamed. “Lunch! Follow me, men!”

Joe grinned. “Meaning you’ve spotted a likely place to stow away some grub.” The Hardys knew there was nothing Chet liked better than eating.

“I’m with you,” Frank said. “My inner man craves sustenance, too. Where shall we go?”

“An eatery down the block,” Chet said. “I noticed it while we were riding the tow truck.”

The three walked to the diner, settled into a booth, and ordered.

“Say, this chow is great!” Chet exclaimed after sampling the food on his plate. “I picked the right place!”

“Must be the best diner in Beemerville,” Joe agreed.

Frank, however, was deep in thought and hardly noticed what he was eating. “There’s something going on at that junkyard,” he said gravely. “Every time we show up there we have an accident. I’m sure Mudd is the cause. But why?”

“It’s strange, all right,” Joe agreed. “What’s his game?”

“Well, now that I feel better,” said Chet, patting his belt buckle, “I’m ready for any of O. K.’s tricks.”

“All right,” Frank said with a grin, draining his glass. “Let’s go back and load up the engine.”

“Don’t forget,” Chet reminded him, “I’m here to buy a fuselage. So far you guys have had all the action.”

“Well, select what you want and the truck can take it, too,” Joe said.

They left the diner and strolled back to the junkyard. Suddenly Frank stopped, grabbed Joe by the elbow, and pointed to the pile of engines.

Scott’s engine was gone!

“Maybe Mudd had it moved,” Joe said.

“We’ll soon find out,” Frank answered. “I saw him in his office when we walked by the window. Let’s ask him what gives.”

Mudd greeted them with an apologetic smile. “Too bad about that engine, boys,” he said. “Another customer came in about an hour ago. He bought it.”

“But you agreed to sell it to us!” Joe reminded him.

“Sure. You were ready to take our check,” Frank protested.

Mudd smirked. “I never took your check, however. So it was no deal.”

Frank shrugged helplessly.

“You see,” the junkyard owner went on in an oily tone, “this customer made a much better offer than you did. And paid cash.”

Joe winced.

“Don’t worry,” Mudd went on. “I have lots of other engines, better ones, too.”

“All right,” Frank muttered. “We’ll look around.”

“And I want a fuselage,” Chet said.

The boys left the office.

“Joe, while Chet’s checking out fuselages, let’s see if we can’t find the engine from Martin Weiss’s plane,” Frank suggested.

The Hardys split up and met again half an hour later. Neither had spotted anything.

“What do you make of this whole thing?” Joe asked his brother.

“Well, this much is pretty obvious,” Frank said. “Mudd removed the engine because he didn’t want us to have it. In order to delay us, he had our car wrecked.”

Joe nodded. “Questions: Did he know it was Jack Scott’s engine? Did he know it was radioactive? Did he see our Geiger counter and realize we knew it, too?”

“I wish we had the answers,” Frank replied. “Maybe we’ll find them if we find the engine.”

Just then Chet returned, bursting with enthusiasm. “I got me a fuselage. Made a deal with Mr. Mudd. I’ll pay him in installments. Makes it easier on the Chet Morton pocketbook.”

Their hired pickup swung through the gate and the boys explained that the cargo for Bayport would be a fuselage instead of an engine.

The crane lifted Chet’s purchase into the back of the truck, where Chet decided to ride. Frank and Joe sat in the cab.

The driver took it slow and easy at first, edging around corners and through traffic until he made the turn onto the highway. Then he shifted into high.

Nothing was said for a while. Frank, acting on a hunch, broke the silence.

“Was the job Mudd had for you this morning a tough one?” he asked.

The driver gave him a shifty-eyed glance. “Oh, not too bad.”

“No big cargo to move?”

“Well, it wasn’t a jet plane,” the driver joked without further explanation.

Noting his evasiveness, Frank decided to spring a trap on him. The Hardys’ detective training had taught them that an unexpected question often did the trick with a suspect.

“Wasn’t it funny about that engine?” Frank asked suddenly, looking hard at the driver.

The man became tense, his hands gripping the wheel. He caught his breath and stared down the highway as if hypnotized.

“Why would anyone want to do that with an old piece of junk?” Frank pressed the point home, watching the man intently.

The driver relaxed. “Oh, so you know about it? O. K. told me the job was a secret. All very hush-hush. He didn’t let on you guys were in on the operation.”

Frank laughed loudly. So did Joe, who was backing Frank up.

“We’ve been in on it from the beginning,” Frank said. “Only O. K. didn’t tell us in advance about shifting the engine today.”

The driver snickered. “Since you guys know so much, maybe you can tell me why Mudd had me drop the thing over the Marlin Crag Cliffs!”

CHAPTER IV

Boat Crash

THE Hardys were thunderstruck by the driver’s story. For a few seconds there was silence.

Finally Frank remarked casually, “I guess Mr. Mudd didn’t have any use for that engine.”

“It was kind of beaten up,” Joe added. “We couldn’t care less what happened to it.”

“Me neither,” the driver said.

After they had driven a little more than an hour, the trucker said, “Bayport’s just ahead. Where do you want me to go?”

“The Morton Farm,” Frank replied. “It’s on the edge of town. Take the road to the right.”

After bumping for a couple of miles over a roughly tarred surface, they came to a mailbox marked “Morton.” The driver turned into the entranceway and braked to a halt beside the house.

Gleefully Chet jumped out of the back. He supervised while the other three lifted the fuselage off. “Right here, under this shed,” he called out. “Easy now, I don’t want it damaged.”

“Your pal likes giving orders, don’t he?” the driver grumbled. “Why don’t he give us a hand?”

“He figures his brain is the most important part of the operation,” Frank puffed.

“You guys are hurting my feelings,” Chet said, finally grasping the fuselage. “Anybody’d think I was lazy.”

Frank and Joe laughed as they released their burden and allowed it to settle into place under the shed. Chet paid the trucker, who stepped up into the cab and set off for Beemerville.

Then Chet drove his friends to their home.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re in time for dinner!” a familiar voice greeted them.

The speaker was their Aunt Gertrude. Although extremely fond of her two nephews, she never missed an opportunity to chide them about the dangerous risks they took when working on an assignment.

“We made a special effort to be on time, Aunty,” Frank said soothingly.

“We wouldn’t stand up the best cook in Bayport,” Joe chimed in.

“You’re a couple of flatterers,” Miss Hardy said, laughing. She looked pleased just the same. “Your mother and I are just about to serve. Hurry up!”

Mrs. Hardy, a slim, pretty woman, greeted her sons with a hug as they sat down at the table.

After the meal Frank and Joe went to their room and discussed O. K. Mudd and his suspicious actions.

“We know the radioactive engine was dumped over the cliffs,” Frank began, “but we don’t know where. That means we’ll have to search along the shore.”

Joe nodded. “We can do it in the Sleuth.”

The Sleuth was their powerboat. They kept it in a boathouse on Barmet Bay near their home, and used it mostly for fun. But several times the Hardys had relied on their craft in searching for criminals along the coast.

“What about the tides?” Joe asked.

Frank went to a cabinet where they stored their maritime charts. He removed one containing information about the tides of Marlin Crag, and placed it flat on the table.

“It’s a pretty narrow shore,” Joe commented, leaning over his shoulder.

Frank agreed. “That means we’ll have to wait for low tide. The engine might have tipped out away from the cliffs. Could be under water at high tide.”

Next morning, after a hearty breakfast of pancakes, sausage and eggs, Frank and Joe drove to the boathouse and eased the Sleuth out into the open water. It was a sleek craft powered by a rugged inboard motor.

Frank took the wheel. The propeller churned the water into a white froth and the powerboat roared across the bay.

“Let’s see what she can do!” Joe yelled into the wind.

Frank gave it full throttle and curved around in a big circle in the middle of the bay. He drove the Sleuth toward shore, zipped between two small islands, followed the buoys and veered back out again. He slowed the craft suddenly, went into reverse, and then raced straight forward again at top speed. Finally he cut the power and allowed the boat to idle.

“That was a good warming up,” Joe said. He added, “Look, what’s that coming?”

A dot in the distance began to grow larger on the surface of the bay. Another powerboat was headed in their direction.

“Hey, it’s Tony Prito’s Napoli!” Frank exclaimed.

Tony was a dark-haired, lively youth whose father ran a construction company in Bayport.

“Who’s that with him?” Joe inquired.

Frank shaded his eyes with his hand. “Biff Hooper is my guess. He’s too big to be anybody else.”

Biff was a husky six-footer who knew how to use his fists when the going got rough. He and Tony had been in on several of the Hardys’ investigations, and many a criminal had felt the iron of Biff’s wallop.

The Napoli pulled alongside the Sleuth and they bobbed up and down together in the waves.

“Hi, you guys,” Tony saluted the Hardys. “What are you doing?”

“Trawling for flounder?” Biff quipped. “Or have you got some crooks on the line?” He reached a big hand out to grasp the Sleuth’s gunwale and held the boats together.

“We’ve got a nibble, I’d say,” Frank replied and explained the situation.

“So you see,” he concluded, “we’ve got to scout the shore below the Marlin Crag Cliffs.”

“Can we help?” Biff asked.

“That’s an idea! How about making this a combined operation? Joe and I will scout the shore. You and Tony could drive along the top of the cliffs. That way we can look for clues in both places.”

“Sure,” Tony agreed. “We may find the spot where the truck stopped. That’ll be where the engine went over.”

“Then you flag us,” Joe suggested, “and we’ll know just where to look.”

Suddenly the Sleuth’s ship-to-shore radio began to squawk. Frank answered. “Why, Aunt Gertrude,” he said in surprise, “what’s the matter?”

“It’s about Chet Morton,” she declared in a worried voice.

“What about Chet?”

“His airplane fuselage has been stolen!”

“What? How did that happen?” asked Joe, who had been listening in.

“Chet wasn’t there at the time. His mother saw a big truck with two men drive into the yard. She thought Chet had hired them, and didn’t pay much attention.”

“And the men loaded up the fuselage and left?” Frank asked in a perplexed voice.

“Right. Anyway, Chet’s waiting for you at the farm.”

“We’ll get there as fast as we can,” Frank promised.

He told their friends what had happened and they postponed their trip to the next day. Then Frank and Joe pushed away from the Napoli and the Sleuth churned toward the shore. Frank’s mind was on the fuselage. He said, “Joe, do you think—?”

“Look out!” Joe shouted. “A floating log!”

Too late! The bow of the powerboat struck the log and careened over it. Frank and Joe flew head over heels into the bay.

Frank went down until his lungs began to pound. Kicking violently, he shot back to the surface and looked for Joe, who bobbed up beside him, puffing and spluttering. They swam to their boat and clung to its sides until the Napoli raced up to them.

“Lucky we saw what happened,” Tony called out.

“Any chance of getting to shore under your own power?” Biff inquired.

The Hardys clambered on board and examined the engine. “No go,” Joe reported.

“All right. We’ll give you a tow,” Biff said, tossing a rope aboard.

Frank and Joe felt discouraged when they reached shore. “We’ll never be able to use the Sleuth tomorrow for our investigation,” Frank lamented.

“No problem. Take the Napoli,” Tony offered.

“Thanks, that’s great,” Frank said gratefully. “It’ll change our plan, though. You’ll handle your own boat. Suppose Joe goes with you. Biff and I will scout the cliffs by car.”

Frank’s idea was accepted unanimously. The disabled Sleuth was berthed for repair and the Napoli purred off. Frank and Joe jumped into their car and headed for the Morton farm.

There they met Callie Shaw and Chet’s sister Iola in the driveway.

Vivacious and carefree, blond Callie was Frank’s favorite date. Iola, who had dark hair and dimples, usually paired off with Joe. It turned out that the girls had arrived just in time to see the truck leaving.

“What company did it belong to?” Frank asked.

Callie’s brown eyes searched for an answer. “I couldn’t tell,” she said. “There was no name on it.”

“Did you get the license number?” Joe said.

“Sorry,” Iola replied. “That was covered with mud.”

Further questions revealed that the girls did not get a look at the men in the cab, neither had Mrs. Morton.

At that moment Chet stormed out of the shed where he had been looking for clues. “This is outrageous robbery!” he fumed.

“An airplane engine and a fuselage disappear without apparent reason,” Frank observed. “Could there be a connection between them?”

“Find one, maybe we find both,” Joe suggested.

“If we could locate the truck it would help,” Frank said. “What did it look like?”

The girls gave a description as best they could.

“Well, it wasn’t the one we hired to bring the fuselage down here,” Frank said.

“What’s at the bottom of all this?” Chet groaned.

Joe looked grim. “That’s what we’ll have to find out, Chet!”

“Meanwhile,” Iola put in, “don’t forget you’ve got some practicing to do here tonight!”

Joe slapped his forehead. “Our combo! Is this the night?”

“Sure is,” Callie answered. “And the rest of us expect you to be here.”

“We will,” Frank promised. Then the Hardys left.

Phil Cohen was the first to arrive at the Morton barn that evening. A thoughtful, handsome youth, and a good student, he usually had a book in his pocket. Phil was another of the Hardys’ dependable allies when it came to solving cases.

As the others entered, Phil played a few chords on the organ which was kept in the barn where the boys usually practiced. “The grand entrance!” he boomed. “A fanfare for the world’s greatest detectives!”

Frank grinned. “It’s good to know that we’re appreciated around here.”

“You Hardys got it all wrong,” Biff quipped. “Phil was referring to Tony and me!”

Everyone laughed. Then Frank called the group to order. He adjusted the new amplifier, and they swung into a piece of country music. But the rhythmic sound could not cheer up Chet, who sat by gloomily, thinking about his prized fuselage.

The young musicians practiced for an hour and a half before piling into the kitchen for cokes and sandwiches.

“Come on, Chet, buck up,” Joe said. “That fuselage would be pretty hard to hide. The police will find it!”

“Yeah, at the bottom of a cliff, maybe!” Chet muttered.

In the morning Frank and Joe stopped at headquarters to see Chief Collig. He was a husky man with a weathered face, who had often cooperated with Fenton Hardy on his cases and was fond of Frank and Joe.

Collig held out a broad hand as the boys entered. “I guess you’re here about the theft at Chet’s place,” he said. “That was a pretty bold heist all right.”

Frank nodded. “Any leads, Chief?”

“Not a one so far. But we’re working on it!”

After their talk with the chief, Frank and Joe proceeded to the dock where they met Biff and Tony. Frank and Biff climbed into Biff’s father’s station wagon.

“We’ll do some sleuthing while we’re waiting for you up there,” Frank said.

“Okay, good luck!” Joe waved to them as he boarded the Napoli with Tony. He stowed the Geiger counter, also some food they had brought in case they decided to stay overnight. Then they started up the coast. After a few hours they ran into heavy fog.

“Bad visibility,” Tony said, frowning.

“Better slow down,” Joe cautioned. “Somebody might be—”

Joe never had a chance to finish his warning. A big fishing boat loomed up out of the fog, careening along at full speed. In a second the larger craft would smash into the Napoli!

CHAPTER V

Fire in the Night

IN desperation, Tony spun the wheel sharply to the right. The nose of the Napoli swung beneath the tall bow of the fishing boat. Its stern swerved past with a grinding noise as the two craft bumped.

The powerboat bounced off, bucking and pitching in waves created by the bigger vessel. The two boys were drenched in a deluge of spray that broke over them.

Joe wiped salt water out of his eyes. “Quick thinking, Tony,” he gasped. “I thought we’d had it!”

“We didn’t miss it by much,” Tony muttered. “Anyway, the fog is lifting. I can see the cliffs at Marlin Crag.”

They scouted the shoreline beneath the cliffs for an hour without sighting anything.

“Well, suppose we try the cove next,” Tony said. He guided the boat carefully between the rocks studding the surf. Reaching the shore safely, he and Joe dragged the bow of the Napoli up on the sand.

They walked along the beach for a mile or so, peering behind boulders and scuffing sand piles with their feet.

“Nothing here,” Joe said finally.

Then a voice called down to them from the top of the cliff. Looking up, they saw Frank and Biff.

Frank cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “We may be on to something. Tire tracks leading to the edge of the cliff!”

“A car or small truck has been here,” Biff called down. “This could be the spot where the engine was thrown over. It might have landed where you guys are standing.”

Joe looked at the incoming tide. “We’ll check it out later,” he said. “The water’s getting too high to do anything now.”

“The boat!” Tony exclaimed. “She’ll hit the rocks if we don’t get her out of the cove!”

He and Joe raced down the beach. The Napoli was bobbing in heavy breakers when they got there. Her hull banged ominously against a jagged outcropping of rock.

Frantically they pushed the powerboat away from the shore. Tony started the motor. He sped through the entrance of the cove and into calmer waters.

“Boy, the Napoli had another close call that time!” he exclaimed. “This isn’t our day!”

They discussed their situation over sandwiches as darkness sifted down over Marlin Crag. The gloom was pierced by a licking flame high in the air. Subsiding for a moment, it blazed up again, tossing wildly in a rising wind.

“Good night! What’s that?” Tony said.

“An oil refinery. It’s a high pipe burning off the excess gas. Frank and I noticed it when we flew up here.”

The pipe itself was no longer visible, but the flames flickered eerily in the growing darkness as if they were disembodied spirits in the sky.

“Sure looks spooky, Joe.”

“What we were wondering,” Joe said, “is whether that’s the flickering torch Jack Scott referred to. It might have pulled him off course.”

“Deliberately, you mean?”

Joe nodded soberly. “Someone could have turned the flame up as Scott was coming in for a landing. He might have thought it was a beacon at the Marlin Crag Airport.”

“I get it,” Tony said. “Scott would have flown into the cliff without knowing it.”

As he spoke, a roaring sound overhead caused the boys to glance up. A plane zoomed through the darkness toward the airport.

“I hope that fellow makes a better landing than Jack Scott,” Joe muttered. “He seems to be wobbling. Or is he?”

The pilot dipped his left wing. Spiraling down, he made a wide circle, straightened out, and headed right for the Napoli.

“He’s buzzing us!” Tony yelled. “Hit the deck!” The boys ducked. Joe turned his head to get a look at the plane.

It zipped over them with only yards to spare. The roar of the engine nearly deafened them. The backwash of air rocked their boat violently.

For a split second the pilot glared down at them. Then he gained altitude and disappeared over the cliffs in the direction of the airport.

Tony picked himself up. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

“It looked like Nettleton’s plane, Tony. But I couldn’t tell whether that was he flying or not. We’d better contact Frank and Biff.”

Taking out a code blinker, Joe flashed signals to the top of the cliff. When Frank answered, Joe proposed a get-together at a deserted wharf nearby. “Will do,” Frank signaled back.

After tying up the Napoli, the four held a conference at the wharf.

“The guy who buzzed us might be back,” Biff said. “He knows we’re here.”

“And he might bring a gang with him,” Frank warned.

“So we’d better stick together,” Tony suggested.

“Let’s take our sleeping bags and find a protected spot over there where those shrubs are,” Joe said, pointing, “instead of sleeping in the boat.”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. “And we’ll take turns standing guard so we don’t get taken by surprise. Suppose Tony takes the first watch, Biff the second, Joe the third, and me the last, okay?”

They found a good hiding place not far from the wharf and soon everyone but Tony was sound asleep. When his watch was over, he woke Biff, who did his turn and was succeeded by Joe.

The younger Hardy settled himself for his stint. Suddenly, in the stillness of the night, he heard a board creak. Rising to a crouching position, he peered through the darkness.

Dimly he could see someone slipping stealthily across the wharf toward the powerboat. The stranger carried a steel bar in his hand.

Joe had no time to wake the others. He raced forward on tiptoe, and jumped the intruder from behind. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The steel bar clattered onto the wharf.

Joe and his adversary rolled over and over. For a moment they teetered at the water’s edge. Joe felt the man’s hand under his chin, forcing his head back. Desperately he broke the hold. They wrestled wildly back over the boards.

By now the others were wide awake. Seeing Joe locked in combat with the intruder, they scrambled to their feet and came charging forward. But the stranger managed to break away from Joe. Jumping up, he dashed across the wharf and vanished.

They went down in a tangle of arms and legs

The boys took up the chase, but finally had to give up and returned to the wharf.

“We lost him!” Biff complained disgustedly.

“At least he didn’t have a chance to sabotage the Napoli,” Frank remarked. “Did you get a good look at him, Joe?”

“No. It was too dark.”

Frank stooped and picked up the steel bar. “Imagine what that guy could have done to Tony’s boat with this!”

Tony shuddered. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I won’t get any more shut-eye now!”

“Well, it’s almost daylight,” Frank noted. “Since I didn’t have to stand watch, I’ll go for coffee and buns.”

He trudged to an all-night diner on the road to the airport. Half an hour later Frank was back. The boys eagerly munched the rolls and drank the coffee.

Afterward, Biff gathered the cups and waxed paper, put the debris in the bag, and deposited it in a litter basket on the wharf. He and Frank then returned to the top of the cliff, while Joe and Tony boarded the Napoli for a run back to the beach.

The tide was out. Tony jumped out into the wet sand. Joe followed with the Geiger counter. After a search of about twenty minutes, Tony suddenly ran toward a couple of rocks at the water’s edge.

“Joe, here it is!” he called out excitedly.

An airplane engine was wedged in the sand between the rocks. Joe scraped the number clean.

“Scott’s engine, all right,” he said. “Let’s get it out.”

“How about taking a reading on the Geiger counter first to make sure it isn’t dangerous?” Tony suggested.

“Okay.” Joe ran the instrument over the battered metal and the needle showed a small amount of radioactivity. “That’s not enough to be harmful,” he remarked.

They dug the sand away. Hauling and straining, they rolled the engine up the beach toward the cliff. Here Joe took another test.

“The vacuum pump shows the highest reading,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“Search me. Let’s take a closer look.”

They examined the vacuum pump housing at the rear of the engine. The vacuum line was broken off, allowing a view of the interior.

“That’s funny,” Joe exclaimed, “the housing’s empty! The works have been taken out. Now why would an experienced pilot like Jack Scott be flying without a vacuum pump? He should have known that without it he would lose control of the plane when flying on instruments in bad weather.”

“Maybe it fell out during the crash,” Tony theorized.

“Could be,” Joe admitted. “But why is the housing radioactive? That’s the real puzzler. Anyway, we might find some answers when we put the engine through the lab test.”

“How are we going to get it home, by boat or car?” Tony asked.

“I think it’d be easier by car,” Joe said. “It might be rather heavy on the boat, especially if we hit rough water.”

He called up the cliff to Frank and Biff, announced the discovery of the engine, and told them to drop a rope.

Biff did so, attaching the other end of the rope to the bumper of the station wagon.

The boys below wrapped the rope around the engine, fastened it securely, then signaled to Biff. He started the car. The rope tightened, lifting the burden clear off the ground. Foot by foot it rose toward the top of the bluff.

Halfway up, however, the rope frayed, then snapped! The heavy airplane engine plummeted!

CHAPTER VI

The Stolen Fuselage

JoE and Tony scrambled for safety as the engine hurtled down. It struck a jutting rock, ricocheted off, and flipped over the boys’ heads into deep water.

Chips of stone and a heavy shower of powdered rock enveloped the two boys. Coughing and sneezing, they stumbled away and collapsed onto the sand. There they lay gasping for breath.

“I nearly choked,” Joe said when he was able to speak.

“Me too,” Tony wheezed, wiping dust from his eyes. “Boy, that engine didn’t miss us by much!”

“You guys all right?” Frank called anxiously.

“We will be, soon as we can breathe again,” Tony replied.

“What about the engine?” came Biff’s voice.

“It’s underwater. We’ll need a stronger rope.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Then we’ll have to leave it until later,” Joe said.

Frank agreed. “We might as well make tracks for Bayport. Let’s have a powwow at our house.”

He and Biff got into the car and drove off. Joe and Tony took the Napoli out into deep water for the run down the coast.

Later in the day they all gathered at the Hardy home. Frank phoned Chet to come over. Mrs. Hardy served refreshments in the living room.

Frank and Tony occupied the sofa. Joe and Biff took the easy chairs. Chet sprawled on the floor, propping himself on one elbow. He had a tall glass of milk and a big plateful of crackers within easy reach.

“How about giving out with some info,” Chet said, downing a long gulp.

The others described their adventures at Marlin Crag.

Chet whistled softly under his breath. “Wow! You’re lucky to be in one piece!”

Biff nibbled on a cracker. “Somebody’s out to change that. But who? Mudd? If so, why?”

“Whoever it is has a good spy system,” Tony said. “They knew we found Scott’s engine!”

Joe nodded. “That’s why that roughneck tried to stave in our boat. They thought we were taking the engine out by sea!”

Frank considered the whole problem. “Since it’s too late to take the Napoli back to Marlin Crag today, our best bet now is to start a search for Chet’s missing fuselage.”

Chet swallowed the remains of a cracker and reached for another. “I’m with you on that, Frank!”

Frank chuckled. “I knew you’d be. Anyway, the fuselage is pretty big. The gang would have trouble hiding it.”

“They hid it from the police quite successfully,” Chet muttered.

Biff and Tony had to go home, so it was decided that the Hardys and Chet would scour the area between Bayport and Marlin Crag by car.

Frank wanted to check with the police first and called headquarters. He asked the sergeant on the desk whether any sign of the fuselage had been reported.

“You’ll have to talk louder,” said the sergeant. “This is a bad connection. I can hardly hear you.”

Frank repeated his question.

“Oh, yes,” came the reply. “Take the highway north past the bridge, turn right, and continue a mile. You’ll find it right there.”

“What luck!” Frank exclaimed as he hung up. “Let’s go!”

He, Joe, and Chet hurried out of the house and piled into the Hardys’ family car. Frank headed north at speed limit.

Spotting the bridge, he turned right. “Must be a dump we’re looking for. Keep your eyes open. I’ll clock the speedometer at exactly one mile, as the sergeant said.”

Frank slowed down when they covered that distance. “See anything?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Joe reported.

They continued on until they saw a motel ahead.

“Might as well turn around there,” Frank decided. “We must have missed it.” He drew up in the motel driveway. The words on a large bright neon sign glared: HUGHIE’S LODGE.

The truth hit the trio at the same time. Despite their disappointment, they burst out laughing.

“Frank,” Joe chortled, “when you said fuselage the sergeant must have mistaken it for Hughie’s Lodge!”

After discussing their predicament, the boys decided to look at the big dumps northward from Bayport to Marlin Crag. At the first three they drew a blank.

“This plan isn’t working,” Joe said, discouraged.

Chet sniffed. “Looking is better than doing nothing, Joe!”

“Let’s try one more,” Frank proposed. “If we score another goose egg, maybe we’ll come up with a new plan.”

The next dump was approximately halfway between Bayport and Marlin Crag. Frank drove in and circled past mountains of debris, some of it smoking from spontaneous combustion.

They were nearly at the exit when Chet called out, “Hold it, Frank. I see something!”

As the car stopped, Chet scrambled out in great excitement. He ran behind a pile of broken furniture and other discarded household items. A moment later he exclaimed, “I’ve found it!”

Frank and Joe ran over to see the lost fuselage, which looked none the worse than when Chet had bought it. All three began to drag the cumbersome load out onto level ground.

The Hardys examined what had once been the cockpit of the airplane. “Here’s the number,” Frank said. “Looks pretty well smudged, but I can make it out. Chet should make a note of it.”

He called off the number, one figure at a time. Suddenly he stood up straight. “Joe! You know whose plane this is from?”

“The one Martin Weiss was flying when he cracked into the Marlin Crag cliff!” Joe said in a strained voice.

Frank circled around the rear, where he paused for a longer inspection. “Something bothers me,” he said.

“What’s that, Frank?” Chet asked.

“The tailpost and the rear wheel are missing!”

“So?”

“It was there when you bought the thing.”

“Well, maybe it fell off in transport. What’s a tailpost, anyway?” Chet asked.

“A hollow metal tube,” Frank explained. “It controls the movements of the rear wheel.”

“First we find Scott’s engine, with a missing vacuum pump, then Weiss’s fuselage with a missing tailpost,” Joe mused. “And Mudd doesn’t want us to have either.”

“We have no proof that Mudd stole the fuselage,” Frank objected.

“No proof, but I don’t have any doubt.”

“I’m with you,” Frank said. “Well, let’s get this thing back to the farm, okay?”

The boys hired a local trucker to cart the fuselage to Bayport. Chet could hardly wait for his bulky prize to be unloaded.

Joe winked. “Suppose you fly us to Marlin Crag next time. We could use a crack pilot.”

“Sorry, Joe,” Chet replied. “I’m off your case. This baby will take up all my time.” He patted the fuselage affectionately.

“You’d better lock it up,” Frank suggested, “so it won’t disappear again.”

He and Joe helped Chet move the fuselage into the barn, then they left. At home they found Sam Radley, who had just come from the oil refinery at Marlin Crag.

“The Gamble Oil Company, which operates the refinery,” he reported, “is a reputable firm. They burn off their excess gas at odd times, and I’ve been told that no one can manipulate the flame. Also, the pilots know about the stack and its location and could hardly be lured off course by it.”

Frank was disappointed. “Not much to go on,” he said glumly.

“No. And I drew another blank,” Sam went on. “Tried to get hold of Martin Weiss’s parents, but they weren’t home. Neighbors tell me they’ll be back tomorrow. Suppose you fellows ride down to Pittston and interview them?”

“Glad to,” Frank said.

“What about the radioactive engine?” Joe queried.

“We’ll pick that up on the way home. Let’s take a block and tackle this time.”

“And Biff. We’ll need his muscle. I’ll call him,” Joe said.

Eager to get on with the case, the boys left early the next morning and drove to the Weiss home, a modest cottage in the center of Pittston. The pilot’s parents received them cordially, and after explaining their mission, Frank plunged directly into questioning.

“Mr. Weiss,” he began, “do the words ‘flickering torch’ mean anything to you?”

The man nodded. “Yes. Martin went there many times!”

CHAPTER VII

Down the Cliff

FRANK and Joe were elated to find the answer to the riddle.

“What is the Flickering Torch?” Frank asked eagerly.

“It’s a restaurant, not far from Beemerville,” Mr. Weiss told them.

Frank and Joe stared at each other.

“Why did Martin go to the Flickering Torch?” Frank asked.

“Well, my son liked country music. A combo plays there weekends,” Mr. Weiss explained. “Also, he met his friends there. The place was popular with the crowd from the airport.”

“Did Martin ever tell you the names of his buddies?” Joe said.

Their host shook his head.

“But that was all over anyway,” Mrs. Weiss spoke up. “About a week before the crash Martin said he didn’t like the Flickering Torch any more. Besides, he was quitting his job!”

“Why would he do that, Mrs. Weiss?” Frank inquired.

“He didn’t like flying the taxi service between Morrisville and Marlin Crag. Something about it was getting on his nerves.”

“We don’t know what was bothering him,” Mr. Weiss continued. “Do you think it had anything to do with his accident?”

“We intend to find out,” Frank said.

“Well, I do hope we’ve been of some assistance,” Mrs. Weiss murmured as she and her husband showed the boys to the door.

“You’ve both been very helpful,” Frank assured her. “Now that you’ve identified the Flickering Torch for us, we can check it out.”

“We might find the clue to the mystery there,” Joe added.

As Frank, Joe, and Biff left Pittston, the sky grew ominously dark, and by the time they were halfway to Marlin Crag, a heavy rainstorm broke loose. It swept in from the sea in blinding sheets.

“Oh, great!” Biff groaned. “How are we going to get the engine in this kind of weather?”

“The waves will be pounding against the cliffs,” Frank said. He flipped on the car radio for the weather forecast.

The announcer said, “Rain through early afternoon, tapering off by this evening. Drive carefully.”

“Well, that’s that,” Joe declared. “Let’s go home, have lunch, and wait till it clears up.”

On the way back to Bayport the boys discussed the latest break in the case.

“We’re going to hear some real cool folk rock pretty soon,” said Frank, skillfully maneuvering in and out of the traffic.

“At the Flickering Torch, you mean?” Biff asked.

“Right. We can take the girls, too. Mix dancing with detective work.”

They dropped Biff off at his house, then went home. Shortly after they had arrived, the phone rang. Joe answered, then gestured to Frank to listen in.

The caller was Fenton Hardy, who asked for a briefing on the Marlin Crag case.

Frank and Joe took turns describing the events of the past few days. “Dad, what do you think is our best lead now?” Frank ended the recital.

“The radioactive engine,” Mr. Hardy replied. “The low yield reported by the Geiger counter may not be too significant. But it could be the debris of a large amount of some radioactive substance.”

The detective pointed out that strict laws governed the handling of subatomic energy. “The hot stuff is too dangerous to be left lying around,” Mr. Hardy said. “People who handle it illegally often do just that. Some of them couldn’t care less who gets a lethal dose of radiation.”

“Do you believe that Scott transported radioactive material illegally?” Frank asked.

“Who knows? We’ll have to find out more about it.”

Joe said that he and Frank intended to go back to Marlin Crag for the engine as soon as the rain had let up. “We’ll put it through a lab test,” he declared. “Maybe we can isolate the radioactive element.”

After they had discussed all possible angles to the mystery, Frank asked about his father’s investigation.

“I’m making some progress by posing as a hood,” Mr. Hardy revealed. “I’ve discovered the stolen goods from the airport are being hauled away in trucks. Destination unknown. That’s where you fellows come in.”

“How?” his sons asked in unison.

“While hobnobbing with the crooks I located an informer who’s willing to talk—for a price. Trouble is, he won’t say anything to me or Sam Radley. He’s afraid we’d be spotted and the mob might give him a one-way trip to the bottom of the bay.”

“And you mean Joe and I can contact him without causing suspicion?” Frank asked.

“Exactly.”

“Where do we find him?” Joe asked.

“I can’t tell you yet. He’s to let me know in a few days. When he does, I’ll get back to you. Be ready to move quickly. And remember, this is a dangerous mission. You may run into some tough customers. Keep your wits about you.”

“Okay, Dad.”

After Mr. Hardy had hung up, Frank and Joe decided to hold another conference with their friends. Joe called Tony.

“What’s up?” Tony asked.

“More detective work. We want you to come over for a think session.”

“Okay. Incidentally, don’t call Biff. He’s here. We’ll be right over.”

Fifteen minutes later Biff’s wagon wheeled into the Hardy driveway. The boys leaped out, took the front steps two at a time, and rang the bell. Joe let them in. Soon all four were deep in a discussion.

The Hardys told Tony of their discovery that the Flickering Torch was a restaurant.

“What’s the strategy now?” Tony asked.

“Well, we’ve got two projects on our hands,” Joe pointed out. “Recover the radioactive engine and investigate the Flickering Torch.” He looked through the window. It was still raining, but not as heavy as before.

“Make mine the restaurant,” Tony said with a wink.

“Double the order,” joked Biff. “Tony and I are real rhythm hounds. We’ll bring the whole band back with us if it’ll solve the mystery.”

Frank laughed. “I wish it were as simple as that. Anyway, it would help if you two checked out the place.”

“What are we really after, Frank?” Biff inquired.

“I wish I knew, Biff. Just case the joint. See what you come up with.”

“Maybe you can find out why Martin Weiss got fed up with the place,” Joe added. “He must have had a reason.”

Biff and Tony drove off with a promise to drop in at the Flickering Torch that evening.

The Hardys called Chet to give them a hand with the engine. They picked him up and set out for Marlin Crag Cliffs in the family car. It was drizzling slightly, but the wind had abated, except for an occasional gust.

When they arrived, Joe tied a rope to the bumper and tossed the other end to the foot of the cliff. Testing the rope to be sure it would hold his weight, he gingerly lowered himself over the edge. Dangling high over the rocks, he began his descent.

Suddenly there was a gust of wind and Joe veered crazily out into space. Then he careened back, hitting the stony wall with a thud that knocked the breath out of him. Frantically he clung to the rope, gasping for air. When he looked down, he could see a long drop onto the rocky beach.

“I’m a goner if I let go,” Joe thought desperately. But his hands began to slip!

All at once his foot hit the cliff and came to rest on a narrow ledge. The toe hold enabled him to take some of the weight off his hands. Pausing until his strength returned, he climbed down the rope and jumped on to the beach.

Joe ran to the spot on the shoreline where they had left the engine. He kicked off his sneakers. Wading into the water, he looked around.

The engine was gone!

Joe returned to the foot of the cliff, climbed the rope to the top, and told Frank and Chet.

“Somebody must have taken it!” Chet exploded.

“There’s a ledge along the shoreline,” Joe stated. “The tide might have shifted it. Maybe the engine tumbled into deeper water.”

“Another mystery to solve,” Frank said, disappointed. He looked up into the sky. “It’s getting dark already. We’d better head home.”

That night the Hardys received a telephone call from the repair shop in Beemerville that their convertible was ready. They left the next morning by motorcycle to pick it up.

On Frank’s Honda they zoomed past billboards and motels on the highway, and carefully moved with the traffic in small towns. Finally Frank sputtered to a halt at the garage.

They found their car looking as good as new. Frank loaded up the Honda, then slipped behind the wheel and drove into the street. He took the road linking up with the highway near the Marlin Crag Cliffs. It led up a steep hill toward the bluffs. After Frank crested the mountain, he started to descend.

Halfway down, something in the steering mechanism snapped. The steering wheel spun uselessly in his grasp as the convertible gathered speed down the incline!

CHAPTER VIII

The Emergency Exit

DESPERATELY Frank pushed the brake pedal to the floor. The convertible bucked and tires squealed, throwing the boys forward against their seat belts.

The car skidded sideways to the brink of a cliff. Hitting a big boulder, it tilted up on its left wheels.

“We’re going over!” Joe shouted.

They braced themselves for the plunge. The car teetered toward empty space, rebounded on its four wheels, bounced a couple of times and settled in a cloud of dust.

Bruised and shaken, the Hardys climbed out.

“I thought for sure we were taking a long dive to the beach,” Joe said weakly.

Frank’s face was pale. “I’ll never know why we didn’t go over the cliff. This calls for some tall explaining at the repair shop.”

The boys rode the Honda back to Beemerville and told the mechanic what had happened.

“Keep your shirt on!” the man replied to Joe’s heated denunciation. “I don’t know what conked out your steering mechanism.”

The repairman had the car towed to the garage. While he was working on it, Frank and Joe stood by to watch. They knew quite a bit about mechanics and wanted to make sure that no one sabotaged the works.

“A loose connection,” the mechanic said after he had found the trouble. “Just bad luck.”

When he was finished, Frank gave the steering wheel and the brakes a good workout before trusting the convertible to the hill above the cliffs a second time. The boys shuddered when they passed the spot where they had had such a close brush with sudden death.

“Think our friend Mudd was behind the accident?” Joe asked.

“It’s possible. He’s our prime suspect,” Frank replied.

After lunch Biff and Tony dropped in.

“Your staff is reporting back from the Flickering Torch,” Biff announced with a grin.

“What kind of place is it?” Frank asked.

“Real jumping joint. Music is supplied by a hot combo called the Emergency Exit. We had a long talk with the drummer.”

“He’s a second cousin of mine,” Tony added. “His name’s Bernie Marzi. What a surprise to see him there!”

“Did he say anything we can use in our case?” Joe wanted to know.

“Well, he said the place is managed by a guy named Leon Bozar. No one seems to know who the owner is.” Tony balanced a coffee mug in the palm of his hand. “We hear Bozar’s never around, though.”

Nothing Biff and Tony had learned tied the Flickering Torch in with the plane crashes. But all four boys agreed to continue their investigation of the restaurant.

“We might get somewhere through the band,” Frank said.

“That’s easy enough,” Tony stated. “Let me call Bernie.” He phoned his cousin, explained that the Hardys were friends of his, and turned the instrument over to Frank.

“Hi, Frank,” came Bernie’s voice. “I’ve heard a lot about you and your brother and the cases you’ve solved. Anything I can do for you, just give the word.”

“Thanks, Bernie,” Frank said. “How about letting us have a rundown on the cast of the Emergency Exit?”

“Sure. There’s Mark Bowen on the lead guitar, Linc Caldwell on the bass guitar, George Hansen on the rhythm guitar, and Pete Guilfoyle on the organ. Seymour Schill also plunks a guitar for us, and Joe Clark, a good friend of mine, is the emcee.”

“Tony and Biff say your combo’s pretty good,” Frank put in.

“We’ve almost always got a booking somewhere,” Bernie admitted. “And we’ve been playing at the Torch steady for quite a while. We do have a soft spot in our lineup, though.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“Seymour Schill. He’s not too good.”

“Why keep him?”

Bernie chuckled. “Finances, Frank. His father runs a music store and lets us have a lot of stuff for free. So we figure it’s good business to let Seymour stick around.”

They talked a while longer, and finally Frank said, “Thanks for the info, Bernie. We’ll be seeing you. Joe and I will drop in at the Flickering Torch tonight.”

“Stop by the stage,” the drummer invited before hanging up. “I’ll give you the big hello.”

Joe telephoned Iola, who was eager to go out that night, and Frank made a date with Callie. They arranged to meet at the farm and drive to Beemerville from there.

Whey they arrived at the Mortons’ place in the evening, the girls were ready.

“Where’s Chet?” Joe asked Iola.

“He went to see an aviation engineer about getting some information on building his plane.”

Joe grinned. “He’s got a knack of finding the right people to help him.”

Iola smiled. “He sure does. And he’s arranged to take flying lessons.”

The four climbed into the convertible and reached Beemerville without incident.

The Flickering Torch was a two-story roadside building with small wings flanking a medium-sized main building. Frank drove into the parking lot, where he stopped at the end of a row of cars facing a stone wall. The sound of music came drifting out into the night air.

“It’s a popular dance place,” Callie commented, “judging by the number of cars.”

“The beat explains it,” Iola said. “I feel like dancing already.”

They entered a hallway and moved on to a large, dimly lighted main room, which was crowded with people. The emcee escorted them to one of many tables arranged in a semicircle around the edge of the dance floor.

At the rear was the stage on which the Emergency Exit was playing a popular tune. The floor was jam-packed with couples gyrating to the beat. Waiters passed bearing trays of food and drinks for those at the tables.

Psychedelic lights played constantly over the room, revealing faces in the crowd for an instant and then leaving them in darkness. Fantastic patterns cut across the walls and ceiling. Brilliant colors merged and separated in perpetual motion along the spectrum from red to violet. Flames appeared to be licking over everybody.

“I bet those lights are the reason why this place is called the Flickering Torch,” Frank said. “Everywhere you look it flickers.”

“Kind of spooky,” Iola commented.

“Like Dante’s Inferno,” said Callie, who had recently done a paper on Italian literature. She looked around. Her eyes were getting used to the dim interior and the moving lights. “Do you see anybody you know?” she asked.

The Hardys carefully examined the faces of the patrons and shook their heads.

“I didn’t think we would,” Frank said.

Everyone ordered cokes. After downing the drinks, they paired off to dance.

Frank edged Callie toward the stage, where they paused just below the drummer. Frank recognized Bernie Marzi from Tony’s description. After Bernie had ended a drum solo, Frank spoke to him in an undertone.

Meanwhile, Joe kept his eye on one of the guitarists, who seemed ill at ease, playing listlessly, and scanning the crowd all the time. At the intermission he hastened backstage.

“Iola, wait at our table,” Joe said. “I’m going to follow that bird.”

Affecting a casual air, Joe started for the door through which the guitarist had disappeared. He barely reached it when he bumped into the fellow coming back with another man.

Joe covered his embarrassment by pulling an envelope from his pocket and saying, “Excuse me, but I came backstage hoping to get your autograph.”

“Sure,” said the guitarist, who was about Joe’s age. He was obviously pleased. Quickly he took out a pen and wrote Seymour Schill across the back of the envelope.

Joe threw a quick glance at Schill’s companion. He was square-jawed, with a scar across the left side of his face. Dale Nettleton! The pilot who had almost hit their plane!

CHAPTER IX

Callie Plays a Trick

NETTLETON stared straight at Joe with hard, cold eyes.

“Does he recognize me?” Joe wondered. “If he does, he’s covering up pretty well.”

Seymour Schill handed Joe the autograph. He and the pilot then hurried through the door to the dining room. Joe shadowed them, keeping far enough behind to escape notice.

Schill disappeared outside. Nettleton went on the stage, bent over, and began fooling around with a tall cabinet amplifier. He seemed concerned about something at the back of it.

Suddenly he straightened up, jumped off the stage, and hastened out a side door.

As Joe moved forward to investigate, a group of young people swarmed across the dance floor in his path. He edged his way through them as fast as he could, but by the time he reached the door, his chances to intercept Nettleton had vanished. The flier climbed into a car and drove quickly out of the parking lot.

Joe returned to the table, where Frank, Callie, and Iola were waiting.

“Why the disappointed look?” Callie asked.

Joe sat down and quickly told of his encounter with Seymour Schill and Dale Nettleton.

“I guess Nettleton’s one of the Marlin Airport group that hangs around the Flickering Torch,” Frank commented.

“But Joe saw him doing something to the amplifier,” Iola said.

“Would an ordinary patron do that?” Callie queried.

Joe shrugged and said, “Let’s check on that amp, if we can, Frank.”

At the next intermission Frank went up to the stage and returned with Bernie Marzi. He introduced the drummer to Joe and the girls.

Bernie sat down with them. “Enjoy the music?” he asked.

“We sure do,” Callie replied. “It’s great.”

“Especially the drums,” Iola added.

Bernie grinned at the compliment. “There’s more coming up in about ten minutes. Put your dancing shoes on. The next number is a real wild one.”

“By the way,” Frank said casually, “is something wrong with your amplifier? If there is, I might be able to fix it for you. Amps are my hobby.”

“Nothing’s wrong as far as I know,” Bernie replied. “But if you want to take a look, be my guest. Let me know if you find anything. I’m going to pop outside for a breath of fresh air before we begin the next number.”

He nodded to the girls and left.

Frank leaned over and whispered to his brother. “I’ll examine the amp, but I don’t want Schill to see me. If he comes back unexpectedly, intercept him, okay?”

Frank walked across the dance floor and vaulted up onto the stage. He gave the amplifier an expert inspection, especially the part Nettleton had been fooling around with.

“Nothing wrong,” he muttered to himself. “What can Nettleton have been up to?”

At the table, Callie was about to make a remark about Frank’s puzzled look, when Joe grabbed her by the elbow. He pointed toward the door. Seymour Schill was just entering.

“Quick!” Joe urged the girl. “Do something to stop him before he sees Frank on the stage!”

Schill was almost at their table. Suddenly Callie stood up, let out a piercing scream, and collapsed against the guitarist, who caught her by the arms. But she managed to sink to the floor.

Callie lay on her back, quite still, with her eyes closed. Schill dropped to his knees and began to fan her with a menu.

All the while, Iola wrung her hands. “Callie’s unconscious!” she cried in simulated anguish.

Callie half-opened her eyes and squinted at Iola, who signaled her to get up. Frank was through with the amplifier and off the stage.

Callie rose shakily to her feet and brushed her dress.

Schill asked anxiously, “Are you all right?”

“Quite all right, thank you,” Callie replied.

“What happened?” the guitarist wanted to know.

“A mouse ran over my foot!”

“No wonder you yelled,” Iola said.

“We owe you a debt of thanks, er—?” Frank said, extending his hand.

“Seymour Schill’s my name.”

“Thank you, Seymour.”

The musician looked pleased at all the attention he was getting. “Forget it,” he replied. “I’m always glad to help a lady in distress. Especially a pretty one.”

“Except for you,” Callie put in, “I’d have a big bump on my head.”

The group began to discuss popular music.

“The Emergency Exit has a terrific beat,” Iola commented. “And you’re so good!”

Seymour liked flattery. “I’m pretty far out,” he boasted. “It’ll take the other guys a while to catch up.”

Callie pretended to faint

“Any chance of us attending a practice session?” Frank asked in an offhand way. “We’ve got an amateur group and are interested in this sort of thing.”

“Sure, why not? We hold rehearsals in a barn on Wednesday nights. Place owned by Pete Guilfoyle. You can come if you like. I won’t be there next time, but the others will.”

“Great!” Joe replied. To himself he said, “I wonder how this guy gets away with it. He’s not too good anyhow and then he doesn’t even show up for practice.”

“I’ll write down the address of the place for you,” Seymour offered. He drew a printed card from his pocket and began to scribble on the back. Then a thought struck him. He turned the card over.

Frank and Joe, peering across his shoulder, read the legend: O. K. Mudd’s Airplane Junkyard, Main Street, Beemerville.

Seymour put the card hastily back in his pocket. He began to look for something else to write on.

“Here, use this,” Joe said, proffering a napkin. Seymour flattened it on a table, scrawled the address, smiled at the girls, and strolled over to the stage where the Emergency Exit was assembling. He began tuning his guitar.

“Our friend Seymour knows O. K. Mudd,” Frank muttered.

“It could be strictly coincidental,” Joe replied. “Mudd’s got a big place and is probably known by most people in town. On the other hand there could be a connection between Mudd and the Flickering Torch, with Schill as a link.”

“And if the Flickering Torch is in some way involved in the accidents, Schill definitely bears observing,” Frank added.

The combo started playing a number. Couples drifted from the tables to the dance floor. The Bayport foursome joined them.

At the next intermission Bernie Marzi returned to their table. They engaged in some light chitchat about music, then Frank asked if the drummer knew a Beemerville man named Mudd.

“Can’t help you,” Bernie replied. “Never heard of him. Should I?”

“Not unless you go in for used airplane parts,” Joe replied.

Bernie laughed. “They’re not my line.”

“Is anyone in your group interested in that sort of thing?” Frank asked.

“Not that I know of.”

Finally the band quit for the night. The lights of the Flickering Torch were dimmed and the patrons filed out into the night air.

Callie, Iola, Frank, and Joe settled themselves in their convertible. After a few miles of driving, Frank flipped on the radio. He tuned it until the voice of a newscaster came through. The big story of the day made the boys sit bolt upright.

The announcer said, “A gang of thieves broke into a warehouse at Kennedy Airport earlier tonight in another bold freight heist. In a well-organized robbery, the gang overpowered the night watchman and transferred a whole consignment of air freight to trucks parked outside the warehouse.

“The trucks have vanished. The police are investigating, but Chief Reynolds admits that up to the time we went on the air, no clues to the gang or the stolen goods have been discovered.”

The commentator turned to other news stories, his voice droning on.

Frank snapped the radio off. “That’s a new development in Dad’s case. He must be plenty upset about the gang’s getaway.”

“I wonder if he was close to nabbing them,” Joe said. “Maybe the informer we’re supposed to meet will give us a lead to this mob.”

“All this is Greek to us,” Callie said in a mock pout. “What’s going on, anyway?”

Frank said, “We can’t let you in on the details, but Joe and I may have a hand in catching that very same bunch of crooks.”

“Do be careful,” Iola pleaded.

“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “We always are.”

The young people dropped into silence, busy with their own thoughts as they rode along. Gradually a series of lights came into view on the right-hand side of the highway.

“That’s Marlin Crag Airport,” Frank informed the girls, “where Scott and Weiss were headed when they crashed.”

Overhead, they could hear the motor of a small plane coming in for a landing. Suddenly the runway lights blinked off and on several times.

“Oh, look,” Callie said.

“That’s funny,” Joe commented. “I’ve never seen that kind of signal to an incoming plane.”

“There’s something very strange going on,” Frank said. “Joe, we’d better investigate this!”

CHAPTER X

Shots in the Dark

FRANK pulled the car over to the side of the road and switched off the headlights.

“We can observe the airstrip from here,” he said. “I think something fishy’s going on.”

The control tower loomed in the distance, the muted lights from its windows brooding over the semidarkened field. Runway markers stretched out into the distance, and the strange blinking continued.

The airplane came closer and the young people craned to see it. Port and starboard lights were visible now, and the belly beam winked as the craft passed over them.

“Do you suppose the runway signal was meant for this plane?” asked Callie.

“Could be,” Joe said. “Let’s watch it.”

Even though the pilot had plenty of runway, he failed to settle the plane down until near the end of the strip.

“Boy, I hope he doesn’t overshoot!” Frank declared. As he spoke, the plane dropped several feet, then hit the ground smoothly with only yards to spare.

“Now what is he trying to prove with a landing like that?” Joe wondered as the plane turned about and headed back toward the airport buildings. The pilot taxied to an isolated shed next to a hangar, cut the engine, and stepped out. As he did, the lights stopped blinking along the airstrip.

“It certainly looks as if that signal was for him,” Iola said.

Her words brought a chill of excitement to Joe. Could this incident have any connection with the metropolitan airport thefts? Was the plane carrying some kind of contraband? Why had it stopped at the isolated shed?

Joe mentioned his suspicions to Frank.

“Maybe it’s only a wild guess,” Frank said, “but you could be right.”

“Then let’s find out.”

“What?” Iola said. “And leave us here?”

“That’s a nice way to take two girls on a date!” Callie said in mock seriousness, but added quickly, “We understand. Go ahead. We’ll wait for you.”

Frank suggested that the girls drop them off and drive along the road until they found a good secluded spot.

“Pull in there and shut off the lights,” Frank said. “Joe and I have pencil flashlights. When we return we’ll blink them once, then follow with three short ones. Be ready to pick us up. Okay?”

Callie giggled. “This is great, playing detective.” She slid across to the driver’s seat as Frank and Joe stepped out. They crossed the road and stepped down into a small gully which led to a low swampy area bordering the airport.

“Joe, look out, we’re getting into some soft ground,” Frank warned.

By paralleling the highway for a quarter of a mile, the Hardys avoided the swamp and pressed through high grass until they came to the edge of the runway. Both crouched down and looked about.

“If no planes come in for a few minutes, we can dash across the strip without being noticed,” Frank said.

“All set?” asked Joe.

“Roger, keep your head low, and if anyone puts a light on us, hit the deck!”

The boys had taken no more than three strides across the runway when the sound of a twin-engine aircraft suddenly filled the air. They scrambled back for cover and lay flat in the grass, watching a passenger plane touch down smoothly. It reversed its engines, wheeled about, and taxied to the terminal.

“Okay, now!” Frank said.

He and Joe dashed across the runway and flopped prone in damp grass not more than a hundred yards from the shed. They listened tensely. Snatches of indistinct conversation drifted toward them.

“Let’s get closer,” Joe said.

Quietly they crept toward the building; then paused and raised their heads to get a better view.

Two men seemed to be getting the plane ready for takeoff. One stood near the wing with a fuel line, his back turned to the boys. The other walked to the rear of the plane.

“See what he’s doing?” Frank asked.

“I can’t make it out,” Joe replied.

“He’s working on the tailpost.”

“Hey, he looks like Dale Nettleton!”

“Sh-sh,” Frank warned. After a moment of silence he continued, “You’re right, it is Nettleton. I wonder what he’s up to now.”

“Wait, here comes someone else,” said Joe.

A short husky fellow in a pilot’s uniform appeared from the shed and looked in the boys’ direction. They ducked quickly.

Through stems of grass they saw the one man finish the refueling. Nettleton approached the pilot and they talked for a moment. Then the flier gave the thumbs-up signal and climbed into the plane. The starter whined, the propeller whirled, and the craft swung about to return to the runway.

Its noselight stabbed through the darkness as it bumped its way over the rough ground to the blacktop strip. There it waited for a minute, obviously for clearance from the control tower, and took off into the night sky.

Nettleton and his pal hastened into the shed, and the Hardys stood up. “Well, what do you think?” Joe asked.

“Looked pretty suspicious to me,” said Frank. “The pilot comes in and parks by a far-off shed. Then right away he takes off again.”

“I wonder what’s in that place,” Joe said. They scanned the low building ahead of them. It had no windows, at least on the one side.

“Maybe those two guys in there are talking about illegal business,” Joe said. “Let’s try to eavesdrop on them.”

Frank, glancing far across the runway and to the road on the other side, replied, “That’s a long way to travel without cover. If they should spy us—”

“I think we ought to take the risk anyhow,” said Joe.

“All right. But if you have any sneezing to do, do it now!”

Treading quietly, the Hardys approached the shed. They had gone no more than thirty feet when the door burst open and Nettleton stepped out. He switched on a powerful flashlight and caught the boys directly in its white beam.

“I thought I heard something out here!” he cried out. “A couple of snoopers!”

Frank and Joe stood speechless for a second, then turned and fled across the runway.

Two shots rang out behind them, which only served to increase the speed of their flying legs. The sudden sprint gave them a headstart on their pursuers, but the men were not to be shaken off that easily.

Shouts of “Halt! Stop! This is the law!” sounded behind them. Joe glanced over his shoulder to see two bobbing lights pursuing them.

“Head for the swamps!” Frank cried out.

“Why?” came Joe’s breathless question.

“Because they’re a lot older than we are, and will get tired sooner.”

Joe followed Frank straight toward the swampy area. The tall stems of cattails loomed before their faces as they plunged through the wet ground.

“We’ve got them! We’ve got them!” Nettleton panted. “They’ll never get through the muck!”

For a moment Frank doubted whether his tactic had been correct. Mud sucked and slurped at his shoes as he bulldozed his way through the marsh. Once Joe fell flat on his face, and Frank turned back to lend him a hand.

After scrambling another fifty feet, Frank whispered, “Let’s stop for a second.”

The boys crouched low in the muck like a couple of muskrats. They listened. There was no sound of thrashing now. Their pursuers were standing still, too.

“Do you see any sign of them?” asked Nettleton.

“Not a thing.”

Frank and Joe recognized the voice immediately. Bill Zinn, the assistant airport manager.

A flashlight swept back and forth over the tips of the cattails.

“You think they got away?”

“I doubt it. They’re playing possum.”

“Then we’ll flush them out.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have shot over their heads. I wanted to zap ‘em!”

“None of that,” Nettleton said. “They might be just a couple of skylarking kids. We’ll find out soon enough.”

The sound of sloshing feet began again. Joe rose to move on, but Frank restrained him. “Look, this is a big swamp,” he whispered. “They might not find us at all. We can just wait them out.”

“That’s taking an awful chance,” Joe whispered. The steps drew nearer.

“What do you see on your side?” came Nettleton’s loud voice.

“Nothing,” Zinn replied. “I can’t make out any tracks, either. Let’s go back.”

“Nothing doing. We’ll stick it out until we reach the road.”

“Is Nick patrolling?”

“Right,” Nettleton replied. “I’ve got him on the walkie-talkie.”

“Okay, I’m with you.”

The two forged ahead, each step bringing them closer and closer to the Hardys. Frank and Joe had flattened themselves in the muck, their chins pressed into the slime.

The men’s heavy breathing became clearly audible.

“Good night!” Joe thought. “They’ll be able to hear my heart beat!” It pounded with the excitement of danger.

The men took another step forward. Suddenly a heavy boot came down squarely on Joe’s back. The boy let out a scream and jumped to his feet. Frank did the same.

Their double action stunned their pursuers momentarily. With an elbow thrust Joe knocked the wind out of the pilot, who had stepped on him. Frank’s left jab caught Zinn flush on the chin. He fell over backward and lay still.

Without a word, Frank and Joe snatched up the men’s flashlights.

By the time the two regained consciousness, the Hardys were well out of sight. All the boys could hear were curses behind them.

“We nearly got it that time,” Frank said, pulling himself out of the edge of the swamp onto firmer ground.

“But we’ll have to look out for Nick, whoever he is,” Joe warned.

They tossed the big flashlights on the ground. Making their way in total darkness, the young detectives climbed the short embankment and reached the side of the road. Around a curve came two headlights. Frank and Joe ducked for cover again.

A car drove by slowly and a spotlight flashed across the marsh. But the cattails gave perfect cover to the boys. The car turned about and drove back toward the airport.

Minutes later Frank and Joe stood beside the road again, cold, wet and muddy, peering into the darkness.

“Lucky the girls are waiting for us,” Frank said and took out his pencil flashlight. He gave a long beam, then three short ones. Several minutes went by, but there was no sign of the convertible.

An owl hooted in the distance, and the growl of an engine sounded as another plane took off.

“That’s strange,” Joe observed. “Why do you think the girls don’t react?”

“I don’t know,” Frank replied. “Let me give them a couple more signals.” He flashed the light again. Still no response.

“Good night!” Joe said worriedly. “Do you suppose something’s happened to Callie and Iola?”

CHAPTER XI

No More Rocks

HAD the mysterious Nick come upon Iola and Callie in their hiding place? If so, the girls might be in danger!

Frank and Joe hastened along the edge of the road, giving the flashlight signal.

Suddenly, from a turnoff in the woods, a pair of headlights snapped on. For several seconds they glared into the darkness, then they went off, only to reappear in three quick blinks.

“Our signal!” Frank exclaimed, running toward the place of concealment. Joe followed him in full stride.

There was the convertible, backed into a clump of big bushes, between a stand of pine trees. Callie and Iola stepped out to meet the boys.

“Are we glad to see you!” Callie said, grabbing Joe’s right arm with both her hands.

“Same here,” Joe replied.

Iola said, “We thought you’d never come back! What happened?”

“Didn’t you see our signal?” asked Frank. “You really had us worried.”

“Of course we saw it,” Callie answered. “But there was another car patrolling the road. We couldn’t reveal our position!”

“Good thinking,” Frank said. “We saw that car, too. Some guy named Nick was out to find us.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s part of the mob,” Joe said as the boys climbed into the convertible. Briefly they told what had happened and pledged the girls to secrecy.

He slid behind the wheel and drove onto the highway, but instead of turning to the airport, he took the opposite route back toward Beemerville.

“Where are you going?” Iola inquired.

“This Nick might still be watching for us around the airport entrance,” Joe replied. He explained that he would take an alternate route which would bring them into Bayport on a parallel road. After about three miles, Joe took a left turn and made a long detour to a secondary highway. He kept the car at speed limit all the way back.

The girls were let off at their homes with quick good-nights, then Frank and Joe continued on to Elm Street. The first floor of their home was well lighted.

Joe put the car away and the boys entered through the back door. They were faced immediately by their mother and Aunt Gertrude, who had waited up for them.

“Wherever in the world have you been?” Mrs. Hardy inquired with a worried look.

“A body can’t get any sleep any more!” Aunt Gertrude complained. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Of course we do,” Joe said, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “We were mixed up in a new development in our case. We just couldn’t help being late.”

“Looks as if you were mixed up in a mud bath,” Mrs. Hardy said, the comers of her mouth relaxing.

“You’re not kidding!” Frank kicked off his dirty shoes and set them beside the kitchen door. Joe followed suit.

“Aunt Gertrude, we’re lucky to be back at all,” Joe said. “We got chased, shot at, and—”

Aunt Gertrude wrung her hands, and an agonizing look crossed her face. “You’re involved with gangsters again!” she wailed and turned to Mrs. Hardy. “Laura, it’s too dangerous for these boys to play detective!”

“It wasn’t any play, I can tell you that!” Frank observed as he stripped off his mud-spattered sport shirt.

“Here, give me those dirty things,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I don’t want you to trail mud into your room.”

“Thanks, Mother.” Joe grinned.

Gertrude Hardy clucked disapprovingly. “Well,” she said, “at least we can all go to bed now. Frank, Joe, mind you’re up in time for breakfast and church!”

The next day was Sunday. Early afternoon Sam Radley dropped in and discussed the latest turn of events. After the Hardys had told him everything that had transpired the day before, Frank concluded, “That assistant at the airport, Bill Zinn, is a prime suspect.”

“So are Mudd and Nettleton,” Radley added. “They should be investigated.”

“That’s where you could help us,” Joe put in. “Could you start checking on Zinn? You know what I mean—his background and all that?”

“Be glad to.”

“Great,” Frank said. “Meanwhile, we’ll go back to Mudd’s place and do some further sleuthing there.”

After Radley had left, Joe said, “What do you have in mind about the airplane junkyard, Frank?”

“We need to follow up that tailpost clue. Remember Chet’s fuselage? The tailpost was missing.”

“Now I get it,” said Joe, snapping his fingers. “Last night Nettleton was working on the tailpost of that plane. Maybe something was hidden there!”

Frank nodded and Joe went on, “What’s your strategy?”

“I really don’t have any yet,” Frank replied. “We could ask Chet—Wow! That gives me an idea. Come on!” Frank went to the telephone and dialed the Morton farm.

Chet answered. “Hello, Frank. You’re lucky to find me in. I was just practicing loops.”

“Oh, good,” Frank said. “Are you ready for an Immelmann yet?”

“Ha, you can’t stump me,” Chet said. “Isn’t that the outside loop invented by that German ace?”

“Let’s get back down to earth,” Frank said. “There’s something I’d like you to do for us.”

“Listen,” Chet said, “my pilot’s training can’t be interrupted by—”

“Come on,” Frank urged. “All we want you to do is ask Mudd for a tailpost.”

Silence for a moment, as Chet mused. “Come to think of it, I could use one, too. And maybe some other parts. Okay, it’s a deal. When do we go back to Beemerville?”

“Tomorrow. And listen, Chet. We want you to wear a bug.”

“Come again?”

“A bug—a concealed microphone,” Frank explained. “Stick close to Mudd; this way we might pick up a clue. Since he knows you’re building a plane, that gives you a good excuse to hang around a while. We’ll be listening in all the time, so you don’t have to worry.”

Chet joked, “Where are you going to put the bug? In my ear?”

“Never mind, we’ll take care of that,” Frank replied. “We’ll pick you up in the morning.”

When Frank hung up, Joe smiled. “Pretty good thinking, Frank. What kind of a bug is it going to be?”

“A medal to hang around his neck,” Frank said. “Oh, and I want to call Tony, too. We might learn something more from a meeting with his cousin Bernie.”

“You mean about the Flickering Torch?”

“Right.”

Fortunately Tony was at home, too. “Sure, I can get Bernie down here,” he said. “I’ll arrange it as soon as possible.”

The Hardys spent the rest of the afternoon working on a miniature radio pickup. They concealed it in an ornamental medal which they attached to a chain.

“Chet’ll look real cute in this,” Joe said. “That is, if he’ll wear it.”

“He will,” his brother replied.

Next morning at the breakfast table Joe came up behind Aunt Gertrude and put the medal around her neck. “My goodness, what’s this?” she asked.

“Oh, just a little something to show you our appreciation,” Frank said with a wink at Mrs. Hardy.

“Why, what’s it for?”

“All you have to do is sit and talk to Mother for a few minutes,” Frank said. “We’ll be right back.”

“I’ll bet they’re up to something again,” Aunt Gertrude said as the boys exited through the back door.

Frank ran to the car and got a receiver. “Listen to this,” he said to Joe.

Aunt Gertrude’s words along with Mrs. Hardy’s came through clearly.

“Well, what’s on the agenda today, Laura?” asked Aunt Gertrude.

“The laundry, the upstairs bathroom, all the upstairs windows, and the coat closet,” Mrs. Hardy replied cheerfully.

Aunt Gertrude sighed. “You know, as fond as I am of the boys, sometimes I wish they were girls and would give us a hand with the housework!”

Frank grinned as he recorded the conversation. Then the boys returned to the dining room.

“Frances and Josephine Hardy checking in,” Joe said. “Wow, you can’t imagine how glad we are to be boys!”

“Detective work is much more fun than cleaning out the coat closet,” Frank added. He set the recorder on the table and played back the conversation.

“Oh, you scallywags!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop like that!”

“Well, we had to test the bug!” Frank said, and took the chain off Aunt Gertrude’s neck. “See you later.”

They hurried out of the house, got into their car, and were soon at the Morton farm. Chet was waiting for them.

Joe handed him the medal.

“Where’s the bug?” Chet asked.

“You’re holding it,” Joe replied. “Drape it around your neck.”

Chet grinned and did as he was told. “How do I look?”

“Just beautiful,” Joe replied and gave him a sharp rap on the arm.

Frank drove to Beemerville and parked several blocks from the Mudd Airplane Junkyard. As prearranged, Chet walked up to the main gate alone. As soon as he disappeared, Frank and Joe quickly approached the metal fence that surrounded the junkyard.

The boys set their receiver and adjusted the tape, then turned to a crack in the sheet metal.

“Chet doesn’t seem too happy about his mission.” Joe chuckled as the receiver transmitted a nervous gulp from their hefty pal.

“Oh, oh, here comes Mudd,” Frank said.

The man strode out of his office and confronted Chet. “What do you want now?” he demanded in an irritated voice.

“I’m looking for a tailpost, Mr. Mudd,” Chet replied.

“A tailpost!” Mudd said with a look of astonishment. “What for? You don’t even have a fu—”

The man stopped in confusion and his face turned red. Chet pounced on the blunder like a cat after a ping-pong ball. “Oh, I got my fuselage back, Mr. Mudd,” he said in an offhand manner. “Some clown swiped it and dropped it at a garbage dump. I found it later. So I’m back in business for some airplane parts. A tailpost, please.”

Mudd’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “Look, where’re your pals?”

Chet said coolly, “I couldn’t really guarantee where they are.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Come on, now, Mr. Mudd. I want to look around at some parts. You can see I’m alone, can’t you? Now how about a tailpost?”

Joe whispered, “Chet’s doing a great job!”

Mudd began talking again. “I don’t have any to fit your model fuselage.”

“That’s too bad,” Chet said. “Well, I’ll be needing wings later. Mind if I check around to see what’s here?”

Mudd gave a sardonic laugh. “You’ll need wings all right, you fat brat. And a harp, too!”

He moved toward Chet. Grabbing the boy’s arm, he twisted it around his back in a hammer lock. “I’ve stopped fooling with you,” Mudd snarled. “Where are those buddies of yours, and what are you snooping around for?”

Joe tensed and made a move to spring up. Frank held him back. “Wait! Chet knows how to take care of himself.”

Their friend’s short gasp of pain was followed by a rebel yell. Chet put his experience as a high school wrestler to good use. Swinging his body around, he flung the heavier Mudd over his back. The man hit the ground with a thud, then rose shakily to his feet.

Chet confronted him in a wrestler’s defensive stance, feet wide apart, hands extended forward. At the same time he noticed that the chain had slipped over his head and fallen onto the ground.

“We’ll lose contact,” Joe hissed.

“Maybe not,” Frank said. “Look!”

A young man entered the junkyard. It was Seymour Schill! He bent over and retrieved the bug. Swinging it by the chain, he looked from Chet to Mudd.

“Cut the rough stuff, will you,” he said. “Who’s this kid you’re muscling?”

“I’m no kid!” Chet said indignantly. “My name’s Chet Morton, and if this gorilla wants some more action, I’m ready for it!”

“Don’t get physical,” Seymour said. “I’ve got nothing against you. I just want a few words with O. K.”

He drew the man aside and spoke in a voice too low for Chet to hear. However, the bug dangling in his hand picked up every word.

“The boss has made up his mind,” Seymour said. “It’ll be Wednesday and Saturday.”

“Good,” Mudd responded. “That suits me just fine.”

“Same time, same place,” Seymour went on. Pausing for a moment, the guitarist added significantly, “Same number of rocks.”

“No!” Mudd’s voice was harsh. “Tell him no more rocks, understand!”

“I understand. What’s the pitch?”

“Hard cash from now on!”

CHAPTER XII

Jam Session

THEIR conversation finished, Seymour and Mudd turned to Chet again. Seymour tossed the medal at him.

Chet caught it on the fly and pulled it quickly over his head, vastly relieved that Seymour had not examined the medal closer.

“Chet’s heading back for the car,” Joe observed through the crack in the fence.

“Good. We’ve made some headway,” Frank said. “Let’s join him.”

The Hardys assembled their receiving apparatus, slipped quickly around the fence, and made tracks for their convertible.

Chet arrived shortly afterward. “Did you see? I almost got conked!” he began excitedly.

“We saw,” Joe said. “You were great, Chet!”

“We also heard everything,” Frank added. “Our little bug worked like a charm. And Seymour couldn’t have done us a bigger favor!”

“When he picked it up I thought I was sunk!” Chet declared, rolling his eyes. “What did they say?”

Joe repeated the conversation.

“Interesting, but what does it mean?”

“We don’t know,” Frank said.

“That talk about rocks,” Chet went on. “Suppose they meant the Marlin Crag Cliffs?”

“No. Precious stones, perhaps. Remember, Mudd asked for hard cash—another kind of payment.”

“And what about Wednesday and Saturday?”

“Well, something’s going on then, but we don’t have any idea what or where.”

“The Flickering Torch is my guess,” Chet said with a professional air.

“Possible,” Joe agreed. “We’ll have to watch the place.”

The trio returned to Bayport, still puzzled about the overheard clues. Next afternoon Tony Prito and Bernie Marzi showed up at the Hardy house.

After a hearty welcome by Frank and Joe, Bernie asked, “What can I do for you? Tony mentioned a case you’re involved in, but didn’t give me any details.”

“We can’t tell you too much either,” Frank said. “But you could help us by telling us everything you know about the Torch employees. Something suspicious may be going on there. We’ll have to check out the place. How about starting out with the musicians?”

“Sure,” Bernie said and gave a short summary of everyone’s background. “I know very little about the waiters and the kitchen personnel,” he concluded. “As far as the band goes, I trust everybody with the possible exception of Seymour Schill. I can’t tell you why, it’s just a hunch.”

Frank nodded slowly. “Your intuition and ours are surprisingly alike.”

“What’s the next step?” the drummer asked.

“We’d like to case the Flickering Torch,” Joe stated.

“Listen, I’ve got a great idea!” Bernie exclaimed. “Why don’t one of you join the combo Saturday night? Who handles the lead guitar?”

“I do,” Joe said. “What about your regular guitarist? Won’t he be jealous?”

“He wants the day off, Joe. We were going to hire another pro. But I’m sure you can fit the bill, so why should we look for anyone else?”

“I’ll take you up on that, Bernie. When do I have to be there?”

“First you’ll have to attend our practice session tomorrow. Let the gang see how you do.”

“Suits me fine,” Joe said. “I’ve always wanted to play with pros.”

Tony grinned at Bernie. “That means Joe’ll have a jump on the rest of us in the Bayport combo.”

“Never fear, we’re not that good,” Bernie said modestly.

When Tony announced he would have to leave in a little while, Joe asked Bernie if he was planning to return to Beemerville that evening.

“No,” Bernie replied. “I’m supposed to spend the night at Tony’s and go back tomorrow.”

“Listen,” Joe suggested, “why don’t you stay here and then we can drive down together?”

“Have you got room for me?” Bernie asked.

“Sure.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Bernie said. “Especially since I don’t have a car.”

“It’s a deal. Let me tell Mother.” Joe hastened upstairs and returned with Mrs. Hardy, who offered Bernie their hospitality. Then Tony departed.

A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Mr. Hardy.

“Where are you, Dad?” Frank inquired.

“Morrisville, New Jersey,” the detective said. “At the airport. I’ve tracked the hijacking outfit this far. Now I need some help.”

“We’ll come double-quick, Dad. But there’s a new angle at this end. Joe’ll tell you about it.”

He handed the phone to his brother, who hurriedly described his plan to join the Emergency Exit, so he could keep an eye on the Flickering Torch and its patrons. “What should I do?” Joe concluded. “Cancel out the music?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Go ahead with your surveillance. All I need here is Frank.”

The dark-haired boy took over again. “Sure thing, Dad,” he said. “Give me the orders.”

“I can’t over the phone,” Fenton Hardy told him. “Come to Morrisville late tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk it over. I’ve got a job at the field as a porter, so it’ll be easy for us to meet without arousing suspicion.”

“Anything else?” Frank queried.

“Well, Sam Radley’s still checking on Mudd’s record. So far there’s nothing about Zinn. That’s it for now. Take care, both of you.”

The following day Frank decided to let Joe and Bernie have the car. After an early dinner, they dropped him off at Bayport Airport, where he got a commercial flight to Morrisville, then the two went on to Beemerville for their practice session.

They reached the area in a little more than an hour.

“Sure is pretty country,” Joe remarked as Bernie directed him off the highway. They drove along the coast road. The Marlin Crag Cliffs now gave way to sandy beaches which swept inland in a half circle. In the middle of the broad curve lay a small fishing village called Pohasset. It was a little past Beemerville and was frequented by artists who haunted the wharves and scenic dunes. Stretches of green marshes were dotted with small houses and outbuildings.

“See the house up on the knoll?” Bernie asked.

“The one with the barn near the waterfront?”

“Yes,” the drummer remarked as Joe slowed down. “Pull in the drive. That’s Pete Guilfoyle’s place where we hold our jam sessions.”

Joe parked the car under an elm tree and got out to look around. The barn lay about two hundred feet from the house, nearly at the water’s edge. Its front doors stood open, revealing an unusual interior.

It certainly was not for horses. Instead, an organ stood on the right side, and chairs were scattered about, along with two amplifiers.

“Nice place to practice, eh?” Bernie said. “We can vibrate it apart and nobody complains.”

Joe’s eyes were following the shore as he walked toward the barn. He noticed a boat rocking in the water some distance away. Concealing himself behind a tree, the boy looked intently at a man standing up in the boat. The fellow had binocu lars and the late-afternoon sun glinted off the polished lenses.

“Bernie, take a look at this,” Joe said.

“The guy in the boat?”

“Yes. I think he’s spying on us.”

“Oh, he’s probably just a bird watcher,” Bernie said. “Why would he be interested in us?”

The man in the boat sat down, started an outboard motor, purred a little farther away from the shore, then stopped to scan the barn once more.

“We seem to be the birds he’s watching,” Joe mused. As he spoke, two more boys drove up in their cars. Bernie introduced them.

“Joe, meet Line Caldwell and George Hansen,” he said. “Fellows, this is Joe Hardy, who’ll sub for Mark Bowen this weekend.”

“Okay with us,” said Pete, who had just walked down from the house. “We’re with you, Joe, as long as you can play the guitar.”

Joe grinned. “Try me. But say, there’s something I want to get straight before we start.” As the boys entered the barn, he walked over to the first amplifier to check it out. It looked normal. He did the same to the second.

“Not a thing out of kilter,” he muttered. “I wonder why Dale Nettleton was fooling around the amp at the Flickering Torch.”

“Dale Nettleton? You know him?” Pete asked.

“Casually,” Joe replied. “What about you?”

“Oh, he hangs around the Flickering Torch. Always interested in the band.”

Bernie, who had been holding Joe’s guitar, pushed the instrument into his hands. “Okay, Joe, let’s hear some sweet sounds!”

The Hardy boy got in line with the other guitarists. Bernie sat just behind them. Under Pete’s direction, the beat started low on the drums. The organ picked up the theme, weaving in and out in an intricate pattern. Then came Joe’s lead guitar in a short, burbling pizzicato. The rhythm guitar supported the tune, succeeded by the bass.

Then it was Joe’s turn again. At first he was a little hesitant, but soon the music was vibrating through his body. He began to cut loose, improvising wild harmonies, an octave higher than the bass guitar.

The sound reverberated from the rafters. The amplifier swayed as the combo came up to a crescendo, hit the final notes, and ended the first piece. Bernie Marzi looked over from his drums.

“Joe!” he called. “You’re great!”

Pete Guilfoyle added, “Want a permanent job with us?”

“You’re a lot better than Seymour Schill,” Line Caldwell said.

Joe grinned. “Nice of you to ask me, fellows, but I’m not really in your league yet. Well, how about another piece?”

As the music soared again, faces began to appear in the doorway. Local people were congregating to hear the Emergency Exit rehearse as they always did, tapping their feet and clapping their hands to the tempo.

After the walls of the barn had trembled for more than two hours with the pulsating vibrations, the rehearsal ended. The young musicians joked as they packed their instruments nd Pete Guilfoyle approached Joe.

“Nice going. We’re glad to have you with us.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting pretty late. Are you planning on going back to Bayport tonight?”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s a long way. How would you like to sleep in the barn loft? I’d invite you inside, but there isn’t enough room.”

“That’s a good idea,” Joe said. He stepped aside and said to Bernie, “That fellow in the boat might show up again in the morning. Maybe I can find out what’s cooking.”

“Good,” Bernie said. “See you Saturday.”

Joe thanked Pete for the invitation.

“Don’t mention it,” the boy replied. “You’ll find blankets in the loft. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll turn off the lights and see you in the house for breakfast, okay?”

“Fine.”

Joe climbed the rungs of the ladder and pulled himself up to see a pile of hay and several blankets. He wriggled into the dry grass.

While drowsiness overcame him, Joe pondered the stranger in the boat. Soon he was fast asleep. In his dream he watched the man start his motor. It exploded with a giant boom, causing Joe to sit bolt upright.

Outside, thunder was cannonading along the shore, and through a small window he saw great streaks of lightning. These were followed by a torrent of rain.

The door creaked open. Then, caught by a gust of wind, it slammed shut violently. Joe got to his knees, crawled to the edge of the loft, and looked down.

Lightning flashed again and for a moment he could not see anything. Then, in the shadows, he made out the figure of a man I

The fellow listened, then moved stealthily toward the ladder leading to the loft!

CHAPTER XIII

Lefty the Squealer

THE intruder glanced up and Joe pulled back out of sight. Had he been seen?

The boy listened, his heart pounding with excitement. All he could hear was a drip, drip, drip. The roof leaked, and droplets of rain splashed on the ladder. Perhaps that’s what had caught the man’s attention! Joe fervently hoped so.

No other sound now. Joe craned forward cautiously. The shadow was moving toward the door. It opened quietly and the stranger disappeared into the night.

“I’d better trail him,” Joe decided. He hastened down the ladder. It was wet from the rain. Joe’s feet slipped. His sagging weight was too much for fingers that clutched the slick rung above him. Down he went!

Joe fell heavily to the barn floor, striking his head against the post supporting the loft. He lay stunned, for how long he did not know. When he opened his eyes again, there was an eerie silence in the barn. The rain had ended and the trickle from the roof no longer splashed on the ladder.

Joe rose to his feet and rubbed a bump on the back of his head. Then he stepped to the door, opened it quietly, and looked outside. The landscape was bathed in silvery light, cast by a full moon which shone pale between fluffy clouds.

The boy followed the path leading to the road, moving at a crouch and searching for possible clues which the intruder might have left. But the rain had obliterated all tracks. By the time Joe reached the edge of the road, he knew the man had made a clean getaway.

Suddenly he noticed a small shiny object on the ground. He reached down in the gravel and picked up a plastic guitar pick. Was the night visitor a musician?

Joe pocketed the pick and walked back toward the barn, still alert to possible danger. If the prowler were one of the fellows in the band, why had he come back? Or could it have been the stranger in the boat, who had been spying on the Guilfoyle property?

Joe was about to enter the barn when he heard the sound of an approaching motor. A vehicle was driving up the road slowly.

Joe ducked, dropping on his knees behind a bushy azalea plant. He watched. Out of the darkness appeared a large van. The words MOBILE X-RAY on its side were visible in the moonlight. The driver stopped in front of the barn. The cab doors swung open and two men jumped out. They peered around, then went into the barn.

Joe listened, pressing his ear against the wall. There was a sound of scraping metal, then footsteps as the men came out again.

A voice said, “One more contact and we’re finished.”

“Things are getting too hot around here,” the other man replied. “It’s just as well.”

Pondering what it all meant, Joe watched the men as they returned to the van. They climbed in, and the doors slammed.

Joe reached for his car keys. They were not in any of his pockets! “I must have dropped them in the barn,” the boy thought desperately. “Now I can’t follow these birds!” Suddenly he had an idea.

He sprinted from his hiding place and dashed toward the road, just as the van started off in first gear. As the vehicle picked up speed, Joe ran behind it, looking for a handhold. Nothing was accessible except the bumper.

Joe grasped it with both hands, then swung his feet up under the chassis, resting his heels on the muffler. If he could only hold on until the van stopped!

But Joe had not bargained with the exhaust pipe. It emerged near his face, sending out a hot stream of carbon monoxide. Joe turned his head away from it, sucking in gulps of air and trying to hold his breath as long as possible.

Joe grasped the bumper with both hands

Finally, however, a numbness began to creep into his hands and he wondered if he should drop off. The noxious fumes made the decision for him. Joe fell unconscious to the road like a sack of potatoes!

If Frank Hardy had known what was going to happen to his brother, he would not have gone to his assignment in New Jersey so eagerly.

Once Frank had arrived at the Morrisville airport, he picked up his suitcase from the baggage claims center and headed toward the exit, where a porter sidled up to him and grasped the handle of his bag.

“May I help you with this, young fellow?” the porter asked. “It’s kind of heavy.”

“No thanks. I’ll carry it myself,” Frank replied with a sidewise glance at the man. Then a big smile came to his face. “Okay, you can take it, Dad.”

“Not so loud,” Mr. Hardy cautioned. “And get that grin off your face!”

“Where’ll we meet?” Frank asked as they advanced toward a line of taxicabs in front of the terminal.

“I made reservations for you at the George Washington Motel. It’s only a few blocks from here on the road leading into town. I’ll see you there at six,” Mr. Hardy said.

It was a happy reunion between father and son that evening.

“I’m glad you came,” Mr. Hardy said. “Remember I told you how informers operate?”

Frank nodded. “Sure. You pay them off and they squeal on their own grandmother.”

“Right. Informers are like double agents. But they make out very well, unless they’re caught.”

“And then what?”

His father made a motion across his throat. “It’s too bad for them. That’s why we must be very careful.”

“So you found an informer?” Frank inquired.

“Just by luck.” The detective told Frank that he had trailed a truckload of stolen merchandise from the New York airport, but had lost track of it in the vicinity of Morrisville.

“I figured they must be flying the stolen freight out of here,” Mr. Hardy concluded.

“But how did you latch on to the informer?” Frank persisted.

Mr. Hardy said that he had checked in with the local police. They had had an anonymous phone call about something phony going on at the airport. The tipster left a number which proved to be a public telephone booth and said he would give them the details for a certain amount of money.

“Did they pick him up?” Frank asked.

“No. They didn’t have enough cash in their budget,” Mr. Hardy replied. “When they told me, I decided to take the chance. The freight insurers gave me carte blanche.”

“Have you seen the man?”

“No. He calls himself Lefty and agreed to meet my contact on the southeast corner of Broad and Market streets in Newark, exactly at eleven forty-five tonight. I want you to deliver this to him. It’s the money he wants.” Mr. Hardy pulled out a fat envelope from his jacket pocket.

“How’ll I know this Lefty character?” Frank inquired.

“You won’t. But he’ll know you.”

“How?”

“You’ll mop your brow with this every now and then.” Mr. Hardy handed his son a blue handkerchief. “Frank, this is a dangerous assignment,” he went on. “You pay Lefty the money, and he’ll give you a message. Get it straight. You might not even have time to repeat it.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll pay strict attention,” Frank said.

Father and son had supper in the motel restaurant, then Frank took a bus to Newark. He arrived on the corner of Broad and Market shortly before rendezvous time. The movie theaters had emptied minutes before, and traffic was moderately heavy.

Frank took his place at the designated spot, and smiled to himself. “I feel kind of silly doing this,” he thought as he reached for the handkerchief. He mopped his brow several times looking around in the crowd for some kind of recognition. After a while he noticed a man on the opposite corner staring at him. He appeared to be in his late twenties, thin, with bushy dark hair.

Frank mopped his brow again. The fellow casually sidled across the street, then walked up close to Frank.

“Lefty?” Frank asked.

The man nodded. “Follow me.”

Keeping several paces behind, Frank followed the man east on Market Street, where he stopped before an all-night restaurant. The smell of cooking wafted on the warm air through the open facade.

Lefty jerked his thumb indicating “inside,” and led the way to the back, past long counters crowded with people who had stopped for a quick hamburger or hot dog with sauerkraut.

There were three vacant tables near the rear exit. Lefty pulled a chair for himself and motioned Frank to sit down.

“We’ll get this business over with right quick,” the informer began. As he spoke, three men walked past them to one of the remaining empty tables. Frank barely noticed them, concentrating instead on his companion.

“Okay,” Frank said. He produced the envelope and handed it to Lefty. The latter opened it, pulled out a roll of bills, counted them and put them into his pocket. Then he bent close to Frank.

“Get this,” he whispered. “Die . . .”

What came next happened so quickly that Frank was completely taken by surprise. One of the men at the other table sprang out of his chair and dealt Lefty a karate chop at the back of his neck. Then the assailant and another man grabbed each of the unconscious man’s arms and began to drag him out the back of the restaurant.

“Hey, wait!” Frank said as he started toward the prostrate figure of Lefty. But the third man, a barrel-chested fellow, barred the way!

CHAPTER XIV

Sky Chase

FRANK backed off into a defensive judo stance. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a fourth man sneaking toward him from behind.

The young sleuth spun on his heel and lunged forward, putting all his weight into a perfect football block that threw the man backwards. A table splintered as the thug crashed onto it and slid to the floor.

Frank dashed past and ran out the front door. He saw a walk alongside the building and hastened to the dark alley behind the restaurant, hoping to catch up with Lefty and his captors. But he was too late. Nobody was in sight.

Frank trotted back to Market Street and looked up and down in vain for the informer or the four assailants. His attention was drawn to a ragged bum with a bushy beard who trudged along the sidewalk with the aid of a bamboo cane. He stopped when he saw Frank. Then he painfully inched his way forward, and sidled up to the young detective.

“Pal, can you let me have a quarter for a cup of coffee and a doughnut?” he whined.

Frank fished in his pocket, brought out a coin, and handed it over. “Old-timer, maybe you can do something for me,” he suggested.

A crafty look crept over the hobo’s face. “Is it worth another quarter?”

“Well, I’ll give you the two bits anyway,” Frank said, delivering the second coin. “Now, did you see three men come out of the restaurant a few minutes ago?”

“Not me,” said the man, clutching the money in his fist. “But I don’t see much around here. It’s safer not to.”

As he spoke, a car careened to a stop at the curb. The husky driver got out and jumped on Frank. The two hit the pavement and rolled over in a violent free-for-all. The assailant caught Frank’s head in the crook of his powerful right arm and applied crunching pressure.

Frank gasped for air. Bells sounded in his head and black spots flickered before his eyes. His senses reeled.

Suddenly he saw the bum go into action. Raising his cane, he brought it down on the man’s head with a resounding crack. The fellow keeled over with a glassy stare.

Frank staggered to his feet. “Th-thanks,” he gasped. “You’ve got some wallop to kayo that gorilla.”

“You didn’t know it was me,” said a familiar voice dryly. The old vagrant stood up straight. His stoop disappeared. He pulled off his bushy beard.

“Dad!” Frank exclaimed. “How do you happen to be here?”

“I thought I’d better tag along on this mission,” Fenton Hardy said. “I tailed you while you were tailing Lefty. They’ve got him all right. Pushed him into a car and drove off.”

A moan came from the man who had jumped Frank. Fenton Hardy grasped him by the collar and hauled him to his feet, while Frank ran to get a policeman. Half an hour later they were at headquarters.

The sergeant at the desk recognized Frank’s assailant immediately. “A strong-arm for hire. He’s got a record as long as Broad Street.”

After advising the man of his rights, the sergeant said, “Okay, want to talk?”

“I got nothing to say,” the man growled. “I want to see a lawyer.”

“That’s your privilege. But we’re holding you for assault on Frank Hardy.”

Father and son returned to Morrisville in a rented car to spend the night at the George Washington Motel. The detective explained that he had been afraid Lefty would double-cross him.

“I was worried about that, too,” Frank said. “But poor old Lefty was okay. He was talking to me when they clobbered him.”

Frank told his father about the word “die” just before the attack.

“Lefty could have meant somebody was about to be rubbed out,” Mr. Hardy said. “And it might be me!”

Frank shuddered. “Dad, we’ll have to be extra careful on this case! The freight thieves have a neat racket. They’ll do anything to keep it from blowing up in their faces.”

Next day Frank found no difficulty in getting a job in a car wash at the Morrisville Airport. His task was drying the cars as they reached the end of the cleaning line. From this station he could easily watch the planes landing and taking off.

About noon Frank’s surveillance brought results. He spotted Dale Nettleton coming out of the Midatlantic Distribution Corporation office. The pilot carried a suitcase, which he carefully deposited in a small plane. After that, he went back to the office and stayed inside for some time.

Frank made a snap decision. Taking advantage of his lunch-hour break, he hastened to the terminal for a quick conference with his father, who was still posing as a porter.

“Nettleton’s taking off somewhere, and he seems awfully concerned about his suitcase,” Frank said. “I’d like to see what’s in it. We might have the goods on him, Dad.”

“What’s your plan, Frank?”

The boy looked out through the broad plate-glass doors of the terminal. “Nettleton hasn’t come out of the Midatlantic office yet. I may have time to hire a plane and follow him!”

“Good idea. But watch out. He’s probably crafty.”

“Okay. Will you straighten things out with my boss over at the car wash?”

“Sure. And good luck!”

Fenton Hardy went to help a passenger with some bags, while Frank trotted off to hire a small plane. He had just completed the transaction when Nettleton emerged from the office. He quickly got into his airplane and taxied away.

Frank had to wait for runway clearance, which allowed time for Nettleton to become airborne without suspecting he was being tailed. Then Frank followed him into the sky.

Checking the vector Nettleton was traveling, the boy saw they were heading for Marlin Crag Airport. “Same route the pilots took before they crashed into the cliffs,” he noted ominously.

Frank kept his eyes fixed on the plane ahead, determined not to lose his quarry. But in doing so he drew closer and closer to the lead craft.

Nettleton suddenly became suspicious and took evasive action, curving to one side to let his pursuer go by. Frank did the same.

Nettleton turned upward, gaining altitude in a burst of power. So did Frank. At last Nettleton went into a steep dive and pulled up sharply. A collision seemed imminent. In a desperate move, Frank shoved the stick forward and made a tight diving turn.

His plane screamed past Nettleton’s without a foot to spare. The green pastures below him spun as Frank fought to bring the plane under control. Finally he managed to level out.

He resumed tailing Nettleton, who by now was little more than a moving speck between fleecy white clouds.

As he was closing the gap again, Frank tuned into the Unicom frequency to pick up anything his quarry might broadcast. He heard Nettleton’s voice in a frantic appeal for help. “Listen, buddy, get this Hardy brat off—”

Frank chuckled. “He must be rattled. Ought to know I might be listening in!”

The Unicom frequency went dead. Frank knew Nettleton had realized his mistake.

A few minutes later Marlin Crag Airport came into sight. Circling into the approach from the sea, Nettleton lifted his plane above the cliffs and came in over the airstrip. The craft bounced hard several times before effecting a landing.

Frank made a three-point touchdown without a tremor, and taxied to a stop near Nettleton’s plane. Seeing the pilot take the suitcase and rush into the terminal, Frank jumped out and ran after him. Nettleton went into the Marlin Crag office of Midatlantic. Frank followed.

The pilot swung around. “You bother me, wise guy,” he snarled. “And that’s a quick way to get hurt.”

“Why so edgy, Nettleton?” Frank asked. “You got something to hide?”

“That’s none of your business!” the pilot fumed. “Don’t push me!”

“Level with me and I’ll lay off,” Frank promised. “I’ve been watching you, and my guess is you’re up to something. I just might blow the whistle on you.”

“What’s the charge?”

“Maybe receiving stolen property. Like hijacked air freight.”

The pilot’s face darkened. He gave Frank a venomous glance. “Where did you get that crazy idea?”

“Could be your suitcase,” Frank replied.

“My bag’s got nothing to do with you,” Nettleton snapped.

“How about opening it then? Or is it filled with gold bricks from Fort Knox?”

“Okay, smart aleck, take a look,” Nettleton said furiously.

Opening the valise, he turned it over, allowing the contents to spill out on the floor. Frank saw the usual things that would be in an overnight bag—shirt, socks, shaving equipment and so on.

“Found anything incriminating?” Nettleton sneered.

Frank lifted the suitcase. He ran his hand around the interior, searching for a hidden compartment. He rapped the sides, tugged on the straps, and examined the nameplate. Finally he set the bag back on the floor.

“I hope you’re satisfied!” Nettleton stormed.

CHAPTER XV

Dangerous Contraband

FRANK was chagrined at finding nothing important in the suitcase. A look of satisfaction came over Nettleton’s face as he replaced the clothing and toiletries. The flier was one up on him now!

Frank thought fast. Hoping to throw Nettleton off balance, he said, “I’m almost satisfied, but not quite. I’d like to inspect your engine!”

Nettleton looked startled. He was stammering a bit over his answer when the office door opened and Bill Zinn walked in.

“Oh, it’s you, Hardy,” Zinn said. “What brings you here?”

Nettleton said, “This guy thinks there’s something wrong with my engine. He’d better forget it!”

“Don’t fly off the handle, Dale,” Zinn said quietly. “There’s no reason why Hardy shouldn’t look at your engine.”

He motioned Frank to the door, and the three walked across the concrete apron to the edge of the runway where Nettleton’s plane was parked.

“Zinn seems awfully sure of himself,” Frank thought as the manager handed him tools to make the inspection.

The young detective checked the tailpost and found it in order. Then he scanned the engine and paused when he came to the vacuum pump. He went over it carefully.

“What’s bothering you?” snarled Nettleton, who watched Frank’s every move like a hawk.

“Is there something about that vacuum pump you don’t like?” Zinn asked sarcastically.

“It’s okay,” Frank replied. “But I know one pump housing that was as empty as Bayport beach in February.”

Frank’s reference to Jack Scott’s engine with its missing vacuum pump had the desired effect. Both men stiffened and became stony-faced. Frank knew he had scored. Zinn and Nettleton were connected with the airport fatalities in some way!

“Well thanks, fellows,” Frank concluded, handing the tools back to Zinn.

“Don’t mention it,” the manager said icily. “Is there anything else you’d like to inspect around here?”

“That’ll be all,” Frank replied.

Nettleton and Zinn exchanged glances as Frank walked off. He knew they were worried. He also realized that the airport should be kept under constant surveillance. Something fishy was going on. If enough eyes watched every movement at Marlin Crag, it might come to light.

Frank stepped into a phone booth and dialed Bayport. Joe answered.

“Hey, Frank, where are you?”

“Marlin Crag Airport.”

“How’d you get there?”

“Flew up from Morrisville in a rented plane. But listen, Joe, I’ll tell you all about that later.”

“Have I got a hairy story for you!” Joe said. “But it’ll have to wait. What’s up?”

“I don’t have any concrete evidence,” Frank stated, “but Nettleton and Zinn seem to be involved in those crashes.” He told what had happened and suggested that Joe help him stake out the airport.

“I’ve got an even better idea,” Joe replied. “Those fellows from the band are swell guys. I’m sure they’d come too if I’d ask them.”

“All right. Get in touch with them. What about the guys in Bayport?”

“They’re all helping Mr. Prito on a construction job and Chet’s too busy matching wings with the Red Baron.”

About two hours later Joe Hardy pulled into the airport with Bernie Marzi, Linc Caldwell, George Hansen, and Pete Guilfoyle.

Frank, who had kept an eye peeled for their convertible, hastened up and shook hands with everyone.

“I want you to know that I gave up a date with a real cute chick to come here,” Pete announced.

Frank grinned. “That’s greatly appreciated.” He took the boys aside behind a row of parked cars, where he told his suspicions regarding Nettleton and the aircraft.

“I really didn’t expect them to let me see the engine,” Frank said. “After all, why should they? But Zinn seemed almost eager for me to look at it. I think if we spy on them and the plane, we might find out what’s cooking.”

Frank and Joe assigned lookout posts. Dusk had fallen and partially concealed the young men as they took a circuitous route through the airport grass toward the edge of the runway.

“Keep your heads low,” Joe advised as they went to their places.

When it was completely dark, the Hardys inched up close to the edge of the runway. Fortunately the grass had not been cut for a while and provided good cover.

Frank and Joe heard excited voices from the same shed where they had eavesdropped the other night. Then two men walked out with flashlights and approached the plane.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier that they were missing?” said one of them, whom the boys recognized as Nettleton.

“I didn’t have a chance to check all afternoon,” replied the other man, who was Zinn. They hurried past the craft for several hundred yards along the runway, then stopped. Their flashlights bobbed about like fireflies in July.

“They’re looking for something,” Joe whispered.

Frank recalled the hard landing of the plane. Had a piece of the undercarriage broken off? Was that what the men were looking for?

Now the searchers got down on their hands and knees.

“It must be something small,” Frank surmised.

“Oh, oh, look what’s coming,” Joe said.

In the distance the landing lights of a plane blinked on, beaming down onto the runway. The men scrambled out of the way, running only a few feet past the place where the Hardys were concealed.

“Forget it,” Nettleton said. “We’re not going to find them in the dark. We can look again in the morning.”

“All right,” Zinn agreed. “And next time, if you can’t make a better landing, get somebody else to do the job!”

The plane touched down and taxied to the terminal. The men had disappeared and Frank rose, giving a small quiet whistle to attract the others. They crowded around him.

“Something was lost on that runway,” Frank said. “Come on. Let’s go and look for it ourselves.”

Frank and Joe carried pocket flashlights. All six hastened to the spot recently vacated by Nettleton and Zinn. They hunkered down and examined the concrete surface.

After a while Pete said, “Nothing here that I could see.”

“What are we looking for, anyway?” asked Line.

“There’s something!” Bernie exclaimed suddenly and picked up a gleaming object. “A piece of glass!”

“Here’s another one,” Joe said. He cupped both glinting pieces in the palm of his hand and shone the light on them.

“I don’t think they’re glass,” Frank observed.

“Well, they couldn’t be diamonds!” Bernie said emphatically.

“Why not?” asked Joe.

George Hansen chuckled. “In that case I’ll take my share and buy a new guitar.”

Joining in the levity, the boys had not noticed two men running toward them.

“Look out!” Pete warned suddenly.

“Run!” Frank cried out.

George, Bernie, Line, and Pete took off through the high grass. Frank and Joe brought up the rear. As the men raced up, the Hardys stopped short, spun around, and sent their surprised pursuers crashing to the ground with a judo assault.

Then the boys put on a burst of speed and caught up with the others at the car. They all piled in and Frank took the wheel.

“We shook ‘em off all right,” Linc said. “What happened?”

“We discouraged them,” Joe remarked. “I think those stones we found must really be diamonds or they wouldn’t have come at us like that!”

“We’ll find out for sure and let you know,” Frank promised.

After thanking the young musicians, he dropped them off at their homes and the Hardys sped back to Bayport. They arrived to find their father waiting for them.

Everyone sat down at the kitchen table, and Joe described his adventures at the Guilfoyle barn. He concluded with the episode on the mobile X-ray van. “I must have rolled off while it was taking a curve,” Joe said. “I landed in a ditch and woke up with a horrible headache.”

“Did you ever find the car keys?” Frank asked.

“Yes. They were in the barn.”

Mr. Hardy said, “I doubt that it was really an X-ray van. Probably some sort of coverup for an illicit scheme.”

“What do you think the racket is?” Frank asked. “Do you have any theory about the van?”

“Not yet.”

Frank described what had happened at the airport. The boy took the two stones from his pocket and handed them to his father. The detective looked at them absently, still mulling over Frank’s question about the mobile X-ray van.

“I’ve discovered something about rays,” Mr. Hardy revealed. “I contacted the Atomic Energy Commission after you told me about Scott’s radioactive engine. They told me there’s some radioactive contraband in this area!”

“What?” said Joe. “Contraband—what kind, Dad?”

“Uranium isotopes!”

“The stuff that goes into the atomic bomb!” Frank gasped. “Is someone making an atomic device?”

“Not necessarily. Uranium isotopes have a lot of uses. But the smugglers are using them illegally, according to the AEC.”

“Where are these isotopes coming from?” Joe inquired.

“England is the suspected point of origin. Scotland Yard is working on the case in London. And I wish we could crack it at this end.”

“Is there a tie-in with the Marlin Crag plane crashes? Did Scott’s vacuum pump housing become radioactive because of uranium isotopes?”

“Quite possibly,” his father replied.

“Maybe Mudd figures in the racket, too,” Joe said.

“Sam Radley’s checked him out,” Mr. Hardy stated. “He has broken the law a few times, but they were only minor infractions. If he’s mixed up with contraband isotopes, he’s going big time. Sam has no information to indicate that.”

The detective turned his attention to the stones in his hand, got a jeweler’s loupe from his desk drawer, and examined them minutely.

“They’re manufactured diamonds,” he said finally. “You can see they were made by the industrial method of subjecting carbon to high pressure and high temperature in a lab. Take a look.”

“But how do they come into the case?” Joe asked.

“Maybe that’s what Lefty was going to say!” Frank exclaimed. “I thought ‘die ...’ meant somebody was going to be rubbed out. But it could have been diamonds.”

“Hey, Frank!” Joe said excitedly. “Remember the conversation between Seymour Schill and Mudd when Chet was at the junkyard?”

“Wow! You’re right. Mudd said ‘No more rocks. Hard cash from now on.’ Maybe these are the rocks!”

The phone rang. Frank answered, then turned around. “It’s for you, Dad.”

An unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line caused the detective to frown. A man asked, “You Hardy the fuzz?”

“I’m a private investigator, if that’s what you mean,” the detective replied evenly.

“Well, you better take your investigatin’ some place else.”

“Who is this speaking? Please identify yourself.”

“Never mind who I am,” the caller said. “All you got to know is that we’ve caught Lefty.”

“Where is he?”

“That’s our secret.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yeah, but he won’t be if you don’t lay off!”

“What do you want?

“You been givin’ us a lot of trouble, Hardy. Me and my pals don’t like it. We’d be obliged if you’d stop leanin’ on us.

“And if I refuse?”

“There goes your stool pigeon. It’s a fast trip to the bottom of the bay for Lefty next time you give us any trouble. Think it over.”

The phone went dead. Mr. Hardy relayed the conversation to his sons. “I’ll have to play it cool,” he said thoughtfully. “Lefty’s life is at stake.”

“Joe and I can carry on,” Frank suggested.

“Okay, but you’ll have to be very careful,” Mr. Hardy said, looking proudly at his sons.

The next day Frank and Joe were busy with various chores at home. Early Saturday morning the phone rang and Joe answered. After a brief conversation his face fell and he hung up.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

“That was Pete Guilfoyle,” Joe replied. “His combo has been fired by the Flickering Torch!”

CHAPTER XVI

False Alarm

“THAT’S a switch!” Frank exclaimed. “The Emergency Exit has had raving reviews in the papers. How come they got the boot so suddenly?”

“Pete doesn’t know. They played last night, and when they were through Bozar told them not to come back. Joe Clark, the emcee, got sacked, too.”

“I’ll bet the gang thinks the fellows know too much,” Frank said. “They were probably recognized at the airport Thursday night.”

“And Bozar’s in with the gang,” Joe added. He looked glum. “My first job with a red-hot professional combo and it blows up in my face.”

“Maybe not, Joe. I have an idea.”

Frank put through a phone call to Bernie Marzi, who confirmed that the Emergency Exit had been fired.

“Tough luck, Bernie,” Frank sympathized. “But maybe it’s good luck for us. I suppose the Torch will be looking for a replacement?”

“Sure.”

“Well, how does this sound to you? We’ve got a pretty good combo here in Bayport. Suppose we apply for the job?”

“Brilliant idea. If you’re all as good as Joe, you’ll be a big hit. Contact Arthur J. Mulholland in Beemerville. He’s the agent.”

The Hardys summoned Phil Cohen to do the talking. He came over in ten minutes and telephoned the agent.

Mulholland seemed pleased. Yes, the Flickering Torch needed a band immediately, he said. What a coincidence. He was checking through his files at that very moment. “And I don’t have a folk rock group on tap!” he concluded.

“Search no further, Mr. Mulholland,” Phil said confidently. “I have a great band that’s available.”

“What’s it called?”

Thinking quickly, Phil came up with a name. “The South Forty,” he answered.

“Never heard of them,” the agent replied.

“They’re big around Bayport,” Phil assured him. “Three guitars, drums, and organ.”

“What’s your name?”

“Phil Cohen.”

Mulholland asked some technical questions about music. Phil expertly fielded every one of them.

“Okay, you seem to know your stuff,” the agent said at last. “I’ll give you a shot at it. You’ll start tonight. Leon Bozar, the manager, will pay you.”

“We’ll be there with our gear,” Phil promised.

“Okay, but don’t bring any amplifiers. The manager of the Flickering Torch says they use only their own. They have an organ, too.”

Phil thanked the agent and hung up. Joe let out a whoop of triumph.

“Great going, Phil. From now on you’re our agent.”

The Hardys contacted Biff and Tony. Biff offered to drive them all in his father’s station wagon.

“Good,” Frank told him. “We’ll meet at our house about seven-thirty. We’re due on stage at nine o‘clock sharp. And by the way, Biff, Joe and I will wear disguises so don’t panic when you see us!”

While waiting for evening, Frank and Joe decided to use the afternoon to make an aerial search for the mysterious van that Joe had seen at Pete Guilfoyle’s place. They drove to the airport for their plane and Frank piloted the craft north along the coast. He flew in from the sea and drifted lazily over the Marlin Crag Cliffs. Then he circled low over Beemerville, where the Flickering Torch stood out clearly on the highway.

“See anything exciting?” Frank asked as he turned past Beemerville.

“Lots of cars, trucks, and trailers, but no big van,” Joe replied.

“Negative here, too. I’ll head back for Marlin Crag. The woods are bigger there. Good place to hide a vehicle that size.”

The cliffs loomed up on their horizon again. They saw the surf below pounding against the rocks and hurling spray high in the air. Frank flew out to sea and then back.

Suddenly Joe nearly jumped out of his seat. “I see it, Frank!” he exclaimed. “That van down there between the trees at the end of the lane! It’s the same shape and color as the one I hitched a ride on.”

Frank dived down and circled low over the vehicle. On the side of the van, gleaming in the sunlight, were the words: MOBILE X-RAY.

“No doubt about it now,” Frank agreed. “That’s the van we’re after!”

He headed toward the airport and asked the control tower at Marlin Crag for clearance. When he received it, he came in for a quick landing. After parking their craft, the boys raced to a car-rental office. Within minutes they were speeding toward the woods.

Joe was at the wheel. He turned off the highway onto a dirt road, the wheels picking up a cloud of dust. Reaching the lane, the car jolted into an open space and careened to a stop.

The place where the van had been was empty!

“It’s gone,” Joe said.

“Have we got the right location?” Frank asked.

“I’m positive.”

“Then it might be somewhere near here,” Frank said. “We’ll cruise till we find it.”

Joe swung the car around and they roared back along the dirt road, bouncing along and scouting the woods as they went.

Suddenly Joe cried, “There it is!” He stepped on the brakes and pointed up a side path where a big vehicle was parked facing them. The driver had raised the hood and was tinkering with the engine.

Joe drove straight to the spot and parked, facing the van, bumper to bumper. “This guy isn’t going to make any sneak getaway,” he muttered. “Unless he can fly that van over us!”

As the boys jumped out, the man lifted his head. He was thick-set and had a rugged face.

“Hold everything!” Frank ordered.

“What’s this all about?” the driver asked in surprise.

“We’d like to know what you’ve got in your van,” Joe told him.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just say we’re curious,” Frank said.

“The police might be interested, too,” Joe added.

The man turned pale.

“Do we get to inspect the van, or don’t we?” Frank pressed.

The man shrugged. “I guess I can’t stop you. Go ahead.”

Frank and Joe ran around to the rear of the vehicle. Each grabbed a handle and swung the doors open, then stared at a cargo of tables, chairs and other household furniture.

Embarrassed, Frank looked at the name on the side—MIDWEST MOVING COMPANY.

Joe gulped and turned red. “Frank, I made a mistake.”

“You can say that again,” Frank replied, then turned to the driver who had followed them.

“Sorry, sir,” he apologized. “We thought you might be a crook.”

The man looked relieved. “Believe me, I was afraid you were a couple of shakedown hoods. Now that I’ve fixed the engine, I’ll be on my way.”

The Hardy boys went back to their car. “Am I mortified!” Joe confessed.

“You and me both,” Frank said with a rueful grin.

They cruised around for a while longer without spotting the van they were after. Frank, who was driving now, finally turned back to the airport. “It’s time to head for home,” he noted.

The psychological letdown was hard to overcome and the boys felt tense that evening as they put on their disguises. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude looked on as Frank and Joe fixed cheek pads and eyebrows and donned wigs. Frank put on a false mustache.

“I do hope you’ll stay out of danger,” Mrs. Hardy said nervously.

“Nothing good can come of these disguises,” Aunt Gertrude added. “Gracious, you frighten me!”

“Don’t worry,” Frank assured the women. “There’ll be five of us at the Flickering Torch. We can take care of ourselves.”

Biff drove up in his father’s station wagon with Tony in the front and Phil in the back seat. The Hardys stowed their guitars in the back and slipped in next to Phil. The South Forty rolled north toward Beemerville.

They were surprised when they were met by Seymour Schill at the door of the Flickering Torch. Schill showed no recognition of Frank and Joe.

“I’m the emcee for tonight,” he proclaimed. “I’ll announce your program. But first,” he added with a self-important air, “you’ll have to do a warm-up number so I can see if you’re good enough for us.”

The Bayport youths played one of their favorite pieces. Seymour seemed impressed. “You’ll do,” he said when they had finished. “Let’s start the program. The patrons are arriving.”

The band played for about an hour, doing renditions of songs that had the listeners tapping their toes and snapping their fingers to the varied rhythms. A dance melody led up to the first intermission.

Seymour came over and had a big smile on his face. “Say, gang, you’re great!” he said. “Come along. A lot of patrons are dying to meet you.”

“I’m not sure we should,” Frank said. He glanced about for any sign of Nettleton or Zinn.

“You’ve got to be kind to your public,” Seymour insisted. “That’s part of being in show biz.”

Unable to come up with a plausible refusal, Frank led the way down to the dance floor where a crowd was milling around. Each member of the band was promptly buttonholed by a music fan.

An effusive blond teen-ager engaged Frank in conversation. “I think your combo is too sweet for words,” she cooed.

“Er—thank you,” said Frank, who had his eye on the stage. Dale Nettleton had just come in and was tinkering with the ampliner!

Frank tried to edge away but the girl linked her arm in his. “Do tell me what you’re playing next,” she begged.

Desperately Frank went through the program. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get ready,” he said.

“That’s the only reason I’d accept,” she said archly. “Keep the rhythm coming my way!”

Frank looked back at the stage. Nettleton had vanished. Quickly the boy walked up and checked the amplifier. He found nothing wrong with it. When the band tuned up, the amp carried the sound without distortion.

“What is Nettleton up to?” Frank asked himself. But there was no time to mull over the question. The music began again. The South Forty zoomed through some melodic country rock before shifting into a louder beat.

They hit a deafening crescendo at the end of the last piece. The floor shook. The windows rattled.

And then the amplifier fell over with a terrific thump! What looked like the magnet fell off the back and rolled across the stage!

CHAPTER XVII

The Payoff

THE audience applauded at the end of the program, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. The five Bayport youths bowed.

“Fellows, I have an idea we’re a hit,” Phil said out of the corner of his mouth.

“They dig us,” Tony agreed.

But Joe hardly noticed the applause. “I can’t wait to see what fell off the amp,” he murmured.

As the audience drifted away, he leaped forward and pounced on the object. The rest of the combo gathered around him.

“It’s a lead cap,” Joe commented, “and not really part of the amp!”

“What’s it for?” Biff inquired.

“Look here,” Joe said. He picked the amplifier from the floor where it had fallen and placed the cap over the magnet at the back.

“A perfect fit,” he said. “The magnet holds it in place.”

Tony whistled softly. “No wonder the amp was top-heavy!”

Frank nodded. “That’s what fooled me when I inspected the amp. I thought the cap was the magnet.”

“I still don’t know what that hunk of lead is for,” Biff persisted.

Frank shrugged. “A lab test should give us the answer,” he said. “We’ll take it home to Bayport and find out.”

“You’re not taking anything to Bayport!” a voice interrupted. The boys turned to see Seymour Schill advancing with a scowl. “All right, hand it over!”

“Hand over what?” Joe asked in feigned ignorance.

“That chunk of lead. Give it here!” The guitarist reached out suddenly in an effort to snatch it from Joe.

But Joe was too quick for Seymour. He lobbed the piece underhand to Frank. When Seymour rushed at him, Frank made a sidearm toss to Biff Hooper. Seymour leaped forward again, only to have Biff flip the piece of lead back to Joe. This infuriated Seymour, who screamed his defiance.

Sensing something was amiss, some of the patrons of the Flickering Torch rushed toward the stage to gawk.

In the midst of the turmoil, Frank’s false mustache fell off. Frantically he tried to press it back, but no luck. What was worse, somebody identified him!

“Hardy!”

Frank glanced in the direction of the shout and saw O. K. Mudd pushing through the crowd.

“That’s Frank Hardy!” Mudd shouted. “I recognize him without his phony mustache! Grab him, Seymour!”

“Grab him yourself,” Seymour retorted. “I can’t handle all of ‘em!”

“You introduced a bunch of spies!” Mudd’s voice was hoarse with anger. “You numbskull, you let the Hardys trick you!”

“What do you want from me?” Seymour protested, his eyes bulging in frustration. “Mulholland hired them. Not me. I just took it from there.”

“Never mind.” Mudd stopped short of the group and regained control of himself. “At least we know who they are. The party’s over!” He turned to Frank. “I want that piece from the amplifier!”

“Why should we give it to you?” Frank asked.

“Because it’s not your property, that’s why.”

Phil asked, “Whose property is it?”

“It belongs to the Flickering Torch.”

“Then it’s not yours either,” Biff pointed out, “unless you own the place!”

Mudd flushed a deep red. He looked around as if searching for help. Suddenly he broke into a smile. A husky policeman approached. His hair was whitish blond and he had a slight limp.

Joe lobbed the lead cap to Frank

“What’s the beef about?” he inquired.

“Officer,” Mudd complained, “the Hardy boys and their cronies are stealing club property.”

“Like what?”

“A piece of the amplifier.”

“Let me see it!” the policeman ordered.

Joe came forward and handed him the chunk of lead. “It’s not a piece of the amplifier,” he said. “We suspect that something illegal is going on here and suggest that this be checked out in the police laboratory.”

The officer stared at him angrily. “Cut the baloney, kid,” he growled. “What are you trying to do, play FBI? I’ve got a good mind to arrest you. Get out of here while you’re still in one piece!”

He turned and gave the lead cap to Mudd, who accepted it with a triumphant smirk.

“You Hardys stay out of my way from now on,” he threatened, “or you’ll wind up under a slab in my junkyard!”

As the policeman left, Mudd and Seymour went off the stage together, talking in low tones.

“Well, how do you like that?” Biff exclaimed in disbelief.

“That cop didn’t even listen to us!” Tony complained.

“That piece of lead must have been worth an awful lot to O. K. Mudd,” Joe mused. “Too bad we couldn’t have a better look at it.”

Frank placed his guitar in its case. “Well, let’s take the policeman’s advice and get out of here. I think he would run us in if he had the chance.”

The five youths were walking toward Biff’s station wagon when Frank suddenly handed his guitar to Joe.

“We haven’t been paid!” he exclaimed. “I’m going back inside to see Bozar. I’ll meet you at the car in a few minutes.”

At the front door Frank noticed Mudd and Seymour entering the manager’s office behind the dance hall. “I’d better find out what those two are up to,” he thought. He sneaked through a clump of small trees and reached the rear of the restaurant. He ducked down and scrambled along the wall until he reached a lighted window in the far corner. Sounds of voices came from within.

Very slowly Frank raised his head and peered over the sill. A broad desk stood at one end, facing a sofa at the other end. Two easy chairs Banked the sofa.

Mudd was sitting in a swivel chair behind the desk. Seymour Schill stood on the opposite side, facing him. The junkyard proprietor opened a middle drawer and took out an envelope, which he handed to Seymour with the words, “Here’s your dough.”

The guitarist removed a bundle of bills from the envelope and counted them.

“What’s wrong?” Mudd snapped. “Don’t you trust me any more?”

Seymour snickered as he put the money in his breast pocket. “Trust you? After that little episode with the band? You’ve got an idea I let you down with the Hardys. So I wanted to be sure you didn’t short-change me.”

“The Hardys?” Mudd snarled. “Forget them. They won’t be bothering us any more. From now on it’s business as usual for you and me.”

“Okay, Mudd,” Seymour replied. “But don’t get ratty with me again. I don’t like it.”

The pair walked out of the office, Mudd turning off the lights at the door.

As Frank stood up to leave, a dry leaf crackled behind him. He whirled around in time to catch a glimpse of the policeman creeping up. The man’s nightstick flashed out and a gigantic Roman candle exploded in Frank’s head. Then he crumpled to the ground in blackness.

When Frank came to he was bound hand and foot with rope. He sat up and looked around.

Frank was in a small laboratory painted white. Fluorescent lighting threw a glare over the interior. Along one side, rows of shelves held bottles of various sizes. The opposite wall was lined with scientific instruments and small metal containers, many of lead. A table covered with test tubes and electronic equipment stood at the far end.

A low moan caused him to turn his head. Another prisoner lay near him. The man moved con vulsively, revealing his features.

Lefty the informer!

He looked haggard. His eyes were tightly closed. His lips twitched.

“Lefty!” Frank gasped. “What’s going on?”

“He can’t hear you, I’m afraid,” said a smooth voice.

Frank twisted around and saw a man in a white coat. He was carefully filling a hypodermic needle with a whitish fluid. With a sinister smile he said, “Lefty couldn’t care less about what’s going on.”

“Well, I care!” Frank snapped. “Where are we?”

“Come, come, Hardy, you know enough science to recognize an experimental laboratory. Splendidly equipped, don’t you think?”

“What kind of experiments are you carrying out?” Frank demanded.

“They concern the radioactivity of subatomic particles.”

“Uranium isotopes,” Frank guessed.

“Precisely.”

“Who are you?”

“Dr. John Weber. I’m quite distinguished in the field of physics, if I do say so myself.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Frank asked suspiciously.

“Because the information will die with you,” Dr. Weber said with a leer.

He advanced toward Frank, holding the hypodermic syringe in his left hand. The fingers of his right hand toyed with the plunger. The long needle gleamed wickedly!

CHAPTER XVIII

Diamond Dust

Back, in the station wagon, Joe fidgeted nervously. “I wonder what’s keeping Frank,” he said.

Phil shrugged. “Maybe Bozar’s trying to weasel out of the deal.”

Joe flicked on the radio and they listened to music for a while. Fifteen minutes went by. Still no sign of Frank. Joe glanced at his watch.

“That’s long enough!” he decided. “Something must have happened. I’m going back.”

“We’ll come with you,” Biff offered.

All four left the car and strode into the Flickering Torch. They found the place vacant except for employees who were cleaning up after the evening’s entertainment.

One man pushed a broom over the dance floor, while another stuffed scrap paper and soda bottles into a bag. Waiters were carrying plates and glasses into the kitchen.

Joe asked about Frank. None of the employees had seen the boy return!

Suddenly Biff grabbed Joe’s arm. “Look! There’s Seymour!” He pointed to the guitarist, who was just about to leave the building.

“Hey, Seymour!” Joe called out. “Wait! Have you seen Frank?”

Schill stopped and faced the boys. “Last time I saw your brother, he was up at the stage with the rest of you. Meanwhile I thought you all had gone home!”

“We came back to collect our fee,” Phil said pointedly.

“Didn’t Bozar pay you?”

“No.”

“He’s left already. But maybe the check’s on his desk. I’ll look.”

Seymour disappeared into the manager’s office and returned shortly.

“Here it is,” he told Joe and handed him a check made out to the South Forty. Then, with a tired wave of his hand, he left.

“Let’s search inside,” Joe said as he pocketed the check, “then we’ll scout the grounds.”

Phil and he took the main floor. They looked behind the stage and in the kitchen, finally examining the rest rooms and the check room.

Biff and Tony found their way to the cellar, which was filled with cases of soda and cartons of restaurant supplies.

“Frank, where are you?” Tony called. No reply.

The four met again after a fruitless search.

“Let’s try outside,” Joe said. He ran to the car and returned with two flashlights, then the boys circled the Flickering Torch. Their investigation of a garage behind the building revealed nothing, neither did the bushes, hedges, or the gully across the road from the restaurant.

Now the last of the lights were winking out. Joe played his flashlight against the window of Bozar’s office. Directly beneath the sill, the beam picked up a small flower bed. Zinnias and marigolds lay crushed into the soil.

“Look here,” Joe said. “Footprints! Two sets of them!”

“Frank was probably trying to look inside,” Phil said, “when somebody jumped him.”

“And he was knocked down and carried off to a car waiting at the road!” Tony conjectured. “Now what’ll we do?”

“Call the police,” Joe said without hesitation. “But first I want to get in touch with Dad.”

The boys returned to the car and drove along the road until they found a telephone booth. Joe put in a call to Bayport. He got his father and quickly told him that Frank was missing.

“A dangerous turn of events,” Mr. Hardy said. “Call the authorities. I’ll meet you at the State Police Barracks in about an hour.”

As planned, they rendezvoused at the barracks, where Lieutenant James Cook, a tall wiry man, was told about Frank’s disappearance.

“We’ll have to question everybody connected with the Flickering Torch,” he said. “Can you give me any leads other than the footprints beneath the window?”

Joe spoke up. “There have been several mysterious things going on around here.” He told of the elusive van and added, “If Frank was kidnapped, that might be a good place to hide him.”

“We’ll check it out,” Cook said, and ordered his men to set up a dragnet for the van.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Yes. I think Mudd’s airplane junkyard should be searched, too,” Joe said. “He threatened that if we didn’t lay off, we’d wind up under a slab in his junkyard! Frank might be held prisoner there!”

The lieutenant was intrigued and asked for full details of the Hardys’ case. Joe and his father quickly related all the developments in the mystery from the time they had taken on the airport investigation up to the point where the policeman had snatched the lead cap which had fallen from the amplifier.

The lieutenant nodded thoughtfully. “One thing is clear from your description of the policeman,” he said. “It doesn’t fit any of our people in this area, be it state or local police. He probably was a phony.”

“I think you’re right,” Tony added. “That fake cop must be a crony of O. K. Mudd.”

“I’ll get a search warrant for Mudd’s place,” Cook said. Then he instructed one of his assistants to broadcast a seven-state alarm for Frank Hardy, describing the young sleuth in detail.

The boys looked exhausted after their work at the Flickering Torch and the excitement that had followed.

“Why don’t you all go back to Bayport?” Fenton Hardy suggested. “You won’t be able to help at this point. Joe can stay here with me, and if we need the rest of you, we’ll give you a call. Okay?”

Phil was about to protest, but then saw the logic in the detective’s reasoning. After a quick good-by, the boys drove home in Biff’s station wagon.

Joe and his father presently fell asleep in their chairs until Lieutenant Cook woke them up.

“It took some doing at this early hour, but I’ve got a warrant to search Mudd’s premises. Want to come along?”

“Sure do,” Mr. Hardy replied, rubbing his eyes.

The lieutenant, two of his men, and the Hardys drove directly to Mudd’s home. Joe and the detective waited as the junk dealer was routed from bed. He came to the door, bleary-eyed and angry. “What’s this all about?” he grumbled.

Lieutenant Cook showed the warrant. “This is for the search of your property, Mr. Mudd. Frank Hardy is missing and we have reason to believe that you’re holding him.”

Mudd gave a nasty laugh. “You’re crazy. Go right ahead and look all you want. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

The troopers searched the house first. Then they took Mudd to his junkyard.

“This is ridiculous!” the man protested. “I don’t know anything about that Hardy kid!”

He glared angrily as the two policemen searched his office. But again there was no sign of Frank.

As they were about to leave the building, Joe spied a pipe-like object standing in one corner of the office. It was an airplane tailpost. The boy pointed to it and said, “Lieutenant Cook, I suggest we examine this!”

“Keep your hands off it!” Mudd stormed.

Cook, however, picked it up. He turned the tailpost on end and a narrow container fell out. Joe grabbed it and hit it lightly against his palm. A tiny glassy splinter dropped out.

“Hey, give that to me!” Mudd cried. He made a lunge for Joe. Before Mr. Hardy or the police could restrain him, he hit the boy two heavy blows, knocking Joe down. Instinctively the young detective made a tight fist and held on to the splinter.

“You’re under arrest!” Lieutenant Cook thundered as his men seized Mudd. They quickly subdued him and handcuffed him. Then they led Mudd to the patrol car.

Though groggy, Joe rose to his feet and said, “Lieutenant, I have a hunch that this splinter from the tailpost might give us a clue.”

“I’ll have it tested in the lab,” Cook said.

After a thorough search of the junkyard proved futile, they all drove back to the barracks, where Mudd was booked on a charge of assault and led into the holdover cell.

Cook said, “I think we’re on to something important. Mudd is really worried about what Joe found in that tailpost.”

In the laboratory Cook himself put the splinter under a high-powered microscope. He focused the lens, took a long look, and raised his head.

“Well?” Mr. Hardy inquired. “What did you find?”

“Looks like a diamond splinter to me,” the lieutenant replied, shaking his head in bafflement.

“I thought so,” Joe said. “The gang’s been transporting diamonds in the tailposts of airplanes.” He told Cook about the stones they had found on the landing strip at Marlin Crag.

“And I’ll bet this is the tailpost from Chet’s fuselage,” Joe went on. “Mudd must have realized after the sale that it still had the empty container in it.”

“But why did they steal the whole fuselage?” Cook asked, puzzled. “Why not just the tailpost?”

“They had no time to take it off,” Joe reasoned. “So they loaded up the fuselage and were gone in a few minutes.”

“A good deduction,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But we still don’t know who sent the diamonds and who received them, or why the shipment went to Marlin Crag.”

Lieutenant Cook looked thoughtful. “Mr. Hardy, why don’t we all get some sleep here before daybreak. Then I suggest you have a talk with the airport personnel, while I see if our dragnet has located the mobile X-ray.”

Mr. Hardy and Joe settled down in comfortable chairs and fell into an uneasy sleep. They awakened about eight o‘clock, had breakfast at a nearby diner, and then set off to question Steve Holmes, the airport manager.

He insisted he knew nothing about the diamonds.

“Perhaps Bill Zinn can help us,” Mr. Hardy said.

“He’s away on vacation,” Holmes replied.

“Did he leave an address?” Joe asked.

Holmes shook his head.

“What about Dale Nettleton?”

“Sorry, I can’t help you there either. Last time I saw Nettleton, he was flying to Morrisville.”

“That sounds pretty fishy,” Joe murmured. “We have two suspects who disappear at the same time!”

Just then Holmes’s telephone rang. He picked it up, listened a moment, and then handed the phone to Mr. Hardy. “For you,” he said.

The Bayport sleuth spoke briefly and hung up. “The police have made a discovery,” he said. “We’ll have to go.” Rapidly he led the way out of the terminal.

“What’s up?” Joe queried.

“They found the van.”

“Where?”

“In the woods. Lieutenant Cook told me how to get there.”

Father and son hastened to the scene. Two police cars were guarding the area.

Parked in a glen and partly concealed by overhanging tree branches stood the large van. The words MOBILE X-RAY stood out boldly on both sides.

The Hardys hastened up to it and around to the rear. Both doors stood open.

The van was empty!

CHAPTER XIX

Needle Man

LIEUTENANT Cook walked up to the Hardys.

“Is this the way you found the van?” Joe asked him.

“Yes. Except that it was locked. Whatever has been in the van was removed before we got here.”

Joe pointed to a set of tracks on the floor of the vehicle. “A large box must have been slid out and hidden somewhere, Lieutenant. Frank’s probably in it!”

Cook nodded. “I’m having my men scour the woods. But chances are the container has been taken to a building, and not necessarily in this area.”

“Well, while you’re conducting your search,” Mr. Hardy said tersely, “I’ll go back to the airport and see what I can find out there. Joe, I suggest you return to the Flickering Torch. It’s closed today, but stake it out anyhow. The gang might meet there and perhaps you’ll be able to pick up a clue. We’ll call you, Lieutenant, if there is any news.”

“Good plan,” the officer agreed.

“I don’t want to waste any time,” Mr. Hardy went on. “Could one of your men drop Joe off at the Torch?”

“Sure.”

Lieutenant Cook ordered an officer to drive Joe there at once. Minutes later Mr. Hardy set off for the airport in his car. He was just about to leave the parking lot when he heard Chet Morton’s jalopy backfire into an open space.

The detective intercepted him. “Chet! What in the world are you doing here?”

“Where’s Frank? Did you find him?” Chet asked with a worried look.

“Not yet. How did you know he was missing?”

“Biff called me. And I feel terrible, Mr. Hardy. I’ve let my buddies down. Frank and Joe were working hard on this case, and what was I doing? Making out like Snoopy and the Red Baron!”

“Don’t blame yourself, Chet,” Mr. Hardy said. “You couldn’t have prevented—”

“But maybe I could have!” Chet said grimly. “Gee, Mr. Hardy, what can I do to help find Frank?”

The detective thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, there is something you can do. But you’ll have to apply all the sleuthing you ever learned from Frank and Joe.”

“I’ll do it. What is it?”

“Joe went back to the Flickering Torch to stake out the place. It might be a good idea if you’d tail him.”

“Me? Tail Joe? What for?”

“He may be in danger. If anything happens to him, you can report to me.”

“All right,” Chet said.

Mr. Hardy cautioned him to park the car far from the Flickering Torch so that his noisy jalopy would not be a giveaway.

“Don’t worry,” Chet said, sliding behind the wheel. “I’ll hide this in the woods half a mile from the place.”

Chet rumbled out of the parking lot. True to his word, he concealed his car in a thicket far from the restaurant, then walked parallel to the road, making sure that nobody saw him.

Several hundred yards from the Flickering Torch Chet parted some bushes and peered at the place, just in time to see Joe slipping around the side of the building. Chet followed, carefully keeping a screen of trees between him and his friend.

Joe reached the window of the manager’s office, raised his head slowly, and peered in. Two persons were inside! One was a tall, dark man sitting in a swivel chair. The other was Seymour. The window was slightly ajar and Joe could hear Seymour speaking angrily.

“Bozar, I want to know what’s going on!”

Joe thought, “So that’s Bozar, the manager of the Flickering Torch!” He strained to hear more of the conversation.

“Sure, Seymour,” Bozar said. “What’s your complaint?”

“I’ve been running errands for Mudd—” Seymour began.

“Why not?” Bozar interrupted. “Mudd owns the Flickering Torch. And anyway, he paid you every time, didn’t he?”

“The money’s fine,” Seymour retorted. “But O. K. never tells me what his errands are about. I’ve never asked any questions, either. But now Frank Hardy’s missing. And there seems to be something awfully strange going on around here.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Bozar said, “So now you’re asking questions?”

“You bet your life I am,” Seymour said. “And I want some answers.”

There was the sound of a scraping chair. Joe saw Bozar stand up. “Seymour, I think you’re right. It’s time you were let in on the whole deal. But Mudd’ll have to do it, he’s the boss.”

“Where is he?” Seymour demanded.

“Go to the Midatlantic warehouse at 10 Walker Road, near Helen Avenue in Beemerville. You’ll find him there. I’ll phone ahead so he’ll be waiting for you. You have your car here?”

“Yeah. Out in front of the garage.”

Joe’s mind was in a turmoil. Was Mudd out on bail? And how could he follow Seymour? He quickly made a decision. Sneaking up to the garage, he saw a red Ford in front of it. There was no other car in sight, so it had to be Seymour’s.

Joe quickly opened the door, got in and flattened himself on the floor in the rear and waited tensely.

A minute or so later Seymour slid behind the wheel. He started the engine and headed toward Beemerville.

Watching from hiding, Chet raced back to his jalopy. He started it with the usual bang, then set out in pursuit of the red Ford. After two miles he caught up, but stayed far enough behind to avoid suspicion.

Fifteen minutes later Seymour parked in a deserted neighborhood and got out. Joe peered through the window and saw warehouses on both sides of the street.

Seymour went up to one of them and knocked loudly. The door opened and the youth slipped in. Joe heard a click as the door closed again.

Quickly Joe followed and cautiously tried the knob. It was locked! Stepping back, he looked up at the windows high above. His best chance to get at them was from the roof of a taller building so close that it nearly touched the warehouse.

“There’s about ten feet between them,” Joe mused. “Maybe I’ll be able to see something.” He ran to the fire escape of the second structure and climbed to the roof. Hastening across to the parapet, he found himself facing a window six feet below where he was standing. It was blacked out with thick paint!

Disappointed, Joe was about to descend when he spotted a ladder lying on the pebbly roof near a chimney. He carried it to the parapet, lifted it over the edge, and allowed the legs to slide down until they rested on the sill of the warehouse window. The ladder now ran between the two building at an angle.

Beneath Joe was a twenty-five-foot drop to the pavement. He tested the stability of the ladder before gingerly placing his feet on one rung. Letting go of the parapet, he climbed down.

The window was slightly open at the top, but Joe could not see through the crack. Quickly he pulled out his pocketknife and scraped away enough paint for a view inside. Then he put one eye on the glass.

On the warehouse floor sat an enormous boxlike container! Joe could see enough of the interior to make out scientific instruments ranged along one wall. A portable laboratory! At the far end of the warehouse was a delivery van.

Joe’s heart beat with excitement as his eye picked out a group to the side of the box. Seymour Schill was flanked by two men in white coats. He looked frightened, but defiant.

“I want to know what’s going on here! And no more of your soft talk! Where is O. K. Mudd?” he demanded.

“He’s been arrested. You’ll have to be satisfied with us,” one of the men replied.

“Who are you?”

“Dr. John Weber. This is my assistant, Dr. Curtice Cain.”

Dr. Cain gave a cool nod and disappeared into the lab.

“I never heard of you,” Seymour growled.

“Well, we’ve heard of you, Mr. Schill. You’ve been our courier, only you didn’t know it.”

Dr. Weber grinned. “You arranged to get us isotopes in exchange for diamonds.”

Seymour looked startled. “So that’s what Mudd was up to. Nice little racket!”

“Very nice, indeed,” Dr. Weber replied. “And we want it to keep going.”

“Too bad you can‘t,” Seymour snorted. “I’m reporting you to the police. This is the end of the line for you!”

“Not for us!” Dr. Weber snarled. “For you!”

He threw himself on Seymour and the pair tumbled to the warehouse floor.

“Curtice, help!” Weber yelled.

Cain came running from the lab bearing a hypodermic needle. He plunged it into Seymour’s arm. The guitarist went unconscious.

Working rapidly, Weber and Cain drew a tarpaulin from a compartment of the lab. They spread it on the floor, shifted Seymour onto it, and wrapped him up like a mummy.

Then the two went into the lab, each emerging a moment later with another body swathed in the same way.

“We’ll make it to the airport just in time,” Weber said as the two men went to get stretchers, one for each of the tarp-shrouded figures.

“They’ll be waiting for us,” Cain remarked, and opened the back door of the delivery van. He helped Weber to slide the stretchers inside.

The door slammed shut. Cain turned the handle to lock it into place, then he got into the front seat beside Weber, who started the engine.

The hair rose on the nape of Joe’s neck. “Frank might be on one of those stretchers!” he thought. “Somehow I’ll have to stop that truck!”

Frantically he grabbed the first rung of the ladder and began to ascend. A sound on the other end made him look up. He stared into the menacing face of Bozar!

“See anything that takes your fancy?” the man asked with a smirk and gave the ladder a violent kick. It rose and stood poised for an instant on the window sill, then it fell back, striking heavily against the parapet.

The force of the blow caused Joe to lose his balance. He slipped and plunged toward the pavement twenty-five feet below!

CHAPTER XX

Airport Ambush

JoE uttered a cry and flung out his arms in desperation. The fingers of his right hand closed over the side of the ladder and he clutched it, causing it to turn. Then, with an iron effort, he grasped the ladder with the other hand, and, feet dangling, righted it again.

As he swung his body upward, Bozar shouted, “It’s all over, kid. You’re going down!” He raised his foot to give the ladder another kick.

But suddenly the man flipped back from the parapet onto the roof. Chet Morton had him in a bear hug!

Joe regained his footing on the ladder in time to see Bozar break away, and a wild slugging match ensued. Bozar went down from a blow to the jaw. He scrambled to his feet, caught Chet with a kick in the stomach, and fled down the fire escape.

Joe climbed to the roof and helped his friend up. Blood trickled from Chet’s nose. He brushed it aside with the back of his hand and grinned. “Your dad told me to shadow you, just in case.”

“Great thinking!” Joe said. “Come on. Let’s get down. We’ve got to stop a truck!”

The two rushed to the fire escape, where they spotted Bozar far below running toward the truck. He jumped in beside the driver, then the vehicle roared off.

“He’s going to the airport!” Joe panted. “We’ll follow!”

Reaching the alley, the boys rushed to Chet’s jalopy. Chet started the motor, but it stalled seconds later with a depressing groan.

“That’s all we need!” Chet moaned and turned the key again. No action!

“You’re out of gas!” Joe exclaimed. “Look!”

Chet threw a desperate glance at the fuel gauge. Joe was right.

Just then two motorcycles whined up the street. Their youthful riders wore leather jackets, helmets, and goggles. Joe jumped out of the car, ran in front of them, and waved his hands. They screeched to a stop a few feet away.

“Fellows, we’re out of gas and we’ve got to get to the airport to stop some crooks from getting away. Can you give us a ride?”

“Why not?” one of the boys said. “Hop on!”

Chet and Joe got on the back seats and the four sped toward Marlin Crag. On the way, the Bay-porters gave their rescuers a quick explanation of what the chase was all about.

A short time later Fenton Hardy watched the delivery van drive into the airfield and head for a small plane far out on the runway.

The van stopped and the driver and his two companions leaped out. Hurriedly they opened the doors, and transferred three mummy-like bodies on stretchers to the aircraft. The pilot and another man emerged from the plane and gave them a hand.

Sensing trouble, Mr. Hardy jumped into his car and raced toward the runway. The engine of the plane started with a roar. The backwash of the propeller threw up a cloud of dust. The craft began to move while the detective was still twenty yards away.

Suddenly two motorcycles whizzed past him in a furious staccato of noise and came abreast of the taxiing airplane, one on each side. Two figures jumped off the back seats and grabbed the tail. The plane was so heavily loaded that the pilot had had trouble gathering speed, and the action slowed the craft down.

Quickly Mr. Hardy drove up to the front and cut across the plane’s path, compelling it to stop.

Nettleton glared furiously out the window as the two Hardys gathered next to the cockpit door. Zinn, who sat beside him, shook his fist. Behind them appeared the faces of Bozar, Weber, and Cain. All were fuming.

The commotion had alerted the airport police. They rushed up in two patrol cars and surrounded the plane. “Come out with your hands up!” an officer shouted through a bullhorn. Minutes later the five criminals were handcuffed and led to a squad car.

Two officers entered the plane and brought out the three stretchers. Joe and his father quickly ripped the tarps away from the bodies and revealed Frank, Lefty, and Seymour. They were breathing heavily.

“We’ll need an ambulance,” one of the policemen said. “Jack, go call—”

“Wait,” Fenton Hardy interrupted. “This may look worse than it is.”

He bent over Frank, who blinked his eyes and sat up. “Wow!” he muttered. “I thought I’d wake up in the briny deep!”

Seymour and Lefty also regained consciousness after two of the policemen had administered first aid.

Mr. Hardly quickly clued in the officer in charge, and told him that the State Police were working on the case.

“Good. We’ll take the prisoners right down there,” the officer said.

“We’ll follow in my car,” Mr. Hardy suggested.

Joe and Chet thanked their motorcycle friends, who had thoroughly enjoyed the chase. “It was a pleasure,” they assured the boys and rode off with big grins on their faces.

Lieutenant Cook had sandwiches and coffee waiting for everyone at his office, and the Hardys, Chet, Seymour, and Lefty hungrily devoured the food while piecing together the latest events.

A trooper fingerprinted the prisoners, advised them of their rights, and brought them in.

“They wanted to get rid of us,” Frank said, pointing to the quintet, “because we knew too much about the airport thefts they had going, especially the uranium isotopes.”

Lefty shuddered. “That night in Newark I meant to tell you Zinn was the top guy in the gang, working through the Midatlantic Distribution Corporation. As assistant airport manager, he could keep tabs on what shipments were coming in.”

“And he had his pilots fly without vacuum pumps whenever they transported isotopes. That’s why Scott and Martin crashed when the weather was bad,” Frank deduced. “And he removed the telltale isotopes before the wrecks were investigated.”

“When Zinn learned we were searching for information about the crashes,” Joe added, “he knew he had to get us out of the way.”

“Sure,” Chet put in. “He spied on us in Holmes’s office, heard that we were going to Mudd‘s, and called Mudd to eliminate us.”

“Luckily he failed,” Frank said. “Even though he tried it three times.”

“What do you mean three times!” Zinn protested. “Only twice—the business of the crane and the airplane wing, and the junkyard truck that smashed your car.”

“Didn’t Mudd sabotage the steering mechanism of our car?”

Zinn shook his head. “That must have been strictly coincidental.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” Frank said, looking at Nettleton. “Why did you buzz us when we flew to Marlin Crag the first time? You didn’t know us then!”

“Oh, didn’t I?” Nettleton sneered. “You think we were stupid? We found out your father was on the case and kept tabs on all of you. When I saw your plane number, I knew what you were up to!”

“But you missed, and you missed again that night at the cliffs when we were looking for the engine,” Joe put in. “Also you failed in sabotaging our boat.”

“If that big-mouth trucker hadn’t let you in on where he dropped the engine, we’d have been all right,” Nettleton growled. “You just can’t trust people.”

“Tell me something,” Mr. Hardy said. “How do Mudd and the Flickering Torch fit into your setup?”

“Figure it out yourself,” Nettleton snapped and sullenly looked at his fingernails.

“Maybe Mudd will tell us,” Lieutenant Cook suggested, then ordered one of his men to bring in the junk dealer.

“You idiot!” Zinn hissed when he entered. “If you hadn’t botched up the job two weeks ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“Oh, shut up!” Mudd muttered. “You had the chance to shoot those nosy brats and what did you do? Nothing!”

Curtice Cain, meanwhile, was arguing with Weber. “I told you we should never have gotten involved with these people! Everything went well as long as they didn’t know who we were!”

“Wait a minute,” Mr. Hardy said. “Who didn’t know who you were?”

“These—these stupid, ignorant, amateur smugglers!” Cain fumed, pointing at Zinn and his buddies.

Now a strange story unfolded. Weber and Cain had developed a new, inexpensive process of making industrial diamonds from coal through the use of uranium isotopes. By way of the criminal underground grapevine they had learned of the freight thieves and had begun buying the illicit isotopes from them without ever meeting any of the gang in person. In their mobile lab Weber and Cain changed the structure of the coal by means of the isotopes. Then they turned the product over to an unethical manufacturer in the New York area who completed the process.

The isotopes were deposited in specially fitted lead containers in the amplifiers at the Flickering Torch and Pete Guilfoyle’s barn. Weber and Cain would then pick them up at odd hours and leave the payment.

“Joe, when we went to the Flickering Torch the first time, we saw Nettleton fooling around with the amp!” Frank said. “He either made a delivery or picked up the payment!”

“No kidding!” Nettleton said sarcastically. “And if you’re real smart, you’ll tell me which one it was!”

“Probably both,” said Joe. “And how do you like this: Last Wednesday night you went to Guilfoyle’s barn in the rain, took a container with diamonds from the amp, deposited isotopes, and left. Then Weber and Cain picked up the loot when the weather had cleared.”

Nettleton glared at Weber. “That’s when you got us in trouble. Mudd told you no more rocks! I took the stuff to Morrisville and my contact refused to accept them!”

“So you brought them back and lost a couple in a bum landing,” Joe completed the thought.

Nettleton shrugged.

“How come you and Zinn let me check out your plane that day?” Frank asked. “You did transport diamonds in the tailpost!”

Nettleton grinned. “By the time you were through with my suitcase, Zinn had already removed the container.”

“Another thing I don’t understand,” Frank went on, “is why you hid the diamonds in the tailpost, but the isotopes in the vacuum pump housing?”

“We couldn’t take the isotopes out of the lead container, and it didn’t fit in the tailpost. We therefore had to find another good hiding spot, and the vacuum pump seemed the best.”

“Who’s Nick?” Joe inquired, changing the subject.

Mudd pointed his thumb at Bozar. “It’s his nickname.”

“You gotta tell ‘em everything?” Bozar grumbled. “You a big believer in confessions or what?”

“Your voice seems familiar,” Mr. Hardy put in. “You called me when you caught Lefty and told me to lay off, didn’t you?”

Bozar did not answer.

Frank turned to Lefty. “It was Zinn’s heavies who waylaid you in Newark. How did you ever wind up with Weber?”

“I was taken to the Midatlantic warehouse in Beemerville. They kept me there tied up until the van came in,” Lefty replied. “Then this guy” —he pointed to Weber—“gave me a shot in the arm and I don’t remember anything from that moment on.”

“Which brings us to the last link in the case,” Lieutenant Cook said, looking from Zinn to Weber. “How did you two ever get together?”

“It was a mistake,” Weber said resignedly. “We knew that the Hardys were working on the freight case, and should have stayed as far away from the gang as possible. But yesterday a plane circled over the van and we felt sure they were on to us, too. The first thing we had to do was hide the lab, so I got in touch with Zinn and asked him for shelter. He told us to put the portable lab in the warehouse. Then we drove the empty van back into the woods to mislead the Hardys.”

“Which was another mistake,” Zinn grumbled.

“Where did you plan to go today?” Cook continued his questioning.

“When we found out this morning that Mudd had been arrested, we figured the jig was up. We called Zinn, who said they were leaving for Canada and offered to take us along. We decided to give up the lab, despite the large investment and save our lives. Lefty, Frank Hardy, and Schill knew too much and had to be eliminated. Rather than poisoning them in the warehouse and leaving them as evidence, we decided to take them on the plane and drop them into the ocean.”

“Nice thought,” Frank muttered. “You’re awfully kind.”

“I have another question,” Joe spoke up. “Someone seemed to be spying on me and the boys last Wednesday night at Pete Guilfoyle’s barn. Who was it?”

“Curtice kept the place under surveillance since we had a pickup at night. We usually did that, just a routine precaution.”

Joe nodded. “I also found a guitar pick outside the barn.”

“No wonder, with all those musicians around,” Nettleton said.

“Coming back to the beginning of the whole thing,” Frank said to Zinn, “did your pilots know they were transporting contraband?”

“No. Martin Weiss and Jack Scott became suspicious but crashed before they found out anything definite.”

“How come the FAA didn’t find the isotopes?”

“We got there ahead of them,” Zinn replied.

The telephone rang and Lieutenant Cook answered. When he had finished, he said, “That was the Morrisville police. They have closed down the Midatlantic operation and arrested all suspects, including a pilot. Late last night Scotland Yard made their move in London and got the exporters of the isotopes, who in turn revealed their contacts in New York. The New York police are rounding up everyone on that end. Which just about solves our case.”

“As far as the isotopes are concerned,” Frank agreed. “But what about the other freight heists?”

“The cargo was either flown to Morrisville, New Jersey, or trucked to various locations in New York State. The Morrisville and New York police have all the information on that. And, what’s more, they know the names of everyone concerned with the distribution. It’ll take a few days to round up all the people connected, but thanks to Mr. Hardy we know exactly whom to look for.”

Mr. Hardy grinned. “It was a hard case to crack, but as Frank once said, ‘the harder the better!’”

The young sleuths relaxed momentarily in the glow of success. But another knotty mystery, to be known as The Melted Coins, was to challenge the Hardys in the near future.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Highway Trouble

CHAPTER II - Motel Knockout

CHAPTER III - The False Face Society

CHAPTER IV - Treasure Below

CHAPTER V - The Ghost Driver

CHAPTER VI - Masked Stowaway

CHAPTER VII - No Admittance, Please!

CHAPTER VIII - A Flattened Foe

CHAPTER IX - A Close Call

CHAPTER X - Surprise Connection

CHAPTER XI - Footsteps in the Dark

CHAPTER XII - Trustworthy Men

CHAPTER XIII - A Startled Seneca

CHAPTER XIV - Hot on the Trail

CHAPTER XV - On the Brink

CHAPTER XVI - Thieves Strike Twice

CHAPTER XVII - A Telltale Cobweb

CHAPTER XVIII - Smashed Evidence

CHAPTER XIX - Lendo’s Dilemma

CHAPTER XX - A Rebellious Youth

THE MELTED COINS

FRANK and Joe Hardy suspect that their best friend Chet Morton is the victim of a summer school swindle and offer to help get his money back. While probing a baffling burglary at the Seneca Indian Reservation in New York State they investigate Zoar College located nearby.

Clues that Frank and Joe uncover indicate that there is a connection between the Zoar College swindle and the theft of the Senecas’ gold tribal relic Spoon Mouth. This startling discovery propels the teen-age sleuths into a series of perplexing and dangerous situations.

Two strange-acting college professors, a valuable coin collection, and a taciturn Indian who refuses to discuss the mystery surrounding Spoon Mouth—all blend into a fast-paced story with several surprise twists that will thrill the vast legion of Hardy boys’ fans.

Joe hung on tight

Copyright © 1970, 1944, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDYBOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-155243

eISBN : 978-1-101-07637-8

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Highway Trouble

CHET Morton strode about the Hardys’ living room, waving a white booklet. “I tell you, fellows, I’ll be a college man in just a few months!”

Joe Hardy, blond-haired and seventeen, looked skeptical. “A six-week summer course at Zoar College in New York State will get you a full year’s credit?”

“Of course. It says so right here.”

Joe’s brother Frank, dark-haired and a year older, took the brochure and scanned it. “Listen, Chet. I wouldn’t pay more than the twenty-five dollars’ application fee until I saw the place!”

Just then his father entered. Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous detective, was a tall, athletic-looking man.

“Did I hear you mention Zoar Valley?” he asked. “If you’re going there, how about doing some sleuthing for me?”

Joe grinned. “Any time, Dad. What’s it all about?”

Mr. Hardy seated himself in an armchair. “It has something to do with the Indians at the Seneca Reservation near Zoar Valley. Rod Jimerson, a Seneca who lives in Cleveland, phoned me recently asking me to take a case for him. It involves somebody known as Spoon Mouth.”

“Spoon Mouth?” Chet said. “Reminds me of food.” He called to the boys’ aunt as she passed the kitchen door. “Oh, Aunt Gertrude, could you make me a cream cheese and salami sandwich?”

“Here we go again!” Joe ribbed their roly-poly buddy, who would rather eat than sleuth. “I suppose you want the salami lean and the crust trimmed from the bread.”

“What else?” Chet said breezily. He handed the Zoar College brochure to Frank and lumbered into the kitchen.

Mr. Hardy’s peppery spinster sister disapproved of the detective work in which her nephews were constantly involved. She scolded them often for getting themselves into dangerous situations, but her affection showed through, especially when it came to cooking up a tasty dish.

With a deftness born of long practice, she now whipped a sandwich onto the kitchen table and placed a tall glass of milk beside it. Chet made short work of the treat, then rejoined Frank, Joe, and their father, who was studying the catalog.

“I think you’d better check up on this college, Chet,” Mr. Hardy said. “It seems like a very small faculty.”

“That’s right, sir. I figured that it’s pretty exclusive. Only the best professors.”

“Or else the leftovers,” Frank said.

“Well, you’ve got a few weeks before it opens,” the detective said. “It might not be a bad idea to drive out there and look the place over.”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “And if we find Spoon Mouth, we’ll see if he has a bigger appetite than Chet!”

Mr. Hardy said that he hoped he was not sending them on a wild-goose chase. “I’d go myself,” he declared, “but I’m working on a mail fraud case and can’t get away.” He added that the call from Rod Jimerson had been garbled. “The connection was bad, and finally we were cut off. But I have his address in Cleveland.”

“Hey, I have an idea!” Chet spoke up. “You know, I sent my application to the Zoar College offices in Cleveland. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone and check there first!”

“Good idea.” Joe was enthusiastic. “When do we leave?”

“How about tomorrow?” Chet asked.

“Okay,” Frank said. “Let’s start about six in the morning. We can take the New York Thruway for a good part of the trip.”

By the middle of the next morning, Bayport had been left far behind. Chet lolled in the back seat. Frank was driving. Long before noon, Chet complained of a maddening hunger. The trio stopped for gasoline, hot dogs, and cold drinks. Then Joe spelled Frank at the wheel.

At an even speed they passed through the beautiful rolling country of New York State. The highway divider was sometimes a meadow, sometimes a craggy island of trees.

As Joe drove up a hill Chet called out, “Hey, look at that guy! He’s having trouble!”

A quarter of a mile away, in the opposite lane, a car approached with front wheels wobbling. Joe slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder to watch the crippled vehicle.

Suddenly it swerved onto the center island and careened over the grass.

“Holy Toledo!” Joe said. “He’s going to hit us!”

He gunned the motor, whipping up gravel as the convertible shot forward. The oncoming car missed them by inches, rolled into a ditch, and landed on its top, all four wheels spinning.

Joe set the emergency brake and the three boys jumped out and ran to the wreck. Inside they saw a man and woman, both elderly, struggling to get out. In the rear seat were two huge German shepherds.

“Good night! Look at those dogs! Chet said.

“He’s going to hit us!” Joe cried out

He gingerly opened the rear door while Frank and Joe took care of the people in front. They were pulled out, dazed, but there was no sign of serious injury.

The dogs, too, looked befuddled. Chet found their leashes in the rear and snapped them onto the collars of the groggy beasts.

“Better sit down on the grass,” Frank said to the couple as he and Joe eased them onto the ground. Chet tethered the dogs to the door handle, then examined the front wheels, which by now had stopped spinning.

“Your steering is shot!” he said. “How did it happen?”

The man smiled wanly. “I don’t know. All of a sudden I couldn’t control the car and tried to push the brake.”

“I think you must have gotten excited and hit the gas instead,” Joe said, “the way you shot across the median strip.”

The woman spoke for the first time. Her hands were shaking as a result of the shock. “They’ve been calling back a lot of cars recently. Maybe this is one of the faulty ones.”

“Well, your garage mechanic will find out soon enough,” Frank said. “Do you live around here?”

“No, we live in Hawk Head,” the man replied. “I’m Dr. Rideau and this is my wife.”

As the boys introduced themselves, cars driving by were slowing down to rubberneck at the wreck and soon a State Police car pulled up. Frank told what they had seen and added, “It was a miraculous escape, Officer. They seem to be okay.”

“We can’t take chances,” the policeman replied. “I’ll get an ambulance.” He walked to his car and radioed for help.

Frank, Joe, and Chet gave their names as witnesses to the accident, then said good-by to the Rideaus.

“I’m a retired dentist,” the man said, shaking Joe’s hand. “You have been very kind to us. If you should find yourself in our area, please drop in to see us. Remember—Hawk Head, New York.”

“You must come for dinner,” Mrs. Rideau added.

Chet beamed. “You bet we will. Thanks for the invitation.”

The boys proceeded without further incident the rest of the day. It was night before they reached Cleveland, and they found a comfortable motel at the edge of the city. Tired from the long trip, they went to bed right after dinner.

“We’ll look up Rod Jimerson first thing in the morning,” Frank said.

“Wait a minute,” Chet pleaded. “Since you’re so suspicious of Zoar College, why don’t we go there first? If it’s a phony, I want my twenty-five dollars back.”

“I thought you were convinced it was a great college,” Joe reminded him.

“Well, you never—can—tell.” Chet’s lips puffed a couple of times, then he dropped off into a gentle snore.

As they finished breakfast the next morning, Frank reconsidered their plans. “Okay, Chet, we’ll take your advice and go to the Zoar office first,” he said.

With Frank at the wheel, they drove into downtown Cleveland. Joe studied the map and directed his brother. They passed the tall new buildings, drove into a side street, and continued into an older part of the city.

“Good night, is it down here?” asked Chet.

Glancing up at a row of dilapidated buildings, he spied the faded number on a dirty glass door. Frank parked the car in the next open spot. He locked it and the trio walked back.

“There must be some mistake,” Chet mumbled.

“Well, you said it was exclusive,” Joe needled.

They took a rickety self-service elevator to the third floor, walked down a hall, and came to a door marked Z.C.

Stepping inside, they found themselves in a dingy office. To the left was a switchboard, presided over by a stout blond girl who chewed gum furiously. She pulled out a plug and adjusted her headset. Then she swung around in her chair and stared at the visitors. “Yes, please?”

“We’d like to speak to somebody from Zoar College,” Chet spoke up.

The switchboard buzzed, and the girl turned around, inserting a jack. “Yes, this is the Bondway Trucking Company.... No, there’s nobody in. ... Will you leave a message?”

She jotted down something on a pad, pulled the plug, and looked at the boys.

“We must be in the wrong office,” Frank said.

“No you’re not,” the girl said matter-of-factly.

“We don’t want a trucking company,” Joe informed her.

“I answer the phone for them. They have desk space here,” she replied tartly.

Just then a door opened and a thin youth who looked about nineteen drifted into the office. He had a sallow face and huge eyes partly covered by a mop of hair.

The girl nodded toward him. “They’re looking for Zoar College,” she said.

“What do you want?” the youth asked coldly.

Chet blurted, “I paid my twenty-five bucks and I want to be sure—”

The boy looked him up and down slowly. “Take down his address and phone number, Mabel.”

Frank brought out a matchbook he had taken from their motel which bore the address and number.

“Room fifteen,” he said.

“We’ll be in touch with you,” the woman said.

The boys left. As they walked down the windy street, Frank glanced over his shoulder and noticed the youth behind them. Then a gust blew up and he had to squint to keep dust from getting into his eyes.

“What do you make of that high-class establishment?” Joe asked Frank.

“Think it’s a phony?” Chet queried.

Frank shrugged. “Wait till they call us. We’ll probably find out then.”

“Where to now?” Joe asked.

“We’ll go see Dad’s client.”

Frank consulted a street map for the address their father had given them. It was clear across town in a residential section. They found the house, parked, and walked up to the door.

A woman answered the bell. She said that Rod Jimerson had a room there but was at work.

“Do you mind telling us where?” Frank asked.

“Not at all. He’s an ironworker on one of the new office buildings going up downtown.” She gave directions and the boys thanked her.

On the way to the car, Joe happened to glance back. “Hey, isn’t that the creepy office boy from Zoar College?” he asked.

“Looks like him,” Frank replied.

The youth was slumped behind the wheel of a fairly new car parked some distance behind them.

“Why is he tailing us?” Chet wondered nervously.

“Maybe he wants to return your twenty-five bucks,” Joe quipped.

“He doesn’t strike me as the charitable type,” Frank said. “I don’t like this.”

After turning several corners they managed to lose the trailing car. Soon they came to the construction site. Frank had to drive around the block three times before finding a suitable parking spot.

The building loomed above them like a giant skeleton, its bare steel beams towering skyward. On the street was a freight elevator. Beside it was a stack of hardhats used by the construction men.

“Where can we find Rod Jimerson?” Joe asked a man who was loading brick onto the elevator.

“He’s up with the angels, right on top.”

“Mind if we join you?”

“Hop aboard if it’s important.”

“It sure is.”

The elevator rattled to the top, where the boys stepped off onto a narrow platform. Construction workers were guiding a girder, which was being lowered by a boom.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” a workman demanded.

“Are you the foreman?” Frank asked.

“That’s me.”

“We’d like to speak to Rod Jimerson.”

“Who gave you permission to come up here?”

“Nobody,” Joe said. “But we’d like to see Jimerson for a moment. It’s important.”

“Okay, he’s over there. But be careful!” The foreman pointed to a young man tightening a bolt with a large wrench.

Joe stepped toward him, balancing on top of a high beam. He looked down, then quickly averted his eyes from the long drop.

He had moved only a few steps when a blast of wind whipped across the top of the framework. Joe teetered, lost his balance, and plunged!

CHAPTER II

Motel Knockout

JoE dropped with arms outstretched, wrists bent and fingers clawed like grappling hooks. He touched the edge of the girder and hung on tight.

Shouts went up all around him but he heard them only faintly as his body swayed in the stiff wind. His knuckles grew white. The strength seemed to be draining out of his aching arms.

“Hold it, I’ll get you!” Rod Jimerson called out. He put his tool aside and worked his way along the girder. Leaning over, he grasped Joe’s wrists in his viselike hands, then hoisted the exhausted boy up beside him.

“Easy now,” he said, and guided Joe back along the girder to the platform where Frank and Chet stood, white-faced but vastly relieved.

“Thank you,” Joe managed to say weakly. “Boy, I thought my number was up!”

“We almost had to pick you up in pieces,” Frank said.

“That was a careless thing to do,” the foreman yelled angrily at Joe.

Rod Jimerson held up his hand. “Hold it, Mike! He’s had enough. I don’t think he realized how dangerous it was.”

The foreman mopped his head. “I know, I know. But I’m responsible up here and an accident is all I need!” Shaking his head, he walked away.

“We came to see you, Mr. Jimerson,” Frank spoke up.

“You did?” The Seneca’s eyebrows lifted and his tanned forehead wrinkled above his high cheekbones. “Well, let’s go down to the street where we can talk.”

After the freight elevator had rattled to the bottom of the steel frame, all four stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk and stood in the shade of a gallery which protected pedestrians.

“Now, what’s it all about?” Rod Jimerson asked.

Frank quickly told him the story and added, “It seems you had a bad phone connection, Mr. Jimerson. But why didn’t you call Dad back later?”

“I did, but the line was busy. Then other things came up.”

“Well,” Joe said, who by now had recovered from his shock, “we’re here to help you if we can.”

“What about this person called Spoon Mouth?” Frank put in. “Is he lost or did he run away?”

Rod Jimerson laughed, tilted back his hardhat, and said, “Spoon Mouth is not a person.” He explained that Spoon Mouth was a highly revered object which had been stolen from the Indians.

“Something like an idol, you mean?” Chet asked.

“No, I wouldn’t say that. There’s a lot to tell, but I’ve got to get back to work.” He glanced at his watch and added, “Where are you fellows staying? Maybe I could meet you tonight.”

“Okay,” Frank said, and gave the Indian their address. “I know you’re not getting paid to bat the breeze, Mr. Jimerson.”

“Rod.”

“Good enough, Rod.” Frank shook his hand. “Suppose we meet at the motel at nine.”

“Suits me.”

Frank watched the Seneca return to the elevator and press the buzzer. Soon he was soaring to the top of the steel skeleton.

“He looks like a real interesting guy,” Chet remarked as they returned to the car.

“And is he strong!” Joe added. “He picked me up like a sack of potatoes.”

They had just entered their room in the motel when the phone rang. Frank dashed for it and lifted the receiver. The voice at the other end was smooth and self-possessed. The man identified himself as Dr. John Snedecker, president of Zoar College.

“Then you want to speak to Chet Morton,” Frank said. “He’s right here, sir. Hold the wire.”

Chet took the phone and smiled into the mouthpiece. “Hello, Dr. Snedecker.”

There was silence for a few moments. “Oh, I knew there must have been a mistake.... You say I went to the wrong office? .. Yes, sir. Hold on until I get the new number.” Quickly he jotted it down on a pad next to the telephone.

There was more talk on the other end, then Chet said, “Suppose I bring my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy.” A pause. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Now what was that all about?” Frank said after Chet had hung up.

“This call proves that I was right after all,” Chet said with an air of injured dignity. He explained that Dr. Snedecker wanted him to come to their new offices. “I asked to take you along, but he said he was too busy to have anyone else in on the conversation.”

“What do you think he’ll tell you?” Joe asked as he flopped down on one of the beds.

“I don’t know,” Chet replied with a shrug. “Guess he just wants to interview his future star student.”

“That’ll be the day!” Frank said, poking Chet’s massive rib cage. “When is your appointment, hotshot?”

“Right away, sooner if possible,” Chet replied. He stood before the mirror, using the palms of his hands to smooth his hair which had been whipped by the wind.

“Where?”

Chet gave the name of the building and the room number.

“Look, Chet, I don’t like the idea of your going there alone,” Frank said. “Remember that creepy guy who followed us?”

“Don’t worry. I can handle him.”

Nonetheless the Hardys convinced their friend that they should at least accompany him to the place. They would then wait downstairs in the lobby while he had his interview.

The building was an outstanding steel-and-glass model of architectural beauty. The boys pushed through the front doors, walked into an impressive lobby, and escorted Chet to a bank of elevators.

“Take it easy now,” Joe advised him. “And don’t let any gorgeous secretaries turn your head.”

“I’m perfectly immune to such charms,” Chet said loftily. He stepped into an elevator, punched the number eight button, and a second later was gone.

Frank and Joe turned to wander about the vast lobby. “Maybe the college deal is not a phony after all,” Joe said.

“Let’s have a look at the directory board,” Frank suggested.

They walked to a huge board listing the tenants who occupied the building. Frank looked under the Z column.

“Joe, they’re not listed.”

“Well, obviously they just moved here. Maybe they haven’t been entered on the board yet.”

“I have a hunch that Chet might be in trouble. Let’s go after him!”

They went across the hall and saw one of the elevators yawn open. Quickly they stepped inside, pushed the number eight button, and started upward.

Alighting at the eighth floor, Frank and Joe looked left and right, then did a double-take as Chet approached them with a lively spring in his gait. His round face was beaming.

“Is everything all right?” Joe asked.

“Certainly,” Chet replied. “As a matter of fact, it sounds just beautiful!” He reported that Dr. Snedecker had been extremely cordial. “He even offered to return my money if I had any doubts about his college.”

“Did you take it?”

“Of course not. I refused. With offices like those, old Snedecker must be worth a million!”

“I still don’t like the whole thing,” Frank said, glancing uneasily at Joe. “You and Chet go on down. I’m going to check out this Suite 825.”

“But, Frank—” Chet started to protest.

Joe steered him to the elevator. “Come on. Big boss knows what he’s doing.”

Frank walked down the hall, found the number, and stepped into a small vestibule. It was tastefully decorated with a Louis XIV chair, small marble-top table, and a vase filled with artificial flowers. An inner door was marked with gilded letters, but they did not announce Zoar College. Instead, they spelled out Magnitude Merchandising Mart.

Frank opened the door and stepped inside. A smiling, attractive dark-haired receptionist, smartly dressed, sat behind a desk. Several doors led into cubicle offices.

“May I help you?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied. His eyes roved about and he leaned first on one foot, then the other, feigning embarrassment.

“Well, what is it?” the girl went on.

“I guess I have the wrong place,” Frank said. “I’m looking for Zoar College.”

The receptionist smiled even more sweetly and flicked a wisp of raven hair back in place. “Yes, I’m afraid you do,” she said.

“Well, is there a Dr. Snedecker here?” Frank asked, still gawking about.

“Look, young man, this is not a doctor’s office. I must ask you to leave.”

“No offense,” Frank said. “Thank you, miss.” He backed out of the office, returned to the elevator, and joined the others in the lobby.

“Hi, wasn’t that brunette a doll?” Chet asked.

“I thought you weren’t susceptible to female charms,” Frank replied.

“She’s Snedecker’s secretary,” Chet went on, ignoring the gibe. “Took me right into his office. Brand-new place, you know. They just moved in. Didn’t have time to put the name on the door yet.”

“That’s strange. Your doll didn’t even know Snedecker when I asked for him,” Frank replied.

Chet’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? Well, perhaps you’re talking about a different girl.”

Frank did not pursue the matter. “How about chauffeuring us back, Chet?”

“Sure thing.” Chet walked on ahead while Frank quickly briefed his brother.

“Wow, what a hoax!” Joe said. “How can poor Chet be so naive?”

Frank shrugged. “Maybe that brunette blinded him to the harsh facts of life!”

Chet drove carefully, threading his way through the heavy traffic in the downtown streets. He pulled up in front of their motel room, jumped out of the car, and opened the door for Frank and Joe with a smart salute.

Frank went along with the game. “Thank you, James,” he said with a grin.

Joe inserted the key in the lock. When he opened the door, all three gasped at what they saw. The place had been ransacked! Their suitcases lay open, and their clothes were strewn about. Frank reached over to pull a T-shirt from the top of a mirror.

“Somebody’s trying to give us the old one-two,” Joe said in disgust. He held up a pair of slacks with the legs cut to shreds.

“And my new jacket!” Chet moaned. It had been slashed beyond repair.

“Okay, fellows. Let’s report this,” Frank said, his voice shaking with anger. They hastened to the motel office and told the manager, who called the police.

An officer arrived within a few minutes and looked over the situation.

“Nothing is missing,” Joe said. “But a lot of things are damaged.”

The policeman shook his head. “There has been a lot of vandalism in the area,” he said. “This is terrible!”

“But why would anyone do this to us?” Chet asked.

The officer shrugged. “We’ll keep a watch on this place. If we find out anything, we’ll let you know.”

The boys began to straighten up the room after he had left. “I don’t think this is just an ordinary case of vandalism,” Frank said thoughtfully. “I have a hunch somebody around here doesn’t care for us and did this to get rid of us.”

“Maybe Dr. Snedecker didn’t like your poking your nose into his office, Frank,” Joe suggested.

“But that’s ridiculous!” Chet protested.

“Calm down, Chet,” Frank said. “You know we can’t overlook any possibility.”

“How about something to eat?” Joe asked. “I’m getting hungry.”

“That’s for me!” Chet perked up, and the three went out to dinner.

When they returned to the motel they discussed the strange events again. Presently they heard someone walking up to their door. Before they had a chance to see who it was, there was a gasp and a thud.

Frank jumped up and opened the door. A man lay on the welcome mat, unconscious.

Rod Jimerson!

CHAPTER III

The False Face Society

FRANK and Joe leaned down to pick up the fallen man. Putting his arms over their shoulders, they carried him into their room and placed him on a bed.

Chet dashed into the bathroom to soak a wash-cloth with cold water. When he put it against Jimerson’s face, the Indian shook his head, blinked, and slowly sat up.

“Somebody bushwhacked you,” Frank told him.

Jimerson winced and put a hand to the back of his head. “You’re not kidding!” He got up and made his way to a chair. Chet and Frank sat on the beds, while Joe pulled over a hassock.

“Rod, do you have any enemies?” Frank asked. “Somebody who’d want to bop you on the head like that?”

“None at all,” Jimerson replied. He squinted as if searching his memory. “I can’t think of anybody. How about you fellows? Maybe someone was after you!”

Frank shrugged. “Our room was vandalized while we were out. It’s quite possible that you were mistaken for one of us.”

The ironworker snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. There is one man I don’t like—or rather, I think, he doesn’t like me!”

“Who is it?” Joe inquired.

“Lendo Wallace. He’s an Indian from the reservation. We’re both members of the False Face Society.”

The boys looked confused, so Rod explained that some of the Senecas still believed in their old religion. “The society is part of it,” he said. “The false faces represent spirits. In the spring and the fall we go through the homes in our community wearing them to drive out evil spirits.”

“Sounds eerie,” Chet remarked.

Rod grinned and went on, “Some of the false faces are medicine masks and have powers to cure diseases. They’re blocked out on a living tree, then the chunk is cut away and the carving finished elsewhere.”

“Must be hard on the tree,” Joe said.

“The carver takes care of that all right,” Jimerson went on. “First, the tree is placated by burning tobacco leaves beneath it. We wave the smoke high up in the branches and the tree understands that the carving is for a good purpose.” He smiled. “Most of them heal.”

“But what about Lendo Wallace?” Frank pressed. “What has he got against you?”

Rod said that in the past year, rare and valuable medicine masks, some of them very old, had been disappearing from the homes of various members of the tribe.

“Our longhouse was even raided once and some of the ancient false faces taken,” he remarked.

“What’s the longhouse?” Chet asked.

“Our community building, where we meet for ceremonies and dances.” Rod frowned. “Without the medicine faces, we can’t hold our ceremonies.”

“How does Wallace fit into all this?” asked Joe.

“He’s the leader of the False Face Society. Some of us think he ought to be more concerned about these thefts, and I’ve told him so. I’m afraid he didn’t like that.”

Jimerson rubbed his chin thoughtfully and added, “He doesn’t seem to worry about the thefts. Maybe he’s possessed by an evil spirit himself, because all this happened after Spoon Mouth was stolen.”

“This case seems to be even more complicated than we at first thought,” Frank said. “Spoon Mouth was stolen, you said?”

“I know it’s confusing to an outsider,” Rod said. “Just be patient; I’ll explain.”

As the three listened intently, he told them that Spoon Mouth was a flat golden replica of a Spoon Mouth false face. Taking a pencil and a pad which lay beside the telephone, he drew a queer-looking face, with a mouth like a figure eight lying on its side.

Joe chuckled. “That boy is well-named. Each end of his mouth is round as a spoon!”

“Right. With his protruding lips he’s quite a scary sight,” Rod said. “He was found by my tribe during the French and Indian Wars.”

“When was that?” Chet remarked, scratching his head.

“They went on for seventy-four years until 1763. The relic was found near the end. Some of the tribe believed it to be a protector of the Five Nations.”

“You lost me again,” Chet said.

Rod smiled. “There used to be Five Nations in the Iroquois federation. The Senecas were one of them. Later there were six. My ancestors thought the relic had been blessed by Orinda, the Life Spirit, because after its discovery the Indians were extremely successful in battle.”

“I don’t know much about the Iroquois,” Joe said.

“That’s right,” Frank agreed. “Mostly we hear about the Western Indians.”

“There are still plenty of us in the East,” Rod said. He added that many of his tribe were employed as ironworkers, both in Cleveland and New York City.

“That’s probably because you’re so fearless,” Chet said.

Jimerson smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t say we’re fearless. But some of us don’t mind heights.”

“Did you want my father to find out who stole the false faces?” Frank spoke up.

“Yes. They are tremendously important to our tribe.”

“Well, he’s on another case, but he sent us to look into this matter. And I think we should start out by learning more about this fellow Lendo Wallace and the False Face Society.”

Rod referred the boys to his mother, who lived on the Yellow Springs Reservation. “She knows all about everybody,” he said. “Perhaps my kid brother is there, too. He’s been working in Buffalo lately.”

“Okay, Rod. We’ll go there tomorrow,” Frank promised.

“Good. Once we get Spoon Mouth back, I think things will go much better with the tribe,” Rod said. Looking directly at Chet, he added, “If you see my mother, ask for her specialty, corn soup.”

Chet grinned. “How did you know I like to eat?”

“Just guessed.” Rod then mentioned a fee for the boys’ sleuthing services, but Frank waved him off. “Don’t worry about that now,” he said.

“Okav, fellows, I’ll be seeing you.” Rod gave each a finger-crushing handshake and departed.

In mock horror, Chet pried one finger from the other. “That guy thinks he’s holding a wrench,” he complained. “Well, when are we leaving?”

Joe suggested the next morning and added, “It’s not far from Hawk Head. Perhaps we can stop and say hello to the Rideaus.”

“Good thought. They invited us for dinner!”

The next day when the boys were checking out of the motel, the manager said, “I have a letter for Chet Morton.”

Looking pleased, the stout boy took the envelope and opened it. As he studied the letter, his chin fell. “From Zoar College,” he said and read it to the Hardys:

“‘Dear Mr. Morton: On checking your credentials we find that you are ineligible for the Zoar College summer course.’ ”

Enclosed with the note was Chet’s money. “What a rotten trick!” he grumbled. “What do you make of this?”

“I told you before I thought the whole thing was fishy,” Frank replied. “Anyway, you got your money back.”

“It’s strange that they sent it in cash,” Joe remarked. “Let’s go see this Zoar College when we get upstate New York.”

“Okay. Before we leave, I think we ought to call home,” Frank said.

While Joe paid the bill, he put in a call to his father, giving him a quick rundown on what had happened. When Mr. Hardy heard the name Magnitude Merchandising Mart he let out a low whistle.

“What’s the matter, Dad? Do you know that outfit?” Frank asked.

“I’ve heard about it and it bears some investigating.”

“Connected with your mail fraud case?”

“Yes, Frank. But keep it under your hat for the time being at least. You fellows may have handed me a good lead.”

The detective wished his sons luck in the Spoon Mouth case, but warned them to be careful. “I suggest you leave Cleveland immediately,” he concluded.

“We intend to, Dad. In fact we’re on our way now,” Frank told him and hung up.

Ten minutes later they were rolling along the highway out of Cleveland, enjoying the morning sunshine. Chet luxuriated in the back seat, taking in the beauty of the countryside. He happened to glance behind him.

“Oh, no!” he moaned. “There’s Creepy again!”

“The office boy? Are you sure?” Frank asked, looking into the rear-view mirror.

He slowed down and the trailing car did likewise. The cat-and-mouse game lasted for miles. Then, slowed nearly to a stop by two passing trucks, Creepy tailgated, touching his front bumper to the rear of the convertible.

“Hope he doesn’t play any hot-rod tricks,” Joe said.

Chet turned around, shook his fist, and shouted, “Get off our backs, Creepy!”

With traffic flowing again, their pursuer poured on the gas, pushing the Hardys’ car ahead. Frank knew this could easily throw them out of control. He accelerated, but still Creepy’s car bore hard against the convertible.

As their back end slewed around, the pillar of an overpass loomed in front of them. Frank’s expert driving prevented a head-on crash, but the convertible sideswiped the concrete and came to a grinding halt.

Creepy’s car flashed by and was lost in the traffic ahead. Moments later a police car, siren wailing, drove up and stopped. The officer was polite but firm. After examining Frank’s license, he said, “Looks as if you fellows were hot-rodding along here.”

“We weren’t,” Frank protested, and told what had happened.

“One of your buddies playing footsy with you?” the officer asked.

“He wasn’t our buddy!” Joe said hotly.

The officer half smiled, indicating he did not believe their story. He proceeded to write out a summons.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Frank. “The charge is careless driving. The judge will be receiving guests tonight between eight and nine.”

“You mean our whole day’s shot?” Frank exclaimed. “We’ll have to wait around?”

“I didn’t make the rules,” the policeman replied. While he held up traffic, Frank started the car. It groaned and scratched as it finally cleared the abutment. The officer acted as escort while the damaged car crossed the median strip and pulled into the opposite flow of traffic.

Joe was furious. “Boy, just let me get my hands on that creepy character and he won’t recognize himself when I’m through with him!”

“He sure got us into a first-class jam,” Frank agreed. “And obviously for a reason.”

“I can’t figure it out,” Chet put in. “If he wanted to get rid of us, why didn’t he just let us go? We were leaving Cleveland.”

“He probably figured we’d go upstate and have a look at the college,” Frank said. “And they’ve got something to hide!”

For the rest of the day the boys went from one body shop to another, getting estimates on the repair work. They did not leave the car to be fixed, however.

“We’d better wait till tomorrow and see what happens in court tonight,” Frank decided.

“That’s right,” Chet said glumly. “We might not even have enough money left to continue the trip.”

At eight o’clock the boys reported to court and sat on a bench waiting for their turn. Fines were meted out to several drivers before their case came up.

The judge was a man in his middle thirties with a touch of gray at the temples and a severe mouth. He examined the summons, then reached for another piece of paper. After studying it, he said, “You Bayporters are really up to high jinks. Don’t you know it’s unsafe to cut in and out along the highway?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Frank said.

“I have received no less than three complaints from motorists in this area today.” He read Frank’s license plate number. “That’s you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“These drivers,” the judge went on, “said you were cutting in and out of traffic endangering their lives!”

“That’s a lie!’ Joe said hotly. ”Somebody is trying to frame us!”

The judge frowned. Unimpressed by Joe’s protest, he announced, “I sentence you to a fine of fifty dollars and three days in jail!”

CHAPTER IV

Treasure Below

“BUT that’s not fair! You can’t do this to my brother!” Joe declared. “He’s innocent!”

“Silence!” the judge replied. “Something has to be done to make an example of young people using our highways to play games!”

“But, Your Honor, those complaints are faked!” said Frank. “Won’t you please give us a chance for an investigation of our own?”

The judge studied the three boys for a moment, then said, “I’ll give you four days of grace before you start to serve your sentence. You are not allowed to leave this area. Next case!”

Frank hurried to the nearest public telephone. With Joe and Chet crowding around him, he dialed their home in Bayport. No one was there.

“Try Radley,” Joe advised. Sam Radley was Mr. Hardy’s operative. He was home.

Frank explained his predicament and said, “Sam, this is a real SOS. If I can’t prove I was framed I’ll be spending some time in the cooler.”

“Okay. Where are you staying?”

“In the Ohio Motel. We stayed there before and I’m sure we’ll get another room.”

“I’ll catch the next flight out and meet you there,” Sam said.

Radley arrived at the motel early the next morning. “Good thing I was home,” he said with a grin. “Your father’s out of town on his mail fraud case. Now give me the details!”

Frank reported what had happened the night before, and Radley started to work at once. It did not take the experienced detective long to check out the complaints against Frank. One was from a man who had died the year before. Another man had moved and was a resident of California. The third complaint was fictitious.

When Sam met the boys for lunch in the motel coffee shop, he waved a piece of paper in his hand. “All right, you’re off the hook. Here’s your release, signed by the judge!”

The trio broke into relieved exclamations and questions.

“How’d you manage to get hold of the judge so fast?” Frank asked, almost unbelieving.

“Don’t ask me. It was one of my greater achievements.”

“Sam, thanks a million,” Joe said. “Without you we would have been sunk.”

“Forget it. When are you going to hit the Indian trail?”

“As soon as we rent a car,” Frank said.

“Okay. I’ll take the convertible to a shop and have it repaired,” Sam went on. “All you have to do is pick it up later.”

“Great!” Joe said. “Then are you going back home?”

“No. I’ll stay here for a few days and check out the Magnitude Merchandising Mart. I want to meet that doll Chet’s been talking about!”

Frank chuckled. “You might be marching into a lion’s den. Better watch your step.”

“Never fear. If you run into any trouble, call me at the Ohio.”

“Will do. And thanks again, Sam!”

An hour later the boys set off in a rented hard-top. With Chet at the wheel, the Hardys relaxed and Joe studied the road map.

“We’ll go through Hawk Head on our way to Yellow Springs,” Joe said. “So let’s stop at the Rideaus’ for dinner.”

Late in the afternoon they arrived in the little town. A gas-station attendant directed them to the Rideau home, which was Victorian gingerbread style, large and comfortable-looking. It was surrounded by wide sloping lawns. At the rear an old barn sat on a high knob of ground.

They pulled into the drive, got out, and stretched. Instantly a screen door banged open and the two German shepherds streaked out, barking.

“Hello, doggies,” Chet said nervously. “Nice doggies...”

They raced toward him with muffled growls.

“Hey, look, we’re friends,” Frank said.

One of the dogs jumped up on Chet, and draped his forefeet over the bov’s shoulders. Chet backed up, stumbled, and landed flat on his back. Frank made a dive for the car and Joe leaped for the lower limb of a nearby maple tree. He swung onto the branch and looked down on the other dog, who stood with his paws against the trunk.

As Chet struggled, Mrs. Rideau came out of the front door. “Tay! Boots! Come back here this instant!”

The animals turned and trotted toward their mistress. Chet got up groggily, Frank emerged from the car, and Joe jumped down from the tree.

“Hello, Mrs. Rideau,” Frank said. “Do you remember us?”

“Why, of course,” the woman replied. “Come on in. Don’t mind these brutes. We need them to protect our home.”

Joe wondered why, in a peaceful little town like Hawk Head, they needed that much protection. Chet brushed off his clothes and followed Frank and Joe into the old-fashioned living room.

“Please sit down,” Mrs. Rideau said. “I’ll get the doctor. He’s in the basement with his coins.”

She left the room and the boys heard her footsteps going down the basement stairs.

Frank looked around. The room contained overstuffed, well-worn furniture. The walls were decorated with pictures, and certificates testifying that Dr. Rideau had won several prizes for his coin collection.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and the elderly man preceded his wife into the room. He was dressed in baggy slacks and a sport shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

He shook hands with his callers. “Welcome to our home,” he said and eased himself into one of the big armchairs. “We didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“We’re on our way to Yellow Springs,” Frank said.

“Some business with the Indians?” the doctor asked, with a frown of disapproval.

“Yes,” Joe said. “We have to do a little investigating for our father. He’s a detective.”

“Do you know anything about the Senecas at Yellow Springs?” Frank asked.

Their host shot a quick glance at his wife, clearing his throat. “Yes, we know about them. By the way, we got our car repaired, and it turned out it was tampered with!”

Frank realized the man was deliberately changing the subject. But before he could ask any questions, the doctor began to speak about his coin collection, which apparently was a tremendously valuable one.

“If you have any money to invest,” he said with conviction, “put it into coins. They will never lose their value. Better than stocks and bonds—a hedge against inflation.”

“You must have quite a treasure,” Chet spoke up.

“Indeed I do! I have a vault in my cellar full of coins.”

Joe gave a whistle. “Isn’t it risky to have so much money around, Doctor?”

The doctor assured them that he was well-protected. The vault was made of concrete and steel and the combination was known only to him and his wife.

“And we have the dogs to protect us, too,” Mrs. Rideau put in. “They are very friendly with people they know, but with strangers—”

“You don’t have to tell us!” Chet blurted out. “One of them almost ate me up!”

Mrs. Rideau smiled. “Not really.”

At that moment the animals pawed at the front door and Mrs. Rideau let them in. They lay down on the living-room rug, their front paws supporting their heads, and carefully watched the callers.

The doctor cleared his throat again. “To tell the truth, we had a little trouble recently.”

“Trouble?” Frank asked. “Tell us about it.”

The man said that ever since their return, they had noticed indications of someone trying to get into the house: sounds of prowlers and rattling door handles had awakened them at night. They had also found that a window screen had been jimmied.

“Thank goodness for the dogs,” Mrs. Rideau said. “They scared away whoever it was.”

“There seems to be a connection between the tampered car and these disturbances,” Frank said. “Do you have any suspicions?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Rideau said emphatically. “The Senecas!”

“Why do you suspect the Indians?” Chet inquired.

“Because there is a rumor among them that I have their melted coins!” Dr. Rideau replied.

“Melted coins?” Joe repeated. “What good would they be to you? And what good are they to them?”

“They have no value for a collector whatever,” answered the doctor. “And their gold value is not high. But I suppose the Indians feel that they are valuable.”

“It was the Senecas all right,” Mrs. Rideau said stubbornly. “We can’t prove it, of course.”

The boys did not know what to make of the strange story, but before Frank could ask any further questions, Mrs. Rideau said:

“I think you boys have heard enough about coins. Will you stay to dinner with us?”

“And it would hardly be advisable to continue your trip tonight,” the doctor added. “You’re welcome to stay till tomorrow.”

“We’d love to have dinner with you,” Frank said. “But don’t bother making extra beds. We can put up at a motel.”

“Nonsense,” Dr. Rideau replied and launched into a lecture on thrift. “You’ll never get rich spending money needlessly. Stay with us.”

Chet immediately visualized a comfortable guest room with a soft feather bed upstairs. But that was not the plan. “You can sleep in the barn,” the doctor went on. “We have tenants who occupy the second floor.”

Mrs. Rideau headed for the kitchen. “Dinner will be on the table in a few minutes.”

When they had eaten heartily of lamb chops, mashed potatoes, and broccoli, Joe felt he could sleep anywhere. He drove the car around to the barn, which had a sloping ramp leading up to the doors. The boys pulled them open and found folding cots with thin mattresses prepared for the night.

“The Waldorf it’s not.” Joe chuckled. “But I suppose it’ll be all right.”

“I’m so full and tired that I couldn’t care less where I sleep,” Chet said.

“Okay, let’s go back and say good night to the Rideaus, then we’ll turn in,” Frank suggested.

As they walked toward the house the front door opened and two men walked out. They turned left and the boys did not get a good look at them.

When they asked Mrs. Rideau about them, she explained that the two men were Professors Mockton and Glade. “They have been staying with us for several months,” she said.

“Professors?” Chet pricked up his ears.

“Yes. They are actually researchers,” the woman replied. “They’re studying the Indians—college professors, you know.”

Before going back to the barn, Frank and Joe got flashlights from their car and laid them beside their cots. Then they settled down for the night. Chet could not get comfortable, finding his hips a little too broad for the narrow cot.

“We should have gone to a motel after all,” he grumbled. Sitting up, he looked around in the gloom. He spied a pile of hay near the door. “That’s better,” he said. He threw his mattress on top of it and sank down into the hay.

Soon all was quiet, except for the even breathing of the boys. In the middle of the night Chet woke up. Something heavy was resting on his chest. His fingers explored cautiously and encountered coarse hair!

He yelled.

Frank and Joe sat bolt upright. “What’s the matter, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Something’s on my chest!”

The Hardys grabbed their lights and turned them on. The object on Chet was a grotesque red Indian mask. It was the ugliest face they had ever seen!

CHAPTER V

The Ghost Driver

CHET had been frightened by the feel of the hairy mask lying on his chest. Now, with the yellow glow of the flashlights full upon it, he picked it up with a sound of disgust.

The mask had horrible features—leering eyes made of copper, a large twisted nose, and a grotesque misshappen mouth. The hair was a long, white tangled mass.

“Holy Toledo!” Chet said. “Not the kind of think I like to wake up with!” He tossed it aside and leaped up.

Frank and Joe had already gotten out of bed and headed for the door. “Come on,” said Joe. “Whoever left that pretty souvenir might still be around!”

With flashlights beaming, Frank circled the barn in one direction, Chet and Joe in the other. There was no one in sight. They carefully looked about a large forsythia bush and searched in the tall grass, but to no avail.

As they met in front of the barn Chet happened to glance toward the house. “Look, fellows!” he said, pointing to the second floor. They saw a faint glow of light flick off in one of the windows.

“Do you suppose it was those professors?” Chet asked.

Frank shrugged. “Why would they do a thing like that?”

The boys returned to the barn. Chet looked around for the mask. “Hey, which one of you guys took it?”

“Somebody must have come in here and taken it,” Frank declared, “while we were searching outside!”

“Or else somebody has been hiding in here all along,” Joe said.

Beaming their flashlights back and forth, they covered every cranny but found no one. Finally Chet settled back on his straw bed and tried to sleep.

“I think I’ll hitchhike to Bayport,” he said. “This place is too spooky for me.”

“That’s just what somebody wants us to do,” Frank said. “If we get scared, we’ll play directly into his hands.”

“But why would anyone want to scare us?” Chet asked.

“Did it occur to you that this mask wasn’t meant for us personally, but for any visitor the Rideaus might have?” Joe conjectured. “Whoever wants to get them out of the house might have done it.”

“Who knows?” Frank said. “In any case I think one of us should stand guard for the rest of the night.”

“I’ll take the first watch,” Joe volunteered, and soon the other two were asleep again. Two hours later Joe woke Frank, who took over.

About eight o’clock they all got up. They dressed and sat around till they saw Mrs. Rideau passing the kitchen window.

“Okay,” Joe said. “Guess we can go in now.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Chet remarked on the way to the house. “It could have been the Senecas who played that little trick.”

“Provided that the Rideaus’ suspicions are correct,” Joe said. “But we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

“Let’s not tell the Rideaus of this incident until we find out more about the Senecas,” Frank put in.

The doctor and his wife greeted the boys with hearty good morning’s and told them breakfast would be ready soon.

After washing up and brushing their hair, they sat around the table, enjoying ham and eggs.

Frank adroitly steered the conversation to the tenants upstairs. “I suppose they’ve left for their research work already,” he said.

“Oh, yes. They left unusually early.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances, finished their breakfast, and pushed back their chairs. They thanked the Rideaus for their hospitality, then decided to go for a walk.

“It would be good to stretch our legs,” Joe admitted. “Where are the dogs?”

“In the basement,” Mrs. Rideau replied. “We thought it would be better while you’re here.”

The boys grinned and went outside.

“Come on,” Frank said in a low voice. “Let’s give that barn the once-over in daylight.”

Joe climbed to the dusty hayloft with a pitchfork in his hand and pushed it gently through every pile of hay. It was evident nobody was hiding there.

Frank and Chet examined the stalls, apparently empty of horses for many years. They smelled of rotting hay, and decaying harnesses hung from pegs on the wall. No clues were uncovered.

“I still think those professors bear some investigating,” Joe declared.

“You’re right, but we have nothing to go on. Wish we could talk to them about their research. But we’d better be going.”

The boys said good-by to the Rideaus and Joe headed the car toward the Senecas’ ancestral lands. Through farmland, the road rose gradually to a high plateau.

Chet spotted a sign on a dirt road. Zoar College! An arrow pointed to the right toward the woods beyond the fields.

“Wait a minute!” Chet cried out. “What did I tell you? There is a Zoar College after all! Let’s go see it.”

“Okay,” said Joe. He pulled into the dirt road. It dipped down, skirted a short knoll, and ended in a cul-de-sac.

“I don’t see any college,” Frank said.

The boys glanced around. Joe said, “It can’t be that—that—” He pointed to two low buildings, which looked like overgrown chicken coops. The weeds grew almost to the windowsills, and the front door in one of the structures hung on a broken hinge.

The three got out of the car and walked over. A weather-beaten sign on the door proclaimed that it was, indeed, Zoar College.

“Aren’t you glad you’re not enrolled after all?” Frank asked Chet with a chuckle.

His friend was at a loss for words. He just shook his head in disbelief.

“Let’s have a look around inside,” Joe suggested.

The interior consisted of one large room. A blackboard was on one wall. On it a few mathematical problems were barely visible in moldering chalk. A desk laden with dust in the front of the room faced a dozen rickety chairs.

Chet sneezed sharply and a bird fluttered down from the rafters, streaking out the front door.

“That’s the ornithology prof,” Frank joked.

“What a racket!” Chet murmured.

“You know, this setup might be within the law,” Frank said. “It provides some facilities and it is in the beautiful Zoar Valley, not far from Niagara Falls, just as the catalog pointed out.”

“I wonder how many other guys were taken in by it,” Chet muttered.

“Don’t worry, we’ll try to expose this outfit,” Frank said and he looked about for evidence.

Joe poked among the scraps of paper on the floor. He found a sheet with sketches of Indian masks and Chet came up with a booklet stating that Indian lore was one of the courses given.

The boys studied the sketches. On the back of the sheet, in faint ink, was the name Nuremberg Museum. Next to it was the figure $5,000.

“I wonder what all this means,” Frank said thoughtfully.

Chet shrugged and started to walk out the door. “Come on, fellows. I’ve seen enough,” he said.

Just then they were startled by the sound of a motor. They dashed out to see their rented hard-top turning around and going down the road.

Chet gasped. “There’s nobody at the wheel!” he exclaimed.

“That’s the ornithology prof,” Frank joked

The trio stopped short in surprise. The apparently driverless car churned up dust and disappeared around the knoll.

“Well,” said Frank grimly, “I guess we’ll walk!”

“I could kick myself for leaving the key in the ignition,” Joe muttered. “But whoever thought there would be thieves out this way!”

“What thieves?” Chet demanded. “It was a ghost!”

“A ghost who ducked,” Frank declared. “Come on. Let’s get to the highway.”

The Hardys strode up the hill with Chet puffing along behind. Emerging from the woods, they looked across the fields and could hardly believe what they saw! The car was parked near the highway! All three started to run.

“Let’s not make any noise,” Frank warned. “That ‘ghost’ might still be inside!”

Frank and Joe sneaked up on either side of the car. No one was in it, but on the seat lay a miniature Indian mask. It had a twisted nose and a wry mouth! Next to it was a scribbled note:

Hardys are evil spirits. We will drive you out!

CHAPTER VI

Masked Stowaway

FRANK fingered the miniature false face. “Now it looks as if the Indians want to give us the old heave-ho,” he said.

“I’m getting an inferiority complex,” Joe complained. “Nobody wants us around!”

“So let’s go home,” Chet urged.

“What?” Joe asked in mock horror. “And miss Mother Jimerson’s corn soup?”

“You’ve got a point there,” Chet agreed. “Besides, you two were called the evil spirits, not me!”

The boys got into the car, and as Joe drove off, they mulled over the events of the last few minutes. Whoever had gone off with the automobile must have been a small fellow who had crouched low behind the wheel. But how did he get away?

“Maybe another car picked him up,” Joe ventured.

“Or perhaps he’s still lurking around here,” suggested Chet.

“What I can’t figure out,” Frank said, “is why did the guy bother to move the car? He could have put the mask in without going through all that trouble.”

“I suppose he wanted to give us a scare by apparently leaving us without transportation,” Joe deduced.

“Well, from now on we’d better be very careful,” said Frank.

Soon they passed a sign marked Yellow Springs and stopped at a small grocery to ask directions to Mrs. Jimerson’s house. It turned out to be a small, one-story dwelling set far back from the road. A sign beside the driveway advertised the fact that the owner, Mrs. Jimerson, sold handwoven Indian baskets.

The boys drove up the lane and parked. As they approached the door, a stout woman with a round, ruddy face came out. Her hair, black but slightly graying, was pulled back into a braided bun. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Would you like to buy some baskets?” she asked.

“Well, er—no,” Frank said. “Are you Mrs. Jimerson?”

“Yes.”

Frank mentioned her son in Cleveland and she beckoned them into a combination living room and workroom. Indian baskets were stacked up on one side. Most were completed, but others were in various stages of weaving. The boys glanced about, feeling a little uncomfortable at first because the woman did not speak. She just watched them. Finally she said, “Is my son Rod all right?”

“He’s fine,” Frank replied.

“A great guy with the steel girders,” Chet put in. He sniffed a culinary aroma in the air and glanced at Joe. He was just about to say something about it, but Joe silently shook his head.

“Rod told us about Lendo Wallace,” Frank spoke up, “and the disappearance of the Indian masks, Mrs. Jimerson. We’re detectives.”

“Oh?”

There was an awkward silence, but Mrs. Jimerson did not volunteer any information. Finally Chet said, “Something smells real good around here.” His eyes rolled. “I think it might be corn soup!”

Mrs. Jimerson smiled. “Do you like corn soup?”

“You bet! It’s my favorite!”

“Well”—Mrs. Jimerson studied Chet’s plump, earnest face—“you shall have some.”

She pulled three chairs to a table in one corner of the room and motioned for the boys to be seated. Then she went into the kitchen, and soon returned with a tray on which were three deep bowls of piping hot soup.

The young sleuths ate with relish, dipping in thick slices of homemade bread. Chet, who was finished first, looked appreciatively at Mrs. Jimerson.

“Would you like some more?” she asked.

At Chet’s happy nod she quickly refilled the bowl. Then she began shyly to ask them questions. What were their names and where were they from? What were they doing in Seneca country and how did they happen to know about Rod?

Frank, as spokesman, gave her a general idea of their mission. “We’d like to help solve the mystery of the missing masks,” he said.

The look on Mrs. Jimerson’s face indicated that she might be opposed to outside interference.

Just then Joe glanced at Chet who was spooning the final mouthful of soup. “Chet, you look just like Spoon Mouth!” he quipped.

“No,” Mrs. Jimerson objected. “Chet is a fine-looking boy and plump like boys should be!”

Frank and Joe laughed and so did Chet and the Indian woman. Now that she had relaxed, she began to talk more freely.

“Many years ago,” she said, “near Lake Erie, lived a man who mistreated Indians. He had two joys in life, the quest for money and the harassment of the redskins in the area.

“One night his house burned down and he was consumed in the flames. Many people, knowing that he was rich, searched in vain for a cache of gold coins supposedly hidden in his house.”

Wide-eyed, Chet blurted, “Were they found?”

“Not at first. But Indians finally found them.”

“Great!” Joe said.

“Yes and no,” Mrs. Jimerson continued. “The coins were melted, but strangely they were fused in the form of Spoon Mouth.”

Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances. “You mean the melted coins and Spoon Mouth are one and the same?” Frank asked.

“Yes. I assumed you knew.”

“What an odd coincidence,” Chet said.

“Maybe not,” Mrs. Jimerson continued. “The Indians felt that this had been done by their creator as a sign. The gold Spoon Mouth was carried into battle as their mascot and brought them exceptional luck. He was handed down from generation to generation.”

“Hey, look!” Chet interrupted. He had been staring out of the window, idly watching their car. The trunk lid was opening slowly!

The boys crowded to the window. As the lid opened wider and wider, a slender figure emerged from the trunk and ran off. A nylon stocking had been pulled over his face to hide his features.

Frank, Joe, and Chet nearly fell over themselves, dashing for the door. Mrs. Jimerson looked on in surprise.

“Where’d he go?” Frank cried out.

“I think he ran over this way,” Joe said, and dashed toward a neighboring yard.

Chet did not know which direction to take. He stood still and looked all about. The intruder was built very much like Creepy, he thought, but why would he follow them to Yellow Springs?

Frank and Joe came back, panting. “He got away,” Frank declared, “that’s for sure. He must know this territory pretty well.”

“Which would suggest that he was an Indian,” said Joe.

“He looked like Creepy to me,” Chet muttered.

They went back to their car and looked inside the trunk. Everything seemed to be in its place, the spare tire, the tool kit wrapped and secure next to the jack.

“So he didn’t get a ride at the highway near Zoar College after all and came with us all the way to Yellow Springs,” Frank said.

“What a nut!” Joe shook his head.

The boys apologized to Mrs. Jimerson for running off and explained what had happened. They seated themselves at the table again, waiting for her to relate more of the legend about Spoon Mouth.

She said that the golden relic had been kept at the new Seneca longhouse, a modern frame building nearby.

“Then he was stolen,” she said sadly. “We don’t know who did it. But many of our people feel now that the tribe is in disfavor with the spirits.”

“Mrs. Jimerson,” Frank said, “do you have any suspicion at all as to who took the relic?” The woman did not answer right away. Finally she shrugged and said, “No. No suspicions.”

“Can you tell us some more about Lendo Wallace, the head of the False Face Society?” Frank went on. “Rod mentioned him briefly and—”

Just then a fierce explosion ripped the air and rattled the windows!

CHAPTER VII

No Admittance, Please!

THE boys and Mrs. Jimerson were momentarily stunned by the blast. They looked out the window and saw that the trunk lid of the Hardys’ car had blown open.

“Come on!” Frank cried out.

The three boys hastened outside.

“Oh, no!” Joe exclaimed. “What a mess!”

The back seat was blown out, their luggage ripped open, the trunk cover a total loss and a tire punctured.

The Indian woman came out of the house, shaking her head. “What in the world happened?” she asked.

“Somebody’s plenty mad at us,” Frank said grimly.

“You’ve been asking too many embarrassing questions,” Chet said. “Especially in Cleveland. Could be the Zoar College people are worried that you’ll expose their racket.”

“No doubt we were supposed to be in the car when the charge went off,” Frank mused.

“And in the hospital now,” Joe added.

Frank turned to Mrs. Jimerson. “Do you think the Senecas have something against us?”

“No, of course not. Why should they?”

Frank inspected the car again. “The bomb was probably hidden in the tool kit,” he said. “Well, let’s see if she’s still running.”

He turned the key and found out that the mechanical workings, fortunately, were not damaged.

The boys thanked Mrs. Jimerson for her hospitality. Chet assured her that the corn soup was the best he had ever tasted. Then they climbed into the front seat and drove off.

“We’ll have to find a motel,” Frank said. “And then I suggest that one of us drive this car back to Cleveland and pick up our own.”

“I’ll go,” Chet volunteered.

“Okay,” said Frank. He drove to a long, low building bearing the name Sunset Motel. It advertised fourteen rooms and two suites.

As they applied at the desk for accommodations, the affable manager smiled. “You’re kind of early, aren’t you?” he said.

Frank looked blank. “What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you college boys? Several students from Zoar College stayed here last summer,” the man replied. He jerked his thumb toward the back of the motel. “One of them left his motorcycle behind.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “That may answer a question for us,” he said. “We’re going to need transportation. Our friend is taking the car back to Cleveland where we rented it.”

“Is the motorcycle in working order?” Frank asked.

“I think so. It was kept under a tarpaulin all winter.”

“May we use it?”

“Help yourselves, fellows.”

The boys took their broken baggage to their room, then said good-by to Chet, who set off for Ohio.

“The car is undoubtedly covered by insurance,” Frank told him. “If there is any trouble about it, have the rental company contact Sam Radley.”

Chet waved as he drove away and Joe turned to his brother. “What now, fearless leader?”

“I’d say Lendo Wallace is next on our list. We’ll beard the lion in his den.”

“Okay, let’s see if we can get this motorcycle started.”

They walked around to the back of the motel, pulled the tarpaulin off the machine, then checked the spark plugs and the gas tank.

“No reason why she shouldn’t turn over,” Joe declared as he wheeled the cycle toward the driveway in front of the motel.

He got on and kicked it a couple of times. The machine backfired, sending out a puff of white smoke. On the next try Joe was successful. At first the noisy engine sounded like a helicopter, then settled down to a throaty roar.

Frank, meanwhile, had gone inside to get directions for Lendo Wallace’s place. He returned, hopped on the back, and they shot off down the road. Soon they reached the lane leading to Wallace’s house. It was more of a shack than Mrs. Jimerson’s and the Hardys felt sorry for the way some Indians had to live.

The two dismounted, set the machine on the kickstand, and approached the shanty.

“This job may be ticklish,” Joe said.

Frank nodded as they strode on. “All the same, let’s not beat around the bush.”

They knocked on the screen door. A man pushed it open and stepped outside. He was short with a tanned face and square shoulders. His general appearance was one of lean agility.

“Mr. Wallace?” Frank asked.

The man nodded.

Frank introduced himself and Joe, then said, “We’d like to talk with you. May we come in?”

Lendo Wallace eyed them coolly. “If you have something to discuss, we can do it out here.”

The hostility in his voice indicated that getting information from the Indian was going to be more difficult than they had anticipated.

“All right,” Frank said. “We’ll talk out here.”

Seeing a chopping block with a hatchet bedded in its surface, he walked over to it and sat down casually.

Wallace glared at him for a moment, but when Joe hunkered down beside his brother, the Indian relaxed a bit and said, “All right. Talk. What do you want?”

Frank decided to aim the first question right on target. “Mr. Wallace,” he said, “what do you know about Spoon Mouth?”

The Indian stiffened. His eyes darted from one boy to the other. The only reply was a shrug. Before the Hardys had a chance to ask another question, a chauffeured Cadillac drove slowly past Wallace’s shack. It stopped two hundred yards down the road, turned about, and came back again.

A youth in the back seat was leaning out the window. He cupped his hands and shouted something unintelligible.

“What does he want?” asked Joe.

The youth tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder, said something, and the limousine drove on.

“What was that all about?” said Frank, scratching his head.

“Maybe that guy thought he knew us,” Joe suggested.

The young detectives turned their attention to Wallace once more. He was scowling. “I don’t intend to talk about Spoon Mouth or anything else,” he declared.

“It’s very important to your tribe that the golden relic be found, isn’t it?” Joe asked.

“It is,” the Indian had to admit. His eyes were deeply troubled.

“Do you know how it was stolen?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“What about the disappearance of the false faces?” said Joe. “Can’t you give us some idea what’s going on around here?”

Wallace’s face grew taut, and he said, “If the police cannot find out, how do you expect to?” Before the boys could reply, he added, “It is none of your business anyhow, nor Rod Jimerson’s either!”

The Hardys were dumbfounded.

“How did you know Rod sent us?” Frank demanded.

Wallace shrugged. “I guessed it. He’s been bugging me about this all along.” With that he turned on his heels and went inside his shack.

“Well, he wasn’t very informative,” Joe said.

“He’s so hostile you’d think he stole the masks himself,” Frank declared.

“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “He looks as if he’s in bad trouble. But somehow he doesn’t strike me as a thief.”

Frank got on the motorcycle, grabbed the handle bars, and Joe vaulted on the seat behind him. With a powerful growl, the machine leaped ahead and they enjoyed the cool breeze whipping their faces as they rode toward the motel.

When they reached it they noticed a Cadillac standing in front of one of the suites.

“Hey, Frank! It looks like the one that passed us before!” Joe shouted over the roar.

Frank nodded. Smoothly he applied the brakes and the cycle rolled toward a stop. Before either of the boys could dismount, a young man stepped into view. He was older than the Hardys, perhaps nineteen or twenty, thickset, with black hair and an unsmiling face.

He took a few quick steps forward, lunged at Joe, and struck him on the shoulder. The Hardys lost their balance and were spilled to the ground. The motorcycle fell on top, pinning them to the driveway!

CHAPTER VIII

A Flattened Foe

WINCING with pain, Frank and Joe untangled themselves from the fallen bike. They limped to their feet, righted the cycle, and brushed the dust from their clothes.

Joe had suffered the most damage. His right leg and arm were skinned. His chafed elbow smarted and blood oozed through his shirt.

Angrily the boys walked toward the perpetrator of the mean trick, who stood and smirked.

“Now what was the big idea?” Frank asked sharply.

Joe was hot with indignation. He clenched his fists and pressed past him. “Why ask any questions, Frank? Let me sock the jerk!”

Frank put out an arm and held Joe back. “Easy now. I’ll handle this.” He turned.

“Why did you knock us down?” he demanded, standing nose to nose with the larger boy, who wore an expression of childish amusement.

“You were riding my cycle without permission,” he said finally.

“Your cycle?” Joe said. “Why, we—”

The motel manager, having heard the commotion, hastened up to the trio. “I can explain everything,” he said. “I gave them permission to use the bike!”

The youth looked at him coldly. “You knew it belonged to me, didn’t you?”

“It’s been around here a long time. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“You were wrong!” the youth said haughtily.

The manager backed off and returned to his office.

“Come on, Joe,” Frank said. “Let’s go.”

They strode to their room and closed the door.

“I don’t see how you could take that,” Joe said.

“Listen, Joe. We’re here to do a job,” Frank declared. “Getting into a big hassle won’t help us at all.”

Joe pulled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water stung his abrasions, but the bleeding had stopped. He was toweling himself gingerly when the phone rang.

Frank picked it up. It was the manager, who was full of apologies. The youth, he said, was Elmont Chidsee. He had been going to Zoar College for three summers and was to be graduated this year.

“He had an awful nerve knocking us off the bike like that,” Frank said. “Maybe Joe should have bopped him after all.”

The man explained that Chidsee was an indolent type who spent most of his time loafing on a fat allowance from a rich uncle.

“He thinks he’s great, all right,” Frank said, and added, “Why in the world would anybody come for three years to a phony place like Zoar?”

“Because no other school would have him,” the manager replied. “Well, I hope your brother is okay.” With that he hung up.

Frank relayed the information to Joe, then he stripped and stepped into the shower. When both boys were dressed again, a bold knock sounded on the door. Joe opened it to see Chidsee standing there, the same smirk on his face.

Joe was surprised by the visit, and his face showed it.

“Don’t worry,” Chidsee said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“How nice of you!” Joe replied sarcastically. “What do you want?”

“You broke my bike!”

“No kidding!”

“I want you to fix it!”

“Fix it yourself!”

“He probably doesn’t know how,” Frank put in. “We’ll do it!”

His matter-of-fact tone puzzled the Zoar student.

“Most likely some dust in the ignition,” Frank went on, and the Hardys walked over to the motorcycle. Frank checked it out, and in no time at all had it running again.

Chidsee looked on all the while, with an envious half-smile. He curled his lips. “You fellows seem to know just what to do. Maybe you loused it up on purpose.”

“Of course, of course,” Frank said, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. “We do this all the time!”

There was no word of thanks from Chidsee. Instead, he declared imperiously, “Now remember, keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you!”

Joe’s lips tightened. “Same goes for you, Chidsee!” he said, putting a hand on his left shoulder. “This, for instance, belongs to me. So stay away!”

Elmont Chidsee sneered and moved in on Joe. “Oh, yeah? How would you like the other one pushed?”

Frank quickly stepped between them.

“Out of my way!” Chidsee growled.

Frank realized that argument was futile. With lightning speed he whipped a left hand into Elmont’s midsection.

“Oof!” Chidsee doubled over, only to meet a stiff right-hand uppercut to his chin.

With glazed eyes he staggered backward on rubbery legs. He stumbled over his own feet and sat down on the pavement.

Just then another car drove into the motel parking area. It stopped and a man leaned out the window to observe the ludicrous look on Chidsee’s face. He chuckled, turned his head to Frank, and said, “Wow! What a belt!”

Chidsee’s chauffeur came out of their suite to see what had happened. He ran over to the boy and helped him to his feet. Elmont Chidsee rubbed his chin, grimaced at the pain, and muttered to the Hardys, “I’ll get even with you for this!”

“We’re looking forward to seeing you again, chum!” Joe said with a grin.

The chauffeur took Chidsee’s arm and pulled him into their apartment. The door slammed shut.

“Nice going, Frank!” Joe praised his brother.

“He had it coming,” Frank replied. “Maybe he’ll lay off now.”

“I doubt it.”

For the rest of the day the Hardys studied a map of the area, familiarizing themselves completely with Yellow Springs and the Indian Reservation.

Their sympathetic motel host was a great help. He pointed out whatever the boys wanted to know.

“One thing we need,” Joe said that evening, “is some kind of transportation.”

“With luck,” Frank said, “Chet ought to be back tomorrow. Or at least the day after. Meanwhile, we’ll spy on Wallace.”

The next morning, the boys put on dark trousers and each selected a green sport shirt, to look as inconspicuous as possible in their sleuthing.

The small motel dining room provided a hearty breakfast. Frank and Joe looked around for Chidsee and his chauffeur, but they had not yet appeared.

“They probably get room service,” Frank said with a chuckle.

“Who knows? With his sore jaw Chidsee might not be able to eat at all,” Joe replied.

“It wouldn’t hurt him to lose some of his blubber around the middle,” Frank said. “He’s not in such good condition.”

The boys got a stack of sandwiches and a canteen of water from the kitchen, then hiked along the road to Wallace’s place. On the way they discussed Chidsee.

“How can a guy spend all his time driving around with a chauffeur!” Joe said. “I wonder if he has any friends.”

“I heard jokes about boys with rich uncles,” Frank said humorously, “but I’ve never met one before.”

“He certainly is a spoiled brat,” Joe remarked.

Traffic was light, but the Hardys kept an eye peeled for Wallace, also for the masked attacker who had blown up their car, and for Chidsee.

“I expect more trouble from him,” Joe said. “If his Caddy comes along, dive for cover!”

“Look, there’s Wallace’s house,” Frank said a few seconds later and pointed.

The two moved off the road and into a shallow ditch, screened on all sides by grass and tall weeds.

Frank reasoned that Wallace, having been alerted by their investigation, would probably contact a confederate, if, indeed, he was mixed up in the disappearance of the masks.

“Watch it!” Joe cautioned.

As they peered through the weeds the door of the shack opened. The Indian stepped out, holding a small hatchet in his right hand. A knife was tucked inside his belt. He looked about, then moved toward the woods at the back of his property.

“Come on. Let’s follow him,” Frank said.

Wallace glanced back several times, but the Hardys were on the alert and dropped to the grass unseen. Once among the tall trees, cover was better.

Frank and Joe kept Wallace’s bobbing figure in sight. They crouched low and were careful not to step on crackling twigs. Finally the Indian stopped and surveyed a basswood tree.

Joe whispered, “He’s not going to cut it down with that little hatchet, is he?”

“No. Look!”

The man raised his hatchet and with deft strokes began to chip into the smooth bark. Then he put the hatchet down, pulled out his knife, and with elbows held tightly against the trunk for leverage, he used both hands to carve into the wood.

The Hardys advanced as close as they could, fascinated by the skill of the carver. With long, curving strokes he fashioned a crooked nose, then the wry, lopsided mouth.

Joe pressed close to Frank’s ear. “That’s the same kind of mask that scared Chet in the barn!” he whispered.

Wallace stopped abruptly. He wheeled around, looked hard, and listened. The boys held their breath and remained absolutely motionless. Then Wallace returned to work.

Frank beckoned to Joe, and they backed off into the woods.

“What fantastic hearing that fellow has,” said Joe when they were safely away from the area.

“You nearly blew our cover!”

“Sorry about that,” Joe replied, and added, “Maybe he specializes in that Broken Nose mask. Do you suppose he’s the one that put Old Horror Puss on top of Chet that night?”

“It’s a possibility,” Frank admitted.

They retreated to the edge of the woods and kept a vigil until Lendo Wallace came out and strode back to his house.

The stakeout became tedious as the day wore on. The Indian had no visitors, nor did he go out again.

By sundown they had eaten all their sandwiches and had drunk the last drop of water. Under cover of darkness Frank and Joe stretched from their cramped positions.

“Boy, that feels good!” Joe said. “How long do you think we should keep our vigil?”

“Until he goes to bed,” Frank decided. “Come on. Maybe we can have a look inside through one of the windows.”

Just as they were sneaking up to the house for closer surveillance, a couple of headlights stabbed their beams along the lane and a car pulled up beside the shack.

The boys ducked, and a man got out and hastened inside.

“Oh, boy!” Joe whispered. “Looks as if we hit pay dirt!”

“Right. Maybe we can pick up a clue.”

They waited for a while cautiously, then inched their way toward the house. Slowly they moved around the outside to an open window.

At that instant the shade was drawn. It flapped lightly in the evening breeze, but completely hid all within.

Frank and Joe lifted their heads to get a glimpse of the caller. No luck. The indistinguishable murmur of conversation came to their ears. Then the talk grew louder. Anger edged the words of the visitor.

“Now look here!” he said emphatically. “You deliver the full amount we agreed on or the deal is off!”

“But the tribe!” Wallace pleaded. “I have to think of my people. Don’t you understand that?”

“I understand you made a deal. And a deal is a deal!” The speaker pounded his fist hard on the table.

The sudden jar caused the shade to fly up with a bang.

Frank and Joe were in full view!

CHAPTER IX

A Close Call

SURPRISE was instant and complete! Frank and Joe ducked and scrambled into the cover of some bushes. They had seen two persons, but in that split second could not identify Lendo Wallace’s visitor.

“Oh, nuts,” said Joe. “They saw us!”

“I don’t think the stranger did,” Frank said. “He had his back turned.”

“Let’s get a look at that license number,” Joe suggested. “Quick!”

As the boys crept toward the car, the back door opened and the two men rushed out. Frank and Joe melted back into the shadows.

Wallace was quiet, but his visitor muttered angrily as they circled the house once, then again. The stranger zigzagged with his flashlight in a frantic effort to spot the eavesdroppers.

The Hardys crawled backward, and tried to pick up all the information they could. Finally the flashlight clicked off and a voice said, “They got away. Did you see who they were?”

“No,” Wallace replied. “I didn’t see.”

“Were they some of your Senecas?”

“I didn’t see,” Wallace insisted.

The two men walked over to the car, where they talked for a while. Frank and Joe decided not to take further risks of discovery. Keeping to one side of the road, they moved out of sight, then trudged back to their motel.

It was well lighted, and they were still some distance away when they noticed Elmont Chidsee. He sat on a folding chair near their door.

“Now what do you make of that?” Joe asked.

“Obviously he’s standing guard.”

Joe grinned. “The spies are being spied on.”

“Let’s play a little trick on him,” Frank suggested. Quickly he explained his plan to Joe.

The boys crept closer, circled around to one side of the motel, and hid behind the big air-conditioning unit. Chidsee rose from the chair, walked impatiently up and down for a few minutes, then seated himself again.

“I wonder how long he’s been there,” asked Joe.

“I assume quite a while,” said Frank. “He’s getting restless.”

“Okay, let’s go around back,” Joe urged.

They moved cautiously to the rear. Frank pulled out his pocketknife and snapped open the screwdriver blade. Carefully he pried one side of the window, then the other. It budged a quarter-inch. He noiselessly slid the window open and both crawled inside.

Frank noiselessly slid the window open

Quietly they undressed and put their pajamas on.

“Here’s where we have some fun with our sentry,” Frank whispered. He stood near the door, put his hand on the knob, and announced in a loud voice, “Hey, Joe, it’s getting awful hot in here. I think I’ll go out for a breath of air.”

He opened the door quickly. Chidsee nearly fell off his chair in amazement. His jaw dropped.

“Well, well. If it isn’t our long-lost friend,” Frank said. “What are you doing here?”

No answer. Chidsee stared at him in bewilderment, muttered something, and hastened off.

Frank closed the door and the boys had a good laugh. “He didn’t know he was being a babysitter,” Joe chortled.

“You can’t blame the poor guy for being surprised,” Frank said. Then he became serious. “Joe, I smell a rat!”

“You were pretty close to him,” Joe said, still in a jovial mood.

“He’s in league with somebody else—most likely the people who’ve been harassing us all along. They put him here to stand watch—maybe they were expecting us to spy on Wallace toght!”

“You could be right,” Joe retorted. “If Chidsee could have reported the time we returned, that guy who was browbeating Wallace surely would have known that we were the eavesdroppers.”

“But the game isn’t over yet,” Frank said, and started dressing. “Come on. We have some more work to do.”

The two climbed out of the window again. Bending low, they crept around the rear of the motel till they were directly below the window of Chidsee’s apartment.

“Listen!” Frank whispered.

From inside came muffled voices.

“They were in their room all the time!” Chidsee whined. “In their pajamas. Must have gone to bed early!”

The chauffeur mumbled something the boys could not understand. Then they heard the door open and slam shut.

“What are you doing in here, Elmont? Didn’t I tell you to stand guard?” said a harsh voice.

“I did!”

“What do you mean, you did?”

“They’ve been inside all night!”

“Are you sure?” The visitor sounded incredulous.

“If you don’t believe me, go look for yourself.”

The chauffeur spoke up. “You guys better be quiet, or the whole motel will know what you’re up to!”

The sounds of conversation sank immediately. Frank and Joe listened intently, their hearts pounding. Even though the voices inside were mumbled and unintelligible, the boys dared not speak.

Then the caller became annoyed and raised his voice once more. “Now look, give it back!”

“I don’t have it here,” Chidsee replied pettishly.

“Where is it?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it!”

“We need it now, uncle or no uncle. Don’t forget, I have a deal cooking. You better shape up or else!”

Just then the phone rang. The stranger picked it up, and after a crisp “hello” talked low. The Hardys could barely make out what was being said.

“A couple of Senecas have been spying on us,” he said. There was silence for a few seconds. “We’ve got to be careful and wind this up fast.”

Silence once more. Then the door slammed and the visitor was gone.

Frank tugged his brother’s arm and they hurried around to the front to get a look at the man. But he was already in his car and sped off into the night.

Frank and Joe returned to their room by way of the window and discussed the case.

“That sounded a lot like the guy who visited Lendo Wallace tonight,” Joe remarked.

“It must have been,” Frank agreed. “He said that the Senecas were spying on him.”

“And he probably knows that Rod Jimerson and others are suspicious of Wallace because he’s done nothing about the mask thefts.”

“What’s wrong with Wallace, anyway?” Joe asked, frowning. “We know he’s made some kind of deal with the fellow who’s also a buddy of Chidsee’s—but what is it?”

Frank shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he’s stealing the missing masks himself! He might even have taken Spoon Mouth!”

“He must need money awful bad,” Joe said, “to betray his own people.”

“I don’t know. Come on. Let’s hit the sack,” said Frank. “I’m weary.”

In pajamas once again, the boys were soon fast asleep.

When they opened the draw curtains the next morning, the sun streamed into their room. They had slept until nine o’clock! Yawning and squinting, Joe glanced down the motel facade to Chidsee’s suite. The Cadillac was gone.

“They’ve flown the coop already, Frank,” he reported, and opened the door. The maid walked by. Joe beckoned to her. “Have Mr. Chidsee and his chauffeur left?” he asked.

The chubby woman, carrying a vacuum and a dustcloth, said Yes. She was going to make up the rooms for the day.

Joe said quickly, “My brother and I will be dressed in a minute, and we might have company later. Will you make ours first?”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.” The maid left. Frank and Joe quickly splashed cold water on their faces, put on their clothes, and walked out. Casually they sauntered to Chidsee’s suite. The door stood ajar.

“Okay, Joe. Now’s our chance,” Frank said and slipped into the living room.

Joe followed close behind. Quickly they took in the scene. Crushed cigarette butts littered the floor, empty soda cans stood on the table, and in the adjoining room the beds were unmade and towels strewn about.

“Neat people,” Joe commented sarcastically as they scouted the place for possible clues. Nothing turned up in the living room, and the bedroom proved equally void of any personal belongings.

Joe checked the blotter on the writing desk. No ink marks were on it. Frank, meanwhile, picked through the wastebasket. As he took out a folded newspaper, a crumpled piece of paper fell out from between the pages.

Then they heard footsteps outside. Frank quickly pulled Joe into the bedroom. The footsteps stopped in front of the apartment door.

“Maybe it’s the maid,” Joe said. “Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if she found us here?”

“It sounded like a man’s steps,” Frank replied, “and it would be even more embarrassing if it’s Chidsee himself.”

“Let’s try the bathroom window,” Joe advised.

They heard muffled voices, then someone walked away from the suite. The boys listened intently for a moment, then went back into the living room. Frank picked up the piece of paper, hastened to the desk, and spread it flat.

On the paper, written in pencil, were the words Prof called, and a phone number.

Frank whistled softly. “What a clue, Joe!”

Just then the boys heard a noise behind them. They wheeled around to see Lendo Wallace framed in the doorway. His hand went to the knife in his belt!

CHAPTER X

Surprise Connection

STARING at them in the doorway, Lendo Wallace seemed more startled than the Hardys. Had the Indian expected to see Elmont Chidsee?

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked.

“Looking around,” Frank replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Wallace’s hand dropped from the knife haft and he stepped toward the Hardys with an inquisitive stare. “This isn’t your room, is it?”

“No. It belongs to Elmont Chidsee and his chauffeur.”

“I assume you were looking for him,” Joe put in. “Chidsee and his buddy who was here last night, perhaps?”

His bold approach had the desired effect. Wallace’s eyes widened and his lips moved but he said nothing. As he turned to go, Joe shot another question.

“Why the knife in your belt, Mr. Wallace?”

“I’m going to cut a tree; that is, cut a mask in a tree.” The Indian’s voice seemed less hostile.

“I understand that’s an ancient art with the Six Nations,” Frank said, trying to draw out the Seneca.

It seemed to be the right approach. Lendo Wallace relaxed a little and began to talk about the art of carving false faces. As he spoke, all three walked from Chidsee’s apartment and stood outside.

“Each mask,” Wallace said, “is designed to chase certain evil spirits.”

“I’ve seen a very frightening one,” Frank remarked. “It had a crooked nose and a sideways mouth.”

“You mean Old Broken Nose. He’s quite fierce, especially with the horsetail hair.”

“So that was it,” Frank thought. “The streaming white hair which scared Chet actually was a horsetail!” He probed deeper with his next statement.

“A friend of ours was frightened by a Broken Nose mask one night!”

Wallace looked blank. Frank concluded that he was not the one who had been at the Rideaus’ barn during their first visit.

Wallace continued with his favorite subject. “Young Indians don’t care about masks any more,” he said sadly. “They aren’t interested. You send them out to cut some wood and they don’t know willow from bass.”

Joe looked at the Indian’s jalopy. It was the same year as Chet’s. “We have a friend who has a car just like this,” Joe said with a grin. “Does yours backfire much?”

For the first time Wallace smiled. “Enough to scare horses,” he replied.

Now the chill was thawing more. Frank asked Wallace what he did for a living. The Indian told him that he made snow snakes—long sticks which boys hurled over the ice in a game; also lacrosse sticks, turtle-shell rattles, and headdresses.

“Our people play a lot of lacrosse,” he said. “The game originated with Northern Indians. This work keeps me busy all winter, and I sell my wares in the summertime.”

Suddenly animation left the man’s face as if a switch had been turned off. He fixed both boys with his gaze and said icily, “Why were you spying on me last night?”

Frank and Joe were taken aback. So he had seen their faces at the window! Yet he had not given them away!

Caught flat-footed, they fumbled for a reply, but Wallace spared them the effort. He jumped into his car, started the motor, and sped out of the motel drive onto the main highway.

Frank shook his head. “Joe, that man is an enigma.”

“You said it! I certainly can’t figure him out, but I’m beginning to think he’s a thief. Did you see how neatly he set us up for that question about spying?”

“He’s no fool. He toyed with us. And he’s got some connection with Chidsee!”

Chagrined, the Hardys returned to their own room. The maid had just finished and excused herself as she brushed past them on their way in.

Frank sank into a chair while Joe flopped down on the bed.

“Score for Lendo Wallace,” Frank said ruefully. “You can’t win ’em all!”

“What I want to know,” Joe said, “is why he didn’t tell his visitor who we were.”

“Well, he’s obviously playing some kind of double game!”

“Maybe he likes us,” Joe said with a chuckle.

“Maybe he does. His hostility could be a front, you know.”

“Oh, sure! The heart of gold underneath it all!” Joe said sarcastically, but his brother reminded him that the Indian seemed to be in some serious trouble.

“Even if we could help him, he’d never let us,” Joe stated.

“I know,” Frank replied. “But Wallace’s problem might be the key to the whole Spoon Mouth affair.”

“Well,” Joe said, “at least we have one clue.”

“Right. Let’s follow it up right away,” Frank said. He pulled the crumpled note from his pocket. Both studied the phone number on it.

“What’s your guess?” Frank asked, walking to the telephone.

“I’d say Zoar College,” Joe replied half-jestingly.

“How about Chidsee’s rich uncle?” Frank shot back. “What’ll I say if he’s the guy at the other end of the wire?”

“That’s your problem,” Joe replied cheerfully. “Maybe you could ask him to pay damages since his lovable nephew threw us off the motorcycle!”

Frank dialed the number. What would he say?

“I’ll have to play it by ear,” he thought as the phone rang at the other end. Then someone lifted the receiver and a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Er—hello,” Frank replied. “I have a message here to call this number. Is this 677-3408?”

“That’s right,” the woman replied. “Whom do you wish to speak to?”

“Well, thank you, I think I must have the wrong—”

“Aren’t you one of the Hardy boys?” the woman interrupted.

“Yes—er—Frank Hardy. Who are you?”

“Mrs. Rideau, of course. I didn’t realize you had our telephone number.”

“Neither did I,” Frank replied drily.

Luckily Mrs. Rideau did not seem surprised at the whole thing. She seemed rather excited, however. “Frank, I’m so glad you called.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Rideau?”

“The doctor and I need your help as detectives.”

“What’s happened?”

“The Indians have tried to break into our house twice since you left. Please, can you come to Hawk Head as soon as possible?”

“Sure. But we have no car. Right now we’re at the Sunset Motel, and it might take us a little while to get there!”

“There’s a bus,” Mrs. Rideau said. “It stops near the motel. What happened to your car?”

“That’s a long story. Do the local police know about the Indians?” Frank asked.

“Yes, we notified them.”

“Good. Joe and I will get over as soon as we can.” Frank hung up and turned to Joe. He shook his head slowly. “How about that!”

“The prof referred to in the phone message is one of Mrs. Rideau’s tenants!” Joe exclaimed, “And he’s connected with Elmont Chidsee, who’s connected with Zoar College!”

“It’s likely, therefore, the prof teaches at Zoar,” Frank completed the train of thought.

“I wonder if he’s the one who came to see Wallace and later Chidsee last night,” Joe said.

“We can’t be sure about anything. Anyway, going back to the Rideaus will give us a chance to talk to their tenants, and perhaps we can identify the voice!”

The boys quickly packed their bags and wrote a note for Chet, saying that if he returned before they did, he should stay and wait for them.

Frank phoned the motel manager and told him they would be out of town for a while, but wanted to keep their room. He added, “And if Chet Morton comes back, don’t let him get away!”

Then he inquired about the Hawk Head bus, and was informed that one would pass the Sunset Motel in exactly half an hour. When he had hung up, Frank snapped his fingers.

“Listen, Joe. Half an hour will give us time to go to Lendo Wallace’s place.”

“What for?”

“Well, we suspect he’s in trouble. So I’m going to offer our help.”

“You know he’ll turn you down.”

“We can give it a try, right?”

“Okay.”

They left their room, putting their bags just inside the door for handy pickup when they returned from Wallace’s house. Then they hiked along the road briskly, and turned down the lane to the Indian’s shack.

“Mr. Wallace!” Frank called out. There was no reply. Obviously the Indian was not home.

The Hardys walked up to the front door. It was covered with a chalk drawing of Old Broken-Nose. Under it was a warning message:

Hardys: Danger ahead! Leave Yellow Springs

at once!

CHAPTER XI

Footsteps in the Dark

“THAT’S a strange kind of warning,” Frank said. “It doesn’t threaten us, just says get out because there’s danger ahead.”

“Sounds more like a friend than an enemy,” Joe had to admit.

“That’s Wallace for you,” Frank went on, glancing about to see if anyone were observing them. “He’s inscrutable. You don’t know if he’s for you or against you.”

As Joe stood fascinated by the twisted countenance of the Indian mask, Frank put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. The hinges squeaked as the door opened an inch or so.

“He doesn’t keep the place locked,” Frank remarked.

“In that case, maybe he’s hiding around here and watching us,” Joe said.

“Could be,” Frank replied. “But we have no time to look for him now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better go or we’ll miss the bus.”

Frank closed the door, gave the leering face final glance, then trotted alongside his brother back to the motel. They grabbed their bags and walked to the road in time to see the bus coming in the distance.

When they got aboard the near-empty vehicle, they thrust their luggage on a seat, then sat back to watch the scenery.

“This is the life,” said Joe. He laced his fingers behind his neck, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “No hot-rod hoods, no vandals, no creeps...”

He was jerked out of his reverie by a poke in the ribs. “Forget it,” said Frank. “Look out the window!”

Joe opened his eyes in time to see a sleek Cadillac gliding past at a speed well above the limit. He groaned.

“There goes our boy Elmont,” said Frank. “I wonder where to.”

“He just can’t bear to be away from us,” Joe muttered. “Or maybe he’s on his way to his uncle for another handout.”

Frank had serious thoughts about Chidsee. His car, too, was headed in the direction of Hawk Head. Might trouble be brewing there? Was he on his way to the Rideau house to contact the professors?

Frank’s thoughts drifted away as the humming tires and the passing scenery lolled him into a drowsy mood. He felt his head nod and dozed.

All of a sudden the bus brakes screeched and the Hardys were pitched forward, banging their heads on the seats in front of them.

Joe’s first thought was the Cadillac. Had it deliberately tried to wreck the bus?

The few other passengers, two of them thrown in the aisle, protested with shouts of anger. The Hardys left their seats and walked to the front.

“What happened?” Frank asked the embarrassed driver, who shook his head in disgust. He pointed to the roadside, where a flock of geese were waddling up the slope.

“That’s what!” he replied. “They don’t care if anyone’s coming! I’d have had a fine bill to pay if I had sent their feathers flying.”

Frank and Joe took their seats again and Frank said, “See? Never a dull moment in Indian country.”

“Oh, quit the corn, Frank,” Joe said.

“Well, Chet would have liked it,” Frank said in mock protest.

“Which reminds me,” Joe went on, “he should be arriving at the motel any moment with our car. I hope he doesn’t run into Wallace alone.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll probably spend his time at Mrs. Jimerson’s, eating her corn soup till he busts!”

Finally, as the bus passed over the brow of the hill, the brothers saw Hawk Head in the distance. They were let off in the center of town and walked briskly toward the Rideau house. When they approached the place, the two dogs leaped playfully on them and they had to fend off their powerful bodies like defensive linemen on a football team.

“Down, fellows!” Frank ordered.

The German shepherds obeyed, and barking, circled the boys as they walked toward the doorway. Joe glanced up at the second floor. A curtain on one of the windows parted slightly.

“Don’t look now, Frank, but someone’s playing peekaboo upstairs,” he said.

“I wonder if they do that every time somebody comes to the house,” Frank muttered.

The noise brought Mrs. Rideau to the door. “Oh, I’m so glad you came so soon,” she said. “Doctor and I are having such trouble.” She ushered the Hardys into the living room, where her husband sat at a table, examining a pile of coins with a magnifying glass.

“Hello, boys,” he greeted them. “Have you been thinking over my idea of investing in coins as the safest possible business venture?”

“To tell the truth, Dr. Rideau,” Joe said, “we’ve been pretty busy on a few other things.”

The doctor frowned and put the magnifying glass aside. “You’re not too young to think about investing for the future. What did you say your father does?”

“He’s a detective,” Frank replied.

“Ah—well. I hope he has some investments in the fruit of our mints.”

Mrs. Rideau steered the conversation away from her husband’s favorite subject.

“Dear, I was telling them about our troubles.”

“Oh, yes. The Indians,” Dr. Rideau said, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

“Then you found out the prowlers were really Senecas?” Frank asked.

“Of course. They kept shaking their rattles.”

“Why would they want to let you know that they were Indians?” Joe asked. “It doesn’t seem to make sense, Dr. Rideau.”

The man looked at him in astonishment. “Of course they’d want me to know. They’re trying to get at my treasure, because they think I have the melted coins.”

“Old Spoon Mouth, you mean,” Frank said with a smile.

“Spoon Mouth—Moon Face—whatever they call it,” the doctor said testily. “I don’t have it!”

Remembering the parted curtain upstairs, Joe discreetly asked whether their tenants had heard the prowlers.

“Yes, they did. And they’re mighty upset,” Mrs. Rideau replied.

Frank took up the questioning. “You say they are researchers, who also teach in college. Could that be at Zoar College in the summer?”

Mrs. Rideau seemed pleased that the boy’s guess had been so accurate. “Why, yes, that’s exactly what they do.”

Frank took a plunge by asking bluntly, “Do you folks know an Elmont Chidsee?”

There was not a moment’s hesitation. “Yes. Of course. He’s visiting upstairs right now. I understand he’ll stay overnight.”

Joe rolled his eyes and said to Frank, “Oh, boyl That spells trouble!”

“Did you say trouble?” Mrs. Rideau asked.

“Yes. We’re sorry you had this trouble,” Joe said quickly. “But if the police know all about it, I feel that you’re safe enough, at least from outside prowlers.”

Mrs. Rideau excused herself and went to the kitchen to turn off the stove. The doctor, meanwhile, shuffled downstairs to put his coins away.

Frank and Joe had an opportunity to talk things over. “The Rideaus are very naive not to suspect their tenants,” Frank remarked.

“We’ll just have to protect them,” Joe decided.

The boys laid out a plan, and when Mrs. Rideau returned, Frank said that they would like to sleep in the Rideaus’ basement that night.

“That would be fine,” she said. “In fact, there’s a cot in the old dental office already. We can put another one there.”

“But,” Joe added, “first we’ll go into the barn as if we were planning to spend the night there. Then the prowlers will be thrown off.”

“Right,” Frank went on. “And if they should happen to break into the house, Joe and I will grab them!”

Mrs. Rideau chuckled and said, “My, you are brave boys. But our dogs would grab the ruffians before you had a chance!”

While supper was being prepared, the Hardys joined the doctor in the basement. He showed them the coin vault and took them to his old dental office, where they would sleep.

“I never sold any of my equipment,” he stated proudly, and pointed to the chair, the tools, and his drill. “That’s an air drill. Fine instrument. I always bought the best.”

The Hardys returned to the dining room, where Mrs. Rideau served a succulent beef stew along with a generous green salad. All the while Frank and Joe listened for sounds from upstairs. If Chidsee was there with the professors, he was keeping mighty quiet.

When darkness came, Frank and Joe took flashlights and their bags and went to the barn. They talked for half an hour, watching the upstairs windows of the Rideau house. Several times figures moved back and forth, but they were too indistinct to be recognized.

Finally Frank said, “Okay, Joe. Ready to go to the dentist?”

“Please, not the air drill!” Joe protested.

They crept through the darkness, opened the back door quietly, and descended into the basement.

“I don’t think anyone saw us,” Frank said as they stretched out on the cots.

The boys decided to spell each other with guard duty during the night. Frank slept first while Joe watched. At the end of two hours the younger boy roused his brother.

“Your turn,” he said. “I didn’t hear a sound.”

Some time past midnight, Frank was startled by a faint rattling noise, then he heard footsteps coming slowly down the basement stairs. He alerted Joe and gave the high sign for quiet.

Both rose quickly and stood on either side of the door. They could hear the knob being turned.

They held their breath and tensed to spring. The door opened. Frank flicked on the light.

There stood Dr. Rideau!

“All right boys, it’s only me,” he whispered hoarsely. “You can turn the light off.”

“What are you doing here?” Joe asked, irritated by the needless fright.

“I just wanted to see if you fellows were all right.”

“But what about that rattling sound we heard?”

“Hm!” The doctor thought for a moment, then put his hands in his bathrobe pocket and jiggled some coins. “I guess this is what caused it.”

“I suppose it is,” Frank said, yawning. “Well, you’d better get back to sleep, Doctor. We’ll take care of things.”

Rideau padded up the stairs and the Hardys turned off the light.

“Wow!” Joe said. “Guess I might as well stand watch now. I’m wide awake again.”

Frank laid down and closed his eyes, but only for a few moments. From the floor above came a bloodcurdling cry!

CHAPTER XII

Trustworthy Men

FOR the second time that night the Hardys were jolted into action.

“It sounds as if someone’s being murdered!” exclaimed Joe as he and Frank took the steps two at a time. When they opened the kitchen door, they heard Mrs. Rideau moaning, “Oh, my poor babies!”

Frank and Joe burst into the living room to see the elderly couple in their bathrobes, kneeling beside the two dogs. Tay and Boots lay on their sides, tongues lolling, and their chests heaving with short rasping breaths.

“What happened?” Frank asked. “What’s the matter with the dogs?”

Mrs. Rideau said that after her husband had gone to the basement, Tay and Boots had become restless. “I thought perhaps somebody might be prowling around outside,” she said, “so I let them out for a few minutes. When they came back, they acted strangely.”

“Do you suppose they ate anything while they were out?” asked Joe.

The Rideaus doubted this. “They’ve been trained not to take anything unless we give it to them,” the doctor explained.

“Well, they’re sick, that’s for sure,” Frank said. “Have you called the vet?”

“Not yet,” replied Dr. Rideau. “There’s the number on a list beside the phone.”

While the doctor comforted his wife, Frank quickly called the veterinarian.

“I’m sorry to bother you this late at night,” he said, “but the Rideaus’ two dogs are in bad trouble.” Frank listened, then he went on, “Yes, we’ll bring them over right away.”

Dr. Rideau dressed hurriedly and backed the car to the front of the house. Frank and Joe, straining under the weight of the immense beasts, carried the limp forms to the waiting automobile.

“Joe,” Frank said, “you stay with Mrs. Rideau. I’ll go along. I don’t want to leave this place unguarded.”

By the time they reached the veterinarian’s office, his lights were on. Seeing the car, he hastened outside and helped Frank with the animals, who were now rasping at an even greater rate.

“Poison,” the vet muttered. He put Tay on the table and quickly injected an antidote, and a heart stimulant. Then he did the same for Boots.

“I’ll be frank with you,” he said to Dr. Rideau. “I don’t know if we can save them. But I certainly will give it a good try.”

Then he asked questions about the dogs’ activities. “You’re sure they ate no poisoned food?”

“I’m certain of that.”

The vet examined every inch of Tay’s body. Near the dog’s rump his finger touched something sharp. He looked at it closely and pulled out a tiny needle.

“Here’s your answer,” he said. “He’s been shot by a poison dart!”

Dr. Rideau shook his fist. “Those murdering Indians!” he muttered. “They were prowling around and shot my dogs!”

“We can’t be sure they did it,” Frank said quietly.

The vet also recovered a miniature missile from Boot’s back. Both dogs seemed to be breathing easier now as the medication took effect.

With Frank’s help, the vet placed the animals in spotless compartments in a room adjoining his office. Then he went to the phone and reported the incident to the police.

By the time Dr. Rideau and Frank returned to the house, a police car was in front and two officers with powerful flashlights were searching the property. Frank and Joe joined them, but after twenty minutes could not find any evidence of an intruder.

Frank took Joe aside. “Any sign of the profs or our buddy Elmont?”

“They were questioned, but it seems they slept right through the whole thing,” Joe replied. “Then they came down in their robes and gave Mrs. Rideau a line of baloney. Took her upstairs to rest!”

“What do they look like?” Frank asked. “Have you ever seen them before?”

Joe shook his head. “No. They’re handsome, thirtyish, smooth—too smooth!”

“Did Elmont come down, too?”

“No, luckily he didn’t. I wasn’t keen on seeing him at all!”

The boys went back to the basement and resumed their watch, but everything was quiet for the rest of the night.

The next morning they talked with the Rideaus before breakfast. “I asked our tenants upstairs to redouble their surveillance of the premises,” the doctor stated. “Especially since Tay and Boots are hospitalized.”

“Did they say they would?” Frank inquired.

“Oh, yes. They’ll keep an eye on the place. I must say, I feel much better about it.”

Frank and Joe stepped outside. “What do you know about that!” Frank said. “It’s like asking the fox to guard the chicken coop!”

“They’re being set up for a robbery,” Joe remarked. “Wouldn’t you think that he’d see it?”

The boys walked to the barn. There were blankets to be folded and cots put away. When Frank opened the door, he sucked in his breath.

“Good night, Joe! Look at this!”

A bale of hay had fallen from the loft and landed on Frank’s cot. The legs were smashed and the fabric ripped.

“And to think you might have been sleeping there!” Joe exclaimed, shuddering.

“Our prowler last night didn’t miss a trick,” Frank said, shaking his head gravely. “Joe, if thieves are going to strike at Dr. Rideau’s treasure, it’ll be soon. I feel it in my bones!”

The boys straightened out their blankets and went into the house for breakfast. They decided to withhold the story of the splintered cot, so as not to disturb the couple any further.

Frank, however, felt obliged to tell them about their suspicions. After the meal he pushed his chair back, looked at the Rideaus levelly, and said, “I don’t want to upset you nice people, but I think you’re going to have a robbery here—and soon!”

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Rideau said. “And we won’t have our dogs for protection!”

“That’s part of the plan,” Joe said. “Getting rid of Tay and Boots eliminates one big obstacle for the thieves.”

The woman heaved a sigh and went on, “But at least we have our professors. I don’t think anybody would rob this house while they’re about.”

“In this case, I don’t think I’d trust anybody,” Frank said.

The doctor put down his coffee cup and smiled benignly. “My, but aren’t you suspicious! The professors are educated men, and very trustworthy!”

Just then hastening footsteps were heard on the stairs. The front door opened and closed.

“There they go now,” the doctor remarked.

“I’ve never met them,” Frank said.

“Let me show you some snapshots,” Mrs. Rideau said eagerly. She went to the living room, opened the drawer of an end table, and returned with an envelope of photos.

“We had a picnic in the yard a couple of weeks ago,” she explained, handing the prints to Frank. “Aren’t the professors handsome?”

“Yes, they are,” Frank said slowly. “And this is a good picture of you and the doctor, too.” As he looked over the photographs, he took a snapshot of the professors out of the pile and, unnoticed by the Rideaus, slipped it in his pocket. He would return it later. Then he handed back the rest of the pictures.

“Would you like another glass of milk?” Mrs. Rideau asked.

The boys said No, they had enjoyed a good breakfast. Everyone got up, and while the Rideaus busied themselves in the kitchen, the Hardys walked quietly up the stairs.

“Maybe we can investigate their apartment,” Joe whispered. “You think they’re all out?”

Frank nodded. “It sounded like three people leaving. Let’s risk it.”

Frank tried the door. It was locked. “We can’t break in,” he said. “And if we picked the lock and were found out—”

“I know what you mean,” Joe interrupted. “It would infuriate the Rideaus. The profs have a real in with these people.”

The boys trotted down the stairs and sat in the living room, mulling over what to do next. Frank pulled out the snapshot and showed it to Joe.

“Why did you take it?” Joe asked.

“I want to send it to Sam Radley and see if he can give us a rundown on these people, provided, of course, that they have a record.”

“Smart thinking!”

The phone rang. Mrs. Rideau picked up the extension in the kitchen, then called out, “It’s for the Hardys!”

Frank took the instrument. Chet’s voice, agitated and abrupt, came over the wire. “I’m at Niagara Falls. In trouble. Keystone—”

With a click, the phone went dead.

CHAPTER XIII

A Startled Seneca

CHET Morton’s abrupt message for help plunged the Hardys into a quandary.

“We’re in a real bind,” Frank said. “Chet’s in Niagara Falls, probably kidnapped, and the coin collection seems ripe for a heist.”

“What’ll we do?” Joe asked.

“When you come right down to it, there’s no choice. Chet’s worth more than all the money stashed away downstairs.”

However, the young sleuths decided to appeal to the local police. Excusing themselves, they hastened to headquarters.

Frank was careful not to accuse anyone. If the professors were not guilty of any wrongdoing, the Hardys might be subject to slander proceedings. They had to couch their suspicions in the mildest of terms.

They approached the desk sergeant and requested to see the police chief.

“What is your business?” he asked them.

“We have some suspicions,” Frank said, “that we would like to report to the chief.”

“I can take the complaint.”

“It’s not a complaint,” Joe said. “It’s just—”

Having heard the conversation, the chief stepped out of his office. He was a short stout man with a thatch of cropped gray hair. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “My name’s White.”

The Hardys introduced themselves and asked if they could speak with him privately.

The man ushered them into his office and motioned them to be seated. He settled back in his swivel chair, folded his hands over his midsection, and regarded Frank and Joe with a fixed expression.

“To put it bluntly,” Frank began, “we suspect that Dr. Rideau’s coin vault may be robbed soon.”

“Really?” Chief White seemed unimpressed.

“I wonder if you could give him some protection, for a while, at least,” Frank went on.

“How come you’re so concerned about this possible theft? If what you say is true, why hasn’t Dr. Rideau asked us for protection?”

Frank told of their accidental meeting on the highway; how they had dropped in on the couple and learned about the prowlers; and how Tay and Boots had been knocked out by poison darts.

“We know all about that,” White said, putting his elbows on the desk. “Do you think we’re asleep at the switch?”

Frank and Joe were quick to deny any such thought.

“Well, that’s better. I don’t like any young fellows accusing us of inaction.”

“Not at all, sir,” Frank said. “I’m sure you know about the situation. But there’s one thing you don’t know.” He proceeded to tell the story of the bale of hay which had smashed his cot in the barn.

The chief was thoughtful. “It could have been an accident,” he said slowly.

“The mask wasn’t,” Joe put in, and told of Chet’s experience.

“I agree it seems as if someone wants to get you out of the way,” Chief White said. “Unfortunately all we have are suspicions without a suspect. Tell you what. I’ll have my men patrol the Rideau house more often, especially at night. I can’t spare anyone to stand guard around the clock—”

Frank got up. “We realize that, Chief. But I think that will help. We’ll have to leave for a few days on an emergency, and when we get back, we’ll pitch in, too.”

“Okay. Let me know if something else develops.” The chief walked the boys to the door, and they said good-by.

On the way back they passed the post office. A public phone booth stood on the corner in front of the building. “I’m going to try to reach Radley,” Frank said and stepped inside.

Sam was at his hotel in Cleveland, and before Frank could tell his story, he asked, “Did Chet get there? He started yesterday. The car’s all fixed. Looks like new.”

When Frank told him about Chet’s call, Sam was shocked. “Niagara Falls?” he repeated. “How did he get up there?”

“Our guess is he’s been kidnapped,” Frank replied. Then he told what had happened at Hawk Head.

Radley immediately questioned the authenticity of the professors.

“I’m putting the picture in the mail to you,” Frank said. “Could you check with the FBI?”

“Sure thing. By the way, your dad is in Florida.”

“No kidding. Some people have all the luck!”

“Don’t envy him. This is no vacation. He’s on the trail of that mail fraud gang. It ties in with the bunch of phonies here in Cleveland.”

“Dad thought it might,” said Frank.

“Listen, what are you going to do about Chet?” Sam asked.

“We’re going to Niagara Falls as quickly as possible. The key word is Keystone.”

“Tough assignment.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

After mailing the snapshot taken in the Rideaus’ yard, Frank and Joe went back to the house, packed their bags, and told their hosts they had to leave. They urged the doctor and his wife to be very careful, especially without the dogs.

“The vet called and told me that Tay and Boots will be better in a few days,” Mrs. Rideau said with a smile.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Frank replied and the boys said good-by.

They hopped a bus to Yellow Springs, where they would have to transfer to Niagara Falls. The driver let them off in front of the Sunset Motel.

“Any messages for us?” Joe asked at the desk.

The manager smiled. “I guess you were expecting him.” He pointed to a shiny red car parked beside the driveway. The fellow in it was dozing behind the wheel.

“Did he say who he was and what he wanted?” Frank asked, surprised.

“No. But I’ve seen him around here. By the way, I didn’t hear from that Morton fellow.”

Frank nodded and they left the office. Quickly they put their bags in their room, then approached the red car. The driver, a dark-haired young man in his twenties, looked like an Indian. His head lolled to one side on the palm of his hand, which rested against the car door.

Frank and Joe stared at him for a few seconds before Frank said, “Hi, there!”

The driver jumped awake, his elbow banging against the horn, which emitted a two-tone blast. Frank and Joe jumped in reaction, then started to laugh, as did the young man who stepped out.

He was wearing khaki trousers and a blue work shirt which stretched tight over his broad shoulders as he offered a handshake. “I’m Paul Jimerson,” he said, “and you must be the Hardy boys. My mother gave me a good description of you.”

“Rod’s brother?” Joe asked.

“That’s right.”

“We thought you were working in Buffalo,” Frank put in.

“I was, but our plant has been shut down for a week. So I came home.”

“For your mother’s corn soup, I’ll bet,” Joe quipped.

Paul Jimerson, unlike Lendo Wallace, was a very outgoing person and full of bouncy enthusiasm.

“Hey, what do you think of my new car?” he asked. “Isn’t she a beauty?” Then he ran a hand through his hair and looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to brag. But I just got it a few days ago. He added, ”My mother told me about you, and I wonder if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“You bet,” Joe said. “We need a driver!”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Niagara Falls.”

The Indian shrugged and grinned. “I’m game for a little sightseeing.”

“It’s not exactly sightseeing,” Frank said. “All we hope to see is our friend.” He felt that Paul could be trusted and related the story of Chet’s SOS.

“And you expect to find him?” Paul asked. “Niagara Falls is not exactly a little town, you know.”

“We know. We’ve got to follow the Keystone clue,” Frank said.

“How about some lunch before we start out?” Joe suggested.

“Good idea.” Paul grinned. “I’m hungry.”

As they ate their sandwiches, Frank and Joe guardedly discussed the case of the missing Indian masks.

“I don’t know too much about it,” Paul said, “but Rod is quite upset about the whole business. He’s closer to our old Indian customs than I am.”

“Look, I have a suggestion,” said Joe. “Before we start out, let’s talk with Lendo Wallace again. I’d like to ask him why he left that danger note. The answer may give us a clue to Chet’s whereabouts.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Paul said. “Your chauffeur is at your service!”

A few minutes later they turned into Wallace’s driveway. Paul got out and knocked on the door.

“This resembles you, Frank; Joe exclaimed

“Nobody home,” he reported.

As he went back to the car a neighbor hailed him. “If you’re looking for Lendo, he’s in the woods!”

“Thanks,” Paul said, and turned to Frank and Joe. “I think I know just where he might be. Follow me.”

The boys got out of the car and Paul led the way into the woods behind Wallace’s lot. “He works here quite often,” Paul explained. “There are some nice smooth trees for mask-making.”

He shouted Lendo’s name a couple of times, but there was no reply. Finally they came to a gloomy area of scarred trees, evidence of Wallace’s previous mask-making.

“See here?” Paul said, pointing to fresh cuts in a basswood. “He’s making a life mask.”

All three walked up close and studied it.

“Holy Toledo!” Joe exclaimed. “This resembles you, Frank!”

Paul scanned Frank’s face, then the mask. “He’s right,” he said, a troubled look coming over his face. “I don’t like to tell you this, but Lendo regards you as an evil spirit. He’s trying to get rid of you, Frank!”

“Do you take this seriously, Paul?” Joe inquired.

Instead of replying, the Indian frowned, turned, and started to walk out of the woods. The Hardys followed. Finally Paul spoke.

“I do consider this serious, fellows. Why don’t you take Lendo’s advice and go home?”

Frank and Joe did not reply. When they emerged from the woods, Frank asked, “Are you still going to take us to Niagara Falls?”

“You can back out of it if you want,” Joe added.

Paul Jimerson stopped and turned to the boys. His carefree look was back and he grinned. “Of course I’ll take you. An Indian doesn’t quit, either.”

“Good,” Joe said. “Now we’ll relieve our kidnapping friends of a hungry mouth.”

Suddenly Frank bent over and rubbed his leg. “I’ve been stung by a bee!” he declared. He continued walking for a few minutes, then keeled over, flat on his face!

CHAPTER XIV

Hot on the Trail

AFTER hitting the ground Frank lay still. Joe and Paul quickly rushed to his aid and rolled him over on his back. He looked pale and his breathing was labored.

Joe had read about allergic reaction to bee stings. For some people, it could be fatal. He bared his brother’s leg to examine the spot.

“Good night!” he cried out. “Paul, look at this!”

A miniature dart had punctured the skin. Joe pulled it out. “Frank’s in great danger!” he said anxiously. “He’s been shot like Dr. Rideau’s dogs. We must get him to a doctor immediately!”

Paul swung the injured boy on his back and hurried to the car. Joe glanced around for a suspect. There was no one in sight.

“I’ll bet it was Lendo Wallace,” he said through clenched teeth as they laid Frank on the back seat.

“I think you’re wrong. Lendo wouldn’t do a thing like that!” Paul replied. “Anyway, I know a doctor who has his office not far from here. I’ll take you there.”

They sped to the address, five miles distant. The physician was just leaving when Joe intercepted him at the door.

“My brother’s been shot by a poison dart!” he said. “You must help him!”

“Where is he? Bring him right in here,” the doctor ordered.

Paul carried Frank inside, put him on an examining table, and after a quick analysis of the poison missile, the doctor administered an antidote.

“Good thing you brought him here fast,” he said, after observing Frank’s reaction for a while. “He’s out of danger now. He should stay at the hospital overnight, though.”

Frank had regained consciousness. When he heard the doctor’s words, he said feebly, “I can’t do that. We have urgent business in Niagara Falls.”

The physician turned to Joe. “Now look. Your brother is not well and can’t do anything strenuous. He needs rest!”

“I’ll see to it that he gets it,” Joe assured him. “We’ll take him with us and as soon as we get there he’ll go to bed.”

Paul and Joe helped Frank into the car.

“All set for the honeymoon center?” Paul asked Joe.

“Right. Do you know a place there where we can stay?”

“I’ve got a cousin. His kids are in college. Maybe we can sleep there.”

“Great. One more thing. We’d better report this incident to the police.”

They stopped at headquarters and Joe related the details of the dart assault. He told the chief where they were going, saying they expected to be back at the Sunset Motel in a day or two.

The chief promised to have the wooded area searched for clues, and the boys left.

The trip to Niagara Falls was uneventful. Paul drove directly to the home of his cousin. The man, who was considerably older, made wrought-iron furniture and had his own shop.

His wife, a plump, cordial woman, invited them to stay as long as they wished. She led Frank and Joe to one room and Paul to another. “Now that the children are gone, we have plenty of extra space,” she said with a smile.

After supper Frank went directly to bed, while Joe phoned the Rideaus. The doctor answered and told him that Tay and Boots were still at the vet’s, but recovering nicely. Joe did not mention the poison dart, because he saw no reason to alarm the man. He did, however, caution him once more and urged the tightest security on his coin vault.

Later in the evening Joe and Paul pored over the Niagara Falls telephone book and directories, looking for the name Keystone.

The yellow pages of the classified directory revealed no hotel or motel by that name. “But look here,” Joe said. “There’s a delicatessen and an auto supply store. Let’s check them out in the morning.”

He and Paul had a hearty breakfast after a good night’s rest, but Frank did not feel like eating. Their hostess gave him some milk and he went back to bed.

The auto supply store was the first stop for Paul and Joe. They parked in front, went inside, and looked around at the usual myriad of accessories.

A clerk approached them. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe. I’m looking for a fellow named Chet Morton. He might have come in here yesterday.”

“What did he look like?”

Joe described Chet in detail.

“Fat guys walk into the store all the time,” the clerk said. “But I don’t remember that one.”

Joe strolled about with Paul, speaking in a loud voice and mentioning the name Bayport. If Chet was near, he certainly would hear them.

The clerk became annoyed. “You guys don’t have to shout. And what’s all this bit about Bayport?”

Joe pointed to Paul. “He can’t hear too well.”

“All right. But what do you want? Window-shopping is for the women.”

Joe was embarrassed. He walked over to a stack of automobile mats, picked up one, and said, “We’ll take this.”

The clerk wrapped it, Joe paid, and they left.

“That was a dud,” Paul said. “Where to now?”

“The delicatessen. Chet would be hard to get out of that—if he was ever in there. He loves to eat.”

The Keystone Delicatessen was downtown. The boys entered and Joe made the same inquiries. The fellow behind the counter, a stout, bald-headed man in a white apron, had not heard of Chet Morton. And he had not made a cream cheese and salami sandwich for any customer.

Just then a clerk at the other end of the counter spoke up. “I made one for somebody yesterday!”

“Was he a boy about my age?” asked Joe.

“No. He was at least fifty.”

Joe thanked him and they walked out. “Another lead blown,” he grumbled. “The Keystone-whatever-it-is can’t be very big, because it’s not advertised.”

“Maybe Chet said something else and you got it wrong,” Paul suggested.

Joe shook his head. “No. It was Keystone. And we’ll just have to work on that clue until we find Chet.”

‘I think we’ll do better on foot,” said Paul. ”That way I don’t have to watch traffic—we can both look.”

Joe agreed and they parked the car. They wandered in and out of the downtown streets, pausing only briefly for lunch. The afternoon grew hot and the sun sent its glaring rays over the busy sidewalks.

Finally they rounded a corner, not far from their parking spot. Joe stopped in his tracks. A small sign over the sidewalk bore the legend KEYSTONE MUSEUM.

Paul looked at the dilapidated storefront. “Oh, man,” he said, wriggling his sore toes, “could this really be the fruit of our toil?”

“There’s one way to find out,” Joe replied. “Let’s have a look inside.”

He went through the open doorway into the dimly lighted curio museum. Half blinded by the sudden change of light, he nearly ran into the ticket seller, a tall gangly man standing beside a pedestal.

“Sorry,” Joe said. “I couldn’t see. How much is the admission?”

“One dollar a piece.”

“Boy, that’s steep!” said Joe. “What have you got in here? The crown jewels?”

Stony-faced, the attendant rattled off a list of the exhibits: photographs of daring deeds at the Falls; barrels which had survived the trip over the brink; wax figures of the men who risked their lives in various stunts, notably the famous Blondin crossing over the cataract on a wire. “We also have a few old whale ribs,” he concluded, smoothing his gray hair.

“From the Falls?” Joe asked innocently.

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Sorry, Mr.—”

“Janzig. Not that it would mean anything to you.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Janzig. We’ll take two tickets.”

The man grabbed the two dollars. “Look all you want,” he said with a supercilious smile.

Up to now, Paul had been silent. Once they were out of earshot, he said, “I don’t like that character. He rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Same here,” Joe replied, glancing around the room. “What a lot of junk.”

Faded pictures in ornate frames showed people of bygone years standing above the famous cataract. Joe doubted the authenticity of the broken barrels which were supposed to have carried adventurers over the brink.

Looking around, he moved toward a door at the back of the museum. He turned the knob and peered inside. The musty-smelling room was piled high with things that had obviously been discarded from the museum.

Joe closed the door quietly and turned to Paul. “I’d like to sneak in there. Can you—?”

As he spoke, Janzig appeared out of nowhere. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Just looking around,” Joe replied.

“That back room is not part of the museum.”

“You got something to hide?”

“Oh, a fresh kid!” Janzig gave Joe a hard look.

Just then a deep voice barked, “Hey!”

The boys turned to see a burly man with dark hair standing in the open doorway to the museum.

“How about some service?” he rumbled.

Looking startled, Janzig swallowed nervously. “Right away, sir,” he said, and hastened to the front.

“Now, quick!” Joe whispered. He opened the door and slipped into the back room with Paul behind him. The Indian closed the door softly.

“Chet!” he called. “Chet, where are you?”

“Chet, are you in here?” Joe ran to the far side of the room.

From somewhere came a muffled cry!

CHAPTER XV

On the Brink

“CHET, answer me!” Joe called out.

The sound of a scuffle seemed to come from a pile of boxes which stood one atop the other, nearly reaching the ceiling. Joe shouldered them aside, and as they came crashing to the floor, he saw a door behind them. He tried it. “Locked,” he said.

He and Paul crashed against it, forcing the lock. With a bang the door flung open, revealing another storage room much like the first. On the far side a door was ajar. As Joe raced for it, he saw through a dirty window that somebody was being hustled into a small, black, unmarked truck.

“Stop!” Joe shouted. As he reached for the doorknob, someone on the other side gave a hard kick, knocking Joe backward into Paul. The two fell to the floor, and by the time they scrambled to their feet, the truck was roaring away.

The boys raced into the alley, but the vehicle had vanished.

“Do you think they have your friend Chet?’ asked Paul when they turned back inside.

“I’m sure they do,” Joe replied. “But I’ll have to find proof.”

Janzig, by now, had hurried into the back room. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“Where’s Chet Morton?” Joe glared at him angrily.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Janzig put a cigarette to his lips and lighted it. Joe noticed that his hand shook.

“Didn’t you know someone was in that back room?” Paul spoke up.

Janzig dragged hard on the cigarette, coughed, and shook his head. “I don’t know anything about anybody in the back. It’s a storage place, that’s all. Now look. I want no trouble. Why don’t you go away?”

“We’re going to search the place first!”

“Go ahead. Be my guest!”

Joe turned to Paul. “You stay here and keep an eye on him. I’ll check the back.”

Empty boxes and assorted junk and piles of magazines cluttered the dusty room. A telephone was mounted on the wall near the door. Joe rummaged around, looking for clues. If only he could find some evidence that it was really Chet who had been there!

He turned boxes over and studied every scrap of paper on the floor, but found nothing of importance. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. Maybe something had been dropped in the struggle outside!

He opened the door and glanced about the alley. His eyes lit upon a small white paper bag near the side of the building. Joe seized it, opened it, and pulled out a plastic wrapper. Inside was half a cream cheese and salami sandwich!

“It must be Chet’s!” Joe thought. Now he had evidence! He slipped the bag into his pocket so Janzig would not see it. Then he made his way through the clutter back into the museum, where Paul and Janzig were having a glaring match.

“You didn’t find anything. I told you you wouldn’t!” the attendant said.

Joe managed a smile. “I guess you were right. I got all worked up about nothing.”

Paul looked at Joe in disbelief. How come this sudden turnabout? Joe threw him a quick wink, turned to the ticket seller again, and said, “Nobody’s perfect. We all make mistakes. Will you accept my apology?”

Janzig tossed his cigarette to the floor, snubbed it out with his foot, and with a pleased look said, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I was young once myself. No hard feelings.”

The boys strolled out to the sidewalk, down the street, and turned the corner which led to the alley.

“What happened to you?” asked Paul. “One minute you’re like a tiger, then you turn into a pussycat.”

“Paul, Chet was really there! He’s the one they took away in the black truck!”

“Are you sure?”

Joe produced the cream cheese and salami sandwich. He theorized that Chet had been held in the back room, and being hungry, had asked for his favorite snack.

“And Janzig probably was the guy who bought it at the deli!”

“Right. Now follow me and be very quiet.”

Keeping close to the wall, Joe made his way quickly to the window of the rear room. He peered through the smudged glass. His hunch was correct. Standing with his back toward the boys, Janzig dialed the phone.

Joe listened intently, glad that the window was open a crack at the bottom. In a low voice the attendant said only two words “They’re here!” Then he hung up.

The young sleuth backed off, motioning to Paul. “Come on. We have to find that truck!” he said.

They were up against a gang of hoods, Joe realized, much more sinister than he had imagined. Chet was being held as a hostage. Now their enemies had been alerted that the Hardys were hot on their trail in Niagara Falls!

The two ran to the car and drove around block by block, looking for the unmarked truck. But no luck!

Finally Joe said, “Paul, let’s stop in and see how Frank is. Besides, I want to tell him what’s going on.”

Frank was sitting up in bed, still weak, but gaining strength rapidly. Their kind hostess had made him a strong broth which he sipped as Joe quickly related what had occurred at the museum.

Frank nearly dropped the cup of broth. “Good night, Joe! We’ve got to work fast!” He put down the nearly finished broth, swung out of bed, and grabbed his clothes.

“Listen, Frank. You’re not well enough yet,” Joe objected.

“I’m going!” was the determined answer. “You ready for the hunt, Paul?”

The Indian grinned and followed the boys outside to his car. Perspiration stood out on Frank’s brow and Joe noticed it. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Getting better every second,” his brother replied firmly.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Frank said, “My advice is to go back to that alley. Maybe we’ll find another clue.”

The Indian guided the car with the skill of a racing veteran. Approaching their destination, he eased the brakes and poked the vehicle slowly around the corner.

Joe sucked in his breath. “Frank! There it is! The same truck!”

The elbow of the driver could be seen protruding through the cab window. Just then Janzig hastened through the rear door, got into the front seat, glanced back and noticed Paul’s car. He gave a cry of alarm and the truck was off!

“We’ve got to get them!” Joe said. “I’ll bet Chet is still in there!”

“Good grief!” said Paul. “I wonder where they’re taking him.”

“We’ll find out,” Frank said. “Cut him off if you can, Paul.”

The twisting, turning chase led through the heart of the city. The truck passed a red light, and Paul, afraid that they would lose their quarry, eased through the intersection with horn blaring.

A policeman on the corner waved his arms frantically and blew his whistle. He put his walkietalkie to his lips.

“That’s all we need!” muttered Joe, who had watched him. “I hope they don’t stop us before we catch that truck!”

They neared the park by the side of the Falls, where a slow car in front of the truck cut down its speed. “Get him, Paul. Get him now!” Joe urged,

The Indian deftly made a right turn, neatly cutting off the truck. It jumped the curb, ran across the narrow park, and hit a tree not far from the churning rapids.

The boys leaped from their car and reached the truck just as the driver and Janzig hopped out the front. Then the back opened up for a second. A big burly fellow jumped out, slammed the door, and came at the boys, his huge fists flailing.

Paul took him on while Joe sailed into the driver. This left Frank to combat Janzig. The fellow, though thin, was wiry. He feinted a left to the head, then whacked Frank on the right side of the jaw.

Weak from the dart poison, Frank reeled back, crashing into the guard rail which protected onlookers from the precipitous drop into the roaring waters of Niagara Falls.

Joe and Paul were having their troubles, too. Their opponents kicked, gouged, elbowed, and fought a hard, mean battle.

Paul turned to help Frank, but the moment he did, the thugs leaped upon them and the four went crashing to the pavement.

“Stop! Don’t do it!” Joe cried out as Janzig did his best to lift Frank up and over the rail. The weakened boy clung to the metal top rail piping with all his might. The world went swimming around.

Frank drew his knees back, lashed out with his feet, and caught his attacker in the chest. Janzig groaned and fell to his knees. But the impetus of Frank’s thrust catapulted the boy to the far side of the railing.

With a supreme effort Joe dealt his foe a sharp karate chop, then leaped for the railing. He got a scissors hold around Frank and pulled him back to safety.

By this time a crowd had gathered. A car screeched to a halt and two young men dashed through it and pitched into the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe recognized Biff Hooper and Tony Prito! He must be dreaming! What were they doing here?

A flurry of well-aimed blows from Joe sent the driver reeling, and Paul put away the big thug with a sledge-hammer blow to the side of his face.

Just then sirens sounded. Two police cars pulled up and a group of officers jumped out. “Break it up! Break it up!” a sergeant shouted.

“They’re broken up all right!” Biff replied as the police ran up.

The trio, sprawled on the ground, rose shakily to their feet.

“These men are kidnappers!” Joe charged.

“What do you mean?” Janzig said. “We were just driving along when these guys cut us off and attacked us!” He glared balefully at Biff and Tony, who had turned the tide of the battle.

“Who are you?” the sergeant asked.

The Bayport reinforcement duo introduced themselves and said they were on their way to the Upper Michigan peninsula to do some fishing.

“Mr. Radley, a friend of ours, alerted us that our buddies here might be in trouble in Niagara Falls,” Tony explained. “So we stopped by and helped.”

Frank and Joe identified themselves, as did Paul. The beaten men, still rubbing their jaws, gave their names too.

“You say they’re kidnappers?” the officer asked Joe. “Whom did they kidnap?”

“Chet Morton from Bayport,” Frank put in. “He’s in that black truck!” He pointed to the vehicle.

The policeman walked over and flung open the back doors. The truck was empty!

“What did I tell you?” Janzig said jubilantly. “These kids are fakes!”

The Hardys and their companions were in a tight predicament. How could they prove their story? And what had happened to Chet? Where had he vanished?

“And what’s more,” Janzig went on, “I prefer charges against these punks for assault and battery!”

Joe felt as if he had turned to lead. The spinning inside Frank’s head grew unbearable, and Paul looked around helplessly.

“Okay, down to headquarters with you!” the sergeant said sharply, and his men started to lead the boys toward the police cars.

“Wait a minute!” Paul said.

“For what?” the officer behind him asked impatiently.

“Listen!” Above the sound of the traffic and the chatter of the excited onlookers, a sound came from the direction of the truck.

Paul moved over with the policeman on his heels and listened closely. “Somebody is in there, I’ll bet!” he exclaimed.

The sergeant climbed inside the truck.

Another officer crawled beneath it.

“Hey! There’s a false bottom here!” the sergeant called out after a few seconds. He found a panel and pulled it up.

Underneath, squeezed into a narrow space, was Chet Morton!

CHAPTER XVI

Thieves Strike Twice

TAKING the stout boy’s arms, the officer pulled him from the small space where he was wedged under the floor.

Chet looked about, unbelieving at first. “Hi, fellows,” he said with a weak wave of the hand as two policemen helped him out of the black truck. Seeing that he was the central figure in the drama, Chet recovered quickly.

Color came into his pale cheeks. He stood erect and pointed an accusing finger at his abductors. “I charge them with kidnapping!” he declared in a firm voice.

Handcuffs were snapped on the trio and the police herded them into one of the patrol cars. With sirens wailing, they were whisked off while Chet related the high points of his adventure.

“I was waylaid,” he explained, “soon after I got the car out of the repair shop. Three men cut me off. Creepy and another guy jumped out of the car, put a gun on me, and forced me into the back seat of the convertible. Then they took off with it.”

“Didn’t anybody see it happen?” asked Frank.

“I don’t know. It only took a minute,” Chet replied.

The kidnappers had driven him directly to Niagara Falls and had hidden him in the rear of the museum. “I got loose and phoned you once,” Chet said. “They discovered what I was doing and really belted me!”

The crowd had now dispersed and Joe introduced their Bayport pals to Paul.

“You guys came on strong,” the Indian said with a grin. “How did you find us?”

“Sam Radley gave us the Keystone clue,” Tony explained. “We were cruising around looking for the place when we spotted you tearing through town after the truck.”

“It took us a while to catch up,” Biff added, “but traffic was heavy.”

The police requested the boys to come down to headquarters to make their complaint. There the Hardys continued to question Chet. He confirmed Frank’s belief that the gang were involved in big crime operations.

“You’re in their hair,” said Chet and added, “I heard them mention your father.”

Frank and Joe registered surprise. “In what way?” Joe asked.

“Remember when Rod Jimerson got bopped at the motel in Cleveland?”

Frank and Joe nodded while the police stenographer continued to make notes.

“Well, they thought he was your father for some reason.”

“I wonder what—” Joe began.

Frank interrupted by asking the police whether they had come across the Hardys’ car and gave them the license number. The chief put the query on intercom and soon the answer squawked out.

The convertible had been found abandoned. It would be returned to the boys if they would come to the police garage.

A short time later the six were dismissed. They thanked the officers for their help and promised to be on hand for the trial of the three kidnappers.

Outside headquarters, Chet made a wry face and said, “Boy, I’m hungry. I could eat a horse!”

“No need for that,” Joe quipped. “Here’s the lunch you left behind!” With that he pulled the cream cheese and salami sandwich from his pocket and handed it to the astounded Chet.

“Holy Toledo! I dropped that when they pushed me into the truck!” Chet said and wolfed down the food.

They drove to the police garage and claimed the convertible. A quick examination showed it was undamaged.

Frank suggested they all go to Paul’s cousin’s house. Biff and Tony followed in Biff’s car. When they arrived, they found a snack prepared for them.

“Boy, this sandwich hits the spot!” Frank said.

“Well, I guess we’d better be on our way,” Biff declared when he had finished. “Some speckled beauties are waiting for us in those Michigan lakes.”

“I’m ready,” Tony spoke up. “That is, if you fellows don’t need us any longer.”

“Go right ahead,” Frank said. “And thanks for coming along at the right time. Those goons might have thrown us into the drink if you hadn’t.”

“It was a great pleasure to take care of them,” Biff said with a grin. “Nice to meet you, Paul.” They all shook hands, then the two left.

“I’d like to stick around with you for a while, fellows,” Paul decided. “I go for this detective work!”

“You’re welcome to stay with us,” Frank said, then brought the conversation to the missing masks again.

“You know,” Paul said, shaking his head, “my brother Rod thinks Lendo Wallace is involved somehow in this. But I don’t agree with him.”

“Why not?” Frank asked.

Paul said that Lendo had always been an honest person. “When I was a boy, he was awful good to me,” he added, and told that many times Lendo had taken him for walks in the woods and had taught him how to throw the snow snake.

“You say you’d like to be a detective,” Frank said. “Will you help us to get to the bottom of this mask mystery?”

Paul was enthusiastic over the opportunity. “Let’s get started right away,” he said.

First, however, Frank put in a call to Radley in Cleveland. He was out, but had given an alternate number where Frank reached him.

“We found Chet,” Frank reported. “Thanks for sending the back-up troops!”

Radley was relieved when he heard the story that Chet was safe. “I’ve received the photo,” he said when Frank had finished, “and routed it through the FBI. There’s no report on it yet.”

“What about the Cadillac?” Frank inquired.

“That wasn’t hard to trace. It’s owned by John Snedecker.”

“No kidding!” Frank exclaimed. “So he’s the rich uncle of Elmont Chidsee!”

They chatted a while longer, and Radley said that the Magnitude Merchandising Mart was under close investigation by Mr. Hardy.

“They know Dad’s on the case,” Frank said. “Rod Jimerson got a bump on the head by being mistaken for him. By the way, how is Rod?”

“Working. No trouble here.”

“We’re going to the Rideaus’ place tomorrow and will stop by the reservation on the way.”

“Good luck!” Radley said and hung up.

Next morning Frank rode with Paul to keep him company, while Chet went with Joe in the convertible. Once out of the city traffic, the miles flew by and they soon found themselves nearing Yellow Springs.

Paul, who was in the lead, pulled over to the side of the road and Joe stopped behind him. “Let’s drop in on my mother first,” Paul suggested.

“Great!” Chet remarked. “I hope she’s got some corn soup on the back burner.”

The two cars turned into the lane in front of Mrs. Jimerson’s home. Before they had a chance to reach the door, the woman approached them. The look of pleasure on her face soon gave way to agitation, however. “Did you come back on account of Lendo Wallace?” she asked.

“No. What happened?” Paul frowned.

“Come on in, and I’ll tell you.”

In the living room she hugged her son and motioned the callers to sit down. She cast a sidewise glance at Chet and hastened into the kitchen. Shortly she returned with steaming bowls of corn soup.

As the boys ate, she related the story about Wallace. “He was robbed last night. But not only that, he was severely beaten!”

“Robbed?” asked Frank. “What was stolen?”

The woman ticked off the items on her fingers. “Lacrosse sticks, snow snakes, trinkets, and false faces.”

The Hardys were puzzled over the beating.

“Did Lendo come upon the thieves and catch them red-handed, ransacking his house?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Jimerson stated. “The police are investigating.”

“It sounds like more than a plain burglary,” Paul said grimly. “I’d like to get my hands on his attacker!”

Angrily he rose from the table and put an arm about his mother’s shoulders. “Ma, is Lendo home?”

“Yes. But the doctor says he’s hurt pretty bad.”

“Come on, fellows. Let’s go see him!” Paul decided.

Frank, Joe, and Chet finished their soup, thanked Mrs. Jimerson, and hastened out with Paul. They all climbed into his car and drove to Wallace’s place.

Paul pushed open the screen door and they entered. The room, obviously a workshop, was in disarray. The door to the bedroom was ajar. Paul entered and beckoned the boys to follow. Lying on the bed with a wide bandage around his head was Lendo Wallace. One purpled eye was closed shut and his face showed other bruises.

The injured man looked feverishly at Paul, who pulled up a chair and sat close to the bedside. “Who did this to you, Lendo?” he asked.

“A hundred,” Wallace muttered.

“A hundred what?”

The man did not answer, and his friend repeated the question.

“Masks,” Lendo whispered finally.

“He’s too sick to speak,” said Frank. “Maybe we can come back later.”

The four left and got into the car before anyone spoke. Then Frank said, “A hundred masks—what does that mean?”

“Don’t know,” said Joe, “but we’d better find out.”

They returned to Mrs. Jimerson and picked up the convertible. This time Chet rode with Paul and the Hardys stayed together. On the way to Hawk Head, Joe flicked on the radio and picked up a local news broadcast. The announcer sounded excited.

“Dr. Rideau’s coin vault was robbed last night of more than two hundred thousand dollars in valuable coins,” he said. “Local police have no clues to the thieves. They—”

Joe turned off the radio. “They did it!” he exclaimed hotly. “Pour it on, Frank!”

The car gathered speed in the race to Hawk Head.

CHAPTER XVII

A Telltale Cobweb

WHEN Frank reached the city limits of Hawk Head, he slowed down and motioned for Paul to come alongside. He told him of the radio report, then proceeded to the Rideau property.

A police car was at the curb in front of the house, and the chief and a lieutenant stood on the lawn discussing the case.

“Hi, Frank, Joe,” Chief White greeted them. “You fellows called the shot that time.”

The chief said he had several men inside dusting for fingerprints and making a search of every square inch of the Rideaus’ home.

“What time did it happen?” Frank asked.

“Don’t know. As you suggested, our patrol car passed the house every half hour during the night.”

“And saw nothing suspicious?” Joe asked.

“Not a thing. All was quiet, or so it seemed.”

“And the Rideaus,” Frank queried, “didn’t hear any noises?”

“They were out of town, visiting friends,” the police officer replied.

“What?” Joe was incredulous. “They left their coins unguarded?”

“The tenants were home,” the chief replied. “Of course the dogs are still at the vet’s.”

“Have you questioned the professors?” asked Paul.

“Certainly,” the chief replied. “We quizzed them first thing.” Paul was told that the two men had heard noises briefly. They had come down to check, but found nothing suspicious. “In fact,” Chief White said, “they suspect that the Indians did it.”

“Were they at home all night?” Frank asked.

“Correct. They never left the place.”

Frank noticed the clenched muscles in Paul’s jaw. “What makes them think the Indians pulled the job?” he snapped.

The chief put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a small mask. He held it up for Paul to see. “One of the profs found this near the back door when we were making the search.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing!” Paul protested bitterly.

Frank touched his arm. “Easy does it, Paul. We’ll get to the bottom of this!”

Just then Mrs. Rideau, having heard the boys’ voices, hastened from the house. She wrung her hands in agitation as she approached the Hardys. “We should have listened to you!” she kept repeating. “We should have hired a private policeman to stand guard at all times!”

“How’s the doctor?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Rideau said he was under sedation, lying on the sofa in the living room. “Our entire fortune is gone. It’s all gone!” she wailed.

“How did the thieves get into the vault?” Frank asked.

“It was pretty smooth,” White replied. “They used Dr. Rideau’s air drill to cut the locks. That way they didn’t have to carry any heavy equipment into the house.”

“What about fingerprints?” Chet asked.

“Negative. So far at least. Nobody’s prints except Dr. Rideau’s.”

Frank had to admit it was a clever scheme, but carrying off the heavy sacks of coins was another matter. “I have a hunch that the stuff is hidden right around here.”

“But we’ve searched everywhere,” Chief White said.

The Hardys, Chet, and Paul excused themselves and went into the house to see Dr. Rideau. He lay pale and still, shocked by the loss of his fortune built up during his long life.

Chet and Paul looked on sympathetically as Frank and Joe questioned Dr. Rideau. But he only repeated what he had already told the police. “The Indians must have done it,” he insisted. “They think I have Spoon Mouth!”

“Don’t worry, Doctor, your coins will be found,” Frank assured him. “Just be patient. We’re bound to come upon a clue somewhere!”

Paul grimly held his silence. He beckoned the boys outside and whispered, “That guy is crazy. The Indians wouldn’t take his coins. And if they did, what could they do with them?”

“Once a rumor gets started,” Frank said, “it’s hard to stop it. Somebody must have planted this one intentionally to build up a case against the Senecas.”

Frank walked up to Mrs. Rideau, who had just come outside. “By the way, was Elmont Chidsee in the house when it happened?”

“No. Only the professors,” she replied.

The Hardys exchanged glances. Was Elmont in on the whole thing or wasn’t he?

The four boys put their heads together. “I have a feeling that the loot is hidden in the barn,” Joe said. “Remember all that funny business going on there? Maybe the thieves were trying to scare us away for good.”

Chet nodded. “Let’s check it out.”

They walked quietly around the house, opened the barn door, and began to search. Not a shred of evidence was found.

Joe noticed a stubby broom and began to sweep away the straw near the place where Chet had slept. Maybe the stolen coins were underneath it.

“What are you doing?” the stout boy asked, walking over to him.

Crack! Crash!

Rotten floorboards gave away under their combined weight. The two landed hard on the earthen floor of an underground room!

Frank and Paul ran over and peered into the hole. “You went right through an old trap door!” Frank exclaimed. “I can see the outline now!”

“This might be the answer,” Joe said, “as to how the intruder got away after putting the mask on Chet.” He turned and called to Frank, “Pass me a flashlight, will you?”

Frank ran to the car and returned with a powerful light which he handed down to Joe. While the two boys above watched, Joe and Chet examined the pit carefully.

“Looks like an old root cellar to me,” Joe declared.

“Pretty spooky place,” Chet said. “I want to get out of here!”

“Oh, oh, Frank! Look at this!” Joe called out

“Did you find something?”

“Someone has been down here recently.” Joe’s light shone on a cobweb deep in a corner of the cellar. The symmetry of the fine strands had been broken. Then, on hands and knees, he and Chet made out the faint outlines of footprints on the dank floor.

The rotten floorboards gave way

“Maybe there’s an underground way out of this place!” Paul suggested.

Their sleuthing was suddenly interrupted by Chief White’s excited call from outside. “Frank and Joe Hardy!”

Paul and Frank pulled the other two from the root cellar and they hastened out of the barn. The chief beckoned from the house, and the boys ran over to him.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“We found the melted coins!”

“You mean Spoon Mouth?” Paul asked.

“That’s right.”

“Where was it?”

“In the back of Mrs. Rideau’s closet!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Smashed Evidence

EVERYONE was aghast over the discovery made by the Hawk Head police. Frank and Joe could not believe that the dentist had stolen the melted coins from the Senecas.

Paul Jimerson shook his head sadly. “There’s no telling what a man will do to get something he really wants,” he said. “But I still feel sorry for the old man.”

They all entered the living room to witness a strange scene. The doctor sat on the sofa, his head in his hands. His wife was daubing her eyes with a handkerchief while the chief stood over her, holding the melted coins.

The two professors, meanwhile, had come downstairs. They were upbraiding the elderly couple. Mockton lectured them in his oily sonorous voice, and Glade, looking holier-than-thou, waggled his finger at Mrs. Rideau.

“What harm did the Indians ever do to you?” Glade asked. “Didn’t you know Old Spoon Mouth holds a special place in the life of their councils?”

“Stop it!” Dr. Rideau said and looked up pleadingly to the police chief. “I didn’t do it! My wife didn’t do it, either!”

“Then I suppose Spoon Mouth just walked into Mrs. Rideau’s closet,” Professor Mockton said. “I must say I didn’t realize it was all that valuable as a collector’s item.”

“It’s not!” Dr. Rideau exclaimed. “How could I expect to get rid of it anyway? It’s stolen goods!”

“You collectors have ways of doing things. You’re all in cahoots. All over the world!”

“Lay off, will you!” Chet growled. Like the Hardys, he hated to see the old couple being badgered.

Although Paul Jimerson was happy that his tribe’s heirloom had been recovered, he, too, felt sorry for them.

“Have the Rideaus been advised of their rights?” he asked.

“Yes,” Chief White replied.

“I don’t want any lawyer,” the doctor declared. “I’m not guilty of anything!”

“Well,” Mockton said stiffly to the boys, “if you’re so concerned about these criminals, that’s okay. But we’re moving out of this house!”

He went to the telephone, called a drive-it-yourself service, and asked for the use of a small truck. “We’ll be there shortly,” he said and hung up. Then he and his roommate strode out to their car and drove off.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come down to headquarters with us,” Chief White said to the Rideaus.

They looked shocked and Frank spoke up quickly. “Chief, I just can’t believe that these people are guilty.”

The officer looked pained. “Neither can I!”

“They’ve been framed, I’ll bet,” Joe put in.

Frank requested the police to wait a little while before booking the couple. “Give us a few days and I feel sure we can get to the truth of the matter. The Rideaus won’t run away.”

“Of course we won’t,” the doctor spoke up. “I give you my word.”

The chief nodded. “Well, Henry, your word’s been good in this town for the last thirty years. I guess we can take it for a few more days.”

The Rideaus smiled in relief and thanked the officer and the boys. When the police had gone, they retired to their bedroom to rest.

Paul took the opportunity to telephone his brother Rod in Cleveland. He was not at home, but his landlady took the message. Paul told her to have Rod return immediately, so that the Indians could claim Spoon Mouth. “I’ll meet him at our mother’s house,” he said and hung up.

By the time they were all ready to leave for Yellow Springs, Mockton pulled up into the driveway with a small panel truck, marked U-Drive. Glade followed in their car.

“We’re going to get out of here just as soon as we can,” Mockton told the boys. “And my advice to you is this: have nothing to do with the Rideaus.”

“They were pretty nice to you,” Joe said tartly.

“That’s right,” Frank added. “You seemed to turn on them in an awful hurry.”

“You understand,” Glade said, mounting the front porch, “that we must protect our professional reputation.”

“Big deal,” Chet muttered as the professors disappeared into the house.

When Paul and the three boys arrived at Mrs. Jimerson’s place, the Indian woman insisted that they remain overnight. Paul broke out some sleeping bags and the tired young sleuths slept comfortable and deeply.

At midmorning a car pulled into the driveway, throwing up dust as the driver stopped short. Rod Jimerson jumped out, trotted to the front of the door, and entered.

“Hi, Mother. Hi, fellows!” he said. “I hear you found old Spoon Mouth!”

“Not us,” Frank replied. “The pplice did.”

When Rod was told all that had happened, he shook his head and looked sheepishly at the Hardys. “I was wrong about the whole deal. And I had been so positive, too. I guess I owe Lendo Wallace an apology.”

“Poor Lendo,” Chet spoke up. “He took a terrible beating.”

“And you know something?” Joe said. “That could hardly have been done by Dr. Rideau. We’re not to the bottom of this case yet!”

The Jimerson brothers talked quietly about what to do next. It was agreed that Rod should call a meeting of all members of the False Face Society. “We’ll form a delegation,” he said, “go to the police in Hawk Head, and claim Old Spoon Mouth!”

His mother beamed at the suggestion. “We’ll hold a ceremony and celebrate!” she said.

Frank, Joe, and Chet joined the two Senecas as they set out in the Hardys’ car to round up members of the society. Lendo Wallace was still too weak to attend.

Early in the afternoon six Indians of the False Face Society met at the Jimerson place. The Bayport boys joined the caravan of three cars which drove to Hawk Head and parked near police headquarters. Chief White was surprised to see them.

“We are going to celebrate the recovery of Spoon Mouth,” Rod Jimerson announced, “and we’ve come to claim our tribal property.”

“You can’t—at least not now.”

“Why not?” Rod asked.

“Because we need it as evidence in the trial of the Rideaus,” the chief replied.

The Senecas looked at one another, then huddled in whispered conversation. Finally Rod spoke up. “We’ll keep Spoon Mouth in our Council Offices, Chief. Any time you want to use the relic as evidence, we’ll bring it to court.”

“Can’t do that,” the officer said bluntly. “Rules are rules.”

A glimmer came into Rod Jimerson’s eyes. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. “By the way, Chief, I haven’t had a look at Spoon Mouth yet. It might have been damaged. Will you at least show it to me?”

“Of course,” White replied. He walked to a safe in his office and returned holding the gold relic in both hands.

With a lightning fast movement, Rod took the relic from the officer. The sudden move jerked it from his clutched hands. It flew into the air, landed on the floor, and broke into a hundred pieces!

With mixed looks of consternation and disbelief the boys, the Indians, and the law officers stared at the fragments.

“That’s not Spoon Mouth!” Paul Jimerson thundered. “It was a fake! A cast!” He bent down to scoop up some of the pieces.

The chief looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we had the real thing!”

“What’d I tell you?” Chet said triumphantly. “The Rideaus are not guilty. Somebody planted the fake Spoon Mouth in their house!”

“I can see it all now,” the chief said. “Whoever stole the Rideaus’ collection did this to stall for time.”

Joe could keep quiet no longer. “And I think I know who it was—the professors!”

“Careful, Joe,” Frank warned. “Don’t accuse anyone without concrete evidence!”

The police chief said that no charges would be preferred against the Rideaus. “I suggest we go out immediately and tell them they have been exonerated.”

“That’s fine,” Frank agreed. “But they’re still stone-broke. We simply have to find the doctor’s coins!”

The Senecas offered to join the Hardys and Chet in a search for the loot. They all drove to the Rideaus’ place. Joe rode with the police chief and filled him in on their discovery of the root cellar and their suspicions of the professors.

When the Rideaus were told what had happened, they stared at each other in relief. But it took a while for the good news to sink in.

Finally Mrs. Rideau smiled wanly and said, “I told you so. The doctor and I wouldn’t steal anything!” Then she burst into tears.

The Hardys and Chet led the police and the Indians in a search of the barn. Frank and Joe dropped down into the pit and surveyed every inch of the dank walls, while the Senecas scoured the outside. They were still looking for an opening when Paul Jimerson ran into the barn, poked his head down into the root cellar, and said, “We found a loose boulder outside behind the barn. It leads to a tunnel!”

Just then Frank and Joe heard thumping beneath their feet. Using their hands, they quickly scraped aside some dirt, found a ring in a wooden trap door, and pulled it up.

About five feet below them crouched Rod Jimerson and two other Senecas. They had gone into the tunnel, which connected the root cellar to the outside!

“That’s how the thieves got out with the loot!” Rod declared.

“What do you mean?” Joe asked. “There wasn’t any loot in here, so far as we could see.”

“It was stored in the tunnel. Look at this!” Rod held up a roll of coins in his right hand.

CHAPTER XIX

Lendo’s Dilemma

“So the profs hid the coins in the tunnel. Probably they waited until after dark, when nobody was here but the Rideaus, then drove their rented truck around to the back of the barn and loaded up! ”Joe concluded.

“Moving out gave them a good excuse for hiring the truck,” Chet remarked.

“At the time I thought it seemed odd,” said Frank, “but I assumed the profs had a lot of books and other stuff to cart off.”

Frank and Joe scrambled out of the root cellar and showed their find to Chief White and his men, who were standing outside the barn. He agreed with their theory.

“It was an inside job, all right,” he said. “The use of that tunnel convinces me of it!”

He went into the house, telephoned the U-Drive company, and after a short conversation with them had an alarm sent out for the truck.

Frank glanced at his watch. “I’d like to talk to the manager of that outfit personally,” he said. “Maybe we’ll catch him before closing time if we run over there right away.”

“Good idea,” the chief agreed. “Let me know if you pick up anything of interest.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet said good-by to the rest of the search party and drove to the rental agency. It was located at the front of a large garage. The manager was young and cordial.

“I told Chief White all I know,” he said. “Those two fellows showed me their drivers’ licenses, and paid a deposit.”

“Did they drop a hint as to where they were going?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“Did you ask for a reference?” Joe inquired.

“I’ll bet they gave that Zoar College!” Chet put in.

The manager shook his head. “Not at all. But there’s one thing I forgot to mention to Chief White. Mr. Mockton gave me his company card!”

The man opened his desk drawer and pulled it out. “‘Canadian Gold Mining Company, King Louis Street, Montreal,’ ” he read. “Mockton said he was a sales representative.”

“We’ve got them!” Chet exulted. “If the police cover all routes from here to Montreal, they’re bound to catch those crooks!”

Frank thanked the manager and the three boys stepped outside. “Listen, Chet,” said Joe, “the thieves wouldn’t be so obvious and leave that card if they were really driving to Montreal.”

“The address is probably a phony,” Joe put in.

Chet looked crestfallen. “That’s right. I guess it’s not such a hot clue, after all.”

“We’ll pass it on to Chief White, but I have no high hopes,” Frank said. “Before we go over to headquarters, let’s stop at the Rideaus. Maybe Paul and Rod are still there. I want to ask them a couple of more questions about Wallace.”

When they reached the doctor’s home, the Indians and the police had departed. The Rideaus were in the living room, smiling and happy over the return of their dogs.

“Dr. Corey’s son brought them back a little while ago,” Mrs. Rideau said, fondling Tay’s ears, while Boots lay at his master’s feet.

“But now there aren’t any coins to protect,” Chet said.

Frank gave him a jab in the ribs and hissed, “I’m going to put you in for the diplomatic corps. You say the sweetest things just at the right moment!”

Chet flushed. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he mumbled. “Anyway, Frank and Joe will find your coins, Doctor.”

The boys turned to go. “We’ll be at police headquarters for a while,” Joe said, “in case someone wants to get in touch with us.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Mrs. Rideau said. “You had a phone call.”

“Who was it?” Frank asked.

“A man named Hadley or something like that.”

“Sam Radley. Did he leave a message?”

“You’re to phone him.” Mrs. Rideau gave Frank a memorandum containing Sam’s Bayport number.

He quickly returned the call. Radley said that he had completed his Cleveland mission and that the photos had been checked out. The professors, indeed, were swindlers.

“You can say that again,” Frank said. “They just made off with a fortune in coins.”

Sam whistled as Frank quickly filled him in on the latest events.

“Of course they never were professors to begin with,” Sam said after Frank had finished. “They used that as a cover. They have records as long as your arm and aliases to match. But both have some college education.”

“Maybe they went to Zoar!” Frank quipped.

Radley laughed. “They had their fingers in all kinds of pies, including the mail fraud gang which your father investigated!”

“How do you like that! We’re helping Dad’s case after all!”

“I should say!” Radley praised the boys for spotting Snedeker as a phony. “We’ve got his nibs in handcuffs. The Magnitude Merchandising Mart was one of his setups. Your father arrested him personally.”

“What about his creepy office boy—the jerk that ran us off the road?”

“Oh, yes, the former cat burglar. He tried to tangle with your dad. It was a ten-second bout. One clout on the jaw and your friend was in dreamland.”

“Dad sure was busy,” Frank said. “Where is he now?”

“Flew to Montreal in an effort to round up another branch of the fraud outfit.”

“The Canadian Gold Mining Company?”

“How did you know?” Radley blurted.

Frank told him about the business-card clue and mentioned the address of the company.

“Great!” Sam exulted. “Your father overheard one of the prisoners mention the name, but he refused to give the address. Naturally it’s not listed anywhere.” He added that Mr. Hardy was to call him soon. “I’ll give him this info,” he concluded.

After hanging up, Frank called Chief White and reported the news. The officer thanked him for the Montreal lead. “I don’t put much stock in it, though,” he added. “If they really intend to go to Montreal, they’ll probably change transportation and abandon the truck.”

“I know,” Frank said.

“We’ll alert the various police departments on the route from Hawk Head to Montreal,” Chief White added. “Just in case.”

Next, Joe put in a call to Mrs. Jimerson. He was told that her sons were not in, but that they planned to be at the Rideaus’ later that evening.

“Okay, we’ll talk to them, then,” Joe said.

The doctor’s wife insisted that the Hardys and Chet have dinner. When they had eaten, the three boys sat on the porch awaiting their Seneca friends.

Soon Rod and Paul drove up. They were followed by three other cars. A delegation of Indians stepped out and walked quietly up to the house. The Hardys were surprised to see Lendo Wallace among them. He was limping.

They all went into the living room, and the Hardys wondered what would happen. The doctor and his wife sat on the sofa with the dogs at their feet. Tay and Boots growled menacingly.

“May I ask what brings you here?” Mrs. Rideau questioned the Senecas after silencing the dogs.

Rod Jimerson spoke up. They had come as friends, he said, and wanted to apologize. “We should never have believed the rumor about your stealing Spoon Mouth. Now we know all the facts.”

Paul said the Indians realized that the Rideaus had been framed. “Please forgive us.”

Frank and Joe could hardly restrain themselves from asking questions. But they waited politely until Dr. Rideau replied, “My wife and I accept your apologies. And we were wrong for being suspicious of you Senecas, too.”

Rod nodded. “Now that we’re all friends, I think Frank and Joe have some questions.”

“Do we!” Joe burst out. “What about those facts you mentioned?”

Rod and his brother chuckled and Paul said, “Without you they might have never come to light. Wouldn’t you say so, Lendo?”

Wallace nodded. He looked more contrite than ill. He started to speak, first looking at the floor, then bringing his eyes to meet the boys’.

“After Spoon Mouth had been stolen from the council headquarters, I was approached by Mockton. He told me that he had been designated as a go-between. Said the thieves wanted one hundred Indian masks in exchange for it.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police about it?” Frank asked.

Lendo said that Mockton had threatened to destroy Spoon Mouth if word of this got to the police or the other Senecas. Then he would deny everything.

“Spoon Mouth was more important to the tribe than anything else,” Wallace went on. “Without our good-luck spirit I felt that our people would be doomed!” He told how he had begun to “appropriate” masks from the longhouse itself and various other Indians to “buy” Spoon Mouth. “I also made as many as I could myself,” he concluded.

He fell silent and had to be prodded by Rod Jimerson. “Tell them about your attackers,” Rod urged.

Lendo’s story was grim. The two professors had come to his house one night for the false faces. He had asked for Spoon Mouth, but was told that it had been lost. “I wouldn’t give them the masks,” he said, “but they beat me and took them, anyway.”

“Did they say what happened to Spoon Mouth?”

The Indian shook his head sadly.

Joe changed the subject. “You knew we were spying on you that night when one of the thieves came to see you, didn’t you?”

“Yes. It was Mockton who came to my house.”

“So you tried to protect us by denying you had seen us. But the next day you left a warning, trying to scare us off. Why?”

“I knew trouble was brewing. Didn’t want to see you get hurt. That’s the reason I carved Frank’s face in the tree, too. I thought it might make you leave!”

The boys told him they appreciated his kind motives.

“But where are the false faces now?” Dr. Rideau broke in.

“Mockton and Glade probably took them along,” Frank said. “There’s one thing I’d like to do, though. And that is check the Zoar College property for any clues they might have accidentally left.”

Since it was already dark, the Bayporters and Paul, Rod, and Wallace agreed to set out early the next day for the Zoar campus.

Frank, Joe, and Chet stayed overnight with the Rideaus and the next morning, just as they were finishing breakfast, the Senecas came to pick them up.

The procession of cars headed up the highway, and when they reached the turnoff, they proceeded down the wooded hill and around the bend to the dilapidated campus.

It looked just the same as the first time the Hardys and Chet had seen it, with one exception. Lendo Wallace was quick to detect evidence that someone had recently walked through the tall grass.

“How long ago would you say these tracks were made?” Frank asked.

“Only a few hours,” Lendo replied.

“Then we all have to be pretty careful,” Frank said. “It could mean that some of the gang are still around!”

The sun was dispelling the early-morning mist and shone brightly on the flimsy buildings. The Indians searched keenly, like beagles after a rabbit, all around the area. Then everyone went into the first building.

Dust motes rose into the slanting sunlight as they poked in every drawer, searched all the closets and looked into corners, wastebaskets, and behind the blackboard.

Finally Paul hauled himself up through a trap door into the low attic.

“Anything up there?” Frank called out.

Paul sneezed from the dust, then let out a whoop of joy.

“The masks!” he yelled. “They’re stacked neatly under the roof and covered with sheets of plastic material!”

In bucket-brigade fashion the Indians retrieved the false faces from their hiding place. Frank and Joe took them outside and set them in the tall grass in front of the building.

Frank shook his head. “Wow! What a caper!”

“I still don’t get it,” Chet mused. “No doubt those crooked professors wanted the masks for a purpose. So why’d they leave them here?”

“Maybe they had no time to take them along,” Frank explained. “Since they used the Rideaus’ ‘crime’ as an excuse to clear out, they probably didn’t dare to come here and load them.”

“They must have been planning to send somebody later to get them,” Joe deduced.

Paul climbed down from the attic and reported that it was now empty. A quick check of the other building netted no clues, and the boys started picking up the masks to take them to the cars.

As Frank bent down, there was a noise in the underbrush. He motioned for the others to be silent.

“Somebody’s in those bushes,” he whispered. “We’d better—”

He was interrupted by Elmont Chidsee springing out from behind a tree. He had a wild look in his eyes and a dart gun in his right hand. In his left he flourished a mass of fused gold coins.

The real Spoon Mouth!

“Drop those masks!” he called out. “Or I’ll shoot!”

CHAPTER XX

A Rebellious Youth

EVERYONE stopped short as Chidsee brandished the dart gun.

“Don’t shoot!” Frank said. “You’ll be sorry if you do!”

“I don’t care!” Elmont shouted, his voice rising hysterically. “All my life I’ve been nobody, and now I am somebody!”

“What do you mean, you’re somebody?” Frank asked. He kept his voice even, trying to talk Chidsee out of his fanatical act.

“I’ll tell you,” Chidsee said, with a nervous smile that flickered on and off. “I’m going to take those masks and get myself some money—money that’s all mine, that I don’t have to ask my uncle for. Then I’m leaving this country and get far away from that rat fink!”

The Indians began to murmur and Rod started to say something.

“Shut up!” Chidsee shouted.

Just then Chet, from the corner of his eye, picked up a movement in the distance. A man was walking up the path behind Elmont. He was wearing a light-brown suit and carrying a gold-topped cane.

“Hey, look behind you!” Chet said.

Chidsee only sneered. “You won’t get away with that ruse, fat boy,” he said. “I’ve seen too many Western movies for you to fool me!”

The approaching stranger drew closer, stopped, and surveyed the situation.

“Listen, Chidsee, there is someone behind you,” Joe said and took a step forward.

“Get back!” Elmont cried. He waved the gun and retreated several steps.

At that point the confused stranger spoke in a thick German accent, “Am I interrupting something?”

Amazed, Elmont wheeled around. In a flash Frank and Joe leaped on him and Joe grasped the gun hand. Frank lamped a headlock. Chet, running as fast as he could, threw a rolling block. Chidsee hit the ground with a thump.

The dart gun lay in the grass, and so did Spoon Mouth. As the Senecas rushed forward to collect their heirloom, the stranger picked up the weapon.

“Good night!” Joe Hardy thought. “Is he another one of the mob?”

“Be careful with that,” Frank warned. “It shoots poison darts!”

“I’ve heard of those,” the stranger said in halting English. “But I’ve never seen one.”

The man handed over the gun to Paul Jimerson, who asked, “Who are you? And what do you want here?”

“I am Herr Johann Lothar,” the man replied, “an agent from the Nuremberg Museum.” Introductions were made and the German explained he had left his car around the bend.

Elmont Chidsee, now thoroughly subdued, looked at the visitor in astonishment. “You—you were going to buy the false faces?”

“Yes.”

Lothar said he had come all the way from Bavaria to collect the masks which the Magnitude Merchandising Mart had agreed to sell him.

“We sent them a large deposit,” he declared, “but heard nothing more. I came here to investigate. Upon inquiring, I was told that the False Face Society was at Zoar College right now.”

When informed of the gang’s activities, Mr. Lothar was shocked. “Germans have a deep interest in the American Indian,” he said. “Our museum already was priding itself on the Iroquois collection of false faces.

“Mr. Lothar,” Rod Jimerson said, “the Senecas will not disappoint you.” He promised that the tribe would make a set of masks and send them to the museum free of charge.

Mr. Lothar was overjoyed and gave Rod his card. Then, still bewildered by the scene he had witnessed, he excused himself and left.

The Hardys now turned to question Chidsee. The youth was pale and looked like a deflated balloon.

“Tell us all about it,” Frank said. “You’re in real trouble with that dart gun, you know. But maybe we can help you.”

Chidsee put his hands over his face and his shoulders began to shudder.

“Come on now, buck up!” Joe said.

The boy pulled himself together and began to tell his story. When his parents died, his uncle had become his legal guardian. “He was mean to me,” Elmont said. “Finding fault all the time. I got such an inferiority complex that I couldn’t even pass exams to get into a regular college.”

“So that’s the reason you enrolled in Zoar,” Frank said.

“What else could I do? My uncle cpntrols this phony joint.” Chidsee looked straight at Chet Morton. “You were almost suckered into the deal, too, like a lot of other fellows.”

“Not quite,” Joe said.

“I know,” Elmont went on. “That’s what made my uncle so furious with you guys. An investigation was something he couldn’t take. Then, when your father started investigating the mail fraud —” He shook his head. “You don’t know Uncle!”

“Well, he can’t hurt you any more,” Frank said. “He’s in jail.”

Chidsee seemed to be relieved. “He made me help Mockton and Glade keep an eye on you,” he confessed.

“Did that include plugging me with the dart gun?” Frank asked.

“Yes. You and the dogs. He wanted you all out of the way.”

Paul Jimerson, holding Spoon Mouth with both hands, stepped forward. “Where did you get this, Elmont?”

It turned out that Chidsee had taken the relic from the professors, who had stolen it from the Indians. He intended to cash in the gold after having a replica made.

“The imitation wasn’t ready and Mockton wanted it back,” Elmont said.

“We heard the conversation. It was in the motel, wasn’t it?” Joe said.

Chidsee nodded. He had gone to Buffalo the next day and picked up the duplicate. When he gave it to the professors, they recognized it as a phony.

“They knew Wallace would spot it, too. That’s the reason they didn’t try to return it to him in exchange for the hundred masks,” he said.

“Didn’t they want the original from you?” Chet asked.

“Sure. But I told them I’d sold it.”

“I see,” Frank said. “Then they hid the fake Spoon Mouth in the Rideaus’ closet, knowing that it would be found by the police.”

“That’s right,” Chidsee replied. “Having the Rideaus under suspicion gave them an excuse and time to escape with the doctor’s coins.”

“You know all about that?” Chet exclaimed.

“They didn’t tell me, but I found out, anyway. Listened at their door one night when they discussed their plans.”

“Where did they take the loot?” Frank asked.

“There!” Chidsee pointed to a nearby field. While Paul and Lendo stayed with the boy, the others made a rush for a neighboring meadow. Several hundred yards away three cows were munching at the lush grass.

“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “Look at this!”

He pointed to the middle where a long strip of grass was a different shade of green.

“Tire tracks!” Rod stated.

“Made by an airplane’s landing gear!” Frank added excitedly.

Chidsee, meanwhile, was marched over to the spot by the two Senecas.

“They had a plane and took off from here?” Frank asked him.

He nodded.

“When?” Frank snapped.

“Just before dawn. They brought me along to help load the false faces into the plane, but it turned out there wasn’t enough room.” Elmont grinned maliciously. “I asked them what they had in all those boxes they had loaded, and Mockton told me it was something for my uncle and none of my business. But I knew!”

“So then they took off without the masks?” Joe asked.

“Right. I was supposed to get some crates and pack them and have them shipped to Montreal, but I didn’t feel like working. I was just hanging around, thinking, when you guys showed up.”

“Where’s the truck?” Frank wanted to know.

“Hidden behind some bushes over there.” The boy pointed.

“Okay,” Frank said. “We’d better alert the police fast!”

“You go on ahead. We’ll bring Elmont with us,” Rod suggested.

Frank, Joe, and Chet raced to the convertible. Tires kicked up pebbles and the trio were off full speed toward Hawk Head.

Frank kept the needle at the speed limit all the way into town and braked to a halt in front of police headquarters. The three rushed inside.

“Chief White!” Frank called out. The man stepped from his office, smiling broadly.

“The thieves flew to Montreal!” Joe blurted.

Chief White nodded, still smiling.

“Well, aren’t you going to do something?”

“Yes,” the officer replied calmly. “I’m going to give you a teletype message. It was received a few minutes ago.”

He handed Frank the message. The boy read it aloud: “‘Seized coins and thieves at Canadian Gold Mining office. Fraud outfit smashed. Thanks for your help. Dad.’ ”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Dad must have figured they’d come by plane. And he got ’em!”

“That’s why I wasn’t too excited when you told me your news,” Chief White said.

Just then the Jimersons arrived with Chidsee. When White heard the whole story, he looked at the youth. “You realize, of course, that I’ll have to hold you here. But I think the judge’ll go easy on you since you cooperated in this case.”

Chidsee nodded, cast a last glance at the Hardys, and was led away.

Chief White said to Frank, “Your father will arrive by plane in about an hour. Will you pick him up? I’d like to see him here and then we’ll talk further.”

“Sure thing.”

The boys left, and two hours later were settled in the chief’s office again with Mr. Hardy.

“Where are Mockton and Glade, Dad?” Frank asked.

“In the Montreal prison. But they’ll be brought here for trial. The coins are still there, too. As soon as Dr. Rideau identifies them and the trial is over, they’ll be returned to him.”

“I already called the Rideaus and told them,” Chief White put in. “They were mighty happy about it!”

“Mockton and Glade talked,” Mr. Hardy went on. “They implicated Snedeker. He must have been a real tyrant. They hated him but were afraid to break away.”

“Dad, how did the profs ever get involved with the Rideaus?” Joe asked.

“That’s quite a story. Years ago, Mockton’s family owned the Rideau house. As a little boy, Mockton often played in the tunnel under the barn. When Snedeker set up the phony college in Zoar Valley, Mockton engaged rooms for himself and Glade, out of sentimental reasons, mainly. Then he found out about the coin vault and they decided to steal Rideau’s fortune.”

Joe whistled. “Did they, by any chance, cause the accident the Rideaus had?”

“Right. They tinkered with the steering mechanism of the car before the Rideaus left home. If they had been killed or injured, their fortune would have been carted off piece by piece at the profs’ leisure and completely unnoticed.”

“Thank goodness that neat little scheme failed,” Joe remarked.

“What I want to know,” Frank put in, “is how did the profs learn we were coming to visit the Rideaus?”

“Well, after you poked your noses into Snedeker’s affairs in Cleveland, he had his office boy follow you all the way here.”

Now Chet spoke up. “The first night in Hawk Head someone put a charming false face on my chest. Old Broken Nose. Who did that?”

“Glade. You were getting too close for comfort and he wanted to scare you off,” Mr. Hardy replied. “He also dumped a bale of hay on Frank’s cot another time.”

Joe chuckled. “But all in vain.”

Chief White shook his head. “You boys have done a marvelous job. And to think when you first came to see me I thought you were just a couple of wise guys!”

That night the long white frame house at Yellow Springs blazed with lights. Inside, rows of fantastic red and black false faces hung in their usual places on the walls, looking down on the celebration which was under way. Everyone was there and excitement was high.

“These Senecas are ‘real swingers,’ ” Joe said with a grin.

It was all fun. Not a serious moment was to come the Hardys’ way until their next adventure, The Short-Wave Mystery.

Rod Jimerson’s voice rang out loudly over the hypnotic beat of the water drums and turtle rattles. He acted as toastmaster and congratulated the boys for their help in the case. Then he introduced Mr. Hardy to the tribe.

Frank spoke up. “There’s one more question to be answered, in order to fit all the pieces of this mystery together.”

“Go ahead and ask it,” Rod said.

Frank turned to Lendo Wallace. “You came to Chidsee’s motel room. Why?”

“I hoped to meet Mockton there. Wanted to talk him out of the mask deal.” He hesitated. “I was ashamed to take more false faces from my people, even though it was in return for Spoon Mouth.”

“Do not worry,” an old, white-haired Seneca said. “Spoon Mouth is indeed the most treasured thing our tribe possesses and we understand what you tried to do.”

Wallace looked relieved. The kind words had just given him back his dignity. He stepped outside and soon returned with three lacrosse sticks. He presented them to Frank, Joe, and Chet.

Everyone applauded, and Rod asked if there was anything else the boys desired in Seneca country.

Without hesitation Chet spoke up. “Yes. The recipe for your mother’s corn soup. Frank and Joe’s Aunt Gertrude would like it!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - The Apeman’s Warning

CHAPTER II - A Broken Antenna

CHAPTER III - Ghost Light

CHAPTER IV - Irate Stranger

CHAPTER V - Alley Escape

CHAPTER VI - Tip-off Note

CHAPTER VII - Wolf’s Trail

CHAPTER VIII - A Secret Treasure

CHAPTER IX - The Tabloid Key

CHAPTER X - Mysterious Cries

CHAPTER XI - Night Alarm

CHAPTER XII - Dock Attack

CHAPTER XIII - A Tense Search

CHAPTER XIV - Treasure Hunt

CHAPTER XV - Mystery Scrambler

CHAPTER XVI - On the Beam!

CHAPTER XVII - Window Bug

CHAPTER XVIII - The Shaggy Spy

CHAPTER XIX - A Wrecked Canoe

CHAPTER XX - The Right Spots

THE SHORT-WAVE MYSTERY

WHEN thieves hijack a collection of stuffed animals from a country auction, Frank and Joe Hardy pursue the getaway car and are drawn into a thrilling mystery. The recently acquired interest of their best pal, chubby Chet Morton, in taxidermy as a hobby adds fresh twists to the puzzle.

At the same time, the young detectives’ father—famed private investigator Fenton Hardy—is tracking down an industrial spy ring. Over the Hardys’ ham radio, Frank and Joe pick up a coded message from the spies, consisting of names of various wild animals. Are the industrial spies somehow mixed up in the hijacking at the auction and the rash of stuffed animal thefts that follow?

This suspense-filled story of pursuit and detection will keep the reader breathlessly following the chain of unexpected developments that lead Frank and Joe to the spine-tingling climax in the wilds of Northern Canada.

They steered into the swirling blizzard

Copyright ® 1972, 1966, 1945 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 66-10288

eISBN : 978-1-101-07638-5

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

The Apeman’s Warning

DIDAHDIT ... dahdahdididit ... didididahdah ... dahdidahdit ... Frank Hardy’s fingers deftly pounded out the CW-key sign-off: “R 73 C U AGN AR WB2EKA DE WB2XEJ SK.”

Then the dark-haired, eighteen-year-old ham operator jotted an entry into a black logbook. “Coming in clear tonight, Joe!”

“Sure is. Let’s see what else we can pick up.” Joe Hardy, blond and a year younger, flicked the phone switch and played the transceiver dial along the 2-meter band.

The Hardy brothers, both licensed radio amateurs, were enjoying an hour of short-wave hamming in their newly equipped attic “shack.” Static and bits of conversation crackled over the speaker. Suddenly a weird garble of nonsensical, voicelike sounds broke in.

“Sufferin’ cats! What’s all that?” Joe muttered. As a whistling noise began to drown out the gibberish, he “tendered” the tuning dial left, then right. Again the jumbled voice came in. “Sounds like a tape being played backwards.”

Frank frowned. “Must be a scrambler.”

“But why would anyone be using a voice scrambler over this frequency?” Joe asked.

A shrill scream from somewhere below caused both boys to leap from their chairs.

“That’s Aunt Gertrude!” Frank cried out.

The boys raced downstairs. In the dining room they found Miss Hardy, their tall, bespectacled maiden aunt, standing with a horrified look on her sharp-featured but kindly face.

“Aunty! What’s wrong?” Joe exclaimed.

“There’s an ape out there—peering in at us!” She pointed a trembling forefinger. “Great heavens! It must have escaped from a zoo!”

“An ape?” Frank echoed incredulously. The boys turned toward the side windows, straining their eyes to see into the gathering autumn dusk.

“In the evergreens.” Aunt Gertrude’s voice quivered.

Joe gasped in astonishment. Among the branches he could make out a hideous dark face. Its beady orange eyes glared back at him, reflecting the glow of light from the room.

“Good night! She’s not kidding!” Frank made a dash for the kitchen. “Come on, Joe!”

Rocketing out the back door, the two boys sprinted across the yard and around the house. Frank reached the cluster of evergreens first—then froze, wide-eyed. “For Pete’s sake,” he whispered, “it’s a baby gorilla!”

The animal, perched among the branches, appeared not to notice them.

“What do we do now?” Joe gulped. “From what I’ve heard, those things are strong—even in the junior size!”

“If it did escape from a zoo, it’s probably tame,” Frank said.

Nevertheless, the boys moved closer cautiously. The gorilla made no movement. Joe, whose high spirits often landed him in dangerous situations, could not resist reaching out and giving one of the evergreen branches a tug. The gorilla slipped downward slightly, but still did not seem to move a muscle!

“Wait a second!” Frank exclaimed. “That thing looks phony to me—I’ll bet it’s not even alive!”

He gave the evergreen a harder shake and the gorilla tumbled from the branches!

Joe stared down foolishly at the chunky black figure at their feet, its sightless glass eyes still wide open. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! It’s just a stuffed specimen!”

Frank nodded. “But where did it come from?”

“Search me.” Joe picked up the small gorilla with a chuckle. “Let’s go see what Aunt Gertrude thinks of Junior.”

Grinning, Frank accompanied his brother back to the house. If they had expected Miss Hardy to be frightened, the boys were doomed to disappointment. She greeted them with a scornful sniff. “Humph! Nothing but a moth-eaten dummy. I suspected as much.”

Joe burst out laughing. “Aw, you peeked, Aunt Gertrude!”

As he set the gorilla down on the window seat, the brothers examined it. The stuffed animal was shabby and patches of fur were missing.

“Boy, this really is moth-eaten,” Frank murmured. “You have sharp eyes, Aunty.”

Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips as she resumed sweeping crumbs off the dining-room tablecloth. “Probably left over from Halloween,” she snapped. “No doubt some prankster thought the creature would have me screaming my head off.”

“He should have known better.” Joe winked at his brother. “Queer sort of a prank, though. Maybe one of the high school crowd got hold of a stuffed ape.”

Frank gave a puzzled shrug. “I don’t recall hearing any of our gang mention one. It could have been an outsider.”

Both boys loved nothing better than a spine-tingling mystery. Their father, Fenton Hardy, a former New York police detective, was now a private investigator in the coastal town of Bayport. His success in cracking difficult cases had won him a nationwide reputation. Frank and Joe often helped on his assignments and also had solved several baffling cases on their own, starting with The Tower Treasure.

“Look,” Joe proposed. “You don’t suppose this could have been left by one of Dad’s enemies—maybe as a warning the house is being watched?”

“It’s possible,” Frank said doubtfully.

Mr. Hardy had flown to Europe on a secret government assignment, and the boys’ mother was away visiting relatives. In their absence, Aunt Gertrude was keeping house for her nephews.

“Now don’t you two go looking for trouble with dangerous criminals,” she warned. “You’ve been mixed up in enough mysteries. Mark my words, you’ll bring on a real calamity one of these days!”

Though fond of making dire predictions, their Aunt Gertrude was secretly thrilled over the family’s detective exploits.

“Okay, we’ll watch our step,” Joe promised.

“Speaking of mysteries, Joe,” said Frank, “let’s see if we can pick up any more of that scrambled broadcast.”

As the boys headed for the hall stairway, Miss Hardy’s scolding voice followed them. “And take this nasty fake ape with you—or at least get it out of the dining room!”

Grinning, Joe went back to retrieve the gorilla. In the attic, the boys heard only light static trickling from the speaker. Both hunched over the short-wave rig as Frank played the dial back and forth.

The boys’ radio gear for their station—a separate unit from the set in Mr. Hardy’s study—was arrayed on a long table. It included a receiver, a transceiver with VOX hookup, a signal generator, and a phone patch. The transmitter for the main rig was mounted on a relay rack next to the table. On the wall above hung two framed General Class licenses, several award certificates, and a flag-pinned world map. Another wall was papered with rows of colorful QSL cards—acknowledgments of the boys’ contacts with hams all over the world.

“Guess we’ve lost it,” Frank said, after trying vainly to bring in the scrambled broadcast.

“I’d sure like to know where that came from,” Joe said. “No ordinary ham would have any reason for using a scrambler.”

“Or any right to, for that matter.” Frank, who was twirling the dial, paused in surprise as a grim, rasping voice blurted out of the speaker:

“Apeman calling the Hardys! Apeman calling the Hardys! Do you read me?”

Frank flashed a startled look at the stuffed gorilla, then grabbed the microphone. “Apeman from WB2XEJ! ... What is all this?”

“Apeman calling the Hardys!” a grim, rasping

voice announced

In response came a series of deep-throated snorts and growls. Then the voice resumed: “This is the only warning you’ll get, Hardys! My agent is watching the house and I have ordered him to—” More snorts and growls followed.

“His agent!” Joe gasped. “Does he mean that gorilla?”

Before Frank could reply, the menacing sounds from the speaker gave way to wild howls of laughter! The Hardys traded looks of chagrin as both recognized their “apeman” caller.

“Chet Morton!” Joe groaned.

Tubby, freckle-faced Chet—also a ham operator—was the Hardys’ best pal. Though fonder of food than of action, he had been an invaluable help to them on several dangerous adventures.

“WB2XEJ from W2RBR,” Chet’s voice came in with a sound of munching close to the microphone. “Howdy, Hardys! Thought you’d never pick me up. Was I snortin’ loud and clear?”

In spite of themselves, Frank and Joe could not help laughing.

“Very funny, you big ape,” Frank said. “You really had us going there for a while. By the way, before you eat any more monkey food, you’d better adjust your frequency.”

“Oops, thanks for the tip! ... I guess you guys spotted King Kong, my secret agent.”

“That mildewed ape! We sure did.”

Chet explained that he had planted the gorilla in their evergreen and then had sped home in his jalopy to follow up the joke on short-wave.

“We thought that was you in the tree, at first,” Joe put in, taking the mike. “Boy, that’s a real prize, Chet! Where’d you get him?”

“At the museum. Been tucked away on a storeroom shelf for umpteen years—in fact they were going to throw him out. You see, I’ve been studying taxidermy over there—”

“Taxidermy?” Joe echoed, grinning at Frank. The Hardys were familiar with Chet’s constant mania for embarking on new hobbies.

“Sure. You know—stuffed animals. No kidding, it’s real interesting!”

“I’ll bet. At least it’ll be a change from stuffing yourself.”

“Okay, gagster. I’m serious. Matter of fact, that’s the main reason I called. How about you guys coming to an auction with me tomorrow?”

“What kind of an auction?” Joe asked.

“At the Elias Batter estate on Hill Road.” Chet gave the address and said that the late owner had been an accomplished taxidermist. “Seems a lot of his stuffed specimens are being sold off with the rest of the household effects. I figure I might pick up some bargains and start a collection. Will you and Frank join me?”

“Why us?”

“I’ll explain later. Come on, be a sport,” Chet pleaded. “Meet you there at eleven.”

Joe conferred hastily with his brother, then agreed. “Okay. Frank says maybe this taxidermy kick will keep you out of trouble with the FCC for monkey business over the air.” Chuckling, Joe signed off, “So long for now, W2RBR from WB2XEJ ... and WB2XEJ is QRT.”

Next day, after their Saturday morning chores, the Hardys drove to the auction. Chet’s gorilla was stowed in the back of their convertible.

The Batter estate proved to be a dark old Victorian mansion, set among wide grounds fringed with oak and beech trees. A number of people were wandering about the lawn, but most of the crowd was clustered near a large stable-garage where the auctioneer had set up his platform. As Frank and Joe found a parking place at one side of the gravel driveway, they could see him holding up an elaborate lamp.

“Eight dollars, ladies and gentlemen! Do I hear a bid for nine? ... Nine, anyone?”

“We should have brought Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said. “Bet she would have loved this!”

Just then the Hardys saw their stout chum plodding toward them, lugging a flat wooden box and a strange-looking stuffed animal. It had ears similar to a donkey’s, powerfully clawed feet, and a long piggish snout.

“Hi, fellows!” Chet called. “Look what I got!”

“Wow! What is that?” Joe gasped.

“An aardvark—an African termite-eater.” Chet set down his prize proudly near the Hardys’ convertible, then opened the box, displaying a set of surgical-looking instruments inside. “And get a load of this—Batter’s old taxidermist’s kit! Only eight bucks for both!”

Before either Frank or Joe could comment, they heard a sudden shout, “Thief! ... Stop, thief!”

A brown station wagon came roaring out from behind the garage and down the curving drive.

“Look out! He’ll clip us!” Chet screeched. As the boys leaped aside, the Hardys glimpsed two men in the front seat—the driver was unshaven and double-chinned; the other man, thin and bald.

The station wagon was wheeling so fast it was nearly out of control. Skidding on the gravel, it sideswiped the rear bumper of the Hardys’ convertible, rebounded across the drive to a tree on the other side, then zoomed out onto the roadway and sped off with a blast from the exhaust!

“Those crazy nuts!” Joe fumed.

Chet was staring wide-eyed after the station wagon. “Did you see that? It was loaded with stuffed animals!”

“Come on! After ’em!” Frank called to his brother.

Leaving Chet standing open-mouthed with his purchases, the Hardys leaped into their convertible. Frank gunned the engine to life and they roared off in pursuit of the thieves.

CHAPTER II

A Broken Antenna

THE station wagon was nearly out of sight, but Frank pressed hard on the accelerator and gradually narrowed the distance. Far ahead, at the end of Hill Road, they saw the car turn right.

“Must be heading out of town!” Joe muttered.

The Hardys followed at top speed. Fortunately, the blacktopped highway onto which their quarry had turned was almost empty of traffic. In a few moments they again had the station wagon in view.

Joe pulled binoculars from the glove compartment, focused on the thieves’ license plate, and jotted down the number.

“They’re turning again!” Frank said. The brown car shot off to the left into Barmet Woods.

As the Hardys reached the turnoff spot, Frank spun the wheel. With a screech of tires their convertible plunged across the road into a rutted dirt lane, winding among the trees.

“Yikes! Save the springs!” Joe exclaimed.

The jolting forced Frank to slow down. In the crisp autumn air, the trees were ablaze with color, but the Hardys were too preoccupied with the chase to enjoy the scenery. Suddenly they heard a sharp thump in the distance.

“What was that?” asked Joe.

“Maybe that driver hit something,” Frank said.

Rounding a bend farther ahead, the boys saw a large animal lying across the road.

“It’s a deer!” Joe leaped out as his brother slammed on the brakes. The creature was lying on its side with no sign of life.

“Never had a chance,” Frank said grimly. Tire marks in the dirt showed that the station wagon had backed up and steered around its victim.

As the boys dragged the deer off the road, Joe noticed a gleam of metal in the underbrush. “Hey, look!” he said, picking up a slender rod with three branching extensions. “It’s the thieves’ short-wave antenna!”

“You’re right—I remember seeing it mounted on their front fender. Must’ve snapped off when their wagon hit the deer.” Frank examined the find. “Never saw one like this before, did you?”

Joe shook his head. “Looks homemade to me.”

“Keep it. This might be a clue,” Frank advised.

The Hardys resumed the chase, but now with little hope of overtaking the culprits. A mile or more farther on, the woods ended and the dirt lane connected with a heavily traveled highway.

“Fat chance of catching them now,” Joe said. “We don’t even know which way they went.”

Frank agreed. “The State Police should be notified,” he said.

Over the convertible’s short-wave the boys transmitted an alarm to State Police headquarters. Then they stopped at the nearest gas station to phone a report of the deer accident to the local game warden, a friend of the Hardys.

By the time they returned to the Batter estate, the auction was over and most of the crowd had left. Chet was waiting patiently at the parking area, perched in his high-sprung yellow jalopy, the Queen, near a Bayport police car. In the Queen’s back seat, with the aardvark and taxidermy kit, stood a black bear cub.

“What happened?” The chubby youth hopped out anxiously from behind the wheel. “Did you catch those thieves?”

Frank shook his head. “No, but we got their license number.”

“Don’t tell us you added another prize to your collection!” Joe said, grinning at the bear cub.

“Sure, that was my first buy—before you two got here,” Chet said proudly. “It was a bigger bargain than the aardvark!”

“It’s big enough, all right. Where do you plan to keep this stuffed zoo of yours?”

Chet gave a slight cough. “Well, er, as a matter of fact that’s why I—”

“Hold it!” Frank said. “That squad-car officer just motioned to us, Joe.”

The policeman who had beckoned was conferring with the tall, dapperly dressed auctioneer and a smaller, gray-haired man near the garage-stable while another officer took notes.

The Hardys hurried over, bringing the broken antenna, and reported their fruitless chase. “Here’s the license number,” Joe added, handing over the scrap of paper. “We’ve already alerted the highway patrol.”

“Good work, boys,” the policeman said. “This antenna may help us get a line on the thieves.”

“We suspect it’s a handmade job,” Frank said. “By the way, what did they take?”

“Not much, luckily,” the auctioneer replied. “Just nine stuffed animals.”

“That’s the queerest haul I ever heard of,” Joe put in. “Why in the world would the thieves want them?”

The auctioneer gave a puzzled laugh. “Good question. They certainly weren’t worth a lot. The bids on all nine didn’t amount to more than a hundred dollars.”

He explained that after being auctioned off, each item had been taken to the garage, to be claimed later by the high bidder. It was there that the gray-haired clerk had been held up.

Apparently the two thieves had arrived at the auction late, when the nine animals had already been sold but not yet picked up. The men had first offered to pay the clerk more than the amounts bid. When he refused, they had seized the animals at gunpoint and fled.

“Too bad. I hope they’re caught,” Joe said.

As the Hardys walked back to Chet, Frank said thoughtfully, “You know, Joe, this robbery has the makings of a real mystery. There must be some reason for pulling such a crazy holdup.”

Joe nodded. “Unless we were chasing a couple of nuts!”

Chet was struck with a sudden idea when he heard about the deer. “Gee, good study specimens are hard for us taxidermists to come by,” he said. “I wonder if the game warden would let me have the head for mounting.”

“Probably.” Frank climbed into the Hardys’ convertible. “We’ll call him when we get home.”

“Great! But—er—what’s the hurry? Wouldn’t you guys like some lunch?”

“That’s where we’re going—home to eat.”

“Come on to the Hot Rocket,” Chet said, “and I’ll stand treat for hamburgers and malts.”

Joe looked at his brother in surprise and burst out laughing. “Wow! We don’t get an offer like that every day! It’s a deal, pal!”

Later, as they were finishing lunch at their high school crowd’s favorite eating spot, Chet cleared his throat nervously. “Say, fellows, how are you fixed for lab space at your house?”

“Lab space?” Frank raised his eyebrows.

“Uh-huh. You see, Mom’s not too happy about me doing this taxidermy at home, and—well, I thought...” Chet’s voice trailed off and he looked at his pals beseechingly.

The Hardys joined in peals of laughter.

“Now it comes out!” Joe exclaimed. “I knew there was a catch to this free lunch!”

“Not to mention inviting us to that auction!”

“I wouldn’t take up much room—honest!” Chet looked so wistful that the Hardys relented.

“Well, okay, if Aunt Gertrude doesn’t object,” Frank said. “I guess she won’t mind as long as you’re working up in our garage lab.”

“On second thought,” Joe said with a grin, “maybe we’d better call the game warden from here, where she can’t listen in. Somehow I don’t think she’d care much for a deer’s head.”

Mr. Dorsey, the warden, readily promised that Chet could pick up the head and pelt at the game preserve later that day. After Joe emerged from the phone booth, the Hardys drove home to Elm Street in their convertible, followed by Chet’s backfiring jalopy.

Aunt Gertrude peered suspiciously out a back window as the stuffed animals were being unloaded and soon emerged to give advice to the boys.

“Humph! Taxidermy, eh?” she commented. “Very well. I daresay it has some educational value. But don’t let me see any messy stuffing being tracked into the house, or I’ll have three scalps mounted over the door! Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Chet gulped.

Frank and Joe had fitted up the entire second story of the garage as a detective laboratory and clubhouse. Leaving Chet to arrange a working space, the Hardys hurried into the house to their father’s study and checked his criminal files for pictures of the auction thieves.

“No luck,” Frank said at last. “But let’s keep in touch with Chief Collig on this case, Joe. I have a hunch there may be some interesting angle we don’t know about yet.”

Chief Collig, a veteran of the Bayport police force, was a long-time friend of the Hardys. The two young sleuths stopped in to see him on their way back from the game preserve with Chet.

“Have you traced the auction thieves’ license number yet?” Joe inquired eagerly.

The husky officer replied with a quizzical grin, “We tried to, but we got a surprise. No license plates with that number were ever issued. Sure you didn’t read it wrong?”

“Positive! I was using binoculars.”

Collig rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Then it sounds as if those hoods were no amateurs—not if their car’s equipped with fake plates.”

“What about the radio antenna?” Frank asked.

“No use. That turned out to be homemade too, as you suspected, so there’s no way to trace it.”

Frank had an idea. “May we have it?”

“Sure, why not?” Collig pulled the antenna from one of his desk drawers and handed it over. “Want to use it on the rig in your convertible?”

“No, but it’s an odd design,” Frank explained. “If Joe and I mount it on our car, it may attract attention. Someone might even recognize it and give us a lead on the owner.”

On Sunday, after church, Aunt Gertrude said good-by to her nephews and went off with a ladies’ group to visit sick members of the congregation. The boys were alone in the house when the telephone rang. Frank answered and was delighted to hear his father’s voice.

“Dad! What a swell surprise! Where are you?”

“At Bayport Airport, son. Just landed from Paris this morning and then hopped a plane from New York. Think you and Joe could pick me up?”

“You bet. We’ll be there in a jiffy!”

Fifteen minutes later the tall, broad-shouldered investigator was embracing his two sons.

“Boy, you look great, Dad!” Joe said. “How’d you make out on your case in Europe?”

“Tell you about it later. Right now I could use some of Aunt Gertrude’s home cooking.”

“You’re out of luck,” Frank said. “She won’t be home until three o’clock.”

Mr. Hardy chuckled wryly. “In that case I’ll settle for ham and eggs at the nearest diner.”

After stowing their father’s luggage in the trunk of the convertible, the boys took him to a roadside restaurant just outside Bayport. Soon the three were settled in a comfortable booth, enjoying their meal. “Okay, let’s hear about your case, Dad,” Frank urged.

Mr. Hardy explained that he had been investigating the theft of secret data from a California aircraft company. Certain features of its latest commercial jet plane had been copied by two European firms. “A clear case of industrial espionage,” the detective went on. “And some of those features are usable on military aircraft.”

“Any clues?” Joe asked.

“Just one, so far. The gang that peddled the data uses ’aardvark’ as a code word.”

“Aardvark?” Frank echoed. He glanced at Joe and both laughed. “There’s a funny coincidence! Chet Morton bought a stuffed one yesterday.”

“What’s Chet up to now?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

Before Frank could reply, Joe bolted from his seat with a startled gasp.

“Hey! What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

“That bald auction thief!” Joe exclaimed, pointing out the window. “I just saw him out there on the parking lot!”

CHAPTER III

Ghost Light

FRANK sprang up at Joe’s mention of the auction thief, and both boys dashed to the door. A stout couple were entering the restaurant. Joe tried to skid aside, but Frank barged into him and they collided heavily with the man and woman.

“Well, of all the fresh young ruffians!” The woman glared at the two boys as she tried to straighten her hat which had been knocked askew in the impact.

“We’re terribly sorry, ma’am,” Frank apologized. “My brother just spotted a thief on the parking lot—we were running out to catch him!”

“Er, better stand aside, dear!” the woman’s husband said hastily as he saw tall, husky Fenton Hardy striding to join the two youths.

“Please excuse my sons,” the detective said.

As the woman gave a mollified smile, the Hardys squeezed past her. Outside, Joe gazed around, then exclaimed, “There he goes!”

A thin, baldheaded figure in a flapping tan raincoat was sprinting off the lot.

A green sedan was waiting at the edge of the highway, engine racing. The baldheaded man leaped into it. Joe, Frank, and Mr. Hardy were still weaving their way among the parked cars when the sedan roared off into the stream of traffic. There was no chance to note its license number.

“Rats!” Joe panted. “We lost ’em again!”

“Did you notice that fat-necked thug at the wheel?” Frank said.

“I sure did—he’s the same man who was driving the station wagon yesterday!”

“Suppose you two fill me in,” said Mr. Hardy.

The boys related their adventure at the auction.

“Maybe we ought to check our convertible,” Frank added.

“Just what I was thinking,” Joe said. “I have a hunch Baldy may have been tampering with it.”

The Hardys hurried toward their car. Frank exclaimed as they reached it, “Look! The antenna’s gone—that’s what he was after!”

The thieves’ odd-shaped short-wave antenna, which the boys had mounted on their convertible, was now missing.

Mr. Hardy frowned. “Rather odd to encounter those two again the very next day. Did you tell anyone about coming to meet me?”

Frank shook his head. “Nobody. When you called, we jumped into the car and took off.”

“Maybe they were just driving along the highway and spotted the antenna on our car,” Joe suggested.

“What was the baldheaded guy doing when you noticed him?” Frank asked.

Joe gave a shrug. “I couldn’t see well enough to tell. A car drove up and blocked my view.”

On a hunch, Frank walked around to the trunk. “Oh, oh! Look here!” He pointed to some bright metal scratches around the keyhole.

“Looks as if he tried to jimmy it!” Joe said.

“Better unlock the trunk, Frank, and see if anything else is missing,” Mr. Hardy advised.

Frank did so. Neither his father’s suitcases nor the brief case had been disturbed.

“Guess the guy didn’t have time to finish breaking in,” Frank said, closing the trunk lid.

“Carrying anything valuable, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Not especially—except for my case reports. They deal with the aircraft theft and several other recent industrial espionage cases. I’ve a theory they’re all the work of the same gang.”

Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances.

“If Baldy was after those case reports,” Joe reasoned, “he may be one of the gang!”

“It’s a possibility,” his father agreed.

That afternoon Chet Morton dropped over to work on his taxidermy project, and again the next day Frank and Joe saw the light burning in the garage crime lab when they arrived home from school.

“Boy, I guess Chet’s really serious about this taxidermy kick,” Joe remarked.

After putting down their books and washing their hands, Frank and Joe went to the kitchen for a snack.

“I’m afraid Chester is missing meals and living on grapefruit out in your lab,” Aunt Gertrude fretted.

“Grapefruit?” Frank murmured, pouring milk.

“Yes, he borrowed a knife from me yesterday. It’s not good for him, not getting a well-balanced diet. You’d better take him out a sandwich.”

“Good idea. We’ll see how he’s making out.”

The Hardys found their chum hunched over an array of chemical bottles, tools, a bag of salt, and a nearly finished stuffed squirrel which he was preparing for a high school exhibit.

“How’s it going, Chet?” Frank asked, handing him the sandwich.

“Oh, swell! The deer’s already at the tanner’s, and I’ve ordered a head form from Roundtree’s shop. Did the skin-fleshing myself.”

“So I see,” Joe said, picking up a soiled grapefruit knife. “Did you flesh it with this?”

“Yes, your aunt lent it to me.” Seeing the Hardys’ expressions, Chet’s eyes widened innocently. “Do you think she’ll mind? Gee, it’s for a scientific cause!”

Frank nudged his brother, then looked threateningly at Chet. “Morton, old boy, if we find deer meat in our grapefruit tomorrow morning, we’ll personally stuff you.”

“With breakfast? You’ve got a deal!”

Joe threw up his arms. “We can’t win!”

A shrill summons from Aunt Gertrude brought the Hardys hurrying back to the house. “A man wants to speak to you two on the phone,” she reported. “Says his name’s Crowell—J. Sylvester Crowell.”

Joe looked at his brother blankly as they strode toward the hall telephone and muttered, “Wonder who he is.”

When Frank answered, Crowell explained that he was the attorney for the wife of the late Elias Batter. “Mrs. Batter has asked me to thank you boys for your efforts to catch those thieves who stole the stuffed animals,” Crowell went on. “We understand you two are already following in your father’s footsteps—as detectives, I mean.”

“We’ve solved a few cases,” Frank admitted.

“Well, even though you’re amateurs, she thought you might like to undertake a little more—shall we say, practice work at detecting?”

“Such as?” Frank inquired cautiously.

“She herself will tell you all about it. Could you come to my office in half an hour?”

Joe, who was listening in, nodded eagerly.

“We’ll be there,” Frank told the lawyer.

Crowell proved to be a balding, long-nosed man in a pinstripe suit. He introduced the boys to a short, dowdily dressed woman. “Mrs. Batter, I’d like to present Frank and Joe Hardy.”

She nodded curtly without offering her hand and looked the boys over appraisingly.

“We didn’t realize Mr. Batter was married,” Frank said. “We thought since his estate was being auctioned off—”

“No sense living in that drafty old mausoleum!” she snapped. “Just a white elephant, that’s all it is. How would I keep it up? Elias left me barely enough to live on as it is!”

“That’s why Mrs. Batter is eager to recover those stolen animals,” Crowell put in smoothly. “Every penny counts, you see.”

“What he means,” the widow said bluntly, “is that I have no money to waste on fancy detective agency fees. Now, you two boys are smart young fellows, I hear. How would you like to take on the job of tracking down those thieves and getting back my property for me?”

“We never charge for our services, if that’s what you mean,” Frank said. “Joe and I aren’t professional detectives.”

“Good! Then you’ll take the case. Maybe your father would even be willing to help.”

Frank smiled. “If he does, he’ll charge.” Frank was amused at the woman’s stingy eagerness to get as much work as possible free. “Besides, Dad’s tied up on another case. But my brother and I will do what we can.”

“Have you any idea why the stuffed animals were taken?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Batter’s beady green eyes glared suspiciously at the younger Hardy boy. “To sell for whatever they’d bring, I suppose. Why else?”

“But the auctioneer said the thieves first offered to buy them,” Joe reminded her. “And for a higher price than was bid.”

There was brief silence. Then Crowell cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps the thieves were collectors—or thought the animals were more valuable than they really are. At any rate, Mrs. Batter wants her property back, no matter how little it’s worth. As I said, every penny counts.” He flashed the boys a toothy smile.

“Did Mr. Batter have any friends who might know more about those animals?” Frank asked.

Mrs. Batter sniffed. “I had nothing to do with Elias’s friends—or his business affairs.”

“What was his business?” Joe inquired.

“Investments. That’s all he ever told me. They didn’t amount to much, I can tell you that!”

Driving home, Frank mused aloud, “If you ask me, Mrs. Batter knows more than she’s telling.”

Joe nodded. “I got the same impression. But where do we start on this case?”

“Remember how the thieves’ station wagon sideswiped our car and then struck a tree when they were making their getaway?”

“Sure. What about it?”

“There might be some paint flecks in the tree bark,” Frank reasoned. “And if the wagon ever had a repaint job, those particles might help us trace the garage where it was done.”

“Swell idea!” Joe said. “That brown color didn’t look as if it were the original shade.”

Not until after supper were the Hardys able to drive out to the Batter estate. The high, gabled mansion loomed starkly against the sky, silvered by moonlight. A broken porch rail and dark, blank windows gave it a sinister look.

“Spooky-looking layout,” Joe muttered. “It’s a cinch no one’s taking care of the place.”

Beaming flashlights, the boys carefully examined the tree which had been hit by the thieves’ car. To their disappointment, the only mark was low on the trunk, about two feet from the ground.

Frank sighed. “I guess we’re out of luck.”

“Looks that way,” Joe agreed. “They must have just grazed it with their front bumper. And their tire tracks don’t—” He broke off as Frank suddenly clutched his arm. “What’s the matter?”

“Take a look!” Frank pointed to the house.

A faint glow of light could be seen moving about inside the front windows!

CHAPTER IV

Irate Stranger

JOE was as startled as his brother by the eerie light in the mansion. “Oh, oh! Maybe this trip wasn’t so useless after all!” he whispered.

“Come on! Let’s find out what gives!” Frank urged.

Switching off their flashlights, the young sleuths darted across the lawn.

“Watch it!” Joe warned suddenly. “Whoever’s in there may be coming out!”

The light was moving toward the front door. Both boys dived for cover among the bushes surrounding the porch. A moment later the door creaked open. A small figure stepped out and clicked the lock shut behind him.

Frank and Joe peered cautiously from the bushes. To their amazement, the mansion’s mysterious visitor was a boy, about eleven or twelve years old!

“Just a kid,” Joe muttered. Feeling a bit foolish, the Hardys rose from their hiding place.

The boy gave a screech of fright and leaped down the porch steps in a wild dash for safety. Frank and Joe grabbed him before he had gone more than a few yards.

“Sorry if we scared you,” Frank said. “We just want to know what you were doing in there.”

Joe switched on his flashlight for a better look at their captive. The boy was freckle-faced, thin, and shivering, clad in a threadbare sweater, dirty jeans, and tennis shoes.

“What’s it to you what I was doing?” he retorted defiantly. “And stop blinding me with that light, wise guy!”

“Okay. Simmer down, pal.” The chuckle left Joe’s voice as he went on, “We could call the police, you know, if you’d rather—Oof!”

Lowering his head suddenly, the boy had butted Joe in the midriff! As Joe staggered back, the youngster made another break for freedom, but again Frank seized him. The boy flailed his fists, punching wildly, but the Hardys managed to pinion his arms.

“Wow! You pack a mean wallop in those knuckles!” Frank said, smiling.

Joe added soothingly, “Just take it easy now. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Then stop talking about calling the cops!”

“All right. Fair enough.” Frank relaxed his hold. “I’m Frank Hardy, by the way, and this is my brother Joe. What’s your name?”

The boy hesitated, then muttered, “Jimmy.”

“Jimmy what?”

“Jimmy Batter.”

“Batter?” exclaimed Joe. “You mean you’re related to the man who owned this house?”

“Sure. He was my uncle-Uncle Elly.”

Frank and Joe exchanged thoughtful glances in the moonlit darkness. “What were you doing here, Jimmy?”

The boy shrugged. “Just looking around.”

“What for?”

“For nothing!” Jimmy flared. “Does there have to be a reason? Uncle Elly was good to me, that’s all. I—I just wanted to get another look at the place before it’s sold.”

“Did Mrs. Batter know you were coming?” Frank persisted. “I mean your aunt.”

“Naw. Neither does my ma. She wouldn’t have anything to do with Uncle Elly, and she didn’t like me seeing him, either. That’s why I had to sneak over after dark.”

“How did you get in?” asked Joe.

Jimmy produced a key. “Uncle Elly gave it to me. He liked to have me come and visit him, especially after he got laid up in bed.”

Frank rubbed his jaw, considering. The boy’s story sounded plausible, but Frank was not altogether convinced. Nor was Joe. Both felt Jimmy might be holding back something.

“How much longer are you guys going to keep me here?” the boy complained. “I answered your questions, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” Frank admitted. There was something appealing about the small, undernourished youngster, shivering in the autumn darkness. “Look, Jimmy! How’d you like to come home with us for some sandwiches and cocoa?”

Jimmy stared in surprise. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Joe said. “We’re kind of hungry, after that workout you gave us. How about you?”

“Guess I wouldn’t mind. Where do you live?”

“Elm Street. That’s our convertible parked down there on the drive.”

Jimmy gave an admiring whistle. “Hey! Pretty keen!”

“We have a ham radio setup, too,” Frank added persuasively. “You can listen in, if you like.”

“All right. I’ll come along.” Jimmy’s bored, casual tone of voice made both Hardys grin.

When they reached home, Frank and Joe found that Aunt Gertrude had retired early. “Guess we’ll have to rustle up our own snack,” Frank said. He heated cups of cocoa while Joe made man-sized ham sandwiches.

Jimmy ate so ravenously that the Hardys wondered when he last had had a decent meal. “Boy, this is a swell house!” the youngster said, looking around the cheerful kitchen.

When the snack was finished and Jimmy had stuffed his pocket with cookies, Frank and Joe asked if he would like to see their short-wave rig. The youngster’s thin face lit up. “Sure!”

They climbed the stairs to the attic radio shack. Jimmy watched, wide-eyed, as the older boys warmed up their set, then picked up and responded to a couple of distant hams. Feeling they had won the youngster’s confidence, Joe began questioning him again about his visit to Elias Batter’s mansion.

At once Jimmy’s expression changed. “None of your business!” he blurted. “Don’t think you can con me with any free handout—I knew all along there was some catch to it!” He darted for the stairway. Joe sprang up to follow.

Frank had been turning the dial. He was about to join Joe in pursuit of the youngster when both boys froze as a voice crackled from the radio:

“Aardvark bulldog... Aardvark bulldog...”

“Aardvark!” Frank echoed with a startled glance at Joe.

“The code name Dad told us about!” As Joe spoke, a loud volley of barks came over the speaker.

Then the voice resumed, droning out a strange flow of words and numbers. Grabbing a pencil, Frank jotted them down:

After a pause, the voice repeated the message. Again came a sound of barking. Then silence.

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Joe gasped. “Do you suppose that was the gang?”

“Could be. It certainly was a code of some kind —and that means whoever sent it must have some reason for keeping the message secret.”

“If only Dad were home!” said Joe. “Think he’ll be in tonight?”

Frank shook his head. “When we shoved off for school this morning, he told me he was flying to New York and wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.”

“Try calling him at his usual hotel,” Joe suggested. “I’ll check on Jimmy.”

The boys hurried downstairs. There was no sign of their freckle-faced guest, but Joe found the front door ajar. Evidently Jimmy had failed to slam it tight when he stormed out.

Frank, meanwhile, put through a long-distance call to New York and succeeded in contacting their father. Mr. Hardy received the report on the code message with keen interest.

“The ’aardvark bulldog’ part must represent the thieves’ call signs,” he said thoughtfully.

“Right, Dad. And the barking could be the response, indicating that contact has been made or the message has been received,” Frank declared.

“It may take a good bit of work to crack the message itself,” the detective went on. “See what you fellows can do with it, and we’ll talk more tomorrow when I get home.”

The Hardy boys pored over the message a while, then belatedly tackled their homework. Finally, as a swelling patter of rain outside caused them both to yawn drowsily, they went to bed.

Next day when they arrived home from school, Frank said, “I’ve been thinking, Joe—maybe we ought to check that story Jimmy told us.”

“Wouldn’t hurt. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, for one thing, I’d like to know if he really is Elias Batter’s nephew.”

The Hardys checked the Bayport telephone directory. The only Batter listed was the late Elias Batter. Frank dialed the attorney, J. Sylvester Crowell, and asked if Elias had had a nephew.

“Why, yes—a boy named Gordon, Jimmy Gordon,” Crowell replied. “His mother is Elias Batter’s sister. She’s a widow. Why do you ask?”

“We met Jimmy and just wanted to be sure who he is,” Frank said guardedly. “Could you give me Mrs. Gordon’s full name and address?”

After jotting down the information, Frank hung up with a frown. “So we know Jimmy lied to us about his last name, at least.”

“That’s not surprising,” Joe said. “He was probably worried we might get in touch with his mother and tell on him.”

Aunt Gertrude had gone out to visit a neighbor. The boys raided the cookie jar, then went up to their room, intending to resume work on the code message. Joe saw his brother glance sharply out the window.

“What’s the matter?” Joe inquired.

“There’s a man down in the yard. We’d better go see what he wants.”

The brothers hurried downstairs again and out the back door. A tall, gaunt man, rather seedily dressed in a snap-brim hat and checked topcoat, was peering into the garage.

“Want something?” Frank asked.

The man seemed startled, but he spoke truculently. “You two are the Hardy boys?” Frank nodded. “And you killed a deer the other day?”

“We didn’t kill it,” Joe said. “We found it dead on the road. Someone else—”

“Don’t give me that!” The gaunt man glowered at them. “I got evidence you punks ran it down. That was my pet deer—”

“Your deer!” Frank exclaimed, astonished.

“That’s right. I raised it from a fawn. You two even took the head and pelt.” The man’s narrow eyes roved around the yard and squinted at the house windows. “I aim to find them.”

“Just a minute!” Frank blocked the intruder’s path. “I haven’t heard of any ’pet’ deer running loose in Barmet Woods.”

“Well, you’re hearing about it now! That deer was worth at least sixty dollars to me, but if you’ll pay for it, I won’t make any trouble.”

“We’re not paying anything,” Joe said firmly.

The man hesitated. “Make it thirty, then. I wouldn’t want to see you fellows go to jail. But if I have to call the police—”

“We’ll call them ourselves,” Frank broke in. “What’s your name, mister?”

“Now hold on. Let’s cool down, buddy. No sense asking for a lot of bad publicity.” The man’s voice became frankly wheedling. “Make it twenty and we’ll call it quits. You kids can afford that. Do you work after school?” Again the stranger peered around inquisitively.

“Never mind about us,” Frank said. “We didn’t kill the deer and we won’t pay a cent. What’s more, you’d better tell us who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“Smart alecks, eh?” The man’s bony, long-nosed face twisted with anger. Shaking his fist, he turned down the driveway. “You haven’t heard the last of this. I gave you a chance to stay out of trouble. Now you’ll have to settle the hard way!”

CHAPTER V

Alley Escape

FRANK and Joe stared after the gaunt stranger as he strode off down the driveway.

“You don’t suppose he can really make any trouble for us, do you?” Joe muttered.

“Of course not,” Frank scoffed. “Our front end isn’t dented and we reported the accident. That guy’s just a phony!”

“Sure, but if it comes to a showdown, we can’t prove it wasn’t our car that hit the deer.”

“I think the game warden knows us well enough to take our word. But let’s find out.”

The boys hurried back into the house. Mr. Dorsey, the game warden, snorted angrily when Frank telephoned and told of their caller. “If that fellow’s story were true, he’d be in trouble with the law. Around here it’s illegal for a private owner to keep a wild deer as a pet. Just send the man to me if he bothers you again.”

“We sure will,” Frank said gratefully. “What I’d like to know is how he got our names.”

Dorsey explained that he had had a call about the deer on Saturday night. “I thought it was some indignant wildlife lover, but it could’ve been this same fellow. Said he’d seen the dead deer earlier and wondered if some poacher had got it. I told him you boys had reported the accident, and I’d given you and your chum the head and pelt.” The warden added, “Sorry it led to you two being annoyed.”

“That’s all right,” Frank said. “We just wanted to check up on the guy.”

Joe chuckled in relief after hearing what the warden said. “Just a shakedown artist, eh?”

At that moment the boys heard their names shouted from the back yard. “There’s Chet,” said Frank. “Wonder what’s up.”

The Hardys went through the kitchen and out the door to meet their friend.

Chet, who was carrying his stuffed squirrel, greeted them with an embarrassed look. “Say, fellows, we really goofed on that deer. He belonged to somebody!”

“What do you mean?” Joe blurted.

“I just met the owner out front. Seems the deer was his pet. He was pretty mad but I—”

Frank grabbed Chet’s shoulder. “You didn’t give him any money?”

“Ten dollars,” Chet said, shrugging. “The head was worth that much to me. He wanted more, but I talked him down to ten.”

Joe groaned. “Chet, you’ve been swindled!”

“Swindled?” Chet’s jaw dropped and he stared at the Hardys. “How come?”

“That guy didn’t own the deer—he’s just a con man,” Frank explained. “He tried to shake us down, too, but we called his bluff.”

“Why, that low-down cheat!” Chet’s moonface turned beet-red with anger. Dropping his stuffed squirrel, he bounded off down the driveway. “He’s not getting away with my ten bucks!”

Half startled, half amused, Frank and Joe ran after their chum. Far ahead on Elm Street, more than a block away, they could make out a tall, shuffling figure.

“That’s the man!” Chet yelled. Spurred by anger, he and the Hardys sprinted in pursuit.

The clatter of their leather-soled shoes reached the stranger’s ears. He glanced back, then broke into a run. The chase was on!

Frank and Joe quickly drew ahead of their puffing, chunky pal, but the gaunt swindler’s long-legged strides kept him a safe distance from his pursuers.

Reaching Oak Avenue, which was lined with stores, he turned right and disappeared from view. The three boys rounded the corner moments later, straining for a glimpse of their quarry. Oak Avenue led into Bayport’s business district and the sidewalk was dotted with pedestrians.

“There he goes!” Frank yelled, pointing down the street.

Three blocks later, after a maddening halt by traffic en route, the boys saw the swindler dart into an alleyway between two rows of buildings.

“Now we’ve got him!” Chet panted.

Weaving their way through the sidewalk throng, the trio reached the alley opening. But as they plunged into the narrow passage, they collided full tilt with three small boys who were running out.

The swindler got away!

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, fatso!” one of the boys yelled at Chet.

“Jimmy Gordon!” Joe exclaimed, catching the boy’s arm. Jimmy angrily threw off his grasp.

“Hold ’em! Hold those kids!” came a shout from somewhere farther along the alley. The Hardys saw Policeman Con Riley, an old acquaintance, lumbering toward them through the passage.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked impatiently as he and Joe restrained the three urchins.

“I’m running those brats in!” Riley roared. “They’ve been marking windows, and racing carts in the supermarket. Now they’re going to the station house!”

“Never mind all that. We’ll be responsible for them,” Joe said. “Help us catch a real crook!”

“Real crook?” Riley looked startled. “What’re you talking about?”

“A swindler—he gypped me out of ten bucks,” Chet complained. “He’s a tall, bony guy in a checked coat. We saw him run down this alley.”

“No one came out of this alley. I’d have seen him,” Riley declared.

“Then he must’ve gone into one of these stores —through the back way,” Frank said.

“That’s right, he did,” piped up one of Jimmy Gordon’s companions. “We saw a guy like that go in the back door of the five-and-ten.”

Riley glowered at the three urchins, then looked up at the Hardys and Chet. “All right, let’s find him. But hang onto those little brats—I’m not through with ’em!”

“Okay, Jimmy—you and your pals come along and help us,” Frank ordered. “And no tricks! We know your name’s Jimmy Gordon and we have your address, if you try giving us the slip.”

Jimmy gaped in dismay, then sullenly motioned his companions to do as Frank said. The Hardys and Chet each kept a hand on one of the smaller boys as the whole group crowded into the five-and-ten and spread out through the aisles. The gaunt swindler, however, had vanished. Policeman Riley questioned several clerks as well as pedestrians outside, and other stores in the block were also combed, but their quarry was nowhere in sight.

“Hold those kids!” someone shouted

“Guess you’re out of luck, Chet,” Joe said as they collected in a group again.

“Great!” Chet groaned. “Ten bucks gone. Think of the hamburgers that would’ve bought!”

“You’re telling us,” one of the urchins said wistfully. “I could sure use one right now.”

“We might’ve earned a handout at the hot-dog drive-in stand if that cop hadn’t shown,” Jimmy grumbled.

Riley gave a snort. “Earn a handout? That’ll be the day, any time you sidewalk cowboys do a lick of honest work! Just wait’ll the sergeant hears what you’ve been up to!”

“If they’re hungry,” Frank said diplomatically, “why not let them go home for a decent meal? We’ll take them—it’s almost suppertime.”

“Not for us it ain’t,” Jimmy muttered.

“Why not?”

“My ma doesn’t get home from work till after eight. Mike and Tommy have to get their own meals, too—when they get ’em at all.”

Frank was taken aback. He drew Policeman Riley aside and whispered earnestly.

Riley nodded. “Okay, I’ll give ’em a break this time.”

“Thanks a lot.” Frank then made for a nearby telephone booth and dialed the Hardys’ number. Aunt Gertrude, who by now had returned home, answered his call.

At first, when Frank suggested bringing the street waifs home to dinner, she was horrified. But after he had explained the situation, Miss Hardy softened. “Humph! Well, of course, if they’re really hungry, that’s different. I’ll set some extra places.”

The youngsters looked flabbergasted at Frank’s invitation. Mike, a happy-go-lucky type with tousled black hair, and Tommy, scrawny, with big blue eyes, seemed ready to accept, but both glanced at Jimmy before speaking. Evidently he was the ringleader.

“What’s the catch?” Jimmy demanded gruffly.

Frank rumpled his hair. “Stop looking for catches, wise guy. Here’s a chance for some free chow. Better take it.”

“Well... okay.”

At the Hardy house, Aunt Gertrude took one shocked look at the dirty urchins, then set her jaw firmly. “March them right up to the bathroom and get them cleaned up!” she ordered. “Soap and plenty of hot water—but don’t use the good guest towels! Chet, you’re staying too, of course, so you can help.”

Grinning, the older boys obeyed. By the time dinner was served, their three young charges had been scrubbed until they glowed, and their hair combed neatly. Mr. Hardy, meanwhile, had arrived from the airport. He was somewhat astonished at the array of guests but made no comment.

When Aunt Gertrude saw how the youngsters, once their shyness had worn off, attacked their plates of delicious hot roast beef and mashed potatoes, she beamed with pride. “Well,” she murmured across the table to her brother, “at least they know what to do with good food.”

Later, as they waited for Miss Hardy to serve dessert, the detective said to Frank and Joe:

“The FBI’s becoming more and more concerned about these industrial thefts. That code message you picked up may be a real lead. Before we talk about it, though, how are you two crook-chasers making out on the Batter case?”

Mr. Hardy’s words seemed to have an electric effect on Jimmy Gordon. His eyes blazed. “Crook-chasers? Batter case?” He glared at Frank and Joe. “So it’s just like I thought—you two are nothing but stooges for the cops!”

Almost knocking over his chair, he sprang up and darted for the door with a wave to Mike and Tommy. “Come on! This whole deal’s some kind of a dirty frame-up! Scram, guys—scram!”

CHAPTER VI

Tip-off Note

THE Hardy boys acted fast and managed to restrain Mike and Tommy before they could leave the table. But Jimmy was already streaking into the hallway. Aunt Gertrude, however, had heard the uproar from the kitchen and took prompt action.

She darted into the hall, snatched an umbrella from the closet, and charged aftei him. As Jimmy yanked open the front door, she snagged his arm with the crook of the umbrella.

“Stop right there, young man! I want to have a word with you!”

Jimmy was about to flare back, bu one glimpse of Aunt Gertrude’s wrathful expression changed his mind. “Let me go!” he whined.

“Don’t talk back to me, you imp! Just where did you leave your manners? Get to the table this instant!”

There was a chuckle from Fenton Hardy. “Better do as she says.”

Scowling, with his lower lip outthrust, Jimmy plodded sullenly back to the dining room.

“Sorry if I frightened you lads,” Mr. Hardy said, resuming his place at the table. “Didn’t Frank and Joe mention that I’m a private investigator?” The youngsters shook their heads.

“And the Batter case has nothing to do with you, Jimmy,” put in Frank. “Your aunt asked Joe and me to recover some stuffed animals that were stolen from the auction at your uncle’s place.”

Jimmy gave the Hardy boys a surprised stare. “Is that why you were nosing around out there?”

“Right,” Joe acknowledged. “The thieves’ getaway car grazed a tree and we were checking the bark for paint traces.”

“Hey! That’s keen!” said Mike.

Tommy murmured, “Private eyes!” His blue ones were big with amazement.

“Now that that’s settled, let’s get on with the apple pie à la mode,” Frank said, grinning.

By the time dessert was finished, even Jimmy looked relaxed and heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. Chet took the youngsters out to his taxidermy workshop and offered to give them lessons in preparing stuffed animals. All three promised to come back the next day. “You can help me mount my deer’s head, too,” Chet added.

“My uncle Elly did a lot of that kind of work,” Jimmy said. “There’s still some stuffed animals over at the house.” Frank and Joe traded startled looks.

Chet finally left in his jalopy. Jimmy and his two pals got into the Hardy boys’ convertible and were driven home.

After Mike and Tommy had been dropped at their doors, Jimmy murmured:

“That guy you were chasing today-I know him.”

“You know him?” Joe exclaimed in surprise.

Jimmy nodded. “I got a look at his face when he ran in the ten-cent store. His name’s Moran—Soapy Moran. He used to work for Uncle Elly.”

“What sort of work?” Frank asked.

“Nothing much—odd jobs, running errands.”

A moment later Jimmy pointed ahead to a shabby tenement building. “Here’s my place.”

The convertible drew up to the curb and the freckle-faced boy climbed out. Frank said, “Will your mother be home by now?”

“Sure, the light’s on, up there in our window. Thanks for the swell feed.”

Joe waved. “Don’t mention it. See you tomorrow!”

As the brothers drove off, Joe turned to Frank. “Does it strike you as odd that this Soapy Moran should have been connected with Elias Batter?”

“It sure does,” Frank agreed. “I’d say it’s no coincidence. That whole business about the dead deer may have been just a cover-up.”

“A cover-up for what?”

Frank shook his head helplessly. “Search me. Maybe just an excuse for snooping around our place.”

Joe gave a startled whistle. “If you’re right, then he may be a member of the gang—or at least. a pal of those two auction thieves!”

“Could be. And speaking of the auction thieves, do you remember what Jimmy said about more stuffed animals at the house?”

“Yes, I’ve been wondering about them. Seems funny they weren’t auctioned off.”

“Not only that,” Frank pointed out, “but the thieves may not even know about them. If we could see them, they might give us a clue to what was so valuable about the other animals—the ones that were stolen.”

Joe was excited over this possibility. “Let’s drive out to Batter’s house right now and take a look at them. We could borrow Jimmy’s key.”

“I think we should get permission first.”

“Okay, let’s stop somewhere and phone. We can probably find Crowell’s home number in the book.”

Frank parked the car at a drugstore and the two boys hurried to a telephone booth inside. Leafing through the Bayport directory, they soon found the attorney’s residential listing.

Crowell was unexpectedly cool to the idea of the Hardys paying an unsupervised visit to the mansion. “I’m afraid I couldn’t take responsibility for that,” he said. “Mrs. Batter would have to be consulted.”

“Perhaps I could call her,” Frank suggested. “Is she still living in Bayport?”

“Yes, in a small apartment. But right now she’s out of town. Suppose I ask her as soon as she returns and then get in touch with you.”

Joe’s face showed disappointment when he heard the news. “Did Crowell explain why some of the animals weren’t sold?”

“He said they were all supposed to be included in the auction, but a few hadn’t been brought out of the house yet when the theft occurred. Right after that, Mrs. Batter gave orders not to sell the rest of them.”

“Sounds as if she got the same idea we did.”

As the boys returned to their car, Joe said, “Hey, what’s that on the windshield?”

A piece of paper had been slipped under the wiper. Frank pulled it out. The paper bore a penciled message:

BROWN STATION WAGON DITCHED OFF

HORTON RD. ¼ MI. E. OF ROCKCREST DRIVE

“Wow! A tip-off on the thieves’ getaway car!” Joe exclaimed.

“Maybe and maybe not,” Frank said cautiously.

“Think it’s phony?”

“Depends on where it came from.” Both boys glanced up and down the street. No pedestrians were in sight on the block. “Someone may have been trailing us before we went in the drugstore,” Frank conjectured.

“Well, there’s one way to find out if this note’s on the level,” said Joe, “and that is to ride to the spot and see. We can notify the police on the way.”

“Okay, let’s go!”

As the convertible sped in the direction of Horton Drive, Joe radioed the Bayport police.

“Roger! I’ll send a car to meet you there,” the police operator responded after taking down the location.

Horton Road ran through the hills west of Bayport. Sparsely traveled at night, it connected with several of the busier highways. As they passed Rockcrest Drive, Frank slowed so they could keep a lookout for the abandoned station wagon. The hillside rose steeply on their right, while to the left of the road the ground fell away in a brush-clad slope.

“There it is!” Frank said, slamming on the brakes.

In the moonlight they could see the getaway car clearly. It lay on a broad rocky shelf jutting out from the slope below them, its nose rammed against a tree.

The Hardys took flashlights, piled out of their convertible, and ran to the edge of the road. A swath had been battered through the high brush —evidently marking the course of the station wagon as it hurtled down the slope.

Joe plunged recklessly forward, then exclaimed, “Oops!” and almost went sprawling.

“Hey, watch it!” Frank cautioned, following more slowly. “Think you’re a mountain goat?”

“I tripped on a vine or something,” Joe said.

The boys proceeded, shining their flashlights ahead. As they reached the shelf, the rays of their flashlights revealed a large metal drum in the back of the station wagon. A vague feeling of alarm prickled Frank’s scalp. He clutched Joe’s arm.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t know exactly, but I don’t like the looks of that drum,” Frank said. “You sure that was a vine you tripped over?”

“How do I know? What difference does it make?” Joe returned impatiently.

“Plenty, maybe. That could’ve been a trip wire for a delayed-action fuse!” As he spoke, Frank’s fear swelled to panic. “Come on! Let’s get back up on the road and wait for the police!”

Yanking Joe’s arm, he scrambled up the slope. They had taken only a few paces when a loud whoomp rent the air.

A huge pillar of fire shot up, engulfing the whole station wagon!

CHAPTER VII

Wolf’s Trail

HEAT searing their backs, Frank and Joe clambered up to the road. Then they turned for a moment and peered below, shielding their eyes from the blaze. The station wagon was barely visible in the roaring orange column of flames.

“Jumpin’ Jupiter!” Joe gasped. “We’d have been fried to a crisp if you hadn’t stopped us!”

“Come on! Get back!” Frank warned curtly. “That brush is blazing!”

The fire was sweeping up the slope, reddening their faces in its glow. Frank backed their convertible out of range, deftly made a U-turn in the narrow roadway, and drove the car a safe distance away. Joe, meanwhile, radioed a fresh report to the police.

A squad car soon arrived, followed by a fire crew. Fortunately the blaze was already burning itself out, checked by the wetness of the brush from the previous night’s rain.

Chief Collig had come in the squad car. “Lucky you lads got away in time,” he observed.

“It sure was,” Joe said. “There must have been gasoline in that drum, and some sort of electrical sparking device to ignite it.”

“The setup was a cinch,” Frank added. “Anyone going down there was bound to follow the car’s trail through the brush—and the trip wire would never be seen in the dark.”

Collig nodded grimly. “The timer was evidently set to allow just enough delay for you boys to get close to the station wagon after tripping the wire. Really a fiendish setup!”

“It gets rid of the car, too,” Frank pointed out, “with no risk of fingerprints or other clues being left behind.”

A twisted, blackened shell was all that remained after the flames died out. Any traces of the timing mechanism had been fused and obliterated by the intense heat. Somewhat shaken by the experience, Frank and Joe drove home.

Mr. Hardy frowned worriedly upon hearing of their narrow escape. “This proves you’re up against highly dangerous criminals, sons.”

“More than petty thieves,” Frank agreed.

“Definitely—which points back to the industrial spy ring again. From now on, I want you both to be on your guard at all times.”

“We will, Dad,” Joe promised. He told of their hunch about Soapy Moran’s visit.

“Soapy Moran, eh?” Mr. Hardy strode to his criminal file, leafed through a number of photographs, and finally pulled out a pair of mug shots. “Is that the man?”

Both boys recognized the swindler at once.

“He has a record as a small-time con man and pickpocket,” Mr. Hardy told them. “Offhand, I wouldn’t think he’s the type to be mixed up in anything bigger—but I’ll ask the FBI to put out a dragnet for him, just in case.”

The evening was too far spent to allow much time for work on the code message. All three Hardys puzzled over it for a while, but finally went to bed with no glimmer of a solution.

The next day Mike and Tommy arrived promptly after school, eager for a taxidermy lesson. “Jimmy said he had a lot of work to do for his ma,” Mike explained.

Later, Frank and Joe found the two youngsters watching with close attention as Chet smoothed out a paper head form.

“It’s made to the exact measurement of the deer’s head,” Chet was saying. “When the skin comes back from the tanner’s, we shall apply that over the form. Then Professor Morton will demonstrate how much better this is than the older stuffing methods. It’s all a matter of expert judgment and know-how, of course.” Chet cleared his throat importantly.

The Hardys suppressed grins. “Don’t let us interrupt, Professor,” Frank said.

“Matter of fact, I was about to break off for an errand,” the stout youth announced. “Have to pick up a couple of glass eyes in town.”

Joe glanced around the cluttered work space. Scrap lumber, cotton batting, galvanized wire, and an old oil-paint set lay strewn about the floor. Along with books and tools on the bench were a partly mounted duck and rabbit supplied by hunter friends, a pasty substance, and lumps of unfired clay. Various chemical bottles were lined up on a shelf in back of Chet.

“Boy, this looks like a warehouse for a mad scientist,” Joe remarked. “You are going to clean up in here some time, aren’t you?”

“Natch. What do you think I have a staff for?” Wiping borax-covered hands on his apron, Chet added, “Mike, I hereby appoint you vice-president in charge of cleanup. Tommy, you finish sanding the wood base for this duck. And when you’re done”—Chet pulled a sack of fudge out of a bench drawer and popped a piece into his mouth —“help yourselves to some of this yummy confection. Made it myself!”

As the youngsters set about their tasks eagerly, Joe shot an amused glance at Frank. “What an operator! Maybe we Hardys should get a cooking staff in case Aunt Gertrude goes visiting and doesn’t leave any pie, cake, or cookies for Chet.” The stout boy grimaced.

Frank grinned and declined Chet’s invitation to help pick out glass eyes for his deer, preferring to work on the code message. Joe, however, was willing to go. He and Chet strode out to the Queen and soon the yellow jalopy was clattering noisily toward downtown Bayport.

Roundtree’s Taxidermy Shop was as dark as a cave and twice as mysterious. From the shadows of its dim interior, white fangs and sharp claws gleamed menacingly at the two boys. Near the door, a huge grizzly bear reared on its hind legs as if ready to pounce on any customer who caused its master displeasure.

Mr. Roundtree, a short, plump man, shuffled about in flapping slippers. As the boys entered, he was completing the sale of a mounted wolf’s head to a man in a tan raincoat and slouch hat. Joe glanced curiously at the animal, then turned with Chet to a display case of glass eyes.

“Don’t you want me to crate it?” Joe heard Mr. Roundtree ask the customer.

“Don’t bother!” The man snatched the wolf’s head off the counter and turned to leave.

“Er—you haven’t paid me, sir.”

“What? ... Oh, sorry.” As the man stopped to fumble for his wallet, Joe glanced at him. In spite of the low slouch hat shadowing his face, Joe felt that the man looked familiar.

Their eyes met for a moment. Without another word he stuffed the wallet back into his pocket and darted toward the door!

“My money, sir!” Mr. Roundtree exclaimed. But the customer was already out of the shop—the door slamming shut behind him.

Suddenly Joe’s memory clicked. No wonder he had not recognized the fellow with a hat on!

“Chet! That was the baldheaded thief at the auction!” he cried, dashing from the store.

Chet stared open-mouthed, then trotted after Joe as Roundtree gaped in helpless bewilderment. The thief was nowhere in sight, yet he could not have taken a car—there was a solid line of automobiles parked at the curb.

“Wh-which way did he go?” Chet demanded.

“Don’t ask me!” Joe ran to a girl who was standing in front of a florist’s window. “Did you see a man with a wolf’s head just now?”

“A man with a wolf’s head?” The girl looked at Joe suspiciously. “Are you kidding?”

Joe reddened and started to explain, then gave up. “Oh, never mind—thanks just the same!”

He ran up the street, then down, with Chet at his heels, looking in stores and questioning passersby. None had seen the man. Discouraged, the boys started back to the taxidermy shop.

“I can’t understand it,” Joe said. “That man came out of the store only a few minutes ago. He couldn’t vanish into thin air.”

Just then a woman’s shrill scream brought the boys to a halt. Joe and Chet exchanged startled glances. Another scream split the air.

“In there!” Joe pointed to Zetter’s Radio and TV Store, next to Roundtree’s. The two youths dashed inside. There were no customers in sight, nor anyone at the counter.

From somewhere in back, they heard a door burst open and a loud, frightened sob. Guided by the sound, Joe and Chet darted into a narrow passageway leading to the rear of the shop.

A woman stumbled into view, pale with fright. “Th-there’s a wild animal out there!” She pointed to the back door. “Something ferocious! I was taking a shortcut through the alley when I saw it! It scared the wits out of me!”

By this time a policeman and several other people were crowding into the store. Joe and Chet ran out the back door into the alley.

“She’s nutty!” Chet declared, looking all around. “There’s no animal out here!”

Then Joe caught a glimpse of baleful eyes and gleaming fangs. “Oh, yes, there is!”

With a chuckle, he pointed down the steps of a depressed cellar entrance to their right. Propped near the cellar door in the shadowy gloom was the mounted wolf’s head, looking as if the whole animal were about to come bounding out of the darkness!

“Good grief!” said Chet. “So that’s what scared her. I guess this explains how that crook got away, too.”

“Sure. He was afraid I might remember his face, so he ran through Zetter’s right after he left Roundtree’s—and dumped the wolf here so no one would spot him making his getaway.”

As Joe retrieved the wolf’s head, Mr. Zetter, a tall, dark-featured man, came up the alley. He frowned at the noisy hubbub outside his shop.

“What’s going on here?” he snapped. As the boys explained, Zetter snorted irritably. “A fine how-d’you-do! I leave the store for a few minutes to get a sandwich and find the place in an uproar when I get back!”

He strode inside, the boys following. The woman gave another gasp of alarm when she saw the wolf’s head in Joe’s arms. She soon calmed down, however, and smiled shamefacedly upon realizing her mistake. After Joe had reported the auction thief’s getaway to the policeman, the two boys returned the head to Roundtree’s and Chet purchased glass eyes for his deer.

By the time they arrived at the Hardy house on Elm Street, Fenton Hardy was home. He listened with a wry grin of amusement to Joe’s story. “Good work, son, recognizing that bald auction thief. But what about the wolf’s head?”

“We took it back to the taxidermy shop.” Joe paused as he saw his father frown slightly. “Was that a wrong move?”

“Well, it might have been wiser to leave it where you found it. If the thief stashed the head there, he may have been planning to come back for it later. In your place, I would have staked out the alley and kept watch.”

“I should’ve thought of that!” Joe chided him self.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Frank spoke up. “Come on, Joe. Let’s give it a try!”

Leaving Chet at work with the youngsters, the Hardys drove downtown. At the taxidermy shop they received bad news.

“Sorry, boys,” Mr. Roundtree reported. “That fellow came back and snatched the wolf’s head right off the counter. He was out of the store before I had time to blink.”

Joe groaned. “Did he go off in a car?”

“ ‘Fraid I didn’t notice. To tell the truth, I hardly had time to collect my wits.”

“Say,” Frank asked on a sudden hunch, “do you happen to know who mounted that wolf’s head?”

“Why, yes. It was an old customer of mine—Elias Batter.”

CHAPTER VIII

A Secret Treasure

ELIAS Batter—the late owner of the stuffed animals stolen at the auction! And now another of his mounted specimens had been purchased by one of the thieves! Mr. Roundtree peered shrewdly at the Hardys as he saw their startled looks.

“Did you boys know Mr. Batter?” the taxidermist asked.

“Not personally,” Frank replied, “but we’ve heard of him. You say he was a customer?”

Roundtree nodded. “Used to drop in often for supplies. Can’t say I cared for him much.”

“Why not?” Joe queried.

“Oh, I don’t know. Struck me as a sly, disagreeable sort.” The taxidermist gave a slight, embarrassed cough. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying that.”

“How’d you happen to get the wolf’s head?” Frank queried.

Roundtree explained that Batter had traded it to him for several unprepared pelts. “Good trade, too. Elias Batter was a fine craftsman—his work would stand out anywhere. And—”

“You mean you could actually identify animals that he stuffed?” Joe put in.

“Yep.” Roundtree described thick eye-waxing, dramatic poses, and meticulous double sewing as characteristics of Batter’s craftsmanship. “Particularly the sewing. He had a way of using extra stitches on a skin.”

Glancing at Frank, Joe could see that his brother had been struck by the same idea. This might explain how the thief had spotted the wolf as Batter’s work!

“Did you have the wolf’s head displayed in the window?” Frank asked.

“Yes. The man you’re looking for came in and asked for it specially.”

“How long ago was it that he came back?”

“Not long. You didn’t miss him by more than two minutes.”

Disgusted at their bad luck, the Hardys thanked Mr. Roundtree and left his shop. A freckle-faced boy was lounging against their convertible. “Well, what d’you know? It’s our little pal!” Joe exclaimed. “Hi, Jimmy!”

“Hi.” The youngster acknowledged their greeting rather glumly. “I saw you two go in there, so I thought I’d wait. Just wanted to explain why I didn’t show up today.”

“That’s all right,” Frank said. “Mike told us you had to do some things for your mother.”

“Uh-huh. She came home early and made me do a lot of work.” Jimmy reached into the convertible and pulled out a bag of groceries which he had set on the back seat. “Like going to the store for this stuff.”

“Put it back,” Frank advised. “We’ll give you a lift home.”

Jimmy brightened at the prospect of another ride in the convertible with the top down. As the car swung away from the curb, Joe queried, “You said you saw us go into the taxidermist’s?”

“Yeah, I was standing in front of Zetter’s window, watching a color TV,” Jimmy replied.

“You didn’t happen to notice a man come out of Roundtree’s carrying a wolf’s head?”

“Sure, he was parked in front—right where you guys parked.”

“What kind of car?” Frank asked eagerly.

“A green four-door.”

“The same one he and his partner were driving Sunday, I’ll bet!” Joe exclaimed.

Jimmy looked from one Hardy boy to the other. “What’s the deal? Is he some kind of a crook?”

“Sure is! He’s one of the auction thieves.” Joe immediately warmed up the convertible’s short-wave and reported this latest development to the police.

At the tenement house where the Gordons lived, Frank suggested that he and Joe go in and meet Jimmy’s mother. He agreed, but without enthusiasm.

Frank and Joe accompanied him up two flights of rickety stairs, then along a corridor with paint-peeling walls. Jimmy opened the door to the Gordons’ apartment and led them inside.

A woman peered from the kitchen, which gave off an aroma of boiling cabbage. Seeing the Hardys, she came out, wiping her hands on her apron. She would have been attractive looking except for the lines of care in her face.

“Ma, this is Frank and Joe Hardy, the guys I was telling you about,” Jimmy mumbled.

“Oh, yes. The detective’s sons, aren’t you? Pleased to meet you.” Shaking hands, she gave the Hardys a rather suspicious stare. “Real big-hearted of you, taking Jimmy home to dinner last night. Saved me cooking for him.”

“We enjoyed having him,” Frank said.

Mrs. Gordon’s lips formed a grudging smile. “Hope he behaved himself.” Her smile faded as she added, “Can’t stay out of mischief, most of the time, and he won’t pay attention at school, either. Needs a father’s hand—that’s the whole trouble.”

“He’ll shape up. Won’t you, Jimmy?” Joe said, rumpling the youngster’s hair.

There was a moment’s awkward silence.

“Jimmy says Elias Batter was his uncle,” Frank ventured cautiously.

“Oh, he does, does he?” Mrs. Gordon frowned and Jimmy moved off sullenly, pretending to toy with a colored glass paperweight on a table.

“Did you ever hear Mr. Batter speak of a man named Soapy Moran?” Joe asked.

“No, I didn’t!” Mrs. Gordon snapped, her face hardening. “I got better things to do than poke my nose into Eli’s affairs! And what’s more, they’re none of your business, either!”

The Hardys reddened at the unexpected outburst. Joe tried to explain the reason for his query, but Mrs. Gordon brusquely cut him off.

“I—er—guess we’d better be going,” Frank said. “Nice to have met you, Mrs. Batter.”

As they retreated down the hall, Joe gulped. “Whew! I sure pulled a boner that time.”

“Guess we both did,” Frank said. “I probably shouldn’t have brought up Batter’s name. Remember, Jimmy told us his mother wouldn’t have anything to do with his uncle Elly.”

That evening Mr. Hardy was called away for an urgent meeting with a client on an insurance investigation. After studying for a couple of hours, Frank and Joe worked the ham bands for a while in their attic shack. Then they turned their attention once more to the uncracked code message.

“It’s a cinch this can’t be a simple substitution or transposition cipher,” Joe mused.

“Not with this mixture of words and numbers,” Frank agreed. “What puzzles me is the—”

He broke off as Aunt Gertrude called up, “There’s a visitor here to see you two!”

Frank and Joe hurried downstairs. Jimmy Gordon was waiting in the living room. The freckle-faced youngster looked embarrassed as they greeted him.

“How about some cocoa and cookies?” Frank suggested. Jimmy seemed to relax as they enjoyed their snack in the kitchen. But not until they went up to the radio shack and let him listen in on a call from a ham in Texas did he speak of the reason for his visit.

“Sorry Ma got so sore at you fellows this afternoon,” Jimmy mumbled awkwardly. “I figured I ought to sneak over and explain.”

“Sneak over?” Joe said. “Won’t she worry?”

“Aw, she’s out gabbing with one of the neighbors. Besides, she was picking on me all through supper, so she’ll know why I didn’t stick around.” Jimmy paused and then went on, “You see, Ma always gets worked up when anyone mentions Uncle Elly. She says he was a crook and made trouble for the whole family.”

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” Frank apologized. “We didn’t realize that.”

“Aw, it’s not your fault.”

“Why did she consider your uncle a crook?” Joe asked, after exchanging glances with Frank. “Had he ever been convicted of breaking the law?”

“No, not that I know of,” Jimmy replied. “But he was Ma’s oldest brother, and she says he was always getting into some kind of scrapes. Once he almost got sent up for robbing the Crescent Jewelry Store.”

“When was that?” Frank inquired.

“Oh, when I was little. I don’t remember much about it, but Uncle Elly was living with us then. That was before he got married. The police came around and questioned everybody at our place, even Ma and Dad.”

“Sounds pretty unpleasant,” Joe remarked sympathetically.

“Ma sure thought so.” Jimmy’s face took on a resentful scowl. “We were living in a better neighborhood then, and she says no one on the block would have anything to do with us after that. Dad even lost his job at the bank on account of it.”

Frank said, “And your mother blamed your uncle Elly?”

“Uh-huh. The cops never did prove he was guilty, but she made him move out of the house.”

“But you still went on seeing him?”

Jimmy shrugged. “He’d drop in sometimes when she wasn’t home. And after Dad died, he used to slip me money.”

The youngster fidgeted silently for a moment. Frank and Joe said nothing, sensing that he was on the verge of revealing something more.

“Look, can you guys keep a secret?”

“Of course we can,” Frank assured him. “What’s on your mind?”

“Uncle Elly had something hidden away for me. Something valuable. That’s what I was looking for the other night.”

“What is it?” Joe asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me. It was like this. I went to visit him once after he got sick. He said, ‘Jimmy boy, if anything happens to me, I got something secret hidden away that could be worth plenty!’ ”

“He didn’t tell you where it was hidden?” Frank queried.

“Nope. When I asked him, he just laughed and said, ‘Look in the right spots and you’ll find it.’ Then he had a fit of coughing. When he got his breath back, he said, ‘I’ll tell you later, when the time comes.’ But it turned out that was the last time I ever saw him.”

The Hardys frowned thoughtfully, turning the problem over in their minds.

Jimmy asked earnestly, “Will you guys help me find it? If it is worth a lot, like Uncle Elly said, Ma could sure use the dough.”

“You bet we’ll help you,” Frank promised, patting the boy’s shoulder. “As a matter of fact, we expect to go over to your uncle’s house soon. Maybe we can look around then.”

Jimmy left, looking happier than the Hardys had yet seen him. Joe took him to the front door. When he returned to the attic, he found Frank twirling the tuning dial absently, his thoughts obviously far from the ham bands.

“What do you make of that story Jimmy told us?” Joe broke in.

“It could explain a lot,” Frank replied. “If Batter hid something valuable, that might even be what the auction thieves were after.”

“Suppose we were lucky enough to find it,” Joe said. “How could we prove Batter meant it for Jimmy? Wouldn’t it be Mrs. Batter’s property?”

Frank’s face grew troubled. “Good question. I’m not sure if—”

He broke off with a startled look as a voice suddenly blurted from the speaker:

“Aardvark bulldog ... Aardvark bulldog ...”

“The code voice again!” Frank gasped, hastily adjusting the tuning.

A moment later came the sound of barking. Frank snatched pencil and paper and wrote down the message that followed:

CHAPTER IX

The Tabloid Key

THE Hardys listened breathlessly as the message was repeated. Once more came a series of loud barks. Then the sounds faded.

“What a break!” Joe exclaimed.

“It’s not over the same frequency,” Frank noted, “but pretty close. They probably vary their transmitting frequency on a regular schedule.”

Joe nodded as he pulled up a chair. “We were lucky to pick ’em up twice!” Eagerly the two boys settled down to compare the new message with the one they had received earlier.

“They’re both in the same code,” Frank remarked. “That’s obvious just from looking at them. What beats me is the way the numbers alternate with words.”

“Me, too,” Joe agreed in a puzzled voice. “Either one by itself might indicate a fairly simple cipher. Or they might refer to a codebook. But the two mixed together...” He shook his head, mystified.

“You may have something there, though,” Frank said. “The numbers are given in pairs, just as they would be for a dictionary code. One might be the page number, and the other the number of the word on the page.”

“In that case, why give any words at all?”

“That doesn’t make sense to me, either.” Frank brooded silently for a few moments, then said, “Another thing, You’ll notice that some words are preceded by a pair of numbers and some aren’t.”

“Right,” Joe responded. “In the first message, for instance, there are no numbers before ‘sheep’ or ‘hairs,’ and in the second message—”

“Hold it! Say those words again!”

Joe obliged. “Sheep. Hairs. What about them?”

“Don’t you get it?” Frank said. “The ‘aardvark bulldog’ bit indicates the gang may be using animal code names—”

Joe nodded. “Sure. Aardvark calling Bulldog. And the barking is Bulldog’s response, meaning ‘I read you.’ So what?”

“So ‘sheep’ and ‘hairs’ may be animal names, too—for other members of the gang. Not h-a-i-r-s but h-a-r-e-s. I just wrote it down wrong.”

“Wow!” Joe’s eyes lit up excitedly. “I’ll bet you’re right. And that may explain why ‘sheep’ and ‘hares’ have no numbers in front of them. Bulldog already knows those names, so he doesn’t need any codebook numbers to look up their meaning.”

“Whoa! You’re jumping way ahead of me,” Frank said, “but I think we’re on the same track. You’re implying that the other words do have to be looked up.”

“Sure. Maybe not in a regular codebook, but some other book they’re using as a key. Bulldog uses the numbers to locate each message-word in the key. Then he decodes by taking the first word that follows each of the message-words—or maybe the second word, or the word just before each message-word.”

Joe paused and frowned. “What about ‘lek,’ though? No numbers in front of that, but I never heard of any animal called a lek.”

Frank grinned. “Neither did I, but it could still be a code name that Bulldog already knows. Getting back to this code-key book, what do you suppose they might be using?”

“Boy! Ask me something easy!” Joe grumbled. “It might be any book—any one they’d agreed on beforehand.”

“Wait a second. Maybe the numbers don’t refer to a book at all,” Frank said.

“Why not?”

“If they were using a book, they’d only need a single number, not a pair of numbers,” Frank argued. “For instance, take the opening of the first message ‘7 2 progress.’ You might turn to page seven, find the word progress on that page, and then translate by taking the next word that follows. Where would the ‘2’ come in?”

“Simple,” said Joe. “Take the second word after progress.”

Frank stared at his brother. “You know, that may be the answer! But it sure leaves us up a tree. Without knowing the book, we can’t possibly hope to crack the code.”

For more than an hour, the young sleuths continued to pore over the messages, but neither could think of any other possible solution. Fenton Hardy had not returned home when they finally gave up and prepared for bed. Joe had switched off the light and settled back on his pillow when Frank exclaimed, “Hey! We’re prize dopes!”

“How come?” Joe demanded sleepily.

“The code key could be a newspaper—not a book! The two numbers could stand for the page and column!”

Joe was instantly wide awake. Switching on their bedside light again, the boys consulted the two code messages, which they had brought down from the attic.

“Look! This bears me out!” Frank said. “The second number is always small, just as it would be if it stood for a column.”

“Now all we have to do is figure out which paper,” Joe said wryly.

“I’d say a New York paper’s the best bet,” Frank conjectured. “They’re the most widely circulated in this part of the country.”

“Hmm. Let’s see,” Joe mused. “One of the numbers in the second message is 97. If that’s a page number, it would have to be a pretty thick newspaper.”

“Right.” Frank scowled intently, then snapped his fingers. “None of the column numbers is higher than 5—which sounds like a tabloid. Full-sized newspapers run to eight or nine columns. And tabloids are often pretty thick, too. I’m sure the Star runs to about a hundred pages.”

“Man, oh man! Let’s whip down to the station first thing tomorrow and see if we can still get a copy of today’s Star!”

Next morning when the boys came down to breakfast, they learned that their father had already left the house—this time for another flying trip to New York. Disappointed at missing him, Frank and Joe ate their bacon and eggs, then drove to the Bayport railroad station.

“Got a Wednesday Star left?” Frank asked the newsdealer.

“Sure.” The man reached down behind the counter and brought up a copy. Frank paid for it and hurried back to their car.

“Let’s check out the first word in the message,” Joe said eagerly. “Page twenty-four, column one—‘arrested.’ ”

Frank leafed to the right page and ran his finger down the first column. Almost at once he came to a sentence using the word arrested:

Three suspected smugglers were arrested in a raid on a Lower East Side warehouse early this morning.

“Wow! How do you like that?” Joe exulted.

Frank glanced at his wristwatch. “Sufferin’ snakes! We’re almost late for class!”

With a roar of exhaust, the convertible headed for Bayport High School. Not until they returned home that afternoon were the Hardys able to resume work on the code message.

“Did you look up the other words?” Frank asked as Joe spread the Star on the dining-room table.

“I sure did—and they all check out.” Joe leafed through the paper and pointed to three more sentences which he had circled in pencil:

In a news conference today, the NASA flight director revealed that a plant was being built in Wyoming to assemble the new rocket booster.

Commissioner Mason stated that the new freight rates would go into effect immediately.

“We plan to overhaul our whole setup,” Barnes announced at yesterday’s stockholders’ meeting.

“So far so good!” Frank said with a cautious grin. “Now let’s see what we can make of the whole message. Try writing down the first word that follows each of the code words.”

“Okay.” Joe picked them out of the newspaper sentences and jotted them down, including “lek” in its proper position. The result read:

IN LEK THAT THAT OUR.

Joe snorted in disgust. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Let’s try the second word after each code word.”

This time the result read:

A LEK A THE WHOLE.

“Still no sense,” Joe commented. “Let’s try the third words.”

Just then, Chet Morton’s jalopy pulled into the drive and he shouted “Hello” to the Hardys. Frank went to the back door to answer his greeting and invited the stout youth inside. The two boys found Joe looking excited as they entered the dining room.

“Take a look at this, Frank! I think we’ve got something this time!” Joe pointed to the latest result which he had written down:

RAID LEK PLANT NEW SETUP.

“What gives?” Chet inquired. “You guys working on another mystery or something?”

“We’re trying to crack a code message.” As Frank explained, Chet’s eyes took on a sudden gleam of interest.

“Lek plant ... Hey! That could mean the Lektrex plant where Biff Hooper’s working!” the stout lad exclaimed.

Biff Hooper, a high school chum, had recently taken a weekend job as watchman at an electronics company. Its factory was located near Willow River outside Bayport. Joe and Frank looked at Chet in astonishment.

“Morton, you’re a genius!” Joe said. “Lektrex just added a new addition, didn’t it, Frank?”

“That’s right—which would explain the ‘new setup’ part of the message!”

The Hardy boys were impatient to report their discovery to their father. When he arrived home that evening, Mr. Hardy listened keenly as Frank and Joe told how they had decoded the message.

“Hmm. That’s pretty convincing,” the detective said. “It certainly seems more than a coincidence that you found each of the message-words in the correct page and column. But are you sure this is the only possible translation?”

“We’ve tried other arrangements, Dad, just to double-check,” Frank said. “For instance, we tried taking words that come before the code words. But this is the only version that makes any sense.”

Mr. Hardy paced about the room. “ ‘Raid’ sounds as if they’re planning a robbery,” he mused. “But the industrial spy gang has never done that. They seem to have gleaned their trade secrets by inside leaks.”

“Maybe that’s what this message means, Dad,” Joe suggested. “It could be an order to some inside man at Lektrex to snitch data about what’s going on in the new plant wing.”

The detective nodded slowly. “Yes, that may be it. I’d better get in touch with Jason Warner right away. He’s the president.”

Mr. Hardy telephoned and managed to reach the company official at his home. When he hung up, the detective told Frank and Joe, “Warner didn’t seem much alarmed. He’ll see us at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

The next day the Hardy boys drove from school to the Lektrex plant. They met their father in the lobby. A secretary ushered them into a conference room adjoining the president’s office.

Jason Warner, brisk and gray-haired, shook hands with the Hardys and invited them to sit down. “Good of you to take so much trouble on our account,” he said. “I’d like to hear more about this spy threat.”

Frank and Joe explained the code message. Mr. Hardy gave a brief rundown on the other industrial espionage cases he had investigated.

Warner smiled and said skeptically, “This whole thing sounds pretty far-fetched to me. We’ve never had any trouble at Lektrex.”

“Exactly what is going on in your new plant wing?” Fenton Hardy inquired.

“We’re producing a new type of thin-film circuitry,” Warner replied. “It’s fairly confidential, but the same electronics engineers who design our other products are working on it.”

“They’ve all undergone security checks?”

“Absolutely! I’m confident none of them would do anything underhanded.” The Lektrex president frowned and drummed his fingers on the conference table. “However, to make absolutely certain, I’d like to engage you to double-check the clearance on all our key personnel.”

“Very well,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

Frank had noticed a stuffed fox, mounted on a shelf, attached to one wall of the conference room. He gave Joe a nudge and pointed it out. While Mr. Warner called his secretary and asked her to send for the personnel manager, the two boys got up from the table to examine the animal.

The fox was crouched in a dramatic, lifelike pose, fangs bared as if about to spring on its prey. Frank’s eyes suddenly widened. “Joe,” he whispered, “look at this double stitching!”

“Oh, oh!” Joe’s face reflected his brother’s excitement. “Just the way Mr. Roundtree described Batter’s work!”

Was the fox another of Elias Batter’s mysterious stuffed specimens?

CHAPTER X

Mysterious Cries

“MR. Warner, where did this stuffed fox come from?” Frank asked.

The company president looked up absently. From a friend of mine in New York who’s in the decorating business. Quite a striking specimen, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Frank said. “We thought it might be the work of a taxidermist we know of—a man named Elias Batter.”

The Hardy boys waited expectantly to see if Batter’s name would evoke any response. Warner merely shook his head. “I never heard of him.”

An hour later, after reviewing the files on various key people at the plant with Jason Warner and his personnel manager, the detective stood up to leave. “This may have been a false alarm,” he told them, “but it won’t hurt to make sure.”

Mr. Hardy, who had come to Lektrex in a taxi, walked out with Frank and Joe to their convertible on the plant parking lot. On the way home Joe said, “It’ll take a while to run checks on all those people, won’t it?”

His father nodded. “I’ll put Sam Radley and some of my other operatives on it right away. We’ll cross-check all names with the FBI, too.” He turned to Frank at the wheel. “I’m wondering why you asked Mr. Warner about the fox.”

“It just seemed like an odd coincidence if it was Batter’s work. But I guess we were wrong.”

“That reminds me, Dad,” Joe put in, “do you recall a robbery a few years ago at the Crescent Jewelry Store?” He related what Jimmy Gordon had said about the suspicion against his uncle.

“Hmm. It comes back to me vaguely,” Mr. Hardy replied. “A valuable diamond necklace was taken—a necklace with perfectly matched pear-shaped stones. The case was never solved.”

Joe gave a low, excited whistle and Fenton Hardy narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “You think the necklace may have something to do with those animals that were stolen from the auction?”

“It’s a possibility, Dad,” Frank spoke up. “If the crooks thought Batter still had the stones, they might figure one of his stuffed animals would be a likely hiding place.”

Joe added, “They might even know he had the stones—especially if they were on the robbery with him. What’s more, Batter told Jimmy that he had something secret hidden away, something that was ‘worth plenty,’ and he wanted Jimmy to have it if anything happened to him.”

“Hidden in the house?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“I guess so, but Jimmy doesn’t know. His uncle apparently intended to tell him, but they never saw each other again before Batter died.”

Reaching Elm Street, Frank garaged the car and they went into the house. Aunt Gertrude was testing a roast chicken in the oven.

“Humph! About time you three were getting home!” she said severely. “I was beginning to think this bird might go to waste.”

“No danger.” Fenton Hardy grinned. “If the boys aren’t hungry, I’ll eat it all myself.”

“Who said we aren’t hungry?” Joe retorted, sniffing the delicious aroma. “Mmm! Aunt Gertrude, you sure know how to cook poultry.”

“Never mind buttering me up,” she said. “You boys had a phone call, by the way.”

“From whom, Aunty?” Frank inquired.

“That lawyer, J. Sylvester Crowell. Said he’d be in this office till six, and if he didn’t hear from you, he might call back this evening.”

Joe snapped his fingers eagerly. “Maybe he’s been in touch with Mrs. Batter!”

“There’s still time to reach him,” Frank said, glancing at the clock. “Let’s try.”

The boys hurried to the telephone and Frank dialed the attorney. Crowell himself answered.

“I called in regard to your request to visit the Batter house,” he told Frank.

“You’ve spoken to Mrs. Batter about it?”

“Yes. She thinks it very unlikely that you can gain any dues from the remaining stuffed animals. However, she’s willing to have you take a look at them—on condition that you don’t disturb anything else in the house.”

“Of course not,” Frank promised. “When could we go over?”

“It would have to be tonight, I’m afraid. Mrs. Batter is only back in town for one day, and she’s leaving again in the morning to visit her sister.” Crowell added that the boys would have to pick up the key at Mrs. Batter’s apartment, and gave her address.

“Right, sir,” Frank said, jotting it down. “We’ll stop there about a quarter to eight.”

Mrs. Batter received the boys with a cold, beady-eyed stare. “Just what is it you expect to find?” she demanded.

Frank smiled and shrugged. “Maybe nothing. But if there’s anything special about the stuffed animals your husband made, the ones still at the house may give us a clue.”

“What do you mean by ‘anything special’?”

“If we knew the answer to that,” said Joe, “we’d probably have this case solved.”

“You certainly don’t seem to be making much progress,” the widow snapped. “However, if you think it’ll do any good, go ahead and look. The electricity is still on. But I shall expect to have the key back tonight. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Batter,” Frank said.

As the boys drove away, Joe grumbled, “You’d think she was doing us a favor!”

Frank chuckled. “Maybe she is, if this trip helps us turn up any clue to Jimmy’s treasure.”

The temperature had dropped sharply since sunset, and the boys drove with their convertible top raised and the heater on. Joe noticed his brother watching the rear-view mirror. “What’s the matter? Someone on our tail?”

“I thought so for a while,” Frank said. “Guess I was mistaken, though.”

On Hill Road they turned up the gravel driveway to the Batter house and climbed out of their car. The boys mounted the porch and Frank inserted the key in the front-door lock. The door creaked open. Both Hardys switched on flashlights and probed the darkness until Joe located a wall switch. The blaze of light revealed a huge, drafty hallway with a winding staircase at the far end.

“Let’s take a look upstairs first,” Frank suggested.

“Okay.” The boys could see their breath in the chilly atmosphere. The wind outside echoed through the house and rattled the shutters.

On the second floor the young sleuths moved from room to room, playing their flashlight beams into each one. All seemed bare and empty except for worn carpeting and a few items of old furniture.

“It would sure take more than one evening to tap for hollow walls and check the flooring in a house this size,” Joe murmured.

Frank nodded gloomily. “We’ll just have to keep our eyes open for anything unusual.”

One room with a workbench and a musty odor appeared to have been Batter’s taxidermy shop. A scarred desk stood in one corner. Joe pulled open the drawers. They seemed to contain only odds and ends, such as old receipted bills.

“Let’s go through these papers before we leave,” Frank said, “to be sure we don’t miss anything.”

The attic and downstairs rooms were also largely empty. At the rear, the boys discovered what might have been intended originally as a game room. Mounted heads of a deer, a moose, a rhinoceros, and a Canada lynx glared eerily from the walls.

On the dusty fireplace mantel were a stuffed owl and a snake. Joe picked up the latter. On its wooden base was a metal plate which read:

SPECKLED KING SNAKE

MOUNTED BY D. CARSON

“D. Carson,” Joe muttered. “Who’s he?”

“Some pal of Batter’s, I suppose,” Frank said.

The owl and rhinoceros had similar plates. Seeing none on the deer, Frank lifted it down from the wall. “This must be Batter’s work. Let’s see if we can find anything unusual about it.”

The boys examined the head carefully. Several fine puncture marks were clearly visible around the muzzle and eyes. As Joe fingered among the fine hairs, he discovered other holes. “Looks as if someone’s been probing it with a hatpin.”

“Probably Mrs. Batter!” Frank exclaimed. “She must suspect the same thing we do—that her husband hid something in one of the—”

A weird shriek from outside startled the boys.

“Good night!” said Joe. “That wasn’t the wind, was it?”

As if in answer came another wailing cry, then another.

“Those are human voices!” Frank exclaimed. “Out in back somewhere!”

It was impossible to see anything from the windows. The boys dashed into the hallway, then through the kitchen to the back door. As they stepped onto the open rear porch, both aimed their flashlights beams into the darkness.

Joe started to say, “Do you hear anyth—” But his voice choked off as something struck him a hard blow on the back of the head!

Frank turned and saw his brother crumple. Then he, too, was struck down from behind!

CHAPTER XI

Night Alarm

WHEN Frank opened his eyes, he was still lying on the porch. His head throbbed and he was chilled to the bone. Suddenly he saw his brother’s still figure. Frank raised himself.

“Joe! Joe, are you all right?”

The only response was a faint moan, but after Frank had shaken him, his brother’s eyes opened. “L-l-leapin’ lizards! What happened?”

“Someone conked us. Can you stand up?”

“Sure, I guess so.” Stiffly the boys struggled to their feet. Joe shook his head. “Whew! We sure walked into a trap!”

“You can say that again,” Frank agreed wryly. “Those spooky wails we heard were just a trick to get us out here. The guys who beaned us must have been waiting right outside the door.”

Joe cast an anxious glance toward the lighted windows. “What do you suppose they were after?”

“Don’t know. But I could sure make a guess!”

Impelled by the same thought, the boys reentered the house cautiously. No one was in sight and there was not a sound. As they came into the game room, Joe gave a gasp of dismay.

“The stuffed animals are gone!”

“Not all of them,” Frank said. The rhinoceros head, owl, and snake had not been taken.

Joe surveyed the remaining specimens with a look of gloomy satisfaction. “Well, at least this proves our theory. They took only the animals Batter himself had stuffed, so they’re definitely looking for something he stashed inside one of them.”

Frank nodded. “We’d better notify the police.”

“I’ll call them on our short-wave.” Joe hurried out to the boys’ convertible. The police operator promised to send a prowl car.

When Joe returned to the house, his brother was coming down the staircase. “The animals weren’t all they took,” Frank said.

“What else?”

“They rifled Batter’s desk and stole all the papers from the drawers.’

“I don’t get it,” Joe said, puzzled. “If they were after something hidden in the animals, why bother with papers?”

Frank shook his head, equally mystified. “I don’t get it, either.”

The police car soon arrived. Two officers took down the boys’ story and made a brief search, but found no traces left by the thieves. “You fellows feel well enough to go home alone?” one officer asked.

“Sure, we’re okay,” Frank said. “Just a couple of lumps on our heads.”

“Let’s hope we don’t wind up with any more when we tell Mrs. Batter what happened,” Joe said ruefully. “We have to return her key.”

The widow seemed less upset by the news than the Hardys had feared. “I doubt that what the sneaks got will be worth much,” she scoffed.

“Maybe their first haul, from the auction, wasn’t worth much, either,” Frank said, “and that’s why they came back for a second try.”

Mrs. Batter’s green eyes narrowed. She started to say something, then seemed to check herself. “Humph! Well, don’t expect me to pay any medical bills!” she snapped. “What happened was your own fault.”

As the Hardys left in their convertible, Joe said, “I’ll bet she did that probing with a hatpin, all right. That’s why she didn’t get much worked up about this theft.”

Frank grinned dryly. “She’s satisfied there was nothing in the heads—but she still doesn’t want to talk about it.”

They were just pulling up their driveway when Frank slammed on the brakes. The beam from their headlights showed Chet’s stuffed aardvark lying in front of the garage!

“What’s that doing out here?” Joe exclaimed. Both boys jumped from the car. The kitchen was ablaze with light. Sensing something wrong, Frank and Joe dashed inside.

Aunt Gertrude was seated at the table, sipping tea. “Well!” She sniffed. “Too bad you weren’t here five minutes ago when I needed you.”

“What happened, Aunty?” Frank demanded.

Miss Hardy explained that their father had gone to see Sam Radley, his chief operative. She herself had dozed off in front of the TV set. Suddenly she had been awakened by a noise at the back of the house. When she went to investigate, she had glimpsed a prowler in the garage.

“Wow! What did you do?” Joe asked.

“What could I do—a weak woman with no menfolk in the house to protect me?” Miss Hardy glared at the boys over her teacup. “I took a broom to him, naturally.”

Frank and Joe burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank said, choking, “but I wish we could have seen that!”

“He must have been trying to get away with the aardvark,” Joe declared.

“He was, but he dropped it fast when I swatted him,” Miss Hardy said tartly. “Then I was so overcome with shock, I had to come in and make myself some tea.” She added after another sip, “He must have had a car. I heard it speed off.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “We’d better look and see if he got the bear!”

The two boys hurried out to the garage. Nothing but the aardvark had been disturbed.

“He may have been hoping to get both animals, though,” Joe said. “You know, Frank, we’re a couple of chumps. We never even thought of investigating Chet’s stuffed specimens!”

“You’re telling me. I wonder if we can get him to rip them apart so we can take a look.”

“We’d better,” Joe said. “If none of the other animals contained anything, the bear or the aardvark might hold the answer!”

Saturday morning at breakfast the boys told their father of the night’s events. “Sounds to me as if you must have been followed and spied on at the Batter house,” the detective said.

“Frank suspected someone was tailing us,” Joe put in.

“Then when the thieves looked in through the windows,” Mr. Hardy went on, “they realized for the first time they hadn’t taken all of Batter’s stuffed animals. So they acted fast.”

“And at least one of them came here to check our garage before we could get back home,” Frank added. “Soapy Moran may have tipped them off about Chet’s taxidermy work.”

As they finished Aunt Gertrude’s tasty flap-jacks and sausages, Mr. Hardy announced that he would be busy for most of the weekend on the Lektrex security check. “But I called the Star yesterday,” he said, “and arranged to have them send us a copy of last Monday’s edition from New York, special delivery. If you boys are around when it gets here, try decoding that first message you picked up.”

Later, they telephoned Chet. His sister Iola answered. Iola, a pert brunette, was Joe’s idea of the prettiest girl in Bayport.

“Chet and I have decided to give a party at our place tonight,” she said. “Nothing special, just fun. Can you make it?”

“Sure thing,” Joe said. “Count me in.”

“Good! There’ll be about a dozen, including Callie, of course.”

“That’ll make up Frank’s mind,” Joe said with a sly grin at his brother. Callie Shaw, an attractive blonde, was Frank’s favorite date. “Is Chet there?” he asked.

“No.” Iola giggled. “He took his staff of helpers fishing, to get a specimen to work on. He’s coming to your house later. Oh, by the way, would you two pick up Biff Hooper? He doesn’t get off from his watchman’s job until eight, and his car is out of commission.”

“Sure. We’ll take the Sleuth and come by way of Willow River,” Joe promised.

It was after one o’lock when Chet’s yellow jalopy finally pulled into the driveway. Chet and the three youngsters were munching candy bars—a second dessert to their picnic lunch.

“Look what we caught!” Jimmy squealed proudly, holding up a five-pound black bass.

“Wait’ll you see it mounted,” Chet boasted “Then it’ll really look like something.”

“Nice going,” said Frank. Sensing an opportune moment, he told about the latest theft of Elias Batter’s stuffed animals and proposed that Chet open the aardvark and bear cub. “Whatever those thieves are after must be valuable,” Frank argued. “Just think—you might find something in those animals that’s worth a fortune!”

“And again I might not,” Chet said with a pained look. “Then what do I have? Two ruined specimens, or else a big job sewing them up.”

“So what? That ought to be a snap for an old maestro like Professor Morton,” Joe put in.

Jimmy said nothing, but he shot an excited glance at the Hardys and then gazed at Chet.

“Look, you could do it at the party tonight,” Frank wheedled as he saw Chet hesitating. “Have a grand opening before the whole gang—and display your fish masterpiece at the same time!”

The stout youth broke into a slow, pleased smile as he pictured Chet Morton, Taxidermist, dazzling the party guests with his exhibition of talent.

“Hmm! That’s not a bad idea. Okay, I’ll do it!”

Having detected an aroma of freshly baked cookies, Chet soon appeared in the kitchen, holding paste and newspaper to prepare some papier mâché. “May I borrow a bowl, Miss Hardy? Mmm, gee! Those cookies smell great!”

Aunt Gertrude frowned severely, her hands floury from the bread dough she was mixing. “Very well, you’ll find another bowl like this one in the cupboard—and please leave a few cookies for our dinner tonight, Chet Morton!”

The copy of the Star arrived in midafternoon. Frank and Joe immediately set to work checking the page and column references from the first message. Meanwhile, Chet and his taxidermy crew were working earnestly in the garage.

While Jimmy cut a body form from half-inch board, Chet laid the fish on wet oilcloth, made a lateral incision, and peeled the body out of the skin with Mike and Tommy’s help. While the two boys treated the skin with borax, Chet himself worked on the bass’s head.

Later he came plodding up to the Hardy boys’ bedroom to see how they were making out with the code message. Frank and Joe had already extracted three sentences from the paper:

Progress will certainly have to be stepped up if the bridge is to be completed on schedule.

To curb such illegal betting activities, police will check all suspected bookmakers.

The publicity flight will leave on Monday for Miami.

Taking the third word after each code word, Frank assembled the entire message:

HAVE SHEEP CHECK ON HARES.

“Still pretty meaningless until we know whom ‘sheep’ and ‘hares’ stand for,” Joe grumbled.

“Suppose—just suppose—that ‘ares’ means the Hardys,” Frank mused. “In other words, say this was an order for someone to check on us ...”

Joe gasped. “Then ‘sheep’ may be Soapy Moran! That’s why he came snooping around the next day!”

There was a loud yell from outside. Chet raised the window. “What’s the matter, Mike?”

“You sure that papier mâché’s okay?” the urchin called up plaintively.

“Certainly, I’m sure,” Chet retorted indignantly. “I made it, didn’t I?”

“But it doesn’t seem to go on right.”

“Listen. Just trowel it on over the excelsior, as I told you! Don’t you think I know what I’m talking about when it comes to taxidermy?”

“Well ... okay ... if you say so.”

“And tell Jimmy to be melting the yellow petroleum wax in the double boiler on the hot plate. I’ll be down later to apply the finishing touches.” Chet slammed down the window, shaking his head. “Boy, it’s not easy, teaching a fine art like taxidermy to a bunch of novices!”

“Sure you hadn’t better go down there and keep an eye on things?” Joe asked, grinning.

“Don’t worry, they know what to do. I’ve trained ’em pretty well, if I do say so myself.” Chet yawned. “Besides, I need to lie down for a minute or two. Man, I was up at six this morning.”

The Hardys chuckled as snores soon sounded through the room. Later, Joe shook Chet awake. “Hey, Maestro! Aunt Gertrude wants to know if you’ve seen her bowl of bread dough?”

“Huh? Bread dough?” Chet blinked sleepily. “All I know is, it was on the kitchen table when I took the papier mâché in the pantry to—” The chubby youth’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped as a horrible thought struck him.

He leaped to his feet and dashed downstairs. As he ran to the garage, Frank and Joe followed, scenting interesting developments.

The three youngsters greeted them with puzzled looks. “Hey, Chet,” said Tommy, “something’s wrong with the fish. It looks like—well, like it’s growing, or something!”

The shellacked bass had been placed in front of a glowing electric heater to dry. Its sides were visibly expanding! Chet groaned in dismay. “Oh, no-o-o!”

The gilled skin was puffing out like a balloon. One stitch popped, then two, and a white paste trickled out the side.

“Good grief!” Joe exclaimed. “Don’t tell me they used Aunt Gertrude’s yeast dough instead of papier mâché?”

Chet nodded and sank down on a stool, covering his face with his hands. “Great, just great! It’s all my fault! I picked up the wrong bowl!”

Frank and Joe were still chuckling over the incident that evening as they steered over the Willow River in their sleek motorboat, the Sleuth, to pick up Biff Hooper. Presently they came to the huddled buildings and high fences of the Lektrex plant. To their surprise, the entire area lay in darkness.

“That’s funny,” Frank murmured. “I wonder if there’s been a power failure.”

Their chum was not at the dock. Disturbed, the Hardys tied up and jumped out to look for him. Suddenly a loud, clanging bell shattered the night stillness.

“The plant alarm!” Joe cried out. “Something’s wrong!”

The Hardys leaped ashore and ran toward the main gate. Frank tripped on something in the darkness. His scalp prickling fearfully, he swung his flashlight beam downward. Both boys gasped as they saw the body of Biff Hooper lying bound and gagged on the ground!

CHAPTER XII

Dock Attack

“BIFF!” Frank cried out. As he dropped to a crouch beside the Hardys’ motionless chum, his nostrils caught a sickish-sweet odor.

“Is he alive?” Joe asked fearfully.

“Seems to be breathing okay.” Frank ripped off the gag. “My guess is he was chloroformed.”

Almost as Frank spoke, they heard the roar of a motor. A car zoomed off in the darkness.

“Looks as if that second code message meant just what it said!” Joe murmured in a tense voice. “Raid Lektrex plant!”

“Get Biff untied,” Frank said. “I’ll try to phone for a doctor and the police!”

Springing to his feet, Frank dashed toward the plant. The new wing jutted out from the left of the main building. On the right, farther back, stood the powerhouse with its high smokestack. Frank tried the front door. It opened readily.

Inside, the light switch failed to work. Frank shone his flash around the pitch-dark lobby, then sucked in his breath. Another victim, an inside plant guard wearing a badge, lay unconscious on the floor. Like Biff, he had been tied and gagged.

Frank paused long enough to remove the man’s gag and unfasten his collar. Then he darted to the telephone on the reception desk and snatched it up. There was no dial tone.

From his previous visit to Lektrex, Frank knew that the executive offices lay just beyond the lobby. He hurried down a corridor, probing with his flashlight. On the right was a large, glass-partitioned office with desks. At one end, his beam picked out a large safe. Its door was hanging loosely ajar!

Frank tried a phone on one of the desks. It, too, was dead. He ran back outside to rejoin Joe. Biff was now stirring and moaning.

“He’s coming to,” Joe said.

“Good. The thieves cut both the phone lines and the lights.” Frank told of the cracked safe and the unconscious guard. “I’ll tend to him as soon as I alert the police over the boat radio.”

He dashed back to the Sleuth and switched on their marine transceiver, using the police frequency. In moments he succeeded in making contact.

Frank was shutting off the radio when he heard a sudden noise. He whirled in time to see a dark figure sprint onto the dock. Suddenly the man picked up a broken piece of planking and hurled it!

Though Frank ducked, the board struck him on the head with stunning force. He toppled backward in the boat.

Meanwhile, Joe was still working on Biff. The lanky youth’s eyes opened and he struggled to sit up. “Easy, pal,” Joe said soothingly. “How do you feel?”

“Sort of sickish. Guess I’ll be all right, though, once I get over this wooziness.”

The boys broke off as a man came running toward them out of the darkness. “That’s Dan Cronin, one of the night guards,” Biff said. “He’s just coming on for the late shift.”

Cronin took in the situation quickly. Biff, now well enough to talk, explained that he had been patrolling outside the plant when someone had seized him from behind and clamped a rag over his face. “That’s all I remember.”

“I figured something was wrong, even before I got here,” Cronin said. He told the boys he had been walking along the river, on his way to work, when he heard the alarm go off. “But don’t worry. I’ve already kayoed one of the thugs. He was trying to get away in a boat.”

“In a boat?” Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “Good grief! That must’ve been my brother Frank!”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a motorboat engine racketed into life. Joe leaped up and sped toward the dock with Cronin.

Too late! The Sleuth was already shooting out across the river. Joe’s yell brought no answer.

“Are you sure that was your brother aboard?” Cronin asked.

“I don’t know—I couldn’t make out,” Joe said, perplexed. “If that wasn’t Frank, where is he?”

Both stared around the darkened shore area but could see no one. Puzzled and worried, Joe walked back with Cronin to Biff, who was now on his feet. All three entered the plant to attend to the other guard.

Cronin’s mate on the night shift soon arrived, and a police car pulled up at the plant a moment later. By this time, the inside guard whom Frank had discovered was able to tell his story.

“I was making my rounds when all of a sudden the lights went out,” he reported. “Turned out the phones were dead, too, so I hustled downstairs to check with Biff. As I came through the lobby, two guys jumped me—at least I think there were two. I never even got a look at ’em before they slapped a chloroform rag over my face.”

Joe, who was growing increasingly worried over Frank, asked the squad-car sergeant to have Mr. Hardy notified at once. “Even if my brother’s okay,” Joe explained, “Dad has taken on a security investigation for Lektrex, and I think he should know about the robbery.”

“Sure thing.” The sergeant nodded and told his driver to radio word to police headquarters. “Better have them alert Chief Collig, too.”

While the police checked the safe for fingerprints and searched the plant, Joe and Biff went back to the riverfront to keep watch. But neither Frank nor the Sleuth returned.

Meantime, the plant lights were restored. Mr. Hardy and Police Chief Collig arrived within seconds of each other. Both men listened intently to the stories of all involved.

“Any idea how much was taken from the safe?” Collig asked the inside plant guard.

“No, sir. Only the cashier could tell you that, or maybe one of the management.”

“I called Jason Warner, the president,” Mr. Hardy put in. “He and his wife were out, but their maid thinks she can reach him.”

Joe said, “Dad, I’m going out and try to raise Frank on your car’s short-wave.”

“Good idea, son. If the Sleuth doesn’t respond, we’d better organize a search.”

Twenty minutes of repeated calls brought no answer. As Joe reported failure, Mr. Hardy’s face became drawn and grim. He turned to Ezra Collig. “There’s nothing to be gained by waiting. Frank may be in serious danger. I’d like to use the police launch.”

“It’s on the way,” Collig said. ’And I’ve already alerted the Coast Guard.”

Presently the long, powerful launch came churning up to the dock. A spotlight blazed on its deckhouse. As Collig, Joe, Biff, and Mr. Hardy leaped aboard, the boat officer told his chief, “We just got a radiotelephone flash from the harbor master, sir. It may be a lead.”

“Let’s have it!” Collig snapped.

“A call came in from a cottager down at Green Point on the bay, just below the river mouth. Said he heard the noise of a motorboat putting in at a little brushy cove right next to his place. Seemed funny at this time of night, so he switched on his dock lights to try to see what was going on. He was just able to glimpse the boat as it went chugging away again.”

“Who was in it?” the police chief demanded.

Joe’s heart sank as the boat officer replied, “That’s why he called, sir. Apparently there was nobody aboard.”

CHAPTER XIII

A Tense Search

“You mean the boat had just been turned adrift?” Mr. Hardy asked tensely.

“Evidently,” the officer replied. “The cottager thought the boat might have been stolen and the thief was getting rid of it. That’s why he reported the incident to the harbor master.”

“He could be wrong,” Collig cut in, noting the Hardys’ worried looks. “At a distance in the dark he wouldn’t be able to see too well. But we’ll check it out.”

At a barked command from him, the launch revved its engines and shot away. Joe and his father gripped the rail in silence as they sped down the river, gnawed by fear.

Was it the Sleuth the cottager had seen? And if so, what had happened to Frank? Had he been kidnapped by the gang? Biff said nothing but squeezed Joe’s arm sympathetically.

The launch’s powerful searchlight swept the river from bank to bank, glinting back from windows of houses along the shore. The river itself seemed bare of any craft.

“You saw no sign of a motorboat on your way upriver?” Mr. Hardy queried the boat officer.

“No, and we heard none, either. But the Sleuth could have reached the bay before we entered the river, couldn’t it?”

Joe nodded. “Sure, there was plenty of time—if it headed that way.”

“Which way do you think it headed?” Mr. Hardy asked his son.

“Downriver, from the sound of it. But it may have turned around after we went into the plant.”

Reaching Barmet Bay, the police launch swung in the direction of Green Point. The craft’s brilliant beam scanned the dark, oily waters.

“Look!” Biff yelled excitedly.

Far out on the bay he had just seen a pinpoint flash of light. Two more flashes stabbed the darkness in quick succession. Then came three long flashes, followed by three more short ones.

“SOS! Someone’s signaling for help!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

The launch sheered around and sped toward the flashes. Its bow ripped the water into wings of spray. Presently their search beam picked out a familiar craft some distance ahead.

The Sleuth!

It was drifting sluggishly. A lone figure aboard waved a flashlight as they approached.

“Frank! Thank goodness he’s safe!” Fenton Hardy muttered tensely.

The launch cut its engine and eased gently alongside. Joe tossed his brother a line to pull the two boats closer together. Then Frank scrambled up on the deck of the police craft.

“What happened, son?” Mr. Hardy asked after embracing him.

“The whole thing’s a mystery,” Frank replied. “Someone conked me with a board back at the Lektrex dock. When I came to, I was drifting on the bay out of gas and the radio smashed.”

“The plant watchman kayoed you by mistake,” Joe explained. “He thought you were a robber.”

“Then how come I wound up out here?” Frank asked in bewilderment. “Don’t tell me I steered all the way downriver unconscious!”

“No, I’d say one of the real gang must have sneaked aboard after you were knocked out,” put in Mr. Hardy. “He probably used the Sleuth to make his own getaway.”

“That doesn’t figure either, Dad.” Frank frowned, then winced as he fingered the bruise on the side of his head. “Joe and I heard a car speed off right after we stumbled over Biff. That must have been the robbers’ car.”

“Could be. We’ll figure it out later after we get you to a doctor.” The investigator drew his son closer to the lighted deckhouse. “Let’s have a look at your head.”

Frank’s scalp was only slightly cut and the bleeding had stopped, but a livid swelling had risen under his dark hair.

“May not be too bad, but we’d better have a physician examine you,” Mr. Hardy said. “Biff, you might do with some medical attention, too.”

“I’ll call for a squad car to stand by at the police wharf,” Collig promised.

While the chief was speaking over the radiotelephone, Joe told his brother how a cottager had reported seeing a motorboat adrift near Green Point. “It was probably the Sleuth with you lying inside it.”

“But who brought it downriver from the plant?” Frank asked, puzzled.

“Let’s go over the whole sequence of events,” Mr. Hardy suggested as Chief Collig emerged from the deckhouse. “You boys heard the alarm, then ran up to the plant, found Biff, and heard the car drive away. Is that how it happened?”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “The funny thing is the alarm and the sound of the car came only a couple of minutes apart. I don’t see how they could have cracked the safe in that short time.”

“No problem there,” put in Collig. “What you fellows heard was an auxiliary alarm that was tripped when the safe door opened.”

“Sure. The main alarm probably never went off at all,” Biff added, “because they didn’t break in. They used my keys.”

“Then that explains everything!” Frank snapped his fingers excitedly. “One of the crooks must have been waiting in their car, keeping a lookout. I’ll bet he panicked when he heard the safe alarm and saw Joe and me running up with our flashlights.”

“So he scrammed in the car and left his partner, or partners, stranded inside the plant,” Joe concluded.

“Right,” said Frank. “And then whoever got left behind sneaked out the back door, spotted the Sleuth, and used that to make a getaway.”

“Wow! You’re lucky he didn’t dump you overboard, pal!” Biff commented.

Frank grinned wryly. “Maybe he figured I’d be more useful as a hostage if he ran into trouble.”

Both Chief Collig and Mr. Hardy agreed with the boys’ reconstruction of the crime.

Meanwhile, the launch was proceeding back to Bayport Harbor at a fast clip, trailing the Sleuth behind it on a towline. A squad car was waiting when they tied up at the police wharf. Chief Collig, Fenton Hardy, and the boys all climbed in with its two officers, and the car sped off to Bayport Hospital.

Here the Hardys and Biff got out. The policemen continued on to the Lektrex plant. In the emergency room a doctor examined Biff and Frank. He dressed the latter’s head injury and said that other than this, neither youth appeared to have suffered any ill effects.

“What about Iola’s party?” Biff asked as they walked out of the hospital.

“I’m all for going,” said Frank. “Okay, Dad?”

Mr. Hardy hesitated. “Well ... I think you’d both be better off in bed, but if you really feel up to it, I guess there’s no objection. I’ll go back to Lektrex and find out what was taken.”

The boys debated whether to get Frank and Joe’s convertible, parked near their boathouse, or refuel the Sleuth and go upriver to the landing stage near the Morton farm. Since they were already late, the group decided to take the car.

“We can drop Dad off on the way, and pick up the Sleuth tomorrow,” said Joe.

The four taxied to the waterfront and transferred to the convertible. Twenty minutes later they pulled up at the Lektrex plant. Jason Warner, who was just coming out to his own car, hailed the Hardys.

“Looks as though your warning about a raid was correct, boys,” he said to Frank and Joe ruefully.

“Did they make much of a haul?” Joe asked.

“Not much. Luckily there was less than two hundred dollars in the safe.”

“No technical material taken?” Fenton Hardy asked with a puzzled frown.

Warner shook his head. “So far as we can determine, no. Of course if they’d had time to comb through our engineering files, it might’ve been a different story. But even then it would have been hard for them to pick out what was important.”

Frank had a sudden hunch. “What about that stuffed fox in your conference room, sir? Was it stolen?”

“The stuffed fox?” Warner stared at Frank. “Why, I really didn’t notice.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look.”

All three youths piled out of the convertible and hurried into the plant with the two men. Jason Warner entered the conference room first and switched on the overhead fluorescent lights. An instant later his jaw dropped in astonishment.

The stuffed fox was gone!

CHAPTER XIV

Treasure Hunt

“GREAT Scott!” Warner looked as if he could hardly believe his eyes, on discovering that the stuffed fox was missing from its shelf.

Then he swung around to Frank. “Young man, is this some kind of a joke?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how in the world did you know that the fox had been taken?” Warner demanded sharply.

“I didn’t know. It was just a guess,” Frank replied. “You see, a number of stuffed animals have been stolen around Bayport lately and Joe and I were asked to investigate. We still haven’t discovered what’s behind the thefts.”

The Lektrex president frowned. “This case seems to be getting more mysterious by the minute. To begin with, I thought we were up against a ring of industrial spies. Instead, they crack the safe and steal our petty cash. And now you’re talking about a series of stuffed animal robberies!”

“The same gang seems to be behind the animal thefts and the trade-secret espionage,” said Fenton Hardy. “We don’t know the connection yet, but there certainly must be one.”

Warner gave a baffled shrug. “Well, let’s hope some clue can be gleaned from tonight’s break-in that will help clear things up.”

The boys left the plant to head for Iola and Chet’s party. As they drove away, Joe shot a quizzical glance at his brother. “Do you suppose the thieves just happened to stumble on the fox during the robbery?”

“Stumble on it? No, sir!” said Frank. “If they just came to crack the safe, it’s not likely they’d even have looked in the conference room. I’d be willing to bet the fox was their real motive and the safe-cracking just a cover-up.”

“Listen, you guys! Clue me in, will you?” said Biff. “What gives with this stuffed animal racket? And why should a gang of thieves go to so much trouble to swipe a stuffed fox?”

“We’re as much in the dark as you are,” Frank said wryly. “Our guess is that one of the animals must contain something valuable. Maybe Chet’ll crack the case for us tonight, if we’re lucky.”

Biff was excited after the Hardys had given him details. “Boy, what an evening! First a robbery and now a hidden treasure!”

The Morton farmhouse was aglow with light, and gay dance music from Iola’s hi-fi came throbbing out on the crisp night air. As the Hardys’ convertible pulled up, Chet popped onto the veranda to greet the three latecomers.

“Hey! What kept you guys so long? Iola and Callie wouldn’t even let me serve the food till you got here! You want me to starve to death?”

“Starve!” Joe burst out laughing. “Listen, Chet, you have enough surplus poundage stored up to hibernate for the winter!”

“Oh yeah? I’m down to a mere shadow from waiting for you slowpokes! What’s your excuse?”

“Nothing special—just the crime of the century, that’s all,” Biff said casually.

“Crime of the century!” Iola gasped. Callie Shaw, Tony Prito, Phil Cohen, and the other party guests came crowding around the doorway as the boys entered. “What do you mean?”

“I got chloroformed, the Lektrex plant got looted, and Frank got kidnapped.”

“What!” There was an explosion of questions from all sides. The teen-agers listened and chattered excitedly as Biff and the Hardys related their night’s harrowing adventures.

When the boys finished, Callie linked her arm through Frank’s and led him to an easy chair. “What you need is some rest and refreshment. How about some fruit punch to start with?”

“Aaah!” Frank sank down with a contented grin.

“Double portion!”

Iola was fixing cushions on the sofa for Joe and Biff. “Someone pass those appetizers, please. Chet, you get busy on the hamburgers!”

“Now you’re talking, Sis!” The chubby youth went bounding toward the kitchen.

Soon the party was in full swing again. Games and more dancing followed the refreshments. Finally the moment arrived for the “grand opening” of Chet’s bear and aardvark. But before he could make the necessary preparations, his friends started to needle him about his rising-dough fish.

The young taxidermist took the ribbing goodnaturedly. “Okay, funny folks.” He set down his tools and rubbed his hands briskly. “Let’s clear a little work space here!”

Newspapers were spread on the living-room floor, and the two stuffed animals set in the center. With professional flare Chet donned an apron and opened his taxidermy kit.

“Do you really think there could be a treasure inside one of them?” Callie asked eagerly.

“It’s just a hunch,” Joe murmured.

“Chet, are you sure you’ll be able to put the beasts together again?” Iola queried.

“Sure, nothing to it!” Chet gave the aardvark a last affectionate pat. “Hate to do this, old boy, but you’re in the best professional hands.”

Turning the animal on its side, the pudgy craftsman opened his taxidermy kit and began work like a surgeon. Tony Prito assisted.

“Medium scalpel.”

“Medium scalpel!” Tony echoed, slapping the instrument into Chet’s outstretched hand.

“Paring knife.”

“Paring knife!”

“Small surgical scissors and hammer.”

“Small surgical scissors and hammer!”

Working with deft strokes, Chet carefully opened the underside of the aardvark. The job proved more difficult than expected. As he removed a section of the inner shell structure, a hush fell over the party guests.

Frank and Joe watched impatiently, fingers crossed. Were they on the verge of solving the baffling mystery of the Batter estate?

With the opening large enough, Chet’s hands probed the entire length of the aardvark. He removed the excelsior, then shook the animal. Nothing more came out!

“It’s empty!” Chet’s face was a picture of comical disappointment.

“Never mind! Maybe the secret’s inside the bear!” Frank said hastily, fearing their stout chum might lose heart for the task.

“Okay, but this had better not be a wild-goose chase!”

“How can you chase a wild goose inside a stuffed bear?” piped up a boy named Jerry Gilroy.

“You want me to use this scalpel on you?” Chet waved it menacingly as the girls giggled.

Half an hour later the bear cub, too, had been thoroughly probed without result.

“Of all the dopey ideas—!” Chet glared at the Hardys. “Just for that I ought to make you two brilliant Sherlocks sew up these specimens!”

“We’d be glad to,” Joe said soothingly, “but don’t you see, doctor, we lack your professional —Oof!”

Howls of laughter went up as a wad of excelsior caught Joe squarely in the face. But Chet’s good nature was soon restored, and the floor was cleared again for more dancing.

Next day, over Sunday dinner, Frank and Joe discussed the baffling case with their father.

“We know,” said Frank, “that the gang found nothing in the animals they stole from the auction or in the wolf’s head. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have taken the rest of the animals Friday night.”

“And now we know Batter hid nothing in the aardvark or bear cub,” Joe added.

“Right! Which leaves one possibility,” Frank went on. “That stuffed fox taken from Lektrex.”

“But if Warner’s right, Batter never mounted that specimen,” said Mr. Hardy, frowning.

“We can’t be sure, Dad,” Frank argued. “All he said was that he got it from a friend in New York. Since the gang stole the fox, they may have some reason for connecting it with Batter.”

Were they on the verge of solving the mystery?

Fenton Hardy nodded thoughtfully. “All right, that’s a reasonable assumption to work on.”

“I think we should call Mr. Warner,” said Frank, “and check up on the person who gave him the fox.”

Frank reached him by telephone at his home. “Mr. Warner, would you mind telling me the name of the friend who gave you the stuffed fox?” Frank asked.

“A fellow named Nils Afron. He’s a wealthy interior decorator in New York City. Does office décor.” Warner said he did not know Afron well and had met him on a hunting trip in Canada.

“Could you give me his address, please?”

“Hmm. I don’t have it with me, but my secretary can look it up tomorrow and phone you.”

“We’d appreciate that, sir.” After hanging up, Frank suggested to his father that someone should go to New York and interview Afron.

“I agree, son, but this security check has me pretty well tied up for the next few days. How would you boys like to fly to New York tomorrow and see him? You could get excused from school early.”

Joe gave a whoop. “Great idea, Dad!”

The following afternoon Frank and Joe left school at one o’clock. They stopped at their house to get Afron’s address from Aunt Gertrude, then drove to the airport. Two hours later their plane was touching down at LaGuardia Field. After riding to the East Side Air Terminal in Manhattan, the brothers walked to Forty-second Street and caught a crosstown bus.

“Wonder if we should have phoned first to make sure Afron’s in,” Joe murmured.

Frank shook his head. “Better to catch him off-guard, I’d say. Then if he does know anything about Batter or the gang, he’ll have no time to cover up, or invent a story.”

They got off the bus at the Avenue of the Americas and walked quickly to their destination in the West Forties. The address proved to be a small, grimy-looking office building.

“Not a very classy place for a wealthy decorator to have his studio,” Joe said in surprise.

Inside, they consulted the wall directory, listing the firms with offices in the building. Afron’s name was not among them. Frank turned to the uniformed elevator dispatcher who was standing nearby at his post in the lobby.

“Could you tell us the office number of Afron Business Décor, please?”

“Afron Business Décor?” The dispatcher frowned and shrugged. “Never heard of it. There’s no such outfit in this building.”

CHAPTER XV

Mystery Scrambler

No decorating firm on the premises!

“The owner’s name is Nils Afron,” Joe told the elevator dispatcher. “You’re sure he’s not located at this address?”

“Not since I’ve been here, Bud. You can see for yourself—his name’s not on the board.”

“How long have you been working here?” Frank spoke up.

“About a month and a half.”

“Then it’s possible Afron might have had an office here before you came and moved out?”

“Can’t prove it by me.” The dispatcher gestured toward a door at the far end of the lobby. “Try Mr. Smith, the manager, over there. He’d know.”

“Thanks, we will,” said Frank.

The boys knocked on the door and were told to come in. A stout, bald, elderly man was seated at a desk inside. He listened patiently to their query, then nodded.

“There was an Afron Business Décor on the third floor. Closed up a couple of months ago.”

“Did Mr. Afron leave any forwarding address?” Joe asked.

“No. Just went out of business, I guess.” The manager removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses, and polished them briskly. “Can’t say I was surprised. Only a small setup. Never seemed to have any customers.”

“Can you tell us anything about him?” Frank persisted. “Anything that might help us locate him?”

Mr. Smith peered at the boys suspiciously, “Didn’t he pay his bills? Are you skip tracers or something?”

Frank said, “No, but we think Afron may have information that would help solve a robbery.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. Like I say, he had only a small suite here. A few office furnishings on display. I don’t believe he even had a secretary.”

“What did he look like?” Joe asked curiously.

“Big blond fellow, about forty, I’d say. Close-cut curly hair and sort of a pug nose. Always dressed and talked like a million bucks, though.”

“Well, thanks very much.” Frank took out one of Fenton Hardy’s business cards. “If Afron shows up here again for mail or any other reason, will you please call us collect?”

Mr. Smith looked impressed when he saw the famous detective’s name. “You bet I will, son.”

Frank and Joe flew back to Bayport, eager to report on their trip. Both felt there was something odd about the circumstances surrounding Nils Afron which might bear looking into.

It was past six o’clock in the evening when their convertible pulled into the driveway. Aunt Gertrude, whom they had phoned from the airport, was setting the table for dinner.

“Where’s Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.

“He was called over to the Lektrex Company an hour ago, and with the roast already in the oven. Something urgent, it seems.” Aunt Gertrude sniffed audibly as she smoothed the tablecloth. “These big businessmen seem to think they’re the only people with problems. Never occurs to them that cooking a meal entails a few problems, too!”

Frank asked, “Any idea what it was about?”

“Not the slightest.”

Frank and Joe went upstairs to get ready for dinner. Later, as they were eating, Joe asked Frank, “Do you think we should wait until Dad gets home to tell him about Afron or should we call him?”

Frank frowned uncertainly. “I’ve been wondering that myself. If something new has come up on the plant robbery, our information on Afron might be an important lead.”

“Then let’s call him right after dinner.”

As soon as they finished dessert, Frank dialed the Lektrex number. He asked the plant operator to locate his father and was switched to Jason Warner’s office.

Fenton Hardy was very much interested in their news. “I’d certainly like to know more about this fellow Afron,” he commented. “I have a feeling that stuffed fox may be the key to this whole mystery.”

The detective paused. “Tell you what. You and Joe have been mixed up in this Lektrex case from the outset. Suppose you boys drop over here and sit in on this meeting.”

“We’ll leave right away,” Frank promised.

When they arrived at the plant, the young sleuths were conducted to the conference room adjoining Mr. Warner’s office. Mr. Hardy was seated at the conference table with the president and several other key executives of the company. Places were made for Frank and Joe.

“We’re no longer dealing with a simple case of robbery,” Jason Warner informed them. “Our latest technical development has been pirated by a foreign electronics firm in Hong Kong.”

“That new thin-film circuitry?” Frank asked.

“Exactly. We just learned this Hong Kong firm is exporting a similar product.” Warner added angrily, “The details of their circuitry are identical with ours—it can’t be a coincidence!”

“What about technical journals?” put in Fenton Hardy. “Could they have picked up clues from scientific papers your staff has written?”

“Not a chance,” snapped the chief engineer. “The main feature depends on a new high-vacuum technique for vaporizing metals, and we’ve kept that under tight wraps.”

The boys learned that all blueprints, research data, and other written material had been checked and that no copies were missing.

“Then the only possible answer seems to be a disloyal employee,” Mr. Hardy said. “Before we go into that angle, though, you might like to hear what my sons discovered in New York today.”

Frank and Joe told about Afron’s business setup and how he had moved out, leaving no forwarding address.

“Did you try the telephone company?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Yes, Dad, we called from the airport,” Frank replied. “The operator checked all the New York boroughs. Neither Afron nor his decorating company are listed anywhere.”

Jason Warner frowned. “Seems odd, I’ll agree, but I still don’t see how it ties in with a security leak here at Lektrex.”

“You said you met Afron on a hunting trip?” Joe asked.

“Yes. We stayed at the same place—the Lachine Hunting Lodge on Lake Okemow in Ontario. It caters to wealthy businessmen. There were only a few other guests at the lodge. Naturally we got acquainted.”

“How did he happen to give you the stuffed fox?” Frank asked.

“Afron came through Bayport on a business trip a couple of weeks later,” Warner explained. “He stopped in my office for a chat and that’s when he presented it to me. Just a sales gimmick for getting his foot in the door, I suppose. He was evidently hoping to wangle a contract to redecorate our executive offices.”

Mr. Hardy said with a faint smile, “But you didn’t fall for his sales approach?”

Warner shrugged. “He pussyfooted around and suggested redoing my suite and the conference room in an outdoor sportsman’s style. But he was barking up the wrong tree. We had no plans to redecorate. I left the fox on the shelf where he placed it and forgot the whole thing.”

The Lektrex sales manager proposed that all technical employees be given a lie-detector test. Fenton Hardy promised to arrange one the next morning. Presently Frank and Joe excused themselves from the meeting and left the plant.

Before tackling their homework that evening, the boys cross-checked their father’s criminal file for likely suspects. They could find no one who seemed to fit Afron’s description.

By ten o’clock Mr. Hardy still had not returned from the Lektrex Company. Frank and Joe went up to their attic radio shack for some ham transmission before going to bed. They were monitoring the 2-meter band when a sudden burst of gibberish came from the speaker.

“Hold it!” Joe exclaimed, and Frank’s fingers froze on the tuning knob. The garbled, voicelike sounds continued in a jerky staccato sequence. “It’s that scrambler again—the same one we heard the night Chet pulled his apeman stunt!”

Frank nodded, listening intently. “Let’s hang on till they sign off so we can get their call letters.”

For several minutes the gibberish continued. Then abruptly the speaker became silent. The transmission had ended with no identification!

Frank cried out, “That was definitely an illegal broadcast, Joe!”

“Right! And we know the Aardvark gang uses radio in their operations!”

The brothers were excited by the same thought: Had they stumbled on another secret broadcast by the industrial spy ring?

CHAPTER XVI

On the Beam!

“ONE thing doesn’t add up, Joe,” Frank pointed out. “If the gang sends messages in that code we cracked, why would they need a scrambler?”

“Maybe they’re wise to the fact that we’ve solved the code—or anyhow they think we’ve solved it, from the way we showed up at Lektrex Saturday night. So now they’re switching to a scrambler.”

Frank shook his head. “Can’t be. We picked up the other scrambler broadcast before we ever heard them talk in code.”

“That’s right. I forgot.” Joe scowled and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Okay, how about this? Maybe the newspaper code is for long-range messages—such as orders from the boss of the gang in some other city.”

“The boss being Aardvark himself?”

“Right. The scrambler is used for local stuff— you know, like fast two-way conversations they don’t have time to put in code.”

“That might be the answer,” Frank conceded. “We still don’t know, though, if both broadcasts were by the gang. But it’s a cinch that whoever is using the scrambler is up to something crooked.”

“Sure! They’re using it illegally on a ham band and they’re giving no call letters—which makes a double violation of FCC rules. No honest ham would dare risk losing his license.”

The boys brooded silently for a few moments. Then Frank looked up at his brother.

“You know, Joe, I think you just put your finger on something.”

“Such as?”

“Using that scrambler could be risky for the gang. It might get the FCC on their tail.”

“It sure could,” Joe agreed dryly. “But so what?”

“So if they have any brains, they’re probably using this only for short-range communication at very low power.”

Joe’s eyes suddenly lit up as he realized what Frank was thinking. “But we were receiving it loud and clear—which may mean they’re transmitting right in our area!”

“Check! We’ve been meaning to run a field-strength test on our transmitter,” Frank went on. “Why don’t we do it tomorrow after school, and while we’re at it, we can listen in for the scram bier again. With luck, we might even get some notion from what direction it’s coming.”

Joe nodded enthusiastically. “Good idea. We can get Chet to operate our rig here at the house.”

Tuesday morning, when they broached the matter to Chet at school, he agreed willingly to help out in the test. “I usually get hungry about that time of day, though,” the stout boy warned. “Do any rations go with the job?”

Frank chuckled. “I guess Aunt Gertrude won’t mind fixing a few sandwiches.”

That afternoon Chet manned the attic transmitter while Frank and Joe cruised around the outskirts of Bayport in their convertible.

“Where are you now?” Chet called from the house.

“Rockcrest Drive near the foot of Mound Road,” Joe radioed.

“How’s my signal?”

“You’re S-9,” Joe said, indicating that Chet was coming through at maximum signal strength.

“Okay, keep going around those western hills,” Chet replied. “Give me another reading when you get down by Surprise Lake.”

Minutes later Joe reported, “Now your signal’s dropped off to S-4.”

“Roger. Try me again when you get near Highway 10.”

The test continued. Between their reports to Chet, Joe switched their car transceiver to the frequency on the 2-meter band over which they had heard the scrambler the previous night. Nothing suspicious came over the speaker until they had circled the northern outskirts of town and were heading back toward the bay on a route that paralleled the Willow River. Then, suddenly, the voice gibberish crackled in strongly!

“It’s peaking right along here!” Joe exclaimed as he watched the meter needle swing sharply toward maximum strength.

As they drove along, however, the scrambler sounds soon faded and the needle dropped again.

“That’s funny,” Joe said. “Something must be cutting it off.” He glanced around, but could see no obvious obstruction in the terrain that might have interfered with the signal.

“Wait a second. Let’s go back and try it again.” Frank turned the convertible and retraced the stretch of road over which they had just traveled.

Again the gibberish burst in loud and clear!

“The signal must be coming in a fairly narrow beam,” Frank deduced.

“But what direction?”

Frank pulled over to the side of the road and asked Joe to hand him the Bayport map from the glove compartment. “We know we picked up the signal pretty clearly at home,” Frank said, indicating with a pencil the position of their house on Elm Street, “and we know we’re receiving it good right here.”

“I get it,” Joe put in eagerly. “If they’re transmitting between fixed points, the beam must run roughly—let’s see—about east-southeast to west-northwest.”

“Check.” Frank ruled an approximate line to indicate the beam. “Let’s weave back and forth on some of the dirt roads east of here, and see if we keep picking up the signal on the same line.”

As Frank started the car again, Joe switched back to their previous test frequency and told Chet what they intended to do. For the next twenty minutes, their convertible rambled to and fro over several roads and country lanes while the Hardys listened carefully for the gibberish sounds.

Their theory was quickly borne out as the sounds came in clearly, then faded again. The scrambler broadcast was evidently being transmitted more or less along the line which Frank had penciled.

“So far so good,” Joe concluded. “But how do we zero in on the source? All we know is that the beam runs between Bayport and the Willow River.”

“The Willow River!” Frank suddenly braked the car and reached for the map. “Joe, we’re a couple of dummies! Look here on the map. The answer’s staring us right in the face!”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see where the beam intersects the river?” Frank jabbed the spot with his pencil. “That’s where the Lektrex plant is located!”

Joe’s lips puckered into an excited whistle. “Good night! Someone must be broadcasting from inside the plant! The spy who’s been spilling technical secrets to the gang!”

“Looks that way. But let’s check it out and make sure.”

After a quick scrutiny of roads on the map, Frank steered the car on a zigzag route that gradually brought them closer to the electronics company. Although there were slight pauses now and then in the transmission, as if two or more speakers were conducting a conversation, the boys managed to pick up the gibberish sounds almost every time their route crossed the beam.

At last they reached the River Road which ran directly past the plant buildings. Once again they were unable to hear the scrambler. Frank pulled off the road, near the main gate, and the two young radio sleuths listened for several minutes, but their transceiver remained silent.

Joe gave his brother a quizzical look. “The spy must have signed off.”

“I guess so.” Frank heaved a sigh of disappointment. “What a tough break, just when we had a chance of nailing him!”

“I’d better call Chet,” said Joe, “and let him know how we made out.”

He started to tune the transceiver back to their test frequency on a different band. But his fingers, twirling the knob, suddenly stiffened as a familiar voice came in faintly:

“This list covers all the engineers and technical employees working in the new wing, does it?”

“That’s Dad!” Joe gasped.

Jason Warner’s voice was replying:

“Yes. Of course there are the regular production workers to consider, but I think we can assume that none of them would have enough knowledge of the overall product to betray much to the spy ring.”

Frank stared in amazement as the radio conversation continued. “Straight voice now—without the scrambler. I don’t get it, Joe.”

“Maybe someone switched off the scrambler.”

“But this is over a different frequency!”

“Right! I’m goofing off again.” Joe scratched his head, utterly mystified. “Let’s backtrack and try farther away from the plant again.”

“Okay. Good idea.” Frank started the car, and after turning around, swung back up the dirt lane by which they had approached the River Road. The faint radio voices quickly faded.

As they angled across the path of the beam, Frank stopped the car and said, “Switch back to the 2-meter.”

Joe did so. Once more the gibberish sounds of the scrambler could be heard! Frank opened the door abruptly and got out of the car.

“Where are you going?” Joe asked.

“I have an idea.”

The dirt lane traversed an area of uncultivated field, overgrown with clumps of brush and occasional trees. By line of sight the distance from their present position to the spot where they had parked on the River Road across from the plant was only a few hundred yards.

Frank aligned his gaze approximately with the path of the radio beam. Then he strode across the field, cutting straight toward the plant. Joe watched and saw his brother finally come to a halt facing a gnarled old oak tree. Nearby it were several younger trees, still clad in withered brown leaves.

With mounting excitement, Joe saw Frank leap up and hook his fingers into a hollow opening in the trunk, to hoist himself off the ground.

Moments later, Frank lowered himself again and shouted through cupped hands:

“Come quick, Joe! I’ve solved the mystery!”

CHAPTER XVII

Window Bug

IN response to Frank’s call, Joe dashed across the brush-strewn field. “What did you find?” he asked eagerly.

“There’s some kind of radio rig inside this hollow oak. Here! I’ll boost you up so you can see.”

Frank held out clasped hands to form a stirrup for Joe’s foot. Putting one hand on his brother’s shoulder, Joe was hoisted up until his face was level with the hollow opening in the trunk.

“Wow! What a setup!” As Joe lifted his gaze, he gave another excited gasp. He had just noticed a cable protruding from another opening farther up the trunk. His eyes followed the cable upward.

“Frank, look!” Joe pointed to a small, square-horn antenna, positioned in a crotch of the tree and almost unnoticeable against the bark. “That’s what’s transmitting the beam!”

Joe dropped to the ground and faced his brother tensely. “The assembly in this tree must be a relay setup to catch the voice broadcast from the plant. Right?”

“Sure, the plant’s bugged with a hidden mike and transmitter,” Frank reasoned. “It broadcasts conversations from somewhere inside the buildings. I’ll bet this rig in the tree picks up the voice broadcast, amplifies and scrambles it, then beams it out at a higher frequency.”

Joe gave a quick nod. “So what’s our next move?”

“Dad must be at the plant right now,” Frank said. “We’d better go warn him and Mr. Warner pronto!”

The boys drove to the Lektrex Company and told the receptionist in the lobby that they must see their father. It was urgent. A guard took them to the executive conference room, where Mr. Hardy had been reporting to Jason Warner and his personnel manager the results of the lie-detector tests.

“What’s wrong, sons?” the detective asked.

For answer Frank put a finger to his lips, then wrote on a pad, “There’s plenty wrong. How long have you and Mr. Warner been talking in this room?”

Mr. Hardy wrote, “For the past hour. Why?”

“The room’s bugged!” Frank wrote. “We could hear your voices on the convertible’s short-wave!”

“What’s wrong, sons?” Mr. Hardy asked

Warner gaped in consternation as the Hardy boys took turns in writing their check on the scrambler and their discovery in the hollow oak.

“This is outrageous!” the president spluttered. He buzzed his secretary on the intercom. Before the Hardys could caution him to lower his voice, Warner ordered her to have an engineer bring detection equipment at once.

Within minutes the concealed “bug” had been located. Using a sensitive electronic probe, the engineer quickly traced it to a wooden valance across the top of the picture-window drapery. The bug had been mounted on a small rack screwed to the inside of the valance.

“It’s no amateur job, that’s a cinch,” the engineer said admiringly. “It’s one of the cleverest devices I’ve ever seen.”

He pointed out the delicate electronic components, nestled in a small crystal-plastic block. “This monosyllabic detector responds only to human voice frequencies. In other words, it turns the bug on only when someone is speaking—and a delay circuit turns it off again when the conversation ceases.”

“That’s to prevent power draining from the batteries?” Fenton Hardy asked.

“Partly that, and it lessens the danger of detection, too. If the bug were on all the time, there’d be too much risk of its being traced.”

Taking along a ladder, the engineer accompanied Frank and Joe to the oak tree in the field across the plant. He removed the radio assembly from the tree and they carried it back to the conference room. Battery-powered, it consisted of a receiver-transmitter, a compact frequency flip-flop type scrambler, and the small directional horn antenna which Joe had spotted, connected to the transmitter by coaxial cable.

“The bug itself is fairly weak,” the engineer explained. “It probably broadcasts only for a short distance outside the plant. This rig extends the broadcast range maybe up to four or five miles.”

Fenton Hardy nodded thoughtfully. “And I suppose by transmitting the signal in a fairly narrow beam they cut down the chance of it being monitored by the FCC.”

“FCC or hams, either one,” the engineer replied. “Of course this conference room’s used mostly at night. But if anyone did overhear the broadcast, as your sons did, the scrambler would keep them from guessing where it came from.”

“I can’t understand it.” Still flustered and mystified, Jason Warner paced about the room with a frown. “If this was the source of the leak, how did our Hong Kong rival get into production so fast? The bug can only have been here for a couple of weeks.”

“How do you know that, sir?” Joe questioned.

“I remember the drapes were dry-cleaned late in October and the valance was repainted at the same time. If the bug was here before, it would have been discovered.”

“Wait a moment!” Mr. Hardy put in tensely. “We’re forgetting the raid on the plant Saturday night. The bug may have been planted then, under cover of the robbery.”

Frank shook his head. “We know the bug was already in operation then. The first time Joe and I heard the scrambler broadcast was more than a week before the robbery.”

“Hmm.” The detective’s face took on a puzzled scowl. “In that case, there may be another bug that we haven’t found yet. Jason, you’d better have your engineers check over the whole plant-especially the new wing.”

The Lektrex president nodded. “I’ll attend to it right away. Meantime, I’d like you to run lie-detector tests on all our employees. Start with our custodial crew—janitors, maintenance men, and so on. One of them may have been bribed to plant the bug.”

Next day in the school lunchroom Frank and Joe were startled to hear their names called over the public-address system. The boys hastily finished their meal and hurried toward the principal’s office.

“Wonder what’s up,” Joe murmured uneasily.

“Don’t know. I sure hope everything’s all right at home.”

To their surprise, Fenton Hardy was waiting to see them.

“Dad!” Frank exclaimed. “Is anything wrong?”

“Yes and no.” Mr. Hardy gave a quick, reassuring smile. “How would you two like to handle an out-of-town job for me?”

“Great!” the boys chorused, and Joe added, “What’s it all about?”

“Tell you on the way. Get your things and let’s go. I’ve already taken the liberty of having you excused from the rest of your classes.”

As the three strode through the hall, the investigator said he had had a sudden call frcm the Noltan Medical Company, a drug firm in Philadelphia. “The formula for a new wonder drug they’re producing has leaked out. A German firm has just put an identical product on the market.”

“Another Aardvark spy job?” Joe blurted.

“Looks very much that way,” said Mr. Hardy, “though, of course, there’s always an outside chance that it’s pure coincidence. I told John Noltan, the president, that my regular operatives and I were tied up here, but that I’d send you two to get the facts from him.”

Frank flushed with pleasure at his father’s confidence, but asked a bit uncertainly, “Did he object? To your sending us, I mean.”

“Not at all. He’s heard of you, and I told him you’d been working with me on a similar case here in Bayport.”

Mr. Hardy had already booked two seats on a one-thirty airline flight. The boys drove to the airport, left their convertible in the parking lot, and were soon boarding a sleek jet. An hour later it landed at the Philadelphia airfield.

Frank and Joe caught a taxi to the modernistic plant of the Noltan Medical Company. Mr. Noltan, a burly man in a tweed suit, greeted them with a firm handshake.

“I assume your father has told you about our pirated drug formula,” he began. “Please sit down and I’ll—”

Noltan broke off abruptly in midsentence. “Is something wrong?” he queried.

The boys were staring past him, startled looks on their faces!

CHAPTER XVIII

The Shaggy Spy

“EXCUSE us for staring, sir,” Frank told Mr. Noltan. “I think my brother noticed the same thing I did—that head up on the wall.”

Frank gestured toward a huge, horned bison’s head mounted on a wall plaque. The animal’s glittering eyes seemed to stare out broodingly from under its dark furry topknot, and a woolly beard hung from its chin.

“You see, stuffed animals have kept cropping up in our investigation back in Bayport,” Joe explained. “It seems odd to find one here, too.”

“May we take the head down from the wall and examine it?” Frank asked.

Mr. Noltan gave the boys a puzzled smile. “Very well, if you think it’s important. I must say, I fail to see the point.”

The Hardys managed to unhook the plaque and lift down the heavy head. Then Frank pushed aside the bison’s beard and fingered the throat fur until he laid bare a row of stitches.

Joe gasped. “The same kind of workmanship we saw on the stuffed fox!”

Frank glanced up at the president of the drug firm and inquired, “Have you ever heard of a man named Elias Batter?”

Noltan shook his head. “Never.”

“Where did you get this bison, sir?” Joe put in.

“It was presented to me by a friend.”

“Was his name Afron?”

Noltan’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “That’s the man! Nils Afron. But how did you guess?”

“There was a stuffed fox stolen from the Lektrex plant in Bayport,” Joe explained. “That animal was given to the president of the company by the same person, Nils Afron. Frank and I tried to check on him in New York but—”

“The Afron I know is an interior decorator,” Noltan broke in. “He specializes in business office work. Let me see—I have his card right here.” Noltan drew out a wallet, leafed through its contents, and handed a small business card to Joe. “There’s his address.”

“That was his address, sir,” Joe said. “Frank and I learned he went out of business.”

Noltan stared at the boys, utterly mystified.

“We’ve been working on the theory that one of these animals may have something valuable hidden inside it,” Frank said. He shot a quizzical look at his brother. “But I think now we both have a different hunch.”

“We sure do!” Joe said eagerly. “May we open up this bison head, Mr. Noltan?”

“By all means! I don’t know what you hope to find, but I’m just as curious as you are!” He handed Frank a pair of desk shears.

In a few minutes Frank had sliced through the stitching and the inner shell, and was probing inside the bison head. Suddenly his eyes flashed with excitement. When he withdrew his hand, he was clutching a compact electronic assembly! The boys’ hunch had been correct!

Noltan stifled an angry gasp. “Is that gadget what I think it is?”

“If you mean an electronic bug,” Frank replied, “you’re right. This bison has been eavesdropping on everything said in your office.”

“Where did you meet Afron, sir?” Joe queried.

“On a hunting trip in Northern Canada.”

“At the Lachine Hunting Lodge on Lake Okemow?”

Noltan nodded bitterly. “You seem to know the whole story.”

Frank said, “And later Afron came to visit you here and gave you the buffalo head?”

“Yes, he stopped in once when he was passing through Philadelphia.” Noltan’s face was red with rage at the way he had been tricked. “I assumed he was angling for a decorating job—but it seems he was after a bit more than that!”

“You’re not his only victim,” Frank said sympathetically. “The president of Lektrex was fooled the same way.”

“It’s probably Afron’s regular method of operation,” said Joe.

Noltan frowned. “But I thought you said a stuffed fox was stolen from Lektrex. If so, how do you know it was bugged?”

“We don’t, but it’s a pretty safe bet.” Frank told about the Saturday night raid on the Lektrex plant, and the finding of a newly planted bug behind the window valance. “Chances are the new bug was installed during the robbery to replace the old one inside the fox.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “And this makes better sense out of the code message, Frank!”

“How do you mean?”

“Don’t you see? The message said: Raid Lektrex plant new setup. We thought it was all one sentence, meaning to raid the new plant wing. Actually it was two sentences, meaning to raid Lektrex and to plant a new bug!”

“Wow! That must be it, all right!” Frank paced about, unable to control his excitement. “Mr. Noltan, may I use your phone? I’d like to report to Dad right away.”

Noltan smiled wryly and gestured toward his desk. “It’s the least I can do after the fast way you two have cracked this case!”

“We still don’t have Afron and his gang, sir, but I’d say we’re one step closer.”

Frank dialed the long-distance operator and succeeded in reaching his father at the Lektrex plant. Mr. Hardy was thrilled over his sons’ successful detective work.

“You and Joe have done a great job! I’m proud of you,” he told Frank. “The first scrambled broadcast you picked up must have come from the bug in the fox, and the code message confirms that the new bug was planted during the robbery—so we can call off the lie-detector tests.”

Mr. Hardy added that the boys should leave any search for a scrambler near the Noltan Medical Company to the Philadelphia police and the FBI.

“By the way, Dad,” Frank asked, “is Chief Collig taking any steps to find the gang’s listening post in Bayport?”

“Yes, he has squads of police out combing every block in town within the path of the radio beam. But as you know, that covers a lot of territory. The search may take days. I’m not too hopeful, especially since the gang must know we’ve discovered the bug.”

Before hanging up, Frank suggested that his father have the FBI check all other firms which had suffered trade-secret leaks to see if they, too, had stuffed animals.

“Good idea, son. I’ll do that.”

The boys managed to get seats on a six-o’clock flight to Bayport. As they were eating dinner on the plane, Joe said, “There’s one thing we still haven’t figured out, Frank.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did Afron have his gang yank the fox out of the Lektrex plant?”

“Hmm. Good question.” Frank gazed thoughtfully out the window at the twinkling lights of a town far below. “Maybe they got worried about us checking into the stuffed animal angle while Dad was investigating these industrial spy cases. If he was called to Lektrex, there was danger we might put two and two together.”

“Could be,” Joe conceded. “But that still wouldn’t explain the other animal thefts.”

“No, you’re right, it wouldn’t.” Frank added, “Maybe we’d better not give up too soon on Jimmy Gordon’s treasure hunt.”

When the boys arrived home, they settled down in the living room with their father to discuss the latest developments in the case.

“The FBI called back a few minutes ago and reported on five firms,” Mr. Hardy said. “Three of them, including that California aircraft manufacturer, had bugged animals in their offices, and two had stuffed sailfishes.”

“Did the FBI find out where the specimens came from?” Frank asked eagerly.

Mr. Hardy nodded as he filled his pipe. “The animals had been presented as a gift by Nils Afron. In every case, a company executive had met him at a hunting lodge in Canada. The sailfishes came from a man named Neil Aaron. In those two cases, an acquaintance had been struck up during a fishing jaunt in Florida.”

“Neil Aaron!” Joe exclaimed. “I’ll bet that’s just an alias for Nils Afron.”

“No doubt about it,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “The description tallies exactly.”

The telephone rang and Joe bounced up to answer it. “This is Chief Collig,” said the caller. “We’ve just picked up Soapy Moran.”

Moron—the small-time swindler who had worked for Elias Batter!

Joe’s pulse quickened at the news. “That’s great, Chief! Where is he?”

“We have him here at headquarters and I think he’s about ready to talk. I thought you fellows and your dad might want to be here.”

“We sure do! We’ll be right down.”

The Hardys sped off in the boys’ convertible and pulled up outside the gray stone building that housed Bayport Police Headquarters.

In the interrogation room Soapy Moran was seated on a chair facing Chief Collig, two detectives, and an FBI agent. The gaunt swindler looked ready to wilt under the blazing light and their relentless questioning.

“You’re free to call a lawyer,” Collig told him.

“Never mind. I’ve told you all I know,” Moran whined. He mopped beads of perspiration from his face. “Just give me a break, will you?”

“What has he confessed to?” Frank asked.

“I’ve admitted I conned your pal out of ten bucks,” Moran said hastily. “Here—give it back to him.” Whipping out a wallet, he extracted a ten-dollar bill and laid it on the table.

“Tell them about the work you did for Elias Batter,” Collig prodded.

Moran said he had often picked up small parcels for Batter at Zetter’s Radio and TV Shop. He had also delivered several stuffed animals from Batter to a certain address in Bayport. Two men there had recently paid him to spy on the Hardys.

“What kind of racket were they up to?” barked a detective.

Moran cringed fearfully. “I told you I don’t know! Batter warned me not to get snoopy!”

“The picture’s clear enough,” Fenton Hardy said. “Zetter made the electronic bugs, and Batter implanted them in the stuffed animals.”

“And it explains why that baldheaded crook picked Zetter’s shop to duck through when he was running away with the wolf’s head!” said Joe.

“We already have an alarm out for Zetter,” put in Chief Collig, “but he’s not at his shop or his house.”

Frank, meanwhile, was scanning a wall map of the Bayport area, locating the address Moran had named. “Look! It’s directly in the path of the scrambler beam!” he exclaimed.

“There’s a squad car standing by,” said Collig. “We were just waiting for you fellows.”

The Hardys’ convertible followed close behind as the police car raced through the streets of Bayport. In minutes they were screeching to a halt outside a shabby-looking frame house in a run-down, older part of town. All the windows were dark, and high hedges separated the house from its neighbors.

“Ten to one the place is empty,” said Mr. Hardy as he and the boys leaped from the convertible. “The gang probably pulled out right after the bug was discovered.”

The investigator’s guess proved correct. Two camp cots, a rickety table, and chairs had been left behind, as well as a litter of empty food cans, but there were clear signs of a hasty exit. Lengths of ripped-out wiring and scattered, broken electronic components in an upstairs room showed where their radio gear had been set up.

“This was their listening post, all right,” said the FBI agent.

“Get the fingerprint boys busy!” Collig snapped to a detective-sergeant.

The room, evidently the master bedroom, had a fireplace in one corner. Joe noticed a small heap of ashes on the hearth, as if papers had been burned hastily. One scrap, although charred beyond recognition, was still intact.

“Hey, Dad!” Joe exclaimed. “Think we might get anything from this?”

Fenton Hardy squatted down to examine the paper remnant. “It’s worth a try.”

Chief Collig willingly agreed to leave the task in the Hardys’ skilled hands. The charred paper was gently swept onto a glass plate, then sprayed with fixative, and flattened under another plate. Later, in the boys’ crime lab at home, the scrap was photographed on an orthochromatic plate and printed on high-contrast paper.

Three words could now be made out in a ghostly scrawl:

Aardvark to Canada

CHAPTER XIX

A Wrecked Canoe

“I’LL bet this was part of a code message!” Joe exclaimed, staring at the photograph of the burnt paper.

“And ’Aardvark’ may be Nils Afron,” said Frank.

“Yes, it’s not hard to guess what happened,” their father said thoughtfully. “The gang members in Bayport no doubt radioed Afron as soon as the bug was discovered. Then he sent back this code message saying to clear out and that he himself was going to Canada.”

“Canada!” Joe echoed excitedly. “If he wants to lie low, he might go back to that hunting lodge in Ontario!”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “It’s a good possibility. Let’s find out exactly where the lodge is located.”

All three hurried to Fenton Hardy’s study. Checking an atlas, they discovered that Lake Okemow lay in the James Bay area and that the nearest town appeared to be Moosonee.

Mr. Hardy glanced at his watch. “Almost ten-thirty. Hmm. I suppose it’s possible we might learn something by calling there, even at this hour.”

Frank and Joe stood by tensely as their father picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed long-distance. He asked to be put through directly to the operator in Moosonee, Ontario.

When the connection was made, the detective asked, “Can you tell me any way to contact the Lachine Hunting Lodge on Lake Okemow?”

“There is no phone service, sir. The only way to reach the lodge directly is by radio.”

“Radio?” Mr. Hardy shot a glance at the boys. “You mean over the ham bands?”

“Yes, sir.” In answer to the detective’s question, she gave the lodge owner’s call letters and the usual frequency for local-area hams. “Mr. Lachine’s on the air every night about this time, if you want to try contacting him.”

“Thank you. We shall,” Fenton Hardy replied.

The Hardys went to the attic radio shack and warmed up their rig. Frank tuned in a number of conversations on the 40-meter band until he caught Lachine’s call sign. Then he zeroed in on the lodge owner’s frequency and waited for his transmission to end.

“I have not much hope for him, mon ami,” Lachine was saying, “but keep your eyes open when you are tending your trap line. The bush pilots will all be looking, of course.”

“Sounds as if someone’s lost,” Joe muttered.

As soon as they heard Lachine ending his conversation with the local ham, Frank called and quickly made contact. He introduced himself and asked about Nils Afron.

“Afron? Bon tonnerre!” The lodge owner sounded deeply shaken. “What a sad coincidence that tonight you should call to inquire for him. I am much afraid that M’sieu Afron may be dead.”

“Dead!” Frank gasped. “What happened to him? You mean some sort of accident?”

“Oui, it appears he has drowned.” Lachine explained that Afron had flown in that very day from Timmins, Ontario, arriving just before one o’clock. After a brief lunch, he had started upriver on a fishing trip, without a guide.

“I did not like him going alone,” Lachine added, “but he is an old and valued guest. When he insists, what can I say? He had trouble on his mind, I believe, and wished to be away from everyone. Then tonight an Indian comes running to the lodge and tells us he has sighted M’sieu Afron’s wrecked canoe. It washed ashore upriver from here. Sacrebleu! A terrible tragedy!”

“You think there’s no hope for him?” Frank asked. “Maybe he went ashore and the canoe drifted loose.”

“Perhaps. Time alone will tell, but I fear the worst,” Lachine said sadly.

After talking a while longer, Frank signed off and turned to Joe and Mr. Hardy. “Well, what do you think?”

“Sounds fishy to me!” Joe declared.

“Could be a trick, all right,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Just a clever way for Afron to make the police think he’s dead.” The investigator scowled and rubbed his jaw. “Well, from here on it’s a job for the Canadian Mounties, I guess.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other, both struck with the same impulse.

“Dad,” Frank spoke up, “why couldn’t Joe and I go up there and look around? You still have plenty to do running down the rest of the gang. In the meantime, we might be able to pick up a clue that would prove whether Afron’s really dead.”

Joe chimed in. “That’s a swell idea, Dad! What do you say? We’d only miss two days of school and get back right after the weekend!”

Mr. Hardy was thoughtful a moment, then smiled. “All right. Why not? You two have certainly earned a trip, with your work on this case!”

Chet Morton stopped at the house early the next morning on his way to school. He had heard on a breakfast newscast about the raid on the gang’s listening post and was avid for a firsthand account from the Hardys. Frank and Joe gave him the details, then told about their projected trip to Canada.

“We’ll be catching the two-o’clock flight,” Frank ended.

“You lucky ducks!” The stout boy added darkly, “All the same, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. What if you run into Afron out in the woods somewhere?”

“Don’t worry, we plan to stalk him in our moose disguise,” Joe said with a wink at his brother. “Remember, the Hardys always get their man!”

Much of the morning was spent in frantic packing, amid worried advice from Aunt Gertrude. Each of the Hardy boys loaded a good-sized duffel bag with his bedroll, heavy woolen clothing, boots, socks, and other needed items. Frank crammed their father’s small, portable battery transceiver into his bag, while Joe stowed away a compact, inflatable rubber life raft.

Shortly after one o’clock they were surprised by a visit from Jimmy Gordon and his mother. “I saw Chet on the way to school this morning and he told me where you’re going,” Jimmy explained. “When I told Ma at lunchtime, we decided to come over and say good-by.”

“I—Well, I just thought I should apologize for being so short with you boys the other day,” Mrs. Gordon said hesitantly.

“That’s all right,” Frank said. “We understand.”

“I wanted to thank you, too, for being so kind to Jimmy. His teacher says he’s perked up wonderfully in school.” Mrs. Gordon’s eyes moistened and she gave Jimmy a hug. “I’m changing to a different job next week, so I’ll be able to spend more time with him.”

Jimmy pulled out a package and handed it to Frank and Joe. “Here’s a present to take with you. I paid for ’em with my own dough!”

The parcel contained two small jackknives. They were flimsy in quality and not likely to be useful for much more than sharpening pencils, but the Hardys assured Jimmy they were exactly what was needed for the trip.

“You really like ’em?” The boy’s face beamed. “I’m sure glad! I figured hunting knives would come in handy up there in the woods.”

Soon after the Gordons left, Frank and Joe gave Aunt Gertrude a final hug and set off for the airport with their father. Their route included Toronto, then over a vast, lonely, region, splashed with lakes and carpeted with spruce.

The plane landed briefly at Sudbury, where the boys glimpsed the white domes of a radar station standing out against the night sky. Two hours after leaving Toronto, they set down near the rugged mining town of Timmins.

They registered at a hotel for the night and arranged by telephone for a bush pilot to fly them on to Lake Okemow. At daybreak the two sleuths were up and breakfasting on a hearty meal of Canadian bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes. Then they taxied off in a four-seater amphibian.

The flight proved to be bumpy. Below lay a dense wilderness of black spruce, poplar, birch, and tamarack. Glittering lakes and snakelike streams slashed the forest. Farther north came barren patches, frosted white with snow. Then again they were flying over heavy timber.

“Here we are!” the pilot said at last. He brought the plane down to a choppy landing on the not-yet-frozen lake and taxied to a wooden pier. On the shore lay the stout log hunting lodge. Smoke feathered from its chimney.

A biting wind clawed at their faces as a bearded, red-haired man in a plaid Mackinaw came crunching across the snow to meet them.

“Bonjour!” he boomed. “I was not expecting guests, but welcome to my lodge!”

“We’re the Hardy boys,” Frank said as they shook hands. “I’m Frank and this is my brother Joe. I talked to you on the radio. Remember?”

“Ah, mais oui! And I am Jacques Lachine!” He bellowed an order, and a big, dark-skinned man came out to get the boys’ duffel bags.

As Lachine led the way to the lodge, he remarked that guests were usually few at this time of year but that business suddenly appeared to have picked up. “First, M‘sieu Afron comes on Wednesday. Now you two, and today I hear by radio another gentleman will arrive tomorrow from New York, a M’sieu Ardmore.”

The boys looked at each other but said nothing until they were alone in their room at the lodge. Then Joe said, “Did you get that name Ardmore?”

Frank nodded thoughtfully. “I sure did. Sort of close to ‘Aardvark,’ isn’t it?” Both wondered if they had made a mistake about Afron being the leader of the gang.

As they ate lunch in front of a roaring fire, Lachine reported that there was still no news of Afron. Frank explained that they had come expressly to help search for him and would like to make a trip upriver to look for clues.

Lachine shook his head doubtfully. “The weather looks bad, mes amis, but if you insist upon going, my man René will be your guide.”

Within an hour after the meal, the boys had loaded their duffel bags into a canoe and were pushing off, up the mouth of the nearby river, into the wilderness. René, the dark-skinned man, rowed astern while Frank and Joe took turns wielding the bow paddle.

On both sides of them lay a dense forest of towering evergreens. Ice was forming along the banks, which in places were strewn with rugged boulders or rose in steep, rocky upthrusts.

As the afternoon wore on, the wind grew stronger and more bitter. Dark clouds closed in from the northwest. René muttered, “The snow, she come soon, I think.”

The first flakes came in gusts but gradually the storm increased to a howling blizzard. Soon after dark the trio reached the clearing where Afron had planned to camp.

René beached the canoe against the hilly bank. He ordered the boys to go ahead while he unloaded the camping gear. Shouldering their duffel bags, Frank and Joe clambered up the slope.

There were signs that the spot had been used as a frequent campsite by hunting and fishing parties. The two boys selected a sheltered spot close to the trees and began looking for firewood. Minutes went by.

“Wonder what’s keeping René,” Joe said.

In the snowy darkness it was difficult to see more than a few yards. Puzzled by the guide’s delay, the Hardys made their way back toward the shore to see if he was having trouble.

Frank was the first to reach the riverbank. His eyes widened in dismay as he peered all around. “Joe!” he gasped. “The canoe’s gone!”

CHAPTER XX

The Right Spots

THE boys were thunderstruck to find themselves alone on the night-shrouded, icy shore.

“You don’t suppose René got swept downriver somehow while he was unloading?” Joe faltered.

“Not a chance! He had the canoe too well beached,” Frank said.

The Hardys shouted the guide’s name frantically, but knew their voices could not carry far in the shrieking blizzard. Bit by bit the realization grew that they had been deserted!

“Either René’s in cahoots with Afron,” Frank said bitterly, “or he and Lachine both are.”

Joe nodded. “Now we know why Afron used the lodge for drumming up spy-ring victims.”

“Also why he came here to hide from the law!”

The boys debated whether to try trekking back downriver. For long stretches the banks were impossible to negotiate on foot, yet once out of sight of the stream they might quickly become lost! Without food or matches, their plight seemed desperate.

“Wait a second!” Joe exclaimed. “We’re forgetting about Dad’s transceiver! Maybe we can call some ham in this area for help!”

Frank hesitated, then shook his head. “Too risky. Don’t forget, Lachine’s on the air every night. If he heard our call, he and René might come back and hunt us down.”

Joe paced back and forth, swinging his arms to keep warm. “What about the life raft? Think we could make it downriver on that?”

Frank weighed the odds. “The river’s freezing fast. If we hit any ice, we’d be goners.”

On the other hand, the boys thought any move seemed preferable to staying where they were. If they returned to Lake Okemow, they might be able to filch supplies from the lodge until some form of help arrived from the outside.

“Okay. Let’s try it!” Frank said.

Joe inflated the raft with a CO_2 cartridge while Frank cut tree boughs to use as sweeps. Taking only blankets, a flashlight, and the transceiver, they pushed off downriver.

Almost at once the raft was seized in the fast current. The Hardys worked frantically, fending off jagged ice and trying to control their frail bark. The wind stung their faces as they steered into the swirling blizzard. At times the curving river put the wind cross-stream, threatening to beach or capsize the raft.

The snow-filled darkness increased their danger, making it hard to see obstructions or changes in course. Numb with cold, Frank and Joe continued on doggedly.

Hours went by, and the boys had lost all track of time, when at last the wilderness seemed to open and they found themselves approaching the river mouth. Poling their craft ashore, the Hardys flopped exhausted on the riverbank.

Not far away lay the lodge, its windows aglow with light. After hiding their raft, the boys crept up to the building and peered inside.

Lachine, René, and three other men were seated comfortably around the fireplace. They were talking and laughing as they drank mugs of steaming coffee. Frank and Joe identified Lachine’s “guests” almost at once. The biggest one, blond and pug-nosed, was undoubtedly Afron. The other two were the auction thieves!

“Those dirty rats!” Joe mumbled. “And they think we’re freezing to death out in the woods!”

The lodge’s radio gear was in plain view.

“Keep watch and tell me if Lachine goes on the air!” Frank hissed. He squatted down in the snow and hoisted the transceiver antenna.

Within minutes he succeeded in contacting a ham at Moose Factory. He hastily explained the situation. The ham, who was outraged to hear of Lachine’s treachery, soon reported back that a plane would take off from the island post as soon as the weather abated.

“Looks as if this blizzard could keep up till morning,” Joe muttered.

“We’ll be lucky if it stops then,” Frank said.

A lean-to storage shed adjoined the lodge. To evade the bone-chilling wind, the boys decided to take shelter inside until daybreak. Wrapped in their blankets, they settled down against a pile of logs. Soon both were nodding.

Frank awoke with a start hours later. Daylight was showing through chinks in the shed. Steps came crunching closer in the snow outside.

Frank jerked wide awake. He shook his brother. A hand fumbled at the latch outside, then the door creaked open. The dark face of René, the guide, gaped in astonishment at the two boys.

Frank sprang at the man before he could cry out. Joe seized his leg and the burly guide flopped backward into the snow. But there was no chance to clap a hand over his mouth. René bellowed like a wounded ox.

The man was tremendously powerful. He shook off the two youths easily. One swipe of his huge fist sent Frank spinning into a snowbank. By this time, Lachine and the two auction thieves were running from the lodge. René stunned Joe with a blow, then grabbed him in a crushing bear hug. The others overpowered Frank.

“So, mes enfants!” Lachine leered at the two boys. “You prefer us to deal with you here, instead of dying in the wilderness, eh?”

The men were dragging Frank and Joe toward the lodge entrance when Nils Afron came striding out. He grinned in vicious satisfaction.

“So the brats got back alive. Now we’ll make ’em pay for causing us so much trouble!”

“You’re the ones in trouble!” Joe flared back. “Soapy Moran’s in jail and Zetter soon will be. We know all about your racket!”

Afron sneered. “That won’t help you boys.”

The baldheaded thug muttered angrily, “I knew it was a mistake hiring Moran to spy on them. That cheap con artist had to put us all in danger for a measly ten-buck swindle!”

“It wasn’t Moran who blew the whistle on us,” his fat partner said. “We’d still be tuning in on Lektrex if these kids hadn’t traced the bug!”

“Forget it!” Afron snapped. “Our Philly crew and the West Coast crew haven’t been nabbed yet. We’ll all be back in business before long.”

At the droning sound of an approaching plane, Afron and his henchmen turned their heads skyward. An amphibian was swooping down toward the lake! Lachine gasped.

“Sacrebleu! M’sieu Ardmore arrive, I think!”

Frank and Joe took advantage of the distraction. They jerked free from their captors and dashed into the woods. Afron and his men pursued them as the Hardys dodged through the trees, toward the lake.

Meanwhile, the plane landed and taxied to the pier. A tall, broad-shouldered man leaped out, followed by two Mounties in parkas.

Glancing back, Frank saw Lachine’s face go ashen with fear. His panic-stricken pals scattered, but the loud crack of revolver shots brought them to a frightened halt.

In minutes Afron, Lachine, René, and the two gangsters were lined up in front of the lodge, their hands raised in surrender.

“Dad!” Joe gasped as the tall man embraced his two sons. “Don’t tell me you were Ardmore?”

The grinning detective nodded. “I thought you two might need some help in smoking out Afron, but it seems you’ve already done it alone.”

Mr. Hardy explained that the blizzard had threatened to delay his arrival Nevertheless, he had contacted the Mounties on landing at Timmins. After hearing of his sons’ call for help, he had managed to find a bush pilot willing to fly him to Moose Factory.

All five prisoners were taken to the Mountie post. Lachine and René were charged with plotting the Hardy boys’ deaths. Afron and his two men were held for extradition to the United States.

Not until Sunday afternoon were the Hardys able to take off from Moose Factory. A Mounted Police officer told them Afron had seized a jailer’s gun and tried to escape, but had been unsuccessful.

“Dangerous as a snake, that fellow,” the Mountie commented. “He boasted he’d been in too many tight spots to be taken by any backwoods cops. But this is one spot he won’t leave without wearing handcuffs.”

Frank was thoughtful on the flight to Timmins.

“What’s on your mind?” Joe asked, curious.

“I’m just thinking about what that Mountie told us, and what Jimmy’s uncle told him.”

Joe stared at his brother. Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Wow! If you’re right, Frank, Batter’s treasure was right under our noses!”

Mr. Hardy listened keenly as the boys explained. “It’s a clever hunch,” he agreed.

Early Monday afternoon they arrived in Bayport. Frank made two quick telephone calls.

“Mrs. Batter sold the house Saturday,” he reported. “She’s there now, clearing out the last few items so the new owner can move in.”

“What about Jimmy?” Joe asked.

“We can pick him up at school.”

Joe chuckled. “Let’s get Chet, too. He has a right to see the end of this.”

Later, as the three Hardys, Jimmy, and Chet drove up to the former Batter estate, they saw Mrs. Batter near the garage. She was adding several items to a pile of trash and furniture.

“Well!” she said coldly. “I hear you caught those thieves.”

“Yes,” said Frank. “I’m sorry we never did get back your animals.”

Mrs. Batter sniffed. “No matter. I may as well tell you, my husband hinted he’d hidden something valuable in the house—but I’m sure now it was just talk. That was Elias all over!”

“Mind if we look through this trash?”

“Go ahead. You won’t find anything.”

Joe was already extricating “D. Carson’s” stuffed, speckled king snake from the pile.

Seeing its speckles, Jimmy blurted excitedly, “So that’s what Uncle Elly meant by looking ‘in the right spots.’ ”

“Maybe,” Frank said. He fingered the body of the snake tensely. Then, using a length of wire he had brought, the young detective fished down through the snake’s gaping mouth.

There were gasps as Frank pulled back the wire. Dangling from its hooked end was a necklace of glittering pear-shaped diamonds!

“The Crescent necklace!” Joe said. “Pretty tricky of Batter to use fake nameplates to throw everyone off the scent!”

“Give me that!” Mrs. Batter cried.

“No, you don’t!” Jimmy snapped. “This belongs to a store and it’s going back there!”

“Good for you, son,” said Fenton Hardy. “I wonder what’s on that paper.”

A paper strip was tightly rolled around part of the necklace. Frank removed and opened it.

“It’s some sort of typed confession!”

The closely spaced typing gave a complete account of the Aardvark gang’s industrial espionage activities, including names, description, and hide-outs of all members. Batter’s statement told of his own work on the bugged animals and said he was putting the information about his pals down on paper as an “insurance policy” to keep the gang from double-crossing him or harming him.

At Bayport Police Headquarters, Fenton Hardy made a long call to Toronto, where Afron and his two cohorts had been taken to await extradition to the United States. When he hung up, the investigator smiled with grim satisfaction.

“Baldy has just talked. Seems he’s still sore over the way his partner left him stranded at the Lektrex plant. He’s willing to waive extradition and testify as a government witness.”

The gangster, Mr. Hardy reported, said that Batter had demanded more and more money from the gang for his work. When Afron balked at paying it and threatened him, Batter had warned that a written confession about the gang was hidden in a safe place in Bayport and would be turned over to the police if anything happened to him.

“Something Batter said convinced Afron the confession was hidden in one of the stuffed animals,” Mr. Hardy went on. “That’s why they tried so hard to round up all samples of Batter’s work in Bayport. Finally they even took the stuffed fox from Lektrex and looked in it.” The animals had later been dumped in the bay.

Afron had alerted his men in Bayport when Mr. Hardy returned from Europe. The two thugs had trailed the Hardys’ car from the airport to the restaurant, hoping to steal and examine his case report. But Baldy had had time only to snatch back their antenna before being seen.

“Well, we nabbed Zetter yesterday,” said Collig, “so I’d say the case is about closed.”

The police chief turned to Jimmy. “It’s a good thing your uncle found the necklace too hot to dispose of, young fellow. There’s a five-thousand-dollar reward still standing for its recovery.”

“Five thousand?” Jimmy whistled in awe and looked at the Hardys. “Will I get part of it?”

Frank and Joe grinned, though they were sorry their sleuthing activities were over for the time being. Very soon, however, they were to start solving the case of The Secret Panel.

“Jimmy, the money is yours,” said Frank. “You gave us the first clue.”

“Oh, boy!” Jimmy yelled excitedly. “Wait’ll Ma hears this! And say, she was going to bake a big chocolate cake for you fellows. I hope it’s the kind you like!”

“Are you kidding?” Chet licked his lips. “Let’s go sample it right now and I’ll give you an expert opinion!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Startling Discovery

CHAPTER II - The Battered Dory

CHAPTER III - Disturbing Developments

CHAPTER IV - The Traffic Signal Clue

CHAPTER V - A Futile Search

CHAPTER VI - The Strange Symbol

CHAPTER VII - The Mysterious Mansion

CHAPTER VIII - Tricked!

CHAPTER IX - Found and Lost

CHAPTER X - The Intruder

CHAPTER XI - Kidnapped

CHAPTER XII - Fingerprints

CHAPTER XIII - The Picklock

CHAPTER XIV - Time to Act !

CHAPTER XV - Prisoners

CHAPTER XVI - Double Trouble

CHAPTER XVII - The Wreck

CHAPTER XVIII - Holding a Suspect

CHAPTER XIX - Closing In

CHAPTER XX - The Trap

THE SECRET PANEL

ANOTHER exciting mystery begins for Frank and Joe Hardy when they help a stranger who has had an accident with his car. The man introduces himself as John Mead, owner of a nearby estate. After he continues on his way, Frank finds an odd-looking house key which belongs to Mead. But when the Hardys try to return to it, they learn that John Mead died five years ago! They are even more amazed when they find that the intricately carved doors in the dead man’s deserted mansion have no visible knobs or keylocks.

While working on this mystery, the boys assist their detective father in tracking down a highly organized ring of thieves who are robbing warehouses of television and stero equipment.

What happens when Frank and Joe discover that there is a link between Mr. Hardy’s case and the mysterious Mead mansion will keep the reader on edge with thrills and suspense.

Behind the desk lay Chet Morton, bound and gagged!

Copyright © 1974, 1969, 1946 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07639-2

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Startling Discovery

“STOP!”

Eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy jammed on the car brakes.

“What’s the matter with that driver?” his brother Joe asked excitedly.

Racing down the hill toward them was a car evidently out of control. It zigzagged wildly from one side of the road to the other. Any moment it might crash head-on into the boys’ convertible!

“Better back up!” Joe cried. “Look!”

The oncoming automobile swerved sharply, then dived into a ditch. At the same moment the left front wheel came off and rolled down the hill. Afraid that the wheel might bounce up on their open car, the boys scrambled out and jumped a fence to safety. The heavy wheel missed their convertible by inches and toppled over.

“Whew, that was a close one!” Frank remarked. “I wonder if the driver was hurt.”

“We’d better find out,” urged Joe, starting to run. He was blond and a year younger than his dark-haired brother.

When the Hardys reached the car, the driver, a lean man in his thirties, was still holding the steering wheel and seemed badly shaken.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked.

The stranger nodded slowly. “I think so. But I was never so scared in my whole life.” He spoke with a British accent.

“I can imagine,” Joe said.

“Shouldn’t have let that boy in the garage change the tire,” the man continued. “His boss was out and obviously he didn’t know what he was doing. I might have been killed!”

Frank and Joe agreed. “Can we help you fix the car?” Frank asked.

“That’d be awfully decent of you. My name’s John Mead.”

The boys introduced themselves.

“The sons of the famous detective?” Mead asked, surprised. “I just read something in the paper about your father.”

Joe nodded, then went to retrieve the wheel. Mead got out of the car and with Frank surveyed the lopsided automobile.

“I think we can get her back on the road,” Frank observed. “Hey, Joe, give us a hand, will you?”

Together they righted the car, then Mead got a jack and tools out of the trunk. Soon they had the wheel fastened again, and the Englishman started the engine.

“It’s running fine,” he said, relieved. “You chaps have been a great help. Thanks a lot. My home is on the north shore of Barmet Bay, a couple of miles from Bayport. Will you come and see me some time? I should be back in a week or so.”

“We’ll do that, sir,” Frank replied with a grin. “Good luck!”

He and Joe pushed Mead’s car out of the ditch, then the stranger drove off.

Joe stretched. “That’s enough heavy work for one day,” he said. “We’re supposed to be on summer vacation!” Suddenly he stopped short. “Hey, Frank, take a look at this!”

“What is it?”

“A key. Sure looks funny.”

Frank examined the large, strange-shaped object that Joe had picked up from the spot where the car had turned over.

“It must belong to Mead,” he said. “Maybe we’d better take it over to his house later.”

“He won’t be there for a week, Frank.”

“I know, but someone else might. Come on. Let’s go.”

On the way home they talked about the Englishman. “Did you notice the odd signet ring he was wearing?” Frank asked. “It reminded me of a square with three spokes.”

“It did look strange,” Joe commented.

When they arrived home they were greeted at the door by their father. Fenton Hardy was a tall, well-built man in his early forties. He had resigned from the New York Police Department years before, and attained fame as an expert detective when he went into private practice.

His sons were following in the elder Hardy’s footsteps and in spite of their young age were excellent sleuths in their own right. Now, as they accompanied their father to his study, they sensed that something had gone wrong. Mr. Hardy frowned deeply as he sat down behind his desk.

Frank dropped into a soft upholstered chair. “What’s the matter, Dad? You don’t look too happy.”

“New case, I bet,” Joe put in.

“Right,” Mr. Hardy said, looking at a typewritten sheet in his hand.

“Can you tell us about it?” Frank asked.

“Yes. I’m investigating a series of burglaries. Television and stereo equipment. Mostly stores and warehouses.”

“Must be an organized gang,” Frank observed.

“No doubt. What baffles me is the way they get in. All of the places have good burglar alarms, but they never go off. On the other hand, there is no evidence that the alarm systems were tampered with.”

“Need help?” Frank offered.

“Not right now.” Mr. Hardy grinned. “But I’ll let you know if I do!”

Frank and Joe were always eager to assist their father on his cases, but often had uncovered mysteries of their own, starting with The Tower Treasure, and most recently the baffling ShortWave Mystery.

Frank stood up. “Well, we have an errand to do.” He pulled the key they had found at the scene of the accident from his pocket. “Look at this, Dad,” he said. “Strange, isn’t it?”

“It’s odd all right,” the detective remarked, examining the ornamental piece of metal. “It must fit a very unusual lock. Where did you get it?”

Frank filled his father in on their adventure, then asked, “Do you know the Mead place?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, we’ll go over and see if someone’s home.”

“Good idea. On the way you can drop off this envelope for Chief Collig, okay?”

“Sure thing, Dad.” Frank took the envelope and the boys left.

At police headquarters they found Chief Collig at the teletype machine, scanning the latest reports.

“Hi, fellows,” he greeted them, sitting back in his chair. He was a vigorous, middle-aged man with iron-gray hair, who worked closely with the Hardys on their various cases. “What’s up?”

Frank handed him the envelope. “Dad asked us to deliver this.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Do you happen to know the Mead place?”

“Yes. Why?”

Frank told how they had met John Mead and found the odd key after he had driven away.

“There’s something funny going on here,” the chief said slowly. “John Mead has been dead for five years and his house has been closed ever since!”

Frank and Joe stared in amazement. “But we saw—” Joe began.

“I don’t know who the man was,” Collig said firmly, “but it couldn’t have been John Mead. He locked up his house for the winter five years ago and headed for Florida. He and his chauffeur were killed in an automobile accident on the way. No one else lived in the house.”

“Perhaps a son—” Frank suggested.

Collig shook his head. “Mead was a bachelor. There was no will, and apparently no relative to claim the estate. So it’s been vacant ever since his death.”

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a telephone call. While waiting for the chief to finish speaking, Frank and Joe discussed the strange situation. If no one lived at the Mead place, who was the man they had met on the road?

“Maybe a con man,” Joe suggested.

“He didn’t look like one,” Frank mused.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re right. I say we go over there and check the place out.”

When Chief Collig finished his telephone conversation, the boys told him their plan.

“Tell you what,” the chief replied, “I’ll send one of my men with you. Somehow I have the feeling that there’s something very wrong about this whole thing and I don’t want you to go alone.” He turned to the intercom and pressed a button. A moment later he spoke into the transmitter.

“Riley, are you busy? I want you to take a trip with Frank and Joe Hardy before you go on your beat.” The chief waited for an answer, then said, “Fine. They’ll be down right away.”

The Hardys thanked Chief Collig and hurried to the door.

“Let me know what you find,” the chief called after them.

Con Riley was no stranger to the Hardy boys. They had worked with him on past mysteries.

“So we’re taking a pleasure jaunt together,” he said, smiling, when they met him at the front desk. The three walked quickly down the front steps and got into the boys’ convertible.

During the ride Frank explained about John Mead and the unusual key.

“That’s weird,” Riley commented, shaking his head.

About twenty minutes out of Bayport, Frank turned off the highway and followed a side road which paralleled Barmet Bay. They drove around to the north shore, and presently came upon two large stone pillars covered with vines. The name MEAD was carved on one.

As they turned into the driveway, Joe said, “The place looks deserted to me.”

A short distance ahead of them was a clump of trees, around which the driveway wound to the stone mansion. The imposing house at the end of the deeply rutted and overgrown road stood about two hundred feet from the water, commanding an unobstructed view of Barmet Bay.

“Quite a place! Too bad it’s so run-down,” Riley mused, noting the closed shutters and uncut, weed-covered lawn.

Frank pulled up close to the front entrance and parked. “Now let’s see what the inside is like,” he said, getting out of the car.

The three strode up the wide stone steps, to the massive front door. Frank took the strange-looking key from his pocket. Suddenly he exclaimed in amazement:

“There’s no knob on the door!”

The others stared in disbelief. “Frank,” Joe said, “there’s not even a keyhole!”

CHAPTER II

The Battered Dory

FRANK, Joe, and Con Riley stared in puzzlement at the heavily carved door.

“This is ridiculous,” Frank said. “There must be a way to open it!”

“Maybe it’s a swinging door,” Riley suggested. He pressed against it, but it did not budge.

“Let’s have a look at the other entrances,” Frank suggested.

The Mead mansion had four outside doors, one on each side. All were ornate, but like the main entrance had no visible knobs, locks, or keyholes.

“What do you make of this?” Frank asked Joe, still shaking his head.

“Looks as if this key doesn’t belong to the house after all,” Joe muttered.

“It might not even have been dropped by our alleged Mr. Mead,” Frank observed. He was thoughtful for a moment, glancing up at the windows. They were shuttered and appeared to be without hinges or fasteners.

“One thing is for sure,” he continued. “The architect who designed this place didn’t like hardware. There must be a keyhole hidden in the carved designs on the doors. Let’s examine them more carefully.”

“You start,” Joe replied. “I want to go down to that boathouse and look it over. Seems like a pretty nice one from here.”

He hurried along a narrow path that led from the mansion to the water. A tangle of bushes and large overgrown flower beds indicated that the grounds had once been beautiful; now they were badly neglected.

The boathouse was locked. Its side door had no knob, keyhole, or other means of opening it. The two windows had closed shutters like those on the house.

“Wonder if there’s a boat inside,” Joe mused. But there was no way of finding out except by swimming under the large rolling door on the water side.

A honking came from the main house and Joe ran back to find Officer Riley with his hand on the horn.

“Sorry, boys,” he said as Frank joined them. “I have to get back on my beat!” He added, “I checked the back door and found absolutely nothing!”

“I found nothing on the east side door,” Frank reported, and then Joe told them about his quick survey of the boathouse.

The Hardys were reluctant to leave, but had no alternative. They climbed into the convertible and headed for Bayport.

When they stopped at headquarters to let Riley off, they were surprised to see their father coming down the steps. They waited to tell him about the strange doors at the Mead mansion, whose owner was reportedly dead.

“Most unusual,” he commented. “We’ll certainly have to look into the matter. No knobs or keyholes, eh?” He gazed into space for a moment, then added, “Let’s talk it over later. Right now I’d like to borrow your car. Mine’s being repaired at the Acme Garage, and I must see a man over in Henryville.”

Frank and Joe got out and started for home on foot. They took a short cut that brought them to the back of their property. Suddenly Frank caught Joe’s arm and whispered:

“Look!”

“What’s up?”

Frank pointed. Crouching at the back door of the Hardy home was a man, apparently picking the lock!

As Joe started to run, Frank grabbed him by the arm. “Hold on!” he warned in a low voice.

“And let the thief get away?”

“If you rush him, he will get away. Let’s sneak up on him!”

Tiptoeing swiftly across the yard, the boys reached the picklock without being heard.

“Say, what’s the idea?” Frank cried out.

Startled, the man jumped and turned to face the Hardys. Bracing themselves for a fight, they were astounded when he made no move to run. Instead, he asked insolently:

“Who do you think you are?”

“We live here,” Joe replied. “And it looks as if we got here just in time, too.”

“I suppose you think I’m a burglar,” said the stranger. “You Hardys think everybody’s a crook. Well, I got a perfect right to be here, so run along and catch a thief somewhere else.”

Frank’s eyes flashed, and Joe could hardly keep his fists under control.

The thin, sneering young man went on, “Mrs. Hardy ordered this lock changed, and I’m here to do it.”

The boys were taken aback. Although this was a plausible answer, it struck them as peculiar, for their mother had not mentioned having any locks changed, and they knew she was not at home.

“Who sent you here?” Frank asked.

“Ben Whittaker. Does that satisfy you?”

Frank and Joe knew old Ben well. He had been Bayport’s leading locksmith and hardware dealer for many years. They wondered how he could tolerate such a disagreeable employee.

A man was picking the lock on the Hardy’s back door

Still suspicious, Joe asked the fellow his name and was told it was Mike Batton. Frank staved out with the workman while Joe went inside and telephoned the Whittaker shop. Ben answered. Yes, Whittaker reported, Mike Batton worked for him. and on his desk pad was an order to change the lock on the Hardvs’ back door at once.

“Will you please describe Mike Batton,” Joe requested.

Mr. Whittaker’s description fitted the young man perfectly. Joe went outdoors again.

“Okay, Batton,” he said. “You win. But I’m sure there’s some mistake. Since you haven’t started your work yet, don’t bother with the lock.”

“That’s okay with me,” the workman growled, and went up the walk to the street without looking back.

“What did you find out?” Frank asked his brother.

Joe told him what Ben Whittaker had said, and added, “His story seems to be on the level, but I’m still not satisfied. I wish Mother would come home so we could ask her.”

But Mrs. Hardy did not return, and after eating lunch, the boys became impatient.

“Why don’t we go down and see Mr. Whittaker?” Frank suggested. “I’d like to find out more about Batton. There’s just no sense in anyone trying to change a lock without even opening the door!”

“Right!” agreed Joe. “And say, we might ask Mr. Whittaker about the Mead place. Maybe he’s seen the strange doors there, and knows whether the key we have fits any hidden locks in them.”

The Hardvs started down the street. They had gone only three blocks when their chubby friend Chet Morton jumped out of a yellow sedan which stopped briefly and then went on. He was munching an apple.

“Hi, fellows,” he greeted them. “I was on my way to your house. Phil gave me a ride. Going anywhere special?”

“Well, sort of,” Joe replied. “Why?”

“Put it off,” Chet insisted importantly. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“What is it?”

“Come with me to Water Street and you’ll see,” Chet said mysteriously.

Frank winked at Joe. They were always secretly amused by their friend’s great enthusiasm for any new interest. Chet lived on a farm just outside of Bayport, and when he was not helping the Hardys on a mystery, he was constantly developing any one of a dozen different hobbies.

Frank and Joe wondered what Chet was up to this time.

At Water Street their friend turned down a lane leading to the shore of Barmet Bay. Frank and Joe followed as he walked onto a dilapidated dock, stopping at the edge.

“There she is,” Chet said proudly, pointing. “Pretty swell, eh?”

Chained and padlocked to a pile was a heavy dory. It was nicked and scarred, and badly in need of paint. Altogether, the boat did not look very seaworthy. It had a motor, but the Hardys guessed from its age that it would not run.

“My craft’s not as fancy as the Sleuth,” Chet declared, “but I can go fishing now any time I want.”

The Sleuth was the Hardys’ sleek, powerful speedboat. They had paid for it with reward money they had received for successfully solving a past mystery.

“Do you own this boat?” Frank asked in astonishment.

“Yep. Bought ’er only an hour ago. She’s the Bloodhound!”

“How about a ride up the bay?” Joe asked, grinning.

“Sure thing,” Chet answered enthusiastically. “You fellows start the engine while I get the oars. They’re in that boathouse over there. Came with the Bloodhound in case of emergency.”

As their friend ran off, Frank and Joe inspected the ancient motor, which had to be cranked by hand. They turned it over until their arms ached. Then they tried priming the engine with gasoline from the spare can, but it refused even to sputter.

When Chet returned and heard the bad news, he did not seem at all downcast. The boy said confidently that with a little work, the motor would go.

“Can’t understand it, though,” he remarked. “That fellow assured me it was in good running order.”

“What fellow?” asked Joe.

“The one who sold me the boat.” After a moment’s reflection, Chet added, “But I suppose I should have tried it first to see that everything was all right.”

Frank and Joe made no comment. They knew that Chet was a bright boy, but usually his hindsight was better than his foresight.

“Let’s go for a ride, anyway,” Chet urged.

It was agreed that the boys would take turns rowing. Chet started.

Presently Frank, seated in the bow, noticed a built-in metal box. He tried to raise the lid, but it was locked.

“What’s in here?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Chet replied. “Haven’t looked yet.”

“Got a key?”

Sheepishly the boy admitted that none had come with the boat. He said he would be sure to ask for one when the man brought the registration and bill of sale.

“When are you going to see the fellow?” Joe asked.

“In an hour. He had to get the papers at the bank,” Chet answered, starting to puff. “How about one of you taking a turn at the oars?”

Frank got up to take Chet’s place. Suddenly he was thrown off balance by the rocking of the boat. The water, which had been calm when they started out, was now very choppy. Waves slapped furiously against the side of the Bloodhound.

Chet quickly pulled the boat around so the next wave would strike it head-on. But the old dory gave a convulsive shudder and a torrent of water came rushing into it.

“We’ve sprung a leak!” Joe cried.

He had hardly finished the sentence when two of the seams split wide open, and water gushed through them.

“Jump!” Frank warned. “Jump!”

As the dory began to sink, the Hardys dived overboard. Chet seemed paralyzed for the moment. Only when the water reached his waist did he rouse himself and leap from the boat.

Grimly the three set out for shore, as the Bloodhound sank to the bottom of Barmet Bay in twelve feet of water. Swimming was difficult in the rough sea but finally they reached the dock. Chet sat down and held his head in his hands. He was sad and chagrined, and almost exhausted.

“It’s a shame,” Frank said. “Wish we could help you, Chet.”

“Guess there’s nothing we can do,” the boy muttered. “All my hard-earned money gone.”

“Maybe not. The fellow who sold you the dory ought to make good on it.”

“You’re right!” Chet cried, jumping up. “When he comes, I’m going to tell him his old boat wasn’t worth a cent!”

Although the boys waited until their clothes dried, the stranger, whom Chet described as a dark-haired, stocky man of about thirty, did not appear. Chet had become more dejected by the moment, but suddenly he brightened.

“You can find that guy for me!” he said to the Hardys. “You’re detectives.”

“Why do you need a detective to find him?” Joe asked.

“‘Cause I—’cause I don’t know who he is!”

“You don’t know? You mean you bought a boat without finding out the owner’s name?”

“’Fraid so,” Chet said sadly.

“Maybe the fellow didn’t even own the boat. He might have rented it—or even stolen it,” Frank mused.

Chet turned pale. “Then I—I’d be liable!”

“We’d better find him,” Joe said determinedly.

The old man in charge of the boathouse was very sympathetic when he heard their story. He scratched his head thoughtfully, then said:

“Mebbe I kin help you at that.”

“You can?” Chet cried. “How?”

“Seems to me the feller that sold you the boat said he was agoin’ to git one o’ them express buses out o’ Bayport just about now.”

“Wow!” yelled Joe. “Maybe we can catch him!”

The three boys ran all the way to the bus terminal. Chet was red-faced and puffing by the time they reached the building, only to find that the bus had pulled out a few minutes before.

“What’s the next stop?” Joe inquired at the ticket office.

“Lewiston.”

Joe reported this to the others, adding, “Lewiston’s ten miles from here.”

“Can’t do anything without a car,” Frank said.

“We might use Dad’s,” Joe suggested.

“We must find that man!” Chet urged. “I’ll buy you gas, and I’ll—”

The Acme garage was in the next block and the three boys raced there. Fortunately Mr. Hardy’s car was ready. With Frank at the wheel, they drove off at once. Reaching the outskirts of Bayport, they headed westward. Just as they came into Lewiston, the boys caught up with the bus.

“You get on, Chet, and find your man,” Frank suggested as the driver stopped in the center of town.

“Wh-what’ll I say to him?” Chet asked helplessly.

“You want your money back, don’t you?” Joe asked. “Hurry!”

Excited and worried, Chet got out of the car and boarded the bus.

CHAPTER III

Disturbing Developments

“MAYBE we ought to go help Chet,” Frank said to Joe, observing that their friend seemed to be having an argument with the bus driver.

The man had no intention of delaying his trip while the inquisitive youth looked over the passengers.

“If you want to go back there, pay your fare!” the man demanded.

“But I don’t want to ride,” the stout boy said. “I just want to see—”

“Give me the fare or get off!”

Just then Frank appeared at the door of the bus. He inquired in a long-winded manner what the next stop would be, and how often the express buses ran. Chet took the cue: His friend was trying to gain time for him. He stepped farther back into the bus. In his excitement the stout boy came down hard on a woman’s foot.

“Ow!” she cried out angrily, attracting everybody’s attention.

The driver turned to Chet. “Hey, you! Get off this bus!”

In despair Chet, who had not yet seen all the passengers, was about to produce the fare when Joe put one foot up on the platform. He pretended to push Frank aside, and asked the driver:

“What time do you get to Ellsville?”

“This bus doesn’t go to Ellsville.”

“Then how do I get there?” Joe looked puzzled.

The driver was in a rather bad humor by now. “Guess you’ll have to walk,” he answered gruffly, then turned to Chet. “Are you riding or getting off?”

“I’m getting off. And thanks!”

The three boys hopped to the curb as the driver slammed the door and pulled away.

They walked slowly toward their car. Chet reported sadly that the man who had sold him the dory was not on the bus.

“What’ll I do now?” he asked anxiously.

Frank placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What say we get the Sleuth and inquire up and down Barmet Bay about your boat? Maybe we can find out where it came from.”

“Great!” Chet said, looking relieved. “Let’s go!”

They headed toward Bayport. Reaching the shore, they drove directly to the Hardys’ private dock.

After parking the car and opening the seaward doors of the boathouse, the three climbed aboard the sleek motorboat.

“Which way shall we go?” asked Joe as soon as they were all seated. He took the wheel and headed the Sleuth into deeper water.

“I’d say toward the ocean,” Frank replied. “Chet’s boat was a fishing dory, and probably was owned by someone who went out to sea in her.”

“Hear that, Chet?” Joe said with a wink. “Frank’s got his old logic working again.”

“Wish I had his brains,” Chet replied.

Frank laughed, and the craft sped up the coast. The boys inquired at every house and dock for a mile along the waterfront, but no one knew anything about the dory.

“Let’s head for the other side and see what we can find out,” Chet suggested.

Joe steered the Sleuth across the bay. As he neared the opposite shore, he called attention to the property which lay just ahead.

“It’s the Mead place,” he explained to Chet. “We haven’t had time to tell you about the mystery we ran into this morning.”

Chet listened wide-eyed as the Hardys told him about the car which had lost a wheel and the driver who had used the name of a dead man, and the strange key. At this point in the story Frank suddenly cried out, “I’ve lost it!”

“Lost what?” Chet asked.

“The key!” Frank was frantically searching through his pockets.

Joe stared at his brother anxiously. Finally he said, “Maybe you left it at home.”

“No. I wish I had,” Frank answered, giving a groan. “I guess it fell from my pocket when we dived out of Chet’s boat.”

“Well, it probably doesn’t belong to the Mead doors, anyway,” Joe said.

“Just the same, I wish I hadn’t lost it,” Frank muttered.

“I’d like to see those doors,” Chet announced. “Let’s tie up and have a look.”

Joe cut the motor and allowed the Sleuth to drift to shore. Here he made it fast to the dock adjoining the Mead boathouse. The boys got out and walked to the side door.

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “This really is a mystery! Even the boathouse door has no keyhole or knob.”

“Wait until you see the mansion,” Joe said with a grin. “Come on!”

The Hardys led the way and their friend looked in bewilderment at the heavily carved rear door.

“Are they all this fancy?” he wanted to know.

“Yes. Each has a different design, though,” Frank replied.

“And none has any apparent way to get in,” Joe added. “Queer, eh?”

As the boys rounded the house to inspect the front entrance, they heard a car coming along the driveway. Frank and Joe thought it might be the man who called himself John Mead, so they waited. But the car was not Mead’s. Before the boys could get a look at the driver he backed around the curve and turned back.

“Well, what do you make of that?” cried Joe.

“Either somebody lost his way, or didn’t want to meet us,” Frank replied.

He ran forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the car’s license plate, but it was almost out of sight. When it reached the highway, it roared off in the direction of Bayport.

Frank glanced at his watch, noting the time for possible future reference. “Four-thirty,” he stated.

“Oh, oh,” Chet cried, “I’m supposed to meet my mother at five downtown!”

The three boys hurried to the boathouse and jumped into the Sleuth. Frank sent it skimming across the water, and ten minutes later they alighted in Bayport.

After housing the Sleuth, the trio got into Mr. Hardy’s car and Frank took Chet to the place where he was to meet his mother. Luckily Mrs. Morton was not waiting yet.

Chet jumped out and waved good-by. “See you tomorrow, fellows. And don’t forget to work on my case!”

“Don’t worry,” Frank called out to his friend, then headed home.

Mrs. Hardy, a slim, attractive woman, was in the kitchen mixing batter for popovers, and from the oven came the appetizing aroma of roast beef.

“Smells good,” Frank said, grinning. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

“That’s my secret,” his mother replied with a smile.

“Speaking of secrets,” Joe began, “I wish you wouldn’t keep so many to yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Hardy was puzzled.

The boys told her of the man who had been about to change the back-door lock, and that they had stopped him.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you did!” their mother exclaimed. “There must be a mistake. I didn’t phone Ben Whittaker.”

“We didn’t think you had,” replied Frank. “Let’s go right down there and find out what that guy Batton is up to. Come on, Joe.”

“Okay, but be back in time for dinner.”

“We will.”

A few minutes later Frank and Joe parked in front of Ben Whittaker’s store. He was just closing the shop, but smiled at the boys as he let them in.

“Has Mike Batton gone for the day?” Frank asked.

“Yes. In fact, he didn’t come back here after he went out on some errands a few hours ago.”

“Mr. Whittaker,” Joe asked, “have you found Batton to be entirely honest?”

The locksmith looked startled. “Why—ah—yes,” he answered. “What’s on your mind, boys?”

They told the elderly man about finding his assistant changing the back-door lock on the Hardy house without authorization.

Mr. Whittaker looked concerned and went immediately to his desk.

“Here’s the order,” he said, holding up a pad.

“May I see it?” Frank asked.

Whittaker handed him the pad. Written on it was “Hardy—back-door lock” and under it “Mrs. Eccles.” Frank suggested that the locksmith call Mrs. Eccles to see if she had left an order to have her lock changed.

Mr. Whittaker apprehensively made the call. His expression became more grave as he spoke with Mrs. Eccles. When he finally hung up, he said in a weary voice:

“She’s very upset. She never ordered any lock-work either, but her lock was changed while she was out shopping. And when she returned, two hundred dollars was missing from her desk drawer!”

Mr. Whittaker paced up and down, completely baffled. “I can’t understand it. Batton came with excellent references.”

“How long has he worked here?” Frank asked.

“I hired him just about a week ago. Needed help badly and—” The man’s voice trailed off.

“Where does he live?” Joe asked.

“In a boardinghouse on Dover Street. I’ll call him.”

The woman who answered the phone said Batton was out and had left word he would not be back until late that evening.

The locksmith looked strained and tired, so the boys left. “We’ll call you if we hear anything, Mr. Whittaker,” Frank said. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“Yes. My employee is a thief,” Mr. Whittaker said sadly and locked the shop door. “Thanks, boys.”

Both Frank and Joe felt uneasy as they drove home, and were more suspicious of Batton than before. One mistake might happen, but hardly two of the same kind. And what about the money?

“What I can’t understand,” said Joe, “is this. If Batton is a thief, why did he pick our house? The Eccles are pretty wealthy, but we’re not.”

“It’s a puzzler, all right,” Frank agreed. “I’m still inclined to think that Batton never intended to put a new lock on our door; he just planned to get into the house. But why? In any event, he covered himself nicely with that false order on the phone pad.”

When the boys reached home they learned that Mr. Hardy would not return until the next morning. Mrs. Hardy and her sons sat down to dinner and during the meal Frank and Joe told her everything that had happened that day.

“Looks as if you have two or three mysteries on your hands,” their mother said with a smile when they had finished their report. “Which one will you work on first?”

“All of them at once,” Joe replied with a grin.

“Sometime tomorrow,” Frank said, “I want to dive for that lost key. I meant to ask Mr. Whittaker if he knew anything about the Mead place, but didn’t have the heart to. He was so upset.”

“You have another big day ahead of you,” Mrs. Hardy said. “Better go to bed early.”

Frank and Joe followed her advice, and their mother also retired at ten o’clock. It was past midnight that she was awakened by the doorbell.

She called out to the boys, who had heard it too and had come from their room. “I’ll see who it is,” Joe offered, putting on his robe and bedroom slippers.

As he spoke, the bell rang again. This time the caller kept a finger on the button. Frank and Joe hurried downstairs.

Mrs. Hardy was right behind them and warned the boys to be cautious. Before opening the door, Frank snapped on the porch light and looked out the glass panel.

Joe peered over his shoulder. “Do you know her?” he asked his brother, pointing to the visitor.

Frank shook his head.

Outside stood a strange woman, fidgeting nervously. She wore a faded pink hat over her short blond hair. A black coat had been thrown carelessly over her slim shoulders. As Frank slowly opened the door, she pushed it in excitedly.

“Where’s Mr. Hardy?” she cried in a shrill, hysterical voice. “I’ve got to see him right away!”

CHAPTER IV

The Traffic Signal Clue

THE distraught woman continued frantically, “I’ve got to see Mr. Hardy. Right away. Where is he?”

Mrs. Hardy turned on a light in the living room and led the visitor to a chair.

“Please sit down,” she said kindly. “Mr. Hardy isn’t here at the moment, but perhaps we can help you.”

“Oh, no! Only Mr. Hardy can help me,” the stranger cried. “He’s got to help my Lenny. I’ll spend every cent of my savings if I have to.”

“Lenny is your son?” Frank asked.

“Yes. He’s a good boy. In all his eighteen years he never did wrong.”

“Where is he?” Joe inquired.

“That’s just it. I don’t know.”

“Have you been to the police?”

The woman gave a shriek. “Police? I should say not! They wouldn’t understand. They might put Lenny in jail. That never happened to a Stryker and it’s not gonna happen now!”

As the woman paused for breath, Frank inquired if she was Mrs. Stryker. The caller nodded, adding that she was a widow and Lenny was her only child.

“I’m sorry you’re in trouble,” said Mrs. Hardy. “When Mr. Hardy returns tomorrow—”

The caller wrung her hands. “Tomorrow? I was hoping he could do something tonight. You see, I got a message from Lenny just a little while ago, and something ought to be done right away. He said the gang nearly got caught, and he’d been shot in the leg.”

“Shot!” chorused the three Hardys, and Frank added, “What Lenny needs is a doctor.”

“He needs a detective too!” Mrs. Stryker moaned. She did not know where Lenny was, and was afraid he would not receive proper care. “That’s why I want Mr. Hardy to find him.”

“Did your son give you any hint about where he is?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I think so. I’ll tell you all I know.”

The boys leaned forward in their chairs, waiting intently for the woman’s story. She told them her son had acted mysteriously lately, and that she suspected he had fallen into bad company. He had gone out earlier that night. Then, at eleven-thirty he had telephoned, saying he had been shot.

“And you don’t have any idea whom he went out with?” Frank inquired.

“No. But Lenny mumbled some funny words on the phone,” Mrs. Stryker explained. “Two of them sounded like ‘secret panel.’ Then the connection was cut off.”

Secret panel!

Frank and Joe looked at each other. It was a clue, all right, but where could one start to investigate? Though the boys quizzed Mrs. Stryker for fifteen minutes, she could shed no more light on the subject. At last she stood up to go, disappointed because the Hardys could give her no immediate help.

“But you promise to tell Mr. Hardy about it the minute he comes in tomorrow?” she begged.

“Yes, we will,” Frank assured her.

The woman wrote down her address and went out into the night.

“Poor soul,” Mrs. Hardy said, and all three went upstairs and back to bed.

Fenton Hardy arrived home before breakfast the next morning and listened attentively to the story of Lenny Stryker. His face grew grave.

“It seems this boy has really gotten himself mixed up with a rough crowd.”

“You sound as if you know who they are, Dad,” Frank remarked.

“I have a suspicion,” Mr. Hardy began. “Come on. I’ll tell you about it over breakfast.”

As the family sat down at the dining-room table, they heard the screech of brakes and the slam of a car door. Moments later the bell rang.

Frank answered it and was surprised to see their father’s close friend Dr. William Gardner.

“Is your Dad home?” Dr. Gardner asked quickly. He was middle-aged and seemed very agitated. As Mr. Hardy came into the hall, he went on, “I’ve just talked to the police, Fenton, and Chief Collig thought you ought to know, too, about what happened.”

“Suppose we go to my study, Bill.”

The detective led the way upstairs and motioned Frank and Joe to follow.

“Thank you,” Dr. Gardner said and sat down in a chair. “My troubles are over; at least I hope they are. But something must be done to punish the culprits.” He lowered his voice. “Last night I was kidnapped!”

“What!” Frank exclaimed.

“Yes,” the doctor went on. “I was leaving the hospital about ten-thirty when two men came up and ordered me into a car at gunpoint. They promised I wouldn’t be harmed if I did as I was told.”

“What did they look like?” Joe inquired.

“I have no idea,” Dr. Gardner replied. “Everything happened too fast. I really didn’t notice.”

He told how he had been blindfolded, then driven some place in the car, forced to get out and enter a building. When the blindfold was removed, he found himself in a room with several masked men.

“They were taking no chances,” remarked Mr. Hardy.

“Right. Even the patient I was to treat had his face covered,” Dr. Gardner went on.

“Where was the bullet?” Frank asked excitedly.

“In his right leg.”

The Hardys exchanged quick glances. Could the patient have been Lenny Stryker? To their questions the physician replied that the man’s leg was the only part of his body he had seen uncovered, and that there was no distinguishing mark on it which could be used as a means of identification.

“All I can say is that he’s very young, and has a lot of grit. He didn’t cry out once!”

“What did the room look like, Bill?” Mr. Hardy questioned. “Would you say you got into it through a panel?”

“I could see very little in the room. It was dark except around the patient. One of the men held a lamp so I could work,” Dr. Gardner replied. “It seemed as if the room had no windows, or if there were any, they were well covered. As for the secret panel, I really couldn’t say.”

“Tell me about how long you spent riding to and from the place, and if you noticed anything unusual on the way,” Mr. Hardy requested.

Dr. Gardner was thoughtful for a minute. “I don’t know how accurate I may be,” he mused, “but I’d say we went about thirty miles an hour. One thing does come to mind. About ten minutes before reaching the place, we stopped briefly.”

“What for?”

“A traffic light, I think. I noticed a humming sound as we waited—almost a singing noise. It could have been the signal. Sometimes they do hum, you know. It was the same on the trip back to the hospital, where they finally let me go. Is this information at all helpful?”

“It’s a good clue,” Mr. Hardy said enthusiastically. “Suppose you follow it, boys.”

“All right,” Joe answered. “First thing this morning!”

Dr. Gardner wished the Hardys luck on the search. After he had gone, Mr. Hardy called Chief Collig, who told him that he had advised all the hospitals in the area to warn their staffs to be on guard. The police chief said he would inform the Hardys the minute he heard of any new development. Then the detective turned to his sons.

“Stop by Mrs. Stryker’s house sometime today and tell her I’ll try to find Lenny,” he said. “It looks as if he may be involved with the same gang I’m hunting for.”

Frank and Joe stared in surprise.

“There’s a wanted criminal by the name of Whitey Masco, who’s been in hiding for a long time,” Mr. Hardy went on. “He was involved in some bank robberies and is suspected to be the mastermind of a big gang.”

“What makes you think Lenny has anything to do with him?”

“Last night another appliance warehouse was broken into. Just as the thieves were leaving, the watchman, whom they had knocked out earlier, regained consciousness and saw someone running away. He fired a shot, and it’s just possible he hit Lenny Stryker.”

“Why didn’t the thieves take the guard’s gun?”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “Maybe they gave that job to Lenny and he couldn’t handle it. Well, we’d better eat breakfast and start on our projects.”

He led the way back to the dining room. “I have an appointment with an FBI man, and you have—”

Just then someone slammed the kitchen screen door, and a cheery voice called out, “Hello.”

It was Chet. He sniffed the air, looked at a platter of bacon and eggs, and grinned.

“Hi, Chet. You’re just in time,” said Joe. “I bet you haven’t had a thing to eat for an hour.”

Chet pretended not to hear the gibe. He walked into the dining room and drew up a chair.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said brightly.

As the family greeted him, he went on, “I’ve had my breakfast, but I could eat one of those bananas.” He reached into the fruit basket. Everyone laughed.

The Hardys were just finishing breakfast when the doorbell rang. Frank went to answer it. To his surprise he found his Aunt Gertrude standing outside.

“Well, let me in!” she said, giving him a quick kiss before he picked up her suitcase. “Where is everybody?”

Without waiting for an answer, the unpredictable Miss Hardy went on, “They’re still at the breakfast table, I’ll bet!” She strode into the dining room and greeted the others.

“Laura, how can you stand to have meals at all hours? Well, things will be different now that I’m here!”

Frank, Joe, and even Chet knew this only too well. Aunt Gertrude, though she loved her famous brother’s family, always made a point of trying to improve their habits.

The tall, energetic spinster ruled with an iron fist, at least on the surface, and the boys had learned not to argue with her.

“Hello, Gertrude,” Mrs. Hardy said with a smile as her husband got up to greet his sister. “We didn’t expect you home until tomorrow. Tell us, how did you get here? We would have come for you if we had known your plans.”

Miss Hardy, who had been away for two weeks visiting friends, said that she had decided to return earlier than planned.

“I called a couple of times from the airport, but couldn’t get you. Your telephone was forever busy. So I took a taxi. Thought I’d surprise you.”

“Well, let me help you unpack.”

Joe picked up his aunt’s suitcase and followed the two women to Aunt Gertrude’s room, when the telephone rang. Frank answered.

It was Ben Whittaker, the locksmith. “Can you come over right away?” He sounded distressed.

“What’s up?” Frank wanted to know.

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Please hurry!”

“Okay.” Frank hung up, and when Joe came downstairs, told him of the strange conversation.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!” Joe said.

Briefly, Frank explained their errand to his parents. Chet had not eaten all he would have liked to, but he thought it wise to leave with his pals. Any moment now Miss Hardy might start trying to reform his eating habits!

The three boys went outside and scrambled into the convertible. A moment later they were on their way. When they arrived at Mr. Whittaker’s shop, they found the locksmith in a state of extreme anxiety.

“Mike Batton hasn’t come back. I phoned his house, and they told me that he’s moved out. Nobody knows where he’s gone!”

CHAPTER V

A Futile Search

FRANK and Joe listened to the shopkeeper’s surprising announcement and were startled when he continued:

“Even worse, I’ve discovered that all the money we took in yesterday is missing from the cash register!”

“Oh, oh,” Joe said. “Looks as if Batton is a thief, all right.”

“Yes,” the locksmith went on. “I’ve notified the police. But the thing I’m most upset about is that my reputation is at stake. I’ve been in business for forty years and nobody ever had any reason to question my integrity before. And it’s all Mike Batton’s doing!”

“What happened?” Chet asked.

“Mrs. Eccles phoned a few minutes ago and wants her money back. Furthermore, Batton changed another lock yesterday, for the Petersons, and they report that a valuable bracelet and a hundred dollars in cash are missing!”

Frank suggested that surely his customers would realize he was not responsible for the loss of their valuables. To take the worried man’s mind off his troubles, Frank asked him if he knew John Mead, who had owned the mansion that had no locks.

“I did,” Mr. Whittaker replied. “Nice man. That was a terrible accident. He and the chauffeur were killed instantly.”

“Please tell us about him,” Joe said.

“Well, at one time he was a partner in a big hardware concern in New York,” the locksmith revealed. “He once told me he vowed to build himself a house without a single lock or keyhole when he retired. He was so tired of looking at locks he never wanted to see another one in his whole life!”

Whittaker went on to say that he had spent several evenings at the Mead mansion with the hardware manufacturer, discussing locksmithing problems. Mead had been extremely clever and inventive, but a little eccentric. He had never mentioned having any family, and no will had been found after his death. So far as Whittaker knew, no one had claimed the estate.

“Don’t any of the doors at the mansion have locks on them?” Chet asked in awe.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Whittaker said, smiling. “They all do, but they’re cleverly concealed.”

“Do you know where?”

“No. He installed them himself.”

After thanking the locksmith for the information and agreeing to do what they could to help in the search for Mike Batton, the boys left the shop.

“Now what?” Chet asked.

“We could go over to Mrs. Stryker and see if she’s heard any more from Lenny,” Frank suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “Want to come along, Chet?”

“Sure do.”

Frank drove to a shabby, run-down section of Bayport. They located the Strykers’ apartment building, and Chet stayed in the car while Frank and Joe went inside. They found the place to be clean and tidy. Lenny’s mother greeted them.

“Have you any news of my boy?” she asked, her eyes lighting up hopefully.

Frank shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We do have a clue, though. A doctor came to our house this morning and said he had been kidnapped last night to take care of a young man who had been shot in the leg.”

“It must have been Lenny!” the woman cried out. “Where is he? I’ll go at once.”

“Dr. Gardner couldn’t tell us where he had been taken because he was blindfolded. However, he gave us a good clue. Don’t worry, Mrs. Stryker. The doctor said the boy he treated was all right. If it’s Lenny, we’ll find him.”

“Does the name Whitey Masco mean anything to you?” Joe asked.

The woman shook her head. “Nothing. Who is he?”

“Just a name that came up. Probably has nothing to do with Lenny,” Frank assured her. Then the boys left.

When they reached the car, Chet was not in it. They spied him at a nearby street intersection. He was looking up intently at the traffic light, his head cocked to one side. When he saw Frank and Joe, he ran toward them.

“Well, that one doesn’t sing,” Chet declared as he got into the car.

“Let’s investigate some others,” Joe said.

The three boys drove without success from one traffic light to another. Just as they were about to stop for the day, Frank cried, “Listen!”

A traffic signal hung high above the pavement at the intersection of two wide streets. A distinct humming sound came from it as the automatic timer changed the lights.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Joe cried excitedly. “Dr. Gardner said he was driven for about ten minutes from a singing signal. Which direction shall we take first?”

It was decided to go north at the rate of thirty miles an hour, as the physician had estimated.

“Stop!” Joe called.

Chet’s face broke into a broad smile. They were directly in front of a roadside restaurant.

“Well, fellows,” he said, “you two can go hunting for kidnapping gangsters and secret panels all you like. I’m going to eat!”

A sign advertising lunches and dinners swung from a post in front of a small white cottage. Flowered curtains hung at the windows and rose-bushes were in bloom along the walk.

“Doesn’t look like a hideout for thieves,” said Joe, disappointed.

Frank pointed out that the attractive front might be only a cover for some sinister doings inside. He insisted they find out, adding:

“Guess we all could eat, anyway. Let’s go in. I’ll telephone and tell Mother we won’t be home for lunch.”

The woman who owned the restaurant prepared a delicious meal for the boys, while they looked around. They saw the entire cottage, even the basement, for the owner proudly showed them her preserve closet. There was nothing the least bit suspicious about the house.

As the boys were driving away some time later, Chet, almost too full to speak, congratulated Frank on his cleverness in arriving at such an inviting destination.

“Only our stop didn’t net us anything except a good meal,” Frank reminded him.

He drove back to the humming traffic light, then headed in a westerly direction. At the end of ten minutes, the boys came to a ball field. They returned once more to the signal, and Joe pointed out that the easterly direction would take them directly into the bay.

“Our last chance to find out where Dr. Gardner was taken is to drive south,” he remarked.

As they reached a congested business section of Bayport ten minutes later, Frank suggested that they separate. “Joe, suppose you take this street. I’ll go over to Wallace. Chet, how about you taking Schuyler Street?”

Chet started off enthusiastically, but after being shooed out of a laundry, icily dismissed from a beauty shop, and practically thrown out of a soda bottling factory, he was ready to quit. He walked back to the car. Joe, who had had no better luck, was waiting for him.

“Frank must be on a hot trail,” Joe decided, when half an hour went by and his brother had not returned.

At that moment Frank was hiding in the dimly lighted cellar of a warehouse. He had followed a tip given to him by a small boy—that rough-looking men had been seen leaving and entering the building with large packages, at all hours of the day and night.

Frank was watching the operator who had just stepped from a freight elevator. Reaching the far wall of the cellar, the man leaned down and evidently worked a catch. A large door slid open and he disappeared behind it. He returned almost immediately, however, closed the door, and went back to the elevator.

As soon as it had clanged upward, Frank came out of his hiding place and approached the sliding door. Perhaps this was the secret panel!

He found the catch and slowly pushed against it with his knee. The door opened. The place beyond was in total darkness.

Whipping out his flashlight, Frank played its beam around the room. Then, muttering in disgust, he quickly left the basement. He made his way from the building and returned to the car.

“Did you find anything?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Yes. A huge refrigerator. It was empty except for the elevator operator’s lunch!”

The others laughed when Frank related how he had thought Lenny Stryker might be hidden in the warehouse.

“That reminds me,” Chet said, looking at his watch. “I’d better go. I have to pick up some groceries on the way home.”

Frank sighed. “The humming signal clue seems to have petered out,” he declared. “I guess there’s no use doing any more about it now.”

The Hardys stopped at a supermarket where Chet made his purchases, then drove their friend home. As they headed toward their own house, Joe had an idea.

“It’s still early. Why don’t we go for a swim and combine a little business with pleasure?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“How about diving for Mr. Mead’s key?”

“Swell,” Frank agreed. “We’ll stop at the house and get our swim trunks.”

Frank parked the car in front of their home, instead of going into the garage. Aunt Gertrude, sitting on the porch, remarked about this at once. She wanted to know where the boys were going, and why.

Joe’s reply that they were working on a mystery satisfied her for the moment. But when they could not find their swim trunks, and had to ask Miss Hardy about them, she eyed her nephews distrust-fully.

“Whoever heard of solving a mystery in a bathing suit!” she scoffed. “I declare, what excuses boys won’t think of nowadays to escape doing chores around the house.”

Joe and Frank smiled as she found their trunks for them, and with a disapproving look on her face, watched them go off.

Frank drove to the boathouse where the Sleuth was moored. He and Joe hung their clothes on hooks, donned their trunks, and headed the craft out into Barmet Bay. It took them some time to locate the place where they thought Chet’s ill-fated boat had gone down.

The man disappeared behind the sliding door

“I’ll go over first,” Frank offered.

He made a clean, deep dive from the stern of the Sleuth. Joe watched the spot where his brother had submerged. When more than a minute had passed and there was no sign of Frank, he became concerned.

Joe leaned far over the side of the boat and looked down into the clear water. Then he stood up and studied the surface of the bay.

Frank was nowhere in sight!

CHAPTER VI

The Strange Symbol

His heart pounding with fright, Joe dived over the side of the boat and into the bay. He went straight to the bottom, and swam around searching for his brother.

Where was Frank?

Finally, when he felt his lungs would burst, Joe had to come up for air. He looked around when his head broke the surface. Still no sign of Frank. Sick at heart, Joe climbed into the Sleuth, gazing about frantically.

Suddenly his pulse quickened. In the distance he saw a swimmer cutting the water with smooth, fast strokes. As the figure grew closer, Joe gave a sigh of relief. Frank!

Panting, Frank grabbed the side of the boat and scrambled aboard.

“Where have you been?” Joe asked anxiously. “You gave me an awful scare!”

“There’s no sign of Chet’s dory below us,” Frank told him. “So I swam around trying to find it. Guess I came up for air when you dived for me. I went farther than I realized. Sorry I worried you.”

“That’s okay. Did you see the Bloodhound?”

“No, but I’m sure it’s somewhere near here.”

Joe started the engine of the Sleuth. Frank gazed down through the water as they made their way slowly. No sunken boat was visible.

“Guess we’ll have to give up,” he said with a sigh. “But sure wish I hadn’t lost the key. Hey, hold it, Joe!”

“See something?” Joe cut the motor.

Both boys leaned over the side of the Sleuth. Below them, on the bottom of Barmet Bay, lay a boat. It was impossible from the surface to identify it as Chet’s. Hopefully Frank dived into the water. Half a minute later he reappeared, reporting that it was indeed the Bloodhound, but that he had not found the lost key.

After talking the matter over, they proceeded to map out a plan for the search. It was decided that Frank would hunt around the bow of the sunken dory, while Joe would take the stern section.

“Then we’ll try midships and the engine,” Frank suggested.

The boys took turns. Their first attempts brought no results, and Frank’s search of the middle part of the Bloodhound did not yield the key, either. They knew that if it had fallen into the shifting sand there would be no chance of finding it. The area around the engine was their last hope.

Joe shot down through the water and grasped the flywheel of the dory’s motor. Feeling around quickly with his free hand, he came upon something wedged tightly between the engine and a crossbeam. Pulling it out, he swam quickly to the surface.

“I found it!” Joe yelled jubilantly, and handed the key to Frank.

Joe wanted to go immediately to the Mead house to try it, but his brother reminded him that Chief Collig did not want them to enter the place without a police escort.

“I’d like to take a really good look at this old boat while we’re here, anyway,” Frank said. “Maybe we can find some identification and get Chet’s money back.”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “You swim along one side, and I’ll take the other. Suppose I go first.”

Joe found nothing, so Frank went over. A few seconds later he came to the surface.

“A mark is carved on the gunwale,” he said excitedly. “It looks exactly like that strange Y we saw on John Mead’s ring!”

Joe was over the side in a flash to look at the carving himself. He came up, climbed into the Sleuth, and started the motor.

“Let’s go tell Chet about this,” he urged as they raced along. “Maybe it’ll help us to find that guy.”

Reaching the boathouse, they scrambled into their clothes and drove home. Joe went immediately to the telephone and called Chet to ask him if he had heard from the former owner of the Bloodhound. Their friend ruefully admitted that he had not.

“I’m afraid I really got gypped,” he said woefully.

“Well, we’ve picked up a clue for you,” Joe said, trying to cheer him up. He told about the odd mark on the dory and the fact that it seemed to be the same as the Y symbol on John Mead’s ring. Chet was amazed, but could figure no connection. His description of the boat seller certainly did not fit the man who had nearly crashed into the Hardys on the road.

“Maybe they both belong to some secret society and the Y is their insigne,” he suggested.

“Possibly,” Joe agreed.

He had hardly hung up the telephone when it started to ring. It was a long-distance call from Mr. Hardy. The detective said he would not be home that night; he was following a new lead on the television thefts.

“How are you making out?” he asked.

Joe related the day’s events, admitting that, up to the moment, the clues they had run down had brought no results. His father took a different view, however, saying the elimination of false clues was a battle half won.

“Don’t be discouraged, son,” he advised. “And visit the Mead house again. I’m certain that if you keep trying you’ll find a keyhole somewhere.”

Encouraged by the advice, the boys told Mrs. Hardy their plans and drove to police headquarters. Chief Collig was just coming down the front steps as they pulled up.

“Have you solved the Mead mystery?” he asked, walking over to their car.

“Wish we had,” Frank responded. “That is why we’re here. We’d like to go there again.”

The chief frowned. “I can’t spare any of my men right now, Frank, and I’d rather you wouldn’t do it alone.”

“We’ll be all right, Frank assured him. ”You know we don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

“Well, tell you what. Go ahead, but call me when you’re finished. If I don’t hear from you within a couple of hours, I’ll send a squad car.”

“Fine. And thanks a lot, Chief.”

Frank started the car, and soon the boys pulled into the Mead driveway. Frank concealed the car far behind the house.

“Just in case,” he said.

“Suppose we take different doors to work on,” Joe suggested. “If you find a way in, yell!”

Frank gave the okay sign, and Joe hurried to the ornate door which faced the water. He surveyed the uniquely carved design critically. There was a keyhole hidden somewhere in the carving. But where?

Closely inspecting the door, Joe started at the right of the panel, pushing at each ridge of the symmetrical design. His search yielded nothing. He tried the left side, without success.

For half an hour he pushed and pulled, growing more puzzled each minute. Finally he tried combinations pressing with both hands on sections of the raised design. Suddenly his efforts were rewarded. Two pieces of molding moved. A keyhole!

“Frank!” he called elatedly. “I’ve found one!”

The tall, dark-haired boy came running. “Great!” he said. “Here, try the key!”

Joe did. A look of disappointment spread over his face. It did not fit.

“Well,” he decided, “I suppose it belongs to another door. Come on!”

They walked to the massive front door which Frank had worked on, and once more went over the intricate design. The upper and lower halves were outlined with a wide border, each containing an inset. At first glance the top inset seemed to depict a huge turtle.

Frank, standing at a little distance, suddenly had an idea. “Say, Joe, that turtle’s legs look almost like the strange Y symbol!”

Joe stepped back a few yards. “You’re right! The two front feet and the right hind one do form a Y, sort of. Wonder if there’s an answer here.”

Frank pressed his palm against the arched back of the turtle. Suddenly the reptile’s right hind foot moved to the side, revealing a large keyhole.

“Look!” he said excitedly, taking the key from Joe and inserting it. “Success!”

Holding his breath, Frank turned the key. There was a clicking sound and the door swung inward on hidden, noiseless hinges.

“Here goes!” Frank whispered as he pocketed the key and stepped over the threshold.

CHAPTER VII

The Mysterious Mansion

WITH a similar thrill of discovery, Joe followed Frank into the dark Mead mansion.

When their eyes became accustomed to the dimness of the shuttered house, the boys gazed around. They were in a large, carpeted entrance hall. The walls were solidly paneled in carved wood, and the Hardys’ flashlights revealed that the inside of the front door had the identical turtle design as the outside.

Slowly they went from room to room, peering through the open doorways. Library, living room, dining room—all were tastefully decorated. But the house smelled musty and the furniture was draped with dust sheets, producing a gloomy effect.

“This place hasn’t been lived in for a long time,” Joe said. “If Mead—or whoever that man on the road was—stayed here, it must have been in the garage!”

“Who was that guy, anyhow?” Frank speculated. “Now that we know the key he had fits this house, it makes things more complicated than ever.”

Joe agreed. Idly he touched an electric switch on the wall. The dining room suddenly was filled with light. Both boys jumped. “The electricity is on!” Joe said in surprise.

“But why would the power company leave it on in a house that’s been closed for five years?” Frank said slowly.

The boys did not speculate further about this, however, because their attention was drawn to the doors and windows. As on the exterior, there was not a sign of hardware on any of them. Locks, latches, bolts, hinges—all must have been ingeniously hidden.

“Let’s check out the rest of the place,” Joe suggested, snapping off the light switch.

Frank was intrigued by the library with its huge fireplace and hundreds of books. Since he wanted to pause and look at them, Joe said he would go upstairs alone.

“Locks and Keys by John Mead,” Frank read aloud, noting a handsomely bound volume on a shelf. He removed the dust cover from a reading lamp, switched it on, and sat down in an armchair to glance through the pages.

Instantly his eyes focused on a picture of the author in the front of the book. He did not look at all like the man the boys had encountered! He was elderly, with white hair and a mustache.

“Obviously the deceased owner of this house,” Frank decided. He noted that there was no chapter which told how to install concealed hardware.

There was, however, much in the book on the history of locks and keys, and soon Frank became completely absorbed in the subject.

He learned that in Biblical times keys were made of wood and were so heavy that they had to be carried over one’s shoulder; that later the makers of metal keys received the name of locksmith because actually they were blacksmiths who forged keys; and that the invention of burglarproof locks was barely a hundred years old.

Presently Frank was interrupted by a distant voice saying, “We’d better go now.”

“All right, Joe. Just a minute,” he replied. But the minute had dragged into five when suddenly the lamp’s bulb went out.

Frank got up and hurried into the hall. He clicked on the switch, but this time the lights did not flash on.

“That’s funny,” he thought. “The main fuse must have blown. Hey, Joe!” he shouted up the dark stairway. “Joe!”

There was no reply.

“Maybe he went outside,” Frank said to himself.

Playing his flashlight over the carved design on the inside of the front door, he pressed the turtle’s body. At once the door swung inward, and he walked out.

Joe was not around the house, so Frank hurried to the convertible. But he was not there, either. After looking over the grounds, going as far as the waterfront, Frank decided that his brother still was in the mansion.

Meanwhile, Joe was having his own difficulties. He had paused in a den to look at some hunting trophies which hung on the walls. Switching on a lamp, he gazed in admiration at several fine specimens. In moving about, he accidentally closed the door leading into the hall. It locked!

“Now that was stupid of me,” he muttered, looking for the combination to open it.

Suddenly the lamp went out. To his chagrin, Joe realized that he had left his flashlight on a table in the downstairs hall. And now he could not see the design on the door well enough to work on it.

He hurried to one of the shuttered windows, through which rays of sunshine filtered, and lifted the sash. “Well, that’s a break,” he thought.

Getting the shutters open was another matter. Though no fastener was visible, they were locked. Joe ran his fingers over the surface hunting for a secret spring, but found none. Next he took a penknife from his pocket and inserted one of its blades in the crack between the two shutters. Suddenly there was a click, and they opened.

Looking out, he saw his brother standing below. “Hey, Frank!” he yelled.

The older boy looked up in amazement. “So that’s where you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. Come on down. We’d better go now, or the chief will send a car for us.”

Joe leaned from the window and surveyed the wall of the mansion. There was no possible way for him to climb to the ground, and the drop was too far to be made safely.

“I can’t get out,” he announced.

“What?”

“The door to this room is locked,” Joe explained, “and I left my flashlight downstairs. Come on up and see if you can open it from outside.”

“Okay.”

Frank reentered the house and quickly found the room where Joe was imprisoned. He played his flashlight over the door panels, scrutinizing every detail of the ornate floral design.

“How’d you get in?” he called out.

“It was open,” Joe replied.

Frank pushed and pulled at each flower of the pattern. Suddenly one of the blooms slid aside, revealing a small latch. Frank lifted it with a finger and the door swung inward.

“Whew! I’m glad to get out of here,” Joe said in relief. “What happened to the lights?”

“I don’t know. A fuse must have blown.”

As Joe retrieved his flashlight and followed Frank from the house, he asked him what he had found in the library.

“Some excellent books on locks and keys,” Frank replied. “One by John Mead. I’ll tell you about it as we drive home.”

Joe listened to his brother attentively, and made no comment until Frank mentioned that he was sorry to have been interrupted in his reading.

“Who interrupted you?” Joe asked.

“You!”

“What do you mean?”

“You said we’d better go.”

“I never said that!”

“Someone did!” Frank said, looking surprised. “I distinctly heard a voice call out, ‘We’d better go now.’ ”

“Good grief!” Joe ran his fingers through his hair. “There must have been two other persons in the house!”

“Two or even more,” Frank added dryly.

“Which means they have a key, too, and know how to use it!”

“I wonder if they knew we were there,” Frank said. “We hid the car, and unless they saw us without our noticing them ...”

“We just can’t be sure,” Joe muttered. “They must have switched off the power, too.”

“It could have been the guy who called himself John Mead,” Frank went on. “And someone else, of course.”

“Why didn’t we see their car?” Joe wondered.

“They could have arrived after us and left before we did.”

Joe sighed. “More problems.”

Frank drove on, deep in thought. As they approached an intersection, the traffic light changed and he jammed on the brakes. Neither of the boys spoke as they waited for the green signal.

Suddenly Joe asked, “Frank, do you hear what I hear?”

“It hums!” Frank said. “Maybe this is the singing light Dr. Gardner was talking about!”

“Look, why don’t we start out at once and drive ten minutes in various directions? Maybe we’ll find Lenny Stryker!”

“Good idea. But let’s call Chief Collig first and tell him we’re out of the Mead house.”

Frank parked in front of a phone booth not far from the humming traffic light and soon had the chief on the line. He reported everything they had experienced and told him about their latest clue.

Chief Collig had no news concerning Lenny and wished the boys luck in their search.

When Frank returned to the car, he said, “We can’t go east because of the bay. And we should save the direction toward town until last. We can look around there after dinner.”

“Right. Let’s go west first and see what’s down this road.”

In exactly ten minutes the boys stopped in front of an open pasture in a farming section.

“No hideout here,” Joe said, disappointed.

Frank drove back to the singing light and then headed north. Five minutes later they passed the Mead property and gazed intently into the grounds. There was no sign of anyone. In another five minutes they reached a tiny village which consisted of a general store, a garage, a church, and a few homes. Frank parked the car.

“Peaceful-looking place,” he remarked. “I wonder if we’ll find a clue here.”

They decided to investigate the garage first. Inside the barnlike building, a youth in overalls was washing a car.

“Where’s your boss?” Joe spoke up.

“Dunno.”

While Joe questioned the mechanic about the town’s residents and newcomers, in an effort to find a lead about Lenny and the gang of thieves, Frank wandered into the small office adjoining the garage.

As he peered around, he noticed a sheet of paper lying on the desk. It was crinkled, as if from dampness, and a corner was torn off. Frank picked it up. It contained a typed list of various appliance and television dealers in the area. Two stores in Bayport and a warehouse in Southport had an X mark after the names.

Frank gasped. Those were the places that had been robbed within the last two weeks!

CHAPTER VIII

Tricked!

As Frank stared at the list in amazement, the mechanic walked into the office. He noticed the boy’s strange look and the sheet of paper in his hand.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You’re looking at that as if it were a check for a million dollars!”

Frank said nothing, and the mechanic went on, “I found it outside in the tall grass. Thought it might belong to the boss. He didn’t want it, though.”

On a sudden hunch Frank asked him if he had changed the tire for Mr. Mead the previous morning.

“Dunno. I change a lot of tires.”

“The one I mean was in the front,” Frank added, trying to jog the young man’s memory.

“Don’t remember.” With that the mechanic left the office again, just as Joe entered.

Frank drew his brother aside and reminded him of two significant facts: The garage was only a five-minute drive from the Mead home, and the man who had used John Mead’s name had told them he had his tire changed by a boy! This was surely the same place, Frank reasoned. Could Mead have dropped the list here? Was he one of the television thieves?

Just then a middle-aged man in overalls came in. A label on his breast pocket bore the name Carl Bilks. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Frank’s mind whirled with new and unanswered questions. Was Bilks in league with the thieves? If so, he would certainly be suspicious if Frank asked him about the list.

“Oh—ah—I was trying to find out if you changed a tire for a friend of mine yesterday,” Frank said.

“You’ll have to ask the kid outside,” Bilks replied. “He takes care of that.”

“I did. He can’t remember.”

“Why do you want to know? Is anything wrong?”

“Yes. The wheel came off.”

“Now look here,” Bilks replied heatedly, “I’m sure it wasn’t done in this garage. My assistant is a trained and competent mechanic. You must have the wrong place, mister!”

“Probably.” Frank nodded and changed the subject. “I found this on the floor.” He handed the garage owner the list.

Bilks glanced at it. “Oh, I don’t need that. The kid found it outside and thought it belonged to me, but I don’t have any idea what it is.” He took the sheet and tossed it into the wastebasket.

“Well, we’ll be running along,” said Frank. “Goodbye, Mr. Bilks.” With that the boys left quickly.

On the way back to Bayport they discussed the new turn of events.

“You think Bilks and his mechanic are telling the truth about that list?” Joe asked.

“I have a hunch they are. It looked as if it had been wet—it might very well have been lying in the grass for a while. But still, it’s not conclusive proof that everyone at the garage is on the level. I memorized the list and we’ll ask Chief Collig to give us a rundown on Bilks.”

As they passed the humming traffic signal, Joe checked the time again. They went in a southerly direction, and ten minutes later Frank was driving through a residential section of town.

“Okay, let’s remember this spot and come back after dinner,” Frank suggested.

“Right.”

At home they were greeted by Aunt Gertrude. “Well, you just about made it,” she said. “A few more minutes and everything would have been cold!”

“Don’t you know, Aunty, our timing is always perfect!” Joe quipped.

“Don’t brag,” his aunt retorted. “Sit down instead.”

The boys enjoyed a hearty meal of roast chicken, potatoes, and asparagus. While eating, they related the day’s events. Then Frank announced that they were going out to do a little more sleuthing after dinner.

“I declare,” Aunt Gertrude said, sniffing. “I don’t know what’s happening to this generation. Never get proper sleep. They’ll all be nervous wrecks before they’re thirty.”

Concealing their amusement, the boys hurried from the house. Upon reaching the residential section ten minutes south of the second humming traffic light, they parked and walked through the area. After spending half an hour making inquiries, they were convinced that this was not where Dr. Gardner had been taken.

“Why don’t we run out to Chet’s?” Joe suggested. “Maybe he knows something new.”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. “Especially since Iola might be there.”

“Okay, okay,” Joe said, grinning. “Cut it out.” He was very fond of Chet’s sister Iola, who was his frequent date.

When the Hardys reached the Morton farm, Chet’s mother and sister came out to the front porch and greeted them excitedly.

“Chet’s been trying to call you,” Mrs. Morton said with a smile, “but you weren’t home. Finally he couldn’t wait any longer and left.”

“What’s up?” Joe asked, looking puzzled.

“I don’t know,” replied dark-haired, slim Iola. “He was kind of mysterious about the whole thing.”

“Yes, and rather agitated,” Mrs. Morton added. “He asked me to continue trying to contact you, and if I did, to tell you to meet him at 47 Parker Street.”

The Hardys had never heard of that street, and all Mrs. Morton could add was that Chet had told her he was to meet a man on some special business.

“We’d better get going, Joe,” Frank urged.

They bid the Mortons good-by and drove off quickly, their thoughts whirling. Had Chet found the trail of the man who had sold him the battered dory? Or had he somehow picked up a clue to the whereabouts of Lenny Stryker or the television thieves?

When they located Parker Street, they saw that it led to Bayport’s waterfront. A street lamp revealed number 47 as an old dilapidated house.

“You think this is the place Chet meant?” Frank asked, surveying the closed windows and drawn shades.

“Sure seems funny,” Joe admitted. “I don’t like it. Certainly looks deserted.”

Just then a short, stocky man walked slowly up the alleyway from the back of the house.

“Hey,” Frank whispered, nudging his brother, “I’ll bet he’s the guy who sold Chet the boat!”

“Could be,” Joe agreed in a low voice. “He fits the description.”

The boys stepped up to the man just as he reached the sidewalk. Joe said he was looking for a friend and wondered if the stranger had seen him. The man shook his head.

“Haven’t seen anybody. Been too busy.” He started up the street.

“We were to meet him here,” Frank put in, looking intently at the man. “Are you sure he didn’t come to this house?”

The man returned his gaze levelly, then countered by asking why they were meeting their friend at this place.

Frank decided impulsively that a straightforward answer was best. He replied that they were trying to find the person who had sold Chet Morton the dory.

“And we think you’re that person!” Joe added.

The Hardys expected the man to deny the accusation, but to their surprise he burst into laughter. “Oh, so that’s it,” he said. “Sure, I sold your pal a boat. And I’ve been tryin’ ever since to find him. I want to buy it back.”

“You—you want to get it back?” Frank cried in amazement.

The stocky man seemed to be surprised by the boy’s reaction. “What’s the matter with that?” he said. “It belonged to my brother, and I thought he wanted to get rid of it. Turns out he’d like to keep it after all. In fact I’ll pay your buddy extra to get it back. Where can I find him?”

Frank’s suspicions were aroused now. He was sure Chet had already given his name and address to the man. “We’ll tell him your message when we see him. Where can he get in touch with you?”

“Come on inside and I’ll get you one of my cards,” the man said.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Was this a trap? And where was Chet? They decided to be on guard.

Slowly they followed the man up the front porch of number 47 and into the hallway. He snapped on a ceiling light, apologizing for the bleak appearance of the house. His furniture, he said, consisted at the moment only of the pieces in his office at the rear. Keeping alert for anything unusual, Frank and Joe walked with him to the end of the hall and waited as he unlocked a door.

He stepped inside and reached for the light switch. The boys followed as a lamp flicked on. The next moment the stranger whirled about, grabbed Joe by the shoulders, and thrust him against Frank.

As the Hardys crashed to the floor, their assailant leaped out of the room, slammed the door, and locked it from the outside.

They heard him hastily retreating up the hallway. Then the light went out. Obviously he had turned off the main fuse on his way out. The front door slammed shut and there was nothing but silence for a moment.

In the darkness Frank sat up. “Are you all right, Joe?”

“Yes. And you?”

“I’m okay. But that guy sure walloped us.”

Suddenly a loud groan came from somewhere in the pitch-black room.

Frank got up and felt around for his flashlight, which had dropped from his pocket. He located it and snapped it on. Behind the desk lay a figure, bound and gagged.

The Hardys hastened to the captive and knelt down, shining the light on his face. Chet Morton!

CHAPTER IX

Found and Lost

QUICKLY Frank and Joe pulled the handkerchief from Chet’s mouth, untied the cords that bound his wrists and ankles, and rubbed them vigorously. Chet soon regained full consciousness.

“Wh-where am I?” he gasped. Then, recognizing the Hardys, he added, “Thank goodness you came.”

“Tell us what happened!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank suggested they leave the house right away. At any instant the stocky stranger might return with reinforcements.

There was a telephone on the desk. Joe picked it up, but the line was dead. “That figures,” he commented.

Glancing around, the boys observed that the desk and a small table with two chairs were the only pieces of furniture in the room. One window was high up. Apparently its lock was rusted shut. The other exit from the room was through the wooden door to the hall.

They threw their weight against it and after several attempts the upper half gave way. Another heave against the door made an opening large enough for them to crawl through. Seconds later they left the house.

The street was quiet and no one was in sight.

“Where’s your car?” Frank asked Chet.

“I parked around the corner.”

“No wonder we didn’t see it,” Joe said. “We were wondering if we had the right address.”

The boys drove to the Morton farm. Frank and Joe went inside with their chum and Mrs. Morton served milk and apple pie.

“Okay, Chet, let’s have your story from the beginning,” Frank urged when Mrs. Morton had left the room.

Chet told them he had received a mysterious telephone call earlier that evening. He was told to go immediately to 47 Parker Street to see about the dory he had bought.

“I thought there was a chance I’d get my money back,” he explained, “so I drove over there. When I arrived, the guy who sold me the boat said he wanted it back. At first I didn’t let him know it was at the bottom of the bay.”

“What did you tell him?” Joe asked.

“That I wanted to keep it. He glared at me and said I certainly was going to sell it back to him. I was hoping you would come any moment, so I kept putting him off. He got madder by the minute.”

“I wonder why he wants that old tub back,” Joe said. “The story about his brother sounds phony.”

“I don’t know.” Chet shrugged. “But when I finally told him it had sunk, boy did he rave! I tried to get out but he locked the front door. He made me describe the place where it had gone under—and then the next thing I knew, he gave me a terrific blast on the head. I blacked out.”

Before they left, the Hardys promised their friend they would continue looking for the stranger. It would be easier now that they had met him face to face.

“We have something to pay him back for, too,” Joe said grimly. “We don’t like to be shoved around.”

After reporting the episode to the police, the boys headed for home. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had already retired when they reached their house. They were just about to go to bed when they heard their father’s key in the front door.

“Let’s talk to him,” Joe urged Frank, and ran down the stairs. “Hello, Dad. How did you make out?” he asked eagerly.

Mr. Hardy said he was a bit discouraged as far as the television burglaries were concerned. He was working on a new angle involving fingerprints.

The three went to his study, where Frank and Joe related their experiences that day. It took some time to tell about the humming traffic light; the strange happenings at the Mead mansion; the list at Bilks’ garage and the adventures at 47 Parker Street.

When they finished, Mr. Hardy was thoughtful. “I think we can assume your assailant locked you all in to make sure you wouldn’t try to follow him.”

He tapped the desk with a pencil. “The fact that he made Chet describe the spot where the dory went down indicates that he certainly wants it back badly. I’m inclined to think that someone else wants that boat, and it’s not his brother.”

“The boat itself certainly can’t have any value,” Frank mused.

“Right. There must be more involved.”

Frank thought the strange Y carved on the gunwale might be a clue, and Joe reminded him about the locked box in the bow.

Their father suggested raising the boat and examining it thoroughly. “I think the Bayport Salvage Company would do the job,” he said. “Go over there tomorrow and ask for Mr. Redfield.”

At breakfast the next morning Mr. Hardy announced he had to see Chief Collig at headquarters about the television burglaries.

“Dad,” Frank said, looking disappointed, “we were hoping you’d come to the Mead place with us! Maybe you’ll spot something important that we overlooked.”

“Okay. But let’s do it right away. I have a couple of important things to do later.”

The three set off immediately after they had eaten. Frank and Joe followed their father’s car in the convertible. When they arrived at the mysterious mansion, it looked deserted. They parked their cars in the back so they would not be seen by any visitor. Mr. Hardy walked around the grounds before entering the house. He found no one on the premises.

When Frank opened the front door, Mr. Hardy was fascinated by the concealed hardware. “You’re to be congratulated,” he praised the boys. “These locks are quite a puzzle.”

Joe felt for the wall switch and clicked it, but no light came on.

“Current’s still off,” he remarked.

The boys showed their father through the house, using their flashlights when necessary. They admired their father’s careful search, even though it netted no clues to the man who called himself John Mead.

Presently the three returned to their cars.

“I’m off to see Chief Collig,” Mr. Hardy said. “Are you going straight to Bayport Salvage?”

“Yes,” Joe replied. “Maybe they can look for Chet’s boat today.”

The detective wished them luck and drove away.

A few minutes later Frank and Joe reached the salvage company. When they entered the front office, a man working on some ledgers looked up.

“Mr. Redfield?” Frank inquired.

“Yes. May I help you?”

Frank stated their business. As he described the sunken dory, Mr. Redfield looked startled. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “Do you own that boat?”

“No,” Joe replied. “It belongs to a friend.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense, then. Your friend has already gone out on one of our boats to look for it.”

“Our friend?” Frank was perplexed. “What did he look like?”

“Stocky and dark. Said he was the owner and he’s out in the bay right now!”

The Hardys turned to each other. “That isn’t Chet!” Frank cried. “That’s the guy who tricked us!”

“Come on,” Joe urged. “Let’s get the Sleuth and go after him!”

They quickly explained the situation to Mr. Redfield, then raced outside, hopped into their car, and not long afterward parked near the boathouse where they kept the Sleuth.

Joe had the engine going in no time, and sped out into Barmet Bay. He headed for the spot where Chet’s dory had sunk. No salvage boat was in sight. To the boys’ dismay, they could see no sign of the Bdoodhound, though they circled round and round the vicinity, peering down through the water.

“They must have raised it!” Frank concluded.

“Now what’ll we do?” Joe asked in disgust.

“Let’s go back to the salvage company.”

Joe headed the Sleuth in that direction. They had gone only a mile when they spied the salvage boat ahead. Hoping that Chet’s dory was aboard, and that they could nab the man who had ordered it raised, they drew up alongside and hailed the captain. He came to the rail.

“What did you say?” he called down.

Frank repeated his question.

“Yes, I raised a sunken dory, but I haven’t got ’er aboard,” the man replied.

“Where is it?”

“I put ’er down on the beach where the fellow told me to.”

“But he didn’t own it!”

“What?” The captain was astounded upon hearing the story. He told the Hardys where he had left the Bloodhound.

The boys thanked him and Joe swung the Sleuth toward the north shore of the bay. The bow cut clearly through the water, churning a white wake as it picked up speed.

“We’re sure running into some bad luck,” Joe said, gripping the wheel.

“Maybe we can still capture the guy and get the dory, too,” Frank countered.

There was no doubt in his mind that the man who retrieved it was the same who had sold it to Chet and had trapped the three boys in the room at 47 Parker Street.

“Meanwhile, the guy probably took what he wanted out of the locked box and skipped,” Joe went on.

“Well, let’s go see.”

When they reached the spot indicated by the salvage captain, there was no sign of the dory. Frank and Joe jumped into the shallow water and pulled the Sleuth up on the sand.

Close scrutiny led them to drag marks some distance away. They followed the track, obviously made by a keel. But to their disappointment, it ended at the roadside. Chet’s Bloodhound was not in sight!

“Evidently a truck was waiting and carried it away,” Joe concluded.

“I have an idea!” Frank said. “I’ll bet that dory came from the Mead place and has been taken back there!”

“You mean because of the strange Y symbol?”

“Right. What do you think?”

“It’s certainly worth a try. Let’s go!”

Joe stepped into the Sleuth and Frank pushed it out into the bay. Soon it was skimming across the water, its motor churning. When they reached the Mead property, Frank tied up to the dock. There was no sign of anyone. The boathouse was tightly locked, and Chet’s dory was not in sight.

“Where is the dory?” Frank called

Joe took out a pair of swim trunks from a compartment.

“What are you going to do?” Frank asked.

“See if I can swim under the boathouse door.” Joe quickly changed, then cut the water in a clean dive and disappeared.

Frank waited eagerly. All was quiet. In a minute he called out, “Joe, can you hear me?”

The only sound was the water lapping against the Sleuth. There was no sound from the boathouse !

CHAPTER X

The Intruder

WHAT had happened to Joe? Several possibilities raced through Frank’s mind. Had his head butted into a submerged piling? Did he have a stomach cramp?

“Joe! Joe!” Frank called out again. No reply. He kicked off his shoes and was about to dive after his brother when he heard a whistling-spluttering noise from inside the boathouse. Joe had popped to the surface and let out a chestful of pent-up air. Then he called out:

“Frank! I’m okay. Got tangled up in a piece of old cable.”

“Oh boy! You had me scared for a minute.”

“Sorry about that.” A few seconds passed, then Joe reported, “The dory’s not here. But I’ll look around a bit more.”

“Good idea.” Frank waited, hoping no one would appear to ask what they were doing there. Presently Joe returned and climbed aboard the Sleuth. As he dried himself and put on his clothes, Frank asked him what he had seen.

Joe related that there was no boat of any kind inside the building. He had, however, spotted a valuable piece of evidence.

“There was an old oar on a rack,” he said. “That same funny Y was carved on it!”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I looked at it twice.”

“No question now that the dory belongs to this place,” Frank commented.

“Right. And I saw something else of interest,” Joe went on. “There’s a generator in the boathouse. Probably supplies auxiliary power to the mansion.”

“Then that explains the lights,” Frank declared. “Someone’s been tampering with the generator, turning the current on and off.”

“Right again,” said Joe. “You know, I still suspect that the dory will be brought here. What say we come back later and check again?”

“Okay. But we ought to tell Chet what happened. Maybe he’d like to come along.”

“Yes. Let’s go over to the Mortons around lunch time,” Joe suggested with a grin. “Turn the tables on Chet. Aunt Gertrude says he eats us out of house and home.”

Frank chuckled. “Great idea. Mrs. Morton is about the best cook in the world.”

When the boys reached home they told their mother where they were going. But they could not get out of the house without Aunt Gertrude remarking about it.

“Gallivanting again!” she said sternly. “Home the last thing at night and out first thing in the morning. Now you’ve been in this house just about five minutes, and already you’re off again!”

“Oh,” said Joe, a twinkle in his eye, “this is strictly business, Aunty. We’re working on a case for Chet.”

Before Miss Hardy could think of an answer, the boys had disappeared through the doorway. They got into their convertible and headed for the Morton farm. As Joe had predicted, the midday meal was about to be served.

Chet’s sister Iola was glad to see them, especially Joe. She told Frank to go into the living room. “Surprise!” she said with a broad smile.

Frank found Callie Shaw there, watching television. The brown-eyed, vivacious girl was his favorite date.

“Oh, hi, Frank!” Callie said, beaming. “I had a hunch you might be coming.”

“You did?”

“A little bird was on the news just a minute ago. He said so!”

Frank laughed. “No kidding. Is that why you decided to stay for lunch?”

Callie blushed. She got even with him when Mrs. Morton came in.

“Frank and Joe have eaten already and won’t join us for lunch,” she said with a wink.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Morton said, taking her cue from Callie. “We’re having barbecued spare-ribs and biscuits.”

Then, seeing Frank’s hungry expression, she laughed good-naturedly and said she would set two more places at the table at once, and asked Frank to call Chet. “He’s out spraying the apple trees.”

Frank went to find his friend, who was delighted to be relieved of his job, and started for the house.

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “I have something to tell you.”

He related how the dory had been salvaged. Chet’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets; then he shook his head sadly and groaned. “Now what am I going to do?”

He brightened, however, when Frank told him that he and Joe were going back to the Mead house later to see if the Bloodhound had been brought there.

Chet was sorry not to be able to go along because of his afternoon chores at the farm, but he expressed confidence in his friends’ ability to solve his problem. As the two walked toward the house, he asked Frank not to mention anything to his folks about the boat.

During lunch the young people made plans for a triple date to the movies that evening. Chet called his girl, Helen Osborne, and invited her to the show. Soon after dessert the Hardys left the house.

They were eager to clear up the mystery of Chet’s dory. Since they planned to be at the movies that evening, they decided to return at once to the Mead mansion.

When they arrived at the estate, they concealed their car in a tangle of trees. Then they looked for evidence of recent visitors. There were no footprints or automobile tracks near the boathouse.

“Probably the dory hasn’t been brought here yet,” Joe deduced.

“Why don’t we have another look around the place as long as we’re here?” Frank suggested. He opened the front door and clicked on the light in the hall. Nothing happened.

“Whoever turns on the generator isn’t here now, that’s for sure,” he remarked. “Let’s do a little investigating in the cellar and try to find where the line comes in.”

Frank snapped on his flashlight and led the way below. For the next few minutes they hunted in vain for any sign of a fuse box.

“Maybe old Mr. Mead concealed it as he did the locks and latches,” said Frank, almost slipping on the damp floor as he reached up on a wall shelf. There was no sign of the incoming power line.

Joe noticed a wooden panel on the wall. “Hey, Frank,” he said, “have a look at this!”

Frank came over and studied it carefully. He placed his hands on the bottom of the panel and pushed. It slid open!

“Fuses!” he cried, beaming his flashlight inside.

“I wonder why the cover is off,” Joe remarked. “Usually fuse boxes have a metal cover.”

“I don’t know,” Frank replied. He reached up and touched one of the oblong handles. The basement was flooded with light. At the same instant Frank received an electrical shock and fell to the floor unconscious!

Joe leaped to his brother’s side and felt for his pulse. The beat was weak but steady.

“Thank goodness he’s alive!” he murmured, and quickly administered first aid. In a few moments Frank opened his eyes, wondering what had happened.

Joe told him and suggested they go upstairs where Frank could lie down on a sofa.

When they reached the kitchen, Frank was so weak he sat down in a chair. He told Joe to look around the house alone while he rested. The younger boy nodded and started off.

Going from room to room, he tried the lights. In some places they flashed on, in others they did not.

Joe was just about to step into the library, which was dark, when he heard a loud groan.

“Frank!” he thought, conscience-stricken, and rushed back to the kitchen.

His brother still sat in the chair and was deadly white. He admitted feeling awful. Joe insisted they leave at once, and helped Frank to the car.

By the time they reached home Frank felt much better. “I’m made of pretty tough stuff,” he said with a faint grin.

“You were lucky!” Joe agreed. “If the current had been more powerful you—” He broke off. “Hold it,” he warned as he pulled open the kitchen screen door. “Something’s the matter here!”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he, too, became aware of women’s loud voices in the front hall. Aunt Gertrude seemed to be consoling someone. A moment later the boys recognized the other speaker as Mrs. Stryker.

“My son’s honest and I want him back!” she cried out. “Nobody seems to be doing anything for me!”

“You have no right to talk about my brother and my nephews that way!” Miss Hardy replied with spirit. “They’re the best detectives in this state; in fact, the best in the whole United States!”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Frank and Joe looked at each other and grinned. This was high praise from their aunt. High praise which she would not have voiced had she known they were listening.

Winking at Frank, Joe turned around and slammed the kitchen door. Then, with a “Hello, anybody home?” he stalked into the front hall.

Frank followed. “Have you had any word from Lenny?” he asked Mrs. Stryker.

The woman shook her head, remarking that she had heard from no one. “Those racketeers have things fixed so he can’t let me know where he is,” she said sadly. Then she added, “I thought you and your father were working on his case for me. But all I get are promises!”

“Try not to worry,” urged Frank. “I have a hunch Lenny will be coming home soon.”

“You have?” Mrs. Stryker asked eagerly. “Oh, you must know something you’re not telling me!”

The Hardys had to admit that they really were no closer to the solution of the mystery, but they were hopeful that clues they had gathered would lead them to the gang.

“Clues, clues, you told me that before!” Mrs. Stryker said.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Joe assured her.

After she had left, the boys held a conference. Aunt Gertrude insisted upon being present, and advised her nephews that the police should track down the criminals, not they.

“Lenny Stryker probably did some shooting himself,” she declared.

“We certainly won’t let anybody who should be in jail go free,” Frank stated. “But—”

The telephone rang and the boys hurried into the hall. Joe answered it. It was his father. He listened intently as Joe related the day’s happenings, ending with Frank’s electrical shock. Mr. Hardy warned Joe to be very careful, saying they most likely were on the trail of some illegal operation.

“Pass that along to Frank,” he ordered. “Now I’ll tell you my plans.”

He explained that there were only two major appliance warehouses in the close vicinity which had not been burglarized.

“They were both on the list you saw at Bilks’ garage. We have a hunch they will be robbed, even though the thieves must know they will be extra well guarded. I can’t give you the details over the phone,” he went on, “but I won’t be home tonight. Tell Mother not to worry. See you all in the morning.”

Joe repeated the conversation to his brother. They felt certain that their father was going to lie in wait inside one of the warehouses.

The boys were still discussing their father’s telephone call when Mrs. Hardy came home, and they gave her his message. Aunt Gertrude had dinner ready, and as usual she insisted they all sit down at once to eat.

“One of your old school friends is coming over this evening, Laura,” she announced presently.

“Who’s that?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

“Frank, eat more slowly,” Aunt Gertrude ordered. “Laura, these boys certainly are going to ruin their digestion if they stuff themselves like this.”

“But, Aunty, we’ve just started,” Frank pointed out.

“That makes no difference. I know by the way you two are setting out you plan to eat enough for four people. Oh, yes,” she added, “Martha Johnson is coming to call.”

“I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Hardy. Then, turning to her sons, she explained that Miss Johnson was a high school friend. “She became a nurse and moved to the West Coast. She comes back every so often, but I haven’t seen her for several years.”

Aunt Gertrude said Miss Johnson was on a short visit in Bayport, and had telephoned to see if the Hardys were at home. The boys’ mother was eagerly looking forward to seeing her friend. Shortly after dinner the woman arrived.

Frank and Joe talked with Miss Johnson for a while, then excused themselves to keep their movie date with Chet and the girls.

After they had left, the three women settled themselves in the living room for a long talk. Presently the conversation became so animated and full of laughter that they failed to hear the back door open softly and a stealthy figure tiptoe in. The man who entered listened to them for several moments. Then a cunning gleam came into his eyes.

CHAPTER XI

Kidnapped

“PERFECT,” the intruder said to himself. “The dame in there is a nurse, eh? That solves our problem just fine.”

He moved on upstairs to Mr. Hardy’s study. Reaching it, he went directly to the detective’s filing cabinet. He took out a small tool and began skillfully to work on the lock. Soon it opened. One by one, he noiselessly pulled out the drawers.

Suddenly his eyes lighted up as he came upon a marked folder. Quickly he removed the papers from it and put them into his pocket.

At the same moment he heard Aunt Gertrude say, “Well, how about some coffee, Martha? I’ll go fix it.”

The intruder froze on the spot. He waited until Miss Hardy had finished the coffee and taken it into the living room, then silently tiptoed downstairs again.

While the women were chatting gaily, he streaked through the kitchen and a second later had left the house.

Meanwhile, after a pleasant time at the local theater, Frank and Joe dropped off Chet and the girls and started for home. As they neared the house, Frank heaved a sigh.

“I’m so full of ice cream I could burst.”

Joe thumped his stomach. “I feel like Chet looks. If—Oh!”

A woman’s frantic scream pierced the air. The boys drove toward the spot, but found nobody. A moment later they heard a car roar off a short distance away.

“What do you make of that?” Frank asked.

Joe shook his head. “Sounded like someone was in plenty of trouble. Let’s report it to the police.”

They pulled into their driveway, parked the convertible in the garage, and entered the house. They had just reached the hall when a shriek came from their father’s study.

“Aunt Gertrude!” shouted Frank and dashed upstairs. Joe followed.

They expected to see their relative prostrate, the victim of some kind of attack. To their relief, they found her standing in the center of the room, unharmed.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked.

His aunt was speechless. Finally she was able to stammer, “The filing cabinet!”

The boys gasped as they noticed a slightly opened drawer, and jumped to the same conclusion. A burglar!

They checked drawer after drawer. Although not familiar with everything in the cabinet, they soon found the empty folder that had contained the fingerprint records of the television thieves.

“We’ve been robbed!” exclaimed Frank.

“Mike Batton!” Joe cried out.

Aunt Gertrude demanded an explanation. Joe told her how Ben Whittaker’s assistant had been tampering with their back-door lock two days before.

“Batton claimed he was supposed to change it, but we sent him away,” Frank said. “Now I believe he must have taken a wax impression, made a key, and came back tonight.”

“That means he’s tied in with the television thieves!” Joe reasoned.

Suddenly Frank had an idea. “I wonder if the woman’s scream had anything to do with the intruder.”

“You mean when he left the house he might have frightened her?” Joe asked.

Frank nodded. “The burglar went out the back way. Running from the house like that, he might easily have scared some passer-by.”

Frank turned to his aunt. “When did Miss Johnson leave here?”

“A few minutes ago. Why? And what’s that about a scream?”

“Didn’t you hear it?”

“No!”

Frank reported the frantic cry they had heard. Aunt Gertrude had not noticed it, because a moment after the nurse had left she had turned on the television for the late news.

Now Mrs. Hardy appeared in the doorway. She had not heard anything, not even Aunt Gertrude’s shriek in the study. When she was told what had happened, she became quite concerned.

“It frightens me to think of a burglar being in the house,” she said with a shiver.

“It’s positively wicked!” Aunt Gertrude agreed. “If I had seen that fellow I would have—”

Frank interrupted her. “Where is Miss Johnson staying, Mom?”

“At Mrs. Brown’s Guest House.”

“Did she take a taxi there?”

“No. It’s not far and she was going to walk.”

Frank went to the telephone and called at once to see if the nurse had returned. Mrs. Brown told him her guest had not come back.

“When she does, will you please have her telephone Mrs. Hardy,” the boy requested. “It’s important.”

Next, the boys notified Chief Collig. They reached him at home, and he promised to start a search at once.

But in spite of the police alert, there was no news of Miss Johnson when the Hardys finally went to bed long after midnight.

In the morning they called Mrs. Brown’s Guest House again. The nurse had not returned.

“Oh dear! This is dreadful!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed. “No telling what has happened to Martha. What can we do?”

Her sons could think of nothing at the moment, but by the time breakfast was over they had arrived at a theory.

“We’ve assumed Batton was our thief last night and that he’s tied in with the TV burglars,” Frank began. “We also figure he kidnapped Miss Johnson.

“Now, since Lenny is presumably being held by the same gang,” he continued, “isn’t it likely Martha Johnson was nabbed to be a nurse for him because of his leg wound?”

“Sure!” Joe agreed. “Batton must have been in the house long enough to overhear who she was, and grabbed her as she left.”

“So if we find the secret panel, we’ll find both Lenny and Miss Johnson,” Frank concluded.

“But where will you begin your search?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“First we’ll go down and talk to Ben Whittaker again,” said Frank. “He may have heard from Mike Batton.”

“Or perhaps the police can tell us something by now,” Joe suggested.

Frank also thought they should go to the Mead estate and dive under the boathouse door to see if Chet’s stolen dory had been taken there.

“It sounds like a full morning,” said Mrs. Hardy. “Please let Chet’s mystery wait and try to find Martha.”

“We certainly will, Mother.”

Suddenly from the kitchen radio came a news broadcast to which Aunt Gertrude had just tuned.

“—A local item of great interest,” stated the announcer, “is about another baffling burglary.”

Frank, Joe, and their mother entered the kitchen to listen attentively as the newscaster went on:

“Thieves broke into the Carr Electronics Company last night. Televisions, tubes, and stereo equipment were stolen. The police are mystified. No one was seen entering the place, and Fenton Hardy, a detective on guard duty inside, was found injured. He has been taken to the hospital!”

CHAPTER XII

Fingerprints

THE four beside the kitchen radio were shocked by the news that Mr. Hardy was lying in a hospital, the victim of some desperate criminal. The boys’ mother tapped nervously on the table. For once Aunt Gertrude seemed tongue-tied. Joe was the first to find his voice.

“Let’s call Chief Collig!” he cried, starting for the telephone.

“Wait a minute!” Frank caught his brother’s arm. “I don’t believe it is Dad!”

He explained that if Mr. Hardy really had been hurt, surely his family would have been notified by this time. Aunt Gertrude, now over her scare, declared, “Well, knowing my brother as I do, I’d say the whole thing is a hoax!”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“I believe it’s a clever idea of Fenton’s. If he pretends to be injured, and those television thieves think he’s in a hospital, they’ll be less cautious when they strike again.”

“And Dad will trap them!” said Joe. “I’ll bet you’re right, Aunt Gertrude.”

Aunt Gertrude looked pleased. “So I guess we needn’t worry any more about Fenton. You boys can get started looking for Martha.”

For a few seconds Frank and Joe had forgotten the work they had mapped out for themselves. Now, being reminded, they left the house. Their first stop was police headquarters to see Chief Collig.

To their first question, Collig replied that he had no word from the boys’ father. But he verified the assumption that the story of the hospitalized detective was a phony.

“No, nothing on Miss Johnson,” he replied to Frank’s next query. “We’ve got half a dozen of our best men out looking, though.”

Frank and Joe decided it was now imperative that they relate Mrs. Stryker’s story of the secret panel. They told the chief their suspicions about the television thieves.

“Well, that would explain why Miss Johnson was kidnapped,” Collig remarked. “With you two, your father, and most of the police in this country tracking that gang, we should crack this case soon.”

“I sure hope so,” Joe replied.

Then, in answer to a query from Frank, the chief told the boys he had given orders for a constant surveillance of the house at 47 Parker Street.

“Not a soul has gone in or out since,” he reported.

“Would you mind if we go over there now and look around inside?” Frank asked. “I’m sure the Parker Street house is connected with the other mysteries.”

“It’s all right with me. So far as I know, the place is vacant.”

“Where can we get a key?” Joe asked. “Or is it open?”

“One of my men is watching the house from across the street a couple of blocks away in a dark-green Ford sedan. He’s got a key from the real-estate people, in case it’s locked. Talk to him.”

“Okay, Chief. And thanks,” Frank said.

“One more thing,” Collig added. “That garage owner Bilks is an honest and upstanding citizen, as far as we can determine.”

“I thought so,” Frank replied, then the boys said good-by and hurried to Parker Street. They found the car the chief had described and got the key from the plainclothesman behind the wheel. He assured them again that no one had been near the place.

“Okay,” Frank said.

When they entered the house, Joe switched on the lights. “One thing’s for sure,” he said. “Those footprints weren’t made by ghosts!” He pointed to a number of plainly visible heelmarks on the dusty floors. They had a peculiar triangle in the middle.

“The police have been here,” Frank reminded him.

“What about these fingermarks on the window sill? They could belong to the man who had taken Chet’sdory!”

Certain that the strange symbol on the dory meant that there was a connection between him, John Mead, and the television burglars, Joe wanted to photograph the marks.

It seemed all the more important now, since the case records had been stolen from Mr. Hardy’s files.

“I think those prints are worth checking out,” Frank agreed. “How about getting our kit?”

Joe drove home and grabbed the equipment. When he returned to 47 Parker Street, the boys set to work.

Taking out a special camera, Joe held it over the sill. He clicked on the lights in it and squinted into the focusing panel. The fingerprints showed up plainly.

“Won’t need any powder on these, Frank,” he stated.

“Good. I found some marks on this wall but they’re not very clear. Think I’ll powder them.”

While Joe busied himself taking five-, ten-, and fifteen-second time exposures of the marks on the window sill, Frank opened a bottle of gray-colored powder and poured a little on a sheet of paper. Next, he picked up a small camel’s-hair brush by the handle and twirled it back and forth between his palms to make it fluffy. Then, after dipping the tip of the brush into the powder, he passed it lightly over the indistinct fingermarks on the wall.

“Ready for the picture, Joe,” he announced.

His brother came across the room and made several photographs.

Before putting the camera back into the kit, Joe also took snaps of the various footprints on the floor, then said, “Guess we’d better leave now, Frank, and develop this film.”

After a quick but unsuccessful search of the house for other clues or possibly even the secret panel, they left and returned the key to the police officer and went home.

Later, when they had finished printing the pictures in their laboratory, their father walked in.

“Dad!” Joe greeted him, rushing up to his side. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” Mr. Hardy grinned “Am I not supposed to be?”

His sons looked at him intently. There was a twinkle in his eye.

“You know you are allegedly in a hospital,” said Frank. “I’ll bet you came home in a disguise.”

The detective nodded. “You guessed it.”

“Then who was hurt in the warehouse?”

“A dummy. You see, it was evident from the list you found at Bilks’ garage, there were two places in this area liable to be hit next. This was one of them. We therefore put a dummy at the night watchman’s desk. The guard positioned himself at the rear by the loading gate, and a patrolman watched the place from across the street.”

“And still the gang wasn’t caught?”

“No. The night watchman was knocked out with gas. The thieves got in before he had a chance to sound the alarm. From the way the dummy looked, they did a good job of knocking him over the head, too.”

“And the patrolman?”

“They decoyed him. Set off a fire bomb down the street. When he got out of his car to investigate, one of the gang slipped behind the wheel, pinned the cop to the wall of a factory building, set the brake, and ran off to help the thieves.”

“Oh brother!” Joe shook his head.

“By the time a passer-by freed the patrolman, the gang had entered the place, knocked out the guard, and stolen a small truckload of television sets. They worked very efficiently. Couldn’t have taken them more than twenty minutes.”

“And where were you?” Frank asked.

“Over in Harlington. There’s a big appliance outfit which we thought was equally in danger. But nothing happened there.”

“And now the thieves think you’re out of commission,” Frank said.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “This should make them sure enough of themselves so they won’t quit now, and hopefully we’ll catch them at their next attempt.

“There’s one interesting aspect to the whole thing,” he added. “The locks were not broken, even though they were quite complicated and so-called burglarproof.”

“That means either the thieves had a key, or at least one of them is an expert picklock,” Frank deduced.

“Looks that way.”

“Another lock was picked recently,” Joe put in. “The one to your file cabinet, Dad. The data on the television gang are missing.”

Mr. Hardy was very much upset when he heard this, and paced angrily back and forth in front of the window. “There were prints in there which I need and other valuable information!”

“Maybe the marks we photographed a little while ago at Parker Street will help,” Frank said.

“No doubt there is a connection between the gang I’m after and the man who sold Chet the dory,” Mr. Hardy said. “They might even have used his place as a hideout—or a meeting place.”

“Right. But I’m sure this is not where the secret panel is,” Frank said. “And that’s where they are holding Lenny Stryker.”

“And most likely Martha Johnson,” Joe added grimly.

“No answer to that one, yet,” Mr. Hardy said. “What’s your next move?”

“I think we’ll try to track Mike Batton,” Frank replied. “After lunch we’ll see Ben Whittaker and find out which of his customers were robbed. Batton, no doubt, is connected with the gang, and perhaps some of these people can give us a lead.”

“Good thought. Let me know what develops.”

The boys left the house a half-hour later and drove to Whittaker’s shop. The elderly locksmith was in the rear and greeted them solemnly. He had heard nothing of his former employee.

The police, he told them, had found no trace of the stolen articles. Worse than that, Mrs. Eccles was making matters very unpleasant for him.

“She still threatens legal action if I don’t return her money,” Whittaker said. “My reputation will be ruined!”

“Oh, no,” Frank spoke up quickly. “You’ve been in business here too many years for something like that to make any difference, Mr. Whittaker.”

“But it’s not just something!” the man cried out. “There’s Mr. Howard, and Mrs. Sommers, and—”

“You mean all those people have been robbed and are making trouble?” Joe asked.

The locksmith nodded. “In each case, Batton went to the house when no one was there but a maid. He used the same story he told you. Oh, what’ll I do?”

“Let’s go see these people, Frank,” Joe said. “Would you give us their addresses, Mr. Whittaker ?”

“Sure. The Petersons aren’t home, but the others might be able to give you a clue.” The man handed them a sheet of paper with the names and addresses on it. “Thanks a lot for your help,” he said as they walked out the door.

First they went to see Mr. Howard. He lived alone in a small English Tudor house which he had designed himself.

“That locksmith fellow came when I was out,” he told them. “My housekeeper let him in after he claimed I had ordered the lock changed. Well, I hadn’t ordered anything of the kind and—”

“We know,” Frank interrupted. “We thought you or your housekeeper might remember something Batton said that would give us a clue as to where we can find him.”

“Well, let me call Mrs. Curry.” Howard left the room and soon returned with an elderly, gray-haired woman. She described Batton, but said she had not spoken to him after she let him in.

“He didn’t come into any of the rooms,” she explained, “just stayed in the front hall until he changed the lock.”

“And that’s where the statue was!” Mr. Howard put in. “A rare, hand-carved Oriental piece I paid a lot of money for. He took it, that scoundrel, and I want it back!”

“We understand how you feel,” Frank said. “But we’d appreciate it if you could just give us a little time to track down the thief. Chances are your property will be found, once we locate his hideout.”

“Well, it all depends how long it will take. Let me know when you find him.”

“We certainly will, sir. And thanks for the information.”

Next, they called on Mrs. Sommers. The woman appeared upset about the loss of a ring which had been taken from a bureau.

“It was very valuable to me,” she told the boys, “for sentimental reasons. A family heirloom. The insurance company will pay for it, but money can never replace it.”

Frank asked her about Batton. She could not help them, either. He had changed the lock in her absence. A woman who lived next door had talked to him and told Mrs. Sommers that he had been there.

“Could we speak to your neighbor?” Frank asked.

“She went to visit her son in Missouri two days ago.”

Frank and Joe thanked her and left, disappointed. They went to call on Mrs. Eccles, but were equally unsuccessful.

“One thing is clear,” Frank told Joe on the way home. “Batton must be in with the television gang, but had his own thing going on the side.”

“But why?” Joe asked. “I would think belonging to that outfit would be profitable enough.”

“Who knows? Maybe he needed the money now and couldn’t wait for the equipment to be sold and the booty divided.”

“You suppose he tried to get into our house just to see if there was any dough lying around?”

“No,” Frank said thoughtfully. “I have a hunch that he only took the job with Whittaker to get a duplicate key for our place.”

“For the gang?”

“Right. You know what we should have done?”

“What?”

“Photographed the fingerprints on Dad’s filing cabinet. Ours and his will be there, of course, but there may be strange ones, too!”

“Like Batton’s for instance?”

“Could be.”

“How are you going to make sure they’re his?”

“We’ll go back to Mr. Whittaker’s shop and check out things Mike Batton has handled, take prints, and compare them!”

“Good thinking!” Joe praised. “Let’s do that right away.”

The net result of this work was a surprise and added a new complication to the mystery. The man who had rifled Mr. Hardy’s files was not Mike Batton!

CHAPTER XIII

The Picklock

“MORE trouble.” Frank sighed. “However, we’ve proved one thing. We probably have the fingerprints of the person who kidnapped Miss Johnson.”

“Right you are,” Joe agreed. “Let’s take them over to Chief Collig right away.”

Frank quickly wrote a note to his father, telling him about their new discovery, then they delivered the prints to police headquarters.

When they were in their car again, Frank said, “Now for our next job. We’ll drive out to the Mead house and see if Chet’s dory’s there.”

“Good idea. But let’s stop and get Chet.”

They expected to find their stout chum either in the apple orchard or at the Morton refrigerator, but he was at neither place. No one was at home but Mrs. Morton. She seemed surprised to see the Hardys.

“I thought you’d be over at the fair,” she remarked.

“What fair?” Frank asked, puzzled.

“Oh, didn’t you know about the county fair at Harlington? Chet, Iola and her friends drove over quite a while ago. I understand there are to be all sorts of amusements.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. “We don’t really have time—” Frank began.

“Oh, it won’t take long to look for Chet,” Joe said. “Come on, Frank. Let’s go!”

“Okay.” The boys hurried to the convertible and sped away. Soon the outlines of a Ferris wheel came in sight.

“Quite a show,” Joe remarked as he and Frank got out of the car. Just inside the entrance gate a man standing on a platform was announcing loudly:

“Ten dollars, I said! Ten dollars ! Easiest way in the world to earn ten dollars! All you have to be is smart!”

The barker held up a large padlock. “You just have to open this. Sure, it’s a trick lock. But it’ll cost you only a dime to try. Step this way, gentlemen!”

Frank nudged Joe. The first customer to ascend the stairs was Chet Morton!

The crowd roared with laughter as Chet struggled with the padlock. He seemed determined to win the ten dollars.

“Hey! You better quit before you bust,” cried one of the bystanders. Chet was bent double and was very red in the face.

“It’ll cost you more than ten dollars for a doctor!” another man shouted.

Frank and Joe were grinning from ear to ear. They knew their friend thought he could open the padlock because he had heard so much about locks and keys lately. But Chet finally gave up and turned away to buy some peanuts.

“Who’s next?” called the barker. He pointed his finger directly at the Hardys and added, “You look like a couple of bright fellows. How about coming up here?”

“I sure could use ten dollars,” Joe replied, and pushed his way through the crowd.

He struggled with the lock, but to no avail. Disgusted, he handed it back, and Frank ascended the platform.

As Frank, too, failed to open the lock, a tall man about thirty-five years old elbowed his way through the crowd and came up the steps.

Without saying a word he took the lock in his hand, held it near his ear, and shook it. Then he closed his two hands over the lock, worked at it a few seconds, and it opened! The barker stared in blank amazement. Apparently he had not expected anyone to succeed.

“Gimme my money,” demanded the stranger.

The barker stared in amazement when the padlock opened

Reluctantly the carnival man handed over a ten-dollar bill. Frank nudged Joe, and suggested they speak to the picklock.

“Maybe he’s on the level, but I don’t like his looks,” Frank commented.

“Neither do I.”

Several people had gathered around the man, but he walked away rapidly and the crowd turned back to watch the next contestant. Frank and Joe ran after him on the pretext of complimenting him on his feat.

“It sure was a swell exhibition.” Joe grinned. “I bet that faker never intended to pay out any money.”

The tall man did not reply. He kept on walking toward the entrance gate.

“It’s my guess you’re a locksmith,” Frank spoke up. “You must be a good one.”

Still the stranger did not speak.

At that moment Chet came running after them. “Hi, fellows!” he yelled.

Frank and Joe were in a panic. They did not want their friend to give away their identity, in case the picklock was connected with the gang they and their father were trying to apprehend.

Frank fell back a step, turned, and put a finger to his lips. Chet caught on at once.

But this precaution did not help for long. As they reached the parking lot outside the exit gates, Iola, Callie, and Helen Osborne ran straight into the group. Smiling affably, Iola called out, “Well, if it isn’t Frank and Joe Hardy!”

The man ahead of them muttered something and dodged behind a parked automobile. In a moment he had zigzagged his way out of sight. Frank and Joe dashed after him, but with the confusion of cars coming and going, the wily stranger managed to escape.

“Too bad he got away,” Joe said. “But in a way I’m glad this happened. Otherwise we might not really have suspected him. Now I could almost bet he’s mixed up with that television gang.”

Frank examined the ground nearby. In a minute he was down on his hands and knees, inspecting a heelprint plainly visible in the dust.

“If I’m not mistaken, we’re in luck,” he said. “Look here! This guy’s heelmark is just like the one we photographed at 47 Parker Street.”

Joe dropped to his knees, too, and checked out the print. He agreed with his brother.

Just then the girls caught up to them.

“Don’t you ever take time out from sleuthing?” Helen teased. She was dark-haired but not as slim as Iola, and shared Chet’s interest in food.

“Sure we do,” Frank replied, grinning, as he and Joe got to their feet. “But only if there’s nothing cooking!”

“Hey,” Chet said, rolling his eyes, “that reminds me. What say we meet in the new drugstore downtown for some chow? I’m starved.”

“Okay,” the Hardys agreed, and started toward their convertible.

“I’ll take the girls and meet you in a little while,” Chet called, heading for his jalopy.

About fifteen minutes later they walked toward the sandwich counter in the drugstore.

“Chet will treat you all to a full-course dinner,” Joe announced with a wink when they sat down.

“Are you kidding?” Chet protested. “I spent most of my money on rides.”

“You’re safe, Chet.” Helen laughed. “We’re not hungry, anyway. Had too many hamburgers at the fair.”

“I’m thirsty, though,” Iola said, a twinkle in her eye.

In the end all the girls decided to have sodas, and the boys ordered sandwiches.

They had almost finished their refreshments when Frank nudged Joe. “That tall man at the counter over there!”

Joe gasped. “The picklock from the fair!”

“Sh!” Frank said. “You see what he’s buying? Bandage and antiseptic. He might lead us to Lenny Stryker and Martha Johnson!”

“How are we going to work it?”

Frank turned to the others. “Listen,” he said tensely. “All of you keep on eating and look down. Don’t act surprised at anything you see in the next few minutes. Chet, you’ll have to take the girls home.”

“Sure, Frank. What are you up to?”

“We’ve got to trail that guy over there. Joe, after I leave the store, you follow me in the car!”

CHAPTER XIV

Time to Act !

AMAZED, but without question, the Hardys’ friends obeyed Frank’s instructions.

He quickly crossed the drugstore to a counter of novelties. Without thought to size or color he selected a cap, a pair of sunglasses, and a small mustache. Hastily paying for them, he put on the disguise and dashed for the front door.

Reaching the street, he posted himself just around the corner. A moment later the picklock, carrying his package of bandage and antiseptic, appeared and walked rapidly up the street. Frank followed.

As the man paused by an automobile, Frank wondered if he could possibly get into the back without being noticed. Luck was in his favor, because the man suddenly decided to go to a nearby stand and buy a newspaper. Frank quickly opened the rear door and crouched down on the floor of the car.

The stranger returned, got in, and drove off without seeing him. Frank’s heart pounded wildly. He hoped Joe was following him, but he did not dare raise his head to find out.

At the next street intersection the driver pulled up to the curb. A man, who evidently had been waiting for him, jumped into the front seat. When Frank ventured to look up, he caught his breath. The newcomer was none other than the man who had sold Chet the battered dory!

“I thought you’d never make it, Jeff,” he said to the driver. “Did you have any trouble?”

“No. But I certainly ain’t goin’ to be the errand boy no more. Too dangerous. If you want the job, Griff, you can have it.”

“Oh, stop moanin’.”

“Which way are you goin’?” Griff asked, as the car evidently reached the outskirts of Bayport. He put his arms up on the back of the seat to settle himself more comfortably. Suddenly from the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the back.

“What in the name of—?” he exploded.

Jeff slammed on the brakes, demanding to know what the trouble was. He, too, turned around. By this time Frank had pulled himself up to the back seat. Deciding his only chance now was to put on an act, he grinned stupidly at the two men.

“Don’t mind me,” he said in a high shrill voice. “I love to ride. And wadda you think? Nobody ever asks me!”

The two men looked at each other, then back at the “moron” in their car.

“Aw, go on,” the boy pleaded. “And go real fast, too. I like to go fast!”

Jeff’s eyes closed until they were mere slits. His jaws snapped shut. “Get out!” he hissed.

“Why, what’ve I done?” Frank whined. “You wouldn’t put me out when I’ve only been ridin’ five minutes.”

The man named Griff was inclined to be lenient, but Jeff would not have it. “Out!” he said, and leaning back, opened one of the rear doors. Griff, taking the cue, gave Frank a shove and he landed at the side of the road. Then the car roared away.

Frank leaped to his feet. Seconds later Joe came along in the convertible. Frank jumped in beside his brother and they raced after the fleeing automobile.

At a crossroads the boys lost time trying to decide which way the suspects had gone. Tire tracks indicated they might have taken the road which led directly to the bay, so Joe followed it to the end.

“I’m afraid they got away,” he said in disappointment as they neared the water. Just ahead was the public dock of the Bayport Steamship Company, and some distance from shore was an outgoing ferry.

“You mean the car went on that ferry?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

While Frank removed his disguise, Joe inquired at the office about the ferry’s destination. The boys’ worst fears were confirmed. They could not possibly circle the bay to the ferry’s next stop before the boat would dock and the suspects’ car vanish.

In disgust the boys returned home and tumbled into bed early. A sound night’s sleep refreshed them, and in the morning they were ready for action again. As they were dressing, Frank suddenly snapped his fingers.

“Say, Joe,” he said, “maybe those men never went on that ferry after all. What say we go back there and look around?”

“Smartest idea you’ve had in a week!” Joe dodged the pillow Frank hurled at him.

The boys hurried downstairs. They were disappointed to learn that their father had remained out of town overnight, and had left word that he would not return home until midmorning.

Frank and Joe had hardly seated themselves at the breakfast table when Chet came through the doorway from the kitchen, glaring at them irately.

“Chet! Aren’t you up kind of early?” Joe gibed.

The boy ignored the question. “I’m here to collect four dollars and thirty cents,” he announced, without smiling.

“Wow!” cried Joe. “It sounds like a damage suit.”

“Well, you might call it that,” Chet said. “Anyway, you fellows have to fork over the money.”

“And why?”

“You forgot to pay for your meal last night. On top of that you invited the girls to have sodas, and” —Chet pointed his finger accusingly—“and you left me the check!”

Frank and Joe burst into laughter. “So that’s it?” said Joe. “Why, you ungrateful wretch! We left you with three of Bayport’s most beautiful girls. What’s four dollars and thirty cents compared to that?”

“It was a fine idea,” said Chet, “only I didn’t have enough money with me. Had to borrow from my sister. And did she kid me! Well, hand over the cash!”

“How about a compromise?” Frank asked, winking at Joe. “We’ll pay two-thirds. In return for the rest you can have breakfast here and then go with us to nab that boat thief you’re after. His name’s Griff.”

Chet’s eyes opened wide. He forgot his troubles at once, and demanded to be brought up to date on news of his case. Upon hearing the account of Frank’s adventure the evening before, Chet was eager to start off at once on the trail of the thief. Even Aunt Gertrude was amused at his refusal of a second helping of fried apple rings and corn bread.

By nine o’clock the three friends were on their way in the convertible. Frank made no stops until they came to a red traffic light some distance out of town. The signal began to hum peculiarly as it changed to green.

“Another singing light!” Joe exclaimed. “Maybe ten minutes’ drive from here—”

“Now listen, fellows,” Chet interrupted, “you promised we’d hunt for that man Griff—”

“Okay,” Frank said, and turned right.

Two minutes later they reached the public dock where the Hardys had lost the men the evening before. The boys jumped out and began to search in the roadway for clues.

Joe was the first to notice a narrow dirt road which branched off to the left along the water’s edge. Judging from tall patches of grass growing in it, the road was not used often. But there was a set of freshly made tire tracks.

“Come over here!” Joe called excitedly, and pointed out his discovery. “These may mean something. Let’s follow them!”

The three hopped into the car. Almost unconsciously Joe glanced at his watch, for he had become accustomed to timing their ten-minute rides from the “singing” traffic lights. Now he subtracted two minutes. Where would they be in eight more?

The road twisted and turned, finally coming out on the highway. Here the tire marks Frank had been following became intermingled with others.

Joe was excited. “Go on, Frank!” he cried. Two minutes later Joe called a halt and pointed.

“At last,” he yelled, “we’ve solved it!”

“Solved what?” Chet demanded.

Words tumbled from Joe’s lips. Just ahead was the Mead mansion, and they were ten minutes’ drive from singing light number three!

“Remember when we were checking the fuse box and you got a shock that knocked you cold?” Joe asked Frank.

“Sure do.”

“When I was in the library I heard a groan and raced back to you in the kitchen, thinking something had happened to you.”

Frank looked startled. “I didn’t groan. It was someone else!”

“Exactly!”

“Say, would you fellows mind telling me what you’re talking about?” Chet demanded.

“Sure we’ll tell you,” Joe replied. “There’s probably a hidden room in the Mead house. You get into it through a secret panel. And behind that panel are the two people who have been kidnapped.”

“I’ll bet you’re right!” Frank agreed, his heart pounding. “Lenny Strvker and Martha Johnson! I’d better hide the car 11. case anyone’s watching. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

“Now listen, fellows,” Chet spoke up, “you’re not going to get me mixed up in anything dangerous. I only came along to find that guy who got my money and then stole my boat.”

“Chet has a point there,” said Frank. “Suppose we go by a roundabout route to the Mead boathouse first and see if the dory’s there?”

Chet trailed the Hardys through a patch of woods to the water’s edge. Then, creeping forward on their hands and knees, the boys made their way cautiously along the bank to the boathouse. Certain that no one had seen them, Frank stripped off his clothes and swam under the door of the building. Minutes later he returned, his eyes shining excitedly.

“It’s in there!” he whispered hoarsely. “The dory with the funny Y on it!”

“Gosh! You mean it?” Chet whooped.

“Quiet!” Joe hissed. “Do you want to spoil everything?”

“Time to act!” Frank said tersely. “Chet, you take the car and bring Dad here at once. Tell him to give our special Hardy rap on the front door. Joe, you and I’ll go inside the house and look for the secret panel!”

CHAPTER XV

Prisoners

CHET left at once, returning to the main road by the route through the woods. He sighed in relief as he reached the convertible and opened the door. Another twenty minutes and—

“Hold it!” A voice hissed in his ear and a hand was laid on his shoulder.

Chet’s heart almost stopped beating as he was pulled around roughly and stood looking into a leering face.

Griff!

“Finally we’ve got you snoopers where we want you!” the man growled. “Come along. You’re goin’ to spend a little time with me while the boss takes care of those friends of yours, the Hardys!”

Frank and Joe, meanwhile, stealthily made their way to the Mead mansion. Using the boathouse as a cover, then the shrubbery, they finally reached the mansion without walking in the open. While Frank unlocked the front door, Joe kept a sharp lookout. They were sure nobody had seen them.

Noiselessly the door swung open. They stepped into the somber hall. This time, as a precaution against alerting anyone to their presence, they did not try the lights. Knowing their way around, they quickly tiptoed from room to room. Satisfied that no one was in the house, they began to hunt for a secret panel.

Not a word was spoken. Taking it for granted that the secret opening was somewhere near where Joe had heard the groan, the boys concentrated their efforts on the library. Dividing the work, they started to examine the walls inch by inch.

Every bit of dark, ornate molding was scrutinized. They ran their fingertips lightly over the paneling that gave off the smothery smell of dust. Frank stifled a sneeze in his handkerchief.

Several minutes ticked by, then Joe quietly left the library and went to the front door. He opened it slightly and looked out. Squinting, he studied every bush. All was still.

He returned to Frank and whispered, “The coast is still clear. Nothing is stirring outside.”

“Okay. We’ve covered everything but the fireplace and the walls on either side of it!” Frank got up from his knees and stretched his aching back. The floor molding had yielded nothing. He looked at his watch and was startled to find that they had been in the house for an hour.

“I wonder where Dad is,” he whispered.

Joe shrugged. “We’re not finished yet, anyway.”

“He must have been out when Chet got there. I hope he comes soon.”

Once more the boys went to work. It was almost an hour later when Frank—tapping, pushing, and pulling at bits of the heavily carved paneling near the fireplace—made a discovery. On a design of an oak tree, one leaf proved to be movable. Beneath it was a metal disk.

“Hey, Joe, I’ve found something!” he said in a hushed tone.

Joe leaped across the room to his brother. “What in the world is that?” he asked, surprised.

“I don’t know. It’s not a keyhole, that’s for sure.”

Together the boys tried to slide the disk aside, but were unsuccessful. Suddenly Frank had an inspiration. Pulling his compass from his pocket, he held it near the disk. There was a definite attraction between the piece of metal and the compass needle!

“A big magnet must make this thing work!” Frank concluded. “Maybe there’s one hidden somewhere in this room.”

Joe grinned. “What a wild guess! Besides, we’ve checked this room so thoroughly that we certainly would have found it!”

Nonetheless Frank began to search, moving slowly about the room. Suddenly the compass slipped from his hands and landed on the rug with a dull thud.

Frank bent over to pick it up, but drew his hand back when the compass moved. “Holy crow! Am I dreaming? This thing has legs!”

“What do you mean?” Joe stared at the compass. It slid over the floor as if by magic. “This place must be hexed!”

“Maybe not,” Frank replied. “The compass could be pulled by the magnet I dreamed up.”

“You’re a genius, Frank!”

Both boys fell to their knees and examined the floor. Joe, too, was convinced now that a large magnet must be hidden underneath. They pulled up a corner of the rug where the compass had stopped moving. After a frantic search they found a board which was not nailed in place. Lifting it, they grinned in delight. On a beam lay a large magnet!

“I’ll try it against the wall!” Frank said, picking up the heavy piece of steel. He hurried to the metal disk and directed the magnet toward it. Suddenly there was a clicking sound. At the same moment a large section of the wall on which the tree was carved began to slide.

The secret panel!

Frank and Joe held their breath. As the opening became larger they found themselves peering into a room. They gulped in amazement. On a cot lay a young man. Beside him stood the missing nurse, Martha Johnson !

Joe was first to step over the threshold of the secret room. As the woman recognized him, terror came into her eyes.

“No! No!” she cried out. “Don’t come in!”

The warning was spoken too late. Two men had been lying in wait for them on either side of the panel, poised to attack.

Frank and Joe, taken unaware, fought like tigers, but a third member of the gang appeared from the library and joined in the fracas. Frank and Joe were overpowered. They recognized two of the men. Griff and Jeff!

“We’ve got you at last!” Jeff panted. “That’s the end of your meddling in our affairs!”

In the meantime Miss Johnson had edged toward the doorway, hoping to escape. But Griff caught her arm.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” he hissed. “You’re not going anywhere!”

The boys were bound hand and foot, and left on the floor. The criminals surveyed their work, satisfied grins on their faces.

An agonized groan came from the patient on the cot. Griff began to laugh hoarsely.

“You can have that sick kid all to yourselves now,” he jeered. “You been wantin’ to find him!”

He picked up the magnet from the floor. “Come on, men,” he said, then turned to the others. “You won’t be able to get out of here—unless I let you. And I don’t intend to!”

The three men stepped through the opening into the library. As the Hardys watched in horror, the secret panel closed.

They were prisoners!

CHAPTER XVI

Double Trouble

AFTER Griff and Jeff and their accomplice had left, Miss Johnson deftly began to unfasten the ropes which bound the Hardys. As soon as they were free, the boys dashed to the panel and tried to open it.

“It’s no use,” the woman told them. “I’ve tried and tried.”

“And there’s no other way out of this room?” Frank asked.

The nurse said there was not a window or door in the place. She had searched in vain.

“But fresh air gets in here somehow,” Frank pointed out.

“I’ve concluded it comes through the ceiling. But, as you see, that’s very high and there’s no way to get up to it.”

Frank and Joe were annoyed with themselves for being trapped. Their only hope now was that Chet had reached their father and that he would be able to figure out how to open the panel.

“But maybe Jeff and Griff will take the magnet with them,” Joe said apprehensively.

The boys looked and looked for a means of escape, but could find none. Finally they sat down on the floor to talk over the situation.

“Please tell us everything that happened to you after you left our house,” Joe said to the nurse.

Before Martha Johnson could begin her story, the youth on the cot groaned again, and tried to get up. The nurse rushed to his side and held him down. She asked Frank to get a tablet and a glass of water from the table and give it to the patient. In a few moments he became quiet.

“Lenny Stryker, no doubt,” Frank said.

“Yes. How did you know?” Miss Johnson asked.

“Conjecture. We’ve been looking for him.”

“This boy is dreadfully ill,” Miss Johnson went on. “He should be in a hospital.”

“Can we ask him some questions?”

“It wouldn’t do any good. He has such a high temperature that he’s delirious most of the time.”

“How did you find out who he is, then?” asked Joe.

“I heard the name mentioned. I don’t know how he got mixed up with those awful people. They were afraid to let him go because he might have notified the police.”

“Do the three men come here often?” Frank asked.

The nurse stated that at least one of them came once every day to bring food and anything needed for Lenny. No one had ever stayed very long until the night before. Then the tall one called Jeff had posted himself in the room.

“I was sure something was going to happen,” she said. “That’s why I had an eye on the secret panel when it began to open. Oh, I wish you hadn’t gotten yourselves into this trouble!”

Frank and Joe tried to reassure her. They mentioned having sent Chet Morton to bring Mr. Hardy.

“Suppose your friend never reached him?”

“Why do you say that?” Joe asked.

Miss Johnson said that she had overheard the men talking about posting guards on the grounds. The boys’ spirit sank.

“Maybe Chet is a prisoner himself somewhere now,” Frank said worriedly.

“That would account for Dad’s not getting here,” Joe added. Then a worse thought struck him. “Suppose Dad’s a prisoner, too!”

Martha Johnson looked desperate. “What are we going to do?”

“Right now all we can do is sit tight and wait,” Frank said.

Joe changed the subject. “How did they get you here, Miss Johnson?”

The nurse told how she had been captured right after leaving the Hardy home. Someone on the street had started to pass her, then whirled around and grabbed her arm. She had screamed, and a chloroform-drenched handkerchief had been held against her face. When she regained consciousness, she was in an automobile, and a short while later was imprisoned in the hidden room.

“I still have no idea where I am,” she said.

Frank and Joe told her. Miss Johnson had never heard of the mansion, and was intrigued to learn that the owner had installed doors and windows without visible hardware.

They discussed the strange history of the Mead house for a while, but as time went by, their fears increased. So did their hunger. They wondered if anyone would bring food. There seemed little likelihood of this now, because the thieves no doubt would make their escape while they had a chance.

“Did anyone come besides the three men we saw today?” Frank asked the nurse.

“Yes. One they called the Boss. He’s about fifty, tall, and slender.”

“Did you hear them say anything that might shed some more light on their operation?” Joe asked.

“They talked very little,” Miss Johnson answered. “But I remember that they said they would make their getaway as soon as possible and give up this whole area.”

The Hardys were glumly silent as they realized the thieves probably were on their way by this time.

Lenny Stryker was stirring again. Suddenly he leaped from his cot. Wild-eyed, he began to limp around the room, mumbling to himself.

Miss Johnson and the boys caught hold of him and put him back on the cot.

A moment later the light went out. Lenny became quiet at once, and for several seconds there was absolute silence. Then came an indistinct grating noise. The panel was being opened!

Quickly the boys made their way toward the spot. Frank whipped out his flashlight. But before he could snap it on, Lenny got up again and knocked it to the floor. Screaming and waving his arms, the delirious young man kept the others from reaching the entranceway.

During the confusion the Hardys heard a thud, then a slight click. The light went on again. They gasped as they saw Chet sprawled on the floor!

He looked up in terror, then recognized them.

“Oh, it’s you! Am I glad!”

Chet’s momentary elation faded when the Hardys did not return his enthusiasm. They pointed to the closed panel, to Lenny Stryker who now lay in a heap on the floor, and introduced Miss Johnson.

“Gosh!” Chet cried. “Let’s get out of here!”

“We can’t,” Frank told him. “Did you contact Dad?”

Chet shook his head, his eyes roving around the room. Then he caught on. Joe nodded, confirming that they were locked in.

“We’re behind the secret panel which can’t be opened except with a large magnet. And that magnet isn’t here.”

The stout boy gulped and sat down on the floor. Looking up at his friends, he asked, “What are we going to do?”

“Suppose you tell us what happened to you,” Frank said.

After they lifted Lenny to the cot, Chet related how he had got no farther than the Hardys’ car before being captured. He had been taken to the Mead boathouse and locked inside.

“I’ve been there ever since,” he said. “At least that guy Griff brought me some food. Oh—”

Chet stopped speaking as he suddenly remembered something. From his jacket pockets he pulled out several candy bars, an apple, and a small box of crackers. “I never go anywhere without my emergency rations,” he said, smiling. He passed them around. For once Chet did not talk about being hungry himself, and insisted the others eat every bit of the food.

“Isn’t there any way at all to get out of this room?” he asked desperately.

“None that we’ve discovered so far,” Frank told him. “But let’s try again.”

While the nurse attended to the patient who was mumbling again, the Hardys made another minute examination of the paneled woodwork in the room. But every piece of carved design seemed to be solidly placed.

They had almost decided to give up the search when Frank came to a section on the right side of the panel where a bird had been cut into the wood. It was perched on a tree branch about five and a half feet above the floor. Frank studied its head and body carefully. Then he put his finger on its heavily feathered wing and gently pushed it up. The wing moved!

CHAPTER XVII

The Wreck

“COME here!” Frank cried excitedly.

The others leaped to his side. Miss Johnson turned the lamp so that its light shone directly on the bird. Beneath its wing, three tiny slits were revealed.

“The symbol!” Joe exclaimed. “The strange Y!”

For several moments everyone stared in amazement.

“What is it?” Martha Johnson asked.

Frank looked toward Lenny Stryker and put his fingers to his lips. The nurse assured him that her patient was now asleep and could not overhear anything.

“I don’t know what the strange mark means,” Frank explained. “But we’ve seen it several times and think it’s a clue to a gang of thieves. Somehow Lenny Stryker got mixed up with them.”

“And you think this house is their headquarters?” Miss Johnson asked.

“It looks that way,” Joe replied.

Frank told her how they met the Englishman who claimed to be John Mead and about the key he had evidently lost when his car landed in a ditch.

“He wore a ring with this symbol,” Frank said. “Did you happen to notice whether any of the men who came here wore such a ring?”

After a moment’s thought Miss Johnson said she could not be sure. The tall man called the Boss had worn a large signet ring, but she had not noticed the design. She recalled, however, that he had mentioned the name Carr Electronics once.

“Carr Electronics?” Frank repeated. “That’s where the dummy was hit over the head when the place was burglarized.”

“What about the symbol under the bird’s wing?” Joe asked. “I’m sure it’s not just here for decorative purposes.”

“There might be something hidden beyond it,” Frank agreed. “But what?” He worked on the slits for a while, but finally gave up. Joe and Chet each took a turn. Even Miss Johnson, intrigued by the idea, tried her hand at it.

Hours dragged by. The prisoners became hungry and discouraged. They took turns pounding on the secret panel but doubted that their signals would be heard by anyone.

“It’s eleven P.M.,” groaned Chet. “We’ve been gone from your house fourteen hours!”

Back home, meanwhile, Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were frantic with worry. They had not thought much about the boys’ absence until evening. Mr. Hardy had gone out again and could not be reached. Unable to stand the strain any longer, Mrs. Hardy finally went to the telephone and called Mrs. Morton.

“Hello,” she said, trying to seem calm. After a few pleasantries she asked, “Is Chet there?”

“No, he’s not, Laura. Isn’t he with Frank and Joe?”

Mrs. Hardy revealed with a sinking heart that Chet had left the house with her sons directly after breakfast and she had not heard from any of them since.

“It’s unusual for them not to telephone if they’re going to stay out late,” Mrs. Hardy said. “But I’m sure they’ll be home soon,” she added, in order not to alarm Mrs. Morton more than was necessary.

“Oh, I hope so,” Chet’s mother replied anxiously. “Those boys sometimes get into such dangerous situations. Please let me know the minute you hear from them.”

“I’ll phone you if I get any news,” Mrs. Hardy assured her friend.

She had barely said good-by when the telephone rang. It was Chief Collig.

“Mrs. Hardy,” he asked brusquely, “are Frank and Joe there?”

“No, Chief. Is anything wrong?”

“Then let me speak to Fenton,” Collig went on, pretending that he had not heard her anxious question.

“He’s not here, either. Oh, wait a minute,” she added, hearing a key in the lock. “Fenton’s just coming in the door.”

Mrs. Hardy called her husband to the telephone.

“Thank you, dear. Who is it?” he asked.

“Chief Collig.”

Mr. Hardy’s eyebrows lifted as he took the phone. “Yes, Chief?” As he listened to Collig, his few grew grave.

“Have you tried the hospitals?... They’re not there?... I’ll be right over.”

The news was disturbing. The officer had reported that the boys’ overturned convertible had been found in a ditch some miles out of Bayport. There had been no sign of either Frank or Joe, and no report of the accident.

Laura Hardy’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry. Aunt Gertrude began spluttering about her dire predictions coming true. “This detective work is too risky for boys.” As she took off her glasses to wipe them, her hands shook.

“When did you last hear from the boys?” Mr. Hardy asked his wife. Upon being told, his face clouded. “Well, I’m going to police headquarters.”

“You know something you’re not telling me,” his wife cried, grabbing his arm as he was about to go out the door.

“I have a hunch the car was stolen,” he replied. “I want to drive to the spot where it was abandoned and see if I can pick up any clues.”

Aunt Gertrude wailed, “Hurry! Hurry! They’ve probably been kidnapped!”

The detective was out of the house before Mrs. Hardy could voice any further questions, and rushed to headquarters.

Collig was not scheduled to be on duty, but when the report of the overturned Hardy car had come in, the chief had rushed to his office.

When Mr. Hardy arrived, he jumped up from his leather chair, his forehead creased with frown lines. “This really has me worried, Fenton.”

“Come on. Hop in my car,” the detective said.

They sped to the scene of the accident, about five miles west of Bayport. With flashlights, the two men carefully examined the rough ground for any sign of a clue. There were no footprints.

“That’s strange,” Collig grunted. “We haven’t had any rain to wash ’em away, either!”

Mr. Hardy did not speak. Slowly he walked back along the road in the direction from which the car had come. Reaching a spot about one hundred feet from the convertible, he played his flashlight over the area and found a set of footprints.

“Here’s your answer,” he called out. “Pretty daring person.”

It was the detective’s belief that the driver of the car had jumped and let it go on to wreck itself. Obviously he was neither one of his sons nor Chet Morton.

“It’s a real relief to know that,” Mr. Hardy concluded, “but it doesn’t find the boys. I’m going back to town now and start a search.”

Collig had his own plan of operation, so the men separated after their return to police headquarters. Mr. Hardy drove at once to 47 Parker Street and examined the house carefully. When it yielded no results, he continued on to various spots which he had had under surveillance in connection with the television thieves. But the outcome of his investigation was discouraging.

Tired and worried, he finally went home at eight in the morning. Refreshing himself with a hasty breakfast and some coffee, he asked his wife to pack some sandwiches, then started out again. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, who had slept only fitfully, asked what he intended to do next.

“I’m driving to the Mead house,” he replied, masking his concern. “I’ve an idea the boys found out something over there and are still sleuthing around the place.”

Mr. Hardy and Chief Collig examined the ground for clues

He did not tell the two women his real fears. By now he was convinced that his sons and Chet were in the hands of the very men he was trying to capture!

CHAPTER XVIII

Holding a Suspect

WITHIN an hour after Mr. Hardy had left home on his search for Frank and Joe, the doorbell rang. Hoping the caller would have good news, Aunt Gertrude dashed to answer it. A lean man in his thirties stood outside.

“Is this the Hardy house?” he asked, smiling, and took off his hat. Learning that it was, he added, “Are Frank and Joe at home?”

“No,” Aunt Gertrude replied.

“When do you expect them?”

“Suppose you tell me your name and why you wish to see them.”

“I’m John Mead.”

Aunt Gertrude reeled. She put one hand to her forehead and grasped the door with the other.

“You seem surprised to hear that,” the stranger remarked. “Is there something peculiar about it?”

“I—I—We thought you were dead!”

The caller laughed. “Me dead? I’m very much alive. What gave you that idea?”

By this time Gertrude Hardy had steadied her nerves. She had heard enough about the mystery her brother and the boys were trying to solve to know that the person who stood before her might be one of the suspects in the case. She was hesitant about inviting him into the house; yet she was fearful of letting him go.

As calmly as possible she finally asked him to come inside. Calling loudly for her sister-in-law, she escorted John Mead into the living room. The boys’ mother hurried in.

“Laura, this is Mr. John Mead,” Aunt Gertrude announced.

Mrs. Hardy felt faint, but she tried not to show it. The three sat down. It immediately became evident to the caller that the two women were very nervous.

“My coming here seems to have upset you,” he said. “Last Monday I met Frank and Joe Hardy on the road. I had trouble with my car and they kindly helped me out.”

The women nodded.

“I just returned and am on the way home. So I stopped by to thank them again and invite them over to the house. It’s an interesting old place and I thought they’d get a kick out of it.”

He stopped speaking, expecting one or the other to say something, but both Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude remained silent. They were staring at a ring he wore on his right hand. This was the first time they had seen the strange Y symbol. Suddenly Mrs. Hardy realized that the awkward pause had been rather long.

“Oh—ah—yes,” she said. “The boys told us about you. But they’re not at home now and I don’t know when they’ll be back.”

Aunt Gertrude again brought up the subject of how they had heard that John Mead, who owned the house on the bay, had died five years ago in a car accident.

“I see what you mean.” The caller smiled. “He was my uncle.”

“Your uncle!” Mrs. Hardy cried. “We thought he had no relatives.”

“I suppose everyone thought that,” John Mead went on. “To tell you the truth, my uncle was a rather eccentric man and people knew little about him. He was not married, and my father and I were his only relatives. We lived in England most of our lives.

“About five years ago I received a strange note from Uncle John. He wrote that he was sending me a box and would explain its contents later. He wanted to be sure of my receiving the gifts before telling me what they were.”

The visitor explained that the box had contained the ring he wore and some odd-looking keys. That was all. He had written to his uncle at the Bayport address saying the package had come, but he had never gotten a reply.

“Apparently Uncle John died before receiving my letter. But I didn’t know this until much later. It seems no will was found, but my father had once told me my wealthy relative was leaving everything to me. Recently I arrived in this country and came here to Bayport last week to see my uncle’s estate.”

Though the stranger seemed honest, the two women were still suspicious. While Mrs. Hardy continued the conversation, Aunt Gertrude quietly left the room and went upstairs to telephone police headquarters.

Chief Collig, still out on a personal search for Frank and Joe, was not available, but the sergeant on duty promised to send a plainclothesman at once.

During Miss Hardy’s absence from the living room, the boys’ mother inquired about the condition of the Mead mansion. She remembered her sons talking about the fact that the electricity had been turned on and off at various times.

“Since the house has been abandoned for so long, I’m sure all the utilities are shut off,” she said, looking at the caller intently. “How did you live there when you arrived?”

“I didn’t stay very long,” Mead replied, “and I didn’t bother turning it on. Just used a flashlight on my brief tour through the house. I do hope the generator is still in working order. My father told me about it.”

He then went on to describe the intricate locks his uncle had devised, and his own discovery of the various secret mechanisms.

“That’s one of the things I thought your boys would enjoy looking at,” he concluded.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Aunt Gertrude hurried to admit the plainclothesman. Quickly she whispered her suspicions to him, then brought him into the living room. She introduced the police officer as a friend, preventing Mrs. Hardy from asking questions by a conspiratorial glance.

“Well, I’d better be going,” John Mead said. “Please tell Frank and Joe I’d like to see them soon.”

As he started to leave, the plainclothesman blocked his way. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said.

For several minutes the detective quizzed the Englishman, but learned nothing from him other than what he had told the two women. Finally John Mead became irritated.

“You’d think I was some sort of criminal!” he burst out. “I know this is a detective’s home, and you probably think everybody who comes here is a suspect of some kind, but I can’t see why I warrant such treatment!”

“Well, if you must know, you are a suspect!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed.

“What?” John Mead looked as if someone had struck him. He recovered in a moment, however, and demanded to know what she meant. Mrs. Hardy tried to calm her unexpected visitor.

“Please sit down again, Mr. Mead,” she said. “We’ll tell you the story.”

“This man is a detective,” Aunt Gertrude explained. “If you try any funny business—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mead replied. “Funny business indeed, but on your side! I insist upon knowing why you are virtually holding me a prisoner!” His eyes blazed angrily.

“That ring you are wearing bears the insignia of a gang of thieves!” Miss Hardy cried excitedly. “How do we know you’re not one of them?”

John Mead turned pale. Nervously he insisted he was not a thief, and that he had received the ring by mail from his uncle years ago.

“Your story could be true and it could not,” the plainclothesman spoke up. “But if you’re going to the Mead house I’m coming with you.”

“And we are too!” chorused the women.

They thought it best not to mention the fact that Mr. Hardy was out there searching for the boys. Moreover, they were so worried about Frank and Joe they wanted to find out if there was any news.

Mead looked from one to the other, then shrugged. “Come along, then. I have nothing to hide!”

The plainclothesman drove the four in a police car. When they reached the Mead house, they found Mr. Hardy and two policemen still trying to find a way to get into the mansion. The detective was surprised to see his wife and sister, and even more so to meet John Mead. He questioned him closely and decided his story was plausible.

Mead, meanwhile, had realized the seriousness of the situation and was very cooperative.

“We have reason to believe there’s trouble inside the house, and that my sons are being held prisoners here,” Mr. Hardy explained. “I was just about to break in. Do you have a key?”

“Yes. I lost one, but I have three more for the other doors.”

The detective led the way to the back door of the mansion and Mead opened it.

“It took me quite a while to find out how to get in,” the Englishman explained.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “It’s a strange setup.” Inside, he clicked a wall switch and the lights went on.

“That’s odd,” said Mead. “I thought—”

“Someone else knows about the generator,” Mr. Hardy explained. Then he turned to the others. “The two officers and I will make a thorough search of the house. You’d better wait here.”

The three went off and returned after a while, reporting that they had not found a trace of the boys.

“You may as well go home,” Mr. Hardy told his wife and sister. “Thomas here,” he added, referring to the plainclothesman, “can take you back. I’d like Mr. Mead to stay. We’ll look around again.”

After the women had left he gave Mead a sketchy account of the mystery on which he was working. He revealed the part Lenny Stryker had played in it, the kidnapping of Martha Johnson, and how the only clue to the boys’ whereabouts lay in the secret panel.

“All trails lead to this house,” he concluded. “Think carefully, Mr. Mead. Did your uncle ever mention a secret panel to you?”

Mead shook his head, dumbfounded. He had no idea the mansion contained anything of a secret nature other than the hidden locks on the doors and windows, but he could well imagine that his eccentric relative might have built a hidden room.

“Uncle John was very withdrawn, my father told me. Perhaps he had a secret room where he worked. But I never heard of one.”

Mr. Hardy was inclined to believe that the Englishman was telling the truth. Nevertheless, he signaled to one of the policemen, whose name was Mac, to keep close watch on him and see that he did not escape.

Then the detective went outside with the other officer and surveyed the house carefully. They decided that architecturally the most likely place to build a secret room would be off the library.

Before they went back inside, they moved the cars so they would be concealed. Then they began a careful examination of the carved paneling in the library.

Mr. Hardy called his sons’ names a few times, but there was no response.

“If they were somewhere near here, wouldn’t they hear us?” Mac asked.

“Not necessarily. They could be gagged. Or the panel could be soundproof. Joe heard a groan once, but at that time he was not in this room, and the panel could have been open.”

Mr. Hardy focused his attention on the fireplace and the walls on either side of it. His eves wandered, and it was not long before he located the oak tree with its movable leaf.

Before he could investigate the metal disk beneath, Mac, who stood near the hall door, detected a slight sound. Instantly he signaled the others to put them on guard. Turning off the light, Mr. Hardy and the two policemen ducked behind the heavy draperies, pulling Mead with them.

The front door opened and closed again. Footsteps sounded along the hallway. Finally a man came stealthily into the library and walked toward the fireplace. The four watched intently in the dimness.

Was the intruder going to open the secret panel?

CHAPTER XIX

Closing In

THE man who had entered the Mead home carried a large package under his arm. He hid it inside the fireplace and turned away.

The detectives and John Mead watched him tensely. To their disappointment he did not touch the paneled wall; instead, he walked back toward the hall.

At that instant Mr. Hardy leaped from hiding and pinned the man’s arms behind him. Startled, the stranger tried to wrench himself free, but was confronted by the policemen. One of them turned on the light.

Mr. Hardy stared closely at the prisoner. From the description Frank and Joe had given him, the man could be Mike Batton, the dishonest locksmith.

“Okay, Batton, calm down,” Mr. Hardy said.

“How do you—?” the fellow began, then stopped short and turned to the policemen. “Take your hands off me!” he cried.

“What are you doing here?” John Mead demanded.

“I could ask you the same question,” Batton replied with a sneer.

“Open that package!” Mr. Hardy ordered him.

At first Mike only stared back insolently and did not obey. When he was told the police were looking for him and it would go still harder with him if he did not cooperate, he changed his mind.

He pulled the string from the bundle by the fireplace. Several bracelets, rings, and necklaces rolled out.

“Where did you get this jewelry?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“I’m not telling.”

Under further questioning, though, Batton admitted that he had stolen it because he needed money to pay a large gambling debt.

“I know a guy who buys stolen gems,” he said. “Soon as he shows up, he’ll pay me a lot of money for them.”

“He’s coming here? When?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

Batton suddenly looked frightened and did not answer.

“Put him under arrest,” Mr. Hardy said to the police, and advised the prisoner of his rights. “Now give me the key you used to get in here!” he demanded of him.

Batton refused. The two officers searched him. In his pockets they found a key ring with several keys on it, also a single, new-looking one. He admitted that it fitted the back door.

“Where did you get it?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“A friend gave it to me,” Batton replied. “He said the house belonged to him, but he wasn’t using it, and I could stay here whenever I wanted to.

“Is that the same friend who will buy your loot?”

“Ah—yes, yes, he is.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jack.”

“Jack what?”

“Don’t know. He never told me his last name.”

“Where does he live?”

“Don’t know.”

Batton would reveal no more and Mr. Hardy asked Mac to take him into the kitchen for the time being and handcuff him to the door handle of the refrigerator.

“I don’t believe a word he said about his friend,” the detective muttered. Then he renewed his investigation of the disk behind the oak leaf in the paneling.

Almost immediately he was startled by the attraction of his stainless-steel watch to the metal piece on the wall. He searched the room for a powerful magnet, lifted the rug, and presently found the loose floor board.

It was only a matter of seconds before the secret panel moved. Mr. Hardy gazed into the room beyond and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Dad!” Frank and Joe cried in unison.

“Hi, boys!” Mr. Hardy was thankful to see his sons and Chet unharmed. Quickly he explained about John Mead and greeted Miss Johnson, who was elated about the rescue.

“I thought we’d be here forever,” she said with a grateful smile.

Frank introduced the patient on the cot. “Dad, this is Lenny Stryker.”

The young man, whose fever had diminished greatly in the early-morning hours, sat up. “I feel terrible about the whole thing,” he said weakly.

“Don’t try to talk,” Frank told him. “I’ll explain.”

Lenny had revealed his experiences to the boys a little while before, and Frank related them to his father. The boy’s uncle had asked him if he would like a job to earn some money on the side to help his mother. The offer had been a trick.

After being introduced by his uncle to several men, Lenny realized they were about to rob an appliance warehouse. He wanted no part in it but was forced to go along.

He was so nervous that he could not carry out his assignment to take away the guard’s gun. He had started to run and the watchman had shot him in the leg.

“I can’t understand,” Chet put in, “why your uncle should want an inexperienced person along on such a big job.”

“I guess he was trying to get even with my mother,” Lenny told him. “He’s my father’s half brother and wanted to marry her. But she didn’t like him and now I can see why. I guess she knows he isn’t on the level.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “That explains a great deal. Is your uncle Whitey Masco—or rather Judd Merk?”

“You know!” Lenny cried out in alarm.

“Masco was an alias?” Frank asked in surprise.

“Yes. Unfortunately I didn’t find out until yesterday, or we might have cracked this case sooner.”

“Do I have to go to jail now?” Lenny asked in a frightened voice.

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Hardy replied. “First you’ll be taken to the hospital. You’ll be in police custody, but I’m sure everything will turn out all right. Don’t worry, Lenny.”

As for his uncle’s activities, Lenny could offer little. He had no knowledge of Merk’s personal life, and most of the boy’s harrowing experiences after being shot were already known. He had been taken to 47 Parker Street and had overheard Merk say, “We’d better hide the kid behind the secret panel.” Left alone briefly, he had dragged himself to the telephone and called his mother.

“Good thing you did that,” Mr. Hardy said. Then he turned to the policeman at his side. “Mac, would you take Lenny to the hopital? Then drop our prisoner off at headquarters and explain the details to the chief so he can call off his hunt for the boys.”

“Sure, Mr. Hardy.”

Mac and his colleague carried Lenny outside, then led Mike Batton to the police car. The next instant they roared off.

Mr. Hardy turned to the nurse. “Martha, do me a favor. Drive my car over to our house and tell Laura and Gertrude we’re okay. Take Chet with you, too.”

“Boy! Will I be glad to get home!” Chet exclaimed. “I’m so hungry I could eat three meals at once!”

“Are you staying here?” Miss Johnson asked Mr. Hardy.

“Yes. The boys and I still have a job to do and we may not get back for several hours.”

The nurse nodded and departed, leaving only the three Hardys and John Mead in the mansion.

“What are we going to do, Dad?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Follow a hunch. Frank told me before that he’d like to stay and do some special investigating.” He turned to his older son. “Okay, Frank. Let’s get started.”

Frank led the way to the paneled wall in the secret room, pushed aside the bird’s wing, and showed his father the three slits which formed the strange Y symbol.

“We tried to find out what to do with them, but had no success,” he explained. “Can you tell us anything about this, Mr. Mead?”

The man shook his head. He reiterated his former statement of knowing nothing about the secret devices in the elder Mead’s home.

“The whole thing is a great mystery to me,” he said.

Mr. Hardy was staring at the unusual ring on Mead’s finger. He asked the man to take it off so that he could examine it. Mr. Mead watched eagerly as the detective took a magnifying glass from his pocket and studied the Y symbol.

Suddenly Mr. Hardy smiled and moved something with his fingernail. To the amazement of the onlookers, the three pieces of the Y raised up in the shape of a miniature key.

Quickly the detective inserted it into the slits on the wall and pulled open a small door.

The others gasped. Within the opening beyond lay stacks of money!

“Does—does that belong to my uncle?” Mead asked.

Mr. Hardy quickly checked the serial numbers of the crisp bills. “No. It’s new. Judd Merk’s haul!”

“From his television thefts?” Frank asked.

“Exactly.”

“But where do they sell the stolen sets?”

“I found out they have a large operation on the West Coast. The goods are shipped to a factory there, then taken out of their original cabinets, The thieves replace them with cabinets carrying the brand name Soli, which they make themselves, and, with the necessary modifications, export them as their own.

“But why do they use the Mead house to hide the money?” Frank asked.

“It’s only temporary. Merk sets up a spot like this in each area where he plans to pull a series of burglaries. Since it is far removed from the actual plant, there is less chance of its being discovered. Also, none of the gang lives here, so it’s really quite safe.”

Mr. Hardy took a set of ledgers and files out from under the stacks of money. “You see, he used this mansion strictly for the bookkeeping end. If he hadn’t tried to make the place into a hospital for his nephew, he might have gotten away with it.

“There was a series of television burglaries in Pennsylvania about six months ago, and the police are sure it was Merk’s gang. But they still don’t know where he’s hiding out!”

“What about his plant at the coast?” Joe inquired.

“It was closed down by police yesterday. The man who was in charge there never saw Merk, didn’t know his name, and only spoke to him over the telephone.”

“Where do we go from here, Dad?” Frank wanted to know.

“I have a hunch Merk will come back for the money, even though he knows that we’re on his trail. There’s a good chance he didn’t keep the house under constant surveillance and that he didn’t see us.”

“In other words, the gang might think that Joe, Chet, Martha, Lenny, and I are still safely locked behind the secret panel?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “There’s one way to find out. ”Let’s hide and wait until dark!”

CHAPTER XX

The Trap

“SUPPOSE Merk doesn’t show up?” Frank asked.

“We’ll have the police take over after midnight,” his father replied. “He’s bound to come sooner or later!”

The detective passed around the sandwiches he had brought from home, then the four settled down to wait. Mr. Hardy and John Mead posted themselves in the inner room behind the secret panel, which was then closed. Frank and Joe turned off all the lights and hid behind furniture in the library.

Just after dusk there came a barely perceptible sound from the hall. The boys stiffened. A moment later they saw a man enter, faintly outlined in the glow of a flashlight. He carried a tool kit and a cutting torch.

The man took a drill from the toolbox. After searching for a spot on the wall next to the secret panel, he began to bore through the wood.

“He’s trying to open the safe from this side,” Frank thought. “But he won’t get very far.” He signaled Joe, and the next instant the boys jumped from their hiding place.

As they did, the man put a match to the cutting torch and a blue flame shot out with a deadly hiss.

“Stand where you are,” the intruder snarled, “or I’ll cut you in two!”

Joe picked up a heavy chair and hurled it across the room. It knocked the man’s legs out from under him and he crashed to the floor. Frank leaped on top of him, and after a brief tussle pinned his arms behind his back. Joe shut off the deadly torch.

“Turn the lights on and open the panel,” Frank told his brother.

An instant later Mr. Hardy and John Mead stepped from the secret room.

“We’ve got him at last,” Mr. Hardy said grimly. “You’re under arrest, Merk!” He informed the prisoner of his constitutional rights.

“Okay, okay. I know them,” the man said, flashing looks of hate at the detective and his sons. He gazed at Mead without recognition. “Another dick?” he asked.

Mr. Hardy shook his head. “This is John Mead, the owner of this house.”

Merk sneered, “John Mead is dead.” Then he added, “He was a clever old man, but I guessed his secrets.”

“You knew my uncle?” the Englishman asked, astonished.

“So he was your uncle, eh? Sure I knew him. Met him on a train once and got myself invited here,” the thief bragged.

Merk could not resist the temptation to boast. He said that the elder Mead had told him about his special hobby of concealed locks and hardware, and even mentioned the safe in the secret room.

“He didn’t tell me the exact location, but I found it!” he gloated.

During the conversation Merk had been edging toward the doorway. Now he made a dash into the hall. But Frank and Joe collared him in a second.

“We’d better get this guy down to headquarters,” Mr. Hardy said. “Frank, let’s tie his hands.”

Frank produced a length of rope from his pocket and they secured the prisoner’s hands behind his back. Then they all drove to Bayport in Merk’s car. On the way, Mr. Hardy coaxed Merk into telling more about his setup. Merk scowled at first, but then told his story with a sense of pride.

The scheme for the burglaries and the modification and sale of the equipment had taken years to set up. When he came to Bayport to mastermind the local break-ins, Merk had heard of Mead’s death and remembered the eccentric’s house.

“So you decided it would be a good place for you?” Frank asked.

“Couldn’t ask for a better one. Mead had shown me the odd ring with the Y, and I knew about the safe. So, after some investigation and help from a locksmith I had a duplicate made!” Merk smirked.

“And the rest was easy, eh, Merk?” Mr. Hardy remarked. “Well, here we are at headquarters. I’m sure Chief Collig will be interested in your story, and details about the rest of your gang, too!”

A few days later the Hardys and Chet assembled in the Hardys’ living room, in anticipation of a celebration dinner Aunt Gertrude was preparing. Questions were asked and answers given.

Mr. Hardy and the police had rounded up the other members of Judd Merk’s gang. Jeff proved to be the one who had accidentally dropped the list of TV warehouses and stores near Bilks’ garage when he had some work done to his car.

John Mead, it turned out, had his tire changed by Bilks’ assistant, but since it was so long ago, he refrained from making a complaint.

When Griff was captured he admitted having taken the old dory from the Mead boathouse and selling it to Chet. He thought Merk did not know about the boat.

“His boss was furious when he found out about the sale,” Mr. Hardy said.

“Exactly what made the boat so valuable to him?” Joe asked.

“One night Merk had made a trip by boat to the mansion to store away some cash, but noticed a parked car in front. He had therefore locked the loot in the dory’s fish box and left. Griff had sold the boat, then retrieved it, and kept it hidden in a garage until he had a chance to bring it back to the boathouse.”

“I should have known!” Chet said glumly.

“It was John Mead’s car that Merk had seen,” Mr. Hardy went on. “John had just arrived in Bayport.”

“Didn’t Merk get suspicious that the Mead place might have another visitor?” Joe asked.

“No. He thought it was just a young couple parking away from the road. Obviously this had happened before.”

“Well, what about my dory?” Chet exclaimed. “I want my money back!”

“Eh—yes, Chet,” Mr. Hardy said somberly, “the police want to talk to you about that. Buying stolen property, you know—”

The doorbell rang. “I believe an officer may be here for that very reason right now,” the detective concluded.

Chet turned pale. “B-but I didn’t know the boat was stolen. I—”

“Please answer the bell, Chet.”

Confused and a little worried, Chet walked to the door. Officer Riley stood outside.

“Just the person I want to see!” he said. “Suppose you tell me everything you know about the stolen dory.”

Chet led the officer into the living room and tried, but the words stuck in his throat. In the midst of his efforts, Riley solemnly pulled an envelope from his pocket and gave it to the youth. When Chet opened it with shaking fingers, he gasped:

“Why—it’s my money!”

“Right. That guy Griff handed it over,” Riley explained. “Just sign this receipt for our records.”

“I don’t have to go to jail?” Chet asked.

His reaction brought whoops of laughter from Frank and Joe. The little trick they had played on Chet had been worked out beforehand with their father and Riley. For a moment Chet looked blank, then he caught on.

“You win, fellows,” he said with a grin.

After Riley had left, Chet turned to Mr. Hardy. “There are still a few questions I’d like answered.”

“What’s bothering you?”

“Did the same man who stole the records from your files kidnap Martha Johnson?”

“Yes. It was Jeff, the picklock we saw at the county fair. We got his prints as well as some others, but by the time the police received an FBI report, we were already hot on Merk’s trail.”

Frank took up the story. “Actually, Merk had given Mike Batton the job of finding a way into our house to steal Dad’s file, because Jeff was out of town. Batton took a wax impression of our back-door lock. Then Jeff returned sooner than expected and Merk sent him over in case there was a lock on the files. It was the night that Martha Johnson was here. When Jeff overheard that she was a nurse, he kidnapped her to take care of Lenny.”

“As far as Batton is concerned,” Joe explained, “he was a fairly new member of the gang. He was up to his neck in financial trouble, and a lot of people were threatening him for money. So he did some stealing on the side, cash and jewelry. When we caught him, he was about to hide the gems in the fireplace until he could get rid of them.”

“He told me he knew a man named Jack, who would buy them, but it turned out he was lying,” Mr. Hardy added.

“Did Merk know of Batton’s sideline?” Chet inquired.

“No. Batton was the security leak in Merk’s organization. He put us on the gang’s trail.”

At that point Chet gave a sigh. “Security leak or not, how about some food?”

Frank laughed. “We’ll probably have nothing to do from now on but eat. Not a mystery in sight!”

“I wouldn’t depend on that,” said Aunt Gertrude, who had just entered the room. “As soon as your convertible which Griff wrecked is repaired, you’ll be off on something new.”

She was right. They would be asked to take on another case even before Judd Merk was brought to trial. It involved a strange search for The Phantom Freighter.

“You know, Chet, we almost caught the thieves twice,” Frank told him. “Once when Joe and I were in the Mead house, Merk was there too. Jeff was outside and yelled to his boss, ‘We’d better go now!’”

“You might have been caught yourselves,” Chet replied dryly.

“Right. The other time was when I heard the groan,” Joe explained. “It came from Lenny Stryker, while somebody was opening the panel from inside.”

“Whew! Did the crooks know you were there?”

“I’m not sure if they were aware of it then, but eventually they found out we were on to them. Merk didn’t remove his loot fast enough, though.”

“What about the place on Parker Street?” Chet asked.

“They used that occasionally before you went over there and we all got tricked by Griff,” Frank replied.

“I’m glad you fellows got me out of that pickle,” Chet said.

“And I’m thankful you are all safe,” Mrs. Hardy spoke up. “I never know from minute to minute—”

The doorbell rang again. Mr. Hardy asked Frank to answer it.

“The caller might be Mr. Mead,” he said. “I invited him over. On the other hand, it may be news of another mystery.”

“We sure hope so!” Frank and Joe said together.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Strange Substitute

CHAPTER II - The Three-Cornered Scar

CHAPTER III - Suspicion

CHAPTER IV - No Passengers

CHAPTER V - More Disappointment

CHAPTER VI - The Morton Special

CHAPTER VII - A Weird Tale

CHAPTER VIII - Missing Letters

CHAPTER IX - Code Numbers

CHAPTER X - Frank in Trouble

CHAPTER XI - Stolen Tickets

CHAPTER XII - Harrowing Experience

CHAPTER XIII - “Mrs Harrison” Again

CHAPTER XIV - Spy in the Shadows

CHAPTER XV - The Abandoned Farm

CHAPTER XVI - Success and Failure

CHAPTER XVII - Danger at the Carnival

CHAPTER XVIII - “You’ll Never Come Back!”

CHAPTER XIX - Crowfeet

CHAPTER XX - Captured!

THE PHANTOM FREIGHTER

WHEN eccentric Thaddeus McClintock invites Frank and Joe Hardy to accompany him on a sea voyage, the teen-age investigators become entangled in a web of mystery. Who is trying to block the three from securing reservations on freighter ships that carry passengers? Does Mr. McClintock have unknown enemies? Or is there a sinister conspiracy afoot to keep Frank and Joe from going on the trip? Is Captain Harkness’s report about sighting a phantom freighter just a figment of his imagination?

The determined efforts of Frank and Joe to find the answers lead to a hazardous game of wits with a ring of slippery smugglers and to a dramatic confrontation on the high seas. At the same time, the boys help their famous detective father solve his current case involving forgers who are selling counterfeit historical documents.

Here is an exciting, action-filled mystery that will keep the reader on edge with suspense.

“It’s the phantom freighter!” Captain Harkness cried

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1974, 1970, 1947 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07640-8

2003 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Strange Substitute

“WHAT an odd letter!” exclaimed Frank Hardy, running a hand through his dark hair. “I wonder what the man wants.”

His blond brother Joe, who was seventeen and a year younger, studied the sheet of paper. “Thaddeus McClintock,” he said, reading the signature. “Never heard of him.”

“Since he’s living at the Bayport Hotel, he’s probably a stranger in town. Who do you suppose told him about us?”

The boys were draped over upholstered chairs in the Hardys’ living room. Their mother Laura, smiling at their relaxed teen-age postures, said, “Any one of many people.”

The letter, which had arrived in the morning mail, was addressed to Frank and Joe Hardy and read:

I have heard that you are young men with your feet on the ground and wonder if you would call and have a talk with me. I have an interesting job for you if you care to take it.

Frank looked at his brother. “What do you say? There’s no harm in talking to Mr. McClintock.”

“Please be careful,” said Mrs. Hardy. The slender, pretty woman went on, “The man may be a schemer of some kind. If he should ask any questions about your father, be on your guard.”

“That,” said Frank, “is Rule Number One in this household and we’re not likely to forget it.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe added in an assuring tone. “If this McClintock should try to pry, we don’t know where Dad is, when he’s expected, or what case he’s working on.” He grinned. “Come to think of it, we don’t know. Do you, Mother?”

Mrs. Hardy shook her head and chuckled. “No, I don’t. But that’s not unusual.”

Fenton Hardy was a renowned private detective. Trained in the New York Police Department, he had left the big city to work entirely on his own, and with phenomenal success.

His sons had inherited their father’s natural ability and had been carefully taught the most modern scientific detective methods. Recently they had solved an unusually puzzling mystery known as The Secret Panel.

Frank and Joe drove to the Bayport Hotel, and asked to see Mr. McClintock. “Sorry,” the clerk said. “He’s not here right now. Went out about half an hour ago, but left a message for you. You’re to come back this afternoon.”

“Who is this Mr. McClintock?” Frank asked, “Where does he come from? Is he young or old?”

The hotel clerk, who had been a friend of the Hardys for years, looked surprised. “You don’t know him? Well, he’s been living here for the past three months—is a little beyond middle age—doesn’t say much.”

“What’s his line?” Joe asked.

“He doesn’t work, but pays his bills promptly. Doesn’t seem to have any friends here in Bayport. Maybe that’s because he acts so secretive.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “Guess that’ll hold us until this afternoon.”

He and Joe returned home, more interested than ever in meeting Mr. McClintock. As they entered, they heard a woman talking excitedly.

“Aunt Gertrude!” said Joe. “And she’s on the warpath!”

Aunt Gertrude was Mr. Hardy’s unmarried sister, who had come to live with the family some time before. She was tall, peppery, and had an unpredictable temper. But beneath all the bluster she was a kindly soul who loved her nephews dearly.

“Laura, this box seems to be full of raw wool!” Aunt Gertrude was saying. “And mine contained valuable family papers. I’m going to call the express company and give them a piece of my mind!”

“What’s wrong, Aunty?” Frank asked as he and Joe strolled in. “Have you been swindled?”

“Not swindled. No. Just—” She gasped in exasperation. “I’m expecting a carton with some things I had left with a friend a few years ago. But they delivered the wrong one!” She pointed to the box lying on the floor. “I opened it without checking the label.”

Joe looked at the box. “It’s for a James Johnson,” he stated. “One forty-two Springdale Avenue.”

“That’s right,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Obviously the shipping people delivered my carton to Mr. Johnson and his to me. I’m going to call the express company and give them a piece of my mind.”

“Take it easy, Aunty,” Frank said. “Mistakes do happen.”

Miss Hardy went to the telephone and dialed. As the conversation went on, Aunt Gertrude became more annoyed. “Now you listen to me!” she said, but the clerk at the other end insisted on doing all the talking. Finally Aunt Gertrude hung up. “They won’t do a thing until tomorrow!” she complained. “Meanwhile, my carton may be opened by these Springdale Avenue people. And that,” she added grimly, “must not happen!”

“How can you stop it?” asked Joe, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Very easily. You and Frank will have to go there and make the exchange. Right now!”

Frank looked at his watch. It was nearly time for lunch, and he and Joe wanted to call on Mr. McClintock directly afterward.

“No excuses,” Miss Hardy said firmly. “It won’t take you any time to drive out there. I’ll whip up a strawberry shortcake while you’re gone.”

“In that case,” Frank said, laughing, “we’ll leave right away.” He picked up the carton and went out the door. Joe followed.

A few minutes later they reached the east side of Bayport. Frank turned into Springdale Avenue. By the time they passed a small stone house numbered fifty-two, they had entered a section where the sidewalks came to an end and buildings were far apart. The car bumped along an uneven dirt road.

“We’re practically out in the country,” said Joe. “I’ll bet we’re beyond the city limits. Maybe there isn’t any one hundred and forty-two at all!”

A short distance ahead and set quite far back from the road, they could see a large frame house, surrounded by a picket fence. A small barn stood behind it.

“This might be the place,” Joe said as they neared it. Then he yelled excitedly, “Joe! Look! The barn’s on fire!”

A curl of white smoke rolled out from an upper window. It was followed by a heavy black puff and a flicker of red flame.

Frank drove through the open gate and stopped in front of the house. Joe leaped out, ran up the steps, and hammered on the front door. There was no response. Joe tried the doorknob.

“Locked! No one at home!” he shouted. “Go get the fire engines, Frank!”

Frank swung the car around and roared back toward the road. Joe jumped off the porch and raced to the barn. By this time smoke was pouring from all the upper windows and flames were eating through the shingled roof.

Joe’s first thought was for any animals that might be trapped inside. He tried to get in, but the doors were locked securely by a chain and padlock.

The boy ran around the building until he found a small side door, but this too was locked. Catching sight of a window, he rushed to it. A glance through the dusty glass revealed two stalls. They were empty.

Sheets of angry flame and billows of smoke now leaped up from the floor of the barn. And not far away stood a large cardboard carton!

“That must be Aunt Gertrude‘s!” Joe thought. “I’ll have to get it out!”

The window was so small Joe knew he could not crawl through it. He ran back to the side door and thrust his shoulder against the wood. The door creaked but did not give.

“The barn’s on fire!” Joe yelled

Looking around, he spotted a woodpile at the back of the house, with an axe beside the chopping block. He rushed across the yard, snatched up the axe, and dashed back to the barn.

CHAPTER II

The Three-Cornered Scar

JOE swung the axe. Thud! He swung again, but the wood was tough and the lock was stout.

Flames had broken through the roof in a dozen places now, and the upper part of the barn was a roaring inferno. Black smoke swirled toward Joe.

Suddenly he heard the sharp blast of a horn and the squeal of brakes. Frank was back. He leaped out of the convertible and ran toward his brother.

“Phoned the firemen from that house down the road,” he called out. “But they won’t get here in time to do any good. What are you up to?”

“Help me ... break down ... this door!” Joe gasped as he swung the axe again. “The lost carton is in there!”

Frank caught sight of a four-by-four propped against the side of the barn a few yards away. “Here’s a battering ram! Better than the axe!”

Holding the wood firmly, they drove it against the door. At the very first impact the boards splintered. They drew back and rammed again. This time the lock snapped and the door fell in with a crash. Dense clouds of smoke poured through the opening.

As Joe looked into the burning building he knew he must act quickly to retrieve the valuable carton. “Stand by,” he said to Frank. “I’m going in.”

“Watch yourself,” warned Frank. “Stay close to the floor!”

Joe nodded. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, he held it in his lungs and crept across the barn toward the carton.

In a few seconds his groping fingers found it. He grabbed the twine and dragged the carton toward the door. But he felt as if his lungs would burst!

When Joe emerged, his eyebrows were singed, his skin parched. He drew in deep breaths of the fresh air and grinned weakly at his brother.

By this time help was arriving. Cars were driving into the yard. A siren wailed as a fire truck raced down Springdale Avenue. The barn, however, was doomed. The firemen turned their efforts to saving the house, which was threatened by flying sparks.

When the owner of the place and his wife drove into the yard half an hour later, their home was safe but nothing was left of the barn but a blackened foundation and a heap of smoking ashes. Learning that the Hardy boys had given the alarm, they came over to thank them.

“It was lucky you happened to be driving along and saw the smoke,” the man said.

“We didn’t just happen to come along,” Frank told him. “As a matter of fact we were coming to make an exchange of cartons. We brought yours. The express company delivered ours here by mistake, and we rescued it from the barn, Mr. Johnson.”

“Johnson? My name’s not Johnson. It’s Phillips. No one named Johnson lives here.”

The Hardys stared incredulously. Joe rushed to the carton addressed to Johnson and brought it over. He noticed now that there was no mention of the sender.

Mrs. Phillips looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t expect anything, and this obviously is not for us.” She turned to Joe and pointed to the box he had taken from the barn. “Do you mean to say that you went into the burning barn after that? There’s nothing in it but old newspapers. I was waiting for the junkman to pick them up!”

Frank and Joe were flabbergasted. To think Joe had taken such a risk for a lot of old newspapers!

Just then an express-company truck drove into the yard. The driver got out and came over to them. He knew the Hardys.

“Your aunt called up the office a while ago about a carton,” he said to Frank. “So I thought I’d better drive out and check up on it. I delivered one to your house and one to this place. Fellow by the name of Johnson signed for it. Maybe—”

“What!” Mr. Phillips interrupted. “My wife and I have been away several days and the house was locked up!”

“Maybe so,” returned the driver. “But I delivered a box here this morning just the same. There was a man standing on the porch when I got here. He signed for it.” The driver took out his book and flipped through the pages. “Here’s the name.”

The boys studied the scrawled signature of James Johnson.

“Something’s strange about this,” Frank said. “Do you mind if I copy the signature?” Using a piece of plain paper and a carbon from the back of the driver’s book he made a tracing.

“What did the man look like?” Joe asked.

“He was about forty, beady-eyed, with a low forehead. Had a scar high up on his right cheek. A three-cornered scar, like a triangle.”

Mr. Phillips looked grim. “I’d like to meet this guy and find out what he was doing here. I’ll bet he set my barn on fire!”

Joe spoke up. “If Johnson got the wrong carton, maybe he’ll go to the express office to pick up the right one. Suppose we ask the police to question him if he does?”

“Good idea,” Phillips agreed.

“Well, I don’t want any more trouble,” said the driver. “There’s enough already.” Turning to the Hardys, he added, “I’ll take this carton along.”

As Frank and Joe drove back to Bayport, they discussed the mysterious affair of the two boxes. What had happened to Aunt Gertrude’s? Had the man with the scar taken it away? Or had it been destroyed in the fire? In any case, Frank thought, the man probably had not given his real name, and would not show up at the express office to claim his property.

“I wonder how Aunt Gertrude will take the news,” Joe said glumly.

“I hate to tell her,” said Frank. “She made it plain that she didn’t want anyone to see the contents of the carton.”

As they passed through the downtown section of Bayport, Joe suggested that since it was past lunchtime they have a quick bite to eat and then call on Mr. McClintock. Frank telephoned home, asking that the strawberry shortcake be saved until later, but refrained from mentioning the carton.

“I’m glad you called,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I have a chore for you.” She asked if the boys would stop at a haberdashery and buy socks and handkerchiefs for their father.

“Okay, Mother,” Frank promised.

When they entered the Bayport Hotel half an hour later, Joe said, “I hope Mr. McClintock is back.”

The clerk nodded as they approached the desk. “Just in time,” he said. “Your man returned a while ago. He’s waiting for you. Room 201.”

McClintock was slightly stoop-shouldered. He had sharp, fidgety eyes and a nervous habit of snapping his fingers when he talked. He greeted the boys affably and asked them to sit down.

“I’ve heard interesting things about you Hardys,” he said. “Now I’ll come right to the point. My doctor has advised me that I need a complete change in my way of living. Says I brood too much.”

With that the man bounded from his chair and started pacing back and forth. His face was grim. Then he stopped and continued bitterly, “The doctor would brood, too, if his lifework had been completely—Well, that’s beside the point. Anyway, here’s my proposition:

“I want to go on a trip. A long trip. And I’d like you to go with me. You must plan it and make all the arrangements.”

After a moment of astonished silence, Joe gasped, “You—want—us to go?”

“Exactly. You’re what the doctor ordered, Young people. To cheer me up. After I see how clever you are at planning the trip, I may even give you a mystery to solve.”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Was this man a nut? Did McClintock really have a mystery to solve? Or was he just trying to interest the boys in going with him?

“Where do you want to travel?” Frank asked.

“How should I know?” rasped McClintock. “That’s up to you.”

“But you say you want to go on a long trip ...”

“Exactly. And I don’t care where. I just want to get away. And I want company. And not be troubled with making arrangements.”

“But what kind of vacation do you like best, sir?” Joe inquired. “A motor trip, a hike, a sea voyage? Do you think your health could stand a long tour?”

“Do I look that sick?” McClintock demanded. He glanced narrowly at the two boys. “You seem mighty doubtful about it. Don’t make up your minds right away. Go home and talk it over. Maybe you think I’m crazy and you don’t want to have anything to do with me.

“Well, I’m not crazy and I’m not really sick,” he went on. “Just need a change. After you mull it over, maybe you’ll decide to accept my proposition. I’ll pay all the expenses, and when the trip is over, you’ll be paid. Money, if you like. Or something else.”

“For example?” Frank said.

Mr. McClintock shook his head. “I’m not saying. But I’m a man of my word and I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”

The boys did not know what to make of the extraordinary offer. They were convinced that the man was perfectly sane, although undoubtedly eccentric.

“We’ll be glad to think it over,” said Frank. “It isn’t the sort of thing we can decide right off. Not quite our line, you know.”

“I told you you’d be paid,” McClintock replied shrewdly. “You name a figure. If it’s too high, I’ll say so. If it’s too low, I won’t open my mouth.”

“It’s not the money,” Joe objected. “As a matter of fact, we’d probably be more interested in—”

“Hah! The other reward!” McClintock interrupted. “I promise you! It’s more valuable than money!”

CHAPTER III

Suspicion

“IT won’t be easy to make plans unless we know how you want to travel,” said Joe. “How about a motor trip?”

McClintock scowled and shook his head. “I said that I’d leave the arrangements to you. But I should have told you I don’t like cars, A motor trip is out.”

“A train trip, then?” Frank suggested.

McClintock wrinkled his nose. “I can’t sleep on trains.”

“How about a plane? Maybe a visit to Europe?” Joe ventured.

“They go too fast. Get over there too soon. I want a long trip.”

“Ocean liner?” Frank said.

“No sir! Too many people. I’d have to dress up. Too fancy. That’s not the sort of thing I mean at all.”

The boys sighed. Mr. McClintock certainly was hard to please!

“Fact of the matter is,” he went on, “I know what kind of trip I don’t like. But I don’t know what I do like. That’s your job. Figure something out.”

Frank and Joe got up to leave. “We’ll think about it,” said Frank. “As soon as we’ve decided, we’ll let you know.”

As they left the hotel, Frank said, “For a guy who just wants a vacation and doesn’t care where he goes, he seems mighty particular. I’m stumped.”

“We forgot a bicycle tour,” Joe quipped. He added quickly, “Look! Here comes Chet!”

Down the street trudged their friend, round-faced, stocky Chet Morton. He lived on a farm outside of Bayport. Usually Chet was the picture of irresponsible bliss, but today his brows were knit in a frown, and when he greeted the Hardys his voice sounded gloomy.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“Going fishing?” Joe asked, indicating a case Chet was carrying under his arm.

“No,” he replied. “But maybe you’d like to. I’ll sell this rod cheap. Genuine bamboo. I bought it for my father.”

“Didn’t he like it?”

Chet shook his head. “It was on sale, too. Forty-five dollars.”

Frank whistled. “How did you ever save that much money?”

“To tell the truth, I didn’t. I borrowed it from the money Dad gave me to buy some seed. I was sure he wouldn’t mind, because the rod was a real bargain. Now I’ve got to earn forty-five dollars to pay him back.”

“Use the rod to catch fish, then sell the fish,” suggested Joe.

Chet looked at him sourly. “Forty-five dollars’ worth of fish? You’ve got to be kidding. I may be able to make some money selling flies, though.”

“Flies? Who’d want flies?” asked Frank.

“I don’t mean houseflies. Artificial ones, for fishing. I sent away for a book that tells how to tie them. Want to come to my house and help me?”

The Hardys recognized this as one more of Chet’s schemes, usually impractical, for making money. He was always embarking on some kind of venture. Every time Frank and Joe agreed to help him they found themselves doing most of the work.

“Too busy to tie flies,” Frank replied promptly. “A man just made us a proposition and we have to do some thinking about it.” He told Chet about then interview with Mr. McGlintock.

Chet listened with interest. “Boy, he even hinted at a mystery! What do you suppose it is?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” Joe said.

“Right now he seems less worried about solving the mystery than going on a vacation,” Frank added.

“Why not suggest a fishing trip?” Chet said. “I’ll bet he’d go for that. No trains, no planes, no cars, no ocean liners. Just a nice lazy fishing trip.”

“Sounds like a pretty fair idea,” Joe remarked. “He might like it.”

“Good!” Chet exclaimed. “You can sell him this fishing rod. After all, he’ll need equipment.”

But the Hardys were not to be lured into Chet’s little sales scheme that easily.

“We’ll think about it,” Frank promised. “If McClintock wants to go on a fishing trip and if he really needs equipment and if he wants to pay forty-five dollars for a rod and if your rod is worth that much—we’ll ask him to talk to you.”

“Humph—a lot of ifs,” Chet grumbled. “I’ll probably have the rod sold to someone else by then.” He sauntered off. “See you later.”

Frank and Joe were about to get into their car and drive home when Frank remembered his mother’s shopping request. There was a haberdashery near the hotel, and the boys went inside.

A customer was standing at the counter when they entered. He was a hulk of a man about forty, with beady eyes and a low forehead. But the most significant detail, the boys noticed, was a scar high on his right cheek.

The man, after glancing at them, turned back to the counter and examined some belts the clerk had brought out. Frank and Joe retreated to the back of the store for a whispered conference.

“Frank, do you think he’s that Johnson fellow?”

“Sure answers the description. I’ll phone the expressman to come over and identify this guy. If he leaves, follow him!”

Frank went to a phone booth at the corner. Joe pretended to be examining a rack of sport jackets. The customer was in no hurry. He purchased a belt, then looked at neckties. He was about to buy one when Frank returned.

“Expressman hasn’t returned from his route,” he told his brother quietly. Then he walked up to the counter to get a better look at the man’s face. Noticing some neckties the suspect had discarded, Frank asked pleasantly, “Have you finished with these?”

“Yeah.”

The boy looked directly into the stranger’s face. The scar was triangular in shape!

The man noticed that Frank was staring. Frank quickly averted his eyes, but the man glared angrily at him, picked up his change, and thrusting the purchase into his pocket, strode out.

“That’ll teach you to mind your manners,” the clerk said with a chuckle. “Say, where’re you going? I thought you wanted to buy something!”

Frank and Joe were already at the door. “We’ll be back,” Frank called.

By this time the man was nearly half a block away, walking rapidly. Frank and Joe jumped into their car and followed. He turned right at the end of the block.

“He’s going toward the harbor,” said Joe.

“So are we!” Frank swung into the street leading to the waterfront. The boys caught sight of the scarred man again. He glanced back over his shoulder.

“Hope he doesn’t recognize us,” Frank said, “or he’ll know he’s being tailed.”

The fellow quickened his pace. Then quickly he stepped into an alley that opened between two buildings and broke into a run.

Frank swung the car into the alley, but found it blocked by a truck unloading supplies. The man dodged around the front of it.

“I’ll get out and meet you at the other end,” said Joe. He jumped out of the convertible and ran after the suspect.

Frank swiftly backed out into the street again and drove around the block. When he reached the far end of the alley, Joe was waiting, but the suspect was not in sight.

“Gave me the slip,” Joe muttered in exasperation. “I’ll bet he’s Johnson all right. Otherwise why did he run?”

“We might catch sight of him around the docks,” Frank suggested. “He was heading that way.”

“It’s worth trying,” agreed Joe and hopped into the car.

They rode down the hill to Bayport’s waterfront district. Frank parked the car and they began their search on foot. But there was no sign of the man with the scar.

“Guess we’ll have to give up,” Frank said finally. “We’ll come back later.”

As the boys walked through a large pier shed they stopped to watch the busy scene. Tons of supplies were being loaded onto a waiting freighter.

Frank snapped his fingers in excitement. “Hey, Joe, I have an idea!”

“What is it?”

“About Mr. McClintock’s trip. Why not a voyage by freighter?”

“He said he didn’t want to take a sea voyage,” Joe reminded him.

“He didn’t want to go on a passenger liner because of the crowds and he’d have to dress up,” said Frank. “A freighter’s different, though.”

“You might have something.” Joe glanced at the big ship. “And I wouldn’t mind a trip like that myself.”

On the way home they discussed their new idea excitedly. It seemed like the perfect solution to Mr. McClintock’s problem.

Frank parked in front of the haberdashery again and Joe went in to purchase the socks and handkerchiefs for his father. He asked the clerk if he knew the scar-faced customer. The salesman answered “No,” but from what little the man had said, he had gathered that he was a seaman.

When the boys reached home Mrs. Hardy greeted them at the door with the welcome news that their father had just returned. Aunt Gertrude wanted to know what happened to her missing carton. When told about the fire, she became very upset.

“The express company ought to be sued!” she declared. “The idea of handing over my box to a total stranger. It probably was destroyed in the fire!”

“I’m sure the express company will do what it can, Aunty,” Frank said.

Miss Hardy replied that money could not repay her for her family papers and personal letters contained in the lost carton. Mr. Hardy came out of his study and wanted to know why his sister was so excited. The boys told him about the expressman’s mistake and their adventure in the blazing barn.

“There’s something fishy about the whole affair,” Fenton Hardy said thoughtfully. “Gertrude, why don’t you talk to an official of the express company and ask him to check further.”

“I certainly will,” she replied.

That evening at dinner the detective related stories of his travels in connection with his work during the past few weeks. Most of his time had been spent with specialists dealing in rare documents and valuable autographs whose businesses were seriously threatened by skillful forgeries that had appeared on the market. The fakes were so clever that even experts had been fooled by them.

“The forgers also compose letters on aged paper,” Mr. Hardy said. “That’s how I got my first clue.”

“Tell us about it, Dad,” Joe said.

The forgers, his father explained, were not well versed in old phraseology, and that was how their swindles had been discovered. But they were skilled counterfeiters and evidently had the help of a clever chemist in “aging” the paper. Mr. Hardy had visited half a dozen large cities in his efforts to run down the gang, but so far had met with little success.

While the family was eating Aunt Gertrude’s delectable strawberry shortcake, Frank brought up the subject of Mr. McClintock’s trip.

After hearing how eccentric the man was, Aunt Gertrude predicted trouble for her nephews. “No telling what a person like that might do,” she said firmly. “Leave you stranded in some foreign country, or never pay you a cent for all your trouble.”

Mrs. Hardy also voiced concern. “Fenton, I think you should look into this,” she suggested.

It was decided that Mr. Hardy would accompany his sons to the hotel and speak to Mr. McClintock. With his expert insight, he might be able to settle the matter quickly.

The next morning, after talking with Mr. McClintock for nearly an hour, Mr. Hardy gave consent to the trip.

“I must go now,” he said. “I’ll leave you three to make plans and trust you’ll work out something enjoyable.”

After he had left, Mr. McClintock turned to the boys. “Okay. If you can only figure out how and where to travel ...”

“We have a suggestion, sir,” Joe said. “How about a voyage by ocean freighter?”

The man scowled. “Ocean freighter? You mean an old tramp steamer? Ridiculous. Dirty. Smelly. Poor food.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” Frank spoke up quickly. “A modern freighter is a mighty clean ship. Some of them make a business of carrying a few passengers. We’d pick one of those and see that the food and accommodations were A-okay.”

“You’d find it a lot of fun,” put in Joe. “They go to unusual places.”

“Well, look into it. If you discover the right kind of ship, let me know.”

As the boys left the hotel Frank advised that they try to locate a freighter that carried passengers.

“We’d better get it settled before Mr. McClintock has time to change his mind,” he said, laughing.

“Right!” agreed Joe. “He’s such a strange guy you can’t tell what he’ll do or say next. I like him, though. By the way, Frank, did you notice he steered clear of mentioning anything about the mystery?”

“Yes, I did. Guess it was only a lure, after all.”

The boys rode to the docks, looking for the freighter that they had seen the day before. It had already sailed, but another ship was in its berth. Frank spoke to a longshoreman coming from the loading shed.

“Do you know where we can find a freighter that carries passengers?”

The man gestured with a grimy thumb. “Try the Hawk. She’s loading now.”

Frank and Joe climbed up a ladder running from the dockside to the ship’s rail high above. A sandy-haired seaman in a sweater and dungarees emerged from the galley and glanced at them curiously.

“We’re looking for the captain,” Frank explained.

“He’s up forward. What do you want him for?”

“We’d like to ship as passengers.”

“Nothing doing. We don’t carry passengers.”

“But we were told—”

“You heard me. No passengers.”

“I think we’ll see the captain, anyway,” Frank said and the boys turned away. They walked down the narrow space between the rail and the open hatches toward the officers’ quarters.

“Hey! Stay away from the captain!” the seaman bellowed.

“I wonder what’s eating him,” Joe said,

“Probably just a grouch. Got up on the wrong side of the bunk this morning.”

They passed by the gap of an open hatch. Then their way was barred by stacks of freight. Retracing their steps, Frank and Joe decided to go around the deckhouse. A huge net filled with boxes of cargo swung over from the dock toward the hatch.

“Have to watch your way around here,” said Joe as a heavy steel boom swung in front of him. But Frank at that moment had turned to look for the unfriendly seaman.

“Duck!” Joe yelled.

CHAPTER IV

No Passengers

FRANK did not dodge in time. The heavy boom struck him, carried the startled boy upward, and swept him overboard!

Joe leaped to the railing. He saw Frank hurtle down past the steel side of the freighter, not three feet from the pier. His body, twisting and turning limply, hit the water with a resounding smack.

Instantly Joe scrambled onto the rail, balanced a moment, then dived.

It was nearly a thirty-foot drop, but he struck the water cleanly just a few yards from the place where Frank had disappeared. Under water, Joe opened his eyes. Catching sight of a dark object, he swam toward it, then shot to the surface, one arm around his unconscious brother.

Joe towed him toward a ladder hanging from the pier, wondering how badly Frank was hurt. He was greatly relieved when his brother made a convulsive movement and began to struggle and thrash about.

“It’s okay. Take it easy,” Joe muttered.

Two longshoremen, having seen Frank’s mishap, had rushed to the edge of the dock. They reached down and hoisted the two boys out of the murky water. The men carried Frank to a small office inside the loading shed. Joe followed, breathless and frightened.

“Get a doctor!” the taller of the two longshoremen called out.

But the other acted instantly and started giving Frank first aid. Presently the boy opened his eyes and looked around dully.

“Thank goodness you came to,” said Joe.

“He wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for you,” said the tall longshoreman. “I saw the whole thing. He’d have drowned if you hadn’t pulled him out.”

Frank weakly smiled his thanks. “We’d better ... go... home,” he murmured.

He was carried to the convertible and Joe took the wheel. The men offered to go along, but Joe declined their assistance, saying he was sure that his brother would be all right.

At the Hardy house there was great consternation when the boys’ mother and Aunt Gertrude saw Joe helping Frank up the stairs. They scurried about, talking, advising, and getting Frank to bed as fast as possible.

“I’m okay now,” he insisted. “Just got a whale of a headache. That’s all.”

When the two women finally left the room, he said to Joe, who had showered and changed his clothes, “Listen. I think I was struck on purpose by that boom.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I saw that guy who tried to get us off the Hawk motioning to someone on the dock. I’ll bet he was signaling for him to swing the boom so it would hit us. But he won’t get away with it!”

“You bet he won‘t!” Joe said grimly. He started downstairs.

“Don’t go alone!”Frank called after him.

Before Joe had time to think about it, the front doorbell rang and he answered. Biff Hooper, a schoolmate and good friend of the Hardys, walked in. He was a blond six-footer and had muscles like steel.

“Hi!” Joe called. “You’re just the guy I’m looking for. I need a bodyguard. Want to give a big tough guy a good sock?”

“Since when have you stopped doing that yourself?” Biff grinned as the two boys went out the door. On the way to the dock Joe explained what had happened.

Although he had superior strength, Biff Hooper never picked fights, and by the time they had reached the Hawk he had almost convinced Joe that the whole affair might have been an unavoidable accident. “There’s no point in starting trouble,” Biff advised.

“Just the same, I’m going aboard,” declared Joe, “and finish what I started to do, namely see the captain.”

The two mounted the ladder. This time no loading was going on. The sailor the Hardys had encountered before was not in sight. Two of the crew lounged on deck, and one man rose as the boys approached.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To see your captain,” Joe replied.

“What about?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“You will, eh? Not if you don’t find him. And I say you won’t.”

“Don’t bully me!” Joe said fiercely and Biff cocked his right fist in anticipation. A fight might have started if the captain himself had not appeared. Skipper Sharp lived up to his name. He was a tall, narrow-jawed, thin-featured man with piercing eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he boomed, striding forward.

“I’m trying to book passage on a freighter for three people,” Joe explained.

“You’re on the wrong ship. Can’t accommodate you,” the captain replied shortly.

“You don’t carry passengers?”

“We used to. But not any more. It didn’t work out. There’s no point in discussing it.”

“We’re willing to pay well—” Joe’s attempt to continue the conversation was cut off.

“No passengers at any price. Get lost!”

Disappointed, Joe started down the ship’s ladder. Biff followed.

As they left the dock, Biff expressed his indignation at their rude reception. “I don’t see why the captain had to act like a jerk,” he said. “You’d think we were a couple of criminals.” Then he brightened. “Say, Joe, I know where you can book passage!”

“Where?”

“At Klack’s Agency. It’s not far from here. Next block.”

He led the way to a dingy-looking establishment with several blackboards in the window. On them were chalked such legends as Cook Wanted, Fireman (First Class) for S.A., Cruise and Stokers Wanted.

“A lot of freighter crews are signed up here,” Biff explained. “I’ve heard they book passengers as a sideline.”

Mr. Klack was out. But a stringy-haired blond girl inquired languidly what the boys wanted.

“Can you fix me up with freighter passage for three?” Joe asked.

The girl shook her head. “There are no ships in port—none takin’ passengers, that is. Give me the names, and if somethin’ turns up, I’ll let you know.”

Joe wrote down their names and addresses and thanked the girl. Joe drove Biff home, then returned to the Hardy house.

Aunt Gertrude had gone to the express office to press her complaint, and Frank had fallen asleep. Joe was telling his mother about the second visit to the Hawk when the telephone rang. It was Aunt Gertrude.

“Joe!” she called loudly. “Come down here right away. Quick!”

“But where are you, Aunty?”

“Why, at the express office, of course! There’s a chance to solve the mystery. Hurry!”

“I’ll be right down,” Joe promised. He hung up and turned to his mother, “Aunty’s on to something big. See you later.”

Seconds later, he was on his way. When he drove up in front of the express company, Aunt Gertrude ran out, pointing to a truck about to pull away from the curb. It was loaded with trunks, bags, and boxes.

“Follow him, Joe!” Miss Hardy commanded, jumping into the car beside her nephew and slamming the door shut.

“Why? What’s the rush?”

“You want to find out what’s going on, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Then get going.”

Joe accelerated as his aunt snapped the safety-belt buckle. “You mean the expressman is going to lead us to your missing carton?” he asked.

Miss Hardy snorted, then assumed an attitude of patient tolerance. “No. There’s no word about my carton. Now keep following him.”

“Look, I’m sort of confused,” Joe said, being careful not to tailgate the truck. “What’s this all about?”

After giving Joe a few pointers on road safety, Aunt Gertrude said, “This morning a box that looks like mine and also like that other one with the raw wool arrived at the express office.”

“Oh,” said Joe. “And it’s being delivered somewhere. You think that maybe James Johnson will be there to receive it?”

“Your brain’s working now,” Aunt Gertrude said. “The carton’s marked for a Mrs. Harrison. The truck’s going there after making a few other deliveries. So I thought it wouldn’t hurt to investigate.”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “By the way, Johnson never called for his carton, did he?”

“I forgot to ask.”

The expressman was the same One who had made the initial mistake. Joe was eager to reach the Harrison place, but the driver seemed to be in no hurry.

He delivered big parcels and little parcels, large boxes and small boxes to various parts of town. Finally, with only the carton left, he headed for the outskirts of Bayport. Joe followed doggedly.

At length the truck came to a stop in front of a handsome, modern home on a street with scattered houses. The driver unloaded the carton and carried it to the front steps.

“Now go see, Joe. Hurry!” his aunt urged.

Joe was out of the car and at the heels of the man as he rang the bell.

A gray-haired woman opened the door and looked sharply at them.

“Mrs. Harrison?” asked the driver, setting the carton in the hall.

“Yes.”

“Sign here, please,” he said, handing her a pencil and pointing out a blank space on his pad.

Joe half expected the signature to be in the same handwriting as that of Johnson, and the signer to be masquerading as a woman. But he was wrong. The woman’s writing seemed definitely feminine, as was her voice.

“Is Mr. Harrison home?” Joe inquired.

“Mr. Harrison? Why—er—no,” she replied haltingly.

“This is his carton, isn’t it?” Joe went on, still clinging to a hope that his errand was not in vain.

“What is this?” Mrs. Harrison snapped. “A teen-age quiz program?” She slammed the door.

The expressman grinned. “Fool’s errand for you, eh?” he said to Joe as they returned to the street.

“I’m afraid so,” Joe replied ruefully and got back into the convertible.

When she heard the story Aunt Gertrude was convinced that the transaction was not entirely aboveboard. “Ladies don’t slam doors in people’s faces,” she said, annoyed. “Those who do are afraid of something.”

Aunt Gertrude was so chagrined that she avoided mentioning the incident that evening. But the next morning she brought up the subject again and expressed her view about Mrs. Harnson’s conduct. “I never saw such bad manners,” she exploded.

“Which Mrs. Harrison is this?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

“Oh, she lives on Mount Pleasant Drive,” replied Aunt Gertrude. “Mrs. Robert Harrison. A very rude woman.”

“Why, Gertrude!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed, shocked. “I know Martha Harrison. She’s a lovely person. You mustn’t say such things about her.”

“You may think she’s a lovely person, Laura, but judging from her actions yesterday—”

“Yesterday?” Mrs. Hardy repeated. “But Martha Harrison is out of town!”

CHAPTER V

More Disappointment

“ARE you sure?” Joe asked his mother excitedly.

“Yes. Mrs. Harrison is attending a convention of women’s clubs in Highburg. There’s no one home now because her husband is in Mexico.”

Joe dashed to the telephone and called the Harrison number. There was no answer.

“I’m going there!” he declared. “Frank, feel well enough to come?”

“Sure do.”

Mrs. Hardy’s revelation had convinced Joe that there might well be something strange about the delivery of the box after all.

They drove over to Mount Pleasant Drive. Frank rang the bell. No answer. A boy who was riding a bicycle along the street said he was a neighbor, and volunteered the information that the Harrisons had closed their house a week before and would not be back until the end of the month.

Frank and Joe returned home.

“I knew it!” declared Aunt Gertrude. “I knew there was something suspicious about that woman the moment I heard she slammed the door in your face, Joe.”

“But why would she be living in the Harrison house?” Mrs. Hardy asked, puzzled.

“I have a theory about that,” Fenton Hardy said. “Sometimes burglars watch the social columns of the newspapers for names of people who are to be away. They learn when a house will be unoccupied, then rob it.”

“Do you think there were thieves in the Harrison home?” Mrs. Hardy cried.

The detective shrugged. “Perhaps. But not ordinary thieves. I suspect that some gang was using the Harrisons’ home as a convenient address.”

“For the delivery of cartons?” asked Frank.

“Exactly. And they probably contain stolen goods. The gang may be moving valuable stuff from state to state, and by using other people’s names and addresses, they practically eliminate the risk of being traced.”

“What a racket!” Joe exclaimed.

“It’s not new. But it works,” Mr. Hardy said. “I suggest that you boys notify the express company. No doubt they’ll turn the matter over to the police.”

Now thoroughly engrossed in the case, Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “The carton that came here had raw wool in it, Fenton. That’s not worth stealing, is it?”

The famous detective smiled at his sister. “No, of course not. But something valuable might have been hidden in the wool.”

“Like what?”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Mr. Hardy replied, looking directly at his sons.

In the meantime Mrs. Hardy had put in a long-distance call to Mrs. Harrison, who was shocked at the news. She had given no one permission to use her house and would return immediately to see if anything had been stolen.

The boys drove downtown once again and called at the express office. The manager, Mr. Nixon, was concerned and upset to hear that his firm’s services were probably being used to move stolen goods.

“No one has claimed that carton addressed to Johnson,” he said. “I’m going to open it, and if you’re right, I’ll certainly tell Police Chief Collig about it. Come along.”

He led the way to a rear room. There was no carton in sight. All three searched the place, but in vain.

“Funny,” said Mr. Nixon, scratching his head. “It couldn’t have walked away!”

“I’m afraid it has been stolen,” said Frank. “That man Johnson was taking no chances.”

“You’ll report it to the police?” Joe suggested.

The manager shook his head. “I’d rather not do that just now. There would be damaging publicity. How about you two taking the case? I’ve heard a good deal about your success as detectives.”

Frank and Joe hesitated. They did not know how they could accept in view of their trip with Mr. McClintock. Frank explained this to the manager.

“Fair enough,” Nixon replied. “But why not work on it until you leave on your trip? If it hasn’t been cleared up by the time you go, I’ll turn it over to the police.”

“All right,” said Frank. “We’ll do what we can.»

When the Hardys came out of the express office building, they were surprised to see Mr. McClintock.

“Your aunt told me you were here,” he explained. “I’ve been thinking about that freighter proposition you suggested. Doesn’t sound too bad. But I don’t know a thing about freighters. Do you suppose I could see one?”

“There’s one in port now,” said Frank. “It’s called the Hawk. We can’t book passage on it, but at least you’ll see what a big freighter is like.”

Mr. McClintock climbed into the car. When they reached the waterfront, the Hawk was much lower in the water, though not loaded to capacity yet. A large sign said, Positively No Visitors. It was easy, however, to study the details of the ship from the dockside.

Mr. McClintock was pleasantly surprised. “Might be all right to travel on a ship like that,” he agreed. “I’ll let you know.”

“Why not come up to our house to dinner tonight?” Joe said. “We’ll have more information by then. I left our names at an agency.”

“Never eat much at night,” said Mr. McClintock. “Don’t go out to dinner at people’s houses because they always expect me to sit around for a couple of hours afterward and it keeps me up long past my bedtime. Now if you want to make that lunch—”

“Lunch it is.” Frank laughed. “Let me call the house and tell Mother you’re coming,”

Mr. McClintock apparently enjoyed himself immensely at the meal. To the amazement of the boys, he and Aunt Gertrude took an immediate liking to each other. They chatted gaily about times past and present, even voicing approval of at least part of the new generation.

“Of course, my two nephews are unusual,” Aunt Gertrude remarked.

“Quite so,” Mr. McClintock agreed.

The two shook hands warmly when their guest departed, and early that evening Mr. McClintock telephoned, to say that he had made up his mind. He wanted to leave on a freighter trip right away. In fact, he had already picked his ship.

“The one we saw at the dock looks all right to me. Book passage on it at once and we’ll sail as soon as it’s ready.”

Vainly Frank tried to explain that the Hawk’s captain had already refused them passage.

“Try them again. Offer double fare. That’ll bring him around. I want to go on that boat!”

To please him, Frank telephoned Klack’s Agency. Klack himself answered the call.

“No passengers,” he said. “You couldn’t go on the Hawk now anyway. She sailed a few minutes ago.”

That, apparently, settled it. But the Hardy boys had not reckoned with a very persistent streak in Mr. McClintock.

“I want to take a trip on that boat and I’m going to,” he announced when Frank reported to him over the telephone.

“But how?” Frank asked. “She’s gone!”

“We can find a fast motorboat and catch her,” came the reply. “Don’t you know where to get one?”

“We own a motorboat,” Frank said. “It can go a good deal faster than a freighter and we might overtake the Hawk all right, but—”

“Then what are we waiting for? Throw some clothes in a suitcase. I’ll call for you in a taxi in ten minutes.”

“But we’ll have to find somebody to bring our boat back,” Frank protested.

“That’s your business,” replied their client and hung up.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude helped the boys pack, while Joe telephoned to several of their friends. Finally he reached Tony Prito, who was willing to go along and bring back their boat, the Sleuth, if the Hardys could get on the Hawk.

Mr. McClintock was at the Hardy house on time, and ten minutes later the Sleuth was nosing its way out of the boathouse and roaring off into the twilight.

“When this Captain Sharp sees we’re determined to go with him, he’ll change his mind,” predicted Mr. McClintock.

Even though the Hawk had a good start, the Hardys knew that their boat would be able to overtake the freighter. The regular steamer channel was clearly marked by buoys, and as the Sleuth ate up the miles Frank and Joe were confident it would be only a matter of minutes before they would see the lights of the big ship ahead.

But they sped on and on, peering into the gloom.

“Thought you said this boat of yours was a speedy one,” gibed McClintock. “Can’t you catch up to a slow steamer?”

“There isn’t a faster motorboat on Barmet Bay,” spoke up Tony, quick to defend his friends’ craft.

The moon rose, flooding the water with light. They could see to the mouth of the bay. The Hawk was not in sight.

“She’s faster than I thought,” said Frank. He put his boat to the limit of her power and they came out into the open sea. Nothing but water. No moving lights indicated the presence of any ship.

Frank swung the wheel. The Sleuth turned.

“Giving up?” demanded McClintock.

“Not entirely,” Frank replied. “We’ll go back to Bayport and find out the Hawk’s first port of call. If it’s not far away, we can go there by car and board the ship.”

McClintock grumbled a little, but he realized that there was no point in continuing the chase by sea. The Sleuth roared back to port. There the boys learned by phoning Klack at his home that the Hawk was to stop at Southport.

They took Mr. McClintock to his hotel, then drove home. Before they went to bed, Frank telephoned the harbor master in Southport. The reply to his question left him astonished and bewildered.

“That freighter hasn’t docked here,” the harbor master said. “We aren’t even expecting her!”

CHAPTER VI

The Morton Special

WHEN Frank and Joe reported to Mr. McClintock the next morning that the Hawk had vanished mysteriously, he went into a tirade. But by this time the boys had become used to his outbursts and scarcely heard him.

Instead, their thoughts turned to the strange happenings in connection with the ship. The threatening seaman, the swinging boom that had knocked Frank into the water, the unpleasant captain, and now a new route for the Hawk, evidently determined upon in a hurry.

“—so do something. And do it quick!” Mr. McClintock was saying. “I thought you were boys who got things done in a hurry!”

Frank gulped. “Sorry. Well, we’ll find another freighter.”

“I’ll go and ask at Klack‘s,” Joe offered. He hastened to the agency’s office and told the man behind the counter about being on a waiting list for freighter passage for three. “What are the chances of getting passage?” Joe asked.

“Practically none at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not many ships take passengers, and most of ‘em are booked up.”

“When can I see Mr. Klack?”

“I’m Mr. Klack.”

“Oh,” said Joe. “Thanks for the information last night.”

“Glad to help you.”

“Well, you have our phone number,” Joe went on. “Please let us know when you get reservations. The sooner the better.”

He returned to the hotel and reported the situation to Mr. McClintock and Frank. As usual, McClintock fussed like a baby without a pacifier until Joe motioned his brother aside.

“Frank, I don’t like that man Klack. I have a feeling he wouldn’t give us reservations if he had any.”

“But why?”

Joe shrugged. “I’m going to make an investigation of my own. Stay here a few minutes to soothe our client. I’ll meet you at home.”

Joe headed directly for the docks. A freighter which had come in at seven o‘clock, he learned, usually carried six passengers. Hurrying to the captain, he asked if the Hardy party might take the outgoing trip.

“Sorry, son”—smiled the pleasant man—“but all space was reserved less than an hour ago.” As Joe groaned, the captain continued, “The Klack Agency sold it. They’re right on the ball.”

Fire in his eyes, Joe hurried back to Klack’s. Only the girl clerk was there. The boy demanded to know why passage had not been given to him.

“I get my orders from Mr. Klack, not you,” she replied sourly, and began to pound a typewriter.

Angry and mystified, Joe returned home. When Frank heard the disturbing news, he said, “Something queer about it all. I’m beginning to think that somebody doesn’t want us to sail on a freighter.”

“What’ll we do now?” Joe asked. “Mr. McClintock will be calling up here—”

“And won’t find us.” Frank grinned. “We’re going out to Chet’s. He phoned that he needs our help badly. He’s pretty sore at us.”

“We have neglected him,” Joe agreed. “Wonder how much of his forty-five dollars he’s earned?”

“He hasn’t started his fly-tying business yet.”

The Hardys found Chet sitting on the back porch of the Morton farmhouse, surrounded by a vast assortment of tools and equipment for tying flies. He looked important and busy.

“Quite a layout, Chet,” Frank said as he sat down on the steps.

“Looks as if you’re working real hard,” Joe commented with a dash of sarcasm as he sat down, But instantly he jumped up with a yelp and detached a small hook from the seat of his pants.

“Not a bad catch,” Chet remarked. “Got a big mouth Hardy bass on the first cast!”

“Okay, you win that time,” Joe said sheepishly.

Frank chuckled. “Let us in on the project, Chet.”

“Making a trout fly looks simple,” Chet said, “but it’s really pretty complicated.” He had a large book propped up against the leg of a chair which he consulted every few seconds.

Then Chet picked up a size sixteen hook. “I’m trying a Quill Gordon just now. Let’s see—black hackle and yellow mallard wings.”

“Is this your first fly?” asked Joe.

“I’ve made two so far. Here’s one” Chet reached into a tin box and picked up a weird-looking thing.

The Hardys examined the creation dubiously. It was like no fly they had ever seen before. One wing was bigger than the other, and the hook was completely engulfed in a tangle of furs and feathers.

“Looks scary,” Frank remarked. “What is it?”

“Actually,” Chet confessed, “I started out to tie a Royal Coachman, but didn’t have any peacock feathers, so I decided to turn it into a Grizzly King, but it came out different from what I expected. So I call it a Morton Special.”

Frank chuckled, “It’s original, at any rate.”

“Maybe you could do better.” Chet thrust pliers and scissors toward his friend. “There’s the instruction book. Go ahead!”

The Hardys recognized the maneuver. Whenever Chet began a project, some innocent bystander usually completed it for him. However, they were interested in the fly-tying, so they studied the instructions and settled down to the job.

After Frank and Joe had assembled a large assortment of flies and had lunched at the farm, Joe was eager to go back and work on the freighter reservations.

They said good-by to their chum and drove to Bayport. At the outskirts of town they noticed a familiar figure getting out of a police car.

“Patrolman Con Riley,” Joe said with a grin.

Frank brought the car to a stop. “You’re a long way from headquarters,” he called out to the officer. “What’s up?”

“I’m on a case, Frank.”

“What’s the trouble? Has somebody been helping himself to an empty house again?”

“Exactly. A burglary.”

“Mind if we come with you?”

Joe jumped up with a yelp

“Not at all. Maybe you masterminds can solve the case for me!”

The boys joined the policeman as he walked up to a white-and-green frame house.

The name UPDYKE was on the mailbox. Riley rang the doorbell.

Mrs. Updyke, middle-aged and pleasant, invited them into the living room.

“This case isn’t as serious as I thought when I telephoned headquarters,” she told them. “You see, I’ve been away from home for the past three weeks—”

“And something was stolen!” Riley put in,

“No. That’s just it. Nothing was stolen.”

“Now wait a minute,” Riley said, astonished. “I’m here to investigate a burglary.”

Frank ventured a question. “What actually happened? Did some stranger occupy the house while you were away?”

“Yes. I found that one of the beds had been slept in, and some of the kitchen dishes had been used.”

“Indicating,” suggested Frank, “that the person was here for several hours at least.” To himself he added, “Waiting for the express company to deliver a carton, probably.” Aloud he asked, “May I use your phone, Mrs. Updyke?”

“Go right ahead.”

Frank called the express office. He was not surprised to hear that a carton had been delivered to the Updyke house, but was amazed to learn that it had arrived there two weeks ago.

“No telling how long this funny business has been going on,” he thought.

As he was reporting his findings to the others, Mrs. Updyke suddenly gasped and pointed. “The documents—they’re gone!”

On the wall the boys saw two rectangular places where the wallpaper was not faded like the rest around it. The missing articles must have hung there.

“Do you think they were stolen?” Frank asked. Instantly he thought of the case his father was working on.

“They were hanging there when I left home,” Mrs. Updyke replied.

Riley got out his report book and began writing. The woman said that the rare documents were insured, but that she hated to lose them. One was a letter written by Abraham Lincoln, the other a military order issued during the American Revolution.

As soon as the Hardys had heard of the papers, they left the house. Riley stayed on to look for clues.

The boys drove home, eager to report this new development to their father. Fenton Hardy listened attentively.

When they finished, he said, “From what you have told me, I think that the theft of the documents was committed by the person who received the carton. I’d like to talk to Mrs. Updyke.”

Officer Riley was gone when the boys returned with their father. The policeman had found nothing of importance.

Fenton Hardy wasted no time. He asked Mrs. Updyke a few questions, inspected the living room, then a kitchen closet where she kept paper and string. On the floor lay a short piece of heavy cord, tied in a knot at one end. Mr. Hardy picked it up.

“I figured the thief wouldn’t walk out of here with the framed documents unwrapped,” the detective said. “They would be too conspicuous. This is the unused part of the cord he tied them with.” He turned to his sons. “What does it tell you?” he asked.

“It isn’t the sort of knot people usually tie,” Joe observed.

“It’s a stevedore’s knot!” Frank said.

Joe thought they ought to look for the seaman with the scar. “He certainly acted suspiciously. I’ll bet if we could lay our hands on him, we’d be able to clear the whole thing up!”

“And maybe find Aunt Gertrude’s papers,” Frank added. “Say, how about using that copy of Johnson’s signature we got from the expressman and see if anyone down at the waterfront recognizes it?”

“Good idea. But drop me off at the house first,” Mr. Hardy said.

After parking the car near the docks, they made a tour of employment offices and waterfront hotels, keeping their eyes open for the suspect. They showed the signature at each place. But no one recognized either the name or the handwriting.

“If he’s a longshoreman he may be working around the freighter that came in about an hour ago,” one clerk suggested. “It’s the Annie J down at Pier Ten.”

Frank and Joe hurried to the pier and looked closely at the stevedores working there. The scar-faced man was not among them.

“I wonder if this freighter carries passengers,” Joe remarked. “Maybe we can arrange something for Mr. McClintock.”

Frank turned to one of the men and asked if the Annie J had passenger accommodations.

“Dunno,” grunted the fellow. “Ask one of the crew. Hey, you up there!” he called out.

High above them, a man came out on the deck.

“These boys want to talk to you!” the stevedore shouted.

The moment the Hardys saw the crewman’s face, they recognized the scarred man. Johnson!

He knew them instantly, too, wheeled around and disappeared.

“Come on, Frank! The ladder!” Joe scrambled up and over the side of the ship’s rail, with Frank at his heels, just in time to see Johnson leap over a stack of hatch covers and race toward the fo‘c’sle.

Rushing in pursuit, Frank tripped over a coil of rope and sprawled on the slippery deck. He cried out, and Joe looked around just in time to dodge out of the way of a huge steel hook that came swinging at the end of a boom cable.

Frank scrambled to his feet. “Cut across the other side of the ship,” he shouted. “I’ll look for him in the fo‘c’sle.”

Joe, meanwhile, had seen their quarry disappear through a doorway. He yanked it open and stepped inside, finding himself in a narrow passage opening into a galley. Halfway along the passage a flight of steel steps led down to the sleeping quarters.

Joe listened. He thought he heard hurried footsteps below. As he started to descend, someone lunged at him from above and knocked him off balance. He fell forward, crashing heavily to the steel floor at the foot of the stairs.

Joe saw a million bright stars. Then they went out.

CHAPTER VII

A Weird Tale

THE shock of cold water splashing on Joe’s face brought him back to consciousness. He heard a voice saying, “That’s enough. He’s coming around now.”

Joe opened his eyes. Two men crouched beside him. One, a sailor in dungarees and jersey, knelt by a bucket of water. The other, lean, sharp-eyed and gray-haired, was evidently the captain of the ship.

“Feeling better?” the captain asked. “I was getting worried about you, young fellow.”

Joe sat up and rubbed his head.

“My brother came on board with me. Have you seen him?” he asked.

“He went chasing some fellow down the ladder a little while ago. What’s it all about?”

The men helped him to his feet. “I’m sorry, Captain—”

“Dryden is the name.”

“Sorry we made such a commotion, Captain Dryden, but we’ve been trying to catch that man. When we saw him on deck—”

“Why were you after him?” asked the officer, puzzled. He dismissed the subject of the seaman and helped Joe us the companionway to the deck. At that moment Frank appeared.

“Lost him again,” he grumbled. “That guy is as slippery as—Why, Joe, what’s the matter?” he asked, noticing how white and unsteady his brother was.

“Somebody shoved me down a stairway.”

“Come into my cabin,” suggested Captain Dryden. “And explain to me what’s going on.”

He was cordial and solicitous as he ushered them into his own quarters and the three seated themselves.

“First of all, what are your names?” he asked.

“I’m Frank Hardy, sir, and this is my brother Joe.”

The man’s friendly smile immediately disappeared. He looked stern and suspicious.

“Hardy!” he cried. “What right do you have barging onto my ship like this?”

The Hardys were dumbfounded at his change in attitude.

“Now get out of here!” he ordered.

“May I ask you a question first, sir?” Frank spoke up.

“Depends on the question.”

“Until you heard our names you were very cordial. Now there’s a difference. Why?”

The officer had not expected anything so flat and direct. He cleared his throat and grunted. Finally he said:

“Your name does make a difference. I’ve already been warned against you.”

“What?”

“A detective came on board as soon as we docked. Sent by a friend of mine. Told me you boys probably would show up here trying to book passage, but not to let you aboard because you’d only make trouble.”

“How did you know he was a detective?” Frank asked, suspicious.

“He showed me his badge. Said he dressed like a seaman because of his work on ships.” Captain Dryden studied the boys for a moment. When he continued, some of the coldness was gone from his voice. “Now that I’ve met you, I wonder if all he told me is true.”

“What did he ten you?”

“Before I answer, I’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of me before.”

“No, sir,” answered the boys in unison.

The captain started to speak, stopped, then said, “I think you’re telling the truth. Well, last year I got into a little mix-up in a foreign port. It wasn’t my fault and I thought the whole thing had blown over. This detective told me you had been hired to dig up new evidence and that, if I was wise, I’d keep you off my ship.”

“Every word’s a lie!” Frank declared angrily. “What did this so-called detective look like?”

Captain Dryden’s description fitted the man with the scar.

“He’s the fellow we’re trying to find,” the boy exclaimed. “The one I was chasing! I’m sure he’s not a detective!”

“More likely a crook,” added Joe. “And I’ll bet he’s the one who knocked me down the stairs!”

Frank asked, “Do you still feel that you wouldn’t want us on board?”

The captain laughed. “Not at all. I’d be glad to have you as passengers, but I doubt that this voyage would interest you. It’s just a short run down the coast and back.”

“Will you consider us for a longer trip later?”

“If you like. But I won’t be taking one for the next three months.”

The boys’ faces showed their disappointment. They thanked the skipper and rose to leave. As Captain Dryden escorted them to the ship’s ladder, he promised to keep a lookout for the bogus detective and said he would let the Hardys know at once if he showed up again.

When they returned home Mrs. Hardy reported that Mr. McClintock had telephoned several times. “I think he’s getting impatient,” she remarked.

Frank called him immediately. Mr. McClintock was more than impatient. He was angry and querulous.

“How long have I got to wait before you find a ship?” he demanded. “I want action, not promises. If you can’t locate one by tomorrow, I’ll call the whole thing off!”

Aunt Gertrude, who had been hovering near the telephone, gave Frank a nudge.

“Ask him to dinner,” she whispered. “That’ll cool him off.”

Frank took the cue. The invitation did have a surprisingly soothing effect. After grumbling that he would not come unless they got him back to the hotel by nine o‘clock, Mr. McClintock accepted.

All smiles, Aunt Gertrude hurried to the kitchen. She was an excellent cook and this time did herself proud. When their guest showed up at six o‘clock, he sniffed appreciatively at the tantalizing culinary aroma.

“Nothing like a well-cooked meal,” he said.

“I quite agree with you, sir,” said a voice from the doorway, and Chet Morton walked in.

He introduced himself, saying that he had heard Mr. McClintock was there and wanted to meet him. Frank and Joe were fearful that Chet might bring up the subject of the bamboo fishing rod and annoy their guest. So Frank said quickly, “How about joining us for dinner, Chet? Aunt Gertrude has something special. I’ll show you.”

He escorted his buddy to the kitchen and warned him that Mr. McClintock was jittery and should not be disturbed by being asked to purchase anything. Chet nodded. A few minutes later the family, except Mr. Hardy, who was away, sat down to dinner with their guests.

The irrepressible Chet chattered first about food, then fly fishing. He was so amusing that he won Mr. McClintock’s admiration in short order.

“I like a boy who relishes his meals,” declared McClintock, “and also is interested in fishing.”

Chet gave his pals a sidewise glance, and steered the conversation around to the subject of fly tying.

“You tie your own?” Mr. McClintock inquired, a gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Chet. “I’ve just gone into the business of making the most beautiful lures imaginable—all by hand—the expert way!”

Frank nearly choked on a forkful of salad.

“Why, this is great,” declared Mr. McClintock. “I’ve tied hundreds of flies in my time. Used to be one of my favorite hobbies. You must let me visit your shop.”

“Sh-shop?” Chet said weakly, and Frank quickly got him off the hook by changing the subject.

“Have you done any trout fishing lately, Mr, McClintock?”

“No,” the man replied, putting down his fork and smiling at Aunt Gertrude. “Lost interest in it. Deep-sea fishing is the thing. More thrills. Better sport. Isn’t that right, Miss Hardy?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Of course. Bigger fish, too.”

Suddenly their guest looked up, his face wreathed in delight. He snapped his fingers with excitement. “Why, that’s it! Why didn’t I think of this before? I’ll take a deep-sea fishing trip!” He leaned toward Chet. “Do you think you could find a fishing boat and a captain who would take us?”

Frank and Joe were upset. Was he going to give up the freighter idea? Were they going to lose out on the trip? His next remark relieved their minds somewhat.

“Frank and Joe here have been trying to arrange a freighter voyage, but they can’t get accommodations. So it may be weeks before we go. In the meantime, we’ll do some fishing. I’ll pay all expenses. Arrange such a trip for me, Chet.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Chet promised.

During the rest of the dinner he and Mr. McClintock discussed deep-sea fishing. Chet talked so knowledgeably about marlin, swordfish, and tuna that Frank and Joe knew he must have read up on the subject very recently.

But after the three boys had taken Mr. McClintock to his hotel and were driving home, Chet suddenly gave a deep sigh. “Holy crow, fellows! That was a tough evening on me. What am I going to do?”

“That’s easy,” Joe said. “Hire the boat and make a giant fly to catch whales!”

Chet groaned. “Listen, you two. You’ve got to help me!”

“Well, if you insist,” Joe said, grinning.

The next morning found the Hardys at a wharf talking to a grizzled veteran of the coast named Captain Andy Harkness. He owned several fishing boats.

“A trip? Sure,” he said when they told of Mr. McClintock’s request. “I’ll take you and your man anywhere you like, so long as you don’t ask me to cruise off the Barmet Shoals.”

“What’s wrong with the shoals, Captain?” Frank inquired. “You’re not afraid of them, are you?”

“Not me. But I got a terrible fright there last evening and I don’t want to go near the place again.”

The boys were curious. Captain Harkness was not the sort of man who scared easily. They asked him what had happened.

“Don’t know if I ought to tell you,” the fisherman grumbled. “Most likely you won’t believe a word of it, but it’s true just the same.”

“Try us,” Frank said.

“Some time after sundown,” the captain began, “with a high sea running, I got off my course a bit. Suddenly I spotted a freighter to my starboard side. I could see we were on collision course, so I threw the helm over hard, but I couldn’t hold my boat against the rough water. I knew I was going to hit the freighter but there wasn’t a thing I could do.”

“So she rammed you?” asked Joe.

Captain Harkness wagged his head. “She did and she didn’t. I’d say I ran right through her! That’s the part you won’t believe, but it’s as true as my name is Andy Harkness. By rights I shouldn’t be alive now to tell the tale.”

“You ran through the freighter?” Frank gasped.

“That’s the way it seemed. One minute she’s looming up ahead of me big as a mountain, all her lights on, the next minute she’s not there at all and my boat is swinging northward off the shoals.”

“And where was the freighter?” Joe queried.

“I tell you, she wasn’t in sight!”

“What do you mean?” Frank said. “Where could she have gone?”

The captain gave a convulsive shrug, as if the recollection frightened him. “She was a phantom freighter!” he vowed.

Frank and Joe asked him several other questions, but he stuck to his story.

“Did you see any name on the ship?” asked Frank.

“Yep! Caught a glimpse of her name up on her bow. The Falcon, she was called. Never heard of her before. But she’s a phantom freighter, that’s what she is, boys, a phantom freighter!”

CHAPTER VIII

Missing Letters

“GOOD thing Captain Harkness noticed the name of the phantom freighter,” said Fenton Hardy after his sons had related the strange story. “It gives us a clue to work on, at any rate.”

He went to a bookshelf. Taking down a thick volume, he thumbed through the pages.

“Registry of Shipping,” he said, scanning a column. “If there is such a ship as the Falcon it should be listed here—and it’s not.”

“Isn’t there a chance this phantom ship is registered under another name?” asked Frank.

“Possibly. But I wonder if the whole thing wasn’t a hallucination of Captain Harkness.”

As the boys left their father’s study they encountered Aunt Gertrude in the hall. She began to fuss again because the carton containing her valuable papers had not been recovered.

“With three detectives in the family, a little thing like this shouldn’t be much of a problem!” she said.

“We’ve been working on it, Aunty,” Joe said, though he had to admit their leads had come to little.

“The carton was probably in that barn all the time,” Miss Hardy went on. “Did you look through the debris after the fire?”

“There didn’t seem to be much point in grubbing through the ruins,” Frank said. “Any papers would have been burned to ashes.”

“Military medals wouldn‘t,” replied his aunt. “There were a couple of old citations among the papers. I’d like to know what happened to that carton one way or another.”

Since Frank and Joe had some spare time while waiting for Captain Harkness to arrange the fishing trip, they drove out to the Phillips house. Permission to search the ruins of the barn was granted, and for the next hour they poked through the debris. Their hands were black with soot and their shirts covered with ashes. Weary of the messy task, they were about to give up the hunt as hopeless when Joe picked up a small object near the front foundation.

“Looks like a penny with a hole in it,” he said and cleaned off the metal. He held it to the light. The inscription was now legible. Good Luck!

“I’ve seen medals like this in the stores down at the docks,” remarked Frank. “Many sailors wear them.”

The boys returned to the house and asked Mrs. Phillips if she knew anything about the medal. She said it did not belong to them. Joe then telephoned Aunt Gertrude, who declared that the medal had not been among her possessions.

Frank put the medal in his pocket and the boys left. On the way to town Frank said, “It must belong to our friend with the scar.”

“Who else?” Joe agreed.

They had nearly reached Bayport when a familiar jalopy which sounded more like a helicopter than a car overtook them and pulled alongside. Chet Morton was at the wheel. Biff Hooper sat beside him.

“Hi!” Chet said. “We want you to go out in the Sleuth. Got something to show you!”

The Hardys followed, wondering what was up. When they reached the boathouse they learned that Chet wanted to go fishing.

“Not just for the sake of fishing, mind you,” he explained hastily. “It’s a scientific experiment for our trip. I’ve invented a new fish lure. If it works I’ll make a fortune. Look!”

From a cardboard box he produced a weird-looking gadget made of tin and strips of aluminum, barbed with hooks.

“I can’t imagine any fish going for that!” said Frank. “What is it?”

“A mechanical herring. Commercial fishermen won’t have to use real herring for bait any more. One of my mechanical ones will last a lifetime. I’ll sell so many I’ll make forty-five dollars like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on. I’ll show you how it works.”

They climbed aboard the Sleuth. In a few minutes the trim little craft was about a quarter of a mile out in the bay. Chet attached his mechanical herring to a length of heavy line. Then he doused it with a foul-smelling fluid which he poured from a bottle.

Joe sniffed. “Wow! What’s that?”

“Herring oil,” Chet explained. “A mechanical herring should smell like a herring, shouldn’t it?”

“I thought fish couldn’t smell,” Biff said.

“They do when they’ve been left out in the sun too long,” Joe quipped.

Chet carefully lowered his creation into the water and payed out the line. Frank throttled down the engine to trolling speed, and they cruised out into the bay.

“The whole secret of this lure,” Chet explained, “is—Wow! I’ve got a bite!”

The others stared incredulously at their chum, who began hauling in the line. He finally landed a small sea bass with a shout of triumph.

“I knew it would work,” Chet declared proudly. “Just wait until I put that thing on the market. I’ll sell thousands. I‘ll—”

“Look!” Joe said suddenly.

His attention had been attracted by a fast motorboat running offshore. It was speeding crazily from side to side as if out of control. Two men in the craft were fighting violently.

Frank snatched up a pair of binoculars. Through the glasses he saw that the men were apparently battling for possession of a large carton. One of them stumbled back with it in his arms. As the other leaped toward him he raised the box high in the air and hurled it overboard.

His opponent sprang at him, knocking him down with a savage blow to the jaw. Then he lurched to the wheel of the boat and swung the craft away from the rocky shore.

The men and their fight were of no great concern to the Hardys, but the carton was. Could it possibly have some connection with their case? they wondered.

Frank headed for the spot where the cardboard container was bobbing up and down in the water, and Biff and Joe hauled it aboard. The sodden carton, with no marks of identification, was torn open. Frank reached in and pulled out the contents. Nothing but tightly packed wool!

“Why were those two fellows fighting over a box of raw wool?” Biff asked, puzzled.

“That’s their business,” Chet said impatiently. “Let’s go out farther and try my herring again.”

The Hardys, however, were eager to take the carton home and examine it more carefully for possible clues. They were intrigued by the resemblance to the James Johnson box which had come to their house by mistake. Both young sleuths felt sure there was a link between the two!

In their garage Frank went over every inch of the outside of the box. “Not a mark anywhere,” he reported.

Joe, meanwhile, had pulled apart every bit of the compressed wool. There was no trace of anything secreted in the fluffy mass.

“Only one more place to look,” said Frank and carefully examined the interior sides of the carton. “Nothing here, either,” he added. “Whatever was packed in the wool must have fallen out, either before the guy threw the box into the water or after.”

The boys cleaned up the mess and went into the house, where they found that the mystery had taken a new and unexpected turn. Aunt Gertrude, looking grim, met them in the kitchen.

“My papers!” she exclaimed in excitement. “Some of them have turned up. Your father just had a letter about them and wants you to take care of it. Look at this!”

Frank and Joe eagerly read the letter, which was postmarked Hopkinsville, several miles away, and had been mailed the previous day:

Dear Mr. Hardy:

I am a dealer in autographs and historical documents. Recently there came into my hands a number of letters in which you may be interested. They were written in 1812 by Admiral Hardy, one of your ancestors. If you would like to consider purchasing these letters, please get in touch with me.

Your sincerely,

Daniel J. Eaton

The boys gazed at their aunt in astonishment.

“Where did he come across the letters?” Frank asked.

“That’s what I’m wondering!” declared Aunt Gertrude. “Because those very letters were in my lost carton. The man has the impudence to try to sell us our own property!”

CHAPTER IX

Code Numbers

FRANK and Joe lost no time in getting to Hopkinsville and finding Daniel J. Eaton. He was a short, baldish man. His little store was wedged inconspicuously between an establishment featuring antique glass and one selling furniture.

Hopkinsville seemed to have many such places —stores dealing in stamps, coins, and rare books. An ideal spot to dispose of old documents!

“Here are the letters. They’re authentic, all right,” Mr. Eaton told the boys as they examined the Admiral Hardy letters.

“Please tell us where you got these,” Frank requested.

“They were sold to me by a Miss Elizabeth Hardy a few days ago,” the man replied. “She said the letters had been in her possession for many years.”

“Would they be valuable to a museum or to a collector?” Joe asked.

Mr. Eaton shook his head. “Not really. To another member of the Hardy family, however, someone such as your father—”

“Then why didn’t Miss Elizabeth Hardy offer to sell them to us, instead of you?”

Mr. Eaton had a ready reply. “She explained about the family quarrel,” he said. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t mention it to anyone. Miss Hardy assured me, though, that you would be eager to buy the letters. Said she was in financial difficulties. Otherwise she wouldn’t have parted with the letters at all.”

“Does this woman live in Hopkinsville?” asked Frank.

“No. Said she came from out of town. Was only passing through. Gave her address as Post Office Box 499, Trenton, New Jersey. I had never seen her before,” replied the dealer. He cocked his head and looked sharply at his inquisitors. “But why all these questions? Doesn’t your father want the letters?”

“He wants them, all right, but he doesn’t want to buy them. They were stolen from my aunt several days ago.”

The boys told Mr. Eaton the whole story of the missing carton, said there had been no family quarrel and that the woman was a fraud.

“You mean I’m in possession of stolen prop. erty?” Mr. Eaton exclaimed.

“I’m afraid you are,” Frank replied.

Convinced that the Hardys were telling the truth, Mr. Eaton wrapped the letters quickly and handed them across the counter. “I’m no fence for any thieves,” he said. “Take the letters. I’ll suffer the loss.”

“We’re sorry, Mr. Eaton,” Joe said, accepting the package.

“The amount was not large,” the dealer went on. “If I got gypped, it’s my own fault.”

The boys thanked him. Mr. Eaton said that while he had bought only the letters from the phony Miss Hardy, she had offered him a number of old books that also might have been in the carton.

“Perhaps she sold them elsewhere in town,” he suggested. “There are some secondhand book-stores and antique shops on the next block. If you look around, you may recover the entire lot.”

Before the Hardys left the store they went toward the back to examine some old framed documents hanging on the wall. Mr. Eaton said he had bought them in the course of the previous week.

“Quite valuable,” he said. “I’m certain they’re authentic.”

“They look authentic,” Frank remarked. “We can give you a tip, though, Mr. Eaton. Many faked documents are being put on the market. They’re so cleverly done it’s hard to tell they’re frauds. If you’re offered any more documents, I’d advise you to study the wording carefully. That’s where the forgers who make them slip up.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Eaton said gratefully. He promised to send the Hardys the name and address of anybody offering him documents for sale.

Frank and Joe visited half a dozen other dealers. From a list Aunt Gertrude had supplied, they were able to identify several rare old books, autographed first editions, and a number of historical documents. All had been sold to the dealers within recent days by a gray-haired woman who claimed to belong to the Hardy family.

In every case her description tallied with that of the fake “Mrs. Harrison,” though she had used various names.

“She’s the one all right,” Joe declared. “Now this mystery is beginning to shape up. She and the man with the scar are in cahoots!”

At one shop the young detectives were sure they had uncovered a promising clue. Although the woman had sold Aunt Gertrude’s family heirlooms to several dealers under the Trenton address, only one had insisted upon knowing where she was staying in Hopkinsville. To this man she had given her name as Mrs. Randall. Address—the Palace HoteL

The Hardys hastened over to the Palace, a small hotel about a block from the railroad station. There they found the lead was false. No one by that name had stayed there, nor could the clerk recall anyone answering the woman’s description.

Joe, thinking perhaps he could recognize her handwriting, looked through the register but found nothing suspicious. “Well,” he said, disappointed, as they emerged from the hotel, “that’s that.”

“Maybe she’s still in town,” Frank suggested.

Vainly the boys walked up one street and down another. Nowhere did they see the woman nor the man with the triangular scar.

As they were returning to their car, a familiar voice cried out, “Well, look who’s here!”

The Hardys turned. Beaming at them, his mouth full of peanuts, stood Chet Morton. With him were two girls—his sister Iola and Callie Shaw.

The Hardys grinned because the girls were their special friends. Frank often dated Callie, while Iola was Joe’s favorite.

“Hi!” Callie laughed. “Surprise!”

“I’ll say,” declared Frank. “What are you doing in Hopkinsville?”

“We followed you,” teased dark-haired, dimpled Iola. “Chet called your house. When he heard you were here he decided to come, too.”

“I’m glad he did,” said Frank, smiling at blond Callie.

“Just a little business trip, really,” Chet remarked grandly. “I’ve been calling on some of the storekeepers here. Got orders for a dozen mechanical herrings and some Morton Special flies. Now all I have to do is make the herrings, tie the flies, and deliver them.

He produced an order book and thumbed the pages with an air of importance, while Frank and Joe howled with laughter.

“It’s not funny!” said Chet. “It means money. Now if you fellows would only help me—”

“Help you?” cried Joe. “How about that deep-sea fishing trip?”

“Guess you’re right.” Chet became silent.

“Oh,” said Callie. “I have something to tell you. It may be important.”

“Mighty important, I’d say,” observed Chet. “Sounds to me as if you fellows are playing with dynamite. Tell them about it, Callie.”

“I will if you’ll give me a chance,” Callie said impatiently. “While Chet was parking the car, I went over to the railroad station, which was across the street. I had to call a friend of mine. The line was busy. While I was waiting, I heard a man talking in the next booth. I didn’t pay any attention until he cried out, ‘Those boys are wise guys. They’ve got to keep out of our business, or their old man won’t see ’em for a long time.”‘

Callie took a deep breath.

“Go on,” Frank said.

“Then the man said, ‘Yes, I mean the Hardys.’ With that he dashed out of the booth and got on a train.”

“Did you know him?” Joe asked excitedly.

“No.”

“What did he look like? Did he have a triangular scar on his face?”

Callie shook her head. “Not that I noticed.”

“Did he mention the name of the person he was talking to?” Frank asked.

“He did at the beginning, but at that time I wasn’t paying much attention. I’ve been trying to remember it. I keep thinking of the word ‘duck’ but it wasn’t that.”

“Speaking of ducks,” interrupted Chet, “I could go for some food right now. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten. Let’s try that restaurant over there across the street.”

While they were waiting for sandwiches and Cokes, Frank and Joe questioned Callie closely about the overheard conversation, but she could recall little more than what she had already told them.

“It’s silly of me to forget,” she said ruefully. “I know he mentioned the name of the person at the other end of the line.”

Chet put on his most sagacious expression. “The best way to remember something,” he said, “is to forget about it. I mean, change the subject. Talk about something else. The freighter trip, for instance. You fellows had better book a fourth passage, by the way. Mr. McClintock says he wants me to go along. In fact, he insists on it.”

“We’ll have to find a freighter first,” Joe said, “and a big one at that!”

At that moment the waitress brought the food. Chet picked up his sandwich. As he opened his mouth, Callie suddenly cried out, “I know! Duck! Quack! Klack! That’s the name the man mentioned on the telephone!”

“Good girl, Callie!” Joe praised her, while Chet bit into his sandwich with a smug smile.

“So Klack’s mixed up in this whole affair!” Frank said grimly. “I thought so!”

“You know him?” Callie asked.

“We’ve had the pleasure,” Joe muttered, then told about their contact with Klack.

Frank decided to talk to the travel agent as soon as possible. When they had finished their snack, they took Chet and the girls back to the railroad station, where Chet had left his jalopy, and said good-by.

An hour later the Hardys stepped into Klack’s office.

“The boss is out of town,” said the girl clerk.

“When do you expect him back?” Frank asked.

She shrugged. “A week, maybe.”

“Has he booked passage for us yet?” Joe inquired.

The girl shook her head.

“Pardon me, boys,” said a familiar voice. A man stepped up to the desk. “Have you got my tickets, young lady? I telephoned yesterday. Name’s Jennings.” The man smiled at the Hardys. “You fellows taking a trip, too?”

Mr. Jennings taught ancient and modern history at Bayport High. As the girl riffled through a list of reservations he chatted pleasantly with Frank and Joe. He had long planned a freighter voyage down the coast for his summer vacation with his two sons, he said, and now he was ready to leave.

“Here you are, Mr. Jennings,” said the girl.

The boys gaped in surprise as he paid for the tickets and put them in his billfold.

“I suppose you made your reservations a long time ago, Mr. Jennings?” Frank asked politely.

“Oh, no,” returned the teacher. “It wasn’t until yesterday that I knew I could get away at all. Very quick service.”

He strolled out of the office, leaving the Hardys staring after him in astonishment. Annoyed by the agency’s unfair treatment, Frank demanded that the girl explain why they were unable to get on a ship while others could.

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Klack about that,” she replied.

The boys left. They were now completely convinced that there was a definite reason for their failure to get freighter passage and that Klack had something to do with it.

“I suggest we try an out-of-town agency,” Frank said.

“Right. Southport, for instance?”

“Why not.”

The next afternoon they drove to Southport. The people working in the travel bureau there were a great deal more courteous than at Klack’s and the owner more cooperative. While Frank discussed their problem, Joe picked up a copy of the local newspaper lying on the counter and glanced at the shipping notes.

“We haven’t anything just now,” said the agent pleasantly, “but I’ll get in touch with the Neptune Line. It may take half an hour or so.”

“Good,” said Frank. “We’ll come back.”

“Hey, have a look at this,” Joe said, pointing to an item on the front page. It read:

UNINVITED VISITORS

When Mrs. W. C. Armstrong of Rushdale Road returned home yesterday from a vacation trip to Maine, she discovered that someone had broken into her house during her absence and had apparently lived there for several days.

As far as is known, nothing of value was taken, but the police are investigating.

A driver for the Southport Express Agency reports having delivered several cartons addressed to Mrs. Armstrong and says they were accepted by a woman claiming to be a relative. The boxes were not found in the house and Mrs. Armstrong claims she had not ordered anything delivered.

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” said Joe.

“The same old routine. We’d better call on Mrs. Armstrong,” Frank agreed.

The woman, like Mrs. Updyke in Bayport, could tell the boys very little other than what the newspaper had reported. Beds had been slept in and kitchenware used, but nothing was missing.

“The police have searched the house thoroughly,” she said, “but my visitors didn’t leave any clues. Unless you could call this a clue,” she added, taking a ragged slip of paper from the mantel. “I found it in a corner when I was dusting this morning.”

Frank and Joe examined the paper. Scribbled on it were some letters and numbers:

A23—151—C2—D576-A19395—M14

“Can you make anything of that?” she asked.

Frank shook his head. “It could be a motor number, a safe combination, a lot of things. Do you mind if I copy these numbers?”

“Not at all!”

Frank took a notebook from his pocket. “You’d better give this slip to the police,” he advised.

“Yes. I’ll do that.”

After the boys had left the house, Joe said, “I believe it’s some kind of code.”

“Let’s memorize the numbers,” suggested Frank. “Just in case we should lose them.”

Both Hardys went over them several times until they were sure they would not forget them, then returned to the shipping agency.

“I got in touch with the Neptune Line,” the owner told them, “and got reservations for you. One of their freighters, the Crown of Neptune, will be leaving in two weeks.”

“Can we pick up the tickets now?” Joe asked.

“Not right away. I’ll have to wait for confirmation. They’ll be ready in a day or so. I suggest that you get passports and vaccination certificates because the ship will be putting in at a couple of Central American ports.”

“Fine,” said Frank. “We’ll take care of that.”

They drove back to Bayport, relieved that they would have good news for Mr. McClintock at last.

“Two weeks, eh?” he said. “Well, that’s not so bad. Meantime, we’ll go fishing. Do you know if Chet had any luck yet?”

Frank suppressed a grin. “As far as I’ve heard he’s talked to a Captain Harkness. The skipper told him he’d call him as soon as he has a free day.”

“Good.”

An hour later Frank, Joe, and Chet were at the docks to search again for the man with the scar. Unknown to the boys, a longshoreman followed them at a discreet distance. As they walked toward a truck being unloaded by a stevedore, the man tailing them signaled to the worker.

Instinctively Joe turned around and saw the fellow’s strange motions. Then he glanced ahead to see the stevedore throw a carton back onto the truck and duck beneath the chassis.

Joe leaped into action. Racing ahead of the others, he dashed to the truck and looked underneath. The man was crawling out on the other side. Joe ran around just in time to see him dodge through a doorway to a storage shed.

The man with the scar!

“Frank, Chet! I found him!” Joe beckoned furiously. “He ran in there!”

Joe dashed toward the doorway, but was blocked by two workmen carrying crates on their shoulders. The men moved off slowly, revealing the darkened entrance once again. Joe sprinted forward, just as Frank, running up behind him, shrieked out a warning.

“Joe! Stop!”

Out of the shadowy doorway sped a hand truck. It was loaded but nobody was at the controls!

CHAPTER X

Frank in Trouble

“LOOK out, Joe!” Frank yelled in horror.

Joe dived to safety on the cobbled pavement a split second before the cart whipped by and smashed into the parked truck. Boxes and parcels flew through the air.

Unhurt, Joe scrambled up. He suspected that the fugitive had shoved the hand truck toward him in an attempt to gain time for a getaway in the network of alleys along the waterfront.

He caught sight of the man at a gateway to the dockyard. Then the fugitive vanished from view.

Joe raced in pursuit. As he reached the open gate he got a brief glimpse of the fugitive hurrying up the street, but a moment later he was gone again.

“Probably ducked into one of the stores,” Joe concluded. He dashed up the street, not sure which door the man might have entered. Joe looked into two shops, then spoke to a fellow lounging outside a pawnshop.

“I saw a guy run into Fit-Your-Figure-Charlie’s a minute ago,” the man told him.

Joe rushed to the clothing store. It was apparently deserted. No clerk. No customers. Three clothes dummies were in the front window.

Then Joe heard a groan. He traced it to its source in an anteroom used for tailoring, and found the shopkeeper unconscious on the floor. In the corner was a sink. Joe grabbed a towel, wet it and put it on the man’s forehead. The cold water revived the man and he sat up.

“Guy came in here—slugged me—” he murmured.

“Did he have a scar on his cheek?” Joe asked quickly.

The man nodded. “Knocked me out—don’t know where he went.”

Both looked up at the sound of footsteps in the doorway. Chet poked his head in. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked.

A hurried explanation followed. Then Joe said, “Help Charlie to the couch in his office, Chet. I’m going to call the police.”

He looked around for a telephone but saw none, and stepped outside. Suddenly he paused. From the corner of his eye he had caught a glimpse of the display window. Four dummies stood there, one of them in a raincoat, with a hat pulled low over its head!

Joe remembered that there had been only three dummies in the window before! He stepped back inside, quietly slipped the automatic catch on the lock to the window, and went back to Chet. He drew him aside and told him of his discovery. “I locked him in. He’s our prisoner,” he whispered.

Chet did not like the idea of being left alone with the fellow. “Where’s Frank?” he asked worriedly.

“I don’t know. Wasn’t he with you?”

“No.”

“He must have followed another lead. I’ll go find a phone.”

Before Chet could object, Joe was out the door. He ran to a drugstore at the corner, called police headquarters, and asked for Con Riley. When he had him on the line, Joe said:

“This is Joe Hardy. Listen, how fast can you make it to Mack Street? Fit-Your-Figure Charlie’s place. I want you to arrest a guy in the window.”

“In the window?”

“Live dummy. He slugged Charlie. I think he’s the scarred man we’re after.”

“Be right over, Joe.”

The young detective started back to the store. Suddenly he heard a crash. A figure hurtled through the show window and landed on the sidewalk. It was followed by a man in a raincoat.

At the same instant Chet raced from the store and tackled the fugitive. They went down in a heap. The scarred man struggled to escape, but Chet hung on grimly, yelling to Joe.

Joe raced up and helped subdue the suspect. A moment later a police car arrived and Con Riley jumped out. He snapped handcuffs on the man’s wrists.

“What’s this all about?” the prisoner snarled. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s what they all say,” replied Riley. “You’re coming down to headquarters.” Riley then informed the prisoner of his rights.

“Yeah, I understand. When I want a lawyer, I’ll tell ya,” the man muttered.

Chet and Joe, after making sure that Charlie was all right, climbed into the squad car with Riley and the scowling prisoner. They drove to headquarters. There the man gave his name as John Smith. He denied that he had ever gone under the name of Johnson, that he had ever been to the Phillips house, or that he had received any cartons.

He was booked on a charge of assault and battery. The express-company driver was sent for and identified him as the man who had signed for Aunt Gertrude’s missing carton. The suspect said the expressman was crazy, and then maintained a stony silence.

A figure hurtled through the window

“Any identification on him?” Joe asked Riley after the man had been searched.

“Not a thing,” the policeman replied. “Just some figures scribbled on the back of an old envelope. Can’t make head or tail of them.” Riley produced the evidence. Joe whooped. Scrawled on the paper were letters and numbers:

A23—151—C2—D576—A19395—M14

“The same as those found at Mrs. Armstrong’s home!” Joe thought excitedly.

Written beneath the figures was Falcon.

“The name of the phantom freighter!” Joe gasped.

“What?” Riley asked.

Joe quickly told him Captain Harkness’s story and the officer promised to investigate.

When Joe and Chet arrived at the Hardy home, they expected to find Frank there. But he had not yet come back.

“That’s strange,” reflected Joe. “I wonder where he went.”

For the next few hours the family and Chet anxiously waited for news of Frank. With growing concern, Joe and Chet returned to the waterfront and searched the docks thoroughly, making scores of inquiries. But to no avail!

When they arrived home they found Mrs. Hardy, pale and tight-lipped, near the telephone. Her husband was away, and Aunt Gertrude paced up and down nervously. “That man they have locked up in jail—I’ll bet he knows what happened,” she declared. “If I had my way—”

“But the police have questioned him a dozen times, Aunty,” said Joe. “He won’t talk.”

“What time is it?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

“Two o‘clock in the morning, Mother,” Joe replied. “You’d better go to bed and get some rest.”

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep. If Frank doesn’t show up by seven,” said Mrs. Hardy, “I’ll have to telephone your father.”

“No use bothering Fenton until we’re sure it’s serious,” said Aunt Gertrude. “Frank will turn up,” she added to calm Mrs. Hardy, but to herself she said, “I’m afraid something terrible has happened.”

The telephone jangled harshly. Mrs. Hardy sprang to her feet, but Joe reached the instrument ahead of her.

“Is this the home of Fenton Hardy?” demanded a rough voice.

“Yes.”

“Who is this?”

“Joe Hardy.”

“All right, kid. In case you’re worrying about your brother, here’s a tip. You’ll find him on the porch of a summer bungalow about two miles up the Willow River. Better go and get him because he’s in no shape to walk home.”

“Who’s speaking? What bungalow? Is he all right?”

The caller hung up.

“What is it, Joe?” Mrs. Hardy asked tensely, and he repeated the conversation.

The message had been ominous, but Joe tried to be cheerful. “Oh, I’m sure Frank’s all right. Come on, Chet. We’ll take the Sleuth and go out there.”

“I’m going with you,” Aunt Gertrude said brusquely. “Come on, Laura, you too!”

Joe looked up. “Better not. What if it’s a trap?”

“A trap? But why?”

“Maybe someone wants to get us all out of the house, for some reason,” suggested Joe.

Mrs. Hardy was distressed. “Then maybe Frank won’t be there at all,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure he is, Mother. But we’d better not take chances. Stay here and call Chief Collig. Tell him where we’ve gone.”

Aunt Gertrude nodded. “Joe is right. Sit down, Laura. We’ll guard the house. And if I hear as much as a footstep around here, I’ll ...”

Her voice trailed off.

Mrs. Hardy said, “Better phone Biff Hooper and see if he can go with you, so you’ll have some help in case you need it.”

After calling Biff and asking him to meet them at the boathouse, Joe and Chet hurried off. As they sped through the deserted streets in the Hardys’ car, they spoke little. The same question was in their minds, What had happened to Frank?

If they could have played back a movie of the chase the day before, they might have seen the relief on Frank’s face after Joe’s narrow escape. Frank’s first impulse had been to join his brother and Chet in further pursuit of the fugitive.

But then something caught his attention. On the side of a large box near the truck were the numbers A23—151—C2!

Quickly Frank examined several other boxes. Two of them bore similar numbers. Looking for an address, he found a tag nailed to each carton, marked Wasp—Dock Three, Bayport.

Sure that he had stumbled upon an important clue, Frank hunted for the Wasp. It was a large motor launch, painted yellow and black, with a small cabin. There were no signs of anyone aboard, so Frank leaped onto the deck near an open hatch. Boxes of cargo were stacked below, to within a few feet of the deck.

Frank lowered himself through the hatch to examine the boxes. They were similar in size and appearance to the cartons on the truck. Numbers were painted on the sides. Some of them were identical with the code found in the Armstrong house.

Suddenly Frank heard voices of men who had come aboard. One said, “We’ve got to get that stuff to Crowfeet or he’ll have a stroke!”

“I’m not going to risk it,” argued another. “Too dangerous. We can come back tomorrow.”

A minute later a third voice shouted, “Hey, men, we’ve got to get out of here quick!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Hank’s been arrested. Bayport’s getting too hot for this racket!”

There was a sound of running footsteps on deck. This was followed by a heavy thud and sudden blackness.

The hatch cover had been closed!

Frank heard a bell ring. Engines began to throb, and with a roar the Wasp pulled away from the dock.

Frank struggled to keep calm. Should he make his presence known by banging on the hatch cover? No, he decided. He would stay hidden and wait for a chance to escape.

“Wish I had a flashlight,” he thought. “I’d like to find out what’s in these boxes.” Thinking he might identify it by feel, he took out his pocket-knife and tried to open one, but the blade snapped off. “Tough luck!” Frank muttered.

The air in the hold was getting stuffy. Frank climbed on top of the boxes and thrust his hands hard against the hatch cover. It did not budge a fraction.

After an hour had passed, the terror of the unknown began to seize Frank. Perhaps he should shout for help. But even if he tried to attract attention, his shouts would hardly be heard above the roar of the engines. If the launch was bound on a long trip, he might suffocate!

A short time later the speed of the launch diminished. Finally the engines were cut off altogether. The boat swayed from side to side, and shuddered as it bumped against the timbers of a dock.

Frank heard voices. Footsteps thudded overhead. With a rattle and a crash, the hatch cover was hauled away. Frank tried to slip down among the boxes, but was too late. A seaman shouted, “Hey! We’ve got a stowaway!”

“Take him forward!” rasped another.

Half blinded by the light, Frank was dragged and pushed along the deck toward the cabin.

CHAPTER XI

Stolen Tickets

UNTIL the first light of dawn edged the horizon, Joe, Chet, and Biff roared back and forth on the river near the two-mile mark. They were discouraged when they found no bungalow. The early-morning mist was heavy, and it was difficult to see the homes back of the shoreline of the Willow River.

When the fog lifted, they were more than three miles from the mouth of the river. It was then that they saw a dark figure sprawled on the porch of a deserted cabin.

“Frank!” cried Joe.

He pulled beside a makeshift, half-rotted pier and the boys jumped out. Quickly they ran up the few steps to the porch.

Frank was bound hand and foot, and tightly blindfolded, but unharmed. As Joe and Biff cut loose the ropes and whipped off the blindfold, they hurled dozens of questions at him. Frank slowly rubbed his aching arms and legs and got up. “I’m starving,” he said. “Do you have any chow with you?”

Joe and Biff stared at each other, but Chet beamed happily. He fished an apple and a package of nuts from his pockets.

“You guys are always kidding me because I never go anywhere without supplies. See how it comes in handy!” He gave the food to Frank.

“Thanks, Chet.”

Frank alternately bit a large chunk of apple and tossed a few nuts into his mouth. When he had finished and thrown the core away, Biff said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Frank can tell us what happened on the way home.”

As the motorboat sped back down the river, Frank related his strange adventure. When he reached the point where he had been hauled out of the Wasp’s hold and taken to the cabin, Joe interrupted him excitedly.

“Why, you’ve practically solved the case. You’ll be able to identify those men—”

Frank shook his head. “I didn’t really see any of them. I was blinded by the sudden light after being in the dark hold. Then a blindfold was clapped over my eyes. Some guy gave an order; another said ‘Shut up!’ and after that no one spoke. I couldn’t identify them.”

“What happened then?” Biff urged.

“They moved me from the Wasp to another boat. It cruised around for a while, then I was transferred into a rowboat. One man took me up the river. He was supposed to get rid of me and leave no clues, but I guess he was afraid.”

“So he dropped you at the cottage?” Joe put in.

“Right. When he left me, he said, ‘Let this be a lesson to you. Mind your own business. Any more snooping and you won’t get off so easy!’ ”

Chet gulped. “If I were you, I think I’d follow his advice!”

“Are you kidding!” Joe protested. “This gives us all the more reason to nab that gang!”

“By the way,” Frank said, “how did you manage to find me?”

“Your unknown savior called the house.”

“Well, that was nice of him. Wish he’d done it a lot sooner,” Frank said.

By this time the Hardy boathouse loomed ahead, and soon the Sleuth was docked. “Let’s go home and get some sleep,” Joe suggested. “Then we’d better talk again to that man who’s in jail. I’m sure he’s the ‘Hank’ you’ve heard mentioned, Frank. I’ll bet he knows all about the Wasp and Crowfeet.”

“Good idea,” Frank said.

They drove Biff and Chet home. When they finally arrived at the Hardy house, their mother and Aunt Gertrude wept with joy. Aunt Gertrude bustled about the kitchen, preparing breakfast, while Mrs. Hardy notified Chief Collig of the boys’ safe return.

Then Frank and Joe went to bed and slept soundly until noon. When they came down, their mother said Mr. McClintock had telephoned.

“I guess he wants to know if we got reservations,” Frank said. “I’ll check with the Southport agency and see if the tickets are ready.”

But when Frank spoke to the agent he received quite a shock.

“Tickets?” the man said. “You got them already.”

“No we didn‘t,” Frank told him,

“That fellow you sent over picked them up early this morning and paid for them.”

“We didn’t send anyone,” said Frank. “Did he give you his name?”

“No.”

“Describe him, please.”

“In his thirties, I’d say. Dark hair. Since he paid for your fare I had no reason to think he was not on the level!”

Frank groaned. “He stole our tickets!”

The agent was greatly disturbed. “This has never happened to me in all my years in business. It’s outrageous. Well, don’t worry. When the fellow shows up on the sailing date, we can get an explanation.”

“Will you issue us new tickets?” Frank inquired.

“That might not even be necessary. I’ll be on the ship personally to look into this.”

Frank thanked the agent and put down the telephone. “Somebody is going through all kinds of trouble to prevent us from making this trip,” he said to Joe. “Even paid for the fare!”

“You know,” Joe reflected, “maybe our friend McClintock is the reason for all this. Somebody might be trying to keep him from going!”

“You’re right. Let’s go talk with him.”

Mr. McClintock greeted them with a grin. “Sleep mighty late, don’t you? When I was a boy I used to get up bright and early—six o‘clock sharp. Well, what luck? Don’t tell me you haven’t got the tickets yet!”

Instead of answering, Frank asked, “Have you any enemies, sir?”

The man peered at him suspiciously. “Enemies? What do you mean?”

“Can you think of anyone who wouldn’t want you to go on this trip?”

“You’re talking nonsense. Who could stop me? What’s behind all this?”

Frank could not make up his mind whether or not Mr. McClintock was evading his question. When he told him about the mysterious stranger who had picked up the freighter tickets at Southport, McClintock was furious.

“They can’t do this to me!” he snapped. “I’ll take legal action. I’ll make them hand over those tickets. Strikes me that you boys have bungled this whole business from the beginning!”

He gazed at them intently. “Or perhaps you don’t really want to go on a voyage? Well, I’ll handle this myself. I’ll get tickets!”

Grabbing the room telephone, he put through a call to Klack’s Agency. “Hello!” he barked. “Mr. Klack? ... Oh. This is Thaddeus McClintock at the Bayport Hotel. I want passage for four on the first freighter leaving this port. What’s that? Now you listen to me—”

The person at the other end of the wire had to do a good deal of listening. McClintock made the line sizzle. He voiced dire threats as to what would happen to the agency if they did not procure tickets promptly. But apparently his wrathful predictions failed to produce results, because finally he slammed the receiver down and sat back, muttering.

“Fine way to run a business!” he growled. “Said she’d put me on the list. I have a good mind to cancel the whole plan.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. McClintock,” Frank said calmly. “We’ll get on a freighter. The Southport agent will be there personally to straighten things out.”

“Thank goodness for that. Say, what’s with our fishing trip, meanwhile?”

“Chet’s working on it.”

“He’s no more successful than you in making arrangements,” Mr. McClintock grumbled. “Tell him to get going, will you?”

“We will,” Frank promised and the boys left. Their next stop was police headquarters. They spoke to Chief Collig, who was an old friend. He listened attentively, then reached for a telephone and asked for information about the Wasp. When he turned back to the boys, he frowned.

“The launch doesn’t seem to be registered. We’ll make some more inquiries. And now, about this man we’re holding. You think his name is Hank, and he’s part of the gang that wanted to get rid of you, Frank?”

“I’m sure of it. Can I talk to him?”

“Go ahead. If he tells you anything worthwhile, let me know.”

A guard showed the boys to the cells. The man with the scar was lying on his bunk, reading a newspaper.

“Hi, Hank,” Frank said.

The prisoner looked up, startled. Then his expression became wary. “You made a mistake. My name’s not Hank.”

“That’s what the boys on the Wasp call you,” Frank replied coolly.

“The Wasp?” The prisoner looked alarmed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A23—151—C2!” said Frank.

The suspect swung himself off the bunk and strode toward the door of the cell. “Now look,” he said thickly. “About those numbers. You can‘t—”

“What?” Frank asked sharply as the man hesitated.

Hank just stared at the boys. Finally he answered, “I don’t know anything about those numbers. Talk to my lawyer.”

“Does he represent Crowfeet too?”

The man did not answer. The boys made several attempts to get him to talk, but he stubbornly refused to say another word. Finally they left. But they were sure of two things. He was Hank, and he knew something about the mysterious numbers.

When Frank and Joe reached home they found that their father had returned. He had already been told of Frank’s adventure on the Wasp, and now listened with interest as his sons reported about their call at headquarters.

“The prisoner recognized the numbers all right,” Frank said. “At first we thought he was going to talk, but then he changed his mind.”

“Let me see those numbers,” his father said.

Joe went to get the copy of the numbers on the crumpled scrap found in Mrs. Armstrong’s home, and showed it to Mr. Hardy.

“So Hank wouldn’t talk?” the detective said resolutely. “Well, never mind. I believe I can solve that part of the mystery without his help!”

CHAPTER XII

Harrowing Experience

ASTONISHED, Frank and Joe, leaned forward to hear their father’s explanation of the mysterious numbers.

“It fits in with something I happen to know,” Mr. Hardy said. “Besides the case concerning the fake documents, I am working on an assignment for a large company manufacturing electric motors.”

“Industrial espionage?” Joe asked.

“Not quite. The president engaged me to check on a lot of new motors which bear his trade name but weren’t sold by his company. They’ve turned up in various cities along the coast, but his branch offices and distributors in those places know nothing about them.”

“Wouldn’t it be an easy matter” Frank said, “to check the serial numbers of the motors that leave the factory against the ones being received at the branches, to be sure of this?” asked Frank.

“That’s been done,” Mr. Hardy replied. “All the invoices match up. If five hundred motors are produced in the factory, those same five hundred reach the branch offices. So I’m inclined to think the extra ones are being assembled elsewhere from stolen parts.”

Joe was puzzled. “What have our numbers got to do with it, Dad?”

“They sound like the motor numbers and may have a great deal to do with it. At any rate, I’m going to assign Sam Radley to the Bayport waterfront right away.”

Radley had been Mr. Hardy’s operative for quite some time and both boys had great respect for his abilities.

“Maybe we could give him a hand?” Frank offered.

“Not at this time,” his father replied, and with that dropped the subject.

“I did have a little luck on another matter,” he said. “Joe, will you ask Aunt Gertrude to come into the library. I think she’ll be interested in this.”

Mr. Hardy unbuckled the straps of a big suitcase he carried on his longer trips. When his sister entered the room, he was removing the wrapping of a flat parcel.

“Recognize this, Gertrude?” he asked, holding up a small picture.

It was an oil painting in an old-fashioned frame, showing the portrait of a stern-looking elderly gentleman with muttonchop whiskers.

“Great-Grandfather Hardy!” gasped Aunt Gertrude. “That picture was in my lost carton! Where did you find it, Fenton?”

Mr. Hardy told how he had come across the picture in Washington while visiting antique shops in search of forged documents. He had recognized the portrait at once; because Great-Grandfather Hardy had stared down at him from over the piano in their home when he was a boy.

“He didn’t look very happy in that antique shop.” Mr. Hardy smiled. “The proprietor couldn’t tell me much about the woman who had sold it to him, along with various odds and ends, about a week ago. She gave her address but it turned out to be a phony one.”

Aunt Gertrude said nervously she hoped the rest of the contents of the box would come back to her without much trouble. “There were certain things—” she said dreamily.

Just then the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” Aunt Gertrude cried and hastened toward the hallway.

Frank glanced at his brother. “Have you noticed how jumpy Aunty has been ever since she lost that box?”

“Every time the phone or the bell rings she practically runs to answer it,” Joe agreed. “There’s got to be more to it than just those missing letters and papers.”

It was obvious that Aunt Gertrude was jittery because she was expecting a message—either a phone call or a letter. Was it in connection with the mystery? the boys wondered.

Aunt Gertrude returned to say that it had been a salesman at the door, and—

The sound of the telephone interrupted her. “I’ll take it!” she said quickly. A moment later she called out in a disappointed voice, “It’s only Chet!”

When Frank said “Hello,” Chet responded in an aggrieved tone, “It’s only Chet. A fine thing to say about me!”

Frank laughed. “Don’t be so touchy. What’s up?”

“Tomorrow’s the day we go tuna fishing with Captain Harkness.”

“Great. We’ll be there!”

When the Hardys arrived at the wharf the following morning, Mr. McClintock was hopping about like a happy child. Swinging over one of his shoulders were straps holding a binocular case.

“With all my deep-sea fishing, I never went out for tuna,” he remarked excitedly. “Wonderful day for it!”

“All aboard!” bellowed Captain Harkness.

A few minutes later the fishing boat pulled away from the wharf and chugged smoothly down the bay. Chet, as leader of the expedition, bustled about importantly. He assigned places to everyone and explained the technique of tuna fishing, about which he had just read.

It was a calm, warm day and the sea was smooth, with only a slight swell. A few miles beyond the mouth of the bay, the captain announced they had reached tuna water. He distributed the rods and herring he had brought along as bait and scattered fresh chum over the side to attract the fish.

Mr. McClintock took up his position in a fishing chair, and Chet showed him the proper way to hold the heavy rod. He threw the bait overboard and watched it sink until the end of the leader disappeared from sight. Next, he coiled about fifteen feet of the thirty-nine-thread line on the stern and held it.

“Tuna grow pretty big, don’t they?” asked Mr. McClintock, becoming a little nervous. “It won’t pull me overboard, will it?”

“Could be.” Captain Harkness grinned. “But don’t worry, we’ll rescue you!”

Frank signaled to Chet. “Hey, how come you didn’t bring your own rod? I thought you wanted to sell it.”

“I do. But I thought I’d better wait and see how he likes fishing.”

“Oh. Well, it sounds like a good idea.”

The fishermen had no luck until early afternoon. Suddenly Mr. McClintock let out a yelp as there was a tug at the line. Then it started to uncoil fast.

“Strike him!” shouted the captain.

The line straightened out. McClintock yanked the rod sharply upward. The reel screamed, and he was pulled halfway out of his chair.

“Help me, somebody!” he yelled. “I can’t hold on!”

He would have let the rod get away from him, but Chet seized it and held on with all his might. Yard after yard of line unwound as the tuna headed out to sea. Captain Harkness shut off the engines and let the fish tow the boat. Though its heavy weight slowed the big tuna down, Chet had to fight with all his strength to keep from losing the prize.

“He’s a monster!” the boy puffed.

The battle went on for a long time. There was nothing the others could do but watch the struggle. Chet was growing tired. Beads of perspiration hung on his forehead.

Suddenly the boat began to swing around. They caught a glimpse of the big dorsal fin and the huge black tail of the tuna above the waters. It was a giant!

“I ... I can’t hold on any longer!” Chet gasped finally. “Take over, somebody!”

Joe and Frank sprang to help him. Joe reached Chet’s side first. Slowly the big rod was transferred to him. Gripping it hard, he realized why Chet was so exhausted. It was like trying to hold a runaway horse going at breakneck speed. Nearer and nearer shore the fish raced, showing no signs of getting tired.

“Head him out to sea or we’ll go on the rocks!” Harkness roared.

Joe pumped on the line with all his might. It did not work!

“No use!” shouted Captain Harkness. “I’ll have to start the engine and pull her away, or we’ll pile up on the reef. Chet, get ready to cut that line!”

“Please—not yet!” Joe gritted his teeth. Though the strain was terrific, he was gaining the upper hand. Slowly the boat turned. Inch by inch, Joe won the contest. Then, with a rush, the tuna was away again, but this time running for open water.

He took them far out to sea, but after another hour gave up the struggle and at last surfaced. Joe reeled in foot after foot of the line. There was a last wild flurry from the fish as the boat closed in. The launch spun around in a circle.

“Wow!” said Frank as he reached down and grabbed the leader, hanging on while Captain Harkness stood ready to strike with the gaff. The tuna rolled on its side, about forty feet from the boat. Together Joe, Frank, and the captain finally conquered the monstrous fish and swung a rope around its tail.

“Weighs six hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce,” Andy Harkness said. “After we tow him back to Bayport, we’ll have him put on display.”

Mr. McClintock rubbed his hands in excitement. He regarded the tuna as his own personal property and seemed to be under the impression that he had caught it himself.

“Most interesting afternoon I’ve ever had!” he declared.

Captain Harkness swung the wheel over. “We’d better start for home. Won’t make as good speed towing six hundred pounds of fish behind us, and I want to get to Bayport before dark.”

The fight with the giant tuna had taken more than two hours! The boat had gone only a short distance when suddenly the engine coughed, sputtered, picked up again, gave a convulsive gasp, and went dead. The fishermen stared at each other in consternation.

“Sounds as if we’re out of gas,” Frank commented.

“Can’t be,” the captain said. “I topped her off before the trip.”

He tinkered with the engine, spun the flywheel. Then he thrust a rod into the tank. It came out dry. He was dumbfounded.

“No gas!” he muttered. “I don’t understand it. There was enough gas in that tank to last us all day!”

“You think somebody may have tampered with it, Captain?” Frank asked.

“Could be. I was away from the boat for about half an hour. But I dont know why anybody would be mean enough to do that,” he returned slowly. “Most of the men around the fishing wharves know it’s a serious thing to run out of fuel when you’re in open water!”

Mr. McClintock nervously asked what they could do about the situation.

“Radio for help,” the skipper replied. He switched on his transmitter. It was dead!

A close examination by the Hardys revealed that it had been sabotaged.

“Now what?” asked Mr. McClintock.

“We’re not far out,” the captain replied. “We’ll signal the first ship in sight. Meanwhile, they were drifting slowly toward Barmet Shoals.

“I don’t like it!” Andy Harkness said darkly.

They sat and waited, thankful that the sea was calm. Dusk began to settle over the ocean. No one spoke. Chet curled up and went to sleep.

Presently Frank’s sharp eyes detected a faint moving glimmer.

“I think I see lights!” he said hopefully.

They stared into the gloom. A distant flicker of red and green. Then across the water they could hear a dull, throbbing sound.

“A freighter. Off our starboard,” said Captain Harkness.

The lights bore steadily toward them. The ship’s engines became louder and louder. Harkness signaled.

Suddenly the lights vanished. The engines became silent.

“Strange!” muttered Frank.

Captain Harkness gave a hoarse cry. “We’re too near Barmet Shoals. I knew it! There’s no ship out there at all. It’s the phantom freighter!”

CHAPTER XIII

“Mrs Harrison” Again

THE Hardy boys were not superstitious. They had seen the lights and heard the engines. Somewhere out there in the darkness there must be a ship. But why had the lights vanished? Why had she silenced her engines?

Frank flashed an SOS with the captain’s light. Result—negative. They shouted, making as much noise as they could. But there was no answer.

The night had been cloudy. Now the moon appeared from behind a ragged cloud bank, casting a pale radiance across the water. In its weird light they saw a huge black hulk silhouetted against the sky not a hundred yards from them!

“Ahoy there!” everyone shouted.

There was no answer from the ship.

“Maybe it’s not the same one we heard,” Frank suggested. “This might be a deserted ship.”

The moon disappeared again and the big dark shape was lost to view. The Hardys planned to board the mysterious ship as soon as dawn came.

That night the marooned fishermen took turns keeping watch and sleeping. Frank and Joe were wide awake, however, when the first gray light illuminated the sky. They looked over the starboard side.

The freighter had vanished!

Frank grabbed Mr. McClintock’s binoculars and raced forward, then aft, gazing through the glasses in all directions. There was no ship of any kind in sight.

“Funny!” he said. “How could she have left without our hearing her? There wasn’t a sound all night of engines starting.”

Joe, who had followed his brother, was puzzled. “Maybe she got caught in the crosscurrents and drifted off?”

Captain Harkness, who had been dozing, came to with a start and cried out, “Crosscurrent nothing. That was the phantom freighter! Now do you believe me?”

The boys did not answer. During the morning a Coast Guard patrol aircraft spotted the fishing launch. Half an hour later a rescue boat pulled up alongside. Its crew were excited over the size of the big tuna and offered to take the launch in tow.

Captain Harkness indignantly refused, but admitted he could use some gasoline. He told the officer about the ghost ship, whose name might be Falcon, but his story was received with smiles of incredulity.

“Mr. Hardy asked us to search for you,” the officer said, “but we didn’t bargain on hunting ghost freighters. I’ll signal our patrol plane, though, to make a sweep of the area. If there’s any derelict or a ship named Falcon within three hundred miles, the plane will spot it and report back by radio.” With that the rescue boat left.

Soon the fishermen arrived at the Bayport docks. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy met them, accompanied by Chet Morton’s parents. All were vastly relieved to see the adventurers safe. Chet was so ravenous with hunger that he almost forgot to claim credit for helping to capture the tuna. Mr. McClintock vowed he never would go fishing again.

“Takes too much energy,” he groaned. “I’m going back to the hotel and sleep for a week!”

“There goes your sale! I don’t think he’ll buy your rod now!” Frank whispered to Chet.

The stout boy nodded glumly. “Just my luck!”

When the Hardys arrived home they were alternately praised and scolded by Aunt Gertrude. “I was pretty sure you’d turn up,” she said, “but I was worried. Almost canceled my trip because of it.” She looked at the clock.

“Leaving us, Aunty?” Frank asked in amazement. “Where are you going?”

“To Bridgewater. I’ll only be there for the day.”

“Who’s in Bridgewater?” Joe asked.

“You are inquisitive, aren’t you!” Aunt Gertrude said. “If you must know, it’s a business trip.”

Joe’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but he inquired no further.

That afternoon the boys heard the city of Bridgewater mentioned again, but under different circumstances. The manager of the Bayport Express Company telephoned shortly after lunch.

“I’ve just heard something that might interest you Hardys.” he said. “Remember the carton addressed to your aunt that was delivered to the Phillips house?”

“Sure do,” replied Frank.

“Well, the same kind of thing occurred in Bridgewater a few days ago. A box was delivered to a certain address. Later it was discovered that the owner was out of town and that the woman who had signed for it had cleared out. Sounds like the same racket.”

“You’re right!”

“The express company is investigating, of course. I’ll let you know if anything further turns up.”

“Thank you very much,” Frank said.

The news about the incident, close on the heels of Aunt Gertrude’s trip there, struck the boys as being more than a coincidence.

“I think we’d better drive down to Bridgewater and do a little checking ourselves,” decided Joe.

“Good idea,” his brother agreed.

When the boys arrived in the small, pleasant city they called immediately at the express office. The manager told them the details about three strangely claimed shipments.

“I don’t think you’ll learn much from the people at those addresses,” he said. “The police have already checked every angle,”

Frank smiled. “We’ll try, anyhow.”

When they left the office Frank came to a sudden stop. “Now look who’s over there!” he said.

In front of a hotel directly across the street two women were in earnest conversation.

“Aunt Gertrude!” exclaimed Joe.

“Recognize the woman with her?”

Joe looked again. Then he gasped. “Why, that’s the phony Mrs. Harrison!”

Why had their aunt come to Bridgewater to meet this impostor? Confused and puzzled, the boys saw the women enter the doorway of the hotel restaurant.

“We’ll have to do a little fancy shadowing if we want to find out what this is all about,” said Joe. “Maybe we should call the police. Remember the Bayport police are looking for this woman!”

“Let’s wait until she leaves Aunt Gertrude,” advised Frank. “If we call the police now, it would put Aunty in an awkward spot, particularly since we don’t know what those two are up to.”

“I guess you’re right. I have a hunch that woman is blackmailing Aunt Gertrude. Maybe she has some of her private letters from the carton and is demanding money for them.”

“If Aunty falls for it, she’s got a mighty good reason,” declared Frank. “I guess that’s what she’s been so jittery about lately. This impostor must have written or phoned her.”

The boys hurried into the hotel and made their way toward the restaurant. From the lobby they could see Aunt Gertrude and “Mrs. Harrison” seated at a table near the street door. Frank and Joe slipped in and sat down near a potted palm which shielded them from view. Seeing a waitress bring salads to the others, they ordered sandwiches and soda.

Presently they saw their aunt open her handbag. She surreptitiously took out a purse and handed it across the table. The woman put it into her handbag and brought out a packet of letters which she gave to Miss Hardy.

“Just as I said. Blackmail!” Joe whispered excitedly.

Frank shook his head. “I can’t understand it.”

Aunt Gertrude got up and walked out of the restaurant to the street. The other woman finished her coffee and prepared to leave.

“Get the house detective,” Joe told his brother. “I’ll stall her in the meantime.”

While Frank hurried into the lobby, Joe got up and walked across to the woman’s table, determined to take a bold approach.

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Harrison!” he exclaimed, smiling.

The woman looked up at him coldly. “You’ve made a mistake. My name isn’t Harrison.”

“Don’t you remember me? I called at your house in Bayport. With the expressman.”

The woman’s eyes were wary. Hastily she got up. “I was never in Bayport in my life,” she snapped.

“Better sit down, Mrs. Harrison, or I’ll call the police,” Joe said.

The threat worked. She turned pale and sat down again. “Really, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“I want some information from you. Where do your friends keep the stuff they steal?”

The woman did not answer. Instead, she uttered a low moan, then slumped forward with her head on the table.

“Why, she’s fainted!” gasped a waitress, running forward.

Joe got up to help. Then he realized this was just a ruse to get him out of the way. Instantly he ran to the lobby, where he found Frank explaining the situation to a thin eagle-eyed man.

“Our friend has pretended to faint,” Joe said quickly. “Maybe we’d better let her think she’s getting away with it.”

“Not around this hotel she won’t get away with it!” declared the detective.

“I think we can handle it ourselves without the publicity,” Joe suggested smoothly. “If you’ll see that she’s helped out to a taxi, we’ll take over.”

The detective nodded. He went into the restaurant. In the meantime Frank and Joe walked out to the front entrance and jumped into their car. A few minutes later the false Mrs. Harrison was escorted to the street.

“I’m feeling much better now,” they heard her say. “If you’ll get me a taxi ... so stupid of me ... just a weak spell ... I’ll be all right.”

“Okay, lady,” the house detective said as he hailed a taxi. He helped her in. “Hope you feel better when you get home.”

“Thank you.”

The taxi pulled away. Frank and Joe followed in their car.

CHAPTER XIV

Spy in the Shadows

THE taxi with the woman suspect gained speed. Frank and Joe followed close behind.

“I wonder where Aunt Gertrude went,” Joe said.

“We’ll catch up with her later,” Frank replied. “Right now I’m very curious as to where we’re going.”

Five minutes later the taxi stopped in front of a rooming house about six blocks from the hotel. The woman got out. She paid the driver and hurried up the steps.

After she had gone inside, Joe stood guard while Frank rushed to a telephone to call police headquarters. When he said a suspect in the express-carton racket had been cornered, he was told that a detective would be sent to the rooming house at once.

“We had a call a few minutes ago that that woman was at a downtown hotel,” the officer reported. “She moves fast.”

“Aunt Gertrude must have notified him,” Frank said to himself.

Within three minutes a squad car pulled up at the curb and a man from headquarters jumped out. Quickly the boys introduced themselves and said they would like to go into the house with him.

“Okay. Come on!” agreed the detective.

The only occupant of the rooming house at the moment, besides the owner, was “Mrs. Harrison.” They found her packing a trunk in a room that was in a state of disorder. She looked up in alarm.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“Police,” said the Bridgewater detective, showing his badge. “Taking a trip, eh? Let’s have a look at some of this baggage.”

“Not without a warrant, you don‘t!” the woman snapped.

“Here!” The man pulled a “Jane Doe” search warrant out of his pocket, then proceeded to check through the belongings in the trunk.

The woman watched him tensely. There was nothing but clothing, shoes, and hair curlers.

Frank and Joe, meanwhile, searched the room. In a corner closet they found a cardboard box. Frank pulled it out. It was addressed to Miss Gertrude Hardy!

“Here’s the evidence!” Joe exclaimed. He examined the contents, There were old books and pictures, antique jewelry and heirlooms, but no personal letters.

“Why didn’t you sell our aunt the whole lot?” Frank asked the woman.

She glared at him. “This box does not belong to me. Someone else must have left it there. I never even saw it!”

“Sorry, lady, but you’ll have to come to headquarters,” the detective said. He informed her of her constitutional rights, to which she replied with a snort.

Frank and Joe followed the squad car to police headquarters. The woman was booked on theft and blackmail charges. She refused to say anything, however, and was held for arraignment.

“Aunt Gertrude will make a perfect witness,” Joe said.

The Bridgewater police chief thanked the Hardys for their help and gave them permission to take home the top from the carton with Aunt Gertrude’s name on it. It was hanging loose and the boys promised to return it if needed as evidence.

“She’ll have to claim her property later,” he said. “It’s a lucky break for us, getting this woman behind bars,” he added. “After she’s had time to think the matter over, she’ll probably start talking. Then we’ll nab the rest of the gang.”

Frank and Joe left police headquarters and drove around for a while in search of their aunt.

The carton was addressed to Miss Gertrude Hardy!

When they could not find her, they went to the railroad station. The train for Bayport had just pulled out.

They hurried home, reaching the house about ten minutes before Miss Hardy arrived in a taxi. When she walked in, both boys were innocently absorbed in the afternoon newspaper. The top from the carton was lying on a living-room table.

“Back already!” exclaimed Joe. “We thought you’d stay a couple of days!”

“I transacted my business sooner than I expected.” As Miss Hardy took off her hat her eyes fell on the box top. She blinked, took off her glasses, put them back on again. Then she gasped. “Where did this come from?”

“We found it in Bridgewater,” replied Joe.

“You what?” She turned crimson.

“Expressman here gave us a tip,” Frank explained. “We rushed over and nabbed a woman in a rooming house.”

Aunt Gertrude gave both of them an inquiring look. They knew she was wondering whether they had seen her in Bridgewater. She said nothing, however, and went to her room.

“It isn’t often we see Aunty blush.” Joe laughed. “She’s dying to ask us questions, but she’s afraid to. What do you suppose is in those letters? She must have wanted them badly.”

“I’ll bet they’re old love letters.” Frank grinned. “Dad said Aunt Gertrude was engaged at one time.”

The boys found it difficult to think of their aunt as a romantic person, but Mr. Hardy had often told them that his sister was very popular and had had many admirers. Conversation on the topic was interrupted by a telephone call from Mr. McClintock.

“I don’t like to wait two weeks for that ship,” he announced. “Tried to get other reservations this morning. Tell me, what does a man have to do in order to get some? Bring a letter from the president of the Maritime Commission? It’s perfectly ridiculous!”

Frank and Joe were secretly amused. Now Mr. McClintock was finding out for himself how difficult it was!

“By the way,” the man continued, “I went down to the docks and heard someone say there’ll be a freighter coming in tomorrow morning. Get down there early and meet the boat!”

“Sure, Mr. McClintock. We’ll try!” Frank promised.

Following his instructions, they went to the waterfront before breakfast, arriving just as a big freighter pulled slowly up Barmet Bay. As it approached the dock the Hardys were amazed to see that it was the Hawk.

“Wonder why she came back so soon,” Joe remarked. “She couldn’t have sailed very far.”

“Bet she’s in for repairs,” Frank replied. “Say, maybe Captain Sharp will be in a better frame of mind this time and give us passage.”

But when the Hawk was moored and Captain Sharp came ashore he looked as dour as ever. Nevertheless, the boys decided to speak to him. They walked up, smiling.

“Welcome back, Captain,” said Frank. “Carrying any passengers this time?”

Sharp squinted at them. “I’ll say you two are persistent,” he grunted. “You got my answer last time.”

“We hoped you might have changed your mind.”

“Well, I haven’t. Now stop bothering me!”

Captain Sharp brushed past them, but Joe hung on like a barnacle. “All right, we won’t mention it again,” the boy said. “But I’d like to ask you something else. Have you ever seen or heard of a ghost ship, a phantom freighter, out beyond Barmet Shoals?”

Captain Sharp turned and glared. “Are you trying to make a fool out of me? Phantom freighter, indeed. Do I look like a man who believes in fairy tales?”

“There’s been talk around here—” Joe began, but the captain interrupted him fiercely.

“That’ll be enough of your impudence. Get out of my way!” He pushed Joe aside and strode down the pier.

The boys decided to eat breakfast at a diner along the waterfront, thinking that perhaps they could pick up some information about a passenger freighter. They had no luck, so they started for home. On the way they found themselves across the street from Klack’s Agency. A shabby man sat on a bench in front of the place, idly watching passers-by.

At the same moment Captain Sharp, looking thoroughly preoccupied, hurried into the agency. The Hardys followed and stood listening in the doorway.

Turning to the clerk, Sharp said, “I want to hire another cook. Mine jumped ship.”

The girl nibbled at the end of her pencil. “We haven’t had many cooks in here looking for jobs lately. If you can wait until Mr. Klack comes back—”

“What?” growled the man. “I want to hire a hand and I want him right now!”

The shabby man rose from the bench outside and sidled into the office past the Hardys, to whom Sharp paid not the slightest notice.

“I’m your man, skipper,” he said. “How much does the job pay?”

Captain Sharp looked him over from head to foot. He asked a few brusque questions about his experience, a bargain was struck, and the two left.

The girl looked at the boys. “You here again?” she snapped.

Frank, having heard that Klack was away, merely asked if she had booked passage yet for his party. She replied in a bored manner that there were no reservations for them and that they would have to wait until Mr. Klack got back.

“Let us know when he returns,” said Frank. But from the look on the clerk’s face he knew that she would do nothing of the sort.

Reaching home, the boys had a conference with their father and told about the return of the Hawk.

“Captain Sharp undoubtedly is in on something crooked,” said Fenton Hardy. “We don’t have any proof, but his freighter should be watched. As for Klack, I can tell you why he’s out of town. The FBI has become interested in his activities.”

“You think he’s hiding?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

“On the Hawk?”

“No. The ship could be searched too easily.”

Joe was standing near a front window. He glanced out and saw something that made him step back quickly. “We’re being watched,” he said.

Mr. Hardy and Frank hurried to the window, not close enough to be seen, but enough to look out. Across the street, in the shadows of a tree, a shabby man stood gazing at the Hardy house.

“Why, that’s the man Captain Sharp hired as a cook in Klack’s office!” exclaimed Frank.

CHAPTER XV

The Abandoned Farm

“CAPTAIN Sharp definitely has something to hide,” Mr. Hardy said grimly. “He’s afraid we suspect him.”

“And that we’d see something if we ever got far enough out of Bayport Harbor!” Joe added.

“Which is precisely what we have to do, and fast. We can’t wait a couple of weeks for the Crown of Neptune to sail,” Frank said. “I have an idea. Suppose Biff Hooper tries to get us tickets at another out-of-town agency.”

“Good thought,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But you’d better not call him from here. Our phone might be tapped.”

“Then how do we contact Biff?” Joe asked.

“Your mother will take care of that,” Mr. Hardy said with a grin and called in his wife. She readily agreed to the plan that he outlined. On her way shopping she would call Biff from a pay telephone.

“If the spy follows you, we’ll tail him,” Mr. Hardy told her.

But the man remained where he was, seemingly not interested in Mrs. Hardy’s leaving.

“I must get out of here myself,” the detective said. “I almost hope he’ll follow me. I may learn something.”

He went upstairs. After a while the boys heard shuffling footsteps in the hall. An old man, white-whiskered and bent with age, appeared.

“I won’t be long, boys,” he croaked, a twinkle in his eye. “Just checking out the Hawk. If the guy tails me, don’t worry!”

Frank and Joe laughed. Their father’s disguise was perfect. The detective went out the back door and made his way toward the corner.

Eagerly the boys watched from the window. Either the suspicions of the man across the street had not been aroused, or else he was posted there to shadow only Frank and Joe. He did not stir.

“I suppose we might as well stay home and wait for Biff’s report,” Frank said. “Dad’s watching the Hawk and there’s nothing much we can do anyhow.”

Their mother returned, saying she had telephoned the message. The boys stayed up late, but there was no call from Biff, and their father had not returned.

Next morning he told them the Hawk had sailed ahead of schedule.

“There was nothing suspicious about it,” Mr. Hardy reported. “I had Sam Radley posted at the docks for the past two days, looking things over. He watched the ship being loaded. Most of the cargo was destined for cities down the coast.”

“What did she carry?” Frank inquired.

“Large cans of paint and some machinery.”

“Is Sharp’s spy still on duty?” asked Joe, walking toward the front window. “He’s gone,” the boy reported, “but it seems someone else has taken his place!”

A taller, leaner man was strolling back and forth across the street, as if waiting for someone.

The telephone rang. It was Biff Hooper.

“The trip’s off,” he said to Joe, who had answered.

“Okay,” Joe replied. “See you later!”

Biff had spoken in code in case the wire was being tapped. “The trip’s off,” meant that he was still trying to get reservations.

“I wish we could get rid of that spy,” said Joe. “I don’t feel like sitting home all day!”

“I’ve got a plan,” Frank said. “If it works, we’ll also have a pretty good idea why he was posted here.”

The ruse was simple. Joe walked out of the house and headed down the street. The man on the other side eyed him carefully, apparently undecided whether to follow or not. When Joe was halfway down the block, Frank ran out of the house.

“Joe!” he shouted.

His brother turned and looked back.

“Come here a minute!”

Joe ran rapidly toward the house, and Frank called out loudly, “The trip’s off.”

“The freighter trip?”

“Yes. Mr. McClintock says to forget it. He’s leaving town.”

Joe came up the steps and into the house. From behind the window curtains the boys watched the man across the street. Obviously he had heard enough, for he walked briskly away and disappeared from sight around the corner.

“Pretty good trick!” Joe chuckled. “No doubt he’s off to report what he’s heard.”

“Let’s get out of here while he’s gone,” said Frank. “I’d like to follow up something new. You remember when I was on the Wasp I heard a man speak of old Crowfeet? Maybe we can find out who he is.”

“How?”

“When we were with Andy Harkness the other day he mentioned an Abel Jedson, an old retired officer. Says this guy knows every ship along this coast and everybody on them. Suppose we ask him about Crowfeet.”

“Why not? Come on.”

They found Abel Jedson living in a little cottage near the bay, where he could watch the comings and goings of the ships. He was a spry, shrewd man with a stubby gray beard and twinkling blue eyes.

Jedson sat on his porch, listening to the radio. On the window sill nearby was a noisy parrot that squawked, “No boarders wanted!” as the boys came up the walk.

They introduced themselves, and after talking about ships in general, Frank asked, “Have you ever heard any stories about a phantom freighter?”

“Hundreds of them.” The old man chuckled. “I’ve been hearing yarns ‘bout ghost ships ever since I was knee-high. All nonsense.”

Joe asked if he knew Captain Sharp of the Hawk. The old sailor cocked his head to one side and said he had seen the freighter, but knew nothing about her or her captain.

“Ever hear of a man called Crowfeet?” asked Frank.

“Name seems familiar, somehow,” mused Jedson. “I’ll try and remember.” He twiddled the short-wave dial of the radio and brought forth a barrage of squeals that provoked the parrot to a rasping protest. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” he squawked.

Jedson gave the dial another twist. Suddenly the boys jumped in astonishment. Over short-wave they heard a gruff voice say “A23—151—C2.” Then silence.

The numbers printed on the boxes Frank had seen in the hold of the Wasp!

“Crowfeet,” Captain Jedson muttered, unaware of the excitement the announcement had aroused. “Seems to me it had something to do with a fellow named Harry—that’s it—Harry Piper! That’s what folks used to call him. Crowfeet!”

“Is he still alive?” Joe asked.

“Don’t know. Never heard of him dying, anyway. Captain Harry Piper of the freighter Falcon.”

“The Falcon!” exclaimed Frank.

“That’s right. Tell you where you might find out about him. When he was ashore he used to live with his brother John, about ten miles out of town. John had a farm a little ways in from Shore Road.”

The Hardys were elated. At last they had unearthed a valuable clue! After thanking Jedson, they got into the car and set off for Shore Road.

The Piper farm was difficult to locate. A man cutting grass in a small country cemetery finally put the boys on the right track. He pointed out an abandoned property next to the cemetery.

“John Piper died last year,” he informed them. “No one has lived there since.”

Frank and Joe got out of the car and crossed the unkempt fields. The whole place was in a state of neglect. Weeds grew high in the yard. Parts of farm machinery lay rusting by a tumble-down fence. The farmhouse windows were boarded. But the place might hold a clue I

“Let’s check out the barn first,” Joe suggested.

To their surprise the hayloft was stacked high. On the floor was another immense pile of hay, but upon closer investigation the boys found that it was merely a cover for quantities of cowhides.

“These hides are worth plenty!” Frank exclaimed. “I wonder why they’re stored here.”

They decided to ask the cemetery caretaker if he knew anything about it, and crossed the fields again to talk to him. The man was amazed to hear about the hides.

“Can’t figure it out,” he said. “I haven’t seen anyone near the farm since John Piper died.”

“Did he have a large herd of cattle?”

“Heck, no. Never kept more than one cow.”

“Let’s go back there,” Joe said. “Something funny about this.”

Surprisingly a truck had arrived in their absence and was parked in the barnyard.

“We’d better take it easy,” advised Frank. “I don’t like this.”

They approached cautiously, circling to the rear of the barn. Quietly they crept up to the back door and opened it. The place seemed as deserted as before. Then they noticed that the great pile of hay on the floor had been scattered from one end of the place to the other. Stepping inside, they gasped in amazement.

The stacks of hides had disappeared!

CHAPTER XVI

Success and Failure

“WE’D better take a look at that truck,” Frank suggested.

But before the Hardys reached the door, there was a sudden murmur of voices and sounds of footsteps above them. They glanced up just as a huge mass of hay came tumbling down directly at them!

Frank, unable to get out of the way, was knocked to the floor by its weight and completely covered. He held his breath to avoid sucking in the dust. When he tried to rise, he was unable to throw off the heavy load.

With a startled cry Joe had leaped back, but too late. Though he was not engulfed by the hay, a hard object struck him on the head. He fell to the floor, unconscious!

Frank, struggling to get out, was almost smothered. As he fought his way clear of the hay he heard a man say:

“That’ll take care of those kids till we can get the rest of this stuff moved.”

“Let’s hurry,” urged a companion.

Moments later the truck lumbered down the lane. Frank was still clawing at the hay and gasping for air. Stumbling free at last, he saw to his horror that Joe lay motionless. There was a large box beside his head.

It was several minutes before Joe revived. “What hit me?” he gasped.

Frank pointed to the box. When he lifted it, he realized that Joe might have been fatally injured if the box had struck him squarely. He opened it and found an electric motor inside.

“Wow! Maybe we’ve really hit on something this time,” he said. “Dad’ll want to see this!”

Fenton Hardy was indeed interested when his sons brought the motor home. He took the number and said he would check with his client. The detective was convinced that the boys had located one of the hiding places for the stolen goods.

“Wool, hides, motors, and documents,” Mr. Hardy mused as the three discussed the various elements of the mystery. “I believe we’re on the track of a big gang who are handling all these things.”

“Do you think Crowfeet is the ringleader?” asked Joe.

“Possibly. There certainly seems to be a direct link between him and the abandoned Piper farm. In all likelihood he’s a smuggler. He may have lain offshore to send in hides in small boats like the Wasp, and received stolen motor parts and who knows what else in return.”

“On the Falcon?”

“Yes, and I have an idea that Crowfeet was warned and has changed the color and name of his freighter.”

“With some of that paint Captain Sharp had on the Hawk!” Frank exclaimed excitedly.

“Then that’s why Captain Sharp didn’t want us on board and hired a man to watch our house?” asked Joe.

Mr. Hardy shrugged. “It certainly all seems to fit together,” he said. “But there are still many questions to be answered. One is, why is a smuggler mixed up with the faking of documents found in various states of our country? Well, your good work has made more work for me.” The detective smiled. “I must be going!”

After he left the house, Frank and Joe continued to talk over the aspects of the case, which still puzzled them. What was the strange abandoned ship they had seen? Where had it gone? What of Captain Harkness’s story about the phantom freighter named the Falcon?

The conference was interrupted by the arrival of Biff Hooper. The tall, pleasant boy brought good news. Beaming, he held up four tickets.

“Reservations!” He grinned. “You sail from Southport day after tomorrow.” .

The Hardys could hardly believe their ears. After all the difficulties they had experienced it seemed impossible that Biff had succeeded in securing accommodations so quickly.

“You didn’t go to that Southport agency again, did you?” asked Frank.

“No. Of course not. After somebody filched your tickets there before, I didn’t think they’d trust me. I went to one in Eastport. It so happened that they had some cancellations.”

Eagerly Frank and Joe examined the precious tickets which were for one of the freighters of the Neptune Line—the Father Neptune.

“The ship docks at Southport tomorrow and it’s sailing for the Caribbean Islands and South America,” Biff explained.

“Boy, it sounds great!” Joe said. “Mr. McClintock sure will be glad to hear this. I’ll give him a ring.” He went to the telephone, but Frank stopped him.

“Let’s go tell him personally,” he suggested. “Then Biff can collect the money his father laid out for the tickets.”

The three hurried out of the house, piled into the convertible, and drove to the Bayport Hotel.

“I knew it! I knew it was possible,” said Mr. McClintock, rubbing his hands in glee when he heard the news. “Thank you, Biff. Thank you.”

Mr. McClintock kept cash in the hotel safe. He paid Biff, then began talking about all he would have to do to get ready for the trip. The boys left him, broad smiles on their faces. They recalled the time he had suddenly decided to go on the Hawk and had given them ten minutes in which to get prepared.

The Hardys’ next stop was at the Morton farm. They expected Chet to whoop with joy at hearing the news about the voyage on the Father Neptune. But he did nothing of the sort.

“Say, what’s the matter with you?” Joe exploded. “Don’t you understand? Here’s your ticket for South America, all expenses paid!”

“Sorry, fellows,” Chet groaned. “I can’t go with you. I’ll be here in Bayport, working my head off, tying flies and trying to sell them, while you’re out on the ocean having a wonderful time.”

“What happened?” Frank asked.

Chet explained that he was not allowed to go on the trip unless he first paid back every cent of the money he had borrowed to buy the forty-five-dollar rod.

“I thought you were going to try to sell it,” said Joe.

Chet hung his head. “Before I had a chance, I ran over the rod with the car in the garage and ruined it.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. “I don’t believe it!” Frank said.

“It’s true,” Chet concluded drearily. “You’ll have to go without me. Take Biff in my place.”

Biff, however, showed no enthusiasm. Neither did the Hardys. The zest had gone out of the trip. It would not be the same without Chet.

Suddenly Frank brightened. “I’ve got it!” he declared. “I know what we’ll do!”

CHAPTER XVII

Danger at the Carnival

“STEP up—step up, ladies and gentlemen! The greatest bargain at the carnival! For a few cents, ninety-nine to be exact, less than a dollar, you can buy the lures that catch the biggest fish! Step up —step up! Fine handmade flies!”

Chet Morton, red-faced and beaming, paused for breath. Then he blew a loud blast on a bugle. When the startled people attending the Southport carnival jumped and looked his way, he held aloft a handful of bright-colored flies and went into his speech again.

“You risk no money. You merely make an investment in a fish dinner. Every fly guaranteed to pay for itself in fresh trout!”

Few of those who stopped to look had any intention of buying flies. But they drifted closer, attracted by the boy’s sales talk. Many of them laughingly parted with a dollar bill. Several men said, “Keep the change, son!”

Chet was having the time of his life! He had started his venture with the help of the Hardys, his sister Iola, and Callie Shaw. They had stayed up most of the night tying flies, and in the morning had obtained permission for Chet to sell them. By noontime the girls had decorated a handsome stand at the carnival.

After Chet was well launched, they left him and went to see the Father Neptune. Her skipper, Captain Gramwell, was a slender, white-haired man who welcomed the boys and girls courteously when they came on board the freighter.

It was a big, modern vessel with passenger cabins that were large and airy. The ship itself was spotlessly clean and the crew moved about briskly and efficiently.

“I’m a little upset,” Captain Gramwell confided to the Hardys. “Not more than an hour after we reached port I lost one of my best men. He took sick while he was in town and had to be taken to the hospital. Fortunately the man who brought the message had good references and experience, so I hired him to replace Sanderson.”

When the Hardys and their friends had left the ship, Frank said, “Something doesn’t ring true about that story.”

“But Captain Gramwell appears perfectly honest,” Callie remarked.

“Of course. But doesn’t it seem strange that some sort of misfortune struck his ship the moment we got passage? Captain Gramwell’s men have been with him a long time. Now a stranger suddenly joins the crew. Couldn’t he be one of the gang working against us?”

“You mean he put the seaman in the hospital on purpose?” Joe gasped.

“There’s one way of checking up,” Frank decided. “We can go to the hospital and inquire about Sanderson.”

They left the girls at the carnival and went to Southport’s only hospital. The receptionist shook her head. “There’s no one here by that name,” she said. “There must be a mistake.”

The boys were now convinced that their suspicions were well founded. They decided to go back to the ship and meet the new seaman. On the way out, Frank saw a figure dash from the shrubbery on the hospital grounds and run across the lawn. Frank gave no indication that he had seen anything suspicious. When they reached the gates at the entrance to the driveway, he grabbed Joe by the arm.

“Quick! In here!”

Swiftly they darted into the shelter of the big stone pillars.

“What’s up?” asked Joe.

“I saw someone run across the lawn after we came down the steps. We’re being shadowed.”

A moment later they heard rapid footsteps on the concrete walk. Frank and Joe edged farther out of sight behind the pillar. A man walked past. He looked puzzled, glanced from left to right, up the street, back over his shoulder. Then he quickened his pace, hurried on, and disappeared around the next corner.

“Looks familiar,” Joe commented. “Where have we seen him before?”

“He’s the first spy who was watching our house.”

“That settles it. Let’s go back and warn Captain Gramwell.”

They wondered how the skipper would receive the news. Possibly he might even ask them to cancel their passage! The captain’s attitude, however, was just what the boys had hoped it would be.

“I’ll have no monkey business on my ship!” he declared angrily. “I’d like nothing better than to get my hands on those crooks. As soon as that new man shows up, I’ll find out what’s what!”

They did not have long to wait. Within a quarter of an hour a tall, lean sailor came up the gangplank with a duffel bag over his shoulder.

“There he is!” snapped the captain. He turned to the mate. “Go ashore and get me a policeman. If Sanderson has met with foul play, it will be very bad for this character.”

“We’re being shadowed!” Frank said

When the new hand climbed over the side, the Hardys blinked in amazement.

“Why, he’s the second spy!” Joe exclaimed.

Seeing the boys he wheeled around quickly and would have taken to his heels, but Captain Gramwell leaped forward and blocked his escape.

“Now then!” snapped Gramwell. “What happened to Sanderson? Where is he, and what did you do to him?”

“I told you, Captain. He’s in the hospital.”

“That’s a lie. Now speak up, and fast!”

The man turned sullen. “You’ve got nothing on me. I’m not talking.”

The suspect would not admit anything and was taken to headquarters. There he was searched, but only a wad of compressed wool was found in his pockets.

The Hardys persuaded the sergeant to keep questioning the man, who had arrogantly refused the assistance of a lawyer. Finally he shrugged and said:

“Sanderson isn’t sick. You’ll find him in an old house outside of town. Tied up. I took him there because I wanted to ship on board the Father Neptune. He’s not hurt.”

The sailor, who gave his name as Joe Flint, could not post bail, so he was jailed. Captain Gramwell and the Hardys went with the police in a squad car to the house Flint had indicated. There, in a tumble-down, empty dwelling, they found Sanderson. He was tied hand and foot, exhausted by his hopeless struggle, but otherwise unharmed.

Captain Gramwell had him taken back to the ship and ordered that he be given the best of care. Sanderson tried to express his gratitude to the Hardys for the part they had played in his rescue.

“You’ll have plenty of chances to thank them in the next few weeks,” the captain told him. “They’re sailing with us.”

“And that reminds me.” Frank laughed. “We left a friend at the carnival, trying to raise money so he can go along. We’d better drive back there and see how he made out, Joe.”

The carnival was in full swing when they returned to the grounds. They found Chet in front of his stand, brandishing a fistful of flies.

“How’s business?” Frank asked.

“Sold nearly everything. Another five dollars and I’m in. Take over for me, will you? I want to get something to eat!”

As Chet headed for a lunch stand, Frank took his place at the booth and Joe cut loose with a lusty bellow of “Step up—step up, ladies and gentlemen.” In another half hour Frank handed out the last Grizzly King. Chet’s goal had been reached!

They hurried to tell him the good news and arrived at the lunch stand, to find that Chet had eaten only two hamburgers. He had just given another order for two more. Frank and Joe, who were very hungry themselves, joined him.

As Joe chomped on his burger, he swiveled his stool and watched the archery range across the way. People were shooting arrows at a large target which rotated slowly.

A man in dungarees and a seaman’s sweater bought a quiver of arrows. He fitted one and pulled the bowstring. Suddenly he whirled around and let it fly.

Joe froze when he saw the whizzing arrow. The man had aimed straight at Frank!

CHAPTER XVIII

“You’ll Never Come Back!”

THERE was no time for Joe to push his brother out of the way.

“Down, Frank!” he yelled.

Frank ducked. The arrow zipped over him, embedding itself in the wall behind the lunch stand.

Joe jumped up, dashed toward the assailant, and grabbed him by the shoulder. “What do you mean shooting at my brother?” he demanded.

The man looked embarrassed. “I—I couldn’t help it. Someone jostled me and I lost my balance. Sorry about that!” With that he escaped Joe’s grip and quickly disappeared in the crowd.

Frank and Joe followed the suspect as he hurried through the busy carnival grounds. They had to do some fancy footwork to catch up with him. Near the entrance they saw him arguing with another man. As the Hardys moved closer, keeping well out of sight, they heard him say angrily:

“A bargain’s a bargain. I want my moneyl”

“You didn’t do the job!”

“Even if I didn’t get that kid for you, I tried. Now pay me or I’ll shoot something at you!”

As the young detectives reached the pair they recognized the other man instantly. He was the spy who had trailed them at the hospital.

“Get the police!” Frank whispered to Joe.

Joe nodded and left. Meanwhile, Frank listened to the men, who continued their argument and nearly got into a fight. The wrangle ended with the quick arrival of two policemen, who collared the suspects and put them under arrest on charges of attempted assault preferred by the Hardys.

“Looks as if we’re rounding up the gang one by one,” said the Southport chief of police to the boys at headquarters. “You’ve done a fine piece of work.”

Just then a sergeant walked into the chief’s office with a message that the Bridgewater police had been trying to locate the Hardys.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“They merely said a prisoner had decided to talk if you would come.”

“It must be that woman who blackmailed Aunt Gertrude,” said Frank. “Let’s go.”

The boys got into their car and stopped at the carnival to pick up Chet, who had just closed his stand.

“We’re driving to Bridgewater,” Frank announced. “Want to come?”

“Maybe I’d better,” Chet said. “That way I won’t spend my money!”

When the Hardys arrived at headquarters in Bridgewater, the chief told them that it was indeed the prisoner “Mrs. Harrison” who had asked for them. She was brought out in charge of a policewoman. To the disappointment of everyone, however, she did not speak about the case.

“The reason I wanted to talk to these boys is just to ask them a question,” she said. Then she turned to the Hardys. “Are you going on a freighter trip?”

“Why?” asked Joe. “And how did you know about it?”

“Never mind how I know,” she replied. “Are you going?”

“Maybe.” “Don‘t!” the woman said earnestly. “I mean it. I’m warning you. Don’t go!”

“Why not?” asked Chet, looking uneasy.

“Because you’ll never come back alive!” said the woman.

She got up and nodded curtly to her guard, indicating that the interview was at an end.

All the way home the boys pondered the reason for her warning. Chet was visibly nervous.

“I wonder if I should take time off from my work,” he said, “and go on that trip. Now that the fly-tying business is on its feet, maybe I’d be foolish to quit.”

“Your license was only good for one day,” Frank teased. “Admit it, you’re plain scared!”

“Me scared? Of course not. You don’t think I took that woman seriously! But say, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have Biff go along, too, if we could get an extra ticket.”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. McClintock.”

The Hardys, though they did not show it, were deeply concerned about the woman’s warning.

“Let’s phone the jail and find out if she’s had any visitors, mail, or other messages,” Frank suggested.

Their inquiry brought no results. The woman had seen no one and received no mail.

“I suppose her warning was given for spite,” Frank concluded.

The young detectives continued their preparation for the trip and were ready to sail the next day. In the meantime Mr. Hardy had gone over a code with the boys until they had memorized it.

“If you come across any information about the smugglers, send your messages in this code to Sam Radley at this address in Boston. I’ll be in and out, so you might not always get me,” he told them.

At the Southport pier there was laughter and excitement mixed with a certain amount of tenseness. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy, Aunt Gertrude, the Mortons, and the Hoopers had gathered to watch the departure of the Father Neptune.

Mr. McClintock, who had invited Biff, was already aboard and kept running around, getting in the crew’s way until finally the first mate suggested firmly that he go to his stateroom.

Presently a whistle blew. The boys hurried up the gangplank. Minutes later tugs pushed the freighter away from the dock. Out in the deep water the tugs cast off, and the ship’s engines began to throb steadily. Soon she swung off through the gap at the mouth of Southport Bay and headed out to sea.

After unpacking some of their luggage the Hardys went on deck and found Chet and Biff already there. Chet was wondering when and where dinner would be served.

“This sea air gives me an appetite,” he remarked.

Just then they saw Mr. McClintock hurrying down the deck. He had a slip of paper in his hand and looked intensely worried.

“I’ve just had a shock. A terrible shock!” he gasped. “Look what I found in my cabin. Pinned to my pillow!”

He held out the note with shaking hands. Frank took it and read the typed message:

This is your last warning. Go ashore before it’s too late!

Frank tried to calm the man by suggesting that the note was a practical joke, but he was worried just the same. Later on, in the privacy of their stateroom, he discussed the warning with Joe.

“Either one of the gang slipped on board for a few moments before we sailed, or has shipped with us,” he said.

“But Captain Gramwell says every member of the crew has been with him for a long time. Do you suppose we have a stowaway?”

Frank shrugged. “Let’s speak to the captain.” With the captain they made a search of the ship, but found no one in hiding.

The Father Neptune headed southward on her course down the coast, and everything went smoothly. The passengers retired early. Their bunks were so comfortable, and the salty air so fresh and tangy that they slept well and forgot all fears they had about trouble on the ship.

The next morning the Hardys roamed about the freighter, keeping their eyes open for a stowaway, and at the same time learning something of the duties of the crew. They visited the sailors’ quarters in the fo‘c’sle, then went down into the engine room.

It was as compact and efficient as a navy vessel. On the way up they met Sparks. The radioman had a message for the Hardys. “Can’t make head or tail of it.” He laughed. “It must be in code.”

While Chet and Biff were talking with Mr. McClintock on deck, Frank and Joe took the message to their cabin. It was from their father. They deciphered the code without difficulty. The message read:

Important to locate the phantom freighter. Smuggling gang eludes authorities by clever disguises. Suspect Klack is aboard. Use every precaution. Dad.

The Hardys decided to tell Captain Gramwell about it right away. As they reached the bridge Frank suddenly stopped short. “Hey, Joe, this ship is listing badly to starboard!‘.

Just then an excited seaman darted past them, yelling:

“Captain! The cargo’s shifting! We’re going over!”

CHAPTER XIX

Crowfeet

CAPTAIN Gramwell was barking orders over the loudspeaker:

“All hands report to the hold to move shifting cargo! Delay may mean disaster!”

Frank and Joe dashed below deck. Chet and Biff followed them. In the hold, men were heaving crates of cargo to the portside, their bodies glistening with sweat. They worked frantically. The heavy thud of boxes was the only sound, except for an occasional sharp command.

The boys were directed to a post where the men had formed a double line and were swiftly passing cargo from one to another. Together the Hardys caught the bulky cases as they came, and then tossed them on, their arms working like machines in high gear.

On, on, on came the cases in rapid-fire succession. Minutes passed, and each box felt heavier than the one before. The boys’ backs ached, their hands stung. Their breathing turned into short painful gasps for air, and streams of perspiration rolled down their faces. But to let up for even a fraction of a second would throw off the whole operation.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was only a few minutes, there was a perceptible movement underfoot. Slowly, reluctantly, the ship rolled to an even keel.

“We’ve righted her!” shouted the officer in charge.

The boys went up on deck. As they were discussing what had happened, Captain Gramwell came over to thank them for helping out. Then he shook his head, muttering grimly:

“I can’t understand it. How could that cargo have been loaded so badly—whoever was in charge is going to hear about it!”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. The same thought had been running through their minds. Then Frank spoke up. “I thought we should tell you this, sir. We think that it was done deliberately, because we shipped with you.”

Joe told him about the woman’s warning. “You’ll never come back alive!”

The captain was incredulous. “Why, it’s fantastic that anyone would go to such lengths!”

Next, the boys informed him of the note left for Mr. McClintock, and finally showed him the decoded radio message from Mr. Hardy.

“Well!” sputtered the captain. “One thing I can do is to have Sparks contact every ship in this area. If there is an unknown freighter around, we’ll do a little investigating!”

That afternoon he called the boys to his cabin, and told them he had received a report on all vessels known to be within a three-hundred-mile radius, and had then established radio contact with each.

“Only one ship reports seeing something strange,” he said. “There’s an unidentified freighter that seems to be drifting. No signs of life, no response to signals.”

The Hardys were sure that it was the smug glers’ ship. Captain Gramwell promptly set his course toward the position indicated.

“Should sight her before dark,” he said.

His estimation was correct. The sun had just touched the horizon when the report came from the crow’s nest.

“Freighter on the starboard bow!”

They soon glimpsed the dark silhouette of a ship. Captain Gramwell gazed at the vessel through his binoculars.

“Just as reported—no sign of life. It may be a derelict.”

The Father Neptune drew steadily closer. “It’s called the Black Gull,” the captain said. “I think I saw a man run across the deck just now and dive behind the fo‘c’sle cabin.”

Captain Gramwell ordered flag signals run up, in case the Black Gull’s radio was out of commission. But there was no answer. Instead, there came a puff of smoke from the Black Gull’s stack and the freighter began to move!

“She’s on the run!” Captain Gramwell exclaimed as he rang for full speed ahead. “That’s no derelict!”

“Will she get away from us?” Frank asked apprehensively.

The captain laughed. “That hulk! No boat of that type can outrun mine.”

But to his surprise and fury, the Black Gull not only remained out of reach but gradually widened the gap. The captain snatched up the intercom telephone.

“What’s the matter down there?” he demanded. “I called for full speed and we’re not overtaking that ship!”

“I can’t understand it, sir,” returned the chief engineer. “We register top speed.”

It was growing dark now. Captain Gramwell, puzzled by the inability of his vessel to catch up to the clumsy-looking Black Gull, ordered a searchlight trained on the fleeing vessel.

Frank, meanwhile, slipped down to the radio room and coded out a message to Sam Radley in Boston.

Believe phantom freighter Black Gull has been sighted but cannot overtake.

He gave its approximate position and handed the message to the radio operator, then hurried back on deck.

By this time the Black Gull had escaped the probing searchlight and vanished into the night. Captain Gramwell stalked the bridge in a rage. His pride was hurt.

“There’s not a freighter in these waters faster than my ship!” he insisted. “I can’t understand it.”

Frank went back to the radio room. As he walked in, there was a faint burst of signals from the set. Sparks shrugged. “Just numbers,” he commented. Frank, who was familiar with the international code, cried out in surprise.

The signals spelled out the familiar numbers A23—151—C2!

“That’s the smugglers’ code!” Frank told himself. “Not the motor numbers at all!”

A few minutes later the signal was repeated. “The smugglers must feel certain,” Frank thought, “that their code won’t be recognized.” Again came the numbers.

“Can you get a fix on that radio?” Frank asked.

“I’ll try,” Sparks replied. By contacting another ship and using triangulation he was able to pinpoint a fix on the chart. Soon Captain Gramwell had set a new course, and the Father Neptune steamed swiftly through the night.

The Hardys went up on the bridge and stood beside the captain. Finally he gave an order. The searchlight blazed out across the water. Frank and Joe uttered whoops of excitement. The dark mass of the Black Gull lay clearly revealed in the light, not a quarter mile away.

But the freighter was no longer in motion. It lay apparently deserted and adrift, just as they had first discovered it.

“Maybe the crew abandoned the ship when they realized we were chasing them, Joe suggested.

“I’ll send a boat over to make sure,” said Captain Gramwell.

“Let me go, sir,” Sparks requested quickly.

“And may we join him?” asked Frank and Joe.

Mr. McClintock, who had appeared with Chet and Biff, spoke up. “You two watch your step,” he advised. “I feel responsible for your safety.”

“Don’t worry,” Biff said. “They can take care of themselves.”

The captain consented to their rowing over. “But don’t go aboard unless you’re sure no one’s there,” he ordered. “Just circle the Black Gull, and if you hear voices or any sounds of life, come right back. We’ll keep the searchlight trained on the ship. You stay out of range of the light so you won’t be a target.”

Soon the Hardys and Sparks were rowing across the dark waters. Gradually they came closer to the black freighter, lying silent and mysterious in the night. There was not a sound except the steady splash of waves against the steel hull.

To keep out of range of the Father Neptune’s searchlight, the three rowed around to the far side of the ship. As they went on slowly in the inky darkness, Joe pulled a flashlight from his pocket and switched it on. It revealed a ship’s ladder dangling over the side of the freighter.

“I guess you were right, Joe,” whispered Sparks. “The crew got frightened and took to the boats.”

“That would be a stupid move,” Frank said. “There’s no place to go.”

He feared the inviting ladder might be a trap, but they had to take the risk. Joe grabbed it and climbed up. Frank followed, and Sparks came next, after securing the small boat to the lowest rung of the ladder.

Once on deck, they peered cautiously around in the gloom, keeping out of the rays of the searchlight.

“Not a soul aboard,” muttered Sparks. “Yessir, they thought they were going to be caught, so—”

The words died in his throat. From out of the shadows sprang a dozen men. The Hardys and Sparks were bowled over like tenpins, and despite a violent struggle, were seized. Then a sardonic voice said:

“Didn’t know when to stay out of trouble, eh? So now you’re in old Crowfeet’s hands ! Take ‘em below, men!”

They were roughly hauled down a companionway to a cabin. It was brightly lighted, but the portholes were covered with blackout curtains. Here the three faced their captors, who were a villainous-looking lot. The chief was a huge, black-bearded man. He was Crowfeet, leader of the smugglers! He looked his prisoners over, his hairy arms folded.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said sarcastically. “Behave yourselves and you’ll get along fine!”

“We won’t be here long,” Frank retorted defiantly. “There’ll be help coming by morning.”

Crowfeet gave a derisive laugh. “No one can board this ship unless I let him. No vessel and no plane can touch me, as you’ll find out. I’ve got protection!”

Crowfeet turned to his crew. “Order full speed ahead. And if the Father Neptune tries to follow, give it the works!”

The smugglers went out. Crowfeet slammed the hatch. The captives heard a clang as a heavy bolt fell into place.

CHAPTER XX

Captured!

“THIS is a fine predicament!” Joe cried in disgust. He hammered at the door of their prison.

“That won’t do any good,” Frank said. “We’ve got to be calm and think this thing out.”

“It’s like a wild dream,” Joe said. “Boy, did we ever fall into that trap!”

“And how!” Sparks added. “We were really suckered into this one!”

“The whole thing just doesn’t make sense,” Frank said. “That guy Crowfeet is an old coot with just enough brains to sail this tub.”

“But a genius he’s not. Is that what you mean?” Joe asked.

“Right. There’s something deeper behind all this hocus-pocus and I think the answer can be found on this ship.”

“What about giving the Father Neptune ‘the works’? What did Crowfeet mean by that crack?” Joe asked.

“That’s what we’ve got to find out, and mighty soon. Listen. We’re under way.”

The ship’s engines throbbed, and at the same time, a draft of fresh air drifted down upon them from a ventilating duct. Joe glanced up. An idea came to him.

“Frank, that duct might lead to another room. Think I could squeeze through it?”

“Want to try?”

“Sure.”

“But don’t get stuck, for Pete’s sake!”

Joe stood on Frank’s shoulders, and using a dime for a screwdriver, removed two screws from the grillwork of the ventilator. “It’s larger than the size used in houses,” he remarked.

“Do you think you can make it, Joe?” Sparks asked.

“I’ll have to hold my breath all the way,” Joe replied.

He stretched his hands out and put his head and shoulders into the opening. By wriggling, he got himself all the way into the duct. Immediately the flow of cool air stopped.

Joe wormed forward an inch at a time. “If any thing goes wrong now,” he thought, “I might be trapped in here forever!”

Frank and Sparks, meanwhile, cut off from fresh air, were perspiring in their prison. Frank stood on Sparks’s shoulders and whispered into the duct, “Joe, how are you going?”

But his brother could not hear him. Joe snaked along for a while until he had to rest. “Good thing I’m getting some fresh air,” he thought. “Thank goodness the ship has some modern conveniences!”

The oxygen renewed his strength and he started on again. The air-conditioning duct seemed to be endless. Another inch. Then another.

Finally he saw a dim light. Or was it only his imagination? His fingers clawed against the metal duct. Occasionally they touched a seam, giving his nails enough purchase to pull ahead.

Yes, it was some kind of light. Probably seeping through the next grill. Finally Joe reached it. He peered through into a room containing a bunk and a desk.

Joe found two nuts in the grillwork. His fingertips throbbed with pain, as little by little he turned the small nuts loose.

With a bang of his fist, the ventilator screen fell outward onto the bunk. Joe struggled to get his hands through the opening. He made it. Now his head. Could he wriggle his shoulders enough to get through? Joe felt as if his back were breaking. He emerged from the air duct like a battered butterfly struggling from a metal cocoon and fell out onto the bunk, semiconscious.

The room spun around and Joe gasped until full consciousness returned to him. What to do now? First thing was to replace the grill.

He shoved it back in place and inserted the screws lightly. Then, straining to hear any possible noise, he stepped out into the hallway. It was empty.

He moved along catlike, the palms of his hands flat against the metal wall. Presently he came to a door with a warning marked in big red letters: DANGER. STAY OUT.

“Danger to whom?” Joe thought. “Could this possibly be ‘the works’ that the captain was going to deal out to the Father Neptune?” The boy tried the heavy handle and the door opened. He stepped inside.

“Come in, Captain,” a voice said.

Joe saw an armed guard, sitting with his back to the door. His gun was pointed at a slender, fine-looking, middle-aged man who was working over a battery of dials and switches. Joe crept up behind the guard, and dealt him a karate chop. He fell off the chair like a log.

The other man looked on in amazement. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Joe Hardy. Quick, lock the door!”

While the man followed his command, Joe briefly explained his presence and asked, “And who are you? What are you doing here?”

The man said he was Professor Elvin Rossiter, a scientist who had developed a unique repelling device. “I can’t go into details on how it works,” he said. “But it will drive off anything that is propelled by a motor in action.”

“So that’s it!” Joe said. “This ship is able to repel anybody chasing it!”

The man nodded and went on to explain that he had been captured and forced to set up the machine on the old freighter. “I think Captain Crowfeet’s crazy,” he concluded.

“Just crazy enough to use your invention for his own nefarious purposes,” Joe replied. He added quickly, “Is it possible to get a radio message out of here?”

The inventor smiled. “I’ve been assembling a radio, but haven’t had a chance to use it yet.” He took the front off a console next to the repeller. “Here it is. Ready for operation.”

Joe quickly sent a message to Radley. He explained what had happened and said, “Can you get a speedy sailing yacht? Ship stops anything with motors running.” He gave the latitude and longitude, then signed off.

He turned to the professor. “Thanks a million. I’m going back now. Just make believe nothing has happened.”

The guard had not yet regained consciousness. Joe propped him alongside the chair and went out the door.

Just then the man came to. “What happened?” he cried.

As Joe crept away he heard Rossiter’s reply. “I think you fainted and fell off the chair.”

Joe made his way back to their prison. It had a bolt outside that could be pulled upward. Quickly Joe opened the door and slid in. He maneuvered the bolt in such a way that it would fall back in place as he shut the door with a slight bang.

“Wow!” Frank said in relief. “I thought something had happened to you!”

“I’ve had nothing but luck,” Joe replied, and told about Rossiter and the message he had been able to send over the radio.

“Great!” Frank exulted.

After their excitement wore off, the three fell asleep, but were awakened a few hours later by Crowfeet. He beckoned them to join him on deck.

“Ha-ha.” He chuckled. “I see you’ve resigned yourselves to your fate and rested calmly.”

“What’s the use of resisting?” Frank said bitterly. “You’re too smart for us!”

“Now you’re talking sense, boy. I’m smarter than all the Hardys put together. People call my ship the phantom freighter. Good name for it, eh?”

“You said last night that we’d get along fine if we behaved ourselves,” Joe said. “Does that mean you’ll let us join up with your crew?”

“I can always use strong hands,” growled Crowfeet. “We’ll see.” He eyed the boys narrowly. “You’re pretty clever. Caught on to my code, though in the end that’s how I got you here!” He laughed uproariously.

Frank asked if the various parts of the code stood for ships and places. He was told they did. A23 meant the phantom freighter, and in combination with some other number meant a certain ship was to meet the freighter at a designated time and place.

Crowfeet gave orders that they were to be given breakfast, and later they were allowed to go on deck. The boys scanned the ocean but saw no plume of smoke or other sign of a ship.

“Not looking for the Father Neptune by any chance, are you?” Crowfeet said sarcastically. “Well, forget it. We’re far away from her. She doesn’t even know where we are.” He added, “Come here. I’ll show you something!”

On a staging lowered over the side, two men armed with giant spray guns were directing great clouds of gray paint at the dark hull of the Black Gull.

“Sometimes we hardly have time to let one coat dry before we have to change the color and the name again,” Crowfeet bragged. “Get our supplies from launches and never go into port.”

“You called your ship the Falcon once, didn’t you?” asked Frank.

Crowfeet gave the Hardys a superior look. “You almost found me out while I was using that name, because the motor of that fishing launch went dead. Well, I can’t tell you everything! We gotta have some secrets!”

As time dragged by and no help came, Frank and Joe began to lose hope. Perhaps their message had not been received. Then, suddenly, they noticed a white dot on the horizon. Their hearts leaped wildly. The spot soon enlarged into a snowy canvas. Closer and closer it came, until they recognized a racing sloop under full sail!

Suddenly there was a shout from Crowfeet. “What’s that yacht doing out there? I don’t like this. Full speed ahead!”

The phantom freighter, its name now the Red Bird, rattled and groaned as its speed increased.

“Say, it looks like they’re chasing us!” Crowfeet yelled wildly. “My repeller! My repeller! It can’t work against a sailing ship!”

He bellowed orders to the engine room. But it was no use. The big sloop soon overtook the Red Bird. Over the water blared a crisp command from a bullhorn:

“Stop your engines and lower a ladder! We’re boarding you for inspection!”

“Coast Guard!” screamed Crowfeet. He ran toward his cabin for a rifle, but Frank and Joe, hitting him high and low, brought the criminal down with a bone-cracking tackle.

Crowfeet rose to his feet, dazed. A few minutes later an officer came over the side, followed by Fenton Hardy.

After a joyous reunion between the detective and his sons, Crowfeet learned how he had been outsmarted. Realizing the game was up, he gave his real name, Harry Piper, and threw himself at the mercy of the authorities with a full confession.

Crowfeet had preyed on people in many walks of life. He had even stolen inventions and kidnapped their inventors. Professor Rossiter was not the only prisoner on board. There also was a chemist who had perfected a method of aging wood and paper. Crowfeet had forced him to counterfeit old documents and letters which were then sold as collectors’ items.

“I figured out how to hide the papers in cartons of compressed wool along with ampules of an illegal drug and ship them to the houses of people who were away,” Crowfeet boasted. “And if I hadn’t had such stupid fools working for me, you’d never have caught me!”

“Like the two who got into a fight in a motorboat on Barmet Bay and threw a carton overboard?” remarked Joe.

Crowfeet just grunted.

“And you stole electric motors,” Frank accused.

The captain admitted that he had. He bragged of how he had outwitted Customs in smuggling thousands of dollars’ worth of goods in and out of the country, including the South American cowhides which the boys had discovered in the old barn.

The Hardys also learned that one of the gang had tinkered with the gas tank and radio on Captain Harkness’s boat, fearful they were going to search for the phantom freighter.

“How you kids got passage on the Father Neptune I’ll never know,” growled Crowfeet. “But when I heard you had, I sneaked men aboard the ship to reload the cargo so it would shift.”

Klack, too, was found hiding below. The FBI would have one less wanted man to hunt for!

Mr. Hardy revealed that the captains of the Hawk and the Wasp and several others in the gang had been captured already. “James Johnson” had finally confessed his part in the scheme, saying if he had not been greedy and kept Aunt Gertrude’s carton, and, with “Mrs. Harrison‘s” help, sold the contents, the Hardys would probably never have caught the gang.

The thief admitted that he had lost his good-luck medal in the Phillips’s barn and that his cigarette butt might have started the fire.

Because “Mrs. Harrison” had warned Frank and Joe about the danger of going on the freighter trip, she would perhaps get a lighter sentence, as well as the man who had telephoned the Hardys, telling them that Frank was on the bungalow porch.

Contact was made with the Father Neptune. The worried passengers cheered when they heard the news of the boys’ release and the smugglers’ capture. As the phantom freighter headed toward it, Professor Rossiter came on deck and joined the Hardys.

“You don’t know what this means to me,” he said. “I had given up all hope for rescue. Now if I could only find my partner, Thaddeus McClintock, with whom I worked on the repeller before—”

“McClintock!” the boys interrupted in unison.

“Why, yes,” Rossiter replied. “Do you know him?”

“He’s aboard the Father Neptune!” Frank said.

“I’m sure he thought I stole the plans. But now ...”

When the Hardys witnessed the happy reunion of McClintock and his partner they felt well rewarded for their work.

Mr. McClintock beamed. He had been planning to ask Frank and Joe to investigate Rossiter’s strange disappearance when they returned from the freighter trip. It was the mystery he had talked about.

“But now that won’t be necessary,” he said. “How would you like a new car instead? Or something else?”

Frank and Joe stopped him short. “Please, sir,” Frank said, “just being able to help round up this gang and have a trip is reward enough.”

When the excitement was over, and the Father Neptune with McClintock’s party was steadily plowing southward, the Hardys began to wonder what their next adventure would be. They had no way of knowing then that sinister forces at work in Bayport would involve them in The Secret of Skull Mountain.

Suddenly Chet, who had been listening to them, gave a tremendous sigh. “We’ve had enough mystery for a while,” he said. “Let’s eatl”

“Nothing better than food, is there, Chet?” Joe quipped.

“There sure is.”

“What?” Biff Hooper asked.

“That new car Frank and Joe just turned down!” Chet replied.

Gales of laughter drifted out over the sea.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Mysterious Skull

CHAPTER II - Strange Laughter

CHAPTER III - Chet Joins Up

CHAPTER IV - Sailor Hawkins

CHAPTER V - The Missing Scientist

CHAPTER VI - Two Masked Men

CHAPTER VII - A Hatchet Job

CHAPTER VIII - A Disappearance

CHAPTER IX - Tiger Trouble

CHAPTER X - The Deserted Boat

CHAPTER XI - Cast Adrift

CHAPTER XII - Decoy Hunt

CHAPTER XIII - Dangerous Cargo

CHAPTER XIV - A Mountain Puzzle

CHAPTER XV - The Escaping Stream

CHAPTER XVI - A Night Light

CHAPTER XVII - The Rear Room

CHAPTER XVIII - The Secret Tunnel

CHAPTER XIX - A Surprising Explanation

CHAPTER XX - Smoked Out

THE SECRET OF SKULL MOUNTAIN

THERE is a crisis in Bayport! Soon the city will be without water! Every night water strangely disappears from the new reservoir near Skull Mountain. Frank and Joe Hardy join forces with a team of skilled engineers to solve the baffling mystery.

When the boys arrive at the foot of the mountain, they are met by a human skull rolling down the slope—a chilling warning from a weird hermit. Violence, too, stalks the mountain, where a gang controlled by a powerful crime syndicate hatches a vicious plot. While trying to uncover the gang’s sinister motive, Frank and Joe aid their detective father in his search for a missing scientist.

By a clever experiment, the boys discover a clue to the puzzle of the vanishing water. Suspense mounts when they explore an ancient subterranean river channel, deep inside Skull Mountain. In a thrilling climax the famous young detectives solve their own mystery as well as Mr. Hardy’s case.

“Watch out!” Joe yelled. “He’s going to throw it!”

Copyright © 1975, 1966.1948, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07641-5

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Mysterious Skull

“WHAT do you mean, we can’t go swimming?” asked Joe Hardy.

“Not in the Bayport pool,” said Frank, who was at the wheel of their convertible.

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not,” replied the tall, dark-haired boy. “There isn’t enough water. The shortage is getting serious.”

Joe, blond and seventeen, and a year younger than Frank, glanced at his watch and flipped the radio switch. It was news time. The suave voice of the broadcaster came in clearly.

“City officials announced today that unless a way is found to fill Tarnack Reservoir, the people of Bayport may soon be without water. Thousands of gallons flow in daily from the river, but overnight the water vanishes.”

“That’s strange,” said Joe. “Why should it—” He broke off as the announcer went on:

“Robert Carpenter, a local engineer, has been employed by the builders of the dam to find out why the reservoir is not filling properly, but so far he has failed to provide a solution—”

“Carpenter,” Frank mused as he turned down the volume. “He’s a fine engineer. Must be a tough problem if he can’t find the answer.”

“Yes,” Joe agreed. “I’m—Frank! Look out!”

Frank had not noticed the tall young man who had stepped absent-mindedly from the curb. He was reading a newspaper and walking directly into the path of the car!

At Joe’s warning, Frank twisted the wheel and jammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, but the bumper caught the pedestrian and knocked him down. The boys jumped out and ran to the man.

“Dick Ames!” Joe exclaimed.

“Dick,” Frank asked anxiously, “are you hurt?”

Their friend sat up and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “No,” he replied. Then, recognizing the boys, he gave a weak grin. “Thanks to you!” He took a deep breath. “That was dumb of me to jaywalk while reading. But I was so angry about this reservoir story I forgot to watch where I was going.”

The boys helped the tall, good-looking young man to his feet.

“We’ll give you a lift,” said Frank. “Where you going?”

“To my parking garage.”

Dick got into the convertible between the brothers and Frank drove on, past the curious motorists who had stopped to see the accident.

“My car’s at the Midtown Garage,” Dick said. “You can drop me there.”

“You okay?” Joe asked, noting his pale face.

“I’m okay—just sore about this story,” said Dick, slapping the newspaper. “The reporters aren’t giving us a chance!”

“Are you working on the mystery?” Frank asked.

“Yes. I’m Bob Carpenter’s assistant—” Dick broke off and stared at the boys suspiciously. “Who told you it’s a mystery?”

Frank grinned as Joe gave him a sly wink. “It doesn’t take a detective long to figure out that when a reservoir won’t fill, and an engineer with Mr. Carpenter’s reputation can’t find the reason for it, something mysterious is going on,” Frank said.

The Hardy boys’ interest in mysteries was well known in Bayport. Their father, Fenton Hardy, was one of the finest private detectives in the United States. Frank and Joe, although still in high school, had helped him solve many baffling cases. Their most recent one had been the mystery of The Phantom Freighter.

The boys proceeded to question Dick eagerly about the disappearing water.

The engineer frowned. “I can’t figure it. Last week, work was completed on the dam to impound the Tarnack River, and also on the conduit which is to carry the water to Bayport. The entire construction was inspected and passed A-OK.”

“Then why is the water running out?”

“You tell me,” said Dick. “All I know is it’s not a simple leak. There’s something weird about the whole problem.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

Dick cast him an odd glance. “You fellows know Skull Mountain?”

“Just that the dam and reservoir are there,” Frank replied.

“It’s a rugged place,” said Dick, “covered with dark woods. Strange things have been happening there. Spooky, if you ask me.”

“You think somebody’s trying to scare you off?”

“Yes. That’s what makes me feel sure there’s skulduggery connected with the loss of the water. Besides, why does it only disappear at night?”

Silently the boys pondered the problem as Frank threaded the car through downtown traffic. Suddenly Joe noticed that their passenger had become very pale.

“What’s the matter, Dick?”

“I’m sorry, fellows. I guess that bump shook me up a little, after all.”

“You’re coming home with us,” Joe said. “You can lie down, and if that doesn’t cure you,” he added, grinning, “Aunt Gertrude will stuff you to the ears with the best food you’ve ever tasted.”

Supper was on the table when Frank and Joe arrived home with Dick Ames. Both Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude met them at the door, and Frank told what had happened.

Mrs. Hardy was concerned about Dick and wanted him to lie down at once.

But Aunt Gertrude would not hear of it. “Fiddlesticks!” she scoffed. “The boy’s just shaken up. There’s nothing wrong with Dick that a plate of sausage and waffles won’t fix!”

Dick surprised them by agreeing. The fresh air during the drive to the house had made him feel better and the aroma of frying sausage was giving him a ravenous appetite.

Aunt Gertrude’s smile was so triumphant that Frank and Joe could not help laughing. Their aunt looked at them suspiciously.

“What are you two chortling about?” she demanded. “Hurry up and set a place for Dick!”

Aunt Gertrude lived at the home of her brother, Fenton Hardy. Despite her tart manner, she was very fond of Frank and Joe, and proud of their success as amateur sleuths.

As the three boys sat down to large servings of sausage and waffles, they learned that Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude already knew about the threatened water shortage. A radio announcer had described the situation and urged listeners to limit their use of water.

“Humph!” Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “What does he think we’ve been doing all these years?” She speared another piece of sausage with her fork. “The authorities of this city should be ashamed of themselves. Pass the syrup, Frank. Why, even five years ago Bayport didn’t have enough water. Joe, don’t eat so fast. The whole city might burn down any time. And what’s more, how will we cook without water?” she finished.

“Wow!” Frank laughed. “We’ll have to do something.” He looked across the table at their guest. “Dick, think Mr. Carpenter could use a couple of sleuths to help him find out why the reservoir won’t fill?” He glanced hopefully at Joe.

Dick paused. “He might at that,” he said slowly. “Maybe you can find out what the trouble is on Skull Mountain. How soon could you come?”

“Right away!” the boys chorused.

“Swell!” Dick said. “I must get back to the camp this evening. We’ll drive out there together now. It’s about twenty miles. Plan to stay over.”

“You can leave your car at the garage,” said Frank. “We’ll take ours.”

“None of you are going anywhere until you’ve had your dessert,” Aunt Gertrude put in firmly. “Apple cake.”

“Why, Aunty!” Joe grinned and winked at Frank. “The biggest mystery in the world couldn’t tear us away until we’d eaten your apple cake!”

An hour later Frank was driving along the highway toward Skull Mountain, with Joe and Dick beside him. Packed in the trunk were pup tents and cots, hiking clothes and other camping equipment, as well as a basket of sandwiches and cake Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude had prepared. Joe was wearing a pair of powerful field glasses on a lanyard around his neck.

“You two must be real chow-hounds,” Dick said with a grin. “Bob and I have food at camp. You didn’t need to bring your own.”

Frank laughed. “You don’t know Aunt Gertrude. She wouldn’t have let us out of the house without that basket.”

After a while they saw a cluster of low mountains in the distance. To reach them, Frank turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road. On their right loomed Skull Mountain.

Joe gave a low whistle. “It looks spooky all right!”

The mountain was a high, dark, forbidding mass. Although it was thickly covered with trees, the slope just above the road was scarred by stretches of jagged rock and huge boulders. Few people in the area ever undertook the hazardous climb to the summit.

Suddenly Joe gripped Frank’s arm. “Look!” he cried out. “A fire! It might be a forest fire!”

Frank braked the car as Joe whipped the field glasses from their case. The boys and Dick Ames piled out of the car and Joe trained the binoculars on the mountaintop. A thin column of smoke rose from the trees which obscured the crest of the hill, then drifted across the valley.

“It’s not a forest fire,” said Dick. “We’ve seen it before.”

“What is it then?” Frank asked. “Somebody living up there?”

“I don’t know and neither does Bob Carpenter!” Dick answered. “We have a hunch the smoke is connected somehow to the trouble at the reservoir.”

Joe started toward the slope. “Come on! Let’s look for that fire now!”

“Hold it,” said Dick. “I know a trail we can use. We’ll make better time.”

The boys hurried down the road in the direction they had come, keeping an eye on the curling smoke. The path Dick showed them led up the mountain through the low brush toward masses of boulders near the top.

They climbed rapidly, glancing often at the summit.

As suddenly as it had arisen, the smoke vanished. “Now you see it, now you don’t!” ex claimed Joe.

“Let me have a look,” Frank suggested. He focused the field glasses on the spot where they had seen the smoke. “Nothing in sight now.”

Frank turned slowly, examining the mountainside. Suddenly, from behind a boulder, appeared one of the strangest-looking figures he had ever seen. The man was gaunt-faced, with fierce-looking eyes, long shaggy hair, and a thick beard. Frank uttered a low exclamation.

“What’s wrong?” Joe demanded.

“Look at that funny guy up there,” Frank said, handing his brother the glasses.

Joe trained the binoculars on the boulder Frank indicated, but saw no sign of the bearded man. Disappointed, he gave the glasses to Dick, but the young engineer could not detect him either.

“What did he look like, Frank?” Dick asked as they turned back toward the car.

Frank described the man, but the engineer shook his head and declared that although he had met some odd people on Skull Mountain, none of them matched the description.

As the three started down the hill, a rounded white object rolled past them and lodged against a bush.

“A skull!” Joe exclaimed. As he picked it up, the trio heard an ominous rumbling. They faced about swiftly.

Hurtling down the slope was a huge boulder!

“Look out!” Frank shouted, and they leaped aside.

Crack! The boulder struck another and dislodged a mass of loose rock.

A rain of rocks and brush and boulders came roaring down around them!

“A landslide!” Joe yelled.

CHAPTER II

Strange Laughter

“RUN!” Frank shouted.

Joe, Frank, and Dick Ames scrambled to get out of the path of the thundering mass of rocks. Minutes later the landslide roared into silence below and dust filled the air.

Coughing, Joe got to his feet. “Frank-Dick!” he called and was relieved to hear answering voices.

The three met where the trail had been, now a wide, raw strip of earth, scoured clean of rocks and brush.

“Whew!” Joe exclaimed. “That was close.” He was so shaken he did not notice that he was still clutching the skull.

“That’s the second time today my life’s been in danger,” Dick said. “Must be the season for accidents.”

Frank shook his head angrily. “That was no accident, Dick. I’m pretty sure that our man of the mountain caused the landslide. The first big boulder looked like the one he had been hiding behind.”

Joe’s lips tightened. “I’m going after that guy!”

“Wait, Joe!” Frank said. “It’s no use. Soon it’ll be dark. We’d better push on to camp.”

Joe looked down at the skull in his hand. “I wonder if our mountain man rolled this down, too.”

Dick looked grim. “That’s not the first one I’ve seen around here, and I’ll bet it’s not the last.”

Joe grinned. “Well, Bony doesn’t look much like a good-luck charm, but why don’t we appoint him mascot for our new mystery?”

When the boys reached the car, they propped the skull on the dashboard and set out for the camp. After they had traveled another mile, Dick showed Frank a clearing where he could park.

“We’ll have to hike from here,” the engineer explained.

The three shouldered their camping equipment and started up a narrow, winding trail toward the top of the mountain.

For a time, they climbed steadily. Then the path grew steep and treacherous. Rockslides had blocked it in places, and at several points heavy rains had washed away large chunks of earth.

Finally Joe halted. “It’s too steep!” he said. “I can’t keep my footing unless I unload some of this gear-my pack’s throwing me off balance.”

“We’d better not leave anything here,” Frank pointed out. “We haven’t any equipment to spare.”

“There must be an easier way to reach the reservoir,” said Joe. “How did the dam-builders truck in supplies?”

“They cut a road up the other side of the mountain,” Dick replied, “but it’s not paved. We’ve had so much rain lately, I was afraid your car would stick in the mud.”

“Let’s try this way,” Frank suggested, pointing to a narrow branch of the trail which sloped more gradually.

The alternate path proved to be easier climbing and soon they were standing on a crest overlooking Tarnack Valley.

“There it is!” Dick said, pointing downward. “Our big headache!”

Far below, through the gathering dusk, Frank and Joe could see the reservoir, a shimmering sheet of water behind a towering white concrete dam.

“You don’t need to know much about engineering to know that’s great,” Frank remarked. “It’s super.”

“It must have been a tough job to build,” Joe remarked as they started down toward the dam.

Dick explained that the Tarnack River had flowed over the valley bottom. “Its course had to be diverted before the engineers could construct the reservoir. When the dam was completed, the river was rediverted to its old bed.”

Joe looked down at the dam in admiration. “So the river flows along the way it always has, and at the same time it does a whole new job!”

“It ought to work that way,” Dick said. “We have to find out why it doesn’t. Everything’s set for the water to flow into Bayport. But we can’t release it until we’re sure we can maintain the proper level in the reservoir. So far, the water hasn’t risen high enough.

“Right now, Bayport is being supplied by Upstate Reservoir, a hundred miles north of here. But so many towns have sprung up in this area that Upstate can no longer take care of us. Day by day the amount we get dwindles.”

Dick told the boys that the dam had been built by the Coastal Power and Light Company. “When it’s working, it will supply electricity to this whole region as well as water to Bayport. But so far it’s a multimillion-dollar dud!”

Frank and Joe scanned the valley. Trees had been cleared from a point level with the top of the dam down to the water’s edge. The high banks of the reservoir were covered with vines and low shrubs. There was one patch of high, thick bushes.

Frank knitted his brows. “That’s odd!” he exclaimed. “Shouldn’t all of those bushes have been cleared?”

The construction men did take out most of them,” Dick replied. “But a few days before they were finished, they were caught in a rockslide.”

“Anyone hurt?” Joe asked.

“Yes. Three of the men were seriously injured. Then the rest of the crew decided the job was too risky and laid down their tools. We’ll have the job completed when the ground freezes and there is less danger of a landslide.”

The three continued down the slope. The way was much easier now, and they moved rapidly. Soon they could see a small construction shack among the trees some distance above the reservoir.

Dick cupped his hands to his mouth and called down. Bob Carpenter came out of the shack. “Hi!” he replied as the others approached him. The engineer was tall and sun-tanned, with an intelligent face and a friendly manner. He studied Frank and Joe with keen interest as Dick introduced them.

“Hardy? You must be Fenton Hardy’s sons.”

“We are,” said Frank.

“In that case, I’m twice as glad to see you,” Bob Carpenter said, smiling. He shook their hands firmly and waved toward the shack. “Welcome to Carpenter’s Cottage!”

The engineers led the way to the shack, and as the boys followed, they noted that it was sturdily built. Some distance to the rear was an equipment hut, a pile of sand, and one of lumber. Inside, Dick lit a kerosene lamp and gave Bob the evening newspaper.

Bob Carpenter’s face grew grim as he read the story of the water shortage.

“This paper’s pretty rough on me,” he remarked. “If I don’t lick this problem, boys, it could lick me. My professional reputation won’t be worth a nickel!”

“You and Dick are not trying to do this job alone, are you?” asked Frank.

“No,” replied Bob Carpenter. “I have a six man work crew staying in a cabin over at the foot of the dam. They’ve been using electronic equipment to listen for a leak along the shores of the reservoir.”

“But there’s so much ground to cover,” Dick put in, “that it’ll take a long while.”

“Maybe we can save you time by getting to the root of the trouble, Joe said. “Let us have a crack at the case.”

“Dick says some strange things have been going on here,” Frank said. “Tell us about them.”

“Well, one strange thing is the smoke,” Bob said, frowning. “A thin column of it rises from the top of the mountain every so often. We’ve searched carefully, but haven’t found any sign of a fire.”

‘Dick told us about that. And we just saw the same smoke!” Frank said.

The youth related what had happened while he, Joe, and Dick were driving along the road at the foot of the mountain. Frank had hoped that Bob Carpenter would be able to identify the strange man of the mountain, but the engineer was perplexed.

Suddenly Frank felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He whirled and looked at the dark window behind him. Had someone been peering into the shack? “I’m going to take a look around outside,” he said quietly.

“I’ll go with you,” Joe insisted.

Taking flashlights, they stepped outside. Darkness lay on the mountain with a light mist over the reservoir below. The boys separated and began circling the shack.

Suddenly Frank heard a scurrying sound and the crackle of twigs. He flashed his light, and saw a bush spring back in place. He ran to the spot, but saw no sign of anything moving.

“What was it?” Joe whispered as he came up to him.

Frank shrugged. “Maybe only an animal.”

They went back into the shack.

“Find anything?” Bob asked.

Frank shook his head. “Who is on the mountain beside yourselves?”

“There are some squatters in this area,” Bob replied, “but I never came across one who matches your description.”

“Squatters? ”Joe repeated.

“Yes,” Dick said. “There were several squatters living in the valley when the contractors moved in to build the reservoir. Most of them gave up their homes and moved back over the ridge to the other side of the mountain. But two-Sailor Hawkins and Potato Annie-refused to leave and are still hanging onto their shacks on the mountainside.”

“Would Sailor Hawkins or Potato Annie be likely to roll a boulder or toss a skull at us?” queried Frank.

Bob laughed. “I doubt it. They’re troublesome, but I’ve no proof that they’re the ones trying to scare me away from here.”

Joe’s interest quickened. “What do you mean-scare?”

Bob laughed again. “Well, I found a skull planted in my knapsack-and another on my worktable.”

“Golly!” said Joe. “Where do they all come from?”

“Years ago Indians lived in the valley,” Bob told them, “and their burial ground is somewhere on the mountain. Maybe the skulls come from there.”

He said that tools had been stolen from the camp and surveying equipment had been smashed.

“Someone’s mighty anxious to keep you from finding out what’s wrong with the reservoir,” Joe remarked.

Bob nodded. “But they won’t get rid of me. I’m not leaving till I know the answer to this puzzle.”

“You can count on us, Mr. Carpenter,” said Frank, and Joe nodded his agreement.

The engineer smiled. “Call me Bob.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, let’s hit the sack. We have plenty to do tomorrow!”

It was a half hour’s work for the boys to set up their pup tents close by Carpenter’s Cottage, and soon they were asleep in their cots.

Some time later Frank found himself wide awake. Had that been a branch cracking outside the tent? He lay quiet, listening. There it was again—farther away!

As he started to get up, there came a loud roar and the cot heaved. Frank was flung to the ground. An explosion! Debris thudded onto the tent! After that there was silence. Frank sat up, unhurt. Then, from some distance away, he heard a shrill cackling laugh!

CHAPTER III

Chet Joins Up

“FRANK!”

Joe’s cry sent a chill of fear through his brother. The older boy crawled hurriedly out of his tent. A lot of the debris had fallen on Joe’s tent and knocked it down. Joe was floundering under the canvas like an angry sea lion.

As Frank helped him crawl out, he saw Joe was not injured, though the tent was badly torn.

“Whew!” Joe exclaimed. “What happened?”

“You know as much as I do,” Frank told him. “Put your shoes on and let’s have a look.”

The boys found their flashlights and joined Bob and Dick, who had come rushing out with a lantern.

It did not take them long to find the spot where the explosion had occurred. A huge jagged hole had been torn in the ground.

“It’s a war of nerves,” Bob said grimly. “Somebody hopes we’ll crack under the strain and go away.”

“I wish I could lay my hands on that guy,” Joe said as they started back. “That cackle of his gave me the creeps.”

Suddenly Frank stopped. On the ground, in the beam of his flashlight, were the prints of two naked human feet. The right one showed the small toe to be missing.

“You know anybody who goes around barefoot?” Frank asked Bob and Dick.

The engineers shook their heads.

“Maybe the old man of the mountain does,” Frank said. “Joe and I will follow the prints first thing in the morning.”

The sun was well up when the boys awoke to the aroma of frying bacon. Breakfast over, they set out to follow the prints, which led up the mountain.

In some places the tracks were barely distinguishable. In others, where the mud was soft, they were strikingly clear. After climbing for a while, Frank and Joe found themselves a stone’s throw from a stretch of cleared land where row upon row of potato plants and other vegetables were growing. Behind the garden patch was a small shanty.

“That must be Potato Annie’s place,” Frank said.

“Yes,” agreed Joe. “And the footprints are heading straight for it!”

As they approached the tidy garden, the boys saw a woman working in it. She wore a sunbonnet with an enormous peak that completely shaded her face, a faded cotton dress, and a huge checkered apron. Potato Annie was bare-legged but she was wearing shoes. The boys noted that her feet were too small to have made the prints.

She straightened up at their approach and stared. “Who be you?” she demanded.

“We’re from Mr. Carpenter’s camp,” Frank began, “and we—”

“Oh, you be, be you!” Annie cut him short. “Then you git on back there, if you know what’s good fer you! Ain’t no engineers goin’ to traipse on my land!”

“We’re not engineers,” Joe tried to explain. “We’re—”

But Potato Annie was adamant. “You hear me! Git! Good-fer-nothin’ loafers—drivin’ self-respeotin’ people off their property!” Then, as the boys turned away, the spry little woman demanded, “What you want?”

“We only came for some information, Frank told her. He described the column of smoke they had seen, and the explosion, but although Annie admitted she had seen the smoke and heard the explosion, she insisted that she did not know who was responsible.

“Have you ever come across any skulls around here?” Joe asked.

“Skulls?” scoffed the old woman. “Why, there’s a million of ’em buried on the other side o’ this mountain! That’s how the place got its name. My grandpaw told me a whole Injun tribe is buried here!”

Frank tried another tack. “Did you ever see an old man on the mountain?” he asked. “A gaunt-faced fellow with long shaggy hair?”

A flicker of fear crossed Annie’s face, but she declared flatly that she had never seen nor heard of such a creature. Frank thanked the old woman for her information.

“Ain’t told you nothin‘, far as I know,” she retorted. She watched the boys start down the slope from which they had come. “Tell them engineers this valley ain’t never goin’ to be covered with water!” she yelled after them. “Tell ’em Annie said so!”

The boys grinned at each other and looked back. Annie was bending over her potato plants again.

Frank’s face grew sober. “She knows the mountain man.”

Joe nodded. “Let’s try to pick up the prints again outside her place and see where they go.”

The boys slipped behind a clump of bushes and watched the woman, waiting for her to go inside. Finally she squinted up at the sun, put down her hoe, and went into the shack.

“Come on, Joe!”

Quickly they made their way to the small farm and searched around it until they found the bare footprints. For a while they were able to follow the trail up the mountain. Then the ground became gravelly and the tracks vanished.

Hot and hungry, the boys returned to the camp, where they had a late lunch of sandwiches and milk. Afterward they walked down to the reservoir. Men were working around the shore with electronic devices, while the two engineers slowly circled in a rowboat. Bob dropped white-painted shingles in the water at regular intervals.

Frank waved, and Dick rowed the boat toward them. A few yards from the shore he rested his oars.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked.

“Trying to find out where the water is escaping,” Bob explained. “The river is feeding the reservoir, but the water won’t rise over twenty feet.”

“The shingles will help us to detect currents that may indicate a hidden outlet,” Dick added.

Joe looked puzzled. “Why are you doing it now? I thought it only emptied at night.”

“That’s when most of the run-off takes place,” Dick replied, “but there might be a little drainage during the day. We’re checking every possibility.”

“You’ve had no luck at night?” Frank asked.

Bob scowled. “Every time we come down here after dark, somebody shoots at us with a high-powered rifle.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “A sniper.”

“Several of them,” Dick corrected him with a grimace. “We get cross fire.”

“They’ve hit the boat twice,” Bob put in, “and we’ve repaired it. Frankly, it’s pretty risky. I’ve been trying to think of a safer way to investigate.” Then he added, “What have you two been up to?”

Frank described how the trail of the footprints had led them to Potato Annie. Bob agreed that the woman could be in on the trouble.

“She will have to move, won’t she?” Joe asked.

“As soon as the reservoir begins to function, she’ll be forced off the land. This will be a restricted area.”

Joe grinned. “I feel sorry for the fellows who have to make her go.”

Frank reminded Joe that they had to drive to town to replace Joe’s damaged tent. “We’ll be back before nightfall,” he told the engineers.

“Wait a minute,” said Joe. The landslide—the road will be blocked.”

“You can get out,” said Dick. He told them of a fork in the dirt road which would take them to the highway.

An hour later when the Hardy boys drove up to their home, Aunt Gertrude was on the lawn, digging out dandelions. Joe, his eyes twinkling, picked up the skull from the dashboard and held it in front of him as he got out of the car.

“Hi, Aunt Gertrude,” he greeted her. “We’d like to have you meet a friend of ours.”

The tall, graying woman gave a shriek and almost lost her balance trying to get away from her nephew. Joe slowly but relentlessly pursued her.

“Get away from me, Joe Hardy!” Aunt Gertrude cried. “Get away, I say!”

Joe laughed. “Okay, Aunty,” he said impishly. “But that’s no way to win friends!” He started up the path toward the back door, and Frank joined him.

“Don’t you dare take that horrible thing into the house!” Aunt Gertrude called after them. “If you must keep it, put it in your workshop where decent people won’t have to look at it.”

Later, after a quick shower and a change of clothes, the boys drove downtown and purchased a new tent. Then they hurried home and sat down with their mother and aunt to an appetizing dinner of roast beef and vegetables. Mrs. Hardy calmly accepted their announcement that they planned to go back to Skull Mountain that evening.

The talk soon turned to Fenton Hardy, who had been away from home for the past two weeks. “What kind of case is he working on?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Hardy confessed. “Your father likes to keep the details of his work to himself.” She smiled at the boys. “I suppose he feels I’ll have less to worry about that way.”

The boys had just finished eating when they heard a rattletrap car chug into the driveway. A moment later Chet Morton came into the dining room, greeted the Hardys cordially, then took an extra plate, knife, and fork from the sideboard. He drew a chair up to the table, spread a napkin carefully in his lap, and beamed at Aunt Gertrude.

Chet’s visits often coincided with his friends’ meal hours. The Mortons lived on a farm and always ate at least an hour earlier than the Hardys did.

“You’re too late, Chet,” Frank told him. “We’ve finished dinner.”

Chet groaned. He looked at his watch. “Gosh,” he said plaintively, “I came as quick as I could.”

Joe could not help laughing at the woebegone expression on Chet’s face. Next time, he promised, as Aunt Gertrude went into the kitchen, the Hardys would keep a filled plate for their pal.

Aunt Gertrude returned bearing a seven-layer chocolate nut cake. Chet’s eyes lit up when he saw it.

“This is for the camp,” Aunt Gertrude told her nephews.

Chet’s face quivered slightly as he watched her pack the cake neatly in a box. “Camp? What camp?”

“Bob Carpenter’s camp on Skull Mountain,” Joe said. “Frank and I are working with him and Dick Ames on the reservoir mystery.”

“I read about the water shortage,” Chet said. “But what are you fellows doing up there?” He could not take his eyes off the cakebox.

Frank told him of their experiences, but he carefully omitted any reference to the skulls.

Joe, sensing Frank’s plan, concealed a smile. “Why don’t you come with us, Chet?” he said casually. “You can help eat the cake.”

The stout boy beamed at the suggestion, then eyed Frank and Joe suspiciously. “I don’t know,” he said dubiously. “Every time I get mixed up with you two, something happens to make me regret it.”

“Nonsense, Chet,” Frank said. “What can happen to you on a camping trip?”

“Plenty of things—with you two around,” Chet retorted.

“Well, if you don’t want to go—” Frank said, shrugging. He looked at his brother. “Guess we’d better get started, Joe.”

Joe nodded and picked up the cakebox. He lifted the lid slightly open for another look and smacked his lips appreciatively.

This was more than Chet could bear. “Wait, fellows!” he begged. “I’ll go with you!”

The three boys drove to the Morton farm. Chet ran into the house to pack some clothes. When he returned, the Hardy boys saw that he carried more food than camping paraphernalia.

“No telling how long we’ll have to stay up there,” Chet explained.

Evening shadows were falling by the time they climbed up the mountainside, then made the comparatively easy descent to the camp. Bob and Dick welcomed the three boys warmly.

“Glad to have you aboard,” Bob said when Chet was introduced to him. Then they all sat down in Carpenter’s Cottage to a snack of milk, sandwiches, and a slice of the cake. In a corner of the shack, Frank noticed a stack of white-painted shingles.

“Did you discover where the water is escaping?” he eagerly asked Bob.

The engineer’s face clouded. “No,” he said. “Dick and I rowed completely around the reservoir dropping shingles in the water. Then we watched to see if any of them drifted so as to reveal a current. We didn’t find a thing. We gave up and brought the shingles back here.”

“It beats me,” Dick said. “All we know so far is that the water rises during the day and sinks at night. The depth is never more than twenty feet.”

“Could there be a leak in the dam?” Joe asked.

Bob shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’ve been over every inch of it.” The tall engineer was silent for a moment. “There’s only one possibility,” he said.

He told them that when he was a student in college, he had made a careful study of the geology of the Bayport area. In his reading, he had come across a geologist’s speculation that millions of years before, the Tarnack River had been blocked by a moraine, a huge mass of sand, rock, and other debris deposited by a glacier that had covered the entire region.

The geologist believed that the river had worn an outlet underground to the Atlantic Ocean. Later, upheavals had caused the Tarnack to change its course, eating a path through the moraine and settling into its present bed.

“If the theory is correct,” Bob finished, “somewhere nearby there’s a subterranean passage to the sea!”

Frank’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “And you believe that the water from the reservoir is escaping through the ancient outlet?”

Bob nodded.

“Wow!” exclaimed Joe. “What a story!”

“But wouldn’t the men who built the dam have discovered the tunnel when they diverted the river from the valley?” Frank persisted.

“If the tunnel started from the river bottom, yes,” Bob admitted. “If there is such an outlet, it must be higher up-on one of the slopes.”

“If we could only find it,” Dick said, “our troubles would be over.”

“If!” Bob laughed. “That’s the trouble with theories! They’re full of ifs!” He yawned. “I don’t know about you fellows—but I’m going to get some shut-eye!”

The others agreed that it was time to turn in, and Frank and Joe went to help Chet pitch a pup tent next to theirs. Soon the boys were asleep.

Some time later a shriek from Chet split the night. “Help!” he yelled. “Take it away!”

CHAPTER IV

Sailor Hawkins

AS FRANK and Joe ducked out of their tents, Bob and Dick burst from the shack.

Chet was kneeling at the opening to his tent, staring at something inside. He held a flashlight, but his hand shook so violently that Frank took it from him.

“Chet, what is it?” he asked anxiously.

Chet was frozen. He lifted his arm slowly and pointed. “There—on my pillow!” he whispered.

The boys’ eyes followed their friend’s outstretched arm. Staring at them from the cot was a human skull!

“I woke up when I felt something c-cold touching my cheek,” Chet stammered, “and there it was—right against my face!” He shivered. “Ugh!”

Joe, shining his flashlight about the interior of the tent, suddenly asked, “Chet what did you do with your clothes?”

“Clothes? Why, I put them right there—” Chet’s jaw dropped as he looked at the canvas sack which had held his camping duds.

“Holy smoke!” he yelped. “They’re gone!” Suddenly the boy stared at the soft earth beside the empty sack, and bent down for a closer look. “Hey!” he cried out. “Bring the light here!”

Frank shone the beam on the spot at which Chet pointed. The ground was marked with the print of a naked foot. One toe was missing!

“Joe, look!” Frank pointed excitedly. “The mountain man’s tracks!”

Joe nodded grimly. “We’ve got a lot to settle with that guy! Maybe the landslide and the skulls, the explosion, and now Chet’s clothes!”

“Do you think the mountain man could be responsible for the smoke, too?” Dick asked.

“Could be,” Frank asserted. He looked out of the tent toward the shadowy mountain peak. “I’d give up a month of my vacation to know where he is right now!”

“I don’t want to know,” said Chet. “Every time I think of him sneaking here—” His glance rested on the skull. “What about that thing?”

“We thought you’d want to keep it,” Frank said with a grin.

“It’s all yours,” Chet said firmly.

Frank chuckled and took the skull outside.

Bob grinned and said, “I’ll put it in my duffel bag with the other two.”

“A collection of skulls!” remarked Joe. “It’s not so funny, when you figure they stand for danger.”

Early the next day the brothers again set out to trail the mountain man. Joe had supplied Chet with shirt and pants which fitted like a sausage skin. Frank had contributed socks and a pair of boots, but these were so tight for the plump boy, he had decided to remain at camp.

The Hardys followed the footprints down and across the mountain through stretches of scrub and shale. Several times they lost the trail, but picked it up again on soft earth.

After a long, hot scramble they emerged from the trees and saw a cabin situated on the cleared slope above the reservoir. Nothing moved except a column of smoke which drifted lazily from an iron stack.

As they approached the cabin, Joe plucked at Frank’s sleeve and pointed off to the left. Frank looked in that direction and nodded.

The footprints led unmistakably to several large fresh-cut tree stumps at the edge of the forest. Nearby were huge piles of neatly split firewood. Why, the boys wondered, had so much been cut? Certainly not just for the tiny cabin’s fireplace or stove!

“I think we’ll have a talk with the owner of this place,” Frank decided.

They walked quietly down the hillside, then stopped short. Inside the dilapidated house a hoarse voice was singing a rollicking sea chantey!

“Sailor Hawkins!” Joe said, grinning.

The boys winced as the voice went sour on a high note. They stepped onto the porch. Immediately, a parrot chained to a wooden stand screamed at them.

“Avast, ye lubbers!” The brightly plumed bird craned his neck, then set up a furious squawking. “Man the topsail, me hearties! Lend a hand there—or I’ll keelhaul ye!”

Frank and Joe laughed loudly.

The parrot flapped his wings noisily. “Keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye!”

A short, squat man with a rolling gait ran out on the porch and lifted his hand threateningly at the parrot. “Pipe down, ye blighter. Or I’ll give ye the back o’ me hand!”

The bird subsided with several protesting squawks and the man turned to Frank and Joe. “Now then, mateys,” he said, hitching his trousers with a nautical gesture, “who are ye?”

“I’m Frank Hardy,” the older boy told the man. “This is my brother Joe. We were out walking. You’re Sailor Hawkins, aren’t you?”

“Captain Hawkins,” the man corrected him with sudden dignity. “Least, I used to be—when I had me own square-rigger.”

“Isn’t this an odd place for a sailor to be?” Joe inquired.

“Aye, mate, it is that,” Hawkins assured him. He looked around and shook his head gloomily. “I never would’ve come here if me ship hadn’t cracked up on a reef.” He sighed heavily. “Split every timber of her!”

“Can’t you go back to sea?” Frank asked.

Sailor Hawkins sighed again. “Ah, laddie, I wish I could! But I’m too old for them newfangled vessels!” He glared at the boys suddenly. “But I aint too old to fight for me rights!”

“What do you mean?” asked Joe.

Hawkins jerked his thumb. “This cabin—that’s what I mean!” he shouted. “I built her meself! Put every board an’ nail in her!” He stepped off the porch and scooped up a handful of dirt. “An’ the land’s mine, tool I been livin’ alone here seven years, an’ when ye been squattin’ seven years—the land is your’n!”

He returned to the porch and stared at the boys suspiciously. “Mark me, mateys,” he said, stubbing a blunt forefinger against Frank’s chest for emphasis, ‘if any o’ them smart-alecky engineers try to run water over me property, I’ll blow ’em higher than a mainmast!” He grabbed up a rifle from the porch to show that he meant what he said.

The Hardys hastily assured Hawkins that they had no intention of destroying his property. He appeared somewhat mollified. But he was no more helpful than Potato Annie had been when they questioned him about the mystifying events on Skull Mountain.

Hawkins swore he had no idea what the smoke or explosions meant. He had never seen the shag gy-haired man of the mountain.

“We noticed someone has cut down a great deal of timber above you at the edge of the forest,” Frank remarked.

Hawkins glared at him. “Aye,” he said. “I did. A man can cut wood on his own property, can’t he?”

“It’s an awful lot of wood,” Joe replied.

“Yes,” Frank added, “and it could make a lot of smoke!”

The little man glared at the boys. “Sink me if I don’t think ye working with them engineers!” he countered.

When the brothers admitted that this was true, Hawkins’ face flushed. “Get off me land ’fore I blast ye off!” he roared, fingering his rifle.

As the boys stepped from the porch, the voice of the parrot screamed after them, “I’ll keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye!”

Joe looked at Frank and grinned. “Pleasant customers! Maybe Hawkins is one of those nighttime snipers.”

“Could be. I don’t think he’s the fellow with the missing toe, though. His feet are too short and wide.”

Frank and Joe walked up to the tree stumps at the edge of the forest where they had last seen the footprints.

“We’ll follow these tracks until we find who’s at the end of them!” Frank declared.

But the trail ended a few hundred feet deeper in the woods. Whoever had left the footprints had vanished over a stretch of sheer rock.

Disappointed, the boys turned back. They had just reached the clearing above Hawkins’ cabin when Joe suddenly whispered, “Hold it!” He pulled Frank back. “Look—on the porch!”

CHAPTER V

The Missing Scientist

TALKING earnestly with Hawkins on the porch was a tall, thin stranger.

“Wonder who he is?” queried Joe. He and Frank were crouched behind some shrubs at the edge of the woods.

Frank shook his head. The visitor looked around uneasily, then bent close to Hawkins and went on speaking.

Both boys listened intently, but the voices were too far away. Finally the stranger departed down the slope.

“I sure wish we could follow him,” said Joe as the man’s figure grew smaller and smaller.

“So do I,” Frank agreed. “But with no trees for cover he’d be sure to spot us. Come on! Let’s get back to the camp.”

It was noon when the boys arrived at Carpenter’s shack. From there they could see that Chet had joined Bob and Dick in the boat. The youth was standing precariously on one of the seats, probing with a long pole at a part of the slope which was under water.

“Any luck?” Frank called as he and Joe walked down to the shore.

“Not yet!” Bob yelled. “If there’s an underground outlet in this valley, we haven’t found it!”

“Take it easy, Chet,” Joe called, grinning. “That pole’s likely to throw you!”

As Chet twisted his head to make a retort, the pole caught in some brambles. The rowboat shot out from under his feet. For one agonizing instant, Chet dangled helplessly from the end of the pole. Then the shaft broke with a sharp crack, and the boy plopped into the water!

Chet rose to the surface, splashing and sputtering. On the shore Frank and Joe were doubled up with laughter. Bob and Dick could not help grinning.

Chet was indignant. “Don‘t—see—what’s—so—funny!” he spluttered.

Dick rowed the boat close to the youth, and Bob reached over and hauled him in. As Dick pulled for the small floating dock, Chet sat dejected and dripping in the bottom of the boat. He surveyed himself dismally and lamented, “As if I wasn’t hard up for clothes already, this had to happen!”

“Never mind, Chet,” Frank reassured him as the rowboat docked, “I’ll drive back to Bayport and bring you some more.”

“You will?” Chet said, relieved, “Golly, that’ll be swell!”

Frank turned to his brother. “I’ll look in on Mother and Aunt Gertrude. You’d better stay here and keep an eye on things.”

Bob looked at Frank. “What happened this morning?”

“Joe will tell you about it, Bob. The sooner I start, the quicker I’ll get back. See you all later.” He took a sandwich and apple for lunch, eating them on the trail which led to the parked convertible.

The woods was dim and quiet. Now and then a bird stirred among the branches. Suddenly there came a loud crash from a clump of heavy bushes beyond the path.

Frank stopped and listened. He wondered if he had startled a deer, and stood waiting for the animal to thrash off into the brush. But all was silent.

“That was no deer,” Frank decided.

Stepping softly, he made his way to the clump of shrubs. Cautiously he parted it. Nothing there!

“Somebody was following me,” Frank thought. “He probably fell down and then sneaked away so I wouldn’t find him.”

The shaft broke and Chet plopped into the water

He returned to the path and continued downward, keeping an ear open for his follower. But he heard nothing.

After a while the trail wound steeply down between tall trees and the light grew dimmer. Not a breath of air was moving. Frank rounded a bend and stopped short with a gasp!

Swinging lightly in mid-air was a human skull!

A moment later the startled boy saw the heavy black thread by which the grinning object was hanging from a branch.

“Whew!” Frank gave a little laugh. “You scared me, Smiley!”

Then he slipped into the woods to search for the person who had hung up the grisly surprise.

“He hasn’t been gone long,” Frank thought. “The skull is still moving.” He found no one.

Frank returned to the path, took down the skull, and placed it next to a tree.

“Whoever did this trick is a slippery operator,” he thought grimly, and wondered if it were the wild-looking mountain man.

An hour later, when Frank mounted the steps of the Hardy front porch, his father opened the door. “Dad!” Frank exclaimed. “Gosh, I’m glad to see you! When did you get back? Is your latest case solved?”

Fenton Hardy laughed and slapped his son on the back affectionately. “One question at a time,” he said. “Where’s Joe?”

As Frank started to explain, Mr. Hardy led the boy into his study and closed the door.

“Now,” he said, “suppose you start at the beginning.”

Frank did so, and Fenton Hardy listened attentively, laughing heartily when his son came to Chet’s misadventure in the rowboat.

“That’s the whole story, Dad,” Frank concluded. He added gloomily, “So far, we haven’t made much progress toward clearing up the case.”

The famous detective smiled. “Solving mysteries is pretty much a problem of elimination, son. The more suspects and clues you can eliminate, the closer you are to the real criminals.”

“That’s just the trouble,” said Frank. “We have too many suspects and clues.” He looked thoughtful. “There’s one thing I feel sure of, though. This is not just a matter of some poor squatters trying to hold onto their land. Keeping the reservoir empty is too big a trick for Potato Annie or Hawkins to pull off alone.”

“I think you’re right, Frank.” Mr. Hardy leaned forward significantly. “The main thing is to find the motive for the crime. When you know that, you’ll be well on your way to catching the criminal.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Frank. “I’ll remember that. What about your case? Can you tell me about it?”

Mr. Hardy explained that he was working on an assignment for the Ace Laboratories in Pom-ford, Illinois.

A month before, Dr. Carl Foster, a scientist-engineer in charge of a project at the laboratories, had been granted a week’s leave of absence. The scientist had not been seen since. The chief of the laboratories was frantic.

“I questioned all his employees, of course,” Mr. Hardy went on. “I also went to the hotel where Dr. Foster had been living. I found these scraps in his wastebasket. It was made of wicker and these had got stuck in the woven bottom.” He took two torn pieces of paper from his wallet and handed them to Frank.

“They’re parts of a telegram,” Frank observed. He studied them carefully. On one were the typed letters: LEN. On the other piece was the word BAY.

“Could BAY be part of Bayport?” the boy asked.

“It could,” his father admitted. “It might also mean Bay Ridge, Bayview, Hudson Bay, and a thousand and one other cities, towns, villages, and waterways in North America.”

There was a knock on the study door. It was Mrs. Hardy. “Why, Frank! You’re home!” she exclaimed.

The youth explained that he had returned to obtain some clothes for Chet. “And I guess I’d better hurry out to the Morton farm,” he went on. “Chet will be in a stew until he is wearing his own things!”

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “Say hello to the Mortons for me,” she said. “And, Frank,” she called after the retreating boy, “please stop at a plumber’s shop and ask if he can come out here today and repair a leaking faucet!”

“Tell him it’s an emergency!” Aunt Gertrude poked her head into the hall. “We can’t afford to waste a drop of water in this town!”

Frank drove to a shop whose sign read “J. P. Kleng, Plumber.” A tiny bell tinkled as he opened the door, and a surly-looking man with red hair came from the rear of the store.

He studied Frank unpleasantly as the boy told him of the leaking faucet. “What do you expect me to do about it?” he asked.

Frank stared at him in surprise. “Fix it!”

Kleng turned his back abruptly and started for the rear of the store.

Frank was annoyed. “Isn’t it a plumber’s job to help Bayport conserve water until the reservoir is ready?” he demanded.

At this, the man turned and shot Frank an odd look. “Why don’t you try another plumbing shop? he suggested. “I work alone. Don’t have much time to go out on calls.”

“What does he do, then?” thought Frank. He had a feeling there was something behind the fellow’s strange behavior. But he would have to find a plumber, and he wanted to return to Skull Mountain as quickly as possible.

“Could you recommend another plumber?” he asked the man.

“Sure.” Kleng went to a desk littered with account books and papers, and took an office letterhead from one of the drawers. Hastily he scribbled the name of a nearby shop and thrust the paper toward Frank.

“Thanks,” said Frank, folding the paper and placing it in his pocket.

Outside, the boy paused. “Something about Kleng rings false,” he thought. Slowly he took out the folded paper the plumber had given him.

The fragments of two words seemed to leap out at him:

LEN

BAY

Frank’s eyes widened. He unfolded the sheet. The top of the letterhead read: J. P. Kleng, Plumber. Centered below it was the word Bayport.

The boy rapidly refolded the paper to its original creases. The same letters again stood out.

Frank could not conceal his excitement. He was thinking of the two pieces of the telegram Fenton Hardy had found in Dr. Foster’s hotel room? Could the names Kleng and Bayport have been in that telegram? It was a clue worth tracing!

As Frank was walking to his car, he noticed a tall, thin man stride past him. It was the fellow Frank and Joe had seen talking to Sailor Hawkins! Frank ducked into a nearby doorway.

The man went into Kleng’s plumbing shop!

CHAPTER VI

Two Masked Men

WHEN the man had gone inside, Frank walked past the window of the shop. He was just in time to see Kleng and the stranger disappear into the rear of the store.

The youth debated whether to watch the shop and trail the tall stranger when he came out, or report the new developments to his father. He decided in favor of the latter. It seemed likely that Kleng was in some way involved with the disappearance of the scientist, and Fenton Hardy would want to know this as soon as possible. Frank jumped into the convertible and headed for home.

Mr. Hardy was excited when he heard his son’s story. “If Kleng and the thin man are mixed up in Dr. Foster’s disappearance,” he pointed out, “they’ll meet again.” The investigator said he would like to know when, but the operatives who usually worked for him were on other assignments.

“I have an idea,” said Frank. “Maybe I can help you.” He made a telephone call, but the line was busy. It was an hour later that he reached his friend Callie Shaw to ask if she and Chet’s sister Iola would help to scout Kleng’s shop.

“I’ll be glad to, Frank,” she said. “But what should we look for?”

Frank explained his suspicions of the plumber. “I thought maybe you and Iola could round up some of the girls and take turns going in the store on errands or window shopping nearby. Keep the place covered. If you see a tall, thin man go in, call my father at once.”

Callie chuckled. “It sounds exciting. I’ll round up my female detectives right away!”

“Be careful, Callie. Don’t let Kleng catch on!”

“I’ll do the best I can!” the girl promised.

Frank left for the camp, stopping to pick up Chet’s clothes on the way. Mrs. Morton insisted that he stay for dinner. Afterward, Chet’s father showed Frank some new milking machines. When Frank was finally able to excuse himself, it was growing dark.

He headed the convertible toward Skull Mountain. After about fifteen minutes, he slowed down and turned off the concrete highway onto the dirt road which led to the mountain. He had gone only a short distance when, in the mirror, he saw the glare of a single headlight bearing down on him.

Frank realized it was the headlight of a motorcycle. The boy slowed down, glancing at the speedometer. “I don’t get it!” he muttered. “A trooper doesn’t hand you a ticket for driving twenty on a country road!”

The motorcycle drew abreast of the convertible. Frank gasped. There were two riders. They were not troopers! Both wore masks!

“Pull over!” the driver ordered, and crowded the convertible to the side of the road. Frank turned off the ignition.

The motorcycle halted alongside and the men got off. One was short with a thick, muscular body. Frank’s heart quickened. The other, who had been driving, was tall and thin!

“Get out!” the thin man ordered.

Warily Frank obeyed. He tried to distinguish the features of the two men, but their hatbrims were pulled low and their masks concealed their eyes, noses, and mouths.

“What’s the idea?” Frank asked.

“You’re Fenton Hardy’s kid,” the thin man stated. “What’s your father doing about the old man’s disappearance?” Frank looked at the speaker quizzically.

“You know who we mean!” the thin man snapped. “What’s Hardy found out about him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Frank declared.

The thin man shrugged. “There are ways to make you talk,” he said, turning to his companion. “Shall we give the kid a demonstration?”

“Sure, Sweeper.”

Frank desperately scanned the dirt road for an approaching car. But no light glimmered in the darkness.

“Another thing,” Sweeper went on, “stop nosing into other people’s business on the mountain. There are plenty of graves up there—but there’s room for more.”

“Forget the talk,” the shorter man said roughly. “Let me work on him.”

As the man stepped toward him, Frank desperately decided to try an old trick. Suddenly he pretended to see someone behind the men. “Joe!” he yelled. “Over here!”

Caught off guard, the two thugs half turned. Instantly Frank darted into the darkness, then dove behind a clump of bushes.

Then he heard the men’s voices and realized they were searching the car!

Footsteps approached, and Frank shrank back against the grass, feigning unconsciousness. Through almost closed eyes, he saw the two men staring down at him.

The thin man kicked him hard in the ribs. Frank stifled a grunt and did not move.

“He’s out like a light,” Sweeper exclaimed in disgust. “Must have hit his head. Come on! We can’t get any information out of him.”

Frank waited until he heard the roar of their vehicle. It backfired, then disappeared into the night with its motor throbbing in a peculiar, uneven rhythm.

Frank stood up shakily and returned to the convertible. The glove compartment was open and the front seat was littered with keys, flashlight bulbs, and crumpled papers and maps. Dazed, Frank drove slowly back to the highway to a farmhouse and asked permission to use the telephone.

The farmer directed him to the telephone and he placed a call to his father. “What’s wrong, son?” Fenton Hardy queried when he heard Frank’s unsteady voice. “You sound as if you’re sick!”

“Not sick, Dad. Just a little shaky. Don’t worry.”

Frank told his father of the incident. Mr. Hardy was greatly interested in the possibility that one of the men was the tall, thin stranger Frank had seen on the mountain and later entering Kleng’s shop.

“It looks to me,” the boy continued, “as if the mystery of the disappearing water is somehow tied up to your missing scientist!”

“It certainly does, Frank,” the detective agreed. “And these fellows are dangerous.”

After promising his father to be careful, Frank hung up and thanked the farmer for the use of his telephone.

It was late when Frank arrived at the camp. Joe and Chet greeted him with enthusiasm, which changed to concern when Frank told them all that had happened.

“Zowie!” Chet exclaimed, shaking his head. “I’m not the only one who’s had troubles!”

Frank grinned, and gave his friend the package of clothes. “Here, Chet,” he said. “Now you can join us when we go after the masked men!”

“Not me!” Chet declared, cradling the package in his arms and walking toward his tent. “I’m too delicate for strong-arm stuff!”

Frank noticed that the two engineers were not in camp. “Where are Bob and Dick?” he asked his brother.

“They went down to the reservoir,” Joe replied. “This afternoon Bob painted a white stripe on a slab of rock, to mark the water line. They’ve gone to see how fast the level is falling.”

As the boys walked toward their tents, Joe brought Frank up to date on his activities. That afternoon he had seen another column of smoke rising from the crest of the mountain. Joe had sighted the spot carefully, but when he had climbed the mountain, he had found no trace of a fire.

“Same old story,” he concluded gloomily. “I found nothing!”

Chet poked his head out of his pup tent. “Hey!” he called. “How about some chow? I’m starved!”

The boys went into the shack. Chet whistled noisily while he made hot chocolate. With the rich drink they had sandwiches, and what remained of Aunt Gertrude’s cake.

“I’m convinced that more important people than the squatters are interested in keeping Tarnack Reservoir from filling,” Frank declared as they ate. “I think we’ve got to look for something that ties in with Dr. Foster, the scientist Dad is searching for.”

“I don’t see the connection,” Joe remarked as he watched Chet devour another sandwich.

“I don’t either, Joe. Not yet,” said his brother. “But everything I found out today points to a tie-up between Kleng, Dr. Foster, and the thin man called Sweeper. And we saw that thin man on the mountain!”

“It’s true.” Joe nodded. “By the way, Bob’s still convinced the water is running out through an underground channel.”

“I don’t believe there is any old tunnel,” Chet grumbled.

“How else can the water escape?” Frank asked.

They thought in silence for a moment.

“What I’d like to know is,” Joe said, “why does the channel drain off the water at night only?”

“You’ve got me there,” Frank admitted. “But first we must prove that the underground channel exists and one way to do that is by planting floats in the reservoir and leaving them in at night!”

“And if the tunnel exists, we can watch for the stuff at the other end!” Joe said excitedly.

“But where is the other end?” Chet asked skeptically.

“According to the book Bob read, the underground river empties into the bay at Bayport,” Frank replied.

The boys were silent for a moment, each considering the possibilities of the plan.

“Hey!” Chet said suddenly. “I smell smoke!”

The boys sniffed. “See if something’s burning on the stove,” Frank suggested.

Chet rose heavily from his chair and went to the stove. “Nothing here,” he reported. Then he stared. Wisps of smoke were curling through the floor boards of the wooden shack!

“Fire!” he yelled, pointing to the floor.

Frank and Joe leaped to their feet. “Come on, everybody out!” yelled Joe.

“Take that bucket of water with you!” Frank ordered, pointing behind his brother.

Joe grabbed up the bucket as Frank ran for the door. He pulled on the knob, but the door refused to open. Frank yanked again with all his strength.

“Chet!” he gasped. “Give me a hand!” The heavy-set boy also gripped the doorknob, and together they strained at it.

“It must be jammed,” Frank breathed. “It won’t budge!”

“Try the windows!” Joe shouted.

They ran to the two windows in the shack, then drew back. Flames were already licking the window sills!

Joe emptied the water bucket on them, but the blaze continued to mount.

“It’s no use!” cried Chet. “We’re trapped!”

CHAPTER VII

A Hatchet Job

DESPERATELY the boys looked for a means of escape. Lifting a chair, Frank hammered at the wooden door. It would not yield. Smoke billowed thickly through the cracks in the floor, and a tongue of flame licked greedily at a plank.

The smoke made the boys’ eyes water. They began to cough. Then, just when it seemed there was no way out, they heard excited voices. A moment later the blade of an ax bit through the door!

“Bob-Dick!” Joe shouted. “Hurry!”

“Boy, will I be glad to see them!” Chet spluttered weakly.

“Grab anything you can carry!” Frank gasped.

Quickly the boys gathered armloads of papers, camping equipment, and engineering instruments. Chet scooped up clothing.

Blows from Bob’s ax had split the wood at the jamb. An instant later the door was flung back, and the boys ran into the open. They dropped their bundles and breathed deeply, filling their lungs with fresh mountain air.

Meanwhile, shouts of “Fire!” came from the reservoir and the boys could see some of the sounding crew running up the slope with buckets of water.

Bob and Dick were frantically shoveling sand from the nearby pile onto the flames. The Hardys and Chet pitched in, using whatever pots and pans they could lay hands on.

When the last flame was out, the boys and men stood gasping for breath.

“Frank,” said Bob wearily, “what happened?”

“That’s what we’d like to know!” Joe declared.

“A fire started under the shack,” Frank went on, “and when we tried to run out, we couldn’t get the door open.”

“It was padlocked!” Dick said grimly.

“Padlocked!” Joe gasped.

“Yes,” Bob replied. “Someone snapped the lock shut while you were inside!”

“And then set the fire!” Frank exclaimed.

“Golly,” said Chet. “Who would do a thing like that?”

“Someone who is desperate to get rid of us,” Dick replied bitterly.

The sounding crew watched silently as the Hardys searched carefully around the smoking shack for a clue to the arsonist. They found none.

Talking uneasily, the men started down the slope again. One of them said, “This party’s getting too rough for me.”

“That’s all we need—” Bob remarked bitterly, “is for the crew to quit.”

The boys and engineers examined the blackened shack and were relieved to see that the main damage was to the floor, windows, and door.

“We can fix it,” Dick said. “We’ve got tools and lumber.”

The Hardys helped Bob and Dick salvage whatever articles they could from the shack. Nearby, the engineers pitched two tents which Joe had rescued from the fire.

Bob told the boys that he had gained some specific information from the white stripe with which he had previously marked the high-water level of the reservoir that afternoon.

“When we got there tonight, the level of the water was one foot under the mark,” he said. “But the rock itself was damp for four feet above the stripe!”

Dick summarized their findings. “During the afternoon the water rose four feet. And later five feet of it drained away!”

“We’ve checked it daily and find that the story is always the same.”

“Sounds as if the How is controlled in some way,” said Joe.

Frank wanted to tell the engineers about his idea of planting articles in the reservoir at night, but he did not wish to arouse their hopes too soon. He caught Joe’s eye, and the younger Hardy understood that he was not to mention the plan.

Early the next day, while the engineers repaired the shack, Frank and Joe went down to the reservoir and walked along the shore a few feet from the water. Chet trudged behind them.

The slope at the water’s edge was dotted with rocks, patches of shrubs, and creeping vines which extended under the water. Did one of the tangled masses conceal the mouth of the tunnel?

The boys prodded the brush with long sticks, tearing away the thickly matted branches and leaves. The job was slow, difficult, and unrewarding.

Now and then they looked up and saw men with earphones and sounding equipment working around the shore.

When the sun was high overhead, one of the men gave a shrill whistle. He signaled the others and the crew climbed the hill, carrying their lunch boxes and gear into the shade of the trees above.

“They’re going to have lunch, I bet,” said Chet. “How about us?”

“Soon,” Frank said briefly. Both Hardys were intent on their job.

After a while, Chet wiped his forehead. “Wow, is it hot!” The youth sat down heavily, then jumped up as if he had been shot. “Ow!” he yelled.

He put his hand to the seat of his pants and gingerly pulled out a huge thorn. “That’s what I get for letting you two talk me into hunting for an old tunnel!” he said disgustedly.

Joe turned to his brother. “What can you do with a guy like that?” he asked.

Frank looked speculatively at the water. “We might duck him,” he suggested.

“We might at that!” Joe’s eyes lighted up at the idea.

Chet blanched. “Don’t you dare!” he pleaded.

“Come on, Joe! Grab him!” yelled Frank. Laughingly the Hardys took hold of their friend. Frank clutched Chet’s struggling arms and shoulders while Joe held his feet.

The stout boy shouted helplessly, “Oh, come on, fellows, let me down!”

They started to swing the spluttering youth toward the water.

“One!” Frank counted. “Two—”

Suddenly a metallic sound rang out from the woods above them.

“Hold it! Listen!” exclaimed Frank.

Again and again the noise echoed from the mountainside over the silent sun-baked valley.

“Come on!” Frank raced up the slope with Joe at his side and Chet slipping and sliding along behind.

Panting, they reached the woods as the sound stopped. A moment later there was thrashing in the underbrush.

Joe bounded up the slope after the invisible figure, but in a few minutes the crackling of brush ceased. He searched among the trees and beat the bushes, but could find no one. Disappointed, he started down the hill.

“Over here, Joe,” called Frank.

The younger boy hastened to his brother and Chet who stood under a large tree near the edge of the woods. Without a word, Frank pointed to the ground.

Six sets of electronic sounding equipment lay smashed beyond repair.

As Joe groaned and shook his head, the men of the sounding crew came running down the hill.

“I knew it!” exclaimed a tall man. “As soon as I heard the noise!”

“Another hatchet job!” said one of his companions. “We should never have left the gear here, but we decided to take a hike and the stuff was too heavy to carry.”

Bitterly the crew gathered up the broken pieces and started back to the shack to report to Bob Carpenter.

“Those men were being watched,” Frank said quietly. “Probably we are too.”

“Oh, that’s great!” croaked Chet. “Why did I ever leave home?”

The three started walking toward Bob’s shack. Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “Look!” He pointed to the crest of the mountain. A thin column of smoke was rising from it!

“Come on!” he exclaimed. “We’re going to find that fire!”

“Wait!” wailed Chet. “What about lunch?” But the Hardys were already climbing up the slope. Chet groaned and followed.

Soon they found themselves skirting Potato Annie’s garden. The old woman had been pulling turnips, carrots, and beets. As the boys hastened past, she picked up a basket laden with the vegetables, then hobbled up into the woods.

“Wonder where she’s taking all that food,” Joe said.

“Don’t know,” replied Frank, “and we can’t stop now to find out. Maybe she sells ’em.”

“We’d better check on her later,” said Joe. He glanced back. Chet was puffing to catch up, but the woman was hurrying away fast.

Climbing steadily, the three youths hoped to reach the smoke before it vanished. As they crossed a small clearing, a shot rang out.

“What was that?” Chet yelped, ducking.

They looked behind them to see Sailor Hawkins standing among the trees, his rifle still smoking. He shook his fist at them. “Get off the mountain!” he roared. “Ye no-good swabs!” The boys hurried into the woods.

“Who’s he?” Chet demanded, glancing behind him in time to see Hawkins disappear down the slope.

“Just a friend,” Joe replied airily.

“Some friends you’ve got!” Chet retorted. “When they’re not throwing rocks at you, they’re throwing bullets!”

Frank and Joe laughed. Then they looked up toward the smoke. It was gone!

“Oh, no, not again!” exclaimed Joe.

Frank considered. “We’ve come this far, so we may as well keep going,” he decided.

They had just resumed their climb when they heard the sound of an ax striking wood. It seemed to be only a few hundred yards away!

The boys looked at one another excitedly. “Maybe that’s our hatchet man!” Frank said softly. “Let’s go!”

Half running, the three made their way through the woods toward the sound. Except for the echoing blows of the ax, the forest was strangely still.

They clambered over scattered rocks and skirted a cliff. As the ax rang more loudly, they crept forward.

Suddenly the noise stopped. The boys halted and stared ahead anxiously. Had someone spotted them?

They waited a moment for the chopping to resume. When it did not, Frank broke into a run, motioning the others to follow. Soon they came to a small clearing.

Frank pointed to the stumps of several fresh-cut trees. He went over to them and examined the surrounding earth. “Look here,” he said.

Joe’s eyes followed his finger. Pressed into the soft earth were the footprints of the man with the missing toe!

Frank traced the prints for a short distance and saw that they followed a narrow dirt path. He beckoned to the other two.

Walking stealthily, wondering how close they might be to their quarry, the boys trailed the mysterious prints. Once they lost them, but Joe found a fresh-cut tree limb the man apparently had dropped, and they soon picked up the trail.

As they hurried forward, Chet’s eyes fell on a pocketknife lying beside a tree. He stared at it disbelievingly. Engraved on it were the initials C.M. “Hey!” he called softly. “Look what I found!”

Frank and Joe joined their friend. “It’s my knife! I had it in the pocket of the pants that were stolen!”

“Swell, Chet!” Joe congratulated him. “If we catch up with this guy, maybe you’ll get back your clothes!”

Buoyed up by their find, the searchers hurried forward. Suddenly the trail vanished in an open patch of grass.

As the boys paused, they heard a faint sound in the woods to their right. Frank signaled the others to follow him. They crept forward, taking care not to step on twigs.

A moment later they stopped abruptly at the edge of a small clearing. On a fallen bough sat a gaunt-faced man so thin that his bones seemed to protrude from his flesh.

Frank nudged his brother and pointed to the fellow’s right foot. It had only four toes!

Gray, shaggy hair hung down to the man’s neck, and a matted beard covered his chest. He was eating a turnip, gulping it down without chewing, and on the ground beside him lay a dozen pieces of split wood and an ax.

His shirt was tattered and sleeveless. But he wore a new pair of khaki shorts. They hung on him in loose folds.

“My shorts!” exclaimed Chet.

The man stood up swiftly, dropping the half-eaten turnip. He fixed the boys with a fierce stare. Then he grabbed the ax and swung it around his head.

“Watch out!” Joe yelled. “He’s going to throw it!”

CHAPTER VIII

A Disappearance

INSTANTLY the man lowered the ax. With a wild laugh, he fled into the woods.

“After him!” shouted Joe.

The boys chased the tall, bony creature through the woods at breakneck speed.

Suddenly he scooted into a deep gully. The boys crashed down the brush-covered slope behind him, but could see him nowhere. They searched amid the thick bushes and boulders.

“No use,” said Joe, disgusted. “He’s done it again.”

“He must know this mountain like the back of his hand,” Frank said with a sigh.

“Well, at least we know he’s the man with the missing toe,” Joe remarked as the boys climbed out of the ravine.

“And we know he stole my clothes!” Chet added heatedly.

“It’s too bad he couldn’t steal a tailor with them,” Frank put in, grinning. “One pair of your shorts is big enough to make two or three outfits for him!”

Chet looked disgusted. “My best pair of shorts!”

Their conversation turned once more to the wild man. He had indeed set off the explosion near the boys’ tents. The firewood he cut was probably the source of the smoke they had seen. But where had he come from? Why was he sabotaging the reservoir project?

“He must live on the mountain,” Frank said. “I’ll bet he’s a hermit.”

“I’d hate to meet that skull-toting guy in these woods on a dark night!” Chet declared. “Now let’s get back to camp, fellows, please. I’m hungry!”

The boys descended to the shack and ate a late lunch. They found a note from Bob explaining that he and Dick had gone to Bayport to order more sounding equipment and would not be back until the next day.

“Tonight we’ll drop some articles in the reservoir,” said Frank, “and see if we can find them in the bay.”

“How about shingles?” asked Joe, nodding to the pile in the corner.

“Nope. We need something easier to see. Too bad we haven’t some dye. That’s often used for tracing currents.”

The boys searched the shack and found an old decoy duck in the back of a cupboard. Joe guessed that the dam-builders had used it for hunting the autumn before. “There are some lakes near here,” he said.

Chet found a large slab of yellow pine and an old barrel stave behind the shack.

Using paint from Bob’s supply shelf, the boys made the duck white with red initials: F and J. They colored the pine slab red, and put red and white stripes on the barrel stave, which had a split in it. Then the articles were placed in the afternoon sun to dry.

At nightfall the boys gathered them up.

“Look, Chet, you don’t have to come,” said Frank. “There’s no sense in all of us taking the risk.”

“No sir,” said Chet firmly, “I’m going with you.”

“Good old Chet, you always come through in the pinch,” said Joe.

Chet looked pleased, then said, “To tell you the truth, I’m not keen to stay up here alone with that creepy hermit running around.”

“I don’t blame you,” Joe said with a chuckle as they made their way quietly down the slope to the reservoir.

The boys’ scalps prickled as they stepped into Bob’s rowboat and pushed off. Were any unseen snipers watching them? Tense and silent, they waited for the crack of a rifle.

Chet glanced around apprehensively as Frank rowed over the murky water. The squeak of the oars and the trickle of water from the blades were the only sounds.

“Let her ride,” Joe said as the boat swung close to the opposite shore.

Frank hauled in the oars, and Joe put the duck in the water. Frank rowed on, keeping the craft a few feet from the shore. Then Joe and Chet quietly placed the pine slab and barrel stave overboard.

Quickly Frank headed for the dock where he hooked the boat to its mooring line. The boys stepped ashore and hurried up the hill to the shack. Not until they were inside did they speak.

“Whew! We made it!” Frank grinned in relief as Chet sank into a chair.

“It must have been the snipers’ night off,” said Joe.

“If that underground channel exists,” said Frank, “at least one of those things ought to be sucked into it!”

“How long do you suppose it will take for this stuff to go through the tunnel?” Joe asked.

Frank thought a moment. “I don’t know. If this channel were a straight flume or chute, the articles might pass through in a couple of hours. But the tunnel might not go the most direct way and there may be obstructions. It could take a couple of days.”

“Besides,” said Chet, “the water only flows at night.”

“All the same,” Joe put in, “we had better search for the stuff as soon as we can. It might go through more quickly than we think. Then the tide could carry it out of the bay, and we’d never know.”

Frank said, “I’d like to drive back to Bayport tonight to check with Dad and Callie. How about you two?”

“Suits me,” Joe replied.

“Me too,” Chet said, glancing at his watch. “Do you think Aunt Gertrude will feel like a midnight snack?”

Joe grinned. “She will if you ask her!”

They packed a few things and Frank left a note telling Bob and Dick of the day’s events and saying the boys would return in a day or two.

Aunt Gertrude was in bed reading when the three arrived at the Hardy home. When she heard that Chet had set his heart on having a slice of her pie or cake before going home, she goodnaturedly put on a robe and came downstairs. Soon the boys were enjoying sandwiches, milk, and generous slices of cherry pie.

“Where’s Dad?” Joe asked.

“He had a telephone call this evening and went out,” Aunt Gertrude said. “He said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. That’s all he told me,” she added with a sniff.

Chet ate the last crumb of his pie and announced that he must start for home. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told the boys. He beamed at Aunt Gertrude. “Thanks for the pie!”

The next day the boys were at breakfast when the telephone rang. Mrs. Hardy answered the call. “It’s Callie,” she told Frank. “She says she must see you right away!”

“Where is she?” Frank asked, pushing back his chair.

“In the drugstore—a few doors from Kleng’s plumbing shop,” his mother said.

“I’d better get right over!” Frank said excitedly, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

“I’ll go with you!” Joe put in promptly.

“Okay, but hurry!” Frank called, rushing out the door. “I’ll get the car.”

Ten minutes later Frank parked in front of the drugstore. It was a bright, windy day and Callie’s blond hair was blowing as she hurried to meet the boys.

“What happened?” Frank asked worriedly. “You look frightened!”

“I am,” Callie said. “At least, I was,” she amended with a little laugh. She looked nervously up and down the street, then beckoned the two boys into the doorway of a vacant store where they could not be seen so easily.

“None of us girls had any luck yesterday,” she said, “so I went to Mr. Kleng’s shop this morning. And while I was in there buying washers, the wind blew the screen door open and all the papers flew off Mr. Kleng’s desk. Of course I helped him pick them up. And, Frank, one of them was a telegram! Well, when Mr. Kleng saw it in my hand, he was furious. I never saw a man so angry!” She shivered. “He snatched it away from me.”

“Did you see what it said?” Joe asked.

“Yes, I couldn’t help it. I think I remember all the words.”

“Go ahead,” said Frank, taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

“The message said: ‘Syndicate convinced you are stalling. What’s wrong? Can Retsof deliver? When?’ And it was signed ‘Ben.’ ”

“Retsof,” Frank mused. “Sounds like a foreign name.”

“Maybe it’s in code,” Joe suggested.

“Could be,” Frank agreed, studying the name thoughtfully. “Yes!” he cried out. “It’s Foster spelled backward!”

Joe was elated. “That’s proof Kleng is mixed up in Dr. Foster’s disappearance!”

The boys grinned at one another, and Frank looked at Callie with admiration. “Do you know where the message came from?” he asked her.

“Chicago,” Callie answered promptly. “And I have something else to tell you,” she added, her eyes sparkling. “Guess who came to see Mr. Kleng while I was in there?”

“The tall, thin man!” Frank exclaimed.

“Yes,” Callie said triumphantly. “Mr. Kleng called him ‘Sweeper.’ ”

“I thought so,” Frank remarked grimly. “Sweeper is the man we saw on the mountain, talking to Sailor Hawkins and one of the men who held me up.”

Joe spoke up. “And Kleng might have been the other one. We’d better have a talk with him.”

“You can’t!” Callie exclaimed. “He locked up his shop right after I left. He said he was leaving town!”

The boys exchanged glances of dismay. If Kleng left Bayport, they might never solve the two mysteries.

“Did I do a good job for you?” Callie asked.

“You were a doll,” Frank said warmly. “Come on. We’ll drive you home.”

At Callie’s house Frank asked to see a telephone directory. “I’m going to look up Kleng’s home address,” he explained to Joe. “If he told Callie the truth, maybe he’s still home packing.”

Frank wrote down the street and number, then drove to the plumber’s house.

It was a drab, two-story frame dwelling, set back from the street by a short lawn. As the boys went up the steps to the porch, they saw that the shades were drawn.

No one answered the doorbell. Joe tried to peer through a window, but the shade completely shut off his view.

They returned to the car. As Joe got in, he looked over his shoulder. Was it his imagination —or had he glimpsed a woman’s face staring at them from an upstairs window?

He told Frank about his suspicion, and his brother deliberated. “If it was Kleng’s wife, he can’t have gone away for good. We’ll go back some other time and try our luck.”

Mr. Hardy had returned when the boys arrived home. They showed him Frank’s copy of the telegram Kleng had received, and he studied it with great care.

“We must do our best to keep track of Kleng,” the detective remarked.

Frank told him of the possibility that the plumber had left Bayport. Mr. Hardy frowned.

“He may have gone to Chicago.” He reached for the phone and dialed information in that city. While the call went through, he reread the telegram message. “I’ll try to trace the sender of this message,” he told the boys. “Through him we may pick up Kleng.”

Frank and Joe left their father to complete his call.

As Frank closed the door to Mr. Hardy’s study, he said to Joe, “The sooner we take the Sleuth and begin looking for the articles we dropped into the reservoir last evening, the better. The tide will be going out in another hour.”

The boys drove to the boathouse where they kept their trim white craft. Frank stepped into the cockpit and pushed the starter button.

The motor failed to catch. As Frank put out his hand to try again, the boys heard the uneven roar of a motorcycle behind the boathouse. Then it stopped.

Joe saw a tense look come over his brother’s face. “That motorcycle!” Frank whispered. “It sounds like the one Sweeper was riding the night he held me up!”

CHAPTER IX

Tiger Trouble

FRANK leaped from the Sleuth and ran toward the rear of the boathouse. Joe followed, close on his brother’s heels.

The motorcycle was parked in a nearby shed, but its rider was nowhere to be seen. In a corner of the flimsy building was a door leading to a boat landing.

“He must have gone that way!” Frank said.

He flung open the door and they rushed out onto the landing. A few feet away a tall, thin man wearing a tan jacket stood at the wheel of a speedboat.

“It’s Sweeper!” Frank exclaimed softly.

The boys heard the sputtering roar of a motor, and the craft curved out into the bay. “Come on!” Frank cried, racing for the Sleuth. “We’ll follow himl”

“Go ahead,” Joe yelled. “I’ll try to trace the owner of the motorcycle!”

Frank shouted, “Okay!” A moment later the Sleuth sped away from the boathouse and roared in pursuit of the other craft.

Joe went back to the shed and examined the motorcycle carefully. There was a leather pouch attached to the seat, but it contained only a pair of goggles and a few greasy rags.

Then he noticed that the vehicle bore the familiar red-and-black license plate issued by an adjoining state.

“Well, that’s something to go on!” Joe told himself. He memorized the number. “This is a clue Dad can help me track down,” he thought.

Joe returned to the convertible and headed for home. He was pleased to find his father there, and told him of the new developments.

Fenton Hardy telephoned the Motor Vehicle Bureau that had issued the motorcycle license plate. When he hung up, the detective told his son, “Looks as if you’d better check on a Timothy Kimball of Brookside.”

“Brookside!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s just across the state line! I could drive there in an hour. Kimball might be the man in the speedboat—the one called Sweeper,” he added.

“Don’t make too many rapid deductions, son,” his father cautioned. “Remember, the motorcycle may have been borrowed by a friend of Kimball —or it might even have been stolen.”

Joe had to admit his father was right. “But I have no other lead to go on,” he pointed out.

“Follow it up, certainly,” said the detective, “but I think it would be wise to find out all you can about Kimball before you see him. The facts will help you size him up.”

Mr. Hardy thought a moment, then went on, “Barney Matson, the city editor of the Brookside News, is an old friend of mine. If anyone can give you information, he can. Here, I’ll write a little note to Barney.” The detective scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Give him my regards.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Joe said gratefully.

Traffic was light, and Joe entered the office of the Brookside daily newspaper less than an hour later. The city editor sat alone at a long table. He beamed when Joe presented Fenton Hardy’s note and explained his mission.

“Your dad was right. I can tell you some things about both Kimballs—father and son,” Mr. Matson said, inviting Joe to be seated next to him.

The city editor said that the elder Kimball was president of a local construction firm. “He has a fairly solid reputation—personally and in his business. But his son—” The editor broke off and shook his head.

“What’s the son’s name?” Joe asked.

“Timothy Kimball Jr. He’s a handsome fellow, must be about thirty-one now. He’s a bad apple, although old Kimball seldom admits that.”

The city editor went on to say that the son had been irresponsible in his school days, and had been accused of vandalism.

“The father always used his influence to get the boy out of jams. Later, young Kimball took up with some shady characters. The police have suspected him of several jobs in the last few years. But they never can pin anything on him.”

Mr. Matson was interrupted by a man from the copy desk and said he would have to get back to work. Joe thanked the editor for his help, and asked for the address of the Kimball Company. As he was leaving, Mr. Matson said, “Watch your step, Joe. Old Kimball’s a tiger when he’s mad!”

It was a short drive to the construction firm. When Joe was admitted to the handsomely furnished office of the president, the gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked man rose from his chair, walked around his large desk, and extended his hand to the youth.

“My receptionist tells me you’re Joe Hardy,” Mr. Kimball said. “Aren’t you Fenton Hardy’s son?”

“Yes, I am.”

The man’s manner was friendly, but Joe thought he looked uneasy as he asked, “Fenton Hardy, the detective?”

Joe nodded. Mr. Kimball motioned him to take a seat, and again sat down behind his imposing desk. “What brings you to see me, young man?” he asked after a moment. His hands began to fidget with a letter opener.

“Mr. Kimball, I found a motorcycle in Bayport registered in your name. I have a hunch it was stolen.” Joe thought it best to reveal his suspicions little by little, taking his cues from the company president’s reactions.

Mr. Kimball looked straight at Joe as he spoke. “I own a motorcycle,” he admitted. “It’s used by the company to carry messages from this office to field engineers. Now what makes you think it’s been stolen?”

“I don’t know for sure that it’s been stolen. But the man I saw riding the motorcycle was familiar to me,” Joe replied. “I had seen him before in rather suspicious circumstances.”

Mr. Kimball stared at his hands, which still fumbled with the letter opener. “What does he look like?” he asked softly.

“A dark-haired young man, tall and thin,” Joe told him. “He was wearing a tan jacket.”

The paper knife fell from the man’s fingers and his mouth twitched. “I’ll see if there’s a messenger in our employ who answers that description,” he said, picking up the telephone.

When Mr. Kimball began to speak, he turned away from Joe and shielded his lips with his hand. The young detective strained to hear what the company president was saying, but he could understand only a few words. As Mr. Kimball put down the telephone, Joe noted that he was gripping it so tightly his knuckles were white. But when the man swung around, his face was bland.

“He’s trying to cover up,” Joe thought.

“There is such a man working for us,” Mr. Kimball said pleasantly. “But you’re mistaken about the motorcycle being stolen. The young man was sent to Bayport on an errand by my plant foreman.”

Mr. Kimball gave a little laugh. “You must have confused him with someone else. My foreman tells me he has a fine record.”

“I see,” said Joe. Then he asked, “Would you mind telling me the man’s name?”

Mr. Kimball shook his head firmly. “I don’t think that would be proper.” He glanced at a small clock on his desk, then rose. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

Joe stood up also. He turned as if to leave, then asked suddenly, “Mr. Kimball, may I see a picture of your son?”

The gray-haired man stared at him. “What for?” he asked angrily.

“I have reason to believe he is the man I saw on the motorcycle,” Joe told him quietly.

Mr. Kimball’s face reddened and he took a step toward the boy. “Get out of here!” he ordered, his voice shaking. “I had an idea your father sent you to question me. Now I’m sure of it! What my son does is nobody’s business but his and mine!” He raised his fist threateningly. “Get out!”

Joe returned to the car. He was sorry for Mr. Kimball, and sympathized with the man’s loyalty to his son.

“But all the same,” Joe said to himself, “I’ll bet Timothy Kimball Jr. is the thug called Sweeper!”

Back in Bayport, Joe was surprised to find that Frank had not returned home. Mr. Hardy, too, was away on an investigation.

“This house is worse than a railroad station!” Aunt Gertrude complained. “People racing in and out any time they please, expecting Laura and me to run a twenty-four-hour restaurant service!”

Joe hugged his aunt affectionately. “Nobody minds making a stopover at this station as long as you’re honoring the meal tickets!”

“A stopover!” Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “Your friend Chet Morton seems to think our dining-room table is the end of the line. We have to plan my grocery lists around that boy’s appetite!”

“Chet!” exclaimed Joe. He was suddenly reminded of the articles they had planted in the reservoir. It would soon be time to set up a watch in the bay to determine whether the objects had been carried there by an underground stream. Chet could help him carry out the project.

Joe called the stout boy, who agreed to meet him at the dock in fifteen minutes. When the young detective drove up, he noticed that the motorcycle was not in the shed. He parked and hurried over to Chet, who was leaning against the boathouse.

“The Sleuth’s not here,” Chet reported.

Joe felt a chill of apprehension. He looked anxiously toward the bay.

“What’s the matter?” asked his friend.

Quickly Joe explained that Frank had taken the speedboat and followed the thin man. “But if Sweeper came back and picked up the motorcycle, why didn’t Frank return too?”

Chet straightened up. “I don’t know,” he said uneasily. “It sure doesn’t look good.”

CHAPTER X

The Deserted Boat

“I’VE GOT TO find Frank!” Joe said tensely. “This guy Sweeper is an ugly customer.”

“What do you think happened?” asked Chet, looking worried.

“I don’t know.” Joe bit his lip and thought for a moment. “I’d like to borrow a boat and start combing the bay and the coves right now, but there must be a quicker way.”

Both boys thought of what might be happening to Frank while they were powerless to help him.

“We’ve got to do something,” said Chet.

“I know! Listen, Chet, you go out in the skiff and look for the floats we planted in the reservoir. Meanwhile, I’ll go to police headquarters. Maybe they’ve had news of Frank.”

Chet agreed and twenty minutes later Joe had told his story in Chief Collig’s office.

“No,” said the stern-faced man. “We’ve heard nothing.

Joe’s heart sank. “I thought maybe the harbor police or the Coast Guard might have found out if something—well, really bad had happened.”

Chief Collig shook his head. “This is not like you, Joe.” He had known both the Hardys for years and respected the boys’ ability as much as their father’s “You don’t usually worry until you’re sure there’s something to worry about.”

“But this time I have a hunch,” Joe protested.

“You realize that Frank may still be chasing Kimball and someone else might have taken the motorcycle.”

“I thought of that,” Joe admitted.

The chief said he would alert his men to look for the motorcycle. Later would be time enough to alert the Coast Guard and harbor police.

“Your brother can usually take care of himself,” Chief Collig added with a smile. “Go home and wait. He may turn up.”

But at nightfall Frank was still missing. Chet telephoned to say that he had found no sign of the wooden objects in the bay. “And the Sleuth isn’t back yet,” he added anxiously. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Thanks, I don’t think so,” Joe replied. “Luckily Mother and Aunt Gertrude have gone out to dinner and a concert, so I don’t have to worry them yet.”

Fenton Hardy arrived home about ten o’clock. “Hello, son,” he said briskly. “You’ll be interested to know that it’s possible our wayward plumber is still in Bayport!”

The detective went on to say that he had been to the railroad station, bus terminal, and airport, “No one remembers seeing him so he may still be here. Unless, of course, he left by car. And, another thing,” he continued as he took off his jacket and hung it in the hall closet, “I’ve traced that telegram from Chicago. It’s from a member of a small but powerful crime syndicate.” Mr. Hardy’s voice crackled with anticipation. “I’ve had leads on the outfit now and then, but this time I may be able to clean up the whole gang. The telegraph office has given Chicago police a clue to the syndicate headquarters. As soon as they—”

“Dad,” Joe broke in anxiously.

Mr. Hardy turned and noticed the worried look On Joe’s face. “Is anything wrong?”

“I’m afraid so, Dad.” He told about Frank’s disappearance.

Fenton Hardy was alarmed. “We’ll go right now to search the bay!” he declared.

“Frank can’t have gone very far in the Sleuth,” Joe said, “because he didn’t have a full tank of fuel.”

“I’ll ask the harbor police to take us out in their helicopter,” his father said,

A two-hour search over Barmet Bay and its coves failed to reveal any sign of the missing boy or of the Sleuth. Then the helicopter headed out over deeper water. Every ship in the harbor was signaled, every flickering light and unusual sound investigated. There was no trace of Frank. The pilot looked grim and said nothing, but the police sergeant beside him spoke up. “I’m afraid we’re in for some weather. We can’t stay up much longer.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Hardy. “How much time do we have?”

The sergeant looked doubtful. “Don’t know. We’ll play it by ear.”

The Hardys could feel the wind buffeting the light craft with increasing force. The sky was black and starless.

Suddenly the radio in the helicopter crackled and began squawking a message. Joe and his father strained to make out the words over the noise of the motor.

The pilot listened intently and replied “Roger!”

“What did they say?” Joe asked anxiously.

“Headquarters has had a report from an airliner of wreckage on the coast at Land’s End. We’ll buzz out there and investigate.”

Joe did not dare look at his father. Both had the same fear.

In tense silence they stared out the windows of the craft, straining their eyes to see through the darkness.

“Land’s End!” said the sergeant finally. He pointed ahead at a long, dark spit of rocks which thrust out into the sea. White spray dashed high around it.

Moments later the helicopter’s searchlight picked out a large fragment of a boat wedged among the rocks. There was no sign of life anywhere.

“It’s a speedboat, all right,” the sergeant said.

Joe’s throat tightened. “I can’t see if it’s the Sleuth,” he said.

“Can you go lower?” Mr. Hardy asked the pilot.

“I can’t set ’er down,” the man replied. “The water’s too rough. I’ll go as close as I can.” He dropped the whirlybird down and kept the light trained on the wreckage.

Joe’s heart sank. The broken boat looked like the Sleuth. Then suddenly a huge wave crashed over the wreck and part of it broke free. As the wood swirled in the surf, Joe spotted letters on it.

With a surge of relief he exclaimed, “No! It’s not ours! Her name’s the Mary Anne.”

Mr. Hardy gave a sigh of relief.

“Mary Anne!” exclaimed the sergeant. “So we found her at last! That’s the speedboat which was swept away from her moorings in the last big storm we had. Luckily there was nobody aboard.”

The pilot reported the discovery into his radio as he turned the helicopter back toward the bay. The Hardys resumed their watch, but in vain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the pilot told Mr. Hardy at last. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”

“And we can’t keep this ‘bird’ out much longer,” the sergeant said. “The storm’s getting worse.” He suggested that they search again in daylight and Mr. Hardy said they would.

“Let’s try just one more place,” Joe pleaded. “Merriam Island.”

The sergeant looked skeptical. “If your brother were there,” he said, “the lighthouse keeper would have radioed the shore.”

“Frank may be there without the keeper’s knowledge,” Joe persisted. “He could be lying hurt somewhere on the island.”

The pilot and sergeant exchanged looks. “It’s not much out of the way,” Joe urged.

“Okay,” the pilot conceded. “But we’ve got to make it snappy.”

He headed seaward again and soon the searchers sighted the windswept, wave-lashed mass of rocks directly ahead of them. The helicopter came down on its pontoons in the shelter of a rock cove. Joe jumped into the shallow water and waded to the narrow, sandy beach. “Look!” he shouted.

The revolving beam of the lighthouse’s powerful navigation light had exposed the white hull of the Sleuth! The speedboat lay alongside a tiny dock. Joe made his way toward it.

A grizzled, white-haired old man wearing a turtleneck sweater leaned down over the rail of the tall lighthouse’s circular runway. He put a megaphone to his lips.

“Who are ye? What do ye want?” he shouted.

“I’m looking for my brother!” Joe yelled.

The lighthouse keeper shook his head. “What?” he roared.

Joe cupped his hands so that his voice would carry over the pounding surf. “I’m looking for my brother!” he shouted again.

“He’s not here!” the keeper yelled. “There’s nobody on this island but me!”

“He must be here!” Joe shouted. “His boat is moored at the dock!”

He pointed to the boat, and saw the keeper look in that direction. Then the old man shrugged. “Not here!” he repeated, and went inside the lighthouse.

Joe turned to see his father, who had waded to him. “I don’t like this at all,” Mr. Hardy said.

“Dad, maybe Frank went away on another boat!” Joe suggested. “If he did, he may have left a note!”

The two waded over to the Sleuth and examined it carefully. In the cockpit they found Frank’s shoes and jacket. The gas tank registered empty. Quickly Joe searched the places he thought Frank might have hidden a note.

“Here’s something!” he exclaimed.

Jammed into the short-wave set was a folded piece of white paper! While Mr. Hardy held a flashlight, Joe opened the note. It was from Frank!

The police sergeant came over to them. “Are you almost finished here, sir?” he asked the detective anxiously.

“Officer, my son and I will return to Bayport in the speedboat, if you can lend us some of your spare gasoline!”

“We’ll be glad to,” the sergeant answered, “but that’s likely to be a dangerous trip.”

“My son is a skilled pilot,” Mr. Hardy said calmly. “Besides, this way we might spot a clue to Frank’s whereabouts which we missed from the air.”

“We’ll be okay,” said Joe. “The Sleuth’s ridden out some rough seas before now.”

The sergeant went back to the helicopter and returned with containers of fuel for the Sleuth.

“Thanks very much for your assistance,” Mr. Hardy told the sergeant. “I’ll let you know if we find Frank.”

The officer wished them luck, touched his cap, and waded out to the police craft. Joe and his father watched the whirlybird as it rose from the water, then headed toward Bayport, its lights blinking in the darkness.

They reread Frank’s brief message: “Going to Sweeper’s—”

Why hadn’t Frank completed the message? Had he been in too much of a hurry? Or had he been interrupted? And why had he taken off his shoes and jacket?

The two detectives looked out at the wind-whipped, murky water as if it held the answer.

CHAPTER XI

Cast Adrift

WHEN FRANK swung the Sleuth out of the boathouse and roared after Sweeper’s speeding craft, he knew his mission was a tough one.

“Can’t let him know he’s being followed,” the young detective cautioned himself.

He guided his boat skillfully across Barmet Bay, skirting ships and smaller craft, going fast enough to keep Sweeper in sight without attracting his attention.

The thin man’s speedboat headed out to sea. After half an hour Frank saw his quarry approaching rock-bound Merriam Island. Sweeper stowed his boat and disappeared behind a jutting finger of rocks. Frank cut his motor and let the Sleuth drift toward a tiny dock which extended from a narrow beach.

He leaped out as his speedboat swung alongside the dock, and secured it. He saw no sign of activity in the lighthouse tower.

“Guess the keeper’s asleep,” he muttered.

Staying near the shore, Frank clambered over sharp rocks and ran along short stretches of sand toward the spot where he had seen Sweeper’s boat disappear.

Cautiously he approached a cove and saw the craft rocking gently a short distance from land. Sweeper was pacing the beach and glancing frequently out to sea.

“He must be waiting for someone,” Frank told himself. To watch the man, he stretched out on a smooth boulder, hidden from Sweeper’s view by a low shelf of rocks.

Minutes ticked by. When an hour had passed, Frank saw that Sweeper was becoming impatient. The man paced the sand with short, jerky steps, stopping from time to time to glare at the sea. Finally he rolled up his trouser legs and waded toward his boat.

At that instant came the put-put of a launch. It rounded the high rocks sheltering the cove and stopped well beyond the surf.

The man at the wheel fumbled with something in his hands, and tossed a tin can into the water. He waved to Sweeper, pointed at the can, and swung the launch back toward Bayport.

Frank, puzzled, watched the can dance on the waves. Then the surf caught it, and a white lip of foam hurled the container toward the beach.

Sweeper waded out and plucked the can from the water. He pried open the lid and took out a slip of paper. After scanning it, he shook his head, crumpled the paper into a ball, and threw it into the ocean.

The thin man waded to the speedboat, got in, and cast off. A few seconds later he eased his craft out of the cove and sent it roaring through the waves.

Frank rose from his hiding place, ran to the sandy beach, and waded into the surf. He snatched the soggy ball of paper from the churning water. Returning to the beach, he unfolded the dripping sheet carefully. The typewritten message was still legible. It read:

Meeting postponed until midnight tonight. Will meet you at buoy off Barmet light.

Frank looked across the water. A hundred yards offshore a buoy bobbed. “That must be the one!” he thought, then glanced at his wrist watch. He still had time to return to Bayport and be back to spy on the meeting!

“Wonder who sent Sweeper the message,” Frank mused as he made his way back to the Sleuth. He cast off the mooring line, climbed into the cockpit, and backed the sleek craft away from the dock.

It was not long, however, before the Sleuth’s motor began to sputter. Frank looked quickly at the gas gauge and saw that the fuel was nearly gone. Instantly he headed back toward the island. The motor coughed into silence as the Sleuth swung alongside the dock.

Frank tried to radio home for fuel, but found his short-wave set was dead. “What a break!” he muttered.

After working over the equipment for several hours without success, he realized he would have to use the lighthouse radio.

“No use attracting attention to my presence before the meeting here,” he decided. “I’ll contact the keeper afterward. It’ll be easier to spy on Sweeper’s boat if I swim out to it.”

Frank sat in the cockpit and waited until red streaks of sunset flamed across the sky. Dusk fell and the island grew dark. Frank dozed.

Suddenly he was jarred awake. A motor!

Alert, Frank stared into the darkness in the direction of the sound. In the distance he saw the red and green running lights of an approaching speedboat.

Frank noticed then that the time was twenty minutes to twelve. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I’d better hurry!”

He got a pencil and a scrap of paper and addressed a note to Joe and his father, in case they should trace him to Merriam Island.

“Going to Sweeper’s—” Frank wrote hastily. At that moment the pencil point broke.

Annoyed, Frank searched for another pencil, but gave up after a few moments and jammed the partly written message into the short-wave set.

Swiftly Frank removed his jacket and shoes, then dived cleanly into the water and struck out for the buoy.

The surf was rough and he gasped as the cold waves broke over his head. Settling into a steady crawl, Frank swam toward the blinking light on the buoy.

After a hard swim, he reached it and grabbed hold of an iron chain which dipped deep into the water.

Moments later the speedboat swung past the buoy, coming to a stop. A dinghy was tied behind it. Sweeper stepped to the speedboat’s deck and Frank could see that he was looking around.

Watching the man, Frank swam quietly toward the dinghy. As Sweeper’s attention turned to an approaching launch, Frank drew himself stealthily into the dinghy. He stretched out on the bottom of the boat. His hand touched a tarpaulin and he pulled the canvas over him.

Wood scraped wood as the launch came alongside the speedboat. Frank lifted a corner of the tarpaulin and peered at the strange craft.

Two men emerged from its cabin and stepped into the speedboat. One was a stranger. The other Kleng!

They sat with Sweeper in the cockpit of the speedboat and the three began to talk earnestly. Frank strained to hear what they were saying, but the sound of the waves washing against the boats and the tinkle of the bell on the buoy drowned out their words.

Frank inched toward the bow of the dinghy and felt cautiously for the painter that held it to the speedboat. Pulling on it, he brought the small craft near the one which held the three conspirators.

The boy could hear their voices distinctly now. He slid under the tarpaulin once more.

The stranger was speaking. “Alibis! That’s all I hear. The syndicate wants action!”

“We need more time,” said Kleng.

“Time for what?” the first man snapped. “For those engineers to fill the valley with water and ruin our plans? For Carpenter’s detectives to make trouble?”

Frank grinned as Sweeper retorted, “They’re just kids! I’ll take care of them!”

“See that you do!” the first man told him gruffly. “Kleng, I’ll give you four more days! If Foster hasn’t completed his tests by that time—”

He broke off as a rattle of tin came from the dinghy. “What’s that?” he demanded.

Frank suppressed an exclamation of annoyance. His foot had knocked over an oil can, and it rattled from one side of the boat to the other with every roll of the waves!

“Sounds like a tin can,” Kleng remarked.

“I’ll get rid of it,” Sweeper said. “That racket makes me nervous.”

Frantically, Frank felt with his foot, found the can, and pressed it against the side of the dinghy. The rattle stopped.

“Never mind, Sweeper,” the stranger said.

Frank breathed in relief until he heard the thin man say softly, “I’m not sure it was just a can. I didn’t pull this dinghy right up to the boat, and it didn’t drift up! And I didn’t spread canvas all over the bottom of it!”

He walked toward the dinghy, bent over its bow, and yanked off the tarpaulin. “Okay, kid!” he snarled. “Get up! The hide-and-seek game’s over!”

As Frank stood up, he cast a quick glance toward Merriam Island. His heart sank. The boats had drifted out from the buoy too far for him to swim to safety.

Sweeper turned to the stranger and declared, “This is one of the snoopers who’s helping Carpenter and Ames!”

Frank plunged headlong into the sea

The stranger stared at the youth. Kleng spoke up harshly, “I know this kid. Too smart for his own good. I’ll take care of him this time.”

The stranger’s hand shot out and pulled Kleng back. “No rough stuff,” he ordered.

“Let’s cut the kid adrift,” Sweeper suggested. “The tide’s going out. By the time anybody picks him up, we’ll be through with our job.”

The stranger nodded. “Good idea. Cut the line, Sweeper!”

The thin man removed a pair of oars from the dinghy, then stepped back into the speedboat and unhooked the painter. The dinghy drifted away rapidly.

“So long, kid!” Sweeper called mockingly. “Don’t get your feet wet!”

Frank sat down in the boat and watched helplessly as the tide carried it out to sea. He scanned the water. No ship was in sight.

“You’ve done it now!” he told himself bitterly. “No oars, no food, no water to drink—and if I know anything about clouds, a storm’s blowing up!”

Frank studied the water and the black sky. Then, as his eyes fell on the empty oarlocks, a plan formed in his mind.

He straightened the tarpaulin. Then he twisted and squeezed a corner of the canvas to make a short length of rope, which he thrust through one of the locks. He tied the end into a tight knot, tugging it hard against the oarlock to make sure it could not slip through. He did the same with the adjacent corner of the canvas, knotting it outside the second oarlock.

Frank sat and waited as the boat bobbed in the darkness. It was not long before the sea began to churn harder. The wind was rising.

Now Frank stood in front of a seat, holding aloft the untied corners of the tarpaulin. He stretched his arms wide. The impact of the wind rushing into the canvas almost knocked him overboard, but he braced the calves of his legs on the edge of the seat and stiffened himself against the wind and cold water.

The improvised sail sent the boat plunging through the waves toward the island. Lightning snaked across the sky. Thunder boomed and rain fell in torrents. The waves leaped higher and Frank nearly lost his balance several times.

Suddenly a gust of wind caught him full force, tearing a corner of the canvas from his hands. He reached for the flapping tarpaulin, but lost his footing just as a huge wave sent the dinghy reeling. Frank pitched forward and plunged headlong into the sea.

The boy struggled to the surface and shook the water from his eyes. The dinghy was drifting away rapidly, whipped by the wind!

CHAPTER XII

Decoy Hunt

DESPERATELY, Frank’s eyes searched the darkness for the island. A wave lifted him, and he was suddenly conscious of the tinkling of a bell.

The buoy!

He turned his head and saw the light a few feet from him, bobbing and blinking. Thankfully, Frank swam toward it and clung to the chain. The island was only a hundred yards away, but his strength was gone. He closed his eyes and waited for the storm to abate.

It was daylight when the weather cleared. Frank attempted to strike out for the sandy shore. But his arms felt too heavy to move.

Suddenly he spotted a helicopter approaching the island.

Frank shouted and waved weakly. He saw a man signal through the craft’s window, and a minute later the helicopter hovered directly over him and started to descend.

It halted thirty feet above the water and hung in the air. The cabin door was thrust open and a blond-haired youth looked down.

“Frank!” he yelled. “Hang on! We’ll drop a line!”

It was Joe! Frank grinned. “I’m all right!” he yelled as loudly as he could. “Just get me out of this soup!”

Joe laughed with relief. “Okay!” he called. “Catch!” A nylon rescue line with a breeches buoy was dropped, and Frank was drawn up safely into the helicopter.

“Boy! I was afraid for a minute I was seeing things!” Frank said weakly as his brother and father wrapped him in blankets.

Frank did not feel strong enough to discuss his experience until he was home and had taken a hot shower. Then, fortified with a bowl of hearty soup, he described in detail what had happened.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude looked worried. “It’s a wonder you didn’t drown!” his aunt declared. “I think a doctor should have a look at you.” Frank insisted he felt much better.

“But you must be exhausted,” his mother said. “I think you should get right into bed.” Mr. Hardy agreed.

“I am pretty tired,” Frank confessed with a smile. As Joe accompanied his brother upstairs, he told him of his discovery that Sweeper was Timothy Kimball Jr.

“I thought Sweeper was a phony-sounding name,” Frank said, smothering a yawn.

“Or a nickname,” Joe said.

But Frank had already stretched out on his bed and was beginning to doze. Joe tiptoed from the room and found his father waiting for him in the study.

“What Frank overheard last night means we’ll have to act fast,” Mr. Hardy said quietly. “I’m afraid of what the gang will do to Dr. Foster. If only we knew where they’re holding him!”

“My guess is that they have a hideout on Skull Mountain,” Joe said. “He may be there. If we could find Kleng or Sweeper, we might be able to follow them to the place.”

“Right,” said Fenton Hardy. “Joe, you go to Kleng’s house. Try to find out if he’s there—if not, when he’ll be back. And, son—be careful.”

“I understand,” Joe told him.

“The plumbing shop is closed,” Mr. Hardy went on, “but Kleng and the others may be using it as a meeting place. Do you suppose Chet could stand watch on it? The crooks would be less apt to notice a boy than a man, I think.”

“Sure, Chet could do it,” Joe said.

“Good!” The tall detective put on his hat. “I’m going to Brookside and see if I can get Mr. Kimball to talk. He might know something that would help us.”

Joe phoned Chet and told him of Frank’s rescue. The stout boy was relieved. He quickly agreed to stake out the shop. Then he paused. “Oh!”

“What’s the matter?” Joe said.

“I asked Biff Hooper to meet me at the boat landing this morning. I decided it would be easier for two people to look for those wooden things-one could man the boat if the water got rough.”

Joe debated for a moment. “You’d better go ahead with that plan,” he decided. “The markers may come through the tunnel any time. I’ll watch Kleng’s house and later take over in the bay, while you keep an eye on the plumbing shop.”

“Check,” his friend agreed.

The window shades were still drawn in Kleng’s house when Joe drove up. He stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell. To his surprise, the door opened at once and a middle-aged woman wearing a faded dressing gown faced him. “What d’ya want?”

“Mrs. Kleng?” Joe asked politely.

“Yeah.”

“Is your husband at home?” Joe asked.

“No.” The woman regarded Joe suspiciously. “What d’ya want him for?”

“Our kitchen faucet is leaking,” Joe told her. “We need someone to fix it.”

The woman smirked. “It’ll make a pool if you wait for Kleng to take care of it. He’s away on a trip.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Joe, as if he suddenly remembered where the man had gone. “Did he take a boat?”

“Boat?” the woman asked. “You don’t go to the hills by—” She broke off abruptly and slammed the door in the boy’s face.

Joe grinned as he ran down the steps. The woman had been caught off guard. So Kleng was in the hills. That must mean Skull Mountain!

Joe drove to the boathouse. He guided the Sleuth out of her slip and headed into the bay. A short distance from shore he saw Chet sitting in the skiff with Biff Hooper, a high school companion.

“Hi!” Joe called. The two waved to him, and Joe brought the Sleuth alongside the skiff.

“See anything yet?” Joe asked eagerly.

Chet shook his head. “Maybe the stuff got stuck somewhere in the tunnel,” he said. “How’d you do at Kleng’s house?”

Joe told him. Chet grinned and said, “Boy, you did good! I hope I find out something at the plumbing shop.”

“Want me to go out in the Sleuth with you now?” Biff asked Joe.

“I wish you would, two pairs of eyes are better than one. And Chet had better head for his stake-out.”

“Fine,” said Biff. “I’ve fished for everything else in these waters. I may as well try my luck at catching a decoy duck!”

Joe towed the skiff back to the boathouse and moored it there. Chet stepped ashore and saluted importantly. “Detective Morton on duty!” he announced, and hurried away.

Chet found the plumbing shop closed, as Mr. Hardy had said. The stout boy peered through the plate-glass window, but saw no one inside.

Directly across the street was a hot-dog stand. Chet brightened.

“Chow time!” he exulted. “Twelve o’clock!” Besides, he could station himself by the stand. Nobody would suspect he was watching.

Chet strode over and ordered a hot dog and a tall glass of orange juice.

Two frankfurters and three glasses of juice later, Chet was still waiting for some sign of action at Kleng’s shop.

For an hour he strolled up and down the street keeping an eye on the store. Finally he stopped at the stand again and ordered a doughnut. As he took it from the man, he turned to face the store again. Suddenly his eyes widened.

A man was unlocking the door of the plumbing shop!

Chet gulped nervously as the man limped into the store. Thrusting the doughnut into his pocket, the stout boy crossed the street. He looked through the window, but could not see anyone.

The young detective wet his lips, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He tried the door and found it locked. Wiping his forehead, Chet paced back and forth for several minutes, staying a short distance from the shop.

Suddenly he started. Two men were leaving Kleng’s place! Backing into a doorway, Chet watched them cross the street. One was the man with the limp. The other was tall and thin.

As the pair neared the opposite curb, the taller man glanced around as if he suspected they were being followed. Chet swallowed and tried to look as if he were examining his wrist watch. The two men mounted a motorcycle and roared away.

Chet’s eyes popped at the peculiar, uneven rhythm of the motor. It was the machine Frank and Joe had described!

“Well, I guess I cased them!” Chet said to himself. “Now to report to headquarters!”

At the Hardys’ house, Chet found Mr. Hardy and Frank seated in the detective’s study. After greeting them, Chet earnestly told of his vigil. He wiped his brow as he concluded, “It was touch and go for a few minutes!”

Mr. Hardy smiled, but declared heartily, “That’s good work, Chet!”

“Are you going to tell the police?” the stout boy asked eagerly. “They could find the motorcycle and follow it to see where those fellows go!”

“That’s too risky,” replied Mr. Hardy. “If the gang got wind of the police, they might silence Dr. Foster and clear out fast. There’s a little time yet,” he added. “We must find them quietly on our own, then bring in help.” The detective went on to tell of his visit to Brookside. “I persuaded Mr. Kimball to level with me. Actually he doesn’t know as much as we do.”

“What about the man with the limp?” Chet asked.

Mr. Hardy shrugged. “A confederate. I feel sure now it would pay us to post a regular watch on the plumbing shop.”

Chet asked, “You mean me?”

“Why not?” the detective queried. “You did a good job today!”

The boy beamed. “Leave it to me, Mr. Hardy!”

Frank stood up. “Dad says Joe is watching Kleng’s house.”

“No, he was there,” said Chet, and told what Joe had found out about the plumber.

“He’s gone to Skull Mountain, all right,” said Frank, “and that’s where we should go to search for that hideout.”

“You can start tomorrow,” his father agreed. “Where’s Joe now, Chet?”

“Out in the Sleuth with Biff Hooper. They’re looking for the stuff we planted in the reservoir.”

“I’ll go down and help them,” said Frank. “Coming, Chet?”

“You bet.”

It was late afternoon when the boys arrived at the boathouse. The Sleuth had not returned.

“We’ll use our rowboat to look for Joe and Biff,” Frank said.

They found the Sleuth anchored in the bay. Joe and Biff were sitting in the cockpit. Frank rowed alongside. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No,” his brother replied. “I’m afraid the stuff came through during the storm and was washed out to sea.”

“If so,” Frank said, frowning, “we’ll have to forget it for now. First thing in the morning we’ve got to go to Skull Mountain and search for Dr. Foster.”

The Hardys swapped places, Frank taking the wheel of the Sleuth, Joe joining Chet in the rowboat. They hooked it by a towline to the speedboat and started off. Frank guided the two crafts as close to the rocky shore as he dared.

The boys examined the numerous coves which bit into the shoreline of the bay. Hours later, when it was dark, they still had seen no sign of the markers.

“Let’s quit,” Chet pleaded. “I’m starved!”

“We’ll try one more cove,” Frank said. “If we don’t spot the things, we’ll go home.”

He steered the Sleuth toward a rocky slit in the shore, then cut the motor. The two boats drifted into the cove.

Frank trained the speedboat’s searchlight on the steep shore. As he swept the light slowly along the water line, the other youths searched with their flashlights.

The lights made a complete sweep around the cove, but the boys saw nothing in the water.

Discouraged, Frank swung his craft slowly back toward the mouth of the inlet.

Suddenly Joe thought he saw a small white object bump against the Sleuth and veer away. “Hold it!” he yelled.

Frank quickly cut the motor and Joe leaned over the bow of the rowboat. He aimed the beam of his flashlight at the water.

With a whoop of joy he reached down and held up a dripping object. “Here it is—our duck!”

CHAPTER XIII

Dangerous Cargo

“THAT DOES IT!” Frank exclaimed as Joe showed the wet decoy to his excited companions. “Now we’re sure there’s an underground channel from the reservoir to the bay!”

“It must be a rough ride through the tunnel,” Biff remarked. “Look at the scratches on that duck!”

“Let’s see,” Frank said, and Joe passed him the decoy. He examined it carefully. “No clues on this, but it gives me an idea. Let’s look for the barrel stave and pine slab. Maybe there will be something on them to show where they entered the channel.”

Using the Sleuth’s searchlight, the boys scanned the surface of the water, but found nothing more,

“I bet the rest of the things are stuck somewhere in the tunnel,” Chet said.

Biff peered over the side of the speedboat. “Must be a current down below,” he observed. “Look how roily the water is here.”

Frank nodded. “It’s probably the fresh water flowing in from the reservoir—and stirring up the sand and mud particles on the bottom of the cove.”

The Hardys decided to return at daylight to see if the stave or slab had come through. Frank pressed the Sleuth’s starter button, and the motor throbbed. Before he eased the two boats carefully out of the cove, Joe took a piece of white chalk from his pocket and inscribed a large X on a rock, well above the high-tide mark.

At dawn the Hardys returned and easily found the chalk-marked cove again.

As Frank guided the Sleuth into the inlet, Joe grinned and pointed to a red-and-white object whirling in the water. “How’s that for luck!” he exclaimed.

Frank eased the craft over and Joe seized the barrel stave.

Quickly they examined it. Stuck in the cracked wood was a twig of bramble bush!

“That’s our clue!” Frank exclaimed. “There can’t be bramble in the underground channel, so this twig must have caught on the stave as it was swept into the opening.”

Joe chuckled. “Now all we have to do is locate the right bramble bush and we’ll know where the entrance to the tunnel is.”

Elated at their discovery, the boys headed the Sleuth back to the boathouse. The fresh breeze cutting across the bay aroused their appetites.

“I could eat a stack of flapjacks,” Joe said as they stepped ashore.

“So could I. With sausages.”

As the boys were crossing the boat landing on their way to a nearby diner, Frank suddenly clutched Joe by the arm. “Do you see what I see?” he whispered, pulling his brother down with him behind an empty barrel.

Walking along the dock was Sailor Hawkins! The old sea dog’s back was toward the boys, but his short, squat figure and rolling gait were immediately familiar.

‘What do you suppose he’s doing in Bayport?” asked Joe.

Frank shook his head. “One of us had better follow him,” he said. “He may be on some business for Sweeper.”

“I’ll do it,” Joe told him. “You drive home and pick up the stuff we’ll need for the camp. I’ll phone you later and tell you where to meet me.”

Joe followed Hawkins down the dock to a loading platform. He kept his eyes on the sailor, while side-stepping the shouting, sweating longshoremen who were trundling barrels and crates onto the wharf.

The arm of a boom swung out from a freighter over the loading platform and hooked a rope net laden with heavy boxes. The cable drew taut and the net was hauled swiftly into the air.

“Look out!” a dockhand yelled frantically.

Joe’s head snapped up at the warning. One of the rope strands had broken, and the hook had torn loose from the net. The heavy cargo was hurtling down on him.

He flung himself to one side and the boxes crashed to the dock—not six feet away! There was a surge of excited voices as men looked down at him from the rail of the freighter while others ran toward him along the wharf.

A longshoreman helped the youth to his feet. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Joe shook his head and brushed the dirt from his clothes. He looked at the spot where he had last seen Hawkins, but the sailor had disappeared.

With quick thanks, Joe shook off the dockhand and made his way toward the row of supply houses, cheap restaurants, and second-hand stores which lined the street opposite the wharf.

He looked through the windows of the stores, but did not see Sailor Hawkins.

Finally, at the end of the row, Joe came to a large warehouse. Cautiously he stepped inside. The dim interior was stacked with crates, but there were no longshoremen in sight. Joe stopped short. Not far away on a box sat Hawkins! His head was bent as he lit an old corncob pipe.

Joe slipped behind a large crate and waited. Soon he heard uneven footsteps approaching along the wooden floor. From his hiding place, he could make out a small, furtive-looking man who walked with a limp!

Joe tingled with sudden excitement. During the search for the outlet in the bay, Chet had told of seeing a man with Sweeper whose description tallied with this stranger’s.

The limping man went straight to the sailor and they exchanged a few whispered words. Then the small man took some bills from his wallet, counted them carefully, and gave the money to Hawkins.

“For the food,” he said aloud.

At that moment a dockworker came pushing a hand truck through the warehouse door. He stared curiously at the two men, then moved the truck toward the crate which concealed Joe.

“Oh no!” Joe thought. “Not this one!”

The laborer tilted the crate and slid the shoe of the truck under it. Joe glanced helplessly at the nearest place of concealment. It was the stack of crates beside which Hawkins and the limping stranger were standing.

An instant later the longshoreman saw the boy. “Hey!” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

Hawkins and the stranger turned swiftly. “So it’s you!” the old sailor roared, taking a threatening step toward Joe. “You blasted little spy!’

The limping man grabbed the sailor’s arm. “No, Hawkins!”

He whispered something rapidly in the seaman’s ear. Then the two men separated. Hawkins ran out the front door of the warehouse, while the man with the limp made for the rear exit.

Joe swerved past the dockworker and raced after Hawkins. The old sea dog’s short legs carried him with surprising speed, but Joe was more than a match for him.

He saw the sailor dodge into a doorway. Joe quickly stepped behind a truck. After a moment he saw Hawkins peer out from his refuge. Satisfied that he had shaken off his pursuer, the seaman walked calmly along the row of stores and entered a self-service grocery.

Joe went to the window of the store and stealthily looked in. Hawkins was going slowly up one of the aisles, selecting groceries.

“He’ll be there for a while,” Joe thought, noticing that a long line was waiting at the single check-out counter. The boy hurried into a drugstore and telephoned Frank.

“Meet me as soon as you can,” Joe instructed his brother and recounted his adventure. “Hawkins is buying a big load of supplies. They must be for the gang up on the mountain!”

When Joe hung up, Frank relayed the information to their father. “Maybe we can follow Hawkins to the hideout!” the boy said as he slipped into his jacket.

“I’d go with you,” said Mr. Hardy, “but I’ve had a call from the Chicago police asking me to stand by. I’ll have to go there as soon as they’re certain they’ve located the syndicate headquarters.” He reminded Frank to be cautious and added, “Good luck, son!”

Frank dashed to the convertible, which was already packed with their gear, and drove to the grocery.

“Hawkins loaded the supplies into an old jalopy and left five minutes ago,” Joe said as he hopped into the seat beside Frank.

A few miles out of Bayport on the highway leading toward Skull Mountain the boys saw a dilapidated sedan ahead of them.

“That’s the car!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank let the convertible slow down and adjusted its speed to the sedan’s rattling pace.

Soon the old car turned off onto the same dirt road the boys had used to detour the landslide. Frank and Joe followed at a distance. At the foot of the narrow trail which mounted the slope to the ridge, the sedan stopped. Quickly Frank parked the convertible behind a clump of trees.

A man the boys had never seen came out of the brush and helped Hawkins lift the heavy crate from the sedan. Together they started to carry it up the path.

The Hardys waited until Hawkins and his companion had a good head start, then followed. The men stopped frequently to rest, but finally reached the top of the mountain and disappeared behind a clump of boulders.

Frank and Joe quickly climbed the last steep section of the trail and cautiously rounded the same rocks. They stopped short, staring in surprise at a large empty clearing.

The stocky sailor and his helper had vanished!

CHAPTER XIV

A Mountain Puzzle

“WHAT happened to them?” Joe asked.

Frank shook his head. “It beats me,” he replied. “I don’t see where two men could have gone so quickly—especially carrying that heavy box.”

In the clearing where Frank and Joe stood there were only a few patches of blueberry bushes as high as the boys’ knees. The rest of the mountaintop was covered with trees. The brothers searched the woods, but found no trace of Hawkins or his companion.

“Come on!” Joe said impatiently. “This is getting us nowhere.”

They started down the mountain toward the reservoir, and half an hour later arrived at the camp. Bob and Dick greeted them with enthusiasm. It took the boys a full hour to recount their adventures and discoveries since they had last seen the engineers.

“By the way,” Joe said, “you were absolutely right about the subterranean channel.”

Bob and Dick exchanged looks of astonishment. “How do you know?” Bob asked. “We’re supposed to be the experts here, and you’re not giving us a chance!” He grinned.

Frank explained the boys’ experiment. “The gang must have devised a way to drain the water off at will,” he added. “That’s why it happens only at night.”

“And naturally when it’s dark,” Joe put in, “it would make it tougher to trace the current.”

“But we have a clue that may help you,” Frank said, and told of the bramble twig.

“Fellows, you’re great!” Bob exclaimed. “I’ll put the sounding crew to work looking for the bramble patch.” He went on to say that the new electronic equipment would not arrive until the next day, because it was coming from New York. “The water shortage is getting worse,” he added soberly. “We’ve just got to find that outlet!”

“And Joe and I have to locate the hideout and Dr. Foster,” Frank said. “You know,” he went on thoughtfully, “the gang must have some kind of equipment in the tunnel to shut the water off. If we find the channel, we might catch one of the gang members in there and make him talk.”

“That’s an idea!” said Joe. “Let’s concentrate today on finding the channel opening. Too bad Chet’s staked out at Kleng’s shop,” he added. “We could use him!”

After lunch the four set out. Bob and Dick circled the reservoir in the rowboat while the Hardys and the six-man crew walked along the shore to investigate the slopes above the present water line.

Hour after hour passed as the group inspected the banks, prodding and tearing with long poles, sticks and hatchets in an attempt to expose the earth wherever they found patches of brambles.

The prickly foliage clung to the rocky slope, scratching the boys’ hands and ankles when they dug into the underbrush.

“I have a feeling we’ve been through this before!” Joe said gloomily.

Late in the afternoon the four returned to the camp for a quick supper, but resumed their work at the reservoir immediately afterward. As dusk settled over the valley, the water level began to drop noticeably.

Suddenly Frank gripped Joe’s arm and pointed toward the crest of Skull Mountain, still bathed in a clear, yellow light. “Look!” he exclaimed. “The smoke again!”

Joe gazed at it intently for a few moments. “It looks to me as though it’s coming from the clearing where Hawkins and his pal disappeared so suddenly.”

“You’re right!” Frank said.

Bob and Dick were still in the rowboat. The Hardys shouted that they would join the engineers later, and started up the hillside. Darkness closed in around them as they climbed toward the steady stream of smoke.

“I’ve got a pocket flashlight,” said Frank, “but we’d better not use it. No telling who may be around here.”

“I hope that fire’s still burning when we get there.” Joe grunted. “I’ve run up and down this hill so often I feel like a mountain goat!”

No sooner had he spoken than the column of smoke vanished.

“That does it!” Joe declared in disgust.

“Come on!” Frank urged. “We’ve almost reached the top. It would be foolish to turn back now.”

Clambering over rocks in the darkness, the brothers finally arrived at the treeless patch on the summit.

“Not a trace of smoke,” said Joe.

“We’ll wait,” Frank decided. “If it starts up again, we’ll be here to spot it.”

The boys made themselves comfortable on the ground. Overhead the stars sparkled, and a full moon rose slowly above the hill on the other side of the reservoir. The night air was cool and fresh. As they sat quietly, a figure emerged from the trees beyond the clearing.

Instantly the boys flattened themselves on the ground behind some blueberry bushes. In the moonlight the man looked like a scarecrow.

“There’s your hermit, Frank!” exclaimed Joe.

He crossed the clearing and dumped his armful of fresh-cut firewood. After glancing cautiously around, he hurried to the top of the trail and looked down.

Satisfied, the fellow returned to the load of wood he had dropped. He bent and tugged at something nearby, then lifted aside a large, squarish slab of rock.

A narrow cleft showed black in the moonlight! Cradling the wood in his arms, the hermit stepped into the fissure and disappeared!

CHAPTER XV

The Escaping Stream

FRANK AND JOE ran to the spot where the hermit had disappeared. They peered down the dark cleft in the mountaintop. There was no sign of the man.

“This must be the source of the smoke!” Frank declared. “The rock is like a chimney cover.”

The two examined the slab and saw that there was a handhold chiseled into the underface so that it could be moved from the inside to close the crevice.

“This made a convenient escape hatch for Hawkins and his pal today!” Frank said.

“It seems to be a tunnel,” Joe mused. “Wonder where it goes.”

Frank lowered himself to the floor of the cleft. As Joe watched, he tested the slab to see how well it concealed the opening.

“It’s perfect!” Joe told him.

Frank seemed puzzled. “But for the smoke to come out, the crack has to be open—and then the cleft could be spotted easily.”

“Sure,” his brother said. “But who’s to see it? Bob and Dick have no business up here. That leaves us, maybe Potato Annie—”

“And Kleng’s gang,” Frank finished for him.

With his flashlight, Frank stepped down farther into the narrow fissure and shot the beam ahead, A low passage sloped downward into darkness. “You’re right! It’s a real tunnel!” he declared.

“Let’s have a look,” Joe said, dropping in beside his brother. He borrowed Frank’s light and played it on the irregular walls of the fissure. They were grimy with smoke smudges.

“Let’s explore it!” Joe urged.

“Okay. And find out where that hermit went.”

One behind the other, the boys crept into the tunnel and crawled slowly downward into the darkness. Here and there the passage turned sharply.

Suddenly Joe’s palm came down on a smooth cold object which rolled under his weight. With a startled gasp, he jerked back. The flashlight beam probed ahead, then shone directly on the object. It was a human skull!

Joe let out a sigh of relief. “The hermit’s trademark!” he whispered.

Frank chuckled softly, and the boys crawled on, with still no sight of the mountain man.

Soon the long, narrow shaft turned sharply again. Joe shot the light ahead, then exclaimed in relief as he inched a few feet forward and stood upright. The passage had become large enough to allow the boys to walk side by side. They did not go far, however, before they were forced to stop.

“The tunnel forks!” Joe said. “Now what do we do? And which way did that hermit go?”

“Let’s try the left.”

The broad passageway sloped downward, until the Hardys felt sure they had reached the very heart of the mountain. The air was damp but pure, and they breathed it gratefully.

“Wonder where it comes from,” Joe thought.

Down and down they went. Suddenly the tunnel leveled off, forming a small landing. Beyond, they could see that the shaft dropped sharply. The boys felt a swift current of air.

Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank’s arm. “Listen!” he whispered.

From the depth below came the rush of running water! The boys stepped to the edge of the landing and Joe aimed his light downward.

Flowing through a channel at the foot of the shaft was a swift, bubbling stream. “It’s the water from the reservoir!” Frank exclaimed.

“How do you know?”

“It has to be!” Frank told him. “It’s flowing from the direction of the valley!”

“Directions don’t mean much inside of a mountain,” Joe said doubtfully. “When we crawled through that passage, I lost track of which way is which.”

“Well, it’ll be easy to check,” his brother declared. “We’ll come back here during the day. If the water isn’t flowing then, we’ll be pretty certain that the channel runs from the reservoir!”

“Wait till Bob and Dick hear about this!” Joe said. “They’ll want to see for themselves.”

Frank nodded. “I think we’d better head for camp and tell them about it.”

The boys retraced their steps rapidly. When they reached the fork, Joe paused and said, “I’d sure like to know where this right-hand tunnel leads.”

“Let’s walk in a little way,” Frank suggested. “This must be where the hermit went.”

About a dozen feet into the passageway, Joe stopped abruptly. “Look!” he said. With his light he pointed to a piece of bark which lay on the ground. “That proves he came this way with his armload of wood!”

“The tunnel must lead to the place where the wood is burned—probably a cavern,” Frank said. “I’d be willing to bet that’s the gang’s headquarters!”

Joe grinned. “Let’s pay ’em a surprise visit!”

“The tunnel forks!” Joe said. “Which way did that hermit go?”

“No,” Frank said. “The two of us would be no match for the whole bunch.”

“But we could spy on them and find out what their game is,” Joe persisted. “We might even find Dr. Foster.”

“That’s quite possible,” Frank agreed. “But if they caught us, it would wreck the whole rescue operation.”

Joe saw the point and the boys returned to the place where the tunnel forked and resumed climbing. Soon they dropped to their hands and knees and crawled into the low tunnel which led to the mountaintop. Joe went ahead with the flashlight, Frank following a few feet behind.

The air was thinner and their progress slower. The boys were still some distance from the top when Frank stopped and began to sniff. “Joe—” he called.

“I know. I smell it too.”

Rising from the passage below them was the odor of wood smoke !

Joe groaned, remembering the open fissure at the top of the mountain. “We called this a chimney, but we forgot what that means!” he said to himself ruefully.

“Hurry!” Frank urged. “We must get out of here!”

As the boys scrambled upward, the smoke became thicker. It wreathed around them, stinging their eyes and making them cough and gasp for air.

The two crawled on, hoping that each turn in the shaft would bring them to the opening.

Smoke now began to stream through the passage in a dense cloud. The boys clutched at their throats and coughed until they felt their lungs would burst.

Suddenly Frank collapsed. His hands clawed at the rock floor, but his limbs were too heavy to move. The walls of the low tunnel seemed to be closing in on him!

“Keep going, Joe!” he called hoarsely. He heard his own voice as if it were coming from a great distance. “I can’t make it!”

He saw Joe turn. Then the flashlight spun out of his brother’s hand and the smoke-filled tunnel was plunged into darkness!

CHAPTER XVI

A Night Light

HOW LONG Frank had been unconscious, he did not know. As he revived, his eyes still smarted from the smoke, but above him he could see a starry sky. A hand tilted a canteen toward his lips and cool water dribbled into his parched mouth.

“Take it easy,” a voice said. “You’ll be all right.”

Frank’s eyes opened wide. The speaker was Bob.

“Where—? What—?” Frank began, then remembered. “Joe,” he asked anxiously, raising himself on his elbows. “Is he—?”

Bob pushed him down gently. “He’s safe, too.”

Frank sank back, relieved. “How did you find us?” he asked after a few moments.

“We saw the smoke when you and Joe started up the slope,” Bob told him, “and figured you were going to investigate it.”

Dick added, “When the smoke disappeared and you didn’t return, we came up on the ridge to look for you.”

Bob nodded. “We saw the open crevice and crawled in, but didn’t go far before smoke started to come up.”

“It was lucky we saw your light before it went out,” Dick went on. “You weren’t far from the mouth of the crevice.”

Frank smiled gratefully. Then, as Bob and Dick gave their attention to Joe, Frank looked about him. A short distance away smoke was still pouring from the open fissure.

It was several minutes before Joe regained consciousness. By then Frank had gathered strength. He went to kneel beside his brother.

“Oh, my aching head!” Joe mumbled.

Frank nodded. “Guess that’s what happens to people who go exploring in chimneys!”

Soon both boys declared they felt strong enough to make the descent to the camp. They moved slowly, their knees still weak. When the four reached the shack, Frank and Joe told the engineers what they had discovered.

“You’ve found the channel!” Bob exclaimed. “That’s terrific!”

“I think so,” said Frank, “and we’re pretty sure the gang has headquarters inside that mountain!”

“It sounds possible,” Bob agreed. “But why do they want the water to run out of the reservoir?”

“I don’t know yet,” Frank replied. “But at least we can make sure tomorrow whether the channel is the right one.”

“Dick and I will go with you,” Bob said promptly. “But first we ought to get gas masks. We don’t want to be smoked out in that chimney!”

“There are some gas masks in your office in Bayport,” Dick told him. “I stowed ’em there after our last field trip. Guess I’d better drive down and get them.”

“We’ll do it!” Joe said. He explained that Fenton Hardy must be told of their suspicions about the hideout in the mountain.

Bob gave the boys his office key. “How about hitting the trail first thing in the morning?” he asked.

“Make it at sunup,” Frank said. “Joe and I will meet you at the top of the mountain!”

Later, as the boys spun along the highway in their convertible, the cool night air cleared their lungs of the last bit of smoke.

They stopped at Bob’s office to pick up oxygen masks, then drove through the streets of Bayport. The usually bustling business section was silent and deserted. It was almost midnight.

As they approached Kleng’s shop, Frank slowed the car and the two looked through the plate-glass window. Swiftly Frank brought the convertible to a stop a few feet beyond the store.

A light shone in the rear of the shop! The boys walked stealthily back to the window and saw that the gleam came from a transom over the door of Kleng’s office.

Cautiously Joe tried the door of the shop. It was unlocked. He started to open it, but his brother seized his arm.

“Hold it!” he whispered.

Frank looked along the deserted street. In front of a fruit store a few doors away some empty crates had been piled at the curb to be picked up by the rubbish collectors.

He carried the largest crate to the door and stood it on end. Then he climbed onto the box and pushed open the door a few inches with one hand. With the other he stuffed his handkerchief up into the bell, which tinkled every time someone entered the shop.

“It can’t give us away now,” he whispered to Joe, and pushed the door wide.

After quickly replacing the crate at the curb, the boys slipped into the shop, closing the door quietly behind them.

The door to Kleng’s office was closed, but the transom was slightly ajar. The boys could hear a faint murmur of voices.

Frank gestured to Joe, and they tiptoed toward the office. As they came to the end of the counter, they suddenly heard a muffled thumping.

“What was that?” Joe whispered, startled.

The noise came again. The boys leaned over the counter and looked down. Someone was lying on the floor, bound and gagged!

Joe ran around the counter and turned on his flashlight. A pair of eyes looked at him appealingly. The prisoner was Chet Morton!

CHAPTER XVII

The Rear Room

JOE UNTIED the rope which bound Chet’s hands and feet, while Frank removed the plump boy’s gag.

Chet gasped. “Am I glad—”

“Not so loud!” Frank cautioned him in a low voice, glancing toward the office.

“How did this happen?” Joe asked softly.

In a whisper Chet said that while returning from a late movie, he had decided to pass the plumbing shop to see if everything was in order.

“I saw the light—thought I ought to investigate,” he went on. “The bell tinkled when I stepped into the shop and two guys came out of the back room and jumped me.”

He looked at the Hardys quizzically. “How come the bell didn’t give you away?”

Joe showed his handkerchief and Chet nodded understandingly.

“Who are they?” Frank queried, nodding toward the rear room.

“Sweeper and Limpy.”

The three boys looked at the light in the transom over the closed door. Although they could hear voices, the sound was too faint for them to distinguish the words.

Suddenly they became aware of a strange, hissing noise.

Frank tiptoed to the door and looked through the keyhole, but the key was in it. Quietly he placed a chair beside the door, climbed up, and gently pushed open the transom a few more inches.

Sweeper and the man with the limp were kneeling on the floor in front of a small iron safe. Sweeper was holding an acetylene torch, and its bluish flame was cutting a circle through the metal around the lock of the safe.

Frank felt a tug at his trouser leg and looked down. Chet was eager to see what was going on.

Frank stepped down and whispered, “Safe-cracking.”

As Chet climbed onto the chair, both Hardys signaled him to be careful.

Chet nodded reassuringly, then tried to peek through the transom. “I can’t reach!” he whispered. “Can you find me a couple of books to stand on?”

Joe nodded reluctantly. He brought a few bound catalogs from the counter and Chet stacked them on the seat of the chair. He climbed onto them and teetered precariously.

“Watch out!” Frank whispered sharply. He grabbed at the plump youth, but too late! Chet gave Frank a wild, despairing look as the catalogs skidded out from under his feet. He leaped to the floor, past the tumbling books.

The boys heard exclamations from inside the office. The acetylene torch was shut off.

Swiftly Frank lifted the chair away from the door, then he and Joe ducked behind the end of a far counter. Chet lay down where he had been before as if bound and jammed the gag into his mouth. The office door was flung open and Sweeper came straight to Chet.

“Mmm. Okay. It wasn’t him.”

“Then what was it?” asked Limpy from the doorway.

Sweeper stared at the books sprawled near the upright chair. At that moment a large black cat walked into the rectangle of light which streamed through the open doorway. He stopped and looked at the two men, then meowed piteously.

Sweeper laughed. “A snooping cat—that’s what it was!” he said, pointing. ‘Must’ve jumped on the chair and knocked ail those books off.”

He picked up a book and threw it at the animal. The cat squalled and ran to another part of the shop.

“Come on, Green!” Sweeper said impatiently. “We’ve got to finish this job.”

Green limped after him and closed the door. Again there came the sound of the acetylene torch.

Frank signaled a huddle, and the boys moved some distance from the door. “We must get word to Dad and Chief Collig.”

But Chet shook his head. “Your dad’s in Chicago,” he whispered. “He got a phone call shortly after you left to pick up Joe at the grocery. He telephoned me and said to tell you he’d be back as soon as he could.”

Joe groaned. “And we wanted to show him the tunnel and look for the hideout.”

“We’ll have to handle it alone,” said Frank. He turned to Chet. “The convertible’s parked a few doors to the left of the shop. Drive to Chief Collig’s house and bring him here!”

“Will do,” said Chet, and hurried out.

The Hardys hastened back to the office door and Joe took up the watch. Several minutes later he saw the torch cut a complete circle through the metal of the safe. Its lock fell out onto the floor.

Sweeper swung the heavy door open, reached into the safe, and took out a metal box. He snapped the lid up and dumped the contents on a desk.

The thin man fumbled through some papers impatiently, then snatched an envelope. He drew out a roll of currency.

“There it is!” he cried exultantly, flipping the bills with his thumb. “Five thousand bucks! Kleng’s promised me this cash ever since I started to do his dirty work, but he’s never delivered. Well, we’re square now, even if Kleng doesn’t know it!”

Green wasn’t listening. He leafed nervously through the scattered papers, wetting his lips and muttering under his breath.

Finally he drew out a bank check and stared at it. His fingers trembled. A look of triumph came over his face.

“That it?” Sweeper asked.

“Yes.” Green looked at Sweeper, his mouth quivering. “For years, Kleng’s been holding this against me,” he said. “I used to be a respectable accountant. I worked for Kleng. Then, to get more money for my family, I forged his name to this check.” He broke off and stared at the slip of paper. “Kleng threatened to have me sent to jail unless I helped him carry out his scheme. But now!” His voice was suddenly gleeful. “I’ll destroy the check and be free!”

Sweeper laughed. “We’re both free, fella! You can forget Kleng and I’ll spend the five thousand!”

Suddenly the boys heard a noise at the front door. Someone outside was fumbling with the handle. Quickly Joe stepped down, swung the chair aside, and ducked behind the counter with Frank.

The front door opened and sharp heel taps sounded on the floor. From their hiding place, the boys saw a woman open the office door. The light fell on her face.

Mrs. Kleng! She stared into the back room. “What are you two doing here?” she demanded.

Then the boys saw Sweeper’s arm pull her into the office. The door slammed shut.

Joe glanced at Frank. “What shall we do?”

“Better wait for Chet and the chief. If the three in there try to leave, we’ll stop them.”

Angry voices sounded in the office. In shrill tones Mrs. Kleng denounced Sweeper and his companion for their treachery.

“My husband planned this whole reservoir setup,” she declared, “and now you think you’re going to rob him! He’s the one who got the syndicate to promise the backing and what have you done, but—”

“I’ve done plenty!” Sweeper cut in. “And if it weren’t for my brains, this whole operation would have been sunk!”

The woman snorted contemptuously. “Brains! You’re so stupid you left the front door unlocked while you robbed the safe!”

Green spoke up excitedly, “We couldn’t help it. The lock was jammed!”

“Pipe down!” ordered Sweeper. “Somebody’ll hear you!”

After that the voices fell and the boys could catch only a sharp word now and then. Suddenly the front door opened and the Hardys whirled to see Chief Collig with Chet.

Quietly the two walked to Frank and Joe. “Reinforcements coming,” the chief said softly. “The men still in there?”

Frank nodded. “Mrs. Kleng’s with them, and they didn’t seem too happy to see her.” Briefly, he whispered what he and Joe had overheard.

Chief Collig nodded, then walked past the boys to the office. With one quick movement, he threw open the door. “All right, lady,” he said. “Step aside.”

Mrs. Kleng whirled around with a startled look. “What’s the idea?” she asked.

“You’re all under arrest!” the chief announced gruffly.

Sweeper saw the boys and snarled. Green stood gasping like a hooked fish.

“You can’t arrest me!” Mrs. Kleng’s voice rose shrilly. “My husband owns this shop! I came here for some money he asked me to get for him and found these two crooks”—she pointed a bony finger at Sweeper and Green—“breaking into the safe! They’re the guilty ones!”

Collig was not impressed. “I’m holding you as a material witness.”

Mrs. Kleng flashed him a bitter look. “Do what you want. I won’t talk.”

The chief produced a pair of handcuffs and chained the two men together.

“Sweeper,” said Frank, “where’s Dr. Foster?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the tall man replied.

“You’d better tell us,” Joe said sharply.

Sweeper raised his brows. “Take it easy, boy. You don’t know who I am. I’ll be out of this jam before daylight.”

“You’re Timothy Kimball Jr.,” said Joe, “and this is one time your father can’t help you.”

The thief stared at Joe. “You think you’re pretty smart, figuring that out.”

“You’d be wise to cooperate, Kimball,” said the chief. “Where’s that hideout?”

Sweeper’s lips tightened. “I’m telling nothing,” he said. And neither is Green, if he knows what’s good for him.”

The small man gulped.“ ’Course not, Sweeper. I won’t talk.”

Sweeper gave the Hardys a twisted smile. “It’s all up to you, boys,” he said. “Good luck!”

Flanked by the boys, the chief marched his three prisoners to the door, where a squad car had pulled up.

“This takes care of some of the crooks,” Joe said, grinning. “Now for the others!”

CHAPTER XVIII

The Secret Tunnel

DAYLIGHT was breaking over Skull Mountain when Frank and Joe climbed to the top of the narrow trail. Bob and Dick greeted them on the ridge.

The boys unslung the gas masks from their shoulders and handed one to each of the engineers, keeping a mask apiece for themselves. All had canteens and flashlights.

“Where’s Chet?” asked Dick.

“Still in the sack,” Joe replied with a grin. “He’s coming later in his jalopy.”

“See your dad?” Bob questioned them, looping the strap of his mask around his neck.

“No,” said Frank. He quickly told all that had happened the night before.

“Did you tell the police about the tunnel that you think goes to the gang’s hideout?” Bob asked.

“Yes,” replied Frank, “and while we were at Chief Collig’s office last night, he called Dad in Chicago. We reported all we’d discovered so far, and it was decided to round up the gang here tomorrow.”

Joe explained that Mr. Hardy was ready to arrest the members of the syndicate in Chicago, but figured he might need one more day.

“In the meantime,” Frank put in, “he wants us to locate the cavern and any tunnels that go to it. We’re to sketch the layout for the police, so they can cut off all avenues of escape.”

Bob gave a low whistle. “If one of the gang catches sight of you, it could wreck the whole operation.”

“To say nothing of what they’d do to you if they nab you,” Dick added.

“It’ll be touchy,” Frank agreed with a grin.

“We’ll be glad to help you,” said Bob.

Dick nodded. “Just say what you want us to do.”

“Thanks,” said Frank. “First let’s see if there’s water in the channel. After that, we’ll tackle the right-hand branch of the tunnel.”

A moment later the rectangular slab of rock had been removed and the crevice exposed.

Joe slid into the fissure, then Bob and Dick followed. Frank came last, and using the handhold, pulled the rock over the opening. The Hardys turned on their lights and crawled single file into the low-roofed tunnel ahead.

The four worked their way downward on their hands and knees. After a while they were able to walk erect. When they reached the fork, Joe paused. For a few minutes the boys listened for a sound from the right-hand shaft.

“You think the gang is down there now?” Bob asked quietly.

“Could be,” Frank replied. “We’d better be quiet. No telling how sound carries in these passages.”

Walking softly, the boys descended the tunnel which led to the underground stream. As they drew closer, the Hardys realized there was no sound of rushing water. Soon the floor leveled off, and the four saw the small landing ahead. They hastened to the edge and Frank shone his light downward. The floor below was damp, and tiny pools of water sparkled in the light. But the stream they had seen the night before was gone!

“That proves it!” Frank declared, his eyes shining. “This is the tunnel which runs from the reservoir!”

Bob nodded. “There’s no doubt of that now,” he said slowly. He stared down at the empty channel. “There can be only one explanation why the water flows through at night and not during the day,” he added. “And that’s a lock! It’s probably close to the mouth of the tunnel.”

Dick grinned. “All we have to do now,” he pointed out, “is what we’ve been trying to do all along—locate the entrance to the channel and close it!”

“Maybe we could just block it off here,” Joe suggested.

Bob shook his head. “We couldn’t be sure the block would hold in this place.”

Joe played his flashlight beam down on a jagged gap in the rock wall across the shaft.

“As long as the water’s dammed up during the day,” he said hopefully, “one of us might be able to crawl through that opening and along the tunnel to the mouth!”

“Nothing doing!” Frank told his brother. “That hole is too small as it is, and the passage may get a lot smaller as it goes along!”

“Frank’s right, Joe,” Bob said. “It could be suicide! We’ll just have to keep hunting for the mouth of the tunnel until we find it.”

Joe chuckled. “If the roundup comes off tomorrow, you won’t have to look any more. We’ll get the information from the gang.”

But as the boys climbed up the tunnel again, the Hardys thought seriously of the next day. As seasoned detectives, they knew better than to be overconfident.

When the four reached the fork, they stopped.

Dick nodded toward the other branch of the tunnel. “Ready for a look-see?” he asked softly.

“Wait,” said Frank. “I think it would be wise to cover ourselves. Chet should be at the camp by now. We’ll go down and tell him what we’re doing. If we don’t come back in a reasonable time, he can go for help.”

The others agreed and they continued to the top of the mountain. After crawling out of the crevice, they placed the stone over it and hurried down the mountain.

When they reached the shack, they found Chet pouring himself a glass of milk.

“Make it five glasses,” Dick said, “and we’ll tell you our news.”

Joe spoke up. “Chet, my boy, we have a job for you.”

His plump friend looked up warily. “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m not over yesterday’s job yet.”

“All you need is a wrist watch,” Frank said. “You check around four o’clock this afternoon and if we aren’t back by then, you head for the nearest telephone and inform Chief Collig.”

Joe explained what the day’s plan was and quickly told Chet how to reach the entrance to the tunnels so that he could lead the police if necessary.

“Meanwhile, maybe you could help the soundmg crew,” Bob said. “The electronic equipment should be here in a few hours.”

“Okay,” said Chet. “That sounds safe enough.”

“I’d like to give the crew instructions before we head back to the summit,” said Bob, and the others walked down toward the men’s quarters with him.

Going down the slope of the reservoir, Frank noted that the hard ground underfoot was covered with the stumps of bramble bushes. Nearby was the large patch of heavy shrubbery left by the clearing crew. The water had risen as usual, covering part of the bushes. Frank paused and gazed at them thoughtfully.

“No use looking at that,” Dick said gloomily “We’ve prodded it a thousand times, I guess. There’s nothing but solid rock underneath.”

“I’ll bet it’s brambles,” said Frank, “like the rest of the stuff that was cut down around here.”

“So what?” said Chet. “With solid rock underneath there can’t be a tunnel.”

But Frank was already striding across the slope. “I’m going to have another look,” he called back.

As the others followed, they saw Frank reach the shrubs and break off a piece.

When Joe trotted up, his brother held out the twig. “Brambles.”

The Hardys peered into the thorny bushes. “They’re not growing as close to the ground as they look,” Joe remarked. “We could crawl in underneath and check that stone, if you want to.”

“It’ll be a scratchy job,” Frank said, ‘but I think we’d better.”

He stooped and crept into an opening at the base of the bushes. Joe followed. To their surprise, if they kept low, the branches barely touched them.

Inside the bramble patch it was dim, but sunlight filtered through and dappled the steep slope. A foot or so below them, amid the dark branches, the water lapped softly. Near the center of the bushes, they came to a huge slab of rock resting against the hillside with its base hidden in the water.

Suddenly Frank gripped his brother’s arm and pointed to the top edge of the rock. A narrow opening lay just above it!

Quick examination showed other gaps between the slab and the hill. Behind the rock was an opening!

“The tunnel!” exclaimed Frank. “This must be it!”

“But how do you get in?”

The brothers pulled hard at the edge of the slab. Suddenly, with a swish of the water, the big stone pivoted out about a foot.

Hearts pounding, the boys gazed into a dark tunnel with water gleaming on the bottom.

Joe gave a low two-toned whistle which Chet knew as a signal and in a few minutes the others stood with the Hardys at the mouth of the channel.

Bob and Dick could hardly keep from shouting for joy, but all remained silent.

They shone their lights into the narrow opening and saw that the gap behind the stone was roughly twelve feet high by six feet wide. Four feet above their heads was a narrow wooden catwalk built on supports which rested on the tunnel bottom. Just inside the entrance was a crude set of wooden rungs leading up to the catwalk.

Suddenly from deep inside the mountain came a high-pitched cry for help. The boys froze as it quavered and died. Once more it came. Then silence. The listeners exchanged anxious looks. Had it been Dr. Foster?

Frank’s eyes narrowed with decision. “Chet,” he said crisply, “you drive to the nearest phone and call Chief Collig. Tell him the rescue won’t wait till tomorrow. We’ll meet you and the police at the shack in two hours.”

“Take the convertible,” put in Joe.

“Meanwhile we’ll case the layout,” said Frank, “the way Dad asked us to.”

“Okay,” said Chet, and promptly started crawling out of the shrubbery. “Good luck,” he called back hoarsely as the others began climbing the ladder to the catwalk.

They saw that the side walls of the tunnel were made of shale, clay, and limestone. The dim light coming through the narrow opening behind them enabled the four explorers to see for a distance of several feet. But directly ahead the tunnel turned sharply and was lost in darkness.

The boys waited on the catwalk while Bob, who was last, reached out and easily pulled the big stone shut again. “It’s balanced on a pivot,” he thought.

Then they flicked on their flashlights and cautiously followed Joe, who was in the lead.

At the first turn he stopped. “Don’t need lights. Lanterns ahead,” he whispered to Frank, who passed the information down the line.

Walking under the flickering oil lanterns which had been strung along the passage, the boys felt keenly the danger of their position. Suppose someone came toward them around the next bend or into the tunnel from behind? There was no place to hide!

Hearts pounding, they rounded the second bend and stopped. “The lock!” Dick whispered.

Before them was a crude wooden structure nearly as high as the catwalk. It had two doorlike wings made of planks which met in the center. When the wings were closed, as they were now, the water was impounded. Behind the lock, the ditch was dry.

“There’s the gadget that operates it,” Bob whispered. He indicated an iron wheel at the side of the tunnel. It resembled the brake wheel of a railway freight car.

The four continued quietly along the wooden walk. Suddenly, when about to turn another bend, they heard footsteps approaching. The searchers stopped dead.

“Into the ditch!” Frank exclaimed softly, and swung himself down into the channel. Noiselessly the other three did the same. They flattened themselves against the rock wall under the catwalk. The footsteps came nearer and passed overhead.

The boys peered out and saw the man’s back in the light of a lantern. Sailor Hawkins! Briefly he inspected the lock, then returned along the catwalk. The four lifted themselves out of the sluiceway as soon as the old seaman had disappeared.

“That cavern where the men hide out can’t be far ahead!” Frank whispered excitedly.

He and his companions moved forward again. In a few moments they came to a small cave on the left. Joe poked his head in for a look around, but withdrew it with a start.

“Skulls!” he whispered. “The hermit’s supply room!”

Finally the boys and the engineers reached a cleft in the rock wall of the passage. Its floor, starting on a level with the catwalk, sloped upward for several feet. Then the crack expanded into a deep cavern, dimly lighted by lanterns.

From the darkness of the cleft, the four could see another fissure which slanted upward into the far wall of the big chamber.

Frank pointed to it. “That shaft must be the one which leads to the fork,” he whispered. On one side of it was a kiln and on the other a workbench. Stacked against the wall were boxes of supplies and across the chamber was a group of cots.

“Quiet!” Bob warned. “There’s a man!”

From an opening in the right wall strode Sailor Hawkins. He was carrying a plank, which he took to the bench and began sawing. The blade bit into the wood with swift, efficient strokes, and the boys observed that the seaman was cutting a board the same length and width as the planks in the lock.

“I’ll bet Hawkins built the lock,” Bob whispered.

“Look!” Frank whispered. “Here comes the hermit!”

The gaunt figure was staggering down the shaft from the mountaintop, his arms laden with split cordwood. He dropped the wood on the floor and walked to one corner of the room, where he sat on a box and leaned against the rock wall.

“Look!” Joe whispered, and pointed to the opening from which Hawkins had come.

A frail, slightly stooped man with white hair stood there uncertainly. Then he walked to the kiln, opened the oven, took out something and examined it. Beside the kiln stood a wheelbarrow, heaped with what looked like mud.

The hermit stood up and approached the old man in a deferential manner.

“That must be Dr. Foster!” Frank said in an excited whisper.

Joe nodded. “What’s he doing?” he asked.

Frank shook his head, and Bob whispered back, “I don’t know, but it looks as if he’s testing something in the kiln—maybe that mud.”

“Perhaps the gang believes there are mineral deposits in the valley,” Frank said softly. “No wonder they don’t want the water to rise there.”

“Think Foster is a member of the gang?” Dick asked.

“I doubt it,” Frank replied, keeping his voice down. “He doesn’t look like the sort of man who would willingly get involved in anything crooked.”

The fire door below the kiln had been opened, and the man of the mountain was stoking it with wood. A cloud of smoke poured from the galvanized-iron stack which led from the kiln into the shaftway beyond.

“There’s the source of the mysterious smoke!” Joe whispered.

Suddenly two men walked into the cavern from the side opening. One, stocky and surly-looking, had red hair. The other, who was smaller, wore a rumpled business suit spotted with clay.

Frank started. “The first man is Kleng!” he muttered to Bob and Dick. “The other is the stranger who was with Kleng and Sweeper the night they set me adrift!”

The two men joined Dr. Foster and stared at the kiln. “What about it?” the stranger said impatiently. “Is it cesium?”

Dr. Foster turned to the man fearfully. “I’ve told you, Mr. Stoper,” he began, “I need more time to make the—”

“Time!” Stoper barked. “You want me to knock you down again? Nobody hears you when you yell, you know,” he added with an ugly smile. He stubbed his finger into the scientist’s chest. “I want results—and fast! Get it?”

“Take it easy,” Kleng protested. “We need the old man.”

“I gave you four days to produce results,” Stoper said. “You’ve got till midnight tomorrow. After that, the syndicate needs nobody. They pull out.” His eyes narrowed coldly. “They’ll make it rough on you, Kleng, for wasting their time.”

The plumber’s face glistened with sweat. “We’re doing the best we can.”

Stoper looked at his watch. “Where are Sweeper and Green? Why aren’t they back?”

“I don’t know. Yesterday they had errands to do. This morning they were to go to my house and get some money from my wife. They should have been here an hour ago.”

Stoper paced nervously. “I don’t like it. Maybe I ought to close this operation right now. Finish off the old man and—”

“No, no, Ben!” Kleng said. “Wait till tomorrow.”

The hidden watchers barely breathed as Stoper scowled, considering what to do. Finally he said, “Okay—one more day. Cesium’s worth it.”

Cesium! Ben! The Hardys exchanged knowing glances. The parts of their puzzle were beginning to form a clear picture. Cesium was the precious metal the gang hoped to extract from the ore in the valley. The boys knew it was important in the production of photoelectric cells and transistors. And Stoper was Ben, the sender of the telegram Kleng had received.

“We’d better get back,” Frank whispered.

The four watchers slipped noiselessly from their hiding place and started back along the catwalk. As they rounded the first turn, they stopped short, too startled to speak! Striding toward them was the stranger who had helped Hawkins carry the groceries! Before the boys could move, a revolver gleamed in his hand.

“All right,” he said harshly. “Back you go!”

CHAPTER XIX

A Surprising Explanation

KLENG AND Ben Stoper stared as the Hardy boys and the engineers were herded into the cavern.

“Where’d you find them?” Stoper demanded of the man who held the gun.

“Just outside—on the catwalk,” he replied.

Kleng’s face hardened. “How’d you locate the tunnel?” he barked.

“We knew it was hidden by brambles,” Joe replied. As he held the men’s attention with the story of the twig on the barrel stave, Frank quietly sized up the situation.

The man of the mountain was gone, but a hard-faced man lounged beside the crevice which led to the mountaintop. It was the fellow who had thrown the can into the surf. Dr. Foster stood trembling by the kiln, plainly too frail to help the boys.

“Four of them, and four of us,” Frank figured, “and one is armed—maybe the others.” He decided it would be best to stall and wait for Chet to arrive with the police. “When he doesn’t find us at the shack, he’ll lead them here,” Frank thought.

As Joe finished talking, Stoper turned to Kleng with a sneer. “These kids are smarter than you and your whole bunch of bunglers.”

Kleng’s face grew red. “Don’t worry. Nobody else’ll find that opening!”

“Unless they told somebody where it is,” Stoper said smoothly. Then he barked at Frank, “Where’s that fat kid?”

“Yeah,” said a hoarse voice. It was the man lounging at the crevice. “Maybe he’s running for the cops right this minute. Want me to try to head him off?”

“Hold it, Hank,” Stoper ordered, and turned to the man with the revolver. “Did you let one get away, Fox?” he asked sarcastically.

The man’s eyes flashed. “You think you’re a big wheel from Chicago, Stoper, but all you’ve done so far is talk. How’d you like to sit all night on the mountain with a rifle and—”

“Don’t give me that!” Stoper broke in. “Where were you when the Hardys dropped their floats in the reservoir?”

Fox blustered “We didn’t think anybody would go down there that night. The hermit reported that the engineers had left the mountain!”

“Shut up you two!” barked Kleng. “You’re wasting time!” He poked Joe in the chest. “You—where’s the fat boy?”

“He’s not on the mountain,” Joe replied.

“Then forget him,” Kleng said to his companions. He signaled Fox, who gave Bob a push.

“March!” The four were herded into the small dimly lighted rock chamber which adjoined the cavern. They were ordered to lie down on the damp floor. Their hands and feet were securely tied, then the men left.

The minutes dragged on. The Hardys and the engineers discussed their situation, then subsided into worried silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. What were Kleng’s plans for them? Suppose he acted before Chet and the police arrived? One thing was certain: Kleng would not allow them to go free and expose him and his gang.

Suddenly the prisoners heard footsteps and a moment later Hawkins appeared, thrusting Dr. Foster before him. Directing the scientist to lie on the floor, the sailor quickly tied his hands and feet.

As soon as Hawkins clomped out of the room, Frank turned to the white-haired man. He appeared to be near the breaking point. “What happened?”

The scientist grimaced. “Stoper would wait no longer. They forced me to talk. I had to tell them there was no cesium in the ore they brought me to test. Now they will get rid of all of us.”

His voice quavered. “No doubt you’re all won dering why I’m mixed up with those men. This is the story.”

Several years ago, he told them, before Tarnack Dam had been blueprinted, he had prospected for cesium on Skull Mountain. He had read the geological theory of the subterranean passage but thought it fanciful. One day, however, while poking along the hillside, then densely forested, he had come upon the mouth of the channel.

“I explored the tunnel with great excitement,” the scientist said, “and discovered deposits of ore which contained cesium.”

He coughed, chilled by the damp floor, then continued. “Deep inside the mountain, I found the cavern, and the cleft running clear to the top of the ridge! Gentlemen, what awe I felt when I saw this ancient natural wonder!” He paused, remembering the experience.

“How do Kleng and Stoper fit into this?” Joe asked.

Their hands and feet were securely tied

Kleng, Dr. Foster explained, had been recommended to him as a man who could raise money to work the deposits in the tunnel. The scientist had told the plumber he was not positive that there was enough cesium to make it worth mining, but he wanted to test more of the ore and find out.

Kleng had been tremendously interested in the project, and had persuaded Dr. Foster to show him the tunnel. But the plumber had failed to raise the money, and plans for testing the deposits had to be abandoned.

“Then, about five weeks ago,” the scientist went on, “I received a telegram from Kleng. He told me a group of men had agreed to put up the money for the project, and permission to mine the tunnel had been granted by the Coastal Power and Light Company. I know now that was a lie. Kleng insisted that I come to Bayport at once.”

Dr. Foster’s voice became bitter. “When I got here, I found that I was not only to analyze ore from the tunnel, but also some from the slopes of the reservoir. Kleng’s men brought it in at night and camouflaged their digging with low shrubs.”

“The rats!” Bob said. “To keep the valley clear to mine the cesium, Kleng had to keep the reservoir from filling up.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Foster. “I saw what their scheme was. Then I discovered I was a prisoner! I knew they would dispose of me as soon as the tests were finished, so I insisted they bring me a kiln.”

The boys looked puzzled and Dr. Foster explained. “The gang thought it was necessary for the tests. Of course it was not. I used the kiln to stall for time and make smoke, which I hoped someone would see and investigate.”

“But how could the gang hope to get away with the mining operation?” Dick asked, puzzled.

“The Chicago syndicate is powerful,” the scientist said. “They control an engineering company which was to mine the ore under the pretense of cutting away the reservoir banks to solve the escaping water problem. Stoper said this firm would have no trouble getting the job from the Coastal Power and Light Company.”

“Did Hawkins build the lock?” Frank asked.

Dr. Foster nodded. “The old sailor was incensed at the prospect of losing his home because of the water project, and Kleng found him a willing ally in his scheme to divert the water to the sea.”

“Does Potato Annie fit into the picture?” asked Bob.

Dr. Foster said that she had helped the gang for the same reason, supplying them with vegetables from her garden.

“What about the shaggy old guy?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Joe said grimly. “We’ve plenty of things to settle with him!”

Dr. Foster coughed gently. “I can well imagine how you feel about Tom Darby,” he said, “but I hope you won’t hold him responsible for all of his actions. He’s devoted to me, and terrified of the others. Kleng threatened to send him back to the county poor farm if he did not obey orders. Otherwise, I’m sure he would have helped me escape.”

“What do you know about him?” Dick asked.

Tom Darby, the scientist said, had run away from the county poor farm in the adjoining state and ever since had been living like a hermit.

“I met Tom on my first trip to Skull Mountain,” Dr. Foster declared. “He was half starved and nearly naked. But when I tried to help him, he ran away.

“Later, I won the old fellow’s confidence, and from then on, Tom couldn’t do enough for me. When I returned this summer, he was still here. He lived in the tunnel and had been subsisting pretty much on vegetables which he sneaked from Annie’s garden. She was afraid of him, but Hawkins and the other squatters gave him regular handouts.”

Dr. Foster’s eyes twinkled. “It was Tom’s idea to frighten you with skulls. Kleng told Tom anything he did to scare you away from the mountain would be of great help to me!”

“Tom must think an awful lot of you, sir,” Joe said ruefully. “He did his best to get rid of us!”

Dick interrupted. “Smashed equipment, boulders, an explosion, a fire—”

“Sweeper supplied Tom with the dynamite,” the scientist said, “but the gang was angry because he did not plant it close enough to really hurt you. Then Kleng took over and set fire to your shack. Tom Darby wouldn’t stoop to such things. He was sorry about the landslide, for he only meant to frighten you with the boulder.” Dr. Foster sighed. “If we get out of here alive, I will take Tom with me. My brother has a large estate where the poor fellow can have a cottage to himself and be well taken care of.”

The scientist stopped speaking, for at that moment Kleng came in carrying a lantern. He looked around at them with a thin smile. “Foster’s probably told you our job is finished,” he said harshly. “But before we leave, I’m going to fix it so you won’t be able to tell your story to the cops.”

Suddenly he shouted over his shoulder, “Hawkins! Get the dynamite!”

The prisoners stiffened and a cold chill ran down Frank’s spine.

Kleng’s voice grew silky. “That’s right, fellows. Hawkins is going to dynamite the mouth of the tunnel and dose it up. You’ll be buried alive!”

CHAPTER XX

Smoked Out

HORRIFIED at the threat, the prisoners stared at one another, speechless. Kleng had left the room. They could hear him in the adjoining cavern instructing Hawkins in the use of the dynamite.

Frank thought of the crevice. “We still have a chance!” he whispered to the others. “If we can break out of these ropes, we’ll climb the shaft and escape through the top of the mountain!”

But Kleng’s next words stifled that hope. “After you’ve blasted the mouth of the tunnel,” he told Hawkins, “come back here and set off another charge to plug the shaft. That’ll seal everything nice and tight.”

“Aye, cap’n,” the sailor replied. “But how are we to get away?”

“Up the shaft, you fool. Stoper, Hank, Fox, and I will go ahead while you blow the tunnel. You’ll follow up this shaft and then blast it. Now get going.”

The prisoners heard the sailor’s footsteps recede. Then there was silence. Frantically they struggled with their bonds. They rolled close to one another, their fingers tearing at each other’s ropes, but the strands were wet from the damp floor and resisted their attempts to untie them.

“There must be some way out of this!” Bob said desperately.

He lifted his wrists to a jagged edge of rock and tried to saw through the binding hemp, but soon gave up, exhausted.

At that moment Tom Darby slipped into the small chamber, his arms piled with firewood. He stared at the prisoners, then dropped his load of wood and knelt beside Dr. Foster.

“Tom!” the scientist exclaimed. “Hurry, Tom! Untie me!”

The shaggy-haired man cast a terrified glance over his shoulder, then began fumbling with the rope. Frank and Joe and the two engineers looked on, hardly daring to breathe.

Suddenly a stocky figure appeared in the opening—Kleng! As the boys cried a warning, he grabbed a piece of firewood and struck the hermit on the head. The old man slumped to the floor, unconscious!

Kleng glanced at the rope which secured the scientist’s wrists. He gave a satisfied grunt, then went out. A moment later the prisoners heard the four men start up the shaft toward the top of the mountain.

“There they go,” Dick said tensely. “Pretty soon Hawkins will follow them, and then—” Everyone knew what he meant.

Suddenly Joe thought of his water canteen. He rolled his body toward the hermit and sat up. Twisting his bound wrists, he managed to unscrew the cap of the canteen on his hip. He tilted the flask so that water splashed on Darby’s face.

The hermit stirred. His eyelids fluttered weakly. Joe splashed the bearded face again. The hermit looked at him, dazed.

“You’ve done it, Joe!” Frank exclaimed excitedly.

Dick turned to the scientist. “Hurry, Dr. Foster! Make Tom untie these ropes!”

Within a few minutes the hermit had freed Dr. Foster’s hands and feet. Then the two men set to work on the others. Soon all the prisoners stood free.

“Come on, Dick!” Bob urged. “We must stop Hawkins before he seals the tunnel opening!”

“I’m with you!” his assistant replied. They raced through the cavern and into the lantern-lighted tunnel.

‘We’ll follow Kleng and Stoper!” Joe yelled after them. He ran to the shaft which sloped toward the mountaintop. “Come on, Frank!”

“Joe—wait! That’s no good! Fox has a gun!”

“But we can’t let them get away!”

“They won‘t!” Frank signaled to Dr. Foster and Tom Darby to follow him and went quickly to the kiln. Pointing toward the pile of green firewood, he said, “Feed the fire and get up plenty of smoke. We’ll give ’em a taste of their own medicine!”

“Great!” exclaimed Joe, then snapped his fin gers. “Ropes!” He dashed to the side chamber, picked up the discarded bonds, and stuffed them in his pockets.

The Hardys slipped on the gas masks which were still slung over their shoulders, and started up the shaft after the four men. The passage was smooth and wide, so that they quickly reached the fork, and hurried onto the low-roofed tunneL By the time they had crawled halfway up it, the air was filling with smoke and they could hear coughing and strangled cries for help. In a few minutes their flashlights revealed the men clutching at their throats as they gasped for breath.

Helpless, the four were dragged by the Hardys up through the tunnel and out the opening in the mountaintop. After disarming the men and tying them up, the boys took off the gas masks. It was several minutes before any of the rescued men could speak. Then Kleng glared at his captors. “You!” he sputtered.

“Look who’s coming!” Frank exclaimed.

Climbing the mountainside were Bob and Dick. A few steps behind them came Chet Morton, Fenton Hardy, and several policemen.

“Dad!” Frank exclaimed in delight as the party reached the top of the trail. “When did you get back?”

“Not long ago,” Mr. Hardy said, and grinned when he saw the captured men. “Too late for the action, though!” He told them that he had wound up the Chicago end of the case sooner than he had expected and had been in Chief Collig’s office when Chet’s call came.

“When Dick and I got to the mouth of the tunnel,” Bob spoke up, “your dad already had Hawkins in handcuffs!”

“I left him at the foot of the hill in care of the police,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Several officers went into the cavern to escort Dr. Foster and the hermit out.” The detective turned to Kleng and Stoper. “The law especially wants you two,” he told them, “for holding Dr. Foster against his will. Your pals are already in jail!”

The four men glowered but said nothing. The police hauled them to their feet and marched them down the trail.

Chet grimaced. “I’m glad that’s all over!”

Fenton Hardy laughed and threw his arm around the boy. “Chet, you did your part well!”

“You bet he did!” Frank said sincerely.

Joe sighed. “Well, I guess this winds up the mystery!”

“Don’t take it so hard,’ Frank comforted him with a grin. “Another one will turn up soon!”

Although he did not realize it at the time, Frank was speaking the truth. The Hardy boys were closer than they knew to the mystery connected with The Sign of the Crooked Arrow.

Now, standing on the crest of Skull Mountain, the young detectives, their father, and their friends stared down Tarnack Valley. Soon the mouth of the prehistoric tunnel would be walled up forever. Then the thin sheet of water which now covered the valley would become a deep lake.

Bob and Dick smiled happily as they visualized it, while Frank and Joe exchanged grins.

“Guess we’re thinking the same thing,” said Frank.

“We sure are,” Joe replied. “Now we’ll have plenty of water in the swimming pool!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - The Abandoned Car

CHAPTER II - Daylight Robbery

CHAPTER III - Dead-End Clue

CHAPTER IV - Distressing News

CHAPTER V - Expensive Evidence

CHAPTER VI - Police Raid

CHAPTER VII - Another Puzzle

CHAPTER VIII - Followed

CHAPTER IX - Forced Landing

CHAPTER X - A Suspicious Foreman

CHAPTER XI - A Second Chance

CHAPTER XII - Bunkhouse Brawl

CHAPTER XIII - A Poisoned Point

CHAPTER XIV - A Familiar Face

CHAPTER XV - The Galloping Archer

CHAPTER XVI - Mystery Smoke

CHAPTER XVII - Captured!

CHAPTER XVIII - A Grim Story

CHAPTER XIX - Thundering Posse

CHAPTER XX - Final Roundup

THE SIGN OF THE CROOKED ARROW

WITH only the slender clue of an arrow-shaped tie clasp, Frank and Joe Hardy pick up the trail of a cunning gang of thieves responsible for a wave of jewelry-store holdups.

But their investigations are interrupted when a desperate plea for help comes from their widowed cousin who lives on a cattle ranch in New Mexico. Frank, Joe, and their pal Chet Morton fly there immediately. The mysterious disappearance of one cowboy after another has given Crowhead Ranch the reputation of being jinxed, and it is quickly being stampeded toward financial ruin.

The young detectives face grave danger before they uncover a cleverly conceived plot engineered by the crooked arrow gang. In a dramatic climax Frank, Joe, and Chet aid law-enforcement officers in smashing the highly organized band of criminals, putting an end both to the troubles at Crowhead Ranch and the jewelry-store robberies.

An arrow whizzed past Frank’s head

Copyright © 1976, 1970, 1949 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07642-2

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

The Abandoned Car

THE Hardy boys’ convertible, heading for the open country, whizzed past a road sign inscribed Bayport City Limits.

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank fingered the wheel lightly. Joe, who was blond and a year younger than Frank, sat beside him.

“What’s all this business about somebody forgetting a car?” Joe asked.

“A man and his wife left it at Slow Mo’s garage in Pleasantville two weeks ago and never called for it,” Frank replied.

The boys’ father, Detective Fenton Hardy, had given Frank the details of the case and suggested that his sons follow it up. The garage proprietor had appealed to Mr. Hardy to find the owner of the car.

“Why didn’t Slow Mo contact the license bureau?” Joe put in.

“Dad asked him that. Slow Mo says when he went to look at the plates, they were gone!”

“Who took them off?”

“That’s what we’re supposed to find out,” Frank said.

Half an hour later he pulled up in front of a rickety building in the sleepy town of Pleasantville.

“That must be Slow Mo,” Joe observed as a gray-haired man in overalls shuffled toward them.

“Hello,” he greeted them. “What can I do for you?”

When he learned who they were, he asked in surprise, “Where’s your dad?”

“He’s busy on another case,” Joe replied. “He sent us to help you.”

The old man frowned. “I sure was countin’ on him. He’s the best detective in this part of the country.”

“You’re right there,” agreed Frank. “But I think Joe and I can make a start on solving the mystery. We often work with Dad on cases.”

The boys’ sleuthing career had begun with finding the solution to The Tower Treasure mystery.

Since then, their detective work had taken them all over the country and abroad as well. Recently they had uncovered The Secret of Skull Mountain and discovered the reason for the mysterious water shortage in town.

Slow Mo, who had been dubbed “Slow Motion” in his youth, rubbed his whiskers with a grimy finger. “Well, I dunno,” he said. “But come into my office and I’ll tell you what happened, anyway.”

“What do the police think?” Frank inquired.

“Didn’t ask them,” Slow Mo replied. “Jake, the chief, is my brother-in-law. We don’t get on, and I don’t want to bother with him. That’s why I called your dad.”

The old man crossed the floor of the garage and entered a small room. It was stacked high with empty oil cans and old tires. A faded calendar, dating back three years, hung on the wall.

Joe grinned. “Don’t you have one for this year?” he asked.

Slow Mo smiled sheepishly. “Never thought of that,” he said and pointed to a couple of rickety chairs. “Sit down there.”

The boys listened as he unfolded his story, most of which they already knew. At one point Joe interrupted to ask for a description of the couple who had left the car.

Slow Mo looked blank. “Why, they were kind of ordinary-looking folks, middle-aged, dressed like regular people—”

“Do you know where they went afterward?”

“Took a train. The station’s right over there,” the garageman replied. “Pleasantville’s the terminal for one of the railroads,” he added proudly.

“What’s the engine number of the car?” Frank asked.

“I dunno,” Slow Mo answered. “Guess I should’ve looked. Never thought of that.”

At Joe’s request, he led the Hardys to the rear of the garage, where a black sedan stood in a corner.

Frank threw up the hood and glanced at the engine.

“Got a flashlight?” he asked Mo.

When the proprietor handed him one, Frank scanned the motor.

“Just as I thought!” he announced. “The engine number has been filed off!”

Joe opened the door and looked for the serial number. It was missing, too.

“Why would anybody do that?” Slow Mo asked, running his fingers through his gray crew cut.

“To conceal the identity of the car,” Frank explained. “This,” he added, “is a case for the local police, whether you like it or not.”

Slow Mo put in the call and soon afterward a short, heavy-set man puffed into the garage.

“Hello, Jake,” Slow Mo said. “These are the Hardy boys. Sons of Fenton Hardy the detective.”

“What have they done?” Jake asked. “Want ’em arrested?”

“No,” Frank said, laughing. “We’d like you to arrest the person who filed the number off the engine of this car.” He pointed to the sedan.

“The engine number has been filed off!” Frank announced

“Besides, the guy that left it here owes me two weeks’ rent,” put in Slow Mo.

A determined look spread over the police chief’s face. “I’ll arrest him, all right. Where is he?”

“That’s what we’d like to find out,” Frank told him. “Slow Mo said he left here two weeks ago.”

“Got rather a head start, didn’t he?” Jake declared. He examined the car inside and out, but found nothing.

Then he took a fingerprint kit from his car and went to work on the sedan’s steering wheel and dashboard.

“Most of them are smudged,” he remarked. “But we’ll see what we can do.” He turned to Mo. “Let us know right away if somebody should claim the car, will you?” Then he said good-by and left.

Frank spoke up. “Suppose Joe and I look for some clues.”

“Sure. Go ahead,” the garage owner said.

Frank examined the car’s upholstery, while his brother removed the mats from the floor. Then Joe opened the glove compartment. It was empty except for a narrow leather strap worn at one end. A barely discernible design had been worked into the leather.

“Looks like part of an old strap from a wrist watch,” he commented, showing it to Frank. “Wonder why anyone would save it ”

“It may be a valuable clue,” Frank said, continuing his own search. He pulled out the back seat and ran his hand behind the upholstery. His only reward was a hairpin and a dime. Then suddenly his fingers touched a hard object. Tugging carefully, he pulled out a piece of jewelry.

“A tie clasp,” Frank announced, holding up the object.

“It’s an arrow, but it’s crooked,” Joe observed.

Slow Mo peered closely at the slightly S-shaped arrow clasp. “Probably got bent,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” Frank replied. “Looks to me as if it had been made that way.”

Pocketing the piece of strap and tie clasp, the Hardys said good-by to Slow Mo and got into their car. Just as Joe was about to start the engine, a man turned in from the road and walked into the garage.

“I wonder who that guy is,” Joe asked. The stranger had broad shoulders, bushy black eyebrows, and a large nose. “Looks like a prize fighter.”

The boys waited a moment. Then they heard the men’s voices from inside, arguing loudly.

“We’d better see what’s going on,” Frank said. “Sounds as if Slow Mo’s in trouble!”

They got out of their car and dashed inside. The stranger was snarling at Slow Mo.

“All right, I didn’t leave it! And I don’t care if the license plates are gone. I’m taking that car!”

With that he gave Slow Mo a wallop. The elderly garage owner staggered backward and fell. His head struck the side of a door with a resounding crack and he sprawled unconscious.

Frank and Joe leaped forward. The burly stranger, surprised by their sudden appearance, halted abruptly. Then he whirled about and ran out the side door of the garage.

While Frank bent over Slow Mo, Joe tore after the assailant. He was only a few yards behind his quarry when the man bounded up the steps of the old Pleasantville railroad station. A train was just pulling out.

With a lunge, the man grasped the handrail on the last coach, teetered precariously a moment, then pulled himself aboard. By this time the train was moving fast.

Joe summoned all his strength for a final burst of speed and made a frantic leap!

CHAPTER II

Daylight Robbery

JOE missed the train by inches, however. Breathless and disgusted, he watched as it roared down the tracks.

Dejected, he turned and walked back to the garage. He told Frank, who was bathing Slow Mo’s head with cold water, what had happened.

“How is he?” Joe asked anxiously.

“Coming to,” Frank replied.

As the boys watched, Slow Mo’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Wh-where am I?” he asked in a daze.

“In your office,” Frank replied. “Take it easy.”

“I remember now,” the man said. “Big guy hit me. Where’d he go? Did he get the car?”

When Frank told him about the stranger’s escape, Slow Mo sighed.

“I’m sorry he got away. But I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you boys on my account.”

Assured that Slow Mo was well enough to be left alone, the boys drove to police headquarters to report what had happened.

“I’ll send out a seven-state alarm,” the police chief said crisply. “Thanks for your help, boys.”

A few minutes later Frank and Joe were headed back to Bayport.

“I don’t like the looks of this, Joe,” Frank said, frowning.

His brother agreed. “Do you think that guy was trying to retrieve the car for the people who left it two weeks ago?”

“Could be,” Frank replied. “But why the big rush to leave the garage—unless he wanted to steal it!”

“What I’d like to know,” Joe said, “is who took the license plates and filed off the engine number.”

All the way home the boys tried vainly to figure out what was back of the mystery. “Maybe Dad’ll come up with something,” Joe said as they pulled into the Hardys’ driveway.

They entered their father’s study and found him seated in a red-leather chair poring over a dossier of criminal records.

“Hello, boys,” he said. “How did you make out at Slow Mo’s?”

“Dad,” Frank began seriously, “there sure is something fishy about that abandoned car.”

Fenton Hardy sat forward in his chair. Frank told about the stranger who had attacked Slow Mo, then showed his father the worn watch strap and the tie clasp.

His father examined the clasp, repeating the words “crooked arrow” over and over.

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked.

“Boys,” replied Mr. Hardy, “I believe you’ve dug up a clue that may tie in with a baffling case I’m working on.”

“What is it?” Frank asked eagerly.

“You’ve read about a series of jewelry-store robberies in and around Bayport, haven’t you?”

Frank and Joe nodded as the detective went on.

“I found out that similar crime waves broke out in three other cities early this summer, and that the method is almost alike.”

Joe pointed to the papers on his father’s desk. “Is that what these are about?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. He reached for a folder lying on a low bookshelf behind his desk. “And here are statements from the various victims in the Bayport area.”

Frank glanced over the reports. “Both here and out of state,” he observed, “the victims were alone in jewelry shops when a stranger entered. They became faint and lost consciousness immediately after they had been accosted.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Hardy, “and as you’ll see if you read further, the victim always woke up without the slightest idea of what occurred. Then he discovered that his money and valuable jewelry were missing. And no one has been able to describe the thief sufficiently in order to give us a lead.”

“Why do the people faint?” asked Joe.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, especially since there are obviously no unpleasant after-effects,” his father replied. “Also, it seems that as soon as an investigation is started, the crime wave dies out, only to flare up in another city.”

“Boy! These aren’t conventional holdups!” Frank exclaimed, shaking his head.

“No. But they do have an oddly conventional aspect—reminds me of the old cops-and-robbers movies. In every case the victim reports that a man has approached him and asked him a question.”

“A question?” Joe put in. “Not the old ‘Got a match?’ routine!”

“Exactly!” said Mr. Hardy. “Or the query may have to do with the time of day or the location of the nearest bus stop.”

“But what makes you think this case ties in with the mystery of the car at Slow Mo’s?” Frank spoke up.

Fenton Hardy smiled. “This crooked arrow tie clasp,” he said. “Sam’s been checking out a small restaurant on the waterfront called Mike’s Place. It’s a hangout for shady characters. While he was there, someone used the words ‘crooked arrow’ in discussing the recent jewelry-store robberies.”

Sam Radley was Mr. Hardy’s operative, who assisted him on his cases, and the boys knew him well.

“Crooked arrow?” Joe repeated. “Do you suppose that could be a symbol of the gang?”

Mr. Hardy shrugged. “It’s possible.”

Just then a tall, angular woman strode through the doorway of the study.

“Hello, Aunt Gertrude,” said the boys.

“Hello,” she replied, then blurted out, “Shame on you, Fenton Hardy! I just heard you talking about a new case. I suppose now you won’t be going out West to visit Cousin Ruth!”

Aunt Gertrude, Mr. Hardy’s unmarried sister, lived with the family and often felt it necessary to keep the male members in line, especially when Mrs. Hardy was away on a visit, which she was at present.

“Well, I—”

“It’s not every day you have an invitation to visit a ranch in New Mexico!” Aunt Gertrude interrupted the detective. “And besides, you need a vacation. I’m worried about you!”

“Now, Gertrude,” Mr. Hardy said soothingly, “I haven’t forgotten about Ruth—it’s just that I have a few important matters to tend to before I take any trip.”

“Your health is important too,” his sister spluttered. With that she popped out of the room.

Frank and Joe grinned broadly. “Orders from headquarters, Dad!” Joe remarked teasingly.

“She’s quite a sergeant, all right.” Mr. Hardy laughed.

He opened a desk drawer and took out an aerial photo of the ranch Ruth Hardy had been running since the recent death of her husband. The boys looked over the picture and listened as the detective described the area.

Secretly Frank and Joe wished they could accompany their father to the sprawling Crowhead Ranch. Though they already had planned a camping trip with their friend Chet Morton, they gladly would have postponed it.

That evening after dinner the boys went to their crime detection lab over the garage and examined the worn watch strap. Careful scrutiny revealed no distinguishable fingerprints.

“I think we should take this strap to a chemist for analysis tomorrow,” Frank suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “Maybe we can find out what kind of person wore it.”

After breakfast the next morning Frank and Joe took the strap to Mr. Strand, a chemist in Bayport. He knew the boys well, and promised to have an analysis for them as soon as possible.

As they rode home through a residential area just outside of town a stoplight flashed on, and Frank brought their car to a halt. Near the corner they noticed two men in conversation.

While the boys waited for the light to turn, one of the men walked away. A moment later the other man suddenly slumped to the sidewalk.

“Look, Joe!” Frank exclaimed. “The guy may be ill. We’d better help him.”

They jumped out of the car, walked over to the man, and pulled him to his feet. As they did, he shook himself vigorously.

“Hey, leave me alone!” he ordered. “Why are you holding me?”

“You collapsed,” Frank replied. “How do you feel?”

“Your friend walked away a few seconds before,” Joe put in.

“He wasn’t my friend,” the man said irritably. “Just asked me for a light and—”

Suddenly he felt his hip pocket and looked startled. Then he grabbed Frank and Joe and bellowed:

“Help! Help! I’ve been robbed! Arrest these boys!”

“Let go!” Frank demanded. “We didn’t take anything of yours!”

“Then where’s my wallet?” the man shouted. “I just closed my store and had almost nine hundred dollars in it. I was going to take the money to the bank after lunch!”

Suddenly the answer dawned on the boys. They had witnessed one of the mysterious robberies their father had told them about!

“I’ll go after the thief, Joe,” Frank volunteered.

In a flash he was in the car, down the street, and out of sight, following the course taken by the suspect. Meanwhile, Joe got the full story from the victim.

“The guy asked me for a light,” the man explained. “I didn’t have a match, so he went on. Then I passed out.”

“That’s where we came in,” Joe said. “We thought you were ill. Ever see the thief before?”

“No.” The man, now fully recovered, said he was rough-looking and rough-mannered.

Just then Frank pulled up to the curb. He stepped out of the car, followed by a policeman.

“The thief got away,” Frank reported. “I spotted him three blocks from here, because there was nobody in the street, but then he ducked into an alley and I lost him.”

“I saw Frank looking for someone,” the policeman put in, “and he told me what had happened.”

“By the way,” said Joe, addressing the stranger, “Officer Willis can vouch for us.”

“Sure can.” The patrolman smiled. “Every cop in town knows the Hardy boys. Great detectives!”

The policeman said that the boys would be needed as witnesses. They drove to headquarters in the Hardys’ car, where Officer Willis made out a report.

Next morning after breakfast the telephone rang. Frank answered, spoke a few words, and hung up.

“It was Mr. Strand,” he said to Joe. “He’s completed the watch-strap analysis.”

“Great!” his brother replied. “Let’s go!”

Soon the boys arrived at the lab and greeted the chemist, who nodded with a smile.

“Are you boys just back from a Western trip?”

Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. “No,” Frank replied. “Why?”

“Indians,” the chemist said. “I gather from the leather strap you brought in yesterday that you two are at work on a case involving Indians!”

CHAPTER III

Dead-End Clue

“INDIANS!” echoed Frank, completely dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

The chemist held up the piece of leather. “This probably has been worn by an Indian.”

“How can you tell?” Joe asked curiously.

Mr. Strand explained, “In the first place the tanning agents used are not the commercial variety. The leather was prepared either by an amateur, or—” He put the strap under a microscope and beckoned to Frank.

The boy adjusted his eyes to the instrument and studied the strap carefully. “I see what you mean. Definitely Indian design. Lightning, the sun, rain, and a thunderbird.”

“Right,” the chemist agreed. “Southwest Indian handicraft work.”

“Maybe bought by a tourist,” Joe suggested.

“I doubt it,” the chemist went on. “Here, smell this.”

The brothers looked at each other as Mr. Strand held up the strap toward their noses. Frank sniffed first. He reported a faint odor of hominy.

“Exactly,” Mr. Strand said. “Indians are said to smell like that—a different body aroma.”

“Mr. Strand,” Frank said, “this has been interesting. Thanks a lot for your help.”

“Any time,” the chemist replied. “Good luck to you!”

As the two boys got into their car, Joe remarked, “The guy I chased from Slow Mo’s didn’t look like an Indian.”

“No, but maybe an Indian owns the car.”

“That silver tie clasp you found, Frank—it might have been made by an Indian.”

“Say, I forgot about that,” said his brother, pulling the clasp from his pocket and examining it. “Looks to me like the sort of silver work I’ve seen in Indian-made jewelry.”

“Where to now?” Joe asked as Frank started the motor.

“Straight to Slow Mo’s.”

When they drew up in front of the garage, the proprietor was seated on a chair tilted against the old building.

“Solve the mystery yet?” he inquired with a grin.

“No,” said Frank as he and Joe got out of the car. “We came to ask you some more questions. Did that couple who left the car look like Indians?”

“Indians?” Slow Mo pondered. “Well, the man didn’t, but the woman—” He rolled his eyes. “I never thought of that. She could’ve been one. Had straight black hair and kinda dark skin.”

“Did you hear anything more from the police?” Joe inquired.

“Jake had no luck with the fingerprints. He’ll call if anything new turns up.”

The boys thanked Mo and headed back to Bayport. If the garage owner’s memory served him correctly, they had a good clue.

“We’ll have to be on the lookout for Indians,” Frank mused on the way.

Suddenly Joe exclaimed, “I just had a brain storm! Why don’t we look for the watch that went with the band we found? It may still have the other piece of the strap attached to it!”

“Okay by me,” his brother agreed. “But how about some lunch first?”

After a brief stop for hamburgers, the boys began their search. First they went to all the jewelry repair shops in town, where Frank posed the same question:

“Do you have a watch with a broken strap to fit this piece?” The answer was invariably a “no.”

Next, they looked at scores of watches at secondhand shops, but with no results.

“Only one thing left.” Joe sighed. “Pawn-shops!”

“Right. Let’s try the one down there.”

The boys gazed into the window of Maxby’s dingy store, then entered. Frank tossed the routine question.

“Think I have.”

“May we see it?” Joe asked eagerly.

The pawnbroker went to the back of the store and came out with a man’s wrist watch. Part of the leather strap that hopped from it matched the piece Frank held!

“We’ve found it!” Joe exulted.

Frank said nothing. As the shopkeeper looked on curiously, he examined the watch and uttered a sharp exclamation.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“Look!” Frank cried, pointing.

Across the top, etched into the design around the face of the watch, was a crooked arrow!

In amazement Frank and Joe studied the sweeping S.

“Find an heirloom?” asked the pawnbroker.

“No,” answered Frank, “just an old watch we’ve been hunting for. Where did you get this?”

“I’ll check,” the man answered, thumbing through a worn ledger. “Let’s see—”

The shopkeeper went back day after day until he stopped at a page bearing the same date as the day the black sedan had been left in Slow Mo’s garage—seventeen days previously!

“Here it is,” he said. “This watch was pawned by Annie Groves, 66 Fern Terrace.”

“Did she look like an Indian?” Joe queried.

“She didn’t look Indian to me,” replied the man.

“By the way,” he added, “this isn’t—er—a stolen watch, is it?”

Frank told the man he had no idea. Then, after thanking him for his trouble, he and Joe hastily left the store.

“Let’s get to 66 Fern Terrace quick!” Frank said. “I’d like to meet this Annie Groves.”

Joe took the wheel and headed for the outskirts of Bayport. Soon he turned into a street bearing the sign Fern Terrace.

Frank spotted the even numbers on the left side of the road. “Here’s 50,” he said. “And 62,” he added as the car inched along. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Joe, there isn’t any 66!”

The lot where number 66 would be was vacant. A tangle of weeds covered the ground.

“A phony address,” Frank said in disgust.

Joe turned the car around and went back to the business section. “Let’s go to the pawnshop again and ask Maxby some more questions!”

“Not now,” Frank said as they pulled up. “It’s six o’clock. He’s closed. Besides, Aunt Gertrude will have dinner ready, and we’d better not keep her waiting! We can come back tomorrow.”

Frank and Joe could hardly wait to finish their breakfast the next morning, so eager were they to rush off to Maxby’s. Half an hour later they drove up to the pawnshop. The proprietor was surprised to see them again.

“Want to look at another watch?” he asked.

“No,” Frank replied. “We want to find out who Annie Groves is.”

“I gave you her address,” the man said.

“It’s a fake,” Joe told him. “There isn’t any house number 66!”

“No fault of mine,” the man countered.

“We know that,” Frank replied politely. “But we’ve got to find this woman. Perhaps you can help by giving us a description.”

“What’s wrong? She owe you money?”

“No.” Frank laughed.

The man hesitated a moment. “Well, this Annie is a character.”

“You mean she’s rather peculiar?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, kinda. She’s always coming around with stuff to pawn.”

Suddenly the shopkeeper grabbed Frank’s arm. “Say, look!” he shouted. “There she goes now!”

Frank and Joe wheeled around and caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman passing the shop-window. When the boys rushed out, she was only a few paces down the street. They caught up to her, and Frank, a trifle embarrassed, spoke up.

“Beg your pardon, Miss Groves. There’s something we’d like to ask you.”

The startled woman looked at them with wild eyes. Her face was neither young nor old. She wore a tattered dress, and her graying hair was untidy, hanging in wisps over her face.

“What d’you want?” she asked abruptly.

“We’d like to know where you got the wrist watch you pawned a couple of weeks ago at Maxby’s,” Frank said.

“What’s it to you?”

“Then you did pawn a watch?” Joe queried.

“No.”

“The records show you did,” Frank said quietly. “You’d better tell us the truth.”

“I won’t tell nobody nuthin’,” the woman said defiantly. “Now go away and don’t bother me.”

As Annie Groves started to push past the boys, Frank said:

“Well, the police might like to ask you a few questions if you don’t tell us.”

The word “police” worked like magic. “Oh, no, please.” Then Annie Groves added nervously, “I’ll tell you where I got the watch—I found it.”

“Where?” Joe asked.

“Right in front of Jenk’s Tobacco Shop.”

With that Annie turned on her heels and hurried down the street.

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked.

“She might be mixed up with some of that crooked arrow mob,” Frank ventured, “judging from the way she jumped at the mention of the police.”

“Strike one,” said Joe. “And why did she give Maxby a fake address? Let’s take a run over to police headquarters and check on her.”

Shortly afterward, the boys walked into the office of their friend Police Chief Collig. The husky man greeted them cordially.

“What can I do for you?” he asked with a broad grin.

“We’d like to find out something about an Annie Groves,” Frank replied.

“That’s easy enough,” the chief replied. “Nothing particularly wrong with Annie—just a harmless vagrant.”

“Is she mixed up with any gang?” Joe queried.

“No,” the chief said, “not that we know of. She spends most of her time pawning things she finds on the street.”

“Well, that seems to clear Annie,” Joe said as the boys left headquarters.

“But she did add a couple of clues to the case,” Frank remarked.

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “Since she pawned the watch on the same day the mystery car was left in Slow Mo’s garage, the owner must have had business in Bayport.”

“Maybe in Jenk’s Tobacco Shop,” Frank said, recalling where Annie had found the watch.

“Jenk might be mixed up with the gang,” Joe ventured. “I recall he once had a partner who served time in prison. When that fellow was around, the tobacco store was a meeting place for all kinds of shady characters.”

“Jenk might even own a watch with a crooked arrow on it!” Frank added. “Let’s go!”

The boys went to the tawdry little store, located in the waterfront district of Bayport. A few rough-looking characters stood outside.

“Here’s where we get tough,” Joe said, grinning.

As they strode into the dimly lighted store, Joe addressed the bald, heavy-set man behind the counter. “You Jenk?”

“Yeah!”

“I’d like a pack of cigarettes.”

Jenk looked at the boys with narrowed eyes. “I don’t sell to minors,” he said firmly.

“Have it your way.” Joe shrugged. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

“Say, you got the time?” Frank asked suddenly, leaning over the counter toward the man.

Jenk obligingly held out his hand. But the watch revealed no crooked arrow.

“If you can tell time,” Jenk said sarcastically, “you can see it’s ten o‘clock. Time for fresh kids to scram. Now get goin’!”

Frank and Joe returned to their car and drove home.

Disappointed that nothing had come of their clue, the boys were anxious to discuss the case with their father. Soon Frank parked the car in the garage and they entered the hallway.

“I hope Dad’s here,” Joe said, walking instinctively toward the telephone table to check for messages. “Hey, what’s this!” he exclaimed. “Mother’s writing!”

“She must be back from her trip,” Frank remarked. “What does it say, Joe?”

The boys gazed at the memo pad, then gasped. Written in a hurried hand was a note that stunned them:

Your father in Bayport General Hospital. Shot. Come at once!

CHAPTER IV

Distressing News

“DAD in the hospital!” Joe cried in disbelief.

The boys stared at the terse note. There was no mistaking the news.

“This is Mom’s handwriting, all right,” Frank declared. “Aunt Gertrude’s not here, either. Come on, Joe. Let’s get over there!”

Ten minutes later they entered the hospital and spoke to the receptionist.

“We’re Fenton Hardy’s sons,” Frank said. “We’d like to see him right away.”

The woman looked in her files, then said, “You may visit him for a few minutes. Room 328.”

Their footsteps echoed hollowly as they approached the door of the room. A screen concealed the patient, and the boys heard low voices behind it. Together they stepped around the partition and stood beside the bed.

On it lay their father, pale and restless. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. Standing beside him were his wife, Aunt Gertrude, a young doctor, and a nurse.

“What happened?” Frank asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Mr. Hardy hasn’t wakened from the anesthetic yet,” the doctor said. “Bad wound in his leg. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Wound?” Joe repeated in a shaky voice. “Is it—serious?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied quietly. “But your father should be all right soon, provided no complications set in.”

Mrs. Hardy took each of her sons by the arm and guided them into the hall.

“Tell us about it,” Frank pleaded.

“How many bullets hit Dad?” Joe put in.

“Oh, he wan’t shot by a gun,” their mother replied. “He was—”

“Mrs. Hardy.” It was the doctor’s voice. “Your husband wants to see you all.” They hurried back into the room.

Fenton Hardy had heard the voices of his boys and had roused sufficiently to call them. Now he was completely awake, and had opened his eyes.

“Dad!” Frank whispered, leaning forward.

Joe pressed dose to Frank. “How are you, Dad?”

“I’m all right,” Mr. Hardy said, forcing a smile. “I’ll be up and out of here in no time.”

“Mother says you weren’t shot by a gun,” Frank said. “What did hit you?”

“An arrow.”

The boys’ mouths dropped open in amazement.

“It hit him high in the left leg,” the doctor said. “A nasty wound, deep to the bone.”

Aunt Gertrude continued the story. “Your father said he was investigating a vacant house on the outskirts of town. He thought some of the thieves were using it as a hideout.”

“Were they inside?” Joe asked.

“No,” continued their aunt. “The place was empty, but just after your father left the house, he was struck from behind by an arrow.”

Mr. Hardy carried on. “Then I staggered to the road for help.”

“Did you see who shot you?” Joe asked.

“No, son,” he replied. “He must have been hiding in the bushes behind the house.”

The physician interrupted. “That’s all for now, please. Mr. Hardy must rest.”

“You boys go along with Aunt Gertrude,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I’m going to stay here.”

The three left quietly. At the hospital entrance they met Sam Radley.

“How is he?” Sam asked worriedly. “I just heard about the accident.”

Frank told the tall, sandy-haired investigator all he knew. Sam’s brow furrowed.

“Incredible!” he remarked with deep concern.

“Why would anybody shoot him with an arrow?” Joe wondered aloud.

“Probably,” Sam replied, “to escape detection. An arrow will be harder to trace than a bullet. Where is the arrow?”

“At police headquarters,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Fenton had it sent there immediately.”

“We’d better take a look at it,” Sam said.

He took Aunt Gertrude in his car, and the boys drove to headquarters in their convertible. On the way, Frank said to Joe, “You thinking the same thing I am?”

“I’ll say!” Joe replied. “The arrow!”

“That’s it,” Frank said. “First Sam picks up the words ‘crooked arrow’ at Mike’s Place, then we find the crooked arrow on the watch and tie clasp. And now Dad is shot with an arrow!”

“It all adds up to a big question mark,” Joe declared. “Only one thing’s clear. Someone wants Dad out of his way.”

The two cars arrived at headquarters about the same time. Aunt Gertrude, Sam, and the boys were ushered into the office of Chief Collig, who sat at his desk examining the arrow.

“Hello there,” he said. “Awfully sorry to hear about your father, boys.”

“Thanks,” Frank replied. “Any clues yet?”

“None at all. My men searched the deserted house and found a trampled spot in the weeds where the culprit may have hidden, but nothing else.”

“May I see the arrow, Chief?” Frank asked.

Collig handed him a short thick shaft with a sharp steel tip. On the end, near the nock, were three white feathers.

“This could kill a man!” Frank exclaimed.

“Sure could,” Collig agreed. “Your father was mighty lucky.”

“Look at those feathers,” Joe observed. “They’re all the same color.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be?” Aunt Gertrude asked.

“Two are usually the same color, such as red,” Joe explained. “The other, known as the cock feather, stands at right angles to the nock, and is of a different color.”

“Then an expert archer must have shot this arrow,” Frank concluded. “He didn’t need a colored feather to show him which was the cock feather.”

“Right,” Sam said. “And he didn’t mean to kill your father, just incapacitate him. Well, we’ve got to look for an expert archer.”

“We could start on the Indians in town,” Frank suggested, giving Joe a significant glance.

“There are only four in Bayport,” the chief told the boys. “We’ve checked them out already, and they seem to be upstanding citizens. But bear in mind that Indians aren’t the only ones expert with a bow.”

“You’re right. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Frank mused.

“Do you mind if we look up the Indians, anyway, Chief?” Joe asked. “Perhaps one of them had a relative visiting, who would bear investigating.”

“By all means, go ahead,” Collig replied and gave him a list of names.

After bidding the chief and Sam good-by, Frank and Joe took Aunt Gertrude home for lunch. Then they started out to question the four local Indians. All were skilled at trades and had good jobs. None had visitors and none had ever handled a bow in his life.

“Looks as if we’ve reached a dead end,” Frank said disappointedly.

“What next?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know yet. But we’d better forget about that camping trip with Chet. Let’s drive out to his place and tell him.”

Joe nodded, and soon Frank pulled up alongside the porch of the Morton farmhouse, which was located several miles out of town. Iola, Chet’s pretty sister and Joe’s favorite date, greeted them with a smile.

“Hi!” shouted Joe. “Where’s Chet?”

“Behind the barn,” she replied.

Frank parked, and the boys made their way to the back. They spied their stocky, good-natured friend crouching like a football lineman. Rushing at him was a big man, his muscular arms outstretched.

Then, faster than the eye could follow, he grabbed Chet and flipped him up into the airl The boy landed on the ground with a thud. Frank and Joe rushed to his aid.

“Oh, hi there,” Chet said casually and picked himself up. Then he introduced the young man who had thrown him. “This is Russ Griggs. He’s teaching me judo!”

“We thought he was attacking you!” Joe said.

Russ laughed. “Chet’s a pretty good pupil, but quite a load! We were just working on a movement against the back.”

“We know a couple of judo holds,” Frank said, “but that last one you used on Chet was a beauty!”

“It’s easy enough, if you’re fast,” Russ replied. “Here, I’ll show you how it goes.”

Frank stepped forward and the man showed him the fundamentals of the hold, taking each step slowly.

“Now try it on me,” he said.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the husky Russ went zooming through the air like a rocket.

“Hey!” he shouted to Frank. “I’m the instructor, remember?”

They laughed, and the judo expert showed them a variety of other holds. Then he said good-by.

After Russ had left, the boys gathered on the spacious porch. Frank and Joe quickly told Chet about their baffling case and of the attack on their father.

“Shot by an arrow!” Chet exclaimed, and added, “Gosh, I’m sure sorry, fellows.”

“We’ll have to postpone our camping trip,” Joe announced.

“Oh, sure, I understand.”

Presently the telephone rang, and Mrs. Morton called, “It’s for you, Frank.”

He went inside, spoke a few words, and came back to the porch.

“It was Slow Mo,” he said to Joe. “He’s dug up some new info and wants to see us.”

“How’d he know you were here?” Chet asked.

“Aunt Gertrude told him,” Frank explained. “We’d better go.”

Frank and Joe drove off to Pleasantville. As they stopped in front of the garage, Slow Mo ambled out to meet them.

“More funny business goin’ on around here,” he announced.

“What happened?”

“Some smart aleck tried to take that car last night,” he replied. “But I fooled him.”

“How?” Joe asked.

Slow Mo scratched his whiskers and grinned. “Well, he got in a window, but when he tried to open the garage doors my burglar alarm went off and scared him away!”

“Good for you!” Frank said. “I didn’t know you had an alarm.”

“Oh, I didn’t till a few days ago,” Slow Mo replied. He looked a little sheepish. “Never thought of it until all this trouble started over the black sedan.”

The boys exchanged grins, then the three went into the garage and looked around. The mystery car was halfway across the floor. The intruder evidently had moved it before trying to open the garage doors.

“Did you find any clues?” Frank queried.

“Nothin‘,” Slow Mo said, “’cept the fellow must be a chicken farmer.”

“What makes you think that?” Joe asked.

“He left a feather on the seat of the car,” Slow Mo replied. He reached an oily hand into his pocket and drew out a smudged white feather.

“Boy!” Joe exclaimed. “What a clue!”

“A clue?” Slow Mo looked puzzled. “Never thought of that.”

Frank and Joe thanked Slow Mo for the information and headed back to Bayport.

“I think we have something here,” Frank remarked. “This feather sure looks like the ones on the arrow that wounded Dad.”

After parking in front of police headquarters, the boys hurried inside. The chief was not there, but the sergeant in charge let them examine the arrow again. Frank compared the feathers.

“Look, Joe!” he said excitedly. “They match!”

“Then the guy who dropped this at Slow Mo’s may be the one who shot Dad!” Joe exclaimed. “We’ve got to find him!”

At the mention of Mr. Hardy, the sergeant pricked up his ears. “Too bad about that latest news,” he declared. “I know how you must feel.”

“Too bad about what?” Frank asked quickly.

“Haven’t you heard?” the officer asked in surprise. “The arrow that shot your father was poisoned!”

CHAPTER V

Expensive Evidence

WITHOUT waiting for another word, Frank and Joe ran to their car and drove to the hospital in record time. When they reached their father’s room, they found him very ill. Mrs. Hardy was by his side.

“Your father was poisoned by that arrow,” she said a bit shakily. “The doctors are doing all they can.”

Mr. Hardy was too weak to speak, but he smiled faintly at his sons.

“You’d better go along,” Mrs. Hardy said presently. “I’ll phone the house if I need you.”

Deeply worried, the boys drove home and telephoned the details of their visit to Sam Radley. Later, Mrs. Hardy called from the hospital that their father was somewhat improved, but that she would stay with him. The boys ate dinner with Aunt Gertrude and went directly to bed.

The following morning their mother had an encouraging report on Mr. Hardy. This buoyed their spirits considerably.

“Joe,” said Frank, getting up from the breakfast table, “we’ll have to think of a new approach on how to locate those holdup men.”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “Tell you what. Let’s go down to Mike’s Place and ask people in that area for the time. Maybe—just maybe—we’ll find another wrist watch with a crooked arrow or a lead to the thieves who use that question as a gimmick.”

The Hardys drove to the street where the restaurant was located and parked their car. Then they began the tedious job of questioning the passers-by. As the hours wore on, the answer was usually a polite “twelve-thirty,” “one-fifteen,” “three forty-five.” Still the boys persisted.

About four o’clock, Frank, across the street from where Joe was standing, stopped a short, husky fellow who wore a cap pulled low on his forehead. Instead of giving him the time, the man growled, “Get out of my way!”

Frank stepped toward the man, who suddenly cocked his arm. A heavy fist flashed. Before the boy could duck, the blow caught him on the point of the chin. Stunned, he staggered backward against a building!

“Stop him!” Joe shouted as the man dashed down the street.

But the few people who had witnessed the scene merely stared, letting the stranger escape.

“I’ll get him!” Joe cried, racing to his brother’s side. “Meet you at the car,” he told Frank, who by this time had regained his balance.

The squat man was a block ahead when Joe spotted him snaking among the pedestrians.

The boy gained yard after yard, leaving a trail of gaping onlookers. Presently he found himself only a block away from Jenk’s Tobacco Shop!

Hearing Joe’s footsteps close behind, Frank’s attacker put on an extra burst of speed. A moment later he dashed into the tobacco store. When Joe ran through the doorway, his quarry was leaning against the counter, puffing madly.

“What’s the idea of hitting my brother?” the boy demanded, clenching his fists.

“Your—your brother’s too nosy,” the short man wheezed. “Tried to look at my watch—and I don’t even have one on.”

Joe glanced at the man’s wrists. There was no watch. But he noted a section of slightly untanned skin on his left arm as if one had been worn recently.

“You had a watch on,” Joe retorted. “What did you do with it?”

Jenk, who was standing behind the counter, looked at Joe. “That fresh kid again,” he said menacingly. “You got an unhealthy interest in the time. Why don’t you chase along home?”

Stunned, Frank staggered backward

Joe had all he could do to keep from taking a punch at both men. But he knew he would be no match for Jenk and the stranger.

“Okay,” he said, and walked out.

But he had no intention of dropping the matter. The fact that the chase had led to the tobacco shop was too good a clue to abandon.

Joe hurried to the place where the boys had parked their car. Frank was waiting.

“Find out anything, Joe?” he asked. “I thought maybe something had happened to you.”

His brother quickly brought him up to date.

“We’ve got to investigate Jenk’s place thoroughly,” he said. “I have a feeling he’s connected in some way with the Bayport holdup gang.”

“It’s a sure bet Jenk won’t give us any information,” Frank reasoned. “He’s seen too much of us already.”

“I’ve got it!” Joe exclaimed. “We’ll send Chet!”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed with a laugh. “Jenk wouldn’t suspect him. He looks too innocent.”

In a few minutes the telephone rang at the Morton farm. Chet answered.

“Hi, Frank,” he said cheerfully. “What’s new on the case?”

“That’s why I called,” Frank began. “We’ve got a little job for you.”

“Oh, oh!” said Chet. “I knew this was coming!”

Frank quickly outlined what he wanted his chum to do. Chet did not sound enthusiastic.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “Scared?”

“Those are pretty tough guys in that end of town,” Chet protested.

“You can handle them,” Frank replied. “What about those judo lessons?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Chet laughed nervously.

“Okay,” Frank said, “then it’s a deal. See you tomorrow morning at ten at our house. Joe and I want to stop at the hospital first.”

Chet arrived at the Hardys’ a little early and managed to pack away a second breakfast.

“You’re supposed to be reducing,” Frank reminded him.

Chet grimaced. “You’d better humor me if you want me to do your dirty work for you,” he declared. “Say, how’s your dad?”

“Much better, thanks,” Frank replied. “He sure gave us a scare, though.”

As the three boys started off a few minutes later, Frank outlined their plan.

“Joe will keep an eye on the front door,” he said, “I’ll station myself in the delivery alley at the back.”

“And I?” Chet asked apprehensively.

“You go inside,” Frank continued, “and see if you can spot anything to do with a crooked arrow. Also, try to find out if Jenk’s selling anything besides tobacco.”

“M-maybe you’d better go in,” Chet said a bit shakily, “and I’ll stand guard.”

“Why, Chet,” Joe said with a straight face, “you’re not going to back out, are you?”

“All right, all right,” Chet gave in.

Frank parked the car a block from the scene. Joe stood in a doorway almost directly across the street from the shop and Frank concealed himself behind three tall ashcans in back of the building. Chet, summoning his courage, entered the store. All had agreed to meet ten minutes later in a diner down the street.

But they did not have to wait that long. Frank heard the back screen door of Jenk’s shop bang shut. Poking his head around one of the cans to get a better view, he saw the same short, muscular-looking man who had socked him the previous day! The fellow stopped momentarily, glanced quickly around, then quietly slipped down the alley.

Hardly had the man disappeared when the sound of angry words and scuffling issued from the shop. Frank could hear Jenk growl in a low tone and Chet reply in a high-pitched voice.

“Let go of me!” Chet cried. “If you don’t I‘ll—I’ll—”

A crash followed and the screen door flew open. A blurred figure bounced into the alley, rolling nearly to the ashcans.

“Chet!” Frank whispered, standing up from his hiding place. “What happened?”

“Tell you later,” Chet puffed. “Let’s get out of here!”

Frank led the way, with Chet limping behind. They soon came to the diner where Joe was waiting. He told of having seen the man enter the store just before Chet did.

“That’s right,” said Chet. “Jenk was waiting on him when I stepped in. Called him Bearcat. They didn’t notice me.”

“Did you hear anything?” Frank asked quickly.

“Bearcat said ‘Got any arrows?”’ Chet related. “Jenk handed him a small package, but I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Arrows!” Joe gasped. “Go on. What happened next?”

“Bearcat said, ‘I’ll be at Mike’s,’ and went out the back door,” Chet replied. “Then Jenk saw me. When I said I wanted some cigars for my dad, he got mad. Threw me out before I had a chance to protest. Said kids were a pest and I was too young to be buying cigars, and—well, I guess I interrupted something that made him sore.”

“It’s something to do with arrows, that’s for sure,” Frank declared.

“Whatever these arrows are, they’re small,” Chet said. “And where is Mike’s?”

“Just a couple of blocks from here,” Frank replied. “It’s a cheap restaurant by the waterfront— the place where Sam picked up the words ‘crooked arrow.”’

“Let’s go!” Joe urged.

“No,” Frank warned. “You and I were hanging around there yesterday and might arouse suspicion. Chet, are you game? If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, we’ll come after you.”

“Now listen, guys. I’ve no great desire to be kicked out again—”

“Come on, Chet. This may be our only chance,” Joe pleaded. “We’ll wait for you here.”

Chet grumbled, but did not let his friends down. Slowly he walked down the street, apprehensive about the man called Bearcat.

Soon he stood in front of Mike’s Place. Several tough-looking men walked in and out.

“Guess I’d better act the part,” Chet thought, summoning his courage. He quickly unbuttoned his collar and thrust his hands into his pockets. Then he walked boldly into the restaurant.

At first he could barely see anything in the place, which was dimly lighted and filled with cigarette smoke. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he scanned the faces of the men sitting at the various tables. None resembled the short, muscular suspect he sought.

Disappointed, Chet worked his way toward the back of the restaurant. Then he spotted a booth at the extreme rear. In it sat Bearcat!

The boy slipped into the seat opposite him. Bearcat hardly noticed him as he read the menu. When he finally glanced up, Chet leaned forward.

“Say, Jenk ain’t got no more arrows,” Chet whispered. “How about lettin’ me have one?”

The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a cigarette. Chet opened his wallet and laid a five-dollar bill on the table. To his amazement the man gave him no change.

“Jenk sure is a gyp,” whined Chet. “A guy can’t get far with one arrow.”

“Ain’t his fault,” Bearcat replied.

“Thanks,” Chet said, pocketing the cigarette and rising to leave.

Then he stopped short. Coming in the front door was Jenk himself. As he headed for Bearcat’s booth, the boy slipped out of it, concealing himself behind a hefty waiter. Fortunately, it took a few seconds for Jenk’s eyes to adjust to the dimness and he did not notice Chet heading for the door.

“Hey you,” the gruff voice of the cashier called. “Pay up!”

“I didn’t order anything,” Chet objected shakily.

“Oh no? Say, kid, you pay or—”

Jenk had stopped to listen to the argument. Chet was fearful. He threw a bill to the cashier and hurried out to the street, running toward the diner where Frank and Joe were waiting. In his hand he held a most important clue!

At last he knew what the mysterious gimmick was—a cigarette!

As Chet neared the diner he turned the cigarette over in his fingers to inspect it.

Suddenly he saw black spots before his eyes. His head swam, then he slumped to the sidewalk!

CHAPTER VI

Police Raid

“CHET, Chet! What’s the matter?” Joe bent over his friend, his face tense and worried.

“I ... I ... wh ... where am I?” Chet asked. regaining consciousness.

“You’re on the sidewalk,” Joe replied. “When you didn’t show up, Frank and I started looking for you.”

With Joe’s aid, Chet struggled to his feet. As his brain cleared, he told briefly what had happened at Mike’s Place.

“I was on my way back to meet you fellows,” he said. “I took a look at the cigarette I was holding, and then—Hey, where is it?”

“This it?” Joe asked, picking up a cigarette that had rolled into the gutter.

“Yes,” Chet replied.

“Let’s examine that thing carefully—but not here,” Frank said. “We’d better take it to the police.

The three drove quickly to headquarters. On the way Chet related in detail his experience in the restaurant and how he had paid five dollars for the Arrow cigarette.

“I’m sure this cigarette put you to sleep,” Frank declared. “And if it did, we may have the key to the Bayport robberies.”

The boys were excited as they entered the building. “This is top secret,” Frank said as Chief Collig greeted the trio. The officer motioned for the doors to be closed.

Then he turned to the boys. “Have you or Sam located the man who shot your father?” he asked with quickening interest.

“No,” Frank replied. “But we’ve uncovered a clue that may solve the mysterious robberies around Bayport.”

He pulled the cigarette from his pocket and laid it on the chief’s desk.

“What’s this—a joke?” Collig asked.

“It’s no joke,” Frank insisted. “This is a cigarette that can put you to sleep!”

“What?”

“That’s what happened to Chet.” Frank hastily related the story of the scene in Jenk’s Tobacco Shop, and concluded with Chet’s adventure in the restaurant.

“I’ll have this Arrow analyzed at once,” declared Chief Collig. “Don’t touch it. I’ll get the head of our crime lab.” He pressed a button on his intercom.

“Send Creech in to see me,” Collig ordered.

A few minutes later a baldheaded man wearing tortoise-shell glasses entered the office.

“I’d like you to analyze this cigarette for me,” the officer said.

“Okay, Chief,” Creech answered. “I’ll do it right away.”

Shortly he returned holding a white sheet of cardboard in his hand. On it were the component parts of the cigarette.

“Here we are,” he said. “This sure is a humdinger! There’s genuine tobacco at both ends,” he explained, pointing to the shreds of tobacco leaf on the white cardboard. “But in the middle there’s a clever gadget.”

“What is it?” Joe asked quickly.

Creech held a little plastic capsule between his fingers. It was about an inch long. At one end was a tiny stem.

“What on earth is all this?” Collig wondered.

“A type of bomb,” the technician said. “It could hold a liquid or a gas. And the stem is a plunger. One end of it is flush with one end of the cigarette.”

“Would it release whatever’s inside the capsule?” Joe asked.

“Right,” Creech replied. “Pressure on the plunger trips a spring inside the tiny vial to free the gas or liquid.”

“Boys, you’ve really come up with a lulu,” Collig said. Then he thanked Creech and dismissed him.

“This cigarette,” Joe began, “is being used by criminals to knock out their victims.”

“And when I pressed the plunger by accident, I saw spots before my eyes and keeled over,” Chet put in.

“This must be kept secret,” Collig said. “Aside from your father and Sam Radley, no one should be told about it.”

As the three agreed, Chet added, “Wonder what kind of anesthetic the thieves use. It had no lasting effect on me. I feel fine now.”

“Some kind of ether-like gas, no doubt. Creech can check that out for us by analyzing the capsule,” the chief remarked.

Again Collig pressed a button on his desk. “Jenk’s store must be raided at once,” he told the boys as the door opened and a sergeant entered. “Want to come along?”

“You bet! But we’ll have to hurry. Bearcat probably mentioned Chet to Jenk, so he’s tipped off by now,” Frank said.

The police and the three boys sped to the tobacco shop.

Chief Collig’s aide deftly steered their big black sedan through the downtown traffic and headed for the waterfront. Within minutes they pulled up in front of Jenk’s. In a moment other carloads of police joined them.

“Nobody’s here!” exclaimed Collig, opening the door.

“Hey, smells like something’s burning!” Frank cried out.

He ran to the back door and looked into the alley, just in time to see Jenk hotfooting it away. A smoldering package lay on the ground.

“Stop!” Frank shouted at him.

As he called, two policemen appeared at the end of the alley, cutting off the man’s escape. They collared Jenk at once and brought him to Chief Collig.

Frank stamped out the fire in the package, most of which had been reduced to char.

“Look here, Chief!” he exclaimed, kicking what was left to one side and holding a cigarette at arm’s length. “They’re Arrows!”

“What does this mean?” Chief Collig growled, addressing the surly Jenk.

“I ain’t done nuthin’,” the man protested. “Just burned some stale cigarettes.”

Joe took one of them in his fingers. It had been burned halfway through. Inside was a capsule, which smoldered with a peculiar odor.

“Of course,” he cried out. “This plastic burns! Jenk was trying to destroy evidence.”

Collig ordered that handcuffs be put on Jenk. “Come on!” he said. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do at headquarters!”

“I ain’t got nuthin’ to explain,” the man declared sullenly.

Meanwhile, other police officers had searched the store. They had found nothing but a meager stock of popular brands of tobacco and cigarettes. Jenk had burned all the telltale evidence!

“We’ll take this man with us,” Chief Collig told the sergeant.

The Hardys said good-by to the officers and took Chet to their house, where he had left his car that morning. They had a quick lunch, then drove to the hospital.

Mr. Hardy, who was improving slowly, listened with great interest to their account of the discovery of the Arrow cigarettes.

“There’s one thing we must do soon,” he said.

“I think I know what you mean,” Frank said. “Rout out all the Arrow cigarettes in this area, and see if we can pick up any clues to where they come from.”

“Right. Get in touch with Sam. He might be able to give you a hand.”

Next morning, Frank and Joe called Sam Radley, and the three set out to search for more Arrow cigarettes.

While the local police undertook to do the job in Bayport, Sam and the boys drove to the nearby towns which also had experienced an outbreak of holdups.

They stopped in all sorts of shops where cigarettes might be sold, asking the same question.

“Have you any Arrows? Jenk sent us.”

Time after time the boys, working apart from Sam, were met by vacant stares and “Don’t know what you’re talking about!”

But in Green Point, near Pleasantville, a tobacco shopman replied, “Jenk sent you?”

“Yep,” Frank answered, his pulse quickening.

“Got anything to show?”

“Crooked arrow!” Joe said, hoping that might be a password.

“Good enough for me,” was the reply.

With that the man gave the boys two cigarettes, for which they paid ten dollars. The shopkeeper leaned close to the boys.

“Tell Jenk those are my last two,” he whispered. “Have him send Arrow Charlie around with a new lot next time he or his pals come East.”

Frank and Joe looked as casual as they could, though their pulses were racing.

“Arrow Charlie?” said Frank. “Oh, sure. Say, did he get that name from selling Arrows, or is he handy with a bow?”

The man smirked. “You ought to know!” he said conclusively.

That was enough for the Hardys. They hurried to their car, where Sam was already waiting. He had had no luck. Frank showed him the two Arrows triumphantly, then they sped back toward the city to report the Green Point tobacconist and turn over the cigarettes for analysis.

As they rode down the road that ran past the Morton farm, they saw Chet on the porch. When they tooted their horn, the stout boy waved frantically. Frank jammed on the brakes and Chet puffed up to them, a worried look on his face.

“Your mother phoned here a few minutes ago trying to get hold of you!” he panted.

“What’s wrong?” Joe asked.

“Is Dad worse?” Frank gasped.

“I don’t know,” Chet replied. “All she said was to come to the hospital and hurry!”

CHAPTER VII

Another Puzzle

“THANKS,” Frank said. “We’ll drive right over. I’ll call you if anything is wrong.”

He was off in a flash. The car’s speedometer hovered at the legal limit as Frank and Joe raced to Bayport Hospital.

To their surprise, they found their father sitting up in his room. He greeted them cheerfully.

“Hello, boys,” he called out. “Hope I didn’t alarm you by asking you to come quickly.”

“To be honest, you did,” Frank panted. “It certainly is good to see you so chipper, though.”

Joe went to the far side of his father’s bed. “Gosh, you look like yourself again. Doesn’t he, Mother?”

Mrs. Hardy smiled in agreement. She was pouring water for one of the many bouquets her husband had received.

“The reason I called you,” Mr. Hardy said, “is this.” He held up an air-mail letter. “It’s from Cousin Ruth. Some mysterious happenings at the ranch have her worried. Seems some of her best cowhands have disappeared, one by one, without a trace.”

“Has she notified the local authorities?” Joe asked.

“Yes. But she has had no luck so far,” his father replied. “She wants me to come immediately. Since I can’t, I’d like you to fly out in my place. Take Chet, too, if he wants to go.”

“We’ll leave as soon as possible,” Frank assured him. “There’s only one thing—Joe and I just got a hot lead on the crooked arrow mystery. We’d sure like to follow it up.”

“I’ll put Sam Radley on your new lead,” Mr. Hardy said. “Besides, I hope to be out of here soon, so I can work with him. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”

Frank reported their experience with the Green Point tobacco dealer and his mention of Arrow Charlie.

“It sounds to us as if he’s the main distributor,” Frank said. “And obviously he comes East once in a while.”

Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful. “I wonder where he is now.”

“Have the police been able to get any information from Jenk?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy shook his head. “The prisoner isn’t talking.”

“Come on, Frank,” Joe put in. “We’d better go see about those plane reservations for the trip to Cousin Ruth’s.”

Before leaving the hospital, Frank telephoned Chet about the proposed Western trip. Their pal eagerly accepted the invitation.

The boys had a hasty lunch at a coffee shop, and then drove to the Bayport Air Terminal. Striding up to the ticket office, Frank and Joe approached one of the clerks.

“We’d like three reservations to Albuquerque as soon as we can get them,” Frank said.

The clerk examined his schedule. “Sorry,” he said. “Everything’s booked for a week.”

“A week!” groaned Joe. “How about a plane to another point and a transfer?”

The clerk shook his head. “The schedule West is full.”

“All right,” Frank sighed. “Put us on the list for cancellations.” He gave the man their names, address, and telephone number.

“We’ll get in touch with you as soon as something comes up,” the clerk told him.

Frank and Joe got into their car and started for home. As Frank breezed along, Joe suggested:

“Let’s drop by Chet’s and ask him to get ready. No telling when we may be leaving!”

“Right.”

When they slowed down on the road fronting the Morton farm, a strange sight greeted their eyes. In a pasture among a herd of cows rode a cowboy on a chestnut mare.

“Yahoo!” Joe laughed. “It’s Chet!”

The boys stopped and got out.

“Hi, pardner!” called Frank. “Where’d you get that rig?”

“Bought it, of course,” puffed Chet.

He leaned over in the saddle and looked down at the Hardys. “I’m practicing for our Western trip. Just watch this, fellows!”

Chet swung a rope over his head, then tossed it at a Holstein grazing complacently nearby. The rope snaked through the air and landed over an old tree stump.

“Bull’s-eye!” Joe wisecracked.

“That was only the first try,” Chet retorted. “Watch this one.”

He looped the rope again. It glided through the air and landed neatly over the cow’s head.

“How ’bout that!” he cried triumphantly.

Chet, apparently wishing to impress his audience, yanked the rope as he had seen professionals do. With a toss of her head, the animal gave a loud, frightened bellow, then started to run.

Chet had been gazing at Frank and Joe hoping to elicit a word of praise, and was not watching the cow. Suddenly, with a jerk, she pulled him from the horse.

With a thud, somewhat cushioned by his ample weight, the boy landed in a clump of grass. The Hardys roared with laughter.

“Do it again,” Joe teased.

He leaned over to help Chet to his feet. As he did so, the cow, tired of the whole annoyance, butted Joe squarely in the rear.

“Oomph!” he grunted as he sprawled in the pasture. The annoyed cow ambled away. Chet enjoyed a few good horselaughs.

“A fine bunch of cowboys you are!” Frank bellowed.

Joe got up and brushed himself off, then looked over at Chet. “Be thankful that wasn’t a bull,” he said ruefully.

The conversation turned to the boys’ latest news. Frank explained the reason for their trip.

“Be ready to fly out West the minute we call you,” Joe told Chet. “Dad wants us to start as soon as we can get reservations.”

Chet beamed. “Hey, that’s swell!”

“And remember, old boy, there’s a weight limit on luggage,” Frank reminded him.

Chet sighed heavily. “Why, my saddle and boots and duffel bag and—”

“And you,” Joe teased, “all add up to about five hundred pounds!”

“No fooling,” Frank said, “you can’t take all this stuff with you.”

“I guess you’re right,” Chet agreed sadly.

“Don’t worry.” Joe said. “I’m sure they’ll have gear for us out at the ranch.”

“Boy,” Chet exclaimed, “I’d better try to earn some quick money for the trip ! I could have helped the farmer down the road build the foundation for his new barn. But there’s not time enough!”

“Hop to it,” Joe said with a grin. “Do as much as you can.” Then he and Frank said good-by and drove off.

Chet did not like to work. But he had no choice. With a sigh that could have been heard all the way to Bayport, he trudged down the road to carry stones for the farmer.

He came home that evening exhausted from the rugged work. The next morning he rose early, put away a man-sized breakfast, and hurried back to his job.

A big truck had dumped a huge pile of stones at the side of the road. It was Chet’s chore to haul them in a wheelbarrow to the site of the new foundation. About midday, as he was working alone and figuring on how soon he could get off for a lunchbreak, a strange man approached him.

“Hi,” Chet called out, eager for an excuse to rest.

“Looks like you’re workin’ mighty hard,” said the man. He had broad shoulders, a large nose, and bushy black eyebrows.

“Sure am,” Chet agreed. “It’s tough work, especially when the sun’s so hot.”

“Well,” the stranger replied, “a boy should help his father.”

“I’m not doing this for my father,” Chet said, leaning against a fence post.

“Oh, no?” asked the man in surprise. “You’re just working here?”

“There’s a good reason,” Chet said as a smile wreathed his round face. “I’ve got to make some money in a hurry.”

“In a hurry?” the man repeated.

“Yes.” Chet threw out his chest proudly. “I’m leaving any minute. Goin’ out West.”

“Is that a fact?” the stranger remarked. “What part of the West?”

Chet was so enthusiastic about his trip that he told the man about the mysterious disappearances at Ruth Hardy’s ranch, and how the Hardy boys were taking their father’s place to investigate.

A twisted smile, unnoticed by Chet, came to the man’s lips as he urged him to go on with his story. When he had finished, the man tugged at the brim of his hat. Then, without another word, he hurried down the road.

“Funny kind of duck,” Chet said to himself.

As he watched, the stranger walked under a low-hanging tree by the side of the road. An instant later Chet heard the roar of a motor and saw a car pull into the road. It sped toward Bayport.

Pondering the man’s peculiar actions, Chet sat down to eat his lunch. Suddenly he let out a howl of dismay.

“Oh no,” he thought. “I wonder if I told that guy too much!”

He loped home to call his friends.

Meanwhile, the Hardy house was as busy as rodeo day in a prairie town. The airline office had telephoned offering three cancellations to El Paso the following morning. From there the boys would have to charter a plane for the two-hour trip north to Crowhead. After leaving the message with Mrs. Morton, Frank and Joe excitedly began gathering up the things they would need.

During all this time the telephone had been ringing continually. Many friends of the Hardys inquired about the detective’s condition. Finally a call came through from Chet.

“Boy, I’ve been trying to get you guys for an hour!” he complained. “Mother gave me your message about the plane. That’s swell. But listen, I think I’ve pulled a huge boner.”

He apologetically told about his talk with the stranger, and described him.

“Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “He sounds like that bushy-browed man who came to Slow Mo’s and tried to take the abandoned car!”

“I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth,” Chet said.

After hanging up, Frank turned to Joe and told him the story. “That guy is keeping tabs on us,” he added. “I don’t like it.”

The boys had just returned to their packing when the telephone rang again. Aunt Gertrude answered.

“Boys!” she called. “Come here!”

Frank and Joe bounded down the stairs and found her holding a paper.

“A telegram from Ruth,” she said, passing her notes over to Frank. He read it aloud:

“‘All is well. No urgency to come to Crowhead. Ruth.’”

CHAPTER VIII

Followed

FRANK and Joe stared at each other in surprise.

“Oh boy!” Joe exclaimed. “Just when we’re all ready to go!”

“I wonder what happened,” Frank mused. “Seems like things sure straightened out in a hurry.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Aunt Gertrude declared emphatically. “I’ll bet someone forced her to send this wire!”

“Aunt Gertrude,” Joe said with a grin, “you’re getting to be more and more like a detective!”

“There’s one way to find out for sure,” Frank put in. “And that is to telephone Crowhead!” He waited for his aunt’s approval, then dialed long-distance. Soon he was connected with the ranch in New Mexico.

“Hello. Cousin Ruth? ... This is Frank Hardy. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Frank. How are you? And when is your father coming out here?”

“Didn’t you just send him a wire saying everything is okay now?”

“Certainly not. The sooner he gets here the better!”

“I’m afraid Dad won’t be able to make it, but Joe and I and a friend will arrive sometime tomorrow afternoon,” Frank told her. “Dad’s ill. We’ll tell you all about it when we see you,” he added quickly to forestall any questions. Then he said good-by and hung up.

When he told his brother and aunt what Ruth Hardy had said, Joe exclaimed, “She must have an enemy who faked the telegram!”

“Or else the call to our house was phony,” Frank suggested. “Let’s check the telegraph office.”

“Good idea,” agreed Joe.

A call to the local wire service proved Frank’s surmise to be correct. No telegram had been received from Ruth Hardy.

“Chet’s stranger!” Joe cried. “He must have phoned the fake message!”

“Obviously. But why would anyone connected with the Arrow case want to keep us here?” Frank shook his head in puzzlement.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Joe agreed. “You’d think the thieves would be glad to get us out of town.”

Later that afternoon Frank and Joe, accompanied by their aunt, went to the hospital to say good-by to their father. Mr. Hardy was in good spirits, especially since the doctor had told him he could go home within a few days.

“Keep your eyes and ears open,” he advised his sons, “and look for the unusual. I’m sure you’ll be able to clear up Ruth’s troubles.”

“We’ll do our best, Dad,” Frank reassured him.

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” the detective went on. “And keep me posted on what’s happening.”

When the Hardys, their mother, and Aunt Gertrude reached the airport early the next morning, Chet was already there, sporting a grin and a ten-gallon hat. After good-bys had been said, the three boys boarded the plane.

The big jet taxied out to the runway and soon soared into the sky. Bayport became a mere speck in the distance, finally disappearing on the horizon.

After a smooth flight the craft set down at El Paso, Texas. The boys alighted and went at once to look around for a charter flight to Crowhead. When Frank entered the main terminal a lanky blond stranger approached him.

“You looking for a charter flight?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “How did you know?”

“Heard you fellows talking when you got off the plane,” the man answered. He looked pleased. “A friend of mine has a nifty ship,” he went on. “He’ll take you wherever you want to go. And very reasonable.”

The stranger’s eagerness aroused Frank’s suspicions. “I have something to attend to first,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later if we want to hire your friend.”

When Frank told Chet and his brother about the man’s offer, they agreed they had better be wary of him.

“He may have followed us from Bayport!” Chet exclaimed.

“Maybe he’s mixed up with the phony telegram!” Joe declared.

“Let’s look around to see what else is for hire,” Frank suggested.

“Not me,” Chet put in. “That snack on the plane wasn’t enough. I’m going to the restaurant here for some chow.”

He went into the airport cafeteria while Frank and Joe strolled off to find a charter flight. About fifteen minutes later Chet had finished a stack of blueberry pancakes when he happened to glance out the window alongside him.

What he saw almost made him choke. There stood the man with the bushy eyebrows to whom he had mentioned the Western trip back on the farm in Bayport! Talking to him was a lanky blond fellow.

“He must be the guy Frank described before,” Chet thought. “I’ve got to tell the Hardys!”

At that moment the Bayport man turned, his eyes meeting Chet’s for a split second.

“I don’t think he recognized me,” Chet told himself and got up.

The men moved on, disappearing around a corner. Chet paid his check and hurried to find Frank and Joe.

They were in front of a hangar, talking to a robust-looking pilot who stood beside a two-engine silver plane. Quickly Chet motioned them aside and told them about the two suspicious strangers.

“I don’t like that,” Joe replied. “Looks like trouble brewing. We’d better be on our guard at the ranch.”

Frank frowned. “There’s no doubt we’ve been followed.” Then he turned to the pilot. “Mr. Stratton, I’d like you to meet our friend Chet Morton.”

Chet shook hands with the man as Joe said, “Mr. Stratton’s a former Air Force pilot. He’s agreed to take us all to Crowhead Ranch.”

“Terrific!” cried Chet, beaming.

“Welcome aboard,” the pilot said affably. “And please—my nickname’s Winger. I’ll just gas up and check her out, then we’ll be ready. Meet you back here in twenty minutes.”

During the waiting interval, Frank suggested they check up on Winger, just to be sure they could trust him. A talk with airport officials indicated that the pilot had been flying out of El Paso for years, and was entirely reliable.

“Guess I’m getting too suspicious,” Frank admitted, grinning. “But with spies following us—”

“Better safe than sorry, eh?” Joe finished.

At the end of the allotted time, Winger reappeared, directed his passengers to board the plane, and helped with their luggage. Then, taxiing to the end of the runway, he turned, waited for clearance from the tower, headed into the wind and took off smoothly.

“These small planes are great,” Joe said enthusiastically.

“Just as safe as the big jets,” Frank said confidently.

Chet wished he could agree. He was holding on tightly to the sides of his seat, gazing at the ground below.

“Take your eyes off the scenery,” Frank advised, “and look at the clouds!”

Chet turned. Looking backward, he suddenly motioned to the boys excitedly.

“Hey!” he yelled. “I think a plane’s following us!”

The pilot turned and agreed. He slowed his roaring engines.

“We’ll let him catch up so we can take a closer look. Maybe it’s a friend of mine having some fun.”

The tailing plane also relaxed its pace, keeping slightly above them.

Frank told Winger just enough of the mystery they were trying to solve to interest him in helping them.

“I’m sure that plane is following us for no good reason,” he said.

“Want to change about?” Winger asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll get in back of that guy and tail him,” Winger said. Then he added, “How’s your stomach?”

Frank smiled and Joe answered, “Okay with us. How about you, Chet?”

The boy groaned. The pancakes felt like lead under his belt, but he had no choice but to give the go-ahead sign.

“Get set!” the pilot shouted.

Suddenly the plane shot upward with such velocity that the boys felt as if they were being pressed into their seats by an invisible hand.

In a breath-taking swoop, the craft was upside down at the top of a tight inside loop. Then it dived down directly in back of their mysterious pursuers !

CHAPTER IX

Forced Landing

TAKEN by surprise, the pilot of the mystery plane tried to shake off Winger’s ship. He banked first to the right, then to the left. But the former Air Force man stuck to his quarry.

“Atta boy!” Joe cried gleefully, admiring their pilot’s deft maneuvering.

Chet did not say a word. His eyes stared straight ahead as if glued to a specter.

Finally the kibitzing plane, after zooming in vain to get away from Winger’s craft, headed back toward El Paso. Winger followed. The pursued ship headed directly for the airport and descended.

Winger remained aloft for a few minutes. He had to wait for landing permission from the tower. The boys watched as their quarry landed. But suddenly they gasped. The craft had hardly touched down on the runway when it made a daring take-off!

“Follow him!” Joe cried out.

“I can’t,” the pilot replied. He had just received orders to come in. “Against regulations to go up without checking in,” he added.

“But that fellow didn’t,” Joe said.

“I know. Let’s see what the airport people know about him.”

Chet remained in the plane, while Winger and the Hardys went to the terminal. They found a group of angry officials discussing the mysterious plane which had broken the rules of the field. It had come in without a signal and taken off without reporting.

No one had been close enough to see its registration number. It had swooped in and out too quickly.

Frank related the story of their experience. They could offer little to identify the plane, except that it was a white two-engine craft and appeared to be carrying two men. The officials promised to do what they could to trace the lawbreakers.

“Well, let’s start all over again,” Winger proposed as they walked back to their craft.

“I hope Chet hasn’t run off.” Joe grinned. “I don’t think he and his pancakes liked your little stunt, Winger.”

But Chet was in the seat where they had left him.

“How do you feel?” Winger asked him.

Chet bobbed his head up and down, saying nothing.

A few minutes later they were in the air again. Here and there dense woodlands dotted the hills and cattle country. Once in a while a picturesque ranch house came into view below.

“According to your directions, we should be headed straight for Crowhead,” Winger said an hour later. “Ever been there before by air?”

“No,” Frank replied. “But we have a good idea of the layout.”

“Well, when you recognize anything, give a shout.”

Frank and Joe alertly watched the terrain beneath them. Presently the plane droned over a strand of ponderosa pines.

Frank, glancing from the right side of the craft, suddenly reached out and grabbed Joe’s arm.

“Hey, look at that!”

“What is it?” Winger queried, while Joe and Chet jumped up and looked out Frank’s window.

“There among the trees,” Frank pointed.

“I see it!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s a giant arrow cut out of the woods!”

“A crooked arrow!” Chet observed.

Winger was puzzled. “What on earth could that mean?” he asked. He banked to go back and look at the strange sight again.

“It looks,” said Frank, “as if the timber has been cut purposely in the form of a bent arrow. Let’s circle around to see if we can spot anything else.”

“Okay with me,” the pilot agreed.

Winger flew in ever-widening circles. But the dense woodland yielded no signs of habitation and no further markers.

Finally the pilot came back again to the crooked arrow. Frank nudged Joe, who bent his head closer to his brother.

“Do you see where the arrow points?” he whispered excitedly.

“Right toward Crowhead Ranch!” Joe replied. The two exchanged significant glances.

“I wonder what it all means,” Joe said, puzzled.

“You’ve got me,” Frank remarked with concern. “But this, together with the phony telegram, seems to prove there is a connection between this area and the gang of thieves. We’ll have to find out what it is, and pronto!”

“I wish we could see if anybody’s down there,” Joe said. “It might be a hideout for the gang!”

“No chance of landing among these trees,” Frank declared.

As the pilot headed away from the arrow, Joe noticed a cleared spot beyond the arrow’s head. He was about to bring it to Winger’s attention when suddenly the airplane’s engines began to sputter. Winger looked back at the boys, his forehead wrinkled with concern.

“It’s a giant arrow!” Joe exclaimed

“I may have to take her down!” he called grimly.

“Crowhead’s not far from here,” Frank said.

“There’s a field to our left,” Joe put in. “Maybe we could land there if we have to.”

Winger tried frantically to get the proper response from the engines, but they continued to wheeze and cough.

“Down we go!” he yelled.

The wind whined against the plane’s surface as the craft, under Winger’s steady hand, made for the clearing. Chet closed his eyes in terror, but the Hardys, fascinated by the pilot’s skill, watched every move.

The plane banked, its wings brushing the treetops. At last it settled down in the field without mishap.

“Whew!” Chet cried out. “That was too close for comfort!”

“Sure was,” Winger agreed. “I just hope we can get out of here again.”

They all jumped from the plane. Frank, who was a good mechanic, offered to help examine the engines for the trouble spot.

Before he went to work, he said to Chet and Joe, “How about you two taking a look around to see if you can find out anything about that arrow?”

“Okay,” Joe said, ready for adventure.

Chet stared at the unknown, and to him, hostile surroundings. He felt no great desire to move one foot.

“A walk will do you good,” Joe urged.

Chet remained where he was. “I knew it,” he complained. “I come out West for a good time, and the next thing I know I’m in a gangsters’ hideout!”

“That shouldn’t bother you. How about that judo you learned?” Joe needled him. “You could throw a couple of gunmen right over your shoulder.”

“Gunmen?” Chet’s eyebrows shot up. “That settles it. I’ll help on the engine. You and Frank go.”

It took quite a bit of persuasion on the Hardys part before Chet finally set off with Joe. Cautiously they advanced among the trees, but there was no sign of human habitation.

It was evident, however, that someone had been there recently because the land in the crooked arrow area had been stripped of all new growth so that the arrow sign could be plainly seen from the air.

“This spot must be here to mark that clearing we used as an airstrip,” Joe concluded. “Probably for members of the crooked arrow gang. That may have been their white plane following us!”

The boys hunted for clues to the criminals’ identity but found nothing. Finally they returned to the plane. Winger and Frank had located the trouble. There was water in one of the fuel tanks.

“We think someone tampered with the plane,” Frank reported gravely. “Winger-says a couple of guys were hanging around while he was getting gas and checking her out.”

“Those two I saw talking!” Chet exclaimed.

“Then we’re lucky to be safe!” Joe cried out.

“Did you fellows find anything?” Frank inquired.

“No,” Joe reported, “but from the cuts on the stumps, it’s a safe bet those trees were felled on purpose.”

“Whoever did it surely went to a lot of trouble,” commented Winger as he tightened a coupling in the fuel line. “Maybe it’s a landing field, but the pilot would have to be pretty good to get in and out of here!”

A few minutes later he added, “We’re ready to go. The really tough job is ahead—to take off!” He eyed the length of the clearing. “Well, I guess we can make it,” he said. “But I wish we could throw off some excess weight.”

Joe eyed Chet slyly.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” the stout boy protested with a broad grin.

They climbed back into the plane, and Winger took his place at the controls. He taxied to the end of the clearing and turned, taking advantage of every inch of ground. He applied the brakes until the engines roared, then zipped down the natural runway.

The boys held their breath as the plane sped toward the trees at the far end of the open space. Suddenly, with a bound like a high jumper, the craft nosed up sharply. Boughs scratched the underside of the fuselage, but the ship soared into the sky unscathed. Winger was perspiring as he leveled off.

“That was great,” Frank praised him, and the others added their congratulations.

It was late afternoon when the plane landed at Crowhead. Frank had identified the ranch from the layout of the buildings, and Winger set the wheels down on a big field alongside the house.

Chet eyed his surroundings with suspicion, but everything seemed to be peaceful. Several cowhands came to the plane. After greetings and introductions were made, the men helped unload the luggage and two of them took it into the house. The boys paid Winger, thanked him, and said good-by.

Two other cowhands escorted the boys to a wide vine-covered porch encircling three sides of the large ranch house. Cousin Ruth was there at the door and greeted them warmly.

“It’s a shame about your father,” she said, “but I’m grateful to you for coming out here to help me.”

The boys introduced Chet to their cousin, who had changed considerably since they had last seen her. Her hair, once blond, was now streaked with gray, and her face was careworn from the ordeal of her husband’s death and the responsibilities of the ranch.

After the visitors had brought Cousin Ruth up to date on the news from home, she showed them to two comfortably furnished bedrooms. Then they were treated to a sumptuous Western meal. Chet was in his glory.

“Golly,” he cried, seeing the platter of juicy charcoaled steaks, “Bayport was never like this!”

When the meal was over, the boys excused themselves and walked around the ranch. It was not until dusk had fallen that Ruth Hardy joined them again and broached the subject they were so eager to hear.

They had gathered in the attractive, dark-beamed living room with its massive rough-stone fireplace. The widow closed the door, glanced furtively out the window, then launched into the story of the difficulties at Crowhead. The boys leaned forward attentively.

“One by one my best cowhands have been disappearing,” she began. “They leave very suddenly, taking all their belongings with them.”

“And don’t they tell you they’re going?” Frank asked.

“They tell no one. As a result, my foreman hasn’t been able to get all the ranch work done.”

“Can’t you hire new hands?” Joe spoke up.

“They won’t work here. We’ve advertised, but the story has gotten around that Crowhead is—well—jinxed. Because nobody has heard from the men who disappear.”

“What do the police say?” Joe asked.

“The sheriff has done all he can to try to solve the mystery, but the men keep vanishing into thin air.”

As their cousin talked, night dropped into the valley. She switched on the living-room lights and said, “You boys must be exhausted. Perhaps you had better go to bed. We get up very early here at Crowhead.”

“And I’d like to do some investigating in the morning,” Frank declared. “How about it, fellows?”

As he rose from his chair he happened to glance out the window. A pair of unfriendly eyes was peering into the room. Then, almost instantly, the image vanished.

CHAPTER X

A Suspicious Foreman

“SOMEBODY is spying on us!” Frank thought.

He sidled over to the window, but whoever had been peering through it had disappeared from view. Excusing himself, Frank went into the kitchen and out the back door, hoping to take the spy by surprise.

He made his way quietly around the building. Nobody was near the window, and it was too dark to check for footprints.

As Frank listened for a noise to indicate the eavesdropper’s whereabouts, he heard the sound of hoofbeats. They came from the direction of the corral, then rumbled off in the distance like the muffled beat of a drum.

“He sure got away in a hurry,” Frank thought in disgust.

When he went inside, his cousin asked him what had happened. Not wishing to worry her, he merely said he was investigating a noise he had heard.

Frank kept his discovery secret until he and Joe were alone in their room. Chet had already tumbled into bed and was sleeping soundly.

“We’d better not alarm Cousin Ruth,” Frank said when he had completed his story. “But there’s something I’d like to ask her before we turn in. Be right back.”

Seeing a light still on in the living room, he went to find his cousin. She was reading.

“Oh,” she said in surprise, “would you boys like a snack or something? I forgot to ask.”

“No, thank you,” Frank replied. “Joe and I were just wondering exactly how many horses are in the corral.”

“We have twenty-five now,” Mrs. Hardy said, a note of sadness in her voice. “We used to have many more, but I had to sell them.”

After chatting a while longer, Frank said good night again and went to his room. He suggested a plan to Joe.

Instead of undressing, the Hardys turned out their light and waited. A few minutes later their cousin went to her bedroom. Half an hour later Crowhead Ranch was cloaked in stillness, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the occasional mournful howl of a far-off coyote.

“Okay,” Frank whispered. “Let’s go!”

The boys tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, opened the back door, and made their way to the corral. The horses stirred slightly as they sensed the presence of strangers.

“Hope they don’t rouse anybody.” Frank said. Just then the moon, whose ghostly light had been concealed behind a mass of somber clouds, broke into the open sky. In the dim glow cast over the corral, Frank and Joe could see the horses.

“We’ll both count them,” Frank said.

After a moment of silence, Joe whispered, “Twenty-four!”

“That’s what I get!” Frank replied.

“There’s one missing,” Joe said excitedly.

“That might mean,” Frank declared, “that the person who looked in the window and rode off works for Crowhead!”

“Listen!” Joe warned suddenly.

The boys held their breath.

“I hear it!” Frank said hoarsely. “It’s a rider. Maybe the same one coming back!”

They raced into the shadow of a shed which stood near the corral, and waited. The hoofbeats grew closer. A few minutes later a cowboy reined in his mount at the corral gate and dismounted. After quickly unsaddling, he lifted the bar, slapped his horse on the rump, and the animal bounded inside.

All the while Frank and Joe craned their necks to get a glimpse of the man. But the dark shadow thrown by his broad-brimmed hat concealed his face.

The boys noted that he was tall and rangy, but so were many other cowboys. If only they could get a good look at him!

The man hastened toward the bunkhouse. As he neared the Hardys’ hiding place, Frank and Joe flattened themselves against the side of the building. Their hearts beat like trip-hammers.

When the cowboy passed them, he suddenly whipped off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. The moon shone full on a stern face with a thin nose and jutting jaw.

He hurried on, and soon the boys heard the bunkhouse door shut lightly after him. When all was quiet again, they made their way silently to the house.

“We’ll spot him in the morning,” Frank whispered. “Something’s up!”

They opened the back door, which they had left ajar. Then, taking off their shoes, they crept back up to their room.

In the morning the brothers were awakened by a brilliant sunrise.

“Swell country,” Joe commented.

“Sure is. We’ve got to see to it that Cousin Ruth doesn’t lose this ranch,” Frank declared.

The Hardys roused Chet, who rolled sleepily from bed.

“Hi, it’s time to get up,” Joe said as he prodded his friend.

“Lemme sleep,” Chet protested.

“You’re going to miss breakfast,” Frank teased. “They don’t serve it in bed, you know.”

At the mention of food, the stocky boy quickly shook off his drowsiness and dressed. Ruth Hardy greeted them in the living room.

“Breakfast isn’t quite ready yet,” she said. “Suppose we go outside and I’ll introduce you to the men.”

They stepped onto the rambling porch, then walked toward the bunkhouse. A group of cowboys, some of whom the Easterners had not seen the day before, were getting ready for their day’s work.

“I’d like you to meet my two cousins Frank and Joe and their friend Chet,” the widow said pleasantly, approaching the cowboys. “They’re from Bayport and are spending a little vacation with us.”

“Howdy,” said the men, shaking hands with the trio.

Ruth Hardy introduced them one by one. Presently she stopped beside a little fellow with shiny black hair. His leathery face was as weather-beaten as a mountain rock, but the crinkly expression around his eyes indicated a keen sense of humor.

“I know you’ll like Crowhead’s Pye,” their cousin said, turning to the boys.

“Pie?” Chet returned enthusiastically. “For breakfast?”

A few of the cowboys laughed.

“No.” Mrs. Hardy smiled. “This is Pye. P-y-e. His real name is Pymatuno, and he’s the best Indian cowhand in all of New Mexico!”Then she looked around, as if she had missed somebody.

“Where’s Hank?” she asked. Turning to her visitors, she explained, “He’s my foreman.”

As she spoke, the bunkhouse door slammed and a tall man emerged. The Hardys stared in amazement. He had a thin nose and jutting jaw—the same as the mysterious rider of the night before.

When he approached the group, Ruth Hardy introduced him.

“Howdy,” he said, extending a long, bony hand and showing no enthusiasm at the meeting. “Up purty early for city kids, ain’t yo’?” He looked at the trio with a poker face.

The boys resented the remark, especially Joe, who was not endowed with the same even temper as his older brother.

“It seems to me,” he said pointedly, “that certain cowboys stay out at night as late as city folks!”

Hank tensed. The muscles on his lean cheeks bulged in and out.

“Sometimes,” he snapped, “a cowboy has to run off coyotes.”

Just then the mellow strum of a guitar was heard. A pint-sized cowboy, wearing a bright-red shirt, walked from the bunkhouse.

“That’s Terry,” Ruth Hardy said with a smile. “He’s a lot of fun, but an awful tease.”

“He’s mighty fleet-fingered with the gee-tar,” one of the men spoke up.

The singing cowboy grinned, showing a set of white teeth. He strummed a few chords, greeted the visitors from Bayport, then broke into song.

‘Ef yo’ wanna be a cowman

Yo’ gotta find a frisky hoss

In this rough-and-tumble land,

And ride to beat the band.

“But take a soft old city lad

Ah, how his hoss will fuss

It sure will be a pity

When his rider hits the dust!”

Terry gaily twanged out an extra chord as the group roared with laughter.

At that moment the ranch-house bell rang. Ruth Hardy and the somewhat embarrassed “city kids” went off to breakfast. When they had finished the hearty meal of flapjacks and sausage, they lingered at the table.

Finally Frank addressed his cousin. “You know,” he said, “I don’t mind being razzed because I’m from the city, but it seemed to me that your foreman Hank wasn’t kidding. Is he always like that?”

“Oh, Hank’s all right,” Ruth Hardy assured the boys. “He’s a little dictatorial, but I think he means well.”

“Seems mighty unfriendly to me,” Joe said with a worried frown. “Maybe your men are leaving on account of him.”

“I hardly think so. Hank just doesn’t like what he calls ‘city dudes.’ I’m sure you can grow to be friends, though.”

“I hope so,” Frank said. But he was still suspicious that the foreman might be mixed up in some way with the strange disappearance of the Crowhead cowboys.

Soon their cousin excused herself from the table and the boys continued the discussion.

“You know,” Frank began, “no matter how confident Cousin Ruth is about her foreman, I think we’d better keep our eye on him.”

“Right,” Joe agreed. “Let’s get started looking for clues.”

Chet swallowed hard. “If you’re going anywhere on horseback, I think I’ll take a rain check. Guess I ate too much Western breakfast.”

Frank and Joe let out a hearty laugh.

“Okay, dude,” Joe quipped. “Meet you back here after we take a look around Crowhead.”

The Hardys walked to the corral, eager to ride over the meandering acres of the ranch. When they asked the foreman for horses, Hank lifted the corral bar and went inside. He returned with two lively mounts.

“Saddle ’em yoreselves,” he said gruffly.

The animals pranced and pawed, but finally the boys got the saddles strapped in place. Hank looked on amazed as they swung themselves easily onto the horses’ backs.

At that moment a figure raced toward them. It was Pye.

“Get off!” he shouted excitedly. “They’re bad horses!”

Hank glared at the Indian. “Stay out o’ this!” he ordered.

As he spoke, Joe’s horse reared. The next instant the mount did a sunfish, tossing Joe off his back into the dust!

CHAPTER XI

A Second Chance

HANK guffawed at Joe’s bad spill but made no attempt to subdue the rearing horse.

It was Pye who rushed in and grabbed the animal’s bridle, yanking him away from the boy.

Frank had dismounted and rushed to his brother. But Joe picked himself up and brushed the dirt from his jeans.

Hank’s laughter suddenly turned into an angry frown as he saw Terry, the singing cowboy, approaching with two other horses.

“Who told yo’ to bring ’em?” he shouted.

The little cowboy grinned, at the same time letting forth in a high tenor voice:

“Yo’ can’t ride a bronc

The very first day.

Yippee-aye-o,

Yippe-aye-yay!”

“Shut up!” Hank bellowed. “Yo’re not gettin’ paid for singin’.”

“I’m only tryin’ to make the boys feel at home,” Terry said.

“Leave that to Mrs. Hardy,” the foreman declared. He turned to Pye, who had led the horses back into the corral.

“Look here!” he snapped. “Get those tenderfeet to work ridin’ fence!”

“Yes, sir!” Pye grinned.

The foreman strode off, leaving the boys with the Indian. He offered to saddle the new mounts, but Frank and Joe cinched their own. Then Pye mounted a little pinto and the three started for the fences.

“Hey, you’re pretty good riders,” Pye said, surprised at the ease with which the Hardys handled their mounts.

“We’ve done some riding back home,” Frank replied.

“Nice pinto you’ve got there, Pye,” Joe said admiringly. Pye and his horse moved in perfect rhythm.

“He’s a fine horse,” the Indian said proudly. “And he knows two languages—English and Navaho.”

With that he spoke an Indian word. The pinto stopped and dropped to his forelegs. Then Pye spoke in English and the pony rose.

Pye looked at the boys gleefully. “See?” he said. “That pony’s smart. And he never went to school, either.”

The boys laughed. “What’s his name?” Frank asked as they cantered along.

“Cherry,” the Indian replied. “The cowboys make fun of me sometimes. Call me and my horse Cherry Pye.” He grinned until his eyes almost disappeared.

The country over which the three rode was rough and scrubby. Here and there a few cattle grazed on the green patches dotting the terrain.

Pye’s admiration of the boys’ horsemanship was unbounded. Finding that they showed no signs of fatigue, he urged them toward the northern fence line of the ranch.

“Nice up there,” he said. “A long time ago Indians used to live up that way.”

As they neared the boundary, Frank thought he heard the distant hum of a motor. He called his brother’s attention to it.

“Sounds like a plane,” Joe remarked, scanning the sky.

They realized that occasionally a transport might pass over the area, flying at a very high altitude. But this one was low.

“There it is,” Pye declared, pointing over a wooded section a few miles ahead of them. A small white plane suddenly appeared and skimmed over the treetops.

“Joe!” Frank cried. “Isn’t that the same one—?”

“Sure looks like it,” Joe put in. “The one that followed us from El Paso yesterday!”

Pye regarded them curiously. “I’ve seen that plane many times,” he said finally. “It always flies low over those trees.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was it in some way connected with the mystery at Crowhead?

Suddenly Joe reined in sharply. “Look, Frank!” he cried excitedly. “The plane’s coming down!”

The three watched as the craft banked and disappeared behind the trees.

“Do you suppose it’s in trouble?” Joe asked his brother.

“Could be,” Frank replied. “But it looked to me as if the pilot meant to land.”

“Let’s find out,” Joe declared.

But hardly were the words out of his mouth when the plane zoomed sharply into the air.

“It didn’t land after all,” Joe commented. “What do you make of that?”

“Maybe he’s just having fun,” Pye suggested with a grin.

“Why would a pilot fool around out here?” Frank queried. “He’d be in serious trouble if he crashed. This country is too wooded to try any hopping.”

As the plane flew off, Frank spotted something in the cockpit that confirmed his belief the pilot was not on a playful junket. The sun’s rays were reflected in the lenses of what was probably a pair of binoculars!

Joe saw it at the same time. “He’s looking for something, Frank.”

“And that something may be us,” his brother replied with a frown.

By this time the trio were close to the woods. Pye hesitated, asking if the Hardys wanted to ride into it. Eager to learn where the pilot had planned to come down, they nodded.

As they entered the dark stillness, Frank felt a peculiar sensation. The trees, although not the tallest he had seen, appeared to stretch their limbs grotesquely toward the riders. Their gnarled branches, disfigured by wind and storm, seemed to beckon the boys into a trap which nature itself had devised.

“This sure is a spooky place,” Joe remarked.

“Very bad,” Pye said. “Cowboys sometimes get lost in here. But I know my way around pretty well.”

Buoyed by the Indian’s confidence, the boys entered the woods, ducking low-hanging branches along a faintly marked trail. Suddenly the pinto whinnied and stopped.

“Someone’s coming!” Pye warned.

The three dismounted, leading their animals off the trail. As they did, a young cowboy, panting as if he had run for miles, came stumbling along the path. A sudden look of recognition came over the Indian’s face.

“Pete!” he shouted at the tall, redheaded youth. The runner was apparently one of the men from Crowhead. He stopped, a wild look in his eyes.

“Where are you going?” Frank asked him.

“Ch-chasin’ my pony,” Pete replied. “He—er —ran away.”

“We didn’t see him,” Pye said. “He didn’t come this way.”

“Here,” Frank offered, “climb up and ride back of me. We’ll take you back to the ranch. It’s a long way.”

“No,” the redhead replied. His shifting eyes looked right and left into the woods. “I’ll keep on lookin’ for him.”

With that he started off again along the trail and disappeared into the woods.

“I’m going to follow him,” Frank said presently. “This looks mighty suspicious.”

“Pye and I’ll stay here awhile and see if anyone else comes along,” Joe said. “Pete may have been running to meet somebody.”

Frank wheeled his horse around and headed after the disappearing Pete. When he was out of sight of Joe and Pye, Frank glanced around, hoping to pick up some clue to Pete’s strange behavior. What he saw sent a quiver of excitement racing down his spine.

At the base of a nearby pine tree lay a large, smooth rock. Carved on its face was a crooked arrow!

Frank bent low in his saddle to get a better look at it. As he did so, an object whizzed past him. It sounded like the buzz of a giant bee.

An instant later something sang closer to the boy’s head. It was followed by a zinging thud. An arrow had embedded itself in a tree trunk directly in front of him!

Another loud zing! Frank fell to the ground!

CHAPTER XII

Bunkhouse Brawl

FRANK lay motionless. The whizzing arrow had barely missed his shoulder. He remained flattened to the ground to make himself as inconspicuous a target as possible for his unseen assailant.

Minutes went by. There were no more shots. Frank raised his head slightly to look through the brush.

Not ten feet away lay a short arrow. Near its nock were three white feathers.

“The same kind of arrow that injured Dad!” Frank thought in amazement.

He pulled himself along the ground and grasped the shaft. No doubt of it. This arrow was a duplicate of the one that had wounded his dad. Perhaps it had come from the same quiver! Had the archer traveled from Bayport to New Mexico?

Cautiously Frank arose and looked around. He saw no one. Then he wrapped the weapon in his kerchief and tied it to his saddle.

Frank spotted another arrow embedded in a tree a few yards away. From its position, he figured approximately the point from which the missile had been shot.

Keeping his eyes open for any movement among the trees, Frank skirted the direct line of attack and approached the place from the rear. But when he reached the small clearing where the assailant must have stood, it was deserted.

As he returned to his horse, Frank mulled over the strange turn of events. The giant crooked arrow cut in the timber, the crooked arrow chipped into the rock, and the white-feathered shafts seemed to fit into the same eerie pattern. But the mystery remained as deep as the woods in which Frank stood.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of crackling twigs and hoofbeats. Perhaps Pete was returning. Or even the mysterious archer!

Frank quickly led his horse into a gully, then dived into a tangle of underbrush to wait.

To his relief, he saw Joe and Pye emerge from among the trees. Frank startled them when he sidled into their path.

“You’re stealthy as an Indian,” Pye said, grinning.

“You’d be quiet too,” Frank replied, “if somebody had been taking potshots at you with a bow and arrow!”

Joe and the cowboy looked puzzled as Frank told his story.

“Nobody at Crowhead uses arrows,” Pye said, frowning.

“Is there an Indian reservation near here?” Frank queried.

For a moment the man was thoughtful. “No,” he said finally. “The nearest one is over a hundred miles away.”

“Then there wouldn’t be any Indians wandering around these woods,” Joe reasoned.

Frank nodded. “Let’s go back to the place where I was attacked,” he suggested, and led the way to the stone into which the crooked arrow symbol had been cut. He watched Pye’s expression intently. It reflected utter amazement, just as Joe’s.

“Ever see anything like this before?” Frank asked.

Pye shook his head. “Never. Indians don’t make crooked arrows, never have. White men might!”

“What do you mean?”

The cowboy shrugged. “You seem to think that arrows are exclusively used by Indians. It just isn’t so. It’s true that they were our only weapons a long time ago, but not crooked ones like this!”

“I guess you’re right,” Frank said.

After the analysis of the wrist-watch strap, they had assumed that an Indian was involved. But perhaps the archer was a white man trying to mislead the Hardys into thinking Indians were the culprits!

“Let’s have some food and turn back,” said Pye. “It’s a long ride.”

After eating the sandwiches they had packed in their saddlebags, and drinking water from their canteens, the three headed home. There was little conversation on the way. After several hot, tedious hours on horseback, they reached the inviting coolness of the shaded ranch.

Frank went straight to the bunkhouse to find Hank. The foreman eyed the boy suspiciously.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked. “Yo’ got good horses, didn’t yo’?”

“I’m looking for Pete,” Frank said, ignoring the question. “Did he get back? We saw him in the woods some time ago. Said he had lost his horse and was looking for it.”

“Pete’s been gone since early morning,” Hank scowled. “Now don’t bother me again.”

Later, as the boys enjoyed a hearty meal of pot roast and oven-browned potatoes, they chatted with Chet and Cousin Ruth about the details of the day’s adventures.

The evening wore on, and still Pete had not returned. Frank and Joe learned that the cowboy’s horse had trotted back, but without a saddle.

Ruth Hardy was very upset. Pete was one of her best hands. According to the other men, he had seemed happy at Crowhead. “I can’t understand it,” she said to Frank. “You see what happens? One day a cowboy is here, the next he’s gone—with no explanation.”

Frank was eager to report to his father, and put in the call to home. When Mr. Hardy answered, his voice sounded strong and clear. He said he was feeling better and asked how things were at Crowhead.

Frank and Joe took turns in relating the mysterious happenings. When Frank told of the crooked arrow marker cut in the timber, and the sign carved in the stone, the boy could sense that his father was astonished.

“Did that arrow and the one you saw from the air point in the same direction?” he asked.

“Yes, Dad,” Frank replied.

“Then keep looking for more clues in those woods. But be careful, and don’t go far without someone trustworthy from Crowhead.”

“Right.”

After the boys had finished their story, Mr. Hardy brought them up to date on the mystery from the Bayport angle. The car in Slow Mo’s garage was still unclaimed. Tobacco Shop Jenk remained silent. No more telltale wrist watches had been located. But the police lab had found that the Arrow cigarettes contained a methane derivative which was highly toxic.

“Sam Radley and government agents,” Mr. Hardy said, “have arrested several peddlers of Arrow cigarettes in the Bayport area and in other sections of the country. But they haven’t yet nabbed the ringleader.”

“Maybe he’s Arrow Charlie,” Frank suggested.

“We have a trap set for him if he shows up here,” the detective said. “But he may show up out there. Watch your step!”

The boys promised they would, and the conversation ended. Frank, Joe, and Chet spent the rest of the evening near the corral and the bunkhouse but learned nothing. No riders came in or went out and Pete did not return. Finally at midnight they decided to go to bed.

They were up early the next morning. Frank and Joe noticed that Chet did not eat his usual heavy breakfast.

“What’s the matter, Chet?” Joe needled as the Hardys were about to leave the table. “Lost your Eastern appetite?”

“No more third helpings for me,” the boy declared.

Frank grinned. “Aren’t you afraid of starving to death?”

“No,” Chet declared sheepishly. “I’m afraid of feeling too full to ride, and missing out on all the fun!”

Nevertheless, he finished his second stack of flapjacks before he joined his friends in a stroll around the ranch buildings. As they neared the bunkhouse, a cheerful voice called out the doorway.

“Mornin’. Come in. I got somethin’ to show yo’.”

It was Terry. He held the door open for them to enter.

“There ’tis,” he said, pointing.

A long pine table stood in the middle of the cowboys’ quarters. On it lay three piles of range riding clothes.

“Some o’ the men kinda got an apology to make,” he said. “Leastways to Frank an’ Joe. We found out from Pye yo’ sure can ride. So a few of us got together some gear for yo’.”

“That was mighty nice!” Frank exclaimed. “Thanks.”

“Swell of you,” Joe cried, examining the bright shirts and bandannas.

“We had a little trouble gettin’ pants to fit yore friend here.” Terry smiled, glancing at Chet.

The boys got into their new outfits enthusiastically. Chet pulled a wide-brimmed hat rakishly to the side of his head.

“Gimme my six-shooters!” he cried, spreading his feet wide apart and slapping his hips. “Yahoo!”

The cowboys hooted, and the visitors thanked Terry for his pals’ generosity, adding they had not expected such treatment from Hank.

“Hank don’t know about this,” Terry replied, “or his pals Muff and Jed. Just keep it under yore hat, will yo’? Better go. Here comes Hank now.”

Chet and the Hardys hastily departed from the bunkhouse. Nearing the corral, Chet suddenly wheeled around.

“Gosh, I forgot my bandanna!” he exclaimed. He hotfooted back to the bunkhouse. Terry had gone. The bandanna lay on the floor beside the table.

As Chet leaned down to pick it up he heard Hank’s voice. The foreman was talking on a telephone in an alcove of the bunkhouse. Chet could not help but overhear the conversation.

“Not till those guys from Bayport leave,” the dour cowboy said.

He hung up and turned to go out. Seeing Chet approaching the door, Hank became furious.

“What yo’ doin’ sneakin’ in here?”

“I c-came for my bandanna,” Chet stammered.

“Likely story,” Hank snarled. “Yo’re eavesdroppin’!”

This was too much for Chet. “What were you saying about us?” he demanded hotly.

“None o’ yore business!” Hank barked.

He strode toward Chet and grabbed him by the shirt front. Twisting his fist, he lifted him nearly off the floor.

Suddenly Chet remembered the armlock grip that Russ Griggs had taught him. With a quick movement, he grasped Hank’s left wrist with his right hand. The foreman, caught off balance, relaxed his hold on Chet’s shirt.

With another lightninglike move, Chet thrust his left hand under Hank’s shoulder, using it as a fulcrum. An agonizing look of pain came over Hank’s face as Chet bent his arm back. With a flip, Chet hurled the man across the room. Hank teetered backward on his heels, then crashed onto a cot in the corner of the bunkhouse.

Hank quickly regained his feet, roaring, “I’ll throw yo’ blasted nuisances off this place!”

Just then two hulking cowboys strode into the building.

“Muff! Jed! Grab that guy!” Hank ordered, pointing to Chet.

Hank’s friends advanced on Chet, pinning his arms to his sides.

“What’ll we do with him?” one of them asked.

“Tie him to a steer’s tail!” Hank thundered.

CHAPTER XIII

A Poisoned Point

“LEMME go!” Chet cried. “Help! Frank! Joe!”

“Shut up, blubberhead!” Hank growled.

Suddenly the door of the bunkhouse burst open. Frank and Joe rushed in, followed by Terry.

“What’s going on here?” Frank shouted as he saw his friend held captive by the two burly cowhands.

Hank wheeled around. “Yo’ stay out o’ this!” he snapped. “This is between me and yore fat friend!”

“Leave him alone, Boss,” Terry pleaded.

“Mind yore own business.” The foreman glowered. “These kids got no right in the bunkhouse.”

“Yeah!” growled Muff. “Let’s throw them out!”

Muff’s right hand lashed out at Frank. But before it could find its mark, the boy grasped his wrist in a viselike hold.

In a split second the place was in an uproar. Hank rushed at Joe. As Jed unloosed his hold on the stout boy, Chet tangled with him.

Arms and legs flew as the Hardys and Chet put their judo lessons to practical use.

Moments later, Hank was draped over a cot. The other two sat on the floor, reclining on their elbows, their legs stretched out V-shaped in front of them.

“A mighty funny sight,” drawled Terry.

Hank and his friends pulled themselves to their feet and limped toward the back door of the bunkhouse. As Hank left, he turned around and pointed a finger at the boys.

“I’ll get yo’ for this!” he muttered. “I’m boss around here!”

Terry looked worried. “Hank’s a bad actor when he’s got a grudge,” he said. “Be careful.”

Suddenly the singing cowboy’s mood changed. He reached for his guitar and broke into a broad smile. “Listen to this.” He grinned, struck a few chords, then raised his head and burst out:

“Thar was a city slicker

Dared fight with foreman Hank.

Now the city kid was quicker.

He had his wits to thank.

“So foreman Hank went flyin’

Right clean through the air.

I’ll remember till I’m dyin’

His sad look of despair.”

“A mighty funny sight!” drawled Terry

“Swell!” Joe exclaimed, laughing. “Only better not let Hank hear it!”

Terry nodded and said that it was time he started on his chores. The boys walked as far as the corral gate with him, then went toward the house.

“That sure was nice going, Chet,” Frank said, slapping his pal on the back. “Maybe Hank won’t bother us for a while.”

“What started the whole mess, anyway?” Joe asked.

Chet told about the telephone conversation he had overheard. Frank and Joe scowled.

“Wonder what it is he can’t do while we’re around,” Frank remarked grimly.

“There’s sure something fishy going on,” commented Joe.

“You don’t have to remind me, especially after yesterday’s adventure,” Frank said. “By the way, we ought to track down that clue.”

“Which clue?” Joe asked.

“The arrow,” Frank replied. “The one that nearly hit me in the woods!”

“What are you going to do with it?” Chet asked.

“I think we should take a close look at the tip,” Frank replied. “Come on. Now’s as good a time as any.”

Joe and Chet followed him to the brothers’ room where Frank had cached the white-feathered arrow. He dipped the tip in a saucer of water for a few seconds, then carefully carried the saucer down onto the porch.

A fly buzzed around the water, then settled down to investigate. When it touched the liquid, the insect struggled briefly and died.

“Just as I thought!” Frank declared. “Poison! But to make sure, let’s take the arrow to Santa Fe and have it analyzed.”

Frank told Cousin Ruth what he had in mind, then put in a long-distance call to the young pilot who had flown them to Crowhead. Winger happened to be free and promised to come for them at once.

At noon the drone of a plane was heard over the ranch. Winger landed alongside the house and the boys walked over to meet him.

Frank got in, carrying the arrow wrapped in waxed paper. His brother and Chet followed.

Hank saw them from a distance. A queer smile tugged at the corners of his hard mouth.

“There they go,” he drawled to a cowboy standing nearby. “I hope for good!”

When the boys landed in Santa Fe they went directly to a chemist recommended by Ruth Hardy. Frank asked him to analyze the arrow tip.

“I’ll have the report ready in about an hour,” the chemist said, “if you care to come back.”

“Sure will.”

The boys left the arrow and strolled down the street.

“How about some lunch?” Joe suggested.

“Best idea yet,” Chet agreed. “I’m starved.”

They saw a drugstore nearby and went in. On a chance, Frank went over to the man behind the prescription counter and asked in a low voice:

“Have you any Arrow cigarettes?”

The druggist looked quizzically at the boy. “Arrow cigarettes?” he echoed. “Never heard of them.”

Frank, feeling the man was telling the truth, rejoined the others at the soda fountain. After the boys had finished eating, they paid their bill and returned to the laboratory.

When the chemist appeared, Frank hurried over to him. “What did you find?” he asked excitedly.

“This arrowhead is poisoned,” the man replied gravely. “Had the arrow penetrated the skin it might have proved fatal!”

Frank paid the man and the three left the lab.

“Let’s make some more inquiries about Arrow cigarettes,” Joe suggested.

They stopped at one place after another, but none of the proprietors had ever heard of them.

“What I want to find out now,” Frank said, “is something more about real arrows.”

He spoke to a policeman, who suggested a museum a short distance away.

The trio spent nearly an hour looking over the collection. Finally Joe remarked:

“Funny thing. Every one of these arrows is longer than the white-feathered arrows.”

“And they’re not so thick,” Frank added. “Whoever shot at Dad and me must make his own.”

After leaving the museum, the boys went back to the airport. Winger was standing near his plane.

“All set?” he asked, smiling. After they were in the air, he said, “Well, did you find any more crooked arrows?”

“Not one,” Chet replied, “but we’re still looking.”

That evening after supper the boys joined Ruth Hardy on the porch. She told them that there had been more trouble at the ranch. “Another cowboy disappeared while you were in Santa Fe,” she said. “He took his saddle and all his clothes, just as the others did.”

With their cousin’s permission, the Hardys and Chet went to the bunkhouse after dinner and questioned the cowboys. The ranch hands, as usual, could give no explanation for the latest disappearance. Hank watched the proceedings with slitted eyes, and gave terse answers to all the questions.

“Do you suppose Hank told them not to tell us anything?” Joe whispered to Frank.

“No,” Frank replied. “Cowboys don’t talk much, anyway. I really think they don’t know what happened to the guy.”

Joe stepped into the middle of the room and addressed the men.

“You fellows ought to know that the disappearance of your buddies is a serious matter,” he said. “The men may be in big trouble.”

A buzz of conversation among the men revealed that they had thought the cowboys had left of their own volition to take jobs at some other ranch, and had said nothing to Mrs. Hardy because they did not want to hurt her feelings.

“I’d advise you to stick to Crowhead,” Joe went on, “and if you value your lives, stay away from the north woods.”

At that admonition Hank arose from his cot and glared at the Hardys.

“Now hold on!” he roared. “I’ll not let a couple o’ coyotes come in here an’ give advice to my men. I’m runnin’ the affairs of Crowhead an’ I don’t need any help from tenderfeet!”

To avoid another fracas, the visitors left. Chet thumped Joe on the back.

“Good sermon, Parson Hardy,” he said. “Only Old Stoneface in there didn’t like it. Say,” he added seriously, “do you think Hank’s mixed up in all this?”

“He’s either guilty,” Frank answered, “or else he’s the meanest straight guy I’ve ever met.”

“Right,” said the other boys in unison, and Joe added, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s find out how much these fellows know about archery.”

“Now you’re talking,” Frank agreed. “We could make a bow and some arrows tomorrow, and let the men prove their innocence!”

“I get it!” Chet said eagerly. “Maybe that archer’s right here at Crowhead.”

The following morning the boys obtained a piece of seasoned hickory from the ranch workshop, and spent several hours on their project.

Frank shaped a bow from it, while Joe and Chet fashioned a couple of arrows.

“We don’t need sharp arrowheads,” Frank said. “Just make the ends blunt.”

For the rest of the day, the boys helped with some urgent chores around the ranch. That evening, after the cowboys had completed their work, the visitors mingled with them outside the bunkhouse. Frank casually mentioned arrows and offered to let the men use the bow the boys had made. A quiet indifference met their suggestion. As one cowboy put it:

“I ain’t never had a bow an’ arrow in my hands. I’ll stake my chips on an old six-shooter any time.”

“Well,” said Frank, discouraged by the futile attempt to wangle a new clue, “I guess I’ll try shooting this thing myself.” He strung the bow, inserted an arrow, and drew the string back.

Just as he was about to let the shaft fly in the direction of the shed, Pye rushed up, shouting:

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

CHAPTER XIV

A Familiar Face

PYE’s warning not to shoot the arrow was followed by a fearful snorting and bellowing. Frank whirled to see a mad bull, which had jumped the fence of a shipping pen, charging directly at him and the other boys.

Quick as lightning, Pye grabbed the bow and arrow from Frank’s hands. With one deft, continuous movement, he strung the shaft, drew the bowstring, and let the arrow fly!

The blunt arrow caught the animal directly between the eyes. He went down in a heap, stunned by the crashing blow.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Some shot!”

“You s-saved our lives,” Chet stammered.

Frank, though grateful, was not so jubilant as the others. The episode raised a serious doubt in his mind about Pye’s innocence.

The Indian looked sheepish as he handed the bow back to Frank. “I didn’t realize I could shoot straight any more,” he said, grinning.

“You look as if you had plenty of practice recently,” Frank commented.

Pye looked at him in surprise. “I haven’t had a bow in my hands since I was a boy!” Then suddenly he realized what Frank meant.

“Now look. I didn’t shoot that arrow at you in the woods!”

“That’s right,” Joe spoke up. “Pye was with me every minute on our ride.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Pye,” Frank apologized.

One of the men who was preparing to drag the bull away looked up. “What are you all talking about?” he asked in alarm.

Before the Hardys could stop Pye, the little Indian excitedly told what had happened to Frank in the woods. The cowboys stared in amazement, then turned their eyes on Joe.

“I see what yo’ were drivin’ at yestiddy,” one of them said. “I sure won’t show my face in the north woods!”

There was a murmur of agreement.

As the Hardys and Chet said good night and walked off toward the ranch house, Frank remarked, “We didn’t learn much, but because those woods have something to do with the missing cowboys, the rest of the men certainly will stay away from that area!”

Next morning the Hardys would have liked to take Pye and Terry and follow the trail of the mysterious archer in the woods, but Hank ordered his men to ride fence. The only concession he would make was to permit the visitors to go with their favorite cowboys.

“We’ll meet yo’ at the corral,” Terry said.

Pye picked out good ponies for the three boys and they mounted quickly. Then the five riders set off at a tireless trot.

They had not gone far before Terry reached to the left side of the saddle, under his rope, and pulled out a small stringed instrument.

“What’s that?” Frank asked in surprise.

“My range gee-tar.” Terry smiled. “Regular one’s kinda big to tote on horseback. I made this here little fella myself.”

Terry strummed out a melody which kept time with the rhythmic cadence of the trotting pony.

They rode on all morning, the men’s checkup of the cattle bringing them close to the woods where the arrows had nearly hit Frank.

After a brief stop for lunch the riders remounted and set off again.

Suddenly Frank reined in his horse.

“What’s that sound?” he asked.

“Yo’ got good ears,” Terry replied. “It’s just a bawlin’ dogie lost in the woods. Want to give him a hand?”

Frank turned his mount into the woods, heading toward the cries of the calf.

“I’ll be right back,” he called.

The boy rode a hundred yards, then halted. The bawling of the dogie had ceased, but as Frank sat listening, he spotted something that made his heart leap. Some distance ahead, mounted on a white-faced sorrel in the shadow of a big tree, sat a hefty cowboy. His big Stetson was pulled low over his face.

Frank quelled his first impulse to ride up to the man. Recalling his father’s warning, and sure that the cowboy was not from Crowhead, he turned his horse around quietly, hurried back to his friends, and reported what he had seen.

“Suppose you fellows surround the area,” Frank said, “while I question the man. If he has no business on Crowhead property, we’ll find out what he’s up to.”

With the four at their separate stations, Frank rode back into the woods again to the place where he had seen the stranger. He was gone!

The boy made his way to the big tree. The hoofprints of the intruder’s horse were in clear view. And so was something else—a package of Ramiro cigarettes, gaily wrapped in gold, blue, and yellow.

Suddenly Frank was startled by the sound of hoofbeats near the far end of the woods. He sprang to his horse and galloped off in pursuit of the unseen rider.

In a few minutes he reached the edge of the woods. He could hear the horses of two of his companions, who had taken up the chase. Off to his right, he saw Joe and Terry racing across the range as if they were trying to break a record. But presently they stopped, wheeled around, and came back.

“He got away,” Joe reported as his horse shook foamy perspiration from its neck.

A distant cloud of dust attested to the fact that the rider, whoever he was, had made his escape on a speedy horse. Further attempts at pursuit would be futile.

Pye came riding up. “Must have wanted to get away bad,” he said simply.

“I sure wish I’d got a better look at him,” Frank remarked.

“Where’s Chet?” Joe asked suddenly.

“Over there,” the Indian answered.

He pointed far to the right of the group, where their friend was seated on his pony, holding both hands to his eyes. Presently he trotted over to them. In his right hand he held binoculars.

“I saw him!” Chet exclaimed jubilantly.

“What did he look like?” Joe asked.

“He looked like the same bushy-browed guy that came to the farm in Bayport and asked me all those questions!” Chet declared. “And he was at the El Paso airport with the tall blond. Remember?” Chet looked admiringly at the binoculars and added, “Good thing I asked your cousin if I could borrow these. Thought I might see something interesting!”

“You sure did!” Joe exclaimed.

“It doesn’t leave much doubt,” Frank said, “that the person who’s making the trouble at Crowhead and the one who’s in league with the Bayport thieves is the same man!”

“But what’s the connection?” Joe queried. “Do the Arrow cigarette peddlers hide out in this area?”

“Maybe their headquarters are in the woods,” Chet suggested. “That plane we saw may drop the food.”

“And Ramiro cigarettes,” Frank said. He showed his brother and Chet the pack he had found.

“We’re coming back to investigate this place,” Joe determined, “and soon!”

The boys started back toward Crowhead. Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “I didn’t get that dogie!”

The party headed into the woods again and Frank located the calf, which had started bawling again. The boy found him mired in a water hole, and pulled him out. Frank laid the animal across the front of his saddle.

Terry and Pye rode back toward the ranch house, with Joe, Frank, and Chet bringing up the rear. The boys, talking over the actions of the man in the woods, found themselves a long distance behind the others.

Suddenly, as if by magic, a black cloud appeared on the horizon. The next moment a torrent of rain was lashing the range.

“We’d better get over this gully onto higher ground,” Frank warned.

He led the way into the twisting gulch, on the other side of which was a high knoll. But just when they reached the bed of the gully, a terrifying sound brought them up short. It was a swirling, swishing noise, which grew to thunderous proportions as it roared down upon the riders.

The boys were caught in a flash flood!

CHAPTER XV

The Galloping Archer

THE torrent struck the three riders like a gigantic ocean wave.

Frank, choking and spluttering, clung to his mount. The pony struggled with all the rugged strength of a Western animal. Finally, its forehoofs beat a tattoo on the bank of the now-raging stream, then pulled up to higher ground.

Frank looked around. The dogie had fled in panic. Farther down the gully Joe was scrambling out of the water, leading a bedraggled pony.

“Where’s Chet?” Frank called to him in alarm.

Joe pointed around a bend where he could see a figure bobbing in the water. A hand reached out and grabbed a jutting rock. Then Chet hauled himself slowly to the bank.

The stout boy looked forlorn when the others reached him. Pye and Terry had raced back. The storm had ceased as abruptly as it had started, but the water still raged along the arroyo.

“My pony,” Chet said, “ran off. Guess he was plenty scared.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Terry said sympathetically. “Reckon he’ll turn up back at the ranch. Lucky none of yo’ was hurt, though.”

“You can ride back with me, Chet,” Joe offered. “My horse is hefty.”

Chet looked ruefully at the stream, which had begun to subside. Then he cried out. “Look!”

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

Chet pointed.

All eyes turned upstream to see a white Stetson floating down, spinning in the current.

Instantly Pye reached to his saddle and grasped his lariat. After a few deft turns of the wrist, he swung the rope out over the water and dropped a loop over the Stetson’s crown. Pye quickly pulled the lassoed hat to shore, where Frank picked it up.

Suddenly he started in amazement. “The crooked arrow!” he exclaimed.

“Where?” Joe cried excitedly.

“In the hatband,” Frank replied.

The other boys scrutinized the familiar crooked arrow skillfully burned into the leather.

“And look at this!” Joe added. “The initials inside are C. B. M.”

“C. B. M.” Frank echoed. “You don’t suppose the C stands for Charlie—Arrow Charlie?”

“I’ll bet he was the stranger on horseback we just saw in the woods!” Joe cried.

The same thought suddenly struck Frank and Joe. It was possible C. B. M. had drowned in the deluge! Silently the group rode along the bank for some distance, but found neither the man nor his horse.

“Guess he escaped,” Frank said finally. “And tomorrow I’m going to find out where to!”

When the riders reached Crowhead, the boys went to their rooms to wash up.

After enjoying a delicious Mexican-style dinner, Frank asked his cousin if she knew anyone with the initials C. B. M.

“I can’t think of anybody offhand,” she replied. “But I can call the sheriff.”

She went quickly to the telephone. The sheriff told her that he could not think of anyone either, but offered to check with the motor vehicle bureau.

“It’s too late to try now,” he remarked, “but I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”

When Mrs. Hardy related the conversation to the boys they nodded, and Chet yawned audibly.

“Guess I’ll hit the hay, if you don’t mind.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’ve had enough riding to last me a week!”

“Since there’s nothing we can do until tomorrow morning,” Frank put in, “I think I’ll go to bed early, too.”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed, and the boys said good night to their hostess.

The sheriff’s call the next morning was disappointing.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hardy, but I can’t help you,” he reported. “Nobody in New Mexico—that is, nobody who drives a car—has the initials C. B. M.”

When she gave the news to her cousins, Joe said with a sigh:

“Another blind alley. Just when we think we have a hot clue, it fizzles out.”

“I still think C. B. M. might be Arrow Charlie,” Frank insisted. “And probably he’s the person who wounded Dad and tried to shoot me!”

“If we could only nab him,” Joe said with determination, “then maybe we could solve this whole thing once and for all.”

“I have it!” Frank exclaimed suddenly and snapped his fingers. “Let’s set a trap for Arrow Charlie to see if he is an expert archer!”

“Sounds great,” Joe replied. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Well,” Frank began, “I know there’s to be a rodeo at the Circle O Ranch. I saw a poster down in the bunkhouse.”

“It starts next week,” Joe put in. “But what has that to do with Arrow Charlie?”

“We can put up a prize for an archery contest—on horseback!”

“Now I get it,” Joe said eagerly. “Arrow Charlie signs up and we move in for the kill.”

“It might not be that easy,” Frank cautioned, “but we can give it a try. What do you think?” he asked his cousin.

“It’s a fine idea,” she replied. “I’ll even put up the prize money!”

Right after breakfast Frank rode to the Circle O Ranch to confer with the rodeo manager. After he had explained about the prize for the best horseback archer, the manager was agreeable. He promised to distribute circulars and posters advertising the extra event.

The Hardys and Chet were impatient for the day of the rodeo to arrive. Finally it came, bright and cloudless. They reached the Circle O Ranch an hour before the contests were to start in the afternoon. Frank went directly to the manager and checked on the number of contestants entered in the archery event.

“Only three so far,” came the reply. “Guess there ain’t many cowboy Robin Hoods.”

None of them had the initials C. B. M., but Frank was fairly sure, if the man came at all, he would register under another name.

Finally over the loudspeaker came the announcement of the archery contest. A ripple of excitement surged through the crowd.

Chet scrutinized the three who entered the ring. Two were young cowboys, the third a middle-aged Indian man.

“Any of these the one you saw on the white. faced horse?” Frank asked.

“No,” he said with disappointment.

After placing the target, which was a straw-filled dummy with a white paper heart sewed to the jacket, the announcer shouted:

“The winner must pierce the heart, while riding at full gallop! Three shots for each contestant. Let ’er go!”

The first cowboy trotted around the circle, guiding his mount with the pressure of his knees. In his hands he held a bow and slung across his back was a quiver.

Gaining speed, he galloped toward the target taking careful aim. The bowstring zinged, and the arrow flew toward the dummy. It pierced the head as the crowd roared.

The contestant’s next shot went wild. The third landed just below the heart.

The next aspirant, the Indian, fared a little better. All his arrows hit the dummy, but none found the heart. The boys watched intently as the third contestant rode up.

The cowboy strung his bow, bringing his horse to an easy gallop. He handled the bow like an expert, drawing the nock back slowly.

Suddenly the crowd shrieked. Just as the arrow left the bow, the cowboy’s horse stumbled, throw ing the rider to the ground. The wild arrow embedded itself in a fence post.

The cowboy was too shaken to continue. He limped away dejectedly.

In the excitement that followed, few people noticed a tall, blond man, bow and arrow in hand, stride to the judges’ stand. The cowboy signed up for the event. He mounted a peppery chestnut pony and pranced around the circle.

Chet watched him closely. There was something familiar about him. “Where have I seen him before?” Chet thought to himself.

Now the rider, stringing his bow, galloped toward the target.

Just then Chet got a good look at the contestant’s face. “Hey, Frank!” he shouted. “It’s the man from the airport!”

“What?” Frank was incredulous. He stared at the stranger, who suddenly sprang upright, his feet firmly planted on a silver-trimmed saddle.

With the ease of a circus rider, he stood erect on the galloping pony. While the crowd paid a roaring tribute to his feat, he aimed a white-feathered arrow and let it fly. With a thud it cut through the middle of the paper heart!

“Three white feathers!” Joe gasped.

“Come on,” Frank cried. “We’ve got to catch this guy!”

He pushed his way through the cheering crowd, Joe and Chet at his heels. Chet tripped over someone’s foot and almost fell, but caught himself just in time. “Wait!” he panted, trying not to lose sight of his friends.

Suddenly the boys froze in their tracks. The cowboy had dropped to the saddle, galloped directly to the judges’ stand, and scooped up the prize money, which a dumbfounded judge held in an envelope.

Then, spurring his mount faster, he vaulted a low fence and disappeared over the shimmering prairie in a cloud of dust!

CHAPTER XVI

Mystery Smoke

“WELL, I’ll be hog-tied!” Joe exclaimed as he watched the swirling dust in the distance. The mysterious archer had ridden off so swiftly that none of the boys could have overtaken him.

“He’s gone,” Frank said disgustedly.

“Let’s go over to the judges’ stand and see who he is,” Joe suggested.

“Right.” Frank led the way to the platform. The registration form revealed that the archer’s name was A. Silver.

“Probably phony,” Chet commented, after they had stepped down again.

“Yes,” Frank said. “Come on. We’ll have a look at that arrow before the target’s taken away.”

They elbowed their way through the raucous rodeo crowd to the spot where the straw-stuffed dummy lay grotesquely on the ground. The arrows protruded like porcupine quills.

Frank bent down and pulled the winning shaft from the heart of the effigy. After examining it carefully, he turned to Joe.

“It’s identical to the other white-feathered arrows.”

“Which means,” Chet put in, “that Silver must be the man who shot at your father and at you in the woods!”

“Then Arrow Charlie isn’t the archer,” Joe said.

“Maybe he’s the bushy-browed fellow,” Frank observed. “We’ll soon find out.”

“How do you figure to do that?” Chet countered.

“We’ll go back to the woods,” Frank replied. “But this time we’ll make it an overnight expedition so we can investigate more thoroughly. I think the stone with the crooked arrow on it may be a meeting place of some kind.”

“Maybe Pye and Terry can come along,” Joe said. “That is, if Hank will let them!”

“I’ll ask him as soon as we get back,” Frank said.

Upon reaching Crowhead, the boys rubbed down their horses, then Frank approached the foreman. He was standing alongside the corral smoking a cigarette. Frank told him that the boys wanted to go camping, and asked if Pye and Terry might go along.

Hank shook his head determinedly. “Yo’ can’t take my ranch hands every time yo’ have a mind to do some sightseein’!” he barked.

Frank realized it was useless to argue with the obstinate foreman. He quickly turned the subject of conversation to cigarettes and asked Hank what brand he smoked.

“Ramiros,” he replied, and stalked off.

“Yo’ sure look like a lost dogie,” a voice said behind Frank. “What’s on yore mind?”

Turning, Frank saw Terry. On a hunch he asked the singing cowboy what he really thought of Hank.

“Mighty ornery,” Terry replied. “But loyal to Mis’ Hardy, if that’s what yo’re drivin’ at.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “See you later.”

He went straight to his cousin and brought her up to date on the progress in solving the Crowhead mystery. She backed up Terry’s opinion of Hank’s honesty. In view of her faith in her foreman, Frank remained silent about the telephone conversation Chet had overheard in the bunkhouse.

“I’ll see what I can do about convincing him to let Pye and Terry go with you on your ride. I don’t want you to be in those woods alone,” she told Frank.

After dinner she summoned Hank. Half an hour later the two emerged from the living room, Hank’s expression sullen. As he strode out of the house, Mrs. Hardy came to the boys.

“Pye and Terry will ride with you tomorrow afternoon,” she said, smiling. “Hank didn’t want to let them go, because he’s so shorthanded. But I told him a day’s work wouldn’t matter, if it would help clear up the mystery haunting Crowhead.”

The following day shortly after lunch, Pye and Terry had finished their chores to Hank’s satisfaction. Both men were eager to start the trip as they helped Frank, Joe, and Chet with the canned foods and canteens of water. After a careful check of their gear, the five trotted off.

As on the previous trip, the riders became silent once they had settled down to the long jaunt. When they neared the mysterious woods, they went straight to the spot where Frank had seen the strange rider.

“He’s been back!” the boy cried, examining the fresh hoofprints. “Or at least someone has!”

Marks of a horse were all around the area, indicating the animal had stood and pawed the ground. Had his master gone somewhere on foot? A search proved the rider had not dismounted.

“Let’s see where the hoofprints lead,” Joe said. Picking their way carefully along a lightly blazed trail, the five approached an area of sparsely wooded ground, then emerged on the other side of the forest.

“Here’s where he got away that time,” Chet announced.

“And here’s where we lose him again,” Frank declared, scrutinizing the hoofprints.

Traces of a horse’s hoofs became intermingled with the prints of cows. Soon they were lost in the welter of marks made by the roving cattle.

But the group continued on, hoping to pick up the trail. Suddenly Pye stopped short.

“What’s up?” Frank asked anxiously.

“Look! Way over there!” the Indian cried in alarm.

“It’s smoke!” Chet exclaimed.

A blue curl spiraled into the cloudless sky some miles in the distance.

“Forest fire!” Terry burst out.

Fear gripped the searchers. If this were a forest fire, it might spread to the open prairie, consuming miles of pasture and timberland.

“I’ll ride back and give the alarm,” Joe cried. “They can get a fire-fighting plane out here to help us.” He prepared to mount.

“Wait!” Terry cried suddenly. Then he added, “What do yo’ think o’ this, Pye? Forest fire or campsite?”

The Indian stared long and thoughtfully at the curling smoke. He watched for indications of spreading flames but saw none.

“No forest fire,” he said.

As all eyes focused on the smoke, it seemed to vanish, confirming Pye’s notion that the blaze was under control.

“Would any Crowhead cowboys be camping there?” Frank asked Pye.

“No. There’s no cattle out there,” the Indian answered. “Must be strangers.”

“What are we waiting for!” Joe cried.

The sun was low as they neared the forest, and the sky took on the vivid, darkening colors of sunset. There was no more smoke anywhere.

“We’d better look for a campsite,” Frank suggested after another hour of searching.

Joe and Terry scanned the area and found a rocky gulch protected from the wind. After tying their animals, the group built a fire in the bottom of the gulch, so it would not be seen by other campers.

Frank unpacked the provisions, and soon tender slices of tomatoes and ham were sizzling over the open fire.

“Hot diggidy!” Chet exclaimed, sniffing the savory odor. “Put me down for starved!”

After they had eaten, the group arranged their sleeping bags in a circle around the fire and settled down for the night. They took turns standing watch, but the forest was peaceful all during the darkness.

A red sun was peering over the horizon when Frank awoke. Pye and Terry were busy with breakfast. Frank shook Joe, then Chet, who sat up with a start.

After the group had eaten, the horses were fed and watered. Camp was cleared in record time.

“Let’s get going,” Frank urged, saddling up.

“We’d better go slow and keep our eyes peeled,” Pye advised as the party advanced cautiously into the forest.

Presently the Indian halted, and said that they should investigate further on foot. The group walked forward, listening and watching intently.

But the search proved fruitless, and the going tough. Any campers had covered their tracks well.

The group returned to their ponies. Just as they were about to mount, the sound of an airplane sifted down through the dense trees. The boys peered up but could see nothing.

“Give me your glasses, Chet,” Joe said.

He looped the strap of the binoculars around his neck and made for a tall tree nearby. Shinning up to the first branch, he quickly climbed to the top limb and scanned the countryside.

Presently a small white plane came into view. It looked like the same one the boys had seen before. Dangling from it was a long rope which reached nearly to the tops of the trees as the plane skimmed along.

At the end of the rope was a small package. As Joe glued his eyes to it, the plane dipped out of sight behind the upland forest. Joe climbed down to report what he had seen.

“Do you suppose the plane was dropping the package?” Frank asked excitedly.

“Either that, or picking it up,” Joe replied.

“That proves the smoke did come from a camp-fire,” Terry said. “An’ it can’t be far away.”

“Let’s go!” Joe cried, eager to be off.

“On foot!” Pye advised. “Our enemy may be plenty smart.”

“An’ split up,” Terry said. “It’d be too bad if we all got caught at once.”

Heeding his advice, the five hobbled their mounts and set off separately toward the spot where Joe had seen the plane. They agreed to return to the ponies in two hours.

Frank crept along furtively. After going several hundred yards, he stopped to listen. A noise came from his left. “Probably Chet,” he thought. But to play it safe, he hid behind a large log and waited.

Presently a tall, grim-faced blond man stepped from behind a tree.

The winner of the archery contest at the Circle O! Frank’s heart thumped wildly.

The man clutched a bow in his left hand; five white-feathered arrows poked from the quiver slung over his back.

In a panic Frank wondered where his friends were. Would they spot the archer before he let his deadly arrows fly?

CHAPTER XVII

Captured!

THE blond man stopped, as if detecting someone’s presence, and carefully scanned the area. When he failed to see anyone, he stalked on through the woods.

Frank wriggled from his hiding place and followed stealthily.

Abruptly the man wheeled around. Frank ducked behind a bush. The archer looked left and right. Then, apparently reassured, he set off again, this time at a ground-covering lope.

Frank matched the wiry man’s powerful strides. When they had gone about a mile, a trail seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“I wonder where this leads,” the boy thought.

The runner slowed down and emerged into a clearing. Frank, breathing heavily from the long run, concealed himself behind a tree.

Directly ahead lay a small Indian village! Adobe huts rimmed an open space, where a dozen Indians sat at several workbenches. The man Frank had tracked entered one of the huts.

“Boy!” Frank said to himself. “This is some surprise! No Indian reservation is supposed to be within a hundred miles of Crowhead!”

Creeping around the edge of the camp, the boy tried to see what the Indians were doing.

As Frank moved closer, he noticed that one Indian, seated on the ground beside a low bench in the shade of the trees, appeared to be the boss of the workers. Now and then he left it to walk over to the other worktables, carrying back articles to examine.

Frank watched for a chance to get nearer. When the man walked again to the middle of the clearing, the youth quickly stole to his bench.

On it lay leather belts, watch straps, a silver-cased wrist watch, and several crooked arrow tie clasps!

Frank stared in amazement. Had he found the headquarters of the gang?

This must be the reason Arrow Charlie and Silver had not wanted Mr. Hardy or the boys to come to Crowhead! Did these Indians have a direct connection with the knockout cigarettes?

Frank scurried into hiding seconds before the lone Indian returned. Then he hurried back toward the place where the searchers had agreed to meet.

As he neared the point where he had hidden behind the log, he heard a noise in the underbrush. Had he been followed? Peering from behind a tree, he let out a low gasp.

“Chet!” he called softly. “For crying out loud be quiet!”

Chet looked up, startled at the voice.

“Wh-where did you come from?” he puffed.

“I heard you kicking around,” Frank chided. “You’d better watch it. Silver’s on the prowl, and there are Indians in these woods!”

“Indians!” Chet exclaimed. “First a bear, and now Indians!”

“A bear?” Frank retorted.

“Well, whatever just chased me looked an awful lot like one!” said Chet, mopping his brow.

In a hushed voice Frank told him about the hidden Indian camp. Chet’s eyes bulged.

“Let’s get out of here!” he cried. “Wh-where’s my pony? I’m going!”

Despite Frank’s efforts to restrain his friend, Chet broke away in a run.

“Stop!” Frank demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Someone may have trailed me!”

Hardly had he uttered this warning when two Indians appeared. One was the same tall man whom Frank had seen working alone in the clearing. They ran toward Chet. Apparently they had not seen Frank, who now dashed forward to help his pal.

The men gave a cry on seeing Frank, and the taller one leaped toward him.

Frank braced himself for the onslaught. The Indian, his muscles bulging, grabbed him in a viselike grip.

In a split second Frank broke the hold with judo. His amazed attacker hesitated for a moment, just long enough for the boy to clamp a terrific headlock on him. The Indian struggled as Frank applied more and more pressure.

Chet, meanwhile, had been thrown to the ground. His opponent leaped astride him like a cowboy on a bucking bronc. Taking a thong from his belt, he tied Chet’s hands behind him, then went to the aid of his companion.

Frank had pinioned his adversary and was watching every move of the oncoming attacker. When he was nearly upon him, Frank let the first Indian go and threw the newcomer over his shoulder. The man landed with a thud, then bounded up and flung himself at the boy.

In the ensuing struggle Frank fought like a tiger. It took both Indians to overpower him, but finally they managed to tie Frank’s hands, then led him to where Chet was lying.

Chet’s teeth were chattering. “S-sorry I 1-let you down, old boy,” he apologized.

“Forget it,” Frank replied. Then, turning to the Indians, he said, “What are you guys up to?”

The taller man glared at him. “You’ll see,” he replied gruffly. “Come on!”

Walking in single file, with one Indian in front and the other behind, the boys were led through the forest to the camp. When they appeared in the clearing, the workers excitedly crowded around.

“Watch this guy,” the big Indian said, pointing to Frank. “He’s strong!”

As the men gazed at their captives, Frank demanded, “What’s the meaning of this?”

A stony look was the only reply.

The men then led the boys a short distance into the woods on the other side of the camp. In a small clearing stood a well-built sapling stockade. Frank and Chet were shoved in. The door was slammed quickly and latched.

As the Indians left, the boys heard one say:

“The boss’ll be here soon. He’ll fix them!”

Frank and Chet looked at each other, panic-stricken. Just who was the “boss,” and what judgment would he pass on them?

“Maybe it’s Arrow Charlie,” Chet said. “I hope he won’t let Silver use us for target practice!”

“We’ll soon find out,” Frank remarked gloomily.

About an hour later someone approached the stockade door and lifted the latch. A stooped old woman entered, carrying two bowls, one filled with water and the other with beans. She set them on the ground, then untied Chet’s bonds. Motioning for him to free Frank’s she slipped out. The Indian guard outside secured the door.

With his hands finally free, Frank joined Chet in a simple, but welcome meal. Their unspoken thoughts dwelled on the fate of Joe and their Crowhead companions.

Hardly had the boys finished eating when footsteps sounded again outside the stockade. The tall, grim-faced Indian flung open the door and beckoned to them.

As Frank and Chet stepped out they were surrounded by an escort of six Indians, who marched them silently to a ramshackle hut.

Stooping to enter the low doorway, the boys found themselves in a dim, candlelighted room. When their eyes had become accustomed to the darkness they uttered gasps of astonishment. There, standing before them, was a brawny, bushy-browed man whom the boys recognized at once. He had slugged Slow Mo and escaped on the train, had quizzed Chet on the farm back home, and was the same fellow Chet had seen with Silver at the airport!

Frank’s brain raced to piece together the clues of this puzzle. Following a strong hunch, he said defiantly:

“You’re C. B. M., aren’t you? Otherwise known as Arrow Charlie.”

The big man’s evil eyes showed surprise. Recovering quickly, he managed a twisted smile.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m Charlie Morgan. You seem to be well acquainted with my alias. Likewise, I’m well aware of your identities.”

The boys exchanged troubled glances as Morgan continued, his voice growing louder.

“I know all about you meddling Hardys. Your fat friend here was kind enough to tell me about your proposed trip to Crowhead.”

Arrow Charlie laughed raucously. Chet winced, but Frank retaliated.

“Don’t think we don’t know about you!”

“A lot of good that’ll do you now,” Morgan gloated. “Silver’s out looking for your pals now. You’re all going to stay here—as my guests—for a long, long time.”

“Not when Dad knows we’re missing,” Frank retorted. “He’ll find us!”

“So you think,” Morgan shouted. His face flushed in anger at the mention of Fenton Hardy. “I’ve already discouraged your father from interfering in my business!”

“So you’re the one who shot him!” Frank said.

Arrow Charlie smiled evilly. “No, I didn’t,” he said, “although I’m not a bad shot myself.”

“Silver, then?” the boy demanded.

“Silver’s the greatest archer in the world. Nothing but the best for Arrow Charlie! Right now I have a couple of friends I’d like you to meet.” He spoke briefly to one of the Indians, who then left the shack.

The big man was reveling in the situation. Frank quickly decided to make the most of his bragging.

To lead him on, Frank said, “Your Arrow cigarettes were a clever stunt.”

“You like the idea, eh?” Arrow Charlie asked. “Nobody would suspect a cigarette of containing knockout gas.”

The shack echoed with Arrow Charlie’s guffaws. “But they’ll never find out where I make ’em,” he boasted. “And if Fenton Hardy thinks he’ll keep on looking—well, another poisoned arrow for him!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Frank said hotly.

“Oh, wouldn’t I? ” Charlie sneered.

At that point a man and a woman entered the shack. Frank and Chet immediately recognized Bearcat—the henchman they had tangled with in Bayport. Charlie introduced the couple as the chief distributors of his product.

Frank scrutinized the woman, noting her Indian features.

“Did you leave a black sedan at Slow Mo’s garage in Pleasantville?” Frank questioned.

Bearcat looked at his wife with a start, but said nothing.

“Who took off the plates and filed off the engine number?” the boy persisted.

The man looked at his wife, then blurted out, “I dunno. Not me!”

“Why didn’t you come back for your car?” Frank went on.

“I did,” Bearcat answered, “but Slow Mo was talking to a state trooper and pointing to the car, so I thought they were on to us. So what with losing the watch and—Well, I didn’t want to take any chances.”

“But Morgan thought differently, didn’t he,” Frank asked.

“I would’ve gotten the car, too, if it hadn’t been for you Hardys,” Arrow Charlie growled.

“How come you lost the watch?” Chet asked the Indian woman.

She said that while driving one day, it had dropped off. She had put the watch in her purse, and her husband later had picked up the other piece of strap and put it into the glove compartment.

Chet, proud of his friends’ cleverness, blurted out the whole story of the watch strap. Arrow Charlie was thunderstruck at first, but when the full impact of how valuable a clue the strap had been began to dawn on him, he became furious.

“Take these kids away!” he roared to the Indians who had brought them. “And if they try to escape, I’ll throw you and them together into the hissing crack!”

The Indians nodded stoically and pushed the boys through the door.

Frank and Chet were led back to the stockade. The door swung shut and the bolt was thrown. The Indians padded away in the darkness.

Alone in the solitude of their prison, the boys discussed Arrow Charlie.

“If I ever get out of this,” Chet wailed, “I’ll never talk to strangers again, that’s for sure!”

“Skip it,” Frank said. “If you hadn’t told Arrow Charlie where we were going, he’d have found out some other way. We’ve got to get out of here and find the others,” he added. “Everyone’s in danger—even Dad!”

“How can we get out of this place now?” Chet asked dolefully.

Frank hoped that daylight might bring a solution to their predicament. But with the dawn came another unpleasant surprise. As they ate the sparse breakfast left by the old woman, they could hear the snapping and growling of dogs close to the stockade.

Then suddenly the noises grew louder and more fierce, as if the dogs had been released.

“They must be after someone,” Frank decided. “But who?”

“What about Joe and the cowboys?” Chet asked anxiously. “Maybe the dogs have been turned loose on them!”

CHAPTER XVIII

A Grim Story

MEANWHILE, after a somber dawn breakfast, Joe and Pye sat at the designated meeting place in the forest discussing their desperate situation.

“What are we going to do about Frank and Chet?” Joe asked worriedly.

The Indian stared thoughtfully at the pine needles which blanketed the ground.

“They seem to have disappeared from the face of the earth,” he said. “There’s no trail anywhere.”

“And now Terry’s gone, too!” Joe said, his voice tense.

When Frank and Chet had failed to show up the night before, Joe, Pye, and Terry had set out to look for them. Then Terry had suddenly dropped out of sight.

A frightening thought came to Joe. “I wonder if Terry and the boys disappeared like the other cowboys!”

“They must have been captured by someone,” Pye replied. “Terry wouldn’t leave just like that.”

“We’ve just got to search again,” Joe said, getting to his feet.

He reached into his saddlebag and drew out a pad and pencil. After writing a note to his brother saying they would return, he tucked one end of it under the saddle of Frank’s pony. Then he and Pye set out, this time skirting the forest.

After they had ridden some distance, the trees became sparser, giving way to a bald clearing at the foot of a cliff. Before the eyes of the riders, a gruesome scene unfolded.

From the top of the cliff a fleeing lamb came hurtling down toward them. It landed in a broken heap near the frightened ponies. Pye got off to examine the dead animal.

“There are no wild sheep here,” he remarked, looking up at Joe. “Men must have chased it. We’ve got to find them!”

With that he picked up the lamb and flung it over his saddle. “It’ll make a good meal later,” he said, mounting. “Let’s use the trees for cover and go as quietly as possible.”

Entering the forest again, Joe and Pye scanned the dense timberland for any sign of Frank, Chet, or Terry.

Suddenly Joe reined in sharply. “Something moved ahead,” he said.

“We’d better go on foot now,” Pye suggested.

They dismounted, tied their horses, and set off quietly. Presently the sound of a harsh voice could be heard. Peering from behind a thicket, they saw a rider on a white-faced sorrel.

Joe, not more than thirty feet away, recognized him immediately. He was the big man he had chased from Slow Mo’s garage! And there, standing in front of the rider, was Pete, one of Crowhead’s missing cowboys! The mounted man was giving the tall, redheaded youth a tongue-lashing.

“You left Crowhead of your own free will,” he thundered. “But you’re not going back. Nobody that works for Charlie Morgan double-crosses him and gets away with it!”

“It’s Arrow Charlie!” Joe whispered to Pye.

“I won’t tell nothin‘,” Pete whined. “I only want to get back to cowpunchin’. I warn’t made to work in no factory!”

“You know our bargain!” Morgan shouted. “I’ll give you one more chance to change your mind.”

“Listen, Charlie,” Pete said, holding his hands out pleadingly, “what’ll happen to me if the sheriff catches up with us!”

“Don’t worry about sheriffs, or city cops either,” Charlie sneered. “They’re a bunch of fools. Fenton Hardy tried to find out about my racket.” The burly criminal guffawed loudly. “One of his sons and his fat friend are my prisoners right now!”

Joe shot a startled glance at Pye.

“Yo’re doin’ an awful thing,” Pete retorted.

Morgan looked down at Pete contemptuously. “Well, have you made up your mind?”

“Sure,” Pete replied. “I’m goin’ back to Crowhead.”

“That’s an unfortunate decision,” Morgan growled. “Just you try to get back there! My dogs will take care of that!”

“Yore dogs!” Pete exclaimed.

“Yeah!” Morgan returned. He jerked his reins, digging his heels into the sorrel’s ribs. The animal galloped off into the woods.

When the hoofbeats of Morgan’s horse faded, Joe and Pye rushed up to Pete. The cowboy’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

“Pye!” he cried out. “How’d you git here?”

“We’ll tell you later,” Joe put in, leading Pete to their horses. “Quick! Jump up in back of me!”

The cowboy did so and the group galloped off in the direction of Crowhead. As the three neared the north boundary of the ranch they heard howling.

“What’s that?” Joe cried out.

“Charlie’s dogs!” Pete gasped.

“They’re wild!” Pye shouted.

The fearful howls grew louder. Turning in his saddle, Joe could see the leader of the pack, his fangs bared, bounding toward them.

“We can’t outrace those killers!” Pete moaned.

The Indian’s face was determined. “I’ll fool ’em,” he said.

Joe and Pete tensed, wondering what Pye planned to do. In a lightninglike movement the Indian pulled a knife from his belt. He grasped the dead lamb slung behind his saddle, severed one hind leg, and tossed it to the snapping dogs. The pack skidded to an abrupt halt, taking time to tear the meat to pieces. Then they renewed their savage pursuit.

Again and again Pye cut pieces from the carcass to delay the dogs. Their yelping faded as the horses gained. When Pye had but one piece left, he shouted to Joe:

“Wait for me at the fence!”

Swerving his horse, Pye galloped off at a tangent, heading for higher ground. The dogs tore after him.

From the distance, Joe and Pete watched spell-bound. Pye urged his pony up a steep, stony butte as the dogs pursued. Then he galloped to the far side of the bluff and tossed the last piece of lamb to the very edge of the cliff. Meanwhile the dogs had scrambled to the top of the butte. Their jaws flecked with froth, the charging beasts bounded toward the meat.

Too late to check their momentum, half of them tumbled into the abyss below, crashing onto jagged rocks. The others seized the piece of lamb. A brutal scrimmage followed, with the largest dog finally shaking the fragment of meat from the rest of the pack and loping off. But his victory was short-lived. The infuriated pack set upon him, then upon one another.

“What a fight!” Joe exclaimed.

“Only three left now,” Pete said in relief.

The survivors limped down the slope and stole off into the forest, licking their wounds. Pye rode into sight a few minutes later.

“You saved our lives!” Joe cried.

The Indian grinned. “Mine, too,” he said. “Now let’s rest a minute.”

He, Joe, and Pete sprawled out on the grass.

“Tell us what happened to you, Pete,” Joe urged.

Pete breathed deeply and began. One day, while he had been riding the range near the woods, a big man had approached him on a white-faced sorrel and beckoned him into the woods.

“Arrow Charlie, no doubt,” Joe interjected.

Pete nodded.

“You’re a fool to work at Crowhead,” the man had told him. “Hank pushes all you guys too hard. How’d you like to work for me? I’ll pay you twice as much as you’re getting, and it’s easy work.”

Pete had been interested in the proposition. The extra money would come in handy. “What kind of work is it?” he had asked.

“You’ll see soon enough,” was the answer. “And before long you can leave here with your pockets bulging.”

Arrow Charlie had had still another argument to clinch the deal.

“Some of your Crowhead buddies are working for me,” he had added. “You don’t think they’d stay on if they didn’t like it, do you?”

“Okay,” the youth had agreed. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow. Bring all your stuff. But don’t tell anyone why you’re leaving, or where you’re going.”

The young redhead had ridden to the outskirts of Crowhead with his gear and unsaddled his pony. With a slap on its rump, Pete had sent the animal back toward the ranch house, and started off on foot to a spot designated by Morgan.

“Where was it?” Joe asked.

“Deep in the pine forest,” Pete replied, “at a rock with a crooked arrow on it.”

That was the place Frank had stumbled upon—a rendezvous for Arrow Charlie and the deserting cowboys of Crowhead Ranch!

“When we saw you running in the woods,” Joe said, “you were afraid to tell us where you were going?”

Pete looked sheepish. “I wanted to work for Morgan, an’ he’d warned me not to tell anyone ‘bout it, ’cause Hank would make trouble.”

“So Hank had nothing to do with the disappearance of his men or with Arrow Charlie?”

“No.”

A sense of relief swept over Joe. “What happened when you reached the crooked arrow rock?”

Pete said that Charlie had brought two horses and had taken him farther into the woods.

“Finally we came to a big cave. My friends were inside, but they didn’t look very happy.”

“Why?”

“They were virtually captives of Arrow Charlie, an’ they were making phony cigarettes!”

“Arrow cigarettes?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Yo’ know about ’em?” Pete asked in surprise.

Joe nodded, then asked the cowboy how much he knew about the Arrows and their distribution.

“Most everythin’, I guess. An’ I’m cure glad to be out o’ that mess.”

Pete went on to say that the plastic tubes were brought to the “factory” and filled with sleep-producing gas. The cigarette paper also was brought in, but the tobacco, a cheap, wild variety was grown near the “factory.” Part of the cowboys’ work was curing it.

“Every mornin’ Charlie or his skinny friend Silver,” Pete continued his story, “went to the hissing crack an’ got some o’ the stuff.”

“Hissing crack? What stuff?”

“Yo’ know, the gas they fill the tubes with.”

Suddenly Pye gasped.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“There’s an Indian legend about a strange gas coming out of a rock,” Pye replied. “I never thought it was true. It’s poisonous and is supposed to have killed hundreds of people long ago!”

CHAPTER XIX

Thundering Posse

JOE looked at the Indian in surprise. “Tell us more about it, Pye,” he said finally.

At first the cowboy was reluctant to speak about what he knew only as a legend. The crack was located on the side of a sheer rock. From it came a hissing gas that brought instant slumber and eventual death to anyone who inhaled too much of it.

“If that is true, Morgan must wear a mask,” Joe mused. “But how did he stumble onto the whole thing?”

“He might have heard the story from an Indian,” Pye suggested.

Joe nodded. “No wonder he made this area his headquarters and tried to keep us out of those woods.” He turned to Pete. “What else do you know about Charlie’s operations, Pete?”

The cowboy ran his fingers through his hair and continued.

“Both Silver an’ Arrow Charlie are pilots. They take turns bringin’ in food an’ supplies an’ contactin’ their ring of thieves who use the Arrow cigarettes.”

“And Bearcat?” Joe asked.

“He acts as distributor, once the gang gets operatin’ on a large scale in a certain area,” the cowboy explained.

“Charlie flies him around?”

“Sometimes. Him an’ his Indian wife. Bearcat’s a pilot too.”

“Has Bearcat been using a black sedan in the East?” Joe asked, recalling the Indian’s watch strap found in the car at Slow Mo’s garage.

“I wouldn’t know anythin’ about that,” Pete answered. “But it was from Bearcat’s wife that Charlie first learned about the Indians livin’ here.”

“Indians?” Pye was astonished.

“Not more’n a dozen,” the redhead said. “Been holin’ up in these woods an’ caves for years—livin’ like vagrants, near as I kin figure. Charlie reckoned they’d make good cheap labor for his cigarette factory. An’ seein’ how the place is so isolated, he knew he could operate here safely.”

“He didn’t count on my dad getting wise to the whole setup,” Joe said.

“Or his detective sons,” Pete added. “Morgan’s racket was bad enough, but when I found out he was tryin’ to harm you boys, I decided to run away an’ tell what I know about him.”

“You took a big chance,” Pye grunted.

All three were weary and their muscles ached from their exhaustive ride, but they could not afford to take more time to rest. Frank and Chet had to be found quickly.

“Let’s go,” Pye said, squinting into the rising sun.

Just then they heard the sound of a plane starting its engines.

“That’ll be Charlie or Silver goin’ out on their errands,” Pete remarked. “They’ve got a small airstrip on the other side of the woods.”

“A clearing marked with a crooked arrow!” Joe put in. “We spotted it from the air on our way to Crowhead.”

Suddenly Joe flung himself upon his pony. “What if they’re taking Frank and Chet away?”

But Pye and Pete dissuaded him from racing in the direction of the aircraft.

“We’ll have to get the sheriff,” the Indian insisted. “Three of us won’t stand a chance.”

A moment’s thought convinced Joe that Pye was right. Pete hopped on behind him, and the three moved over the hot stretch of grassy land toward Crowhead.

Joe’s hopes mounted as they drew closer to the ranch. Perhaps Chet and Frank were still prisoners in the woods. If so, they would soon be rescued by the local lawmen. But there was one of their group still unaccounted for. Terry. Where was he?

“We’ll be at the house soon,” Pye said, sensing Joe’s anxiety.

They ascended a long grade toward the top of a hill beyond which lay the ranch. Reaching its brow first, Joe gazed at the far-off buildings, then gasped in horror.

Together the three watched in disbelief as black smoke billowed up in the distance.

The ranch house was ablaze!

“Probably Morgan’s fiendishness!” Joe thought, his jaws set in rage. “Come on, fellows,” he shouted, “before it’s too late!”

By the time the galloping ponies reached Crowhead, the place was an inferno. Cowhands were running a hose to the ranch house, but the stream suddenly dribbled and stopped. The fire had disabled the water pump.

Joe rushed up to Cousin Ruth, who stood back from the scorching heat of the blaze. Hiding her face in her hands, she sobbed bitterly at this final, crushing blow.

“Joe!” she cried when she saw the boy.

“I’m so sorry. I—”

“It doesn’t matter—you’re safe!” She embraced him hysterically. “I thought when you didn’t come back last night something terrible had happened!”

The distraught woman apparently did not realize that Frank and Chet were not with him. Joe decided not to tell her about them now and ran to help the men fight the fire.

The loyal cowhands were working frantically. When the pump had failed, they had formed a bucket brigade and were passing pails of water from a well to put out the blaze.

The man standing nearest the fire was Hank. He looked fierce with his eyebrows singed, his face blackened by the smoke, and his shirt torn. But he worked like a demon.

Joe dashed up to Pye and Pete. The three formed a new bucket line, and worked on a wing of the house which was still intact.

Finally the fire burned out. Only the small wing had been saved. Their backs and arms aching, and their bodies scorched by the heat, the cowhands flopped to the ground.

Hank came up to Joe, their eyes meeting for a long moment. “Good work,” the foreman said, offering his hand.

Joe shook it. “Hank,” he said, “anybody who fights for Cousin Ruth as you did is okay. I’m sorry I ever doubted your loyalty.”

“Forget it.”

“There are a couple of things I’d like to clear up, if you don’t mind. What about the mysterious telephone call Chet overheard in the bunkhouse?”

“Oh, that.” Hank grinned. “My brother down in Albuquerque wanted me to come inspect some cattle, but I didn’t want to go until yo’ left. Kinda figgered yo’ might get into trouble.”

“And the first night, when we arrived, did you look into the living-room window?”

“Like I said,” Hank replied, “I had to chase some coyotes off. Wanted to make sure Mrs. Hardy was safe in her house.”

Joe told Hank about Frank, Terry, and Chet.

“Better phone the police right away,” the foreman advised. “Go ahead. I’ll tell yore cousin.”

The telephone was in the undamaged wing of the ranch house, but the line was dead. Joe soon discovered the reason. The pole on which the wires were strung had burned to the ground.

There was only one alternative. Joe offered to ride to the nearest town for the sheriff.

“Yo’ won’t go without me!” Hank declared.

But no sooner were he and Joe in the saddle than a thundering of hoofs sounded in the distance. Soon a group of about thirty riders galloped up.

Leading them was Terry, the singing cowboy! Beside him rode the sheriff!

“Terry!” Joe shouted. “Boy, are we glad to see you!”

“Say, what’s goin’ on here?” the cowboy cried, seeing the smoldering ruins. Then he added, “That’s what Charlie Morgan must ’a’ meant ’bout gettin’ rid of everythin’ at Crowhead. Wal, he sure can’t get away with this!”

Suddenly he spied Pete, and stared dumbfounded. Quickly stories were exchanged. Terry, while in the woods, had almost run into Arrow Charlie.

“He was talkin’ to some skinny blond guy he called Silver. They was tryin’ to decide what to do with Frank and Chet. I vamoosed pronto to look for you, but I got lost in them woods. Then I headed straight for the sheriff.”

“What are we waiting for?” Hank shouted. “Come on, men!”

Just as the posse and ranch hands were about to gallop off, an engine sounded in the distance. Joe’s eyes focused on a speck in the sky. It was coming from the direction of Morgan’s Indian camp!

A sickening fear seized Joe. Could it be Arrow Charlie’s plane? Perhaps it was armed! The posse would be a perfect target for an aerial strafing!

Joe shouted a warning, and the riders took cover.

Presently Pye called out, “It’s a whirlybird!”

“That engine’s pretty rough,” Joe observed. “Sounds like it’s about to fall apart.”

Soon a small helicopter swooped low over the smoking house, sounding like a hundred popping machine guns. The craft dropped sharply and came in for a landing. As the door of the copter swung open, Fenton Hardy and a state policeman stepped out.

“Dad!” Joe shouted, jumping from his horse and running over to his father’s side.

Mr. Hardy greeted his son warmly. “I’m glad to see you’re safe,” he said in relief. “Ruth phoned me you were missing.”

The police pilot spoke up. “I thought we’d be missing, too. This copter’s had it.” He said the rotors were vibrating dangerously. “I can’t leave here until I have it repaired, which will take several hours. What are your plans, Mr. Hardy?”

“I don’t know yet,” the detective replied and took in the assemblage of riders who had appeared from cover. His face became grave.

“Where are Frank and Chet?”

“We don’t really know,” Joe said, trying to conceal his concern. “Hopefully they’re still nearby.” He told his father the latest events and why the posse had been organized.

Ruth Hardy, who had come out and greeted the detective warmly, went to get a map. Joe unfolded it. Pete pointed out Morgan’s hideout and the arrow-marked clearing.

“Let’s go!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed.

A horse was saddled for him, and the party set out, leaving the state policeman and a few of the hands to stay with Ruth Hardy. As they raced across the range, Mr. Hardy brought Joe up to date on his investigations.

The archer who had shot him was the same man who had tried to steal the car from Slow Mo’s garage, after Frank and Joe had prevented Arrow Charlie from taking it.

“His name’s Silver,” Joe said, and told what he knew about the man. “But what about the license plates and the defaced engine number?”

His father said that one of the men working for Bearcat in the cigarette distribution was the culprit. He had stolen a car. Since he knew about the sedan left at Slow Mo’s garage, he went there one night, helped himself to the plates to use on the stolen car, and filed off the engine number to forestall its identification.

Many miles passed beneath the flying hoofs of the posse as Pete lead the party toward the Indian camp by a shortcut.

The going was slower in the woods, but after a while the trees thinned out, giving way to the clearing of the compound. The riders dashed among the adobe huts and workbenches.

But not a sound issued from the camp. They searched every hut. Bare! The stockade was empty and the whole place was totally deserted!

CHAPTER XX

Final Roundup

THE Indian village showed unmistakable signs of a sudden evacuation. Ashes of a cooking fire were still warm, and a few implements were strewn about the workbenches.

“Must have been tipped off we were coming,” the sheriff declared.

“The chopper!” Joe declared. “They must have figured we’d come looking for Frank and Chet.”

“Maybe they’ve gone to the caves,” Pete spoke up. “Since Charlie reckons his dogs got me, he’d feel safe that no one knows about that hideout.”

The posse headed up the side of the pine mountain after Pete’s pony. The way became tortuous as the woods thinned out near the timberline, and Joe noticed fresh hoofprints in the stony ground. Finally Pete stopped the posse.

“The caves are up there,” he said, pointing to a winding path, which disappeared around a bend in the mountain.

“We’d better go on foot the rest of the way,” the sheriff suggested.

Once around the bend, the posse glimpsed the formidable redoubts of Arrow Charlie’s band. A sheer rock loomed high into the sky. At its base a series of deep caves opened up like the sunken eye sockets of a skull.

“We’ll go in an’ shoot ’em out!” the sheriff declared gruffly.

“No, wait,” urged Mr. Hardy. “A ruse might work and be a lot safer!”

The detective never used a gun if there was an alternative. He had gained his reputation by clever strategy, taking his prisoners alive and unhurt.

“I have some gas here,” he went on. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a couple of gas bombs that were no larger than ballpoint pens.

“They pack a lot of tear gas,” he explained, “and I think it’s time Charlie and his gang did a little weeping!”

“That might work in some o’ the caves,” Pete put in. “But one of ’em has two openings.”

The cowboy told how Morgan’s men had spent many days working on an escape route, if ever an occasion such as this should arise. They had blasted a tunnel from one of the caves right up to the flat top of the big rock. From there, Morgan could command the trail with rifles until his plane, especially equipped for ground pickup, could snatch him up and away from any pursuers.

Upon learning this, Mr. Hardy, the sheriff, Joe, and Pete planned the attack. “We must rescue Frank and Chet first,” the detective said. “I’ll sneak in alone. The rest of you can cover my advance.”

“I’m going with you!” Joe declared.

His father tried to talk him out of it, but Joe was adamant. “Frank’s in trouble,” he urged, “and two of us are better than one!”

They advanced cautiously. When they reached the tall butte, they flattened themselves out against it. Hearing nothing, they entered the first cave. It was damp and cold. A large stone stood upright in the middle.

Suddenly the sound of muffled scuffling came from behind it. Joe and Mr. Hardy listened, then crept forward. Joe peered around the big stone.

“Frank!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Chet!”

Mr. Hardy rushed to Joe’s side. On the ground in front of them, trussed with strong ropes, were the two captured boys. Handkerchiefs were fastened tightly across their mouths.

Frank and Chet gasped in relief as their bonds Were untied. They rose from their cramped positions and told in low tones how at the sound of the helicopter they had been hustled from the stockade and dragged to the caves.

The sound of footsteps came from somewhere deeper in the cave. The group tensed as a tall, lean blond man ran out, a bow in hand.

Slung over his back was a quiver. Protruding from it were half a dozen white feather-tipped arrows!

Silver stood transfixed for a moment. Then, seeing the detective, he gave a start.

“Fenton Hardy!” he shouted unbelievingly.

“Silver!” exclaimed Joe.

“You’re the one who shot me!” the sleuth cried out.

“Yo’ can’t prove it!”

“We sure can!” said Frank.

Silver hastily backed off, yelling, “I’ll fix you meddlers!”

He reached for an arrow, but before he could draw one out, Mr. Hardy lunged forward and grasped Silver’s wrist, twisting it with such force that Silver fell flat on his back.

Silver lashed out with his boots, but Frank grasped his left foot and flipped the man face down. Then he knelt on Silver’s back while Joe tied the prisoner’s hands with the rope that had bound Frank.

“Now get up, you skunk!” Joe said, and dragged Silver to his feet.

Morgan’s men had heard the fracas and came running from every direction.

Mr. Hardy hurried to the entrance of the cave and gave a signal to the posse. They rushed forward, grappling with the men and Indians who swarmed from the caves like ants.

The cowboys who had run away from Crowhead to join Morgan gave up without a struggle, glad to be freed from the threat of Arrow Charlie. But the Indians fought hard. When the dust had cleared, Charlie Morgan was nowhere in sight.

“I know where he is,” Pete volunteered, and led the Hardys and the sheriff to the farthest cave. It was the one with the tunnel that led to the top of the big flat rock.

“Come out, Morgan!” the sheriff roared into the cave.

“Come and get me!” a voice replied, echoing hollowly through the rocky chamber.

Mr. Hardy slipped inside. As he did, a rifle cracked, and a bullet ricocheted off the stone wall. The detective ducked, at the same time throwing a tear-gas bomb into the interior.

A coughing noise reverberated in the cave, then fleeing footsteps sounded through the tunnel. Mr. Hardy could not follow immediately because of the strong fumes.

Soon Arrow Charlie appeared, high on the flat top of the butte. When the men saw the rifle in his hands they ducked for cover. He took a couple of potshots, then sneered from behind a rock:

“Thought you had me, eh? Well, you won’t get me. I’ve radioed Bearcat. He’ll be here with the plane to pick me up! And this butte will make a dandy emergency field.”

As he spoke, there came the sound of an engine. Frank and Joe listened intently. Was it Morgan’s private plane, coming to snatch him up?

“The helicopter!” Frank exclaimed.

The craft flew close and began to descend. Morgan raised his rifle, but before he could fire a shot, a machine gun from the copter sent a burst that nicked the rock a few feet from him.

Arrow Charlie knew he was licked. He dropped his rifle and held his hands high as the chopper landed near him and the state policeman hopped out. Mr. Hardy, Frank, and Joe raced through the tunnel to greet him.

“Swell job, Mr. Hardy,” said the officer.

The detective smiled. “The credit should go to my sons.”

Just then another motor sounded beyond the big rock.

“Morgan’s plane,” Frank cried.

Instantly the police pilot ran to his craft and moved it under a clump of trees so it could not be seen from above.

Too late, Bearcat spotted the chopper. Before he could maneuver his plane to flee, the state policeman opened up with his machine gun. Firing above and around the thieves’ craft, he forced the pilot to give up or be shot.

Bearcat chose the former, and soon he and his wife were emerging from the white plane, with their hands held high.

When all the prisoners were rounded up, the law officers and Mr. Hardy questioned Arrow Charlie about his operation at the caves. The big man was surly at first. But he finally realized silence was useless. Hoping for a lighter prison sentence, he talked freely.

He showed the Hardys into a secret room deep in one of the caves, where the Arrow cigarettes were made.

“What about the hissing crack?” Frank asked.

Morgan led them to a pit a hundred yards back of the big rock. From one side a white plume of smoke hissed out through a split in the rock’s surface. Morgan had learned about it from the Indians and had employed a chemist to help him exploit the mysterious gas.

Then he had hired the Indians to guard the approaches to his cigarette factory. When he needed more labor, he had lured the cowboys away from Crowhead, the nearest ranch.

“How did you hit upon the crooked arrow as a sign of identification for your men?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“That really wasn’t an arrow,” the man replied. “It was an ancient, writhing snake with crooked fangs and a forked tail. I found it carved on a rock pointing to the hissing crack. Must have been put there long ago by Indians as a warning. At first I thought it was a crooked arrow, and decided it would make a swell insigne for my distributors.”

Arrow Charlie shrugged. “Things were going real well, until you Hardys began investigating our setup. I sent Silver to Bayport to put Fenton Hardy out of commission, but it didn’t help.”

“Who set the ranch afire?” Joe asked.

The guilty look on Morgan’s face revealed that the fire, indeed, was the result of arson.

After a short rest, the sheriff and his men escorted the prisoners on the long ride to town, while the Hardys, Chet, Pete, and the errant cowboys rode back to Crowhead. The hands, reticent at first, began talking about Arrow Charlie. When they heard that the ranch house had been burned at his direction, they were enraged.

“I think,” Pete said, “the least we can do to repay Mrs. Hardy is to help rebuild the house.”

Cheers of approval greeted his suggestion.

For the next two weeks Crowhead resounded to the clang of hammers and saws as the construction work moved along at a rapid pace. Ruth Hardy’s appreciation was unbounded.

Then, the day after the job was completed, the Hardys and Chet stepped aboard a big jetliner at the Santa Fe airport to fly home. Mr. Hardy had left earlier to work on another case.

Frank and Joe felt a little letdown as the plane lifted into the clouds. Life was beginning to seem slow already. But, as Chet predicted, this was not to be for long. The Secret of the Lost Tunnel was soon to bring new adventure into their lives.

“I wonder what Slow Mo will say when we tell him we started solving the crooked arrow mystery right in his garage,” Frank said.

Joe grinned broadly. “He’ll probably say, ‘I never thought of that!’ ”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Double Warning

CHAPTER II - The General’s Enemies

CHAPTER III - Trouble on the Road

CHAPTER IV - Spies

CHAPTER V - Retracing History

CHAPTER VI - A Peculiar Professor

CHAPTER VII - The Search

CHAPTER VIII - An Important Lead

CHAPTER IX - A Trap

CHAPTER X - The Missing Rifle

CHAPTER XI - Pleasanton’s Bridge

CHAPTER XII - The Cap Box

CHAPTER XIII - Digging for Gold

CHAPTER XIV - A Bombardment

CHAPTER XV - A Shot in the Dark

CHAPTER XVI - An Old Safe

CHAPTER XVII - A Fresh Perspective

CHAPTER XVIII - A Final Clue

CHAPTER XIX - The Lost Tunnel

CHAPTER XX - The Plantation’s Secret

THE SECRET OF THE LOST TUNNEL

DIFFICULT assignments are nothing new to the Hardy boys and this one that takes them to the Deep South is particularly challenging. Their mission: to vindicate a long-dead Confederate general, disgraced during the Civil War because he was accused of stealing hidden gold belonging to a bank.

In a museum exhibiting relics of the Civil War, the brother sleuths find a puzzling clue that may help to clear the general’s name and pinpoint the location of the hidden gold. But a dangerous criminal and his cohorts are out to steal the treasure and constantly harass Frank and Joe and their pal Chet Morton.

Skillfully avoiding booby traps and flying bullets, the boys persevere in their perilous quest. The arduous search is full of surprises that will thrill all fans of the Hardy boys.

“Get out!” the man roared

Copyright © 1977, 1968, 1950 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 68-24655

eISBN : 978-1-101-07643-9

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Double Warning

THE telephone in the Hardy home rang sharply as the clock struck four. Blond-haired Joe bounded into the hall and took the call.

“Fenton Hardy’s residence,” he said, and in answer to a query, “My father isn’t home. Will you leave a message?”

“This is Dr. Bush,” the man informed him in a deep voice. “You’re going to have a visitor. Watch your step and pay no attention to his story. He’s dangerous. He’s out of his mind.” The man spoke a few seconds longer, then hung up abruptly.

Puzzled, Joe returned to the living room.

“What’s the matter?” asked his dark-haired brother Frank, who was a year older.

“A General Smith is coming here. Dr. Bush, who just phoned, says the general’s crazy, and that we should pay no attention to him.”

Before Joe had a chance to explain further, the telephone rang again. He answered it.

“Hello?” Placing his hand over the mouthpiece, he whispered to Frank, “A woman—says she knows Dr. Bush.” Then into the instrument he said, “Yes. ... Yes. ... Why? ... Hello, hello!”

The click on the other end of the line was evidence the woman had ended the conversation.

“Who was she?” Frank inquired.

“Didn’t give her name,” Joe replied. “But listen to this. She said if we heard from a Dr. Bush we should call the police immediately.”

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “A mystery to solve before we even see the people involved in it!”

But puzzling situations were nothing new to the brothers. As sons of Bayport’s famous detective, Fenton Hardy, they had encountered many baffling cases, beginning with The Tower Treasure. In their most recent adventure, The Sign of the Crooked Arrow, Frank and Joe had successfully concluded an intriguing mystery.

Now the boys’ thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front doorbell. Joe opened the door. Before him stood a man in the uniform of the United States Army. On his shoulder he wore the single star of a brigadier general.

“I’m General Smith,” he said. “I’d like to see Mr. Hardy.”

“Step in, please,” Joe said politely. He shot a quick glance at Frank, then surveyed the stranger carefully.

The general, whether mentally unbalanced or not, had all the bearing of a fine military man. He was of medium build and stocky, with a ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and red hair.

“My father’s not here,” Frank told him.

“That’s too bad. How is he?”

“Why—er—very well,” Frank replied.

“Wonderful man,” General Smith commented.

“You know him?” Joe asked.

“Surely. I came to speak to your father on a very important matter.”

“We could give him your message,” Frank offered. “I’m Frank, and this is my brother Joe. Dad’s been away. We expect him back some time today.”

General Smith walked into the living room and seated himself in Fenton Hardy’s favorite club chair, looking keenly at the boys.

“I’ll relate my story briefly,” the man said. “You can tell your father, in case he doesn’t get back before I return to Washington. It concerns a treasure buried during the Civil War. I want him to find it.”

Joe stole a glance at Frank. His brother looked puzzled as the man continued.

“My great-grandfather, a Confederate general,” he said, “was disgraced during the Civil War because he lost a bandoleer containing a special cap box made of silver.”

“Bandoleer?” Joe asked.

“Yes. A military shoulder strap. Today they contain cartridges. The old one my great-grandfather lost carried a small silver box which was a family heirloom.”

“What was so disgraceful about losing that?” Frank asked as he observed the man intently.

“The box contained no bullets,” the general explained. “But it did hold a secret which has remained unsolved to this day. You see, just before a certain battle, my great-grandfather called at the plantation of his cousin, Beauregard Smith, a wealthy planter and president of the local bank. Beauregard confided to my great-grandfather that if enemy troops got too close, he intended to bury his gold, together with that belonging to the bank.”

“What happened then?” Joe put in eagerly.

The man moved uneasily in his chair. “Just before the Battle of Rocky Run,” he went on, “an old slave from Beauregard Smith’s plantation ran into Great-grandfather’s headquarters. He handed him a sealed envelope moments before dropping dead from exhaustion.”

As the visitor stopped speaking, he sprang from his chair and paced rapidly toward the door.

“What’s he going to do now?” Frank wondered, recalling the telephone warning.

But the general turned sharply on his heel and walked back, continuing his story.

“My case concerns a Civil War treasure!” said General

Smith

“Great-grandfather had time only to glance at the message. It contained a series of numbers. Sounds crazy, I know.”

Joe gulped and looked at his feet.

“Across the face of the message,” the general proceeded, “were the letters C S A. But before Great-grandfather could study the numbers, scouts brought reports of the enemy’s approach, and Great-grandfather had to issue a call to arms. He hurriedly hid the message in the ammunition box. The opposing sides joined in battle shortly afterward, and the fight continued into the night. In the darkness and confusion, the bandoleer and the cap box disappeared, and with them the secret.”

“Didn’t Beauregard Smith remember the message he had sent?” Frank asked.

The general stared absently at the boy, then went on, “He was killed defending his plantation. The place was cannonaded and burned to the ground.”

The general started to pace again.

“Beauregard Smith’s family was penniless, and in disgrace, too, because the bank’s gold was lost. They accused my great-grandfather of taking it for his own use!”

Joe gave a whistle. “Some accusation!”

At that moment the telephone rang again, startling the general and the boys. Frank leaped to answer. The caller was Dr. Bush.

“Has Smith arrived?” he asked abruptly.

“Hold on a moment,” Frank said.

In the silence that followed, Frank strained to hear any familiar sound that might identify the place from which the doctor was calling. In a second he was rewarded. The words “Two on a raft!” boomed in the distance. The voice of Pete down at Shorty’s Diner!

Frank beckoned to Joe and whispered, “Bush is at Shorty’s Diner. I’ll try to keep him talking while you get a look at him.”

Joe raced from the house and hopped into the brothers’ convertible. He drove speedily toward Shorty’s Diner, located a few blocks away in the downtown section of Bayport. Reaching it, he hastily parked, bounded up the front steps, and pushed open the door.

As the tempting aroma of sizzling hamburgers and coffee drifted to Joe’s nostrils, he glanced quickly toward the telephone booth at the end of the long counter. It was empty!

Slowly a rotund youth sitting on a stool swung around. In his hand he held half of a triple-decker sandwich.

“Hello, Joe,” he said. “What’s the big hurry?”

“Chet!” Joe exclaimed. “Did you see anybody come out of the phone booth a second ago?”

“Don’t rush me,” Chet pleaded, and bit into the sandwich.

Chet Morton, a pal of the Hardys, enjoyed eating, and did not like to be hurried while engaged in his favorite pastime. Joe was bursting with impatience as he watched Chet chew contentedly on the big mouthful.

“This is awful important,” Joe pleaded. “Not another bite, now.” He repeated the question.

Chet gulped, patted his lips with the white paper napkin, and said, “Sure I saw the guy. Came out of that booth so fast he bumped into me. I said ‘Look, mister, you almost knocked the sandwich out of my—!’ ”

“For Pete’s sake, Chet, cut out the gab! Where did he go?”

The stout boy wheeled around on the stool and pointed to the side door. “Thataway. What’s up, Joe?”

“Tell you later.” Joe raced through the door, then halted on the sidewalk. Chet lumbered after him.

“I think that’s him down the street there,” Chet volunteered. “He was tall and wore a dark suit. Carried a black bag.”

Without a word, Joe sped after the figure who was now a block away. The stranger glanced back, then broke into a trot. At that moment a black sedan slowed up at the corner. The man hopped in. Before Joe could catch up with him or get a look at the license plate, the car disappeared.

Joe turned dejectedly as Chet arrived on the scene. “Didn’t even get a good look at him,” Joe moaned.

“Is he a crook?” Chet asked, puffing.

“Maybe. Anyway, somebody asked us to get the police after him. I wish I hadn’t lost him.”

“Don’t worry, pal,” Chet piped up. “I figured this was another detective case, so I decided to help you.”

“How?” Joe blurted, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Surprise,” Chet replied. Then, for the first time, Joe noticed that his plump friend held an old camera in his hands.

“I took his picture,” Chet said proudly.

CHAPTER II

The General’s Enemies

CHET Morton grinned as he handed the battered camera to Joe. On the front mount was a telescopic lens.

“I got a telephoto snapshot,” Chet boasted.

“Are you sure?” Joe eyed the camera skeptically. “Where’d you get this?”

“At a pawnshop,” Chet explained. “Just because it’s secondhand doesn’t mean it’s junky.”

Joe examined the camera. The lens seemed good enough, but the camera body had been cracked, and was patched here and there.

“I hope it hasn’t any light leaks,” Joe said, handing the camera back to Chet. “I’d sure like to have a picture of that man!”

“Count on me,” Chet said as the two boys drove toward the Hardy home to develop the picture. “You fellows working on a mystery?”

Chet’s voice contained a note of apprehension.

The Hardy boys were his closest friends, and although Chet greatly enjoyed their companionship, he was always loath to participate in the risks they ran.

“I don’t know yet,” Joe replied, and explained hurriedly about the mysterious telephone calls.

At the house Frank met them at the door. “Did you find Dr. Bush?” he whispered excitedly.

Joe shook his head, then Frank explained in low tones that the man had ended their telephone conversation very abruptly.

After hastily introducing Chet to General Smith, Joe ushered his friend into the basement, where the Hardy boys had their darkroom.

“You’ll find developer and hypo under the bench, Chet. I hope the picture’s good.”

While Chet was busy removing the film from the old camera, Joe rejoined his brother and General Smith.

“I must say,” the general commented, “that you boys sure dash around.”

Frank apologized for the interruption and explained, “Our friend Chet’s a photographer and uses our equipment sometimes. Please go on with your story about the Civil War, General Smith.”

“Well, when my great-grandfather as well as my grandfather failed to clear up the mystery, my father took a hand, because the Beauregard Smith branch of the family still blame us for the loss of their fortune.”

Frank and Joe sat tensely on the edge of their chairs, listening.

“My father was a general, too,” their caller said. “The military tradition in the Smith family has been our pride for over a century. That’s why I’m determined to find the treasure!”

General Smith thumped the table beside him so hard the lamp on it teetered precariously. He jumped from his chair and again began to pace the room. The boys looked at each other in alarm. Seating himself, the general continued:

“After exhaustive work, my father was able to unearth the fact that the bandoleer had been stolen by a spy. Long after the war, when there was no longer need for secrecy, the story came out that an enemy soldier, named Charles Bingham, had entered my great-grandfather’s camp. He was seen during the battle, but later was reported missing.”

“And the secret of the buried gold with him?” Joe inquired excitedly.

“That’s right,” the general answered.

“You want Dad to help you find the hidden gold,” Frank assumed. “The only clue is Bingham, and you don’t know what happened to him.”

General Smith nodded. “I know it’ll be hard, but I have a lot of faith in your father’s reputation.”

“Dad’s the best detective in this part of the country,” Joe said. “You came to the right man. But Dad will want proof of your story before—”

The look which flashed across the general’s face was ample evidence Joe had said the wrong thing.

“Proof!” the man sputtered. His red hair fairly bristled.

“General Smith,” Frank said, “my brother meant no offense. After all, we haven’t seen your credentials.”

“Credentials!” the general shouted.

Suddenly the crackling atmosphere was interrupted by the click of a key, and the front door swung open. In strode Fenton Hardy.

“Dad!” Frank exclaimed, hurrying toward the tall, broad-shouldered detective.

“Boy! Are we glad to see you!” Joe cried out.

As Fenton Hardy entered the living room, General Smith made a sudden move toward him. “Fent Hardy!” he boomed.

To Frank and Joe’s amazement, their father stood stock-still a moment, then put out his hand, exclaiming:

“Jack Smith!”

Frank and Joe stared wide-eyed as their father and General Smith exchanged greetings.

As soon as he could, Joe took his father aside and whispered, “Dad, we were told the general is insane!” The boy quickly related what had happened.

The detective, recovering from the shock of the announcement, pondered for a second. Then he laughed heartily and put his arm around his son.

“Tell General Smith what you just told me, Joe.”

Upon hearing the insanity story, General Smith threw back his head and laughed heartily.

“It only goes to show you can’t tell who’s crazy. I’ve thought ever since I came here, Fenton, that your sons were acting rather peculiarly!”

Grinning like a couple of boys, Mr. Hardy and General Smith recalled the happy days they had spent together one summer in an officers’ training camp.

Frank turned to the general finally. “General Smith, have you any idea who Dr. Bush and the woman caller might be?”

“Not the faintest,” General Smith answered, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

“My guess is,” Mr. Hardy spoke up, “that Bush is no doctor and he’s using a fake name.” He turned to the general. “Did you tell anybody you were going to visit me?”

“Not a soul.”

“Did you make a memorandum that someone might have seen?”

“No. The only thing I did was write the letter.”

“Letter?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me you didn’t get it!”

The general said that he had made a quick trip down to Centerville, the town nearest the old Beauregard Smith plantation. While there, he had discovered that someone had been digging secretly on the property. At once he had decided to enlist Fenton Hardy’s help and had written him a letter.

“Then somebody intercepted the mail,” Mr. Hardy surmised, “and learned you were coming here.”

The detective asked General Smith for a resumé of the strange story of the missing bandoleer. While he was telling it, Frank and Joe went to the darkroom to see Chet. They found him gazing at a wet print.

“Hey, this is only half a picture!” Joe exclaimed, peering at it. “Nothing but the doctor’s legs and a black bag.”

Chet was crestfallen. His telephoto camera had failed him. “Guess I’ll just tear this up and start all over again,” he said glumly.

“Don’t do that!” Frank interrupted. “This might prove to be a valuable clue.”

Chet went back to work on the rest of the film, and Frank and Joe returned upstairs.

Mr. Hardy and the general were still discussing the mystery. Their Aunt Gertrude, Mr. Hardy’s spinster sister, who lived with them, had come in, and heard the story.

“No good will come of this,” the boys heard her prophesy as they entered the living room. “The minute I heard a warning was involved—”

“Now, Gertrude,” Mr. Hardy spoke up, trying to calm her, “we’ve dealt with mysterious phone calls before.”

“That woman means big trouble,” said his sister, who was apt to jump to conclusions. “And as for that doctor—Oh, my pie’s burning!” She rushed from the room.

“What I’m afraid of,” General Smith said, “ is that the secret message in the old bandoleer has been found and some criminal knows where to look for the gold.”

Mr. Hardy set his friend’s mind at rest on this score. “It’s possible the message has been found, but if the gold cache had been located, Dr. Bush wouldn’t be on your trail.”

“If he’s a crook, he probably has a criminal record,” Frank suggested.

“That’s logical thinking,” his father said. “We’ll go up to my study and take a look at the pictures in my rogues’ gallery. Jack, you may recognize somebody you’ve seen in Centerville. Maybe it will give us a clue.”

The four trooped to the second floor. The detective spread dozens of pictures over his desk. The general scanned each one carefully but concluded he had never seen any of the shady characters.

“I must get back to the hotel now,” he said. “It’s been—”

His words were lost as a shrill shriek sounded downstairs. Aunt Gertrude!

Frank and Joe leaped to their feet and bounded down the stairs. To their amazement, they saw their aunt grappling with two men at the front door. With her eyeglasses dangling wildly over one ear, Miss Hardy clutched one man by the hair and tugged at the other’s necktie.

“You ... can’t ... come ... in ... here, you ruffians!” she cried, blocking them. “Help! Help!”

“Hold’em, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe shouted.

Then the men spied the reinforcements.

The thugs, whose faces were screened by the melee of arms, wrenched loose, and dashed into the street with the boys close behind.

CHAPTER III

Trouble on the Road

AT the curb stood a black sedan, its motor racing and its door open. Before the Hardys could reach it, the fugitives jumped inside and the car roared away in the dusk.

“That’s the car that picked up Dr. Bush!” Joe exclaimed. “And look, its license plate is covered with mud!”

The boys gave up the futile chase and returned to the house.

“One of those thugs might have been Dr. Bush,” General Smith declared when he heard about the car.

But Joe was doubtful, and mentioned Chet’s photograph. “The doctor has long legs and neither of those fellows did.”

Mr. Hardy was trying to quiet his sister and at the same time get her story of the intruders.

“Those—those scoundrels said they were attendants from a mental institution,” Aunt Gertrude spluttered. “Said General Smith had escaped and they wanted to take him back. I said he was a friend of ours, and they couldn’t come in!”

“What did they look like?” Mr. Hardy queried.

Aunt Gertrude peered over her eyeglasses. “Do you expect me to fight off two cutthroats and remember their looks at the same time?” she asked crisply, her fright gone. “I was too busy to notice, but one seemed a young man about twenty-one. He had a nice, smooth complexion.” Miss Hardy closed her eyes and shuddered. “Imagine such a young fellow trying to fight me! What is the world coming to!”

“We’ll find them, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe vowed.

“No, you won’t,” their aunt protested. “You’ll not go chasing such criminals. Oh, I knew when that woman telephoned, you should stay out of this! General Smith, we expect you to stay for dinner.”

As Aunt Gertrude slumped into a chair, General Smith said he would be glad to stay and talk things over.

“You see how things are, Fent. Will you handle the case for me?”

“Yes,” the detective replied evenly. “Finding the lost gold may be a thousand-to-one chance, but it would give me great pleasure to nab the two thugs who just tried to break into my house!”

“Fine!” the general boomed. “You’ll start immediately?”

“Not so fast, Jack,” Mr. Hardy said. “I must return to Washington tomorrow to testify in a case.”

General Smith looked disappointed. “But suppose Bush finds the gold before we do?”

“We’ll take care of that,” Mr. Hardy assured him. He turned to his sons. “You fellows can start South at once to lay the groundwork.”

“Frank and Joe?” asked the officer in amazement.

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Hardy replied proudly. “My boys help me on many cases. Sometimes they solve them before I do!”

“But this is different,” continued the general, still hesitating. “This may be dangerous.” He tugged at the lapels of his tunic as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. “Then I’ll accompany them to Rocky Run! I have a short leave due. We can stay at my house on the outskirts of Centerville. How soon can you boys start?”

“Will tomorrow be soon enough?” Joe asked eagerly.

General Smith smiled. “I can see no burglar would catch you boys napping!”

“We can stop overnight on the way,” Frank mused, “and make Rocky Run some time the next day.”

A few minutes later Chet, who had been unaware of all the commotion, ran up from the basement, waving a photograph. “Hey, how do you like this one?” he asked enthusiastically.

“It’s a picture of a car with the license plate covered,” Frank remarked. “How’d you happen to snap it?”

Chet beamed. “It’s the one Dr. Bush rode away in.”

Joe reached for the picture as Chet, bursting with pride, said, “Guess I’d make a pretty good detective myself, eh?”

“This same car was outside our house a short while ago,” Mr. Hardy told Chet, and related his sister’s encounter with the two thugs.

Then Frank and Joe told their friend of the planned trip to the South. Chet’s face fell.

“Gee, just when I thought we were going to have some fun with my camera, you’re going away.”

Frank, winking at his brother, said, “Say, Chet, you know we might need a good photographer on this case. How would you like to come along?”

“Oh boy!” Chet beamed. “I might even get to photograph the other half of that crook!”

The general smilingly agreed to take Chet with them, and the boy hurried home to pack.

“We’d better do some packing ourselves,” Frank told his brother. They went upstairs.

Their mother, who had been out shopping and had just returned, looked in on them.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the attractive woman, amazed at the piles of clothes on the bed. “Another trip?”

The boys told of their plans. She smiled knowingly.

“I’ll miss both of you. Are you taking the proper clothes?”

“We’ll be outdoors most of the time,” Frank replied, “exploring an old battlefield.”

At the mention of a battlefield, Aunt Gertrude, who had come upstairs, burst out, “You’re taking too much risk. Why, there may be hidden shells that might explode. And that heat down South-watch out for sunburn! Dinner’s ready.”

Aunt Gertrude, who had the habit of hopping from one subject to another, hustled downstairs to the kitchen. Her cooking was as savory as her language was peppery. As a special treat for Frank and Joe, she had baked an apple pie. When she brought in the dessert, the boys were delighted.

“Goodness knows when you’ll eat properly again,” she said tartly. “At least you should start this trip well-fed!”

General Smith thanked the Hardys and said good night shortly after dinner.

Later, the boys were deeply engrossed in their books of Civil War history when three loud knocks sounded on the front door.

“That’s Chet,” Frank assumed, recognizing the signal the boys used. “Guess he has some news that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

As Frank opened the door, four laughing young people burst into the Hardy home. In the lead was Iola Morton, Chet’s sister, with Callie Shaw and Helen Osborne following. Chet brought up the rear with two large packages.

“Surprise!” Callie called gleefully. The pretty, blond girl, a special friend of Frank for several years, took a big white cakebox from Chet and set it gingerly on the hall table.

“This is a bon voyage party,” announced black-haired Iola, Joe’s favorite date, who was just as slender and good-looking as her brother was rotund. “Here. Take this bag, Joe. But be careful. It’s soda pop.”

Frank and Joe carried the refreshments into the kitchen while Helen and Chet went to find the boys’ latest dance records.

“Don’t y’all forgit,” Iola teased Joe, “to bring back a good Suthin accent.”

“We’ll leave that to your brother,” Joe retorted, grinning. “He-all can learn it while he’s eatin’ fu-ried chicken.”

After chatting about the trip and dancing until ten o’clock, the young people sat down at the dining-room table for refreshments. Then, bidding fond farewells to the Hardy boys, the girls left with Chet and chugged home in his old jalopy.

The following day, prior to their departure, the three boys sat down with the general and Mr. Hardy to discuss the mystery.

“This is like briefing troops before a battle.” The officer smiled. He gave the boys a layout of the territory around Rocky Run. “It’s not going to be easy finding the treasure,” he added.

“I have a feeling you may run into trouble,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “You boys must be constantly on the alert. Gold is always a source of—”

Suddenly a splintering crash cut the air. A dark object, hurled through the window, hit Frank full on the chest!

Quickly Joe dashed outside, but no one was in sight. Then he returned to the living room, where Mr. Hardy was holding a large heavy stone.

“That rock could have killed Frank if it had hit him on the head!” Aunt Gertrude declared hotly.

In a few minutes Frank was able to breathe more easily. A bruise on his chest was the only apparent injury caused by the mysterious assailant.

Why would anybody want to hurt Frank?” asked Mrs. Hardy, still trembling from the shock.

“I don’t think Frank was the target,” the detective replied. “I’m sure the stone was meant either for me or General Smith.”

“To keep you from looking for the gold,” Frank put in.

“I doubt whether it’s worth while to call the police on this incident,” Mr. Hardy said. “The fellow is probably far from here by now. But one thing is evident: your movements, Jack, are being carefully watched by some dangerous criminals. I’d advise you to lay low today and wait till tomorrow morning to start South.”

It was agreed that both Chet and the general would stay overnight at the Hardy home to insure an early start the following day. By morning Frank was himself again, and eager to be off. While the group ate a hearty breakfast, Mr. Hardy had two of his operatives check the neighborhood for suspicious characters who might be spying on the Hardys. None were found.

Shortly before dawn, with farewells ringing in their ears, the Hardy boys, Chet Morton, and General Smith set off.

Chet looked very adventurous with his camera slung over a shoulder and a folding tripod in a leather sheath which hung from his belt. With Frank at the wheel, they rode out of Bayport and soon their sporty convertible was miles out on the state highway.

The boys found the general an interesting companion, with his stories of military life. Presently getting down to details of the lost gold, they discussed the message which was their only real clue. They all agreed on the possibility that the C S A stood for Confederate States of America.

“Before we do anything else,” Frank said, “I believe we ought to look over the battlefield and the plantation.”

Late that afternoon the four travelers reached their stopover point. They registered at a large hotel, in the basement of which was a garage. When Frank drove the convertible inside, he said:

“I’m leaving it for the night. My brother or I will call for it in the morning.”

The group registered, ate dinner, and went to bed early. After breakfast the next day Joe went for the car and presented the claim check.

“Listen, bud, nobody’s takin’ the car except the guy who left it,” the attendant declared.

“I’m his brother.”

“Yeah? So was that other boy his brother.”

“What are you talking about?” Joe demanded.

“I’ll discuss it with the guy who drove the car in here,” the attendant insisted.

Seeing it was useless to argue, Joe went off for Frank. When they returned, the garageman related that a young man not much older than the Hardys had come in half an hour before, saying he was one of the Hardy boys.

“He didn’t have a claim check,” the man said, “so I wouldn’t let him take the car.”

“He was trying to steal it!” Joe exclaimed.

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“Blond. About your age. Wore blue pants and a sport shirt.”

Frank thanked the garageman, and the brothers climbed into the convertible.

As Joe drove out to pick up Chet and General Smith, both Hardys had the same thought. Aunt Gertrude had said one of the intruders at the house had been very young. Had the boys been trailed?

Out on the highway once more, the travelers amused themselves with the car radio as the miles rolled by. As usual, Chet became hungry long before the others. Seeing a pleasant-looking restaurant with a sign Southern Fried Chicken, he begged them to stop.

An hour later, having had a delicious lunch, they were on the road again with Frank at the wheel. After a few miles, as the beautifully verdant countryside slid past, Frank looked into the rear-view mirror.

“See that car back there?” he asked Joe, who was beside him.

His brother turned in the seat and peered behind. A black sedan was following a hundred yards back.

“It looks as if it’s trailing us!” Joe said.

Frank slowed down. When the other car did likewise, he speeded up. The trailing sedan kept pace.

“I don’t like this,” General Smith said.

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the Hardys’ engine began to sputter. As Frank guided the vehicle up a gentle hill, the accelerator suddenly failed to respond. He steered to the side of the road, losing speed all the while.

As he did, the sedan suddenly shot forward alongside the Hardy car. In a split second it cut sharply in front of the car. Frank jerked the wheel quickly to the right and jammed on the brakes.

Joe was hurled against the windshield. Chet and the general pitched halfway over the front seat.

The car skidded on the sandy shoulder of the road, its front wheels teetering on the brink of a deep gully!

CHAPTER IV

Spies

“THROW your weight back!”

Frank shouted the warning as the car balanced on the edge of the gully, ready to topple over at any moment. When it had settled precariously on the sandy loam, Chet cried:

“We’re lucky no one was seriously injured!”

“We’re not safe yet,” the general pointed out.

“Climb into the back, Joe,” Frank directed. “Then I’ll try to get out this door.”

With catlike movements, Joe slowly crawled over the back of the seat to sit beside Chet, who was quaking with fear.

“Nice work,” said General Smith, approving Frank’s plan.

The added ballast in the rear made it safe for Frank to open his door.

“Hold everything for a second,” he said. “I’ll get a rope from the trunk compartment.”

He pulled out a sturdy towline and tied one end to the rear bumper and the other to a nearby tree.

“Okay!” he called. “It’s fast.”

With a long whistle of relief, Joe opened the right-hand door and stepped out. Chet and General Smith followed.

“Whew!” said Chet. “Maybe I should have stayed home to take pictures!”

Moments later Frank flagged down a big van on the highway. When he explained the situation, the driver maneuvered his truck into position, Frank and Joe untied the tow rope from the tree and attached it to the rear end of the truck. Then the driver eased the boys’ car to the edge of the highway.

“Guess you’ll be okay now,” he said. “There’s a gas station about a mile up the road.”

They thanked the man, who said he was glad to have been of service. As the truck rumbled off, Frank lifted the hood of the convertible and examined the motor. With Joe helping, he took the carburetor strainer off.

“Water in the gas line,” he announced, noting the telltale cloudy substance.

“Somebody must have put in the water while we were parked at the restaurant!” Joe declared angrily. “And I’ll bet it was one of Bush’s men!”

Frank nodded. “He was probably in the car that was trailing us.”

The general wiped his brow. “Well, boys, I hope we won’t be meeting any more trouble—at least until we reach Centerville.”

The Hardy car sputtered along to the service station. There the watery gasoline was quickly drained, the fuel line cleaned, and new gas put in. The foursome were ready to set off again in less than an hour.

Mile after mile raced beneath the wheels of the convertible as it steadily neared the old battlefield named for the stream Rocky Run. Late in the afternoon they drove through the little town of Centerville. The main street, paved with red brick, was flanked by two rows of huge live oak trees. Behind them, quaint old houses stood in the shade of spreading magnolias.

Farther on, the street led to a square, along which sprawled a handful of stores, a small stately courthouse, and a tall-pillared hotel. A solitary, bewhiskered man sat on the porch of the hostelry, smoking a pipe and rocking.

“Looks mighty sleepy around here,” Chet remarked. “I think I’m going to fit right in with this life!”

“A peaceful old town,” the general replied, smiling. “My place is a quarter mile down the road.”

Frank drove on, and presently the general pointed out a driveway, which cut through a thick hedge of boxwood.

“Here’s headquarters,” the officer said as Frank stopped before a yellow clapboard house with tall, shuttered windows and doors, nestled far back from the road.

“What a swell place!” Chet exclaimed. “I’m going to sit under this big tree and eat and sleep—”

“I thought you were the official photographer on this mission,” General Smith said, his eyes twinkling.

“Correct!” Frank agreed as they carried their luggage into the house. “Hup, two, three, four! Come on, Chet. There’s work to be done.”

The general’s home consisted of a long living room, dining room, library, a kitchen, and three big bedrooms on the second floor. General Smith ushered the boys into the largest of the bedrooms.

“You Hardys will bunk here,” he said. “Chet can have the next room.”

“Pretty fancy bunks,” Frank remarked, eying the two mahogany four-poster beds and the silk hangings at the windows.

“When do we shove off on the offensive?” Joe asked.

“Not until tomorrow morning,” the officer replied. “I’d like you boys to get acquainted with Centerville first.”

“What I want to know,” Chet piped up, “is when chow is!”

“Follow me.” The general led the way downstairs and into the kitchen. He opened the door of a shiny white refrigerator. The shelves were laden with food.

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “How did this happen?”

“Centerville’s grocer has a key to my house,” the general explained. “I sent Mr. Oakes a wire instructing him to provide for four hungry fellows.”

The boys set to work preparing the evening meal. When they finished eating, General Smith suggested they set off for a tour of the town.

Evening was casting long shadows on the square when they arrived in Centerville. The general pointed out several large houses which dated from the Revolution, then stopped to talk with two men lounging on the hotel steps. When he returned to the boys in the car, he looked troubled.

“My friend Jeb over there says he’s seen some strangers roaming around town,” the officer began as they drove off. “Maybe Bush. I don’t like it. Few tourists visit town this early in the summer.”

When they returned to the house, General Smith and the boys discussed plans for the following day.

“It seems to me,” Frank said, “that the best way to try locating the missing bandoleer would be to reconstruct the movements of the spy Bingham.”

“Good idea,” the general agreed. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the farmhouse where my great-grandfather had his headquarters. The main part is still intact; it lies just off the battlefield.”

“Is anybody living there?” Joe asked.

“No. It’s now a county museum with an old Negro caretaker.”

Joe, yawning, said he was going to try out the four-poster bed so he could be fresh in the morning. The rest followed him upstairs.

The next morning after breakfast the general, his two young detectives, and their “photographer” drove to Rocky Run. Low, undulating hills spread before them as they approached the battlefield.

“It wasn’t as still and peaceful as this in 1863,” General Smith remarked, surveying the fields and woodlands. “Well, there’s Great-grandfather’s headquarters.”

Frank drove up to the old building and let the motor idle. What remained of the one-story farmhouse was in fair condition, with wisteria vines blotting out parts of the red brick. Off to the left stood two stone pillars, which apparently had supported a porch. On the right could be seen the crumbling remains of a side wing. Two windows stood bleakly on either side of a large door which bore a metal sign Rocky Run Museum.

“We’ll park here,” the general said. “Now, figuring that the spy Bingham left this spot with the bandoleer, which way would he go?”

While Frank and Joe pondered the question, Chet said, “Mind if I get out and walk around?”

“Go ahead,” Frank said. “Maybe you’d like a few pictures of the old place.”

Chet’s thoughts, however, were not entirely on photography. The movements of the spy Bingham intrigued him. This was one Hardy mystery which really had fired his imagination.

The boy circled the museum, then started to climb a little hill toward a clump of trees at the top.

“I bet Bingham went right up here to get a better view of the battle,” he said to himself. He continued to walk around, looking out across the hills.

Suddenly Chet had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being spied upon. He stood still a minute, and heard a rustle in a thicket far off to one side.

Chet’s heart thumped. It could be some kind of animal—or a person scouting their every movement. The stout boy considered the alternatives. He could race down the hill to report his suspicion to Frank and Joe. Or he could carry on by himself and turn the tables on the lurking enemy. Chet chose the latter. He’d try to snap the picture of the hidden foe!

He listened again, but all was still. As silently as possible, he unlimbered his camera, attached the telescopic lens, and cautiously approached the bushes.

At first the boy saw nothing. Then, through his telescopic view finder, he saw the blurred image of a man. Chet slowly retreated a few paces to avoid being seen as he adjusted the focus. The next moment he heard a stir in the brush and the figure fled.

At the same time, Chet, still retreating, stepped back into space and disappeared!

CHAPTER V

Retracing History

“HELP!” Chet shouted, flinging out both arms as he felt himself falling.

Frank, Joe, and the general, still mapping their strategy in front of the old headquarters, heard the cry from the knoll.

“Chet’s in trouble!” Frank yelled, and started running.

The others kept close behind him and arrived on the scene almost at the same moment. There was not a sound.

“Chet! Chet! Where are you?” Frank called.

When there was no answer, the Hardys became alarmed. The general walked toward the edge of the woods. In a moment he called: “Here he is!”

The officer dropped to his knees beside a deep hole, the opening of which was nearly concealed by a growth of low bushes and grass.

“I’ve got one of his legs. Give me a hand with the other, boys.”

Frank leaned far over and grasped the other leg. Together he and the general pulled Chet to a sprawling position on the level ground.

“Wh-what hit me?” Chet spluttered, still a bit dazed.

“Nothing hit you,” General Smith replied. “You fell into a dry well.”

As Chet rubbed his head ruefully, he told them he had tumbled while trying to get a picture of the fleeing figure.

“Where’d he go?” Joe asked excitedly.

“That way.” Chet pointed to the right. “He—Hey! Where’s my camera?”

Frantically Chet began combing the brush. The others joined him in the search. Minutes later, Chet shouted with relief.

“Here it is!” he cried, lifting the mechanism out of a patch of soft grass. “And not a scratch on it!”

“What about the man you saw?” Joe persisted. “Are you sure you saw one?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Chet replied, ruffled by the implication.

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“I didn’t get a good focus on him.”

“And he’s far away by this time,” Joe said ruefully.

Frank and the general pulled Chet to level ground

As the group started back to the farmhouse, Frank noticed Chet was limping a little and asked if he wanted to go back to the general’s house.

“I’ll be okay,” the boy answered. “I wonder where that spy Bingham went. What do you fellows think?”

Frank and Joe shrugged. “I’d like to hear the story of the battle first,” Frank said. “General Smith, will you explain just where the troops were stationed?”

The officer turned to a hill beyond the one from which they had come, and with a sweep of his arm, said, “That ridge was held by the Northern troops. They had three lines of riflemen, backed by a strong force of artillery.”

“They pushed down the hill and captured your great-grandfather’s headquarters?” Joe surmised.

“Not exactly. It was in sort of a no man’s land. The Southern troops were in this valley when the attack began. They retreated to that ridge over there.” He pointed to another hill a mile away which was higher and steeper than the one the Federals had held.

“If Bingham got into your great-grandfather’s headquarters,” Joe continued, “all he’d have had to do would have been to hide until the battle was over.”

“It wasn’t as easy as that,” the general said, smiling at Joe. “Great-grandfather had a force of cavalry in reserve. They counterattacked on the left flank and cut a wedge into the opposing forces.”

“So Bingham was checked from going straight back to his own lines,” Frank mused.

“It seems to me he wouldn’t have had a chance to get through that line of cavalry,” the officer agreed.

“Then Bingham would have had to go around the cavalry and along the Rocky Run,” Frank reasoned, “until he could contact his own forces again.”

“That’s good thinking, Frank,” the general said. “If he did go along the Rocky Run, he probably ran into more trouble, because artillery, which was rushed to my great-grandfather’s aid, opened up from the opposite ridge. From all accounts, it was a terrific onslaught.”

“He might not have come out of it alive,” Joe commented. “But if he did, I think he’d have gone in the direction Frank indicated.”

“True enough,” the general stated.

“Then let’s follow that trail!” Joe exclaimed.

“Remember one thing,” General Smith said. “A good soldier makes the most of natural cover. Bingham would have made his way behind trees, boulders, along depressions in the ground, and behind slight rises to afford protection from the artillery. Well, let’s start!”

“Gosh,” Chet said, “I never thought of that. I think I’d go in a beeline just as fast as I could!”

“What a target you’d be!” Joe teased as they started on the trail which Bingham might have taken. Frank led the way, and the general nodded approvingly as the boy picked a route which provided the least exposure to cannon which years before had thundered from the ridge across the valley.

“You’re a natural-born soldier, Frank,” the officer said, smiling.

The trek was hot and arduous. Finally they came to the bank of Rocky Run.

“I think Bingham would have followed the stream here,” Frank observed.

“Right,” the general agreed. “He’d have tried to put the water between him and that daredevil cavalry.”

“Hey!” Chet shouted suddenly. “There’s a bridge Bingham could have hidden under!”

They came in sight of a span which carried the main highway over the Rocky Run.

“Only that’s a concrete bridge,” Joe countered. “It must have been built long after the Civil War.”

By this time the four were within a stone’s throw of the span. Suddenly a black sedan whizzed over it, the driver glancing down in surprise at the three boys and the officer. The car brakes jammed on, bringing it to a screeching halt out of sight of the searchers.

“That looked like the same sedan that tried to wreck our car!” Frank cried. “I’m going after it!”

He made his way up the side of a steep embankment to the edge of the bridge. Just as he spotted the back of the driver’s head, the car’s wheels spun and the automobile streaked down the highway with a roar. The license plate on the back of the car was still covered with mud, hiding the numbers.

“Where do you suppose he was going?” Joe asked as he and the others reached the top of the embankment.

“The road comes to a fork up there a way,” General Smith said, pointing. “One branch runs past the Beauregard Smith plantation.”

Frank whistled. “I’ll bet Bush was in that car, and is on his way to the plantation!”

“Let’s hurry there!” Joe exclaimed.

“It’s quite a walk from here,” the officer warned. “And a long hike back to our car.”

“One of us can go for the car,” Joe said.

“Let me,” Chet offered.

Frank gave him the keys. “If we don’t get to the plantation before you do, pick us up on the highway.”

Frank, Joe, and the general set off down the road toward the plantation. When they came to the fork, they took the left one and were halfway to the Civil War farm of the Smith family when a horn blew behind them. The Hardy convertible rolled to a halt and the hikers got in.

“I thought you were lost,” Joe remarked as they drove on. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Chet replied. “I just stopped at that little store along the highway. Here. Have some candy.”

He thrust a bar into the hands of Frank and Joe, then turned to the officer.

“Will you have some, sir?” Chet asked self-consciously.

“Thank you. I’d like it.”

Chet grinned. “I didn’t know whether generals ate candy bars or not.”

“I guess all men have a sweet tooth,” the officer said, smiling. “Besides, soldiers eat chocolate before combat to get extra energy.”

Chet looked askance at the general. “I prefer to eat my candy in peace and quiet.”

Frank winked at Joe. “You may need some for battle right now, Chet. Never can tell what may happen if we run into Dr. Bush at the plantation.”

At General Smith’s directions, Chet presently eased the car off the highway and onto a rutted trail overgrown with weeds. There was no sign of the black sedan or any evidence that a car had recently entered the lane.

“This was a fine place once,” the general said. “Those boxwoods over there are all that’s left of a wonderful garden which stretched from the road to the mansion. My father had pictures of the old place.”

At the general’s suggestion, Chet stopped the car alongside a low, crumbling wall.

“Look over there,” the man continued, extending his arm in a gesture toward a cluster of large oak trees which seemed to form a military phalanx. “That’s where the big white house stood.”

The ruins of the old mansion were scarcely visible through the tall grass and brush, which acted as the scar tissue of time to cover the wounds left by the war. The four got out of the car and pushed through the weeds toward the area.

The officer stopped and held his two hands parallel in front of him. “The steps to the front portico were right here. They led into the beautiful center hall of one of the most picturesque homes in the whole South.

“And look what’s left now—nothing,” General Smith remarked sadly. “Nothing but ghostly memories.”

“And a cache full of gold somewhere around here,” Frank reminded him, turning his thoughts to the work at hand. “General Smith, was the cellar of this place ever searched?”

The officer looked intently at the mass of overgrown rubble before them and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “It’s been searched at one time or another by three generations.”

“And they found nothing?”

“Not a thing. That’s why somebody has been digging elsewhere on the plantation trying to find the gold.”

The four walked around in silence for several minutes.

“I think the first thing we should do is investigate the old farmhouse headquarters that’s now the museum,” Frank said at last. “We might find a battlefield relic that would provide a clue. Maybe Bingham even hid the bandoleer some place in the old building, and it hasn’t been found yet!”

“Good logic,” General Smith agreed after a pause. “I can see you’re a better detective than I am.”

Joe grinned. “You can’t live with Dad all your life without learning something about sleuthing.”

“Let’s go to the museum immediately,” Frank continued. Then, seeing a distressed look on Chet’s face, he added, “I mean after lunch.”

They made their way back to the car and drove to Centerville, past green fields of tobacco which bordered either side of the road.

“I think you boys can do your checking without me,” the officer decided when lunch at his house was over. “I have a little business to attend to in town.”

Chet, who was sleepy from having overeaten, would have liked to take a nap, but the boys urged him to accompany them. Half an hour later they druve up to the museum. Frank parked and they entered the front door of the erstwhile farmhouse headquarters.

“Just think,” said Joe in awe, “once old General Smith and his staff walked through this door just as we’re doing.”

Inside the doorway the boys were met by an old Negro wearing a gray uniform similar to the Civil War uniform of the Confederate Army. He had a kindly, wrinkled face and a fringe of snow-white hair.

“Welcome to our little museum of the Battle of Rocky Run,” he said pleasantly.

Frank noticed a sign stating that the museum was run by the County Historical Society and that a small admission was asked. He paid for the three of them.

“We’d like to look over the relics,” Joe said eagerly.

“Help yourself,” the old man said with a flourish of his hand as he sat down again. “This house is full of things they dug up from the battlefield.”

The boys stood for a moment taking in their surroundings. Pictures of famous battle scenes and historic plantations covered three walls, while a huge fireplace with its carved mantel occupied most of the remaining wall.

Frank walked to one of the exhibits. “Look at these pistols,” he said, bending over a table to examine a collection of many shapes and sizes.

“Here’s something that’ll interest you,” Joe said to Chet. “Some Civil War photographs.”

The boys turned their attention to the wall, where half a dozen rare old pictures showed a local encampment just before the Battle of Rocky Run.

“Don’t forget we’re looking for a clue to the old bandoleer,” Frank remarked.

“You’ll not find a clue here!”

The words boomed from behind the boys. They whirled around to face the speaker, who had appeared as if out of nowhere.

He was a tall, thin man whose long, sharp nose was accentuated by a broad black mustache and flowing black hair. Dressed in the costume of a plantation owner of the Civil War period, the man looked as if he had stepped out of one of the museum pictures.

“I’m Professor Randolph,” he stated with a deep voice, “and why are you boys trespassing on my property?”

“We understood this was a museum, Professor, open to the public,” Frank explained.

The man raised his eyebrows and with a half-smile said, “It was a museum until I bought it. You see, I’m a doctor of philosophy. I’m writing a book on the history of the Civil War so I bought the museum—to catch the spirit of the thing, you understand.”

“We don’t understand!” Joe countered. “That old fellow over there ...” The boy turned. The chair by the doorway was empty.

“What fellow?” Professor Randolph asked.

Chet’s eyes popped. He edged toward the door as the Hardys protested leaving so soon.

“You haven’t any right on private property!” roared the man suddenly. “Get out!”

CHAPTER VI

A Peculiar Professor

FRANK and Joe exchanged glances. Perhaps Professor Randolph really had bought the museum!

“I think we’d better play safe and leave,” Frank whispered to his brother. “If he’s the owner, we’re breaking the law by trespassing.”

“So gratifying to see you agree with me.” The man smirked as the boys walked out. “You realize the cause of education must be served!” He bowed stiffly.

“What a character!” Frank remarked as the three boys stepped into their car. “He reminds me of a comic-strip villain.”

Chet bobbed his head to mimic a bow. “To be sure, my dear boys. It’s all for education. What do you suppose he teaches?”

Joe grinned. “Young boys, and knows how to put them in their places.”

“Perhaps General Smith is acquainted with Professor Randolph,” Frank suggested as they drove through Centerville. “If they’re friends, then Randolph will let us in after all.”

Soon they reached the house. When the boys entered, they realized the general was battling with a problem of his own. He seemed decidedly agitated and was pacing up and down the living room, his red hair rumpled.

Frank was alarmed. What dire turn of events had occurred? “General Smith, what’s the matter?” he asked.

Aroused from his thoughts, the man turned with a start. “Matter? Everything! The house has been ransacked!”

“Good night!” Joe exclaimed. “Since we ate lunch?”

“It must have happened before then,” the officer replied. “Nothing downstairs was touched. Just the second-floor bedrooms!”

“None of us went up there at noontime,” Frank recalled. “Was anything taken?”

“Nothing of mine so far as I can make out,” the officer replied. “The things in our suitcases and dresser drawers were strewn about. You’d better check on your own belongings!”

Frank and Joe ran up the stairs three at a time, and Chet was not far behind. They found their room a picture of disarray. Clothes which had hung in the closet lay on the floor and the contents of their bags were scattered over the rug.

“Gosh,” Chet moaned as he began to pick up his things, “I hope they didn’t take it.”

“Take what?” Joe was curious.

“I had a box of special attachments for my camera in this... Oh, here it is!”

The Hardys went on checking their belongings minutely while General Smith watched.

“All my stuff is here,” Joe said finally.

“Mine too,” Frank added, rising from his kneeling position. Then he let out a sudden exclamation. “Wait! The picture is gone!”

“Picture?” the officer repeated.

“The half-man that Chet snapped in Bayport.”

“That proves it!” Joe shouted. “Bush or a cohort has been here! Nobody else would want that photo.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “But I don’t think that’s what he was after. He probably didn’t even realize that Chet had taken the snapshot.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Chet piped up. “I have the negative, and I even brought another print in my wallet.”

“That’s good,” Frank continued. “But I’ll bet Bush was after a map showing where the lost gold was buried.”

“But we haven’t any map,” Chet replied, perplexed.

“Bush probably thinks we have,” Joe said. “Which indicates he still doesn’t know where to look for the treasure.”

By the time the boys had straightened up the place, General Smith had regained his composure.

“We must get someone to guard this house when we’re away,” he said. “I know just the man for the job, if he’s still in town. I’ll send a note to Claude.”

General Smith explained to his visitors that Claude was his Army orderly and was on vacation at his home in Centerville, too. The officer requested the boys to deliver the note, as he did not want to leave the house unoccupied. He suggested they continue their sleuthing alone.

Before going, Frank asked General Smith if he knew Professor Randolph, and told him about the incident at the museum.

“No, never heard of him,” the general replied. “But it doesn’t surprise me that the museum’s been sold. It always ran at a loss.”

Upon reaching Centerville, Frank parked in the town square. Joe offered to deliver the general’s note and started down the narrow, cobble-stoned street where the orderly lived. As the others waited for him, Frank gazed across the square. His eyes lighted on the courthouse and an idea occurred to him. If Professor Randolph had bought the museum, the deed would be registered there.

“Wait here a minute,” he said to Chet. “I’ll be right back.”

The courthouse was a low brick building that looked like a church without a steeple. Two heavy white columns stood on either side of the front doorway. Frank entered and asked an attendant where deeds were registered. He was directed to an office down the hall. In it was an old man, beside whose desk towered row upon row of thick volumes of records.

“Something I can do for you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “I’ve been told the old Rocky Run Museum has been sold to a Professor Randolph.”

“Hm!” said the man, peering over his spectacles. “That’s news to me. Nothing of the sort has been registered here.”

“Maybe the deed was recorded while you were out,” Frank suggested.

The man hooked his thumbs into his suspenders and tilted back in his chair.

“Son,” he said, “I’ve been settin’ here for forty years, ’cept for lunch, and when I’m out this office is closed.”

Frank smiled, thanked the man, and walked back to the car. “I had a hunch Professor Randolph’s story was a fake,” he told Chet and his brother, who had returned from the orderly’s house.

“Well,” Chet said, “if Randolph is still there, I think that old museum is a good place to stay away from.”

“I should say not!” Frank’s jaw jutted with determination. “We’re going right back and tell Randolph the place isn’t his.”

“Agreed,” said Joe. “And we’re going to find out if Randolph has anything to do with our case.”

“Say, fellows,” Frank whispered, “I think somebody’s been watching us.” He glanced in the direction of the hotel.

“Who?” Chet asked.

“I didn’t see enough to identify him, but I saw a man slip into the alley alongside the building.”

Joe looked across the square. Nobody was in sight.

“I don’t like this,” Frank said uneasily. “I think maybe we had better try a back route to the museum.”

“A good idea,” Joe agreed. “If anybody’s following us, we may throw him off the track this time. Let’s go!”

A sandy road led the boys off the main highway and through a stretch of woodland. The trees interlaced high overhead, making a canopy which filtered out the afternoon sun.

“We’re not going to get there in a hurry,” Joe said. “This road’s too bumpy.”

Frank deftly steered the car along the rutty road, avoiding large rocks which now and then jutted from the side. They drove down a little gully, then up a steep slope.

“Hey, wait!” Chet shouted suddenly.

“What’s up?” Joe asked.

“Look at those deer! I want to get a picture!”

A hundred yards to the left near a brook in the woods stood three deer.

“Okay,” Frank said, bringing the car to a halt. “But make it snappy.”

Chet climbed out. He flipped open his camera case, then tiptoed into the woods. The deer, being downwind, did not scent the boys. They went on feeding.

“Take them from there,” Joe called softly.

“Can’t—I have to get closer.”

Chet walked a dozen paces, peered into his view finder, and advanced a few more feet.

In the stillness Frank thought he heard the sound of a motor behind them. He looked back. No car was in sight, and the hum stopped.

“Guess I’m jittery,” he told himself.

“Hurry up!” Joe motioned to Chet.

But Chet, thinking he could get an even closer shot, continued to advance, tiptoeing as he went. He dropped down on one knee, holding the camera close to his eye. The deer were in perfect range.

But before Chet could click the shutter, a startled shout broke the stillness of the woodland. In a flash the deer leaped away.

Chet whirled about to see who had spoiled his picture. No one was in sight. In sudden panic he raced back to the road.

“Frank! Joe!” he shouted. “Hey, fellows, where are you?”

No answer came. The car was deserted!

CHAPTER VII

The Search

CHET peered into the car, then stooped to his knees to look underneath it. The Hardys had apparently vanished into thin air!

“Hey, Frank! Joe!” Chet shouted in alarm. Beads of perspiration began to trickle down his freckled face. Again he shouted for his companions. The air was still.

After half an hour of futile waiting and calling for the brothers, Chet was thoroughly alarmed.

He got into the car, turned it around, and started back to Centerville as fast as the rugged road would permit. Finally it joined the main highway and Chet sped through Centerville to the general’s house.

“Frank and Joe—they’re gone!” he cried out, running into the house.

As Chet related his story, a look of growing concern appeared on the general’s face.

“They wouldn’t go off without telling me,” Chet said breathlessly. “Something’s happened to them!”

The general had no doubt of this. “There’s not a minute to lose. If we can’t locate them ourselves, I’ll notify the police.”

They got into the car. With General Smith behind the wheel, they pulled away from the house and onto the main highway.

Soon they came to the intersection where the boys had left the highway. The officer took the bumpy road which led into the woods.

“Where does this go?” Chet asked.

“It stays straight for a mile, then makes a complete loop and comes out near the old Beauregard Smith plantation.”

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Chet exclaimed. “Then we were going in the wrong direction for the museum anyway!”

It was not long before the convertible dipped into the gully and rose over the brow of the hill where Frank had stopped for Chet’s attempted photo of the deer.

“Here’s the place!” Chet said.

Braking to a halt and shutting off the motor, General Smith stepped out. Chet followed.

“There must have been a struggle here,” the officer said, examining scuff marks in front of a dense thicket.

“The trail leads this way.” Chet pointed to dragging heel marks. “Frank and Joe must have been kidnapped!”

With Chet following, the general pushed into the underbrush and advanced into the dank woodland. Ferns and tiny white wild flowers which carpeted the forest had been trampled. The route was clear, and the officer was making swift progress.

The man pressed on relentlessly, unmindful of the briers that tore his trousers, and seemingly unaware that Chet was puffing along behind him like a heavy tank.

But dusk was falling rapidly, and soon the gloom was so dense that further progress was impossible without a light.

“What a dud I am!” the general exclaimed. “Coming off like this without a flashlight!”

Chet, more eager than ever to find his friends, volunteered to return to the convertible for a flashlight. A short time later, perspiring heavily, he was back with the light.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Good work.”

They set off again, this time at a snail’s pace, in order not to miss any telltale heel marks made by one of the kidnapped boys. An hour passed as they continued combing through brush.

“I haven’t seen any tracks for a hundred yards,” said the general, stopping to take stock of the situation.

“Do you suppose the kidnappers went down the stream?” Chet asked.

“Very possibly. They may have waded a distance to throw us off their trail.”

The searchers combed the pasture grass to the edge of the stream, but not a clue came to light. Discouraged, and completely tired out after the long search, both lay down to rest. To add to their discomfort, it began to rain. The rain came down so hard that they crossed the stream and took shelter under some overhanging rocks.

The rain continued all night as Chet and the general slept fitfully on improvised beds of leaves. A faint streak of light had brushed the eastern horizon before the torrent stopped. Now the hunt could be resumed in daylight.

The man and boy rose wearily and stretched their cramped limbs.

“I sure could use some breakfast!” Chet muttered sadly.

“Or a dry, comfortable bed!” the general added ruefully. “But we’d better get moving if we’re going to find Frank and Joe.”

“I hope the kidnappers haven’t taken them far. I’ll look on this side of Rocky Run for footprints,” Chet offered.

“Very good,” General Smith agreed. “The boys may have crossed somewhere.”

Chet zigzagged along the bank.

“See anything?” called the officer, who was searching in the opposite direction.

Chet shook his head in the negative, then suddenly let out a whoop. He held up a shoe!

General Smith hurried to the boy’s side.

Impressed into the lining were the words Peck Co. Bayport.

“Nice work! Come on!”

Once more they probed the grass.

“Here’s the trail again,” said the general, following patches of recently broken vegetation over the hill.

“Golly, what a climb!” Chet puffed.

Grasping scrubby trees on the hillside, the man and boy worked their way to the top of the incline. The bare rocks there revealed no clue of recent travelers, nor had the mossy slope down the other side been disturbed lately by any human foot.

Slipping over the steep rocks, Chet and the general descended the hill again to the spot where the shoe had been found.

They moved ahead slowly, examining every bent tuft of grass. Suddenly Chet stopped.

“Come here, General Smith!” he called excitedly.

“What’s up?”

Chet did not answer. He stood spellbound.

“Listen!”

The officer obeyed. At first he could hear only the ripple of the brook and the clear whistle of an oriole.

“Nothing unusual.”

“Shh! It may come again.”

The general strained to catch the faintest sound.

Then it came to him. A muffled shout from somewhere down inside the earth!

CHAPTER VIII

An Important Lead

“SOMEBODY’S under these rocks,” Chet shouted. He rushed forward, his hands pulling at the vines which blanketed several boulders. “General Smith, look what’s here!”

By the time the officer arrived at the boy’s side, Chet had uncovered an old wooden door fitted into the face of a big rock. Its rusted hinges were fastened to the boulder with long iron spikes. A rotting leather thong served as a doorknob.

“Frank! Joe!” The general leaned close to the door and shouted. There was a muffled answer.

“We’ll get you out!” Chet called.

He took hold of the leather thong, which broke at his pull. “We’ll have to pry the door open,” he said.

“Let me get hold of it,” General Smith offered.

The husky man picked up a sharp stone and banged out an old knot in the wood, making room for two of his fingers. With a mighty grunt he pulled on the door. It creaked, then suddenly yawned open.

A whiff of stagnant air, redolent of rotting wood and sour earth, burst forth. Chet and the general peered inside the dark hole.

The sound of stifled voices came from the rear of the cave. The general pulled out the flashlight and clicked it on. The glow fell on two figures, lying on the dank ground. They were tied and gagged.

“Frank!” Chet shouted. “Joe!”

Quickly he and the officer removed the gags from the boys’ mouths and unfastened their bindings.

“Oh-h!” Joe said, rising and stretching his cramped legs. “We thought you’d never find us.”

Frank rubbed his arms briskly to restore the circulation. “Gosh, are we glad to see you!”

“What happened?” General Smith asked, as soon as he was assured that the Hardys had not been injured.

“While Joe and I were waiting for Chet to get a picture of the deer,” Frank said, “three men jumped us. We were gagged and blindfolded. They must have followed us from Centerville.”

“Who were they?” Chet asked.

“Couldn’t tell,” Joe replied. “They wore masks. But listen to this. One of them was called Junior!”

“Probably very young,” General Smith cried out. “Could be one of the men who tried to kidnap me from your house!”

“I’m sure this was the same person,” Frank said.

“And I didn’t see a thing happen!” Chet moaned.

“Go on with your story,” urged the officer. “This must be reported—kidnapping is a Federal offense.”

“They marched us through the woods,” Joe explained. “Since our hands were tied, we couldn’t drop anything to leave a trail for you to find.”

“So you did the next best thing,” remarked the general. “You made marks with your feet.”

Joe smiled. “That was Frank’s idea. Every once in a while he’d drag one of his feet as if he were stumbling.”

“Good headwork!” the general said admiringly. “It’s lucky Chet decided to look on the other side of the brook. That’s where he found the shoe.”

Joe explained that the lace had become loose as he stumbled along, and the shoe had fallen off.

“A break for you!” General Smith exclaimed. “Your shoe led us to this place. Here, put it on.”

As Joe tied the lace, Chet asked, “What kind of place is this? Feels like a tomb.”

“It’s an old smokehouse,” Frank replied. “Guess it hasn’t been used for years.” He shuddered. “Let’s get out in the sun so we can dry out.”

The clear, warm air of the early morning sent a glow through Frank and Joe as they made their way back to the car and rode to the general’s home. There the front door was opened by a middle-aged Negro, beaming broadly. His courteous welcome reminded the boys of the gentle traditions of the Old South.

“Good morning, General.”

“Right on the job, Claude. I knew I could depend on you.”

After introducing his three guests, the general ordered breakfast. This gave the boys time for a couple of phone calls.

Frank got in touch with the local police chief, told him about the kidnapping, and asked if there was any criminal known locally as Junior. The chief searched his files and reported that to his knowledge there was not. He added that he would send out a bulletin on the kidnappers.

Next, Frank called Bayport. A few seconds later Aunt Gertrude answered. When Frank asked for his father, his aunt said he had not returned yet from Washington. Then she added apprehensively:

“Something serious must be happening, Frank, or you wouldn’t be calling home.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “We’ve run into a character named Junior. I thought Dad could check his files for a criminal by that name.”

“Junior!” The detective’s sister grasped the import at once. “One of the men who tried to break into our house! He’s chasing you down South?”

“He was, Auntie. Now we’re chasing him.”

“Well, look out for him! He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I’ll tell your father about Junior. You’re running up a big telephone bill. Good-by.”

Grinning, Frank hung up when he heard a click on the other end of the line.

Presently Claude announced, “Breakfast is served!”

With those welcome words, the boys and the general sat down to an old-fashioned Southern repast. Chet’s face was aglow as Claude served chilled cantaloupe, followed by crisp-fringed pancakes and broiled ham. Then he brought in a platter of fried eggs, a dish of raspberry jam, and piping hot muffins.

Letting his belt out a notch, Chet asked, “General, does everybody eat like this in the South?”

“They used to,” the officer replied, smiling. “Most people are in too much of a hurry today to enjoy the art of good cooking.”

“Not me!” Chet decorated another muffin with a daub of jam. “The South’s a wonderful place, General.”

“Now let’s go back to the museum,” Joe said when they finished eating.

“We’ve already paid our admission without a chance to look around,” Chet put in. “We ought to get in free today!”

General Smith, anxious to get to the police station to talk to the chief about the boys’ kidnapping, promised to join them after their visit to the museum.

A short time later the Hardys and Chet arrived at the old farmhouse. When they walked through the front door, a new guard greeted them. In the friendly old Negro’s place sat a stout man, whose red face was particularly striking because of a scar that ran from the side of his mouth like an extra-wide smile.

He apparently was wearing the same gray suit, because the front gaped open where the buttons were struggling to hold the jacket together.

“What do you kids want?” the man asked gruffly.

“We’ve come to look at the exhibits,” Frank replied.

“The museum’s closed.”

“No, it’s not!” Joe shot back. “Where’d that old man go?”

“The professor will tell you!” growled the man. “Professor!”

Randolph suddenly appeared from behind a glass display case. “Back again, eh?”

“We’re going to finish the tour you interrupted yesterday,” Frank stated firmly.

“I repeat,” the professor intoned, his voice rising in a crescendo, “this place now belongs to me!”

“There’s no deed recorded in your name at the courthouse!” Frank said evenly.

The man winced, then he said with a curl to his lips, “They haven’t had time to file one yet. I bought the place only yesterday.” Suddenly he became more friendly. “Well, Smi—” He caught himself as he looked at the guard, “I guess we can let ’em look around. But this is the last time, boys.

“Keep an eye on things,” he told his man, “till I get the deed recorded.” With that, he stalked out the front door.

Frank, Joe, and Chet browsed around the museum. A case full of old sabers intrigued Joe, who examined the ornate handles and noted the keen edges of the blades.

“Hey, look! An old mess kit,” Chet exclaimed.

“Always thinking about food,” Frank quipped, stepping over to see the odd collection of utensils. “Hey, what are you chewing on now?”

“Gum. Want a piece?”

“No thanks.”

Joe picked up a battered pewter pan. “This looks as if it had been creased by a bullet.”

“Here’s an old canteen,” Frank observed.

He held the metal water bottle in his hand, turning it over and over. Its cloth covering had long since rotted off, but the two rings remained where a strap once had held it over a trooper’s shoulder.

Frank unscrewed the top and peered inside. “There’s something in the bottom of this,” he whispered to Joe.

His brother put an eye to the small opening. “You’re right. Looks like a bit of paper.” Joe turned the canteen over and shook it vigorously, but failed to dislodge the paper.

“Wait a sec. I’ve got an idea,” Frank said. “Chet, lend me your chewing gum.”

“But it’s unsanitary. I’ll give—”

“Hand it over!” Chet obeyed as Frank pulled a pencil from his pocket. He pressed the sticky gum to the end of the yellow stick, inserted it in the canteen, and made contact with the paper. Out it came!

“You’re a genius, Frank,” Chet said admiringly.

Just then the museum guard leaned far back in his creaking chair. Frank caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“He’s trying to watch us,” the boy warned. “Let’s go over to the other side of the room.”

Frank put the old canteen down where he had found it and walked to the front of the fireplace, Joe and Chet following. Then, very carefully, Frank opened the paper.

As the boys waited intently, Frank’s eyes almost popped. “Listen to this!” In guarded tones he read aloud the short message:

“ ‘Dying. Can’t make it back. Got General Smith’s bandoleer. May be war secret. Hid it in Pleasanton’s Bridge when chase hot.

Bing’ ”

Joe gave a low whistle. “This must have been written by Charles Bingham, the spy suspected of stealing the bandoleer!”

Frank quickly folded the note.

“Let’s go find that bridge!”

CHAPTER IX

A Trap

THE boys decided to take the Civil War message to General Smith. Frank tucked it into his wallet, and made for the door. As he, Joe, and Chet left, the guard called after them in a gravelly voice:

“Remind yourselves not to come back!”

The boys paid no attention. After waiting a moment for Chet to snap a picture of the historical building in which the important clue had been found, Frank drove toward Centerville. Stopping in front of a service station, he asked for gas and requested directions to Pleasanton’s Bridge.

“Pleasanton’s Bridge? Never heard of it,” replied the attendant.

“It’s in the vicinity of Rocky Run,” Frank said, “or at least it ought to be.”

“I’ve lived here a long time,” declared the man as he wiped the windshield, “but I sure never heard of a Pleasanton’s Bridge.”

“More bad luck,” Joe remarked as they drove off. “Now that we’ve found a good clue, we can’t locate the bridge.”

The boys’ next call was at Centerville’s one-room library. Frank asked the pleasant, gray-haired librarian for a book on local Civil War history.

“Thanks very much,” Frank said, taking several books which the woman suggested. “Perhaps you can help us find what we’re looking for.”

When he told of their quest for Pleasanton’s Bridge, the librarian took off her spectacles and frowned in deep thought.

“A Captain Pleasanton was in the Battle of Rocky Run,” she stated. “But I’ve never heard of a bridge by that name.”

Sitting down with the boys, she helped them scan the books, in a vain search for the mysterious bridge. When their perusal proved to be of no avail, Frank thanked the woman for her help.

Chet smiled wryly as the boys left the library. “Well, fellows, I guess the mystery of the lost gold ends right here,” he sighed. “There’s not much we can do now.”

Frank set his jaw and snapped his fingers. “Wait! I have it!”

“What?” Chet asked as he and Joe followed Frank at a brisk jog across the square.

Frank headed for the courthouse. Joe kept pace, but their stout friend lagged behind, his eye on a luncheonette and candy store.

The Hardys went straight to the old man who registered deeds. He recognized Frank at once.

“Lookin’ up more deeds?” he asked.

“No,” Frank said with a smile. “I’m looking for a bridge. Pleasanton’s Bridge.”

Frank’s pulse quickened at the registrar’s sudden look of understanding. “Pleasanton’s Bridge! Well, son, I hadn’t heard mention of that in many a year, until just a little while ago.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked apprehensively.

“You’re the second fellow to ask me that question in less than an hour,” the man said. “Y’all playing a game?”

Frank assured him they were not, and asked what the other inquirer looked like.

“He was a tall, dark man. Stranger to me. Didn’t give his name.”

“Did he have a mustache?” Joe asked, suspecting Professor Randolph at once.

“No. Clean-shaven.”

The Hardys were puzzled. Was the stranger Dr. Bush?

“Did you tell the man where the bridge is?” Frank asked, trying hard to conceal his excitement.

The registrar took a deep puff on his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

“Take it easy, son. Nothing to get wrought up about. The bridge isn’t there any more.”

“It’s gone?” Joe asked.

The old man ran his thumbs up and down his suspenders and leaned back in his chair. Then, with measured words, he told them that Pleasanton’s was the military name given a stone and timber bridge over Rocky Run. It was called this because a Captain Pleasanton had been assigned to defend it. A furious battle had raged on either side of the span, and when Pleasanton had found his position untenable, he had destroyed the bridge.

“Then there’s nothing left of it?” Joe asked.

“Wouldn’t say that. The old abutments are still standing,” the man replied, drawing the flame of a match into the bowl of his corncob pipe. “I’ll tell y‘all how to find it. Go south on the county road two miles and turn right till you come to the new bridge over Rocky Run. Pleasanton’s Bridge is ’bout half a mile downstream.”

The boys thanked the old man and hurried out. As they got into their car, Chet arrived with a large bag of sandwiches and three cartons of milk.

“Guess this’ll do for lunch,” he said with a grin.

“More’n that,” Frank said. “Hop in. We’re bound for Pleasanton’s Bridge.”

“You found out where it is?” Chet asked increduously. Then he pointed to a poster on a telegraph pole at the curb. “ ‘Civil War Rifle Shoot on the twenty-third,’ ” the boy read. “That’s tomorrow, fellows. I’d like to see it!”

“Sounds like fun,” Joe agreed.

Frank drove down the highway and turned off where the registrar had told him. He pulled up at the new bridge.

“Say, this is the place where the guy in the black sedan stopped to look at us,” Chet remarked. “Hope he isn’t around here now.”

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Frank promised.

The boys realized it would be necessary to walk from this spot to the site of Pleasanton’s Bridge, since Rocky Run left the road here and meandered through the fields and woods.

Frank drove the car behind a clump of trees. After eating their picnic lunch, the three boys started downstream to find Pleasanton’s Bridge. They followed the faint trace of a long-forgotten trail beside the water.

“This stream must be on the Beauregard Smith plantation,” Joe remarked as they went along.

Warily the three pushed on, searching for a sign of the old bridge. Suddenly at the base of a little rise they came upon a pile of rotted logs.

“An old cabin,” Chet said. “Maybe Pleasanton’s Bridge was a toll bridge, and the bridge tender lived here.”

The boys walked around the perimeter of the ruins. Frank pointed to broken bits of dishes and a crushed rusted kettle buried beneath one of the logs.

“Guess this is all that’s left of the place, and I don’t see any sign of a bridge.”

Suddenly Chet gave a whoop. “Oh boy! A Civil War rifle!”

Some twenty feet ahead lay an antique firing piece, its barrel glinting in the sun. Chet rushed toward it.

But Frank’s sharp warning stayed his friend’s quick motion. “Don’t touch that thing!”

Chet’s hand was barely six inches from the rifle when he pulled it back.

“This may be a trap!” Frank warned. “That weapon’s too shiny to have been here long.”

The older Hardy walked swiftly into the thicket and ripped a twining vine from an old stump. Tying several pieces together, Frank made a long string from the tendrils. Carefully, and without touching the rifle, he tied one end to the stock.

Then Frank motioned Joe and Chet to stand off at some distance behind a tree. When all three boys were concealed, Frank tugged gently on the other end of the vine.

Into the air flew a shower of sparks!

“Good night!” Chet cried. “The rifle’s charged with electricity!”

“This may be a trap!” Frank warned

“I thought there was something phony about it,” Frank said grimly.

He tugged on the vine again. Another arc of sparks flew from the weapon, hissing and crackling.

“I—I think we’d better get out of here fast!” Chet declared, moving back.

Suddenly the sparks stopped. Frank felt a gentle release on the rifle as if it had loosened from something. He pulled the weapon toward him.

“What do you suppose charged it?” Chet wondered, wide-eyed, when the old firing piece finally lay at their feet.

The boys cautiously examined the spot where the weapon had lain. As they probed the grass with sticks, Joe pointed out a long wire.

“This must have been attached to the rifle!” he exclaimed. “Let’s see where it goes!”

Knowing that the wire probably was still charged, the three poked along its course with meticulous care.

Just beyond, the sight that greeted the boys made them shudder. On the other side of the trees was an electric power line. And looped over one of the cables was the wire they were following!

“Bush’s men, or somebody, apparently will stop at nothing!” Frank exclaimed. “That trap was laid with professional skill.”

Standing far back from the wire, he knocked it from the overhead cable with a stick. It hit the ground, rendered harmless to anyone else who might pass by.

“This proves one thing to me,” Frank declared. “Pleasanton’s Bridge must be near here. Come on. Let’s find it!”

Just as Chet and the Hardys started out, a flash of lightning streaked the sky, followed by a deep roll of thunder. In a minute it grew as dark as night. A moment later a torrent of rain whipped the woodland furiously, accompanied by a heavy wind which tore through the treetops. Rocky Run was almost obscured by the downpour.

The boys ducked under some low bushes, hoping the storm would subside. Instead, it grew worse. Lightning traced jagged patterns in the black sky and thunder roared through the hills.

“We’d better go back!” Chet shouted. “It’s not ...”

A blinding flash, coming simultaneously with a terrible ripping sound, interrupted the boy.

“Watch out!”

Joe pitched himself at Chet, bowling him out of the way of the splintered trunk of a tree only an instant before it buried itself in the brush where the boy had been crouching.

“That was too close for comfort!” Chet panted with fright. “Let’s get out of these woods!”

The Hardys needed no urging. With Joe carrying the rifle, the boys quickly made their way through the howling, thrashing storm. They were drenched and water was squishing out of their shoes by the time they reached the car and tumbled onto the seats. Frank quickly started the engine and headed through the teeming rain toward Centerville.

Reaching General Smith’s home, the soaked boys dashed to their rooms for a change of clothes. Upon returning to the first floor, they found their host in the living room. The man was greatly agitated when he heard the story of the electrified trap.

“An attempt to kill you! I’d like to lay my hands on those fiends! Where’s the rifle?”

“On the back seat of the car,” Joe said. “I’ll go out and get it.”

“No, wait till it stops pouring.”

Then the boys related the episode of finding the note in the canteen and showed it to the general. He was astonished.

“This is remarkable!” the officer exclaimed incredulously. “Now we’re ready for the big push! And I’d suggest no time be lost.”

“I think the rifle may prove to be a good clue, too,” Frank declared. He glanced out the window. “It’s stopped raining now. I’ll go get it.”

Side-stepping puddles of water like a football player in broken-field practice, he ran to the garage.

“What’s this?” Frank said, stepping inside. He bent down to examine wet footprints on one side of the car.

“Oh no!” An awful thought flashed through his mind. Frank put his hand on the car door handle. Wet! The boy’s fears were confirmed when he flung the door open.

Inside the house, Joe and the general waited for Frank to return with the gun clue. They heard his racing steps, then saw him dash into the room empty-handed.

“Where’s the rifle?” Joe said.

“It’s gone!”

“Impossible!”

“I tell you, Joe, the rifle’s disappeared!”

CHAPTER X

The Missing Rifle

“I CAN’T believe it!” Joe dashed out to search for himself. Soon it was obvious to all of them—the rifle had disappeared.

“We were followed!” Frank exclaimed. “What chumps we were not to bring it into the house!”

“Somebody must have wanted that gun pretty badly to come out in the storm to get it,” Chet commented when they were in the house again.

“It was probably covered with the culprit’s fingerprints,” Frank mused. “Anyway, there goes a piece of evidence.”

Joe thought a moment. “Maybe someone plans to use it in the shoot tomorrow. We’ll have to do some investigating there.”

“You’re a good marksman, Joe,” Chet spoke up. “Why don’t you enter the contest?”

“With what?” Joe asked.

General Smith got up, walked over to a cabinet, and unlocked it. “Here’s my great-grandfather’s rifle,” he said. “Glad to have you use it, Joe.”

The boy was thrilled and gratefully accepted the offer. That evening, after a sumptuous Southern dinner expertly prepared by Claude, the general schooled the boys in the nomenclature of Civil War firearms and gave Joe pointers on firing.

“These old muzzle loaders,” the officer said, “fired homemade bullets. I have a box of them you can use tomorrow.” He produced the bullets and also a mold in which they were made.

The three boys could hardly wait until the next morning, which dawned bright and dear, an ideal day for a rifle shoot.

Claude served another delicious breakfast, which included hot biscuits and a fluffy omelet. Then, taking the general’s antique rifle, the boys and the officer drove to the site of the marksmanship event. The target range was laid out at the edge of town in a field alongside the highway.

Joe registered with the officials, who examined his weapon and approved it. Then he joined his companions, and all walked up to the firing line. On a table lay the prizes. The one marked first prize took the boys’ eyes. It was the latest model target rifle with a telescopic sight.

Suddenly Joe clutched Frank’s arm. “There’s the stolen rifle!” He pointed to a youth holding an antique firing piece.

The Hardys spoke quietly to the others, doing their best to conceal the excitement they felt.

“This is the time for a showdown!” Joe declared.

“I agree,” the officer assented.

“We’d better confront him right now before the meet begins,” Frank suggested.

With the general following, the boys strode over to where the youth was standing. Joe faced him squarely.

“I believe that’s my rifle you have.”

“Says who?” The youth stared defiantly as a small crowd gathered, sensing a fracas.

“We all say so!” Frank said firmly.

The youth raised the weapon menacingly.

“Prove it!” he cried.

“Put that down!” General Smith snapped.

The officer’s command, plus the added weight of his uniform, caused the young fellow to change his attitude. He lowered the rifle until the stock rested on the ground, then continued his protest.

“I didn’t take nobody’s gun,” he said stoutly. “You can’t prove this is yours.”

Joe realized that he had only a slim claim to the rifle. Since he had found the weapon in the woods, he could present no receipt to show he had purchased it. The boy might be telling the truth. There was the possibility that two firing pieces were identical.

General Smith broke the deadlock. “We’ll look into this later. The shoot mustn’t be delayed.”

At that moment an official sounded the bugle call. The contestants lined up. The shoot began with burst after burst of musketry.

As Frank watched Joe with his shirt open at the neck and his eye cocked over the sight of the Civil War rifle, he mused that his brother could have stepped out of the pages of a history book!

The boy’s finely muscled arms held the weapon firmly and the general observed with pleasure his gentle squeeze of the trigger.

“Atta boy, Joe!” Chet shouted as his friend scored a bull’s-eye.

Joe gave his companions a brief smile, then hurried to reload. The boy handled the firearm like a veteran, blazing away shot after shot.

“Cease fire!”

As one of the judges shouted the command, the riflemen put down their weapons so the targets could be inspected. The four with the highest scores would continue.

Joe turned out to be among the remaining contestants—and so was the youth he had confronted!

“Come on, Joe, beat that guy!” Chet banged a clenched fist into the palm of his hand.

Joe looked toward the general. The officer nodded encouragingly as the meet resumed. Ten shots apiece!

Joe’s rifle spoke with precision as he sent bullet after bullet ripping into the target. Once Joe glanced at the youth standing beside him. His opponent remained calm and expressionless, firing quickly after loading and aiming.

A sudden silence told the onlookers the marksmen had finished. The judges hurried forward to examine the targets.

“Five out of ten!” one of them reported, peering at the first target.

“Seven out of ten!” came the next call.

The official who examined the surly youth’s target announced, “Eight out of ten!”

A judge studied Joe’s target. The man paused a moment and beckoned another official to his side. Together they examined the card carefully. One of them cleared his throat.

“Eight out of ten! Tie score!”

Frank ran up and thumped his brother on the back. “Swell, Joe!”

The boy grinned. “But I didn’t win.” He stepped toward the fellow who had tied the score. “Nice going! Maybe they’ll let us shoot it out.” His rival turned on his heel and walked away.

“Great guy!” Chet muttered sarcastically.

General Smith praised Joe and went on to say that the judges were arranging a shoot-off.

“You’ll get a ten-minute rest,” he relayed. “Sit down here on the grass and relax.”

As Joe stretched out beside his rifle, Frank and Chet wandered off among the spectators.

“Let’s see if we can find Joe’s rival,” Frank suggested. Then he added, “Oh, hi there!”

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” asked the genial old Registrar of Deeds from the courthouse.

“We sure are!” Frank answered. “It’s great fun to watch them shoot these old Civil War weapons.”

“They made some real dandy guns in the old days,” the man mused. “My grandfather manufactured ’em. But I don’t know what’s becomin’ of our local boys,” he added regretfully.

“What do you mean?”

The old man took a couple of quick puffs at his corncob pipe and blew the smoke idly out of the corner of his mouth.

“Our boys,” he said, “ain’t as good shots as you visitin’ fellers.”

“But one of your local fellows tied my brother! And who knows—he might win the meet,” Frank observed.

“You mean that lad with the steady eye? He ain’t from these parts,” the man declared.

The remark startled Frank. “You mean he’s a visitor, too? He talks like you folks in Centerville.”

“Don’t know where he’s from, but it ain’t Centerville,” the man insisted.

Just then Chet, who had been standing nearby looking at the crowd, pulled Frank’s arm. “Come here quick.”

“What’s up?”

“That guy over there. Whoops—he’s gone now!”

“Who was he?”

“ ‘Smi—’ something, that scar-mouthed guy at the museum. He was standing right behind you when you were talking to that old fellow. I bet he was trying to hear what you said.”

Frank scanned the crowd, but could see no figure resembling Professor Randolph’s guard.

Disappointed, Frank turned to Chet. “I have some interesting news. Let’s go back to Joe.”

They hurried to where Joe was reclining. General Smith was sitting on a tree stump alongside of him.

Frank told them about his brother’s rival not being a local inhabitant. “The whole setup seems odd,” he remarked. “I’d say he bears some investigating.”

“Perhaps he’s one of the ‘strangers’ my friend Jeb was talking about,” General Smith commented, frowning.

“I’m going to ask him where he’s from,” Frank said. He strolled off in the direction of the youth who had reappeared, and was standing alone under a tree.

Chet followed eagerly.

“Good shooting!” Frank declared, walking up to the young man. The Hardy boy received only a cold stare.

“I hear you’re not from town,” Frank went on pleasantly. “Where do you hail from?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Just curious,” Frank replied nonchalantly.

Suddenly the youth’s expression hardened. A frown creased his forehead, making him look much older. His eyes darted through the crowd as if he were looking for someone.

Frank’s eyes followed. Perhaps the marksman was seeking a pal, the young sleuth mused.

As the Hardy boy diverted his gaze to the crowd, the wily youth swung the barrel of his rifle.

“Duck!” Chet shouted. But not in time.

The weapon caught Frank on the side of the head and he fell dizzily to the ground!

CHAPTER XI

Pleasanton’s Bridge

A SHOUT went up from the onlookers at the shoot. Chet tried to grab Frank’s assailant, but the fellow gave him a quick shove which sent the stout boy sprawling. Then the stranger whirled and darted along the fringes of the crowd.

In a second Frank staggered to his feet. Despite the pain from the blow to his head, he set off after his adversary. Chet raced behind.

Joe, who had been attracted by the noise of the crowd, joined the chase.

As the attacker ran into the woods, Frank was hot on his trail. Suddenly a voice like chilled steel rang out.

“Stop where you are!”

A long rifle barrel protruded from behind a tree. Frank immediately recognized it as that of the youth.

In a flash Frank hurled himself to the ground, behind a bush. As he lay there, wondering what he should do next, the ambusher uttered a cry of pain. The weapon dropped from his grasp. Then the rifleman turned and dashed off through the brush like a streak of lightning.

“Are you all right, Frank?” came a voice behind him.

Frank rolled over to see his brother looking down at him anxiously.

“Did you do that?” Frank asked as he rose from the ground.

“Sure did. When I saw you drop, I figured something must be the matter. Then I spotted the rifle barrel sticking out from behind the tree, so I grabbed a rock and threw at it. Pretty good pitching if I do say so myself.”

“Glad you didn’t miss,” Frank remarked wryly, advancing with Joe toward the place where the weapon had fallen. “You probably saved my life!”

Frank picked up the rifle and the two boys returned to where they had left General Smith.

Enraged by the story of the unwarranted attack on Frank, the general immediately went to find an official to report the incident.

“Did you find out that guy’s name?” Frank asked his brother as they examined the firing piece.

“No. But maybe the general did. Here he comes now.”

General Smith hurried up with the judges of the meet. With them was a policeman. Joe told of the ambush incident.

“That kid won’t get away with this,” the policeman declared. “I’ll report it right away.”

Joe asked who the boy was.

The general answered. “He signed the registrar as Jimmy somebody, but he scribbled the last name. We can’t make it out.

“Probably done on purpose,” Frank remarked. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll bet Jimmy is Junior of Bush’s gang! This rifle certainly looks like the one set as a trap in the woods!”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of somebody crashing through the bushes. Out burst Chet, his clothes bedraggled and perspiration pouring from his face.

“Where’ve you been? Running a marathon?” Joe asked his friend, who was gasping for breath.

Frank threw his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Take it easy, Chet. We can wait.”

When he was breathing normally again, Chet swallowed hard and said, “I saw him! I know where he went!”

“Who?”

“That guy who socked Frank.”

Chet said he had seen the stranger flee, had circled the woods, and spotted the fellow coming out of the trees at the edge of Centerville. He had headed into town, and Chet had followed, unobserved.

“I ... I saw him run into the hotel,” the boy reported. “I peeked in a window, and there he was in the lobby talking to Professor Randolph!”

“Good night!” Joe exploded.

“I wonder what they’re up to,” Frank mused. “Let’s go and find out!”

Leaving the judges, who promised to send Joe the prize rifle which he had won by default, the boys and the general hurried to their car. Joe locked his borrowed rifle, as well as the vengeful youth’s weapon, in the trunk. Then, with Frank at the wheel, the group sped to Centerville.

The Hardys dashed through the hotel doorway. Joe, in his headlong rush, bowled over a man onto the plush carpet of the lobby floor.

“Oh, sorry,” the boy said, bending over to help the man to his feet. “Professor Randolph!”

The man brushed off his suit coat, straightened his string tie, and glared. “Watch where you’re going! Do you want to hurt somebody?”

“We don’t,” Frank spoke up. “But we have an idea somebody you know would like to harm us.”

“Name’s Jimmy,” Joe blurted. “He nearly took a shot at my brother in the woods! Where is he?”

The professor stepped back a pace, his eyes narrowing as the general entered the lobby with Chet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said firmly.

“I saw you talking to him right in this lobby!” Chet declared.

The professor’s eyes snapped fire. “I don’t know anybody named Jimmy,” he said icily. “If you’ll step aside, I’ll continue on my way.” He hurried out the door and quickly disappeared.

“Maybe you got your wires crossed, Chet, and saw him talking to somebody else,” Joe said.

Chet insisted he was not mistaken. At his suggestion, Frank checked with the desk clerk, who verified that Randolph had been talking to a young man. The clerk’s description of the youth fitted Frank’s assailant.

The three boys went to the hotel washroom, where Frank bathed the bruise on the side of his head.

“We’ll have to go to the museum if we want to get hold of Randolph again,” Joe declared as they returned to the hotel porch where General Smith stood waiting.

But Frank thought they should get to Pleasanton’s Bridge without delay. The general settled the matter.

“You fellows continue your search for the gold,” he said. “I’ll go to the museum to investigate this man Randolph.” The general grinned. “It’ll give me a chance to find out how much I’ve learned from you Hardys about detective work.”

After a quick lunch at the hotel, the boys set off, once more for Pleasanton’s Bridge. Frank drove to the new span and parked the car behind a huge old oak tree, hoping no one would notice it.

Presently they reached the pile of rotting logs that once had been a cabin. All was peaceful. Rocky Run gurgled and churned musically around the smooth boulders scattered along the stream bed.

“Let’s take a rest,” Chet suggested. “This heat is killing me.”

Frank remarked it was no place to be caught napping. “The more we keep our eyes open, the better it will be,” he said.

The boys went on. About fifteen minutes later, they came upon two stone abutments on either side of the stream. They were completely covered with vines and moss.

“We’ve found Pleasanton’s Bridge!” shouted Joe, running toward the ancient stonework. “Now for the bandoleer!”

Was the clue to the lost gold somewhere within the massive piles of stone and mortar? the boys wondered eagerly. Or had someone already found it?

“We’ll have to go over each stone individually,” Frank said. “I may as well start on this side of the water.” He began work on one part of the abutment.

Chet and Joe decided to cross over to the other side. They stepped carefully on large rocks and made their way to the opposite bank. The shady coolness of the stream and overhanging trees was a welcome relief to the perspiring boys. They feverishly began to examine each rock and crack in the old structure.

“Guess they built this thing to last a million years,” Chet called out as he climbed higher on the pile of stones.

Frank was too busy to reply. His hands felt the rough surface of one stone after another. His knife probed every moss-covered crack between the ancient building blocks.

Occasionally a piece of the abutment would fall into the stream with a loud splash. Frank found a loose section of mortar, and pried away at it. Like a thin wedge of pie, mortar slipped out, leaving just enough room for Frank to slide his hand into the crevice. His middle finger found a small opening in the stone.

“Joe! Chet! Come here!”

“Find something?”

“I think this stone’ll come out!” Frank called excitedly. “Help me chip away the rest of the mortar.” The two quickly came to his aid.

Using sharp rocks and their pocketknives, the three boys speedily cut away the crumbling cement that held the stones together. Frank tugged at the stone with the hole in it. The stone moved a fraction!

“It’s coming!” he shouted.

With a sliding, grinding sound the big stone was yanked from the spot where it had lain for decades. Quickly Frank peered into the gaping hole.

“I see it!” he cried hoarsely. “The bandoleer!”

CHAPTER XII

The Cap Box

FRANK reached into the hole and pulled out the bandoleer. Its leather strap was rotted with age, and worn away from the rusted buckle. But the silver cap box was still firmly attached by two rivets. While Joe and Chet looked on excitedly, Frank tried to open the box.

“There doesn’t seem to be any way to unfasten the lid,” he said. “Must be a secret lock on it.”

“Let me try it,” Joe said eagerly, reaching for the bandoleer.

“Careful,” Frank warned. “Don’t break the leather. General Smith will certainly want to keep this.”

Joe handled the bandoleer gingerly, turning the box over and over in a vain attempt to locate a hasp or tiny hinges.

“I can’t find any opening, either,” he said finally. “We’ll have to put it under a magnifying glass.”

“Let me see it.” Chet begged, extending an eager hand.

As Joe gave the bandoleer to his friend, they heard a woman scream. The cry for help that followed came from the woods just ahead!

“Someone’s in trouble!” Frank cried.

The three boys raced in the direction from which the sound had come. The Hardys soon outdistanced Chet, who panted some distance behind them.

Joe and Frank searched futilely for the woman who had screamed. “Hello! Hello!” Joe shouted, but got no reply.

“That’s funny,” Frank said. “The voice sounded as if—Hey, did you hear Chet cry out?”

The Hardys turned and rushed back. A hundred feet beyond, Chet was struggling up from the ground, rubbing his head. His hands were empty!

“G-get him!” he cried hoarsely. “Someone hit me from behind and grabbed the bandoleer!”

The Hardys waited for no further explanation than Chet’s pointing finger. The cry had clearly been a hoax to separate the trio while someone stole the secret to the missing gold. Probably the thief had called in a falsetto voice, then had circled back through the brush to waylay Chet.

The boys could hear two persons crashing through the woodland, and raced after them at top speed.

“They’re heading for the highway!” Frank exclaimed.

The brothers saw two figures scramble up the embankment to the new bridge. A moment later they heard the roar of a motor.

“Oh no!” Joe cried in dismay.

The familiar black sedan, which apparently had been parked on the other side of the bridge, sped off in the direction of Centerville.

“We’ll catch them!” Frank dashed toward their own car, then let out a cry of despair. The left front tire of the vehicle was flat! “Bush’s men must have let the air out!”

“What goofs we were not to leave Chet here on guard while you and I searched for the bandoleer,” Joe said bitterly.

At that moment Chet lumbered up the bank and onto the bridge. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Why didn’t you chase those guys?”

Joe told him as he opened the trunk and pulled out the spare tire.

“Hey, a car’s coming!” Frank said, running onto the bridge. He raised his hand and a speedy little sports car squealed to a stop.

“Give me a lift? We’ve got a flat.”

“Hop in,” said a middle-aged man.

Frank turned to his brother and Chet. “Meet me in Centerville. I’m going to find out where that car went!”

Frank stepped into the car, and the driver continued in the direction which the black sedan had taken only a few minutes before. Without revealing the details, Frank told the driver the boys had been robbed. Upon hearing this, the man speeded up. When they came to the brow of a small hill, Frank saw the sedan crossing a bridge about a mile away.

“There they go!”

The excitement of the chase stimulated the sports car driver. He went even faster. But they could not overtake the sedan. At a crossroad, Frank’s keen eyes spotted the telltale marks of a swerving car.

“They turned in here,” he said.

The man braked, backed up, looked at the skid marks, and agreed with Frank.

“But,” he added, “I must keep on this road to Hilton. Wish I could follow that car, but I have an urgent appointment.”

“Then let me out here,” Frank said. “Many thanks for the lift!”

The man sped off. Frank examined the marks of the thieves’ tires in the dirt road. After noting the design of the treads for further identification, he set off along the road at a trot. A half mile farther on, he paused again at another crossroad, picking out the tread along the right-hand fork, and hurried on.

After following the tire tracks about a mile, Frank stopped short. The lines suddenly left the road and slewed off into a thicket.

Entering the woods, he proceeded with caution, to avoid any possible danger of ambush. The tracks led into a thick copse, interspersed with scrubby trees. Except for a few birds and a scampering squirrel, there was not a sound. Ahead, under a low-hanging tree, Frank found the parked sedan. It was deserted.

He scraped away the mud on the license plate and jotted down the number, then studied the footprints near the sedan. They were hard to follow, for the thieves seemed to have separated at this point. Frank chose to follow the deepest prints, which presently led back to the side of the road. From here they ran straight, skirting the old battlefield of Rocky Run. Then, strangely, they were gone completely.

As Frank stood debating what to do next, he realized that the museum was located directly to the right. Had the thieves gone there to investigate?

“I’ll see what’s going on, anyway,” Frank thought. “That professor and the guard sure are phonies.”

As he walked along, he mulled over the events of the past few hours. Frank was convinced there might be a tie-in between the man who had grabbed the bandoleer and the professor. This time he would spy on the place, and perhaps learn something important.

Frank jumped a ditch beside the road and hid behind a tree. After glancing around cautiously and seeing nobody, he pressed his way along a field fence toward the old building.

No one was in sight. The windows were closed and locked, as well as the cellar door. Deciding to risk a look inside the old headquarters, Frank went quietly around to the front door. It stood open, and the guard was not there. He listened—not a sound. He slipped inside.

From somewhere in the building came an indistinct but angry voice. “You fool ... the secret ... you bungle everything, Smiley!”

The voice was that of Junior, alias Jimmy of the shoot.

“I tell you it ain’t safe to carry it!” Smiley cried out. “Nobody’d think of lookin’ for it among the souvenirs,” he declared.

Excitedly Frank darted around the room. He glanced at all the tables and looked under the large exhibits for the stolen bandoleer. Suddenly his eyes spotted something unusual in the display case where he had picked up the old canteen. A Confederate cap was tilted at a peculiar angle. Frank lifted it. Underneath lay the silver cap box!

Frank let out a low whistle as he grasped the box, then tiptoed toward the door.

Just before he reached the end of the room, a section of the floor in front of him raised up. Smiley popped out of a trap door!

Frank side-stepped him neatly, but the man spotted the cap box in the boy’s hand.

“You’re not getting away with that!” Smiley snarled, and lunged toward him.

Smiley was almost upon Frank. But with head down and arms in front of him, the boy hit the man with the force of a fullback plowing through the line. Smiley grunted, reeled, and fell.

Frank bolted through the door, ready for his next opponent. No one was in sight!

His long legs fairly flew down the road. He looked back and saw someone following, but maintained his pace. His pursuer was finally lost from sight.

Frank did not slacken his speed until he was half a mile away. Then he settled down to an easy lope, tightly clutching the cap box.

Presently he came to the highway leading into Centerville. Frank had not gone far when he heard the sound of a car. Apprehension gripped him. Had the thieves caught up with him?

Frank hid behind a hedge and waited, his heart pounding like a riveting machine. As the car approached, he gave a whoop of joy. It was the Hardys’ convertiblel

“Hi there!” he called out, stepping into the road.

Joe jammed on the brakes and Frank jumped in.

“I’ve got it!” he panted, showing his prize. “Get to the general as fast as you can!”

“Great work!” Joe cried, and sent the car speeding down the road.

As they drove, Frank told his brother and Chet how he had trailed the thieves and seized the precious relic.

“There’s no doubt now that Junior and Smiley —that’s the guard’s name—are mixed up in this thing. Probably the professor is in with them, too,” he said. “And we know Dr. Bush is an enemy.”

The boys reached the house and ran in with the bandoleer’s ammunition box. The general was both elated and astonished at their find.

When the officer heard the story, he lost no time informing the chief of police of the strange doings at the old museum and reporting the license number of the black sedan. “I think these men might belong to a gang headed by a Dr. Bush,” General Smith reported.

Chet felt relieved and hoped the troublemakers would be arrested or leave when they saw the police checking on them. But Frank and Joe were of a different opinion.

“The missing gold is a big prize,” Frank pointed out. “If that’s what they’re after, they won’t be frightened into running away.”

“They’ll probably go into hiding at some new place around Centerville,” Joe reasoned.

“I wasn’t much of a detective,” General Smith remarked about his own investigation of Professor Randolph. “The museum seemed to be running the same as ever when I visited it. The old Negro was there and everything was peaceful. I didn’t pick up a single clue.”

Joe smiled ruefully. “Smiley wasn’t on guard because he and Junior were probably the two we chased after they attacked Chet and took the bandoleer.”

Frank went to the kitchen and asked Claude for silver polish and a cloth. The others followed and watched as he went to work on the ammunition box. In a few minutes the old souvenir, blackened by its long concealment in the bridge abutment, shone brightly.

“Why’d you do that?” Chet asked.

“So we can examine it better,” Frank said. “Joe, will you get our magnifying glass?”

His brother went to the trunk of the car and returned with a special kit the Hardys always carried. From it he took a powerful magnifier. Frank held the ammunition box under a bright light and went over it in minute detail.

“I think I see where you open this,” he stated at last.

“Where?” Chet questioned, looking over his shoulder.

“Right here in the corner.” Frank pointed to a tiny circle cleverly worked into one edge of the box. “Now if the spring hasn’t rusted, this ought to do it!”

He snapped out the can-opener blade of his knife and carefully pressed the point against the circle. With a sharp click that startled the onlookers, the top of the box sprang open.

“Bravo!” the general shouted.

Joe emitted a low whistle. “No wonder those crooks couldn’t open it.”

Frank pried a piece of folded parchment from the bottom of the box. The paper was in perfect condition despite the many years it had lain secreted. Frank handed it to General Smith.

“Just think,” Joe said, “the last man to see this was your great-grandfather!”

The general did not reply. The boys were silent as they observed the solemn expression on his handsome, tanned face. Then he spoke.

“This is strange, very strange indeed. I suddenly had the feeling that I was standing in my great-grandfather’s place, there in the old headquarters, when he put this paper into the ammunition box and made ready for battle.”

Chet cleared his throat and fidgeted. He wanted to know what was on the paper.

“This is a great moment for me,” the man went on. “I wonder what the message says.”

The boys turned their eyes from the officer to a table on which he spread the paper.

“Look at that!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s in code!”

CHAPTER XIII

Digging for Gold

SCRAWLED on the parchment were four sets of numbers, written in a row: 42236, 12223, 223, 222123.

Across the face of the message, written diagonally, were the large letters, C S A. As if that were not cryptic enough, two odd designs decorated the bottom of the page at either side. On the left were three muskets, stacked together like a sheaf of wheat. On the right was a strange-looking tree, at the base of which rested a round object.

“What a puzzler!” Chet cried. “It’ll take all year to figure this out.”

Frank thrust his fingers back through his dark hair. Joe knew his brother was concocting a plan.

“I’d suggest,” Frank said, “that we all sit down separately and work on this. When we have some ideas, we’ll get together.”

“Very good,” the general declared. “Let’s make four rough sketches so we can each work on one.”

When this was done, the four sat in deep thought, each pondering over the secret message. The room was so quiet that the ticking of the clock sounded like a noisy metronome.

Suddenly Chet chuckled and burst out, “I’ve got it!”

“Let’s hear it,” Joe urged, grinning. “Probably another one of your brainstorms.”

“It’s this way,” Chet began, winking at the officer. “The C S A stands for ‘Can’t Stand the Army.’ The guns stacked up means they’re going to stop fighting and sit down under that tree and eat breakfast. That big round thing’s an egg.”

The general and the Hardys burst into laughter.

“I knew plenty of privates who couldn’t stand the army,” General Smith said with a smile.

Then Joe asked, “What about the numbers?”

With a wave of his hand, Chet replied, “That’s just to confuse us!”

When they had composed themselves, Frank said:

“Chet, I can’t agree with all of your deductions, but the one about the tree—maybe you’ve got something there!”

“Right,” Joe added. “The tree probably is a landmark for something.”

Some time later a sudden smile crossed Frank’s face. He reached for a pencil, and began to write down figures on a piece of scratch paper. He had barely finished working out a series of letters and numbers when he shouted:

“This is it!”

With the others crowding around, Frank showed what he had done with the coded message.

“I took the C S A to mean Confederate States America,” he announced.

“I figured that far, too,” General Smith remarked.

“Where does that get you?” Chet asked skeptically.

Frank followed his procedure with the point of his pencil. He pointed to the four sets of numbers: 42236, 12223, 228, and 222123.

“The first figure, four, stands for the fourth letter in Confederate States America,” Frank explained, “That’s F. The twenty-second letter is I, the third letter is N, and the sixth is D.”

“That spells ‘Find,’ ” Joe said eagerly.

“The rest is easy,” Frank continued.

Frank reeled off the other numbers in the sequence; some, one digit at a time, others in pairs. Spelling out the letters as he went, and with the eyes of his onlookers widening with amazement, the boy read the message:

Find coin in iron.

“That’s a grand piece of code breaking!” General Smith complimented. “Army Intelligence could use you!”

“But we have to fathom these other symbols, too,” Frank reminded the others. “What do you make of the muskets, the tree, and that round thing?”

“My guess would be,” his brother replied, “that those symbols tell us where the iron is.”

“Near some old Civil War muskets,” Chet suggested.

“Or under a tree,” General Smith said. Then he added with a puzzled expression, “That’s a queer-looking tree. Don’t believe I ever saw one like it.”

“I still think that round thing’s an egg!” Chet persisted.

“Looks to me,” Joe observed, “as if we’re still behind the eight ball so far as finding the treasure is concerned. ‘Find coin in iron’ can mean a dozen different things.”

“That’s right,” Frank agreed. “It might mean the money is buried in an iron box, or hidden in an iron mine, or in an old forge.”

“It might be in an old blacksmith shop,” Joe suggested. “They had one on the plantation, didn’t they, General Smith?”

“Yes,” the officer replied. “Every big plantation had a blacksmith shop. Wait—I have a map here of the old Smith place.”

He pulled it from a desk drawer, and the boys eagerly scanned it. The map was an antiquated form of blueprint, drawn on heavy linen paper and well preserved. The layout of the buildings was clearly delineated, with the tiny, handwritten word blacksmith barely discernible where the general’s finger pointed.

The Hardys were eager to investigate the spot at once, even to work through the night, but the general would not hear of it.

“Morning will be time enough,” he insisted. “Now that we know our enemies don’t have the secret, there’s no need for such speed. Furthermore, maybe the police will have rounded up the men by then and we won’t have to worry about their spying on us.”

The Hardys agreed with their host that the investigation could wait until the following day, but they expressed doubt that the gang would be caught easily.

Claude, hearing the story, declared he would stay up all night and guard the house against a visit by the thieves. It was finally decided that the boys would stay on watch until one o’clock, then the orderly would take over.

That evening at dinner the Hardys ran Chet a close race on second and third helpings of Claude’s superb cured ham and pecan pie.

All was peaceful during the night, and early the next morning the boys and the general were ready to start for the old plantation.

Before leaving, General Smith called the police to inquire if any of the gang had been caught. He was told that the thickly wooded area was being combed and all highways were being watched but so far the culprits were still at large. The abandoned black sedan had been traced by its license and identified as the property of a man who lived in a town near Bayport.

“A beautiful day!” the general observed as they drove along. “But we’ll have to be on the watch every moment.”

“Not like the day when Beauregard Smith hid the fortune,” Joe said, “with the distant thunder of artillery and the smell of powder in the air.”

Frank stepped on the brake and turned the car off the highway into the rutted lane that led to the plantation. Presently he pulled up in front of the weed-grown foundation of the old mansion itself.

They strode through the high grass toward the spot the blueprint had indicated as the plantation’s smithy.

“This is the place,” the general confirmed. He paced off the distance from the site of the barn.

“Nothing here but a lot of rocks,” Chet complained. “How are we going to find anything in this mess?”

“Put your camera down,” Frank suggested. “It’ll swing against one of those stones and get smashed.”

“That means you want me to work,” Chet said ruefully as he took the hint and removed the camera strap from around his neck.

Frank winked at his brother. “Full of deductions, isn’t he?”

“I gather from the old blueprint that the walls of the shop were ten feet high,” General Smith declared. “When the place was attacked, I suppose the walls fell in under a bombardment, so whatever was inside should be at the bottom of this rubble.”

“Let’s get at this pile,” Joe said, pointing to a heap of crumbling masonry.

In order to avoid a surprise visit by their enemies, General Smith suggested they take turns standing guard. He took the first shift.

The three boys pulled and hauled, removing stone after stone as they delved deeper into the ruins of the old shop. The general walked around and around the spot, keeping an eye out for Bush, Randolph, Smiley, or Junior.

“Wow! This is hard work!” Chet exclaimed as perspiration ran down his forehead and off the end of his stubby nose. “It’s going to take us years to find anything here,” he moaned, straining at another stone.

Nevertheless, he stuck to the job and the four worked with silent intensity as the sun rose higher and higher. Finally the officer called a halt, and the group sat down to eat the lunch Claude had packed for them. After a rest period, during which Joe remained on guard, work started again.

“Here’s a handle!” Frank said an hour later, grasping a wooden pole that extended out of the ruins.

“That may be part of the forge!” Joe called excitedly.

Further digging disclosed the rest of the furnace. Somewhat later Joe came upon the anvil, which was so heavy it took the concerted efforts of the four to lift it.

“Do you suppose the gold’s in this?” Chet asked eagerly.

“No,” Frank replied. “This is a solid piece of iron.”

As he spoke, Joe shouted, “Here’s an old rifle!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Frank cried excitedly, recalling the stacked weapons on the coded message.

Feverishly the boys dug near the spot where the rusty old firearm had been exhumed.

At four o’clock Chet was ready to give up, when suddenly his hand struck something hard and smooth. He dug at it like a bulldog after a buried bone.

“I’ve found a box!” he shouted.

CHAPTER XIV

A Bombardment

JOE and Frank rushed to Chet’s side. The three lifted the heavy iron box out of the rubble.

“I’ll help you open it,” General Smith offered, as excited as the boys in anticipation of discovering the Civil War gold.

The officer picked up a flat stone, and with a mighty blow, knocked off one of the rusty hinges. Chet pulled up the lid as the others looked on, holding their breath in anticipation.

Inside the box were a dozen horseshoes!

“Gosh!” Chet cried, a pout of disappointment thrusting his lower lip forward. “Why would anybody put horseshoes in a strongbox?”

“Just for luck.” Joe grinned.

“Maybe they were used as weights,” Frank suggested hopefully. “Let’s see if there’s anything underneath them.”

Quickly lifting the horseshoes from the box, he found a piece of rawhide. Beneath it, in the bottom of the box, lay a sheaf of papers.

“This was probably the box where the blacksmith kept his records,” the general said as he read through the papers.

There were bills for barrels of nails, bars of iron, and other material used in the old shop. The last piece of paper read:

From Enfield Arms Co., Berkley, Eng.

30 rifles

100 cannon balls

Taken to arsenal.

Seeing the word “arsenal,” General Smith’s countenance took on a look of renewed interest.

“So old Beauregard had his own personal arsenal! That’s news to me.”

“There wasn’t one on the blueprint,” Joe commented.

“It must have been one of the plantation’s secrets,” Frank said.

“I can understand why,” General Smith reasoned. “Whoever controlled the arsenal controlled the plantation!”

“I think this is a hot clue,” Frank spoke up. “The round designs on the message may have represented cannon balls. Those, and the stacked rifles, may have referred to the arsenal! If we could find it, we might discover the gold, or at least directions to it.”

“Where could the arsenal be?” Joe asked, puzzled.

“Probably a long distance from the plantation buildings,” the general reasoned, “and underground. In the first place, it would be dangerous to store explosives near the main buildings, and secondly, arms and ammunition would probably be in a secret spot. I’d suggest we go home and study the blueprint for clues. Also,” he added with a look at Chet, “Claude wouldn’t want us to be late for dinner!”

“General Smith,” Chet said, beaming, “I’d like to be in your army!” The boy picked up his camera. “But before we go, I want somebody to take a photo of me holding this clue.”

Chet posed by the box he had unearthed while Joe held the camera.

“This is the last one on the film,” Joe observed. “You’d better not move.”

But just as he snapped the picture, Chet sneezed. General Smith shook his head as he smilingly led the group to the car.

As they started off, Chet asked the officer where he could have his prints made up.

“The general store in Centerville does its own developing. If we drop them off now, you could probably pick them up tonight.”

“That’s great. I’ll get some more film too,” Chet said.

When they arrived home, Frank noticed a letter lying on the hall table. It was addressed to the Hardys. He opened it, frowned, and read aloud:

“ ‘Hardy Boys,

Clear out and go back to Bayport if you want

to stay healthy. Kids who don’t mind their

own business end up in the graveyard.’ ”

The message was unsigned.

“Good night!” Joe exploded.

“S-somebody doesn’t like you,” Chet stammered.

“What’s the postmark?” General Smith asked, taking the envelope. “Centerville, eh?”

“Which means,” Frank reasoned, “that Bush or his men haven’t left town. Let’s call the police and see if they’ve arrested anyone.”

The chief informed the general, who telephoned, that no one had returned to the museum nor had anyone fitting the description of Randolph, Smiley, or Junior been picked up.

“So they’re still at large,” General Smith said reflectively as he reported to the boys. “Now that this note has come—”

“We’ll have to get Bush before he gets us!” Joe burst out.

“But we’ve got to act fast,” Frank added.

“I admire your spirit.” General Smith smiled. “Your plan of taking the offensive is in the best military tradition. An offense is sometimes the best defense. But we’ll have to be doubly alert.”

“I wish we knew what this Dr. Bush looks like,” Frank mused. “But all we know is that he has long legs and carries a black bag.”

“And probably has a number of aliases,” Joe added.

“I’d like to get a picture of the other half of him,” Chet remarked. “Which reminds me. I’ll run into town after dinner and see if my prints are done.”

Later, leaving the Hardys and the general mulling over their plan of attack, Chet took the convertible and drove to Centerville. He parked in front of the town’s general store and went inside. Finding his prints ready, Chet paid the bill. While waiting for the change, he glanced around the store.

Everything from jellybeans to lawn chairs cluttered the establishment. Finally Chet’s eyes fell on a string of tiny red balls hanging from a wooden rack.

“What are they?” he asked the clerk.

“Atom crackers.”

“Atom crackers? Do you eat ’em?”

“I should say not,” replied the small man dryly. “If you ate those, they’d blow you inside out!”

“I get it,” Chet said, laughing. “They’re like firecrackers.”

“Only quite a bit louder,” replied the man. “Want some? Fourth of July’ll be here soon.”

Chet beamed as he thought of scaring the Hardys with the powerful little charges.

“I’ll take a dozen.”

The man put twelve of the little red balls in a bag and handed it to Chet. As the boy went out the door, the shopkeeper warned him to be careful with them and get away quickly once he had lighted the fuse.

Intrigued by the thought of setting off a fire-cracker, Chet reached into the bag and pulled one out as soon as he reached the sidewalk. He had not noticed that directly across the street was the Centerville Police Station.

Grinning, Chet put the atom cracker on the sidewalk and lit the fuse. At the same time, he hopped back and lifted his hands to his ears. But as he did, the paper bag slipped from his fingers and landed directly on top of the sputtering fuse!

In an instant, the Centerville square shook with deafening explosions like a town under siege. Chet shuddered at every blast, hoping no more would go off, but the whole dozen sent their rapid-fire reverberations echoing and re-echoing through the little town.

“Oh! Oh no!” Chet moaned, seeing people pop their heads out of doors and windows.

Chet shuddered at every blast

The exclamation was hardly off his lips when three policemen came storming from the station house. Two other officers followed, which gave the boy the feeling that he was being ushered to his doom.

“But I d-didn’t mean to do anything,” he said with outstretched hands.

“Tell that to the chief.”

Chet was marched into the police station and led across the room to a desk perched on a dais.

“This boy is responsible for that bombardment!” one policeman bellowed.

The chief, a stout man with three distinct chins, leaned forward and looked over his horn-rimmed glasses at the trembling boy.

“This is a clear case of disturbing the peace! I’m going to throw you in jail!” he shouted angrily.

CHAPTER XV

A Shot in the Dark

“DON’T put me in jail!” Chet pleaded. He visualized himself spending the summer behind bars. “Please, Chief, if I go to jail, I won’t be able to get pictures of the criminals.”

The man raised his eyebrows and the police officers exchanged questioning glances.

The chief leaned far over his desk and shook a finger at Chet. “If there are any pictures of criminals to be taken, you’d better leave it to the policel” he stormed.

“I take it you’re one of General Smith’s guests,” he added less sternly.

“Yes, sir,” Chet answered.

“Well, I’m going to let you go this time. But only on one condition—no more atom crackers before the Fourth of July!”

“Yes, sir!” The boy sighed in relief.

As Chet was leaving, the chief called to him. “Will you be seeing General Smith tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him that a woman called here a little while ago and warned us to pick up Dr. Bush if he came around. She wouldn’t give us her name.”

Chet told the chief that a similar request had come to the Hardys in Bayport.

“We’re searching for Randolph and those other two,” the chief said. “You boys keep your eyes open too.”

“We sure will,” Chet promised as he left.

On the sidewalk he came face to face with the Hardys, who were out of breath from running.

“You all right, Chet?” Frank panted. “We heard a bombardment. What happened? Who started it?”

“I did!”

“What?”

“I learned you shouldn’t shoot off atom crackers here before the Fourth of July.”

With much laughter, the Hardys finally got Chet’s story straight. He also told them about the woman’s phone call. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Bush was in the vicinity. But who, Frank and Joe wondered, was the mysterious woman? The boys decided to discuss the matter at the house.

“I got my pictures,” Chet beamed.

“Let’s see ’em,” Frank said.

Chet pulled the packet from his pocket, and held the photos under a street light. Of all the snaps the boy had taken, only a few had proved clear enough to print. One showed the old museum; another the ruins of the plantation; and a third, a hawk which Chet had snapped in midair.

“What’s this funny-looking thing?” Joe asked, holding up another print.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Chet scratched his head.

“It’s upside down,” Frank remarked.

“Now I see it!” Chet bubbled. “I must have taken this when I backed into the wellhole. Look! There’s the guy who was spying on me!” He pointed to a thick mass of foliage.

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “There are a man’s back and shoulders, and part of his legs.”

“Another half-man,” Chet moaned.

“Say!” Joe’s eyes lit up. “I wonder if this is the same man you got a picture of in Bayport.”

“We’ll soon find out,” Chet said, pulling the duplicate of the stolen print from his pocket.

“The legs seem to match,” Joe observed. “At least now we know that Bush has not only long legs but high, square shoulders.”

“If I’d only gotten his face!” Chet groaned.

“Don’t worry,” Frank offered encouragingly. “We have two strikes on Bush now. Next time you’ll get his face.”

As Chet put all his photographs into the envelope, Joe went across the street to buy some atom crackers. He returned in a few minutes with a bagful.

“Let me see ’em,” Chet begged.

“No sirree,” Joe insisted, shoving the bag into his pocket. “These are for the Fourth.”

Upon reaching the house, Chet related his experience in town to the general. The officer laughed heartily at the story of the atom crackers, but frowned upon hearing of the woman’s phone call.

“With Bush and his gang still around, we’re going to have to be prepared for anything.”

Later that night, the boys decided to take a drive around the Centerville area. The stars were clear and the air felt refreshingly cool as they leisurely toured the countryside in the open convertible.

On the way home, Frank decided to go past the old Beauregard Smith plantation. Soon they were approaching the overgrown lane which led into the property.

“Well, tonight I can get a good, solid sleep.” Chet yawned. “No more sleuthing until tomorrow.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Frank said, slowing down. “I just saw a light flash in there! Let’s see what’s going on.”

As he pulled to the side of the road, Chet grunted and announced he would guard the car while the Hardys went to investigate.

“Sure! Fall asleep and be kidnapped,” Joe teased. “You’d better come along.”

“But I’m tired, fellows.”

Chet reluctantly agreed and brought up the rear as the boys, unlighted flashlights in hand, walked silently and cautiously toward the spot where Frank had seen a light.

The clear, star-studded sky made it easy for them to find their way. When they reached the front of the mansion’s ruins, Chet flopped down on a granite stepping-stone. He yawned, and his head flopped down onto his ample chest.

No light was visible, but there were muffled sounds.

“Sombody’s digging!” Joe whispered.

“For the lost gold, I’ll bet.” Chet came to life. “Let’s rush ’em!”

“We’d better wait here awhile,” Frank advised. “Nobody can see us, and we may be able to pick up some useful information.”

The boys strained their ears. A thud sounded emptily in the distance. Then another.

Suddenly Chet sneezed. In the stillness, the sound seemed magnified a hundred times. The thuds stopped.

“Quick! Move to another place!” Frank ordered. “They’ve spotted us!”

As he grabbed Chet by the arm and pulled him roughly from his perch on the stepping-stone, a flash winked in the distance and the sound of a rifle shot shattered the stillness.

“I’m hit!” Chet cried out, falling to the ground.

“Where?”

“In the leg.” Chet writhed in pain.

Apprehension gripped the Hardys. Had their friend been badly wounded? It would take both to carry him to their car. Meanwhile, what about the diggers?

“First things first,” Frank said, gritting his teeth.

Forgetting all other problems, the brothers hauled Chet to his feet and put an arm over each of their shoulders. At a safe distance from the rifleman, they laid him on the ground.

“Hurry. Get me to a doctor,” Chet moaned.

Frank, using his body to shield the beam of his flashlight, bent low to examine the wound.

Blood oozed from above the right knee, but there was only a long, deep scratch on Chet’s leg.

“You weren’t shot, Chet.” Frank tried to conceal his grin. “You’ve scratched your leg on the stepping-stone. Hold on—I’ll bandage it.”

“I’m not shot?” Chet sat up in surprise.

“Are you disappointed?” Joe asked.

“Guess not,” Chet replied as Frank bound the wound with a clean handkerchief. He added, “Thanks, fellows. Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“Forget it,” Frank said. He turned to his brother. “Joe, put an ear to the ground.”

The blond boy obeyed. Receding footsteps told him there were at least two enemies. Then dull thuds made it evident they had gone back to their work.

“Come on! Let’s find that guy who shot at us!”

“Right! Chet, you stay here till we get back.”

“But they’re armed!” Chet argued. “You haven’ t got a chance against them!”

“We’ll be careful,” Frank promised. “We have to find out who they are and what they’re up to.”

With that, the Hardys slipped into the darkness, circling toward the spot from which the rifle flash had come.

CHAPTER XVI

An Old Safe

“LISTEN!”

Frank grabbed Joe’s arm, and the boys stood stock-still. Work was going on in a pit among the ruins of the plantation’s former study.

“Sure I scared ’em off,” a man said braggingly. “Pretty brave till they heard my gun.”

“Good thing we got the stones blasted out before they came,” another said.

“I just hit something, Hank! Gimme your strong light.”

Junior! And another of the boys’ kidnappers!

In a moment a glow sprang up not more than twenty feet from the Hardys. Frank and Joe crouched low to avoid detection, all the while observing the bizarre scene before them. The two men, their backs toward the boys, were stooping down in a hole dug along an inside cellar wall of the house.

“It’s a safe, Hank!” Junior said excitedly.

“Jumping jiminy!” Joe whispered to his brother. “If they’ve found the gold, we’ve got to act fast!”

The boys backed away and held a hurried consultation. It was decided that they had better try to stop the criminals from opening the safe rather than go for the police.

“But how?” Frank pondered.

“I’ve got it!” Joe said softly. “The atom crackers!”

Frank immediately grasped his brother’s idea. “We’ll scare them off! Careful, Joe. If they see the light of the match, we’re sunk.”

The younger boy pulled the bag of atom crackers from his pocket and crouched at the very base of the wall so that the light of his match could not be seen by the men.

When the fuse of the little red ball sputtered, Joe hurled it toward the edge of the woods about fifty feet from where Junior and his companion were standing.

One second, two seconds, then—wham!

The diggers jumped and cursed, as Joe lit the second cracker.

“Sh-shoot back at ’em, Junior!”

Joe lobbed the cracker. Junior reached for his rifle. As he did, a second explosion burst from the opposite direction, and then a third from still another direction.

“We’re surrounded!” he cried out. “We’d better scram.”

As if to help the men on their way, a fourth atom cracker burst behind them, filling the night with a thousand reverberations. The boys thought of following to nab at least one of them, but both started shooting over their shoulders as they fled.

Frank and Joe stopped running. Regretfully, they watched the erratic course of the men’s firing as the two fled to the road, scrambled into an automobile, and roared off.

“Let’s get our car!” Joe urged.

Frank reminded his brother of the distance to their car and the fact that Chet was alone, his leg injured.

“I’d say we ought to have a look at that safe before Junior and Hank decide to return with reinforcements.”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed.

The Hardys went back to Chet, who was in a near-panic because of the shooting. Relieved to see his friends safe, the boy declared he could limp with little pain and insisted upon going to the pit and watching.

“This sure is an old safe,” Frank declared as he climbed down into the hole and examined the large, rusted object with its old-fashioned dial.

Excitedly the boys looked around for tools the diggers might have left, so they could open the safe. They found nothing but two spades, which were of no help.

“Tell you what,” Chet spoke up. “You fellows stay here. I’ll go tell General Smith what happened. He’ll probably want to come out here, and we can bring tools.”

“Good idea,” Frank said. “You stay home and take care of that wound.”

Chet’s leg was swelling and had begun to ache. When he reached the car, he gave a couple of blasts on the horn to let the Hardys know he had reached it safely, then drove off.

Frank and Joe figured that the general would arrive by midnight, but two hours went by and he did not come. Had Chet been waylaid? the brothers wondered.

Finally the boys could no longer stand the suspense of waiting, and started for the road. They had just made the turn toward Centerville when a car came along.

Ducking behind some bushes, they let it go past without hailing the driver. There must be no more mishaps tonight!

“It’s our car,” Frank whispered. “Look, it’s turning into the lane!”

The Hardys followed on a run. The condition of the overgrown road was so bad that the car had to crawl along, with the result that the boys easily caught up to it. General Smith was at the wheel. When he stopped, Frank opened the door.

“We were worried about you, sir,” he said. “Is Chet all right?”

“Yes, and being attended to by Claude at home. But he arrived with an empty gas tank. What a time I had getting some at this hour of the night! Well, let’s get to work. I understand we’re on the brink of finding the long-lost gold!”

In the back of the car were a crowbar, sledge hammer, file, a blowtorch, and some rope which General Smith had borrowed from the garageman who had sold him the gasoline. The boys lugged the equipment to the pit, and pointed out the safe, which had been craftily concealed in a wall.

“It’s not going to be easy to open this,” the officer said as he stood in front of it. “And the noise may attract attention.”

The general ordered Frank to stand guard, while he and Joe worked. Fifteen minutes later the blowtorch had failed to make a hole, but Frank thought they might crack through the hot iron. Joe replaced him as guard.

“Hold this chisel at the edge of the dial, General Smith, while I swing the sledge hammer,” Frank requested.

The officer held the chisel unflinchingly while Frank, his sure eye guiding the heavy tool, hit one crashing blow after another. The steel dial gave way grudgingly, but finally, with a mighty stroke, Frank knocked it off the rusty safe.

With a little prying, the bolt came loose and Frank pulled on the door. It creaked open. He half expected a cascade of gold to tumble into his hands, but instead only a bundle of old papers greeted his eyes!

“Here’s a book,” he said, reaching farther back into the safe. Frank opened it and flipped the pages as General Smith trained his flashlight on the discovery.

“A diary!” Frank exclaimed. Hastily he read the entries in the old book, apparently written by Beauregard Smith himself. Recorded were the daily happenings on the plantation. With the mentioning of the advance of the enemy army, the remarks became terse. Some days’ events were listed in only a sentence or two. Finally the last entry in the old diary said simply:

Despairing, have taken cannon balls to

tunnel. Sent message to General Smith.

Frank whistled. “What a clue! Joe, come here!” he cried out.

“First an arsenal. Now a tunnel,” General Smith said. “This is getting more baffling as we go along.”

“The arsenal might be a tunnel,” Joe said, after reading the notation.

“I have an idea,” Frank declared, “that the gold and a lot of old cannon balls are lying side by side in some secret tunnel. Tomorrow we’ll have to start some real digging.”

“The sooner the better!” Joe exclaimed.

“I’ll hire a couple of laborers to help us,” General Smith offered, “and we’ll dig this place up till we find that tunnel!”

The eastern sky was faintly pink as the group gathered up the papers and set off for the car. Back home they bathed, ate, and caught a few hours’ sleep. Then the general made some telephone calls to arrange for two workmen in Centerville to help with the digging on the plantation.

Chet, who was the last one awake, was agog over the news. Though his leg was stiff and sore, he insisted upon going with the group to hunt for the tunnel.

Directly after breakfast, they set out for town to pick up the two workmen. On the way, the Hardys discussed with General Smith where the tunnel might be.

“It’s hard to say,” the officer said. “I would imagine it led from the cellar of the mansion to one of the other buildings. Or it might have been an underground entrance for slaves coming to the house.”

A few minutes later, having picked up the laborers, they drove to the old plantation.

“I want you to dig in the ruins of this mansion,” the general told the men. “We think there may be an old tunnel here somewhere.”

The laborers plied picks and shovels, and the boys pitched in to aid in the arduous task. Together they dug in the hot sun until late in the morning when Joe’s pick struck a layer of bricks.

“Hand me a crowbar!” he called up to Chet, who was sitting on a pile of stones watching the work.

His friend let down the long bar. Joe pried at the bricks by his feet. Suddenly they caved in and the crowbar plopped into a deep hole.

“I’ve hit a tunnel!” Joe cried.

CHAPTER XVII

A Fresh Perspective

THE opening Joe had made in the earth was large enough for him to slip through. He beamed his flashlight below. There definitely was an underground passageway!

“Lower me down here, Frank,” he called excitedly.

Frank and Joe interlocked their wrists, the older boy easing his brother down into the black hole.

“Okay,” Joe called hollowly in the vault below. “I’ve hit bottom. It’s solid.”

“What do you see?”

Joe flashed a beam around the moss-covered walls of the tunnel.

“Nothing here,” he shouted. “But I’ll find out where it goes.”

“Wait for me,” Frank urged.

In a moment he, too, was in the tunnel. The boys turned left and walked gingerly in the bricked passageway toward what once apparently had been the opening into the cellar of the mansion. The entrance was sealed up by a heap of stones which had fallen down from the old foundation.

“This is as far as we go in this direction,” Joe said. “Let’s find the exit.”

Picking their way along the dark tunnel, the boys walked nearly two hundred feet. There was no sign of gold or of any cannon balls. Presently the passageway started uphill.

“Here’s a dead end,” Frank concluded as they came to a halt before a mound of earth.

“But it must lead somewhere,” Joe insisted. “I’m going to give it a kick.” He sent his foot thudding into the soft dirt. “Look! I see daylight!”

Joe’s kick had opened a slight fissure in the earthwork at the end of the tunnel.

He stood back a few feet, then ran forward, twisting so that his shoulder hit the dirt wall with a solid impact. The end of the tunnel gave way and Joe went sprawling.

Frank quickly followed. When the boys’ eyes became accustomed to the sunlight, they realized they were at the foot of a small terrace behind the ruins of the plantation house.

“This knoll probably was built just to conceal the opening to that tunnel,” Frank remarked.

“And it’s concealing something else,” Joe whispered excitedly. “Look!”

Frank followed his brother’s gaze to a figure crouched behind a tree, apparently observing every move of the two diggers, Chet, and the general. He was thin, and had a stubbly gray beard.

Joe started toward the man, but in his haste stepped on a twig, which snapped with the sound of a revolver shot. The watcher looked around. When he saw Frank and Joe coming toward him, the man took to his heels.

Hearing the sound of crashing brush, the others at the ruins turned in surprise to see the Hardys racing after a stranger.

“How the dickens did they get out of that tunnel?” Chet spluttered.

As the laborers watched open-mouthed, Frank and Joe sped after the fugitive, who seemed to be following a familiar route. Though a swift runner, he was no match for the Hardys. In a few minutes they overtook him.

“Lemme go!” he cried loudly as the boys held on to him. “I ain’t done nothin’!”

The boys recognized the voice as that of Hank, the man who had been with Junior when they discovered the safe.

“Why were you spying on us?” Frank demanded.

“None o’ your business what I do for the pro—”

The man caught himself and refused to say another word.

“Pro?” Frank thought. On a hunch, he said, “Better talk, Hank! We know you’re working for Professor Randolph.”

Frank’s deduction evidently had been correct. A wild look came into their prisoner’s eyes. He made a desperate effort to escape, but the Hardys tightened their grip and escorted the man back to the ruins.

General Smith met the trio a distance away from the laborers. “Brought in a prisoner, eh?”

Frank whispered to the officer, “I’m sure he’s one of the gang. He was watching us work.”

The general tried to make the man talk, but it was useless. He decided to turn the fellow over to the police at once. Since the Hardys wanted to investigate the tunnel farther, they remained at the spot.

After the prisoner’s hands and legs had been firmly tied, Chet, as custodian, went along with the general to Centerville.

Frank and Joe looked carefully at every brick in the old tunnel but found no clue to the treasure.

“I don’t think this is the tunnel old Beauregard Smith meant,” Joe said at last.

While the boys waited for General Smith to return, they discussed the mystery from every angle. Perhaps now they would get a break, if the prisoner would tell all he knew. They were still discussing the capture when the general returned alone, Chet having remained at the police station to provide the chief with full information.

“But even if he doesn’t talk, we know he’s one of the Bush gang,” Joe declared.

“I don’t like Bush’s silence,” Frank spoke up. “It’s kind of ominous. I think we ought to check-mate him.”

“Good idea,” the general agreed. “But how?”

Frank mulled over the problem.

“The man we captured seemed to be heading for a definite destination. Perhaps Bush and his gang have a hideout right under our noses.”

“It would be mighty hard to ferret them out,” the officer said. “They’re probably in a secluded place where they’d have the draw on us. If it’s in the timberland, it would take an army to beat the bush.”

“Unless we got high enough to look down on them,” Frank suggested.

“A plane!” Joe was excited as he informed the general that both he and Frank were experienced pilots.

“But the noise would give you away before you reached them,” the officer objected.

“There’s nothing to make them suspect we’d be flying,” Frank declared.

“I’ve noticed several private planes around here in the past week. Is there an airport nearby, General Smith?”

“Yes, a big one about twenty miles from Rocky Run. Why don’t you do it this afternoon? I think there’s been enough gold hunting for one day.”

When they arrived home, Chet handed the Hardys a telegram. It said:

GOOD CLUE. JUNIOR OLDER. WEST

TRAILS SLIPPERY. DOWN SOON. DAD.

Chet grinned. “Gee, that sounds funny. I suppose it’s in code.”

Neither he nor the general could make out the message, so Frank interpreted. “Junior is older than he appears and a slippery customer, probably from out West.”

“Wow!” Chet cried. “No wonder he’s handy with a gun I”

General Smith looked very serious. “You boys have done mighty well on this case, and have one prisoner. Don’t you want to call it quits? With the material you’ve already gathered, your dad should solve this mystery in short order.”

Joe frowned. “That’s just it, sir. We want to solve it before he gets here.”

“Well, I’m all for you,” the officer said happily. “You surely have opened my eyes. Didn’t know the younger generation had so much detective ability. We’ll get that plane this afternoon. Call up and make arrangements, Frank.”

The boy contacted the airport and talked with a young pilot who operated a plane-leasing service. He readily agreed to rent the Hardys a small plane.

At four o’clock Frank, Joe, and Chet arrived at the airport. By arrangement, General Smith was to post himself at the old plantation. If the boys found the location of Bush’s hideout, they were to fly over the plantation and drop a message to the officer. He, in turn, was to get the local police to assist in the roundup of the criminals.

On the way to the airport building, Chet chattered eagerly. “Just the kind of day for pictures. Maybe I can take some good ones from the plane and sell them to the local newspaper.”

A young man came out the door of a hangar as Frank parked. He smiled at the boys, and introduced himself as Tom Crandall.

Frank briefly explained his mission, saying they were going to look for a group of men believed to be in the woods near the old plantation.

“You can go up right away. There’s your baby. I checked her out myself.” Crandall indicated a sleek little silver four-seater.

The boys strode out to the runway apron and climbed aboard. Frank started the engine, the propeller raced to life, and the small craft shuddered with power.

“Okay, here we go!” Frank shouted as he taxied to take-off position. In a few minutes the plane rose into the air.

Joe sat in the seat next to his brother, with Chet directly behind. As the craft glided over the treetops, Chet watched as Frank manipulated the controls.

“Gee I’d sure like to learn to fly these things,” the boy mused.

“Nothing’s stopping you!” Joe grinned, turning to wink at Frank.

“We’ll crisscross the area,” Frank said. “Sing out when you spot the Smith place.”

“Boy, this is the life!” Chet beamed as he leaned toward a window to take photographs.

It did not take the craft long to reach the old plantation. Peering out, the boys saw General Smith far below, waving up to them.

“Here’s the place,” Frank said, taking in the area with a sweep of his hand. “I’ll go a mile or so north, then back again. Keep a sharp lookout when we get over the middle of the woods.”

The boys’ eyes were glued to the windows for a possible glimpse of anybody in the secluded area below. Chet fussed with his telephoto lens, then squinted down at the scene.

Suddenly Frank cried out, “Look! There’s smoke over there!”

Far ahead, and apparently rising from a clearing, curled a lazy wisp of smoke.

“Somebody’s down there, sure as shootin’,” Joe stated. “We’ll pass right over them.”

Tense with excitement, the boys waited for the plane to reach the spot from which the smoke was rising.

“Can you bring her lower?” Joe asked.

Frank nodded, then manipulated the controls so that the plane nosed gently down. He leveled off again. The smoke was closer. Finally a clearing came into view.

Frank decided not to fly over it directly. Instead he made a wide circle, banking at an angle to give all of them a clear view of the place.

“Well, would you look at that!” Chet said, and adjusted his telephoto lens.

Three men were around a campfire, evidently preparing a meal. The figures were bending over, so that they could neither be seen directly by the boys nor could they see the occupants of the plane bearing down upon them.

The shutter of Chet’s camera clicked and clicked again. Suddenly the men, apparently now suspicious of the low-flying plane, grabbed up something from the ground and dashed into the bushes. But not before Chet had snapped another picture!

“What now?” asked Joe.

“Back to the plantation,” Frank said. “We’ll drop a note to General Smith.”

Three men hovered around a campfire

Frank eased the plane into a banking turn, ap-plied full throttle, and climbed for altitude. But as he did, a man on the ground ran into the clearing.

Chet centered him in the view finder and ex claimed. “He’s got a rifle. He’s aiming at us!”

All three could see tiny puffs of smoke as the high-power weapon spoke and bullets struck home against the fuselage. Then a bullet thudded against the straining motor. Frank gave a groan of dismay as the engine began to cough!

CHAPTER XVIII

A Final Clue

“THE bullet’s hit the fuel line!” Frank shouted to Joe and Chet.

Immediately he tried to coax the engine back to its normal, pulsating drone, but his feverish manipulation failed. The sputtering became continuous, and the craft began to lose altitude.

“We’re going to crash!” Chet cried hysterically.

“Pull yourself together,” Joe shouted. “Frank can handle a plane as well as if he’d been born at the controls.”

The older Hardy grinned at his brother’s high praise, even as he himself began to lose hope.

“We may be able to keep her up long enough to make it back to the airstrip,” he yelled encouragingly.

Yet as he fought to maintain a safe altitude, Frank knew that at any moment the engine might give a final cough, and quit. And there was the further danger that leaking gas from the damaged fuel line might ignite and set the small plane aflame.

“I can see the airport ahead now! Joe exclaimed excitedly. ”You’re doing fine, Frank. Keep up—”

The boy’s remark was cut short as the engine gave a sudden shudder and the craft dropped sharply. Trees loomed only a few feet beneath the belly of the plane.

But now Frank was lined up with the runway.

“Hang on!” he bellowed. “I think we’re going to make it—but it may be a rough landing!”

Chet sucked in his breath and shut his eyes as the wheels struck the concrete and bounced. The plane bounced twice more, then skidded to a final stop a few yards in front of its hangar.

Frank heaved a huge sigh of relief as Joe clapped him on the back.

“Great work!”

“Y-you mean we-we’re s-safe?” Chet asked unbelievingly as the boys helped him from the craft.

“I’ve had close calls, but this was the closest,” Frank admitted.

Just then Crandall ran from the hangar.

“I’m sorry your plane’s damaged,” Frank said, and he explained what had happened.

Crandall managed a half-smile. “The plane’s covered by insurance,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re all safe!”

As the Hardys and Chet made their way to the office, Crandall asked if they had any idea who had fired upon them.

“We think the man responsible is a criminal who calls himself Dr. Bush,” Joe answered. “He and his cohorts have been bothering us for some time.”

“Well,” Crandall said after a pause, “Bush is in real trouble now. He can’t go around shooting at planes and expect to get away with it!”

After settling the bill for the plane’s rental and thanking Crandall, the three boys went to the police station and reported the incident. The chief said he would relay the information to the county sheriff and a determined search would be made for the men involved.

Frank and Joe wanted to join the hunt, but when they telephoned their news to General Smith, he would not hear of it.

“You were up most of last night,” he reminded them. “Come on back here and get some rest.”

Claude was waiting for them with a sumptuous meal. It was not Chet alone who came back for third helpings of pompano and fried tomatoes. Frank and Joe’s recent experience had given them ravenous appetites.

Chet had planned to take his roll of film to town for developing after dinner, but he fell asleep in an easy chair. General Smith and Joe discussed the mystery, while Frank for the hundredth time looked over the coded message found in the ammunition box. Finally he said:

“There’s one symbol on this sheet we’ve never tried to decipher and it might be the connecting link.”

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“The strange-looking tree. You said you never saw one like it, General Smith?”

“I can’t recall ever having seen one.”

Frank became silent again, but in a few minutes he remarked, “Do you suppose there are any old-timers in town who would have any information about the plantation before it was ruined?”

As the general pondered, Claude came to say good night. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I couldn’t help hearing your conversation. I believe Reverend Colts, the pastor of my church, could help you.”

“That’s fine. Thank you, Claude. We’ll call on him in the morning,” the general said.

The Hardys’ first stop the following day, however, was the jail. There they were told that Hank still refused to talk. The boys also learned there was no news of Bush or the gang.

While Chet went to the general store with film to be developed, the Hardys and General Smith called at the home of Reverend Colts. A middle-aged man answered their knock. The general introduced himself and asked the pastor if he knew of anyone still living who had had any contact with the Smith plantation years ago.

“Yes, I do,” the pastor replied. “Benjamin Berry. He lives in an old folks’ home. I’m quite sure his grandfather worked for Mr. Beauregard Smith.”

The boys and the general thanked the pastor and drove to the home, located a mile away. An attendant pointed out old Ben, who was rocking on the side porch of the red-brick building.

“How do you do, Ben?” said General Smith. Smiling, he told the man who he was. “Meet some friends.”

The old man nodded. To their questions, he replied that his grandfather had served the Beauregard Smith family long after the emancipation. He was delighted to talk of the older days. After a few minutes General Smith steered the conversation around to the lost tunnel.

“Did you ever hear of an old arsenal on the plantation?” the general asked.

Ben shook his head.

“Ever see a tunnel, or any other hiding place?”

The old man took up a cane resting beside his chair and thoughtfully folded his bony hands over its head.

“I’m tryin’ to think, General.” He paused. “No. I don’t remember any tunnel, but I know my grandpop was scared of the woods along the run.”

“Why?” Joe was first with the question.

“He said he once saw Mr. Beauregard swallowed right up by the earth, probably because of some hole that nobody but Mr. Smith knew about.”

“That may be just what we’re looking for!” Joe burst out. “Where was the place, Ben?”

“I don’t know exactly. Some place along Rocky Run.”

“There’s another question we’d like to ask you, Ben,” Frank spoke up. The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a drawing of the tree as it had appeared on the coded message. “Ever see a tree like this?”

Ben carefully adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his nose. After studying the tree a moment, he smiled.

“Well I declare! I haven’t seen a Franklin tree for many, many a year.”

“A Franklin tree?”

“Mr. Smith planted a lot of them along the Rocky Run. They were his favorite trees. But most of them died right off, so I heard.”

Ben believed the species had been found growing first in the Carolinas. Then it had almost died out until the middle of the nineteenth century, when it became quite popular and was named for Benjamin Franklin.

“Could you describe the tree?” Joe asked.

The old man thought a moment.

“As I remember, the trees stood fifteen, twenty feet high. They had leaves like those on magnolias, with fragrant white blossoms.” He concluded, “The trees are still rare, because they’re hard to grow. It’s too bad. They smelled wonderful on summer afternoons.”

Ben looked up. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be of more help to you.”

“But you havel” Joe said enthusiastically.

After thanking Ben for his information, the trio got into the car and returned to Centerville. Chet was waiting for them in front of the store.

“Let’s get out to Rocky Run as soon as possible,” Joe said eagerly.

“Not me,” Chet spoke up. “I have a hunch that this time my pictures are going to solve the mystery. The man said he’d have ‘em ready by twelve o’clock, so I’m hanging around here to wait.”

General Smith and the Hardys were about to drive off when Claude came hurrying along the street, waving for the officer to wait.

“A long-distance call came in for you, sir,” he reported. “Very poor connection, but the party said he would call again about twelve. Its very important, and he asked that you please be there.”

Telling Frank and Joe he would see them later, the general followed Claude.

As the Hardy boys drove off, they wondered if the call might have anything to do with their case. But the thought left their minds as they eagerly talked about the clue of the Franklin tree.

In the meantime, Chet, to while away the time, walked around the town, had an ice-cream soda, and bought some scenic cards of Centerville to send home. At a quarter to twelve his pictures were ready.

Chet pulled them from the envelope eagerly. One look and he gave a shout.

“Randolph! The black bag! I’ve got to get to General Smith fast!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Lost Tunnel

CHET left the storekeeper staring open-mouthed at his cryptic remarks. The stout boy had never moved faster than he did in the next few minutes. Bursting breathlessly into General Smith’s home, he was met by the officer who was just turning away from the telephone.

“Chet, we must find Frank and Joe at once!”

“What’s up?” Chet replied, stopping short with the photographs in his hand. The look of worry on the general’s face alarmed him.

“Mr. Hardy has uncovered the identities of our enemies. I’ve just had a message from his home. He’s flying down here.”

“Bush and his men are bank robbers, wanted on the West Coast,” he continued. “They’re fully armed and deadly! If we don’t get to Frank and Joe immediately, we may never see them alive again!”

Meanwhile, the Hardys had covered a lot of ground. After hiding the car in a grove of trees, they had started their search along the north bank of Rocky Run, the side nearest the plantation buildings.

“Suppose you look for signs of a tunnel along the shore, Joe,” his brother suggested. “I’ll keep my eyes open for Franklin trees or other clues a little distance from the water.”

The boys started upstream, carrying a shovel and a spade. Every little crevice among the rocks, every depression in the ground was carefully probed. When an old stone fence indicated they had come to the end of the plantation, Frank and Joe switched places and started back to recheck before crossing the stream.

They continued the search, looking at every tree and every inch of ground until their backs ached. Finally Frank called a halt. He went to the brink of the stream, bent down, and splashed his face with the cool water. The refreshing pause sharpened his senses. Taking in a deep breath of woodland air, he remarked:

“Smell that sweet honeysuckle?”

“Honeysuckle?” Joe repeated. Suddenly his eyes lighted with excitement. “Frank! Maybe what we smell is from the blossoms of a Franklin tree!”

“Joe, you’re a whiz. But I didn’t see any Franklin trees on this side of—”

“Let’s look on the other side of the stream,” Joe interrupted excitedly.

Following the direction from which the sweet scent seemed to be coming, they crossed the rapidly swirling water and pressed several yards into the woods. Suddenly Frank spotted something.

“Follow me!” he cried, scrambling through the brush.

He and Joe reached a beautiful tree, whose fragrance scented the woodland. Although the branches seemed to be decaying in several places, its leaves were large, with beautiful white blossoms. There were no other trees around like it.

“Maybe this is it!” Joe cried.

“The only one left of Beauregard Smith’s favorite trees,” Frank murmured in awe.

“Come on!”

Starting at the base of the tree, the boys made ever-widening circles, probing every inch of ground as they went.

“Hey, look at this!” Frank said as he came upon a large mossy mound close to the stream. Opening his knife, the boy peeled off some of the thick green sod. Underneath a layer of earth he found a brick.

The boys began to dig away the sod furiously. A few minutes later they had uncovered a vaultlike enclosure. They loosened the bricks in the front one by one. Finally they had made an opening large enough to squeeze through. The daylight which penetrated the darkness below revealed old stone steps leading downward.

“The lost tunnel! The arsenal!” Joe exulted hoarsely.

Frank was just as excited as his brother, but he warned Joe:

“Keep it down! We don’t want to attract any of Bush’s men—yet.”

Joe already was leaping down the steps, Frank close behind.

They found themselves in a musty cavern. Both boys whipped out their flashlights, then halted in amazement.

“Cannon balls!” Frank exclaimed. “Look! There must be a hundred of them.”

The balls were piled in a huge pyramid in the middle of the dank cave.

“But I don’t see any gold,” Joe said in disappointment, straining his eyes to catch every detail of the place.

The gloomy tunnel was a natural rock cavern which apparently had been enlarged for use as a storehouse. The Hardys went to the end, about fifty feet ahead. The exit was solidly blocked with stones, bricks, and earth. There seemed no evidence of the Smith fortune or the bank’s gold anywhere in the cavern.

“Unless...” Frank said. “Joe! I have it! You remember the message, ‘Find coin in iron’?”

He dashed back toward the entrance. At the same moment the sunlight was cut off. There came the sound of men’s voices. Chilling words were projected into the tunnel.

“You’ve had your last chance, Hardys! We warned your father! Smiley, light the fuse!”

CHAPTER XX

The Plantation’s Secret

THE screeching of brakes sounded in front of General Smith’s house as a taxi came to a sudden stop. Chet and the officer looked out the window in time to see Fenton Hardy step out, tell the driver to wait, and dash to the front door. Behind him hurried Sam Radley, his operative.

“Frank and Joe!” were the detective’s first words when General Smith opened the door. “Where are they?”

When he heard they had driven out to the lonely plantation, a look of intense worry came into Mr. Hardy’s eyes.

“Their lives are in danger!” he said. The detective quickly introduced Radley, then added, “Come on. We’ve got to get out there!”

The four ran to the taxi and climbed in. When they pulled away, the general and Chet brought the detectives up to date on the Bush case. At the end, Chet said:

“I have a good clue to Dr. Bush, Mr. Hardy.”

“What is it?”

“A picture I took from a plane.” The boy showed the photograph of a tall man running. “That’s Professor Randolph,” he explained. “I’m sure he’s Dr. Bush in disguise! Remember the half-picture of him with a black bag I snapped in Bayport?”

“Good work, Chet! I think you’re right. Bush and Randolph—his right name’s Skagway—are one and the same. He’s not a professor or a medical doctor, and that black bag contains safecracking tools! He’s a bank robber—and deadly.” Mr. Hardy leaned toward the taxi driver. “Take her to the limit. Speed may mean the difference between life and death!”

The group sat tensely as the taxi roared toward the plantation.

“There’s the car!” Chet announced when they reached the bridge.

As the taxi halted, Mr. Hardy asked the driver to wait. The four passengers dashed toward Rocky Run, along whose banks Frank and Joe had been searching.

Once within cover of the thick overhanging trees, Mr. Hardy called for silence. They pressed forward with barely a sound. The detective and Radley, accustomed to the job at hand, noiselessly forged ahead of Chet and the general.

Suddenly Mr. Hardy raised his hand. Sam stopped. Voices sounded near them, barely audible above the gurgling of the stream. Through the foliage they could vaguely see the three men who were talking. The trio seemed to be leaning over a hole in the ground.

“I heard the kid say the gold ain’t down there!” one of them whined.

A tall man angrily kicked a stone. “That settles it.” Then he cried out into the yawning earth, “You’ve had your last chance, Hardys. We warned your father. Smiley, light the fuse!”

Mr. Hardy and Radley leaped toward the trio. Simultaneously a sharp explosion shook the earth. Rocks and debris shot into the air.

The opening into the tunnel was sealed up!

Chet and the general also came running. Ahead of them stood Randolph-Bush, Junior, and Smiley!

The three men whirled when they heard their pursuers. Junior thrust his gun hand into his pocket. It got no farther. The crashing right fist of Fenton Hardy smashed into Junior’s jaw. He sprawled full length.

Randolph took to his heels as Radley made a flying tackle. At the same time Smiley quickly leaned over and snatched a crowbar from the open black bag. He swung at Mr. Hardy. The detective blocked the blow with his left hand. His right slammed against the criminal’s midriff. Smiley folded and sank to the ground.

“Get Randolph!” Chet shouted as he saw the ringleader squirm from Radley’s shoestring tackle and break away.

He and General Smith were hard after the professor when Mr. Hardy called them back. “We need you here. Quick! Tie these two up, Chet! We have to dig, men, and dig fast!”

Using their hands, pieces of flat stone, and Joe’s spade which they had found nearby, they went furiously at the job of freeing Frank and Joe. Fen ton Hardy finally crashed through the barrier.

“Frank! Joe!” A moment of silence followed.

Radley’s light flashed on the boys. They were lying face down. Neither moved.

Mr. Hardy bent close over his sons. “Thank heaven they’re breathing!”

He and Sam Radley carried the boys up the steps. Chet paled. “They’re—they’re not—”

“No,” Mr. Hardy said. “Just knocked out.”

He and Radley applied artificial respiration.

Joe opened his eyes first. Then Frank stirred. In a few minutes both boys were on their feet, shaking their heads dazedly. They tried to smile as they related their experience.

“I thought we were dead ducks,” Joe said. He shot a glance at the two prisoners who also had regained consciousness. Chet had them well bound and had removed a pistol from Junior’s pocket.

“Who’s he, Dad?” Frank asked.

“Harold Maskey—called Junior because he looks so young. He’s a bad actor.”

While Chet was telling the brothers how his picture had identified Randolph as Dr. Bush, that the criminal had been there but had escaped, and that the gang were wanted West Coast bank robbers, Mr. Hardy started back toward the taxi.

“I’m going to advise the State Police to comb this whole area for Bush,” he declared.

Suddenly Frank called out, “I’ll bet his loot is hidden in the cellar of the Rocky Run Museum. Bush will probably head right there!”

Using the taxi radio, Mr. Hardy was able to get a message through to the police. An officer promised to send men to the museum and a patrol car to pick up the prisoners at Rocky Run. After thanking and paying the taxi driver, the detective returned to the boys.

The captors remained silent. It was not long before three troopers crashed through the woodland to the tunnel. One said news had just come over his car radio that the notorious leader of the bank robbers, posing as Dr. Bush and Professor Randolph, had been found in the cellar of the museum. Secreted in the walls was the West Coast loot. Hank also had confessed. Hearing this, Smiley groaned.

“The jig’s up,” he said. “If we tell ’em everything, they may go easier on us, Junior.”

The two related their part in the plot to get the Smith gold and keep the Hardys out of the case. Their boss, they said, was married to a woman who used to live in the Centerville area and had told him the story of the lost gold. She had not known about her husband’s criminal activities until recently, thinking he was off on business trips.

When she had overheard his plans to help himself to the plantation treasure and even go to Bayport to prevent General Smith and the Hardys from coming to Centerville, she had tried to stop him.

“But before she could get the fuzz, he ran off,” Smiley smirked.

“So it was Bush’s wife who made the phone calls to us,” Frank said.

Smiley nodded.

Randolph had helped himself to the secluded museum and threatened the old Negro caretaker and his family. Whenever the robber and his gang wanted to be alone they had locked the old man in a back room.

“How did you find the clue to Pleasanton’s Bridge?” Joe asked. “You never saw the message in the bandoleer.”

Smiley told them that Randolph, instead of going to town to find out about the deed, had returned to the museum through the cellar and climbed up beneath the old fireplace. There he had eavesdropped, and had heard them mention the bridge.

“Mr. Hardy, I really ain’t got no hate against your boys,” Smiley concluded. “I got to admit they’re smarter’n me.”

Such was not the case with Junior. As Sam Radley and the troopers led the two men away, hatred for the Hardys flashed in the youthful-looking criminal’s eyes.

When the police car had roared off, Frank said excitedly, “I think we’re going to solve the most important mystery—the mystery of the lost tunnel! Follow me!”

By this time the sulphurous air in the cavern had begun to clear. Frank scrambled down the steps, climbing over the debris scattered by the explosion. Joe, Chet, General Smith, and Mr. Hardy followed.

“I still don’t get it,” Joe said, looking inquiringly at his brother. “There’s nothing resembling gold anywhere in here.”

Frank led them over to the pile of cannon balls, then stopped. “Remember the message, ‘Find coin in iron’? Hold the flashlight, Joe.”

Frank opened his knife and scratched the corroding surface of one of the balls. An outer layer began to fall away. Suddenly a glint of gold appeared. Feverishly he scraped off more iron until there was no doubt.

“The treasure!” cried General Smith.

The others gasped in amazement.

Mr. Hardy scraped another ball until the gold winked through. Joe attacked another, Chet a third.

“Great-grandfather’s name is vindicated!” the general exclaimed, after examining several more cannon balls to be sure. “The bank will get back its money. And Beauregard’s heirs will be able to restore the plantation and can come back to live here!”

Putting his hands on the Hardy boys’ shoulders, he turned to their father. “Fenton, you’re the luckiest man in the world to have such sons!”

The detective smiled broadly. “You won’t find me contradicting you!” He turned to Chet. “Mr. Morton’s got a son—and a photographer—to be proud of, too.”

Chet beamed as the general slapped him affectionately on the back.

It was not as a photographer, however, that Chet was soon to figure in the Hardys’ next adventure, The Wailing Siren Mystery.

“Hey! How’d they get the gold inside the cannon balls?” Chet asked.

“They probably melted the gold bars in the blacksmith shop,” General Smith answered. “The melting point of gold is very low, you know. Then they either made balls of it and covered them with the iron shells, or else cast hollow cannon balls first and poured in the gold.”

“And then plugged the holes,” Joe added.

Each of the Hardys and their friends lifted one of the gold cannon balls. As they carried load after load from the lost tunnel, the group chattered gaily.

“I feel so good, I think we ought to have a celebration,” Chet asserted.

“With atom crackers?” Frank grinned.

“Or one of Claude’s dinners,” Joe suggested, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh boy!” Chet exclaimed. “I can hardly wait!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Money from the Sky

CHAPTER II - Two Losses

CHAPTER III - Telltale Tracks

CHAPTER IV - Followed!

CHAPTER V - The Ransom Demand

CHAPTER VI - Tailing a Pigeon

CHAPTER VII - A Suspicious Salesman

CHAPTER VIII - The Night Prowler

CHAPTER IX - A Cry for Help

CHAPTER X - The Detector

CHAPTER XI - A Hoax

CHAPTER XII - A Strange Pet

CHAPTER XIII - Another Theft

CHAPTER XIV - The Mysterious Light

CHAPTER XV - An Urgent Plea

CHAPTER XVI - Two Knockouts

CHAPTER XVII - Trouble at Sea

CHAPTER XVIII - Caught!

CHAPTER XIX - Danger in North Woods

CHAPTER XX - A Surprise Capture

THE WAILING SIREN MYSTERY

CAUGHT in their motorboat the Sleuth, by a sudden storm at sea, Frank and Joe Hardy are helpless when the engine conks out. Drifting farther from shore amid the tumultuous waves, the boys are relieved to see the lights of a yacht. But their SOS is ignored.

The shrill sound of a siren fills the night air. Moments later, a helicopter drops an object alongside the Sleuth. To the young detectives’ astonishment it proves to be a wallet containing two thousand dollars.

The next day their dose pal Chet Morton rushes to the Hardys’ home to report that the Morton farm truck carrying a shipment of high-powered rifles belonging to his uncle, a big-game hunter, has been stolen.

These two apparently unconnected events are clues in a tangle of mystery which turns out to be one of the detective brothers’ most exciting adventures.

“Stand where you are!” the man ordered

Copyright © 1979,1968, 1951 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. Libray of

Comgress Catalog Card Number: 68-29946

eISBN : 978-1-101-07644-6

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Money from the Sky

THE Sleuth roared toward Barmet Bay as fast as its propeller could churn the sullen sea. At its wheel sat Joe Hardy, tensely watching the black clouds. His brother Frank bent anxiously over the throbbing motor.

“Think we’ll make it?” Joe asked.

“If the engine holds out. Listen! It’s missing again!”

The motor coughed. At the same time a jagged bolt of lightning flung itself from a towering thunderhead. It was followed by a deafening crash. As rain poured down on the boys in blinding sheets, the engine suddenly conked out.

“We’re in for it!” Frank called.

“What’s the matter?”

“It could be the gas line.”

Frank opened the hatch to the engine, grabbed the toolbox, and set to work. Without power, the Sleuth was in danger of being capsized by the giant waves.

“I’ll try to keep her heading into the wind,” Joe shouted.

The storm had broken in all its fury. Lightning flashed almost continuously, and the air reverberated to the roll of thunder. One blinding flash hit the water not far from the boat.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “A little closer and we would have had it!”

“Never saw a storm come up so fast,” Frank said.

The Hardys, high school boys out for an evening cruise in their motorboat, had gone farther into the ocean from Barmet Bay than usual. Dark-haired Frank, tall, slender, and keen-witted, was worried. Joe, a year younger, with blond, wavy hair and an impetuous nature, was not too concerned as yet.

This trait of Joe’s was responsible for their present predicament. Joe had listened to only the first half of the late-afternoon weather report. Now the two boys were caught in the center of a heavy summer squall.

Frothy whitecaps slapped over the side of the boat as it rocked dangerously in the turbulent sea. The ponchos that the boys had grabbed out of a locker gave them some protection from the rain, but their slacks and sneakers were becoming soaked. And the Barmet Bay inlet, with its blinking beacons, seemed to be drifting away from the Sleuth at an alarming rate.

“How’s it coming?” Joe called.

“No luck yet. If this storm keeps up, Mother will be a wreck. You know how she worries about us being out here in bad weather.”

“And Aunt Gertrude isn’t helping her any,” Joe added. “She’s probably telling Mother of the perils of the sea and why boys shouldn’t have motorboats.”

“I wish Dad were home to calm them,” Frank said. “Did he say when he was coming back from Washington?”

“No,” Joe replied. “He never can tell how long his secret government cases are going to last.”

“I wonder what it’s about this time. Dad said we might be of some help to him in—”

Frank was interrupted by another large wave which struck the Sleuth with a resounding whack.

As Joe pulled hard on the wheel to avoid an avalanche of water, he cried out, “Frank, look!”

In the distance a yacht was bobbing up and down in the giant waves.

“Maybe the captain will help us out,” Frank suggested. “Let’s signal.”

He picked up a flashlight and beamed an S O S, hoping to attract attention. There was no response. The Sleuth was evidently too low in the water for the signal to be seen.

In a matter of minutes it was completely dark on the water. The lightning and thunder ceased, but the rain and heavy wind continued.

The motor of the Sleuth was still dead. Frank had been unable to locate the trouble with the craft rocking so violently. The use of tools was out of the question.

Suddenly Joe shouted, “Frank, the yacht’s heading this way. She’ll run us down!”

Frantically Joe signaled with his flashlight. A moment later the winking lights of the ship were blotted out.

Hearts beating wildly, the boys waited. If the ship came closer without seeing them, there would be only one thing for them to do—jump overboard!

Suddenly the boys saw the yacht’s lights again. They were farther away than before.

“Whew!” said Frank in relief.

“I think I hear a helicopter,” Joe said. “Let’s signal again.”

Above the roar of the wind and the breakers came the sound of whirling rotors.

“That pilot’s crazy to be out in a storm like this,” said Joe.

“Maybe he’s lost. From the sound, he must be circling. But I can’t see him.”

“Nor I. Hope he doesn’t think the light on the yacht is a landing field,” Joe said with a shudder.

At that moment the wail of a siren filled the air, “Where’s that coming from?” Joe asked.

“She’ll run us down!” Joe shouted

“Either the copter or the yacht,” Frank reasoned. “The sound couldn’t carry this far from shore in the storm.”

The yacht’s deck lights blazed again. Then, as before, they disappeared.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked.

“Wish I knew.”

Clear vision was cut off by the blinding rain. Five minutes, ten minutes went by. The rotors could be heard faintly.

Then suddenly the sounds of the helicopter became clearer again. Within a matter of seconds the craft was directly overhead. As the boys looked up, there was a swishing sound, then a smack on the water directly alongside the Sleuth. Leaning way over, Frank just managed to grasp an object as it was about to sink beneath the waves.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

“Feels like a wallet! And a fat one too.”

Focusing his flashlight on the billfold, Frank whistled. “It’s full of money!”

CHAPTER II

Two Losses

JOE’S eyes popped at the sight of the bulging wallet. “It must have dropped from the helicopter—but why, is more than I can figure out,” he muttered.

Frank exclaimed, “Hundred-dollar bills!” As he started to count them, Joe shouted, “Hang on!”

A big wave was bearing down on them. It hit the craft broadside, tilting it and throwing Frank and Joe into the churning water. Automatically they struggled out of their ponchos.

Despite the predicament they were in, Frank and Joe kept their heads. Being sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous detective, they had been well schooled in meeting perilous situations.

Starting with the mystery of The Tower Treasure, they had had many narrow escapes tracking down criminals. Their latest case, known as The Secret of the Lost Tunnel, had taken them to the South on the trail of Civil War gold. But now they realized that the elements could be as dangerous as the craftiest of criminals.

Spluttering and struggling, Frank and Joe fought their way toward the Sleuth. Though expert swimmers, they had all they could do to overtake it.

Joe was the first to grasp the side of the boat. With eyes smarting and head spinning, he hauled himself over the gunwale.

Then Frank hoisted one leg over the side and tumbled into the bottom of the boat.

“Did—did you lose the wallet?” Joe asked.

Frank held up the dripping wallet. A quick flip showed the money was still there. They could count it later. Frank put it in his pocket.

The rain had stopped, and visibility was better. The yacht was now in sight, but moving rapidly southward.

“It made a quick getaway,” Frank remarked. “Wonder where it’s going.”

While Joe bailed out the boat with a large can from the locker, Frank continued his work on the motor and repaired it quickly.

“Try the starter, Joe.”

The motor roared into action. One danger was over, although it would still require skillful piloting to make the inlet.

“I’m curious about that wallet,” Joe said as they plowed along through the stormy sea.

“I think I’ll count it.” Frank beamed his flashlight on the bills and thumbed through them.

“How much?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Two thousand dollars!” Frank exclaimed. “And not a mark of identification in the wallet.”

Joe grinned. “We’ll have a sweet time finding the owner.”

“He might not want to be found,” Frank said slowly. “Maybe it’s stolen money.”

The boys continued to speculate about the wallet until they neared the mouth of the inlet. Then conversation ceased while Joe put all his energy into the task of keeping the Sleuth on a straight course.

Joe took a bearing on the blinker of the entrance buoy, and in five minutes the turbulent ocean was behind them.

“Neat navigating!” Frank commented as he looked at the lights of Bayport twinkling in the distance.

When the Sleuth finally came to the Hardys’ boathouse, Joe cut the motor. Frank leaped out and secured the line.

Two men entered the side door of the boathouse. Frank recognized them as Detective Smuff and Patrolman Con Riley of the Bayport Police Department.

“Where have you two been?” Smuff shouted.

“Why? Were you looking for us? Anything wrong at home?” Frank asked.

“No,” said Riley. “But see here, you’ve been lost. Didn’t you know it?”

“Who sent out the alarm for us?” Frank asked.

“Your mother.”

“Lock up, Joe, while I telephone home,” Frank directed.

He ran halfway down the block to a drugstore. After telephoning Mrs. Hardy that they were safe, he hurried back to Joe. Then the boys drove home in their convertible.

Mrs. Hardy flung open the front door and hugged her sons as they came in. She was a petite woman, with a pretty face and wavy hair. Frank and Joe bent down to kiss her.

“Thank goodness you’re safe!” she exclaimed.

“It was rough going for a while,” Joe said, putting an arm around his mother’s shoulder. “But we ran into what may turn out to be a big mystery.”

“What was that? Another mystery?” The voice belonged to Aunt Gertrude, unmarried sister of Mr. Hardy, who lived at their home. She came bustling down the stairs. “Well, you keep out of it!”

Tall, angular Aunt Gertrude was a very energetic person. She felt that her chief mission in life was to protect her nephews from the dangers involved in their mysteries, especially when their father was away from home.

While the boys changed into dry clothes, Mrs. Hardy prepared sandwiches and milk. As they ate, Aunt Gertrude plied them with questions. They told of their strange experience during the storm —the yacht that had vanished so suddenly, the helicopter, the wailing siren, and finally the wallet.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude gasped in amazement. “Two thousand dollars!”

“And it fell right out of the sky with no identification,” Frank explained.

“Nothing good will come of this,” Aunt Gertrude predicted. “Get rid of it right away. Some cutthroat will come here to recover it.”

“We’ll take the wallet and money to police headquarters,” Frank said.

The boys hurried to headquarters. Smuff and Riley were there, reporting to Police Chief Collig about the safe return of the Hardys.

When Smuff and Riley left, Frank handed the wallet to Collig and told about the helicopter.

The chief said he would send out a teletype notice of “a large sum of money found near Bayport,” and hope for a quick response.

Curious to hear whether the message had brought forth any claimants, Frank telephoned Collig after breakfast the next morning. There was no news.

Joe suggested to Frank that they drive to Bay port Airport. On reaching the administration building there, Frank asked the airport security chief if any pilot had mentioned losing anything from a plane the night before.

“Last night, you say? Nobody was up in that storm.”

“We heard a helicopter.”

“It wasn’t from here,” the man said. “And no one landed during the storm.”

The boys telephoned two other airports in the vicinity and received the same answer. As the Hardys drove back to the city, Frank said:

“It’s my guess the chopper was a private one.”

“That still doesn’t explain why the wallet fell out,” Joe mused. “And it’s pretty certain the owner wouldn’t expect to recover the money from the ocean. What do you think we ought to do about it?”

“I think we should put an ad in the newspaper,” Frank replied. “Let’s stop at the News on the way home.”

When they reached the office of the Bayport News, Frank filled out a form and handed it to the classified ad clerk. The advertisement read:

Found: Wallet near Bayport. Contains sum of money. Owner identify and write Q.E.D., Box 22, News Office.

“I hope this lands the real owner,” Joe said on the way home, “and not a lot of phonies.”

The boys had just finished eating lunch when they heard someone run up the front porch steps. A second later the doorbell rang frantically.

Frank opened the door. The boys’ overweight friend Chet Morton raced in. From his flushed face and heaving chest it was evident that he had run a long distance.

“Frank! Joe!” he shouted. “You’ve got to help me quick!”

“What’s the matter?”

“We’ve been robbed! Somebody stole our truck! All my uncle’s rifles were in it!”

CHAPTER III

Telltale Tracks

THE Hardys learned that Chet had gone to the railroad station in the farm truck to pick up a box of high-powered rifles. The guns had been purchased by Tyler Morton, Chet’s uncle and famous big-game hunter.

“Uncle Ty’s coming to our place in two weeks to get his stuff for a trip to Africa,” Chet explained. “But now his plans will be ruined. His guns are gone!”

“How come? Where was the truck?” Frank asked.

Chet said he had loaded the big box onto the truck and then had driven to the Wells Hardware Store to pick up a chest of tools for his father.

“While I was at the store,” Chet continued, “I picked out a lot of camping equipment I knew we would need for our trip.” Sheepishly he added, “I picked out a dandy canoe, too.”

“Did you pay for all this stuff?” Joe queried.

“No. Charged it. I thought if you didn’t like the stuff, I could return it.” Chet put his head in his hands and moaned. “If I don’t get ‘em back, I’ll have to pay for’em all!”

“Pretty tough,” Frank remarked. “Then what happened?”

“Everything was loaded into the back of the truck,” Chet explained. “I started to drive home. But I was hungry, so I pulled into the Pines, a roadside eating place.”

“I only had a couple of three-deckers,” the plump youth explained. “When I went outside for the truck, it—it was gone.”

“You left the keys in it?” Joe asked, frowning.

“Yes.”

“How long ago did this happen?” Frank asked. “Did you notify the police, Chet?”

“No. I came right here.”

Chet was so flustered he could not remember the license number of the truck. Frank telephoned Chief Collig what had happened. Then he ran out of the house with Chet and Joe, and took the wheel of the boys’ convertible.

“We’ll start from the Pines,” he said.

There was silence for a few seconds, then Joe asked, “Why did you buy all that camping stuff, Chet?”

“We were talking about a trip, weren’t we?”

“Nothing was definite.”

“I know,” Chet admitted.

When they arrived at the restaurant, Chet showed the boys where the truck had been parked.

“Are these marks in the mud from your tires?” Joe asked.

Chet nodded. “Yes. They’re plain enough, because those rear tires were new.”

The Hardys easily traced the tracks to the road, when they discovered that the truck had headed north.

Frank continued along the highway for nearly two miles, slowing down at each intersection to see if there were any tire marks along the soft sides of the roadway.

At a dirt crossroad Frank stopped to look at some tire prints on the left. After a careful examination, he shouted:

“I see them! But say, another car followed in the truck’s tracks. Wonder if that means anything.”

Chet was not listening. “Come on!” he shouted.

They hopped into the car and followed the country road. The double tracks continued for some distance; then the boys saw only one set of tire marks.

“Now what?” Frank asked, perplexed.

Joe jumped out. Reason told him the truck had turned off, but where? There was no side road.

In a moment Joe began tearing at some bushes along the road. His trained eye had noted they were wilting; probably torn up a little while before and piled there as a screen.

“Look!” he shouted, pulling the bushes away.

A lumberman’s road, which had not been used for years, forked from the dirt country road. Weeds between the logs clearly showed the two crushed trails that the wheels had made.

“Wait here,” said Joe.

He disappeared into the woods, but returned in a couple of minutes.

“I found your truck, Chet,” he said.

“Hooray!” Chet shouted. “Gee, that’s super! Now Uncle Ty can go to Africa and we can take that camping trip!”

“The truck is empty!”

“Oh, no!” Chet’s jaw dropped.

Frank had an idea. “I believe the driver of the other car was a pal of the truck thief. They must have known about this wood road where they could work without being seen.”

“And loaded the guns, tools, and camping stuff into the car and drove off,” Joe said. “A stolen truck’s hard to get rid of, but loot isn’t.”

“What about the canoe?” Frank asked.

“It could have been fastened to the roof. A lot of cars have ski racks on top, you know,” Joe replied.

Chet was distressed. A truck thief was bad enough, but going after two men with rifles in their possession was more than he had bargained for.

“I guess we’d better let the police handle this,” he said.

“What! Let those thieves get away now, when we’re on their trail!” Joe protested. “I’ll back the truck out,” he offered, “and then we’ll go after ’em!”

With Chet’s help he maneuvered the truck onto the dirt road, then trailed Frank and Chet for a mile and a half. During the ride Chet was told about the wallet the Hardys had found.

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “Two thousand dollars!”

Frank stopped suddenly. Joe pulled up in the truck right behind him and jumped out.

“Trail end?” he asked.

“No. But the car stopped here,” Frank replied. “See these marks?”

“You’ve got good eyesight to catch that,” Joe said.

The Hardys concluded that the loot might have been carried into the woods at this point. Bushes were beaten down here and there, and near the edge of a brook footprints were clearly visible. The boys searched up- and downstream, but no further trace of the thieves could be found.

“No point in going any deeper in the woods,” Frank said. “We’re only guessing that the stolen stuff is here. Anyway, this is North Woods.” He winked at Joe. “You know what that means.”

Chet’s eyes bulged. “You mean the place where people say they’ve heard wild dogs?”

“The same.” Frank nodded. “And a wild dog can be mean.”

“I don’t want to meet any of ’em,” Chet said.

“Not even to get the stolen stuff back?”

“Let the police find it,” Chet advised. “And if they don’t ... Say, you fellows got all that money. How about letting me have some of it to pay for the stolen rifles and everything?”

“Not on your life,” Joe replied, laughing. “It doesn’t belong to us.”

Chet groaned. He realized now that it had been a mistake to order the camping equipment without the Hardys’ consent. Too often in his life he had made similar mistakes and had had to pay for them with hard work, to which he was allergic.

The Hardys returned to their car. This time Chet drove the truck. Twenty minutes later they came to the intersecting macadam road, Black Horse Pike, where they lost the trail.

“We’d better report that we found the truck,” Frank said as he headed back to Bayport.

A couple of miles farther on they came to a State Police substation. Frank went in. After telling the desk sergeant of the recovery of the truck, he reported that a box of valuable big-game rifles, a set of tools, a canoe, and other camping equipment had been removed from it.

The sergeant, a tall, broad-shouldered man, frowned. “High-powered rifles are dangerous weapons in the hands of criminals,” he said. “We’ll make a careful search right away.’

“Thanks,” Frank said and went outside. Then Chet said good-by to the brothers and drove off.

When the Hardys arrived home, they found their friends Biff Hooper and Tony Prito waiting. Biff was a tall, lanky boy whose chief delight was his secondhand jeep. Tony, olive-skinned and dark-eyed, could usually be found on Barmet Bay racing his bright-red motorboat the Napoli.

“Hi, fellows!” Joe called out.

“What about our camping trip?” Biff asked. “Made any plans?”

“I think we ought to postpone the long trip we had in mind,” Frank said. “Let’s go to North Woods this weekend instead.” He told about the theft of Mr. Morton’s truck and the things in it.

“You mean you want us to search North Woods for the rifles and other stuff?” Tony asked.

“That’s right.”

“If there’s anything to those stories about wild dogs out there, we’d better not take any chances,” Biff suggested.

“I don’t think there’s anything to the rumor,” Tony scoffed.

After mapping plans for the weekend trip, Biff and Tony left. Then Joe telephoned Chet. He whistled in alarm at the thought of going into North Woods.

“Okay, if you don’t want to go,” said Joe. “But it’s your stuff that was stolen. What are you going to tell your uncle?”

“You win.” Chet sighed. “I’ll go.”

After an early supper Joe busied himself getting out their sleeping bags. Frank hurried downtown to the newspaper office. There was a remote chance, he thought, that somebody already had answered the ad about the mysterious wallet.

The clerk on duty, a high school friend who worked there evenings, handed Frank an envelope.

“A stranger left this in your box a few minutes ago.”

Frank tore it open eagerly. Then he frowned. The message was brief and mystifying.

Don’t give the money to anyone until you hear from me again.

The strange note was signed “Rainy Night.”

CHAPTER IV

Followed!

“WHAT did the man look like, Ken?” Frank asked excitedly.

The clerk grinned. “Another Hardy mystery, I’ll bet. Well, the fellow was short and dark. Had a slight limp. Wore dark glasses.”

Frank suspected the stranger might have worn the glasses as a partial disguise. “Did you notice anything special about them?” he asked.

Ken shook his head, then a second later said, “A piece of the frame was broken off.”

“Which eye?”

“Listen, Frank, I’m no detective.”

“Think!” Frank insisted. “It’s important.”

“Okay, teacher. I guess it was the left eye,” he said slowly as he tried to remember.

“That’s swell. Thanks, Ken. It will help a lot.”

“Want me to call the cops if he returns?” the clerk asked.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Something tells me that man won’t show up here again.”

Frank said this loud enough to be heard by several persons standing near the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for any sign of interest, in case the mysterious fellow with the dark glasses might have a pal posted to watch for the person who had placed the ad. A man who had his back turned seemed to be listening.

“Somebody ought to follow him,” Frank thought.

Moving quietly to a telephone booth at one end of the office, he dialed his home. Joe answered.

“Frank, what’s up?”

“I’m at the News office. A strange note was left for us. I think that the man who wrote it or a pal of his may try to follow me. Come down and watch, will you?”

“Right.”

Frank stepped from the booth and resumed his conversation with his friend Ken. A few minutes later he saw Joe walk past the door. Shortly afterward, Frank said good night to the clerk and ambled out.

A woman who had been thumbing through some back issues in the newspaper file immediately started after Frank. She wore a hat which shaded her face most effectively, so that Frank could not distinguish her features.

Frank lingered a moment in front of the building to look at some photographs in the display window. The woman crossed the street and went into a store.

As Frank started on, a tall, blond-haired man, intently reading a newspaper which partially concealed his face, emerged from the store.

Frank saw Joe’s reflection in a store window across the street. Joe was following him at a discreet distance. Frank tried to act as though he was unhurried. The man, looking up from his newspaper, but keeping his face turned as if still looking in the shopwindows, followed at the same gait.

Frank walked faster. So did the man. A few moments later Frank looked back. To his dismay, he saw that the woman was now following Joe!

Frank turned from South Street into Market Street. Glancing over his shoulder a few seconds later, he noticed that no one else had rounded the corner. He retraced his steps, gazing here and there on the sidewalk as if he had dropped something. Joe, the man, and the woman had vanished.

Frank peered down side streets and through open doorways. There was no sign of any of them. He was just beginning to feel worried, when far down the block he saw Joe wave at him.

Frank halted while Joe caught up. “Where’d they go?” Frank asked. “And where have you been?”

“Chasing ’em.”

Joe reported that he had heard a whistle behind him. Turning, he had seen the woman. Both she and the man had ducked into a service driveway and disappeared.

“Sure seems as if they’re working together,” Frank commented. “I wonder if they’ve stopped following us.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Joe. “Too bad I didn’t get a good look at that man’s face.”

His brother nodded. “If those people are after the two thousand dollars we found, they’ll try something else to learn who has it.”

“Maybe I was dumb to signal you,” Joe said. “That man and woman probably are watching us right now.”

The Hardys decided to separate and take zigzag routes home to throw any possible pursuers off the track. Fifteen minutes later they reached the house. For nearly an hour they discussed the affair with their mother and aunt.

“It’s a good thing you shook those brassy creatures,” Aunt Gertrude declared. “Why, they might have murdered us all in our beds! And to no avail, either, with the money locked up at police headquarters.”

Next morning, as the boys were eating breakfast, Aunt Gertrude, who had been out for an early-morning walk, bustled into the house.

“Look at this!” she cried. “I found these glasses under the porch window. They don’t belong to us. Somebody must have been looking in and dropped them. Somebody has been spying on our house!”

“The man at the newspaper office!” Joe exclaimed.

“Let’s see’em,” Frank asked.

A piece had been broken out of the left side of the frame!

“Our man, all right, Joe,” he said. “We were followed, sure enough. Aunt Gertrude, what window was he looking in?”

She led the way to the far window on the porch which opened into the living room. Both boys began an examination of the spot. Finding no visible clues, Joe went for a magnifying glass. With it he spotted fresh fingerprints on the window sill.

“We’d better photograph these pronto,” he said, and went to the boys’ laboratory for the equipment.

Mr. Hardy had taught his sons the latest method of using powder, camera, and developers. In a few minutes the fingerprints of the mysterious prowler were recorded. Frank and Joe hurried to Chief Collig with them. They told the chief of their adventure of the evening before and requested that the prints be checked out.

The result was disappointing. The fingerprints did not belong to any wanted well-known criminal, nor to any local person with a police record.

“I’ll send these prints along to the FBI in Washington if you want me to,” Collig said.

“No, thanks,” said Frank. “We’ll wait till Dad comes back.”

Upon reaching home, the boys looked for matching fingerprints on the frames of the glasses. But unfortunately the only clear ones were Aunt Gertrude’s. The glasses were placed on a shelf in the laboratory marked Visible Evidence.

On their way to the second floor the boys met their mother on the stairway. “Do you suppose that snooper will come again?” she asked anxiously. “Oh dear! I wish your father were home!”

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Frank said quickly. “I think the fellow wanted to find out if we had the money at home. He probably overheard us talking and learned it’s at police headquarters.”

That afternoon Frank and Joe dropped into the News office for more mail. In all, they were handed four letters. None had any bearing on their case. Each one named a smaller sum of money and obviously referred to some other loss.

“Well, we haven’t found the owner of the two thousand yet,” Frank said. “Now I’m convinced.”

“Of what?”

“The money really was stolen. That’s why the person who lost it won’t openly claim it.”

“I’ll bet you’re right, Frank,” his brother said. “So we can expect more trouble.”

“Exactly.”

They agreed not to mention their concern to Mrs. Hardy or Aunt Gertrude. There was no need of frightening them. During the leisurely evening meal they discussed various other matters, including the night ball game they planned to attend, also the trip to North Woods.

“How is Callie?” Mrs. Hardy asked, smiling at Frank, who was taking the girl to the game. Her son thought that Callie Shaw was the nicest girl at Bayport High.

“All right, I guess,” he answered. “I haven’t talked to her since yesterday.”

“Tsk, tsk!” Joe spoke up. “Such neglect!”

“Cut it,” Frank begged. “And you’d better get busy soon, Joe, or Iola will go with someone else.”

Joe glanced at the clock. He barely had time to drive out to the Morton farm to pick up Chet’s sister Iola. Excusing himself, he left the table.

“See you at the ball park in three-quarters of an hour, Frank,” he called.

Frank set off on foot thirty minutes later. Callie’s house was only a few blocks from the Hardy home and was on the way to the ball field. The sun had set, and a cool evening breeze stirred the leaves of the big trees which shaded the avenue.

The boy was deep in thought about the mystery which he and Joe had stumbled upon. Would they hear again from the letterwriter who signed himself Rainy Night?

Reaching a wooded section where the houses were far apart, he heard a slight rustle behind a hedge. Almost immediately, a dark figure came hurtling over the evergreen hedge. Before Frank could dodge, the man flung himself upon him in a diving tackle.

Frank was blindfolded and gagged before he could attempt to defend himself or cry out. His head was still spinning when he became aware of another man on the scene.

“You got him, eh? Good!”

“What now?” asked the second man.

“Into the car.”

Four hands dragged Frank along the ground and heaved him onto the floor in the rear of a sedan!

CHAPTER V

The Ransom Demand

JOE HARDY, meanwhile, drove happily along the highway toward the Morton farm. The prospect of a good ball game pleased him, especially since he was to see it with Iola. Iola was as slim as her brother was chubby, but she had the same kind of tilted nose and twinkling eyes. Glossy black hair fell softly to her shoulders.

It was not long before Joe drew up to the Morton home. Iola and Chet came out to meet him.

“Ready for some grand-slam homers?” Joe asked.

“I’ll settle for a couple of triple plays,” Iola replied, dimpling.

“Let’s go,” Joe said. “We’ll save you a seat, Chet. Frank’s taking Callie.”

Soon they were on the outskirts of the ball field. Joe parked the car, bought two tickets, and found seats.

“I thought Frank and Callie would be here by this time,” Joe said, looking around. “We’ll hold three seats as long as we can.”

The Oakmont Blues trotted onto the field for their warmup. After they had batted a few times and chased a few fungoes, the Bayport Bears replaced them on the diamond.

“I don’t like this,” Joe said, beginning to feel uneasy.

Iola touched his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Maybe they wanted to sit by themselves.”

Joe knew Frank would not do this without telling him. He kept surveying the faces of new arrivals. Finally he spotted Chet and waved him over to where they were sitting.

“Hiya, kids!” Chet bubbled. “Glad you saved a seat for me. Say, where are the others?”

“They haven’t arrived,” Joe said.

He tried not to appear anxious, but the strange happenings of the past two days made him apprehensive. Joe could not keep his mind on the game.

“I’m going to phone and see if I can find out what happened to Frank and Callie,” he said. “Iola, you wait here with Chet.”

He hurried to a telephone booth at the rear of the ball park and dialed the Shaw home. Callie answered.

“Is Frank there?”

“No, Joe. And I haven’t heard from him. Has something happened?”

“I hope not,” Joe replied tersely. “Callie, I can’t understand this. Will you stay where you are until you hear from me again?”

The gasp on the other end of the line told Joe that Callie’s concern was as deep as his own.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything,” Joe promised.

He hung up and then quickly telephoned his home. Aunt Gertrude said Frank had left the house thirty minutes after Joe.

Joe went for the boys’ car and drove to Callie’s house. From there he walked over the route, now dark, which he thought Frank would have taken, but reached home without finding his brother.

“I’ll get a flashlight and look again,” Joe said to himself as he unlocked the front door.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were startled to see Joe and immediately shared his worries.

“We’ll all look,” said Mrs. Hardy.

Aunt Gertrude grabbed a hickory cane from the hall closet. “I’ll beat the daylights out of anyone who has laid a hand on Frank!” she vowed.

The three hurried from the house and walked slowly along the street to Callie’s. Joe led the way, flashing his light from side to side. When they reached the wooded section, Joe bent down. Signs of a struggle were apparent to his trained eyes. Then he saw something that sent a spasm of fear to the pit of his stomach.

Frank’s initialed handkerchief!

There was no doubt now that somebody had ambushed Frank.

Two lines that looked as though they had been made by dragging shoe heels led to the curb. The flashlight revealed oil stains in the street indicating that a car had stood in the lonely spot for some time before being driven off.

Mrs. Hardy began to tremble. “Oh, my boy, my boy!” she said. “How can we find him?”

Aunt Gertrude kept her emotions under control. “We’ll go home and get the police busy at once. Joe, you run ahead and phone them.”

The boy reached the Hardy house just as a tall, distinguished-looking man was striding up the front walk. In one hand he carried a traveling bag, in the other a bulging briefcase.

“Dad!”

Mr. Hardy turned to greet his son. His keen dark eyes caught the look of alarm in Joe’s face.

“Dad, we’re afraid Frank’s been kidnapped!”

“Easy, son. Come inside and give me all the facts.”

Joe was telling his father of the recent mysterious happenings when his mother and aunt came hurrying into the living room. Greetings were brief and Mrs. Hardy became calmer now that her husband was home. Joe continued his story. The detective paced the floor as he listened, while Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude sat by, their faces reflecting their anxiety.

As Joe finished, there was a rap on the door. In rushed Chet and Iola.

“Where’s Frank?” Iola cried. “I just couldn’t watch the game any longer. We phoned Callie. I ... ”

The telephone rang. Mr. Hardy picked it up.

“Hello. Fenton Hardy speaking.”

“This is Rainy Night. We have your son, Hardy,” a man’s steely voice came over the wire. “Send us ten thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills if you want him back alive.”

Though alarmed, the detective’s jaw tensed with anger. His voice was razor-sharp as he answered, “Whoever you are, I want to remind you that there’s a law against kidnapping.”

“Keep the police out of this,” came the cool reply.

“Release that boy immediately,” Mr. Hardy said as everybody in the room stood electrified.

“Not till you pay!”

Mr. Hardy, though exasperated, was worried. His bluff had not worked. “Where shall we pay you the money?”

“You’ll know in the morning. Have the cash ready by eight-thirty.” The receiver clicked.

Then Mr. Hardy told his wife and son that the man on the wire had demanded a ransom for the delivery of Frank.

“Don’t any of you mention this until I give the word,” Mr. Hardy warned. ”It may mean Frank’s life if we’re not careful.”

“Who sent these?” Joe asked in surprise

In trembling anxiety Chet and Iola went home, pledged to keep the secret. Then Joe telephoned to Callie, telling her not to worry, and saying he would pick up his car in the morning.

Sleep came fitfully to all in the Hardy household. In the morning they showed the strain of a night of anguish.

While they were listlessly eating breakfast, the doorbell rang. It was exactly eight o’clock. Joe rushed to answer. An expressman stood on the porch, holding a cage partially wrapped in burlap and containing two pigeons.

“Who sent these?” Joe asked in surprise.

The man glanced at the label. “Gemini Bird’s his name.”

“What a phony!” Joe exclaimed. “That means twin bird!”

Joe signed for the birds and carried the cage into the living room. The other Hardys rushed from the dining room.

“What in creation!” Aunt Gertrude exclaimed.

Mrs. Hardy looked at her husband for an explanation. “So this is the way the ransom money is to be delivered,” the detective said.

Joe looked at the pigeons’ legs. “They’re not banded,” he remarked. “Homing pigeons are usually numbered, aren’t they, Dad?”

“Yes. A very clever person is behind this move,” Mr. Hardy said grimly. “These pigeons will fly straight to the culprits who kidnapped Frank, and we’ll never find out who they are. But,” the detective added with set jaw, “I’ll find a way to trap them!”

CHAPTER VI

Tailing a Pigeon

CONSCIOUSNESS rushed back into Frank’s brain. He was aware of a distant bell tolling eight o’clock. Was it morning or evening? He could see nothing because of the blindfold fastened tightly around his head.

The boy’s ankles were tied, his wrists bound behind him, and the gag still was in his mouth. Now memory returned. After he had been attacked and thrown into the car, a gruff voice had said:

“Easy now. This kid’s worth ten grand.” A long ride had followed. The car had stopped and the boy had been carried into a house.

The last words he had heard were, “That should hold him over!” A needle had punctured his arm. Then he had blacked out.

How long he had lain in the darkness Frank did not know. His whole body ached from the tight cords with which his wrists and ankles were bound. What day was it? he wondered.

With every ounce of effort, Frank rolled over and over on the earthen floor until he hit a wall. Rubbing his head against it, he was able to slip off the blindfold. By the daylight coming through a dirty window high above him, Frank realized he was in a cellar.

On the floor near him lay a piece of broken pipe. Frank wriggled across the dirty cellar floor. After a great deal of painful maneuvering he was able to bring his wrist bonds in contact with the jagged edge of the broken drainpipe.

The pipe rolled away, and the boy had to wedge it between the floor and the wall before he could saw the rope back and forth across the rusty edge of the pipe. The effort was painful and exhausting. But at last the rope parted and his hands were free. Quickly he loosened his gag and untied the rope that bound his ankles. He rose and walked around to stretch his cramped muscles.

The house was silent. Were the thugs upstairs, ready to deal with him further?

There was no door leading to the outside, so Frank noiselessly lifted the window, fastening it with a rusty hook. He sprang upward, at the same time thrusting his head out the window and putting his weight on his elbows. Nobody was in sight.

Digging his toes against the side of the cellar wall, Frank cautiously wormed his way through the low window. Weather-beaten shutters hung grotesquely from what obviously was a farmhouse, and the front door stood open on a broken hinge. The place seemed to be deserted.

Frank looked around and tried to get his bearings. To the north was a wooded mountain with a dip in the peak. Recognizing the mountaintop formation, he decided that the farm must be located on the same road off which they had found Chet’s abandoned truck—only farther from town.

“Those birds must know this territory well,” he thought.

Remembering another farmhouse a mile or so in the direction of Black Horse Pike, Frank set off. He was faint from hunger and the drug, but he kept on. As he plodded up the lane, the farmer’s wife saw him coming and opened the door. She surveyed the disheveled boy skeptically.

“May I use your telephone?” he asked. “I’m Frank Hardy, and I want to call Bayport.”

On hearing the name Hardy, the woman readily consented. Frank put his call through. As he waited, he noticed that the hands on a mantel clock stood at eight twenty-five.

Mr. Hardy answered. “Frank? ... Is this you? ... Hold the wire a second.” His voice boomed into the distance, “Don’t let that pigeon go!”

Frank was perplexed. He could hear sounds of the detective returning to the telephone.

“Are you all right, Frank?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Frank replied. “I got away. Will you pick me up on Black Horse Pike? I’ll walk there. I’m calling from a farm on the North Woods road.”

Joe was listening, too. “We’ll burn up the tires!” he shouted.

Frank hung up, thanked the woman, and paid her for the call. She insisted that he sit down in the kitchen and have some rolls and milk, which he accepted gratefully. His feeling of weakness and dizziness was rapidly disappearing.

“Is that old farmhouse down the road deserted?” he asked, pointing in the direction where he had spent the night.

“Yes, ’tis,” she replied. “The old folks passed away and nobody wants the place.”

“Anybody been using it since they left?” Frank asked casually.

The woman laughed. “That tumble-down place? Who’d want to stay there?”

“Tramps might—or somebody looking for a hideout.”

The farm woman bristled. “Young man, we don’t tolerate no folks like that in this peace-abiding neighborhood!”

Frank could have pointed out the error in her contention, but he said nothing. Thanking her for her hospitality, he departed. He walked down the dirt road to Black Horse Pike, where he sat down and waited to be picked up.

When Mr. Hardy and Joe arrived in the detective’s car, there was an enthusiastic exchange of greetings, then a quick ride back to the Hardy home. On the way, Frank was told about the ransom demand and the crate of pigeons that had arrived that morning.

“I was just going to release one of the pigeons when you phoned,” Mr. Hardy said.

The boys’ mother and Aunt Gertrude were overjoyed to see Frank safely home once more. They listened spellbound as he related all that had happened.

“I wonder why they left you unguarded,” Joe said.

“They probably thought the hypo would make me sleep longer than I did.”

“Those men may return again,” Mr. Hardy remarked. “We’ll notify the police to post a guard at the old farmhouse.” He reached for the telephone.

“And a guard for this house, too,” Aunt Gertrude demanded.

It was midday when they received a return call from the police saying that the deserted house had been watched constantly but that nobody had come there yet.

“Dad,” said Frank, “what would you think of our releasing one of the pigeons and following it to the kidnappers’ hideout?”

“You must have been reading my mind, son. Call the airport and charter a plane. Joe, you get our binoculars.”

The detective and his sons set off for the airport with one of the pigeons in the cage. They were greeted at the Ace Air Service by a young pilot named Jack Wayne.

“Where would you like me to take you?” he asked genially.

“That depends upon this pigeon,” Mr. Hardy answered, and quickly explained their plan.

“I’ve chased the enemy many a time.” The pilot laughed. “But this is my first time chasing a bird!”

“We’ll let the pigeon out at a thousand feet,” Mr. Hardy said.

When they reached that altitude, Joe released the bird. It flew away from the plane and began circling to orient itself.

The pilot kept right behind the bird, flying the craft round and round in ever-widening circles.

Joe kept his binoculars trained on the pigeon. Finally the bird got its beam and flew straight toward the south.

After an hour of steady flying, the pilot turned to Mr. Hardy. “How far do you want to follow it, sir?”

“Until your fuel’s low.”

The detective and his sons conferred on the situation. There was no telling how far the pigeon would fly. The fuel supply of the plane might be exhausted long before the bird alighted.

“One thing is certain,” Frank said. “The thugs who kidnapped me have pals in some other part of the country.”

Twenty minutes later the pilot said he would have to return to the airport because someone else had chartered a flight.

After they had returned to Bayport and paid the pilot, the Hardys drove home, disappointed that their mission had been fruitless.

“Dad, what is this new case you are working on in Washington?” Joe asked presently. “Can you let us in on it?”

Mr. Hardy looked searchingly at his sons. “It’s a top-secret assignment,” he said, “but I know I can trust you to keep it.”

With rapt attention, Frank and Joe listened while the famous detective unfolded a tale of foreign intrigue. United States currency was being stolen in various Central and South American countries. It was suspected the money was being used to carry out some nefarious schemes. What these were had not yet been discovered.

“I’m working with the FBI on the United States end of the case,” Mr. Hardy said. “Other investigators are operating in the foreign coun tries.”

“Sounds exciting,” Joe commented. “You have no idea what the thieves are using the money for?”

“Not yet. But we think it is being spent in the United States.”

“Is the money being smuggled in across the border?” Frank asked.

“We don’t know yet.”

“It could be by boat or plane, then?”

“Yes.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Had their find of two thousand dollars anything to do with their father’s case?

CHAPTER VII

A Suspicious Salesman

“DAD, could it be possible we’re working on the same case?” Joe asked.

“I’ll know better when I see the bills you found. I have the serial numbers of some of the stolen money.”

“The two thousand is at police headquarters,” Frank said. “Let’s go there now.”

Frank drove the car and stopped at Bayport Police Headquarters. The Hardys went in.

“I’m glad you got away from those thugs,” Chief Collig said to Frank.

“So am I.” The youth grinned, then sobered. “Any news of Chet Morton’s stolen stuff?”

The chief said he was sorry to report that there was not a trace of it so far. “But I’m certain it’s not in Bayport,” he added quickly.

Frank and Joe were not so sure.

“If the loot’s out in the country, the State Police will probably find it soon,” Collig assured them.

“I hope so,” said Frank, and explained the reason for their call.

Collig opened the safe and took out the wallet, which he placed on a table. Mr. Hardy withdrew the bills and very slowly began to count them aloud. Frank noticed his father’s eyes scanning the printing as he flipped the bills over.

“That’s two thousand, all right,” the detective remarked. He handed it back to the chief.

“I could have told you that,” Collig said with a ffown. He had expected more than this from the great detective.

Mr. Hardy thanked the officer for his cooperation, then he and his sons returned to their car.

“Find out anything?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Yes. One of those hundred-dollar bills had a serial number we’re looking for! We three are in this together,” Mr. Hardy said with a smile of satisfaction.

“Couldn’t be better!” Joe shouted enthusiasti cally. “Look out, Rainy Night, here come the Hardys!”

When they reached home, Aunt Gertrude was reading the evening News on the front porch.

“Look at this!” she cried out, waving the newspaper in front of them. “‘Hardy Boy Captured, Released by Thugs.’ Why do newspapers get everything mixed up? Frank got away by himself! I’ll write to that editor!”

The boys were amused as well as pleased at their aunt’s loyalty. Even though she objected to their working on mystery cases, she was always secretly proud of their exploits and wanted no one else to be given any credit for their achievements.

The story went on to say that Frank was safe and that the authorities were looking for the kid nappers.

“Just the same,” Mrs. Hardy spoke up, ‘I’d feel better if those awful men didn’t know where Frank and Joe are.”

“You have a good point,” her husband agreed. “Boys, why not go on that camping trip you were talking about?”

His sons grinned. “We planned to go to North Woods this weekend and hunt for Chet’s stolen stuff.”

“Excellent idea,” his father said. “Combine work with pleasure.”

“North Woods,” Aunt Gertrude snorted, “is full of wild dogs! You boys must be out of your minds.”

“The stories about the dogs are only rumors,” Frank reminded her.

Mr. Hardy suggested it was possible someone had started the rumor to keep intruders away from the area. He warned his sons to be on guard.

The boys’ mother announced a new worry. Her sons might be followed into the wilderness by the kidnappers.

“Why not try leaving here without letting anyone see you?” she suggested. “Stay at Chet’s house tonight and start from there in the early morn ing.”

Frank and Joe liked their mother’s plan. They telephoned Chet, and also Biff Hooper and Tony Prito. The latter two promised to meet them at the Morton farm right after breakfast.

“Chet sure sounded low,” Frank commented. “I guess his dad and uncle were pretty sore when they heard what happened.”

“Iola told me he’s got to work on the farm all summer long to pay for the stuff if it’s not found,” Joe said.

Frank chuckled. “That’ll take off the pounds.”

Frank and Joe packed their equipment in the trunk of Mr. Hardy’s car. After dark they got in and lay on the floor of the rear seat, then their father drove to the Mortons’. The boys did not show their heads until they were at the farm.

“If anybody is looking for us, they won’t know whether we’ve left the house or not,” Joe remarked.

They unloaded the gear and the detective turned the car around. Wishing his sons good luck, he said he was going to Washington for further checking on the stolen-currency case.

After a hearty breakfast the next morning, Chet, Frank, and Joe went out on the porch to wait for Biff and Tony. They had been sitting there only a few minutes when they saw a man, carrying a bulging bag, coming up the driveway. He was fairly tall, had light-colored hair, and shrewd-looking eyes.

“I’m selling insect repellent,” the stranger began. “The most wonderful stuff in the world. Use it on the farm or anywhere. Kills flies, moths, mosquitoes.”

Chet became interested. “We could use some of that for our camping trip.”

The man smiled. “Camping trip, eh? Then you’ll want a lot of my repellent. Plenty of flies in the woods. Where you going?”

“To North ...”

Joe’s elbow jabbed into his friend’s ribs. Chet was telling the stranger too much!

“North—uh—uh—North Carolina. That is, someday,” Chet stammered.

“How much do you want?” the salesman asked.

“None, I guess,” Chet replied glumly, embarrassed about the blunder he had made.

“As you please,” the man said.

He picked up his bag and walked down the drive. As he shuffled off toward the next farmhouse, Joe grasped Frank’s arm.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “If that man were a real salesman, he would have given us a high pressure sales talk.”

“You’re right. He might have been the one who followed me from the News office. He’s about the same size and blond. That man was sent here to learn something. We’ll have to be mighty careful on our trip.”

“I’m only sorry Chet practically told him where we are going,” Joe declared.

In a few minutes Biff Hooper and Tony Prito arrived.

The boys were told about the new developments in the mystery and the recent episode of the pseudosalesman.

“I’ve a hunch we’ll see him again,” Joe said. “He may even follow us to North Woods.”

“We’ll be ready for him,” Tony vowed.

After piling their camping equipment in Chet’s car, the boys climbed in. The jalopy snorted and started off down the road.

When they neared the North Woods area, Frank said, “Let’s park at the farmhouse where I made the telephone call. Then we can start the hike to the woods from there.”

This agreed upon, Chet turned onto the lonely dirt road. When they arrived at the farmhouse, the woman gladly let them leave the car behind the barn. The boys took out their gear and after a cold drink of water at the pump started their trek toward North Woods.

As they passed the deserted house where Frank had been held captive, the boy’s spine tingled. Had the thugs planned to leave him there to die he wondered. Or would they have freed him after the ransom had been collected?

The campers walked another mile, then headed into the woods at the point where they thought Chet’s stolen stuff might have been carried in. Upon reaching the brook where the suspect’s footprints had ended, they stopped to confer on which way to proceed. The trees and underbrush stretched for miles, wild and apparently uninhabited.

“Well, you detectives,” Tony said, “where in this jungle did that thief go?”

Frank was sure they would have taken the path of least resistance into the forest. After all, the canoe would be an unwieldy thing to carry in dense woodland.

“Okay,” Tony said with a grin. “You find it.”

The boys resumed the trek, with Frank and Joe in the lead. After they had pressed forward for an hour, Chet stopped and flung his pack to the ground. “Say, fellows, do you know where you’re going?” he puffed.

“Sure,” said Frank. “In the direction the thieves took.”

“How do you know?”

“By this.” Frank had just spotted what might be a clue.

He bent down beside a rough rock, twice the size of a man’s head. Somebody apparently had stepped on it and slipped, making a deep heel impression in the moss beside it.

Frank whipped a magnifying glass from his pack and examined the rock. It revealed minute shreds of leather where the uneven surface of the boulder had abraded the shoe.

“I think we’re on the right track,” he said. “Come on, Chet.”

An hour later the boys stopped for lunch. Then after a rest they moved on again, following a mountain stream. They were on the alert the rest of the afternoon, but found no further evidence that the thieves had preceded them. More than once the Hardys had to reassure their friends that they were on the right track. It was the only halfway open route by which heavily laden men could have penetrated the densely forested area.

Finally they decided to make camp. Tony prepared a satisfying hot meal of beans and bacon.

As the boys ate it, Chet gave a huge sigh. “I’m afraid that stolen stuff’s gone forever.” he said. “Listen, fellows, you haven’t any plans for the summer. How about giving me a hand at the farm to help pay for it?”

“Never milked a cow in my life,” was Tony’s excuse.

“Pitching hay makes me sneeze something awful,” said Biff. He shifted his long legs and yawned.

“Doctor says bouncing on a tractor is bad for my heart,” Joe piped up.

Chet refused to laugh. “Then you simply got to find that stuff!” he declared.

“We?” Frank chortled. “We’re only helping you.”

Chet grunted, took an extra helping of beans, and announced he was hitting the sack early. All the boys, tired from their long trek, crawled into their sleeping bags within half an hour after eat ing.

In the middle of the night the campers awoke suddenly. Some noise had aroused them. They listened. In the distance an animal howled.

But there had been another sound, too.

A wailing siren!

CHAPTER VIII

The Night Prowler

THE campers sat bolt upright as the siren wailed again, its mournful tone fading in the distance.

“That’s the same sound we heard over the ocean, Joe!” Frank said in a hoarse whisper.

Instinctively both boys had looked up, associating the sound with a helicopter. But there was no aircraft overhead.

“Hey, what’s up?” Chet called.

The boys listened, but the mysterious wailing sound was not repeated.

“You’re sure it was the same sound you heard just before you found the money?” Biff asked.

“It sure was,” Joe declared.

Propped on their elbows, the five boys speculated about the source of the noise and what might happen next. Suddenly the howling of the animal they had heard a few minutes before began again. It seemed to be nearer now.

“It’s a wild dog!” Chet cried out. “He’s smelled us. He might bring his whole pack here!”

Biff suggested building a fire to frighten off the animal.

“But that’ll focus attention on us,” Frank objected. “If the siren has anything to do with the money, my kidnappers might spot us.”

The others agreed and waited in the dark. Presently the howling animal became quiet, so the boys settled themselves once more in their sleeping bags.

The next morning while having breakfast, they talked about the disturbance of the previous night.

“Say, it’s eight o’clock,” Biff interrupted, glancing at his watch. “Think I’ll listen to the news. We might learn something that will explain that siren.”

He reached into his pack, drew out a transistor radio, and tuned in the Bayport station. The voice of the announcer was excited, telling of the disappearance of a plane. The pilot, Jack Wayne, had taken off from Bayport the night before. A short time later he had contacted the airport by radio.

“I’m in trouble!” he had cried. “Hijackers!” Nothing more had been heard from him.

“It’s thought he may have crashed on the ocean or in the woodlands beyond Bayport,” the announcer said. “The Coast Guard has been alerted, and State Police have started a search.”

The Hardys looked at each other, dismayed. Jack Wayne! The pilot who had taken them up only the day before yesterday.

“If Wayne came down in these woods,” Frank said soberly, “I’m afraid he’s in bad shape.”

The campers decided to combine looking for him with hunting for the articles stolen from the Morton truck. They listened to the rest of the broadcast while packing up, but there was no other news of particular interest to the boys.

Frank and Joe suggested that they proceed in the direction from which the siren sound had come, and the five set off. As they scrambled along through the dense thickets, the boys talked about the disturbing broadcast.

“A stowaway might have knocked Wayne out,” Frank suggested. “But you’ve given me an idea, Chet. Maybe Wayne didn’t crash. He may have been kidnapped!”

Nevertheless, all the boys watched for signs of an accident as they pressed deeper into the path less woodland. Talk ceased when they began ascending a rugged slope. Perspiration drenched the shirts of the hikers by the time they reached the ridge. Chet was puffing, and his face was as red as a beet.

“Let’s rest here awhile, fellows, and look over the valley,” he suggested.

“Maybe we can spot something if we climb one of the trees,” said Tony.

He walked toward an old fir, which towered like a sentinel.

“Stand on my shoulders and catch the first branch,” Biff offered.

He leaned over to help him, and Tony soon was on his way up the tree. When he reached the top he shaded his eyes with one hand.

“Swell view,” he called. “I can see all the way to the bay.”

“Any sign of Jack’s plane?” Joe called up.

“Or of the thieves who stole my stuff?” Chet shouted.

The reply was negative to both questions, but Tony continued to gaze around him in every di rection. Suddenly he cried out:

“I see something shiny way off there.” He pointed deeper into the forest. “Maybe it’s part of the lost plane.”

The youth climbed down and led the way over swampy ground and through a tangle of tamaracks in the direction of the gleaming object. After an hour’s hike, he said:

“I guess I’ve found it. It’s not a plane. It’s a pond.”

The boys followed Tony through a clump of thick brush. Beyond it in the sun lay a good-sized body of water.

“Oh, brother,” exclaimed Chet, “could I use a swim right now!”

The other boys agreed and stripped off their clothes.

“Race you across the pond, Frank,” Joe called, taking a shallow dive.

He beat his brother to the far side by only one length. They pulled up on the bank and sat down.

Frank, looking about him, noticed the remains of a campfire nearby. He got up and walked over to it. There were several backbones of fish. Someone had cooked and eaten there recently!

“I wonder if it was one of the gang we’re after,” he said excitedly. “Say, here are some good footprints!”

The young detectives tried to follow them, but the going was too painful on their bare feet.

“Let’s come back when we have shoes on,” Joe suggested.

They swam back to the other shore and reported their discovery.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Chet. “But gosh, I’m awful tired. Can’t we wait awhile before we chase that guy?”

The Hardys offered to follow the trail of the footprints while the others did some fishing. Immediately after lunch Joe and Frank resumed their search for the unknown fisherman. His marks were plainly visible in the soft ground near the pond, but as soon as the earth grew hard, they ended.

“Let’s continue in the same direction,” Frank suggested. “The fellow may have a cabin up ahead.”

They went on for a quarter of a mile but found nothing, and decided that the man must have changed his course. Frank thought it might be a good idea for all of the campers to remain in the vicinity of the pond for a while.

“That man will probably come back,” he added.

The Hardys rejoined their friends. At sunset they moved camp across the pond, out of sight of the stranger’s old campfire.

The boys enjoyed Tony’s catch of sunfish, then listened to the radio. There was no word of the missing Jack Wayne, the newscaster said. Presently Chet began to yawn loudly, and all decided that it was time to turn in.

“Don’t sleep too soundly,” Frank told his brother. “Keep one eye open for visitors.”

Joe nodded. It was not long before the heavy breathing of the other three boys blended with the sounds of the woodland night. Frank and Joe dozed fitfully. An hour later Frank leaned over and nudged his brother.

“I’m sure I heard footsteps,” he whispered, looking around. “There they are again!”

A slight sound of crackling underbrush came to their ears. Suddenly a light flashed. It was trained directly on the Hardy boys.

“Who are you?” Frank shouted, leaping out of his bag and arousing the entire camp.

There was no answer. The light went out and retreating footsteps hurried off in the underbrush.

Frank put on his shoes, grabbed his flashlight, and darted after the intruder.

“Chet, Biff, Tony, watch camp! There may be others! Come on, Joe!” he shouted.

One thing was certain. The stranger knew his way in the dark. Soon he was so far ahead of the boys that they could no longer hear his sprinting footsteps.

“I hate to give up,” Frank said in disgust. “But we’d never find him now.”

They turned back, wondering if the intruder had been one of the thieves they were after, or only some hermit who did not want his hideout to be discovered.

Upon reaching camp, they found the others excited and worried. Biff had picked up a note the mysterious caller had dropped. It was evident that the purpose of his visit had been to leave a warning. The piece of dirty paper bore a message written in pencil:

Get out of these woods. You’re in danger.

“Maybe we ought to leave,” Chet said.

The Hardys were convinced that the warning note proved that a person or persons in North Woods did not want the boys around. Unless the writer had something to hide, why would he object to their presence?

“We’ll stay,” said Frank.

“Let’s set up watches,” Joe suggested.

Since it was already one o’clock, each was assigned to an hour’s sentry duty. However, the rest of the night passed without incident.

At six they all arose. Frank, who had been on watch the past hour, said he had discovered a narrow, clear stream near the pond.

“Good drinking water,” he said.

Chet was sent off with the canteens while the others prepared breakfast. He had been gone only a few minutes when he let out a war whoop.

The boys dashed in the direction from which Chet’s shout had come. Chet was leaning far over an undercut in the bank, tugging at something which they could not see.

The stout boy turned his head and motioned. “Come here quick! I’ve found the stolen canoe!”

CHAPTER IX

A Cry for Help

IN the tiny lagoon, almost hidden by the eelgrass at the water’s edge, floated a canoe.

“Are you sure it’s the same canoe?” Joe asked. Chet pointed to a deep nick in the varnished wood, saying Wells Hardware had knocked something off the original price because of the imperfection.

“Maybe the other stolen stuff isn’t far away,” Joe said enthusiastically.

“You mean the thief hid the canoe here?” Chet asked.

“It might have drifted down the river,” Joe suggested. “There aren’t any paddles in it.”

“Let’s go up the river after breakfast and take a look,” said Frank.

The Hardys fashioned two crude paddles. While Biff and Tony remained to watch the camp, the other three started up the river. Joe kneeled in the bow and Frank in the stern. Chet sat down in the middle facing Frank.

“Joe, you watch the left bank for signs of the thief,” Frank suggested as his crude paddle dipped into the shallow, rock-filled water. “I’ll take the right.”

“What about me?” Chet queried. “Don’t I look anywhere?”

“You’re ballast,” Joe needled. “All you do is sit tight.”

But Frank was more serious. “Watch the rear, Chet. See if anybody steps out of hiding after we go past.”

The three boys proceeded slowly upstream. All eyes strained for a glimpse of a human being, a hut, or any other place where the stolen rifles, tools, and camp equipment might be hidden.

For a long time there was silence except for the gurgling of the ripples around the rocks and the dipping of the paddles.

Then Joe let out a whistle. He indicated a lean to near the riverbank.

“Let’s investigate it,” he said, resting his paddle.

They landed and Chet held onto the canoe while Frank and Joe looked in the lean-to. A pair of hiking boots stood in one corner.

“They’re new,” Frank remarked as he exam ined them. “Say, here’s a long scratch.” The shiny leather on the right one had been deeply marred.

“The fellow who slipped on the rock in the woods!” Joe guessed. “I wonder where he is.”

“One of us ought to hide here to see who comes for the shoes,” said Frank. “Suppose we all paddle off, so if he’s around here now, he won’t be suspicious. One of us can sneak back through the woods.”

Joe volunteered. At a bend in the river, he hopped ashore and carefully retraced his way to the lean-to.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes went by. Merely sitting and waiting behind a large tree began to irk the restless boy. He decided to do a little scouting.

“But which way?” he wondered.

While Joe stood trying to decide, his nostrils caught the scent of wood smoke. He knew he was too far from the boys’ camp for smoke to be detected. Turning slowly and sniffing the air at intervals, he finally concluded it was coming from a direction at right angles to the river.

Keeping an alert watch for anything suspicious, Joe headed inland. The scent grew stronger. It was not long before he came to a small clearing, in the center of which smoldered a campfire. Nobody was in sight.

The young detective remained in concealment a few minutes. Then he examined the ashes. The heat they still radiated was mute evidence that somebody had been there within the past few minutes. Was he the person who used the lean-to?

“Maybe he went back there,” Joe thought. “I’d better find out.”

As he started through the woods again, a gleaming object on the ground caught his eye. It was a heavy trap, half-concealed by a frond of ferns, its steel jaws set for prey. Joe’s foot had just missed it!

He bent down to examine the trap. Judging from the condition of the rabbit-meat bait, it must have been set recently.

Suddenly Joe had the eerie feeling that he was being spied upon. He glanced ahead just in time to see the head of a man duck out of sight in a nearby thicket. The stranger had light-colored hair and sharp eyes. Though Joe had caught only a quick glimpse of the face, he knew that he had seen it before.

“The salesman at the Mortons’ farm!” he muttered.

Joe raced after the retreating man. Realizing that it might be foolhardy to assume the chase alone, Joe gave a bird whistle that the Hardys often used as a signal.

Frank and Chet, farther upstream, heard the whistle and answered with a similar signal.

But so intent were they in trying to locate Joe’s direction that they did not notice a ledge of submerged rock until it was too late. The jagged ledge tore a gaping hole in the canvas a few feet behind the prow of the canoe. Water came pour. ing in.

His foot just missed the trap!

Frank strained at the crude paddle to drive the canoe ashore. Despite their efforts, water was halfway to the gunwales when the bow scraped the pebbly bottom of the left bank.

“Whew! Just made it!” Chet exclaimed.

“Wait here!” Frank said, then dashed downstream along the bank. The whistle sounded again!

Within a few seconds Frank found himself at a sharp bend in the river. Joe was nowhere in sight. Frank whistled. There was no reply.

“Where’d he go?” Frank murmured.

He hoped his brother was not in danger. But where to look for him was a puzzle.

Frank decided to go back to Chet. Joe might have headed in that direction.

“Didn’t you find Joe?” Chet asked, wide-eyed.

“Not yet. The sound seemed to come from both sides of the stream,” Frank replied, perplexed. “I hope it doesn’t mean somebody was imitating our bird call.”

Chet mopped his brow. “Gosh, if that happened, then the fellow who left the warning must be on our trail!” he exclaimed, glancing anxiously at the woods about him.

Suddenly his eyes were attracted by something rising above the treetops.

“Frank! Pigeons!”

Two white birds rose high, circled for several seconds, then headed south. A startling thought struck Frank. Were these pigeons from the same covey as the ones sent to the Hardy home? If so, then the kidnappers might have their hideout near this very spot!

Maybe Joe had stumbled upon the men by accident and run into trouble!

As the two birds disappeared from view, another pair of pigeons came into sight. Like the others, they started to circle when suddenly a blast cut the forest stillness and echoed and reechoed through the trees.

“A shot!” Frank exclaimed.

Chet cried out, “One of the pigeons must have been winged!”

The bird wheeled, then plummeted through the trees, while the other soared away.

“I’m going to find out who’s here,” Frank declared.

“Then I’ll go with you,” Chet offered, and trailed behind Frank.

“That shot sounded no more than a couple of hundred feet away,” Frank whispered. “Easy now.”

As they stepped carefully from tree trunk to tree trunk to avoid presenting themselves as targets, Frank’s attention was attracted to a red cylin der on the ground. He picked it up.

“Look, Chet! A shotgun shell!”

Chet surveyed the woodland with quickening pulse. Perhaps the barrel of a gun was being aimed at them at that very second! He searched the area carefully, but could see no one.

A score of paces farther on, Frank found the pigeon, lying dead on a big boulder.

“It really caught a load of lead,” he observed, lifting the limp, still-warm body of the bird.

There were no bands of identification on the pigeon, nor a message tube. This fact strength. ened Frank’s suspicion that these birds, too, belonged to the criminals who had telephoned the ransom message.

He was relieved by the fact that there had been only one shot. At least Joe had not been under fire.

But presently Frank’s imagination got the better of him. He visualized Joe being hustled off through the woods, his hands high in the air, and a shotgun prodding him in the back. Frank’s reverie was brought to a sudden end by the spine-chilling howl of a dog, and the wild yell of a human being calling for help. Both sounds ended as suddenly as they had started.

“Th-that was Joe!” quavered Chet.

Frank did not reply. With a furious burst of speed he dashed among the trees toward the direction from which the sound had come, unmindful of the brambles that tore at his clothes or the low-hanging branches that stung his cheeks. Chet panted after him as fast as his weight and the pack would allow.

Abruptly Frank found himself on a fairly well-beaten trail. He sped along it.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Chet cried.

The Hardy boy slackened his speed. Chet caught up to him at a spot where the trail cut through a dense growth of bushes.

“Come on!” he urged.

The two boys dashed among the bushes. A second later the ground seemed to drop away from beneath their feet.

Frank and Chet plunged helplessly downward!

CHAPTER X

The Detector

SLOWLY Frank opened his eyes. He was lying in a tangled mass of brush and sod.

“Where am I?” he said half-aloud.

The boy moved his right hand and felt someone lying beside him. Then he sensed a crushing pressure on his legs.

Frank rubbed his hand over his forehead to clear his brain. Memory came back with a rush. He had been running with Chet. Then that awful drop. Now he found himself lying at the bottom of a deep pit.

Summoning every ounce of strength in his body, Frank raised himself up on one elbow. In the gloom of the pit he peered at the body beside him.

“Joe!” he cried in surprise.

His brother lay there, unconscious.

In trying to rise, Frank realized that the weight on his legs was Chet. Frank rumpled the boy’s hair.

“Chet! Chet! Are you all right?”

In a few seconds Chet’s eyes opened. “Where are we? How did we get here?” he asked in bewilderment.

“We plunged into a pit of some kind. Here’s Joe.”

“Joe? How’d he—?” Then Chet realized that Joe was unconscious.

“We’ve got to get him out of here,” said Frank.

The pit into which they had fallen was deep and narrow. Frank and Chet had trouble worming their way to a standing position. As Frank bent down to place his hands beneath his brother’s shoulders, Joe stirred. He shook his head dazedly and tried to sit up.

“Attaboy,” Frank said. “Take it easy.”

“Oh, that wolf!” Joe groaned.

“What wolf?” Chet asked.

“The one that chased me.” Joe looked around. In a few seconds his mind cleared completely. “Oh, yes, I fell in here. It’s a good thing you found me.”

“We didn’t find you,” Chet said with a rueful grin. “We fell in, too!”

“Well, let’s get out of here,” Joe pleaded, although he felt pretty unsteady.

“Golly, it’s eight feet deep if it’s an inch,” Chet moaned.

Climb on my shoulders, Chet,” Frank suggested. ”Once you’re topside, you can haul us up.”

“Look out for snipers,” Joe warned.

Chet climbed to Frank’s shoulders and stood on this teetering perch, with Frank grasping the boy’s ankles to steady him. Chet peered around. Seeing no one, he wriggled over the top.

“Ready?” he called down.

“Okay.”

As Frank braced himself again, Joe sprang up. In a moment he, too, was out of the pit. With Joe helping Chet keep his balance, the stout boy pulled Frank from the hole.

The three of them sprawled on the ground to get their breath back and to take stock of their injuries. They were relieved to find that aside from a few minor scratches and bruises all were unhurt.

“What were you doing way off here?” Frank asked his brother.

Joe told about the steel trap in which he had nearly caught his foot, then of spotting the man who had probably set it.

“I’m certain that he’s the same guy who followed you from the newspaper office and who posed as a salesman that morning at Chet’s farm.”

“Ow-ee, I don’t like this,” Chet said. “Where’d he go?”

“When he saw me, he started to run. He sure led me a chase across the river and back.”

“What was it you said about a wolf?” Chet asked. “We heard one howl.”

“And what a howl!” Joe said. “I yelled for help!”

He added that just before he had pitched into the hole, the ferocious beast had come crashing through the woods and raced after him.

“One of the wild dogs of North Woods!” Chet exclaimed.

“It was a close race,” Joe said. “Maybe it was a good thing I fell into this hole!”

“Holy crow!” Frank exclaimed as a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Do you realize this hole was covered with brush when we fell in?”

“N-never thought of that,” Chet said. “Then somebody sneaked up after Joe was trapped and covered it up again!”

“Right. Maybe the idea was to catch all three of us and then ...”

“He may be coming back to capture us right now,” Chet said, struggling to his feet. “Let’s leave, pronto.”

The boys needed food and rest before they would be able to continue their search for the missing rifles and to find out what mischief the pseudosalesman was up to and why everybody was so determined to scare them out of the North Woods.

As they made their way back to the canoe, Chet told Joe how it had rammed a rock. Suddenly a grim thought struck him. “I’ll bet the canoe and pack are gone!” he said.

Fearing that Chet’s dire prediction might be true, the Hardys quickened their pace.

“It’s a long hike back to the other fellows,” Chet moaned. “It would be dark before we could get to camp, and these gangsters—”

Just then the boys reached the bank of the stream and Joe called out: “Chet, you were wrong. The canoe is still here!”

“Whew!” breathed Chet, vastly relieved.

The boys quickly patched the canoe. “Not bad!” Joe said approvingly.

“If we don’t hit any more rocks, I guess we can make camp.”

They shoved off, taking the same positions as they had on the trip up. It was easier traveling with the current. Keeping a sharp lookout for underwater rocks, the Hardys deftly steered the canoe while Chet sat relaxed in the bottom, his hands behind his head.

“How large was the wolf that chased you, Joe?” he asked.

“About four feet long.”

Joe said he had a hunch that the wolf might belong to the blond man, who probably called him off after seeing Joe fall.

Frank recounted his and Chet’s experiences, ending with the pigeon episode.

“At least one thing seems certain,” he said in conclusion. “The thieves who stole Chet’s truck were also my kidnappers—or at least they’re in cahoots with them.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Joe said, “if their hideout isn’t far from here.”

Chet winced. Then suddenly he beamed. “Hey, fellows, I see camp!” he announced. A tantalizing aroma filled the air. “Food!” he exclaimed as the canoe grounded on the shore close by the camp.

Biff and Tony, seeing their friends’ bruises and disheveled clothes, fired questions in rapid succession, growing more amazed as each was answered.

“Those men sure must want to keep people away from North Woods,” Tony remarked.

“You might have been killed,” Biff said.

As they ate, the boys conjectured about what underhanded schemes the pit digger might be carrying on, but could figure out nothing except that for one reason or another he wanted to prevent people from entering a certain section of the woods.

“Tomorrow we’ll track him down and find out!” Frank said with determination.

Suddenly the boys realized that Chet had been missing since they had finished eating. After a brief search they saw him on the far side of the pond, a fishing rod in his hands. After he had cast, Frank came up behind him.

“Where’d you get the swell rod?” Frank asked.

“Found it Pretty nifty, eh? Practically new.”

Chet jumped as he realized that under the circumstances this rod meant more than its loss by a careless fisherman. It might be the property of the fellow who had left the warning the night before.

“Any identification on that fishing rod?” Frank asked.

Chet looked. “Say, Frank, this came from Wells Hardware Store! Here’s the name.”

“I’m sure the owner didn’t mean to leave it,” Frank observed as the boys walked back. “You know, Chet, this might be a means of finding out what the thief looks like.”

“How?”

“I’ll bet he was buying this rod when you were in the store. He may have heard you talking to the clerk. Right?”

Chet admitted he had bragged about his big-game-hunter uncle and the rifles. There had been several customers in the store at the time, but he had paid no attention to them.

“Gee, if only I had!” he said ruefully as they returned to camp.

Frank thought there was a good chance the mysterious fisherman would return for the rod during the night, and suggested they stay on watch.

“Anyway, we won’t be in danger of a surprise attack,” Frank said. “After this, we’ll use the sound detector we brought. Good thing you thought of it, Joe.”

“I didn’t know you had one,” Biff said.

“The gadget belongs to Dad, but he let us borrow it,” Joe said.

Frank opened his pack and drew out the detector. It was the size of a cigarette case, but one could plainly hear sounds far beyond the range of the human ear. During the late afternoon and evening the boys took turns listening.

“You could almost hear the guys breathe with this gimmick,” Tony said. “It’s great!”

No sounds of particular interest were picked up, and at nine o’clock Frank put the detector in his pack.

“Think I’ll hit the sack,” he told the others.

“Me too,” said Joe. “Biff, arrange the watches, will you?”

After two-hour shifts had been agreed upon, Biff turned on his radio for news of the missing Jack Wayne. The announcer said there was still no clue to the whereabouts of the pilot, although the search was still being carried on over the ocean.

“That means they’ve given up looking around here,” said Joe, wriggling into his bag.

The boys fell asleep, with Biff on guard. Frank took his turn in the early morning. So far there had been no prowlers. Soon a rosy tint covered the eastern sky.

“We should get started on our sleuthing soon,” he told himself an hour later as he prepared three small emergency kits with knives, rope, first-aid articles, and some food.

He roused the others, and it was not long before he, Joe, and Biff had finished breakfast and were ready to shove off in the canoe. Chet and Tony would remain at camp in case anyone should show up for the fishing rod.

When the three boys started off, a light mist hung over the river and drifted among the trees. By the time the sun had burned the mist away, they had reached the spot where Chet and Frank had seen the pigeons the day before.

The boys carried the canoe a hundred feet inland and concealed it in a thicket.

“Let’s start from the pit and work north,” Joe suggested. “That blond fellow I followed was headed in that direction.”

They started forward cautiously. Frank turned on the sound detector and listened intently. He reported bird calls and insect sounds, but no human voices. In a short time the hikers came to the trail which led to the pit. As they neared it, Joe called excitedly:

“The hole’s covered over again!”

Frank put the detector to his ear. No sounds came from it except those of the woodland creatures and the distant murmur of the stream.

Spreading out twenty feet apart, the boys moved along silently. Frank stopped every few seconds to listen.

Then suddenly the youth raised his hand for the others to stop. Biff and Joe came over to him. “I hear something different, but it’s very faint,” he said in a low voice.

Careful not to make any noise, the boys proceeded in the direction of the mysterious sound. A hundred feet farther he halted again.

“You take this gadget, Joe, and tell me what you think it is.”

Joe listened. “Sounds like pounding or hammering,” he said.

“I thought it might be a machine,” Frank said. “You listen, Biff.”

After holding the detector to his ear a few seconds the lanky youth grinned. “I don’t hear anything like that. You fellows spoofing me?”

Joe grabbed the instrument and listened for a minute. “The sound has stopped.”

Frank frowned. “Maybe we’ve been seen. From now on we’d better creep along,” he advised.

“Yeah, we may be right on top of their hideout,” Biff said grimly.

The ground ahead rose slightly to the crown of a little hillock. Reaching the top, the boys peered hopefully down the other side.

“Do you see what I see?” Frank whispered excitedly. “Isn’t that a chimney sticking up behind those trees? Come on, fellows!”

The boys made their way down the hill, taking extreme care to keep well concealed.

“Let’s sneak up on the place from three directions,” Biff said.

The chimney belonged to an old shack. The roof was half caved in, and gunny sacks were nailed over the windows.

“Guess nobody lives here,” Biff observed.

“Somebody may be hiding in it, though,” said Frank. “We’d better find out.”

The boys conferred briefly on making a surprise attack. It was decided that Joe would throw a rock at the back of the cabin. If anybody were inside, his attention would be directed there. Then Frank and Biff would rush in through the front door.

Well hidden in the bushes, Joe selected a large rock. Taking careful aim, he sent it sailing toward the building. It hit with a loud crash. Immediately Frank and Biff raced from cover and ran through the front entrance.

Nobody was inside. The only sign of habitation was a rickety cot, which showed no evidence of recent use. On a crude hearth lay a heap of ashes. Frank felt the stones. They were cold. By this time Joe had joined them.

“Nobody home,” Biff announced.

“What’s that?” Joe asked as he noticed a large object, draped with burlap bags, standing in a corner. He pulled them off, revealing a motor.

“Holy crow!” he exclaimed. “It’s an airplane engine. How did it get here?”

An idea flashed into Biff’s mind. “The missing planel Maybe it crashed in these woods after all, and somebody dragged the motor in here!”

“It couldn’t have been dragged far,” Joe said excitedly. “This thing is heavy. I’ll bet Jack Wayne’s nearby. Come on, fellows. Let’s look for him!”

CHAPTER XI

A Hoax

“IF Jack Wayne crashed here,” Frank said, “the person who moved the motor would have taken care of him, too.”

“The gang!” Joe declared. “Maybe that’s what Wayne meant by ‘hijackers.’ ”

Biff had a different idea. “Wayne may not be here at all. That motor could have torn loose from the plane before it crashed.”

“Hey!” Frank called out excitedly. “This motor has never been in a plane. It’s brand new! I should have noticed that right away!”

“How do you suppose they ever got an airplane engine through these woods?” asked Joe.

The three boys scouted the area for further evidence, agreeing to meet again at the cabin to report any sign of a plane accident or other unusual circumstance. Joe, the first to return, had seen nothing unusual, except that a piece of bark had been chipped off a tree standing near the shack.

Wondering if the cut had any special significance, he looked at other trees in the vicinity. Three of them had had bits of bark stripped off.

Joe was about to look farther, when Frank and Biff joined him. After hearing they had failed to locate a crack-up, he called their attention to the nicked trees.

“I believe they’re trail-blaze marks,” he said, “and made not very long ago. Let’s follow ’em and see where they lead.”

Within five minutes two other marked trees were found.

“Do you think the trail might lead to the wrecked plane?” Biff asked.

The Hardys were inclined to believe the trail might possibly take them near the hideout of the men they were seeking. The boys continued to follow it.

The Hardys’ keen eyes were alert for any evidence that the thieves or kidnappers might be around. But by midmorning all were weary from following the blazed trees with no end to the trail. Frank kept listening to the detector, but if the forest held a secret, it was being kept well.

All at once Biff let out a cry. “Well, what do you know about this? We’ve been going in a circle.”

Frank and Joe rushed to where their friend stood. There was no doubt about it. An oak with some of its bark removed was easily identified by a long split down the trunk into which a bird had built a nest.

Following a trampled path, the boys found another familiar tree, then another.

“I don’t see why anybody would mark a trail in a circle,” Biff said.

After a few minutes’ thought Frank suggested that there probably were offshoots of the main trail. The boys spread out to look. Only Biff found one.

“This thing’s got me dizzy,” he said. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

Frank stopped. “I think there’s something phony about this whole deal,” he said. “Maybe this trail was made on purpose to lead people away from the cabin or the place where we heard the hammering sound.”

“You mean I’m going to fall into some trap the way you fellows did?” Biff exclaimed, frowning.

“Not if you watch your step,” Joe replied. The boys walked on. More trail marks, and more unfamiliar territory. Silence followed, until Frank whispered:

“I’ve picked up something on the detector. Sounds like digging. Somebody’s up ahead, and not far away!”

The hikers dropped to the ground, then slowly and silently inched their way forward.

Biff, in his enthusiasm to make a capture, outdistanced the others.

Ahead loomed a large rock. The unknown digger was on the other side of it. The boys could hear the sound of metal biting into soil.

“Here goes!” Biff murmured to himself.

He raised up and flung himself upon the stooped figure. There was a tangle of arms and legs. The digger was overpowered. Biff peered into his face.

“Chet! Well, I’ll be mousetrapped,” he blurted, rising from the stout boy’s midriff.

“What are you doing here?” Frank asked.

“Yes, how did you get this far from camp?” Joe put in eagerly.

“W-w-wait a minute,” Chet begged. “Let me catch my breath.”

He sat down against the rock and mopped his brow. “I do a fellow a favor,” he continued, “and this is what happens.”

“Do whom a favor?” Frank asked.

“Tony. Who else?” Chet puffed. “I’m digging worms for him. He wants to catch some trout.”

The boys looked down at the hole. Chet had been digging with his tin plate. Two worms wriggled beside it.

“Where’s Tony?” Frank asked.

“At camp. Right over there!”

“Oh no!” Joe wailed.

“Jumpin’ jeepers!” Biff exclaimed. “Somebody made a trail right here to our camp!”

“He probably was watching all the time,” Joe declared. “But if he was one of the gang, why didn’t he just shoot at us and get it over with?”

“I don’t think the trail was made by one of the gang,” Frank said. “We may have a friend in North Woods.”

“What do you mean?” Chet asked.

“That warning note we received may have been left by someone with good intentions, and he’s helped us out again.”

After hearing the whole story, Chet said, “Two warnings are enough for me. I vote we leave this place.”

“I think Chefs right,” Biff said. “Let’s shove off.”

Tony agreed with Chet and Biff. “What’s more,” he said, “my dad’s expecting me home to drive for him.”

Outvoted, the Hardys agreed to go, but begged the others to stay until morning.

“Look, fellows,” Frank said, “Joe and I will do some work alone. You fellows stay here and swim. Besides, we have to get the canoe.”

They ate a quick lunch from the emergency kit they were carrying, then made their way to the tumble-down shack. They approached it quietly, Frank in the lead.

“Joe! The motor’s gone!”

The boys stared in amazement at the spot where the engine had stood. The burlap sacks had been tossed to one side.

“Gosh, I wish I’d taken the serial number of that engine,” Joe said.

“I wonder how much of a gang is in on this deal,” Frank mused. “It would take several strong men to move that heavy engine. Well, now where do we head?”

The boys decided to depend on the detector for help. Finally their patience bore fruit.

“Hammering?” Joe asked as his brother’s face lighted up.

“No.”

“The wailing siren?”

Frank shook his head. “An animal.”

Joe listened. “Maybe it’s the wolf that attacked me,” he said.

“If he belongs to that fake salesman, now’s our chance to find that crook!” Frank declared.

Hunting knives in hand to assist in any unexpected attack, the boys started off in the direction of the howling, which now could be heard without the aid of the detector.

“That’s more than one animal,” Frank said.

The Hardys proceeded more slowly. Suddenly a clearing opened up ahead. In the middle of it the boys saw a six-foot-high wire enclosure. Behind the netting five animals growled fiercely.

“Wolves!” Joe exclaimed.

“Sure looks that way,” Frank answered.

“What are they doing here?”

“We’ll find out.”

Careful to keep themselves concealed, the boys circled the enclosure. The wolves smelled their presence, however, and started to howl.

“I hope they haven’t given us away,” Joe whispered. “Their keeper must be nearby.”

The boys looked about them. Partly hidden among the trees some distance to their left was a cabin, its front door open.

Frank and Joe approached it cautiously. Nobody was in sight.

“Someone may be spying on us from a window,” Joe whispered.

He and Frank waited a few minutes before approaching closer to the cabin. Nothing seemed to be stirring.

“I’m going to take a look,” Joe said.

“I’m with you.”

They stepped quietly through the brush and into a small open space in front of the cabin. There was an ominous silence about the place.

Anxiety showed on Frank’s face. “Joe, I don’t like ...”

His words were punctured by a snarl which froze the boys in their tracks. The head of a wolf flashed in the doorway. With a vicious growl, it sprang toward the Hardys.

“The same one that attacked me!” thought Joe, poising his knife.

The beast let out a piercing whine and jerked back. Then the boys saw that he was chained to the door. The frustrated animal continued to bellow and glower, straining at his leash.

A sharp voice cut the air. “Stand where you are!”

Frank and Joe wheeled. A tall man, his hat pulled low, stood before them, a gun in his hand.

CHAPTER XII

A Strange Pet

THE man was a giant of a woodsman. His face was heavily bearded and his eyes fiercely sharp. Besides the gun, he carried a long whip.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Oh—uh—just looking around,” Frank replied, trying to look innocent. “I’m afraid we’re lost.”

The man eyed the boys sharply, as if he doubted this statement.

“You’re trespassing on private property,” he said sternly.

“Private?” Joe asked.

“Yes. I breed wolves here. This is a dangerous area.”

All the while the animal chained to the door growled and pulled at his leash.

“Quiet, Saber!” the man shouted.

He flicked his whip and the end of it snapped like a rifle shot a scant two inches from the wolfs jaws. The animal retreated and threw itself down across the doorway.

“Why do you keep wolves here?” Joe asked.

“I breed them for zoos. And now I want to give you kids some good advice,” he snapped. “Leave this forest pronto and don’t come back! Do you hear me? Don’t come back!”

Frank was not ready to go quite yet. This man might know some things the Hardys wanted to find out.

“Do you take care of these animals all alone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh, by the way, we found a valuable rod and reel near our camp down near the river. Do you know who may have left it there?”

“No.”

“Did a plane crash around here recently?” Joe queried.

“No.”

“There’s an old shack off in the woods,” Frank said, pointing to the direction from which they had come. “Anybody live there?”

“Listen, I ain’t answering any more of your nebby questions,” the woodsman said curtly. “Now clear out of here and don’t let me see you around these parts again!” He cracked his whip. “Get going!”

Joe thrust out his chin in determination. “We’ll go,” he said, “but we don’t intend to be ordered around like your animals!”

The man merely glared as the Hardys retreated into the woods, following the trail over which they had come. When they were out of earshot of the woodsman, they stopped to talk over the situation.

“I sure don’t care for that guy!” Joe said.

“Same here. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw a haystack,” Frank agreed.

“His story about breeding wolves for zoos sounded awfully fishy.”

“Of course. It’s obvious he’s training the wolves to attack people. But why?”

“Probably to scare them out of the woods. The critter that chased me just before I fell into the pit looked an awful lot like Saber,” Joe said.

Suddenly Frank stiffened. “Listen!”

In the distance he had detected the sound of something crashing through the brush.

“Saber!” Joe exclaimed. “The man let him loose!”

“Up a tree!” Frank urged.

The boys raced through the forest until they spotted a couple of fir trees they could climb readily. Leaping to the lowest branches, they pulled themselves up into the trees.

The Hardys were barely a safe distance off the ground when Saber reached them. Snarling and snapping, he pawed at one trunk and then the other. Joe broke off a branch and hurled it down, hitting the wolf on the nose. The infuriated ani mal howled and ran in circles around the tree.

“This beast may not let us down for days,” Joe remarked woefully.

“There’s one way we can catch him,” Frank said hopefully. “With a pole and noose. There’s a branch above you that’s pretty straight.”

Joe climbed up. He cut off the branch and quickly stripped it of twigs and leaves.

“I have a coil of small rope in my pocket,” Frank said, pulling it out.

He threw it across to Joe, who fastened a noose to the end of the pole.

Joe dangled the pole and the noose close to the ground. The wolf snapped at it. With a deft twist, the boy flung the rope over Saber’s head.

“Pull!” Frank cried.

The boy hauled the pole upward, but the wolf was heavy. It lashed out fiercely, snarling and gnashing with its fangs. Suddenly the animal freed itself and tumbled to the ground.

“Whew!” Joe exclaimed. “He weighs a ton.” Saber continued to circle the trees but more warily. Joe tried to rope him again, but the wolf would not be tricked the second time.

As the boys wondered what to do, they were startled by a distant wailing noise.

“What’s that, Frank? The siren?”

“Sounds like it, but it’s mighty faint.”

“Well, what do you know about that?” Joe cried. “Saber’s leaving!”

The strange sound seemed to bother the animal. Putting its tail between its legs, Saber slunk off.

“He acts frightened. That sound probably hurts his ears.”

The boys dropped to the ground. “Gosh, I thought I was going to have to live in that tree.” Joe grinned as he stretched his legs. “Let’s get back to camp.”

The Hardys found their way to the spot where the canoe was cached. They slid it into the water and paddled rapidly downstream. By the time they rejoined the other boys, the sun was sinking behind the trees to the west.

Chet, Biff, and Tony rushed to the shore to meet their friends.

As Frank and Joe related their adventures, Chet’s mouth sagged open.

“A wolf?” he asked in disbelief. “If he picks up our scent, he’ll come right into this camp. What say, fellows? Let’s get out of here!”

Frank and Joe were fairly sure that even if Saber had picked up their trail, he would get no farther than the place they had put the canoe into the water.

“But to make sure he doesn’t bother us again, we’ll have to catch the critter,” Joe said determinedly. “With a stockade. We’ll build one after chow. How about it, Tony? Do we have trout tonight?”

“Six nice fat rainbows,” Tony told him. “Biff and I caught’em.”

“With my worms,” Chet added.

The boys laughed and joked through the meaL When it was over, Frank said:

“Now to work on the stockade. We’ll need saplings—plenty of ’em.”

A number of small trees grew along the stream and the boys made short work of felling them. Soon a pile of saplings, stripped of their branches, lay on the spot which the Hardys had selected for the trap.

While the others were digging a small trench, Joe and Frank went into the woods for vines with which to tie the saplings together. It did not take the boys long to erect a crude stockade. Frank arranged a small opening on one side with a gate which would drop in place once an animal had entered the trap.

“Now all we need is bait,” Joe said.

“I’ve some meat that we won’t need,” Tony said. “We can use that.” He produced a sizable chunk left over from the piece which the boys had taken along for stew.

“That’s perfect,” Frank said.

He fastened the meat to a long string, which, when pulled, would cause the gate to fall shut. They tried it several times to be sure the trap would work.

“Saber ought to tackle this meat before he does us,” Joe said. “I hope this trap’s strong enough to hold him. I don’t want to be his dessert.”

The site of the trap was some distance from the camp, but the boys could see it from where they sat around the fire exchanging observations on the day’s events. When darkness began to fall, Joe got up and stretched sleepily.

“I’m going to tumble in, fellows,” he said. “I’ll take a morning watch.”

“Me, too.” Biff yawned.

As Joe rose from the ground, he cried hoarsely, “Fellows, the stockade!”

All heads swung to the direction of the trap where two glowing eyes moved slowly toward the gateway.

CHAPTER XIII

Another Theft

THE boys heard the stockade gate drop. This was followed by a howling so wild and terrifying that the forest itself seemed to shudder.

Biff and Tony started running toward the stockade.

“Easy,” Frank warned. “Let the beast tire himself out before we take a look.”

Excitedly the boys stood by while the trapped animal thrashed about. It jumped at the walls of the stockade, making the saplings quiver under each assault. Finally the wolf’s rage subsided into snarling submission.

“All right, now,” Frank said. “Well see what we caught.”

Beaming their flashlights ahead of them, the boys warily approached the stockade. When they reached the side of it, Joe dropped down on hands and knees.

“Stand on my back,” he said to Frank, “and take a gander over the top.”

Carefully Frank trained his flashlight and peered down from the top of the sapling wall. A large wolf, a heavy collar around its neck, crouched in one corner of the stockade. Its tongue hung out and foam flecked the cruel mouth.

“Saber!” Frank said. “Just as we thought.”

The boys took turns looking down at the trembling animal.

“Th-that’s the thing which chased you and Joe?” Chet said to Frank. “Boy, am I glad I stayed in camp!”

“What are we going to do with it?” Biff asked.

He received no immediate answer because Frank and Joe were conferring in low tones near the gate of the stockade.

“We don’t have the upper hand here by a long shot,” Frank was saying.

“I see what you mean,” Joe replied. “Saber’s master is probably nearby.”

“Right. If only he wasn’t armed! We’re no match against a man with a gun, Joe!”

The boys decided to put on an act for the benefit of Saber’s owner. In a loud voice Frank called out:

“Fellows, let’s get out of here! This woods is no place for campers, even with Saber out of circulation.”

“We’ll go at the crack of dawn,” Joe agreed loudly. “I don’t like the idea of being chewed up.” Then he whispered to his brother, “But we’ll come back here without that woodsman knowing about it. Maybe we’ll have better luck next time.”

“Saber!” Frank said. “Just as we thought!”

Guard duty was arranged, but the night passed uneventfully.

The next morning it was decided that Chet, Tony, and Biff would take the canoe and most of the camp equipment downstream. The river must eventually flow into the sea, probably near Barmet Bay.

“Joe and I’ll hike back through the woods,” Frank said. “We’ll pick up the car, and contact you when we arrive home.”

“What shall we do about Saber?” Joe asked. “We don’t dare let him out, but we can’t leave him to starve.”

Frank said grimly, “I’ll bet that as soon as we go, his owner will come for him.”

The Hardys shoved the laden canoe from shore and watched until their companions had paddled out of sight. Then they slung their packs over their shoulders and started back for the farm where they had left Chet’s jalopy.

They had been on their way only a few minutes when Joe said, “Let’s go back and see if the woodsman has released Saber. Are you game?”

Caching their packs in a thicket, the boys cautiously retraced their steps until they came to a big rock on a rise of ground. Peering around it, they were able to look down at the stockade. All was quiet except for the growl of the wolf. But as the boys watched, the animal suddenly grew restless, its growl climbing the scale to a thin whine.

“He hears somebody,” Frank said.

“Us, maybe?”

“No. I think that whine means his master is around.”

Suddenly they heard the distant sound of someone coming through the brush and flattened themselves on the ground to escape detection. Whoever it was, was making no effort to conceal his presence, certain that the campers had departed. The tramping of feet became louder, and someone approached the stockade.

“The woodsman!” Joe whispered.

The bearded man stopped, listened, then went to the gate of the stockade. Bending down, he lifted it, and when Saber’s head appeared, he snapped a wire leash onto the animal’s collar.

“Fool!” the boys heard the woodsman snarl. “Letting yourself get trapped by a bunch of kids.” Then he cuffed the animal, which cringed at his feet. The wolf acted like a beaten puppy.

The man retreated a few paces from the stockade and stood glaring at it. Then he ran up and hurled his body full force against the saplings. They began to give way under the charge.

He repeated the performance and at length the wall crashed in. Angrily the man continued to batter the stockade until it was level with the ground. Then he set off with Saber.

“Whew!” Joe said when the man was out of sight. “Some temper! Well, let’s make tracks! We know now that the wolf won’t starve.”

It was late in the afternoon before the Hardys reached the road where they had first entered the woods. From there they went straight to the farmhouse and retrieved the jalopy. After thanking the farm woman for letting them park there, the boys hopped in and started for home.

When they pulled up in front of their house, they found Chet sitting on the front steps, a piece of cake in one hand, a banana in the other.

“Hi, fellows!” he called out. “Got a lift into town, so I thought I’d pick up the jalopy.”

Chet said the trip downstream had been uneventful. It had joined the Willow River, which emptied into the bay. Tony had telephoned his home from a waterfront restaurant, and Mrs. Prito had come to pick up the campers in her husband’s small truck, and had delivered Chet and his canoe to the Morton home.

As soon as Chet had finished his cake, he decided to drive home. The two tired boys picked up their packs, mounted the front porch steps, and entered the house. Mrs. Hardy flung her arms around them.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “Chet has been telling us the wildest tales about wolves and prison pits and—”

She was interrupted by Aunt Gertrude, who came bustling into the hall from the kitchen. “I’m glad you’re back safe, too. But that Morton boy! I’d like to tie his tongue up, scaring your mother with such preposterous stories. I sent him outside with some food to stop his talking. Wolves in North Woods! Ridiculous! Why, there isn’t a wolf outside of Siberia, except in a few zoos.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Perhaps they had better not tell the whole story of what had happened, except to their father. Learning that he was working on a report in his study, the boys dashed upstairs.

“Hello, sons,” Mr. Hardy said, smiling, and closed the door. “Now let’s have the truth about your trip.”

When the boys had finished the account of their adventures, their father asked a few questions. The point which seemed to interest him most concerned the pigeons.

“You’re sure there was no message concealed on the one that was shot?” he asked. “Did you look under the tail feathers?”

The boys had to admit they had not thought to look anywhere but on the legs. Probably they had missed a good clue.

Mr. Hardy asked the boys to go outside and look at the kidnappers’ pigeon, which was in its cage in the garage.

“See if it’s the same kind you saw in the woods.”

Aunt Gertrude had appointed herself keeper and feeder of the bird. She went out with her nephews to show them what her good care and a well-selected diet had done for “the poor, emaciated bird” that had been delivered to them.

Suddenly Aunt Gertrude, in the lead, gave a shriek, then cried out:

“It’s gone! The pigeon’s gonel”

CHAPTER XIV

The Mysterious Light

THE pigeon’s cage as well as the bird had disappeared. A pane of glass which had been removed from a rear window was mute evidence of how the thief had entered.

There was no question in the boys’ minds as to who had taken the bird. It had to be one of Frank’s kidnappers.

“But when? When?” Aunt Gertrude cried out. “I took the pigeon his supper not an hour ago.”

She was extremely annoyed over the incident, and Mr. Hardy was vexed that they had missed another opportunity to learn who the pigeon’s owner was.

“I should have followed that second pigeon to its cote. It might have helped considerably if we could have found its home.”

The detective added that the happenings in North Woods seemed to point to the fact that there was a connection between his own case and the guns and equipment stolen from the Morton truck.

“More marked bills have turned up in the United States,” he said. “The FBI is sure the money is being used for some illegal purpose. But they don’t know yet what it could be.”

“But I’ll bet you have a theory, Dad,” Joe spoke up.

“Rifles.”

“How did you figure that?”

The detective said his assumption was based on deduction rather than absolute proof. While in Washington he had heard that a dory containing United States rifles had been found on the coast of Central America.

“The dory had been wrecked in a storm,” the detective said, “and the men who had manned it either drowned or swam off and left it. There was no mark of identification on the boat, but I believe it came from a large vessel.”

“Smugglers,” Frank commented. “Dad, do you think Tyler Morton’s stolen rifles are on their way to the Caribbean?”

“You’ve given up the idea they’re in North Woods?” His father smiled.

“No, I haven’t. And Joe and I want to go back there. Will you go with us?”

“Yes. But first I think we’d better take a look at the area from the air.”

“You mean scout the enemy before we attack?” Joe grinned. “Let’s go right away.”

“The sun is too low,” his father said. “There’ll be deep shadows over the woods at this time of day. We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

Frank made the arrangements, and at ten o’clock the next day the three Hardys were at the airport. A young man named Eric Martin, whom the boys knew, was assigned to pilot them.

“Hello,” Joe said to him. “Any news from Wayne?”

Eric shook his head gravely. “Not a word since that hijacker message.”

Mr. Hardy gave the young man instructions, and they took off. Leaving Bayport behind, the plane followed the Willow River, then took the tributary that headed into North Woods.

As the forest came into view, Frank pulled binoculars from his jacket. “I see the little pond where we went swimming,” he reported presently.

“That means we’re close to the wolf-man’s hideout,” Joe said.

“Yes, there’s the pen in that clearing right below us,” Frank replied. “Can’t tell from this height if any wolves are in it or not.”

“And there’s the shack where we saw the airplane engine,” Joe remarked.

The plane crisscrossed the area, but nothing suspicious came into view.

“Take her down to a thousand feet,” Mr. Hardy told the pilot.

The plane banked and descended.

Frank handed the binoculars to his father, but the detective could see nothing save the dense, uneven forest below.

“Those gangsters must have some kind of camp,” Joe said.

“If any of them are in the North Woods,” said his father, “they’re taking every precaution not to have their camp spotted from the air. But I was hoping we might find something else.”

“Like what?”

“Smoke, a camouflaged building, trees or vegetation arranged in some significant pattern. I suppose we may as well turn back.”

After the plane had landed and the Hardys were driving home, they made plans to leave together directly after lunch for a more careful search through North Woods. As they walked into the house, Mrs. Hardy handed her husband a telegram. He tore it open, read it swiftly, and frowned.

“I’ve been called back to Washington,” he said. “I’ll have to catch a plane. This is urgent.”

Mr. Hardy said he would be gone only one day. He suggested that his sons keep busy on the case.

“Sure, Dad. How?” Frank asked.

“Suppose you circle the entire woodland area in your car. It’s close to seventy miles all the way around, I’d say, and there may be another trail that’s a shortcut to the thieves’ camp.

“Talk to people who live on the edge of the woods,” his father continued. “Perhaps they can provide you with some clues.”

The young detectives started out in their car after lunch. When they reached the outskirts of North Woods, the good roads came to an end, and they began bouncing over rutted, narrow dirt roads.

“Pretty rugged out here,” Frank said.

They stopped at every house whose acreage bordered the woodland. Most of the farmers had no interest in the forest and knew little about it, except that a fox would sneak out now and then to kill their chickens.

About four o’clock the boys drew up beside a stooped man walking along the road. He was very friendly but tired looking, as if he had been guiding a plow all day.

“Hello,” Joe greeted him. “Can we give you a ride?”

The farmer whipped out a red bandanna to wipe his forehead. “Art’s the name. And thanks, but I turn down this lane.”

Frank spoke of their interest in the woods. The man eyed the boys with a skeptical half-smile.

“Them woods is a good place to stay clear of, I always tell folks. Why, out yonder there’s a pit full of snakes; hundreds of ’em wriggling around like they was crazy!”

Frank and Joe looked at each other as the man continued, “Then there’s those wild dogs, too. Ain’t never seen ‘em, but on dear nights I hear ’em.”

“Anybody live in North Woods?” Frank asked.

“Not that I ever heerd tell of, son.”

The boys thanked the farmer and drove on to the next place. They found its owner as full of wild tales as his neighbor. He had been told that any humans or farm animals straying into the forest were never seen alive again, though their cries of agony could be heard for miles.

“Did you ever hear any?” Frank asked.

“No. But once I did hear a siren—like a fire-en gine siren—and right after that there was a glow over the trees, just like the Northern Lights.”

This man was sure no one lived in the forest any longer. The whole tract had been bought up by a lumber company years before, he told them. There were rumors that strangers had been seen on one of the old woods roads—surveyors, most likely. The boys drove off, excited by what they had heard.

“What do you think of that siren-and-light story, Frank?”

“If we hadn’t heard the siren ourselves, and seen the wolves, I’d say all the stories were yarns. I’m sure the other rumors were circulated by people who want to keep visitors out of North Woods.”

Joe was all for going into the forest at once and having another look at the wolf-man’s place.

Frank shook his head, “Nobody’d know where we were. And, anyway, an order from Dad is—”

“You’re right. Let’s finish our job.”

The boys made a complete circuit of the forest, but found no trails that looked as though they had recently been used. The only new clue the day had yielded was the matter of the unexplained lights. Both boys were puzzled.

“Joe, it’s the second time there’s been a connection between a sudden flash of lights and a wailing siren,” Frank said. “Do you suppose the one that night on the ocean, when every light on the yacht suddenly blazed up, could have anything to do with North Woods?”

Joe grinned. “You’re stretching my imagination, but you probably mean that the plane could have signaled and the lights were an answer both times?”

“Exactly. When the siren wailed over North Woods, the trees were too thick for us to see any lights.”

“But we didn’t hear a helicopter.”

“That’s correct! So we’re right back where we started from, which is exactly nowhere.”

Frank switched on the car radio, hoping for good news of Jack Wayne. But again the report was disappointing, and the announcer said hope for the flier was waning. The Hardys were silent the rest of the way home.

Frank pulled into the driveway and drove the car into the garage. He and Joe jumped out and made for the back steps, but the door swung open before they had reached it. Mrs. Hardy came out, obviously agitated.

“Frank! Joe!” she cried out. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“What’s the matter, Mother?”

“It’s Chet. He’s been telephoning every few minutes for the past half-hour.”

“Why?”

“He’s in trouble. Needs your help right away!”

CHAPTER XV

An Urgent Plea

CHET in trouble again!

“Did he say what about?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Hardy shook her head. “But he wants you to go right over to the farm.”

“I wonder if it has anything to do with the stolen rifles,” Frank mused.

“We’ll soon find out,” Joe replied as he ran back toward the garage with Frank behind him.

“Just a minute,” their mother called. “One of you has to go to the hotel. Sam Radley’s waiting for these letters.” She handed Frank several envelopes for Mr. Hardy’s operative, adding that the detective had something that he wanted brought back.

“Okay,” Frank said. “Joe, you go to Chet’s. I’ll be back here in twenty minutes. If you need any help at the Mortons’, call me.”

When Frank returned from the errand, he found his mother even more disturbed than before.

“Chet phoned again,” she said. “He told me what the trouble is. Actually, it’s a family matter. Chet says they must have two thousand five hundred dollars tonight. Mr. Morton is away on business for the Dairymen’s League and Chet says his mother begs us to lend her at least two thousand dollars of it until he comes home. The banks are open this evening. Chet will drive over for the money in three-quarters of an hour. Poor boy, he was so confused he could hardly talk.”

“Did you talk to Mrs. Morton, Mother?” Frank asked.

“No, dear,” she replied. “Chet said she couldn’t come to the telephone.”

“Mother, you didn’t fall for a line like that!” Frank exclaimed. “Chet’s mother would never ask for a loan of that much money!”

Mrs. Hardy looked at her tall son in amazement as he continued.

“The person who will call for the money will be the one who lost the two thousand dollars we found. This is our chance to catch him!”

Mrs. Hardy was unconvinced. Despite the fact that she had the utmost confidence in Frank’s judgment, she was the type of woman, who, when a friend was in need, would make any sacrifice to help. Besides, she was sure the voice on the telephone had been Chet’s. And he would not deliberately deceive her.

“It’s something to do with a relative. Chet didn’t seem to want to explain, and I got the feeling that the Mortons didn’t care to tell us why they needed the money.”

“All right,” her son said, putting an arm around his mother’s shoulder. “I know you’re generous and sympathetic, but we can easily check on Chet’s story. I’m going to telephone Joe. He should be at the Mortons’ by this time.”

He quickly dialed Chet’s number. It was several seconds before the boy picked up the receiver.

“Hello? ... Frank?”

“Is Joe there? Put him on.”

“Y-yes.”

“Say, Joe, what’s the story about the two thousand five hundred dollars? It’s not a phony?”

“It isn’t phony,” Joe replied. “I believe we ought to lend the Mortons the money.”

“What! Where’s Mrs. Morton?”

“Out. She’s getting the other five hundred dollars.”

“You really think we should do this?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

“All right. Tell Chet I’ll bring it out.”

“No, don’t do that,” Joe replied. “Chet will pick it up.”

“You’re coming, too?”

“Sure.”

Frank hung up. He was perplexed. Maybe the request was legitimate, after all.

As a result of the conversation, Mrs. Hardy hastened to her desk in the corner of the living room. She drew out her savings account passbook and filled out a withdrawal form.

Her son put the book and withdrawal slip in his pocket, and hurried down the street. “I have an uneasy feeling about this,” he told himself as he entered the bank. “I hope Joe hasn’t been fooled.”

He laid the passbook and withdrawal form on a teller’s counter. When the clerk looked up and recognized Frank, he lifted his eyebrows.

“How do you want this?” he asked.

“In twenty-dollar bills,” Frank said. “And please make a record of the serial numbers.”

The teller glanced at Frank with a smile. “This is a departure from your usual mysteries, isn’t it, Frank? Normally you’re on the collecting end instead of the payoff end.”

Frank nodded. The teller made a list of the serial numbers and gave the boy a duplicate. Then he stamped the passbook and handed Frank the money. As he started home, Frank remembered the night he had been attacked and kidnapped on this way to the ball park. With such a large sum of money on his person he did not want to take the risk of being held up.

He stopped at headquarters and asked Chief Collig for a police escort. He was tempted to tell Collig about his suspicions, but decided this might embarrass the Mortons. It would be better to call upon Biff and Tony to carry out the next part of his plan.

After being driven home in a police car, Frank telephoned Biff and Tony. He asked them to drive at once to the road that led past the Morton farm. When Chet and Joe left there, they were to warn the boys if anyone followed them. In any case, Biff and Tony were to keep an eye on Chet until he got home again.

The boys readily agreed. Tony said he would start at once and pick up Biff.

To Frank, the next half-hour ticked by as if every second were a day. He breathed a sigh of relief when the stutter of Chet’s jalopy told him the boy was only a block away. Frank rushed to the curb, the envelope with the money in his pocket.

The car made its way erratically down the street, weaving as if the driver were not in full control of his faculties. Chet stopped the car and stared at Frank as if he had never seen him before. His round, full face was damp with perspiration, and his eyes revealed a terrible fear that made his hands tremble on the wheel.

“What’s the matter, Chet? Is the trouble bad?” Frank asked. “Come inside and we’ll talk it over.”

“No—no,” Chet pleaded. “Give me the money and let me get back home as quick as I can.”

“Where’s Joe?”

Chet did not reply for a second, then he whispered, “He—he’s coming.”

“Can’t you stop in for a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Chet’s double chin quivered as he gulped. His mouth was so dry he could hardly rasp out, “Please, please, Frank. No. No. I tell you I have to go. Give me the money.”

When Frank drew the envelope from his pocket, Chet snatched it from his hand.

“Chet, you ...”

“Good-by!” the frightened boy fairly squealed.

The old car lurched forward and rumbled down the street.

As he entered the house again, Frank realized that Chet must be in a state of shock brought about by severe worry. How serious was the Morton trouble? Maybe Joe would be able to tell him when he came.

After twenty minutes went by and his brother still had not returned, Frank became anxious.

“I’ll phone the farm,” he decided. Mrs. Morton answered.

“This is Frank. Is Joe there?”

“Why, no,” was the reply. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Is Chet home yet?”

“No.”

“Well, he has the money,” Frank said.

“Money?” Mrs. Morton’s voice sounded casual.

“The money you asked for. I gave it to Chet.”

There was silence for a moment. “I don’t understand, Frank. I didn’t ask for any money.”

The boy groaned. His hunch had been right. What he had suspected might be a swindle had turned out to be one. What a fool he had been!

And what had happened to Chet and Joe?

CHAPTER XVI

Two Knockouts

SINCE Mrs. Morton knew nothing about the strange request for two thousand five hundred dollars, Frank decided he had better not alarm her before investigating further. Drawing a deep breath, he said:

“When you see Chet and Joe, will you have them get in touch with me right away, Mrs. Morton?”

“Yes, Frank. But what about the money?”

“Chet can explain that better than I can,” Frank replied. He said good-by and hung up.

Mrs. Hardy overheard the conversation and immediately became alarmed, even though Frank tried to reassure her.

“Oh, why didn’t I listen to you? I’ve been so gullible,” she said tearfully.

Frank’s next move was to contact Biff and Tony. Frank’s hands were moist with anxiety as he dialed Biff’s home. The lanky boy answered.

“Hi, Frank!” he said. “We tailed Chet. Everything’s okay.”

“But Chet hasn’t arrived home.”

“Sure he did,” Biff insisted. “We saw him drive into his lane.”

“Did you watch him go into the house?”

Biff admitted he had not, and at no time had he seen Joe. He and Tony had followed the jalopy to within a block of the Hardy home, he said. They had waited on a side street until Chet began his homeward trip. Then they had followed the rickety car until the stout boy had turned into his driveway, whereupon they had driven back to Bayport.

“Did you see Joe’s car anywhere?”

“No.”

Before Biff could say more, the telephone operator cut in. “There’s an urgent call for Mr. Frank Hardy,” she said.

“I’ll take it,” Frank said, his heart beating faster.

No sooner had Biff hung up than Mrs. Morton’s voice said excitedly, “Frank, something awful has happened to Chet.”

“What!”

“A neighbor carried him in—unconscious. He was lying alongside the driveway by his car. I just called our doctor!”

“I’ll be right out there, Mrs. Morton!”

Frank stopped only long enough to tell his mother where he was going and to phone for a taxi.

A little while later he was bounding up the farmhouse steps. Chet’s mother met him at the door, her face pale with anxiety.

“He’s on the sofa,” she said, leading the way. “Oh, I wish the doctor would get here!”

Frank looked at his friend. Chet’s face was as white as the damp cloth that lay on his forehead. Beneath the compress could be seen the outline of a bump the size of an egg.

“He received an awful blow,” Mrs. Morton said.

Frank knelt beside his friend. “Who hit you, Chet?”

The reply was a string of jumbled words. As Frank listened, he began to realize the stark truth of the situation. Quickly he searched Chet’s pockets. The envelope with the money was gone!

At that moment the tires of a car sounded in the driveway. Dr. Brown hurried in. As he set his black bag on a chair and began his examination of Chet, the worrisome thought that maybe Joe also had met with foul play prompted Frank to hurry outside.

Catching sight of the Hardy convertible parked next to the Mortons’ barn, he ran toward it. Joe was not in the car. Just as Frank was wondering where to look next, he heard a low moan. It seemed to come from the barn.

Quickly he pushed open the sliding door and snapped on a light, almost stumbling over a prone figure as he did so. It was his brother, tied hand and foot, and barely conscious. A thin stream of blood trickled down one side of his face from a wound above the temple.

After ripping open Joe’s collar and untying his bonds, Frank revived the semiconscious boy. As Joe struggled to a sitting position, he pressed a hand to his head.

“Ow!” he said. “I can still feel that pistol butt. Where’s Chet?”

Frank told him. “And the doctor had better look at you, too,’ he said.

“I’ll be all right,” Joe said, getting up.

As the boys walked slowly from the barn, Joe gave an account of his harrowing experience. When he had arrived at the Mortons’, a tall masked man with a gun had met him at the door. When Joe had resisted, the masked stranger threatened that if his orders were not carried out, Chet’s sister Iola would never return to her home. Joe did not know that Chet had already been told the same story.

“I was helpless,” Joe said. “When you called, I wanted to tell the truth, but the man was holding a gun against my ribs.”

“How did you get slugged?” Frank queried.

“When Chet left for town, the man wouldn’t let me go. I tried to sneak off to our car, but he hit me with his pistol butt. That’s all I remember until you found me.”

The boys went to the house. They entered the living room just as the doctor finished bandaging Chet’s head.

“It’s only a bad bruise,” he said. “But the boy must be kept quiet. Don’t question him until after he has had a complete rest.”

Dr. Brown examined Joe’s head, pronouncing him all right, but advising a good night’s rest. As the physician drove off, two policemen arrived. Mrs. Morton had summoned them. Joe stayed long enough to report all he knew, then the Hardys went home.

When the boys confirmed the loss of the money, their mother was inconsolable. Then, bracing herself, she said she was thankful Joe and Chet were safe.

Frank went to telephone Biff. Tony was there, and the two became greatly disturbed over the news.

“I can’t help feeling that we’re responsible for botching the whole thing,” Biff said woefully.

“Of course you weren’t,” Frank replied. “Nobody could have figured out what was going to happen. But you can help us by supplying any clues you can think of.”

Biff recalled that a car without lights had been parked way off the wrong side of the road a short distance from the Morton farm. Biff and Tony thought it had been empty when they passed it, but perhaps it had not been.

Frank was so excited that he remained awake until two o’clock. The thieves had struck because they could not get their hands on the money at police headquarters. They must be captured before they could strike again!

The first step was to consult his father’s operative, Sam Radley. Early the next morning he telephoned the man at his hoteL

“Frank,” Radley said, after hearing the whole story, “this is a mighty serious case. Assault and battery are bad enough, not to mention grand larceny. We’ll go into this thoroughly. I’ll be ready to leave here in an hour.”

The boys picked him up and they drove to the spot where the empty car had stood.

“Say, Joe,” Frank said, “do these tire prints mean anything to you?”

Joe bent down to examine them. “I’ll say they do. Same kind as the car that followed the Morton truck after it had been stolen.”

“We’ll look for more clues,” said Sam Radley, pulling a detective’s field kit from his pocket.

Using a magnifying glass and tape measure, he went over every inch of the ground and nearby bushes, gathering up samples of dirt onto laboratory slides. Next he went to work on an analysis of what he had found. It was not long before he said:

“All set, fellows. I think we know whom to look for: Two men. One tall, with reddish hair.”

“That blasts my idea it was the fake salesman with the blond hair,” Joe remarked.

“The other man was short and has an uneven gait,” Radley went on. “The red-haired fellow drove the car, which is a new blue sedan with a scratch on the driver’s door.”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “How did you figure all that, Sam?”

“I simply translated some clues I found,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“Let’s have them.”

“We know the driver was red-haired because I found two of his hairs on a branch of those hazel bushes which brushed against the door where he stepped out of the car. Also, his stride was long, which means he’s tall. The other man’s footprints were short and uneven. The impressions made by one of the feet is deeper than the other. He has a slight limp.”

“The man who left the letter at the News office!” Joe exclaimed.

“How do you know all that about the car?” Frank asked.

“Well, I measured the wheel base and there are some exhaust stains on the grass. The two figures give me the size. I found blue paint flecks under where the driver’s door would have been, and on a broken-off twig, which means there’s probably a scratch on the car door. So there it is.”

“The driver was the tall fellow who put Chet and me out of the picture,” Joe surmised.

“We’ll see Chet next,” the detective said.

“I hope he’s awake and can talk,” said Frank.

When they entered the Morton home, they found Chet wide awake, lying on the living-room sofa. He had a large tray of lunch on a chair beside him.

“Chet’s coming along fine,” Mrs. Morton said with a laugh. “Whenever his appetite returns, I know he’s well.”

The Hardys and Sam Radley began to fire questions at the boy. They learned from him that the tall man had come to the house when Chet was alone, and at gunpoint had forced the defenseless youth to carry out the extortion scheme. The man had hoped to get both Frank and Joe to the farm, but when Frank had stayed home, the thief had changed his plan of attack.

“He told me I’d be followed every minute,” Chet said. “One of his pals was hiding in the trunk of the jalopy when I drove to your home. He said he’d shoot me if I went inside the house, or told you anything.

“When I got back here,” Chet went on, “somebody jumped from a bush in our driveway and hit me.”

“Do you know what the man in your jalopy looked like?” Sam Radley asked.

“No.”

“All right. I’ll call the police and tell them what happened. They can put out an alert for the two men and the sedan.” With that, Radley went to the telephone.

Frank continued to question Chet. “Think hard, Chet! Didn’t you get any clue at all?”

“Well, maybe I did. Just when I was seeing stars, I heard someone say, ‘The take-off’s tomorrow at eleven.’ ”

Joe glanced at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty now!” he exclaimed.

CHAPTER XVII

Trouble at Sea

THE Hardys immediately recalled the incident of the missing Jack Wayne and his plane. Were Chet and Joe’s attackers in some way connected with the hijacker?

Joe telephoned the local airport and spoke to a man there who knew the Hardys. The boy suggested that all pilots flying out at eleven be on guard against trouble. He also asked if there were any strangers in a private plane waiting to take off.

“There’s no flight scheduled out of here at eleven, either commercial or private,” he was told.

Joe contacted the two other nearby airports. A jetliner was leaving from the second, and every precaution would be taken. The Hardys waited at the Morton farm until noon, but no incident was reported from either field.

“Probably the message meant eleven o’clock tonight,” Frank said, and called the airports again to renew the warning.

As the afternoon wore on and Mr. Hardy did not return, the boys gave up the idea of going to North Woods that day.

“What say we drive to the airports and do a little checking?” Frank suggested. Everything, however, was routine at the public airports. Nothing had been heard from Wayne or of his plane. And no ship had been chartered for a flight that evening. The boys came away disappointed.

By dinnertime Frank and Joe had reached the conclusion that if the remark had anything to do with a plane, it must be a private one that would take off at eleven, and probably from a private flying field.

Frank declared, “From what’s happened so far —wallet, plane, that yacht blinking its lights off and on, and the wailing siren—I believe there might be something doing over the ocean. Suppose we wait out there tonight to find out.”

Joe agreed. After dinner the boys told their mother and aunt of the proposed trip. Before Mrs. Hardy could express herself on the subject, Aunt Gertrude said excitedly:

“Take your two-way radio and keep in touch. If anybody bothers you, I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”

The boys promised to take the set. Reluctantly Mrs. Hardy agreed to their going. Just before dark, they left for their boathouse, carrying binoculars as well as the radio. Joe unloosed the moorings and they shoved off.

The motor purred into action, but the young detectives decided on a trial spin before heading toward the open sea.

“She’s okay,” Frank called, after the boys had circled the bay a few times.

He guided the motorboat out of the inlet, which they had negotiated so perilously the evening of the storm. Tonight the ocean was as smooth as a new highway. Stars twinkled in the cloudless sky, but there was little light from the thin crescent moon.

“Oh, oh,” Joe said presently. “We’d better not forget Aunt Gertrude.” He pulled up the collapsible antenna and switched on the two-way radio. “Hello, Aunt Gertrude. Are you listening?” Then he turned the selector to hear her answer.

The receiver crackled with static, which was followed by a voice like an umpire calling a strike. “Listening! I’ve been waiting an hour. Where are you boys?”

“On a calm sea. Nothing to worry about.”

The boys did not know whether what they heard was static or Aunt Gertrude snorting.

As Joe clicked off the set, he heard another motorboat and glanced back. He noticed moving red and green lights not far away.

“I’m afraid we’re being followed!” he said to his brother.

Frank peered across their churning wake. The strange boat was gaining rapidly on them. He let out the throttle all the way, and the Sleuth leaped forward like a frightened rabbit.

For a few minutes it seemed as if it were putting distance between the two crafts. But the space gradually diminished. Joe turned on the radio.

“Aunt Gertrude, we think we’re being followed by another boat. It’s overtaking us. I’m going to hide the radio until we find out what’s going on. Let you know later what happens.”

He had barely collapsed the aerial and secreted the radio when the prow of a powerful speedboat pulled alongside them. Two men were in it.

“Stop!” one of them shouted.

Frank tried to get a good look at the strangers, but both of them wore hats pulled down low and collars turned up.

One of the men grabbed the side of the Sleuth and beamed a flashlight on the name plate. “Turn around and go back!” he commanded sharply.

“What for?” Joe said cheerfully. “Can’t a couple of fellows have some fun?”

“You guys can have some fun ashore,” the man sneered. “Do what I tell you, or else!”

“We’re just out for a spin,” Frank said as lightheartedly as he could under the conditions. “But we don’t like being ordered to go home. Who are you, anyway?”

“It’s not for kids to ask questions,” said the man, vaulting into the Sleuth.

He was several inches over six feet and as burly as a bear. Menacingly he approached Joe.

“Are you going to scram?”

“No.”

The man lunged at Joe, who tried to grapple with him. Frank sprang to his brother’s defense, but before he could clamp a hold on the stranger, the assailant had pitched Joe far over the side of the boat. After a brief struggle Frank followed. The Hardys bobbed to the surface several feet from the boats.

Frank hissed into Joe’s ear, “Pretend we can’t swim.”

The boys thrashed about madly, crying for help.

As the big man leaped back into his own boat, Joe heard him laugh and shout to his companion:

“That sure was easy. Let’s go and report to the boss.”

“Shall we take their boat in tow?” asked the other.

“The tide’ll take care of that, pal,” the big man shouted. “We’ve done what we were ordered to do. Let’s scram!”

Frank and Joe forced themselves beneath the surface of the water several times, giving a genuine appearance of drowning. When the men saw this, they gave satisfied grunts and sped off.

By this time the lights of the bobbing Sleuth were farther away.

“We’ll really have to swim for it,” Frank said.

With steady, powerful strokes, the Hardys made for their drifting boat. They reached it together and hauled themselves over the side. Tumbling into the bottom, they lay still for a moment to catch their breath.

“We’d better turn off our lights,” Frank said, Teaching for the switch.

After everything had been quiet for several minutes, Joe reached for the radio and turned on the sender. In a hoarse whisper he said, “Aunt Gertrude, are you still there?”

“Yes,” came the answer. “Frank! Joe! Are you all right?”

When her nephew reported what had happened, Miss Hardy gasped.

“I knew something would happen. I was just about to send the police launch. Did those pirates leave?”

“Yes. We fooled ’em. As soon as we’re sure they can’t hear our engine, we’re going farther out,” Joe said, and switched off the set.

A few minutes later Frank started the motor and guided the Sleuth into deeper water. Not a ship was in sight, but a few minutes later they could just make out twinkling lights in the distance.

Joe pulled out the binoculars he had brought along. “It looks like the yacht we saw the night of the storm,” he reported. “Listen!”

A siren was wailing! Its hollow, mournful sound crescendoed and wailed across the ocean.

Just as suddenly came the roar of a helicopter. Frank and Joe glanced at the Sleuth’s clock. It was eleven-fifteen.

As the boys listened, the sound of the helicopter grew louder. The Hardys peered into the sky but could not see anything. Apparently the craft was traveling without lights.

“The same setup as the other night!” Frank cried excitedly.

“I see it!” Joe shouted.

The rotor blades twirled lazily as the craft came lower and lower.

“We’d better scram!” Joe cried out.

Frank was about to turn the Sleuth when the siren wailed again. To the boys’ relief the helicopter moved off.

“I’ll bet that was a signal,” Frank said. “Do you suppose that ship ... ?”

His question went unfinished as a flash of light came from the direction of the yacht. Then darkness again.

The helicopter was edging off in the direction of the ship. “That must have been a signal flare!”

“Let’s go closer. I’ll tell Aunt Gertrude what’s going on,” Joe said.

By mistake he clicked the receiving switch. Suddenly Miss Hardy’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Boys, are you there? I have an important message—”

Joe switched to the sender. “Yes, we’re here. Something’s doing.”

“Well, leave it and come home. Your father is back in town and wants you.”

“We can’t come now.”

“There’s been a burglary at a factory. Part of the money stolen from Chet was found there.”

“Switch that off!” Frank commanded as he cut the Sleuth’s motor.

He had observed a launch speeding toward them from the direction of the yacht.

“If it’s those same men, we’re sunk this time,” Joe said, hiding the radio once again.

The boys counted on the darkness to conceal the Sleuth. There was a bright light on the yacht now. The helicopter was directly over it. A wire ladder dangled from the chopper. A man was descending it.

“Great crow!” Joe exclaimed. “I’ll bet the wallet we found was dropped from that helicopter!”

“Get down!” Frank warned as Joe craned his neck to see better.

He ducked to the floor of the Sleuth just as the launch’s searchlight swept across it. Before it swung back, the Hardys had covered themselves with tarpaulin to avoid detection. The light was trained steadily on the Sleuth as the other boat rushed toward it.

There came the sound of a loud splash. It was followed by a string of oaths from the boat, which was now almost beside the Sleuth,

A muffled voice from the boat gave them a clue. “There goes five thousand dollars. The boss’ll pin somebody’s ears back for this.”

“For ten grand I wouldn’t be in that guy’s shoes,” came a gruff reply. “Bad enough to lose that wallet. Well, let’s take a look at that boat.”

Through a crack in the tarpaulin Joe could see that the rays of the launch’s searchlight were probing every corner of the Sleuth for signs of life.

“Just a driftin’ boat. Prob’ly the one those kids had who got drowned. Yep, this is it—the Sleuth.”

At that moment a wailing sound filled the air.

“There’s the siren,” the gruff voice said. “We ain’t got much time.”

“I’m goin’ to hop in and take a look, anyhow,” the persistent fellow replied. “I might find some-thin’ worth takin’.”

“I ain’t so sure. Last time we hit port, Renny—”

“Shut up! I’m goin’ to take a look.”

The Hardys felt the Sleuth lurch as one of the men leaped over the side.

The boys held their breath, fearful that even the pounding of their hearts might be heard.

“Hey! I found a radio—one of them two-way jobs,” the man said. “I’ll see if it works.”

He clicked it on. The next instant a woman’s voice cried out clearly:

“This is Aunt Gertrude. Frank and Joe Hardy, why don’t you answer me? Do you need any help?”

The man shut the set off and gave a low laugh. “Well, Mr. Hardy, tell Aunt Gertrude for me they’ve gone to Davy Jones’s locker.”

There was a loud, coarse guffaw. “Bring that radio! Maybe we’ll hear something from the big dick himself. He’s getting too hot.”

The man handed the radio across the water. The Sleuth swayed as he took a long step back ward. His foot planted itself squarely upon Frank’s back!.

CHAPTER XVIII

Caught!

INSTINCTIVELY Frank let out a stifled gasp as the intruder’s heel dug into his ribs.

The tarpaulin covering was ripped off. A hairy sailor towered over him.

“Ha!” the man shouted in anger. “One of the Hardy boys! Jeff was wrong. You didn’t drown!”

He reached down, grasped Frank’s shirt front, and pulled the boy to his feet.

“I’ll knock you cold before I toss you over. Then you won’t never come back to life!” he threatened.

Frank watched. As the big fellow cocked his arm, the youth caught a glimpse of Joe peeling off the canvas covering and rising behind the burly thug.

The man in the launch saw the move, too. “There’s another kid!” he shouted.

His warning came too late. Before the hamlike fist could start its forward journey, Frank, with the agility of a tiger, delivered a shove to his assailant’s mid-section. As the man teetered, Joe flung a crushing body block against the back of his legs.

The sailor keeled over like a falling tree, his head cracking against the gunwale. He rolled over on his face, moaned, and lay still on the bottom of the Sleuth.

So swiftly had the blow been struck that the man in the launch stared, speechless. He reached toward the dashboard and pressed a button. Then, letting out a shrill yell, he made a flying leap for the Hardys. He landed in the Sleuth simultaneously with a rumbling noise that quickly rose to a wail.

“He’s set off a siren!” Joe cried out.

Frank plunged into the fellow, knocking him on top of his henchman. Joe flung himself into the melee, and together the boys pinned him down.

Above the din they heard another siren. “The yacht’s answering!” Frank cried.

The prisoner beneath the boys snarled and puffed.

“Save your strength,” Frank retorted. “You’ll need it for the swim back.”

“Let’s tie him up and take him with us,” Joe suggested. “That’ll make two prisoners who may be able to help us solve the riddle of the wailing siren.”

“No.” Frank said. “Carrying both of them will make too much weight for the Sleuth. We’re going to have to run for it and we’ll need every bit of speed. I think our one prisoner will tell plenty.”

From across the water a speedboat churned rapidly in their direction.

“Here you go, sailor!” Frank said.

The boys lifted the struggling man over the side of the Sleuth. He hit the water with a flat splash. Spluttering, he started swimming toward the launch, which had drifted some yards away.

Instantly Joe took the wheel and started the Sleuth’s engine. As it leaped into action, Frank yanked a life jacket from a locker. Bending over their prisoner, he thrust the man’s limp arms into it and buckled the straps.

“What are you doing?” Joe shouted.

“This fellow may have to be our secret weapon,” Frank replied.

“How?”

Before Frank could explain, the searchlight from the launch suddenly started to move across the water. The sailor had reached his own boat, climbed in, and was after them!

“Great crow!” Joe exclaimed. “We can’t make it, Frank, with two boats after us!”

“Don’t be too sure.”

Frank kept a wary eye on the unconscious man beside him, at the same time listening to the racing motor of the Sleuth. His insistence upon perfection in its engine was paying dividends. Joe made a beeline for the inlet. Although they were outdistancing the launch, the speedboat was creeping up. Suddenly there was a shot.

“They’re firing on us!” Joe shouted.

Their prisoner began to revive. He twisted from side to side, mumbling. Frank could catch nothing intelligible. It sounded like crack—gun —crack.

Frank watched the man carefully to remain master of the situation. He felt in the captive’s pockets for weapons, or something that might identify him with the gang of smugglers or kidnappers. He found nothing.

“If the guy in the speedboat gets too close, I’m going to turn around and ram him!” Joe cried.

“You won’t have to.”

“How the dickens are we going to beat him? Look at him gain on us!”

“There’s your answer!” Frank pointed to their prisoner. As the speedboat raced to head off the Sleuth before she could make the narrow inlet, he shouted, “Now’s the time!”

He helped the life-jacketed. man to his feet. “You okay?” he asked.

“Sure. Why—?” The sailor suddenly realized what was about to happen. His fist shot out.

But Frank was ready for him. He dodged, caught the sailor off balance, and pushed him into the sea.

“Now’s our chance!” he shouted. “Run for it, Joe!”

Over the roar of the motor the boys heard a shout. Immediately the speedboat throttled down and came alongside the swimming sailor. At the same moment, the launch made a quick turn and barely avoided running down the man in the water. The boys could hear the engine going into reverse.

Joe urged the Sleuth to its top speed and grinned at his brother. “Your secret weapon worked swell!”

But the man in the launch did not give up the chase. After standing by to see that the sailor was picked up, he renewed the pursuit. The gun went into action again, and the boys crouched low. Bullet after bullet sang over their heads or spat into the waves. Joe was zigzagging the Sleuth’s course.

“He’s really pouring it on,” Joe said grimly.

“Gosh, if we only had our radio, Joe, we could have told Aunt Gertrude to notify the Coast Guard.”

Again the launch was gaining on them. The speedboat had turned back toward the dim hulk of the yacht.

“If we can only make the bay,” Frank thought, “I know of plenty of places to hide where the water’s shallow and that launch can’t follow us.”

“Here—we—are!” Joe shouted.

He applied a stiff left rudder. The Sleuth took the turn like a champion and sped through the mouth of Barmet Bay.

A snug cove lay a quarter of a mile ahead. The racing Sleuth reached it and turned in. There was no sign of the pursuing launch.

“We lost them!” Joe cried in relief. “I thought they had us! Too bad about our prisoner. He might have told us plenty.”

“He didn’t have a thing in his pockets,” said Frank. “And besides, he probably wouldn’t have talked. We’d better phone the Coast Guard pronto.”

Joe docked at an all-night waterfront restaurant in the inlet. Frank jumped out and rushed for a pay phone. When he had finished his detailed report, the lieutenant said, “We’ll dispatch a boat at once to look for the speedboat and the launch. And I’ll notify our stations along the coast to go after that yacht and also check on the helicopter. I’ll get in touch with Police Chief Collig too.”

A few minutes later Joe guided the Sleuth to their boathouse. When the brothers arrived home, the Hardy house was brightly lighted and alive with excitement.

“It’s you! Thank goodness!” Aunt Gertrude ex· claimed.

Briefly Frank and Joe told what had happened to them. In turn they asked for particulars about the burglars at the factory, and whether their father had reported anything further.

“No,” Mrs. Hardy answered. “You’re to stand by until he calls. In the meantime you’d better get to bed.”

As the boys were putting on pajamas a little later, Frank said he thought the house should be guarded.

“That gang may still try something desperate —and before morning.” He slipped into slacks and moccasins. “I’m going downstairs,” he said.

“I’ll take a turn later,” Joe told him. “But call me if you hear anything.”

It was nearly two o’clock when Frank halted at a side window that looked out on the driveway. As he peered through the narrow space, he drew back quickly. Was it an illusion, or did he detect a motion in the bushes beside the garage?

Every muscle in the boy’s body tensed as he watched. The bushes parted and a man looked out. The dark figure stood motionless as if to listen, then made a “come-on” motion with his hand. Immediately the bushes parted again and a second figure emerged from the shadows. Together they tiptoed toward the house, hugging the shadows.

Frank raced upstairs to summon Joe. The younger boy, rousing instantly, hopped into slacks and loafers and hastened to the first floor.

“There they are!” Frank whispered, pointing to the space below the shade of the side window “They’re coming to the back door.”

“They can’t open it.”

“I unlocked it. We’ll jump’em.”

“Good strategy.”

The boys tiptoed into the kitchen and stood behind the door. Soon they heard a low voice say:

“We can’t fail this time. We’ve got to get Hardy’s reports ...”

“We’ll try the door, then one of the windows.” The knob turned. “What do you know? They left this door unlocked.”

The door opened slowly.

“Okay!” came a hoarse whisper. “This way. Don’t make a sound. And watch out for the two boys.”

As a dark figure appeared in the doorway, Joe charged like a young bull, hitting the intruder a solid blow and tumbling him onto the porch.

Frank followed with a flying tackle in the direction of the second man, but missed him. He dashed off through the yard and vaulted the hedge. Frank went after him.

Joe was still grappling with the man on the porch. The struggling prisoner suddenly jack-knifed his knees and was about to deliver a vicious kick at the boy’s head when the porch light went on and a voice shouted:

“Don’t you dare!”

A rush of footsteps was instantly followed by a sharp blow, and the man went limp as an empty glove. Joe jumped up.

Joe charged like a young bull

The light from the kitchen revealed Aunt Gertrude, her brother’s hickory stick in her right hand, standing over the prone figure.

“Try to harm my nephew, will you?” she said, waving the cane menacingly.

As the man moaned and tried to sit up, Joe gasped. The fellow was tall and had red hair!

“You!” the boy cried out. “The man who knocked out my friend Chet and me and took our two thousand dollars!”

The prisoner glared. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered weakly.

“Oh, yes, you do,” Joe said. Aunt Gertrude handed him a rope and he bound the intruder’s arms and legs. “You’re one of the gang my father’s after. You’re smuggling rifles out of this country.”

For an instant there was a look of guilty surprise on the man’s face, then he denied ever having heard of such a thing.

By this time Mrs. Hardy had arrived on the scene, and suggested they go inside the house.

“This is all a mistake, lady!” the prisoner pleaded.

“We’ll let the police decide that.”

Before they could telephone headquarters, Frank came rushing into the house. “You’ve got him!” he cried, seeing the prisoner. “That practically proves we have the right car!”

“What car?” Joe asked.

Frank explained that when he chased the red-haired man’s companion along the street back of the Hardys’, the fellow had started to cross over to a parked car. He had changed his mind when two policemen loomed up beside it, and he had sped on.

“Was he caught?”

“No. He was too quick for Smuff and Riley and me.”

“Smuff and Riley?”

Frank nodded. “They were given this beat to patrol, and actually found a blue car with a scratch on the door. It fits the description of the one parked near Chet’s farm.”

The prisoner’s jaw opened in astonishment. Frank went on, “If he won’t tell us who he is, the motor vehicle department will.”

“It’s not my car!” the man cried out. “It belongs to ...” Suddenly he realized he had said too much, and from then on kept sullenly silent.

“Where are Smuff and Riley?” Aunt Gertrude asked. “Bring them here to take this—this cutthroat away!”

Officer Riley came in, puffing from the exertion of pushing the car around the comer. Smuff was guarding it at the curb.

“A prisoner, eh?” Riley beamed. “You sure got him tied up for delivery.” He laughed at his own joke. “Well, I’ll take him to headquarters.”

“Just a minute,” Frank said. “I believe the rest of the gang may have been brought in by the Coast Guard. I’ll make a phone call.”

He went to the hall telephone and spoke to the lieutenant, first telling him of the red-haired man’s capture, then asking if the launch or speedboat or yacht had been boarded.

The officer said his men had returned empty-handed. The suspected craft had too much of a headstart. He assured Frank, however, that a plane would be sent out at daybreak to check on the yacht.

Frank hung up, but stayed at the telephone. In a loud voice he said excitedly, “Oh, that’s just great, Lieutenant! Now our prisoner will certainly talk!”

He returned to the kitchen. Continuing his hoax, he said to their captive, “Quite a racket you fellows were carrying on. How did you ever get tangled up in such a dangerous business? Uncle Sam has taken a hand in it now!”

The man glowered, but remained silent.

Both Frank and Joe tried to force a further confession from him, but he remained obdurate. Finally Frank said:

“We may as well turn you over to the police. They have ways of making people talk. Riley, how about calling headquarters for a car to take this guy down?”

“Sure thing, Frank,” the officer assented. “Then I’ll go outside and tell Smuff what’s happened.” He went to the telephone. While he was gone, Joe said:

“I wish we could keep our prisoner here until we hear from Dad.”

The man greeted these words with an evil snort.

“Your dad, eh? Fenton Hardy! I knew we’d get around to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen here. If you promise to let me go, I might be able to make a little deal with you folks.”

“We don’t go for deals,” Joe said. “But what’s on your mind?”

“It’s simple. In exchange for my freedom I’ll give you some important information. I’ll tell you where they’re holding your father!”

CHAPTER XIX

Danger in North Woods

“DAD captured?” Joe shouted in disbelief.

The man nodded, smiling evilly. Mrs. Hardy turned white, and Aunt Gertrude put an arm about her.

“How do we know you’re not lying?” Joe asked evenly.

The man shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

The Hardys moved out of earshot of the criminal for a whispered conference. All agreed that the story of the factory theft might have been a means of luring the detective into a trap.

“We’ll check on this burglary,” Joe said. “Where was it?”

“In Hambleton at the airplane motors factory.”

“I’ll call the police.” Joe hurried upstairs to his father’s study. But neither the local nor State Police had heard of the theft. Joe came downstairs and relayed the news to his family.

“I can’t believe Dad would walk into a trap that easily,” said Frank. “Wait a minute. I want to look for something in his files.”

He went to the study and unlocked Fenton Hardy’s filing cabinet, which he had permission to do in case of emergency.

Thumbing through the files, Frank noted that Mr. Hardy was under contract to direct plant security work at the Hambleton company where secret government work was being carried on.

The name and private number of the company’s president were listed. Frank quickly dialed.

Mr. Hartwick answered. When Frank had convinced him of his identity, Mr. Hartwick said:

“Yes, Frank. There has been a burglary here. We’re keeping it secret to tackle the problem from the inside first.”

“Is Dad all right?”

“Yes, so far as I know. He’s out here now.”

“Will you find him and have him phone home? Something important has come up here.”

As Frank hurried down the stairs he heard scuffling in the kitchen. The redheaded man was trying desperately to get away.

“Your trick didn’t work,” Frank announced. “I know where my father is.”

Frank told the others that Mr. Hardy was safe. Just then the telephone rang. Moments later Frank heard the calm voice of his father at the other end of the line.

Frank quickly told all that had happened to them on the ocean and later. Fenton Hardy listened in amazement. When the boy had finished, the detective said:

“You boys have done a great job. Now there are two things I want you to do. Try to find out something about the helicopter. And meet me here at noon.”

“Yes, Dad.”

As Frank said good-by, a prowl car stopped in front of the house. Two policemen jumped out and hustled the prisoner into the car.

The Hardy home became quiet once more as the four occupants retired for some much-needed sleep. Frank and Joe did not awaken until nine o’clock. As soon as they were dressed, Joe telephoned the Coast Guard. After a long conversation he hung up.

“The Coast Guard’s flying boat located the yacht,” he told Frank.

“Did they stop it?”

“Landed alongside and boarded her.”

“What did they find?”

“Nothing! Everything was in order and the captain, named Haxon, denied any connection with a helicopter. If the yacht was carrying smuggled goods, the captain probably got scared and ordered it dumped overboard. Anyway, the plane’s keeping an eye on the yacht as she goes down the coast.”

A desperate effort to find a trace of the helicopter drew a blank.

“It’s a private helicopter—very private,” Joe concluded. “And flies only at night. But we’ll find it, just as soon as this burglary business is settled.”

At eleven-thirty the boys started out to meet their father. The factory was surrounded by a high wire fence. As Frank drove up to the main gate, he was stopped by a uniformed guard.

The guard studied the boys’ identifications for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

The brothers were soon ushered into Mr. Hartwick’s office. Their father and the company president were seated at a desk, minutely examining something with a magnifying glass.

“Hello, boys,” the detective greeted them. “Mr. Hartwick, I want you to meet Frank and Joe, my two assistants.”

The boys shook hands with him, and the detective continued. “Burglars broke into this plant last night and stole a quantity of secret airplane gadgets being made for use in United States military planes. As they left, one of them dropped this.”

He held up a twenty-doIlar bill. “Ever see this before?” He handed the money over.

Frank looked at the serial number, comparing it with the list in his wallet. “I’ll say so! This is one of the bills I gave to Chet.”

“Just as I figured,” the detective said. “Either the extortionists and the burglars are the same people, or they’re associated in some way. Boys, I want you to do something for me.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Tour this plant as if you were on an inspection trip of some kind. Keep your eyes open for that phony salesman you saw at Chet’s farm, or anybody else you’ve caught a glimpse of in this mystery. We think one or more of the gang we’re after may be working right here.”

Guided by a junior executive, the boys went from one department to another, but nobody answered the description of any of the suspects. Frank and Joe. were completing the tour in the packing department when Joe stopped short and pointed.

“Frank, look at that engine over there!”

“That’s just like the one we saw in the shack in the woods!” his brother said in a low voice.

The boys hastened back to their father and voiced their suspicions. The detective looked at Mr. Hartwick. “Have you missed any motors?”

“Several,” Mr. Hartwick replied. “But we thought they were lost by the trucking company. We’ve sent through a tracer but haven’t heard a thing yet.”

The Hardys were convinced the motors had been stolen and hidden in North Woods.

“We won’t put off our trip to the woods any longer,” the boys’ father said. “I only hope those suspects haven’t moved out.”

The company president thanked the Hardys for their help and they left the factory. They arrived home to find Aunt Gertrude standing on the front steps, an envelope in her hands.

“A state trooper brought this a second ago,” she said. “It’s for you, Fenton.”

Mr. Hardy opened the envelope, his eyes taking on a look of satisfaction as he read the enclosure. “Even better than I thought,” he said, explaining that he had asked for a list of any recent factory thefts along the Atlantic seaboard. “This note says there have been thefts in five airplane and three rifle manufacturing plants. The thing to do now is fit the pieces of this puzzle together.”

After a hasty luncheon, Mr. Hardy asked his sons to come to his study. Reaching into his gun case, he pulled out two pistols.

“Take these. You may need them if the wolves attack. I’ll make out the appropriate permits for you to carry them. We’re on a dangerous mission.”

“Dad, do you think these thefts of airplane parts and rifles are tied up with the mystery of the wailing siren?” Frank asked.

“Yes. I’m sure they’re being shipped out of the country on that yacht.”

“With the help of the helicopter?” Joe asked excitedly.

“That’s what we have to prove. It may be a difficult matter to locate the helicopter. But the clues you boys have picked up seem to tie together neatly,” Mr. Hardy said admiringly.

He checked his own pistol, then picked up a peculiar-looking weapon, which he put into a shoulder holster.

“This is a special gun,” he said. “It doesn’t kill —just shoots a gas that acts as an anesthetic.”

With admonitions from Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude to be careful, the three hurried to the boys’ car. Frank took the wheel and drove to the trail which the campers had taken. With Joe in the lead, they started off through the woods.

Upon reaching the brook, they crossed it and went in a straight line toward the wolf-man’s cabin.

The Hardys pressed quickly and silently through the dense woodland for half an hour. Suddenly they became aware of distant howls.

“The wolves!” Joe said.

“They’ve picked up our scent!” Frank cried out.

The boys loaded their pistols. Mr. Hardy led the way, halting suddenly behind a thorny bush.

“The wire stockade!” Joe whispered.

Before them was the enclosure, from which came the howling of the excited wolves.

Mr. Hardy took out his shoulder gun. “Temporary sleep won’t harm these beasts!” he said. “While I’m giving them a taste of this gas, you boys see if their owner’s at home and keep him. busy till I show up.”

As the detective crept forward through the heavy brush, Frank and Joe angled off in the direction of the cabin. When they had almost reached it, they halted.

Before them, framed in the dark doorway, stood the bearded wolf-man. He stepped out, quickly followed by another man, who was small, stooped, and unshaven. When they saw the boys, both men stopped short.

“I thought I told you trespassers to stay away from here!” the wolves’ owner shouted at them angrily.

“We’d like to talk to you,” Frank said.

The smaller man grinned at his companion through two broken teeth. “Who are they, Krack? Friends of yours?”

Krack! Another piece of the puzzle suddenly dropped into place. The man from the launch had mumbled Krack—gun—Krack!

“The only things that talk around here are the wolves,” Krack said cuttingly. He motioned with his hand. “Come here, Saber!”

At his command, the wolf stalked through the doorway. It eyed the boys savagely, whining for his master to give the word and he would be at their throats.

The boys thrust their hands into their pockets. The pistols were ready. They would use them only in case ...

Suddenly Saber pricked up his ears. Krack took notice.

“There’s somebody at the stockade, Jezro!” he cried out. Then he bellowed at the wolf. “Stockade, Saber! Kill!”

Gooseflesh rose on the Hardy boys as the brute dashed toward the stockade. They had forgotten to warn their father about this killer!

CHAPTER XX

A Surprise Capture

THE Hardy boys stared in horror as the wolf bounded toward the stockade.

They raced after it, pistols poised to shoot if they could sight the animal. Suddenly, from near the cage, came the report of a gun. There was a yelp of pain, then complete silence.

When Frank and Joe reached the clearing, their father was not in sight. The caged wolves lay in a stupor. Saber was dead.

Krack and Jezro arrived on the heels of the boys. They stared transfixed at the sight. Then Jezro gave a crazy laugh and dashed off among the trees.

“Come back here!” Krack cried out.

“I’m gettin’ out of here and you’ve got no wolves to stop me!” Jezro flung back.

A bullet from Krack’s gun hissed through the trees.

“We’d better go before he aims that thing at us,” Frank advised. “He’ll get wise in a minute that we’re mixed up in this.”

“You bet. Let’s follow Jezro. Maybe he’ll spill what he knows.”

Out of range of Krack, Frank and Joe took off after Jezro. The man’s speed proved no match for the fleet-footed Hardys.

Joe leaped upon his back, bringing the scrawny man to the ground. Frank collared him and raised the fugitive to a sitting position.

“Lemme go!” he whined. “Maybe them wolves ain’t dead.”

“I can guarantee they’ll take a long sleep,” Frank said. “Now, what’s going on here?”

Jezro remained silent.

“All right. If you won’t talk, we’ll tell you a few things. You stole a truck with rifles and hardware and camping equipment, and brought it here.”

“No, I didn’t. It was Red Mike. He’s daffy over campin’ stuff. I never leave these woods.”

“Does your friend Mike have red hair?” Frank asked.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“We caught him. He’s in jail.”

Now thoroughly frightened, Jezro told the boys he was a wanted thief, who had met Krack while hiding out in the tumble-down shack in the woods.

“He got me to work with him and his friends,” Jezro said. “Promised me big money to help ’em keep people out o’ the woods.”

“Where were you when we came to the woods before?” Joe prodded him.

“Following you. I was spyin’ on you when you found Mike’s canoe.”

“Our canoe,” Frank corrected. “Go on.”

“Mike and Trippek were in Wells Hardware buying a new fish pole the day your fat friend was there,” Jezro said. “That boy sure was giving everybody an earful about his uncle’s rifles. So right then and there Mike decided to swipe the truck and take everything in it.”

“Who’s Trippek?” Frank interrupted.

“Tall, blond fellow.”

“Sells insect repellent?”

“He did once so he could find out about you fellows. Then I watched you guys when you came here. I marked those trees to make the trail.” He laughed. “It got you out of the way, easy enough ”

“I suppose you dug the pit to trap us,” Frank said.

“No Krack did. He didn’t want nobody prowlin’ around the woods. Listen here. You ought to let me go. I done you a favor. I left you a note tellin’ you it was dangerous here.”

Joe gave Frank a wink. “Do you believe that? Crooks hang together. Jezro wouldn’t squeal on Krack.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? Listen, boys, I’m a thief, but I don’t steal things to help people make war on their own country!”

Before Frank could ask Jezro to explain his startling remark, the sound of a wailing siren filled the woods. Joe looked into the sky, half expecting to see a helicopter.

“That’s from the cabin,” Jezro said. “Krack’s warnin’ the other men.”

Frank realized that if Krack’s henchmen were near, the boys would have to hurry to uncover the loot they were seeking.

“Where are they hiding the stolen stuff, Jezro?” he asked sharply.

“I’ll tell you, but you gotta let me go if I do.”

“We won’t hurt you,” Joe said. “But don’t try to get away, or it’ll go hard with you.”

Jezro nodded and led the boys into a thicket. After he had gone a hundred yards he stopped.

“The stuff’s hidden in there,” he said, pointing to a dense copse.

“I’ll take a look,” Frank told his brother. “You guard Jezro.”

Frank made his way cautiously. Presently he came to an extensive clearing over which was stretched a green canvas with bushes and branches laid here and there upon it. Pulling up one edge of the camouflage, Frank uncovered a row of lights, set along the ground.

“Jeepers!” he exclaimed half-aloud. “A landing field for the helicopter.”

The solution to the wailing siren mystery was becoming clear. Stolen plane parts, engines, arms, and ammunition were being hidden in the wilderness. They were picked up by the helicopter at night and carried out to sea, where they were secretly loaded onto the yacht.

“The wailing siren is used to announce its comings and goings,” Frank concluded. “I wonder where the helicopter is now.”

Frank searched a little longer, but could find none of the equipment stolen from Chet. He hurried back to make Jezro reveal the spot. As he reached him and Joe, he noticed some bushes moving just ahead. Before he could shout a warning, three men, pistols in hand, jumped out of concealment.

“Reach for the clouds!” one of them snapped. He had blond hair and a voice that was familiar. Trippek!

“Frisk ‘em, men, and tie ’em up,” came an order from a small dark man with a limp. He was Rainy Night, the man who had left the note at the newspaper office and later had helped steal the Hardys’ money from Chet.

He turned to Jezro. “As for you, you traitor, you’ll get the same treatment.”

“Please, Renny, don’t do this to me!” Jezro wailed. “I ain’t told ‘em nothin’.”

The dark-haired man sneered. “Think that over while you’re starving to death. You and your two pals here!”

The men pulled several long pieces of wire from their pockets. Standing the Hardys and Jezro against a tree, they bound them fast to the trunk.

Trippek chuckled. “Haxon would get a kick out of this!” he said.

Haxon! Frank and Joe looked at each other. The captain of the yacht!

At that moment Krack came striding out of the woods. He shot a contemptuous glance at Jezro and the boys.

“Please, please,” Jezro begged. “I was only foolin’.”

“Shut up! I’ll deal with you later.” Krack turned toward the other men. “Bad luck. That’s all we’ve had since these brats started spying on us.”

“Better not talk here,” Trippek advised.

Krack jerked a thumb toward the boys. “They’re as good as finished, so it won’t hurt if they listen in.”

“What’s up?” Trippek asked, worried.

“The yacht’s been boarded. Haxon sent me the message short wave.”

“Did they dump the load?”

“Just in time. Haxon said one motor accidentally fell into the ocean from the copter. The Coast Guard, even with the evidence destroyed, will keep an eye on Haxon and the yacht.”

“What’s the caper now?” one of the others asked.

“To move. I wish we had brought the copter back here.”

“Where is it?”

“In the barn at Beekman’s farm.”

The boys knew the secluded place on the outskirts of North Woods. It had been abandoned a long time and would serve as a perfect hiding place.

“We’ll keep Fenton Hardy there until the heat is off,” Krack said, looking at the boys.

The boys were startled, but remembering the trick their prisoner Red Mike had tried to play at the Hardy house, Frank said, “You’ll not catch Dad.”

Krack laughed. “Oh no? We have him now. Caught him near the wolf pen.”

“You’re bluffing,” Joe said.

Krack pulled Mr. Hardy’s gas gun from his belt. “Recognize this? If it had another load of gas in it, I’d let you have it.”

Perspiration broke out on the boys’ foreheads. With their father captured, the outlook appeared bleak indeed. Nevertheless, Joe defiantly reminded Krack that the police would soon catch up with them.

“Thanks for reminding me of the police,” Krack said with a sneer. “Men, I’ll open the wolves’ pen. They’ll be awake soon. If the cops come, they’ll get theirs. We’ll stay in the caves while the wolves take care of ’em.”

In the conversation that followed, Frank and Joe learned an amazing story of foreign intrigue which was being conducted by Renny, alias Rainy Night, whose real name was Renaldo. These men were working for a large unscrupulous foreign combine which had planned uprisings in Central America.

From what they could piece together from bits of conversation, the group had been making systematic thefts of American currency. With it they were secretly buying arms, ammunition, and plane parts or bribing dishonest factory workers to steal airplane engines and equipment.

North Woods had been chosen as a base of operations because it was so near the seacoast, yet not likely to be subject to interference. The contraband was crated here before being transported to the yacht by the helicopter.

“So the packing was the hammering we heard on the sound detector,” Joe said to Jezro.

Krack overheard the remark. “Yes,” he replied, “but our own detector warned us you were gettin’ too close, so we stopped work.”

Encouraged by Krack’s bragging, Frank and Joe shot questions at them. Renaldo, they learned, was a notorious South American racketeer. He had met Krack, an unprincipled animal trainer, in the underworld, and had arranged the North Woods deal with him. Krack, in turn, had found Trippek and the others.

Krack suddenly gave an uproarious laugh. “You kids got the two grand Renny dropped while he was climbing into the helicopter, but we found a way to get it back through that fat friend of yours. We paid off one of our stooges with it.”

So that was how the telltale money found its way into the Hambleton Plant!

By this time the racketeers, pleased with the impression they thought they were making on the doomed Hardy boys, answered questions freely. It was Krack and Renaldo who had kidnapped Frank and sent the carrier pigeons.

“Where did the first pigeon go?” Joe asked.

“North Carolina,” said Krack. “Brother of mine lives there.”

“Did you take the other pigeon from our garage?”

Trippek nodded, a pleased grin on his face. He seemed to be aware of the efforts the three Hardys had made to trace the home cote of the pigeons.

“Who was the woman who followed me from the post office?” Frank asked.

“A friend of mine. Good scout, too. She warned Trip when your brother showed up.”

“Was Renaldo the one who dropped the dark glasses at our house?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. When he found your father wasn’t home, he decided to have one of you two kids snatched.”

“Listen here,” one of the men in the background called out. “You’ve told these kids enough now to hang us all.”

“They won’t be around long,” Krack said confidently. “I’ll turn out a couple of wolves soon as it’s dark. I know that gas they got. Only knocks ’em out a few hours.”

The three prisoners shuddered at the thought of being torn to pieces by ravening wild beasts. The sun already had set. In a few hours the woods would be cloaked in darkness, the—

“Come on!” Krack ordered. “Let’s get back to the cabin. I’m going to see if I can get a coded message through to Haxon before we pull out for the islands.”

The men made sure the boys were securely bound, then disappeared. Frank and Joe struggled furiously at their bonds, but the wires would not budge. They only cut more deeply into their flesh. To keep their minds off the fate awaiting them, the brothers discussed the case with Jezro.

“What about the pigeons in the woods?” Frank asked. “Why was one shot, Jezro?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be. I did that. I didn’t know it was one of our birds. But I guess my shootin’ days are over. We’re goners now,” he added despondently.

As night descended, the man’s terror grew almost to hysteria. He moaned and babbled as though losing his reason. The Hardys called back and forth, to keep up their hopes, though their spirits had never been lower. Any minute now the wolves might be released.

Suddenly a distant sound pierced the stillness. The wailing siren! The helicopter was coming! Were the gang making their getaway from their North Woods hideout?

The siren was answered by the loud blast of the one located at the gang’s cabin. A few minutes later the beams of a searchlight were lighting the sky above the trees.

The boys could hear Krack and his gang coming on the run to roll up the canvas camouflage on the landing field. Presently through the trees the boys could see the lights around the rim of the clearing.

They strained to look upward as the craft hovered overhead, and watched as it gently touched the ground. As its door swung open, the smugglers rushed to meet the pilot.

To the boys’ joy and amazement, they saw Fenton Hardy and several state troopers alighting from the chopper.

“Don’t move, any of you!” came an order from Mr. Hardy which rang through the silent woods.

Trippek and Krack stood staring, unbelieving. Then Renaldo sprang toward the lights. If he could plunge the place into darkness, he and his friends might escape.

An officer’s gun clipped a bit of foliage just above the man’s head, and the leader of the gang suddenly seemed to change his mind.

Then they heard their father demanding angrily what they had done with his sons. A moment later the detective was snipping the wires that bound Joe and Frank. Then, though their arms and legs were cramped, the boys had the supreme pleasure of helping the troopers manacle the criminals and march them to the helicopter. Joe and Frank, with their father and two of the police officers, stayed behind to round up Jezro and the remaining lesser members of the gang, and to tie up the wolves. A police helicopter would return to pick them up later.

“Gosh, Dad, you came just in time!” Joe cried gleefully, when the boys had a chance to speak to him alone.

“How did you get loose?” Frank asked him,

“I was never caught.”

“What?”

“I got Saber before he got me. Then I made my way to Krack’s cabin and overheard him talking to Haxon on short wave. He mentioned that the helicopter was hidden at the Beekman farm. Then I got a message through to Sam Radley, who was secretly tailing us all the time to take over if I needed him. I told him to let himself be captured by the gang, while I went to notify the troopers. I even gave him the gas gun to make Krack and his crew think it was I they had nabbed.”

“So Sam fooled them!”

“Right. Fortunately for me, Krack and Jezro didn’t know what I looked like. I hurried to get help from the state troopers to raid the old barn and capture the helicopter and the pilot.”

“What about Haxon?” Frank asked.

“I notified the Coast Guard. They seized the yacht and have Haxon in the brig. Which, by the way, solves my mystery of the stolen currency and the smuggled munitions. A list of the thieves and gunrunners was found in Haxon’s cabin.”

“And our mystery is solved, too,” Frank said, telling what Jezro had revealed.

The Hardys picked their way through the woods to Krack’s cabin, where they found and released Sam Radley.

What the gangsters had not already told was learned from records found in a desk. Two airplane motors and other stolen equipment were found and brought out of the woods the next day

Solved, also, was one of the questions that had puzzled Frank and Joe ever since the day they had seen the airplane motor in the shack. The engines were taken apart and brought piecemeal from the house where Frank had been imprisoned. A crack mechanic, one of the gang, had reassembled the engines in the forest shack.

Bayport buzzed with the news of the Hardys’ latest exploit. Many people prophesied that another mystery would soon come their way. It did and was titled The Secret of Wildcat Swamp.

The following night Mrs. Hardy invited her sons’ special friends to a party at their home to celebrate the successful wind-up of the case.

Soon the living room was filled with music and chatter. Even Aunt Gertrude, who was serving sandwiches, was feeling mellow.

“Thank goodness those cutthroats were caught,” she said, proud of her nephews and their father. “Did you get your—our—money back, Chester?”

Chet’s mouth was filled with a ham sandwich, so he could only nod the good news. Then he swallowed and said, “And my uncle’s rifles too.”

Mr. Hardy came in to report more good news. The men in the speedboat and the launch had been arrested.

“And our pilot friend Jack Wayne was found in Haxon’s Caribbean headquarters,” he said. “He and some other pilots had been kidnapped with their planes by stowaways and were being held to train pilots for the subversive armies. Wayne’s on his way back to Bayport right now.”

The boys sent up a cheer. When it subsided, the detective went on, “Frank and Joe have been given a reward for their part in the capture of Red Mike, Renaldo, Krack, and Trippek.”

Again the guests cheered.

“What are you going to do with your reward?” Chet asked the Hardys.

The brothers grinned. “We’ll use some of it to help pay for all of that camping equipment you charged,” Joe said.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Prison Break

CHAPTER II - Escape by Train

CHAPTER III - A Hazardous Take-off

CHAPTER IV - Fingerprint Tip

CHAPTER V - Into Perilous Country

CHAPTER VI - Deadly Danger

CHAPTER VII - Skeletons and Schemes

CHAPTER VIII - Ordered Out

CHAPTER IX - Lost!

CHAPTER X - Three Odd Letters

CHAPTER XI - Underground Snare

CHAPTER XII - Ambush

CHAPTER XIII - An Icy Dungeon

CHAPTER XIV - Thieves’ Camp

CHAPTER XV - The Wreck

CHAPTER XVI - The Rough Ride

CHAPTER XVII - A Friendly Outlaw

CHAPTER XVIII - Trapped!

CHAPTER XIX - To the Rescue

CHAPTER XX - The Roundup

THE SECRET OF WILDCAT SWAMP

An invitation from Cap Bailey, science teacher at Bayport High, to accompany him out West to Wildcat Swamp on an archaeological expedition triggers off a series of dangerous events for Frank and Toe Hardy.

Just before they leave, a ruthless criminal breaks out of prison. Their famous detective father, who is tracking down a gang of freight-train robbers, suspects the escapee is part of the gang. Investigation leads him to believe that the robbers might be hiding out in Wildcat Swamp!

On their way West the boys and Cap have a near-fatal accident in a private plane which has been sabotaged. When they start digging for fossils, a giant boulder comes hurtling straight toward them as if guided by an invisible hand. Though warned to leave the area, Frank, Joe, and Cap doggedly remain until they have caught the cunning ex-convicts they are up against in this swift-paced adventure.

“Nice cave mates you pick for yourself!”

Frank remarked

Copyright © 1997,1969, 1952, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-14267

eISBN : 978-1-101-07645-3

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Prison Break

“IF SOMEBODY doesn’t toss a mystery our way, fellows, we may actually be swimming in this pool one of these days.”

Frank and Joe Hardy stopped digging and leaned on their shovels. The boys grinned as they studied the perspiring, chubby face of Chet Morton.

“Shall we tell him, Joe?” Frank asked with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows.

“Tell me what?” Chet demanded. “Aw, listen, fellows! Long before school closed for the summer you promised me you’d come out here to the farm and help me clean out this bog.”

Eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy, with a wink at his brother, who was only a year younger, gazed thoughtfully at their best friend.

“Well, aren’t we helping?” he said. “But how would you like to help us catch a couple of train robbers, Chet?”

“No kidding!” Joe added. “Last night Dad was talking about one of his cases, and said maybe we could help him.”

The brothers, sons of Fenton Hardy, an internationally known private detective, frequently assisted their father. Their first mystery had been The Tower Treasure, and not long ago they had solved The Wailing Siren Mystery. Chet Morton had often shared their exciting adventures, but he preferred the enjoyment of a good meal to such strenuous activity.

“Tr-train robbers! I’d rather dig,” Chet retorted.

He sent his long-handled shovel deep into the mire. Then, with a heave, he hoisted a load of muck and shale to the high ground behind him.

“Say, look at that shale you just tossed up!” Joe exclaimed. “It cracked open, and there are funny-looking marks inside it!”

Curious, Frank picked up a piece of the shale and inspected it more closely.

“Looks like indentations from old clamshells, doesn’t it?” he remarked.

“Oh, you find all sorts of queer marks on rocks and things which have been under water,” Chet answered. “That’s nothing at all. Throw the silly thing away and let’s get on with this job!”

Just then a voice sounded behind him. “Wait! Don’t throw that away. It’s valuable!”

Turning, the three boys discovered Thomas “Cap” Bailey, popular track coach and science teacher at Bayport High, standing on the rim of the excavation. He was not much older than his students, who held the twenty-five-year-old instructor in high regard.

“Wait! Don’t throw that away!”

“That’s a brachiopod!” he exclaimed, examining the piece of shale.

“A w-who?” Chet stuttered.

“It’s a valuable fossil—maybe millions of years old,” Cap said with a smile. “They turn up every now and then in different corners of the world, and scientists use them to trace the development of man and animals through the ages.”

Crouching down, he showed them what a perfect specimen the brachiopod was.

“You ought to take this to the Bayport Museum, Chet. I doubt that there’s one like it in their collection.”

Then Cap spoke directly to the Hardys. “How would you fellows like to combine some detective work with fossils?”

“I knew it!” Chet moaned. “Here goes our pool. It’ll never be finished now.”

Frank and Joe eagerly questioned the science teacher for more details.

“A week before school closed,” he said, “I received a letter from an aunt who lives out West. Her husband, Alexander Bailey, died recently, just when he was on the verge of an important discovery.”

“Was he a scientist, too?” Joe inquired.

“Yes, a geologist. It seems that about a year ago he uncovered part of what appeared to be the giant fossil of a prehistoric camel that once roamed the western United States. Soon after his discovery, one of those terrific western storms hit the spot and completely obliterated all of his work. Then he was taken ill and never recovered.”

“Too bad,” Frank murmured.

Chet asked how Cap’s aunt expected him to find the camel since all trace of his uncle’s work was lost in the storm.

“I haven’t told you all the story,” Cap replied. “Before he died, my uncle scratched out a rough map of the section, with the location of his original discovery indicated on it. It’s a place called Wildcat Swamp.”

That was all Chet needed. “Wildcats!” he exclaimed. “They’re dangerous!”

“Probably it’s called Wildcat Swamp,” Cap Bailey went on, “because not far from the site of his discovery he had found a sign reading: ‘Here lie the bodies of twenty wildcat.’ ”

“That’s strange,” Joe remarked. “Their killer must have been a mighty hunter.”

Bailey nodded, “I guess anyone going into the area would have to keep his eyes open. And, incidentally, I’ve already found out there is some danger to even starting for the spot.”

“What do you mean?” the boys chorused.

“Well, after school closed I started for Wildcat Swamp alone, in my car. Any number of people must have heard me talking about what I intended to do. I hadn’t driven far when I was held up by two masked men and all my money was stolen. I was told to go back home and stay there.”

“You think they meant to discourage you from going after the fossil?” Frank asked.

“Of course I’m not positive, because they didn’t mention the fossil, and didn’t take the map. That might have been because another car came along and scared them away. But they seemed to know who I was, and mentioned that it would be healthier for me in the East than out West.”

“It does sound as if they wanted you to give up that trip,” Joe commented. “But why? They sound more like thugs than scientists.”

Cap Bailey nodded soberly. “The reason I came out to see you Hardys is this: How would you like to make the trip with me? I think you could be a big help. What do you say?”

“It sounds wonderful to me,” shouted impulsive Joe. “How soon do we leave?”

Frank was just as enthusiastic as his brother, but more realistic in his approach.

“Three of us together should certainly be able to handle more trouble than one man alone, but first we’ll have to get Dad’s and Mother’s okay.”

As it turned out, that was no problem at all. When they reached home, their quiet, pretty mother said she would leave the decision to their father. After the situation had been explained to him that evening, the tall, well-built detective said:

“I think such a trip would be a good experience for you boys, and besides, it might even work in with the case I asked you to help on.”

“You mean the train robbers? How?” Frank asked.

“I had my operative Sam Radley tailing a fellow named Gerald Flint after he was released from Delmore Prison. Once Sam overheard Flint use a phrase that sounded like ‘twenty wildcat’ in such a way that he’s sure it has some special significance. And now Flint has disappeared.”

“Wow!” Joe cried out. “You don’t mean he’s in Wildcat Swamp?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” his father answered. “But a good detective never misses a clue. If you boys can find out more about the ‘twenty wildcat,’ it may help me.”

Cap Bailey was pleased to hear that Frank and Joe could go with him.

“I’ll give you a couple of days to pack up,” he told them.

Next morning Frank and Joe went to see Warden Duckworth at Delmore Prison. Their father had suggested that perhaps they could find out something about Flint’s associates in jail. The officer was a friend of Mr. Hardy and he gladly spent some time telling the boys about Gerald Flint, an old-timer with a long record. Flint was described as a tall, loudmouthed man, who could be soft-spoken and persuasive when he wanted to be.

“Here’s his picture,” the warden said, and handed them a photograph.

“His best friends at our prison,” the warden went on, “were Willie the Penman and Jesse Turk. Willie’s a short, wiry fellow with a high-pitched voice, and one of the most cunning forgers in the country. He was released at the same time as Flint.”

“What about the other fellow—Turk?”

“Jesse is still here. He’s a mountain of a man—a former locomotive engineer, and an expert electrician, but not popular. He has a mean look about him—always frowning at something.”

Frank and Joe were just bidding the warden good-by when they heard a clanging, followed by the deafening roar of a siren.

“There’s been a break!” Duckworth shouted.

Seconds later, the ringing of the telephone added to the din. Duckworth grabbed the phone. Frank and Joe could hear excited chatter on the other end of the line. The warden turned to the boys, his eyes wide.

“It’s Turk—he’s escaped!”

CHAPTER II

Escape by Train

HIS face grim, Warden Duckworth ordered his car, then dashed from the office.

“Come on, Frank!” Joe urged, starting down the long, low-ceilinged corridor after the warden.

“I wonder how Turk got out!” Frank cried.

Reaching the outer prison yard, they saw guards everywhere, on the alert with rifles in case more of the prisoners should try to make a break.

“I was told,” Duckworth said to the man at the gate, “that Turk may have escaped by jumping into a butcher’s truck as it left the prison. Did you see which way it headed?”

“Yes, sir. North on Route 403. It was a National Meat truck.”

Three emergency trucks came roaring up, followed by the warden’s car. As the Hardys climbed in, Duckworth advised them to remain at the prison, but they assured him that they would keep out of harm’s way.

At his direction, the trucks split up to comb the countryside. Other armed guards tramped on foot in search of the fugitive, while the motor crews toured the nearby roads.

“Follow 403,” Duckworth told his driver.

The road passed through a wooded section, and the tires of the warden’s car squealed as it took the curves at almost full speed.

“Do you think the truck driver planned this with Turk?” Frank asked.

“I’m not sure,” the warden replied. “Usually an escape involves more than one prisoner. I’d be more inclined to think—”

“Look!” Joe cried. “There’s a delivery truck—It’s a National Meat truck!”

“You boys stay below windshield level,” Duckworth ordered. “I’m going to force him to stop.”

With a burst of speed they raced past the truck, sounding the siren. The driver slowed and came to a stop.

Warden Duckworth jumped out, gun in hand.

When the driver saw the gun, his jaw fell. “What’s the big idea?” he shouted.

“You may be carrying an escaped prisoner!”

The driver went white as the warden approached the rear doors of his truck and flung them open.

“If Turk was ever in here, he’s gone now,” Duckworth said disappointedly. “I’ll radio the other men.”

Frank and Joe got out and spoke to the driver. “Do you mind if we have a look inside your truck?”

“Go ahead.”

Climbing into the cool interior, the boys began examining it carefully for clues.

“Here’s something!” cried Frank as he picked up a small wooden box. “It looks like a homemade radio.”

It proved to be a miniature receiving set, so small that it fit snugly in the palm of Frank’s hand. As he turned a knob, the gadget began to sputter.

“Repeating, Turk,” it announced. “Freight delayed. Hook 138576 at three Rock Spring.”

The voice broke off.

“That was Flint’s voice,” said the warden, who had just jumped into the truck.

“But what did all the gibberish mean?” queried Joe. “Was Flint in on Turk’s escape?”

“Might have been,” Duckworth retorted tersely. “Turk worked in the electrician’s shop in the prison. He may have rigged up this communications system as part of a planned break.”

“So when Flint and Willie the Penman got out they could tip him off on how to get away,” Joe suggested.

“ ‘Freight delayed. Hook 138576 at three Rock Spring,’ ” Frank repeated. “Sounds as if a railroad freight may be part of the plan. You said Turk was a locomotive engineer at one time, didn’t you?”

“That’s right!”

“Three Rock Spring might mean time and place. It’s almost three o’clock now—and Rock Spring isn’t far from here!”

“Let’s get moving. Rock Spring in a big hurry!” Duckworth shouted to his police driver, and they piled into the car. One of the warden’s men stayed behind to query the truck driver further.

“There’s a water tower on the line at Rock Spring,” Joe recalled. “But the road doesn’t go in that far, Warden.”

“We’ll have to make the last half mile on foot.”

Reaching the end of the bumpy road, they all jumped out of the car and headed for the rail line. Frank and Joe, still in good condition from track work during the spring, soon outdistanced the others. But before they reached the right-of-way they could hear the rumble of a freight train.

“Maybe we’re too late,” Frank said, puffing. “Hey! Here comes a car numbered 138576! I’ll bet that’s what the message meant!”

Before Joe could answer, the car had passed them. Suddenly the sliding door of the boxcar opened. Then, as car 138576 moved still farther ahead of the boys, a large hook was extended from the interior.

“Look, Frank!” Joe shouted. “That man!”

Out of the bushes alongside the right-of-way dashed a burly figure. Timing his sprint perfectly, he halted just as the hook reached him. With a desperate grab he caught it, and was immediately drawn inside the car. The freight thundered on.

“That must have been Turk!” Frank exclaimed.

By the time the Hardys reached the rails, the caboose had rolled by. There was no trainman in sight to hear their shouts or see their frantic signals.

Minutes later, Warden Duckworth and the driver caught up with them. Frank explained the strange getaway of the fugitive they believed to be Turk.

“I’ll phone from my car,” the warden said, “and have the freight stopped and searched.”

He phoned the prison and instructed the telephone operator to relay the message to the railroad authorities. Then they drove back and waited in his office for word. When the report came, it was discouraging. The railroad police had opened car 138576 ten miles ahead, but had found it empty.

“Turk and his buddy inside may have seen you boys. They must have left the train somewhere along the stretch between where Turk got aboard and the next town. But we’ll catch him. Prisoners don’t break out of here and stay out—very long!”

The Hardys remained in the warden’s office for a while, hoping that there would be further news of the fugitive. None was forthcoming except that the driver of the National Meat truck was cleared. Finally they agreed that they should get home as quickly as possible and tell Mr. Hardy of Turk’s escape.

“This convinces me that Flint is up to his old tricks again,” Mr. Hardy said. “There has been a series of freight-train robberies throughout the country, and it’s up to me to figure out how to put a stop to them.”

“Who engaged you, Dad?” Joe asked.

“The North American Railroad League, a group of railroad executives. They’ve been losing a lot of property in train robberies, and believing that the thefts were the acts of a single gang, they think I can break up the racket.”

Mr. Hardy then went on to explain that the robbers, so far as he had been able to find out, had used either of two methods in their plan of operation.

“Sometimes,” he said, “they throw up a road-block at a strategic point, where the engineer can’t see it in time to stop his train. In this way they create a wreck and make their haul during the confusion.

“At other times they manage to send false messages by radio, and induce the train crew to switch certain boxcars to specified lonely sidings. Then they move in and loot them.”

“Sounds like a pretty slick outfit,” Joe remarked.

“Yes. That’s what makes them so tough to handle,” his father affirmed.

“Dad,” Joe asked, “do you suppose the phrase ‘twenty wildcat’ is some kind of password?”

Frank, who had been listening quietly, offered an additional idea. “It’s possible that the railroad thieves have some kind of headquarters near where Cap’s uncle was digging for fossils. Maybe a cache where they hide their loot.”

“That would certainly account for their not wanting any strangers in that immediate area,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “They may have been trying to discourage Bailey by holding him up on that first trip. As a matter of fact, they probably planned to steal the map his uncle left.”

The Hardys spent another half-hour discussing the case, then the boys’ father said he must get some papers ready for a plane trip to New York.

“I’m getting the eleven-o’clock flight, so I’ll be there first thing in the morning for a conference with the League officials,” he explained.

After Fenton Hardy had taken a taxi to the airport, the boys discussed their own trip, and the clothes and equipment they ought to take.

“I suppose we’ll be on horseback a lot of the time,” Frank remarked.

It was almost midnight before the brothers had their gear packed. They were about to go to bed when the shrill ring of the telephone disturbed the quiet of the big frame house.

Frank answered the call. A woman’s voice, edged with hysteria, said, “This is Mrs. Bailey, Frank. I’ve already called the police, but I think you should know what has happened here.”

“What, Mrs. Bailey?”

“Two masked men broke into our house and ransacked it. They attacked my husband and left him unconscious!”

CHAPTER III

A Hazardous Take-off

IN LESS than five minutes Frank and Joe were in their convertible, speeding toward Cap Bailey’s home.

“I hope Cap’s not badly hurt,” Frank said worriedly.

By the time they reached the Bailey house, the police had already arrived. Frank and Joe dashed up the steps and were immediately recognized by the officer on duty at the door.

“Might have known you fellows would be on hand sooner or later,” he said with a grin. “Where’s your dad tonight?”

Explaining that Mr. Hardy was on his way to New York, Frank asked about Cap Bailey’s condition.

“Nothing serious,” the policeman assured the boys, and motioned them inside the house.

Cap was sitting on the sofa, holding his head, Mrs. Bailey beside him. A police sergeant was conducting the investigation, and Cap told him the details. He was glad to see the Hardys, and after a few words with them continued his account.

“My wife and I had just returned from a concert, and I had gone upstairs,” he reported, “when I heard her cry out. I found her struggling as she was being tied up by one of the masked men. The other held a gun on me and told me to stand with my face against the wall. A moment later I felt a blow on my head, and that’s all I know.”

His wife took up the story. “After that they turned the house upside down, searching for something. They must have been at it almost an hour. Cap was just beginning to stir again when they finally left, and I managed to struggle free.”

The police officer questioned Cap. “Have you looked over your things to see if anything is missing?”

“Yes, but nothing much is gone. Only a duplicate map I’d been making for a trip I plan to take this summer, but it wasn’t complete.”

Frank and Joe exchanged knowing glances. The map of Wildcat Swamp!

“They didn’t get the original?”

“No, I had that well hidden. You see, Officer, it’s a map of a property out West that may have some value to it.” With the promise that nothing would be made public, he told the sergeant the background of the situation.

Meanwhile, a policeman had been searching the entire house for clues. Now he came up to his superior.

“Sergeant, we may be able to get some prints off that back kitchen window. It looks smudgy—unless the marks were made by one of the family.”

“No, I washed every downstairs window today,” Mrs. Bailey asserted.

Hopefully, the police lifted all the prints they could find, and then left the house. The Hardys’ offer to remain overnight, in the event that the housebreakers might return, was welcomed by Mrs. Bailey, even though Cap thought it unnecessary. The boys, after calling home to let their mother know where they were, took turns sleeping, but the thieves did not reappear.

At breakfast Frank and Joe questioned the science teacher closely as to how many people might be aware of his intended trip.

“As I told you, it was no secret at all,” he replied. “Matter of fact, a reporter from the Bayport Times got wind of it and came around for an interview. He wrote a long article for the paper.”

“Good night!” Joe cried. “Did he mention the location of Wildcat Swamp?”

“No, I didn’t tell him that. But I did mention the sign that my uncle had found, and the words ‘Here lie the bodies of twenty wildcat.’ ”

Their conversation was interrupted by the telephone. Cap answered it, and came back looking pleased.

“The police were able to trace those fingerprints—some character named Willie the Penman.”

Frank and Joe almost shouted. “Willie the Penman!”

“He’s that friend of Flint and Turk!” Frank exclaimed. “Now we know there’s some kind of connection between Cap’s mission and Dad’s case!”

They told Cap and his wife about the series of train robberies which Mr. Hardy had been engaged to investigate, and also about the prison break.

“I wonder if Willie or someone else in the gang happened to see that story,” Joe ruminated.

“It certainly begins to sound as if Wildcat Swamp might be a hideout, with Turk joining Flint and Willie the Penman,” Frank observed.

“I take it you fellows are still interested in making the trip?” Cap asked with a grin.

“More so than ever,” Frank said quickly. “The—”

“All I ask,” Mrs. Bailey interrupted with a worried glance at her husband, “is that you take care of yourselves. I’m afraid that these men are desperate characters.”

Joe suggested they make the trip by plane instead of by car. “We could even set out for a fake destination, to throw those guys off the trail in case they try to follow us,” he proposed.

Cap and Frank weighed the suggestion and found it thoroughly practical. It would be faster and would lessen the opportunity for interference.

“Green Sand Lake might be the ideal destination to announce,” Cap remarked. “It’s well known as a searching area for fossil deposits, and it’s only about three hundred miles from Bayport.”

From there, they could go by rail to a place closer to Wildcat Swamp, procure mounts, and make the final stage by horseback. But this phase of the journey they hoped to keep secret.

Breakfast over, Frank and Joe went off to arrange details. First they contacted Jack Wayne, a private pilot who had become Mr. Hardy’s righthand man on charter flights. Jack was delighted to accept the assignment, especially when the boys outlined the reasons for the secrecy of the trip.

At home, though, they ran into trouble. During the boys’ brief absence, their Aunt Gertrude, who lived with them, had returned from a visit and had taken over on the home front. An elder sister of Mr. Hardy, the energetic woman had a determined air and an eye that missed little, yet the boys were very fond of her and liked to tease her.

“Going away again, I hear,” she said as the young detectives were stacking their gear in the downstairs hallway, “Fingerprint sets, radio sending-and-receiving set. Where to?”

Patiently but hurriedly they told her of having been asked to act as bodyguards and detectives for their science teacher, Cap Bailey.

“Bodyguards!” Miss Hardy gasped. “Aren’t they the ones who always get shot first when someone is going to be assassinated?”

“Don’t worry about us, Aunty,” Joe said, grinning. “We’ll duck between the bullets. And we need the radio so we can keep in communication with the undertakers just before the assassination.”

Take-off was set for early the next morning. Though the Hardys were at the flying field long before the time of departure, Chet Morton was there ahead of them, greeting Jack Wayne and bringing the travelers a box of candy as a parting gift.

“It’s only what I would like someone to bring me,” he remarked when they thanked him.

“Let’s open it right now,” Joe said with a laugh. “Help yourself.”

Chet casually removed as many as one hand would hold. “If you fellows need any help out West, just call on me. Well, I’d better hurry home to work on the swimming pool. So long.”

He drove off and the three climbed into the cabin of the low-winged silver plane. Jack turned the switch and pressed the starter button.

Frank and Joe had flown with Jack Wayne many times before. They admired the way he handled his plane Skyhappy Sal.

After warming the engine for take-off, he swung the ship into the wind and lined up on the north-south runway, which paralleled the entrance road.

“All set?”

The passengers nodded, and Jack shoved the throttle forward. The powerful engine roared, and the plane rolled ahead. As it gained speed, the runway flashing below its windows, the plane suddenly gave a lurch.

Jack yanked the throttle back and the engine’s roar died. But the plane’s speed was still high as he eased in the brakes. The next instant a heavy jolt shook Skyhappy Sal. Frank, sitting on the left, saw something dart from beneath the wing on his side and bound away.

A wheel!

It rolled into the entrance road, just missing a car and causing it to swerve dangerously.

In the cockpit Jack Wayne fought to keep his careening aircraft from reaching the road. Desperately he threw all his weight on the right brake. There was a loud, grating splatter as dirt flew up over the windshield.

CHAPTER IV

Fingerprint Tip

JACK’S passengers clung desperately to their seats as the tilted plane spun and skidded through the soft earth. Inches from the busy roadway it came to a halt. There was a moment of silence.

“Great work, Jack!” Frank found his voice.

Joe added his praise as Cap slapped the pilot on the shoulder. Only Jack Wayne’s skill had kept the plane from turning over.

“This is a tough accident,” Cap said. “How did it happen?”

“The retaining collar slipped off,” Jack replied, after examining the landing gear. “But I can’t understand why. A cotter pin holds the collar tight and that keeps the wheel on the axle. I checked the plane this morning. There wasn’t anything wrong with that wheel!”

Frank, Joe, and Cap looked at one another, the same question in each one’s mind. Had someone tampered with the plane because of them?

“Jack, would it be hard for a person to loosen one of these wheels?” Frank asked.

“Any good mechanic would know how,” the pilot answered. “Why?”

Frank told him of the attack on Cap. It was entirely possible that someone had taken this method of trying to stop the trio from making the trip.

A determined gleam came into Jack Wayne’s eyes. “I’ll get another plane. I’m sure that the airport manager will let me borrow his. We shan’t be delayed more than fifteen minutes.”

Upon hearing of their plight, the manager readily offered the use of his private plane. The travelers transferred their equipment at once.

This time the plane rolled smoothly down the runway, rose, and headed for Green Sand Lake.

The Hardys admired the unlimited view below. Joe noticed another plane, a mere dot on the horizon behind them. Ten minutes later the plane was still there, exactly the same distance away.

“Frank, do you think that pilot could be following us?” he asked.

Frank scanned the horizon to their rear.

“What’s the matter, boys?” Cap asked.

Joe explained, then told Jack. “How about slowing down and letting him pass?” he suggested. “Maybe we can identify him.”

Jack throttled back but so did the pursuer, remaining far to the rear. All the boys could discern was that the plane was a low-winged, single-engine type similar to their own.

Soon Jack Wayne eased off his power and slanted down for a flawless landing at the small Green Sand Airport. The plane behind them made no attempt to land, and continued on its course.

“Guess we were mistaken about that fellow,” Cap observed as they unloaded the baggage. A few minutes later the pilot wished his passengers good luck and started back for Bayport.

Green Sand Airport was a desolate spot in rough country several miles from town. It boasted one large frame building, which was a combination hangar and administration shack.

“I’ll try to arrange for transportation to the fossil area,” Bailey said.

He walked into the building, leaving the Hardys in charge of the luggage. A few seconds later Frank, peering upward, said:

“Here comes a plane. It looks like the one that was following us.”

The trim, low-winged craft droned around the field, making its traffic pattern, and floated in to a fast landing.

The pilot taxied in front of the boys, whirling his ship around and blasting them with a dusty slipstream. He cut the switch, and without so much as a nod, walked off to the hangar.

The stranger was a tall man with smooth black hair. But his eyebrows were surprisingly light, which made his eyes seem like black marbles. His nose looked like a bony blade stuck on his thin face.

“Don’t like him,” Frank said crisply. “Did you notice his walk?”

“Queer,” Joe agreed. “He slithers like a snake. I wonder who he is.”

“You couldn’t find out from his plane,” Frank observed, walking closer to it. “The identification numbers are practically weathered off.”

“Or rubbed off on purpose,” Joe remarked. “And, say, look at that little insignia on the cowling.”

“A snake,” Frank whispered. “A snake eating a bird! It fits the fellow all right.”

A fuel truck rolled toward them. As it drew closer, the boys discovered that the beak-nosed pilot was riding with the driver. He alighted and strode up to the Hardys.

“What’s the idea of snooping around my ship?”

“We were just looking it over,” Frank said casually. “We wondered how you can fly without license numbers.”

“That’s none of your business!” the man snapped. “It’s due for a new paint job at the end of this run, since you’re so worried about it. Now I’ll thank you to move on.”

He turned to the gas-truck driver. “Get me a taxi,” he said.

The driver nodded, completed his refueling job, and rode off with the pilot. At the same moment Cap Bailey pulled up in an old-fashioned rented car, and the boys put the luggage on its roof. Then they set off for the fossil area. Twenty minutes later they reached the famous spot.

“The sand really has a greenish look,” Frank observed.

Cap smiled. “You’ll find that the study of fossils is pretty interesting. Paleontologists who dig for them are the detectives of the past, and fossils are their clues. You can tell from them what the climate was and if the place where they lie buried was dry land or ocean. The land we’re standing on was once deep beneath the sea.”

“This far inland?” Joe asked.

“Even farther. This green sand was left behind by an immense sea that covered the eastern part of the country many centuries after brachiopods became extinct. By the way, this sand is very good fertilizer.”

“Like cheese, eh? When it’s green, it’s ripe!” Joe quipped.

The conversation turned to more serious matters. Cap asked the boys if they felt sure they had eluded any pursuers interested in stealing his map of Wildcat Swamp.

“I don’t trust that pilot who flew in right after we did,” Frank answered.

“Since we seem to be watched,” Joe said, “maybe we ought to rig up a booby trap.”

“What kind?” Cap asked.

“Well, if I were after any papers of yours, I’d figure they were in that brief case you carry. Let’s take out what’s important and leave the case in the car. Then we can walk out into the dry lake, circle around, and watch.”

“And in case someone takes that brief case, how about a little of this powder?” Frank suggested as he opened one of the bags and took out a plastic vial.

“What is it?” Bailey asked.

“A special dye powder. We’ll sprinkle it lightly over your brief case. It’s the same color as the leather, but if anyone gets it on his hands, a blue stain will show up in a few minutes. And he’ll have a terrible time washing it off.”

“We may not catch the villain red-handed, but we’ll sure catch him blue-handed.” Joe chuckled.

The trap was laid quickly and the car parked in plain sight. The three worked their way across the dry lake bed, around boulders, and through scraggly stunted brush toward the top of a hill.

But before they could reach the summit, a voice hailed them, “Hey there! What are you up to?”

Cap and the Hardys stopped in their tracks and turned. A uniformed policeman had dismounted from a horse and was hurrying toward them.

“I’ve been watching you,” the officer puffed. “You don’t act like fossil hunters to me. I patrol this area every day—lots of professor guys get lost out here—but you’re not fossil men. You don’t even have any equipment.”

Cap told the policeman of the trap they had just laid and why. “Will you help us?” the teacher asked.

The policeman became interested. “Hm! Sounds exciting, and nothing exciting ever happens out here. My inspection’s over. I’ll go along with you.”

He plodded behind the others up the low hill and crouched with them in a clump of thick brush.

Joe whispered excitedly after a few minutes, “Look!”

There was a movement in the weeds near the car. Suddenly two men stood upright and glanced about furtively. Then, swiftly and silently, they moved to the car and opened a rear door.

CHAPTER V

Into Perilous Country

“DON’T jump them yet!” Cap Bailey hissed at Frank and Joe as they crept toward the car. “Let those thieves commit themselves!”

The two men snooped around inside for a moment or two. Then one of them picked up the brief case and began to paw through its contents.

“Now!” yelled Cap, and the Hardys and the police officer sprinted from cover.

Although both invaders were big, the policeman’s gun held them at bay.

“What were you fellows looking for?” Cap demanded.

“Nothing,” the larger man muttered.

“W-we’re just hungry and thought there might be some food in this car,” the other said.

“Looks to me like you had a pretty good idea of what you wanted,” the policeman said sharply. “And it wasn’t food.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Frank agreed. “Can we get these fellows into custody around here?”

The officer produced two sets of handcuffs from his saddlebag. Then he asked Joe to ride his horse and ordered the two snoopers into the back of the car. He sat between them with his gun out and ready for action.

The jail was five miles away, but it did not take long for them to cover this distance, even proceeding at a pace slow enough for Joe to canter along behind. Reaching the small wooden structure which served as town hall and jail, they all went inside.

“We didn’t do anything. You can’t hold us!” the big man protested when they were arraigned before the local magistrate.

“Names, please,” the magistrate ordered.

“Uh—Jake Johnson.”

“Jim Jones. How long you gonna hold us?”

Frank and Joe pulled Cap into a huddle a short distance away.

“Listen, Cap, the thinner chap looks just like a picture that Warden Duckworth showed us of Gerald Flint,” Frank whispered.

“And the other guy sure fits the description of Jesse Turk,” added Joe.

Cap considered. “We don’t want to let them know we suspect their identity. How about getting fingerprints from Warden Duckworth?”

The trio called the magistrate aside, explaining their suspicions and the necessity for concealing their identity.

“I can’t hold them without a warrant,” the official told them.

“We can prove enough now to give you cause to hold them until the prints arrive,” Frank said.

Going over to the huge man, he asked him to hold out his hands. Unsuspectingly, the man complied.

“You see that blue stain on his hands?” Frank asked the magistrate. “That came off the brief case belonging to our friend. I dusted the case with a special chemical powder before we left the car. It’s proof this man was handling it.”

Snarling like trapped animals, the suspects were led away to cells in the rear of the building.

Frank put in a long-distance call to Bayport. Fenton Hardy, delighted that his sons had outwitted the men, promised to have the warden send the fingerprints to the Green Sand authorities.

“Now for Wildcat Swamp!” Joe said elatedly as they left the jail.

“Let’s see. From here we can get a train as far as Red Butte,” Cap remarked. “We’ll arrive there in the morning, and get our horses and supplies.”

They enjoyed a good meal in the train’s dining car and discussed plans for suitable equipment. It was still early morning when they arrived at their destination, and Cap thought they had better use the hotel as a temporary headquarters. He led the way to Red Butte’s only hostelry, the Silver Saddle.

“Breakfast for three, hey?” the bewhiskered clerk greeted them. Learning they had just come from Green Sand, he said, “Have ye heerd the big news up there? It was on the radio early this mornin’.”

Frank nudged Joe, smiling, and Cap grinned too.

“Couple o’ guys broke outta that there jail,” the old man went on.

Frank’s head came up with a start, and Joe and Cap snapped to attention immediately.

“Did you say someone got away?” Joe demanded.

“Two fellas, just stuck in there yestiddy for stealin’ outta someone’s car, busted clear out last night. Got clean away!”

The three travelers looked at one another gravely. Turk and Flint—if it had been they—were on the loose again !

After some deliberation, the trio decided to leave as soon as possible for Wildcat Swamp.

“While we’re waiting for breakfast, I’ll send a message to Dad,” Frank said. “He ought to be kept informed of what’s going on. Suppose you two buy camp provisions while I contact him.”

“Okay,” Joe and Cap replied.

Frank hooked up the powerful little radio set. Switching to the secret frequency used by the Hardys, he called his home.

Fenton Hardy was disturbed when he heard of the desperadoes’ escape. He agreed that there was nothing for the boys to do but to proceed to the swamp as planned.

As soon as Joe and Cap returned to the hotel with their purchases, they all sat down to breakfast. Then the three went out to buy the digging implements they would need. At the general store the obliging clerk said:

“Since you’re heading into dangerous country, I’d advise you to take along pistols. Only last week a trapper shot an ugly wildcat out there.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Joe answered. “Do we need permits?”

“Not for pistols carried in plain sight.”

“Then we’ll buy three.”

At the livery stable to which the clerk directed them, they were able to hire three sturdy saddle horses and a strong pack mule.

By midmorning they had packed their camping gear onto the mule and were ready to start off. Cap and Joe took the lead, with Frank bringing up the rear holding the animal’s rope.

“Wildcats, here we come!” Joe cheered as they cantered from the main street of Red Butte and headed for the desolate-looking country southwest of the town.

“According to Uncle Alex’s map, it’s a good twenty-five miles to the swamp,” Cap called to the boys. “And this is pretty rugged country!”

The trail followed a swift little stream that wound back and forth through the uneven, rocky ground. The sun became scorching hot.

“We won’t reach the first landmark until some time tomorrow morning,” Cap commented when they stopped for lunch. “That will be a big tree near the ridge of a small mountain.”

“Any kind of a decent-sized tree would look good to me,” Joe said, perspiration soaking his shirt.

“You sure get tired of looking at this brush, and sand, and rocks,” Frank agreed.

By late afternoon the extremely slow, steady plodding had brought them to a more fertile area, with scattered trees and lush grass. The long trek had taken its toll of riders and horses. All were tired, irritable, and jumpy.

“Listen to those coyotes howl,” Joe muttered. “They’re the spooks of the prairie, all right.”

“We’d better not go more than a couple of miles farther before we bed down for the night,” Cap advised. “Once the sun sets here, it gets dark fast.” A short while later he called a halt.

Cap busied himself getting the sleeping bags unpacked and feeding the animals. Frank and Joe soon had a simple supper ready. After eating, Frank led the horses to the stream which had been their guide all day, and let them drink all they wanted. Then, after tethering them, he stepped back into the little circle of light made by the rekindled campfire.

“All set for the night,” he announced. “Hope it doesn’t rain.”

“Not much chance,” Cap predicted. “Look at those stars. You certainly don’t see them that bright back in the city, do you?”

“Almost bright enough to travel by,” Frank remarked. “But say, what’s that light off there to the left?”

All three stood up and studied the distant glow.

“Someone else is camping out here,” Frank decided. “Maybe Flint and Turk.”

Joe, impulsive as ever, cried, “Let’s ride over!”

It took only a few moments to bank their fire and saddle the horses.

Keeping well apart and permitting their mounts to pick their way in the darkness, the trio moved toward the light.

“It’s a campfire, all right,” said Joe. “Look!”

He was the first to spot the men crouched around the small blaze. “There must be half a dozen—and horses, too.”

His mount had discovered the presence of other horses, and now let out a loud whinny. Immediately excitement broke out around the campfire. The men scrambled to their feet, ran to their horses, mounted them, and rode away quickly.

The young detectives wanted to follow them, but Cap insisted that it would be unwise since they themselves were not familiar with the territory. They carefully inspected the camp for clues but found none other than the hoofprints.

“Did you notice that one of the riders went off alone?” Joe asked. “I wonder why. The rest of them beat it in the opposite direction.”

“Here are the marks of his horse,” Frank said, turning his flashlight on the ground. “Small hoofprints, too, as if it were only a pony and probably carrying a very light rider. I—”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Joe interrupted. “Willie the Penman?”

“Could be,” Frank replied. “And say, the prints lead in the direction of Wildcat Swamp!”

“You’re right!”

“We can’t be too careful the rest of our trip,” Cap warned as they made their way back to their own campsite. Nothing had been disturbed, and despite their curiosity about the mysterious riders the three soon dropped off to sleep.

Joe was first to awake the next morning, and whipped up a solid breakfast before rousing the others. They paid a brief visit to the mystery camp before setting out for Wildcat Swamp, but gleaned no further information.

“After we cover the next mile or so we ought to start looking for that big tree on the map,” Cap spoke up. Since early morning the three had come quite a distance from the camp on the plain.

Six outlaws were crouched around the campfire

They were in hill country now. The trail wound through rugged terrain with patches of woodland. They rode along the rim of one small canyon and through the dry bed of another. After considerable time had gone by, Cap said:

“I certainly expected to see that big tree by this time. If Uncle Alex was right, we should be in sight of it, and there’s nothing here but this scrubby pine.”

“There’s no sign of a big tree but that old stump by the edge of that ravine,” Frank said, pointing.

Joe jumped off his horse to examine it, while Frank and Cap checked the map.

They were interrupted by a shout from Joe. “Come here! This isn’t an old stump. The tree has just recently been cut down!”

When the others reached him, Joe was scraping away at the top of the stump.

“Look! This has been covered with mud to make it look like an old cut.” He pointed.

“But where’s the tree?” Cap demanded.

Frank looked over the edge of the ravine. “Down there,” he announced.

“The tree was felled within the last couple of days, maybe only yesterday,” Cap observed.

“By the men we saw at the campfire last night,” Frank conjectured.

“How about the map that was stolen from you back in Bayport—the unfinished copy? Had you put the tree on that?” Joe asked Cap.

“Yes. It was one of the details.”

Frank stared at the teacher. “Then I’m sure, Cap, this was an attempt to remove a landmark we’ve been counting on to help us find Wildcat Swamp.”

The trio pushed on, stopping only a short time to rest their horses and eat lunch.

As they rode through the heat of the afternoon, Cap asked the boys if they had noticed the formations that looked like giant toadstools made of clay and sandstone.

“Yes,” Frank answered. “I was wondering what keeps them from crumbling.”

“It’s the sandstone overhang which prevents the clay column from eroding,” Cap told him. “Back in the glacier age, they were separate deposits, and all the clay except that protected by the sandstone has eroded.”

The cavalcade skirted the edge of a deep ravine, the trail following a bench that dipped gradually toward a stream below and ended in a narrow grassy shelf.

Permitting the horses to drink and to graze on the scanty grass, the riders dismounted to stretch their legs.

Suddenly Joe’s voice rang out in alarm. “Frank! Look out!”

But his warning was too late. Before Frank could even get his arms up to defend himself, a tawny streak of fur and muscle launched itself through the air from the rocky ledge above.

It was an enormous wildcat!

CHAPTER VI

Deadly Danger

THE big cat was in midair before Frank was even aware of it. He had no time to defend himself.

As the beast leaped at the boy, his horse instinctively reared and screamed. The action distracted the cat and gave Frank time to recoil a step, so that the animal missed its target.

Crack!

A sharp explosion came from behind, and the wildcat sank to the ground. Another quick report, and the snarling, spitting beast lay lifeless.

Frank turned and saw Joe, his gun still smoking, looking coolly at the still form of the wildcat.

Cap broke into a relieved chuckle and remarked, “I certainly knew what I was doing when I picked you boys as bodyguards!”

After making sure his attacker was dead, Frank pushed the carcass over the cliff. Then they took up the trail again.

“This is the longest twenty-five miles I’ve ever ridden,” Joe remarked after a while. “I feel as if I’ve been in the saddle a month.”

Cap admitted that they had made slow progress, but he felt that they had done well enough considering the difficulties of the trail. Late in the afternoon they came to a spot where he suggested they make camp. In the morning, the ride toward Wildcat Swamp was resumed with renewed zest.

“The next, and last landmark on the map,” Cap stated, “is a big needle rock with a balancing boulder on top. It’s on a ledge, halfway down from an overhanging cliff to a long, sandy slope that ends in the swamp itself. The fossil should be somewhere in that sandy slope.”

Leaving the stream, which whirled away in a southwesterly direction while they continued west, the fossil hunters eventually came to the entrance of a long, narrow defile.

“We must be getting close!” Cap said excitedly. “The map shows this gap leads to the ledge above the needle rock.”

He went ahead through the passageway, with Frank following and Joe trailing with the mule.

“Here we are!” Cap exclaimed as he came out of the dark, shadowy defile onto a wide ledge.

A moment later the boys joined him on the ledge. To their right was a sheer cliff wall rising to a wide plateau.

To their left, the ledge fell away in a sloping, sandy decline, while straight ahead, at a turn in the ledge, stood the towering rocky column on which rested a huge, heavy boulder.

“Look at the size of that boulder!” murmured Joe in amazement. “It’s so delicately balanced it looks as if I could push it off.”

“You might be able to at that,” Cap agreed as he studied the phenomenon.

“Look at that wooded mountain beyond the swamp,” Joe said. “There’s a fire tower at the top.”

Just then Cap raised his hand for silence.

“Listen!”

From the plateau above them came the sounds of a familiar, steady drumming. Hoofbeats!

“Let’s go!” Frank cried, spurring his horse back through the defile.

With Joe and Cap close behind, it was only a matter of minutes before he burst out through the dark ravine to the open terrain.

Just ahead of them was a single horse and rider. With a swoop, the trio surrounded him. To their surprise, the newcomer proved to be a young boy.

“Hi, there!” Frank greeted the youngster, who looked to be about fourteen years old and handled a horse as if he had been born to the saddle.

“Hi,” the boy returned. “Who are you?”

Cap Bailey explained that they were scientists, looking for fossils.

“This is my mother’s property,” stated the youngster. “Who said you could dig here?”

“Oh, then your mother must be Mrs. Sanderson!” Cap recalled that his aunt had stated in one of her letters that Mrs. Sanderson had given her approval of the exploration.

“That’s right. I’m Harry Sanderson.”

Cap introduced himself and the Hardys, and told Harry why they were there. He added that they would pay for the right to hunt fossils.

“Oh, no, you won’t have to do that,” Harry assured him. “Mr. Alex Bailey, when he first talked to my mother, promised that she would get all the money any fossils might bring.”

“We’ll go along on the same promise,” Cap assured the boy.

“We liked Mr. Bailey,” Harry remarked. “He seemed to be a nice man, but a short while after he settled things with my mother, he disappeared. We heard later that he got sick and died.”

“We hope to finish the job he started,” Cap told him.

Frank and Joe cautiously questioned the boy, asking who lived in the area.

Harry smiled. “Nobody but us and the sheriff-Lately, though, I’ve seen campfires and strange men. The other night a couple of ’em stopped me and started asking a lot of questions. But I slapped my horse and got away.”

“What did the men look like?” Joe asked.

“Both of ’em were big, but one was the biggest guy I ever saw! Bet he could be a wrestler if he wanted to. The other man looked like he might be a lawyer or a doctor. He talked in a low voice.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other and knew what the other was thinking. The descriptions fitted Turk and Flint!

“If those big hombres stop me again,” Harry said stoutly, “I’ll get the Forest Rangers after ’em.”

“Oh, there are Forest Rangers in this section?” Joe asked.

“Sure thing. They make regular visits through here, and they always stop at our ranch.”

“Is that the fire tower they use?” Frank asked, pointing to the top of the mountain rising beyond the swamp.

“No. That old one’s been abandoned. There’s a new tower you can’t see from here.”

“That’s good to know,” Cap commented.

“Yes, and Sheriff Paul’s ranch isn’t far from us, either. He’s a good friend, too.”

“Say, Harry, you must know this territory pretty well,” Frank said. “Are we right in thinking that’s Wildcat Swamp down there?”

“Wildcat Swamp? Never heard it called that, or any other swamp around here.”

“Are you sure?” Cap was plainly upset by this revelation.

“That’s Devil’s Swamp down there,” Harry said.

Cap and the Hardys looked at one another in dismay. Could they be off the track in spite of the map which they had followed so closely?

“Well, I have to get along home,” Harry said. “Hope you’ll all ride over to our ranch sometime. My mother’d like to meet you.”

“How do we get there?” Frank inquired.

Harry pointed in a northwesterly direction. “There’s a trail along the left side of that mountain.”

He slapped his pinto and was off across the plateau in a cloud of dust.

“So this is Devil’s Swamp and not Wildcat Swamp,” Joe said in disgust. “We come over a thousand miles by plane and train and—”

“Wait a minute,” Cap interrupted. “I’m going to check this map again.”

For several minutes he studied the map in silence, then a smile of understanding slowly broke over his face.

“This has to be the place,” he insisted. “There couldn’t be two such spots so much alike. Uncle Alex probably named it Wildcat Swamp on his own, not knowing what the local people called it.”

“There’s one way to make certain,” Frank remarked. “That’s to find the sign about the twenty wildcat.”

“If it’s still here,” Cap said hopefully. “Anyway, let’s pick out a place to make camp. Then we can look around.”

After scanning the territory they agreed upon a wooded section of the plateau just above the mouth of the defile. All three occupied themselves with unpacking their gear and setting up the tent.

Cap and Frank found some suitable stones for a fireplace, and laid a small grate across the top. This done, the boys were eager to start exploring.

“Don’t do any wandering around here without wearing your high boots,” Cap warned. “No telling what you’ll run into down at the swamp.”

Frank dug out the three pairs of thick wading boots which they had purchased in Red Butte and they all donned them, along with sturdy corduroy breeches. Light jackets would suffice, they decided, because the sun was still high in the sky.

Cap, still sure that this was the right spot and eager to see if there were any signs of his uncle’s work, told the boys to go ahead. They pigeon-toed their way down the sandy slope to the edge of the green marsh.

“What a mixture of growth!” Joe marveled at the lush, odorous tangle as Frank led the way into the swamp, keeping to the high hummocks and leaping over the black, watery, evil-looking expanses that spread everywhere.

“It’s amazing,” observed Joe, “how we passed through such a barren region only a few miles away and wind up in a water-logged spot like this!”

“Cap said that’s the way this section of the country is—all extremes,” Frank said.

Excitedly Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “There it is! The old sign!”

Nailed to a shaggy willow tree, almost completely enveloped with vines that grew up its trunk and wound around its branches, was an old, weather-beaten board. The Hardys cleared five feet of muck and landed next to the tree.

“This is it! ‘Here lie the bodies of twenty wildcat’!” Joe read.

They hurried back to camp. Cap was delighted to hear that the boys had found the sign. “From now on I can see that we’re in for some plain, old-fashioned hard work with pick and shovel.”

The trio unpacked digging tools, and then headed back to the spot on the slope which Cap had selected.

Swinging the heavy picks, they soon loosened the top layer of sandy soil. But then the harder work began.

“This is really packed down,” Frank grunted as he swung the pick into hardpan and penetrated only a few inches.

They had worked for an hour when Cap unearthed an old tin can. He was about to throw it away when he took a second look and let out a yell.

“Bonny Briar smoking tobacco! That’s the kind my uncle used to smoke.”

“Then we’re working in the right place!” Frank exulted. “Unless,” he amended, “some other guy was around here who smokes the same brand.”

Cap refused to be talked out of his belief and dug with renewed energy. It was only a few minutes later when Joe’s pick hit into the dirt with an odd ringing sound.

“Ouch!” he howled, wringing his hands as he dropped the wooden handle hurriedly. “I could feel that shock all the way up to my elbows!”

“What did you hit?” Cap queried.

“I don’t know, but it sent a vibration right up the handle of this pick.”

More careful this time, Joe probed in the same spot, and gradually scraped dirt away from what appeared to be a length of metal.

As he worked, it became apparent that the object was heavy, rusted piping. Finally he uncovered its entire length.

“How in creation did that get in here?” Frank asked, turning to Cap.

The young man was completely stumped. “Uncle Alex wouldn’t have used piping,” he mused. “And to the best of his knowledge, there had never been any previous exploration here.”

They were still studying their unexpected discovery when high above them they heard a great thud and a rumble. Frank, first to look up, gave a shout.

“The boulder! It’s toppled off the column! Here it comes!”

With a roar the great stone gathered momentum, sending smaller stones scurrying to all sides, then hurtling down the incline, straight to where the three were digging!

“Look out!” Joe screamed, jumping as far to one side as he could. Frank was already in midair, leaping to the other side.

With a crash the boulder tore across their excavation, pulling what seemed to be half the hillside with it, and thundered into the swamp with a tremendous splash.

Thankful to be alive, Frank and Joe gazed at each other, then looked for their companion.

But Cap Bailey was nowhere in sight!

CHAPTER VII

Skeletons and Schemes

“CAP! Cap Bailey!”

There was no answer to the Hardys’ frantic calls. Following the thunder of the crashing boulder, the stillness was frightening.

“Quick! We’d better clear away some of this rubble!” Frank ordered.

Rocks and shale of all sizes and shapes had broken loose in the landslide. Sand had been scooped from one spot and piled high in another. Desperately the boys rooted through the debris.

“Joe! It can’t be! Cap just couldn’t be—”

“Frank! Down there! Something’s moving!”

They tore wildly at the rubble until they had cleared Cap’s face and shoulders. Groggy, the teacher drew in great lungfuls of air, until they pulled him free.

Finally he was able to sit up and move his arms and legs to show that he was unharmed.

“Boulder ... must ... have ... been ... tipped,” he said huskily. “Go... see ...”

Frank and Joe rushed up the slope but could find no trace of any person on the ledge. A quick glance revealed no one near the rock column from which the boulder had become dislodged.

“Let’s take a look on the plateau,” Joe said, and they hurried along through the defile.

Atop the flat ground, they saw nothing at first that could be connected with the fall of the boulder. Then off toward the trail around the left side of the mountain, Frank’s keen eyes spotted a cloud of dust.

“Two riders!” he shouted.

The Hardys knew they could not hope to overtake the men.

“Anyhow, we’ve got to get back to Cap,” said Joe.

When they reached the rock ledge, the boys could see that Cap felt considerably better. As they skidded down the incline toward him, he gestured excitedly.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed, and pointed to a large object he had picked out of the debris.

Frank and Joe examined it curiously. “What is it?” Frank asked.

Cap spoke triumphantly. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s a bone from the leg of an ancient horse. It was turned up by the boulder when it ripped down the hill.”

“An ancient horse? You mean that there were prehistoric horses in this country?” Joe asked.

“I thought the horse was a comparatively recent animal,” Frank chimed in.

“Oh, no, the horse has been part of the earth as far back as man can tell. As a matter of fact, the evolution of the horse is one of the interesting mysteries of paleontology.”

“What do you mean—mystery?”

“No one has figured out why the horse—a much smaller one than the present kind—lived here from prehistoric time until the Pleistocene period, then became extinct. The horse as we know it today was imported.”

“If this fossil is from one of the earlier breed,” Frank observed, “it must be mighty valuable.”

Bailey nodded. “If I’m right, it could mean there may be many valuable fossils here besides the prehistoric camel my uncle discovered.”

Cap was so excited that all thoughts of his brush with death were forgotten. When the boys told him of the two riders they had seen in the distance, he merely nodded.

“If they did tip the boulder, actually they did us a favor. Look at the digging they saved us.”

“But if they continue to make attempts on our lives,” Frank said, “we’ll have to be on guard every second.”

“Is there any possibility of getting help in this excavation job?” asked Joe.

Cap shook his head impatiently. Elated by the discovery of the fossil, he was ready to start work immediately.

“If those men were trying to stop us by toppling the boulder, they probably think we’re dead, and won’t be coming back,” he added.

Frank and Joe, eager themselves to see what other fossils might be turned up, fell to work in earnest.

For several hours they sweated as they dug deeper into the sand and hardpan.

“I’ve hit something!” Frank suddenly called out. When it was uncovered, Cap Bailey was enthusiastic.

“Boys, I’d bet my last shirt that this bone was once part of the shoulder structure of the ancient camel Uncle Alex thought he’d found!”

“Looks like an oversize ham bone that some prehistoric dog buried here,” Joe said wryly. He sat down in the sand and propped his weary head on one grimy fist. “You really have to be interested in fossils to work this hard,” he groaned. “I’ll never think of geologists and scientists again as old fuddy-duddies.”

Cap and Frank burst into laughter.

“Better buck up, Joe, we’ve barely started.” Cap clapped him on the back and asked him to carry the ancient bones up to their permanent camp, and to put the fossils under a protective tarpaulin.

“What are we bothering to cover these things for?” Joe queried. “Nobody’s been taking very good care of them for a couple of million years.”

“Except nature,” Cap said. “She’s been protecting them from the weather all this time.”

Joe nodded and set off across the slippery sand and through the defile.

Cap and Frank picked up their shovels and resumed work, chopping out large chunks of near-petrified sand. The pit grew deeper and deeper. They were working in silence, intent upon the task at hand, when Frank began to feel uneasy.

Where was Joe? He had been gone much too long for a mere trip to camp. Frank climbed out of the excavation and scanned the slope. He could not see his brother.

Worried, Frank hurried toward the plateau. Had something happened to Joe?

Sensing trouble, Cap followed Frank, reaching the camp a few minutes later.

“Joe doesn’t answer,” Frank said. “But,” he added, pointing to a tarpaulin wrap, “there are the fossils. He’s been here.”

“How about the horses?” Cap asked, and quickly investigated the tiny meadow where they had tethered the animals. All three horses and the pack mule were grazing contentedly.

“I’ll try our distress signal.” Frank gave a long, piercing birdlike whistle. It was the secret whistle he and Joe used when in trouble.

But no answer came, and again Frank gave the shrill, high-pitched call. Listening intently after it ended, all he and Cap could hear was the breeze as it gently moved a few leaves high above them.

“But what could have happened to Joe?” Cap asked. “If he met with any sort of trouble, we should have heard some kind of sound.”

After discussing the situation, they decided on a systematic search of every foot of ground between the camp and the slope. They had got as far as the ledge when Cap held up a warning hand.

“Do you hear something?”

For a moment there was only silence. Then, almost as if from under their feet, in the depths of the earth, they heard:

“Frank! Fra-a-a-a-nk!”

The voice was so low and indistinct that Frank thought he might have imagined it. But a look at Cap’s excited face convinced him that his companion had heard the call too.

Where was it coming from?

After several minutes of frenzied search they had the answer. A flash of light from between two huge rocks just below them at the very edge of the slope caught Frank’s eye.

“Down there!” he cried excitedly.

He and Cap peered into the crevice. This time a light shone squarely in their eyes, and they realized that they were staring into the beam of a flashlight.

“Hey! Come on down!” It was Joe’s muffled voice. “It’s a cave, and somebody’s here!”

Examining the opening, Frank and Cap realized that a man could easily squeeze through it. Rigging a stout rope around a large boulder as a means of ensuring their exit, they wriggled down the rope and into the passageway. In a minute Frank stood beside Joe on the floor of a sizable cavern.

“You’re okay? You didn’t have an accident?” Frank asked.

“Not exactly,” Joe answered. “I tripped, fell off the ledge, and rolled down here. When I saw this cave, I thought I’d investigate—and look!”

He pointed with his flashlight to one of the recesses of the cave. Propped against the sloping wall was a skeleton!

“Nice cave mates you pick for yourself, Joe!” Frank said jokingly. He spoke lightly, but a shiver ran down his back as he gazed at the skull.

“Listen, fellows, that man probably died from suffocation or starvation in here,” Cap said. “I wonder whether he had been living in the cave.”

“Anyway, he had plenty of equipment with him,” Joe said. “See?” His flashlight picked out a pile of long, rusty iron pipes near the skeleton.

“Say, they’re the same kind as the pipe you found on the slope, Joe!” Frank cried. “This old geezer must have brought them down here for a purpose.”

“He probably was a prospector,” Cap decided. “I wonder what he planned to do—drain the swamp?”

“But what for?” Joe asked.

“Maybe he had panned some of the slope,” Frank said, “and believed it might be a good prospect for placer mining.”

All three joined in rummaging around the cave with their flashlights. Cap was about to suggest that they return to the surface, when Frank excitedly cried out:

“Come here, quick!”

Hurrying over, they found him in a dark corner. He had spotted a gleaming new pistol.

“Someone else has been here, and not long ago,” he announced. “There’s not a speck of rust on this gun.”

Carefully Frank wrapped a handkerchief around the weapon and picked it up. By the beam of his tiashfight, they all could clearly see the smudges of someone’s hand along the barrel.

“I have that fingerprint powder in my pocket, I think,” Joe said. “Let’s see what those prints look like.”

He dusted the smudges, and Frank examined the clear prints. There was a familiar swirl on one that looked like a thumbprint.

“Doesn’t that remind you of the thumbprint of a certain character named Willie the Penman?” Frank asked excitedly.

“It sure does—on the kitchen window of Cap’s house,” Joe replied.

“If so, what’s our next move?” Cap asked.

“To prove our point,” Frank replied.

He proposed that they leave the pistol in the cave, on the chance that the owner would return, and they could capture him then.

“We can watch from above,” the young sleuth suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe said, and Cap agreed. Making sure they had left no telltale traces of their presence, they climbed up the rope through the cleft in the rocks to the ledge above.

All agreed that further digging for fossils must wait upon this new development. There was a good chance that the owner of the pistol had been watching them.

Evening chores were split up among them. Cap hid the precious relics, while Frank prepared supper, and Joe watched the cave entrance from a spot in the shadows. The trio ate supper in Joe’s hideout.

“We’d better stay right here tonight,” Cap proposed.

By dusk the three watchers were ensconced in a makeshift shelter. Lying prone, they could see every bit of the slope around the entrance to the cavern. A full moon provided all the illumination needed.

“We’d better agree on shifts,” Cap suggested, and it was decided that Frank would have the first watch. Joe would take over at midnight, and Cap at three in the morning.

There were no disturbances during the night and at six o’clock Cap awoke both his companions.

“I was sure somebody’d come back for that pistol,” Joe said, disappointment in his voice. “Well, I’m going down to have another look in the cave.”

“I’ll go with you.” Frank crossed the slope with his brother and descended to the floor of the cave. A moment later the boys looked at each other in astonishment.

“The pistol’s gone!” they cried simultaneously.

“But how could anyone have taken it?” Joe demanded. “Not a soul came near the cave.”

“Unless,” Frank said, “there is another entrance.”

It took only five minutes for the boys to investigate Frank’s theory. After probing every niche and cranny of the walls, he found a loose boulder which looked as if it had been set in one corner for a purpose. Moving it a bit, Frank saw daylight.

“Come on,” Frank motioned, and the boys crawled through.

They found themselves farther along the slope, around the corner from the spot where they had lain watching all night!

“What a couple of duds we turned out to be,” Frank said in disgust. “And what a laugh Willie or whoever it was had on us!”

“I wonder if he saw us lying there in wait,” Joe pondered.

Replacing the stone that covered the entrance, they called to Cap and showed him the second underground entrance. The teacher’s reaction was almost identical with Frank’s, and he added, “This place may be riddled with secret caves, and eventually bullets, if we don’t watch out.”

A short conference produced one decision—to radio Fenton Hardy and tell him that Willie the Penman might be in the neighborhood of Wildcat Swamp.

Frank unpacked the powerful sending-and-receiving equipment. They surveyed the terrain for a good working spot.

“Below this mountain ridge, we’ll certainly have trouble getting a good signal,” he murmured, and decided that the only possible way to make contact would be to use the self-inflatable balloon they had brought to carry the antenna aloft.

Soon the little gas-filled bag was high in the sky, trailing its aerial wires. Frank tuned in the secret frequency that the Hardys used for family communication. He was about to give it up as hopeless when suddenly a voice said:

“Fenton Hardy speaking. Come in! Come in!”

Quickly Frank reported that they were well, and then told his father of the latest developments.

“Will you get prints of Flint, Turk, and Willie from Warden Duckworth and send them to Red Butte as soon as possible,” he requested. “We’ll check them with the ones on the pistol we found last night.”

His father agreed.

“How about the train robbers?” Frank asked. “Any news?”

“I have a hot lead I’d like you boys to—”

Mr. Hardy’s voice faded completely. There was not a sound from the receiver.

Startled, Frank glanced toward the airborne antenna, just in time to see the balloon, deflated, plummet to the earth.

Now there was no chance to find out what the detective had intended to say!

CHAPTER VIII

Ordered Out

“WHAT happened?”

Cap’s cry was hardly out of his mouth when Joe and Frank were racing off to retrieve the deflated bag. It dropped out of sight, but by following the dual cord which had secured it to the set and carried the antenna line, they soon located it. The balloon hung limply from the branches of a tall pine. Frank shinned up, unfastened the bag, and brought it below for examination.

“Punctured,” he said. “Look at those holes.”

Cap came running up just in time to hear Frank’s remark.

“But how—so high up in the air? Nobody could throw a stone that far—not even a baseball pitcher!”

Frank’s face was grave. “I believe someone fired a bullet through it.”

“But I didn’t hear any shot,” Joe objected. “Did either of you?”

“The shot could have been fired from the other side of the ridge,” Frank commented.

Cap nodded. “Especially if the wind were blowing the other way—which it is—we wouldn’t have heard the shot.”

“I wonder,” Frank mused, “whether some cowboy took a potshot at it just for fun, or if our friend Willie did it deliberately.”

“I wish we could find out just what is behind all these goings-on,” Cap said. “It doesn’t seem likely that a gang of ex-convicts would be worried about our finding a few fossils. What can be the real secret of Wildcat Swamp?”

“It must be pretty valuable for somebody to go to such great lengths to protect it!” Frank stated with a tight smile.

Slowly they walked back toward camp, winding the antenna wires on the spindle as they went along. Even though the balloon itself was useless now, the aerial could be salvaged.

They had almost reached the tent when they heard the sound of hoofbeats behind them, coming down the ravine. Tight-lipped, they waited for the horsemen to appear.

“Oh, it must be the Forest Rangers,” Joe announced, relaxing, as three green-uniformed riders appeared.

The one in the middle was short, wiry, and gruff-looking. To his left was a medium-sized man, and the third ranger, also short, had a peculiarly flat nose.

“Who are you birds?” asked the wiry leader.

“What are you doing in these parts?” the flat-nosed one spoke up.

Courteously, Cap introduced himself and the Hardys, explaining their business in the community.

The leader, who apparently was indifferent to the fit and condition of his uniform, nodded.

“Well, I have bad news for you. You’re going to have to call it all off.”

“What do you mean?” Cap demanded.

“I mean that we’re ordering you to pack up your stuff and clear out of this territory.”

“But we have permission from the owner!” Joe protested, stepping forward. “She knows all about this expedition!”

“I said you’ll have to pack up and clear out,” the spokesman retorted in a rasping voice. “If you must know, this is an order from the government.”

“For us to get out?” Cap asked unbelievingly.

“Everyone around here has been ordered to move all belongings away,” the ranger continued. “It’s going to become a government reserve.”

In dismay, Cap and the Hardy boys looked at one another. If the government had closed the territory, there was no alternative for them but to leave. Cap begged for an extension of time, but was turned down.

“Get on the trail,” the ranger ordered.

He and the other men followed the fossil hunters to their camp and stood by to see that they packed up. Discouraged, the three went through the process of folding the tent and dismantling all their permanent fixtures.

“Get a move on! We haven’t got all day!” the leader of the rangers commanded, watching the proceedings with a grim smile.

“All right, but we have to pack some of this stuff carefully,” Frank answered as he began to stow away the radio equipment.

“Say, son, have you got a state license for that?” the officer asked. “If you haven’t we’ll just have to take it.”

Frank was astounded. “State license? I never heard of such a thing. I have my regular radio license.”

“That’s not enough. You need a special one around here,” the spokesman announced. “Short wave, ain’t it? Yep, that’s the story. Pick it up, men,” he ordered the other rangers.

“But you can’t do that!” Joe sputtered. “The radio belongs to us.”

“Sure, sure, and you can have it back,” the man replied, “by calling at our district office for it next month.”

Despite more protests, the rangers, fingering their holsters, coolly appropriated the set. Discouraged and quiet, the trio rode off toward Red Butte, with the three men in uniform following them to see that they left the area.

Cap was downhearted because he had come close to finishing his uncle’s task. Although he had the two pieces of fossil carefully stowed aboard the pack mule, he was sure other parts of the ancient camel remained on the slope. What a thrill it would have been to find a whole skeleton!

“All right now, just keep going a good ten miles before you stop,” called the leader of the rangers. “And after this, do your fossil digging some place else besides Wildcat Swamp!”

There were no words spoken among the three as they jogged along. But as soon as they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the rangers, they halted and held a council of war. It was decided not to put more than a mile between their new camp and the swamp.

“I’m not going to leave here until this whole mystery is solved,” Frank said determinedly. “Government reserve or not, if Willie and Turk and Flint have anything to do with this place, I’m going to find out about it.”

“Me, too,” Joe added. “I never thought of it, but we probably should have told the rangers our suspicions.”

“After we compare the fingerprints from the pistol with those your father’s sending,” Cap spoke up, “we’ll have more to go on.”

They dropped off the trail and dismounted near a small brook. Doggedly they went about the business of establishing their new base in a well-concealed spot.

“Dad said he’d send the prints by air mail,” Frank commented. “They’ll probably be in Red Butte before we can get there ourselves.”

Cap looked at the Hardys more spiritedly than any time since they had been ordered away from the region of the swamp.

“Say, it might be a good idea if I started tonight for Red Butte,” he said. “Then I’d get there just in time to pick up the letter, and could head back here as soon as I had it. Traveling by moonlight ought to be safer than in broad daylight, the way things are going.”

Much as they disliked seeing Cap go off alone, the boys had to agree that his idea made sense.

“In the meantime, we can guard the gear and keep our eyes open for those jailbirds,” Frank said.

After a quick supper they helped Cap saddle up, and made sure he had enough provisions to last the trip. After he had ridden off, the boys, deciding against a campfire, crawled into their sleeping bags and lay down.

“I certainly didn’t think much of those rangers,” Joe remarked with a yawn. “I always thought that rangers were well-uniformed, neat, and trim. That little mangy guy in the middle was the sloppiest-looking ranger I ever saw.”

“Say, I’ve been thinking about that very thing,” Frank retorted. “A lot of things those rangers said just didn’t ring true—like that license business about the radio.”

“They sure were nasty and I’ve always heard that rangers are polite,” Joe said, recalling particularly their leader’s parting shot. “ ‘Do your fossil digging some place else besides Wildcat Swamp,’ ” the boy repeated in a voice imitating that of the ranger.

Frank suddenly sat up. “Joe! Do you realize what that ranger said? Wildcat Swamp!”

“Sure. What about it?”

“Don’t you remember Harry Sanderson telling us it’s called Devil’s Swamp?”

Joe’s eyes grew round as he realized the implication. “Local rangers would probably have called it that, too.”

“Exactly. Those men might be phonies. Let’s get back to the slope and see what’s going on!”

Quietly they rode through the brush, keeping off the trail as much as possible, until they were less than half a mile from the upper mouth of the defile. There they tied their horses, and went on afoot.

Down the defile they crept, listening for alien sounds. In a short time they were standing on the rock ledge above the slope. The moon had been blotted out by a cloud a moment before, so now there was blackness all around them.

Joe grabbed Frank’s arm. “Look down there!”

Shining from the entrance to the cave was a bright light!

CHAPTER IX

Lost!

“LET’S crawl down and look in the cave!” Joe whispered.

“Okay. But take it easy. There may be a guard, and when that cloud passes over, we’ll be good targets for him.”

Stealthily the Hardys crept down the incline. It was treacherous going in the darkness, without the rope, and complete quiet was absolutely necessary .

“Can you see anything?” Joe whispered as they finally reached the lip of the opening and Frank peered cautiously over it.

The answer was a tightening of Frank’s grip on his arm. Wriggling closer, Joe’s eyes searched downward into the cavern, and he nearly cried out.

Below them were the three rangers!

The boys could hear the murmur of their voices but could not make out their muffled conversation.

Unable to determine exactly what the men were doing, Joe tried to squirm around for a better view.

On the very edge of the opening, his elbow slipped. Before he could prevent it, a stream of pebbles and stones cascaded down into the cave!

“What’s that?” grunted one of the men.

The boys heard startled exclamations as the rangers in the cave jumped to their feet.

“Someone’s up therel Get’em!”

Furious that they had been discovered, the Hardys scrambled up the slope. There was no use trying to be quiet now, and they slipped and stumbled as they made their way toward the ledge.

Behind them, there was an uproar as the rangers gave chase. Just then the moon came out from behind a dark cloud and the ledge was bathed in moonlight.

“Run faster!” urged Frank as they headed for the shadows of the defile.

There was hardly need for Frank’s advice. Joe already was tearing along at top speed. Just as they reached the entrance of the rocky passageway, there was a loud report behind them. Pt-s-s-s. ee-ee!

A bullet whistled overhead, then another, and another. The sound of flying lead lent wings to the feet of the Hardy boys.

The sound of flying lead lent wings to the Hardys

“Stay off the trail! Cut across the other way!” Frank hissed.

Joe let his brother pass him. Frank dashed through a tangle of underbrush, up the steep slope of the defile, and into the woods. They struggled over rough ground, running into low-hanging branches, tripping over roots, falling to hands and knees innumerable times.

A wild search was made with flashlights by the rangers behind them. Again and again the boys dodged the beams. Finally they were able to throw off their pursuers, and they breathed a sigh of relief when all sounds of the chase ceased.

Frank and Joe stopped to rest. After a breathless moment, Joe found his voice to express new concern.

“What if they find our horses!”

“Just hope that they don’t. Anyway, we’re safe! I wonder where we are. I’ve lost my bearings completely.”

For some time they searched in vain in the darkness for a familiar landmark, but in the shadowy woods there was little they could see. Joe was about to suggest that they give up looking for camp until morning, when Frank whispered:

“SSS-s-st! A light!”

Up ahead, they could see a dim light bobbing in midair, as if it were suspended from nothing.

A few seconds later there came the soft clopclop of a horse’s hoofs slowly picking a path among the trees.

“Maybe the rider’s meeting someone here,” Joe said.

Quickly the Hardys found cover, and waited. Within minutes the rider came abreast of their hiding place. The soft glow of the lantern he held lit up his youthful features.

Harry Sanderson !

“Golly, are we glad to see you!” Joe greeted him. “We’re lost.”

“I’m just as glad to see you!” the boys replied. “I was on my way to find you.”

Frank explained what had happened, from the time they had been ordered out of the fossil area to the present moment. When he heard their description of the rangers, Harry said he did not know the men. And oddly enough, he had never seen the cave.

“You didn’t tell us Wildcat Swamp was to become a government reserve,” Joe chided him.

Harry’s eyes flicked wide open in amazement. “It’s not true. I mean, my mother and I haven’t heard anything about it. Something mighty funny’s going on. A man came to our ranch this evening to buy the swamp.”

Harry went on to say that a stranger had dropped in with papers to show his mother that Devil’s Swamp and a lot of the ranch belonged to someone else, and the man was going to buy it from the real owner.

Frank and Joe were baffled by Harry’s revelations. They began to realize that a great deal was happening in the Wildcat Swamp area that was mysterious and which their father would want them to investigate.

“All my mother really owns,” Harry went on, “is the house and a few acres around it—at least that’s what the man said.”

“Who was this man?” Frank asked, his eyes flashing with indignation,

“His name is George Moffet. I never saw him before. Guess he doesn’t live around here. He was a little guy, pale and beady-eyed.”

“Willie the Penman, I’ll bet!” Joe exclaimed.

“Willie who?” Harry asked.

Without telling him that Willie was an ex-convict, Joe said he had acquired the name because he could imitate other people’s signatures.

“If your caller was Willie, he probably drew up the papers himself,” Frank said. “Harry, you tell your mother not to give up any papers and not to sign any unless we see them first. She shouldn’t even show her deed to this impostor. Keep it locked up in a safe place. Hurry!”

“Thanks a lot, fellows,” Harry said. “I knew you’d help me.” He said good-by and rode off.

The Hardys continued their search for their horses. They found the animals safe. Apparently the rangers had departed.

Quickly the boys leaped into their saddles and reached the camp without further adventures.

To their relief, nothing had been disturbed, and once more they crawled into their sleeping bags. Next morning Frank and Joe discussed the strange events of the previous evening.

“Doesn’t it strike you as strange that three new rangers were sent here in addition to the others already located in this area?” Joe asked Frank.

His brother nodded. “And it’s not natural for men in that position to be whispering in a cave. I’d like to sneak back to the swamp in daylight and see what’s going on.”

“Go ahead. I’ll watch camp. We can’t take a chance on having our stuff stolen.”

As soon as they had eaten, Frank went off to reconnoiter. His careful approach through the defile and the ledge was effort wasted, he discovered. There appeared to be no one around, and no trace whatever of the men who had been there only a few hours before.

Without Joe to stand guard for him outside, Frank did not attempt to enter the cave. But he played his flashlight into both entrances and satisfied himself that they were vacant. The only explanation he could think of was that the rangers might comprise a special group to evacuate people from the new government reserve. If the Sanderson ranch actually was to be turned into a reserve!

Back at camp, he said to Joe, “As soon as Cap gets back I think we can take a chance digging again. As long as we don’t carry away any fossils, there won’t be any harm in looking for them.”

Joe agreed. In the meantime, he wanted to keep busy.

“I think one of us had better get in touch with Mrs. Sanderson,” he said. “Harry may have been stopped before reaching home.”

“I’ll stand guard here this time,” Frank said. “You ride over to the ranch.”

With Harry’s directions to guide him, Joe started out for the Sanderson ranch house. The path led over fairly rough country on the other side of Wildcat Swamp. Joe saw no evidence of grazing cattle, though there were occasional grassy stretches that would have afforded pasturage. He scared up several rabbits, and took a potshot at a fox about to devour one.

Presently the way led up through another rocky defile, similar to the one near camp. Joe was halfway through this narrow ravine when he heard the sound of horse’s hoofs from up ahead. The horseman was coming straight in his direction and there was no place to hide from a possible enemy.

The strange rider bore down on him from around a curve in the traiL Twenty paces ahead the newcomer’s horse shied, stumbled over a loose stone, and threw his rider headlong.

Like a sack of meal, the rider struck the ground and lay still.

“This can’t be a trick,” Joe thought to himself. “He hit the earth too hard!”

Cautiously, nonetheless, Joe dismounted and approached the fallen rider, who had not moved.

Joe took hold of him, turning the rider over on his back.

It was Chet Morton!

CHAPTER X

Three Odd Letters

“CHET! Chet Morton!” Joe shouted in disbelief.

His friend did not stir. Joe flipped the top of his canteen and held the cool water to Chet’s lips. The boy moaned and tried to rise.

“Joe! No, it couldn’t be. I guess I’m dreaming. I’m still kayoed.”

“You’re not dreaming, Chet. What are you doing way out here?”

Chet rested several seconds before replying.

“Morton’s Pony Express. Modem variety,” he said cheerfully. “Boy, that spill knocked the wind out of me. I have a message for you guys. Several, in fact.”

“Is Dad okay?” Joe asked apprehensively.

“Oh, sure. Your dad and I flew to Red Butte together yesterday afternoon with Jack Wayne.”

“You and Dad?”

“Yeah. He’s hot on the trail, I guess. Those train robbers are going to the hoosegow.”

“Well, what’s the news?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I have the fingerprint pictures you asked for,” Chet said as he struggled awkwardly into his saddle.

“Come on, Chet,” Joe said. “I’ll show you the way back to camp and while I’m there I’ll compare those prints with the ones we found on the pistol.”

As they rode along, Chet told Joe the reason for his sudden trip to the West.

“Your dad thought I’d enjoy it,” he began. “And also, he didn’t trust anyone else to give you an important message. He thought Sheriff Paul probably would know where you were, so just before he took the midnight train, he told me to contact the sheriff and have him take me to Wildcat Swamp.”

“Where did Dad go?”

“He was as secretive as usual,” Chet said.

“Did Sheriff Paul bring you?”

“No, he wasn’t at his office, so I rode out to his ranch. But he wasn’t there either. Nobody was.”

“Then how did you find this place?” Joe asked.

“A nice kid reined up in front of the Paul ranch just as I was about to leave,” Chet said. “Name of Harry Sanderson.”

“We know him.”

“Yeah, he told me you did, and he showed me how to get here. Knows all the short cuts. And boy, he can ride like the wind!”

Chet paused for breath, then asked, “How’s Cap?”

“All right, I hope, He went to Red Butte. Funny you didn’t see him at the hotel.”

“He wasn’t registered.”

This turn of events worried Joe. Had Cap been attacked on the way to town?

“Nothing seems to be turning out right on this expedition,” he told Chet, and brought him up to date on all that had happened.

“At least you now have a copy of the fingerprints you wanted,” Chet remarked with pride.

Arriving at camp, Joe flung himself from the saddle. “Hi, Frank!” he yelled. “Look what I found along the trail.”

“Chet! How’d you get here? You look as if you’d ridden all the way from Bayport.”

“I had a spill,” Chet confessed. Then, repeating his mission, he pulled a packet from his jeans and handed it to Frank.

Eagerly Frank tore it open. It contained magnified copies of three sets of fingerprints—Turk‘s, Willie’s, and Gerald Flint’s. The Hardys at once compared them with those taken from the pistol.

“Look at this whorl,” Joe cried excitedly. “No mistaking it. The gun we found in the cave was once in the hands of Willie the Penman. And I’ll bet it’s in his shoulder holster right now!”

Chet let out a whistle. “He’s—he’s after you guys?”

“Guess he is,” Frank said.

“In that case”—Chet gulped—“I’d better get back to Bayport and finish digging our swimming pool.”

“Before you eat?” Joe needled him,

Chet grinned. “I’ll stay till morning. Got to get some rest, anyway.”

“Hold it!” Joe said suddenly. “Did you give us all of Dad’s messages?”

“Hey, it’s good you reminded me,” Chet answered. “I forgot something.”

“What?”

“Your dad wants to see you.”

“When?”

Chet pushed his Stetson back and scratched his head. “Let’s see. Just before midnight on the seventeenth.”

“Where?” Frank asked impatiently.

“On the railroad siding near Spur Gulch.” Chet pulled a map from his pocket and handed it over.

“Frank, that’s real news from Dad!” Joe exclaimed. “Something’s doing. A trap for the train robbers, or I miss my guess.”

“Could be,” Frank said. “I hope we can dear up some of the mystery around here before we leave to meet Dad in two days. I think we ought to find Sheriff Paul and tell him about Willie the Penman. And we still have to see Mrs. Sanderson.”

During the evening the boys waited expectantly for Cap, hoping someone in town had told him of Chet’s arrival. But Cap did not come.

“I’m afraid he never reached Red Butte,” Frank said fearfully. “And now that we know Willie the Penman is in the neighborhood, I’m worried.”

With concern on his face, Chet pulled a bright bandanna from his pocket and mopped his brow.

“Honest, fellows, I have to start back for Bayport in the morning.”

“But as long as you are here, wouldn’t you like to help us dig up a camel?” Joe suggested.

“A what?”

“That’s right. We’ve found one.”

Chet began to weaken. “Well, I might stay a day or two.”

When morning came and Cap still had not appeared, the Hardys decided that one of them should go to Red Butte to investigate.

“I’ll go,” Chet said. “As long as you guys need help, I’ll stick around for a while.”

He mounted his horse like a bear cub trying to straddle a split-rail fence. After he had ridden off, Frank and Joe saddled their mounts for the ride to Sheriff Paul’s ranch. They hid their camping equipment in a rocky depression, covering it with brushwood, then set out.

It was quite a long ride to the ranch, but finally they reached it. Picketing their horses, they knocked on the back door, which immediately was opened by a trim, middle-aged woman. When the boys introduced themselves, she asked them in.

“We have a few worries we’d like to talk over with the sheriff,” Joe said.

“My husband isn’t here,” Mrs. Paul replied. “And I have a few worries too. He hasn’t been home for three days.”

“Three days? Is that unusual?” Frank asked.

“He got a phone call and told me there was trouble about some rangers. I didn’t get the details, because he rode off in a great hurry.”

Joe gave his brother a sidelong look. Rangers ! Could it be the same three men who had ordered Frank, Cap, and him away from the swamp? Frank caught his brother’s glance and nodded in reply.

“I guess we’d better leave a note for the sheriff,” Frank told Mrs. Paul, who promised to give it to him as soon as he returned.

“Maybe we’d better go back to where we hid our supplies and not go to the Sanderson ranch just now,” Frank told Joe after they had finished the lunch graciously offered by the sheriff’s wife.

The boys headed back toward camp. When they were still some distance from it, Frank, hearing voices, reined in suddenly. Dismounting, he and Joe walked forward cautiously.

“Chet! Cap!” Frank exclaimed.

Cap explained that he and Chet had met shortly after the stout boy had left for Red Butte. Cap, having heard about Chet’s arrival and departure from a restaurant owner, had started back but had lost his way.

“I—I like it better here now,” Chet said. “I think I’ll stay till you all go. With Cap here, there are four of us. Just let Willie the Penman dare to show up!”

The tension relieved, they all laughed and set about preparing supper,

As night fell and there still was no sign of the rangers, Frank said, “Let’s sneak back and do some more digging.”

Armed with flashlights and tools, the four carefully made their way down to the fossil deposit. Chet was impressed, and wanted to see more of the camel. However, he soon tired of the digging.

“What’s the matter, Chet?” Joe asked. “Break your shovel?”

Chet grunted and went to work. It was becoming evident that the fossil they were excavating was an enormous one.

“I believe we have a perfect specimen,” Cap said enthusiastically.

Chet found plenty of excuses to rest from his tabors. Only the sarcastic remarks of his friends kept him digging in the spot designated to him. He had not been at it long when he unearthed a half-rotted board.

“Huh,” he said, “all I can do is find clam fossils in Bayport and old billboards out here.”

Frank looked up suddenly. “Billboards? Where?”

“Here,” Chet said, beaming his light on the rotten piece of wood. “It has letters on it. E R S. What does that mean?”

“Could be part of the name Sanderson,” Joe said.

“Perhaps an old prospector left it here,” Cap volunteered.

Frank snapped his fingers. “I have it!” he cried. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a second.”

Without explaining why, he dashed off in the darkness.

“I think he ate some locoweed,” Chet remarked, leaning over his shovel and heaving a sigh.

The words were hardly off his lips when a shriek of terror sounded in the night.

Was Frank in trouble?

CHAPTER XI

Underground Snare

CATAPULTING himself out of the pit, Joe dashed down the slope in the direction Frank had taken. Chet and Cap hurried after him. With their flashlights stabbing the blackness, they finally reached the edge of the swamp.

Just then a flashlight beam was turned on Joe and a familiar voice called, “What’s going on? You guys sound like a stampede of water buffalo.”

“Frank! Was that you who yelled?”

“No. I thought it was one of you.”

“Must have been a wildcat,” Cap said. “They sometimes sound like humans.”

“Say, Frank, where were you going in such a rush?” Chet asked.

“To get that sign on the tree. I have an idea about it.”

With the others following, he pushed through the dark swamp to the gnarled willow tree.

Frank pointed out the dangling sign to Chet. Then he yanked the weathered old board loose.

“I want to compare this with the piece of wood you found, Chet,” he said.

As they struggled back up the hill to the pit, Chet puffed and heaved. “You sure—make things —hard,” he said.

Joe was the first to notice that something was amiss at the pit.

“Hey! I left my shovel right here. Where’d it go?”

“Everything is gone!” cried Cap.

“The board too,” Frank said. “We’ve been robbed!”

“That cry was just a trick to get us away from here,” Cap declared. “Somebody wanted our tools. Put out your lights, boys. There’s no sense making targets of ourselves.”

The four stood motionless in the darkness. Frank broke the silence by whispering that it would be hopeless to try finding the thief in the darkness. The logical move was to return to their campsite as secretly as possible.

By this time all of them except Chet knew the route well enough to find it in the dark. Chet stumbled along between Frank and Joe. Reaching camp, they crawled into their sleeping bags.

“Now tell us about the sign, Frank,” Chet whispered.

“I was going to try fitting the two pieces together. I think originally it was all one sign.”

“But that would mean it doesn’t refer to wildcats at all,” Chet pointed out.

“Right! It would read, ‘Here lie the bodies of twenty wildcatters’!”

“Wildcatters has two t’s,” Joe reminded him.

“The second t could have been right on the break,” Frank explained, “and easily have rotted away.”

Chet still did not see the real significance. “What’s the difference whether there were twenty wildcats or twenty wildcat hunters here?”

Cap spoke up. “A wildcatter, Chet, isn’t an animal hunter. He’s a man who hunts for oil-well locations.”

“Oil prospectors!” Chet whistled. “You mean there might be oil here?”

Cap said that was quite possible, and then Joe exclaimed, “Those rusty pipes we found could have been part of some drilling equipment! And that skeleton in the cave might have been another one of the wildcatters!”

“Sk-skeleton!” Chet quavered.

“Oh, we didn’t tell you about our Mr. Bones!” Joe laughed. “Wait till you see him. He’s out of this world.”

Chet crawled deeper into his sleeping bag and was silent.

“Seriously,” Frank said a moment later, “I wonder what really happened to those wildcatters, and when.”

“I’ve been mulling that over myself,” said Cap, “and I’ve about decided that it couldn’t have been too long ago.”

“I think you’re right,” said Frank.

“Well, I feel we can be certain,” Cap said, “that there still may be a few men living who learned about the possibility of oil below the swamp from some of those wildcatters. That’s why they’re trying to run us out of here.”

Frank remarked that a certain George Moffet seemed to fit right into this theory. No doubt he was trying to get Mrs. Sanderson’s property.

“Is there any way of telling where there might be oil except by drilling?” Chet asked Cap.

“Yes, indeed,” the teacher replied. “In certain periods in prehistoric times far more oil deposits were formed than in others. If I could locate some fossils from one of those periods, I’d know we’ve made the right guess about the situation here. Incidentally, every big oil company today employs a paleontologist for this kind of exploration.”

“If we’re going to do any more digging,” Chet spoke up, “we’ll have to buy some more tools.”

“Joe and I might get them in Red Butte after we see Dad,” Frank suggested. “Tomorrow night we plan to meet him at Spur Gulch, Cap,” the boy added, and told him about Chet’s message.

Bailey volunteered that he and Chet buy the tools. They would stop at the Sanderson ranch and tell Harry and his mother their suspicions.

Next morning, an hour after sunup, Frank and Joe set off in an easterly direction, while the others went northwest.

“I’d like to look around that cave once more before we leave,” Cap said when they reached the ledge. “Besides examining those pipes again, we may find other clues to prove we’re on the trail of the old wildcatters or of some new ones.”

Chet was reluctant, but on the other hand, he didn’t want the teacher to think he lacked courage.

“Okay, Cap. Lead the way!”

When they reached the narrow opening in the rocks, Chet glibly offered to remain at the cave entrance to “guard the horses.” Cap grinned as he dismounted.

“If there’s trouble,” the teacher said, “we’re better off together than split up.”

“You’ve talked me into it,” Chet replied solemnly.

Flashlight in hand, Cap stalked ahead of him down the incline to the cave entrance below the ledge. At the end of the passage, where it broadened out into the wider portion of the cave, Bailey’s light flickered.

“Battery’s getting low,” he muttered to himself.

As Chet beamed his own light around, Cap entered the inner part of the cave. Stepping past the skeleton, barely discernible in the dim light, the teacher bent to pick up a rusted section of pipe. As he did, a faint sound in a recess of the rock wall made him straighten up.

“That you, Chet?”

“What did you say?” Chet boomed from the passageway.

In sudden alarm Bailey swung his fading flashlight toward the wall. It picked up a dark figure crouching in the gloom.

“Don’t move!” came a whispered command.

At the same moment, an arm snaked around his chest like a hoop of iron, pinioning his arms to his sides. With a clatter, Cap’s flashlight dropped to the rock floor.

“Chet!” he gasped. “Get help! Hurry!”

“Shut up!” his attacker hissed.

The arm tightened its grip, choking off any further warning. As Cap struggled, another man rapped him sharply on the side of the head with the butt end of his gun. The science teacher crumpled to the floor.

“That’ll take care of him for a while!” the gruff voice muttered in the darkness. “Now let’s get the other one.”

But Chet, having heard Cap’s desperate plea for help, had made his decision. Even though he was scared, Chet would never run out on a friend in distress.

He had recently learned some elementary judo. As a flashlight suddenly beamed in the passageway, Chet poised himself. Seconds later a man of medium height emerged from the inner cave.

As Chet had been taught, he let out a blood-curdling scream and shouted some unintelligible gibberish. His amazed adversary stopped in his tracks. The boy backed away a few inches. If he could keep this up until he reached the entrance—

The man, though, was not to be fooled a second time. He lunged savagely at Chet. Instantly Chet grabbed his outstretched arms and pulled his attacker sharply forward. Off balance, the man stumbled toward him.

With split-second timing, Chet brought his knee up sharply against the man’s chin. He went down like a sack of lead sinkers.

Not knowing there was a second enemy, Chet relaxed. Suddenly his hands were locked behind him in a firm grip. He tried to break free, but the attacker twisted his arms painfully.

Resistance was futile.

CHAPTER XII

Ambush

WHILE Chet was struggling with his new enemy, the man he had knocked down began slowly to get to his feet. Holding his jaw, he shone a big flashlight on the boy and glowered.

“Wise guy, eh? Break his arm, boss.”

“Can the cracks! Get on with this job!”

The injured man’s companion collared Chet and shoved him deeper into the cavern, where the other fellow stuck a candle into a crevice and lighted it.

In the eerie glow Chet saw Cap lying prone on the ground. Then, for the first time, he got a good look at the second assailant, a small, wiry man wearing a badly fitting green uniform and holding a short rifle.

As Chet stared, Cap came to and staggered to his feet.

“You’re the rangers who ordered us out of this area!” he charged.

“Very clever!” the scrawny man said sarcastically. “But since you weren’t smart enough to take a friendly warning, we’re going to teach you a lesson!”

“Listen here,” Cap retorted angrily, “I demand that this boy and I be treated according to law. You have no right to hold us without valid complaint.”

“No? Well, we’re taking the right.”

“You can’t get away with this!” Chet said hotly. “We know who you are, and we know what you’re after! You’re impostors, and you’re trying to steal Mrs. Sanderson’s land!”

“And you,” Cap added, pointing at the wiry man, “you’re Willie the Penman!”

The other man looked startled. “They know we’re—”

“Shut up!” the small fellow ordered. He turned to Cap and Chet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you have any sense at all, you’ll keep your mouths shut.” He turned back to his companion. “Give me the wire.”

The captives were led deeper underground, back into the dim recesses of the cave. Then the men, using lengths of tough copper wire, tied their prisoners’ hands behind their backs and bound their ankles.

“Are we being kidnapped?”

The little man said with an ugly laugh,” I wouldn’t call it that. We’re not taking you anywhere. You’re just going to lie right here in this cave and have a good rest.”

“Yeah, and when we get around to it,” his henchman added, “we’ll send the sheriff to pick you up.”

With that, the two men left the cave. When the sound of their footsteps had died away in the gloomy vault, Chet spoke up. “Do you think they really will send the sheriff to get us?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cap replied. “I can’t picture those two criminals helping the law.”

“Do you suppose Frank and Joe will ever find us?” Chet quavered.

Meanwhile, the Hardys had altered their plans. Since they did not have to meet their father until midnight, they had decided to ride first to Sheriff Paul’s and find out about the “ranger trouble.”

Upon reaching the Paul ranch, the boys dismounted and knocked on the front door. To their amazement, it swung wide open under Frank’s touch,

Joe called out, but there was no reply. He peered into the neat living room.

“The place is deserted and the note we left is still on the table!”

“That’s funny,” Frank remarked. “Mrs. Paul must have gone off soon after we did.”

“I hope nothing’s happened to her,” Joe said apprehensively.

The boys circled the house, but there was no sign of the sheriff’s wife. Nor was she in the barn or any of the other ranch buildings. The boys were more mystified than ever.

“Let’s go back to the house,” Frank suggested.

In the kitchen they saw unwashed dishes on the sink—a startling contrast to the spick-and-span condition of the house. Near the door was a basket of clothes. On a hunch, Frank felt them.

“They’re still damp, Joe. That means Mrs. Paul was interrupted in her work. She must have left here in a hurry. Let’s check the corral.”

Joe, first to reach it, called out, “Look at these fresh hoofprints. Several riders were here.”

Frank knelt down. “Three sets come up to the gate, then four go away. The question is, Did Mrs. Paul go with the others, or leave later?”

Carefully checking the trail and the turnoff into the ranch, the boys discovered that one set of hoofprints were headed in another direction.

“She might have ridden off to warn somebody about her visitors,” Joe said, “probably her husband. But why didn’t she use her radiotelephone? I noticed one in the living room.”

Hurrying back to the house, Frank examined the set. “The sheriff no doubt uses it to contact police headquarters at Red Butte. I’ll do the same.”

He switched on the set and waited for it to warm up. However, no hum came from the loudspeaker. He pressed the microphone button.

“That’s funny, Joe. This set doesn’t seem to be putting out at all.”

Frank tried again, but the output dial remained at zero. Turning off the set, Joe unsnapped the cover slides, and removed the top.

“No wonder!” he exclaimed. “A tube is missing!”

“That’s proof enough for me,” Frank cried. “Those visitors were here for no good reason.”

“We’d better ride to Red Butte as fast as we can and report the whole situation,” Frank said grimly.

“Right,” Joe agreed. “Then later we can hop a train from there to Spur Gulch.”

Hurrying outside, the Hardys sprang into their saddles and galloped off. At this rapid pace, they quickly covered a mile. Then they were forced to slow down because the trail had entered a rocky valley.

As they proceeded, the valley became a narrow pass walled in by steep rock formations on either side.

“I guess it’ll have to be Indian file now!” Frank said, cantering in front of his brother. As they neared the end of the pass, he suddenly reined in.

“What’s up?” Joe asked, almost colliding with Frank’s mount.

Frank did not answer, but from up ahead, Joe heard a gruff voice shout:

“Hold it!”

A man in cowboy attire, astride a pony, blocked the exit to the pass. The boys couldn’t see what he looked like, because of the dirty blue kerchief tied over the lower part of his face and a ten-gallon hat pulled low on his forehead.

“I see you’re packing a gun!” he remarked, looking at the weapon Frank carried in a holster.

“Yes. Protection against wild animals.”

The cowboy gave a sarcastic laugh. Then he pressed his horse up beside Frank’s mount and tried to make a quick grab for the boy’s gun.

But Frank was alert. As the stranger’s arm shot out toward his holster, the boy stood up in his stirrups and brought his fist down hard on the man’s wrist.

Frank’s gun clattered to the ground. His horse reared, making the stranger’s pony shy too, and the masked man lost his seat. His own weapon was dislodged and flew several feet away as he hit the sand.

“Come on, Joe!” Frank cried. “Help me tie this guy up, quick!”

As Joe slid off his mount, he grabbed the rope from the pommel of his saddle and hurried to assist his brother. It was dangerous business, maneuvering in the narrow pass among the excited, rearing animals.

Scrambling to his feet, Frank’s assailant began to back out of the pass. He reached for his gun. Realizing it was gone, he turned tail and started to run.

“Help!” he shouted.

Frank and Joe ran to intercept him. Joe tackled the man about the knees and dragged him to the ground. Frank, following up his move as fast as he could, seized the man’s flailing arms.

But even as he did, Frank spotted a quick flash of movement to his left.

“Watch out, Joe!” he yelled. “There are more of them!”

Two masked men now sprang forward. As the Hardys whirled to meet this new threat, the ambushers charged!

CHAPTER XIII

An Icy Dungeon

“GET ‘em!”

Though completely helpless under the doublebarreled Hardy attack, the mysterious enemy managed to shout orders to his oncoming aides.

Frank side-stepped a fist from one of the other masked men and landed a hard blow on the attacker’s chest. As Joe ducked a charge from the third ambusher, their fallen leader arose and dived at the boy from behind.

Thrown off balance, Joe was an easy target for his two opponents and went down like a tenpin. Against three, Frank stood no chance at all, and was quickly pulled to the ground.

Within a matter of minutes, the boys were bound and gagged, then heaved crosswise onto the saddles of their horses.

“These men must be some of Willie’s gang,” thought Frank as the horse started to move. “Now what?”

There was no indication from the cowboys as to where they were taking the Hardys. Except for a terse command now and then by their leader, the men guided them silently on a grueling ride through the rough country. Two of their captors rode ahead, the other at the rear.

“Why have they kidnapped us?” Joe’s mind was in a whirl. “How did they know where to wait? They must have had us under surveillance all along!”

One hour went by, two, three. Frank and Joe had been in many a tight spot, but none had ever seemed so hopeless as this one. Each jog of horse and saddle against stomach and ribs knocked the breath from their bodies. The boys realized they were becoming so exhausted and sore that even if they could manage to struggle free, they would not be able to walk.

Worst of all, they realized that they now would have no chance of meeting their father at Spur Gulch.

Hours later Frank and Joe heard the whistle of a train and shortly afterward they were approaching the railroad line. As close as Frank could figure, they were intersecting the railroad right-of-way much farther west than Spur Gulch.

From behind a massive rock beside the shimmering tracks came the sound of a horse’s whinny. The man in the lead halted. He thrust two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Immediately another masked man rode into view.

“So you got the meddling kids!” he boomed. “Great work! We’ll get rid of ’em right away!”

“What’s your plan?” asked one of the others.

“Toss’em on the rails!”

From their awkward positions, lying across their saddles, the boys studied the newcomer. He was a big, heavy-set fellow. Could this be the convict Jesse Turk, who had so cleverly escaped from Delmore Prison?

The other man who was as tall, but not as heavy as the newcomer, shook his head. “You want us all sent up for life—just when we can get clear?” he shot back. “I’ve got an idea how to put these smart-alecky kids out of the way and make it look like an accident.”

“How?”

“The freight that’s coming through here from the west at ten-thirty is hauling refrigerator cars. It’s due in an hour. We’ll put these kids on ice!”

“Hey, that sounds like a good deal. I go for that.” And the others readily agreed.

The heavy-set fellow spoke up again. “Break out some chow. We’ll give these boys their last meal.”

As Frank’s and Joe’s horses were led away from the main party, their guard drew a bowie knife.

“Toss’em on the train rails!”

Dismounting, he slashed the ropes that bound Frank’s wrists and ankles.

“Get off and untie your brother,” he ordered roughly. “And no tricks! Hear me?”

Frank was only too glad to obey. He unfastened the handkerchief that had been stuffed into his mouth, and hobbled over to where Joe still lay across his mount. While seeming to struggle with the knotted bonds, he whispered furtively:

“Joe, I’m sure the newcomer and the other big man are the ones we captured at Green Sand Lake. Flint and Turk!”

“I think you’re right. But we’re not going to sit here and let them get away with this, are we?”

“I’ll say not! Dad wants these crooks, and we’ll get ’em. Soon as the kinks are out of us, I’ll give you the signal and we’ll put up a fight.”

“Cut it out!” their guard shouted. “No talking!”

By the time Joe was untied, supper was brought to them by one of the masked men. Seated with a rifle across his knees, he watched the captives eat while the other guard walked off for his dinner. The boys were hungry enough for a good meal, even though their minds were occupied by the grave danger facing them.

As Joe set down the tin can from which he had been drinking water, he whispered, “Frank, how come they left only one guard over us? Where are the rest of them?”

Frank smiled grimly. “The others wanted to eat, I guess, and you can’t eat with a bandanna over your mouth! They don’t want us to see who they are.”

Hearing their murmuring, the guard turned. “All right, you wise guys, one last warning. You want your gags back on? One more sound outta you, and—” Suddenly he stopped, cocked his head, and let out a loud roar. “Well, we don’t have to worry about you much longer. Here comes the freight.”

As the train drew nearer, the rest of the gang appeared and surrounded the captives.

“Get ready for your last mile,” the brawny man said sardonically. “Curtains for two detectives—and one to go!”

The boys winced. By “one to go” the scoundrel could not mean anyone but their father. They must know he was in the vicinity of Spur Gulchl He might even have been captured already!

Crouching behind a low outcropping of rock along the tracks, the men forced the boys down with them. The railroad ran up a slight grade at this point, and the heavy Diesels struggled and churned as they reached the incline. Slowly the twin locomotives neared the hidden group.

“This’ll be a snap,” one of the men said confidently. “I’ll break the seal on a cooler first, and then—”

Suddenly Frank sprang up. “At ’em, Joe!”

“Hey, what’s—?”

The man’s cry was cut off abruptly as Joe’s fist crashed into his mouth. Blood spurted from his lips, and he gave a yell of surprise and pain.

Shoving one of their abductors backward into another and sending both sprawling, Frank turned and butted headfirst into a third.

As they battled against the heavy odds, the boys shouted at the top of their voices for help. But their cries were lost in the thunder of the Diesels as the big engines roared past. No one on the train had seen the ruckus, and now no one could hear it!

Although the Hardys fought furiously, they were outnumbered by their enemies. Subdued, they were held this time in steellike grips. The man who had proposed the refrigerator cars had ridden down the tracks, watching for a “cooler.”

As one passed, he urged his horse alongside. The animal kept pace with the moving car while its rider leaned over toward the door. Skillfully he broke the metal seal and slid open one of the heavy insulated doors.

The open car drew abreast. Frank and Joe were seized tightly, then heaved up and into the yawning opening of the refrigerator car. The heavy door slammed shut, and they could hear the bar fall into place on the outside.

Joe was first to speak. “Frank! We’re locked in,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll freeze!”

His brother sat up and nodded. “Easy, Joe. We’ll have to stay calm if we expect to get out of this alive.”

Groggy, they stood up and tried to keep their balance in the pitch-black, chilly car. The only sound was the clackety-clack of the wheels. Frank took a small flashlight from his pocket and looked around. Their prison was filled with crates of West Coast lettuce.

Climbing up and over them, Frank presently came to the front wall of the car. It was damp and freezing cold against his hand.

“Joe! I just remembered something,” he said hopefully. “We’re lucky. This is an old-type car. In the new nitrogen refrigerator units we’d be goners for sure. They have practically no oxygen.”

“You’re right. This oldie has ice compartments at each end. Bunkers.”

“Exactly. The bunkers open into this section near the roof, so the cold air can circulate. What about it?”

“That’s our way out. Each bunker has a hatch in the roof, where ice is put in.”

By the dim beam of the pocket flashlight, they could see that the open parts of the bunkers were covered by wire.

“If we can only cut through that!” Frank said.

“Here.” Joe pulled a knife from a pocket in his dungarees.

Climbing up on the stacked lettuce crates, Frank began hacking away at the wire screen. With only the small penknife, it took time, but finally he made a hole large enough to crawl through. Perched atop a slippery cake of ice, he reached up for the hatch.

It was tightly locked.

“No luck,” he called down in disappointment.

Descending to the floor of the car, he added, “We have only one more chance—the other hatch.”

“Let me try this time,” Joe suggested.

“Okay. Maybe you’ll be luckier than I was.” With teeth chattering, Joe sawed away at the wire mesh of the other bunker and worked his way in on top of the ice. Anxiously he glanced up at the hatch. A thin sliver of light showed along one edge.

“Frank!” he shouted exultantly. “This one isn’t locked!”

Quickly Joe leaned down over the edge of the bunker and helped Frank climb up into the ice chamber. Together, they pushed at the hatch cover, but it didn’t budge.

“Joe! All your might!” Frank urged. “This is our only chance!”

“My hands are so numb I can’t even feel the hatch.”

“We’ve got to make it!” Frank gasped.

CHAPTER XIV

Thieves’ Camp

BRACING their shoulders and arms beneath the hatch of the refrigerator car, Frank and Joe gave one more mighty heave. This time they forced the cover upward and held it against the rushing wind as they scrambled out.

A blast of air nearly threw them off balance. But it was warm, and felt wonderful against their frigid skin.

“Duck down!” Frank yelled. “Less wind resistance.”

The train had topped a long grade, and was speeding now to make up for time lost on the hill. The boys swayed as the freight rounded a long curve.

Frank glanced back through the gathering dust to see if he could spot any familiar landmarks. Checking his watch, he surmised they must have traveled past Spur Gulch.

“Hey!” Joe cried out. “We’re slowing down!”

“Good!” returned Frank. “I think our best bet is to hop off and walk back to the Gulch.”

Amid the rattle and banging of couplings, the long freight train jarred to a stop.

“Out on the sand!” yelled Joe as he eased down on the smooth surface. A hundred yards down the track Frank followed.

“Now,” Frank said, “we have a good hike ahead of us back to Spur Gulch. It’s nearly time for our date with Dad.”

They had hardly hit their stride along the ties when Frank pulled up short.

“Look over there, Joe. In that patch of woods.”

The orange-and-red light of a small campfire flickered through a thick grove of trees.

“Should we take time to see who’s there?” Joe asked. “After all, we’re late now. That campfire may belong to a gang of hobos.”

“On the other hand,” Frank reasoned, “Dad might be there.”

Frank’s argument convinced his brother, and the two boys left the right-of-way.

Careful not to make any noise, the Hardys advanced among the trees. At the far edge of the grove in which the fire was located they paused in the underbrush and peered ahead.

A dozen men were huddled around the fire. Two were eating. The others appeared to have finished their meal and were warming themselves near the blaze.

In the low buzz of conversation someone occasionally would make a wisecrack that provoked a chorus of rough laughter. Presently a deep voice which was raised above the rest gave the Hardys a chance to learn the subject of the men’s conversation.

“Well, the boss and his new friend’ll be here soon,” the man rumbled. “Then the fireworks’ll start!”

“We can’t wait for them much longer,” another voice announced impatiently. “Number 68’s due here in a little while.”

“These men must be train robbers!” Frank whispered. “They’re waiting to wreck Number 68 on the tracks right over there!”

“Then maybe we’re not too late,” Joe said hopefully. “Dad’s probably around here somewhere. Let’s get closer to these guys. Maybe we can hear exactly what they’re up to.”

The boys had crawled forward several feet when Frank gripped his brother’s arm, pulling him to a stop. With his other hand cupped around Joe’s ear, he whispered:

“It just occurred to me—that fellow mentioned the boss and his new friend. Do you think he could have meant Flint and Turk?”

Edging forward on their knees and elbows, the boys tried to get a better look at the faces of the men in the flickering firelight. One of them, his back to the Hardys, addressed the others.

“Can ya imagine a coupla high school kids holdin’ up a deal like this. Well, we don’t have to worry about them any longer. Flint said he’d take care of ’em before he got here.”

Flint! The boys’ deduction had been correct!

“At least,” Frank told himself elatedly, “we’re on the right track now.”

“Me, I’m gettin’ tired of waitin’,” one of the men grumbled. “The sooner we get at this job, the better. I want to put the grab on those pipes and drills and then blow outta here.”

“Sure, Hank,” another agreed. “The sooner we get hold of that stuff, the quicker we can set up the diggin’.”

“Flint said Number 68’s got three cars loaded with the last word in oil rigs,” Hank went on. “We’ll be rollin’ in dough in a few weeks, and by that time it’ll all be on the level.”

Joe prodded Frank and the older boy knew what he was thinking. The stolen rig was to be set up in Wildcat Swamp after the land had been taken from Mrs. Sanderson!

“No wonder those phony rangers invented that government order for everyone to move out,” Frank whispered.

Joe was about to speak when a sudden crackling in the woods startled him.

“Too late to run!” Frank whispered. “Lie flat!”

Face down in the undergrowth, they hugged the dry ground. The sound of heavy footsteps grew nearer. The newcomers passed the boys and approached the campfire. Conversation died abruptly. Frank and Joe looked up momentarily, to see one of the men jump up, draw his pistol, and hurry away.

“Who’s there?” he called, advancing to only a few feet from where the boys lay hidden.

Frank and Joe hardly dared to breathe until the challenger’s attention was diverted by the two new arrivals who stepped into the firelight.

“What’s the matter with you, Sam? Jumpy tonight?” one of them asked in a low, controlled voice. Better dressed than any of the others, he presented an almost distinguished appearance.

The man with him was big and broad-shoul dered. Even from where the Hardys lay squinting through the brush, they could see him frowning darkly at the others who now clustered around.

Now Frank and Joe were absolutely sure. The men were indeed the Green Sand prisoners—now without their cowboy disguise and masks!

The boys listened tensely.

“Okay, Flint,” replied Sam, ramming his pistol back into its holster. “It’s this waiting that gets on my nerves.” Then, turning to the others, he added, “Meet your boss, men.”

Flint was received enthusiastically. All the gang were eager to get their new job under way and the arrival of the boss meant time for action.

Leading his companion into the center of the group, Flint said, “Men, I want all of you to meet an old pal of mine—Jesse Turk. He’s going to be in on this caper with us.”

“That’s okay by me,” Hank said approvingly. “There’s gonna be enough dough for everybody.”

“Right!” Flint added. “This job is a lead-pipe cinch. We had a little trouble getting rid of those Hardys. And then that fool fossil hunter.”

“What happened to him?” Hank asked.

“He and the fat kid with him are tied up and hidden away in a cave—without food and water.”

Involuntarily, the Hardys winced at the reference to their friends’ plight. Joe, in sudden anger, started to scramble to his knees, but Frank laid a firm hand on his arm.

“Take it easy, Joe. We can help Cap and Chet more by learning all we can here.”

Though Frank had restrained him quickly, Joe’s sudden movement had been heard. A tall, hard-bitten member of the gang sprang to his feet.

“Boss, what was that over there? I swear I heard something move.”

There was an ominous silence as the others listened, too. The wind had died down and not a leaf stirred. Suddenly the still night rang with a rasping laugh. It came from Turk, and his harsh amusement echoed through the woods. The rest stared at him.

“Flint, I thought you said you had men here!” he said bitingly. “These guys are nothing but a bunch of scared rabbits!”

There was an immediate and angry muttering among the group of outlaws. Before it could develop into a fight, Flint stepped forward.

“All right, knock it off,” he ordered briskly. “You guys have nothing to worry about. Those snooping Hardy kids have frozen to death in a refrigerator car, and their old man is next.”

“You got him too?” Hank smirked.

“No, but we heard where he is. This job’ll be a cinch now.”

His authoritative demeanor having eased the tension, Flint drew Turk and Hank aside in a private conversation, while the others began talking of the robbery plans. Taking advantage of the general chatter, Frank nudged Joe.

“Back out of here,” he proposed in a whisper.

Joe nodded and began inching his way backward through the brush. They had to get away—had to get to Spur Gulch, find their father, and warn him.

They had moved about half the distance to the edge of the grove when they heard Flint giving more orders.

“Enough talk, men! Time to get moving. We’ve got a job to do before we can pull the holdup.”

To the boys’ horror, the men picked up flashlights and began to tramp through the trees right in their direction.

“They’ll spot us this time,” Joe groaned. “How are we going to hide from all of them?”

Frank’s quick mind hit upon an idea. “Hurry! Up a tree!”

Rapidly, before the beams of the flashlights could reach them, he and Joe picked out two sturdy pine trees with low-hanging branches and shinned up into their thick foliage.

Seconds later the men pushed past beneath them and moved out of earshot.

“That was close,” Joe muttered as they climbed down. “Now what?”

“It’s better this way,” Frank told him. “Now we can trail them.”

The boys followed the gang, keeping well concealed. It was hard going without lights in the dark woods, and their pace was slow compared to the men’s.

Finally they saw the gang break out of the woods near the summit of the hill on which the boys had jumped off the freight car. Beyond, the roadbed curved and descended in a long horseshoe.

“Let’s go over there and watch,” Frank said, pointing to a cluster of tall bushes down the tracks from where the men had emerged.

Halfway around the curve of the tracks, the outlaws disappeared into the trees again. A moment later, when Joe was about to start after them, they reappeared, their flashlights bobbing as if they were carrying something.

“What have they got there?” Joe whispered.

“Looks to me like old railroad ties,” Frank answered. “But what on earth—?”

His unfinished query was answered immediately as the men heaved the great chunks of wood onto the tracks and set them afire.

A bright flame licked at the tinder-dry wood, and in no time it had grown into a crackling blaze.

“Frank, we must warn the engineer!” Joe cried.

The boys started in the direction the freight would be coming.

But at that moment Flint stepped into their path and shouted:

“It’s burning fine, men. Here comes that rattler. To your jobs!”

Splitting into small groups, his henchmen disappeared into the night. Flint hurried off down the tracks toward the freight.

“Now’s our chance,” Joe said. “We may be caught, but we ought to make a try.”

“We’ll certainly be caught if we go that way,” Frank objected. “Let’s see if we can push those burning logs away so the train won’t have to stop.”

CHAPTER XV

The Wreck

DASHING uphill as fast as their legs would carry them, the Hardys sped toward the pile of burning ties. Reaching the spot, they found the center a roaring blaze, the heat intense.

Nevertheless, the two boys tugged frantically at the end of one of the heavy ties. At first it would not budge, and the Hardys’ faces were scorched before they managed to drag the heavy piece of wood away from the pyre. Its removal caused the others to collapse, sending sparks in every direction.

“It’s no use!” Frank panted, beating off the sparks that singed his shirt. “We couldn’t clear this away in time.”

Their faces and arms smarting, and their eyes bloodshot, they were forced to move back.

“We’ll have to try the other plan,” Joe urged. “Come on!”

Frank was dubious of its success, but he fol lowed Joe. They hurried forward, jumping from tie to tie.

“I hope none of that gang’s watching,” Frank said. “If they see us, it’s curtains.”

Aided by the downgrade, the boys put a quarter mile between them and the fire before they saw the bright beam of the freight train’s headlight. As the long train bore down on them with a roar, the Hardys took a determined stance in the middle of the track, waving their arms furiously. A second later the hoarse, warning honk of the Diesel’s horn split the night with staccato blasts.

Still the boys held their position. The Diesel’s air brakes suddenly were jammed on with a shriek, and the heavy freight ground to a stop. As the Hardys rushed toward the locomotive, the engineer leaned from the window.

“Are you kids crazy?” he bellowed. “You could have been killed! What’s the idea?”

“There’s danger ahead!” Joe blurted.

“Train robbers!” Frank added.

In a space of a few seconds, the Hardys impressed upon the engineer the necessity for speedy action. Turning, the man seized the induction telephone to the caboose, and frantically tried again and again to contact the men there.

“This is dead!” he cried. “There’s no answer!”

Just then, from the other side of the big locomotive, came a rough command:

“Drop that phone and put up your hands!”

The engineer’s eyes widened in panic. Letting the instrument fall to the floor, he raised his hands, at the same time trying to nod to the boys to warn them.

There was nothing for Frank and Joe to do but to slip quietly into the brush along the tracks. From this cover, they peered up into the cab.

Two masked men were climbing into the compartment from the other side of the train, holding at gunpoint both the engineer and his fireman. Up the track, other members of the gang were using long hooks to remove the smoldering, red-hot ties.

“If we cut through the woods, we can warn the crew in the caboose ourselves!” Frank urged.

Stumbling blindly through the darkness on the inside of the horseshoe curve, the boys made their way toward the end of the long freight. They tripped over fallen logs, and whiplike branches cut their faces.

“There are the lights of the caboose,” Frank gasped. “Keep going!”

Guided by the lights, they broke out of the woods and clambered up a short slope. Joe grabbed for the railing and scrambled up the iron steps. Frank was right behind him. They had barely reached the platform on the tail end of the car when the train gave a lurch.

“We’re moving!” Joe yelled.

The next instant a voice, which was strangely familiar, shouted: “Jump!”

The command carried so much authority that the boys obeyed instinctively. Leaping backward, they somersaulted down the cinder-packed embankment. Unhurt, they sprang quickly to their feet.

“The end of the train has broken loose!” Joe shouted.

The caboose and three big flatcars adjoining it had cut free and were rolling downgrade. The rest of the freight had started pulling ahead.

While the front section was slowly picking up speed, the four end cars were gathering momentum every second as they took the downhill curve.

“They’ll derail!” Frank shouted. “The whole crew in the caboose will be killed!”

Hardly were the words off his lips when there was the sound of crunching steel, accompanied by flying sparks as the cars leaped the tracks.

With a tremendous roar, the cars toppled over the embankment. Their cargo slid off the toppling flatcars, scattering along the wooded right-of-way.

Several minutes passed before the din made by the falling pipes quieted.

The Hardys started running toward the wrecked caboose, fearful of what they would find.

“We might have been on that!” Joe said.

“Who yelled ‘Jump’?” Frank asked.

“Say, I’d forgotten about that,” Joe answered.

“Sh-h-h!”

The whispered warning came from behind them. Wheeling about, the boys saw a dim figure half hidden under a bush. A tall, strongly built man beckoned to them.

“Dad!” Frank and Joe exclaimed in unison.

There was no time now to exchange stories. The three raced to the site of the wreck, climbing around scattered pipes and splintered boxes.

“There’s the caboose!” Joe called. “The door has been ripped off!”

Quickly all three pushed through the debris to the train crew’s headquarters. Pulling themselves up its splintered sides, they peered down into the twisted, torn wreckage.

“There isn’t anyone in it!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed. “Thank goodness you boys heard me and jumped.”

“But where’s the crew?” Joe asked. “The engineer was trying to get someone on the induction phone in his cab.”

“They probably jumped out to see what was happening when you boys flagged the train,” Mr. Hardy deduced. “They may have been coming up along the embankment when the last four cars started rolling.”

“In that case, the crew should be around here somewhere,” Frank said.

“Yes, but I doubt very much if they would be a match for such a large gang as this one. Now the question is, Did those cars break loose, or did someone uncouple them?”

“They were wrecked on purpose,” Frank answered, and told his father all that had happened since the shooting down of the radio aerial balloon; how they had overheard that Flint was boss of the gang; how Cap and Chet were prisoners in a cave; and all because the ex-convicts wanted to drill for oil illegally on Mrs. Sanderson’s land.

“We’ll rescue Chet and Cap as soon as we can,” Mr. Hardy decided. “They’ll have to hold out awhile. First we must do something about this gang here, and it’s going to be tough without help.”

“Are you alone, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Sam Radley is out here working with me, but all our tips pointed to Spur Gulch as the trouble spot. He was bringing a posse to meet me there. But now that you’ve told me about the oil drilling, I can see why Flint picked this place. Those three cars contain the materials they need. There’s a rough woods road near here over which they can drag the stuff.”

“Dad, how come you’re in this spot alone?” asked Frank.

“Jack Wayne flew me in. The only level spot on the mountain was about half a mile from here. I planned to walk to Spur Gulch along the tracks.

“On the way, I came almost face to face with some of this gang, and couldn’t get past them. What I have been doing is taking pictures with our infrared camera of any of these thugs I could get close to. We’ll have quite a record of—”

A shot rang out, then another. A moment later two uniformed trainmen came racing in their direction, followed by two of the robbers. Mr. Hardy, whipping out his own revolver, was about to go to the assistance of the trainmen when six more armed outlaws came into view.

“We’re outnumbered,” the detective said in disgust. “Our only chance to capture that gang now is by a trick.”

The Hardys hugged the trees to keep from being seen, but even from his hiding place, the detective kept clicking his camera.

“This is all good evidence,” he whispered grimly. “When we get this mob into court, the jury won’t take long to convict every one of them.”

Frank and Joe had no doubt of their father’s ability to outwit the gang eventually, but at this moment the situation looked desperate. Besides, all three of them were in danger of being captured.

“Keep under cover,” the detective warned as Joe stepped out. “This is no time to be discovered.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when their hiding place became flooded with light!

CHAPTER XVI

The Rough Ride

SIX bright beams of light swept the Hardys’ hiding place from the opposite side of the tracks. As they drew closer, they could make out two low-slung open trucks, each with a powerful spotlight, in addition to glaring headlights.

“Great crow!” Joe exclaimed. “Where did they come from?”

“Over the abandoned logging road,” his father replied. “More of Flint’s smart organization work. Those trucks can carry the pipes and oil-well equipment out of here easily.”

“Can’t we do something?” Frank asked desperately as the trucks lurched across the rails and halted alongside the wrecked cars.

“I think so,” his father said coolly. “I’m going to trick Flint and try to capture him.”

The detective turned to his sons. “You boys take note of what’s going on here. Wait until the next train passes through. That’ll be at nine A.M. The robbers will have left long before that. Stop the train and ride to Red Butte. I’ll meet you there at noon.”

The detective pulled out a small bottle. “Concentrated food tablets,” he said, handing them to Frank. “You may need them.”

After saying good-by to his sons, Mr. Hardy crawled through the bushes until he was in heavy cover. Then he stood up cautiously. Returning to the tracks, he walked upgrade a considerable distance from the scene of the robbery.

When the detective was sure he could not be seen by the men loading the boxes and pipes onto the trucks, he crossed the tracks.

Easing back to the scene slowly, he spotted two figures who stood on a rise, silhouetted against the night sky. Mr. Hardy moved within hearing distance.

“Worked like a charm, Turk,” one of the men said. “I uncoupled the last four cars and clamped the air brake on the forward section, so the rest of the train could move ahead as soon as Pete got the burned ties off the tracks.”

“Flint, you’re a brain. We ought to have this load out of here within an hour.”

With a grim smile on his lips, Mr. Hardy stepped into the open.

“Flint!” he shouted.

The two train robbers whirled around. The shutter of the detective’s camera clicked twice. Turk beamed his flashlight as Mr. Hardy ducked.

Flint cursed, whipped a pistol from his shoulder holster, and fired a clip of bullets at the spot where the detective had stood a second before.

“It’s Fenton Hardy!” Flint roared. “Turk, you supervise the men. Lend me your light. I’m going to get this dick if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

As soon as the detective saw Flint coming after him, he drew back into the wooded area and headed for Jack Wayne’s plane. Mr. Hardy deliberately let Flint catch an occasional glimpse of him, leading the gangleader farther away from his men.

Flint’s rage increased as the detective tormented him with a dangerous game of cops and robbers. Half an hour later Mr. Hardy emerged from the woods into a clearing, in the center of which stood Jack Wayne’s plane. Running toward it, the detective shouted:

“Jack! Flint’s right behind me. Cover me while I give him a whiff of the gas gun!”

As a face appeared in the pilot’s window, the detective stopped short. Instead of Jack Wayne’s familiar features, he saw in the moonlight a thin face with a large sharp nose and eyes like black marbles. An unknown enemy was facing him and Flint was only a few steps behind!

Meanwhile, the detective’s sons had continued to watch the well-planned and executed theft of the oil-well drilling equipment. The freight’s conductor and brakemen were being kept covered.

In an hour the two trucks were loaded and the cargoes concealed with heavy tarpaulins. Two men climbed into each cab and the others faded into the woods along with their prisoners.

“So long!” one driver called. “See you at Wildcat Swamp after we deliver this stuff to Willie and Nick Snide.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. No doubt the man meant Willie the Penman. But who was Snide?

The Hardys’ nerves tingled. “Frank, are we going to stand here and do nothing?” Joe cried.

“No sir. Come on!” Frank muttered. “We’ll ride back to Wildcat Swamp and free Cap and Chet.”

“How about meeting Dad?”

“We’ll get there—maybe just a bit late.”

As the trucks pulled away, the boys ran across the track. Racing down the other side, they found the narrow, overgrown logging road, then began following the second truck’s taillights.

Fortunately the loaded vehicles were forced to crawl along the twisting logging road. Jogging alongside, Joe was able to untie a corner of the tarpaulin and boost himself aboard the load of loose steel pipes. He pulled Frank up after him, and the boys retied the canvas over them. As the truck rolled along through the night, Frank whispered:

“From the feel of the grades and turns, we’re still on the logging road.”

“It’s rough going,” Joe replied. “I wish they’d picked a smoother route.”

With each big lurch and bump, the pipes clanged and slithered into new positions. The boys fought to keep their balance and avoid being pinched between portions of the cargo.

After what seemed hours, the truck groaned to a stop. Another vehicle approached at high speed and roared past, the sound of its whining tires fading in the distance.

“We must have reached the main highway,” Frank deduced.

A moment later the truck edged onto a smooth pavement.

“Thank goodness for this,” Joe whispered.

The driver shifted into high gear, and the vehicle rumbled along smoothly. Despite the boys’ discomfort, the harrowing experiences of the day and night were making them drowsy. After what seemed to be hours, Joe awoke with a start. He reached out and shook his brother’s arm.

“Frank! Wake up! We’ve stopped!”

Joe found a tiny hole in the canvas and peeked through it.

“We’re at a diner,” he whispered. “The driver and his helper are going to the door. The other truck is parked ahead of us.”

Frank drew his penknife and cut a small peep-hole. “They’re probably stopping for a cup of coffee,” he whispered. “When they get inside, let’s go in the back way and phone the police.

“Get back! They’re coming out!”

The driver and his helper, who was fairly young, approached the truck, accompanied by a third man. As they headed toward the back of the vehicle, the boys eased forward and slid between the pipes and some boxes, just as the tarpaulin was lifted, letting in a slit of light.

“We got it, all right,” said a voice the boys recognized as that of the driver. “The whole works.”

“What’s up there in front?” the man from the diner asked.

The boys held their breath.

“Boxes of drill bits and fittings.”

From the men’s conversation, it became evident that the newcomer owned the diner. As the cover was tied down again, he said:

“I got a report from Flint already.”

“So quick? What’d he say?”

“Buzzed me on his pocket radio. He’ll be along soon. Said to tell you that he and Fliegel captured Fenton Hardy and his pilot.”

The words came like an electric shock to the boys. Flint had turned the tables and captured their father!

“Man, that was fast work!” the driver said with a hoarse laugh. “Flint just told us back at the railroad he had a plan for getting Hardy.”

“Well, he did it. Must’ve done a real job on him, too. Flint said the dick needs a doctor, but he ain’t getting one! You get started. I’ll take a look at the other truck.”

Frank and Joe were frantic with worry. Their father was injured and needed help, and here they were, powerless to aid him.

As the truck started along the highway again, Joe said, “Frank, we’d better get off the first chance we have. We’ll find a ranch house and call the police. We’ve got to find Dad!”

“You’re right.”

The boys watched through the holes in the canvas. But they passed no ranch houses and the truck sped through the night at high speed. The boys heard the driver’s helper say to his companion:

“You know, I don’t trust that flat-nosed Snide. I think he’d double-cross the lot of us in a minute, if he had the chance.”

Joe’s elbow dug into Frank’s side. Flat-nosed! One of the phony rangers had a flat nose!

“But you gotta remember, Charlie,” the driver was saying, “Snide’s a good oilman. He’ll be useful to have around.”

There was a snort from his companion.

“I don’t care—I’d rather do without him. He’s too ready to go to extremes. He woulda killed one of those kids without battin’ an eye, and I just can’t go that far.”

“Aw, can it! Anybody gets in our way deserves what he gets.”

There was a growl of disagreement from the younger man, but apparently he could not see much sense in continuing the argument. The men lapsed into silence.

“That young helper doesn’t sound like such a bad sort,” Frank whispered to Joe. “I wonder how he got mixed up with a gang like this.”

They felt the truck slow down and turn off the smooth highway onto a bad road. The wheels alternately crunched over loose stone and slid through soft sand.

It was perilous going. The Hardys were forced to move from behind the crates and crouch on top of the load. As the truck hit a bad bump, the younger man shouted:

“Hey, watch it! This ain’t no superhighway!”

“Calm down,” the driver said irritably. “It’s only ten miles to the swamp, Charlie.”

“Just the same,” Charlie said, “there ain’t no reason to set a record. We passed the other truck an hour ago.”

The truck lurched over, its right wheels slipping sideways. “Watch that ditch!”

“Aw, shut up! You been a pain in the neck ever since we started this job.”

“I don’t like what’s goin’ on. If—”

His words were cut off as the big vehicle skidded. The load shifted sharply, sending an avalanche of pipe toward Frank and Joel

CHAPTER XVII

A Friendly Outlaw

“LOOK out, Frank!” The warning shout slipped from Joe involuntarily.

Reaching high, the boys grabbed the cross braces, and pulled themselves up just as the heavy sections of pipe crashed across the floor of the truck.

The big vehicle skidded to the side of the road, shuddering as it hit the soft shoulder, and stalled.

“Now you’ve done it,” they heard the helper berate the driver. “If we get stuck here, the boss’ll—”

“Shut up!” the angry driver commanded. “Didn’t you hear that yell? Somebody’s in the back of this truck!”

“Aw, you’re loco.”

“Listen, bud, I heard somethin’, and I’m checkin’ up.”

With a mad scramble Frank and Joe slid from under the tarpaulin and landed in the road. Quietly they ducked underneath the truck’s chassis, just as the husky driver swaggered down from the cab.

He walked along the side of the truck to the rear, the boys watching his feet every step of the way. Leaning over the tailboard, he fumbled with the canvas tarpaulin. Joe looked at the man’s legs, so near his own hidden shoulder.

“Too good to miss!” he thought.

Reaching out his arms, he grabbed the back of the driver’s legs and yanked them forward. There was a startled umph as the fellow went crashing to the road. His gun went one way and his flashlight another. Before he could yell to his helper, the two boys were upon him. Joe sent his fist swinging hard to the man’s jaw, and he collapsed without a sound.

Quickly the boys dragged his inert form under the truck. They were not a second too soon.

“Well, did you find anythin’?” Charlie called as he climbed out of the cab.

Receiving no answer, he stalked to the rear of the vehicle to investigate. Frank set himself to duplicate his brother’s action. His shoulder hit the man just below the knees, and before Charlie knew what was happening to him, Joe dealt him a knockout blow.

“What are we going to do with them?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know yet, but we’ll have to do something fast. Look!”

Down the road, still a good distance away, two bouncing pinpoints of light became visible. The other truck was catching up with them!

“Come on. We’ll drag these fellows into the tall grass there.” Frank indicated the high growth on the other side of the road, and quickly they tugged the two unconscious men out of sight.

“We’d better run,” Joe advised.

Frank had another plan. “We don’t want them to stop. Let’s put on their caps and pull ’em down. They’ll hide our faces a little, and maybe we can get by.”

“All right. You get in the cab. I’ll pretend I’m tying this canvas, and you wave them on from the window,” Joe suggested.

By this time the beams of the other truck’s headlights were almost upon them. Frank climbed as casually as he could into the cab and sat there with his left hand giving the passing signal. Joe fussed with the canvas on the side of the truck opposite to where the other vehicle would pass.

Those few seconds seemed an eternity to the boys as the second truck rolled up to them, but fortunately it did not slow down. There was a shouted ridicule about “lazy coyotes,” but the driver kept his foot pressed down on the accelerator.

The driver went crashing to the road

The scheme had worked!

“We’d better get back to those two we hid and tie them before they wake up,” Frank said, leaping from the cab.

Using the rope with which the canvas had been tied, they first secured the driver’s wrists and ankles. Just as he was coming to, they managed to gag him firmly.

“We’d better drag him back where there’s no possible chance of his rolling into the road and having one of the gang find him,” Frank proposed.

The driver was dragged off and wedged into a cluster of trees.

“How about Charlie?” Joe asked. “I’ll get more rope.”

“Wait!” Frank said. “I’ve been thinking about Charlie. He sounded as if he’s fed up with the gang. Do you suppose we could persuade him—?”

The young man was just beginning to show signs of regaining consciousness when the boys returned to him. Frank removed Charlie’s pistol a split second before he sat up and shook his head.

“What happened?” he groaned.

When his head had cleared, the boys revealed their identity.

“But I thought you were—”

“Frozen to death in that refrigerator car?” Joe finished grimly. “No, your boss just wasn’t smart enough.”

“I’m glad of that!” Charlie growled. “I told those hombres they were goin’ too far.”

“Listen, Charlie,” Frank began earnestly, “you don’t seem to be a bad sort. Why don’t you quit this gang right now?”

“You could go straight, and give us a hand in the bargain,” Joe urged.

“How?” Charlie asked suspiciously.

“If you help us turn the tables on those thieves, we’ll do everything we can to clear you with the police.”

“But if you stick with them,” Frank said, “the way things are going, they’re bound to wind up in prison for life.”

Charlie was silent, looking first at the Hardys and then off into the distance, as he thought the proposition over.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “Now’s my chance. Maybe you won’t believe me, but I just hooked up with Flint. Lure of easy money. I ain’t done anythin’ yet to get me a sentence.” He paused a few seconds. “I got two kid brothers your age. If I get caught now—well, I guess I’ll have to trust you about helpin’ me out. But first, what can I do?”

Elated over this unexpected source of assistance, the boys helped Charlie to his feet and discussed the situation.

“Somebody’s got to find out about our dad,” Frank said. “Flint radioed that fellow back at the diner that Dad needed a doctor. He must be hurt! Where’s Flint?”

“He’s goin’ to the diner,” Charlie answered. “We’re all supposed to meet there later.”

“How about you going back there and finding out about my father?” Frank asked. “Then you can notify the police.”

“And the driver? Can you take care of him?” Joe asked.

“I’ll send somebody out to bring him in,” Charlie promised. “Don’t worry. You can count on me. I don’t want to end up in the chair!”

It was decided that the boys would drive on to the swamp, while Charlie would walk to the main highway and hitch a ride back to the diner. As proof of the boys’ confidence in him, Frank gave the man his gun.

Charlie set off down the rough trail and the boys climbed into the cab of the truck.

“How close do you think we ought to get to that gang?” Joe asked.

“Not too close. We’ll sneak up on foot and find out where they’re taking this equipment.”

“Then we’ll head for the cave to help Cap and Chet,” Joe added as the truck bumped and jounced along.

After that, the boys rode in silence until they saw lights ahead. Frank slowed the truck to a crawl.

“They’re unloading the stuff,” he said. “I would guess they are at the top of the slope above Wildcat Swamp, just opposite where we were digging.”

Several men were busy carrying lengths of pipe and heavy boxes which they were piling behind some bushes. Fortunately no one turned around when Frank braked to a complete stop.

“Now’s our chance to get away!” Joe urged. They quickly climbed out and hurried into the shadows.

By this time streaks of gray were showing in the eastern sky. With the breaking dawn to help them, the boys picked their way toward the swamp. Knowing that the thieves would be camping somewhere near it, they gave the area a wide berth as they made their way toward the sloping bank where they had been digging.

They were skirting the swamp when Joe suddenly stopped to listen. In the distance there was a low hum and rumble.

“The trucks, Frank! They must have finished unloading. They’re leaving.”

“I hope Charlie gets to the diner before they do. That gang’s surely discovered by this time that he and the driver are missing. They’re probably searching for them right now.”

The boys pushed on around the swamp, finally completing a tortuous half circle that brought them to the bottom of the sandy slope in which the camel fossil was buried.

“Say,” said Joe as he reached the entrance to the cave, “what have they done to this place? It’s choked with sand and rocks!”

“The gang must have done it to hide the entrance from strangers,” Frank replied. “I wonder if the other entrance—”

They rushed around to the other end of the slope. The entrance there had been blocked in exactly the same way.

“This is worse,” Joe announced. “I think the other entrance will be easier to negotiate.”

They returned to it, scrambling over the pile of sand and gravel to reach the cave opening. Before entering, Frank played the strong beam of his flashlight as far into the cave as it would carry.

“Cap! Chet!” Joe called.

There was no answer.

“Come on, Frank!”

After a breath-taking slide, they landed in the mouth of the deep cavern, and flashed their lights around. There was no sign of Cap and Chet.

Dismayed and filled with apprehension, Frank began a search of the inner area. “There may be a deeper section to this cave than we thought.”

Seconds later Joe heard his cry of joy. “They’re here!”

Lying in a crevice beneath the far wall, bound and gagged, were their friends. In no time, the Hardys had Cap and Chet out in the central portion of the cave.

“I’ll get the gags off,” Joe said excitedly. “You untie their hands.”

With his pocketknife he sliced the tight kerchiefs with which the captives had been gagged. Even when the gags were removed, Cap and Chet could barely whisper. They were very weak, saying they had had no food since being captured.

After all their bonds were removed, the two found that because of their long inactivity, they could not stand up. Frank and Joe massaged their numbed arms and legs to restore circulation, and in a little while the released prisoners were able to hobble painfully.

“Eat some of these food tablets,” Frank said. “They’ll help until we can get some solid food.”

A few minutes later Cap and Chet were able to give a halting, whispered account of their capture by the phony rangers.

The Hardys burned with anger when they were told that the outlaws had come back a second time to gag their captives and bind them even more securely.

“It was then,” Cap continued with parched lips, “that they tried to seal off the entrances to the cave. They said nobody, not even the Hardys, would see us alive again.”

“I’d like to get my hand on that Willie just once more,” Chet muttered.

“Easy does it,” Joe advised. “Come on now. We have to get out of here.”

It took a long time for Frank and Joe to get their friends out of the sand-choked passageway, but eventually all four stood on the ledge at the slope. Cap and Chet, accustomed for so long to the darkness of the cave, were almost blinded by the early-morning light.

“Listen, Frank,” said Joe, “they’re in no condition to walk. I’ll get their horses, while you stay here with them.”

Cap laid a hand on Frank’s arm.

“No use!” he said in a discouraged, tired voice.

“The men took our horses. We’re stranded!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Trapped!

FRANK shot a startled glance at Joe. The Hardys knew the seriousness of the situation and Cap sensed it too.

“You boys go ahead to Red Butte,” he told them. “Chet and I will take it easy and get there when we can.”

“But the horses,” Chet spoke up. “You can’t go far in this country without horses.”

“Our pack mule,” Joe cried. “He was well hidden. If the thieves didn’t take him, Frank and I will ride to Red Butte and send horses back.”

“Our nearest point to contact the law,” Cap suggested, “is Sheriff Paul.”

“We never did find out what happened at his home,” Frank reminded his brother. “Suppose we see if he’s returned. On their way back to Red Butte, Cap and Chet can stop at the Sanderson ranch to see if everything is all right there.”

Leaving Cap and Chet, the Hardys made for the campsite to look for the pack animal. It was grazing in a little natural corral. The boys threw a blanket across the mule’s back and mounted.

For a moment the mule stood still; then, at a signal from Frank’s heel, it plodded up the slope. Reaching the trail, the animal ignored a signal to turn right and doggedly trudged toward Wildcat Swamp. No amount of coaxing could change its mind.

“Now what are we going to do?” Joe asked impatiently.

“It’s just possible,” Frank reflected, “that our mule has been used by someone else and is taking the route he’s become accustomed to. He may lead us to a new clue.”

The boys rode along without attempting to guide the animal. It headed straight for the defile, went through it, and stopped just above the spot where Cap and the boys had been digging.

“Well, what do you make of this?” Joe asked, perplexed.

Frank jumped off and started down the slope, waving to Joe to follow.

“Somebody else has been digging here—they even put up a sign!” he cried.

“ ‘Danger,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Explosives buried. Keep out.’ ”

“I wonder if that’s a trick to scare people away from here,” Joe pondered.

“We’d better not stop to find out,” Frank replied. “But I think we should warn Chet and Cap in case it’s true.”

This time the mule willingly carried the boys in the opposite direction. Reaching camp, he turned in.

“Somebody sure has been using this mule recently,” Frank said. “I wonder if it was to carry dynamite.”

“Sure looks like it—if the sign means anything,” Joe answered.

At that moment Cap and Chet wearily arrived at the camp.

“What’s up now? I see you found the mule, but why did you come back?” Chet asked.

Quickly the Hardys explained and urged their friends to stay away from the pit.

When Cap agreed, Frank and Joe started off again. Reaching the trail, their mule once more turned left.

“Oh, no, not again,” Joe cried, trying his best to guide the animal to the right.

“Now what?” Frank pondered. “It’s a long walk to Sheriff Paul’s.”

Joe broke a leafy twig from a sapling and remounted. “Frank, you walk ahead the way we want to go. I’ll see what I can do from here.”

His brother took the lead rope and started. The mule walked four steps, then stopped. Joe tickled its ear with the twig. As the mule’s attention was distracted, Frank coaxed it a few feet farther.

The boys continued this maneuver until the animal seemed to lose interest in going back. There was no more trouble and Frank climbed up behind his brother.

Meanwhile, Cap and Chet were at a loss. Without horses they certainly would not be able to go far.

Sitting before their tent, Cap’s far-roving eye spotted a movement on the hillside.

“What are you looking at?” Chet asked.

“I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to work up a hunch,” Cap said. “Come with me.”

As they scrambled down the incline, Cap let out a cry. “I was right! Our horses!”

The two mounts were tethered in a grove of pine trees.

“So this is where those phony rangers hid them!” Chet exclaimed.

“Now we can do a little traveling of our own!” Cap cheered. “Let’s get started for the Sanderson ranch.”

Stiffly they swung into the saddles, and a minute later were loping along the trail.

While all this was happening, Frank and Joe were still swaying from side to side on the back of the mule. Without a horse to follow, the mule ambled along at a pace of his own choosing.

After three hours of stumbling over sand-covered rocks and sliding along bare shale, the mule brought the boys in sight of the sheriff’s ranch.

“I hope somebody’s here,” Joe said, “to give me a tall glass of water.”

Dismounting, the boys tied the mule behind the barn and went to the door of the ranch house.

“Hello!” they called. No answer.

“Looks exactly as it was before,” Frank said, pushing the door open.

Seeing their note lying on the table, the boys went through to the kitchen. The unwashed dishes still rested in the sink and the basket of clothes remained untouched.

“It’s obvious that Mrs. Paul hasn’t been back here,” Joe said. “Shall we start for Red Butte?”

“Yes, but through open country. I don’t want to be trapped again.”

As the two boys crossed the living room, Joe noticed something strange. “Say, the radiotelephone’s gone,” he said.

“That means somebody has been here since we left,” Frank stated.

Before the Hardys could ponder the riddle further, a distant clatter of hoofs caused them to glance out the window. Three riders in green uniforms were galloping up to the house.

“The fake rangers!” Frank warned. “We’d better get out of here.”

The boys hurried through the kitchen, closing the back door quietly behind them, then crossed the yard rapidly and hid inside the stone-and-rail corral attached to the barn.

No sooner had they concealed themselves than the men galloped up and dismounted. Through a crack in the corral fence, the boys could see that one of the men was short, wiry, beady-eyed Willie the Penman! The flat-nosed, fierce-looking man with the craggy brows obviously was Snide.

Willie gave a laugh of satisfaction. “This is a snap with the sheriff out of the way, Snide,” he said. “He sure bit on that ‘missing rangers’ gag.”

“Willie,” Snide said, “I have to hand it to you. The sheriff walked right into that one. Nobody’d ever look for him in the tower.”

Nudging his brother, Joe whispered, “I wonder where this tower is they’re talking about.”

Willie’s whining voice continued. “We can’t stick around here long. I’ll get those seals I’ll need to make the papers look legal. Somebody might—in fact, somebody is coming. It’s that Sanderson kid. Quick! Take off those uniforms. Pretend you’re waiting for the sheriff. I’ll hide in the barn.”

Frank and Joe watched Willie’s companions strip off the rangers’ uniforms, revealing cowboy outfits underneath. Willie carried the discarded clothes through the open barn door.

Harry rode up to the men, who greeted him in a friendly manner.

“I’m looking for the sheriff,” the boy said. “I need his help.”

“We’re waiting for Paul ourselves,” Snide answered. “What’s your trouble?”

Frank and Joe clenched their fists, hoping the boy would say no more. But Harry continued earnestly:

“Well, a couple of days ago two boys promised me they’d help Mom find a way to keep her land. They had a campsite near Devil’s Swamp and have disappeared. I want Sheriff Paul to help me find them.”

“No use,” Snide said. “Those boys named Frank and Joe told me they were going back to their home in a place called Bayport. You might as well go home yourself. Just wasting your time here.”

Harry looked surprised when he heard the Hardys mentioned, but still seemed undecided. “I’ve got to see the sheriff,” he insisted.

“I’ll give him your message, kid.”

“Well, okay.” The boy wheeled his horse and rode slowly past the corral on his way out.

“Now’s my chance,” Joe whispered to Frank.

Crouching low and running as quietly as possible he came to the far corner just as Harry did and peered through the bars.

“Pretend you don’t see me, Harry,” he said in a loud whisper. The boy stiffened. “This is Joe Hardy. Get off your horse and act as if you’re tightening the cinch.”

Without looking toward Joe’s hiding place, the boy dismounted and began adjusting his saddle.

“You’ve got to get to Red Butte for help,” Joe continued. “These men are in with the gang that’s after your land! They’re holding Sheriff Paul in a tower. Hurry!”

Harry played his part well. He nodded slightly, mounted his horse, and trotted away. Leaving the ranch, he spurred the animal into a gallop. Harry rode at breakneck speed for a mile, then slowed down to rest his horse.

About to resume his fast pace, Harry saw two riders approaching. They guided their horses on either side of him and one man grabbed his reins.

“Whoa, there, kid!” the larger of the two husky riders said. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

“To town,” Harry blurted out. “There’s a gang of crooks trying to steal Mom’s land and they’re holding Sheriff Paul a prisoner!”

“How’d you find all this out?” the other man asked.

“Joe Hardy told me. He and his brother Frank are hiding at the ranch right now. You’ve got to help us!”

“Oh, we’ll give you a hand, all right.” He turned to his big companion. “Give him both hands!”

The man seized Harry’s wrists and tied them behind his back. He lashed the boy around the waist to the pommel of his saddle and hobbled his horse with a length of rope. The animal would be able to move only a few inches with each stop.

Harry’s eyes were wide with fright. “What’s the idea? You must be—”

“That’s right, kid,” the big man said. “You talk too much to the wrong people.”

Leaving Harry helpless, the men then whipped their horses and galloped on toward the Paul ranch.

Back in the corral, Frank and Joe were still crouching behind the fence. Willie the Penman had gone into the ranch house, but the others remained outside.

There was the clatter of hoofbeats.

“Two men!” Joe whispered, peering between the bars at a pair of riders cantering toward the house. “They can’t be reinforcements sent by Harry. It’s too soon for that.”

When Willie and his henchmen recognized the newcomers, they stepped out to meet them. The men spoke in low tones that did not carry to the corral fence.

“This doesn’t look good!” Joe warned. “Look! They’re fanning out all over the place as if to cut off our escape.”

“Snide is coming this way!” Frank exclaimed, crouching lower.

Stalking cautiously around the corner of the fence where Joe had talked to Harry, Snide turned along its near side. As he reached the end, the boys quietly retreated toward the barn. A few yards more and they could make a run for it.

Suddenly there was a shout from behind them.

“There they are!”

Whirling, the boys found two big cowboys between them and the barn.

Snide ran toward them from the other side.

Frank and Joe were trapped!

CHAPTER XIX

To the Rescue

SNIDE, seeing the Hardys, twisted his mouth to one side and called:

“Come on, Willie!”

The wiry little figure of Willie the Penman rounded the corner, followed by a hulking cowboy.

Frank and Joe delivered a couple of stiff punches, but the odds were against them. The battle was over almost before it began.

Wiping the sweat from his face, Willie stood before Frank and Joe, held firmly in viselike grips by his companions.

“So you got out of the cooler, eh?” he whined. “Well, wise guys, you won’t outsmart us again!”

Turning to the other men, he ordered, “Tie ’em up—tight!”

Two men went to the barn and returned with lengths of bailing wire. Twisting it roughly around the boys’ wrists and ankles, they made certain that Frank and Joe could not move.

Willie said to Snide, “I’m ready to take off. Just be sure these kids don’t pull any fast ones.”

“Don’t worry,” Snide replied. “They’re going to stay put.”

“Okay. I’m late now. Mrs. Sanderson will be heartbroken if I don’t keep our little date.”

“Sure you got all the papers for her to sign, Willie?” Snide asked. “Now that we’re getting this close, we don’t want no slip-up with the law.”

“I’m no amateur,” Willie said, annoyance in his voice. “She’ll sign everything legal and proper. If she don’t, I’ll tell her about Harry!”

The boys looked at each other in mystified silence. What had Willie meant? Was Harry Sanderson in trouble? If so, that would mean he had not delivered their message for help.

Willie called for one of the horses and rode off in the direction of the Sanderson ranch.

The rest watched until he was out of sight, whereupon Snide turned to the Hardys.

He prodded Joe with a foot. “How’d you jerks get here, anyway?” he rasped.

Receiving no answer, he continued, “Oh, more heroic guys, eh, like your friends in the cave?”

He was interrupted by a sudden shout. “Hey, here’s how the bozos got here!”

One of the cowboys appeared from behind the barn, leading the mule. “Ain’t this the critter we snatched?” Snide asked. “We’ll use him to carry more dynamite,” he added. “Let’s move.”

“Where to?”

“We’ll hit the swamp and check up on the oil-rig stuff before we start drilling.”

Frank was thrown over the front of Snide’s horse, and Joe against the pommel of a cowboy’s mount. Doubled up in this uncomfortable manner, they were carried toward Wildcat Swamp.

By the time they came in view of the ridge overlooking the swamp, the boys were aching in every muscle.

“Keep these kids tied up,” Snide ordered, “and haul ’em down with us.”

The party descended from the narrow ledge toward the pit in which the fossils lay. There, still firmly in place, was the ominous sign: DANGER. EXPLOSIVES BURIED.

“One move out of you guys, and you’re dead pigeons,” Snide warned. “This place is loaded.”

Frank and Joe were dragged from the horses. They were made to sit down on the ground, with their backs against rock shafts. Then they were securely tied to the shafts.

In plain sight, across the swamp, sloped the heavily wooded mountain. Barely jutting above it, like a tiny cheesebox, was the old fire tower.

Frank and Joe shared the same flash of understanding. This must be the tower Willie had mentioned back at the sheriff’s ranch.

Twisting slightly, Joe tried to catch Frank’s eye. But the movement arrested Snide’s attention.

“Listen!” he growled. “I warned you two about moving around. Cut it out! We want you alive when your father gets here. Then we’ll take all three of you to the tower and—”

Boom!

The blast thundered between the hills that surrounded Wildcat Swamp, echoing over the valley. Snide’s flat nose purpled in growing anger.

“What idiot set off that dynamite ahead of time?” he roared. “I’ll break his fool neck.”

“Not that fool’s neck,” one of the cowboys said sardonically. “He probably blew himself to bits.”

“Yeah? Well, we’re lucky that mountain’s still there! What you cowpokes don’t know about explosives would fill a book!”

“Don’t get upset, Snide,” the cowboy said reassuringly. “There’s plenty more dynamite left.”

“I’ll check on that myself,” Snide said importantly. “And maybe we won’t put off the business of the tower any more, either. We can take care of the Hardys another way.”

The outlaws mounted their horses, and, riding down the slope toward the edge of the swamp, soon were out of sight.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. “If they stay away long enough, Cap and Chet may come here and rescue us,” Joe said.

“I sure hope so!” Frank said.

“Do you believe that stuff about explosives being buried here?” Joe queried.

“They sure didn’t seem to walk around very carefully,” Frank observed. “And even if there is dynamite buried here, I don’t believe it can be set off just by stepping on it. They were hoping to scare us into sitting still.”

“I guess you’re right—and that means we can try to get loose!”

Encouraged by this idea, they struggled hard with their bonds.

“Try rubbing the wire up and down on the rock,” Joe suggested. “Maybe it’ll snap.”

But this was a hopeless effort. Every movement they made only rubbed skin off their wrists. Time dragged on and nobody came.

Frank had lapsed into thoughtful silence. He began going over the entire mystery, step by step. When his mind conjured up the picture of the three phony rangers, dressed in their ill-fitting uniforms, he suddenly exclaimed:

“Joe, we have to get over to that tower, pronto!”

“Why?”

“I have a hunch,” Frank said excitedly. “From what Snide said, I figure three real rangers are imprisoned there—and Sheriff Paul, too!”

“I get it,” Joe said. “The men whose uniforms they stole.”

“Right,” Frank continued, “and after Willie got all the papers signed, the rangers were going to be released. But not now. I think we’ve forced their hand.”

“How?”

“We came along and found out what’s going on,” Frank reasoned. “Now those thieves will have to do away with every one of us.”

Cap and Chet, meanwhile, still sore and stiff after their captivity in the cave, were riding toward the Sanderson ranch house. Approaching it, Chet pointed to a horse tethered in front.

“That’s not Harry’s,” he said, reining in.

“Then we’d better find out who’s here before we barge in,” Cap decided.

“If we tie our horses among these trees,” Chet suggested, “we can slip up to the house from the other side of the barn and look in.”

It took several minutes for them to circle around and approach the place from its blind side. Peering from the shadow of the adjacent barn, neither Cap nor Chet could see anyone. Stealthily they tiptoed across the yard and crept to an open window.

Cap cautiously raised his head until his eyes were on a level with the sill. He peered into the Sanderson living room. Almost immediately he ducked, turned, and waved to Chet to take a look.

Chet’s hurried glance revealed Willie the Penman, seated at a table with Mrs. Sanderson. The forger was handing her a pen.

“You may as well sign this document,” Willie was saying, “and get it over with.”

“Oh, I wish my husband were still alive!” Mrs. Sanderson sobbed. “He’d know what to do.”

“Harry says it’s best,” came Willie’s high-pitched tones. “And he talked it over with those Hardy kids.”

Cap’s hand tightened on Chet’s shoulder. The science teacher pointed to the ranch-house door, standing ajar. Silently they crept to the entrance.

“Oh, all right, give me the pen. I’ll sign,” they heard the bewildered woman say resignedly.

“Now!” Cap commanded, and charged into the house with Chet behind him.

Like twin thunderbolts, they landed on Willie’s back. Surprised, the wily criminal tried desperately to pull his gun. But Chet knocked it across the room. Ten seconds later Willie was stretched out helpless on the floor.

“Don’t be frightened!” Cap told Harry’s terrified mother. “We’re friends of the Hardy boys,” and he introduced himself and Chet. “This forger,” he went on, “has been trying to bilk you out of your land.”

After Cap had explained the situation to Mrs. Sanderson, the woman burst into tears of relief.

“Have you seen Harry?” she asked.

Before Cap or Chet could answer, Willie suddenly spoke up. “I know where he is! In trouble! And so are Frank and Joe Hardy.”

“Where are they?” Cap demanded.

“Will you let me go if I tell you? Give me a half hour’s start, and I promise I won’t go back to the gang. And I’ll tell you how to save the three kids.”

Cap and Chet looked at each other, then at Mrs. Sanderson.

“Can we believe him?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t trust this man any farther than I can throw him!” Chet said. “He’d go right to the gang and warn them, and there’s no telling what they’d do to our friends.”

“He’s right,” Cap said to Mrs. Sanderson.

Just then there was the sound of hoofbeats outside. Hurrying to the window, the woman exclaimed, “It’s Mrs. Paul and two deputies!”

The sheriff’s wife said she was searching for her husband. “I’m afraid he’s lying hurt somewhere, so I asked Bill and Ted to help me find him.”

“Why don’t you stay with me?” Mrs. Sanderson suggested. “Bill and Ted can take this thief to Red Butte and lock him up.”

Cap, who did not put much stock in Willie’s dire assertion, nevertheless asked the deputies to find out if the Hardys had reached Red Butte. He and Chet would go back to the fossil pit in case Frank and Joe should return.

“And please look for Harry,” Mrs. Sanderson begged the deputies.

The lawmen nodded and left with their glowering prisoner. Chet asked Mrs. Sanderson if they might borrow some tools, and after getting them, he and Cap started for the fossil area.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe, sitting against the rocks to which they were bound, heard furtive footsteps in the defile above them.

“Somebody’s coming!” Joe warned.

Listening intently, they heard the clatter of a dislodged stone. Then, as a head came cautiously into view around the ledge, Frank and Joe shouted in relief.

“Harry Sanderson! Hurry up and untie us!”

While untwisting the Hardys’ wire bonds, Harry was told what had happened to them. Then he in turn related the story of his own capture.

“How’d you get loose?” Frank asked.

“Rolled off my horse and cut the ropes on a sharp rock. I figured it would be too late to get help for you boys. So I rode back to the Paul ranch. When I saw all the hoofprints headed this way, I was sure you were prisoners, so I came along.”

After the Hardys had told Harry the news about Willie, Joe pointed to the old fire tower.

“Our problem,” he said, “is to get to that place without horses. We think the sheriff and three rangers are being held up there.”

“It’s not as great a problem as you think,” Harry said. “I know a safe way through the swamp. Follow me.” He hid his horse in a thicket and set out on foot.

Harry’s route to the tower was surprisingly short. He seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of the bog, leading the Hardys along high spots and across a series of hummocks. Soon the three stood at the foot of the mountain and looked up.

It seemed like an impossible climb, but the boys started up the steep slope on hands and knees, Sharp rocks cut their boots, and saplings which they grabbed for support pulled out of the thin soil. Finally they clambered to the flat stretch of ground on which the fire tower was built.

The gray, rickety wooden structure, standing in the center of a clearing bounded by scrubby trees, seemed to be deserted.

The boys looked around for possible guards, but none were in sight. Cautiously the three advanced and went to the door in the base of the tower. It had been forced open and hung by one hinge.

Frank and Joe stepped gingerly inside. Harry followed.

“Stand guard,” Frank told the boy.“Yell if anyone shows up, then run to a safe place.”

Harry took up a position behind the broken door as Frank and Joe started to climb the creaking wooden stairway.

“I hope these steps hold us, Joe!”

The stairs clung to the wall, ascending in steep, right-angled turns. At each step the Hardys took, the tower trembled.

Finally they reached the floor of the observation tower. No one was there.

“Guess we were wrong,” said Joe.

“Maybe not.”

Gazing at the ceiling, Frank noticed that the boards did not match exactly.

“Joe! I believe there’s a trap door up there! Give me a boost.”

As Frank climbed to Joe’s shoulders, there was a sudden pounding above him. Then muffled cries of “Help! Help!”

Frank put his shoulder against the trap door and heaved. It yielded and he pulled himself up through the opening.

A strange sight greeted him. On the floor lay four unshaven, disheveled men, securely bound, but without gags. Three of them wore ill-fitting shirts and trousers. The fourth, a blond, ruddy man, was dressed in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a vest with a sheriff’s silver star on it.

As Frank pulled Joe up through the opening, the man with the star greeted them weakly. “I’m Sheriff Paul. These men are rangers.”

“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy. You have to get out of here—fast!” Joe said quickly. “The tower may be blown up any minute!”

With lightning speed, they unbound the prisoners and helped them down to the observation tower. The released men, hardly able to stand, crawled down the stairway.

As they made the perilous descent, Frank and Joe asked, “Who brought you here, Sheriff?”

“All I know is that I received a phone call about some missing rangers. When I went to investigate, three men jumped me.”

“Our dad’s been captured, too,” Frank said as they neared the base of the tower. “He was after a gang of train robbers when they got him.”

“Is Fenton Hardy your dad?”

When the boys nodded, the sheriff said warmly, “Mr. Hardy has a great reputation among us lawmen. I sure hope no harm has come to him.”

The minutes required to reach the bottom of the tower seemed like hours, but finally Joe hit the last step. Harry’s eyes popped when he saw the sheriff and the rangers. When the boy reported that nobody had come in view, Frank urged, “Quick! Run for it. This place may be dynamited any minute!”

No sooner had they dashed through the doorway to the edge of the clearing than they heard an ominous rumble.

“Down!” Frank shouted. “Cover up!”

As they pitched themselves headlong, the earth behind them split open with a shattering roar. The tower bulged at the bottom and started to collapse.

CHAPTER XX

The Roundup

“SAFE!”

Sheriff Paul’s whisper broke the silence after the tremendous blast and crash of the tower.

As they all looked back in awe at the mass of debris, one of the rangers said, “If we’d even been in the clearing, we might have been killed.”

“The danger isn’t over yet,” Sheriff Paul reminded them. “That gang will be coming up to check on their job. Let’s put some distance between them and us!”

Hurriedly the group moved cautiously down the steep slope, finally stopping to rest in a quiet glade near the base of the mountain.

“With Chet and Cap out of the cave, the next step is to find Dad,” Frank proposed.

Then the brothers told about their escape from the refrigerator car, the train wreck, and the capture of one of the truck drivers. When they related how they had persuaded Charlie, the driver’s helper, to help them, the sheriff showed keen interest.

“You say his name is Charlie? Say, that might be Charlie Brace, one of the local boys here.”

When the Hardys described their new ally, the sheriff nodded. “That’s Charlie, all right. A nice young fellow, but he’s been getting mixed up with a bad crowd lately.”

“Well, now he’s going straight,” Joe said. “At least we hope he is.”

After discussing what their next move should be, it was decided that they would go to the site where the oil-drilling equipment was cached.

“No doubt we’ll find some of the gang there,” the sheriff observed, “and maybe we can surprise them and nab a few at a time.”

They had barely started in the direction of the gang’s stockpile when they heard the distant rumble of a motor.

“Sounds like a heavy truck,” Joe said.

“Must be on that old logging trail over the next rise,” the sheriff said. “Hurry. We’ll see who it is.”

Careful to conceal themselves in the natural cover, they reached the old trail in time to see a truck stop a short distance away. The driver hopped out.

“Charlie!” the Hardys gasped, and Sheriff Paul nodded. Had he kept his promise? the boys wondered as they watched his actions.

The young fellow seemed to be waving at someone he could see through the trees. Four men emerged from the woods to join Charlie in the road.

Turk, Snide, and two others!

For a couple of minutes the five men stood talking in the center of the road.

Suddenly the back gate of the truck fell with a clatter—and out poured a swarm of men!

Frank’s eye caught the foremost of the new arrivals. “Dad!” he shouted.

“Jack Wayne and Sam Radley!” Joe yelled in astonishment.

At the same time the detective’s posse surrounded Turk, Snide, and the other two outlaws, disarming them and snapping handcuffs on each of them.

Charlie had kept his promise!

Overjoyed, the onlookers emerged from their hiding place. For a moment, all was confusion as Fenton Hardy greeted his sons and their friends.

“But, Dad, we thought you were hurt!” Frank exclaimed.

“No. Jack and I had a rough time, but we won the fight at the plane. Then I made Flint broadcast the story about our capture, to throw the rest of the gang off. Flint’s in jail, and so is Snake Fliegel.”

“Who’s Fliegel?” Frank asked.

Stepping forward with a smile, Charlie Brace said, “Don’t you know him? Fliegel is the one who followed you from Bayport to Green Sand in his plane.”

“The black-eyed character who slithers along like a snake!” Joe exclaimed.

“That’s the guy,” Charlie continued. “He was in with Flint and Willie long before any of us local chaps got mixed up in the affair. Flint told me the whole story.”

“How’d he get started after the oil?” Frank wanted to know.

“Flint used to travel around the country a lot,” Charlie explained, “ridin’ the rails and scratchin’ out a living where he could. He was doin’ pretty well in a small town somewhere in the West when he ran into a sick, old wildcatter.”

Turk glared at the man who was turning state’s evidence, but Charlie continued:

“This old fellow claimed his memory had just returned after a long siege of illness. He was broke, but he said that if Flint would stake him until he could get a job he would tell Flint a tale that might make him rich.”

“And Flint believed him?” Joe asked.

“He figured it was worth a gamble,” Charlie said. “Anyway, the old man told Flint that fifty years before he had been one of a group of wildcatters who had found a rich deposit of oil. But they had had bad luck. A cave-in buried twenty of ’em. Only the old man escaped.”

“So that’s what the sign meant,” Frank said.

“Yes. The poor wildcatter nailed the sign over his friends’ grave. The shock was too much for him, though, and he lost his memory.”

All the listeners crowded close around Charlie to hear the fantastic story.

“After Flint had staked him to a place to live and had stocked it with food, the old man led him to the spot—the place you’ve been callin’ Wildcat Swamp. Shortly after that, the poor chap died.

“Before he could do anythin’ about the oil, Flint was caught in a train robbery and was sent to prison. That’s where he met Willie.”

“I wonder why he decided to share the loot with that creep,” Joe remarked.

“Well,” Charlie said, “I guess he figured Willie would be able to forge the documents to get the land away from Mrs. Sanderson. Then they added Turk because he knew something about engineering.”

“How did Snide fit in?” Joe asked with a glance at the glowering captive.

“He was an old friend of Willie and an experienced oil man. They contacted him and he brought Snake Fliegel with him. They gave Snake the job of trying to stop you and Cap Bailey from finding the swamp. He was the one who tampered with your plane so it would crack up before you got off the ground.”

“Jack outfoxed them on that one.” Joe grinned and saluted Wayne.

“Yes,” Charlie said, smiling. “When he flew off and left you at Green Sand Lake, Flint and Turk didn’t know what to make of it. They followed you in Fliegel’s plane, and Snake was on hand to help them break out of the jail there. Then he piloted them to a field outside Red Butte.”

“That’s where we came in,” one of the rangers spoke up. “We saw his plane land and noticed it had no license number. We investigated and found these cowboy friends of Snide meeting the plane. Our interest must have scared them.”

“Right,” said another ranger. “They held us at gunpoint, stole our uniforms, and shut us up in that old tower.”

“Don’t blame it all on us,” Turk snapped. “The cowpokes had plenty to do with this deal. They toppled that big boulder over, and sent the fake message to the sheriff’s office. Then they called on his wife and fouled up his radiotelephone, returning later to steal it.”

Frank and Joe listened intently to this recital, which pieced together various parts of the mystery. A few more questions cleared up the rest of the nefarious plot.

They learned that it was Willie and Snide who had read the story about Bailey’s fossil hunt and had held up Cap in his car; it was Snide who had shot down the antenna balloon. The skeleton, Charlie said, had been planted in the cave to scare off intruders.

After congratulating his sons on solving the mystery, Mr. Hardy said, “We ought to go to the fossil pit now and find out how Cap and Chet are.”

Several members of the posse were commissioned to take Turk, Snide, and his henchmen off to join Flint and Fliegel in jail.

Then the rest of the group started for the swamp. They had gone about halfway when they met Mrs. Sanderson and Mrs. Paul riding toward them.

“We have good news for you,” said Mrs. Sanderson. “Your friends Cap and Chet captured Willie the Penman just as he was trying to force me to sign away my property.”

When they heard this news Frank and Joe let out a whoop.

“You have nothing more to fear now,” Mr. Hardy told Mrs. Sanderson. “I’ll be glad to get a reputable oil company to check on the old wildcatters’ theory of a large oil deposit here.”

Soon the party reached the foot of the sandy slope in which the camel fossil was buried. There was the sound of pick and shovel from the pit, and in answer to Frank’s “Halloo” two heads popped up over the rim.

“I certainly am glad to see you all with a whole skin!” Cap declared as he shook hands with the Hardys.

Frank and Joe grinned. They had indeed pulled themselves out of a tight fix. Not many weeks were to elapse before they again found their lives in danger while trying to solve the mystery of The Crisscross Shadow.

“Wait till we tell you what’s happened here,” Chet said with pride.

“Now what?” Joe inquired.

“Remember when that first explosion went off? Well, we could feel the earth shaking and heaving way over here. We happened to look down into the old cave, and you should see it now.”

“It was like a little earthquake,” Cap added. “The explosion opened a subterranean cavern as beautiful as any. It’s full of gorgeous stalactites and stalagmites. Mrs. Sanderson, you own a very valuable piece of property even if it turns out that there isn’t a drop of oil on it.”

“Sure,” Chet said, “and we were the first sight-seers. Now I qualify for a job as guide.”

“A guide!” Joe needled. “You have a job back home—how about that swimming pool?”

“You fellows ran out on me,” Chet said reproachfully. “After all the help I’ve been to you, I should think you’d want to dig it for me.”

“I’ll help you,” offered Cap, “as soon as we dig up my camel fossil.”

Chet’s eyes shone.

“Frank, Joe, you heard the man!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Strange Sale

CHAPTER II - A Clever Alibi

CHAPTER III - A Dangerous Visit

CHAPTER IV - The Telltale Moccasin

CHAPTER V - Buried Treasure

CHAPTER VI - An Elusive Suspect

CHAPTER VII - A Lucky Break

CHAPTER VIII - A Desperate Attempt

CHAPTER IX - Conflicting Reports

CHAPTER X - Tom-toms

CHAPTER XI - A Jeweled Dagger

CHAPTER XII - A Puzzling Telegram

CHAPTER XIII - The Hunter’s Moon

CHAPTER XIV - A Rough Trip

CHAPTER XV - The Hideout

CHAPTER XVI - A Moonlight Search

CHAPTER XVII - A Parted Rope

CHAPTER XVIII - A Perilous Ruse

CHAPTER XIX - Mousetrapped

CHAPTER XX - A Victory Feast

THE CRISSCROSS SHADOW

When a man selling leather goods door-to-door steals the key to their detective father’s file cabinet, Frank and Joe Hardy set out to track him down.

An odd mark on a key case which the man sold to their mother leads the teen-age sleuths to an Indian village, whose chief begs them to help him. Two strangers have claimed title to the Indians’ land, the deed to which had been secretly buried by the chief’s father, along with other valuable tribal possessions, shortly before he died. The only clue to the location is that a crisscross shadow marks the site when the October full moon is low in the sky.

How Frank and Joe find the missing deed and the other Ramapan treasures, how they prevent the phony leather-goods salesman from carrying out a ruthless scheme, and how they help their father solve the top-secret case he is working on for the U.S. government makes exciting reading for all fans of the Hardy boys.

“I am Chief Wallapatookunk,” a deep voice

intoned

Copyright © 1997, 1969, 1953, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-14268

eISBN : 978-1-101-07646-0

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Strange Sale

“I WANT to speak to my nephews Frank and Joe Hardy at once,” said an excited voice on the telephone. “It’s urgent.”

“Yes, Miss Hardy,” replied the manager of Bayport High’s football team. “They’re out on the field. I’ll get ’em.”

Meanwhile, on the thirty-yard line Coach Devlin was saying, “Okay, team. Let’s run through our defensive play once more.”

The eleven lined up—the regulars on defense, the scrubs facing them.

“86X,” barked Frank Hardy, captain and quarterback, as the opposing center moved over the pigskin.

The ball was snapped. At the same instant, stocky Chet Morton, the regulars’ stalwart center, pulled out of the line to cover the left flank. The scrubs’ halfback darted up and over the line of scrimmage.

“Tackle him, Chet, tackle him!” shouted Frank.

Chet plowed into the second-string ball carrier and brought him to the ground for no gain.

“Good going, boys,” said Coach Devlin. “I think you’ve got that defensive play down pretty well. Once around the field and then into the showers,” he said, dismissing them.

Frank and his brother Joe, a year younger, jogged along together. Lithe, blond-haired Joe, who played left halfback, was puffing.

“Coach really had us working on that 86X, didn’t he?”

“I’ll say he did,” tall, dark-haired Frank replied. “But it’s going to come in mighty handy when we play Hopkinsville—”

“Frank! Joel” the manager called out. “Telephone call for you. Better hurry. Your aunt seems very excited!”

The brothers looked at each other wonderingly. Sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous detective, they were accomplished sleuths in spite of their youth. They had often received urgent calls but never in a locker room!

Joe hurried to the phone. “Hello,” he said anxiously.

“Joe, is that you?” asked a crisp feminine voice. “This is Aunt Gertrude.”

“What’s up?”

Aunt Gertrude, who was staying at the Hardy home, was the boys’ favorite relative. Though she did not hesitate on occasion to reprimand her nephews, they had great respect for her insight into human nature.

“There’s a strange salesman in the house,” Aunt Gertrude reported. “He’s trying to sell your mother some leather goods, but I don’t like his looks. I’m sure he’s a swindler. I’ve seen his picture somewhere in the papers.”

Joe whistled softly. “We’ll come right home, Auntie,” he promised.

The boys did not wait to shower or change their clothes, but hurried to their convertible.

Since their father was in San Francisco on a secret mission—so secret that he had not even told the boys its nature—Frank and Joe felt a protective responsibility toward the two women at home.

As he maneuvered the sleek car through Bayport’s busy streets, Frank looked puzzled.

“I don’t like this at all, Joe,” he said.

“Let’s take a look through the window before we go in,” Joe suggested. “You know what Dad says. A little undercover sleuthing in advance is better than barging in head-on.”

“Good idea.”

When they reached the tree-lined neighborhood where the Hardy home was located, Frank proceeded cautiously.

“We’ll park here,” he said, quietly turning off the motor and gliding to the curb about three hundred feet from the house.

The boys went up a neighbor’s driveway, crossed the back yard, and approached their own house from the rear.

“How about looking in the side living-room window?” Frank whispered. Joe nodded.

The boys flattened themselves against the side of the house below the window. Cautiously they lifted their heads until their eyes were on a level with the sill. A strange man, his back to them, was there alone.

Suddenly Joe gave a start and said, “He just took something off Mother’s desk!”

“What is it?” Frank asked. “I can’t make it out—oh, yes—it’s Dad’s key case!”

As the youthful detectives watched, the man, unaware that he was being observed, opened the case and quickly slipped a key off one of the rings.

The boys did not wait to see any more. They dashed around the house, unlocked the front door, and ran into the hall.

“Why, hello, boys,” a pleasant feminine voice said. Mrs. Hardy was descending the stairway. “What brings you home so early from practice—and in your football uniforms?”

“Hello, Mother!” they answered together as they followed her into the living room.

Joe burst out, “This man is what brings us here.”

“He took Dad’s key case!” Frank exclaimed

“I don’t understand,” she replied as the stranger stared at them with an air of surprise.

“Why did you pick up my father’s key case and take a key from it?” Frank asked sharply.

“What do you mean?” the stranger demanded angrily.

“Frank! Joe!” their mother exclaimed, taken aback by her sons’ actions. “You’d better apologize to Mr. Breck. I bought a new key case from him for your father.”

“And I was merely transferring the old ones to the new case while your mother went upstairs for her pocketbook,” Mr. Breck said triumphantly.

Embarrassed, the boys looked at the two cases. There were three keys in the new one.

“Here is a letter of introduction that Mr. Breck brought from Mrs. Wilson,” their mother quickly explained as she handed them a folded sheet of paper.

Her sons scanned the typewritten letter, which told what a reliable man Mr. Breck was and how reasonably he was selling fine handmade leather articles. At the bottom of the page was a signature which the boys recognized as that of an old friend of their mother and father.

As they looked up, Mr. Breck gazed straight at the boys. A taunting smile outlined the lips of the dark, burly man who was about thirty-five years old.

“No reason to get excited,” he said smoothly. “I’ve just been showing your mother some beautiful hand-tooled leather—”

Breck stopped speaking and looked flustered when he saw Miss Hardy in the doorway. Tall, stern Aunt Gertrude stood there glaring in unfriendly fashion. But the salesman recovered himself quickly.

“Oh another customer,” he said.

“Indeed not,” stated the boys’ aunt firmly. “Laura,” she addressed her sister-in-law, “are you sure this man is—?”

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Hardy begged, greatly distressed.

Meanwhile, Joe had been silently counting the keys. He did this twice to make certain how many were there. He knew the exact number there should be because Mr. Hardy, shortly before he left, had given the keys to his wife in Joe’s presence. The boy’s sleuthing instinct had prompted him to count them at that time. Now one key was missing!

“Mr. Breck,” he demanded, his eyes flashing, “what did you do with a thin brass key that was in this old case?”

“Why ... why ...” the stranger stammered, hunting for words. “How dare you accuse me of stealing!”

“There’s a key missing—a special one. Hand it over!” Joe insisted.

“I haven’t got it, you young whippersnapper,” the man replied indignantly.

“Please!” Mrs. Hardy interrupted. “Mr. Hardy, no doubt, removed the key himself.”

“I’m not going to stay here and be insulted any longer!” Breck exclaimed in anger.

He moved to his small suitcase, tossed his samples inside, and snapped it shut.

“I’m getting out of this house,” he said hotly. “I’ve had enough of your insinuations.”

Joe made a move to detain the salesman. But his mother forbade it.

“Let him go, Joe,” she advised. “No key is worth such a scene.”

“But, Mother, it’s the one to the file in Dad’s study—”

“We still don’t know that your father didn’t take it.”

The boys were reluctant to let the man go, but their mother’s word was law. Breck then stalked out, slamming the front door behind him.

Mrs. Hardy, still looking distressed, commented:

“I know you don’t trust the man, Frank and Joe. But I did hate to have a scene, especially since there was no proof against him.”

“Sure, Mother, I understand,” Frank answered. “Though the way he acted was mighty suspicious.”

“I’ll say,” Joe agreed. “He’d better not show his face around here again.”

The boys went upstairs, removed their football gear, and showered.

Five minutes later, while they were dressing, they heard Aunt Gertrude cry out. As the boys were speculating about what had happened, she knocked on their door.

“Hurry up! Go find that man Breck. He’s stolen your father’s picture!”

Pulling on sweaters, they opened the door and followed her downstairs. Mrs. Hardy was staring at the top of the baby grand piano where her husband’s photograph had stood for nearly a year.

“I guess you were right after all about that salesman,” she said. “He’s taken Dad’s picture. But why?”

“We’ll find out!” Frank cried.

They raced from the house and down the street to their car. They had little hope of locating Breck, but to their relief Joe spotted him in the center of town walking hurriedly along the sidewalk.

The convertible pulled up even with him. As it came to a stop, he glanced at the boys, then started to run.

Leaping from the car, Frank and Joe gave chase. But Breck had a head start. He turned the corner. When the Hardys reached it, the man was not in sight!

CHAPTER II

A Clever Alibi

“WHERE’D Breck go?” Joe cried, dismayed that their quarry had eluded them.

He and Frank glanced at both sides of the deserted street, seeing nothing but a few parked cars.

Suddenly Joe cried out. “Look, between those two parked cars. Isn’t that a suitcase? And a man? Come on, Frank.”

The boys dashed across the street. Joe approached the space between the cars from the sidewalk, Frank from the street.

“There he is! Grab him, Joe!” Frank exclaimed as Breck tried to make a getaway.

Joe, executing a perfect tackle, stopped the man dead in his tracks. Grunting and panting, Breck tried to shake him off, but Frank, coming up from behind, pinned the husky salesman’s shoulders to the ground, while his brother clung grimly to his legs.

“Get off!” Breck cried, struggling to rise.

“Not until we’ve searched you,” replied Frank, holding him even more tightly.

Just then Joe caught sight of a policeman sauntering along on the other side of the street.

“Hey, Casey!” he shouted to the officer, whom they had known for years. “We can use some help!”

Seeing the boys and their struggling captive, Casey broke into a run.

“What’s up, fellows?” he cried as he reached them.

Frank and Joe released their grip on Breck, who now made no effort to break away.

“This man stole a picture of my father and the key to his file cabinet,” Frank replied, pointing to Breck, who glowered at the boys.

“Yes, we want him searched,” Joe chimed in.

“All right,” the officer’s voice was stern. “Come along to headquarters, mister.”

“Our car’s around the corner,” Frank said.

Breck started to object, but the policeman silenced him with a gesture.

“I never question Frank and Joe’s judgment,” he stated as they walked to the boys’ convertible. “I guess you don’t know that they’re sons of the famous detective Fenton Hardy. And they’re right smart detectives themselves. Solved lots of cases, like The Tower Treasure. And not long ago they went out West and tangled with some bad characters in The Secret of Wildcat Swamp.”

At police headquarters the group was met by Chief Ezra Collig, grizzled veteran of many a battle with Bayport’s criminal elements. He and the Hardys had often worked together in rounding up underworld characters.

“Well, now, who’s this man, boys?” the chief asked briskly. “What’s he been up to?”

The Hardys quickly explained the mysterious activities of Breck.

“We can prove it, tool” Joe exclaimed, referring to the thefts of the picture and key. “All you’ve got to do is search him.”

“No, you don’t,” Breck protested. “I insist upon calling my lawyer. You’ve got to permit that. I know my rights,” he added threateningly.

“Okay,” the officer agreed. “Who’s your law yer?”

“Miles Kamp,” Breck replied quickly.

“Miles Kamp, eh? I’ve never heard of him. Must be a stranger to Bayport.”

Frank and Joe looked at Breck suspiciously as the man dialed the phone on the chief’s desk. After a few guarded words to Kamp, he hung up, a look of satisfaction on his face.

Ten minutes later Miles Kamp strode into the chief’s office. He was a short, heavy-jowled man with a wide thin-lipped mouth that suggested a nasty streak in his character. He peered at them nearsightedly through thick-lensed glasses.

Frank turned to Joe. “I don’t like his looks, do you?” he whispered as the salesman shook hands with the lawyer.

“No,” the younger Hardy replied. “He looks even more suspicious than Breck.”

“Now, what’s going on here?” the lawyer said in an annoyed voice. “Why are you holding my client?”

“Calm down, Mr. Kamp,” Chief Collig said to him sternly. “Mr. Breck is accused of stealing a key and a photograph belonging to Fenton Hardy. These are his sons, and they want this man searched.”

“Searched? Why, certainly, my client will gladly agree to this,” Kamp replied pompously. “Mr. Breck,” he said, turning to the leather-goods salesman whose face wore a smug look, “I advise you to let the police search you. We know you have nothing to fear.”

At Chief Collig’s order the policeman went to work. He turned Breck’s pockets inside out and made him remove his shoes. Then he looked through the man’s suitcase.

“Nothing suspicious here, boys,” he reported.

Frank’s eyes were intent on a bulge under the man’s shirt. “What are you hiding there?” he asked.

The policeman investigated and found a framed photograph of Fenton Hardy.

“What was the idea of taking that?” Joe said accusingly.

Breck’s face began to redden. “Well ... well, you see ...” the salesman stammered in embarrassment. “You’re right. I did take your father’s picture, and I apologize,” he confessed sheepishly. “But I can explain.”

“You’d better have a good reason,” the chief interrupted.

“You see, I’ve always been a great admirer of Fenton Hardy,” Breck went on rapidly, “and I’ve followed his exploits for years. So today, when I saw his picture on the piano, I couldn’t resist picking it up as a souvenir.”

“Well, that puts things in a somewhat different light,” said Chief Collig.

“I knew you’d understand,” Breck continued hastily. “And I hope the boys do. I’d like to keep the photo. It would mean a lot to me.” There was a note of sincerity in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Joe replied slowly, looking at his brother questioningly.

“Please let me have it,” Breck pleaded. “I’ll give you back the frame. All I want is the photograph of Mr. Hardy.”

“Humph—” Chief Collig began, as all looked to him for advice. “The picture isn’t autographed, is it?” he asked, scanning the photograph.

“No.”

“Well,” the officer continued soberly, “as long as it’s not signed, and since Fenton Hardy’s picture has appeared so frequently in newspapers anyway, I don’t see what harm there’d be if this man keeps it. Since Mr. Breck didn’t take the key, we have no special charge to hold him. But it’s up to you boys to decide, of course,” he concluded.

Breck turned to Frank and Joe, a hopeful expression on his face. There were several moments of silence, during which Miles Kamp pulled out a handkerchief and made a great show of polishing his glasses. All eyes turned to the Hardys.

The boys looked at each other again. Years of working closely together had given each one the uncanny ability to know at a glance what the other was thinking.

Frank spoke. “I guess it’s all right for him to keep the picture, as long as he’s such a great admirer of Dad.”

“All right. He can have it,” Joe agreed. “I don’t think Mother would mind.”

“Thank you, thank you. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. It’s very generous of you,” Breck said effusively.

He moved impulsively to grasp the hands of the Hardy boys to show his gratitude. Frank and Joe acknowledged his thanks coolly, their dislike of the man by no means lessened.

“Well, Chief Collig,” Kamp interrupted in his pompous voice, “are you satisfied that my client has done nothing wrong? If so, I suggest you release him immediately.”

“All right, you can go,” the officer replied. Then he added sternly, eyeing the salesman with disfavor, “But I’m warning you, Breck, in the future you’d better not be helping yourself to pictures in people’s houses.”

“Thank you, Chief Collig,” Kamp said unctuously. “We appreciate your cooperation. Good day, boys.”

With a bow he strutted from the room, Breck at his heels.

“Breck won this round,” remarked Frank. “But I still don’t put any stock in his explanations.”

“I know what you mean,” agreed Collig. “We don’t have a thing to hold him on, though.”

A little while later, driving home in the convertible, Joe turned to Frank.

“Did you notice the back of Breck’s hand as he was packing his suitcase?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “He had a strange-looking scar on the back of it in the shape of a W. You couldn’t miss it.”

“If he were a thief, it sure would be easy to spot him,” Joe replied. “By the way, remember what Aunt Gertrude said about having seen his picture somewhere identifying him as a criminal?”

“That’s right. We’ll have to check with her on that.”

Reaching home, the boys hurried up the steps. They were famished and were looking forward to a delicious steak dinner.

“Hope Aunt Gertrude has apple pie to go with it.” Joe grinned, anticipating the tasty meal that had been promised.

“I could eat at least two helpings,” declared Frank as they entered the hall.

There they found Aunt Gertrude, greatly agitated. She was waiting for them.

“Joe! Frank! I was right about that so-called salesman all the time!”

“You mean about having seen his picture somewhere?” Frank asked.

“No, not that. But I just called Mrs. Wilson, the one whose name was on the reference Breck showed us.”

“Yes?”

“Just as I suspected,” their aunt said triumphantly. “Mrs. Wilson said that she never heard of the man in her life. That reference was forged!”

CHAPTER III

A Dangerous Visit

“WHAT!” Frank cried out. “Mrs. Wilson never heard of Breck?”

Aunt Gertrude shook her head.

“Then he forged the signature,” Joe added. “Well, we sure were taken in. That guy probably had the key all the time—in his mouth maybe.”

“And slipped it to Kamp. Joe, how could we be so dumb?”

“Anyway, we can try to find him. I want to question him further.”

“Not until we get a new lock for Dad’s file,” Frank said emphatically. “After going through all that trouble to get the key, Breck might try to use it!”

The boys excused themselves and hurried to a trusted locksmith with whom their father dealt. He supplied them with a new lock and instructed them how to install it.

After Frank and Joe had arrived home and had just replaced the old lock, a voice behind them said:

“Neat job, fellows!”

The boys whirled. “Sam Radley!” they ex claimed, and hurried across the room to greet their visitor.

Radley was Fenton Hardy’s able assistant, and the boys knew him well because he had helped them solve many tough problems. They had not seen him in several weeks and knew that he had been on the top-secret assignment with their father. They hoped he had news of Mr. Hardy.

“You’ll stay for dinner, Sam?” Mrs. Hardy invited, coming into the room. “That will give us a chance to hear about your case.”

“Thank you. I’d like to.”

“How’s Dad?” Joe asked after they sat down.

Sam smiled. “Your father’s fine.”

“What’s the case about?” Frank put in. “Or can’t you tell us?”

“Just a little,” the detective replied, choosing his words carefully. “Your dad and I are working for the government. There have been several cases of sabotage in important industries throughout the country.

“It looks as though these cases are part of some master plan. We think the same gang is involved in all of them, but so far we haven’t been able to find any clues that point to the guilty persons. That’s about all I can tell you,” Sam concluded.

Frank gave a long, low whistle. “Sounds like an important and dangerous—case.”

“We’re working on a mystery of our own,” put in Joe.

Briefly the boys recounted the events of the past few hours, ending with Aunt Gertrude’s report of the forged letter of reference.

“That man Breck!” their aunt exclaimed. “I just know I’ve seen his picture in connection with something dishonest. Land sakes, I’ve been around detectives long enough to know a suspicious character when I see one!”

“You’re better at it than I am,” Mrs. Hardy remarked ruefully. “But then, you’re Fenton’s sister.”

“And just the person to help us find Breck,” Frank said. “We’ll go to police headquarters in the morning and look at their rogues’ gallery.”

Right after breakfast the next day the boys drove her downtown. She marched purposefully into headquarters, followed by her nephews. It was obvious that Aunt Gertrude meant to find out where she had seen the thief’s picture. The boys knew that it was wise to keep in the background when she was in that mood.

“Good morning, Chief,” she greeted Collig as the trio was ushered into his office.

“Aunt Gertrude wants to look at your mug file to see if she can identify Breck,” Frank informed the officer.

“Well, well, so they’re making a detective out of you, too,” he joked, showing Aunt Gertrude several albums of pictures which lay on a table.

Miss Hardy leafed through the pages slowly. Suddenly she gave a start. “That looks as if it might be Breck,” she said excitedly.

“It might be,” replied Joe, peering over her shoulder, “except that it’s Jerry ‘the Character’ Slocomb, and he’s now serving time in the federal penitentiary for counterfeiting.”

“Gracious sakes,” responded Aunt Gertrude. “Well, what about him?” she asked, pointing to another photograph. “He certainly looks like Breck.”

“Yes, he does,” admitted Frank, “but that man was picked up a couple of days ago on the West Coast for forgery. That’s ‘Fancy Fingers’ Finley.”

Collig laughed. “Miss Hardy, you’ve got to do better than that.”

“I’ll find him yet,” Aunt Gertrude said with determination.

“Maybe if you come along with us to find him—” Joe suggested half-jokingly.

“And don’t think I wouldn’t capture him if I did!” she retorted. “Just the same, good detectives can stay right at home and solve certain mysteries. They don’t have to gallivant all over the countryside.”

For the next hour she pored over the pictures. Every once in a while she would pause at one which resembled Breck. Finally she closed the last album with a sigh of disappointment.

“He’s just not here,” Aunt Gertrude said dejectedly. “But I know I’ve seen his picture somewhere,” she vowed.

“Maybe he was in disguise, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe suggested. He was disappointed, too, that she had not been able to put her finger on a photograph of the mysterious man, and neither he nor Frank could find him.

After telling Collig of the man’s forgery, Frank asked for Breck’s address.

“We’d better work quickly before he decides to leave town,” Frank said.

The officer consulted his files for a moment. “Breck’s registered at the Excelsior Hotel,” he informed them, mentioning the name of a third-rate hotel in the waterfront section of Bayport.

After dropping off Aunt Gertrude, who wanted to do some shopping, the boys drove to the Excelsior.

“Have you a man named Wylie Breck staying here?” Frank asked the clerk.

The man consulted the register. “We did,” he replied after a moment, “but he checked out.”

The young detectives looked at each other in disappointment.

“I know,” said Frank. “Let’s phone his lawyer Miles Kamp. Maybe he can tell us where Breck is.”

The boys hurried to a telephone booth. After a few moments, Kamp answered.

“Yes, this is Miles Kamp,” came the familiar pompous voice. “May I be of service to you?”

Frank asked where he could find Breck.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, my boy, but I can’t help you at all. I haven’t the vaguest idea where he went.”

As Frank hung up, he wondered if this were true. “No help from that source,” he said to Joe in disgust.

As they passed the desk again, the clerk beckoned to them. They hurried over.

“Aren’t you Frank and Joe Hardy?” the man asked.

The boys admitted that they were.

“I thought so,” the clerk continued in a low tone. “I recognized you from your newspaper pictures. I didn’t care much for that guy Breck. If you’re tracking him down, I’ll let you look through his room for any possible clues. Follow me.”

“Thanks,” Frank said.

A minute later the clerk let them into the vacant room, then started back downstairs.

The boys searched thoroughly, looking into drawers, the wastebasket, even under the mattress, but found nothing that might help them locate the mysterious leather-goods salesman.

“Looks as if we’re stuck,” Joe said dejectedly as they came out of the room.

“Maybe not. There’s a chambermaid. Let’s see if she knows anything about Breck,” Frank suggested when he saw a woman coming down the corridor carrying a pile of linens.

The boys approached her and Frank explained that they were looking for some trace of Breck.

“Breck, Breck,” repeated the woman slowly. “Seems like I recall the feller. Hard-looking type. Shooed me out of the room once. Acted very strange.”

Suddenly her face lit up. “I do remember something!” she exclaimed. “A bit of brown wrapping paper.”

Going to a closet, she began to dig through a pile of trash. Presently the chambermaid gave a triumphant cry.

“Here it is!” she called. “I emptied this out of Breck’s room.”

The boys scanned the paper hurriedly.

“I can make out a name! Philip York!” Frank exclaimed. “But the address is blurred!”

“Philip York,” his brother repeated. “I wonder if he could be a friend of Breck.”

Taking the paper to a window, Frank held it to let the light strike it obliquely. In this way, he had often deciphered smeared or smudged writing.

“I’ve got it,” Frank went on, reading haltingly. “Twenty-four Dock Street, Southport,” he concluded triumphantly.

The address was that of a town several miles from Bayport on Eagle Bay, where the boys had often gone cruising.

“Come on, Frank!” Joe urged excitedly. “Let’s go and call on this Philip York!”

Within half an hour Frank was guiding their convertible through the crowded streets of the grimy waterfront section of Southport. Reaching Dock Street, Joe began to look at the house numbers.

“There it is!” he exclaimed. “Pull up, Frank.”

Twenty-four Dock Street was a ramshackle tenement. As the boys walked through the open front door, a stocky man dressed in dirty work clothes brushed rudely by them into the hallway.

“Frank,” Joe whispered, “he might be York.”

With a bound, the boys followed the man up the rickety stairs.

“Say, mister,” Joe called out, “we want to ask you some questions.”

The man turned around and faced them. “Who do you think you’re following?” he demanded angrily.

“We want some information,” Frank said boldly.

“So you want info, do you?” the man replied. “Well, who are you and what’s your business here? Get out of here before I throw you out.” He raised his arm in a threatening motion.

Undaunted, the boys held their ground.

“You’ll throw nobody out,” Frank said in a quiet but determined voice. “Do you know a Wylie Breck?”

“No.”

“Are you Philip York?”

The man surveyed the boys standing shoulder to shoulder. “No, I’m not,” he answered. “What’s the racket?”

Frank shrugged. “We heard they lived here. Thought we’d look ’em up.”

“Oh, that’s different. Well, I never heard of Wylie Breck, but there’s a Philip York on the first floor,” the stranger went on, somewhat calmed down.

The man pointed down the stairs. “He lives in that apartment. But I advise you kids to scram. You don’t belong here. You’ll get into trouble.” He went up the stairs without explaining further.

Frank and Joe descended the stairs. The hallway was dark and had a musty odor. They rapped on the door of York’s apartment.

After a few moments’ wait they heard footsteps approaching the door.

“Get set, Frank, in case it’s Breck and he slams the door in our faces,” Joe whispered.

As the door was flung open the boys tensed themselves.

“What do you want?” An unshaven man, wearing a royal-blue sweater, challenged them. He was not Breck.

“We’re looking for Wylie Breck and Philip York,” Frank replied quickly, edging closer to the door.

“Breck? York?” the man rasped in a foggy voice. “Never heard of ’em. What business you got in this place, anyway?” he asked.

“We want to talk to them, that’s all,” Frank replied. “Maybe you’ve seen Breck around.”

Frank described Breck, adding that he carried a suitcase full of leather goods.

“Never saw him,” the man said.

Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked beyond the boys. Alert to danger, the boys turned.

As the door slammed behind them, they saw two dark shapes coming swiftly toward them.

“Look out!” Joe cried out.

CHAPTER IV

The Telltale Moccasin

THE Hardys were only half turned to meet the attack when the two men crashed into them, chest-high. Joe was knocked out, Frank stunned.

Frank instinctively lashed out at the men with both fists. One of the attackers sank to his knees, but the other thug, coming from behind, got a strangle hold on the boy which rendered him helpless.

The Hardys’ assailants dragged them down the hallway, pushed them into a closet, and locked the door.

“Leave the key in,” a voice ordered.

It was several seconds before Joe regained his senses and remembered what had happened.

“Who could those guys have been?” Frank rammed his body against the door to open it.

“Beats me. Let’s try pounding first,” Joe advised. “We don’t want to pay for a broken door.”

They thumped on the panel and waited. All was still. Then they began yelling:

“Help! Help!”

Presently they heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Was he friend or foe?

“I’m going to tackle him whoever he is,” Joe said.

Before Frank could warn against it, the door opened and Joe charged the man outside. The two of them rolled on the floor in a heap.

“I’ve got him, Frank!” Joe yelled.

“Hey, lay off, fellows!” a familiar voice shouted.

“Chet Morton!” Frank exclaimed, recognizing their friend and helping him to his feet.

“Chet, how the dickens did you get here?” Joe demanded. “Gee, I’m sorry. I thought you might be one of the thugs who threw us in the closet.”

“Hm!” said Chet as he dusted himself off. “I thought you would get in trouble, so I followed you from Bayport. My jalopy can’t tear like yours. I nearly lost you, but a kid on the comer told me where you went.”

“Good thing you came, Chet,” Joe replied. “Sorry I was rough with you.”

“That’s okay,” Chet said lightly. “Centers ought to be ready for surprise tackles.”

“Let’s talk again to that fellow in the blue sweater,” Frank proposed. “Maybe he knows who hit us.”

The trio hurried down the corridor, and Joe rapped on the door. No one answered. He pounded.

“Mighty mysterious,” Frank commented. “That fellow knew we were in trouble. If he isn’t in league with them, why didn’t he help us out?”

“He must be a friend of Breck,” Joe replied. “And that’s why he didn’t tell us that he was Philip York.”

No one came to open the door. Either the man had gone out, or for reasons of his own would not answer.

“Let’s report this whole business to the Southport police,” said Frank. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Now you’re talking,” agreed Chet. “This is a good place to stay away from.”

After they had made a full statement at headquarters, and asked the sergeant to report any developments to Chief Collig, the boys drove back to Bayport.

Frank and Joe were puzzled by the day’s events, but their determination to find Breck was stronger than ever.

Arriving home, they were greeted by their mother.

“Come on, boys,” she said. “Hurry and wash. We’ll eat in a few minutes.”

After dinner, which included a second helping of chocolate walnut cake, Frank said:

“Joe, I have an idea. Why don’t we try tracking down the manufacturer of that key case Mother bought from Breck? In that way, perhaps we’ll be able to find out who he really is.”

“Good idea. Let’s start now.”

They went into their father’s study, where Mrs. Hardy had put the new key case. Joe turned it over carefully in his hand. There was no name on it.

“But here’s something inside,” he announced.

Imprinted on the leather, in a corner of the case, was an odd mark:

The boys gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“Now we’ve got something definite to go on,” Frank said, smiling. “Tomorrow we’ll show it to a leather-goods dealer and ask him what manufacturer uses this mark.”

After football practice the next afternoon, they hurried straight to the shop of their white-haired friend Mr. Nobbly.

“We’d like to find out who made this,” Frank explained, showing the key case. “Here’s the imprint. Can you tell us who uses this trademark?”

Mr. Nobbly examined the mark closely. He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, boys, I never saw nor heard of that mark in all my thirty-five years in this business.”

“Then it’s probably some private maker’s?” Frank asked.

“No doubt. It’s fine, hand-tooled work. But it would be like hunting for a penny in the mud of Barmet Bay to find him.”

Frank looked at Joe in disappointment. Another clue gone up in smoke!

“Come on,” Joe said. “We’ll keep checking.”

They thanked Mr. Nobbly and left the store. For the next few days the Hardys called at every possible place in their quest for the maker of the key case.

They went to all the leather-goods shops in Bayport and examined key cases, wallets, handbags, and luggage. They even checked with shoe stores. But no one had ever seen such a mark.

Finally the boys had to postpone their search and settle down to hard football practice. Saturday came with the big game against Hopkinsville.

Frank was gloomy as the team donned their uniforms in the locker room.

“I guess it’s no use trying to trace that symbol,” he said dejectedly to Joe, pulling on his jersey.

“Looks as if you’re right,” his brother replied. “Well, let’s forget about it for a while. We have a game to play, and you know what a whale of a team Hopkinsville has this year.”

As they trotted along the corridor of the field house, Frank spied a moccasin lying on the cement floor. Ordinarily he would not have done any more than kick it out of the way. But being interested now in everything made of leather he bent down and picked it up.

“Joe, look!” he exulted. “The telltale mark!”

“Sure enough,” Joe cried. “I wonder who dropped this.” He queried the members of his team as they came from the field house. None owned the moccasin.

“Must be someone from Hopkinsville,” Frank mused. “We’ll find out later.”

He took it along to the bench. The warm-up period was over and they were waiting for the whistle when one of the Hopkinsville players ran by. He noticed Frank holding the moccasin.

“Say, what are you fellows doing with that?” he asked. “It belongs to one of our ends—George Parks.”

“Where is he?” inquired Joe. “We want to ask him about this moccasin.”

The Hopkinsville player pointed. “He’s the tall guy there.”

At that moment the referee blew his whistle, signaling that the game was to begin.

The biggest crowd in years had gathered to watch the contest. Hopkinsville won the toss and elected to defend the north goal with the wind at their backs. Frank and Joe waited tensely in their positions as the Hopkinsville booter carefully placed the ball for the kickoff.

“Here it comes!” Frank cried. “Joe, it’s headed right for you!”

Joe caught the end-over-end kickoff on the ten-yard line. Twisting and dodging, he carried the ball to mid-field. The Bayport stands cheered loudly.

Frank gained a couple of yards on the next play on a smash-through tackle. Then, on the following play, Joe faded back and tossed a short pass to the left end, Tony Prito. The dark-haired, wiry youth, a close friend of the Hardys, took the ball for a first down on the Hopkinsville thirty-five.

A couple of line bucks by Biff Hooper, another of their special friends, gained a few yards, and finally on the fourth down Joe faded back for a long pass.

Frank shot down the field like a streak of lightning, the ball sailing straight toward him. But just as he was reaching for it, a Hopkinsville player batted it down, and the opponents took over.

Frank moved along behind his linemen, grunting words of confidence to each in turn.

But in three plays Hopkinsville was on the Bayport four!

“This is the big one,” Frank thought. “We’ve got to hold. This is the time to call the secret defensive play we’ve been practicing all week.”

As the teams lined up for fourth down, Frank called out crisply:

“86X!”

Both Bayport tackles, instead of making the usual defensive charge, remained fixed in their positions and let the offensive linemen come to them. Through the tiny space created by this forward motion, Chet and Frank knifed into the enemy backfield and made havoc of the play, Chet making the tackle and stopping Newman, the Hopkinsville ace, in his tracks. The secret play had worked! The threat was halted! The remainder of the period was chiefly a punting duel between Frank and Newman. Each would run two ground plays and then punt. After several such exchanges, it became clear that Frank was getting more yardage with his high booming kicks that spiraled deep into enemy territory every time.

The Hopkinsville coach changed his strategy. He called a fresh end off the bench, briefed him with an arm around his thick shoulders, and sent him into the game. The team seemed to get a new life as he came trotting on. This meant their favorite pass play!

Joe, just before he dropped back to his safety zone, got a quick glimpse of the replacement. He recognized him as George Parks!

“Now I’ll be able to find out about the moccasin,” Joe thought, but his excitement was lost in the barking of signals by the Hopkinsville quarterback.

Parks drifted down-field, got by Chet, and was lengthening his stride to take a long pass over his right shoulder, when Joe came racing across and knocked the ball right off his fingertips.

Joe ran back a few steps to pick up the ball. Tossing it to the referee, he turned quickly to talk to George Parks about the moccasin. But Parks had left the game and was almost off the field! He had been sent in for one play and that was all.

The first half ended in a scoreless tie. Each team went directly to its locker room.

As the Hardys came running side by side onto the field for the second half, Frank whispered to Joe, “We’ll speak to Parks right after the game. That moccasin is a vital clue.”

After the half-time interval Joe fastened his headgear a little more securely, took a reassuring look at George Parks on the Hopkinsville bench, and signaled for the kickoff.

The second half was a seesaw affair, with each team getting breaks and losing them.

With seconds to go in the last quarter, the Hopkinsville team suddenly fanned out in a widespread formation. Bayport shifted with them. Newman called his signals. Suddenly Joe noticed that Chet had not shifted. He was standing with a dazed look on his face. Then it dawned on Joe!

Each pass had been made into Chet’s zone. He must have been hurt on that line smash. No doubt Newman would be throwing in there again!

The ball was snapped to Newman. He began to fade way back. He threw a long, lazy pass that soared over Chet’s head toward the Bayport goal line.

The timekeeper’s gun sounded as the ball was in flight. As soon as the ball was dead, the game would be officially over!

Joe, who had anticipated the play, was at the goal line, a step ahead of the Bayport pass receiver. He leaped up, wrenched the ball out of the grasp of his opponent, whirled, and scooted across the field, just outside of his own goal line.

At the fifty-yard line Frank threw a vicious block at the fastest enemy tackler, and Joe sprinted into the clear, with the wild uproar of the Bayport stands in his ears, straight down the sideline to the Hopkinsville goal.

The score was Bayport 6, Hopkinsville O! Pandemonium reigned!

As Frank sent the ball straight through the crossbars, the gun sounded the end of the game.

Bayport had won 7-0 on Joe Hardy’s one-hundred-yard dash for a touchdown! Frank hug ged his brother, delirious with joy.

“What a run! There’s never been a touchdown run that long in the history of Bayport High!”

“Yea, Hardy boys!” the Bayport fans shouted as they poured onto the field.

With cheers and singing, Frank and Joe were borne off the field on the shoulders of their teammates. When at last they were set down, more fans crowded around to pommel the boys and shake their hands.

“Joe! Joe!” Frank shouted over the tumult. “We must see George Parks before he gets away!”

But the boys were trapped by their admirers as the Hopkinsville team dejectedly disappeared from the field. Fifteen minutes went by. But finally the Hardys broke loose.

They raced toward the parking lot, but when they reached it, they saw the Hopkinsville bus pulling out!

CHAPTER V

Buried Treasure

FRANK and Joe gave chase, but it was too late. In a cloud of dust, the bus disappeared down the road, leaving the young detectives panting in the roadway.

As they trudged back toward the field house, Joe said, “I wonder what Parks did about his moccasin. It was still under our bench a few minutes ago.”

The boys retrieved it.

“What say we return this to him tomorrow?” Frank asked.

“You bet.”

They would have driven over that evening, but there was a school dance. Chet’s attractive dark-haired sister Iola was going with Joe, and pretty blond Callie Shaw with Frank.

Sunday afternoon the boys looked up Parks’ address in the telephone directory, then drove to Hopkinsville.

“There’s the house, Frank,” Joe called out as they came to a tree-shaded ranch-style dwelling.

The tall, good-looking ballplayer answered the door.

“Hello, George,” Joe greeted him.

“Joe and Frank Hardy!” the boy replied. “Come on in. Say, I’ll never forget you fellows after yesterday’s game.”

“It sure was close,” Frank said.

“What brings you to Hopkinsville?”

“We’re returning some of your property.” Frank held out a bag containing the moccasin.

“Thanks,” Parks said, after Frank had explained about finding the shoe. “I hated to lose that. Those loafers are the most comfortable shoes I own. I had to wear my football shoes home.”

Taking off their overcoats, Frank and Joe quickly outlined their special reason for coming and pointed to the R mark inside the moccasin.

“What we want to know,” said Frank, “is where you bought them.”

“Golly,” George replied quickly, “I know where I got them, but I can’t tell you where they were purchased.”

“You didn’t buy them yourself?” Joe asked.

“No. My uncle gave them to me as a present for my birthday last spring. All I know is that the moccasins were made by an Indian tribe. But what tribe I couldn’t tell you,” he concluded.

“Could you find out, George? It’s important. It may help to catch a thief!”

“Good night!” Parks exclaimed. “That’s right. You fellows are detectives, aren’t you? Well, my uncle lives a couple of blocks from here. I’ll ask him.”

He went to the phone, but the line was busy, so he suggested that they walk over. His uncle Ben was intrigued by the Hardys’ story of their quest for the maker of the leather goods.

“I remember those moccasins well,” he said, drawing on his pipe. “I bought them from a stranger on a train. I never saw him before, and I’ve never seen him since.”

“An Indian?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“Did he mention the name of the tribe?”

Uncle Ben shook his head. “No, he didn’t—just said he’d bought them from an Indian and that they were too small for him.”

The Hardys thanked Mr. Parks and George and started back to Bayport.

“It looks as though we’re up a blind alley again. All of our clues lead us nowhere,” Frank muttered.

“You know,” his brother said thoughtfully, “if that mark means anything, the name of the tribe may begin with an R. Maybe we ought to do some research on Indians.”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. “I wonder,” he added thoughtfully, “if Breck can be an Indian.”

“He didn’t look like a full-blooded one.”

“No, I meant a half-breed.”

“I’ll settle for a quarter.”

Presently a familiar house came into view.

“Let’s stop at the Mortons’,” Joe suggested. “I’m getting hungry, anyway.”

Chet and Iola were home. Iola was mixing a batch of waffles under her brother’s direction.

“We’re just in time.” Joe grinned. “Hope you’ve got plenty.”

“Sure,” Chet answered. “Iola, make twice as much batter. That’ll be enough for a starter.”

“I don’t know about that,” his sister replied teasingly. “Perhaps I’d better mix three times as much.”

The chunky football center was known for his appetite, and despite needling from his friends, never reduced his intake of food.

Supper was a jolly affair, but eventually the talk got around to the mystery of Wylie Breck. Frank told of the slim clue they had picked up from Mr. Parks.

He concluded the story by telling them that the moccasin had been made by an Indian tribe. As he was saying, “If only we knew the name of a tribe that begins with R,” Iola and Chet looked at each other strangely.

“You know of one?” Joe asked.

“N-no,” Chet replied, and in a moment disappeared from the room.

The Hardys continued to eat waffles with syrup.

As Joe got up to get more butter from the refrigerator, he gave a strangled cry. Frank turned to see what had startled him.

Standing in the doorway was an Indian in battle regalia!

He raised his hand commandingly. Then a deep but strangely familiar voice intoned: “I am Chief Wallapatookunk.”

“Chet!” whooped the Hardys, roaring with laughter as they recognized their buddy.

“Where in the world did you get that outfit?” Frank asked.

Chet himself was struggling to maintain a dignified and fierce look.

“This Indian warrior’s suit,” he replied solemnly. “Chief say you his prisoners.” He pointed to Iola. “Bring um white girl to Wallapatookunk.”

Iola now was giggling but pretended to be alarmed and shrank toward Joe.

“I will defend this maiden to the last arrow!” Joe said, then added, “Have a heart, Chet, before I die laughing. Where did you get that Indian costume?”

“It’s this way, fellows,” Chet began, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping some of the red, black, and white crayon from his face. “My great-grandfather was a member of the Pashunk tribe.”

“What!” Frank cried.

“Honest Injun,” Chet insisted, “my great-grandfather belonged to the Pashunk tribe.”

“He’s right,” Iola chimed in.

“Great-grandfather Ezekiel Morton was honorary Chief Wallapatookunk of the Pashunks. This getup I’m wearing is a ceremonial outfit used only on special occasions. It’s been in our family for generations, and I just thought of it again when you mentioned those Indian moccasins.”

“What does Wallapatookunk mean?” Frank asked.

“Gee, fellows,” Chet stammered, “you really don’t want to know, do you?”

“We certainly do,” Frank insisted.

“Well, it means ‘Eat-a-Whole-Moose,’ ” Chet answered reluctantly.

“Boy, your great-grandfather must have had some appetite. Say, why didn’t your folks call you Ezekiel?”

“Whoever heard of a center called Ezekiel?” Chet countered, ignoring the gibe.

“We don’t know exactly how our great-grandfather got the Indian name,” Iola spoke up, “but we do know a very strange legend that he used to tell. It has been handed down in our family.”

“What is it?” Joe asked eagerly.

“According to the legend, a fabulous treasure is buried in the territory where the Pashunks used to live!”

“Buried treasure!” The Hardys whistled in amazement.

“Where?” Joe inquired.

“No one knows.”

“But there must be some clue,” Frank insisted.

“Yes,” Chet assented. “The legend says the treasure is buried in a crisscross shadow!”

“The shadow of what?” Joe asked.

“That’s what we don’t know, but I sure wish we could find the treasure,” Chet concluded.

Just then the doorbell rang and Iola excused herself to answer it.

“Hi, Frank! Hello, Joe! Chet! What in the world!” cried Callie Shaw as she saw the boy’s costume and his multicolored streaked face.

“Callie,” Joe said solemnly, with a sweep of his arm, “let me present Great Chief Walla—er —anyhow, heap big wheel among Indians!”

Callie, though still puzzled, joined the outburst of laughter at Joe’s introduction of the disguised Chet.

Then Frank brought her up to date on news in the Morton household and also what he and Joe had learned at Hopkinsville.

“You’ve really made progress in your detecting,” Callie commented. “If you could only find out something further about that R imprint.”

“Say, why don’t we get out our collection of old Indian books, Chet?” Iola spoke up. “Maybe we’ll find some tribes that begin with R.”

“And then we’ll check on whether they’re the ones who do leatherwork,” Frank added enthusiastically.

Iola excused herself and returned a few minutes later with an armload of old volumes.

Immediately all the young people started thumbing through the books, intently scanning the fine print. The pages were yellowed with age.

There were dozens of tribes that no longer existed—names that had meant so much in the early days of the country—Abnakis, Shawnees, Narragansetts, and others that reminded the Bayport High students of the exciting days of the early colonists.

“This tribe we’re looking for is probably so small that it didn’t even make history,” remarked Joe, breaking the silence. Everyone nodded agreement, but kept on leafing the pages determinedly.

But there was not a single tribe that began with an R!

Finally it was time for the Hardys to start home, since they did not wish to break football training rules. Frank rode with Callie as far as her house, with Joe following, then transferred to the convertible.

“Come on! He mustn’t get away!” Joe cried

“I guess we’re at the end of the Indian trail with that moccasin,” Joe remarked.

“We may still find the R tribe,” Frank said more hopefully. “I’m not giving up yet.”

“I’m with you on that score,” Joe agreed as they turned the corner near the Hardy home.

Suddenly Frank gave a start and sat bolt upright. “Look!” he whispered excitedly. “Coming out of that window!”

Joe followed his brother’s gaze to the second floor of the Hardy house. In the moonlight they could see a man climbing out!

Frank cut the engine and stopped at the curb. The boys leaped from the car and dashed up the driveway.

As they looked up again, the intruder was dropping to the roof of the kitchen porch. Then a cloud passed in front of the moon and hid the scene in darkness.

“Come on! He mustn’t get away!” Joe cried.

The boys heard a thud on the ground, and reached the porch just as the moon broke through the clouds.

They could see no one!

In the second that the clouds had obscured the moon, the intruder had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up!

CHAPTER VI

An Elusive Suspect

WHERE had the man who had climbed out the second-story window gone?

“Quick!” Joe said to his brother. “I’ll circle this side of the house. You take the other.”

Finding no one, they searched the neighboring yards. It was no use. The intruder had disappeared.

“Let’s go inside and see if he took anything,” Frank urged.

Noticing that several lights had been turned on upstairs, the boys dashed to the second floor.

“It’s Frank and Joe,” Frank called. “Are you all right, Mother?”

“Oh, boys, what a relief to see you!” Mrs. Hardy cried as they reached the hall.

Aunt Gertrude stood menacingly, an umbrella clutched in her hand.

“We saw a man crawling out of the second-story window,” Frank told them.

“Then why didn’t you catch him?” Aunt Gertrude bristled.

“We tried,” Frank confessed, “but he got away.”

“Did he steal anything?” Joe put in. “Did you see him?”

“See him?” Aunt Gertrude echoed with indignation. “We saw him, and if I ever get that fellow, I’ll give him the thrashing of his life.”

“Aunt Gertrude and I came home from the movies. When we got upstairs we heard a noise in your father’s study,” Mrs. Hardy explained. “We looked in and saw a masked man. As soon as he spotted us, he dived for the window and climbed out.”

“What was he doing?” Frank asked.

“He was standing in front of the file cabinet with a key in his hand!”

The boys rushed into Mr. Hardy’s study and examined the file carefully. Apparently it had not been disturbed.

“Good thing we changed that lock,” Joe said.

“Right. But the criminal might have forced it open.” Frank turned to his mother and aunt. “I guess you frightened him off in time.”

“I wonder what he was after,” Joe pondered.

“It could be almost anything,” Frank replied thoughtfully. “Let’s fine-tooth-comb this room. Maybe the fellow left a clue that may help us track him down.”

They examined the study from wall to wall but found nothing. As Joe leaned against the cabinet, a disappointed frown on his face, suddenly something caught his eye. Reaching down, he pulled at a bit of wool snagged on the corner of one drawer.

“We missed this,” he said. “Oh boy! What a clue!”

Triumphantly he flashed a strand of royal-blue wool! “That man in the house in Southport! Remember? He was wearing a royal-blue sweater!”

“Correct.” Frank beamed. “Now we’re beginning to get somewhere on this case!”

“That proves Breck did take the key!” cried Joe. “After he skipped Bayport, either he or his lawyer gave it to the man in the royal-blue sweater and he came here tonight.”

“Maybe those two guys who slugged us in that Southport tenement house were Breck and Kamp!” Frank reasoned. “They were just arriving to give Mr. Blue Sweater the key.”

“Everything ties together.” Joe nodded in satisfaction. “But the important question’s still not answered. What did this gang want from Dad’s file?”

“Let’s go back to Southport tomorrow and call on that blue-sweater guy again,” Frank proposed.

Since the football squad was excused from practice on Monday, the Hardys were able to start for Southport as soon as classes were over.

“How about coming along, Chet?” Frank asked as they got ready to leave.

“Sorry, fellows. I promised Dad I’d help around home. But listen, you two, don’t get yourselves in the hospital. We’ve got a tough game to play on Saturday and—”

“Where’re you going?” Tony Prito spoke up. “Maybe I can be your bodyguard.”

“Swell.”

The three boys drove to the dock where the Hardys’ small powerboat the Sleuth was moored. They would make the trip to Southport by water.

When they arrived, Frank and Joe asked Tony to guard the Sleuth while they were gone. Then they headed up a steep cobblestoned alley to the street and walked into the main entrance of the tenement where Philip York lived.

Joe rapped on the apartment door while Frank kept an eye on the dim corridor to avoid another surprise attack.

The door was opened by the man they had come to see. He was wearing the telltale blue sweater.

“What do you want?” he asked roughly.

“To talk to you.”

The man’s eyes widened when he recognized his callers. “You boys are going to get hurt coming around here,” he said threateningly. “I can’t give you any information.”

“Oh no?” Joe retorted skeptically, then shot the question, “What were you doing in our house last night?”

“Your house? I’ve never been near the place in my life,” York replied angrily.

“That’s your story,” Frank spoke up. “Here, take a look at this,” he said, forcing his way in and suddenly confronting the man with the piece of blue yarn. “It came from that sweater you’re wearing,” he declared, pointing to a tear in the front of it.

The man looked blank, then recovered. “Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t. Anyway, it ain’t my sweater,” he said defensively. “I borrowed it.”

“We don’t believe you,” Frank answered firmly. Both boys were in the room now. “You’d better start talking.”

“Look, fellows,” York said meekly. “Take it easy on a guy that ain’t to blame, will you? I’ll do anything you ask. You’ve got the goods on me.”

The Hardys had not expected to get a confession that easily. They looked at each other with satisfaction. At last they were making headway on the case !

“Come along to the police station with us,” Frank said sternly. “They’ll want to hear what you have to say.”

“Okay,” the man replied nervously. “I’ll have to get my coat out of the bedroom. Wait here.”

Before they could object, he turned, went into an adjoining room, and closed the door.

“We’d better keep a close watch on him,” Frank advised. “He may try to get away.”

Joe agreed, and called, “Say, you in there!”

There was no reply.

“Let’s see what he’s up to!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys burst through the door. Their eyes took in the shabbily furnished bedroom in a glance.

No one was in sight!

“There’s no way out except by the windows and they’re locked from the inside,” Frank stated. “He’s got to be here somewhere!”

They began a careful search of the room. When Frank crawled under the bed he found a trap door that opened downward.

“Here’s how he got out!” he exclaimed. “Joe, you guard the hall and I’ll go after him this way.”

“Okay. Give our whistle if you need me.”

Frank squeezed through the opening onto a rope ladder which swung down from the edge of the trap door.

“This must be the basement,” he told himself as he reached the end and stepped onto the floor.

He whipped out his pocket flashlight and flicked it on. He saw no one.

Inch by inch Frank went over the cellar. But the man in the royal-blue sweater was not there.

“How you coming?” Joe called down.

“He got out of here somehow.” At that moment Frank heard a familiar sound—the put-put of a motorboat.

“This basement must be very close to the dock!” he shouted up to Joe. “There’s a door. I’ll let you know what happens.”

He hurried over, twisted the knob, and pushed. The door opened easily.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, Frank looked around. He was standing alone on a small dock that poked its nose into Eagle Bay.

Joe was peering from the living-room window. Now he raised the sash and called:

“See anything?”

“Nothing but the Sleuth.”

Joe looked in the direction his brother was pointing.

“Tony! Hey, Tony!” Frank shouted across to the next dock.

Their friend’s head appeared over the stern. “Hello. I’ll come and get you.”

“Did you see anybody walk out of here?” Frank called.

“Sure. A few minutes ago two men came out.”

“Where’d they go?”

“They boarded a speedboat and headed off toward Bayport.”

“Did one of them have on a blue sweater?”

“No. But come to think of it, one man had something blue rolled up under his arm.”

“He’s the guy we’re looking for!” Frank exclaimed. “Joe, come on down! We’re going after them!”

Tony brought the Sleuth up and the Hardys hopped in. Then the boat shot out into Eagle Bay and headed for Bayport.

Scanning the bay, his hand shading his eyes from the sun, Tony suddenly shouted, “There they are, Frank. Give ’er the gun!”

The other motorboat was plowing through the choppy water at a fast clip. Frank turned on full speed and the Sleuth fairly leaped across the waves. Gradually it began to close up the distance that separated them.

“We’re catching up!” Tony exulted.

In a few moments the boys could clearly see two figures in the stern and a third at the wheel.

“There’s the fellow with the blue sweater, all right,” Joe announced. “But he’s masked now!”

“Say—the other one might be Breck,” guessed Frank, gripping the wheel tensely.

“Could be,” returned Joe. “He’s got a mask on, too.”

Relentlessly the Sleuth plowed on, closer and closer to the fleeing craft. Finally Frank narrowed the gap and began to edge in toward the boat ahead.

“York’s trying to hide!” yelled Joe as he discerned a figure hunched over in the rear seat. Just then the man beside York jerked his head around toward the pursuers and shouted something to the pilot of the fleeing speedboat.

Instantly the craft swerved sharply to the left. But just as swiftly Frank turned the Sleuth.

From then on it was a zigzag chase. The fugitive boat veered crazily from side to side. Nevertheless, the Sleuth clung to the course, and Tony shouted encouragingly:

“Atta boy, Frank! Stick to ’em!”

York’s companion turned around. Standing up, he shouted back:

“Scram outta here, you fool kids!”

The man at the wheel now resumed a straight course, making a beeline for Bayport.

The Sleuth roared up behind the speedboat. Suddenly York’s companion bent down. As he straightened up, he raised a heavy log of wood and heaved it. The log soared through the air, directly in the path of the onrushing Sleuth.

“Frank! Look out!” Joe cried.

Frank swung the wheel with all his might. But it was too late. With a splintering crash the Sleuth rammed the log!

CHAPTER VII

A Lucky Break

THE shock of the collision was so violent that the boys were catapulted into the cold water of Eagle Bay.

In a few seconds three heads emerged from the waves.

“Joe! Tony!” Frank shouted out. “Are you all right?”

“Okay, here!” Joe called.

“I’m all right, too,” Tony answered.

To their amazement the Sleuth was still afloat, drifting aimlessly some yards away. As the boys swam to it, they noticed that an immense hole had been torn in her bow at the waterline.

“She’s going to sink!” Tony cried woefully.

They clambered aboard and Frank discovered that the impact had switched off the engine. He tried to start it, but it was dead!

“This is a fine pickle,” he said in disgust.

“Where did the other boat go?” Tony asked.

The boys scanned the bay, but could see only a cluster of small craft near the shore. The men had made their escape!

‘ There’s one clue, though, that they’ve given us,” Frank put in. “Did you notice that huge scar on the fellow’s hand before he tossed the log at us?”

“Say—that’s right!” exclaimed Joe. “I did see it. It was W-shaped, too! That means it was probably our friend Breck!”

“We practically had him!” Frank groaned. “Fine time to be stuck like this.”

“And we’re drifting with the tide,” Tony pointed out as he noticed the shoreline receding.

Half an hour later he motioned toward a low-slung cabin cruiser that was bearing down on them.

“Look, fellows, isn’t that the Coast Guard cutter Mallimuk?”

The three boys shouted and waved their arms to signal the cutter. The captain saw them and drew alongside. When Frank explained the reason for their predicament, Captain Barnes shook his head in anger.

“I’ll send out an alarm for those men right away,” he assured them. “Meanwhile, we’ll give you a lift and some dry clothes.”

While he radioed headquarters, a guardsman threw a line from the cutter. Joe fastened it to the Sleuth, and the craft was towed to its dock.

The boys thanked the men and went to their car. After dropping Tony off at his house, they made arrangements to have the boat repaired, then drove home. Mrs. Hardy was waiting anxiously.

“Mother,” Joe asked, “is something the matter?”

“Yes, there is,” she replied. “It’s Sam Radley. He’s been injured!”

“What happened, Mother?” Frank asked. “One of the saboteurs get him?”

“Yes. Sam caught up with a suspect and they had a tussle. The man got away, but Sam was thrown and broke his leg.”

“Where is he now?”

“In Bayport Hospital.”

“We’d better go to see him right away,” Frank declared.

The boys were at the hospital in a few moments. They found their father’s associate with his left leg in a plaster cast.

“We’re sorry about this,” Joe said. “How do you feel now?”

“Pretty well, boys. But I sure hated to lose my man.”

“What happened?” Frank asked.

Briefly, Sam Radley told them he had received a tip to look along the waterfront for certain characters and had trapped one of the suspects at a boathouse outside Bayport. While he was taking him to his car, the man had made a break for it. In the fracas that followed, the saboteur had pushed Sam into a deep ditch. The detective pointed to his cast.

“This was the result.”

“At least you’re making headway on the case,” Joe remarked.

“I was.” Sam smiled ruefully. “This sets me back. But without question your father and I are getting closer to cracking the case. On the other hand, the saboteurs are becoming bolder. They’re likely to strike anywhere, any time!”

“Gosh,” Joe said, “I hope you’ll get them soon before they do any real damage.” Then he asked, “Sam, what did the man who escaped look like?”

“He’s heavy-set,” the assistant detective replied. “Dark-haired and swarthy-complexioned.”

Frank leaned forward tensely.

“Were there any distinguishing marks on this man that you tussled with?” he asked.

“Yes. He has a large W-shaped scar on the back of his right hand.”

“Scar on the back of his hand!” Frank exclaimed, and told of their recent adventures. “The man who threw the log at our boat had a W-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. And what’s more,” he continued eagerly, “Breck, the phony leather-goods salesman, had the same scar on his hand. I’ll bet that Breck, the man in the boat, and the saboteur are all the same person!”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed.

Sam Radley stroked his chin thoughtfully and looked down at his injured leg. “Maybe you’ll catch him before I do. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you. Those fellows are dangerous. The one who got away from me is known as Killer Johnson.”

“Was he hiding in the boathouse or had he just arrived there in a boat?” Joe asked.

“He was just coming out of the boathouse when I got there,” Sam answered. “I didn’t see a boat, though.”

The boys talked a few moments more with Sam, then said good-by, promising to watch for clues that might help on the sabotage case.

On the way home Joe said, “I wonder where that boat disappeared to after the log was thrown at us.”

“There are a lot of little coves and inlets along the shore that it could have ducked into without being seen,” his brother replied.

“Maybe we ought to look along the shore,” Joe suggested.

After an hour of fruitless searching the boys turned homeward.

“Those fellows probably left town. They may have seen the Coast Guard pick us up. I’m sure that after they dropped Breck they went into hiding,” Frank pointed out.

“I think our best bet right now is to follow up the clue of the moccasin,” said Joe. “It’s a clue to the real identity of Breck and might lead us to his pals.”

When the boys arrived home they found dinner ready. During the meal they told their mother and Aunt Gertrude about Sam Radley’s condition and their suspicion that he had been after the same man they were.

“I guess we’ll have to do Sam’s work,” Frank observed with a sidewise look at his aunt, knowing she would object.

“Sam’s work, indeed!” she cried out. “You leave the saboteurs to the big detectives!”

“Tall, you mean? I’m as tall as Sam.”

“Now, boys,” Mrs. Hardy cautioned, hoping the banter would not get out of hand.

“Solving crimes certainly gives them a good appetite for food and wit,” Aunt Gertrude declared as each was served a second helping of fricasseed chicken and dumplings.

When they finished, the young sleuths leaned back with a sigh.

“Aunt Gertrude,” said Joe, “sometimes I’d rather eat one of your meals than solve a mystery!”

At that moment the telephone rang. Frank picked it up. It was Iola. “Callie and I have been looking through some more Indian books and we’ve come across something important.”

“What is it?”

“We’ve found the name of an Indian tribe that begins with an R!”

Frank whistled in amazement. “Great work, Iola. What’s the name?”

“The Ramapans.”

“Ramapans?” Frank repeated. “Listen, we’ll be right over.”

Twenty minutes later the Hardys arrived at the Mortons.

“Iola and I decided to check some other books that Chet remembered were in the attic,” Callie explained. “We’d just about given up our search when we came across the Ramapans.”

“That’s great,” said Joe. “Where are they located and what are they like?”

He pulled out a notebook and pencil ready to take down all the information.

“Well, the Ramapans are a small tribe. They live on a reservation about five hundred miles from here,” Callie replied.

“Yes. Go on,” Frank urged eagerly as the girl paused.

“They are skilled in making small trinkets and leather articles.”

“Skilled in leatherwork!” Frank exclaimed.

“I thought that would make you sit up and take notice.” Chet grinned. “Just come to Morton and Company for the best in detecting.”

“Can you show us on the map where the Ramapans live?” Frank asked.

Chet brought out an atlas and opened it. After turning several pages, he pointed.

“Here it is. Not many people live around this region.”

The Hardys recognized the area as rugged territory made up mostly of mountains and forest.

“Say,” Chet called out suddenly, “that’s right around where the Pashunks used to live!” His face lit up with expectation. “Fellows,” he said, “I have a wonderful idea. Let’s go there and search for that buried treasure!”

“Sounds good, Chet,” Frank replied. “But the Ramapans might not agree. They own the land where their reservation is located. And you’ve forgotten something else—school. How would you get time off from classes?”

“And even if we could, how about the football games?” Joe asked. “Bayport High might get along without Frank and me, but our big center —no!”

Chet beamed at the compliment.

“Right now, we have a mystery to solve,” Joe said.

“And we do have a good clue to the maker of the key case and the moccasin,” Frank added.

The young people spent the rest of the evening poring over the story of the Ramapans, learning their history and customs. As the Hardys were leaving, Frank said:

“I certainly hope we can put all this knowledge to some good use.”

The next afternoon, between the end of classes and football practice, he and Joe dropped in to see Police Chief Collig and ask if there was any news from the Southport police about Breck and the man in the blue sweater.

“Nothing good,” the officer replied, leaning back in his swivel chair. “They’ve disappeared. An alarm has been sent out for them. Don’t worry, boys,” he went on encouragingly. “Those two will turn up again, and when they do, they’ll be arrested.”

Frank looked at his watch. “Well, it’s time to get over to football practice. Thanks for the information, Chief.”

During the next two hours they worked hard, under the watchful eye of Coach Devlin. Finally, when the sun was setting over the empty stands, he dismissed the squad.

The Hardys trotted to the showers side by side.

“You know,” Joe said, “I’d like to follow up the key-case clue in the Ramapan country right away. We might fly up there for the weekend.”

“That wouldn’t be enough time to make a thorough investigation,” his brother pointed out. “How about Christmas vacation?”

“Gosh, Frank, I’d hate to wait that long to call on the Ramapans. But maybe we’ll figure out a way.”

When they arrived at school the next morning, a crowd of boys and girls were gathered around the main entrance. The Hardys hurried up, curious to find out what was going on. Usually students lingered outside only briefly, then went to their classes. Seeing their friend Biff Hooper in the group, Frank and Joe walked over.

“Hi, Biff!” Frank greeted the rangy fullback. “What’s all the excitement?”

“Have a look for yourself,” Biff replied, pointing to a sign tacked on the entrance.

The boys edged over for a closer look, but knew from the animated conversations what it said.

“Because of a breakdown in the heating plant, all classes and sports have been suspended. You will be advised over the radio when school will reopen.”

“Pretty neat, eh?” Biff said delightedly. “Now I’ll have time to work on that sailboat I’m building for next summer.”

Joe’s face broke into a wide grin. “One guess, Frank, what we’ll do with the time.”

“Go up to the Ramapan country!”

“Right. Let’s tell Chet. He’ll probably want to come along and hunt for that buried treasure!”

Their stout friend, who never reached school until the very last minute, arrived at that moment in his rattling jalopy.

“What! No school! Do I want to go!” he exclaimed when he heard the news. “Yippee!”

CHAPTER VIII

A Desperate Attempt

“OKAY, Chet. Let’s go to the station and find out about trains,” Frank suggested.

The agent informed them that a through train for Lantern Junction, the nearest village to the Ramapans, stopped at Bayport at eleven o’clock.

“Don’t be late!” Frank warned Chet as he dropped them at the house. “Remember, we don’t have all day to make that train—just a couple of hours!”

“Say, whose treasure is this, anyway?” Chet called. “I’m practically at the station now!” And his ancient car lurched and clattered down the street.

Reaching home, Frank and Joe told their mother and Aunt Gertrude about the heating-plant breakdown and their plan to visit the Ramapans.

Mrs. Hardy was somewhat taken aback by their announcement of the proposed trip. But she resolved not to voice the anxiety she felt.

“Take plenty of warm clothes,” she advised. “It’s very cold up there at this time of year. And I’ll get some money for you.”

“If I were the school principal, I’d give you plenty of homework so you couldn’t go gallivanting!” Aunt Gertrude said.

“Zingo! I’m glad I never had you for a teacher, Auntie!” Joe cried.

He fled upstairs before she could reply, Frank following. They had barely started pulling out ski clothes when their aunt came into their room.

“Shoo!” she ordered. “I’ll do the packing. Go get your bags!”

“We will,” Joe agreed cheerfully. “There’s no better packer in Bayport.”

At that moment Mrs. Hardy entered the room. “Here’s a letter for you,” she said, handing it to Joe. “A boy brought it.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He studied the envelope for a moment.

“Who’s it from?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “There’s no return address and the handwriting’s not familiar.” He ripped open the plain white envelope. As he read the message, his eyes widened in surprise. He gave the letter to his brother. Frank’s eyebrows shot up at the warning it held:

Don’t meddle. Stay home if you value your life. R.

“What is it?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Yes, something mighty peculiar’s going on, judging from the look on your faces,” Aunt Gertrude added.

Frank read the note aloud. The women gasped, and instantly asked the boys to cancel the trip.

“But, Mother,” Frank said, “I’m sure Dad would want us to carry through. If we told him someone was trying to get his secret papers and didn’t follow it up, he wouldn’t think much of us as detectives.”

“Of course,” Joe said, “if you and Aunt Gertrude are afraid to stay alone—”

“Such talk!” Their aunt bristled. “Didn’t I chase that burglar away singlehanded?”

Finally, consent to the trip was given and the packing went on. Frank and Joe left the room. Out in the hall Frank whispered:

“I guess that Breck or York must have been spying on us and heard our plans.”

“Yes, and those fellows really mean business.”

Frank set his jaw. “Now that we know we’re dealing with a gang that’s desperate, it’ll be all the more exciting tracking them. What say we take this note to Chief Collig and have it analyzed for fingerprints, et cetera. We haven’t time to do it ourselves.”

“Okay. Let’s get moving. We don’t want to miss that train.”

When the boys arrived at police headquarters, the desk sergeant greeted them. “Chief Collig’s in his office. Go right in.”

Frank handed over the letter and told about their coming trip.

“This is serious,” Collig declared after reading the message. “I warn you boys to be on the alert every minute.”

“We’ll do that,” Joe promised.

Pointing to the envelope, Frank asked, “Don’t you think a lab check of this letter would be in order, Chief Collig?”

“Right you are, Frank. Come on. We’ll do it right away,” he replied, beckoning them toward the police department’s crime laboratory.

A check of the fingerprints on the letter did not tally with those of any known criminal, and there were no identifying marks to tell from whom the letter had come.

“It’s not a whole sheet, and it’s written on heavy paper, we know that much,” Chief Collig determined. “I’d say it was cut from a long, narrow sheet.”

Frank picked up the letter. “I wonder—” he began slowly, “I wonder if it could be legal paper.” He held one edge of it to the light. “Yes, it is!” he exclaimed, seeing the semblance of a blue line where the paper had been cut.

“Fine deduction, Frank,” the chief complimented him. “But what person who uses legal paper might be mixed up in this business?”

“Miles Kamp!”

“Of course!” the officer agreed. “He’s Wylie Breck’s lawyer!”

Picking up his telephone, Chief Collig said. “Sergeant, I want two men detailed to watch Miles Kamp. Shadow him day and night and give me a full report on everything he does.”

He replaced the instrument in its cradle and turned to the Hardys.

“I think we’re getting somewhere at last, thanks to you. That note tipped the gang’s hand.” He looked at his watch. “Don’t miss your train. And good luck,” he called.

The boys stopped at the house just long enough to collect their bags and say good-by to their mother and Aunt Gertrude.

The railroad platform was crowded, but they had no trouble finding Chet among the throng. He was surrounded by enough luggage for a month.

“That’s rugged country, and a fellow can’t be too well equipped,” Chet insisted.

The three made their way to the edge of the platform when they heard the whistle of the approaching train. Chet leaned over the track to try to look around a bend beyond the station.

“Here she comes, fellows!” he cried, catching a glimpse of the engine.

The train came closer. As it turned the bend, a shrill scream from the street cut the air.

At the instant that everyone’s attention was diverted, the Hardys suddenly felt themselves shoved toward the track by strong hands. They struggled against the pressure but were thrown off balance.

“You will horn in where you have no business, will you?” a rasping voice muttered in Frank’s ear.

“Stop!” Frank cried out.

But the plea was useless. Their arms flailing the air, both boys went tumbling off the platform directly into the path of the oncoming train!

CHAPTER IX

Conflicting Reports

THE train bore down on the Hardys who were sprawled across the track. Men shouted. Women screamed and covered their eyes. Brakes shrieked.

Instinctively Frank rose and jumped back. But Joe was stunned, the breath knocked from him. Chet was the first onlooker to make a move. Quickly he leaped from the platform, lifted Joe, and lunged out of the path of the train as it rushed by them!

“Oh! Thank goodness!” someone cried out.

Still trembling, Frank and Joe stood stock-still, unable to believe they had been saved. Then Joe looked at Chet and murmured:

“Thanks, pal.”

As the train came to a stop, everyone excitedly began to talk at once. What had happened? Had the surge of the crowd pushed the boys onto the track?

“No,” Frank answered, recovering his wits. “We were shoved.”

Just then the conductor rushed up. After a brief explanation, Frank asked him to hold the train for a few minutes.

“I want to find the men who caused all the trouble,” he said.

The conductor nodded, and announced:

“There will be a five-minute stop. All passengers for this train please remain on the platform.”

The Hardys and Chet hurriedly asked persons on the platform whether anyone had seen the men responsible for pushing the boys onto the track. But none of the crowd had noticed anyone running away from the scene. They had been looking toward the street to see who had screamed.

“I guess it’s no use,” Frank declared. “Those guys have probably skipped out.”

When the three boys were seated in the train, Chet remarked, “Do you think the person who screamed had anything to do with the shove?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “The whole setup was planned.”

“The writer of that note meant business!” Joe exclaimed.

“What note?” Chet inquired. When he learned of the warning, he whistled and asked, “Who do you figure signed himself R?”

The Hardys shrugged, saying the initial most likely stood for Ramapan, but might have been borrowed by someone not connected with the tribe.

“Hm!” said Chet, cupping his face in his hands. “We may be running right into danger. Maybe—”

“You don’t mean you want to go back and not look for the treasure!” Joe exclaimed in mock disgust.

“Well, not exactly, but you fellows have a habit of getting me into tight spots.”

Frank said grimly, “Those platform pushers will have their hands full if they try to pull any more funny business.”

“Let’s forget about the mystery for a while and enjoy this trip,” Chet interposed half an hour later.

“Okay,” Joe replied. “I’ll switch on the radio.”

He snapped open the small portable set he was carrying and adjusted the dials to a program of hit tunes.

As they sat watching the countryside speed by, they listened idly to various programs. At last a newscast came on.

Suddenly Frank sat bolt upright. “Listen to that!” he exclaimed.

The announcer’s voice came clearly.

“—serious case of sabotage in Chicago. An important government project has been bombed by saboteurs, leaving the place in ruins.

“Fenton Hardy, the famous investigator, is on the scene at this very moment. When interviewed, Mr. Hardy said that he is following up scattered clues, but that so far none of the culprits has been captured. And now for news on the international front—”

Frank clicked off the set. “The gang has struck again!”

Chet’s face wore a puzzled look. “I thought your dad was supposed to be in California. Now he turns up in Chicago.”

“That is strange,” Joe agreed, frowning. “He must have flown there in a big hurry.”

“But I’m sure Mother just heard from him in California,” Frank insisted. “As soon as the train arrives, we’re supposed to call home. Let’s ask her about it.”

The train was now moving along more slowly, ascending the rugged mountainous country where the Ramapan community was located. At last the big Diesel pulled into Lantern Junction.

The Hardys and Chet were the first to alight and hurried to the telephone booths in the station. Joe put in a long-distance call to Bayport while Chet called a local hotel for reservations.

“Hello, Mother,” Joe said. He decided not to mention the episode at the Bayport station. “Have you heard from Dad since we left?”

“Yes.”

“There was a report on the radio,” Joe went on, “that he’s working on a sabotage case in Chicago. Is that right?”

As she was replying, Frank crowded into the booth with Joe. He could hear her answer plainly.

“I heard the report too. I’m baffled by the whole thing. Your father can’t be in two places at once, and I just had a wire from him. It was sent from California!”

Just then Chet sidled up to the boys. “We can stay at the Grand Hotel,” he reported. Joe passed the news along to his mother, then said, “I guess there’s nothing we can do about Dad. But keep us posted of any new developments.”

“I will, and take care of yourselves.”

“Okay. Bye now.”

Despite the fact that Mrs. Hardy did not seem concerned about her husband, Frank was uneasy.

“Let’s call his hotel in San Francisco,” he suggested. “That will clear up this whole business.”

“Good idea,” Joe replied. “But we should register at the Grand first.”

As soon as they were in their room Frank gave the operator the call. When the connection was made, he said:

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Fenton Hardy.”

“One moment, please,” the operator at the hotel replied.

Then a man’s voice broke in. “Who is it you want?” he asked.

“Is Mr. Fenton Hardy there?” Frank repeated, leaning close to the receiver. “This is his son, Frank Hardy.”

“I can’t tell you!” the man replied and hung up.

Frank replaced the receiver, frowning thoughtfully.

“‘Can’t tell you,’ ” he echoed slowly, after telling Joe and Chet the strange reply.

“What did the man mean?” Chet asked, puzzled.

“I’d say the hotel actually doesn’t know where Dad is,” Joe answered.

“Or it could be that they’re obeying instructions from Dad not to disclose where he is,” Frank reflected.

The boys began unpacking in their neat but simply furnished quarters. Frank and Joe would bunk together, with Chet in the adjoining room.

“Boy, wouldn’t I give anything to go hunting or fishing up here,” Chet remarked. “But we have to find the treasure first.”

“Not we,” Joe corrected. “Frank and I came here to follow up the key-case clue.”

“Have it your own way,” Chet replied.

The three put on warm, sturdy attire for their hike through the woods to the Ramapan village, then went downstairs and asked the clerk for directions. They were told that the trail through thick woods to the isolated community, which lay miles from any habitation, was a rough one.

“I your friend,” said the Indian

The clerk strongly advised them not to attempt it until morning.

His words were not exaggerated, as the boys learned the next day. The trail to the Ramapans was narrow and twisting, making it necessary for them to walk single file. Occasionally the stillness of the forest was broken by the cry of an animal or the fluttering of a startled bird.

Eventually the boys found themselves in a small clearing. Pausing to catch their breath which made white clouds in the crisp air, they heard a crackling in the underbrush in the woods beyond.

Suddenly the branches on the other side of the clearing parted and an Indian stepped out to face them! No one spoke.

The man was wearing suede pants and coat with fringes. Long, shiny black hair hung down over his shoulders.

He broke the silence. “No be afraid. I your friend,” he addressed them in a strange accent.

“You’re a Ramapan?” Frank asked him.

The stranger did not reply. Instead, he said:

“I give warning. You boys walk to bad country.”

“What do you mean?” Joe demanded.

“You come to unfriendly tribe. Very dangerous people.”

“Dangerous?” Frank said skeptically. “What’s so dangerous about an Indian tribe these days?”

“You listen to warning, paleface,” the man continued, anger in his tones. “Tribe guard deep secret. No want visitors.”

With that he turned on his heel and disappeared among the trees. The boys looked at each other dumbfounded.

Chet paled. “S-a-a-a-y, fellows,” he said shakily, “maybe we’d better take his advice and turn back.”

“Not on your life,” Joe replied determinedly.

Frank agreed, adding, “I’ll bet that fellow isn’t even a member of the tribe. That accent he had was too thick. No real Indian talks like that these days. I’m sure he’s a phony.”

“You mean he faked everything—the Indian rig and the accent?” Chet demanded.

“Sure.”

“Then who is he?”

“One of the gang we’re trying to track down.”

“You’re right, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “Quick! Before he gets away, let’s follow him!”

CHAPTER X

Tom-toms

THE boys crashed through the thick brush in pursuit of the strange Indian.

“Where’d he go?” Chet puffed.

“Here are fresh footprints!” Frank exclaimed. “Come on!”

They raced along, following the tracks Frank had observed. The narrow, rocky path wound deeper into the dim, silent forest.

The trail suddenly twisted sharply to the right. Frank, still in the lead, held up his hand, signaling a halt.

The trio stood still, looking intently for any indication of which way the man had gone. They came to the conclusion that he had jumped from stone to stone, losing his pursuers completely.

“We may as well continue on to the Ramapan village after we have a snack,” Frank decided.

The boys quickly ate sandwiches they had brought along and drank from a sparkling mountain spring.

As they set off again, Chet cried out tensely: “Listen!”

The Hardys paused. The sound that came to them was a muffled, regular beat.

“Tom-toms!” Frank exclaimed.

Chet turned pale and looked nervously about him. “S-a-a-a-y, fe-1-1-ows, those tom-toms—maybe that man we just met was right. What if those Indians are getting ready to attack us!”

Frank and Joe broke into laughter.

“Aren’t you young Chief Wallapatookunk?”

Chet blushed furiously. “Come on,” he said with a sudden show of bravery. “Let’s go.”

They moved along another quarter of a mile without further disturbance. Then a fawn loped swiftly across their path as if in frightened flight. As it disappeared, the reason became evident. An Indian boy about their own age came out of the woods. He stopped short upon seeing them.

He was dressed in clothes similar to theirs, but had coppery skin and straight black hair.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “What are you fellows doing so deep in the woods? Lost?”

Neither Chet nor the Hardys answered at once. They were staring at the moccasins the boy was wearing. On each toe section was the mysterious R, outlined with multicolored beads.

“No, we’re not lost,” Frank replied finally. “We’re heading for the Ramapan village.”

The Indian noticed the boys’ eyes riveted on his moccasins. “What is it?” he asked with a puzzled air.

“Where did you get those moccasins?” Joe questioned him excitedly.

“Why, right here,” replied the youth. “We Ramapans make them.”

“You are a Ramapan?” Frank asked.

“Sure.”

Joe seized the Indian’s hand joyfully. “Are we glad to see you! We’ve been trying for days to find out who makes those moccasins!”

“Well, follow me, then,” the boy said, smiling. “I can show you plenty more like these. By the way, I’m Ted Whitestone. My father is Chief Oscar Whitestone of the Ramapans.”

The Hardys and Chet introduced themselves. Then Ted turned in the direction of his village.

“Quite a difference between Ted and that man we met on the trail,” Joe whispered to his brother as Chet asked Ted questions about his tribe.

“No, we don’t live in teepees,” the Indian boy replied with a smile. “Just regular houses like everybody else. And we don’t dress up in feathers and big war bonnets, either. I hope I’m not disillusioning you fellows,” he added with a grin.

“But we heard tom-toms,” said Chet.

“One of the men was practicing for our ceremonial dance that we always perform this time of year,” Ted explained.

“And we saw an Indian dressed in fringed leather just a few minutes before we met you,” Chet told him. “He had a peculiar accent.”

Ted’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s funny. I can’t imagine who it might be. Nobody in our tribe dresses like that or talks with an accent, except old Long Heart, and he’s all right. What did the man want?”

Frank told him of the stranger’s warning about the Ramapans and how they would resent the boys’ presence because the tribe was guarding a secret.

“That’s crazy,” Ted declared. “I can’t understand why a stranger would want to keep you from coming here. I’ll speak to my father about this.”

The young detectives glanced at one another. Were they bringing trouble to the Ramapans, or were they running into some?

“Here we are,” Ted announced as the path suddenly widened and opened into a spacious cleared area.

The Ramapan village consisted of a main street with stores and several side roads with small, neat houses, most of them painted white. Off to one side stood a long, low building with many windows in it, and in the other direction was a large field which Ted said was used for athletics and tribal conferences.

“This is my home,” Ted said, stopping before a small white house with green shutters.

A tall, distinguished-looking man, whom the youth resembled, met them at the door.

“Dad,” Ted addressed him, “I’d like you to meet Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton.”

The boys and Chief Oscar Whitestone shook hands, then smiling warmly, the man added, “Come in, boys. You’ve had a long hike. We don’t often see strangers this deep in the forest.”

When Frank told briefly why they had come, Chief Whitestone was greatly interested.

“We’ll show you the factory where we make our leather products,” he said.

The boys followed Chief Whitestone and his son outside. As the group walked toward the factory, the villagers gave cheery greetings to the head of their tribe. Reaching the long, low building which the boys had noticed before, the chief led the way inside.

“Here’s where we do our handicraft work,” Ted spoke up proudly, his arm encompassing the long room with a single broad sweep.

As they walked down one of the aisles, Ted’s father explained the various kinds of work the craftsmen were doing. “This man is making moccasins,” he said.

The visitors peered over the shoulder of an old Indian who was carefully molding strips of leather over a wooden block. They could see the outlines of the footwear taking shape.

“Those workers over there are sewing key cases,” Chief Whitestone pointed out. The boys watched as one of them punched a hole in the leather with an awl and expertly drew the thread through.

Frank produced the key case their mother had bought from Breck. “Ever see this before?” he asked Chief Whitestone.

The Indian examined the leather article carefully. “Certainly. It was made right here,” he answered. He was about to hand it back when he took another look inside. “Just as I thought, Ted. This is made of that special leather we had. It was in that suitcase full of our work that was stolen a few weeks ago.” Turning to Frank, he added, “Where did you come across this?”

The boy explained that they were amateur detectives and related the events of the past few days concerning Breck, who had sold the key case to Mrs. Hardy, Kamp his lawyer, and the man in the blue sweater who had tried to gain access to Mr. Hardy’s secret file cabinet.

“I suppose you have no idea who took the suitcase, Chief Whitestone,” Joe said, unable to hide his disappointment.

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” the chief replied. “You see,” he explained, “all our work is carried out of here in suitcases, since we can’t get a truck or car through the trail. Then it’s taken by train to Williamsville, where it’s turned over to a distributor. He markets everything for us.”

The boys listened carefully as the chief went on, “A couple of weeks ago our messenger left a suitcase unguarded in the railroad station, and when he came back to get the bag, it was gone. That’s all we know about it.”

“I’d say we ought to leave here at once and track down Breck,” said Frank, “if it weren’t for that strange man we met in the woods. He’s probably connected with this mystery. I think we’ll stay around Lantern Junction for a few days and try to find him.”

“I wish you luck,” Chief Whitestone said. When they were outside again, he turned to face Frank and Joe.

“So you’re detectives,” he remarked. “And you’re staying around here for a while.”

“That’s right,” Frank replied, wondering what the chief was leading up to.

Smiling at them, he asked, “How would you like to solve a mystery for me—an old mystery of the Ramapans?”

CHAPTER XI

A Jeweled Dagger

ANOTHER mystery to solve!

“We’ll do our best, Chief Whitestone,” Frank said.

“And when he tells you that,” Chet spoke up, “it means they’ll solve it.”

Ted and his father smiled as the young detectives blushed at the compliment.

“When can we start?” Joe asked. “We’d like to begin right now because we’re due back at school in a week or so.”

“Yes, and it depends a little on where we’ll have to go,” Frank added. “Is it far away?”

“You can begin right here and now,” the chief replied. “In fact, you’ll have to solve the mystery in the next few days or else wait a whole year.”

With this baffling introduction he invited the boys to go back to his home and hear the full story. Seated before an open fire in a cozy room filled with Indian relics, he began the strange tale.

“We Ramapans are an old tribe. We were once a great and powerful nation, a leader among the Indians in this part of the country.

“But as the years passed, and the white men spread out, our territories grew smaller. Our people became fewer in number as tribal warfare and sickness took their toll. Gradually the Ramapans’ power was so weakened that we were forced to move north. This was many generations ago.

“Then, finally the wars stopped, and modem medicine cut down our death rate. We became prosperous, but still we were small and missed our former greatness,” he said with a faraway look.

“The tribe carefully held on to its savings from fishing and trapping. Then fifty-nine years ago the leaders made a decision. With my father as chief, they decided to pool their resources and move down from the wild north country. The place they chose was this very acreage, the site where our ancestors had lived.”

The boys had scarcely moved as the fascinating tale unfolded.

“My father and the tribe bought this land from the estate of a man named York.”

York! The name of one of the suspected gang!

“Was his name Philip York?” Frank asked.

“No,” Chief Whitestone replied. “It was Amos York. But after the tribe set up their new home, they didn’t find the peace and security they had expected.”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

The chief had paused to strike a match to his long pipe. He puffed a few times, then continued. “A neighboring tribe started to raid the Ramapans. They came every night, stealing and destroying our property and striking terror in the hearts of our people. But the Ramapans fought back even against heavy odds.

“My father was fearful the enemy would steal our deed to the property, as well as other valuable tribal records. So he buried them secretly, together with a jeweled dagger worth thousands of dollars that the Ramapans had had in their possession for generations. They had confiscated it after a battle with a French army two hundred years previously.”

“Where did your father bury the papers and the dagger?” Frank asked him.

Chief Whitestone shook his head. “That’s the mystery. Shortly afterward, he became ill and finally we realized he was dying.

“According to the laws of our tribe, I would become chief. Everyone knew my father had buried the papers and the dagger, but the place was a secret. So I asked him where they were.

“He was sinking rapidly, but he opened his eyes with great will power and whispered: ‘My son—my son—papers—dagger—buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter’s moon.”

As the chief stopped speaking, there was complete silence for several seconds, then the Hardys looked at Chet. His face wore a smug look, as if to say: “There is a treasure buried in a crisscross shadow!”

Chief Whitestone continued after a moment. “That was the only clue my father gave and I’ve never been able to find the place.”

“It doesn’t sound like an easy task,” Frank remarked. “We—”

“That’s not all,” Chief Whitestone interrupted. “Not long ago two strangers appeared in the village. They said they wished to buy our land and were prepared to offer a fair price.

“ ‘No,’ I told them, ‘we wouldn’t sell for all the money in the world. This is our home. The tribe has grown and prospered here after many generations of hardship. Our land is not for sale.’ ”

“But that didn’t end it,” Ted took up the story. “The men were insistent. Finally, one of them got mad and started to yell. ‘Look, Chief,’ he said to my father, ‘I’m warning you! You’d better sell to us if you know what’s good for you.’ ”

“That’s right.” Chief Whitestone nodded. “ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked them.

“ ‘Just this,’ the man replied. ‘This land isn’t yours.’

“I laughed at that, but he said, ‘You think it’s funny, eh? Well, we can prove you haven’t got a clear title!’ Then they stomped out of the house and disappeared.

“I’m afraid those men will find the deed before we do and steal it,” Chief Whitestone said. “Unfortunately we have no other proof of ownership. The courthouse where our deed was recorded burned a few years ago and the papers were lost.”

“Then those men can make it very hard for you,” Joe said.

“Yes. After the fire, ads were run in the papers for people to bring in their deeds and have them recorded again, but we couldn’t do that, of course.”

“So it was easy for those men to find out your deed is missing,” Frank surmised. “Well, we’ll certainly try to find it for you.”

“Haven’t you any protection?” Chet interposed.

“Yes,” the chief said. “After sixty years of possession, the tribe will own the land automatically —even without a deed. It’s a state law. But we have several months to go before the time is up. Until then, we’re at the mercy of anyone who finds those papers! And we can’t be certain someone hasn’t already taken them, of course.”

“I doubt it,” Frank commented. “If they had, either the papers would have been returned by honest people, or you would have had trouble before this with real thieves.”

“How about those men who were here?” Chief Whitestone asked.

“I don’t think that they would have offered to buy the land if they could have gotten it free.”

“But I’ll bet they’re looking for the deed,” Joe remarked. “So it’s going to be a race. Let’s get started!”

“I like your enthusiasm.” The chief smiled. “But first I suggest we have something to eat. And later, why don’t you move in here so you can be handy to your work?”

“Thank you,” Frank replied. “We’ll do that. Along with solving your mystery, we’ll do some sleuthing on our own case.”

By the time they had finished a meal of roast deer, corn bread, and fried apples prepared by Mrs. Whitestone, it had grown dark.

“You’d better make do tonight,” Ted suggested. “You can go back and get your things at the hotel tomorrow.”

The boys accepted Ted’s hospitality and slept on cots in his room.

After breakfast the next morning, Joe said, “First thing we’ll have to do is move our belongings in from town.”

“Right you are,” Frank agreed. “But there’s no need for all of us to go back. I’ll go and put all we need in one bag and check the others.”

“Then Chet and I will start hunting around here for clues,” Joe declared.

Chet went to question some of the older men of the tribe. Joe ambled along the street until he reached the leathercraft building. Nonchalantly he walked around it, to observe the layout of the structure.

“Guess I’ll go inside,” Joe told himself. “Maybe if I talk with some of the workers—”

The sound of a door opening interrupted his thoughts. He stood motionless as he saw one of the craftsmen emerge from the rear entrance. Joe ducked behind a tree and watched as the man looked intently in every direction.

“He acts as though he doesn’t want to be seen,” Joe thought.

Abruptly the man turned and set out briskly through the forest. Joe trailed him noiselessly.

Suddenly the Indian stopped and Joe concealed himself behind an evergreen. The man began stripping bark from a tree, all the while whistling in a carefree manner.

Joe, puzzled, arose slowly from his hiding place. “If that’s all that guy came here for,” he mused, “why did he act so leery of being seen?”

The next moment the Indian lighted a cigarette. After a few puffs he stamped it out and started back for the crafts building.

Joe grinned as he recalled a No Smoking sign in the building.

“So he just slipped out to have a smoke. He sure had me fooled.”

Joe started walking back toward the village. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. What was that strange scraping noise behind him off to the right?

He stealthily retraced his steps in the direction of the sound, which led him to a small clearing. Joe barely restrained an exclamation when he saw a man digging in the hard-packed earth.

It was the stranger in the suede-fringed suit whom the boys had met the day before!

Without hesitation, Joe approached the digger. “Now I’ll find out what his game is,” he was thinking when a twig snapped behind him.

Joe looked over his shoulder in time to see a man leaping toward him, brandishing a stick.

He tried to duck, but the man brought the stick smashing down on the boy’s head.

Without uttering a cry, Joe crumpled to the earth!

CHAPTER XII

A Puzzling Telegram

A QUARTER of an hour passed before Joe stirred. Opening his eyes, he was conscious only of a severe pain in the top of his head. Feeling the damp earth against his cheek, the young detective realized he was lying on the ground.

With what seemed like a superhuman effort, Joe lifted himself on one elbow and saw the trees about him. Only then did he remember what had occurred. He put his hand to his head and felt a large bump.

“I’d better get back to the Ramapan village,” he muttered. “Got to warn Chief Whitestone about those men.”

His head throbbed. Swaying from side to side, Joe took a few uncertain steps. It was hard going but finally he reached the edge of the village. There he saw a familiar figure hurrying up the street.

“Chet!” He tried to shout, but his words were barely audible and his friend turned a corner out of sight. Joe started for the Whitestone house, stopping frequently to rest.

Suddenly he heard a cry behind him. “Joe! What happened?”

“Ted! Oh, gosh, I’m glad to see you.”

“Who hit you?” Ted exclaimed, seeing a huge, bloody lump on the top of Joe’s head.

“Don’t know,” he gasped as the Indian boy steered him toward his house.

As they reached the steps, Chief Whitestone came out. He helped Ted lift Joe and soon the injured youth was resting on a couch.

Ted hurried for the village doctor. After a thorough examination the physician concluded that there was no skull fracture, but told Joe that he might have a headache for a few hours and to call him if anything else developed. He dressed the wound and left.

A sigh escaped Ted’s lips. “Thought you were a goner when I saw you staggering down that street, Joe,” he said, and smiled in relief.

But Chief Whitestone was not smiling.

“That fellow tried to kill you!” he exclaimed. He clenched his pipe, the knuckles showing white against the dark bowl.

“Ted,” he went on, “I’m very much concerned about this business. I want you to make inquiries around the village while Joe takes it easy.”

“Don’t worry about me, Chief Whitestone,” Joe insisted. “We detectives are used to some roughing up now and then.”

“Did you get a good look at the man who hit you?” Ted wanted to know.

“Yes. But I’ve never seen him before. I couldn’t identify him,” Joe said ruefully.

At that moment Chet hurried in, having heard from a child that the doctor had been calling on “the sick white boy.”

“Joe!” he exclaimed, pale with fright. “What happened?”

While Chet was listening to Joe’s story, Frank Hardy strode briskly down the forest trail and finally reached Lantern Junction. He went at once to the Grand Hotel.

“We’re moving out,” he told the pleasant clerk.

“Going home so soon?”

“No. We’re staying with the Ramapans. If any messages come here, we’ll pay to have them delivered up there in care of the chief.”

“Glad to oblige you,” the clerk said.

After paying the bill, packing, and arranging for all the bags but one to be checked at the hotel, Frank decided to telephone his mother.

She herself answered. “Frank? What a relief to hear from you!”

“Anything wrong?” he wanted to know, detecting a note of agitation in Mrs. Hardy’s voice.

“Yes. I was afraid those men might have been after you and Joe again. There’s been another attempted burglary of our house!”

Frank grabbed at the mouthpiece. “Are you and Aunt Gertude all right? Did you see the burglar? Did he get anything?”

“We’re all right,” Mrs. Hardy replied quickly. “But the burglar got away. I can’t tell you whether he stole anything or not. Chief Collig is working on the case right now.

“There’s more news of your father,” his mother went on.

“Is it good news?”

“Well, I don’t know. Another case of sabotage,” Mrs. Hardy told him. “This time in St. Louis. A laboratory was swept by flames last night and the reports of secret experiments went up in smoke. Dad was reported on the scene.”

“Good!” Frank exclaimed. “At least the investigation’s in capable hands.”

“But I’m worried, son. I tried to get in touch with your father in St. Louis through the police, but the authorities there told me he had disappeared.”

“Disappeared!” Frank repeated anxiously, then said, “Maybe he’s only gone underground to track down the gang.”

“I don’t know what to think, Frank,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “Just a little while ago I got a message that has me completely baffled.”

“Message from Dad?”

“Yes. And it came from California! All the telegram said was ‘Detained in California. Will wire again.’ ”

“But the report of the sabotage placed Dad in St. Louis.”

“Exactly.” Mrs. Hardy sighed. “I think the wire from California is a hoax!”

“Something’s fishy, that’s sure,” Frank agreed. “But don’t worry. I have an idea. I’ll let you know when I learn something.”

“All right, dear, and give my love to Joe.”

Frank clicked the phone, then asked the operator to connect him with John Bryant in San Francisco. The man was a detective friend of Fenton Hardy and could be depended upon.

“Hello, Frank. Glad to hear from you. Great things your father’s doing these days.”

“That’s why I’m calling. We’re worried about reports that he’s in two places at once.”

Mr. Bryant chuckled. “I didn’t think even a Hardy could do that.”

Frank quickly explained the mystery of his father’s seemingly double appearances.

“This is my plan,” he said, speaking guardedly. “Will you check on Dad at his hotel, and then wire the result to Sam Radley at the Bayport Hospital? It’s important that you send the message to Sam. One to us would probably be intercepted or tampered with. Mother’s been getting some, but she thinks they may be phonies.”

Assuring Frank of his fullest cooperation, Mr. Bryant said good-by.

“I’d better warn Sam Radley to expect a message from Mr. Bryant,” Frank thought, and hurried to a writing desk.

After penning a few lines to his father’s injured operative, Frank folded the paper and inserted it in an envelope which he addressed in plain block letters to disguise his handwriting. He sealed the envelope, stamped it, and deposited the letter in a mailbox at the end of the lobby.

“Nobody will dare tamper with Uncle Sam’s mails,” he told himself in satisfaction.

Waving to the desk clerk, Frank walked out of the hotel with his suitcase. As he turned down the street that led to the Ramapan trail, he saw a familiar figure hurrying toward him. It was Chet Morton!

Frank ran to meet Chet, who was gasping for breath from his exertions.

“Raced most of the way,” he panted, “to tell you about—about Joe. Attacked by stranger—knocked out!” Chet heaved as he tried to regain his wind.

“Knocked out! By whom? Tell me!” Frank shook Chet in his excitement.

Sitting down on the curb, and pausing frequently to get his breath, Chet recounted Joe’s experience in the woods.

“The doctor’s seen him. He’ll be okay. I came to town for the police.”

“Go on,” Frank urged.

Chet arose, his breathing restored. “Ted and I went to find Joe’s attacker,” he said.

“Any luck?” Frank asked. He was seething at the thought of his brother’s being brutally assaulted.

“We located the spot where the man attacked Joe,” Chet replied, “and searched the area. Finally we saw tracks leading to the main trail and followed them for a few yards until they were lost.”

“Did you find any other clue?” Frank asked, disappointed that they had not caught Joe’s assailant.

Chet grinned in satisfaction. “We found this.”

Digging inside his jacket, he produced a package wrapped in cloth.

“What is it?” Frank asked, puzzled.

Chet unwrapped the cloth. “A piece of the stick used on Joe!”

“Good work, Chet!” Frank cried.

Carefully he examined the piece. One end was splintered, showing that it had been broken by a violent blow.

“You’re taking this to the police?” he asked.

“Sure. For fingerprints!”

The boys went at once. Frank gave the desk sergeant their names and asked for the chief. The visitors were ushered into his office.

“Frank Hardy, eh?” he greeted them. He was a short, plump man, who gave the boys a warm smile and told them to call him Mike. “Any relation to Fenton Hardy, the famous detective?”

“His son. My brother’s at the Ramapan village.”

“Well, well,” the officer said. “What brings you boys up to this neck of the woods? Some mystery?”

Quickly Frank explained their mission to find a thief named Breck. When he told the officer what had happened to Joe, the police chief looked grave.

“Any clues?” he asked.

Chet produced the stick and told about finding it near the spot where Joe had been attacked.

“I thought the fellow’s fingerprints might be on it,” he added hopefully.

“It won’t take long to find out,” Mike replied, then carried the piece of wood into a back room.

While he was gone, the boys talked over the various aspects of the mystery, and Frank whispered the latest news about his father.

“Good night!” Chet exclaimed.

A short while later the officer returned, a satisfied look on his face. In one hand he carried a Manila folder.

“Well, Chet,” he said, “you hit the jackpot. We found a jailbird’s fingerprints on this stick!”

A broad grin broke over the boy’s face. Frank congratulated him.

“Whose prints are they?” he asked.

Mike opened the folder and took out some papers. “Fellow by the name of Smirkis,” he told them. “About forty years old. Small-time crook. Got a year for robbery some months back. He was released a short time ago for good behavior. Lives right here in town.”

“Smirkis, eh?” Frank mused. “I wonder if he’s connected with the gang we’re after.”

“I couldn’t say. He wasn’t too bad a fellow, but he may have met someone in prison who put ideas in his head,” Mike said.

“Where does he live?” Frank asked.

“We just checked with the landlady of his rooming house, but she said he hasn’t been home in a couple of days. I’ve sent out an alarm for him.

“We’ll need your brother to identify Smirkis as the assailant when we catch up with him. Meanwhile, take care of yourselves,” Mike warned.

The boys thanked him, ate a light lunch, and then headed back to the Indian village. Frank was anxious to see Joe and was glad to find him feeling better.

Next day, while Joe was recuperating, he discussed the clue to the missing papers and the jeweled dagger with Frank, Chet, and Ted. Chief Whitestone had gone to Lantern Junction on business.

“ ‘Buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter’s moon,’ ” Chet mulled over the chief’s statement. “Wonder what made the crisscross shadow.”

He and Joe made several suggestions that were immediately discounted by Ted because they did not jibe with the legend.

“The story goes this way. ‘And the chief buried the dagger of the many bright eyes and the papers of the paleface writing while at his hunter’s dwelling in the early moonrise.’ ”

“Hunter’s dwelling!” Frank cried. “I have it!”

CHAPTER XIII

The Hunter’s Moon

“WHAT?” Joe, Chet, and Ted chorused in surprise.

“A hunter’s dwelling,” Frank explained, “could be a teepee. The crisscross shadow was made by the poles!”

“Of course!” Ted exclaimed. “Why didn’t we Ramapans think of that?”

“And the hunter’s moon is in October, isn’t it?” Chet asked.

“Yes, it’s the full moon of October and it rises early just like the legend says,” Ted answered. “In October the angle the moon makes with the earth is very slight, so it rises as the full moon very soon after sunset.”

“We’re going into the hunter’s moon right now,” Frank said. “That’s what your father meant, Ted, when he urged us to solve the mystery soon!”

“Yes.”

“First thing to do,” Frank went on, “is to find out where the chief’s teepee stood when he buried the treasure. Have you any idea where that was?” he asked Ted.

“It was near where the tribe used to hold its ceremonials,” Ted replied. “The records say that the ceremonial rock was located where a stream, forked like a serpent’s tongue, cuts through the warrior’s place of honor.”

“What does that mean?” Chet questioned.

“Long ago, returning warriors were honored for a whole day by feasting and—”

“Sounds good.” The stout boy beamed. “They probably had roast moose and—”

“Let’s get going,” Frank interrupted.

Ted led the way to the area where the old ceremonials had been held. He said that it had not been used in his lifetime.

“Then we’re going to have a hard job locating the rock in this overgrown tangle,” Joe remarked, looking around.

He had insisted upon going along but the others made him sit on the side lines and not exert himself. Disgusted, Joe sat down on a log which had fallen across what once had been the fork in the stream mentioned in the legend.

“Looks as if we’re stumped,” he said ten minutes later when the boys found no evidence of a large flat rock.

Frank, who had squatted down near him and was staring in the direction of the main stream, suddenly gave a shout.

“There it is, fellows!”

He ran toward a little mound of silt and moss that they had overlooked in their search. Digging excitedly for a few seconds, and scraping away the incrustation of many years, he exposed a huge, flat rock to the light.

“And now to find out where the chief’s teepee stood,” Joe said.

“It’s beyond me,” Chet commented, and wearily sat down on the rock.

“Paleface boy want to know where old chief’s teepee stood?” a voice behind him said.

Chet jumped in surprise and whirled to look at an elderly Indian wearing a leather shirt and leggings.

“Hello, Long Heart,” Ted greeted the old man.

The boys had seen him around the village, dressed in the outmoded costume of the Ramapans. Ted introduced him as the oldest member of the tribe.

“He’s always telling us stories of the old days,” Ted said, smiling.

“We do want to know where the old chief’s teepee stood,” Frank said. “Can you help us?”

“My memory not so good—for I am many moons old,” Long Heart answered. “But maybe remember where teepee of great brave stood.”

With that, he started walking back and forth, muttering to himself. Finally he stopped two hundred feet from the ceremonial rock.

“Here,” he said with finality. “Here teepee of chief. Why paleface want know this?” he asked Ted suspiciously.

After the boy told him the palefaces were trying to find the lost deed in order to save the tribe’s land, the old brave’s eyes lighted up.

“Me help,” he said simply. “You build teepee with pole fifteen feet long. Me come tonight at rise of moon.” Saying no more, he turned his back and went toward the village.

“How do you build a Ramapan teepee?” Chet asked. “Is it any different from the ones we made at camp?”

“Probably not.” Ted grinned. “I guess you palefaces learned how from us Indians.”

Nevertheless, he instructed them as they began their work. They cut down six saplings fifteen feet long and tied them together three feet from the top. Then they raised the poles and spread the legs to form a firm base, pressing them into the ground.

The next step was to lash short, flexible saplings horizontally across the slanting poles. After that, they fastened sections of birch and hemlock bark over them with tough vines and trailing roots. Short poles were used to cover the bark to keep it from curling.

Finally they cut a smoke hole at the top and another for an entrance. The boys stood back proudly to view their work.

“Pretty swell,” Chet remarked. “Now if that old moon’ll just come out, we’ll find that deed for your dad in no time, Ted,” he boasted.

“I suppose it’s expecting too much to keep this operation a secret from our enemies,” Frank remarked. “But let’s come here separately tonight and watch for any spies.”

“Agreed,” they all said.

Just before sunset the Hardys, Chet, Ted, and Chief Whitestone, going by separate routes, arrived at the old ceremonial rock. They found Long Heart waiting impassively for them.

“The weather’s holding up,” Frank said to Joe.

Slowly the sun sank below the horizon. Then a few minutes later the hunter’s moon of the legend shone from behind some clouds. Eagerly six pairs of eyes followed the clouds until they blew away.

Suddenly Joe whispered excitedly, “There it is —the crisscross shadow!”

It was true. The poles atop the teepee made crisscrossed shadows on the moonlit ground.

“Let’s dig!” Ted cried, grasping one of the shovels they had brought along.

With grim determination the group sank their spades into the earth and started working.

Would they uncover the missing papers and the jeweled dagger? each one wondered, the silent chief most of all.

The mound of earth beside the hole swiftly grew higher as the pit widened and deepened under the eager labors of the treasure hunters.

Finally Frank paused and leaned on his shovel. “Whew!” he said. “It may be cold by the thermometer, but I’m sure hot.”

“Me too,” Chet puffed. “This digging is getting harder the farther down we go.” He stood in a wide hole up to his knees.

“It’s very rocky in this country,” Chief Whitestone remarked.

After a rest, the four plunged their spades into the hard-packed earth with renewed vigor. The bright hunter’s moon cast an eerie light over the scene, with stalwart Long Heart standing guard.

Joe, regretting that he was not in condition to help the others, stationed himself in the shadow of the teepee, keeping alert for any intruder—accidental or planned.

Suddenly he tensed. He strained his ears to catch a sound over the hard breathing of his friends and the soft thuds the earth made as it was shoveled from the pit. The sound came again.

“A twig being stepped on in the woods,” Joe told himself. “I’d better have a look!”

Quietly he slipped among the trees from which the mysterious crackling had come. Joe peered through the maze of moonlight and shadows. Ahead he thought he could detect a man moving silently among the trees!

He tried to follow the ghostly figure. But it kept eluding him and finally disappeared. Wondering who it could have been, Joe retraced his steps to the clearing where the others were still working.

“Find anything yet?” Joe called out.

Chief Whitestone tossed his shovel aside and clambered out of the hole. The others followed.

“Not a thing!” he replied to Joe.

“We’re getting no place here,” Frank said. “I guess it’s useless to dig any more. There are certainly no buried papers in this spot.”

“Looks as if you’re right,” Ted agreed. “I guess we had the wrong spot for the teepee, or the wrong crisscross shadow.”

In the moonlight the disappointment on everyone’s face was easily seen.

“Buck up, fellows,” Joe said encouragingly. “Maybe after a good night’s sleep we can figure out where we failed to interpret the clue in the legend correctly.”

“Right you are, Joe,” the chief said. “Let’s return home. We’ll all have hot drinks, then go straight to bed.”

As the others gathered up their tools, Joe took Frank aside. Swiftly he told him of the incident in the woods, and his suspicions that the group had been spied upon by a prowler.

“No use worrying the others about it,” he said. “Listen! Let’s stay overnight in the teepee and keep watch for intruders.”

“Great idea,” Frank agreed. “The teepee’s weathertight, and we’ll bring some blankets.”

Chief Whitestone and Ted protested strongly when they heard the plan, but the Hardys insisted.

As the others trooped slowly out of the clearing back to the village, Frank glanced at the moon. “Look!” he pointed. “Clouds up there. Bad weather ahead.”

“Let’s hurry and get things ready for the night,” Joe suggested. “We’ll need a fire.”

Quickly they gathered dead pine limbs and brush and in a short while had a small, cheerful fire blazing inside the teepee. Chet returned with several blankets, then said good night.

As the boys finished adjusting the bark door, Joe held out his hand. “Snow,” he said. “Well, I’ll take the first watch. You get some sleep.”

In a few moments Frank’s regular breathing indicated he was asleep. Bundling warmly, Joe took up his guard duty. The early snow began falling more thickly. After a couple of hours, he woke his brother.

“How’s the weather?” Frank asked.

“Snowing pretty hard. Nothing stirring out there. But keep your eyes open,” he warned.

During Frank’s watch the snow gradually turned to fine rain, but by the time he changed watches, it had stopped.

“Starting to turn mighty cold out there,” he said as Joe took up his post.

Morning finally came. The temperature was way down, and when the dawn broke, the clearing and the woods were covered with a dazzling glaze of ice.

There was a rustling at the bark door to the teepee and Ted poked his head through the opening.

“Good morning, fellows. Anything happen during the night?”

“Not a thing,” Frank replied.

But Joe was staring intently at a man who was emerging stealthily from the underbrush. As the stranger reached the clearing, Joe cried out in startled recognition:

“That’s my attacker!”

With a leap, he charged the mysterious fellow and tripped him.

“Good going!” Frank cried.

In a moment Ted pinned his hands behind his back, and the man was their prisoner.

“You’re the guy who whacked me—Smirkis!” Joe said accusingly.

“All right, I’m Smirkis. But I never whacked any of you,” the man protested.

“No? Well, your fingerprints were on the stick. What’s more, I saw you sneaking around while we were digging last night!”

“No, I didn’t spy on you.” Smirkis shook his head vigorously, but he had paled at Joe’s mention of the fingerprints.

“You’d better come with us to police headquarters,” Frank said.

“Wait a minute!” Smirkis cried out anxiously. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What kind of deal?” Joe asked.

“If you’ll let me go, I’ll give you some vital information. How about it?” he whined.

The boys looked at one another questioningly. It was attractive bait that Smirkis was offering. His vital information might lead to the solution of the mystery!

Joe and Frank moved out of the man’s hearing to talk it over. “I don’t trust him,” Joe whispered.

Frank nodded. “Let’s try to trick him.”

He turned to Smirkis. “I know what you’re going to tell us. That the men who want to buy this property hired you to get rid of us!”

“How’d you know that?” Smirkis gasped.

No sooner had he uttered the words than a strange voice behind them cried, “Shut up!”

Frank and Joe wheeled around to face three masked men, poised to attack!

CHAPTER XIV

A Rough Trip

As the Hardys leaped at their attackers, one of the masked men side-stepped them to clamp a hand over Ted’s mouth as he started to give the Ramapan war cry for help. Locked in a fierce struggle, Joe and Frank hurled their opponents to the ground. The boys fought with every bit of strength they could muster, but the odds were against them.

“Okay, tie ‘em up and blindfold ’em,” ordered one of the men, who seemed to be the leader.

The arms of the young detectives and their Indian friend were tightly bound and their eyes covered with kerchiefs.

“All set?” the same voice asked. “Let’s go! You know the plan, men.”

Frank and Joe were roughly grasped by the shoulders and pushed.

“Start walking,” the leader ordered.

As they trudged off, the Hardys heard sounds heading in another direction.

“They’re separating us from Ted,” Joe whispered to Frank.

“Keep quiet!” the leader commanded.

“You won’t be so anxious to stick your noses in other people’s business when we get through with you,” one of the men sneered.

“You can’t win, anyway,” the leader said. “In a short while the Indians will be gone!”

“You’re trying to bluff us,” Frank spoke up boldly.

“Bluffing, you say? Just wait and see. This land’s going to change hands, and you can’t stop it!”

After a long silence, one of the men said, “What about Smirkis? He talks too much!”

“The boss’ll take care of him after he does that job for us.”

So Smirkis was the one who had taken Ted away!

Presently the boys were halted. Then hands lifted them up and lowered them into a canoe.

“Okay,” the leader said. “Let’s shove off.”

After a silent trip of an hour or so the bottom of the canoe scraped against sand, and in a moment the boys were jerked to their feet and dragged across the ground. Next, they were lifted into a vehicle with its engine running. They started off over a rough road.

“Start walking!” the leader ordered

Joe and Frank were ravenous, not having eaten for many hours, but the men made no offer of food. The car rumbled on for what seemed an eternity.

“We must be a long way from the Ramapans by now!” Frank thought. “Where are we going?”

Almost an hour later the car stopped. The prisoners were hauled out. The wind was blowing in gusts as if a storm were brewing.

“What next?” the Hardys thought, then heard a plane’s motor being tuned up. They were hoisted into the craft and it took off.

Judging by the way they were being jounced in the air, Frank and Joe realized that they had been stowed in the tail section.

It was a rough trip, with no chance for them to try to loosen their bonds. The plane rose and fell with dizzying speed as it was buffeted by the wind. The drumming of hail indicated that the storm was becoming more violent, and the swift changes of pressure on their eardrums were sickening.

When the plane finally landed, the prisoners were gagged. Then they were carried out, thrown into a car, and driven a distance. After a while the car halted and the boys were pushed up a flight of stairs.

“Okay,” the leader ordered curtly, “cover your own faces and then take off their blindfolds.”

The Hardys blinked as the light, though dim, struck their eyes. Peering around, they found themselves in a gloomy, shabbily furnished room. Their masked captors surrounded them menacingly.

Suddenly the young detectives caught sight of a transparent curtain near one end of the room. A figure was seated behind it, half turned toward them.

The boys gasped. “Dad!” they cried out, shocked by what they saw.

Mr. Hardy looked badly mauled and mistreated. His clothes were mussed and dirt-streaked. His head hung in an attitude of complete defeat!

The masked leader addressed the boys. “You’ve been wondering about your father. Now you know. Mr. Hardy, your sons are here. Speak to them.”

“Boys,” he said, without moving, “you can’t beat these men. Give up!”

Astonished, Frank and Joe tried to break loose and rush to him. But quickly the strong hands of their captors reached out and halted them. They were whisked into an adjoining room and flung violently onto the floor.

Their blindfolds were replaced and tape was fastened over their lips in place of the gags.

“That ought to hold you,” the leader snarled as they struggled in vain, “until you go on your next trip.”

The boys wondered what he meant, and an explanation was immediately forthcoming.

“We’ll be back to put you on a freighter,” he went on, “and when it reaches its destination, you won’t be in a position to bother anybody!”

The door slammed and footfalls told the Hardys that the men had gone. After waiting to make sure that a guard had not been posted, they struggled with their bonds, grunting and panting behind their sealed lips. But their captors had done their work well. The ropes would not budge an inch! Exhausted, they sprawled on the floor.

Suddenly Frank got an idea. “It might work,” he told himself hopefully.

Crawling over to Joe, he raised himself erect, using his brother’s body as a prop. Slipping his bound wrists over the doorknob, he wriggled his hands round and round.

Finally one of the bonds loosened, then another. Frank twisted his hands violently. The ropes slipped. He was free!

Quickly he ripped off the blindfold and the adhesive tape, then released his brother.

“Thank goodness!” Joe whispered. “Now to break out of here!”

Rubbing their chafed wrists, the boys surveyed the dingy little room. The only exit was the door. When it refused to open, Joe said:

“Come on. Let’s crash it!”

Rearing back, they heaved against the door. Once, twice, then a loud splintering noise and the door gave way.

Crashing into the other room, they looked for their father. But he as well as the men had vanished!

“They’ve taken Dad with them!” Joe cried.

“Come on,” Frank urged. “Let’s get out of here. We have work to do to save him!”

The boys dashed down the stairs and into the street. They gazed around them.

“This place looks familiar,” Frank said, then added excitedly as he saw a store sign, “We’re in Southport!”

“Let’s get to the police fast, Frank,” Joe urged, “before those men get too far away with Dad!”

“Hold on a minute!” Frank exclaimed, a strange look coming over his face. “There’s something mighty queer about this whole deal. Before we see the police, I suggest that we get in touch with Mother and with Sam Radley.”

“You suspect something?” Joe asked.

“I sure do!”

CHAPTER XV

The Hideout

“THAT wasn’t Dad at all,” Frank told Joe.

“What!”

“Bet you anything! He’d have given us some sign.”

“But it was his voice,” Joe protested.

“That’s the only part which puzzles me,” Frank confessed. “Before we go to the police, let’s check with Sam Radley and find out whether he’s heard from Mr. Bryant.”

“Good idea. But how about some food?”

“You find a taxi and I’ll grab some sandwiches.”

“With what?” Joe asked.

Frank realized ruefully that they did not have any money and knew no one in town but the police.

“I guess we’ll have to go to them after all and borrow some money.”

They walked to headquarters and told their story. The captain said he would investigate the place at once. By the time the boys had washed, combed their hair, and brushed their clothes, the officers had returned. They reported that they could find no trace of the kidnappers.

“I’m sure they won’t return,” the captain commented, adding that Breck and York had not been seen in Southport.

The boys asked for a loan of ten dollars, then left. Munching sandwiches and drinking soda on their way in the taxi, they soon reached the Bayport Hospital.

Sam Radley was lying in bed reading. He looked up over the top of the paper.

“Why, hello, Frank and Joe. Where’d you come from?” the detective asked in astonishment.

“It’s a long story,” Frank replied. He briefly outlined their adventures, ending with his suspicion that the man at Southport was not Mr. Hardy.

“You could be right,” Sam conceded. “Here’s a telegram from Mr. Bryant.” The message read:

STOP WORRYING AROUT YOUR BOSS.

“That practically proves the man in Southport wasn’t Dad,” Frank said.

“Not necessarily,” Sam replied. “It’s just possible your father allowed himself to be captured on purpose to get closer to the gang and its operations.”

“But why did he warn us to lay off?” Joe asked.

“For two reasons: so you wouldn’t get hurt, and also so you wouldn’t interfere with his sleuthing.”

“That might be, but I still don’t believe the man we saw in Southport was Dad.”

“I don’t agree with you, Frank,” his brother declared. “I’m sure even an actor couldn’t imitate Dad’s voice so perfectly.”

A gong sounded, and a nurse appeared. “Visitors must leave now,” she said, and to be sure they did, she waited until the boys bid Sam good night and hurried down the corridor.

When they reached their home, Joe suddenly grinned. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude will certainly be surprised to see us. They think that we’re still up in the mountains.”

“Who’s there?” a suspicious voice called from behind the door.

“It’s us, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank answered.

The door swung open wide. “Joe! Frank!” she cried. “I’m glad you’re home!”

“Who’s there?” Mrs. Hardy asked, coming to the hallway. “My boys!” she exclaimed, hugging them.

The reason for their sudden appearance was soon told. The women’s eyes widened in amazement, and they asked them not to return to the dangerous area.

“But we don’t know what happened to Ted Whitestone!” Joe said. “He may be a prisoner.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “How about telephoning his father?”

“We’ll do that, anyway,” Frank said. “But if we’re going to solve the Ramapan mystery, we must work before the hunter’s moon is gone.”

When he talked to Chief Whitestone, the man said a search had already been started for all three boys. He was amazed to hear what had happened, and was glad that the Hardys had escaped. The chief said grimly he would notify the police about Smirkis and the other men and that efforts to find his son would be redoubled.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Frank promised.

“That’s fine, but I’m afraid Ted is miles away by this time,” his father said woefully.

Joe called the airport and learned that a plane which left Bayport early in the morning stopped at Lantern Junction. He quickly made reservations.

Meanwhile, Frank had begun to worry about the safety of his mother and Aunt Gertrude. He was afraid that when the gang found out the boys had escaped they might come to the Hardy home and seek revenge.

“I’m going to ask Chief Collig to post plainclothesmen at the house day and night,” he said, and dialed the police headquarters.

Collig was not there, but he left the message with the sergeant who promised cooperation.

“A man will be here in a few minutes,” Frank reported to his family.

He and Joe set an alarm clock and tumbled into bed. The next morning they found it hard to awaken when the buzzer sounded, but they got up and dressed quickly. After kissing their aunt and mother good-by, the boys left the house. They stopped for a moment to talk with the detective on guard, then started for the airport.

Arriving just in time, the Hardys took their seats in the small plane that serviced the mountainous region of the Ramapan country. An hour later they landed near Lantern Junction and were driven to town. After a hearty breakfast at the Grand Hotel they set out once more for the Indian village.

“We’d better keep our eyes open for anybody lying in wait for us,” Frank advised. “I’ll lead off and look in front and to the right. You check what’s on our left and in back of us.”

But they saw no one and reached the Ramapan village without incident. When Chief Whitestone opened the door he grasped their hands eagerly.

“You’re back! But there’s no word of Ted! You have no idea where he might be?”

“I’m afraid, Chief Whitestone,” Frank said, “that he’s a prisoner of the people who are trying to get your land away from you.”

The Indian stared unbelievingly. “You mean they’re holding him as a hostage?”

“Probably.”

“I had no idea what danger you’d get into when I asked you to find the deed,” the chief said. “We’ve looked in vain for Ted so far. Chet and some of the villagers as well as the police are out now hunting for him. Have you anything to suggest?”

The boys said they were so sure that Smirkis was holding Ted prisoner, they would base their efforts on that assumption.

“Let’s phone Mike right away,” said Frank.

He dashed to the telephone. Seconds later he realized that the wire was dead.

“More of the gang’s work,” Frank said in disgust. “They cut the line!”

Joe suggested that he and Frank hurry to town and tell their story to the police. Without waiting for Chet, they returned to Lantern Junction and went to headquarters.

“We think Ted was taken away by Smirkis,” Joe said. “Can you tell us anything about his haunts so we can look for him too?”

Mike ran his fingers through his hair before replying. Suddenly he snapped his fingers.

“The cabin!” he exclaimed. “That’s the place. It just came to me. Smirkis once had a hunting cabin in the woods. He sold it, but I’ll bet that’s where he’s hiding.”

The Hardys were on their feet in an instant. “Come on!” said Frank. “Let’s have a look right away!”

The officer got his car and they drove a couple of miles out of town. Mike parked and they started off through a heavily overgrown area.

After a twenty-minute trek Mike suddenly held up his hand and motioned them to be quiet.

“It’s just through those trees,” he said, pointing.

Treading carefully the three moved silently toward the cabin. There was no sign of life.

Joe ducked down and moved to a spot underneath a window. The others followed. Raising their heads, they peered inside.

In the dusky room they could see nothing at first, then suddenly each received a shock.

Ted Whitestone was trussed up and propped against the wall!

CHAPTER XVI

A Moonlight Search

SMIRKIS was standing in front of Ted, a whip held menacingly in one hand.

“You’d better tell me!” he snarled. “If you don’t, you’ll get more of this whip!”

“You can’t get me to talk by torture!” Ted answered defiantly.

The onlookers could see several ugly welts on the boy’s arms.

“Where’s that buried treasure?” Smirkis demanded, using the whip on the boy’s hands. “You know all right, but you and your father are trying to keep it for yourselves!”

Mike signaled the Hardys. “Okay,” he whispered. “Time to move! Circle the cabin!”

Frank and Joe took strategic positions so Smirkis could not escape. Then, with a tremendous crash, Mike assailed the door and burst into the room!

The police officer dived for Smirkis. Though taken off guard, the wily swindler was not to be caught so easily. He slashed at his opponent with the whip, then leaped through a window.

But he was trapped. Frank and Joe converged on him from either side.

“Okay. I give up, but I can explain everything,” the man declared as they led him into the cabin.

Meanwhile, Mike was releasing Ted from his bonds. The Hardys turned their prisoner over to the police officer and rushed up to Ted.

“It’s sure good to see you fellows,” the Indian boy said, chafing his wrists where the ropes had been fastened.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked.

“I guess you just got here in time,” Ted replied soberly. Then they all turned their attention to Smirkis.

“You’d better come clean,” Mike told him. “Who’s paying you and what do they want?”

Smirkis hung his head. “A stranger hired me.”

“What was his name?”

“He didn’t tell me. He just said, ‘Call me Al. I’ll pay you well.’ ”

“For what?”

“To spy on the Ramapans. He said they had a fabulous buried treasure.”

“A spy, eh?” Frank broke in. “Find out anything?”

“No,” Smirkis muttered.

The Hardys wondered if he were speaking the truth.

“Where is this Al now?” Joe asked.

The prisoner shrugged.

“Where did he stay when he was in town?” Mike prodded him.

Smirkis looked at his captors sheepishly. “I let him stay in this cabin. I knew the owner wouldn’t come here. Al told me he couldn’t be seen in town.”

“Wanted, eh?” the officer remarked.

“What did Al look like?” Frank asked.

“He’s a dark, heavy-set man. About thirty-five, I’d say. He has a bad scar on the back of his right hand. Looks like a W.”

“Breck!” Joe exclaimed. “Boy, does that explain a lot!”

“Good work!” the police officer said admiringly to the Hardys. “This Al or Breck—whatever his name is—we’ll set a watch on this cabin, and if he shows up, we’ll bring him in.”

Mike took the prisoner back to town, and the boys set out for the Ramapan village.

“Did that guy talk to you all the time?” Frank asked Ted.

“No. He slept a lot, and once he went off for several hours.”

“To cut the telephone line at your house,” Joe deduced.

“At first he wasn’t bad to me and gave me food regularly. But this morning he started whipping me ’cause I wouldn’t talk.”

Chief Whitestone was relieved to see his son, and Chet bubbled over with joy at seeing all three safe.

“This mystery gets more complicated,” the chief remarked. “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve received a letter from that man you asked me about —Philip York.”

“Philip York?” the Hardys chorused.

“He claims to be the grandson, by a former marriage, of the Amos York who once owned this land. You recall we bought it from his estate.”

“What did he want?” Frank asked.

“He says his father didn’t get his share of the money when the property was sold.”

“Has he any real claim?” Chet put in.

“If he has, we’re in trouble,” Chief Whitestone replied, “because all heirs have to be accounted for when any land is sold.”

“Didn’t the lawyers know about him?” Joe wanted to know.

“Philip York claims his father knew nothing about the deal. If that’s true, then the sale of the property was illegal and the transaction has to be made all over again.”

“Whew!” Joe whistled. “And you’d have to pay anything extra they might ask?”

“Yes,” the chief said, frowning. “York claims he has half brothers and sisters to be paid in addition. They could insist we give them a small fortune to sign off. And we just haven’t got the money.”

There was silence for a few moments, then Chief Whitestone continued. “The second thing I’m worried about is a little closer to home.”

“What is it?” Frank asked anxiously.

“Someone has been digging around the spot where we were looking for the buried treasure!”

“When did you discover it?” Joe questioned.

“I found bootmarks and freshly turned earth this morning, which means someone must have been there last night.”

The boys gasped. “I wonder if the digger found anything!” Ted exclaimed.

Chief Whitestone tapped his pipe on the table, then replied, “It’s hard to tell, Ted. Whoever it was dug quite deep, though.”

“Father, we must find out whether he was successful!”

“But how?” Chief Whitestone asked.

Almost immediately Frank came up with a plan. “We’ll fool him and use a decoy.”

“What kind?” Ted asked.

“The best decoy in the world,” he told them. “The whole Ramapan tribe! They can put on their hunter’s moon ceremonial dance this evening instead of waiting.”

“I see,” said Joe. “If the digger didn’t find the treasure, he’ll be back.”

“Exactly. While everyone is watching the dance, he’ll count on being alone. But you and I, Joe, will keep watch by the teepee.”

“Great idea, Frank,” Chief Whitestone responded, slapping the youth on the back. “I’ll get the preparations for the ceremonial dance started right away.”

“Say,” Chet remarked eagerly, “that’s really a corker of a plan after all, Frank!”

The Hardys became restless as they waited, but finally darkness fell and the brilliant hunter’s moon rose like a flaming ball. Under its bright, glowing light the weird ceremony started.

First came the beat of the drums, beginning slowly, but growing more insistent. Then the dancers, dressed in war paint and feathers, started their elaborate rhythmical movements. They chanted, leaped, and twisted, as they circled the soaring flames of the great bonfire.

The dance soon got into full swing, with Indian faces reflecting the blaze of the fire and the drums pounding wildly. Although the boys found the strange ritual fascinating, Frank finally whispered to his brother:

“We’d better go. We have work to do.”

Walking stealthily they went straight to the place of the crisscross shadow. No one was around. They slipped inside the teepee and waited.

Presently Joe peeked out of the opening. For a moment all he could see was the frozen ground and the dark forest trees, still in the silver moonlight. Then he gave a sudden start.

“Someone’s coming!” he reported excitedly. “Let’s grab him!”

As the man came nearer, the boys rushed outside. At that moment something whizzed over their heads. A second later a large knife struck the side of the teepee.

Frank seized Joe by the shoulders and jerked him to the ground.

“That guy is trying to kill us!”

Terrified, the boys waited, their faces pressed into the cold earth. Then they heard the sound of running footsteps.

Joe stood up. “I guess the knife thrower’s gone. Whew! That was a close shave! Well, at least we know the gang hasn’t found the treasure yet!”

They walked back to the ceremonial dance, but found that the rite had been completed and the members of the tribe were returning home. The chief was talking soberly with a group of elderly men. Joe caught his eye and he came over in a few minutes.

Briefly, the boys recounted the experience with the knife thrower.

“I’ll keep guards posted here day and night,” the chief said gravely.

He beckoned to a couple of sturdy young men. After a few short commands from their leader, they stationed themselves near the teepee.

“I can use a good night’s sleep,” said Chet, coming up to them. He yawned.

The Hardys grinned. “All worn out from dancing” Joe teased. “You should have been dodging daggers as we were.”

“Wh-wh-what!” Hearing the story, Chet said, “Wow! We’d better cut out this night work.”

“We will,” Frank agreed. “I’m going to phone Sam Radley to find out if he’s heard anything from Dad and then hit the hay.”

He picked up the phone, which had been repaired earlier.

“Mr. Sam Radley, please,” he said to the hospital operator. “What! He’s disappeared! With a broken leg!”

Frank hung up and turned around. “Sam vanished from the hospital very mysteriously this morning. Left a check on the bureau for his bill. No one saw him leave.”

The boys looked at one another in amazement. Then Joe said, “Try his hotel. Maybe he’s there.”

But Sam was not at the hotel and the clerk had not heard from him.

“Maybe he’s gone after the saboteurs,” Chet suggested.

“More likely the gang has taken him captive,” Joe said worriedly.

The three sat lost in thought for several minutes, then Frank said, “I know somebody who might throw some light on his whereabouts.”

“Who?”

“Jack Wayne. Maybe Jack took Sam on a secret plane flight!”

“You’re right. Let’s phone him.”

Jack Wayne was a close friend of the Hardys. He owned a plane, and often piloted the boys, their father, or Sam on errands when speed and secrecy were needed to crack a case.

In a short time Frank was talking to Jack.

“W-e-l-l,” Jack began, as if reluctant to reply. “I have seen Sam. Flew him on a secret mission to Chicago this afternoon.”

“Did he give any details?” Frank wanted to know.

“He didn’t volunteer much information, and he swore me to secrecy. All I can tell you is this: continue your investigations at the Ramapan village, and don’t worry about a thing!”

Frank repeated the conversation to his brother and Chet.

“Continue our work, eh?” Joe said.

“But where?” Chet asked. “We’ve dug at the site of the crisscross shadow for the buried treasure, and all we have to show for it is a big pile of earth!”

“We’ve sure gone deep enough,” Joe declared. “You know what I think? That we haven’t been digging at the right shadow!”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head.” Frank thumped the arm of his chair. “There’s only one thing to do. Find the real crisscross shadow. We must do it tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, it may be cloudy. With the moon blotted out, we’ll really be stuck.”

“Count me in!” Chet exclaimed. “I can always catch up on lost sleep later.”

Ted and Chief Whitestone helped the Hardys in their preparations. Ted wanted to go on the search, but his father forbade this because of his exhausted condition.

Finally, equipped with hooks, picks, shovels, rope, and flashlights, the boys started off for the clearing where the teepee stood. When they arrived, Frank surveyed the area in the moonlight.

“The crisscross shadow has to be around here somewhere,” he stated firmly. “If it wasn’t made by teepee poles, then there must be another object which casts a shadow of the same type.”

Joe pointed to the sheer side of the mountain that rose out of the clearing.

“Let’s climb up there and have a look,” he suggested. “We’ll be able to see over a wider expanse from that height, and we may catch something we haven’t noticed before.”

Picking their way carefully up the steep slope, they finally reached the top of the mountain. The boys paused to catch their breath as they surveyed the whole panorama.

Their eyes swept back and forth across the scenic view below them. Intently they took in every detail, seeking the sign of the buried treasure.

“Nothing here,” Frank said. “Let’s look on the other side.”

They walked across the level summit which was barely a hundred feet wide. The far side dropped off in a sheer cliff. Across a narrow ravine rose another steep rocky slope.

Suddenly Joe clutched the other boys’ arms.

“Look!” he cried, his voice rising in excitementment. “Down by that crevice in that cliff over there!”

CHAPTER XVII

A Parted Rope

“THE crisscross shadow!”

“We’ve found it at last!”

“Hurrah!”

The three boys stared at a perfect crossed shadow just above a cleft in the rock wall of the mountainside facing them. It was made by two overhanging slender pinnacles of rock.

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “We’ve found the shadow, but it would be suicide to try climbing down to it.”

“One misstep and we’d be goners.” Chet shivered.

“We’ve got to get down there somehow!” Joe said with determination. “The future of the Ramapan tribe depends on the deed to their property! There’s a narrow ledge just below us. If we could only—”

“Let’s try a rope,” Frank suggested, uncoiling one he was carrying over his shoulder.

He flung the end far out over the edge of the cliff. It wriggled down the stone face. The tossed coil apparently swung to the floor of the ledge, although from where they were standing the end of it was not visible.

“Quick! Tie the rope around a tree,” Frank called out. “I’ll go down first.”

“Say, whose idea was this treasure hunt?” Chet objected. But as he gave a look downward, he added, “On the other hand, I’d hate to be selfish.”

The Hardys grinned as Joe securely tied one end of the rope to a large tree trunk. Frank tested it to be sure it would hold; then, clutching it firmly, he let himself over the edge of the cliff and hand over hand started his descent.

Reaching the place where he thought the ledge continued under a sharply jutting overhang, he was doomed to disappointment. Instead of a flat surface, there was a pinnacle upon which it would be impossible to land.

“It’s no use,” he called up.

The climb back was more difficult. The rope creaked and Joe and Chet feared it might fray apart from the constant rubbing against the rocks and toss Frank into space. But he finally made it and was hauled up the last few feet.

“Chet,” Frank said, “how about your going back and telling Chief Whitestone what we’ve found out? He’ll certainly want to throw a guard around this place until proper equipment can be brought to get down there. Meanwhile, Joe and I’ll keep watch.”

Chet immediately crossed to the wooded side of the mountain and began to climb down. Hindered by his bulky figure and heavy clothes, he slipped and slid, making a great deal of noise.

Rising, Chet started the trek through the woods. Suddenly he halted. He had heard a sound in the brush. The palms of his hands turned clammy as he listened intently. But he did not hear the rustling again.

Shrugging his shoulders, though his heart was hammering, Chet walked on, trying to tread as noiselessly as possible. In a moment he heard the sound once more. This time it was directly behind him!

As he swung around he was grasped roughly and thrown to the ground. A hand was clapped over his mouth. He struggled violently, but in vain.

His masked captors bound and gagged him, then carried him to a large tree.

“Okay,” one of the attackers said gruffly. “You know what to do with this pest!”

“Yeah, but he weighs a ton,” another protested as Chet was hoisted up to the first limb.

In a few minutes he was tied to the upper part of the tree trunk, out of sight of the ground.

“Next we’ll take care of those meddling Hardy boys!” the leader declared.

When Chet heard the ominous words, he was terror-stricken. As the men moved off, he struggled to free himself, but he could not budge an inch. His heart sank as he realized that he was powerless to warn his friends.

In the meantime, Frank and Joe found a spot some fifty feet farther along the mountain where they thought they could get down to the ledge.

“Let’s try it!” Joe urged. “Maybe we can hop across from there to the side where the shadow is.”

They tied the rope around a tree.

“My turn this time,” Joe declared.

He went down carefully, landed on the narrow ledge, and calculated the distance to the other side.

“Okay, I’ll start down,” Frank called.

When he was within eight feet of the ledge, he felt the rope quiver. He looked up. His blood froze.

High above him, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, a masked face peered down at him. Alongside it was a hand holding a knife.

“Frank!” Joe cried in horror. “Somebody’s going to cut you off!”

Frank reached out desperately to save himself, but it was too late. With a single swipe of the knife, the strands were severed.

Frank went tumbling through the air!

With superhuman effort Joe braced himself and caught Frank as he came hurtling down the cliffside.

But for several moments it was nip and tuck between life and death as they swayed and teetered near the rim of the ledge. Then Frank was able to regain his own balance.

Near exhaustion, Frank and Joe sat down, oblivious even of the taunts being called down by the man at the top of the cliff. But finally his raucous voice broke in on their thoughts.

“Now what are you going to do?” he snarled.

Another joined him and jeered at the boys, “You can’t go down. You can’t go up. You’re trapped!”

“That’s Breck!” Frank whispered excitedly.

“And York!” Joe added.

“Well, that definitely ties Dad’s and our cases together!”

“Guess we’ll just have to sit it out until help comes,” Joe said. “Chet ought to be back soon.”

But as the minutes passed and none of their friends arrived, the Hardys began to grow uneasy.

“Maybe Chet was captured,” Joe remarked apprehensively.

The thought sobered them still more. Waiting made them nervous and fidgety. Finally Frank stood up.

“As long as we’re here, let’s cross over to the other ledge and look for the hidden papers and the dagger,” he suggested.

By inching along the narrow strip they came to a place where the leap across was not too hazardous. In a few moments they were on the other side and hurrying to the spot where they had seen the crisscross shadow.

Frank chuckled. “Those men on the top of the cliff may think we’ve escaped.”

“Let ’em think so! We’ll be well screened!”

Reaching the place where the two rock pinnacles were casting their shadow in the moonlight against the cliffside, the boys could now see a narrow opening just below it.

“The papers are probably hidden in here somewhere,” Frank remarked.

They took out their flashlights. Shielding the beams from any prying eyes above them, they began to search.

The two young detectives went over every inch of the rocky surface. For several minutes there was only the sound of their boots scraping the floor of the narrow opening. Then suddenly Joe gave a low cry!

CHAPTER XVIII

A Perilous Ruse

FRANK pulled a small rusty chest from a miniature cave hidden among the rocks. He turned his flashlight on it.

After trying unsuccessfully to open the lock, Joe finally pried off the lid. From inside gleamed a million beams of light.

“The jeweled dagger!” he cried excitedly, picking up the fabulous weapon. The handle was studded with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds.

“A regular pirate’s treasure!” Frank exclaimed.

“The papers are here too,” Joe said, digging down for a yellowed bundle.

“See if the deed is there,” Frank told him.

Joe opened a legal-looking document. He scanned it rapidly.

“This is it, Frank. The deed to the Ramapans’ land!”

Just then they heard voices.

“We’d better hide this again,” Frank advised.

Joe reached up and replaced the chest. Then quickly the boys scrambled out to the ledge. As they hurried along toward where they had leaped, the voices grew louder.

“Frank! Look over there! They’re coming down!”

Breck and York were dangling on a long rope almost across from where the boys were standing.

The Hardys’ first thought was to jump across and try to overpower their enemies, but they realized that a fight on the ledge would mean destruction for all of them. Frank and Joe decided to wait and see what the men’s intentions were.

The pair had removed their masks and were cautiously making their way down the face of the cliff. The boys waited tensely.

“Maybe they’re going to bargain with us,” Joe said hopefully.

Frank did not agree, but replied, “We’ve got to outwit them. Let’s try stalling them off until help comes.”

“How?”

“I’m thinking,” his brother answered. “We might—”

He had no chance to finish his sentence, for at that moment Breck dropped onto the ledge, and his companion followed a moment later. They jumped the span and faced the Hardys menacingly.

“Keep your distance, Breck!” Frank warned.

The boys had their shoulders to the wall of the ledge, alert for any move their enemies might make.

“Don’t worry. We’re not going to touch you. We’ll let starvation take care of that.”

“What we want to know,” the other man spoke up, “is where the treasure’s buried.” He guffawed. “You found the crisscross shadow for us.”

“What treasure?” Frank asked in a surprised tone of voice.

“Don’t give us that innocent stuff,” Breck growled. “You know where it is and you’re going to tell us!”

“How about a little exchange of information?” Frank countered. “You give us some, we’ll give you some in return.”

Joe clutched his brother’s arm. “You’re not going to tell them, are you?” he whispered anxiously.

Frank pressed Joe’s fingers in a negative signal.

“A deal, eh?” Breck sneered. “You want to make a deal when you’re cornered? What’s the game?” He turned to his companion. “What do you think?”

“Sure,” the other replied. “What have we got to lose?”

“Okay. Shoot,” Breck said to the boys.

“Tell us, then,” Frank asked, “what are you really after?”

“Very simple,” Breck replied. “I’m only helping Mr. York here regain his rightful inheritance.”

“What inheritance do you mean?” Joe spoke up.

“This land belongs to him.”

“And what’s more, we don’t intend to let Chief Whitestone produce any papers to disprove it,” York chimed in.

“We were getting along fine until you young meddlers came into the picture,” Breck went on. “You almost ruined things for us, but now we’ve got you and your fat friend too.”

“Chet Morton’s been captured?” Frank cried.

“Yeah.”

Joe moved forward. He wanted to choke this ruthless scoundrel. But Frank held him back.

“We warned you to lay off,” Breck sneered. “But you didn’t pay any attention. Thought you were smart detectives, but look where it got you.”

The boys remained silent, seething as Breck recounted the story of the plot to deprive the Ramapans of their land.

“Now, you’ve come to the end of the line,” Breck said, his voice becoming cold as steel. “You and your father.”

“Where’s Dad?” Frank cried.

“That you won’t find out. And now how about your end of the bargain? Where’s the treasure hidden?”

When the boys did not answer at once, he cried, “Come on! It’s almost daybreak and we’ve got to clear out of here before it gets light!”

Joe looked at Frank, who was clenching his fists.

“You want the treasure, eh?” the older boy parried.

“Hurry up!”

“Walk along this ledge. You’ll find a slab of rock sticking out. Turn in there and keep going. Feel around for more sharp-pointed rocks and start counting. When you get to the twelfth one, reach up.”

Joe could hardly keep his face straight. How plausible Frank’s story sounded!

The two men in their eagerness forgot to be cautious. While they followed directions, arguing all the way, the boys waited till they were out of earshot before speaking.

In a moment they were far enough away. Frank whispered to Joe, “The rope! Let’s use it now!”

Swiftly and silently the boys jumped to the other ledge. They grasped the rope, and reeling it as they climbed, worked their way to the top of the cliff.

Suddenly there came a shout of anger from below. “Hey, you double-crossers, come back!”

As the boys scrambled to the top, Breck and York yelled curses from below.

“We’ve made it!” Joe exclaimed, throwing his leg over the top of the cliff and dragging himself up. Frank quickly followed.

“You have, eh?” a voice cried out.

They looked up. Three strange men, obviously armed, had them ambushed!

“If you value your lives, don’t run!” one yelled.

The unequal struggle lasted only a minute. The boys were once more prisoners. Getting a close look at one of the trio, Joe whispered to Frank:

“Look at the one in the Indian suit! He’s the man I shadowed that day I was attacked by Smirkis!”

“Shut up!” the man ordered.

A second one said, “You guys have given us a lot of trouble. We ought to drop you over the cliff. What say, gang?”

Meanwhile, the rope which was tied around a tree had been let down. At that moment Breck and York appeared at the rim. It was daybreak now and in the light the boys could see their angry faces plainly.

“You lied about the treasure!” Breck yelled. “We don’t go for things like that! Come on, York! We’ll show them!”

He grasped Frank by the shoulder while York grabbed Joe. With the others helping, the boys were slowly but surely pushed toward the edge of the cliff!

CHAPTER XIX

Mousetrapped

WHEN Frank and Joe were only twenty feet from the edge, struggling with all their might against the men who were shoving them backward toward certain death, Frank suddenly shouted:

“Time out!”

He had caught sight of two figures racing toward them. Chet and Ted!

Chet had escaped from his enemies, they thought thankfully. But now in his desire to rescue the Hardys, he was running straight into danger.

At Frank’s outcry Chet stopped short and grabbed Ted. He was not exactly sure what Frank had meant by his signal call, but he interpreted it to mean that he should wait. Anxiously he and Ted slipped behind a boulder to await further instructions.

The assailants, surprised at Frank’s strange words, halted also.

“What’s the idea?” Breck demanded.

Frank looked him squarely in the eye. “If you still want that treasure, for Pete’s sake don’t push us over the cliff. You don’t know where it is and we do.”

“That’s right, boss,” one of the men said.

“They double-crossed us once. They’ll do it again,” Breck replied.

“We didn’t double-cross you before,” Frank said. “We just didn’t tell you to go far enough. Listen. You have nothing to lose. We’re still your prisoners.”

Breck thought this over a moment. “What are you driving at?” he asked finally.

“We want to live,” Frank answered.

“I say give them a chance,” York spoke up. “We want those papers.”

“Okay.” Turning to his henchmen, Breck said, “You stay here with them. If they give you any trouble, you know what to do! York and I will go down the cliff again.” He glared at the boys. “You’d better be telling us the truth this time! Where’s the treasure?”

Frank had a desperate plan in mind.

“Continue from where you were before. A few yards to your left you’ll see a narrow opening in the rocks. Walk five feet in there, reach up above your head, and you’ll find a box.”

The eyes of Breck and York gleamed with excitement. Quickly they began to descend the rope to the ledge below. The three men who stayed behind took positions in a triangular formation to guard the Hardys.

All this time Joe had been listening dumbfounded to Frank. Like the other two boys, however, he had realized that Frank had some plan. Watching closely and waiting with every muscle tense for a signal, Joe was rewarded a moment later.

“34—86X!” Frank yelled.

The secret play! Chet’s number was 34. The center poised for action!

“Hey, what’s the—?” the guard on Frank’s left started to say.

He got no further. The four boys rushed at their enemies. Frank, veering to the left, tackled one guard, throwing him to the ground. Joe mowed down the man on his right in a flying leap.

Chet, running pell-mell, neatly cut off the third guard who had started to the aid of the fellow Frank had attacked.

Again the secret defensive play had worked!

With the assistance of Ted’s strong arms and lightninglike movements, they soon brought the fight to a close and disarmed the criminals. The captors were now the captives!

As soon as he dared leave, Frank hurried to the edge of the cliff and quickly pulled up the rope, to keep Breck and York below. Coming back to the others, he said tersely:

“Give me a hand tying these fellows up.”

“We ought to take them to your father, Ted,” Joe suggested.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll summon help,” the Indian youth answered.

Cupping his hands to his mouth, he gave a weird cry. “Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay! That’s the Ramapans’ war cry,” he explained. “Listen!”

From the valley below came an answer. “Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay! Ee-ooo-ay!”

“Help will be here in a few minutes,” Ted told them.

The captives, fearful of what the Indians might mete out in the form of punishment, fought like wildcats in a desperate battle to gain their freedom. But although they loosened their bonds, the boys quickly subdued them and wound the rope tighter about them.

“Well, Chet,” Joe said as they dropped to the ground to rest, “tell us who captured you and how you got away.”

Chet pointed to the roped-up men, then told the story of his capture.

“Ted rescued me from the tree,” he concluded. “I managed to get the gag out of my mouth and then started hollering.”

Ted grinned. “You certainly can yell, fellow!”

A few minutes later a band of eight Ramapans burst into view, ready for battle. They looked disappointed upon learning that their enemies already were prisoners. Ted asked six of the Indians to take the men to their village to await the police.

“You two stay here,” he directed the others. “There are more of the gang below.” He pointed over the cliff wall.

When the rope was removed from the prisoners, who were marched off, Frank lowered it over the rim.

“I forgot to tell you, Ted,” he said, “that Breck and York will be bringing the dagger and the deed up with them.”

“What!”

Frank explained the desperate chance he had taken, but there was only praise from the Indians for his action.

Joe, meanwhile, had been inching forward on his stomach until he came to the edge of the precipice. He peered over.

“They’re coming!” he reported in a hoarse whisper. “Breck has the box tied to his belt!”

The impatient boys got set to grab York, who was in the lead. As his head appeared over the rim, they grasped him under the arms and yanked him up.

“They’re coming!” Joe reported

“Okay,” he said cheerfully before he realized who his assistants were. Then, seeing them, he yelled, “Breck, they’re loose!”

Breck’s head jerked upward. Catching sight of the boys, he instantly started climbing down the rope.

“Stop!” Ted cried.

“You’ll never get me!” screamed Breck from ten feet below them.

Frank and Joe grabbed the rope and began pulling it up. The movement caused Breck to sway out into space. He glanced downward, and a sickened look crossed his face. Then his courage returned.

“Cut it out!” he shouted. “You’ve got me but you’ll never use these papers!”

Holding on with one hand, he began unfastening the box from his belt.

“You can’t do that!” Ted cried.

“Oh no!” Breck sneered. “Watch me!”

At that instant the Hardys gave a powerful yank on the rope. With Chet guarding York to avoid a slip-up, the three Indians, holding hands, made a human chain. With one man grasping the tree, they strained forward. Ted leaned out over the cliff and snatched the box from Breck just as he was about to drop it.

“You fiends!” he screamed.

A moment later he reached the top of the cliff, too wrathful to speak further. He looked around wildly for his confederates. Not seeing them, he turned to York. But York remained silent.

“Thanks for getting the treasure for us,” Chet said, relieving the tension.

The men looked on sullenly as Ted opened the box. Nothing had been disturbed, and everyone gasped upon seeing the jeweled dagger.

“And the deed—it’s here!” Ted exclaimed jubilantly. “Frank and Joe, you’ve saved the Ramapans’ home for them!”

“We couldn’t have done it without you and Chet,” Frank replied.

“No, indeed,” Joe agreed. “We sure were in a tight spot a few minutes ago.”

“Let’s get started for your home with these prisoners, Ted,” Frank urged. “Joe and I still have work to do.”

“You mean you haven’t solved the whole mystery?” Ted asked, amazed.

“There’s a friend of these men I’d like to talk to.”

“Who’s that?”

“Miles Kamp, the lawyer,” Frank replied.

The boys’ prisoners flinched. Breck broke his silence.

“He’s too slick for you!” he boasted. “Kamp’s one of this country’s cleverest lawyers.”

“For certain characters,” Frank shot at him. “Get moving!”

The prisoners were marched off, surrounded by their bodyguard. When they reached Ted’s house, Chief Whitestone was overwhelmed. After meeting his erstwhile enemies, and being presented with the box, he fervently shook hands with the Hardys and Chet.

“My gratitude can never be adequately expressed,” he said. “The Ramapans will always remember your fine and courageous work to help them. By adoption I pronounce you Hardys members of the Ramapan tribe! I understand you, Chet, already have inherited an Indian title.”

“That’s right,” Chet replied.

“This is a great honor,” the brothers said in unison and accepted their adoption with a bow.

State troopers, who had been summoned by Chief Whitestone, arrived soon afterward and took the five captives away. Then Joe went to the telephone and called Chief Collig in Bayport. He briefly told of the recent arrests and the officer shouted his congratulations into the phone.

“That’s great work, boys.”

“We want you to arrest Miles Kamp at once,” Joe said.

There was a snort on the other end of the wire, followed by a long throat-clearing sound.

“Joe, I’m sorry to say Kamp gave us the slip,” Collig confessed.

“What!”

“My men were covering him day and night. Then, one evening, he just disappeared from his office like a puff of smoke.”

“No clues?”

“None.”

Disappointed, Joe hung up and reported the conversation to Frank.

“Maybe we can find out something from Breck and York!” Frank cried.

Calling a hasty good-by to the Whitestones, they dashed for the door.

“If you don’t need me,” Chet spoke up, “I think I’ll stay here a little longer. I want to find out some more about Chief Wallapatookunk.”

Joe laughed. “Enjoy yourself!”

Frank and Joe raced after the troopers and their prisoners and twenty minutes later caught up with them. The group paused while the boys questioned Breck and York. At first the men refused to give any help as to where the wily lawyer might be found.

“You want Kamp to defend you, don’t you?” Frank asked. “How are you going to find him? He’s not at his home or his office any more.”

“The skunk! Why not?” York shouted.

“Well, where can we locate him?” Joe prodded.

Without stopping to analyze the situation, York burst out, “He’d better come across! I’m not going to take this rap without a fight! Tell him to come here! Look for him at his boathouse.”

“Where is it?” Frank asked.

“He never told me. He said it was his special hideout when he wanted to get away from people and work on a case. But I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere in Southport.”

The Hardys waited no longer. They hurried to Lantern Junction, where they learned that a plane for Bayport would stop in an hour at the nearby airport.

The boys spent most of the interim at the hotel, satisfying their appetites which had been neglected for too many hours. Then they rode to the airport and boarded the plane.

Reaching Bayport, they taxied home to pick up their car. Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude greeted them in surprise. The women were thrilled to hear that Breck, York, and their henchmen had been captured but were dismayed to hear the boys were about to go after Kamp at his boathouse.

“Why don’t you let the police do it?” Aunt Gertrude said. “I’ll bet that waterfront is full of all sorts of wicked people.”

“We’ll dodge ’em all,” Joe said, grinning.

The young detectives drove off, going as fast as the speed limit allowed. Reaching the Southport waterfront, they parked and started walking. The first quarter mile contained only large piers; the second quarter, the tenement district the boys had visited before.

“I guess the private boathouses are all up farther,” Frank remarked.

They plodded on. As they reached the area where private boats were kept, he and Joe began questioning all the fishermen and craft owners they met. First, they would ask them if they knew where Miles Kamp’s boathouse was, then inquire if they had ever seen a short, heavy-jowled man who was very nearsighted. At last they were rewarded. One workman said that although he did not know the man’s name, he had seen a person who fitted the description.

“I’ve noticed him going in and out of that green boathouse with the apartment over the water,” he said, pointing down the shore a short distance.

“Thanks.”

The boys hurried along the dirt roadway back of the boathouses. Coming to the green one, they paused.

“Look!” Joe whispered. “On the window sill.”

Frank turned. On it lay a pair of thick-lensed glasses.

“I guess this is it, all right!”

Suddenly a burly man appeared from a board-walk running along the side of the apartment.

“What do you want?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“We want to see Miles Kamp,” Frank said boldly.

“A message from Breck,” Joe added in a confidential whisper.

The other’s eyes widened. “Okay. Didn’t know you were friends of his.” He stood aside to let them pass and indicated the door. “Go right in.”

As Frank slowly turned the knob, he and Joe exchanged glances.

This was the big test! Would they win or lose?

CHAPTER XX

A Victory Feast

THE boys entered the room and found Kamp lying on a sofa. A quick glance around the grimy shack convinced them that the bombastic lawyer was alone.

“Who is it?” the man asked, rising to peer at them nearsightedly. He blinked several times, then reached for his glasses on the window sill, but Joe moved them out of his reach.

“Your game is up,” Frank declared grimly. “Your gang has been taken prisoner!”

“What are you talking about?” Kamp cried.

“You’d better confess,” Joe said as he bound the lawyer’s wrists and ankles with ropes they had carried in their pockets. The boys were running no risks that Kamp might slip through their clutches.

“Help! Help!” he cried loudly.

The guard outside heard it and rushed in.

“What are you guys up to—?” he began. Then, catching sight of Kamp’s bound wrists, he roared with anger. “You tricked me.”

The Hardys leaped at him. In a moment he was their captive along with his boss.

Frank now picked up Kamp’s horn-rimmed glasses and adjusted them over his ears.

“The Hardy boys!” the lawyer screamed. “How did you—? What—?” He turned pale.

“Tell us your story,” Frank prodded. “What was your connection with Breck and York?”

Having recovered from the shock at seeing the Hardys, he said blandly, “I don’t know what you’re after,” he said.

“What’s your connection with York?” Joe countered.

“York?” Kamp asked. “You want to know about him? Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll tell you what little I know. Take this rope off.”

“Not yet. You talk.”

“York came to me with a story about having been cheated out of some property rights by an illegal sale to the Ramapans. I thought he had a legitimate case, so I took it. There’s nothing wrong with a lawyer taking a case, is there?”

“It depends on the client,” Frank replied skeptically. “What’s Breck’s part in the case?”

“Breck? Why, he works for me. Kind of an errand boy. I had him on this case. That’s all.”

“That’s all, eh? We’ll see about that!” A familiar voice came from the doorway.

All eyes turned to see who the speaker was, although the boys recognized the voice instantly.

“Dad!”

“Sam Radley!”

They rushed over to greet their father and his assistant, who was using crutches.

“What a relief to see you two!” cried Joe. “Dad, you don’t look beat up. We were worried about you.”

“I know you were, but I couldn’t tell you anything.” The famous detective smiled warmly at his sons. “I’m in pretty good health,” he added, winking broadly.

“How’d you know where to find us?” Frank asked.

“We stopped off at the house, and your mother told us where you’d be, so we traced you here. And not a minute too soon, I see.” He surveyed the two prisoners, who glared at him.

Joe turned to Sam. “Say, why did you leave the hospital so quickly?” he asked.

“Because,” Sam answered with a meaningful look at Kamp, “I had a little visit from a so-called bone surgeon. These crooks sure thought of every angle, all right!”

“You mean,” Frank said, amazed, “that someone from the gang came to see you, disguised as a physician?”

“Exactly,” Sam declared. “In that way he gained entrance to the hospital, having persuaded the authorities there that my doctor had asked him to examine my leg.

“It was a clever attempt at worming information from me,” the assistant detective went on. “But from his conversation, I soon knew he was no doctor. I managed to evade his questions so that he wouldn’t suspect I was on to his game.”

“No wonder you made such a fast exit,” Frank put in.

“I had to get out of there before the gang sent someone back to try more desperate means to make me talk,” Sam continued. “With the help of my own doctor I was able to get some crutches and hobble away in time.”

“Kamp was lying to you boys,” Mr. Hardy said as all eyes focused again on the glum-faced lawyer. “Want to tell the truth, Kamp, or shall I?”

The man looked sullen and did not reply.

“Don’t believe a word of that fairy tale Kamp was telling you,” Fenton Hardy began. “He’s no small-city attorney. He’s the legal brains of a gang of saboteurs that has been terrorizing the country! But no longer. They’ve been rounded up.”

Frank and Joe grinned triumphantly. They had been right about the connection between their case and the one on which their father had been working.

“The gang wanted the Ramapans’ property,” the detective continued, “to carry out a great plan. It’s so secluded it would have made a wonderful hiding place for big-time saboteurs.

“Kamp, you hired a man named York to help you, but his real name is Philip Varry. He’s a small-time crook.” Mr. Hardy paused to let this sink in. Then he went on:

“You got Varry to pose as Philip York, a missing heir to the Ramapan land.”

Kamp studied the floor for a moment, then he raised his eyes.

“I might as well tell you everything. We planned to have Varry force a sale of the property,” he said. “Whitestone refused to sell, so we had to take stronger measures.

“When we learned that the records had been burned and the Ramapans’ deed was missing, I sent Varry up there to try to find it. Then you Hardy boys got involved in the case.”

“Did you send us the threatening note?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

“And your men pushed us onto the railroad track?”

“That was our work. I had a friend of mine yell from the street to distract everyone’s attention.”

“How did you know where we were going?” Frank asked the lawyer.

“I had someone shadowing you,” Kamp replied. “The morning you found the school closed he heard you talking about it. But we couldn’t win.

“While Phil was in the Lantern Junction station, he stole a suitcase full of leather articles. He gave them to me, and when Breck came to make his report, I turned them over to him to use as a ruse to get into your house.”

“So he did steal the key and hand it over to you,” Joe said. “Where’d he hide it—in his mouth?”

“Yes, he gave it to me at police headquarters.”

“Why did you want to get into our house?” Frank asked.

“There were letters and other documents in your father’s file cabinet that the saboteurs wanted. We could have broken in, of course, but that would have set the police on us at once.”

Frank told his father about the trick that had been played on them, and how puzzled they were by the voice.

“I can explain that,” Mr. Hardy said. “I was on the West Coast making an anticrime movie. Part of the recording was stolen.”

“Did the record say something about ‘You can’t beat these men. Give up!’ ” Joe asked excitedly.

His father smiled. “Yes, it did. The whole record went like this: ‘The American law enforcement agencies are the best in the world. You can’t beat these men. Give up. Go home to your local communities and forget the idea that crime pays!’

“I didn’t know who had stolen the recording, but you’ve solved that mystery too, boys. They played a vital part of the record to make you believe I was a captive. Thank goodness they didn’t succeed in scaring you off the case!”

“The masquerade had us fooled for a while. We thought you were in two places at once,” Frank said.

“Well, when I heard about the photograph that had been stolen from our house, it was clear that someone made up to look like me was entering plants in order to sabotage them, so I went after him.

“I didn’t want to be traced, so I swore the hotel clerk to secrecy, and also the detective you put on my trail. I couldn’t afford to let anyone know my plans,” Fenton Hardy explained. “We can discuss the case at home, boys. Right now we’d better turn our prisoners over to the police.”

At dinner Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude listened eagerly to the outcome of the mystery.

“I told you right from the start Breck was a criminal!” Aunt Gertrude said smugly. “I’ve been working on that myself all this time.”

She went for her purse and produced a clipping several years old.

“The newspaper found this for me,” she said. “Breck’s never been any good. Once he was sent to jail as a confidence man.”

“Nice evidence,” Joe said admiringly.

Miss Hardy was pleased by the compliment and was about to reply when the telephone rang. Frank answered. He listened a few moments. Then, after hanging up, he turned to the others:

“It was Chet. Joe, you and I are to go up to Lantern Junction tomorrow to testify against Breck and Varry.”

Joe grinned. “Never a dull moment.”

The boys phoned Jack Wayne and made arrangements for him to fly them. Upon arriving at Lantern Junction the next morning they went straight to court, where Chet met them. The hearing was in progress. Later the Hardys gave testimony which the prosecutor said would send the swindlers to prison for long terms. And their trial for sabotage was yet to come!

After the hearing, Ted invited the boys and Jack Wayne to a farewell dinner with the Ramapans. “A real Indian feast,” he promised. At the Whitestone house, he made an announcement.

“We understand Chet’s great-grandfather, Ezekiel Morton, was an Indian agent here and was made honorary chief of the Pashunks who used to live nearby. We Ramapans want to honor young Chief Wallapatookunk, which we believe means Eat-a-Whole-Moose.”

Everyone smiled.

“And now, Chet,” Ted continued, “we hope you won’t have any trouble imitating your great-grandfather.”

A whole side of venison was carried in and set before Chet! Everyone in the room roared with laughter.

Frank and Joe were surrounded with gifts the Indians had presented in gratitude for their work in locating the deed and the jeweled dagger. The Hardys had never received a greater ovation for solving a mystery. But another was to come when they had concluded The Yellow Feather Mystery.

“Well, I guess it’s back to the old dull school and football for us now.” Chet sighed as he finished a third helping of venison.

“Dull? Football? Remember our defensive play 86X,” Joe reminded him.

“That play pulled us through a dangerous adventure,” Frank said. “Without it, the Ramapans might not be feasting us so happily tonight.”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Strange Request

CHAPTER II - A Three-cornered Puzzle

CHAPTER III - A Surly Student

CHAPTER IV - Unwanted Detectives

CHAPTER V - An Odd Bookmark

CHAPTER VI - Framed!

CHAPTER VII - A Thwarted Intruder

CHAPTER VIII - Snowbound

CHAPTER IX - Cat and Mouse Sleuthing

CHAPTER X - A Puzzling Ad

CHAPTER XI - Dangerous Waters

CHAPTER XII - A Disastrous Fire

CHAPTER XIII - A Minor Explosion

CHAPTER XIV - The Wild Chase

CHAPTER XV - A Frightened Bully

CHAPTER XVI - An Unexpected Twist

CHAPTER XVII - A Startling Story

CHAPTER XVIII - Cannonballs of Ice

CHAPTER XIX - Victory Snatched Away

CHAPTER XX - The Final Roundup

THE YELLOW FEATHER MYSTERY

THE famous young detectives Frank and Joe Hardy are caught up in a dangerous web of intrigue when they agree to help Greg Woodson search for his grandfather’s missing will. Greg feels sure that he is the rightful heir to his grandfather’s property, including Woodson Academy, but no trace of a will can be found.

Greg’s grandfather had promised to tell him about “Yellow Feather” shortly before he died. Who or what can Yellow Feather be? And where does Henry Kurt, the temporary headmaster of Woodson Academy, fit in? He insists that he is to inherit the school. Moreover, Kurt claims to have been threatened by Yellow Feather!

Frank and Joe risk their lives several times before they solve the mystery of Yellow Feather and trap a sinister criminal who will stop at nothing—even murder—to satisfy his greed for money.

Joe pulled himself and the boy up

Copyright © 1971, 1953, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 78-158746

eISBN : 978-1-101-07647-7

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Strange Request

SKATING against the stiff evening wind, Frank and Joe Hardy streaked across the frozen surface of Willow River toward Woodson Academy. The bright winter moon was rising beyond the buildings on their right along the riverbank.

“Why do you suppose Gregory Woodson phoned us to meet him at the school boathouse?” Joe asked.

“Just before the connection was broken, Greg said he feared that someone might overhear us in the dormitory,” Frank told his brother. “I guess what he’s going to tell us must be top secret.”

“It sure sounds so,” Joe remarked as the boys approached the meeting place. “Well, he ought to be here. It’s five-thirty.”

Dark-haired Frank Hardy, eighteen, and his blond brother, a year younger, were known in Bayport, where they lived, as clever detectives. Although they were still high school students, they often helped their father, a nationally famous sleuth, solve baffling cases. Occasionally they were asked to solve a mystery on their own, like the present one.

When the boys reached the boathouse raft, the building was pitch black and the silence intense. Suddenly a youthful voice called quietly:

“Come straight across the float, fellows. I’m right in front of you!”

“Is that you, Woodson?” Frank asked.

“Yes, it is. You’re the Hardys?”

“That’s right.”

As the boys walked forward on their skates, a tall, slender young man moved out of the shadows. The Hardys judged him to be about twenty-two.

“I’m sorry we were cut off when you phoned,” Frank began. “You want us to help you solve a mystery?”

“Yes. My grandfather, Elias Woodson, was headmaster and owner of the Academy until his recent death. It’s about the inheritance I’m supposed to receive that I’d like to talk to you.”

Both Hardy boys immediately warmed up to the pleasant young man and Joe said, “Our father’s an alumnus of the Academy and knew your grandfather well. I’m sure Dad would want us to help you.”

“Thanks,” Woodson responded. “I’m glad you’ll take the case—you might call it the mystery of the Yellow Feather.”

“Yellow Feather?” Joe repeated.

“I’ll explain in a moment,” Woodson replied.

“I have a key to the boathouse. Let’s go inside out of the wind and I’ll show you a clue I brought along.”

As the boys were about to enter the building, a wild scream out on the river arrested their attention.

“Look there!” Joe cried.

A short distance down the shore several students were skating near a large bonfire. Close by a large black hole yawned in the ice. Joe caught sight of a young boy trying to crawl back from the thin-surfaced area at the edge of it.

Joe did not wait. Like a flash he was off across the ice, with Frank and Greg trailing him. As Joe approached, the youngster shrieked in terror, crashed through the ice, and disappeared. There were cries of horror from his companions.

Without hesitation Joe slid into the dark water. As Greg Woodson and Frank looked on, ready to help, he rose to the surface with the struggling boy.

“Hold on!” Frank cried.

He had spotted a long log near the bonfire. Grabbing one end of it, he asked Greg to help him. Together they laid the log across the thin ice and the hole. While they held it, Joe pulled himself and the young skater up on it and slowly they made their way to a safe spot on firm ice.

Immediately the rescued twelve-year-old began to shake from the shock of the icy water. His friends crowded around in awe and fright, explaining to the Hardys that they had been playing snap-the-whip when their end player, Skinny Mason, had been flung off the firm ice.

“You okay, Skinny?” one of the players asked.

“I-I g-guess so.”

Frank whipped off his heavy leather jacket and wrapped it around the shivering boy.

“Th-thanks,” Skinny quavered. “I’ll b-be all r-right now.” He looked gratefully at Joe and added, “I’ll never forget that you s-saved my l-life!”

“Come on. We’d better get you both to the school,” Greg urged.

An older boy skated up, saying that he would take charge of Skinny. As he moved off with the youngster, Joe turned to Greg.

“Is there any place we can go where I can dry my clothes? I want to hear the rest of your story.”

Greg thought a moment. “I’ve got it—the caretaker’s cottage. Nobody will be there at this hour. The door’s always open and I know the Teevans well. They’ve been here a long time.”

When the boys reached the snow-covered riverbank they removed their skates and hurried through a patch of woods to the Teevan house. A low light shone inside. As Greg opened the door and invited them to enter, he remarked that Mrs. Teevan was the school cook.

A few minutes later the three were seated before an open fire. Joe had wrapped Mr. Teevan’s bathrobe about him while Greg put his clothes in the dryer. Then young Woodson made hot cocoa for all of them.

As Frank sipped the steaming drink, he said, “Tell us your story, Greg.”

“The night before Grandfather’s death I received a phone call from him at Myles College, where I’m a student. He explained that his health was failing rapidly, and he wanted to tell me about the Yellow Feather.

“I never did find out what he meant,” the young man continued. “Grandfather suddenly became ill and hung up. The next day I received a call from Henry Kurt, the assistant headmaster, that my grandfather had died.”

“That’s too bad,” Frank said. “How long ago was this?”

“Several weeks,” Greg replied. “So far no will has been found. But Grandfather told me that he had willed me his entire estate.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Have you contacted his lawyer?”

“Yes. Grandfather obviously never consulted him in this matter.”

“Has a thorough search been made?” Joe inquired.

“Sure. I even tested all the walls at the school for secret panels and hidden closets. But now I have a new worry. Since I’ve been here searching, I’ve received several mysterious phone calls and a couple of unsigned letters warning me to leave Woodson Academy. I think the person is the Yellow Feather!”

The Hardys looked at each other, perplexed.

“It’s a mighty queer name for anyone unless he’s an Indian,” Joe commented. “Have you any clues to his identity?”

“Just a couple of days after Grandfather’s death, I received a peculiar letter. Grandfather had addressed the envelope—I’m sure of that, even though the ink was nearly washed off. Inside was a sheet of white paper with the name Hardy printed in the top left corner.”

“Yes?” Frank prodded, startled to hear that his own family might be involved in the mystery.

“That was the only writing on the sheet,” Greg explained. “But below the name was something most unusual—a group of small rectangular cutouts arranged horizontally. Here, I’ll show it to you.”

Greg crossed the room to where his jacket hung over a chair. He ran his hands through the pockets, at first slowly, then with frantic speed. At last he wheeled about, his face ash white.

“The paper—and the envelope—I’ve lost them!”

At the Hardys’ suggestion Greg Woodson made a search of all his pockets for the missing envelope. But it was of no avail.

“That piece of paper might be the key to the mystery of the Yellow Feather!” he said.

“Perhaps you dropped the envelope when we were rescuing Skinny,” Joe suggested.

Greg snapped his fingers. “Of course. It must have slipped out then.”

“Let’s take a look,” Frank proposed.

Joe’s clothes were now completely dry, so he quickly donned them. Greg borrowed flashlights from the kitchen closet, then the three boys grabbed their skates and hurried from the cottage. At the river’s edge they sat down to put on their skating shoes. As Greg knotted a broken lace, he said, “I’d hoped to become Grandfather’s assistant here after I graduate from college in June. Then when he died, I figured on running the school myself.”

“But until a will is found you can’t do that, I suppose,” Frank said.

“That’s right. And it won’t be easy to run the school even then. For the last few years, it has been a financial struggle to keep the Academy going.”

“Dad has mentioned that the enrollment’s fallen off,” Joe spoke up.

“But with certain new ideas I have, I believe it would pick up again,” Greg answered. Then he added, “I’m afraid the Yellow Feather is in some way responsible for the missing will. That’s why it’s so important to find him.”

By this time all three had started down the river. Fanning out with the borrowed flashlights, they searched from the boathouse all the way to the scene of Skinny Mason’s mishap.

“No envelope here,” Joe called.

There were negative responses from Frank in the middle and Greg on the other side.

Refusing to give up, they scanned the riverbank, thinking the wind might have blown the letter up on the shore. No luck!

Frank was about to suggest that he and Joe start for home and return in the morning when they heard the noise of a motor.

“Where’s that coming from?” Greg asked.

The buzzing sound seemed to be coming closer. As the boys peered toward a bend in the river, waving their flashlights, Frank shouted, “Hey, look out!”

With a shove he sent Greg and Joe sprawling to one side. As he did, a shadowy bulk bore down on them and whisked past in the darkness.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “What kind of iceboat was that?”

Before anyone could answer, Frank gave another cry of warning.

A shadowy bulk bore down on them

“Here it comes back!”

But this time the iceboat was moving slowly. Just before it reached them it scraped to a complete stop.

“Hi, fellows! Thought I recognized your voices.”

“Chet Morton!” the Hardys cried out.

“What kind of gimmick is that?” Joe asked.

“It’s a cross between a bobsled and an iceboat,” said Chet as he hopped from the weird contraption. “I just finished putting it together a little while ago.”

The heavy-set boy was a loyal friend who had faced danger with the Hardys in many of their exciting adventures ever since he had helped them unravel their first mystery, The Tower Treasure.

With a sheepish grin Chet said, “I sure didn’t mean to come so close to you fellows, but I couldn’t see very far ahead. Besides, the rudder’s not working right.”

Frank introduced pug-nosed, freckle-faced Chet to Greg, then examined the strange-looking craft with his flashlight.

“No sail,” he observed. “But you certainly were moving along, Chet. Say—what’s this back here—a propeller?” Chet nodded.

“Almost like a catamaran,” Joe commented, “but for travel on ice. It’s a pretty swell idea.”

Proudly Chet admitted to being the inventor.

“Not only for ice,” he corrected Joe, “but for snow. It has interchangeable runners.”

Greg was impressed and said so.

“It works fine,” Chet told him. “That is, I was moving along pretty well until some guy on skates crossed right in front of me. I almost turned myself inside out to avoid hitting him.”

Chet pointed to the rudder, which was bent out of position.

“And then he had the nerve to bawl me out,” the boy complained. “I thought he’d shake his goatee right off onto the ice.”

Greg started. “You say he wore a goatee? Was he a man in his late thirties?” Chet nodded, and Greg went on, “That must have been Henry Kurt, the assistant headmaster I was telling you fellows about. The court appointed him to be in charge of the school until the year’s over.”

“He looked more like an absent-minded professor to me than a headmaster,” Chet remarked. “Skating along, trying to read some piece of paper by flashlight, instead of watching where he was going.”

Greg and the Hardys looked at one another. Could Kurt have picked up the missing letter?

Frank and Joe decided they would certainly try to find out the next day. After a few minutes’ further conversation, Greg excused himself to return to the Academy, saying he would see the boys in the morning.

“Sure thing,” they agreed.

After Greg had left, Frank said, “Let’s get this contraption started and head back to Bayport.”

“Yes, crank her up, Chet,” Joe demanded. “You can tow us all the way to town—and a late dinner.”

But when their stout friend attempted to spin the flywheel of the small motor which ran the craft’s propeller, there was no response. Grunting from the exertion, Chet tried again and again.

“Something’s wrong!” he wailed. “It won’t catch! Well,” he added with a resigned sigh, “I guess you fellows will have to tow me home.”

“What!” Joe protested. “We can’t drag that thing five miles to Bayport. It would take all night.”

Frank offered the only possible solution. “Biff Hooper’s folks have a summer place up here, you know. We can pull your gimmick over to their dock, Chet, and tie it up for tonight. Tomorrow you can come back and do a repair job.”

“Okay,” Chet agreed. “But you’ll have to help me.”

It took only a few minutes to find the Hooper cabin. After Chet had lashed his craft to the dock, he put on the skates he had brought along and the trio headed for Bayport.

It was well past the usual dinner hour at the Hardy home when Frank and Joe trotted up the front steps. Mrs. Hardy met them at the door.

“I’m glad you’re home!” said their mother, a slim, pretty woman, who had been watching anxiously for her sons. “Your dinner’s in the oven.”

Another voice, pleasant but firm, broke in. “You’re lucky we saved you something. How come you boys are so late?”

The speaker was their father’s sister, who lived with the Hardys. Each time her nephews got involved in a new case, she predicted dire consequences. But despite their Aunt Gertrude’s constant chiding about the risks they ran, the boys were extremely fond of her.

Before Frank and Joe could explain the reason for being late for dinner, a deep male voice boomed out, “Hi, boys. Good thing you’re here. I want to talk to you before I catch a plane.”

Fenton Hardy, their tall, dark-haired father, smiled broadly as he came downstairs. He led them into the dining room, and while Aunt Gertrude served them roast lamb and vegetables, the young sleuths reported their adventure.

When they had finished, Mr. Hardy grinned. He reached into his pocket and drew out a white piece of paper.

“Have a look at this,” he said and held it up.

In the upper left-hand corner the name Hardy had been printed by hand. Below it were a series of rectangular cutouts!

Both boys stared dumbfounded, then cried out, “Where’d that come from?”

“Henry Kurt, the headmaster of Woodson Academy, brought it to me a little while ago.”

“What!” the boys shouted in astonishment.

“Kurt,” Mr. Hardy went on, “wants me to solve the mystery of the Yellow Feather!”

CHAPTER II

A Three-cornered Puzzle

“KURT asked you to solve the mystery of the Yellow Feather?” Frank gasped.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. “He left here just a short time before you arrived. He had a pair of skates tucked under his arm—must have skated down from the school.”

Joe asked breathlessly, “Did he say where he got the paper?”

The detective shook his head. “No, that never came up. I told him I was leaving town for a week—that I’d help him when I returned. He gave me the sheet of paper and urged that I get on the case as soon as possible.”

“Same thing Greg asked us,” Frank said.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “I see no reason why we couldn’t combine our sleuthing. You can work on the case while I’m away.”

The boys nodded.

“Before I leave, though,” the detective went on, “I’ll get off a telegram to the FBI, asking if they have any listing of a criminal known as the Yellow Feather.”

“In the meantime, we can try to find out who he is,” Frank said.

“And also the significance of the paper with the cutouts,” Joe added.

“But remember,” their father said, “the courts will take care of the legal aspects of the inheritance, pending the appearance of a will. You won’t have to worry about that.”

It was decided that the following day Frank and Joe would inform Greg Woodson and Henry Kurt of the Hardys’ decision to work together.

Next morning, as the boys sped along in their convertible with Frank at the wheel, they discussed what the reaction would be to their announcement about the Hardys combining their sleuthing.

“I wonder how Greg and Kurt will take the news,” Joe remarked.

“It’s my guess that Greg will be a good sport about it,” Frank replied, “but Kurt might not like the idea.”

“We know Greg’s story,” said Joe. “Let’s tackle Kurt first and see what he has to say.”

Reaching the site of Woodson Academy, Frank turned into the winding driveway. Ahead of them in the snow-covered landscape stood a long colonial-type brick building partially covered with ivy. From it rose a circular bell tower.

Frank parked in front of the main entrance and the boys hopped out. A student just coming out of the building gave directions to the headmaster’s office.

The door was opened by a slender, graying man, who carried himself very erect, with an almost military bearing. His dark eyes were keen and he wore a well-trimmed pointed goatee.

As soon as introductions had been exchanged, Henry Kurt said crisply, “Have you boys brought me a message from your father?”

“Yes. He asked us to speak to you and Greg Woodson together,” Frank replied.

“Greg and me? Together?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “We find you’re both interested in the same mystery.”

A trace of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “Umph! Well, if that’s what your father wants ... certainly. Just a moment.”

Kurt sent a messenger to the Academy’s guest room to summon Greg. Then he said, “I understand that your father is an alumnus of our school.”

“He is,” Frank replied. “And he’s very much concerned about what happens to Woodson Academy.”

“Naturally,” Kurt remarked. “That’s why I believe we can work together.”

It took only a few minutes for Greg Woodson to join them. The young man looked puzzled at seeing the Hardys in the headmaster’s office but greeted them pleasantly. Frank, as spokesman, explained the boys’ mission. Both Kurt and Greg showed an immediate antagonism toward each other.

To break the tension, Greg said, “It’s all right with me if Frank and Joe work for both of us. The quicker this mystery is solved the better.”

Kurt surveyed the young detectives icily, but finally he said in a flat tone, “I suppose if your father thinks you’re capable of handling an affair as important as this I’ll have to trust his judgment.”

“Dad knows what he’s doing, Mr. Kurt,” Frank replied. “Now, would you mind clearing up one point?”

“What is it?”

“We’ve been wondering where you got the sheet of paper you left with Dad last night—the one with the rectangular cutouts.”

“It was given to me by Elias Woodson just before he died. He didn’t have time to tell me what the cutouts meant. So I took it to your father to decipher.”

“Why did you wait so long?” Joe asked.

“I’ve been busy reorganizing the school,” Kurt reminded them. “I want to talk to you boys alone. Greg, would you please step outside?”

The young man looked annoyed but left. Then Kurt leaned forward confidentially.

“I thought it best not to upset Greg about what I’m going to tell you,” he said. “Greg’s a nice enough fellow, but he has no head for business. His grandfather knew that. At one time Elias Woodson planned to leave the school to him but changed his mind.”

The Hardys were astonished at the statement. This certainly complicated matters.

“When did Mr. Woodson make this decision?” Frank asked.

“Oh, I don’t know exactly,” Kurt answered. “But soon after I’d come to work here, he recognized my ability and decided to bequeath it to me.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. A feeling of distrust was building in their minds.

“I’m worried about two things,” Kurt continued. “First, the will of Elias Woodson has not been found. This hampers my efforts. And second, a mysterious character who uses a yellow feather as an insigne constantly threatened old Mr. Woodson, and now me, with both bodily harm and the burning of the school. Recently he sent me notes claiming that the school rightfully belongs to him!”

“This makes a three-cornered puzzle,” Frank thought. He kept silent, however, as did Joe, waiting for Kurt to continue.

“One more thing,” Kurt said. “I have filed application to become administrator of the estate since there is practically nothing in it but the school.”

“How do you know that, Mr. Kurt?” Frank asked.

“From Elias Woodson himself,” the headmaster quickly replied.

Frank and Joe looked quizzically at each other. Greg Woodson would not be happy to hear of this development!

“You may call Greg in now,” Kurt said. “Tell him whatever you think best.”

Joe went to get Greg, who returned and said to Kurt, “I think I’d prefer to talk to the Hardys alone, too. Frank and Joe, will you come to my room?”

“That seems fair enough,” Frank agreed.

He and Joe excused themselves and went upstairs with Woodson to the school’s guest room. It was located in the center of the building among the students’ dormitories. Greg closed the door and the three sat down.

“Greg,” Frank began, “how long before your grandfather died did he mention willing you the school?”

“At Christmas time. He spent the day with me. Why?”

“Because two other people are claiming the place belongs to them,” Frank replied.

“What!” Greg exclaimed. “Who are they?”

“Kurt himself and the Yellow Feather!”

Greg’s face whitened, then as the color returned he almost shouted, “The nerve of them! Woodson Academy belongs to me!”

Frank explained what Kurt had told him and Joe, adding that it now was imperative that they find the will, and also locate the Yellow Feather.

“It’s going to be mighty uncomfortable staying here under the circumstances,” Greg remarked. “But Kurt can’t drive me away.”

“He won’t be easy to get along with,” Joe prophesied. “Is he popular with the students?”

“He’s a strict disciplinarian, the boys tell me,” Greg replied. “He has his favorites, and most of the students know it. He spends a lot of time playing around with various inventions, too.”

“Inventions!” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes. I hear he’s a whiz at spring propulsion.”

Greg was about to go on when Frank silently rose to his feet and held a finger to his lips. He had heard a floorboard creak in the hall. With a bound he reached the door and yanked it open.

An indistinct figure fled down the hall. Frank dashed out, but as he did, he tripped over an invisible obstruction and crashed to the floor!

CHAPTER III

A Surly Student

RUSHING out of the room, Joe and Greg stumbled headlong over Frank, who lay diagonally across the passageway.

Joe jumped up immediately. “Greg, give Frank a hand,” he cried. “I’ll go after that snooper.” With that he sprinted down the hall.

Greg picked himself up, then helped Frank, who had been momentarily stunned. “Wow!” He grinned. “You guys bounced on me as if I was an air mattress!”

“Sorry about that,” Greg said. “But—”

At that moment Joe reappeared. “The fellow got away!” he reported bitterly. “Not a trace of him. You all right, Frank?”

“Sure. I wonder what I tripped on.”

Joe dropped to his knees. Running his fingers along the floor near the wall, his hand struck a length of wire. Pulling it taut, he discovered that it was knotted to a hook in the baseboard.

Stepping to the far wall of the corridor, Joe stooped down. There was a similar hook half pulled out of the wooden border. Evidently the wire had been attached to it.

“The eavesdropper rigged this up to ensure his getaway,” Joe reported.

“Boy, it really worked!” Frank agreed.

Greg spoke up. “Did you get a look at him?”

“No,” Frank replied, “but just before I fell I noticed one thing. As he turned the corner I saw his belt—it was wide and studded with silver nailheads.”

“That’s a good clue,” Joe observed. “We’ll track down every silver-studded belt in the place!”

“There can’t be more than twenty-five students staying here between semesters,” Greg said. “It’ll be lunchtime soon and we can look them over.”

While waiting for the luncheon bell, Frank said he would like to familiarize himself with the layout of the school.

“I’ll show you around,” Greg offered.

Before starting the tour, he notified Mrs. Teevan, the cook, that the Hardys would be his luncheon guests. Then he asked them to follow him.

“The left wing of this building contains only bedrooms,” he said. “To the right of the center sections are the offices, classrooms, labs, and dining hall.”

One end of the second-floor corridor opened into a large attractive library and study hall with windows along the north and south walls.

As the group returned up the hallway, Greg paused before a locked door. “This was Grandfather’s study. I lost the key, so I can’t show it to you right now. I searched it, though, and found nothing.”

The tour was interrupted by the bell in the tower pealing noontime.

Singly and in pairs, the students straggled into the dining hall under the watchful eyes of the Hardys and Greg.

“Oh, oh, here comes a guy with a silver-studded belt, and look who he is!” Joe exclaimed.

“Benny Tass!” Frank murmured.

To Greg, the name meant nothing. To the Hardys, however, Tass was a familiar Bayport visitor. A senior at the Academy, he spent a great deal of his free time in town with a group of older boys and fancied himself to be a big shot.

When Benny spotted the Hardys he flushed and muttered an indistinct greeting.

Frank spoke up. “Benny, that’s a good-looking belt you’re wearing.”

“Do the studs go all the way around?” Joe asked, flipping up Tass’s coat.

“Hey, cut that out!” Benny blustered.

Frank stepped in front of Tass, blocking him.

“We were interested in the belt,” he said, “because it looks just like one worn by somebody who was listening outside a certain door.”

Benny fidgeted uneasily. “What door?”

“The one to the guest room! I’m trying to locate the person who strung a wire across the hall and tripped me.”

Tass tried to hide a smirk but was not successful.

“Would you mind telling us,” Joe demanded, “what you’ve been doing for the past two hours?”

“It’s none of your business!”

With that, Tass elbowed past the trio and moved into the dining hall. Greg and the Hardys selected a table near the door and were soon enjoying a delicious lunch. When they had finished, Greg asked what the Hardys would like to do next.

“Shadow Benny Tass,” Joe spoke up. “I’m not satisfied that he wasn’t the snooper.”

“The job’s yours,” said Frank. “I want to keep tabs on Kurt and learn more about the campus.”

To Joe’s disappointment, Benny spent most of the afternoon alone in his room. The only time he left it was to go to Kurt’s office. The bits of conversation Joe could hear concerned a request of the student to drop his chemistry course for the second semester.

Frank learned nothing of importance either, but did get the layout of the school buildings clear in his mind—the field house and gymnasium, the riding stables, even the watchman’s shed.

Just before six o’clock the Hardys started for home. On the bumpy snow-covered road, Frank became aware of another car behind him. Evidently the driver was in a hurry, for he blasted his horn continuously.

“All right, take it easy,” Frank murmured, pulling as far to the right as he dared. “Wait till I find a place wide enough for you to get by.”

But the other driver was too impatient. Roaring up, he started to pass with barely an inch of clearance. A second later he sideswiped Frank and there came the sound of ripping metal. The other car skidded slightly, righted itself, and raced off.

The Hardy convertible, out of control for a moment, skidded along a few feet, then Frank brought it to a stop. He and Joe got out to examine the damage. Angrily the boys stared at the twisted, crushed left fender.

“The idiot!” Joe cried. “That driver might have killed us!”

“And did you see his passenger?” Frank exclaimed. “He sure looked like Henry Kurt!”

“Good night!”

“By the way,” Frank continued, pulling with all his strength to get the fender away from the wheel, “did you get that car’s license number?”

“No,” Joe replied. “I kept watching where we’d end up.”

“Same with me,” his brother said ruefully. “Maybe there’s another clue. I’m going to find that guy and make him pay for the damage!”

“Look at this!” interrupted Joe, bending down in the glare of the headlights.

Clearly outlined in the hard-packed snow were the tracks of the speeding car. One of them indicated that the left rear snow tire had a deep cut in it.

“This is a good lead,” Joe stated.

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. He pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and made a sketch of the evidence.

The boys drove the rest of the way home without incident. Upon arriving, they found a telephone message from Chet stating that he wanted them to meet him at Biff Hooper’s cabin up the river late the following morning.

“We can’t let him down,” Frank said.

Early the next day the boys took their car to a garage to be repaired. Then they set off to do several errands for their mother. They were walking briskly out of a hardware store when a familiar voice stopped them short.

“Frank and Joe! It seems like ages since we last saw you!”

Spinning around, the brothers faced two attractive girls.

Frank smiled at the one who had called to them. “Hello, Callie!”

“Hi, Iola!” Joe said, grinning.

Callie Shaw and Iola Morton, Chet’s sister, were classmates of the Hardys at Bayport High. Iola, who had shoulder-length dark hair, a tilted nose, and twinkling eyes, dated Joe for school dances. Callie, blond and vivacious, always accompanied Frank.

“You boys look as if you were on the trail of international spies—or something equally as dangerous!” Callie teased.

“You’re right about the danger,” Joe replied, laughing. “As a matter of fact, we’re headed for the river to take a ride on Chet’s new propeller sled.”

“Oh, that awful thing!” Iola exclaimed. “Better tell that brother of mine to be careful or you’ll end up in the hospital.”

“We have another reason for wanting all three of you to stay in one piece,” Callie added with a smile at Frank. “You’re invited to take us on a sleigh ride next week.”

Frank winked at his brother. “Okay, girls. If we survive this afternoon’s ride we’ll go.”

The boys said good-by and headed home. After a quick lunch they borrowed their father’s car and rode to the Hooper cabin. Rangy Biff, who had come with Chet, greeted them enthusiastically when they arrived.

“See what this character’s done now,” he said. “Chet’s put snow runners on his propeller sled and wants to take us for a ride in the woods.”

“Sure, it’s all set,” Chet told them as he revved up the motor. “Hop on!”

The sled worked to perfection. Traveling along an old trail that curved and wound among the trees, it moved over the rolling countryside in an effortless glide. Suddenly Joe gripped Frank’s arm and pointed.

“Look! Those tire tracks ahead!”

Stretching out before them were the telltale marks of an automobile. Every few feet along the left track was the indication that one of the tires had a deep cut in it!

Joe signaled Chet to stop and they all got off the sled, while Frank told the story of the wild driver the evening before.

“The same track as that—” Frank was saying when Joe exclaimed:

“And there’s the car, parked up ahead!”

“And look who’s beside it,” Biff cried in amazement. “Benny Tass—with a rifle in his hands!”

CHAPTER IV

Unwanted Detectives

“WHEW, I’m glad Benny isn’t pointing that gun at us!” Chet muttered.

The boys’ surprise at seeing him with a rifle was nothing compared to the look of amazement on the face of Benny Tass when he saw them hurrying toward him. Hastily he tried to conceal the weapon, sliding it through a rear window of the car.

“Well, Benny,” Frank greeted him, “this is very interesting. Why are you carrying a gun?”

“What’s that to you?” the bully snapped.

“It just happens that this property is posted against hunting!” Joe told him. “Look at all the signs around here.”

“Leave me alone!” Benny cried. “This land belongs to the Academy. I got permission!”

The boys were startled. “From whom?” Frank asked sharply.

“Mr. Kurt!” Benny shot back. “He told me a couple of weeks ago I could hunt any time I felt like it. And he’s temporary headmaster—so I guess his word’s good enough!”

Lacking proof to refute Benny’s claim, Joe tried a new tack. “This your car, Benny?”

“Yes, it is. So what?”

“Plenty. I think it’s the one that hit our convertible last evening and almost knocked us into a ditch!” Frank retorted, his eyes blazing.

“You’re crazy! It wasn’t me!” Benny shouted, clenching his fists. “Besides, if it was at night, how could you identify the car?”

Joe pulled out the pad and compared his sketch with the imprint from the left rear tire of Benny’s automobile.

“Your car has the same cut tire that the other one had!” he challenged.

Benny was purple with rage. “I wasn’t even out last night,” he screamed.

“Didn’t you ever notice that cut in your tire?” Joe pressed the attack, pointing to a deep gouge.

“Sure, it’s been there a couple of weeks,” Benny blustered. “Maybe somebody else has a cut tire too. You guys make me sick. I’m getting out of here.”

“Not so fast,” Frank told him.

He looked carefully at both bumpers. It must have been one of them which had crumpled the convertible’s fender. But there seemed to be no new scratches on either of them. Was Frank wrong in his assumption, or had Benny polished the chrome surface to eradicate the evidence?

As Frank paused, Benny jumped into his car and slammed the door. The motor roared, the wheels spun on the snowy ground, and the youth veered off among the trees.

“We may as well head back ourselves,” Joe proposed.

As the propeller sled skimmed over the snow with its four passengers, Frank said, “Even if we couldn’t prove it, I’m sure it was Benny’s car that sideswiped us last night. If Kurt was with him, and Kurt really gave Benny permission to carry a gun, I’d say the two are buddies. Funny combination.”

“And we’d better keep an eye on them,” Joe added.

Back at the Hoopers’ cabin, the quartet broke up. Chet and Biff headed for town. The Hardys drove toward Woodson Academy.

“There’s Skinny Mason!” Joe called out as they went up the long drive to the school. “Let’s stop and talk to him.”

The boy, reporting that he had suffered no ill effects from his icy bath in the river, was so grateful to his rescuers that he embarrassed them with his thanks.

“That’s all right, Skinny,” Joe told him. “Maybe someday you can help us out.”

“Perhaps you can give us some information right now,” Frank suggested. “Do any of the students here at the Academy have hunting privileges?”

“Only one that I know of—Benny Tass. He’s Mr. Kurt’s pet,” the boy replied matter-of-factly. “Everybody in school knows that. Mr. Kurt gave him a scholarship to come here so he could play basketball on our team.”

“I thought Woodson only gave scholarships for good grades!” Frank exclaimed.

“I don’t think anybody had one before Benny,” Skinny said. “And the funny thing is that he is only about the third best player on the team.”

Frank and Joe were puzzled. Why should Kurt have made such an outright exception to regular school policy?

It occurred to Frank that Skinny might become an ally in helping them solve the mystery of the Yellow Feather.

“Did you ever hear of a guy who calls himself the Yellow Feather?” he asked.

“No,” Skinny replied. “What is he—a fighter?”

The Hardys laughed. “We don’t know whether he is or not, but we’d like to find him. If you hear anything about him, let us know.”

“I sure will,” Skinny promised. “Anything else I can do for you?”

As Frank pondered, Joe remarked, “Skinny, ever since Greg Woodson showed up here with a strange letter from his grandfather, this mystery about the Yellow Feather has become more of a puzzle.”

Skinny Mason’s eyes popped. “You wouldn’t be talking about a letter that old Mr. Elias Woodson wrote to young Mr. Woodson, would you?” he asked.

“Why, yes. What do you know about—?”

Before Joe could finish, the boy broke in excitedly, “I’ve been wondering about that letter ever since I mailed it.”

“You?” Joe exclaimed.

“Well, the day old Mr. Woodson died,” Skinny related, “I walked past the library and I saw an envelope on the ground.”

“Go on,” Frank urged.

“So I picked it up. The envelope was all addressed and stamped and ready to mail. I could see that it was in old Mr. Woodson’s writing—he had a funny little shaky handwriting. I meant to mail the letter right away, but I forgot.”

“When did you mail it?” Frank asked.

Skinny paused to reflect.

“Oh, right after I found the envelope they told us we’d have three days off from classes because of the headmaster’s death. I got halfway home before I noticed the letter was still in my pocket. Then I dropped it off at the post office.”

“Greg did mention that the address looked washed out,” Joe remarked. “It must have been caused by lying in the snow. But I wonder how it got there.”

“I think I can figure that part out,” Frank said.

Before he could explain, Skinny said he must leave because he had an appointment with one of his teachers. The Hardys thanked him for his help and said they would see him again soon. After the boy had gone, Frank continued:

“Mr. Woodson must have been working on the cutout paper in the library and just finished addressing the envelope when he was interrupted by someone. Apparently he didn’t want this person to see the letter, so he dropped it out the window, meaning to retrieve it as soon as he could.”

Joe nodded. “Only he was so ill he never had a chance to get the letter and died shortly afterward.”

“I wonder if Henry Kurt might have been the one who walked in on him,” Frank mused. “Perhaps we can find out. Let’s go!”

The Hardys headed for the headmaster’s office. As Frank was about to rap on Kurt’s door, he stopped suddenly. Somebody inside was talking excitedly.

“Those Hardys ought to be kept away from here!” shouted a rough, angry voice. It was Benny Tass’s.

“They’re a couple of snoopers, all right,” Kurt agreed. “So is that smart aleck of a grandson.”

“Well, you ought to get ’em all out of here,” Benny told him. “They’re going to make trouble.”

Joe stared at Frank with a quizzical smile at the thought of Kurt and Benny worrying over their detective work. Should they try to talk to Kurt now or postpone the interview?

The boys’ decision was made for them when they heard someone whisper, “H-s-s-st! Frank! Joe!”

Skinny Mason had come up behind them, and was impatiently signaling them.

“Greg Woodson’s awful sick,” he said in a low voice. “He wants you right away. He—he thinks maybe he’s been poisoned!”

Following Skinny, the Hardys rushed off to aid Greg. They found him lying on one of the twin beds in the guest room.

“It’s my stomach!” he said weakly.

“Skinny, get the school nurse,” Frank ordered.

As the boy hurried off, Greg said, “I feel better now. I got only a small amount of the poison, I guess.”

“How?” Joe asked.

Greg pointed to a tray on his desk. It contained a small plate on which was an untouched sandwich and a saucer bearing a nearly full cup of coffee.

“You drank some of this?” Frank queried.

Greg nodded. “Then I saw what was under the cup—too late.”

Frank, curious, reached over and raised the cup. Underneath, lying in the middle of the saucer, was a small yellow feather!

CHAPTER V

An Odd Bookmark

THE Hardys stared at the yellow feather and the poisoned cup of coffee.

“Greg, you’re in real danger. This Yellow Feather guy means business.” Frank paused, then asked, “Where did this tray come from?”

“Why, now that you ask me, I don’t know. It was on the desk when I walked in.”

“This is a school tray,” Frank remarked, seeing the engraved Woodson monogram.

Joe was about to express an opinion when Skinny dashed in to say that the school nurse was on vacation.

“I’m feeling much better,” Greg said. “We’ll forget about nurses and doctors. Thanks, Skinny.”

When the boy left, Joe said, “Before we do anything else, I think we ought to find out what’s in this coffee. Can we get into the chem lab, Greg?”

“Sure. The instructor has a key. I’ll get it.”

“Better not tell him what’s up,” Frank advised.

“Okay. He knows I’m a chem major,” Greg said, “so he’ll probably think I’m working on an assignment.”

He went for the key and led the Hardys upstairs to the laboratory. It did not take long to find out that the coffee, indeed, contained poison.

“But why is the Yellow Feather so determined to get you out of the way?” Frank wondered.

“Don’t forget, this fiend has threatened Kurt, too,” Joe reminded the others.

“It can’t be just because of this school,” Frank said. “Woodson couldn’t be a big money-maker, no matter who was headmaster. I believe there’s a lot more to this mystery than any of us knows.”

Greg was thoughtful. “Do you suppose some treasure’s hidden here?” he asked.

“It’s anybody’s guess,” Frank replied. “But one thing I’m sure of. You shouldn’t stay at the Academy. Your life’s in danger.”

“Why not go back to Myles and leave us here to take care of things?” Joe proposed.

“I was going today, anyway,” Greg told them. “Classes start tomorrow.”

The boys returned to his room and waited while he packed his suitcase. Then the Hardys accompanied Greg to his car. With a promise to keep him posted, they waved until he was out of sight.

“Let’s question Mrs. Teevan and see if we can find out anything,” Frank proposed.

“Good idea,” Joe replied.

The cook, a stout, elderly lady with white hair, was washing dishes when the boys entered the kitchen. They introduced themselves as friends of Greg.

“We just came to ask about a tray that was sent to the guest room,” Frank said.

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Teevan answered. “Well, there was a note on the counter that told me to send a sandwich and coffee to Mr. Greg’s room,” she explained. “It was here when I came in from my last checkup in the dining hall.”

“Who left it?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Teevan shrugged. “It wasn’t signed.”

“Have you got the note?” Frank asked.

“No. I put it in the incinerator a few minutes ago. I didn’t see any point in keeping it.”

“The handwriting could have been a clue,” Frank mused. “After you read the note, what did you do?”

“I prepared the tray and my helper—a young girl who comes in for part-time work—carried it to the guest room. She said nobody was there so she left it on the desk.”

“Did you put a little yellow feather under the coffee cup?” Joe shot the question at her.

Mrs. Teevan looked so puzzled the boys knew that she was innocent, and explained about Greg’s sudden illness and the discovery of the tiny yellow feather beneath the cup of poisoned coffee.

The woman was aghast. “Surely you don’t think I would try to poison Mr. Greg!”

Mrs. Teevan sank into a chair. The Hardys hastily assured her that she was not suspect, but by now she was very upset.

“Yellow feather! Where did I hear that before?” she repeated over and over again. “Was it old Mr. Woodson who mentioned it? I wonder—”

Frank and Joe urged Mrs. Teevan to try to remember.

“I can’t seem to,” the woman replied finally. “Why don’t you talk to my husband? He’s custodian of the grounds. Right now he’s at our cottage.”

The boys said they would question Mr. Teevan at once. First, though, they spoke to the cook’s helper. The girl denied any knowledge of what had happened to the coffee after she had put the tray on the desk.

Frank and Joe hurried to the caretaker’s cottage.

“Hello, boys,” he greeted them affably. “I don’t believe I know you. But come in.”

The Hardys told him who they were and followed him inside.

“I’ve been relaxing with a mystery story,” Mr. Teevan remarked as he invited the boys to sit down. “I’ll just mark this page so I’ll know where I am. Then we—”

“Wait! I mean, pardon me!” Joe exclaimed. “May I see that marker, please?”

Mr. Teevan passed the book to him. Joe showed the marker to his brother.

It was a small yellow feather!

“What’s wrong?” the old man asked as he watched their tense faces.

“This bookmark!” Frank burst out. “How do you happen to be using a yellow feather, Mr. Teevan?”

“Oh, that! Why, we had a pet canary,” the caretaker explained. “The bird died over a year ago, and after I buried it I found one little feather near its cage. I kept it for sentimental reasons.”

His explanation had such a ring of sincerity that the Hardys accepted it without question. They mentioned that Mrs. Teevan had suggested their coming to see him, and gravely described the series of incidents that had preceded the attempt to poison Greg Woodson.

As the implications of the case sank in, Mr. Teevan paled visibly. “But Martha and I wouldn’t have anything to do with—” he protested. “Why, my wife and I have been here at the Academy for more than ten years.”

“We’re simply trying to track down every clue we can to the identity of the Yellow Feather,” Frank told him quietly. “Can you help us at all?”

When the elderly man failed to speak, Joe prompted him. “Have you ever heard anything that might help us? Your wife seemed to remember some connection with a yellow feather and old Mr. Woodson. Does that sound familiar to you?”

He pressed his hand to his forehead. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “It does seem familiar, but—Let me think.”

For several moments the elderly man remained motionless and silent. Then he raised his head.

“Yes, I remember now. It was about a month before Elias Woodson died. He came here to leave an order for me to get in town and happened to see my little feather bookmark lying on the table.”

“Yes?” Joe asked tersely.

“Mr. Woodson picked up the feather and examined it, then gave me a very strange look,” Mr. Teevan went on. “He mumbled something about a yellow feather getting people into trouble. I didn’t understand what he meant.”

“He never explained?” Frank prompted.

“No. He was getting pretty feeble. I thought it was just a case of his mind wandering, so I didn’t press him for an explanation.”

Frank was about to ask for more details when the door of the cottage opened and Mrs. Teevan walked into the room. Weakly she groped for a chair.

“Martha, what’s wrong?” her husband cried, helping the tottering woman to a seat.

“I’m so upset about this yellow feather business that I feel sick,” she wailed. “I couldn’t stay in that kitchen another minute. The girl will have to get dinner alone tonight.”

“I’m very sorry we disturbed you,” Frank said apologetically. “Please forget the whole thing.”

“Forget!” she sobbed. “To think I was almost implicated in nearly causing Mr. Greg’s death!”

“But everything turned out all right,” Joe assured her.

“Yes, thank goodness. But I’m going to be accused,” Mrs. Teevan sobbed. “I fixed that coffee and it had poison in it!”

The Hardys’ concern for her welfare mounted as they realized the woman was close to hysteria.

“We’d better call a doctor,” Frank advised, and moved across the room to the telephone.

“I’ll stay here until he arrives,” Joe offered. “Frank, you go back to the Academy and see what else you can find out.”

“All right. Meet me near the gym in an hour,” Frank agreed.

He left the cottage and headed for the main building. H took a little-used trail and was deep in thought when he gave a sudden start. The young sleuth had heard the rustle of branches in a large cluster of rhododendron which he had just passed.

He turned quickly but was too late. His arms were pinned to his sides and he was dragged from the path, struggling helplessly.

Frank glimpsed two masked faces as a gag was shoved into his mouth!

CHAPTER VI

Framed!

ONE hour later Mrs. Teevan was resting comfortably under the doctor’s care, so Joe strode up to the gymnasium to meet his brother. Seeing Skinny Mason, he called to him, “Have you seen Frank?”

“No. But there’s a pickup hockey game on the pond. Maybe he went over there. I’ll show you where it is.”

“I doubt it,” Joe thought. Where could his brother have gone? And what was he doing? Had he run into trouble?

“Well, I’ll take a look on the pond anyway,” Joe decided.

Skinny led him to a ravine in which a frozen pond afforded a fine ice rink. There was no sign of Frank.

“Say, Skinny, we’d better start searching,” Joe said apprehensively. Worried that perhaps the Yellow Feather had caught up with Frank, he led the way back to the Teevans’ cottage.

“Frank intended to go straight to the gymnasium from here,” Joe told Skinny “That would mean this way.”

With his young assistant, Joe walked slowly along the flagstone path, trying to pick out his brother’s footprints in the few patches of snow that were left. Suddenly Skinny stopped at a large planting of rhododendron.

“Hey, look at this!” he cried, pointing.

All around the front of the bushes were clusters of footprints.

“It seems there’s been a real struggle here,” Joe said. “And I’m sure Frank was involved in it.”

“I’ll check behind those bushes,” Skinny of fered.

“Wait! Let me go first,” Joe ordered.

He had hardly pushed the branches aside and started down an incline when he uttered a cry and raced ahead. Half-hidden by more shrubs, a trussed figure lay twisting and squirming in a snowbank below.

“It’s Frank!” he shouted.

Joe quickly removed the gag; then whipped out his pocketknife. Skinny, who had caught up to him, watched him cut through the bonds.

Frank was stiff from the cold. Joe helped him to his feet and he moved around to revive his circulation. Then he told how the two masked figures had caught him by surprise.

“Did you get a look at them?” Joe asked.

“No. They wore ski masks. But it wouldn’t surprise me,” he continued, “if one of them were Benny Tass!”

“What makes you think that?”

“One was exactly Benny’s size and build. And he’d want to get square for our accusing him of running into our car.”

“Right. And now, we’d better get you home,” Joe insisted.

As the boys walked through the woods, Skinny spoke up for the first time.

“Gee, Frank, you might have frozen to death,” he said. “Do you really think Benny’s that bad?”

The Hardys realized that in their excitement they had taken Skinny into their confidence—perhaps unwisely. If he mentioned this to any of the other boys, it might endanger their work. Joe was just about to ask Skinny to guard their secret when the boy saved him the trouble.

“You don’t want me to say anything about this, do you?” he asked. “But I’ll watch Benny Tass if you like and let you know what I find out.”

“Thanks,” Joe said. “You could be a great help!” Skinny’s chest swelled with pride. As they reached the campus, he announced that he was going to start shadowing Benny at once and left them.

“Before we go home, Joe,” said Frank, “I think we ought to tell Kurt about the coffee incident. And we’ll have to report it to the police.”

“Okay. I’ll do it. You get in the car and turn on the heater,” Joe proposed.

He hurried off to the headmaster’s office but the man was not there. After asking a student where Kurt’s bedroom was, Joe went to it and knocked.

Kurt poked his head out. His manner was anything but cordial.

“May I come in?” Joe requested. “I have something very private to talk to you about.”

“Private?” Kurt repeated. He looked more annoyed than curious. “Well, all right, come in. But I’m very busy. I can give you only a minute.”

“It won’t take that long to save your life,” Joe retorted, annoyed by the man’s attitude.

“What do you mean?” Kurt flared.

Briefly Joe told the story of the poisoned coffee, suggesting that the headmaster be wary of a similar incident. To the boy’s amazement Kurt broke into a sardonic laugh.

“Well, if I ever heard of a ridiculous story, that’s it!” he exclaimed.

Joe felt hot anger rising in him at the man’s reaction.

“My story is straight,” he said. “And I’m going to report the incident to Chief Collig of the Bayport police.”

Instantly Kurt’s attitude changed. He mumbled an apology. “I thought you were joking. Now, in regard to the police—let me handle it. I don’t want the story spread all over the school. I’ll call the chief and explain.”

Joe gave him a cold stare. “Well, okay,” he said and left. He hurried to the car, jumped in, and slammed the door. As Frank started the motor, he remarked:

“What’s up? You look pretty upset.”

After telling Frank of Kurt’s cutting remark, Joe added, “I guess he doesn’t think much of us as detectives.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Frank advised. “And, by the way, we’d better not mention my little adventure at home. No use worrying Mother.”

Joe agreed, and added, “What do you say we go back to the Academy tonight when no one’s expecting us and do some sleuthing?”

“Good thought.”

After dinner Frank and Joe picked up their repaired convertible and set off. Joe parked the car on a side road near the school grounds, and from there they made their way on foot to the apparently deserted campus. Few lights were in the windows of the main building.

Suddenly Frank gripped Joe’s arm. “See that light over the dining room—isn’t that Elias Woodson’s study?”

“Sure is. Somebody must have sneaked in. I’m going to take a look!” Joe announced. When the boys reached the bay window beneath the study, he added, “Give me a hand up, will you?”

Frank bent over and Joe climbed to his shoulders. From there he was able to haul himself onto the sloping roof below the study window. Cautiously he raised his eyes to the level of the sill.

In the dim light Joe could see a man in a dark overcoat and hat, his back to the window, busy examining the drawers of a desk which stood against the opposite wall. Evidently disgusted at not finding what he wanted, the man slammed them shut, one after another.

Then he turned. He was completely masked! Joe’s heart pounded with excitement. Was this the Yellow Feather?

The boy watched for several seconds as the masked figure began a thorough search of the rest of the room.

“Maybe we can trap him in the study,” Joe thought and started to climb down.

But as he moved he lost his footing on the sloping roof. Unfortunately the noise alerted the masked man. As Joe grabbed the sill, he saw the intruder make for the door and disappear.

With a warning cry to his brother, Joe swung himself to the ground. In a few whispered words he told what had happened.

Together the boys dashed to the main entrance of the building, hoping to catch the intruder. As they reached it Frank and Joe were halted by a sudden command.

“Stop where you are!”

The voice, coming from the doorway, had a ring of authority. The order was followed by the beam of strong flashlight which caught them squarely. Henry Kurt, bareheaded, stepped toward the Hardys, scowling.

“Oh, it’s you two again!” he exclaimed, clicking off his light. “I thought you were students breaking rules. What are you doing, anyway?”

“Mr. Kurt!” Joe cried. “I just saw a masked man in Mr. Woodson’s study. Help us catch him!”

The headmaster stared at them in disbelief. “Nonsense! How could you see anyone in an upstairs room with no light in it? That room is locked, anyway.”

“I know what I saw,” Joe insisted. “We must—”

As if he were placating small children, Kurt stepped aside and let the boys in. “Go ahead and look.”

The man was completely masked

He followed them up the stairs. The study door was locked and no crack of light showed beneath it.

“I hope this satisfies you,” Kurt remarked with exaggerated politeness. “I’m sorry I have no key or I’d let you in. And now, with this farce behind us, I have something to say to you. You make up such fantastic stories about other people breaking into private property. But what about yourselves?”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked. “We have permission to work on the mystery of the Yellow Feather. Your permission. We haven’t broken into any place.”

“Then what were you doing in my private office?” Kurt stormed.

Joe was indignant. “We weren’t there!”

“Come with me!” Kurt commanded. “I have proof that you not only were there, but broke in!”

Thunderstruck at the headmaster’s charge, the Hardys followed him downstairs.

“What in the world is he up to now?” Joe whispered to his brother.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I guess we’ll find out.”

Kurt reached the office and pointed to the door. “First of all,” he said, “the lock has been jimmied. Quite obvious, isn’t it?” His tone was sarcastic.

The boys inspected the spring lock of the door and saw that the mechanism, indeed, had been forced.

“What makes you think we did it?” Frank asked angrily.

“I came in here tonight to go over some papers,” Kurt said icily, “and found this!”

He walked ahead inside and stopped before the table. On it was a man’s hand-knitted scarf. Woven into it were the initials F. H.!

“My scarf! ”Frank cried.

“Just as I thought,” Kurt said triumphantly. “Now suppose you explain what it is doing in my private office.”

Embarrassed, Frank fingered the scarf, a Christmas gift from Callie Shaw. Quickly he thought back over the day’s events. Then suddenly he snapped his fingers.

“Now I know!” he exclaimed, looking Kurt straight in the eyes. “This scarf was stolen from me this afternoon during a scuffle.”

“Which means,” Joe added, “that someone tried to frame my brother by planting it here.”

Kurt glanced incredulously from one boy to the other, waiting to hear more.

“And if you want to know whom I suspect,” Frank went on, “it’s Benny Tass.”

The headmaster started in surprise. Then quickly regaining his composure, he said. “Ridiculous! Tass is one of our finest boys.”

Frank and Joe made no comment.

“Besides,” Kurt went on, looking at Frank, “why would Tass want to frame you?”

“That’s something we’d like to find out,” Frank replied. “He seems to have gone out of his way to make things uncomfortable for us.”

He explained about the near accident in the car the previous night, watching the man carefully to see if he would show any sign that he had been with Benny. But Kurt’s face remained expressionless.

Then Frank gave details of the attack on him that morning.

“Oh, bosh!” Kurt exploded. “In no case are you sure that Tass was a guilty party. And I’m convinced he wasn’t. As far as hunting is concerned, I did give him permission, because he’s older and more responsible than the other boys here.”

“Then have you any idea who planted my scarf in your office?” Frank asked.

“Well, since you insist that you didn’t force your way in here, there’s only one answer. I believe it might have been the Yellow Feather. He attacked you and left the scarf to throw suspicion away from himself.”

Kurt paused, then added, “And if he’s going to prowl around here at night, it might be smart to have you boys on hand to track him down.”

“I agree,” Frank replied. “How about our starting tonight?”

“Very good. Take the guest room Greg vacated.”

The boys thanked Kurt and turned to leave. Nearing the door they exchanged knowing glances. Not fully trusting the man, Joe left the door open a crack in case he should want to go back and check up on Kurt’s movements.

The boys did not mention their thoughts aloud. But when they reached a pay telephone booth on one side of the corridor Frank paused and said in a loud voice:

“Joe, we’d better call Mother and tell her we’re staying overnight.”

While Frank dialed the Hardys’ number, Joe stood outside, mulling over Kurt’s sudden proposal.

“I wonder if he’s laying some sort of trap for us?” Joe asked himself.

Walking back to the office, he could hear the headmaster moving noisily about inside. The door was still slightly ajar, affording him a view of the room without being seen himself.

Kurt stood in front of a filing cabinet. He drew out a bunch of small keys and inserted one into the lock at the top. Then he pulled the bottom drawer open and took out a folded piece of white paper.

After giving it a quick glance, the headmaster smiled, then put the paper in an inside pocket of his jacket and pushed the drawer shut.

As he walked toward the door, Joe dashed back to the telephone booth.

Frank had just hung up and was stepping from the booth when Kurt walked down the corridor and spied the boys.

“Hello! Not in your room yet?” he asked, evidently annoyed.

“We called home to report where we are,” Frank replied.

This seemed to satisfy Kurt. He said good night and walked off.

“Well, what do you make of him?” Frank whispered as they climbed the stairs.

“Either Kurt’s on the level or he’s the biggest fraud alive,” Joe replied.

When they reached the guest room, Joe told his brother of Kurt’s actions in the office.

“What do you think was on that paper?”

“I’ll bet it has something to do with the Woodson estate,” Frank replied. “Kurt wouldn’t be so sure he can get this school if he didn’t have some kind of proof. For some reason he doesn’t want to produce it yet, though.”

“It would be a big help if we could get a look at that paper,” Joe remarked as he lay down on one of the twin beds.

“Fat chance we have of checking Kurt’s pocket,” Frank replied as he pushed up the window and peered outdoors. “Wow, it’s sure cold tonight. Well, I guess we’re safe from attack here.” He laughed. “No roofs or trellises for anyone to climb.”

Joe nodded. “Might as well turn in for the night.” He snapped the lock on the door, switched off the light, and soon was sound asleep.

Frank had no idea how long he and Joe had been deep in slumber when he was suddenly awakened by a thud against the wall of the building. Springing out of bed, he rushed to the window and glanced out.

“Joe!” he whispered. “Come look!”

Directly beneath the sill was the top of a ladder! It trembled slightly under the weight of a shadowy figure climbing upward.

CHAPTER VII

A Thwarted Intruder

By this time Joe was awake. Seeing his brother at the window, he rushed over to him and looked out into the darkness. Silently the intruder on the ladder continued rung by rung toward the bedroom. It was impossible from this height to identify him.

“Let’s wait till he steps in before we jump him,” Frank whispered.

Both boys tensed, shivering a little as the cold wind blew against them. They pressed close to the wall at each side of the window.

Suddenly the ladder gave a twist and began to slide to one side. It scraped against the brick exterior, pulling ivy vines loose in its descent. It hit the snow with a muffled thump, and the would-be intruder was flung off into a pile of snow. He struggled to his feet, then dashed away into the night.

“What luck!” Frank exclaimed. “We almost had him!”

“Do you think that was the Yellow Feather trying to get us?” Joe asked excitedly.

Frank was already reaching for his trousers.

“Come on, Joe. Let’s go get that second-story man.”

The boys flung on their clothes and tiptoed hurriedly downstairs. They met no one. Finding the spot where the man had fallen, the boys followed his trail of footprints for a hundred yards. But here they were lost in a maze of crisscross prints which students had made.

Returning to the ladder, Frank flashed his light about, hunting for clues in the snow beneath their window.

“Holy crow!” he exclaimed. “Two sets of footprints! ”

“So the guy had an accomplice!” Joe remarked.

“But if that were the case,” Frank said reflectively, “why did he let the ladder fall?”

“Beats me,” Joe answered. “They sure were a couple of bunglers. Maybe two students playing a joke.”

“I doubt that,” his brother replied.

The rest of the night passed quietly. In the morning Frank sat on the edge of his bed, yawned, and stretched. Joe was already half-dressed.

“Toss me my pants, will you?” his brother requested as he looked for his shoes and socks.

“Where are they?”

“Right over there on the chair next to—Hey!” Frank leaped to his feet. “They’re gone!”

A quick look around confirmed the fact that his slacks had been taken from the room.

Joe walked to the door and yanked it open. Someone had unlocked the door during the night!

“Jumpin’ catfish!” he shouted. “Whoever stole your pants could have murdered us in our beds!”

“Could be that the prowler and the pants burglar weren’t the same person,” Frank commented. “But how am I going to get out of here without trousers?”

“Maybe we can borrow a pair.” Joe chuckled. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

He had just stepped from the room when the noise of running feet and roars of laughter sounded through the corridor. Three young boys dashed wildly past. Joe recognized one of them.

“Skinny Mason!” he called. “What’s all the hurry?”

“Somebody’s pants are hanging from the bell tower!” The youngster giggled. “And they say Mr. Kurt is about to blow his top.”

Joe followed Skinny down the stairs and outside. High above the school, on the very top of the tower, Frank’s slacks were fluttering in the breeze!

Suddenly a voice hissed in Joe’s ear, “You’re a detective. How do you account for this?”

Joe wheeled around to face the headmaster. “I can’t account for how the pants got up there,” the chagrined Joe was forced to admit, “but I can tell you whose they are. They’re my brother’s!”

Kurt looked at Joe in disgust. Then he turned to one of the students standing nearby.

“I want every boy out here within five minutes,” he ordered. “Pass the word.”

It did not take long to round up the students. But when Kurt demanded that the culprit step forward, there was nothing but a general shuffling of feet.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this!” Kurt thun dered.

After telling them that such behavior reflected on the dignity of the school, he quizzed the students on what they knew about the tower itself.

“The stairs were condemned and torn down long ago,” he stated. “Do any of you know another way the prankster could have reached the top?”

There was an uneasy silence until Benny Tass spoke up. “Maybe someone climbed out from one of those attic windows onto the catwalk around the tower and just threw the pants to the top,” he suggested. “But I don’t know anything about it.”

Joe went to get the ladder under the guest-room window. Kurt stormed for a few more minutes as to how the school ladder had gotten there. No one answered, and Joe asked Skinny to bring him a fish pole.

Then Joe propped the ladder against the wall, and holding the pole, climbed to the catwalk of the tower. A few flicks of his wrist and he cast the fishhook into Frank’s pants. Amid cheers from the onlookers he hauled them down.

“Whose are they?” several boys asked.

Joe escaped without answering. When he brought them to Frank, his brother stared in astonishment. A rueful grin that spread over his face as Joe told the story lasted only a moment, then he began to speculate on who had taken the pants.

“Are you sure you locked our door the second time?” Joe asked him.

Frank thought a moment. “No, I’m not sure. Dumb of me. I deserve what happened.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t any worse,” Joe remarked. “Well, let’s get some breakfast and then start our sleuthing.”

Several students had already assembled in the dining hall. As Frank and Joe entered, Kurt met them, anger on his face.

“There’s no breakfast,” he announced. “The cook and her helper didn’t show up this morning.”

“Mrs. Teevan probably is still ill,” Frank reminded him. “The doctor may have told her to stay in bed today.”

“Doctor!” Kurt exclaimed. “I didn’t know anything about that. What’s the matter with her?”

Frank briefly explained the circumstances that led to the physician’s visit. Kurt expressed no sympathy but burst out:

“That leaves us in a fine mess. And that assistant quit—just when we need her. I found her note of resignation on the kitchen counter top.”

“Looks as if we’ll have to get our own breakfast,” Frank remarked.

“The Yellow Feather is behind all this!” Kurt said. “I’m sure of it. He’s the one who left the note ordering that tray for Greg Woodson.”

Suddenly the headmaster snapped his fingers. “Why didn’t I think of it before!” he exclaimed.

Leaning over, he whispered confidentially, “The Yellow Feather must be nearby to make such frequent visits. I’ll bet I know where his hideout is!”

“Where?” the Hardys chorused.

“The school has a camping hut along the river,” Kurt replied. “We’ll find that scoundrel!”

“It might be a good idea to look,” Frank agreed.

He and Joe walked into the kitchen with the intention of getting something to eat when Skinny, who had been looking everywhere for them, came to tell them that Chet was at the front door.

“Chet! Up this early!” Joe exclaimed. “Something important must have happened!”

The two boys hurried to the main entrance and looked questioningly at their friend. Quickly he explained that Mrs. Hardy had telephoned him to deliver a message to them.

“She said your dad was in touch with her and wanted you fellows warned that you’re in danger out here!” Chet whispered.

How well they knew that! the Hardys thought. But how had their father learned this?

Quickly they brought their friend up to date on what had happened and Chet whistled softly.

“Say,” Joe asked him, “how would you like to hang around and do some cooking? You might pick up some clues for us.”

Chet beamed. “Direct me to the food supply.”

Joe led the way and introduced him to the headmaster.

“I’ve found a cook!” he announced triumphantly.

“And not a bad one either!” Chet boasted. “I came up here on my sled to see what the Hardys were doing, and it looks as if I’ll come in handy until your regular cook gets back to work, Mr. Kurt.”

Frank explained Chet’s fondness for food and remarked that he had developed a flair for the culinary art. Kurt readily agreed to the plan.

As a chef, Chet proved his ability to organize an efficient staff. Strutting about in an apron, he divided up the work so quickly between several boys that an excellent breakfast was prepared in short order.

During the meal Joe discussed Kurt’s proposal with his brother and added, “It doesn’t make sense that a criminal would be hiding in a hut which might be used by students at any time.”

“The Yellow Feather probably knows that most of the boys are away,” Frank pointed out.

“Oh, it’s possible, all right,” his brother agreed. “But I’m not putting much stock in Kurt’s idea.”

He contemplated another angle. “Maybe Kurt is trying to get us away from the school for some reason.”

Frank shrugged. “Suppose I stay here while you and Kurt go to the hut.”

Joe agreed. Frank told Kurt he wanted to help Chet get the kitchen setup organized and he would not make the trip to the hut. The headmaster looked displeased but said that he and Joe would proceed, anyway.

“We’d better go on skis,” Kurt suggested, and arranged for Joe to borrow the equipment.

Gliding along through the woods, they soon reached a trail which Joe recognized as the one on which the boys had spotted Benny Tass with his car. As he was beginning to wonder if this were a favorite haunt of the unpleasant boy, Tass suddenly appeared at the side of the trail, leaning on ski poles.

“Hello, Mr. Kurt. Hi, Joe!” Benny greeted them. “What’s up?” It was the friendliest he had ever been to the Hardy boy.

“Oh, we’re just going to the camp-out hut,” Kurt returned. “Want to come along?”

“Sure.”

Joe noticed a sly smile creep over Benny’s face as he joined them. Also, Kurt seemed a bit too pleased by the addition of the new arrival.

Mr. Hardy’s warning flashed into Joe’s mind. Had Kurt and Tass planned this? Was he walking into danger?

CHAPTER VIII

Snowbound

“I’m going to watch these two like a hawk!” Joe resolved silently.

But as they glided forward through the woods his anxiety lessened, for both Kurt and Tass seemed very friendly. To Joe’s amazement the headmaster told Benny of the Yellow Feather mystery and the mysterious happenings in connection with it.

“Sure is spooky business,” Benny said with a quaver. “I hope we don’t find the Yellow Feather in the hut. He sounds like a guy to stay away from.”

“It’s my guess he’s not there,” Joe spoke up and to himself added, “Kurt wouldn’t dare let a student run the risk of meeting such a dangerous person.”

As the three moved on, the sun was blotted out. A biting wind cut their faces.

“More snow coming,” Joe remarked. “We’d better make this trip snappy.”

They came to a wooded hill and herringboned to the summit. Then swiftly the skiers slalomed to the bottom.

“Be quiet, boys,” Kurt warned them. “We’re getting close now, Joe. There’s the hut up ahead.”

Several hundred yards away Joe could see a solidly built little stone house which looked well cared for. Kurt explained that he and Mr. Teevan came out once in a while to make sure things were in order. Neither of them, however, had been here recently. As they neared the building, conversation ceased until Kurt burst out:

“Just as I thought! Someone’s been living here!”

The boys noticed that the snow around the cabin had been trampled down in several directions.

“Look at that stack of logs by the door,” Benny pointed out. “It wasn’t there the last time I was out.”

“You’re right,” Kurt agreed. “Let’s surround the place. I’ll move in from this side. You two circle and close in from the front and back.”

At Kurt’s signal they all advanced.

At the front door Kurt pounded and called. There was no reply.

Joe watched tensely in case the Yellow Feather should jump out a window. But there was not a sign of him.

The boys hurried to the door and followed Kurt inside. The hut was vacant. A quick scanning of the interior showed everything to be in order—the table clear, the sink clean.

Kurt sniffed the air several times and headed for the fireplace. With a poker he jabbed at the ashes. Little spots of red came to life.

“I thought so,” he proclaimed. “Someone has been here!”

Joe did not share the man’s excitement. “How about Mr. Teevan?” he asked.

Kurt gave a slight start, then said, “Impossible.” He was standing before the fireplace, his eyes riveted to the mantel above. Bright against the gray stone lay a tiny yellow feather!

“I knew it!” Kurt gloated. “The Yellow Feather has been living here!”

Examining the feather, Joe realized it was similar to the one that had been left under Greg’s coffee cup and the same kind which Mr. Teevan used as a bookmark.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Kurt said excitedly. “That crook is living in this cabin, and disappearing whenever he thinks someone might show up.”

“It sure does look like it,” Benny agreed.

Joe was not paying attention. He was thinking about Mr. Teevan. This was the second time the caretaker had come under suspicion. Was he the Yellow Feather, or was someone trying to frame him?

Joe looked for other signs of occupancy, or a clue to who the intruder might have been. He found nothing.

“Well, I really ought to get back to school,” Kurt remarked a few minutes later. “I have a lot of work to do before the rest of the boys return from vacation. But why don’t you two stay here and see if you can’t catch this Yellow Feather?”

“Sounds like a swell idea,” Benny was quick to agree—a little too quick, Joe thought.

The idea of being left in the hut with Benny did not appeal to Joe. Furthermore, he wanted to keep track of Kurt.

“I think we’d better go back to school together,” he said. “I can’t see much sense in splitting our forces, and anyway, it’s going to snow.”

“You’re not afraid to stay here, are you?” Kurt asked sarcastically.

Benny sneered, “I thought you and your brother were such brave detectives that lying in wait at a lonely hut wouldn’t scare you at all.”

Joe refused to be nettled.

“Our experience in detective work,” he said calmly, “is exactly what makes me think it would be wise to look elsewhere for the Yellow Feather.”

Kurt flushed at this observation but made no comment. They put on their skis in silence and set off. The raw wind howled through the bare trees and tore at the three figures. Before they had gone half a mile the sky grew dark and a driving snowstorm descended upon them.

“We’re going to have trouble getting through this,” Kurt remarked nervously as the snow matted in his beard. “I can’t see ten feet ahead.”

Before they had traveled a hundred yards farther, a heavy branch, weighted by snow and lashed by the wind, cracked and toppled down. It landed between Joe and Benny, who jumped several feet to avoid it.

“Maybe we should go back to the hut and wait this out!” Benny said worriedly.

Traveling on skis became impossible and they finally took them off. The snow was not only deep but coming down so thick that the group could see only a few feet ahead of them. Again a huge limb crashed down.

“Hey, I don’t want to be conked!” Benny exclaimed. “And we’re off the trail!”

At last the headmaster agreed that they had better return to the hut before their foot and ski prints were entirely covered by snow.

By the time they reached the stone building, they were exhausted. After propping their skis beside the door they carried in some of the stacked wood and soon had a comfortable blaze in the fireplace.

“This is most unfortunate, most unfortunate!” Kurt kept murmuring as he strode back and forth like a caged lion.

The snow seemed to be coming down even harder and continued to fall steadily after evening descended.

“I guess we’ll have to spend the night here,” Kurt said. “But at least we’re safe from the Yellow Feather. He can’t get back here.”

They found several cans of food and sat gloomily around the fire to eat beans and corned-beef hash.

“We may as well go to bed right away,” Benny suggested when they finished. “Then we can wake up early and get back to school. Let’s bar those windows, and the door, too.”

Joe helped secure the hut, then sat cross-legged in front of the fire.

“I think I’ll sit up and keep this blaze going,” he said, “while you sleep.”

Reluctant at first, the other two agreed and settled themselves in the hut’s bunks. Joe gazed thoughtfully into the leaping firelight. He tried to sift the events that seemed to tie in with the appearance of yellow canary feathers and the disappearance of old Elias Woodson’s strange cutout message to Greg.

After some time Joe noticed that the fire was getting low. All the wood had been used up.

“I’ll get an armload from the stack outside,” he murmured to himself, and quietly opened the door.

Stepping out, he found that the storm finally had abated. Snow had covered the pile of logs, and it took Joe a few minutes to brush several inches of the white fluff away before he could begin to gather up a load.

Stooping over, the boy heard a muffled foot step behind him. As he straightened up, a blunt object connected with the back of his head.

Joe pitched forward and blacked out.

CHAPTER IX

Cat and Mouse Sleuthing

IN the library of Woodson Academy, Frank and Chet were poring over a pile of books. It was late afternoon and snow was pelting against the windows.

“This place would be too obvious for old Mr. Woodson to hide anything,” Chet complained. “He’d never take a chance of some student stumbling upon it.”

“I’m not so sure,” Frank answered. “Sometimes the obvious is the most difficult to see.”

Their examination of the school library was the final stop on a tour that produced nothing in the way of clues to the mystery.

“I thought your idea of a secret room, or passage, was better,” Chet said regretfully. “I’ve always wanted to find a hidden treasure!”

Frank chuckled and agreed that he too had been disappointed by their failure to find a cache. Taking advantage of Kurt’s absence they had spent several hours tapping the inner walls of the building but without success.

Finally Frank, recalling Skinny’s tale of find ing Elias Woodson’s letter to Greg below the library windows, had steered their course to that room. Having uncovered nothing, they were now about to give up for the day.

“Hm! Here’s a row of yearbooks,” Chet commented as they walked toward the door. “I’ll bet they’re full of funny old-time pictures.”

As he pulled out a volume to look at it, Frank scanned the row.

“A lot of them are missing,” he remarked. “Let’s see—Dad’s class is one of them.” He wondered if the books had been borrowed by someone or whether the collection was simply incomplete.

“Let’s call it quits,” Chet said. “I’m getting hungry. Time to go back to my duties in the kitchen.”

Frank agreed but said to count him out on helping. With Kurt’s continued absence he wanted to do some more sleuthing.

“I just thought of something,” he said.

“What?” Chet asked.

“I found a key in the guest-room closet on the floor under a pair of sneakers. They might be Greg’s and he might have lost the key there.”

“You think it’ll open something here at school?” Chet questioned.

Frank nodded. “Maybe old Mr. Woodson’s study.”

As Chet started down to the kitchen, Frank went for the key and tried it in the study lock. The bolt moved and the door opened!

Frank locked himself in and got to work. It was an interesting room with heavy, carved furniture and paneled walls. For half an hour Frank tapped and searched. At last he came to the same conclusion Greg Woodson had: The deceased man’s secret was not to be found here.

He returned to the guest room and hid the key in a dresser drawer under the paper lining. Then he went to the kitchen. Chet was busy at the stove, with several students running errands for him between the refrigerator, the sink, and the dining room. Among them was Skinny, who rushed over to Frank.

“Say, what do you suppose happened to Joe and Mr. Kurt and Benny Tass? They’re all missing!”

Frank said he thought they must have been caught in the storm and had taken shelter.

“Maybe the camp hut,” Skinny remarked.

Frank did not tell the boy why Joe and Kurt had gone there and wondered if Benny had joined them. As time went on and the storm abated a little Frank confessed to Chet that he was fearful that the Yellow Feather might have captured Joe and Mr. Kurt.

“Joe could have gone home,” Chet suggested. “Why don’t you phone and find out?”

“I’ll do it,” Frank said and hurried to the telephone booth.

Aunt Gertrude answered, and in reply to his query, she said Joe had not been there. She reported, however, that Fenton Hardy had been home for an hour but had gone out again, not telling his destination. He had requested that if his sons called to tell them the FBI had no record of anyone with the name of Yellow Feather.

“Your father also said to tell you,” Miss Hardy went on, “that he thinks the paper Mr. Kurt left with him may be a fake. He doesn’t trust Kurt and wants you to try hard to find the one Greg Woodson lost.”

After Frank had completed the telephone call, he stood lost in thought a few minutes. Although Kurt had said that the cutout paper had been given to him by Elias Woodson, maybe he had found Greg’s paper on the river and had made a copy of it. Had he slipped up on some detail which was apparent to Mr. Hardy?

“That paper Kurt took from the file cabinet and put in his pocket might have been the original!” Frank thought excitedly. “Fat chance I’d have of finding out, though!”

Suddenly another idea came to him. On a hunch he put in a call to Myles College. A fellow student in Greg’s dormitory obligingly summoned the senior. Greg instantly asked if the Hardys had uncovered any new clues.

“Well, sort of,” Frank answered. “Dad thinks the cutout paper Kurt left with him could be a phony. I may know where yours is, but I can’t get it. Greg, do you think you could possibly remember those series of cutouts well enough to make a duplicate?”

“You mean to get all those little holes in exactly the same arrangement? I don’t know. It’ll be tough, but I’ll try, Frank, if you really think it’s important.”

“I sure do.”

Frank found Chet and they talked about the case, interspersing their conversation with remarks about Joe’s long absence. Their worry increased with the passing hours, but when bedtime arrived, Chet tried to reassure Frank.

“Probably Joe is on the trail of that crook,” he said. “Just wait and see.”

The two boys retired to the school guest room. Chet took Joe’s empty bed and slept soundly. But Frank tossed and turned a good part of the night because of his concern over his brother. Next morning his worry became intensified when Kurt, with Benny Tass behind him, strode into the dining hall.

“Good morning,” they both said heartily.

“Where’s my brother?” Frank asked.

Kurt looked surprised. “Isn’t Joe here?”

After explaining that they had stayed at the hut overnight because of the storm, Kurt went on to say that he and Benny had been awakened early that morning by cold air blowing in through the open door of the cabin.

“I assumed that Joe had made a head start to the school. His skis were gone,” the headmaster reported.

Frank leaped up from his half-finished breakfast. “I’m going out to find him!” he exclaimed. “Something has happened to Joe!”

“We’ll organize a search party,” Kurt proclaimed.

But Frank and Chet did not wait to hear more. Rushing from the dining hall, they almost bumped into Skinny Mason.

“Say, you know how to get out to that camp hut,” Frank cried as he halted the boy. “Get your coat and lead the way, will you?”

Chet and Frank borrowed skis and poles, and before Kurt had even begun to gather an official search party, they were off through the woods with Skinny Mason. Fortunately, Skinny had a keen sense of direction and guided them easily to the hut. Winded and excited, they quickly determined that Joe had not returned to the shelter since the departure of Kurt and Benny.

“Where’d he go?” Skinny asked, wide-eyed.

“Say, look at this!” Chet called from near the woodpile. “There must have been some kind of commotion here.”

Frank’s sharp eyes surveyed the scene. The newly fallen snow of the blizzard was stomped down all around the stack of firewood.

“Something was dragged away through the woods!” he exclaimed, pointing to a trail of deep footprints in the snow. “Come on! Chet, Skinny, hurry!”

With ski poles working furiously, the boys made their way through the clearing into the woods again, and out onto the bank of the frozen Willow River.

“Looks as if the tracks lead to that old boathouse over there,” Chet puffed as he followed Frank across the snow toward a rickety, unpainted shack near the river’s edge.

One narrow door, half off its hinges, marked the end of the trail. Kicking off his skis, Frank yanked the door open and strode inside. The other boys waited tensely. In the dim light he saw a figure face downward, lying motionless in one corner. Frank turned the bound and gagged person over.

Joe!

With quaking heart Frank felt his brother’s pulse. He was alive!

“Chet, help me bring him to!” Frank cried.

“Help me bring him to!” Frank cried

He removed the gag and with a pocketknife cut the bonds that had held his brother for so many hours. Then he and Chet gave him first aid. Finally Joe was restored to consciousness. He smiled feebly but could not speak.

“You must be half-frozen,” Chet groaned in sympathy.

He and Frank carried Joe to the cabin. Skinny ran on ahead and by the time they arrived he had kindled a blaze in the fireplace.

After drinking some hot broth which Chet had prepared, Joe recovered from his ordeal sufficiently to tell the others of the attack upon him.

“You don’t think Mr. Kurt or Benny did it?” Skinny asked, aghast.

Frank and Joe exchanged glances but did not reply.

“It must have been the Yellow Feather,” Chet decided.

“I don’t know,” Joe replied glumly. “I wish I’d seen him, but I didn’t.”

An hour later he declared that he was able to start back to the school.

“My skis ought to be somewhere outside,” he said.

“Unless they were stolen,” Chet remarked.

Skinny, taking a quick turn around the cabin, found the skis half-buried in the snow and soon the four boys were ready to start back. Plodding along with Frank and Chet on either side of him, Joe proceeded steadily.

As they approached the school, Frank caught a glimpse of the headmaster moving about in his office.

While Chet and Skinny continued across the campus, the Hardys entered the building. As they walked in on Kurt, he whirled to face his unexpected visitors. His face was a mirror of astonishment.

“You’re back, Joe!” he exclaimed in a flustered tone. After a pause he added, “Fine! Fine! I was rather worried. The way you went off, I didn’t know—Joe, I’m really glad to see that you’re safe. I sent out a search party but they couldn’t find you. What happened?”

As the young detectives explained, they watched Kurt’s face but all it showed was incredulity.

“Terrible, terrible!” Kurt exclaimed. “The Yellow Feather really means business. This case is getting completely out of hand. I think you had better let your father take over.”

“Not a chance!” Joe burst out. “We’re solving this mystery for Greg Woodson! And what’s more we want a key to this building.”

“Have it your way, then,” Kurt said, and reluctantly handed him an extra key. “But I’ll not be held responsible for the outcome.”

Leaving the office, the Hardys ran into Benny Tass who also appeared surprised to see Joe. He gave him a half-hearted welcome and added:

“You guys must be crazy to play around with that Yellow Feather. He may be a killer!”

“We’ll take that chance,” Frank said as he and Joe moved off.

The Hardys went to the dining room. They enjoyed Chet’s good lunch and Frank told Joe about finding the key to the study. They had just finished eating when Greg Woodson came in. He explained that he had been given several days’ leave from college.

“I’ve been appointed administrator of my grandfather’s estate!” he announced proudly. “The court handed down the decision yesterday.”

“Has Kurt heard this yet?” Frank asked, immensely pleased at the news.

“I don’t know, but here he comes.”

When the headmaster heard Greg’s news, he broke into a torrent of complaints against the legal decision about which he had just been informed by telephone.

“You—you—” He pointed a menacing finger at Greg. “You’re young, inexperiencedl What do you know about business? Nothing!”

Greg was furious. “Mr. Kurt,” he said, his eyes blazing, “if you weren’t older and headmaster here, I’d punch you right in the nose!”

The angry, raised voices instantly drew all the students from the tables. They gathered in a circle around the two men, expecting a fight.

“Greg can lick him!” one whispered.

The remark seemed to bring Kurt to his senses. He ordered the boys back to their tables, then turned on his heel and left.

After telling of the attack on Joe, the Hardys informed Greg of their growing suspicion against Kurt and that he might even be trying to harm them.

“We haven’t been able to figure out why,” Frank admitted, “but we’re going to keep a closer watch on him from now on.”

“And on Benny Tass,” Joe added.

Frank asked Greg if he had made a copy of the cutout letter.

“Not yet, but I’ll do it right now,” he replied.

Seated in the guest room with them, he painstakingly penciled a series of small rectangles on a sheet of stationery, then cut them out.

“This is about as close as I can make it from memory,” he said hopefully and held it up.

The Hardys studied the sheet carefully for several minutes, then Frank said, “I believe that your grandfather designed the sheet to cover a certain page in a book. The cutout places will reveal a message.”

Greg was impressed. “But what book?” he queried.

“Well, if your grandfather was working on it in the school library the night before his death,” Joe declared, “the book is probably there.”

‘Let’s start a search,” Greg proposed.

“How about the size of the book page?” Frank asked. “Is this sheet about the same size as the one you lost?”

Greg examined it for a few moments. “I’d say this might be a trifle larger than the other sheet.”

Frank recommended that they wait until evening when no students would be in the library. Around eight o’clock, with Chet on guard at the door, Greg and the Hardys went to work. Greg chose the size volumes on which they would start, and a systematic search began.

They fitted the cutout sheet over page after page. Half an hour later, Chet, nodding in a chair, suddenly became aware of a figure moving behind the stacks about ten feet from the spot where he sat. Instantly he was wide awake.

He leaped out of his chair, and dashed toward the eavesdropper. A sudden beam of light through the stacks revealed the identity of the intruder.

“Benny Tass!” Chet cried.

With Chet after him the bully raced out the door, slamming it in Chet’s face.

“Tail him, Chet!” Frank ordered.

With Joe posted at the door, the others continued to try the improvised sheet over the pages of several books. Nothing that indicated a message turned up.

“I guess I didn’t get the layout right,” Greg said finally in disgust. “It looks as though we’re on a wild-goose chase!”

“You can’t be sure,” Frank told him encouragingly. “Maybe we just haven’t found the right book. We’re not going to stop until we’ve gone through every book this size.”

They had just started on another volume when Chet burst in. He was red-faced and excited.

“First Benny went to see Kurt in his office!” he finally managed to say. “Benny didn’t shut the door tight. They talked for a long time. Then through the crack I saw Kurt take a sealed envelope from his pocket. Without another word he handed it to Benny, who came out. I hid so he didn’t see me.”

“Where’s Benny now?” Frank asked.

“He just ran out the front door and jumped into his car. I heard him tell someone he was driving to Bayport.”

“Let’s follow him!” Frank cried to Joe.

The Hardys hurried from the building and raced off in their convertible in pursuit!

CHAPTER X

A Puzzling Ad

IT seemed as if Benny had wings on his car. He sped over the country road at a reckless pace, and only because Frank handled the convertible with the skill of a racing driver was he able to keep the other car in sight.

When Benny hit the downtown area and ran into a series of traffic lights, he proceeded at a more reasonable rate of speed.

“Do you think he knows we’re following him?” Frank mused as he drove along about a block behind Benny.

“Doesn’t act like it,” Joe answered. “He’d be turning corners, trying to lose us.”

Benny was taking the most direct route toward the center of town. He drove into the main business section, found a parking place, and hopped out of his car.

“He’s going into the office of the Bayport Times,” Frank noted with interest.

“That envelope Kurt gave him must be for someone in there,” Joe surmised.

Before the Hardys had time to trail Benny into the building, he reappeared, got into his car, and drove speedily away.

“Shall we follow him back?” Joe asked.

Frank shook his head. “I think it would be better to find out what he was doing.”

In the newspaper office they found that the clerk on duty was a portly old gentleman they knew well.

“Well, if it isn’t the Hardy boys,” Mr. Brown greeted them. “What are you two sleuths up to now?”

“We’re looking for a little information,” Frank answered.

“I suppose you’re working on a case. Well, what can I do for you?”

“Just a minute ago,” Frank explained, “a heavy-set fellow came in here with an envelope. Could you tell us which department it went to?”

“The envelope contained an ad.”

“What did the ad say?” Frank queried.

“Now that”—Mr. Brown chuckled—“I can’t tell you. It would be against the paper’s rules. But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you that it was a Personal.” Then he added, “Even if I dared let you know what it said, I couldn’t, because I sent it right through.” He tapped a delivery chute alongside him.

The Hardys thanked Mr. Brown for the information and returned to their car.

“At least we know where to look when we check tomorrow’s paper,” Joe said hopefully.

“Let’s stop home and get the cutout sheet of paper that Kurt left with Dad,” Frank remarked as he swung the car from the curb. “We can say hello to Mother and Aunt Gertrude and pick up some fresh clothes.”

Upon reaching their house, the boys received the usual friendly reprimands from Aunt Gertrude.

Mrs. Hardy looked at her sons, an anxious expression in her eyes. “I can’t help feeling concerned when you’re at the Academy. Especially since your father’s warning of danger there.”

The boys smiled reassuringly at their mother, and promised that they would take no unnecessary chances. Just then Aunt Gertrude called that a snack was ready.

After they had eaten, they changed their clothing and stowed a few extra things in an overnight bag. As they started back to the Academy, Frank patted his jacket pocket to make sure that the folded paper of rectangular cutouts, which he had taken from his father’s desk, was still there.

“It will be interesting to see how this sheet compares with the one that Greg made this afternoon,” he said to Joe. “Even if it should be a fake, as Dad suspects, the difference between it and the one Greg made might provide a clue.”

“Maybe so, but the idea of looking through all those books in the library again makes me want to scream.” Joe groaned.

Back at the school, they found that Chet and Greg were in a double room next to theirs. Greg was getting ready for bed. Chet, head propped up on three pillows, was reading a magazine.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Briefly, the Hardys recounted the chase which had led to the newspaper office. Then Frank produced Kurt’s sheet of cutouts and checked it against the one Greg had made.

“They’re certainly different,” Greg observed. He was eager to try Kurt’s copy on the library books.

Frank suggested that Joe go to bed. “You’ve had a rough day,” he said.

“Guess I could use some shut-eye,” Joe admitted.

Chet yawned. “How about me? I’m bushed, too, making meals for a hungry wolf pack all day long.”

Frank grinned. “Okay. And listen, in the morning I’ll have breakfast in bed, sausage, pancakes, plenty of syrup.”

“And coffee with a yellow feather,” Chet said as he rolled over to go to sleep.

Frank and Greg, armed with flashlights, tiptoed down the deserted corridor carrying both copies of the cutouts. They entered the library and closed the door behind them. There was not a sound but the ticking of the old-fashioned clock on the wall. Its hands stood at midnight.

The two settled themselves at a large table. With the aid of their flashlights they re-examined many of the books they had checked earlier that evening, trying to find a clue in the difference between the two sheets. For more than an hour they looked for a combination of words that made sense.

Finally Frank gave up. “I think it’s hopeless,” he said. “And we still don’t know if Dad is right about Kurt’s sheet being a fake.”

Greg yawned. “We have no guarantee that mine is correct, either. I’ve got a pretty good memory, but who knows? I might have left something out, or moved one of the cutouts either to the left or right of its designated place. Well, let’s head for bed.”

Frank followed him out of the library.

Their eyes accustomed to the darkness, the boys moved silently through the wing. Just before they reached the main part of the building, Frank suddenly stopped short.

“Sss-s-t! Greg—wait—”

Frank was staring upward at the frosted-glass transom of one of the classrooms.

“What’s up?” Greg whispered.

“I’m sure I saw a light flickering in there!”

Frank gripped the knob and flung open the door. Almost with the same motion, his other hand found the switch for the overhead light. Illumination flooded the room.

A man in a dressing gown, his back to them, stood in the middle of two rows of desks. He was holding a small flashlight and seemed frozen into immobility. But in a second he turned.

“Mr. Kurt!” Greg and Frank cried.

The headmaster glared at them balefully. “Why are you wandering about at this hour?” he thundered.

“We saw a light in here,” Frank explained, “and came to see who the burglar was.”

“I’m just inspecting the classrooms,” Kurt explained testily, walking toward them. “You needn’t trouble yourselves by snooping.”

On a hunch Frank moved quickly toward the spot where Kurt was standing. Casually he glanced down at the nearest desk.

Crudely carved into its polished surface was:

REVENGE HARRIS D.

Kurt, apparently upset that Frank had seen the strange message carved into the desk, tugged nervously at his beard.

“Who was Harris D?” Frank inquired.

“I don’t know,” Kurt snorted.

Frank looked hard at Kurt to see if the man were withholding information, but the headmaster did not flicker an eyelid.

He urged Frank and Greg into the hall and on toward their rooms. In the morning Frank told Joe what had happened.

“There must be something very important in that classroom,” his brother remarked. “What could it be?”

“It certainly is related to that desk,” Frank answered as he pulled on his sweater. “Kurt was pretty eager to get us away from it.”

“Let’s take another look,” Joe suggested.

The Hardys finished dressing and hurried toward the classroom. The corridor was deserted. Employing caution, however, Joe remained at the door while Frank crossed to the carved desk.

“Someone has removed the top!” Frank called. “There’s a brand-new one here now!”

“I’m sure Harris D is the answer,” Joe asserted. “If we can find him, he might give us a clue.”

The boys decided to work on this new angle as soon as possible. But first they wanted to get the paper and check the Personal ads.

As they walked out of the classroom and along the hallway, they met Mr. Teevan with several copies of the Bayport Times under his arm.

“Good morning,” Frank said. “We were just going out for the paper. Can we borrow one of yours?”

“Sure. You can keep it.”

“How is your wife?” Joe asked.

“Tolerably well,” the custodian answered. “She hasn’t got over her fright completely. But I dare say she’ll be back at work in a day or two. Well, good-by, boys.”

“So long. And thanks for the paper.”

Frank and Joe bounded up the stairs to the guest room. Frank spread the Times on the dresser and turned to the Personal column. Quickly he ran his finger down the advertisements. As he neared the bottom of the list, he gave a shout.

Just then Greg and Chet walked in.

“Listen to this!” Frank said excitedly. “ ‘Yellow Feather: Meet 100 F.R. Pt. 2101.’ ”

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “That must be the ad Kurt put in!”

“He might have done it to send us on some wild-goose chase,” Joe suggested. “I’m convinced that he’d go to great lengths to get rid of us.”

“In which case you won’t move a step away from here!” Chet said firmly.

“I think we should follow up the clue, even if it’s a trap. Since we know it might be, we can be prepared,” Frank said.

“But what does that code mean?” Chet asked, repeating the words. “There’s no doubt about the Yellow Feather part. But what about the rest?”

“One hundred F.R. Pt.,” Frank said. “One hundred what? Feet maybe? One hundred feet R. Pt.”

“Rocky Point on Barmet Bay!” Chet exclaimed.

“A meeting place,” Greg agreed. “Sounds logical.”

“The rest is easy,” Joe said. “Two thousand, one hundred and one. Twenty-one 0 one. The naval and military way of telling time. Twenty-one means nine P.M., and the 0 one means one minute after nine.”

“Meet one hundred feet off Rocky Point at one minute past nine P.M.,” Frank read the complete message. “As I said before, it could be a trap. But it could also be a meeting between our buddy and the Yellow Feather. If so, we’ll have to catch them in the act!”

“In the Sleuth?” his brother asked, referring to their sleek motorboat.

“No,” Frank corrected him. “We’d be smarter not to take our own boat—someone might be watching for us to start out in it and follow us.”

“Then how about Tony Prito?” Joe suggested. “He says his Napoli is in good shape and I know he’ll be glad to take us.”

“Good idea,” Frank said.

“Well, I hope you don’t want me to go,” Chet spoke up. “Operation Sub-zero—br-r-r!”

The Hardys looked at Greg. “Joe and I should do this job alone,” Frank said. “I’d hate to expose you to danger. Anyway, both you fellows ought to stay here and keep your eyes open.”

After breakfast Frank called Tony Prito. The star end of Bayport High’s football team and close friend of the Hardys was always ready for adventure. He assured Frank that he would be delighted to take them out.

“Meet me at eight o’clock,” he told them.

“Drive out Shore Road, and I’ll have the Napoli waiting for you in Segram’s Cove.”

Frank had just stepped from the booth when a familiar voice called:

“Hi, Frank!”

“Skinny! Say, you’re just the person I need.”

“Swell. What can I do for you?”

“Play detective. Find Benny Tass and ask how he got permission to go to Bayport last night. Tell him you heard that he was seen there at the newspaper office. Report to me how he reacts and what he says.”

Skinny said he would do it at once. But as he started off, another thought came to Frank and he called him back.

“Did you ever hear of an alumnus of Woodson Academy called Harris D?” he asked.

Skinny’s forehead wrinkled. “Harris D—Would you mean Harris Dilleau by any chance?”

“Maybe. Who was he and when was he here?”

“Why, a long time ago. I’ve heard my uncle John Mason talk about him several times. He was in the same class. Uncle John graduated about twenty-two years ago.”

“What did he say about Dilleau?” Frank was intensely interested.

“Oh, he was a real troublemaker, my uncle said. I think he was expelled from school.”

The boys separated and Frank went to the guest room to relay this latest bit of information to Joe.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Joe cried. “Let’s go to the library and see if we can find out anything more about Dilleau in the yearbooks.”

But as they scanned the row of annuals, they became discouraged. There was only one publication which dealt with Dilleau’s years at Woodson. Although Skinny’s uncle was mentioned prominently, there was only one short reference to Harris D.

Joe returned the volume to its proper place. “I’m going to search for the missing yearbooks,” he declared, “and see if they contain any information about Dilleau. I’ll bet he’s a friend of Kurt.”

During the day he examined shelf after shelf of books but drew a blank. Frank busied himself trailing Kurt. The headmaster’s activities, however, were above suspicion.

Skinny Mason came to Frank later in the afternoon to report on Benny Tass. The boy had admitted to him that he had gone to the Bayport Times with an advertisement, but claimed it had not appeared in that day’s paper.

Frank and Joe did not believe Benny’s story. And when they set out that evening they were thinking as much about Kurt as the Yellow Feather, hoping to capture both of them.

They drove to Segram’s Cove by a circuitous route in order to throw off any possible followers, but reached the bay shore at exactly eight o’clock.

Frank cast the car headlights over the water and the beams picked out Tony in his motorboat. Frank turned off the lights, locked the car, and the boys started down the slippery embankment.

The sound of an engine reached their ears as the boat drew toward them, then they heard Tony’s voice as the bow of the Napoli scraped softly against the low dock. An instant later he was running up the snowy slope to meet them.

“Hi, Tony,” Frank greeted their friend. “Good timing, eh?”

“Good timing, but bad conditions. Frank, I don’t think we can go. There’s too much floating ice in the bay!”

CHAPTER XI

Dangerous Waters

“You mean we’ll have to give up an opportunity to capture the Yellow Feather?” Frank asked with a groan of disappointment.

“Tony,” Joe said, “this might be our only chance!”

The Napoli’s skipper shrugged. “The whole bay is full of great chunks of ice. If we hit one of those floes, it would knock a hole in the hull so fast we’d sink like a rock.”

Through the darkness, the boys could see the white floes bobbing up and down on the water.

“Miniature icebergs,” Frank observed. “But I sure hate to miss this opportunity of perhaps solving the mystery.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Tony spoke up. “I’m willing to risk the boat. You fellows pilot her. You’re better navigators than I am.”

“I’m game if you are!” Frank cried, and Joe agreed.

All three sprinted out on the dock and jumped into the Napoli.

“You take the wheel, Frank,” Joe said, then released the line.

Frank assured Tony he would use care and eased the sleek craft out into the ice-jammed water. Since he did not wish to betray their presence, he decided to proceed without lights.

“Joe, crawl onto the bow and tell me where to steer,” he directed.

Joe felt his way forward in the dark. Lying on the deck with his head hanging over the prow, he kept up a rapid-fire series of instructions.

“Who would ever keep an appointment out here in the bay on a night like this?” Tony asked as the Napoli snaked slowly among the chunks of ice.

“I don’t know, except the Yellow Feather!” Frank said.

As the boat moved farther out of the cove, the danger from the ice increased.

“Frank, port, hard!” Joe commanded.

Desperately Frank spun the wheel. There was a slight scraping along the starboard gunwale, and a gasp of relief from Joe, as an ominous section of ice floated astern.

“How far off Rocky Point are we, Tony?” Frank asked, peering into the darkness.

“We must be getting close. Maybe you’d better cut her down some. You can almost drift in.”

“See anything ahead there, Joe?” Frank called in a low voice.

“Not a thing.”

In a few minutes they were in the shadow of sheer rocks of the Point that towered menacingly. The Napoli was crawling now. Joe kept a constant watch for ice, while Tony searched the sea for the shadowy outline of another craft.

Suddenly there was the sharp boi-i-ng whine of a projectile near their heads! Instinctively the boys ducked. Splash! The object struck the water ten feet from the craft.

“Where’d that come from?” Joe called.

Neither Frank nor Tony could answer.

Before the boat had gone twenty yards there was another whine. This time all three felt a convulsive shudder jar the boat. The Napoli had been hit!

“Look at this!” Tony cried.

The tip of a small harpoon was embedded in the wood of the boat about a foot above the water line. Tony wrenched the missile loose and pulled it into the cockpit.

“Holy crow!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s get out of here quick.”

Frank spun hard to starboard and the Napoli lurched seaward. A second later there came another twang, followed by a splash sending a spout of water high into the air directly in front of them.

“We’re in a trap!” Frank exclaimed. “Our only chance is to hide!”

Pulling on the wheel frantically, he headed the boat back toward the protection of the rocks.

“Frank! Ice!” Joe warned him.

Blocking their course to the safe shelter of the Point was what looked like a flotilla of ice floes! Frank realized that it would be almost impossible to steer through them. Desperately he searched for an escape route. He saw only one possible way out of their hazardous situation.

“Joe! Come back here!” he called.

At the same time he cut the throttle, spinning the wheel first one way, then the other, so that the Napoli course made the boat a difficult target.

Joe crawled back along the deck and jumped to his brother’s side. Quickly Frank related his plan. Instantly Joe grabbed a boat hook and slid up to the bow again. At the same time Frank cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs:

“Help! We’re sinking! Save us!”

Then he steered the speedboat toward an overhanging cliff, and under the jutting cover. With the boat hook Joe kept her from bouncing against the rocks.

The boys waited, but there were no more twangs of death-dealing harpoons. The ruse had worked!

“Where do you suppose the harpoons were fired from?” Tony whispered.

“They seemed to come out of nowhere,” Joe replied in a low voice. “I didn’t even hear the sound of a gun firing them, did you?”

“No,” the others answered.

“What puzzles me,” Frank mused, “is those funny twang sounds we heard just before the harpoons landed.”

“Hold it!” Joe demanded. “Listen!”

In the crash of surf and the whistle of wind they heard another sound.

“A motorboat!” Frank said hoarsely.

The unseen craft was evidently speeding toward them. The noise grew louder with every second.

“Do you suppose he knows we’re here?” Tony asked fearfully. “If not, there’s going to be a crash!”

“Let’s move,” Joe suggested.

“But where? We don’t dare show ourselves,” Frank objected. “I say, take a chance and stay here.”

The boat continued on in their direction at breakneck speed.

“This is it!” Joe announced tersely as the other craft did not swerve. “Get ready for a fight with the Yellow Feather!”

They waited tensely while the sound of the approaching motor came closer. Then the outline of another speedboat took form in the darkness, zigzagging about fifty yards off their starboard side.

“It’s searching for us!” Frank whispered.

The craft was almost abreast when a water-spout seemed to rise directly in front of it.

“She’s being fired on, too!” Joe cried.

The boat practically jumped from the sea as its skipper gave it the gun. But even as he did, another big splash rose alongside the craft.

By this time it was evident to the Hardys that the harpoons were coming from the high rocks of the Point rather than from a craft.

“Whoever’s in that boat is going to make a run for it!” Frank stated.

“Why don’t we make our break now, too?” Joe suggested. “Two boats out there will divide the target.”

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “Besides, I want to see who’s in that boat.”

He started the motor and waved Joe to let go with his grappling hook. The Napoli streaked forward, angling from left to right.

“We’ll be out of range in a minute!” Frank yelled. “Then we’ll take off after that other boat.”

The boys heard one more big splash behind them, then the attacks stopped. The pilot of the craft ahead had opened up and ripped off in a straight course toward Bayport.

“That fellow can really handle a boat,” Tony remarked as they watched him cut between ice floes without losing speed or direction.

Frank tailed the other craft. But in spite of the wide-open throttle and a path to follow, he could not gain on it.

“We’d better let him go before we crack up the Napoli!” Frank said. “How about my taking her into your boathouse, Tony, instead of Segram’s Cove? That hole the harpoon made ought to be checked right away.”

“Okay. I’ll drive you back in my jalopy to pick up your car,” Tony suggested.

At the boathouse the boys used a block and tackle rigged to an electric motor, and hauled the Napoli up on rollers to examine the damage.

“Not as bad as I thought,” Tony said.

“I’m relieved,” said Frank. “Just the same it will cost something to fix. Joe and I will pay for it.”

Tony would not agree to this, and the Hardys could not change his mind.

“It’s all in the cause of detective work,” he said.

“Well, at least let us help you patch it. Got any stuff here?”

“No.”

“We have some in our boathouse,” Joe said.

“Okay,” Tony said. “Let’s get it and I’ll make the repairs tomorrow.”

The three boys hurried to the Hardy boathouse, which was not far from Tony’s. Frank unlocked the door and switched on the light. The trim Sleuth gleamed in her berth.

“Hey, she’s wet!” Joe cried suddenly. He jumped in and felt the motor. “Why, she’s just been used!”

The next instant Tony groaned. “There’s a small hole in her side just like the one the harpoon put in the Napoli!”

The boys looked at one another in consternation.

“Listen, if those crooks think they can steal our own boat to chase us in—” Joe began.

Suddenly Frank burst into laughter. Tony and Joe stared at him in amazement.

“I think I know whom we were chasing.” Frank chuckled. “Detective Fenton Hardy!”

“What! Your dad?” Tony gasped.

“No wonder he outmaneuvered us,” Joe said, grinning. “Dad’s the only one I know who handles a boat that well.”

Frank laughed. “Will we give him a cross-examination!”

He quickly found the calking material and handed it to Tony.

“Thanks,” Tony said. “I know you fellows want to get home, so I’ll drive you to your car.”

A little while later Joe slid behind the wheel of the convertible and drove home.

Bursting into the living room, they found their father in lounging jacket and slippers before the fireplace. He was reading an FBI report.

“Nice night for a boat ride, wasn’t it, Dad?” Frank queried.

The boys eagerly watched their father’s face, but he only raised his eyebrows questioningly. Joe touched the detective’s tousled hair.

“Um, damp,” he said. “Couldn’t be from the salt spray, could it?”

The corners of Mr. Hardy’s mouth crinkled and he broke into a hearty laugh. “All right, you win!”

“And what were you doing out in the bay?” Frank asked.

“Well, I happened to notice the ad about the Yellow Feather in today’s paper,” Mr. Hardy explained, “and called the school to ask if you had seen it. When Chet told me where you’d gone, I decided you might need some help.”

Frank told his father about trailing Benny to the Times office, and the discovery of the advertisement.

“Well,” Mr. Hardy said, “the code was rather easy to figure out. That made me think that it was a plant.”

“We suspected it, too, But by whom? The Yellow Feather?”

“Possibly. In any case it was designed to put us off the case for good!”

“Dad, now that we know Kurt is tied up in this do you think he could be the Yellow Feather?” Frank asked.

“Until I have more proof, I’ll reserve judgment. I do believe, though, that he’s trying to steal the Woodson estate from Greg, and perhaps old Elias was afraid of him.”

“Was that the reason you called Mother about us being in danger?” Frank wanted to know.

“Yes. We must get back the original cutout paper which Greg lost,” Mr. Hardy declared.

Joe told of his suspicions that Henry Kurt might keep it locked in his office filing cabinet.

“I saw him take out a sheet of paper and put it in his pocket,” Joe went on. “Maybe when he’s alone he tries to figure out what the cutouts mean.”

“That’s very likely,” his father said. “I think that Kurt made the one he left with me as a cover-up for his own underhanded work.”

After talking to Mr. Hardy a while longer, the boys said good night and took off for the Academy. They were halfway along the winding country road when Joe noticed a peculiar reflection in the sky.

“Looks like a fire,” he said. “Frank! Do you suppose it’s at the school?”

CHAPTER XII

A Disastrous Fire

FRANK gave the car the gun and the convertible roared along the road. He braked to a stop at the edge of a field that bordered the campus.

Before them an immense bonfire was sending flames high into the air. In its flickering light was a group of excited students.

“Say, what’s this?” Frank murmured, jumping from the car.

“There’s Skinny and Chet,” Joe said.

“And Benny,” Frank added, almost bumping into the bully. “What’s going on, Tass?”

“Semester celebration! We don’t have to go to bed until we want to. It was Kurt’s idea. He gave us a lot of old record books to burn up.”

“Record books? He can’t do that!” Frank cried in dismay. He whispered to Joe, “If those records are destroyed, we’ll never find out anything about Harris Dilleau!”

The Hardys ran over to Chet and took him aside. “Where’s Greg?” Joe asked. “He’d better order the boys to stop this!”

“Greg’s gone,” Chet replied. “He received a message calling him back to college.”

Realizing that there was no time to lose if the records were to be saved, Frank leaped between the fire and the students.

“Fellows!” he cried. “We have to put out this fire! Important papers are being burned. Grab all the snow you can hold and throw it on the flames!”

But before the boys could carry out his order, Benny jumped forward and shouted, “Bunk! Why should we put it out just because you say so? It’s been a long time since we had a fire like this!”

“There are valuable records in there,” Frank retorted. “We must save them!”

He leaped to a nearby snowbank and swept up an armload of snow. As he turned to throw it on the fire, the bulky figure of Benny Tass blocked his path.

“Look out, Frank!”

Joe’s warning shout cut through the hubbub of excited students, but it came too late.

Frank did not see Benny’s foot, which the bully had stuck out deliberately to trip him. The young detective sprawled headfirst toward the fire.

Like a cat, Joe pounced after his brother and grabbed his coat. He pulled Frank clear of the blaze before it had time to ignite his clothing, then helped him to his feet.

“Is he all right?” Skinny cried, seeing Frank’s blackened face.

Anxiously everyone gazed at the unfortunate boy, who rubbed his face with his glove. The only apparent injury was a pair of singed eyebrows.

Chet angrily faced Benny. “That was a dirty trick,” he said. “You tripped him on purpose!”

The students gathered around, sensing a fight.

“It was an accident,” Benny declared as Chet doubled up his fists. “I’m sorry.”

Despite his apology, the onlookers stared at one another in disbelief. A few minutes previously, most of the students had been ready to side with Tass. Now the entire group turned against him.

“Let’s put out that fire as Frank said!” one of them shouted.

Before Benny could protest, the boys began to throw snow on the flames.

“Here’s a fire extinguisher,” cried Skinny, who had run to the school’s garage to get it.

Between the extinguisher and the snow heaped on the giant blaze, it soon died down. Chet, meanwhile, had hurried off to the tool shed and soon returned with two steel rakes. Joe grabbed one. Together they pried into the sodden mass, yanking out what was left of the record books.

“Oh, good night!” Joe moaned in dismay. “The fire extinguisher liquid has messed up what the fire didn’t.”

The pages of the book he had picked showed only blurred, washed-out traces of ink.

“Maybe not all of them are ruined,” Frank said hopefully, and the raking went on.

Several students helped, using their glove-protected hands. Soon there was a mass of partly charred papers stacked up in the snow.

Off to one side, Benny Tass was still complaining bitterly. “It’s a fine thing,” he blustered, “when we let a couple of smart alecks from town come on the campus and tell us we can’t have a celebration!”

Most of the boys ignored him, but his few close buddies stood by him.

“Hey,” exclaimed one of Tass’s pals, “Here comes Mr. Kurt. Wait till he hears about this.”

The headmaster stomped onto the scene. Immediately Benny told him how the Hardys had ordered the fire doused. Kurt stormed over to where the boys were still trying to salvage some of the records.

“What’s the idea?” he barked. “I gave permission for that bonfire.”

Frank stepped up to the headmaster. “Mr. Kurt, you know as well as I do that Gregory Woodson wouldn’t want any records of this school burned.”

“But I’m the one who is in charge here,” Kurt said pompously.

“I’d like to remind you,” Frank replied, “that Greg Woodson has been named by the court as administrator of his grandfather’s estate. The school and its records are a valuable part of that estate.”

Kurt was speechless with rage.

“The destruction of the records could turn out to be a criminal offense!” Joe added.

Kurt finally found his voice. “I looked over all the records. There wasn’t anything valuable in them.” After a slight pause he said threateningly, “You Hardys will regret this. No one can come in here and tamper with my authority!”

“No one’s trying to do that,” Frank said. “But we’re going to save Woodson Academy for its rightful owner.”

At a murmur from the students, Kurt suddenly realized that he had lost face with them. Purple with rage he stalked off, ordering his young charges to follow him. From a distance the Hardys and Chet could hear him trying to explain his side of the case.

The unpleasant scene over, the boys returned to their salvage work. Soon every readable scrap had been gathered up into a small pile.

“I sure hope there’s a clue to this mystery in here to make our work worthwhile,” Chet puffed. “Maybe Kurt was right.”

“I think just the opposite might be true,” Frank spoke up. “They might contain items he doesn’t want us to see. If only those particular ones didn’t burn or weren’t ruined by the fire extinguisher.”

Joe spoke up, “Kurt probably gave the telltale ones to the boys first. They would have been on the bottom of the pile.”

“And were saved!” Chet chortled, his enthusiasm returning. “Say, fellows, we ought to hide these papers so Kurt can’t find them.”

“Or the Yellow Feather or Tass,” Joe agreed.

“We could take them to your room,” said Chet, then chuckled. “But after the way Frank’s trousers wound up on top of the bell tower, I wouldn’t say it’s a safe place.”

“I know,” said Frank. “Let’s hide the papers in the tool shed. Unless we’re spotted moving them in, no one would think of looking in there.”

Making sure that nobody was in sight, the boys split the pile of charred records into three arm-loads and carried them to the shed.

By the light of a lantern which they found, they stacked them in a corner and covered them with a tarpaulin. The Hardys would investigate the contents in the morning. Frank had found a padlock with a key which he was about to snap on the door when Chet spoke up.

“I have a better idea. One of us really ought to guard these papers. You fellows must be dead tired after all you’ve been through today, so I’ll stay.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “You’re a real pal.”

With Chet inside the shed, he locked the door and departed quickly with Joe for their room.

Chet relighted the lantern and set it on a workbench. Then he decided to begin looking in the pile of records for clues.

One by one, he began going through the papers. The stack of discarded possibilities was growing high when Chet found an interesting item.

“Boy oh boy!” he murmured.

At the same instant he became aware of a scraping sound outside the shed. Quickly extinguishing the lantern he peered out the window. It was so dark he could see nothing at first. But as his eyes adjusted themselves to the change, some of the blackness took shape. It seemed to be moving!

As Chet watched, terrified, the moving object became a person. Was he heading for the tool shed?

Instinctively the youth started to drop out of sight, in case a light should be flashed in his direction. Before he got below the level of the sill, there was a crash of glass and something hit him full force on the head.

Chet sagged to the floor.

CHAPTER XIII

A Minor Explosion

EARLY the next morning Frank and Joe hopped out of bed and dressed quickly.

“I wonder how Chet made out last night,” Frank mused as they hurried toward the tool shed, first making sure that no one was following them.

Joe grinned as they neared the tool house. “We’ll probably find him lying sound asleep smack on top of the records!”

Suddenly both boys uttered cries of alarm. Crudely painted on the side of the shed was a large yellow feather! Fearful now that something might have happened to Chet, the Hardys raced forward. Getting closer, they saw the broken window. A second later a bound and gagged figure rose into view.

Chet Morton!

The prisoner’s hair was disheveled and there was a smear of blood on one cheek.

“That Yellow Feather is a fiend!” Frank exclaimed as he hastily unlocked the door and rushed inside.

He removed Chet’s gag while Joe cut the bonds that held his friend’s arms.

“For Pete’s sake!” Frank said. “What happened? And are you all right?”

“Guess so. I was conked,” Chet replied, rubbing a bruise over his left ear. “Somebody shot at me. I went out like a light.”

“Say,” said Joe, bending down to pick something off the floor, “I’ll bet this is what hit you!”

In his hand was a small dart. It was about six inches long and had a leather-covered knob at one end.

“The kind that can be fired from a gun!” Frank cried excitedly. Then another thought struck him. “Chet, the records!”

“They’re—they’re gone,” Chet said dejectedly.

Joe leaped to the corner in which the papers had been stacked the night before and groaned. “All our work for nothing!”

“We really have been taken in by the Yellow Feather,” Frank said as he turned to Chet. “Tell us exactly what happened.”

Chet related all he could remember.

“I didn’t see the person well enough to identify him,” he said ruefully. “But he sure fixed me up.”

“You seem to be all right now,” Joe remarked.

“Maybe even a little fatter, as a matter of fact!”

“Say, I’m not so—” Chet began, patting his midriff. “Oh, I almost forgot!”

Grinning as he unbuttoned his jacket, he brought out a thick record book which had been hidden against his stomach.

“I was going through the papers,” he explained. “I had just come across this book when I heard the noise, so I stuck it under my coat. Dilleau’s name is in it,” Chet added proudly.

“Great work!” Joe said, and Frank praised, “Chet, you’re an ace!”

“Some of the stuff about Dilleau was washed out by the fire-extinguisher liquid,” Chet went on, “but part of it’s left.”

“Never mind, we’ll take the records to our lab and try to restore them by special chemical treatment,” Joe said enthusiastically.

Overjoyed that something had been saved, the Hardys took the charred book from the shed, locked it in the trunk of their car, and returned to the school. To their surprise, Mrs. Teevan was back and breakfast was ready. As they headed for the dining hall, the boys met Greg Woodson.

“That phone call requesting me to go back to college was a fake!” he informed them. “I’d sure like to know who sent me on that wild-goose chase.”

“Kurt might have done it to get you out of the way while he was having a lot of old records burned,” Frank said, and told Greg about the “celebration.”

“Well, he won’t catch me off guard again,” Greg said firmly. “I’m sticking right here!”

After breakfast Frank told him that he and Joe planned to go home to work in their laboratory and try to restore the old data about Dilleau. Chet said he would leave too.

When the Hardys climbed into their car, Frank could not get any response from the motor.

“The fuel gauge!” he exclaimed, pointing to the empty reading. “But I filled the tank yesterday!”

“Somebody must have siphoned off the gas,” Joe surmised. “Maybe we can borrow another car.”

When they tried to start Greg’s car they discovered that it, too, had no gas.

“Someone doesn’t want us to leave here,” Frank said. “First he doesn’t want us to stay, now he doesn’t want us to go.”

“Maybe the Yellow Feather found out that we wanted to restore the records about Harris Dilleau,” Joe suggested.

“All the more reason for us getting to our lab as fast as possible,” Frank said. “But how?”

Joe grinned, then mentioned Chet’s new contraption. It was better than walking! Taking the records from the car trunk, they went to find their pal.

“So you want another ride on my propeller sled?” Chet grinned. But upon learning that the Hardys’ car and Greg’s had been drained of fuel, he sobered. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll outsmart the Yellow Feather yet.”

The three boys hurried to the river where Chet’s invention was lashed to the school dock. Frank and Joe began to slip the lines that held it secure, and Chet spun the flywheel.

Boom!

The concussion of the explosion nearly knocked all three of them over. As they regained their balance, Frank asked, “What happened?”

Still a little groggy, Chet started to examine his motorized sled.

“The muffler,” he said in a sorrowful voice, “has been blown to bits.”

Parts of the cylindrical noise absorber were scattered over a wide area of ice.

“Someone put an explosive mixture in it,” Chet groaned. “Benny Tass, I’ll bet.”

Chet wound the rope around the flywheel again and tugged. To his amazement, the motor caught hold and burst into a throaty roar.

“We may be driven deaf, but I’ll get you fellows to Bayport,” he yelled. “Climb aboard.”

Once they picked up speed, the noise seemed to lessen.

“I’d sure like to know who wrecked my muffler,” Chet grumbled. “Maybe it wasn’t Benny after all. Kurt’s mad enough at all of us to have done it.”

As Joe remarked that he doubted that the headmaster would stoop to anything so childish, Frank’s thoughts about the man were concentrating along other lines. Finally he said:

“You know, Skinny Mason once told us that Kurt was an expert on spring propulsion. I’d forgotten about it until now. I wonder if that dart which knocked you out, Chet—”

“You mean he has invented some kind of noiseless pistol to fire darts?” Chet exploded.

“Exactly. And a large one that sent those harpoons out on the bay. That would account for the funny twang we heard,” Frank said.

Since the Morton farm was nearer than the Hardys’ home, Chet planned to go there, then drive Frank and Joe to their house in his father’s car. Two pretty girls opened the door for them.

“It’s about time,” Callie and Iola chorused in mock severity. “We’ve been waiting for you!”

“What’s doing?” Joe grinned at Iola.

“Have you forgotten that tonight’s the big sleigh ride?” she demanded.

“We were so tied up with this Yellow Feather mystery we never gave it a thought,” he said apologetically.

“Well, we have it all arranged,” Callie said.

“Old Mr. Kemper is going to take us.” And then the girls told of the plans they had made.

“If we’re going on a sleigh ride”—Frank finally broke in—“Joe and I had better get home fast and do some work.”

The Hardys departed, with Chet driving them in the Morton car.

At their house Frank and Joe were greeted in the hall by a peppery voice:

“Well, it’s a pity you’re never around when you’re wanted!”

“Hello, Aunt Gertrude.” Joe laughed. “Maybe we ought to have cards printed—At Home Tuesdays!”

“It would be a fine idea,” his aunt snapped. “Then a visitor would know when to find you.”

“Visitor? Did we have a visitor?” Frank asked seriously.

“Yes, indeed, but he couldn’t wait. I gave him what he came for. He said to tell you that Benny Tass had been here.”

CHAPTER XIV

The Wild Chase

“BENNY Tass!” Frank exclaimed. “What did he want?”

“Benny wanted the Woodson Academy annual for the year in which your father was graduated. He explained to me that there was no copy of that yearbook at school.”

“But what was his reason?” Joe asked.

“The boy explained that he was writing a story for the school’s monthly bulletin about famous Woodson athletes. Your father was one of the best that ever played in sports there, so naturally some facts about him should be included.”

“Did you give him the book?” Frank asked.

“Why, certainly! Would you want your father’s name omitted from a story like that?”

Frank had to agree on that point but added, “I’m not sure Benny gave you the real reason he wanted to get his hands on Dad’s yearbook.”

Aunt Gertrude bristled. “You mean he wasn’t telling the truth?”

The boys told her of their search to make the strange cutout sheets fit various book pages to reveal an important message.

“Kurt probably sent Benny here,” Frank said. “We don’t trust those two. Kurt may have found out that the message is in Dad’s yearbook!”

“Well get going,” Aunt Gertrude cried, “and bring that yearbook back before your father comes home!”

As the boys ran toward the garage for Mr. Hardy’s car, Joe said, “Now I’m sure it was Benny who drained the gas out of our car. He didn’t want us to get here before he did!”

“Right.”

A few seconds later the motor purred to life and the boys started off. Frank drove as fast as he dared on the snow-packed roads.

Minutes later Joe cried excitedly, “There’s a car up ahead! It might be Benny’s!”

Foot by foot, they gained on the other vehicle. Obviously its driver did not realize that he was being pursued, otherwise he might have put on more speed.

“It’s Tass, all right!” Joe said gleefully as they neared the car ahead.

“I’m going to force him to the side and make him stop,” Frank said.

He pulled up in back of Benny and then swung alongside him. When the bully saw the Hardys, he made a desperate effort to get away, giving his motor full power. But the acceleration was fatal on the snowy road, and as his wheels spun wildly, Frank edged in front of him, forcing the youth to stop.

“What’s the big idea?” Benny yelled angrily as the Hardys hopped out and strode over to him.

“You have Dad’s yearbook,” Joe answered. “We want it back.”

“Your aunt lent it to me,” Benny snapped. “Isn’t that good enough for you?”

“No, it’s not,” Frank said coldly. “Hand it over, Benny—right now.”

“Wait a second, will you?” The bully dropped his blustering tone a little. “We just want to get some material out of it, that’s all.”

“Who’s we?” Frank inquired.

“Why, Kurt. He’s going to read it.”

“Nothing doing,” Joe insisted. “Give it to me, Benny.”

For a moment the bully fumed, his face red with anger. Then he decided there was nothing he could do with the odds against him but return the borrowed annual.

“Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it,” he said in a surly tone.

With that he picked up the book from the seat and started to hand it over. But as Joe reached through the window to take it, Benny’s other hand flashed to the dashboard. In one movement he yanked out the ashtray full of cigarette refuse and emptied it into Joe’s face! With a yelp of pain the boy fell back, trying to wipe the ashes from his eyes.

Benny, with a clashing of gears, gunned his motor.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Frank cried and dived through the window to take control.

One twist of the steering wheel and the car was off the road and on the soft shoulder in deep snow. Then Frank snapped off the ignition.

“Listen, you wise guy—” Benny growled as he pushed open the door. “I’ve taken about enough of your meddling. You’re going to get it now!”

He drove a vicious right to Frank’s jaw, but the boy dodged and the blow whistled through the air! He stepped inside a wild swing from Benny’s left so that it carried harmlessly over his shoulder.

Then Frank staggered his adversary with a smashing right jab to the solar plexus. As Benny doubled over, Frank caught him with a well-timed left hook to the chin! Dazed, the bully fell to the snow.

“Attaboy, Frank!” Joe cried as he took in the short-lived battle through blinking, watering eyes. “That’s the way to handle a sneak!”

“Now get the book, Joe,” Frank said as he stood over the beaten Benny.

Tass said nothing as he watched Joe retrieve the yearbook. Then, using some sand from their trunk, the Hardys put Benny’s car back on the road. He still glowered at them as they drove off.

Eager to get started on the processing of the burnt record book, Frank and Joe returned home, ate a quick lunch, and then hurried into the workshop over the garage. After several hours the boys had failed to find a chemical combination which would restore the printing on the charred pages. Disappointed, they were roused from their work by heavy footsteps on the stairs. Chet and Callie appeared in the doorway.

“We forgot all about the sleigh ride,” Joe groaned as he looked around at the half-completed work. “It must be six o’clock.”

“Frank Hardy”—Callie shook her finger in mock anger—“you have a date!”

Frank winked at his brother. “What do you think, Joe? Can we give up our sleuthing for a few hours?”

“Let’s go!” Joe grinned. “This problem will still be here for us tomorrow!”

In a few minutes the boys had cleaned up the lab and put on their jackets and boots. Then, with Chet and Callie, they hurried out to the waiting sleigh. Climbing aboard, the Hardys were greeted heartily by Iola and half a dozen other friends who made up the party.

“That’s the way to handle a sneak!” Joe cried

With the happy group snuggled in the deep straw, old Mr. Kemper flicked the reins and the two horses broke into a trot. Smoothly the sleigh glided along and for half an hour the crisp night air echoed with the laughter and joking of the young people.

Suddenly Frank and Joe noticed that Mr. Kemper was heading the sleigh toward Woodson Academy.

“Say,” Joe whispered excitedly to his brother, “we’re not far from the camping hut. Wonder if there’s any activity there tonight?”

“You mean—by the Yellow Feather?”

“Yes. We could take a swing over that way and investigate,” Joe suggested eagerly.

“What is this about investigating yellow feathers?” Callie demanded.

“It’s the Yellow Feather,” Joe said. “Somebody we’d like to catch—and he might be right around here, too.”

By this time everyone in the party was listening to the conversation with avid interest.

“Of course we might not find anything at all,” Frank murmured to Joe as they neared the place.

For answer, Joe gripped his brother’s arm and pointed as the hut came into view.

“Frank! There’s a light inside. Someone is there!”

CHAPTER XV

A Frightened Bully

“WE’D better stop here,” Frank called to Mr. Kemper. “I don’t want to get so close to the hut that we’ll be heard.”

When the driver had reined in, Frank vaulted from the sleigh, landing noiselessly in the snow.

“Joe! Chet! We’d better go the remainder of the way on foot,” he whispered. “The rest of you stay here, and please be as quiet as possible.”

Thrilled to see the Hardys in action, their friends promised to remain still. They sat in the sleigh and watched in the moonlight as Frank, Joe, and Chet moved off among the trees in the direction of the light.

Soundlessly the trio crept up to the building. Flattening themselves against the stonework below one of the windows, they listened. Two people were evidently arguing.

Henry Kurt and Benny Tass!

“Listen here,” Kurt ordered. “You go back and get that book or there’ll be trouble. And this time no excuses!”

“But how?” Benny whined. “The Hardy boys have probably warned their family not to give it to me.”

“How dumb can you be?” Kurt snorted in disgust. “I said, get that yearbook!”

“You mean you want me to break into their house?” Benny asked in disbelief.

“All I’m telling you,” Kurt said in a chilling tone, “is to get that book back before the Yellow Feather catches up with you!”

There were footsteps across the floor and the squeaking of a door.

“Step back!” Frank warned Joe and Chet.

The door opened and Benny Tass came out, his head hanging, his shoulders slumped. In the doorway stood Kurt.

“Remember what I told you,” he said in a cold, impersonal voice. “It’ll make a difference in your school marks and your scholarship!”

Then the door slammed, and Benny dragged himself off.

“Go after him!” Frank whispered to Joe and Chet. “I’ll keep an eye on Kurt.”

Stealthily the two followed the bully into the woods. When Joe and Chet were out of earshot of the cabin, Joe called out:

“Benny! Wait for us!”

Tass whirled around. “Wh-what are you guys doing here?” he gasped.

“We happened to be going by with some friends,” Joe told him. “When we saw a light in the cabin, we thought we’d do a little investigating.”

Benny was frightened. “Did you hear what Kurt said in there?” he asked.

“Part of it.”

“The part about the Yellow Feather—and getting the yearbook back?”

The boys nodded, and Joe asked, “Can’t you see Kurt’s just using you? And you’re taking a chance on going to jail!”

“Oh, no,” Benny cried in alarm.

“How’d you get mixed up with Kurt?” Joe demanded.

“I wanted to solve the case,” came the startling answer. “I thought I could beat you fellows.”

Now Benny spilled the whole story, eager to confide in someone.

“Kurt told me about the mystery before you guys ever showed up. He said that I could help in return for the scholarship. I thought I was going to catch the Yellow Feather myself, until you Hardys came along. When I heard that Greg Woodson asked you up to his room, I fixed that wire in the hallway so I could listen without being caught.”

Joe clenched his fists and flushed with anger, but realized he must remain calm to get more information out of Benny.

“Were you the one who was using the ladder to climb into our room?”

“Yes. I planned to play a gag on you that would scare you off the case,” Benny admitted sheepishly. “But something happened to the ladder, and I took a mean flop. I got in your room later, but because I was seen by one of the fellows I couldn’t do what I planned. So I just took your brother’s pants and threw them on the tower.”

“Someone pulled the ladder away,” Joe said. “You don’t know who it was?”

“No.”

Chet looked at him sternly. “Did you have anything to do with knocking me out in the tool house and painting a yellow feather on the side of it?”

Benny looked frightened. “No! Outside of what I’ve told you, the only thing I did was try to shove the Hardys off the road one night. Kurt was with me and suggested it.”

“Well, are you going to wise up now and quit being a stooge for Kurt?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. I’m getting sick and tired of having Kurt push me around.”

“How would you like to help us instead of him?” Joe suggested. “First of all, have you any idea who the Yellow Feather is?”

“I don’t know exactly, but he’s somebody under twenty-one years of age, I guess, from what Kurt once said about him. At least, Kurt once made a crack about the Yellow Feather being a minor.

“Anyway,” Benny went on, “the Yellow Feather’s someone who has it in for the Woodson family.”

“Go ahead,” Joe prodded. “What else can you tell us?”

The youth declared that he had told everything he knew about the mysterious enemy. Finally, at the urging of Joe and Chet, Benny agreed to work with them, and if Kurt became too tough on him, to come to them for assistance. He promised to go back to the Academy at once and retire for the night. After he was out of sight, Chet remarked:

“I really think Benny will be all right from now on, Joe.”

“If so, it’ll be a relief,” Joe answered. “And there’ll be one less obstacle to overcome.”

“Say,” said Chet, “what did you think about his information on the Yellow Feather? Could this mysterious guy be a former student at the Academy? A crank who’s been holding a grudge?”

“Could be,” Joe agreed as both boys cautiously headed for the hut.

Frank, meanwhile, had been spying on the headmaster. When Kurt had closed the door, the young detective had crawled under one of the windows. Now his eyes were on a level with the sill.

The hut was lit by a kerosene lantern. Kurt stood at the table in the center of the room, his back to the boy. He seemed to be studying some papers. Suddenly he turned halfway, holding one up so he could see better.

It was a sheet of white letter paper with rectangular cutouts!

As Frank watched, his heart pounding, Kurt placed the cutout sheet on the table. Then, with a sweep of his hands, he collected all of the other papers into one batch and dropped them into the fireplace. A flick of a match, and they were ablaze.

“What is he up to?” Frank asked himself as Kurt again picked up the cutout sheet and approached the fireplace.

Would he burn it, too?

CHAPTER XVI

An Unexpected Twist

BUT burning the cutout sheet was not Kurt’s intention.

As Frank watched, breathless with excitement, the headmaster raised the top of the mantelpiece with one hand. With the other he carefully tucked the paper beneath the lid and closed it. Then he turned out the kerosene lantern.

Backing away from the window, Frank nearly ran into Joe and Chet as they came up behind him. With a motion of his hand, he stilled the questions on their lips. A second later Henry Kurt emerged from the hut and strode off into the darkness.

“Stand guard, will you?” Frank hissed to the others as he moved forward. “I’m going in!”

He opened the door and raced across the room to the fireplace. Stomping with his heavy snow boots on what remained of the flames, he snuffed them out, then recovered what he could of the papers. Relighting the lantern, he studied the scraps.

Apparently they had been torn from many kinds of large-page books, covering a variety of subjects with no significant relationships. There was only one similarity in the sheets-they were all exactly the same size.

“Kurt was probably trying to fit that cutout page over them,” the young sleuth deduced. “And since he tossed them all into the fire, none of them could have been the one he was looking for.”

Nevertheless, Frank spread the salvaged papers on the table. Then he reached into the space under the movable mantelshelf and pulled out the sheet Kurt had hidden there. The name Hardy was printed in the top left corner.

Was this the original sheet Greg had lost? There was no telling. Only Greg could answer that question.

But as Frank studied it, he noted that the size of the rectangular cutouts and the spacing between them were different from those in the other two sheets he had worked on with Greg.

“All that time spent in the Academy library for nothing,” the boy thought ruefully.

At that moment Joe burst impatiently through the hut doorway. “What’s going on?” he cried.

Learning that Chet was still on guard, Frank quickly explained all that he had seen through the window and what he had just found. Joe carefully examined the cutout paper. Then he held it up to the light.

“Say, here’s a mark that wasn’t on the copy Kurt gave Dad,” Joe said.

Scratched on the paper, evidently with a fingernail, and visible only when looked at against the light were two letters: EW.

Elias Woodson!

“This is the real thing!” Frank exclaimed excitedly. “Kurt must have found it the night Greg lost it.”

“He has done us a great favor without meaning to,” Joe said with a grin. “We’ll take this along.”

“And leave a fake copy here,” said Frank, “so Kurt won’t be suspicious.”

The Hardys examined the papers Frank had rescued from the fireplace and found an undamaged blank page.

Joe took out his pocketknife and carefully marked small rectangles, then gently punched them out. In a few minutes the job was done. He added the name Hardy and rubbed his hands back and forth over it several times to give the paper a slightly mussed-up appearance, then handed it to Frank.

“Perfect!” his brother said.

He folded the sheet in exactly the same way that the original had been creased. Lifting the top of the mantelshelf, he inserted the fake document.

Then Frank threw the rest of the odd papers into the fireplace and burned them. “Kurt will never know anyone was here,” he said.

“Unless Benny Tass tells him!” Joe remarked. He reported the talk with the bully.

“Maybe Benny will reform,” Frank said hopefully. “Well, we’ll soon know. In any case, we have the lost paper.”

After putting the precious sheet into an inside pocket of his jacket, he led the way outside.

When Chet was told of the discovery he whistled gleefully.

“Looks like things are closing in on our friend Kurt,” he chortled.

The three boys trudged through the snow to where their friends still waited in Mr. Kemper’a sleigh.

“Why, we expected to see you leading a gang of handcuffed prisoners!” Iola teased them.

“You didn’t even bring one little crook?” Callie sighed as the sleigh ride got under way again.

Mr. Kemper, as previously arranged, drove to an old inn owned by relatives of one of the girls.

The young people spent a fun-filled evening, relishing the fine food for which the place was famous and singing and dancing to the latest records.

The Hardys thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it, but as soon as they returned to Bayport and the quiet of their room, they again discussed the subject foremost in their minds.

“I meant to tell you,” Joe reported, “that Benny says Kurt knows who the Yellow Feather is.”

“What!”

Joe repeated Tass’s theory that the Yellow Feather must be under twenty-one years of age, because Kurt had once spoken of him as being a minor.

“A minor?” Frank puzzled.

“Wait a minute!” Joe cried. “I wonder if Benny misunderstood Kurt. Did he mean miner instead of minor—is there a mine mixed up in this case?”

“Elias Woodson may have owned some stock in a mine,” Frank mused.

“If the stock has any value, it would be the real reason why the Yellow Feather—and Kurt—are making such a big thing out of the inheritance,” Joe observed.

“What kind of mine could it be?” Frank reflected, “and where is it?”

“I think that cutout paper might give us the answer,” Joe replied. “I’d like to get to work on it now, but I suppose we’d better get some sleep.”

He flipped off the light switch, then moved to the window to open it for the night. As he did, a vague shifting of shadows below caught his attention.

Joe stared at the moonlit scene outside. Not one, but two figures were moving in the dark protection of the trees and hedges.

He called to Frank, who was out of bed and at his side in an instant. One figure was close to the house now, almost under their window. The other seemed to be following him.

“Out the back door!” Frank suggested.

In a flash, the boys were rushing barefoot down the back stairs.

“Joe, I’ll sneak out and get the second guy,” Frank said. “When you see me tackle him, snap on the porch light and nab the first one!”

“Okay.”

They opened the door silently and Frank padded softly along the edge of the back porch in the shadows, while Joe stood poised with his hand on the light switch.

A moment later Frank made a headlong tackle for his man. Joe snapped on the light and went after the other!

CHAPTER XVII

A Startling Story

FRANK’S slashing tackle crashed the silent figure to the ground. The man rolled with the force of the boy’s dive, then bounced to his feet.

“Dad!” Frank cried.

At this outburst, Joe stopped in his tracks and whirled about with a look of incredulity on his face.

“Holy crow!” he said. “What’s—?”

“Tell you later!” his father cried. “Joe, get that snooper. Don’t let him escape!”

Joe dashed toward the front of the house, where the intruder had fled. Mr. Hardy and Frank followed. But the five-second delay had been enough for the fugitive. He had vanished into the night!

“Let’s spread out and search the area,” Frank said. But before he had time to race off, his father countermanded the proposal.

“Nothing doing,” Mr. Hardy said. “You boys are shivering. Go into the house. I’ll try to trace the prowler alone.”

As Frank and Joe went inside they were met by Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude. Upon learning that the prowler had not entered the house, the boys’ mother sighed in relief and said she would fix hot cocoa for them and Mr. Hardy.

Aunt Gertrude, however, burst into a tirade. “Burglar or no burglar,” she said sternly to her nephews. “The idea of your running out in pajamas in the middle of the night! And in bare feet!”

By the time the cocoa was ready, Mr. Hardy was back. He reported that the intruder had made a clean getaway. Then he looked at Frank.

“That was a great tackle you made, son.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I was sure you were a prowler.”

“How did you happen to be trailing that guy?” Joe asked him.

“I was just coming home,” Mr. Hardy answered, “when I saw somebody slip across the hedge at the rear and head for the house. Naturally I followed, and was just about ready to challenge him when Frank hit me.”

“It’s too bad I picked on the wrong man,” Frank said ruefully.

Mrs. Hardy served cocoa and cookies to the entire family. As they ate, Frank and Joe told the others the latest developments in the case— the chase after Benny and the yearbook, the clue of the miner or minor, and the recovery of the original cutout sheet.

“Tomorrow we’ll go back to the Woodson library and start looking again for a clue,” Joe said.

“And in Dad’s yearbook, too,” Frank added.

Suddenly the older detective’s eyes lighted up. “Boys,” he said, “I believe you’ve solved this mystery!”

Frank and Joe stared at him in astonishment. “How?” they asked together.

“Let me see that sheet,” Mr. Hardy requested. “And bring the yearbook down with you too.”

“Sure thing.” Frank dashed from the kitchen and ran upstairs for the two objects. In a moment the detective was flipping through the yearbook’s pages, with his sons looking over his shoulders. As he paused to gaze at a certain page, the boys saw a picture of Mr. Hardy in a Woodson basket ball uniform, and a short account of his prowess on the court.

“I believe,” Mr. Hardy went on, “that Elias Woodson’s message to Greg is in this article. That’s why he printed the name Hardy on the corner of the cutout sheet.”

Deftly he placed the sheet of paper over the page. With a pencil he drew sharp black lines around the words and parts of words that were showing. Everyone waited breathlessly to see what the message would be. When Mr. Hardy removed the sheet, the page looked as follows:

FENTON HARDY

Woodson’s high-scoring forward set the pace with 26 points to help theand Black beat Craigly. Anotherin Hardy’s cap was theen opportunity he seized to sink the winning basket that deterd the state championship one week later.of the yearn athletics.theyport Ace and our winning team, congratulations!

Quickly Frank read aloud the special message: “‘Yellow Feather Gold Mine Manitoba.’ ”

“Then there is a mine—a gold mine in Canada!” Joe cried. “Wait until Greg hears this!”

“Yes, but we must be careful about telling him,” Mr. Hardy cautioned both his sons. “One thing I’m sure of. Even if Kurt knows there’s a mine, he doesn’t know where it is and we don’t want him to get any inkling of the location.”

“After that prowler’s visit—and I believe it might have been Kurt—we’d better lock both the paper and the book in your safe, Dad,” Frank advised.

“We’ll do it at once,” said Mr. Hardy, rising from the kitchen chair. He and the boys went upstairs. “When you tell Greg about the mine,” the detective warned them, “be sure there are no eavesdroppers around.”

Joe remarked that the easiest way out would be to have Kurt arrested. It was obvious that he was trying to steal the Woodson estate.

“We don’t have enough on him yet,” Mr. Hardy reminded his son. “I’m just as concerned as you are that he’s mixed up in the case for selfish reasons, but we must let him tip his own hand.”

“How?”

“Well, I’d guess Kurt is delaying a final move for two reasons. First, he knows about the mine. He probably got that much out of Elias Woodson. But as I said, he doesn’t know where it is. And secondly,” the investigator pointed out, “he must find the old man’s will and destroy it. Then, when there’s no danger that someone else will inherit the property, Kurt will produce a forged will, leaving everything to him, and pretend it has just been found.”

The three discussed means of foiling Kurt’s evil scheme. Mr. Hardy decided the best thing for him to do was fly to Manitoba and look for the mine.

“There must be some record of ownership which could be produced in court. In the meantime, you try to get some more information on Kurt’s relationship with this Dilleau,” the detective suggested as the discussion broke up for the night.

By the time the boys arose the next morning, Mr. Hardy had left for Manitoba on an early plane.

“We’d better get back to work on restoring that article about Dilleau,” Frank said to Joe.

As soon as breakfast was over, he and Joe headed for their laboratory in the garage loft. Picking up the experiments that had been interrupted the night before, they again subjected the charred remains of the papers to various chemicals. Finally they found the right combination.

“Look—some of the printing is reappearing!” Joe exulted.

Bit by bit, most of the material on Harris Dilleau became legible. The article had been published in one of the monthly school bulletins.

“Dilleau was president of the school’s Science Club,” Frank remarked. “And here it says he had a touch of genius. That’s why he got such terrific grades in all the sciences,” Joe added.

Just then they heard Aunt Gertrude calling them to the telephone.

“I’ll take it,” Frank offered and hurried to the house. Returning a few minutes later, he said, “It was Chet.”

“What did he want?”

“Asked us to help him put some kind of reverse gear on that propeller sled,” Frank explained. “But I told him we were going right back to the Academy and he offered to drive us out there in his jalopy.”

“Swell, only I hope it gets us there.”

Chet arrived fifteen minutes later. Squeezed in the front seat with the stout youth, Frank and Joe clung to the dashboard of the topless car to steady themselves. Between the jouncing and the racket, conversation was impossible.

When they reached the Academy, the Hardys hopped out, thanked Chet, and hurried into the main building. First they checked on the whereabouts of the headmaster and learned from Mr. Teevan that Kurt had taken a party of younger boys some distance into the woods to build a snow fort. Benny Tass, too, was out of the building. Frank and Joe went upstairs to see if Greg was in his room.

“We can talk to him without having Kurt or Benny spying on us,” Joe remarked.

Fortunately, Greg was there. When informed of the discovery that the Yellow Feather was a gold mine and not a person, he gasped in amazement.

“If only it’s a producing one,” he said excitedly, “I’ll be able to use the money to put the school back on a paying basis!”

“Take it easy,” Frank said, trying to calm their enthusiastic friend. “First we’ll have to find your grandfather’s will and the deed to the mine. My dad has gone to Manitoba to work on it from that end.”

“What’s the first move for us?” Greg asked.

“I think we should get in touch with Skinny’s uncle—the one who was in Dilleau’s class here,” Frank suggested. “If we could locate Harris Dilleau, maybe we’d find out why he wanted revenge—”

Luckily, Skinny had not left yet to help with the snow fort. He called his uncle John Mason and after a few words handed the phone to Frank.

“Last I heard about Dilleau,” Mr. Mason said, “his name had been added to the list of wanted criminals in his home state.”

“Why?”

“He escaped from prison while serving a long term as a swindler. Through some clever invention that had to do with spring propulsion he managed to get out.”

“How long ago was that?” Frank questioned, his excitement mounting.

“Oh, about three years. And I read in the paper recently that there hasn’t been a trace of him since.”

Thanking Mr. Mason for his assistance, Frank hung up and stepped outside the booth. Smiling at Skinny, he said:

“Your uncle was a great help. I guess that’s all we need now. Don’t you want to go out and help with the snow fort?”

“Yes, I do,” Skinny replied. “So long, fellows.”

After Skinny had gone, Frank repeated the phone conversation to Joe and Greg, and added: “I’m sure now that Harris Dilleau and Henry Kurt are the same person!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Cannonballs of Ice

GREG’s face registered shock. “You mean a hunted criminal is running this school?”

“There are several reasons that point to it,” Frank said. “First, we know that Kurt has a flair for inventing things.”

“And so did Dilleau,” Joe burst out. “That yearbook mentioned that he was head of the Science Club.”

“But what about school pictures of him around here?” Greg asked. “Even though he’s older, it wouldn’t be too hard to identify him and no one ever has.”

“The night after you and Frank discovered Kurt looking at the desk with Harris D on it,” Joe said, “he ordered all the old records burned.”

“That’s right,” Greg conceded. “But I still can’t see why my grandfather didn’t recognize him.”

“All Kurt needed to do in order to hide his identity was to have a plastic surgery job and grow that goatee,” Frank pointed out.

Now that the case against Kurt looked so strong, Greg was determined to call in the police. But the Hardys tried to talk him out of a rash move.

“We haven’t enough evidence yet,” Frank cautioned him.

“Besides,” Joe added, “how about the reputation of the school? Every pupil in the place might leave if the authorities came charging in here and caused a lot of unfavorable publicity.”

“When Dad gets back,” Frank said, “he can arrange that everything be taken care of quietly.”

Greg was convinced, but suggested they keep a twenty-four-hour watch on the headmaster. Frank thought this unnecessary. With the will missing, the man would not be likely to leave Woodson.

“But we might go and see what he’s doing now. He may be up to something more than directing the building of a snow fort.”

Greg put on his heavy boots and jacket, then the three hurried outside. As they rounded the corner of the administration building a husky figure approached them.

“Hi, you guys!” Benny called. “What angles are you working on today?”

Warily Frank glanced at Joe. Had this boy really turned over a new leaf and joined their side? Frank decided to be sure before revealing any information.

“Nothing much so far,” he replied in as friendly a voice as he could manage.

“Where are you heading?” Joe asked, just to make conversation.

“They say that’s quite an ice fort the kids are building out in the woods. I thought I might watch them for a while.”

Frank, wanting to keep an eye on Benny, sug gested that they all walk over together. Deep in the woods, they came upon the nearly finished fort. Set back against a knoll, and surrounded by high trees, it looked unassailable.

“Those walls must be three feet thick,” Joe said in amazement as he studied the snow fort.

“It looks more like a giant igloo than the kind of open snow fort we used to build when we were kids,” Frank remarked, his attention focused on the vaulted roof which covered the entire structure. The entrance was a narrow slit in one side.

Under Kurt’s direction, students were busy carrying buckets back and forth to a nearby stream. Through a hole chopped in the ice, each boy lowered his pail, filled it, and emptied the water on the fort.

“The water freezes almost immediately,” Greg commented as they watched the process. “The fort must be as hard as granite.”

“The whole thing is on the grim side. It’s not like a play fort and the boys don’t seem to be having much fun,” Joe said.

“Hey! Look at Kurt!” Benny spoke up. “He’s moving up some kind of cannon.”

As the Hardys turned, they saw the headmaster swing a harpoon gun on its tripod. The Hardys exchanged significant glances, but the students shrieked in delight.

Kurt was loading it with giant icicles! He took dead aim at the side of the fort and fired. There was a twanging sound like that the Hardys had heard the night of their harrowing experience at Rocky Point. One more bit of evidence against the headmaster!

The spearlike weapon rocketed toward the fort and landed on the roof. But the icicle hardly made a dent in the solid exterior.

Again and again, Kurt sent his “ammunition” whistling toward the fort. The giant icicles exploded into tiny, gleaming fragments as they hit.

Although several students asked to shoot off the gun, Kurt would not permit this. Soon he ordered the whole group back to the Academy and walked off.

“But we haven’t had a snowball fight,” Skinny objected. “You promised—”

“It’s too late,” the headmaster replied sternly. “Your lunch will be ready. Hurry now, all of you!”

Disappointed, the boys marched sullenly back to the school. Frank and Joe, together with Greg and Benny, went to inspect the fort at close range.

“Can you imagine being trapped in a thing like this?” Frank asked. “If that door were ever sealed up, anyone inside would be a goner!”

After a complete inspection of the fort, the four headed back to the school. When they reached the main building, Benny said good-by cordially.

“Looks as if reform is really taking hold,” Joe commented.

After lunch Greg and the Hardys decided on going directly to the school library since no one would be in it at that time of day.

“This time we must find a clue,” Greg said. “I’m worried that Kurt will do it ahead of us.”

They were halfway up the stairs when a student called to Frank and Joe from below.

“Hey! You Hardys! There’s a long-distance telephone call for you. Make it snappy!”

“Dad!” the boys said in unison as they turned and ran down the steps.

Together they squeezed into the hallway booth. Frank picked up the phone.

Mr. Hardy’s voice came over the wire clear and strong. After a quick exchange of greetings, he reported on the work he was doing in Winnipeg.

“I’ve been talking to authorities up here about the location of the Yellow Feather Mine,” he said. “They tell me that there isn’t any such operation listed in the province, and no one has ever heard of it.”

The boys’ hearts sank. They asked him if the mine angle was a dud.

“No, not at all,” Mr. Hardy assured them. “I was lucky enough to run into an elderly hotel man up here named Davis. He knew Elias Woodson well. He often stayed at the hotel. Woodson was very fond of this province, it seems. Davis said the old gentleman once told him that he owned a producing gold mine.”

“Did he say where it was?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Yes. Colorado. I’m going to fly there and find out what I can.”

“When, Dad?”

“I’ll leave here in a couple of hours,” his father replied. “Now so much for that, son. Mr. Davis gave me another important piece of information. The tower has a secret—”

There was a clicking sound and the connection was suddenly cut off.

CHAPTER XIX

Victory Snatched Away

“HELLO! Hello!” Frank shouted into the mouthpiece. “I was cut off, operator!”

But though she tried, the operator could not restore Mr. Hardy’s connection from Winnipeg.

“Sorry,” she said, and Frank hung up.

“I wonder what Dad was going to tell us,” Joe pondered.

“All I could get was that the bell tower has some kind of secret,” Frank murmured in disappointment. “Perhaps a hidden room.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Come on. Let’s investigate and find out,” Joe said eagerly.

It was arranged that Greg would keep tabs on the headmaster during the search. Kurt had locked himself in his office and did not reappear for a long while.

In the meantime, the Hardys went to the catwalk of the tower and looked at the exterior of the structure. From his former trip to the belfry, Joe knew there was no visible entrance.

But there might be a concealed one.

“Surely when the original stairway was removed,” he said, “some means of entrance must have been substituted.”

Every inch of the belfry wall was tapped. Frank even stood on Joe’s shoulders to investigate in order not to miss any possibility.

“No go,” he said finally. “If there’s an entrance, it’s somewhere inside. Maybe in the attic where the bell tower joins the roof.”

For the first time the boys realized that the architecture of the school was a bit odd. The belfry was located where one wing joined the main part of the building.

“I think,” said Frank, “that once upon a time the tower extended up on the outside of the main building and the wing was constructed around it.”

“Then the thing to do is examine the tower where it passes through each floor,” Joe said.

The boys hurried to the basement, where the foundation of the circular structure was plainly visible. But the section where a door into it had once been was solidly bricked in with a lighter shade of mortar.

The boys went to the main floor and marveled at the clever way the architect had covered up any evidence of the former tower. A series of cabinets and shelves hid the old structure.

“No entrance here,” Frank muttered and started for the stairway.

The room adjoining the old tower shaft on the second floor was a large study hall, now vacant. The room was pine-paneled, whereas the other rooms had plastered walls.

“I’ll bet there’s a secret panel here!” Frank cried. “Keep watch in the hall, Joe, while I do some tapping.”

Inch by inch, Frank used his knuckles and fingertips on the wood. There were hollow and solid sounds but nothing moved or even vibrated. He tried pushing sideways against the trim that covered the seams between the pine boards.

Suddenly a section of the wall began to move!

“Joe! S-s-st!”

His brother came on the run and had to stifle a shout of glee when he saw the opening. Frank said he was going inside. In the event that he could not get out, Joe was to open the door when Frank tapped on the panel.

“Give me ten minutes,” Frank suggested and closed himself in.

Joe ambled back to the hall. To his consternation, Greg and Kurt were coming up the nearest stairway together. Joe walked toward them, pretending to be on his way down.

With a bare nod, Kurt brushed past him.

The wall began to move!

Then, stiffly saying “Good-by” to Greg, the headmaster turned into the study hall.

Joe was aghast. He must get Kurt out of there at once! Frank might tap on the panel at any moment! He motioned to Greg to wait.

“Oh, Mr. Kurt,” he said, racing back, “my brother and I made an interesting discovery today. Won’t you come down to the guest room? I’d like to show it to you.”

All this time Joe was trying to figure out just what to show Kurt which would keep the headmaster occupied while he returned to let Frank out. It would even be better if Greg went back to do it.

“I’m very busy,” said Kurt, “but I’ll go.”

When the three reached the room, Joe had decided what to tell the headmaster. His back to Kurt, he noisily riffled some newspapers in the bureau drawer. But he also was scribbling a note to Greg on the top border of one of them.

“Where is that clipping?” he said aloud as he wrote:

Tower end of study hall. Push third

panel from left. Let Frank out.

After quickly tearing off the note and wadding it, Joe gave the newspapers a final rattle, then turned around.

“Mr. Kurt, I’m afraid your cleaning woman tidied up altogether too well. But,” he added, passing in front of Greg and pushing the note into his hand, “if you can spare a few more minutes, I’ll tell you the gist of what we discovered.”

Greg arose. “Guess you two don’t need me. I have to make a phone call,” he said.

When he had left, Joe said slowly and with great emphasis, “We saw a printed article that gave us an idea. There’s a gold mine named the Yellow Feather!”

Kurt jumped out of the chair on which he had been waiting impatiently, his face ash white.

“You—you—Where did you see that?” he demanded. “A newspaper? Let me see it at once. Oh, you said the cleaning woman had thrown it out. I’ll look in the trash. I’ll—”

Still muttering incoherently, the headmaster made a beeline for the stairway and disappeared. Joe chuckled softly.

“I didn’t say we saw the notice in a newspaper, you moneygrubber,” he murmured.

Meanwhile, Frank had made a startling discovery in the tower’s second-floor room which was completely cut off from the lower section. Near the door lay the discarded desk top with the ominous carved words: REVENGE HARRIS D.

Using his pocket flashlight, Frank noticed similar messages on the underside. I HATE WOODSON. IT WILL SUFFER SOMEDAY. DILLEAU.

“I see why Kurt wanted to hide this desk top,” Frank thought as he beamed the light around the circular room.

There were various sorts of propulsion gadgets and other sinister-looking objects—no doubt inventions of Kurt. In the pulled-out drawers of an old-fashioned bureau lay a pile of small yellow feathers and a supply of wigs, false beards and mustaches.

Frank nearly laughed aloud. “I wonder if Kurt’s goatee is real,” he thought.

A winding staircase led to the roof. Frank climbed it gingerly, but there was nothing at the top except a weatherproof ventilator. Frank spent the rest of the time looking for the will but did not find it. At the end of the ten-minute period he returned to the panel to wait for Joe to let him out. Though Frank was sure he could open it, he did not want to be discovered coming through the secret door.

As he waited, the door suddenly slid back, revealing Greg. “I’ll explain everything in a minute,” he whispered as Frank stepped through and closed the panel. “Hurry!”

Frank followed and they met Joe in the hall.

“Where’s Kurt?” Greg whispered.

“In the cellar. Let’s go talk outdoors where he can’t bother us.”

The three took a long walk where they could laugh without restraint at the trick Joe had played on Kurt. But finally they became serious, and after Frank reported that he had not found the missing will, the conversation got around to the various unsolved angles of the mystery.

“I have a hunch if we could figure out the meaning of that word Manitoba—” Joe said slowly.

But no new ideas occurred to the boys and they returned to the school just as the dinner bell rang.

During the meal the Hardys caught Kurt glancing suspiciously at them several times. Did he suspect their ruse?

“We’d better act pretty nonchalant until we shove off for bed,” Frank advised.

They remained with the students during the rest of the evening, then went to their room. When the dorm grew quiet and it was apparent that everyone else was asleep, the Hardys talked in whispers about the mysterious connection between Manitoba and the Yellow Feather case.

“If the mine isn’t up there,” Joe said, “I don’t understand why old Elias would have emphasized the word in that message.”

“Unless it was a connecting link to the next clue.” Frank sat up straight in his chair. “You don’t suppose—the library! Come on, Joe!”

The boys grabbed their sweaters and Frank led the way on tiptoe down the dimly lighted corridor. Once inside the library he turned on his flashlight.

“We’re going to look in every book with the word Manitoba in it!”

“Good hunch, Frank. Let’s start with the encyclopedia.”

“It might be just a word that’s circled, or something like that,” Frank suggested as they began.

Several editions of encyclopedias, however, failed to yield a single clue. Next, they started on the geographies.

Finishing one stack of books, Joe began to replace them while Frank looked for other possible resources.

“Funny, all these books certainly seemed to be lined up pretty evenly before,” Joe grunted as he put the last one back into the case, “but now some of them stick out. Oh, for Pete’s sake! No wonder-there’s another book behind them.”

Reaching in, he pulled out a much older volume, dusty and worn. He was about to shove it into place properly when its title caught his eye.

“Frank! Here’s one—Canada: Province by Province.”

Joe laid the old volume on the table and flashed the light directly on it as he flipped the book open. As if by magic the heading Manitoba stared at them.

And there inserted between the pages was an old, once-white but now yellowed envelope!

With fingers shaking from excitement, Frank picked it out of the book. Joe held the flashlight close as his brother pulled back the unsealed flap. The legal document within was unfolded. The boys gasped.

“‘The Last Will and Testament,”’ read Joe in a husky whisper, “‘of Elias Woodson!”’

“We’ve found it!” Frank whispered exultantly.

Placing the document on the table with the light close above it, they eagerly scanned the legal terminology.

“‘To my nephew, Gregory Woodson,”’ Frank read, “‘I give and bequeath my full estate including the Woodson Academy, grounds, buildings, and institution, and the Yellow Feather Gold Mine in Colorado.’ ”

“Greg gets it all!” Joe cheered as loud as he dared, while Frank checked quickly through the rest of the will.

Both boys were so excited about Greg Woodson’s good fortune that neither of them heard the slight shifting of feet behind them. Without warning a voice hissed in their ears:

“Oh, no, he doesn’t! But thanks for solving the mystery!”

Henry Kurt!

As the boys spun around to confront the man they felt a fine spray cover their faces. The next instant, Frank and Joe sank to the floor!

Some time later, in total darkness, Frank struggled to regain consciousness. Suddenly, wide awake, he sat bolt upright to discover that he was lying on hard ground!

It was freezing cold. Shivering and chattering, Frank got to his feet. Now he remembered the voice in the library and the thin, fine spray that had hit him and Joe in the face.

“Joe!” he muttered weakly. “Where’s Joe?”

As if in answer, his toe hit something soft. Kneeling in the blackness, he found a figure.

“Joe!”

“What happened?” Joe asked dazedly.

Tersely, Frank reminded him of the whispered threat in the library and the spray that apparently had knocked them both out.

“But where are we?” Joe asked weakly.

“I have no idea,” Frank replied. It was so black that he could not even see his brother’s face.

When Joe had revived enough to stand, they began to feel their way around the place where they were confined. All they found was a rough, hard, cold wall enclosing them. A horrible realization began to dawn on Frank.

“We’re sealed inside Kurt’s ice fort!”

CHAPTER XX

The Final Roundup

“WE’LL never escape!” Joe’s cry echoed in the tomblike enclosure.

Because the boys had inspected the fort so carefully only that day, they knew it would be impossible to claw their way through those three-foot walls of solid ice. Kurt had done his evil work well.

Suddenly it occurred to Frank that there was one possible means of escape. “The entrance! It can’t be frozen as hard as the rest of the wall—not yet, anyway!”

It was their only hope. On hands and knees the young detectives circled their small prison until they found an indentation indicating the doorway.

“Good thing he didn’t pack this as thick as the rest of the wall,” Frank chattered.

With numbed hands, and using Joe’s pocketknife they took turns digging at the rock-hard surface. It was torturous work.

They had dug part of a tiny tunnel, little wider than a fist, when the knife suddenly penetrated the last bit of outside wall.

“We’re through!” Joe exulted. “And it’s morning.”

Desperately Frank scraped until he had enlarged the small opening. A blast of fresh air came whistling through.

“We may freeze, but we won’t suffocate,” Joe muttered.

“Maybe we can make a hole large enough to squeeze through,” Frank said hopefully.

Their joy was short-lived; for, just as Frank started to dig again, the pocketknife blade snapped in two! Its other blades were too small to be of any use.

“The only thing we can do now is shout, and hope someone hears us,” Frank declared.

Taking turns, they began to yell for help through the narrow opening. There was no reply.

Back at the school, at this very moment, Greg was talking on the telephone. He was worried and excited.

“Hello, Chet?” he cried into the mouthpiece. “You’d better come out here, quick! The Hardys have disappeared.... I don’t know. I woke up early and saw Kurt sneaking back into the school. It was shortly after dawn. He had no reason to be out at that hour. I suspect something’s up.”

Greg hung up and put on his outdoor clothes.

Where could the Hardys be? The question ran round and round in Greg’s mind while he impatiently awaited Chet. Finally the boy arrived in his father’s farm truck.

“I borrowed this,” Chet yelled, “so I could bring my propeller sled. We can cover more ground on it.”

They lifted off the sled and Chet started the motor while Greg parked the truck.

“Where do we go first?” Chet asked.

“Let’s try the woods,” Greg suggested, running back and jumping on the sled.

As they bounced along one of the trails, Chet noticed the ice fort. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Something Kurt had the fellows build yesterday. Oh, good night, the doorway’s sealed up!” Greg cried as they neared the fort. “It had an opening yesterday! You don’t suppose—”

“Looks as if someone has cut a small hole through the wall,” Chet remarked as he stopped the sled. He hopped off, placed his mouth near the opening, and shouted:

“Frank! Joe! Hey, anybody inside?”

There was no answer.

“We must break through that wall!” Greg cried. “We’ll get picks and crowbars.”

“And waste too much time,” Chet said. “If Frank and Joe are in there, we must get them out pronto!”

“But how?”

“I have it!” Chet announced. “I spent all day yesterday fixing this gimmick. Look out!”

Bouncing back onto the propeller sled, he put the gears into reverse. Then hastily he backed the sled to the wall of the fort. With the propellers spinning so that their sharp edges cut into the hard ice, he backed the sled against the wall.

“It’s biting the ice away!” Greg cried.

Chunks and fragments of ice flew in all directions. Suddenly the last of the barrier gave way, and Chet had to kill the engine at once so that the sled would not push right into the enclosure.

Greg was already peering inside. Two figures lay motionless on the ground.

“Frank and Joe!” he exclaimed, terror in his voice.

Chet looked at his friends’ still bodies a second, then sprang into action.

“Come on, Greg. Give me a hand!”

The Hardys were carried out into the pale warmth of the winter morning sun. Frank and Joe were still breathing. With Greg and Chet giving first aid, they quickly recovered consciousness. Feebly Frank murmured:

“Have Kurt arrested!”

“You go ahead and take care of that, Greg,” Chet ordered. “I’ll bring the boys. It’ll have to be a slow, easy ride.”

Greg waited long enough to help bundle Frank and Joe aboard the sled, then he raced off on foot. Halfway to the school he met Benny Tass.

“What’s the big hurry?” the boy asked.

Forgetting that Benny might still be loyal to Kurt, Greg blurted out the story of the near-fatal kidnapping of the Hardys. All the color drained from Benny’s face.

“Have you seen Kurt?” Greg demanded.

“A little while ago,” Benny answered. “He asked me where you and Chet were going, and I told him you were looking for the Hardys.”

“Come on. We’re going to his room,” Greg commanded.

But the headmaster was not there. Greg called the police, then he and Benny rushed from one end of the school to the other without finding any trace of the missing man. They concluded that he must have realized that things were closing in on him and had fled.

As they abandoned their search, Chet slowly maneuvered the sled to the main entrance. Willing hands helped move the Hardys into the school infirmary. Fortunately, the nurse had returned from her vacation.

“They’ll be all right, with some treatment and rest,” she told the others.

Before Frank and Joe went to sleep, Greg assured them that the police had been alerted to be on the lookout for Kurt.

By the next morning, neither of the Hardys was any the worse for his harrowing experience, and the police came to take full statements from both boys. Since Kurt had not been found, Frank and Joe insisted upon lending a hand. Besides capturing the criminal, they were determined to recover the will!

As Greg and Chet came to the infirmary door, they met the boys just coming out. In their haste the Hardys ran full tilt into their friends.

“Thought you were sick,” Chet gasped, recovering his balance.

“Come on with us!” Joe cried. “We think we know where Kurt is!”

To Chet’s and Greg’s amazement, they went to the second floor, then disappeared into the study hall. Frank pushed back the secret panel and flashed a light inside the dark room. Everyone peered in.

“Kurt’s not here,” Joe announced in disappointment.

But Frank’s sharp eyes had noticed a pile of rugs which had not been there the day before. Stepping into the room, he lifted the rugs to reveal a crouching figure.

The wily headmaster!

Kurt never had a chance to move. He was surrounded and yanked to his feet by the four husky boys. Still defiant, he tried to shake them off, asking what right they had to apprehend him.

“You answer that,” Frank said.

As he stabbed a hand into the man’s inside coat pocket Kurt struggled and cursed.

“The will!” Frank cried gleefully as he retrieved the envelope. Handing it to Greg, he said, “Your grandfather left his entire estate to you!”

Greg was too dumbfounded to speak. Joe told him how they had found the document, only to have it snatched from them.

“How can I ever repay you?” the happy heir cried. “Money could never make up for risking your lives to help me.”

The Hardys smiled. “Don’t try,” Frank said. “We like catching criminals.”

Kurt, completely beaten, confessed everything Frank and Joe had suspected about his nefarious efforts to deprive Greg of his rightful inheritance.

In desperation he had had the ice fort built, hoping to imprison the young detectives.

“I’m Dilleau,” he admitted. “When I was a student here, I was caught stealing. Elias Woodson gave me a tongue-lashing, for which I have hated him ever since. I determined to get revenge and tried to sell some of his valuable books, but he found me out and I was expelled.”

Kurt went on to say that he had planned for years to come back and be headmaster-maybe even succeed in taking the school away from its owner. But, in the meantime, he had run afoul of the law and had spent some time in prison.

“I escaped,” the man explained. “Then I had my face operated on and grew this goatee. When I came back here, Woodson didn’t recognize me. I showed him some phony papers and sold him the idea of giving me the job of assistant headmaster. I had a lot of theatrical gear and used to disguise myself to do a little thievery.

“Old man Woodson made the mistake of telling me about that gold mine and I resolved to get hold of it. One evening I saw his will and knew I would have to destroy it. But Mr. Woodson was clever—he took the will out of his desk and hid it.”

Kurt then told how, shortly before Woodson’s death, the old man told him he was devising a puzzle so that no one could steal the estate from his grandson.

“Maybe he suspected me,” Kurt said, then went on, “I surprised Woodson in the library making a sheet with cutouts. Just then a student called me. When I got back, the paper was gone and the old man was lying in a faint. He died the next day.”

“And you found the cutout sheet on the river?” Frank asked him.

“Yes. I thought it would throw your father and everyone else off the track if I made a fake one and said Mr. Woodson had given it to me.”

Presently plainclothesmen came to arrest Kurt. They planned to keep him at Bayport headquarters until the authorities of the prison from which he had escaped arrived to take charge.

Chet was sure nothing so exciting would ever happen again, but he and the Hardys soon became involved in another thrilling adventure, The Hooded Hawk Mystery.

Since Benny Tass and Skinny Mason already knew so much about the case, they were told the details.

“Kurt was the one who knocked Joe out at the hut while you were asleep, Benny,” Frank said. “He waited until my brother went outside for wood, then slugged him, hid his skis and dragged him off to the boathouse before you woke up. He also conked me near the Teevans’ cottage, with Benny’s help.”

As Benny, conscience-stricken, looked down at the floor, Greg took up the story. “Kurt was the one who put the poison in my coffee and then stuck a yellow feather under the cup. Needless to say, he never reported the incident to the police.”

Benny became more ashamed. “To think I fell for that stuff about the Yellow Feather being a person!” he groaned.

“We all did,” Greg said.

Young Woodson told Benny that he was convinced Kurt’s warped sense of humor was partly responsible. The headmaster had apparently enjoyed leading him on about the Yellow Feather and the play on the words miner and minor.

“Another one of his jokes,” Frank stated, “was jimmying the lock on his own office door and planting my scarf there.”

“Kurt probably hastened my grandfather’s death with exaggerations about the bad financial conditions here at the school,” Greg remarked. “And he tried to scare me off with a lot of phony threats.”

“But how about the time Chet was knocked out in the tool shed?” Benny inquired.

“Kurt did that, too,” Frank replied, “with a dart from one of his propulsion guns. And he fired harpoons at us from Rocky Point.”

“And remember the time we got the yearbook back from you,” Joe could not resist needling Tass. “That same night Kurt was prowling around our house. Dad barely missed catching him.”

“I’m sorry I ever got mixed up with him,” Benny said. “I’ve learned my lesson, fellows. Say, I wonder if Kurt was the one who tipped that ladder the night I started to climb to your room.”

“No,” said a voice familiar to the Hardy boys. They turned to see their father standing in the doorway. “As a matter of fact,” Mr. Hardy went on, “I was the one.”

Grinning, the famous detective told Benny that for a few minutes he had thought the ladder climber was the Yellow Feather.

“Me!” Benny exclaimed.

Frank introduced his father to Greg Woodson, who thanked him and his sons for their clever detective work.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “The case was an unusual one. Coming back to my old school to work on a mystery and learning that a secret entrance to the tower had been built was exciting in itself.” He turned to Frank and Joe. “Mr. Woodson’s old friend in Winnipeg told me this. I was afraid the Yellow Feather might imprison one of you in the tower.”

He suddenly laughed heartily. “Do you know,” he added, “this is the first time a criminal ever came to me as Kurt did and asked me to help him catch himself!”

“So there wasn’t really any Yellow Feather after all,” Chet spoke up.

“Except the mine,” the detective said. “And, Greg, there’s plenty of gold left!”

Greg’s eyes glistened. “I’ll go out there after graduation. Want to come along, fellows?”

There was a chorus of “Do we!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Strange Inheritance

CHAPTER II - A Stolen Curio

CHAPTER III - Fire in the Mummy Case

CHAPTER IV - Skylight Escape

CHAPTER V - Missing Valuables

CHAPTER VI - Mr. Bones

CHAPTER VII - A Street Chase

CHAPTER VIII - An Amazing Discovery

CHAPTER IX - The Peculiar Ping

CHAPTER X - A Shattered Window

CHAPTER XI - A Near Capture

CHAPTER XII - The Black Sheep

CHAPTER XIII - News of Buried Treasure

CHAPTER XIV - Confessions

CHAPTER XV - Volcano!

CHAPTER XVI - A Kidnapped Companion

CHAPTER XVII - The Weird Ceremony

CHAPTER XVIII - Into Dangerous Country

CHAPTER XIX - Followed!

CHAPTER XX - The Secret Revealed

THE CLUE IN THE EMBERS

Tony Prito enlists the help of his detective friends Frank and Joe Hardy when a sinister stranger demands that Tony sell him the bizarre curio collection he has just inherited.

While the boys are discussing this suspicious incident, the stranger, Valez, telephones and threatens Tony. That same afternoon the three boys collect the cases of curios at a freight station. On their way back to Tony’s house an attempt is made on Joe’s life. The next day a red-haired seaman claims that two medallions in the collection are his. But the medallions are missing! Did Valez steal them? And what was their significance?

Unraveling the clues in this exciting mystery takes the Hardys and their friends to a desolate region in Guatemala and straight into the hands of a gang of dangerous thugs.

“We’re trapped!” cried Chet

Copyright © 1972, 1955, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07649-1

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Strange Inheritance

THE shrill ringing of the Hardy telephone greeted Frank and Joe as they swung into the driveway after a preseason football practice at the Bayport High field.

“Hurry!” Mrs. Hardy called a moment later. “This is the third time Tony Prito has phoned!”

“Must be important,” said blond, seventeen-year-old Joe to his brother Frank, dark-haired and a year older. “Be right there, Mom!”

Clearing the porch steps in two strides, Joe hurried in to the phone. “Hello, Tony. What’s up?”

“How would you and Frank like to see some shrunken heads?”

“See what?”

“Six shrunken human heads!”

“Where are they?”

“I’ve inherited a lot of mysterious curios from my uncle Roberto,” Tony replied excitedly. “He had a shop full of them in New York when he died. The shipment, including the shrunken heads, will arrive at the railroad station here at one-forty this afternoon.”

“And you need our muscle to help you load and unload?” Joe asked with a chuckle.

“Right. But what’s more important, I’ve received a strange telegram in connection with this stuff. I’ll show it to you when you get here.”

“Sounds like a new mystery. Wait till I tell Frank! Well, we’ll be at your house around one.”

Joe hung up and told his brother about their appointment with Tony. He had not quite finished when Mrs. Hardy came in.

“What’s this about a mystery?” the slender, attractive woman asked.

The boys related the story.

“You’re both just like Dad,” their mother said with a smile.

Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous detective, had served many years with the New York City police force. Later he had settled in Bayport, a bustling seaport of fifty thousand inhabitants. From his big house at Elm and High streets he carried on a busy practice as a private investigator. His sons were following in his footsteps. The first case they had solved was The Tower Treasure, and their latest one was The Hooded Hawk Mystery.

“I’ll sure need some nourishment if I’m going to hassle with a lot of shrunken heads,” Frank declared. “Joe, let’s finish that clam chowder Mother made yesterday.”

“It sure was good.” Joe laughed. “Chet ate three bowls of it while he was here.”

Chet Morton was the Hardys’ chubby pal who often went along with them to follow up dues. He lived on a farm about a mile from Bayport.

“Shall we phone Chet and ask him to come to the station?” Joe asked.

“I’m sure Tony called him already,” Frank replied.

Within ten minutes the boys were on their way to Tony’s house. They found their friend sitting on the front steps. One of the Prito Construction Company’s large trucks was parked at the curb. Tony waved anxiously at the boys.

“Now what’s this all about?” Frank asked.

“Somebody wants to buy the curio collection sight unseen.”

“That’s strange,” Joe commented.

“Look,” Tony said, reaching into his pocket. “Here’s the telegram I got.”

Signed with the single name Valez, the message was an offer to buy, for two hundred dollars, the entire collection of curios.

“This arrived yesterday,” Tony explained. “And notice that Valez, whoever he is, says he’s going to phone this afternoon and make arrangements to pick up the stuff.”

Suspicious, the Hardys glanced at each other. Frank suggested that the collection might be worth much more than two hundred dollars.

“Sure,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t take his offer.”

“Right,” Frank continued. “Valez is too eager to make a deal. Besides, I think he has a nerve to assume you’re going to sell him the curios before you’ve had a chance to have them appraised.”

“Do you have a list of all the things, Tony?” Joe asked.

“No, not a complete one,” Tony replied, “but this letter from the estate’s executor, a bank in New York City, mentions several of the items.”

The boys scanned the paragraph that told of the curios.

“Look!” Joe exclaimed. “You even have four Moorish scimitars!”

“What about them?” Tony asked.

Frank, who had done some research on swords in connection with a previous mystery, explained that a scimitar is a crescent-shaped saber used originally by Moorish horsemen, and still popular during the Wars of Napoleon. Made of fine Damascus steel, often with guards of gold set with precious stones, these antique weapons are rare and valuable.

“And see here,” Frank continued. “The shrunken heads are mentioned, too.”

These heads, or tsanstas, the letter explained, have a considerable value in the souvenir market, despite laws against their sale or barter.

“The Andean Indians used to take the heads of their enemies in local warfare,” Joe said. “I read up on this once. The skull was removed from the severed head and boiled until it was reduced to the size of a man’s fist. Then the eyes were pinned and laced, and the inside treated with hot stones and sand. Through the use of a local herb, the hair remained long and kept its original luster.”

“Pretty savage,” Tony remarked.

“Well, we’d better head for the station,” Frank urged. “The train’s about due.”

Just then the phone in the Prito hallway rang.

“Maybe it’s Valez,” Tony said and ran inside. Frank and Joe followed.

Tony picked up the phone and listened. His jaw tightened. For several seconds the three boys stood still while the high-pitched voice on the other end chattered without a pause.

Tony indicated to the Hardys that it was Valez. Then he said, “No. I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in your offer. Thanks just the same.”

Valez’s voice grew loud and angry.

“I’m not selling at this point,” Tony said firmly.

The Hardys heard Valez snap one more remark as Tony hung up.

“What did he say?” Frank asked.

“He threatened me,” Tony replied. “Said I’d be sorry. And he’s right here in Bayport!”

“Wow!” Joe exploded. “We’d better get down to the station. He might try to pull a fast one.”

“I’m glad you fellows are coming along,” Tony said as they went out of the house. “I called Chet, but he couldn’t make it.”

The train had not yet arrived when the boys reached the terminal.

“According to Valez’s accent he’s definitely Spanish,” Tony said. “I imagine him to be the small, excitable kind.”

They glanced around the platform, but no Spanish-looking man was in sight.

“Here comes the train,” Frank said.

They watched the freight agent run his cart to a boxcar. The door opened. Crates and cartons were quickly lifted out.

“They’re all yours,” the agent told Tony.

Joe whistled. “Some haul,” he said as box after box, some with strange, foreign-looking markings, was piled high onto the cart. The trio watched alertly out of the corners of their eyes for the sudden appearance of any particularly interested person.

“Okay, Tony!” the agent said at last, and handed him the bill of lading to be signed.

Without losing a moment, the three boys helped pull the cart to the truck and started loading the cases onto it. Working feverishly to finish the job so they could get home and examine the curios, they were glad to have the help of two friends whom they had spotted on the platform.

“They’re all yours,” the agent told Tony

As Joe lifted the last case onto the truck, he said, “Frank, you sit up front with Tony. I’d like to stay back here and act as a lookout.”

“Okay,” his brother agreed as their two friends waved good-by. He jumped into the cab. Tony climbed to the driver’s seat and started the motor. Seconds later they were on their way to the Prito house.

Sitting atop one of the cases in the open back of the truck, Joe had a good view of the station and the public square. “Still no sign of action from Valez,” he mused. “I wonder if the whole business was just a hoax.”

Frank was thinking along the same line. As they turned into the tree-lined avenue two blocks from the Prito home, he let out a sigh of relief. “It seems our buddy gave up on us,” he said.

But Tony did not share his optimism. “Maybe he’s just biding his time.”

“Let’s see if Joe noticed anything,” Frank said, and slid back the glass panel in the rear of the cab. “Joe,” he called out, “this job turned out to be a lot easier than I expected. Anything new on your end?”

Joe was about to answer, when he caught sight of an arrowhead-like missile streaking through the air directly toward him!

CHAPTER II

A Stolen Curio

SEEING the missile whizzing toward him, Joe ducked, but he felt a stinging blow on his right arm.

“Stop!” he yelled to Tony. “Get that fellow! He shot at me!” Joe pointed to a man who had dodged from behind a tree and was now running away at top speed.

The vehicle lurched to a halt. Frank flung open the cab door and raced toward a wooded stretch beyond the sidewalk.

“Watch it!” Joe called after his brother. “That guy’s got a blowgun!”

Frank pursued the assailant into the woods and disappeared.

Meanwhile, Tony eased the truck to the edge of the road. He turned to see what had happened to Joe. “Something hit you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Joe showed a small arrowhead which he had picked up from the floor. A tiny paper was glued to its base. Without taking the time to examine either, Joe thrust them into his pocket. He told Tony to guard the truck, and dashed off in search of his assailant.

He sprinted a hundred yards into the woods. Thrashing through a stretch of thicket, he called, “Frank! Where are you?”

“Over here!” Frank was standing near a wire fence that enclosed two closely spaced factory buildings.

“He jumped the fence,” Frank panted as Joe came up to him. “Took off between the two plants. We’ll never catch him now!”

“Let’s get back to the truck,” Joe suggested.

“This attack might have been a ruse to lure us away!”

They hurried toward the street. To their relief, the truck was still there.

“Did you get a good look at the man?” Tony asked.

“Not too good,” Frank replied. “He’s short, thin, dark, and I think he’s got a small mustache.”

Joe frowned. “How old do you think he is?” Frank shrugged. “Whatever his age, he’s very wiry. You should have seen him vault that fence!”

“Joe, you’d better sit up front with us now,” Tony said. “We can’t afford to let that guy take any more pot shots at you.”

Once inside the cab, the boys examined the lead arrowhead and the paper covering its base. A message was scrawled in barely legible script, warning Tony not to dispose of the curios.

“First Valez wants me to sell the stuff, and now he tells me not to or I’ll get in trouble!” Tony exclaimed.

“You’re jumping to a conclusion,” Frank objected. “We don’t really have any proof that this man was Valez.”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “There’s a good chance that someone else is after your curios.”

Tony sighed. “Looks as if we have a full-fledged mystery on our hands.”

Joe changed the subject. “Tony, what are you going to do with all these things?” he asked.

“Put them in the garage for the time being. I can’t think of where else to store them.”

“I’m not so sure that it is the safest place,” Frank commented.

“I have an idea,” Joe said. “Why don’t you ask the new Howard Museum to take care of them? Maybe you can give them some of the pieces and see if Mr. Scath will store the rest in return.”

“Good thinking,” Frank agreed.

“Okay,” Tony said. “I’ll give him a ring.” Soon the trio arrived at the Prito home. Tony parked the truck, and while the Hardy boys guarded the shipment, he went inside and phoned Mr. Scath.

“The museum is open late tonight,” said the curator. “I suggest that you bring your curios around about nine o’clock, after closing time. There won’t be anybody in the building and I’ll have a chance to look at them.”

As Tony stepped into the yard he was startled to see a man tiptoeing along the side of the garage. He was short and wore a felt hat pulled low.

Tony yelled. The intruder took off like a streak of lightning. Tony chased him down the block, but he escaped in a car.

Frank and Joe had heard Tony call out. “I’ll go, you stay with the truck,” Frank said and ran after Tony. They met in the street.

“What was that all about?” Frank asked.

“A guy was sneaking around our garage. Probably Valez. Too bad I couldn’t catch him. He drove off.”

The boys were worried when they talked things over with Joe. “That guy means business!” Joe declared. “We’d better keep a lookout.” They took turns keeping watch as they inspected the curios in the garage.

Tony found a pair of old Indian clubs and started swinging them. Joe pulled out a small stuffed alligator of little value. But in the same box was a set of rare old travel books from the sixteenth century. Another interesting find was a small chest filled with old silver pieces.

“Probably belonged to some pirate,” Joe remarked, while Frank stacked four scimitars on a wall rack.

As time passed, one thing became certain: the collection was worth much more than two hundred dollars.

“Do you realize what time it is?” Frank asked hours later. “Almost six-thirty. And I’m starved!”

“My folks won’t be home for dinner,” Tony said. “Why don’t you call your mother and tell her you’ll eat here?”

“Great idea!” Joe said. “I’ll phone.”

He went into the house while Tony padlocked the garage doors. A few minutes later the three boys met in the kitchen.

“And now for some food!” said Tony. Soon he had a large pot of spaghetti cooking on the stove. “My mother made a lot of good meat sauce to go with this,” he said. “And there’s homemade apple pie for dessert.”

The boys took their time eating and were deep in conversation when Frank suddenly interrupted. “Sh-h!”

“What’s the matter?” Tony asked.

“I heard a noise coming from the garage!” They were silent and listened tensely. Then Joe got up and walked to the window. He peered out, then shrugged. “Nobody outside,” he said.

Frank was not convinced. “We’d better have a look,” he said.

The boys went out. Seeing that the garage was still padlocked, they ran around to the rear. The window was wide open!

“Take it easy,” Tony warned as Joe leaped onto the ledge and climbed in. Frank followed.

Tony walked around front again, opened the padlock, and entered the garage through the door. No one was inside but Frank and Joe.

Quickly the trio checked the crates. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Suddenly Frank’s eyes focused on the wall rack.

“One of the scimitars is missing!” he exclaimed.

CHAPTER III

Fire in the Mummy Case

DISMAYED, the boys saw that only three of the Moorish swords remained in the rack. Frank and Joe dashed outside and made a quick search through the neighborhood. They found no trace of the burglar.

In disgust they went back to Tony’s house and told him of their failure.

“It’s all my fault,” Frank said grimly. “I should have put the swords back into the crate.”

“Look, don’t worry about it,” Tony said. “Let’s wash the dishes and then load the truck before something else happens.”

They had almost finished cleaning up the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Could it be Valez again?

“Joe, keep an eye on the garage from the window,” Tony said. “I’ll answer the bell and Frank can help me in case of trouble.”

The tension was broken when Tony opened the door. The caller was the boys’ chubby friend Chet Morton.

“Did I just miss a meal?” Chet chuckled when Frank appeared from behind the door, still holding a dish towel.

“You did.” Frank laughed. “But you’re just in time to help us load about twenty crates onto Tony’s truck.”

Chet groaned and slumped into a chair.

“Okay,” he said. “I walked right into your trap. I’ll carry the little ones.” Then he added, “But tell me what this is all about.”

After giving him a brief account, the boys started the job. As darkness began to settle, Tony confided in Frank that he would feel better with police protection.

Frank agreed. “Let’s call Chief Collig. He’ll be at headquarters now. He doesn’t go off duty until late in the evening.”

Tony phoned and told the chief what had taken place during the day.

“Seems as if you’ve got some serious trouble on your hands,” Collig said after he heard about the attack on Joe. “I’ll send a patrol car over to escort you to the museum. And keep me posted if anything else happens.”

“Will do,” Tony promised. “And thanks, Chief.”

The four boys worked quickly to have the truck loaded before the arrival of the police car.

“Here it comes!” Joe called as Tony swung the last crate into position.

The squad car pulled over to the curb and the policeman called out to the boys. “Ready?”

“Right,” Tony replied.

“I’ll go ahead, and you follow. Honk if you have any trouble in the back.”

“Okay.”

Tony backed the truck into the street. “Anyone who tries to play games this time will get a hot reception,” he remarked.

On the way to the Howard Museum, the boys talked about the possible dangers that faced them. Tony recalled Valez’s angry threat and wondered if even the police escort would stop the man from attempting a robbery.

“I’d hate to meet a guy with a blowgun out here,” Chet said with a shiver. “He could hide in the bushes. It’s mighty eerie in this area.”

Minutes later the patrol car swung to the right and entered the curving, dimly lighted driveway of the ivy-covered museum. As the truck followed, all eyes searched the shrubbery surrounding the building. But there was no sign of anyone lying in wait.

Tony grunted in relief. “Boy, am I glad that’s over!”

The massive door creaked open and the slender figure of the curator appeared. Mr. Scath hurried down the steps and greeted the boys, then told them to move the crates into the basement.

“Let’s hurry,” Tony urged. “The sooner we get this stuff behind that door, the better I’ll feel.”

As the four lugged the boxes from the truck, the officer kept an alert watch for Tony’s enemy. For fifteen minutes the tense operation continued. Finally Joe picked up the last crate and called to the policeman that the job was finished.

The officer smiled. “In case you run into any more trouble, just call us,” he said and drove off.

Mr. Scath bolted the big door and accompanied the boys to the basement. His eyes flashed with excitement.

“I can hardly wait to make a careful study of these pieces,” he said. “From what you told me, Tony, there might be some real treasures here.”

Tony nodded thoughtfully. “I sure appreciate your help, Mr. Scath,” he said. “And if you can give me an appraisal, I’ll know what the collection is worth.”

The curator opened one of the crates and pulled out a few items. “Some things,” he said, “won’t amount to anything, of course. Like this box, for instance.”

He examined an object that looked like an ordinary cigarette box. It was about four inches long and was made of dark wood, with a sign painted on it in yellow.

He was just about to toss it back into the crate when Frank stopped him. “If Tony doesn’t want it,” he said, “I’ll take it. I like the design.”

“Help yourself,” Tony said. “Well,” the curator said, “it’s getting late. Come back some other time and we’ll check everything out. Okay?”

“Any time you say,” Tony replied.

Mr. Scath walked to the door and beckoned the boys to precede him. Then he locked up. Joe led the way upstairs to the main hall.

Suddenly he stopped short. He held out his hand for silence and gazed toward the room where a mummy and several sarcophagi were on display.

“Mr. Scath,” he said in a low voice, “is anyone working in the building?”

“No,” the curator assured him. “Nobody’s here except us.”

“Sh.h!” Joe warned.

A sharp scraping noise came from the mummy room. A muffled sound followed.

As Mr. Scath switched on all the hall lights, the Hardys, Chet, and Tony ran toward the room. Frank stopped at the door, flicked the light switch, and quickly surveyed the pillared exhibition hall. There was no sign of an intruder.

“There must be someone in the museum!” Mr. Scath whispered nervously. “Quick! One of you inspect upstairs. The rest search this floor!”

Chet, nearest to the spiral steps, gripped the iron rail and started up. Frank and Joe dashed to the left of the Egyptian Room. Mr. Scath and Tony headed through the middle of the hall.

“What a spooky place!” Joe exclaimed in hushed tones to his brother. He was looking into an open sarcophagus and saw the painted face of the mummy which lay in an inner coffin.

“Don’t worry about the spooks!” Frank replied. “But do you smell smoke?” he asked, sniffing.

“I sure do,” Joe answered, alarmed.

A strong odor of smoke soon filled their nostrils. It was hard to tell where it was coming from, but both boys dashed among the sarcophagi to locate its source.

“Here it is!” Joe cried out a moment later. “Mr. Scath, Frank—come here quick!”

As the curator appeared in the aisle, followed by Frank and Tony, Joe pointed to a slightly opened, ornately designed sarcophagus. Gray-white smoke was pouring from it.

“Give me a hand!” Mr. Scath cried. “Lift up the cover!”

Tony and Joe put their shoulders against the lid and forced it upward. The smoke thinned into a column, exposing, atop the coffin inside, a cone-shaped pile of embers!

Frank took off his sports shirt and smothered the glow that remained in the embers.

“Whoever made this fire must still be in the building!” Mr. Scath warned. “No one could get in or out of here without the keys that I have in my pocket. That means someone must have hidden in here before nine o’clock.”

“Say!” Joe exclaimed. “Wonder if Chet’s found out anything.” He called out, but there was no reply from the second floor.

“We’ll search the entire building for the intruder,” Mr. Scath said grimly. “He can’t get away. We’ll start in the basement.”

The Hardys, worried about Chet’s failure to answer, decided that one of them should run upstairs to check on their friend.

“I’ll go,” Frank volunteered. “Joe, you help Mr. Scath and Tony.” Frank headed for the same staircase that Chet had taken.

As the others were about to go down to the basement, Mr. Scath decided to remove the embers from the sarcophagus. “There’s too much danger of their containing a spark or two. Wait here.”

The curator got a small shovel and an empty metal wastebasket from his office and returned to the sarcophagus. He was about to drop the ashes into the basket when Joe suddenly stopped him.

“Mr. Scath, I’d like to take the ashes to our lab to study them.”

“Certainly,” the curator agreed. “Mighty good idea.” He had heard of the modern, fully equipped, crime-detection laboratory that the Hardys had set up on the second floor of their garage.

Joe got a museum specimen envelope and the curator carefully poured a large sample of the ashes and charred remains into it. Joe sealed the envelope and slipped it into his pocket.

“Now let’s find the intruder!” Mr. Scath urged, and the trio headed for the basement.

Suddenly, from the second floor, came a crash and a bloodcurdling shriek!

CHAPTER IV

Skylight Escape

ELECTRIFIED by the piercing outcry from upstairs, Joe and Tony dashed up the spiral stairway. Mr. Scath followed as quickly as he could.

Frank had already reached Chet, who admitted yelling. He said he had not heard Joe calling him. “B-but I wish I had,” he added, slowly getting to his feet and leaning against the wall opposite the American Indian Gallery. His face was white and he rubbed the side of his head.

“When I looked into the American Indian hall I saw that figure start to move!” He pointed to the tall statue of a Cherokee chieftain lying across the passageway.

“What?” Joe asked.

“It walked!” Chet insisted. “Then suddenly it toppled over.”

“No doubt the intruder moved it!” Scath said.

“Right,” Chet said. “When it fell over, it hit me on the side of my head. It knocked me down and the guy got away!”

“He can’t be far,” Frank said grimly. “Let’s keep looking!”

The search continued for half an hour. Methodically the group went from top to bottom of the museum. There were no windows on the first floor, and those on the second floor were locked.

“I’d better call the police,” Mr. Scath finally decided.

But Frank was reluctant to admit defeat yet.

“If every door and window is locked, I want to find out how that intruder got away.”

“How about the skylight?” Joe suggested.

“There’s just the one in the prints gallery on the top floor,” Mr. Scath answered. “I never thought of that. It’s not fitted with a special lock!”

Frank and Joe went up to the third floor and looked at the skylight. It was open!

“The intruder went across the roof and down the ivy vines,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “No doubt. We don’t have a chance of catching up with him now.”

The Hardys returned to the second floor and told Mr. Scath of their discovery. The curator explained that the skylight was checked every evening at closing time. “Obviously the intruder must have hidden in the museum before the staff left,” he concluded. “Well, we’ve done all we can. Better get some sleep,” he advised. “We can discuss the mystery another time.”

“Did you report this incident to Chief Collig?” Frank asked.

“Yes. I told him you were out here working on it.”

“Maybe when we analyze the ashes from the fire in the sarcophagus we’ll find a clue,” Joe said.

After Frank climbed up and locked the skylight, the group headed for the ground floor. Mr. Scath asked if Tony would mind following his car in the truck. “With all the odd things going on around here tonight, I don’t feel much like driving home alone,” he said.

Joe offered to ride with the curator. Tony would follow. The car moved slowly along the driveway and turned into the main road.

Its two passengers rode for a couple of blocks in silence. Then Joe remembered the arrowhead that had been fired at him from the blowgun earlier that day. It was still in his pocket. He pulled it out.

“Mr. Scath,” he said when the curator stopped for a red light, “do you know what country this comes from?”

Scath picked up the object from Joe’s palm. He examined it carefully. “Hm! I have never seen one quite like this before,” he said slowly.

“Where would you guess it’s from?” Joe prodded.

“That would be hard to say,” Scath replied. “Could be from South America. But I can’t be sure.”

Joe slipped the arrowhead back into his pocket. After getting out at Mr. Scath’s home, he stepped up into the truck. On the way to Chet’s house he told his brother about his conversation with the curator.

“Maybe that’s where Valez is from,” Frank said thoughtfully.

Tony dropped Chet off, then the Hardys.

“Let us know if you hear from Valez again,” Frank called as he drove off.

The boys went upstairs to their bedroom. Joe noticed it was past midnight. Then he eyed Frank, who stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought.

“Hey, for a fellow who’s been on the go since eight o’clock yesterday morning, you don’t seem very sleepy, Frank!” he said.

“I’m not. Why don’t we analyze those ashes you sampled?”

Joe yawned. “Okay. But let’s try not to wake up Mother. She’ll think we’re crazy to work so late.”

The boys removed their shoes, put on moccasins, and headed for the laboratory.

“Set up the microtome,” Frank suggested. “I’ll get the photomicrograph ready.”

Joe shook out the contents of the envelope and selected one of the firmer tiny charred pieces. He clamped this in place on the microtome. Then, running a finely honed knife blade delicately through it, Joe cut off a section.

“What thickness?” he asked.

“About two thousandths of an inch,” Frank replied.

Working carefully, Joe cut other tissue-thin sections from several angles, letting them drop onto a glass slide. In a few moments Frank had prepared several photomicrographs of them, showing distinct wood grains.

“Now we’ll see what was burning in the sarcophagus,” Frank said as he prepared to project the first lantern slide.

The enlarged curves in the picture revealed clear patterns. Frank compared them with a chart in an encyclopedia.

“The grain matches the mahogany,” he said. The boys examined the pattern again and compared it with further angle shots. “It’s Central American mahogany!” Frank concluded. “And Valez could be from there!”

“And the arrowhead!” Joe added. “It all points to Central and South America!”

“First thing tomorrow we’ll airmail that arrowhead to Dad’s friend Mr. Hopewell in Chicago,” Frank decided. “He’ll be able to identify it. He’s a specialist in primitive weapons.”

After storing the packet of ashes and the lantern slides in their small safe, the boys tiptoed back to their bedroom. A few moments later they were sleeping soundly.

In the morning Joe woke up first. “Hm! I smell bacon and eggs,” he said and jumped out of bed.

Fifteen minutes later both brothers were in the kitchen, saying good morning to their Aunt Gertrude, Mr. Hardy’s tall, angular sister, who stood at the stove.

Presently their mother joined them and they all sat down at the dining-room table.

“What are you two up to now?” Aunt Gertrude asked as she passed bacon and buns.

Frank gave an account of the curios, the missile, the chase, and the events at the museum.

“Too bad your father’s out of town,” Mrs. Hardy remarked. “I’m sure he’d be interested in this.” Then, with a note of anxiety in her voice, she added, “Please be careful. Especially of this man who walks around with a blowgun!”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Frank said. “We’ll be on guard every minute.”

Breakfast was almost over when the telephone rang.

“Might be Fenton,” Aunt Gertrude suggested.

“Or Mr. Scath,” Frank said.

“I’ll get it,” Joe offered, pushing back his chair. He disappeared and picked up the phone.

“Hello.”

“Joe,” replied the excited voice of Tony Prito, “Valez just phoned again.”

“Boy! He doesn’t waste any time, does he? What did he say?”

“He made threats against Frank and you!”

CHAPTER V

Missing Valuables

“VALEZ threatened us?” Joe exclaimed. “Why, Tony?”

“He says that you’re interfering with my selling him the collection. I told him you had nothing to do with it. I wouldn’t sell it, anyway. Boy, was he mad! Told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t give him what he wanted and you guys didn’t keep out of this deal he’d get all of us!”

“Wonder how Valez knows that we’re friends,” Joe asked.

“He must have found out somehow. Called you those Hardy boys.”

When Frank heard about the threat he began to speculate about what to do next.

“Now listen to me!” Aunt Gertrude interrupted. “You’d better pay attention to that warning. There’s no sense in waiting until danger’s right on top of you.”

The front doorbell sounded and the lecture ended. A tall, broad-shouldered stranger with red hair was standing on the porch. Several tattoo marks covered his thick bared forearms.

“Good morning,” Frank said politely.

“Are you one of the Hardy boys?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Willie Wortman,” the man began in a voice that seemed no less friendly than his handshake. “I’m from New York.”

“Did you arrive here this morning?” Joe asked as they entered the living room. Frank swung a chair around for the caller.

“Yes.”

Wortman explained that he was a seaman on a freighter plying to Central and South America. At the mention of these last words Joe and Frank exchanged glances.

“Well,” Wortman continued, “my ship docked in New York last week. After I was paid off, I went to visit an old shopkeeper friend of mine—a man named Roberto Prito.”

“Prito!” Frank exclaimed.

“Yes,” Wortman went on. “But my friend had died and his shop was locked tight. I sure felt bad. He was a good guy.” After a pause the sailor continued. “I was disappointed, too, because I’d hoped to pick up two medallions there—one the size of a half dollar, the other somewhat larger.

“I heard from a neighbor of Roberto that a large shipment of objects from the shop had been sent to Tony Prito here in Bayport. Figuring the medallions might have been in the shipment, I came on out. I went to Tony’s house as soon as I got into town. He says he’s pretty sure they’re not in the collection. Tony had to take the truck out on a rush job for his dad, so he advised me to come here and talk to you about them.”

“Did those two medallions belong to you?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Wortman replied. “I got them from a buddy who has since been killed. A short time ago, when I was broke, I hocked them with Roberto.”

“And you’re trying to buy them back?” Frank asked.

“Y-yes.” His halting reply puzzled the boys. Wortman went on, “I guess I may be a bit foolish about going to such trouble to locate them. I’d just like to get hold of them for the sake of sentiment—something to remember my friend by.”

“What do the medallions look like?” Frank asked.

Wortman explained that the medallions were made of some cheap metal, and had a design of curving lines. In addition, the larger one had a fake opal set in it, while the other had the word Texichapi inscribed on it.

“What does that mean?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know,” the seaman replied.

“We went through the whole shipment,” Frank said, “and I’m positive the medallions are not part of it. But we’ll look again. If we find them, you’ll have to make arrangements with Tony.”

“That’s fair enough,” the visitor replied. “Here’s where you can contact me.” He handed Frank a piece of paper with a New York address. Then he rose from his chair, thanked the boys, and started for the door. Suddenly he stopped short.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “I was told in a seaport down in Central America that there’s a curse connected with those medallions.”

“A curse!” Joe exclaimed.

“Right. Trouble will come to anyone who sells these objects. That’s the real reason why I want to get them back.”

The boys accompanied Wortman to the front door, then returned to the dining room to finish their breakfast. They discussed the sailor’s strange story.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Joe asked his brother.

“I think the part about the curse was trumped up,” Frank replied. “His imagination probably got the better of him. But the rest sounds real enough.”

“Let’s ask Mr. Cosgrove at the New York bank who’s acting as executor of Prito’s will if he’s come across the medallions.”

“I’ll call Tony and ask him to get in touch with him,” Frank said.

Later that morning Tony called back, saying that Mr. Cosgrove had no record of the two medallions.

Where could they be? What had Roberto Prito done with them? Had he sold them, or was Wortman’s story a fake?

Their discussion was interrupted by a long-distance call from Mr. Hardy. He was in New York City. He told his sons news of general interest about his latest case, then said, “I was offered an assignment that sounded intriguing, but I had to turn it down because I’m too busy. Upon the recommendation of a detective agency here, a man by the name of Alberto Torres called on me at my hotel.”

“Who’s he?” Frank asked.

“He claimed to be the head of a Guatemalan patriotic society,” his father explained. “He says his group is trying to uncover a treasure of antiquity. They don’t know where it is, but suspect that its location is known to some unscrupulous people who are trying to steal it. Naturally, the treasure belongs to the government.”

“Maybe we could work on it until you’d be ready to take over,” Frank suggested. “Did Torres have any idea where it is at all?”

“He said that their only lead is a couple of medallions which have disappeared,” Mr. Hardy answered.

“Medallions!” Frank exclaimed, and quickly related what had happened in the detective’s absence. Mr. Hardy listened intently and told Frank that he would try at once to contact Torres.

“Hang up,” he said, “and I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve talked with him.”

Minutes passed. Finally the phone rang.

“Bad luck,” the boys’ father reported. “Torres checked out of his hotel and left no forwarding address.”

“Can’t we do something about finding him?” Frank asked. “Maybe he’s going to contact Willie Wortman in New York City.”

His father agreed that this was a possibility but said that he had to leave for Washington. He suggested that the boys fly to New York and see Wortman, and also check again with the bank’s records regarding the curios. There might be a tie-in between the two men interested in the medallions. Perhaps they could pick up a clue on Torres and Wortman.

“What does Torres look like?” Frank asked.

“Short, slender, dark. He has a prominent chin and a black mustache.”

“That description fits the blowgun man!” Frank exclaimed.

Mr. Hardy said that it could not be the same man because Torres had been talking to him in New York at the time the missile had been fired at Joe.

An hour later Frank, Joe, and Tony were winging toward New York City on a double mission.

“First thing to do,” Frank suggested, “is to call Wortman.” As soon as they arrived in the city, they looked him up in the telephone book. His number was not listed and the boys went to see Mr. Cosgrove.

At the bank they were received cordially and given permission to investigate the shopkeeper’s private records.

Finding nothing, the boys turned to a diary. “Here’s something of interest!” Joe exclaimed.

“It says, first of all, that Roberto Prito did buy the medallions from Willie Wortman.”

“That confirms part of Willie’s story,” Tony said.

“And according to the diary,” Joe continued, “they were actually in the possession of Tony’s uncle when he died. But now listen. In a separate notation it says, ‘These medallions seem old and valuable. The strange design may indicate they are a clue to something. I will study them later.’ ”

“Mr. Cosgrove,” Frank said abruptly, “may we look Mr. Prito’s store over?”

“Of course. I’ll get the key for you.”

“Looking for Torres can wait,” Joe said excitedly as the banker went off. “Let’s try to find the medallions or the reason why they’ve disappeared!”

Twenty minutes later they were inserting the key into the padlock of the late Roberto Prito’s shop on a Greenwich Village street.

“I’ll lead the way,” Tony said. “I know where the office is.”

Bolting the door on the inside, the trio started for the rear of the empty shop.

Frank, a few paces behind, noticed an unusual showcase standing at an odd angle. His detecting instincts aroused, he moved the case and dropped to his knees. At first glance the floorboards under it looked the same as the others. But after close study Frank thought he could see the outline of what might be a trap door.

“Maybe there’s a secret cellar under here!” he thought excitedly.

He tried to pull up the boards with his fingers. Failing, Frank pressed each board separately.

A moment later the whole section suddenly caved in. Frank lost his balance and crashed downward into inky blackness!

CHAPTER VI

Mr. Bones

PITCHING headlong into the dark cellar below, Frank struck his head sharply against a packing case. He fell onto the concrete floor, unconscioust

In the store above, Tony had led Joe into the small office at the rear of the long room. A high partition darkened this section of the shop. Tony switched on a light.

“Where’s Frank?” he asked.

“He was right behind me—” Joe began, looking out the office door. “I wonder what happened.”

“Frank!” Tony called. “Frank, where are you?” They retraced their steps, and peered into the street. Frank was not in sight.

“It’s just as if he were swallowed up in the—” Joe suddenly spotted the black rectangle behind the showcase.

“Look!” he cried. “A trap door! Frank must have fallen through.” He called his brother’s name but there was no response.

From his coat pocket Joe took the small flashlight he always carried and beamed it below.

“There he is!” Joe gasped. “I’ve got to get down and help him! Must be a ladder here somewhere.”

He beamed his light and found a short ladder hinged flat under the floor. Unhooking it, he let the ladder down. Both boys climbed into the cellar.

Joe carefully checked Frank’s condition. “Wind’s knocked out of him,” he told Tony a moment later, “and he has a nasty bruise on his head, but I guess that’s all.”

As Joe spoke, Frank moved for the first time. He shook his head and made an attempt to sit up.

“Take it easy, fellow,” Joe warned him.

With the boys’ assistance Frank got to his feet. “What hit me?” he asked dazedly.

Tony raised the beam of his flashlight to the trap door and explained what had happened. Revived, but still somewhat groggy, Frank started for the ladder. “Guess I touched a secret spring.”

“Just a second,” Tony said. “Let’s look in these packing cases. We may find something interesting.”

Near him on the floor lay a claw hammer. Tony pried open a single board on each of the cases. “Here’s something I didn’t see on the lists.” He held up a small antique statuette of a Chinese horseman.

“Evidently Mr. Cosgrove doesn’t know about these boxes,” Joe remarked.

“Maybe the medallions are in here somewhere!” Tony said excitedly. “Let’s have a look!”

But Joe noticed that Frank was not steady on his feet. “We’d better wait,” he said. “Frank might have a concussion and should see a doctor.”

“Okay,” Tony agreed. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Mr. Cosgrove might want to join us, too.”

Joe examined the trap door and discovered how the hidden spring worked. Then he closed it and the boys departed.

It turned out that Frank had no serious injuries, but the doctor recommended a day’s rest because of the nasty bump on his head. The trio registered at a hotel and after settling down in their room Tony phoned Mr. Cosgrove. He agreed to accompany the boys to the shop the next morning. The bank knew nothing about the curios in the cellar room, he said, and therefore they had not been listed.

Frank lay down on the bed, grumbling that he was really feeling fine. “You’ll feel even better tomorrow,” Joe quipped. “Just stay put. Tony and I will do a little looking around for Torres while you relax.”

At the information desk in the lobby Joe asked for the names of hotels in New York City where Central Americans might stay to be with other Spanish-speaking people, then he and Tony left. First they tried Wortman’s house, but he was not home. Then they checked the hotels. It was several hours later when they returned.

“Wind’s knocked out of him,” Joe said

“Any luck?” Frank asked.

“No,” Joe replied. “Torres has probably left town.”

After a hearty breakfast the next morning the boys returned to the Prito shop. Mr. Cosgrove and his assistant, Mr. Jones, arrived a short time later and the examination of the secret cellar began. They opened crate after crate.

“It appears that Mr. Prito stored his queerest objects here,” Mr. Cosgrove remarked, after several cases had been unpacked and revealed an array of skulls, animal teeth, an Egyptian toy ferry, and all kinds of odd theatrical costumes.

“That’s why I think there’s a good chance of our finding the medallions here,” said Tony.

“The notation my uncle made proves that he didn’t consider them just routine curios.”

Working methodically, the group had almost completed the inventory by noon. But there was no sign of the mysterious medallions.

“Wow!” Frank said as he opened the last crate, a tall wooden box.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

Frank thrust one arm into the opening and dragged out a human skeleton! Its white ghostliness at first shocked the group into silence. Then, as Joe realized it was a medical specimen, his humor came to the rescue. “A roommate for you, Tony.” He grinned.

Frank lowered the skeleton to the floor. “Anybody who wants this bag of bones can have him!”

No one did. The executors inspected the skeleton and concluded from some penciled markings on the bones that it had been sold to Mr. Prito by some hard-up medical student.

“How about giving him to a medical school?” Mr. Cosgrove suggested. “He’s a rattlin’ good specimen.”

“Good idea,” Tony concurred.

Frank inspected the rest of the box. There was nothing in it. “I guess this concludes our search in New York for the medallions,” he said in disappointment.

After making several calls to medical schools, Mr. Cosgrove said that a small private institution would be glad to accept the skeleton. He gave the boys directions, adding, “Tony, please leave the key to the shop at the bank when you’re through. And I hope you find those medallions.” The executor bade the boys good-by.

“Who wants to carry Mr. Bones to his next place of residence?” Tony asked.

Joe looked at his brother. “He can sit on your lap while we ride there. After all, you found him.”

“Frank it is!” Tony laughed.

Grinning, Frank clutched the skeleton and climbed the ladder. The others followed him up and Joe stepped out onto the sidewalk to hail a taxi.

Presently one came along and Joe beckoned to the driver. The other boys with their strange companion were still out of sight in the shop entrance. Now they stepped outside. Tony padlocked the door and thrust the key into his pocket. The taxi pulled up to the curb.

“How many live passengers are you allowed to carry?” Joe asked the driver seriously. Then he saw Frank and Tony, the skeleton supported between them, starting for the cab.

“What’s this—a joke!” The amused driver chuckled, and pretended to pull away.

“Wait!” Joe laughed. “Mr. Bones is harmless. We’re taking him to Englander Hospital Medical School. Do you know where it is?”

“Sure.” The man grinned. “Hop in. I’ll drive carefully so we won’t disturb your friend.”

Placing Mr. Bones on the outside of the seat next to Frank, the group headed for the medical school. They had gone only a block when a police siren sounded behind them!

CHAPTER VII

A Street Chase

“THE motorcycle cop is after us!” Frank exclaimed. “He must have seen the skeleton!”

The sound of the siren grew louder and the taxi was ordered to pull over to the curb. The policeman, a big, red-faced man, climbed off his motorcycle and walked slowly back to the taxi. He stared at Mr. Bones.

“Where’d that come from?” he roared.

“We—we found him in the cellar,” Tony explained, feeling a little foolish, “at Prito’s Curio Shop.”

“So!” the policeman exclaimed, looking stern. “That shop’s locked up. I knew old Prito well.”

Tony suddenly recalled that in his pocket was a letter from Mr. Cosgrove. “Just a minute, Officer. I can explain everything.” The burly policeman read the letter, eyed Tony, then handed it back.

“So you’re a Prito!” he exclaimed. “Now that I got a good look at you, I can see you’re like Roberto. Same snappy black eyes. Okay, boys, go ahead.”

Twenty blocks north the taxi driver pulled into a side street and drew up to a white cement building.

Tony paid the fare and Frank picked up the skeleton. As the cab disappeared into the city’s traffic, the boys walked through the hospital doorway. A young intern grinned as he passed them. “Who’s your air-conditioned pal?” he gibed.

The boys chuckled and walked to a desk where a nurse was on duty. She directed them to the school, across a wide center court. There, a genial white-haired physician welcomed Mr. Bones and thanked the trio.

As they walked down the hospital steps, Tony said, “Should we try Wortman again before eating lunch?”

“Good idea,” Frank said. “Also we must return the key from the shop to Mr. Cosgrove.”

Wortman was still out. At the bank the boys were told that the newly found curios were being appraised at the shop and Tony could take whatever he wanted.

The boys went to the hotel, got their bags, and stuffed several of the smaller objects into them. Then they had a bite to eat, hailed a taxi, and set off to try Wortman’s house for the third time. As their cab stopped at a busy intersection near the East River, Frank suddenly gripped his brother’s arm. “Look!” he cried. “Over there on the sidewalk. Willie Wortman!”

The recent visitor to the Hardy home appeared to be walking with another man. Wortman’s broad shoulders partially blocked his companion from view. But as the taxi passed them, Frank and Joe caught a glimpse of the other man’s face. He was dark-haired and black-mustached.

“Say, he could be the blowgun man or Torres! Stop here, driver!” Frank called, and the man pulled to the curb.

Frank paid him and the boys got out. “Tony, you stay here with the suitcases,” Frank instructed. “Joe and I will talk to Willie.”

“Okay,” Tony agreed, and watched his pals dash after the two men.

The mustached stranger had now dropped slightly behind Wortman. As the boys hurried after them, the pair turned up a side street.

The Hardys dodged through the crowd. The red-haired sailor seemed to be enjoying his walk, whistling a tune. But the other man glanced from side to side uneasily. He acted almost as if he suspected someone were trailing him.

Willie Wortman suddenly looked back. Catching sight of the boys, he called out, “Frank and Joe Hardy!”

The mustached man also glanced back, then he broke into a run.

Frank stopped to speak to the sailor, and Joe chased after the stranger. But the man ran through an alley to another street and Joe lost the trail. Disappointed, he walked back to Frank and Wortman.

“What are you guys doing in the city?” the sailor was saying. He did not at all seem curious about where Joe had gone.

“Just came up for a short visit,” Frank replied noncommittally. “We were on our way to the airport when we saw you.”

“Have you found my medallions?” Wortman asked.

Frank shook his head. “Not yet.” “I’ll be glad when I ship out,” Wortman went on. “That curse business is getting under my skin. I’ve had nothing but bad luck lately.” He scratched his head. “You know what? I think it might have been the cause of old Mr. Prito’s death!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Frank told him. “And stop worrying about the curse. It’s nothing but a superstition.”

“I’ll try,” Wortman said, unconvinced.

The boys assured him that they would keep on searching for the medallions, then Joe said, “Sorry to have kept you from your friend.”

“Friend?” Willie asked, puzzled.

The Hardys exchanged glances. If the suspect had been with him, why didn’t Willie want to admit it? Or had the mustached man been following the seaman unknown to him? At that moment it seemed as if the latter possibility were true, so they did not pursue the subject. The boys said good-by and returned to Tony.

“Didn’t learn a thing,” Frank said. He flagged a taxi, and when they were settled inside, told Tony about their brief conversation with Wortman.

When they arrived at the airport, the boys were informed that they had just time to make the flight to Bayport.

It was late afternoon when the plane circled the Bayport field and landed. The boys drove back to town in the Hardys’ convertible with Frank at the wheel.

When they reached Tony’s house, Joe removed the curios from the Hardys’ bags and helped his friend carry his luggage and the other articles to the front door.

“Phone us if you find anything developed while we were away,” Joe said.

Tony nodded. “And I’ll take these things to the museum right away.”

Frank and Joe waited until. Tony had everything inside his house, then drove home. Mrs. Hardy greeted them at the door and said no telephone calls had come during their absence.

“It’s been quiet and very lonely here with all my menfolk away,” she said wistfully as Joe gave her a bear hug. “And please give Aunt Gertrude and me a little of your time. There are a lot of jobs around here that need my sons’ attention.”

For the next thirty-six hours the boys remained at home, cutting grass, weeding, and doing other chores. Tony called to tell them that everything had been quiet at the museum. Mr. Scath would be ready to confer with the boys soon.

At seven-thirty the morning of the second day after their return from New York, the boys were shaken out of a sound sleep by a frantic hammering at the front door.

“Who’s there?” Joe called through the screened bedroom window.

A figure ran onto the lawn. It was Chet Morton. “Hurry out!” he cried.

Frank and Joe raced down the stairs and flung open the door.

“Look!” Chet said breathlessly, pointing.

On the floor of the porch a foot from the railing stood a six-inch-high, cone-shaped pile of ashes!

CHAPTER VIII

An Amazing Discovery

THE mysterious enemy’s latest warning struck fear into Chet’s heart. “This must be the work of that fire guy in the museum!” the chubby boy exclaimed. “And now he’s—he’s threatening you both personally.”

“We’ve already been threatened personally,” Frank replied. He told of the warning Tony had been given by Valez over the phone. “And this makes me think Valez was the person in the museum.”

“Maybe he’s putting a curse on you,” Chet quavered. “The—the medallion curse!”

“Could be,” Frank agreed, smiling. “But he may find it’ll backfire.”

Joe asked Chet what had brought him there so early. Chet explained that he was driving into town to buy a replacement part for one of the tractors on the Morton farm. “And I had an idea that I would be able to get some breakfast here if I left early!”

“Didn’t you have any before you left?” Joe asked with a grin.

“Sure I did,” Chet answered jovially, “but it was only a little one.”

“Little one! I’ll bet you polished off a dozen eggs!” Joe needled him.

As Joe and Chet watched, Frank got a small box and swept the ashes into it. “I’ll get dressed and then take these to our lab and analyze them. You fellows may as well start eating. I smell blueberry muffins baking.”

Joe and Chet went to the dining room. “Where’s Frank?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

When Joe explained what his brother was doing, she sighed. “Oh dear! I’m afraid this enemy you’ve made is a dangerous one.”

“Indeed he is,” Aunt Gertrude stated crisply. She would have gone on, but the boys’ mother, sniffing, said, “Gertrude, I’m sure the muffins are done.”

Chet was eating his sixth muffin by the time Frank returned. Dashing into the room he announced that the photomicrographs showed the burned material to be bones!

Chet almost choked on the muffin. “Maybe this is a warning that we’ll all be roasted alive!”

“Take it easy, Chet.” Frank grinned. “The bones were from a chicken.”

“I wouldn’t care if they were a pelican’s,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Your enemies must mean them as a final warning. Why don’t you drop the case?”

“We can’t back down now, Aunty. We must clear up the mystery.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Miss Hardy conceded, and the boys’ mother said she agreed.

After breakfast Chet went on his way to buy the tractor part. Joe phoned Tony to tell him about the latest warning and to find out if he had had any further word from Valez.

“Not a peep,” Tony answered. “Do you think he’s the one who left the ashes on your porch?”

“If he was,” Frank replied, “it means he’s still in Bayport. Want to come on a search for Valez?”

“You bet. Why don’t you pick me up?”

The three boys spent the entire day sleuthing. After consulting the police records and learning nothing, they went to hotels, motels, and rooming houses. No one could help them.

“I sure hope we discover a lead soon,” moaned Tony as they let him off at his house.

The Hardys drove home and put the car in the garage. When they entered the kitchen, Joe found a pinned-up note near the refrigerator telling them that Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law had gone out for dinner. The boys’ supper was on the stove, ready for warming. Also, their father had phoned to say he was still in Washington but might be home later that night.

“Let’s turn on the TV news before we eat,” Frank said, and headed for the living room. As he led the way through the dining room, he stopped in his tracks. Then he pointed to the floor, crying, “Look at those buffet drawers!”

The four large drawers had been pulled out and their contents dumped out. Silverware and linen lay scattered on the floor.

“A burglary!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys dashed into the living room and the hall. These, too, were a shambles!

Frank and Joe ran through the house. From top to bottom every drawer in the place had been pulled out and rifled with one exception. The files in Mr. Hardy’s second-floor study had not been broken into, probably because the intruder had not been able to force the lock.

“Joe,” Frank said presently, “do you realize that nothing seems to be missing? Not silver, jewelry, or anything valuable. What was the housebreaker after?”

“Something he didn’t find, that’s sure.”

Frank had just about concluded that the mysterious person was connected with one of their father’s cases rather than their own when an idea suddenly occurred to him. He hurried back to their bedroom.

“I know what that fellow was after and he got it!” Frank called as he opened his closet door.

Joe dashed in. The cigarette-type box from Tony’s collection of curios was missing from the shelf!

“Maybe it wasn’t so worthless after all,” Frank reflected. He was about to add something else when he was interrupted by a car turning into the driveway.

“That’s mother and Aunt Gertrude,” Joe said. “Let’s go down and tell them what happened.”

The women were alarmed and shocked about the burglary, but after a quick check they confirmed that nothing had been stolen.

“Except for our curio box,” said Joe.

“Oh that!” Aunt Gertrude said. “Perhaps it wasn’t taken after all.”

“What do you mean?” Frank was mystified.

“I borrowed it this afternoon to use for buttons I took off a suit. Let me see if it’s still in my sewing machine.”

Aunt Gertrude found the box. “I didn’t think you’d mind,” she said apologetically. “But I needed something—”

“Mind!” Frank exclaimed. “You might have done us a great favor, Aunty.”

Miss Hardy looked blank. “Why? This isn’t worth much, it’s just a wooden box!”

“I’m not so sure. We’d better have a closer look at it. This box could have been the object of the man’s search,” Frank replied.

“What makes you think so?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“It’s the only souvenir from Tony’s collection that was in our possession,” Frank explained. “The intruder at the museum might have seen Mr. Scath give it to me. If it is of value to him he might have come for it.”

“Possibly,” his mother agreed as Frank eyed the curio in his hand.

“You know,” Joe said, “this looks like Central American mahogany to me. The same as the charred bits we analyzed.”

Frank nodded. He examined the box carefully. Using pressure on each side, he tried to find out if it had a secret compartment.

“Here!” he exclaimed triumphantly a moment later. “It has a false bottom!”

With his thumbnail, Frank pried out a thin piece of wood built in above the bottom of the box. Wedged in it was a large, engraved golden coin!

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Must be one of the medallions!”

“Now we know for sure the thief was after the box,” Frank said. “Good thing Aunt Gertrude put it in her sewing machine!”

Mrs. Hardy studied the coin. “It looks like real gold,” she said.

“And see!” Frank pointed. “It has the large opal Wortman spoke about!”

The stone was set on one of the lines crossing the medallion. “It doesn’t look like a cheap stone to me,” Frank added.

“Tony’s uncle thought it had a special meaning,” Joe said. “I have an idea that these engraved lines may form a map of some kind.”

“What did Wortman say was on the other medallion?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“A word,” Frank replied. “Texichapi.”

As Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude examined the gold coin, Joe said, “Perhaps these lines show the exact spot where a treasure is buried in a place called Texichapi. Remember what Torres told Dad.”

“Let’s look up Texichapi,” Frank suggested and went for the atlas.

The boys studied the entire area from Mexico to the tip of South America. Their search yielded nothing. Nor was there any place in the world with that name.

“Apparently,” Frank concluded, “Texichapi means something else. How about a secret password?”

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “It could be the name of a person. Some ancient king for instance, who was buried with a ransom in jewels.”

Aunt Gertrude snorted. “Huh! Sounds to me like one of those peppery, fire-spitting South American recipes!” she exclaimed.

Everyone laughed and Frank said, “Probably the answer to the riddle depends on having both medallions. In the meanwhile, I think we ought to make a sketch of the exact position of these lines and where the opal is placed and also memorize it.”

“Good idea,” Joe said.

“While you’re doing that,” said Mrs. Hardy, “I’ll warm up your supper.”

The boys concentrated on the lines for several minutes, then tried drawing them on paper. It was necessary for both Frank and Joe to do this again and again until they had memorized the lines perfectly.

While the boys ate a late dinner, Mrs. Hardy remarked that she thought they ought to notify the police of the attempted burglary.

“I know as detectives you would like to solve this yourself, but as law-abiding citizens of Bayport we’re duty bound to report it,” she insisted.

“You’re right,” her sons agreed. Frank arose from the table and was about to call headquarters when the telephone rang.

“I’ll take it,” Aunt Gertrude called from the hall. A moment later she said, “It’s Fenton! He’s on his way home. Says he wants someone to meet him at the airport at nine o’clock.”

“I’ll go,” the brothers chorused, then Frank said, “You pick him up, Joe. Drop me at the police station and I’ll talk to Chief Collig personally.”

“How about this medallion?” Joe asked. “Don’t you think we ought to give it to Tony? After all, it belongs to him.”

“You’re right. Take it along and show Dad, then leave it at Tony’s.”

Joe put the medallion into his pocket and started for the garage. Frank followed directly and the boys set off on their errands.

“Whatever you do,” Frank warned as he hopped out at police headquarters, “watch yourself.”

Joe headed the car toward the airport. Halfway there he remembered that the highway was closed because of repairs. That meant he would have to take the lonely road that led past the museum.

The night was warm and the air still. “Like the night we brought Tony’s stuff to the museum,” Joe thought as the convertible purred along. He came to the building and slowed up. “Most of Tony’s inheritance is in there now. But the most valuable piece may be the medallion I have,” he mused, fingering the outline of the object in his sports shirt pocket.

As he drove along, there were fewer trees and the countryside became flatter. “About one more mile and I’ll be at the field. It’ll be great to see Dad and tell him firsthand all the new developments,” Joe said to himself.

The road took a long bend to the right and then straightened out. As the car approached the highway, its headlights picked up a frightening sight. Several yards ahead a man lay at the edge of the road. Joe wondered if he was the victim of a hit-and-run driver.

The brakes screeched as he slowed his car. Near the prostrate figure, another person staggered forward, shielding his face from the glare of the headlights and signaled Joe to stop.

“What happened?” the Hardy boy asked as he jumped out to help.

“Don’t know,” the man mumbled in reply. Now Joe could dimly see his face—enough to learn that he wore a mustache.

Suddenly the roadside victim leaped to his feet. He too shielded his face so completely that Joe could see only his eyes.

Too late Joe realized that this was a trap. He tried to jump back into the car, but the man nearest him let go a powerful blow that sent him reeling against the left fender.

Recovering his balance, Joe lashed out at his assailant, but the next instant the other man struck him from behind. Quick as lightning, Joe whirled and connected with a smash that sent his adversary sprawling on the pavement.

If only a car would come by, there might be some hope for him. But none did.

“If I could get back behind the wheel, I’d have a chance to drive away!” Joe thought desperately.

He got one foot inside the car, but his assailants closed in again. They yanked him out and twisted his arms.

“Let go!” Joe cried out in pain.

He managed to tear away from their grip for a second, but one of the thugs shot a smashing blow to his chin. The boy blacked out!

When he came to seconds later he was gagged and a kerchief was tied over his eyes. He was bound hand and foot and lay in a thicket.

Joe realized that not once during the struggle had either of the men spoken a word. Even now, when a hand started to frisk him, not a sound came from his enemies.

To Joe’s dismay, he felt the hand go into the pocket that held the medallion!

CHAPTER IX

The Peculiar Ping

LYING bound and gagged in the underbrush off the highway, Joe struggled to loosen the cords that cut into his wrists. Somewhere nearby in the darkness, his assailants were talking. They seemed to be very excited. Joe strained to hear what they were saying.

“They’re speaking Spanish!” he thought, catching a phrase or two that he could understand. He heard one of them say, “Now we can find the place.” A moment later the other broke out fiercely, “I want that fortune!”

The talk was suddenly drowned out by the sound of a car engine roaring to life. The men probably had concealed their car in the thicket along the road.

Joe wondered how they knew he would be passing this very spot. He concluded that they must have been eavesdropping at the open windows of the Hardy house when plans for going to the airport were made.

He heard his own car being driven off the road into the brush. Then came the sound of footsteps as the man returned. The driver of the getaway car stepped on the gas and sped off.

His motor made a strange pinging sound, which registered clearly in Joe’s mind. “If only I could tail those men!” Joe said to himself.

At the airport, meanwhile, the plane from Washington had landed. Mr. Hardy, a tall, handsome man in his forties, looked around for a member of his family. Failing to see one, he went to the waiting room. No luck there. He inquired at the main desk if there was a message for him.

“Sorry, Mr. Hardy. We have no message for you,” the clerk told him.

The detective shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to wait. Maybe there was a delay in traffic.”

Ten minutes later Mr. Hardy decided to call home.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Fenton,” his wife said. “We’ve had a lot of excitement here, the kind we don’t need!” She went on to tell him of the attempted burglary, but stopped herself short. “But you’ve already heard this from Joe,” she concluded.

“Dear,” Mr. Hardy said with a chuckle, “that’s what I’m calling about. Joe’s not here!”

“But he left in plenty of time to meet you,” Mrs. Hardy said, worried.

Mr. Hardy tried to reassure his upset wife, saying that Joe might have had trouble with the car. Then he asked, “Is Frank there?”

Frank had just returned from his talk with Chief Collig. He came to the phone. “Hello, Dad.”

“Do you know what route Joe was taking out here?” his father asked.

Frank told him of the detour, adding that Joe would have had to use the lonely road past the Howard Museum. “Dad, we found one of those medallions and Joe had it with him. Maybe he’s been waylaid!”

“I don’t like this. Take my car and start a search. I’ll grab a taxi here and investigate from this end.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll start right away.”

Mr. Hardy collected his luggage and hurried from the building. Hailing a taxi, he briefly told the driver what had happened, then directed the man to the spot where he and Frank were to meet.

They set off along the highway over which there was now a heavy mist. Inch by inch they searched the roadsides with the taxi’s spotlight, but there was no sign of Joe or the convertible.

“My son should be meeting us at any moment,” Mr. Hardy said to the driver, “unless he found something.”

At that moment the headlights of a car appeared from the direction of Bayport.

“This must be Frank. Blink your lights at him,” Mr. Hardy said.

The taxi driver flicked his headlights several times and the approaching car answered the signal.

“Is that you, Dad?” Frank called as he pulled alongside.

“Yes. Any luck?”

“None. But I haven’t examined the last hundred feet of roadside.”

“Then we’ll do that together,” Mr. Hardy called out. “Turn around and move on slowly. We’ll come directly behind you. Keep your eyes on the left side. I’ll watch the right.”

At a snail’s pace, the cars headed out along the highway. Over fifty feet had been covered when suddenly Mr. Hardy saw the glint of a shiny surface in some high bushes.

“Stop!” he told the driver. As the taxi backed slowly, the spotlight picked up the glint again. Revealed in the glare was the windshield of the boys’ convertible !

“Blow your horn!” Mr. Hardy directed. The taxi’s powerful horn blasted several times. Hearing the signal, Frank returned to the cab in reverse.

He backed the sedan behind the taxi, leaped out, and, with his father, thrashed through the brush. They quickly examined the convertible and the ground around it. There was no trace of Joe. But several sets of footprints were evident in the moist earth.

“Joe must have been ambushed,” Mr. Hardy said angrily. “And they’ve either kidnapped him or left him nearby. We’ll scour the whole area.”

With flashlights, the two walked along both sides of the road, penetrating the clumps of underbrush. A few seconds later Frank discovered the trussed-up figure of his brother. Joe was still trying to fight free from his bonds and the gag, but his efforts were futile.

“Joe!” Frank cried out joyfully.

He removed the gag, and with his pocketknife severed the cords from Joe’s wrists and ankles. Exhausted from his ordeal and his mouth as dry as paper, Joe could scarcely speak.

When they reached the taxi, the driver grinned. “I’m sure relieved that you’re all right, boy. Whatever happened?” Realizing Joe could not talk, he reached under the seat and brought out a Thermos bottle of water.

The water revived Joe considerably and he gave a sketchy account of the holdup but did not mention the stolen coin. Mr. Hardy paid the taxi-man, included an extra amount for his time and trouble, and the man drove off.

“Now, Joe,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’m sure that there’s more to your story. Are you up to giving us the details?”

Joe nodded, saying he felt much stronger. He told about the ambush. “And now they have the medallion!” he moaned. “We’ve got to get it back for Tony! One of the men had a mustache. He might have been the blowgun man or Torres. There’s just one other clue,” Joe added, and explained about the ping in the enemies’ motor.

“We’ll notify the police at once,” Mr. Hardy declared. “There’s an outside chance we can pick up those thugs.”

Frank and Joe hurried to the convertible as their father climbed into his sedan. Driving directly to headquarters, Mr. Hardy reported the incident. Chief Collig had the information teletyped throughout the state.

Then he assigned a patrolman to accompany the Hardys as they continued their search. The group, in Mr. Hardy’s car, stationed itself at various main streets and incoming roads to listen for the engine with the strange sound. For an hour they patrolled the town without success.

Then at an intersection near the waterfront Joe heard the peculiar ping. “That’s the car!” he cried out. “Let’s get’em, Dad!”

Mr. Hardy turned around and sped after the car, which was heading west now.

“He’s going at a pretty good clip!” the officer observed from the back seat. “You’d better open up and stop him!”

As Mr. Hardy closed the distance, the driver in the other vehicle sensed that he was being pursued. He instantly gunned his motor and for a moment the Hardys lost sight of his car. But Mr. Hardy maneuvered skillfully and soon caught up to the speeder.

“Pull over!” the police officer shouted as they passed him.

The driver realized that he had no chance of getting away. He slowed down and came to a halt at the side of the road. He was from out of town and confessed that he had stolen the car. Joe whispered that he was younger than either of the men who had held him up and did not speak with a Spanish accent.

As the police officer left the Hardys to drive his handcuffed prisoner to headquarters in the stolen car, the detective observed that they had helped the law, but as far as their own case was concerned, they would have to continue their search.

“But that ping,” Joe reiterated. “I’m certain it was the identical sound. This guy was not driving at the time, somebody else was!”

Frank felt that his brother’s observation should not be ignored.

“I think we ought to follow that car to headquarters and find out to whom it belongs,” he declared.

“You’re right,” his father agreed. “We’d better check up on the owner.” He drove back to headquarters.

The prisoner was just being booked when the Hardys arrived. Chief Collig waved to them as they entered.

“Thanks for helping us out,” he said with his usual warm grin.

“Did you find out who owns the car?” Frank asked.

The chief nodded. “It’s mighty popular—has been stolen twice tonight!”

CHAPTER X

A Shattered Window

“THERE goes our lead!” Joe exclaimed woefully when the Hardys learned that the car thief had picked up the automobile in a downtown street where it had obviously been deserted by the two men who originally had stolen it.

“But we’ll keep a close lookout for your Spanish-speaking friends,” Chief Collig assured Joe. “Let us know if you find out anything new, too!”

The Hardys promised they would, then went home. “We know two people who are after the medallions,” Mr. Hardy mused. “Wortman and Torres. Possibly Valez, too. I suggest we get on the trail of Torres first.”

“What about his patriotic society?” Frank asked. “Do you think that’s on the level?”

Mr. Hardy shrugged. “It’s possible. But since he disappeared so mysteriously, it’s also possible that he’s after the treasure for his own benefit. Which would make him our archenemy number one.”

“I wish we had something more concrete to go on,” Joe mused.

“I know,” Mr. Hardy said. “But right now we can only speculate. I have a hunch that Torres and Valez are working together.”

“I wonder if Torres is the man who met Willie Wortman in the seaport and learned about Willie’s medallions.”

“Could be,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “And Torres might have made up the fantastic story about the curse to frighten Wortman into giving him the coins.”

“How do we start looking for Torres?” Joe asked.

“Before I turn in I’m going to phone a detective friend in New York City. Maybe he can work on tracking him down from that end. But I have a strong suspicion that he might be right here in Bayport!”

“Wow! What makes you think so?” Joe asked.

“If Torres and Valez are working together, Torres might have come here to see how Valez is doing.”

While Mr. Hardy made the telephone call, the boys went upstairs to their bedroom. “It’s good to have Dad back,” Joe said as he turned off the light a few minutes later. Frank agreed heartily and fell asleep.

The next morning at breakfast a special-delivery letter arrived from Chicago for Frank. “It’s from your friend Mr. Hopewell, who analyzed the missile for us, Dad,” Frank said to his father.

“He writes that the South American Indians who make this unusual type arrowhead are known to be dead shots. Also, that this is the first of its kind he’s seen in the United States.”

“No wonder Mr. Scath couldn’t identify it,” Joe remarked.

The blowgun used to shoot such a missile, the letter explained, is considerably shorter than the usual seven-foot one.

Joe grimaced. “That’s why I only got a glimpse of it,” he remarked. “It must have been small enough so that the fellow could hide it under his shirt when he started running into the woods. Read on, Frank.”

“These blowguns,” Frank said, “are made by South American Indians of either a hollow reed or a length of ironwood bored through with a red-hot iron. Blowguns have crude sights, which are sometimes made of animal teeth. And the blowers often succeed in sending missiles with great accuracy up to distances of fifty to sixty yards.”

“The man who fired at me certainly was a crack shot,” Joe commented.

Aunt Gertrude, who had been silent up to this point, now burst out, telling her nephews once again that she thought they should drop the case as quickly as possible.

“Don’t worry,” Frank assured her, “we have Dad around to keep us out of trouble.”

Fenton Hardy smiled at this remark, then said, “Even if they give up the case, likely these men would still keep after them.”

The boys agreed and Frank added, “We’re going over to Tony’s now.”

At the Prito home Tony was taking the morning mail from the box.

“Any news?” Joe asked him. “Any threats or missiles in your cereal this morning?”

Tony smiled, shaking his head. “Come on in,” he said. “Glad you came over. I get pretty jittery around here wondering what’s going to happen next.”

“I’m afraid that our news is going to make you more jittery,” Joe told him as they all went into the living room. He told Tony the details of the burglary, the ambush, and the loss of the medallion. “Terribly sorry I muffed everything, Tony.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I guess what’s on the medallion is the important part. And you say you memorized it. No wonder Valez wanted me to—”

Tony stopped speaking abruptly. Something came crashing through the window!

“Look!” Frank cried, staring at an arrowhead that had struck the wall and now lay on the rug. “It’s exactly like the one that was fired at Joe!”

“And there’s a note attached to this one, too!” Joe exclaimed. Frank picked up the object.

“I’d guess it was meant for Joe and me,” Frank remarked. “The printing says, ‘Stop your detective work!’ ”

Joe dashed out the front door. He was standing on the porch when the other boys came running out to search for the person with the blowgun.

“We’re too late,” Joe said. “He’s gone!”

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “Judging from the angle at which the shot came in here, the man must have aimed from that lot diagonally across the street.”

Near the wooded lot, a telephone lineman was at work on his truck. The boys hurried over to ask if he had seen anyone.

“Yes,” the phone man replied, “I saw a man cutting through the lot.”

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“Short. A skinny guy with a black mustache.” The boys nodded to one another. The assailant might have been Torres or the Same man who had fired the first missile! And possibly he was one of the men who had waylaid Joe on the road to the airport.

“Do you suppose Dad’s hunch about Torres being in Bayport is right and he’s a blowgun man too?” Joe asked.

Something came crashing through the window!

“Could be,” said Frank as Tony left to buy a new pane of glass.

Joe remarked to his brother, “As soon as we get this window fixed, we ought to comb the town from one end to the other.”

“Right,” Frank agreed.

Tony, with the help of the Hardys, soon had the new pane in place. Then they sat down to plan further strategy in tracking down the owner of the blowgun.

“Let’s start our investigating at the bus terminal on the east side and have some lunch down there,” Frank said.

“Good idea,” Joe agreed, and Tony added, “Suits me fine.”

The trio parked the car near the bus terminal, and had sandwiches in a nearby diner. Then the search began.

“Remember, we’re to meet every half hour on the through street at the west end of the block we’re searching,” Frank reminded the others as they started off on their separate ways.

Three times the boys met, without any report of success. Then, heading north, toward the more thickly populated area of Bayport, Frank was startled to see a possible suspect approaching on the same side of the street. He was short, slender, and had a black mustache. When Frank got a better look at the man, he was fairly sure that he was the one who had shot the arrowhead at Joe.

But in the same instant the man had evidently recognized Frank. He whirled and disappeared down an apartment-house cellarway!

Frank dashed up the street after him. But just before reaching the apartment house he stopped. Had the man fled through the building? And was he armed? Suppose his enemy was aiming a deadly arrowhead at that very moment, ready to let it fly at him!

CHAPTER XI

A Near Capture

FRANK realized that he was exposed to the deadly aim of the blowgun marksman and quickly darted out of range, hiding behind a parked car. He ducked low to lessen the chance of being hit by his concealed enemy, and dashed across the street to take refuge in a doorway.

“Hey, Frank!” a familiar voice rang out as the young detective crouched, waiting for the mustached man’s next move. “What are you doing—playing hide-and-seek?”

“Chet!” Frank cried as his stout friend ambled across the street toward him. “Hurry!”

“What’s up?” Chet asked as he joined Frank in the shadow of the doorway. He told his friend that he was on his way to buy some horse feed.

Frank quickly related what had happened. Then he asked Chet to run to police headquarters two blocks distant. “Tell them to rush a patrol car to 48 Weller Street!”

Without even a backward glance, Chet hurried away. Frank kept his eyes glued to the building entrance but saw no sign of the fugitive. Minutes passed. Grimly Frank thought, “Did Chet get to the police safely?”

Then the welcome wail of a siren sounded as a radio car streaked around the corner. As it pulled up, Frank dashed from his hiding place.

“The man’s in there!” he cried to Sergeant Murphy, who was in charge of four policemen. They leaped from the car. As everyone ran toward the house, Frank described the suspect. “And be careful,” he warned. “He’s got a deadly aim!”

“Cover the back entrance!” Murphy tersely commanded two of the officers. He instructed a third policeman to stay with Frank out front, then he and the fourth man dashed into the building.

The small crowd that had gathered to watch the action started to disperse when Sergeant Murphy and the other officer emerged from the building without a prisoner.

“Sorry, Frank,” the sergeant said, “but we’ve found no trace of a black-mustached man. We checked every apartment. The superintendent tells me that no one in the building matches your description.”

Murphy called back the other patrolmen. Frank, smarting with disappointment, thanked the police for their effort. The officers pulled away.

“I’m still not satisfied that blowgun guy is not in there,” Frank told Chet. “Let’s watch the place for a while.”

They took up a position in a diner from which they had a clear view of the apartment house.

“Do you really believe he’s still in there?” Chet asked, munching on his third jelly doughnut. “We’ve been here half an hour.”

Without taking his eyes off the entrance, Frank replied, “If we wait long enough we may see him.” Ten more minutes passed. Frank began to think about his brother and Tony. They would be waiting at the crosstown avenue.

“Chet!” he suddenly gasped. “There he is now —what a break!” He pointed to a short, slender man leaving the front door of the building.

“But you said he had a mustache!” Chet exclaimed. “This man doesn’t!”

“He must have shaved it off,” Frank replied.

“And he’s wearing a different suit. But there’s no question in my mind that he’s our boy!” Quickly Frank opened the diner door and motioned for his friend to follow.

“What are we going to do?” Chet asked.

“Trail him!” Frank replied in a low voice. Keeping a safe distance behind, the boys followed the man as he strode down the block. They stopped when he entered a hardware store.

“Listen, Chet,” Frank said quickly. “He won’t recognize you. Drift over to the store and see what’s going on.”

Frank ducked behind a large tree as his pal pretended to be looking at the display in the store window. Soon Chet hurried back excitedly.

“He’s buying a window shade and some brackets!” he reported. “And I heard the clerk call him Mr. Valez.”

“Watch it!” warned Frank, equally excited, as he saw Valez step outside the store. The man glanced in both directions, then started back toward the apartment house.

Frank asked Chet to return to the store and see what he could learn about Valez from the clerk. “I’m going to follow him!” he said, still keeping his eyes glued on the man.

“Where shall I meet you?” Chet asked.

“On the corner of the crosstown avenue,” Frank replied. “Explain to Joe and Tony if you arrive before I do.”

They parted and Frank hurried after the suspect. The man turned into the apartment-house entrance. He paused to open a mailbox, then disappeared into the foyer.

“He certainly seems to live here,” thought Frank, wondering where the man had been when Sergeant Murphy had investigated the place. Then he headed toward the avenue to join his friends.

“We’ve been waiting half an hour and nothing to report,” said Joe. “How about you?”

Tony and Joe listened wide-eyed to Frank’s tale of discovering the suspect at the apartment house. His account was interrupted by the arrival of Chet.

“Your friend is the superintendent of the building,” he said, “and has been for years. He’s never had a mustache and the clerk told me he’s well thought of in the neighborhood. His name is Eduardo Valez!”

“I still think there’s a connection between him and the blowgun guy,” Frank said. “He looks just like him. And Valez is the name of the fellow who threatened Tony. It can’t all be coincidence!”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps Eduardo wears a fake mustache as a disguise, or”—and his eyes brightened—“he may have a mustached twin who’s the real villain!”

“That’s a possibility!” cried Tony. “The twin might have hidden in his brother’s apartment while the police were searching the building.”

“It’s a far-fetched theory,” Frank said. “But possible. Let’s go home and talk this over with Dad.”

“Sorry, fellows, but I promised to get back to the farm,” Chet said.

Tony declared that he would like nothing better than to continue work on the case, but he was due to drive a truck for the Prito Construction Company the rest of the afternoon.

Frank and Joe went home and told Mr. Hardy of their latest adventure.

Immediately their father called his assistant Sam Radley and asked him to watch the building. When he had hung up, he said to the boys, “I’m going to check with the Immigration Service and see what I can find out about Valez. Meanwhile, I think you both should go and question him.”

Eduardo Valez proved to be friendly when the boys told him they were detectives. His basement apartment was attractively furnished and on the mantel stood several carved figures.

“Are these wooden statues from your country?” Joe asked with interest. “They’re beautiful!”

Without a moment’s pause Valez replied, “Yes, they come from Guatemala. They’re made of the best grade of mahogany,” he added proudly.

Frank and Joe had the same thought. Some of the telltale ashes were of Central American mahogany. Had Valez left the burning embers?

Frank decided to pursue the subject of a brother indirectly. “Do you have relatives in Guatemala?” he asked casually.

“Ah, yes. Many. But I’m—how do you say?—hundred per cent American now,” Valez replied in his soft Spanish accent.

“And relatives in this country?” Joe asked with a disarming smile. “For instance, do you have a brother in the United States?”

The man’s pleasant manner was ruffled for a moment. He dropped his eyes and his jaw tightened. Then he recovered his composure. Smiling, he said, “No. I have no brother in this country.”

Further conversation led nowhere, and soon they thanked the man for his cooperation and left.

“What do you make of him?” Joe asked Frank on the way back home.

“He seemed on the level until we asked about his brother. I think we might be closer to the truth with our theory than we expected.”

“Let’s see if Dad found out anything worthwhile from Immigration,” Joe said.

When the boys entered their home, Mr. Hardy called them into the living room. “Your man on Weller Street is a citizen,” he reported. “He’s been here more than five years.”

“Does he have a brother in the United States?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“I’ll bet he does, and he’s here illegally,” Joe remarked.

“That’s possible.”

Just then Mrs. Hardy appeared and announced dinner.

When they had finished eating, the boys went into a huddle with their father on what angle of the mystery to tackle next.

“I believe we ought to wait for a report from Sam Radley,” Mr. Hardy said. “Give yourselves a rest.”

His sons took the advice and went to bed early. As they were dressing the next morning, Mrs. Hardy called to say that they were wanted on the phone. “It’s Chet,” she added.

Frank hurried to his mother’s bedroom to answer on the extension. “F-Frank,” Chet said in a quaking voice, “I just got a letter with a warning in it. Even has some ashes. The message says, ‘You, too, are now cursed!’

“Frank,” Chet groaned, “when I offered to help you fellows, I didn’t bargain for anything like this!”

Frank said he was sorry and advised Chet to stay close to the Morton farm. “If you have to go to town, make sure you don’t try it alone.”

Just as Frank hung up, Joe was taking in the morning mail. A suspicious-looking envelope addressed to “Mr. F. Hardy and Sons” was among the letters. Quickly he slit the envelope, which was postmarked Bayport. It contained a quantity of ashes!

“Dad, come here quick! You too, Frank!” When they reached the hallway, Joe read the printed note aloud: “‘We have sent warnings to your friends Tony Prito and Chet Morton. This is the last warning. Stop your sleuthing in this case or harm will come to you.’ ”

“No need to microtome these ashes,” Frank said. “Central American mahogany again!” He held up one unburned bit of the familiar wood.

Meanwhile, at the Morton farm, Chet’s pretty, dark-haired sister Iola was worried about him. She had never seen him more nervous. And she too was upset over the note. Hoping to take her brother’s mind off the threat, she proposed a steak roast that evening at Elkin Amusement Park.

“We’ll go early and have some fun on the rides before we eat.”

Iola, who was usually Joe’s date, soon extracted promises from Callie Shaw, the attractive blonde who often dated Frank, and two other girls, Maria Santos and Judy Rankin, to come along. Then she invited Tony and the Hardys.

“Swell idea!” agreed Joe, who answered the phone. “We haven’t seen you girls for a long time.”

“We’ve reserved fireplace Number Twelve for our picnic,” Iola explained. “An attendant will watch our food and lay the fire for us.”

“Great,” Joe said. “I’d like to do nothing for a change.”

“Oh, you’ll have to do the barbecuing,” Iola replied. “And of course we’ll go on the rides and visit the House of Horrors!”

“Fine! We’ll pick up the other girls shortly after five,” Joe replied.

“Meet us at the farm,” Iola said. “We’ve fixed up something special. ’By now!”

About three o’clock Frank phoned Callie to tell her the plan. “Frank, a funny thing happened here a short while ago. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but now it worries me.”

“What is it?”

Callie said she felt that unwittingly she had told a stranger about the picnic plans. A man had come to the Shaws’ selling novel kitchen gadgets.

“I bought a couple of them,” Callie went on. “Then suddenly the man said, ‘You’re a friend of Frank Hardy’s, aren’t you? Nice guy.’”

“I hope you agreed,” Frank said teasingly. Callie did not laugh. “I’m worried, Frank. He seemed so nice, but now I realize he asked me a lot of questions. He may be a spy—one of those men from the patriotic society Iola was telling me about.”

Frank asked if the man spoke with a Spanish accent and had a mustache.

“No,” Callie said. “He was tall and blond, about thirty.”

“Well, stop worrying,” said Frank. “Just concentrate on having a good time.”

Callie promised to do so, then Frank put down the phone. Despite his lighthearted attitude about the incident, he was alarmed. There was no question in his mind that the kitchen-gadget salesman was a phony.

“But if he has any evil intentions, we’ll be safer at the amusement park—with so many people around—than at any other place,” Frank reasoned.

After picking up the three girls and Tony Prito in their father’s car, the Hardys set off for the Morton farm at five o’clock. When they arrived, the group learned that Chet had piled hay into his father’s truck, so they could all go on an old-fashioned hayride to the amusement park.

“Len is going to drive us,” Iola announced.

A big cheer went up from the boys. Len Wharton, a good-natured former cowboy, had recently come to work at the Morton place.

Len grinned. “Shucks, I figured that if I was seventeen I sure wouldn’t want to be stuck with the drivin’”

Zigzagging through the back-country roads, Len stretched the trip to Elkin Park into an hour-long ride. As the picnickers got out, he said, “You just call me at the farm when you want to get on back.”

The baskets of food were carried to the reserved fireplace, where the attendant stored them away.

For an hour the four couples whirled about on the thrill rides, and laughed their way through the House of Horrors.

“And now—the best for last,” Iola announced.

“Before we go back to the fireplace, let’s take a ride on the roller coaster.”

The young people boarded the bright red cars and strapped themselves in.

They reached the summit and rolled smoothly around the bend. Suddenly they snapped into the steep dive! Maria and Judy screamed as the cars streaked past the white uprights. Hitting the bottom of the run, they plunged into the blackness of a short tunnel, and emerged on a level center track that passed the ticket booth. As the coaster began another climb, Frank uttered a gasp.

“Joe!” he exclaimed to his brother in the seat behind. “He’s here! Near the ticket booth!”

“Who?” Callie asked.

Not wanting to worry her, Frank merely said it was a man for whom he and Joe were looking. Through the rest of the breathtaking swoops and turns the Hardys could think of little else. The chances of spotting the blowgun suspect again in the crowd milling around the park were small, nevertheless they would try.

The instant the ride was over, Frank and Joe excused themselves and darted in and out of the crowd, but did not find the man.

“I’m sure that he has left the park,” said Frank. “But this means he’s still in Bayport. So our case isn’t so hopeless after all.”

When the boys reached fireplace Number Twelve, they found the picnic baskets placed on a redwood table. The attendant had laid the fire of kindling and charcoal. It was ready to light.

Chet knelt at the fireplace and set the fire. The flames, fanned by the stiff breeze, licked rapidly through the kindling. In a short time a fine blaze was roaring.

“When it dies down, we’ll put on the steaks,” Chet announced.

Suddenly there came a terrific explosion from the fireplace! Chet fell backward several feet from the flames as glowing embers rained down on the entire group.

CHAPTER XII

The Black Sheep

“HELP!” IoIa cried frantically. “My hair’s on fire!” Desperately she beat her palms against her head, screaming in terror.

Frank ripped off his jacket and flung it about her head, snuffing out the flame that endangered the frightened girl. Leading her away from the roaring fireplace, he said reassuringly, “You’re okay now.”

Iola, though still shaky, managed a laugh. “It’s one way of getting a new hairstyle.”

Chet declared he was all right—aside from having the breath knocked out of him by his fall. The scare over, they all tried to figure out what had caused the blast. Had some explosive substance been sprayed on the kindling? Or had someone planted a crude bomb in the fireplace?

“In any case,” thought Frank, “the salesman at Callie’s was a spy!”

The girl ran to his side. “I told you! I’m the cause of this!” She quickly repeated her story of the salesman to the others.

“Did you mention fireplace Number Twelve to the man?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I did. Oh dear!”

Frank put a hand on her shoulder. “Callie, no real harm has been done, so forget it,” he said soothingly.

A crowd quickly gathered and began to ask questions. The gray-haired attendant, who had been making another fire, hurried over.

“I didn’t put anything but wood and paper in the fireplace,” he said nervously.

“Was anyone near this spot while we were gone?” Joe asked him quietly.

The attendant said a man with a mustache had offered to help him lay the fire in Number Twelve. “I told him I’d do it myself,” the man continued. “He did hang around, though.”

The Hardys did not voice aloud the suspicion that the salesman had told Torres or Valez the picnic plans. They merely assured the attendant that he was not to blame. The girls found another fireplace, and Chet and Tony carried the baskets over to it.

“Joe,” said Frank, “we’d better search the embers in Number Twelve. We might find a clue.”

“Right.”

After sprinkling a can of water over the still-burning wood, they raked through the damp remains for evidence.

“Guess this is it,” Frank said. He pulled out a small metal container. “A homemade bomb.”

“This character, whoever he is, isn’t fooling around,” Joe said grimly.

“That’s for sure,” said Frank and reached into the ashes. He took out a window-shade bracket. “Take a look at this.”

“Must have been part of the device that triggered the bomb!” Joe said. “Say, didn’t Chet tell us that our friendly superintendent bought some brackets at the hardware store?”

“Right,” Frank replied. “Valez is definitely mixed up in this!”

The boys decided that they would say nothing to their friends about the find, but the next morning would investigate Eduardo Valez again. Try as they might, the group found little pleasure in the meal. The shock of the explosion and the narrow escape of Chet and Iola from serious injury had caused them all to lose their appetites.

“Even I don’t feel hungry,” Chet lamented. “We should have eaten on the way out here.”

Iola phoned Len to come and get them.

“At least,” Frank said, smiling, “we had fun here before the explosion.”

Early the following day Mr. Hardy and his sons drove across town to question Eduardo Valez.

“Good morning,” the superintendent said affably as the boys introduced their father. “Come right in.”

“Mr. Valez, you’d better tell us the truth this time!” the detective said as they entered the apartment.

“Wh-what do you mean?” the man replied. The detective told in detail the happenings at the amusement park. As he unfolded the account of the explosion and the narrow escape of the young people, Valez’s face whitened.

“I—I am not the man you are searching for,” he said slowly. Looking at Joe and Frank, he said, “I am sorry I did not tell you the truth at first. Now I will explain.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Hardy said. “Go ahead.”

“The man with the black mustache,” Mr. Valez continued with a pained expression, “is my brother. He is the—what you call—black sheep of our family. Six of us children and he is the only one to break the law.”

“What is his name?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Luis.”

“Where is he now?” Frank asked.

“I do not know, but he was staying with me for a short time.”

“Which explains the mustache mystery,” Joe remarked to Frank.

“Luis sneaked into this country,” Valez went on. “He promised me the day before yesterday he would return to Guatemala at once, so I did not turn him over to the authorities when they came here asking about a mustached man. Luis left here while I was on an errand at the hardware store.”

“Buying brackets,” Joe murmured.

“Did you say something about brackets?” Valez asked quickly.

“Yes. We found a bracket in the remains of the fire,” Joe replied.

“That is what I went to the hardware store to get,” Mr. Valez added. “There was a bracket missing from one of my apartments. So I had to buy another. And I got a new shade while I was there. Luis must have taken the old bracket.”

The superintendent went on to tell Mr. Hardy and the boys that he was astonished to learn that his brother had become a suspect in a case of violence. “I thought Luis had come to the United States to get away from some little trouble at home. He said it blew over, so he was going back. Always I have defended my brother,” said Eduardo, clenching his fists, “but now I see I can no longer do this.”

“Is there anything else you think we should know?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Maybe this is not important,” Valez replied, “but a couple of small mahogany objects disappeared too. Luis might have them with him.”

The Hardys quizzed the superintendent about the possibility of a connection between mahogany and any Guatemalan superstitions. Valez explained that among certain people in Central America there was one such superstition, adding, “It’s said if a person sends the ashes of a piece of native mahogany to his enemy, that man will be rendered powerless to harm the sender!”

Frank frowned. “That’s a very strange idea.” Valez could give the Hardys no further information, so the detective and his sons thanked the superintendent and left. On the sidewalk, Frank and Joe speculated on the mysterious piles of warning embers and ashes.

“Luis must have burned some of his brother’s mahogany pieces,” Frank stated.

“But why the chicken bones?” asked Joe. “Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “he didn’t have any of Eduardo’s wood pieces handy at the time. He probably figured we wouldn’t know the difference.”

Around the corner, where Mr. Hardy had parked his car, the trio met Sam Radley. The assistant reported that the mustached man had not been back to the apartment while either he or his relief man was on duty.

When the Hardys returned home Aunt Gertrude told the boys that Tony Prito had called. He had told her that Mr. Scath had estimated the collection to be worth about two thousand dollars and had asked him to take away the things he wanted.

“You’re supposed to go over there with Tony this evening,” Aunt Gertrude concluded.

Shortly after dinner Frank and Joe drove off in the convertible to Tony’s. There, they transferred to Mr. Prito’s small pickup truck.

“Let’s get Chet,” Joe said. “I’ll bet he’s just sitting around worrying about the threat he received. Maybe he’d enjoy helping us.”

The others grinned and Tony said, “You know how he loves to work—not at all!”

Chet was finally persuaded to join the group and they drove off. The museum had closed for the evening by the time the boys arrived. Mr. Scath suggested that the four boys go to the storage shed at the rear of the museum grounds for some crates and pack the articles in them.

Tony donated some pieces to the museum which the curator had selected, then said, “We’ll carry the rest of the stuff back to my place. Let’s put it in the cellar.”

As the boys went to the rear door, Mr. Scath handed the key to Chet, who was the last one out. The four crossed the dark yard and entered the shed. A stack of various-sized crates was piled near the door.

“Now I know why you asked me to come along,” Chet said. “You needed a strong man like me.”

“That’s right.” Frank laughed. “So we’ll give you the privilege of carrying two crates instead of one at a time.”

“Okay.” Chet grinned. “I’ll take two little ones.”

Suddenly Joe put his finger to his lips. “Sh-h!” he warned.

The boys stopped short. A faint cry had sounded from the museum.

“Help!”

It was Mr. Scath’s voice.

“Help!” The cry died out.

CHAPTER XIII

News of Buried Treasure

DROPPING the crates, the boys ran to answer Mr. Scath’s call for help. After the two outcries, they had heard nothing more.

“I don’t see how anyone could have broken in,” Frank said.

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Chet admitted as they reached the rear entrance. “I didn’t lock this door. Thought we’d be right back.”

“Someone must have sneaked in here the moment we left,” Joe groaned. “I hope Mr. Scath hasn’t been struck by a shot from the blowgun!”

Frank turned the knob and they hurried inside. Chet locked the door.

“Be careful of a sniper!” Frank warned the others. “And keep together!”

The curator was not in sight and when Frank called he did not answer.

“He must be on the side of the building nearest the shed,” Joe suggested. “His voice wouldn’t have carried from the other sections.”

He led the way into the Egyptian Room and switched on the lights. Mr. Scath was sprawled on the floor, unconscious! The boys rushed over.

“There’s blood on his face!” Tony exclaimed. “He’s been hit in the head!”

“And look at his pockets!” Frank cried. “They’ve been pulled inside out. Joe, you and Tony search the building for the assailant, while Chet and I attend to Mr. Scath.”

Joe and Tony headed for the opposite end of the museum. Frank and Chet knelt beside the injured man and inspected the head wound. Fortunately it was not deep and the curator’s color was returning to normal. A moment later Mr. Scath gave a low moan and his eyes flickered open.

“Help me up,” he said feebly, trying to rise.

“Lie still,” Frank urged. “Don’t try to move.”

He recalled having seen a first-aid kit in the curator’s office and asked Chet to get it.

The stout youth hurried off. A whiff of spirits of ammonia revived Mr. Scath. Frank gently swabbed away the blood. Luckily the man had been struck only a glancing blow.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“My head feels clearer,” Mr. Scath replied. He sat up with Chet’s assistance.

“Here, let me put a patch over that cut,” Frank said.

When this was done, the boys helped the curator to his feet and back to his office.

“What happened?” Frank asked, after Mr. Scath had seated himself in a comfortable chair.

“I was in here alone, waiting for you fellows, when I heard a noise in the Egyptian Room. I went to investigate.”

“Did you see someone?” Chet asked.

“Yes. There was a masked man standing alongside the first big column. He demanded that I hand over the Texichapi medallion from Tony’s collection.”

“Yes?” Frank said eagerly as the man paused.

“I told him that I had no idea what he was talking about,” Mr. Scath continued. “Then he pulled out a blackjack and threatened me. I got a bit flustered—tried to fight him off—and I shouted a couple of times, hoping you’d hear me. Then he struck me and I blacked out!”

“What was his build?” Frank asked.

“Short, thin. Had black hair.”

Frank whistled. “The blowgun man or Torres! We’d better phone the police.”

“If it was Luis Valez,” Chet exclaimed, “he didn’t go back to Guatemala after all!”

Frank nodded, then called Chief Collig and told him about the attack.

“We’ll be right there!” the chief responded.

Meanwhile, Joe and Tony had searched the entire north section of the museum without finding the curator’s attacker. The skylight had been checked but found to be locked on the inside. The boys went back to join the others.

Not finding them there, they decided that Chet and Frank must have led Mr. Scath back to his office. As they were about to check there, Joe suddenly noticed something on the floor. He picked it up. “Tony!” he exclaimed. “This is a new Guatemalan coin!”

“Do you think the guy who slugged Mr. Scath dropped it?”

“That’s my guess. Let’s check your curios,” Joe suggested. “If the intruder was Valez, that’s what he was after.”

They went through a gallery containing old musical instruments and jewelry. As the ceiling light was turned on, the boys gasped. The glass had been neatly removed from one of the cases. Every ring, bracelet, and necklace was gone!

At that moment a siren sounded at the front entrance and the night bell rang insistently.

Joe and Tony hurried to the museum office as Chief Collig strode in with two other officers. Frank, who had let them in, followed. Quickly they were told about the accident and theft, and started a thorough search of the building. But it was soon ascertained that the attacker had escaped.

Chief Collig said, “From now on we’ll keep a guard around the place on a twenty-four-hour basis. Sampson, you stay here right now. I’ll send out a teletype on the missing jewels and a description of the intruder.”

Mr. Scath handed a spare key to Sampson, then said to the boys, “Come back another time and pick up the curios.” Everyone but the officer on duty left.

The next morning Frank and Joe decided to question Eduardo Valez again, hoping he might have heard from his brother.

“No, I have not heard from him since you were here with your father,” the man replied.

“Did Luis ever tell you the exact nature of the trouble he had in his country?” Frank asked.

“No,” the superintendent replied. “He did say something about an argument over a buried treasure, but Luis is such a braggart I paid little attention.”

“Buried treasure!” Frank exclaimed. “Did he ever say anything about medallions?”

“Medallions?” Eduardo Valez mused. “No, he never did. Oh, I am so sad about the whole affair.”

The boys left, feeling sorry for him. As they passed the next apartment house, they saw Sam Radley standing guard. They gave no sign of recognition. Neither did the detective.

“I think we ought to spend the rest of this day making an intensive search of Tony’s curios for that Texichapi medallion,” Joe proposed. “That’s what Luis was hunting for when Mr. Scath discovered him, so maybe we’ve overlooked some hiding place where Tony’s uncle put it.”

“We’ll get Tony and Chet,” Frank answered.

At two o’clock they all met at the museum. Mr. Scath, still wearing a bandage on his forehead, smiled as the boys started off to the shed for the crates. “I hope we have better luck today!” he said.

They brought the crates to the basement and went to work. As each curio was examined closely, those to be taken by Tony were placed in a crate. The others were returned to the shelves. An hour passed. One crate had already been filled, but they had not found the medallion.

Chet Morton, still upset over leaving the museum door unlocked the night before, had worked hard, trying to make amends.

At the moment Chet was fingering a solid mahogany, highly polished ball. He picked it up and removed a foil wrapping that covered part of the surface. His sharp eyes detected a thin, almost invisible line that went completely around the circumference of the ball. In his excitement to get a closer view of it, the ball slipped out of his grasp. It hit the cement and rolled across the floor.

“Playing games?” Joe teased.

“I’m sorry,” Chet groaned, going after the ball. “I wasn’t playing. I—”

He broke off as he stooped to pick up the ball. It had started to come apart at the seam. A strip of rich blue velvet showed in the opening. Then he saw the brilliant glint of metal !

Prying apart the two sections, he cried out, “Fellows, come here quick! I’ve found the second medallion!”

Gleaming in the light, on its velvet bed, lay the coin. It was the size of a half dollar. Carefully Frank lifted it and held it for the others to see.

“It’s one of the medallions Wortman was talking about!” Frank said. “See the word Texichapi?”

“And there are strange engraved lines similar to the ones on the stolen medallion,” Joe added.

Frank slipped the coin back into the ball. “I’d like to show this to Dad and examine it very carefully,” he said.

“Okay with me,” Tony answered. “But after what happened to Joe with the first medallion, watch your step.”

The crates were taken to the Prito house; then Frank and Joe went home to talk to their father. To ensure complete privacy from eavesdroppers, the trio went to the laboratory. There they examined the ball and the medallion. They concluded that the ball had been designed originally as a secret place to hold small pieces of valuable jewelry.

The boys drew from memory the pattern of lines on the stolen coin, then traced the new ones. They concluded that the lines from the two coins, when superimposed, seemed to indicate a map.

“It must show the area near the treasure that Luis Valez is looking for,” Frank remarked.

“And the opal probably marks the place where the treasure is hidden,” Joe added. “Boy, I’d like to find that spot myself!”

“But it’s in Texichapi—the land of nowhere,” Frank reminded him.

“Let’s hope we can learn what country Texichapi is in,” said Mr. Hardy. “Meanwhile, you boys had better memorize the lines on this medallion and then we’ll place it in my safe.”

This was done. Then the boys and their father sat down in his study and continued to discuss the mystery.

“I wonder,” mused Mr. Hardy, “whether your friend Willie knew the value of both medallions. This one feels like solid gold to me and it certainly has the same luster as a gold piece. Maybe Willie was just acting dumb because he feared Tony might refuse to sell him the coins once they were located.”

“That’s quite possible,” Frank said.

“I know that you’ve consulted all kinds of maps to locate a place called Texichapi,” Mr. Hardy continued, “but I’m going to make another try to find out where it is.”

“It’s one of the medallions Wortman was talking about!” Frank said

Being personally acquainted with various Central and South American consuls, the detective telephoned them one by one and inquired about the name. None of the men had ever heard of it.

Later in the evening Mrs. Hardy had an idea. “Fenton,” she said, “why don’t you phone my friend Mrs. Putnam? Her husband Roy has just come back from an expedition.”

“The Central American explorer?” Mr. Hardy asked. “Why, that’s a great idea. But it’s much too late to call anyone now.”

“Not Roy Putnam,” Mrs. Hardy said. “He stays up half the night reading. I’ll get him for you.”

Mr. Putnam answered promptly and Mrs. Hardy turned the phone over to her husband. The explorer became so interested in a brief account of the mystery that he offered to drive over at once.

“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” he promised.

The family went into the living room to await him. A thunderstorm came up shortly, and Mrs. Hardy closed all the windows in the house except the one near where they were seated. The wind whipped up sharply, banging a shutter on the east side of the house. Frank went to fasten it.

Soon the doorbell rang. Joe opened the door. The explorer, a man of commanding figure, took off his raincoat and shook hands with everyone.

“It’s about time we got together,” he said with a smile. “My wife speaks often about you.”

“But you’re so rarely at home,” Mrs. Hardy replied.

“That’s right.” Mr. Putnam smiled. “I’ve just returned from Guatemala, in fact.”

“I’m sure then,” Mr. Hardy said, “that you can give us a lot of help. Did you ever hear of Texichapi?”

A bolt of lightning flashed, startling them all. Then Mr. Putnam said, “When you mentioned Texichapi a moment ago, I was surprised. I never dreamed that anyone way up here would have any knowledge of that place!”

“Where is it?” Frank questioned eagerly.

“Well, first of all,” Mr. Putnam began, “have you ever visited Guatemala?”

The Hardys said they had not.

“As you know,” Mr. Putnam began, “the country stretches from the Pacific to the Atlantic, just below Mexico. It’s a rugged land—full of canyons, towering mountain ranges, and volcanoes.

“It’s mostly Indian in population, and has some wonderful ruins. Even out in the deepest jungle, in the most unsuspected places, one finds buried temples and palaces.”

A crash of thunder made it difficult to hear the explorer for a moment. Then he continued:

“Guatemala has beautiful cities. Colors splashed everywhere—bright red roofs, light-blue and white-walled houses, tropical flowers—parks full of them.”

“Now how about Texichapi?” Mr. Hardy asked mildly.

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Putnam smiled a bit sheepishly. “Texichapi,” the explorer began, “is a name given by a small tribe of Indians, the Kulkuls, to a mysterious and perhaps even mythical area many miles from Guatemala City. I’ve heard various rumors about the region.”

“What are some of them?” Frank asked. “The main one concerns a great treasure buried there,” the explorer went on, and the boys jumped in amazement. “Though I have many times tried to find out more about Texichapi, the Indians are very closemouthed. It’s not inconceivable that the Kulkul tribe guards the secret to Texichapi.”

“Boy, would I like to find it!” Joe said eagerly.

Aunt Gertrude spoke up for the first time and snapped, “Why, those Indians might kill you if they caught you looking for their treasure!”

Mr. Putnam smiled tolerantly. “The Indians in Guatemala respect the white man. No, you’re more likely to have trouble with an occasional band of hostile, renegade Ladinos who have fled to the mountain regions.

“Ladinos,” the explorer explained, “are Spanish-speaking, mixed-breed people. They are very proud and do no manual work like laboring in the fields or carrying loads. Mainly, they own stores and cantinas and hold political offices.”

Mr. Hardy nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Mr. Putnam, do you know whether any Guatemalans have a secret society that was organized to uncover this treasure or any other in the interest of their government?”

“Yes,” Mr. Putnam replied. “The only trouble is I don’t know just which society you mean. They come and go—pop up all of a sudden, make a big noise, and disappear as quickly.”

The explorer went on to say that he had heard of no such group lately but he could find out. “If you’ll allow me to use your phone,” he said, “I’ll check with a friend in Guatemala City whose business it is to investigate such groups.”

“Please do so,” Mr. Hardy said, showing the visitor to the hall phone.

“They won’t mind my calling at this time of night.” Mr. Putnam grinned good-naturedly. “It’s three hours earlier there.”

The Hardys returned to the living room while Mr. Putnam put through his call. Several minutes passed before the man came back.

“My friend Soldo, who works for a government agency, tells me that there are rumors of another so-called patriotic society forming right now,” Mr. Putnam reported as he sat down. “His agency would welcome any information about it. If something subversive is going on, he says, there’d be a good chance of nipping the plans in the bud.”

The Hardys noticed that Mr. Putnam had suddenly slumped in his chair, giving a tremendous yawn. Almost at the same moment, Frank and Joe began to experience a queer lethargy.

Their father, too, felt himself growing drowsy. With a great effort, he tried to speak, but at the same time both his sons and Mr. Putnam slipped from their chairs to the floor, unconscious.

Fighting to remain awake, the detective got to his feet and moved across the room to assist his sleeping wife and sister. But before he could reach them, he stumbled and blacked out!

CHAPTER XIV

Confessions

As the storm raged, the Hardy family and their guest remained in a deep stupor on the living-room floor. For twenty minutes none of the silent forms moved. Then the wind shifted, and the rain started pelting through the open window into the room.

Frank, lying nearest the window, was within its range. The continual spray across his upturned face gradually aroused him. Fighting desperately against the drowsiness that still engulfed him, the boy struggled to get up. He looked dazedly around.

“They’re all asleep!” he thought. He wondered what had happened to cause this weird scene. Suddenly an answer came to Frank.

“Sleeping gas,” he decided. “Where did it come from, though?”

He went to close the window against the storm. As he did so, he noticed the screening had been cut. On the floor below the window lay a large strip of screening and several punctured, greenish pellets the size of a golf ball.

As he picked one up and examined it, Frank mused, “These are gas pellets and must have been tossed in here.”

He decided that the noise of the storm and the family’s rapt interest in Mr. Putnam’s story would have prevented their noticing any sound at the window.

The rest of the family and Mr. Putnam began to revive. Frank, sensing that the danger of any lasting effect had passed, turned his thoughts in another direction. Who had hurled the pellets? Suddenly he remembered the screening on the floor. Maybe their enemy climbed into the house! He could have cut a small slit first, thrown the pellets, then cut out the large piece to get through.

As if in answer to his unspoken query, Frank saw a masked man coming down the stairs! The intruder, apparently startled by Frank’s unexpectedly quick recovery, jumped over the remaining steps and dashed for the front door.

Frank made a flying leap. Before the man could turn the doorknob, Frank crashed into him, sending him sprawling on the hall floor.

Catlike, the masked man leaped to his feet. A blow caught the boy on the cheekbone and split the skin. Enraged, Frank hurled himself at his adversary and knocked him against the steps!

While the fight was going on, Joe stood up unsteadily and glanced around. Out of the comer of his eye he saw the struggle and staggered to the hall. He was just in time to see Frank leap back as the man rolled off the stairs.

Frank, momentarily dazed by the impact of his tackle, raised both fists as his adversary scrambled to his feet and pulled a blackjack from his pocket.

“No, you don’t!” Joe roared. He leaped forward and swung a left uppercut to the man’s chin that sent him to the floor.

Both boys jumped the intruder, stripped him of his blackjack, and pulled off his mask. The blowgun suspect!

“You’re Luis Valez!” Frank accused him.

“You have made a big mistake,” the suspect replied.

Holding the man in a tight grip, the boys searched him quickly. Frank located a gas pellet in one of their prisoner’s jacket pockets. In another, Joe felt something smooth and hard. He pulled it out. The Texichapi medallion!

“How did you get into the safe?” Frank asked in a steely voice.

The man admitted hacking it with a hachet which he had left upstairs. Then he refused to answer any more questions.

Frank, recalling that gas sometimes made a victim talk, decided to use a ruse to make Valez confess! Pretending to tear open the end of the pellet he had found, he said in a firm voice:

“This will make you talk!”

The ruse worked. “Don’t do that!” the man cried, terrified. “I will tell everything!”

By now, the others in the living room had recovered from their enforced sleep. They were amazed that the boys had caught the burglar.

Frank said to the man, “Now tell your story.”

“You are right,” the stranger began slowly. “I am Luis Valez from Guatemala. But please do not arrest my brother Eduardo. He knows nothing of what I do.”

“And what are you doing?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“I cannot tell you. All I want is to be shipped home to Guatemala.”

“How can you go back without this medallion?” Joe asked, holding it up. “You wouldn’t be very popular if you returned empty-handed.”

The man hung his head and Frank demanded to know who had sent him to steal the coin. The dejected Guatemalan admitted that it was Torres, head of a patriotic society of which he was a member.

“We are searching for the treasure of Texichapi,” he said quietly. “That is why we wanted this coin.”

“And that’s why you stole the matching medallion,” Joe said.

Valez denied this.

“How do we know you’re not just part of a gang that’s planning to keep this treasure and not give it to your country?” Mr. Hardy asked. “You’ve got a great deal of explaining to do. The police will want to hear it.”

Frank went to the telephone and called headquarters. “We didn’t have to go chasing the blowgun man this time,” he told the lieutenant on duty. “Caught him right in our house. He’s the one who fired at Joe.”

As Frank hung up, Valez protested vigorously that he had never seen Joe before tonight. In spite of the Hardys’ accusations, the man stuck to his story. He admitted trying to buy Tony’s curios, but denied having sent any threats or knowing anything about the stolen scimitar, the ashes, the museum theft, or the explosion in the picnic fireplace. He became sullen and seated himself on the steps, staring at the floor. But the Hardys knew he was lying.

Mr. Putnam, who until this moment had been looking on, got up and approached Frank and Joe. “Good work, boys!” the explorer praised them. “By the way, my friend in Guatemala will be glad to help you at any time. And now I think I’d better get home.”

The Hardy family thanked him for coming and for the information he had given them.

“Just call me if you need anything,” Mr. Putnam said as he started for the door. Then he smiled. “But next time ask your other guests to leave their sleeping gas at home.”

When Mr. Hardy returned from escorting Mr. Putnam to his car, he said, “It’s too bad Willie Wortman isn’t here too. He probably could give us some valuable information about Valez.” The detective winked at his sons.

At the sound of the sailor’s name, the prisoner leaped to his feet. “Willie Wortman!” he exclaimed. “What do you know about him?”

“Plenty,” Joe said noncommittally.

“How did you meet him?”

“Willie paid us a visit,” Frank replied, “and told us about the medallions.”

The Guatemalan’s face went white with fear.

“Valez, what do you know about Wortman?” Mr. Hardy asked.

The prisoner admitted having met Wortman in a Guatemalan seaport. “That sailor!” Valez snorted in disgust. “I fix him! He talk too much!”

When Valez had cooled down a little, Frank asked him where Wortman was at the moment.

“I don’t know,” Valez replied. “I have not seen him for a long time.”

The Hardys decided that there was little use in trying to question the man further.

“Here come the police!” Joe said as a car pulled to a stop in the Hardy driveway.

Before leading Valez away, Chief Collig informed the Hardys that the stolen museum jewelry, including the scimitar, had been located in various pawnshops around the state. All of the proprietors described the seller as a dark-haired and mustached man who spoke with a Spanish accent. He had given his name as Romano.

Still protesting that he was innocent, Valez was handcuffed and led through the downpour by two officers to the waiting car.

The next morning a surprise awaited Frank and Joe when they joined their father at the breakfast table.

“Boys,” he said, “I’ll stake you to a trip to Guatemala—that is, if you want to go.”

“Wow! Do we!” Joe exclaimed and Frank beamed.

The detective said he felt that they had come to an impasse in solving the mystery from the Bayport end. Furthermore, if an unscrupulous group was after the ancient treasure, the Guatemalan government would no doubt appreciate having it located by honest people.

“So we have two assignments,” Frank said. “To find the treasure, and to keep it from being stolen.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “I’d like nothing better than to go with you, but since I’m on an important government case, I can’t leave the country. I would like you to have someone with you, though. How about Tony and Chet?”

“Let’s find out,” Frank urged, and went to the phone.

Both Tony and Chet were flabbergasted to hear about all that had transpired at the Hardy home in the space of a few hours. The idea of a trip intrigued them, and Mr. Prito and Mr. Morton gave permission for their sons to go.

The boys booked a flight for ten o’clock the following morning. It would land them at one New York airport from which they would go to another field for the journey to Guatemala.

As the Hardys each packed a suitcase and a duffel bag, their father recommended that they again test their memories on the markings on the two Texichapi medallions. Both had them letter-perfect.

“I think Tony and Chet should also learn them,” Frank said, and phoned the boys to come over.

“Let me tell you a trick,” Mr. Hardy said. “You begin, Chet. Take a good look at our drawings and then, with your eyes closed, sketch them in your mind. Mark Twain did this to memorize the Mississippi River when he was a cub river pilot.”

Soon both boys had memorized the strange lines which the Hardys believed were directions to the treasure.

At eight o’clock Mr. Hardy left. He wished the boys luck on their exciting trip, reminding them to get in touch with Mr. Putnam’s friend at the consulate if they needed help.

“Sam Radley will drive you to the airport and keep his eyes open for suspicious persons.”

When Sam appeared the next morning he reported that Luis Valez had refused a lawyer and admitted nothing.

“He may change his mind,” Frank remarked.

As he and Joe kissed Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude good-by, both women came close to shedding tears. “Please take good care of yourselves,” their mother pleaded, and their aunt said, “Watch out in those mountains, you could catch your death of cold!”

Sam Radley, in high spirits, cheered up the women with his jokes, then he and the brothers drove off to pick up Tony and Chet. At the airfield, while the boys were waiting for their bags to be weighed, a familiar voice said, “Hello, there!”

Willie Wortman! The big redhead seemed as jovial as ever. “I missed you by a few minutes at your house,” he said. “I was up this way and dropped by to see how you were making out with those medallions. I’d sure like to get ‘em back.”

The four boys looked inquiringly at one another. Did he or did he not know anything?

Feeling that secrecy was the best policy, Frank said, “Willie, we’ve had no luck so far.”

“That’s a shame,” Wortman said. “Don’t forget the curse that’s on them. I expect bad luck to overtake me any time.”

The Hardys felt sure that Willie’s trip to Bayport had something to do with the man who was now in jail. Watching the seaman closely, Frank said, “Your friend Luis Valez was arrested last night.”

“Valez arrested!” Wortman cried out. “What for?” Then the sailor suddenly realized what he had said. His eyes opening wide, he asked, “How did you find out I know Valez? Did he tell you?”

“No.” Joe grinned. “We just guessed it.” Wortman took no offense at this. “You are good detectives,” he said.

Joe went on, “Valez is the fellow who told you about the medallions’ curse, isn’t he?”

Paling slightly, Wortman nodded. Joe now questioned him about the man with him on the New York street. Willie denied having been with anyone.

Frank looked straight at him. “Do you know a friend of Valez’s who sells kitchen gadgets?”

“No.”

Just then an announcement came over the loudspeaker that it was time for passengers to board the New York flight.

“Come on,” Tony urged.

Frank hung back a moment. “Willie,” he said, “that salesman was responsible for us boys and some girls nearly being seriously injured. That’s one of the reasons Luis Valez is now in jail. You’d better watch the company you keep!”

The boys moved off, leaving Wortman with his jaw sagging and his eyes popping.

When they reached the gate, Sam Radley was waiting for them. In a loud voice he called, “Have a swell trip, fellows!”

The detective took hold of Frank’s arm and pulled him aside. In a quick whisper he said, “Frank, I found out there’s a Ladino man on the plane masquerading as a woman. I’ve got a hunch that it has to do with your case. Watch out!”

CHAPTER XV

Volcano!

AMAZED by Sam Radley’s warning about the masquerader on the plane, Frank hurried after the others.

“What did Radley tell you?” Joe asked as the quartet started up the ramp steps to the cabin.

“Let you know later,” Frank said in a low voice. The boys gave their boarding cards to the attractive stewardess, then took their seats.

The giant plane taxied out along the runway and swung into position for the take-off. The signal came from the tower and within seconds they were in the air headed toward New York.

As the craft flew out over Barmet Bay, Frank, pretending to be trying for a better view of the harbor, leaned close to his brother. “Sam thinks there’s a Ladino man dressed as a woman on the plane,” he whispered tensely. “I guess he got a good look at her through his magnifying spectacles and figures she has a shaven face and is wearing a wig. He thinks this ‘woman’ may be mixed up in our case.”

“Good night!” Joe exclaimed under his breath. “But say, what gave Sam the clue to his Ladino stuff?”

“Don’t know. That’s what I mean to find out.” Sitting back in his seat, Frank joked with Tony. He got up, leaned over his friend’s shoulder, and in between laughs told him the news.

“Pass it on to Chet,” he whispered. Then he started to look through a magazine.

“Do you think this person is trailing us?” Joe asked softly. “I thought with Valez in jail we were safe.”

“There’s a whole patriotic society, remember?” Frank remarked.

A little while later he stood up, saying he was going to look for the Ladino. Halfway down the aisle he spotted someone he suspected. A woman seated alone!

She had very dark skin and black eyes, and wore a dark-blue dress with a small white collar. Her hair was black with a Spanish-type comb in it. A narrow shawl was pulled around her bony shoulders. She was reading a book.

“That’s a man wearing a wig, all right,” Frank thought as he reached the stewardess and asked to see the passenger list.

The Spanish-looking woman was listed as Mrs. John Macky, New York City.

As Frank walked toward his seat he saw that the so-called Mrs. Macky was turning the pages of her book. Her hands were large and masculine.

A moment later he said to Joe, “Radley was right. And I have a hunch the fellow in disguise may be Torres minus his mustache. He has a prominent chin, as Dad said.”

Joe was thunderstruck. “Do you think Willie was here to see him off?”

“Who knows?” Frank replied. “Anyway, Radley will keep an eye on Willie.”

The problem of what strategy to pursue raced through the Hardys’ minds. Was the suspect really Torres, and did he know that the boys were headed for Texichapi? If so, they must try to elude him and in turn follow him.

At Frank’s suggestion he and Tony exchanged places and the Hardys’ friends were told of the plans.

“Wait until we arrive in New York before we take any action,” Frank said. “Then we’ll use an FBI tactic. Let the enemy follow us till he tips his hand.”

When the plane reached the airport, the boys succeeded in being the first to descend the steps to the runway. Mrs. Macky, they noted, was not far behind. As Frank had planned, the quartet walked shoulder to shoulder to the baggage counter to await their luggage.

Suddenly the boys stopped dead in their tracks.

“Tony Prito!” a loud voice was calling. “Telegram for Tony Prito!”

Seeing the youth hold up his hand, a messenger hurried over, handed him an envelope, and left.

“Who could be sending me a telegram?” Tony mused. “My folks?”

Opening the envelope, he pulled out the message. It was not a telegram at all, but a hand-printed warning: Stay out of Guatemala or your life will be in danger!

“And the thing’s full of ashes!” Chet whispered.

“Where’s the fellow who gave it to us?” Joe asked. “We’ll find out where this came from!”

But he had disappeared.

“This settles it,” Frank said grimly. “We get out of here as fast as we can.” He looked around for “Mrs. Macky,” but the masquerader was not in sight. “Come on, fellows!”

By this time their luggage had come through and the boys quickly claimed it. Frank whispered directions and they followed him to a limousine that would take passengers into the heart of the city. In the line of those waiting stood Mrs. Macky!

“We’re in luck!” Joe thought elatedly.

The Bayport group waited until the suspect was seated in the limousine and other people piling in. Then they made a dash for a waiting taxi and rode off.

“Good work, Frank,” Joe said.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Frank directed him to the international airport where they would board the plane that was to fly them to Guatemala. When they reached the mammoth, busy airport, Tony began looking around frantically.

“What’s up?” Joe asked.

“The number of bags,” Tony replied. “We had eight. And now I can count only seven!”

Tony was right. One bag was missing!

“And it’s mine!” Tony moaned. “It had all my clothes in it.”

“Couldn’t we go back and get it?” Chet asked. But Frank pointed out that they could never make it in time to catch the Central American flight.

“What’ll I do?” Tony asked woefully.

“You’ll just have to dress like an Indian!” Joe laughed.

“That might be a smart thing to do,” Frank said. “In Indian dress, with his black hair and dark skin, Tony might pass for a native guide.”

“Sure,” Tony agreed. “I might be able to learn things the rest of you couldn’t that would help us in our search. Only trouble is”—he sighed—“I can’t speak any Spanish or Indian dialect.”

Frank grinned and Joe said, “Oh, you can act like an antisocial type and say nothing.”

The boys boarded the plane. Presently a stewardess came around with magazines and Tony asked whether she had any literature on Guatemala. The pleasant young woman brought him a book in which he was soon absorbed.

As the plane took off and the other boys stared out the windows at the ground below, Tony discovered an item of interest in the Guatemalan book. It concerned an eccentric type of Indian, who rarely spoke and roamed the countryside looking for the sacred quetzal bird. “This would make a perfect disguise for me,” thought Tony. In another chapter, he studied and memorized some simple, useful words common to all Indians.

Then, excited by the prospect of playing the role of a native, he showed the book to his friends. Tony flipped to a page where a picture of the quetzal bird was shown. About the size of a turtle-dove, it was emerald green in color, with a shining crown containing ruby-red and blue tints.

“Listen to this! The bird cannot live in captivity, and is loved by the people for its free, wild, independent spirit. Because of this, the rare quetzal bird has become the national symbol of Guatemala.”

The jetliner winged its way down the coast and the four boys finally dozed. They slept through the night. At sunup they were over the Caribbean, nearing the eastern coast of Guatemala.

“There’s the shoreline!” Joe cried. The boys noticed that the vivid blue sea water was changing to a lighter hue and caught a glimpse of the white strip of beach and the mountains beyond.

At the Guatemala City airport, the boys were cleared through customs. They collected their bags, then went outside to look for a taxi. A driver approached and introduced himself as Jorge Almeida.

Smiling broadly as he picked up two bags, Almeida said, “This way, amigos. I have a fine taxi waiting for you!”

Grinning, they followed his slender but wiry figure to an old car parked by the curb. The driver put their bags in the trunk and the boys got inside.

“Better take us to a hotel first—some place where they have good food,” Frank directed.

“Hokay!” Jorge Almeida replied.

As he drove, the man chatted amiably and answered the boys’ questions. He told them he knew of no place near Guatemala City named Texichapi. “But,” he admitted modestly, “I have not been everywhere.”

Jorge pointed out the sights of the plaza, and drove them around the big square and past the arcades where natives sold food from small booths.

In the center of the plaza, men were arranging chairs on a bandstand in preparation for the evening’s concert, Jorge informed his passengers. Gaily dressed pedestrians were strolling along the promenades, admiring the beds of gorgeous, bright-colored flowers.

“Look at those men!” Joe exclaimed.

A group of small-statured Indians in red serapes, shawl-like blankets thrown over their shoulders, sat crouched in the shade of the arcades. “Tony, that’s what you’ll look like in your new clothes!”

Tony grunted. “Sí, me search for quetzal bird!”

The others grinned at his odd combination of Spanish and American-Indian dialect.

“Everybody like that bird.” Jorge laughed as he circled the square and finally stopped at the entrance of a clean, whitewashed hotel near the end of the plaza. “This place hokay!” he announced, unloading the baggage.

Frank added a generous tip to the taxi fare and Jorge said, “You fine boys! I drive you cheap from now on.”

The boys thanked Jorge for his offer, obtained his address, and promised to get in touch with him when they were ready for another ride.

After checking into the hotel and stowing their gear in two airy bedrooms, they set out to learn what they could about the road to Texichapi.

“Look!” Chet exclaimed, pointing out a booth near the square where native dishes were displayed. “I’m going to get some tortillas.”

The others agreed to wait for him. They sat down on a park bench as Chet walked over to the booth. Nearby, two men were playing marimbas and singing in low-pitched voices. Joe, Frank, and Tony were enjoying the music when a few minutes later Chet came running toward them, crying, “I’m on firel Get me water!”

He was fanning his tongue with his hand and the others realized that he had probably eaten a red-hot chili pepper. Tony pointed to a small drinking fountain nearby and said, “Use that!”

Chet dashed to the fountain and stuck his head into the spray. Grimacing with the burning sensation in his mouth, he then opened it wide, keeping his face under the jetting arcs of water.

“He probably thought he was eating a tomato,” said Joe.

Their friend finally left the fountain and walked toward them. Looking at the boys accusingly, Chet said, “I saw you all laughing but it was no joke.”

As he mopped his dripping wet hair with a handkerchief, the others apologized.

“We’ll test the food first after this,” said Joe. “Don’t forget that down here they like it highly spiced.”

The boys then continued walking around the promenade. At the side opposite the hotel, Joe spotted a shop that sold Indian goods. “Let’s go in and find a traveling outfit for Tony,” he suggested.

While Tony was buying wool trousers, a warm jacket, and a sute to wrap around his head, the others admired serapes, moccasins, and embroidered shirts. Finally Tony’s costume, including a shoulder-length wig, was wrapped and the group returned to the hotel.

Half an hour later the quartet appeared on the plaza. Tony made an odd-looking companion in his Indian clothes and wig.

“Now, I’m ready for the quetzal bird!” he said, laughing.

A Ladino, standing nearby, stared darkly at Tony and spat on the ground. Then he savagely spoke a Spanish phrase that Frank understood to mean:

“A curse on you!”

As the boys hurried away, Chet said fearfully, “You might get us all in trouble, Tony, pretending to be hunting for their sacred bird.”

“I won’t mention it again,” Tony promised. “In fact,” he smirked, “me silent, serious Indian. Your guide.”

After eating lunch in a nearby restaurant Jorge had recommended, the boys hunted up Mr. Putnam’s friend. To their disappointment, he had gone to Brazil.

“We’ll just have to inquire where Texichapi is,” said Frank.

But when they did, the various men shook their heads. No one had ever heard of it. A few knew where the Kulkuls lived—in a northwesterly direction from the city, but were vague as to any details about them.

“I guess that we’ll have to map out a route to

the Kulkul area and take a chance that the Indians will tell us where Texichapi is,” Frank concluded.

He bought a map and the boys pored over it until late that night. A route was finally decided upon.

“We can go one hundred miles to this point in a car,” Joe pointed out. “After that, we’ll have to hire mules.”

“We’d better let Dad know how we’re making out,” suggested Frank, and sent an airmail letter.

The next morning the hotel clerk directed them to a food supply store. Here they purchased a quantity of canned goods and bread. In the course of their conversation with the shopkeeper, he remarked that he had a relative at the one-hundred-mile point who rented mules, saddles, and blankets to tourists who wanted to explore the mountainous country.

They went to Jorge’s house to make arrangements for him to drive them. His face became one expansive smile when he was given the assignment. As the boys walked back to the hotel, Joe remarked, “Doesn’t it seem queer to you that we haven’t been followed or bothered by our enemies?”

“How about the one who cursed Tony?” Chet asked.

“I don’t think he was part of any gang,” Joe replied. “He probably was one of those people who are superstitious about the quetzal bird and thought Tony was making fun of it.”

“Don’t forget,” said Frank, “that we don’t know who all our enemies are. We may meet more of them yet. I suggest that we leave here early tomorrow morning before anyone’s up.”

By phone they completed arrangements with Jorge, and soon after sunrise he was at the hotel entrance. The clothing the boys were not taking was checked at the hotel, and they set off in rough, warm mountain apparel. Tony, in his Indian costume, stowed the two duffel bags in the taxi.

“You turn Indian?” Jorge grinned. “Almost fool me,” he added.

“Good,” said Tony. “But I don’t know how to manage this blanket!” He grabbed his serape as it started to slip off his shoulders. Jorge explained how Tony should secure it. Then the boys climbed into the car and started their exciting journey to look for the Texichapi treasure.

In high spirits, Jorge sang a witty native tune as the road began to climb into the mountainous country. “Now we make with the speed!” he announced, driving like a daredevil around a sharp turn.

The boys’ hair was standing on end as the car screeched around another narrow bend, where the valley dropped away a thousand feet below.

“What’s the matter?” Jorge asked.

“Please take it easy!” Chet moaned. His friends also thought this would be a good idea.

“Hokay,” Almeida replied. “Soon the road—she gets more steep and like a snake.”

Just then a great roaring sound rumbled through the mountains. “What’s that?” Tony cried out.

“Volcano, I think,” Jorge replied, concern on his face. “We see.”

As the car completed the next sharp turn, the boys gasped. The mountaintop above them was exploding in a giant fountain of liquid fire! The boiling 2000-degree lava was already pouring down the slope. In a few minutes it would reach the road!

“We’re trapped!” cried Chet.

“No, no, we have ten minutes,” said Jorge. “We beat it!”

He raced the car along the road, but had gone only a hundred yards when there was another ominous rumble. Then, almost directly in front of the boys, a stream of lava came down.

“We’re lost!” cried Tony, as the lava spray came within a few feet of the car.

“I get out!” Jorge cried. “Beat other fire river before it run across road.”

He turned the taxi back along the treacherous roadway. Sweat poured down his face as he steered the swaying car.

“We’ll never make it!” Chet groaned.

CHAPTER XVI

A Kidnapped Companion

JORGE Almeida worked desperately to bring his taxi past the danger area. It swayed and skidded. But Jorge did not slow down as he headed for the serpentlike turn.

“Faster! Faster!” urged Chet, eyeing the hundred-foot-wide, red-hot lava flow above them.

It was so close that the boys could feel the intense heat from it.

With another burst of speed the taxi shot around the turn. Too late the boys saw that the road was blocked by several massive rocks that had rolled down the mountainside.

“We’ll crack up!” Tony yelled.

Jorge braked the car and succeeded in slowing it. But not enough. The taxi smashed into the boulders, throwing the boys violently forward.

All were dazed, but managed to climb out of the car. Jorge, who was stunned, was pulled out by Joe and Frank. The trio scrambled over the boulders, following Tony and Chet in their desperate flight to get as far away as possible from the path of the lava. Seconds later, the destructive stream gushed over Jorge’s wrecked car, carrying the taxi with it to the valley below.

“Whew!” sighed Joe, when they stopped running and looked back at the fiery spectacle. “Boy, that was a close call!”

“Thank goodness we’re all safe!” said Frank.

“All but my little taxi,” said Jorge. Then suddenly his face brightened. “It’s hokay! We got insurance. I will get new taxi from the company,” he said, “with louder horn.”

“But what’ll we do?” asked Chet. “We’ve lost our supplies and equipment. All that food,” he moaned.

“We get more!” Jorge said cheerfully.

But the boys did not share his lightheartedness. They were miles from any city or town and now had no means of transportation.

“My cousin Alvero Montero owns finca,” Jorge said. “It is long distance but we can walk it easily. He has mules we can borrow.”

The boys gladly accepted the offer and followed Jorge down the mountainside. For the remainder of the day, they trekked through the thick undergrowth of the valley.

Shortly before dusk, the group arrived at the charming Montero plantation. Work had ended for the day, and as the boys approached, the aroma of cooking reached them.

A tall, pleasant-looking man, dressed in work clothes, appeared at the front of the main house.

“My cousin,” said Jorge, and hooted a signal to his relative.

Montero waved and hurried to meet his unexpected guests. “Welcome, Jorge!” he cried in Spanish. “You bring friends? Good. You are all just in time to take dinner with us.”

Then, as the group came closer, he noticed their disheveled condition. “You have been in a battle with rebels?” he continued. “And what are you doing on foot? Where is your taxi, Jorge?”

Almeida introduced the boys and told his cousin of the near tragedy. After expressing his sympathy, the planter looked in amusement at Tony’s disguise. “You had me fooled.” Montero laughed. “And I see Indians every day. They work here.”

He invited the group inside and presented the boys to his beautiful Spanish wife and their two small sons. Their host provided the visitors with swimming trunks, and they swam in the cold, clear mountain water of a dammed-up stream near the house. Later, they sat down to eat a lavish steak dinner.

The hungry boys had never tasted a better meal, especially the dessert—bowls piled high with papayas and pineapples.

After dinner Senor Mr. Montero, smoking a slender black cigar, told them that he had not heard of Texichapi. But he would be glad to lend them four mules to take them to the point where they planned to rent animals and equipment for the rest of their trip.

“If anyone in Guatemala knows about Texichapi,” Montero continued, “it will be a remarkable old Indian who lives in a village across the next mountain.”

“Will he talk to us?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Montero replied. “His name is Tecum-Uman. Tell him I sent you—he knows me well.”

Jorge arranged with his cousin to let the travelers stay overnight and they all slept soundly. Early in the morning he excused himself, saying he would go back to Guatemala City on one of Alvero’s mules and report the loss of his car to the taxi company.

The Hardys and their friends prepared to start for the village where Tecum-Uman lived. Señor Montero gave them a supply of food and handed each boy a machete. “With this, you can chop your way through the thickets.”

After thanking the planter for all the favors he had shown them and saying good-by to his family, the boys mounted their animals. Senor Montero said that the mules could be left at the place where they would pick up the others. Two of his workers would bring them back later.

With Tony still wearing the Indian outfit, the quartet began their arduous ride. Because the road was blocked off, they were forced to take a path through the dense forest of the valley.

“I wish we had a guide with us,” Chet remarked.

“What do we need a guide for,” Joe asked, “when we have Big Chief Tony? He will lead us to Tecum-Uman.”

“Si, we no get lost, amigos,” Tony said with a stony face. “Only trouble is, wig itches!” He scratched his head and laughed.

The talk shifted to the treasure.

“What do you think it is?” Chet asked.

Frank said, “I’ve read that when Cortez’s captain, Alvarado, conquered this country over four hundred years ago, he reported that the Indians had great quantities of gold and precious jewels. Some of this treasure was buried by earthquakes, fioods, and volcanic eruptions, and people have been searching for it ever since.”

“Don’t get your hopes too high,” said Joe. “You may end up with some worthless three-eyed stone monsters.”

Several times along the way the quartet overtook small groups of homeless refugees whose houses and land had been devastated by the same volcano which nearly cost the boys their lives. The elderly people and children were riding burros, but the middle-aged group trudged along on foot, carrying their salvaged goods on the three-foot-high cacaxtles strapped to their heads and shoulders with cowhide thongs.

Each time the boys met these groups, Tony tried out his dialect, asking the people about the location of Texichapi. To his delight, they understood him and seemed to accept him as a member of some other tribe, but the boys were disappointed not to learn anything about Texichapi.

Traveling at a brisker pace than the heavily laden people, they quickly moved out ahead of the refugees. In midafternoon, as they approached the Indian village where Jorge’s cousin thought Tecum-Uman might live, the four riders came upon another group of natives on the narrow trail. Tony prepared to try out his disguise once again.

As the group rode up, the mounted Indians suddenly spotted Tony and cried frantically, “Shaman! Shaman!”

They made a quick flanking movement and encircled the stunned boys. Before Tony could even open his mouth, the attackers had grabbed him, pulled him onto a horse ridden by the fiercest-looking of the lot, and galloped off.

“They’ve kidnapped him!” Chet cried out.

CHAPTER XVII

The Weird Ceremony

As Chet made a mad dash after Tony’s kidnappers, Frank called him back.

To his amazement, the Hardys were grinning.

“How can you stand there laughing when Tony’s in trouble? Why don’t we do something?”

“Calm down, Chet,” Joe said. “Didn’t you hear what those Indians were yelling?”

“It sounded like shaman,” Chet replied.

“Exactly,” Frank said. “And that means sooth-sayer.” Shading his eyes from the sun, Frank peered ahead. “Looks as if they’re taking Tony to the village. They probably think he’s some sort of traveling magic man.”

Chet sighed in relief.

Joe, however, was worried. “I sure hope Tony can get away with it,” he reflected. “If they find out he’s not a shaman—”

“Suppose we all wander into the village,” Frank proposed. “By the time we get there they’ll probably have elected Tony chief of the tribe!”

With Joe leading Tony’s mule, the procession started along the trail.

“What’s so wonderful about a shaman?” Chet questioned.

“He’s a mixture of priest and poet,” Frank replied. “Whatever the shaman says goes. He is supposed to be able to see into the future. One ritual he performs is called ‘telling the mixes.’ ”

“What’s that?” Chet asked eagerly.

“When a person plans to do something on a certain day,” Frank explained, “and he wants to be sure it’s the right time, he calls on a shaman. This man arranges some red beans from a pita tree and then he burns some stuff called copal, says his mumbo jumbo, and announces to the man whether it’s the lucky day or not.”

“We could use a shaman for our Bayport High football schedule,” Joe remarked with a laugh.

Suddenly the trail turned sharply into the cobbled main street of the village. Adobe shacks with thatched roofs lined both sides. Indians huddled against the poles that supported the shop roofs.

There was no sign of their friend or of the group that had borne him off. But Frank felt certain that the Indians would release Tony as soon as they discovered their mistake.

“While we’re waiting, let’s ask one of these men about Tecum-Uman,” he suggested.

Frank went along the line asking the same question of each of the stolid, poker-faced natives. He got only a cold stare in return.

“Well, that went over like a lead balloon,” he said a bit angrily. “Let’s look around for Tony.”

At the end of the street stood a low whitewashed building with a long porch. It looked like a shop. Half a dozen natives were moving about in front of the place, which appeared to be the only spot in the village with any activity.

“That must be where they took Tony,” Joe said.

The trio rode to the end of the street and dismounted near the building. At first the natives paid little attention to them. But when Joe walked up to a man near the door and asked him in Spanish if he might go in and look around, the Indian scowled. He shook his head as if he did not understand Spanish and made a threatening gesture.

“Don’t get tough,” Joe said in English. “I’ll just walk in.”

“Careful, Joe!” Frank warned.

But his brother reached for the knob. At once two men stepped up, one on each side of the boy and struck him across the cheeks with the butt of their hard, bony hands. The force of the unexpected blows caused Joe to lose his balance and fall backward. Furious, he picked himself up and rushed at the bigger Indian, punching him soundly in the jaw.

“That was a beauty,” Frank cried out.

The man’s eyes glazed and his knees sagged, then he dropped with a half-turn to the porch.

“We’ll take this one!” Frank yelled as he swept past Joe to meet the charge of the second man. Dodging a vicious blow, Frank swiftly crouched, grabbed his adversary’s knees and hurled him to the floor. As he straightened up and turned to Joe, the doors of the building were flung wide open. Through the entrance swarmed the whole group of kidnappers.

Seeing their guards lying stunned on the floor, the angered Indians attacked the boys. The youths fought violently, but, being greatly outnumbered, were overwhelmed and quickly bound. Their captors, who had not spoken a word, led them through the doorway.

Inside, natives were carrying armfuls of mahogany wood to the center of the room. Other men sat silently in a circle. The building was not a shop after all, but some kind of ceremonial hall. Tony was not in sight. The captured boys were taken to the center of the circle.

“Look, they’re starting a fire!” Chet’s face turned white when an old man stepped forward from the circle and ignited the chips.

Standing inside the ring of about forty Indians who sat glowering at them, the Hardys whispered words of encouragement to each other and to Chet.

Some of the smoke was escaping through an opening in the roof, but the place was already hazy. The three boys began to cough.

“Maybe this is part of the curse that Willie Wortman warned us about!” Chet moaned. “We’ll never get out of here alive!”

Frank, trying to keep up his courage, said he was afraid that the Indians had overheard them talking about the treasure. If this were the case and he could convince them that they did not intend to steal any of it, the boys might go free. But before Frank had a chance to try to speak up, Joe exclaimed, “Look what’s happening now!”

The men in the circle began to chant on a single low note. Then two drummers entered the circle and started an accompaniment.

The sound of the beating drums grew louder. The men seated in the ring made rhythmic motions with their hands. The chanting increased in fervor—louder and louder, until the boys could no longer hear each other speak.

Snakelike, the circle came to life as the men, one by one, slowly rose to their feet and started stamping, sending clouds of dust swirling off the earth floor into the smoke-blue atmosphere.

At the entrance to the building stood four weirdly painted dancers wearing feathered head-dresses. With a savage throbbing of the drums, these half-naked Indians, brandishing long spears, leaped into the moving circle of stamping fanatics. As they whirled past the boys, the prisoners could see the milk-white and scarlet streaks of paint on the dancers’ faces and the eerie blue lines daubed along their sweating shoulders.

“Kai-ee tamooka! Kai-ee tamooka!” the entire circle bellowed as the big dance got under way.

The solo dancers moved to the right as the circle stamped clockwise. Dust and smoke almost blinded the boys. The drummers started a faster beat. The chanting became a half-scream.

Then, as if by some invisible signal, the wild frenzy came to a sudden end. The performers stood as if frozen. Then a slow thump—thump—thumping of a lone drum began. Slowly the men in the circle re-formed their ring and crouched in silence on the dirt floor. A moment later the circle moved in on the boys and the dying fire.

Now the oldest man arose and approached the low-burning fire. With his arms extended, palms up, he stood for several moments without uttering a sound. Then, as several of the elder members of the circle began to murmur, the leader pulled a long stick from a sheath. With it he poked about in the embers. Scraping carefully, he heaped up a cone-shaped pile like those the boys had seen before!

The chanting ceased. The circle closed even smaller. The leader extended his arms a second time and the murmuring began again, a little louder than before. Now, with his stick, the man scraped some of the warm ashes into a wooden bowl.

The boys winced as the hot ashes struck their skin

“Kai-ee! Kai-ee!” The chant picked up volume and the leader turned from the fire to face the Hardys and Chet. Holding the bowl out stiffly, chest high, he stopped directly in front of the boys. Inwardly quaking, the captives tried to appear unperturbed.

Murmuring the chant himself, the old Indian sprinkled the hot ashes on the foreheads of the trio. The boys winced but did not cry out.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance. Then came a booming, commanding voice over the heads of the people. The leader, lowering the bowl, cried out:

“Tecum-Uman!”

The man for whom the boys had been searching! What would happen now?

CHAPTER XVIII

Into Dangerous Country

A handsome elderly Indian, taller than the other tribesmen, walked with stately steps toward the Hardys and Chet. He motioned to a native that they be unbound at once.

After this was done, the tall Indian addressed Frank in Spanish. “Do you speak this language?”

“A little,” Frank replied, then hastened to ask, “Where is our friend? Is he all right?”

For the first time a faint smile played around the Indian’s mouth. “He is quite safe. He is changing his clothes and will be brought here shortly. Your mules, also, are unharmed.”

Frank told the boys this news, then said, “I don’t understand what has happened, Tecum-Uman. We were advised to ask your aid by Señor Montero.”

“Yes,” the elderly man nodded. “The señor is an old friend of mine. I am sorry you have been poorly treated here.”

Mystified, Frank asked him to explain the reasons for the odd happenings. Tecum-Uman motioned for the boys to follow him outside. Reaching a secluded spot, the man began to speak.

“I am chief of the three Kulkul villages,” he said. “This is one of them but not where I live. I came here because certain men have been causing much trouble. They are the ones who captured young Prito and took you into the ceremonial hall.”

Tecum-Uman explained that he was sure a certain dishonest Ladino in the area was responsible for the recent unrest in the village. “I believe he was the man who told my tribesmen that your friend was disguised as a shaman. This thing is regarded as a great evil by my people,” he concluded. “The fire dance you witnessed is an old custom performed to break such a curse.”

Frank said he regretted the misunderstanding. “Our reason for coming here,” he told the chief, “is to find Texichapi. Do you know where it is?”

If the Kulkul chief was surprised by the question, he did not show it.

“Texichapi is reputed to be a day’s journey west of the place where Prito said you were to get fresh mules and supplies.” Tecum-Uman gave no further information. “You will be free to go with your friend when he arrives here. My loyal tribesmen wish you no harm.”

As the old man concluded his statement, Tony was led toward them. Dressed in a blue cotton shirt and a pair of nondescript brown trousers, he rushed up to the boys.

“Am I glad to see you!” he cried. “I thought all of us were goners.”

“So did we!” Chet exclaimed.

“Wait till you hear what happened to me,” Tony whispered. “Tell you later.”

There was no sign of the unfriendly natives as Tecum-Uman accompanied the boys to their mules. As a gesture of good will, he handed them a sack of food.

“You will arrive at the village where you change mules within one hour,” Tecum-Uman said. “If you do not leave this trail, you cannot miss it.”

The four travelers expressed hearty thanks for his help, and the elderly man waved good-by to them. As they rode away, the boys told Tony about their ordeal and about Tecum-Uman’s explanation.

“He sure arrived in the nick of time,” Joe said. “Now tell us what happened to you.”

Tony sobered. “This shaman business was a fake,” he said. “They knew right away I wasn’t an Indian. What they wanted was to find out why we’re here. They tried several torture tricks. I guess I can thank Tecum-Uman that things weren’t any worse. He arrived in the midst of it.

But the guys that were holding me warned that if I told the chief anything, it would go badly with me later.”

The Hardys were afraid that the group might be followed and urged their mules forward at a faster pace. Several times Frank dismounted and put his ear to the ground to detect any sounds of horsemen trailing them, but he heard nothing.

“I guess we’re safe,” he concluded.

Exactly as the old man had predicted, the boys arrived at the next village in one hour. They sought out the shopkeeper’s relative who rented mules. He made arrangements for the group to remain overnight, and promised to have their mounts ready for an early-morning start. Frank told the man about Senor Montero’s workers coming for the borrowed mules, and he promised to care for the animals until they arrived.

After buying fresh supplies, the boys were shown to the cabin where they were to sleep. The four agreed that they would ask no questions.

“We can’t tell friend from foe in these mountains,” Frank said, “so we’d better just be mum about the treasure.”

Before the sun went down, the boys took a short walk around the trading post, inspecting the various supplies that were bought by traders, explorers, and settling farmers. Chet picked up a short-handled miner’s shovel.

“Say, here’s a tool we might need in Texichapi!” he exclaimed, breaking the silence concerning their destination.

An Indian standing nearby flashed a strange look at Chet. The boys expected him to vanish in the next instant and bring back reinforcements to harm them. But instead the man walked closer and spoke to them in broken Spanish.

“Texichapi?” he asked. “You going there?”

Since Chet had already given away their destination, the boys admitted that they were.

“Bad place,” the Indian told them. “Stay away. It is valley of evil.”

The man said that Texichapi was hard on a man physically because of its sudden and extreme changes in temperature. At times, the place was hot and damp. At other times the area was cold and swept by winds.

“And besides,” he went on, “there are many mahogany trees in Texichapi which are protected by spirits. When someone not wanted tries to enter that section, a curse is put on him!”

The boys looked at one another, dismayed. But the part about the curse did not seem to ring true.

“Where did you learn about the curse?” Frank asked the Indian. But it seemed the man did not understand his stilted high school Spanish.

The Hardys and their friends tried to get the native to tell them whether this tale of the curse and the place being called the valley of evil was an old legend of the Indians or whether it was a recent one. It might be another stratagem of the boys’ enemies, the patriotic society, to frighten away the quartet.

“No, sorry,” the Indian replied.

Either he was pretending not to understand, or finding the language barrier between them was just too great.

The Indian drifted away and the boys returned to their cabin. All were uneasy about going to sleep, not knowing what might happen. But nothing disturbed them except the howling of wild animals in the nearby forest.

At the crack of dawn the group headed west as Tecum-Uman had instructed them. There was no indication that they were being followed. The boys pushed on and did not take a break in their difficult journey until the sun was directly overhead. Then they lunched briefly and set off again.

Much of the way seemed to be along dry river-beds and across streams which appeared to have left their former course to flow in adjacent ravines.

“There sure are a lot of crisscrossing trails,” observed Frank, who was leading the cavalcade. “The trail to Texichapi would be mighty tough to follow if Tecum-Uman had not insisted that we keep heading straight west all the time.”

Suddenly he stopped, and as the others waited, dismounted and picked up a stick. With it Frank scratched several marks in the dirt. Finishing the last line, he asked the others to look at what he had drawn. “Do these seem familiar?” he asked.

The boys studied the lines for only a few moments, then Joe exclaimed, “Of course. They’re the ones on the medallions!”

Frank explained that he had traced the curves of the streams that they had just passed. “They exactly match the lines that we memorized! We must be in the middle of the Texichapi country!”

Joe looked around excitedly. “I wonder what the opal really meant—should we look for a certain tree, a cave, or maybe a particular hill?”

No one knew the answer. Taking their bearings on the curve of the last stream, the boys changed course slightly. For half a mile they made their way through swampy ground until they saw, sparkling like a jewel, a small lake at the base of a distant cliff.

“Do you think this lake corresponds to the location of the opal on the medallion?” asked Tony.

“I doubt that the treasure would be buried underwater,” replied Frank. “Besides, we have to travel a little farther if my memory is correct.”

The riders broke into a jog as the wooded countryside became more open. Within a few minutes they arrived at the lake.

“Look up there!” Joe cried suddenly.

Two figures stood at the top of a sheer wall of rock that dropped seventy or eighty feet straight down to the water. The sight of people in this apparently uninhabited area startled the boys. Could they be spies for the so-called patriotic society sent out to intercept them? But surely no spies would show themselves so plainly.

As the figures moved close to the rim of the cliff, the watchers could see that they were an Indian man and a small boy.

Frank was about to shout to the Indian when they saw the little boy break away from the man and run along the cliff’s edge. They could hear the man give a warning shout. Abruptly the little boy turned to face the man, but lost his balance and hurtled toward the water.

The four gasped in horror as the small form struck the lake surface and disappeared. They realized that even if the youngster knew how to swim, a fall from such a height would knock the wind out of him and he would drown. The same would be true of the child’s companion if he should dive in and attempt a rescue.

“I’m going after that boy!” Joe cried, slipping off his moccasins and jacket.

CHAPTER XIX

Followed!

As Joe dived into the lake, his friends watched apprehensively from the water’s edge. There was still no sign of the boy who had fallen from the cliff.

“Perhaps it’s already too late,” Joe thought fearfully as he swam underwater.

Suddenly he saw the boy. His limp body was entangled in the branches of a sunken tree trunk. Relieved, but with the air in his lungs almost gone, Joe swam over and tried to release the unconscious boy. Just as he felt his lungs would burst, the branches gave way, and grasping the child firmly, he quickly rose to the surface.

As Joe emerged into the brilliant sunlight and inhaled great gulps of air, Frank cried out, “Great! Over here, Joe!”

His brother, still clutching the helpless child, headed for shore. As he drew near, Frank jumped into the water and said, “I’ll take him!”

He reached for the little boy and carried him ashore. Joe followed. Frank laid the child on the ground and began to give him artificial respiration to force the water from his lungs. A few minutes later Chet took a turn, then Tony.

Presently the Indian who had been on the cliff appeared, tears streaming from his eyes. Jabbering in a language unintelligible to the boys and gesticulating, he indicated that the youngster was his son.

“He’ll be all right,” Frank said, noting that the child’s pulse, though feeble, was picking up.

As water spewed from the little boy’s mouth, his limbs began to twitch, and his breathing became more regular. Soon the child’s eyes opened. Through gestures, Frank indicated to the Indian that his son was definitely out of danger, but should be put to bed for the rest of the day.

When the child was ready to travel, his father gently picked him up. The man, his face beaming with gratitude, nodded to each boy, then started homeward.

“That was a great rescue you made, Joe,” Chet praised. “You’ve made a real friend of that Indian.”

Joe removed his wet clothes. The warm breeze quickly dried them. After putting them back on, he said, “All set? Let’s head for the treasure spot of Texichapi.”

“‘The valley of evil,’” Chet quoted dolefully.

The four rode toward the place, which, according to the stranger at the trading center, had the power to cast an evil spell. After making two wrong turns, they finally came to an area which looked like the map on the medallions.

“It’s beautiful here!” Tony exclaimed.

“Not windy and cold like that Indian said. And it certainly is cheerful,” Chet remarked, watching the brilliantly colored birds in the trees.

Small clumps of spruce filled the valley, and as the mules moved silently over the pine-needled ground, the boys breathed in the crisp air.

“There’s a big stand of mahogany trees ahead!” Frank said excitedly. “And that’s the spot indicated on the map by the opal.”

Eagerly they urged their mounts toward it. Reaching the grove of giant trees, Frank took a pad from his pocket and once more sketched all the lines from the medallions, including the precise location of the opal.

“Right here is where we start digging,” he announced and marked the exact area. Then he tore the paper into small bits and scattered them in the breeze.

During the next five hours the boys dug without interruption. Nothing came to light. Finally, tired from the heavy work, they were about to quit for the day when Tony’s pick hit a hard surface. It had struck rocks before, but this time there was a slightly different sound.

“Fellows,” he said excitedly, “start shoveling here!” Working furiously the group gradually made out the shape of a stone step, then another leading into the earth.

“This is the beginning!” Joe cried. “Let’s really dig!”

Into the dusk, then after a night’s rest, all through the next morning, the quartet continued their excavation work. After uncovering a dozen steps with a carved balustrade, they came to a stone of a different type.

“This isn’t a step,” said Frank. “It’s a slab laid across something.”

They decided to pry the slab loose. This proved to be a backbreaking job, but at last they managed to upend the stone. Below it were more steps, almost free of earth.

Their hearts pounding, the boys beamed their lights ahead and descended. “I feel as if I were walking back through the centuries,” Frank commented in a whisper.

In a few moments he and his companions found themselves standing in the anteroom of a huge building. “This must have been a palace!” Joe cried excitedly as his light picked up carved columns, benches, and walls.

Silently they made their way through richly carved reception rooms, altar rooms, and finally reached the vast throne room. Chet broke the stillness to exclaim, “Wowee! What a treasure!”

The frescoed walls and throne were of solid gold!

“Look at those chairs!” Tony gasped.

The carved seats were inlaid with varicolored woods. Opals and costly jade crowned the backs of each. Emeralds and rubies glistened from their settings in the golden throne. Eight-foot vases with mosaic figures of Aztec royalty filled the corners of the room.

“Whew!” Tony gasped. “I just don’t believe I’m seeing all this. It must be a dream!”

“These treasures are certainly government property!” Frank said. “No one must be allowed to steal them. We must notify the Guatemalan government at once.”

Retracing their steps, the boys saw one entire room filled with golden figures.

“Why, this one room alone is worth a fortune!” Joe exclaimed. “No wonder Torres and Valez were ready to kill us to obtain the medallions.”

Passing through the reception room hung with tapestries of golden thread woven through the brilliant plumage of tropical birds, the boys approached the steps.

“It seems darker here than when we came down,” Tony remarked.

The reason soon became obvious to the boys. Several shadowy forms were standing guard at the entrance! Some of them were the boys’ tormentors from the Kulkul village, others were white men, including a tall, blond fellow.

“The kitchen gadget salesman Callie told us about!” shot through Joe’s mind.

“They’ve followed us here,” Frank whispered. “Even the masquerading ‘woman’ from the plane!” he groaned. “I recognize his face.”

The man stepped forward. He introduced himself as Alberto Torres, leader of the “patriots.”

“I am glad to see the detectives from the States. Of course it will be impossible for you to escape,” he added. “Permit me to thank you for leading us to the treasure we have sought for so long.”

As Frank started to reply, one of the surly-looking guards slapped him across the mouth.

Torres went on, “And now that the fabled treasure has been located, we have no time to lose. You boys will be sealed inside this palace to die while we go for more equipment.”

Led by Frank, the four prisoners bolted for the steps, knocking over several of the guards. But the Hardys and their friends were blocked at the bottom step.

“Do not act foolish,” Torres warned them, “or you will die sooner.”

The power he held over the boys suddenly inflated his ego. “I fooled you all, you and your father,” he boasted. “That Valez—he was stupid to let himself get caught. And Willie Wortman is dumb too. He sells the medallions—the key to this treasure.”

“Where did the medallions come from?” Frank spoke up.

The guard was about to strike him again, but Torres raised his hand in a swaggering motion to stop him. “I can at least amuse you before you die by answering some of your questions,” the pompous leader replied. “To begin with, those medallions were cleverly and secretly made by an old Kulkul Indian who had wandered away from his tribe. Most likely he had discovered the treasure and made the medallions as a future guide for Tecum-Uman. He died suddenly in the forest and Wortman’s buddy found them on the body of the old Indian. He showed them to me. When I realized later that they must be of great value, I tried to get them from Wortman’s friend. But he had disappeared.

“I sent Luis Valez,” he continued, “to find him. He learned Willie Wortman had received the coins in the meantime and had sold them to Roberto Prito in New York. Valez went there, then on to Bayport. Willie Wortman, meanwhile, had begun to suspect something, and he too began to search for the medallions.”

“Were you the man who got away from me in New York?” Joe interrupted.

“I was,” Torres replied boastfully. “When Valez seemed to be failing in his mission,” he continued, “I hunted up Willie Wortman in New York. I was following him that day when you saw us. I didn’t find out anything from him, so I went to Bayport to check on Valez. He was in jail and I learned you were coming to Guatemala, so I boarded the same flight. You got away at the New York airport, but I took the next plane here.”

Torres’s statement that he had arrived in Bayport after his henchman’s arrest cleared up one of the questions in the minds of the Hardys. He was not the man who had helped Valez when he had waylaid Joe and stolen the opal medallion.

“How did you find out we were coming to Guatemala?” Frank asked.

“I learned about it from a friend at the consulate in New York. The patriotic society kept track of you. They traced you through a Guatemala City taxi company and found that you were already headed out here to the hills.”

“Did you arrange what happened to us at the fire ceremony?” Frank queried.

“Yes. And one of my spies tried to keep you from this place by telling you it is a valley of evil.”

After a pause, Torres added, “Tecum-Uman hates me, but I have many friends. I sent word to them to bring you in. The old man knew nothing of this. But when he showed up he was told a story of his people having to break a curse you had brought them because of a false shaman.”

“You didn’t plan on our leaving that village,” Joe said.

“No. I was going to get the truth out of you about the treasure right there. But it does not matter. You found it for us, anyway.”

“It’s too bad that Tecum-Uman doesn’t have a loyal following in all his villages,” Frank said. “He’d drive a thief like you out of the country!”

“No more talk like that,” Torres retorted angrily, “or I won’t even bother to seal you in! I’ll kill you right now!”

Frank, stalling for time and hoping that the boys could think of a way to outwit Torres, questioned the vain man again.

“Luis Valez is good with a blowgun, isn’t he?”

“Very good. Learned it from a South American Indian.”

“Tell me about the first medallion he stole.” Torres whirled around. “You say Valez stole it?”

“Yes. He and his friend, whoever he is!”

“That dirty double-crosser!” Torres roared. “He was playing his own game and must still have the coin!”

In spite of Frank’s attempt to continue the conversation, Torres, ruffled by the news of Valez’s betrayal, suddenly shouted, “Enough of this delay! Seal these four in!”

He headed for the steps, and without looking back, disappeared onto the ground level. The six guards closed in!

CHAPTER XX

The Secret Revealed

KNOWING that they were doomed to certain death in the buried palace if they could not elude the guards, the Hardys, Tony, and Chet realized they must make a desperate attempt.

“Our only chance is to slug it out with them,” whispered Frank.

Quickly the boys retreated to the middle of the room and braced themselves for the attack. Two of the enemy headed for Joe, who ducked, grabbed one native’s arm, and swiftly slung him jujitsu fashion over his shoulder. The man crashed against a heavy stone idol and lay dazed. Joe’s second opponent caught the boy square on the chest and the two fell, rolling over and over.

Chet, knocked to the floor by a husky Indian, decided to use strategy. As the native above him closed in, the boy pretended to let himself be taken. The man relaxed and motioned for Chet to stand up. As he rose, Chet brought the back of his head up flush under the jaw of the unsuspecting enemy, who at once collapsed.

“Two down—four to go!” cried Chet, running toward Tony who was being backed into a corner.

Chet reached out with both hands and caught the coarse black hair of the man nearest him. Tony did the same to another man. With a quick, jerking motion the boys banged the skulls of the natives together with such a crack that the two dropped in a heap, unconscious.

Joe was still struggling with his man, and Frank was being beaten by the biggest of the attacking group.

“Come on, Chet!” yelled Tony, racing across the room. With only two natives left to subdue, they had a chance for escape!

But just then six more Indians swarmed down the steps. There was nothing for the boys to do but surrender. They were lashed tightly, then laid at the foot of the steps.

The bandits were jubilant! Shouting words of self-praise, they started up the steps. Suddenly, in the bright light of the opening, an Indian with drawn bow appeared. He let fly with the arrow. One of the bandits screamed in pain as the flint arrowhead seared into his raised right arm. He crumpled to his knees, begging the Indian not to release the second arrow, which was already aimed at him.

Several Indians came running down the steps after their leader. Herding the boys’ captors into a corner, they ordered one of them to release Frank and Tony from their bonds, who in turn freed Joe and Chet.

“We’re mighty glad to see you!” Frank said. “But where did you come from?”

“Kulkul village,” the man replied, pointing to the steps. The boys turned to look. At the top of the stairs stood the father of the little boy Joe had rescued!

The quartet rushed up to thank the man. He asked one of his friends to act as interpreter.

“He say after you save boy he see you go on path to Texichapi. He start to worry,” the man began. “He know we have some bad people in one Kulkul village. When he see them after you, he run to loyal Kulkuls and tell us come quick with him.”

“We want to thank you and all the loyal Kulkuls for saving our lives,” Frank said.

“Tomas, the boy’s father, he say we equal,” the man replied. “You save his son. We save you.”

A moment later they saw Tecum-Uman approaching. He told them that Torres and his gang were under guard, adding that he had already sent a messenger to inform the officials.

“You have done a noble act for the Guatemalan government,” the old man said to Frank as he excitedly started on a tour through the palace with the discoverers.

“Yes,” the interpreter added, “place belong to ancestor. Thank you for find. Nobody steal. Sacred for government fathers.”

“I wonder what Torres is thinking about now,” Chet remarked. “I’ll bet he’s not boasting!”

“We’ll find out after we come back from showing Tecum-Uman and his friends the rest of the palace,” Frank replied.

The boys led the way through the wealth and beauty of the rooms. The Indians were overcome with joy as they saw the splendor of their earlier civilization. Tears of happiness filled Tecum-Uman’s eyes.

“With Torres arrested and in jail,” the old man said, “the Kulkul tribe will become united again. And this wonderful palace can be restored. The tribal gods have looked on us with favor.”

As they moved along, playing their flashlights from one priceless object to another, Chet, who had been leaning against a jewel-paneled wall, suddenly cried, “Hey, what’s this?” as the panel swung open. “A whole new passageway!”

Eagerly the boys beamed their lights into this area. On their previous trip they had thought the decorated rectangle was part of a solid wall.

Tecum-Uman and the others accompanied them into the newly found section. The old man’s eyes glistened as he explained to the boys that this must have been a sacred ceremonial room. It was fashioned of pale-pink granite, which probably had been transported from South America, Tecum-Uman said. Here, too, were costly idols made of beautifully carved woods, silver, or gold set with precious jewels.

“See this!” Joe called to the others. “We could adopt it as the souvenir of our discovery.”

As he flashed his light on a head ornament mounted on the wall, the group saw a large central figure of a god surrounded by four human figures.

“You mean Tecum-Uman in middle and four boys from States!” the old man said, smiling.

The inspection ended, the group retraced their way through the palace and climbed the steps to the surface. Across a small clearing the notorious Torres, guarded by several Indians, stood staring glumly at the ground. At the sight of the boys, the leader of the criminals flew into a rage.

“I will get my revenge!” he yelled. In spite of the Kulkuls’ efforts to silence him, he continued screaming at the boys.

“Say, Torres,” Chet called, “next time you impersonate a woman, remember to wear gloves—your hands gave you away!”

Torres, incensed by Chet’s remark, clenched his large fists and kept shouting. But a moment later, when reinforcements of loyal Kulkuls ran into the clearing, the man became silent. Tecum-Uman told the boys not to worry about further trouble with Torres and his gang.

Posting a guard at the entrance to the palace, the tribal chief asked the boys to get their mules and walk with him at the head of a procession back to the nearby Kulkul village.

“You are heroes,” he said, “and my people will want to thank you. But tell me how you learned of this treasure.”

The Hardys explained about the medallions and Torres. When they finished the story, Tecum-Uman nodded his head. He said that an elderly member of his tribe had been taken ill while on a hunting trip and died before he could get back to his village. The old man probably was the Indian from whom Willie Wortman’s sailor friend had gotten the medallions.

After packing the rented equipment, the boys joined Tecum-Uman. Amidst the cheers of the Kulkuls, the parade started.

The exciting news of the Hardys’ discovery of the long-buried palace and the arrest of the law-breaker Torres turned the sleepy village into a buzzing beehive. Everywhere the usually silent natives talked excitedly about the news that trickled in ahead of the heroes.

“Tecum-Uman, he say big celebration to honor four boys,” a panting messenger had told the villagers, running from house to house.

Immediately all of the Indians’ bright-colored finery was brought out. Women adorned themselves in gay festival dresses and prepared great dishes of food for the banquet.

Meanwhile, the menfolk had built fires in the barbecue pits and started roasting chunks of tender beef and pork on the turning spits. The children linked fresh flowers into streamers and strung them above the entrance to the village. Each cottage flew the Guatemalan flag. Musicians tuned up their primitive instruments and awaited the arrival of the heroes. By the time the Hardys arrived with Chet and Tony, everything was ready.

“Smell that!” Chet said, sniffing the delicious aroma of the roasting meat. “It must be true that we’re going to have a feast. I can’t wait!”

The native band started playing as the boys looked around, smiling. To the cheers of the Indians, the visitors were escorted to a low, decorated table in the public square.

Young Indian girls passed huge dishes of fruits, maize, beans, and meat.

During the meal Tecum-Uman told the boys that he had already sent word to the Guatemalan president requesting that each of them be given a gold souvenir from the buried palace as a token of his country’s gratefulness.

“We don’t expect a reward,” said Joe. “We’ve had a grand time visiting your beautiful country.”

The old chief looked pleased.

The Hardys and their friends remained in the village for the next two days. Finally federal officers arrived to take the prisoners. And with them was a grinning Jorge Almeida, bearing a large white envelope.

Jorge hopped off the mule he was riding. “You heroes, amigos!” he cried. “Why you not tell me you look for this treasure? Never would I go back to the city!”

After explaining why secrecy had been important, Tony asked how Jorge had learned about the treasure.

“Why, all the papers tell about the great thing you did,” the man said excitedly.

Then Jorge told how he had personally called on the president and related his part in the adventure. When he had requested permission to come out and see the treasure, the president had said that he could accompany the police and deliver the letter he now carried.

“It is for all of you,” he said, handing the envelope to Joe. The letter, signed with the president’s name, thanked the boys for the discovery and requested that they each take home a souvenir.

Later that afternoon the four Americans and Jorge journeyed to the ancient site with Tecum-Uman. While the chief led Jorge through the palace rooms, the boys decided on what souvenirs they would choose.

Chet picked up a large, jeweled bowl. “This must be what the king used for his special dinners,” he said. “It’s just the thing for me!”

“Are you sure it’s big enough?” Joe quipped with a grin.

Chet made a face. “I can always use it as a dessert bowl.”

A delicately carved bracelet of gold was Frank’s choice. He knew his mother would like it.

“And I’ll take this for Aunt Gertrude,” Joe decided, picking up a small golden idol. “It may even try to talk back to her!”

As Tony selected an ancient, gold-encrusted bow and arrow, he said, “On our way home let’s stop in New York and see Willie Wortman. Those medallions have served their purpose and I’ll give him the one I have.”

“This way the curse is broken!” Joe grinned.

“For a while it really looked as if there was a curse on them,” Frank agreed.

For a short time the Hardys were to be free of a mystery. Then another, called The Secret of Pirates’ Hill, was to come their way and involve Frank and Joe in a series of harrowing and dangerous experiences. But at the moment this was far from their thoughts.

“This place hokay!” Jorge exclaimed when he joined the boys. His eyes sparkling, he added, “I would not mind living in luxury like this!”

Joe laughed. “You’re too busy driving your taxi!”

“Oh, yes. You must see my new one! The horn, she is like music. I park her back at trading village. We pick her up and you ride to city with me?”

“Sure. But how about that volcano? The road must still be blocked,” Joe said.

Jorge grinned. “I find new way!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Underwater Danger

CHAPTER II - A Suspicious Client

CHAPTER III - A Motorcycle Clue

CHAPTER IV - New Tactics

CHAPTER V - The Stakeout

CHAPTER VI - Mysterious Attackers

CHAPTER VII - The Battle of Bayport

CHAPTER VIII - Spies

CHAPTER IX - A Surprising Suspect

CHAPTER X - Fireworks!

CHAPTER XI - An Alias

CHAPTER XII - Startling Developments

CHAPTER XIII - Mixed Identities

CHAPTER XIV - Chet’s Kidnap Story

CHAPTER XV - An Impostor

CHAPTER XVI - The Wreck

CHAPTER XVII - Gunner’s Tools

CHAPTER XVIII - Guarding a Discovery

CHAPTER XIX - Human Targets

CHAPTER XX - Divers’ Reward

THE SECRET OF PIRATES’ HILL

In a series of hair-raising adventures both on land and undersea the teen-age brother detectives pit their wits against some of the most ruthless criminals they have ever encountered.

It all starts when Frank and Joe are skin diving just for fun and the thrill of exploring the undersea world. Suddenly, deep in the waters that flow near the foot of Pirates’ Hill, a mysterious skin diver fires a spear through Frank’s air hose.

From this moment on, danger is never far away. The very lives of the boys are at stake as they, with the help of their pals Chet Morton and Tony Prito, uncover a mystery involving an old Spanish cannon and a fabulous sunken treasure. Again, Franklin W. Dixon has woven a suspense-filled story that will thrill his many fans.

A rocket was streaking directly toward them!

Copyright © 1972,1956, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New

York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDYB0YS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:72-77108

eISBN : 978-1-101-07650-7

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Underwater Danger

“DON’T forget, Frank, any treasure we find will be divided fifty-fifty!” Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy grinned. He checked his skin-diving gear and slid, flippers first, over the gunwale of their motorboat.

“I’ll settle for a pot of gold,” retorted Frank.

He was similarly attired in trunks, air tank, and face mask, and carried a shark knife. The boys had anchored their boat, the Sleuth, off a secluded area of dunes, which ran beneath a low, rocky promontory called Pirates’ Hill.

“Here goes!” said Frank as he plunged into the cool waters of the Atlantic. Together, the Hardys swam toward the bottom.

Suddenly Joe clutched his brother’s arm and pointed. Twenty feet in front of them and only a short distance from the surface was another skin diver in a black rubber suit. The barbed shaft of a spear gun he held was aimed in their direction!

As the man pulled the trigger, Joe gave Frank a hard shove, separating the boys. The arrow flashed between them and drifted away.

“Wow! What’s that guy trying to do?” Frank thought as the diver moved off. “He couldn’t possibly have mistaken us for fish!”

Motioning for his brother to follow, he swam toward the diver. But the spearman, with powerful strokes, shot to the surface. Apparently he did not want to be questioned.

Pointing, Frank indicated to Joe, “Up and after him!”

As they popped above the waves, they looked about. The Sleuth lay twenty feet away. But the spearman was nowhere in sight.

Frank and Joe lifted their face masks. “Where did he go?” Frank called out.

“Beats me,” Joe replied, treading water and gazing in all directions.

Conjecturing that the stranger must have swum slightly beneath the surface and taken off toward shore, the Hardys decided to give up the chase and resume their diving.

“Down we go,” Joe said as he readjusted the straps that held the air tank on his back. “But keep your eyes open for that spearman.”

“Right.”

Again the boys submerged. There was no sign of the other diver. “He sure got away from here fast,” Frank thought. “I wonder who he is.”

Long, strong strokes with their rubber-finned legs forced the boys downward through seaweed gardens. Small fish swished in and out among the fronds. Seeing no interesting objects to salvage, Frank signaled Joe to head for deeper water. Air bubbles rippled steadily upward.

Moments later Frank felt a sudden jar and his face mask was nearly ripped off. He clawed desperately to put it back in place, but realized that his air hose had been ripped. Frantically he tried to move up, but unconsciousness swept over him.

Joe, who had seen the whole episode, was horror-struck. Another shaft from a spear gun had zipped through the murky deep. From the vast amount of bubbles rising through the water, Joe knew that his brother’s life was in danger.

With powerful strokes, he reached Frank’s side. Towing the limp form with one hand, Joe headed for the Sleuth’s anchor line, dimly visible in the distance. Working his fins as violently as possible, he fought his way toward it for what seemed an eternity.

Finally he reached the rope and pulled himself to the surface. Joe tore off Frank’s headgear, holding his face above the waves. Then he pushed him into the boat and scrambled aboard.

Quickly Joe laid his brother in a prone posi. tion and applied artificial respiration.

Minutes passed before Frank stirred. Joe continued his treatment until he heard a moan, then a feeble question.

“Where—? What happened?”

“We were shot at again and you were hit,” Joe said, helping Frank sit up.

“The same diver?”

“Must have been. Probably he was hiding behind an underwater rock,” Joe replied.

“That guy must be crazy!” Frank said, after filling his lungs with deep drafts of air.

“I can’t figure him out,” Joe mused. “Do you suppose he’s looking for sunken treasure and wanted to keep us away?”

“I never heard anybody talk about sunken treasure off Bayport,” Frank said.

“No,” Joe agreed. “Well, pal, I think you’ve had enough for one morning. Let’s go home.”

He pulled up anchor and started the motor. Two miles away on Barmet Bay was the boathouse where the boys kept the Sleuth. As. they turned toward the bay entrance, Joe grinned ruefully. “I wish we could have kept that spear for a clue,” he remarked, “but it passed clean through your air hose and disappeared.”

“I did notice one thing when we chased the diver,” said Frank. “There was a yellow band around that black swim cap he wore.”

Frank realized his air hose had been ripped!

“Pretty slim clue. You feeling okay, Frank?”

Frank said he felt a bit nauseous, but otherwise recovered from the shock. “Hey,” he added, “there’s someone waiting for us at the dock!”

Drawing closer, they saw a man about thirty-five years old. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had wiry black hair. He stood motionless, his legs braced apart, looking intently at them.

Joe ran the Sleuth into the boathouse and the brothers stepped ashore.

“Good morning,” the stranger said as they came outside. “My name’s Clyde Bowden. I’m from Tampa, Florida. I assume you’re the Hardys?”

“That’s right,” Frank replied as the trio shook hands. “What can we do for you?”

“A detecting job.”

“Let’s hear about it,” Frank said.

The Hardys, star athletes at Bayport High, were the sons of Fenton Hardy. Formerly a crack detective with the New York City Police Depart ment, Mr. Hardy was now an internationally famous private investigator. Frank and Joe often helped their father on his cases and also had solved many mysteries on their own.

Their first big success was The Tower Treasure, and only recently they had had several hair-raising adventures in tracking down The Clue in the Embers. Now they were excited about the prospect of tackling a new mystery.

“How did you know where to find us?” Joe asked.

“I just left your home on Elm Street,” Bowden replied. “Learned from your mother I might meet you here.”

“While we stow our diving gear and get into some clothes, suppose you tell us about your case,” said Frank.

The boys put their skin-diving equipment in a locker of the Sleuth, then pulled on shirts, dungarees, and sneakers.

They listened intently as Bowden explained that he was searching for an early eighteenth-century cannon known as a Spanish demiculverin. It was supposed to be in the vicinity of Bayport.

“A Spanish cannon in Bayport?” Joe asked unbelievingly.

“Although I’m not in a position to tell you how I know about the cannon, I’m certain that with your assistance I can locate it,” Bowden answered.

As they drove toward the Hardy home, Frank asked the man for the dimensions of the cannon. Bowden described it as being nine feet long and weighing 3,200 pounds. “It fires an eight-pound shot,” he added.

“What do you want the old cannon for?” Joe asked.

Bowden smiled. “Believe it or not, I’m helping to outfit the pirate boats to be used in the famous Gasparilla Exposition in Tampa this year,” he replied. “All the details, including the guns, must be authentic.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Frank as they turned a corner toward the town square. “I should think that the type of cannon you’re look ing for would be found somewhere around the Caribbean rather than this far north. I’ve read that many Spanish ships were wrecked—”

Frank stopped speaking as a deafening boom suddenly shook the air.

“What was that?” Bowden gasped.

“It came from the square,” Frank replied. “Sounds like trouble. Come on!”

Frank drove quickly around another corner and parked the car. They all jumped out.

CHAPTER II

A Suspicious Client

WITH Bowden trailing behind, Frank and Joe sprinted toward a crowd of people milling in the town square. They were gathered around an old Civil War mortar that stood on a pedestal. White smoke drifted from the muzzle.

“Somebody fired the gun!” Joe cried out.

“It must have been an accident,” Frank said.

As the boys shouldered their way through the crowd they saw Officers Smuff and Riley of the local police force being besieged with questions from the onlookers.

Before the policemen could reply, a booming voice sounded above the babble and a short, grizzled old man, dressed in a revolutionary Minute Man’s costume, complete with tricorn hat and leggings, strode up beside the mortar.

“I can’t understand what all this here fussin is about,” he said in a booming voice.

He smiled and his weather-beaten face creased into long lines. He told Officer Riley that he was Jim Tilton, a retired artillery sergeant. He had been asked by Police Chief Collig to take charge of the Independence Day cannon salute.

“But this isn’t July fourth!” Riley protested. “It’s only the first.”

The old-timer raised his hands good-naturedly. “I’m mighty sorry I caused so much fuss. After all, I wasn’t usin’ a ball. I just had some powder an’ waddin’ in her.”

Tilton pulled a letter from his pocket and showed it to the officers. It was from Police Chief Collig and the Fourth-of-July Committee, granting permission for Tilton to test the mortar.

“Well, there was no harm done,” Riley said. “Now we know the gun is ready—we and everybody for five miles around!”

Reassured, the crowd dispersed. Sergeant Tilton remained near the mortar, talking with a few men. The Hardys moved closer to get a better look at the old sergeant and the equipment he had been using.

Bowden also edged forward and stared with keen interest at the various markings on the gun. He told the boys that this was a Federal artillery piece.

“It was cast at the same arsenal that turned out the famous Dictator,” he said. “That was a thirteen-inch mortar used against Petersburg, Virginia, in the Civil War.”

Tilton raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Land sakes,” he remarked, “you know a lot! I didn’t never suspect anything like that about this ol’ hunk o’ iron.”

As the sergeant began to clean the barrel of the weapon, Bowden turned to Frank and Joe. “My offer to you,” he said in a low voice, “is one thousand dollars if you find the Spanish cannon.”

The Hardys were amazed. A thousand dollars for an old gun to be used in a pageant! I

Sensing their thoughts, Bowden quickly added, “I’m a man of means and can well afford it.”

He explained that he had already combed Bayport proper. The boys’ responsibility would lie in searching the surrounding areas and nearby towns. Bowden said he was staying at the Garden Gate Motel on the state highway and could be reached there if anything developed.

“We don’t charge for our sleuthing,” Frank informed the man.

Bowden was astonished. “You’ve solved all your cases for nothing?”

Joe nodded. “If we should help you,” he said, “it will be on that basis.”

“Okay. But believe me, I’ll make it worth your while somehow!” Then, seeing that Tilton was preparing to leave, Bowden hastily excused himself. “I have a few questions to ask this old codger. See you later.”

The Hardys drove to police headquarters to report the underwater attack. They went directly to Chief Collig, a solidly built man in his late forties. He often cooperated with them on their cases, and now listened intently to their latest adventure.

“This is serious,” he said. “I’ll notify the harbor patrol to be on the lookout for a skin diver wearing a black suit and a black swim cap with a yellow stripe around it.”

The boys thanked him and left. As they turned into Elm Street on which they lived, their conversation centered around Bowden.

“It looks as if we’re back in business!” Joe remarked. “Let’s take on the case.”

“I’m a little worried about it,” Frank replied. “The whole thing seems a bit phony.” He reminded Joe of the many times they had met people who had seemed to be aboveboard, but had turned out to be dishonest.

“It would be fun looking for the cannon,” Joe insisted.

“That’s true.”

At the rambling stone house in which they lived, the boys were greeted by their petite mother and their tall, angular Aunt Gertrude. She was Mr. Hardy’s sister, who lived with the family. When she heard about Clyde Bowden’s offer, Aunt Gertrude exclaimed:

“A thousand dollars for finding an old piece of junk! There’s something underhanded about such a deal. Mark my words!”

Mrs. Hardy’s face wore a worried frown. “I wish your father were here instead of in Florida.”

“Florida!” Joe exclaimed. “Frank, Dad could check on Bowden’s credentials. Let’s phone him!”

Mrs. Hardy said the detective could be reached only by mail or telegram at an address in Miami. Frank immediately sent a wire by telephone.

“We may not get an answer for several days,” Joe remarked. “I hate to wait. Why can’t we make a start on Bowden’s case? We can drop it any time we like.”

“Okay, but let’s not get in too deep until we hear from Dad.”

“I’ll let Bowden know,” said Joe. He dialed the Garden Gate Motel. Bowden was not in, so Joe left a message for him. Then he turned to Frank. “How about advertising in the newspaper for information about the demiculverin?”

“Good idea.” By telephone Frank placed an ad in the Bayport Times, which had a wide circulation even in the smaller outlying towns.

“I have another thought,” Joe said. “Maybe Aunt Gertrude can help us.”

“How?”

“As newly elected president of the Bayport Historical Society,” Joe said. “she might have some information about ancient cannon in the vicinity.”

Their aunt had gone to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Frank and Joe followed and put the question to her. After a moment’s thought, Miss Hardy said, “Let me see. I know of one cannon.”

“Where is it?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I think it’s on the back lawn of a museum in Greenville.”

“Do you know what type it is?” Frank asked.

“I believe it may be pre-Civil War,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “It might be Spanish. I’m not sure.”

“We’ll take a look,” said Joe.

After lunch the boys set off in their convert. ible for the Greenville Museum. It was a small building at an intersection of two roads at the edge of town. The main entrance was on one road, with a tall hedge in front of the building. Extensive grounds stretched to the rear on the side road, along which ran a high iron picket fence. Frank parked alongside the hedge, and the young detectives strode through a gate to the spacious lawn at the back.

The cannon, a long-barreled six-pounder, stood in the center of the lawn. Joe dashed across the flagstones leading to it and read the plaque fixed to the piece.

“It’s a Spanish gun!”

Frank joined him and read the inscription on the bronze plaque. It stated:

“Pasavolante, meaning fast action. Made in Toledo, Spain. Often called cerbantana, after Cerberus, the fierce dog of mythology. Pasa-volante in modern Spanish means peashooter.”

“Do you suppose this could be the peashooter that Bowden is searching for and he just got the name wrong?” Joe asked.

Frank looked thoughtful. Then he said, “I doubt it. Bowden seemed sure it was a demiculverin, didn’t he?”

Joe nodded. “False clue.” He sighed.

As the boys started back across the lawn, they noticed a tall, slender man, with a swarthy complexion, entering from a side gate. He was bare-headed and wore a black leather motorcycle jacket. He looked around as if to make sure that he was not being observed, then moved hurriedly to the gun.

Frank and Joe, casting backward glances, watched him as they continued to the roadway. The man knelt down and read the inscription on the pasavolante. Then he rose and walked to the far side of the cannon, scrutinizing it closely.

“Maybe we’re not the only ones trying to locate a demiculverin,” Joe remarked.

“You’re right. Let’s go back and question that fellow.”

Retracing their steps, they had covered only a few feet when the man suddenly ran for the side gate by which he had entered.

“He must be up to something,” Joe said.

The Hardys turned back and hurried to the road. The next moment they heard a motorcycle roar into action.

“I wonder if that’s him,” Frank said.

Before Joe could comment, the swarthy stranger sped around the corner. Goggles covered his eyes, but his lips seemed to be curled up in a nasty grin. He headed directly toward the boysl

CHAPTER III

A Motorcycle Clue

As the motorcycle roared down on them, Frank and Joe leaped aside and stumbled headlong into the hedge. The driver missed them by inches!

“Sorry,” he shouted as he sped off.

The boys picked themselves up. Both were angry.

“I’d like to get my hands on him!” Frank said.

“Did you see his license number?” Joe asked.

“No,” Frank answered ruefully. “But the motorcycle looked like a foreign make. I noticed the letter K on the rear fender.”

“If we ever run into that fellow again, he’ll have a lot of explaining to do,” said Joe. “And I’d like to ask him about his interest in the old cannon, too.”

“He certainly acted as if he didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing,” said Frank.

When the boys reached home they hurried into the kitchen. Aunt Gertrude was just removing a batch of cookies from the oven. She glanced over her spectacles and exclaimed, “Frank! You’ve torn your pants!”

“Had a little accident,” he admitted and told her of the motorcyclist.

“I knew it! Hoodlums are after you two again! Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His aunt sighed, then added to herself, “Trouble, trouble everywhere.”

“Where else?” Frank asked.

“The Bayport Historical Society,” Aunt Gertrude replied. “What would you do with a collection of swords?”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Swords?”

“Yes, cutlasses. I’d like to keep them.”

“Please, Aunty, start from the beginning,” Joe begged, “and tell us about it.”

Aunt Gertrude explained that the Bayport Historical Society had recently received a gift from the estate of Senator Entwistle. It included some lovely costumes dating from 1812 and a case of cutlasses.

“I argued with our members,” Aunt Gertrude went on, “but they insist that we present the cutlasses to the museum at the state capitol.”

“Too bad,” said Frank, then asked, “Is it your job to have them shipped?”

“Yes. But they are to be moved to the basement temporarily. The museum isn’t ready to receive them.”

“And you’d like us to help you,” Joe said.

“Yes. Tomorrow evening.”

“We’ll be there,” Frank assured her.

The boys went to their room and sat down to discuss the next move in locating the cannon which Bowden wanted.

“We can’t do anything today out of town,” said Frank, glancing at the radio clock between the boys’ beds. “Another hour and it’s time for dinner.”

“There’s something we can do,” Joe spoke up. “Visit the motorcycle shops in Bayport and find out the name of the foreign make with a K.”

“Good idea, Joe. We may even learn the identity of that fellow who nearly ran us down.”

The young detectives had better luck than they had anticipated. The first dealer they called on explained that the letter K indicated the motorcycle was a Kesselring, a German make.

“You don’t see many of them around,” he said. “But they’re becoming more popular.”

“Do you sell them?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“Who does?”

“Nobody in Bayport. And no one in town owns one, either.”

“Do you know where the nearest agent is located?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” the dealer replied. “In Delmore—155 Main Street. His name is Braun.”

“Delmore! That’s where the penitentiary is,” Joe remarked.

The man nodded. “Braun mostly sells bikes, but he took on the Kesselring motorcycle agency because the machines come from his native country.”

The boys thanked the dealer and rode off in their convertible.

“Let’s drive over to Delmore in the morning and talk to that agent,” Joe suggested.

“Right,” Frank agreed. “Incidentally, the main road there is still closed. The detour leads past the Entwistle place where the cutlasses came from.”

At home the boys were greeted by the aroma of fried chicken that their mother was preparing.

“You’re just in time,” she said, smiling.

“Any word from Dad?” Frank asked.

“No,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “But we should hear something soon.”

Joe questioned Aunt Gertrude about the Entwistle mansion. She said it was supposed to be deserted. “A shame, too, since it’s such a beautiful place. One of our Society members hinted that there might be some valuable pieces in the house, so well hidden the executors of the estate didn’t find them. He said Mr. Entwistle was a queer old duck. There’s even talk that tramps stay there sometimes.”

After dinner Frank and Joe decided to ride out to the Entwistle mansion and look around.

“Maybe we can find out if there’s anything to the talk about tramps,” said Frank as they drove along the detour road toward the old estate.

“Yes—” Joe began, then broke off as the noisy approach of a motorcycle reached his ears. The next moment he exclaimed, “Hey, Frank! That sounds like the Kesselring!”

His brother listened intently. “You’re right. Hope he comes this way.”

But the Hardys were disappointed when the sound of the motorcycle grew fainter.

“He must have turned down a side road,” Joe said. “Let’s try to catch up with him.”

Frank was about to agree when both boys saw something that made them gasp.

“That red glow in the sky!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s right where the Entwistle mansion is!”

“The place must be on fire!” cried out Frank, stepping harder on the accelerator.

Soon they came within sight of the grounds. On a knoll stood the huge house. One wing was a mass of flames!

“We must get the fire department here before the whole place goes up!” said Frank.

He backed the car around, and in a few minutes the boys reached a farmhouse, where they put in a call to Bayport reporting the fire.

Then they sped back to the scene of the blaze. As they got out of the car, they heard sirens wailing. Minutes later several fire engines screamed to a halt before the burning mansion. Shouts of firemen filled the air while they fought to restrict damage to the wing that was being consumed.

Finally, after a half-hour battle, the flames were quenched and the bulk of the big house stood unscathed. Chief Tally, who had been investigating the charred ruins, returned to his car. A good friend of the Hardys, he greeted the boys with a weary smile. Frank told him they had heard that articles of value might be hidden in the house.

“Could be,” the fire chief said. “We suspect an intruder was ransacking the place and dropped a lighted cigarette.”

Joe told him of hearing a motorcyclist racing away from the vicinity of the Entwistle place, “He might be the one who was here,” he said.

Chief Tally smiled. “You boys are always on the job but this is the quickest I’ve ever received a clue.”

Frank then told him about the man on the Kesselring motorcycle who had nearly run them down. “The machine we heard tonight had the same kind of roar,” he said.

“Thanks for the information.” The chief nodded, then turned to speak to two firemen who would remain at the mansion, and the boys drove home.

They slept well that night, but the ringing of the telephone early the next morning awakened them. By the time Frank reached the hallway to answer it, he heard his mother talking on the extension in her bedroom. The door was open and she waved him in.

“Fenton, here’s Frank now,” she said. “You tell him.” She turned to her son, excitement in her eyes. “That man Bowden is a fake!” she announced.

CHAPTER IV

New Tactics

“DAD!” Frank called into the phone. “How are you? ... That’s good. What’s this about Bowden?”

“The man isn’t known here in Tampa, Frank. And no pirate ship with a demiculverin has been entered in the Gasparilla event.”

Frank whistled. “I’ve been suspicious of Bowden from the start. But you don’t think we should stop looking for the cannon, do you?”

“Certainly not. Apparently there’s a mystery connected with it that’s worth checking into. Furthermore, I’m working on a swindling case that Bowden may be mixed up in. I think he’s using an assumed name.”

“Shall we notify the police or shadow him ourselves?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy’s advice was to do neither. Instead, he suggested that his sons continue to be friendly with Bowden.

“It’s the best way to get at the truth,” he said. “And let me know if I can be of any more help. I’d like to speak to your mother again.”

Frank dashed back to the boys’ bedroom and told his brother the news.

Joe hopped out of bed. “Frank, this is going to be fun. We pretend to play along with Bowden, but all the time we’re trying to find out what he’s up to!”

Frank stared out the window. “I’m wondering which problem we should tackle first—Bowden or the motorcyclist.”

“Let’s combine the two in one trip. We’ll go to the motel first, then on to Delmore.”

During breakfast with Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, the young detectives told about their plan, and as soon as they finished eating, they started for the door. Aunt Gertrude stopped them and handed Joe a book.

“You might as well employ your time profitably while you’re riding along. Joe, read this aloud while Frank drives.”

Her nephew glanced at the book. “Why, this is great, Aunt Gertrude ! It tells about the various types of old artillery. Where did you find it?”

“In your father’s library.” She chuckled. “I thought it might give you a clue to that demiculverin you’re trying to locate.”

The boys said good-by to their mother and aunt.

“We’ll be home in time to move those cutlasses,” Frank promised.

As they drove off, Joe turned to a section on culverins and read aloud:

“ ‘It derives from the Latin word colubra (snake) . Culverins were highly esteemed on ac. count of their range and effectiveness of fire. Their thick walls, long bores, and heavy powder charges made them the most deadly of field-pieces.’ ”

“And Bowden is telling us he wants to mount a fieldpiece on a pirate ship!” Frank muttered,

Joe shrugged. “That’s what he’s telling us. I wonder what he really wants the cannon for.”

Half a mile farther down the highway, Frank pulled up in front of the Garden Gate Motel. The clerk told them Bowden was in Room 15.

“There it is!” Joe said, spotting the number. He knocked on the door. There was no answer.

“Hey, this looks like a note,” Frank said, eying a paper pinned below the doorknob.

“Maybe it’s for us,” Joe suggested.

Frank read the message aloud: “ ‘Bowden! Clear out before it’s too late!’ ”

“Wow! I Our friend has an enemy!” Joe remarked. “Do you think this will drive him away?”

Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. He wants that cannon too badly. Well, let’s go to Delmore and stop here on our way back.”

The detour they had to make took the boys past the farm of their friend Chet Morton. Chet was eighteen, roly-poly, good-natured, and loved to eat. Solving mysteries with the Hardys always gave him the jitters. Despite this, he was a loyal assistant and on more than one occasion had rescued them from dangerous predicaments.

“Let’s stop a minute,” Joe suggested, seeing Chet’s sister Iola near the swimming pool.

Frank grinned knowingly. Joe and Iola dated frequently. He pulled into the driveway. The boys got out and walked toward the pretty dark-haired girl.

“Hi! she said.

“Hello, there,” Joe said. “Where’s Chet?”

Iola pointed to the pool. Their stout friend was underwater, wearing flippers and a snorkel. He traveled slowly, the snorkel moving like the periscope of a miniature submarine.

“Ahoy!” Joe yelled as they ran to the water’s edge.

Chet continued moving about like a walrus. But finally he emerged and removed the face mask and flippers.

“Hi, fellows!” he called. “I’m having a hard time learning this. Can’t get down deep enough.”

“What’s the trouble?” Joe asked. “That extra fat you carry around make you too buoyant?”

“Now, listen here,” said Chet, “just because I know good food when I see it—”

Then he changed the subject, telling them he was going to take lessons in skin diving from the same man who had taught the Hardys.

“Swell,” said Joe.

“I can’t start, though, until I earn enough money to buy all the gear.”

“Don’t let that worry you,” Frank spoke up. “I’ll lend you my outfit.”

“Thanks. And now bring me up to date on everything that’s happened lately.”

The Hardys had just finished telling Chet and Iola about Bowden, the mysterious cyclist, and the skin-diving attack, when they saw a car driving in. At the wheel sat Callie Shaw, an attractive girl with blond hair and sparkling brown eyes. She was Iola’s friend and Frank’s regular date.

Callie alighted, and after greeting everyone, said, “I’m glad you’re all here. I wanted to talk over plans for our Fourth-of-July beach party. Tony Prito is coming with us too.”

Tony, a schoolmate and fellow athlete at Bayport High, had been through many adventures with the Hardys.

“Let’s have a clambake like last year,” Chet suggested.

Suddenly Frank grabbed Joe’s arm. “Look over there! A man’s spying on us!”

He had seen someone peering from behind a tree near the road. The quick glimpse of a black jacket led Frank to believe that the man might be the wanted motorcyclist!

“Come on, Joe!” he whispered, starting to run.

Instantly the man raced off. Having the advantage of a head start, he reached a parked motorcycle, jumped on, and sped off.

From the silhouette of the rider and the sound of the motor, there was no doubt in the Hardys’ minds as to the spy’s identity.

“It’s the guy we’re looking for!” Joe exclaimed.

Together, the Hardys ran back to their car and hurried after the suspect. They had covered nearly two miles before they caught sight of him. Reaching the crest of the next slope, he looked back. Seeing that his pursuers were getting closer, he revved his machine and shot into the curving downgrade.

“Faster!” Joe urged. “He’s getting away from us!”

Their car whined around the curve in hot pursuit of the Kesselring. Once again they came to a straight stretch of road, but there was no sign of the motorcyclist.

“He turned off!” Joe said in disappointment.

“He must have swung into that dirt road we just passed. Let’s go back!” Frank exclaimed.

Screeching to a stop, he made a U-turn and sped to the side road. They plunged onto the rough, narrow, dirt lane. Fresh motorcycle marks were clearly evident. Dust filled the air, choking the boys as they sped along.

“Stop!” Joe cried suddenly. “The track ends here!”

Frank parked the car and locked it, then both boys ran back to the point where the tracks turned off into the pine woods.

“He couldn’t go very far through here on his motorcycle,” Frank said as they pressed on excitedly.

“You’re right!” Joe whispered. “Look!”

CHAPTER V

The Stakeout

AHEAD of the Hardys in the deep woods stood a cabin. The Kesselring was parked near the front door.

Quietly the boys moved into a position giving them a better view of the building.

“Shall we go in?” Joe asked in a low voice.

“I’ll go,” Frank replied. “You cover the rear, okay?”

“Roger.”

Frank walked cautiously toward the front door. It was open and the place appeared to be deserted. The young detective strode inside. No one was in sight!

Frank went out and joined Joe. “He gave us the slip!” he said in disgust.

“But not for long. He’ll be back for his bike,” Joe said. He suggested that they pretend to leave, then double back and stay in hiding until the man returned.

“Suppose he finds out our car is still on the road,” Frank said.

“We’ll have to take that chance,” Joe declared.

The boys walked off in the direction of their convertible, but five hundred feet beyond the cabin they turned and quietly made their way back. Hiding behind clumps of brush, they began their vigil. Fifteen minutes went by. Thirty.

Suddenly the quiet of the morning was broken by the crackling sound of footsteps.

The Hardys tensed. Someone was approaching from behind them. They shifted their position.

“Get ready, Joe,” Frank whispered.

The steps grew louder and a tall figure appeared through the brush. The boys pounced on the newcomer and all three fell hard to the ground.

“Bowden!” Joe gasped.

“For heaven’s sake, what ails you guys?” the man stormed, picking himself up.

“We thought you were someone else,” Joe replied.

“Why are you here?” Frank asked, wondering if Bowden had a rendezvous with the occupant of the cabin.

“I might ask you the same thing,” Bowden retorted.

The boys pounced on the newcomer

“That’s easily answered,” Frank said, pointing to the motorcycle. “We want to talk to the man who owns it.”

“Do you know him?” Joe asked Bowden.

“Never saw the thing before,” he answered.

“Now tell us what brings you here,” Frank went on.

“A tip about the demiculverin.” Bowden glanced about apprehensively. “It may be buried near here.”

Both boys surmised this was another phony story. Bowden was carrying no digging tools, nor was he dressed in work clothes.

“Who gave you the tip?” Frank asked.

“I can’t tell you that. The information was given to me in confidence.”

Frank was tempted to ask Bowden why he wanted a fieldpiece for a ship. But recalling his father’s admonition to play along with the suspect, he merely said:

“Sorry we knocked you down, Mr. Bowden. Let us know if you want us to help dig here.”

Joe followed Frank’s cue to be pleasant. “We went to the motel to see you this morning,” he said. “Frank and I thought we’d talk to you a little more about the cannon you want us to find.”

Frank broke in. “We saw the warning note on your door.” He watched Bowden closely.

“Warning note?” the man repeated, showing real surprise. After Frank explained, Bowden suddenly laughed. “I guess those kids at the motel were pulling a joke on me. They were playing cops-and-robbers when I left.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “I must get back.”

He strode off in the direction of the road. Joe turned to Frank. “Do you believe that cops-and-robbers story?”

“No. I didn’t see any children around that motel. You know, one of us ought to follow Bowden and send the police up here.”

“Good idea,” Joe said. “You go; I’ll stay.”

While he concealed himself to stake out the cabin, Frank cautiously tailed the suspect. “I’ll bet we interrupted some kind of meeting,” he said to himself.

Bowden walked toward a green Pontiac hardtop parked on the road and roared off. Frank followed in the convertible, memorizing the Pontiac’s license number. He was disappointed when the man drove directly to his motel, took the note off his door, and went into his cabin. When he had not come out fifteen minutes later, Frank decided to call Chief Collig and drove to a gas station.

The police chief agreed to send two men to the woods and Frank returned to the spot where he had left his brother.

“Anything doing?” he asked when he arrived at Joe’s hideout.

Joe shook his head and Frank told him about Bowden and Chief Collig. Ten minutes later the boys were relieved by two plainclothesmen.

The Hardys hurried through the woods and drove on to Delmore. It was nearly noon when they arrived at the motorcycle shop.

“Good morning,” said the short, smiling proprietor, who introduced himself as Mr. Braun.

“We’re interested in Kesselrings,” Frank replied. “Do you sell them?”

“Yes, I have the agency. But I haven’t sold any motorcycles in a long time. One’s been standing in my basement for weeks.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Was their clue going to lead nowhere?

Joe said, “We’d like to see it.”

The three descended a flight of wooden stairs. The man walked around a high pile of cartons, then suddenly exclaimed:

“My Kesselring! It’s gone! Stolen!”

Mr. Braun excitedly went on to say that he had been away on vacation for two weeks and had just returned. The Kesselring had been there when he left.

“Ach, what will I do?” he wailed.

Frank laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You may get it back this very day,” he said. He told of finding the motorcycle at the cabin and of the policemen now at the spot waiting to capture the thief. The dealer was overjoyed.

Frank at once telephoned this latest development to Chief Collig, while Mr. Braun thanked the boys repeatedly. Then they said good-by and left. After a quick lunch at a nearby diner they returned to their convertible.

“Joe, I have a hunch,” said Frank. “That motorcycle thief might be a recently released in. mate of the penitentiary. Mr. Braun’s shop here in Delmore would be a likely place for him to rob. Let’s call on Warden Duckworth and ask him some questions.”

“Good idea.”

The warden was an old friend of Mr. Hardy, and the boys had once assisted him in solving a prison break. Reaching the penitentiary, Frank called him from the main gate phone. A guard accompanied them to Warden Duckworth’s office, where the official greeted them cordially.

“What brings you way out here from Bayport?”

Frank told him their suspicions and said, “We’d like to find out the names of men released from here within the past two weeks.”

Warden Duckworth rose, walked to his filing cabinet, checked the records, and returned with some cards. “We’ve let six men go,” he replied. “Four old-timers and a couple of young fellows.”

“The man we suspect is probably in his twenties,” Frank said. “Who were the young ones?”

“One is Bob Chidsie, a car thief. The other, Hal Latsky, a safecracker.”

“May we see their pictures?” Frank asked.

“Certainly.” Duckworth handed over the record cards, to which small photos were attached.

“That looks like the motorcycle thief!” Joe said immediately, pointing to Latsky.

Frank was thoughtful. “Don’t forget, Joe, we’ve never seen this fellow close up without his goggles. Warden, could you tell us something more about him?”

“Yes—” The man studied Latsky’s card for a moment. “Besides being a safecracker, he’s an explosives expert. Also, he has an unusual hobby—the study of ancient cannon!”

CHAPTER VI

Mysterious Attackers

AT the mention of Latsky’s interest in old cannons, Frank cried out, “That convinces me, Warden! Latsky must be the man we’re after!”

Once more the Hardys telephoned Chief Collig, who was amazed by the latest development in the boys’ sleuthing. “Are you sure you don’t want to join the force?” he asked with a chuckle.

Then he gave them a report on the stakeout in the woods. “Braun phoned in the serial number of the stolen Kesselring,” he said, “and our men at the cabin made a positive identification. It’s Braun’s bike all right. The thief hasn’t returned yet, but we’ll maintain a round-the-clock surveillance for as long as we need it. Braun has agreed to leave the motorcycle there as bait for the thief. He might try to get it back.”

Before the Hardys left, Warden Duckworth handed them pictures of Latsky. “Give these to Chief Collig,” he requested.

On the way to Bayport the boys discussed the strange turn of events. Was Latsky trailing the Hardys because they were searching for an old cannon? Did he know Bowden, and had the two planned a meeting in the woods? Or were they enemies, both looking for the old demiculverin?

“I’m going to phone Warden Duckworth and see if he can tell us anything about Bowden,” said Frank.

When the boys reached home, Frank immediately made the call. The warden said he had no released prisoner on his list named Bowden, nor had he ever heard Latsky mention anyone by that name.

“I’ll ask the guards and prisoners, though,” Warden Duckworth promised. An hour later he called back. “If Latsky knows anyone named Bowden, he never mentioned it here.”

“Thanks, anyway,” said Frank and hung up.

He was disappointed not to have uncovered another clue but turned his attention to Aunt Gertrude, who had just come in the front door. She was waving three letters.

“I picked these up from the box at the newspaper office,” she said, handing them over. “You forgot all about your ad. I suppose these are some answers. Well, hurry up and open them. I’m entitled to know what’s inside!”

Frank smiled as he tore open the first envelope. Joe came to stand beside him, and read the letter over his brother’s shoulder.

The writer proved to be the amusing old artillery sergeant who had set off the mortar in the town square the previous day. Sergeant Tilton said that he lived up the coast near Pirates’ Hill. He had once heard there was an old cannon on the hill, but it had been buried by sand in a storm many years ago—long before Tilton’s birth.

Both boys agreed that the lead should be investigated.

The second letter was from Mr. Maglan, the retired custodian of the Bayport Historical Society. Frank opened it.

“Wait till you hear this, Aunty.” He chuckled.

“Why, what is it?”

“Mr. Maglan says three old cannons have been stored in the cellar of the Historical Society’s building for thirty years!”

“What!” exclaimed Miss Hardy. “Cannons in the basement!”

Joe roared with laughter. “Why, Aunt Gertrude, I always thought you knew everything about the Bayport Historical Society building.”

The boys’ aunt did not laugh. “This is serious. Suppose there is powder in those guns!” she cried out. “Why—”

Frank assured her that thirty-year-old gun-powder would be damp and harmless. Aunt Gertrude merely said “Humph!” and then reminded her nephews tartly about carrying the cutlasses to the basement. “Mr. Lightbody says they’re in the way.”

“We’ll go right after dinner,” Joe said. “And we’ll investigate those old cannons at the same time.”

The third note was of more serious import. Letters of the alphabet had been cut from newspapers and pasted on the paper to form words. The message bore no signature. It read:

LOOK fOR THE CANNON AT YOUR OWN RISK. IF YOU’RE SMART YOU’LL DROP .BOWDEN’S CASE.

“Wow! Things are really getting complicated!” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “And the writer must have found out we’re the ones who put that ad in the paper.”

“I don’t like this!” Aunt Gertrude declared.

When Mrs. Hardy heard about the threat, she too became alarmed. Both she and Aunt Gertrude appealed to the boys to drop the case, at least until their father returned from Florida.

“We can’t stop work now,” Frank objected. “Joe and I are just getting some good leads. And anyway—”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his protest. As Joe picked up the phone, everyone waited tensely.

“Maybe it’s your father,” Mrs. Hardy whispered.

Frank noticed Joe’s jaws tighten as he listened. It could not be a call from their father.

“Frank,” Joe whispered, “come here! It’s Bowden. He wants to talk to you, too.”

His brother put his ear close to the phone “Hello,” he said, “this is Frank.”

Bowden’s voice sounded scared. “Listen! You’ve got to help me! I’ve been threatened!”

“By whom?” Frank asked. “Those kids again?”

“No, no. This is for real!” Bowden’s voice was shaky and faint. But suddenly it became strong again. “Fr-ank! Joe!” he cried out.

“Were you threatened by someone named Latsky?” Frank demanded.

There was no answer.

“Mr. Bowden?” Frank said questioningly.

Still there was no response, but suddenly the Hardys heard a thud and the noise of a phone dropping onto a hard surface.

“Hello! Hello!” Frank kept saying.

There was dead silence for another moment. Then a strange voice said ominously into the instrument:

“You Hardy boys! Drop the cannon search at once! This is your last warning!”

The threat ended with a sharp dick as the intruder in Bowden’s room slammed down the telephone.

Frank whirled to face his brother. “It sounds as if Bowden had been attacked! Probably by the person who just gave us that final warning!”

Joe started for the door. “Let’s hurry over to Bowden’s motel. We may catch the guy.”

Frank thought it best to get help to Bowden immediately. “He may be seriously injured. I’ll notify the desk clerk at the Garden Gate.”

With frantic haste, Frank dialed the motel office number, but the line was busy.

“Come on!” Joe urged impatiently. “We can get there in a few minutes if we hurry.”

The boys ran to the convertible. When they reached the motel, Frank pulled up in front of Room 15. The door stood ajar and they burst inside.

Bowden lay face down on the floor, unconscious. Blood trickled from the back of his head!

As Joe and Frank rushed over to him, the man groaned slightly and moved his arms. Frank turned him over.

“I’ll get some water,” Joe offered, and hurried to the bathroom for it. He soaked a towel in cold water and pressed it against the man’s neck and face. Bowden shook his head dazedly as he regained consciousness, and the boys helped him to his feet.

“How did you—?” he stammered, recognizing them. “Where’s—? ... Oh, my head!”

Frank assisted Bowden to the bed, where Joe applied an antiseptic bandage he had found in the bathroom medicine chest. Then they began to question him. Bowden said he had not seen his attacker.

“I hadn’t locked my door,” he explained. “Somebody must have sneaked up from behind and hit me!”

“Latsky?” Frank queried, watching Bowden intently.

“Who’s he? Never heard of him,” the man said.

“Who threatened you?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. An unsigned note had been shoved under my door. It’s right—” Bowden looked toward the telephone table. “Why—it’s gone! It was right there!”

“Your attacker must have taken it,” Joe said. “What happened to the other note that was stuck on your door?”

“I threw it out. Thought the kids around here were playing a joke on me. Now it looks as if I could have been wrong.”

Frank telephoned the desk and reported the assault. The clerk said he had not seen anyone suspicious and promised to notify the police at once.

When Bowden’s condition improved, the Hardys tried to ferret out more information from their mysterious client. “Where did you say you live in Tampa?” Joe inquired.

“I didn’t say. Why do you ask?”

Joe explained that he thought Bowden’s family should be notified in case of serious trouble.

“Forget it,” Bowden replied with a wave of the hand. “I haven’t any family.”

The man’s reluctance to tell where he lived seemed to confirm Mr. Hardy’s suspicion that Bowden might be mixed up with a group of swindlers.

“About the demiculverin,” Frank went on. “I read that it’s a fieldpiece and not used on ships.”

Bowden was startled for a moment but regained his composure by pulling out a cigar. Lighting it, he said, “I admire your thoroughness. But I didn’t want the cannon for a ship, only for a pageant—as part of the shore batteries.”

“Oh,” Frank said nonchalantly, “then the demiculverin isn’t too important.”

“What?”

“If it’s just for a dummy shore battery, you can rig up a wooden one,” Frank added.

“But—but, boys!” Bowden’s face grew red with excitement. “I must have the old cannon. Everything has to be authentic.”

He laid a firm hand on Frank’s arm. “You’ve got to help me! I’ll double the reward. How about two thousand dollars?”

“It’s not the money, Mr. Bowden,” Frank replied. “It’s just that—”

“All right, I’ll cooperate better,’ he said pleadingly.

“For example?”

“I can’t reveal all my secrets, but I feel certain the cannon will be found along the shore here.”

“We’ll do our best,” Frank promised.

When the police arrived, the boys told them all they knew about the attack on Bowden but said nothing about the threat to themselves. Then they left.

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked his brother as they drove away from the motel.

“This mystery is getting more complicated by the minute,” Frank replied. “Bowden has an enemy all right, and he’s lying when he says he doesn’t know who he is.”

On the way home the boys noticed another convertible following them. In the rear-view mirror Frank saw that the driver was a good-looking young man in his twenties. He was alone.

“Do you think he’s trailing us?” Frank asked.

The car had remained fifty feet behind the Hardys’ for about half a mile.

“Why don’t you find out? Slow down and see if he’ll pass,” Joe suggested.

Frank did so. The other driver pulled out and zoomed ahead, staring intently at the Hardys as he passed them.

“Did you recognize him, Frank?”

“Never saw him before.”

When they arrived home Aunt Gertrude told them that the Historical Society had just decided to hold a special meeting that evening. “You can drive me over, then move the cutlasses to the basement,” she said.

After supper Frank and Joe accompanied Miss Hardy to the Historical Society building. When they pulled into the parking lot in the rear of the old stone building, several members were going in the front entrance.

As Miss Hardy alighted she pointed to a basement window which was open. “Such carelessness!” she sputtered. “I must speak to Mr. Lightbody. Frank—Joe, please close it and lock it when you’re down there. Humph! The whole place will be full of stray cats!”

Her nephews grinned as they followed their aunt to the front of the building and went inside.

“The cutlasses are at the rear of that corridor,” Aunt Gertrude said, pointing. “Carry them downstairs and don’t disturb our meeting!”

Then she walked briskly into the auditorium.

Frank and Joe went down the corridor. At the end of it stood a case with the six cutlasses from the Entwistle estate. Joe lifted out two of the short swords and examined them.

“Boy, the real thing!” he remarked in a low voice. “They’re heavy. And look at this edge, Frank.” Taking an old envelope from his pocket he sliced it in half with an effortless motion.

“I’d say these are more dangerous than the cannon,” Frank murmured. “Maybe that’s why some of the Society members don’t want them on exhibit here.”

“How about a look at the heavy artillery?” Joe said as the boys replaced the cutlasses in the case.

They looked about for the custodian to show them the basement entrance, but could not locate him.

“I guess we can find our way,” Frank said.

He walked over to a door and pulled it gingerly. Instead of leading to the basement, it opened into the auditorium.

Aunt Gertrude was on the dais, gavel in hand. “The meeting will come to order,” she said with authority, and the ensuing bang made it plain that she meant every word.

As the members quieted, Frank saw the custodian seated in the front row. He was a small, thin man with gray hair and a wispy mustache. The boys decided not to bother him.

“Let’s try this door,” Joe said, walking across the corridor. He turned the knob. The door yawned open into pitch blackness.

“This is the basement entrance, all right.” He reached inside for the light switch and flicked it on. Nothing happened.

“I guess the bulb’s burned out,” Joe said. “I’ll get a light from the car, Frank.”

He hurried outside and brought back a flashlight which the boys carried with them at all times. As he beamed it down the steps, Frank lifted the case of cutlasses to his shoulders.

“Lead the way, Joe.”

Joe went slowly down the cellar steps.

“Careful,” he warned. “They’re steep.”

The next moment he pitched forward. A blow on the side of his head had knocked him unconscious!

“Joe, what happened?” Frank cried as the flashlight flew forward and rolled under a table.

In the feeble glow Frank missed his footing and lost his balance. The case of swords fell from his shoulder and landed with a jangling crash. Frank banged his head on the case and blacked out.

His outcry and the crash of the case threw the Historical Society meeting into an uproar. Mr. Lightbody jumped to his feet.

At the same time Aunt Gertrude pounded her gavel for order. “Keep calm. I’ll find out what’s wrong downstairs. Come, Mr. Lightbody. Vice-President, please take the chair!”

Miss Hardy charged to the basement door ahead of the custodian and groped her way down the steps. “Frank! Joe!” she called.

She found the flashlight, which was still beaming. Waving it around, she gasped.

Dashing for the open window was a man in a motorcycle jacket, a mask over his face.

In his arms were five cutlasses, which had been hurled from the case. The sixth lay on the floor, next to the motionless Hardys.

Quickly sizing up the situation, Aunt Gertrude reached down for the sword, at the same time crying, “You scoundrel! What have you done to my nephews?”

With a flailing motion, she slapped the man’s back with the broad side of the cutlass. He shoved her back.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried out.

Thwack! She hit him again. Terrified, the burglar dropped the five cutlasses and leaped to the sill. As he started to crawl through the window, Aunt Gertrude whacked him again!

CHAPTER VII

The Battle of Bayport

THE next moment the intruder was gone. Miss Hardy turned her attention to Frank and Joe.

“Where’s the electrical panel, Mr. Lightbody?” she asked.

“Under the stairs.” He found it and reported that the basement switch had been pulled, probably by the intruder. The custodian flicked the handle up and the place was flooded with light.

“What happened?” someone called out from the top of the stairs. “Do you need help?”

“Phone the police,” said Miss Hardy as she began to chafe her nephews’ wrists and the backs of their necks. They soon regained consciousness.

The only injuries the boys had sustained were bruises on their heads. Joe surmised that he had been hit with a blackjack.

After Aunt Gertrude had given a brief description of the assailant, Frank said tersely, “Sounds like Latsky. Let’s check for clues to make sure.”

As they searched, Mr. Lightbody said the basement windows were always locked. The intruder must have forced one open.

When Chief Collig arrived, Aunt Gertrude told him the story of the attempted theft. “Frank and Joe think it was Latsky,” she concluded.

The officer agreed. But a search outside failed to reveal any clues.

The Hardys were still looking in the basement for clues when Chief Collig came downstairs. Suddenly Frank said, “Hey, here’s a button from the fellow’s jacket!” On the floor near the open window lay a triangular black button imprinted with a motorcycle wheel!

Collig dropped the button into his coat pocket and said, “The motorcycle rider hasn’t come back to the cabin yet, but I’m hoping he’ll show up soon.”

After the chief had left, Joe turned to his aunt. “We haven’t thanked you for saving us from further damage.”

“Oh, well, somebody had to look after you!” she said, going out the door. “Mr. Lightbody, lock and bar the window. Boys, take those cutlasses. Let’s see, where will they be safe? There’s a closet upstairs. We’ll lock them in there for the time being.”

When Mr. Lightbody and the boys climbed upstairs a few minutes later and put away the swords, they found Aunt Gertrude surrounded by members of the Society, praising her for her winning the “Battle of Bayport.”

“It was nothing,” she insisted. “Now we’ll resume the meeting.”

All the members followed her into the auditorium except Mr. Lightbody. “I can tell you about a real Battle of Bayport,” he said to Frank and Joe.

He explained that in reading pirate lore, he had learned that in 1756 a buccaneer ship had attacked two armed merchantmen off Bayport. One of the trading vessels had been sunk with all the officers and crew lost. The other merchantman had managed to sail away.

“The pirate ship,” Mr. Lightbody continued, “had had so much of her sail raked by the cannon of the merchantmen that she was unable to give chase. Instead, for some unknown reason, she sent a landing party ashore. Some time later the party returned aboard and the pirate ship limped off.”

“Where did this happen?” Joe asked.

“Off Pirates’ Hill,” Mr. Lightbody replied. “The hill is really named after that incident.”

Frank and Joe eyed each other. Maybe this was the basis for Jim Tilton’s account of the cannon buried in the sand!

“That’s quite a story,” said Frank. “And now we’d like to see the old cannons in the basement.”

Mr. Lightbody led the way down another stairway and unlocked a door to a dusty, vaultlike room. Three old weapons, green with age, were set up in a row on oak mounts.

“All three are British pieces,” the custodian said. “They’re a minion, a saker, and a pedrero. And they’re all made of cast bronze.”

“What interesting names!” Joe exclaimed.

“The saker was named after the saker hawk, one of the fiercer birds used in falconry. The pedrero—you’ll notice that it’s longer than the others—Is relatively lighter because it was used to hurl stone projectiles. The minion is the smallest.”

“They have beautiful decorations,” Frank observed.

The pieces were covered with flower-and-leaf designs. Atop the saker, at its balance point, was a handle in the shape of a dolphin.

“This handle,” Mr. Lightbody explained, “was used for lashing or lifting the piece. And cannon like these often had colorful nicknames set in raised letters on the barrel.”

“This first one is marked Wasp,” Joe commented. “The other cannons have no names on them.”

The boys studied them for a while, then Mr. Lightbody locked the door and led the way upstairs. Reaching the hall, Frank whispered to Joe, “That clue to the demiculverin petered out. Let’s try Pirates’ Hill next.”

“Right. We’ll go there tomorrow.”

Just then Aunt Gertrude, followed by the other Society members, came from the meeting room. The boys’ aunt was beaming.

“The Society has just voted to present us Hardys with one of the cutlasses,” she told them.

Frank and Joe grinned in delight, “Great!” said Frank, and Joe added, “It’ll be a swell souvenir of the Battle of Bayport! Let’s take the one you used to scare off the thief!”

He and Mr. Lightbody went to the closet to get it.

The Hardys returned home directly and Joe made a rack for the prized cutlass. Frank hung the weapon on the stairway wall.

“Looks good,” Joe remarked. “I think Dad will like it.”

As the boys prepared for bed, they speculated about the masked thief’s reason for wanting the cutlasses. But they could come to no conclusion and finally they fell asleep.

Next morning after breakfast the boys made plans for their trip to Pirates’ Hill.

“Bowden seemed pretty sure the demiculverin’s somewhere around there,” Frank mused. “Let’s try to get a little more information from him before we leave.”

He went to the phone and called the Garden Gate Motel.

“Bad news,” he said, returning to Joe. “Bowden checked out early this morning!”

Joe stared at his brother. Then he asked, “Florida?”

“He left no forwarding address. Bowden must really be scared of somebody.”

Frank and Joe decided to postpone their trip to Pirates’ Hill and look for Bowden instead. They would go the rounds of local gas stations, hoping to find that the man had stopped at one and might have mentioned his destination.

They visited one after another without result. As they were about to return home, Joe said:

“Frank, there’s a gas station about two miles out of town on Route 7. Maybe Bowden stopped there.”

They headed for the place and a few minutes later pulled in. A boy was in attendance.

“Say,” Frank said to him, “did a man stop here this morning in a green Pontiac hardtop?”

“Yes,” the attendant replied.

“Was he about thirty-five years old, stocky build, and did he have wiry black hair?

“Yes.”

Frank said they were trying to find him and wondered where he had gone.

“Said he had a business deal in Taylorville.”

Elated, the Hardys grinned broadly and thanked the boy.

“I hope we can make Taylorville before Bowden pulls out of there too,” Frank said.

He kept the convertible at a steady pace and they reached Taylorville at twelve o’clock. The town was a fair-sized one, and the streets swarmed with cars and people during the lunch-hour rush.

The boys began a systematic search for Bowden’s car, going up one street and down another. After they had exhausted the business area, they started on the residential section.

“I see it!” Frank cried out presently.

Bowden’s green hardtop was parked in front of an old-fashioned house which advertised that luncheons and dinners were served there.

“Maybe he’s eating,” Joe remarked. “Let’s park our car around the corner so he won’t spot it.”

Frank agreed this was a good idea and kept going. He pulled into a secluded, dead-end street and locked the convertible. As they walked back toward the restaurant, Frank suddenly grabbed his brother’s arm. “We’d better duck. Here he comes!”

“Where?” Joe asked.

“From that house down the street—the big white one.”

They stepped in back of a hedge and watched the suspect. He went directly toward his car but did not get in. Instead, he turned into the walk which led to the restaurant and disappeared inside.

“What a break!” said Frank. “Joe, you watch the restaurant. I’ll go over to that big white house and see if I can find out what Bowden was doing there.”

Fortunately the restaurant was almost completely screened from the street by tall trees and shrubbery. There was little chance of Bowden seeing the Hardys.

“You can’t just walk into that house and ask about him,” Joe said. “Suppose whoever lives there is in league with him?”

“I’ll have to do a little acting,” Frank agreed. “Pose as a salesman, for instance, and just try to get a conversation going.”

“Okay. Now what’ll I do if Bowden suddenly comes out?”

“Run for our car and give two blasts on the horn. I’ll come over right away so we can follow him.”

Frank hurried across the street and rang the bell of the big white house, planning his strategy as he waited.

A thin, white-haired man answered the door. Smiling, Frank inquired if he were Mr. Chestnut. When the man shook his head, Frank asked if he knew where Mr. Chestnut lived.

“Never heard of anybody by that name around here,” the elderly man said. He chuckled. “But you came close, son. My name’s a tree one, too, It’s Ash.”

Frank laughed. Then he said, “I’m Frank Harber from the Nationwide Insurance Company. You see, we are introducing a new medical plan and Mr. Chestnut had inquired about it. The girl on our switchboard must have gotten the address wrong. Anyway, since I’m here, would you like to hear some more about it yourself?”

Mr. Ash smiled. “Sorry, but I’m already covered sufficiently. Besides, I just spent all my money. A salesman was here a few minutes ago and sold me some stock.”

Frank’s heart leaped. He was learning more than he had bargained for!

CHAPTER VIII

Spies

WITHOUT seeming to be too inquisitive, Frank asked Mr. Ash, “Was it oil stock you bought?”

The elderly man shook his head. “It was mining stock. The Copper Slope Mining Company. Ever hear of it?”

Frank said he had and in fact his father owned some.

“I’ll bet Dad will be surprised to hear what Bowden is selling,” Frank thought, then said aloud, “Where could I find the salesman if I should want to buy some stock?”

Mr. Ash told him the man’s name was Bowden and he was staying at the Garden Gate Motel in Bayport. “That’s where he told me to phone him if I wanted more.”

Frank was so amazed that he almost blurted out the fact that Bowden was no longer at the Garden Gate Motel. He thanked Mr. Ash for his courtesy, then walked quickly down the street. Joining his brother, he told him what he had learned. Joe was equally amazed and puzzled. Though the stock was high grade, Bowden’s method of transacting business seemed strange. Both boys surmised that the stock certificate he had given Mr Ash was probably a phony one.

“We’ll wait for Bowden and trail him,” Frank stated.

It was not long before the suspect came out of the restaurant and got into his car. Frank and Joe dashed around the corner and hopped into their convertible. The trail led toward Bayport, and when they reached the outskirts, Bowden not only turned into the Garden Gate Motel, but went to Room 15, unlocked it, and stepped inside.

“Well, can you beat that!” Joe said.

The boys parked and went into the office to speak to the clerk who had given Frank the information about Bowden’s leaving. The man looked surprised.

“I thought you said Mr. Borden on the phone,” he explained. “Sorry. Mr. Bowden is still in Room 15.”

The boys went to see him and held a casual conversation about Pirates’ Hill, saying they were going to start searching that area. Frank asked Bowden if he had any suggestions for them.

“No, I haven’t,” he replied. “But I’m glad to hear you’re going to start work. I don’t know how long I can wait around here.”

“Are you thinking of leaving soon?” Joe asked casually, hoping for information.

“Oh, not right away,” Bowden answered. “But staying here to locate that demiculverin is taking a lot of my valuable time.”

“I understand,” said Frank. “Well, we’ll let you know what we find out.”

Since it was too late to search on Pirates’ Hill that day, the boys went home. They gathered the various tools which they would use for their digging and put them in the convertible.

“We’ll have to take time out from the beach party tomorrow to make a search,” said Frank.

Shortly after breakfast the next morning the phone rang. Frank answered the call. It was from Mr. Lightbody. In a highly excited voice the curator cried out:

“The Historical Society building was broken into late last night, and the cutlasses have been stolen!”

“Stolen!” Frank exclaimed. “How did the thief get in? Didn’t you secure all the windows?”

“Yes, of course. This time a rear door of the building was forced.”

“Joe and I will be right over,” said Frank.

The entire family was upset by the news. Aunt Gertrude declared that she was going along.

“I feel a personal responsibility for those cutlasses,” she said.

Miss Hardy and the boys set off at once. By the time they reached the Historical Society building, Chief Collig was there.

“This certainly is unfortunate,” he said. “I can’t understand how that thief got in here so easily.”

“Don’t forget, Latsky is a safecracker,” Joe reminded the chief.

“Wait a second,” Frank said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know for certain that it was Latsky who broke in here the second time.”

Chief Collig agreed with Frank’s reasoning. He said he would put extra men on the case and notify the State Police to be on the lookout for Latsky.

“Neither he nor anyone else has shown up at the cabin in the woods,” the officer reported. “I believe the fellow knows we’re watching the place and won’t return.”

At that moment there was a loud booming of the old mortar in the town square. Frank and Joe looked at each other and smiled. They had completely forgotten that it was Independence Day! They had planned to watch the parade, then start off for the beach party.

It was eleven o’clock when they leached home. Joe carried the food to the car while Frank consulted a book on tides in the Bayport area. Coming out to Joe, he said:

“I guess we can’t take the Sleuth after all. The water will be too shallow near Pirates’ Hill. It will be low tide in the middle of the day.”

“How about asking Tony if we can go in his Napoli?” Joe suggested. “It draws much less water than the Sleuth.”

“Good idea, Joe. I’ll call him.” He went to the phone.

“Sure, we can use the Napoli,” Tony said. “I’ll meet you at the dock.”

The Hardys drove off, heading first for the Morton farm. Chet and Iola were waiting for them, with several baskets of food which included lobsters and a sack of clams. Their next stop was at the Shaw house to pick up Callie, then they drove directly to the waterfront.

“Hi!” cried Tony, giving his friends an expansive grin. The Napoli was chugging quietly at her berth.

After the food and digging tools had been transferred to the craft and the Hardys had brought their diving gear from the Sleuth, everyone stepped aboard and Tony shoved off.

When they reached the end of the bay and turned up the coast, the young people watched for Pirates’ Hill. Minutes later they saw it in the distance. The hill was a desolate hump of sand-covered stone jutting into the sea. There was not a house in sight, except one small cottage about half a mile beyond the crown of the hill.

“That must be Sergeant Tilton’s place,” Frank remarked.

Tony slowed down the Napoli some distance off shore and said he was going to test the depth with a pole before going any closer toward land.

“Say, how about my trying out the diving gear now?” Chet asked.

“You can use mine,” Frank replied. “I’ll help you adjust the equipment.”

“I think I’ll put my gear on, too, in case Chet runs into trouble,” said Joe.

He quickly strapped his air tanks into position and the two boys stepped to the gunwale.

“Hold it!” said Tony. “A guy in a motorboat over there is waving at us frantically. Wonder what’s up.”

“Who is he?” Frank asked.

“I’ve never seen the fellow before,” Tony replied as the boat hove alongside.

Frank called out to the newcomer, a fisherman about fifty, and asked him what was wrong.

“I’m glad I got to you folks in time,” the stranger replied. He spoke excitedly. “I just spotted a giant sting ray near here while I was fishing.”

“A sting ray!” Frank echoed in surprise. “Well, thanks for telling us. We’ll stay out of the water.”

Tony pulled a pole from the bottom of the motorboat and asked Frank to test the depth from the prow of the Napoli. Then slowly he steered the boat shoreward.

All this time Joe had been casting his eyes over the large expanse of water. There was no sign of the sting ray. Finally he said aloud:

“Do you suppose that man was trying to scare us away from here?”

“What do you mean?” asked Callie.

“Well, a lot of funny things have been going on lately,” said Joe. “It wouldn’t surprise me if that fellow had some reason for not wanting us to go into the water.”

He found binoculars in a compartment and trained them on the other boat which by now was a good distance away. The craft lacked both a name and Coast Guard identification number.

“That fisherman isn’t alone!” Joe exclaimed. “I just saw another man’s head pop out from under the tarpaulin!”

“Can you see his face?” Frank asked.

“No. He’s getting up now, but his back’s turned to us.”

“Let’s find out who those two men are!” Joe urged.

Tony revved up the motor and the Napoli skimmed across the water. Joe kept the binoculars trained on the mysterious fisherman. Suddenly they seemed to realize that the young people were heading directly toward them. Like a flash the man who had remained hidden before dived under the tarpaulin in the bottom of the boat.

The other man started the engine. Then, in a roar which carried across the waves, the boat raced off.

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “Some speedy craft!”

“I’ll say it is!” said Frank. “That’s no ordinary fishing boat!”

The Napoli was fast but not fast enough to overtake the other boat. After a chase of a mile, their quarry was out of sight. Tony turned back to Pirates’ Hill.

The boys continued to discuss the men’s strange actions until they were almost ashore. Then Chet said, “Let’s forget the mystery. If I don’t eat pretty soon—”

“We’ll take care of that,” his sister promised.

Tony anchored the Napoli in a scallop-shaped cove, and the young people waded ashore, carrying the baskets of food with them.

“This is an ideal spot for a beach party,” Callie said enthusiastically.

She and Iola took charge and gave orders. Frank and Tony were asked to collect driftwood, while Chet and Joe gathered plenty of seaweed. In a few minutes they returned.

“Those stones over there will make a good place for the fire,” said Callie.

She had found a natural pit among the rocks. In it the boys piled the driftwood, then lighted it. Soon there was a roaring blaze. Frank heaped more rocks into the fire.

When the stones were red-hot and the flames had died out, they placed a layer of seaweed over them. Then the girls laid the lobsters, clams, and corn on the cob in rows and piled on several more layers of seaweed.

“I can hardly wait,” Chet groaned hungrily as he sniffed the tantalizing aroma of the clams.

While the food was steaming, the Hardys brought their friends up to date on Bowden, Latsky, and the search for the demiculverin.

“Later today Joe and I want to climb to the top of Pirates’ Hill and look for the cannon,” Frank told them.

A few minutes later Iola announced that the food was ready. They gathered around as Joe cleared away the hot seaweed.

“Right this way, folks!” he called out. “First plateful of juicy sizzling hot clams goes to Miss Iola Morton!”

One by one the picknickers came forward and piled their plates. Every clam, lobster, and ear of corn disappeared. Then a huge watermelon was cut into sections and served.

Forty minutes later Chet rolled over on the sand. “I can’t move!” he moaned.

“Neither can I!” Joe echoed. “Girls, that was the greatest meal I ever ate!”

There was little conversation during the next hour. Chet was soon snoring and the others stretched out for a rest. But finally they arose and walked toward the water’s edge. Chet was the last to join the group.

“How about my doing that skin diving now?” he suggested.

“Okay,” said Frank, and helped his chubby friend into the equipment.

“I’ll follow you,” said Joe, and started putting on his flippers.

Chet lunged forward and stepped into deep water. Almost at once he vanished beneath the surface. Then Joe, too, submerged.

Ten minutes later Chet came up and sloshed to the beach. He removed his face mask and grinned.

“Brought you some souvenirs, girls,” he said, and laid a large handful of unusual shells streaked with mother-of-pearl on the sand,

“Oh, they’re beautiful!” Callie exclaimed.

Iola clapped Chet on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, brother. Hope there’s a pearl among these.”

“How far down did you go?” Tony asked him.

“About twenty feet,” Chet stated. “I’ll go deeper next time. And here’s something else I found.”

From one of his belts he brought out what looked like part of a rusty ice pick.

Tony grinned. “I suppose a whale dropped this. He likes his drinks cold and chips off the icebergs with it.”

Chet ignored the gibe. “I’m going to keep it as a souvenir!”

“Joe should have come back by this time,” Frank remarked.

Everyone looked toward the water. There was no sign of his brother. Frank became uneasy.

“I’m going to look for Joe,” he announced.

Putting on his gear, he hurried into the water and soon was lost to sight. Frank swam up and down the coast off Pirates’ Hill but did not see Joe. A sinking feeling came over him. Suppose his brother had been attacked by the ray!

Then a more alarming thought struck Frank. He suddenly recalled the black-garbed skin diver who had speared his air hose earlier that week. Perhaps the man had returned!

Frank struck out faster and peered around anxiously. Suddenly above him he saw a swimmer whose body extended upright. He was clinging to a boat.

“Joe!” he thought, and hurried toward the figure.

His brother was grasping the gunwale of the Napoli, his face mask removed. Frank surfaced alongside of him and took off his own mask.

“Hey, Joe!” he cried out. “You gave us a scare! Where have you been?”

“Sorry, pal,” Joe replied. “I was lying in the bottom of the Napoli.”

“Why?” Frank asked in amazement.

“I’ve been spying on a spy,” Joe replied. “Look to the top of Pirates’ Hill! See that figure silhouetted up there? He’s been watching every move you and the others have been making on the beach!”

“That guy’s doing more than watching,” said Frank, staring at the lone man on the summit of the hill. “He’s digging!”

CHAPTER IX

A Surprising Suspect

FROM where the Hardys were clinging to the Napoli, it certainly appeared as if the man were turning up the sand. He held something resembling a blunt shovel in his hands.

“He didn’t have that before,” Joe stated. “Must have just picked it up.”

“Maybe he figured after watching us a while that we weren’t about to climb the hill,” Frank deduced. “So he feels safe to dig for whatever he’s trying to locate.”

“He might even be burying something,” Joe suggested.

“Well, let’s find out what he’s up to.”

The Hardys donned their masks and swam underwater to shore. Quickly they told their friends about the man on the hill and their desire to see him at close range.

“I suggest that we separate and start looking for driftwood,” Frank said. “Then Joe and I will quietly leave the rest of you and sneak up the hill.”

The others agreed, promising not to alert the man by looking up. Joe pointed out a circuitous route to the top which would escape the notice of anyone above.

“You take that way, Frank. I’ll wander down the beach and go up from another direction. We’ll try a pincer movement on the fellow.”

“Okay. I wonder if he’s Latsky.”

“Maybe he’s Bowden.”

The picnickers began gathering driftwood, calling out in loud voices which they hoped would carry to the mysterious digger.

Minutes later the Hardys were on their separate ways up the hill. They slipped and slid in the heavy sand. Progress was slow, but finally both reached the crest. Frank and Joe were about three hundred feet apart as they poked their heads above the top and looked around.

The man was nowhere in sight!

Thinking he might be hiding below a hillock of sand, the Hardys walked toward each other, keeping careful watch. They met without seeing the digger.

“Where’d he go?” Joe asked in disgust. “Do you suppose we scared him off?”

“There ought to be footprints.”

The boys searched and finally found them. They were large and far apart, indicating that they had been made by a tall man.

“They go off in the direction of Sergeant Tilton’s house,” Frank noted. “But the prints can’t be his—he isn’t that tall.”

The marks might belong to Latsky or Bowden, the Hardys decided. Mystified, they followed the prints. Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank’s arm.

“If it was Latsky, and if he was the one who stole the cutlasses, maybe he was burying them here until the police alert is over.”

The boys turned back and dug as best they could with their hands around the area where the stranger had been standing. But nothing came to light.

“Let’s go,” Joe suggested. “We’re giving that man too much of a head start.”

The Hardys hurried along the trail.

Tilton’s house, a quaint one-story shingled cottage, stood about three hundred feet away. The hill alternately dipped and rose twice to the high point where the structure was located.

“The footprints lead right to the door!” Frank observed.

Watching to see if anyone might be looking from a window, Frank and Joe walked up and knocked at the door. There was no answer. Frank knocked again. This time someone within stirred. Footsteps sounded and a moment later Sergeant Tilton opened the door.

“Well, this seems to be visitors’ day around here!” he said, smiling. “Welcome! Come in!”

“Did you have another caller?” Frank asked, pretending it was just a casual question.

“Yep.”

Sergeant Tilton explained that only a short while ago a stranger had stopped at the cottage.

“Where is he now?” Joe asked quickly.

“On his way back to Bayport,” Tilton replied. “He was askin’ the best way to go.”

“Who was he?” Joe prodded.

“Don’t rightly know,” Tilton answered. “He never said.”

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“Tall young man. Right nice face. Kind o’ greenish eyes an’ brown hair. Say, why are you two fellows so interested in this guy?”

The Hardys told Tilton it was because of their advertisement for information about cannon which the sergeant had answered.

“So if any people are going to dig for it on Pirates’ Hill,” Frank added, “Joe and I want to be the ones.”

The man chuckled. “Can’t say I blame you.”

Frank now told Sergeant Tilton about Mr. Lightbody’s account of the Battle of Bayport. “Do you think there could be any connection between that battle and the cannon you think is buried somewhere up here?”

“I sure do,” Tilton replied. “There were some crooked dealin’s between those old pirates an’ certain folks here in those days. I figger mebbe somebody ashore was trying to sell the cannon or trade it fer the buccaneers’ loot.”

The sergeant suddenly grinned impishly. “I’ve got a pirate den. D’you want to see it?”

“Pirate den!” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes sirree!” the elderly man replied. “Just follow me.”

Though the Hardys felt they should hurry off and try to overtake the young man they wanted to interrogate, they were tempted by Tilton’s invitation. A few minutes would not make much difference. Furthermore, they might pick up some valuable information among his treasures.

“All right,” said Frank.

Sergeant Tilton led the boys to the kitchen. From an opening in the ceiling hung a rope ladder. The old man grabbed it and thrust his foot into the first rung.

“Up we go!” He laughed. “This is a real genu-wine freebooters’ cave I got fer myself up here.”

Frank and Joe clambered up after him into the darkness of the room overhead.

“I’ll turn on the lantern,” Tilton said. “I made this den out of a storage attic. There’s no window. But no self-respectin’ pirate would want a window in his den, anyway.”

He switched on a ship’s lantern in a corner of the room. The first thing the boys noted in its dim glow was a pair of cutlasses. For a moment they wondered if the weapons could be part of the stolen collection. But just then Tilton blew a cloud of dust off them, in order to show them to better advantage. They had definitely been in the den a long time!

“Look at those treasure chests!” Joe cried out. “And all those guns!”

The room contained an amazing collection of corsair relics. Coins, rusted implements, old maps, pirate flags and costumes, and faded oil paintings of famous buccaneers decorated the walls and tables. On a rack in one corner hung a variety of old Army uniforms.

“This is great!” said Joe, and Frank added, “I wish we had time to examine each piece. I’d like to come again, Sergeant Tilton.”

“You’re welcome any time,” the man said.

The boys preceded him down the ladder. As they were about to leave, Tilton said, “You know, I plumb forgot to mention something to you. The young fellow that was here a little while ago—he’s lookin’ for a cannon, too!”

“He is!” Frank exclaimed. “Did he say what kind?”

“An old Spanish demiculverin.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other excitedly. They must find the stranger!

“Thanks a lot, Sergeant Tilton,” Frank said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“Don’t mention it. And hurry back fer a real Visit.”

The Hardys promised and waved good-by. Then, following the large footprints that led away from Tilton’s cottage, they hurried on. The tracks led down the side of one hill and up another, but Frank and Joe did not spot their quarry.

At last they reached a point as high as the one on which Tilton’s house was situated. Suddenly Joe stopped and gripped Frank’s arm. He pointed to a figure in a depression between dunes.

“There he is!”

“Don’t let him get out of sight!” Frank urged, running in a westerly direction through the tall grass.

But at that moment the stranger entered the first of a series of deep dips in the sand.

“Oh!” Joe cried out suddenly. His right foot had slid into a hole. As he pitched forward, he felt a searing pain in his leg.

Frank turned and came back. Kneeling beside Joe, he felt the injured ankle joint. “You must have wrenched it. Better not step on your foot. Lean on me.”

“Okay,” said Joe. He was annoyed at himself. “That ends our little posse.”

“Never mind,” said Frank. “I’ll help you back to the beach and we’ll attend to your ankle there.”

In their concern over Joe’s injury, both boys had stopped looking for the man. Now they peered across the sand hills, but did not spot him.

Moving as fast as Joe’s ankle would permit, they neared the picnic spot. A fire was blazing. The Hardys grinned when they saw Chet cooking frankfurters.

“Our friend must have a vacuum for a stomach,” Joe remarked.

Frank did not reply. He was gazing intently at a strange young man who was watching Chet and chatting pleasantly with the girls. The fellow, about twenty-eight years old, was very tall, and had a determined, jutting jaw.

“Joe,” Frank said excitedly, “unless my eyes deceive me, the man we were chasing has walked right into our camp!”

“One thing is for sure,” Joe said. “He’s not trying to avoid us now.”

“We’re not sure he was doing it before,” Frank said thoughtfully. “On the other hand, maybe he changed his strategy. He might still want to find out whether we came here to look for a cannon besides having a picnic.”

“We’d better be cagey,” Joe said.

As the Hardys drew closer, Iola handed the stranger a frankfurter on a roll. A moment later she looked up and saw them.

“Why, Joe, what happened to your foot?” she cried out and ran toward him.

“I twisted it,” Joe explained.

“I’m sorry you hurt yourself,” Iola went on and added, “We’ve got company. This is Tim German—Frank and Joe Hardy.”

The boys shook hands with Gorman. The same thought went through their minds after they had a close look at him. He was the man who had passed them in a car two days before and had stared so intently at them!

The stranger seemed to sense what they were thinking and mentioned the incident before they had a chance.

“I was looking for someone I know who has the same kind of car as yours,” he explained.

Frank and Joe nodded. At the same moment Callie remarked, “Tim Gorman tells us that he has just been to see Mr. Tilton.”

“Yes,” the visitor said. “I had a very interesting talk with the old sergeant.”

“We know,” Frank told him. “We were up there too.”

“And I just about broke my leg trying to catch up with you on the hill!” Joe declared. “You certainly crossed it in a hurry.”

“Really? Why didn’t you call?” Gorman replied. “I didn’t see you.”

The Hardys’ suspicious attitude softened considerably. Gorman now offered to work on Joe’s ankle. He made an ice pack with a towel and cubes from the picnic basket, and applied it to the swelling. Next, he massaged the joint carefully. In a few minutes Joe said it felt much better.

“Thanks,” he said as the man rose.

Frank steered the conversation back to Sergeant Tilton. Gorman talked freely, laughing about the amazing pirate den in the attic and the talkative old man’s preposterous stories. But he did not mention the cannon, nor give an inkling of why he had been on Pirates’ Hill.

Finally Joe could wait no longer to broach the subject. Bluntly he said, “We understand you’re looking for a cannon.”

Gorman’s face clouded. “I suppose Tilton told you that,” he said, his jaw set and his eyes flashing. “That man talks too much. I asked him to keep the information to himself and he told me he would.”

“Is it a secret?” Chet asked.

Their visitor looked annoyed, but he regained his composure quickly. “I suppose you might say so,” he replied, looking off into space as if trying to decide whether or not to reveal it.

“Joe, what happened to your fool?”

Iola cried out

A sudden quiet descended upon the group. The Hardys’ friends waited for the brothers to carry on the conversation.

Tim Gorman relaxed a little, and said, “I may as well admit that I’m looking for a cannon.” He paused. “But I’d rather not say anything more about it.”

“As you wish,” Frank said politely. “But we might be able to help you. Joe and I have been reading about cannons.”

Gorman smiled and said, “I feel it’s best that I keep my business to myself. Perhaps later on I could discuss the situation with you.”

The pleasant way in which he made the latter statement and the smile which went with it tended to disarm all of the group except Frank and Joe. Though Gorman was friendly, they still felt he was somewhat suspect. Not once had he mentioned a demiculverin, though that was, according to Tilton, what he hoped to find.

“We’ll probably see one another,” Gorman announced. “I’m staying in Bayport.”

Tony Prito asked Gorman if he would like to go back to town with them in the Napoli.

“Thanks very much,” Gorman answered. “But my car is parked over on the shore road.”

He started to say good-by, then suddenly he stopped short and stared at an object in Iola’s hand. It was the ice pick Chet had found. She was about to put it in the picnic basket.

Gorman stepped forward. “Where did you get that?” he asked intently.

Chet proudly informed him of his underwater discovery as Iola handed over the pick. The man examined it closely.

“Is it an antique ice pick?” Chet asked him.

Gorman swung about, his face flushed with excitement. “This is not an ice pick. It’s a gunner’s pick! There was a cannon near here!”

CHAPTER X

Fireworks!

TIM Gorman’s announcement sent a thrill of excitement through the Hardy boys. There was no question now that a cannon had been on Pirates’ Hill. But was it still buried deep under the sand?

Frank was the first to speak. “Have you any idea, Tim, what kind of cannon it might have been?”

“There’s absolutely no way of telling,” Gorman replied slowly.

Chet had walked up to face their visitor. “How did you know this gadget was really a gunner’s pick?” he asked.

“Like Frank and Joe, I’ve been reading a good deal about artillery,” the young man replied. He turned the pick over in his hands and continued, “This is part of a gunner’s equipment.”

“How was the pick used?” Chet inquired.

Gorman explained that by the eighteenth century, powder bags had come into wide use, replacing the loose powder which had formerly been ladled into the bore of a cannon.

“This made it necessary to prick open the bag inside the cannon so the priming fire from the vent could reach the charge. This tool did the trick.”

Gorman smiled. “I’ll be glad to give you cannon instruction any time, but I must be off now.”

He shook hands with everyone and said good-by. When he was out of sight, Callie said:

“You’d better dig for that cannon pretty soon or Gorman will find it first.”

“Let’s start right now,” Frank urged.

Acting as leader he assigned the others to various spots and for an hour the beach and hillside were beehives of activity. Various small objects were dug up but there was no sign of a cannon.

“I guess we’ll have to quit!” Tony called out to Frank. He explained that he had promised to be home for supper by seven and take his parents in the Napoli later to see the fireworks.

“We’re all going in the Sleuth,” said Iola. “Sorry you can’t join us, Tony.”

The tools were collected and carried out to the boat along with the picnic baskets. After everyone was seated, Tony headed back toward town. Frank and Joe sat alone in the prow for a while discussing Gorman. Frank said he was convinced the young man was aboveboard, but Joe was still suspicious.

“He may just be a very smooth operator,” Joe remarked. “Why, he might even be in league with Latsky!”

The boys’ discussion was interrupted by a call from Callie. “Oh, look, everybody!”

The Napoli had turned into the bay and was running close to shore where an area of the water had been roped off for the evening’s display of fireworks. A small grandstand had been erected along the bank. In the water two large scows contained the set pieces and the rockets which would be sent skyward during the celebration.

“Looks as if it’ll be a good show,” Tony remarked.

Chet proposed that they come early in the Sleuth and anchor as close as possible to the two barges so they could get an excellent view of the performance.

At eight-thirty Frank and Joe went to their boathouse where Chet and the girls were waiting. Soon the group was aboard the Sleuth, heading out to the area where the fireworks were to be displayed. Nearing it, they could hear band music from the grandstand on the shore.

A large crowd was gathered both on the bank and on the water. Small craft filled with onlookers bustled in the harbor, each skipper seeking a good place from which to view the fireworks.

Frank guided the Sleuth close to the roped-off area. Floodlights set up on the scows made the scene as bright as day.

As Frank turned off the motor, Joe, seated alongside him, suddenly grabbed his arm.

“What’s up?” Frank asked, turning. He noticed a worried look on his brother’s face.

“The man who seems to be in charge of the fireworks display is the one who warned us about the sting ray!”

Frank gazed ahead and nodded. “I wonder if the fellow who was hiding in the bottom of his boat is here too.”

There was no possible way to find out now. It was two minutes to nine. The man was hastily directing several workers, none of whom was familiar to the boys.

“They’re going to start!” Chet called.

A moment later there was a swish and whine as the first rocket was set off. It shot high into the dark sky above the harbor and a fountain of cascading diamonds burst into life. Ohs and ahs echoed from the onlookers.

A second and a third rocket swirled heavenward. Red and blue sparkles gleamed brilliantly after the sharp explosions.

“This is wonderful!” Iola cried out.

“Oh, they’re going to set off one of the figures!” Callie said excitedly. “Look, it’s a man pedaling a bicycle!”

A twenty-foot figure, sputtering yellow-white smoke, appeared to be cycling across the barge.

“There goes another figure!” Chet cried in delight as a multicolored clown began to dance with slow, jerky motions.

Just then a hissing sound attracted the attention of the Hardys and their friends. The next moment a shriek went up from the girls.

A rocket had been fired horizontally and was streaking directly toward them!

Terrified, everyone in the Sleuth sprawled flat, as it skittered over the waves like a guided missile!

Whack! A shudder went through the boat as the rocket glanced off her bow. A thundering blast followed when it exploded ten yards off the starboard side.

Streamers of white light ribboned across the motorboat, but the hot rocket itself sizzled on the surface of the water and then died out in a cloud of acrid smoke.

“That was too close for comfort!” Joe cried out, jumping up.

Frank leaped back to the wheel as Chet, Iola, and Callie sat up and peered over the gunwales toward the barge.

“That was no accident!” Frank stormed. “I’m going after the man who set off the rocket!”

“Pour it on!” Joe shouted.

The motor roared to life and the propeller kicked up white foam as the Sleuth shot ahead and ducked under the rope of the danger zone.

Closing in rapidly on the barge, the Hardys noticed that one of the Bayport Police Department launches was approaching from the opposite side. Its two powerful spotlights were raking the fireworks platform and the officers were shouting that there was to be no more firing.

“Look!” Joe cried. “That guy over there isn’t paying any attention!”

A stranger to the Hardys, he grabbed a lighted torch from the hands of the head man and started for one of the rockets.

“He’ll blow us all up!” Callie cried in terror.

A second later the young people saw him run from fixture to fixture, touching his torch to the fuses of the entire remaining display.

Frank did not wait. He put the Sleuth in reverse, and the motorboat skittered backward.

The next moment the bay shook with the din of the bursting pyrotechnics. Rockets spewed in all directions with thunderous detonations.

The danger of being struck by the flying missiles also drove the police launch back from the barge toward the center of the bay. There were anxious moments as the bombardment continued.

Hot fragments from the bursting rockets sprayed the deck and cockpit of the Sleuth, but finally Frank got beyond their range.

The din aboard the barge ended as abruptly as it had begun.

“What a crazy, stupid thing to do!” Joe exclaimed,

“I’d like to punch the guy who set off those rockets,” Frank declared.

“You’ll have a hard time,” Chet said. “All the men on the barges jumped overboard and are swimming to shore.”

Frank turned the boat and headed for the beach. The stranger who had caused the uproar was not in sight, but the man who had warned them of the sting ray was still in the water. Frank drew alongside of him and throttled the engine.

“Climb in!” he called.

The man pulled himself aboard. At the same time the police launch picked up several other swimmers. Not one of them was the fellow the Hardys wanted to interrogate. But they began to question their new passenger.

“Who was the guy who started that explosion?” Joe demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean? You were supervising the fireworks, weren’t you, Mr.—?”

The man scowled. “The name’s Halpen. I was only in charge of the timing,” he answered. “The fellows lighted the fuses when I told ’em to. I don’t know the name of the guy who disobeyed orders. He just came around before we were ready to start. I suppose somebody hired him. It wasn’t any of my business.”

Frank was not satisfied with the explanation. He hailed the captain of the police boat and asked if he might speak to the men they had picked up.

“Sure thing, Frank,” said the officer.

The captain requested the men to come to the near side of his craft. Frank asked them the name of the worker who had set off the rockets. Each declared he did not know.

Their own passenger grunted. “I guess the guy just butted in for a good time.” He eyed the Hardys. “Unless,” he went on, “he was an enemy of yours.”

“If he was, we didn’t know it,” Joe retorted quickly. “But he sure is now!”

“I’m getting cold,” said Halpen. “Put me ashore, will you?”

“Okay, but first 1 want to ask you a few questions,” Joe spoke up.

“Well, make it snappy!”

“Who was the man hidden under the tarpaulin in your boat this morning!” Joe shot at him.

Halpen’s jaw sagged, his composure gone for a moment. Then he said, “You saw him, eh? Well, he was a stranger to me. His boat capsized and I picked him up. He didn’t tell me his name.”

“But why did he hide under the cover?”

“Afraid of the sun,” Halpen answered gruffly. “And he fell asleep.”

Frank took up the questioning. “Why did you race off in your speedboat when we tried to overtake you?”

Halpen glared at him. “It was late. My wife was waiting for me. And now, unless you’re going ashore, let me get into the police boat so I can go home.”

The Hardys were frustrated, but there was nothing they could do. Frank helped the man board the launch, and it took off for Bayport immediately.

Iola grimaced. “I don’t believe a word that man said, do you?”

There was a chorus of “No’s.” Joe said he was going to find out who Halpen was and what he did for a living.

“Probably nothing much,” Chet spoke up, opening one of the picnic baskets. “Who wants a sandwich and a soda?”

Everyone did and in a short while all the food was gone. Chet declared that he was still hungry, and upon reaching the Hardys’ boathouse, the group set off for a spot frequented by teen-agers.

Immediately the Hardys and their friends went to phone their families that they were all right. Then Joe called the chairman of the fireworks committee, Mr. Atkin. He had just reached home.

“Halpen’s harmless but a loafer,” Mr. Atkin said in answer to Joe’s question. “He manages to get along somehow, doing odd jobs. At one time he worked in a pyrotechnics factory and understands fireworks. He’s had the job of setting off the Bayport rockets and set pieces for the last few years. I can’t understand what happened tonight.”

Joe now inquired how many men had been engaged to work on the fireworks display.

“Let’s see,” said Mr. Atkin. “Five. Yes, there were five.”

“I counted six,” Joe stated. “What?” the man exclaimed. “Then one of them was there without being hired. He probably was the one who caused a near tragedy.”

“I’m sure the mysterious Mr. X was the culprit,” Joe agreed. Upon returning to the group, he told the others that so far Halpen’s story checked. “It’s a puzzle, though. I have a hunch he’s not to be trusted.”

Frank remarked that he was more worried about the mysterious man who aimed the rocket at them.

The thought of their close escape sobered the group. It was not until some of their high school friends stopped at the table and began to joke with them that they shook off the depressed mood, and enjoyed the remainder of the evening.

The next morning, while the boys were dressing, Frank said he thought they should get in touch with Bowden before making a further search. “Since both he and Tim Gorman are looking for the demiculverin, I’d like to know if they’re acquainted.”

“Let’s go!”

“We’ll tell him Chet found a gunner’s pick along the shore, but we won’t mention Pirates’ Hill.”

“Right.”

The man seemed a bit less friendly than usual when they arrived at his motel. Was he suspicious? But when the boys finished telling their story, he smiled. “You’re making progress, I can see that. Keep it up. Time is precious.”

Bowden had nothing to offer in the way of news. The police, he said, had no clues to the person who had left him the warning note and later attacked him.

Presently Frank asked, “Do you know a man named Tim Gorman?”

Bowden was visibly disturbed by the question. “Gorman!” he exclaimed, his face flushing. “I’ll say I know him, but I’m not proud of it.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“He’s no good!” Bowden told the boys that Gorman went about posing as a naval man and was wanted by the police for swindling.

“That’s hard to believe,” Frank said.

Joe, on the other hand, arched his eyebrows and gave his brother a meaningful look as if to say, “I told you so.”

Bowden asked them how they happened to know Gorman. Guardedly Frank told of meeting him on the beach. Bowden interrupted the narration several times to inquire about details. There seemed to be something he wanted to know, but was reluctant to ask point-blank.

Finally, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, he blurted out, “Did Gorman mention the cutlass?”

CHAPTER XI

An Alias

BOWDEN’S unexpected question perplexed the boys for an instant. Then Joe asked, “One of the stolen cutlasses?”

Bowden looked blank. “What stolen cutlasses?” “You don’t seem to read the newspaper,” Frank said. “Some swords were stolen from the Bayport Historical Society building the night before last.”

Bowden’s surprise seemed genuine and the Hardys concluded that he had nothing to do with the theft.

“Well, what cutlass were you talking about?” Joe asked.

“Forget it.”

“Look, Mr. Bowden, you can’t play hide-and-seek with facts and expect us to do a good sleuthing job for you!”

The man smiled. “No need for you to get hot under the collar. Gorman’s hipped on finding a miniature cutlass—says it’s a lost heirloom. He puts the question to everyone.”

The Hardys thought this was an unlikely story. They left shortly, saying they planned to continue their search for the cannon.

“I wish Dad would come back from Florida,” Joe remarked as they rode along. “This case is getting knotty.”

“Joe, it had me baffled until just now. But I believe I have the answer,” Frank declared.

“What is it?”

“It might sound farfetched,” Frank replied, “but the combination of cannons, cutlasses, and the story about the pirates’ fight all lead in one direction.”

Joe smiled. “You mean hidden treasure?”

“Right. But we’ll have to dig up more clues before we can dig up any treasure,” Frank said.

Since the boys had to pass near their home to take the road to Pirates’ Hill, Frank suggested that they stop and see if there was a letter or phone message from Mr. Hardy.

The telephone was ringing persistently as they entered the house. “Nobody’s home,” Frank said. “Grab it, Joe.”

The boy picked up the instrument in the front hall. “Yes, this is Joe Hardy.... Why do you want to see us, Mr. Smedick?” Joe listened for a moment and added, “All right. Frank and I will come immediately.”

Joe hung up and turned to his brother. “A guy with a strained voice, named A. B. Smedick, wants to see us at the Bayport Hotel. Room 309. It has something to do with the cannon mystery.”

“We’d better watch out. This may be a trap. I suggest we stay in the hall to talk to that fellow,” Frank cautioned.

A few minutes later Joe buzzed 309. Presently the door opened. The Hardys gasped. Tim Gorman stood there!

“What’s the idea of this?” Joe asked.

“Please step in,” Gorman invited. “I’ll explain.”

“We prefer staying here,” Frank said coolly.

Quickly Gorman reached into his coat pocket, extracted a wallet, and took out a paper and a card. He handed them to Frank.

On the card the boys saw the small photograph of the man in a Navy uniform. Joe inspected it closely to see if any touching up had been done.

It was Gorman, all right, beyond any doubt. The paper was a statement of his honorable discharge from the United States Navy two years earlier.

“Please come in,” Gorman said, and the Hardys entered the room. Their host locked the door and they all sat down close together.

“I’m using the name of Smedick here for protection against certain people in Bayport who would like to see me harmed,” he said in a low voice. Obviously he was afraid that he might be overheard.

Without explaining further, he went on, “I’ve investigated you boys thoroughly and know you’re trustworthy. I’m very eager to have you help me solve a mystery.”

“We’re pretty busy right now on another case,” said Joe, who still felt skeptical about the man.

Gorman looked disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that. I really need your help.”

Frank suggested that Gorman tell them what the mystery was. Perhaps they could work on it along with their other sleuthing.

Gorman pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and wrote:

MEET ME TOMORROW AT 2 P.M. IN THE BROWN SHACK ON THE DUNE A MILE NORTH OF PIRATES’ HILL. I’LL TELL YOU THEN.

The boys read the message. Frank nodded. But Joe, suspicious, said, “Before we go any further, suppose you tell us what you know about cutlasses.”

The boy’s remark hit Gorman like a bombshell. He sat bolt upright in his chair, and his face flushed. “Please, not now,” he said in a strained voice. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell you then.”

He arose, took a lighter from his pocket, and burned the note. Then he walked to the door, unlocked it, and ushered the boys out.

The Hardys did not speak until they reached their car. Then, as they drove off, Joe burst out, “What do you make of all this?”

Frank said his curiosity was aroused and he would like to go to the shack. “But I’ll watch out for any double-crossing.”

“Well, we’d better get back to our search for the demiculverin,” Joe urged.

“Let’s borrow Dad’s magnetometer,” Frank added. This was an electronic mine detector for locating metals under sand.

They picked up the instrument at their house, then drove to Pirates’ Hill.

“Let’s do our searching systematically,” Frank said. He proposed that they mark off sectors and work along the beach and the dunes, moving slowly up the hill.

They worked steadily until one o’clock. The magnetometer had indicated nothing of importance. The boys sat down to rest and eat the sandwiches they had brought. It was ebb tide and the beach was deserted.

As soon as they had finished, they resumed their work with the magnetometer. Whenever it indicated a metal object under the sand, the boys dug hopefully. As time passed, they discovered a battered watch, a charm bracelet and a cheap ring, along with soda cans and an old, rusty anchor.

“Say, we could open a secondhand store,” Joe quipped.

“A junk yard’s more like it,” Frank said.

By five o’clock they had dug several holes on the beach and part of the hill but had not found any artillery. Unfortunately, the magnetometer short-circuited. It would take some time to repair it, they knew. Weary, they gave up the search.

“At this rate it’ll take us all summer to cover Pirates’ Hill,” Frank remarked, flopping down on the sand.

“Yes, and Bowden’s in a hurry,” Joe answered with a grin.

They went back to their convertible and started homeward. Soon after dinner the phone rang. It was Chief Collig.

“I have some important news for you,” he told Frank, who had answered.

“What’s up, Chief?”

“First, I want to tell you that we still have the stakeout posted at the cabin in the woods, but no one has showed up yet.”

“Too bad,” said Frank.

“Second, the department has been working on the fireworks case. Since you fellows are interested in finding that phony helper I thought you’d like to know we’ve traced him to a rooming house.”

“Where?” Frank asked.

“Right here in Bayport. His name is Guinness. He skipped out just before we got there, but we picked up a clue that may help us locate him. Officer Smuff discovered it in a wastebasket in Guinness’s room.”

Frank gripped the phone excitedly. “What is it?”

“An address on a scrap of paper,” the chief replied. “It reads A. B. Smedick, B. H.”

CHAPTER XII

Startling Developments

STUNNED by the information, Frank echoed, “A. B. Smedick, B. H.!”

“Right,” said the police chief. “What do you think B. H. stands for?”

“I’m sure that it means Bayport Hotel,” Frank replied, “because we talked to a person there by that name.”

“What! Well, then, maybe you can tell us where Smedick is now. He checked out.”

Frank, amazed to hear this, said he had no idea. “Joe and I are supposed to meet him tomorrow afternoon along the shore. He probably won’t show up. But if he does, I’ll try to find out if he knows where Guinness is.”

“Do that,” said Chief Collig and hung up.

As soon as Frank replaced the phone in its cradle, he rushed to tell Joe, his mother, and Aunt Gertrude the news.

“It sounds to me,” Aunt Gertrude commented, her jaw set firmly, “as if everybody connected with this Pirates’ Hill mystery is a criminal.”

“You could be right. At this point I’m beginning to think Joe’s suspicions about Gorman might be justified,” Frank remarked.

Joe gave a knowing grin. “I thought you’d agree sooner or later.”

“Hold on! I didn’t say I’m entirely convinced. I’ll let you know after we talk to him at that shack tomorrow afternoon.”

“If he shows up,” Joe added.

Next morning, when the boys awoke, a heavy rain was falling. Jumping out of bed to close the window, Frank remarked, “It doesn’t look as if we’ll be able to do any searching at Pirates’ Hill today.”

After breakfast they decided to spend the morning doing some sleuthing on the stolen cutlasses.

“There’s a good chance that they may have turned up at some of the antique shops and pawnbrokers by this time,” Frank observed.

The boys’ first stop was a curio shop near the Bayport railroad station. The visit there was fruitless.

Next the Hardys drove across town to a shabby antique shop, owned and operated by Robert Dumian.

“I had some cutlasses,” the dealer replied to Frank’s question. He eyed the boys with curiosity over his bifocal glasses. “It’s funny you’re wanting them. Yesterday a boy named Gil Fanning—about eighteen years old—brought five cutlasses in here to sell. Told me they were family relics.”

“Is he a local boy?” Frank asked, interested at once.

“Yes, he lives in Bayport,” Mr. Dumian answered. “On Central Avenue. I paid him twenty dollars apiece—a pretty steep price, but they were the real thing. Five beautiful swords!”

“May we see them?” Frank asked eagerly. The thought that they might be the Entwistle relics caused his heart to beat faster.

“I’m sorry,” the dealer replied. “Right after Fanning brought the weapons in, a swarthy-looking fellow in a black motorcycle jacket came into the shop and bought every one! He didn’t give me his name.”

The Hardys shot chagrined looks at each other. It appeared that Latsky had beat them to the draw! They were dumbfounded by the appearance of Latsky at the shop—assuming that the man in the leather jacket was he. It certainly looked now as if Latsky were not the person who had stolen the cutlasses from the Historical Society’s building. Could Gil Fanning have been the thief?

“That’s not all,” the man continued. “Last evening, just as I was closing up shop, a stout boy came in here looking for cutlasses. And now you fellows come in asking for the same thing. I am beginning to wonder if there—”

“Did the stout boy give his name?” Joe broke in.

“Yes,” Mr. Dumian said, turning to a spindle of notes on his desk. “He wanted me to get in touch with him if any more cutlasses came in. Here it is.” He tore a slip of paper off the spindle and handed it to Frank.

The paper bore the name Chet Morton!

“Chet Morton! We know him,” Joe burst out. “What would he want with the swords?”

“Search me,” said Mr. Dumian.

The boys thanked him and left the shop. They decided to talk to Gil Fanning, then ride out to Chet’s house and ask him why he was looking for cutlasses.

“What a muddle!” Frank exclaimed as they went into a drugstore to look up the name Fanning in the Bayport telephone directory. They found one listed at 70 Central Avenue.

Frank and Joe drove there in the downpour and learned that Gil, an orphan, lived with his grandmother. Tearfully the elderly woman said the boy had not been home for a week.

“He’s always been hard to manage,” she said, “but I knew where he was. This is the first time he’s ever stayed away without letting me know where he is.”

“Have you notified the police?” Frank asked.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Fanning replied. “Gil phoned he’d be back in a while. Said he had a job and I was not to worry.” Suddenly she asked, “But why are you here? Is my boy in some kind of trouble?”

“Not that we know of,” Frank answered. “Mrs Fanning, did you give Gil permission to sell any of your heirlooms?”

“Cutlasses,” Joe added.

A frightened look came over the woman’s face. “You mean swords? We never had any swords. You must be mistaken.”

“No doubt.” Frank smiled, not wishing to disturb the elderly woman any further. “Well, thank you,” he said. “I hope Gil returns soon.”

Frank and Joe left, puzzled by the information. After having lunch at a coffee shop, they headed for Chet Morton’s.

As they neared the farm, the rain ended. They learned from Iola that Chet had taken his flippers and snorkel, and gone to their swimming pool to practice skin diving.

“Ever since he found that gunner’s pick, he’s had a great desire to dive for treasure,” Iola added, smiling.

Frank and Joe told her about their search at Pirates’ Hill the previous day, then went to the pool to talk to Chet about his visit to the antique store.

To their surprise, he was not in sight. At the edge of the pool lay his snorkel and flippers.

The Hardys returned to the farmhouse and told Mrs. Morton and Iola that Chet was not around. Both looked concerned. Mrs. Morton said that he never left without saying where he was going.

“Perhaps he went off with that boy who was here,” Iola suggested. She told the Hardys that about half an hour ago a youth about Chet’s age had strolled in and asked for him. They had directed him to the pool.

“Who was he?” Frank asked.

“We’d never seen him before,” Iola answered. “He said his name was Gil. He didn’t give his last name.”

Upon hearing this, Frank and Joe told her and Mrs. Morton the whole story of Gil Fanning and the cutlasses.

“If the boys went off together walking, they probably haven’t gone far,” said Frank. “We’ll look for Chet.”

The Hardys hurried off. As they rode along, their eyes constantly swept the landscape, hoping to catch sight of their pal. They went for three miles without passing a car or seeing anyone walking along the road. Presently they came to a combination country store and gasoline station.

“I’ll go in and phone Mrs. Morton. Maybe he’s turned up meanwhile,” said Frank, getting out of the car.

Joe followed, hoping that Chet had returned. But when Frank spoke to Mrs. Morton they learned that their pal had not come back and the family had no word from him. Mrs. Morton declared that she was going to call Chief Collig at once.

Leaving the store, Frank turned to Joe. “What do you think we should do? Keep hunting for Chet, or go on to the shack?”

“Let’s go on,” Joe replied. “The police will do everything possible to find Chet.”

As they approached their convertible, Joe gasped and grabbed Frank’s arm.

“Oh, no!” he cried out, pointing to the rear tires. Both were flat!

The boys rushed over to the car. Not only were the tires flat, but to their dismay there were huge slashes in them!

“Someone deliberately cut our tires!” Frank exclaimed.

They wondered whether it had been the malicious mischief of some prankster, or whether one of their enemies was pursuing them and had done it to keep them from meeting Gorman.

“We have only one spare,” Joe remarked with a groan. “Where can we get a second?”

“Maybe the storekeeper sells tires,” suggested Frank, and returned to the shop.

Fortunately the man kept a few recaps in his cellar. Frank found one that fit the car and brought it upstairs. Working together, the Hardys soon replaced the slashed tires.

“It’s way after two o’clock,” Frank remarked as they went to wash their hands. “I wonder if Gorman will wait.”

Joe reminded him that the man might not be at the shack at all. He still mistrusted Gorman and was sure a trap had been laid for them.

“Maybe,” said Frank. “Anyway, we’ll approach with caution.”

Three miles farther on they reached a side road which they figured would take them near the shack. Presently the road ended and Frank braked the convertible to a stop. Ahead was nothing but sand. The boys got out and looked around.

“There’s the shack!” Frank pointed to their right as he put the car keys in his pocket.

The ramshackle old building, badly weathered and sagging, stood between two dunes. They trudged toward it through the wet sand, a fine spray from the windswept sea stinging their faces.

“What a dismal place!” Frank exclaimed

Joe nodded, “Perfect spot for a trap. I don’t believe Gorman came, Frank.”

As they drew closer, they noticed that the front door was wide open. They concluded no one could be inside, for certainly any occupant would have shut the door against the strong winds.

Nevertheless, Frank called out, “Tim! Hey, Tim!”

No answer!

“It’s obvious he’s not here,” said Joe. “And if this is a trap, we’re not walking into it. Let’s go!”

At that moment the boys heard a muffled cry from inside the shack. Throwing caution aside, they rushed into the building.

The next instant they were seized by two masked men!

CHAPTER XIII

Mixed Identities

AMBUSHED, Frank and Joe fought like wildcats. Their assailants were much heavier in build and held onto the boys with grips of steel. Neither man relaxed his viselike hold for a moment, despite a hard, occasional punch which the Hardys managed to land.

As the boys fought desperately, the face masks slipped off their attackers. The men were strangers to the Hardys.

Joe wrested his right arm free and sent a vicious punch to his adversary’s jaw. The man’s grip relaxed and he fell back, groggy. This was Joe’s chance for escape!

“Here I come, Frank!” he yelled.

But a kick from the other man sent Joe sprawling. In a flash his own antagonist was on top of him. There was little fight left in his assailant but he depended on his great weight to hold the boy down. Joe could hardly breathe.

At this point Frank was giving his opponent a rough time. The man was now gasping for breath. “I’ll let him get really winded,” Frank thought, wriggling even harder to break loose.

“Hold still or I’ll finish you for good!” the man threatened.

“Just try it,” Frank grunted defiantly.

He gave another violent twist and almost broke free. But the man retained his powerful hold. An unexpected downward swipe with his stiffened hand caught Frank on the back of the neck and he slumped to the floor.

The man now turned his attention to Joe and helped his accomplice pin him to the floor. They bound and gagged the young detectives, then held a whispered consultation. One of them went into a back room and returned a moment later dragging something in a burlap sack. He slid it into a corner and both men left the shack by the front door.

Frank and Joe heard a muffled groan. A human being was in the sack!

The boys concluded it must be Gorman. He, too, had been ambushed! Were the attackers enemies of Gorman working on their own, or were they in league with Bowden? Or perhaps Latsky?

Desperately the Hardys tried to loosen their bonds. Frank found that by wriggling his jaw and rubbing the gag against his shoulder he could loosen it. At once he cried out:

“Gorman!”

As the bundle in the corner moved slightly in reply, they were horrified to see their assailants rush back into the shack. They had heard Frank’s outcry. Without a moment’s hesitation, they knocked both boys unconscious.

Some time later Joe revived. He was amazed to find that he was outdoors and dusk was coming on. He saw Frank not far away and on the other side of him the captive in the burlap sack.

“We’re in a gully,” Joe thought as he struggled to rise.

His arms were still tied behind him and the gag was in his mouth. Every part of his body ached. He was lying face up in a puddle of rain water and was soaked.

Frank, still unconscious, was also bound and gagged. His position was precarious; he lay in a deeper part of the ditch with water rushing only inches from his nose and mouth. The stream, swollen by the heavy rain, was tumbling along in torrents.

“Frank will drown!” Joe thought in horror. “I must get him out of here!” He struggled desperately and finally by twisting and turning slipped his gag off. But his bonds held firmly.

“Frank!” he shouted. “Sit up! Sit up! You’ll drown!”

At first there was no response, then Frank made a feeble effort to rise. He raised his head a few inches and tried to pull himself up, but he lacked the strength. Exhausted, he slumped back into an even more dangerous position.

“I must rescue him!” Joe said to himself.

He dragged his body through the mud to Frank. Rolling onto his side, he was able to clutch his brother by one leg with his tied hands. Getting a firm hold, he pulled Frank inch by inch from the threatening stream.

It was an agonizing task. The sharp gravel on the edges of the gully scraped Joe’s cheeks, but finally he brought Frank to a safe spot. He managed to remove the gag, but the knots on Frank’s bonds defied him.

“We’d better give this up,” said Joe, “or I may be too late to save Gorman.”

“Go ahead,” Frank said weakly. His own arms had no feeling in them.

The burlap sack lay only slightly out of water. “Those thugs must have figured on having the three of us drown in the stream. They evidently sent us rolling down the bank, but we didn’t go far enough,” Joe thought.

Redoubling his efforts, he crawled to the burlap sack and attempted to secure a hold similar to the one on his brother. But the embankment here had a slimy mud surface. With each attempt to haul the sack away from the water, Joe lost ground.

“I’ll never get Gorman out this way!” he groaned. “I’ll have to get my hands free.”

His bonds were as tight as ever. Joe decided to crawl back to Frank and have him work on the knots again. Halfway to his goal, he heard the sound of an approaching car. Apparently there was a road above the gully!

“Help! Help!” Joe cried out.

The car went by and the boy’s heart sank. He yelled even louder. To his immense relief, he heard the car slow down. Then it stopped.

A door slammed, and Joe continued his cries for help. Someone came running and leaned over the rim of the gully.

Bowden!

“Joe Hardy!” the man cried out. “What happened to you?”

“Come down here, quick!” Joe yelled, “Untie me! And we must get the others out!”

Bowden, his raincoat flapping in the wind, grabbed the overhanging branch of a nearby tree for support and slid down the embankment.

“There’s a penknife in my pocket,” Joe told him. “Get it out and cut me loose.”

Bowden did so, and together he and Joe freed Frank and assisted him to his feet.

Joe pulled Frank from the threatening stream

The burlap sack began to move. Bowden jumped back, startled. “For Pete’s sake, what’s in there?”

“It’s—” Joe started to say, when Frank gave him a warning look.

“We don’t know,” Frank spoke up, “but we figure it’s probably a man. Two thugs knocked Joe and me out. They must have put all three of us in the gully.”

The boys made their way to the sack. Both were thinking the same thing. What was Bowden’s reaction going to be when he and Gorman faced each other?

With the penknife Joe slashed the cords that bound the burlap sack and yanked it open. A cry of astonishment burst from the Hardys. The prisoner was not Gorman! He was Chet Morton!

The stout boy, bound and gagged, and wearing only swim trunks, gazed at his rescuers dazedly. It was evident he was weak and in a state of shock.

“Chet!” the Hardys exclaimed, removing his bonds.

As their pal took in great drafts of fresh air, Bowden asked, “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yes,” Joe replied. “We must get him home at once.”

“I’ll take you there,” Bowden offered.

“Thanks. Where are we, anyway?” Frank asked him, slapping and swinging his arms to restore the circulation.

“On the shore road about ten miles from Bayport. Say, where did you fellows get slugged?”

“Somewhere up on the dunes,” Frank replied offhandedly. He felt in his pocket. The car keys were gone!

Bowden preceded the boys up the steep embankment. Frank and Joe assisted Chet, who could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

“You’ll feel better, pal, as soon as we get you something to eat,” Joe told him.

Chet gave a half-smile and nodded. “Awful hungry,” he admitted.

Out of earshot of Bowden, Frank whispered to Chet, “We thought you were Gorman.”

“Yes,” said Joe. “That guy double-crossed us.” He looked at Frank. “I guess you’re ready to admit now that Gorman is a phony!”

CHAPTER XIV

Chet’s Kidnap Story

As the three boys followed Bowden to his car, the man’s denunciation of Tim Gorman came back to them. Bowden probably was right, but where did he himself fit into the picture? The Hardys wondered if there were any significance to the fact that he happened to be passing the gully.

“The less we say the better,” Frank warned the others.

Reaching the car, Joe got into the front seat, ready to grab the controls should Bowden attempt to turn off the main road and lead them into any more trouble. But the man drove along normally and in silence.

Suddenly Joe cried out, “There’s our car parked just ahead!” It had been pulled way over to the side.

Bowden stopped and waited as the Hardys examined the automobile. The keys were in it and nothing had been disturbed. The motor started at once.

“Thanks again, Mr. Bowden,” Frank called, as the other boys climbed into the convertible. By this time it was almost dusk. “We’ll have to show our appreciation to you by working harder than ever to locate the demiculverin.”

Just then they were startled by a sound that resembled a low, muffled groan.

Frank looked around. “What was that?”

“Just the wind in the trees, I guess,” Bowden replied as he waved and drove off.

“Well, one thing seems certain,” Frank remarked as he pulled out onto the road. “Bowden didn’t know anything about the attacks on us.”

“On the other hand,” said Joe, “those thugs may have been in his employ and he drove out here to see if they had carried out instructions.”

“If you’re right,” said Frank, “he sure got a surprise. And say, what about Gorman? I guess he didn’t come to the shack after all.”

“But sent those thugs instead,” Joe said.

“Listen, you just said it was Bowden.”

“Sure I did. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m completely baffled. And now, Chet, tell us what happened to you.”

“Here’s the story. It all began when I put an ad in the paper.”

“For what?” Joe asked.

“Skin-diving equipment. I wanted to buy some secondhand. Well, this morning a fellow came out to the farm to see me.”

“By the name of Gil,” Frank said. “Iola told us. What was his last name?”

“I didn’t ask him,” Chet said. “I was too excited. You see, he told me he represented a man who was willing to sell his equipment cheap.”

“What happened then?”

“I was out at our pool when he arrived. His car was parked down the road and he offered to drive me to the man’s house to look at the gear. Since he was in a hurry, I hopped in without taking time to change.”

“What then?” Frank asked.

Chet related that the boy had stopped the car in a wooded section which he said led to the house. “As soon as I stepped out, a stocky, masked man jumped from behind a tree. In a flash he had me tied up and blindfolded,”

“Then what?” Frank asked.

“While I was lying there in the rain, he said, ‘What did you do with the cutlass?’ ”

“ ‘What cutlass?’ ” I asked. “He kicked me and said, ‘You know which cutlass I mean.’

“I told him that I had been to an antique shop to buy one but had arrived too late. The man didn’t have any left. I sure didn’t want to tell him about the one you fellows have.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Joe. “Chet, we were at that shop and heard the story. We think the character who bought all the cutlasses was Latsky.”

“Wow! That sure complicates things.”

“Why did you go to the shop?” Frank asked.

Chet smiled wanly. “I was hoping to get a clue for you on the sword Gorman and Bowden know about.”

“Good try,” said Joe. “Go on with your story.”

Chet scowled angrily at the recollection. “When I wouldn’t tell that guy anything, he flew into a rage. I don’t know what he hit me with but he sure kayoed me. From that time on I don’t remember a thing until you found me in the gully.”

Just then the car reached the side road which led to the shack where Frank and Joe had been ambushed. Frank turned into it.

“Hey, where you heading?” Chet asked. “I thought you were going to get me something to eat. I’m weak.”

“Ten minutes won’t make any difference,” Frank replied. “I just had an idea.”

“Well, it had better be good,” Chet grunted.

Frank said it was possible that the figure in the burlap sack at the shack had not been Chet. Why would his attackers have bothered to take him there and carry him off again?

“The prisoner was probably someone else— maybe even Gorman,” Frank declared, “and he may still be there.”

“Listen, fellows,” Chet protested. “I don’t want to be captured again now!”

“You won’t,” Frank said. “You’ll take the car key and hide in the trunk. Leave the lid open an inch. You can act as lookout and give us the old owl whistle if anyone approaches.”

“Okay, that’s safe enough.”

Frank parked in the same spot as before. The Hardys put flashlights in their pockets and got out. The area ahead was in semidarkness, with the shack standing out like a black block silhouetted against the sky.

Frank and Joe moved cautiously, taking care not to step in the footprints that led away from the shack. Mingled with them were drag marks, no doubt made by the feet of the Hardys as the unconscious boys were removed from the building.

“You take the front, Joe, and I’ll go around,” Frank suggested.

They separated. Finding no sign of an occupant, they finally beamed their flashlights through the windows. The shack was empty.

In swinging his light back, Joe became aware of something interesting a few feet away. Quickly he summoned his brother and pointed out a depression in the damp sand.

“Someone was lying there,” he said, “Face down.”

“Well, it wasn’t Chet,” Frank surmised. “From head to toe the length is a good six feet.”

“Look!” Joe exclaimed. “There’s an initial here!”

The boys bent over a spot a few inches from the face mark in the sand. Scratched faintly was a letter.

“It looks like a C,” Joe commented.

“Or perhaps a G,” Frank said. “It could stand for Gorman.”

They assumed that the man, bound and gagged, had made the impression with the tip of his nose. A more careful search of the area revealed footprints and drag marks that indicated he had been taken into the shack, probably in a sack, then later carried off.

The boys trudged back to the shack and again looked at the face impression in the sand. Frank felt it belonged to Gorman.

“I wish there were some way to make sure,” Joe said.

“I think there is,” Frank replied. “Let’s make a mold of this face.”

The Hardys often made plaster molds of footprints and shoe prints. They kept the equipment for doing this in their workshop over the garage.

“We’ll have to come back early tomorrow,” Frank said. “In the meantime, we’ll protect the impression.”

He went into the shack and looked about for something to use as a cover. In one corner was an old box. He carried it outside, and placed it firmly over the sand impression.

“Let’s go!” Joe urged.

As they started back toward their car, the stillness was suddenly shattered by the mournful hoot of an owl: Chet’s signal that something had gone wrong.

The Hardys broke into a runt

CHAPTER XV

An Impostor

THE hooting was not repeated and the Hardys wondered if Chet were in trouble. They doubled their speed and quickly reached the convertible. No one was in sight.

Joe pulled up the trunk lid. Chet, inside, looked relieved.

“Did you hoot?” Joe asked him.

“I sure did. A couple of guys were here. I heard them coming through the woods, so I gave the signal.”

“Where are they now?” Frank demanded.

“Both of them ran back through the woods when they saw you coming.”

“Who were they?”

Chet said he did not know. It was too dark to see them well, but neither was the man who had knocked him out. From Chet’s description the Hardys concluded they might have been the men who had attacked them in the shack.

“They didn’t use any names,” said Chet, “but they talked a lot.” He added that upon seeing the car, they had seemed worried, wondering how it got there. “They decided that perhaps the police had brought it there and were using it as a decoy. Just then they saw you coming and beat it.”

“It’s a good thing they did,” said Frank, “or we might have had another battle on our hands.”

As the three boys started home, Chet gave a gigantic sneeze. “Those guys’ll kill us one way or another,” he groaned. “But I’ll probably die of pneumonia first.”

Joe wrapped a blanket from the rear seat around Chet’s shoulders, but the boy continued to sneeze all the way to the farm. By the time they entered the Morton driveway he was having chills.

“Sorry,” said Frank. His conscience bothered him that they had not brought their pal home sooner.

“Look!” Joe exclaimed as they pulled up behind a police car. “Chief Collig’s here now.”

Mrs. Morton and Iola were overjoyed to see that Chet was safe. Chet’s mother at once insisted that he take a hot shower and go to bed. She prepared a light supper, topped off with steaming lemonade.

In the meantime, the police chief listened in amazement as Frank and Joe related their experiences.

Chief Collig agreed with the Hardys that the case had assumed serious proportions. “Take it easy, fellows,” he advised. “I’ll notify the State Police about that shack. I’m sure they’ll want to station a man there.”

“Joe and I plan to make a plaster cast of the impression we found in the sand,” Frank told him. “We thought it might be a good clue.”

“I doubt that it will work,” said the chief. “But good luck. When are you going to do it?”

“Very early tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll tell State Police Headquarters.”

The chief said he himself would put more men on the case and station a plainclothesman at the Morton farm. As he left the house, Mrs. Morton bustled into the living room to report that Chet had finally stopped sneezing. “He’ll be asleep in a few minutes,” she said.

Before Frank and Joe left they telephoned their home. Mrs. Hardy answered and was happy to hear that they had suffered no ill effects from their experiences that day.

When they arrived at the house, Aunt Gertrude greeted them with rapid-fire words of advice about staying away from mysterious shacks. “When you’ve finished supper, go to bed and get a good night’s sleep!” she added. “You need it!”

“You’re right,” said Joe. “Frank and I have a date at six tomorrow morning.” He told his mother and aunt what it was.

Mrs. Hardy sighed. “I suppose it won’t be dangerous for you to go if a State Police officer is there.”

“I’ll call you,” Aunt Gertrude promised.

The next morning at five-thirty she roused her nephews. “Hurry,” she commanded. “Breakfast is ready and cold eggs and toast are no good!”

The boys dressed quickly and went downstairs to find that their mother and aunt had prepared a hearty meal consisting of hot cereal, scrambled eggs, and cocoa.

“The sooner you solve this mystery, the better!” Aunt Gertrude said as the boys ate. “It has me on pins and needles.”

“Too bad,” said Joe. “But I think we’ll be closer to a solution when we make this death mask.”

“What on earth are you talking about? I didn’t know someone was—”

Frank and Joe laughed and calmed their aunt’s fears. Then, becoming serious, Frank said he hoped the person whose face had made the impression in the sand was still alive.

Joe, pushing back his chair, said, “I’ll carry the equipment from our lab, Frank, while you get the car out.”

Shortly after six o’clock the boys started off, promising to report back home by lunchtime.

“I won’t be here,” said Aunt Gertrude. “I’m going over to the state museum to a lecture. While there I’ll explain about the cutlasses. The trip will take me until ten tonight.”

“Happy landing, Aunty!” Joe said with a grin.

It was a pleasant ride in the early-morning fresh air and the sun stood bright over the horizon when they arrived at the dunes. At once they were challenged by a state trooper who stepped from the woods. Frank showed his driver’s license and introduced his brother. The man gave his name as Williams.

“Chief Collig said you’d come,” he stated. “Go ahead. There’s another officer named Winn at the shack.”

Lugging the equipment for making the mold, Frank and Joe trekked to the small building and said hello to State Trooper Winn. “Has anyone been here since you came on duty?” Frank asked.

“No. Not a soul.”

The box was still in place over the face in the sand. Joe lifted it. The impression was intact.

“Covering that was a good idea,” Trooper Winn remarked.

First, Frank used a spray gun and coated the imprint with a quick-hardening fluid. While he was doing this, Joe mixed plaster in a pail. Then he carefully poured it into the sand.

“When that sets, I hope we’ll have a replica of the face, clear enough to be recognizable,” Frank said.

When the mold was hard, he lifted it from the sand and turned it over. The result was an indistinct blob. Only the chin line was clear.

“Tough luck,” the trooper said. “The sand dried out too much during the night.”

“Still I’m certain it’s Gorman!” Frank said, pointing out the solid, jutting jaw. “He’s a prisoner of those hoods!”

Quickly Joe explained the circumstances to the trooper.

“Will you tell all this to Williams?” the officer requested. “He’ll send out an alarm over the radio.”

“Let’s go!” Frank urged.

The Hardys gathered their implements and hurried back to the convertible. Frank told Trooper Williams of their discovery and he notified State Police Headquarters from his car, well hidden in the woods, to start a search for Gorman. When he finished speaking, Williams let Frank use the radio to contact Chief Collig. The officer said he would institute a local search.

“Let’s stop at Chet’s,” Joe proposed as they reached the main road.

“Good idea. I’d like to know how he is. And he’ll want to hear the result of our experiment.”

They found Chet in bed. There was no doubt he had a bad cold, but fortunately there was no sign of pneumonia.

The Hardys stayed with him an hour and brought him up to date on their morning’s activities.

Chet scratched his head. “Where do you suppose Gorman is?”

Frank shrugged. “A prisoner some place of either Bowden or Latsky. I hope the police find him soon.”

Joe, eager to continue their search at Pirates’ Hill, rose and said, “Take it easy, Chet. We’ll let you know if anything new turns up.”

It was noon when Frank and Joe reached home, Mrs. Hardy had a tasty lunch ready. They ate quickly and soon were ready to go out again.

“I’d like to search until it’s too dark to dig,” said Joe. “Let’s take some supper with us.”

Frank agreed. They told their mother they would be back around nine and drove to Pirates’ Hill.

Working in the damp sand proved to be a hot, arduous task, and before they ate their sandwiches, the boys went swimming. When the sun was about to set, they packed their tools and left.

“Not one clue to that demiculverin,” Joe said in disgust.

“But we’re not giving up!” Frank declared.

Exactly at nine o’clock the Hardys’ car hummed up Elm Street and Frank turned into their driveway. They noticed a dark-blue sedan parked in front of their home.

“A visitor,” Joe said. “Wonder who it is.”

Pulling up in front of the garage, they got out and went in through the kitchen.

Mrs. Hardy greeted them. “You just missed a friend.”

“Who was it?” Frank asked.

“Tony Prito’s cousin Ken,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “He came for the cutlass, as you requested.”

“What!” Frank cried in alarm.

“Tony phoned a little while ago. Said you were at his house and had told them about the sword. Ken would come over and pick it up in a few minutes. So I wrapped it in newspaper and gave it to him. He just drove off in a dark-blue car.”

“Mother!” Joe cried out. “That man was an impostor! We weren’t there and Tony has no cousin Ken!”

Mrs. Hardy sank into a chair. “Oh, how dreadful!” she wailed.

Frank put an arm around her. “Don’t worry. We’ll go and find that man!” To Joe he said, “We must get that cutlass back! There might be a clue in it that will tell us what Latsky, Bowden, and Gorman are really searching for.”

The boys dashed to their convertible and sped after the thief.

“There he goes!” Joe cried as Frank turned the next corner.

The convertible leaped ahead. Five blocks farther on, the driver of the blue sedan, apparently unaware that he was being followed, stopped for a red light. Frank quickly pulled alongside on his left. The man at the wheel wore a black motorcycle jacket.

“Latsky!” Joe exclaimed.

On the seat alongside the driver Joe saw a narrow, newspaper-wrapped package. The cutlass!

As Joe flung open the door and hopped out, the man turned to look at the boys. His swarthy face twisted into an ugly sneer.

“We’ve got you, Latsky!” Joe cried, quickly reaching for the door handle.

But the ex-convict was quicker. Gunning his motor, he shot across the street against the red light. Joe was flung to the pavement.

CHAPTER XVI

The Wreck

BRAKES screeched as oncoming cars tried to avoid colliding with Latsky. Joe picked himself up and jumped into the convertible. Frank, gritting his teeth impatiently, waited for the signal to change. When it clicked to green, he took off in hot pursuit of the fleeing sedan.

“I hope Latsky sticks to the main highways,” Joe said. “With his head start, we’ll have a tough time catching him if he turns into a side street.”

Reaching the outskirts of the older section of Bayport, Frank increased his speed. Suddenly, going over a small rise, the boys saw the red glow of rear lights. A car swung to the left into a T-intersection highway that circled wide to the right, by-passing the outlying residential section.

“It’s Latsky!” Joe shouted.

At almost the same moment they heard the wailing of a siren close behind them.

“A police car,” Joe said. “I guess the officer thinks we’re speeding. Slow down, Frank.”

The boy eased his foot off the accelerator and the squad car pulled alongside. Chief Collig himself was at the wheel. “Where’s the fire, fellows?”

“We’re after Latsky,” Frank explained, and quickly told of their chase.

“I’ll lead the way!” the chief said.

Though the officer drove a special high-powered vehicle, Joe doubted that he could catch the fleeing car. Latsky had too much of a head start. “Frank,” he suggested, “how about taking the shortcut past the old Pell farm? Then we’ll come back onto the main highway and throw up a roadblock.”

“Great! I’ll try it.”

Frank whirled to the right at the next lane, roared over a narrow macadam road for a mile, and then turned left into another dirt lane. Minutes later he zoomed onto the highway again.

“Here he comes!” Joe cried out as two headlights flashed over a low hill behind them. In the distance the whine of the police siren sounded.

Frank slammed on his brakes and angled the convertible across the road, so that the red lights blinked a warning to stop. Both boys jumped out, concealing themselves behind a tree along the roadside.

“Wow!” Joe whispered. “Latsky and the chief must be doing ninety!”

The next second there was a squeal of rubber on concrete. Latsky had spotted the roadblock and jammed on the brakes.

“He’s out of control!” Frank cried.

The oncoming car headed wildly for the tree behind which the Hardys had taken cover. As they ran, the car bounced off the tree and screeched across the road into a field, where it overturned.

Joe and Frank sped toward the wreck, flashlights in hand. While they were still some distance away they saw Latsky, carrying the cutlass, stumble from the car. Dazed for the moment, the man staggered, but quickly regained his equilibrium and dashed off into the darkness of a woods.

At that moment Chief Collig roared up and stopped. Seeing the flashlights, he got out and hurried across the field. The Hardys were trying to pick up Latsky’s footprints.

“Am I seeing things?” the officer cried out. “How did you get here? And what’s going on?”

“Shortcut,” Joe said. “We set up a roadblock and stopped Latsky, but he ran away.”

Swinging the bright beams of their flashlights in the woods, the trio followed the footprints. They led to a wide brook.

“Latsky’s clever,” Chief Collig remarked. “He must have entered the water and walked either up- or downstream.”

The Hardys offered to take one direction while the chief took the other, but Collig shook his head. “We’ll never pick up his trail in the dark. I’ll send out an alert on the radio.”

The three left the woods. While Collig went ahead to phone, the Hardys paused to look over the wreck of Latsky’s car.

“He dropped the cutlass!” Joe cried out suddenly as his flashlight reflected on the shining steel blade.

Grabbing it, he hurried with Frank to the police car. Chief Collig was just concluding his conversation. He was delighted to hear that the boys had retrieved their ancient sword, then said, “My men are starting out now to track down Latsky. By the way, that wrecked car was stolen. Too bad for the owner.”

Soon a tow truck arrived to haul the smashed sedan to the police garage. The Hardys said good-by to the chief, and with the cutlass, started home to give it a close examination.

After telling their mother and Aunt Gertrude that they had retrieved the weapon, Frank and Joe went directly to their laboratory over the garage. Under a powerful work lamp they quickly examined the blade. On one side was etched the name of the maker, Montoya.

“There’s probably more,” Joe said excitedly, getting out bottles of chemicals with which to clean off the metal. Every inch of the fine Damascus steel blade was inspected for other markings or hidden writing. There were none.

“The maker of this cutlass must have considered it too fine to mark,” Joe said. Old as it was, the sword still had a keen edge.

Next, the handle was cleaned. Every seed pearl in the design was intact, and the gold leaf was still in place.

“Let’s examine that handle closely,” Frank suggested, getting a magnifying glass.

There was a heavy, richly encrusted leaf scroll pattern. The Hardys scrutinized this minutely to see if it concealed any gems or contraband, but without success.

“I still think there might be something in this handle,” Frank said stubbornly. “Let’s try that special magnifying glass of Dad’s.”

“Good idea!” said Joe. “I’ll get it.”

He ran back to the house and in a few minutes returned with the extra-powerful glass.

Frank focused it over the handle inch by inch. Suddenly his face lighted up. “Look here, Joe!” he exclaimed, pointing.

Looking through the magnifier, Joe saw a tiny line which had been cleverly worked into the leaf pattern.

With the thin blade of a knife, Frank tried to force the crack open, but it was impossible.

“Maybe there’s a spring hidden somewhere in the handle,” Joe suggested. “Let me try it.”

Frank handed him the cutlass and Joe bent over it intently. He pressed each tiny leaf but the crack did not widen.

“A spring could be connected with the blade,” Frank mused. “But how?”

“Perhaps the spring is rusted after all these years,” Joe said. “I’ll try hitting the blade on something.”

He looked around the laboratory and found a slab of stone left over from a previous experiment. Grasping the handle of the cutlass firmly, he jabbed the tip against the hard surface.

Click! The crack widened a full inch!

The boys were jubilant. Frank bent down and examined the sword.

“The tip contains a tiny mechanism,” he said after a moment’s scrutiny. “It must extend through the blade all the way to the handle. Very ingenious!”

He inspected the opening and reached into it with his thumb and forefinger.

“Anything there?” Joe asked.

“Wait a minute—”

There was a soft crinkling noise. “I can feel something,” Frank said. “Here it comes.”

Gingerly he pulled out a small piece of ancient parchment. It was folded up into a compact wad.

Frank carefully smoothed it out. “There’s writing on it!” he exclaimed excitedly.

CHAPTER XVII

Gunner’s Tools

“FRANK, this message is written in what seems to me ancient Spanish,” Joe said. “I can’t make it out.”

“Whatever it says must be mighty important,” Frank concluded, “or the writer wouldn’t have hidden the message.”

“And Bowden and Gorman and Latsky must think so too,” Joe added.

Happy but weary, the boys went to bed, the cutlass safely tucked under Frank’s mattress.

At breakfast the next morning they showed the old parchment to their mother and Aunt Gertrude. All were bending over it excitedly when Chet walked in.

“Wow!” he said when he heard the newest development in the mystery. “You sure are good detectives.”

At that moment the phone rang. “I’ll take it,” Joe offered, hoping the caller would be Mr. Hardy.

The other boys followed him to the phone and stood near as he spoke.

Placing his hand over the mouthpiece, Joe whispered to Chet and Frank, “It’s Bowden!”

He held the receiver a distance from his ear to let them hear the conversation. Bowden said that Gorman had been arrested in St. Louis while traveling under an assumed name.

“A friend of mine on the St. Louis police force, knowing I was interested, just phoned me,” Bowden continued. “I guess we can go about locating the cannon without any interference from Gorman.”

The boys were skeptical of the story.

To Bowden, Joe merely said, “Thank you for the information. We’re working hard on the case.”

The man told Joe he would let the Hardys know if anything further developed. He was about to hang up when Chet burst out:

“Tell him we’ve found the clue in the cutlass!”

Frank gave Chet a warning look, but too late. Bowden’s next words were, “I heard what someone just said. What’s it all about?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” Joe replied. “Just a story we heard and haven’t had time to check out yet.”

“Oh.” Bowden seemed to be thinking hard, but did not pursue the matter.

After Joe hung up, Chet apologized for revealing the news. Frank and Joe were disturbed but assured him that by working fast they would get to the bottom of the mystery and no harm would result from Chet’s slip.

“Now if we could only think of someone who might translate the message on the parchment,” Frank said.

“Let’s try our Spanish teacher, Miss Kelly,” Joe suggested. “If she—”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Aunt Gertrude went to answer it and presently came back with a telegram.

“It’s for you,” she said and handed the message over to Frank.

“From Dad,” the boy said as he unfolded the telegram. “And, Joe, it’s in code!”

“Let’s go upstairs and decipher it,” Joe said. The Hardys dashed to their father’s study and removed Mr. Hardy’s code book from his filing cabinet. Quickly they decoded the message:

BEWARE DOUBLE-CROSSING BY BOWDEN!

“Double-crossing!” Frank echoed the warning in the telegram. “Dad must have further information about Bowden.”

“I wish he had told us more,” Joe said as they returned to the first floor with the news of Mr. Hardy’s message. Instantly Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude became alarmed.

The boys, fearful that their mother might insist they abandon their sleuthing, promised to take extra precautions from now on.

“If Bowden still doesn’t suspect that we mistrust him,” Frank said, “we’ll have the advantage.”

“Which we hope to hold until Dad returns,” Joe added.

Chet whistled. “Well, count me out of any more trouble,” he said. “I’m off for home. Let me know what that foreign parchment says, will you?”

After Chet had chugged off in his jalopy, Frank suggested that they call on Miss Kelly to see if she could translate the message found in the cutlass.

“Let’s stop at police headquarters on the way,” Joe said. “We’ll check Bowden’s story about Gorman’s arrest.”

With the parchment tucked securely in Frank’s inner pocket, they drove to headquarters. There the sergeant in charge promised to check with St. Louis about the alleged arrest. Before leaving, Frank asked if the man named Guinness who had exploded the fireworks had been caught. The officer shook his head.

“Please let us know what you find out about Gorman,” Joe said as they walked out.

Frank drove across Bayport to the small cottage where Miss Kelly lived. She was a pleasant middle-aged woman, well liked by her students.

“We wondered if you could help us solve a mystery,” Joe said as they all sat down in her cool, attractive living room.

“By the expressions on your faces I thought you must be working on one,” Miss Kelly said,

Frank produced the parchment. “Is this Spanish, and can you translate it?”

The teacher studied the scrawled writing for a moment. “No,” she said. “This is written in Portuguese, old-fashioned Portuguese at that. But I believe Mrs. Vasquez might be able to help you.”

Handing back the paper, she explained that Mrs. Vasquez was an elderly Portuguese woman, the mother of a fishing boat captain.

“She isn’t well and doesn’t get up until afternoon,” Miss Kelly said, “but I’m sure if you go see her after lunch, she would help you. I’ll give you her address.”

She looked in the telephone directory and wrote it down. The boys thanked her and left.

“If we can’t get the message translated until after lunch,” Joe said, “let’s go out to Pirates’ Hill and call on Sergeant Tilton. Maybe he can give us some idea of where to dig.”

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “We haven’t had any luck ourselves.”

“This here’s a gunner’s scraper,” Tilton replied

They drove to Tilton’s cottage. The sergeant, dressed in dungarees and a coonskin cap, was working in his small flower garden.

He was in high spirits. “Hi there, boys!” he yelled.

“Good morning, Sergeant Tilton,” Frank replied. “We’ve come to do some more digging for that cannon.”

“We thought maybe you could show us where you think it should be,” Joe added.

“Well, now, let me see,” the man drawled as he came toward them. “Suppose I walk around the place with you.” He grabbed up a folding canvas chair.

When they had gone about fifty yards along the dunes, he stopped and scratched his head. “Accordin’ to my system of reckonin’, the gun must have been located just about—No.” He moved a few steps to his left. “Just about here.”

Sergeant Tilton lighted an old pipe and seated himself comfortably on his folding chair, and the boys started digging. He told them story after story of his Army adventures while they spaded deep through the white sand.

“Hold everything!” Joe called some time later. He was standing waist-deep in a hole. “I’ve found something!”

He bent over and came up with a queer-looking gadget. “What would this be?” he asked, handing it to the sergeant.

Tilton examined it carefully. “This here’s a gunner’s scraper,” he replied.

“Probably belonged to the same gear as that pick Chet found the other day,” Frank whispered to Joe.

Protected by the sand, the scraper had withstood the ravages of time better than the pick had.

“The cannon’s just got to be near here!” Joe declared excitedly.

“That’s right, my boy.” Tilton wore a knowing look as he gave the scraper back to Joe and resumed puffing on his pipe. “Don’t stop diggin’, lads.” He blew out a small cloud of smoke.

Ten minutes later Frank spaded loose a six-foot-long wooden pole fixed at one end with an iron blade. As he handed it to Tilton, the old sergeant exclaimed, “It’s a handspike! You must be gettin’ close!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Guarding a Discovery

THOUGH eager to continue the search, Frank and Joe paused a moment.

“What was that strange-looking pole used for?” Frank asked Sergeant Tilton.

“To manhandle the heavy cannon,” he replied. “With this tool, the gunners could move the carriage, or lift the breech of the gun, so they could adjust the elevatin’ screw.”

Jubilantly expectant, the Hardys dug deeper into the sand. But nothing further came to light.

Finally Frank straightened up. “Joe,” he said, “it’s noon. We’d better let our search go for now. You know we have an errand in town.”

Joe had almost forgotten their plan to call on Mrs. Vasquez and have the parchment translated. “You’re right, Frank.” He asked Sergeant Tilton to keep the spike and pole until the boys called for them. Then they quickly covered the hole with branches and sand, took their tools, and started back.

After stopping for a quick lunch, the Hardys drove directly to Mrs. Vasquez’s home. Her daughter-in-law answered their knock, and when Frank explained the boys’ mission, they were ushered inside.

A white-haired old lady with black eyes stared curiously at them from a rocking chair. She smiled, adjusted her black shawl, and motioned for them to be seated.

“Mother doesn’t speak much English,” the daughter-in-law said, “but I’ll translate.”

The Vasquezes spoke rapidly in Portuguese, then the old lady leaned back in her rocking chair and read the parchment. When she looked up, more words in Portuguese followed.

“Mama says this message gives directions.”

“For what?” Frank’s heart pounded.

Again there was a rapid exchange, then the younger woman smiled. “Directions to a cannon. I’ll write it all down.”

As Mrs. Vasquez spoke, her daughter-in-law translated and wrote:

On high rock Alaqua Cove due east setting sun first day July is treasure cannon. Demiculverin.

The younger woman smiled. “Does this mean anything to you? Where is Alaqua Cove?”

“That was an old Indian name for Bayport, I-think,” Frank replied. “Thanks a million. And, please, will you keep this a secret?”

“Oh, yes. Mama and I will say nothing. I’m glad we could help you.”

Frank and Joe said good-by and left the house. They were grinning ecstatically.

“At last we’re going to solve this mystery!” Joe said.

“And the time of year is perfect,” Frank added. “We’re only about a week over the designated date. That shouldn’t give us much trouble.”

On reaching Pirates’ Hill with their digging tools, Joe became restless, “I hate to wait until sunset. Can’t we start?”

“Sure. We’ve been here so much the past few days I can tell you exactly where the sun has been setting.”

Frank pointed to a distant church spire. “Right there.” He took a compass from his pocket and moved about until his back was due east of the spire. “The cannon should be somewhere along this line,” he said and shuffled through the sand.

“The directions said ‘high rock,’ ” Joe re minded him. “There are rocks under the sand. Let’s try the highest point on this line.”

The boys set to work. All afternoon they dug furiously. Finally, as the sun was about to set, Frank’s spade struck metal!

“Joe,” he cried, “this must be it!”

A moment later they uncovered the curve of a barrel, and judging from its dimensions, they were convinced that this was the Spanish demiculverin for which they had been searching.

“Success!” Frank exclaimed.

Then suddenly he sobered. “We’d better be careful,” he said. “Somebody might be spying on us.”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “Let’s cover up the gun again. It’s getting dark and we won’t be able to dig the whole thing up tonight.”

Shoveling quickly they concealed the valuable discovery until they could come back the next day and uncover it completely. Then, to bewilder any prying eyes, the Hardys decided to make small excavations at other spots.

A short time later two figures appeared over the dunes. Tony Prito and Chet!

“We came out in the Napoli,” Tony said, “Figured you’d be here. We called your house and your mother gave us a message for you.”

“About Gorman,” Chet added. “The police left word that he’s not in St. Louis.”

“Just as we suspected,” Joe said.

Then Frank, in a low voice, told about finding the demiculverin. “Wow!” Chet exploded.

Tony congratulated his friends and asked what their next move would be.

“We’ll dig up the whole cannon tomorrow,” Frank replied.

“I sure wish we could stay here tonight and get an early start,” Joe said. “Say, why don’t we camp out and stand guard over the cannon?”

“Swell idea,” Frank agreed.

Tony offered to go back in the Hardys’ car and pick up a tent, sleeping bags, and food.

“I’ll call your folks and tell them,” he promised.

Two hours later the camp on Pirates’ Hill was ready, with the tent pitched on the cannon site. As the stars came out, the Hardys and Chet crawled into their shelter. Tony had volunteered to stand guard first and posted himself outside the tent flap.

At eleven o’clock he became aware of an approaching figure. Instantly he awoke his sleeping pals. They waited tensely until the person was almost within reach.

“Get him!” Joe cried suddenly.

The campers lunged out of the shelter. Just as Joe was about to tackle the figure, he recognized him.

“Sergeant Tilton!” he exclaimed.

“So it’s you,” drawled the elderly man. He explained that he had spotted their flashlights and had come to see who his neighbors were.

Knowing that the sergeant was inclined to gossip, the boys decided to keep their finding of the cannon to themselves. They chatted casually with Tilton, telling him they had set up camp to be ready for some sleuthing early in the morning.

“Well,” the sergeant said finally, “I reckon I’d better git back to my shack. I suspect you’ll all be snorin’ soon.” He chuckled and walked off.

The rest of the night passed quietly, with the boys rotating the guard watches as they had planned earlier. By six o’clock they were up and preparing breakfast. After eating, the Hardys and Tony started work under the tent, with Chet acting as lookout.

Within an hour the three had dug a deep pit and uncovered the entire demiculverin. The old fieldpiece appeared to be in good condition.

“What a beauty!” Frank exclaimed.

“And look at this number on it!” Joe cried out. Engraved on the barrel were the numerals 8-4-20. “It must be a code for this type. Let’s find out what it stands for.”

Leaving Chet and Tony on guard, the Hardys went home in the convertible to check through their father’s books on cannons. Joe’s hunch that the numerals might be a code led to nothing. They read on.

Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “I get it! An eight-pound ball and four pounds of powder.”

“And twenty degrees of elevation!” Joe beamed.

Hearing the excited conversation of the boys, Mrs. Hardy looked into the room and asked, “Have you found out something interesting?”

“Sunken treasure!” Joe exulted. “A ball shot from the demiculverin probably marks the spot where the old merchantman was sunk by the pirates in that Battle of Bayport!”

Mrs. Hardy was astounded. She started to praise her sons when the front doorbell rang. Frank hurried down to answer it, Opening the door, he blinked in amazement.

Bowden!

As Frank recovered from his surprise, he said, “Come in,” and called loudly over his shoulder, “Joe! Mr. Bowden’s here!”

Joe came down the stairs like a streak of lightning. “What’s up now?” he wondered.

Bowden smiled. “Can’t stay but a few minutes. Good news travels fast. I understand you’ve located the cannon I asked you to find!”

The Hardys were dumbfounded.

“I’ll have the money for you shortly for solving my case,” Bowden continued. “And I’ll send a truck out to Pirates’ Hill tomorrow to pick up the demiculverin.”

CHAPTER XIX

Human Targets

FRANK and Joe were speechless for a moment. Then Frank asked, “How did you hear we found a cannon?”

The man’s reply proved to be another bombshell. “I was out there and your friends told me.”

Frank’s mind whirled. He looked at Joe and realized his brother was thinking the same thing. Whatever Bowden’s real reason was for wanting the ancient cannon, they were going to keep it from him until further word arrived from their father or the police.

Bowden again seemed to be one step ahead of them. “You don’t know it yet, but I own Pirates’ Hill.”

“What?” Frank asked, thunderstruck.

Bowden pulled several documents from his pocket. One was a certificate of sale, another a government release, and the third a letter with a notary-public seal. This stated that Bowden had a right to anything found on Pirates’ Hill.

“They certainly look authentic,” Frank said, but realized the papers could be clever forgeries.

Mr. Hardy’s warning to his sons indicated that Bowden was probably a confidence man. It was possible that he had accomplices who could imitate signatures and print fake documents.

“I must get in touch with Dad about this,” Frank said to himself.

He and Joe knew that the only course was not to let Bowden know of their suspicions. But Joe winced as his brother spoke.

“It looks as if the hill is yours all right, Mr. Bowden. If there’s a cannon on it, there may be other treasures, too.”

Frank’s assurance pleased Bowden. “I hope you’re right. And I’m glad you see the whole thing my way. To tell the truth, I thought you might want the old cannon yourselves. Accept my congratulations for a grand job.”

After he left, Frank said, “I’ll bet those papers Bowden showed us are fake!”

Joe nodded. “We’d better let Dad know about this right away.”

Since it was not possible to reach Mr. Hardy by telephone, they composed a telegram in code, mentioning the fact that the cannon had been found and Bowden was claiming it. Frank phoned the message to the telegraph office.

“I hope this information will bring Dad up here,” Joe said. “Bowden is crooked, Frank. We can’t just hand him the cannon.”

“Of course not. But don’t forget, Joe, digging out the sand around the demiculverin so it can be lifted, and lugging the two tons of iron over the sand may take days. Maybe something will happen in the meantime to stop Bowden.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Joe. “Well, how about doing some computing on those numbers we found on the cannon?”

“Good thought.” The boys quickly discovered, however, that they were unable to solve the gunnery problem. Frank suggested that they drive over to see Mr. Rowe, head of the Mathematics Department at Bayport High. “He’s teaching summer school. I’m sure he’ll be there now.”

They set off for Bayport High and found Mr. Rowe. Intrigued by the problem, he went to work, filling several sheets of paper with calculations. At last he said:

“The cannon ball would land two thousand yards away, if trained and elevated at precisely the angle given in my figures.”

Frank and Joe thanked him, then hurried to their car. On the way back to Pirates’ Hill, Frank remarked that if the demiculverin had not been moved, and currents had not shifted the ship, the treasure should be easy to locate.

Joe grinned. “Let’s measure two thousand yards from the cannon, then hand it over to Bowden with our compliments!”

Frank reminded his brother that whatever their plans, they had to work fast. He parked off the shore road as before and the Hardys ran up to Chet and Tony.

Suddenly Joe stopped short. Grabbing Frank by the arm, he cried out, “Look! There’s Bowden again!”

At the site of the cannon, Bowden and Sergeant Tilton were talking to Chet and Tony.

“Good-by to our plan,” Joe said.

“Maybe not,” Frank remarked. “It might take him some time to catch on to the whole thing.”

Chet and Tony dashed up to meet the boys and whispered that after Frank and Joe had gone back to town, they had continued digging. The two men had caught them off guard.

“You can see the cannon very plainly now,” Tony said. “We thought we’d surprise you and remove all the sand from the front of it.”

“Thanks,” Joe said. “It was a nice idea.”

Frank quickly related Bowden’s visit to the house. Tony frowned. “Maybe that gossipy Sergeant Tilton told him we were here.”

As the group reached the men, the Hardys received only a nod from Bowden, but the genial old sergeant began to talk excitedly. He explained that at Bowden’s request he was preparing a charge similar to the one he used to test the mortar in the town square at Bayport.

In spite of Bowden’s efforts to signal him to keep quiet, Tilton continued, “An’ I’m goin’ to test the strength o’ the barrel fer Mr. Bowden. He wants to be sure it’ll be safe fer him to fire off durin’ that there exposition in Florida.”

“Are you sure you aren’t planning to shoot a cannon ball?” Joe asked suspiciously.

The old gunner protested in disgust. “Of course not. That’d be against the law. I’d have to git permission from the Coast Guard.”

“That’s right,” said Joe, eying Bowden to watch his reaction. But the man showed none.

As the boys looked on, Tilton prepared the powder charge and fired the gun. A thunderous boom followed. As the smoke cleared, he rushed back to inspect the cannon.

“She stood up fine!” he exclaimed.

“Well, thanks, Sergeant,” said Bowden. “I guess the cannon will do for the pageant. I’ll see you later,” he added as he walked away.

The old man began running his hands along the cannon and talking to himself. “Great piece o’ work,” he declared. He turned to Frank and Joe. “I’d like to tell you a bit about this.”

“We’d like to hear it a little later,” said Frank.

The Hardys were eager to locate the old sunken merchantman. When their friends agreed to help, Frank asked Chet to drive to their boathouse in the convertible to pick up the aqualung diving gear. Tony offered the use of the Napoli from which to work.

When Chet reached the road, Bowden was just driving away. As his car gathered speed Chet saw a piece of paper blow out the window. Picking it up, he examined it curiously.

“Why, it’s a stock certificate of the Copper Slope Mining Company. It must be valuable,” he mused. “I’d better return it to Bowden.”

Suddenly he recalled what Frank and Joe had told him about Bowden selling stock to a man in Taylorville. “This certificate might be phony!”

Chet decided to leave the certificate at the Hardys’ home for inspection later on. He got into the convertible and drove to Bayport.

Out on Pirates’ Hill, Frank was saying to the old sergeant, “Now tell us about this cannon.”

Tilton beamed. “Firing a gun like this here one is a pretty risky thing.”

He went on to explain that the demiculverin most likely had been used at some Spanish colonial fort before the pirates had captured it. The normal life of such a cannon was twelve hundred rounds. But at an outpost, where it was hard to get new weapons, a piece was always fired many rounds beyond that figure, increasing the danger of explosion with each burst.

“When cracks develop ‘round the vent or in the bore,” Tilton said, “you got to be careful. The muzzle sometimes blows clean off’em!”

Digging away more sand, the boys found that the cannon was mounted on a mahogany four-wheeled truck carriage used on eighteenth-century ships and garrison guns. It was covered with beautiful leaf designs, wrought in iron.

“Look!” Joe cried. “It’s chained to a boulder.”

This convinced the Hardys that they had been right in their deductions. The cannon was placed so that a ball fired from it would strike one particular place in the ocean!

The boys took sights along the gun barrel and checked them with their compass. The barrel pointed due east. This would make it easy to estimate the approximate spot where the treasure should be. They chafed under the necessity of awaiting Chet’s return.

“What you fellows aimin’ to do, now that you got this mystery solved?” Tilton asked them.

“Look for another case, I guess,” Joe replied. “Right now we’re going for a swim.” To himself he added, “And look for the buried treasure!”

“Hm!” said Tilton. “I ain’t been in the water fer nigh onto thirty years.”

He climbed off the gun emplacement just as Chet came hurrying across the sand without the diving gear.

“Something’s up!” Joe declared.

Puffing, Chet halted. “Frank—Joe, I’ve got big news. Chief Collig phoned your home. Latsky’s been captured!”

“Honestly?” Frank exclaimed, hardly daring to believe it was true.

“Great!” Joe cried out. “How?”

“He finally returned to the cabin. Seems he had money buried near there and had run out of funds,” Chet replied. “The police had no trouble nabbing him.”

Joe grinned. “Latsky’ll be back in the penitentiary for a long stretch.”

After a brief discussion about him, Frank looked at Chet. “In all the excitement I guess you forgot our diving gear.”

Chet laughed and told him it was in the car. The boys said good-by to Tilton and went to pick up the equipment. On the way Chet told the others about the stock certificate Bowden had lost and that Mrs. Hardy now had it.

“Swell work, Chet!” Frank exclaimed.

The diving gear was carried to the beach. As the boys waded out to the Napoli, Joe reviewed what they would do. Tony and Chet were to remain aboard the boat, while Frank and Joe did the diving.

“We’ll work by dead reckoning on the first attempt,” Joe told his pals. “Frank and I will go over the side at the estimated distance from the shore.”

“Let’s get started,” Tony urged.

“Hold on!” Frank said. “I think we’re foolish to leave the cannon unguarded with Bowden loose. No telling what he may try to pull.”

“What do you suggest?” Joe asked.

“That one of us go back and watch. If Bowden comes, our guard can signal and we’ll get to the hill in a hurry.”

“I’ll do it,” Chet offered. “But how?”

Tony took a large yellow bandanna and a clean white rag out of the boat’s locker. He handed them to Chet. “Wigwag with these,” he said.

“And be sure to hide behind a dune,” Frank cautioned, “so Bowden won’t see you.”

The others climbed into the motorboat and Tony started the engine. Frank and Joe gave directions to the site of the sunken treasure, using the church spire as a landmark and keeping on a course due east. Tony steered the Napoli carefully while Frank and Joe tried to estimate a distance of two thousand yards from shore.

“Stop!” Frank commanded presently. “Unless all our reckoning is wrong, the treasure ship must be directly below us.”

There was silence for a few moments as the full import of Frank’s words struck them all. They might be about to make an intriguing find!

“Let’s go down!” Joe urged his brother.

The Hardys donned their gear and climbed over the side.

Tony, watching Chet intently, suddenly cried out, “Wait, fellows! Chet is signaling!”

Back on Pirates’ Hill their pal had seen Bowden sneaking up to the cannon. As he watched the man, terror struck his heart. Bowden was ramming a charge of powder into the ancient gun. Then he inserted a cannon ball into the muzzle!

All this time Chet was wigwagging. The boys on the water interpreted, “Bowden here. Look out for—”

The missile ready, Bowden ran to the back of the cannon and inserted a fuse into the vent hole. Chet’s hands were shaking with fright. Bowden flicked on his lighter and held it to the fuse, then stepped back.

“Run!” Chet signaled.

Boom!

With a shuddering detonation the demiculverin sent the deadly ball directly toward the Napoli!

CHAPTER XX

Divers’ Reward

WHAM! Smack!

The cannon ball hit the Napoli a second after the boys had flung themselves away from it. Spray and debris flew in every direction.

The Hardys, only a few feet away, were knocked unconscious by the concussion. Tony, unhurt, was worried about his companions. He realized that in their diving equipment they would float and could breathe even if they were unconscious. However, he was afraid that his friends might not have survived the shock.

Catching up to Joe, he was just in time to see the boy move his arms. He was alive!

“Thank goodness!” Tony said to himself. Then he went to find Frank. To his relief, he too had regained consciousness. Frank removed the mouthpiece of the air hose and took a deep breath.

“Do you think Bowden meant to kill us?” Tony asked.

“It certainly looks that way.”

Just then Joe swam over to them. One glance at the Napoli told the three boys that it was doomed.

“Too bad,” said Joe.

“Guess we’ll have to swim to shore. Stick close to us, Tony,” Frank advised.

The boys struck out toward the distant beach, but they had not swum fifty yards when they heard the roar of a motor.

“A Coast Guard boat!” Joe called out.

The launch circled to pick them up. The young lieutenant in charge, Ted Newgate, was glad to see that they were all right.

“We heard the report of a cannon and came to investigate,” he said as they were hauled aboard. “What’s going on here?”

“Someone on the hill tried to blow us out of the water,” Joe answered. “I want to get to shore as fast as possible and find him.”

The powerful motor kicked up foam as the boat headed toward land. Nearing Pirates’ Hill, Frank gave a cry. “Joe, there’s Dad on the beach with Chief Collig and Chet.”

Joe shaded his eyes. “And look who’s hand-cuffed to Collig! Bowden!”

Quickly the boys told the lieutenant about the secret of Pirates’ Hill. The young man was amazed and congratulated them on their good work. Then he put them ashore in the launch’s gig. When the bow hit the sand, Frank and Joe raced across the beach to greet their father, a handsome man in his early forties.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“We’re okay, Dad, but no thanks to Bowden,” Frank replied.

The police chief said, “You can thank your lucky stars you’re still here to tell the story. The charge against Bowden will be assault and battery with intent to kill. And the Coast Guard will have something to say about his firing without permission.”

Bowden looked completely beaten. The police chief explained that the man had stolen a cannon ball from the town square, hoping to use it to locate the sunken merchantman.

“When he spotted you fellows out there, Bowden saw a good chance to eliminate you from the race for the treasure.”

Joe glared at the prisoner. “We didn’t trust you, but we didn’t think you were a killer.”

“If the repercussion from that old cannon hadn’t knocked him out, he would have got away before your dad and I showed up,” Collig stated. “He was armed, so Chet wouldn’t have had a chance to stop him. Well, Bowden will get a long stretch in prison to pay for his crimes.”

Frank asked his father how he happened to have come to Pirates’ Hill. “Because I hoped Bowden was here and I wanted to have him arrested for selling fake stock certificates.” Mr. Hardy smiled broadly. “You’ve helped me solve my own case of bringing a notorious gang of swindlers to justice. I’ve been tracking this fellow’s friends all over the South. They’ve been counterfeiting stock, getting prospective customers through the mail and selling them phony certificates.”

Joe inquired when Mr. Hardy had arrived from Florida. “Only an hour ago,” the detective said. “When your telegram came, I flew up. Chet clinched matters by leaving the stock certificate that had blown out of Bowden’s car. The instant your mother handed it to me I recognized it as a counterfeit.”

Hearing this, the prisoner winced, chagrined to think that he had given himself away by carelessly losing the document.

Collig started to walk toward the shore road. “We’d better get this man behind bars.”

The others followed. When they reached the police car, the chief phoned headquarters to report he had a prisoner. In turn the sergeant on duty reported that he was holding a suspect for the Hardy boys to identify.

“Follow me in your car,” Collig directed.

On their arrival at police headquarters, Frank and Joe were first shown a black skin-diving suit and a yellow-trimmed skull cap.

“The spearman that shot at us wore gear like this!” Joe cried out. “Sergeant, where did you get it?”

“From that man over there—Guinness.”

The Hardys turned to look. “The guy who shot rockets at us Fourth of July!” Frank exclaimed. “Say, Guinness, how did you know we were going to be there that night?”

Collig informed both prisoners that they did not have to answer any questions, and advised them of their constitutional rights. But Guinness decided to talk.

“I didn’t,” he said, “but my chance came right then and I took it.”

Guinness admitted he was in league with Latsky, whom he had met recently. But the prisoner denied knowing Bowden or anyone named Gorman.

“What about the paper with the name Smedick on it which the police found in your wastebasket?” Frank asked. “Didn’t you know Smedick was Gorman?”

Guinness said No, but thought Latsky must have discovered Gorman’s alias and dropped the paper on one of his visits to Guinness’s room.

“Where is Gorman?” Frank shot at Bowden.

The man did not answer, but this fact gave Frank a lead. As events flashed through his mind, an idea came to him.

“You had Gorman attacked at the rear of the beach shack and taken away. Later, you hid him in the trunk compartment of your car. We heard him moan!”

Bowden’s face went ashen. Frank’s surmise had turned the tide. Bowden confessed that he had lied to the boys about Gorman’s character. He had had him trailed and ambushed at the shack by henchmen. When the Hardys arrived unexpectedly, it had been necessary for the thugs to attack them, too. Worried, they had taken the young detectives to the gully and dumped them. Then they had abandoned the car.

Upon their return to the shack the henchmen had met Bowden and told the story. Later, Bowden had driven past the gully to check and received a real surprise.

“I had to rescue you because I wanted you to think it was on the level,” Bowden said. “That moan you heard in my car was Gorman. I told you it had been made by the wind.”

“Where is Gorman now?” Frank demanded.

“You’ll find him in the room next to mine at the motel, tied up. He’s supposed to be sick and has an attendant. No one else goes in,” Bowden said.

Chief Collig sent two men immediately to release Gorman. While the others waited, more facts were revealed about the case.

During a prison term at the Delmore penitentiary, Bowden, whose real name was Bell, had met Latsky who knew a great deal about ancient cannon, including the story of the Battle of Bayport. Each man was determined to find the treasure for himself after being released. It became a bitter race, with Gorman against both of them.

“First you had to locate the cutlass with the directions,” said Frank.

“Yes,” Bowden admitted. “Latsky tried to steal the swords from the Bayport Historical Society but failed. Then I took them.”

“I see. And when you found none of them contained the parchment, you had Gil Fanning sell them. Latsky later bought the five cutlasses but could not locate the clue either.”

“And you had Chet lured off to be questioned and slugged him. Then you put him in the gully with Frank and me,” Joe said.

As he was talking, two officers walked in with Gorman and an eighteen-year-old youth.

Chet gazed in amazement. “That’s the fellow who led me into a trap!” he exclaimed.

The new prisoner was identified as Gil Fanning, who had been Gorman’s attendant at the motel. He had needed money, so he agreed to work for Bowden.

“I—I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong,” Gil said. “Then first thing I knew, I was in so deep I couldn’t get out.”

Bowden admitted that the boy had been his dupe, and hoped that harsh punishment would not be meted out to him. The ex-convict then revealed the names of his henchmen, and Chief Collig ordered their immediate arrest.

The Hardys turned to Gorman and asked if he felt all right. “Yes,” he replied, “and I’m glad you boys uncovered the secret in the cutlass, instead of Latsky and Bowden.”

He told them that the directions to the cannon, according to the legend, had been hidden in the cutlass belonging to the pirates’ captain. Along with five other swords it had been given to someone in the Bayport area for safekeeping.

Gorman had learned about the treasure and the demiculverin from an ancient diary. “It was written by the wife of the merchantman’s captain. She tried for years to locate the site of her husband’s sunken ship.”

Gorman said he was a direct descendant of the captain and that the diary was his property. After his discharge from the Navy he decided to look for the treasure site.

“Which I never would have discovered if you boys hadn’t found the cannon, and Mr. Hardy and the chief hadn’t caught Bowden,” Gorman said.

“It was probably Latsky,” Joe said, “who threatened Bowden in the message we found on his door and who subsequently sent us a threat.”

Bowden confirmed this. “He later knocked me out when I was talking to you fellows on the phone.”

“Who was hiding under the tarpaulin in the boat when Halpen warned us away from the sting ray?” Frank asked.

“I was,” Guinness replied. “Latsky had hired me to dive for the sunken treasure ship. When you showed up one morning, I thought you were hunting, too. So I shot a couple of spears at you to scare you off.”

Joe whistled. “When I saw that first spear coming, I had no idea that Frank and I would be involved in an undersea treasure hunt!”

When the questioning ended, the prisoners were led away and the others left. Mr. Hardy invited Gorman to stay at their home until he had recovered completely.

“And please forgive Joe and me for suspecting you,” Frank said.

“I will on one condition,” Gorman replied with a grin. “That you show me where that treasure is and let me share with you whatever the government will let us have.”

The Hardys laughed and Joe said, “That won’t be hard to take!”

“But first,” said Frank, “from whatever we get, I suggest that we buy Tony a new and even better Napoli.”

The others quickly agreed, then Joe said, “I guess this treasure hunt will be the most exciting adventure we’ve ever had.”

But another was soon to come their way, which was to become known as The Ghost at Skeleton Rock.

Two days later the whole group, in skin-diving outfits, climbed over the side of the Sleuth and descended to a depth of thirty feet at the same spot they had been fired on by Bowden. There lay the ancient merchantman, its timbers rotted away, and moss and barnacles covering the metal parts.

Cautiously Gorman and the boys swam in and out, removing the debris. At last their search was rewarded. There, in the uncovered hold of the old vessel, lay a vast quantity of gold bullion. Through their masks, the divers beamed at one another triumphantly.

The Hardys and their friends had found the ancient treasure!

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Puzzling Message

CHAPTER II - The Suspicious Trailer

CHAPTER III - The Hijacked Dummy

CHAPTER IV - A Double Burglary

CHAPTER V - A Startling Discovery

CHAPTER VI - Musical Password

CHAPTER VII - Twin Clues

CHAPTER VIII - Spanish Code

CHAPTER IX - The Ticking Suitcase

CHAPTER X - Cross Fire

CHAPTER XI - Warehouse Marauders

CHAPTER XII - The Tattooed Prisoner

CHAPTER XIII - Pursuit at El Morro

CHAPTER XIV - The Unseen Enemy

CHAPTER XV - Atomic Cargo

CHAPTER XVI - Island of Danger

CHAPTER XVII - Voodoo Vengeance

CHAPTER XVIII - A Weird Vision

CHAPTER XIX - Skeleton Rock

CHAPTER XX - The Ghost’s Secret

THE GHOST AT SKELETON ROCK

A cryptic message from their famous detective father and a note secreted in a ventriloquist’s dummy lead Frank and Joe Hardy on a dangerous search to the tropical islands in the Caribbean.

There the teen-age detectives are constantly beset by vicious henchmen of a criminal mastermind. Danger stalks the boys’ every move, once in an isolated sugar mill, another time in a shark-infested sea. To add to their hazards, one of the young henchmen closely resembles Joe and fiendishly makes use of this strange coincidence. Through their resourcefulness and deductive reasoning, the brother sleuths ingeniously fit together the pieces of the baffling puzzle.

The climax of this exciting mystery, when Frank and Joe come face to face with the ghost at Skeleton Rock, will be as much of a surprise to the reader as it was to the young detectives themselves.

The boys’ last ounce of strength was ebbing fast

Copyright © 1994, 1966, 1957 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New

York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07651-4

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Puzzling Message

“LET’S see if you can get us down in one piece, Frank!” Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy leaned forward in the airplane as his brother circled in for a landing at the Bayport airfield.

“Don’t worry, Joe. If we crack up the first time, I’ll try again,” the dark-haired boy quipped. Frank, who was a year older than Joe, grinned as he eased the craft downward in a graceful turn.

A third occupant of the plane, the regular pilot, smiled and said, “You’re doing fine, Frank.” Jack Wayne, lean-faced and tanned, was Mr. Hardy’s pilot on all his chartered flights. Today Jack was teaching the boys how to fly the six-place, single-engine plane which their father had purchased recently.

“There’s a gusty wind, so come in at a slightly higher airspeed,” Jack reminded his pupil.

Frank’s pulse quickened as he lined up on the runway and reduced power. The beautiful blue-and-white craft descended in a normal glide.

The landing strip and parked planes below seemed to rush up at them, the details growing larger as Frank headed toward the ground.

“Watch out for those telephone lines!” Joe cried out.

The wires loomed squarely in front of the plane’s nose. If Frank had judged his glide angle correctly, the wires should be dropping below his field of vision. Instead, they seemed to be coming straight at the plane!

Frank gulped with panic. Would they crash? Trying hard to keep cool, he eased back on the wheel. With barely a split second to go, the ship nosed upward and cleared the wires!

Moments later, the plane’s wheels touched down in a perfect landing and the craft rolled to a stop. Frank climbed out after the others, feeling a bit weak.

“Quick thinking, boy!” Joe slapped his brother on the back. “Only next time, please don’t shave it so close!”

Frank heaved a sigh. “I didn’t think—I just acted! How come you didn’t take over, Jack?”

“I figured you’d do the right thing”—the pilot chuckled—“and you did!” Suddenly his face clouded and he snapped his fingers. “I clean forgot to tell you!”

“What?” the boys chorused.

“A message your father gave me just before I took off from San Juan.” Early that morning Jack had returned after flying Mr. Hardy to Puerto Rico the previous day on a top-secret case. “Sorry. Giving flying lessons must make me absent-minded.” He handed the boys a piece of paper.

“‘Find Hugo purple turban,’ ” Frank and Joe read aloud. They stared at the paper, completely baffled by the cryptic message.

Jack went on to explain that Mr. Hardy had quickly jotted down the strange words, then handed the paper to him. “He did say,” Jack added, “that he couldn’t give any more details right then. He’d spotted a man he wanted to shadow.”

The boys racked their brains for a moment in silence. Neither could think of anyone in Bayport named Hugo.

“Oh, well,” Frank said, smiling, “we’ll try to figure it out later. Thanks for the flying lesson, Jack.”

After arranging for their next flight, the boys went to the parking lot, where they had left their convertible.

“I’ll drive,” said Frank. In a few minutes the boys were headed toward their pleasant, tree-shaded home at Elm and High streets.

The dazzling June sun shone down on them as they talked over the odd message Jack had relayed.

“We’ll have to twirl our brains for this one,” Joe commented as they pulled into the Hardys’ gravel driveway. “I wonder who Hugo is. Someone in Bayport, maybe?”

“Let’s try the phone book,” Frank suggested. “Hugo could be someone’s last name.”

As the boys strode in through the kitchen door, their mother was trimming the crust on an apple pie. Each son gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then Frank said, “We’re trying to figure out a code message from Dad. Have you any idea who ‘Hugo purple turban’ might be?”

Mrs. Hardy, slim and pretty, shook her head as she slid the pie into the oven. “Not the faintest, but it sounds like the start of another interesting case.”

Her husband, Fenton Hardy, had been a crack detective for years in the New York City Police Department. Later, when he retired and moved to the coastal town of Bayport, Mr. Hardy had become internationally famous as a private investigator. His two sons had skillfully assisted him on many of his cases.

Frank, intrigued by his father’s newest assignment, hurried to the telephone book, Joe at his heels, and leafed through the pages of names beginning with H.

“Let’s see now.” Frank moistened his finger. “Hugo ... Hugo ... Here we are! Just three of them,” he added after a moment. “It should be simple to find the right man.”

Joe dialed the first number. The quavering, high-pitched voice of an elderly woman answered the phone. In reply to Joe’s question, she snapped suspiciously, “A purple turban? What on earth are you talking about?”

Joe tried to explain. But the woman’s reaction was unfriendly, as if she suspected some kind of a hoax.

“Young man, I can’t make head nor tail of what you’re saying. Sounds to me as if you’re trying to be funny—or else you’ve got the wrong number!”

With a loud sniff, she hung up.

“Whew! Guess I didn’t do too well on that one,” Joe told his brother. “Next time remind me not to sound like such a crackpot!”

Joe dialed another number. The listing on this one was “Hugo’s Meat Market.”

“Yah, I’m Hugo,” said a voice in a heavy German accent.

Joe explained that he was doing some private detective work and was trying to locate a person named Hugo who had some connection with a purple turban—or maybe someone known as “Hugo Purple Turban.”

“Ach, no, I never hear of anyone like that,” the butcher replied. “But if you like some good knackwurst, just drop around any time!”

Frank chuckled as Joe hung up the phone. “We’re getting nowhere fast. Let me try.”

The third Hugo listed was a Wilfred K., a jeweler and watch-repair expert.

“‘Hugo purple turban?’ Hmm,” the man responded thoughtfully. “Sounds to me as if it might refer to that fortuneteller.”

“Fortuneteller?”

“The Great Hugo, he calls himself—at least that’s the name painted on his trailer. He has a tent pitched beside the road, on Route 10, just north of town.”

“Thanks a lot, sir!” Frank exclaimed, with a surge of excitement. “Sounds like a swell lead!”

As he cradled the phone, a peppery feminine voice spoke up from behind the boys. “Before you get too deep in another mystery, take my advice and—”

“Oh, hi, Aunt Gertrude!” Joe smiled and turned around.

Frank said mischievously, “Aunt Gertrude’s just jealous, Joe, because she doesn’t know all the facts!”

“Nonsense!” retorted their aunt, a tall, angular woman, who was Mr. Hardy’s maiden sister.

Although Aunt Gertrude would never admit it, Frank and Joe knew that she was just as deeply intrigued by the Hardys’ cases as the boys and their father.

Frank told her about Mr. Hardy’s puzzling communication “Hugo purple turban” and went on, “The man I just talked to on the phone seemed to think it might refer to some fortuneteller called The Great Hugo.”

“The Great Hugo! Why, of course!” Aunt Gertrude’s eyes narrowed with a look of suspicion.

“Do you know him?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I’ve heard about him—and what I’ve heard isn’t good!” Miss Hardy explained that two women she knew had gone to have The Great Hugo tell their fortunes. After leaving his tent, they had discovered money missing from their handbags, which they had hung on the backs of their chairs.

“You mean Hugo stole it?” Frank asked.

“Who else? Naturally, the women couldn’t prove it,” Miss Hardy added, pursing her lips, “but there’s no doubt in their minds.”

The two boys exchanged glances. “He could be the man we’re looking for,” Frank remarked.

Joe nodded. “Let’s check with Chief Collig.”

As head of the Bayport Police Department, Chief Collig had cooperated with the Hardys on many of their cases. When Frank telephoned him, the chief said that he was acquainted with The Great Hugo and had had complaints about him.

“He’s as phony as a nine-dollar bill, but so far we haven’t enough evidence to take him in.”

Frank thanked the chief, hung up, and passed the information to his brother.

“Come on! Let’s go have a look at Hugo!” Joe urged.

Frank backed the car out of the drive and headed for Route 10. North of town, they sighted a bright, orange-colored tent just off the road.

“There it is,” Frank murmured, slowing down. The tent bore a sign reading:

THE GREAT HUGO

WORLD-FAMOUS MYSTIC

Private Readings by Appointment

Near the tent stood a house trailer of the same orange color. It was hitched to a battered but powerful-looking black hardtop coupé of an expensive make.

Frank parked the convertible under a tree and the boys walked toward the tent. As they were about to enter, a man, at least six and a half feet tall, and with an extremely large head, loomed up in front of them, barring the way.

His swarthy, hook-nosed face gave the man a menacing air. But what jolted both boys were his clothes. He wore baggy trousers, Oriental slippers with pointed, curled-up toes, and a purple turban!

“What is it you wish?” he demanded in a deep, harsh voice.

“We came to have our fortunes told,” Joe said evenly.

“I do not tell fortunes—I am only Abdul, a helper,” the man grunted. ”You wait outside. I go see if The Great Hugo will receive you.”

“What is it you wish?” he demanded, barring the way

Abdul entered the tent, dropping the flap across the entrance. Tense with excitement, the young detectives waited, but not for long. A moment later Abdul reappeared.

“I bring good news! The Great Hugo will see you at once!” he announced.

He drew aside the tent flap, bowed low, and invited the boys to enter. Cautiously they stepped into the gloomy interior. The walls of the tent were hung with dark draperies. Only the pale glow of a shaded lamp suffused the gloom. Soft rugs lay underfoot.

At a table covered with a silver-fringed black velvet cloth sat a slim, short man with a pointed brown beard. Before him on the table lay a crystal ball.

“So—you have come to have your fortunes told,” he murmured. “Please be seated.”

As the boys sank down onto two leather hassocks, Hugo’s queer yellowish eyes seemed to be sizing them up shrewdly.

Stalling for time in order to observe the place carefully, Frank said, “Before you start, sir, perhaps you’d better tell us how much it’s going to cost.”

The Great Hugo waved his hand carelessly. “My usual fee is five dollars. But since I am not busy today I will take you both for two dollars.”

The boys reached for their wallets and produced one dollar apiece. Hugo whisked the bills out of sight, then concentrated his gaze on the crystal ball. In a few moments he seemed to go into a trance.

“I see an airplane—a trip over water,” the fortuneteller said in a droning voice. “The scene in the crystal ball is changing.... I see trouble! Danger!”

Suddenly Frank felt a hand groping into his pocket. Gripping the thief’s wrist, he whirled around. It was Abdul!

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Frank exclaimed, jumping up and forcing the man backward. But with lightning speed the brawny fellow stunned him with a blow on the chin. Frank staggered groggily.

Joe leaped to his brother’s aid. But he was quickly grabbed by Abdul. As Joe struggled to get away from the giant, he knocked over the table and crystal ball.

In one end of the tent Hugo the Mystic was shouting commands to Abdul, and edging toward a position behind the three. A moment later black hoods were thrown over the boys’ heads.

“Let’s get rid of them, Abdul, and leave—quick!” Hugo growled.

CHAPTER II

The Suspicious Trailer

THEIR heads covered, Frank and Joe were hurled to the ground. Resistance was futile. Quickly their hands and feet were bound. Then they were dragged out of the tent and into some bushes. Footsteps indicated their attackers had left.

“Joe! Joe, can you hear me?” Frank shouted. The hood muffled his voice, but he was able to make out Joe’s response.

“Right here, Frank.”

From a short distance away came confused sounds as if the tent were being quickly taken down and stowed in the trailer. Soon the engine of a car roared to life and the vehicle went rumbling off down the highway.

Meanwhile, the boys twisted and turned in a frantic effort to loosen their bonds. This was not the only time they had found themselves in a predicament like this one.

Ever since their first big case, The Tower Treasure, the brothers had often been in tight spots. But always their quick, cool thinking had enabled them to outwit their adversaries. In their most recent mystery, they had survived underwater spear-gun attacks and other dangers to learn The Secret of Pirates’ Hill.

By the time Frank got his hands free, his wrists were rubbed nearly raw. He jerked the black hood off his head and saw Joe still straining to free himself.

“Here! I’ll do it!” Frank offered.

Quickly he removed his brother’s hood. In a few moments both were free and on their feet.

Joe peered at the tire tracks of the vanished car and trailer. “They made a neat getaway,” he said bitterly.

“Which means The Great Hugo must have been the Hugo we want!” Frank said grimly.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Joe sprinted toward the convertible. “Let’s go after him!”

Before leaving, Frank insisted that they examine the tire treads of both the vanished car and the trailer. Then the boys ran to their convertible. Frank gunned the engine and they took off in a spurt of sand and gravel. Luckily, Route 10 ran straight north for almost twelve miles before intersecting another major highway.

En route there were several dirt-road turnoffs. Frank and Joe stopped at each one and got out to inspect all tire marks on them. But they found no sign of the vehicles belonging to Hugo and Abdul.

“Probably they’re heading out of the county,” Joe remarked.

“Wait a minute. Let’s try this trailer court up ahead,” Frank suggested. It was located less than half a mile from the highway intersection.

He braked the car and swung over onto the shoulder of the road. Again the boys climbed out.

“It’s a hundred-to-one shot,” Frank admitted, “but Hugo might have turned in here to throw us off the trail.”

“He’ll have a tough time hiding that orange trailer,” Joe said. “Say look!” He broke off with a gasp and grabbed Frank’s arm. “Over there!”

Frank turned to face the direction in which his brother was staring. An orange trailer!

Though partly hidden from view by other vehicles, the trailer looked like the one used by Hugo and Abdul. The boys approached it casually, trying not to attract any attention.

Their hopes, however, were soon dashed. Frilly lace curtains showed in the windows of the trailer. In front of it a fat, baldheaded man in Bermuda shorts lounged in a deck chair. A moment later a woman came out, carrying a baby.

Frank smiled to hide his disappointment. “Okay. So our long shot didn’t pay off.”

“Now what?”

Frank considered. “Once Hugo hits the cross-road, there’s no telling which way he’ll head. Guess we better notify the police.”

Across the highway from the trailer court was a roadside store with a gasoline pump. The boys hurried over and put through a call to Chief Collig on the store’s pay phone.

“I’ll send out a radio alert,” the officer promised, after hearing Frank’s story. “Maybe the highway patrol can pick those men up before they cross the state line.”

“Thanks, Chief! We’ll keep in touch,” said Frank.

Somewhat dejectedly, the boys plodded back to their convertible. “What a wild-goose chase!” Frank groaned.

On the way back to Bayport, Joe brightened suddenly as a thought struck him. “Maybe we could spot Hugo’s trailer from the air. That bright-orange trailer ought to stand out on any road!”

Frank agreed. “We can ask Jack Wayne to take us up,” he said.

When they reached home, Frank parked the convertible in the driveway and the boys hurried into the house. Before they were halfway through the kitchen, the telephone rang.

“Maybe it’s Chief Collig with some news!” Joe exclaimed. He reached the hall first and scooped up the phone. “Hello.”

“This is Chet, Joe,” came a breathless voice over the wire. “Something’s up! I need help right away—over at my place.”

Chet Morton, a chubby pal of the Hardys, attended Bayport High with them. Good-natured and fond of eating, he was usually slow moving and easy going. But now his voice throbbed with fearful urgency.

“Chet! What’s this all about?” Joe demanded.

“I can’t explain over the phone, but get here fast,” his friend pleaded. “This is important!”

“Okay. We’ll be there pronto.”

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked as Joe hung up.

“Search me. Chet seems to be all worked up. Sounds as if he’s in real trouble. He wants us to come out to the farm on the double.”

“All right. But first let me call Jack Wayne.”

Snatching up the phone, Frank dialed Jack’s cubbyhole office at the airport. When the pilot answered, Frank gave him a quick account of their adventures with Hugo and Abdul. Jack was thunderstruck to learn that the brothers were already on the trail of “Hugo purple turban.”

“Joe and I figure,” Frank went on, “that the quickest way to spot the trailer is from the air. Could you go up and reconnoiter a bit?”

“Sure,” Jack replied.

Frank described the hardtop coupé and orange trailer, then hung up and hurried out to the car with Joe. Twenty minutes later they reached the Morton farmhouse on the outskirts of Bayport.

The boys ran up to the front door and rang the bell. Two pretty girls answered the door. One was Chet’s dark-haired sister, Iola. The other, a blonde with sparkling brown eyes, was her chum, Callie Shaw. The two girls often double-dated Frank and Joe.

“Well! Imagine meeting you two here!” said Iola in pleased surprise.

“You’re just in time,” Callie said. She held up a puppet dressed like Little Red Ridinghood. “We were just practicing for a puppet show we’re going to give at the hospital bazaar. You two can help us—”

“Where’s Chet?” Joe interrupted.

“Why, out in the barn,” said Iola. “But—”

“Come on, Frank!”

Without waiting to explain, Frank and Joe rushed outside and headed around the side of the barn to the rear. Voices became more audible at every step. Suddenly both boys pulled up short and stared at each other in amazement.

“Did you hear somebody mention the name Hugo?” Joe whispered breathlessly.

Freezing in their tracks, the Hardys listened intently.

“We’ll get the Hardys and get ’em good, Hugo!” said a rough voice.

“Yeah,” came the chuckling reply. “We’ll ambush them tonight!”

CHAPTER III

The Hijacked Dummy

“AMBUSH?” Joe flashed his brother a startled glance.

Frank clenched his fists. “I don’t know what’s going on back there, but let’s find out!”

With their hearts thumping and their fists ready for trouble, the Hardys dashed around the corner of the barn, then stopped dead in open-mouthed astonishment. The only person in sight was Chet Morton, propped up against the back of the barn.

“Hi, fellows!” he greeted them, lifting his eyebrows in an innocent, deadpan look. “Expecting someone else?”

“But where are those two men we heard?” Joe asked in surprise.

“You’re looking at ‘em, pal. Both of ’em!” Chet replied.

To prove this, he switched over to his two “tough guy” voices and uttered a few more blood-curdling threats.

“You?” Frank could hardly believe his ears.

“That’s right.” The stout boy chuckled. “A slight case of ventriloquism, gentlemen. Learned it from books. Thought it might come in handy helping you fellows on your cases.” He burst into laughter. “Oh, boy, did you two ever fall for my act—hook, line, and sinker!”

“And that phone call begging for help?” Joe growled. “That was just a trick, too, to get us over here?”

Chet nodded. “But don’t hold it against me.”

The Hardy boys grinned, then Frank said, “You sure fooled us. I’ll say you’re good.”

“I sure am!” Chet agreed. “In fact, I may make a career out of ventriloquism,” he went on, turning serious. “Man, I can see myself now, doing a big show on television! Chet Morton, Man of Many Voices—World’s Greatest Imitator!”

This time it was the Hardys’ chance to needle their friend. “World’s Greatest Appetite, you mean!” Joe hooted. “Otherwise known as Chet Morton, Man of Many Helpings!”

Chet’s moonface took on a hurt look. “Okay, okay. Just because I happen to appreciate good food,” he sulked. “If you fellows don’t think I’m ready for the big time, just listen to this.”

He jerked his thumb toward the house and whispered, “Here comes my pesky cousin, Jinny.”

A moment later a little girl’s shrill, whiny voice seemed to come drifting around the corner of the barn:

“Oh, Chet! Your mother says you better get in the house right this minute and start cleaning up the basement! Y’hear me? You better come quick, or I’m gonna tell her just where you’re hiding!”

The boys were amazed at the demonstration. Chet’s lips had hardly moved.

“That’s pretty convincing, Chet,” said Frank.

Chet looked somewhat mollified. “It ought to be good,” he bragged. “I’ve been studying and practicing secretly a whole month. I’m even thinking of buying a Hugo!”

“A Hugo?” Frank and Joe gasped together.

“Sure,” Chet said calmly. “The same kind of dummy Professor Fox uses.”

“Oh!” The Hardys relaxed as they recalled the act to which Chet was referring. Professor Fox was a star ventriloquist on TV. His dummy, Hugo, had become so popular that it was being copied and sold on a large scale. The dummy came in various-priced models.

“I’m going to get the most expensive Hugo on the market,” Chet bragged. “I’ve been saving to buy it by doing extra chores around the farm. I have enough money now.”

Just then Chet’s bull terrier, Spud, came wandering out to see what was going on.

“Watch me fool him,” Chet said with a wink at his friends. “Over there, boy!”

He pointed to a clump of bushes and threw his voice once again:

“Here, Spud! Come on, boy! Got a nice thick juicy steak for you! Come on, fella!”

Instead of responding, the bull terrier stood still, eyeing his master quizzically.

Chet lost his temper. “Well, go on, dopey. What’re you waiting for?” The bull terrier merely panted and wagged his tail.

“Wow! Did you ever fool him!” Frank gibed. Both he and Joe doubled up with laughter.

Chet turned beet red and grumpily threw his dog a stick to chase. Then he casually suggested, “Let’s get some lemonade and cookies.”

On the way back to the house, Joe said thoughtfully, “Some of those Hugos come with Oriental turbans, don’t they, Chet?”

“The better models do,” replied the stout boy. “Why?”

“Oh, just a hunch I had about something.” Turning to his brother, Joe went on, “Do you suppose Dad’s message might have referred to one of those dummies?”

Frank nodded. “It’s an idea.”

“Don’t tell me you fellows are wrestling with another mystery?” Chet inquired uneasily.

“Right. And you’re just the one to help us solve it,” Joe told Chet, slapping him on the back.

“Not me!” Chet protested with a shudder.

Getting involved in the Hardys’ crime cases always gave Chet the jitters, although the roly-poly high-school boy had already been through several dangerous adventures with Joe and Frank.

“This won’t get you into any danger,” Joe assured him. Hastily he explained about the puzzling message which Mr. Hardy had sent from Puerto Rico.

“Where do I come in?” Chet asked suspiciously.

“When you go shopping for a Hugo dummy, just keep your eyes open. Better yet, let us go with you. Maybe we’ll run across some kind of a clue.”

“We-e-ell ... I guess I can go along that far with you,” Chet agreed grudgingly.

“Where did you plan on buying your dummy?” Frank asked.

“Biwen’s Novelty Shop. That’s where I’ve been getting all my books on ventriloquism.”

“Okay. Let’s go!”

After stopping in the house for lemonade with the girls and to pick up Chet’s wallet, the three boys piled into the convertible and drove off. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the novelty shop on King Street.

A bell tinkled as they walked in and Mr. Bivven, the squat, baldheaded proprietor, came out of the back room to greet them.

He beamed at the trio across the counter. “Something you’d like, boys?”

Chet said he wanted to look over the store’s stock of ventriloquist’s dummies.

One by one, Mr. Biwen showed his stock, but Chet turned them all down and asked for a Hugo dummy. The proprietor went to his storeroom and emerged presently with a cardboard box. It contained a Hugo dummy, clad in a tuxedo and red turban.

“I just received this today,” Mr. Biwen said. Taking out the dummy, Chet set it on the counter and began putting on an impromptu ventriloquist act.

Frank watched, chuckling, for a moment. Then he picked up the instruction sheet which was lying in the box and began to read it. The simple directions were printed in three languages—English, French, and Spanish.

The doorbell tinkled again and two men entered the shop. One was tall and rough-looking, with large ears that stuck out from his head; the other was short and swarthy-complexioned.

Joe, who was standing alongside Chet and Frank, watched the men out of the corner of his eye. They stopped in front of a trayful of water pistols and began picking them over. It looked as though they were killing time until the proprietor could wait on them.

“Okay. I guess I’ll take this one,” Chet decided finally.

As he pulled out his wallet to pay for the dummy, Mr. Biwen put the figure back in the box and started to wrap it.

“Good thing you stopped in today, son,” he remarked chattily. “This here’s the only Hugo in stock. If you’d waited any longer, I reckon you’d have been plumb out o’ luck.”

“Just a minute!” said the tall man, stepping forward. “That dummy is exactly what I been lookin’ for. How much is the kid payin’ for it?”

“Eighteen dollars and ninety-five cents.”

“Then I’ll give you twenty bucks!”

Mr. Biwen hesitated. He hated to lose the extra profit, but Chet was a good customer and he didn’t want to offend him.

“Nope. I’m sorry, the deal’s already closed.”

“Twenty-five!”

Mr. Biwen gulped and shook his head. “I told you before, mister, it’s no go. First come, first served. Dummy’s already sold to Chet here.”

Grinning triumphantly, Chet counted out the money. But as the proprietor turned to ring up the sale on the cash register, the short man suddenly whipped out a shiny, blue-steel revolver.

“It’s a cinch that gun’s no toy!” thought Joe, wincing.

“We want that dummy!” snarled the short man.

As Chet stood quaking, the tall fellow grabbed Hugo off the counter!

CHAPTER IV

A Double Burglary

THE armed intruders kept the boys and Mr. Bivven covered as they backed hastily toward the door with the Hugo dummy.

“Don’t try any hero stuff and don’t call the cops after we leave,” warned the swarthy gunman. “If you do, you’ll sure regret it!”

Then the tall man jerked open the door and the two dashed out to a car parked at the curb. Frank and Joe rushed to the window just in time to see the short man slide behind the wheel.

“Watch it, fellows,” Chet begged.

Pale and trembling with excitement, he half expected to see the store’s show window shattered by a hail of bullets. Instead, the engine roared and the car, a green sedan, sped away.

“No luck on the license number!” Joe groaned. “The rear plate was caked with mud.”

“After them!” Frank cried, dashing out the door.

The Hardys leaped into their convertible and took off. Luckily, traffic was light. In the distance Joe caught a glimpse of the getaway car. “There it is!” he yelled.

Frank speeded up. The green car whined in a turn to the right at the next intersection. As the convertible followed, the other car suddenly put on a fresh burst of speed.

“They must have spotted us in their rear-view mirror,” Frank muttered through clenched teeth.

As the chase continued, the green car shot through a stop sign. When the boys reached the crossing, a stream of traffic barred the way. Then a huge tank truck halted for a left turn, completely blocking the intersection. By the time the route was clear, the getaway car was nowhere in sight.

“What luck!” Joe groaned.

The boys cruised around for a while, hoping to locate the trail again, but finally gave up.

“Guess we may as well go back and get Chet,” Frank sighed.

A police squad car was parked in front of the novelty shop. When the Hardys walked in, Mr. Biwen was relating the details of the holdup to the officers.

“These are the boys,” he said, nodding at Frank and Joe.

“Any luck tracing the thieves?” one of the officers asked.

Frank shook his head glumly. “We couldn’t even get their license number.”

He gave a detailed description of the green sedan, and also reported the general route which the thieves had taken.

“I’ll put it on the radio right away,” said the other policeman. “There’s still a chance we can stop ’em before they get out of town.” He hurried outside to the squad car.

The other officer took down the names and addresses of everyone involved, then left the shop.

“Too bad, Chet,” Joe sympathized. “Looks as if you’re out of luck for a dummy today.”

“You’re telling me,” the young ventriloquist answered gloomily.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” put in Mr. Biwen with a grin.

“Huh?” Chet’s eyes popped. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there might just be another Hugo back in the storeroom. Dummies have been selling quickly, but while I was talking to those officers, I suddenly remembered tucking another box up on the top shelf. But don’t get your hopes too high till I make sure.”

Chet waited in eager suspense. A few moments later Mr. Biwen reappeared, beaming triumphantly. “Yes! Got one right here.”

“Hot ziggety!” Chet pounced on the box in delight, ripping off the cover. As he pulled out the dummy, both Frank and Joe gave a yelp of excitement.

This one wore a purple turban!

“My stars!” Mr. Biwen chuckled. “Seems like you two are just as het-up as your friend here about finding this extra Hugo. But I reckon that’s only natural, seeing as how you took your lives in your hands trying to save the other one.”

Frank and Joe merely smiled and made no effort to explain their jubilation. But the same thought was passing through both their minds. Could this be the “Hugo purple turban” referred to in their father’s message? And had the two men made off with the wrong dummy?

Meanwhile, Chet was putting the new Hugo through its paces. “Boy, this is for me!” he gloated. “I’ll work with it at home this evening!”

As the proprietor wrote out the sales check, Joe examined the dummy but could find nothing unusual about it. Frank again glanced at the instruction sheet. This one was also printed in the same three languages.

Suddenly Frank’s eyes narrowed. “That’s funny,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s funny?” Joe asked.

“These directions. The ones in French and English are the same as those which came with the other dummy. But the directions in Spanish are different.”

Both boys could read French and Spanish.

“You’re sure?” Joe asked.

“Positive.” After Mr. Biwen finished writing out the sales check and tore off a copy for Chet, Frank asked the man, “Does any other store in Bayport sell the Hugo dummies?”

“You’d like one too, eh?” The proprietor smiled. “Well, now, let me think.” He paused and scratched his chin. “Might try Hanade’s over on Bay Street.”

“Hanade’s?”

“That’s right. Nice elderly Japanese. Runs a puppet-repair shop, and handles all kinds of interesting doodads.”

The Hardys thanked him and left the store with Chet. Outside, their stout pal asked Frank why he was so interested in finding another dealer.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to take up ventriloquism, too?” he teased.

“Not a chance,” Frank replied, and explained about the curious difference in the instructions. He added, “It might be a fluke, or it might mean something. Anyhow, I’d like to check another set of instructions.”

Hanade’s Puppet Repair Shop did, indeed, carry “all kinds of doodads.” The tiny store was crammed with Oriental trinkets, samurai swords, brass Buddhas, dolls’ heads hanging on the wall, birds and bird cages, aquariums with darting tropical fish, and numerous other items.

Mr. Hanade was a small, bespectacled, pleasant gentleman. “Ah, yes,” he replied to Frank’s question. “I carry the Hugo puppets. Made by a very fine company. Every puppet carefully inspected by owner before he sends it out. Which kind do you wish to see?”

“The model with a turban, like this one my friend has,” replied Joe as Chet displayed his Hugo.

“You wait, please. I check.”

Mr. Hanade returned shortly with a box containing a Hugo similar to Chet’s, but it wore a green turban. Ignoring the dummy, Frank took out the instruction sheet and compared it with the one in Chet’s box.

“You’re right,” Joe muttered, reading over Frank’s shoulder. “The Spanish wording is a little different!”

Frank asked if he might borrow Mr. Hanade’s sheet of instructions overnight, and offered to leave a dollar on deposit. Though puzzled, the man agreed politely.

“You take, please. No deposit necessary.”

“Thank you,” said Chet, and the boys left the shop.

Before dropping Chet at the farm, Joe said impulsively, “Say, fellows, do you think Professor Fox could be mixed up in anything shady?”

Chet declared that the TV performer had a fine reputation, and he was sure that the man was above suspicion. Frank agreed with this.

That evening after supper Frank and Joe huddled around the study lamp in their room, with the two sets of instructions in front of them. They were identical in every way, except for the change in the Spanish wording.

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked his brother.

Frank furrowed his brow. “Might be some kind of a code. Let’s compare all the word changes and see what we get.”

They had barely started on this job when the hall telephone rang. Joe took the call.

“This is Chief Collig,” came a crisp voice. “Understand you and your brother were at Biwen’s Novelty Shop this afternoon when the owner got robbed.”

“That’s right. In fact, we chased the holdup men.”

“Anything to do with a case your father’s working on, Joe?”

“Could be, sir. We’re not sure.”

“Well, if you’re interested, the place was robbed again tonight. Or, anyhow, it was broken into and ransacked.”

“What! ”Joe cried out.

“Happened just about twenty minutes ago,” the chief went on. “A patrolman walking past heard some noises and figured something funny was going on. When he went to investigate, the burglars ducked out the back way.”

“Thanks for the tip, Chief,” Joe said. “Frank and I will go right over there.”

Frank was equally startled when he heard about the burglary. “I wonder if those men stole the wrong Hugo, and came back for another try!”

“Sure sounds that way,” Joe agreed, “but they must have heard Mr. Biwen say it was his last Hugo in stock.”

The two boys drove through the darkened streets of Bayport to the novelty shop on King Street. The store was ablaze with light, but no squad car stood at the scene. Apparently the police detectives had already left, but there was a patrolman on guard at the door.

The Hardys identified themselves, and Frank added, “Chief Collig just phoned us the news.”

“He called me too,” said the patrolman, and let them enter.

Mr. Biwen was busy straightening up the store. “Oh, it’s you boys,” he murmured, glancing up as the door’s bell tinkled.

Most of the toys, dolls, and scale models had already been neatly replaced on the shelves.

“Sorry to hear the news, Mr. Biwen,” Frank said. “Exactly what happened?”

The proprietor shrugged and sighed. “Place was ransacked but nothing taken. Dratted nuisance! Burglars twice in one day! I just can’t figure it out. Still, I reckon I’m lucky it wasn’t any worse.”

“Mind if we look around for clues?” Frank asked.

“Go ahead, but the police have already done so.”

As the boys poked about the store, Mr. Biwen bent down behind the counter. A moment later he stood up.

“Now that’s strange,” he remarked with a puzzled frown. “Seems as though someone’s been fiddling with my sales checks.”

“Sales checks!” Frank was struck by a sudden fear.

“Yes. Had ’em stashed away in order down here. Now they’re all messed up.”

“Any missing?”

Mr. Biwen scratched his bald head. “Well, now, that’s a mite hard to say without checking the cash-register tape.”

Frank said urgently, “Never mind the rest. Just look for the one you wrote up for our friend this afternoon. The name was Morton—Chet Morton.”

“Sure, sure, I remember. Let me see.” Mr. Bivven brought out the sheaf of slips, thumbed through them several times, then looked up in surprise. “By jingo, that one’s gone. Those burglars must have taken it!”

“That’s what I surmised,” Frank said. “They came back to check on who had purchased other dummies lately and found out Chet had one!”

“That means Chet’s in danger!” Joe said grimly. “And maybe Iola and their dad and mother!” Turning to Mr. Bivven, he asked, “May I use your phone?”

“Sure thing.”

Thoroughly alarmed by now, Joe scooped up the telephone and dialed Chet’s number. At the other end of the line, he could hear a steady series of rings. But after a minute he gave up.

“No answer,” he reported to Frank. “Come on! Let’s get out there fast!”

The boys dashed out of the store, leaped into the convertible, and headed for the Morton farm. Once outside of town, Frank switched on the long-range lights. The twin beams probed the darkness as they sped along.

Neither boy spoke, but both were gripped by the same fear. Was the Morton family in trouble? Why had no one answered the phone when Chet had said he would be at home?

Presently the farmhouse loomed up against the night sky. The windows were dark.

“I don’t like this,” Frank said grimly.

CHAPTER V

A Startling Discovery

FRANK jammed on the brakes and the convertible lurched to a halt in the Mortons’ driveway. The boys jumped out and sprinted up the front-porch steps.

As Joe rang the doorbell, Frank noticed that the front door stood slightly ajar.

“It’s open!” he whispered.

Fearful of some danger, Frank and Joe cautiously entered the hall. Like all the rest of the house, the living room was shrouded in darkness. Frank, in the lead, groped for the light switch.

Joe’s scalp bristled when he heard some faint, whimpering noises. The sounds were muffled and scarcely seemed human.

Frank found the light switch and clicked it on. As the room leaped into brilliance, both boys exclaimed aloud.

Chet, Iola, and Mr. and Mrs. Morton were lying on the floor, bound and gagged!

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Joe gulped.

The Hardys rushed forward and quickly started to untie the victims.

“Oh, my gracious! Thank you, thank you!” Chet’s mother gasped as Frank removed her gag and undid the ropes.

“Luckily none of you were harmed, Mrs. Morton,” he replied. Gently he helped her to her feet and then to the sofa.

Chet, however, was not so grateful. “I thought you fellows promised me there wouldn’t be any rough stuff on this case!” he grumbled while Joe worked on a knot.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

The story tumbled out in a confused babble as the whole Morton family gave the details. They had been watching a television show in their living room when two masked men burst in. The intruders had tied up the Mortons, then searched the house and made off with something tucked under one man’s arm.

“I’m willing to bet they’re the same ones who held up the novelty shop this afternoon,” Chet asserted. “One was a tall man and the other short. The tall guy’s ears stuck out!”

Frank and Joe looked at each other in dismay. “I guess that means they took Hugo,” said Joe.

Frank nodded, then said to the Mortons, “Please check and make sure what was stolen.”

The family scattered through the rooms of the rambling farmhouse to inspect the results of the burglary. Iola was the first to report.

“I know one thing they took!” she cried out, running downstairs from her bedroom.

“What?” asked Joe.

“One of my big puppets. It looked something like Chet’s new dummy—even wore a purple turban.”

“Hot dog!” Joe snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet those burglars were in such a hurry they grabbed the wrong doll!”

The boys’ hopes skyrocketed, but Frank added cautiously, “Let’s not count our chickens till we hear from Chet.”

The words were hardly spoken when Chet came lumbering joyfully onto the scene. He was clutching Hugo in one hand. “Look! He’s still here!” Chet gloated. “I had him stowed in my closet, inside a pillowcase, and those men passed it up!”

The boys let out a whoop of triumph. Then Joe put in a wry afterthought:

“Now all we have to do is find out why those thieves were so eager to get hold of Hugo.”

While Frank telephoned a report to Chief Collig, Iola made hot cocoa for everyone. As they sat in the living room drinking it, Chet gulped down three cupfuls. Then he laid his cup and saucer aside and picked up Hugo.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the young ventriloquist announced, “we’ll forget what happened and have a quick performance to show you what’s to come later on my full-time television show!”

He set the dummy on his knee and proceeded to roll its huge popeyes from side to side. Then, as he manipulated Hugo’s head and jaws, Chet went into his act. Many of his gags drew laughs from his audience.

Gaining confidence, Chet launched into a long, windy speech—at the same time working Hugo’s head, arms, and legs in a wildly comical manner. Leaning forward with excitement, Chet grinned at his amused audience and perched the dummy on the edge of his knee.

Suddenly he jerked Hugo’s limbs a bit too hard. The dummy slid off his knee and crashed to the floor, face down, amid a sound of shattering glass!

Chet went white. “Hugo!” he wailed mournfully. “I’ve ruined you!”

Frank and Joe rushed forward to assay the damage. “Don’t worry,” Joe consoled his friend. “It’s not too bad.”

“Those big, beautiful eyes—they’re broken!” Chet groaned, kneeling on the floor.

“You can probably get new ones,” Frank assured him. Cautiously he started picking up the glassy slivers and fragments. “Gosh,” he remarked, “those eyes were even bigger than I—Oh, oh!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Joe as Frank broke off with a gasp of amazement.

“This stuff isn’t glass—at least not all of it.”

“Then what is it?” asked Chet.

Frank’s voice quivered with excitement. “This may sound crazy, but I think some of these pieces are uncut diamonds!”

“What!” Everyone in the room jumped up in astonishment and clustered around Frank.

“D-did you say diamonds?” Chet stuttered.

“That’s what they look like.” Frank held up some of the stones, which resembled tiny, greasy pebbles.

“Are you sure?” Iola asked. “They don’t sparkle much!”

“Rough stones look this way before they’re cut,” Frank explained. “At least that’s what I’ve read. What do you think, Joe?”

His brother nodded. “I think you’re right. And that explains the burglaries. No wonder those men were so eager to grab Hugo!”

Picking up the dummy in one hand, Joe borrowed a bobby pin from Iola and began probing into the hollow eye shells. Several more uncut diamonds came tumbling out.

“I can’t believe it!” Chet exclaimed. “Any more of them?”

“No, but here’s something else.”

Joe extracted a tiny, rolled-up wad of paper. When spread open, it revealed a strange printed notation:

Skeleton Rock 176

“How odd!” exclaimed Mrs. Morton, and Iola added, “It’s positively spooky!”

Her father frowned uneasily. “Frank, you and Joe have had experience with this sort of thing. What do you think we should do?”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Morton, I’d like to take both the dummy and the diamonds home with us, so we can investigate them further.”

“All right, you do that!” From the tone of his voice, Chet’s father sounded relieved to have the disturbing objects removed from his house before the thieves might pay a return visit.

Before leaving, Frank telephoned his father’s top investigator, Sam Radley, and asked him to meet the brothers at the Hardy home.

“I’ll start at once,” the detective promised.

Soon after the boys reached their house, they heard Sam’s car pull into the driveway. Joe hurried to let him in.

“What’s up, boys?” asked the muscular, sandy-haired detective as soon as he was seated in the living room.

Frank briefed him quickly, then showed Sam the dummy and the curious-looking stones. The detective picked up one of the gems and held it to the light. Then he took a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and scrutinized the stone carefully.

“D-did you say diamonds?” Chet stuttered

“It’s an uncut diamond, all right,” Sam announced. He examined the others. “Several carats altogether; the lot of them should be worth a good sum of money.” He advised the boys to notify Mr. Hardy about their find as soon as possible.

Joe warmed up the short-wave radio transmitter and tuned to the Hardys’ special frequency for secret communications. He spoke into the mike:

“Bayport calling Fenton H. in Puerto Rico! Come in, please!”

Again and again Joe repeated the call. But transmitting conditions were poor and he failed to make contact.

“Never mind,” said Frank. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Which reminds me,” Sam Radley put in. “I have news for you two.”

He reported that Jack Wayne had spotted a car, tent, and trailer which might belong to Hugo and Abdul. He had made the discovery while flying over a wooded area fifty miles away.

“He couldn’t get any answer to a phone call here, so he contacted me,” Sam explained. “Told me he was planning to take you up for a look-see at five tomorrow morning. He didn’t think the trailer would pull out before that.”

The boys were jubilant at the news, and called Jack to say they would be on hand promptly for the take-off.

Early the next morning Frank and Joe hopped out of bed the instant their alarm clock rang. After breakfast they drove to the airport.

Jack Wayne had his own ship, Skyhappy Sal, fueled and ready on the runway. He was talking to Tony Prito, a good friend of the Hardy boys. During the summer the handsome, dark-eyed, olive-skinned boy drove a truck for his father’s construction firm.

“Hi, fellows!” Tony greeted them. “Dad gave me the morning off. I decided to get some exercise and hike out here to see your dad’s new plane. Boy, it’s a real beauty! Say, you Hardys are on the job early. Another case?”

Frank explained briefly what their mission was, and Jack asked, “Want to come up with us? I have room for another passenger and we’ll be back soon.”

Tony enthusiastically accepted, and a few minutes later they took off. As the plane soared high above Bayport, Jack turned to Joe.

“Here, take over,” the pilot said. “Might as well get a lesson out of this while you’re in the air.”

Joe proved to be a good pilot and navigated the craft on a straight course toward the spot where Jack had sighted Hugo’s trailer.

“We’re getting close,” Jack said as a wooded area came into view. “Drop down a little, Joe.”

Soon Frank cried out. “There they are! That’s Hugo’s outfit all right.”

Joe swooped lower to get a better look at the fortuneteller’s camp. The drone of the plane’s engine must have aroused the occupants, for a man came rushing out of the trailer.

“Abdul!” Frank exclaimed.

Shaking his fist, the giant rushed back into the trailer and emerged with a high-powered rifle.

“He’s going to shoot at us!” Tony cried out.

“Gun it!” Jack ordered.

Joe began to climb for altitude. Seconds later there was a flash from the rifle muzzle. Almost at the same instant, sheets of flame billowed from under the engine cowling and smoke began to seep into the cabin.

“He hit a gas line!” Jack shouted. “The engine’s on fire!”

CHAPTER VI

Musical Password

INSTINCTIVELY Joe pulled the control wheel back and lowered the wing into a steep left bank. He jammed the right rudder pedal to its full limit. The plane descended rapidly and skidded sideways in a “slip.”

“Good work!” Jack said to Joe. “The plane’s side motion will keep the flames away from the cabin!”

Joe reached down between the seats and turned the fuel selector valve to the “off” position, thus cutting off the flow of fuel from the tanks to the engine.

“Keep her slipping toward that clearing just to your left!” Jack ordered. “We should make it in there easy!” Joe nodded.

With the fuel valve turned off, the engine used the remaining gas in the lines. It then sputtered and quit.

Joe and his companions watched anxiously as the plane slipped toward the clearing. When just a few feet above it, the young pilot kicked the rudder pedals into neutral and leveled the wings. There was a jolt as he pulled the wheel back hard and the plane touched down on the grassy clearing. Joe then pressed hard on the wheel brakes. The craft rolled ahead for several yards and came to a halt with a lurch.

“Handled like a veteran!” Jack gave Joe a broad grin.

At that moment Frank caught sight of Abdul and Hugo sprinting toward their car. “Those men are getting away!” he yelled.

The Hardys and the others hopped out of the plane and dashed after them. But the men had too big a lead. They jumped into their car while the pursuers were still fifty yards away. The car roared down the woods road and disappeared.

Though disappointed, Frank pointed out that at least the suspects had had to abandon their tent and trailer. “Maybe they left some clues.”

A quick search revealed little of interest. Besides some costumes, the crystal ball, and fortune-telling paraphernalia, Hugo and Abdul’s gear consisted of food, street clothing, and cooking utensils. The searchers turned their attention to smaller articles.

“What’s this?” Tony asked, unrolling a flag which he had found tucked away on a shelf of the trailer. On the left was a white circle on a red triangular field, and five green and white stripes running horizontally.

“A foreign flag!” Frank exclaimed.

“What about this?” Jack asked, pointing to a black cloth skeleton on the lower right-hand corner.

“Some kind of a Jolly Roger,” Joe suggested.

“But why would petty thieves use a pirate flag?” Tony queried.

“Perhaps Hugo and Abdul belong to some rebel group,” Frank mused.

Tony remarked, “Maybe they’re just a couple of petty fakers.”

Frank shook his head thoughtfully. “In that case, why all the rough stuff when we first saw them, and the rifleshot just now? If you ask me, they’re mixed up in something big—and this skeleton flag may be a clue.”

The group headed back to Skyhappy Sal. Jack Wayne removed part of the cowling and made a quick examination of the damage caused by Abdul’s bullet. The shot had almost severed the slender copper tubing of the fuel line.

“What’s the verdict?” Frank inquired.

Jack shrugged, frowning. “I can make a temporary repair with a plastic line—good enough to get us in the air, anyhow. But I doubt that it would hold as far as Bayport.”

“How about the Eastern City airport?” Tony suggested. “We could install a new fuel line there.”

Jack nodded. “That’s what we’ll have to do.”

He made the repair quickly, then everyone piled in. With Joe at the controls, the plane headed toward Eastern City. Located less than twenty miles away, this thriving city was a terminus for half a dozen airlines. Jack explained their plight to the tower and received permission to land. A mechanic guided him as he taxied the plane to a repair hangar.

“How long do you figure it’ll take to put in the new line?” Joe asked as they climbed out.

“Oh, not too long, once I get the right size tubing,” the pilot replied. “Fifteen, twenty minutes—if Tony will help me.”

“Sure, be glad to!” Tony, an expert with tools, loved to tinker over an engine.

“In that case,” said Frank, “Joe and I will find a phone booth and call the police.”

They strode quickly to the terminal building. As they skirted the magazine stand on their way to the telephone booths, they noticed a man seated alone in a corner. Olive-skinned, with long, shiny black hair, he looked to be a Latin American. The man slouched on the bench, chin in hand, listening to music which apparently was issuing from a small portable radio on his lap.

Joe grinned at the catchy tune. “Boy, I go for that stuff,” he said.

“What stuff?” Frank asked.

“Hot calypso!” Joe said.

His reply seemed to electrify the man on the bench. Jumping to his feet, he darted toward the boy and hissed in his ear, “Where are your gloves, you fool? You might leave fingerprints.”

Joe blinked and stared. The man’s next move was even more astounding. He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and stuffed them into Joe’s hand!

The boy was taken completely by surprise, but instinct warned him not to betray his reaction. The stranger watched him closely.

Joe swallowed hard and looked at the gloves. They were made of gray fabric with a small label sewn to the hem of one, reading Made in Tropicale. Acting on a hunch, Joe pulled them on.

This seemed to please the stranger, who gave a tight smile. “Ah, bueno!” He produced a small key and slipped it into Joe’s gloved hand, adding, “You have been instructed!”

Without another word the man turned, switched off the music, and strode away. For the first time, Frank and Joe noticed that what they had thought was a portable radio was actually a small portable record-player.

“Let’s follow him!” Joe said.

“Better not,” Frank advised. “I think we’ve stumbled onto something big. We’ve done the right thing so far. Let’s not spoil it.”

“You’re right. ‘Hot calypso’ must be a password. Let’s look at this key.”

Joe held it up for examination. The key was inscribed with the number 176.

Frank repeated the number excitedly. “That wadded note we found in the dummy’s eye!” he exclaimed. “It said ‘Skeleton Rock 176’ !”

“But what does it stand for?” Joe asked.

Frank thought a moment. “I can’t answer that, but I’ll bet this key opens one of those public lockers over there.”

The boys hurried to the south wall of the air terminal, honeycombed with metal lockers.

“Here it is,” said Frank.

Joe glanced around cautiously. The Latin American was not in sight and no one else seemed to be looking at the boys. Joe inserted the key in the lock. It fitted!

He turned the key and the door swung open. The locker contained a black-leather zippered case.

Joe reached in and pulled out the case. The next instant, both boys jumped in alarm as a voice behind them barked:

“You’re under arrest!”

CHAPTER VII

Twin Clues

As THE Hardys whirled around from the airport lockers, they saw a dark-haired, hard-jawed man of medium build eyeing them coldly.

He flipped open his coat and flashed a detective’s badge. “Now, then, who are you and what’s your game?”

“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank said coolly. “Our father is Fenton Hardy, the investigator. While we’re at it, maybe you wouldn’t mind telling us who you are?”

“Shanley, airport detective!” the man replied crisply. Opening his wallet, he showed them his detective’s license. “You two still haven’t told me what you’re up to,” he prodded.

“We’re not ‘up to’ anything,” Joe said tersely.

Shanley was annoyed. “Let’s have a look at that leather case,” he demanded.

But Frank interposed. “If you want to see the contents, let’s go to police headquarters.”

“Okay,” the detective grumbled. “Come on. We’ll go in my car.”

The Hardys agreed and the trio headed out through the glass doors of the terminal building, with Joe clutching the brief case.

“Car’s over there at the far end of the lot.” Shanley pointed.

As they started across the parking area, Joe caught his brother’s eye. He made a slight gesture toward the zippered case. Frank nodded.

Turning to Shanley, Frank started chattering casually. “Do you have an office here in Eastern City?” he inquired.

While Frank distracted the detective’s attention, Joe gave the zipper a quick jerk. Inside, he caught a glimpse of several thin, flat boxes sealed in cellophane. They bore a drug manufacturer’s label with the name Variotrycin.

Joe pulled the zipper shut before Shanley noticed anything. The young detective’s mind was racing.

“Variotrycin’s that new wonder drug I read about in the papers,” Joe thought. “But what has a new wonder drug to do with dummies and diamonds—or Skeleton Rock 176?”

Joe, deeply engrossed in trying to find an answer to the puzzle, was taken off guard by three men who suddenly darted out from between two cars parked nearby.

“We’ll take that case!” snarled the leader, a burly, baldheaded man in a polo shirt.

“Oh, no, you won’t!” Joe ducked, and threw up an arm to protect himself.

Frank leaped to his assistance, fists flying, as the hoodlums tried to grab the case.

To their astonishment, Shanley had disappeared. But there was no time to speculate about what had happened to him as Frank drove home a punch that split the lip of his adversary, while Joe gave another of the men a blow that sent him reeling.

In doing so, Joe dropped the case he had held under his left arm. As the young detective stooped to pick it up, he was amazed to have it snatched from the ground by none other than Shanley! The detective had crept up from behind.

“Thanks!” Shanley sneered, and sprinted for his car.

The Hardys were powerless to stop him. With the odds three against two, their attackers were pressing the boys harder than before.

Furiously, Frank and Joe swung their fists with telling effect. One of their opponents howled with pain as Joe caught him on the nose. A second later the baldheaded leader winced and groaned under the walloping impact of Frank’s fist under his chin.

Even so, the fight began to go against the boys. Step by step, they were being driven back and hemmed in against the bumper of a parked car.

Then, suddenly, the tide of battle turned. The burly baldheaded man was jerked around and struck on the jaw by a blow that rocked him on his heels.

“Tony!” Joe cheered. Heartened by the unexpected help, the Hardys put forth a fresh surge of fighting fury.

Their assailants lost heart rapidly. “These guys are too tough I’m gettin’ outta here!” gasped one of the ruffians. Pulling loose from the fray, he turned and ran, with Tony after him.

The baldheaded ringleader followed, with Frank at his heels. As the third hoodlum tried to join in the getaway, Joe dropped him with a flying tackle.

But the leader and the other ruffian kicked off their pursuers and leaped into a car that was waiting for them on the road beyond the parking area. At the wheel was Shanley!

Discouraged by this latest development, Frank and Tony went back to Joe, who was holding their prisoner. The fellow was bony and pinched-faced, and wore a cheap-looking pinstriped suit.

“We’re taking you to police headquarters,” Joe told him.

The sullen man shifted uneasily, but kept quiet as the group headed for the taxi stand.

“By the way, fellows,” said Tony, “would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

Frank gave him a quick account of the phony detective and the unexpected attack. “Thanks for coming to our rescue. You really saved the day!”

“Ditto!” put in Joe. “If it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t have this prisoner. By the way, Tony, you’d better go tell Jack Wayne what happened. We’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” Tony agreed. “But don’t let buster boy here pull any more fast ones!”

As he headed back to the hangar, Frank and Joe hustled their prisoner into one of the waiting taxis.

“Police headquarters,” Frank directed the driver.

A few minutes later the taxi pulled up in front of the brick building.

The sergeant in charge led the Hardys and their prisoner into the office of Inspector Moon, a friend of Fenton Hardy. He greeted the boys warmly, then said to a detective, “Take this man into the interrogation room and get the facts.” Inspector Moon turned back to Frank and Joe. “Now give me the whole story.”

The boys related everything that had happened at the airport terminal, including the way Shanley had led them into an ambush and then stolen the leather case.

“What did Shanley look like?” the officer asked. As Frank gave a description of the man, the inspector frowned and shook his head. “That wasn’t Shanley.”

“He was impersonating him, you mean?” Frank asked. “We saw his detective’s license.”

“Sure, they were the real Shanley’s all right. His house was broken into last night and all his credentials stolen,” the inspector explained.

Frank and Joe asked to read the report of the robbery, but found no clues of interest. In answer to Inspector Moon’s questions, they explained that they were helping their father on a case and described their brush with Hugo and Abdul at the wooded site.

“I’ll put out a call for them right away,” Inspector Moon said. He picked up his phone and ordered that an alarm be sent to all radio cars.

“One thing I don’t understand is why that Latin American fellow at the airport slipped me the gloves and key,” said Joe, after the officer hung up. “Couldn’t he tell just by looking at me that I wasn’t the right guy?”

“Maybe you do look like the right guy,” Inspector Moon pointed out.

“Wow! I never thought of that!”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Frank suddenly grinned. “Good night! My brother looking like some underworld character!” Then he sobered. “If this is some kind of a racket—like a theft ring for passing stolen goods—we now have a good description of one of the members.”

“Right,” the inspector agreed. “I’ll pass the word around for the men to be on the lookout for a fellow answering Joe’s description.”

“But of the criminal type, please,” Joe pleaded.

Just then the door of the interrogation room opened, and the plainclothesman came out with the prisoner.

“Learn anything?” Inspector Moon asked the detective.

“No,” he replied. “He won’t even tell us his name.”

“Any identification?” the inspector queried.

“Not even a driver’s license. Only thing that might help is this tattoo.” The detective pulled up the prisoner’s sleeve to show a pineapple tattoo on his left forearm.

“Hmm. It’s not much to go on,” the inspector said, “but check the files. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. This prisoner was carrying these in his pocket, together with a ticket to Mexico.”

With a baffled look, the detective held up a pair of doll’s glass eyes! Instantly the Hardys realized they were just like the dummy’s eyes which had contained uncut diamonds!

CHAPTER VIII

Spanish Code

FRANK and Joe were excited. Here was a definite clue that tied the Eastern City holdup men to the Hugo dummy racket!

“I’d like to speak to you privately,” Frank said to the police inspector. “And bring the doll’s eyes along, please.”

When they were alone in a rear office, Frank declared, “These doll’s eyes prove the man you’re holding and his gang are mixed up in the case Dad’s working on!”

“And what about the boxes of Variotrycin in the brief case?” Joe asked.

Inspector Moon looked thoughtfully at both boys and said that he would follow through on this angle in a few minutes, then he held up the doll’s eyes to the light.

“No diamonds here,” he announced. “These eyes are empty. But we still have plenty to hold Mr. Pineapple on. Maybe he’ll change his mind later about talking.”

Inspector Moon asked the boys to wait while he tried to find out about the Variotrycin. He telephoned first to Watkins Pharmacy. The boys could hear both sides of the conversation.

“That stuff’s pretty new,” Mr. Watkins told the inspector, “and very expensive. Far as I know, the Lexo Drug people that make it won’t be supplying it in quantity until they can lower the price.”

“Where is Lexo Drug?”

Mr. Watkins said the company had a plant in Hartsburg. “If you have a prescription, I could put in a special order—”

“No, thanks,” the inspector interrupted.

Hartsburg was less than a hundred miles from Bayport. Inspector Moon then placed a long-distance call to the company.

“I’d like to speak to the plant manager,” he told the switchboard girl.

A man’s gruff voice came on the line. “McCardle speaking.”

Inspector Moon introduced himself and said, “I’m calling to find out if any shipments of Variotrycin have been stolen recently.”

The plant manager asked with a sharp note of interest, “Who did you say you were?”

“Inspector Moon of the Eastern City Police Department.”

Mr. McCardle cleared his throat, then said that a special messenger carrying a consignment of their new product had been attacked and robbed late the day before.

“Where?”

“Not far from here.”

“Have you contacted your local police?” Inspector Moon asked.

“No. We just heard about the robbery. But I’ll do so right away,” McCardle replied.

He asked why the inspector had called him, and was told about the boxes in the brief case. “Well, we hope that you find the thief!” the manager said, then said good-by.

Inspector Moon turned to the Hardys. “How about you fellows helping on this?”

“We will!” the young sleuths promised.

Before leaving headquarters, Frank asked if he and his brother might borrow the doll eyes for further examination. Inspector Moon readily agreed.

The boys taxied back to the airport. Before the group took off for Bayport, Tony telephoned his father to tell what had happened. As he returned to the others, he said, “Lucky break! Dad says I can have the rest of the day off!”

On the flight back, the Hardys brought Jack and Tony up to date on the developments in the mystery.

“Things certainly worked fast,” Jack remarked.

“Yes, and thanks a lot for your help,” Joe said as they landed at Bayport. Frank echoed his words.

The pilot grinned. “Any time, fellows.”

As the boys drove off, Joe suggested that they stop at Mr. Hanade’s puppet-repair shop to see if he could tell them anything about the glass eyes, and to return his instruction sheet, which they had copied.

A few minutes later the trio pulled up outside Mr. Hanade’s shop. The pleasant Japanese proprietor greeted the Hardys and Tony politely. “You learn something from instruction sheet for Hugo dummy?” he asked as Joe thanked him for lending it to them.

“Not yet, but we have something to show you,” Joe replied. He took out the glass eyes. “Ever seen any like these before?”

Hanade studied them curiously. “Very old,” he murmured. “Nowadays, manufacturers do not make dolls’ eyes like this. Too expensive to make out of colored glass. Besides, glass breaks too easily.”

He explained that eyes for modern dolls are normally made of plastic with a metal rod running through them. The rod is usually hinged, with a small counterweight to make the eyes open and close.

Frank murmured to Joe, “With a rod running through them, there wouldn’t be much room inside for hiding anything.”

Joe nodded and said aloud, “If they’re plastic, they’re probably solid instead of hollow.”

“That is correct,” said Mr. Hanade.

“Do your Hugo dummies have solid plastic eyes?” Frank queried.

“Yes. Modern merchandise, of course.”

“Any idea where these glass eyes might have come from?” Joe went on.

“Would be hard to say. Most likely from some old-fashioned American dolls or puppets.”

“One more question,” said Frank. “Where are the Hugo dummies made?”

“Mexico,” said Mr. Hanade. At once the boys thought of the prisoner who had a ticket to Mexico. The man went on, “The dummies are fashioned of papier-mâché.”

The boys thanked him for his help and left. As they drove home, the group exchanged views on the mystery.

“I still can’t figure out why those guys in Eastern City were so anxious to get their hands on that Variotrycin,” Joe remarked. “Maybe there’s a connection between the drugs and the diamonds.”

“And how about that pirate flag in Abdul’s trailer?” Tony reminded them. “Where does that come in?”

Frank shrugged. “You’ve got me, pal!”

When they reached the Hardy home, Chet Morton was rocking himself in the glider on the front porch.

“Hey, watch it, boy! You want that thing to collapse?” Joe called out laughingly.

“Where’ve you fellows been?” Chet complained. “I’ve been waiting here so long I’ll bet I’ve missed my lunch.”

Frank sniffed the appetizing aroma of freshly baked cake that floated out through the open windows. “Better come in and eat with us, Chet.”

The stout teen-ager needed no urging. Soon all four boys were seated around the dining-room table, with Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, spooning up hearty servings of delicious onion soup and enjoying crusty French bread.

“How did things go, boys?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

After hearing all about the exciting adventures, both women gasped and Aunt Gertrude said, “I warned you! If you’d only pay attention to me, you wouldn’t risk your lives that way.”

Mrs. Hardy looked troubled. “Please be careful,” she cautioned.

After luncheon the four boys trooped upstairs to Frank and Joe’s room. Once again the young sleuths took out the two instruction sheets for the Hugo dummies and began to compare them.

“I’ll read off the extra words included on Chet’s sheet that are different, Frank, and you write them down,” Joe suggested.

“Okay, shoot!”

Frank wrote the words in a column with the translation opposite each one:

“What is it—a code?” asked Tony.

“Perhaps,” said Frank. After a couple of minutes of trying various combinations, he added, “I can’t make any sense out of them.”

“Let’s try the first letters of each Spanish word reading down,” suggested Joe. “C,a,b,e,z,o, n,a,n—”

“The first word, Cuerpo,” said Tony, “and the last word, Número, both have capital letters. Maybe that means the N should be separated from the rest.”

Frank wrote it down this way:

CABEZONA N

“I believe you’re right,” he commented, and consulted a Spanish dictionary. He read aloud:

“‘Cabezon, na, adj. big-headed; stubborn; n. collar of a shirt; opening in a garment for the passage of the head; noseband (for horses).’ ”

“Doesn’t make sense to me,” said Frank, “unless the code refers to the Hugo dummy’s big head.”

“That’s it!” Joe exclaimed. “The instructions might point out that the diamonds were secreted in the dummy’s head! And the N could stand for north, which is the position the dummy’s eyes are located on its face.”

Excited, the boys warmed up their short-wave radio and beamed out a call over the Hardys’ special frequency. After several minutes Mr. Hardy answered.

“Fenton to Bayport. Can you read me?”

“Sure can, Dad!” Joe replied into the mike. “We have some important news for you!”

“Better not tell it now,” Mr. Hardy warned hastily. “Someone may be listening!”

“Then tell us where to reach you and we’ll send it in code by airmail,” Joe told his father.

“I have a better idea, son. Suppose you and Frank fly down here to Puerto Rico and join me. I can use your help. Call Jack Wayne right away and make the arrangements.”

Chet and Tony had listened to the invitation with envy. “Ask your dad if he can use us,” said Chet. “We could be a big help!”

“It sure would be a lot of fun,” Joe agreed.

“It’s okay. Bring your pals along.” Mr. Hardy chuckled, having heard the whole conversation.

At once Chet and Tony dashed to the hall phone to call their parents. First Chet received permission to take a vacation from his summer work on the farm, then Tony’s father agreed to give him time off.

The boys were jubilantly talking over their plans when the telephone rang sharply. It was Inspector Moon calling from Eastern City.

“I have some bad news,” he told Joe, who answered. “That prisoner you and your brother captured this morning has just escaped by overpowering a guard.”

“Escaped!” Joe echoed.

“I thought I’d better warn you two,” the officer said.

“Thanks, Inspector. We’ll be on our guard.”

Frank was gravely alarmed when he learned of the escape. “Now we’re in real trouble,” he pointed out. “That man will pass along word to the gang that we have valuable information and they may try to harm us!”

“Good night!” Joe exclaimed. “If they come here while we’re gone, Mother and Aunt Gertrude will be in danger!”

“We’d better call Sam Radley and ask him to guard the house,” Frank decided.

Mr. Hardy’s operative readily agreed not only to stand guard himself at night, but to provide around-the-clock protection for the Hardy home. A call to Jack Wayne brought the promise that Mr. Hardy’s new six-seater cabin plane would be fueled and ready for take-off at six the next morning.

“I’ll be there at five to have everything in order,” the pilot promised.

At dawn the brothers bounced out of bed, showered, dressed hastily, and had a quick breakfast.

“Now take your time and chew your food properly,” Aunt Gertrude told them tartly. “I doubt that the island of Puerto Rico will sink out of sight if you don’t get there in the next few hours!”

After good-bys and warnings to be careful, the boys flung their suitcases into the convertible and drove off. They picked up Chet and Tony, then set off for the airport.

It was a few minutes before six, and shreds of morning mist still clung to the ground when they arrived at the airport. Jack Wayne was nowhere in sight. A line-boy was refueling the blue-and-white Hardy plane at the gas pit. The young detectives asked him if he had seen Jack Wayne.

“I did, just a little while ago,” the line-boy answered. “The last time I saw him he was headed for Hangar B. He asked me if I’d help him tow your father’s plane out and refuel it. When I went over to the hangar a few minutes later, Jack was nowhere around. So I just went ahead and towed the plane out on my own.”

The boys waited anxiously, but twenty minutes later, their pilot still had not arrived.

Frank’s face clouded with worry. “I’m afraid that something has happened to Jack. He’d never be this late without letting me know.”

“Yes,” said Joe. “It looks as if our enemies may have already started their newest attack.”

CHAPTER IX

The Ticking Suitcase

“MAYBE Jack went to the shop to get something,” Tony said.

In pairs the boys began their hunt. When they met again a short time later, their faces registered failure.

“I’ll call the motel where Jack lives,” Frank decided. “He might have gone to his room to get something.”

Hopefully the four boys hurried to the waiting room. Frank made the call.

“Is he there?” Joe asked anxiously when his brother emerged from the booth.

Frank shook his head. “The manager said Jack left a couple of hours ago.”

For a moment the boys were silent, wondering what their next move should be. Suddenly Joe snapped his fingers. “We haven’t checked Jack’s plane. Let’s go look!”

With quick strides the boys headed for Hangar B, where their father and Jack kept their planes. Jack’s sleek, silver-winged craft stood in one corner of the big corrugated-iron building.

Frank reached the plane first, climbed up, and jerked open the cabin door. He stopped short and gasped. Slumped on the floor was the huddled form of Jack Wayne!

“He’s here, unconscious!” Frank reported.

“Good night!” cried Joe.

Gently the boys lifted the pilot out of the plane and laid him on a pile of tarpaulins.

“Is he badly hurt?” Chet asked.

“I think not,” Frank replied, taking Jack’s pulse, which was even. “Just knocked out. In fact, I believe I smell chloroform in here.”

Jack moaned and stirred. “Thank goodness it’s nothing worse,” said Joe.

A few minutes later, though still woozy, Jack was able to sit up. “W-what—? W-where—?” he murmured, shaking his head from side to side.

“Take it easy,” Frank advised.

“Oh, hello, fellows,” Jack said shakily.

Chet Morton brought him a drink of water. While the pilot was sipping it, Frank and Joe went off to question the man in charge of the airport at the time, Burt Hildreth.

“Did you notice strangers prowling around early this morning?”

“Don’t recall seeing any,” said Hildreth, a tall man with a weather-beaten face. “In fact, no one’s been out to the field this morning—except when this young man showed up at five o’clock.” He pointed to Joe.

“Me?”

“Sure. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our conversation.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other, startled.

The early-morning visitor to the airfield must have been the one who resembled Joe—the contact man for the theft ring!

Hildreth was puzzled. “What goes on here?” he asked. “You fellows mixed up in a mystery?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “Joe and I didn’t arrive until a few minutes ago.” He explained that the police were looking for a suspect who resembled Joe. He might even be made up to look like him.

“Well, I’ll be doggoned!” Hildreth exclaimed. “That fellow sure is your double! He asked if Wayne had filed the take-off time for your flight. I said, ‘No, not yet, but he told me last night you’d be leaving around six.’ Then he walked off toward the hangar.”

Joe’s eyes widened as a frightening thought struck him. “I have a hunch we’d better check our plane and check it good!”

The boys hurried back to the hangar, where they found Jack Wayne fully recovered. He told them he had been about to step into the Hardy plane when someone had sneaked up behind him and put a rag with chloroform under his nose.

“That’s the last I remember. But why would anyone want to knock me out?”

“So he could sabotage our plane before take-off!” Frank replied grimly, and related Hildreth’s story.

“Good night!” exclaimed Jack. “If that’s the deal, we’d better go over the ship with a fine-toothed comb, or we may wind up in the drink!”

Worried, the group towed the big blue-and-white craft out onto the hangar apron. Under Jack’s supervision, they began a thorough check.

Engine, landing gear, control cables, elevators, ailerons, trim tabs—everything seemed to be in order. Even the radio and flight instruments showed no signs of tampering.

Frank relaxed a bit. “I guess my hunch was wrong. Anyhow, I’m glad we made sure.”

“But we still don’t know why Jack was attacked,” Joe pointed out.

While the pilot went off to file his flight plan, the others refreshed themselves with some hot cocoa at the airport lunch counter. Later, as Jack warmed up the engine for take-off, the boys lugged their baggage out to the ship.

Frank squatted just inside the cargo compartment in the rear of the plane and checked off each item as the others passed them in to him.

“Two bags for Joe and me,” he sang out. “Three bags for Chet. One suitcase for Tony, and a bag and two suitcases for Jack already stowed aboard!”

Jack turned around. “Hey, did you say three for me? I brought only two.”

“I’ll bet Chet slipped in an extra one full of chow!” Tony joked.

“Either that, or he’s trying to sneak his dummy aboard as a stowaway.” Joe chuckled.

Suddenly Frank turned pale. “Say, what if that fellow who chloroformed Jack planted the extra bag! It could mean—”

The pilot had already jumped up from his seat and hurried aft. “These are my two suitcases,” he said, pointing them out.

Frank grabbed the extra bag from the cargo space and held it to his ear.

“It’s ticking!” he cried. “A time bomb!”

There was an instant of near panic as Jack and the boys stood frozen with fear. Should they leap from the plane and leave it to blow up when the bomb went off? Or should they take a chance and try to carry the bag to a safe distance?

Frank glanced at his watch. It was 6:33. “The person who planted the bomb probably figured we wouldn’t be airborne just yet, so the bomb must be set to explode a few minutes from now. Out of my way, boys!” he cried.

Before anyone could stop him, Frank jumped from the plane, bag in hand, and sprinted down the runway. Near the edge of the field, he paused and hurled the bag toward a vacant, brush-covered lot beyond.

He was halfway back to the plane when the whole airport rocked under a sudden explosion. Frank was hurled to the ground by the tremendous blast. Joe and the others ran to help him as dirt, brush, and debris rained down on all sides of the blast area.

“Frank! Are you all right?” Joe cried, reaching his brother and kneeling down beside him.

“Sure. Just a little shaken up.”

“And m-me too!” said Chet. “Man alive, I thought you were a goner!” The stout boy’s face was ash white and the rest of the group looked equally shocked.

By this time, the airport was in an uproar and it was some time before everyone was reassured that the bomb planter had directed his venom only toward the Hardys.

Meanwhile, Frank made a full report over the phone to Chief Collig. Finally a signal for departure was given and the graceful blue-and-white plane took off on its flight to Puerto Rico.

Everyone relaxed as the plane headed out over the Atlantic. The boys sat quietly and thought about the case. What sort of a racket were they up against? Obviously its members would stop at nothing to gain their objectives. The young sleuths had already had enough close scrapes to be sure of that!

Frank and Joe each took turns at the controls as Jack instructed them in long-range flying and navigation. It was nearing lunchtime when a voice came crackling over the plane’s radio navigation frequency.

“Sky Sleuth One-One-Eight-Howe-Baker! This is Tancho radio! Do vou read?”

Frank clicked the plane’s transmitter to the proper frequency. He then picked up the microphone and spoke into it. “Tancho radio! This is Sky Sleuth One-One-Eight-Howe-Baker! Read you loud and clear! Go ahead!”

“Eight-Howe-Baker! This is Tancho radio! Bayport tower has requested us to convey a message to you from Mrs. Hardy! You are requested to land at Centro in Tropicale! Repeat—land at Centro in Tropicale! Over!”

The boys were puzzled. Why land at the new Caribbean island democracy? Frank decided to check.

“Tancho radio! This is Eight-Howe-Baker! Would you please contact Bayport tower and have them call Mrs. Hardy? We would like to verify that message!”

“Stand by!”

Several minutes passed before the communicator’s voice again crackled from the loudspeaker.

“Eight-Howe-Baker! This is Tancho radio! Bayport tower reports they called your home! No answer! Can we be of further assistance? Over!”

“This is Eight-Howe-Baker! Negative! We are proceeding to Centro. Please change our flight plan accordingly! Over and out!”

Shifting course to the right, Jack headed south-west toward Tropicale. Finally the lush green shores of the island came into view. The pilot consulted a map as they flew inland and soon they sighted the bustling city of Centro.

Arrowing in toward the airfield on the outskirts of town, Jack cleared with the tower and made a smooth landing. Almost before the plane rolled to a stop, a man in a white suit came running out to meet them. He was tall and dark with a long, drooping mustache.

As the boys climbed out of the plane, the stranger shoved a note into Frank’s hand, then dashed off the field. Puzzled, Frank unfolded the paper and read the typewritten message. It said:

Danger. Do not come.

Dad

CHAPTER X

Cross Fire

CHET groaned in dismay at Mr. Hardy’s message. To have come all this way and not go on to Puerto Rico.

Jack had a different idea. “Maybe it’s a trick,” he suggested.

“Yes, and the radio message too,” Frank agreed.

“Then let’s find that guy and make him talk!” Joe urged.

“Okay. Anybody see where he went?” Frank asked.

He and the others stared around the field. With several airliners loading and discharging passengers, the place throbbed with activity. Tourists swarmed about the terminal building.

“There he is!” cried Tony, pointing to a tall figure in a white suit talking earnestly to a group of men. They were standing near the roadway that bordered the field.

Joe took off at a fast sprint. All the others but Jack raced after him. As the boys ran, they caught a stir of movement in other parts of the field. Several uniformed men were pushing through the throng of people.

Suddenly a shot rang out, then another! The white-suited man and his companions jerked around, their hands flying toward their hip pockets.

“La policia!” one of them shouted.

Whipping out revolvers and automatics, they began shooting back. In an instant the Hardys and their friends found themselves caught in a fusillade of cross fire as bullets whined back and forth through the air.

“Wow!” Tony exclaimed as one whistled close to his ear.

“We’ve walked into a war!” Chet wailed.

Following Joe and Frank’s example, the others fanned out, but kept on running—in an effort to escape the deadly exchange and catch up to the deliverer of the note.

One of the gunmen spotted the Americans. He let out a sharp cry in Spanish, which seemed to throw his companions into a panic. The men ran toward two parked cars.

Bringing up the rear was the mustached man in the white suit who had delivered the note. Joe was now within a couple of yards of him. With a lunge the boy hurled himself in a fierce flying tackle. The white-suited man went down with a thud.

The other gunmen, already in the parked cars, made no effort to rescue their comrade. They sped off with a roar of exhaust!

By this time, the police had reached the scene in jeeps to give chase. But a lieutenant and several others stayed behind to take over the prisoner from the Americans.

“Caramba, señores!” the lieutenant exclaimed to Frank and Joe. “You are brave young men to capture, unarmed, such a gunman. In fact, you are all brave señores and I offer you my thanks!”

“Glad to help, but who are these men?” Frank asked.

“Rebels plotting against the Tropicale Government,” said the lieutenant. “But if you will be so kind, you will tell me why you were mixed up in this.”

Frank told his story briefly and the officer urged the boys to accompany him to police headquarters and repeat what had happened.

When they arrived at headquarters, he introduced them to Lieutenant Garcia and once more the boys told their story. Before the officer could take action, five other members of the rebel group were brought in, two of them injured. One of the getaway cars had smashed into a lamppost while making a turn. All the occupants had been captured.

“A bad business, señores! You see, there have been several uprisings lately,” Lieutenant Garcia explained to the Hardys. “The first took place at Santia, on the southeast coast of our island, but each new raid occurs farther west. We fear the rebels may be moving toward Savango.”

He explained that the police had learned only a few hours earlier about the group’s latest plan to seize or blow up the airport.

“But why?” Frank asked. “What’s their purpose?”

The lieutenant shrugged. “Quién sabe? Perhaps they are criminals, crazy for power, trying to overthrow the lawfully elected government.”

Meanwhile, the prisoners were being questioned in another room. Frank and Joe were allowed to be present at the interrogation. It was disappointing, because none of the captured men would talk.

“I’ll bet the one we caught won’t tell us anything, either,” Joe whispered to his brother.

As Frank nodded, the man suddenly raised his hand to mop the sweat from his brow. Joe gasped and clutched his brother by the arm.

“Look!” he whispered.

On the prisoner’s left forearm, just above the wrist, was a pineapple tattoo!

The Hardys exchanged excited glances. Did this sign mean that the man was a member of the same racket as the one in Eastern City with the tattoo on the left arm? The boys decided the chances were too slim for them to mention their suspicion to the Tropicale police.

After the prisoner had been taken to a cell, Lieutenant Garcia turned to the Hardys and said, “May I see the note, please, that was handed to you on the field?”

When the officer finished studying it, Frank added, “I have a hunch the radio message we got in the plane was a fake, but I’d like to make sure.”

He asked permission to place a long-distance telephone call to Bayport. In a few minutes Mrs. Hardy’s voice came through.

“Is everything all right?” she asked quickly.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mother,” Frank reassured her, then asked if she had sent the radio message.

“Why, no, son.”

Somewhat upset, Mrs. Hardy begged her sons to take care of themselves. “And that goes for Chet and Tony and Jack!” she added.

When Lieutenant Garcia heard Frank’s report, he frowned. “It would appear, senores, that this gang was trying to lure you into some kind of trap. Fortunately their plan failed.”

He summoned the prisoner who had delivered the note. The man glibly said a stranger had asked him to do the errand. Frank and Joe were sure he was lying, but he refused to change his story and was taken away to a cell.

After making signed statements, the Hardys were driven back to the airport in a police car. Here they ate a hearty lunch, then took off again for Puerto Rico.

“I certainly hope we have no more delays,” Joe said, heaving a great sigh.

It was late afternoon when they came in sight of the beautiful Caribbean island. From the air, it looked like a paradise of emerald green. White beaches with waving palms rimmed the shore line. Farther inland, cool blue mountains reared upward from the coastal plain.

“Ah me! What a place in which to relax and dream!” Chet said as he peered down from the cabin window.

“You mean with a well-filled lunch basket?” Tony put in, chuckling.

To the southeast of the International Airport near San Juan a green-clad mountain peak soared against the sky. “That’s El Yunque—The Anvil,” Jack pointed out. “It’s a tropical rain forest with ferns as high as houses.”

They landed and admired the large white modernistic terminal building as they walked toward it. The structure seemed to be poised on stilts.

Mr. Hardy was waiting to greet the travelers as soon as they cleared customs. “Good flight?” he asked.

“Wait’ll you hear!” Joe grinned. “We stopped off in Tropicale and barged smack into a revolution!”

“Well, I’m glad you came through it alive!” Though eager to hear all the news, Mr. Hardy cautioned everyone not to talk freely until they were in their hotel rooms.

The group managed to squeeze into a single taxi. Soon they were whisked through a beautiful residential area of pink and white villas, then out onto a wide boulevard lined by palms, in clear view of the sea.

“Pretty nice place,” Chet remarked. “Let’s have some fun while we’re here and not get mixed up with a bunch of crooks.”

The others smiled. When they reached the hotel, the boys went at once to Mr. Hardy’s room for a conference.

Frank and Joe quickly related everything that had happened to them since receiving his message of “Find Hugo purple turban.”

Mr. Hardy was amazed. “So there were diamonds in the dummy! This case is even more complex than I realized,” he declared, his face grave. “And you’ve done a good job. I thought that message might be a clue to a smuggling racket. It was written on a piece of paper left in a hastily vacated house.”

The detective confided to the boys that he was working for the United States Government on the theft of some rare isotopes—materials which could be used in the manufacture of atomic weapons.

“The FBI believes they were stolen here in Puerto Rico, en route to foreign countries,” he added. “It looks as if we may be up against a gang of air-freight thieves and smugglers who deal in other things besides isotopes!”

“Any leads so far?” Frank asked.

“Just one. My next job is to keep watch at a freight warehouse near the airport.”

Joe jumped up from his chair in excitement. “How about Frank and Chet and Tony and myself doing a stakeout at the warehouse?”

The other boys were equally enthusiastic about the idea, and Mr. Hardy finally agreed. They soon devised a plan. The boys would hide in crates to be carted to the warehouse that evening.

After dinner the boys started out for a trucking company on a street called Calle Pacheco. The owner of the firm was cooperating with the police on the freight robberies.

“Don’t look now,” said Tony a few minutes later, “but I think a car’s tailing us.”

Frank leaned forward to watch the taxi’s rear-view mirror. “You’re right,” he muttered. “Maybe we’d better split up.”

Quickly he arranged with Chet and Tony to stay in the taxi and try to shake off their pursuer. “If you lose him, meet us at the trucking company in half an hour.”

Three blocks down, the driver stopped for a red light. Quickly the Hardys jumped from the taxi and lost themselves in the passing throng of pedestrians.

They had not gone far when Frank and Joe noticed that a tall man seemed to be trailing them. His face was almost hidden by the pulled-down brim of his slouch hat. The Hardys were struck by something familiar about the fellow! But there was no time to mull this over.

“Better shake him,” Frank muttered.

Joe agreed. Quickly the boys hailed a taxi and resumed their ride to the trucking company. When they arrived, the owner said:

“Ah, sí, I have the boxes all prepared. The covers, of course, will not be nailed down.”

A few minutes later Chet and Tony joined them. The boys took their places in the big crates, which were loaded aboard a truck. Soon they were bumping and rattling through the streets of San Juan.

When the truck arrived at the warehouse, the boxes were carried inside to the main room. As closing time neared, the workmen’s voices died away and everything became quiet.

The first half hour of the boys’ vigil went slowly. Cramped and tense in their hiding places, they sweated out each passing moment.

Then Frank heard a noise!

CHAPTER XI

Warehouse Marauders

FRANK strained his ears, wondering if he was mistaken. Then he heard it again—a faint scratchy noise which he could not identify.

Raising the lid of his box, he beamed a flashlight toward the sound. A large sheet of dirty wrapping paper lay a few yards away. On it crouched a small, brown furry creature.

“What gives?” came a whisper from Joe’s box.

“Just a rat.”

The rodent froze for a few seconds in the glare of light, its beady eyes shining with reflected brilliance. Then it scampered off into a dark hole nearby—apparently the opening to a small tunnel for an electrical conduit, but large enough for a person to crawl into.

The boys resumed their wait, shifting occasionally to exercise their cramped muscles. The warehouse lay wrapped in gloom, pierced only by a faint glow from the moon through a skylight.

Some time later another noise broke the stillness. It was a faint curse in Spanish! The voice sounded oddly hollow and muffled.

Frank and Joe raised the lids of their crates a crack. A moment later they saw two figures wriggle through the tunnel opening. Both snapped on flashlights and played them around the room. Then the intruders, whose faces were in shadow, separated and began examining the shipping labels on the boxes and crates.

One of the men approached the spot where the Hardys were hiding. The boys closed the lids noiselessly and held their breaths. Through a knot-hole, Joe could make out one man’s legs, scarcely inches away. Apparently he was examining the label on Joe’s box!

A cold sweat broke out on the youth’s forehead. What if he opened the lid?

“Hey, come here!” called out a raspy voice.

“Qué quieres?” said the man near Joe.

“Think I’ve found somethin’ good—a box of fine Swiss watches! Should make a real haul!”

“Ah, bueno!”

As the Spanish-speaking intruder moved away, Joe gave a noiseless sigh of relief.

The boys could hear muttered conversation as the thieves discussed the loot. Cautiously Frank and Joe raised the lids of their boxes. A moment later Chet and Tony lifted theirs.

They could see the figures of the two burglars silhouetted by their own flashlights. They were squatting in front of a small crate, their backs to the boys. One of them seemed to be holding a bag.

Scarcely daring to breathe, the four boys watched tensely. One of the men produced a fine saw and began cutting deftly along the label of the box containing the watches.

In a few minutes an opening was made. The thief reached in and removed the packaged watches. Then his partner began filling the box with sand and rubble from the bag to equal its previous weight.

“Okay. Now!” hissed Frank, giving the signal to attack.

Moving silently, the four boys started to climb out of their crates. Chet was the first to emerge completely. But, in his eagerness, he let the crate lid slip from his sweaty fingers.

B-a-a-ang!

Instantly the burglars sprang to their feet. “Somebody’s here!” cried one of them.

The other shrilled, “Vámonos! Let’s go!”

Clicking off their flashlights, the two thieves darted off into the darkness. But the boys snapped on their own lights and managed to pin the fleeing men for a moment in the yellow beams.

One of the thieves was heavy-set, dark, and swarthy. The other, slim and blond, bore a startling resemblance to Joe!

The Hardys became tense with excitement. Was this the contact man of the gang—the one who had chloroformed Jack Wayne back at the Bayport airfield?

“I’ll guard the tunnel,” Frank told his brother. “The rest of you scatter!”

The two thieves had already taken cover among the barrels and crates.

“One of ’em’s over there!” shouted Tony. But a crash of boxes indicated that their quarry was already plunging off.

Joe, Tony, and Chet lost no time in pursuing him. Soon the darkened warehouse was a scene of bedlam.

“I wonder where the watchman is,” thought Frank. “He must have been knocked out.”

Crates were banged over, piles of goods and boxes sent toppling as hunters and quarry blundered about in the darkness.

“Help! I’ve got him!” Chet panted, in a far corner of the warehouse.

Tony sprinted to aid him. His beam picked out the blond man, struggling in Chet’s bearlike embrace. Instantly Tony tackled the fellow around the knees just as he jerked loose from Chet. The stout boy flashed his light square on the prisoner.

“It’s the one who looks like Joe!” Chet cried out triumphantly.

“I am Joe!” howled the captive.

“Oh, no!” babbled Chet in nervous confusion.

Just then a yell from Frank brought the others whirling to attention. “They’re getting away. Come quick!”

The three boys raced in the direction of Frank’s voice. But it was too late. During the melee between Chet, Joe, and Tony, the two suspects had grabbed Frank and pinned him behind a stack of barrels. Then they had wriggled through the tunnel.

“Come on! Let’s go after them!” cried Joe.

He started to crawl into the tunnel headfirst, but Tony dragged him back.

“No, Joe. Don’t try it! Those guys have the advantage.”

“But we can’t let ’em get away!” Joe protested in exasperation.

In the meantime, Chet had released Frank and they ran forward.

“Let’s try the door!” Frank suggested. “Maybe we can nail the men when they come out the other end of the tunnel.”

He led the way eagerly toward the door. The others hurried after him, and tried to push it open.

“Locked!” he cried.

The boys hurried to a door leading to the office and let themselves outside. Back of a bench an elderly man was groggily getting to his feet.

“You the watchman here?” Frank asked.

“Sí. I—I think—someone—knock me out.”

“You’re right. Two thieves who’ve just robbed this place. We’re after them now. Where’s the exit to the tunnel?”

The dazed watchman led the boys to the marauders’ point of exit, an open manhole with its cover overturned. The discovery brought fresh groans.

“Of all the rotten breaks!” Joe grumbled.

Just then Frank heard the sound of a car starting up in the distance. “There they go!” he shouted, as twin headlights swept a path through the darkness.

Joe glanced around frantically for some way to take up the chase. He spotted a small motorcycle. “Whose is that?”

“It is mine, señor,” the bewildered watchman admitted.

“May I borrow it?”

“Sí, si! But be careful—por favor!”

Joe dashed toward the motorcycle, leaped into the saddle, and kicked the starter. The engine sputtered to life. With a blast of exhaust, he took off after the fleeing car.

The noise of the motorcycle gave warning to the thieves that they were being followed. At top speed they careened through the darkened residential district of Santurce, then into the old town of San Juan.

Most of the way, Joe managed to keep the car clearly in view. But after passing San Crist6bal fortress on the right, he emerged into the Plaza Colón to find that the burglars’ automobile was no longer in sight.

In the center of the square on a tall pillar, a bronze statue of Christopher Columbus loomed against the night sky.

“Oh, brother! If you could only talk!” Joe muttered helplessly.

Obviously the thieves had disappeared down one of the narrow, cobblestoned streets leading off the square. But which one?

Wheeling over to a parked taxi, Joe questioned the driver about a speeding car. “Ah, sí, señor. It went that way!” replied the driver, pointing down one of the streets.

“Thanks! Muchas gracias!” Joe exclaimed.

So that the warehouse thieves wouldn’t hear him approaching, he parked the motorcycle near the entrance to the narrow street and then continued on foot. He had gone scarcely a hundred yards when he gasped jubilantly. Ahead in the moonlight stood the thief who resembled Joe!

He was putting something into a basket which had been lowered by rope from a balcony. Joe had seen the same method being used earlier that evening when people purchased fruit or vegetables from street vendors.

Sprinting forward, Joe tried to take the man by surprise. Unfortunately, the fellow spotted him and darted into a narrow, twisting street.

Quickly Joe reached up and managed to grab the basket. But the man on the balcony gave it a hard yank, jerking it free. The basket shot up out of Joe’s grasp.

The young sleuth tried to find an entrance to the building, but apparently there was none facing the street. He retraced his steps part way to the square and found an alley which led back to the houses. Cautiously he made his way through the shadowy, musty passageway.

Counting the buildings, Joe found the one from which the basket had been lowered. It was a three-story building of pink stucco, with shuttered windows and a wrought-iron balcony on each of the two upper stories. An outside flight of steps led up to its gloomy-looking interior.

Joe started up the steps on tiptoe. But he did not get far. Suddenly he was struck on the head. Joe slumped to the ground, unconscious.

CHAPTER XII

The Tattooed Prisoner

BACK at the warehouse, Frank, Chet, and Tony waited anxiously for Joe to return. The police had come and gone. The boys had given the watchman first aid and he was now feeling better.

“Joe’s been gone almost an hour,” muttered Frank, glancing worriedly at his watch.

“Why don’t we get a taxi,” Tony suggested, “and see if we can find him?”

“Second the motion!” Chet responded.

But finding a taxi at that hour was not easy and the boys finally had to go to the airport to round one up. Since the thieves’ car had sped away in the direction of Santurce, Frank ordered the driver to try that part of the city first. But fifteen minutes of cruising up and down the darkened streets proved fruitless.

“Take us into Old San Juan,” Frank said.

As they drove into Columbus Plaza, Chet exclaimed, “There’s the motorcycle Joe borrowed!”

It was standing parked at the curb where Joe had left it, but the young sleuth was nowhere in sight. Frank paid their driver, and gave him an extra dollar to take the motorcycle back to the watchman at once.

The three boys began a search of the surrounding streets for Joe. But the hunt was unsuccessful and finally they gave up in despair.

“Guess we may as well go back to the hotel,” Frank said glumly. “But I sure hate to tell Dad that Joe’s missing.”

Mr. Hardy was greatly dismayed by the news. “With the gang we’re up against, anything may have happened to Joe!” he declared.

Before he could formulate a plan of action, there was a knock on the door of the hotel room.

“You are Senor Fenton Hardy?” a Puerto Rican police officer asked.

“That’s right.”

“You have a son named Joe Hardy?”

“I certainly do. You have news of him?” Mr. Hardy asked anxiously.

“I regret to inform you, señor, that your son is in jail.”

The officer, expecting to hear alarmed protests from the group, was amazed to see looks of relief on their faces.

“We’ll go to see him at once,” Mr. Hardy told the officer.

A police car took them to San Juan Police Headquarters. Here they learned, to their amazement, that Joe was being held for attempted burglary. A turnkey took them to his dimly lighted cell.

“There he is, senor,” said the jailer.

The blond figure inside was slumped dejectedly on his cot, a livid bruise on one temple. But at sight of Mr. Hardy and the others, he brightened and jumped to his feet.

“Am I ever glad to see you people!”

Mr. Hardy was about to greet his son when Chet cried out in alarm. “Look! It’s not Joe! It’s that fellow who resembles him!”

Chet pointed out that on the prisoner’s left forearm was a pineapple tattoo! To everybody’s surprise, the prisoner merely laughed.

“Had you fooled, Chet,” he said. “It’s only a joke. I put the pineapple on myself with this indelible pencil I borrowed from the guard.”

Frank chuckled with relief. “You’re Joe, all right. Someday that stunt may come in handy.”

“Now that you have been identified,” said Mr. Hardy, “suppose you tell us why you’re here.”

Joe told about the basket incident and how he had tried to enter the house by a rear stairway. “Someone conked me. When I came to, the guy claimed I was a burglar and called the police!”

“Hmm.” Mr. Hardy regarded his son with a wry smile. “I suppose you can hardly blame the fellow for being suspicious.”

“That’s if he’s on the level,” said Joe. “But I have a hunch he was more interested in keeping me from finding out what was in the basket!”

“We’ll check up on the place,” Mr. Hardy said.

After showing his credentials, the detective obtained Joe’s release. Although the officer in charge was a bit dubious, he issued a search warrant and dispatched a police car to take the group to the house in question.

They ascended the stairs to the rear entrance and knocked. A thin old man opened the door.

The policeman said in Spanish that they had a warrant to search the house for stolen goods.

The old man seemed bewildered, but allowed them to enter. He informed them that a separate family lived on each floor. Mr. Hardy and the policeman questioned all the occupants and searched every room with the help of the boys. Nothing suspicious was found and the man who had charged Joe with burglary was not at home.

“Looks like a wild-goose chase,” Chet murmured as the searchers reached the top floor.

Frank, too, was about ready to give up when he caught sight of a small white card on the floor. He took out his handkerchief, wiped some dust off his hands, then dropped the handkerchief on the floor as if accidentally. He picked it up casually and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. A few minutes later the group left.

When they gathered later in Mr. Hardy’s hotel room, the private investigator tossed his Panama hat on the bed with a sigh.

“Well, boys, it was a good try,” he told them, “but we seem to have run into a blind alley.”

Frank grinned. “Maybe not, Dad.”

He pulled out the handkerchief and extracted the small white card. “I found this on the top floor,” he explained, “but I didn’t want to mention it in front of the people who lived there.”

Mr. Hardy and the others read the card in amazement. It bore the words, crudely printed by hand:

CABEZONA N

Joe whistled loudly. “It’s the same code message we worked out from those dummy instructions back in Bayport!” he exclaimed. “This house may be a hideout for the gang!”

“You’re probably right, son,” said his father, furrowing his brow. “But we may have a hard time convincing the police of that.”

He and the boys discussed the mystery for nearly an hour before retiring, but arrived at no solution. The next morning they breakfasted together in the pleasant hotel dining room.

“Mmm, boy, this iced pineapple juice is sure good!” Chet smacked his lips.

Just then a bellhop came to their table. He informed Mr. Hardy that a visitor was waiting in the lobby. The detective asked to be excused and left. When he returned, there was a grave expression on his face.

“Who was it, Dad?” Frank asked.

“A United States federal agent,” Mr. Hardy replied quietly. “Something new and serious has come up on my case. I’m not free to tell you any more just now, but it looks as though you boys will have to carry on here by yourselves.”

Frank, Joe, Chet, and Tony enthusiastically said they were ready. Mr. Hardy informed them that he and Jack Wayne would have to take off at once for a secret destination. He quickly finished his meal and said good-by.

After breakfast the four boys assembled in Frank and Joe’s room.

“It seems to me,” said Joe, “that the house we searched last night is still our best lead. I think we ought to watch it.”

“Check and double check,” Tony said.

Frank agreed but said that to avoid suspicion they should not all take on the job at once. “We’d surely be spotted. Tony, how about you taking the first watch? With your olive complexion, you could pass for a native.”

Tony grinned. “That’s fine with me.” He promptly left by taxi for Columbus Plaza.

The other three boys decided to look through the telephone directory on the off-chance that “Cabezona” might be a person’s name. Chet offered to check on this.

“Only one person in the whole city of San Juan named Cabezona,” he informed the others after he ran his finger down the page. “And his initials are F. X.—not N.”

“Let’s talk to him, anyhow,” urged Joe.

The boys left the hotel and asked the doorman for directions to the Avenida Ponce de Leon. At the address Chet had jotted down was a haberdashery shop. The owner, Senor F. X. Cabezona, was a stout, jolly man who spoke excellent English.

“And what may I show the young men? Shirts? Socks?” He beamed at his three customers.

“A necktie,” Frank replied.

The proprietor showed them an assortment of gay ties, then said there were some that they might like in a new shipment just unpacked. He disappeared into a back room.

While he was gone, Chet whispered, “This can’t be the right Cabezona.”

“He sure doesn’t look like a racketeer,” Joe agreed.

When the owner returned, Frank said casually, “Your name is rather unusual.”

“Ah, sí!” The jolly man chuckled. “In Puerto Rico the word means the big pineapples which grow on the south coast.”

Pineapples! The Hardys and Chet were elated. They had picked up another clue! Maybe the word in the Hugo instructions and on the card Frank had found referred to the pineapple tattoo! It must be the gang’s identification!

The affable haberdasher went on, “So far as I know, my wife and young son Carlos and I are the only Cabezona family on the island.”

Frank and Joe wondered if there could be another Cabezona in Puerto Rico, perhaps living there secretly and leading the underground group.

After buying a tie, the boys returned to their hotel. When they reached their room, the phone was ringing. Joe answered. It was Tony calling.

“I just saw a tall guy with a large head sneak into the alley back of the house. How about you fellows getting over here? I have a hunch something’s up!”

“We’re on our way!” Joe promised. “Meet you at the statue of Columbus.”

He put down the phone and relayed the news to Frank and Chet. Both were jubilant.

“That man might be the one who trailed us on our way to the trucking company last night,” Joe pointed out.

“Not only that,” said Frank, “but maybe his nickname is Cabezona!”

CHAPTER XIII

Pursuit at El Morro

WHEN the Hardys and Chet reached Columbus Plaza in a taxi, they saw Tony standing in the doorway of a small souvenir shop. It was on the corner of the narrow street to which Joe had traced the mystery man.

“Okay, right here, driver!” said Frank. The passengers got out and Tony came over to join them.

“Now tell us everything, Tony,” Joe requested when the group walked off a distance, out of anyone else’s hearing.

“Well, first of all, I want to tell you I’ve hired a swell observation post for us. Cost a buck,” Tony explained. “It’s a room in a house right across the street from the hideout. We’ll have a clear view of both the pink stucco place and the alley.”

“Good work!” said Joe.

The boys hurried down the narrow, cobblestoned street, then ducked into the side entrance of the house where Tony had rented a room. They posted themselves at the front windows of the room. Latticed shutters enabled them to peer out without being seen. Almost an hour went by without results.

“You sure you weren’t seeing things?” complained Chet, who was getting warm.

“Positive!” said Tony. “Give the man in there a chance. If he went in, he’s bound to come out some time!”

“Unless we’ve already missed him,” Chet retorted.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Tony exclaimed in a low voice, “There he is!”

A tall man, with an unusually large head, emerged from the alley. He was swarthy and had an aquiline-shaped nose.

“Abdul!” Frank exclaimed excitedly. “He’s the fellow who was shadowing us, Joe.”

His brother nodded. “We couldn’t place him then with that hat over his face, plus not wearing his fancy Oriental getup.”

The assistant to Hugo the fortuneteller, hatless now, wore dungarees and a striped jersey.

“There is a hookup between those Hugodummy smugglers and the freight thieves!” said Frank.

“Let’s follow him!” Joe urged.

The four started out at once, keeping a safe distance behind the man. Abdul headed away from Columbus Plaza. At Calle San Justo he turned right and walked for several blocks, then walked to the left on the Boulevard del Valle.

Eventually he came to a broad iron gate standing open to visitors. It was the entrance to Fort Brooke, the big United States military post at the western tip of Old San Juan. With a casual salute to the soldier on guard, Abdul strolled on through.

“Gallopin’ gooseberries!” Chet burst out. “What’s he up to now? Is he going to steal some military secrets?”

“Only one way to find out,” Frank replied, hurrying toward the fort.

As the boys passed through the gate, a grassy green plateau stretched ahead of them. It swept out toward the ocean and was used as a golf course. Men and women were playing golf. Tourists’ cars stood parked along the road, which curved to the left of the course. Facing this was a row of Army buildings and officers’ homes.

“Let’s separate and act like sightseers,” Frank advised his companions.

Each of them started wandering around alone, but kept a wary eye on Abdul. The man headed straight for the old Spanish battlements of El Morro. This ancient fort stood poised on a bluff jutting out over the sea, beyond the end of the golf course.

When Abdul reached the massive stone walls of the fortress, he glanced around for a moment. Seemingly satisfied that no one was following him, he ducked hastily into a round, stone sentry house at the very tip of the rock-walled point. Below it, the surf pounded itself into foam over the coral rocks.

“Now why did he do that?” Chet asked himself, puzzled.

The boys began closing in. Frank reached the spot first and made his way along the wall of the steep parapet where an ancient bronze cannon offered a convenient hiding place. Frank crouched down behind it to watch Abdul.

Inside the sentry box the man took a mirror from his pocket and aimed it to catch the sun. Then he began shooting flashes of light out to sea. Frank had a clear view.

“He’s signaling in international code!” the boy realized with a gasp of excitement.

Slowly the message was spelled out: “3-4-8- 9-P-M-Skeleton.”

Frank wondered what it meant and who was receiving the message. He stood up and glanced across the water. Half a mile out he could see a blue speedboat.

Just then Abdul turned to leave the sentry house. With a start he noticed Frank standing behind the cannon. At the same moment, the other three boys burst from their hiding places.

Muttering a threat, Abdul took off like a bolt of lightning, heading for the road. Joe tried to nail him with a flying tackle, but the huge man swept the boy aside with a single blow of his great arm.

“Stop him!” yelled Frank to a soldier and several sightseers. “He’s wanted by the police!”

Most of the tourists were bewildered by the sudden commotion, but some of the onlookers grabbed for the fugitive too late. Startled golfers watched the chase wonderingly.

By this time, Abdul was streaking across the links with the boys in hot pursuit. Despite his weight, the man covered the ground with amazing speed. Even Joe and Frank, who were track stars at Bayport High, could not catch up to him.

Abdul gained the road just as a delivery truck passed. He leaped on the tailboard, and in a matter of seconds, the vehicle rumbled through the gate.

“He’s getting away!” Joe shouted, clenching his fists in bitter disappointment.

At that moment one of the golfers rushed forward. “Jump in my car!” he cried, sprinting toward a white convertible.

Panting their thanks, Frank and Joe piled in with him. As the car shot forward, the boys poured out their story in bits and snatches.

“That fellow’s wanted by the police,” Frank explained. “He’s part of a smuggling ring.”

“I hope we can catch him,” the driver said.

Fortunately, due to the town’s narrow streets, traffic had to move slowly. Swinging down Calle Cristo, they soon caught sight of the delivery truck. It had turned left into Calle Sol only to find the way blocked by a pushcart peddler.

Frank wondered who was receiving the signals

“This’ll do!” Joe said to their driver. “A million thanks.”

The boys leaped from the car and ran toward the truck, Joe in the lead. To his dismay, Abdul was no longer aboard!

“Pardon me,” Joe said to the man at the wheel. “Where’s the big fellow who hitched a ride with you?”

The driver leaned out of his cab and pointed down the street. “He jumped off the truck and went into that restaurant, señor! Caramba! What kind of game is going on here?”

Without waiting to explain, the boys dashed off. A moment later they pulled up to a sliding halt as Joe caught sight of the restaurant’s name.

“Look!” he gasped. “El Calypso Caliente—Hot Calypso! It’s the password used at the airport back in Eastern City!”

“Hold it a second,” Frank cautioned as his brother started inside. “Tony, you and Chet wait outside in case Abdul tries another fast one. If you see him come out, grab him.”

“Right!”

Frank and Joe entered the restaurant and glanced around swiftly. Abdul was not in sight, so they headed toward the rear of the place.

The white-jacketed proprietor bustled forward to bar the way. He was a rather sinister-looking man with a heavy beard.

“You wish something to eat, senores?”

“We’re looking for a man who’s wanted by the police,” Frank told him. “He came in here a few minutes ago.”

“What did he look like?”

“A big fellow in a striped jersey.”

The proprietor bared his teeth in a wide smile. “You are wrong, señores. No one of that description has entered the restaurant.”

“Suppose we look in the kitchen, just in case,” Frank suggested.

The owner hesitated, then raised his voice slightly and said in Spanish, “Visitors coming to the kitchen.” To the boys he added, “Muy bien, señores. You may go in, if you wish.”

He gestured toward the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Frank said crisply, and strode forward, ahead of Joe.

But as Frank pushed the doors open, his face suddenly blanched in alarm.

CHAPTER XIV

The Unseen Enemy

“LOOK out, Joe!” Frank yelled as he ducked to the floor of the restaurant’s kitchen.

A sheet of boiling water flew at the boys, just as Joe dropped to his knees. Both boys barely avoided being scalded, as the water passed harmlessly over their heads.

The burly cook who had thrown the water stood holding a huge empty kettle in both hands. Joe was white-faced with anger. He jumped to his feet, ready to fly at the man with both fists.

“Why, you big—!” he exploded.

Frank interrupted with a shout, “Look! There goes Abdul!”

The man was darting out the back door. Frank and Joe started after him, but the stout chef blocked their way, saying, “Ah, I am so sorry about the water, amigos!”

He stepped back with a look of dismay as he spied the tattoo of indelible pencil still visible on Joe’s arm.

“Please, Beppo!” he trembled. “I did not mean to—”

“Shut up, you fool!” the proprietor snarled.

The chef’s words ended in a gulp, but he kept on staring at Joe with a strange look.

“Who’s Beppo?” Frank demanded.

The cook said nothing, pretending not to understand.

“Maybe he’s my double,” said Joe.

Once more the owner assumed his pleasant expression. “He is confused, señor. I fear this little accident has greatly upset him. And now if you will kindly leave—”

“Not yet!” snapped Frank. “You two are mixed up in some kind of racket and we intend to find out what it’s all about. If you don’t want to tell us, maybe you’d rather talk to the police.”

“The police!” Obviously dismayed by Frank’s threat, the proprietor suddenly became nervously polite.

“I will tell you everything. That big man—he rushed in here and said he wanted to hide. And if we told someone called Beppo, who has a pineapple tattoo, or anyone else that he was here, he would kill us. So I gave you a lie. I am so sorry.”

“But what about that hot water?” Joe asked.

The cook spoke up. “The big man made me throw it. He held me at gunpoint—otherwise I would not do such a terrible thing!”

Frank and Joe did not know whether to believe the story, but they could not refute it. Finally Frank said, “Okay. We’ll go now.”

Both the cook and the proprietor looked relieved.

Outside, Tony and Chet were waiting eagerly. The Hardys related what had happened.

“You fellows should have crowned ’em both with that empty kettle!” Chet exploded indignantly.

“What now?” said Tony. “Go to the police?”

Frank shook his head. “Those men in there just might be telling the truth. Anyhow, we have plenty of other leads to keep us busy.”

“How about that motorboat Abdul might have been signaling from El Morro?” Joe asked.

“I’d say it was worth checking up on. With that blue color, it should be easy to spot, if it’s still in this area.”

“Let me handle that end of it,” Tony suggested. “I’m really aching for a chance to do some power-cruising in these waters!”

Back in Bayport, Tony owned a boat called the Napoli II, in which he spent most of his spare time.

The boys took a taxi to the oceanfront. It was a beautiful day and the sea sparkled in the sunshine. The four sleuths ate lunch at a restaurant specializing in seafood, then Frank rented a trim little speedboat.

“Oh, boy, I can hardly wait to take her out!” Tony gloated as he warmed up the motor.

“We should stick in pairs to be on the safe side,” Joe said thoughtfully. Chet would accompany Tony.

A few moments later the two boys put-putted out across the water. Frank and Joe returned to the hotel, eager to work further on the clue of the pineapple tattoo, and, if possible, to link it with the word Cabezona. While there Joe scrubbed the indelible mark from his arm.

“Let’s talk to the hotel manager,” Frank suggested. They found him in his office and engaged him in conversation.

“Does the word Cabezona mean anything to you?” Frank inquired.

“It means a large head,” the manager responded. He looked at the boys quizzically. “Why do you ask?”

“Is Cabezona ever used to mean a pineapple?” Joe questioned.

The manager scratched his head in thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I suppose the word could be used when referring to a large pineapple. If you are interested in pineapples, a friend of mine could give you information on the subject. He is Juan Delgado and owns a pineapple plantation at Manati.”

“We’d sure appreciate it if you could arrange for us to make a visit,” said Frank.

“I will call him at once.”

The manager put through the call and carried on a rapid, pleasant conversation in Spanish. When he hung up, he turned to the boys with a smile.

“It is all arranged. He will expect you early this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” said Frank. “You’ve been a great help.”

The brothers went to a car-rental agency, and made arrangements for hiring a coupé.

The attendant provided them with a road map of the island, saying, “Just follow the directions I have marked, senores.”

The drive was thoroughly enjoyable, with a cool trade wind steadily blowing in from the sea. On their left, the blue-green mountains rose toward the cloudless sky.

The lush coastal plain was dotted with waving seas of sugar cane, interspersed here and there with fields of pineapple planted in orderly rows.

In places the road became hilly, with shade trees arching overhead. Some were flamboyantes, the flame trees with gorgeous red blossoms.

“Things really grow here!” Joe said admiringly.

“Like living in a flower garden!” Frank remarked. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude would love this.”

Arriving in Manati, the boys inquired the way to the Delgado plantation and were told it was located a mile north of town. When they reached it, Senor Delgado greeted them cordially on the steps of his long, low white bungalow.

“Welcome, amigos! I understand you have come to learn about pineapples.”

“Yes, Senor Delgado,” Frank said as he and Joe shook hands with the man. “Cabezona pineapples.”

The plantation owner drove the boys around, pointing out the fields of spiked plants in various stages of growth. Men were busy in one section cutting off huge pineapples with long, sharp knives. Then, after showing Frank and Joe the huge cannery, he took them into his office. A white-jacketed Puerto Rican boy brought glasses and a pitcher of iced pineapple juice on a tray.

“And now, perhaps you would like to ask me some questions,” said Senor Delgado as they all sipped the fruit juice.

Shooting a quick glance at his brother, Frank decided to take the plantation owner into their confidence. When the servant left, he explained that they were trying to solve a mystery.

“We have an idea,” Frank said, “that a certain dangerous group in Puerto Rico may use a pineapple as a sort of insignia. Have you ever heard of anyone wearing a pineapple tattoo on his left forearm?”

Senor Delgado shook his head. “I have never heard of such a thing, señores, but it is certainly possible.”

Joe inquired if Cabezona were the name of a place somewhere in Puerto Rico. Again Senor Delgado replied in the negative.

But the native servant, returning just in time to hear the question, interrupted politely, “Excuse me, senores, but I have heard of a small place called Punta Cabezona on the coast north of here. The people call it this because the land is thickly overgrown, and looks like a huge pineapple. It is near the La Palma sugar central.”

“Sugar central?” Joe repeated as both boys tried hard to conceal their excitement.

“A mill where the sugar cane is ground up and crushed,” Senor Delgado explained. “I have never heard of this Punta Cabezona, but I can at least give you a note of introduction to the owner of the central, and he can give you exact directions.”

He quickly wrote the note, then the boys drove off. Some time later the mill came into view, in the midst of vast fields of sugar cane. A tall stack, jutting up from the mill’s corrugated iron roof, belched a steady plume of smoke.

“The whole air smells sweet around here,” Joe observed.

Frank stopped the car and they got out at a small building with a sign marked Office. Inside, they found the manager and gave him Senor Delgad’s note. After reading it, the man rubbed his chin and looked puzzled.

“I am sorry, but I myself am new in this district. However, I am sure that my foreman, Rodriguez, could direct you to this Punta Cabezona. You will find him working the cane crusher in the mill.”

The boys walked over to the main central building. Trucks and tractor-trains loaded with cane were drawn up outside. Huge cranes lifted the stalks and dumped them into a chute.

Frank and Joe entered and found themselves in a dark bedlam of noise. Giant rollers ground the cane into juice, which was then pumped into hot, spinning kettles to be granulated into sugar.

A flight of steel steps led up to a narrow catwalk. At the far end was an enclosed cab, where the operator controlled the crushers.

“That must be Rodriguez up there.” Frank had to shout to make himself heard.

The boys climbed the stairs and made their way along the catwalk, clinging to a slender handrail. They were fascinated by the scene below. On their left were the huge rollers. On the right there was a steep drop past the giant flywheel into a pit of churning machinery.

Suddenly Frank and Joe were shoved from behind. Taken off guard, they lost their balance. With wild yells, the boys toppled over the left rail!

CHAPTER XV

Atomic Cargo

As FRANK went over the railing, he managed to clutch an iron upright with one hand. Joe grabbed his brother’s belt. White with fear, the two boys hung dangling above the pit of sugar-crushing machinery!

“Help! Help!” they shouted. But the thundering machinery drowned out their voices.

Would Señor Rodriguez hear their cries in time to save them from a horrible fate?

Joe reached up, and by stretching was able to grasp a bar and let go the belt. The boys’ last ounce of strength was ebbing fast when Frank saw a figure in tan work clothes running along the catwalk toward them.

“Hang on, Joe!” he gasped. “Someone’s coming!”

An instant later Frank’s wrist was seized in a strong grip, while another brawny arm reached down to grab Joe’s. Singlehanded, the foreman hauled the boys across the rail.

By the time the Hardys were dropping weakly onto the catwalk, two other workmen arrived on the scene to lend a hand.

“Santa Maria!” gasped the boys’ rescuer, who had turned pale himself. “Never have I seen such a narrow escape!”

The men helped Frank and Joe down the iron steps and out into the fresh air.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Frank said to the man who had saved their lives. “Are you Señor Rodriguez?”

“Sí, I am Rodriguez,” the foreman replied. “And now do you mind telling me the reason why you came so close to killing yourselves?”

Joe explained what had happened, adding that the boys had not seen the person who had shoved them. The brawny foreman exploded with anger. “If I get my hands on that killer, I will wring his neck!”

Turning to the workers, he asked in Spanish if any of them had witnessed the incident. One man told of having seen a man run down from the catwalk and flee out the door. Through the mill window, he had seen him drive off in a car.

Rodriguez said to the boys, “I can assure you none of my men would try such a hideous trick!”

“I believe you,” Frank said quietly, then after a pause, he asked, “We came here to get directions to a place called Punta Cabezona.”

“Ah, sí,” said Rodriguez. “It is about five or six miles from here, but the road there is rather rough.” He gave the boys careful directions, and expressed the hope they would meet again under pleasanter circumstances.

Frank and Joe thanked him, then walked back to the central office. As they entered, the manager looked up.

“Did your friend find you, senores?” he inquired.

“What friend?” Joe asked in surprise.

“I did not catch his name, but he was a very tall man with a large head. I told him you had just gone over to the mill.”

Frank and Joe exchanged knowing glances. Abdul! But how did he know they were here?

After telling briefly about their close brush with death, Frank asked if he might use the telephone to call Señor Delgado. The manager, distressed that he had unwittingly helped the would-be killer, hastily agreed.

“I—I do not know what to say, señores!” he gasped.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Frank assured him.

The manager helped to put through the call, and Frank spoke to Senor Delgado.

“This is Frank Hardy,” he told the plantation owner. “Did anyone come there looking for us after we left?”

Joe saw his brother’s face tighten as he listened to the reply. When he hung up, Frank’s eyes were grim.

“Well, that explains it,” he said. “Abdul must have trailed us to the pineapple plantation. He arrived there right after we left and said he had an urgent message for us. So of course Señor Delgado told him where we’d gone.”

“He must be a bad enemy,” the manager commented.

“We agree,” the Hardys chorused.

Realizing that they were still in grave danger, the Hardys drove cautiously to Punta Cabezona. The dirt road twisted through palm groves and canopies of dense green vegetation. When the boys arrived, Frank stopped the car and they got out.

“Easy to see how this place got its name,” he remarked, peering ahead.

The spit of land, jutting out to sea, ended in a bulging mound. This was topped with bushy green foliage, which sprouted outward from the crown of the hill, giving the place the appearance of a huge pineapple.

“But I wonder how it ties in with the gang,” Joe said with a puzzled frown. “The place appears to be deserted.”

The boys strolled out on the tiny peninsula, and climbed the hill. Reaching the top, they poked about among the bushes and vegetation. But the thick underbrush showed no sign of having been trampled by human feet!

The Hardys were baffled. “I was sure we were on to something,” Frank said, disappointed. “Let’s walk along the shore.”

They encountered several natives on the way. When questioned, none of them could recall having seen anybody lurking around the point.

“Why should a person go out there, señor?” said one old man in Spanish, shrugging his shoulders. “Without a machete to chop down brush, there is hardly even a place to sit down!”

A few moments later a plane droned overhead. Frank looked up and noted that it was flying due north. Suddenly he snapped his fingers.

“Cabezona N!” he whispered excitedly. “Say, Joe, that N might be a directional signal, meaning north of here. Maybe it leads to the gang’s hideout!”

“In the middle of the ocean?” Joe questioned dubiously.

“No! It could be some island north of Puerto Rico!” Frank explained.

Joe was impressed by his brother’s theory. “Maybe you’ve hit it,” he admitted. “Well, locating it will be our next trip, I suppose.”

Elated over the clue, the boys returned to San Juan. By the time they reached the hotel, it was seven o’clock. Tony and Chet had not returned yet.

“They must be doing some real sleuthing,” Frank commented, a little worried.

The Hardys waited a while, but finally went down to the hotel dining room. Frank and Joe, growing anxious about their friends, had little appetite for their meal. As they forced themselves to eat, they discussed the message which Abdul had flashed out to sea: “3-4-8-9-P-M-Skeleton.”

“That ‘PM’ part sounds like a time signal to me,” Joe remarked.

“Sure, but a signal for what?”

Joe mulled over the problem. “Well, this is a shot in the dark,” he admitted, “but how about a rendezvous at the airport? After all, if the racket we’re investigating is the theft of air-freight shipments, there might be some flight coming in that the gang is watching for.”

Frank nodded. “That makes sense.”

After finishing their supper, the two boys sat in the lobby and waited another half hour for Chet and Tony, but they failed to appear.

“I think I’ll phone the police,” Frank said.

He put in a call and asked if any boat had been reported in trouble. The answer was No.

“That’s a relief,” Frank told Joe. “But I’d feel better if Chet and Tony were here.”

“I’m getting the creeps waiting,” said Joe. “Suppose we go out to the airport and look over cargo flights.”

“Okay.”

After leaving a message for their friends, they took a taxi to the field. On the schedule board inside the air-freight operations office all incoming flights were posted.

Frank gave a gasp. “You hit the nail on the head, Joe!” he exclaimed. “Look there!”

According to the board, cargo flight No. 348, en route from New York to South America, would stop at the field at 9 P.M.

Joe glanced at his watch. “Almost that now. Let’s go out and take a look.”

The boys strolled up and down. Soon the green and red lights of a plane came into view overhead. Moments later, a large cargo ship thundered down out of the sky and taxied to a halt.

The boys moved closer, acting like casual sightseers. They watched as an unloading ramp was wheeled out to the plane and the crew disembarked.

“No one seems to be meeting any of them,” Frank remarked. “That must mean that the message I picked up refers to the cargo.” He added excitedly, “Maybe it’s on the plane and the gang is planning to steal it!”

Joe nodded. “Keep your eyes on things. I’ll try to contact the airport manager, or a guard.”

“Roger!”

Left to himself, Frank strolled as close to the plane as he felt was safe, without attracting attention. Just then the pilot and copilot walked past him, heading for the flight operations office.

“I’ll be glad when the run is over,” Frank heard the pilot say. “I don’t like carrying this kind of top-secret cargo.”

“No,” said the copilot. “But at least it’s well locked up.”

Frank wondered if the pilot could mean component parts for atomic weapons. At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Frank noticed two men who seemed to be watching the ship closely. They were standing perfectly still in the shadow of the cargo warehouse which extended from the rear of the terminal building.

“I wonder who they are,” Frank thought. “Probably detectives!”

At that moment two cargo handlers drove a forklift to the cargo compartment door which stood open. After removing several crates and boxes, they went off, leaving the door wide open.

Frank looked for the men in the shadows. They were gone!

“Could they have been security guards assigned to watch the plane,” Frank reasoned, “or were they freight thieves?”

Frank wondered, too, if the handlers might have been bribed by the thieves not to close the cargo door! There might be a robbery of the ship’s top-secret cargo at any moment!

With no help in sight, Frank decided on a bold move. He hurried toward the plane and climbed into the cargo hold, reasoning that his presence alone might balk an attempted robbery. On the other hand, if the thief tried force, Frank could put up a fight and perhaps pin the man down until Joe arrived with the airport guards.

Just forward of the cargo hatch was a metal-gated section, enclosing large steel-strapped boxes. Frank found the gate open and went forward to inspect the cargo.

Flicking on his pocket flashlight, he played the beam over the crates and boxes. Suddenly Frank was startled by a sound behind him. Looking up, he saw Joe a few feet away. In relief he said:

“I thought you’d gone for help. If those thieves are getting ready to rob this—”

Frank got no further. Too late he realized that the person was not Joe, but the smuggler who looked like him! The fellow’s fist shot out, caught Frank on the jaw, and sent him sprawling.

Just before the young sleuth blacked out, he heard the door slam shut.

Frank was a prisoner!

CHAPTER XVI

Island of Danger

INSIDE the cargo compartment Frank slowly revived. When he realized the plane was airborne, he was seized with terror. The ship was soaring higher and higher and the cargo hold was not pressurized! Frank shuddered at the thought of blacking out for an indefinite time through lack of enough oxygen at high altitudes. Also, there was the danger of freezing to death!

At the airport, meanwhile, Joe had managed to locate the night manager, a husky balding man named Mr. Lopez. Though somewhat doubtful about the boy’s story, he promised to alert both the tower and the airport detectives for any sign of a disturbance. Joe returned to the field just in time to see the cargo plane take off. Apparently there had been no trouble.

Frank was nowhere in sight. Joe walked through the waiting room, looking up and down.

Suddenly an alarming thought struck Joe. Was Frank, by any chance, in the plane? Joe hurried back to the manager’s office. Hastily he reported his brother’s disappearance.

“Please call the plane back, Mr. Lopez!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure Frank’s locked in the cargo compartment.”

The man looked puzzled. “Why you told me yourself your brother had climbed out of the plane and reported everything was all right.”

“What?”

“Look! Are you playing a game?” snapped Mr. Lopez.

Joe turned pale. “I haven’t been back here in your office since I first talked to you.”

Breathlessly Joe explained how a man they thought was a smuggler was practically his double. “That faker has already posed as me once!” Joe went on. “He did it so he could sabotage our plane before we flew here. Now he’s done it again, so they could trap my brother! Mr. Lopez, you must bring that plane back!”

Though startled by what Joe had told him, Lopez hesitated.

“I can’t bring back the ship just on your say-so,” he protested. “Maybe your brother is still here. I’ll have him paged on the loudspeaker.”

In a moment the public-address system was blaring out Frank’s name, asking him to call the manager’s office at once. There was no response, but suddenly a startling bit of news was relayed to Lopez. The two detectives assigned to watch the cargo plane had been found unconscious.

Mr. Lopez needed no further convincing about Frank’s plight. He called the tower. “Radio Flight 348 to return to San Juan immediately. Emergency.”

Up in the control tower, the operator barked the orders into his mike. Then he added, “Attention, all planes. An emergency landing is expected. All other ships in the air, circle the field until further notice. Repeat—circle the field.”

An ambulance with oxygen equipment was rushed out on the field. Joe found the tension almost unbearable as he waited. At last the green and red lights of the cargo craft were sighted. A few minutes later the big plane landed and taxied down the runway.

Even before the landing wheels slowed to a halt, the ambulance roared out to meet it. Doctor, stretcher-bearers, and ground crew stood ready as the door of the cargo hatch was unlocked.

Joe, forced to watch from the apron, saw a still figure being carried out onto the stretcher. Frank! Breaking away from the manager and guards, Joe raced out on the field.

“Frank! Frank!” he cried frantically.

“Take it easy, son,” said one of the ground crewmen, restraining him gently. “Doc’s doing everything he can.”

The stretcher was lifted into the ambulance and Joe jumped in after it. The doctor applied an oxygen mask to Frank, then he filled a hypodermic and injected a stimulant.

Badly shaken, Joe could only watch and hope. After what seemed hours, he saw the color seeping back into his brother’s cheeks. Soon Frank became conscious, but he appeared dazed.

Joe flashed an anxious look at the doctor, who nodded reassuringly. “He’s all right now. But it was a mighty close call! Fortunately for him the plane had not remained at high altitudes for too long.”

A few minutes later Frank, with a rueful grin, told his story. “I sure am glad the plane was called back,” he remarked.

“Thank your brother,” said the physician. “Now, young man, I want you to rest in our infirmary for an hour.”

While Frank relaxed on a hospital bed, word came that there had been no theft of freight from the plane, but the two cargo handlers had admitted accepting money from some man to leave the cargo door open.

“I have a hunch you foiled a robbery,” Joe told Frank. “That shipment of parts for an atomic weapon will reach its destination now.”

“I hope so. But we didn’t capture any of the gang. What’s more, they’ll probably make it tougher than ever for us.”

Joe nodded in agreement.

When the doctor discharged Frank, the boys started back to their hotel. “I sure hope Chet and Tony are there,” said Joe.

To their relief, the Hardys found that their two friends had just returned. They were sweaty and disheveled. Tony had a cut on his forehead and Chet was hobbling on one leg.

“It looks as if you’d run into trouble,” Joe remarked in alarm.

“Real trouble,” Chet confessed.

He said that after an hour of cruising, he and Tony had spotted the suspicious blue speedboat and given chase. Suddenly, though the blue craft was outrunning their own, it had turned around and deliberately sideswiped Tony’s boat!

“As they went by,” Tony took up the story, “the men in the boat hid their faces.”

“You mean you didn’t get a look at them?” Joe asked.

“Not a peek,” Tony replied. “And, boy, did they really let us have it!”

The collision had stove in the side of Tony’s boat and disabled the propeller. Both Chet and Tony had been hurled from their seats and almost swept overboard by the speedboat’s powerful wake.

“We managed to signal the harbor police by waving our shirts,” Chet said. “They towed us into shore, then went to hunt for the blue boat.”

“Any luck?” asked Frank.

“Not a bit,” Chet replied. “We hung around the dock waiting for word till it got dark, but the police couldn’t find any trace of the blue speedboat.”

“I’ll bet I know why,” Joe said grimly. “Instead of coming back to port, those men made for an island offshore. That’s probably the reason they smashed up Tony’s boat—so you couldn’t find out which way they were heading.”

For the first time the four friends grinned and Frank said, “But they didn’t fool us. Tomorrow we’ll get another boat and head north of Cabezona.”

“And now,” said Tony, “tell Chet and me what you fellows have been doing.”

When they heard the Hardys’ story, their grins faded, and Chet said woefully, “All I wanted was a ventriloquist’s dummy and look what happened!”

After another hour of conversation the four boys went to bed. The next morning they felt none the worse for their previous day’s experiences. After a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, they took a taxi to the boat dock.

“Wonder how much that man’ll charge us for damages,” Tony said uncomfortably.

The boat owner, however, was quite cordial. “Do not worry, senores,” he assured the boys. “The police have told me the whole story, and I know it was not your fault. Besides, the boat was covered by insurance.”

This time, Frank rented a much faster speedboat and filled the tank with enough fuel for a long run. Heading westward, they cruised along the Puerto Rican coast until Frank sighted a pineapple-shaped hill at the tip of a small spit of land.

“There’s Punta Cabezona,” he told Tony. “Now steer a course due north.”

As they headed out to sea, the water was almost glassy calm. About twenty miles out, they sighted a small island, green and palm-fringed.

Joe gave a whoop of triumph. “Frank, I believe your hunch about a hideout north of Cabezona is paying off!”

“Where to now?” Tony asked. “Do we make a landing?”

“That’s what we came for,” Frank said grimly as he shaded his eyes to peer shoreward.

The tiny island was narrow and stringbeanshaped, with its long axis lying north and south. Tony cruised cautiously until he found an opening in the coral reef surrounding the islet. Then he steered toward the beach through the gentle breakers, and anchored in shallow water. The boys kicked off their sneakers and waded ashore.

“I wonder if any of the gang is lurking around,” Joe murmured when they reached the sandy beach, which sparkled bone-white in the sunshine. “Maybe we should have—”

He broke off, startled, as a horde of wild-eyed natives sprang from a dense thicket of greenery. Waving clubs and knives, they charged at the boys with blood-chilling yells!

“Run for it!” yelled Frank.

The boys plunged into the water and plowed back to the boat. As Chet, in the rear, squirmed aboard, Frank gunned the engine and steered out to a safe distance. Back near shore, the natives stood waist-deep in water, still yelling and shaking their weapons.

“Wow!” Joe gulped. “What started all that?”

“W-we did!” said Chet, trembling with fright. “We must have landed right in the middle of the gang’s hideout. Those cannibals are standing guard for ’em!”

“Cannibals nothing!” said Tony. “I’ll bet those are Carib Indians. Isn’t that what they call the original inhabitants of these parts?”

“Call ’em anything you like,” Chet replied. “They’re still heap bad medicine!”

The stout boy was all for returning to San Juan. But the other three managed to persuade him that they should explore further.

With Frank at the helm, they cruised along the western shore of the island. Presently they came to a small cove, which formed a snug little natural harbor. Alongside a pier which jutted out into the water a red motorboat was moored. Back of the shore lay a palatial white villa.

“Must be some millionaire’s vacation home,” Chet remarked. “But I wouldn’t want to be that close to those natives!”

On higher ground back of the estate the boys glimpsed an airstrip with a plane on it much like the Hardys’ craft, except that it was silver in color.

“Should we tie up and look around?” Chet asked.

“Not yet,” said Frank. “Let’s cruise a bit farther first, and get the lay of the land.”

Continuing along the coast, they circled the northern tip of the island. It was covered with pineapple fields, but there was no sign of workers or natives.

“Guess we may as well go back,” Frank remarked.

He reversed course and steered back around the island. As they neared the tiny harbor, a man waved cheerfully from the pier.

“Hi, there!” he shouted. “Come on in!”

Frank brought the boat to shore, and they tied up to the dock on the opposite side from the red motorboat. The man who had called to them was a stout and affable-appearing person, wearing an immaculate white suit and puffing on a cigar.

“Glad to see you,” he greeted the boys as they climbed onto the pier. “We don’t often have visitors. Durling Hamilton’s my name,” he added.

The boys shook hands and introduced themselves. They learned that Hamilton was a retired sportsman, who spent most of his time on the island estate.

“What brings you boys out here?” he queried.

“We’re hunting for a gang of thieves,” Chet blurted before Frank or Joe could stop him.

Hamilton appeared not to notice the awkward silence that followed. “Well, I wish you luck.” He smiled. “Got quite a problem myself. Confounded natives just south of here have made trouble for me ever since I built my home on Calypso Island.”

The Hardys and their friends tried not to look startled at this remark. Casually Frank asked, “Did you say Calypso Island?”

Hamilton nodded. “That’s what the natives call it. They’re descendants of Carib Indians with some mixed blood. They practice voodoo and worship a small flat stone—Skeleton Rock.”

CHAPTER XVII

Voodoo Vengeance

HERE at last was a real clue! Frank and Joe figured that probably the natives of Calypso Island were being used as a screen by the smugglers. So it was only natural that they should try to drive Durling Hamilton off the island.

“Have the natives been doing anything unusual lately?” Joe asked the sportsman. “I mean, have you noticed mysterious ceremonies?”

Hamilton puffed his cigar for a moment. “Well,” he replied, “I did see a blue speedboat put in on the natives’ side of the island yesterday.”

“A blue boat!” Tony’s eyes flashed excitedly.

“That’s right,” Hamilton went on. “Four men came ashore.”

“Did you get a good look at them?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Yes. I watched them through binoculars. About all I can tell you, though, is that one was a tall, heavy-set fellow. They talked with the Indians for a while and then shoved off.”

A tall, heavy-set fellow! The boys exchanged knowing glances. Could he have been Abdul?

Hamilton interrupted their thoughts by inviting the boys up to his villa for lunch. A few minutes later the group was seated in comfortable wicker chairs on the terrace enjoying lemonade, pineapple salad, and sandwiches of cold roast beef.

Aside from his staff of white-jacketed Puerto Ricans, Hamilton appeared to live alone on the estate. “It’s nice to have company,” he told his guests.

Lunch over, their host showed the boys his game room, decorated with huge trophies of marlin, sailfish, and barracuda. Then he suggested a couple of fast sets of tennis, which he refereed, on twin courts near the airstrip. Afterward, all of them cooled off with a refreshing swim in the gentle blue waters of the cove. By this time, it was late in the afternoon.

“You’ve given us a wonderful time, sir,” Frank told Hamilton when the boys had finished dressing. “Now we’d better start back to San Juan.”

“Nonsense!” The sportsman paused to bite off the tip of a fresh cigar. “As I told you, we don’t have many visitors out here. Gets mighty lonesome. I want you boys to stay and be my guests as long as you like.”

Chet and Tony, though eager to extend their visit, left the decision to the Hardys. Frank and Joe were excited about the possibility to do more exploring. But, to throw Hamilton off the scent, they deliberately hesitated in accepting the invitation.

“At least stay overnight,” Hamilton urged. “If you get bored, you can go back tomorrow morning.”

“Well, if you put it like that, Mr. Hamilton”—Frank grinned—“I guess we’ll accept your invitation.”

“Fine! Wonderful!” their portly host beamed. “I’ll cook part of the dinner myself. I’m quite a chef in my spare time,” he boasted. “I’m counting on some real appetites to do it justice!”

The dinner of rock lobster and red snapper proved to be delicious. Both Frank and Joe took only the snapper, which was broiled to a juicy turn. But Tony and Chet ate liberally of both dishes.

After dinner they strolled out on the terrace under the stars. Chet sank into a deep lounge chair and let his head loll back.

“O-oh,” he groaned. “I must’ve eaten too much.”

“Is that unusual?” Joe needled.

“No kidding,” Chet replied. “My stomach feels like lead!”

Tony looked a bit unhappy too. “I don’t feel so well myself,” he confessed.

As the boys continued to feel uncomfortable, Durling Hamilton became concerned. “Just sit there and take it easy,” he advised. “I’m sure it’ll pass off. Too much excitement for one day, maybe —not good for digestion!”

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe decided to do some sleuthing around the southern end of the island. Saying that they needed exercise, they excused themselves and wandered off along the smooth, sandy beach.

Darkness had fallen, and a full yellow moon was rising over the water. A cool trade wind wafted through the palm trees.

Suddenly Frank gripped his brother’s arm. “Look! A campfire!” he pointed.

The flickering orange flames were visible through the dark foliage a short distance back from the beach.

“Come on!” Joe whispered. “Let’s see what’s up!”

Creeping closer, they pulled aside some branches and saw a group of natives squatting about the fire. The Indians, clad in ragged shirts and trousers, were jabbering excitedly.

“They’re sure upset about something,” Joe murmured.

“Hamilton said they practice voodoo,” Frank whispered. “Maybe they’re getting ready for some kind of ceremony.”

As the boys listened they caught several words spoken in Spanish. “Sounds more like an argument,” Joe noted.

Presently a skinny brown dog that was curled up near the campfire got to his feet and began to sniff the night air.

“Oh, oh!” gulped Joe in a low voice. “Let’s hope he doesn’t pick up our scent!”

Slowly the dog began to circle the camp, coming nearer and nearer to the boys’ hiding place. All of a sudden he stiffened and broke into a volley of barks.

The natives stopped talking immediately and grabbed up heavy sticks. The Hardys flattened themselves in the underbrush. Should they lie still, or try to make a break?

The decision was made for them when the Indians strode toward the spot. Encouraged by his masters, the snarling cur charged into the thicket.

Instantly Frank and Joe sprang up and started to run. But before they had gone a dozen paces, the fleet-footed natives overtook them. Several grabbed the boys, while others menaced them with clubs.

“Don’t fight!” Frank called to his brother. “Maybe we can convince them we’re friends.”

Trying to appear calm, the boys allowed themselves to be dragged back to the campfire. One of the natives, a youth about their own age, was able to speak a little English.

“Me Fernando,” he told them. “What you do here? You come to spy for rich white man?”

“No,” Frank replied. “We’re just visitors here on the island. We saw your campfire and wondered what was going on, that’s all.”

As the boy translated, there was an angry babble from the other natives. Fernando turned back to the Hardys.

“They say you enemies—you work for Senor Hamilton,” he said accusingly. “Him bad man! Our people live here on island always. This our home. Then he come—try to drive us away!”

Frank and Joe denied this earnestly. Speaking in simple words, they tried to convince the youth that they wished to be friends and that Durling Hamilton had no designs against the natives. But it was clear from the Indians’ scowling faces that the words were having no effect.

Finally Joe decided to speak out bluntly. “Look, Fernando,” he asked, “is it true that your people believe in voodoo and worship something called Skeleton Rock?”

The effect of Joe’s question was astounding. At the mention of Skeleton Rock, the natives seemed to go wild. Shouting and babbling in mixed Spanish-Indian dialect, they seized the two boys and hurled them to the ground!

When Joe asked about Skeleton Rock, the natives seemed to go wild

Frank and Joe fought like wildcats but were soon tied hand and foot. Then the natives began to drag them down to the water’s edge.

“They’re going to throw us to the sharks!” Joe gasped to his brother.

“You two boys bad like Hamilton!” Fernando glared at them. “Now my people take revenge!”

The Hardys turned pale, their hearts hammering with fear as the Indians loaded them into a boat. Again and again, they pleaded to be released, speaking in both Spanish and English.

Finally their words seemed to take effect. There was a lot of babbling among the natives, then one spoke to Fernando.

He translated, “We let you go. But you must leave the island and never come back!”

“You have our promise,” Frank assured him fervently. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

As soon as they were untied, the boys hurried off down the beach. Both were baffled by their close brush with death and its relation to Hamilton. Was he more deeply involved than the natives had indicated?

“And why did they get so excited just because I mentioned Skeleton Rock?” Joe puzzled.

Frank shook his head in bewilderment. “Search me, unless the smuggling gang fooled them into thinking that any outsiders are dangerous. Or, maybe ‘Skeleton Rock’ is a sacred name.”

As they neared Hamilton’s villa, they saw a lighted cigar glowing in the dark on the front terrace.

“Have an interesting walk?” the sportsman greeted them.

“We sure did!” Frank said dryly.

A Puerto Rican servant escorted them to a guest room next to Chet and Tony’s. Chet was moaning in distress when the Hardys went in to see him.

“Feeling any better, Chet?” Joe inquired sympathetically.

“Worse!” the plump boy replied. He was stretched out on the bed like a beached whale, in a pair of flowery pajamas provided by their host.

Tony was not so ill as Chet, but he looked worried. As soon as the servant was out of earshot, he whispered to Frank and Joe:

“Listen! I went out on the dock for some fresh air and noticed that Hamilton’s red boat looked awfully shiny in the moonlight. When I touched it, the red paint came off on my finger!”

The Hardys’ eyes widened with interest. “Was it blue underneath?” Joe asked breathlessly.

“Before I had a chance to find out, I heard someone behind me and turned around. It was Hamilton!”

CHAPTER XVIII

A Weird Vision

“HAMILTON!” exclaimed Frank. “Do you think he was spying on you?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m not sure. But he was right there watching when I tested the paint.”

The Hardys, having heard what the natives had said about Hamilton, were not surprised. This latest information definitely seemed to put their host under suspicion!

Joe urged that the boys confront Hamilton immediately.

But Frank was more cautious. “Hamilton has a whole crew of servants. If they’re part of the gang, they could do plenty!”

“What’s the difference?” Joe said stubbornly. “If Hamilton is a member of the gang, we’re in danger, anyhow. Maybe he even slipped something into those lobsters Chet and Tony ate!”

Tony gasped. “You mean we’ve been poisoned?”

“Not deadly poison, but something he hoped would make all of us sick enough so we couldn’t do any investigation and have to go home.”

Frank was still doubtful. “In that case, why did he invite us to stay on the island?”

“So he could keep tabs on us until he had a chance to report to the gang,” Joe suggested.

In the end, Frank agreed to put the question of speaking to Hamilton to a vote. Chet was feeling too sick to care one way or the other, but Tony sided with Joe. So the three boys went off to find Hamilton. But they agreed not to arouse the man’s suspicions if they could avoid it.

The sportsman was still on the terrace, finishing his cigar.

“Is Chet feeling better?” he asked affably.

“Not much,” Frank replied. “But I don’t understand it. Lobster never seemed to bother him before.”

Hamilton grinned. “I think your friend had too much to eat. Lobster’s very rich.”

Tony, changing the subject, told Durling Hamilton about his boat Napoli II, and of several exciting adventures he had had in her. Then he remarked casually, “But she needs a new paint job right now. What did you use on your motorboat, Mr. Hamilton? I noticed before that it was freshly painted.”

The sportsman smiled. “Not the whole boat. I had the bow touched up today because of rust spots on it. By the way, Tony, you seem to be feeling better now.”

“Yes, thank you.” Casually the boy added, “Lucky for me, though, that you came out to the dock before. I felt a little woozy.”

“I was afraid of that,” Hamilton said, giving him an ingratiating smile. “As host here, it’s my duty to look after my guests, isn’t it?”

Hamilton seemed so frank that the boys found it hard to remain suspicious. After chatting a few minutes longer, they said good night and returned to their rooms. Chet was asleep.

In spite of the cool trade winds, both Frank and Joe were unable to fall asleep. Their minds were overactive, and they were alert for any unusual happenings. About two o’clock they were roused from a fitful slumber by a humming motor somewhere in the distance.

“It’s a plane!” Joe whispered.

The boys rushed to the window. As the drone of the engine grew louder, they saw the craft swoop down as if for a landing on the airstrip. Then it pulled up abruptly and circled around. Its green starboard light began blinking.

“A message!” said Frank as the light spelled “Okay H.”

“What does that mean?” Joe asked.

“It could be Hamilton or Hardy,” Frank replied.

As they stood watching, the plane soared off and disappeared into the night. Thoroughly mystified, the two boys went back to bed, full of conjectures, mostly about their own safety. They had just fallen into a light slumber when a shriek from the next room made them sit bolt upright.

“Chet!” Frank said. “He must be worse!”

The Hardys dashed to the next room. Chet was quiet now, but trembling violently. He stood by a window, pointing.

Tony, sleepy-eyed, was already on his feet. “’Smatter, Chet?” he asked.

“A g-g-ghost!” the boy quavered. “I just saw a ghost! 0-o-o-oh, it was horrible!”

“A ghost?” Frank echoed blankly. “Good grief, what’re you talking about, Chet?”

“It’s true!” he insisted. “My stomach-ache got so bad I couldn’t sleep, so I got up. Then I looked out the window and I saw it—a huge Indian war chief, shining all over with a white glow! I’d say the thing’s somewhere up at the north end of the island.”

“If it was that far away, how could you see the thing?” asked Tony.

“Because he was so big, that’s why! I’m telling you, he towered way up over the trees!” Just thinking about the fearsome sight seemed to turn Chet’s face a more sickly hue than ever.

“Chet’s really ill,” said Joe. “He’s delirious!”

“I’m not delirious!” Chet insisted frantically. “Golly, can’t you be—”

“Okay, okay, we believe you,” Frank said soothingly. “But please go back to sleep and try to get some rest.” After a while Chet calmed down and the Hardys returned to their room.

Early the next morning Frank and Joe leaped out of bed.

“Let’s get down to the dock and take a peek at that boat!” said Frank.

Without waiting for breakfast, the boys dashed out of the villa and hurried down to the pier. They ran their fingers over the red motorboat. The paint seemed perfectly dry except for a few tacky brush marks near the bow.

“I guess Hamilton was telling the truth,” said Frank. “This clears him.”

“Thanks!” said a chuckling voice.

Whirling in surprise, the boys saw their host watching them from the inward end of the pier. He strolled out to join them, his ruddy face enveloped in a friendly smile.

“Don’t think I’m spying, now,” he said jovially, “but I couldn’t help notice you test that paint. You’re real detectives, yes sir! But you can trust old Durling Hamilton!”

Somewhat embarrassed, the Hardys asked about the plane they had seen the previous night.

“Oh, that!” Hamilton laughed heartily. “That was a friend of mine—fellow sportsman, you might say—named Steve Henry. He was just passing over on his way from Miami to Puerto Rico, so he stopped off to say hello. Always gives me that old blinker signal whenever he goes by this way.”

Mentally, Frank and Joe had to admit that Hamilton’s answer seemed reasonable. If his friend’s name was Henry, that would explain the initial H at the end of the message.

Excusing themselves, the Hardys went back to the house to see how Chet and Tony were feeling. Tony was much better, but, to their dismay, they found Chet so weak he could hardly move.

“He’s really in bad shape,” Tony whispered.

Their stout chum lay almost motionless on the bed, moaning weakly from time to time.

“We’d better get a doctor, pronto!” Frank decided. “You stay here with Chet, Tony.”

He and Joe hurried downstairs and reported their friend’s condition to Hamilton. “We want a doctor right away,” Joe urged.

Luckily the estate owner had a radiotelephone hookup to San Juan. He put through a call to the mainland immediately, then turned to the boys.

“There’s a break!” he announced. “This doctor friend of mine I just called is taking the day off. He’s fishing in his favorite spot about five miles from here. With luck, you can get back here in no time!”

He suggested the boys take his red motorboat, which was faster than their own. Frank and Joe gladly accepted and he sent word to have it fueled and readied for the trip.

“Watch out for sharks!” Hamilton warned when the Hardys prepared to shove off. “These waters around here are infested with the brutes!”

Beyond the reef, the sea turned choppy as a spanking breeze whipped the water into white-caps. Frank and Joe headed south toward Puerto Rico, following their host’s directions.

Several times they saw the fins of sharks knifing past. When their craft reached the fishing spot Hamilton had described, the doctor’s boat was nowhere in sight.

Joe scanned the horizon anxiously. “Do you suppose Hamilton lied to us?” he muttered.

“Just what I was wondering,” Frank replied. Suddenly he gave a cry of alarm. “Joe! The boat’s leaking!”

A steady stream of water was gushing in from the motor compartment!

Hastily the boys whipped off their shirts and Joe crawled into the compartment with them to plug the leak. When he emerged a moment later, half-soaked and oil-smeared, his face was taut.

“There’s a big round hole in the hull!” he reported. “Looks as if it was partly cut out with a saw, and sea pressure did the rest!”

“Hamilton!” gasped Frank.

“Sure looks that way. No wonder he was so eager to have us take this boat!”

There was no time to debate the matter further. They took off their slacks and stuffed them in the hole. But already there was too much water in the boat for them to do any good. To make matters worse, the engine suddenly stopped.

“Maybe there’s a pump in the locker,” Frank suggested hopefully. He opened the seat to look, then gave a startled cry as he dragged out a red, green, and white pennant.

It was the foreign flag, with a black skeleton added in the lower right-hand corner!

“Just like the one we found in Hugo’s trailer!” exclaimed Joe. “Say, what is Hamilton’s tie-up with that fortuneteller?”

Frank did not reply. The plugs in the hull suddenly gave way and more water gushed into the boat. Desperately the boys groped in the locker. There were three life jackets, but no pump.

Just then the drone of an airplane drew their attention. Waving wildly, they tried to attract the pilot. Once he dipped and the boys were sure he saw them. But the silver-colored plane went on.

“I’ll bet that was Hamilton!” said Frank, clenching his teeth grimly.

“Yes,” Joe stormed helplessly. “Everything those natives said about him was right! And he came out here to watch us battle the sharks!”

CHAPTER XIX

Skeleton Rock

“AT LEAST we have knives. That’ll be some protection against the sharks,” Joe said grimly. “If any of them want a bite out of me they’ll have to fight for it!”

“Right!” Frank pulled out two of the life jackets and handed one to Joe.

They put them on. Then, arming themselves with their pocketknives, the two boys waited tensely. By this time, the water in the boat was up to their knees.

The boys had been so busy watching the water that they had not noticed a plane approaching the area.

“Hamilton again, I suppose,” Frank said angrily as he looked up.

Suddenly Joe gave a happy shout. “It’s our plane!”

The boys hardly dared believe their eyes.

“Do you suppose Dad and Jack are aboard?” Joe asked hopefully. “And they’ve come to rescue us?”

Frank and Joe waved their arms frantically, yelling as loudly as they could. The plane circled and swooped in low. Jack Wayne was at the controls.

“Yippee!” shouted Joe.

The pilot waved back to the boys reassuringly. Mr. Hardy was not in the plane. A moment later the cabin door opened and an inflated life raft tumbled down toward the water.

It landed with a splash several yards away from the boat, but Frank was overboard in a moment to swim to it. He climbed inside, then picked up Joe.

As soon as the boys were safely afloat, Jack dipped his wings, then began to circle the area.

“Too bad he couldn’t haul us into the plane,” Joe remarked.

A half hour of anxious waiting followed. Sharks bobbed up repeatedly, close to the raft. Finally a government patrol boat appeared and Jack flew off as soon as the Hardys were helped to the deck of the rescue craft.

“Lucky you’re not minus a few toes,” declared the captain with grim humor.

“How’d you find us?” Joe asked.

“Jack Wayne radioed an SOS,” the captain replied. “Better go below, fellows, and get some hot soup. We’ll have you back at San Juan before you dry off! ”

Jack was waiting to greet them there at the dock. “Man, am I glad to see you two!” he exclaimed.

“Not half as glad as we were to see you!” Joe quipped as they shook hands. “Did you know it was Frank and me stranded on the water?”

“No. I saw that the boat was not moving and decided to take a closer look. What happened?”

Frank described their visit to Calypso Island and his suspicions about Hamilton. Jack flushed with anger. “The skunk!” he cried out. But a moment later he said, “I just had another thought. Maybe one of those natives who hates Hamilton put the hole in his boat.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “It seems as if every time we suspect that man there’s a sound reason to excuse him.”

But Frank was not so charitable. “I’m sure Hamilton was in that first plane which wouldn’t give us any help. Well, Jack, what’s the news from Dad? Where is he now?”

Jack’s face became grave. “I’m worried about him,” he replied. “After we took off from here, I flew your father to Centro, Tropicale. He said that if he didn’t show up at the airport by twelve o’clock last night, I should go get you boys and try to find him. Well, he didn’t show up!”

The news sent a shock of alarm through the boys. Centro was the spot where they had tangled in the gunfight between police and rebels! Could the gang have sought revenge on their father?

“We ought to fly to Tropicale as soon as possible,” Joe urged.

“And we must get help to Chet,” Frank reminded him. “Let’s stop at a doctor’s on the way to the airport and talk to him.”

A taxi driver they consulted took them to the office of Dr. Roberto Cortez, just a few blocks from the waterfront. After hearing their story, the physician reassured the boys.

“From the symptoms you describe, I am sure that your friend will be no worse. If he had been given a harsh poison, he would have been in great pain last evening. But I’ll write you a prescription which should ease the young man’s difficulties.”

Greatly relieved, the boys thanked Dr. Cortez and hurried off to the nearest drugstore. While waiting for the prescription to be filled, they discussed what to do.

“We can fly to Calypso Island, give Chet the medicine, and make arrangements for the rented boat to be returned to its owner. Then all of us can go on to Tropicale,” Frank suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe agreed.

When they reached the airport, Jack Wayne refueled the Hardy plane for take-off. But as he started to warm up the engine, it gave a sputter and died. The pilot could not restart it.

Wearily Jack climbed out and went to work on the defective engine. “Plugs aren’t firing,” he announced after a brief inspection.

Impatient and worried, the Hardys stood by while Jack traced the trouble to a faulty magneto. Then came another long delay while he went off to hunt for a replacement.

It was late afternoon before the ship was finally ready for take-off. To the Hardys’ relief, the engine purred smoothly as the plane soared off toward Calypso Island.

“What about Hamilton?” Joe asked Frank. “You suppose he’ll give us any trouble?”

Frank shrugged. “No telling. I have a feeling that man is very slick.”

Both boys took brief turns at the controls, and Toe brought the plane down on Hamilton’s airstrip for a perfect landing.

The estate owner came out to greet them. “Welcome back!” He smiled. “I see you found a faster method for the return trip.”

“We had to,” Frank said curtly, introducing Jack. “Your boat sank.”

“What!” Hamilton appeared genuinely shocked when the boys told him about the hole in the speedboat’s hull.

“Sabotage!” he stormed. “Those confounded Carib Indians must have done it!”

For several minutes he ranted angrily against the natives. The sportsman seemed so genuinely upset that Joe glanced at Frank as if to say, “Maybe Hamilton is innocent after all.”

“How’s Chet?” Frank asked, interrupting the sportsman. “We brought him some medicine.”

“I guess he won’t need it,” Hamilton replied with a cheery grin. “In fact, he and Tony were feeling so much better, they decided to go off and do a little spying on the Indians.”

“Why?” Frank asked.

“Professional jealousy, I’d guess.” Hamilton chuckled. “Your chubby friend figured the two of them might solve a mystery about the natives before you boys got back. Well, let’s go up to the house and get some supper.”

The Hardys were puzzled and uncertain what to do. Could they trust the estate owner’s story and fly on to Tropicale? But, talking it over privately at the villa, they decided it was too risky to leave until they knew for certain that their friends were safe.

After a tasty supper, Frank asked, “Mr. Hamilton, don’t you think Chet and Tony should be back by this time?”

“Perhaps so, but I shouldn’t worry about them.”

Frank and Joe could not accept Hamilton’s suggestion. They had to find out where their friends were. Excusing themselves, they set out with Jack Wayne for the southern end of the island.

They made a point of avoiding the open beach as they pushed their way through the palm groves and underbrush. It was dark now, but the rising moon shed enough light for them to see where they were going.

Soon the boys sighted the glimmering windows of a cluster of native shacks. Natives were milling about outside, jabbering excitedly.

“Something’s up,” Jack observed. “I wonder if Chet and Tony are being held prisoner.”

As the pilot started forward, Frank grabbed his arm to stop him. “Joe and I have had one set-to with these Indians,” he whispered. “Let’s keep out of sight. We promised them we’d leave the island for good today.”

Staying in the shadows, the three circled the village. Suddenly Joe caught sight of Fernando. By hissing, he managed to attract the youth’s attention.

“Why have you come back?” Fernando exclaimed worriedly as he joined them. “You are in terrible danger here if my people find you!”

“We’ll go quickly if you’ll help us,” Frank promised. “We only came back to find our two friends.”

“Your two friends?” The boy looked puzzled.

Frank and Joe explained that their friends had come to call on the Indians. Fernando denied that he or his people had seen them.

The Hardys had fresh cause for worry! Where were Chet and Tony? Was Hamilton making up the story of their whereabouts?

Before leaving, Joe asked one more question. “Tell me, Fernando, why did your people get so angry when I asked about Skeleton Rock?”

The young Carib shuddered. “It is a terrible place, amigo! It is at the other end of the island, but do not go there! Sometimes at night the ghost of an old cacique rises up to devour men’s souls!”

The words were hardly out of Fernando’s mouth when he turned pale with fright. “Look! Look!” he quavered, pointing northward. “He is there now!”

As the others turned, a fantastic sight met their eyes. Looming above the distant treetops was the huge figure of an ancient Carib chieftain. The specter glowed with a weird white radiance.

“Jumping cacti!” gasped Jack Wayne.

“So that’s what Chet saw last night!” added Joe. “No wonder he couldn’t sleep!”

The whole village seethed with turmoil as the natives wailed and quaked in alarm.

“What do you make of it?” Jack asked.

“I believe that ghost is a plant by the gang to keep these natives in subjection,” Frank replied.

“Yes,” Joe agreed, “and it might have been put into action right now to scare us away.”

“I feel sure,” said Frank, “that Hamilton is involved in this and in Chet and Tony’s disappearance. Come on! I think we’d better radio a message for help from our plane to the authorities in Puerto Rico.”

As they reached the airstrip, the three crept toward the plane under cover of darkness. Joe warmed up the radio and started beaming a message to San Juan. Finally the harbor police replied.

“Calling from Calypso Island!” Joe spoke urgently into the mike. “This is an emergency. Two boys—”

Joe got no further. A gunshot cracked in the distance. Then two more rang out as a horde of armed men rushed toward the airstrip from the villa. Though still out of effective range, they were shooting wildly at the plane. One bullet pinged off a rock near the craft.

“Hamilton’s leading them!” yelled Frank, recognizing the man at the head of the gang. “Get going, Jack!”

The pilot grimly went to work. The starter whined, but nothing else happened.

“Mixture control is jammed!” he groaned. Jumping up, he dashed aft for the tool kit.

Frank grabbed the controls and managed to free the mixture control before Jack returned. With a roar, the engine thundered into action!

As the plane taxied down the strip, another volley of shots ripped the night air. A moment later they were aloft and gaining altitude.

“Wow!” Joe relaxed weakly in his seat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “If the police heard the shooting, they ought to get here pronto!” Nevertheless, he continued to send out a call for help.

Soaring over the northern end of the island, Frank looked for the cacique’s ghost, but the figure had disappeared.

A moment later Joe pointed down toward the beach. “Look!” he exclaimed. “There’s Skeleton Rock!”

Below, in the moonlight, a curious formation was visible in the coral reef. A portion of the rocky shore line protruded above the water in the shape of a crude skeleton. Even the arms and legs were clearly defined.

“Weird!” said Jack. “Enough to make a fellow feel creepy. Now what do we do?”

“What Beppo tells you to, amigos!” came a sneering voice from the rear of the cabin.

The Hardys and Jack whirled in dismay. A blond figure had just emerged from the luggage compartment, clutching a pistol. It was the youth who resembled Joe!

“Turn back and land on Calypso!” he ordered.

CHAPTER XX

The Ghost’s Secret

As FRANK hesitated, the blond youth came a step closer. His finger curled menacingly around the trigger of his gun.

“Do as I say,” he snapped, “or you’ll be sorry!”

Jack, who was occupying a rear seat, made a lunge for Beppo’s weapon—but not in time. Swinging his heavy automatic, the gunman caught Jack on the side of the head with a vicious blow. Jack groaned and slumped unconscious!

Joe started toward Jack, but Beppo motioned him to sit beside Frank.

“Now turn this plane around,” the gunman ordered Frank, “before you two get the same treatment!”

Frank suddenly realized he was now on his own, with a gun at his back and no flight instructor to guide him! Determinedly he banked the plane and executed a neat turn.

As they winged back toward Hamilton’s villa, a daring plan occurred to the young pilot. He nudged Joe, to alert him that he would need help.

Suddenly Frank shoved the wheel forward! The plunging dive threw the gunman off-balance. As he lurched backward, Joe grabbed the gun.

“Don’t move!” barked Joe.

When the craft leveled off, Frank set the automatic pilot. Joe pulled some rope from a locker, and in moments the two boys had the gunman tightly bound.

“No wonder this guy looks like me, Frank. His features have been changed with make-up putty!”

Joe now came forward and Frank whispered, “This time I’m going to imitate our prisoner.”

As they neared the landing field, Frank turned up the two-way radio, “Calling Hamilton!” Frank rasped, disguising his voice to sound like that of the prisoner. “All okay.”

The receiver crackled in reply. “Good work, Beppo! Now we have the whole Hardy gang at Skeleton Rock. We can strike at once!”

The brothers were stunned. So the smugglers had their father—and also Chet and Tony!

Frank gripped the controls, his brain working at top speed. How could they free Mr. Hardy and their friends? Stalling for time to find an answer to the dilemma, he swooped low over the field, then banked and circled.

Again the radio crackled. “Don’t fool around, Beppo! Hurry up and land them!”

“Now what?” gasped Joe in a low voice.

Uncertain of his next move, Frank climbed for altitude and circled once more. The engine began to sputter, and with a final cough, died. Then the plane began bucking and plunging as it suddenly ran into severe turbulence.

Wildly Frank worked with the controls. What to do now? If they landed on the strip, they would both be captured. Hoping against hope that they would not lose altitude too rapidly, Frank glided for the northern end of the island.

“Maybe we can make the beach!” Joe cried.

With luck they could, Frank thought, as he eased the wheel forward. Both boys froze as the plane nosed downward in a normal glide.

At the tip of the island, a broad strip of wet sand lay exposed by the low tide. With a great jolt the plane hit the beach, plowed forward, and upended as its nose wheel gouged into the sand and collapsed. The craft was only a few yards from Skeleton Rock!

“Frank, you’re a whiz!” Joe said shakily.

Frank smiled wanly, then said, “I hope the crack-up didn’t make Jack worse.”

At once they gently lifted the pilot’s limp body out on the beach. There was an ugly bruise on Jack’s right temple. Frank chafed his wrists and bathed his face with water. Jack stirred slightly.

“How is he?” Joe asked anxiously.

“Breathing okay. He should revive completely in a little while.”

A sudden cry from his brother made Frank snap bolt upright. “Look!” Joe gasped.

From a nearby pit a huge phosphorescent figure was emerging. It was the Indian chieftain’s ghost, glowing weirdly in the moonlight!

“It’s some kind of plastic balloon covered with phosphorescent paint!” Frank exclaimed. “What a stunt for scaring the natives!”

“Well, that gang won’t do it any longer!” Joe declared. Taking out his pocketknife, he darted forward and ripped the bag wide open.

There was a rush of escaping air. With a weak, moaning sound, the ghost balloon collapsed sideways in a brightly shining heap. As Frank watched it sink beside the pit, he cried out excitedly, “Joe. There’s a trap door in that pit! I’ll bet there’s something else down there besides the balloon and gas machine.”

“Loot, you mean?”

“Perhaps.”

Together, the boys raised the door. A flight of stone steps led downward into the coral rock.

Frank flicked on his pocket flashlight, and the boys descended cautiously. At the foot of the stairway, the passage opened into an underground room.

Three familiar voices cried out, “Frank! Joe!”

The Hardys stared in astonishment. Before them, trussed up, were Mr. Hardy, Chet, and Tony!

“Thank goodness you came! We must get out of here before those killers seal us up for good!”

Quickly Frank and Joe untied them, telling of their own narrow escape. The group rushed up the stone steps. They had just reached the beach when Hamilton and his attackers swarmed into view through the shrubbery.

“We’re outnumbered three to one!” Tony cried in dismay.

Mr. Hardy suggested that if they could subdue Hamilton, the suspected leader, perhaps the others would give up. As the smugglers closed in on them, he maneuvered his way toward Hamilton, who had stepped to the side.

Hamilton was ready. He was about to strike the private detective with a heavy stone, when Chet came to the rescue. Throwing his voice, he yelled, “Look behind you, Hamilton!”

The gang leader whirled in surprise, expecting an attack. Fenton Hardy acted instantly. He delivered a punch that knocked Hamilton backward and sent his weapon flying through the air.

Meanwhile, the four boys had gone into action. Blows were exchanged right and left as they ripped into the mobsters.

“Keep it up!” Tony shouted excitedly.

But the tide of battle was turning in favor of the gang. Outnumbered, Mr. Hardy and the boys were being battered into defeat.

Then, just as the end seemed near, the fighters heard wild war whoops above the din. Through the darkness swooped a mob of Carib Indians! Fernando was with them.

“Femando! Help us—the Hardys!” Joe shouted. “We are fighting your real enemies!”

The natives needed no urging. With clubs and sticks, they beat Hamilton’s followers into howling panic.

When the battle was over, Frank rushed up to Fernando. “Thanks! Muchas gracias, Fernando!” he panted. “You sure saved the day!”

Among the captives the boys spotted Abdul and Hugo, and pointed them out to their father. Then they plied Mr. Hardy with questions as to what had happened to him in Tropicale.

The detective smiled. “Now the story can be told. I was working on a case involving subversives in the United States friendly to a gang of rebels in Tropicale who hoped to take over the government. Those in our country have been rounded up with the exception of a few, like Abdul and Hugo, who escaped down here.

“Unfortunately, in uncovering a hideout in Tropicale, I was captured. Two men flew me here last night,” he explained, “but apparently something went wrong. The plane couldn’t land.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “No wonder! Frank and I showed up here and Hamilton didn’t want us to see you. Matter of fact, Frank and I read the plane’s signal—‘Okay H.’ That must have been to let Hamilton know they’d captured you!”

The detective nodded. “The men finally brought me over this morning. I guess you two had left by that time.”

“That’s right,” said Chet. “Then they tied Tony and me up and brought us to the dungeon. They planned to kill all of us and blame it on the Caribs. I’ll say one thing, though,” he added, chuckling. “Made me so mad I forgot all about my stomach-ache!”

At that moment powerful searchlights began to sweep the island.

“Patrol ships!” Joe exclaimed. “Must be the police arriving from San Juan!”

Soon a boatload of armed bluejackets and officers hit the beach. After Mr. Hardy had given a brief account of the affair, the officers escorted the prisoners, including Beppo, back to Hamilton’s villa. By this time, Jack Wayne had revived and was assisted there by the boys.

At the house Captain Valdes of the San Juan police held an official hearing. Mr. Hardy cleared up the mystery.

“It was not until today that I learned who was masterminding a diabolical plot to overthrow the government of Tropicale. This man Hamilton is the one,” the detective explained. “He organized an air-freight theft ring to seize various articles useful to his cause. Among these were isotopes to build an atomic weapon. Once completed, this would have given him and his gang absolute power over Tropicale. On the side, the men smuggled diamonds in dolls’ or dummies’ heads to help finance their crazy venture.”

“It wasn’t so crazy!” snarled the handcuffed Hamilton. “We might have pulled it off if that important Hugo dummy hadn’t been sent to the very town where the Hardys live. Those nosy detectives and their pals upset our plans!”

“Tony and me?” Chet’s eyes widened and his face glowed with pride.

“Yes, indeed,” Captain Valdes praised them. “You all helped preserve peace in the Caribbean!”

“But how does the stolen drug, Variotrycin, come into the picture?” Frank asked his father. “And what about the brief case we found in the public locker in Eastern City? It was filled with the drug! In fact, after the man, who posed as Shanley, snatched it from us, we never saw him or the brief case again.”

“The gang thought that stealing and selling the new drug would supplement their income in addition to the diamonds,” Mr. Hardy explained. “However, not enough of it was being manufactured to make it profitable. After the man impersonating Shanley snatched the brief case from you boys, he suddenly got greedy. He was arrested in New York City trying to sell the stuff.”

Numerous other facts were brought out. “Skeleton Rock” was the gang’s identification, and they had used the same device on their revolutionary pirate flag. The pineapple tattoos helped the members recognize one another.

“So that’s why the cook at El Calypso Caliente got so upset when he spotted my tattoo!” said Joe. “He thought for a moment I was Beppo.”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “The restaurant was a regular meeting place for the gang.”

Abdul, Hugo, and many of Hamilton’s island retainers now talked freely in the hope of getting light sentences. They revealed that a new red motorboat had been switched overnight for the blue one which Hamilton had tried to disguise with a fresh coat of paint. They also admitted that some mild poison had been put in the lobsters served at dinner.

“Too bad we didn’t make the dose twice as strong,” growled Hamilton.

The mysterious “doctor friend” was just a ruse to send Frank and Joe to their doom. Abdul also admitted that he lived in the old pink stucco house in San Juan, and that the basket device had been used to pick up loot and messages.

“How about the Hugo dummy?” Frank asked his father. “Was the Mexican manufacturer involved?”

“No,” his father replied. “Hamilton’s gang put the purple turbans on the dummies, inserted the glass eyes, and acted as distributors. Radley discovered this and notified me shortly after I saw you boys last.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “I get it now! As distributors, Hamilton and his gang substituted the old-fashioned glass eyes for the original plastic ones in the Hugos and concealed the contraband and messages inside.”

“The changed instruction sheet, too!” Joe chimed in.

“Right!” Mr. Hardy said. “That code in Spanish was an extra precaution!” The detective added that the Hugos were shipped to bona fide customers in the United States, such as Mr. Biwen in Bayport. “Gang members were on hand,” he said, “to purchase the purple-turbaned Hugos immediately and get the diamonds.”

“Then why,” Chet burst in, “did those hoodlums snatch the red-turbaned dummy at Mr. Bivven’s place?”

Hearing this, Hamilton snapped, “Biwen, the old goat, fouled up the whole plan. He said that was his only Hugo, so my men figured I must have made a mistake in the color of the turban.”

At this point, a seaman from one of the patrol boats brought a radio message to Mr. Hardy. It was a report from the Tropicale police, saying they had rounded up the remaining gang members from information relayed by Fenton Hardy before he was captured.

“Well, boys, I guess we can now get a good night’s sleep!” The detective sighed.

“Believe me, you have earned it, senores!” Captain Valdes congratulated them. “I give you permission to use the villa. Mr. Hamilton won’t need it tonight!”

In a few days the Hardys’ damaged plane was repaired, and they took off for San Juan. Jack Wayne urged Frank and Joe to demonstrate their flying skill to their father.

After watching them, the detective grinned. “Looks as if I have a couple of budding air aces in the family!”

His grin grew wider as Joe made a beautiful landing. A crowd of officials and newsmen were waiting on the field to greet the passengers.

An envoy of the Tropicale Government stepped forward and pinned a medal on the private investigator. “In token of your distinguished efforts for the cause of peace and justice!” He beamed.

“Thank you,” Mr. Hardy said, smiling, “but these boys here deserve it more than I do!”

“We know the part your sons played,” said an airline official. “As a reward, my company is presenting them with this DME—Distance Measuring Equipment unit for the Hardys’ private plane!”

“And for their friend Tony,” said the Tropicale official, “we have a special boat trip in Caribbean waters.”

With a broad smile Tony accepted, unaware of the next exciting role he would play in helping the Hardy Boys solve The Mystery at Devil’s Paw.

One more gift was presented and unwrapped—a whole family of ventriloquist dummies for Chet!

“Without diamonds, however,” the official said, laughing.

Excitedly Chet seized one of the dummies and put on an impromptu act.

“Who cares about diamonds!” the largest one squawked. “When do we eat?”

Match Wits with The Hardy Boys®!

Collect the Complete

Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

by Franklin W. Dixon

#1: The Tower Treasure

#2: The House on the Cliff

#3: The Secret of the Old Mill

#4: The Missing Chums

#5: Hunting for Hidden Gold

#6: The Shore Road Mystery

#7: The Secret of the Caves

#8: The Mystery of Cabin Island

#9: The Great Airport Mystery

#10: What Happened at Midnight

#11: While the Clock Ticked

#12: Footprints Under the Window

#13: The Mark on the Door

#14: The Hidden Harbor Mystery

#15: The Sinister Signpost

#16: A Figure in Hiding

#17: The Secret Warning

#18: The Twisted Claw

#19: The Disappearing Floor

#20: The Mystery of the Flying Express

#21: The Clue of the Broken Blade

#22: The Flickering Torch Mystery

#23: The Melted Coins

#24: The Short-Wave Mystery

#25: The Secret Panel

#26: The Phantom Freighter

#27: The Secret of Skull Mountain

#28: The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

#29: The Secret of the Lost Tunnel

#30: The Wailing Siren Mystery

#31: The Secret of Wildcat Swamp

#32: The Crisscross Shadow

#33: The Yellow Feather Mystery

#34: The Hooded Hawk Mystery

#35: The Clue in the Embers

#36: The Secret of Pirates’ Hill

#37: The Ghost at Skeleton Rock

#38: The Mystery at Devil’s Paw

#39: The Mystery of the Chinese Junk

#40: Mystery of the Desert Giant

#41: The Clue of the Screeching Owl

#42: The Viking Symbol Mystery

#43: The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior

#44: The Haunted Fort

#45: The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge

#46: The Secret Agent on Flight 101

#47: Mystery of the Whale Tattoo

#48: The Arctic Patrol Mystery

#49: The Bombay Boomerang

#50: Danger on Vampire Trail

#51: The Masked Monkey

#52: The Shattered Helmet

#53: The Clue of the Hissing Serpent

#54: The Mysterious Caravan

#55: The Witchmaster’s Key

#56: The Jungle Pyramid

#57: The Firebird Rocket

#58: The Sting of the Scorpion

#59: Night of the Werewolf

#60: Mystery of the Samurai Sword

#61: The Pentagon Spy

#62: The Apeman’s Secret

#63: The Mummy Case

#64: Mystery of Smugglers Cove

#65: The Stone Idol

#66: The Vanishing Thieves

The Hardy Boys Back-to-Back

#1: The Tower Treasure/#2: The House on the Cliff

Celebrate over 70 Years with the World’s Greatest Super Sleuths!

MYSTERY AT DEVIL’S PAW

When Frank and Joe Hardy receive a telegram from Tony Prito in Alaska telling them that his life is in jeopardy, they immediately make plans to fly to Tony’s rescue

Unknown enemies dog the Hardys and their pal Chet Morton even before they start the 4,000-mile journey. The forces working against them become increasingly menacing in Juneau, where Frank and Joe nearly lose their lives. Who are the vicious assailants? And what are their sinister motives? Trying to find the answers to these puzzling questions lead the Hardys into dangerous sleuthing in the wilderness of Alaska and British Columbia.

The astounding secret that the young detectives uncover, in the shadow of the forbidding mountain peak Devil’s Paw, winds up one of the most perilous adventures they have ever encountered.

“Look out below!” Joe cried.

The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

MYSTERY AT

DEVIL’S PAW

BY

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Publishers • New York

A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

Copyright © 1973, 1959 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-2184 ISBN: 978-1-101-65728-7

CONTENTS

I

HIGHWAY ATTACK

II

DECOY

III

WATERFRONT SEARCH

IV

CHEECHAKO TROUBLE

V

A STRANGE KNAPSACK

VI

NIGHTMARE!

VII

GLACIER TREK

VIII

SALMON RAID

IX

FLEETFOOT’S NEWS

X

THE SOURDOUGH’S CLUE

XI

A FIERY MISSILE

XII

DINOSAUR DETECTIVE

XIII

A SAVAGE ORDEAL

XIV

A SUSPICIOUS CAMPSITE

XV

THE SINGING WILDERNESS

XVI

AN EERIE SIGHT

XVII

BURIED TREASURE

XVIII

THE TOTEM’S SECRET

XIX

ENMESHED

XX

AERIAL ROUNDUP

MYSTERY AT

DEVIL’S PAW

CHAPTER I

Highway Attack

“TELEGRAM for Frank and Joe Hardy!”

The messenger gave an envelope to the seventeen-year-old, blond-haired boy who answered the door at the Hardys’ home in Bayport. Joe signed for it and hurried into the living room.

“Who’s it from?” Frank Hardy asked excitedly. The dark-haired boy, a year older than Joe, waited patiently while his brother slit the envelope and took out the telegram.

“It’s from Tony!” Joe exclaimed. “And it sounds urgent!” He read:

BELIEVE I HAVE STUMBLED ON A WEIRD MYSTERY. MY LIFE MAY BE IN DANGER. TRY TO COME RIGHT AWAY AND BRING CHET MORTON. WHEN YOU ARRIVE JUNEAU ASK FOR TED SEWELL AT SEAPLANE BASE.

Tony Prito, a good friend of the Hardy boys, had gone to Alaska the week before to take a summer job as stream guard with the Fish and Wildlife Service.

“He must be in real trouble,” Frank said, frowning. “I’m sure Mom and Dad will let us go.”

Fenton Hardy, the boys’ father, had been a famous detective in the New York City Police Department. After he left the force and moved to Bayport, the tall, athletic-looking sleuth had gained even more renown when he became a private investigator. Frank and Joe, who had inherited their father’s zeal for bringing criminals to justice, often helped him unravel his complicated cases and had solved several mysteries completely on their own.

The two boys hurried out to the garden in back of the house, where Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were seated on lawn chairs, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Gertrude Hardy, the boys’ tall, thin aunt, was serving glasses of iced tea.

“Dad!” Joe cried excitedly. “May Frank and I go to Alaska?”

“Just like that?” Fenton Hardy chuckled. “Sit down and tell us what this is all about.”

“Humph!” put in Aunt Gertrude. “Sounds like another mystery to me. I can always tell the symptoms! You’ll freeze to death in Alaska. Mark my words!”

“Oh, Aunty,” Joe said. “Alaska isn’t all ice and snow. A few days ago it was eighty degrees in Juneau.”

“Seems incredible,” Mr. Hardy agreed, “but it’s true. The Alaskan Panhandle has weather much like Washington or Oregon, with plenty of rain.”

“Then you’ll both get wet and die of pneumonia!” Aunt Gertrude went on.

The boys suppressed a smile as the conversation about the state continued. Only the far north was frigid, Joe recalled from his social studies. He knew that Alaska was an Aleut Indian name meaning “Great Land.”

“We can’t leave Tony stranded,” Frank pleaded. He showed his father the telegram.

Fenton Hardy scanned the message, reflected a moment, then passed it to his wife. “What do you think, Laura?”

Mrs. Hardy, a slim, pretty woman, read the telegram with a slight frown. “It sounds rather dangerous.”

“Of course it’s dangerous!” Aunt Gertrude read the telegram over Mrs. Hardy’s shoulder. “Alaska is full of man-killing bears and treacherous glaciers,” she warned. “And besides, I heard a rumor on a newscast last week. A United States rocket was programmed to crash-land in the White Sands Missile Range near El Paso after going up 400,000 feet. Instead, it misfired and dropped in Alaska.”

“But what’s that got to do with our helping Tony?” Frank asked.

“It could happen again!” Miss Hardy retorted in a peppery tone.

“Boy, that would make our trip even more exciting!” Joe said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

Aunt Gertrude sighed deeply. “Won’t you boys ever take my advice?” she fumed.

After a moment’s thought, Mrs. Hardy said, “I’ll leave the decision to your father.”

The detective smiled as Frank asked eagerly, “Could we take your plane, Dad?”

Under the direction of Jack Wayne, Mr. Hardy’s pilot, both Frank and Joe had become experts at piloting their father’s six-place, single-engine craft.

“I’m afraid not, son,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I need it myself. Jack is flying me to Miami to wind up an investigation.” Mr. Hardy looked at his sons quizzically. “It will cost quite a bit to fly to Alaska on the regular airlines.”

“We’ve thought of that, Dad,” Frank said. “Joe and I have saved several hundred dollars from odd jobs. We were putting it aside for an outboard motor.”

“But Tony comes first!” Joe added stoutly.

The detective was impressed by his sons’ loyalty to their friend, and said so. “All right, you have the go-ahead from me, boys. I’ll chip in a few more dollars if you need it!”

“Great, Dad!” Frank pumped his father’s hand, while Joe, seized with enthusiasm, waltzed his mother around until she protested that she was getting dizzy.

Jubilant, the boys telephoned Chet Morton. Chet, a stocky, good-natured boy, was the Hardys’ friend and classmate at Bayport High.

“I’ll ask my folks if I can go along, too,” their pal replied after hearing the news.

“Well, make it snappy,” Frank urged. “We’ll have to get plane reservations right away.”

Chet promised to let them know his parents’ decision as soon as possible and hung up.

Twenty minutes later his noisy jalopy chugged up in front of the Hardys’ pleasant, tree-shaded home. The boys ran out to greet him.

“Can you come on the trip?” Frank asked.

Chet looked worried. “It’s okay with my folks, but—well, I’m not sure I ought to go.”

“Why not?” Joe demanded. “If Tony’s in trouble, you want to help him, don’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s just it—the danger,” Chet replied nervously. “How do I know we won’t get plugged by gold thieves or someone? Last time I took a trip with you fellows, I got tossed in an underground dungeon!”

Chet was referring to their recent adventure in Puerto Rico, where the Hardy boys had tracked down an international ring of lawbreakers in a case called The Ghost at Skeleton Rock.

“Stop worrying.” Frank chuckled. “Think of the salmon fishing in Alaska! Can’t you visualize a nice plump Chinook salmon sizzling on the fire?”

“Mm, boy!” Chet immediately perked up. “Well, okay. We can’t let Tony down!”

“That’s the spirit,” said Joe. “Let’s phone for plane reservations!”

The three hurried inside and stood by while Frank dialed the airport ticket office. “Line’s busy,” he announced impatiently.

After trying for several minutes without success to contact the airport, the Hardys decided to drive there.

“We can take my jalopy,” Chet said. “It’ll get us out there in a jiffy!”

“In one piece?” Frank asked, winking at Joe.

“Hop aboard!” Chet commanded.

When the trio had squeezed in, he threw the car into gear and started off with a roar.

Soon they were rolling along the highway toward the airport. When they reached the flight terminal, Frank asked the clerk at the ticket counter for three reservations to Juneau, Alaska.

“How soon do you want to leave?” the clerk inquired.

“Tomorrow morning.”

The clerk shook his head. “Sorry, but we’re booked solid for the next two days as far as Chicago. That’s where you’ll make flight connections.”

The boys looked at each other in dismay.

“Will you put us on your list for tomorrow’s flight in case there are any cancellations?” Frank asked.

“Certainly. But you’ll have to be standing by at flight time. Of course I can’t guarantee accommodations.”

Frank nodded and gave their names and addresses. Then the boys turned to leave.

“If we can’t get space in the next twenty-four hours, let’s hop a train or bus,” Joe suggested.

Frank and Chet both agreed to this. As they walked away from the counter, Joe gave his brother a slight nudge.

“What’s up?” Frank asked quietly.

“Take a look at that man next to the water cooler. He’s been listening to everything we said.”

The stranger, dark-haired and with piercing eyes, seemed to realize that the boys were talking about him. Hastily he walked away and strode out the front door of the terminal.

“Who is he?” asked Chet.

“Search me,” Joe replied. “Maybe he was just nosy, but he might have had a reason for eavesdropping on us.”

They hurried out of the building and looked around, but the man had disappeared. The trio climbed into the jalopy and headed back toward Bayport, with Chet clinging to the wheel like a racing driver.

“Give it more gas or we’ll be arrested for holding up traffic,” Joe teased.

Glancing at his rear-view mirror, Chet remarked, “That truck in back of us certainly is highballing.”

Frank and Joe turned to look. The driver of a large black vehicle was far exceeding the speed limit.

“Give that cowboy plenty of room to pass,” Frank said.

“Right.” Chet drove closer to the side of the road, only inches from the edge of a ditch which separated the highway from a strip of wooded land.

As the truck drew up behind him, he gave the signal to pass. Suddenly he looked to his left and exclaimed, “Hey, stop crowding me!”

“Look out there!” Joe cried. The truck’s cab was so high that he could not see the driver.

The next instant the side of the truck brushed Chet’s jalopy. With a sickening scraping sound and the shriek of rubber against pavement, the boy’s car tumbled into the ditch, coming to rest on its side. Seconds later, dazed from the accident, the Hardys crawled clear of the jalopy. The truck was out of sight.

Chet’s car tumbled into the ditch!

“Oh, oh, my head,” Joe groaned as he struggled to collect his wits. Chet was stunned and did not move.

The Hardys eased their friend gently from the car. While they were trying to revive him, several passing motorists stopped to offer assistance.

“I’ll call the police,” a woman promised. “There’s a gas station not far from here.”

In a matter of minutes, a State Police car arrived at the scene and two officers got out. Chet was just regaining consciousness.

“Need an ambulance?” one of the troopers asked.

“N-no, I’m okay,” Chet said woozily. “But I sure feel sore all over!”

Frank and Joe reported the accident to the officers. “That guy must have a grudge against us. He deliberately forced us into the ditch!” Joe said hotly.

“It’s possible,” one of the troopers commented. “Did you have a chance to get his license number?”

“No, sir. It all happened too fast,” Frank replied glumly, but he gave a complete description of the vehicle.

The troopers made a sketch of the scene of the accident and talked to several of the witnesses, writing down their names and addresses. When they had all the information they needed, one of them said to Chet, “A wrecker will be here soon to tow your car in for repairs.” He wrote down the name of the garage and handed it to Chet.

“Meanwhile,” he went on, “we’d better take you to a hospital.”

Even though the boys protested that they felt fine, the officers dropped them off at Bayport Hospital, where a doctor examined them. After bandaging a cut on Chet’s head, he suggested that the Hardys’ friend rest in bed until fully recovered.

Frank and Joe, miraculously, had only minor bruises.

Chet was driven to the Morton farm. Then Frank and Joe accompanied the officers to Bayport Police Headquarters. After hearing their story, Chief Collig, an old friend of the Hardys, asked:

“Any idea who might be responsible?”

Frank shook his head. “Not unless someone is trying to keep us from going to Alaska.” He explained about Tony Prito’s telegram and the eavesdropper at the airport.

“Well,” said Chief Collig, “our prowl cars and the State Police will keep looking for that truck.”

When they arrived home, the Hardys told their father what had happened. Mr. Hardy looked grave. “I’m afraid this proves that you’re up against a nasty enemy,” he commented. “Better not mention the attack to your mother or Aunt Gertrude.”

Frank and Joe went to bed that night sobered by the thought that they were tackling a dangerous case. And what about Tony? Was he still safe or had he, too, met with some kind of “accident”?

The next morning Frank and Joe were heartened by a telephone call from Chet Morton, who said that he had recovered completely and would meet them at the airport.

After eating breakfast and packing their clothes, the boys said good-by to their family and drove off in their convertible.

“If we get on the plane,” Frank said, “we’ll leave the car in the parking lot until our return.”

While taking their luggage out of the trunk, they saw Chet pull into the lot. Apparently his jalopy, though scratched and dented, was still roadworthy. Beside him sat two pretty girls.

“Hey! Iola and Callie!” Joe shouted.

“We came to see you off,” said Chet’s dark-haired sister, Iola Morton.

“I was hoping you might,” Joe admitted with a grin.

“Ditto!” Frank said, smiling at his own favorite date, Callie Shaw.

“Don’t get lost in that Alaskan wilderness,” warned Callie, an attractive blonde with sparkling brown eyes.

“We’ll try not to. Sure you’re feeling okay, Chet?”

“Fit as a fiddle!”

The boys checked in at the ticket counter, then said good-by to the girls who left in Chet’s car to keep a tennis date.

At ten o’clock the boys lined up at the outside gate as the Chicago-bound plane landed and taxied up to the airport building.

“Hey, look!” Joe whispered to his companions. “There’s that man again!”

The stranger who had eavesdropped the day before was pacing nervously up and down, apparently unaware of the Hardys. As he strode past, Frank pointed to his footprint on a piece of paper lying on the ground. The heelmark showed a circle with a star in it.

Moments later, the loading ramp was wheeled up to the big airliner and the passengers streamed aboard. A voice over the public-address system began paging the Hardys, so the boys hurried back to check at the ticket counter.

“Two empty seats,” the airline clerk told them.

The Hardys and Chet stared at one another in a quandary. If they accepted the seats, one of the trio would have to be left behind.

As they pondered, the suspicious stranger rushed angrily to the counter. “Now wait a minute!” he challenged. “Those seats were paid for by friends of mine. You have no right to assign them to someone else!”

“Oh, yes, we do,” the clerk retorted. “If your friends aren’t on hand for the flight, they can ask for refunds later.” Turning back to the boys, he added, “How about it?”

“B-b-but there’s three of us!” Chet stuttered.

“You’ll have to make up your minds,” the clerk said. “I can’t wait any longer.”

CHAPTER II

Decoy

WHILE the stranger stood by, sulking, Frank said, “Look, there are other ways to get to Chicago.”

“Sure,” Chet agreed. “We can take a train.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “Let’s go back to town.”

As they left, Chet kept an eye on the man, who followed them closely.

“That creep’s tailing us,” he warned the Hardys.

“He’s up to no good,” Joe said. “I’d like to clobber him.”

“Easy,” Frank advised. “We can snare the snoop another way.”

“What do you have in mind?” Chet asked.

The trio stopped to confer, while the stranger lolled against a phone booth trying to look nonchalant.

Joe pulled his wallet from his pocket and all three boys pretended to examine some papers. They talked in low voices and nodded as if in full agreement about what was being said. The man intently watched their reflection in the glass door of the phone booth.

Joe moved as if to return the wallet to his pocket. But instead it fell to the concrete floor, apparently unobserved by the boys.

As the Hardys and Chet hastened out one of the doors, the man picked up the wallet. He looked about to see if anyone had noticed. But the passers-by paid no attention.

The man opened the wallet and took out the papers. But he did not have a chance to read them, because Joe came racing back. The fellow took off like a flash.

“Stop, thief!” Joe cried out. He ran after the man, followed closely by Frank and Chet.

Frank yelled, “Get him!”

People in the terminal craned their necks to see what was happening.

As the fugitive passed the Bayport Airways counter, Joe caught up to him. He tripped him neatly from behind and sent him sprawling. The stranger hit the polished terrazzo floor and slid along for a few feet, coming to a halt near a policeman who had rushed to the scene.

Frank and Joe collared the man and pulled him to his feet. He still held the wallet in his hand.

“That belongs to me!” Joe said.

The officer relieved the fugitive of the wallet. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

Out of breath and stunned by his belly landing, the man said:

“I don’t know who this belongs to. I found the wallet on the floor and wanted to take it to Lost and Found. These kids ran me down!”

The policeman opened the wallet and Joe readily identified it as his.

“Here, take it,” the patrolman said. Then his eyes narrowed as he looked at the man. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

“Henry Smith,” the man replied.

“Well,” the officer said, “next time you find a wallet—the Lost and Found office is in the other direction.” He pointed to the far end of the terminal building.

Before the Hardys had time to quiz the stranger further, their names came booming over the loudspeaker.

“Will Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton please report for standby seats!”

After a quick thank-you to the policeman, the boys left.

“I wonder what happened,” Frank said as they walked to the ticket counter.

“You fellows are pretty lucky,” said the clerk. He explained that a passenger had become sick and was being taken off the plane. “Now there are three seats available. Do you still want them?”

“Sure,” Joe said. They hastily paid for the tickets and ran out to the airplane just as the jet motors whined into life.

“That was a piece of luck,” Chet said as they took their seats.

Frank nodded. “But I still wish we could have interrogated Mr. Snoop.”

“Well, he won’t bother us for a while,” Joe said.

The first leg of their trip proved uneventful. They landed in Chicago, and after a twenty-five-minute wait, boarded the Seattle flight. All three napped as they winged across the prairie states and the Rocky Mountains.

It was brisk and cool when they landed at Seattle-Tacoma airport. Frank, Joe, and Chet strolled into the passengers’ lounge.

Glancing at the wall clock, Joe remarked, “An hour to go before we board the plane for Juneau.”

“Look,” Frank put in, “I think we should call Dad and tell him what happened back at Bayport just before we took off. He might be able to check on that man.”

A row of telephone booths lined one wall of the waiting room. Frank stepped into a booth and put through a long-distance call to the Hardy home. Much to his amazement, his father knew all about the Bayport episode.

“I drove out to the airport to see if you boys had taken off yet,” Mr. Hardy explained. “I reached the outside gate just as you were embarking. The guard, Dick Harper, is a friend of mine. He told me about the man who grabbed Joe’s wallet. He was still there waiting for a passenger. A plane came in from the coast and he kept looking at the arrivals. Obviously the passenger he was to meet did not show, so he left. Anyhow, he looked familiar, so I played a hunch and followed him.”

“Did you find out who he was?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Yes. He’s a wanted spy named Romo Stransky,” the detective replied. “I had him arrested and was hoping he’d talk, but he didn’t.”

“Too bad.”

“You boys might be in real danger. Be careful.”

“We’ll watch out, Dad,” Frank promised.

After hanging up, he stepped out of the booth. Joe was waiting outside. Chet, who had wandered away, came running toward them with a wild-eyed look.

“Hey, fellows, guess what! The guy we saw in Bayport this morning is here at the airport!”

“That’s impossible, Chet,” Frank declared. “Dad had him arrested!” Hastily he reported his telephone conversation with Mr. Hardy.

“Then Stransky must have a double,” Chet insisted.

“Where did you spot him?” Frank asked.

“Right over there by the magazine stand.” As Chet turned to point, his eyes widened in surprise. “He’s gone!”

“Maybe we can still find him!” Joe urged.

The three boys made a fast circuit of the building. They also checked the parking lot and the outside gates that led to the flight apron. But Stransky’s double was nowhere in sight.

“What a way to start this trip!” Chet wailed. “Here I was just going along for some nice salmon fishing. Now you’ve got me all mixed up with a bunch of spies and even seeing double!”

“Cheer up,” Joe said. “You leave the spies to us, and we’ll still get in some fishing.”

Within an hour, a voice boomed out over the loudspeaker, “Flight for Juneau, Alaska, now loading at Gate Ten!”

The three boys trooped aboard and fastened their seat belts. Minutes later they were soaring high above the Pacific coast.

After winging over Vancouver Island, the jet flew steadily northward up the rugged Canadian coast. Majestic green-clad mountains towered up to snowy peaks, and the blue waters offshore were dotted with rocky islands.

“Boy, what vacation country!” Frank said enthusiastically.

Even Chet was relaxed now. “I’m sure glad that Tony sent for us,” he said, beaming.

Favorable tail winds speeded their trip, and in a few hours the boys sighted Juneau. The city lay nestled at the foot of a steep mountain.

“Where do we land?” Chet wondered aloud.

His question was answered a few minutes later as the plane came down on an airfield several miles to the north. From there, they were whisked by car back to Juneau along the beautiful Glacier Highway. Frank and Joe watched, but noticed no one trailing them. Soon the forested slopes of the mountain gave way to the outskirts of town.

“Jeepers, it’s a real city,” Chet remarked, eyeing the modern buildings.

“What did you expect—log cabins?” Joe chuckled. “Juneau is the capital of Alaska.”

Chet whistled in amazement as they entered the attractive lobby of their hotel.

“I sure never expected anything like this!”

As soon as the bellhop had taken them to their rooms, Chet sank down on his comfortable bed. “Think I’ll catch forty winks,” he yawned. “That meal on the plane made me sleepy.”

The Hardys grinned. “Okay,” Joe said. “Frank and I will look up Ted Sewell.”

Chet’s heavy breathing indicated that he had drifted off to sleep even before the Hardys had unpacked their luggage.

“Well, Chet’s in good country for sawing logs,” Frank quipped as they slipped on sweaters and left the room.

At the desk in the lobby Joe asked directions to the seaplane base. It was a five-minute walk. When the boys arrived there they were surprised to see a huge floating dock which lay low in the water. Two seaplanes were alongside it at the foot of a steep wooden ramp. Behind the floating dock was a large stationary one, set on tall wooden pilings.

“Wow!” Joe remarked. “The tide here must rise to about twenty feet. It’s at ebb now.”

“Right. And at flood tide these docks must come about level.”

Walking briskly, they descended the ramp and talked with a mechanic servicing one of the seaplanes.

“Is a fellow named Ted Sewell around?” Frank asked. He was told that Ted had been there the day before, but so far that day had not shown up.

“We’ll come back later,” Frank told the mechanic.

They walked along the waterfront, where rows of fishing boats thrust up a forest of masts.

“I guess that people in Alaska either sail or fly,” Joe said.

“They have to. Roads are scarce,” Frank pointed out. “You can’t very well drive a car into the bush.”

The boys made several more inquiries about Ted Sewell, but no one had seen him that day. They also asked a dock guard about renting a motorboat to take them to Tony’s camp on the Kooniak River.

“Sure, you can rent one easily,” the guard told them. “But you’ll have to wait till morning and talk to the owners.”

After walking up a steep hill the Hardys found themselves in front of the Alaska Historical Museum, which was open that evening. They went inside and studied the exhibits. Besides mounted birds and animals, there were Indian and Eskimo jewelry and wood carvings, bright-colored blankets, and baskets woven of fine rye grass.

“Look at this!” Joe said, pointing to a paper enclosed under glass. It was a photostat of the United States Treasury check made out to Russia for $7,200,000 for the purchase of Alaska.

“And think of all the gold that has been mined here since then,” Frank remarked. “Some bargain!”

They left the museum and wandered about the city for a while, then returned to the dock.

“Eight o’clock and the sun is still high,” Joe mused.

“We’re almost in the land of the midnight sun,” Frank said. “The clerk told me the sun won’t set until eleven P.M.”

The air was quite cool and held a faint aroma of fresh-caught fish mingled with the tang of mountain pines. As they stood on the dock, a motorboat came put-putting toward them. Its lone occupant was a grizzled old man. His face was heavily whiskered and he wore a sea captain’s cap.

“You fellers lookin’ for a boat to rent?” he shouted up to them.

Frank nodded. “That’s right. How did you know?”

“Dock guard told me,” the old man explained. “I’ll hire this ‘un out cheap. Come on down an’ look it over. I’ll even take you out for a spin.”

The Hardys eagerly climbed down the nearest ladder to a pile of rocks near the water line. As they were about to board the boat, two shadowy figures loomed out from under the dock, grabbed the boys, and pinioned their arms in a viselike grip.

“A trap!” Joe shouted. “Help!”

His outcry was silenced by a blow on the head. Both boys were knocked unconscious.

CHAPTER III

Waterfront Search

FRANK was the first to revive. His feet were numb with cold, and he was biting on a wad of cloth. When he tried to move, his muscles ached.

As his mind cleared, Frank realized he was bound and gagged. Then he remembered the old boatman and the sudden assault. His attackers had roped him to one of the wharf pilings!

A few feet away Joe was gagged and tied to another dock timber. He moaned as consciousness returned.

Suddenly Frank realized their feet were in the icy water. Already the waves were lapping above their ankles. The tide was rising, and the slimy dock pilings showed the high-water mark was more than a foot above their heads!

Frantically the two boys scanned the harbor. The only movement was a fishing boat far beyond the breakwater. No one would notice their plight in the semidarkness under the dock.

Some time later, back at the hotel, Chet awoke from his nap.

“Getting dark out,” he noticed, switching on the bedside lamp and glancing at his wrist watch. “Wow! Five after eleven! Wonder if Frank and Joe are back yet.”

Chet opened the connecting door and peered into the Hardys’ room. Their beds were empty.

He hurried to the lobby and inquired at the desk. After checking the key rack, the clerk told him that the Hardys had not returned.

“Now what do I do?” Chet asked himself. The next moment he decided that the most likely place to pick up their trail would be the waterfront. Perhaps they had met Ted Sewell there.

Striding along quickly, Chet made his way to the docks and paced along the seaplane base and rows of fishing boats.

“Frank! Joe!” he called. There was no answer.

Then Chet noticed a guard lounging against a shed, smoking his pipe.

“Have you seen two young fellows around here?” Chet asked.

The guard scratched his jaw. “Oh sure! I remember now. There was two lads here a couple o’ hours ago. Asked me about rentin’ a boat.”

“Any idea where they went?”

The man gestured with his pipe. “The last I seen of ’em was on the dock.”

Chet walked out on the pier to scan the harbor. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, his friends had hired a boat for a spin. But there was no craft in sight on the darkening waters.

As he stood wondering what to do, he heard a muffled noise. Bump! Bump!

The sound seemed to come from under the dock. Getting down on his hands and knees, Chet peered over the side, but he could make out nothing in the heavy gloom.

“Frank! Joe!” he called.

In response came a series of frantic whimpering noises. The eerie sounds sent a chill down Chet’s spine. He jumped to his feet and ran back to the guard’s shed.

“Someone’s trapped under the dock!” he cried out.

“You must be imagining things, sonny.”

“Oh, no, I’m not!” Chet insisted. After a brief argument, he talked the guard into launching a small dory. Still grumbling, the man rowed out along the pier while Chet aimed a flashlight among the wooden pilings.

Presently he gasped. “Frank! Joe! There they are!” By now the water was up to the boys’ chests.

The guard’s eyes popped. “I don’t believe it!”

After jockeying the boat into position, he whipped out his jackknife and went to work on the ropes. Chet helped him. Finally they freed the two youths and hauled them aboard.

Both Frank and Joe were numb with cold. Their teeth were chattering so hard that at first neither could speak.

The guard rowed ashore quickly and hustled the Hardys into his shed, where Chet wrapped them in blankets. The guard heated some milk on his potbellied stove. As Frank and Joe gulped the nourishing liquid, their strength slowly returned.

“What happened?” Chet asked when they were able to talk.

Frank told how the whiskered old boatman had lured them into an ambush. “I didn’t get much of a look at the men who grabbed us, but I’d say they were slender and about medium height.”

“Right,” Joe added. “That’s all I could make out, too. Their faces were masked.”

“That old feller was lyin’,” the guard declared. “No one asked me if you two lads were lookin’ fer a boat to rent.”

“He may have trailed us and overheard our conversation,” Frank said. “Or maybe it was just a shrewd guess.”

If the man had been guessing about their need for a boat, Joe reflected, this might mean he knew the Hardys were going to the Kooniak River.

“Want me to call the police?” the guard asked.

The young detectives shook their heads. “We’ll let it go till morning,” Frank replied. “The police probably couldn’t do much tonight, and we both need a good rest.”

Early the next day the boys breakfasted at the hotel, then went to Juneau Police Headquarters. The sergeant who took their report was a former Seattle policeman, who knew Fenton Hardy by reputation.

“I’ll send a man down to the docks with you,” he said. “Maybe he can help you spot that boatman.”

A short, heavy-set detective, named Phil Grant, made a tour of the dock and seaplane base with the three boys. Grant, who was well acquainted around the waterfront, asked numerous people if they knew anyone who fitted the description of the boatman. No one recalled such a person.

“I’m beginning to think those whiskers and the cap were just a disguise,” Frank commented.

Detective Grant shook his head doubtfully. “If so, we haven’t much to go on, but I’ll let you know if we turn up any clues.”

“Thanks. We’ll do the same,” Frank told him.

Chet looked around nervously after the detective walked away. “Do you suppose those crooks are still trailing us?” he asked.

“Don’t get jumpy.” Joe chuckled. “I doubt if they’d try anything in broad daylight. Seriously, Frank, what do you think their game is?”

His brother shrugged. “Too early to answer that question. We’ll know more after we’ve talked to Tony. But I’d say those guys who attacked us are part of a well-organized gang trying to scare us off this case.”

Chet shuddered. “Well, they’re doing a good job so far as I’m concerned.”

“For a guy who’s scared you’re doing a great detective job, Chet,” Frank remarked.

“You saved our lives,” Joe reminded the stocky youth.

The gratitude and praise gave Chet courage. “Okay, fellows,” he said. “Let’s find Ted Sewell this time.”

Again the three boys strolled out on the dock, inhaling gusts of the briny northern air. The harbor was bustling with activity.

Joe pointed to a motorboat slicing straight toward them. At the wheel was a husky blond youth about sixteen years old. “I wonder if that’s the fellow we’re looking for.”

Frank called to him as he drew alongside the dock. “Are you Ted Sewell?”

“That’s right,” the boy replied. “You must be Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton. Tony sent me to get you.”

The three watched as the blond youth made his boat fast and scrambled up the ladder. They liked his friendly, open face.

“Sorry I didn’t meet you yesterday,” Ted apologized. “Motor trouble.” He pulled a note from his pocket and handed it to Frank. It was in Tony Prito’s handwriting and read:

Dear Frank and Joe:

This will introduce my friend Ted Sewell. He’s a swell guy and you can trust him completely. Please come out to my camp on the Kooniak River as soon as you can.

Regards,

Tony

“Okay,” said Frank, folding up the letter. “How soon can we leave?”

“Soon as you fellows are ready,” Ted replied.

“We’ll need some camping gear,” Joe pointed out.

“Maybe Ted can come along and show us a place to buy our outfits,” Frank suggested.

“Sure. Be glad to,” Ted said.

“How about grub?” Chet put in anxiously. “Will Tony have enough for all of us?”

Ted grinned. “Don’t worry! You’ll eat fine!”

An hour later, after loading their new pup tent and sleeping bags into the boat, the boys shoved off from Juneau. Ted steered down the Gastineau Channel between mountainous Douglas Island and the mainland, then southward along the coast.

“Nice boat you’ve got here,” Frank remarked.

“It’s part of Tony’s outfit,” the boy explained. “I’ve just been using it these past few mornings to come to Juneau. Most of the time I scoot around in a little outboard.”

“Doing what?” Joe asked.

“Beachcombing.” The youth grinned. “I cruise around the beaches looking for old propellers, boat fittings, or scrap metal. Doesn’t sound like much, but I earn quite a bit selling the stuff.”

“Sounds like a great outdoor life,” Frank said. “How’s Tony getting along?”

Ted’s face clouded. “He likes his work fine, but he’s plenty worried. He’s been having trouble on his job and—Well, you’d better wait and get the whole story from Tony. I hear he sent for you fellows because you’re good at solving mysteries.”

“We’ve worked on quite a few cases,” Frank admitted.

“Then I wish you’d solve a mystery for me,” Ted said seriously. “My father has disappeared.”

CHAPTER IV

Cheechako Trouble

“DISAPPEARED!” Frank repeated, shocked.

“Yes,” Ted said.

“Tell us what happened,” Joe urged.

“Dad was working for the Fish and Wildlife Service, just like Tony,” Ted began. “About two weeks ago he left Juneau on a survey trip into the wilderness to check on upstream feeding conditions for the salmon. He was due back in five or six days but he never returned.”

“Was a search made?” Chet asked.

“Sure. The Service sent out a helicopter, also a ground party with an Indian guide, but they couldn’t find any trace of him.”

Ted bit his lip and tried to keep his voice from breaking. “They’re afraid Dad may have been mauled by a bear or—or met with some other accident.”

“We’re sorry, Ted,” Joe murmured gravely.

“Maybe,” Frank added, “we can turn up a clue to your dad while we’re helping Tony.”

“Thanks, fellows.”

The boys cruised along in silence for a while, past thick, mysterious forests of evergreen. The offshore waters were dotted with islands and the rugged coastline was notched by inlets and streams flowing out of the wilderness.

“These must be pretty tricky waters for a ship to navigate,” Joe remarked.

Ted Sewell nodded. “There’ve been a lot of wrecks along the Inside Passage to Alaska. I’ll show you one of them.”

As they passed Admiralty Island, Ted pointed out a rotting, salt-bleached hulk sticking out of the water. “That was a schooner named the Islander,” he told the boys. “It was wrecked years ago while carrying Klondike gold miners back to the States.”

“What happened to the passengers?” Frank asked.

“They jumped overboard. Most of them were so weighted down with their bags of gold that they sank right to the bottom.”

“I hope their ghosts don’t haunt this neck of the woods!” Chet said.

Friendly banter continued until almost noon, when they reached the mouth of the Kooniak River. Flanked by dense timber on both banks, its ice-cold waters flowed clear as crystal.

“The Kooniak runs down from the northeast,” Ted told his companions. “The headwaters are somewhere up in Canada.” He turned the boat into the river and steered toward a small island about a quarter of a mile upstream. Ahead, they could see a plume of smoke rising from a campfire near a sturdy tent.

As they drew closer, a dark-haired boy rushed out and ran to the shore. He wore a T-shirt, dungarees, and leather jacket.

“There’s Tony!” Joe shouted.

“Hi, fellows!” Tony called, waving his arms.

“I’m glad that he’s all right,” Frank said quietly as the trio waved back.

Ted brought the boat up to a small wooden dock which extended a few yards out into the water. One by one, they clambered out to shake hands happily with Tony.

“Welcome to Alaska!” Tony said, chuckling. “The forty-ninth state! Twice as big as Texas and—”

“Ten times as dangerous!” Chet cut in.

“It won’t be for long,” Tony went on. “Not with you fellows here to figure things out!”

“What’s been going on?” Frank asked.

“Tell you about it later. Let’s eat first. I figured Ted would be back about this time, so lunch is on the fire.”

“Mm! That’s for me!” Chet said, sniffing the appetizing aroma of pork and beans.

Ted offered to set the rustic pine table while Tony showed his friends around the camp.

“Not that there’s much to show,” Tony said. “You can walk around this whole island in half an hour.”

The young stream guard led the way toward the upper end of the island. Aside from a few clumps of trees and underbrush, it was barren of cover, permitting a good view in all directions.

“That’s one reason I’m stationed here rather than on shore,” Tony explained. “This location enables me to keep a better lookout for poachers who might try entering the river.”

“What’s the other reason?” Joe asked.

“Bears. There are quite a few of them over on the mainland, but they never bother me here.”

“Then I’m staying put on this island!” Chet declared firmly.

“Funny name, the Kooniak River,” Frank mused. “What does it mean?”

“Search me,” Tony replied. “It’s an Indian name, I guess, but I haven’t learned their lingo yet—except cheechako.”

“What’s that?” Joe inquired.

“What you fellows are.” Tony chuckled. “Newcomers, or tenderfeet. That’s what the old-time sourdoughs used to call all the greenhorns who came up here during the gold rush.”

By this time, they had reached a point facing directly upstream. Here the river formed a sparkling six-foot waterfall. The swift-flowing stream filled the air with spray as it plunged over the rocks.

“The salmon jump those falls on their way upstream to spawn,” Tony said with a gesture. “I’ll show you tonight.”

“Why wait?” Joe put in eagerly. “Can’t we see them now?”

Tony shook his head. “When humans are around, the salmon travel upstream after dark.”

When the boys returned to camp, the meal was ready. Ted ladled out platefuls of beans, and everyone ate with a keen appetite. After a dessert of canned fruit and cookies, they leaned back with sighs of satisfaction.

“Now, Tony,” Joe said, “give us the story of the goings-on here.”

“Okay. The trouble started right after I arrived,” Tony began. “A fishing boat put in at the mouth of the river, and the crew tried to bribe me to leave my post.”

“Then what?” Chet asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I told them to scram,” Tony said disgustedly. “If I’d left this spot unguarded, those crooks would have seined all the fish out of the river. And it’s my job to see that they don’t! This is protected water.”

“Did you report the incident?” Frank inquired.

“Sure,” Tony replied. “I sent word to the authorities in Juneau and a couple of special agents came here. They staked out undercover and kept watch for three days, but nothing happened. Then, the very night after they left, someone took some potshots at me while I was sleeping. You can see the bullet holes in my tent.” He pointed to rents in the khaki covering.

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “You must be up against a dangerous bunch!”

“You’re telling me!” said Tony. “Seems to me that ordinary fish poachers wouldn’t risk a murder. The way I figured, something big must be going on and someone’s awfully anxious to get me away from here. That’s why I decided to send for you.”

Frank and Joe mulled over this information while Ted prepared to leave in his own small outboard motorboat. The others accompanied him down to the dock and unloaded the pup tent and sleeping bags from Tony’s boat.

Ted shook hands all around before shoving off. “Nice meeting you fellows,” he said earnestly. “If you get a chance, I hope you can solve the mystery of my father’s disappearance.”

“We’ll try,” Frank promised.

Later, after the pup tent had been erected and the sleeping bags stowed, the Hardys told Tony about their own adventures since receiving his telegram.

“I think you’re right, Tony,” Joe concluded. “There’s a gang behind all this, and they’re after something bigger than salmon. If that spy Stransky is mixed up in it, they must be a foreign group.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed and he snapped his fingers. “You know, Aunt Gertrude may have given us a valuable clue!”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“That missile she told us about. If it dropped in this area, foreign agents may be trying to find it before any Americans do.”

“That makes sense,” Joe agreed. “Maybe we’ve got a rocket search on our hands after all.”

The afternoon passed quickly while the boys busied themselves with camp chores. At seven o’clock they ate supper, then talked over their plans until nightfall. When it was dark, Tony said, “Come on. I’ll show you a real salmon run!”

The boys crossed to the west bank by boat, then made their way along the shore to the falls. The moon had gone behind a cloud, so Tony aimed his flashlight toward the cascading waters. The others gasped at the spectacle.

The river was alive with salmon! Glinting pink and silver in the beam of light, the fish were leaping and wriggling their way up the six-foot falls.

“Talk about a subway rush!” Joe chuckled. “What makes them so anxious to get upriver?”

“Sort of homing instinct,” Tony replied. “When they’re two to six years old, depending on the species, they head back to fresh water where they were born. Then they lay their eggs and die.”

To keep from frightening the salmon, Tony used his light only in brief flashes. One of the flashes revealed a set of stone steps in the waterfall.

“It’s called a ladder,” Tony explained. “The Fish and Wildlife Service installs them in many streams to help the salmon make their leaps.”

By the time they returned to camp, the newcomers were yawning and ready to crawl into their sleeping bags. The next morning, after a refreshing sleep, they ate a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes. Then Frank suggested that they make a tour of the island to check for clues.

“Good idea,” Tony agreed.

As they strode along, the Hardys kept constantly on the alert for any signs of a sneak visit by their enemies. Suddenly Joe let out a cry.

“Look!” he exclaimed, pointing to the ground ahead.

A fresh trail of footprints led from the underbrush down to the water and back! They had obviously been made by two persons. Frank studied the prints with keen interest and called his brother’s attention to the heelmarks. Each contained a circle and star.

“The same kind of heelmark Stransky made back at the Bayport airfield,” Frank commented.

“Good night! You don’t mean that same guy is here too?” Chet burst out.

Frank shook his head. “Stransky couldn’t have made both sets of prints, even if he managed to break jail. But they may have been made by men working with him or for him.”

“The same guys who took those potshots at me?” Tony asked with a worried look.

Frank shrugged. “No telling, but these prints aren’t more than a few hours old. Whoever made them was here on the island last night!”

CHAPTER V

A Strange Knapsack

A SILENCE fell on the campers as the full import of Frank’s words sank in.

“What I’d like to know,” Joe put in, “is how those prowlers got here. We would have heard a motorboat.”

“I doubt if they’d have taken a chance on waking us,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Seems more likely they came in a canoe.”

Joe spoke up. “You could be right about that, Frank. They might even have come from somewhere upriver and portaged around the falls.”

Frank nodded. “I think we should scout this whole area from the air. That would give us a chance to learn the terrain and all the streams around here.”

“Swell idea!” Joe agreed. “We might even spot the enemy camp!”

Tony, whose equipment included a two-way radio, volunteered to call the Fish and Wildlife Service in Juneau. “They put a helicopter into service just a few months ago,” he informed the others. “I’m sure that we could arrange a flight.”

“Good! How about calling them right now?” Frank urged.

Tony did so, and the official on duty promised to send the helicopter to the island early the next morning.

That afternoon, while Tony attended to writing out some reports and Chet stretched out for a nap, Frank and Joe decided to explore the riverbank above the falls.

The two boys crossed over from the island by motorboat, then hiked northward along the rising shoreline. The ground underfoot was soft with a thick layer of pine needles and mossy vegetation.

“Feels like walking on a carpet,” Joe remarked.

“Just right for moccasins,” said Frank. “But I could sure do without the mosquitoes!”

When they were several hundred yards past the falls, Frank pointed through the trees to an object in the river. “Take a look at that rock out there, Joe. Pretty unusual, eh?”

Joe shaded his eyes and squinted at the curious pillar of stone. Rising almost six feet above the water, it was black and shaped like an hourglass. The spray from the rapids made it glisten in the sunshine.

“It sure is odd!” Joe agreed. “I wonder if it’s a natural formation.”

“Let’s find out,” Frank proposed.

The boys pushed through a thick grove of brush and alders which grew almost to the river’s edge. Here they removed their shoes and socks, rolled up their pants, and waded out into the stream.

“Wow! This water’s ice cold!” Joe exclaimed.

“Watch out for those sharp stones on the bottom,” Frank said.

The black rock stood only a few yards from shore. It was smooth and weathered, showing no signs of having been chipped or chiseled into shape by tools.

“Funny how it narrows in the middle,” Frank said. “Could the water alone have done that?”

“Probably,” Joe mused, “it gets worn away by silt and debris when the river’s—”

The words ended in a yell of surprise as Joe was suddenly knocked flat by a huge paw. With a splash, he landed in the water! Frank, whirling, saw an enormous brown bear! A menacing growl rumbled from its throat.

Before the bear could aim another blow, Frank plunged into the icy rapids. Balked, the huge beast then turned back to his first target. Joe was stunned and floundering in the shallow water. The bear’s claws arced toward him in a vicious swipe! But Frank yanked his brother’s arm, pulling him out of the way. The bear’s paw missed Joe by inches!

A menacing growl rumbled from the bear’s throat.

Towing Joe with one hand, Frank swam frantically out of range. The foaming rapids threatened to sweep them toward the falls, but fortunately, the two boys were strong swimmers and finally reached the shore.

Meanwhile the bear, towering erect on his hind legs, glared at the youths. Luckily he made no move to pursue them.

“What a monster!” Joe gasped as they sank down on the bank. “He must be nine feet tall!”

“At least,” Frank panted. “And I’ll bet he weighs close to a ton!”

Joe shivered in his soaked clothing. “What made him so mad? I thought those fellows seldom attacked humans unless they’re provoked.”

“There’s your answer.” Frank chuckled wryly. “We did provoke him—by barging into his private fishing spot!”

Down on all fours again, the bear had just speared a plump salmon with one stroke of his paw. Flopping back on his haunches in the water, the huge animal devoured the fish in a few gulps.

Splat! Another salmon fell prey to his mighty paw. This too disappeared down his gullet, followed by half a dozen others in quick succession. At last, his hunger satisfied, the bear lumbered out of the water and vanished among the alders.

“Whew!” Joe let out a whistle of relief. “I’m sure not sorry to see that baby leave!”

“That makes two of us,” Frank murmured. “Let’s get back to camp before we freeze in these wet clothes!”

Dripping and shivering, the Hardys trudged along the riverbank.

“Hold it!” Joe exclaimed, stopping suddenly. He bent down and plucked a battered knapsack out of the underbrush. “I wonder who lost this.”

“Take a look inside,” Frank suggested. “Maybe there’ll be some clue to the owner.”

Joe unbuckled the straps and groped inside the pouch. “No. It’s empty,” he announced, holding the bag open for Frank to see.

“Wait a minute! I think there’s an extra thickness of leather in there.” Frank took the knapsack and ran his fingers around the interior. “Sure enough! There’s a secret pocket!”

Joe looked on as Frank removed the contents. There were two items. One was a piece of jade, carved in the likeness of a fierce-looking bird. The other was a crumpled piece of paper.

“A map!” Frank exclaimed, unfolding the paper.

“Of what?” Joe stared in puzzlement. The map, crudely drawn, showed a river or stream of water and various other geographical features. But it bore no place names.

“Maybe Tony will recognize it,” Frank said. “Come on. Let’s go!”

Frank and Joe hurried back to the camp. Chet and Tony greeted the two bedraggled figures in astonishment.

“Do you always go swimming with all your clothes on?” Tony asked in jest.

“Only when we tangle with bears,” Frank replied and told of their close call. Chet grew pale.

“We found something on the way back,” Frank said, and displayed the knapsack and contents. “Have a look at this while we get some dry clothes.”

As the boys changed, Tony produced a map of the area from among his gear.

“This sketch doesn’t jibe with any of the places on my map,” he reported.

“The jade carving doesn’t add up, either,” Joe said thoughtfully. “Matter of fact, I’ve never heard of jade being found in Alaska. Have you?”

The others shook their heads. “It certainly doesn’t look like any of the Indian carvings we saw in the museum,” Frank replied.

“If you ask me,” Chet said, “this knapsack could have been left there as a trap. I don’t think you should have brought it back to camp. It certainly could mean another visit from our enemies!”

“It’s possible,” Joe said, “but on the other hand, it might be a valuable clue!”

“How long do you think it had been lying there?” Tony asked, half inclined to agree with Chet.

Frank scrutinized the knapsack closely, turning it inside out and running his fingers over the material. “Not too long,” he finally replied. “See, the buckles aren’t even rusty!”

Joe shrugged. “It still doesn’t mean someone left it there on purpose for us to find.”

But Chet had grown very apprehensive by now. He looked around nervously. “I’ll bet someone’s spying on us right this minute!”

CHAPTER VI

Nightmare!

THEY crouched quickly and glanced about. Then Frank broke into a grin. “Cut it out, Chet. Quit scaring us like that!”

“Just the same,” Joe declared seriously, “there might be something to what Chet says. I think we’d better tell Juneau about that knapsack.”

Tony cranked up the aerial of his radio, turned on the set, and spoke into the microphone. “Kooniak to Juneau!”

Presently a voice crackled: “Juneau to Kooniak. Over.”

Tony reported the finding of the knapsack. The department operator promised to inform the police by telephone and then to call back.

A few minutes later his voice came over the speaker. “The police say that no such loss has been reported. But our pilot will pick up the knapsack for them when he flies out with the helicopter.”

“Okay, thanks,” Tony said. “Over and out.”

After a hearty supper the boys washed their mess kits and talked for a while around the campfire. When they were ready to retire, Chet seemed nervous.

“I still think we may get a return visit from that gang,” he insisted. “How about standing watch tonight?”

“Okay. That’s not a bad idea,” Frank said. “Let’s draw straws to pick our turns.”

Joe won the first assignment. Chet, Frank, and Tony would follow in that order. It was broad daylight through most of Joe’s watch. Finally, yawning, he woke Chet.

As the plump youth took over, the birdcalls became hushed. The sky flamed red, then a deep brooding twilight settled over the pine forest.

“These woods are positively spooky at night!” Chet thought. Selecting a comfortable spot, he sat down under a tree. “No use getting nervous. I’d better think of something cheerful!”

Determinedly Chet concentrated on visions of himself salmon fishing—pulling in one silvery fish after another. This made him feel better.

Night deepened. Soon it was completely dark, except for the circle of light around the campfire. From across the river came the melancholy hoot of an owl.

Chet, lulled by the peacefulness of the night, settled himself more comfortably against the tree. “This isn’t such a bad spot after all,” he thought drowsily. The next instant he sat bolt upright and a horrified yell escaped his lips. The Hardys and Tony awoke in a flash and came rushing out of their tents.

“Chet! What’s wrong?” Frank cried out.

The boy was on his feet, trembling. “S-s-something came at me out of the darkness!”

“You mean an animal?” Tony asked.

“No—men! A whole gang of them! They tried to club me, but I fought them off!”

“What?” Tony stared at him. “You must have been dreaming! There’s no one around here but us!”

“But I saw them, I tell you!” Chet insisted, still shaking with fright. “Masked men!”

Frank and Joe quickly scouted the ground around the camp. But there were no footprints or other trace of intruders.

“Exactly where did all this happen?” Frank inquired calmly.

“Right here,” Chet replied. “I was sitting with my back against this tree, and all of a sudden—”

“You fell asleep,” Joe broke in, chuckling, “and had a nightmare!”

To reassure their friend, the Hardys and Tony took lanterns and made a thorough search. Finally Chet agreed that he must have dreamed the whole incident.

“Go ahead and hit the sack,” Frank told him with a grin. “It’s almost time for my watch.”

At breakfast the next morning Joe and Tony ribbed Chet about his wild dream. He took their jokes good-naturedly, adding, “At least these flapjacks are real. Slip me a few more, Frank!”

Breakfast over, they busied themselves with their morning chores. Soon after they finished washing up, the helicopter arrived from Juneau.

“I’m Robbie Robbins,” the pilot said. He was a pleasant young man, sandy-haired, about twenty-two years old.

The boys shook hands and explained why they had sent for him. Then Frank showed him the crude map which the Hardys had found in the knapsack. “Ever seen a place like this?”

Robbins studied the map and shook his head. “Not that I recall. But there are so many lakes and streams around here that I wouldn’t want to say for sure. We’ll keep our eyes open.”

The helicopter had seats for three besides the pilot, but Chet elected to stay on the island with Tony. “You do the exploring,” he told Frank and Joe. “I feel safer on the ground!”

Robbie and the Hardys climbed aboard, and the helicopter took off. Soon the Kooniak appeared as a ribbon of blue winding among the evergreens. The pilot headed northward, working back and forth in widening sweeps across both sides of the river.

“I don’t see any place that looks like this map,” Joe remarked.

“No sign of a camp, either,” Frank said as he scanned the terrain with binoculars.

Several hours later the boys noticed a cluster of huts about a mile west of the Kooniak. “It’s a Haida village,” Robbie told the Hardys. “They’re one of the Alaskan Indian tribes.”

“Could we land and question them?” Frank inquired. “I’d like to find out if they’ve seen any strangers lately.”

“Okay. But you may not find them very talkative,” Robbie warned.

The helicopter descended slowly to the village clearing. Instead of running to meet their visitors, the Indians gathered to watch from a distance. Their dark, slanted eyes, set in coppery faces, stared impassively at the newcomers.

“They don’t look very friendly,” Joe muttered.

“Do they speak English?” Frank asked the pilot.

“Most of them do, although they may not admit it. Often they use the Chinook trading jargon in talking to strangers.”

The Indians made no move so the pilot stepped forward. “Klahowya!” he said in a loud voice. Several men of the village returned his greeting.

“We’re looking for some white men,” Frank told them. “Have you seen any strangers around here?”

The Indians merely shrugged and shook their heads. “Looks as though we’re not going to get much out of them,” Robbie murmured.

“Let’s circulate around the village,” Frank suggested. “Maybe they’ll open up a bit after they get used to us.”

Robbins agreed, so the trio strolled around, peering at the Indian dwellings. Though crude, the houses were stoutly built. Near each one stood wooden racks, with strings of fish drying in the sun.

Frank and Joe were intrigued by a number of small log structures, poised on stilts as high as a man’s head. There was one beside each house, with a ladder going up to the entrance.

“What are those things?” Joe puzzled. “Oversized birdhouses?”

Robbie Robbins grinned. “No, they’re caches,” he explained, “for storing food out of reach of wild animals.”

Several Indian children trailed around behind the white visitors, watching them curiously. Finally one teen-age boy grew bold enough to speak.

“I’m Fleetfoot,” he said to Frank.

“Glad to know you.” Frank offered his hand, hoping to make friends with the boy. “I’m Frank Hardy. This is my brother Joe, and this is Robbie Robbins.”

After pumping each one by the hand, the Indian youth continued, “You ask about strangers?”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “Have you seen any recently?”

“Nowitka! Yes,” Fleetfoot replied. “One day I went to the river to fish. Saw two white men drift downstream in a big canoe. They talked a lot.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?” Joe asked eagerly.

The Indian boy paused, furrowing his brow as if trying to remember the exact words. “I heard one man say, ‘They protect the salmon. The salmon protect us.’ Then the other man said something in strange lingo—not like American talk. I didn’t understand it.”

Joe shot an excited glance at his brother, who said, “Fleetfoot, will you do something for us?”

“Maybe.” The Indian boy smiled and shrugged. “What do you want?”

“Next time you see those men, or any other strangers, trail them to their camp—but keep out of sight, so they don’t see you. Then come and tell us. We’ll be staying on the island at the mouth of the river.”

The boy looked uncertain.

“Maybe we can do something for you. What would you like?” Frank asked.

A broad grin spread over the young Indian’s face. “I’d like to ride in the whirlybird.”

Robbie Robbins chuckled. “Okay, it’s a deal, Fleetfoot.”

Satisfied with the results of their visit to the Indian village, Robbie and the Hardys took off again in the helicopter.

“Frank, it looks as though our guess was right,” Joe said excitedly. “If one of those men spoke a strange language, we must be up against foreign agents!”

“It sounds that way,” Frank agreed. “But I sure wish we knew what they’re after. Let’s hope Fleetfoot delivers on his end of the bargain!”

Continuing northward, the helicopter soared above the rolling foothills of the Alaskan coastal range. Beyond the timberline, the rocky slopes towered up to snow-capped peaks. One of the mountains drew Frank’s attention by its strange contours.

“Gosh, look at that,” he remarked, pointing out the unique formation to Joe. “Those peaks stick up just like four fingers and a thumb.”

“A good description,” Robbie put in. “The Indians call it Devil’s Paw, and you can see why.” He added, “That whole range up ahead forms the international boundary between Alaska and British Columbia. Guess we’d better turn back.”

On the return trip, Robbie circled over an enormous tongue of ice, seventeen miles long. Glittering blue-white in the sunshine, it trailed down from the mountain snowfields almost to the coast.

“Mendenhall Glacier,” the pilot told Frank and Joe. “It’s actually a river of ice.”

The boys gaped at the spectacle. “A river?” Joe echoed. “You mean it flows?”

“Yes, but so slowly you could never tell by the naked eye,” Robbie replied. “I guess creeps might be a better word.”

Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “Go lower, Robbie! I think there are two people down there!”

The helicopter swooped toward the glacier. “You’re right!” Joe cried. “A man and a woman! They must be stranded!” The tiny figures signaled frantically, waving their arms. They appeared to be seated on the ice.

“Can we rescue them?” Frank asked the pilot.

“We’ll sure try!” Hovering into position above the two people, Robbie told the boys to unreel a rope ladder which he carried in the rear of the helicopter’s cabin.

At sight of the ladder, the man on the glacier shook his head and signaled with his arms.

“He wants someone to climb down and help them,” Frank said. “I’ll go!”

CHAPTER VII

Glacier Trek

THE helicopter hovered lower over the ice as Frank prepared for the rescue. Easing himself out of the cabin, he groped for a footing on one of the metal rungs. The ladder swayed sickeningly as he climbed down. But Frank kept a steady grasp. Finally he reached the glacier. The middle-aged couple, dressed in hiking garb, greeted him with anxious relief.

“Sorry to put you to so much trouble. We’re certainly grateful that you responded to our signals!” The man, although he seemed to be in pain, flashed a smile. “My wife and I had an accident. Our name’s Turner. I’m an engineer.”

Frank introduced himself, and Mrs. Turner, a pleasant-faced woman, added her thanks.

“We’ve had a nasty fall on the ice,” she explained. “I’m afraid my husband’s leg is broken, and I seem to have sprained my arm quite badly. Could you possibly take us aboard?”

“Of course, Mrs. Turner.” Frank smiled reassuringly. After studying the situation, he removed two rungs of the ladder and improvised a splint for Mr. Turner’s leg. Then he lashed first the woman, then the man, to the ladder and had them lifted aboard.

“There won’t be room for all of us,” Joe told the pilot. “Suppose I keep Frank company on the glacier while you take Mr. and Mrs. Turner to the hospital?”

“I guess that’s the best plan,” Robbie agreed. He reached into a storage locker and took out two pairs of steel cleats. “Here. You and Frank fasten these to your shoes. They’ll help you keep your footing on the ice. I’ll be back pronto to pick you up.”

“Okay, thanks.” Joe pocketed the cleats, and after wishing the Turners a speedy recovery from their injuries, climbed down the ladder. Then Robbie reeled it back aboard. The two boys waved as the whirlybird took off toward Juneau.

“This is a chilly-looking spot, all right,” Frank remarked, gazing around at the vast expanse of ice. “What a nasty place to have an accident!”

“You said it!” Joe replied. “Which reminds me—we’d better put these on before we take a spill ourselves!”

He handed Frank one set of cleats, and they sat down on the ice to attach them to their shoes. Feeling a bit more sure-footed, they decided to do a little exploring while they waited for Robbie’s return.

“Let’s have a look farther up the gorge,” Frank suggested.

“Suits me—if we can make it.” Joe took a couple of trial steps, moving as gingerly as a man walking on eggs. “Boy, it’s a good thing Robbie gave us these cleats, or I’d be flat on my back by now!”

Frank chuckled. “Keep your fingers crossed. It could still happen!”

In appearance, the glacier was more like a mountainous ridge than a river. Its surface was humped and uneven, as well as split with cracks and fissures. The boys made their way along slowly, enjoying the majestic view of the mountain slopes that rose on either side of the glacier.

Suddenly Frank let out a yell as he lost his footing. “Joe! Help!”

Joe threw himself flat on the ice and caught his brother by the arm in the nick of time. An instant later Frank would have slid into a yawning crevasse!

“Whew!” Frank lay panting for a moment after Joe had pulled him to safety. “That was too close for comfort! I didn’t even notice that downslope till I hit the skids!”

“Maybe we’d better head for shore,” Joe suggested. “This berg is too tricky to navigate.”

“Second the motion!”

By the time they reached the timbered slope on the nearest side of the valley, a chill wind had sprung up. Blowing down from the mountains, it rustled the branches of the tall evergreens.

“I’m glad these fir trees act as a wind screen,” Frank remarked with a shiver.

“Right now, I’d prefer the kind of furs we could wrap around us!” Joe retorted wryly.

As the moments of waiting dragged by, both boys began to feel hunger pangs from having missed lunch.

“Could I go for a square meal!” Joe groaned.

“Don’t look now, but here comes someone with the same idea!” Frank pointed to a huge prowling bear which had just appeared among the underbrush, a hundred yards away.

“Oh—oh!” Joe turned pale. “I suddenly lost my appetite! Come on! We’d better return to the glacier!”

The Hardys hastily retraced their steps. After peering in their direction for a while and sniffing the air hungrily, the bear ambled off into the timber. The boys heaved sighs of relief.

“Think it’s safe to go back?” Joe asked.

“Let’s not tempt him!” Frank cautioned.

“W-w-what’s keeping Robbie?” Joe muttered, his teeth chattering from the cold. More than an hour had passed.

“Search me,” Frank replied. “It’s not a long run to Juneau. Maybe he was delayed at the hospital.”

Both boys were chilled to the bone and ravenously hungry when the drone of a plane’s motor finally reached their ears. Shading their eyes against the dazzling sun glare, they saw a small single-engine craft wing into view. It flew in low above the treetops and circled overhead.

“The pilot’s signaling us!” Joe cried cut.

The Hardys waved back.

“He’s going to drop something,” Frank said as they saw the cabin door open. The pilot shoved out a large package, and it plummeted to the ice a short distance away.

The boys rushed to examine it. “Let’s hope it’s food!” Frank exclaimed.

Frank cut the twine with his jackknife and tore off the heavy wrapping paper. Inside were a pair of sheepskin coats rolled around a cardboard box. The box, warm to the touch, proved to contain roast-beef sandwiches, two Thermos bottles of coffee, and a note from Robbie Robbins, which said:

Dear Frank and Joe:

The copter is laid up for repairs but here’s something to keep you going. After you’ve eaten, start walking toward the mouth of the glacier. I’ll send a car to meet you.

Robbie Robbins

Frank read the note with a slight frown. “Tough break,” he commented.

“Never mind, let’s eat!” Joe said cheerfully. “My mouth’s watering!”

The boys waved their thanks to the pilot, still circling overhead. He rocked his wings in response and flew off. Frank and Joe donned the sheepskins gratefully, then tackled the sandwiches with gusto. Their spirits rose with every bite.

“Man, those tasted wonderful!” Joe said as he swallowed the last mouthful. “Almost as good as Mom’s or Aunt Gertrude’s!”

Frank agreed and finished his coffee. “Let’s get going. We’ve got a long trip to the mouth of the glacier.”

Greatly invigorated, the Hardys began their trek. At first they enjoyed the rugged grandeur of the mountain scenery. They were snug in their warm sheepskins, and the brisk wind blowing down from the glacier made their blood tingle.

“When summer vacation started, I never thought we’d wind up hiking on ice!” Joe remarked with a chuckle.

“We should have brought skates,” Frank added with a grin.

As the afternoon wore on, however, the boys began to feel the effects of the dangerous journey. Their leg muscles ached from the constant strain of keeping their footing on the ice.

“What say we try it over on the side of the valley again?” Frank suggested. “That bear’s probably found himself another snack by now.”

“We hope!” Joe quipped. “But okay. It can’t be any worse than this.”

Back on dry land, the boys found the going easier, in spite of the tumbled rocks and heavy underbrush. Nevertheless, the hours of steady trudging proved a grueling ordeal. By the time they reached the gravel road connecting with the Glacier Highway that led to Juneau, the Hardys were exhausted.

“Joe, hold it a minute. My foot hurts,” Frank said. “I think I’ve got a whopper of a blister.” He took off his shoe and examined his foot.

“Whew! What’d I give to be hitting the sack right now!” Joe groaned, sprawling full length on the ground.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to wait too long for that car,” Frank said, with a glance at his wrist watch.

“What time is it?” Joe asked.

“Eight minutes before seven.”

By nine o’clock the car promised by Robbie had not arrived, and the boys were getting cold.

“Joe, it’ll be dark in two more hours,” Frank said uneasily. “I think we should start walking toward town. Doesn’t look as though that car is going to show up.”

“Okay. But I’d sure like to know what’s behind the delay!”

Wearily the boys set out. The sun went down and gradually dusk began to gather. A plane droned overhead, followed by a weird bird screech from the forest. Otherwise, the Alaskan wilderness seemed wrapped in silence. On and on the boys trudged, with the same harrowing thought in mind:

Had Robbie fallen victim to the Hardys’ enemies, bent on preventing their rescue?

CHAPTER VIII

Salmon Raid

THOUGH becoming more tired and footsore every minute, Frank and Joe plodded on toward Juneau. Finally they reached the outskirts of the city, where they flagged a taxi.

“You fellows look bushed,” the driver remarked as they climbed in. “Where to?”

“The seaplane base,” Frank said.

At the dock they questioned a guard about Robbie Robbins. He told the Hardys that both the pilot and his helicopter were gone. “Robbie took a passenger with him,” the man reported. “Told me he was going to pick up two boys on Mendenhall Glacier.”

“But we were told the copter was laid up for repairs!” Joe exclaimed. “A plane dropped us a note to that effect.”

“Robbie did have some trouble with his copter,” the guard conceded, “but that was five hours ago. Say, are you the two fellows he was talking about?”

“That’s right,” Frank declared. “The note said that he’d send a car for us, but it never showed up. Neither did the copter.”

“How’d you get to Juneau?”

“We walked.”

The dock guard shoved back his cap and scratched his forehead. “That’s funny.” A troubled frown spread over his weather-beaten face. “Hanged if I can figure it out! Didn’t you sight his copter on the way?”

The boys shook their heads, and Joe asked, “Who was his passenger?”

“A man,” the guard replied, “but I didn’t get much of a look at him, only from a distance. By thunder, I hope nothing’s happened to Robbie! He may have had an accident!”

The Hardys were equally concerned, although they refrained from mentioning their fears of foul play. “Any chance of sending out a plane to look for him?” Frank asked.

“Sure! The bush pilots around here always keep a search plane on standby.” Much perturbed, the dock guard bustled into his booth and made a phone call to arrange a take-off early in the morning.

Realizing there was nothing more they could do, the Hardys hurried to the Baranof Hotel and checked in for the night. Too tired even to think of food, they tumbled into bed.

The next morning Frank and Joe returned to the seaplane base. To their dismay, there was still no news of Robbie, nor had his helicopter been sighted.

“We’d better notify the police,” Frank decided. “Then I vote we head back to the island.”

At police headquarters Detective Grant jotted down the details of their story and promised to send out an alert to all authorities in the state. “We still have no lead on that gang who ambushed you at the dock,” he added. “But if Robbins has met with foul play, it may be the work of the same group.”

After promising to keep in touch, the boys left headquarters, pausing outside to discuss their plans. “We’ll have to get ourselves a motorboat,” Joe decided.

“And a canoe, too,” Frank suggested. They had little difficulty renting a trim-looking craft. The owner also provided a sturdy canoe, which they attached by a towline to the motorboat. They embarked and headed down the Gastineau Channel. Eager to reach the island, Frank ran the boat at full power for most of the trip.

As they neared the mouth of the Kooniak, the distant sound of gunfire reached their ears.

“Shots!” Joe exclaimed. “Tony and Chet must be in trouble!”

Frank nodded grimly. Jerking the throttle wide open, he sent the motorboat roaring ahead through the choppy water. Its bow leaped clear of the waves, showering the Hardys with spray.

As they rounded a point and turned into the river, another rifleshot cracked—then another! Frank and Joe stared in dismay. A man, in a small speedboat piloted by a companion, was sniping at the occupants of the island. Tony and Chet had apparently dodged for cover among the trees. Meanwhile, three boatloads of fishermen were hauling in wriggling masses of salmon with huge nylon seines.

“Those crooks!” Joe gritted between clenched teeth. “They couldn’t bribe Tony, so now they’re using bullets to keep him out of action while they pull off their salmon raid!”

“Even those seines they’re using are against the law!” Frank added. Suddenly he whipped the boat around in a fast turn.

Joe, startled, exclaimed, “Hey, what’s the idea?”

“We can’t stop them single-handed,” his brother pointed out, “but perhaps we can get help. I don’t think they have spotted us yet.”

“We can’t go all the way back to Juneau,” Joe said.

“No, but I’m hoping this boat may be equipped with a radio. Take a look in the rear locker!”

Joe did so and let out a jubilant yelp. “You’re right! A two-way set! I’ll warm her up!”

In a few moments he had the set sputtering and crackling. Not knowing the proper frequency for either the Juneau police or the Fish and Wildlife Service, Joe left the tuning untouched while he issued a few trial calls over the microphone. Almost immediately a ham operator responded.

“This is Luke Burton near Ketchikan,” the voice said. “Come in, please.”

Joe explained the situation, and Burton replied, “Poachers, eh? Just stand by and I’ll raise Juneau in a hurry. They’ll have the law down there so fast those guys won’t know what hit ’em!”

The boys cruised out of sight beyond the point to await developments. Burton was as good as his word. Presently the drone of aircraft was heard, and two seaplanes came swooping down to a splash landing in the mouth of the river.

Joe gave an exuberant whoop. “Let’s get in there and watch the fireworks!”

Grinning, Frank steered the boat back into the Kooniak. Armed enforcement agents were already covering the poachers with carbines and barking out orders through megaphones. Sullenly the fishermen emptied their seines, then brought their boats alongside the waiting planes.

The speedboat, hemmed in between the waterfall upstream and the patrol planes at the mouth of the river, was also forced to surrender. An agent went aboard each of the fishing craft, and the speedboat was taken in tow.

“Are you the fellows who radioed the alarm?” the officer in charge asked the Hardys as Frank maneuvered within speaking distance.

“We contacted a ham near Ketchikan,” Joe explained through cupped hands. “He relayed word to Juneau!”

“Nice work!” the man called back. “Come on ashore and we’ll see what these poachers have to say for themselves!”

As the Hardys approached the island, they were relieved to see Tony and Chet running to greet them.

“You guys all right?” Frank asked as he and Joe climbed out on the little wooden dock.

“Sure, thanks to you two!” Tony replied. “But things were getting mighty hot with those bullets kicking up dirt around us!”

“I thought it was curtains for us!” Chet gasped, still shaking with excitement.

“Why didn’t you radio for help when those men first showed up?” Joe asked.

“I tried to,” Tony explained, “but another radio kept jamming my signal. I judge it was a powerful set and not far away. After that, the snipers started shooting at us and we headed for the trees. I didn’t get another chance to send.”

Meanwhile the enforcement agents were herding the poachers ashore for questioning. There were nine in the group, including the two from the speedboat. The men were unshaven and rough-looking. They faced their captors with sullen expressions.

The agent in charge, who knew of the previous attempt to fish the Kooniak, asked Tony, “Have you ever seen any of these men before?”

Tony studied them with an uncertain frown. “No. Sorry, but I don’t recognize any of them.”

One hulking fellow, evidently the ringleader, spoke up. “You can’t pin anything else on us! This is the first time we ever fished around here!”

“Your last time, too!” the agent snapped. Then he advised the prisoners of their rights.

“What about those bullets which were fired at Tony’s tent?” Frank put in. “Maybe we can make a ballistic comparison,” he suggested, hoping that one of the group might be panicked into confessing.

But the sniper snorted scornfully. “Go ahead and compare! Them bullets won’t fit my gun!”

The poachers also denied having any part in Robbie Robbins’ disappearance, or in jamming Tony’s transmitter. The latter claim seemed borne out by the fact that there was no radio equipment in any of their boats capable of jamming a broadcast signal.

After the prisoners and agents had left, the four boys gathered around the campfire to talk over the events of the past two days.

“I’ll make us some hot dogs,” Chet volunteered. “A fellow needs something to keep up his strength after an experience like that!”

“At least it hasn’t affected your appetite,” Joe teased. “Not that anything could!”

Tony reported that he and Chet had had no trouble up to the time the raiders appeared. Then Frank and Joe told about their visit to the Haida village, their adventure on the glacier, and their forced trek into Juneau. Their two friends listened with keen interest. Tony was especially intrigued to learn about the Indian boy’s report of seeing two strange white men in a canoe.

“Those fellows must be mixed up with the gang,” Tony remarked, “because they never showed themselves in the open around here.”

“Maybe they didn’t come this far downriver,” Chet put in.

“Where else would they be going?” Joe argued. “Frank and I didn’t spot any camp between here and the Indian village. And we looked hard!”

“What puzzles me is that short-wave jamming,” Frank mused. “Try your set now, Tony, and see if you get a clear signal.”

Tony did so, and was able to contact Juneau without any difficulty. After the boys had finished their hot dogs, they strolled toward the north end of the island.

“I’d sure like to know if those salmon poachers had anything to do with the jamming,” Frank went on.

“They had no equipment,” Joe reminded him.

Frank admitted this, adding, “But I’m sure it just wasn’t a coincidence that the jamming occurred at the same time as their raid.”

Conjecturing broke off suddenly as Tony yelled, “Look!” and pointed upstream.

A lone figure, standing upright in a canoe, was about to plunge over the falls!

CHAPTER IX

Fleetfoot’s News

IN seconds the foaming rapids would sweep the canoeist to disaster!

“His boat will be swamped!” Joe gasped. “Come on! Let’s help him!”

The boys raced to the dock to launch their canoe. But they halted in amazement as the other craft took the plunge over the falls like a graceful sea bird!

“Hold it!” Frank called out. “That fellow doesn’t need help!”

“It’s Fleetfoot!” Joe exclaimed.

Balancing himself with his paddle, the Indian boy shot through the spray and landed, still upright, at the foot of the falls. Then he paddled toward the island.

The boys hurried down to the shore. “You really gave us a scare, Fleetfoot,” Frank told him.

The Indian grinned. “Don’t worry. White water is fun! Sometime I’ll teach you how.”

In spite of the ease with which he had shot the falls, Fleetfoot seemed to be bursting with inner excitement. “I have a message and have come for the whirlybird ride!”

“I’m sorry, Fleetfoot,” Frank explained. “You may have to wait for your ride. The copter is missing, and so is the man who owns it.”

The Indian lad’s face darkened with disappointment. “You mean—you break your promise?”

“Now hold on, Fleetfoot,” Frank said gently. “I’m speaking the truth. Yesterday, after we left your village, Robbie, the pilot, went to Juneau and picked up another man. All we know is that he flew away and never came back.”

Fleetfoot stared first at Frank, then at Joe, as if trying to read their minds. He said nothing.

“We’d like you to help us find him,” Joe urged.

This seemed to convince Fleetfoot. “All right,” he said slowly. “I believe you.” After a short pause, he added, “I saw the whirlybird yesterday.”

“You mean you saw it again, after we left your village?” Frank asked eagerly.

“It flew over the village. Went that way,” the Indian said, pointing northeast.

Joe looked at his brother and whistled. “Toward the Canadian border!”

“Wherever they went, I’ll bet Robbie didn’t fly there willingly.” Frank frowned. “His passenger may have forced him deep into British Columbia. They even may have crashed in the wilderness.”

Joe mulled this over. “I think your first guess is right, Frank,” he conceded. “This gang we’re up against probably doesn’t dare take any chances on the police catching up with them. I’ll bet they’re holding Robbie prisoner.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “Do you suppose Mr. Sewell is being held prisoner too—by the same gang?”

“I’ll bet you’re right,” put in Tony. “From what I hear, Mr. Sewell was an experienced woodsman. A tenderfoot might have run into trouble in the wilderness, but not an expert who’s been working here for years.”

Frank went on thoughtfully, “If this gang is a foreign group looking for that lost rocket, they could probably use a guide.”

“Could be,” Joe spoke up. “But for all we know, Robbie’s passenger might have been a United States scientist who hired him to make an aerial search for the rocket; or a detective or FBI agent trailing the gang.”

Suddenly Frank remembered that Fleetfoot had come with a message. Turning back to the Indian boy, he asked, “What is the news you have for us?”

Fleetfoot smiled proudly. “I saw the same two men on the river again last night.”

“Did you follow them?”

“Part way,” the boy said. “They went upriver past Devil’s Paw into British Columbia. I cannot go there without identification. That is against the law. I think maybe those men broke the law. Maybe they stole something and ran away.”

The Hardys received this new information with keen interest. Frank patted the Indian boy on the shoulder. “Many thanks, Fleetfoot. You’ve done good work. If you find out anything more, please let us know. And I promise you’ll get that whirlybird ride as soon as Robbie shows up!”

The Indian grinned. “If I find out more, I’ll be back!” He shoved his canoe into the water, leaped aboard nimbly, and waved farewell. “Klahowya!”

The boys watched as Fleetfoot paddled across to the mainland, beached the canoe, and hoisted it for the portage around the falls.

As the Hardys headed back to camp they considered their next move. “We sure can’t cover all this bush country without a helicopter,” Frank said. “Our best bet is to return to Juneau to see if we can line up another whirlybird. Maybe the Fish and Wildlife Service can help us.”

Joe agreed, “There might be some news about Robbie, too.”

The Hardys left their canoe on the island and started back to Juneau in the rented motorboat. The skies, which had been blue and clear when they embarked, gradually darkened with scudding storm clouds.

“We’re in for a blow,” Joe observed.

“Maybe we can outrun it,” Frank said, increasing speed. However, as they left Admiralty Island astern, the wind grew to gale force. It lashed the waves into breakers, hurling spray high into the air. The Hardys’ boat, battered by wind and water, was almost swamped.

Joe bailed frantically. “Can we make shore?”

“Not a chance!” Frank replied as he fought to keep the boat on course. “If we try leaving the channel, we’ll pile up on the rocks for sure!”

The rain held off for almost half an hour. Then lightning flashed and a peal of thunder seemed to split the heavens wide open, sending the rain down in a torrent.

The boys, soaked to the skin, redoubled their efforts to keep the boat from swamping. They bailed in shifts, one taking a turn at the wheel while the other scooped out buckets of water.

The storm pursued them up the Gastineau Channel, but gradually abated as they neared Juneau. Both boys were shivering and exhausted when they finally tied up at the dock. By this time it was past ten P.M. and almost pitch dark.

“Guess we may as well check in at the hotel,” Frank advised. “We can’t do anything before morning.”

The Hardys’ boat was almost swamped.

The boys had a hot supper in their room at the Baranof, then turned in and slept until seven the next morning. After a hasty breakfast of bacon and eggs, they hurried down to the seaplane base. When they learned that there was still no news of Robbie Robbins they were disappointed.

“Is there any other copter around here beside Robbie’s?” Frank asked the dock guard.

“Not in Juneau,” the guard informed them.

“Let’s query the Fish and Wildlife Service,” Frank suggested. “Perhaps they can get us a whirlybird from Ketchikan or Skagway.”

Their visit to the government office, however, proved to be futile.

“Nearest copter’s at Anchorage,” the agent said. “We tried to charter it ourselves, but the pilot’s tied up for the next three weeks.”

Before returning to the island, Frank and Joe also checked with Detective Grant at police headquarters. The Hardys told him they planned to search the upper reaches of the Kooniak for traces of the foreign gang, as well as for Sewell and Robbins. “Will we need permission from the Canadian government?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” the detective replied, “but I can arrange it.” He called the Canadian consulate and quickly got an okay. Their permission was extended to include Fleetfoot, as well as Ted Sewell and Chet, in case the latter two decided to accompany the expedition.

“Thanks a lot,” Frank told the detective as they shook hands. “Can you give us any tips about traveling in British Columbia?”

“Never been up that way myself,” Grant replied, “but I’ll tell you someone who should know. He’s an old-timer named Jess Jenkins. You’ll find him at the Alaskan Pioneers’ Home in Sitka.”

The boys boarded a small commercial plane and within an hour were on the lawn that surrounded the Pioneers’ Home in the former Russian capital of Alaska. They found Jess Jenkins sunning himself in front of the building.

The old fellow proved to be a lean, bewhiskered sourdough who had mined gold in both Canada and Alaska.

“Sure,” Jenkins said, when questioned by the young sleuths, “I know what’s up there in British Columbia! But I warn you, it’s even more dangerous than a hoppin’-mad Kodiak bear!”

CHAPTER X

The Sourdough’s Clue

FRANK and Joe seated themselves on either side of the old sourdough so as not to miss a word of his warning.

“Ah, them was great days,” Jenkins reminisced. “We figgered it might pan out almost as rich as Joe Juneau’s strike.”

The Hardys flashed each other puzzled glances. “What would pan out?” Frank asked.

“Why, this gold strike I’m tellin’ ye about,” Jess replied. “Over into Canady, it was. Seems two fellers come down the Kooniak, luggin’ full bags. Pretty soon the story spread around about them stumblin’ on these gravel bars, up some little crick, where the color was runnin’ forty dollars to the pan!”

“When was this?” Joe put in.

“Well, let’s see. More’n fifty years ago, I reckon.” The old sourdough fell silent for a moment. Finally he went on, “Anyhow, folks in Juneau got all het up, hearin’ about this new strike. So a bunch o’ us boys hightailed it over into British Columbia to stake out claims.”

“What happened?” Frank pressed curiously.

“Trouble, that’s what happened!” Jess retorted. “An’ that’s what I’m warnin’ you boys about. We found the spot, an’ then got chased right out again by a bunch o’ wild Indians!”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“’Cause this crick, where the gold was supposed to be, run right past a sacred Indian burial ground. Seems as how all their ancestors had been buried there. They knew we’d start sinkin’ shafts all over the place, an’ they didn’t take to that idea. So naturally we had to clear out.”

“You never went back?” Frank asked.

“Nope. We figgered we’d rather hang onto our scalps for a while. But some o’ our boys got a peek at one o’ them graves.”

“You mean they dug one up?” Joe asked.

“Well, no. What I mean is they got a peek at one o’ the grave houses. Little bitty log houses, they are, ’bout six by ten feet. That’s where they stored the Injun’s weapons an’ other gear over his grave.”

The old sourdough rambled on, talking about his experiences in the wilds of British Columbia, the Yukon, and Alaska. The Hardys listened attentively. When they finally said good-by, Jess told them, “Come again any time, boys,” and gave each a hearty handshake. “Always glad to talk about the old days!”

Frank and Joe walked away thoughtfully from the Pioneers’ Home. “Was there really a gold strike up there?” Frank mused. “And Indians? I wonder if they’re still there.”

Frank frowned as they walked toward the seaplane basin. “Maybe those two men didn’t really strike gold after all. They could have looted the grave houses of valuable Indian jewelry and ornaments.”

“And then traded them off for gold?” put in Joe, sensing the drift of his brother’s reasoning.

“Yes, and when rumors started about how they made their haul, it touched off a gold rush.”

“I’ll bet you’re right!” Joe said enthusiastically. “That might explain the jade trinket we found in the knapsack!”

“Exactly,” Frank agreed. “Furthermore, someone may have recently stumbled on the burial ground and unearthed more treasure.”

They had a half-hour wait for the return flight to Juneau, so Frank and Joe sat on a bench at the base of a huge totem pole that overlooked Sitka Harbor.

“There’s one thing that doesn’t fit in with your theory,” Joe said after a few minutes of silence.

“What’s that?”

“Where would those old Indians have obtained jade? It comes from Asia, mostly.”

“True enough,” Frank said. He added, however, that many scientists believe the Indians came originally from Asia. If so, they might have brought their tribal treasures with them.

“In that case,” Joe exclaimed, “the jade ornament may be valuable scientific evidence!”

Joe’s exuberance was interrupted by the distant drone of motors. A plane was arriving from Juneau and would soon take off on the return trip.

Minutes later the plane was air-borne. It skimmed over the mountainous islands of the coast and landed on Gastineau Channel. The Hardys hastened to the hotel for their belongings, then purchased a large quantity of fresh supplies. They hauled them down to the dock, loaded them into the motorboat, and headed back to the island.

Upon arriving, Chet and Tony said that they had been frantic with worry during the night.

“We were afraid you might have cracked up in the storm!” Tony said.

“Besides, we had a scare of our own!” Chet added.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

Tony explained that they had heard the sound of paddling close to the island shortly after the storm abated. Tony had flashed his searchlight but failed to pick out any canoeists.

Joe grinned. “Are you sure you weren’t hearing things?”

“We weren’t sure then, but we are now,” Chet retorted firmly. He ducked into the pup tent for a moment, and came out holding a well-worn paddle. “Take a look at this. We found it on the beach this morning.”

The paddle had obviously been hand-carved. “Indian workmanship,” Frank speculated. “Perhaps Fleetfoot can identify it.”

Then Joe went on to tell of their plan to explore farther along the Kooniak. “We feel sure that the gang must be operating somewhere upriver,” he said. “I’m hoping we can locate Robbie and Mr. Sewell, too.”

“That could be plenty dangerous,” Tony pointed out. “Suppose you run into another ambush?”

“They’re not apt to lay a trap for us unless they know we’re coming,” Frank replied. “If we watch our step and keep our eyes open, we may be able to spot their camp without being seen.”

“Especially since we’re taking Fleetfoot with us,” Joe put in.

“Too bad Ted Sewell isn’t here,” Frank remarked. “We figured he might want to come along to hunt for his dad.”

“Stick around for another twenty-four hours,” Tony urged. “Ted ought to show up pretty soon.”

The Hardys agreed to wait at least until the following morning. The delay proved worthwhile because Ted arrived on the island that evening.

As the boys sat around the campfire, Ted reported glumly that he still had had no word on his father. He was amazed to hear about the latest developments, and when Frank told about their plans, he eagerly agreed to go.

“I’ve always wanted to take a trip into British Columbia!” Ted said. “We’ll need rifles and ammunition, though. That’s bear country!”

Though Frank and Joe had been carefully trained by their father in the proper use of firearms, they never carried weapons when working on detective assignments. However, since they already had had two brushes with bears they could see the wisdom of Ted’s advice.

“I guess you’re right,” Frank agreed. “But Joe and I don’t have guns.”

“I have a Springfield that I bought from Army surplus,” Ted informed them. “Makes a swell hunting rifle! Maybe that’ll do for the bunch of us. But you fellows should have some practice before we leave.”

After supper the boys set up a row of empty cans on rocks. Ted then brought out his rifle, which he carried in his boat, as well as several clips of ammunition. To his amazement, both Frank and Joe proved to be excellent marksmen, drilling their target cleanly on every shot.

“You don’t need practice!” Ted exclaimed.

Frank grinned. “Our dad’s a pretty good teacher.”

The rest of the evening was spent in discussing the details of their river trip. It was decided that after picking up Fleetfoot at the Haida village, they would follow the Kooniak at least as far as the Indian grave houses.

The next morning Tony insisted that he would be all right alone on the island. But Chet decided to stay with him. “In case there are any more gun-happy fish poachers around, you’d better have company,” he declared.

Then Chet suggested they pick some blueberries for breakfast. The others agreed eagerly. While Tony heaped wood on the campfire and started the bacon frying, the Hardys, Chet, and Ted hiked across the island. On the way Chet suddenly let out a cry of delight.

“Hey, look! Wild celery!” He reached down, pulled up one of the leafy green stalks, and started to bite into it.

Ted paled. “Chet! Stop!” he yelled.

CHAPTER XI

A Fiery Missile

WITH a lightning grab, Ted yanked the stalk out of Chet’s mouth before his teeth could sink into it.

“Hey! What’s the big idea?” Chet protested.

“That stuff isn’t celery,” Ted explained. “It’s deadly poisonous water hemlock!”

“Poisonous!” Chet gulped and clutched his throat.

“Don’t let it spoil your breakfast,” Joe comforted him. “We’ll pick those blueberries and do some real eating.”

Chet cheered up at this appetizing prospect, and the boys soon returned to camp with a fine haul of berries. After breakfast Tony radioed the Fish and Wildlife Service for news of Robbins and Sewell.

“No word on either of them yet,” Tony reported as he took off his earphones. “But the operator passed on a message from the Bayport police.”

“What is it?” Joe shouted.

“They’ve learned that Romo Stransky has a twin brother named Remo—and he’s a spy too!”

“Hear that?” Chet crowed triumphantly. “I told you I wasn’t seeing things! Remo must be the one I saw at Seattle-Tacoma airport!”

“He probably followed us to Juneau, too,” Joe declared. “What’s more, he may have left those star-and-circle heelmarks here on the island.”

Frank went even further with a deduction. “I’ll bet Remo was Robbie’s passenger!” The others agreed. As they prepared for the trip upriver, Frank went on, “You know, fellows, if we’re lucky enough to find the helicopter, we might be able to fly it back.”

“Not if the gas tank’s empty!” Joe cautioned.

“It most likely will be,” Tony said. “But you could carry enough fuel in the canoe to get the copter back to Juneau.”

Ted Sewell looked doubtful. “The canoe will be plenty loaded as it is, with all our duffel.”

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “We’d need an extra canoe.”

“Which means another trip back to Juneau,” Joe pointed out.

In spite of further delay, Frank’s companions realized his suggestion was a wise one. “Okay,” Ted said after a short discussion. “We’re all in favor. Let’s draw straws for the job.”

The task fell to Ted and Joe. They embarked in the Hardys’ motorboat and headed up the coast. When they arrived in Juneau, the boys purchased as many tins of gasoline as they thought could be safely carried.

On Ted’s suggestion, they also stopped at a sportsmen’s outfitting store and bought two rifles for Frank and Joe. After the supplies had been loaded aboard, Joe rented another canoe which he fastened to the stern of the motorboat.

They were having sandwiches and milk at a nearby lunch counter when Joe suddenly set his glass down hard.

“Something wrong?” Ted asked.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

Ted looked baffled. “Of what?”

“The Turner couple Robbie rescued from the glacier,” Joe replied in a low voice. “They might know something about his mysterious passenger.”

Ted brightened. “That’s a good hunch, Joe! Come on!”

The two boys hurried to the Juneau Hospital, where Joe inquired whether they might see Mr. and Mrs. Turner. The receptionist nodded pleasantly and consulted a card file. “They’re in Room 214. You may take the elevator.”

In Room 214 Joe and Ted found William Turner in bed, with his leg in a cast. Mrs. Turner, her right arm in a sling, was seated in a chair reading to her husband. Both were delighted to receive visitors.

After Joe introduced Ted, Mrs. Turner said, “So nice of you to come. Where’s Frank?”

Joe explained. Then Mr. Turner said, “Hope you boys didn’t wait long on the glacier before the pilot returned.”

“As a matter of fact, he never did get back,” Joe replied.

The couple looked dismayed. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Mr. Turner said. “Robbins’ copter developed some kind of trouble on the way to Juneau. But he told us it could be fixed.”

Joe gave them the details of Robbie’s disappearance.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Turner. “I wish we could help!”

“Perhaps you can,” said Joe. “Do you know anything about his passenger?”

The couple thought in silence. Joe prodded their memory. “Did you see anyone speak to Robbie when you landed at the seaplane base?”

“Only a couple of mechanics who were working nearby,” Mrs. Turner replied. “One of them called an ambulance for us.”

Joe then asked whether they had noticed anything suspicious on their glacier expedition.

“I’m afraid not,” Turner replied. “You see, ever since I retired three years ago, Clara and I have made a hobby of paleontology.”

Ted was interested to hear this. “I guess there are a lot of prehistoric animal bones around our Alaskan glaciers,” he remarked. “I know prospectors have come across the remains of ancient woolly mammoths. But I’ve never seen any myself.”

Forgetting his unfortunate accident, Turner brightened and talked about the finds he and his wife had made. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “we believe the earliest life on this planet developed right here in North America.”

“The first human beings too?” Joe asked.

“That’s hard to say,” Turner replied. “However, I think the Indians originated on this continent.”

“I thought they were supposed to have come over from Asia.”

“That’s the opinion of most scientists,” Turner conceded. “Personally, I believe it was the other way around. They probably trekked from here to Asia via the land bridge over the Bering Straits. Later, they traveled back and forth.”

“Is there any evidence to support that theory?” Joe asked.

“Yes, a great deal. There are similarities between the American Indians and Asiatics both in features and customs. Also, they both used the bow and arrow, and have many common root words in their language.”

Excitedly Joe queried, “How about their ornaments and jewelry? Is there any chance the Alaskan Indians might have brought jade carvings back from Asia?”

Mr. Turner nodded. “Very possible, I should say.” After hearing about the boys’ planned trip up the Kooniak River, he said, “Why not keep alert for traces of prehistoric animals? You might stumble on some valuable finds.”

“What should we look for?” Ted inquired.

“Well, a white streak in gray rock might indicate a bone fossil,” Turner replied. “Or a depression in the rock could be a dinosaur’s footprint. Either one could lead you to a prehistoric skeleton.”

“We’ll remember that!” Joe promised as the boys got ready to leave.

They quickly strode to the dock and shoved off in the heavily laden motorboat, with the canoe trailing behind.

As soon as they reached the island, Joe told Frank of the conversation at the hospital. Frank was pleased to learn that the Turners supported his theory about the jade piece.

Not long after supper, the boys turned in, hoping for a good night’s sleep before embarking up the Kooniak next morning. Soon the camp was wrapped in silence.

But Frank was restless. Turning and tossing in his sleeping bag, he kept reviewing in his mind the baffling events that had happened since the Hardys had arrived in Alaska.

“Were those fish poachers mixed up in this mystery?” he asked himself. “And what about Robbie?…Looking for that gang in this wilderness may turn out to be a lot more difficult than we bargained for.”

Unable to sleep, Frank rose and pulled on his slacks, socks, and loafers. The luminous hands on his watch pointed to 12:20. He strolled toward the water, listening to the sighing of the night breeze in the tall pines.

Suddenly another sound broke the stillness—the soft splash of an oar, then a clink of metal containers rattling against one another! Frank strained his eyes in the darkness, every sense alert. He spotted a man in a boat. The next second he shouted:

“Wake up, fellows! Someone’s stealing our canoe and gasoline!”

As Frank raced toward the dock, Joe, Chet, Ted, and Tony burst out of their tents and sprinted in their bare feet. Too late! The noise of a motor roaring into action told them the intruder was making a clean getaway!

Reaching the water’s edge, Frank saw their canoe and gasoline untouched! The raider’s boat kicked up a violent wake as it streaked off. Suddenly the strange man stood upright and hurled something toward the island. As the object struck the little wooden dock next to the canoe, it burst with a dull thud and yellow flames shot high into the air!

Frank’s face blanched in the blinding glare. “It’s a fire bomb!” he yelled.

CHAPTER XII

Dinosaur Detective

“TONY, get some axes!” Frank commanded as the dock burst into flame. To the others he cried, “Follow me!”

As Tony dashed back to camp, Frank kicked off his loafers and plunged into the water. With his jackknife, he slashed the lines holding the boats.

“Chet, take our motorboat! Ted, grab yours!”

Joe, meanwhile, was frantically attaching the canoes by towlines to the crafts. “Okay! Take off!”

Chet and Ted revved up their motors and sped into the middle of the river. The Hardys, seared by the heat from the fiery dock, beached Tony’s boat at a safe distance, then hastily scrambled ashore.

Tony was already hacking at the dock timbers. “There’s an ax and a hatchet for you fellows!” he called.

Half the wooden structure was a crackling mass of flames. Shielding their faces as best they could, the three boys quickly cut away the remaining supports. Then Frank levered up the planking with his ax.

“Okay! Into the water!” he gasped.

Straining every muscle the trio ripped up the flimsy structure and hurled it into the water. It sank with a hissing cloud of steam. Panting and streaked with perspiration, the boys watched as the flames died out.

“Wow!” Tony muttered. “If that fire had spread to the brush, our whole camp would have gone up in smoke!”

Once the danger was past, Chet and Ted returned with the boats and canoes. These were moored to the blackened stumps of the dock pilings. Then all the boys trudged back to camp.

“Good thing you were awake, Frank,” Ted remarked wryly.

“We should have kept up our night watches,” Joe added. “Tony, I think you and Chet need more protection after we three leave the island.”

“Let’s report the incident to Juneau,” Frank suggested.

“I’ll do it right now,” Tony replied.

Warming up his radio, he tuned to the agency’s special frequency and spoke into the microphone: “Kooniak to Juneau!…Do you read me?”

Fortunately the station kept an operator on duty around the clock. After hearing Tony’s report of the fire-bomb attack, he consulted his superiors by telephone, and then called back. “We’ll send out two men first thing in the morning!”

Much relieved, the five boys drank some hot cocoa which Chet had brewed. Ted volunteered to stand the first watch during the remaining hours of darkness. Then the others crawled into their sleeping bags. The rest of the night passed quietly.

Shortly before ten o’clock that morning a boat arrived at the island, bringing the two agents from Juneau. They came ashore, carrying a small but powerful two-way radio set, which they turned over to the Hardys.

“The chief thought this might come in handy on your trip up the Kooniak,” one of the men explained. “If you get a lead on the gang, he’d like you to report to Juneau at once.”

“Thanks. We’ll do that,” Frank promised.

Half an hour later the Hardys and Ted set off, paddling to the western shore of the river. Here they unloaded the two canoes and made the portage around the falls.

“Whew! That’s a full day’s work before we even get started!” Joe remarked, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

Ted chuckled. “These Alaskan rivers are beautiful, but you’ll find they’re no picnic to navigate!”

After a brief lunch the boys embarked on the next leg of their journey. Frank volunteered to paddle the trailing canoe which carried the gasoline cans.

Ted approved. “We’ll ride better that way, with one man behind. And there’ll be no danger of losing the fuel tins in an upset.”

Ted, as the most experienced woodsman of the trio, took the bow position in the lead canoe. They shoved off, and soon found themselves paddling against a swift current. They were also traveling “uphill” since the Kooniak flowed down from the Alaskan coastal range.

“Boy, looks as though we’re in for a real workout!” Joe called back to his brother. Frank grinned in response.

“Don’t worry, you two are in good shape,” Ted commented. “This would be rough for a tenderfoot.”

At points along the riverbanks the heavy timber thinned out into lush meadowland, carpeted with wild flowers in every color of the rainbow. Frank and Joe were amazed at the dazzling display.

“It’s like a giant garden!” Joe said admiringly.

Ted pointed out many of the species by name—alpine forget-me-nots, fireweed with its tall reddish spires, yellow Arctic poppies, bluebells, creeping dogwood, and purple irises.

Steering close to shore, he reached out and plucked several flowers from a mass of yellow blooms that grew down to the water’s edge. “Monkey flowers,” he told Joe.

“They do look like little faces,” Joe said with a chuckle.

After paddling for several hours, they reached an area where the banks of the Kooniak rose in rocky walls. The beetling cliffs formed a canyon for the swift-flowing icy waters.

“Hey, look!” Joe cried suddenly, pointing up at one of the cliff faces. “There’s a white streak in the rock! Could it be part of a dinosaur?”

When Joe suggested investigating the streak, Ted and Frank agreed to moor the canoes and accompany him.

“It’ll be a tough climb, though,” Ted warned.

“We can make it!” Joe urged enthusiastically.

They tied their canoes to a clump of rock, climbed out, then began scaling the cliff. Footholds were few. After skinning their arms and legs on the rugged outcroppings, they finally reached the whitish streak.

“I’m sure it’s a bone!” Joe exclaimed.

All three examined it closely.

“Could be,” Ted agreed. “But ho do we get it out?”

“By the Indian method,” Frank suggested. “Chip it loose with a sharp stone.”

Arming themselves with chunks of flint, the boys followed Frank’s suggestion. Gradually more of the white object was revealed.

“I was right!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s definitely a bone!”

“Looks like some kind of an elbow or knee joint,” Ted commented. “If dinosaurs had such things!”

“Wait till I get back and tell Mr. Turner about this find!” Joe said jubilantly.

Frank broke into a chuckle. “I bet he’ll give you a medal!” he joked.

As the boys started down toward the canoes, their smiles faded. The steep cliff, which had been so difficult to climb, seemed almost impossible to descend.

Suddenly Joe gasped as he lost his footing. With a yell, he slid downward, making frantic attempts to slow his descent.

CHAPTER XIII

A Savage Ordeal

TED acted instantly! Leaping out from the cliff, he dived into the water far below. After a few strong strokes, he reached the rocky shore and climbed to the foot of the slope.

Joe, tumbling and twisting, was almost at the bottom of the cliff. In the nick of time Ted caught hold of Joe, breaking his fall just short of a jagged rock formation.

The impact threw both boys to the flinty ground, where they lay panting and trembling for a few moments.

“Whew!” gasped Joe. “How can I thank you, Ted! Finding that dinosaur bone came close to killing me! If it hadn’t been for you, my own bones would be in pretty bad shape by now!”

“Just a lucky catch,” Ted said with a grin.

Even so, Joe had suffered many bruises and his skin was scraped raw in several places.

Frank, who had tensely watched the rescue, shouted, “I’ll find a safer place to come down.”

By climbing higher and crossing a shelf of rock to a point farther upriver, he was able to make the descent in safety.

Ted, meanwhile, had opened their first-aid kit and applied medication to Joe’s cuts.

“I never knew fossil hunting could be so dangerous!” Frank quipped wryly as he rejoined the other two.

“You can say that again!” Joe muttered, blowing on a particularly painful cut on his right knee.

After resting for fifteen minutes, the trio resumed the trip upriver. Although they watched both banks carefully, the boys saw no one, white man or Indian.

Toward evening they approached a small, wooded island in mid-river.

“Let’s camp here,” Frank suggested. “It should make a pretty safe spot for the night.”

After paddling into a small cove, the travelers beached the canoes and scouted the island thoroughly before unloading their gear.

Soon a campfire was crackling and the aroma of hot corned beef and fried potatoes drifted over the island. After supper the boys chose watch periods. Joe drew the first assignment. Frank and Ted stretched out in their sleeping bags and were soon asleep. All were thoroughly refreshed by daybreak, although Joe was still somewhat stiff and sore.

Breakfast over, the canoeists pushed on. An hour of paddling brought them to an open spot on the west bank, where the clustering pines gave way to a narrow clearing.

“Hold it!” Ted cried, signaling with his paddle. “That’s an Indian trail!”

“It might lead to the Haida camp,” Joe conjectured.

Frank was certain of this. “Let’s go ashore and get Fleetfoot,” he urged.

“Think our gear will be safe here?” Joe asked as they drew the canoes up on the riverbank.

“Better not take any chances,” Frank replied. “I vote we cache our supplies and each of the canoes in a separate spot.”

Joe and Ted concurred, and in twenty minutes the boys had everything well hidden under heaps of brush and rocks. Then they headed inland along the trail. Soon they came upon the Haida village.

As they neared the cluster of wooden huts, the sound of excited voices reached their ears. A crowd of Indians were swarming about the village clearing.

The boys stopped short in astonishment at an amazing sight. A woman, wearing a green fringed parka, shot straight upward at least thirty feet above the crowd! She was treading air to remain upright!

Seconds later, she landed on both feet in a walrus skin held by six men. They immediately snapped the hide taut and catapulted her up in the air again!

“Good night!” Joe gasped. “What do they think she is—a human medicine ball?”

A slender young Indian turned at the sound of Joe’s voice. It was Fleetfoot. He ran toward them with a wide-eyed look of fear. “Quick! Do not let my people see you!” he whispered. “Run for your lives!”

The boys looked puzzled, and Frank said, “Why? Your tribe was friendly enough the other time we came to your village.”

“Today we are having a wedding,” Fleetfoot explained. “That woman is the bride. She is a Kotzebue Eskimo, and now she is proving to everyone that she will be a good, skookum wife!”

“By letting them bounce her on that walrus hide?” Joe asked.

Fleetfoot nodded impatiently. “It is a custom of her people. And today any outsiders who come here must do the same! But it takes much practice. You would break your neck!”

“Wow!” Ted gulped. “We’d better clear out of here! Come on!”

But the boys tarried too long. Hearing their voices, the Indians swarmed toward them excitedly. Before the Hardys and Ted could take to their heels, they were dragged into the circle of yelling, whooping Haidas!

Joe gasped. “What do they think she is—a human medicine ball?”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Frank pleaded, striving to make himself heard above the uproar.

“When white men come to village, they must join in wedding games too!” a brave asserted. He pointed to Frank. “This one is biggest, looks plenty strong. He will try test with walrus hide!”

The brave explained the rules. Frank would be bounced in the air three times. If he managed to land upright after three tries, he was skookum.

Frank stared at the speaker unbelievingly.

Ignoring the protests of Joe, Ted, and Fleetfoot, the Indians seized Frank and hustled him onto the walrus hide. Then the hide was raised aloft and snapped taut. Frank went hurtling high in the air!

He tried frantically to tread air with his hands and feet as he had seen the woman do. But the dizzying momentum of his flight upward seemed to rob him of his sense of balance. Twisting helplessly, Frank plummeted back toward the walrus hide and landed on his back with jarring force.

Stunned, he struggled to his feet. The Indians gave him a moment’s respite, then again hurled him aloft!

Joe and Ted watched, wide-eyed and helpless. For a second, Frank seemed to be dancing on air. Then, thrashing violently, he came down again, this time landing on one side.

Badly shaken, Frank managed to stand up. His last chance! Although his heart was hammering, he gritted his teeth, determined not to fail. Once more the Indians catapulted him.

Joe could scarcely bear to watch. Ted clutched his arm in breathless suspense.

Arrowing straight upward, Frank closed his eyes, keeping his arms close to his sides. As he reached his highest point in mid-air, he opened his eyes again. The circle of Indians stood far below, gaping up at him, the walrus hide seeming not much bigger than a handkerchief.

Frank felt himself begin to fall, slowly at first, then at higher speed. He stretched out his arms and trod the air gently, like a man on a unicycle. It worked! He landed squarely on both feet, still upright!

The crowd roared its approval! Frank was lifted off the walrus hide, hoisted onto the shoulders of two Indians, and paraded about the village clearing amid whoops and yells.

“You skookum fella!” The Haida chief beamed when he was finally allowed to stand on his own feet again. “Now you and two friends all come to the wedding feast!”

“Thanks,” Frank replied, a trifle weakly. Joe and Ted, then Fleetfoot, wrung his hand in congratulation.

“Terrific!” Joe told his brother.

“I just kept thinking of what else they might do to me.” Frank grinned.

“It’s a wonder you could think at all after those first two jolts!” Ted exclaimed.

The villagers now gathered about a great central campfire. Two medicine men performed a religious dance, then the chief joined the hands of the Indian groom and his Eskimo bride. The wedding feast followed.

Squaws brought huge carved wooden platters heaped with food. The first course consisted of slabs of pink salmon.

“Good night! It’s raw!” Joe whispered.

The boys took some, however, in order not to offend their hosts, and managed to eat a few bites. The bear steaks and stewed rabbit which followed were more to their liking. These were accompanied by nuts, berries, vegetables, and fruits, including one with a citrus flavor, which tasted like a cross between lemon and grapefruit. Ted identified it as the fruit of the wild rose.

“Boy, now we’re getting fancy!” Joe chuckled as he sampled the fruit’s delicate flavor.

There was also something that looked like coarse baked bread. “Wonder what it’s made out of,” Frank muttered, after trying a few bites.

Fleetfoot explained, “Women make flour by grinding up bulbs of rice lily.” He pointed to some brownish-purple flowers which several of the squaws wore in their hair. “Those are flowers from the same plant.”

When the feast was over, the Hardys at last found an opportunity to tell Fleetfoot about their trip upriver. Frank asked if the Indian youth would accompany them as guide.

“I’d be glad to come with you!” he explained. “But I’ll take my own canoe. It is much better than white man’s.”

“Fine! Let’s go!” said Joe.

But Fleetfoot looked shocked. “No, no!” he told the boys. “Not now. The wedding party is just beginning!”

“Just beginning?” Frank echoed uneasily.

“Sure. There’s singing and dancing to come,” Fleetfoot explained. “We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

The Hardys and Ted looked questioningly at one another, trying to conceal their feelings of impatience at the further delay. However, there was nothing to do but yield. Settling back, they prepared to watch the proceedings.

Soon tom-toms beat. The medicine men started a slow, stately dance, shaking wooden rattles. As the tempo increased, the other Indians joined in and the squaws chanted steadily. The three visitors found themselves absorbed in the ceremony, despite the delay in their journey.

“Whew!” Joe exclaimed in wonderment. “How long can they keep on dancing?”

Fleetfoot smiled broadly. “Oh—Indians love to dance. They never get tired.”

Gradually, as shadows gathered on the forest, the white boys became drowsy. One by one, Joe, Ted, and Frank all dropped off to sleep.

When they awoke, it was daylight. Fleetfoot was shaking them. “Come on! We’ll start now!” he said.

The Hardys and Ted returned to the river and uncovered the gear which they had cached. They loaded the supplies, then the canoes were launched.

Fleetfoot disappeared long enough to get his own birchbark canoe, which was beached farther downstream. A few minutes later he came into sight, paddling with smooth, graceful strokes.

As he drew alongside, Frank said, “There’s something we meant to ask you, Fleetfoot. The other night a carved wooden paddle was washed up on our island at the mouth of the river.” When Frank described it, a strange expression of fear and awe passed over Fleetfoot’s face!

CHAPTER XIV

A Suspicious Campsite

“FLEETFOOT looks as if he’s seen a ghost,” Frank thought.

The Indian boy asked slowly, “Did the paddle have cuts in the handle?”

“Yes,” Joe spoke up. “Two small rounded gouges.”

Fleetfoot fairly trembled. His eyes grew wide. “That paddle was made before the white man came! Even before my grandfather’s grandfather was born!”

“You mean back in the days of the ancient Athapascan Indians?” Ted asked.

“Yes! Yes! It was left on the beach by the spirit of an old Indian!”

“I doubt it,” Frank said thoughtfully.

“So do I,” Joe chimed in. “There were live men paddling around the island that night. Probably the same bunch we’re looking for.”

Ted was eager to push on, so they started upriver. This time, Joe rode the trailing canoe which carried the cans of fuel.

After pausing briefly for lunch, they continued their journey upstream. Frank and Joe, whose arm muscles had ached at the end of the first day’s canoeing, gradually found themselves swinging their paddles with the same smooth, easy rhythm as Ted Sewell and Fleetfoot.

Presently Ted pointed ahead to their left “There’s Devil’s Paw!” he called out.

The weird outcropping of rock loomed against the mountainous skyline like four fingers and a thumb sticking up in the air.

Fleetfoot paddled close to the other canoes. “This is a bad place,” he confided. “Old men of my tribe say the devil carved it from rock. Indians do not go there.”

“In that case,” Joe mused, “it would make a perfect hideout for the gang. Indians would stay away from it, and the average white man would have no reason for going there.”

Frank nodded. “You’re right. We’d better investigate.”

At first Fleetfoot objected, but as soon as he realized that the boys were not frightened by the old Indian tales, he conquered his fear. Moreover, the prospect of stalking criminals filled him with keen anticipation. His Indian blood rose to the challenge.

After running their canoes ashore, the searchers cached their crafts and provisions for a second time.

“Take your rifles,” Ted advised tersely. Each of them shoved a clip of cartridges into the magazine of his firearm and stuffed more into pockets before setting off on the rugged trek toward Devil’s Paw.

Carrying their weapons in one hand and clutching at trees and shrubs with the other, the four made their way up the steep slope. From time to time one of them missed his footing, sending a shower of rocks and gravel clattering toward the river.

“We’ll never take the gang by surprise at this rate!” Joe grumbled, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

After half an hour of hard climbing, they reached a point where Devil’s Paw and the entire surrounding terrain stood out in clear view. But there was no sign of a campfire, nor any other trace of human beings.

“Maybe we’ve been wasting our time,” Ted said, discouraged.

“We can’t be sure,” Frank replied, “without making a closer search.”

Now, however, the approaches were so steep that it was impossible to climb farther. Tired and disheartened, the boys retraced their route to the canoes.

“If the gang is really using Devil’s Paw for a hideout,” Ted remarked, “they must have some easier way of getting to it.”

“Right,” Joe said, removing a pebble from his shoe. “There must be a secret trail somewhere.”

Fleetfoot spoke up eagerly. “You wait here. I’ll go look for the trail.”

“Hey! Wait!” Frank called out.

The boy did not seem to hear. He darted nimbly up the mountainside, and was soon lost to view among the scrub evergreens and underbrush.

Frank, Joe, and Ted waited, sprawled comfortably on spongy pine needles among the rocks. All were glad of a chance to rest. As time passed, however, they gradually became uneasy. More than an hour had gone by since Fleetfoot’s departure.

“Wonder what’s keeping him,” Frank glanced at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Let’s hope he didn’t stumble into the gang,” Joe remarked.

“We should have given him one of the rifles,” Ted said gloomily.

The words were hardly spoken when the underbrush parted and Fleetfoot stepped into view, a wide grin on his coppery face.

“I found the trail!” he reported proudly. “The ground showed a lot of footprints. Looks like men went back and forth many times!”

“How about their camp?” Joe asked eagerly. “Did you find where the trail led?”

“Yes. But no one was there. Let’s get the canoes and go up the river,” he urged. “Then we can look here again on the way back.”

Frank and Joe rejected this suggestion. Being good detectives, they were determined to follow through on their plan, leaving no stone unturned in their search for clues.

“You’ve done fine, Fleetfoot,” Frank told him. “But we’d like a look at that campsite ourselves. Will you take us to it?”

Fleetfoot agreed willingly, and after gathering up their rifles, the other three youths followed him. He led them upriver for a short distance, following a twisting route among the trees and rocks. Then he turned left, up a narrow draw.

“Now you can see the trail.” Fleetfoot pointed to a well-beaten path. It sloped gently up the mountainside by easy stages.

“Nice work, Fleetfoot!” Joe congratulated him. Bending close to the ground, he added, “Frank, here are more of those star-in-circle heelmarks!”

Pressing forward up the trail, they found the campsite. It lay at the base of one finger of Devil’s Paw. Here again were many of the odd heelprints, as well as the blackened ashes of a recent campfire. A number of empty, discarded food cans had also been tossed carelessly aside.

“Pretty sure nobody would ever find this spot, weren’t they?” Joe commented.

“Are you positive none of the gang is lurking around?” Ted asked Fleetfoot.

“No one here,” he replied confidently. “I scouted for strangers before I came up the trail.”

“The question now,” Frank said, “is whether they’re coming back? And if so, how soon?”

“Let’s take a look around while we’re up here,” Joe suggested. “We might spot a smoking campfire.”

He led the way as they followed the shelf-like rock which rimmed the base of Devil’s Paw. The ground sloped away below in a steep, brush-covered incline.

Rounding a corner of the weird finger-and-thumb rock formation, Joe stopped suddenly and looked down. “Hey! Come here quick!” he yelled to the others, beckoning frantically.

CHAPTER XV

The Singing Wilderness

STARTLED by his brother’s shout, Frank looked up, barely in time to see Joe suddenly drop out of sight.

“Oh no!” Frank exclaimed. Fleetfoot and Ted rushed to his side, then all three climbed to the spot where Joe had just been standing.

In utter amazement they stared down a long, rocky slope. At the bottom lay a helicopter. Joe was scrambling toward it.

Near the edge of a barren, desolate area of forest-tufted rock formations, the wide-spreading branches of a tall cedar effectively concealed the craft from the air. The boys’ vantage point, however, gave them an unobstructed view.

“Come on, fellows!” Joe yelled up the steep mountainside. “Let’s see if Robbie’s anywhere around!”

Frank, Ted, and Fleetfoot followed eagerly. Grabbing for a handhold on any rock or clump of shrubbery that offered a grip, they made their way down the incline at breakneck speed.

Joe was already examining the helicopter as they approached. “The fuel tank’s empty,” he reported. “No sign of Robbie, either.”

A weird silence lay over the desolate scene. Except for a hawk circling overhead, there was no other indication of life. While Ted and Fleetfoot watched curiously, the Hardys subjected the helicopter to a careful scrutiny.

“At least there’s no blood or signs of a struggle,” Joe commented. “That may mean Robbie is still safe.”

Frank asked Ted and Fleetfoot to stand guard over the helicopter while he and Joe investigated the surrounding wilderness for clues. “Keep an eye up there toward Devil’s Paw,” he added, “in case the gang comes back.”

“Okay,” Ted replied. “You fellows watch your step, too. If any of that bunch are around, they might try to spring an ambush.”

Gripping their rifles firmly, the Hardys began combing the terrain around the helicopter in widening circles. The silence was broken only by the scuffing sound of their footsteps among the brush and gravel. A lone birdcall suddenly echoed among the pines, then died away in a twitter.

“Boy, this place is eerie!” Joe muttered.

“It’s hard to believe any human being was ever here!” Frank said.

Not a footprint or broken twig gave the slightest indication of recent visitors to the area. Overhead, the hawk was still soaring and circling in search of prey.

Suddenly Frank stopped short and clutched his brother’s arm. “Joe!” he hissed. “Do you hear something—or am I imagining things?”

“Hear what?” Joe inquired. Then his questioning look gave way to an expression of blank amazement. “It’s music!”

The strains of a dance orchestra wafted faintly through the wilderness!

“Must be a radio playing somewhere,” Joe said finally.

“But where?”

Stiffly tense, the Hardys looked cautiously about. Were members of the gang hidden nearby, watching every movement? Was a trap about to be sprung on them? Hearts pounding and eyes alert, Frank and Joe walked on, holding their rifles cradled at the ready. They poked into the underbrush and peered among the trees.

“The sounds are coming from over there,” Frank said, pointing to a formation of granite boulders.

The boys approached cautiously, fearful of a possible trap. They scouted around the rocks, but saw nobody. Neither was there any sign of a radio.

Abruptly the music died away. A few seconds later the Hardys were electrified to hear a voice speak clearly in a foreign language! But neither Frank nor Joe could identify any of the words.

Then a second voice replied—this time in English: “The salmon are going up the river. The bears will have a feast.” As the voice finished speaking, the music resumed.

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked his brother, completely baffled.

Suddenly an idea occurred to Frank. “Wait a second! Let’s check some of those other rocks!”

They put their ears to several boulders. All were broadcasting the music. Frank snapped his fingers excitedly.

“Joe, I’ve got it! Somehow these rocks are acting as natural receivers and picking up a broadcast signal! I’ve read about cases like this before! Remember that man in Newark who picked up broadcasts in the fillings of his teeth? It nearly drove him crazy.”

“That must be the answer,” Joe agreed. “But I still don’t understand how it happens.”

“Neither do I, exactly,” Frank admitted. “It has something to do with their resonating frequency, I guess, just like a crystal detector. Maybe there’s something about these rocks that intensifies the signals, too. Anyhow, I think we’re getting the gang’s broadcast.”

“No doubt about that,” Joe replied. “The voices that broke in didn’t sound like commercial announcers or ordinary radio hams!”

“Those words in English must have been in code,” Frank went on.

“You’re right!” Joe exclaimed. He conjectured further about the reference to salmon. “It ties in with what Fleetfoot overheard on the river.”

“And,” Frank said thoughtfully, “I didn’t like the remark about the bears having a feast.”

“What do you mean?”

“The salmon going up the river may refer to us,” Frank explained. “And ‘the bears will have a feast’ could mean our enemies are laying a trap.”

“Good night!” Joe stared at his brother in dismay. “That makes sense, all right! But what can we do about it?”

Frank shrugged. “Just keep our guard up, I guess. Come on,” he added. “Let’s go back.”

By the time the Hardys returned to the helicopter, the music had ceased. But Ted Sewell and the Indian lad were still tense with alarm at the strange sounds of the “singing wilderness.” They, too, had heard the broadcast, although much more faintly than Frank and Joe. Fleetfoot was frightened at what seemed to him to be spirit noises.

“Devil’s Paw is a bad place, I tell you!” he kept repeating. “Evil spirits live here!”

Frank reassured him, explaining the strange phenomenon as best he could. Fortunately, Fleetfoot had listened to the portable radios of sportsmen on several occasions, and the Hardys were finally able to convince him that this was just another broadcast.

“How about the camp up there?” Joe asked. “Any signs that the gang might be coming back?”

Ted shook his head. “Not so far. But you know, there’s one thing I can’t figure out.”

“What’s that?”

“How come the fuel tank is completely empty? Robbie couldn’t have figured out beforehand how much he’d need to fly here.”

“No doubt the gang drained off the gas to keep anyone from flying the chopper away,” Frank said. “Maybe there’s a can of it hidden around here somewhere.”

They searched the brush and examined the ground for any sign of digging, but all in vain.

“Well, what’ll we do with the copter?” Joe asked finally. “Gas it up and try flying it to Juneau?”

“Not yet,” Frank decided. “We’ve more sleuthing to do before we crack this mystery. If the gang found the whirlybird gone, they’d be on the alert. I vote we go upriver a bit and pick up the copter on our way back.”

The others agreed to this plan. They returned to their canoes, unloaded the fuel cans which they had brought along, and quickly buried them. Then they embarked once more and continued their journey upriver.

As they paddled along, the four watched both shores like hawks, alert for the slightest sign of movement. But the wilderness lay steeped in brooding silence.

“Anyone have a suggestion about where to spend the night?” Joe finally asked as evening approached and dusk fell.

“How about the Hilton a little farther upstream?” Ted quipped.

“Suits me,” Joe said and yawned.

“There’s a good spot over there,” Frank suggested. “It seems quite sheltered by the firs and the tall brush.”

“Okay, we’ll skip the Hilton and rough it,” Joe said with a sigh.

They beached their canoes and made camp in the spot designated by Frank. On Fleetfoot’s suggestion they did not light a campfire. After a cold supper of canned meat loaf and potato salad, they chose watches, then everyone prepared to turn in.

Some time later Frank, Joe, and Ted were quietly awakened by Fleetfoot. Except for a glimmer of moonlight through the evergreens, the river lay shrouded in darkness. A chilly night breeze was blowing down from the mountains.

“What’s up, Fleetfoot?” Frank asked, instantly alert.

The Indian youth put his finger to his lips, then whispered, “Look over there—across the river.”

The Hardys and Ted stared intently, their hearts pounding with excitement.

Lights flickered on the opposite shore!

CHAPTER XVI

An Eerie Sight

“THE gang!” Ted gasped as the four stared at the moving lights across the river.

“Sure aren’t fireflies!” Joe stated tersely. “How about it, Frank? Should we paddle over and see what they’re up to?”

Frank pondered the situation with a worried frown. “If we try it, we may give ourselves away,” he pointed out.

“We have rifles,” Ted said.

Frank shook his head. “We want to avoid any shooting.”

“Suppose we go back downriver where they can’t spot us, and cross over?” Joe suggested. “Then we could sneak up on the other side and take them by surprise.”

“It might work,” Frank admitted.

“Unless they hear us hauling the canoe,” Ted cautioned.

The boys conversed in low tones, discussing various plans. Fleetfoot finally settled the question by saying that he could paddle silently across the stream and scout the area without being detected. Knowing the young Indian’s skill at canoeing and woodcraft, the boys agreed.

“Don’t worry,” Fleetfoot whispered. “When an Indian doesn’t want to be seen, no one sees him. I’ll be back soon!”

“Don’t take any chances!” Frank told him.

The Hardys and Ted watched Fleetfoot creep through the underbrush. Keeping low, he reached the river’s edge and slid his birchbark canoe noiselessly into the water. Then he slipped aboard and paddled out into midstream with smooth, silent strokes. In a few moments his ghostly figure melted from view in the darkness.

Tense moments passed. “He should be there by now,” Frank whispered.

Suddenly the twinkling lights vanished as if turned off by a master switch. “Leapin’ catfish!” Joe muttered. “They must have spotted Fleetfoot!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Frank said calmly. “Perhaps the gang moved farther into the woods.”

Joe and Ted alternately worried about whether Fleetfoot had been captured. Frank tried to allay their fears with a jest. “That would leave us up the creek without an Indian,” he whispered.

Twenty minutes later, however, Frank began to feel a growing concern. The situation would certainly be more perilous than ever without Fleetfoot.

Suddenly, just as silently as he had left, the Indian reappeared at the side of his companions. Ted jumped with surprise and stared at him openmouthed.

“Boy! It’s good to see you,” Frank said. “What happened?”

“I saw four men,” the Indian youth reported. “They were walking around with lights. Must have been searching for something.”

“The lost rocket!” Joe exclaimed excitedly.

“Could be,” Frank agreed. “Did you have a chance to hear what they were saying, Fleetfoot?”

The Indian shook his head. “Nothing. They were quiet, did not say a word. I think they must sleep in the daytime, and hunt only at night. That way they run into no danger from bears.”

“You’re probably right,” Frank said. “Do they have a boat?”

“No boat,” Fleetfoot replied. “I searched all along the shore.”

“How about Robbie Robbins, the man who flies the whirlybird?” Joe asked. “Was he with them?”

Again Fleetfoot shook his head. “No. Robbins is young and tall. The men I saw were shorter and older.”

“Then my dad couldn’t be one of them, either,” Ted put in quietly. “He’s six-foot-two.”

Excited by the events of the past hour, the boys were too wide awake to think of crawling back into their sleeping bags. For the next few minutes they discussed the mysterious goings on across the river.

Frank and Joe’s conviction grew stronger that the ghostly search party might be looking for the rocket.

Finally Fleetfoot suggested that they break camp and push on upriver.

“Why?” Ted queried. “Do you think those men suspect we are over here?”

Fleetfoot shrugged. “I don’t know. But even if they don’t suspect it now, they might find out in the morning. And then we’d be in big trouble.”

“Fleetfoot’s right,” Frank agreed. “It’ll be safer to clear out now before they get wise to us.” He stood silent for a minute, lost in thought. Then he said, “Come on! Let’s head for those Indian grave houses. I have a hunch that’s where we’ll find the real key to this mystery!”

The others nodded. They put on their clothes and rolled up their sleeping bags, then they quietly piled their gear back in the canoes.

Ted had already heard the story of Jess Jenkins about the ancient Indian burial ground, but Fleetfoot had not been clued in yet. As the Hardys were getting ready to shove off, they passed the information on to their Indian friend.

“I’ve heard about that place,” Fleetfoot said. “And I would certainly like to see it. I’ll help you find it.”

“You’ve already helped us a lot,” Frank said gratefully, clapping the Indian youth on the back.

Once again Fleetfoot broke into his infectious grin. “You’re right,” he agreed proudly. “I sure am a skookum Indian.”

The four now carefully covered all traces of their camp with leaves and brush. Suddenly Frank stood up straight. “Sh!” he warned.

Everyone froze and listened. A twig crackled behind Frank. Again. Then a small animal scurried by within ten feet.

“Wow!” Frank said. “That little bugger had me scared.”

“I think it was a rabbit,” Fleetfoot said.

Relieved, the boys launched their canoes and quickly climbed in. Soon they were paddling upriver through the darkness at a brisk clip.

Dawn found the canoeists many miles farther up the Kooniak. Halting for breakfast, they decided to refresh themselves first with a swim.

“Br-r-r! It’s a regular ice bath!” Joe shuddered, after diving in.

“What’s the matter? Can’t you take it?” Frank joked, splattering him with a sheet of water.

Ted Sewell roared with laughter as the taunt developed into a water duel between the two Hardys. Fleetfoot, meanwhile, was plunging and darting like an otter, coming up every now and then to shake his long, black hair out of his eyes.

Shortly all of the boys were glad to hurry to dry land, where they toweled themselves to a brisk glow. After dressing, they ate a quick meal. Then they continued their journey.

An hour later Fleetfoot paused in his paddling and pointed to stone boundary markers on both banks of the stream. “Now we’re in Canada,” he told the others. “This is where the redcoats live.”

“I guess you mean the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Frank replied.

“That’s right,” Fleetfoot said.

The boys scanned the forest with eager interest. Though now in mountain country, they were again entering an area of dense wilderness. Both banks of the river were heavily timbered and overgrown with tangled green underbrush.

“Guess they don’t need an immigration office at a wilderness place like this,” Joe remarked with a smile.

Several miles east of the boundary markers, the boys saw a screaming horde of birds wheeling and circling over the right bank of the river. Gulls, terns, and grebes filled the air with their raucous cries.

“Hey, there’s a blue heron!” Joe exclaimed as the graceful creature rose above the treetops, flapping its wings.

“Why all the birds?” Frank wondered aloud.

“Must be a salmon spawning ground near,” Ted conjectured.

“That’s right,” Fleetfoot said. “We’ll see it very soon.”

Presently they reached a point where the right bank of the river opened into a shallow cove. The backwater was swarming with salmon. Trout and walleyes, too, could be seen darting among the shallows.

“Wow! A fisherman’s paradise!” Joe gasped. “Chet should be here!”

Every few moments one of the birds flocking overhead would swoop down and seize a fish in its beak.

“Birds eat young salmon,” Fleetfoot explained. “Other fish eat salmon eggs, too.”

“It’s a wonder they survive,” Frank remarked.

“They do, though—millions of them,” said Ted. “Old Mother Nature sees to that.”

“Mother Nature and the Fish and Wildlife Service!” Joe remarked wryly.

The river became more and more shallow as they continued upstream. Soon the canoes scraped the gravel bars that stretched from bank to bank.

“We’ll make portage,” Fleetfoot announced. “We’re near the headwaters now.”

“Wait a minute,” Frank said slowly. He was gazing at what seemed to be a dried-up creek bed, branching off to the west. “Joe, do you remember those two bends in the river we passed back a ways?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I believe this may be the spot shown on the map in the knapsack we found. That had a line branching off above two loops, just like that dry creek over there.”

Joe’s eyes widened with recognition. “You’re right, Frank!” he said excitedly. “I’ll bet this is the place! And maybe this is the creek Jess Jenkins was talking about that leads to the grave houses!”

“Let’s find out,” Frank replied.

After beaching the canoes, the boys unloaded their gear and covered everything carefully with stones and brush. Then they struck inland. Much of the creek bed was filled with reeds and waist-high grass. Heavy timber lined both banks.

A mile of walking brought them to a wide clearing which was becoming overgrown.

“Look! There they are!” Joe cried out.

The grave houses which Jess had described stood at scattered points about the area.

“This is it, all right,” Frank declared, grinning. “The Indian burial ground!” Most of the small log structures were half-rotten and falling apart with age.

“Come on! Let’s see what’s inside them!” Joe exclaimed. He ran to a rickety structure and stepped inside. “Oh!” he whispered. “Look at that!”

Frank, Ted, and Fleetfoot also stopped short and stared at the macabre spectacle. Gray, crumbling bones lay scattered beside a shallow open grave in the dirt floor. Fleetfoot stared at them fearfully. Then his eyes roved to a moldy wooden chest, which stood open nearby. It had apparently been lifted off the grave.

Joe glanced inside the chest and announced that it contained only a stone knife and a few small trinkets.

“Someone’s been here before us,” Frank muttered.

“Maybe this is one of the grave houses the prospectors looted back in Jess Jenkins’ time,” Joe suggested.

Frank shook his head. “I’m sure the grave hasn’t been open that long.”

One by one, they checked the other grave houses in the area. All had been rifled.

“Guess we’re too late.” Ted Sewell sighed.

“Maybe not,” Joe said hopefully. “There’s another one over there, among the trees. The door hasn’t even been opened. Let’s take a look.”

The boys hurried over to inspect it, and found that the door gave easily to the first blow from a rifle butt. Inside, the dirt floor was untouched, and on it was a wooden chest, similar to the first, falling to pieces with age. A few streaks of blue and red paint still clung to its rotting surface.

“Hurry! Open it!” Ted blurted out.

Frank whipped out his knife. As he inserted the blade under the lid, the others watched breathlessly, wondering what they would find inside.

CHAPTER XVII

Buried Treasure

THE lid of the old chest creaked as Frank pried it open. Then Joe let out a whistle of awe.

“Jumpin’ fishhooks! Will you look at that!”

The chest was heaped with jade necklaces, copper arm bands, delicate ivory figures carved from walrus tusks, and Oriental bowls fashioned of hammered metal. The boys’ eyes bulged as Frank scooped out piece after piece and held it up for inspection.

“I’ll bet this stuff’s worth a fortune!” Ted gasped.

“Museums would probably pay plenty for it,” Frank agreed.

“Look!” Joe seized one of the jade trinkets. “It’s the same bird that was carved on the piece we found in the knapsack.”

“I guess that clinches our deduction about the treasure,” Frank said, after carrying the piece out into the daylight so he could examine it more carefully. He added wryly, “We started out on this case as sleuths. But what with that dinosaur bone you spotted, Joe, and the ancient treasure, this seems to be turning into a scientific expedition!”

Fenton Hardy had often impressed on his two sons their responsibility for safeguarding any valuables which turned up during a case. Remembering this, Joe asked, “Frank, what are we going to do with this stuff? We can’t just leave it here.”

“I agree,” Frank said. “If we do, it may be stolen before the authorities can pick it up.”

“Why not take the chest with us?” Ted asked.

“We might be robbed,” Joe objected. “There’s too much danger of a brush with the gang.”

“Besides,” Frank pointed out, “I doubt if we have the right to carry such treasure out of British Columbia, even if we planned to turn it over to the Canadian authorities later.”

After discussing the problem from every angle, the boys decided to bury the chest somewhere away from the grave houses. Then, at the earliest possible opportunity, they would notify the Canadian Mounted Police of their find.

Both Joe and Frank still were concerned about the code message they had intercepted in the singing wilderness. In case any of the gang might be spying on them, they insisted on combing the trees and brush around the burial ground. Even Fleetfoot’s keen eyes, however, failed to detect any trace of an enemy.

Satisfied that no one but themselves had seen the treasure, Frank chose a tall cedar as a marker for their cache.

“This should be easy to find again,” he said. “It’s much taller than any of the other trees around here.”

“Okay,” said Ted. “Let’s get the chest.”

Joe and Fleetfoot, meanwhile, had started back to the canoes to fetch a camp spade and some oilskin. When they returned, the boys dug a hole alongside the cedar, wrapped the chest in oilskin, and after burying it, carefully replaced the earth. This they covered with brush.

Before leaving, Ted suggested that they make a final search of the area to be certain there was no grave house which they might have overlooked.

“Good idea,” Joe said eagerly. “We might find more treasure.”

Fanning out on both sides of the creek bed, the boys forced their way through the heavy thickets and peered among the dense groves of evergreens. A low call from Joe brought the others hurrying to his side. He was standing near a spot where the forest thinned out into an area of swampy land.

“Look!” He pointed to the ground. In the soft earth was a clear trail of footprints made by several men. Two sets of prints showed the same circle-and-star heelmarks which the Hardys had seen before.

“The gang’s been here all right,” Frank said in a low voice.

Not far away was a trampled area which looked to the young sleuths as if it might have been the scene of a meeting. From this spot, most of the prints led back toward the river. One set of prints, however, headed off in a different direction.

“Let’s follow this set,” Frank suggested.

The boys proceeded cautiously, alert for any danger. Beyond the swamp area, the wilderness thickened again, with tangled underbrush pressing so close on every side that walking single file became necessary.

Taking the lead, Joe pushed on through the dense thickets. Behind him came Fleetfoot, then Ted and Frank.

Presently the forest thinned out somewhat, and Joe halted in surprise. Just ahead, partly screened by the trees, stood a cabin.

Apparently the noise of crashing through the underbrush had been heard by the occupants, for the cabin door suddenly opened and a man burst out, pointing a rifle in their direction.

He had on the striped trousers and boots of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but instead of the regulation brown tunic, he wore a checkered sports shirt.

“Halt!” the man shouted. “Don’t move!”

“Halt!” the man shouted.

Just then a second man appeared in the cabin doorway. He was tall, bearded, and haggard looking. A chain was trailing from one of his ankles.

“Dad!” Ted gasped. “That other guy’s no Mountie—he’s a phony!”

In his excitement Ted would have rushed forward, in spite of the uniformed man’s leveled rifle. Joe, however, grabbed his arm and held him back.

In a low whisper he called to Frank, who was still concealed from the view of the rifleman. “Sneak up behind him, Frank!”

Without another word, the older Hardy dropped on his hands and knees, worked his way back to denser cover, and made a circle of the cabin. He approached it from the rear as the gunman barked:

“Okay, you boy heroes! Move forward with your hands high!”

By this time Frank was peering around the corner of the cabin. Joe walked slowly, giving his brother time to act.

“Come on, there!” the man cried angrily. “I haven’t got all day!”

Frank, meanwhile, tiptoed up behind him, hardly daring to breathe, lest he give himself away. Joe, Ted, and Fleetfoot looked on tensely as they approached, hands in the air.

Frank was now directly behind the phony Mountie!

“Ha-ha,” the thug jeered. “The boss said I might get company. Now step—Ugh!”

The words were choked off as Frank crooked one arm around the man’s windpipe, and snatched the rifle away with the other. The man whirled and fought like a wildcat, but Frank wrestled him to the ground. Joe and Fleetfoot, rushing forward, quickly helped to subdue him.

“All right! On your feet!” Frank snapped, stepping back and covering the prisoner with his own rifle. Muttering, the man obeyed.

Ted, meanwhile, was having a joyful reunion with his father. “I can hardly believe it’s you, son!” Mr. Sewell said huskily as he and Ted hugged each other. “This is too good to be true!”

“It is true, Dad! And we’ll soon have that chain off!”

Frank ordered the impostor to surrender the key to Joe, who quickly unlocked the shackle from around Mr. Sewell’s ankle. The wildlife expert then told his story. He had discovered the same singing wilderness which the boys had come across the previous day.

“I couldn’t figure out who was broadcasting,” Mr. Sewell related, “but I decided to report the matter to Juneau. Before I could do so, several men jumped me from behind. They brought me upriver in a boat, and then marched me inland to this cabin. I’ve been chained up here ever since.”

Frank wanted to ask if Mr. Sewell had heard the gang mention anything about the lost rocket, but decided against it. “No sense letting our prisoner in on what we know,” he thought. Turning to Fleetfoot, he directed, “Take this fellow away from the cabin and keep him covered, will you?” The Indian nodded, borrowed Ted’s rifle, and herded the captive out of earshot.

Then Frank turned back to Mr. Sewell. “We believe this gang may be led by foreigners, but that phony Mountie speaks like an American. Any idea who he is?”

Mr. Sewell shook his head. “I don’t even know his name. The other men called him ‘Watchdog.’ However, from his accent, I’d say he comes from Chicago!”

The Hardys gave Mr. Sewell a quick summary of the whole case to date, including their finding of the Indian treasure at the burial ground. The woodsman was astounded, but could offer no solution to the mystery.

“The men who captured me were careful not to say anything which might give me a clue,” he explained. “However, I once overheard them mention the word ‘totem.’”

“Meaning what, do you suppose?” Joe asked. “A totem pole?”

“Probably so. Perhaps they’re using one as a landmark.”

“It may mark the spot where they’ve cached the loot from the Indian grave houses,” Frank conjectured.

“It’s possible,” Joe agreed.

“We’d better get out of here before someone comes back and sees us,” Ted urged. “Dad, do you think you’ll be able to walk for a while?”

Mr. Sewell nodded. “I have no choice. Rusty muscles or not. But listen, let’s take some food. There’s canned meat in the cabin, also bread and fruit.”

Ted’s father had been fed little more than scraps during his captivity, and was obviously in need of nourishment. The boys, too, were growing very hungry and took whatever they could stuff into their pockets.

Then they started back toward the river with their prisoner. Once during the trek Watchdog tried to escape, but the boys quickly forced him back on the trail.

Mr. Sewell began to ache badly after a while. Even though he tried not to show it, Ted knew his father was weak and barely able to make it.

“Let’s stop over there and eat,” he suggested. “It will give Dad a chance to recuperate a little.” He pointed to a secluded spot on the side of a rock.

They sat down, covered from view by shrubs and trees, and quickly distributed the food.

Ted produced a can opener. “I found this in one of the cabinets,” he said.

“Sure comes in handy,” Frank said with a grin, and opened a can of ham.

“This is the best meal I ever had,” Mr. Sewell said. “I’m starting to feel better already.”

Soon they were finished and on their way again. Suddenly a shrill birdcall shattered the silence of the forest.

“Hey! What was that?” Joe exclaimed as he and the others turned around, scanning the branches of the nearby trees.

Mr. Sewell was particularly puzzled. “I’ve never heard a birdcall like that!” he declared. “I wonder—”

His words broke off at a shout of dismay by Frank. “The prisoner! He’s gone!”

CHAPTER XVIII

The Totem’s Secret

THE boys glanced about in consternation. Watchdog had vanished as suddenly as the strange birdcall had stopped!

Frank was now red-faced with anger. “After him!” he exclaimed.

“But which direction did he take?” Ted asked. “He was so quiet we don’t know where he is. And it’s easy to hide here in the woods.”

“We’ll split up! Let’s go!”

Frank and Fleetfoot disappeared into the bushes on the right, while Joe and Ted searched the area on the left side. Discouraged after their ten-minute futile search, the four boys joined Ted’s father who had waited on the trail.

“I just remembered that Watchdog is a ventriloquist,” he told them. “He used to practice at the cabin to pass away the time. He projected that birdcall, and while we were gawking around, he sneaked off!”

Suddenly Fleetfoot pointed. “There are his footprints. I’ll find him now!”

The youth started off at a quick lope, Frank and Joe following at his heels. Ted and his father hurried along behind them. The searchers moved quietly, every sense alert.

Soon the Indian boy stopped and raised his right hand. The searchers came to a halt. Fleetfoot beckoned them forward and pointed to a massive rock formation which loomed up on one side of a creek bed. At the foot of it was a black, gaping hole, obviously the entrance to a cave.

“How are we going to flush him?” Ted wanted to know.

Frank was worried that the cave might have an exit as well. “I’ll scout around back of those rocks to see if there’s a way out.”

He had gone only three feet when a hoarse cry emitted from the opening in the rocks!

The weird cry issued forth again. Frank and Joe screwed up their courage and advanced closer to the black hole.

All at once the head and shoulders of a man appeared. Crawling on all fours, he scrambled out of the cave like a beaten animal.

“Watchdog!” Frank yelled.

The fugitive sprang to his feet and rushed forward in headlong flight. As Frank and Joe converged upon him, Watchdog tripped on a root and fell to the ground with a thud.

“Got you!” Frank cried. He grasped Watchdog’s arms and held them behind his back.

Then, just as suddenly, Frank sprang off his prisoner. “Whew!” he exclaimed, sniffing. “Skunk!”

In spite of the gravity of the situation, everyone except the prisoner, who lay half stunned and gasping for breath, burst out laughing.

“There comes our friend!” Fleetfoot pointed to the cave entrance. A small black animal with a white streak down his back poked his nose out into the underbrush.

“Mr. Polecat deserves a medal!” Joe said, doubling over with mirth.

“But what about Watchdog?” Ted grinned. “How can we travel with a smell like that?”

“A bath will help,” Frank said. He and Joe led Watchdog to a nearby creek.

“Jump in,” Frank ordered, unable to suppress a wry smile. “Clothes and all.”

Watchdog obliged. He dived into the water and splashed about, at the same time emitting uncomplimentary remarks both about the skunk and his captors.

“I’ll get even for this.” Watchdog glowered as he stepped from the creek and wrung the water from his clothes.

Mr. Sewell could not suppress a grin. “You certainly picked the wrong hiding place!”

Frank then turned to their prisoner. “Just to see that you don’t try any tricks, we’ll keep you close to us!”

“Hey, not too close,” Joe begged as Frank pulled off his belt and tied Watchdog’s hands securely behind him.

“Now listen,” Frank told Watchdog sternly, “we’ll travel single file. You stay five paces behind me. Joe, you keep about the same distance behind this guy.”

Anxious not to lose any more time, the group proceeded to the river at a brisk pace. Here the canoes were uncovered and reloaded. Frank retrieved his belt while Joe rebound the prisoner’s hands with rope. Then he was placed in the bottom of one of the canoes and covered with a piece of tarpaulin, in case other members of his gang should appear along the way.

“We ought to report what’s happened,” Joe said. “Do you think we can raise Juneau on the radio?”

Frank set to work immediately, but after hoisting the aerial, he could get only static over his headset.

“Terrific interference,” he told Joe. “Sounds as if there’s some electrical device here in the woods.”

“Like what?” Ted asked.

“Perhaps someone else has a powerful radio,” Mr. Sewell put in.

Joe winked at his brother. “Maybe a dentist has an office nearby,” he said.

Frank gave his brother a thump on the arm. “Stow the corny jokes, Joe!”

The lighthearted attitude of the Hardys continued after they had launched their canoe into the stream. With Ted and his father paddling alongside them, Frank and Joe fairly shot along with the current.

“Boy, this is what I call fun!” Joe exulted as they sped through the foaming rapids.

They crossed the boundary line at a fast clip and mile after mile went by under the swift stroke of their paddles. At seven o’clock they beached their canoes long enough to eat supper.

“Frank,” Joe said, “you can hand-feed Skunkie Boy over there. I wouldn’t advise untying him again.”

“I caught him, so I guess I’m stuck with him.” Frank grinned and moved over to where the prisoner lay in the canoe.

“Sit up,” Frank said. “I’ll feed you your beans. Watch your manners.”

Watchdog chewed glumly as he ate his supper.

“If you want room service during the night,” Frank jested, “push the button.”

The sinister outline of Devil’s Paw looming in the distance, however, brought the boys back to awareness of their grim situation.

“Are we going to camp here tonight?” Ted queried.

After a hasty conference, both the Hardys and Mr. Sewell decided against such a move.

“We ought to get our prisoner back to Juneau as soon as possible,” the woodsman suggested.

Frank and Joe agreed. “Suppose you and Ted take him along,” Frank said.

“And leave you here?”

“The three of us will be safe enough,” he assured the Sewells.

Joe declared that they should at least stop at the enemy’s camp long enough to see whether Robbie had returned to the helicopter.

“All right,” Mr. Sewell acceded. “Ted and I will go on and report everything that has happened, but be careful.”

It was still daylight by the time the adventurers re-embarked and reached the point on the west bank of the river near the trail which led to the camp at Devil’s Paw. Here the Hardys made another attempt to get in touch with Juneau by radio. This time the static was even louder.

“Boy! This is a real mystery!” Joe removed his headphones. “We’re getting interference from something mighty powerful.”

The Sewells stopped along the riverbank to say good-by, then paddled out of sight along the foaming river. After they had gone, Frank, Joe, and Fleetfoot turned their attention to the job of caching the two remaining canoes and their supplies.

Joe suggested that they also check on the fuel cans which they had hidden earlier. They found them still in place and Fleetfoot reported no footprints were in evidence nearby.

Once again the three companions followed the beaten trail up the mountainside to the camp. Dodging behind the trees and peering from beneath the bushes, they silently approached the area. Nobody was in sight.

Suddenly Joe clutched his brother’s arm. “Look over there,” he said.

“What do you know about that? Robbie’s sweater!”

The three boys stepped forward to examine it. It was a blue garment with red trim. The way it lay on the ground, however, made Frank suspect that it had not been dropped accidentally.

“Look!” he said, and indicated the left arm of the sweater. “See how the sleeve is pointing, Joe.”

“That was done on purpose!” Joe exclaimed.

“Of course. Robbie put this here to give us directions.”

Fleetfoot spoke up approvingly. “Robbie is like a good Indian. He gave a sign.”

The sweater arm pointed southwest over an area of rock and shale. The ground was too hard to reveal any footprints.

Frank and Joe left the sweater untouched as a safety precaution, in case they lost their way and wanted to find the trail again. Then they set off with Fleetfoot. Gradually the ground sloped away to a heavily wooded valley. Just before the edge of the timber, Fleetfoot’s keen eyes noted several sets of footprints leading in the direction they were going.

“We are on the right track,” he said.

With extreme caution, the three boys pushed their way among the pines and underbrush. The forest was wrapped in a brooding silence. The setting sun shone blood red over the hills.

The Hardys and Fleetfoot continued on through the towering trees. Frank was the first to step out into a small clearing. Silently he beckoned to the others.

“What’s the matter?” asked Joe.

Frank pointed. “There, next to that leaning pine tree.”

Joe shielded his eyes with his hands to keep out the sun’s glare.

“By golly, Frank, that’s a thunderbird!”

The figure stood out above the tall grass, and when Fleetfoot saw it, he said, “That’s the top of a totem pole.”

Advancing cautiously, the boys came upon a ten-foot post, with angry-looking faces of salmon, bears, and sea otters with bared fangs.

At the top of the totem, a thunderbird leered down at them with outspread wings. Though badly weather-beaten, the pole still showed traces of red, yellow, and blue paint.

“Could the pole be a landmark?” Joe asked.

“I’m sure it’s more than that,” Frank reasoned, “because the footprints led directly to it. This thunderbird totem must be of some special importance.”

The Indian boy’s hands were moving over the carved images. He turned to grin at his two companions. “Sometime totem pole hide important messages.” Fleetfoot next felt around the indented mouth of the salmon.

“No message here,” he said, disappointed.

Joe glanced up. “What about the thunderbird? Could that have a message in it?”

Fleetfoot shrugged. Whereupon Joe said, “Come on, Frank, give me a boost. I’ll take a look for myself.”

Frank cupped his hands together waist-high, and Joe placed his right foot in the hand stirrup.

“Up you go!” Frank gave Joe a strong boost.

Joe deftly put a foot on either of his brother’s shoulders. He was now high enough to reach the thunderbird.

“Look in the beak,” Fleetfoot said.

“False alarm,” Joe reported. “The bird doesn’t have a message and—Hey! Watch it, Frank. Don’t wriggle like that!”

Frank had moved slightly to slap at a mosquito, and in doing so had thrown Joe off balance. He pitched to one side, brushing against the right wing of the thunderbird. It fell off.

“Look out below!” Joe cried. He hit the ground with a thud. The wing just missed his head.

“You hurt?” Fleetfoot asked.

“I’m all right,” Joe said, getting up and rubbing his thigh. “But look at the totem pole. I guess I ruined it.”

The three boys glanced up to the place where the wing had been ripped off the towering figure.

Fleetfoot whistled. “That was meant to come off! See? There’s a hole in the totem pole.”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s investigate!”

This time Frank was hoisted to the shoulders of Joe and the Indian, who stood side by side. Tense with excitement, he reached up into the opening.

“Hey, fellows!” he cried out. “Something’s in here!”

CHAPTER XIX

Enmeshed

JOE and Fleetfoot stared upward as Frank withdrew his hand from the opening in the totem pole.

“What did you find?” Joe called.

“A canvas sack. And is it heavy!”

When Frank had pulled the large sack free of the hole, he leaped nimbly to the ground with it. Then, quickly unloosening the drawstring, he dumped the contents onto the ground.

“Look at that!” Joe cried out. “More treasure!”

“From grave houses!” Fleetfoot declared instantly. He picked up several of the ornaments and examined them curiously.

Frank spoke up. “Joe, this stuff must be priceless! I’ll bet there’s nothing like it, even in the Alaska Historical Museum!”

Joe reflected for a moment. “Do you suppose Robbie pointed the sweater sleeve this way to lead us to the thunderbird’s cache?”

“I don’t think so,” Frank said. “He was probably interested only in where he was going—or being taken.”

“Treasure or no,” Joe said, “Robbie’s safety is more important. But, meanwhile, what’ll we do with this?”

“Same thing we did before,” Fleetfoot said. “We’ll bury it, just like the other stuff. But first we must put back the thunderbird’s wing.”

Standing on Frank’s shoulder, Joe quickly replaced the wing, covering the opening. Fleetfoot had found a cleft between two rocks which he thought might be a good hiding place for the treasure. The boys laid the canvas sack in the depression, and covered it with a layer of brush, then a rotted tree limb which lay nearby.

After the artifacts were concealed, they trekked on, following the same direction as before. They scanned the ground and their surroundings for any other clue Robbie might have left, but found nothing.

All of a sudden, about ten minutes later, Frank stopped short.

“Fleetfoot, Joe! Look here!” He pointed to a sapling. A branch, close to the ground, was freshly broken.

“A marker!” Fleetfoot said, examining it closely.

“You think Robbie did that to indicate a change in the direction?” Joe asked.

“Looks that way,” Frank said. “It points over there, to the right.”

“Let’s follow it,” Fleetfoot said. “You see the sap still oozing from the branch? It was only broken a little while ago, and I’m sure Robbie did it. He was on his toes, all right.”

“But we’d better be quiet,” Frank warned.

The boys alternated in taking the lead through the dense underbrush. As they topped a low rise of ground, Fleetfoot motioned the Hardys to stop and listen. They put their ears to the ground.

“Someone’s walking up ahead,” Frank whispered.

“Yes. Many feet,” the Indian said. “We must be careful.”

Creeping forward on hands and knees, the boys inched to the top of the knoll. There, completely hidden by foliage, they looked down into a small ravine. Below them was a group of men going through mysterious motions!

“One, two, four—six of them,” Joe counted to himself.

In their hands all of the men held long poles which they were moving back and forth over the ground and bushes.

Frank leaned close to his brother. “Detecting equipment!” he exclaimed in a whisper.

“No wonder our radio’s been full of static!” Joe whispered back. “These birds must have been pretty close to us all the time.”

Frank touched Fleetfoot on the shoulder and motioned for him to withdraw. The three boys ducked below the brow of the hill. In an undertone Frank quickly explained the situation to Fleetfoot.

“They’re looking for the rocket, all right,” he said, “and it’s not dark yet. They must be getting desperate to find it.”

“But where’s Robbie?” Joe whispered. “You don’t suppose they’ve—?”

“I don’t think they’d harm him,” Frank said. “Robbie is their ace in the hole—they might need him in case they have to escape by helicopter.”

“We’d better take a closer look,” Joe suggested.

“Follow me,” Fleetfoot said.

Depending on their Indian friend’s acute sense of direction, the boys hunched low and crept after him in a circuitous route which led down to one end of the ravine. Then darting from tree to tree in the deepening evening shadows, the three approached nearer to the six men.

Suddenly one of them straightened up and leaned on his detector. “What a wild-goose chase!”

“Yeah,” another man said. “It doesn’t make sense. What could they drop out of an airplane that was so valuable?”

“Oh, them foreigners don’t give you any straight answers,” a third man spoke up. “They’re pretty clever, and after all, they’re paying us enough.”

“Not enough to keep this poor guy tied up,” another of the gang members called.

A voice sounded from behind a large tree ten yards ahead of the Hardys. “Let me go, will you, fellows? Maybe I can help you out of the mess you’re in.”

“Robbie!” Frank whispered.

“You ain’t got enough money to buy us,” one of the men called back. “After all, we’ve got to make a living!”

Fleetfoot, who had pressed close to the Hardys, whispered, “These men are no good. Loafers. I have seen them hanging around the dock at Ketchikan.”

Frank nodded. “I don’t think we can talk them into letting Robbie go. We’ve got to get him out of here ourselves.”

“But how?” Joe asked.

“Let’s wait a while and see what happens.”

Fortunately, the six searchers moved farther away from the spot where the captive pilot was sitting. After ten minutes Frank motioned to his companions. “Let’s get over to Robbie, but easy! If we scare him, he might yell!”

The three boys inched along the ground, using every blade of tall grass as cover until they were behind the tree from which Robbie’s voice had come.

“Robbie! Robbie!” Frank whispered hoarsely.

“Wh—?”

“Sh!”

But Robbie’s startled outcry had alerted one of his captors. He straightened up and turned in their direction.

“What’d you say, skipper?”

“Why don’t you let me go?” Robbie called back promptly. “I might have more money than you think. We can talk about it.”

“Forget it!” The man shrugged and resumed his search.

In a hushed voice, Robbie said, “Frank, Joe, is that you?”

“Yes,” Frank whispered. “Be quiet. We’re trying to get you out of here.”

Frank peered around the side of the tree. Robbie’s hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were bound with leather thongs.

“Lie down,” Frank said, “and stretch out as if you’re taking a nap.”

Robbie did as he was instructed, holding his wrists and ankles close to the side of the tree. In the dim light the hands of Frank and Joe were barely visible as they reached around to cut the bonds of the helicopter pilot.

Robbie moved his arms and legs slowly so as to regain circulation. This accomplished he slithered around the tree, unnoticed by the gang. Then, with the tree as a shield, he stood up. Fleetfoot motioned the three to follow and they set off at a rapid pace through the underbrush.

At first Robbie had difficulty keeping up with the boys because of cramps in his legs. These, however, were soon worked out and he was able to jog swiftly along beside his rescuers.

They were breathing hard as they hurried through the tangled woods. Part of Robbie’s story of what had happened came out when the group stopped for a short rest.

“Those men probably haven’t discovered you’re missing yet,” Joe said. “All is quiet.” Then he added, “Who are those fellows, Robbie?”

“Renegades from down the coast somewhere. They’re working for those foreigners. Oh, I’d like to get my hands on that guy who kidnapped me!”

“What was his name?” asked Frank.

“Remus—or something like that.”

“Remo Stransky!” Frank exclaimed.

“How did he get away with it?” Joe asked the pilot.

“Pushed a gun in my back just as I was about to take off for the glacier to pick up you boys.”

“But what about the package dropped to us by the airplane?” Joe asked, perplexed.

“Remo bragged that a friend would do that,” Robbie told them, “just to throw you off the trail.”

“Did you write the note?”

“Yes. I was forced to.”

Fleetfoot spoke up. “Do you know what these men are looking for?”

“No, not exactly. Something very important.”

Robbie told them his foreign captors had stated that one of their country’s airplanes had dropped valuable cargo by mistake. The United States government allegedly would not cooperate in helping them find it. “So,” concluded Robbie, “they decided to take matters into their own hands.”

“What a phony story” Joe declared. “They’re looking for that rocket.”

Just then shouts of angry men echoed through the darkening woods.

“They’ve found out you’ve escaped!” said Frank. “Come on! Let’s go!”

Like a slender brown ghost, Fleetfoot led them racing through the woodlands along a trail barely perceptible in the gloom. Five minutes later the cries of their pursuers were lost in the distance.

“We’ve shaken them,” Joe said.

“Don’t be too sure,” Frank cautioned. He turned to Robbie. “Do they have a radio?”

“Yes. A strong transceiver.”

“Then they’ll report this to Stransky,” Frank said. “We’ve got to be extra careful.”

The four jogged along at an easier pace and the helicopter pilot told more of his story. The foreign gang, hunting for the valuable cargo in the woodlands, had come upon the Indian grave houses and rifled them.

Robbie related that he did manage to drop his sweater and break the tree branch to mark the trail without his captors noticing. “They got careless about watching me,” he went on. “Too busy looking for a spot to stash the loot.”

Frank interrupted. “They found a place—in the thunderbird totem.”

Robbie was amazed. “How’d you find it?”

The Hardys gave him a brief account of Joe’s accidental discovery. The gang, Robbie said, had also come upon the hiding place by chance. “And that salmon-poaching business,” he added, “was just a cover-up for this giant search.”

The pilot was delighted to hear that the boys had brought cans of aviation fuel and cached them near the riverbank.

It was decided that they would leave their canoes, as well as the treasure, hidden, and take off with Robbie in the helicopter.

“Now that we know where these fellows are,” Frank said, “a flying police detail can help us round them up.”

Skirting Devil’s Paw at a safe distance, the four made their way down the steep slope toward Robbie’s helicopter. The moon had come up, and cast a luminous glow on the sides of the craft.

“Well, here she is safe and sound,” Robbie said, putting his foot on a rung at the side of the chopper. He was just about to climb into the cabin when a sudden swishing sound filled the air. Frank, Joe, and Fleetfoot, poised behind the pilot, whirled about.

“Look out, Frank!” Joe called as he saw the dim figures of five men leap suddenly out from the shadow of a boulder.

At the same time a large fishnet fell over the heads and shoulders of Frank and the Indian boy!

CHAPTER XX

Aerial Roundup

WITH cries and whoops the five attackers rushed upon the boys. Frank and Fleetfoot, entangled in the net, could offer little assistance as the assailants fought to subdue Joe and Robbie.

In five minutes all four lay exhausted on the ground. Their hands had been tied behind them by the gloating victors.

As one of the gang examined the bonds, he rasped in English, “Nice work with the net, Igor. We got ’em all. Herd ’em together and tie the seine around the bunch. We have our fish.”

“Remo Stransky!” Joe lunged out at him, but in vain. Stransky laughed in the youth’s face.

“Save your strength!” he taunted. “This seine is made of your American nylon and is quite unbreakable.” Stransky’s lips curled gloatingly. “You Hardys and your two foolish friends here will never leave this forest alive.”

“Don’t be too sure of that!” Frank retorted. “Besides, whatever happens to us, Stransky, you and your gang will be caught.”

The ringleader threw back his head and laughed harshly. “I’ll say this much for you Hardys, you never give up. You and your buddies have found out a great deal, too much in fact, but my countrymen and I will not be cheated of success!”

The Hardys, Robbie, and Fleetfoot were searched and their hunting knives taken away.

“We’ll relieve you of these,” Stransky said with a sneer, “so you can’t cut your way to freedom.” Then he spoke into a small walkie-talkie which one of his henchmen handed to him.

“Okay, my American allies,” he said. “We have snared the Hardys and the others. You will get a bonus for this.” Then he added, “Keep on looking there until I instruct you further.”

Stransky turned to his captives. “Come now,” he said, “we have no time to waste.”

To his henchmen, Stransky gave crisp orders. Two of them immediately jerked the prisoners around and headed them toward the trail leading up to the Devil’s Paw camp. Straining and sweating, the captives were half dragged, half shoved along the rocky trail. It was dark by the time they reached the camp.

Stransky spoke again into the walkie-talkie. “Assemble at camp, men!”

Robbie and the boys were glad to have a chance to lie down. All were aching, parched, and hungry.

“This is outrageous!” Robbie muttered.

“Calm yourself,” Stransky called out with a hoarse laugh. Then he directed one of his men, “Guard them closely, so they don’t escape while we prepare supper.”

The guard, who spoke English, as well as Stransky’s native tongue, stretched down on the ground beside the prisoners. He taunted the Hardys. “I understand you found the boss’s knapsack. A lot of good it did you!”

“How did you know that?” Frank asked.

“One of our spies in Juneau told us.” The guard laughed raucously. “Fish! Salmon in the seine! Ha-ha!”

“You’ll laugh out of the other side of your mouth,” Joe muttered. “Just wait.”

“Quiet!”

“What do you intend to do with us?” Frank asked.

“What usually happens to unwanted fish?” the man sneered. “You throw them into the ocean.”

His compatriots, meanwhile, had started a roaring campfire. The light flickered over the faces of the four prisoners who reclined glumly in the shadow of some tall bushes.

About twenty minutes later the sound of many footsteps crashing through the woods brought the Hardys alert.

“Joe! Maybe it’s a rescue party!” Frank said.

But the boys were doomed to disappointment, for into the circle of firelight stepped the gang’s American henchmen carrying mine detectors.

“So you caught ’em, eh?” said one.

“Yeah,” another said with a chuckle. “I hear those Hardys are just a couple of amateur detectives.”

“Boy, I wish Dad were here now,” Joe thought, furious. “We’d show ’em who are amateurs.”

To add to the misery of the trapped quartet, their captors brought a steaming tin of stew to the guard. The aroma wafted to their nostrils, causing their mouths to water. But they remained silent, determined to ask no favors.

Soon the group around the campfire were eating and joking loudly.

“Now that the Hardys and their friends are tied up,” Stransky said, “we can go ahead in our search without any more trouble.”

“What about the reinforcements, boss?”

“They’re on the way,” Stransky replied. “They’ll skip past Prito and his fat friend tonight. With ten more fellows helping, you should find that—er—lost cargo in no time.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances of alarm. If they could only warn Chet and Tony of the impending peril! “It looks as if it’s curtains for all of us!” Joe whispered glumly.

After the meal, the captives and their guard were swallowed up in the shadows. Frank had started to doze when suddenly he was snapped to consciousness by the sound of a groan.

Startled, the Hardys saw to their astonishment that it was their guard who had uttered the sound!

Suddenly a voice close to them whispered, “How’re you fellows? All right?”

“Chet!” Frank gasped. “Are you alone?”

“No, I’m here too,” came another voice.

“Tony!” Joe said in muffled but joyful tones.

“Well, we took care of that guy for a while,” said Chet. “I jumped on his middle, then Tony socked him.”

“Sure good to see you!” Fleetfoot said.

“You bet!” Robbie spoke up. “Hope you brought a sharp knife.”

“Right here. I’ll have you out in a jiffy.” Tony glanced quickly at the men about the campfire. Some were now asleep, others were lolling about. Desultory chatter muffled the sound of Tony’s knife as it cut through the strands of the seine.

“There,” he said finally. “You’re free. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where to?” asked Chet.

“Robbie’s copter,” replied Frank. “I think we can make it this time.”

Tony held out a small compass attached to his belt. The luminous face gave the group their bearings. Then, with Fleetfoot in the lead, the six stealthily crept away.

Keeping tensely on the alert for signs of pursuit, they proceeded for some time in dead silence. Finally, feeling they were safely out of earshot, Joe asked Chet and Tony, “How’d you find us, fellows?”

“Easy,” Tony said. “We spotted that campfire a mile away.”

As the boys walked on, Chet told Frank and Joe they had become worried about their friends’ long absence.

“Tony got half a dozen guards as replacements to take charge at the island,” he added, “so we could come to look for you.”

Frank slapped the stout boy affectionately on the shoulder. Chet’s loyalty was unswerving.

Once Fleetfoot had found the slope leading to the helicopter, the party cautiously traversed the rocky terrain. Frank and Joe, with the aid of Tony and Chet, carried the cans of gasoline from their hiding place. Upon reaching the helicopter, they fueled it. Robbie, meanwhile, checked the instrument panel, as Fleetfoot looked on with awe.

“Do I get my whirlybird ride now?”

“Right!” Joe said. “You certainly deserve it!”

Preparations for the flight went on under mounting tension. Every few moments Frank or Joe glanced up at the rocky cliff to see whether or not Stransky’s men were pursuing them.

Finally Robbie announced, “Okay, we’re set to go, but I’ve got bad news.”

“What’s that?” Joe said.

“I can’t take all of you out in one trip. Two must be left behind.”

“I’ll stay,” Joe volunteered.

“Me too,” Chet offered without hesitation.

Frank protested at first, saying he wanted to stay with his brother. But Joe insisted that Frank go back to give details of their adventure to the authorities in Juneau.

With snappy salutes, Chet and Joe bade their companions farewell. The door of the helicopter closed. With a whining sound the rotors turned, slowly at first, then whirred into full action.

Suddenly, above the noise of the rotors, Joe and Chet heard a volley of rifleshots from the cliff.

“Run for cover!” Joe cried out.

The two boys darted behind a boulder. “Will the copter get off in time?” Joe wondered, his heart pounding. The lives of Frank and the three others aboard were at stake! Breathlessly Joe and Chet watched as the helicopter rose, gained sufficient altitude, and took forward flight. Seconds later the chopper blinked its running lights.

“Thank goodness!” Joe exclaimed. “They’re safe!”

The helicopter pilot had worked feverishly to get out of range of the snipers. The first indication of enemy fire had been a bullet ripping through the fuselage close to Frank’s head.

Now beyond reach of the guns, Frank, Tony, and Robbie conferred. “Better contact Juneau pronto,” Frank said.

“Right!” Robbie flicked on the radio.

It took only a few minutes to relay the urgent summons. The operator at the seaplane base promised to alert the authorities, not only in the state of Alaska, but also in British Columbia.

“Now what?” Tony asked.

“We’ll stand by,” Frank replied. “Shouldn’t take long.”

In less than an hour, aircraft of both the United States and Canadian forces came streaking low over the woods. Robbie had pinpointed their location.

As if by magic, the darkness suddenly turned to daylight. Powerful magnesium flares attached to parachutes illuminated the entire area. This was followed by more billowing chutes—paratroops! They ringed the area and their walkie-talkie reports could be heard plainly over the radio of the hovering copter.

The action was swift and conclusive. The fleeing enemy, hampered by swampy ground and the dark night, were hunted down. In a few hours the gang had been rounded up.

“Good show. Better than a cowboy movie!” Fleetfoot exclaimed.

The others laughed. Then Frank urged, “Let’s get an Army helicopter to go down with us and pick up Joe and Chet.”

Robbie radioed the request and received an affirmative reply.

“We’ll stand by to follow you in,” came the Army pilot’s voice.

Robbie set his craft down at the place where they had left the two boys. Magnesium flares still drifting down from the sky illuminated the area. Finally Chet and Joe dashed out from between two large boulders. They reached the helicopter as the Army craft came in alongside.

“Frank!” Joe called excitedly as his brother jumped down from the chopper. “We found it! We found it!”

“What?” Frank asked, running up.

“The rocket! It made a crater just beyond the place where we were hiding.”

Joe and Chet led the others to the spot. Only part of the metal hull could be seen protruding from the sandy spot where the rocket had landed.

“This is it all right!” Robbie declared.

Moments later a colonel from the Air Force joined the boys. When told about the find, he quickly swore them all to secrecy.

“You’ve done your country a tremendous service,” he praised the Hardys and their friends, then hastened off to radio a coded report to Washington.

A little later Robbie’s group took off in his helicopter, while Joe and Chet boarded the Army chopper for the ride back to Juneau.

“Wow, what excitement!” Joe exclaimed as he sat down.

At the moment he had no way of knowing that more excitement was to come the Hardys’ way very soon. In their next adventure, The Mystery of the Chinese Junk, the two young sleuths are plunged into danger when they try to find the solution to a baffling puzzle.

The Hardys and the others rendezvoused at the air base in Juneau. There they learned that Remo’s reinforcements had been captured at the mouth of the Kooniak. Frank and Joe quickly put through a radio message to their father in Bayport and took turns telling of their adventures.

“I’m mighty proud of you,” Fenton Hardy said, after hearing the full story. “Are you going back for the buried treasure?”

“Tomorrow, Dad.”

Just then Tony Prito brought in more news, which was relayed by Frank to Bayport. The prisoner, nicknamed Watchdog, had finally confessed to police that his real name was Shad Yawke. He had been hired by the Stranskys to terrorize the stream guard on duty in the Kooniak. He had also hired the salmon poachers to mislead the Hardys, in case they should guess the foreign ring’s true purpose—that of finding the rocket.

Yawke confirmed Frank’s suspicion about the star-heel imprint which the boys had found in so many places. It was the trademark of a foreign manufacturer whose shoes were worn by the alien gang.

“A stupid oversight by the Stranskys,” Joe commented.

The captured henchman admitted, too, the hurling of the fire bomb and the looting of the Indian grave houses by the gang. Further interrogation revealed that he knew about the ancient Indian paddle. One of the gang had taken the paddle and subsequently lost it when spying on Tony Prito.

Mr. Hardy supplied his sons with additional information about Romo Stransky’s activities.

“When Romo learned from his twin that Tony was sending for you boys,” Mr. Hardy related. “he tried to prevent you from leaving Bayport.”

“And was he the truck driver who forced us off the road?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess that clears up the mystery, Dad. We’ll be home soon.” Frank said good-by and hung up.

At that moment Chet walked into the radio room, his face beaming. “There’s one thing I didn’t tell you fellows about.”

“What’s that? Did you dig up some more crooks, Chet?” Frank asked with a twinkle.

“No,” the boy said. “I caught a salmon, a twenty-pound beaut. We’re going to have a real feast tonight. Fleetfoot will cook it Indian style.”

Frank and Joe chuckled. “Here’s one time I’m with you,” Joe said, pumping the stout boy’s hand. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too!” Frank agreed heartily.

“Call the fellows together.” Joe grinned. “This will be one salmon the Alaskan bears won’t get!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Hong Kong Junk

CHAPTER II - Mysterious Engine Trouble

CHAPTER III - Shadowy Attackers

CHAPTER IV - Chet’s Dilemma

CHAPTER V - A Strange Warning

CHAPTER VI - Coastal Search

CHAPTER VII - Missing Spelunkers

CHAPTER VIII - Stolen Evidence

CHAPTER IX - Wharf Chase

CHAPTER X - Shore Pirates!

CHAPTER XI - A Peculiar Theft

CHAPTER XII - The Vanishing Visitor

CHAPTER XIII - A Cryptic Threat

CHAPTER XIV - The Newspaper Clue

CHAPTER XV - Hunting an Intruder

CHAPTER XVI - Signals

CHAPTER XVII - The Cliffside Cave

CHAPTER XVIII - Legend of Treasure

CHAPTER XIX - Sleuths in Danger

CHAPTER XX - Underground Battle

“We’ll crash!” Jim Foy cried out

Copyright © 1988, 1960 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07652-1

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Hong Kong Junk

“JOE, look out! That launch will hit you!” shouted Frank Hardy from the beach.

A split second before, his brother Joe had surfaced after a dive off a float. Now the launch was almost on top of him!

“That’s Clams Dagget’s boat!” Frank cried to two companions, Tony Prito and Biff Hooper. All stared ahead in horror.

A third boy, plump Chet Morton, who had been bobbing like a cork in the cool, blue water, had seen the oncoming launch and dived under the float with Joe Hardy. The craft roared off, the pilot paying no attention to the two swimmers. In a moment they came to the surface and swam ashore to join the others.

“Whew! That was close!” Chet gasped. “Thought I was a goner. Clams must be going blind!”

“He’s as absent-minded as they come!” Joe stormed, panting.

“He sure is,” Tony agreed. “I don’t see why the town of Bayport lets him run a ferry service to Rocky Isle.”

“Probably because no one else has a boat big enough or wants the job,” Biff suggested.

Suddenly Frank grinned. “Maybe we fellows can run a service of our own—in a Chinese junk from Hong Kong. I know where one is for sale cheap.”

The dark-haired boy, a year older than his blond brother, said that their Chinese-American friend, Jim Foy, had told him only the day before about the boat.

“Jim’s cousin lives in New York City,” Frank explained, “and works as a salesman at a place in Staten Island where the junks are sold. New ones cost plenty, but the company isn’t even advertising this secondhand boat. They’re asking only a fraction of its original value.”

“Say, that sounds neat,” Joe broke in. “And a ferry business would solve our summer work problem.”

It was a bright June afternoon, a few days after Bayport High had closed for vacation. The five boys had gathered for a swim and to make plans for earning money during the next two months.

“You mean we’d charge passengers for picnic excursions to Rocky Isle?” Biff asked.

As Frank nodded, Tony remarked, “Good idea, if we could raise enough money to buy the junk, and provided it’s seaworthy.”

“It might have an interesting history,” Frank said, not at all discouraged by Tony. “The junk may once have belonged to a Chinese pirate and have jade treasure hidden aboard!”

“How can we lose?” Biff declared with a grin.

“A real Chinese junk would sure attract attention here on Barmet Bay,” Chet remarked.

The price of the junk was several hundred dollars, but after much figuring, all the boys except Chet decided that they could raise equal shares from their savings.

“Gosh, fellows, I’m sorry,” said Chet. “But you know I’ve just bought all that spelunking equipment and I—”

Joe grinned. “You can take out your share in work,” he said, whereupon the stout boy groaned. The last thing Chet ever wanted to do was work!

“It’s more fun exploring caves than swabbing decks,” he mumbled. “But I can put in fifty dollars. Who’s going to make up the difference in the amount we need?”

“Jim Foy might, if he got a share of the profits,” Tony suggested.

“Okay. What’s stopping us?” said Joe eagerly. “Is it a deal?”

The five high school chums shook hands solemnly, then pulled on their slacks and T shirts.

It was decided that the boys would get their parents’ permission for the trip first, then Frank would contact Jim Foy and ask him to telephone for an option to buy the secondhand junk from Hong Kong. If everything was in order, the boys would leave the next morning by bus for New York City.

Tony and Biff went off with Chet Morton in his fire-engine-red jalopy. Hopping into their own yellow convertible, the Hardys drove back to their pleasant, tree-shaded home at the corner of High and Elm streets.

As Frank and Joe came in the kitchen door, they were greeted by Miss Gertrude Hardy, their father’s tall, angular sister, who now lived with him and his family.

“Supper will be on the table in a minute,” Aunt Gertrude said, lifting a flaky-crusted beef pie from the oven.

“Mm! Does that smell good!” Joe exclaimed. “Double helping for me, please!”

“Same here!” Frank added, sniffing the delicious aroma.

“Never mind the flattery about the food.” Miss Hardy waved them off, but Frank and Joe observed a pleased expression on her face. “It’s a wonder this crust isn’t burnt to a crisp with you two getting home so late,” she scolded.

The boys, chuckling, went to wash their hands. Although their aunt was sometimes peppery in manner, the brothers were as fond of her as she was of them.

When they came to the table, Frank and Joe each found an extra-large serving on his plate and exchanged knowing grins. Aunt Gertrude poured milk into their glasses, then said with a sigh:

“Don’t know what ails me today. I just seem to ache in all my joints.”

“That’s too bad, Aunty,” Frank said sympathetically as he held her chair and she sat down. “You rest after supper. Joe and I will wash the dishes.”

“And break half of them most likely!” Miss Hardy retorted. But her face softened. “Still, it’s a kind offer. I may accept.”

As the brothers ate, they asked Aunt Gertrude if she had heard from their parents, who were now in California. Fenton Hardy, once a crack detective on the New York City police force, had retired to the thriving seaside town of Bayport, where clients from all over the country sought his services as a private investigator. At present, he was at work on a case in Los Angeles, seeking to track down an international thief known as the “Chameleon.” Mrs. Hardy had flown to the West Coast with her husband for a vacation.

“Your father,” Aunt Gertrude replied, “phoned this afternoon. He said to tell you boys that if you want to help him out on this case, keep your eyes open for a pair of rare gold cuff links with a bluish amber tiger set in them. They’ve been reported stolen in Hong Kong and smuggled into this country. In your father’s sleuthing he learned that the Chameleon, who collects priceless jewelry, is trying to get hold of such a pair. If you find them, you may also find the Chameleon.”

“It sounds like hunting for a needle in a haystack,” Frank remarked, “but if we should come across either the cuff links or the Chameleon, we’ll certainly let Dad know.”

Though amateur detectives, the brothers had solved many mysteries, and hoped to follow careers similar to that of their father. From The Tower Treasure through their latest adventure in Alaska, The Mystery at Devil’s Paw, Frank and Joe had experienced many exciting and dangerous adventures.

Suddenly Frank clapped a hand to his head. “Aunt Gertrude, I almost forgot. Joe and I have another project.”

The brothers outlined their scheme for purchasing the Chinese junk. Then, with quickened pulses, they awaited Miss Hardy’s reaction.

“Well,” she said finally. “If it’ll keep you boys occupied this summer, I guess it’s all right. By the way, where is the money for your share coming from?”

“We have some in Dad’s safe up in his study,”

Joe replied. “It’s the reward money Frank and I got for finding that lost child. A brand-new one-hundred-dollar bill for each of us.”

Frank got up and hurried to the telephone. After learning that Biff, Tony, and Chet were also set for the trip to buy the junk, Frank called Jim Foy. The Chinese-American boy was amazed to hear the proposal and excused himself for a few minutes to speak to his parents. Returning, he said:

“My good parents say I may go. I will phone my cousin at once and have him place an option on the junk. When shall I meet you fellows?”

“Just before ten o’clock tomorrow. Bus terminal.”

“I’ll be there. This is a terrific break for me.”

Frank returned to the table to find Joe urging his aunt to retire. She agreed, adding that she was disgusted with herself for not feeling as strong and vigorous as she generally did.

“Anything else we can do for you—besides wash the dishes?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Try to be quiet. Noise makes my head hurt. If you want to watch TV or do anything else, please go to the recreation room in the basement.”

The brothers quickly washed the dishes, then went downstairs. They laid plans for the Staten Island trip, then Frank went to make a call to Chet Morton on the cellar extension.

Joe, meanwhile, hurried upstairs, dialed the combination on his father’s safe, and opened it. While locating the money for the Chinese junk, he noticed a Manila packet marked Secret File on Chameleon.

The young sleuth took out the two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills with the picture of Benjamin Franklin on the face and Independence Hall on the back. Joe closed the safe and turned the tumblers. As he walked downstairs, he looked at the bills. Having worked on a counterfeit case, he knew a good deal about currency.

“Federal reserve notes, one from the eighth district, St. Louis, and the other from the fifth, Richmond,” he mused, noticing the green seal, and the letters H before one serial number and E in front of the second. “And what do you know? This one starts with H18 and ends with F. Hmm. Hardy—Frank—eighteen years old.”

Joe studied the second bill. “And this one begins E1015 and ends with A. E for Elm Street on our corner.” He chuckled. “And JO are the tenth and fifteenth letters in the alphabet! That means me. The A—well, that could be for Aunt Gertrude.”

Joe went to his mother’s desk in the living room and obtained an envelope printed with the Hardy name and address. He slipped the bills inside. Just then, Joe thought he heard a car stop in front of the house. Laying the envelope on the mantel, he went to look out the window. No automobile was in sight. “Guess I was wrong,” Joe told himself and hurried down to the basement.

Ten minutes later, just as Frank finished the conversation with Chet on the phone, he suddenly gasped and pointed to one of the basement windows. A fearsome-looking Oriental face was pressed against the pane—the man’s teeth bared in an evil grimace!

For a moment the boys were too startled to act. Before they could make a move, the lights went out, plunging the basement into darkness!

“A prowler!” Joe exclaimed. “And we forgot to turn on the alarm!” The warning system automatically rang a bell in the house and flood-lighted the Hardy grounds when anyone approached.

“Too late now,” Frank said. “Let’s get that man! I’ll go out the cellar door. You run upstairs and find out if everything’s okay.”

The boys dashed to the landing and Frank hurried outside. Joe continued to the top of the steps and put his hand on the doorknob.

“It’s locked!” he murmured, rattling the knob and pounding on the door panel.

After a few tense moments Joe heard slippered feet enter the kitchen. Then Aunt Gertrude unlocked and opened the door.

“Mercy, what’s all the racket about?”

“Someone locked us in after turning off the switch here in the kitchen,” Joe explained. He pointed to the wall button, which was in Off position. “You didn’t—”

“Of course not,” Aunt Gertrude replied tartly. “There must be a burglar in the housel”

“A burglar!” Joe echoed. The next second he raced into the living room and stared at the mantel.

The envelope containing the two new hundred dollar bills was gone!

CHAPTER II

Mysterious Engine Trouble

JOE, sure the burglar had made his escape from the house, dashed to the front door. He switched on the porch light. Out on the lawn he could see two figures struggling on the ground. One was Frank.

Before Joe could reach his brother, he recognized the other fighter. “Jim Foy!” he cried out.

The two boys separated and grinned sheepishly.

“Gee, I didn’t mean to scare you guys so much that you’d tackle me,” Jim said, panting.

“You mean that was you staring at us through the basement window?” Frank exclaimed.

Jim nodded. He screwed his face into a horrible grimace. “The Oriental Avenger—that’s me!”

Frank laughed, but Joe said quickly, “Jim, we’ve been robbed! Frank, our two hundred dollars are gone!”

Frank looked amazed, and Jim said, “Fellows, I saw a man run out your back door, just after the cellar light went out.”

“Let’s hunt for him!” Joe urged.

The trio made a quick search of the grounds and adjoining streets, but the thief had eluded them.

“Did you get a look at him?” Joe asked Jim.

“Not a good one. It was too dark in the yard. The guy was tall and thin. Say, come to think of it, he made no noise. Probably was carrying his shoes.”

“So there won’t be anything but sock footprints,” Frank commented. He went for a flashlight and found this to be the case. They were of no use in identifying the thief.

The searchers returned to the house. Aunt Gertrude had checked to find out what the burglar might have taken and how he had entered the house. She had found a cut in a screen at an open window, but reported nothing missing. Joe now told her about the stolen money.

Miss Hardy sucked in her breath. “Two hundred dollars!” she cried out. “Joe, why did you leave it on the mantel? Go tell the police right away. But you’ll never get those bills back. Money’s too hard to trace.” Then, seeing the crestfallen look on her nephew’s face, she added,

“Never mind. I’ll lend you boys two hundred dollars for your share in buying the junk. You can repay me from your profits.”

Frank and Joe relaxed, gave their aunt a tremendous hug, then urged her to go back to bed. “I’ll turn on the prowler alarm,” Frank told her, and immediately went to do this.

Meanwhile, Joe had picked up the phone and was giving Police Chief Collig, an old friend of the Hardys, a report on the stolen money, including the letters and first few serial numbers on the bills.

“Good clues, Joe,” the officer said. “I’ll send out word right away.”

When the excitement subsided, Jim Foy informed the brothers he had come to tell them that he could not go to New York after all. “So I brought you my share of the money for the junk,” he explained, pulling several bills from a pocket.

“Too bad you can’t go,” said Joe. “By the way, what is your cousin’s address in New York?”

“He lives in Chinatown with his parents. My uncle Dan Foy owns a restaurant there called the Canton Palace.” Jim wrote down the address and telephone number and handed the paper to Joe.

The next morning, before Frank and Joe were dressed, the prowler alarm sounded, then the front doorbell began to ring persistently.

“Who can that be?” Frank asked, puzzled.

He slipped on a robe and hurried downstairs, with Joe at his heels. When Frank opened the door, he found himself face to face with Clams Dagget. The wiry, stooped old pilot thrust his way inside. As usual, he was wearing a striped jersey, dungarees, and a squashed-down yachting cap.

Joe said, “Clams, if you’ve come to apologize about nearly running me down yesterday—”

“Apologize!” Clams roared in a hoarse voice. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Now listen. I heard that pal o’ yours, Biff Hooper, talkin’ on the dock last night about how you fellers are buyin’ a Chinese junk and startin’ a passenger service to Rocky Isle!”

“What about it?” Frank asked coolly.

“It’s a blamed outrage! Takin’ bread out o’ an old man’s mouth, cuttin’ in on my business! I won’t stand for it!”

“Now just a minute,” Frank said. “No one’s trying to take away your business. There’ll be plenty for both our boats.”

“What do you know about it?” Clams shook his fist at the Hardys. “I’m warnin’ you young snips you won’t get away with this!”

Suddenly a voice in back of them called, “How dare you threaten my nephews!” Aunt Gertrude, coming from the kitchen, bore down indignantly on the visitor.

“You won’t get away with cuttin’ in on my

business!” Daggett roared

Clams stepped backward. Aunt Gertrude pressed her advantage by inching him out of the house and closing the door. Then she put her hand to her head.

“I—I feel faint. I’d better lie down.”

Joe helped his aunt to the living-room couch, while Frank rushed off to get her some tea. As she sipped it, her nephews ate the breakfast she had prepared. Presently Miss Hardy declared that she was feeling fine again. Nevertheless, the boys insisted that she relax while they washed the dishes.

“Aunt Gertrude, promise me you’ll call a doctor if you don’t feel well,” Frank urged, when the brothers were ready to leave.

“I promise.” Miss Hardy then handed Frank a check for two hundred dollars. “You can cash it on your way to the bus,” she said.

Both boys thanked her and gave their aunt resounding kisses on the cheek. Then they drove downtown, and after cashing Aunt Gertrude’s check, went to the Bayport bus terminal. Frank left the car in an adjoining parking lot. Chet, Biff, and Tony were waiting for them.

“Hi, fellows!” they exchanged greetings. Ten minutes later their bus pulled out.

They rolled at a fast clip through the country-side, but it was late afternoon before the travelers reached New York.

“What’s first on the schedule?” Biff asked as they paused in the terminal waiting room.

Frank suggested that they register at a hotel, then do some night sight-seeing. He telephoned the Canton Palace but learned that neither Jim’s uncle nor cousin would be there during the evening, so the boys decided not to go to Chinatown. Instead they strolled along Broadway, and were fascinated by the crowded theater district, with its huge lighted signs, restaurants, and hotels.

The next morning the boys checked out of their hotel and took an early ferry to Staten Island. A short bus ride along the waterfront brought them to the pier where the Hong Kong Trading Company had its warehouse and office.

“Hot dog! There they are!” Tony exclaimed. Two of the Chinese junks were tied up at dockside, while three more could be seen resting in cradles inside the warehouse, with their masts unstepped. The five boys entered the office.

“Something I can do for you?” a bald-headed man asked, rising from his desk.

“We’ve come to see about the secondhand junk,” Frank told him. “Is Mr. Foy in?”

“I’ll get him.”

Ben Foy was a pleasant-faced young man. He gave the callers a friendly smile and said he was sorry that Jim had not been able to come.

“I’ll show you the junk you took the option on,” Ben said. “I think it’s a rare buy.”

Even with its sails furled, the craft had a romantic, adventuresome look. The boys seethed with excitement as they jumped aboard. The junk was a thirty-foot two-master, carrying two large sails and a jib. Amidships there was a round-roofed cabin.

“Boy! What a dream boat!” Joe exclaimed.

“It’s the biggest, most seaworthy craft you can get for the money,” Ben Foy boasted. “These jobs are shipped by freighter from Hong Kong. Normally we just sell new craft. This used one got into our consignment by mistake, so we’re letting it go at a sacrifice.”

He added that the junk was built of Borneo ironwood with one-inch-thick mahogany deck planking. “It’ll last for years.”

“Look at that figurehead up front!” Biff exclaimed. Leaning over the prow, he pointed to the painted figure of a stern-looking, slant-eyed Chinese mandarin holding a scroll in his hands.

“What are those eyes up at the bow?” Tony asked. He pointed to two realistic-looking eyes, made of glass, one on each side of the prow.

Ben Foy laughed. “ ‘Boat with no eyes cannot see!’ That’s an old proverb,” he explained.

Other decorations, such as Oriental dragons and banners, were painted in bright colors at various points around the junk. At the stern was the name Hai Hau.

“That’s Chinese for ‘Queen of the Sea,’ ” Ben Foy translated.

He showed the boys the junk’s equipment, which included awnings to cover the afterdeck in bad weather, a euloh or sweep oar, to assist the ship in light wind or against the current, and a thirty-five-horsepower auxiliary outboard engine.

“Part of the stern area can be used as galley space,” Ben added. “Here’s a charcoal stove, and there’s a small icebox compartment in the port-side locker.”

“That’s for Chet!” Tony laughed.

The boys were highly satisfied and declared they were ready to purchase the junk. In answer to questions from Frank and Joe, Ben gave them a number of tips on handling and sailing the craft. Then they all went into the company’s sales office to sign the purchase papers.

“Before sailing the junk home,” Ben said, “you’ll have to go to the Coast Guard office and obtain a Certificate of Award of Number.”

“How long will that take?” Frank asked.

“It could be several days.”

At this announcement the boys sighed. “Say, what’s going on outside?” Biff asked suddenly.

Through the open window they could see four Chinese gesturing as they examined the Hai Hau. A moment later the men crowded into the office. One was tall, the others short. All had cruel, calculating expressions.

“We wish to buy the Hai Hau,” the tall Oriental declared. He took out a bulging wallet.

“Sorry.” Ben shook his head. “You’re too late to buy that junk. But we have some brand-new ones which I can show you.”

The tall man snarled, “I said we wish to buy the Hai Hau—that is the one we prefer!”

“Well, you’re out of luck. These fellows have just purchased it.”

The four Chinese glared at the youths and burst into angry chattering, but Ben repeated firmly that the deal was closed. He finally managed to usher the obnoxious men outside.

Chet looked worried. “Why do you think they only wanted our boat?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?” Tony echoed. “It wasn’t advertised. This could mean trouble for us.”

“Oh, stop stewing,” Biff scoffed. “They may have seen it being unloaded here.”

The boys went to the Coast Guard office, and told a clerk what they wanted. He asked them to sit down and wait.

Half an hour went by. One hour. The boys fidgeted and walked around.

“We may have to sit here for days,” Chet said aloud, following his statement with a loud groan. The other boys looked glum.

A commander, standing nearby, overheard Chet’s remark. With a smile he walked over and said, “Boys, I think we can take care of you now.”

All of them jumped up. He laughed and said, “One will do—the one with the receipt for the purchase of the junk.” Frank followed him and in a short time the transaction was finished. The boys hurried off. They ate lunch, then stowed their gear and some food aboard the Hai Hau. Frank revved the motor and they shoved off.

“Good junking!” Ben Foy waved a smiling farewell from the dock.

It was a hot, dead-calm day, so there was no point in hoisting the sails. They traveled southward along the Staten Island shoreline. Biff handled the tiller while Frank studied a chart on which he had plotted their course. Part of the homeward trip would be along inland waterways.

“Hey, the engine’s missing!” Joe exclaimed suddenly.

“Sounds like the plugs are fouled,” Tony said.

“Maybe it’s the oil film from storage.”

Before the boys could check, the outboard began to cough and vibrate alarmingly.

“That’s more than just the plugs!” Frank declared. He shut off the motor hastily and Tony removed the cowling. As Frank had predicted, the ignition system was not at fault. Evidently the trouble was more serious.

Chet groaned. “And Ben Foy guaranteed the motor!”

“So how do we get back to port?” Tony asked. “No wind, no sail.”

“Use the sweep oar, I guess,” Frank replied gloomily.

The boys unshipped the long, heavy euloh and fitted it onto the stern peg. Each of the chums took turns working as oarsman. At first they found the euloh clumsy to handle, but after a little practice they were able to keep the junk moving steadily.

The water was dotted with vessels moving through the Narrows, in and out of New York Harbor. Gulls screeched and wheeled overhead. Presently the Hai Hau returned to the Staten Island pier. After tying up, the boys hurried to inform Ben Foy of their plight. He frowned with surprise, but upon checking the motor himself, promised to have a new engine installed immediately.

“We’ll live up to our guarantee,” he assured the boys. “But it beats me what made that motor conk out! We overhauled it completely.” Ben Foy said that he was leaving the office shortly but would give orders to have the work done. “If you boys decide to stay over, come to the Canton Palace as my guests,” he urged.

As the Bayport group waited for a new engine to be installed, the four Chinese who had tried to buy the junk suddenly appeared at the dock. “For Pete’s sake, why are they here again?” Tonv muttered.

The tall leader walked up to the boys and offered to buy the junk from them at a price far higher than they had paid. Frank, as spokesman for his group, refused, but the Chinese and his friends continued to pester the youths.

“No deal—that’s final!” Frank said.

The Orientals exploded into angry phrases in their native language but finally walked away. Chet said under his breath, “What’s eating those guys, anyway?”

“I wish I knew,” Frank replied, puzzled.

By the time the new engine was installed, it was too late in the day to start for Bayport. They decided to leave the junk moored at the dock and sleep on it overnight.

Tony, feeling uneasy about the safety of the junk if left unguarded, offered to stay aboard while the others visited the Canton Palace in Chinatown. “Those mystery men may even come back here and help themselves to it!”

Biff, Chet, and the Hardys took the ferry to Manhattan. Alighting at the Battery, they asked directions from a policeman. Frank suggested they walk to the restaurant.

“Suits me!” Chet said. Joe and Biff nodded.

Dusk was shadowing the city when they reached the outskirts of Chinatown. Presently Joe gave his brother a nudge.

“Don’t look now, but I think we’re being followed! Probably by those four guys who want the Hai Hau!”

CHAPTER III

Shadowy Attackers

FRANK sneaked a swift glance over his shoulder. The men were coming up behind the boys, hats pulled low over their faces.

“Let’s go faster!” Frank hissed. “Then we can find out if they’re really following us.”

The boys quickened their pace and turned at the next corner.

“They’re still with us!” Joe reported.

Unfortunately, there was no policeman in sight; only pedestrians, who were, in the main, Orientals.

“We’d better shake those men off!” Frank decided.

The four youths broke into a sprint, ducking in and out among the sidewalk strollers. The pace got hotter as the pursuit continued. The boys cut through an alley, crossed a street, and turned at the next corner. For several minutes they dodged and doubled back through the narrow streets. Finally they were sure they had shaken their pursuers.

“Man, I’m bushed!” Chet panted as they paused for breath in front of a Chinese grocery. Then his expression changed. “Hey, look at all this chow!”

He pointed to the store window. Shark fins, pressed ducks, and dried squid were displayed along with Chinese herbs and vegetables.

“Interesting,” said Frank, “but we’d better find the Canton Palace before those men spot us again!”

By this time, colored electric signs were blinking on all over the neighborhood, many in Chinese. Store windows were crammed with Oriental merchandise, including carved Buddhas, jade trinkets, and Chinese silk pajamas.

“Here’s the restaurant!” Joe exclaimed presently.

When they entered the dimly lighted restaurant, the headwaiter came forward and with a polite smile showed them to a booth. Frank asked for Jim Foy’s uncle and cousin.

“Ah, yes, I bring them right away,” the headwaiter promised.

A few moments later Mr. Dan Foy approached. He was a pleasant, round-faced man with gold-rimmed spectacles. He said that Ben had had to go on an errand.

“You are friends of my esteemed nephew, I understand.”

“That’s right, sir.” Frank introduced himself, Joe, and their two chums. “Jim is a good friend and he’s one of our partners in buying the junk.”

“So happy to hear that.”

Mr. Foy chatted with the boys awhile and took personal charge of ordering their dinner. Soon the four youths were enjoying bird’s-nest soup, roast duck, egg rolls, and almond cakes.

Suddenly a deep singsong voice said, “I understand you are owners of a junk called the Hai Hau.”

The boys looked up, startled. The speaker was a giant Chinese, with a long melon-shaped head and jutting ears. He had glided out of the shadows to their booth.

“How do you know that?” Frank asked sharply.

“Did you not say so to honorable restaurant owner?” The man smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chin Gok. I would like to buy the Hai Hau.”

“I’m sorry, but the boat is not for sale.”

The huge Chinese smiled. “Do not decide too hastily. I will pay much more than it cost. Let us say, a profit of one hundred dollars?”

Frank glanced at the others, then shook his head. “No, thanks. We’re keeping the junk.”

Chin Gok’s face went pale with rage, but he did not speak. Bowing, he walked away.

“Wow! A hundred bucks’ profit!” Biff muttered. “Maybe we should have taken it!”

“Nothing doing,” Joe declared in a whisper. “If that junk is so valuable, we’re hanging on to it.”

Worried by the strange events of the afternoon and evening, the boys were anxious to get back to the Hai Hau. They finished their meal, thanked Mr. Foy for his hospitality, and left the restaurant.

“Let’s take a taxi,” Chet suggested nervously.

“Good idea, if we can find one,” Frank said.

The boys hurried toward Chatham Square. As they passed a darkened doorway, Joe heard a shuffling noise. Before he could turn, someone grabbed him.

“Look out!” Joe yelled to the others.

The boys whirled to find themselves facing four masked assailants! The assault had come so suddenly there was no time to plan a defense. Fists swung wildly in the darkness as the youths fought off their attackers.

Bam! Frank landed a terrific right that sent one thug reeling back against the wall. Biff was swinging like a windmill, while Chet’s beefy strength was slowly wearing down another opponent.

Joe, whose arms had been pinioned from the back, was having the roughest time of all. But he fought tigerishly, kicking his opponent’s legs.

Suddenly one of the masked men barked out something in Chinese. The boys assumed it was a warning that a policeman was coming, for they saw one in the distance. The next moment all four attackers went racing down a nearby alley in the darkness.

“Let ’em go,” Frank advised as the others started after the thugs. “This might even be a trap.”

“Those sneaking rats!” Biff panted. “I wonder if they were the same guys who were following us? And what’s the big idea, anyhow?”

“Maybe this’ll prove something,” Joe said. He picked up a torn-off piece of newspaper. “When I was scrapping with that guy who jumped me, this fell out of his pocket.”

“Let’s see.”

Frank held the paper up to the light from a nearby store. It was printed in Chinese.

“What good’ll that do us?” Chet asked. “None of us can read Chinese.”

“Mr. Foy can. Let’s go back and ask him,” Frank suggested.

The boys retraced their steps to the restaurant. Mr. Foy was shocked to hear about the attack. He took the boys into a back room and read the article to them in English.

It was a story about a smuggling plot, which had just been uncovered by the United States customs authorities. It stated that while Chin Gok was a suspect, nothing had been definitely proved against him and he had been released.

“What’s his game now?” Biff puzzled. “I mean, where does the junk come in?”

Frank frowned thoughtfully. “Remember, Ben Foy told us that the Hai Hau had been shipped to his company by mistake. Actually, it might have been a put-up job. Chin Gok may have used it to smuggle contraband into this country.”

Chet’s eyes bugged. “You mean there was treasure hidden aboard and not by some old pirate either?”

Frank nodded. “That would explain why all these guys are so eager to get hold of our boat. It’s full of nooks and crannies where it would be easy for a smuggler to sneak stuff through customs.”

Joe shot his brother a worried glance. If the Hai Hau did contain contraband, the boys might find themselves in real trouble. But neither of the Hardys wished to alarm their chums by pointing this out.

“Perhaps it would be safer if I called a taxi to take you back to the ferry,” Mr. Foy suggested. The boys agreed to this, and the restaurant owner added, “Please be careful!”

The chums arrived at the pier on Staten Island without further incident. Tony reported that nothing had happened while they were gone, and listened to their night’s adventures with keen interest.

“Let’s get away from here early,” he urged.

The next morning, as the boys prepared to embark for Bayport, a little after six o’clock, a short, slender Chinese approached them on the dock.

“Good grief, another one?” Chet muttered.

Their visitor was dapperly dressed in a summer suit and straw hat. “Good morning, boys. May I introduce myself? George Ti-Ming. The Hai Hau is most pleasing to me. It is exactly like one owned by my family in China. I was disappointed to learn that you young gentlemen had purchased it, because I should like to have it. Perhaps you would be willing to sell for a suitable price?”

The boys exchanged suspicious glances. Was he another member of a large gang determined to get the boat, or were there three separate groups interested in it? And why?

“We do not wish to sell,” Frank told Mr. Ti-Ming.

The man shrugged. “There is an old Chinese saying that bad luck follows those who will not be reasonable. You may regret your decision.”

The youthful owners of the Hai Hau began to suspect the same thing. But they rejected any thought of giving up the junk, and cast-off as George Ti-Ming stood watching them, his eyes slitted with annoyance.

The sky was overcast, with a brisk breeze chopping up the gray-green sea. The Bayport crew hoisted sail to take advantage of the wind.

“Boy, at last we get a chance to enjoy ourselves!” Chet lolled back in the stem, lacing his hands behind his head.

“You said it,” Frank agreed. “But we’d better keep an eye on the weather.”

The outer harbor was alive with shipping, but gradually they left this scene of activity behind. As the Hai Hau proceeded along during the late afternoon, the wind gradually died down and mist gathered over the water. Sails flapping, the junk had to depend on its motor.

“That fog’s building up,” Tony remarked. “We’d better hug the shoreline.”

Joe, who was handling the tiller, nodded. “Looks as though it’s going to be a real peasouper.” He cut speed as the fog became thicker.

The hooting of foghorns reached their ears. Frank began sounding their own power whistle, a blast every minute. Bit by bit, the fog closed in. Soon they were blanketed by a thick curtain.

“Think we should drop anchor?” Joe asked.

His question was answered as they felt a sudden bump from the bottom. The motor churned uselessly.

“We’re aground!” Biff exclaimed.

Joe cut the outboard hastily, hoping that no damage had occurred.

“N-now what?” said Chet nervously.

Frank shrugged. “Wait it out till the fog lifts. It’s about all we can do.”

It was an eerie sensation, lying still on the water, cut off from the outside world. The boys took turns ringing the junk’s bell. From time to time, muffled sounds drifted through the swirling mist.

Chet had taken charge of the galley. As he prepared to heat up cans of beans for supper on the charcoal stove, he accidentally spilled several red-hot embers onto the wooden deck.

“Watch it!” Tony yelled.

Joe doused the embers with a splash of water. “Take it easy, Chet!”

“This junk must be jinxed!” Biff grumbled.

The fog did not lift until morning. Biff and Tony pried the junk loose with the euloh oar and a boat hook, while Frank reversed the engine. Fortunately, no damage had occurred.

The boys resumed their voyage, making good time. They slept on board again that night and at noon the next day, Saturday, triumphantly sailed into Bayport Harbor. A crowd gathered as the junk approached the public dock.

“Boy, look at the reception!” Chet exulted.

“All we need is a brass band,” Tony agreed with a pleased grin. “This’ll get our boat business off to a flying start!”

The boys’ satisfaction dimmed considerably when they found themselves greeted by laughs and joking comments. Clams Dagget was in the forefront of the crowd, spurring on the spectators with jeering remarks.

“Here comes the ‘Hee Haw’! I told you they was buyin’ a real junk!” he hooted. “I’d sooner put to sea in a bathtub!”

Joe scrambled up on the dock, ready to blast Clams angrily. But Frank laid a restraining hand on his brother’s arm.

“Let him have his little joke.” Calling out to Clams, he said, “It’s pronounced ‘Hay How.’ ”

After arranging for space at a dock that had day and night guards, the chums left the Hai Hau tied up, planning to get in touch with one another by phone. Frank and Joe hurried home. They found Aunt Gertrude pale and upset.

“I’m glad you’re back!” she said, as they each gave her a hug. “There was a prowler here again last night!”

CHAPTER IV

Chet’s Dilemma

“A PROWLER!” Frank echoed. “What happened, Aunt Gertrude?”

“The alarm bell went off in the middle of the night,” Miss Hardy reported. “I jumped out of bed and looked down at the lawn. The floodlights were on and I could see a man dart off through the bushes!”

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“I could see only his back, but he seemed tall. Fortunately, all the doors were bolted.” Upset by the recollection, Miss Hardy sank into an armchair. “Gave me a dreadful fright! I thought for a while I might faint!”

“Not a brave person like you!” Joe patted her shoulder affectionately. “Did you call the police?”

His aunt sniffed. “Certainly not! What good would that have done? The man was gone.”

After fixing lunch for the boys, Aunt Gertrude went upstairs to lie down. Frank and Joe ate with zest, discussing the case between mouthfuls of tomato soup, cold roast chicken, and angel cake.

“If that prowler was tall, he might have been the same guy who stole our two hundred dollars,” Joe conjectured.

Frank nodded. “Sounds that way. We’d better report it to Chief Collig. I’d like to know if he has any leads on the thief.”

“Afraid not, boys,” the officer said. “It’s my opinion the burglar has left town. But your report, Frank, sheds a new light on the matter.”

After putting down the phone, Frank got paper and pencil and jotted down four objectives for him and Joe to accomplish. From their father, the boys had learned that thinking with a pencil often helped to clarify a case. Joe grinned wryly as he read what his brother had written:

1. Find out who the prowler is.

2. Solve the mystery behind the Hai Hau.

3. Learn more about Chin Gok, George Ti-Ming, and the other four Chinese.

4. Get going with our boat business!

“I’d say we have our hands full!”

“Ditto!” Frank agreed. “First, let’s check the grounds.”

The brothers looked around the house for footprints, but the prowler seemed to have left none, although the soil was soft.

“If you’re looking for that prowler’s marks, it’s no use,” Aunt Gertrude informed them from an upstairs window. “It rained here last night.”

Frank and Joe spent the rest of the afternoon replacing the old alarm system with a new type to warn of anyone approaching. They tore out the wiring in the shrubbery and substituted an electric-eye “snooperscope” arrangement, as Joe dubbed it. Next, the boys disconnected the outdoor floodlights and the shrill alarm bell in the house. Instead, they hooked up a series of buzzers on all floors. By this setup, the Hardys hoped to lure intruders close enough to be captured, rather than frighten them away.

“It should do the trick if that thief pays us another visit,” Frank said when the job was finished.

“There’s only one thing I wish we’d done differently; fix the system so it would work with the doors open,” said Joe. “But it’s too late to change it. We must remember to keep them closed.”

Remembering that they had not yet reported to Jim Foy, Frank telephoned him. The Chinese-American lad was thrilled to hear he was part owner of the Hai Hau, but mystified by the boys’ strange adventures on the Staten Island pier and in Chinatown.

“Is there any way your uncle or cousin could help us check up on George Ti-Ming?” Frank asked.

“Sure,” Jim replied. “Uncle Dan’s a member of the Chinese Benevolent Association. It has information on everybody connected with Chinatown. I’ll ask him to find out.”

“Swell!”

Before hanging up, Frank told Jim the brothers would meet him at the Hai Hau after church the next morning. The three gathered at twelve-thirty and Jim’s eyes sparkled as he walked around the junk.

“She’s a beauty,” he said enthusiastically. “I guess she’s pretty old, but in good shape. When do we begin business?”

“As soon as we find out what the law requires to carry passengers,” Frank replied.

Monday morning, when the Hardys were eating breakfast, Tony Prito stopped by in one of his father’s construction company’s pickup trucks.

“Hey, you know my cousin Ralph who’s a Coast Guard officer?” Tony said. “Well, I got all the dope from him yesterday about operating a passenger boat for hire.”

“Neat. What is it?” Frank asked.

“Well, we can’t carry more than six passengers without going to a lot of trouble in keeping to regulations.”

“That’s okay,” said Joe cheerfully. “We’ll make two or three round trips each day.”

“Frank,” Tony went on, “you and I will have to get pilot’s licenses.”

“What about the rest of us?” Joe put in.

“Can’t. You have to be eighteen.”

“What’s involved in getting the licenses?” Frank inquired of Tony.

“A written test and a physical exam by our family doctors or the Public Health Service,” Tony replied. “Bring along a letter from your doctor.”

“Okay, I’ll make an appointment this morning. What’s the test on?”

“Navigation laws—and first aid, fire prevention, buoys, sanitation, etc.”

“You fellows had better pass or we won’t be in business,” Joe warned with a grin.

Frank winked at Tony and clutched his stomach. “Oh, I’ve developed a horrible pain. Afraid I have appendicitis.”

“Too bad,” said Tony. He got up from the chair on which he had been sitting and limped across the room. “No use, Joe. Can’t run a junk with a bad leg.”

“Okay, you guys.” Joe laughed. “Get going!”

Frank promised to meet Tony on the Hai Hau’s dock at two o’clock and called the Hardys’ family physician, Dr. Bates, as soon as Tony had left. The brothers spent the next hour composing an advertisement announcing their boat business, to be turned in at the Bayport Times office as soon as the licenses to run the Hai Hau were granted.

The doctor’s nurse had given Frank an appointment at one o’clock sharp. After getting his checkup and a letter from Dr. Bates reporting a perfect score, Frank drove to the pier. Tony was already there and reported that he too had been given a clean bill of health. He showed Frank several life jackets.

“Ralph advised me to get these,” Tony said. “We can split the cost later. Did you bone up on your rules and regulations, Frank?”

“Sure did. I think I know ’em okay.”

Frank and Tony went off to the Coast Guard inspector’s office, and passed the written test without any trouble. The boys were given papers showing they had licenses to operate the Hai Hau. They then parted and Frank drove to the Hardy home.

“Now we can run the ad,” said Joe, relieved. He and Frank took it to the newspaper office.

“What’s next?” Joe asked.

Frank suggested that the brothers inform their other partners they were now ready for business. “Let’s start with Chet.”

He drove the car to the Morton farm on the outskirts of Bayport. Only Chet’s mother was at home. She said that Chet had gone to practice something to do with spelunking at the abandoned Tyler farm, a mile down the road.

“I didn’t know that place had a cave on it,” Joe remarked as he and Frank drove off.

Frank pulled into the rutted dirt drive of the Tyler farm and stopped in front of the weather-beaten, deserted house. The boys got out.

“Hey, Chet!” Joe shouted, cupping his hands.

The brothers began scouting the fields, which were overgrown with weeds and brush.

Suddenly a shrill whistle came as if from nowhere, followed by a ghostly voice calling, “Hey, you guys! Help!”

“It’s Chet!” Frank exclaimed. “Where is he?”

A further search revealed an old dry well. Attached at the top of the well to a tree was a broken length of rope. At the bottom of the gloomy shaft they could make out the round face of their chum looking up at them pitifully.

“For Pete’s sake, what happened?” Joe called down. “You all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right, but get me out of here!”

Joe ran back to the car and returned with a rope. After much tugging and hauling, the Hardys finally succeeded in pulling Chet to safety.

“Thanks, fellows!” he panted.

The Hardys eyed in amazement the strange-looking garb of their friend, who was perspiring heavily.

“Good grief!” Joe burst out laughing. “What’re you dressed up for—a moon flight?”

The stout youth was wearing large, one-piece green coveralls. They fitted snugly at wrists and ankles, and had leather patches at the knees and shoulders. The opening at the neck revealed two heavy red-plaid wool shirts underneath, which made Chet’s oversize figure bulge more than ever. Cotton work gloves, huge hiking boots with sweat socks, and a hard hat topped with a miner’s lamp completed Chet’s costume.

He also carried a police whistle on a lanyard around his neck, a waterproof plastic bag over one shoulder, and a length of nylon rope wrapped around his plump midriff.

“All that in this weather?” Frank shook his head. “Heat must’ve gone to your brain, Chet.”

“You just don’t know about spelunking,” Chet defended himself, adding proudly, “The name comes from the Latin word for cave, spelunca.”

“Do you need this much gear for exploring caves?” Joe put in.

“Sure, it’s dangerous. You have to be prepared for emergencies,” Chet replied.

He opened his shoulder bag and took out a compass, a special watertight flashlight with a plastic lens, extra bulbs, batteries, matches, and candles in a small waterproof container. There were also plastic reflecting tape, several strips of which he had already pasted on his helmet, a cigar-shaped first-aid kit, a small knife, extra carbide and a repair kit for the lamp, and two canteens.

“One holds drinking water and the other extra water for the lamp,” Chet explained.

The Hardys stared at the heaped-up assortment. Chet beamed with pride as he stuffed the various objects into his kit bag.

“If all that equipment’s for exploring caves,” said Joe, “what were you doing inside the well?”

Chet reddened slightly. “Well—uh—I thought I’d try chimneying. That’s a way of climbing up a narrow passage by pushing your feet against the opposite side and inching up. I let myself down by the rope and it broke. Then when I tried to chimney up, I found the well was too wide. So there I was. Good thing I heard you guys talking.”

Joe grinned. “And it’s a good thing our rescue rope didn’t break. You put enough of a strain on it yourself, without adding that ton of hardware you’re carrying!”

Chet was undaunted. “Go ahead, laugh. Spelunkers find some terrific sights underground.”

“I’ll bet it is interesting,” Frank conceded. “Maybe we can all take a crack at cave exploring this fall after our Chinese junk trips are over.”

“Now you’re talking!” Chet exclaimed. “There are some swell caves right around Bayport.”

Frank then told him about getting the license and running the ad. “Tomorrow let’s take the Hai Hau on a trial run around Barmet Bay and over to Rocky Isle,” he suggested. “We can figure out how much it’s going to cost us, so we’ll know what to charge our passengers.”

Chet hesitated. “I half promised a couple of people to take them spelunking,” he said, grinning mysteriously. “Thought you fellows might even come along. I didn’t know you’d be ready to start our ferry service so soon. I’ll come if I can, but don’t wait for me.”

“Okay.”

The Hardys took Chet home, then drove to their own house. The brothers found Aunt Gertrude entertaining a club friend, Mrs. Witherspoon, a widow. They greeted her, then went on to the kitchen for lemonade and cookies.

Mrs. Witherspoon had a piercing voice, and the boys could plainly hear the conversation. “... must tell you, Gertrude, about the most wonderful new doctor who’s just opened an office here in Bayport! Dr. Montrose, his name is.”

“Indeed? What is he like?” Aunt Gertrude asked.

“Simply amazing! He’s already helped Cora with her sciatica, and Mrs. Pritchard says he’s calmed her nerves no end. You ought to try him.” Mrs. Witherspoon went on to say that the wealthy Dr. Montrose also advised his patients in financial deals. He had already sent several women to a stockbroker friend of his to make investments.

After the visitor had left, Aunt Gertrude came into the kitchen to prepare supper.

“Humph!” she said. “It’s my opinion that fellow Montrose is a fraud! Probably every woman patient—and they’re all widows—will lose her money! I think it’s my duty to expose him.”

“You’ll need proof,” Frank reminded her.

“Then I’ll get proof!” Miss Hardy declared. “I’ll turn detective and ask him here to treat me. I’ll soon find out what he’s up to!”

CHAPTER V

A Strange Warning

THAT evening Frank and Joe went over their list of equipment on the Hai Hau. “Guess nothing’s missing,” said Joe.

At that moment Frank snapped his fingers. “Something very important is missing,” he said. “Our junk has no short-wave radio, and we might need one to get in touch with the Coast Guard. Let’s fix up that portable set in the basement.”

“You mean the one Dad just took out of the old car he sold—the set with the Coast Guard, the police, and the Hardy frequencies on it?”

Frank nodded. Two years ago the boys’ father had had a two-way set rigged up in their basement, so that he could have quick communication not only with the Bayport police, but with the cars of his operative Sam Radley and his sons.

“Swell idea!” said Joe. “Let’s get started.”

The brothers worked until nearly midnight getting the portable sending-and-receiving set ready for the Hai Hau. Then, yawning, they climbed the stairs to bed.

The next morning Aunt Gertrude telephoned Dr. Montrose early and asked him to call at the house. He arrived before nine o’clock, just as the boys were ready to leave. Mrs. Witherspoon was with him.

“I was in the doctor’s office, Gertrude, when you phoned,” the widow explained, “so I thought I’d come along and introduce you two. Believe me, you can have every faith in Dr. Montrose!”

The physician smiled confidently. He was tall and thin, with a small head perched on a long stringy neck. His eyes were sharp and piercing.

“And these are Miss Hardy’s nephews, Frank and Joe,” Mrs. Witherspoon went on.

The boys shook hands, then said they were about to leave the house for several hours.

“Mrs. Witherspoon, would you be able to stay here and answer the door or phone while my aunt is consulting Dr. Montrose?” Frank requested. He did not like the idea of leaving Miss Hardy alone on her detective mission!

“Oh, I’ll keep house while the doctor’s here,” Mrs. Witherspoon promised good-naturedly.

Frank and Joe thanked her. Before starting off Joe hurried to the basement to turn on the short-wave set.

“I’d like to call Aunt Gertrude later and hear what she found out from that ‘stock swindler,”’ Joe confided to his brother as they hurried to the dock. Frank grinned.

At the pier the Hardys found Biff and Tony polishing woodwork on the Hai Hau. Frank and Joe pitched in to help them, and a few minutes later Jim Foy showed up.

“Welcome aboard, honored guest,” Joe said solemnly, bowing low in Oriental manner.

The Chinese-American lad chuckled. “Boy, that’s corny enough for a Grade D movie about China! Which reminds me, I wrote my uncle about George Ti-Ming.”

“Fine,” said Frank. “Let us know as soon as you hear anything.”

Jim Foy scrambled down from the dock to join the others. Frank reminded them of the Chinese newspaper item concerning Chin Gok and the smuggling plot. “Let’s search this junk and see if anything’s still hidden aboard.”

“Right!” Tony agreed.

The boys began a search of every crack and crevice. They were about to give up when Joe gave a shout from the bow.

“Hey, someone bring a screw driver!”

Frank grabbed one from the tool locker and hurried to join his brother in the bow. The other boys watched as Joe carefully pried loose a tiny silvery object which had become wedged between two deck planks.

“What is it?” Biff asked, staring with wide-eyed interest. Then he exclaimed, “A bullet!”

“Good night!” said Tony. “I wonder when that missed someone and landed here!”

Frank and Joe examined the bullet. “My guess is that it came from quite a distance,” Frank said. “Probably a stray intended for a practice target.”

“I hope you’re right,” Biff said with an uncomfortable feeling.

Tony urged that they stop searching and set sail. But the Hardys told Biff and Tony they needed time to install the two-way radio set they had brought along.

“I figured we could use it for ship-to-shore communication with that radio setup in our basement,” Frank explained, “and also call the Coast Guard if we need to.”

The job of installing the short-wave equipment was soon completed. Tony started the outboard and they put-putted away from the dock. Once clear, the sails were hoisted and the centerboard lowered.

“Wind on the port beam,” Frank observed.

Soon they were scudding over the water at a brisk clip. It was a bright sunny day and Rocky Isle was clearly outlined on the horizon beyond the mouth of Barmet Bay.

“Let’s try calling Aunt Gertrude,” Joe suggested presently. “Over an hour has gone by since Dr. Montrose came to the house. I’d like to know how she made out with her detective work.” Speaking into the mike, he said, “Hardy boys to Elm Street. Come in, please!”

There was no response, except a faint sputter of static. Repeated calls were not answered.

“Aunt Gertrude must have gone out,” said Joe.

Suddenly a hissing voice broke in, “Hardys, I warn you. Do not sail the Hai Hau!”

The boys were electrified. “Good night! Where did that come from?” Tony exclaimed. “Your house?”

Frank became grim. “If it did, that voice might have been a prowler’s. Aunt Gertrude may have run into trouble!”

“You’re right,” said Joe. “We’d better get back there pronto!”

The Hai Hau was turned in a wide sweep, then headed back to Bayport. Biff tried to ease the Hardys’ worries by suggesting that the warning had not come from the boys’ home after all. “Someone who knows your frequency may just be spoofing you,” he said.

Frank and Joe were not convinced and listened carefully for any further message. Halfway back through the bay, Joe gave the radio call signal again. To everyone’s amazement a familiar voice crackled over the junk’s speaker.

“Hi, fellows! This is Chet Spelunker!”

“Chet! For Pete’s sake, where are you operating from?” Joe cried out.

“Your place,” the stout boy replied. “The front door was open, so I walked in. Hope you don’t mind. Just then I heard your signal and hustled down to the basement.”

Joe asked, “Were you the wise guy who sent us that warning before?”

“What warning? What are you talking about?”

Chet was dumfounded when he heard of the mysterious threat received over the junk’s radio. “It sure wasn’t my voice you heard—I just got here,” he said. “I only stopped by to—well, to see if your aunt had any spare cake for a picnic.”

“Where’s Aunt Gertrude?” Joe asked.

“She’s not around, worse luck. I guess she must be out. Didn’t answer when I called her,” Chet replied.

“And no one else is there?”

“Not a soul. And the house looks okay.” Chet chuckled. “About that picnic. Callie and Iola are going on the spelunking trip with me.”

Callie Shaw, an attractive blonde, was Frank’s favorite date. The couple usually double-dated with Iola and Joe.

“Some guys have all the luck,” Joe remarked.

“Well, see you later!” Chet called. “I’ll close the door.”

The plump youth signed off, leaving Frank and Joe more mystified than ever. Where was Miss Hardy? Who had left the door open? And who had sent the strange radio threat, and from where?

Biff spoke up. “Since everything is okay at your house, Frank and Joe, let’s continue our trip to Rocky Isle.”

The Hardys agreed, though they would have preferred going home to be sure nothing had happened. Once more the junk was turned and the boys tacked out of the bay and emerged onto the open sea. Rocky Isle lay about five miles distant. The northern end of the small island was a tumbled mass of rock, rising to a sheer cliff, on which stood a white lighthouse. The southern portion of the land was flat and sandy. The only home on it, which was near the shore, was occupied by the park keeper, Dave Roberts.

“Might be a good idea to practice landing at the public wharf,” Frank suggested.

Tony laughed. “You mean we’d better look good when we bring our first load of passengers?”

The wind continued while they crossed the stretch of open water. As they neared the southern end of the island and approached the boat landing, Frank told Biff to cut the engine.

“Let’s try it under sail,” he said.

Frank swung the junk’s nose around into the wind to lose headway and ordered the others to slacken off on the sheets. As they did, the wind shifted. A sudden gust sent the junk straight toward the quay!

“We’ll crash!” Jim cried.

Acting quickly, Joe shoved the fenders over the side, grabbed a bamboo boat hook, and staved off the shock of impact. With a creaking scrunch the junk swung into position alongside the stone pier!

“Whew! Let’s not do that again!” he gasped.

“Nice going, boy!” Tony clapped Joe on the back. “With you aboard, what is there to worry about?”

The boys practiced several more landings, both with and without the motor. All went off smoothly. Satisfied, they headed back toward Barmet Bay.

Two miles from the island, a motorboat came racing up astern and pulled alongside the junk. Aboard were two men in Coast Guard uniforms. One, wearing the insignia of a chief petty officer, hailed them in a loud voice.

“Heave to! We’re coming aboard!”

CHAPTER VI

Coastal Search

THE boys aboard the Hai Hau were surprised at the unexpected order. The Coast Guard officer’s scowling manner hinted at trouble.

“Anything wrong?” Frank called across the water as Tony cut the outboard.

“We’re checking on all private craft in the Bayport area!” the man shouted back. “That junk isn’t properly documented and you’re subject to a fine. The Hai Hau will have to be taken back to the base in tow!”

Biff reddened angrily. “What do you mean? We have everything required.”

“We got our Certificate of Award of Number in New York,” Tony called.

“Tell that to the warrant officer!” the man retorted. “We’re still taking you in! You’ll have to prove what you’re saying.”

He poised in the stern, ready to leap aboard the junk as his mate steered closer to the Hai Hau.

“Wait a second!” Joe ordered. With sharp eyes he had looked over the other craft. “That’s no Coast Guard boat you’re in,” he said. “Where’s your official ensign?”

The burly pilot’s expression became ugly. “Don’t get smart with us, kidl We’ll ask the questions!”

“I’ll bet they’re phonies!” Frank cried out.

The men heard him. “Shut up or we’ll clap you all in irons!” one threatened. As the boats touched sides, he vaulted over the gunwale.

Joe greeted him with a stiff-hand jab before the man could find solid footing on the Hai Hau’s deck. Taken off balance, he toppled backward into the water. He came up spluttering and cursing. The helmsman shouted dire threats at the boys.

“Now’s our chance!” Joe yelled. “Give ’er the gun, Tony!” He threw the helm hard over.

Tony revved the outboard and the junk spurted away from the speedboat. Its wheelsman was too concerned with rescuing his partner to give chase.

Biff chuckled and pumped Joe’s hand. “Nice going, pal!”

The boys hooted with laughter as they watched the man in the water being hauled into the speedboat, drenched and dripping. He looked balefully at the boys.

“You won’t get away with this!”

His angry bellow carried across the water. He and his pal made no attempt to go after the boys, evidently realizing that they stood little chance against the Hai Hau’s husky and determined crew.

“Wow! This is more excitement than I bargained for!” Jim Foy said. “Are you fellows sure those guys weren’t real coastguardmen from the Bayport station?”

“We’ll soon find out!” Biff declared.

He warmed up the transmitter again and tuned in the Coast Guard station frequency. All of the crew were much relieved when the base’s radio operator assured them that no harbor patrol boats had been ordered to pick up unregistered craft. He also said that the lieutenant in charge would send out a launch at once to hunt for the trouble-makers.

“I wonder where those fakers got their uniforms?” Tony mused.

Frank shrugged. “Stole them probably. What I’d like to know is why everyone’s so anxious to get hold of this junk.”

“Maybe all the guys we’ve had run-ins with are members of the same gang,” Joe conjectured.

Biff offered another theory. He suggested that the two fake coastguardmen might be cronies of Clams Dagget. “Maybe Clams hired them to keep us from starting our boat business,” Biff said. “You told us, Frank, that he sure was mad when he came to your house.”

“That’s right.”

The Hai Hau returned to Bayport without further incident, and was tied up at the pier. Jim Foy said he must leave as he had a job to do for his father. The other four boys remained for a while, talking over their plans. Tomorrow was to be the opening day of their passenger service to Rocky Isle.

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed!” Tony said with a grin as the meeting broke up.

“Don’t worry,” Frank replied confidently. “I’ll bet we get a full boatload every trip!”

Biff and Tony, who had chores to attend to, drove off in Biff’s jeep. “See you tomorrow, fellows!”

“What’ll we do now?” Joe asked his brother.

“Let’s grab a hamburger,” Frank said. “I’m starved.”

“So am I. But first I want to phone the Coast Guard and find out if they’ve picked up those two fakers.”

The brothers went into a nearby restaurant which had a pay telephone booth and made the call. The two men had not been caught.

As the Hardys perched themselves on stools, Joe suggested, “What say you and I try to trace those phony coastguardmen? Maybe we can spot their boat. After all, we got a good look at it.”

“Smart idea! We’ll take the Sleuth.”

The boys finished their hamburgers and hurried to the boathouse where they kept their motorboat. Minutes later, they were cruising along the shore of Barmet Bay. They went the full length of the three miles, first inspecting the north side, then the south. There was no sign of the speedboat anywhere.

“Let’s try the ocean,” Frank urged.

Leaving the harbor mouth, the Hardys turned northward along the coast. The ocean was as quiet as a pond. From time to time the brothers hailed fishing boats and other small craft to inquire about the speedboat. None of the skippers they questioned had sighted it, and the boys did not spot the craft hidden anywhere along the rocky, indented shoreline.

“Looks as if we’re out of luck,” Joe grumbled.

Frank was keeping binoculars trained along the coast. “Let’s try south of the bay,” he suggested.

“Okay. Let’s go!” Joe swung the Sleuth around, leaving a frothing wake.

As it passed Rocky Isle to starboard, a small cabin cruiser crossed their bow. The man at the wheel waved to them. Frank shouted a description of the speedboat and asked if he had seen it.

“Sure, about ten minutes ago,” the yachtsman called back. “Heading over that way!”

He indicated a sandy stretch of beach half a mile beyond the harbor mouth.

“Thanks!” The boys waved back.

“A break at last!” Joe muttered. He increased speed and the Sleuth lunged ahead, its bow lifting clear of the water.

As they neared the beach which the yachtsman had pointed out, the boys switched places. Frank took the wheel.

“Hey, this is where Clams Dagget lives!” Joe remembered suddenly. He trained the binoculars on the shore, picking out Dagget’s shack. “Frank!” he yelled excitedly. “I see those two men who pretended to be coastguardmen. They’re standing in front of the shack, talking to Clams!”

Frank gunned the motorboat shoreward. As it beached in the shallows of an inlet the boys leaped out and ran toward the shack.

At that instant their quarry sighted them. Breaking off the conversation with Clams, the two men dashed into the tall cattails behind the shack.

“After those fakers!” Joe shouted to Frank.

The marshy ground sloped upward into scrubby underbrush, willows, and sumac. Frank and Joe could hear the men plunging forward, but soon lost sight of them. The boys were finally forced to give up.

“What luck!” Joe growled. “We almost had ’em!”

“Let’s see what Clams has to say about them,” Frank suggested grimly.

Dagget was lounging in front of his shack, whittling a piece of wood. He appeared unconcerned as the two boys walked up to him.

“Who were those guys?” Frank demanded.

“What guys?”

“The ones we were chasing.”

Clams shrugged. “How should I know?” He began whistling airily as he continued work with his pocketknife.

“You’d better think hard!” Frank warned him. “Those fellows are—”

He broke off as a motor roared in the distance. A second later the boys saw their quarry’s speedboat race from a nearby cove. It headed northward.

Joe clenched his fists in futile rage. “No hope of catching them with that kind of a start! But I can notify the authorities on the Sleuth’s radio. Wait here,” he told Frank, and dashed back to the motorboat.

The young detective pressed the button for the Coast Guard frequency. He reported having seen the impersonators and that they had taken a northerly route in their escape.

“Let’s go after those fakers!” Joe urged

Meanwhile, Frank had been quizzing Clams Dagget. When he found him unwilling to talk, Frank flushed with anger.

“Listen, Clams—I’m warning you. Those two guys you were talking to just committed a federal offense.”

“What!”

The old beachcomber’s mouth dropped open in a look of alarm.

“You heard me. They’re impersonating members of the United States Coast Guard. What’s more, they tried to board our junk and take over,” Frank added. “That could be attempted piracy.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about ‘em,” Clams Dagget whined. “Never even seen ’em before. That’s the truth!”

“Then what were you talking to them about? You were sure acting chummy!”

“They said they wanted me to do a job for‘em,” Clams replied. “I don’t know what. You and your brother came along and scared ’em off before they got a chance to explain.”

Presently Joe returned and questioned Clams further, but finally both boys decided he was telling the truth. Boarding the Sleuth, they returned to Bayport.

It was almost seven o’clock when Frank and Joe arrived home. They found a note from Aunt Gertrude on the hall table. It said:

I feel much better and am going out. Dr. Montrose is a good physician. He did not talk about stocks and I had no chance to bring up the subject.

Phone Chet Morton’s mother as soon as you get in. She has called twice.

Frank frowned. “I wonder what’s up?”

He dialed the Morton’s number. A woman’s voice answered almost immediately.

“This is Frank Hardy, Mrs. Morton. I—”

“Oh, thank goodness you got my message!” Mrs. Morton sounded frantic. “Chet and the two girls haven’t returned from their cave trip! They were due hours ago! Please help us find them!”

CHAPTER VII

Missing Spelunkers

FRANK tried to calm Chet’s excited mother. “I’m sure there’s nothing to be alarmed about, Mrs. Morton,” he said soothingly. “Joe and I will start looking right away. Did Chet tell you where he and Callie and Iola were going?”

“That’s just it—he didn’t say exactly!” Mrs. Morton replied. “He did mention taking the West Road, but I don’t know where. Oh dear, I never should have let them go!”

“Please don’t worry,” Frank said. “We’ll find them.”

As he hung up, Joe flashed him a questioning look. “What’s wrong?”

“Chet and the girls are missing. Come on! We’ll have to work fast before it gets too dark!”

The boys dashed out to their convertible and sped through the outskirts of town. Frank took the West Road. Outside Bayport, the road ran through a stretch of barren, rocky hillsides.

“Slow down,” Joe said as they came to a turnoff. “Let’s check this road. There might be a cave around here.”

Frank braked the convertible and swung off onto the dirt shoulder. Joe leaped out, hoping to find the tire tracks of Chet’s jalopy. He came back a moment later, shaking his head.

“No luck.”

Most of the area was uncultivated, with scraggy brush and timber growing up the hillsides. As the boys rode along they passed a rock quarry and several gravel pits. Here and there, dirt lanes branched off, leading to scattered farms or other roads.

The Hardys checked several of these rutted paths. On the fifth try, Joe shouted:

“Hey! This may be it!”

Frank hurried to join him. His brother pointed out a set of narrow tire tracks with a worn, old-fashioned tread pattern.

“Those are Chet’s, all right!” Frank confirmed. “I noticed the treads that time we helped him change one of his tires.”

Hurrying back to their car, the boys turned up the lane. The convertible jounced and jolted so badly that Frank shifted into low gear.

Moments later, Joe gave a cry of relief. Chet’s red jalopy was parked ahead. It had been pulled off the lane into a bordering clump of poplars. Beyond the trees, the ground rose steeply.

“There must be a cave entrance nearby,” said Frank. “We’d better take our flashlights.”

Joe grabbed them from the glove compartment and the brothers hopped out. Daylight was fading, but a clear trail of crushed undergrowth plainly showed which direction the spelunkers had taken.

The brush finally thinned out amid tumbled rocks and boulders. A few minutes’ search, however, revealed an opening in the hillside.

Joe cupped his hands and yelled into the yawning darkness. “Hey, Chet! ... Iola!”

No answer.

“Let’s go in!” Frank urged. “The cave probably runs in a long way. They can’t hear us.”

Crouching, the boys entered. Once inside, they were able to straighten up. Frank and Joe stabbed the darkness with their flashlights. The yellow glow revealed a fair-sized cavern, at least thirty feet in width. Straight ahead, the darkness closed in again beyond range of their flashlight beams.

“It’s deep, all right,” Joe muttered.

The boys pressed forward. Eventually the cave narrowed, then forked in two directions. The right-hand opening dwindled into a crawlway of pitch blackness. The left-hand fork, though a cramped tunnel, was high enough for a person to walk through.

“Which way?” Joe asked, hesitating. The floor of the cave was too hard to show footprints.

“Let’s go left,” Frank decided. “Chet and the girls probably took the easiest route if they’d never explored here before.”

Joe nodded. “I sure can’t see how Chet could squirm through a hole that size,” he added with a nervous chuckle, gazing at the small opening.

Frank went first. The tunnel sloped downward, and gradually broadened out.

“There they are! But—oh!”

Frank’s cry was wrought with fear. A few yards ahead, Iola, Callie, and Chet lay motionless on the floor of a small, dead-end chamber!

The Hardys ran forward and anxiously bent over their three coverall-clad friends. To the boys’ relief, all were still breathing.

“What happened to ’em?” Joe asked, bewildered.

“Passed out, I guess. We must revive them!”

“We could use more light,” said Joe. “But we ought to save our batteries.”

Chet’s carbide lamp was empty of water. Rather than waste time refilling it, Joe lighted a candle taken from the stout youth’s kit bag. As the chamber brightened with the soft glow of candlelight, Frank and Joe began working over the trio. They chafed their wrists and bathed their faces with water from Chet’s canteen. Presently Iola moaned, and the other two showed signs of regaining consciousness.

“Whew! I’m getting a headache,” Joe sighed.

“Same here.”

As the boys paused, they realized that their eyesight was becoming affected. Vision grew blurred and they began to pant.

“Joe, this place is short of oxygen and that candle’s burning up what’s left!” Frank gasped. “We must get out of here—fast!”

Frank lifted Callie to her feet and Joe did the same with Iola. The girls’ knees buckled.

“Be simpler to carry ’em!” Joe said.

“Okay, but we’ll have to speed it up fast!”

Frank swung Callie over one shoulder, while Joe picked up Iola. Nightmarish moments followed as the brothers wormed their way back through the tunnel to the mouth of the outer cave. Perspiring and panting, the boys gulped in lungfuls of fresh air, as they placed the girls on the grass. Then they hurried back to the dead-end chamber.

With lightning speed they gathered up Chet’s spelunking equipment, stuffing most of it into their pockets. Then Frank put his hands under Chet’s shoulders while Joe grabbed the stout boy’s legs. Each held his flashlight clamped under one arm.

“Man! Chet—must weigh three hundred pounds!” Joe gasped out.

By the time the rescue mission was completed, Frank and Joe were so woozy from the bad air that they were nearing collapse themselves. Both dropped to the ground to catch their breath. In a few minutes Chet and the girls had revived enough to be able to tell their story.

“I knew we shouldn’t stay in that dead-end cubbyhole too long,” Chet moaned. “But when we started to come out through the tunnel, we heard some men talking, so we stopped.”

The Hardys looked puzzled, and Joe asked, “Is that any reason for asphyxiating yourselves?”

“Wait’ll you hear the rest!” Chet said. “They were talking about you two!”

“That’s right!” Iola chimed in. “We heard one of them say, ‘We’ll have to take care of those Hardy boys before they spoil everything!’ ”

“They sounded plenty tough, too!” Chet said. He added plaintively, “I sure wish you guys wouldn’t get mixed up in mysteries!”

Frank and Joe exchanged troubled glances. “What else did they say?” Frank asked.

Chet shrugged. “Don’t know. They talked too low, but they started to come in farther. So we figured it would be safer to lie low till the men were gone, and we went back to the inner chamber. Then we blacked out.”

Callie, who was trying to smooth her rumpled hair, flashed a grateful smile at Frank. “We’d still be there—and maybe dead by this time—if it hadn’t been for you Hardys. Thanks a million for saving us!”

“She means you, naturally,” Joe quipped to his brother. Then he blushed as Iola said:

“Well, I think you’re wonderful, too! So there!” To back up her words, Iola planted a quick kiss on Joe’s cheek, which left him gulping in surprise.

Before leaving the area, the Hardys decided to look for any clues that might lead to the men whom the spelunkers had overheard. They checked the ground carefully outside the cave and found several sets of men’s footprints which differed from their own and Chet’s.

“And notice this. The prints leading away from the cave are deeper than the ones leading toward it,” Frank observed.

Joe nodded with keen interest. “You’re right. Those guys must have been carrying something plenty heavy!”

“We didn’t see anything in the cave when we entered,” Chet spoke up.

“Which means,” said Frank, “that it must have been taken out some time before you came—probably only a little while before.”

“Oh!” Callie caught her breath. “You mean we just missed meeting those awful men!”

The two boys made an effort to trace the footprints to learn the direction the Hardys’ enemies had taken, but lost them where the tracks connected with tire marks.

“We’d never catch those men now, anyway,” Frank said as they gave up. “Let’s go back to the cave and see if we can find any clues.”

He went on to say that if something large and heavy had been hidden inside, the cave might have other chambers, perhaps purposely blocked from view by piled-up rocks.

Callie and Iola, and even Chet, showed signs of their recent ordeal, so Frank and Joe decided to call off their sleuthing for that evening. The group piled into their cars and drove to the farm.

Mr. and Mrs. Morton hurried out onto the front porch as soon as they heard the automobiles arrive. “Thank goodness you’re all safe!” Mrs. Morton exclaimed, throwing her arms around her son and the two girls.

Chet and Iola’s father said little, but smiled his relief, and gave Frank and Joe each a warm hand-clasp. “We’re mighty grateful to you boys!” he murmured.

Mrs. Morton served a hot dinner for everyone while Callie Shaw telephoned her parents. Later, as the whole group sat in the living room, Iola exclaimed:

“Oh, I almost forgot! Look what I found this afternoon. It was on the ground just outside the cave.”

Iola reached into the pocket of her coveralls and took out a gold cuff link. In it was set a bluish fluorescent amber, cut in the shape of a tiger.

The Hardys stared at each other, then Joe cried out, “One of the cuff links Dad told us to try to find!”

CHAPTER VIII

Stolen Evidence

ONLY the Hardy boys knew the significance of Iola’s find. She asked innocently, “You mean your father lost this cuff link?”

“No, but it has something to do with a case he’s working on,” Frank revealed. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that.”

Iola had turned the cuff link over. “Here’s some Oriental wording on the back,” she said. “Let’s ask Jim Foy to come out and decipher it.”

Frank and Joe telephoned their friend at once. He said he would drive over. When the Chinese-American boy arrived, he gazed at the cuff link in amazement.

“These symbols are Cantonese and mean Hong Kong,” he translated. “And this beautiful bluish amber is highly prized by the Chinese. It is often used for carving little figures of Buddha-sitting-in-the-lotus.”

Jim went on to relate that amber was called “tiger soul” in old Chinese legends. It was believed that when a tiger died, its spirit penetrated the earth and turned to amber.

“I don’t know whether there’s a spirit in this,” Chet spoke up, “but I do know it came from Hong Kong and so did the Hai Hau. I’ll bet this cuff link was part of the smugglers’ contraband on it!”

“You could be right,” Frank said reflectively. “Well, one thing’s sure. They won’t be back to the cave. Whatever they had hidden in there they’ve taken away.”

“One guess,” said Joe. “Boxes of smuggled goods.”

“I don’t like this,” Chet grumbled. “Sounds to me as if all of us are getting mixed up with a gang of smugglers!”

Frank and Joe themselves felt a little worried. They had been suspicious that members of the Chinese factions interested in the Hai Hau might trail them to Bayport. The cave incident would seem to prove they had. But how did the Chameleon fit into the picture of the smuggling racket?

“Did those men you heard at the cave sound like Chinese?” Frank asked Chet and the girls.

Iola and Callie debated this. Neither had noticed a foreign accent, they said.

Chet shrugged. “We couldn’t tell for sure. We caught only a few words.”

Frank asked Iola if he might take the cuff link with him. She said yes, and Joe slipped the piece of jewelry into an envelope she gave him and put it in his pocket.

When the excitement died down, Mr. Morton picked up a copy of the evening newspaper and began turning the pages. Suddenly he remarked, “That’s quite an ad you fellows dreamed up.” He chuckled. “Almost makes me want to take a ride on your junk!”

“Let’s see, Dad!” Iola exclaimed excitedly. She sprang up and went to perch on the arm of her father’s easy chair. Chet and Callie looked over her shoulder. The announcement read:

Have fun sailing to Rocky Isle aboard a fabulous Chinese junk. It’s the oldest in sailing, yet the newest in today’s exciting boat age. Made to order for Bayport swashbucklers. The exotic Hai Hau brings an exciting glimpse of the mysterious Orient to Barmet Bay. The boating adventure of a lifetime. Three round trips a day!

“Wow!” Chet said. “That ought to bring us business!” He beamed with anticipation.

“What do you mean us?” Joe winked at the others. “You’ll probably be off spelunking somewhere.”

“How did you guess?” Chet admitted, grinning. “I’ve made up my mind to explore the right-hand fork of that tunnel—if I can squeeze through, that is. But don’t worry, fellows. I’ll serve on the crew later.”

When the gathering finally broke up, Frank and Joe took Callie Shaw home. Then they drove directly to their own home. The Hardy house lay dark and silent in the moonlight.

“Guess Aunt Gertrude’s asleep,” said Frank. “What say we test the cuff link for fingerprints?”

The boys went down to the basement, where Frank took out their kit of detective equipment. He dusted the jewelry for fingerprints, then examined the results under a magnifying glass.

“This has Iola’s prints on it, ”Joe announced, after comparing them with an inked set on a card. The Hardys had built up a sizable fingerprint file, including records on all their family and acquaintances. “If there were any other prints, Iola’s have blurred them out.”

“Let’s phone Dad just the same,” Frank proposed and put in the call to Los Angeles.

To the boys’ disappointment, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hardy was in the hotel, so Frank requested that his parents call back early in the morning.

Joe yawned. “Let’s hit the hay, Frank.”

The next morning at the breakfast table Joe asked his aunt what she had found out about Dr. Montrose. “Do you still think he’s in cahoots with that broker pal of his to swindle people?”

In response Miss Hardy did a rare thing—she blushed! “I’m ashamed to tell you boys I didn’t learn a thing. Instead, I went to sleep!”

“What!”

“Dr. Montrose gave me a pill to take, then he kept talking about how I felt, so I couldn’t get started on the other topic.”

“Where was Mrs. Witherspoon all this time?” Frank put in.

“Oh, wandering around the house. She‘s—uh—kind of an inquisitive person,” Miss Hardy replied. “Pretty soon my head began to nod. I remember the doctor saying, ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and take a good sleep? We’ll leave now, Mrs. Witherspoon.’ They left and I started upstairs. The next thing I knew I woke up in my room. The clock said ten minutes past noon—I could scarcely believe my eyes!”

Frank told his aunt that Chet had come there and found the door open. “I guess it’s my fault,” she said, and berated herself for such carelessness. “An invitation to sneak thieves!” She hurried to check the silver in the buffet drawer. It was intact.

“And of course the alarm didn’t go off and alert you that Chet was approaching the house,” Joe remarked.

“It certainly won’t happen again,” Miss Hardy declared. “But you know I do feel better—in fact, I’m fine.”

At that moment the telephone rang. Joe answered. “It’s Dad!” he exclaimed. Frank hurried to join his brother in the front hall. “He’s calling long distance from the West Coast,” Joe added.

Both boys shared the phone during the conversation that followed. They told their father eagerly about the Hai Hau and the exciting events following its purchase. Joe also mentioned the two visits by mysterious prowlers and finally the finding of the one cuff link.

“Amazing!” the detective exclaimed. “I probably should come home to pursue this cuff-link clue. On the other hand, it may tie in with a new lead I have—that the Chameleon has recently had some business with certain Chinese in California. I believe I’ll stay here, since he may be in this vicinity.”

Frank asked, “How’s your case coming along, Dad?”

“Not much luck yet,” Fenton Hardy reported. “I need certain data from my safe. Get out all the top-secret records on Balarat and shoot them to me here in Los Angeles by airmail special delivery. You’ll find them in a Manila packet labeled The Chameleon.”

“We’ll send it right away, Dad.”

“Fine! See you later, boys! Good-by.”

The brothers hurried upstairs to their father’s study. Joe dialed the secret combination of the safe, then opened the safe door.

He stared inside, gulped, and cried out in dismay, “The file on the Chameleon is gone!”

Frank nodded, grim-lipped. “This’ll be a blow to Dad. That envelope contained all his private evidence against the Chameleon.” He grabbed his brother’s arm. “Do you know what this means? One of the Chameleon’s henchmen must be watching this house. When he saw the front door open, he walked in without the alarm going off.”

“Right. And, Joe, he must be an expert at safe-cracking! I think we’d better notify Dad at once.”

“First, let’s see if anything else is missing,” Joe suggested.

On the inside of the safe door the boys’ father had pasted a printed list of the contents. As Joe read each item, Frank checked. Finally he said, “Everything’s here. That burglar only wanted the Chameleon file.”

Frank placed the call to his father’s hotel in Los Angeles. Fenton Hardy took the bad news with little comment, but said he was disturbed for the safety of the boys and his sister.

“You’d better be extra careful from now on,” the detective warned. “And call the police to investigate.”

“Right, Dad!” Frank said.

Within five minutes after the young sleuth had phoned headquarters, a police car arrived at the house. Chief Collig hurried inside, accompanied by two plain-clothes men, Hanley and Darkle.

“Now then, what happened?” Chief Collig demanded.

Frank gave the details of the robbery, then led the men upstairs to the study. Joe followed.

Collig and Hanley examined the safe. The latter dusted it for prints, but found none.

“Smart operator,” he remarked. “Wiped off all traces clean as a whistle!”

Chief Collig nodded shrewdly. “He’d have to be smart to open this job without blowing it.” Turning back to the boys, the chief said, “I didn’t have time to check my files on the Chameleon. What’s the story on him?”

Frank explained that he was an international thief and confidence man, whose real name was Arnold Balarat. Originally from New York, Balarat had operated all over the United States and in Europe, as well as on ocean liners.

“The Trans-Ocean Lines engaged Dad to find him after he swindled a number of their passengers,” Frank concluded. “The FBI is certain that Balarat is now in this country. Dad’s been hunting for him out on the West Coast after some clues turned up in Los Angeles. But so far the Chameleon is still at large.”

Together the police and the Hardy boys looked for clues to the identity of the burglar. They found none and Chief Collig shook his head, perplexed. “That man left no fingerprints. Well, we’ll talk to the neighbors about seeing any prowlers and find out what they have to offer.”

After the officers left, Frank said, “I suggest we call Mrs. Witherspoon and Dr. Montrose. They may have seen someone.”

He spoke to Mrs. Witherspoon first. “Oh, how dreadful! A robbery!” she said.... “No, Frank, I didn’t see anyone. I hope you catch him soon. I’m too weak to talk any more. I’ll have to see Dr. Montrose. Good-by.”

Frank now called the doctor himself. His line was busy. In a few minutes Frank tried again. Still busy. After a third try he proposed that he and Joe stop at Dr. Montrose’s office on their way to the dock.

“Good enough,” his brother agreed.

They said good-by to Aunt Gertrude, then hurried off in their convertible. Frank parked in front of Dr. Montrose’s downtown office. Entering, they found themselves in a comfortable waiting room. Apparently the doctor employed no receptionist.

“Hey, take a look at some of these,” Joe murmured in a low voice.

He pointed to a number of framed letters hanging on the walls. They were glowing testimonials from former patients. An ornate diploma stated that Hubert Montrose had been awarded the degree of Doctor of Medicine from Ardvor College.

Frank grinned. “Mighty impressive!”

The brothers seated themselves in two of the leather chairs. Presently Dr. Montrose came from a rear room. A look of surprise flickered across his face, but this was quickly replaced by a smooth professional smile.

“Ah, good morning!” He shook hands with his two visitors. “Tell me, how is your aunt?”

“Much better, thanks,” Frank said.

Dr. Montrose did not invite the boys into his consulting room. He evidently had a patient inside. “Just what can I do for you?” he inquired.

Frank explained about the robbery and asked if the physician had noticed anything unusual during his visit to the house.

Dr. Montrose frowned thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I did hear a noise upstairs just as I was leaving,” he replied. “However, I assumed it was a maid or one of the family moving about.”

“That was the robber!” Frank cried.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Dr. Montrose. “But I’m afraid I can’t help any. And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

The Hardys left and started for the pier. A block from the waterfront they saw Biff Hooper coming from a market, his arms loaded with cartons of fruit drink. They stopped and he hopped into the car.

“Hey, what kept you guys?” Biff asked. “We have a full load of passengers.”

“Swell!” Joe told him.

“Sure is,” Frank added.

The Hardys found a gay crowd gathered on the dock to watch the Hai Hau leave. The passengers were already aboard.

“How about that?” said Tony proudly as he came up and showed Frank and Joe the cash receipts. “Full the first trip!”

Frank beamed, slapped his friend on the back, and climbed aboard. The Hai Hau’s owners took their places. Jim Foy cast off amid shouts and waves from the spectators. Biff revved the outboard and Frank steered out across Barmet Bay.

It was a fine sunny morning, promising a most enjoyable voyage to Rocky Isle. Joe and Tony hoisted the sails to take advantage of the slight breeze. The passengers called out in delight as the junk rode the waves.

Presently Frank noticed that the stern was riding low in the water. Setting the wheel, he went to open the afterdeck hatch, then gave a low cry of alarm. The shallow compartment below was awash with water!

“Hey, fellows! Come here!” When they arrived, he whispered hoarsely, “We’ve sprung a leak!”

The boys’ faces filled with alarm. Could they possibly make the island safely with their boatload of passengers?

CHAPTER IX

Wharf Chase

“WE’RE shipping water too fast!” Joe said, peering into the compartment. “At this rate we’ll capsize before we get to Rocky Isle!”

“What’ll we do?” Biff gasped.

“We’d better come about and try to make it back to Bayport,” Frank said. “I’ll start the bilge pump!”

As the boys shifted sail and brought the junk around, the passengers plied them with anxious questions. Consternation spread when they learned the Hai Hau was leaking.

“We should have known better than to trust ourselves in a crazy boat like this!” a stout woman stormed.

“You’re right, dear,” agreed her husband, a very thin man in a flowered sports shirt. “We should’ve listened to Clams Dagget when he said this junk was nothing but junk!”

Joe stifled the angry retort that rose to his lips, and Frank said, “Please be calm, everyone. We’ll get you safely back to Bayport.”

“You’d better!” the stout woman snapped.

Meanwhile, the action of the bilge pump had stemmed the flood of water pouring into the compartment. The source of the leak was now visible—a gaping hole several inches in diameter.

“Hey!” a man in the bow called out. “You mentioned Clams Dagget. Isn’t that his boat over there?”

A motor launch was speeding toward them. “That’s Clams, all right!” a high school youth confirmed.

The girl beside him clutched his arm happily. “Thank goodness!” She sighed. “Now we’ll all be saved!”

The other passengers cheered.

The crew of the Hai Hau felt too disgusted and heartsick to comment. Joe and Tony had crawled down into the compartment below the afterdeck and were plugging the leak with socks and sweaters.

“That hole was no accident,” Tony muttered between clenched teeth. “Look!” He picked up a round piece of wood floating on the water in the compartment.

“Check,” Frank replied, disturbed. “Someone made it with a keyhole saw from the outside. After a while the wood gave way.”

“Please be calm,” Frank said. “We’ll get you

safely back to Bayport.”

By the time the leak was stopped, Clams Dagget’s motor launch, the Sandpiper, had arrived within hailing range of the Hai Hau. In response to shouts from the junk’s passengers, he pulled alongside.

“What’sa matter, boys? Havin’ trouble keepin’ that Chinese bathtub afloat?” Clams taunted with a sneering grin. To the others aboard, he added, “Just climb over into my launch, folks. I’ll get you to Rocky Isle safe and sound. I coulda told you that old hulk wasn’t seaworthy!”

“You did tell them!” Tony said angrily. “Maybe you had something to do with this leak, too!”

“You tryin’ to say I caused it?” Clams roared.

“I sure wouldn’t be surprised!”

The rest of the exchange was drowned out by the passengers clamoring for their money back. The boys refunded all fares, then assisted the people to climb over into the motor launch.

As it sped away, the Hai Hau’s crew looked at one another in deep chagrin. Biff revved the outboard to top speed and they headed back to Bayport.

Reaching a repair dock, the junk was hoisted out of water and thoroughly examined. The boys spent the next few hours pounding in a plug, covering it with a steel plate, and calking the patch securely. When they finished, the Hai Hau was as seaworthy as ever.

“Neat job,” said Biff, wiping his hands on a rag. “But I’d sure like to know if Clams did saw that hole.”

“We can’t prove he’s the guilty party,” Frank reminded the others. “If those Chinese we tangled with in New York are here in Bayport, they might have done it.”

Late that afternoon, after Frank and Joe had returned home, Jim Foy stopped at the house. He said he had brought a letter from his uncle in Chinatown. It contained information not only about George Ti-Ming, but Chin Gok as well, gleaned through the Chinese Benevolent Association.

“Better read it yourselves,” Jim advised.

The report stated that Chin Gok and Ti-Ming were the New York agents for two rival Chinese export firms based in Hong Kong. Both firms had been in trouble with United States and British authorities on smuggling charges. During the past few years, however, Ti-Ming’s group seemed to have stayed within the law.

“Ti-Ming became a traveling salesman, so far as anyone knows, and is rarely in New York any more,” Mr. Foy concluded in his letter.

The Hardys thanked him, and Jim left. That evening, the brothers were discussing the report in their room when Joe jumped up impetuously.

“What’s eating you?” Frank asked.

“Hunch. Plain hunch that someone may try tampering with the Hai Hau again. I’d feel better sleeping there tonight.”

“You have a point,” Frank agreed. “But what about the dock watchman?”

“He doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head,” Joe said cryptically.

“That’s right,” Frank agreed. “We’ll tell Aunt Gertrude.”

When the brothers relayed their idea to her, she nodded assent. “If you decide to come back here any time during the night, phone first, or call on the radio—I’ll turn it on,” she directed, “because if the burglar alarm goes off, I’ll certainly call the police at once.”

Frank and Joe kissed her good night and drove to the dock.

“Let’s look up Mike the watchman and tell him our plan,” Frank said.

They hunted around but could not find Mike. Frank, indicating a nearby warehouse, remarked, “Doesn’t he guard that too? Maybe he’s inside. Let’s look.”

They found the great sliding door to the pitch-black building part way open. Frank snapped on his light and entered, then stepped back in con. sternation.

Mike lay on the floor unconscious, bleeding from a deep gash in his head!

Frank leaned over and began counting the pulse beat in Mike’s wrist. “Pretty feeble,” he announced.

Seeing a wall telephone, Joe put in a call to police headquarters. Meanwhile, Frank was using thumb pressure to stop the bleeding. A few minutes later a police car and an ambulance arrived. Mike was lifted onto a stretcher and carried away as the two officers, Hanley and Darkle, began to question the Hardys.

Frank was busy giving them full details when Joe, who had gone outside, exclaimed suddenly, “Frank, I just spotted two guys sneaking around the cabin of the junk! Let’s see what they’re up to!”

As he spoke, the shadowy figures reappeared, scrambling to the dock.

“There they are!” Joe cried out.

His voice must have carried. With a glance in the boys’ direction, the intruders raced off along the wharf. The Hardys and the two policemen sped after them. The fugitives darted past parked cars and piled-up freight cartons, and disappeared into an old warehouse.

“We have ’em trapped!” Joe exulted.

“Maybe!” Frank muttered.

When the four pursuers reached the warehouse, Hanley tried a small door, which yielded to his push. A faint scuffle of footfalls reached the ears of the four as they entered.

“I’ll use my pocket flash,” Joe whispered, reaching for it.

Frank grabbed his arm. “No sense making targets of ourselves.”

Hanley was groping along the wall. Finding a light switch, he clicked it on. Dim illumination flared from bulbs on the rafters overhead. The warehouse was stacked with bales and crated goods.

“Now what?” Joe murmured.

“Stay behind Darkle and me,” Hanley ordered, as the officers began a search among the piled-up merchandise.

The next moment a faint bang came from the farthest corner of the warehouse. The Hardys and the police converged toward the source of the sound.

“A trap door!” Frank exclaimed, pointing to the floor. “And no ring to pull it open.”

Hanley pried it up and Joe pointed his flashlight down the hole. A slime-covered ladder led downward to dark, oily water. Evidently this part of the warehouse jutted out on pilings. The next moment the group heard a splash of oars dwindling in the distance.

“What a break!” Joe groaned. “Those men must have had a rowboat hidden under here!”

The boys rushed out of the warehouse with the police and down to the waterfront. They peered out, straining their eyes for a glimpse of the rowboat, but it had disappeared.

“We’ve lost ’em!” Frank muttered. “And I’ll bet they’re the ones who slugged Mike.”

“I’ll ask the harbor patrol to look for them,” Hanley said.

“In the meantime, Joe and I will go aboard the Hai Hau and see what those fellows were up to.”

A fresh shock awaited the Hardys when they went aboard. The cabin was in wild disorder, with bunk cushions pulled out and accessories strewn about the deck.

“Those men must have been searching for something!” Frank said worriedly.

A brief check indicated that no serious damage had been done to the junk and nothing was missing. Relieved but baffled, the boys restored order, all the while speculating on what the intruders had been looking for.

“Probably contraband,” Frank guessed. “Wonder if they found any.”

“I doubt it,” said Joe. “Every place they tore up we’d already examined.”

Hanley and Darkle came aboard. They too were puzzled by the mysterious search.

“You fellows may as well go home,” Hanley told them. “The police will look after your junk from now on.”

“Swell,” said Frank.

He and Joe went to their car and at once turned on the short-wave radio. In a moment they were talking to Aunt Gertrude.

When she heard that they planned to return home, she remarked, “Good! You’ll be much safer in your own beds! I’ll watch out the window for you.”

As soon as they reached the house, the brothers used the second-floor extension to call first one, then another, of the co-owners of the Hai Hau to tell them what had happened. Tony was angry, Biff annoyed, Chet a little scared.

Only Jim Foy seemed genuinely alarmed. “I do not like this,” he said. “The junk must be most carefully guarded. Some evil influence is at work.”

“I sure agree,” said Joe, who was talking to him. “Well, see you in the morning.”

The Chinese boy had just said good-by when the alarm buzzer sounded throughout the house.

“Oh—oh!” Joe exclaimed. “The prowler again?” He and Frank dashed downstairs to nab him. When the doorbell rang almost instantly, the boys relaxed. Evidently the caller was friendly.

Aunt Gertrude was already answering the ring. She gasped as a huge Chinese towered in the doorway.

“Chin Gok!” Frank murmured, as he and Joe came down the steps.

“Well, what is it you want?” Miss Hardy demanded, a trifle shakily.

The Chinese bowed low. “I wish to speak to the young men,” he answered.

“Aunt Gertrude, this is Mr. Chin Gok,” Frank spoke up. Miss Hardy nodded.

“I would not trouble you at this time, but it is a matter of the utmost importance,” Chin Gok went on. His voice was polite but insistent.

“All right. Step inside.” Frank held the door open and Chin Gok entered, ducking his melon-shaped head. The Hardys ushered him into the living room and they all sat down.

“What have you come to see us about?” Joe opened the conversation.

“About the junk which you purchased in New York. Once again I beg you most earnestly to sell it to my humble self. Name your own price!”

The boys glanced at each other but remained silent. Chin Gok went on, “I will admit to you certain interests in Hong Kong are most anxious to obtain the Hai Hau.”

“What interests?” Frank challenged.

“A group of religious worshipers,” the huge Chinese replied. “You see, the Hai Hau is a sacred boat to my people. Once it was used to transport a large statue of Buddha from Singapore to Hong Kong. I repeat—we will pay any price you ask, within reason!”

The Hardys were more mystified than ever. Also, they were tempted by the chance to realize a large profit. In view of all the difficulties they were having, it might be wiser to sell the junk. On the other hand, Frank and Joe hated the thought of giving up an unsolved mystery, and besides, they would have no summer job.

Just then the telephone rang and Frank went to the instrument in the hall. A moment later he gasped. Putting down the phone, he beckoned Joe to join him.

“Wow! Wait till you hear this!” he whispered.

CHAPTER X

Shore Pirates!

“WHAT’S up?” Joe asked his brother excitedly.

Frank shot a quick glance toward the living room from which Chin Gok was eying the boys with intense curiosity, then replied in a low voice:

“That was a telegram from Ti-Ming. It said, ‘Don’t sell the Hai Hau at any price or the curse it carries will descend on you!’ ”

Joe was startled, but was careful to show no outward sign of this, since Chin Gok’s eyes were still fastened on the Hardys.

“Looks as if Ti-Ming’s trying to throw a scare into us,” Joe murmured.

“Could be,” Frank replied. “But why? Anyway, let’s not give Chin Gok any encouragement about buying the Hai Hau.”

“Check.”

The brothers rejoined Aunt Gertrude and the Chinese caller. Frank addressed Chin Gok. “We’ll think over your offer, but we don’t plan to sell.”

Chin Gok dropped his air of exaggerated polite-ness. A look of rage twisted his features. Losing his temper completely, he stood up and shrilled, “You—you fools—” and burst into a torrent of Chinese.

Aunt Gertrude drew herself up. “You cannot talk to my nephews that way!” she said icily. “You will leave immediately.” She gestured toward the front door.

Chin Gok, although still muttering angrily, retreated slowly. The instant he was on the front porch, Miss Hardy shut the door firmly.

Joe looked at his aunt admiringly. “Wow! You really convinced him you meant business!”

Aunt Gertrude frowned. “Yes. But I almost wish you boys had sold him that junk. I have a feeling it will only bring more trouble.”

Frank spoke up. “Joe and I can’t give up work on this mystery now.” Joe nodded vigorously.

The next morning the Hardys and their partners assembled at the Chinese junk. Although only four passengers bought tickets for the trip to Rocky Isle, the boys refused to let their spirits be dampened.

“Heave ho!” Tony sang out as he cast off.

Several people on the dock made sarcastic comments as the Hai Hau pulled away from the pier.

“You got plenty of life rafts aboard?” called one man derisively.

“Don’t need ’em,” Biff called back, unruffled. “We just had a swell repair job on the hull.”

His confident manner and words allayed any qualms the junk’s passengers might have had. Everyone relaxed, and soon were laughing and singing as the Hai Hau glided across the bay.

Once on Rocky Isle, the four travelers enjoyed a refreshing swim and leisurely picnic. The boys returned for a second group. This time there were five.

When the Hai Hau returned to its pier on the last trip back, the owners felt that it had been a most successful day, even though there had not been a capacity number of passengers on either excursion.

“Simply thrilling!” a pleasant-faced woman exclaimed as she disembarked. “I’ve always wanted to sail in one of these Chinese ships and I enjoyed every minute of it!”

The other passengers added their delighted comments, which could be clearly heard by the group of spectators on the dock.

“We’re over the hump!” Tony chuckled, and his companions grinned happily.

After the onlookers had dispersed, Frank said to his partners, “What say we give the junk another going-over tonight and hunt for hidden smugglers’ loot?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Tony answered.

“Same here,” the others spoke up. Biff added, “But let’s not make our search at the dock.”

The boys arranged to meet after supper and sail to some secluded spot up the bay where they could conduct their investigation undetected.

When the Hardy group, including Chet, gathered on the pier at the appointed time, Biff remarked wryly, “Boy, we sure could have picked a better evening!”

Tony glanced at the overcast sky. “You said it ! We’d better keep a weather eye out for a storm.”

The humidity had risen steadily since late afternoon, making the air hot and muggy. Not a breath of wind stirred.

Frank started the outboard and they set off. As the Hai Hau pulled away from the dock, lightning flecked the horizon.

“Oh—oh! Hope that’s just heat lightning,” Chet muttered.

The boys cruised offshore and finally picked a hidden cove several miles from Bayport to drop anchor. The Shore Road ran close to the beach at this point, but a row of large willows partially screened the junk from anyone using the road.

For over an hour the Hardys and their chums searched the Hai Hau from stem to stern. But no hidden cache was revealed. By now the stormy-looking sky had become very dark.

Frank lighted a pair of lanterns, quipping, “Okay, team. Night shift coming up.”

Chet wiped his perspiring forehead. “Say, boss, don’t we get time out for a snack? I’m hungry.”

The plump youth’s eyes had fallen on a bag of cookies which Jim Foy had brought along. Jim chuckled and passed the bag around. “Thought these would come in handy.”

Biff bit into one of the crisp cookies. The next moment he said, “Hey! What’s this little paper inside?”

“Pull it out and learn your future.” Jim grinned. “These are Chinese fortune cookies.”

Biff extracted the tiny strip of paper. He read aloud:

“GREAT WEALTH Is IN STORE!”

“We’d better keep looking for that smugglers’ loot!” Biff exclaimed in glee. “Maybe it’s pirate gold!”

Laughing, the other boys examined their own fortunes. Frank’s warned, “YOUR BEAUTIFUL EYES SPELL TROUBLE,” and the others roared with laughter. Joe’s advised him not to trust a certain red-haired girl he would meet.

“Good advice,” Biff remarked. “Iola wouldn’t like her, anyway.”

Tony’s fortune told of an impending discussion with a stocky, dark man. “My dad probably,” Tony joked. “He’ll have a few things to say if I get home late!”

Chet was looking indignantly at his paper. “Huh! Mine says, BEWARE! You EAT TOO MUCH!”

His friends burst out laughing. “Better not finish that cooky,” Frank said with mock gravity.

“You guys don’t understand,” the stout boy asserted. “I just need lots of food energy for all the work I do!”

His words were greeted with fresh merriment. “Listen! I’ll bet you’re too out of condition to balance on the rail of this junk!” Joe dared him.

“Is that so? Just watch!” Chet boasted.

Before anyone could advise caution, the chunky lad climbed up on the gunwale. He teetered precariously, arms outstretched. The next moment Chet gave a wild yell and toppled overboard. Feet first, he hit the water with a mighty splash and disappeared beneath the surface. His friends held their sides and quaked with merriment.

“For Pete’s sake!” Joe said. “I didn’t think he’d really try that stunt.”

Chet bobbed to the surface. Sputtering, he pulled himself up, grabbed the Hai Hau’s bowline, then to his comrades’ complete astonishment, swam rapidly to shore. Dashing up onto the beach, Chet hitched the line around a gnarled old tree stump.

“Okay, this’ll show you guys!” he shouted. “If you want to get back to Bayport, you’ll either have to untie this end of the rope or leave it behind.”

“That rope’s valuable,” Frank commented, and added, grinning, “Looks as if the joke’s on us!”

Joe started to doff his T shirt and slacks in order to swim ashore. Just then a car’s headlight beams swept off the road and blazed between the trees. It was a jeep which plunged across the sandy beach. A moment later it ground to a halt and four masked men leaped out!

“Hey, what’s going on?” Tony exclaimed, utterly astounded.

The crew of the Hai Hau stared dumfounded for a moment as the men raced toward Chet.

“They must be after the junk!” Frank gasped. “If they’re armed—good night! Chet!” he shouted. “Run!”

The stout boy did not run away, but he suddenly spun into action and untied the bowline.

“Don’t wait for me!” he yelled, and hurled the line out into the water.

As the four assailants closed in on Chet, Joe declared he was going to jump overboard and help Chet.

Biff deterred him. “Those men are after the boat. If they don’t get it, they’ll let Chet go.”

Although the Hardys were skeptical, they listened to their friend’s advice. Frank immediately began issuing orders.

“We’ll leave, then sneak back and pick up Chet.”

While the other boys hauled in the anchor and the dripping bowline, he ran aft and gunned the outboard into life. Two of the masked men plunged into the water and swam swiftly toward the junk. But the Hai Hau was already backing speedily out of the cove, beyond their reach. An unintelligible snarl echoed across the water, and the two swimmers returned to shore.

“Put out the lanterns!” Frank directed Tony.

Once clear of the cove, he rounded a spit of land, cut the motor gradually, and let the junk drift through the darkness toward a concealing clump of trees and shrubbery.

“Now what?” Jim Foy asked in a whisper.

“You stay aboard and guard the junk!” said Frank, grabbing a waterproof flashlight. “The rest of us will go over the side and rescue Chet!”

Swiftly but silently the Hardys, Biff, and Tony lowered themselves into the water. A few quick strokes brought them to shore. Then they plunged through the trees like darting shadows, hoping to circle around and take the masked assailants from the rear, if they were still there.

As the boys emerged in sight of the beach, they saw the four men dragging Chet, still kicking and squirming, toward their car.

“They’re kidnaping him to hold as a hostage!” Joe exclaimed.

“Make plenty of noise,” Frank whispered to his companions. Out loud he shouted, “Take ’em, gang!”

Yelling like Indians on the warpath, the boys burst from cover. Chet’s captors whirled around. The stout lad seized his chance, pulled himself free, and unleashed a flurry of blows.

A second later Frank, Joe, Biff, and Tony waded in, fists swinging! A brief but wild melee followed. Confused and taken off guard, the masked men turned and fled toward the jeep.

Biff made a flying tackle and grabbed one by the ankle, but the fellow kicked himself free and went tearing after his companions.

“Stop ’em!” Joe yelled as the jeep’s engine roared.

At that moment a vivid bolt of lightning arced across the cove. Simultaneously a deafening crack split the air. The boys halted in their chase as a single thought struck their mind.

Had the Hai Hau been struck by lightning?

CHAPTER XI

A Peculiar Theft

“COME on!” Frank urged the others. “Let’s check on the Hai Hau!”

The boys darted back across the beach. They were about to take a short cut through the grove of trees when Frank suddenly halted. He grabbed Joe’s arm and pointed to the water’s edge.

“Look! There’s what was hit!”

By his flashlight he showed the others where a tree had been split apart by the bolt of lightning.

Tony shuddered. “Whew! If the lightning had hit just the other side of the cove—no more Hai Hau!”

Relieved, the five companions made their way across the narrow spit of land enclosing the cove. When they emerged through the cluster of trees and brush, they saw the junk lying safely offshore.

“Oh, you beauteous doll!” Tony gave a mimicking hugging gesture.

Jim Foy hailed the boys as they swam back and climbed aboard. “Nice going, fellows! You were a real hero, Chet!” he added, slapping the stout youth on the back.

“He sure was,” Frank agreed. “Untying that line gave us a chance to save the Hai Hau.”

“Shucks, it was nothing,” Chet said, beaming modestly but enjoying the praise. “Any of you fellows would have done the same.”

“Except that we wouldn’t have tied the junk up in the first place.” Biff grinned.

Frank asked seriously, “How do you suppose those men knew where we had taken the Hai Hau?”

No one ventured an answer but Joe. “They may be part of a gang and have spies dotted here and there along the shore to help them.”

Chet whistled. “You mean smugglers?”

“Could be. Or boat thieves.”

Tony spoke up. “Fellows, let’s get back to Bayport and then talk this over. The sky’s going to fall in any second.”

Frank started the motor. A stiff breeze had sprung up suddenly and to increase speed Biff and Tony hoisted sail.

“Wow! We’re in for a real blow, mates!” Joe cried, as the junk raced before the wind.

The boys shivered in their wet clothes. Suddenly a jagged streak of lightning illumined the heavens. It was followed by a crashing boom of thunder. A second later the rain poured down in gusty sheets.

A heavy swell was running. As the waves increased in height, Frank shouted, “Douse the sail!”

The crew hastened to comply. Soon the junk was rolling and pitching wildly amid mountainous breakers. One moment the bow would shoot up as the craft raced toward the crest of a wave; the next moment it would plunge into the trough with the stern lifted and the propeller racing out of water.

“O-o-oh! I—I feel sick!” Chet groaned, bracing himself against the cabin.

“Don’t think about it. Help us get this centerboard down!” Tony commanded.

Frank clung to the tiller while the other boys made their way forward. The centerboard had swelled and jammed. Biff tried to force it clear with a boat hook.

Suddenly a wave smacked the junk on her port quarter. The boat yawed and started to broach to! A second later the Hai Hau was heeling far over in the trough as water poured across the deck.

Just in time the centerboard dropped. Tony immediately plunged aft to Frank’s assistance. Between them, they righted the tiller and brought the junk back on course.

“Th-anks, pall” Frank gasped, blinking the water out of his eyes.

The boys were drenched to the skin. They huddled in the stern, hearts pounding, as the junk plowed forward through the storm. When the lights of Bayport came into view, the weary sailors gave a grateful shout.

“Home, sweet home!” Biff exclaimed.

The storm had slackened considerably, and the Hai Hau was moored at the pier without difficulty.

“Boy, what a night!” Chet heaved a sigh as he climbed onto the dock. “We didn’t find any pirate gold—but we sure found plenty of trouble!”

“How about you fellows coming up to the house and drying off?” Frank suggested. “You can call your folks from there.”

“Let’s do it,” Chet urged the others and they agreed.

Fortunately, Frank had raised the top of the brothers’ convertible after parking, so the interior was dry. Biff and Tony got in. Jim Foy said he would ride with Chet in his jalopy.

Aunt Gertrude greeted the sodden group at the door. “Gracious!” she gasped. “Where have you boys been? You didn’t go sailing in that junk on a night like this?”

“I’m afraid we did,” Joe confessed.

Without waiting for further explanation, Miss Hardy said, “Go upstairs and put on dry clothes. Frank and Joe have enough extra for all of you,” Aunt Gertrude added, although she eyed Chet’s stout form askance. “I’ll make some hot cocoa right away.”

Later, after cups of steaming hot chocolate and chicken sandwiches, the boys felt revived. The four visitors had called their homes, and Aunt Gertrude had heard the story of the evening’s adventures.

“Masked kidnapers!” she gasped. “Oh, what next. Did you call the police?”

Frank sprang up. “Good night! I forgot all about it! Should’ve done that first thing. My brain must be waterlogged.”

Chief Collig was astounded at Frank’s report, and said he would put men immediately on the assailants’ trail. “It looks as if they might be henchmen of one of those Chinese who’s determined to get the Hai Hau,” he stated.

Frank returned to his friends and relayed this idea. “Jim, how about keeping your eyes open for any Oriental strangers in town?”

“I’ll do that,” the Chinese-American agreed.

“But those men tonight didn’t have Oriental accents,” Chet spoke up. He suddenly snapped his fingers. “Say, they sounded like the guys that Callie and Iola and I heard talking in the cave,” Chet declared.

Tony groaned. “This gets more complicated all the time! I sure hope you Hardys can dope it all out. I can’t!”

Before the boys said good night, they made plans for the following day. It was decided that Tony, Biff, and Jim would sail the Hai Hau to Rocky Isle. The Hardys would join Chet in exploring the right-hand fork of the cave tunnel.

“They may even have left other clues in the cave that will help us crack this whole mystery!”

The next morning the sky was clear and the sun shone brightly. Frank and Joe had offered to pick up Chet at the Morton farm. They found their chum fully equipped with his spelunking gear, in spite of the summer heat. Joe teased him about it as they headed out the West Road.

“Never mind,” Chet retorted. “This stuff may come in handy if we get in any tight spots.”

“Tight spots are just what I’m worried about,” Joe said with a grin. “We’ll probably need a shoe-horn to pry you out in that getup!”

Frank pulled the convertible off the dirt road, and the boys climbed the hillside to the cave. Entering, they made their way to the fork in the tunnel.

“A tight squeeze, all right,” Frank muttered, eying the tiny crawlway. “Well, here goes!”

Dropping to his hands and knees, he squirmed into the opening.

“You next.” Joe grinned wryly at Chet. “I’ll go last, so I can pull you out by the feet if you get stuck!”

One by one, the boys wriggled through the cramped, pitch-black passageway. The trio emerged finally into a sizable cavern. Here the glow of their flashlights and the illumination from Chet’s helmet lamp enabled them to take in the whole chamber. From its roof hung stalactites, giving a fairyland appearance to the setting.

Suddenly Joe gave a cry. “Look! Someone’s been here recently.”

His eye had fallen on something lying on the floor of the cave. He snatched it up—a partially burned white envelope. Evidently the dampness had put out the flames.

“Frank!” Joe exclaimed, straightening the envelope and staring at it. “It’s one from our house with a return name and address!”

His brother took one glance, and said tensely, “It must be the envelope you put the two hundred dollars in!”

“You mean this is that thief’s hide-out?” Chet asked nervously. “Maybe he’s one of the smugglers?”

Frank and Joe did not reply. Instead, they began a frantic search, thinking the two one-hundred-dollar bills might be cached away in the cave. They did not find them, but under a fallen stalactite Chet pounced on another scrap of paper.

“Hey! Here’s something else, fellows!”

It was part of a half-burned letter typed on business stationery. The torn-off fragment bore the following lines:

would advise you to get in on the ground floor while the stock shares can still be purchased cheaply. The mining deposit is a rich one and the company is bound to realize tremendous profits during the next few

“I’ll bet that thief uses his stolen money to buy stock,” Chet guessed.

“Could be,” Frank commented. “Chet, this is a real find. It could be our best clue so far to that burglar.”

Joe mused aloud, “Typewriters all have distinguishing characteristics. If we can trace the machine this was written on, it may give us a real lead!”

“Do you think the burglar is part of some gang interested in the Hai Hau?” Chet asked.

“I wonder,” Frank replied. “If so, they know this cave well. The sooner we get busy on this stock-letter clue the better. Let’s go.”

“Let’s talk to Sam Radley about the case if he’s back,” Frank suggested as he started the convertible. “He’s an expert on typewriter clues.”

Sam Radley was Fenton Hardy’s best operative. He had gone to Chicago recently to collect evidence needed in another case which Mr. Hardy was handling.

“Neat idea,” Joe agreed.

Frank dropped Chet off at the farm, then drove home. He telephoned Radley and learned that the detective had flown in to Bayport late the previous day. He promised to come over to the Hardy house at four o’clock that afternoon.

In the meantime, the brothers made fingerprint tests on the two pieces of paper. Only their own prints were revealed!

“That burglar is a slick article,” Joe remarked. “He must wear plastic finger tipsl”

“It’s not hard for me to believe that he’s also the safecracker,” said Frank thoughtfully.

When Sam Radley arrived, the boys briefed the wiry, sandy-haired detective on developments in their mystery to date. Then Frank showed him the torn scrap of letter.

“You’re a typewriter expert, Sam. Can you tell us what kind of machine this was written on?”

The operative studied the typewritten characters with a practiced eye, then nodded. “This was done on a German-make machine, called the Zeus. Should be easy to trace. This particular style of type was used only on the first model which was imported to this country three years ago.”

Radley asked to use the hall telephone and placed a call to the New York distributors for the Zeus typewriter. Within minutes he had the information he sought.

“They’re sold locally through the Bayport Office Supply,” Sam reported to the Hardys.

“Okay, let’s go talk to them,” Joe said.

Radley drove the boys downtown to the Bayport Office Supply Company. In answer to their questions, the proprietor consulted his records and informed them that he had sold only four typewriters of that make and model.

“The Zeus is a fine machine,” he said, “but it wasn’t well known at that time—three years ago. I sold the four all in one batch to the Regent Hotel.”

After thanking him, Radley and the two boys went to the hotel. Frank explained to the manager, Mr. Irwin, that they were working on a case and would like to see the four Zeus typewriters which the hotel had purchased three years before.

“Certainly,” Mr. Irwin agreed. The manager led the three sleuths into the hotel’s business office. Several women clerks were at work, typing or running accounting machines.

Radley, Frank, and Joe examined samples of typing from each of the three Zeus typewriters in the office, and compared them with the letter.

“The ‘s’ and the ‘1’ are both out of line in the letter and the tail of the ‘e’ is worn away,” Sam observed. “None of these samples matches.”

Frank turned to the manager. “We were told at the Bayport Office Supply Company that you bought four Zeus typewriters. May we see the other one?”

“We had that one assigned for the use of our guests,” Irwin replied. “But I’m afraid you’re out of luck so far as checking it goes.”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“The typewriter,” Mr. Irwin explained, “was stolen a month ago.”

“Stolen!” the Hardys chorused.

The identical thought raced through the brothers’ minds. Was the typewriter thief the same person who had stolen their two hundred dollars, Mr. Hardy’s file on the Chameleon, and perhaps owned the cuff link Iola had found?

CHAPTER XII

The Vanishing Visitor

FRANK suddenly snapped his fingers. “Maybe the typewriter was stolen by someone staying here,” he said to the hotel manager. “May we look at the register?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Irwin led the Hardys and Sam Radley downstairs to the lobby and requested the clerk at the desk to show them the registration book. Frank and Joe flipped back the pages and began checking the names of guests who had registered at the motel a month previous.

“Oh—oh!”

Joe gave a surprised gasp and pointed to a signature written with a flourish—Dr. Hubert E. Montrose. Frank was equally intrigued.

“Find something?” the manager asked.

“An acquaintance of ours,” Frank replied cautiously. “We didn’t know he’d ever lived at this hotel.”

“Let me see.” Mr. Irwin glanced at the name on the register. “Oh, yes. Dr. Montrose stayed here for a week or so when he first arrived in town.” He looked at the brothers curiously, but they did not voice their suspicions.

Frank, instead, added nonchalantly, “Dr. Montrose found a house here in Bayport?”

Mr. Irwin nodded. “Yes, he’s renting the old Varney mansion out on the Shore Road. Quite a show place in its day, but now it’s rather rundown.”

The sleuths thanked the manager for his cooperation and left. As soon as the three were seated in the car, Sam asked, “Who’s this fellow Montrose?”

“A doctor who just started practicing here in town,” Frank explained. “Most of his patients seem to be elderly widows. Dr. Montrose advises them on financial as well as medical matters, and refers them to a friend of his who deals in stocks.”

The detective grinned as Joe told how Aunt Gertrude had vowed to prove the doctor a swindler but had gone to sleep instead.

Sam pulled away from the curb and started for the Hardy house.

“This stock business is why I was interested in finding out where Dr. Montrose lives,” Joe went on. “It’s just possible he can help us locate the person who wrote the stock-selling letter and even stole our money!”

“I see,” said Sam. “And that man in turn might point out the thief.”

“Exactly. Let’s call on the doctor at his house after supper.”

Sam Radley said he would not be able to go, but Frank and Joe determined to make the call, anyway. Sam had supper with Aunt Gertrude and the boys. Later, as the operative was leaving, Tony Prito stopped at the Hardys’ to report on the day’s boat trip to Rocky Isle. He told Frank and Joe that the Hai Hau had carried six passengers on each round trip. It had been an enjoyable excursion, with smooth sailing both ways.

“Swell,” Frank commented. “Joe and I were just going out to do a little sleuthing. Want to come along?”

“Sure. What’s up?” After hearing the plan, he said, “Let’s go!”

The three boys piled into the Hardys’ convertible. Frank drove through the outskirts of town, then took the Shore Road. Their headlights slashed through the gathering dust.

By the time they reached the old Varney mansion it was nearly dark. The house stood on a wooded promontory overlooking Barmet Bay. Frank slowed the car as they neared their destination and stopped at the entrance to the grounds. A heavy chain barred the way.

“We’ll have to hike in,” he murmured.

The boys found a footpath, which wound amid trees and underbrush, fully screening their approach. On the boys’ right, the hillside sloped down steeply toward a sandy beach.

Presently they came in sight of the mansion. Built many years before, the house was designed in ornate Victorian style with gabled roof and outjutting turrets. It was surrounded by large hemlock and cypress trees.

“Sort of a spooky-looking place,” Joe remarked.

“You said it!” Tony agreed.

As if to confirm their words, an owl hooted mournfully from the trees.

“I think he heard you,” Frank joked.

Most of the mansion’s windows were hung with dilapidated shutters, but a single light gleamed through an unshuttered window on the first floor. Frank suggested that they knock on the rear door which was nearest. Apparently this part of the grounds had once been a formal garden, but it was now clogged with waist-high weeds and undergrowth.

“Take it easy,” Frank advised.

But Joe, impetuous as usual, pressed forward without watching his step. Tripping on a vine, he went sprawling. He gave a slight groan.

“Hey! Hurt yourself?” Tony asked.

“Wrenched my shoulder a bit, I guess. Gave me a twinge—it’ll ease up, though.”

Joe got to his feet, and followed the others, this time with caution. A moment later all three froze as a figure ahead loomed out of the shadows at one side of the house. Apparently he had come from the front, which faced the bay.

Tall and stooped, the figure glided away from the mansion, losing itself among the trees and shrubbery on the hillside. His rather furtive manner instantly aroused the boys’ suspicions.

“Let’s go see what he’s doing,” Joe urged.

Tony asked if the doctor lived alone.

“He’s supposed to, according to what Mrs. Witherspoon told Aunt Gertrude,” Joe confided. “She says he has no relatives and no house-keeper.”

“Maybe that man’s a patient,” Frank offered.

“Or a guard,” Tony added.

Joe was unconvinced. “If he is, he won’t mind talking to us. But if he’s a burglar, Dr. Montrose would thank us for nabbing him.”

“You win,” said Tony.

The trio moved forward quickly. Reaching the edge of the promontory, they could make out their quarry picking his way down the slope toward the bay.

“Easy does it, Joe,” Frank warned, as his brother plowed ahead.

Fortunately, the hillside was covered with tall grass and scrub, which afforded good footing. The boys managed to descend without turning their ankles or falling. As they reached the bottom, they could see the stooped man hurrying across the beach.

“We’d better speed up or we’ll lose him,” Joe exclaimed, as the man went up a hillock of rock and sand.

He looked back for a moment, then darted down the opposite side and was lost to view.

“He may leave in a boat,” Joe remarked worriedly.

The boys sprinted forward. But by the time they reached the top of the hillock, the man was nowhere in sight.

“He’s disappeared!” Tony groaned. “But where?”

“No! There he is!” Joe exclaimed, pointing off to the right.

A stooped figure had appeared near the water’s edge, some yards away. Turning, he started back up the hillside toward the Shore Road.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Joe yelled, and the boys raced after him. Surprisingly, the man made no effort to flee.

“Wal, what is it?” he demanded in a familiar harsh, cracked voice.

“Clams Dagget!” Joe gasped as the boys caught up to him.

“You pests botherin’ me again?” Clams showed no signs of discomposure at being detected. “Wal, what do you want now?”

“We’d like to know why you were prowling around Dr. Montrose’s house,” Frank said forth-rightly.

Clams snorted. “You’re plumb crazy! Haven’t been near that old mansion. Been down here on the beach all evenin’!”

CHAPTER XIII

A Cryptic Threat

“DON’T give us that story!” Tony Prito said hotly to Clams Dagget. “We followed you all the way down the hill!”

The beachcomber flew into a rage. “Oh, you did, did you? Wal, let me tell you young scamps a thing or two!”

In salty language, he informed the boys that they were wrong. Besides, they had no business poking their noses into his affairs. If he ever caught them trying to shadow him, he would have the law on them so fast it would make their heads spin.

“And while I’m at it, I’m going to give you Hardys some advice,” Clams ranted. “From now on, you’d better stay away from Rocky Isle! That place is dangerous!”

“What’s dangerous about it?” said Joe, a note of doubt in his voice.

Clams’ eyes narrowed. “Some mighty queer things been goin’ on there. I’ve seen lights blinkin’ at night, and they weren’t bein’ flashed by the park guard on the island. He’d ‘a’ been in bed, and nobody else is supposed to be on Rocky Isle after nine o’clock. It stands to reason, anybody tryin’ to snoop—” Clams paused significantly, “might find that place real unhealthy night or day!”

Somewhat surprised by Clams’ revelation, the young sleuths tried to elicit further information from him. But the elderly pilot only muttered, “Told you all I know—don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He strode off in the dusk.

The boys trudged back up the hill and again approached the mansion. They rapped on first the front door, then the rear. There was no answer.

“I guess the doctor’s out,” Frank said resignedly.

During the drive home, Frank remained thoughtful, mulling the evening’s events over in his mind. Who was the tall, stooped man the boys had followed from Dr. Montrose’s house? And, if the old beachcomber’s claims were true, could the mysterious lights be connected with the junk and the cave hide-out on the hillside?

The next morning when the Hardys arrived at the pier, they found their shipmates already on board the Hai Hau, preparing for the day’s voyage. Tony was tuning up the outboard, while Biff and Jim were busy polishing woodwork. Chet was talking to prospective passengers.

“Hi, slowpokes!” the chunky lad greeted the Hardys. “You fellows just get out of bed?”

The Hardys laughed and climbed aboard. Tony looked up from the motor and wiped an oil smear off his cheek. “Hey, Biff!” he called. “See if you can find my feeler gauges so I can check these breaker points. I think I left ’em in the cabin.”

“Okay.”

Biff disappeared into the junk’s cabin. A moment later he reappeared, then the boys heard a cry of amazement. Frank saw Biff reach down and pick up a piece of paper.

“Hey, look at this! Another threat!”

Frank, Joe, and the others gathered around tensely to examine his find. The note was badly typed on cheap pad paper, with two words misspelled. It said:

Keep youre nose out of my busines or else!

“Where’d you find this, Biff?” asked Tony, who had not seen him pick it up.

“It was lying on the deck wrapped around a stone. Someone must have thrown it up here last night!”

“Clams Dagget probably!” Tony growled. “This sounds just like him!”

“Have you found out who sent the threat?”

Sam Radley asked

“You may be right,” Frank said. “We’d better compare this with the mining-stock letter and see how the typing checks out.”

After a hurried conference, the Hardys decided to take the note back to their crime laboratory for immediate study. The other four boys would man the Hai Hau on its daily cruise to Rocky Isle.

Frank and Joe sped home. While Frank set up the magnifying camera and lights in their basement laboratory, Joe telephoned Sam Radley to report the latest find. The operative promised to come over at once and assist in analyzing the typed specimens.

When he arrived ten minutes later, Radley asked, “Found out yet who sent the threat?”

“We’ve just started photographing it,” Joe reported. “We think they were both written on the same typewriter.”

The detective examined the threatening note for a few moments. “Offhand, I’d say you’re right. The three key letters check out at first glance, but we’ll need precise measurements to prove it.”

With Radley’s help, the boys shot a number of magnified close-ups of the typing. Then Frank took the films into the darkroom which the Hardys had rigged in one corner of the basement.

While he was busy with the developing, the radio crackled.

“Hai Hau calling Hardysl” Chet’s voice came over the loud-speaker.

Joe hastily flicked on the transmitter. “Hardys to Hai Hau! Come in, please! ... What’s up?” he added.

“We just left the pier!” Chet reported excitedly. “And guess who’s on board?”

“Skip the games!” Joe said. “Who?”

“Ti-Ming! He’s one of our passengers!”

Joe was startled. Had the Chinese decided to make their next move out in the open? And if so, did this forebode trouble aboard the junk?

“Does he know you’re calling?” Joe asked.

“I doubt it,” Chet replied. “He’s up in the bow, acting like a sight-seer.”

“Okay. Keep a watch on him. And remember, we have the safety of the passengers to think about—so don’t let him pull any fast ones!”

“Roger!” the plump lad’s voice acknowledged. “Over and out.”

Frank and Joe worked closely with Sam Radley in analyzing and comparing the threatening note and the mining-stock letter. Microscopic details and measurements proved that the typed characters were identical in both.

“No doubt about it. These were written on the same machine,” Radley concluded. “However, they must have been typed by different people, judging from the way the keys were struck—not to mention these two misspelled words.”

“That might’ve been intentional to throw us off the track,” Frank pointed out.

The investigator nodded. “Could be. But it’s not easy for a typist to disguise his touch.”

“Maybe Tony was right about Clams writing the threatening note,” Joe put in, “although I doubt that he’s the one who stole the typewriter from the hotel.”

“But it means he knows the thief,” Frank speculated.

“Not necessarily,” Radley said. “The machine could have been sold to an innocent buyer.”

The Hardys heaved great sighs. “We’re just going in circles,” Joe remarked. “All the same, I’m going to check further on Clams Dagget.”

“Let’s radio the Hai Hau and find out if the fellows have seen his boat,” Frank suggested.

“Good idea.”

Joe soon made contact with the junk, which had not yet left Rocky Isle on its return trip to Bayport.

“Is Clams’ boat around?” he asked.

“Yes, he reached here right after we did,” Chet reported. “Had a full load of passengers, too. I don’t know why he’s so worried about business!”

“Well, keep an eye on him too, while you’re at it,” Joe ordered. “Frank and I want to ask him some questions when he lands.”

“Okay, pals,” Chet promised and signed off.

During the afternoon, while waiting for the junk to return, Frank and Joe phoned Dr. Montrose’s office and house. There was no answer either place.

“Must be out on calls,” Frank determined. “But what say we go out to his house again this evening?”

“I’m with you.”

The boys sat down in the kitchen to chat with Aunt Gertrude while she gathered together the ingredients for a strawberry shortcake. They asked her what she knew about Clams Dagget.

Miss Hardy frowned. “Clams Dagget? Humph! He’s an old curmudgeon!” With her usual honesty, she added, “But I’m sure he’s harmless.”

Joe immediately got out the dictionary to look up curmudgeon. He chuckled wryly as he read the definition. “Just an old crab, eh? We think he’s that all right, Aunt Gertrude!”

Suddenly the short-wave radio speaker in the basement blared out. Frank dashed down to answer. Chet’s voice came over loud and excited. “Frank! Joe! You’d better get down to the dock pronto! We’ll land in a few minutes. Ti-Ming’s causing trouble—hurry up!”

“Be right there!” Frank signed off. A minute later he and Joe were speeding toward the pier. They arrived just as the Hai Hau was mooring.

To their amazement, Biff and Chet led Ti-Ming off the junk with his hands tied behind his back!

CHAPTER XIV

The Newspaper Clue

“WHAT’S this all about?” Frank demanded as he and Joe reached the Hai Hau.

The dapper Ti-Ming seemed more amused than angry at his being a captive. “I am afraid you will have to ask your friends,” he replied with a bland smile. “The whole situation is quite beyond my humble understanding.”

“Oh yes? We caught him snooping around the junk!” Chet Morton declared furiously.

Biff, Tony, and Jim vouched for this. But Ti-Ming appeared unconcerned. “I feared I had lost something,” he said.

By now a crowd of curious spectators had gathered on the dock to stare at the proceedings. A policeman walked up.

“Mind if we search you?” Joe asked the Chinese.

Ti-Ming shrugged. “One can hardly resist with one’s hands tied,” he answered nonchalantly. “Go ahead.”

Frank untied him and requested the policeman to make the search, explaining the reason. Ti-Ming’s pockets contained nothing unusual and held no object belonging to the Hai Hau.

“We’re sorry this happened, Mr. Ti-Ming,” Frank apologized. “If there’s any way we can make it up—”

“Please do not trouble yourselves,” the Chinese assured him. “I had, otherwise, a most enjoyable boat trip.”

Ti-Ming smiled suavely, bowed, and walked off the pier. Now that the excitement was over, the crowd quickly dispersed. The Hardys and their friends stared at one another, nonplused.

“Pretty slick!” Chet burst out. “But I still think that guy was looking for something on this boat.”

“Maybe so,” Joe said, “but we can’t have him hauled in on just suspicion. He could sue us for false arrest.”

Meanwhile, Clam Dagget’s motor launch, the Sandpiper, had pulled up alongside the dock. The Hardys waited until his passengers had disembarked, then went over to speak to him.

Clams scowled. “You two again?”

“We’d like to ask you a question,” Frank said.

“That ain’t sayin’ I’ll answer it.”

Frank ignored the retort and went on, “Do you own a typewriter?”

Clams’ face took on a belligerent look. “Mebbe. What if I do?”

“We’d like to see it,” Joe said.

“Oh, you would, would you? And what if I tell you Hardys to go jump in the bay!” the old man stormed. “I’ve had about enough o’ your pesterin’ and pryin’! What business is it o’ yours whether I got a typewriter or not?”

“Just take it easy,” Frank said evenly, “and read this.” He handed Clams the threatening note.

“Did you write it?” Joe asked bluntly.

Clams’ eyes widened as he scanned the message. “Me!” he croaked indignantly. “I never wrote no such thing!”

“All right. But maybe someone else used your typewriter.” Frank paused, then added, “Unless you’d rather have the police take over.”

Clams’ belligerence seemed to melt away. He glanced from one to the other of the Hardys with a worried expression. “Wal, all right,” he grumbled. “But you’re wastin’ your time.”

Frank and Joe motioned their friends not to wait for them, then climbed aboard the Sandpiper. Clams pushed off and sailed up the bay toward his shack. When they arrived, the boat-man inserted a key in a rusty padlock to open the front door, and led the Hardys inside.

As Clams lighted a kerosene lamp, Frank and Joe stared about the shack curiously. It was crammed with knickknacks and salvage items picked up during years of beachcombing. There were a boat anchor with a broken fluke, coils of hemp line, and numerous carvings of driftwood. The only furniture consisted of a cot, a potbellied stove, and a rickety table and chairs.

Joe reflected that the kerosene lamp was certainly needed, since the tiny windows were patched with cardboard, shutting out most of the daylight. Evidently the old salt was a voracious reader. Stacks of back-issue magazines lay piled about the floor.

“Wal, you wanted t’ see my typewriter,” Clams snorted. “There it is!”

He pointed to a battered machine standing on an upended orange crate in one corner of the shack. Frank and Joe walked over to examine it. Their faces fell after one glance at the rusty antique. Not only was it much more ancient than a three-year-old model—it was not a Zeus!

The two boys stared at each other in chagrin. A moment later both burst out laughing.

Frank turned to Clams. “Guess we did draw a blank,” he admitted.

Clams had listened in amazement, but gradually his face broke into a grin. Chuckling, he said, “Made a mistake, did you? Wal, I reckon we all do, now and then!”

Relaxing, he sank down on the cot and invited the boys to make themselves at home.

“Understand, I got nothin’ personal agin you two,” the old beachcomber said. “But I still think you’re goin’ to ruin my business with that Chinese junk.”

Frank and Joe tried to reassure him. They pointed out that the Hai Hau was a good attraction for publicizing Rocky Isle as a picnic spot. In the long run this would bring them all more customers.

“Hmm. Never thought o’ that,” Clams confessed. “Might be somethin’ to it. I had a full boatload today, sure enough.”

The Hardys offered to hike to town or catch a bus, but Clams insisted upon taking them back to the pier in the Sandpiper.

“Reckon we may as well bury the hatchet,” he told the boys as they shook hands on parting.

“That suits us!” Joe replied with a grin. Frank agreed heartily.

Driving home, the Hardys puzzled over the reason for Ti-Ming making the trip on the junk that day. Like their chums, Frank and Joe felt that the Chinese had a definite reason for being aboard—and it was not just to admire the scenery!

First Chin Gok had appeared in Bayport, and now the second Oriental. Certainly this was no coincidence. If the two men were rival leaders, they probably were transferring their war front to Bayport. But why? Was the Hai Hau the sole reason?

Thoughtfully the Hardys continued to High and Elm Streets. Reaching there, Joe remarked:

“You know, Frank, the solution to this whole mystery is probably right in front of our eyes, if we could only see it.”

Next day was Sunday. After attending church, Frank and Joe sat in the living room, and once more speculated on the different angles of the case. Gradually the boys became aware of an appetizing aroma wafting out from the kitchen.

“Mm, boy! Roast beef!” Frank exclaimed.

Joe perked up hungrily. “I could eat the whole piece!” he declared. “Let’s see what else is on the menu!”

The boys strode out to the kitchen. Aunt Gertrude, in an apron with her sleeves pushed up, was beating whipped cream to top two large chocolate pies. On the stove were pots of simmering vegetables and fluffy mashed potatoes. A bowl of crisp salad stood ready for the table.

“Hey! A real feast!” Joe cried. “All for us?”

“Any objection?” Aunt Gertrude retorted mysteriously.

“I’ll say not. But—”

Joe’s unspoken thought was drowned out by the alarm buzzers, followed almost immediately by the ringing of the doorbell. Frank and Joe rushed to the front hall and opened the door to find Chet, Tony, Biff, and Jim assembled on the porch.

“What’s this? A convention?” Frank asked in surprise.

“Sure—a starving one. Your aunt invited us,” Chet announced. “Wow! Do I smell roast beef?”

The boys crowded inside, laughing and joking. Aunt Gertrude poked her head into the living room to greet the newcomers. Her eyes twinkled behind her spectacles as she added to Frank and Joe:

“You two can have your little mysteries, so I thought I’d arrange one myself!”

“You’re tops, Aunty!” Frank said, hugging her.

The boys ate heartily of the delicious dinner, Chet finishing off half of one chocolate pie. Then the brothers and their friends, in assembly-line fashion, helped Miss Hardy clear the table and wash the dishes.

When they returned to the living room, Biff picked up the comic section of the Sunday newspaper. As he chuckled over a series on Psycho the Cat, Frank’s eyes were narrowing on a headline in a report from Fremont, a town not far away.

Safe Cracked as Women Sleep

Quickly the young sleuth read the story. Dr. Montrose of Bayport had treated an elderly widow, Mrs. Velman, and her unmarried sister, Miss Anker, at his office. They had returned home and fallen into a deep sleep.

“According to the story told by Mrs. Velman and Miss Anker,” the newspaper article went on, “the women had slept for several hours.

“‘When we awoke,’ Mrs. Velman said, ‘the safe was open, and our securities stolen!’ ”

Frank whistled and read the account aloud to Aunt Gertrude and the other boys. “Aunty, that sounds like your experience!”

“Are you implying,” Biff spoke up, “that Dr. Montrose may be the thief—or at least is in league with one?”

“I’m not accusing anyone,” Frank replied, “but it’s all mighty funny.”

Chet spoke up. “Boy, I wish I’d come here soon enough that day to catch him!”

“I am confused,” said Jim Foy. “Do you mean that Dr. Montrose is paid by the burglar to put people to sleep?”

“It could be figured that way.” Frank nodded.

“I’m going to find out!” Joe declared, as he jumped from his chair and dashed to the hall telephone.

CHAPTER XV

Hunting an Intruder

JOE consulted the telephone directory, then dialed Mrs. Velman’s house. After explaining who he was and saying that his aunt had fallen asleep under similar circumstances, he found the elderly widow very co-operative.

“Did Dr. Montrose give you and your sister sleeping pills?” Joe asked.

“Why—uh—yes, he did. Said we were to take them as soon as we got home. We felt fine when we woke up—that is, until we discovered the robbery.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” the young sleuth prodded.

“I’m afraid not.”

Joe said that he hoped the police would soon recover the securities, thanked her, and said good-by. He returned to the living room and reported what he had learned. At once Aunt Gertrude said, “Dr. Montrose certainly looks suspicious.”

“There are lots of reasons for talking to the doctor,” said Frank. “First, he was staying at the hotel when the Zeus typewriter was stolen; second, he could be a thief, or in league with one; next, he advises patients, mostly elderly widows, on stock investments; and last, for a doctor who ought to be on the job he’s a pretty elusive person—doesn’ t have a nurse or an answering service.”

“I agree one hundred per cent,” said Joe. “Let’s call on him right now!”

Aunt Gertrude held up her hand. “Not yet,” she said. “I guess you’d forgotten that the Forsythes, our new neighbors, are coming over to tea.”

The brothers groaned, then apologized. The other boys left and in a short time Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe arrived with two children, a boy of ten and a girl of eight. Frank and Joe, though chafing under the delay, were polite and friendly.

A light supper was served at six. As soon as the meal of sandwiches and ice cream was over, and the Forsythes had left, Frank and Joe set off for Dr. Montrose’s house. They would surprise the man and not give him time to hide any telltale evidence.

“If he’s not at home,” Frank said, “we’ll look around the grounds and see if we can learn anything to connect him with the mystery.”

As on their previous call, the Hardys found the chain across the entrance driveway, so they parked on the public road. The boys walked up the path through the wooded approach and rang the doorbell. No one answered.

After ringing several more times, with no response, Frank muttered, “Looks as though he’s not at home.”

“Or else just not seeing callers,” Joe added.

Disappointed, the boys made their way around the outside of the house, looking for discarded letters or other possible incriminating clues. As they passed a pair of tall French windows opening off the first floor, Joe seized his brother’s arm.

“Wait!” he whispered. “I think someone’s in there!” He pointed to one of the windows.

Frank also caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall figure moving about inside. The two boys silently went up and peered through the glass. The next instant both stiffened as a steely voice behind them rang out:

“Why are you two spying here?” The boys whirled about. There stood Dr. Montrose, wearing a hat and scowling accusingly. But his harsh look turned to a smile of welcome as he recognized them.

“Why, Frank and Joe Hardy!” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise! What brings you here? Is your aunt ill again?”

“Oh, no, she’s better, thank you,” Joe replied. “We came here to ask you about something. When you didn’t answer the bell, we decided just to look around.”

“I see. Well, come inside,” the doctor urged cordially.

As the two boys accompanied him into the house, they glanced at each other, thinking, “He’s not acting like a guilty person!”

Dr. Montrose clicked on a light and laid his hat on the table in the wide hall. He invited them to follow him into a parlor and sit down.

Frank and Joe glanced around, trying not to appear too curious. The atmosphere was musty, as if the whole house needed an airing, and the gilt-trimmed plush furniture looked old and very worn. The windows were hung with heavy red draperies.

“I suppose you’re wondering why we were looking in the windows,” Frank said to the doctor. “The fact is, when no one answered our ring we assumed you were out. But we thought we saw someone inside.”

“It surprised us,” Joe added, “because we understood you live alone.”

“That’s right.” Dr. Montrose nodded. “No one else is here.”

Joe purposely put on a puzzled look. “That’s strange,” he insisted. “I’m positive I caught a glimpse of a person moving around. You don’t suppose it was a burglar?”

The doctor laughed, evidently undisturbed. “It was probably only an illusion caused by the shadows. Well, perhaps I’d better look around—just to make sure.”

Frank seized the opening. “We’ll help,” he offered. “It might be safer with three of us, if there is an intruder.”

“Hmm, certainly. That’s very kind.”

Both boys thought they now detected a certain reluctance in the doctor’s manner. Nevertheless, he led them through the various rooms on the first floor. Apparently the mansion had not received a thorough house cleaning in a long time. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and much of the furniture was still draped with white dust covers. The once-expensive carpeting was threadbare and soiled.

After checking the huge, old-fashioned kitchen and peering into the butler’s pantry, Montrose led them back to the sweeping spiral staircase in the main hallway.

“We’ll take a glance upstairs,” he murmured.

The dried-out wooden steps creaked underfoot.

“Boy, this place seems a million years old!” Joe whispered to his brother.

The searchers looked into all the bedrooms, one by one, and then into two enormous antique bathrooms with tubs mounted on ball-claw feet. The white tile floors were chipped.

Next the doctor mounted a narrow rickety staircase that led upward to the attic storage rooms. Frank and Joe followed. The musty staleness that assailed their lungs caused them to cough.

“I dare say we could do with some air conditioning up here,” Dr. Montrose apologized with an affable smile as they reached the hot, stifling loft.

Frank and Joe agreed wholeheartedly. Dr. Montrose switched on an overhead bulb, revealing an assortment of discarded articles. There were several battered trunks, a rusty bird cage, and piles of yellowing newspapers. Everything was coated with a thick layer of dust.

“No intruder has been up here or we’d see his footprints.” The doctor chuckled.

Although the brothers had to agree, Frank and Joe still looked behind every piece big enough to conceal a person—or a typewriter. They found nothing suspicious.

When they returned to the second floor, Frank pointed to a latched door at one end of the hall.

“We haven’t looked in there,” he said.

“Just a small closet,” Dr. Montrose replied casually. “No one could hide in it.”

He proceeded down the spiral stair well to the first floor, with Joe following. Frank, lingering behind, determined to check the closet himself.

Moving quickly down the hall, he opened the door and peered inside. The next instant a tall figure loomed up out of the pitch-dark space.

Before Frank could take action, he was seized by powerful hands. The boy started to yell, then the sound was choked off by his assailant’s crushing grip. The man was almost a head taller than Frank, and in the dim light of the hallway it was impossible to see his face.

Frank fought furiously to free himself. The locked pair swayed and stumbled in a wordless struggle. Then one hand of Frank’s opponent grasped the boy’s throat and banged his head against the closet door jamb.

The impact sent a flash of pain shooting through Frank’s skull. With a groan, he blacked out!

CHAPTER XVI

Signals

MEANWHILE, Joe and Dr. Montrose had reached the first floor. It was a moment before they realized that Frank was not behind them. Then they heard sounds of a commotion upstairs.

“Hey! What’s going on?” Joe cried. He ran back to the staircase and dashed up two steps at a time. The doctor followed, pantingly urging caution.

By the time they reached the second floor, the scuffling noises had ceased. Frank was nowhere in sight.

“Frank!” Joe yelled. “Hey, Frank! Where are you?”

The closet door stood ajar. Dr. Montrose switched on the hall light and Joe peered inside. The place was empty.

“He must be up here somewhere!” Joe exclaimed frantically.

They peered into every bedroom and both bathrooms, but found no trace of the other Hardy boy. Then Joe noticed a clothes chute in one wall of the hallway and yanked it open.

“It leads down to the cellar,” Dr. Montrose explained. “But surely he didn’t—”

Without waiting to hear more, Joe dashed downstairs again. “Which way to the cellar?” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Through the kitchen!” Dr. Montrose answered, hastening down the steps behind him.

Joe sped on and descended the cellar steps, pausing only long enough to flick on the light switch. The basement was like a huge cobwebby tomb.

Only a single light bulb was working, but Joe noticed a wooden partition at one end of the basement with the words, LAUNDRY ROOM, in faded paint on the door. He struggled with the latch a moment, then yanked the door open.

“Frank!” he cried in mingled relief and alarm.

His brother lay stunned at the bottom of the clothes chute. Joe slipped one arm under Frank’s shoulders and raised him to a half-sitting position. In doing so, Joe felt a sizable bump on the back of his brother’s head.

Dr. Montrose had arrived on the scene by this time and hastily examined Frank.

“Frank’s had a nasty blow,” he murmured, “but I think he’s coming around.”

After the doctor and Joe had chafed the victim’s wrists for a few moments, Frank opened his eyes and groaned.

“O-oh, my head! ... Wh-where am I?”

“Down in the cellar, pal,” Joe replied. “Take it easy for a bit, and then tell us what happened.”

After collecting his wits, Frank related how he had looked into the closet and been taken off guard by his huge assailant. “Where is he now?”

“Not upstairs, that’s sure,” Dr. Montrose pointed out.

Joe pointed to an open window above the laundry tubs. “That’s how the guy escaped. After he dumped Frank into the chute, he must have slid down behind him and ducked out.”

The doctor looked at the boys blankly. “But what did he want? There is nothing of great value in the house.”

The Hardys exchanged puzzled glances. They were wondering the same thing. It occurred to both boys that the intruder evidently had some knowledge of the layout of the house.

Dr. Montrose and Joe assisted Frank upstairs and made him comfortable in a lounge chair. Here the doctor gave him a whiff of spirits of ammonia and a glass of water. In a few minutes the young sleuth felt fully recovered, except for a throbbing bump on his head.

“I think you’d better call the police, Dr. Montrose,” Joe suggested.

“Yes, I’ll do that, but it seems foolish if the fellow didn’t take anything. Probably he was just a tramp who broke in to get some food. I’ll take a look.”

The physician hurried off to the kitchen but returned in a minute. “That was the answer, all right. The fellow took a lot of food.”

Dr. Montrose dismissed the subject, then asked why the boys had come.

“On several counts, but we’ll make it brief,” Frank replied. “First, a friend of ours is looking for a certain kind of typewriter that isn’t for sale around here. We heard that you have one.”

“A typewriter?” The doctor’s piercing eyes glinted with surprise. “Why, no—no indeed. I’ve never thought of having one.”

“Next,” Frank went on, “we’ve been tremendously interested in what happened at Mrs. Velman’s home. We’d like to hear your theory on it.”

Dr. Montrose smiled. “I’m afraid that I haven’t any,” he replied.

“But you did tell Mrs. Velman and her sister to take sleeping pills right before the robbery!”

The doctor frowned. “I do not like your insinuations,” he said darkly. “I know nothing about the robbery.” He suddenly arose, indicating the interview was at an end. The boys said good night and left.

As soon as their convertible was rolling homeward, Frank said, “Well, do you think our suspicions about the doc should be washed out?”

“No indeed,” Joe declared. “I’m sure he’s mixed up in this mystery somehow.”

“You found something?” Frank asked.

For answer Joe reached into his pocket. “Look at this. It was on the floor in the laundry room.”

He held out a gold cuff link, set with a bluish amber tiger, and on the reverse side were the Oriental characters meaning Hong Kong.

“It’s the mate to the one Iola found at the cave!” Frank exclaimed. “You think this is Dr. Montrose’s?”

“Could be,” Joe answered. “Or at least it belonged to the man who attacked you, and he was no housebreaker. He’s a pal of Dr. Montrose!”

“A long guess,” Frank replied, then smiled. “But a good one. That guy could even be the safecracker!”

“The question is, could he be Chinese and what’s Dr. Montrose’s part in all this?” Frank queried.

“And I’d like to know,” Joe put in, “is he one of the people interested in the Hai Hau? Or, if Dr. Montrose owns the cuff links, is he tied up in any way with one or another of the rival groups and why?”

“And, Joe, don’t forget that Dad said the Chameleon was looking for cuff links like those we have. That could mean the owner might lead us to that man Balarat.”

“First we must prove who the owner is,” said Joe.

“I think we should check on the doctor’s credentials,” Frank declared.

Joe concurred. “For a starter, let’s find out if that fancy diploma in his office is on the level. Let’s see. It was Ardvor College.”

The next morning there was just time enough for Joe to write a letter of inquiry to Ardvor College. Frank, meanwhile, phoned Chief Collig to brief him on all the Hardys’ suspicions up to date regarding Dr. Montrose.

“I’ll put a detail on the doctor at once,” the officer promised. “Your story is amazing. And I’ll get in touch with your father if you’re in a hurry.”

“Thanks.”

Joe licked the envelope of his letter and applied an airmail and a special-delivery stamp.

“Hey, come on! It’s almost ten o’clock!” Frank urged, with a glance at his wrist watch. “We can drop the letter off on our way to the pier!”

The Hai Hau was ready to pull out as the Hardys arrived on the dock. They climbed aboard and Joe went forward to help Chet with the bowlines.

Two last-minute passengers, a husband and wife, showed up a moment later, breathless and clutching picnic bags. Biff and Frank took their fares and assisted them to embark.

“Another full boatload!” Biff beamed.

Frank grinned with satisfaction. “Nice going. Well, let’s shove off!”

The day’s cruises went off without a hitch. Secretly Frank and Joe kept wishing that they could have worked on the mystery, and radioed Aunt Gertrude several times for news. None came and finally the brothers arrived home at suppertime.

Later that evening they were talking to Aunt Gertrude about Dr. Montrose when the alarm buzzers sounded. The visitors proved to be Biff Hooper and Tony Prito. Both were highly excited.

“What’s up?” Joe demanded.

“Plenty!” Tony was panting for breath. “You remember that yarn Clams Dagget told us about seeing lights on Rocky Isle?”

“Sure. What about them?” Frank said. “They’ve been seen again?”

“Yes. This time by Biff and me. We were out in my Napoli and spotted those lights ourselves! They were blinking on and off, as if someone was sending a message in secret code!”

CHAPTER XVII

The Cliffside Cave

“Wow!” Joe cried. “Let’s get going, fellows! Now’s our chance to find out who’s sending secret signals from Rocky Isle!”

“We’ll have to wait for Chet and Jim,” Biff put in. “They’ll be right over.”

“Okay. We can all go in the Sleuth,” Frank said.

Chet’s noisy jalopy pulled up outside a few moments later. Jim was with him. The other boys rushed out, some sliding into the Hardys’ convertible, the others into Chet’s “hot rod.” They drove to the town pier.

“Let’s make sure the Hai Hau’s all right before we leave,” Frank suggested.

The boys found that Detective Smuff and Patrolman Con Riley had been assigned as police guards for the junk. Seeing the pair, Joe and Frank looked at one another. The two officers were not known as the most astute men on the force.

“Guess Chief Collig didn’t have any others to spare,” Joe remarked with a shrug.

The junk’s owners went on and hurried to the boathouse where the Sleuth was berthed. Within minutes the craft was kicking up a frothy wake in the moonlight as the group sped out the bay and neared Rocky Isle. It loomed up as a black mass on the horizon, with its lighthouse beacon sweeping the darkness at one-minute intervals. At the moment there was no sign of the blinking signals on the opposite side of the island.

“Maybe we’ve missed the senders,” Frank said glumly to his boatmates. He was at the wheel of the Sleuth.

A second later a light suddenly gleamed from the western cliff!

“There it goes!” Joe exclaimed, watching intently so he could translate the message. The light shone steadily for a few moments, then winked on and off rapidly. “That wasn’t Morse code—or International!” Joe added tensely.

Jim Foy nodded. “It must be a secret one!” His companions agreed.

The light disappeared as they approached closer. Frank had fixed its approximate position in mind, and steered toward the jumbled mass of rock that sheered upward from the island’s northern shore.

“It’s starting again!” Biff exclaimed. Once, twice, three times the blinking signal stabbed the darkness. Still it made no sense to the boys.

“If only we can get close enough to see who’s sending!” Joe muttered.

He broke off as the group became aware of the sudden drone of a powerful boat engine. The sound was coming from the direction of the island, but the boys could detect no running lights. Seconds later, they could make out the dim form of a large speedboat. It was zooming straight toward the Sleuth!

“It’ll ram us broadside!” Chet cried.

“No, it won’t!” Frank said grimly, setting his jaw.

He tooted the Sleuth’s horn, which echoed back from the cliff. Still the darkened boat aimed for the boys. Frank turned the wheel to give the other craft plenty of room. It veered, still obstructing the Sleuth.

“That pilot’s crazy!” Tony cried out, then yelled, “Look where you’re going!”

The oncoming speedboat continued to change course whenever Frank did. Finally he decided on a daring move to outwit the person determined to crash into them.

Frank steeled his nerve and held course and speed as the other boat bore down on the Hardy craft. Then, at the very last second, he gunned the Sleuth’s engine and threw the wheel hard over!

With an earsplitting din, the big powerboat hurtled past, missing them by inches! The Sleuth heeled crazily aport in its wake.

Chet was trembling like a leaf. Biff, Tony, and Jim gave weak gasps of relief. Joe felt cold trickles of perspiration run down his back.

“Terrific, Frank! You rate a medal for fast thinking!” Joe called, as his brother sped on. This time the speedboat did not come in pursuit.

“What was that guy’s idea?” Biff asked. “In fact, there were two men in that boat. Wonder who they were.”

“I think they have something to do with the signaling and were trying to scare us away from Rocky Isle,” Frank suggested.

“Then that’s all the more reason for going there,” Joe determined.

“I’ll say,” Tony broke in angrily. “How about our finding those guys and asking what their murderous scheme was all about?”

“Oh, no!” Chet spoke up. “I aim to stay in one piece now that they’re gone. Let’s just take a look at the cliff and call it quits.”

“That seems wise,” Jim Foy said softly.

Frank headed toward the cliff once more, watching intently for any sign of another attack. But the place was quiet.

Suddenly lights flashed again high up on the cliff. They seemed to be coming from some recessed ledge, just below the craggy outthrust of the cliff’s overhanging brow. Then the signals blacked out abruptly.

“Slow down!” Joe called. “Think that speedboat could be luring us into a trap?”

“Maybe. Fellows, get out your flashlights and beam them around.”

His companions did as directed. No boat or waiting figures showed up. The signaling had stopped. The boys held a hurried conference and concluded that by the time they could climb the cliff the mysterious signal sender would have vanished.

“Let’s go home,” Chet pleaded, yawning, but still sweeping the cliff with his light. “I—” The sleepy boy suddenly jumped up and cried out, “Hey, that looks like the entrance to a cave up there!”

His friends stared at the spot on which the beam of his flashlight was trained. “Oh, man, am I ever going spelunking in there! ... No, not tonight,” Chet added quickly as he saw the look of amazement on the other boys’ faces.

Since there seemed to be no reason for remaining longer, Frank headed the Sleuth toward Bayport. Conversation revolved around the lights and the cave. “There might be a connection,” Chet offered.

“And,” Biff drawled, “those signals might just be on the level and have something to do with the Coast Guard.”

Joe grinned. “More likely those phony coastguardmen.”

The Sleuth plowed on. As it came in sight of the Hai Hau, Jim Foy cried out, “Good night! What’s up?”

The dock’s floodlight illumined a strange scene. Figures could be seen in wild commotion on the junk’s fore- and afterdecks!

Frank brought the Sleuth to the dock in a hurry and leaped out.

“It’s the Chinese!” Tony cried out, as he and the others raced aboard the Hai Hau.

In the junk’s stern, George Ti-Ming was exchanging fisticuffs with two other Chinese, while Officer Con Riley fought to separate them. The Hardys recognized Ti-Ming’s opponents as two of the men who had wanted to buy the Hai Hau in Staten Island.

Up forward, another hand-to-hand battle was going on. Frank made out the huge figure of Chin Gok locked in combat with two smaller adversaries. The face of one was contorted with pain. Detective Smuff was trying to pry them apart, and in doing so, was catching the brunt of their blows.

Frank waded into the fray on the foredeck. He yanked Chin Gok around by one arm and dealt him a smashing right to the jaw. Chin Gok’s eyes went glassy and he reeled back against the cabin wall.

Tony, meanwhile, had shot a short, jarring left chop to the ribs of another of the battlers, who had not yet recovered from the surprise of this new and unexpected intervention. Jim’s fists, too, were dealing out equal punishment to the other Chinese.

Joe, Biff, and Chet were busy with the fighters in the stern sheets. Within minutes, the battle of the Hai Hau had been brought under control and all six of the bruised and panting Chinese were only too willing to subside.

“What was this fracas all about? And why here on the Hai Hau?” Frank demanded.

Smuff and Riley looked shamefaced, and the latter said, “This guy”—he pointed to Ti-Ming —“came aboard to look around with a couple of friends. I didn’t see any harm in that.”

“Riley’s telling you right,” Smuff spoke up. “Then these other guys arrived with the same story. First thing we knew a fight started.”

At that moment a police car raced up to the pier. Chief Collig and two other officers stepped out and raced onto the junk.

“It’s all right, Chief,” Smuff spoke up. “Riley and I have the situation under control. Pretty bad fight.”

The chief looked hard at his men and said that a bystander had telephoned headquarters about the fight. To the Chinese, Chief Collig said:

“You’re all under arrest. Do you want to talk here or down at headquarters?”

Chin Gok and his two henchmen sullenly made it plain they would talk neither place. But Ti-Ming said he welcomed the chance to clear himself.

“I am not guilty of any lawbreaking,” he began. “I am a private detective. I go from place to place to get evidence on smuggling.”

Frank and Joe were thunderstruck. A detective! And he solved smuggling cases!

Would Ti-Ming’s story clear up the mystery of the Chinese junk?

CHAPTER XVIII

Legend of Treasure

To VERIFY his story, Ti-Ming produced a New York private detective’s license and several letters from Hong Kong. They identified not only him without a doubt, but the friends with him as well.

“Why didn’t you tell the police all this when you came here?” Chief Collig demanded.

“Because I was not yet sure whether the Hai Hau was the stolen junk I was looking for; whether Chin Gok’s gang or someone else had smuggled goods into this country on it; and whether he had learned of a certain secret hidden aboard the junk. Until I was, I thought it wiser to keep my true identity under cover.”

Ti-Ming explained that six junks similar to the Hai Hau had been stolen in Hong Kong, probably by Chin Gok, painted, and given new figure-heads and names. It was thought they had been shipped to various ports of the world, all with smuggled goods aboard. One of these boats belonged to a friend of Ti-Ming’s.

“In Hong Kong,” the Chinese detective went on, “a story was told by a workman that on one of the junks an ancient clue to a great fortune could be found. This workman was injured and before dying told this much but could never finish the story. So far as known, no one has learned the secret.”

Ti-Ming smiled. “Naturally my friend hoped the secret was hidden in his boat.”

“What is the fortune?” Joe asked eagerly.

Ti-Ming did not reply.

“You needn’t answer that question now,” Collig said. “Go on with your story.”

The detective bowed slightly. “My friend heard that a shipment of boats had gone from Hong Kong to New York and asked me to investigate. The Hai Hau was the only used junk among them, and I am sure from certain features and other marks that it is my friend’s boat. To avoid confusion and publicity, I offered to buy it. When these honorable boys refused to sell, I followed them to Bayport and tried to continue my search without their suspecting me. But they are very wise young men.”

Despite the compliment to them, the Hardys and their friends exchanged worried glances. “Then it is true we bought stolen property!” Frank remarked solemnly.

“I am afraid so,” Ti-Ming replied. But smiling, he added, “The rightful owner authorized me, after I notified him of my find, to say that you may keep the Hai Hau until fall, but in the meantime I am to be permitted to continue my hunt for the clue to the fortune.”

The Hardys looked toward Chief Collig, who gave the Chinese a quick answer. “You may search only with a police escort, Mr. Ti-Ming, and anything you find will be kept by me until we have further proof of ownership.”

Ti-Ming nodded. “That is very fair. And now, if you will excuse me, my friends and I will say good evening to you gentlemen. I will return in the morning, when I will search for the valuable clue to the fortune.”

Chin Gok and his two henchmen glared in hate after the departing Chinese. Still refusing to admit anything, they were led off to the Bayport jail. Chief Collig asked Frank and Joe to follow. Surprised and wondering, they said good night to their friends and followed in the convertible.

At police headquarters Chief Collig attempted once more to make his prisoners talk. But he was unable to extract any information from the three men.

“Empty their pockets,” he ordered a guard.

Aside from knives carried by two of the men, nothing incriminating was found until they searched Chin Gok. A turnout of his pockets revealed a blue amber tiger gem!

Joe pounced on it. “Chief! This is like the jewels in the cuff links!”

Collig’s eyes narrowed. “So you were the man who threw Frank Hardy down the clothes chute! All right, speak up! What have you got to say for yourself?”

Chin Gok’s long face twisted into a sneer, but he said nothing.

“Okay, if they won’t talk, lock ’em all up!” Collig growled. “Chin Gok, we’ll hold you for assault on Frank Hardy. The others will be charged with disturbing the peace while we make a further investigation.”

After the three Chinese had been led away, Chief Collig took the brothers into his office. “Get ready for a bombshell,” he said. “Dr. Montrose has disappeared!”

“What!”

“After you gave us the tip on him, my men went to call on him. When they found his office locked, we became suspicious and broke in. Everything but the heavy furniture was gone.”

Joe whistled, and Frank said, “Yes, go on. Then you went to his house?”

“Right away. Same thing there.” Collig smiled. “I guess you boys broke the case of a fake-doctor thief.”

“You mean there weren’t two men working together?” Joe exclaimed.

Chief Collig rubbed his chin. “On that score I’m not sure. Montrose may have returned to the victim’s houses himself and stolen their securities, or he may have had a pal take them.”

“Chin Gok, perhaps?” Frank suggested.

The chief shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of that until the cuff-link angle came up. The point now is to find Dr. Montrose. Well, boys, thanks for your help. And if you get any leads, let me know.”

“We sure will,” Frank promised and with a grin added, “If Chin Gok talks, call us, please.”

“I’ll do that. By the way, I never did get in touch with your father. He was always out.”

The Hardys left for home, conversing on the way about each detail of the mystery. “I’m beginning to reconstruct things this way,” said Frank. “When Dr. Montrose left our house, after Aunt Gertrude was getting sleepy, he slipped the lock on the front door. He took Mrs. Witherspoon home and returned to open Dad’s safe. Something frightened him and he ran off in a hurry, leaving the front door open. Then Chet came along.”

“Sounds good,” Joe remarked. “But if he steals securities whenever he gets a chance, why didn’t he take the ones in our safe?”

“He didn’t want that particular job to look like a robbery,” Frank answered. “All he wanted was Dad’s file on the Chameleon.”

Joe’s eyes opened wide. “Are you trying to tell me you think Montrose is the Chameleon?”

“I am.” Frank gave a loud sigh. “And we let him slip right through our fingers. The Chameleon is sure a perfect name for that guy! He managed to fool other doctors in town evidently.”

Joe said he thought they should phone their father at once, so as soon as the boys reached home, Frank put in the call. His brother, meanwhile, gave Aunt Gertrude an account of the evening’s adventures.

“Dr. Montrose!” she cried out. “And he seemed like such a gentleman! So he’s not, eh? Then he ought to be tarred and feathered when they catch him. The idea of giving people sleeping pills and then robbing them!”

“Take it easy, Aunty,” Joe advised. “Remember, we haven’t proved a thing yet.”

By this time Frank had made the connection to California and in a moment his father came on the phone. Mr. Hardy listened in amazement to the story and his sons’ deductions. Then he said:

“One of my secret findings contained in the Chameleon’s files was that he had read a great deal about medicine and learned enough to pose as a doctor. But the last place I’d expect to find him practicing would be Bayport ! At the time the file on Balarat was taken from my safe, I had just received a good lead that he was out here, and I figured some cohort of his had opened the safe.”

Mr. Hardy went on to say that the ex-convict might remain in hiding for some time, now that he knew his latest role as a doctor had been detected. “But keep your eyes open, Frank, and Joe too,” the ace sleuth advised. “I will fly home tomorrow with Mother to take up the hunt.”

After Frank put the phone down, Aunt Gertrude looked hard at him, then said crisply, “Not one more bit of mystery tonight for either of you boys. You both look as white and tired as if you’d been through an epidemic!”

“An epidemic of clues,” Joe quipped, but he and Frank were glad to climb into bed and were asleep in a few minutes.

The following morning was bright and warm and the Hardys looked forward to a full passenger list for the Hai Hau. They found Aunt Gertrude busy in the kitchen taking muffins from the oven.

“Wow! What a breakfast!” said Joe. “Here’s a kiss for the cook.” He planted one on her cheek.

“Good morning, Aunty,” Frank added, putting an arm around her.

The wall phone in the kitchen rang. Joe picked it up and listened a moment, then burst out:

“What! Chin Gok and the other two prisoners have escaped, you say, Chief?”

CHAPTER XIX

Sleuths in Danger

FRANK, Joe, and Aunt Gertrude were stunned by Chief Collig’s report that the three Chinese prisoners had broken out of jail.

“Somebody helped them,” Aunt Gertrude declared firmly.

“He sure did,” Joe agreed. “The chief said someone slugged the jailer and opened the cell they were in. The fellow was masked and as slick as they come. Nobody saw him sneak in.”

Frank gazed into space. “I wonder where the bunch of escapees went. They must be in hiding. Maybe—”

“Maybe what?” Aunt Gertrude asked.

Her nephew merely smiled and she knew his idea was still in a nebulous state. He would tell her later when it was fully formulated. As the brothers drove down to the Hai Hau to help with the day’s run, Frank said:

“Joe, I was thinking of that cave on Rocky Isle and those blinking lights. It’s just possible Dr. Montrose is hiding out there.”

“And perhaps Chin Gok and his pals?” Joe queried.

“Yes. Let’s take a look and if we see any of them we’ll radio the police.”

At the pier Frank and Joe found Chet with his spelunking gear, ready to explore the cave. But when the stout boy heard of the jail break and Frank’s supposition that the wanted men might be hiding there, he looked worried.

“I don’t know that I’ll explore, fellows. You can’t move fast in this gear and I sure couldn’t run if I had to.”

“Well, suit yourself,” said Joe.

Several picnickers had already gathered. Among them were Callie Shaw and Iola Morton. The girls had brought a basket of food, a portable record player, and a beach bag containing towels and bathing suits.

“Hey! Look who’s here!” Joe cried out.

“Be our guests!” Frank invited. “We’ll reserve deluxe seats right here with the crew—no charge!”

The two girls dimpled into pleased smiles but insisted upon paying their own fares.

Laughter and banter continued as the junk cruised out of the harbor. Then Iola turned on a new hit record.

“Too bad there’s not enough room to dance.” she sighed. “Let’s all sing instead!”

Everyone joined in the chorus, drowning out the crooning voice on the record. Biff sang slightly off key.

“Hey! Those pipes of yours are rusty!” Tony joked and held up an oilcan. “Try some.”

Presently the radio connected with the Hardy home signaled and Aunt Gertrude’s voice came on. Frank put it down to low volume so only the young sleuths and their friends could hear her.

“A phone message just came from Ardvor College,” she said. “Dr. Montrose was never a student there and the president is very upset by his claims. I’ve notified Chief Collig. Anything else you want me to do?”

“Not now. And thanks a million, Aunty,” said Frank. “Over and out.” Turning to his friends he added, “If we need extra proof about that phony, we have it now!”

As soon as the junk tied up at the wharf, its passengers trooped ashore and headed for the beach. Frank told the girls that he and Joe were going to the cave, but did not give the reason. Chet decided to don his spelunking helmet and accompany them. Tony, Biff, and Jim would go back to Bayport for the second load of passengers.

The Hardys and their stout chum tramped across the island. Reaching the park guard’s house, they stopped to ask Dave Roberts if he had seen any blinking lights or cliff climbers on the northern end of Rocky Isle.

“No,” he replied, and the boys went on.

The trio skirted the rocks along the shore and half an hour later started up the cliffside. Twenty minutes of scaling brought them to the mouth of the cave.

“If those jailbirds climbed up these rocks, they sure made it hard for themselves,” said Chet, puffing. “I don’t believe they’re here.”

“Just the same, we’d better talk in whispers,” Frank recommended.

The three boys pressed forward into the gloomy cave. They had barely entered when several rocks near the opening went clattering down the hillside. The vibration loosened a massive chunk of limestone hanging from the cave ceiling.

It plunged straight toward Joe’s head!

“Look out!” Chet yelled.

Joe dived clear in the nick of time, aided by a lightning grab from Frank. The huge chunk of limestone smashed on the spot where Joe had just been standing! All three boys were showered with whitish dust and rock fragments.

“Whew! It—it was almost curtains that time!” Joe’s voice came in a weak whisper. He lay sprawled full length on the cave floor.

Frank helped him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

The massive chunk of limestone plunged

toward Joe

“I guess so—thanks to you two!” Joe gulped. “Boy, if you hadn’t yelled, Chet—”

“Now you know why I wear this miner’s hat!” Chet replied.

Suddenly Frank said, “We certainly made a noisy entrance. If anyone’s hiding, we probably alerted him.”

Joe nodded. “That gives him the advantage. We’d better proceed with the utmost caution and not get trapped.”

As they advanced, the boys beamed their flashlights in every direction. Presently they found themselves in an enormous room.

Pearly terraces rimmed the walls, extending far back into the cliff. Glittering calcite icicles hung from the ceiling.

“This is a living cave,” Chet whispered. “That means there’s always water seepage going on. It builds these queer, shiny formations. When the seepage dries up, the rock gets dull and crumbly, and the cave becomes dead.”

Chet now lighted his helmet lamp and the boys proceeded deeper into the cave. The floor became more rugged, forcing them to pick their way along cautiously.

The path they were taking gradually sloped upward. Another branch of the cavern, opening on their right, seemed to lead down toward the base of the cliff. The boys hesitated, uncertain which way to go.

“In the daytime those men would be more likely to hide down below the top of the cliff,” Frank suggested.

The others nodded, and the boys pushed on into the right-hand cavern. Here, the “icicles” increased in size to huge spearlike stalactites. Here and there similar-shaped stalagmites reared upward from the floor. Sometimes the twin formations joined in glistening pillars or columns.

“Just think! This was all done by water dripping slowly for hundreds of years,” Chet marveled.

“What a spectacle!” Frank whispered. “This place ought to be opened up to the public.”

Most eye-stopping of all was a frozen cascade that had formed over a ledge, like a miniature Niagara of stone. It glistened with a fairylike brilliance in the glow of the flashlights and lamp.

“Chet, this is super. I’ll never make fun of your spelunking again!” Joe declared in a low, awed voice.

To add to the beauty, some of the deposits were tinted orange, red, and brown. Chet explained that this was due to iron oxide and other minerals in the dripping water.

As the boys continued downward into the cliff, their body heat caused wispy fog to form in the cool, damp air. Suddenly Frank halted and listened.

“I thought I heard a voice.”

The boys tiptoed ahead and presently the twisting passageway opened into a larger cavern. In the middle lay a huge pool, its surface covered with a thick scum of green algae and slime. A slight movement of the water indicated that the pool was being fed from some underground source. The ocean?

“Look!” Frank whispered excitedly, pointing across the pool.

Joe and Chet swung their lights toward the spot. Revealed was a typewriter with the name Zeus on it. No doubt the stolen one! Next to it was a low table on which stood stacks of what looked like bonds or other financial certificates. On top of these was a foot-square bamboo box with Oriental characters on it.

“We’ve found it!” Joe gasped. “This is the thieves’ and smugglers’ hi—”

His words ended in a groan as a hard object crashed against his skull! Before Frank and Chet could turn around, they too were struck down from behind. All three sank into blackness.

When the Hardys and Chet regained consciousness, it was like waking to a flickering nightmare. The boys could feel ropes biting into their wrists and ankles. They were bound and propped against one wall of the cavern, now lighted by carbide lamps. Frank’s watch revealed that three hours had gone by since the boys had left the dock.

Frank was first to collect his wits fully. Then Joe and Chet slowly brought their eyes to a focus on four figures leering down at them; Dr. Montrose, Chin Gok, and two rough-looking men in seamen’s dungarees.

“The phony coastguardmen!” Frank said grimly.

“Yes,” one of them replied, “but you’ll never live to report where we are.” He laughed scornfully.

Frank took a deep breath. “In that case, you won’t mind clearing up the mystery first,” he said, sparring for time. “Dr. Montrose, we know you’re Balarat, the Chameleon. You’re wanted on various charges, including the display of a fake diploma. But what is your connection with Chin Gok?”

“I’ll answer that,” the Chinese spoke up and gave a harsh, leering laugh. “Balarat and I are new in our acquaintance but already very good friends. He helped us slip out of jail. The doctor and I thank the Hardy boys for our first meeting. It was at your house.”

“Our house!” Frank and Joe gasped.

Chin Gok grew voluble. “It was quite by accident,” he confessed. “I entered your home one morning to search for any data you might have picked up regarding the Hai Hau. Incidentally, it was my esteemed self who spoke that warning over the radio. That was between the doctor’s first and second visits that day. I followed him upstairs and watched him open your father’s safe.” The Chinese smiled. “I might have blackmailed him, but when Montrose saw the unusual cuff links I was wearing, he recognized them as part of a smuggled shipment of amber. As payment for his silence, I gave them to him. Then we decided to join forces and outwit the Hardy family!”

“Chin Gok,” Joe said, “did you steal all six junks in Hong Kong and secrete smuggled goods aboard, part of it bluish amber tigers? And did you have the junks shipped to foreign ports where you picked up the loot and sold it?”

“True,” Chin Gok replied. “I have sold everything, except the valuable bluish ambers in the bamboo box, with the help of Dr. Montrose.” A self-satisfied smile played over the smuggler’s face. “Friends took care of five junks. I came to New York because I was particularly interested in the boat I repainted and put the mandarin figurehead on, and gave the name Hai Hau.”

Chin Gok spoke proudly. After a pause he went on, “I had some of my men ruin the junk’s engine and later attack you boys in Chinatown. After that, they put a hole in the junk to discourage you from keeping the Hai Hau.”

“Did they also slug the dock watchman and make a search aboard?” Joe asked.

Chin Gok nodded. “They almost got the Hai Hau away from you one night out on the Shore Road. And they did scare you with a warning note.”

Frank looked hard at the man. “You’re the one who pretended to be stooped like Clams Daggett when we saw you leave Montrose’s house.”

“Yes.”

Frank turned to Dr. Montrose. “And you lost one cuff link when you met Chin Gok at the cave and dropped the other in your basement.”

“You are right. It must have dropped out of my shirt pocket when I bent down to get something out of a toolbox. Incidentally, I was a prowler at your house twice.”

“Did you ever shoot at the Hai Hau?” Joe asked.

Butler said, “I took a practice shot once.”

Chin Gok broke in. “But our work is not finished. For my part, I haven’t yet found the clue to the Hai Hau’s treasure, but I will! You will not stop me!”

“What do you mean? What are you going to do to us?” Chet quavered.

“Butler and Burns,” Dr. Montrose spoke up, looking toward the two sham coastguardmen, “you tell them.”

The one named Butler burst into harsh, mocking laughter. “See that pool? Well, that’s where you’re headin’. We’re goin’ to throw all three o’ you boys, tied up just like you are, into this bottomless hole!”

CHAPTER XX

Underground Battle

UNAWARE of the grim happenings under the cliff, two groups of the Hai Hau’s passengers were thoroughly enjoying themselves. To pass the time, Biff, Tony, and Jim began searching the junk again for a clue to the treasure. After a dip in the surf, Iola and Callie strolled back to the wharf.

“Find anything?” Iola asked.

“No,” Biff replied.

“Let’s all look,” Callie suggested. “Maybe we can surprise Frank and Joe with a clue!”

The five friends joined in the hunt. Tony perched himself in the bow, with one leg swung over the side. He scowled thoughtfully as his eyes roved the hull of the Hai Hau.

Could the clue to the fortune be hidden somewhere on the outside of the junk? Absent-mindedly he pressed one of the glass eyes in the figurehead. To his surprise, it pushed inward! Tony gave a yell that brought the others running.

A secret panel had slid open on the inner side of the bulwark!

“I’ve found something!” Excitedly he reached into the small compartment and pulled out a bamboo tube. He peered inside it and, as everyone watched breathlessly, extracted a parchment scroll. When unrolled, it proved to be a faded, yellow map labeled with Cantonese characters.

“A treasure map!” Jim Foy exclaimed. “It tells where there are rich mines of bluish amber!”

A hasty conference followed. Both Tony and Biff felt that they should inform the Hardys and Chet at once. The girls agreed, but asked Jim to remain with them and help guard the treasure map.

Iola tucked the scroll into her swimming bag. “Let’s radio the Coast Guard to come over here,” she said. “I’ll feel much safer.”

“Okay! Let’s go!” Tony urged Biff.

The two set off across the island, scrambled up the cliff, and made their way into the cave. In spite of the wonders revealed by their flashlights, both were too intent on finding their chums to appreciate the cavern’s beauty.

Presently they came to the point where the passage branched. While trying to decide which path to follow, they heard angry voices coming from the right fork.

“Sounds like trouble ahead,” Biff whispered. “Come on!”

The boys hurried through the downgrade passage, which seemed endless.

Suddenly Tony grabbed Biff’s arm. “Hold it!” he hissed. “Do you hear what I hear?”

Biff nodded grimly. Both recognized Chin Gok’s voice. Switching off their flashlights, the two crept forward stealthily. Their jaws tightened in horror at the lamplit scene that met their eyes in the huge, subterranean chamber just ahead!

Frank, Joe, and Chet were propped against the wall, their arms and legs bound with ropes. Chin Gok, Dr. Montrose, and the two Coast Guard impostors were standing a short distance away.

“As Butler has just informed you,” Chin Gok was saying with evil relish, “all three of you will be tossed into this pool as soon as Dr. Montrose and I put these securities and jewels in our pockets.”

Biff and Tony clenched their fists. They must do something! There was no time to go for help. Conferring in tense whispers, they settled on a plan of action.

“It’s a long shot,” Tony muttered, “but it may work. We’ll have to chance it.” He took out his jackknife and switched open the blade to cut the prisoners’ bonds.

“Okay—now!”

Like sprinters taking off at a track meet, the two boys burst into the open! Dr. Montrose and Chin Gok, who had not yet picked up the loot, were standing by the green pool. Biff and Tony let out wild war whoops and charged!

Before the startled men knew what was happening, Biff’s sudden assault pushed Chin Gok head-first into the pool! Tony’s hard jab toppled Dr. Montrose after him.

Burns and Butler let out roars of rage. Biff, who was rangy and powerful, sent Burns sprawling and started to tackle the other.

Meanwhile, Tony had begun to slash the ropes that held the Hardys and Chet. Frank surged into action the instant he was free.

Just in time! His first punch made Butler’s knees buckle as he was about to land a finishing blow on Biff. But the fight was far from over! Burns was up and now all four tangled in a fierce slugging match. Then Joe waded in and the tide of battle began to turn.

“Quick!” Chet gasped as Tony sawed frantically at his ropes. He had just spotted Chin Gok crawling out of the pool. The enraged Chinese was dripping from head to foot with greenish slime.

A knife flashed in his right hand just as the last strands of Chet’s rope parted. The chunky boy moved with unexpected rapidity. Head down, he rammed into the huge Chinese, butting him in the solar plexus. With a gurgle, Chin Gok collapsed in a heap, moaning. Chet took his knife away and threw it into the pooL

By now Butler and Burns were reeling and giving ground swiftly. Minutes later they went down, begging for quarter.

“Where’s Dr. Montrose?” Frank asked suddenly. “Still in the pool?”

“There he goes!” Joe cried, seeing a slimy green figure just disappearing from the cavern. “Tony! Biff! Chet! Take care of these prisoners!” he requested. “Come on, Frank! We’ll get the Chameleon!”

The Hardys’ chums began tying their captives with the ropes which had bound their friends a few minutes earlier. After gathering up the loot, they marched the men out of the cave and down the cliff. Dave Roberts could take charge of them until the Coast Guard sent over officers to look after the prisoners.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had raced after the Chameleon. Upon reaching the fork in the tunnel, the young sleuths noticed that the path they had not explored had wet footprints in it.

“That phony doctor went this way!” Joe exclaimed, and they sped through the zigzag opening.

The tunnel was fairly short and rose sharply to the top of the cliff. The exit was so narrow, Frank and Joe had to squeeze through it. Once outside they looked around for Dr. Montrose. They spotted him jumping from rock to rock down the far side of the cliff.

“I see a boat down there!” Frank cried out. “He’ll escape in it!”

The Hardys descended the treacherous hillside as fast as they dared but felt that the chase was hopeless. But as Montrose reached the foot of the cliff, the brothers suddenly spied Clams Dagget on the shore.

“Clams!” Frank shouted. “Grab that man! He’s a thief!”

The beachcomber-pilot looked up. Recognizing the Hardys, he did not hesitate. Before the fleeing Chameleon knew what was happening, he had been tripped and thrown face down to the sand. By the time Frank and Joe reached him, Clams was seated astride the doctor’s shoulders, thwarting the man’s efforts to rise. When Montrose saw the Hardys, he ceased to struggle and the beachcomber let him get up.

“Now s’pose you fellows tell me what this is all about,” Clams demanded.

The boys gave him an account of everything they knew, including the prime clue of the cuff links.

Clams frowned and said, “If we search this jerk, mebbe we can find out more.”

Montrose objected, but Frank and Joe held him as the beachcomber began going through the man’s pockets. As he looked over the contents of the doctor’s wallet, Clams exclaimed:

“Quite a bunch o’ dough. Hm. A hundred-dollar bill! By crickey, if there ain’t two of ’em!”

“Let me see them!” Joe cried out. As soon as they were removed from the wallet he said excitedly, “Frank, these bills belong to you and me! I remember the letters and numbers. Federal reserve notes from the eighth and the fifth districts. The first starts with H18 and ends with F. That’s yours. And the other, starting E1015 and ending with A, is my bill!”

The Chameleon’s face went white. “You kids are smart,” he growled, “but dumb sometimes. I saw you put the money in the envelope and lay it on the mantel while I was casing your house preparatory to opening the safe, so I came in and took it.”

“That was dumb of me,” Joe agreed. “Well, get marching. We’re going to hand you over to the Coast Guard.”

As the group of four neared the bathing beach, they could see a Coast Guard cutter docking next to the Hai Hau. Officers jumped from the craft and hurried toward the boys and their prisoners. They got further confessions from the men, including the fact that Butler and Burns were the ones who had signaled to Montrose on shore to tell him and Chin Gok when it was safe for them to visit the island cave.

“We tried to scare you guys away that night you came snoopin’ around in your boat,” Butler told the Hardys. “We hired two men to do it.”

The brothers learned, too, that Burns had acted as Montrose’s “stockbroker” friend.

Clams had been quiet up to this point. Now he burst out, “If I’d knowed you two was such low-downs, I’d never ‘a’ sold you one mouthful o’ clams all those times you come pesterin’ me for ’em. And you never did tell me what that job was you wanted me to do. Guess it was somethin’ crooked and you found out I’m an honest guy!”

With the Coast Guard in charge of the prisoners and the loot, the Hardys and their pals said good-by to Clams and headed for the Hai Hau. Biff now revealed the news about the finding of the treasure map.

“Wow-ee” Joe cried out and hugged Tony exuberantly.

Frank followed, grinning from ear to ear. “Super!” he exclaimed. “Say, look who’s coming!”

At this moment Ti-Ming, evidently waiting for the boys, walked forward to add his congratulations on the capture of the two slick thieves and their pals. He said he had come to the island in a private launch to tell the boys that Chief Collig and his men had caught the other Chinese who had escaped from jail with Chin Gok.

Upon hearing of the finding of the scroll, he remarked, “Very fine work! The whole gang in custody, and the mystery of the Chinese junk solved! I came prepared to search and help. Instead, all I can do is offer you a reward.”

“Reward?” the boys chorused.

Ti-Ming smiled. “The rightful owner of the Hai Hau instructed me to tell the finder of the clue to the fortune that he would receive a ten per cent interest in it.”

“Guess you’re elected, Tony,” said Frank.

“Hope you make a million,” Joe added.

Tony Prito reddened, then said, “Anything that comes to Bayport from those mines of blue amber will be shared, and shared in equal amounts, among the six of us. We all bought the Hai Hau together, didn’t we?”

Ti-Ming beamed in pleasure. “And you solved the mystery together. Now I must leave, but first I apologize for the telegram about the curse to keep you from selling the Hai Hau.”

As they waved good-by to George Ti-Ming, Frank and Joe wondered what new mystery would rise up to challenge them. They had no way of knowing that very soon a most unusual case, THE MYSTERY OF THE DESERT GIANT, would test their sleuthing abilities to the limit.

Frank went aboard the Hai Hau and rang the junk’s melodic bell, calling the picnickers aboard.

“It’s a little early,” Frank confessed to his pals, “but I want to be at the airport when Mother and Dad arrive.”

“Yes,” said Joe. “And what a home-coming they’re going to getl”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Missing Airmen

CHAPTER II - The Desert Giants

CHAPTER III - Clue Hunting

CHAPTER IV - A Warning

CHAPTER V - The Mob Scene

CHAPTER VI - New Evidence

CHAPTER VII - An Exciting Identification

CHAPTER VIII - A Treasure Hunt

CHAPTER IX - The Dust Devil

CHAPTER X - The River Chase

CHAPTER XI - Stranded

CHAPTER XII - The Escaping Stranger

CHAPTER XIII - Spanish Hardys

CHAPTER XIV - Exchanging Names

CHAPTER XV - An Important Discovery

CHAPTER XVI - The Disguised Cowboy

CHAPTER XVII - The Chemical Fog

CHAPTER XVIII - Sleuthing by Camera

CHAPTER XIX - The Attack

CHAPTER XX - Treasure!

“That dust devil will wreck our plane!”

Copyright © 1989, 1961 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07653-8

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Missing Airmen

“WHEN do you think this mysterious visitor is going to show up?” Chet Morton asked impatiently.

The chubby boy looked uncomfortable as he squatted behind a waist-high hedge. Chet’s companions, Joe and Frank Hardy, who were experienced campers, rested easily upon their haunches.

“Can’t say,” replied Frank Hardy in a low but distinct voice. “The person on the phone said to beware of the man who’s calling at our house tonight. And he didn’t give his name or that of the man who’s coming here to see Dad.”

The trio had taken their positions shortly after dark. From their hiding places they commanded a view of the front walk of the Hardy home in Bayport.

“I checked with Mother and Aunt Gertrude. They aren’t expecting anyone,” Joe Hardy said thoughtfully. “And Dad had an appointment on the other side of town tonight—”

“But,” put in Frank, the older of the two brothers, “the man on the phone said the Hardys had better watch their step! That’s why we want you to take a picture of him, Chet, with that new infrared camera of yours.”

“Here we go again,” the stout boy moaned. “Can’t you Hardys solve your mysteries without me? All I ever get out of your cases is bruises!”

At that moment a sharp jab in the ribs by Joe alerted the others. The quick scrape of leather on concrete could be heard out front. Abruptly, the footsteps stopped.

Peering, the boys made out the indistinct figure of a man who had just turned into the Hardy walk. The man stood motionless for a moment, then the boys heard his footsteps dying away down High Street.

“Changed his mind,” commented Frank, puzzled. “What’s going on here?”

“We’ll find out! I got his picture!” Chet cried out.

“Hush!” Frank cautioned. “He may not have been the visitor.”

As he spoke, the boys heard more footsteps. This time they were the strong, confident steps of a man who entered the walk and strode purposefully toward the Hardys’ front door. Simultaneously, Mr. Hardy’s car turned into the driveway.

As Chet snapped the man’s picture, Joe debated whether to tell his father immediately about the telephone message. He decided against it. Leaving now would give away their position and ruin the element of surprise.

“Let’s go!” Frank Hardy signaled.

Abruptly the three boys broke through the hedge into the path of the astonished caller.

“Who are you?” Chet burst out.

“Why, I’m Philip Dodge—I’ve come to see Mr. Fenton Hardy, the investigator. We have an appointment tonight.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodge,” Frank apologized. “We thought you might be—another visitor.” He introduced himself and the others.

“We’ll take you in to Dad,” Joe volunteered, leading the way. “He just arrived home.”

As Joe and the visitor entered the house, Frank whispered to Chet, “Why not develop your pictures while Dad talks to Mr. Dodge? The lab is open. I’m curious to see who our first visitor was—I’m also wondering if Dodge is the man we were warned about.”

“Great idea!”

Carrying his camera, Chet disappeared around the house. He liked nothing better than to putter in the well-equipped laboratory the Hardy boys had built on the second floor of their garage. More than once the lab had been useful to them in their detective work.

Meanwhile, the brothers ushered their visitor into the comfortably furnished Hardy living room. In the light of the room the contrast between serious-minded Frank Hardy and impetuous Joe was apparent. Eighteen-year-old Frank was dark-haired and Joe, a year younger, fair-haired.

As their father greeted Mr. Dodge, whom he seemed to know well, the boys turned to go. Fenton Hardy, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his forties, held up his hand.

“Hold it, boys! No reason you shouldn’t hear this. I’ve a hunch you’ll find it interesting. You don’t object, do you, Phil?”

“No. Of course not.”

Frank and Joe needed no second invitation. Mr. Hardy and his sons took seats, while Philip Dodge stood nervously by the fireplace. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged man.

“Fenton, I’ve never been so baffled in my life!” he burst out. “As a lawyer, I’ve had some odd cases. But this time I’m up against a brick wall!

“I have an office here in Bayport, boys. Not long ago a retired manufacturer, Clement H. Brownlee, came to me and asked if I would try to locate his nephew. It seems this nephew, Willard Grafton, had been a highly successful young industrialist in Los Angeles. About three months ago he disappeared!”

“How did he disappear?” Fenton Hardy asked.

“Well, he liked to fly his own plane on business trips around the country,” the lawyer resumed. “Three months ago he and a friend named Clifford Wetherby took off on a flight over the California desert, near the Colorado River. Since then, nobody has seen a trace of Willard Grafton or Clifford Wetherby!”

The visitor’s bafflement was apparent as he paced up and down the room. In contrast, Fenton Hardy’s manner was calm and professional.

“What about the plane? They don’t usually just vanish, Phil.”

“The plane—oh, the plane was found all right. It had been landed, very neatly, too, on the desert near a bluff about sixteen miles north of the town of Blythe, California.”

“Anything wrong with the plane?” Joe asked.

“Low on fuel, but not damaged otherwise. That’s what really baffles me. It looks as if Grafton set his ship down on that desert deliberately.”

“Grafton and Wetherby must have walked away,” Joe stated. “But where?”

“There wasn’t a trace showing where they went or what had happened,” Mr. Dodge said.

“You’ve notified the local police, of course, and have had the area searched thoroughly?” Mr. Hardy queried.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Brownlee saw to that before he consulted me. No results. No evidence that the men had died, and no leads to their whereabouts. The Air Force even supplied an Air Rescue team to help in the search, but nothing turned up. I went out there and flew over the area myself last week, but I didn’t learn anything, either.”

While Philip Dodge was speaking, Frank Hardy sat quietly in his chair. Something in the lawyer’s story jogged his memory. “You say this plane was landed in the desert above Blythe, California? Near the Colorado River?”

“That’s right.”

“Shall I tell you what I think you saw below you?”

“All right—shoot.”

“You saw giants on the desert. Giants better than a hundred feet tall.”

“Giants!” burst from the bewildered Joe Hardy and his father.

“You guessed it, Frank.” Mr. Dodge chuckled. Fenton Hardy looked from his visitor to his elder son. “This sounds a little like a private joke.”

Philip Dodge laughed. “Maybe you’d better explain, Frank. By the way, how did you know?”

“The name Blythe stuck in my mind,” the young man admitted. “Joe and I read a lot when we’re not busy on a case. Some time last year I came across information on the desert giants.

“As I understand it, a few hundred years ago the Indians around the California-Arizona border drew a number of huge pictures on the desert surfaces. The giant on the Arizona side of the Colorado River opposite Blythe, California, is one of the biggest of all.”

Joe Hardy laughed. “Whew! What kind of pencil do you use to draw pictures that size?”

“The Indians scraped away the surface gravel in very shallow furrows. The hard soil underneath gave them distinct tan-colored lines for their pictures.”

“It doesn’t make much sense to me,” Joe objected. “The Indians drew pictures better than a hundred feet tall on the desert. What for? How could they even see their pictures, once they were drawn?”

“I guess that’s a mystery in itself,” Philip Dodge commented.

But suddenly Frank broke in once more.

“Joe’s got something!” he announced. “It’s true, the only way to see the desert giants is from the air. The Indians couldn’t see them, but we can!”

“I see what you’re getting at, Frank,” Fenton Hardy said excitedly. “You mean the various giant figures were visible to Willard Grafton and Clifford Wetherby as they flew over the desert?”

“And they landed their plane to have a closer look!” Joe finished eagerly.

“Maybe that’s the answer to your first question, Mr. Dodge.”

The lawyer, however, was not satisfied. “These scratch marks don’t mean anything, Fenton. I wouldn’t have mentioned them myself, if Frank hadn’t reminded me. Why, once you’re on the ground, you can’t see them at all!”

“That makes them all the more valuable as possible clues to the lost men,” the experienced investigator answered. “In detective work, sometimes it’s the crazy clues that bring results. This case is really beginning to interest me.”

“Then you’ll help me find Grafton?” the visitor asked eagerly.

Fenton Hardy hesitated. The international reputation he had won since leaving the New York City Police Department to become a private investigator in Bayport had brought more cases to him than he could accept.

“Phil, I’m afraid I can’t possibly leave the case I’m engaged on now.” When their visitor expressed his disappointment, the detective added, “However, if you agree, I can start my two chief assistants on the case.”

“Wonderful!” Philip Dodge brightened. “When may I talk with them?”

“Immediately. They happen to be seated right here in this room.”

Puzzled, the lawyer looked around. Then he understood. “Really, Fenton. I have heard about some of Frank’s and Joe’s adventures. But do you think this case can be entrusted to amateurs?”

“Frank and Joe are amateurs, but very experienced,” said their father proudly. “Recently they broke up a gang of international air-freight thieves, with practically no assistance from me. What do you say they fly out to Blythe and look things over, at least until I can get on the case myself?”

Much to the elation of the brothers, Philip Dodge agreed.

“Hurray! Let’s tell Chet!” Joe urged. “Where is he, anyway? It doesn’t take this long to develop pictures.”

“Developing pictures—ha-ha! Probably he came in the back way and stopped first for a piece of cake in the kitchen,” Frank answered.

But good-natured Chet Morton, who loved to eat, was not in the kitchen. In the Hardys’ garage laboratory, a short while before, he had developed and printed the two pictures taken with his infrared camera. What he discovered when he examined the second print made him give an excited yelp. Chet grabbed both prints, dashed down the stairs, out of the garage, and across the yard.

Heavy darkness enveloped the whole yard and back of the house. Chet yanked at the back door, but it was locked. Running, stumbling a little in the dark, he sped around to the front entrance.

Before he reached it, something seemed to explode all at once at the back of his head. Chet felt the cool grass come up and hit his face. Then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER II

The Desert Giants

“Boy, it’s dark tonight!” exclaimed Joe, after the brothers had walked with Mr. Dodge to the front porch and made arrangements to come to his office the next day.

“Won’t make any difference to Chet’s infrared camera,” Frank replied. “Let’s see what’s on his films.”

From where they stood the boys could see the light in the laboratory window. Knowing every inch of the ground, they started for the garage on the double.

Joe, who was in the lead, tripped over something and sprawled headlong. Recovering his balance with a near somersault, he called back, “Wow! What was that?”

“Chet!” cried the amazed Frank, stooping down. “He’s been slugged.”

Supporting the heavy, limp form of Chet Morton between them, Frank and Joe re-entered the living room. Exclamations of alarm and concern filled the house as the other members of the Hardy family came on the run.

Laura Hardy, the boys’ slim and attractive mother, quickly brought cold towels and spirits of ammonia, while her husband loosened the unfortunate Chet’s clothing and chafed his wrists.

Aunt Gertrude, Fenton Hardy’s unmarried sister, clucked in concern. “I knew it! I knew it! This is what comes of meddling with mysteries!”

Nevertheless, Aunt Gertrude herself, a tall, angular woman of great vigor, took charge. She soaked a gauze pad in the spirits of ammonia and passed it expertly, not too close, under Chet’s nose. As the pungent fumes reached his nostrils, the boy gave a sudden start and moaned.

“Whew!” The entire Hardy family breathed in relief, and Joe, to test Chet’s mental state, said, “Chet! Aunt Gertrude has just baked a fresh chocolate cake!”

The stout boy roused himself still further. “D-did you say chocolate cake?” he asked weakly.

Completely aroused by this time, Chet was bombarded with questions, but could only say, “Don’t ask me who did it. There I was, rushing to find you two—when biff, I saw stars.”

“But why would anyone hit poor Chet?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

“Because he was helping the Hardy boys on a mystery again, that’s all,” answered Chet with great sympathy for himself. “I had just made an important discovery.”

“The pictures!” Frank and Joe exclaimed.

Chet nodded. “The first one—the fellow who went away—was just some man. I don’t know who. The other one I snapped fast, and my aim wasn’t too good. I didn’t get much of Mr. Dodge. But I got the full face of somebody crouching in the bushes under your living-room window!”

“Great mackerel!” cried Joe, rummaging in his friend’s pockets. “Let’s see those pictures!”

To the Hardys’ dismay, both prints were missing. Chet smiled. “You can always take a look at the copies I left in the lab.”

“Better get them now, boys,” Fenton Hardy suggested. “We must find out if the person who slugged Chet is someone interested in the case I’m working on, or the Grafton case. The picture may help to identify the prowler.”

The brothers hurried to the laboratory. To their surprise and dismay the place was a shambles—it was evident that someone had made a hurried search. As the boys quickly straightened the equipment, they found no sign of the other set of prints which Chet had mentioned.

“That settles it,” said Joe. “The thief doubled back after striking Chet to get any other prints and the negatives.”

“Now we can’t possibly identify him,” Frank moaned. A moment later he whistled. “Look!”

Tacked to the wall at the end of the laboratory was a small hastily printed note:

HARDYS BEWARE!

Beneath the note was a crude stick drawing of a man with an arrow aimed toward his heart.

“Not much of an artist, is he?” Joe mused. “Say, Frank, what does this remind you of?”

“By stretching the imagination I’d say that the figure could be the outline of a desert giant with an Indian arrow pointing to his heart.”

“If only we hadn’t lost the pictures!” Joe sighed.

“You can always print another set.” Chet grinned. “I hid the negatives in that secret compartment of your workbench. What kind of a detective do you think I am, anyway?”

Frank and Joe applauded Chet’s action and hurried to make prints from the negatives. Then, returning to the house, the Hardys and Chet held a brief council. None of them knew the dark-haired, muscular eavesdropper or the slender, gray-haired man who had started to turn into the Hardys’ walk.

“The unknown eavesdropper,” Frank said, “probably heard everything that was said to Mr. Dodge. Why did he come, unless he’s connected with Willard Grafton’s disappearance?”

“And with the mysterious telephone call,” Joe added. Briefly, he told his father of the warning.

“What I say is this,” broke in peppery Aunt Gertrude. “That terrible man outside heard you boys discussing some new mystery, and he hit poor Chet on the head to warn you to keep out of it!”

“Why, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe teased with a straight face, “we’re only going to take a quiet vacation in sunny California.”

“I know how quiet it will be,” snapped their aunt. “Just one danger after another.”

Calm, sensible Mrs. Hardy worried a little too, but she had implicit faith in her sons’ ability to take care of themselves. “Just be careful,” she cautioned.

The next morning Fenton Hardy and the boys drove to police headquarters, in downtown Bayport, with the pictures. The detective had always worked closely with the police, and this had earned him the respect and friendship of Chief Ezra Collig.

“Humph. No trouble about this one,” grunted the husky chief as he examined the picture of the visitor who had changed his mind and walked away from the Hardys’ house. “He’s Charles Blakely, trustee of the Bayport Savings Bank, and one of our fine citizens. Probably he didn’t know your neighborhood and mistook your house for another one. But this fellow in the bushes looks like a mean customer. We’ll have to check the rogues’ gallery on him.”

The picture was compared to those in the police files, but without results.

“Tough luck, boys,” their father said. “And now I must hurry back to my own case.”

He left them and the boys went to Mr. Dodge’s office. The lawyer introduced them to a tall, bald-headed man wearing a conservative gray suit.

“Clement Brownlee, boys. Willard Grafton’s uncle.”

Mr. Brownlee’s face grew serious as the brothers described the attack on Chet Morton. “Boys,” he began with feeling, “I’ve no right to expose you to any danger on my nephew’s account. Perhaps we’d better drop the case.”

“We can’t quit now, Mr. Brownlee We’re making progress!” Joe protested. “Don’t you see, the attack proves your nephew didn’t just wander off in the desert and get lost? He is in the hands of somebody who doesn’t want him found.”

“This fellow,” Frank added, producing the photograph.

Both men examined the picture eagerly, but to Frank’s and Joe’s disappointment, they ended by shaking their heads. “A complete stranger. But we’ll let you know if anything turns up,” the lawyer promised.

Frank and Joe spent the next day making plans and packing for the trip.

“Sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats,” said Joe, checking these articles. “The sun will be broiling hot. And canteens, also.”

“Take warm clothes, too,” his brother warned. “The desert nights are plenty cool.”

The following morning Joe jumped out of bed singing “California, here we come!”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude gave the boys a hearty farewell breakfast of steak and hash-browned potatoes.

“Where’s Dad?” Frank asked.

“Out before breakfast on his own mystery,” Aunt Gertrude replied tartly. “Such a household!”

After breakfast Joe telephoned Chet Morton at his farm a mile outside Bayport. “Ready?”

“I was just thinking,” the chubby boy said in a worried voice. “Suppose that guy who conked me is out there? I don’t want to be knocked out again.”

“What’s he talking about, Joe?” Frank said impatiently.

“I think he’s a little scared,” Joe answered loud enough for Chet to hear, and with a wink at Frank.

“Say, I am not,” Chet protested. “I can’t wait to get out West and try some of that Mexican food!”

An hour later the three friends met at the airport and walked to the trim, blue six-seater monoplane which Fenton Hardy had purchased recently. Lean, tanned Jack Wayne, who was Mr. Hardy’s pilot, had given Frank and Joe flying lessons. Now Frank would pilot the plane to California.

“We’ll tune her up, and she’ll be ready to go,” Jack greeted them.

Meanwhile, Chet stowed the baggage in the fuselage, finding a special place for his infrared camera. When he had filed his flight plan, Frank started the engine to taxi out for take-off.

Joe’s keen eyes spotted a powerful car speeding up the road to the airport. “Hold it, Frank! I think Dad’s coming.”

Frank cut the engine as the detective hurried out to the plane.

“Glad I caught you, boys! I’ve been on the go since dawn—uncovered one of the neatest ways of defrauding the government I’ve ever run into. No time to explain now, but it will keep me here several days. I hope to meet you later. Good luck!”

“Any instructions, Dad?” Frank asked.

The experienced detective thought for a moment. “Play your hunch—the desert giants,” he advised. “One other thing,” he added. “I’m going to bring my birth certificate with me, in case I find it necessary to leave the country. Here are photostats of yours for you to keep in your wallets. And here is Chet’s too. I picked his up on the way out here.”

The three boys took them and called their thanks. Frank started the engine and taxied the plane into position. Then, with a full-throated roar, she streaked down the runway and rose gracefully into the sunny morning sky.

Frank held course directly for Chicago. By afternoon the boys could see below them the blue rippling waters of Lake Erie. Later, the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, with Chicago at its southern tip, came in sight. The late afternoon sun gleamed upon numerous planes all circling in the vicinity of the Chicago airport.

“Oh—oh! Looks as if we’re going to be stacked up here!” Frank flipped on his transmitter. “56D to tower! Request landing instructions!”

“Your position, 56D?”

“Over S.W. chimney stack.”

“Tower to 56D. Hold where you are until traffic clears.”

Resigned, the boys joined the other craft circling above the airport. Finally their landing instructions came. Expertly Frank brought the blue ship down and into line with his designated runway. As the wheels gently touched ground, the boys stared ahead of them in sudden horror.

From the opposite end of the runway a small Cub was racing toward them in a take-off run downwind!

Frank’s mind worked desperately. “If I swerve, we’ll crash! If I brake her, she’ll nose over! If I pull up, I might hit the other ship in mid-air! Straight ahead, then, braking slowly!“

The boys stared ahead of them in horror

Observers gasped as the two planes rushed toward each other. At the last instant, the Cub pulled into the air. The boys could see her wheels passing a few scant feet above their heads.

“Wow!” cried Chet, who was shaking with fright.

Not another word was said until an airline pilot, who was the first to reach the boys after the near collision, pumped Frank’s hand. “Well done! That fool pulled onto your runway from nowhere. Better go over and file a violation. They’ll have his license in two shakes!”

Unfortunately, nobody had noticed the Cub’s registration markings. The pilot had not been cleared for take-off and could not be traced. The report was the same the next morning when Frank, Joe, and Chet winged their way southwest across the plains.

At Amarillo, Texas, they stopped to rest and refuel. From here they followed the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks west. When they picked up the silvery, snakelike course of the Colorado River, Frank turned north.

“Sharp lookout for giants, everybody!” he ordered.

Dropping to an altitude of six hundred feet, he began crisscrossing the river. Eagerly the youthful detectives searched the flat surface of the California desert and the mountainous Arizona terrain.

“Frank! There—at two o’clock! A desert giant!”

Banking, Frank circled the spot, a large flat bluff a hundred feet above the water on the Arizona side.

“Long-legged fellow, isn’t he?” Chet remarked. “Say, one of his feet has been bitten off by that cliff!”

“Erosion, probably,” Frank guessed. “But what do you make of that smaller fellow, and those other markings next to him?”

Alongside the big giant was a figure perhaps half as large. The outline of this second giant was dug into the ground rather than scraped into the surface like his mate, so he looked more substantial.

“That’s a funny design between them,” Chet observed. “Looks like a cross.”

“It is—a Maltese cross, an old European design. It was the emblem of a group of Crusaders called the Knights of Malta,” Frank explained.

“But I thought these pictures were made by Indians,” Chet objected.

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “The cross seems to prove the Indians had had some contact with Spanish explorers when this giant was made.”

“This wasn’t the place where Willard Grafton disappeared, was it?” Chet asked. “You mentioned Blythe, California.”

“Right. And we’ll head there next.”

Frank went on to the California side of the river, and in a few minutes spotted another desert giant. Near him in the gravelly ground was the figure of a mammoth dog. Some distance away was a lone giant.

“This is where Grafton’s plane came down,” said Frank.

“It’s sure amazing,” Joe remarked. “I can’t wait to do some investigating.”

After flying over still another group of a giant and a horse, Frank said, “Guess we’d better get to the airport.”

He consulted his chart and turned toward the Riverside County Airport. Frank, after getting radio instructions, brought the plane down in a perfect landing and taxied toward the hangars.

As the boys piled out of the cabin and stretched their legs, a stern, unfriendly-looking man approached them.

He introduced himself as an official of the Federal Aviation Agency. “All right, boys. Which one is the pilot?”

Surprised, Frank handed over his pilot’s license, which the man scrutinized carefully. “You’re the one all right,” he announced gruffly. “You’ll have to come with me!”

CHAPTER III

Clue Hunting

“WHAT’S the matter?” Joe asked, puzzled.

The stern-looking man did not answer. He merely motioned with his head for Frank to accompany him. At the same time he took the boy’s arm.

“Unload our gear, anyway,” Frank called as he turned to go. “I’ll see to this.”

The man led Frank to a small building and into an office. Inside, a stout, jovial-looking man sat at a little desk. He seemed to be engaged in a wrestling match with the typewriter in front of him, for he had grasped it by the roller in two big hands and was tugging first one way and then the other to move it.

“Hello, Cooper. Never could use one of these things!”

Smiling, Frank Hardy stepped forward. “Allow me, sir.” He pressed the lever that allowed the carriage to slide back and forth.

“Humph!” the man grunted. “Thanks, my boy. ”Who is this?” he asked, turning to the man named Cooper.

“That young Hardy pilot. The one they’re after for causing that near crash at Chicago.”

The man at the desk looked at Frank sympathetically. “I’m sorry, son. This may mean your license. But we can’t be too careful about air safety.”

Perceiving in a flash that someone had misrepresented the incident at Chicago, Frank declared, “Sir, if you think I’m responsible for that near collision, you should get the real facts from Chicago.”

“Why, that’s where our information came from —by long-distance phone call!”

“But not from anyone in authority,” Frank insisted. “And why wasn’t the message teletyped?”

“You have a point, son. We’ll get in touch with Chicago at once. I’m Eugene Smith, manager of this airport at the moment.”

While Mr. Cooper, the F.A.A. representative, was communicating with Chicago in another room, Frank explained to Mr. Smith that the three boys had come to search for Willard Grafton, who had disappeared in the desert nearby.

“About three months ago now.” Mr. Smith nodded. “Made quite a stir hereabouts. Never did find him, did they?”

“No, and we believe there’s somebody who doesn’t want him found, either.” Briefly, Frank told of the Bayport eavesdropper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the false report you received about me is part of a plan to stop or at least to hold up our investigation!”

Just then, the loud disgruntled voice of Chet Morton was heard outside the office door. “I don’t care if the whole United States government is keeping him in therel I’m starving! I want to eat!”

“There’s a man after my heart.” Mr. Smith chuckled. He called out heartily, “Come in, boys!”

Frank, Joe, and Chet had packed their belongings in rucksacks, which were more suitable for desert life than ordinary luggage. Now Joe came in bearing the neatly packed sack with his and Frank’s things. Chet Morton followed with a bulging pack of his own. First he stumbled into the door. Then he lurched against the door-frame.

“Somebody ought to repack that mule’s load,” commented the airport manager, his eyes twinkling. He shook hands all around.

At that moment Mr. Cooper, looking a great deal more friendly, returned. “You’re in the clear,” he announced to Frank. “No one in authority at Chicago made that call. Why would anybody play such a dirty trick on you?”

A confusion of voices arose as Eugene Smith satisfied Cooper’s curiosity and Frank explained to Chet and Joe.

“Oh—oh!” Chet rubbed his head gingerly. “I knew we hadn’t seen the last of that guy who slugged me!”

When the boys emerged from the office it was nearly eight o’clock. The cloudless sky was a luminous blue. Up on the dry mountains, visible from across the desert, the shadow-filled draws looked like dark trickles of blue-black ink spilling down from the ridges.

“What a sky!” Chet exclaimed enthusiastically. “Somehow it looks bigger than it does back home.”

“It’s because the atmosphere is so clear,” Frank commented.

Soon a sleek cream-colored convertible drew up with Gene Smith at the wheel. “Jump in!” he called. “I’ll drive you into town.”

Rucksacks were stashed in the back seat, and Chet climbed in after them. Frank and Joe rode in front.

As the car headed toward Blythe, where the boys would stay, the Hardy boys were surprised by the soft, warm air currents playing about their faces. Although it was nearly sundown, there was not a hint of moisture, not a trace of dew in the air.

“I thought the desert nights would be cool,” Joe remarked.

“Not in summer,” Smith replied. “On a night like this you can sleep outdoors with no bedroll and not get a chill. Do you plan on sleeping in the desert?”

“Later. We’ll stay in town tonight,” Frank answered.

“Then here’s where you want to stay,” Cooper said.

The convertible turned into the driveway of an attractive new motel. The building itself was white and shaped like a horseshoe. The quivering blue water of a swimming pool danced in the open space, and now and then spray leaped into the air as someone dived.

“Let’s camp here,” Chet agreed, piling out of the car. “They have a swell-looking restaurant!”

The boys took a room on the second floor, located in the curved section of the horseshoe. Lugging their rucksacks, they mounted the outside staircase. Ten minutes later they were in the pool. After dressing, they enjoyed a dinner that satisfied even Chet’s appetite.

The next morning Frank proposed that the boys visit the offices of the Daily Enterprise, Blythe’s only newspaper, and read up on the Grafton story.

“According to Dad, two of a detective’s best friends are the newspaper and the police,” the young sleuth remarked.

Later, after the three had studied clippings in the Enterprise’s morgue, Joe said, “Nothing new here—only that Grafton and Wetherby landed near the giant effigy outside Ripley.”

“Where’s their plane now?” Chet asked.

“Let’s see ... taken to Riverside County Airport by the authorities. We’ll ask Gene Smith to let us look at it later,” Frank suggested.

“Now,” said Joe, as they left the building, “let’s try the detective’s other best friend—the police.”

Fenton Hardy’s reputation as an investigator was known even to the small Blythe police force. The chief greeted Frank and Joe warmly, but could give little new information.

“You know as much about Grafton as we do,” he admitted. “Wetherby once lived here in Blythe. But that doesn’t prove anything, either.”

Temporarily discouraged, the young sleuths strolled down Hobsonway, the town’s main street, discussing the situation.

“Tell you what!” Joe suddenly proposed to his brother. “You be Willard Grafton, and Chet and I will be Clifford Wetherby!”

“Wha-a-t?”

“I mean, you pilot the plane, and Chet and I will be passengers. We’ll make the same flight they did. We’ll see the same things from the air. We’ll land in the same place. Maybe then we’ll learn some answers.”

“Let’s hope we don’t disappear in the same way!” Chet muttered.

“You’ll never disappear, Chet,” Frank needled. “There’s too much of you to hide.”

The stout boy made a pass in self-defense. “What say we have lunch before we start?”

After a quick meal the boys were driven by one of the motel employees to Riverside County Airport. The sun blazed upon the white buildings and the bright-colored wing surfaces of the standing aircraft. Frank and Joe wore their comfortable wide-brimmed hats, and Chet sported a new straw sombrero he had purchased.

“Whew! Talk about heat,” Chet complained. “Do you know it’s 108 degrees in this sun? I just checked the airport thermometer.”

“Cheer up,” Joe replied. “I’ve read that the desert sand gets as hot as 165 degrees, and we’re in for some walking!”

Chet groaned. “Why don’t we go back to that nice motel and take a siesta? That’s what the Mexicans do in this heat.”

“Because of Willard Grafton,” Frank reminded him. “He may be in danger.”

After unlocking the plane, the boys waited for air to circulate in the cabin, which was as hot as an oven. A few minutes later the trim blue craft rose smoothly from the runway. Dipping one wing, Frank banked in a circle over the airport, then headed north for the desert giants.

The boys enjoyed the scene beneath them. The Colorado River, as blue as the sky itself, was lined with beautiful yellow-leaved tamarisk trees. On the Arizona side were the brown, rugged bad-lands, but the California side was a rich patchwork of growing crops. Each field was a different shade of green.

“Say, I thought this was desert country,” Chet marveled.

“It was,” Frank answered. “You’re looking at the result of irrigation in this spot. See the little ditch lines? No better soil anywhere. All it needs is water.”

Farther on, they spotted the desert effigies and Frank dropped down for a landing not far from the knoll on which they had seen the lone giant.

“Assuming this is where Grafton landed,” Joe mused as they piled out of the plane, “what would he have done next?”

“He’d probably have climbed up onto that knoll to look around,” Frank suggested. “Come on!”

Eagerly the young detectives scrambled to the top of the steep bank to hunt for clues.

“Let’s just stand here a moment and get our bearings,” Joe suggested when they had reached the top.

From where the boys stood, the area ahead of them was a dry, pebble-covered expanse and nothing more, with the exception of a small bush here and there. Not far from them, however, they noticed a wide dirt path.

“Looks as if somebody took a broom and swept a walk among the pebbles,” Chet remarked.

“Believe it or not, that’s one of the giant’s legs,” Joe said.

Frank looked thoughtful. “I’m wondering,” he said, “if these knolls aren’t man-made. The ancient Indians could have built them and then drawn the effigies on top.”

“You may be right, Frank,” Joe replied. “It’s a good theory. And the position of the giant may have meant something.”

The boys tramped around the knoll, gazing in every direction. “Look,” said Joe, desperately seeking a clue, “if Grafton stood here, what would have caught his attention?”

Suddenly Frank, who stood near the left hand of the giant, gazing down at the desert, cried out, “There’s something glinting out there!”

“What is it—a mineral?” Joe asked.

“Let’s find out!” Frank urged, starting down the embankment.

Joe and Chet, following close behind, saw Frank reach the desert floor, then suddenly skid to a halt and leap backward.

“Look out!” he shouted warningly.

CHAPTER IV

A Warning

A HUGE angry lizard, nearly two feet long, had raised its head and was advancing slowly toward Frank. The reptile’s forked purple tongue darted menacingly from its mouth.

Frank danced back out of reach and waved his companions to a halt. “Nearly stepped on it,” he said, as the lizard, hissing sharply, came on. The thick, dark-purplish body was blotched with bright yellow and covered with warts.

“Wow!” Chet’s eyes popped. “What is it—a baby crocodile?”

“Gila monster,” returned Frank, still watching the lizard closely. “Stay back. They’re slow as turtles in a race, but I wouldn’t get near those fangs. Their bite is poisonous.” At this news Chet jumped backward an extra yard.

Finally the monster stopped its advance and stood regarding the boys out of cold, ugly eyes.

“Trying to scare us.” Joe chuckled.

“He’s succeeding,” declared Chet. “Let’s get out of here!”

Frank and Joe looked at each other, their eyes twinkling.

“Chet,” Frank said, “you go back. Joe and I will find out what that glittering thing is.”

Nervously the chunky boy considered the expanse of desert between him and the blue airplane. No telling how many Gila monsters he might meet!

“Alone?” he asked blankly.

“Sure. Go on. Wait for us at the plane.”

Wistfully, Chet considered the distance again. “No,” he protested in a forced hearty voice, “your folks would never forgive me if I let you down.”

The Gila monster disappeared under a bush and the three boys started forward again. Ahead of them the unknown object flashed in the sunlight. After walking for some time, they did not appear to be much closer. All three boys were wearing moccasins, and the heat from the broiling sand made their feet uncomfortably warm.

“Say, do you think that thing is moving away from us?” Chet complained. He took out a gaudy handkerchief and began to mop his face.

“It’s tied to the tail of a Gila monster!” Joe teased, and Frank added, “Out here you can see twenty miles instead of two or three miles as we can at home.”

As the boys finally approached the mysterious glittering object, they saw that it was a twelve-inch, round, metallic rock which caught and reflected the sun’s rays.

Joe rushed forward to investigate. He found the big rock studded with lovely solid-colored stones. Some were dark red, others a rich brown, a few deep green. Nature had placed these stones in the rock like jewels.

“That’s beautiful, Joe,” said Frank, as he came up. “What is it? Some kind of quartz?”

Back in Bayport, Joe Hardy had an extensive collection of rocks and stones. Now he carefully examined their find.

“Jasper, I’d say. Very fine specimens, too.”

As slow-moving Chet joined them, he said, “Say, that stuff looks valuable. Are they precious stones?”

“Well, they’re not exactly diamonds.” Joe laughed. “But they are valuable, and no mistake.”

After a quick search the boys concluded that there were no similar rocks nearby.

“That’s strange. Where did this one come from? It doesn’t look as if it belonged here,” Joe mused.

Meanwhile, Frank had been examining the ground nearby. “You know,” he announced, “this rock might have had something to do with Grafton’s disappearance.”

“How?” Chet asked.

“There may be other valuable stones containing jasper around here. Maybe Grafton and Wetherby spotted some from the air and landed to pick them up.”

Chet nodded. “After they had gathered them, some thugs stole the stones and got rid of Grafton and Wetherby.” The boy looked around him uneasily.

“That could be,” Joe agreed. “But somehow I don’t think so. However, they may be prisoners.”

“Well, fellows, this sun isn’t growing any cooler while we stand here. I vote we head back to the plane and take this rock along with us,” Frank suggested.

He hoisted the big stone to his shoulder, and the three started back. Now it was their blue plane that appeared to be much closer than it really was. Again they walked for some time without seeming to make progress.

“I’ll take a turn,” Joe offered.

The heavy burden was shifted to his shoulder, and they went on. Finally, his face wet with perspiration, he called, “Your turn, Chet. Get a soft spot ready on your shoulder!”

With sighs and groans, the valuable rock was transferred to the beefy shoulder of Chet Morton.

“Why did we bring this old thing!” he grumbled. “How do we know it’s valuable?” he demanded two minutes later.

For answer, Joe simply winked at his brother.

“This stone weighs twelve tons,” protested the burdened boy. “Isn’t my turn up yet? It’s driving me into the ground!” Chet declared a dozen steps later.

Suppressing their laughter, Frank and Joe walked behind. Suddenly, at a signal, they sang out together:

“Gila monster!”

“Where? Where? Oh—I see him!” The stone, in spite of its great weight, was sent flying forward through the air, and Chet Morton, showing great agility for a boy his size, went sprinting in the opposite direction.

The Hardy brothers enjoyed their joke so thoroughly that for a moment they did not notice anything else. The heavy stone, however, had suddenly disappeared. “Hey! What happened to the rock?” Joe cried out.

“Guess it went in that hole,” Frank said.

“Serves you both right!” Chet called. “You and your Gila monsters!”

“Why, Chet, you mean you didn’t see any monster? Then why did you run?” Joe teased.

“Well ... I guess I made a little mistake,” mumbled their friend.

“You sure did. You let that valuable stone roll into a hole. To make up for it, you’re elected to get the stone out.”

Chet was agreeable but soon found he could not do it alone as the hole was narrow and deep. Perspiring and breathing heavily, he begged for help. Laughing, the resourceful Hardys took off their belts and improvised a cradle in which to drag the rock back to the surface. From there, Frank and Joe took turns carrying it to the plane.

By the time the plane had landed at Riverside County Airport, it was after five o’clock.

“Just about suppertime,” noted Chet with satisfaction. “A swim and a steak—”

Gene Smith came out on the field to meet them. “Hello, boys! What luck?” he called.

Chet told him about the Gila monster. Smith grinned and said, “I once made a pet out of one of those critters. Used to drink milk out of a saucer, and jump in my lap like a house cat.”

“Really?” Chet gulped.

“Sure,” Smith went on, with a straight face. “I taught that Gila to whistle. But it could only whistle one tune. I got tired of ‘Dixie,’ so I got rid of him.”

The boys laughed, then showed him the jasper-studded rock. “This is all we discovered.”

“Um, lucky find. We call that stuff Chinese jade. It’s picked up now and then.”

“Do you think Grafton and Wetherby could have been after other pieces, lost their way, and perhaps injured themselves in the mountains?” Joe asked.

Smith shrugged. “Could be. But it’s a long walk.”

“We have a favor to ask,” put in Frank. “Willard Grafton’s ship is here. May we check it for clues?”

“Help yourself. She’s at the back of the far hangar over there. When you’re through I’ll run you into town.”

“Thanks.” Frank covered the jasper stone and locked the plane. The boys hurried over to Grafton’s craft, a handsome red-and-white ship, with seats for four in the cabin. One of the cabin doors hung open.

“Funny they don’t keep it locked,” Joe remarked.

While Frank checked the instrument panel and Chet looked in the baggage area, Joe opened a little compartment similar to the glove compartment in an automobile. A penciled note on a scrap of yellow paper was all he found.

“Here’s something!” Joe cried, waving the note.

Frank and Chet crowded near him to read over Joe’s shoulder:

TAKE WARNING HARDYS. ROSES ARE RED. VIOLETS ARE BLUE. WE FIXED GRAFTON. WE’LL FIX YOU. GET OUT WHILE THE GETTING IS GOOD.

CHAPTER V

The Mob Scene

“WHEW!” Chet whistled. “A warning! I knew this was coming!”

The Hardys’ faces showed a combination of anger and perplexity. Who had written the note? Someone with a sardonic sense of humor, certainly.

“Let’s not say anything about this,” Frank suggested. “But we should report that the plane door was open. I’m sure the person who delivered the note is responsible.”

“Yes. The hangar is out of the way,” Joe agreed. “He might have sneaked in here any time, especially during the night. He knew we’d go over Grafton’s plane sooner or later.”

“This proves that our movements are being watched a lot more closely than we realized,” said Frank soberly, pocketing the note. “I think it’s time to check with Dad. Let’s go!”

The boys learned that Grafton’s plane had indeed been broken into and would be more carefully guarded in the future. Back in their motel room, Frank put through a long-distance call to Bayport.

“Hello, Mother! ... Yes, we’re all right. ... Everything’s fine. We’re enjoying ourselves very much.... Can you put Dad on, please? ... Oh!”

Covering the mouthpiece with one hand, Frank told his companions, “Dad’s case has taken him out of town and Mother doesn’t know where to reach him. He left us a message.

“Go ahead, Mother,” Frank resumed. For the benefit of Joe and Chet, he repeated the note as Mrs. Hardy read it to him.

“Hold up work at Blythe.... Proceed to Los Angeles.... Investigate Grafton’s business and interview his family.... Hope to see you before long. Dad.”

The next morning as the three boys loaded their rucksacks, Frank grinningly whispered some order, then they went to the motel office.

“Leaving so soon, boys?” the manager inquired.

“Yes, the country doesn’t agree with our friend’s appetite,” Joe replied.

“No place like home,” Chet Morton added.

“If we’ve left anything behind, will you send it to our address in Bayport?” Frank asked.

“Certainly. Sorry you don’t like it here.”

It was not until the three friends had taken off from the county airport that the subject came up again. Then, with a grin, Joe said, “Did we look dissatisfied enough? I was trying to play my part, but I almost burst out laughing instead.”

“I think that manager will remember us all right when somebody asks him about us.” Frank chuckled.

“He’ll say we were in a mighty big hurry to leave Blythe and go back East,” Chet joined in the joking.

“Which is just what we want,” Frank declared. “Meanwhile, we’ll be in Los Angeles digging up clues!”

The flight was a brief one. Soon Frank, Joe, and Chet were installed in a spacious room in one of the city’s older downtown hotels. While the brothers unpacked, Chet fussily inspected their quarters.

“Good solid metal fire escape,” he announced, glancing out one of the windows.

Chet announced he was going on an errand and went out. An hour later, as Frank and Joe were discussing a plan of action, he returned.

“No more detective work for old Chet today,” he announced brightly. “Here we are in Los Angeles, the movie capital of the world. I don’t know about you fellows, but I’m going out to a lot and watch them make movies. Behold!”

With a flourish he produced three passes to a motion-picture lot. “I called up an uncle who lives here in town,” he explained. “What about it, fellows?”

“You go ahead, Chet,” Frank suggested. “Joe and I will see what we can find out about Grafton and Wetherby at police headquarters, and show the warning note. Meet you back here later.”

At headquarters the Hardys spoke to the detective sergeant who had been assigned to the case. “We’re really stumped on this Grafton disappearance,” the man admitted ruefully. “Nothing to go on. And we don’t know much about Wetherby except what the Blythe police could give us.”

“Do you think Mrs. Grafton would see us?” Frank inquired.

“Oh, yes. Poor woman, she’ll be grateful for your interest. You might stop at Grafton’s electronics plant, too. A manager operates it now.”

When the detective had finished, Frank revealed what the boys had learned so far, and produced the threatening note.

“You’re on to something, all right,” agreed the sergeant. “Keep me posted. And call on us any time, day or night, if you’re in danger!”

The brothers thanked the sergeant and went back to their hotel. Chet Morton had not returned, but the two movie-lot passes were still on the table. Joe slipped them into his pocket.

“Why not go and meet him?” he suggested. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a movie in the making myself!”

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “We can call on Mrs. Grafton this afternoon.”

The movie studio was fairly easy to find. Inside, an attendant checked the brothers’ passes and directed them to the proper set, where a picture about Mexico was being filmed. However, they couldn’t see the bulky figure of Chet Morton among the other spectators.

In the middle of the set itself a great many people were milling around. Most of the men wore tall, wide Mexican hats. Some were in faded blue jeans with blue denim jackets, while others had on gaily embroidered outfits with silver buckles and beautifully tooled leather belts and boots. All the women wore bright-colored costumes.

“Getting ready for a mob scene,” Frank remarked.

Suddenly Joe, whose eyes had been roving over the set, noticed two actors talking earnestly together in a corner. As the two parted, Joe was astonished to see that one was Chet, who was wearing his brand-new sombrero.

“Hi!” the stout boy called out as he spotted the Hardys. He hurried over.

“Who’s your friend, Chet?” Joe inquired. By now the man had disappeared in the crowd of actors.

“Oh—just one of the ‘extras,”’ Chet explained. “He has a walk-on part in all of the mob scenes. When he saw my sombrero he said maybe I could get a job as an ‘extra’ too. But I can’t,” the disappointed Chet admitted sadly. “I asked the director. What a thrill it would have been, too!”

“Let’s go, then.”

After the three left the lot they passed a bank on the street near the studio. Chet called a halt. “I want to go in here a minute, fellows. That poor actor you saw with me can’t leave work before the banks close, so I cashed a check for him.”

“Say, you want to be careful whose personal checks you accept,” Joe observed.

“Oh, this one’s okay. It’s a United States government check for fifty dollars. It had been made over to Al Van Buskirk—that actor I was talking to—and he endorsed it to me,” Chet reassured him, and went into the bank.

A few minutes later the door opened again, but instead of Chet, a uniformed bank guard confronted Frank and Joe!

“Friends of Chester Morton inside?” he asked them gruffly.

When they said yes, the guard asked them to come into the bank. He said Chet was in trouble.

“You’re my witnesses, fellows,” Chet burst out in a worried voice. “Tell the cashier you know me and I’m honest.”

Briefly, Joe corroborated this statement. The cashier and guard appeared satisfied.

“But what about my money?” Chet wailed. “That check cleaned me out of cash.”

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” the cashier said. “We’ll turn the counterfeit check over to the Treasury Department, of course.”

“Counterfeit!” Frank exclaimed.

“That’s right,” the cashier said. “A mighty good one, too.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other and instantly thought of their father’s case. By any chance could Chet’s counterfeit check have anything to do with it?

“Say, Joe,” his brother whispered, “I think we ought to go back at once and check on that actor.”

“Right.”

Chet was more than willing. “That guy can’t do this to me! Just let me get my hands on him!”

The three boys raced up the street. They dashed past the astounded attendant, who tried to demand their passes. They pounded along the studio pathways, straight into the set and the crowd of extras dressed like Mexicans.

“I want my money back!” Chet bellowed.

Women in the crowd shrieked. Two men were sent sprawling by the sudden charge. Cries of surprise and anger arose from all directions. Someone began to fire blank cartridges. The shrieks redoubled. Whistles blew. Orders were barked.

On one side an excited little man wearing a blue beret jumped up and down and shouted “Cut! Cut! Cut!” at the top of his lungs.

Meanwhile, Chet was rolling on the ground, wrestling with a big actor who had objected to being run into so hard. When the two had been disentangled, and order had been restored, the small wiry man in the blue beret approached the boys with eyes blazing.

“My gosh—the director!” Chet moaned. “Now we’re in for it!”

The little man stepped up briskly and looked Chet up and down. “Mag—nificent!” he exclaimed unexpectedly, clapping the astounded Chet on both shoulders. “Remarkable! The very thing we wanted! Mob violence! Disorder! Wild confusion!”

“You mean ... you’re not mad at me?” Chet faltered.

“Mad at you? No!” The director snapped his fingers enthusiastically. “I’ll use that scene.”

“You mean you’re really going to put all that in a movie? But I still want to find that actor who gave me a phony check—his name is Van Buskirk.”

The director looked around the set. “He’s gone. We finished the scene he was in just before you stormed the place!”

“That means I’m broke,” Chet said mournfully. “I’ll have to sell my infrared camera equipment.”

“What are you talking about?” Joe demanded. “We need that in our work.”

Frank slapped his woebegone friend on the back. “We’ll stake you to the rest of the trip.”

Chet grinned. “That’s swell of you. But I still want my money back.”

“Where does this Al Van Buskirk live?” Frank asked the director.

“I don’t know. Ask at the office.”

But the office did not know. The man was a wanderer, merely dropped in once in a while, and was paid cash for each job. Disappointed, the young sleuths went out and headed for a restaurant. After a hearty meal, Chet set off to visit his aunt and uncle, while Frank and Joe took a taxi to Willard Grafton’s home.

Mrs. Grafton received them graciously. She was an attractive woman, somewhat younger than their own mother, but her husband’s disappearance had added lines of sorrow and anxiety to her face.

A brown-haired, freckle-faced boy of about nine came in and eyed the Hardys uneasily. A younger brother, about seven, trailed him a moment later.

“Steve and Mark miss their father very much,” Mrs. Grafton explained as she introduced them to the Hardys. “I’m bewildered myself,” she confided to Frank and Joe when her sons had left the room. “If you only knew how grateful the three of us would be, if you could find my husband—or even discover what happened to him!”

“We’ll do our best,” the brothers promised.

They learned nothing new from her, except that Willard Grafton had taken no extra clothes with him, which seemed to prove he had no intention of being gone long.

Frank and Joe left the house and proceeded to the new, modern industrial building where Grafton’s company still manufactured electronic self-starting devices. The boys climbed to the second floor, where they located a door bearing Grafton’s name. They knocked.

A blond secretary opened it about three inches and asked suspiciously through the crack, “Who is it? What do you want?”

“Excuse me,” Frank began, “we want to ask some questions about Mr. Grafton.”

Before Frank could finish, the heavy door slammed in the boys’ faces.

CHAPTER VI

New Evidence

“Miss—oh, miss!” Frank called through the door. He had caught a glimpse of the secretary’s face. It was tense and frightened. Frank sensed that something was wrong. “You must let us in. We’ve come from Mrs. Grafton!”

Behind the door, the secretary seemed to hesitate. “How can I be sure of that?”

“Call her on the phone. Mention Frank and Joe Hardy!”

For about five minutes the boys waited in the hall. At last the door opened. The secretary, an intelligent, pretty young woman, seemed calm now. Before speaking, however, she locked the door. No one else was there and a tiny sign on her desk gave the girl’s name as Miss Everett.

“I should have known by looking at you boys that you’re all right,” she apologized. “But those other men who were here this morning asking about Mr. Grafton gave me such a fright I don’t trust anybody. I’m afraid to leave the door unlocked!”

“What other men? Not the police!” Joe broke in.

“Oh, no. Two big, rough-looking men. They weren’t dressed very well and they talked—you know—like thugs. I wouldn’t have let them in, except they said they were hunting for Mr. Grafton, so I thought they might be private detectives.”

“Hunting for Mr. Grafton?” The Hardy boys exchanged looks of surprise.

“Yes. Then, as soon as they were in, they got rough and made me show them Mr. Grafton’s letters and records!” The pretty girl pointed to bruises on her wrists as evidence.

“They wouldn’t have acted tough if they were on the up-and-up,” Joe said indignantly. “Did you call the police?”

Miss Everett shook her head. “The men said they’d make me sorry if I breathed a word about them to anybody!”

“It must be the same gang that’s been bothering us,” Joe deduced.

“Maybe,” his brother returned thoughtfully. “But why are these two looking for Grafton if, as we suspect, they may be holding him? Could another gang be trying to get him away from the ones who have him?”

Miss Everett went white. “How terrible!”

“You’ll have to help us,” Joe appealed to the secretary. “Just tell us about Mr. Grafton. What kind of man was he? Did you like him?”

The girl knitted her brows. “Well,” she began, “when I first came to work for Mr. Grafton, about a year ago, I thought he was a wonderful man. He was so dynamic, and he was making a great success of his business. People liked him because he was so gay and lively. He made friends with everyone he met. Then, all of a sudden, he changed.”

“How do you mean?”

“He got moody. He would sit here brooding. When people came on business he snapped at them, and treated his customers as though they were trying to swindle him. He became suspicious of everybody.”

“He must have had some reason,” Joe suggested.

“Oh, yes. You see, his spirits had been very high, because he and an old college friend had pooled their resources and were negotiating to buy a new plant and double this business. Then the friend went off to Europe with all the money! Mr. Grafton didn’t want to worry his family, so he never told them.

“After the trouble with his friend the only person he seemed to like was Mr. Wetherby. He said Mr. Wetherby was a challenging companion. Then they went off together and disappeared.”

“What did he mean by calling Mr. Wetherby a challenging companion?” Frank asked curiously.

“I don’t know. Mr. Grafton had grown bitter and used to say that everybody in the world was dishonest, but at least Mr. Wetherby did exciting things.”

“What business was Wetherby in?” Frank pursued.

The secretary shook her head. “I don’t know. But I can tell you where he lived. You might find out there.”

The boys wrote down the address. “Thanks, Miss Everett. As soon as we leave, you’d better call the police. They’ll give you protection. Is there anything else you can tell us about Mr. Grafton?”

“Well—his only hobby was raising Shetland ponies, if that means anything.”

“You never know.” Frank made a note of the fact.

Back at the hotel, Frank and Joe stepped from the elevator and walked toward their room. At the far end of the hall a man wearing a short red jacket with polished brass buttons regarded them intently.

“Who’s that?” asked Joe, while Frank unlocked their door.

“Just the bellman.” The boys entered the room.

“Bellman, your grandmother!” Joe exclaimed as he checked a picture in his wallet. “If that isn’t the guy who hid in our bushes in Bayport and slugged Chet, I’ll eat this photograph!”

Excitedly the boys rushed out and searched the corridor. The bellman had vanished.

“Let”s ask at the desk,” Frank suggested.

After waiting some time for the elevator, the boys went down to the hotel lobby. “We want to speak with this bellman,” Joe told the clerk on duty, showing him the full-face photograph.

Studying the picture, the clerk shook his head. “This man isn’t one of our employees.”

“But he must be. We just met him, in uniform, near our room!”

The clerk shook his head again. “Oh, Sam!” he called to a porter who was standing nearby. “Ever see this fellow before?” He showed the photograph. “These boys just saw him upstairs in a bellman’s uniform.”

“Not one of ours.” The porter was even more definite.

“Then he must have borrowed the uniform,” Joe declared.

“Must be, sir,” agreed the porter. “All our bellmen are young. This man’s a good forty years old. I’ll call the house detective.”

Together, the detective and the boys searched the room where the bellmen changed their clothes, then checked the stairways and other possible hiding places. The mysterious suspect was not around.

Disappointed and puzzled, Joe and Frank returned to their room with the detective. “What did this man look like?” the detective asked.

Joe handed him the photograph and said, “He was not heavy, but looked strong. About five-feet-nine in height.”

“Well, we’ll watch for him!” the detective promised as he left.

“Joe, that bellman was here to spy on you and me,” Frank said grimly as he locked the window leading to the fire escape and double-checked the lock on the hall door.

“You’re right. Well, let’s go to Mr. Wetherby’s address and see what we can find out.”

The place was a boardinghouse, run by a bright-eyed, talkative Mrs. Watson. The rather stout lady, whose hair was just turning gray, met the boys at the door. White flour showed on her hands and her apron, and the pleasant aroma of baking came from the kitchen.

“Mr. Wetherby? I should say I do know something about him! A very good boarder he was, too, and knew good cooking when he tasted it! But come in, come in. We can’t talk on the street. I’ll have a pot of tea in a jiffy!”

Frank and Joe winked at each other. The price they would have to pay for information on Wetherby would be an hour at tea with the company-loving landlady. They followed her into a neat parlor.

“Tsk-tsk! That Mr. Wetherby,” the bustling woman clucked. “Twelve months I tried to fatten that man—he was such a skinny fellow. I never could understand it. He ate everything I gave him, too.”

Talking all the time, Mrs. Watson brought in teapot, cups, butter, fruit preserves, paper napkins, and finally a plate of fresh hot biscuits.

“He certainly should have gained weight here.” Frank laughed.

“Yes—you’d think so. But then he was a peculiar man. He used up so much energy just coming and going at all hours. His hair was thinning, too, and he wasn’t what you would call an old man.”

“Coming and going?” Frank pricked up his ears. “Didn’t he have any regular position?”

“Goodness me, he paid his rent, if that’s what you mean. Do try another one of these biscuits, both of you! And when my boarders settle promptly, you know, I don’t inquire further.”

“They sure are wonderful biscuits, Mrs. Watson,” Joe spoke up enthusiastically. “So Mr. Wetherby was a good roomer?”

“You must have been sorry to lose him,” Frank added sympathetically. “But then, he didn’t leave owing you any money—except perhaps a week’s room and board.”

“Why, dear me, no,” the woman protested. “Mr. Wetherby doesn’t owe me a penny. Six months’ room and board he paid me in advance, that last week, and he hasn’t been here to get a bit of value for his money!”

“These are the best biscuits I ever tasted!” Joe remarked. The hospitable lady beamed. “So Mr. Wetherby had planned a little trip?”

“I suppose so,” Mrs. Watson assented. “He was often away for long stays.”

Suddenly, to Frank’s and Joe’s complete surprise, their hostess leaned forward in her chair and gave them a sly wink! “He was always mixed up in those things, you know!”

Lowering her voice, although there was nobody to eavesdrop, the talkative lady went on confidentially, “Those Latin-American countries. You know, there is always some kind of fighting going on down there. I don’t pay much attention to it.”

“Yes, they often have revolutions,” Frank agreed.

“Well, I used to wonder, when I cleaned Mr. Wetherby’s room. He had pictures of himself in an airplane—a war airplane, it was. Then there was a picture of a lot of them wearing those big ten-gallon hats, and do you know, all the men wore pistols and belts full of bullets, including Mr. Wetherby!”

“No wonder Mr. Grafton thought Wetherby did exciting things!” Frank exclaimed.

The landlady caught the name. “Yes, and he brought that gentleman here, too,” she added. Evidently she was pleased to have such surprising news to tell.

“This Mr. Grafton, he told me how Mr. Wetherby used to fight in those foreign wars. He said Mr. Wetherby did it just for the adventure. He certainly admired Mr. Wetherby.”

“You don’t know what country he fought in, do you, Mrs. Watson?” Frank inquired.

“Dear me, I wouldn’t know one of those places from another. Let me see—you boys finish those biscuits while I look around.” She bustled upstairs.

“I’m stuffed!” Joe whispered. “You eat the last biscuits, Frank, so we can keep in her good graces!”

“I can’t.” Frank grinned, slipped the biscuits into his paper napkin, and put them into his pocket. “For Chet!”

In a moment Mrs. Watson returned. Seeing the empty plate, she exclaimed, “Dear me, you boys have been such good company, I’m going to give you this!”

She placed a copper coin in Frank’s palm. “It was on Mr. Wetherby’s bureau when he first came here. I wanted it for a souvenir because it looks just like a penny, you know, and he gave it to me.”

“República de Mexico!” Frank read eagerly.

They whirled to see two brawny men climb into the room

“Thanks very much to—the best cook in California!”

When the Hardys returned to the hotel, they found Chet waiting for them and told their story.

“You mean Wetherby used to be a pilot for a bunch of rebels in Mexico?” he asked in disbelief.

“Right. And Mexico isn’t far from Ripley. Let’s have a look at the map.” Joe took one of the California-Arizona-northern Mexico area from his rucksack and spread it on the floor.

“Those missing men might have taken a boat right down the Colorado River into Mexico,” Frank pointed out.

“Maybe Wetherby was involved in a new revolution!” Joe added. “Or some other illegal business.”

A sudden rap at the door brought the boys hastily to their feet. Before they could answer, however, it opened and a man came in. He closed the door and stood facing the boys.

“The bellman!” Joe exclaimed. The man was not in uniform.

At the same time the boys heard a window open. They whirled to see two brawny men climb into the room from the fire escape!

“Yes, I unlocked the window,” the bellman told the boys in a harsh, unpleasant voice. “And now you kids start talking—or else me and Ringer and Caesar over there are going to make you!”

CHAPTER VII

An Exciting Identification

INSTINCTIVELY the three boys backed up until they felt a wall behind them.

“What do you expect us to talk about?” Frank demanded, to gain time.

“About Grafton,” snarled the fake bellman. “How much do you know? Come on—talk!”

The two brawny henchmen, Ringer and Caesar, advanced menacingly from the window, while the bellman moved in from the door.

“Quarterback sneak left!” Frank called, dropping to a football player’s crouch.

Catching the signal, Chet, who played center for Bayport High, lowered one shoulder and plunged forward into the advancing Ringer. At the same instant Joe unleashed a body block that sent Caesar crashing backward into a desk. Frank, meanwhile, rushed the surprised bellman and threw him to the floor.

Caught off guard, the intruders fought back viciously for a few moments. But the agility and speed of the boys more than made up for the size and strength of their attackers. Caesar was groggy from his fall, and Ringer gasped for breath.

The bellman was the first to struggle to his feet. “Clear out!” he cried to his companions, knocking Chet off Ringer. Caesar was able to free himself, and the three men fled out the door. The boys went after them, but the men rushed into a service elevator. Apparently the bellman had left the door open for a quick getaway. The door slammed and the car shot downward.

“We’d never catch ’em by racing down the stairs,” Joe panted.

“No,” Frank agreed. “And they’ll lose themselves in the street before we can overtake them.”

“They didn’t get away scot free, though,” Chet announced after the boys reached their room. “The man I blocked out dropped this. It may be a valuable clue.”

Frank took the carefully folded paper from Chet and spread it out. “Why, this is a copy of our flight plan from Blythe to Los Angeles! One of their gang must have sneaked into the airport office and copied the original. That’s how they trailed us here.”

“And we thought we had fooled them into thinking we’d gone back East!” said Chet, dismayed.

Frank nodded. “They outsmarted us this time. There’s no question about it, we’re up against a bunch of dangerous and well-organized criminals! Let’s talk to the police.”

At headquarters the young sleuths reported their progress. They learned that Grafton’s secretary had reported the threats against her.

“You Hardys have turned up more on this case in one afternoon than we have in three months,” the detective in charge asserted with admiration. He took down Joe’s description of the bellman and the two strong-arm henchmen. “How do you plan to proceed from here?”

Frank analyzed the situation briefly. “We have two working hunches. First, there’s the rock we found. Grafton and Wetherby might have been after minerals or semiprecious stones when this gang caught them. The other possibility is that they slipped away in a boat, probably to Mexico, since Wetherby was keen about life below the border.”

“Then our first job is to hunt for more clues in the desert around the giant,” Joe reasoned. “After that, we’d better hire a boat and make the trip down the river ourselves, right from where Grafton and Wetherby would have started.”

“Logical reasoning,” the detective said. “I wish you luck.”

As the youths left headquarters, Chet exclaimed eagerly, “Well, if we go down the river, we’ll have a chance to fish. I’ve heard the Colorado bass are really something.”

“Good idea, Chet,” Joe agreed. “If we look like fishermen, we may be able to shake this gang off our trail.”

“We’ll need permits to enter Mexico,” Frank observed. “Best place to get them is here in Los Angeles.”

They headed for the Mexican consulate, where they presented their birth certificates and were given entrance cards, then all three boys obtained fishing licenses in a sporting-goods store. Soon they were air-borne again and on their way back to Riverside County Airport. They would stop at Blythe to see about renting a boat in a couple of days.

When they landed in Blythe, a brief taxi ride brought them to the town’s water front. As they strolled along the river, Chet began to dawdle.

“Aren’t we forgetting something awfully important? What about meals on this trip down the river? We’ll need food for a month, at least.”

The stocky lad had come to a full stop in front of a large market. With evident satisfaction, he contemplated the wonderful variety of foods through the broad glass window.

“Some detectives travel on their stomachs!” Joe laughed. “All right, Chet, you buy provisions while Frank and I hire a boat.”

The excellent climate made Blythe a year-round fisherman’s paradise, and the Hardy brothers found numerous docks along the river. They stepped onto one, looking for a suitable boat.

A graceful red-and-white craft, with two powerful outboard motors mounted on her stern, caught Joe’s eye. “Plenty of power in an emergency,” he commented. “Never know when we might need it!”

“Is this boat for rent?” Frank asked the proprietor, a long-legged old-timer wearing tight-fitting dungarees.

“Reckon she is.” The man, whittling a stick, hardly glanced at the boys or the boat.

“Could we keep her for as long as a month?”

“Reckon so.”

“Could you let us have her in a day or two?”

“Reckon I could.”

“All right,” Frank concluded. “We’ll get in touch with you when we’re ready. Is it a deal?”

“Reckon it is.”

Joe laughed. “Talkative old buzzard. Not like our friend Mrs. Watson!”

As the Hardys returned to the market, Frank and Joe were amazed to see a great heap of brown food bundles seemingly walking toward them on legs of its own! Perched on top of the pile was a familiar bright sombrero, and out of the heap of packages came a familiar voice.

“Hi!”

Then, without warning, the mountain of parcels exploded. Packages flew in every direction, and rained down upon the shoulders of Frank and Joe and other passers-by. Chet Morton, who had been invisible behind the heap except for his legs and sombrero, raced down the street crying:

“Stop, thief!”

Frank and Joe hastily rescued some of the food from the street, as their friend, some distance away, brought down his man in a flying tackle.

“Give me back my money!” they heard Chet bellow as he dragged the man to his feet.

The brothers hurried over with the parcels of food.

“It’s that counterfeit-check man, Van Buskirk!” Chet told them excitedly. He held the short young man by the collar and every now and then gave him a shake.

“Say, what is this, anyway?” the man protested, recovering himself. All at once he recognized Chet. “It’s you again. What do you want with me?”

“I want the money you swindled from me with that phony check!”

The man looked surprised. “What do you mean? That check was all right. It was a government check.”

“Yes? You tell that to the police, Mr. Innocence,” answered Chet sarcastically. “You’ve probably got a whole bushel of them. What are you doing here in Blythe, anyhow?”

“I have a perfect right to be here. I live in Blythe!”

“Tell that to the police, too!” retorted the angry Chet.

At Blythe police headquarters AI Van Buskirk continued to maintain his innocence.

“Yes—he lives in Blythe all right,” the desk sergeant spoke up. “I’ve seen him around town.”

“Then what was he doing in Los Angeles?” Chet wanted to know.

“Listen, it must all be a mistake.” Van Buskirk answered the question himself in a worried voice. “I’ve been ill for a while and out of regular work. All I could find was a walk-on part in that movie. When it was finished I came back here.”

The man turned to Chet. “I’m sorry if I caused you to lose your money. I was taken in myself. I sold a valuable gold watch for that check!”

“Here in Blythe?” asked the officer quickly.

“No, in Los Angeles.”

“Can you remember what the check passer looked like?”

“A little taller than I am, and a few years older. A spry, wiry fellow. I remember thinking he might work in some hotel, because his pants had a stripe down the side like a uniform.”

Joe, on a hunch, pulled the photograph of the phony bellman from his pocket. “Al, by any chance, was this man the bad-check passer?”

Van Buskirk gazed at the picture. “It sure looks like him. Yes, that’s the man! Say, where in Pete’s name did you get this?”

Joe smiled. “We’ve been doing a little sleuthing, that’s all,” he answered noncommittally.

The sergeant was amazed and asked to keep the photograph. Joe handed it over. The officer now took something from his desk drawer. “Did the check you received look anything like this one?”

Both Chet and Al Van Buskirk declared, “Same thing exactly!”

The officer nodded. “This was turned in last week by the Blythe bank. Seems to be a brand-new racket.”

“Officer, may my brother and I look at that check, too?” Frank inquired abruptly, again recalling the government fraud case on which their father was working. The boys examined the check and nodded to each other, but did not mention Mr. Hardy’s investigation.

“Van Buskirk’s story seems to check out all right, Morton,” the sergeant said.

Al turned to Chet. “I’m sorry, I’ve already spent your money to pay bills, but I’ll give you a note for the amount and pay you as soon as I can,” he offered.

“That’s fair enough,” Chet agreed. “After all, you were fooled, too.”

As the four left the police station, the Hardys and Chet said good-by to the actor and at Frank’s suggestion headed for a hardware store to purchase digging tools to use in the desert.

“I don’t feel satisfied with our examination of the desert giants,” he explained. “I’d like to do a little digging out there before we start down the river. I have a hunch we may find a buried clue,” he said.

“Not a body!” Chet quavered.

“I hope not,” said Joe. “You mean, Frank, a cache of valuable rocks or something Grafton may have managed to hide out there before he left?”

“Right.”

After the purchase, the three friends took a taxi to the airport, told Gene Smith their plan, and stowed the equipment and food in the plane.

As the monoplane soared toward the desert giant, the boys discussed the exciting new developments in the case.

Presently Frank said worriedly, “I just thought of a new angle. Suppose Grafton was attacked or kidnaped?”

“Good night!” Chet exclaimed.

“Or suppose he’s mixed up in some kind of racket?” Frank went on.

“How terrible for Mrs. Grafton and her boys, and Mr. Brownlee, too!” Chet remarked.

Suddenly Joe asserted, “Grafton that kind of person? I don’t believe it!”

CHAPTER VIII

A Treasure Hunt

“DEEP down, I agree with you, Joe,” Frank put in. “The information we have about Grafton so far is that he’s honest—even if he did become soured on things.”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “When we crack this mystery and find him, I believe he’ll turn out to be okay!”

“There’s our giant again,” Frank announced. “Hang on! I’m going in low to scout him a little.”

Frank throttled down to fly as slowly as possible while they examined the effigy. What, if anything, could it prove about buried treasure, counterfeiters, and missing men?

“I have a hunch those outstretched arms may mean something,” Frank said thoughtfully.

“Why?” Chet asked.

“Because we found our treasure in a straight line with the left arm of that big fellow down there, unless my sense of direction has gone hay-wire.”

Chet looked at him. “You mean the stone we found might have been a marker? But for what?”

“Wish I knew the answer,” Frank said.

Joe suggested they pitch camp there for the night to see if anything happened. “Grafton and Wetherby may be in hiding around here, and show up after dark.”

“I think I have the answer!” Chet broke in. “Maybe there was a stowaway in their plane. He forced Grafton and Wetherby to fly out here to meet some other member of the gang!”

Frank nodded, then said, “Not much more for us to see up here. I’m going in for a landing.”

The plane rolled to a stop near the knoll where the effigy was, and the boys climbed out into the dazzling sunshine.

“Whew! Hot work ahead,” Chet observed.

Meanwhile, Frank was handing supplies and tools out to his brother. “We’ll take the spade and the small mattock. I’ve put some food and water in this one rucksack.”

“I’ll take charge of that,” Chet volunteered. “You two carry the tools.”

The young sleuths locked the plane and climbed the knoll. Then they began to hike along the left arm of the giant effigy. With their wide-brimmed hats and their digging implements they looked like a party of old-time prospectors.

“Just think if we discovered gold, wouldn’t that be keen?” Chet remarked.

“There are some lost mines on the Arizona side—some that date back to the days of the early Spaniards,” Frank informed him.

“How does a gold mine get lost?” Chet was puzzled. “I wouldn’t lose a gold mine, if I had one!”

Joe laughed. “In the first place, the old-timers used to keep the location of their mines secret, for protection. Then sometimes mines are buried by earthquakes, or more slowly by erosion.”

Suddenly Joe stopped short. “Something just ahead. Give me your spade, Frank!”

He had noticed a little sunken place roughly rectangular in shape. Unlike the hard-baked ground of the desert, this dirt seemed loose, as though it had been turned over not long before.

“Somebody’s been digging!”

Frank and Chet hurried to his side. “It looks as if a hole had been dug here, and then filled in again,” Joe explained, starting to dig.

Frank began tossing dirt aside with a shovel, while Chet got busy with the mattock.

“No question about it,” Frank remarked as they worked. “Look at this loose soil and the size of the hole. I’d say at least two people had been on the job.”

“They were wasting their time,” said Chet, ten minutes later. He was wringing wet. “We haven’t seen anything valuable hidden here.”

The Hardys had to agree. There seemed to be nothing worth digging for.

“What do you think?” Joe asked. “Could they have cleared the hole of all valuable rocks?”

“I don’t think so,” his brother returned. “There would be a few traces left. We haven’t seen a single fragment of the kind of rock that contains semiprecious stones.”

“What were they digging for, then?” Chet wanted to know. “You mentioned buried treasure.”

“I still think one might have been hidden by Indians or even Spanish explorers. The desert giant was the direction marker to show the location.”

“Well, whatever it was, do you suppose Grafton and Wetherby were the ones looking for it?” Chet asked.

“Could be,” Joe returned. “They were here recently enough.” Carefully, he examined the ground.

“Not a footprint, or even a trace of one,” he reported, discouraged. “A good solid heel print would have given us something to work with.”

“No.” Frank nodded. “Whoever it was knew what he was doing. He brushed away the prints in Indian style, with one of these sagebrush bushes.”

Chet sat down to rest. Finally Frank gave up and flopped to the desert. “Pretty hot seat!”

“Better than nothing,” said Chet. “I’m pooped!”

Joe kept on for a few minutes. By this time nearly all the soft earth had been turned over. Joe was about to give up when his shovel suddenly swept a piece of cloth into the air.

“What’s that?” Frank asked eagerly, jumping to his feet.

Joe picked up the dirt-covered clotn and shook it. “A man’s brown handkerchief,” he said.

Chet, interested now, dragged himself to Joe’s side. “You think one of the diggers dropped it?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“And,” Frank added, “his name begins with the letter P.”

Frank pointed out the initial P, of a slightly lighter color, embroidered in one corner of the handkerchief.

“Say, this is great!” Chet cried out enthusiastically. But in a moment his face fell. “This means neither Grafton nor Wetherby dropped it.”

“Correct,” said Frank. “But it could mean that they have some pal whose name starts with P.”

“In any case,” Joe added, “we’ll take it along as a souvenir or as evidence.”

“Let’s give up this desert search until it gets cooler,” Chet pleaded. “Talk about hot enough to fry an egg. Lil ole Chet will be boiled Morton pretty soon!”

The Hardys laughed. Then Frank suggested they fly to the edge of the desert where the mountains began and rest in the cool shade.

“It’s just possible there are more mineral rocks in the mountains,” he suggested.

“Good idea,” said Joe, and Chet nodded.

The boys went back to the plane and cooled the cabin with its air conditioner before taking off. A little while later Frank set the craft down and the three sleuths, carrying cans of food, tomato juice, and the digging tools, sought the shade of the mountainside.

“This is something like it!” Chet said with a sigh of relief as he pulled out his penknife can-opener attachment.

After the meal, Chet dozed, while Frank and Joe discussed the mystery. Presently Frank, looking up the slope, said, “I see a cave opening up there. Let’s have a look at it.”

The cave mouth yawned about forty feet above them. Scrambling up the slope, the Hardys stood staring at the entrance.

Frank pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and said, “Think I’ll go in.”

As he spoke, a menacing snarl pierced the silence of the mountain. Crouched above the cave in readiness to spring down on the Hardys was a huge wildcat!

CHAPTER IX

The Dust Devil

THE big cat looked at the Hardys out of yellow eyes. Its tail flicked in anger. Powerful muscles quivered along the tawny flank.

“Run!” Frank yelled.

Whirling, he made it back down the steep hill-side in half a dozen leaps. Joe followed. Grabbing the tools the brothers had left at the bottom, the boys spun around to defend themselves.

The commotion had wakened Chet who jumped to his feet with a “Good—night!” and dashed off.

But the big wildcat did not follow the boys. Apparently satisfied that its snarl had frightened her enemies away, the animal leaped down from the ledge and entered the cave.

“That’s probably a female who has young ones inside the cave,” Frank said. “No wonder she was so angry.”

“We found out what we wanted to know, anyhow,” said Joe. “Nobody’s been hiding in there.”

The three boys trekked through the woods, keeping their eyes open for any kind of clue to the missing men. They came to a tumble-down shack and searched it thoroughly. They found nothing suspicious.

By this time Chet had had enough sleuthing for the day. To convince his chums of this, he said, “We’ve been out of sight of the plane more than two hours.”

“It’s locked,” Frank said as he tramped on ahead.

Next, Chet tried the power of suggestion. “This may be a wooded area, but it’s sure hot in here.” He sighed. “Picture yourselves in a nice, air-conditioned drugstore right now—with a tall frosted milk shake. And then a nice, cool swim!”

Doggedly Frank and Joe pushed on. Suddenly the resourceful Chet thought of a new tactic. “Suppose somebody breaks into our plane and steals it while we waste our time in here?”

As if in answer to this suggestion, the drone of a single-engine airplane was heard in the sky above them. Frantic, the boys raced down to the edge of the forest and peered skyward.

“It’s ours!” Chet cried out.

At that instant the craft disappeared, swallowed up by a cloud. When the plane reappeared in the distance, they could hardly see it.

“No—it’s not ours,” Frank reassured the others at last. “I don’t like it, though. What’s he circling us for? Could be a spy!”

He hastily pulled out a pencil and jotted down the registration number which was printed in large figures on the underside of the plane’s wing.

“You win, Chet,” Frank conceded. “Let’s get back to our own ship—fast.”

Less than half an hour of brisk hiking brought the boys back within sight of their plane. At the same time, they saw a weird and frightening sight. A huge spiral-shaped cone of sand-filled air was blowing across the desert at great speed. It was headed in their direction.

“Wh-what’s that?” Chet cried out.

“A dust devil,” Frank answered grimly. “And it’s a devil all right—more like a young tornado. It’ll turn our plane over and smash the wings! Come on! We’ve got to push the plane out of the way!”

The boys dropped their tools and made a wild dash out into the desert. Could they reach the spot ahead of the dust devil, and if they did, would they succeed in moving the plane to safety?

“Faster!” Joe yelled.

When the boys reached the plane, the dust devil was still a hundred yards away, but advancing rapidly. Frank and Joe grabbed the wing struts on either side of the fuselage while Chet stationed himself at the tail.

“Now! Push!” Frank cried out.

They shoved with all their strength. The combined effort started the plane rolling. It gathered momentum. When the craft was fifty feet from its starting point, the dust devil whirled by, just missing the boys and the plane!

“Whew!” Chet exclaimed, then dropped, breathless, to the ground. “What next?”

Joe, relieved, grinned. “Don’t be so impatient, pal. You’ll have plenty of surprises.”

“I don’t doubt that,” his chum answered.

The boys retrieved their tools and canteens, then climbed aboard.

“I guess we’d better not leave the plane unguarded again,” Frank declared.

“Suppose we go back to Blythe and get ready for our expedition downriver,” Joe proposed.

They made a quick flight back to Riverside County Airport. While Joe and Chet unloaded, Frank went over to Gene Smith’s office.

“Can you tell me who is flying this ship?” he inquired, producing the number of the plane that had circled above them. “It was hanging around today up near the giants.”

Gene studied the paper and checked some forms on his desk. “Let’s see.... That’s a couple of scientists from the Smithsonian Institution in Washington. Taking photographs of those big drawings on the desert.”

Relieved by the information, Frank rejoined his partners. A taxi carried the boys back to the comfortable motel where they had stayed before. The surprised but happy manager greeted them.

“Couldn’t stay away, I see, boys!” he declared triumphantly. “Nobody can resist this climate. Have you tried our fishing yet?”

“No.” Joe laughed. “But I guess we will tomorrow.”

That evening in their room Frank and Joe studied maps of the winding Colorado River, which flowed through the state of Sonora in Mexico.

“How long will it take us to reach Mexico, do you think?” Joe asked his brother.

“Hard to say,” Frank returned. “The distance is only about a hundred miles. But look at this river! Islands, sand bars, and three major dams to portage around.”

“Imperial Dam is the first one,” Joe noted. “That’s about eighty miles from Blythe. Laguna Dam is right after that, then there’s Morelos Dam on the Mexican side of the border!”

“The thing that worries me,” Frank said slowly, “is having all of us away from here. Dad may show up!”

“Say,” Chet spoke up, “how about my staying here? I can look around for any clues and maybe use my camera. That boat trip sounds a little rough for a landlubber!”

The problem was solved.

Soon after dawn the following morning, Frank and Joe waved good-by to Chet and the taciturn old-timer from whom they had rented their boat. They also had rented fishing rods and equipment, and had laid in a supply of bait, food, and general supplies.

Joe took the tiller first. The two powerful outboards, yoked together, were managed by a single lever. Joe headed the red-and-white craft slowly out toward the channel.

At this hour of day the river was brown in color, its surface glassy smooth. The regular, muffled sound of their motors hardly disturbed the quiet that hung over the water. Now and then ripples shaped like round, expanding targets appeared as a fish gently broke the surface to feed.

Frank, seated forward in the boat, rigged one of the rods with a spinner and dropped the line over the side. Joe saw the flashing lure, catching light from the sky, disappear astern as his brother let his line run out.

Within minutes the supple rod was bending and bucking in Frank’s hands. Twenty yards astern a silvery fish leaped into the air, twitching madly, and then dropped below the surface again.

“Bass,” commented Joe softly. “Play him easy.”

Soon Frank brought the exhausted fish, which had broken water five more times, to the side of the boat, where Joe netted it.

“Four pounds, anyway,” declared Joe appreciatively. “He’ll do for lunch!”

Once out in the channel, Joe opened the throttle. The prow of the boat rose as it sped forward. The boys rounded some islands and passed under the Blythe highway bridge.

All morning Frank and Joe scanned the shore on both sides for any possible clues to the missing men or the boys’ enemies. They noted the high bluffs across from Ripley, where they knew two of the giant effigies lay. The familiar area yielded no new lead from this fresh vantage point.

Shortly before noon the boys put in to shore. Frank made a small, hot fire and cooked the big bass for their lunch.

“We ought to be near Imperial Dam,” Joe remarked. “We’ve been on the water over five hours.”

A short run after lunch brought them to the wide, calm water above Imperial Dam. They put into a dock on the California side, where they were met by a big friendly man wearing a red polo shirt and a blue baseball cap.

“Howdy, boys. Going on down the river? I’ve got a truck waiting here. Be glad to carry you down below the dam!”

“Swell,” Frank agreed. “But first we’d like some information. We’re looking for a number of men wanted by the police.”

As the young sleuth had hoped, his announcement brought forward several people—fishermen, boat-dock proprietors, and truckers.

“Wanted by the police? What did they look like?” the first trucker asked.

One by one, Frank gave careful descriptions of Grafton, Wetherby, the man who had posed as a bellman, and the two rough-speaking, strong-arm men.

“Waal,” drawled one old fisherman, “I been coming here every day for twelve years, and I never seen any of them.”

“The first two would probably be together—one is very skinny.” Joe tried to prod their memories. “And the big men are called Ringer and Caesar.”

The circle of men shook their heads.

“Nope.”

“ ’Fraid not.”

“Me neither.”

Discouraged, Frank and Joe helped the friendly trucker to load their boat and secure it onto a rack. After the craft was launched again below the dam, Frank paid the man, and the boys pushed off once more.

This time Frank took the tiller, and Joe looked keenly about him from the front of the boat. Abruptly, as the craft headed down the middle of the river, Joe jumped to his feet and pointed excitedly to the Arizona shore.

“Look!” he cried. “The bellman!”

CHAPTER X

The River Chase

IMMEDIATELY Frank gunned his motors, and the red-and-white craft sprang forward in the water. But the sudden, powerful roar had aroused the suspect’s attention. Catching sight of the boat racing toward him, he slipped from view behind some rocks.

By the time the young detectives reached the spot, the man had disappeared completely. All they discovered was a small green motorboat moored to a pole that had been driven into the river bottom.

“Think it’s his?” Frank asked, perplexed. “Maybe we’d better land and go after him. He couldn’t be far away yet!”

Tall, irregular cliffs rose within a few yards of the water’s edge in this wild spot. The shore was strewn with huge boulders that had broken away from the cliffs at some time in the past.

Joe shook his head. “We’d never find him in this maze of rocks. He probably knows his way around, too. Let’s sit it out here. He’ll have to come for the boat sooner or later.”

“Unless,” Frank pointed out, “he gets somebody else to come. And it could be the boat isn’t his.”

“Let’s take the chance. I know it was the bellman. I had a good look at his face.”

Already their boat had begun to drift. Carefully Frank maneuvered it back upstream. When they were in position just out in the river from the abandoned motorboat, Frank and Joe each slipped an anchor overboard.

“Out here, we can keep our eyes on those cliffs,” Frank noted.

“Good idea,” his brother approved. “Funny we haven’t seen the bellman climbing up somewhere!”

“There’s probably a trail leading to the top that’s invisible to us from here,” Frank replied. “Watch out for anybody spying from above!”

For about an hour the vigilant youths watched both rocks and cliffs carefully. Finally Joe Hardy decided to relax. “May as well enjoy ourselves,” he said.

From their fishing box he took a bright-colored plug, which he attached to one of the casting rods. “Here goes for another big bass!”

Joe flipped the plug into likely spots along the shore. No unwary fish followed the wiggling lure back to the boat.

His brother laughed. “Too fancy. Let me show you how it’s done.” Digging into the bait pail, Frank came up with a long, lively night crawler. “Now, Joe, you use the artificial lure and I’ll try this fellow. We’ll see who gets a bass first.”

“Okay, Isaak Walton!” Joe accepted the challenge.

But the fish did not seem to find the night crawler any more attractive than the fancy plug. Now it was Joe’s turn to laugh.

“Just like detective work,” he commented. “Sometimes you wait hours for a bite.”

At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Frank caught sight of the white shirt and blue dungarees of a man stepping from behind the rocks on shore. He told his brother, adding in a low voice, “Keep right on fishing.”

Next time Joe made a cast in the man’s direction. Though he seemed only to be watching his plug, he was really looking the newcomer over. “Not the bellman,” he said in an undertone.

The strange man did not seem to be interested in Frank and Joe, either. He removed his shoes, waded out to the moored boat, climbed in, and untied the painter. Drifting slowly, he wound up the starting cord and gave a quick pull. Then, with his small motor put-putting, the man steered down the river.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had reeled in their lines and hauled in their anchors. “He may be planning to pick up the bellman,” Joe whispered. “Let’s keep him in sight.”

With their powerful twin outboards, there was no danger of the man’s outrunning them. Frank kept between fifty and a hundred yards behind the other boat.

After a while the stranger, glancing behind him, slackened his speed. Frank slowed up, too. In a minute the man cut his motor altogether. Turning, he waved the boys forward with his arm.

“No, thanks!” Instead of passing, Frank cut his motor, too.

“Wise guys!” the man shouted angrily, menacing with his fist. “Looking for trouble, are you?”

“We just want to talk to the passenger you’re going to pick up,” Frank replied calmly.

“I ain’t goin’ to pick up no passenger. So get on your way!”

“Is that so?” Frank returned. “I think we’ll hang around, anyway, and make sure.”

Furious, the man took the starting cord and whipped his motor into life again. Calmly, Frank did the same.

“How far will he go?” Joe wondered.

The man chugged on steadily without taking notice of the Hardys again until both boats entered the wide expanse of water above Laguna Dam.

In the middle of the reservoir, the surly stranger cut his motor again. When he saw that Frank did the same, he turned on the boys in a rage.

“I’ll yell for the cops!”

“Don’t bother,” Joe broke in. “Here comes a police launch now!”

Frank turned and caught sight of the big police cruiser traveling swiftly across the water in their direction. As the launch bore down on them he heard the boat of the bad-tempered stranger pick up speed. Frank turned quickly. The suspicious motorboat was racing toward the Arizona shore. Even as the police came alongside, they saw the man leap from the boat, dash up the beach, and disappear.

Then Frank and Joe noticed that one of the policemen had been watching the strange man through binoculars. “It’s that stolen motorboat, all right!” he announced to his fellow officer.

“He beat it when he saw us coming,” the second policeman answered.

“Did you say that boat was stolen, Officer?” Frank called out.

“Right. We’ve been looking for it all day.”

“We have reason to believe the thief is probably a member of a gang wanted by the police,” Frank said.

Briefly and clearly Frank and Joe related their discoveries in the Grafton case to the two startled officers. “And we’re sure this motorboat was going to pick up the fake bellman!” Joe finished.

The officer in charge sized up the situation quickly. “This looks like serious business. You boys had better proceed downriver according to your plan. We’ll start a search here for this boat thief and your phony bellman. They couldn’t have gone far. When you get to Yuma, check in at police headquarters for news.”

In another moment the police launch was roaring toward the Arizona shore, while Frank and Joe steered for the boat docks on the California side.

Again Frank questioned the group of fishermen, loungers, and truckers on shore about Grafton and Wetherby and the three known members of the gang, but without success. Then Joe added a description of the surly boat thief, but nobody recognized him, either.

“Well, if they’ve been heic, they sure kept out of sight,” observed Joe, after the boys had launched their boat again below the dam.

“Don’t be too sure,” his brother cautioned. “They may have been here. These people could even have seen them. The trouble is, they don’t remember. Most people don’t fully develop their powers of observation. After all, they’re not detectives!”

“That’s true,” agreed Joe, who had taken over the tiller once more. “Say,” he added suddenly, “have you noticed how dark it’s getting? I can hardly make out the ripples that mark the snags and sand bars.”

The blurred forms of birds dipped and swooped over the water in search of insects. Only when they were silhouetted against the pale, luminous sky could the boys see them clearly. Bats flew about, veering sharply with their awkward, fluttering wings.

“Time to pitch camp,” said Frank. “We were up early, and we’ve had a long day sleuthing.”

Gently, Joe ran the nose of the boat up to a sand bar that made a pleasant beach. Frank leaped out carrying an anchor, and Joe followed with the rucksack containing food and cooking utensils.

The boys kindled a cheerful fire with bits of white, dry driftwood. Soon the pleasant sound of sizzling pork chops and their sharp, appetizing aroma filled the air. Joe, the cook, squatted on his haunches before the fire, turning the chops in the fry pan, toasting and buttering bread, and putting on water for their coffee. Meanwhile, Frank opened a can of applesauce and another of vegetables.

Tired from their long day, the young detectives leaned comfortably against a driftwood log and ate their supper from tin plates. Firelight flickered on their faces and threw shadows over the surrounding rocks.

“Now for dessert,” said Joe happily, skewering a marshmallow to toast over the dying fire.

Later, as Frank spread out their sleeping bags, he remarked, “We’ll be glad to be inside these bags toward morning. It’ll be damp right next to the water.”

Before turning in, Joe Hardy baited a strong line, attached it to a stout stick, and cast it into the river. “Night is a good time for catfish!” he said. “Let’s see what we have in the morning!”

The boys crawled into their bags and slept soundly on the soft sand. Early the next morning they breakfasted upon the big catfish that Joe had hauled in on his night line.

“Tastes pretty good, for such an ugly customer!” Frank marveled.

Two hours later the boys docked their motorboat at Yuma, Arizona. A short walk from the river brought them to police headquarters.

“So you’re the Hardy brothers!” the desk sergeant greeted them. “No news on your boat thief and his accomplice up at Laguna Dam, I’m sorry to say. Looks as if they’ve slipped through our fingers.”

Disappointed, Frank and Joe returned to their boat and headed down the river once more.

“Anyhow, we know they’ve been using the river,” Joe figured. “The only thing to do is stick to our plan. Maybe we’ll run into Grafton or Wetherby or some others involved in this mystery.”

“I hope they let us through!” Joe said as they neared San Luis on the Mexican side.

“Why shouldn’t they?” returned his brother. “We aren’t smugglers!”

A uniformed customs official came to meet them. “Buenos dias,” the aduana inspector said. “You would like to visit our country? Have you some proof of identity with you? Visitors’ permits, perhaps?”

“We sure do.” Frank and Joe handed over their permits.

When the aduanero saw the names on the cards, he frowned, bobbed his head up and down, and said stiffly, “Sorry, but you will not be allowed to come into Mexicol”

CHAPTER XI

Stranded

“BUT why not?” Joe cried in amazement. “You have our visitors’ permits!”

“That will not be enough,” the inspector snapped coldly. “How do I know who you are? Two young men in a large hurry to get over the border. It must be for some secret purpose—perhaps illegal—or you would wait for mañana. You may be using the names Frank and Joe Hardy. It fits perfectly. We have been warned to expect you.”

“There must be some mistake,” Joe insisted.

In a flash Frank caught on. For the second time their enemies were trying to delay the young detectives by deliberately misleading the authorities!

“I can prove to you, Inspector,” he said, “that we’re on the level—that our names really are Frank and Joe Hardy.”

Frank took out his birth certificate and suggested that Joe get his.

“Here’s proof,” Frank said.

Startled, the inspector took the photostats that the boys held out. Doubtful, he frowned, read them, turned them over and over, and peered at their official seals.

“I cannot find anything wrong with these,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Of course not,” Frank said. “We’re not the ones trying to hide anything. We’re hunting for a missing man. We think he may be the victim of a gang of vicious criminals—probably the same ones who warned you about us. Who were they?”

The inspector gazed at the young sleuths for several seconds. Then apparently satisfied that they were honest, he said, “Two big, rough-looking fellows. Talked pretty tough. They told me they were private detectives. Showed me their credentials, too. Do you know them?”

“Ringer and Caesar!” Joe exclaimed to his brother. He turned back to the inspector. “Those men probably are members of the gang we’re trying to find. They may have buddies in your country. If you don’t believe our story, call the police at Yuma. They’ll back us up.”

“I will,” the man agreed. “The chief of police there is a friend of mine.”

He placed the call and a few moments later said, “Carl? ... This is your friend Sanchos. Something funny is happening here....” Looking at Frank and Joe, he described them and gave their story.

Even from where they stood, the boys could hear the crackling voice on the other end of the wire. When the chief stopped talking, the inspector turned to them with a relieved look on his face.

“He says you are okay,” Sanchos told them. “The chief asked me to tell you the bellman has not been caught. Who is this bellman?”

Frank told him what little he knew.

“So sorry for all this trouble,” the inspector said. “Please to continue your journey.”

Frank and Joe grinned. “No hard feelings. But what about those two men? Which way were they crossing the border?” Joe asked.

“They were going to the United States.”

“Hm.” Frank considered, then said, “We’d better go on into Mexico, Joe.” His brother nodded, knowing that Frank meant they should continue their hunt for Grafton.

Under the fierce afternoon sun, the boys sent their boat on into the state of Sonora.

“I have a hunch,” said Joe, “that we’re getting hotter on the trail of this mystery.”

“One thing is certain—that gang didn’t want us in Mexico,” his brother returned. “There must be something down here they’re trying to hide!”

“Do you suppose it’s Grafton?”

“Could be. But there must be something else, too. I think Grafton is only part of it. Why does this gang want him in their game? And does their racket have something to do with those counterfeit United States government checks?”

“I’m convinced that if we can find Grafton, we’ll find that out, too,” Joe declared.

In this area the river was shallow and difficult to navigate. Frank did the steering while Joe kept a sharp lookout on the river and along the shore. for any suspicious persons.

Suddenly, as they rounded a bend in the twisting river, the motors suddenly quit.

“Oh, no!” Joe moaned. “This can’t happen!”

“Just did, though,” his brother muttered, bending over the engines. “Let’s see. Fuel okay.”

Joe scrambled to the stern to help. The boys tried everything they could think of to start the motors, but the big, new outboards remained silent. Meanwhile, the boat was drifting downstream.

“Too complicated for me,” Joe had to admit.

“Let’s get out of this current, anyway,” Frank advised. Skillfully he steered the powerless craft toward a sandy area on the right bank. They beached the boat and the boys bent industriously over the engines again.

“We have company,” Joe announced after a few minutes.

Jerking his head up, Frank caught sight of a child’s face with sparkling eyes and gleaming white teeth, peeping at him mischievously from behind a clump of bushes along the bank. Then it ducked down, and the boys heard a loud giggle.

Instantly a whole chorus of giggles arose. Another face popped up for a peek, and then another. But when the Hardys looked, all disappeared again.

“Scared of us.” Frank laughed, rummaging in the rucksack. “Here’s something to bring them out.”

Standing in the open so that he could be seen clearly, Frank began to peel the wrapper from a big bar of chocolate. The curious faces started to reappear, flashing shy smiles. Frank offered a piece to one bold, black-haired little fellow, his face bronzed by the sun. When the boy accepted, the others came out of hiding.

“They’re Mexican Indian children,” Frank stated.

He and Joe, using their high school Spanish and pointing, explained their trouble. The little black-haired boy nodded knowingly and signaled for everyone to follow him.

Off in a line they started, the six little children and then the Hardy brothers. Half a mile’s walk brought them to a small adobe farmhouse almost hidden by a field of high, green corn.

Like a swarm of bees, all buzzing excitedly, the children plunged into the corn. A moment later they were back, bringing with them a grave-looking Indian with a hoe in his hand.

As Joe excused himself to look around, Frank explained their trouble as simply as he could. “Our boat will not run. Is there a mechanic somewhere near here?”

The Indian had nodded after the first sentence to show that he understood. In answer to the question, he shook his head and made a sweeping gesture with his arm, as if inviting the boys to look. On one side was rough, somewhat hilly country; on the other, desert, completely wild except for the little farmhouse and the small field near it.

“Nearest mechanic in Riita,” the farmer said.

“Riita—a long walk?”

The Indian nodded. Frank’s hopes fell. But he took the opportunity to describe Grafton and Wetherby as clearly as he could to find out if they had been seen. But the Indian again shook his head. No Americans had stopped at the farmhouse for more than a year.

At that moment a wild whoop split the air. “Yippee! Frank! We’re saved—here—around the house—come look!” Joe Hardy dashed out suddenly from behind the house, beckoned wildly, and dashed back again. “It’s beautiful!” Frank heard him exclaim with admiration.

Closely followed by the Indian, Frank strode quickly around the little farmhouse. Joe Hardy was seated at the wheel of an ancient automobile almost as high as the house itself.

The car had a broad, flat roof, with blue sky showing through the holes in it. The glass of the big square windows had been knocked out long ago. The whole car was rusty except the wooden wheels. But the narrow tires were filled with air!

“I think I have the gearshift figured out, Frank!” Joe called down excitedly. “See if we can rent it!”

“This ... automobile ... does it still run?”

“Sí. Si!” The Indian nodded vigorously and patted the ancient radiator with affection.

“You will rent it to us, so that we may drive to Riita for a mechanic?”

The Indian looked with approval at Joe Hardy, who seemed to be delighted with the old relic, and nodded.

The native drew them a map of the roads they would follow to reach Riita. Then he took off his hat and his faded denim jacket and bent over in front of the radiator. From the front seat, Frank and Joe could see his muscles straining.

“What’s he doing?” asked Frank.

“Cranking. No starters in these crates, you know!”

With a grating, metallic sound the old engine turned over. Joe worked the unfamiliar levers and pedals furiously. Suddenly the whole car seemed to explode in a series of backfires like pistol shots. It stood there banging and vibrating as though threatening to shake into a thousand pieces.

“She runs!” Joe gloated.

The Indian, who had disappeared, now rushed back with a jug in each hand. He was grinning.

“What’s that for?” Frank wanted to know.

Because the car was making too much noise for him to be heard, the man simply tapped the radiator cap significantly. Joe took the jugs and nodded. “In case she boils over!”

Frank handed the man some American money and climbed aboard.

“Adiós!” the boys shouted above the din.

The Indian and his children waved good-by.

Bucking suddenly in low gear, the ancient vehicle clattered onto the rutted track leading from the farm. Soon the boys were bumping along at a good rate of speed.

“On to Riita!” Joe shouted in high spirits.

“You hope!” retorted his brother, hanging on to his seat.

They had gone about three miles when the road suddenly began to climb a hill, ascending in a series of hairpin turns. Halfway up, the engine started to wheeze and sputter. Joe shifted to a lower gear. Gallantly the vehicle ground forward. On the next turn Joe shifted down again. Still the tired motor strained and threatened to stall.

“We haven’t any lower gear!” cried Frank. “We’ll never make it!”

“Oh, yes, we will—I have an idea!”

Maneuvering carefully, Joe managed to turn the car completely around, so that they were heading downhill.

“Where are you going now?” cried his brother.

“Riita!”

Joe threw the car into reverse gear, and the old automobile began to grind steadily up the hill backward! “According to the old-timers, reverse is the best gear in these old crates!” he shouted to his brother above the noise.

When they reached the top of the ridge, Joe turned the car around again, and they started their descent.

“Oh—oh, I should have used a lower gear,” Joe said worriedly as the old jalopy picked up speed.

“Brake her a little,” Frank advised.

“What do you think I’m doing? The brake pedal is on the floor now and the emergency won’t work!”

Completely without brakes, the old car plunged madly down the mountain road, careening wildly around the turns and going faster and faster every second.

CHAPTER XII

The Escaping Stranger

“HANG on!” Joe shouted as he hugged the hill-side. “If we meet another car on the turns, we’re done for!” Frantically he squeezed the rubber bulb of the horn, and as the cumbersome vehicle plunged wildly downhill, the old-fashioned horn blared out:

“Ska-goog—ah! Ska-goog—ah! Ska-goog—ah!”

Joe took the turns like a race driver, crowding to the inside as he went into them. He knew that any sudden twist of the wheel could cause the high automobile to turn over. Luckily there were no hairpin turns on this side of the ridge.

At last they were down off the hill, shooting forward over the level ground.

“Boy!” Joe exclaimed. “I wish this bus had a speedometer. We’re practically flying!”

“Never mind,” his brother answered in relief. “After that drive, you’re qualified for the 500-mile race at Indianapolis!”

“Well, we’d better come to a gas station soon,” Joe called back over the noise of the engine.

“Yes, to get these brakes looked after.”

“Brakes. Who needs brakes? What we need now is gasoline.” With one finger Joe indicated the car’s fuel gauge.

“Empty!” Frank exclaimed.

Anxiously the boys scanned the road ahead of them. Though they could see for miles, there was no sign of a house—let alone a gas station—in any direction.

“Wait a minute,” Joe noted suddenly. “What’s that crossing the desert in front of us? Looks like a line of telegraph poles.”

The poles stuck up at regular intervals among the big cactus and other desert growth.

“If they’re telegraph poles, there’s probably a railroad alongside them,” Frank reasoned.

At that moment the car’s engine began to cough and sputter. The whole vehicle bucked as the motor stopped, started again, then quit entirely.

“There goes the last drop.” Throwing the gearshift into neutral, Joe announced, “We’ll coast just as far as we can.”

When the ancient wheels finally rolled to a stop, the car was barely a hundred yards from the tracks. With the last bit of momentum, Joe had pulled his vehicle to the side of the road.

“Stuck in the middle of nowhere,” Joe complained as the boys piled out. “Stranded again. First the boat and now this car.”

“Cheer up!” Frank said encouragingly. “This railroad goes someplace where there’s a mechanic. There’s bound to be a train or a station. Let’s start walking.”

“Which way? Toward the good old U.S.A.?”

“No. Riita.”

Quickly Frank checked his watch and then noted the position of the sun. “It’s just six o’clock now. At this time of year the sun would be slightly north of west. I’d say this way—south-east.”

Walking on the crossties and crushed stone, the brothers set out at a good steady pace.

“Boy, I sure wish a train would stop for us,” Joe remarked wearily.

After a walk of about an hour, Frank’s keen eyes picked out a small building beside the tracks. “Now we’re coming to something,” he said, encouraged.

“Yes,” Joe agreed, when they were closer. “Looks like a little station. And say! There’s a truck, and some fellows loading things. If we hurry, maybe we can catch a ride to some town and find a mechanic to fix our boat.”

“Sh!” Frank commanded. “Are they yelling to us, or what?”

As the boys stood still, shouts and loud, angry words in Spanish reached them.

“They’re stealing the freight!” the agent shouted

“If those aren’t shouts for help, I don’t know my Spanish!” exclaimed Frank. “Let’s move!”

Breaking into a fast run, the boys swiftly covered the distance to the little adobe station.

The first thing they saw was a man trussed up and rolling on the ground. He was shouting as loud as he could:

“Help! Thieves! They’re stealing the freight!”

At that moment two men emerged from the station door, carrying a heavy box. Grunting, they moved with their load toward the waiting truck.

“Now!” Frank shouted, breaking into a sprint. “While their hands are full!”

Frank’s well-aimed punch knocked one to the ground, stunning him. Joe had leaped on the other man. As all four went down together, the heavy box fell on the leg of Joe’s man, causing him to cry out in pain. Seizing the advantage, Joe gripped his sturdy opponent around the middle with his legs and began to pommel him. But the strongly built man twisted away. Grabbing Joe by the shoulders, he flung the boy off, jumped up, and ran for the truck.

Meanwhile, Frank had plowed again into his adversary. While the man lay on the ground, winded, Frank dashed over to the freight agent.

Now, as the truck’s engine roared into life, the thief suddenly leaped up and made a break for the vehicle. Joe was too late to stop him. In a moment the truck was speeding across the desert away from the station.

“How is the agent?” Joe asked, returning to his brother.

“Very well, thanks to you,” the man replied in excellent English. “As soon as I have rubbed some life into my wrists, which are very sore from the rope, I will shake your hand in gratitude.”

Seeing the surprised expressions on the faces of the Hardy brothers, he explained, “My name is Leon Armijo. I went to school in the United States while my father was working there.”

“Who were those men, Leon?” Frank asked.

“Freight thieves. Men like that often try to rob lonely stations. They took me by surprise. Except for you two, they would have everything. As it is, they got nothing. Where did you come from, so luckily for me?”

“From a car that broke down.” Joe laughed in answer. “That is, if you can call it a car.”

“We were on our way to Riita,” Frank explained. “It’s urgent that we get a mechanic as quickly as possible to fix a boat we have on the river.”

“Nothing is easier.” Leon Armijo said. “I will have the next train stop for you. But that is too little return for your help. Where is your car? I shall have it fixed. When you return here, it will be waiting for you!”

Frank Hardy grew thoughtful for a moment.

“Good. The trouble is, we may not come back this way for some time. We’re looking for a mechanic to repair our boat, and it may be easier to get back to the river another way. But, you see, we rented the car from a farmer and he may need it.”

“Do not worry,” said their new friend. “I myself will return the car.”

“In that case we accept your offer with thanks.” Frank told the agent where the Indian lived.

“It’s nothing,” Armijo went on. “The next train is a freight north to Mexicali. But the one after that is a coach bound south to Riita.”

While they waited for the train, the grateful agent shared his supper with the two hungry boys. Then all three went outside. The sun was just setting far across the desert.

“This is just a shot in the dark, Leon,” Joe said, “but have you seen any Americans around here—any Americans at all—for the past few months?”

For a moment the Mexican was silent as he searched his memory. “I do not know whether this will help you,” he said doubtfully, “but I will tell you a little story. This is a very lonely station. Very few Americans come here. But several weeks ago, about this time of night, a strange man arrived on foot. A freight train was stopped here. I was unloading packages when I noticed this man sneaking around the cars.”

“A tramp looking for a free ride,” Joe suggested.

“So I thought,” Leon agreed, “and I went over to chase him away. He was too tired to run from me. When I reached him, he said he was from the United States. He pleaded with me to let him climb into one of the empty freight cars. Somebody was pursuing him, he said.”

“Was he a fugitive from the police?”

The agent shrugged his shoulders. “That was what I did not know. He had walked a long way across the desert. I felt sorry for him. Just then I saw the lights of a car approaching the station very fast on the desert road. This man thought it must be his pursuers. Well, the train was about to leave. I had to decide quickly. I helped him into an empty boxcar.

“Soon afterward—when the train had gone—the car arrived. Two men, I think from your country, hurried into the station seeking the tramp. They said he was a criminal. Somehow, I did not believe them, and pretended I knew nothing and did not understand. They went away.”

“Why didn’t you believe them?” Frank questioned.

“Well, because this man—this tramp—he did not seem like a criminal. He was an educated man. He spoke very well. Although he was frightened and in trouble, he complimented me for my English. I trusted him.”

“How about the other two?” Joe asked.

The Mexican frowned. “When I lived in the United States I saw that kind of man sometimes. Big, rough men who speak badly. Bullies. Men who have no respect for other people, or for law and order, either.”

Excitedly, Joe burst out, “Frank! That tramp may have been Grafton. What a break!”

“I think so, too,” his brother agreed. “We know that Grafton was well educated, pleasant, and people liked him. It all ties in. And the other two sound like some of the toughs we tangled with in Los Angeles.”

“Listen, Leon,” Joe persisted. “Was this tramp tall or short? Was he frail or well built?”

“A tall man,” replied the agent promptly. “Thin, wiry. He had walked a long way and was very tired, but not exhausted.”

“That checks.” Frank nodded.

“One thing more, Leon,” Joe pursued. “Which way was that freight train heading?”

“North—toward the border.”

“Hmm,” Frank put in thoughtfully. “In that case, why hasn’t Grafton returned home by now?”

“Maybe he didn’t make it,” Joe suggested. “That gang might have caught him again. Maybe he was afraid they were watching his home. Or maybe he stayed in Mexico to try and rescue Wetherby!”

“That’s an idea,” his brother agreed. “I’d forgotten about Wetherby. How come he didn’t escape with Grafton?”

At that moment Frank, Joe, and Leon Armijo heard the whistle of an approaching train. “Here is the freight to Mexicali,” the agent announced.

“Mexicali—and then the border!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s the train for us. If Grafton went north by freight, we will, too!”

“But what about your boat?” Leon Armijo asked.

“It will have to wait,” Joe replied. “A good thing for us it broke down!”

Hastily, Leon gave them directions. “I will flag the train. When it has stopped, you two sneak down the track and climb into a car.”

“Right—and thanks for everything, Leon!”

The three shook hands. Then the agent went out with his flag, and the Hardys slipped off in the dark to make a circle back to the track.

Soon the train rumbled in and stopped. Armijo carried some packages out and handed them to a man in a car just behind the engine. The train started again, with a long chain of jolts all the way to the caboose as each car got moving.

Although the engineer did not know it, when he left the lonely desert station he was carrying two new passengers in one of his boxcars.

CHAPTER XIII

Spanish Hardys

CROSS-LEGGED, the brothers sat before the huge open doorway of the boxcar and looked out. Under the pale, white light of the moon, the desert passed steadily before their eyes with its rocks and mesas, its scrubby plant life, an occasional wild animal, and the isolated adobe houses which showed no lights at this late hour.

“What do we do next?” Joe asked.

“Stick with the train as far as we can,” Frank proposed. “That’s probably what Grafton did. Let’s see what happens.”

“In the meantime, I’m going to sleep,” Joe announced, curling up. “I don’t care how bumpy this car is!”

“Good idea,” Frank seconded in a sleepy voice.

Tired from the hair-raising automobile ride, the long walk, and then the violent fight, the two boys fell into a deep sleep.

Crash! Bang! Crash!

Opening their eyes with a start, Frank and Joe found the bright light of morning flooding the boxcar. Next they discovered two strange men banging the side of the car with heavy sticks.

“Wake up, tourists!” one ordered in a cheerful voice. “You will not go to the United States today. A taxi awaits you—a special taxi.”

“The Mexican police,” Frank muttered, blinking, as he recognized the uniforms.

“Yes, my friend,” went on the good-humored voice. “The border police. Last stop in Mexico. All free riders get off here.”

“Are we in Mexicali, then?” Frank inquired.

“Yes—in Mexicali. Now, come along. The other tourists are waiting.”

Frank and Joe followed the officer past the motionless boxcars toward the front of the train. There a number of Mexicans, most of them dressed in the faded denim suits of farm laborers, were clambering into the back of a truck.

“Who are all those guys?” Joe asked sleepily.

“Free riders—like us,” his brother answered. “Trying to get over the border illegally.”

By now the boys had reached the truck. The occupants extended friendly hands to help them aboard.

“Where are they taking us?” Joe inquired.

“Jail, probably.”

“Jail!” Joe echoed. “They can’t put us in jail!”

Suddenly the cheerful guard, who had been boosting Joe from behind, stopped and looked into their faces attentively, then walked to the side of the road.

“What’s he up to?” Joe wondered.

“Search me—reporting to his chief, I guess.”

From the truck they could see the man talking to the officer who seemed to be in charge. Then in another minute they were rattling through the streets of Mexicali.

At the police station the boys leaped to the pavement. Immediately the guard, who had preceded the truck in a jeep, pulled them to one side, while the other prisoners filed into the station.

“Get on your way—fast!” he whispered. “Jump into the cab of the truck.”

The vehicle’s engine was still running, and no sooner had Frank and Joe climbed in and slammed the door than the driver headed out of town.

“What’s up?” asked Frank, bewildered.

“The police are looking for some smugglers,” the driver answered. “Your name is Hardy? The guard was instructed to release you and send you away. I heard the order. I don’t know what it’s all about.”

“That’s funny—” Joe began. But suddenly the young detectives looked at each other. “Hardy—it must be Dad!” Frank exclaimed.

“Do you mean Dad got us out of that scrape? Then he must be around here somewhere. He may be working on this Grafton mystery himself!”

Thoughtfully Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. If he were, why would he want us out of the way? His other case may have brought him to Mexico.”

“And we landed right in the middle of it!” finished Joe. “So what now?”

“Keep on looking for Grafton,” his brother replied. “Dad’s all right, I’m sure.” Turning to the driver, the youth asked, “Where are you taking us?”

“Algodones.”

“Then we’ll be back on the river and can have our boat fixed.”

“You are detectives—working with the police?” the man asked.

“We’re searching for an American who disappeared in Mexico,” Frank answered.

“Go to the hotel on the main street and wait,” the driver advised. “I will have the police repair your boat and bring it to Algodones.”

An hour later the brothers were purchasing some much-needed clothes in a small drygoods store in Algodones. Both bought sturdy dungaree trousers and short dungaree jackets to match. Frank added a bright bandanna, and each boy got a pair of the handsome high-heeled, hand-tooled, Mexican leather boots.

Later, as they were about to register at the town’s main hotel, Frank had an idea. He not only spoke in Spanish, but he translated his name, when signing the guest book, as “Francisco Fuerte.”

Quick-witted Joe Hardy signed as “José Fuerte.”

“Good Spanish names.” The clerk smiled his approval.

“Yes.” Frank laughed. “May I look at your guest book, please? I wonder if two of our friends passed this way?”

“Were your friends fishermen?” the clerk asked.

“Well—not exactly,” Joe replied. “They were making the trip downriver by boat. They’re older than we are—men about forty years of age. Both are thin, but one is taller than the other and more athletic looking. Maybe he stopped here on his way back. Grafton is his name.”

The attentive clerk shook his head. Meanwhile, Frank had checked the book without results and now stood plunged in thought.

“Our friends may have stopped some place along the way,” he suggested to the clerk. “One of them is a lover of Shetland ponies. He could never pass a Shetland pony ranch, if he found one, without stopping there.”

“Then perhaps he never came this far,” the smiling clerk remarked. “There’s a pony ranch just over the border—between Yuma, Arizona, and Andrade, California. The Miller Ranch.”

“Thanks.” Frank laughed. “Maybe we’ll have to pry him loose from there!”

Alone in their room, Joe complimented his brother. “Nice work. That ranch may be a real lead. And if anybody snoops in that guest book, he won’t find the name Hardy—in English, at least.”

After a hearty supper, the boys decided to telephone Chet. While Joe kept watch for possible eavesdroppers, Frank called Blythe from the restaurant’s telephone booth.

“Thought I should be hearing from you fellows,” boomed the hefty boy’s cheerful voice. “What’s up?”

“We’re on Grafton’s trail,” Frank reported.

“Say, that’s great! What can I do?”

“Just tell me one thing—have you seen Dad, or heard from him?”

“No. Everything’s quiet here. But say,” Chet went on enthusiastically, “you should see the nighttime pictures of the desert I’m getting!”

“Don’t tell me you go out on the desert by yourself at night!” Frank teased.

“I have a swell new friend who goes with me,” Chet admitted. “A private airplane pilot named Jim Weston. He’s interested in infrared photography too.”

“Well, try to be at the motel at this time every night,” Frank urged. “We’ll call you if we need anything.”

“Roger!” their friend agreed. “Hope you find Grafton!”

All the following morning Frank and Joe drifted in and out of stores, gas stations, and restaurants, talking casually to people who might have seen Grafton or Wetherby. The boys had no luck and went to sit in the hotel lobby. Just after noon the truck driver who had brought them from Mexicali walked in.

“Your boat is at the dock,” he greeted the Hardys. “The repairs have been made. It runs perfectly.”

“Hot diggety!” Joe exclaimed. “What are we waiting for?”

Francisco and José Fuerte checked out of the hotel. Sporting their blue-dungaree suits and handsome new boots, the boys followed the driver to the water front. The familiar red-and-white boat was waiting for them, with their rucksack and other equipment on the front seat.

“It was a very small matter,” replied the policeman at the wheel, when Frank tried to pay him for the repair. “Do not trouble yourself. We are always glad to help our neighbors to the north.”

“We sure are grateful.” Joe smiled.

In a few minutes the young detectives were out on the river once more, heading upstream under the warm afternoon sun. Soon they had crossed the border again—this time without any trouble.

When the docks of Yuma, Arizona, became visible on the right, Frank headed across the river toward the California shore and they docked their boat at a public wharf.

“Now for that pony ranch,” he proposed. “Shouldn’t be more than a mile or two from the river.”

Joe hoisted the rucksack to his shoulders and followed his brother from the dock. Together they set off along a faint trail over the desert.

“This leads straight to the ranch, according to the boat-dock owner,” Frank noted.

After trudging for some distance, the low buildings and the corrals of the ranch came into view.

“There she is,” Frank called.

“Just in time, too,” Joe replied, as he swung down his pack. “These new boots are killing me. Hold up a minute while I slip into my moccasins again.”

Quickly Joe pulled out the comfortable shoes and dropped them before him on the ground. Then, hopping on one foot, he pulled off the handsome but tight-fitting right boot and slipped his stockinged foot into one of the moccasins.

“Ouch!” he shouted, quickly pulling his foot out again. Holding it in both hands, he hopped around on the other leg. “Ow—boy!”

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked, laughing.

“It isn’t funny. Feels as if I’d stepped on a fishhook, only worse!”

Wondering, Frank peered into the small, lightweight shoe. Suddenly he began to stamp on the moccasin viciously with the heavy heel of his own boot.

“Fishhook, nothing!” he cried out. “There was a little yellow scorpion in your shoe. He must have stung you!”

Both boys looked carefully at the small, straw-colored insect that Frank shook out of the moccasin. It had a long curving tail with a deadly barb at the end.

“That’s what he got you with,” said Frank. “They hide in dark places during the day. He must have crawled into the rucksack down in Mexico. Sit still now. There isn’t a moment to lose!”

Carefully Frank examined the sting. Working rapidly, he bound his new bandanna around Joe’s leg. Then, using a pencil, he completed the tourniquet and tightened the pressure on his brother’s leg.

“That will slow the flow of blood, so the poison can’t circulate,” he observed. “Now let’s get to that ranch!”

Fortunately, two cowboys saw the Hardys, one leaning heavily on the other, approaching the ranch. They sped out in a jeep and introduced themselves as Slim Martin and Curly Jones. After hearing what had happened, they took the Hardys quickly to the ranch house, where Joe was put to bed by the owner, Mr. Miller.

“Get me ice cubes—quick!” Mr. Miller ordered. He was a short, capable-looking man, whose face was bronzed by the weather.

Bags of ice were applied to the wound, and the owner gave Joe a shot of an antidote to counteract the scorpion’s poison.

“Lucky we were able to treat you so quickly,” the rancher remarked after it seemed that the danger was past. “That sting could have killed you, or at least made you mighty sick. Where were you fellows heading?”

“Here,” Frank replied. Briefly, he described Grafton. The owner and his foreman Hank, who had come in, looked at each other.

“Why—that sounds just like Bill Gray,” the foreman remarked.

“Bill Gray—Willard Grafton ... hmm ... might have changed his name just a little,” the owner agreed.

“You mean he’s here?” Frank and Joe cried together excitedly.

“Whoa!” said the owner, chuckling. “This man, Bill Gray, worked for me a couple of weeks. Sounds like the person you’re after. Too bad, but I don’t know where he went.”

CHAPTER XIV

Exchanging Names

ALTHOUGH excited by the news that Grafton might have worked at the ranch, Frank Hardy was determined to make sure.

“This Bill Gray—can you describe him, Mr. Miller?”

“Guess so,” the ranch owner responded. “Let’s see.... He was tall, all right, kind of thin but pretty well put together. Hadn’t shaved for days and looked like a drifter. I wasn’t going to give him a job, but I was glad to take him on after I saw the way he worked with the ponies.”

“How was that?” Frank asked.

“Easy,” Mr. Miller recalled with approval. “Gentle. Knew just how to handle ’em. I don’t mean he just knew horses, either. Horses are a little different. This man knew his Shetland ponies.”

“That’s Grafton!” Joe sang out from the bed.

“And was he alone?” Frank went on, somewhat puzzled. “Nobody with him? Nobody came to see him?”

Mr. Miller shook his head. “A nicer, more likable man you couldn’t find. Quiet, though—didn’t talk about himself. I was sorry to lose him. Wouldn’t say where he was going, either. But”—the rancher’s chair scraped as he got up suddenly —“I have something that may be a clue. Gray left it in the bunkhouse. I’ll get it.” Mr. Miller and the ranch foreman left the room.

Instantly Joe said, “Frank, maybe Grafton broke off with Wetherby for some reason and is still heading north!”

Frank nodded. “Grafton won’t talk about himself, and uses an assumed name. He could have become involved in a shady deal and is trying to get away from somebody. But who?”

“Maybe,” Joe suggested, “he has enemies who haven’t been able to find him, but they knew we’re trying to, so they’re following us, hoping we’ll lead them to Grafton!”

“Well, if that’s true,” Frank said thoughtfully, “Grafton hasn’t been out of their hands very long. Otherwise, those hoodlums wouldn’t have attacked us in Los Angeles. They would’ve followed us.”

“All right. Let’s turn the tables,” Joe proposed eagerly. “We’ll set a trap.”

At that moment Mr. Miller returned, waving an ordinary postal card. “Here we are,” he called. “Doesn’t make much sense, though.”

Carefully Frank examined the smudged writing on both sides of the card. Then he handed it to his brother.

“Hmm—postmarked Denver, Colorado,” noted the young sleuth. “Addressed to Bill Gray.”

“Yes, but read the salutation,” Frank urged in excitement.

“Let’s see.” Joe squinted at the blurred scrawl. “It says ‘Dear Willard.’ This clinches it, Frank!”

“It’s the man you’re after, eh?” asked Mr. Miller. “What do you make of the rest of it, then?”

The entire message consisted of three letters, scrawled across the card in a heavy dark pencil and blurred by handling.

“Y—E—S,” Joe spelled, frowning. “Yes.”

“Yes—what?” the curious rancher wondered.

“I think I can answer that question, Mr. Miller,” said Frank suddenly. “But first, tell me, did you like Gray, or Grafton? Would you be willing to help him?”

“Best man with a Shetland pony I ever saw,” the rancher repeated emphatically.

Frank smiled. “Grafton’s not a cowboy, Mr. Miller. He’s an industrialist from Los Angeles. Not long ago he disappeared. We think he may have been kidnaped but escaped.

“For some reason, he hasn’t gone to the police but is trying to hide from his kidnapers. I believe we can find him, but the abductors are trailing us. Will you help us trap them?”

“I sure will!” Miller answered.

“Good. My brother has a plan.”

“Here it is, then,” Joe began as the others gave him their attention. “Slim and Curly have given me an idea. They’re young and they look a lot like Frank and me. Suppose we lend them our new outfits, and then after supper let them go to Yuma in our boat.”

“Any spies will think they’re us,” put in Frank. “Go on, Joe.”

“Meanwhile, we’ll go to Yuma by car dressed like a couple of cowboys from the ranch. If we time it right, your men should arrive about dusk —too dark for anyone to tell who they really are. We’ll be hiding nearby. Then, if we see anybody following the cowboys, we’ll nab them!”

“First rate,” Frank approved. “What do you say, Mr. Miller?”

The rancher was a step ahead of them. Already he had gone to the door and called to his wife, “Edith, ask Curly and Slim to step in here!”

After thanking the two cowboys who had rushed him to the ranch, Joe explained his plan.

“I’m game,” said Curly Jones, who resembled Frank. “Bill Gray was a good hombre.”

“Count me in,” Slim Martin added. “Sounds like fun.”

When the two cowboys had gone out again, Mr. Miller turned to Frank. “We’ll give you an early supper, and then you can go in to Yuma and get set.” He grinned. “But before you receive one mouthful to eat, you must explain to me what that postal card means!”

“Fair enough,” Frank answered, laughing. “Put yourself in Grafton’s place, Mr. Miller. He escapes out of Mexico with no money, nobody to go to for help, and perhaps kidnapers on his trail. He knows a lot about Shetland ponies. So he takes this job with you, to earn some money and to rest up. But then he starts worrying again—”

“Why?” the rancher questioned.

“Too close to Mexico,” Joe replied. “Too easy for the gang to find him.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “He wants to get farther away. So he writes to a friend in Denver, telling some of his troubles and asking for a job.”

“And he tells the friend to address him as Bill Gray and just to answer yes or no!” Joe joined in excitedly.

“Right again.” Frank smiled. “But the friend was careless. He wrote ‘Dear Willard’ on the card. ”

Mr. Miller gave a whistle. “I think you’ve figured it out! So he left for a job in Denver. But what kind of job?”

“Mr. Miller, you said he was wonderful with ponies—really expert,” the young detective reminded him. “We’ll find him on a Shetland pony ranch not far from Denver, I’ll venture to guess!”

“I’ll bet you will, at that!” the rancher exclaimed with admiration. “Now, why couldn’t I figure that out myself?”

Shortly before sundown that night, two youthful figures, dressed in the Hardys’ new dungaree outfits, walked from the Miller pony ranch toward the Colorado River. Slim carried a rucksack on his back. When they reached the boat dock, the two walked directly to a red-and-white motorboat powered by twin outboard engines.

“Everything as we left her, Joe?” Curly Jones asked.

“Right, Frank!” his companion answered, throwing the rucksack aboard.

“So Grafton’s in a Yuma hotel,” said the other. His voice carried easily to the fisherman and men loafing along shore. “Well, let’s go!”

As the craft sped across the river toward the boat docks at Yuma, the young man steering her asked the other, “Well, how’d we do, Slim?”

“Pretty good, Curly. We make a good Frank and Joe Hardy!”

Two hours earlier a jeep had left the Miller ranch, throwing up a cloud of dust as it sped along the road to Yuma. At the wheel, wearing the big Stetson hat and checkered flannel shirt of the cowboy Curly, was Frank Hardy. Next to him was Joe Hardy, although from a distance he looked like the ranch hand Slim.

When the brothers reached Yuma police headquarters, they were not recognized by the desk sergeant who had been cordial to them a few days earlier. “What can I do for you fellows?” he asked gruffly.

“Let us see the chief. Tell him Frank and Joe Hardy are here.”

Startled, the sergeant looked closer. “Well, I’ll be ... I didn’t know you boys. What’s up?”

“We’re going to spring a little trap, Sergeant,” Frank answered.

A few minutes later Joe explained their plan to the chief, who nodded in approval. “Sounds good. I’ll send Wes Benton with you. He’s on our plain-clothes squad.”

Wes Benton turned out to be a tall, sturdily built man who had a great respect for Fenton Hardy as a detective. After briefing the man on the case, Frank and Joe set out with him for the water front.

The three took up a position on a bank overlooking the Yuma boat docks. Numerous small craft kept coming and going, churning up the water constantly. On the dock itself were a great many boat enthusiasts who, Benton said, went boating in the evening.

Among them, a Mexican instantly caught Frank’s attention. He was the only person on the dock who did not appear to be interested in some boat or other. The man stood fairly close to the three sleuths, and was peering across the water toward the other shore.

Just then Joe announced in a low whisper, “Here they come now.”

The Hardys’ red-and-white boat chugged into sight and headed straight for the dock. As the cowboys moored, Frank saw the mysterious Mexican stare at them intently. When Curly and Slim climbed the bank toward the street, the man followed.

Without a word, Frank pointed out the suspect to his companions. Then the trio also walked up the street, keeping as far behind the man as he kept behind the two ranch hands.

As Curly and Slim entered a hotel, the Mexican ducked into an alley. From there he edged up to the hotel window and peered inside.

“That’s our man, all right,” said Wes Benton gruffly as he closed in.

The Mexican was so intent on his spying that he did not notice the three come up behind him. Wes Benton seized his arm in a strong grip.

“You’re under arrest!”

Whirling, the man tried to run, but he found himself face to face with Frank Hardy. Joe blocked the other side, and at the same time the two cowboys burst from the hotel door. Hopelessly outnumbered, the Mexican went along quietly to the police station.

“His name is Rivera Acuna,” declared the chief, examining the man’s papers. “No record of legal entry into the country. Book him as an alien, since he won’t talk, and put him in a cell.”

An officer led the prisoner away. Delighted with the capture, Curly and Slim shook hands with the Hardys, who thanked them for the impersonation.

“We’ll be headin’ back now in the jeep,” said Curly. “The boss will want to hear what happened.”

“Too bad you’ll miss the rest,” Frank replied.

“How’s that?”

“I have a strong suspicion our prisoner will escape from here in a very short while. What do you say, Chief?”

The officer grinned. “Yes. And if we let him go, he’ll take us right to his friends.”

“To bad we’ll miss it.” Slim and Curly shook their heads regretfully. “But we got to go.”

No sooner had the cowboys driven away than an officer hurried in to report: “He finally discovered the cell wasn’t locked and sneaked out the back way.”

“Let’s go!” said Wes, slapping his holster.

“No shooting when we find his companions,” pleaded Frank. “We want these men to talk.”

Slipping into the alley, the boys saw the Mexican disappear behind the corner of a building. Stealthily but swiftly, they followed. Wes and four officers came some distance behind.

The fugitive hurried through a series of back alleys, made his way to a little shack, and slipped inside. Fearing that the man might warn his friends, Frank and Joe made a rush for the entrance themselves.

“You’re all under arrest!” Frank cried out as they burst into the room.

Three startled Mexicans whirled to face the Hardys.

“Only two kids,” said the man who had escaped, advancing threateningly. “Get them!”

Ducking low, the boys met the rush of the three men head on. The only lamp was smashed instantly. In the pitch-dark room a wild and furious struggle began.

CHAPTER XV

An Important Discovery

SUDDENLY the beam of a powerful spotlight cut through the darkness of the little shack. Police whistles screeched outside. The three Mexicans scrambled to their feet and bolted for the door—straight into the arms of Wes Benton and the other officers!

The prisoners were hustled into two waiting police cars, one of which was carrying the spotlight. At the police station the Mexicans, sullen and bruised from the fight in the shack, would answer no questions.

“We want to go home,” Rivera Acuna repeated over and over in a dull voice.

“Nothing much we can do with them,” admitted the chief, disgusted. “They’re only small fry. I was hoping for bigger game.”

“Still, they won’t be following us any more,” Joe reminded him. “Now Frank and I can go ahead and find Grafton. We’ll go back to Blythe, pick up the plane. and fly to Denver.”

Bright and early the next morning the young detectives started back up the Colorado River. After portaging around the two huge dams, they ran with the throttle of their powerful engines wide open. Even so, the hundred miles of difficult, twisting river took them all dav to cover.

Around suppertime they reached Blythe. At the dock was the boat owner, whittling a stick unconcernedly.

“Reckon it was a good trip?” he asked. Carefully he folded the money Frank gave him and stuffed it into the watch pocket of his jeans.

“Reckon it was,” Frank answered with a straight face.

As the Hardys set off for the motel Joe grinned. “Reckon he was whittlin’ all the time we were gone.”

“Some people like a quiet life.” His brother laughed. “Wait’ll we tell Chet about our adventures!”

Chet Morton was not to be found, however. Nor did he show up at the motel. Finally the Hardys checked with the owner. Chet had phoned in a message that he was going on an overnight trip with Jim Weston. In the morning the brothers were forced to take off for Denver without him.

Flying almost directly northeast, Frank and Joe had soon passed over the state of Arizona. In the distance the high, rugged ridges of the Rockies thrust up against the blue sky.

“We’ll need altitude here,” Frank declared.

Below them, they could see the Rio Grande where it was still a swift mountain river. They crossed the Continental Divide near Pike’s Peak and then landed at Denver.

At the airport tourist information desk, the young sleuths obtained the name of the Redlands Shetland Pony Ranch nearby. “You can rent a car right here at the airport,” they were told.

Minutes later, the boys were driving through the mountainous country outside Denver.

“I can’t believe we’re so close to finding Grafton,” Joe said nervously. “Suppose this hunch doesn’t pay off?”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Soon the car entered the yard of the Redlands Ranch and stopped beside the house. As Joe got out, he caught a glimpse of a tall, slim, broad-shouldered cowboy entering a long, low building that looked like a stable.

“Guess we’d better ask here about Bill Gray,” Frank said, heading for the house.

“Never mind. Follow me!” Joe called. Astonished, Frank set off at a run behind his brother.

Joe entered the stable and paused for an instant to look around him. He saw a row of square stalls, all of them empty but one. In that one the tall ranch hand had just begun to currycomb a frisky-looking black-and-white pony.

“Sooo, girl,” crooned the man’s gentle voice.

As Frank and Joe came over, the pony’s big eyes rolled nervously, and she shifted about in the stall. Patiently the cowboy soothed her once more.

“Mr. Grafton?” Joe inquired tentatively.

The man’s head came up with a furious jerk. “What’s that?” he demanded, looking from Joe to Frank with startled, frightened eyes. “My name’s Gray—Bill Gray!”

“Don’t be afraid of us, Mr. Grafton,” Frank said kindly. “Your uncle, Clement Brownlee, asked us to find you. He’s been trying to locate you for months.”

“I—I mustn’t be found,” the man retorted, still alarmed. “It’s too dangerous for my family. Furthermore, I don’t know who you are. How can I believe your story?”

“I’m Frank Hardy and this is my brother Joe. We’re sons of Fenton Hardy, the private detective. We’re your friends, Mr. Grafton!”

“Friends?” The harried-looking man gave a sigh. “I don’t have any friends.”

“What’s become of your friend Clifford Wetherby?”

“My friend Wetherby,” repeated Willard Grafton with bitter sarcasm. “The one man I still had some respect for, and he played me for an easy mark. He sold me on going to Mexico. Said we’d have some adventures.”

“Wait a minute,” Joe interrupted. “You mean you and Wetherby went to Mexico together?”

Grafton nodded. “Yes. By boat and at night. We managed to sneak over the border without reporting to the authorities and joined his gang.”

Joe whistled. “So Wetherby is part of the gang!”

“Yes,” Grafton continued. “He set a guard over me, and threatened to harm my family if I escaped and reported him. I got away, but then I lost my courage because of the warning about my family. So I just disappeared. I hopped a freight and came across the border. I sent a letter to Wetherby under the name he used in Mexico, saying I wouldn’t squeal. But they’re after me just the same. They think I know too much.”

“Mr. Grafton, how did Wetherby talk you into the trip?” Joe asked.

“You wouldn’t understand.” Grafton shook his head hopelessly. “I’d just been double-crossed in business and felt very disillusioned. I wanted to get away for a while. Then Wetherby asked me to take a trip in my plane. We’d hardly started when Wetherby said he had a surprise and ordered me to land in the desert. Then he took me to a waiting boat. I thought Wetherby was a brave adventurer. It turns out he’s nothing but a crook!”

“Then it’s our job to bring him to justice,” Frank pointed out. “Only you can help us do that. What’s Wetherby’s game? What racket is he in?”

The frightened man was determined to reveal nothing more. “No.” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

“Look here, Mr. Grafton,” Frank began in a firmer tone. “You can’t hide away for the rest of your life. Too many people care about you. Everybody we’ve met on our search has had a good word to say about you. We visited Mrs. Grafton and your sons, too. I suppose I don’t have to say how they feel about your disappearance.”

At the mention of his family, the unhappy man burst out, “But what can I do? I can’t go home now!”

“Why not?” asked both boys.

“Wetherby would kill me,” Grafton wailed, “and he’d harm my family.”

“Tell your story to the police,” Joe urged.

Again Grafton shook his head hopelessly. “I can’t go to the police because I guess I’m a criminal now myself.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked in amazement.

“Wetherby knows. I—I passed several bad checks for him.”

“Checks? What kind? United States government checks?” Frank caught him up sharply.

“No. Personal ones.”

With Grafton steadfastly refusing to go back to Los Angeles, Frank and Joe were in a quandary. But they elicited a promise from him that he would not run away and would think over their proposition. On the strength of this the brothers drove off to a highway restaurant where they could have supper and think the matter out. From the restaurant Frank put through a call to Chet at Blythe.

“Chet? This is Frank, in Denver, Colorado. I have news!”

“So have I!” cried the stout boy in high excitement. “I thought you’d never call. I’ve found a great new clue. I can’t tell you now—just get here as quick as you can! What are you doing way up at Denver, anyhow?”

“We’ve just found Grafton, that’s all.”

“What? No kidding!”

“Yes, but keep it quiet. We’ll be back as early as we can tomorrow.”

“I’ll keep my news until then,” Chet said, and a moment later Frank concluded the conversation.

After supper the two young detectives drove slowly back to the Shetland pony ranch. Now that the work of the day was over, the ranch hands were enjoying themselves. Some lounged in the yard, while others played cards and told stories in the bunkhouse. Grafton sat cross-legged on his bunk, mending a saddle. He appeared calmer than he had in the afternoon.

“Looks like a nice bunch of men to work with,” Frank commented as Grafton joined them outside.

“Yes,” he agreed. “They’re good fellows. Nobody knows anything about me here. I get along with them all.”

Slowly Frank, Joe, and Grafton strolled away from the buildings toward the fields where the herd of Shetland ponies was pastured.

“I can understand why you don’t want to leave here,” Frank admitted. “It’s a nice place, and you’re safe—both from the law and from Wetherby. But we have a proposition for you, Mr. Grafton.”

“What is it?” Grafton faced them squarely. Already he seemed to have regained some of his confidence.

“Don’t go back to Los Angeles just yet. Help Joe and me and our dad to track down Wetherby and capture him. That will square you with the law and get rid of the threat to your family.”

Grafton hesitated only a moment. Then, gratefully, he shook Frank’s extended hand.

“It’s a deal. Where do we go from here?”

“Back to Blythe.”

Grafton looked troubled. “Wetherby has spies in that area,” he objected. “They’ll know me right away.”

“Leave it to me,” Frank assured the man. “I have an idea of how to take care of that!”

CHAPTER XVI

The Disguised Cowboy

LATER that evening, after the cowboys had retired to the bunkhouse, the kitchen of the Redlands’ ranch home presented a strange scene.

On a chair in the middle of the room sat Willard Grafton. A sheet was draped about his body from the neck down. Above his head Frank Hardy brandished a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other, like a barber working on a customer. With a flourish, Frank cut away a lock of Grafton’s brown hair, and then stepped back to observe the effect.

“Ooops—got an ear that time,” warned Mr. Redland, a boyhood friend of Grafton.

“What do you think you’re doing there, barber?” Joe demanded with pretended severity. The rancher and his wife laughed heartily as Grafton winced.

“I’m adding thirty years to Mr. Grafton’s age,” Frank defended himself. “Who ever saw an old drifting cowboy with such well-cared-for hair? Off it comes!”

Snip! Snip! When Grafton’s hair seemed ragged enough, Frank sprinkled on some powder from a special Hardy make-up kit which Joe had driven back to the plane to fetch. After a good rubbing, Grafton’s rich brown hair had become a dingy gray color. “No shaving for a while now,” the young barber ordered. “Tomorrow, whiskers gray, too!”

Another powder gave a dry, grizzled look to Grafton’s skin. Then Frank added a few age lines with a make-up pencil. “Now, stand up.”

Pulling off the sheet, Willard Grafton obeyed. His outfit consisted of down-at-the-heel boots and tattered clothing that the other ranch hands had discarded.

“That old cowpoke has sure seen better days.” Mr. Redland chuckled.

“Let’s see you limp across the room, Mr. Grafton,” Joe directed.

Obediently the disguised man moved slowly, in a series of awkward, painful jerks, toward the wall.

“No, no—not that way,” Joe objected. “A person who limps doesn’t walk like that. He walks smoothly—and just as fast as we do!”

Demonstrating, the young detective hobbled briskly across the kitchen as though he had had a limp for years.

“Say, that’s right, Joe,” Mr. Redland declared. “I’ve noticed myself—once a man gets used to his limp, he moves around pretty fast.”

After Grafton had practiced walking for a while, the group prepared to break up.

“Now remember,” Joe instructed Grafton, “you’re an old unshaven cowboy with a limp. Early tomorrow you hitch a ride to the airport with one of the hands. Then you stow away on our plane. If anybody chases you out, come back later and sneak on again. We’ll show up about noon.”

Frank, Joe, and the disguised Grafton stayed at the ranch house overnight and set off in the morning.

When the Hardys boarded their plane the next day, they discovered a seedy-looking old codger cowering in the back seat.

“Who’s that?” Frank demanded gruffly.

“A stowaway, sir,” Grafton pleaded, grinning.

“Keep your head down!” Joe warned. “We’re not supposed to know you’re here until it’s too late!”

The plane roared down the runway and ascended into the sky. In all directions its passengers could see the jagged ridges of the Rocky Mountains. Grafton was thankful for the speed of their flight back to Blythe.

“To think it took me three days to hitchhike that distance!” he declared.

“There’s Chet, waiting with a rented car,” called Joe as they taxied up to the hangars.

The door of the plane opened and Joe Hardy jumped down. Frank followed and then held the door open.

“Come on! Get down from there!” he ordered harshly.

Meekly a gaunt, disheveled old cowboy lowered himself to the ground. When the boys strode toward the car he hobbled respectfully behind.

“Who’s he?” Chet demanded, bewildered. When the Hardys did not reply, he added, “Not Grafton!”

“Hush!” Joe hissed in warning, glancing around.

“This old coot stowed away on us, Chet,” Frank announced in a loud, angry voice. “Keep your eye on him while we make a report, will you? I mean to have him arrested!”

Catching on, their chum responded, “Right. Get over here, you!”

Frank and Joe then walked over to Gene Smith’s office, actually to find out about leaving the plane for a few days. When they returned to the car they discovered Chet alone, looking frantically in all directions.

“Where’s Graf ... that cowboy?” asked Joe.

“Gone! Vanished,” wailed Chet miserably. “I swear I just peeked inside the hood for a second, and he disappeared into thin air. And after you guys had such a job finding him. Oh, I could kick myself!”

“Never mind that,” Frank cut him short. “Scatter, quick! Find him! His life may be in danger!”

“I’ll take the parking lot,” Chet volunteered, hustling off.

“Then I’ll search the hangars,” Frank said. “Joe, you check the planes and groups of people on the field itself.”

Quickly Joe peered into the cabins of three light planes standing nearby. Ducking underneath the fuselage of the third, he found a small crowd of men gathered around the loading door of a two-engine cargo plane.

Laughs, jeers, and shouts of encouragement came from the men, who craned their necks to get a better look at something. Slipping through to the front, Joe saw that a wide ramp had been placed in the door of the plane, and that a beautiful coal-black horse, her head tossing from side to side, her eyes rolling, ears flattened back to show her distrust, was resisting all efforts by an airport employee to lead her down the ramp. Cowering against its mother’s flank was a handsome colt of the same color.

“Easy, girl,” one man coaxed.

“Take the colt first!” another shouted.

Suddenly a tall, shabbily dressed old man hobbled forward onto the ramp.

“Look out, Pop! You’ll get hurt!” somebody cried.

But the old man, speaking constantly in a low, soothing voice, continued to approach the nervous mare, with one hand extended, palm up. As the horse nuzzled into the outstretched hand, the noisy crowd quieted with respectful surprise. Taking advantage of the silence, the old cow hand slipped closer, still coaxing, soothing, reassuring the animal while he gently grasped the halter. Then, turning slightly, he started down the ramp, and the horse, stepping gingerly, followed. The little colt clopped obediently after.

“Nice work, old-timer!” Joe Hardy stepped forward and clapped the old man on the back. At the same time he seized the cowboy’s arm and pushed him brusquely away from the horse’s grateful owner.

“Boy, you gave us a fright, Mr. Grafton!” Joe whispered tensely.

Well pleased, Grafton only answered, “Lucky I had some sugar in these pockets.”

“Don’t forget to limp,” Joe warned as the two hurried to the car.

Both Frank and Chet had returned already. To prevent any more misadventures, the youths put Grafton in the car and got started immediately. When Chet was introduced, he told Grafton how pleased he was at his return. Then Chet was apprised of the plan to capture Wetherby and his gang before Grafton made his return known.

“And now, Chet,” Frank inquired, “what’s this big news of yours?”

“Just wait till you hear it!” Chet exclaimed. “Two nights ago I was out after some close-up pictures of desert animals with Jim Weston—my new friend. We got some good shots, but in one of them, without knowing it, we got a man! He was heading somewhere away from the river.”

“Well, that’s a little queer,” Frank commented. “Not earthshaking news, though.”

“You haven’t heard the half of it. This was the same guy I photographed back in Bayport!”

“The bellman?” Frank and Joe chorused. “That is a clue!”

Noticing Grafton’s bewilderment, Frank explained.

“We think he’s a member of Wetherby’s gang, since he has already spied on us and even attacked the three of us.” Frank described their hotel assailants. “Do you know them, Mr. Grafton?”

“Can’t say I do,” the man replied. “My kidnapers were Mexicans.” Then he changed the subject. “Where are we going to stay, boys? I’m not very presentable in this getup.”

“At our motel,” Joe replied, after a moment’s thought. “Frank and I will keep the manager busy while Chet sneaks you in. You pretend just to be helping us with our gear. Even though you’re disguised we don’t want you to be noticed.”

Joe’s proposal worked without a hitch. While the Hardy brothers were in the motel office, Grafton carried their rucksack to the room as though he had been hired to do so.

Bustling about officiously, Chet ordered four steak dinners sent up to the room. “Mr. Grafton would have to eat alone if we went to the restaurant,” he explained.

Although Grafton remained a little reticent, Frank and Joe were glad to see that he appeared to enjoy the boys’ company.

“Now, down to business,” Frank began after the meal. “I can’t wait to get over on the Arizona side and do some investigating around the giant effigy there. Chet’s picture of the bellman is a good lead. And the fact that we found digging near the lone giant’s left hand may mean other digging by the same people in a similar location.”

“Yes,” Joe said, “and those people who were digging may be connected with the gang. We may even pick up the men out there.”

“I suggest,” Frank said, “that we rent a cabin down near Ripley and hire another boat. Then we can cross the river as often as we want to.”

Willard Grafton was the first to approve. “I’m for it. Sounds good, Frank.”

“Okay. We’ll leave in the morning. Any other ideas?”

Chet spoke up. “Suppose you three drive out and hire the cabin. I’ll buy supplies, rent a boat, and come down with my pal Jim Weston. He’s trustworthy, and he’ll be a real help.”

“Good thought,” Frank agreed. “We might rent the cabin in his name, to throw the gang off our trail.”

At noon the next day Frank, Joe, and the disguised Grafton were with a farmer, inspecting a comfortable-looking water-front cabin just across from the Arizona giants. The place had a wide river-front porch from which the rocky bluffs on the other side could be seen clearly. Beautiful golden tamarisk trees grew all around the cabin.

“Nice place,” remarked the farmer, who owned it. “Off by itself, though. That’s the reason some folks won’t rent it.” He handed Frank the key and drove away.

Together, the boys and Grafton clumped onto the porch to unlock the door. The noise of their boots caused a sudden, dry rattle underneath the porch. Then came a rustling sound.

Suddenly the long body of a bright diamond-backed sidewinder twisted and slithered into the sunlight beside the porch!

CHAPTER XVII

The Chemical Fog

“DON’T move!” Frank flattened back against the door and spread both arms to restrain his companions.

But the gesture came a split second too late. Panic-stricken, Grafton had leaped from the porch—straight into the path of the swift-moving snake!

For an instant the man’s long legs were exposed to the danger of a bite, since he had landed with one boot on either side of the writhing, diamond-backed body. But before the reptile could coil to strike, Grafton had dashed to safety. The snake started to slither back to the porch.

“Grab one of these—quick!” Joe had discovered a pile of wooden stakes, each about three feet long, next to the porch. Armed, the boys charged after the retreating reptile. Unable to reach cover, the sidewinder turned and coiled itself menacingly. Warily Frank extended his stick. Bang! The snake, nearly five feet long, crashed into the target with such force that the weapon was knocked from Frank’s hands.

Seizing the opportunity while the snake lay extended on the ground, Joe rushed in and with a well-placed stroke killed the reptile.

“Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “I didn’t know those babies packed such a wallop!”

“That settles him, anyhow,” Joe said. “It’s okay, Mr. Grafton—the snake’s dead.” he called to the scared man, who had watched the fight from fifty yards away.

Reassured, Grafton came back. “Thanks, fellows,” he said.

“You had a mighty close call,” Joe reminded him. “Why did you jump like that?”

“I—I panicked, I guess. You see, I was brought up in dry country like this. When I was a little boy, I nearly died of rattlesnake venom. Ever since, I’ve been terribly afraid of snakes.”

“Well,” Joe suggested, “let’s get out of this sun, anyhow. I’m glad I don’t have a thermometer. I’d hate to know how hot it is in this desert.”

But Willard Grafton refused to move toward the cabin. “No, I couldn’t stay there now,” he declared nervously. “That snake may have a mate.”

“But you can’t just stand out on the desert,” Joe argued. “And we can’t keep you in town—it’s too dangerous. After all, you’re in hiding, you know!”

Not until Frank and Joe had poked and probed thoroughly under all parts of the cabin did Grafton move to enter the building. They found the big single room of the cabin pleasantly cool. Bunk beds, two-tiered, had been built against three walls. Hanging on the fourth were cooking utensils and fishing equipment for their use. The boys decided to wait for Chet and his friend on the porch, where they could watch the river.

“Wish they would hurry up,” Joe remarked impatiently. “I’m getting hungry. Besides, we have work to do to crack the rest of this case.”

At this new mention of the case, Frank shot an inquiring glance at Willard Grafton, who returned a little smile. “All right,” he said. “I’ve been holding out on you boys. I’ll make a clean breast of it, because I’m just beginning to see how hard you’ve worked to help me. But please don’t be disappointed if I can’t tell you much.”

“You must know enough to implicate the gang,” Frank reminded him. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t be so eager to get hold of you again.”

To the brothers’ surprise, Grafton shook his head. “I don’t know as much as they think I do. They never really took me into their full confidence, because I refused to join the gang.”

Although disappointed, Frank suggested that Grafton tell them what he knew. “First, what’s their racket? That’s the big question.”

“I’m not sure. I only have my suspicions. Suppose I start at the beginning. After we crossed the border, Wetherby took me to a lonely hide-out, where he had three Mexicans waiting for us. I didn’t like the men’s looks. All they talked about was making easy money. That’s when I became suspicious and said so. But Wetherby wouldn’t let me go, and it was then I realized I really was his prisoner.

“Twice we went to town and on threat of death Wetherby made me get his bad personal checks cashed at food stores. He had some checks on a Mexican bank and used an assumed name.”

“Did you try to break with him?” Frank asked.

“Yes. But it was hopeless. Wetherby again offered me a share in their illegal racket. When I refused, he set the men to guard me at the lonely spot. After that, they were always careful about what they said. But I did overhear some talk about zinc plates. That makes me think they must be counterfeiters of some kind.”

“But what are they counterfeiting?” Frank queried.

“That I don’t know.”

“Maybe I do!” Joe exclaimed suddenly. “Mr. Grafton, did you ever hear the names of any Americans in the racket?”

“Yes, I did. Al Purdy was one.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. The handkerchief they had found had the initial P on it!

Frank and Joe almost shouted in their excitement. Joe cried out, “Al Purdy must have been the phony bellman!”

Grafton went on, “Purdy had two buddies Caesar and Ringer.”

Quickly the Hardys told Grafton of their own encounters with Purdy, Ringer, and Caesar. “And this same Purdy is the man Chet discovered making a mysterious trip into the desert at night,” Joe finished. “And the one who knocked him out in Bayport and stole the prints.”

“There’s just one thing that doesn’t fit into the picture,” Frank remarked.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“The rock we found with the jasper in it. Mr. Grafton, does the gang deal in semiprecious stones? We found a valuable rock near the spot where your plane was abandoned. Could that be what Purdy was looking for when Chet snapped his picture in the desert?”

Perplexed, Grafton shook his head. “I doubt it. I don’t remember seeing any such rock myself, and I don’t think Purdy had anything to do with it. Probably some rock hunter lost it.”

“Then Purdy was here for another reason,” Frank declared. “We may have arrived at the right time to make a capture!”

A gentle put-putting sound from up the river cut short the conversation. Squinting against the glare of the sun upon the water, Joe made out a good-sized motorboat carrying two people.

“Probably Chet and his friend looking for us,” he guessed. “I’ll run down to the dock and wave.”

As a response to Joe’s signal, the putting sound swelled to a roar like that of a buzz saw. The boat shot toward the dock, throwing up a white spray on either side of her prow.

A lean, handsome young man, his skin deeply tanned and his blond hair bleached nearly white by the sun, leaped nimbly to the dock to secure the boat. Meanwhile, Chet began passing food supplies to Joe. “Meet Jim Weston. Jim, these are the two mystery hounds I told you about. Frank and Joe Hardy.”

The three shook hands. Then each took an armful of packages and walked toward the cabin. Frank and Joe quickly sized up Chet’s new friend. Weston appeared to be about twenty-two years old. The brothers liked his firm handshake, and his clear, open gaze.

“Careful!” Chet cried out to Joe. “Those are eggs! And be sure you put this meat in the refrigerator right away!”

“Okay, okay, old lady,” Joe retorted.

Watching from the porch, Grafton chuckled. Jim in turn looked startled at the unshaven, poorly dressed old cowboy at the other end of the porch.

“Say,” he said in a low voice to the Hardys, “I thought something top secret was going on here.”

“I see what you mean.” Frank laughed. “That’s part of the secret. Jim, meet Willard Grafton, the Los Angeles industrialist!”

Courteously Grafton got up and extended his hand. “How do you do?” The strong grip and the rich, full voice of a younger man puzzled poor Weston all the more.

Smiling, Frank explained. “Mr. Grafton had to change his appearance drastically for his own safety.”

After a late, quick lunch, Frank, Joe, and their three companions spent the afternoon discussing the next move. It was concluded that any more daytime operations might make them targets for the enemy. They would wait until evening.

“Suppose I go up tonight and get some shots of the whole area,” Jim suggested. “My ship’s nearby at the Ripley airstrip, and my developing equipment is there in a garage. If the photos show anything suspicious, we can get back to Blythe or over to Arizona right away to investigate.”

“Sounds fine,” Frank approved. “Have you room for Joe and me?”

“Sure thing. My ship’s a three-seater.”

When the afternoon was waning, Chet spoke up on the subject nearest to his heart. “Say, everybody, it’s getting toward suppertime. I bought some especially good provisions—”

Joe winked at the others. “Don’t mind us, Chet. Start cooking any time.”

A gloomy look settled on their chum’s round face. “Just when I was hoping for a decent meal. You know I can’t cook worth anything. Eating is what I’m good at.”

Willard Grafton exploded with laughter. “And I believe you, Chet! I’m not much on eating, myself, but I like to cook. Suppose we make a deal?”

Much to the satisfaction of everyone, Grafton soon proved that he knew food as well as he knew horses and ponies. He gave each person a job to do, and within an hour a tasty spaghetti supper, prepared with Grafton’s own special sauce, was on the table.

“Know something?” Frank asked his brother in an undertone as the five friends took a stroll toward the dock. “This is doing Grafton a lot of good. I think he’s really enjoying himself. Maybe we can convince him the world is not so bad, if we keep at it.”

For some time the whole party had been aware of the drone of an airplane flying nearby. Now the sound suddenly increased to a terrifying, deafening roar as the craft headed toward them. It seemed as if the plane would crash right into the little cabin! But it zoomed away.

“What’s that fool doing, buzzing us?” Jim Weston cried angrily.

The ship, a small biplane, started around in a wide, banking turn.

“Looks like one of those crop-dusting crates,” Jim said. “Here he comes again!”

“Look out!”

This time the strange aircraft came in trailing a thick, spreading, grayish cloud. The Hardys and their friends raced for the cabin but could not make it. They were enveloped in a blinding, choking chemical fog. They could see nothing, but could hear the mysterious plane roaring in for another pass.

“Hit the dirt!” Frank cried out, and coughing violently, he flung himself to the ground.

Immediately the earth was rocked by a terrific blast. The tinkle of shattered glass mingled with the noise of the airplane as it pulled away.

CHAPTER XVIII

Sleuthing by Camera

FRANK was the first to recover from the shock of the explosion. Holding a handkerchief to his nose, he struggled up and groped his way toward the cabin. Already a light breeze from the river had begun to disperse the fog, and he was able to check the damage. The building had not been hit, but one window had been shattered by the blast.

“Wow! We’re in a regular war!” Joe called, joining his brother. “Anything left in here, Frank?”

“That crop-dusting was a smoke screen, so they could bomb us,” Jim Weston declared.

“Missed the cabin completely, though,” Joe noted. “The explosion seemed closer than it was.”

“Out here! This is where it landed!” Chet shouted from the river’s edge.

They hurried toward the dock. Frank, Joe, and Jim discovered that the boards nearest the camp had been crushed like matchsticks. The bomb had also gouged a big hole out of the shoreline, muddying the water all around.

“Good night! The boat!” Frank exclaimed.

“Don’t worry,” Willard Grafton reassured him. “She’s riding fine—didn’t even swamp.”

Luckily Jim Weston had secured the mooring line to the very end of the dock and the boat was undamaged.

“They must have spotted Jim and me coming down the river this noon,” Chet figured. “They tried to kill us while we were all together at the cabin!”

Frank disagreed. “No, their aim couldn’t be that bad. More likely they wanted to destroy the boat to keep us off the river. The pilot buzzed the first time to check the boat’s position, then laid his smoke screen to cover up what he was about to do and finally dropped his bomb.”

“But, in the meantime, the boat had drifted farther from shore,” Joe broke in. “It’s plain our enemies don’t want us to have a boat!”

“Because they don’t want us crossing to the Arizona side,” his brother added promptly. “This gang has planned some big operation for tonight, and I’m sure the giant over there has something to do with it!”

“Then,” Jim Weston spoke up, “the sooner we get to the airstrip the better. That’s where those crop-dusting planes operate from normally. Maybe that crop duster took off from there.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “As soon as it’s dark we’ll fly over the effigy in your plane. We’d better get started right away.”

“Whoa!” Chet objected. “What about Mr. Grafton and me?”

“Pull in the boat, so it’ll be ready when we need it. And keep a sharp lookout for any spies!”

“But suppose they bomb us again?” Chet asked in a worried voice.

“I think they’re too busy for that now.”

Frank, Joe, and Jim Weston set out for the main road at a brisk walk. Reaching it, they put out their thumbs as a line of cars, already showing lighted head lamps, approached. None of the vehicles stopped for the hitchhikers.

“What a time for a delay!” Joe fumed.

“Let’s not give up,” Jim advised. “Somebody will take pity on us.”

The very next car proved the young pilot to be right. “Hop in, Jim,” said a friendly voice. It was a farmer who was a good friend of Weston’s. “Where to?”

“Ripley airstrip, Mr. Wells—real fast!”

“Hang on, then!”

As they drove, Jim introduced Frank and Joe and explained that all three were engaged on a secret detective mission.

“Sounds serious. Anything I can do to help?”

“Well, sir,” Joe answered for the pilot, “we’ll want to go back to our boat in a mighty big hurry.”

“Keep my car then, boys,” the generous farmer offered. “I can walk home from the airstrip. My house is right near there.”

It was completely dark when he and the Hardys reached their destination. The car’s headlights picked out a small yellow airplane in front of some low sheds and a gasoline pump.

“That’s mine,” said Jim briefly, leading the way toward a light in one of the sheds.

“Tomás!” the young pilot called.

The door swung open and an old Mexican, chewing lazily, faced them. “Si? Oh, Jim.”

“Any take-offs in the past two hours?”

The old fellow thought a moment. “No, señor. Nothing since noon.”

“Okay. Now look, Tomás. My friends and I are going up in my ship. Can you light up some flares at the end of the strip a little later, so we’ll be able to land?”

The old man nodded agreement. “How long you be gone?”

“Not long—half hour, maybe.”

“Good. I go out right now.”

Overhead the stars sparkled against a clear, deep-blue sky. The moon had not yet risen. The young sleuths took places inside the little plane and Jim started the engine. The propeller turned over once, twice, then purred in a smooth idle.

Taxiing into the light breeze, Jim gunned his motor and the little ship shot forward into the dark night. Instinctively Frank and Joe gripped their seats.

“Don’t need flares on take-off,” Jim assured them. “I could get off this strip blindfolded.”

It was not until the plane had soared into the air, and the twinkling lights of houses could be seen below, that the Hardy brothers relaxed.

Climbing high, the plane went straight across the river.

Jim said, “Frank, will you take the controls while I get out my infrared camera? As I figure it, we should be over the giants in a few moments.”

“You know,” said Joe, “I could have sworn the place was lighted up, but it’s dark now. Say, I think I see a tiny red light.”

“I’ll bet it’s a signal,” Frank agreed excitedly. “But not meant for us, that’s for sure!”

“We’ll answer it, anyway,” said Jim Weston. “Swoop in low, Frank, and I’ll shoot with the camera.”

“Look! The light’s gone. I’d better hurry.”

Banking around, and watching his instruments carefully, Frank made a low-level run over the cliff, while Jim took several shots.

“They drop bombs, but we fight with pictures,” Joe noted grimly. “Let’s see who wins!”

After a second low-altitude pass, Jim took over the controls again and headed back across the

“I’ll bet it is a signal!” Frank agreed excitedly

river. By this time Tomás had lighted a number of orange kerosene flares to mark the small Ripley airstrip. Jim landed upwind and then taxied back to the sheds.

“My lab is right over here,” he told them. “Follow me.”

Carrying the exposed plates, the tall pilot led the way to a tiny shack. He unlocked the door and switched on the light in a small but neat darkroom, decorated with a number of fine aerial photographs.

Jim quickly immersed the plates in developing fluid. As soon as the proper time had elapsed, all three crowded around the sink to examine them.

“Here’s a man!” said Joe, pointing to one plate. “Near the smaller giant.”

“And here are two more!” added Weston. “How about it? Are they familiar? I’m sure this one fellow is the same guy Chet photographed the other night.”

“That’s the one all right,” Joe agreed. “The eavesdropper, the bellman—otherwise known as Al Purdy.”

“The other two,” said Frank, “are the strong-arm men—Ringer and Caesar. And none of them were running away. They’re just standing still.”

“Do you think they’re waiting for a plane?” Jim Weston asked.

Frank nodded. “No doubt about it. That red light was an unmistakable signal.”

“And I’m certain,” Joe declared, “that there were other, brighter lights until the men heard us coming. Then they put them out.”

Jim looked puzzled. “Nobody could land a plane there, even a helicopter, in the dark. So maybe they do have a lot of lights.”

“I’m inclined to think,” Frank broke in, “that they’re not waiting for someone to land, Jim. They’re expecting something to be dropped from a plane!”

“Like what?”

“A shipment of counterfeit United States government checks,” Joe answered. “That’s this gang’s racket, Jim. It’s my guess, after hearing about the zinc plates, that Wetherby’s gang prints the checks in Mexico, and then smuggles them into this country by air.”

“I think it’s now or never to capture them,” Frank finished.

Jim’s face lighted with pleasure. “A fight, you mean? Suits me fine. Let’s hear your plan.”

“First—back to the cabin. Then the five of us will take the boat about a mile up the river before we cross to the Arizona side. Once over there, we can drift down to the bluff where the big giant is.”

“I get you,” Jim responded. “That way we won’t scare them off.”

“Right. How is that bluff, Jim? Can we climb it from the river side in the dark?”

“Sure. It’s steep, but we can do it.”

“The thing that worries me is the time,” Joe put in. “If we don’t get there before the shipment is dropped, we’ll lose our chance to catch the person or persons who get it.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Quickly Jim removed the plates from the developer and locked his laboratory. Within minutes the three were speeding along the highway in their borrowed automobile.

Turning onto the humpy, gravelly road that led to their cabin, they were forced to slow down. The car’s headlights picked out gaping holes and big stones in the road, and the car lurched and bounced a good deal even at low speed.

“Wait!” cried Joe suddenly. “Somebody walking toward us!”

As the jouncing car drew nearer the person, Frank and Joe recognized the heavy-set figure of their friend Chet Morton. Quickly Jim halted.

“Chet!” Joe exclaimed, jumping out. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

“Brr!” the stout boy shuddered, as though he had seen a ghost. “Something weird is going on. There are two Mr. Graftons in the cabin!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Attack

“Two Graftons! Talk sense, Chet!” Joe snapped.

“We haven’t a minute to waste now!”

“S-so help me,” the scared Chet stuttered. “I was getting the boat ready, and when I went back into the cabin there were two of them—talking to each other!”

Without waiting to hear more, Frank and Joe set off at a headlong run on a short cut to the cabin. Jim and Chet followed slowly on the rough road in the car.

The black shape of the little cabin loomed in front of the Hardys. Inside, a single kerosene lamp lighted the room dimly. Bursting in, Joe and Frank froze in astonishment. In the flickering shadows stood Willard Grafton, talking to his double.

Slowly, the two figures turned to face the boys. Both were tall, slim, and unshaven. They wore identical shabby clothes. For one long, ghostly moment they stared mutely at the two youths.

Then abruptly the weird silence was shattered by a familiar laugh from one of them. “Dad!” both boys cried out at the same instant.

“Who did you think I was—Willard Grafton’s twin?”

Fenton Hardy and his sons embraced warmly. “Glad to find you both in one piece, boys. Hear you had a little rough play earlier this evening.”

“Nothing serious, Dad,” Joe replied. “But what a trick for you to play on us! What’s the idea, anyhow?”

“If you think you’re surprised, you should have seen me,” Grafton put in. “I took him for a member of the gang.”

The famous detective gave another hearty laugh. “You boys sure cover ground fast. I’ve been trailing you for days. Up to Colorado, and then back again. Mr. Grafton’s friend Redland, the ranch owner, gave me the story. Lent me these clothes and told me just how to disguise myself. I followed you back here and hung around Blythe awhile.”

“But why the disguise, Dad?” Joe asked. “Those crooks are out to get Grafton. If they learned about his masquerade, they might have attacked you by mistake.”

“Just what I figured,” Fenton Hardy admitted. “I was hoping they’d try it, so I could capture them.”

Frank, eager not to miss the capture of the suspects across the river, quickly told his father of the necessity of speed. “Let’s exchange stories in the boat,” he urged.

Mr. Hardy was in agreement. Just then two automobile doors slammed outside. Chet entered the cabin cautiously, followed by Jim Weston.

“Hello, Chet!” the detective boomed. “Where’d you disappear so fast?” he added slyly.

“Mr. Hardy!” Chet exclaimed in astonishment. “Say, that’s not fair, sir—to scare a guy so.”

After making his peace with Chet and shaking hands with Jim Weston, the detective said he understood the group was about to set off on a mission.

“Tell you all about it in the boat,” Frank promised. “But don’t talk loudly, anybody. Voices carry across water.”

As Jim piloted the motorboat upstream, hugging the California shore, engine quiet and lights out, the brothers briefed their father on the sleuthing they had done. They included details of the recent camera pictures.

“And now tell us your story,” Joe begged.

The detective, in a whisper loud enough for them to hear, said, “First, for my case: I’ve been after a shrewd bunch of counterfeiters of United States government checks, but I haven’t caught them yet.”

Mr. Hardy took something from his wallet. Cupping one hand over the end of his flashlight, he clicked it on and held the light to a paper. “Chet, is this the kind of check that actor gave you?”

“That’s it, all right,” the stout boy answered without hesitation.

“Then there’s no doubt about it,” Fenton Hardy concluded with a little smile. “You three boys and I have been working on the same case from different angles!”

“Tell me, Dad, have you been down in Mexico lately?”

“I was down in Mexico, Frank—looking for this gang’s printing plant. With some help from the Mexican police I found it, but the ringleaders had vanished. I figured they had fled to the United States, leaving the underlings still working the plant.”

“And did you—or did you not—get Joe and me out of jail down there?” Frank interrogated.

Their father chuckled. “I plead guilty.”

“But how did you know we were in Mexico?” Joe wondered.

“Your friend Leon Armijo, the station agent, notified the police as soon as you left him, and they relayed his information to me immediately. What made me suspicious was the story of the two Americans in pursuit of the other one. Combing the desert around that lonely station with the Mexican police I came upon the gang’s counterfeiting plant.”

“So we helped you break the case without knowing it!” Joe declared.

“Yes. I can’t seem to get along without you two,” their father admitted. “Your method of travel—freight train—even gave me an idea. I thought that might be the way the gang leaders were trying to escape, and I had the border police search all trains.”

“And you told them to release us, when caught, and send us on our way,” Joe chimed in.

The detective nodded. “I knew you wouldn’t have followed the man who escaped unless you were pretty sure he was Willard Grafton. So I went after you, hoping you would find Grafton and he in turn would lead me to the ringleaders.

“The Mexican police are watching the printing plant. They haven’t made any arrests yet, because we want to catch the leaders first. I’ve just had word that a shipment of phony checks is due to go out tonight—to the usual spot in the United States.”

“Well, Dad, it’s lucky you have your sons to turn to,” Joe teased. “We think we’ve found the place—right where we’ll find Mr. Grafton’s kidnapers—on the plateau across the river. We think the three men on it are waiting for that package to be dropped from an airplane!”

Fenton Hardy was greatly encouraged by the unexpected news, and as eager as his sons were to capture the men at the effigy, together with the package of incriminating checks.

Joe, impatient, urged that they turn back now and float downstream on the Arizona side. “I hope everybody’s ready for a scrap,” he said.

“Oh, boy, there are six of us to three,” Chet chortled. “But two of them are real tough.”

“We’ll use the same tactics as last time,” Joe told him. “Give them the old football rush.”

Mr. Hardy asked Jim Weston if the trip along the cliff would be safe.

“I know this river well,” Jim assured the others quietly. “It’s illegal not to use lights, of course, but this is an unusual occasion.”

“It sure is,” Joe agreed. “And a good night to sneak up on those counterfeiters,” he remarked from the darkness.

A few minutes later Jim announced, “All right. I’m taking her to the other side.”

As they approached the Arizona shore, the black outline of the bluff seemed to loom higher and higher against the stars. Presently Jim cut the motor and they started downstream, without power, hugging the jagged cliff.

The boat drifted silently, with no one speaking. Occasionally they heard the gentle splash of a fish breaking the surface.

The pilot steered closer to the high, dark bluffs. Then suddenly he stepped overboard with hardly a splash, steadying the boat so the others could climb out easily.

“Sh!” he warned. “Mustn’t let the bottom scrape. There’s a place here to moor her.”

Cautiously the party waded ashore, and Jim made the boat fast. When their eyes were accustomed to the new surroundings, the sleuths crossed the narrow beach and began the hundred-foot climb up the rocky cliff.

Jim Weston had made the ascent before, so he led the way. Frank and Joe followed. Then came Chet, while Grafton and Mr. Hardy brought up the rear.

The tricky, dangerous climb seemed to take hours. Any loose rock might cause an avalanche. Even heavy breathing might alarm their enemies and ruin the expedition. So the ascent was slow. At last, however, the rim of the bluff was gained.

Warily Frank and Joe raised their heads above the edge. To their great relief, three black figures were visible against the background of stars.

“Okay.” Scarcely breathing the word, Frank reported to the others. By signs, Fenton Hardy indicated that the group should now separate, and take up positions around the edge of the tableland. He himself would give the signal to spring the trap.

Obediently Frank and Joe moved off to the left of their father. When they reached their station, Joe suddenly tapped his brother’s shoulder and pointed. Just below them was a cavelike opening in the rock. Frank nodded. A likely hiding place for loot or even counterfeit checks!

Then, at first from far away, came the drone of an airplane. At that instant the plateau was suddenly illuminated. The smaller desert giant was outlined at intervals by lighted lanterns! Three men stood with their backs to the watchers, gazing upward. One was Purdy, but the other two were unfamiliar to the boys.

The plane, flying without lights, circled once above the effigy and then flew away. A vague, puff-like white shape floated down out of the sky.

“A parachute!” Frank breathed.

The shape collapsed on the ground near the giant’s elbow and the three men converged on it. Instantly the Hardys and their friends rushed to the attack.

But Frank’s and Joe’s forward leaps were checked by strong arms that seized them in strangle holds from behind, and covered their mouths with rough palms. Fighting back desperately, the two boys tumbled over and over, locked in combat with their attackers, clear to the bottom of the steep cliff!

CHAPTER XX

Treasure!

STUNNED momentarily by the surprise attack and the fall down the bluff, Frank and Joe felt the struggle going against them. The assailants tightened their choke holds so that the boys could hardly breathe.

“Now,” snarled a voice that sounded like Ringer’s, “not a sound out of you, if you want to breathe. Listen to what’s going on above us, because if the wrong side wins, you two won’t live to tell about it!”

Up on the plateau, the attack had gone smoothly. Chet had knocked the wind out of one man with a ferocious football tackle, while rangy Jim Weston had kayoed another with two lightning punches. As the third man turned to flee, he was grabbed by Fenton Hardy and Willard Grafton.

Helpless below the cliff, Frank and Joe heard their father call out, “That settles them! This gang of counterfeiters has cheated the United States government for the last time!”

Meanwhile, on the cliff, Chet’s opponent finally recovered his breath. “Oh-h! They’ve got us, boss,” the Hardy brothers heard him say.

“Shut up, you fool!” barked a thin, shrill voice.

“Wetherby!” cried Grafton. “You were the ring leader!”

“Yes—and I still am!” Menacingly the thin voice went on, “That is, unless Mr. Hardy wants to forfeit his sons’ lives in return for my imprisonment.”

Startled, Frank and Joe looked at each other.

“Poor Dad!” Frank thought. “It’s his duty to capture these men!”

Then came the detective’s clear, decisive answer. “You win. I can’t fight those conditions. We’ll have to turn him loose, Mr. Grafton.”

The boys’ captors breathed sighs of relief. For a bare instant, their iron grips relaxed.

“Now, Joe!”

Seeing their chance, Frank drove his elbow backward into the solar plexus of his enemy. As the man doubled up, the youth whirled and finished him with a smashing roundhouse blow. Meantime, Joe flipped his assailant over his head. Two sledge-hammer punches kayoed the man.

The boys’ escape had taken only seconds. Now, scrambling up the steep cliff, the brothers met one of the gang in the act of stepping down from the rim!

“No, you don’t!” Rising up, the boys flung the man back on the tableland.

“We’re okay, Dad! Don’t let them get away!” Joe cried out.

“Thank goodness for that!” Rushing forward, the detective said their captive was Wetherby and slipped a pair of handcuffs on him. Chet and Jim were guarding Purdy and the stranger.

“The other one looks familiar,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I have it—he’s the guy we trailed in the motorboat. The one with the bad temper!”

“Well,” Frank suggested, “a term in prison should improve his disposition.”

“There are two more men down below—out cold,” announced Joe. “I think they’re Ringer and Caesar.”

Mr. Hardy now opened the well-wrapped package dropped from the plane. Hundreds of counterfeit United States government checks dropped out!

“Now we have the evidence!” he exulted.

“Dad,” Frank spoke up, “Joe and I have something to show you. Bring your light here a minute.”

He guided his father to the cave the boys had noticed earlier. Inside they discovered some digging tools, rope, and another packet of bogus checks.

“We can use this rope,” declared Joe as he seized the coil.

Purdy and the boatman stood sullen while their arms were bound behind them. Then the whole party worked its way slowly down the cliff toward the kayoed men. Presently they revived, and were also bound.

The captors were now confronted with a problem; their boat was too small to hold eleven people at one time!

“I’ll wait here,” Willard Grafton volunteered. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Stay with him then, Frank and Joe,” their father ordered. “You two need a rest after that narrow escape.”

“Just a minute!” It was Wetherby’s thin, nasal voice. “If you’re taking us to the police, you’ve got to take Grafton too. He belongs to our gang.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Hardy. “The man’s been running away from you for weeks!”

“So what? He worked for us—he passed bad checks for me. Ask him yourself!”

Gloomily Grafton answered, “It’s true. I’m ready to face the consequences.”

“But he was forced to do what he did, Dad!” Frank and Joe protested warmly.

“A lot of good that will do him,” sneered Wetherby. “I’m not licked yet. I’ll swear under oath that he and these other guys got me into this thing under force. I’m the innocent one!”

“Why, you dirty double-crosser!” The enraged Purdy turned on his chief. “I’ll spill the whole story myself. Grafton’s innocent. I’ll swear to it, and so will my pals.”

“Good,” said Mr. Hardy. “Tell your story to the police chief in Blythe. Say, you men must have a boat. Where is it?”

“Hidden near here,” Purdy revealed.

Prisoners, sleuths, and their friends crowded into the two boats and the run to Blythe was made. Taxis took the group to police headquarters where the amazed chief listened to the charges.

The detective suggested that Wetherby tell a straight story of the whole counterfeiting project. When he refused, Purdy grudgingly began, “Four months ago me and Wetherby flew over the desert and saw the giants. Wetherby once heard a story that possibly the left arm or leg of one of the figures pointed to treasure, so we started digging. We dug all around in the desert, then on the Arizona bluff. Finally we found gold.”

“Gold!” echoed Frank and Joe. “Where?”

“In that little cave you saw tonight. The small giant’s leg pointed right to it.”

“What kind of gold?” Fenton Hardy asked.

“Old Indian stuff, it was. We were scared to sell it here, so we took it to Mexico. I wanted to split up the money we got, but then Wetherby got a bright idea.”

“Which was?” Mr. Hardy prodded.

“To buy a printing press and other equipment and start the racket. The Arizona bluff was a nice out-of-the-way spot, so we decided to have our counterfeit checks dropped there at night. Wetherby rigged up some electric lanterns to outline the giant so our pilot could spot the right place.”

“Were you testing the lights tonight a little while before the plane arrived?” Joe asked. “I thought I saw some.”

“Yeah. We always did that. We kept the lanterns and battery hid in the cave when we weren’t using ’em.”

Frank asked, “How did Mr. Grafton happen to come into the picture?”

“Another bright idea of Wetherby’s.” Purdy snorted in disgust. “He wanted a nice, innocent-looking front man and thought this Grafton would be a sucker to join us. But he wasn’t—not even after Wetherby tried to frame Grafton by making him pass some bad checks.

“Then Grafton got away from us,” Purdy went on, “and we had to shut him up. That’s how I went to Bayport. We thought he’d gone to his uncle’s. Then we found out his uncle was calling in you Hardys to find him.”

“But somebody tried to warn us on the telephone,” Frank reminded him.

Purdy nodded grimly. “One of our boys trying a double cross. I took care of him.”

“And then you slugged Chet!”

“That’s right.” Purdy seemed proud of his work. “I followed you to Chicago in a chartered plane. Got the F.A.A. after you from there, and I was the one who put that note in Grafton’s plane. I sneaked in late one night.”

“We chased some freight thieves down in Mexico near your plant,” Frank said. “Were they in your gang?”

“Nah. We kept our number as small as we could. The Yuma police caught the three Mexicans we had trailing you two, though.”

“I suppose you were in the plane that bombed us tonight, too!” Joe accused him.

“That was Caesar,” Purdy replied contemptuously. “He made a mess of it—the way this gang made a mess of everything. I should have done the job myself. I was the one that found your cabin. Asked a Mexican farm worker near Ripley. I wish I’d never got into this racket!”

“It was a good racket, you fool,” Wetherby burst out, “until it was spoiled by these confounded Hardys!”

“Save it for your trial,” the police chief commanded. After he had booked the prisoners, they were untied and led away to cells. The chief now notified the Mexican authorities to close in on the gang who were still in Sonora.

Frank and Joe sighed. Their exciting case was over. But they were soon to plunge into another:

THE CLUE OF THE SCREECHING OWL.

The Hardys, Chet, Weston, and several policemen stood around in embarrassed silence while Willard Grafton spoke to his wife and two young sons on the telephone. “Yes! Yes!” the happy man assured them eagerly. “I’ll fly home tonight in my own plane. I’ll leave in less than an hour!

“Now,” he told the others after hanging up, “I have one more call to make. Operator, give me Bayport. Mr. Clement Brownlee.”

After a pause he said, “Uncle Clement? ... This is Willard.... Yes, I’m all right. I’m not in any trouble—not now. I just called to thank you for one thing: you got the Hardy family interested in finding me!”

As the grateful man turned away from the telephone to thank Frank, Joe, and Chet, his voice was breaking with emotion. “Boys,” he said, “you did more than a great detective job. You educated me. Living with you for these past few days has taught me that there are still plenty of wonderful people in the world.

“I promise you, if I ever get sour on life again, all I’ll need to keep up my spirits will be to remind myself of Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton—three swell fellows!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Puma Charge!

CHAPTER II - A Midnight Scare

CHAPTER III - An Eerie Trail

CHAPTER IV - The Windowless Cabin

CHAPTER V - A Reluctant Sheriff

CHAPTER VI - Unusual Bait

CHAPTER VII - The Hermit

CHAPTER VIII - Rock Barrage

CHAPTER IX - Setting a Trap

CHAPTER X - Sketch of a Thief

CHAPTER XI - The Tailor’s Clue

CHAPTER XII - Chet’s Ruse

CHAPTER XIII - Worrisome Watching

CHAPTER XIV - Flash Fire

CHAPTER XV - Ragged Footprints

CHAPTER XVI - The First Find

CHAPTER XVII - Help!

CHAPTER XVIII - A Harrowing Rescue

CHAPTER XIX - Prisoners!

CHAPTER XX - Triumphant Sleuths

THE CLUE OF THE SCREECHING OWL

When dogs and men suddenly disappear, and strange screams fill the night, fantastic stories of vengeful ghosts are almost believable. It is these strange happenings which bring Frank and Joe Hardy to the Pocono Mountains to help their father’s friend, a retired police captain, solve the mystery of Black Hollow.

But when the Hardy boys and Chet Morton arrive at Captain Thomas Maguire’s cabin on the edge of the hollow, he has disappeared. In the woods the boys find only a few slim clues: a flashlight bearing the initials T.M., a few scraps of bright plaid cloth, and two empty shotgun shells which had been fired recently.

Frank and Joe are determined to find the captain, despite Chet’s misgivings after a night of weird and terrifying screams. Neighbors of the missing man insist that the blood-curdling cries are those of a legendary witch who stalks Black Hollow seeking vengeance.

Strangely, it is a small puppy that helps the boys disclose a most unusual and surprising set of circumstances, involving a mute boy, an elusive hermit, and a fearless puma trainer.

Readers who relish the chill of suspense and the thrill of adventure will find plenty of both in this exciting story of mystery in the Pocono Mountains.

At that moment two venomous snakes slithered

out of the cave

Copyright © 1990, 1962 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07654-5

2007 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Puma Charge!

“SUMMER vacation!” Chet Morton exclaimed.

“No more school until September.”

The stout, good-natured boy lounged half asleep between Frank and Joe Hardy in the front seat of a powerful yellow convertible. With a soft purr, the car moved swiftly past the carefully tilled fields of the Pennsylvania Dutch farmers.

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy was at the wheel. He kept his eyes upon the highway which would lead them to the green bulk of the Pocono Mountains later that sunny June afternoon.

Meanwhile, his blond-haired younger brother Joe said, “There used to be witches around here, Chet. See that sign? It’s to ward them off.”

He pointed to a brightly painted circular design on a huge red barn.

Chet Morton had opened an eye as the car moved past the barn. “What is it?” he asked.

“A hex sign,” Joe told him. “Supposed to keep off lightning and protect the farm against witches.”

“Witches!” The plump boy straightened up, looking worried. “Today?”

“Sure,” Joe Hardy went on teasingly. “If a witch puts a spell on your cow, she won’t give milk. Those circles keep off the curse.”

Nervously Chet looked at the next two barns, at the blue sky above him, and then once all around him.

“Aw, nobody believes in that kind of stuff any more. This is the twentieth century. Stop kidding me, will you, fellows? This is a vacation. All I’m going to do is sleep and eat. Let’s not have any mysteries!”

While their friend settled down and closed his eyes once more, Frank and Joe exchanged knowing grins. As sons of the internationally famous detective, Fenton Hardy, they had many times been drawn into baffling and dangerous mysteries, where their brilliant sleuthing had earned them fine reputations of their own. Easygoing Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best friend, always seemed to become involved.

“Well, Chet,” Frank said, “you may as well know the truth. This isn’t just a camping trip. We have to look up Dad’s old friend, Captain Thomas Maguire. He’s living in a cabin at the edge of Black Hollow, somewhere in those mountains just ahead of us.”

“Captain Maguire?” repeated the stout boy suspiciously. “What kind of captain is he?”

“A police captain—that is, he was chief of police until five or six years ago. He’s retired now.”

“I knew it!” Chet exploded. “I just knew it! Another mystery! A fellow no sooner gets set to enjoy a nice, quiet vacation than the Hardys drag him into some detective work.

“When the police and the Hardys get together, it spells trouble. Trouble for old Chet especially. All right—I may as well hear the worst. What is it this time?”

“Well,” Frank answered, “there have been some funny goings-on around Black Hollow. Captain Maguire wrote Dad. He didn’t give any details, but asked him to come up and investigate.”

“Unfortunately, Dad couldn’t make it,” Joe took up the story. “He’s been working with the New Jersey State Police—not very far from here, in fact—on a new hijacking racket. Among other things, somebody has been stealing shipments of instruments that go into the nose cones of guided missiles. They’re taken while being trucked to the assembly station.”

“That’s important, all right,” Chet agreed.

“Dad heard about our camping trip and suggested we take it near Captain Maguire’s cabin,” Frank finished.

“Well, Chet—shall we turn back?” Joe needled. He and Frank knew that underneath his complaints, their friend had plenty of courage—and even more curiosity.

“I suppose we can’t call it off now,” Chet mumbled. “All our food would go to waste!”

It was midafternoon when the prosperous valley of the Pennsylvania Dutch, lush with the tender green of young crops, had been left behind. The road climbed and curved up a heavily wooded hill. Now and then the thick foliage on either side was broken by a smooth gray rock face.

“We’re really in the mountains,” Joe noted.

After topping a ridge, the road descended and then straightened out as it approached the next line of hills. Frank, looking ahead, could see the buildings of a town.

Suddenly the stillness was broken by the raucous sound of music and voices blaring over a loud-speaker. They strained their eyes to see where it came from.

“I see it!” Chet shouted.

Two Ferris wheels and a number of tents came into view. A bright, gay banner on top of one read:

KLATCH’S CARNIVAL

“Whoops!” Chet shouted eagerly. “Let’s go in, fellows. I can smell the popcorn from here!”

Laughing, Frank parked the convertible, and the three boys entered the midway. Now the din of the loud-speakers was overwhelming. Crowds of people moved in both directions. The rides—the “Whip,” the “Octopus,” and several others whirled madly. The people on them screamed shrilly. Barkers were shouting from side-show platforms.

Chet immediately bought himself a carton of popcorn, a bag of peanuts, and a frothy cloud of pink cotton candy.

“Say, how about this?” Joe asked. He pointed to a sign:

COLONEL BILL THUNDER

Fearless Animal Trainer

The roar of some wild animal, coming from within the tent, was enough to convince the boys of the colonel’s courage. In a moment Frank, Joe, and Chet had entered and taken seats.

In the center of a large circular cage stood a man dressed in a white shirt, white riding breeches, and shining black boots. His thick, dark hair, mustache, heavy eyebrows, piercing eyes, and the black whip that he held coiled in one hand gave him a look of authority. He needed it, for seated on small stools at equal distances around the cage were four huge cats.

Two were tawny, two black. All four glared at the man, their long tails flicking nervously.

“Pumas,” Joe whispered to his companions. “Big ones, too.”

The black whip snapped. The trainer’s body rotated as he forced each powerful animal, in turn, to leave its stool and then mount it again.

“This fellow’s really good,” Frank declared.

“Notice how his back is fully exposed to one of the cats at all times.”

But even as Frank spoke, the snarling black animal upon which the trainer had just turned his back gathered itself and sprang!

“He’ll be killed!” shrieked Chet, dropping popcorn, peanuts, and cotton candy to the ground.

Warned by the boy’s shout, Colonel Thunder whirled to face the charging beast. With a series of lightninglike whip snaps he drove the snarling cat back to its place.

“Terrific!” declared Chet to a man beside him. “He’s good all right,” the stranger agreed. “Had another cat that almost got him, though—big yellow devil. Had to get rid of him finally.”

Spellbound, the boys watched the rest of Colonel Thunder’s act, and then continued their journey.

At the end of the afternoon, two hours later, the yellow convertible climbed slowly up a steep dirt road with high, dark woods on either side.

“I think we’re going in the right direction, Frank said. ”But we’d better check. There’s a house.”

The bright-yellow car came to a stop before a weather-beaten clapboard building with a wooden picket fence in front. The place was silent.

“Seems deserted,” Joe commented, looking around.

As the three approached the gate, however, Frank suddenly pointed to a path among the trees at the side of the house.

“Here’s somebody!”

A thin, worried-looking woman emerged from the woods dragging a boy about seven years old by the hand. He was crying vigorously. When she saw the Hardys and Chet, she called out, “Hello there! I’m Mrs. Thompson. Can I help you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Frank answered. “Is this Rim Road? We’re looking for Captain Maguire’s place.”

The woman, who wore a faded but neat cotton dress, came closer and looked intently into the boys’ faces.

“Maguire? Straight up to the top of the road. He lives in the last house—right on the edge of Black Hollow.” As she answered, Mrs. Thompson gave the boys another searching look.

Chet had turned toward the child, who was still weeping. “Poor boy,” he said sympathetically. “Mind if I give him a candy bar, Mrs. Thompson?”

“Go ahead. Won’t do any good, though. His dog disappeared last night, and nothing anybody can do is goin’ to make him feel any better.”

“That’s a shame,” said Chet. “Maybe if we keep an eye out, we’ll see it, Mrs. Thompson. What kind of dog?”

“Little brown critter,” she answered. “He’s got one white ear, and a collar, and a tag with his name, Skippy, on it.”

“We’ll look for him.” As the boys turned to go, they heard the woman say sternly, “Bobby, you stop a-wailin’ and get on in the house, now.” Then she called to the boys:

“Wait!”

Surprised, the three turned back. Mrs. Thompson came to the gate and began to speak in a low, intense voice.

“You seem like such nice boys I just had to tell you something. Don’t go near Black Hollow!”

“But why not, Mrs. Thompson?” asked Frank.

“It’s haunted—by the hex. Witch, I s’pose you’d call her. Two hundred years ago there was a pretty young woman around here that got to be a hex. She put spells on the dogs, and they disappeared and died. Then, by and by, people started to sicken and die, too.”

“But couldn’t they do anything about her?” asked Chet with unbelieving eyes.

“They tried to. They caught her and thought she’d stop castin’ her spells. But she just stayed scornful and silent. One day she got away and vanished down in the hollow. But at night she used to come up and roam around, and dry up cows, and kill dogs, and at dawn folks would see her going back down into the hollow. Then one night came an awful, terrible screaming from the hollow. In the morning, when some brave men went down, there was a great scorched hole in the earth!”

“W-w-what happened?” asked Chet.

“Folks figured that Satan, the devil himself, came and got the witch and dragged her down to the center of the earth!

“Then,” added the woman, emphasizing her words, “a hundred years later, dogs started disappearin’ again. They heard the hex screamin’ at night in the hollow. Soon it all stopped again. But, now listen, boys. Another hundred years have gone by. The dogs are disappearin’ again. And at night we hear the witch screamin’ in Black Hollow!”

Peering at the trio closely, the woman saw that Chet Morton looked white. But in the eyes of Frank and Joe Hardy there was only a twinkle of amusement and disbelief.

Abruptly the woman shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turned and went into the house.

CHAPTER II

A Midnight Scare

“BOY, that woman gave me the creeps.” Chet shuddered, as the car ground up the hill in low gear.

“Relax,” Joe told him. “You said yourself that people don’t believe in that hex stuff any more.”

“I don’t know—around here they might,” Chet continued in a worried voice. “All these thick woods, and hardly any houses. Do you suppose she’s just making it up? After all, somebody—or something—must have taken Bobby’s dog!”

Joe chuckled. “That’s how these stories get started,” he explained unconcernedly. “Something mysterious happens, and instead of looking for a sensible explanation, superstitious people think of spells and witches right away.”

“I don’t know,” Frank put in thoughtfully.

“There’s the screaming, Joe. Mrs. Thompson wouldn’t have told us about that if she hadn’t heard it herself.”

A freshly painted R. F. D. mailbox, with the name T. MAGUIRE carefully printed on it, was the first thing the boys saw when they reached the top of the hill.

Beyond was a small grassy clearing. Both sides were bordered by woods made up of thickly leaved hardwoods and darker hemlock and spruce trees. A neat rustic cabin, built of stripped logs chinked with white mortar, stood to their right. The polished headlights and radiator of an old-model automobile peeped from behind the little building.

“That’s Captain Maguire’s car, all right.” Joe laughed. “It’s fifteen years old, but he keeps it looking like new—just the way I saw it last.”

The Hardys and Chet found, to their astonishment, that just beyond the rear of the house the ground dropped off into space. The lush grass gave way to smooth gray rock that fell steeply and disappeared in the tangled woods of a deep, cup-shaped valley below. For miles, the lip of rock curved around in a huge circle like the rim of a great bowl, broken here and there by a strip of green indicating a trail into the valley.

“This must be Black Hollow,” Frank said quietly. “Funny, even the trees down there look black, though it’s still daylight.”

“Well, what do you say we get settled?” Joe suggested cheerfully. “Strange that Captain Maguire hasn’t come out to meet us. Oh, Captain Maguire!” he shouted toward the cabin. “It’s Frank and Joe Hardy! We’ve arrived!”

But the trim little house and the woods around it remained silent. Since they had written the captain to say they were coming, the boys were surprised. They mounted the porch and knocked at the cabin door.

“No answer,” said Joe, perplexed. “May as well try the door.”

It was unlocked, so the visitors entered. They found themselves in a small, but neat and comfortable room, with a narrow bunk on one side. There was no sign of the captain. Chet Morton, venturing into the little kitchen beyond, suddenly called out.

“Whoops! A fellow could go swimming in here!”

Frank and Joe raced in. Their friend was standing in a large pool of water on the floor. Otherwise, the kitchen was spick and span: the pots on the walls gleamed; the curtains were spotless. Everything was in its proper place.

Joe could not help chuckling. “Water on the floor? That’s surprising. Captain Maguire’s a tidier housekeeper than some women.”

“Well, there’s a leak in his plumbing somewhere,” Chet complained ruefully. “My brand-new moccasins will be soaked! And this water’s cold.”

“That’s because it’s ice water, Chet.” Frank stooped down before an old-fashioned icebox in one corner. He drew from underneath it a basin so full that the water was constantly overflowing to add to the pool on the floor.

Chet grinned. “An old-time refrigerator,” Frank explained briefly. “The cake of ice inside melts, and the water has to go some place. Well, I’d drill a hole through the floor.”

Joe frowned. “I wonder why Captain Maguire didn’t empty this!” He picked up the basin and poured the water in the sink.

Frank nodded. “It’s strange. The captain hates a mess. He’d be sure to come back and empty the icebox’s pan—unless something unexpected detained him!”

“The bunk’s unmade, too,” Joe observed thoughtfully. “That’s not like him, either.”

“It looks as if Captain Maguire left in a hurry,” Chet summed up.

Suddenly apprehensive, the boys hurried out into the clearing again. Striding to the rim of the hollow, Frank cupped his hands and shouted:

“Cap-tain Maguire! Cap-tain Ma-guire!”

The boys strained to listen, but no answering sound came up from the dark hollow, not even an echo.

“We’ll have to look for him,” determined Frank. “He may be nearby, injured. I’ll take the woods on this side of the cabin. Joe, you and Chet comb the other side. Keep calling for him while you search!”

Accordingly, Joe and Chet plunged into the woods together. The big trees which blocked the twilight choked much of the undergrowth, making the going easy. Gradually they ceased to hear Frank’s calls. The shadow under the trees deepened to dusky gloom. In another half hour it would be dark.

“It’s almost night,” observed Chet. “My stomach tells me it’s long after suppertime and we aren’t getting anywhere here. Let’s go back!”

When they reached the clearing again, Joe called his brother. No answer came.

“Oh-h,” moaned Chet in despair. “First no Captain Maguire. Now Frank’s gone too.”

“Hush!” Joe stopped him. “What’s that?”

By now it was almost fully dark in the clearing. From the woods came a crackling sound of something moving.

“Joe? Chet?” came a familiar voice that caused Chet to sigh with relief. In a moment Frank had rejoined them.

“No sign of the captain,” he reported briefly. “I did find a trail down into the hollow, though, and went along it a good way. That’s what took so long. But I didn’t see any trace of him there, either.”

“It’s a real mystery,” agreed Joe, shaking his head. “But we’ve solved a few tough ones before —like the Mystery of the Desert Giant. Let’s get our gear inside. We can’t do anything more out here.”

Soon the delicious aroma of frying ham and baked beans filled the tiny cabin. While Chet Morton tucked away a few extra helpings of each, Frank and Joe sat with him at the kitchen table and discussed the Maguire situation.

“The door wasn’t locked and his car is in the yard,” mused Frank. “That leaves a couple of possibilities.”

“Yes. Either somebody else drove him, or he walked,” Joe deduced. “Now why would he walk? Perhaps because he was going somewhere his car couldn’t go.”

“Into the hollow!” Frank exclaimed. “I was thinking that myself.”

At this moment Chet Morton finished his supper. “Look, fellows,” he volunteered, “I know how absorbed you two get in mysteries, so I’ll wash the dishes while you look for clues, but on one condition.”

“What’s that, Chet?”

“You two get me some firewood for the stove.”

“It’s a deal!” The brothers laughed, and went outdoors to the captain’s woodpile. They soon returned with armloads of kindling.

While Chet worked the hand pump to get some water, the two young detectives started their search for clues.

“Here’s something,” called Joe from the living room. “I believe there’s a shotgun or rifle missing from the captain’s gunrack! It has one empty space.”

Frank had found something he thought was even more significant in the drawer of the kitchen table.

“Come here, Joe,” he urged. The blond-haired boy found his brother poring over an ordinary kitchen calendar showing the dates for the previous two months.

“On certain days,” Frank explained, “Captain Maguire has written the name of a breed of dog, and the name of an owner. See this one for June 10. ‘Border terrier. J. Brewer, owner.’ ”

“You’re right,” admitted Joe, taking up the calendar. “But wait! On some dates there’s another notation, ‘She screamed.’ ”

“Screamed!” repeated Chet, who was washing the dishes. “Who screamed? The witch? Oh, great! I’d forgotten all about her! Did Captain Maguire hear her, too?”

“Could be, Chet,” Frank answered seriously. “And the notations about the dogs—according to the story, the witch was a dog-killer, remember?”

“Say, what about that kid, Bobby Thompson, who was crying?” Chet broke in. “Is his name down there?”

Quickly Frank checked. “No, and that happened only last night. I wonder if that means Captain Maguire wasn’t here last night and maybe all of today?”

“Possibly,” Joe answered. “My hunch is that this witch-and-dog business was what Captain Maguire wanted to see Dad about!”

“Could be,” Frank agreed. “And I’m afraid he’s met with trouble. We’ll start a search for him tomorrow as soon as it’s light enough.”

“Which means we’d better turn in and get some sleep.” Chet yawned. “Well, fellows, shall we flip coins to see who gets the bunk?”

“You take it, Chet.” Joe laughed. “Frank and I will spread our sleeping bags on the floor.”

The bright gasoline lanterns with their constant, gentle roaring sound were turned off. Their mantles, resembling empty tea bags, glowed orange for a moment, then the cabin was silent and dark. Weary from the long drive and the evening’s activities, the boys slept soundly.

But in the middle of the night they were rudely awakened by a fearsome sound. The three campers lay rigid, with eyes wide open, waiting tensely for the sound to be repeated.

Abruptly it came. The night outside was rent by a long, full-throated scream—like that of a woman in terror. It seemed to come from the depths of the hollow behind the cabin.

As the scream died away, Chet whispered, “Do you suppose Captain Maguire heard that last night and went to investigate?”

“I don’t know,” answered Frank, jumping up. “But a scream’s a scream. It sounds as if someone is in serious danger. Slip on your shoes and trousers, and let’s go!”

Minutes later, the trio, led by Frank, were hastening down the steep wooded path into the hollow. The boys’ flashlight beams caused weird shadows to fall on the huge boulders and dense brush. Tree roots and small protruding rocks made the unfamiliar path tricky and dangerous.

They saw no one, and finally their progress was barred by a rushing mountain torrent.

“This is as far as I got earlier!” Frank shouted above the sound of the water. “Guess we’ll have to risk it now.”

“Let’s go!” Joe forged ahead into the stream.

The crashing white water exploded against the boy’s body. The impact caught him off balance. Frank and Chet, following his progress with their flashlight beams, saw him stagger, then go down underneath the relentless, rushing cascadel

CHAPTER III

An Eerie Trail

“DON’T lose sight of Joe! Keep both beams trained on him!”

With these words, Frank Hardy thrust his flashlight into Chet Morton’s hands. Then he plunged into the boiling torrent himself.

The freezing water crashed against his hips with the force of a football tackler. Joe, apparently unconscious, already had been carried several feet downstream. Cautiously Frank inched across, groping for footholds on the treacherous bottom.

“Better to move slowly than to risk a fall now!” he thought.

In a moment, guided by Chet’s flashlights, Frank reached his brother. He was lying unconscious against a rock; his head just out of reach of the water.

Frank braced his feet carefully and stooped. In a moment he straightened up, with Joe’s limp form held firmly across his shoulders in a fire-man’s carry.

“Over here, Frank!” Chet called anxiously, lighting the way.

Frank lurched through the raging water to the bank, where Chet helped lower Joe gently to the ground.

“Is—is he breathing?” gulped Chet, who was pulling off his shirt to use as a towel.

“He’ll be all right. Nasty crack on the head, that’s all,” Frank answered tersely.

He indicated a bloody mark on Joe’s temple. Then he swiftly stripped off his brother’s soaking clothes. Meanwhile, Chet rubbed Joe’s body briskly with his big woolen shirt.

In a moment Joe was blinking in the glare of their flashlights, and grinning weakly into their anxious faces. “Say, take the light out of a fellow’s face,” he protested feebly. “And what have you two done with my clothes?”

Chet took charge. “Never mind your clothes. Just put that shirt on to keep yourself warm. You Hardys are going straight back to the cabin to dry out by the stove. Whoever was doing the screaming down here can wait until tomorrow.”

There was no more screaming during the night. In the morning, sunshine had already flooded the little clearing before any sign of activity was to be seen around the captain’s cabin.

Inside, Frank and Joe were still sleeping soundly. From the kitchen came the clink and rattle of dishes and the unmistakable aroma of pancakes and sausages.

Clang! Clang! Chet Morton appeared in the doorway pounding on a metal pan with a big wooden spoon. “Breakfast, gang! Up and at ‘em! It’s almost ten o’clock!”

On the floor, two khaki sleeping bags stirred. Two heads popped into view.

“Oh-h-h—my aching head,” Joe moaned and sat up. “Captain Maguire hasn’t shown up, has he, Chet?”

“Ain’t nobody here but us pancakes,” the stout boy replied cheerfully as he re-entered the kitchen. “And if you two don’t get a move on there won’t be any of us pancakes—or sausages—left for long, either!”

Chet’s threat was enough for the Hardys. They were ravenous after their exertions of the night before and wasted no time getting to the breakfast table. In half an hour the trio, refreshed, was ready for a thorough search of Black Hollow.

Before starting, Frank slung the leather case containing his powerful binoculars around his neck.

“I’m taking these, just in case.”

Frank led the way down the steep, twisting path while Joe brought up the rear. Once they were under the huge, closely growing trees, very little of the bright sunlight above filtered down to them. The dark, somber evergreens made an almost impenetrable umbrella over their heads. All the time they kept looking for signs of Captain Maguire.

“It’s easy to figure how this place got the name Black Hollow,” Joe remarked.

The absence of wind in the well-protected valley made an unnatural stillness. Not a leaf stirred. Furthermore, no small animals seemed to be moving. Joe’s voice had a peculiar loudness and made all three a bit uneasy.

“Wait!” Chet Morton halted abruptly. “What’s that?” All three listened intently. At the same time, their eyes surveyed the surrounding woods.

“Just the call of a crow,” Joe said sheepishly. “Must be a mile away, at least.”

When the trekkers reached the rushing torrent, Joe unslung a coil of stout Manila rope from his shoulder. Working rapidly, the brothers rigged a lifeline for future passages by securing one end of the rope to a stout tree on the bank.

Once across, the search party continued their descent. Soon the sound of the turbulent stream was left behind. The eerie silence again surrounded them.

Once more Chet stopped. “Listen!”

“What now?” asked Joe with some impatience.

“I thought I heard something rustling.”

Tor Pete’s sake!” Joe grinned at Chet. “It’s your dungarees’ legs rubbing against each other. Come on! We’ll never get to the bottom of this hollow.”

The trio resumed its way down the trail.

“Hold it!” There was a tense note in Frank’s voice.

“Hear anything?” Chet demanded eagerly.

Warily the alert youth’s eyes scanned the trail behind them. “I just can’t shake the queer feeling that somebody or something is following us.”

“Must be stopping every time we do,” muttered Chet. “I can’t hear a thing.”

After switching positions, the boys continued down the trail. Now it was Joe who scrambled forward in the lead. Frank, watching every tree and rock suspiciously, brought up the rear.

At last the steep path leveled off onto the floor of the hollow. Quickening his pace, Joe plunged forward. Before he knew it, his legs were caught by many vinelike bushes. Innumerable tiny prickers bit through his dungarees, grasped his sweater like claws, and dug into his exposed wrists and hands like fishhooks.

“Ow!” he shouted, struggling frantically. “What’s got me?”

“You’re in a brier patch,” called his brother, laughing. “Simmer down. Stop fighting it. Go through it slowly. Take off one vine at a time.”

By doing this Joe succeeded in freeing himself. Carefully he worked his way through the patch, with Chet and Frank following. Suddenly he stopped once more.

“Frank! Chet!”

“What’s the matter? Caught again?”

Grinning triumphantly, Joe turned to face his comrades. “Maybe I did rush in here without looking. But I wasn’t the only one. Take at look at this!” With a flourish, he held up a piece of bright plaid material about two inches square.

“It was clinging to this bush,” he announced. “Looks like part of somebody’s flannel shirt. Maybe the captain’s! It hasn’t been here long. Not faded a bit by the weather.”

“Let’s see it” called Chet, struggling forward through the briers.

“Can’t wait now,” returned Joe as he emerged from the bushes. “Captain Maguire may be right near here!” He rushed headlong down the forest path, leaving Chet and Frank to catch up as soon as they could.

Just as they, too, worked clear of the tenacious prickers, another triumphant shout came from Joe, which caused them to set off on the double.

A wide, rock-strewn brook, apparently running the length of the valley, came into sight. Joe, kneeling beside it, was fishing something out of a little eddying pool on the near bank.

As Frank and Chet pounded up, he showed them an empty matchbook cover. It was wet, but still bright colored and fairly firm. “Hasn’t been here long,” he commented.

“It’s a find, all right,” Frank agreed soberly. “It may not prove that Captain Maguire passed this way! But some human being did. Now let’s follow the brook and keep our eyes open!”

The soft ground, covered with a brown carpet of pine and hemlock needles, disclosed no footprints. But as Frank Hardy approached a large dead trunk which had fallen directly across the path, his trained eyes picked out two distinct cup-like indentations in front of it.

At the same time, something shiny just off the trail attracted Joe’s attention. Reaching in among the thick vegetation that grew beside the stream, he drew out a pair of empty shotgun shells!

“Must’ve been shot recently,” he noted, sniffing. “I can still smell gunpowder.”

Meanwhile, Frank carefully placed one of his knees in each of the sunken marks in front of the fallen tree.

“Whoever was here knelt in this spot and fired across the log,” he concluded. “One of Captain Maguire’s guns is missing. Maybe he fired the shots. But at what?”

“This trail is really getting hot!” Joe exclaimed, starting off.

The path continued to follow the bank of the brook. Suddenly Joe, in the lead, drew up to a sharp halt. “Whup! On your guard! Prickers again! And hey, another piece of plaid flannel shirt!”

“And that’s not all,” Frank broke in excitedly. “Look at the way these nettles have been crushed down in this one spot, as though something heavy had fallen on them!”

Now it was Chet’s turn to make a discovery. With a yelp the stout boy bent over to snatch up a bent metal flashlight. Fragments of the shattered lens lay on the ground nearby.

“It’s Captain Maguire’s!” he declared excitedly, pointing out the initials T. M. scratched into the barrel of the flashlight.

Frank, in the meantime, had dropped down to examine the crushed nettle stalks more closely. “I’m afraid this is serious,” he announced at last. “Some of these leaves are stained dark.”

“Blood?” queried Chet in a worried tone, and the Hardys nodded.

At that moment the boys heard a slight noise just above them. Jerking their heads abruptly upward, they were startled to see a face gazing down at them from the height of a boulder on the bank.

It was a strange, wild-looking, sun-browned face, framed with scraggly black hair. The fierce dark eyes glared at the watchers as the wide mouth shaped itself into a weird grimace.

CHAPTER IV

The Windowless Cabin

THE Hardys and Chet stood frozen for a moment, as if entranced by the fierce stare of the wild face above them. Then suddenly the person back of the boulder was gone.

“The witch!” breathed Chet, who had turned chalk-white. “It must have gotten Captain Maguire!”

“Witch or no witch, it can’t have gone far!” Joe cried out, leaping to his feet. “Come on!”

Frank sprinted forward with his brother along the forest path. The two boys ran through the dark woods, turning and twisting with the unfamiliar trail, dodging trees, and hurdling small bushes.

From up ahead came the sound of somebody crashing through the underbrush. Suddenly Frank caught a glimpse of a tall, rangy figure in dark flannel trousers and a green sweater, darting swiftly in and out among the huge trees.

“That’s no witch.” Frank panted. “But he sure can run!”

In fact, the long-legged stranger seemed to be pulling away from the Hardys, though they were both strong runners. Unexpectedly he cut sharply to his left, leaving the path and darting in a straight line across the forest floor. With amazing agility he leaped over fallen trees and ducked under low-hanging branches.

“Keep him in sight!” Joe yelled. “We’ll trap him against the hillside!”

But the strange figure, upon reaching the steep, wooded side of the hollow, did not pause. Grasping at the small trees and bushes with his long arms, he clambered swiftly up the hillside from one foothold to another. Apparently he knew the route well.

Frank and Joe, meanwhile, were forced to waste precious time battling their way up. Doggedly they kept on, but the gap between the pursuers and their quarry widened.

At last, halfway up the valley wall, the man broke into the open onto the gray sunlit rock forming the upper rim of the hollow. Skillfully he moved diagonally from rock to rock until he disappeared from sight beyond the rim.

Frank and Joe, who had just emerged from the trees, sat down on a rock to catch their breath.

“There’s one witch that doesn’t need a broomstick,” observed Joe, shaking his head ruefully.

Frank had removed his binoculars from the leather case hanging in front of him. He trained them on the rim of the valley where the strange figure had vanished.

Meanwhile, Chet had reached the side of the hollow. After a toiling climb the panting boy hove into view. “Whew! I thought I’d never catch up with you fellows. But old Chet wasn’t going to stay down in those woods by himself. Say,” he asked, looking around at the rocks apprehensively, “where’s the—the guy with the face?”

“Escaped,” Joe replied.

Frank, unable to spot the figure with his binoculars, moved up higher on the rock. He began to examine the entire perimeter of the little valley systematically. By means of the glasses every fissure, every possible hiding place in the rock rim could be studied. Nothing suspicious appeared beneath Frank’s scrutiny. Finally he turned the glasses upon the floor of Black Hollow.

“See anything?” Joe called.

“Lots of trees, that’s all.”

As Frank continued to sweep the binoculars through a slow arc toward the end of the hollow, he was surprised to see a small clearing.

“Hold on—here’s something!” he called down. Joe and Chet started upward.

“Well, what do you know about that!” declared Frank in an astonished voice, as Chet and Joe clambered up beside him. Silently he handed the glasses to his brother and pointed the direction with his finger. At first Joe saw only the little clearing at the edge of the trees.

“Look at the base of the rock wall,” Frank said. “Look very closely at the pile of tree trunks and rocks you see there.”

Wondering, Joe did so. Suddenly it occurred to him that the rocks and logs had been put together in a careful, regular manner.

“Why,” he burst out, “that’s not a pile at all. It’s a little building! There aren’t any windows, but I’d say it was a very cleverly camouflaged cabin.”

“You’re right, fellows,” Chet agreed, when it came his turn to look. “Who would want to live in a place like that, anyway? Say, do you suppose it’s the queer guy with the creepy face?”

“Could be,” Joe answered. “Anyway, whoever lives there may be able to tell us where Captain Maguire is. Let’s go and find out—right now.”

“Aw, way down there to the end of the hollow? Have a heart, fellows. What about lunch?”

But Chet’s protests fell on deaf ears. As the hungry boy knew from past experience, when the Hardy boys were following up a promising clue, ordinary things like lunches did not count!

Leaving the bright sunshine of the exposed rocks, the trio descended once more into the gloomy hollow. Frank and Joe quickly reached the forest floor.

As they waited for Chet, they heard a crashing sound from above and a familiar voice booming, “Help! Gangway!” As they jumped to one side, Chet came sliding down the steep hillside. He tumbled in a heap on the moss below.

“Jumpin’ toads!” Joe exclaimed. “I thought the whole rock face was caving in on us!”

“Can I help it if I’m not made for these pesky mountains?” demanded Chet in an injured tone.

While Joe helped Chet get up, Frank scouted ahead to find the path once more. In a few minutes he located it.

“It isn’t much of a trail any more,” Frank reported. “But it’s going in the direction we want.”

Half an hour’s walk brought them to the edge of the little clearing where Frank, raising his hand, signaled a halt. Even from there the mysterious little house was difficult to see, though it was not more than a dozen yards away.

Warily the boys scrutinized the clearing, as well as the odd house built of rocks and logs. It had a dark-brown door. Seeing no one, the boys stepped into the open, crossed the intervening space, and knocked boldly on the wooden door.

“Nobody home,” muttered Joe as Frank knocked again and again. “I’m sure I heard something, though.”

Chet, meanwhile, had poked his head around one corner of the log cabin. “Wonder what’s fenced in over there?” He walked to the high palings of a strange, three-sided enclosure.

“What do you see?” called Joe, as the stout boy peered through the fence.

“Baa!”

“There’s your answer. Sheep!” Chet grinned. “Guess I scared ’em.”

“Well, nobody’s inside the house, that’s certain,” Frank concluded. “Let’s take a look at the rest of the outside.”

Accordingly, the three proceeded around the other side of the mysterious structure. Abruptly they found themselves face to face with the rock wall of the hollow. The strange little house had no fourth man-made side!

“Do you suppose whoever built this house was just lazy?” Joe wondered. “And used the rock for his wall? Or could there be some other reason?”

“The house certainly blends in with the rock,” Frank reminded him. “You couldn’t distinguish it from a distance without field glasses.”

“We might as well head back,” said Joe. “There isn’t anything doing here. Personally, I’d like to find out who owns this house. In fact, it would be interesting to know who owns Black Hollow.”

“Let’s not forget Captain Maguire,” Frank reminded them gravely. “This house and the person who was spying on us may or may not have something to do with his disappearance. Of one thing we are sure—something happened to the captain here in the hollow. The sooner we get to town and report it to the sheriff, the better!”

An hour’s vigorous hiking brought them back to Captain Maguire’s cabin on the opposite rim of the hollow. While Chet grabbed a box of crackers and three apples, Frank penciled a brief note.

“For Captain Maguire—in case he comes back,” Frank put at the top.

Joe and Chet said nothing. The three boys climbed into the yellow convertible and headed for the sheriff’s office at Forestburg. All were convinced that the captain had met with trouble.

CHAPTER V

A Reluctant Sheriff

EXPERTLY Frank piloted the yellow convertible down steep, winding Rim Road. As it passed the Thompsons’ unpainted house at the foot, the boys caught sight of little Bobby on the front porch, his chin in his hands.

“Poor kid,” said Chet. “Reminds me, we haven’t found any trace of his dog.”

“Maybe the pup has come home,” Joe suggested.

But Chet shook his head doubtfully. “Bobby wouldn’t look as if he’d lost his best friend, and Skippy would be with him.”

“You’re probably right, Chet,” Joe admitted. “Mrs. Thompson said many other dogs have disappeared around here. I’ll bet it’s the work of an animal thief.”

“But who would want to steal people’s pets, and why?” demanded Chet, bewildered.

At this, Frank chuckled. “Mrs. Thompson says the witch does it,” he answered jokingly.

To Frank’s surprise, his brother received his suggestion seriously. “I’m convinced there’s a tie-in between the witch and these lost dogs,” Joe stated. “Don’t forget, Captain Maguire connected them in his calendar notations. It all fits the witch legend.”

“Cut it out, Joe!” Chet protested nervously. “You don’t believe that story?”

“No,” Joe replied. “But I’ll bet plenty of other people around here do. The Pennsylvania Dutch settled in many areas, even over here. They weren’t really Dutch, but Germans, who came to our country between two and three hundred years ago for religious freedom. Anyhow, the old-timers brought some queer beliefs with them, such as the power of witches, charms, and spells. I’ve read that some of their descendants still hold on to these superstitions.”

“Mrs. Thompson does,” Chet put in.

But Frank had already guessed what his brother was driving at. “Joe, do you think someone is deliberately trying to revive the witch legend by stealing dogs?”

“Yes. But don’t ask me why.”

The drive to Forestburg, through sparsely inhabited country and over narrow, twisting roads, took nearly two hours. Joe, a keen student of history, used the time to comment on the customs of people in Pennsylvania Dutch country. “After all,” he reminded his companions, “a belief in witches wasn’t uncommon. The Puritans in New England believed in them too, you know.”

The car emerged from the hills onto the main street of Forestburg. On one side, the cross streets climbed steeply upward; on the other, behind substantial frame houses, ran a swift mountain river. An old stone mill stood by the water.

“That’s where people brought their grain for grinding in the old days,” Joe pointed out.

Another building, with the name GILLER’S GENERAL STORE on the window, attracted Chet’s attention. Outside were bright wash tubs, coils of rope, shiny new tools, and sacks of feed.

“I’ll get out here,” the stout boy announced. “Somebody has to keep us in provisions while you two are busy with detective work!”

Frank parked, and Chet went into the general store. The Hardys proceeded down the street to the county courthouse, a trim, white wooden building, with round pillars supporting a wide porch in front.

The door to the county clerk’s office pushed open under the pressure of Frank’s knock. Inside, the boys could see a big, old-fashioned roll-top desk. Its many pigeonholes were stuffed with papers. The top of the desk, too, was littered; the various papers held down by four heavy metal paperweights.

“Hello?” Frank called. “Anyone in?”

In a moment a door at the back of the office opened. A friendly, middle-aged woman wearing glasses entered.

“Yes, boys? Mr. Fry, the clerk, has gone out. May I help you?”

“We’d like to do some camping down in Black Hollow,” Frank answered. “We want to find out the owner’s name and ask his permission.”

The woman, a native of the district, was able to answer the question without looking at the records.

“My goodness, that whole valley always belonged to the Donner family. But they’ve pretty much disappeared from around here. I don’t know if there’s any of ’em left now. The sheriff could tell you. He’s across the hall.”

Frank made a brief note of the name Donner. Then he and Joe thanked her and went out. Joe tapped on the glass of a door marked SHERIFF.

“Come in!” called a deep voice.

A short, heavy-set man, with a thick iron-gray mustache, was just replacing the receiver of his telephone. He seemed extremely busy. His vest hung open, revealing colorful suspenders, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up on his strong forearms. The sheriff turned in his swivel chair to face the Hardys, who quickly introduced themselves. They learned the official’s name was Ecker.

“Well, what’s on your minds?” he demanded.

Briefly, Frank and Joe related the facts of Captain Maguire’s disappearance and expressed their fears for his safety. The sheriff listened with a preoccupied frown on his face and seemed scarcely to heed their story.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked when they had finished.

“We want someone to come and help us search Black Hollow, sir,” Frank replied promptly.

Wearily the sheriff shook his head. “Too late to get any kind of party together today,” he said. “I’ll be mighty lucky if I can do anything about it tomorrow. All my men, regulars and special deputies, are tied up trying to catch that gang hijacking goods from interstate trucks.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other, thinking, “Dad’s case?”

“There’s no time to waste,” Joe pleaded urgently. “Captain Maguire’s life may be in danger!”

“Now take it easy, boys,” the sheriff’s gruff manner softened. “Maybe your friend just went for a hike alone. He might even be back in his cabin right now, waiting for you fellows. I can’t pull my men off this other job without more evidence.”

“But we found his flashlight!” Joe persisted. “And also the shotgun, bloodstained leaves, and pieces of cloth!”

Sheriff Ecker sighed. “I just haven’t the men today. I’ll do my best to get a party together in the morning, but I won’t promise.”

“There must be somebody around who could help us!” Joe insisted.

Sheriff Ecker had already begun to study the report in front of him. Suddenly he looked up.

“Now that I think of it, there’s Mr. Donner, who lives down in the hollow all by himself. He must know every stone and bush in the place. His family has owned it since way back, y’see. He’ll be very glad to help you boys, because that’s the kind of man he is—always very friendly and helpful.”

At this news the Hardy brothers exchanged a quick, puzzled look. “Did you say he lives in the hollow?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Don’t know just where his cabin is, myself—never been there. But I guess you can find it.”

Frank and Joe left the courthouse and found Chet waiting for them in the car. On the back seat were three big bags filled with groceries. “Found a nice place where we can have lunch,” he announced cheerfully. “How’d you two make out?”

“Terrible,” Joe replied flatly. “Sheriff’s too busy to help us. Looks as if we’re on our own. What do you think, Frank? Shall we call Dad? We can reach him through the New Jersey State Police headquarters.”

“He might have some suggestions,” Frank agreed.

“If you’re thinking of telephoning,” Chet put in importantly, “better listen to me first. I found out a few things about this town. Know who the biggest gossip in Forestburg is? Mrs. Giller, the wife of the owner of the general store. Know who the local telephone operator is? Mrs. Giller. Anything confidential you have to say to your father will be heard by Mrs. Giller.”

“I get you,” Joe said. “There’s not much Dad could do right away, anyhow,” he added. “And at least we ought to give the sheriff a chance to come through with a search party. If that doesn’t work out, then we can see what Dad suggests.”

“Right.” Frank nodded. “We’ll wait till morning. If no searchers arrive, we’ll hunt up this Mr. Donner.”

“Do you suppose he lives in the queer little house?” Joe asked.

“Could be,” Frank answered. “We didn’t see any other cabin through the field glasses.”

Frank had started the car and he followed Chet’s directions to a diner. It proved to be an excellent eating place. Hot, juicy hamburgers and milk soon revived the boys’ energy. Frank spoke with optimism.

“I’ve been thinking about the search,” he told the others. “I have an idea for going ahead on our own.”

Eagerly Joe and Chet gave him their attention.

“We’re going to an animal auction,” Frank announced.

“An animal auction!” Joe echoed. “Where?”

“On the outskirts of the next town. I saw the advertisement in the window of Giller’s store as we went by. The auction is being held today, and ought to be starting in half an hour.”

“But what are we going to buy?” Chet wanted to know. “Not an animal!”

“We sure are—a dog,” Frank answered. “A dog to bait a trap. We’ll take him back to Captain Maguire’s cabin. If somebody’s been stealing dogs, I just hope he tries to take ours, because we’re going to be ready for him!”

“Great idea!” Joe said enthusiastically.

“Well, okay,” agreed Chet doubtfully, “as long as we’re careful. I’d hate to see harm come to any dog.”

“Don’t worry, Chet,” Frank assured him. “We’ll be on guard.”

A few minutes later the boys started off once more. As they left the tiny village, the ride became increasingly bumpy.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “This sure is a washboard road. Must’ve been built in horse-and-buggy days.”

Recent heavy rains had gullied the roadbed and left large exposed stones that pounded the tires unmercifully.

“We’re going to crash through!” Chet yelled

After descending a long hill in a series of hairpin turns, the car approached a small iron-railing bridge across a deep chasm. The waters of an overfull mountain river churned below. A sign at the bridge read:

CAPACITY LOAD 5 TONS

“Guess you’ll have to swim over, Chet,” Frank said jokingly.

The plump boy snorted indignantly as the big convertible rolled onto the planks of the bridge. When it was halfway across, a splintering, cracking sound gave warning that the wooden planks were giving way!

“We’re going to crash through!” Chet yelled.

CHAPTER VI

Unusual Bait

As Frank Hardy heard the crunching sound of the planks collapsing beneath the car, the thought flashed through his mind: “Keep going! It’s our only chance!” Instantly he pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

There was a whine of rubber on wood and a splintering sound. The back end of the convertible seemed to shudder and sink. Then at the last second the spinning tires caught hold. The convertible lurched forward and was out of danger on the other side of the bridge.

“Whew!” exclaimed Frank, stopping the car. “What did I tell you, Chet? We should have let you cross the bridge by yourself!”

But Chet was too thankful for their narrow escape to retort. Joe was already out of the car. “Let’s have a look around,” he urged.

Firmly taking hold of the iron railings, the brothers ventured out onto the bridge. Two planks dangled toward the dark water, and one was missing entirely.

“We’ll have to do something,” Joe declared, “to warn other drivers.”

Crossing to the opposite bank, Frank and Joe set up a temporary roadblock by rolling some logs down from the wooded hillside. Meanwhile, Chet arranged a line of good-sized rocks to close off the bridge on the other end.

“We must report this as soon as we come to a phone,” Joe remarked.

For more than a mile the road continued through wooded hills. At last the boys reached a farmhouse. On the rural mailbox was the name Wynn. Frank explained the situation at the bridge to the family, who had just sat down to an early supper. Immediately the father left the table to phone the police.

“Such a narrow escape, boys!” the mother declared sympathetically. “Won’t you sit awhile and eat something with us?”

Frank answered courteously, “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Wynn. But we want to make the animal auction in town before it closes.”

The boys said good-by to the friendly family and resumed their trip. Fifteen minutes later they passed a large sign:

ANIMAL AUCTION

Just Ahead on the Right

In a moment Frank had pulled into a parking area next to several red buildings and pens. The trio jumped from the car and entered a high building with ramps of seats rising steeply to the roof. Men in working clothes occupied the seats, and from a platform at one end of the building a skinny man in vest and shirt sleeves was speaking in a loud, ringing voice.

The auctioneer was showing his audience the good points of a young work horse. Next, the assistant led out a brown-and-white heifer.

“These are the larger animals,” Frank observed. “The dogs must be in another building.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet made their way to the door. Suddenly Joe clutched his brother’s arm. Without speaking, he pointed up into the tiers of seats. Among the farmers and stockmen sat a tall man with alert, piercing eyes and a full mustache. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and a well-cut sports jacket.

“Don’t you recognize him?” Joe insisted.

For a moment, all three boys stared up at the tall, commanding figure. Suddenly the man’s sharp eyes encountered their own. Feeling that they had embarrassed the man by staring at him, the boys went outside.

“That was Colonel Thunder, the puma trainer at Klatch’s Carnival!” declared Joe. “What’s he doing at an auction of domestic animals?”

“Search me,” Chet answered. “Let’s try here!”

He led the way into a long, low building filled with assorted sounds. Chickens cackled, dogs barked, pigs squealed, goats and lambs bleated. The long-eared rabbits hopped about in cages, watching the commotion with twitching noses.

The dogs, mostly working and hunting breeds, were at the end of the room. Chet passed the collies and shepherds that might be used for herding, and headed for the hounds, with their long ears and soft, expressive eyes.

“Always wanted a good hound dog!” he said enthusiastically. “Let’s see. What shall we get? Coon hound? No—too big. Bloodhound? Too gloomy. Basset? Too fat, and its legs are too short.”

“Look who’s talking,” Joe teased.

But Chet was too busy to hear. “Say, will you look at that, fellows?” He pointed.

In one corner stood a boy about eleven years old. Six fat, half-grown puppies were scrambling around his legs.

“Beagles,” Chet commented, indicating the broad backs, short legs, and pointed tails.

Suddenly one of the pups bounded across the floor and began to nuzzle Chet’s trouser leg. As the boy bent down, the beagle’s long red tongue licked his hand frantically.

“This has to be the one,” Chet declared happily, lifting the pup in his arms. “Come here, little fellow!”

“We’ll take him,” said Frank to the young owner. “How much?”

“Five dollars,” the boy replied.

“Sold,” agreed Frank, and took out his wallet.

As he selected a bill, his attention was distracted by his brother, who quietly touched his elbow. With a nod, Joe indicated a transaction taking place a few stalls away. The man they had seen in the other building, Colonel Thunder, seemed to be buying a sheep.

“Friend of yours?” asked the boy with the pups.

“No. We’ve just seen him some place before.”

“Well, he’s gettin’ cheated.” The boy snickered. “That sheep’s so old it can hardly stand on its legs. Why would anybody buy a critter like that?”

“Just what I’m wondering,” Joe murmured, as the boys walked out with their puppy. “Why does Colonel Thunder need a sheep? To feed his pumas?”

Once in the car, the little beagle began to tremble violently. “He’ll be all right,” Chet assured them. “Just the first time he’s been away from his brothers and sisters.” Kindhearted Chet allowed the new pet to snuggle up inside his sweater.

As Frank started the car he said, “I want to get back to the cabin. There’s just a chance Captain Maguire may have returned.”

They had traveled a few miles over the bumpy road when Frank suddenly stopped the car and exclaimed in annoyance. “What’s the matter with me? We can’t go back this way! The bridge is out!”

“We’ll have to find another route to Black Hollow,” Joe said.

After turning around in a farm lane, Frank consulted the road map for a few minutes. Then he headed back toward the auction. At the next town the boys stopped to eat. As they set off again, the roads improved. It was now about seven o.’clock. The sun was still high, but the air was pleasantly cool. Traffic became increasingly heavy. Many cars were filled with entire families, all going in the same direction.

“I wonder where these people are headed,” mused Joe. “Most of them are dressed up.”

“There’s your answer,” returned his brother.

Just ahead of them beside the highway appeared a familiar line of tents. Soon the wind brought the sound of loud-speakers to their ears. “Klatch’s Carnival has a new location,” Frank observed.

“Good! Let’s stop in,” Chet proposed. “I could use some peanuts and popcorn!”

Frank looked sternly at their chunky friend from one side. Joe looked sternly at him from the other. “Aw, I was kidding, fellows,” he said. “What I really want is to see that puma act again!”

“Well, that’s better,” Frank admitted. “I’d like to see it again myself.”

After parking, the three friends made their way to Colonel Thunder’s show tent. Chet carried the now-contented puppy inside his sweater. “I just thought of something,” he said. “Do you suppose the colonel will be here? We just saw him at the auction.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe answered. “He had time to get here while we were driving in the wrong direction.”

Sure enough, the colonel’s amazing act was already in progress when the trio entered. The tall trainer, wearing the same white outfit, managed the dangerous cats with the same daring disregard for the puma that remained always directly behind his back. This time, however, the performance went off without a hitch.

As the rest of the crowd climbed down from the bleachers and filed out, Joe pushed forward to the cage for a closer look at the pumas. They were sleek beasts—young, strong, and well fed.

At this same moment Colonel Thunder emerged from the cage through a small door right next to Joe.

“Some animals you have there,” Joe remarked to the man. “What kind of food do you give them to eat?”

“Raw meat that we get from local butchers,” the colonel replied. He spoke politely, but his manner was distant, and he walked away immediately.

“But we saw him buying that sheep at the auction!” Joe protested as the boys drove homeward. “If it was to feed his pumas, why didn’t he mention it?”

When Frank pulled up to the cabin it was almost nine o’clock. The sun was gone and the woods were dark, but overhead the sky remained luminous in the afterglow.

The boys, half hopeful that their host had returned, entered the cabin. But the place was silent. Frank’s note lay undisturbed on the kitchen table. Captain Maguire had not returned.

“Where is he?” Joe burst out. “We must find him—and soon.”

Suddenly Frank held up his hand. “Listen. Outside—a car!”

The boys ran to the porch. In the clearing an automobile’s parking lights gleamed. A plump little man in a business suit got out, slammed the car door, and walked rapidly toward them.

“Where’s Maguire?” he demanded in an irritable voice that matched his rather dour face.

“Not here just now,” Frank answered noncommittally.

“Not here! Where is he, then? He owes me some money!”

“I’ll tell him you were around,” said Frank. “What is your name?”

“Webber—Wyckoff Webber—He knows. I’m an attorney in Forestburg.”

“An attorney?” Joe spoke up. “Maybe you can tell us about Black Hollow, Mr. Webber. It belongs to the Donners, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. They used to have a summer cottage in it, but the place burned down. Haven’t seen a Donner around here since.”

“What do you make of the witch story?” Frank asked.

For a second the lawyer’s eyes shifted away before he replied, “A lot of nonsense. The hollow has peculiar reverberating qualities. Somebody screaming miles away could be heard here, and clearly, too.”

“I see. Well, we’ll give Captain Maguire your message, Mr. Webber.”

As the lawyer’s car pulled away, Joe observed, “There’s one fellow I wouldn’t trust for two minutes.”

Chet now hurried to give their pet some milk and meat scraps. As the little dog ate hungrily, Frank said, “I’m going to test out what Webber told us. Sounded phony to me. I’ll drive around to the opposite rim and yell. The wind is blowing in this direction. You fellows stay here and listen. When I get there I’ll blink the car’s headlights.”

Frank drove off to circle around to the far side of Black Hollow.

CHAPTER VII

The Hermit

JOE and Chet walked to the edge of Black Hollow. Darkness descended. Presently a short beam of light could be seen traveling rapidly along the opposite rim, almost two miles away.

“Must be Frank,” Joe murmured as he raised his binoculars. For a moment the beam disappeared. Then the boys saw two bright lights blink on and off.

“Frank has turned the car to face us,” said Joe.

Chet and Joe held their breaths, listening intently. A fresh breeze blew against their faces from the direction of the automobile lights, but no sound reached them. In a moment the lights were gone and the beam could be seen traveling again. Frank was on his way back.

When he reached the cabin Frank said, “I screamed my lungs out. I blew the car horn, too.”

“Didn’t hear a thing,” Joe told him as the boys re-entered the cabin. The gasoline lanterns were lighted, and Chet prepared supper.

Frank rested his elbows on the table, frowning. “The hollow doesn’t have any echoes to speak of,” he noted, “so Webber was lying. Why?”

“Sure,” said Joe. “He has lived around here long enough to know the truth. What’s he hiding? Is he covering up for somebody?”

“He didn’t seem to know that Captain Maguire is missing,” Chet put in.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Joe cautioned. “He may have come around just to find out how much we know.”

Frank agreed. “There’s something more than witchery going on here. Things look bad for Captain Maguire. We must press the hunt for him tomorrow!”

Hoping to make an early start next day, the boys decided not to expose the puppy to the dog thief and stay on watch, but to get some sleep.

Sleep would not come, however, except in fitful dozes. Each boy found himself waiting, listening for the terrible scream that had roused them the night before.

About midnight, Joe whispered suddenly, “Hush!”

A new sound floated up from the depths of Black Hollow—a long, screeching sound.

“Creepers!” Chet quavered. “Last night the witch screamed. Tonight she’s screeching. What next?”

Meanwhile, the little puppy had begun to whine and tremble.

Suddenly Joe began to laugh.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Chet said crossly. “Our poor puppy is shaking all over!”

“Of course he is.” Joe laughed. “He hears his natural enemy. Witch, my eye. That screeching, my friends, is nothing but the screech of an owl!”

“Owl?” repeated Chet. “A screech owl?”

“No. A screech owl wails, Chet,” Joe replied. “It’s the barn owl that screeches.”

Chet sat up in his bunk. “You mean that what we heard tonight was nothing but a barn owl!”

Joe nodded. “It must have been. And barn owls have been associated with witches and ghosts for centuries. But that screaming last night definitely did not come from any barn owl.”

“And furthermore,” said Frank, “barn owls don’t steal dogs. Well, let’s get some sleep before the sun comes up. We’ll just have to get used to these weird sounds.”

“Owl or no owl,” Chet put in, “it gives me the willies!”

A gray, misty dawn the next morning found the boys already up and about. After breakfast, while Chet made sandwiches to take on the search, Frank and Joe walked out to Rim Road to look for Sheriff Ecker’s party.

In an hour a bright sun had burned the mist away, but no searchers had arrived. “All right,” said Frank. “We’re on our own. We’ll go down and call on this Mr. Donner first.”

The door of the cabin opened, and the little beagle rushed out, only to be brought to a tumbling halt by a piece of clothesline attached to his collar. Chet held the other end in his hand.

“Whoa there, Mystery!” called the stout boy, who carried a knapsack on his back.

“Mystery!” repeated Joe. “That his name?”

“Yes, because he’s the little feller that’s goin’ to help us solve this mystery.”

Once more, the three boys descended the steep path to the floor of the hollow. Around them the woods preserved their eerie silence. Even the puppy showed no desire to range about.

Suddenly Frank called a halt. “It’s the same as yesterday,” he said in a low, perplexed voice. “I’m sure we’re being followed!”

The three listened, hardly breathing. But there was nothing to be heard or seen. “All right. Let’s go!” Frank signaled finally.

Almost before they knew it, the boys had reached the queer, windowless cabin. Frank stepped forward and rapped sharply on the door.

Immediately it was pulled inward. A tall, broad-shouldered man with heavy brows, a full mustache, and piercing eyes confronted them.

“Colonel Thunder!” Joe blurted.

“Colonel?” the man repeated quizzically in a deep, hearty voice. “Take it easy on the rank, there, boy. You couldn’t even call me a buck private, seeing as how I was never in the army!”

“You mean,” faltered Chet, “you’re not Colonel Bill Thunder, the fearless animal trainer?”

The big man gave a booming laugh. “No. Afraid I’m just plain Walter Donner.”

Perplexed, Joe stammered, “Well, Colonel Thun—I mean, Mr. Donner—we’re afraid that something has happened to a friend of ours, Captain Thomas Maguire—he owns a cabin on the other side of the hollow. He disappeared from his cabin at least two nights ago!”

Immediately Mr. Donner’s genial face became serious. “Hmm. Better come in awhile, boys. Just tie the puppy outside there, will you?”

Frank, Joe, and Chet followed their host into a tidy little room furnished with rustic wooden table and chairs. “Leave the door open for the light. Sit down here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

The tall man ducked easily through a low, narrow doorway into the kitchen beyond. The boys could hear pots being moved about, and a door being closed. In a moment Donner was back.

“Now,” he addressed them, “who is Captain Maguire, and what’s happened to him? Let’s get all the details.”

The boys introduced themselves, then Joe explained, “He’s a friend of ours who lives on the edge of the hollow. The captain was expecting us. When we arrived, day before yesterday, there was no sign of him. He’d vanished. We tracked him into the hollow, where we found his flashlight and two shotgun shells that he probably fired.”

“Yes!” Donner broke in. “There was some shooting the other night. At first I thought it was a hunter. But I didn’t hear any dogs, which are used for hunting coon, or anything legal. So I assumed it was somebody poaching deer. As for your friend, I’m sorry. I never heard of him.”

“Well, thanks anyhow, Mr. Donner,” said Frank. “But say—would you know anything about the dogs we understand are disappearing in the neighborhood? We promised to look out for a puppy that’s missing.”

Thoughtfully, the big man frowned. “Very likely a dog thief. You see, there’s a big illegal market on dogs for medical experimentation. I’d like to get my hands on the wretch who steals them,” he added indignantly. “You see, I like animals!”

“We did see something else suspicious, yesterday,” Frank went on. “A strange person spying on us. He looked—well, he seemed half wild.”

“There I can help you,” declared Mr. Donner, raising his finger. “You must mean Simon. He’s a mute boy who lives with his widowed mother over in the next valley. He can hear, but he lost his voice by an injury to his throat, I understand, even before he learned to talk. He runs wild in the hollow all summer. Lives on berries and whatever he can pilfer from nearby farms.”

“Is he dangerous?” Chet asked.

“Mmm—I’d keep away from him. He’d just as soon heave a rock at you as not. You know, it might be Simon who is making off with these dogs. Animals and birds seem to interest him.”

“Brrr,” Chet shuddered. “I don’t see how you stand it here, Mr. Donner. Boys running half wild—the witch shrieking at night.”

At this their host’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Well, young fellow,” he said to Chet with a wink, “intelligence tells me it’s certainly no witch. But I’ll have to admit every time I hear the screams, chills run up and down my spine!”

Frank and Joe, thinking how they had been startled by the owl, grinned also. A soft popping sound was heard from the kitchen.

“There’s my coffee,” Donner announced abruptly. “Come into the kitchen, boys.”

With eager curiosity Frank, Joe, and Chet followed their host through the narrow doorway. They found themselves in a small windowless kitchen lighted by two kerosene lamps. There was a little wood stove for warmth, but Donner cooked on a small gasoline range. In a moment he had whipped up cocoa for them and poured out coffee for himself.

“Yes, I camp out here,” he said, as the four sat around the plank table near a ventilation flue. “I come for a rest. I take it easy, and raise a few sheep. It’s a quiet place.”

“Quiet is right,” Chet agreed. “You’d never know it was here!”

“Ah, but that was the idea,” said Donner. “The idea of living in the cabin, I mean. I guess you could call me a hermit.

“I love this cabin. You notice the way it blends with the surroundings? Take a look at the back wall of this kitchen. See? Solid rock. That’s the rock face of the hollow. This cabin is over a hundred years old. Do you know what was going on then?”

“Let me see,” said Joe. “That would be just about the time of the Civil War.”

“Right. This was one of the stations on the Underground Railway—the route for smuggling runaway slaves up to Canada. That’s why it’s so well hidden, and has no windows, no lights to give it away at night. It’s small, but comfortable.”

While he examined the unusual little house, one fact stuck in Joe’s mind: There seemed to be only one door in the place; the one at the front. How was a runaway slave supposed to escape if he were surprised here? Besides, hadn’t he heard a door closing earlier, or had he imagined it?

While Joe wondered, suddenly there came an urgent knocking.

CHAPTER VIII

Rock Barrage

THE sunlight streaming into the hermit’s cabin was suddenly blocked off by the stocky figure of Sheriff Ecker.

“’Morning, Donner,” he said, as the tall man came forward with hand outstretched. “Sorry to break in, but we’re going to need your help.”

By this time Frank, Joe, and Chet had come from the kitchen. “Oh, the boys found you first, did they?” The sheriff spoke in a gruff but friendly voice.

He was dressed for the wilderness in high-top boots and a sturdy belt from which hung a heavy revolver in its holster. Three men were standing together behind the sheriff.

“Well, here’s your search party,” Ecker said to Joe. “It’s not much of a posse—three men are all I can spare, but we’ll do what we can. With you fellows and Mr. Donner here, we’ll have eight, and that’s pretty good. Sorry I couldn’t get hold of a good dog to take along.”

“That’s all right, Sheriff,” Chet spoke up. “We have Mystery!”

“Our beagle,” Joe explained hastily.

“Search party?” repeated Donner. “That sounds terribly official to me, Sheriff!”

Sheriff Ecker shot a quick look at the smiling Donner. “Did the boys tell you what’s up?”

“Well, they did say something about their captain friend being missing. He probably just went for a long hike in the woods. I’d no idea it was so important that the sheriff personally would lead a search party in these out-of-the-way parts,” he added, smiling.

Sheriff Ecker frowned, obviously reminded of other urgent matters. Joe and Frank glanced at each other—would the man change his mind about conducting the search? But Ecker merely said:

“I’d like you to come along, Mr. Donner, since you know the hollow so well.”

“By all means,” agreed the big man. “But now that you are here, come in and have a look at my little retreat, Sheriff. It’s over a hundred years old. I was just telling the boys that it used to be a hide-out for runaway slaves.”

Hospitably, Donner conducted Ecker through the cabin, while the boys waited. Joe went to introduce himself to the three deputies.

Chet, meanwhile, accompanied by the frisky young puppy, wandered over to the three-cornered sheep pen and peered inside. Frank stayed near the door of Donner’s house. He stared thoughtfully at the ground. Something shiny that lay deep in the tall meadow grass caught his eye. Unobserved by the others, he stooped down, examined the object, and slipped it into his pocket, just before Donner and the sheriff appeared.

“Ready to go, boys?” Donner boomed.

The group now formed under his direction. Donner had put on a dapper felt hat with bright-colored trout flies hooked in the band. With an amused grin he was stuffing a long-barreled target pistol with a fancy pearl handle into his belt.

“Now I feel like a real deputy,” he joked. Frank and Chet took their places with Joe.

“Now, my husky young friend,” Donner went on, gripping Chet’s shoulder, “suppose you come up front with your dog. Black Hollow has two kinds of terrain, woods on the bottom and rock on the sides. We’ll take the woods first, and the rocks later.”

Quickly the searchers were told by Sheriff Ecker to fan out in order to cover as much ground as possible. Each person was to keep the man to the right of him in plain sight, and was responsible for the area between them.

Chet, with Mystery eagerly sniffing and straining at his homemade leash, was placed near the center, slightly in advance of the rest. Sheriff Ecker stationed himself on the left wing, and Frank and Joe had the extreme right. Donner took the middle, so he could call directions. In this order the party advanced into the thick woods on the hunt for Captain Maguire.

The tangled undergrowth, dim light, and the numerous trees growing densely together made progress difficult and slow.

“Sheriff!” Donner called out. “There’s a little gully over near you. Check it. Maguire may have fallen into it.”

In a minute the report came back, “Nobody there!”

Another time the woodsman sang out jokingly, “You—Joe Hardy—you’ll be coming to a hollow tree. Better look and see if your friend’s inside!”

Joe smiled faintly, but he was beginning to be annoyed at Donner’s rather lighthearted approach to the affair. “Treats the whole thing like a lark,” the young sleuth thought.

All the while his keen eyes scanned the ground, bushes, and heavy undergrowth. Frank and Chet also were constantly on the alert.

The search continued through the gloomy hollow. All at once, Mystery gave a high-pitched yap at something that had startled him.

“A man!” Chet shouted. “I see a body!”

From both sides the searchers came pounding toward him. All stared ahead into the dark woods. Ahead lay the huddled figure of a man in black coat and cap, and gray trousers!

Tensely, with Mystery bounding along, they pressed forward. Frank and Joe were the first to reach the figure. Both gasped in relief.

“It’s only a fallen tree limb!” Joe exclaimed, as the others came up.

“Some eyes you’ve got, Morton,” Donner roared. The deputies shook their heads in a half-amused, half-exasperated gesture.

“Well, it looked like a body—from far away,” Chet apologized ruefully.

“Might as well call a halt and rest now that we’re all together,” Sheriff Ecker interposed.

Eager to make amends, Chet opened his knapsack and passed around tuna-fish, egg-salad, and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. The three deputies sat down on the tree limb that had fooled Chet. Frank, Joe, and the sheriff squatted on their heels while Donner lounged against a tree.

“It’s noon, but you’d never know it in these dark woods,” Sheriff Ecker commented.

While Chet went from man to man with a big Thermos of coffee, Frank brought a tiny transistor radio from his pocket and turned on the twelve-o’clock news.

The swift, precise voice of an announcer roused the search party’s attention:

“New Jersey and Pennsylvania State Police were forced to admit defeat this morning in their attempt to recover thousands of dollars’ worth of surgical equipment stolen last night from a truck en route to New Jersey.

“Daring hijackers stopped the tractor trailer carrying the equipment, knocked the driver unconscious, and apparently fled in a vehicle of their own. No trace of them has been discovered.”

Frank and Joe exchanged meaningful glances. This news indicated their father’s work on the case was far from finished!

“Officials emphasized,” the broadcaster continued, “that this robbery was only the latest in a series of many which have taken place in the area recently. Combined efforts of law-enforcement agencies in both states to round up the hijackers have so far ended in total failure.”

“Turn it off,” the sheriff snapped.

Donner, however, merely chuckled and shook his head with amusement. “Now isn’t that just like our State Police!” he said. “Just don’t want to work overtime, probably. No wonder they can’t keep up with these hijackers. When thieves are on a job they don’t worry about the hours!

“Now, Sheriff, you tell me,” the big man went on, “why aren’t these criminals caught? All it would take, it seems to me, is a system of alerting all policemen within a reasonable radius, and posting them on all possible escape routes.”

“Mr. Donner, I know you mean well,” answered Ecker, frowning, “but you’re hittin’ kind of close to home. I was out all night myself, and my men too. We were out the night before that. I’d be watching the roads right now, if I wasn’t here searching for this man who’s disappeared. A policeman can’t do two things at once, y’know —no more than another man.”

“You’re right, Sheriff, and I’m sorry,” Walter Donner apologized. “Let’s finish this search.”

Accordingly, the party spread out in line again, and the hunt went on. By midafternoon the searchers had thoroughly combed the wooded valley floor without discovering a clue to Captain Maguire’s whereabouts. Now they found themselves up against the steep, rocky side of the hollow.

“I see a cave up there,” said Donner, pointing above to ledges and boulders. “It’s just possible we may find something in it. You boys go on ahead. I’ll come after you. I’m not in very good condition for climbing.”

In a moment Joe Hardy was working his way nimbly up the gray rock wall. Frank and Chet followed close behind. Above them, the cave mouth was a black opening in the rocks.

Soon Joe reached a narrow cross ledge about a third of the way up. As he pulled himself onto it, however, he was suddenly staggered by a stone that crashed into his forehead.

“Look out! Above you!” Donner shouted.

Other stones came bouncing down at the climbing boys, narrowly missing them. Looking up, they saw a tall, lean figure at the top of the hollow. He kept hurling the dangerous missiles.

“It’s Simon!” cried Donner. “Watch out!”

The mute boy waved his arms threateningly.

“He’s trying to stop us from coming up,” Joe said grimly. “Well, he’s not going to succeed!”

Though his head was bleeding, the plucky boy crawled upward again after Frank, who was now in the lead. Chet was climbing at a slower pace behind them. Seeing the trio advance, the strange boy redoubled his barrage.

One stone bruised Frank’s forearm. Another skipped off his back. Dodging, the determined boy crawled steadily upward. He reached the ledge at the mouth of the cave, then he turned, and with a skillful pull and twist, hauled his brother up beside him.

Abruptly the stoning ceased. Frank and Joe turned to face the cave itself. The next instant they froze in their tracks. Barely three feet from their faces a deadly timber rattler was coiling to strike!

At that moment two more of the venomous snakes slithered out of the cave itself!

CHAPTER IX

Setting a Trap

THERE was no escape for the Hardys—the ledge was too narrow. They were trapped by the deadly reptiles. The steep drop below the cave cut off all chance of rapid descent. While the two rattlers slithered toward their exposed ankles, Frank and Joe raised their arms in an attempt to ward off the strike of the reptile coiled just above them.

Crack! The shot of a pistol was followed in a split second by the unmistakable smack of a bullet hitting home. The snake’s long body exploded straight upward, writhing, and then fell with a thud at the Hardys’ feet. Startled, the two other rattlers retreated into the cave.

“Off the ledge, quick!” cried Frank.

Scrambling backward, both boys hung for an instant by their finger tips from the ledge. In another moment they were grasped firmly by Chet Morton and Walter Donner, who had climbed up the steep rock face. Donner held in one hand the smoking, long-barreled pistol which had ended the life of the deadly snake.

When the four climbers were back on the ground, Sheriff Ecker wiped his brow in relief. “A close call,” he declared, still shaken. “Wasn’t a thing we could do!”

“Lucky for us you decided to come up, Mr. Donner,” Joe addressed the tall man gratefully. “And even luckier you can shoot so well.”

“We’re certainly thankful you were near enough to shoot,” Frank added. “Your bullet must have caught that rattler right in the head!”

Walter Donner’s face, usually so good-natured, had become serious, and even stern.

“I’m glad I happened to be here,” he answered. “I hate to think of what would have happened otherwise. Suppose you boys had gone rushing up to that cave, without looking where you were going, and I wasn’t around? It would have been a terrible tragedy!”

Putting one arm around Chet’s shoulders, and another around Joe, Donner continued, “If you ever listened to anything, listen to me now. You can’t be too careful in the woods! You never know where danger is going to come from—sometimes under your feet, sometimes over your heads. Snakes like to sun themselves on dry, rocky ledges. Don’t climb around carelessly. Once you are in the wilderness, remember—caution, boys, always caution.”

“Mr. Donner,” one of the deputies said emphatically, “I’ve got two boys at home, and I couldn’t have said it better to ’em than you just did.”

“Yep,” another agreed. “The woods is no place for kid stuff. You’ve got to be on the look-out.”

“It’s true,” Sheriff Ecker put in. “Most people who get in trouble in the woods just don’t know any better. They can’t tell directions, they’re not careful where they step, they forget to bring matches, and so on. Always somebody coming up from town and getting lost in these mountains.”

“Well”—Donner’s voice became jovial again —“I’m sure these lads are going to be real careful after what happened today.” He turned to the Hardys. “Maybe you’d better stay out of Black Hollow entirely. It’s a dangerous place, especially with that Simon throwing rocks at people. Besides, it seems certain your friend isn’t here.”

Thwarted and disappointed at finding no trace of the missing captain, Frank, Joe, and Chet thanked the search party and returned to their cabin. Frank washed and dressed the stone cut on his brother’s head.

“How’s it feel?” he asked.

“Terrible—I have a corker of a headache.”

While Joe lay down to rest, Frank again studied the calendar notations made by the captain. Chet Morton busied himself getting supper. When it was ready, the stout boy called out cheerily:

“Soup’s on. Come and get it!”

Although Chet had outdone himself to produce a meal of steak, fried potatoes, and hot vegetables, the brothers hardly seemed to notice the food. They ate in thoughtful silence. Chet watched his two friends uneasily.

“Still feeling blue about it?” he asked at last.

“About what, Chet?”

“About that lecture Donner gave us. He sure made it sound as if we’re babes in the woods. Boy, did that get me mad for a minute there! Why, the three of us have been camping for years. I felt like telling him a thing or two!”

“So did I, Chet,” Joe admitted ruefully. “But I couldn’t, because he’d just saved our lives. It really looked as if we were babes in the woods.”

“Let’s be fair, fellows,” Frank put in. “It’s true we’re not tenderfeet, but what happened was our own fault. We should have thought of the possibility of snakes. I know they’re apt to be in rocks as well as Donner does....”

A new idea suddenly crossed Frank’s mind. “... as well as Donner does,” he repeated thoughtfully. “If he knows it, why didn’t he warn us before we went up? Besides, he knows more than that. He knows every rock and tree in Black Hollow, as Sheriff Ecker told us. We trusted Donner’s knowledge of the hollow—that’s why we weren’t careful. But who sent us up to that cave? Donner!”

“That’s right!” Joe chimed in excitedly. “And remember, he invited us to give up the search, and stay out of the hollow. There’s something fishy about that man and his hous . I know I heard a door open in the back. But there wasn’t any sign of one in the kitchen.”

“What I can’t figure out,” Frank went on, “is why Donner would send us up to a den of rattlers and then save our lives. Because the only reason he climbed up along with us was to get within pistol range of the snakes. The sheriff and his men couldn’t shoot—we were in their line of fire.”

“There’s your answer,” Joe declared forcefully. “I believe it was Donner’s idea to establish us as woefully inexperienced in front of witnesses. Suppose some ‘accident’ does happen to us down there. The sheriff won’t be suspicious, because he thinks we don’t know how to take care of ourselves!”

“You mean Donner may be planning to kill us and make it look like an accident?” Chet asked.

“Who knows?” Frank nodded seriously. “Another thing—the rock throwing by Simon, the mute. Is he in league with Donner? Or was he perhaps throwing stones at us because we were with Donner?”

Joe frowned. “It’s a puzzler, all right, including Donner’s resemblance to Colonel Thunder.”

“Hey—I nearly forgot!” Frank reached into his pocket and placed a shiny metal disk on the table.

“What’s this?” asked Chet, picking it up. “Oh, a dog tag. What’s it say? Skippy! That’s Bobby Thompson’s little dog! Where’d you find this?”

“In the grass near Donner’s front door.”

“You think Donner’s been stealing dogs?” Joe queried. “Is he mixed up in some kind of animal racket? He said himself there was an illegal market for dogs.”

Perplexed, Frank shook his head. “You have me there. If he steals them, I can’t figure out what he does with them. There weren’t any around his house.”

“That’s true,” Chet agreed. “I took another look in the sheep pen. Nothing in it but sheep. Could be that Skippy just wandered off from the Thompsons’ and lost his tag down by Donner’s.”

At that moment the boys’ own puppy could be heard noisily lapping up warm milk from a pan that Chet had put down for him.

“We can’t let anything happen to Mystery!” Chet finished anxiously.

Hearing his name, the beagle romped happily over to Chet’s chair. “Yes, Mystery,” the chunky boy crooned, while the dog’s tail thumped the floor, “we won’t let anything happen to you!”

“All the same, I think tonight is the time to set our trap for the dog thief,” Frank declared.

“Right,” Joe agreed promptly. “Mystery, old pup, you’re going to be the bait.”

“Now wait a minute, fellows,” Chet protested. “I won’t agree to this unless I’m sure we can safeguard Mystery!”

“I think we can,” said Frank. “We’ll just tie him on the porch after dark. Chet and Joe—you watch from right inside the door at all times. I’ll hide at the side of the house. That way, we ought to catch any dognaper that comes around!”

Accordingly, about ten o’clock, the gasoline lanterns were turned out, and the little cabin was in solid darkness. Heavy clouds, promising a storm later on, had begun rolling across the sky. The air was dense and still.

Chet and Joe opened the cabin door quietly, and led Mystery outside. After securing the dog’s rope to the railing, the two withdrew to stand guard. From within they could scarcely make out the dog in the total darkness.

Soon afterward Frank, wearing dark clothes, slipped out the back door and stationed himself between Captain Maguire’s old car and the side of the cabin, a few steps from the porch.

The youth sat down and waited, listening intently. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the night. Even so, he realized that a person advancing across the clearing against the background of thick trees would be nearly impossible to see.

The night air seemed to grow heavier and warmer. Flickers of lightning began to play about the horizon. The thunder became louder. Suddenly a streak of lightning lit up the clearing for a bare instant, then blackness closed down again. A tremendous thunderclap followed instantly. Frank checked his watch. It was nearly midnight.

Another flash came, accompanied by a long roll of thunder. On the porch the beagle whined.

“Storm’s almost on top of us,” Frank noted. Almost immediately came another white blaze of lightning, and a fearful crash of thunder. The first heavy drops of rain pelted down. Mystery’s whines suddenly changed to frantic, high-pitched barking.

Distracted for a moment by the storm’s arrival, Frank hesitated an instant, then sprang forward. At that same moment Joe and Chet burst out the front door.

Mystery was gone!

The dog’s yelping could be heard, but the sound grew fainter. A sheet of lightning made the clearing and woods even brighter than day. Frank, Joe, and Chet caught sight of a figure fleeing swiftly down the path into the hollow.

“After him!” Joe shouted.

Armed with flashlights, the three boys raced in pursuit.

CHAPTER X

Sketch of a Thief

SPRINTING across the clearing, Frank, Joe, and Chet entered the dark woods on a run. They were forced to slow up at once, however, in order to pick out the path with their flashlights.

Ahead of them, the dog thief pounded forward in the darkness, apparently certain of his way even without a light. Mystery’s whimpers came back to the boys, then were drowned in a rumble of thunder. Raindrops could be heard pattering on the tree leaves overhead. In the momentary glare of lightning flashes, the three boys could see a figure ahead running swiftly downward toward the floor of the hollow.

Suddenly, from the blackness, came a human cry, followed by the clatter of something or somebody falling among the rocks, then a heavy crashing in the underbrush. All the while Mystery barked frantically.

Recklessly the pursuers dashed to the bottom of the path. Someone was groaning in pain in the dense underbrush to their right. The sound of running footsteps continued.

“Joe! Chet!” Frank commanded breathlessly. “Find out what’s going on in the brush. I’ll keep after the thief!”

“Roger!” snapped Joe.

With flashlight beams darting here and there, Joe and Chet moved forward through the dense growth. The crashing of bushes told them their quarry was moving, too. But no more groans reached their ears. Soon they could hear nothing but the sound of the rain falling heavily on the leaves, and the claps of thunder.

“No use. We’ve lost him,” Joe decided quickly. “Back to the path, Chet.”

In the meantime, Frank had been able to increase his speed on the level valley floor. Hoping to catch the fleeing figure off guard, the youth no longer used his flashlight, but relied instead on the lightning’s vivid glare.

Suddenly, as the woods was illuminated by an especially dazzling flash, Frank recognized the tall, thin figure running just thirty yards ahead with a wriggling object under one arm. “Simon!” Frank called out. “Wait!”

But the strange boy wheeled and made a dash for the rocky side of the hollow.

Limping slightly as though hurt, but still with amazing agility, Simon clambered swiftly upward over the rocks. Frank had almost closed the gap between them in a final spring. Bounding upward himself, he made a lunge and grasped the fleeing boy’s ankle firmly with one hand. Mystery, barking fiercely, was thrown clear. Simon, who had been dragged backward, suddenly recovered and threw himself upon Frank.

By now the storm was at its height. The rain fell in sheets. Flickers of lightning illuminated the fierce struggle between the two boys.

Keeping a cool head, Frank tried to subdue the boy by means of a wrestling hold. But Simon’s wet clothing and his unexpected, immense strength enabled him to wrench free, throwing Frank to the ground. Quickly Simon grabbed a heavy rock and poised it above Frank’s head.

“Drop it!” came a sudden shout from below.

Startled, Simon turned and the rock slipped from his grasp. Frank quickly scrambled to his feet and dived forward to make a fast, clean tackle. In another moment Joe and Chet arrived and made the capture complete.

As Frank and Joe held onto the tall, mute boy, Chet demanded angrily, “Where’s my dog?”

“Take it easy, Chet,” Frank warned. “Simon’s injured, and he’s frightened. Remember, he can’t answer you.”

There was no need for Chet to hunt for Mystery. The drenched, trembling little beagle came leaping frantically and joyfully to his master.

“Get that piece of clothesline on Mystery’s collar,” Frank directed. “We’ll tie Simon’s hands for safety, until we get him back to the cabin.”

Slowly the three friends and their captive made their way up out of the hollow. Frank and Joe supported the limping mute boy on either side as they climbed the steep trail. Simon made no further attempt to escape.

By the time the drenched boys reached the cabin the rain had stopped and a fresh wind was clearing away the storm clouds.

“Mission accomplished,” Chet declared delightedly.

“Now for something to eat, and then a nice, dry bed. What d’you say, Mystery?”

After changing his clothes Chet went immediately to the kitchen. In a few moments he had a big pot of soup heating on the stove, then made ham sandwiches for everyone.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had untied their prisoner, told him to remove his wet clothing, and given him a warm bathrobe of Captain Maguire’s to put on.

In the brightly lighted cabin, Frank and Joe had their first chance for a close look at Simon.

He was about fourteen, but extremely tall for his age and wiry in build. He had dark, tangled hair that had not been cut in some time.

“That’s what makes him appear wild,” Frank thought.

As Simon sat disconsolately, Frank examined a deep, ugly cut on the boy’s leg. “No wonder he was limping. Get the first-aid kit, Joe.”

Though Simon watched them all suspiciously, he seemed frightened rather than savage. Both Hardys were struck by the gentle look in the boy’s face. When Joe returned with the first-aid kit he submitted meekly while his wound was washed and dressed. Joe applied a stinging antiseptic, but Simon barely winced with pain.

“Don’t worry, Simon, you’ll live,” said Joe in a friendly voice as he straightened up. “And what a basketball player you’d make with your height!”

Bewildered, the boy continued to watch the Hardys closely, as though fearing some harm.

“Here we are, Simon,” Chet Morton called cheerily as he entered with the soup and sandwiches.

Simon ate greedily. Chet winked at Frank and Joe, then went to make more sandwiches and bring in some doughnuts. They were soon gone.

Chet grinned. “I’m glad to see that somebody besides me has a healthy appetite.”

While Chet and Simon were finishing the food, Frank and Joe moved out to the kitchen.

In a low voice Joe said, “Simon doesn’t look so fierce to me. I’m certain he’s not the person we saw spying on us in the hollow yesterday. Simon’s tall, and has long legs, but his face sure isn’t the same one we saw.”

Frank nodded agreement. “It was Donner who told us the person was probably Simon.”

The boys were puzzled, but had no chance to talk further, as Chet and Simon came into the kitchen.

Chet began to play with Mystery. “Poor little pup,” he said fondly. “Old Chet won’t forget to feed you, too. No, sir. He’ll do it right now.”

He opened a can of puppy food, dumped it into a bowl, and set it on the floor. The little dog attacked it happily.

Simon, meanwhile, had put on his clothes, now dry from the heat of the stove. He watched Chet intently, then gave a shy, approving smile.

“Say,” the stout boy muttered as he poked into a cupboard, “here’s some dog food. Captain Maguire must have had a dog. Wonder if he went with him?”

Frank had noticed the mute boy’s smile. “Simon likes the way Chet treats dogs,” he thought. “Now’s our chance to find out why he stole Mystery! But how can he answer us?” he asked himself, baffled. “He can’t talk!”

Suddenly Frank had an idea. He went back to the living room and returned with a pad of paper and a pencil which he placed on the kitchen table in front of the mute boy. Simon looked up questioningly, but without suspicion now.

“Simon,” said Frank slowly and distinctly, “tell us—why did you run away with the dog?” At the same time he pointed to the beagle.

The boy’s eyes looked puzzled for a minute. Then he seized the pencil and began to sketch.

Swiftly the picture of a tall, broad-shouldered man took shape. Simon darkened in heavy eyebrows and a mustache.

“It’s Donner!” cried Joe in amazement.

“Wait!” Frank warned. “Simon hasn’t finished.”

As Frank, Joe, and Chet crowded around, Simon rapidly drew the tall man’s arm and hand in the act of grasping a little dog with Mystery’s markings!

“He’s telling us that Donner stole Mystery!” Joe cried out.

CHAPTER XI

The Tailor’s Clue

“THERE’S no doubt!” Joe exclaimed. “Simon’s sketch tells us that Donner is the one who took Mystery!”

“Wait!” Frank commanded. “He’s drawing something else!”

With a series of swift, sure strokes, the mute boy surrounded his drawing of Donner and the beagle with sketches of various dogs—a cocker spaniel, a German shepherd, and two hounds.

“What’s this little one he’s shading in with the pencil?” Joe asked. “A gray dog?”

“Gray or brown,” Frank returned. “See, he’s left one ear white.”

“Brown with a white ear—that’s Bobby Thompson’s Skippy!” exclaimed Chet. “So Donner stole Skippy, too!”

Upon hearing the man’s name, Simon raised his head once with an angry scowl, then finished his picture by drawing a line from each dog to Donner.

Then the mute boy stood up quickly from the table. His eager eyes showed that he had something more to communicate. He pointed to Donner’s picture, then to Mystery. Suddenly Simon crouched down behind a chair and peered out.

“He’s trying to tell us that he was hiding—behind a tree, perhaps,” Frank interpreted.

Simon’s one arm was tensed, with the fingers spread as though holding something heavy. “As if he’s holding a rock or club,” Frank deduced.

Abruptly Simon leaped out from behind the chair. He struggled with an imaginary antagonist, swinging the hand that held the “rock.” Next, he seemed to clutch something else, in both arms and to be running away with it.

“That’s Mystery he’s holding now!” Chet said excitedly. “He means he waited in ambush for Donner tonight, then hit him with a rock and ran off with Mystery himself!”

“Oh, great!” thought the bewildered Joe. “Simon and Donner are blaming the dog stealing on each other now. Who is guilty?”

While Frank and Chet, too, looked puzzled, Joe said aloud, “Well, there’s one thing I want to know.” He turned to Simon. “Why did you throw stones at us this afternoon?”

Going to the table once more, Simon quickly produced sketches of three very lifelike rattlesnakes. Frowning, he looked at Frank and Joe, and made as though to push them away with his hands.

“I get it! He was trying to warn us about those deadly snakes, not hurt us,” Frank said.

“Well, he sure picked a forceful way to do it!” Joe rubbed his forehead ruefully. “That would mean he didn’t think we were in cahoots with Donner.”

Frank nodded. “Simon’s given us something to work with. It seems pretty clear the self-styled hermit has been stealing dogs, and for my money, that ties him in with Captain Maguire’s disappearance, too.”

“You think the captain went after the dognaper himself and ran into trouble?” Joe queried.

“Well, apparently the captain had a dog,” his brother reasoned. “Now suppose Donner stole the animal and Captain Maguire traced him to the hollow. Then suppose when he got down there the captain saw something he wasn’t supposed to see.”

“Then Donner, or somebody, had to get him out of the way because he knew too much!” Joe finished grimly. “Remember the blood we found on the leaves?”

Absorbed in this new possibility, Frank, Joe, and Chet failed to notice that Simon had been making his way quietly toward the back door. In a moment the tall boy had slipped out into the night!

“Hey!” called Chet. “Stop him!”

“No, let him go,” said Frank Hardy calmly. “Simon’s on our side, all right.”

“I just wish we could do something to help him,” Joe put in. “With his talent for drawing he might make out very well in spite of his handicap. He should go to a special art school.”

Frank agreed, then said reflectively, “I can’t seem to get Colonel Thunder out of my mind, and his resemblance to Donner. Also, I wonder if it could be more than coincidence that the German word for thunder is donner. What do you say we find the carnival, and talk to the colonel? He just might be a relative of Donner.”

“Suppose we drive to Forestburg in the morning,” Joe suggested. “Maybe we can learn something there about the Donner family, and find out where the carnival is. Besides, it’s about time we called Mother to see how things are in Bayport!”

Morning dawned bright and fresh after the rain, everything seemed greener than before, and the boys’ spirits rose. Frank and Joe emerged from the cabin, followed by Chet, who cradled Mystery in his arms. But suddenly Frank stopped and frowned.

“Oh—oh! So much excitement last night we forgot to put up the convertible top before the storm. Now look!”

Sure enough, there were puddles on the floor of the Hardys’ car, and the seats, though protected by covers, were wet. The boys mopped up the water.

“Let’s take Captain Maguire’s car,” said Joe. “If the captain’s enemies see it, they may think he escaped, and that will bring them into the open.”

The three set off with Joe at the wheel, Frank beside him, and Mystery and Chet in the rear.

Apparently the back seat was comfortable, for by the time the car entered Forestburg, both Chet Morton and the beagle were fast asleep.

“Let ’em alone.” Frank laughed. “Last night was too exciting, I guess. You and I can do the detective work, Joe.”

The two boys walked a block to the courthouse. Because it was only eight o’clock, the streets had little traffic. Frank and Joe, alert with curiosity, looked around. Many stores had offices above. In one upstairs window, which Joe pointed out, was a small sign:

WYCKOFF WEBBER

Attorney-at-Law

The brothers crossed the street to the courthouse. No one was at work yet.

“Well, let’s try the stores,” suggested Joe. “Somebody here must know the Donners.”

During the next hour the two young detectives went from shop to shop asking questions about the Donner family. Although one or two clerks or storekeepers admitted the name “sounded familiar,” nobody could give any definite information.

“I’ll tell you what we’re up against,” said the exasperated Joe. “Some of these people are new in town, and they just don’t know the Donners. The others know them, but won’t talk to us. We’re outsiders, and they think we’re prying into local affairs that aren’t any of our business!”

“Maybe so,” agreed Frank. “But there’s one shop I have to visit fast!” He indicated a tailor’s establishment at the end of the block.

“What for?” demanded his brother, puzzled.

“Just discovered,” muttered Frank, “I have a hole in my slacks—must have caught them on the rocks last night!”

A little man with shining bald head and thin black hair at the temples greeted them across the counter of the shop. “Yes?”

“Can you mend a pair of pants while I wait?” Frank asked him.

The little man smiled, showing two gold teeth. “Of course. Will you come in back, please?”

A moment later Frank and Joe were seated in the back room. Articles to be mended lay in a heap on the floor. Snippets of cloth were everywhere. Taking Frank’s trousers, the man sat down at his worktable and examined the rip.

A bolt of handsome, untouched flannel drew Frank’s attention. “Do you have many orders for custom-made suits?” he asked the tailor curiously.

The little man sighed. “In this country, no,” he answered. “Now it is all factory-made suits. There is no real work for a tailor any more, only patching holes, altering pants.

“Forty years I’ve had this shop,” the man went on reminiscently as he mended. “Now my main business is dry cleaning. But twenty, thirty years ago, we had people that liked fine clothes, custom clothes! The Blackwells, Altgelts, Donners. Many fine suits I have made for them!”

“Donner?” repeated Frank.

“Yes, the Donners. A fine old family when I first came here. A family with style, distinction—they knew good clothes. There was old Mr. Donner, a tall, handsome man. And his wife, oh, she was stylish. And a beautiful daughter there was, and twin boys—tall, good-looking fellows like the father. Looked so much alike you couldn’t tell them apart.”

“Twins!” Joe exclaimed. But instantly he suppressed his excitement, and asked casually, “Must have been quite a family. What became of them?”

The tailor shook his head. “Scattered. Old folks gone, of course....The young lady? I don’t know. Mr. William, one of the twins—he’s left town too. Only Mr. Walter I see once in a while.” The man sighed. “He doesn’t dress up like he used to. Just wears sport clothes and doesn’t come in here any more.”

In high excitement, Frank put on his mended slacks. “By the way,” he asked the tailor, “do you know where Klatch’s Carnival is now? We’ve seen it once, but my brother here would like to see the show again.”

Silently the man rummaged in a wastebasket, and then handed Frank an old poster with the carnival’s schedule printed on it. Elated, the boys hurried from the shop. On their way to the car Frank stopped at an outdoor telephone booth to call his mother.

“Everything’s well here, Frank,” came Mrs. Hardy’s familiar musical voice from Bayport. “The latest word from Dad is that the men he’s after are very clever, and he hasn’t made much headway on the case.”

Laughingly, his mother added, “Iola sends her love to her brother Chet.”

“How about Joe?” asked Frank, grinning through the glass of the booth at his brother outside. Lively Iola Morton was Joe’s date. “And, Mother, have you heard from Callie lately?” Callie Shaw was Frank’s own favorite girl.

“Not a word. You boys had better not stay away too long, or both girls will find other escorts.”

When Frank left the booth he found his brother staring across the street. Directly opposite the boys was a house with a doctor’s sign.

“Look who’s coming down the walk!” Joe whispered. “Walter Donner!”

Frank’s eyes followed the tall man, who evidently had not seen them. Donner wore a white bandage wrapped around his head.

“Guess Simon really did hit him with a rock,” said Joe.

“Sure looks like it,” Frank replied. “Come on! Let’s see if we can find Klatch’s Carnival for a talk with Donner’s double. Colonel Bill Thunder may tell us something interesting!”

CHAPTER XII

Chet’s Ruse

BACK at the old car Chet was still asleep, but Mystery greeted Frank and Joe with excited yapping.

“What ... ? Who ... ?” grunted the fat boy, starting up and blinking. “Are we still in Forestburg?”

While he sat rubbing his eyes, Frank and Joe, grinning, climbed into the front seat of the car.

“Are we in Forestburg?” repeated Joe with mock disgust. “We’ve only been here two hours, that’s all. And listen to this!” He related what the brothers had learned.

Chet was astounded—and also disappointed not to have been there to hear his friends’ discovery firsthand. Meanwhile, Frank had been poring over a road map. Now he started the car and headed out of town in a westerly direction.

“Say!” Chet exclaimed. “Where are we off to now?”

“Riverville,” Frank replied, and explained that Klatch’s Carnival was there. “This back road should get us to the place in half the time the highway would take.”

With an injured look on his broad face, the stout boy sat back and folded his arms. “So you walked out on me. You two just wait. I’ll show you who’s the detective around here!”

“We’ll wait!” Joe chuckled.

Captain Maguire’s old car seemed well suited to the narrow, badly rutted road. Maneuvering carefully to avoid holes, Frank drove past dense woods that lined both sides. Sometimes the road followed a stream, at others it ran along ridges. There were no buildings in this area.

“We must be getting close,” observed Frank, looking at the speedometer. “But what a place to run out of gas!”

No sooner had the youth spoken than the three friends, rounding a turn, came upon a station wagon parked on the left side of the road. The hood pointed skyward. Across each fender leaned a man in blue dungarees, his head almost invisible under the hood as both peered at the motor.

“Let’s see what we can do,” said Frank, pulling over. “We have plenty of time.”

As the boys stepped from their car a huge dog bounded swiftly toward them.

“Oh, oh!” said Chet hastily. “Better stay inside, Mystery!” The big dog gave a curious but not unfriendly sniff at Frank’s outstretched hand.

At the same moment one of the men raised up. He was bony and had red hair. “Here, Blue!” he called and turned to greet the boys. “Don’t you fellows worry about Blue. He won’t bother nobody.”

“What’s the trouble?” Frank asked.

“She conked out, somehow,” the man answered with a perplexed grin. “Just won’t go!”

Joe was already peering at the engine. “Mind if we have a look? My brother and I have done a good bit of work on motors.”

“Help yourself,” invited the other man, who wore a loud print shirt. “Got to do something —can’t stay here all morning!”

Somewhat puzzled at the helplessness of the two men, Frank and Joe rolled up their sleeves.

“Got any tools?” Joe asked the man.

“Nope,” the red-haired one answered. “Wouldn’t you just know it?”

“Have much trouble with her?” Frank inquired.

The man scratched his head and grinned. “Well, now, I can’t say, ‘cause she’s not mine. Just borrowed her, y’see, to deliver all these apples.”

“Apples?” Chet beamed, and he strolled around to the back of the station wagon, which was open. There, under a tarpaulin, were several bushel baskets of big red apples. “Mind if I try one, mister?”

“Go ahead,” the bony man called.

Thinking that the second basket held juicier fruit than one near the tailboard, Chet chose his apple from there. But as he brought his hand away he noticed there was no fruit underneath—just something wrapped in brown paper!

Instantly a wave of suspicion flooded Chet’s mind. What could the two men be hiding under their apples? The stout boy pondered a moment, remembering the hijacking near the state line.

Munching loudly, he strolled back toward the others. A sign, KENDRICK SCHOOL FOR Boys, caught his eye on the station-wagon door. Continuing to munch idly, Chet managed to bump into Joe, who was bringing a wrench over from Captain Maguire’s car.

“Oof—look where you’re going!” he said loudly. In an undertone he added quickly, “Pretend you need a part and send me to town for the police.”

Joe gave no sign, but went back to work. Still chewing, Chet strolled near.

“What’s the pitch here, fellows?” he complained. “I’m dying of starvation!”

Joe’s calm voice replied from under the hood. “Well, pal, you’ll just have to starve a little longer. We need a new condenser for this motor. How about running into town to get it?”

“Me!” Chet feigned indignation. “Why should I run the errands?”

“Okay, forget it. But you could get yourself some lunch in town.”

As Chet ran toward the car, the red-haired man and his partner chuckled heartily. Fifteen minutes’ fast, bumpy driving brought the stout boy back to Forestburg. Entering the familiar wooden courthouse, Chet made straight for Sheriff Ecker’s office.

“Not you boys again,” said the sheriff, who seemed even busier and more weary than before. “Look, son, I just don’t have time for you now.”

“You will when you hear this, Sheriff,” was Chet’s quick answer. “I think we’ve found a couple of your hijackers. Better come and look at them, anyway.”

“What? Where?” The sheriff stood up so fast his swivel chair rolled rapidly backward.

“Stalled about two miles out on the old Riverville Road. My buddies are keeping them there!”

While the amazed lawman listened, Chet told his suspicions. Even as he was speaking, the sheriff picked up his telephone. “Give me the headmaster at the Kendrick School for Boys!”

Shooting fast, direct questions, the sheriff got his answers and relayed them to the waiting Chet.

“He says they never lend their station wagon —it’s the only one they have.... See if it’s there now, will you?” he asked the headmaster.

In a few minutes he had his answer. “Gone! Stolen!” he told Chet, hanging up. “They just noticed it. Looks as if you’re on to something, boy. Are they armed? Notice any weapons?”

Chet shook his head. “Nothing but a big dog that could be pretty mean if it wanted to.”

After calling two regular deputies into his office, Sheriff Ecker explained his plan. “We’ll wear our street clothes, boys. No badges. I’ll take my personal car. We’ll approach from the direction of Riverville. This boy here will be standing in the middle of the road, so we’ll have to stop. Then we’ll arrest those men.”

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had continued to tinker industriously at the motor of the station wagon. The red-haired man and his helper seemed to grow less friendly as time passed. They continually looked up and down the road.

At last Captain Maguire’s old car came into sight. Chet got out with a gleaming bunch of yellow bananas in one hand and a box containing an automotive part in the other.

“About time!” shouted Joe, who was feeling the tension.

Unconcernedly, Chet handed over the part, peeled himself a banana, and then planted himself in the middle of the road, munching, to watch the work go on. The two men watched now with worried faces.

“Of all the dunderheads!” Frank suddenly exclaimed in disgust. “This condenser isn’t even for this make of car! Can’t you ever think what you’re doing? It’s too small.”

“No good?” demanded the men in chorus.

“We’ll try to make it do,” Frank grumbled.

Beep! Beep! Beep! A brown, weather-beaten sedan, with three men seated together in the front, had approached quietly from the direction of Riverville and was now honking impatiently for Chet to get out of the road.

“Okay, hold your horses,” he said. “I’ll move.”

Chet sauntered back to the stalled auto. But unnoticed by Frank, Joe, and the suspects, two men had stepped from the sedan and come over. With drawn pistols, the deputies moved into position behind the red-haired man and his partner.

“Raise your hands!” ordered one quietly. “Turn around and don’t try anything. You’re under arrest!”

Caught completely off guard, the men did as they were told. Meanwhile the third man, Sheriff Ecker, who carried a large net under one arm, went swiftly to the back of the stolen station wagon. He ripped off the tarpaulin, and heaving out apples, shouted:

“Furs! You were right, son. Look at these!”

The excited sheriff carried an armload of rich, expensive furs.

Frank and Joe, with greasy hands and faces, merely stared from Chet to the sheriff to the captives in amazement.

“You’d better talk,” Ecker warned the men as he checked a notebook. “These furs were stolen three months ago from a truck in Jersey. You’ve been hiding them until you thought the ‘heat’ was off. They’re concrete evidence against you!”

For answer, the bony man suddenly uttered a sharp command. “Blue! At ’em, boy!”

At once the huge hound bared its teeth and advanced ferociously upon the two officers. But at that moment the sheriff raced up and hurled the big net over the raging animal. In a moment, with the Hardys’ help, the dog was helpless.

“Why, you fat ...” began the rawboned, red-haired man in a rage.

Chet Morton, however, merely looked at Frank and Joe with a satisfied grin on his face.

“All right, fellows, who’s the detective now?” he demanded.

After handcuffing the prisoners securely, the officers led them to the sheriff’s car.

“Nice work, boys,” Ecker said. “I’ll get back to town. Have to report the recovery of these furs and the capture of these men to the FBI!”

The sheriff and one of the officers put the prisoners in their car, while the third officer drove the station wagon. The boys said good-by and continued on toward Riverville.

“You get all the credit this time, Chet,” Joe praised his friend. “You’re getting places as a detective!”

On the outskirts of town Frank stopped at a telephone booth and called Fenton Hardy at a State Police barracks just over the New Jersey line. He told of Captain Maguire’s disappearance and the hijackers’ capture, then continued:

“No news of Captain Maguire yet, Dad, but we’re following a new lead right now.”

“Good work,” he said. “And give Chet my congratulations.”

The boys started up once more. “The carnival’s on the far edge of town,” said Frank.

“Not so fast,” Chet spoke up. “Lunch first. Who’s the detective around here, anyhow?”

“Okay.” It was more than an hour before Frank, Joe, and Chet entered the midway of Klatch’s Carnival for the third time. A friendly ticket taker directed them to a small, blue house trailer parked behind the tents where Colonel Thunder performed his act.

Frank knocked. As the man looked at them inquiringly, Frank put the question:

“Pardon me, sir, but aren’t you William Donner?”

CHAPTER XIII

Worrisome Watching

STARTLED, the animal trainer fidgeted uneasily with the door handle.

“What gave you the idea I’m William Donner?” he asked.

Frank, seeing the man’s embarrassment, chose his words carefully.

“Well, sir, we’ve met a man named Walter Donner, who looks exactly like you. When we found out that he had an identical twin brother, we put two and two together. And then, the names ‘William Donner’ and ‘Bill Thunder’ are the same-donner is the word for thunder in German.”

In spite of himself, the man gave an approving smile at this last deduction.

“All right, boys,” he said as he faced them once more. “I’m William Donner, and I don’t suppose it matters if anybody knows it. You see, we Donners used to be a fine, close-knit family. But when my parents died, my brother and sister and I couldn’t agree on dividing the estate. So far as I know, the properties are still vacant, and the lawyers are still arguing.

“I had to make a living, so I took this job. I’ve always been able to train animals. I didn’t want to embarrass my brother and sister—they were always touchy about their social position—so I just translated the family name to Thunder.”

Pausing for a moment, the tall man seemed to reflect. “So, you saw Walter! I didn’t even realize he was still in this part of the country. Haven’t heard from him in years. What’s he doing with himself now?”

“Not much,” Frank answered. “He lives in a little cabin down in Black Hollow, and raises a few sheep.”

At this, the colonel raised his prominent eyebrows in disbelief. “Walter? Living in that old shack? Why, that’s impossible. Walter always loved luxury—couldn’t do without it.”

“He seems pretty comfortable, Mr. Donner,” Chet put in.

“Maybe.” Colonel Thunder went on. “But you don’t understand what a comedown this is for my brother! I’m sorry to hear it. He’s raising sheep, you say?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “In fact, we saw him buying one at an auction. We thought it was you.”

The colonel nodded, still reflecting on the strange news. “Funny both of us should be making a living, even a poor one, from animals,” he mused. “You see, we all loved animals. Walter was different, though. He could be cruel to them, too—couldn’t stand it when they disobeyed him.”

“Cruel to them?” Joe Hardy picked up the words. “Would it surprise you to know, Mr. Donner, that your brother is suspected of kidnaping dogs?”

The man who called himself Colonel Thunder looked at the boys in the commanding way that seemed to be a trait of the Donner family. “Yes, it would!” he snapped, as though he himself had been insulted.

“Not only that,” Frank continued with determination. “We have reason to believe that your brother is involved in the disappearance of a friend of ours, Captain Thomas Maguire.”

“See here! What are you trying to pull on me?” Colonel Thunder demanded indignantly. “My twin has some strange ideas, but he wouldn’t harm anybody. What are you prying around here for, anyway? Get out! And take your ridiculous accusations with you!”

With that, he closed the blue metal door of the trailer in their faces. Frank, Joe, and Chet were obliged to turn away.

“Boy, was he angry!” said Chet as the three walked to their car. “Do you suppose he’s in cahoots with his brother?”

Frank shook his head thoughtfully. “No. He was genuinely shocked at our story, that’s all. Colonel Thunder still seems to be touchy about his family’s honor. Say, maybe our news will make him pay a call on his long-lost brother!”

“Yes, and maybe warn him of our suspicions,” added Joe. “I suggest we sneak down into the hollow tonight and see what goes on.”

“Good idea,” Frank approved.

“Well, if it’s all the same to you,” put in Chet, “Mystery and old Chet will stay up in the cabin. I’ve had enough of that woods by night. Besides, after this morning’s bit of detective work, I think I may say I’ve earned a rest.”

“You have,” Frank agreed, and Joe laughed. “Will we never hear the end of it?”

The three drove back to Forestburg. They stopped at the courthouse and learned from Sheriff Ecker that the prisoners had been sent under heavy guard to New Jersey, where Mr. Fenton Hardy, one of the chief investigators in the hijacking case, would question them.

“Is that a fact?” Frank asked mildly, giving Joe a wink.

“Yes, sir,” Sheriff Ecker declared emphatically. “He’s a real famous detective they called in on it. You boys ever hear of him?”

“Now and then.” Joe grinned.

“Say, what are you two grinning about?” The sheriff frowned. “Hardy. Isn’t that your last name, Frank and Joe? No relation, by chance?”

“Distant relation,” Joe answered with a straight face. “About a hundred miles distant right now, I believe. He’s our father.”

“Well, I’ll be ...” Words failed the stocky, good-natured sheriff for a moment. Then his face became serious again. “And what about your friend, boys? Hasn’t come back yet, has he?”

Joe, about to pour out their suspicions of Walter Donner, was stopped by a nudge from Frank. “No, Sheriff,” Frank replied, “but we’re working on it. We’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

After one final stop in Forestburg at Giller’s General Store for more provisions, Frank, Joe, and Chet at last climbed into the captain’s old car for the trip back to Black Hollow.

“Why not tell the sheriff about Donner’s being a dognaper?” Joe asked as he drove.

“Because we still have to prove ourselves to Sheriff Ecker,” Frank answered grimly. “Walter Donner made us look pretty incompetent in front of the sheriff. Any accusation we bring against him is going to need plenty of proof—no matter who our father is. Wait till we’ve really got the goods on Donner. Then we’ll show the sheriff!”

To prepare for their long vigil that evening, the brothers lay down for a nap as soon as they reached Captain Maguire’s cabin. At sundown they were awakened by Chet Morton, who had prepared an appetizing dinner.

“About time for the night shift,” he called. “Don’t forget to put on dark clothing.”

Soon a clear, cloudless sky, in which the stars sparkled brightly, spread itself over Black Hollow.

“The moon isn’t due to rise until very late,” Frank noted as the brothers prepared for their expedition. “That gives us an advantage since we’re doing the spying.”

A moment later, alert and refreshed by their sleep and fortified by Chet’s meal, Frank and Joe slipped out the back door of the little cabin. As soon as their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, they entered the woods.

By now the path into the mysterious hollow was familiar to them even at night. They moved along the trail noiselessly but swiftly, without flashlights.

Frank noted that it was the first time he had not had the eerie feeling of being followed in the woods.

“I suppose it’s because we’re in a position to do the following ourselves,” he thought with a smile.

The boys avoided the exposed parts of the trail entirely, moving among the denser trees instead.

At length they reached the little clearing where Donner’s strange cabin stood. In the complete darkness they could see nothing but an indistinct mass of rocks and logs in front of them. The little building was invisible, except for a thin orange line of light around the frame of the closed door.

Cautiously Frank led the way as close as possible to the door without exposing themselves to the view of anyone else who might be in the surrounding woods.

They found a suitable place and stopped to listen. The sound of voices came to them plainly from inside the cabin—Walter Donner’s voice, somewhat subdued, and the thin, whining voice of Wyckoff Webber, the attorney! The Hardys were astounded.

“I tell you, I’ve been to see Elizabeth,” Webber was saying, “and she won’t budge an inch.”

There was a sound as of somebody moving a chair impatiently.

“Well”—Donner’s big voice rumbled—“I’m fed up with this life. Fed up with it. I want my share of the estate!”

“You don’t think I’m fed up with it?” the lawyer replied irritably. “I want my money, too. Well, let’s get down to business. How are things going?”

When they heard this question, Frank and Joe waited breathlessly for an answer. But none came. There was a further scraping of furniture. That was all.

“Didn’t Donner reply?” Frank wondered. “Or is he showing Webber something?”

While the young sleuth pondered, crouching in the dark, the sudden pressure of his brother’s hand roused his attention. Now Frank heard the sound of stealthy footsteps approaching through the woods along the path!

From their hiding place Frank and Joe could easily watch the break in the woods where the path entered the clearing. But though they waited soundlessly, no figure appeared. A chill of suspense ran down the brothers’ spines.

“Is it Colonel Thunder?” Joe asked himself. “Or Simon?” Meanwhile, no further sound came from within the little house, either.

For about fifteen minutes the silence continued. The unknown intruder was no longer moving, but, the boys wondered, was he lurking in the darkness a few scant yards from the Hardys themselves?

“Somebody has trailed us down here,” Joe thought uneasily, “and he’s waiting for us to make the first move!”

CHAPTER XIV

Flash Fire

WITHOUT changing his position, Joe moved enough so he could whisper to his brother.

“Somebody watching us,” he murmured. “Waiting for us to show ourselves!”

Frank, after considering a moment, placed his own lips close to Joe’s ear and replied:

“Check! We’ll outwait him.”

Straining their eyes vainly against the darkness, Frank and Joe examined the break in the woods which marked the exit from the path. All they could make out, however, was the dark clump of bushes where the intruder must be hidden. Whoever he was, he was keeping just as still and silent as they were!

Abruptly, the loud voices of Donner and Webber in the cabin could be heard once more. Their remarks were no longer muffled.

“We’ll get some money pretty soon,” Donner’s voice rumbled. “I’m desperate enough to take a chance.”

After a pause, Webber’s irritable tones were heard in reply, “I’ll attend to the boys. Nothing can go wrong this time!”

Hearing these words, Frank frowned to himself, puzzled. Were he and Joe and Chet “the boys” that the two were talking about? Before the youth could make up his mind, there was a rusty squeaking sound, and the door of the cabin was thrown open.

For an instant the lawyer’s small, plump figure and Donner’s tall, commanding one were outlined against the light of the two kerosene lanterns within. Then the door was closed and the lawyer crossed the clearing. He made no attempt to soften his footsteps.

Frank’s keen eyes suddenly spotted an abrupt, blurred movement in the dark bushes at the entrance to the trail. Whoever was there was hiding from Webber as well as from them.

In another moment the lawyer had entered the woods. His footsteps quickly receded in the darkness. Still warily watching the bushes, Frank and Joe saw a man step out. For a moment he stood still, a dark form barely silhouetted against the faint glow of the starlight. Then soundlessly he entered the woods on the trail of the retreating Webber.

“He was spying on Webber!” Joe whispered. “Shall we tail the two of them and see what happens?”

“No,” Frank decided quickly. “Let’s stick to our plan of staying here and waiting for Colonel Thunder to show up.”

Slowly, silently, the night wore on. The constellations changed their positions in the sky. In the east a pale glow appeared. At last a crescent moon showed itself above the trees. A light but chilly breeze sprang up.

Although the night was clear, the heavy early-morning dew of the mountains now covered everything. The boys’ clothing, in particular their shoes and dungaree cuffs, was drenched from the long walk. Now the rest of their clothing felt damp and the cold breeze chilled them. Their legs were cramped from the long wait. They could see their breaths in the pale light thrown by the new moon.

No one else came to visit Walter Donner. At last the crack of light outlining the door of the little cabin could be seen no longer.

“I guess he’s gone to bed,” Frank whispered to Joe. “We may as well go back to the cabin and hit the sack ourselves.”

Using the same caution which they had practiced on the trek down, the two boys made their way through the dark woods to Captain Maguire’s cabin. As they were climbing the steep, familiar path out of the hollow, Frank suddenly laid a hand on Joe’s arm.

“Listen!” he whispered.

From the depths of Black Hollow came an eerie sound, at first soft, then louder. It was a long, plaintive wail.

“Screech owl,” Joe noted. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Other end of the hollow,” Frank answered after listening carefully. “In fact, I’d say somewhere pretty close to Donner’s place.”

“Hmm! Funny nobody startled an owl earlier, with all that coming and going down there tonight,” observed Joe.

“I’m glad we didn’t meet one,” Frank said. “They have a quiet, spooky flight that makes people take them for ghosts.”

In another minute the brothers had reached the rim of the valley. Lights burned cheerfully in the windows of Captain Maguire’s cabin.

“Boy! Am I glad to see you two!” exclaimed Chet, jumping up from the bunk as they entered. “That witch, or owl, is on the loose again. It woke me up. You heard it?”

“We sure did,” Frank replied.

“Brr!” Joe shivered. “Never mind the owl. Just let me near that stove.”

“If that’s the way you feel,” said Chet, “I’ll whip up a little snack. I could use something hot, myself.”

A little later, over mugs of hot chocolate, the Hardys told Chet of their vigil outside the windowless cabin.

“So,” Joe concluded, “Webber is Donner’s lawyer, apparently, and they both want money.”

“Birds of a feather flocking together,” Chet observed, adding with a grimace, “but I don’t like the sound of Webber’s threat to ‘attend to the boys.’ ”

“This Webber is always croaking about money,” Joe remarked. “What money do you think he means?”

“They must’ve been talking about the Donner estate tonight,” Frank put in. “Remember, Colonel Thunder told us the lawyers were still arguing about it? And Donner said he was tired of waiting—that he was getting desperate.”

“Too bad Colonel Thunder didn’t show up,” said Joe. “After all, part of that money is his.”

“Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything dishonest going on,” Chet pointed out. “Donner was only talking about money he has a claim to. And another thing—Webber told us Captain Maguire owed him money. Do you suppose the captain never went into the hollow at all, but just ran away somewhere?”

Frank shook his head decisively. “You don’t know Captain Maguire, Chet. He never ran away from anything in his life, much less a debt to a tinhorn like Webber!”

“You know what I wonder?” Joe said suddenly. “Donner says he’s getting desperate, I wonder what he’ll do?”

“What a puzzle!” exclaimed Chet, shaking his head. “We’ll never figure it out tonight, fellows. Let’s just forget it for a while, and make a fresh start in the morning!”

Frank and Joe needed no further urging. After changing to dry underclothes, the two boys unrolled their sleeping bags and climbed in.

“Four o’clock,” noted Chet as he turned out the lanterns and climbed into bed. “Only a few hours of sleep till breakfast. Let’s use them.”

“All the same, I’d like to know who was hiding in those bushes,” came Joe’s drowsy mumble in the dark room. In another moment all was silent.

As he lay in his sleeping bag, Frank was still wondering about the mysterious person who had been hiding near them. In the boy’s tired brain, all the perplexing questions of the strange case seemed to whirl madly around and around.

Who had been lurking near Donner’s cabin? Where was Captain Maguire?

When Frank dozed off, he had peculiar, fitful dreams. First, he saw a pack of barking dogs being chased by a witch on a broomstick. Next, the dogs turned into owls, which flew around hooting and wailing.

Meanwhile, the witch had turned into Walter Donner, who seemed to be talking calmly to some sheep. Then, weirdly, Walter became William Donner—Colonel Thunder—and the sheep became a snarling black puma.

Colonel Thunder’s huge black whip cracked again and again. “Oh-h!” Frank moaned aloud.

Now, in his dream, he heard Wyckoff Webber’s rasping voice, “I’ll attend to the boys. Nothing can go wrong this time!”

Once more, Frank seemed to see the little lawyer standing in the open doorway of Walter Donner’s cabin, talking with Donner. Behind them the orange-yellow flames of the kerosene lamp were burning—burning—

Burning! It seemed to Frank as if he could even smell the distinctive odor of burning kerosene, that he could feel the heat generated by the lamps! The yellow flames seemed to grow brighter and brighter in his dream until they blotted out everything else.

Again Colonel Thunder’s black whip cracked. Suddenly Frank sat up, wide awake. He was facing the kitchen. For an instant the youth thought that someone had turned on the lights in there. Then, with horror, he realized that one whole side of the cabin was a mass of swirling yellow flame! The snapping and cracking was the sound of the two-by-fours as they caught fire, as in some gigantic fireplace. The whole cabin had become an inferno!

“Joe! Chet!” he shouted frantically above the roar of the swirling flames. Frank pulled off his sleeping bag and wound it around him, as he shook his brother into consciousness. Then he leaped to the sleeping Chet.

“Joe! Wrap your sleeping bag around you and make a dash through the front door!” Frank screamed. By now all four walls were ablaze, and the heat was unbearable.

Instantly taking in the situation, Joe followed instructions. Meanwhile, Frank helped put Captain Maguire’s blankets around the still-groggy Chet, and now the three raced outside. Mystery, too, dashed to the yard, yapping in fear.

The boys’ hair and brows were singed, and their eyes smarted. The three friends watched in speechless dismay as the flames of the burning cabin lighted up the whole area like a beacon. Sparks shot a hundred feet skyward.

“Boy!” breathed Chet. “There goes all our stuff, and Captain Maguire’s too—clothes, food, money, everything. But we’re fortunate to get out alive! What woke you, Frank?”

“A lucky dream,” Frank answered gratefully. “Luck was sure on our side.”

Fortunately, the Hardys’ convertible and Captain Maguire’s car had been parked far enough away from the fire to be out of danger. But the cabin, with its drums of kerosene and gasoline, burned fiercely out of control.

“No use driving anywhere to get help,” said

The three boys raced outside

Frank. “No equipment could get here in time.”

The trio, huddled in their blankets, stared at the flaming cabin.

“The walls seemed to go up all at once,” Frank remarked to the others. “It wasn’t as if the fire had started in the kitchen and spread to the living room. Everything went up at once.”

Joe looked grim. “No fire could start that way —unless—unless it was set deliberately by someone!”

CHAPTER XV

Ragged Footprints

CHET gulped. “The cabin was set on fire?” he cried.

“Right,” said Joe.

Frank nodded. “From the way the fire spread, I’d say someone poured kerosene all around the foundation and then lighted a match to it. I smelled kerosene strongly right at the beginning!”

Suddenly Frank and Joe recalled Webber’s words: “I’ll attend to the boys.” Could it be that he was the incendiary?

“But that would make him a murderer!” Chet exclaimed. “Is he that bad?”

“Oh, we’re not accusing him yet,” Joe said quickly.

“Or anyone else,” Frank added. “When it’s safe to look in the ruins, we’ll hunt for clues.”

Helplessly, Frank, Joe, and Chet watched the blaze. Though the mysterious fire had begun suddenly, it burned for some time. The logs of the cabin, soaked in creosote to withstand the weather, now burned fiercely until consumed. When morning came, the once trim cabin was a mass of rubble, glowing here and there with orange sparks.

“It’s a crime!” Joe said. “If somebody did burn down the cabin, I’d like to get my hands on him!”

Suddenly Chet pointed out, “Fellows, we haven’t a stitch of clothing except our underwear!”

Despite the gravity of the situation, all three boys began to laugh. “This is a fine situation,” said Frank.

“Of course we have blankets and sleeping bags,” Joe spoke up. “We can play Indian.”

“But there’s no chow,” Chet reminded him, “to have a feast.”

“It seems funny that no one has come here to see where the fire is,” Frank remarked. “You’d think a forest-fire observer would have spotted it from his tower and investigated.”

No one arrived, however. When the intense heat had abated, Frank went toward the ruins. He noted that Captain Maguire had built his cabin on a stone foundation, using concrete for mortar. After finishing, he had spread his surplus gravel around the entire foundation.

Now the three young detectives found that this gravel still preserved the warmth of the fire. But even more important, it had preserved something else—several deep, distinct, footprints!

“You were right, Frank, about somebody seting this fire!” Joe exclaimed. “The prints are on all sides. If only we’d brought our moulage equipment from home, we could have made some fine plaster casts for evidence.”

“We’ll have to do without,” replied his brother. “But we can still take measurements.”

He placed his own bare right foot over the right indentation left by the suspect. “Somebody with a short, wide shoe,” Frank observed. “And look here! All the left prints have this ragged outer edge. Looks as if the sole of the man’s shoe had been damaged by a stone or a knife!”

So absorbed were Frank, Joe, and Chet in examining the fresh prints that they were suddenly startled to discover someone standing directly behind them. Simon, the mute boy, had just appeared from the encircling woods. He gaped in astonishment at the blackened ruins.

“Hello, Simon,” Joe called. Instantly he dropped his eyes from the boy’s face to his feet. Frank and Chet, having the same idea, also looked down.

In spite of his long legs, Simon had average-size feet. And his battered tennis shoes could not have made the footprints in the gravel.

“Somebody burned us out, Simon,” explained Joe. “Take a look at these prints!”

Though Simon followed Joe’s pointing finger obediently, he merely shook his head and shrugged.

“Well, what do we do now?” Chet asked.

“First, let’s get some clothes,” Frank answered.

“Oh, sure,” said Chet. “And what are we using for money and clothes to go into a store with? Every cent we had was burned in the fire. We can’t go shopping in our underwear!”

Mysteriously, Frank’s face brightened. “Simon,” he said, “you’ll have to do our shopping for us.” Frank quickly explained their needs to the mute boy. Simon nodded comprehension and consent.

“Now, the money.” Taking a small screw driver from the glove compartment of the car, Frank pried up the horn button. As the piece popped out, a bill, folded very small, fell out too.

“Emergency money,” explained Frank, grinning.

“Thank goodness,” said Chet.

Once more the yellow convertible made its way over the hilly country roads to the town of Forestburg. Purposely, Frank parked the car a good hundred yards from the first house of the town.

“Nothing like driving in bare feet,” he remarked. “Tickles!”

“What a sight we must be!” Joe laughed. “No clothes, singed eyebrows—refugees from a circus, or something!”

“At least Mystery still has his coat on,” Chet joked.

“Quiet!” commanded Joe, and grinned. “I’m writing down sizes for the clerk. Let’s see—trousers about six feet around the waist, Chet?”

Finally the lithe figure of Simon emerged from the car. He made his way, with some hesitation, down the street toward Giller’s General Store.

As soon as he had gone, the three boys began to talk over the footprints around the burned cabin.

“I’ll bet anything they belong to Webber,” Joe declared.

Frank’s suspicions were nearly as strong as Joe’s, but he advised caution.

“Better hold your horses a little, Joe. This is a very serious charge. We’ll need airtight proof before we can accuse Webber.”

“And even if you’re right,” Chet spoke up, “why did Webber and Donner want us out of the way? What is it that he didn’t want to go wrong?”

“Wish I knew,” said Joe. “Since we’re not involved in the estate, I’d say Webber and Donner must be tied up in some kind of underhanded business. Maybe Colonel Thunder is in it too, and got word to his brother about our visit to him.”

“What a mess!” Chet said with a sigh. “Say,” he added, looking at his watch, “Simon’s been gone twenty minutes. What’s he doing all this time! Suppose somebody should come by?”

“Duck, fellows! Here comes a lady!” Joe warned.

“Where? Is she close?” Chet and Frank scrambled to the floor.

“Guess I made a mistake!” Joe chuckled.

“Why, you joker,” Frank threatened.

“Hey!” Chet moaned. “Maybe Simon has just run off with our money, and won’t bring us any clothes!”

This remark made all the boys glum. But at last Simon’s tall form could be seen approaching from the town. In his arms the mute boy carried a huge package wrapped in brown paper.

Eager hands reached from the car to snatch the package and change from the astonished Simon. Flying fingers ripped open the paper and tugged at the clothing inside.

“Keep watch, Simon. Warn us if anybody comes,” ordered Joe.

In a few minutes three fully-clothed boys joined Simon on the sidewalk. All wore identical blue dungarees, red flannel shirts, checkered socks, and black shoes.

“Jumpin’ goldfish!” complained Chet. “We look like a comedy team on television!”

Simon grinned and from under his right arm produced a package containing three extra shirts. He threw them into the rear seat, as the boys looked relieved.

While Frank and Joe merely laughed at each other’s singed hair and eyebrows, Chet said, “Breakfast before anything else!”

Customers in Forestburg’s chief diner peered in amusement over their morning coffee as the door opened. First came three boys, all wearing red shirts and blue dungarees, with their hair and eyebrows partly singed away. Then came a tall, gangling boy with trousers too short and a wild shock of hair. Disregarding the curious stares, the four were soon putting away vast quantities of griddlecakes.

“Must be some of them carnival fellas,” muttered one man to his neighbor. “Looks like somebody ran a blowtorch over those three!”

“Who’s the other one—the wild man of Borneo?” returned his companion.

But Frank, Joe, Chet, and Simon ate heartily, still ignoring the customers’ stares. While Simon and Chet worked on a third helping of griddlecakes and cocoa, the Hardys consulted briefly in whispers.

“Think we ought to try to reach Dad?” Joe asked his brother, “and tell him our suspicions about the fire?”

Frank, after a moment’s reflection, decided against this. “Dad has enough on his hands, and he’d probably drop everything and come rushing over. Let’s wait till we have proof to give him.”

Joe then proposed, “How about seeing Webber before we try Elizabeth Donner?”

“Right,” Frank approved. “But we’d better report to Sheriff Ecker first.”

The face of the lawman became grave as he heard of the boys’ narrow escape. He agreed to keep the matter quiet until the culprits’ identity could be established beyond a doubt.

“Something funny’s going on out at Black Hollow, all right,” he admitted at last. “I’ll send some men out there right away. We’ll look over the wreckage and take casts of the footprints. I’ve sort of neglected you fellows, but this is serious business. I’ll drop everything and get on to it. Where are you headed now?”

Frank shot his brother a quick warning look.

“We have to pick up a few things. That fire cleaned us out.”

Sheriff Ecker and two members of his force started off to Black Hollow to investigate the fire. They took Simon and Mystery with them.

“I’ve arranged for Simon to take care of Mystery until we get back,” Chet announced when the three were back in the car again. “Especially since we don’t know where we’ll be sleeping tonight!”

The boys then made straight for the building in which they had seen Wyckoff Webber’s office. Frank parked and the three companions climbed the office building stairs. A small gray-haired woman, with a sharp nose, answered their knock.

“Are you Mr. Webber’s secretary?” Joe asked her.

“Secretary indeed! Him with a secretary. He’s too miserly,” the woman snorted. “I just drop off his mail. I can tell you he’s out of town for a few days, if that’s what you want to know!”

“Thank you,” said Frank, and the boys trudged down the steps to the street.

“Now let’s try to find Elizabeth Donner,” declared Frank, leading the way back to the courthouse.

As he had hoped, the courthouse had a stack of telephone books for the towns some distance around.

“Everybody take a book,” he directed. “Look up Miss Elizabeth Donner.”

Less than ten minutes of silent work brought a sharp exclamation from Joe. “Here she is-Miss Elizabeth Donner, with an address in Brook wood!”

The boys made sure there were no other women with the same name, then went to their car. After consulting a road map, the three chums set out for Brookwood, where they hoped to find out more about the strange Donner brothers!

CHAPTER XVI

The First Find

SHORTLY before noon the yellow convertible rolled along the quiet main street of Brookwood. Large, pleasant white houses with wide lawns and lovely shade trees stood on either side.

“A nice old town,” Frank commented, then added, “Fellows, let’s be careful with Miss Donner, and not make the same mistake we did with Colonel Thunder.”

“How do you mean?” queried Chet.

“We insulted his family pride. These Donners are touchy people. If we aren’t careful of what we say, we won’t learn anything.”

“True,” Joe agreed, “and maybe we can find out a little about Elizabeth from somebody here in town before we call on her. Then we can say we met her attractive brother while searching the woods for a man believed lost.”

“Attractive!” snorted Chet.

“Okay, Chet,” said Frank. “I’d like to know what this town thinks of Elizabeth, too. And here’s the place to learn something.”

Before Joe and Chet could protest, Frank had pulled up before one of the old town houses which had been converted into a business establishment.

“ ‘Blue Willow Tearoom,’ ” Chet read from a sign outside. “Oh, no! We’re not eating in a tearoom. They wouldn’t serve hot dogs, and that’s what I want. Most of their customers are probably fussy old ladies on diets.”

“Right you are.” Frank chuckled. “And who should know more about Miss Donner than the old ladies? Anyway, I remember Mother’s mentioning that she once ate in this town. Let’s go!”

A little bell tinkled discreetly as the door opened. Frank, Joe, and Chet, their singed hair combed as well as possible, and their red shirts buttoned at the collar, sat down awkwardly on dainty chairs placed around a little table.

“Good morning!” A tall woman of middle age, wearing a tiny starched apron, came forward and eyed them with sharp suspicion.

“Good morning,” Frank responded with a wide smile. Rising to his feet, he said, “I think my mother stopped here one time. We’d like to have some luncheon. How cool and restful a nice tearoom is on a hot day!”

Charmed by Frank’s manner, the woman smiled. “What would you like, boys?”

To Chet’s astonishment, he was soon enjoying a puffy omelet, tasty vegetable salad, and a tall glass of iced tea spiced with a sprig of mint fresh from the garden.

“Say,” he declared, “I’ll have to eat in tearooms more often!”

“Well, pick up your napkin,” teased Joe. “That’s the fifth time you’ve dropped it on the floor.”

“This is Brookwood, isn’t it?” Frank asked the woman when she brought strawberry shortcake for dessert. Miss Elizabeth Donner lives here, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” the woman answered. “Perhaps your mother has ordered dresses from Miss Donner. She’s a perfectly wonderful designer, you know. Customers come to her from all over. She works right in her own home.”

“No,” said Frank. “It wasn’t that. We know some other members of her family.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Donner comes from a very good old family. She’s a lady, to be sure—but very firm, too, about her business. It’s marvelous how well she does! The family has broken up though, I understand. I don’t believe she ever sees her brothers now.”

The woman went off to seat a new group of diners, and the boys had no further chance to speak to her. As the three friends walked toward Elizabeth Donner’s house, Joe exclaimed, “A dress designer! What are we going to say to her, for Pete’s sake?”

“We’ll think of something,” Frank replied confidently.

“You mean you’ll think of something,” Joe corrected him. “Count me out!”

“Me too,” Chet chimed in.

With that, the two marched away, leaving Frank Hardy alone on the steps of a well-cared-for white clapboard house. Near the door a little sign invited: Ring Bell and Walk In.

Frank found himself in a well-furnished parlor used as a waiting room. Since no one was there, he had time to examine the thick rug, the fine furniture, the tasteful wall decorations, and the well-filled engagement book which stood open on a little table. Evidently Elizabeth Donner’s business was a profitable one.

A door opened softly and a tall, handsome woman in her late thirties, with dark hair and the commanding Donner look, came in. At the same time, a little brown dog scurried through the door at her feet and threw itself happily upon Frank.

Stooping to pat the animal, the youth noticed one white ear. His mind raced. A brown mongrel with one white ear! And no collar or tag. Could this be Bobby Thompson’s dog Skippy?

Concealing his suspicions, Frank laughed and stood up. “Friendly little pup. Friend of mine had one just like him—maybe it’s from the same litter. Where’d you get this dog, Miss Donner?”

“I really don’t know where he came from.” The woman’s manner was friendly but firm. “A brother gave him to me. The poor little thing was lost and he befriended it, but couldn’t keep it himself.”

“Oh, was that the pleasant Mr. Donner who went with me into Black Hollow to look for a lost friend of my family’s?”

Elizabeth Donner shot a searching look at her youthful visitor.

“I wouldn’t know,” she answered evenly. “By the way, what brought you here?”

Carefully Frank side-stepped the question. Hoping his voice sounded casual, he said, “I was wondering, do you take clients living at a distance? My mother loves to wear attractive suits and dresses. Since I was in the neighborhood I thought I’d ask you.”

Miss Donner smiled. “You’re an unusual boy, aren’t you?” she said. “Not many sons are that thoughtful. Have your mother write to me. Then we’ll see.”

Watching the tall, self-possessed woman narrowly, Frank wondered, “Is she playing a game? Does she believe me or doesn’t she?” But Elizabeth Donner’s smile told him nothing.

“I’ll do that,” he answered, and quickly left the house. Deep in thought, he returned to the car. He told the others what had transpired, adding, “I think I found Bobby Thompson’s dog! Donner probably gave the pup to his sister soon after he stole it.”

“Skippy?” Chet sat up, astonished. “What does that man do—steal dogs for the pleasure of giving them away?”

“Don’t ask me,” Frank answered. “That’s all I could learn. Except that Miss Donner does very well with her dressmaking. I’d say she doesn’t need any estate money—or any dishonest money, either. But you never know.”

“Okay, so this is a blind alley,” said the disgruntled Chet. “Where are we cooking and sleeping tonight?”

“There’s only one place to solve the mystery of Black Hollow, and that’s Black Hollow!” declared Joe. “I vote we camp near there.”

Frank jingled the coins in his pocket. “We’d better solve it pretty soon,” he warned. “Money’s getting scarce. What will we need for tonight?”

“A few cans of food,” answered Chet, “and a couple of flashlights.”

“And a pad and pencil, so Simon can communicate with us,” put in Joe.

After buying these necessities, the three friends started back for Black Hollow. At Joe’s suggestion, they drove slowly. “Let’s take our time,” he said, “and not get there until after dark. Then nobody will know we’re around.”

Accordingly, Chet cooked supper for them at a roadside fireplace and picnic table. At eight o’clock they headed once more for the hollow. Showing only parking lights, the big car climbed slowly up Rim Road. When they passed the lighted Thompson house, the boys knew they had nearly reached the top. Once there, the trio hid the car among some trees and started off on foot.

Only a few stars sparkled in the sky. Clouds, black as coal, were massing in the west. With flashlight beam jabbing ahead into the darkness, Joe led Frank and Chet a little way along the hollow trail, and then off to one side.

“This spot’s level and well sheltered,” the youth explained. “I’ve had it in mind, in case we had to sleep out.”

After unrolling their sleeping bags—Chet’s had been kept in the car’s trunk—the three boys removed their shoes and crawled in. Lying on their backs in the darkness, Frank and Joe stared upward at the trees. A light wind made the hemlocks sigh. From afar they heard a whippoorwill’s call. Presently from the hollow came the sad, familiar wailing.

“Screech owl,” Joe murmured.

A few minutes later the night was broken by a number of screams.

“Oh, oh, there’s the witch again!” said Joe.

“Joe, that isn’t the same screaming we heard our first night here,” Frank noted. “It’s not so harsh, so insistent. This really sounds like a barn owl. The screaming the other night, I’m sure, was human!”

“Maybe.” Joe yawned. “Anyhow, this one’s an owl. Nothing to get excited about.” In another moment Joe was asleep, then Frank.

“Help! Leave me alone!”

The cries came from Chet Morton. Frank and Joe, starting up, blinked sleepily. “Chet’s having a nightmare,” thought Joe.

But as he became wider awake, he saw a tall shadowy figure hovering over the bundle that was Chet Morton!

CHAPTER XVII

Help!

As FRANK and Joe got out of their sleeping bags, to spring upon the intruder, Chet Morton unexpectedly began to guffaw.

“Aw, stop it! Ha-ha! Cut it out, will you?”

The black figure had not moved, but Chet was thrashing about on the ground, laughing convulsively.

“Chet!” Joe cried as he groped for his flashlight. Then he muttered to Frank, “Has he gone out of his mind?”

“N-no,” gasped Chet. “Stop licking my face, Mystery! How can a fellow talk?”

Two flashlight beams illuminated the scene in the same instant. Standing nearby was the mute boy, Simon. The little beagle, with tail whipping about happily, was leaping on Chet with fierce affection.

“Oh boy!” Joe exclaimed, grinning. “You gave us a scare, Simon.”

“We can’t keep Mystery with us now,” said Frank. “We don’t know where we’ll be from one day to the next.”

Scooping up Mystery with a quick movement, Frank thrust the animal into Simon’s arms. “Simon, please look after our dog a little longer. Okay?”

To their astonishment, Simon placed the beagle on the ground. Then, pointing quickly at Frank, Joe, and Chet in succession, he waved them away frantically with both arms.

“He says for us to clear out,” interpreted Joe. “He must mean we’re in some danger! What is it, Simon?”

Frank had already put pad and pencil into the mute boy’s hands. Now, while Frank and Joe shone their lights on the page, he quickly sketched a picture of a small, windowless cabin, with a gun barrel pointing menacingly from the door!

“Donner’s place,” Joe muttered. “And he has a gun. Well, we knew that already. We weren’t going near there tonight, anyhow.”

“Hold on,” Frank warned. “He’s drawing something else.”

Simon had not yet finished. Next to the cabin he drew sketches of two owls seated side by side. With amazing skill, Simon sketched in the fierce owl eyes and beak of each. But one of the birds had high-pointed ear tufts; the other seemed to have no ears at all, and had a round, masklike face similar to that of a monkey.

“Great sketches,” Joe commented. One of his hobbies was ornithology. Now, studying the drawings, he told the others, “The one with the prominent ears is the screech owl. He does the wailing. And monkey face, here, is the barn owl. He does the screeching.”

“Hey! What are you doing?” Chet asked suddenly.

Simon, after drawing two very accurate pictures, suddenly took his pencil and crossed them both out. Once again he waved the boys away from him.

“I don’t get it,” said Frank, puzzled. “Are you afraid of the owls?” Simon shook his head vigorously.

“Do you connect their cries with the witch of Black Hollow and want to protect us from her?” Again Simon shook his head.

“Maybe he means Donner is going to shoot the owls,” suggested Chet. More denials.

“I give up,” said Joe. “But listen, Simon. Witches, owls, Donner—nobody is going to drive us out of these woods! We’re staying! Get it?”

Peering intently at the determined faces of his new friends, the strange boy looked frustrated. He gathered up Mystery in his arms, and as silently as he had appeared, glided off among the trees.

“Wish I knew what he was driving at,” Chet remarked.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe had switched off their flashlights to save the batteries. As the three stood together in silence, a faint flicker appeared in the sky.

“Lightning,” Frank commented. “Very far away as yet. Must mean a storm’s coming, though. I wish there were a cave, without rattlesnakes, for us to take shelter in.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe assured him. “The storm’s far away; it may never reach here. Let’s get some shut-eye.”

Thoroughly tired, the three friends lay down once more and fell asleep immediately. Some time later Joe suddenly found himself wide awake. His heart was pounding violently. The luminous dial of his watch told him that nearly two hours had passed.

The darkness seemed thicker, the air heavier than a few hours earlier.

“Frank! Chet! Did you hear it?”

“Yes,” came Frank’s tense, whispered answer. “There it is again!”

The heavy, oppressive silence was shattered by a scream—a horrible drawn-out cry. Again it sounded, this time harsher and higher-pitched. Then a third time.

“That’s a human being in trouble!” exclaimed Frank, leaping to his feet. “Quick! Roll up your sleeping bags and shove ’em out of sight underneath these bushes. Let’s go! Somebody needs our help!”

“This witch may be more real than we thought,” said Chet as he hurriedly slipped into his shoes. “Do you suppose she’s—she’s torturing Captain Maguire?”

Fully awake now, and every sense alert, the boys listened intently while the blood-chilling screams were repeated. To add to the weirdness, the woods were illumined by a flash of lightning.

“That cry was in the hollow, and not too far from here,” Frank directed. “Let’s go!”

“Turn on all flashlights!” Joe called as he rushed forward. “Speed is important!”

The three boys dashed along the path into Black Hollow.

“Halt!” Frank ordered, as the screams came once more. Carefully he placed their direction. “We won’t go down to the floor of the valley,” he decided. “The cries seem to be coming more from the side. We’ll stick to this upper path instead!”

Once again the young detectives rushed forward, halfway up the steep, partly wooded side of the hollow. But within a few seconds Frank halted them again.

“Now what?” Joe asked breathlessly. “I don’t hear any more screaming.”

“There’s something else. Don’t you hear it?” Straining his ears to their utmost, Frank listened intently.

But hearing was difficult, for the night was no longer a quiet one. The wind that comes before a thunderstorm was now sweeping through the hollow like an onrushing wave. In the frequent flicker of lightning, huge trees could be seen waving wildly and showing the pale undersides of their leaves. The limbs creaked. The wind hissed in the leaves. But through it all, Frank’s ears seemed to detect another sound.

“What is it?” queried Joe.

“A kind of thin, human voice calling. But with this wind, I can’t be sure!”

Just then, there came a long flicker of lightning. Joe pointed to a nearby tree. Perched motionless on a limb was a full-grown owl, its huge eyes unblinking even in the vivid glare. Then darkness closed in again.

Suddenly the air was rent by a terrifying scream from the valley floor! Frank, Joe, and Chet were startled. As they crouched, breathless, upon the rock where they had halted, the snap of twigs on the ground alerted them to the movement of a heavy body in the woods just below.

Frank and Joe kept their eyes fixed upon a small grassy clearing to their left.

Suddenly something huge, black, and solid, moving catlike upon all fours, padded unhurriedly into the grassy area. Then noiselessly it glided into the blackness of the trees on the other side.

“A wildcat!” Joe’s heart raced with excitement. “So that’s what’s been making those horrible screams!”

“But this isn’t wildcat country!” Frank protested.

“Hush!” Joe signaled.

Over the sound of the wind and the growl of thunder, the boys distinctly made out a thin, quavering voice.

“Skip-py!” it called. “Skip-py!”

“Good grief, it’s Bobby Thompson!” Chet cried out in horror. “He’s down there looking for his lost dog!”

“He must be somewhere among those trees ahead, where that big cat disappeared just now!” exclaimed Frank.

As he spoke, the howling scream of the mysterious catlike beast ripped through the night once more. From the same direction came a little boy’s frightened sobbing:

“Oh, Skippy, where are you? I want my mother. Help!”

Frantically Frank, Joe, and Chet raced and stumbled forward along the rocky side of the hollow. The big cat sounded off again. Bobby Thompson’s pathetic whimpering grew louder and nearer.

“Oh-h, I’m afraid! I want to go home!”

“He must be around here somewhere! Bobby!” Joe called out. “Stay where you are and don’t move! We’re coming to help you!”

Suddenly the path of the three boys was blocked by the spreading limbs and branches of a large tree, growing up from the floor of the hollow just below. Bobby’s sobs seemed very dose now!

In desperation, Frank, Joe, and Chet swept the valley floor below with the beams of their flashlights. At first, they saw only the storm-whipped branches of the trees.

“There!” cried Frank at last.

The yellow beams had finally located the little boy. Wearing a jersey and short pants, he stood cowering at the base of the big tree just below them. He was hiding his face with one arm, and had raised the other in an effort to protect himself.

A few short yards away, a pair of malevolent green eyes glowed in the flashlight beams.

Unblinking, the eyes stared at their prey. The big animal coughed deep in its throat. The tail lashed about savagely as the beast crouched for the kill.

CHAPTER XVIII

A Harrowing Rescue

FRANK Hardy appraised the situation in a single swift glance. With an iron nerve, he issued crisp orders.

“Joe, you’re the lightest. Into the tree! You haul Bobby up! Chet, this boulder is loose from the rain. Put your back to it. Roll it down on that cat!”

Meanwhile, Frank shone the beam of his flashlight directly into the eyes of the puma, in an effort to delay the creature’s death-dealing spring as long as possible.

Joe had already swung himself into the big tree. In another moment he had crawled out on the low-hanging limb directly over Bobby’s head. Seeing the beams of the flashlights, the small boy looked up and spotted Joe. But Joe and the branch were several feet out of Bobby’s reach!

Thinking quickly, Joe hooked his knees over one limb, and his toes underneath another. Head downward, reaching with both arms, he swung into space between the cat and the boy.

“Bobby! Grab my hands! Quick!”

Paralyzed with fear, Bobby hesitated. In the same instant, the powerful black beast, with a snarl, shot forward. There was a sudden loud crash of underbrush. The animal whirled, then jumped lightly sideways to dodge the heavy boulder tumbling down the hillside.

Quickly Joe grabbed Bobby’s thin wrist and yanked the boy, one-handed, upward until he could grasp Bobby’s waist with his other arm. Then, with a tremendous effort, he snapped both himself and Bobby into a sitting position of safety upon the limb.

Frustrated, the big cat raged for a moment on the ground below. Then it disappeared in the woods.

Sweating profusely from his effort, Joe handed the limp boy through the branches of the tree to Frank.

“Nice work with that rock, Chet,” Joe gasped, as he fought to recover his breath. “It gave me the extra second I needed!”

Bobby Thompson was sobbing again, but now it was with relief, as he buried his face against Frank’s chest.

“Don’t worry, Bobby, ole fellow,” said Chet. “We’ll take you home. We know where your dog is, and we’re going to get him back!”

“Honest?” Bobby asked.

With Chet lighting the way in front, Frank followed, carrying the exhausted boy. Joe watched the rear, in case the cat might still be stalking them. The boys worked their way across the side of the hollow until they reached the path.

Soon they had climbed into the clearing, near the ruins of Captain Maguire’s cabin. Chain lightning now zigzagged across the sky, showing great piles of menacing clouds. But the rushing wind had already passed over, and between the crashes of thunder came lulls of dead silence.

“Look! What’s that?” called Joe, pointing off into the distance. The boys had stopped to rest on the very rim of the hollow.

“You mean those lights way down at the other end of the valley?” asked Chet.

“Yes. If my sense of direction is right,” continued Joe with rising excitement, “those lights are on the rim of the hollow just above Walter Donner’s place!”

“You’re right,” agreed Frank. “Something is going on over there, fellows, and I don’t think it has anything to do with witches!”

“Let’s get Bobby home,” urged Chet. “Then we can go over there and see what it’s all about.”

On the double now, Frank, Joe, and Chet hurried with the little boy to where they had parked the yellow convertible. Soon they were racing down steep Rim Road.

Veering sharply, Frank pulled into the rutted drive by the side of the Thompsons’ house. Lights were on in all of the rooms. As the car stopped, Mrs. Thompson, nearly hysterical, flew out from the porch.

“You must help me! My little boy! He’s been gone since supper. I’m so afraid he’s lost in the woods, and there’s been that terrible scream ...”

“Hi, Mommy!” said Bobby sleepily from Frank’s arms. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Openmouthed, the astonished mother stared for a moment. Then, snatching her son, she folded him in her arms.

“He was looking for his dog, and I guess he got lost,” Chet explained, thinking it wise to say nothing of the mysterious catlike beast for the time being. “But we’re going to bring back his dog, too. Aren’t we, Bobby?”

Suddenly Mrs. Thompson looked at them intensely. “Tell me,” she demanded, “where did you find him? Not in Black Hollow!”

“Yes, we did, Mrs. Thompson,” Frank answered. “But don’t worry, he’s okay. I think it would be best if you put him right to bed. We’ll be back to explain everything in the morning.”

The amazed and grateful woman called her thanks as the three youths jumped into their car. The wheels spun on the gravel road, then the car started up the hill.

“Now,” Frank told the others, “we’ll drive right around the rim. Hang onto your seats, because it isn’t much of a road.”

Joe and Chet, peering ahead, saw that Frank was right. The road soon narrowed to a pair of wheel ruts, and in places was dangerously close to the edge of the hollow. A single wrong twist of the wheel could mean a fatal plunge into the valley below.

Frank drove swiftly, but with a firm hand. Though bushes and low branches smacked against the windshield, he did not slow down.

“What’s this ahead?” he said suddenly.

The headlights had picked up an abandoned vehicle. Joe jumped out to investigate.

“Just an old jalopy, probably abandoned there a year or so ago,” he reported as he got back in the car. “It’s parked on the very edge of the bluff.”

Frank drove on toward the mysterious lights they had seen earlier. All at once he stopped the car. They had reached a little wider space in the road.

“There’s room here to turn around. We might want to get out of these woods in a hurry. I think I’ll play it safe.”

He pointed the convertible back in the direction of Maguire’s clearing. “Now, let’s go. We can’t be more than five minutes from those lights.”

There were no sounds except those of the storm, which was just about to break. A flash of lightning and the crack of thunder came simultaneously. It was followed by a continual rumble, and lightning was so frequent that flashlights were unnecessary. Stealthily Frank, Joe, and Chet crept forward along the narrow track.

Suddenly a man’s voice was heard saying, ‘Here! Grab onto the other end of this, will you!”

Quickly the boys ducked into the cover of some bushes. Ahead of them the lightning showed up the dark bulk of a heavy truck. As they watched, two men, struggling and puffing, lifted a long box from the tailgate and carried it between them among the trees at the edge of the hollow.

“Where are they going with it?” Joe wondered in a whisper. “They’ll fall over the bluff if they’re not careful.”

Tense but patient, the youths waited. Still the two men did not reappear.

By now the Hardys were rapidly putting two and two together. The once-baffling clues in the strange case began to fall into place, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

“Listen!” said Frank. “You know the two owls Simon drew, then crossed out? Now that I think of it, he must have meant the birds don’t make the sounds. Their cries are man-made! They’re signals to these men with the truck: one to stay away, one to come to the hollow. I wonder which is which?”

“Not only that,” Joe added. “Someone is playing witch, using the old story of the missing dogs and screams to scare people away while this unloading is going on.”

“I’ll bet one of the stolen dogs was parceled out by Donner to those hijackers we caught in the station wagon,” put in Chet. “The dog acted friendly at first, but the crooks must have trained him to attack on command.”

“Sure,” Joe declared. “Walter Donner and his gang are hijackers. Probably they’re the same gang that Dad is trying to track down.”

“Remember how Donner laughed at the police for not catching the thieves?” Frank reminded them. “He thinks he’s pretty clever!”

“Captain Maguire probably suspected something,” he went on. “He came down to investigate and, I’m afraid, was taken prisoner or something worse.”

“But if he’s a prisoner”—Joe puzzled—“where are they keeping him? Say, remember the door we heard closing in Donner’s kitchen, but didn’t see—that may be the answer!”

Eager now to learn more, the three friends grew more impatient by the minute as the two men failed to return to the truck.

“We must trail them,” Frank decided. “One at a time, and watch yourselves We can’t afford to get caught in a trap now.”

First, Frank slipped cautiously from bush to bush, past the silent truck to the trees at the top of the hollow. Joe followed, then Chet.

Warily they peered ahead. The two hijackers were nowhere to be seen. Frank led his companions through the narrow belt of trees and out onto the exposed edge of the bluff. Again they stopped to reconnoiter.

Frank, Joe, and Chet were now crouching in the narrow ridge of small bushes that grew along the rim. Directly in front of them was nothing but bare rocks, curving sharply to the floor of the hollow below.

By now the wind had come up again. Behind them, the trees waved wildly, and even in the brush the boys could feel its force. Constant flashes of lightning threw a clear white light over everything—so clear that every individual tree in Black Hollow stood out distinctly.

By leaning forward slightly, the boys could see the roof of Walter Donner’s cabin and the small clearing surrounding it. There were Donner’s sheep, moving around nervously in their three-sided pen. But, to the boys’ amazement, there was absolutely no trace of the hijackers!

“They’re not up here and they’re not down there,” whispered Joe, bewildered. “Anyhow, how could they get down there, especially with that heavy box? These rocks are much too steep!”

Baffled, the boys worked their way along the rim directly above the Donner cabin. Joe led the way, examining the rock face for some possible way into the hollow below.

Suddenly Frank cried out from behind Joe. But the cry was choked off. Turning, Joe and Chet found that their companion had vanished completely, as though swallowed by the earth!

CHAPTER XIX

Prisoners!

“FRANK!” Joe and Chet shouted, throwing aside all caution. “Frank! Where are you?”

The only answer was a white glare of lightning lasting fully three seconds. They could see everything around them plainly. There was no doubt about it: Frank Hardy had disappeared as completely as the two men carrying the box!

“Oh, where is he?” Joe cried in despair, his words drowned out by a terrific blast of thunder.

Now, at last, as though split wide open by the latest bolt, the swollen clouds released their load of rainfall in one vast rush. Sheets of water struck the trees with a crash, and hit the rocks with a loud smacking sound.

But in spite of the tumult, a faint human cry from the ground underneath them reached Joe’s keen ears.

“Over here!” he shouted, groping through the downpour to a wide, round bush from which the cry seemed to have come.

“Whoa!” Joe cried suddenly.

The ground gave way beneath his feet. For an instant he felt himself falling in space. But in that moment the strong arms of Chet Morton hooked under his armpits and hauled him backward to safety.

Snapping on their flashlights, the two boys trained them downward and discovered the mouth of a deep, wide hole, cleverly hidden by the round bush. As they peered below in amazement at a narrow wooden slide, a familiar voice, sounding far away, called up from below.

“Joe! Chet!” It was Frank.

Carefully Joe and Chet sat down on the slide, grasping the sides. In spite of their caution, they were soon whizzing through the darkness. They tumbled in a heap at the bottom but quickly leaped to their feet.

“Turn on your flashlights,” directed Frank. “I lost mine when I fell.”

The yellow beams suddenly lit up a fairly high, rock-walled chamber, with passages leading from it in several directions.

“Must be the gang’s hide-out,” said Joe in a low voice. “And they slide their stolen goods down that chute.”

Cautiously the three friends moved along one of the rock passageways. Abruptly, it was blocked by a low, wooden door.

“Should we open it?” Joe whispered. “It might be a trap!”

“Can’t stop now,” muttered Frank. Boldly he stepped forward and pushed. The heavy old door swung noiselessly inward.

The next instant the Hardys and Chet gasped in disbelief. A single kerosene lantern dimly illuminated the square, rock-hewn room. A man, with a dirty bandage wrapped around his disheveled gray hair, lay upon a cot. Slowly he turned dull, sunken eyes upon them.

“Captain Maguire!” cried Frank, rushing forward.

The expression in the man’s eyes changed instantly to one of lively hope.

“Frank! Joe! Your father got my letter! Thank goodness. Where is Fenton?” Shakily, the man sat up. Evidently he was still weak from the wound in his head.

“Dad couldn’t get here,” Frank explained, “so he sent us.” Frank introduced Chet, then went on, “We’ve been hunting you for days, Captain. Right now we must be careful. We don’t know where Donner and his gang may be, and we don’t want to be captured.”

When he heard that the boys were alone, Captain Maguire’s joy became mixed with concern. “I can tell you where Donner is,” he answered. “He and several of his pals are in the cabin. There’s a passageway to it through that other door.” He pointed to one across the room.

As the captain paused, the boys noticed his torn shirt—the scraps they had found in the hollow were of the same plaid flannel.

“You must go for help, boys,” he urged. “This gang has been hijacking equipment for the nose cones of rockets. They’ve also been stealing furs, surgical equipment, and whatever else they dare. They’re smart, and they’ll stop at nothing.”

“We’ll go back up the shaft,” proposed Chet. “I noticed some steps on one side. And we’ll take you with us, sir. We couldn’t leave you here!”

“But if the gang finds the captain gone now,” Frank pointed out thoughtfully, “they’ll know the game is up and clear out.”

“Frank’s right,” agreed Maguire.

“You go then, Chet,” Joe decided. “Frank and I will stay here and look out for the captain.”

After Chet had left, Captain Maguire began his story.

“When the screams first started, I didn’t think much of it. But dogs began disappearing, too. So, recalling the hex legend, I began noting on my calendar the dates on which I heard the screams, as well as any dogs that were missing. Soon I became convinced there was a connection, and that something underhanded was going on. I even suspected the hollow might be a hide-out for the hijackers. That’s why I sent for your father. Then one night my cocker spaniel Ginger was stolen and I decided to investigate alone.”

The boys nodded and Frank said, “And that’s when you were captured.”

“Yes,” the captain replied sadly. “I took my gun that night and began searching the hollow. I heard something in the bushes and asked who it was. There was no answer. Then I saw two glaring eyes and heard a scream. It was the puma. I gave it both barrels, but missed.”

“Yes, we found your shells,” said Joe.

“Donner heard the shots, sneaked up behind, and slugged me,” the captain continued. “The next thing I knew I was in his cabin, and he was pushing aside a section of the rock wall in the kitchen. There was a wooden door behind it.

“I pretended I was still out. He dragged me down a passageway, past a room with a barred door, then under the low door to this room, and dumped me on this cot. I’ve been here ever since. My only hope has been that your father had received my letter and would try to find me.”

“And all the time Dad was working on the same case over in New Jersey!” Joe marveled.

Quickly Frank informed the captain of the boys’ own sleuthing, including Webber’s claim that Maguire owed him money.

“A lie,” said the captain in disgust. “Just an ex cuse to spy on you boys at the cabin.”

Frank concluded his account with the boys’ suspicion that the owl sounds were being made by humans and used as signals.

“You’re right there,” confirmed Maguire. “I’ve learned that much since I’ve been here. Donner warns the hijackers not to come by faking the screech of the barn owl. I guess he’s been using it a lot since you boys got here!”

“Then the wailing of the screech owl means that the coast is clear. It’s okay to deliver the goods,” Joe finished.

“That’s absolutely right!” came a deep, familiar voice from the door leading to the cabin.

Whirling, the Hardys found themselves facing the long, silver barrel of Walter Donner’s pistol. The gang leader had quietly pushed open the door to the cell and heard the last part of the conversation. He was followed by a big, rough-look ing man and the lawyer, Wyckoff Webber.

“My congratulations,” said Donner in a mocking tone. “You’ve solved the case very cleverly through the clue of the screeching owl. By the way, I did the screeching and wailing myself. Pretty good, eh?”

Then the big man’s voice took on a tone of menace. “But it won’t do you any good. Your reward will be to meet the screaming witch herself!”

Wondering, Frank and Joe were prodded by the muzzle of Donner’s gun down the rock passageway toward the cabin and into the cell with the barred door that Captain Maguire had mentioned.

Frank and Joe were prodded by Donner’s gun

down the rock passageway

“Socky!” called Donner harshly to the rough-looking man. “Go get that third kid!”

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe looked around the rock-walled room by the feeble light of Donner’s flashlight. They noticed that the rear wall was covered by a tarpaulin. The air was heavy and moist, as in most underground chambers, but there was also a strange, rank odor.

“Like your new quarters?” taunted Donner, indicating the rock walls. “All these chambers and passages were hewn out of natural caverns by the Abolitionists when they built the cabin against the front of the rock wall.

“Very clever people,” he went on affably. “They were the ones who revived the witch legend by stealing dogs and faking screams to keep people away from the hollow while they hid runaway slaves. Don’t you admire my extensive historical research?”

“At least they had a good motive,” said Frank defiantly. “They didn’t steal dogs to cover up a hijacking racket. By the way, we know where Bobby Thompson’s Skippy is.”

Donner looked startled for a moment, then said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He went on mockingly, “I fooled you boys with the hideous face in the woods. It wasn’t Simon. I wore a rubber mask and a black wig.”

“Skip the talk!” snapped Joe. “What are you going to do with us?”

Realizing that he could not shake the boys’ nerve, the tall man abruptly crossed the room to the tarpaulin-covered wall.

“Meet the witch!” cried Donner, ripping away the canvas. The faint light showed the bars of a cage, and behind them, the fierce green eyes and powerful body of a big, tawny-brown puma!

“Some of the screams were his,” said Donner. “When I heard that my brother William—Colonel Thunder—was going to have this beast destroyed because it almost killed him, I sent Socky to get the animal from him. I felt that such a ‘pet’ would be helpful in reviving the witch legend. But William wasn’t told I wanted it, nor why.

“The puma knows who’s master here, at any rate,” the gang leader added in a cruel voice. “William and I don’t have anything to do with each other, but he did warn my lawyer that some snoopers said I was stealing dogs.”

“And then Webber set Captain Maguire’s cabin on fire and tried to burn us to death,” said Joe, looking sharply at the lawyer’s ragged left shoe. But the youth did not reveal his clue as to the telltale prints found near the scene of the razed cabin. He was sure Sheriff Ecker’s casts of the footprints would be conclusive evidence.

“I deny that!” cried Webber. “You can’t prove it!”

“Oh, yes, we can,” Joe told him.

Frank interrupted. “This puma was loose in the hollow tonight, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Donner admitted. “I sometimes let him out through the door you see at the rear of his cage. It leads out onto the rocks. But I only let him out after I’ve put a sleeping pill in his food. He usually comes back quietly.

“However,” he added meaningfully, “tonight the effects of his last pill wore off sooner than I expected. That’s why I had to warn my men to lie low right after I’d given them the all clear. Fortunately, my pet came back without harming anyone.

“By the way, the grating between yourselves and this animal can be raised—just yank the chain here. At the same time, the puma’s outside door will be raised. So if you want to escape, the way out is very simple. All you have to do is get past the puma!”

Walter Donner stepped back into the passage, slammed the door to the boys’ prison, and shot the heavy bolt into place.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” came his mocking voice from the corridor, “there is another chain, with which I can raise only the grating between you and the puma. I’ll get around to it sometime tonight.”

Luckily, Joe had hidden his flashlight inside his shirt. Now, left alone, the brothers carefully examined the walls of their prison.

“No way out,” concluded Joe. “Our only hope is that Chet got away all right and can return with the State Police before Donner lifts that grating!”

Switching off the flashlight, the two boys waited tensely in the pitch darkness. A few feet away the big cat could be heard pacing nervously. After a long silence, Frank and Joe heard voices in the corridor outside.

“Did you get that fat kid?” asked Donner.

“You can forget him, boss,” came the rough voice of the strong-arm man, Socky. “I see him pull out in this yellow convertible. So I take off after him in the truck. Pretty soon I see his lights, pretty far ahead, goin’ round a turn. Then in a couple minutes I hear this terrific crash—like a car goin’ right over the edge and down in the hollow. I come up, and there’s the wreck way down below—burning up like mad. Nobody could’ve lived through it.”

“Good!” snapped Walter Donner. “That takes care of him!”

Frank and Joe stood as if frozen, in utter horror!

CHAPTER XX

Triumphant Sleuths

FOR one long moment the Hardy brothers were too stunned to speak.

“Not Chet! It can’t be true!” Joe faltered at last.

“We mustn’t believe the story,” Frank told him, his voice trembling. “We must get out of here and learn the truth!”

Together the two boys moved up to the grating to study the only possible escape route: past the dangerous puma and out the far door. The beast gave a menacing growl as it stalked to the bars.

“Let’s take off our socks, shirts, belts, and sweaters,” Frank commanded. “I have a plan.”

In a moment the two boys were squatting, stripped to the waist, before a heap of clothing.

“There’s one thing every animal respects,” muttered Frank. The youth doubled the heavy belts together for a stiff core, and began wrapping the sweaters and shirts around them.

“Fire!” Joe exclaimed, catching on. “You’re making a torch! But what about matches?”

“After Donner’s lecture about preparedness, I vowed I’d never be without them,” Frank returned, drawing a watertight cylinder from his pocket.

A match flared in the dark, square room. The puma growled apprehensively. Slowly the flame crawled up the impromptu torch, growing brighter and brighter until it was a ball of fire.

Panicky now, the big cat loped back and forth, snarling viciously.

“Now, while it lasts!” cried Frank. “Yank that chain, Joe!”

With a scraping sound the iron bars rose upward. Holding the flaring torch before him, Frank advanced upon the puma. Plunging, snarling with fear, raising its powerful paws, the beast backed through the outer door, which Joe had opened.

“It’s working!” Frank cried as he too stepped outside.

But at that very instant Joe was seized by powerful arms from behind. The snarls of the puma and the sound of the chain had warned the hijackers.

“Socky!” shouted Donner. “Get that other one!”

“Keep going, Frank!” Joe shouted.

One backward glance told Frank what was happening: Joe was going down under two attackers, another one coming for him. Desperately Frank rushed forward and hurled the ball of flame straight into the puma’s snarling face. Maddened, the big cat turned tail and plunged for the freedom of the woods. Frank by now was sprinting at top speed in another direction. Socky emerged, hesitated, and started off in pursuit.

Meanwhile, Joe was slowly regaining consciousness after being dealt a stunning blow. His head throbbed. His wrists and ankles stung where ropes cut into the flesh. He was on the damp floor bound hand and foot.

“Now, what kind of ‘accident’ can we arrange for these two?” It was Donner speaking.

Opening his eyes, Joe saw that he had been moved to Captain Maguire’s cell. The captain, also bound, lay above him on the cot. A hijacker stood over the two with a pistol, while Walter Donner, holding a lantern aloft in one hand, coolly plotted their murder.

“Perhaps a nice, hot fire that won’t leave any evidence,” the gang leader suggested. “And we mustn’t forget to include your brother—if Socky gets to him before the puma does.”

“Hands up!” came a sudden, sharp command. “Drop that gun!”

Wheeling, Donner found himself covered by a Tommy gun. Two state troopers stood in the doorway where he and Webber had surprised the Hardys earlier!

As Donner’s pistol clattered to the floor, he swung his lantern viciously at the nearest officer. There was a crash, and total darkness for a moment. In the confusion, the wily gang leader slipped down the passage to the puma’s cage and dashed to freedom.

Frank, meanwhile, had kept sprinting through the woods. He weaved in and out, seeking always to keep some trees between himself and his pursuer. Now and then a pistol cracked behind him. A heavy bullet thumped into a tree, or ripped the leaves above his head.

Completely drenched from his flight through the wet underbrush, Frank reached the rocky side of the hollow and clambered upward. A bullet exploded in the rock beside him, sending painful splinters into his hand.

Realizing that he was too exposed on the open slope, in the pale light of early dawn, Frank ducked behind a big rock and waited.

As the burly Socky toiled upward in the gray light, Frank lunged toward him in a tremendous football tackle. The heavily built man went down with a crash, still clutching his revolver in one hand. Desperately Frank grabbed the man’s wrist, knowing that control of the gun meant life or death.

Locked together, the two struggling bodies rolled down the steep slope, bouncing from one level to another. Finally Socky rolled on top, and raised his weapon. But at this moment a figure hurtled out of nowhere, knocking the hijacker’s head against a stone and wresting the pistol from him all in one movement.

“Simon!” cried Frank joyously. “How’d you—?”

But the mute boy only indicated by pointing upward that Frank should continue climbing.

“You’re right, Simon. I must get help!” Once more, Frank clambered toward the road at the top. By now it was very light, though the sun had not risen. Frank, looking around, suddenly spotted a man not fifty yards above him going in the same direction. Walter Donner!

The gang leader turned. For a moment he and the young detective stared at each other. Frank set himself for another struggle. But, to his astonishment, Donner turned and began climbing upward again as fast as he could.

Calling on his muscles for one last all-out effort, Frank scrambled upward in pursuit.

In another minute Frank hauled himself onto a ledge. Now Donner’s legs dangled just above him. Thinking of Chet, lying entangled in the wrecked car, Frank pulled the man down savagely. But a snarl from the ledge just above him, and a sudden terrified scream from Donner, checked his poised fist.

Instinctively Frank pressed both himself and his antagonist against the rock wall, as the two-hundred-pound body of the furious puma hurtled past within inches of their heads. Landing off balance, the beast skidded and tumbled rapidly downhill.

Donner jerked loose. But Frank quickly sent a swift punch to the man’s midsection, following it up with a smashing blow to the jaw. “That’s for Chet!” he panted as Donner slumped, unconscious.

“Hi! Up there!” came shouts from below.

Looking down, Frank saw the rocky slope swarming with state troopers. Three of them were throwing a net over the spitting, scrambling puma. Several others had almost reached Frank himself.

“Nice work, boy!” cried the first trooper to come up. “Donner nearly got away!”

Brushing aside congratulations, Frank asked urgently, “Is my brother Joe all right? Have you examined the auto wreck?”

The friendly trooper looked puzzled. “Joe Hardy? Sure, he’s okay. But I don’t know what wreck you’re talking about.”

Quickly Frank scrambled back down to the valley floor. “I’ll get Joe and we’ll—we’ll look for Chet,” he thought, while jogging swiftly among the trees to Donner’s cabin.

The door of the stone cabin was wide open. Frank dashed in, then stopped short in utter astonishment.

An appetizing aroma, the sizzle of bacon frying in a pan, the sound of happy voices all talking at once reached him from the kitchen. Frank opened his mouth and stood in speechless wonder.

Joe and Captain Maguire were standing by the secret door, laughing. Seated at the kitchen table were Simon and Fenton Hardy. And presiding over the stove, flipping pancakes vigorously into the air and talking loudly the whole time, was Chet Morton!

“Frank!” his father cried out. “So good to see you! I’m certainly glad this case is solved.”

“You knew?”

“One of the troopers sent a short-wave message you were safe and Donner captured.”

“But Chet ... What ... ? How ... ?” Frank stammered.

“Nothing to be amazed about,” said Chet as the others, grinning, made a place for Frank at the table. “Old Chet went for the police and brought ’em back, that’s all!”

“But the smashed car—you weren’t in it?”

“Right! Just a little detective’s trick.” The stout boy shrugged with attempted modesty. “I had a head start on that hijacker, so I hid the convertible in some trees near that jalopy we saw. I put in a blanket, set the old crate on fire, and shoved it over the bluff.”

Chet beamed. “Did it burn! That Socky thought I was in it. I waited till he’d gone, drove on down Rim Road without lights, and called the State Police from the first house with a phone. Told ’em to come ready for a wild animal as well as criminals. When they got here I showed the police the secret chute and the cabin. They did the rest, and rounded up all the crooks.”

“You’re a real trooper for sure,” Frank said. “We couldn’t solve a mystery without you.”

This proved to be true in the boys’ next case, THE VIKING SYMBOL MYSTERY.

“As for me,” Fenton Hardy took up the story, “I hurried over here from New Jersey right after I quizzed that pair you boys caught in the station wagon. Just by luck, I was at the State Police barracks when Chet’s call came in.”

“This is the gang you’ve been after, then?” Frank asked.

“Sure is,” his father answered, “and they’re all behind bars now. Webber’s shoes matched the cast taken by Sheriff Ecker—so he confessed to setting the cabin on fire, hiding nearby, and seeing you boys escape. We found the cache of hijacked goods in two of the underground passages.

“Webber has also confessed to selling everything but the missile nose cones as property of fictitious companies which were going out of business. A clever racket he worked with an auctioneer in New York City.”

Joe added, “And he was holding up the settlement of the Donner estate until he and Walter had disposed of all the hijacked goods. The gang confessed they did take that hound dog, and kept it for their own use. Socky was the one who spied on us in the woods, and also on Webber. Donner didn’t even trust his own men. By the way, William and his sister are innocent of any part in the racket.”

“Well, my job’s over now,” concluded Mr. Hardy. “And you three boys did the major part of it for me. Which means you get the major share of the credit, and the major share of the reward money, too!”

“And they certainly deserve it!” Captain Maguire put in fervently.

“My share’s going to Simon,” Frank declared immediately. “Dad, perhaps his voice could be restored through surgery!” Joe and Chet instantly seconded Frank’s decision.

“I’m sure medical science can do something,” Fenton Hardy answered. “Some very successful mechanical speaking devices have been developed, if it should turn out his voice can’t be restored in any other way. In any case, we can send him to art school. I understand he has a fine talent for drawing.”

“That’s for sure,” said Chet with admiration, as Simon’s eyes shone with gratitude. “I’ll have all the reward I want out of this case if I can keep Mystery. But say, I want to make sure Miss Donner gives back Skippy to little Bobby Thompson!”

“It’ll be done, Chet,” Mr. Hardy promised.

“That leaves just the puma,” said Joe. “We’ll give him to a zoo. They can put up a sign over its cage:

‘This Animal Was Once Known and Feared

As the Screaming Witch of Black Hollow’

“How about adding a couple of owls?” Chet suggested. “Boy, that screeching really gave me the creeps!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Radio Threat

CHAPTER II - A Mysterious Label

CHAPTER III - Rune Stone Curse

CHAPTER IV - Dangerous Solo

CHAPTER V - Detective’s Double

CHAPTER VI - Canadian Giant

CHAPTER VII - White Water

CHAPTER VIII - Missing Campers

CHAPTER IX - Grizzly Charge!

CHAPTER X - An Amazing Suspect

CHAPTER XI - Surprise Tactics

CHAPTER XII - Offbeat Assignment

CHAPTER XIII - Explosion!

CHAPTER XIV - Buffalo Park Clue

CHAPTER XV - The Gray Terror

CHAPTER XVI - Secret Ingredient

CHAPTER XVII - Viking Message

CHAPTER XVIII - Whistler’s Signal

CHAPTER XIX - Stampede!

CHAPTER XX - Norsemen’s Treasure

THE VIKING SYMBOL MYSTERY

The Canadian Northwest beckons Frank and Joe Hardy to mystery and adventure. It all starts when a French-Canadian trapper, Caribou Caron, makes a historical and valuable find—a carved rune stone left by Vikings centuries ago near Great Slave Lake. When Cari. bou Caron attempts to sell the artifact to a representative of a museum, it is snatched by thieves.

Like the intrepid Vikings of old, Frank and Joe, with their close pal, Chet Morton, set off on a perilous quest in the Northwest Territories to recover the valuable artifact before the robbers can decipher the runic symbols telling the location of a buried treasure. A series of dangerous obstacles confront the boys as they scour the lake-dotted northland by plane and trek through the vast wilderness searching for the elusive criminals. By clever deduction and dogged determination the young sleuths pinpoint the robbers’ hideout and close in for the show-down, only to be imperiled by an onrushing herd of stampeding buffalo.

Again, Franklin W. Dixon has woven a suspense-filled story that will thrill his worldwide legion of fans.

“Hurry!” Frank said. “We must find the rune stone!”

Copyright © 1991, 1963 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07655-2

2007 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Radio Threat

“DAD, why did you want us fellows here for a meeting tonight?” asked blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy.

“Is it about one of your new cases?” The speaker was Joe’s tall, dark-haired, eighteen-year-old brother, Frank.

“Yes. I want you five boys to hear a radio report from Sam Radley,” Fenton Hardy replied. “Frank, warm up the two-way short-wave radio.” The tall, well-built, private investigator glanced at his watch. “It’s almost nine. Sam will be broadcasting any second.”

The other boys in the room were the Hardys’ pals—stout, easygoing Chet Morton, lanky Biff Hooper, and bright-eyed Tony Prito. The boys exchanged excited glances. A message from Radley, Mr. Hardy’s operative, meant mystery!

Just then a crackling sound came from the radio receiver and a voice spoke over the air waves: “Radley reporting. Investigation proceeding as planned. Latest episode is stolen float plane. Owned by guest...” Suddenly the voice faded.

“The signal’s being jammed!” Mr. Hardy ex claimed, grasping the tuning knob and trying to clear the jumble of static. “Someone else must be using our wave length.”

As suddenly as it had started, the crackling disappeared. Then a strange, deep voice said:

“Stay away, Hardy!”

“That’s not Sam!” Joe exclaimed, and the others stared in astonishment.

“S-s-sh!” Frank leaped up and bent over the set.

The new voice continued: “Hardy, stay away! You’ll never get out of the Northwest Territories alive!”

The intruder became silent. There was only shrill static.

“For Pete’s sakel I wonder who that was?” muttered Chet.

Mr. Hardy again adjusted the controls. The static cleared, and the familiar voice came on: “Radley signing off—!”

“Wait!” Mr. Hardy commanded. “Couldn’t catch the last part of your message. Repeat.”

“Can you hear me now?”

“Yes.”

Radley went on, “Yesterday a float plane was stolen from in front of a lodge near Yellowknife. Single engine, color brown. I will advise progress. Over and out.”

“Another theft and a threat,” Mr. Hardy said in a grim tone, as he leaned forward and snapped off the powerful short-wave set.

“What will you do?” Frank asked his father.

As he waited for an answer, the group was startled by a sudden loud crash outside.

“Something’s hit the garage!” Joe cried out.

He and Frank dashed from the study and down the stairs. Mr. Hardy and the other boys followed the brothers through the kitchen and onto the rear lawn.

“It’s our short-wave radio antenna!” Frank shouted, pointing to a high pole near the garage. From it dangled part of the Hardys’ three-element-beam antenna over which the detective sent long-distance messages. The rest lay in a jumbled mass of wreckage on the ground.

“What made it fall?” Biff asked in amazement.

“Look!” Joe cried, bending down. “This was no accident!” He held up a twisted strand of rope, one end of which was tied around a metal support.

“Why would anyone want to pull an aerial off the pole?” Tony said, frowning.

“That’s what I want to know,” declared Mr. Hardy. “Get flashlights and start a search for the vandals. I’ll call Chief Collig!”

Joe went into the house with his father, found three flashlights in the hall closet, and rushed outside. The boys beamed their lights on the pole, and Joe held a magnifying glass, trying to detect fingerprints, but found none.

“The vandal must have climbed the pole’s spikes to rig the rope,” Frank commented.

“And he wore gloves,” Joe guessed.

The other boys fanned out over the grounds, hunting for signs of the trespasser, but found nothing. There were not even footprints because the ground was hard and dry.

Just as they turned back toward the house, a police car roared up the driveway, its red roof light flashing. The car stopped and Police Chief Ezra Collig stepped out. The Hardys rushed to meet him.

“Have you found out who did this, Fenton?” the officer asked.

“Not a clue.”

“I’m not surprised,” said the tall, husky chief, who had worked closely with Mr. Hardy and the boys on several cases. “There has been some vandalism around Bayport lately. This probably is another example of it. Some prankster’s idea of fun!”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other.

“I’m afraid it has something to do with Dad’s new case,” the older boy said.

“Look!” cried Joe. “This was no accident.”

“Well, maybe,” the chief replied. “You would know better about that than I. Just the same, I’ll be on the lookout for vandals.”

Excitedly speculating on the incident, the brothers and their pals were circling the house again, searching for clues, when they encountered a tall, angular woman coming briskly up the walk.

“Hello, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank and Joe greeted their father’s sister, who made her home with them. “Have a good time?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Our Ladies Guild had an excellent rummage sale.”

She dug into her large handbag and brought out two belts with huge silver buckles. “I got these for you boys,” Aunt Gertrude told her nephews.

“Wow!” said Joe. “Some present!”

“Thanks, Auntie!” the brothers said together, and Frank added, “Look at those silver buckles! They must be worth a fortune!” He grinned appreciatively. Both Frank and Joe loved their aunt, despite the fact that at times her manner was somewhat peppery and her comments tart.

As Chet, Biff, and Tony crowded around to admire the belts, Aunt Gertrude noticed Chief Collig coming across the lawn with Fenton Hardy. The smile on her face changed to a worried frown.

“Another mystery?” she asked.

The boys explained about the antenna. To allay their aunt’s fear, they emphasized the fact that Chief Collig thought it probably was just a prank.

Aunt Gertrude was not to be easily reassured.

“Prank, humph! It’s a bad omen, more likely! I hope you’ll be careful!”

“We’ll watch our step!” said Frank, patting her shoulder.

All the boys returned to Mr. Hardy’s second-floor study and continued talking of the evening’s events. When the detective joined them a few minutes later, he looked serious.

“Time for me to give you the full story,” he said. “It will concern each of you.”

The boys’ excitement mounted at Mr. Hardy’s words.

“Sam Radley was broadcasting from Yellowknife, in the Canadian Northwest Territories,” Fenton Hardy explained, “but we can’t communicate now until we get that aerial installed. Radley’s investigating a series of thefts which have been taking place at hunting and fishing lodges in the Great Slave Lake area. Rifles, canoes, outboard motors—and now even an airplane—have been stolen. The owner of the lodges has retained me to find the thieves. Since I was tied up on something else, he agreed to let my assistant work on it.” The detective paused, then continued, “Radley has been up there for some time and—now I think he needs help!”

“I’ll go!” each boy volunteered.

Mr. Hardy smiled at the response. “I’ll need only two of you for the job. Biff and Tony, you can be on your way tomorrow. All expenses paid. If you solve the mystery,” he added, “there’ll be a bonus!”

Frank, Joe, and Chet looked puzzled. Why weren’t they going along? Mr. Hardy smiled, and continued, “Don’t worry, you three, you’re going to Canada too! I need your help on another important case!”

“What’s that, Dad?” Frank asked eagerly, his face brightening.

“A few days ago,” Mr. Hardy explained, “I had a cablegram from a Mr. Black, curator of the City of London Museum in England. Because I’d been successful in solving a case in Canada a few years ago, I had been recommended to Mr. Black.”

“Yes?” Joe prompted.

“This mystery,” his father went on, “concerns an invaluable Viking rune stone that was stolen recently in Edmonton, Alberta.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Joe. “That’s near the edge of the Northwest Territories.”

“Those old Scandinavian mariners really covered a lot of water in their far-flung travels,” said his father, “often ranging inland for great distances. The runic alphabet was copied from Latin and Greek letters by the Teutonic peoples about the third century. They left permanent messages on stones, and for many centuries afterward, this stolen one had special significance.”

Mr. Hardy went on, “It seems a French-Canadian trapper named Pierre Caron found a stone bearing Viking symbols near the shore of Great Slave Lake. After revealing his find to the press, he contacted the London Museum and the officials there sent an expert on runic symbols, Peter Baker-Jones, to Edmonton to buy the stone for the museum collection. The thieves probably read all about it in the newspapers. A few minutes after Mr. Baker-Jones had paid Caron, both men were attacked and robbed. Baker-Jones lost the rune stone, and Caron, his money.”

“What about the Edmonton police?” Chet asked. “Are they working on the case?”

“Yes. But despite their efforts and all the help they have had from Caron, they haven’t been able to come up with a clue. Baker-Jones is still in a coma.”

“Did the cablegram say anything else?” Frank asked.

“That’s all, Frank. I put through a transatlantic call to Mr. Black in London and suggested that the stone probably was already in a museum in Cairo—or some other faraway world capital. But the curator didn’t think so because, just before Baker-Jones lost consciousness, he told a doctor that the rune stone symbols contained directions to a Viking treasure hidden in the area.”

“And Mr. Black thought the thieves would stay around there to look for it?” Frank asked.

“Right!” his father said, smiling.

“Great!” exclaimed Joe, leaping to his feet. “Then we’re on the Viking rune stone case?”

“Right again,” replied the detective.

The five boys began talking excitedly about the two mysteries. Finally Biff said, “Tony and I had better take off—we have a lot to do getting ready.”

“Good idea,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

Frank, Joe, and Chet hurried downstairs with the two boys.

“Let’s cut through the backyard and over the hedge,” Tony suggested to Biff as they went outside.

“Sure thing. It’s the fastest way home.”

The Hardys and Chet waved good-by to their friends, who hurried off across the yard. The three boys had just turned to go into the house when suddenly they heard a shout.

“Help! Help!”

“It’s Biff!” Frank cried out. “Come on, fellows!”

CHAPTER II

A Mysterious Label

FRANK, Joe, and Chet leaped down the back-porch steps and dashed to the rear hedge. Both Hardys vaulted it in one fluid motion, while their stout friend pushed his way through.

“Wow!” said Frank. Biff and Tony were kneeling over the motionless form of a man.

Joe pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and beamed it on the victim. He was a brown-haired man of medium height. “Never saw him before,” he said, studying the man’s pale face with its pinched features. “And say! He’s wearing gloves!”

“Guess he’s the pole climber, all right,” Frank said.

Noting that the unconscious stranger had a deep gash in his head, Frank whipped out his handkerchief and placed it on the bleeding wound.

“Do you suppose the antenna fell on his head?” Joe asked. “He might be the guy who pulled it down. Started escaping but couldn’t make it.”

“Anyway, he’s hurt,” Frank declared. “Let’s get him to the hospital right away.”

Joe and Chet went to phone for an ambulance, then call Chief Collig and give him a report.

A few minutes later Mr. Hardy hurried outside with the two boys to look at the victim. He said that the injured man was unknown to him also.

Chet told Frank that an ambulance was on its way. “Chief Collig will meet you at Bayport Hospital,” he said.

Mr. Hardy said he had to go out on a case, so he could not accompany the boys.

When the ambulance arrived, an intern hopped out and ran to the scene. He quickly examined the unconscious man, then the patient was placed on a stretcher and carried to the ambulance. Frank and Joe received permission to ride with the stranger. Tony, Biff, and Chet said good-by.

With siren wailing, the ambulance roared through downtown Bayport. In the back, Frank, Joe, and the serious young intern sat with the patient. A search of the man’s pockets produced nothing that would identify him. No wallet, no cards!

As the driver turned the ambulance into the hospital driveway leading to the emergency ramp, the injured man stirred. Frank leaned over. “Can you tell us your name?” he asked.

“J-J-John Kelly,” the pale, thin stranger said in a weak voice.

“How were you hurt, Mr. Kelly?” Frank queried, as the ambulance came to a halt.

The man grimaced and shook his head. There was no time for further questioning. Two hospital attendants pulled open the rear doors and lifted out the stretcher. They carried it into the emergency treatment room, where nurses were waiting for the patient.

Frank and Joe hurried to the reception lobby, where they found Chief Collig pacing the floor impatiently. He and a police lieutenant rushed up to the Hardys.

“So you found a man you think might have been the trespasser,” the chief said. “Who is he?”

Frank reported the man’s name, and the fact that he would say no more. The officer scowled. “Let’s go.”

He started down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. Here he showed his identification and introduced the Hardys. After a twenty-minute wait the pleasant, efficient head nurse led the callers to a first-floor, four-bed room, where the injured stranger, the only occupant, lay in bed.

“The doctor says it will be all right for you to see him,” the nurse reported and left the room.

Chief Collig looked thoughtful. “John Kelly could very well be an alias,” he told the boys. “Since there is no other means of identification, we must lift his fingerprints. Want to help me?”

Frank and Joe were efficient at this task and the chief knew it. Frank pressed the sleeping man’s thumb and first finger against the edge of a clean water glass. Then the young lieutenant hurried off with the tumbler to check the fingerprint files at headquarters.

Chief Collig and the Hardys returned to the nurses’ station to examine Kelly’s clothing. The laundry marks and labels in the nondescript tweed jacket and well-worn gray slacks indicated they had been purchased in Bayport.

“Nothing unusual about his clothes,” said Frank, disappointed. “It doesn’t tell us anything more about him... except that he appears to be poor.”

“The outfit certainly didn’t fit him very well,” Joe added. “He probably hasn’t eaten much lately.”

The chief and the boys thanked the nurse for her help, then left the hospital and walked to the waiting police car outside.

“Maybe the fingerprints will be on record,” Joe said hopefully, as they drove downtown to headquarters.

But when they arrived, the lieutenant greeted Chief Collig with the news that there were no fingerprints matching Kelly’s in the police file. A quick teletype check with the FBI, using the Henry system, had also been fruitless.

“A blank wall, all right,” Joe observed in disgust. “But he sure looks guilty.”

“We’ll keep on the alert for other clues,” Frank declared.

Chief Collig promised that he in turn would circulate a description of Kelly and let the boys know if he learned anything. They said good-by and were driven home by a patrolman.

The brothers found their petite, pretty mother and their Aunt Gertrude waiting for them in the living room. The women looked worried.

“I hate to see you two get mixed up in another dangerous mystery—and your father is still out on his case.” Mrs. Hardy sighed.

“Yes,” sniffed Aunt Gertrude. “I just know you’ll be hurt one of these days.”

Frank and Joe gave both women a hug, and Joe said, “We’re still alive and able to eat.” He grinned and added, “You know we can take care of ourselves.”

It was true. The boys had been involved in many risky adventures since their first case—The Tower Treasure. Recently they had challenged a ruthless band of hijackers while tracking down The Clue of the Screeching Owl.

Despite the women’s concern for the boys’ safety, they obviously were interested as the brothers told of their visit to the hospital. They, too, thought it was significant that there was nothing on the injured man giving an address When Frank mentioned that the man’s worn clothing did not fit him, Aunt Gertrude looked thoughtful.

“There was a man at our guild sale today who bought some used clothing!” she exclaimed. “He didn’t seem like the type we usually have as a customer.”

Joe broke in eagerly, “Can you describe him, Aunt Gertrude?”

“I remember him clearly. He was very pale and thin. Acted sort of furtive—he’d look away whenever anyone caught his eye. He was well dressed in a black-and-white checkered sport jacket and gray slacks, but the clothes he bought were almost threadbare. I was sure they’d be too big.”

Frank burst out, “That could have been Kelly. He’s pale and thin. His clothes were worn and certainly didn’t fit him!”

“Sure!” Joe put in excitedly. “A rummage sale would be the perfect place to buy used clothing if someone wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be traced.”

“If we could find his regular clothes,” said Frank, “maybe we’d learn where Kelly comes from.”

“You can look for that evidence in the morning,” their mother announced quietly. “It is late.”

Admitting that it had been a long day, the brothers said good night and went to bed. They were sound asleep almost instantly.

At breakfast the next morning Frank and Joe briefed their father on the hospital trip and their suspicions of Kelly. The detective frowned. “I’d certainly like to find out,” he said, “what the fellow is up to.”

Just then a cheerful whistle sounded from the front lawn, and a moment later Biff Hooper and Tony Prito appeared in the hall.

“We’re all set,” cried Biff. He waved two plane tickets for that afternoon’s flight to Alberta.

“At Edmonton, the capital of the province,” Biff explained, “we’ll change for Hay River. There we’ll pick up a plane going across Great Slave Lake to Yellowknife.”

“That’s where Sam Radley will meet us. Right, Mr. Hardy?” Tony asked.

“Yes. I’ll telegraph Sam your schedule,” the detective replied. “He’ll give you the necessary orders when you arrive.”

“Great!” Tony grinned, and Biff added, “We’ll do our best to carry ’em out.”

Both boys thanked Mr. Hardy for the chance to work on a case and said good-by.

“Maybe we’ll all get together on these two mysteries,” Joe said to his brother as Biff’s car pulled away.

“Could be,” Frank replied, “but in the meantime let’s look for Kelly’s discarded clothing. He may have put them in a trash can.”

“Right. First place to hunt is the Bayport dump,” Joe suggested. “All the town refuse was collected yesterday.”

The brothers ran out to the garage and climbed into their newly polished yellow convertible. Frank drove along River Road to the edge of Bayport, where the city dump was located.

As they neared the surrounding fence, the boys could see smoke from the smoldering refuse piles. The Hardys stopped at the main gate, and Joe asked the seated attendant, who was reading a newspaper, where the trash collected the previous day had been dumped.

Pointing to a section of the huge yard, the man said, “Over there!” then returned to his reading.

The boys left their car near the entrance and picked their way across the accumulation of cans, paper, and ashes to the corner area.

“Whew!” Joe looked at the huge pile of trash. “What a job!”

The two young detectives separated and started their search at opposite edges of the mountain of refuse. They worked their way toward the center of the heap. When they met there, neither boy had found a clue.

Joe looked glum. “Guess we’re just out of luck,” he said, kicking an old carton.

His brother was about to agree, when the carton turned over and out fell a rolled-up pair of gray slacks. Both boys grabbed for the carton and Frank pulled out a black-and-white checkered sport jacket.

“Wa-hoo!” Frank exulted, holding up the jacket and turning it inside out. “Look at this label—Toronto, Canada!”

“The slacks are from Quebec,” Joe said, looking puzzled. “Do you think Kelly is from Canada?”

“He could be,” Frank answered, greatly excited. “Between the ruined aerial and this evidence I’d certainly say Kelly has something to do with Dad’s case up there!”

The discussion was suddenly interrupted by a piercing zoing-g-g as a rifle bullet whined past them into the dump pile!

“Down!” cried Frank. Both boys dived to their stomachs behind a dusty mound of ashes. They lay still, their hearts pounding. Who could be shooting at them?

After a few minutes Frank cautiously raised his head. Coming across the edge of the dump toward them was a man carrying a rifle. A fat brown beagle trotted behind him.

The Hardys leaped to their feet, and Joe started forward, his face flushed with anger. Frank grabbed his brother’s arm. “Just a minute, Joe. I don’t think the man was shooting at us deliberately.”

The man now was running toward the brothers. “D-did I hit anybody?” he quavered. “I was shooting rats and—and I didn’t see you two—honest!”

Frank and Joe relaxed somewhat. “No,” Frank said tersely, “you didn’t hit us. But you’d better be more careful after this when you’re aiming a gun.”

The relieved rifleman stuttered an apology as the Hardys picked up the slacks and jacket and hurried off to their car.

“Let’s go to the hospital right after lunch,” Joe urged as they drove away, “and see Kelly’s reaction to this clothing!”

After a quick lunch, the boys asked Aunt Gertrude to go with them to identify Kelly, and headed for the hospital. When they arrived, it was too early for regular visiting hours, but the nurse, knowing of the Hardys, led the way to Kelly’s first-floor room. The door was closed.

As they neared it, Frank said, “Hold the clothes behind you, Joe. I’ll try to catch him off guard first with some questions!”

Joe nodded and turned the knob, pushing the the door open. The boys and their aunt stared aghast. The hospital room was empty! The nurse wheeled and hurried down the hall to get help.

Frank pointed wordlessly to the open window and the brothers darted toward it.

“There goes Kelly with someone!” exclaimed Frank.

He pointed to a thin man in a long overcoat, pulled-down hat, and loafers hurrying across the lawn with a red-haired companion. They were heading toward a waiting green car. Kelly opened the door and both men quickly got in.

“Come on, Joe! We must catch them!” Frank urged as he swung himself out the window.

CHAPTER III

Rune Stone Curse

JOE jumped out the hospital window and joined Frank who by now was sprinting across the grassy lawn after the escaped patient. They were too late to capture Kelly. The getaway car was already roaring off down the tree-lined street.

“Let’s chase them!” Frank cried out.

He ran up the block to the boys’ convertible and jumped behind the wheel. Joe hopped in beside him. Frank turned on the ignition, swung the yellow car out from the curb, and raced after the speeding sedan. It turned a corner.

For a while the brothers were afraid the car had eluded them, but suddenly they spotted it a few blocks ahead. “Let’s hope we don’t get any red lights,” Frank murmured.

The chase continued through Bayport and onto the main highway out of town. Frank pressed the accelerator to the floor. Soon they were out in the open country. The green sedan was still in sight.

“We’re in luck!” Joe exclaimed, pointing to the left.

A long freight train was rumbling down the railroad tracks which crossed the road just ahead. The crossing gates were starting to lower.

“Now we’ll catch Kelly and find out what’s going on,” Frank gloated.

The green sedan was almost at the crossing. Putting on an extra burst of speed, the car raced across the tracks. It avoided the gates by inches. Seconds later, the train roared by.

“We’ve missed our chance,” Frank groaned as he braked to a stop.

“The freight’s at least eighty cars long!” Joe grumbled over the noise of the wheels and the shrill sound of the train’s whistle.

The brothers shifted impatiently in the front seat of their car while they watched the boxcars go by—clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Finally the caboose passed them and the gates were raised.

Frank started the car again, and drove across the tracks. As they expected, the green sedan was nowhere in sight.

“Those guys have a big lead on us now,” Joe said. “But let’s follow, anyway.”

About five miles farther on, Frank brought his car to a halt. “It’s no use, Joe,” he said quietly, and turned the convertible back toward Bayport.

“They could have turned off onto any of these side roads.”

“I wonder who Kelly’s pal is?” asked Joe. “Kelly must have got word to him somehow.”

“The redheaded man could have come to the hospital and roamed around until he found Kelly,” Frank suggested.

“Kelly’s leaving that way sure makes him suspect,” Joe remarked.

The boys had almost reached the railroad tracks when Joe, glancing out his window, exclaimed, “Stop! There’s the green sedan!” He pointed to a tree-shaded culvert running at right angles to the road.

Instantly Frank came to a halt. The boys leaped from the convertible and ran across the macadam road for a better look. The car was well hidden by the bushes and trees.

A quick glance told the Hardys that the sedan was empty. “Kelly and his friend must have jumped onto the train,” Frank commented, as he wrote down the car’s license number. “If only we could stop the train!”

“Why not?” asked Joe. “Chief Collig can arrange that!”

The boys ran back to their car and drove on quickly until they reached a gasoline station, where Frank called the police chief.

“Here’s news for you, Frank,” said Chief Collig. “That sedan was stolen this morning.”

The chief said he would call ahead to the stationmaster at the next stop—ten miles ahead—to have the freight train delayed until the Hardys could search it. “Good luck!” the official said.

With Joe taking a turn at the wheel, the yellow convertible sped along a narrow dirt road which was a shortcut to the next station.

“It’s here!” Frank cried out.

The freight train was slowing to a halt at the small platform. It took the Hardys only a moment to explain to the stationmaster and the train conductor what they wanted.

“No use looking in the locked cars,” the conductor said, “but there are some empties.”

Led by the two men, the brothers hurried down the tracks, searching the open, empty cars. There were half a dozen of them, but none contained the suspects.

“Guess you’re out of luck, fellows,” said the conductor, who was about to wave the engineer on.

“Wait!” Joe called, as he ran around the caboose to check the other side of the freight train. A door of one of the supposedly closed cars was open.

Frank followed and both boys climbed inside. At one end of the sawdust-covered floor was a huge pile of empty grain sacks. The brothers ran forward eagerly, hoping to find their quarry hidden behind them. But neither Kelly nor his accomplice was there. Disappointed, Frank went to the boxcar door and hopped down. Joe walked over, slowly shaking his head in perplexity.

Suddenly Frank called, “Jump, Joe! Jump!”

At that same instant the train gave a forward lurch ahead. Joe hurled himself toward the opening and leaped out just as the heavy sliding door slammed shut.

“Wow!” Frank watched the train slowly gather speed. “Guess the conductor didn’t hear you. The weight of that door could kill someone!”

“And I was nearly the one!” Joe said wryly.

The boys walked back to their car and started for Bayport. Each was thinking, “Was Kelly ever on the freight. If so, when did he get off? Or did he flee in some other direction after abandoning the stolen sedan?”

When the boys reached home, Frank called police headquarters and reported their failure to find Kelly to Chief Collig.

Next, they gave their father a full account of the fugitive’s disappearance, and the discovery of the clothes from Toronto and Quebec.

Mr. Hardy immediately wired the Edmonton police a description of the fugitive and stressed the possibility that the man might be wearing a bandage on his head.

Then the detective turned to the boys and smiled. “Which makes you all the more eager to start for Canada, I’ll bet!”

“Right, Dad!” Frank said, grinning.

“May we leave tomorrow morning?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Sorry, son,” said Mr. Hardy. “You’ll need the next few days to get ready.”

“That long?” Frank looked dismayed.

His father’s eyes twinkled. “Yes. You see, boys, your pilot’s licenses are for land planes—and you’re going to require seaplane ratings for this trip. I want you to know how to handle a float plane, if the necessity arises.”

“We already know how to fly,” Frank protested.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “And skillfully, too. But take-offs and landings are a bit different with a seaplane, since you’re dealing with a variable runway—water—which may be rough.”

“When do we start?” Joe asked.

“Jack Wayne said he could begin your training tomorrow,” Mr. Hardy replied. “You’re to meet him at the field.”

Jack was a private pilot whom the detective often used on long trips in the Hardy plane. He had taught Frank and Joe to fly.

“Oh—oh,” came the voice of Aunt Gertrude from the doorway. “More trouble. Now you’re talking about landing on the water. It sounds very dangerous!”

“How about a ride while we try it?” Joe teased.

“No, thank you. I prefer cooking. I came to tell you dinner’s ready.”

After the meal of juicy, tender roast beef, buttered baked potatoes, fresh asparagus, and chocolate cake, the boys excused themselves to study the Canadian map in their atlas. Just as they turned to the proper page, a rattle of metal and a short beep from the street made the boys smile. “Chet’s jalopy,” Joe said.

A minute later their chubby friend walked into the living room. “Hi, fellows!”

“You look worried,” Frank said. “What’s up?”

Chet shook his head. “I’d love to go to Canada with you, but I think I’ll change my mind.”

“What!” the brothers chorused. “Why?”

Their chunky friend rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’ve been reading up on rune stones, and boy oh boy, are they unlucky!”

“Unlucky?” Joe echoed.

“Yes, sir,” said Chet. “And the Horkel stone, which is the the most evil of them all”—he paused for emphasis—“was found right near where you’re going!”

CHAPTER IV

Dangerous Solo

“AN evil stone!” Joe broke into a wide grin. “You don’t really believe all those superstitious legends, do you, Chet?” he asked.

“Well—I’m not sure—but I don’t believe in taking chances.”

“You can say that again,” Joe teased.

“Tell us about this Horkel stone,” Frank encouraged Chet. “It sounds interesting.”

“Yes, I’d like to hear the story, too,” said Mr. Hardy, who had just walked into the room.

Chet’s worried look disappeared, and, obviously enjoying himself, he began. “Well, I asked Miss Shannon at the library for some information, and she lent me a terrific book about the Vikings and their rune tablets. The word ‘rune,’ by the way,” Chet added importantly, “meant ‘secret’ in the Anglo-Saxon language.”

“How about the Horkel stone?” Joe questioned.

“Oh, that one was named after a Danish Viking called Horkel who settled in Greenland with the expedition of Lief the Lucky.” Chet warmed to his story. “The stone had been cursed centuries before by a Saxon priest when one of Horkel’s ancestors stole it from him. Its evil history was so well known that Lief made Horkel and his followers go in a different ship, and even settle farther up the fiord than any of the other families.

“Then”—Chet’s voice grew louder with enthusiasm—“ Lief and his men left Greenland, but they didn’t take Horkel’s group along. Nobody ever saw the stone again.”

“But—” Joe tried to break in.

“Until,” Chet continued, “a few years ago an Indian found a tablet bearing strange characters near the base of Alexandra Falls, on Hay River, up in the Northwest Territories. The characters were thought to be runic, and they were translated. There’s been a lot of disagreement over whether or not the stone is authentic, but one thing’s sure—it has brought terrible misfortune to all people who owned it.”

“Like what?” Joe demanded, half fascinated, half skeptical.

“Like mysterious deaths, and fires, and accidents,” Chet answered, his eyes wide with excitement.

“That’s a strange story, all right,” put in Mr. Hardy, leaning forward in his chair. “Even without jinxed stones, that area is dangerous.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Frank asked.

“Just south of Great Slave Lake is the famous Wood Buffalo National Park,” said the detective, “where the world’s largest buffalo herd lives in refuge, protected by the Canadian government. The wood buffalo is a savage, treacherous animal, ready at all times to charge like a mad bull. It’s an enormous beast—black and shaggy. The park is also the home of the arctic fox, the arctic wolf, and sometimes the dangerous northern plains grizzly bear. It’s beautiful country, but untamed!”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “There’s nothing small up there!”

“Oh, yes, there is,” Mr. Hardy went on, “but sometimes the smallest things are the most dangerous and troublesome.”

“What are they?” asked Chet in surprise.

“Insects,” Mr. Hardy answered. “The bigger animals are usually kept under control, but the gnats, mosquitoes, and black flies are a real problem. Even though they’re small, they can be very vicious, especially the black flies. They have been known to kill unprotected men and animals by stinging them to death.”

“Sure must be rugged!” Joe remarked, impressed. “We’ll have to take mosquito netting along.”

Chet eyed him suspiciously. “Don’t sound so happy about it!”

Mr. Hardy leaned over the atlas on the table and pointed out to the boys exactly where Great Slave Lake was in relation to Edmonton.

With a wink at his brother, Joe said to Chet, “We’ll send you a snapshot of the unlucky rune stone if we come across it.”

For a moment the plump boy’s face was a study of conflicting emotions. Then a slow grin spread over his features.

“Okay, fellows, you win!” he declared. “I’m not going to be scared out of the trip by any little old stone. Count me in!”

Mr. Hardy and his sons laughed. “That’s the spirit, Detective Morton!” The older sleuth cheered him.

The next morning Frank and Joe started for the airport right after an early breakfast, eager to begin their float-plane lessons. At the field, Jack Wayne greeted the boys with a warm handshake and smile. The tanned, lean young pilot had taught them to fly in his own plane, Skyhappy Sal.

“Ready for lesson number one?” he asked with a grin.

“You bet.”

Jack took them over to the seaplane dock, where a sleek, four-place monoplane was moored. Here he showed the brothers the construction of the pontoons on the craft. Next, he explained the function of the water rudder, saying it helped steer the plane while taxiing.

“Let’s take her up,” Jack suggested, “and you’ll see the difference between land planes and float planes in action.”

The three climbed inside and the pilot taxied the aircraft out over the choppy waters of Barmet Bay.

“Always watch for floating objects on take-off,” Jack cautioned the Hardys. “They’re usually the cause of accidents.”

The craft planed along the water, throwing a spray from either side. When they were in the air, Jack gave the controls first to Frank, then to Joe. Both boys found the landing and take-off procedures quite different from a conventional airplane.

“In take-off,” explained Jack Wayne, “you must use enough power to get the plane ‘on the step,’ or planing.”

Frank looked puzzled. “That means,” went on Wayne, “that you give it enough speed so the plane is riding on just the very bottom section of the float.”

“Then it’s planing on top of the water?” asked Joe.

“Exactly,” agreed the instructor. “When you’re on the step, all you need is a little back pressure on the stick and you’re airborne.”

“Is there ever any trouble?” Joe queried.

“Not really. If the water is a dead flat calm, it’s sometimes difficult to get the plane on the step. The surface tension will hold it down.”

“Then what?” questioned Frank.

“Just push the stick to one side very gently, keeping your rudder bar in the center position. This gentle, even pressure will lift one float out of the water.”

“Then pull back on the stick and off you go,” said Frank.

“Right. Now, Frank, I want you to try a couple of solo take-offs and landings. Joe and I’ll be waiting on the dock.”

Frank grinned in anticipation as Jack landed. After Jack Wayne and Joe had stepped out, Frank manned the craft alone. He had no trouble taking off, because there was enough chop on the bay for him to get up on the step easily.

Frank loved the exhilaration of piloting a plane. His first landing went well, and he thrilled at the way the pontoons dropped stern first into the water.

As Frank took off the second time, he waved his wings to Jack and Joe. After circling twice, Frank turned for his second landing. Jack’s instructions went through his mind—line up plenty of water, back gently on the throttle, lower the water rudder. Finally, center the stick and rudder and let her stall in.

As the aircraft slapped into the water, Frank eased the throttle ahead a fraction. He was going to keep it up on the step and plane across the bay so Joe could have a turn.

The aircraft bounced easily on the step, and as he skipped across the water, he felt the tremendous sensation of speed. Frank pulled the throttle back to cut the power, and pressed the rudder bar to turn the aircraft into the wind toward the dock. As the plane started to veer, he suddenly remembered Jack’s warning:

“Never try turning into the wind if the aircraft is moving at high speed,” Jack had said.

It was too late!

Bang! Frank felt the jerk as the starboard wing dipped into the water. As he glanced out, the plane’s nose dipped into the bay, and his head crashed against the dashboard. The water came rushing up at him.

“Frank crashed!” yelled Joe, staring in horror at the overturned float plane.

“Quick—into my outboard!” Jack urged. He and Joe ran to a small motorboat tied up nearby.

In less than a minute the boat was speeding out over the bay toward the plane, which lay on its side, one wing pointing in the air.

By the time they reached it, Joe had his shirt and shoes off. As Jack throttled down, Joe dived over the side and swam underwater to the submerged cockpit.

Desperately Joe wrenched the door of the aircraft open. He groped wildly for the seat belt, which he unfastened. Then, bracing his feet against the doorframe, Joe grabbed Frank’s shoulders and pulled him free.

Joe’s lungs were ready to burst as he dragged his brother to the surface. When they broke through, Jack was leaning over the side of the boat. He reached for Frank and hauled him aboard. Joe scrambled up and applied artificial respiration while Jack raced the boat to shore.

Suddenly Frank stirred and both rescuers gave a sigh of relief.

“Don’t try that stunt again!” Joe grinned at his brother, but inwardly shuddered as he thought of Frank’s close call.

“No fear of that!” Frank grinned back. “One crack on the noggin’s enough!”

When they reached shore, Frank insisted he felt well enough to ride home. His only injury was a bruise on his forehead. “Hope I didn’t put your plane out of commission, Jack,” he said.

“I’m sure the mechanics can fix it up,” Jack replied, adding that he would have the craft refloated immediately.

Frank smiled wanly at Joe. “I ruined your chance to do a solo. Sorry.”

“I’ll get a turn,” Joe said cheerfully.

The boys returned home and hurried up to their room without encountering their mother or aunt. They showered and put on dry clothes.

At the supper table the boys’ family commented on Frank’s darkening bruise. The brothers told of Frank’s miscalculation, but made light of the incident.

Later that evening, while they were studying the maps of the Great Slave Lake area, the phone rang. Joe answered and a woman at the other end of the line said:

“This is Miss Shannon at the public library. Chet Morton mentioned that you boys are interested in Viking rune stones. I was wondering if you took out one of our reference books on the subject by mistake.”

“Of course not,” said Joe. “What book is it?”

“One of the most valuable in our collection,” Miss Shannon replied. “Rune Stones and Viking Symbols by Peter Baker-Jones.”

CHAPTER V

Detective’s Double

AT the name Peter Baker-Jones, Joe was instantly alert. “The man in the Edmonton hospital!” he recalled. “The one who bought the rune stone and was knocked out.”

And now a valuable book by Baker-Jones was missing from the Bayport Library!

“Are you still on the line?” Miss Shannon’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Oh—sorry,” Joe apologized. “Frank and I don’t have the book. But I’d like very much to know who took it.”

“So would we,” the librarian said sadly. “Well, I thought I’d just ask you about it to make sure.”

Joe said good-by and replaced the telephone in its stand. He walked slowly back to the living room.

“What’s up?” Frank asked, seeing the puzzled look on his brother’s face. Quickly Joe explained.

“This means,” Frank said excitedly, “there’s someone else here in Bayport who’s interested in the missing rune stone! If the book was stolen, that is.”

“I have a hunch it was,” Joe stated. “Frank, do you think Kelly could have had something to do with this case, as well as the one Radley has been working on?”

“He certainly could. And the book may be just what the thieves need to figure out the runic symbols.”

Just then the doorbell rang. It was Chet. The Hardys told him about Miss Shannon’s call. Chet listened carefully, then said, “I looked over the complete collection of Viking books, and I don’t remember seeing that title. The one by Baker-Jones must have been taken before I was there.”

“Which could have been before our aerial was pulled down,” Frank said. “By this time the book might be in Canada.”

“Maybe you’ll know for sure the day after tomorrow,” came Mr. Hardy’s voice from the doorway.

“You mean we’ll leave for Edmonton then?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Yes.” The detective said that he had overheard the boys’ discussion of the missing book. “So I think you three had better get started north and see what you can learn from Mr. Baker-Jones,” the detective concluded with a smile.

“That’ll be our first step,” Frank said.

The boys stayed up talking about their trip and speculating on the mysteries until Chet began to yawn.

“I’d better get all the sleep I can now,” Chet defended himself. “I probably won’t get a wink up in that wilderness.” With that, he left for home.

The next morning after breakfast Frank and Joe drove again to the airport. First they made plane reservations for their trip, then met Jack Wayne for more float-plane lessons. The pilot took them up for some aerobatics. The boys took turns trying loops, steep banks, and rolls—getting the feel of the aircraft with the extra weight hanging underneath.

They stopped for lunch, then returned to the plane. Frank and Joe each made six take-offs and landings. By the end of the practice, Jack said they were skilled enough to pass the FAA proficiency test next day.

“What about floating debris on night landings?” asked Frank.

“There’s nothing you can do about that.” Wayne laughed. “If you’re landing in a strange lake or river, you just have to take a chance there isn’t any.”

That night each of the boys shot six landings. Though they had done it often during the day, they found the experience an eerie one.

“Just decrease your speed until the plane begins to fall, and maintain a three-point attitude,” Wayne instructed. “Give yourself lots of room and come down flying. The only secret is to cut your throttle the moment the floats skim into the water.”

After a late snack the Hardys packed, then went to bed. They were tired from the full day’s flying, and wanted to be awake to leave early the next day.

Frank and Joe arose greatly refreshed. They were just finishing breakfast when Chet arrived. The three boys were given last-minute advice and fond hugs by Aunt Gertrude, then were driven to the seaplane dock by Mr. and Mrs. Hardy.

There the brothers took the FAA test, which they passed with flying colors, and had SES, for single-engine seaplane, inscribed on their licenses.

Then Mr. and Mrs. Hardy drove the boys to the airport. After checking the luggage, Frank, Joe, and Chet shook hands with the detective. “Good luck on your part of the mystery, boys,” he said. “Be on your guard every minute. I’ll be checking with you.”

“Right, Dad,” Joe said, and Frank added, “We’ll get on the case as soon as we land.”

Chet grinned. “That’s for surel”

Mrs. Hardy, although always a bit worried when her sons set off on a new mission, smiled as she kissed them all good-by. “Do take care of yourselves,” she cautioned.

A few minutes later the boys boarded the silver jetliner for Edmonton. By noon the plane was over Winnipeg and the passengers could see the wide prairies below. The flight had been smooth so far.

Joe was seated next to the window, enjoying the magnificent view. Frank and Chet were reading the flight-guide pamphlets. The stillness was broken by an announcement over the loudspeaker:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Because of bad weather and turbulence over Edmonton, we are landing at Saskatoon. The delay probably will be overnight, but the stewardesses will give you complete details of your departure time and accommodations. Please fasten your seat belts.”

Within minutes the stewardesses had checked the passengers’ belts and the jetliner began its descent. Frank pointed out the illustrations in the pamphlet of Saskatoon and the Canadian Air Force training craft stationed there.

As they dropped over the runway, Joe leaned close to the window for a better view. “There’s one of the training planes now!” He pointed to a dark-gray craft landing on a parallel runway.

At that moment there was a swo-o-o-sh as the jetliner leveled out and the wheels caught the field. Joe craned his neck to watch the gray plane.

Suddenly there was a loud swish and a bang, and the tire of the jet’s starboard side blew out. The plane rocked violently to one side.

Wh-a-am! Joe was thrown against the window, hitting his head on the frame. He saw swirling lights, then everything went black.

When Joe opened his eyes and things began to come back into focus, he looked up into the face of a stewardess who was dabbing his forehead with a cold, wet cloth.

“What happened?” he asked dazedly.

“You hit your head!” the girl said, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

“I think I am now,” Joe said, grinning. “No permanent dents!”

“Don’t scare us like that again, boy,” said Frank, as he and Chet smiled in relief.

“That’ll teach me to look out the window when we’re landing.” Joe ruefully rubbed his throbbing head.

When they disembarked, the three boys were directed to a modern Saskatoon hotel. En route, they made a tour of the city and saw its mammoth grain elevators.

Chet grinned. “They look like out-of-place skyscrapers!”

The following morning dawned clear and sunny. The jetliner left promptly, and after an uneventful trip, arrived in Edmonton before noon. The large airport there was busy with flights to and from Alaska, northern Canada, and the United States.

Before the Hardys and Chet deplaned they learned from a stewardess that Edmonton is the focal point of the mining and fur-producing regions of the Arctic. “Also,” she added, “it’s a busy agricultural distributing center.”

The pleasant young woman wished them an enjoyable stay, then the three boys headed for the airport terminal building.

After claiming their bags, they taxied to a hotel and checked in. Then Frank said, “Now to visit Mr. Baker-Jones.”

They took a taxi to the Edmonton hospital. Here they were referred to the head nurse on the second floor. When they inquired about Peter Baker-Jones, she said:

“I’m sorry, but you can’t see him. Mr. Baker-Jones is still in a coma, and as I told his other caller, we don’t know how long it will be until he regains consciousness, poor man.”

“ ‘Other caller’!” Frank echoed. “Who was it?”

“A man named Fenton Hardy,” replied the nurse. “He left just a few minutes ago.”

“Dad?” Frank and Joe stared at each other.

“It couldn’t have been,” Chet said, “unless your father took the next flight and wasn’t stopped by the bad weather.”

“He never mentioned coming this soon,” Frank declared. “There’s a phone booth. I’m going to call home and find out about this.”

Joe and Chet thought it a good idea and Frank placed the call to Bayport. Mr. Hardy answered the phone!

Frank burst out, “I knew you weren’t here, Dad!”

“What do you mean by that?” Mr. Hardy asked with a slight chuckle. “Did you think I was?”

“No,” Frank replied, and explained, “One of the head nurses here at the Edmonton hospital told us you had been, and I’m sure many other people heard Fenton Hardy was here too. Dad, some man is impersonating you. He was just here trying to see Baker-Jones.”

“Be very careful,” cautioned Mr. Hardy, instantly serious. “I don’t know why anyone would pose as me, unless it was to get some further valuable information from the Englishman in connection with the rune stone.”

“At least we’re tipped off,” Frank answered. He assured his father that the boys were well and explained why the flight had arrived a day late.

“Check with the police and try to locate the man who found the rune stone,” the detective suggested, when he learned that the Englishman had not regained consciousness.

Frank said good-by and returned to Chet and Joe. When Joe heard that his father was home, he immediately hurried to the nurse and asked her for a description of Mr. Baker-Jones’s caller. Her meager description could fit Fenton Hardy or hundreds of other men.

“No clue there,” he reported to the boys.

Discussing their next move, the trio started toward the elevator.

“I suppose the best place to get details of the attack on Baker-Jones is at police headquarters,” Frank said. “Let’s go check.”

The boys were talking excitedly as they rounded the corner of the brightly lighted hall. They collided head on with a huge brawny figure.

“Bon tonnerre!” he exclaimed in a deep booming voice. “What’s this?”

The speaker was a powerful-looking man, well over six feet tall. His strong-featured face was covered by a thick, black beard, and he wore a red-and-black checkered wool shirt, dark pants, and heavy laced boots.

Joe staggered backward from the impact, bumping against the wall. The stranger reached out a huge hand, grasped Joe by the arm, and steadied him on his feet.

“Bon tonnerre!” he shouted again.

CHAPTER VI

Canadian Giant

THE fingers holding Joe were like a steel vise.

“So-o sorry,” he apologized, staring up at the bearded man with whom he had collided. To his relief, Joe felt the powerful fingers relax their grip.

“Carefully, here!” boomed the stranger in a strong French-Canadian accent. “You should always look where you’re going—especially in a hospital!”

“We realize that, sir,” Frank spoke up. “But we were hurrying to get to the police station.”

“Ah, the police,” the big man said. His eyes narrowed. “You were here to see Monsieur Baker-Jones, yes?”

The three boys said yes. Joe recovered his breath as the big man studied the visitors for a moment. His eyes were piercing, black, and shaded by thick brows.

“You’re Pierre Caron!” Frank exclaimed suddenly.

The man stepped back warily, as he answered, “Oui, I am Pierre Caron, but I am called ‘Caribou.’ ” He cocked his head and asked curiously, “Who are you?”

Frank introduced himself, Joe, and Chet, then explained the reason why they had come to see Baker-Jones.

“Does he speak now?” Caribou asked abruptly.

“No,” Joe answered him. “The nurse said he’s still in a coma.”

“Bon tonnerre!” the fur trapper exploded. “That is not good.” He added that he had been given special permission by Baker-Jones’s doctor to visit the patient briefly every day. “But he never change,” the woodsman added sadly. “I hoped today he would be better.”

Frank told Caribou that they would like to hear his account of the assault by the rune stone thieves.

“We will talk while we eat,” Caribou said. He smiled broadly. “Come! Let us go!”

The powerful giant marched ahead to the elevator, which took them to the lobby. He pushed open the heavy front door and went on without breaking stride.

The three boys had to trot to keep up with Caribou, and they were still a few yards behind when he stopped at a crowded restaurant. As the trapper strode toward a table, three burly men shouted greetings to him from across the room. He grinned and waved to them vigorously.

“My friends from the north,” he said to the boys.

The big French-Canadian ordered a meal of steak, potatoes, and gravy for all. “First we eat,” he said, when Joe started to ask questions.

The Hardys and Chet grinned at one another. Instinctively they liked this excitable, forthright man of the woods.

After they had finished the hearty meal, Caribou leaned back in his chair and relaxed. Frank quickly explained his father’s connection with the rune stone case and asked Pierre Caron for details of the robbery.

“Monsieur Baker-Jones asked me to come to his hotel room,” Caribou began. “I went and gave him the stone. He handed me two thousand dollars—in new one-hundred-dollar bills. I signed a paper saying he had paid me. Then—bon tonnerre!-two men rushed into the room.” The trapper stopped to drink some hot coffee.

“What did they look like?” Chet asked.

Caribou wiped his beard with a red handkerchief and pushed his chair back from the table again. In his excitement he began to speak in his native patois.

“I could not see faces. Both wear rubber face masks. One man was very thin. He was wearing checkered jacket—black and white. Other man wear dark city clothes.”

The boys were excited. “Then what?” Joe urged him.

“Thin man’s pal never speak. He waved gun,” Caribou continued, “and force me to corner of room. Bon tonnerre!” His voice grew angry. “The thin man want the stone. When Monsieur Baker-Jones say no, he hit him on the head with a gun!”

The woodsman told the boys that the Englishman had collapsed. As Caribou had bent over him to help, the two gunmen had fled with the rune stone and the two thousand dollars.

The Hardys exchanged quick glances. Frank voiced their thought aloud. “The thin fellow could be a man we know as John Kelly!” The brothers told Caribou the story.

“He is a slippery eel!” growled the trapper. “You think he come back here?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Frank replied. “We aim to find him, anyway!”

“Where did you find the rune stone?” Joe asked Caribou.

The boys listened intently to his story. “I run my trapline between Fort Smith and Great Slave Lake,” he began. “Two, three weeks ago I made trip to the north end of the lake. I find the stone on the beach and—”

Suddenly the burly giant broke off. He sprang up from his chair violently, knocking over the table. Dishes and glasses flew in all directions, shattering on the floor as Caribou dashed to the front door.

“Come on!” Frank urged, leaping up.

The three boys dashed outside. When they reached Caribou he was standing on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, his fists clenched and his cheeks flushed with anger.

“Bon tonnerre!” he boomed in rage. “Sacrebleu!”

“What happened?” Joe asked. “Did you spot one of the thieves?”

“No. But I saw Dulac,” Caribou said, still looking up and down the street. “The weasel! He robs my traps. If I catch him—bon tonnerre!that will be his unlucky day!”

As they all walked back into the restaurant to pay their bill and settle for the broken dishes, Caribou explained that Abner Dulac also was a trapper. He had been stealing from Caribou’s traps up north for a long time. Caribou once had given him a thrashing, but the big woodsman had never been able to catch him with any evidence.

“What’s Dulac doing in Edmonton?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know,” Caribou replied. “Probably he sell my pelts—or maybe he here to get even with me for that beating!” The giant shook his head disgustedly, then shrugged. “I forget him for now,” he said, and asked the boys, “Where you think to look for the men who robbed Monsieur Baker-Jones and me?”

The Hardys said they thought perhaps the thieves would have traveled north to hide out with their loot.

Caribou pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. “Then I will be your guide,” he offered. “I will help trap the robbers!”

“That would be great,” Joe said with a grin. “We’ll need a guide in that country.”

“I’ll say!” Chet declared thankfully.

“Our next move is to find out what the police here can tell us about the missing rune stone,” Frank said. “Come on!”

Caribou led the way, stalking along the side-walks as though he were still in the wilderness. At the ultramodern police headquarters the Hardys were directed to the office of Inspector Knight. He had no new information for them, however. The Edmonton police, working with the Mounties, had traced all the leads they had on the missing rune stone and stolen cash, but so far without success.

“The last we heard,” said the inspector, “was that a man with a gauze patch on his head had been seen in McMurray up the Athabasca River. But he disappeared before we could question him.”

“Kelly again, I’ll bet!” Joe exclaimed.

Quickly the Hardvs revealed to the inspector their encounter with the suspect in Bavport, and their hunch he might have returned to the Northwest Territories.

“He mav still be wearing a bandage on his head,” Frank said.

The official was keenly interested. “I’ll have the fellow’s description broadcast again.”

Frank also reported that a man purporting to be Fenton Hardv had wanted to see Mr. Baker-Jones in the hospital. The officer made a note of this and wished the sleuths good luck.

Caribou accompanied the boys to their hotel. When they walked into the lobby, the desk clerk stopped them.

“Are you Frank and Joe Hardy?” he asked the brothers.

“Yes.”

The clerk reached behind him into one of the guest mailboxes.

“Here’s a telephone message for you,” he said, handing Frank an envelope.

“What could it be?” Chet asked, peering over Frank’s shoulder as he took out the note.

“It’s from home!” Frank exclaimed, as he read the note aloud: “ ‘Phone immediately. Plans changed.”’

CHAPTER VII

White Water

THE Hardys stared at the message in concern. “I hope there’s nothing wrong at home,” Joe said, looking worried.

The boys and Caribou hurried upstairs to the hotel room, and Frank called Bayport. Mr. Hardy answered the phone. After reassuring his son that everyone was fine, he explained, “I had a coded message from Sam Radley after your phone call. He received a report yesterday that an unidentified man bought ten drums of aviation fuel and two drums of oil at the Hudson’s Bay Company store in Fort Smith.”

“That’s on the Slave River,” Frank said. “It runs north into Great Slave Lake.”

“Right,” his father replied. “The man had the fuel delivered to a raft on the river, and Sam thinks he might be the one who stole the small float plane at Yellowknife.” The detective paused.

“Biff, Tony, and Sam are busy on another lead, so I’d like you boys to track down this one. If you get up there fast,” he continued, “you might be able to pick up the trail and find the hideout of the thieves around Great Slave Lake.”

“We’ll leave pronto, Dad,” Frank said eagerly. “We planned to go there, anyway—on our own case. Caribou Caron is with us, and he has offered to be our guide.”

“That’s fine,” said Mr. Hardy. “Have you seen the Edmonton police?”

“Yes,” Frank replied, “but they’ve had no success on the rune stone mystery. They had a report of a thin man with a gauze patch on his head at McMurray, but lost him there. Sounds as if he’s the man who got away from us in Bayport.”

“That settles it. The sooner you and Caron get started for Fort Smith, the better!” the detective said. “Good luck!”

When Frank relayed Mr. Hardy’s news to the others, Caribou slapped Joe so hard on the back the boy winced. “Bon tonnerre!” the giant cried. “This is the right kind of adventure for trapper. I have been in the city too long.”

Frank suggested that before leaving, he and Joe return to the hospital and show the staff a picture of their father and warn about the man posing as Fenton Hardy.

“In the meantime, Chet,” Frank continued, “you get plane reservations to Fort Smith on the first flight out. We’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

Caribou said that he would do an errand. “I must buy new boots for the trip.”

When the Hardys arrived at the hospital, they quickly found the nurse in charge of the second floor and Frank showed her the snapshot of his father. “This is the real Fenton Hardy,” he said politely. “The man who wanted to visit Mr. Baker-Jones was an impostor.”

“Impostor!” the nurse exclaimed in alarm. “Why, I never suspected—oh dear!”

“Luckily no harm was done,” Frank assured her. “But please tell everyone that Fenton Hardy will not call on Mr. Baker-Jones.”

The nurse promised to warn the rest of the staff. Their next stop was at Edmonton police headquarters, where they found Inspector Knight at his desk.

“We’ve just talked to our father,” Frank explained. “Our plans have changed. We’re flying to Fort Smith. We’ll contact you if anything breaks there. And would you let us know if the impostor shows up again?”

Inspector Knight assured the boys that if the man was spotted, he would get in touch with them through the Hudson’s Bay Company at Fort Smith.

The Hardys thanked him and hurried back to the hotel.

“Reservations all set,” Chet reported. “Nothing for today. Take-off’s at ten tomorrow. I’ve told Caribou, and he’ll meet us here.”

The next morning the four set off for the airport. Their plane left on schedule. Minutes after they were airborne, Joe nudged Chet and pointed to the ground.

“Look!” he said excitedly. “We’re already over wilderness.”

The landscape below was barren and the prairie looked desolate. What few trees there were appeared as dark patches on the brown earth.

After short stopovers at McMurray and Uranium City, the plane touched down at Fort Smith. This was familiar territory to Caribou and he took charge immediately.

“Only two cabs here,” he said, directing the boys to an old-model car. After their bags were put in the luggage compartment, the four climbed in. “We go to the company store first,” Caron directed the driver.

Presently they pulled up in front of a well-built wooden structure near the edge of town. A large sign over the entrance said: Hudson’s Bay Company.

“What do you know!” Chet said, as they pushed open the door. “It looks like a department store in Bayport.”

The large interior was filled with tables displaying brightly colored, heavy woolen clothing. A variety of rifles and leather goods hung on the walls. There were only a few other people in the store, and Caribou Caron led the way straight to a counter in the back.

“There’s the factor,” the trapper said.

“The what?” Chet asked.

Caribou explained that the factor was the man who ran the store for the Hudson’s Bay Company. The trapper strode over to a husky man, whom he introduced to the boys as Bill Stone. They all shook hands.

Frank asked, “Do you remember a man who bought ten drums of aviation gas and two drums of oil the other day?”

“Sure, I remember him,” the man said. “He gave me new hundred-dollar bills.”

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou shouted. “Monsieur Baker-Jones paid me for the rune stone in new hundred-dollar bills. That man who buy fuel and oil is the bandit who robbed us!”

“It does look like it,” Frank said slowly, “though it could be coincidence. Don’t forget, there must be some other new hundred-dollar bills around.”

“Oui, I know!” Caribou was excited. “But I feel this is our man—one of the thieves.”

“Did he give his name?” Joe asked Bill Stone.

Before the store manager had a chance to answer, something whizzed past Frank’s head. Thunk! A steel knife blade embedded itself in the wall behind him. It hung there, quivering.

“Yowee!” Frank gasped, jumping back. The knife had almost grazed his hair.

“Bon tonnerre!” yelled Caribou, whirling around.

The French-Canadian had instinctively crouched like a panther about to attack. He was ready for action, and his eyes flickered as he glanced in all directions.

There was no one in sight!

The shock of the attack over, there was a mad dash to the open door. Outside, the boys and the French-Canadian scanned the street. The few passers-by looked harmless enough, and none could recall seeing a fleeing man.

“A clean getaway,” Joe said glumly.

“Sacrebleu!” Caribou exploded.

“That sure was no accident,” Frank said grimly, regaining his usual calm. “We must really have hit the trail of something big.”

The group walked back into the store, where Mr. Stone stood looking out the window. “Did you find the knife thrower?” he asked worriedly.

“No!” Caribou boomed. “But we will!”

“Maybe it was the person who bought the aviation fuel,” Chet guessed.

“It could have been,” Frank agreed. He put the knife into his pocket, then asked the manager, “What is the name of the fuel customer?”

“He told me he was Jesse Keating,” Stone answered.

“An alias, probably,” said Frank, after hearing a description of the purchaser. “I’ll bet he was Kelly.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Joe asked.

“Yes. To tow the fuel down Slave River on a raft to a lumber camp.”

“Lumber camp?” Caribou raised his eyebrows. “There is no lumber camp between here and Great Slave Lake.”

“Say, that’s right, Caribou!” said the manager, scratching his head. “Wonder where he was heading?”

“I have a hunch maybe he was taking the gas to a hideout where he’ll fuel that stolen float plane,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Now we have to figure out where the hideout is. Have you a map we could look at, Mr. Stone?”

“Sure,” the gray-haired man replied. “Here’s a good one. Keep it!”

The boys crowded around the detailed map of the area. “This is where we are,” Caribou pointed out. “And this is the Wood Buffalo Park.”

“That would be a great place for a hideout,” Joe said. “Is it open to everyone, Caribou?”

“Yes, but you must have a permit,” the trapper answered. “The office is down the street.”

“Let’s see who else has applied for a permit recently,” Frank suggested. “Maybe Keating is taking cover in the park.”

Everyone agreed. Mr. Stone said the travelers were welcome to leave their luggage as long as necessary. Outside, Frank suggested they first report the knife-throwing incident to the Mounted Police. The group went directly to the station, and handed the weapon to the officer in charge.

“We’ll do everything possible to have the owner traced,” the Mountie promised.

Next, Caribou accompanied the boys to the Wood Buffalo Park office. A bald man of about thirty, dressed in a khaki shirt and pants, greeted them as they entered the small wooden building. “Caribou, I thought you were going to stay in the city and be a dude!” He grinned at the bearded trapper, who laughed loudly.

Caribou introduced the man as Curly Pike, assistant superintendent of the buffalo preserve. As the boys smiled over the humorous misnomer, Caribou said that Curly, as well as his boss, Superintendent Breen Connor, could fly anything with wings.

Frank asked Curly Pike if any strangers had entered the buffalo park recently. He explained about Jesse Keating and his cargo of fuel drums.

“We haven’t issued any permits to a stranger for the past two weeks,” Curly replied, looking at the duplicates of the pass applications.

“Could a man have entered the park illegally?” Joe queried.

Curly Pike rubbed the top of his bald head thoughtfully. “It’s possible. That’s mighty rugged country and difficult to patrol. Somebody could sneak in without being seen.”

Disappointed, the boys thanked Curly, who wished them luck in their search. “Sorry not to be of any help,” he called, as they went out the door.

“We can still go on a search downriver,” Joe urged.

“It sounds funny to say ‘down’ a river which runs north,” Chet said. “The current will help us, too!”

“We’ll need a canoe,” Caribou said, heading down the main street of Fort Smith. “Come!”

When they reached the small docks at the edge of the river landing, Caribou made arrangements to rent a canoe with an outboard motor. He told the boatyard owner that they would be back for the craft in about two hours.

“What about food?” Chet pleaded. “We can’t go without that.”

Frank and Joe laughed at their chubby friend. “That’s a good suggestion,” Joe added.

“We’ll go for supplies while our canoe’s being fueled,” Frank said. “I’ve ordered some extra tanks of gas put aboard.”

The group trudged back up the hill to the Hudson’s Bay store to buy canned meats, dried fruits and vegetables, and some new lines for their fishing rods.

After a snack the group went back to the supply store and picked up their provisions. Mr. Stone offered to keep their suitcases for the duration of the river trip and to accept messages for them. They took what clothing they would need from their bags, and went down to the dock. The boys stowed the rucksacks of food and clothes in the canoe, a large aluminum one with three paddles. Then they started down the Slave River, with Caribou in the stern handling the rudder and motor controls.

Skillfully he guided the craft past the dangerous upjutting rocks and swirling currents. Soon they were out of sight of Fort Smith.

“This looks like pioneer country, all right,” Joe observed presently.

When they rounded a bend, Caribou pointed out white water in the broad river. “Arctic wind is kicking up trouble,” he commented. Even as he spoke, the canoe began to pitch on the choppy surface.

The stream grew suddenly rougher, and the lightweight craft rocked from side to side.

“Tonnerre!” Caribou boomed over the sound of the wind. “Hang on!”

The boys gripped the edges of the canoe to steady themselves as it heaved up and down in the growing swell. Chet, who was seated in the bow, gasped and exclaimed, “We’ve sprung a leak!”

CHAPTER VIII

Missing Campers

“WE are sinking!” shouted Caribou. “To shore!” Just then there was a sputter as the outboard motor conked out. “Sacrebleu!” the French-Canadian yelled.

Frank and Joe grabbed paddles while Chet tore off his shirt and used it to plug the hole in the canoe. The Hardys paddled furiously while Garibou pulled at the motor’s starting rope. The outboard coughed once, but did not turn over.

“Motor’s probably flooded from spray,” Joe panted. “What luck!”

Caribou also seized a paddle and his strong back muscles flexed as he strained to help turn the rocking boat toward shore.

Frank felt as though his aching arms would break. Perspiration glistened on his and Joe’s foreheads. In spite of Chet’s efforts to plug the leak, the water poured in.

“Paddle!” shouted Caribou. “Faster, boys, faster!”

Frank and Joe put greater effort into their strokes. The heavily laden canoe pushed and plowed its way through the waves, and as the bow neared shore, suddenly touched bottom. Chet leaped out into knee-deep water. Frank, Joe, and Caribou followed. Grabbing the sides of the boat, they hauled it up over the rocks onto a small beach.

Exhausted, the foursome dropped to the sand to rest. As soon as Joe had caught his breath he said disgustedly, “We’ll have a hard time finding the thieves now!”

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou shouted, leaping to his feet. “We must unload gear before she gets wet!”

“And how!” Chet cried as the boys jumped up. “Rescue the food!”

With the four working quickly, the canoe was emptied and turned over. The Hardys then examined the bottom of the metal craft.

“Hey!” Frank cried out. “Look! This leak was caused deliberately!”

Everyone crowded around to look. Very cleverly five of the rivets that held the aluminum sides to the keel had been taken out and replaced with bits of putty.

“Pretty foxy—whoever did it,” said Joe, sitting back on his heels. “The putty would be waterproof and hold tight until strain was put on the hull.”

“If we hadn’t moved fast,” Chet put in, “we’d be swimming right now.”

“Tonnerre!” Caribou shouted. “That rascal nearly succeed this time. But no more!”

“You mean your friend Dulac?” Frank asked. “Or one of the thieves?”

The trapper shrugged, and Joe said, “It’s anybody’s guess. But whoever did it must have sneaked into the boatyard and tampered with the canoe while we were gone.”

“I think I can make repairs,” Caribou said, and went to work quickly, using bits of bent wire. Finally the craft was placed back in the water and proved seaworthy.

After cleaning and refueling the outboard motor, the boys and their guide set out again down the river. It was growing dusky.

“We’ll have to stop for the night soon,” Caribou advised.

They cruised along smoothly and after a time spotted a canoe coming upstream. In the craft sat two men in khakis.

“Hunters,” said Caribou.

“Let’s ask them if they’ve seen a raft with gasoline drums aboard,” Frank suggested, and hailed the men.

The wind had died down, so the two canoes now lay quietly side by side. Caribou questioned the hunters, since they spoke only French.

There was a rapid-fire discussion among the three. After a few minutes Caribou pushed the other boat and waved as the strangers continued their trip upstream.

“They have come right from the mouth of the river,” he reported. “They saw no boat towing a raft.”

Frank frowned. “The thief may have reached the float plane already or pulled into hiding along the shore if he spotted those men.”

“That is right,” Caribou agreed. “But now it is too dark to look for him. Ahead I see good camping place for us.”

A few minutes later the searchers entered a small cove with a smooth beach. The boys hopped out, and slid the canoe carefully up a gently shelving rock. After unloading the supplies, they carried the craft onto the beach and placed it on props.

Frank took a three-quarter ax from the pack and began gathering firewood. Joe went down to the bank to catch fish for supper, while Chet spread reindeer moss, which he covered with balsam tips for a sleeping area. He rolled out the boys’ sleeping bags onto this cushioning.

Caribou sat down on a rock and watched as the three boys worked rapidly and efficiently. “You are good campers,” he said, obviously impressed.

The fire was hot when Joe returned with a half dozen grayling. The fish were quickly fried, and the hungry travelers ate them with canned stewed tomatoes and brown bread. After they had finished the meal and cleaned the cooking utensils, Joe put another log on the fire and the four sat back, relaxed.

“Why are you called Caribou?” Frank asked the trapper.

Caribou said that when he was a small boy, he had come to this territory from the Ungava district near Labrador. “No caribou there. I was very smart.” He grinned widely. “The first time I see one, I think it is cow!” He spoke in his old patois.

“Trapper tell me to pet the cow, so I walk up to the big caribou. I get a surprise. She turn quick and rush at me. I run fast, just make it to tree, but her horns tear my pants.”

The three boys laughed heartily and Chet said, “Moo! Some cow!”

“After that,” said Caribou, “all the trappers in the north country call me Caribou Caron.”

The burly man regaled his young companions with several hair-raising stories of his life in the north. Then they all crawled into their sleeping bags and were soon in deep slumber.

Joe did not know how long he had been asleep when he heard a crack loud enough to make him sit up and listen intently.

The fire had died down and the air was still. He glanced around the campfire. Caribou and Chet were not there!

Joe, alarmed, shook his brother awake. Frank rolled over drowsily and asked, “Wh-a-at’s wrong?”

“Caribou and Chet are gone,” Joe told him.

Frank became fully awake now. “Gone?” he echoed. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Something must have awakened them,” Joe answered, “and they went to investigate.”

The Hardys threw more wood on the fire to light up the area. As the chips flared up brightly, they began a search of the campsite. Suddenly, from the far side of the fire, came a “Sh!”

The Hardys swung around. Out of the shadows stepped a medium-sized, roughly dressed man. He was wiry and tough looking.

“Who are you?” Frank demanded. “What are you doing here?”

The man attempted a weak smile, then said, “My name is Soleau, and I’ve come to warn you about your guide, Caribou Caron.”

“What about Caribou?” Joe asked. He instinc tively did not like the man.

“Caron is dangerous—mentally unbalanced,” the stranger said. “And he’s leading you on a wild-goose chase.”

“Where is Caribou now?” Frank asked warily.

“He has taken your friend as a hostage,” Soleau said with a sneer.

“A hostage!” Joe repeated. “I don’t believe you!”

“It’s true,” the stranger insisted, edging his way closer to Frank. “You fellows had better go back to Fort Smith or you’ll be next.”

“Look out!” Joe yelled suddenly. But he was too late. Bam! Soleau swung a powerful right punch at Frank. The boy had no time to duck as the rocklike fist cracked against his jaw.

As Frank dropped unconscious by the fire, Joe leaped across the flames at Soleau. With a shocking tackle Joe brought him down. The stranger’s feet came up in a vicious kick and knocked the wind out of the boy. Shaking his head and gasping for breath, Joe reached around the man’s neck and hung on. The two rolled on the ground, coming dangerously close to the red-hot coals of the campfire. The top of Joe’s head grew hot as Soleau forced him nearer and nearer the flames.

Suddenly from the darkness came a great roar. “Bon tonnerre!” Caribou crashed through the brush, slashing at branches with his mighty arms. Behind him was Chet.

Caribou crossed the fire in a leap. Grasping the stranger by the shoulders, he pulled him off Joe and flung him away. Soleau flew through the air, arms and legs waving wildly.

But the wiry man knew how to fall. As his weight hit the ground, he rolled quickly to his feet and disappeared in the darkness.

“After him!” Chet cried.

“No!” boomed Caribou. “We never find him in the dark. Help Frank!”

Chet came back to his friend, and Joe scrambled up to assist.

Frank roused when the boys put cold water on his head, and he sat up groggily. “Wow, did he pack a punch!” he said.

“That was Abner Dulac,” Caron snorted in disgust. “A dangerous fox!”

“What’s he got against us?” Frank asked, touching his jaw gingerly.

“Anybody who is a friend of mine is an enemy of Dulac,” Caribou answered. “It was that low-down weasel all the time!”

The Hardys looked puzzled and Chet explained. “I heard a noise like a bear prowling and woke up Caribou. We followed the sound. Dulac must have circled back to steal our gear.”

“Why?” asked Joe in surprise.

Caribou smiled wryly. “One reason, Dulac will take anything. He is thief. Up here in the north, you die if you have no gear!”

Joe grimaced. “Great mackerel! You mean he’d let us die!”

Caribou nodded solemnly. “I warned you—that Dulac is a mean one!”

Chet looked apprehensive. “Do you think he’ll keep on our trail and cause us more trouble?”

The big trapper shrugged. “It could be so. We will have to keep eyes in the backs of our heads.”

Frank had been silent, mulling over the recent incident. Now he said, “What I can’t figure out is why Dulac went to all the trouble of following us here—even using a phony name to trick us. He must be up to something more serious than robbing traps—or trying to spite you, Caribou.”

The others agreed. “But what?” Joe puzzled.

“No more mysteries tonight!” Chet begged. “How about a little sleep?”

The boys and Caribou were soon back in their bags. They dozed off but their rest was fitful.

The next morning was bright and clear. After washing in the bracing river, the group had a good breakfast. Everyone pitched in to break camp, then they set out in the canoe again.

As the sun grew hotter, hordes of insects buzzed about the boys’ heads, and they quickly covered their upper bodies with the netting they had brought along.

“Dad was right about these pests!” Joe said, slapping at a persistent black fly.

During the next four hours, they navigated down the rapidly moving river, searching for the gasoline raft. They were perspiring from the heat and were growing discouraged when Frank suddenly pointed to the shore.

“Over there!” he called out.

A crude log raft was barely visible under low-hanging brush. Quickly Caribou cut the motor, and the boys paddled swiftly to shore.

Joe jumped out first and ran to the raft. Reaching it, he called excitedly, “We’ve found it! I can smell gasoline!”

CHAPTER IX

Grizzly Charge!

EXCITED but silent, Frank and Chet slipped out of the canoe, and with Caribou’s help, hauled the boat up on the beach. They rushed over to join Joe at the raft.

“Bon tonnerre!” The French-Canadian trapper gave a huge sniff. “This certainly carry fuel!”

“We can’t be sure that this is Keating’s raft,” Chet spoke up.

“No,” said Frank. “But it’s a good place to start a search and find out the owner’s identity. Let’s separate and look for a trail.”

The four spread out in different directions, struggling through the dense, tangled undergrowth back from the river. Suddenly Frank gave a birdcall from a thicket to signal the others.

“I’ve found an opening!” he told them. “Over here!” His companions joined him quickly and found Frank at the head of a crude, narrow trail.

He and Joe dropped to their knees and studied the path and the weeds at the edge.

The boys noted that the dirt bore scrape marks and the growth was trampled. Frank announced triumphantly, “Something heavy was dragged or rolled along here not too long ago—and, from the footprints, probably by two men.”

“Like a fuel drum?” Joe added, grinning.

“Ah!” Caribou exclaimed, his eyes flashing. “Come on! We’ll follow their trail!”

He and the boys rushed back to the canoe and unloaded their gear. They strapped on their rucksacks. Chet and Caribou toted the rest of the equipment, while Frank and Joe carried the canoe.

The searchers set forth on the trail. For the first hundred yards it was narrow and roughly blazed. The group trudged along as the path twisted and turned, growing wider as they walked farther inland. Finally the trail led up the face of a rugged incline.

“Whew! That’ll be a tough portage,” Joe said, as they all paused to rest.

The Hardys decided to leave the supplies and canoe camouflaged beneath some dense brush. Then the ascent began.

“Boy!” Chet puffed. “Lucky we left our stuff back there and didn’t lug it!”

“Oui,” said Caribou. “The men with the drum were very determined.”

Frank was first to reach the top. He found himself gazing out over a small, sparkling, jewellike lake about a mile in diameter. The shores were ringed with tall, stately Canadian blue spruce trees.

The other three scrambled to join him at the summit. “Pretty nice,” said Joe. “I could go for a dive in there.” He mopped his brow.

“Me, too,” Chet added emphatically.

The four hurried along the trail, which was smooth and well cleared, to the edge of the small lake. There the drag marks disappeared into the water. But there was nothing in sight on the smooth surface.

“Let’s circle the lake,” Frank suggested, and they tramped along the curving shore.

About a quarter of the way around, Joe suddenly pointed offshore. “What’s that out there?” he asked excitedly.

Everyone stared at a floating object glinting in the sunlight on the surface of the lake.

“It’s an empty gasoline drum!” said Frank.

“What a clue!” Chet exclaimed.

The boys stripped to their shorts, swam out, retrieved the metal cylinder, and dragged it up onto the sandy beach.

Caribou rolled the drum over for inspection. “It’s Keating’s all right,” he announced, pointing to the Hudson’s Bay stencil 42. “This is the Fort Smith store number.”

“The gas probably was used to fuel a plane,” Frank surmised.

“The stolen float plane, I’ll bet!” Joe said elatedly. “Hey! This lake would be a swell landing spot—the crooks’ hideout could be right near here!”

“Or,” Chet put in, “the gas could have been flown to another spot.”

“We look around,” Caribou said.

They started to circle the shore again, fanning out a hundred yards apart. Frank and Joe converged in a grassy meadow when suddenly they heard rustling in a clump of shrubs ahead.

Stalking silently through the grass, they approached the bushes. The rustling grew louder. The brothers were about to push aside the shrubbery when Frank put his hand on Joe’s arm, restraining him.

“Good night!” Joe gasped.

Several yards to their right was a huge brown grizzly bear! Beside her were two small furry cubs. The Hardys stood as if frozen, hoping that the bear had not seen them. The mother bear growled, and reared up to her full five-feet height, standing upright. Her enormous head was ferocious looking, with her jaws held open and the small ears laid back flat.

Frank took one second to notice that the beast’s long sharp claws were extended. “Head for the woods!” he hissed, pushing Joe in front of him.

“Head for the woods,” Frank hissed

The brothers raced off for their lives. The huge bear dropped to four legs. Though awkward and lumbering, she proved terrifyingly fast as she charged after the Hardys.

Suddenly Caribou came crashing through the bushes. The giant trapper held his hat in one hand and a large plaid handkerchief in the other. He waved them frantically, and kept shouting, “Hey! Hey!” at the top of his lungs.

The bear’s charge faltered as she became aware of Caribou’s actions. The huge creature swerved to her right and started to lumber in the direction of the French-Canadian. “Get up a tree, fast!” he yelled to Frank and Joe. “Go on!”

The Hardys obeyed and shinned up the nearest trees. They clambered onto stout limbs and sat gasping for breath.

Caribou raced off in another direction and climbed up a low-branched spruce. The mother bear padded over and began to sniff around the trunk of the tree where the trapper was perched. Suddenly there was a squeal from one of the cubs. Ears perked up, the grizzly stood still, listening. The cub squealed again. This time the mother turned and trotted back to her offspring.

“Whew!” said Joe in a low voice.

“That was close!” Frank whispered, expelling his breath sharply.

The brothers remained in the trees until they saw the bear and her cubs move off in the opposite direction toward the lake.

Frank and Joe quickly dropped to the ground. Caribou had already climbed down from the spruce and hurried to meet them. He had a wide grin on his face.

“Plenty of excitement in my country, no?”

“Plenty is right!” Joe exclaimed. “Grizzlies I can do without, though!”

The Hardys thanked the veteran trapper for coming to their rescue. Caribou explained that as a rule bears are not troublesome when they have cubs.

“Unless you get too close,” he said. “Then the mother will charge to protect her young. The best way to escape is to distract her and climb a tree. Grizzlies don’t climb.”

Just then Chet came running up, out of breath. “What happened?” he demanded.

Upon hearing of the adventure, Chet shuddered at his friends’ narrow escape. “I’d rather be surrounded by thieves than tangle with one of those beasts!”

“Let’s stop for lunch now,” Caribou suggested.

“That’s a good idea,” Frank agreed. “Running away from bears makes me hungry.”

The trekkers dug into their rucksacks and soon were enjoying canned-meat sandwiches and tomato juice. Then, keeping a sharp lookout for more bears, the group continued their search around the lake.

“No signs of any habitation around here,” Joe observed to his brother.

At that moment Chet, who was a little distance ahead, beckoned to the others. When they reached him, he pointed out broad imprints in the sandy beach.

“Looks as if heavy objects were dragged across,” Frank noted.

“This is where the other drums were pulled out of the water!” Joe cried out.

“Look at this!” Frank stooped to pick up a short metal object. “A wrench,” he said, turning it over in his hand. “ ‘Yellowknife Lodge’ has been stenciled onto the handle.” He handed the tool to Caribou.

“The lodge is on north shore of Great Slave Lake,” Caribou said. “Long distance away. This may belong to hunters stopping there.”

Frank had another theory. “Or maybe the wrench was dropped by the man called Keating who brought the fuel drums here!”

“If so, he must be one of the gang that’s been robbing lodges in that area,” Joe deduced. “Wonder if Biff, Tony, and Sam are having any luck on the case.”

“We’ll hang onto this wrench for evidence,” Frank said, and put the tool in his pocket.

“S-s-sh!” Caribou broke in, holding up his hand and cocking his head to one side, listening.

“A plane,” Joe whispered as the droning noise became louder. “We’ve been spotted!”

Everyone stood tensely, staring at the small float plane which came into sight. Who was aboard—the thieves? The plane touched its pontoons onto the lake surface and taxied over to the group on shore.

“Look!” Chet exclaimed. “What’s that big bright marking on the door?”

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou burst out. “They are not robbers! The crest on the door is for Royal Canadian Mounted Police!”

“The Mounties!” Chet smiled in relief as the craft ran up onto the beach.

The engine was cut. A thin, uniformed man opened the cockpit door and jumped to the ground.

“I’m looking for Frank and Joe Hardy,” the Mountie said in a serious tone of voice.

CHAPTER X

An Amazing Suspect

“I’M Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe,” Frank told the Mountie. “Why do you want us?”

“And how did you locate us?” Chet queried.

The pilot pulled out his wallet and showed his identification card. “I’m Corporal Fergus of the Fort Smith station,” he said. “I have an urgent message for you, so I flew downriver. From two thousand feet up I spotted you walking along the beach.”

“Has anything happened to our family?” Joe asked the officer quickly.

“No. The message concerns the man impersonating your father,” Corporal Fergus replied. “The Edmonton police have been notified that someone else called to see Mr. Baker-Jones at the hospital. It’s thought he may be an accomplice of the impostor because Mr. Baker-Jones doesn’t know anyone around here.”

Frank queried, “Do the police know his identity?”

“They have investigated the Edmonton hotels,” said the officer, “and learned that a man of his description is registered in one as ‘J. C. Phillips.’ Right now they have a stake-out at the hotel and plan to follow the man as soon as he’s spotted.”

“Two of us should be there,” Frank said seriously. “Joe, you and Chet go back to Edmonton. Caribou and I will continue our search for the thieves up here.”

“Fine,” his brother agreed. “We’ll meet you back at Fort Smith in a couple of days.”

“Maybe your dad’s impersonator will lead us to the stolen rune stone!” Chet said.

“That’s possible,” Joe agreed. “Could be the stone wasn’t brought up here after all. Anyhow, we’ll have both places covered.”

Chet looked worried. “Say, how do we get back to Edmonton?”

Corporal Fergus stepped forward. “I’m to fly you to Fort Smith,” he said. “From there, you can get a plane to Edmonton.”

“Swell! Thanks a million,” Joe said.

Caribou spoke up. “Meantime, Frank and I will return to Fort Smith. We will look for thieves on the way. And travel most of the night.”

Frank had a new idea. “When we get there, let’s rent a float plane and start a search from the air, Caribou. We might sight the stolen aircraft.”

The Mountie shook his head skeptically. “In this area that will be like looking for a needle in a haystack! We’re working on the case, too, with not much luck.”

“If I know my brother,” Joe said, grinning, “he’ll find the plane if it’s around.”

Joe and Chet said good-by to Frank and Caribou, and climbed into the RCMP float plane. The two on shore watched and waved as the sleek craft turned and taxied off over the small lake. The water sprayed in tall sheets as the pontoons lifted and the plane took off, just clearing the tops of the spruce trees rimming the water.

Frank and Caribou retraced their steps to the canoe. They carried the craft and other equipment back to Slave River and were soon headed for Fort Smith.

Meanwhile, in the RCMP plane, Corporal Fergus pointed out the densely forested land and the snakelike outline of Slave River below.

When they approached the Fort Smith airfield, the afternoon flight to Edmonton was in the process of loading. Corporal Fergus called over the roar of the motor, “We have to land in the river, but I’ll ask the tower by radio to hold the plane for you.”

The control tower agreed, and after setting down, the boys took time to thank Corporal Fergus before they climbed out of the plane which had taxied to the airfield dock.

“Lots of luck,” the corporal called out to them.

“Maybe we’ll see you later,” said Joe as he and Chet waved good-by.

Soon the two boys had boarded the waiting plane, which took off seconds later. The trip was fast and smooth and the boys landed at Edmonton rested and ready for more work.

The taxi ride from the airport to the city was long and slow through heavy traffic. Joe shifted impatiently in his seat. “I hope we get there before they question that man,” he said. “I’d like to be on hand for the surprise!”

When they finally pulled up in front of the Edmonton police headquarters, Inspector Knight was just coming out the front door.

“Hello, boys! Glad you’re here,” he said, smiling warmly and extending his hand. “We’re going over to the hospital. Our stake-out reports that the suspect is heading there.”

Joe was surprised. “You haven’t picked him up yet?” he asked.

“The fellow really hasn’t done anything,” the inspector replied. “But if he goes to the hospital to see Baker-Jones again, we’ll question him.”

Joe and Chet drove off in a police car with Inspector Knight and another officer, who was at the wheel. When they reached the hospital, the driver parked at the side entrance.

“We’ll sit here and keep watch,” said the inspector.

Ten minutes later he exclaimed, “There he is!”

Inspector Knight indicated a man coming down the street toward the front of the hospital. He had a bushy black pompadour and mustache, and, the boys noticed, was walking with a distinct limp. He went slowly up the steps to the building and into the entrance lobby.

Both officers and the two boys slipped from the car and followed quietly. Inside, they saw the stranger go directly to the reception desk and heard him ask to see Mr. Baker-Jones.

“Your name, please?” the clerk asked politely.

“Phillips.”

Instantly the inspector went forward. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Phillips,” he said.

The stranger swung around quickly. Suddenly Joe gasped. Then he dashed up to the man and stood, stock-still, staring at him. The bushy-haired caller straightened up and smiled.

“Joe! Chet!” he said in a familiar voice.

Chet’s mouth flew open. “Wh-a-at! Mr. Hardy!” He gaped. “Boy oh boy! You had me fooled!”

“But not Joe,” the detective said.

“What does this mean?” Inspector Knight asked, greatly perplexed.

Moving away from the reception desk, Mr. Hardy stripped off his mustache and wig. He introduced himself quickly to the Canadian police officer, then explained, “I thought I would be able to foil the rune stone crooks by coming up here in disguise—make them think I was still in Bayport.” He chuckled. “I didn’t figure on getting caught by my own son!”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Joe said. “Guess maybe I spoiled your plan.”

“I doubt it,” Mr. Hardy said, putting an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You boys were really on the alert—I’m proud of you!”

He turned to Inspector Knight. “As long as we’re both here, perhaps we can compare notes on this case.”

“Fine, Mr. Hardy,” said the inspector. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. Only I’m afraid my department hasn’t turned up any new leads to that impostor or to the stolen stone and money.”

“How is Mr. Baker-Jones?” Joe asked.

“The hospital told me this morning,” Inspector Knight replied, “that he is improving, but still in no condition to answer questions.”

“Well, we’ll keep working on the case,” Mr. Hardy promised.

The Bayport group said good-by to the officers, then went back to the detective’s hotel room for a conference.

Joe told his father about the knife thrower and gave him details of the Fort Smith and Slave River trip. He explained where Frank and Caribou were and about their continuing hunt for the stolen float plane. Mr. Hardy was especially interested to hear that they had found one of the gas drums and a wrench from Yellowknife Lodge.

Joe asked, “Dad, have you had any more news from Sam Radley?”

“Yes,” replied the detective. “Just before I left home I had a report. Sam thinks the lodge thefts gang is still operating around Great Slave Lake. He, Biff, and Tony have traced them as far as the town of Snowdrift. That’s the last I’ve heard.”

Joe looked thoughtful. “Dad,” he said, “I have a hunch there might be another motive behind these lodge thefts besides burglary. The gang might be using the stolen float plane for some other purpose.”

“You have a point there, Joe,” his father agreed. “Finding the plane would be a big step in cracking the case.”

“We’ll get back to Fort Smith as early as possible tomorrow,” Joe proposed, “and help Frank and Caribou search by air.”

“Good,” said the detective. “I’ll remain here in case I can speak with Mr. Baker-Jones.”

Chet offered to make reservations for a morning flight. This done, the three showered, then had a juicy steak supper.

Afterward, Joe sent a telegram to the Hudson’s Bay Company store at Fort Smith telling Frank that he and Chet would be there before noon the next day. After a quick breakfast the following morning, Joe and Chet took the plane back to Fort Smith. When they landed, Frank and Caribou were waiting at the airport to greet them.

“What’s new?” Frank asked.

“Our dad has changed his name,” said Joe, grinning, and told the story.

Frank laughed heartily.

“I’ve arranged to rent a float plane,” he said. “It’s moored at a dock on the river.”

“Today,” Caribou boomed, “our luck will be better! We search by air for the stolen plane.”

Shortly afterward, with Frank at the controls, the foursome took off. Soon they were clear of the airfield and circling over and away from the town of Fort Smith. “We’ll fly a box search, south of Great Slave Lake and west of Snowdrift,” Frank announced. “Keep your eyes open for any sign of the stolen plane.”

The four were silent as they peered intently out the windows. They flew for an hour in the planned pattern. Not one of the searchers spotted the slightest clue to the missing craft.

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou burst out finally. “These woods are too thick to see into!”

The plane droned on, over one small lake after another. Chet’s head was nodding sleepily when Joe called out, “I see something!” He pointed to an L-shaped body of water. “There’s the plane!”

“Sacrebleu!” Caribou thundered. “We find it!”

The young pilot banked the light plane around and they went down low, retracing their course over the lake. The craft Joe had sighted was resting in the middle of the water. The trees at the edge of the lake were tall and the undergrowth thick.

“It’s going to be tricky to land down there,” Frank said, circling again. “But here goes!”

He cut the engine enough to sideslip the plane over the high trees and onto the surface of the lake. As they straightened out for the downwind leg of the approach, Joe suddenly shouted to Frank.

“It’s just an old wreck! One of the wings is in the water!”

“We’re already committed to this landing,” Frank told him. “We’ll have to go ahead.” The plane continued to drop into the landing position. Frank lowered the rudder and started pulling the throttle back.

Suddenly Caribou shouted, “Watch out! Logs!”

Directly beyond and just under the surface of the water, they could see a twisted tangle of rough logs. The float plane was heading right for them!

Frank jammed the throttle ahead, then eased back on the stick gradually.

“Too much lift will throw us into a stall,” he told himself.

From behind came Chet’s frantic cry. “The trees! Watch the trees!”

Frank’s brow glistened with perspiration as he manipulated the stick gently. The dark woods loomed up ahead of them as their old plane climbed slowly. The boys gritted their teeth and Caribou clenched his seat belt until his knuckles grew white.

Would they gain altitude in time to avoid a crash?

CHAPTER XI

Surprise Tactics

“HANG on!” Frank shouted, holding the throttle hard ahead.

The plane banked sharply on its side. As the towering black-green spruce trees loomed up at them, the three passengers braced themselves for a collision.

But the old craft responded instantly and slipped across the trees, riding on the left wing. The boys could hear the boughs scrape the underside of the plane. The floats jerked as they were caught momentarily, then released by the tree-tops.

Frank righted the plane, pulling back hard on the stick. The craft was in the clear!

“Whew!” He let out his breath slowly, blinking as his taut nerves relaxed. “That was a tight one!” He could hear sighs of relief from his companions.

Joe leaned forward in his seat and gripped Frank’s shoulder. “Pretty fancy flying, brother!” he said, and Chet and Caribou added their praise.

“It was a good workout,” Frank said modestly. “Now back to the search.”

He circled the aircraft over the lake again, staying higher this time. Grimly Joe pointed to the submerged logs on each side of the wrecked plane. They were roped together.

“Those logs were put there deliberately,” he said. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to booby-trap us!”

“The thieves know we hunt for them,” Caribou muttered. “We must be very careful!”

The plane cruised over the lake and wooded area again. There was no one in sight, nor was there any trace of a plane.

“Wonder where the gang found that wreck?” Joe mused.

“It could have been abandoned somewhere in these woods,” Frank suggested. “And they dragged it out onto the lake.”

“That would have been a tough job,” Chet remarked.

“Let’s get back to Fort Smith and report this to the Mounties,” Frank suggested. “Maybe they know something about it.”

The others agreed, and they headed back to town. As they approached the landing, Frank radioed ahead for clearance. When he set down he taxied straight to the RCMP jetty. They went at once to the office. Corporal Fergus was there and listened intently to their story.

“Could that abandoned plane have been found in the woods, Corporal?” asked Frank.

“One was wrecked up there in the bush some time ago,” Fergus replied. “Whoever dragged it out to the lake must know the area well.”

“Why?” Chet asked.

“Not too many people were familiar with the location of that wreck,” the corporal answered.

“Would Abner Dulac be familiar with that territory, Caribou?” Frank asked suddenly.

“Oui.” Caribou nodded. “That Dulac run his traplines through there many times.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out why Dulac trailed us from Edmonton,” Frank said. “One reason could be he’s mixed up with the rune stone theft.”

“Sounds possible,” Joe agreed. “And he either was on his way to warn his buddies about us, or wanted to stop our sleuthing cold—or both.”

“He is a snake. He would do it,” Caribou declared angrily.

Corporal Fergus said he would send several Mounted Police up to the area of the abandoned plane to look around. If they reported anything suspicious, he would let the Hardys know.

When the brothers and their friends started back along the jetty toward their craft, Joe suddenly stopped. “There’s a guy nosing around our plane.”

Quickly the three boys ran down the jetty. By now the fellow was leaning over, the upper half of his body inside the plane. Frank grasped him by the arm and pulled him up.

“Biff!” he shouted in surprise. “Boy, it’s good to see you. But what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” the lanky boy replied, grinning. “Your father cabled Sam, telling us where to reach you.” He added that Tony and Radley were in the town of Hay River.

After Caribou joined them and introductions were made, Biff explained, “We tracked the gang to Hay River—west of the mouth of Slave River. But they’re plenty shrewd at eluding us. So Sam wants you all to come up and join forces with us. I came in on the early-morning plane.”

The Hardys and Chet then brought Biff up to date on their own experiences and detective work—both on the Viking rune stone mystery and the lodge thefts case.

“I hate to give up the search for Keating and his fuel drums,” Frank concluded. “And I’d like to find out if Abner Dulac is mixed up with the thieves.”

“Me, too!” Caribou put in hotly. “You boys go to Hay River. I will stay here and watch for Dulac.”

“All right, Caribou,” Frank agreed, smiling at the trapper. “You can have first crack at your friend Dulac!”

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou exploded. “Friend, never!”

After the boys had attended to having the rented plane fueled and checked out, they had lunch, then bid good-by to the French-Canadian. Joe slid into the pilot’s seat, and with Frank, Chet, and Biff as passengers, taxied out onto the river. The take-off was smooth and rapid and soon the plane was heading out over the dense spruce forest on the northwestern route to the town of Hay River.

When they came in sight of the town, Joe landed the float plane and tied up at an airfield jetty. The four jumped out and Biff led them down the main street to a small frame hotel where Sam Radley and Tony were waiting.

“Hi! Swell to see you!” they were greeted excitedly. Sam Radley, a man of medium height, wiry build, and thinning sandy hair, pumped their hands.

The groups exchanged accounts of their recent activities on the mysteries.

“There’s no doubt,” said Sam, “that the gang we’re after has some thoroughly experienced woodsmen.”

“We feel they’re close by,” added Tony, “and so do the Mounties.”

“The thieves’ operations seem to center around lodges on the shore of Great Slave Lake,” Sam continued. “So far, they’ve never stolen from places inland.”

Frank said thoughtfully, “It could be coincidence of course—but the locale of these lodge thefts and the finding of the Viking rune stone is the same—Great Slave Lake.”

Joe threw his brother a keen glance. “In other words, you think it isn’t coincidence—that there’s a connection between the two mysteries.”

“Yes,” Frank replied with conviction. “For two reasons: our radio antenna was knocked down while Dad was receiving your report on the lodge thefts, Sam. Kelly could have been eavesdropping outside. And,” he went on, “Kelly is also a suspect in the missing rune stone case.”

Joe broke in. “That means those new hundred-dollar bills stolen from Caribou and the ones used to pay for the fuel drums in Fort Smith are from the same batch of money.”

Frank looked excited. “If our theory’s right, we’re after the same bunch of thieves—not two separate gangs!”

“In that case,” said Sam Radley, “it’s a good thing we did get together on the mysteries.”

The six friends continued their speculations until bedtime. The next morning after breakfast Frank and Joe decided to scout the Great Slave Lake area around Hay River. The Hardys flew off, turning east toward the mouth of Slave River.

As they flew along the southern shore, cruising at a low altitude, Joe said excitedly, “I see a group of men below. They’re digging!”

“And it obviously isn’t a well, from the rectangular shape of the hole,” Frank commented, after circling over the figures below. “My guess is they’re looking for something.”

“If it’s any kind of a legitimate enterprise, I imagine the Mounties at Hay River will know about it,” Joe suggested. “Let’s go back and check!”

When they returned and told their friends about the excavation, Sam Radley looked puzzled and at once called the Hay River RCMP station. When he returned, he said, “The officers there know nothing about any digging in this vicinity.”

“Think the fellows you saw might be the thieves?” Tony asked Frank and Joe.

“We couldn’t tell, of course,” Frank replied. “How about our finding out, though?”

“I suggest we go up there tonight and investigate,” Sam advised. “If the men are members of the gang, we don’t want to scare them off.”

The others concurred, and as soon as darkness had fallen that evening, the group set out. They went down to the dock and climbed into a boat with an outboard that Sam had rented. They used the motor until they drew near the spot where Frank and Joe had seen the diggers, then turned it off and rowed to shore. They beached the craft and crept along the sandy bank.

Suddenly Joe whispered, “Someone has a fire burning.”

The group headed silently toward the glowing light. Like trained and skillful woodsmen, they approached without a sound. Ahead, six rough-looking, unshaven men were seated around a small, dying campfire. They evidently had just finished eating supper, and were leaning back, relaxed. The boys and Sam could not make out the men’s features in the flickering, uncertain light.

Suddenly one of the campers spoke. “How’s the translation of the stone coming?” he asked.

The man seated next to him shrugged and answered, “I’m making progress on the symbols, but slowly.”

Frank turned to Sam Radley and whispered excitedly, “Symbols! These men must be the rune stone crooks!”

Radley nodded in agreement. “Okay, fellows,” he murmured. “We may be able to take them off guard and capture the whole crew!”

In whispered agreement they decided that upon a signal from Radley, the pursuers would swoop down on their quarry. Chet nodded and rubbed his damp palms together, then set himself for the spring. But before Radley could say “charge,” Chet’s right toe snagged on a vine and down he went with an “oomph” that resounded through the stillness of the dark forest.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Joe moaned.

“Get ’em!” Radley shouted.

The six strangers, however, had been amply warned, and were on their way before the boys could move in. Snatching up their gear, they ran off into the darkness with muttered curses. Only one man straggled, and Joe pounced on him.

The rest clustered around Joe as he pulled the lone captive to his feet. The Hardys gasped and exclaimed in surprise, “Kelly!”

The thin, pale captive, not wearing a head bandage, showed no change of expression. He stared at the brothers with cold, blank eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Joe snapped. “Where’s the Viking rune stone?”

Kelly remained sullenly silent.

“I guess he’s not talking, boys,” said Radley. “Let’s search his duffle.”

Joe picked up the canvas bag and pulled out the contents. Among the camping equipment he found an odd-shaped package wrapped in brown paper. “Look!” he cried, untying it and holding up a slab of stone about eighteen inches long and six inches wide. It was covered with angular, slanting lines.

“The rune stone!” Joe cried. “We’ve found it!”

Sam Radley and Tony, meanwhile, had securely bound the prisoner. They joined the others in scrutinizing the heavy stone and its strange markings.

“I guess one mystery is almost solved,” Chet said, beaming.

“We’d better not count on that until we get Kelly back to Hay River and the stone’s authenticity is verified,” Sam Radley said.

The Hardys agreed. “Also,” Frank said, “we have to track down the rest of the gang and find out whether or not they are the lodge thieves.”

The captors took Kelly back to the boat with them, then motored swiftly to Hay River and went directly to the Mountie station with the fugitive from Bayport.

“Fine work, boys,” the inspector on duty said, after hearing their story. “I’ll hold this man and contact Police Chief Collig for verification.”

The police took the still-silent prisoner into custody and said that they would let the Hardys and Radley know if he revealed anything under questioning.

When Frank and Joe showed them the stone, the Mounties were amazed and impressed by the find. “This looks like the real thing,” the officer said, examining the carved tablet.

“I told you!” Chet exulted to his companions.

Sam Radley shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not convinced,” he said.

“Me either,” Frank declared. “Getting the stone back seemed too easy!”

“Well,” Joe put in, “I’m not such a pessimist. I’m going to call Dad and tell him our news.”

“Help yourself.” The officer gestured to his telephone. Joe placed the call to his father in Edmonton.

“Good work!” said Mr. Hardy, after hearing the full story. “But don’t jump to conclusions!”

“All right, Dad,” said Joe. “What’s our next move?”

“You and Frank bring the stone to Edmonton,” the detective replied. “Tell the others to stay in Hay River and keep out of sight. Ask Sam to contact me every day.”

“Will do, Dad,” Joe said. “See you soon. So long.”

The Mountie agreed to let the boys take the stone along and had them sign a receipt for it.

After Joe had relayed his father’s instructions to his companions, the whole group went to bed, tired from the excitement of the evening.

The next day the Hardys made the flight to Edmonton, arriving in the late afternoon. It was a smooth trip, and when they landed at the bustling airport, the boys hurried to the terminal.

Frank carried the stone, carefully wrapped and tied.

As they rushed outside to a taxi, Frank stopped suddenly and pointed to a stack of newspapers on a stand close by. The Hardys stared in astonishment at a headline on the first page:

RUNE STONE FOUND

Hardy and Sons Return to States

CHAPTER XII

Offbeat Assignment

“COME on. Let’s find out what this is all about!” Frank urged.

He and Joe taxied directly to the hotel where their father was staying. They walked swiftly through the lobby and took the elevator to the detective’s suite.

When Mr. Hardy opened the door, both boys started to speak at once. “The rune stone case is solved?” Frank asked, and Joe said, “We saw the newspaper ...”

They broke off in surprise when the detective smiled broadly. “Come in,” he said. “I’ll explain.”

He shut the door. Frank and Joe quickly sat down. “The Edmonton newspaper,” Mr. Hardy continued, “has agreed to cooperate with us on this rune stone business. That headline about our returning home was to throw the thieves still at large off course.” He chuckled. “In the same way it did you two.”

“I get it,” Frank said. “In case the stone is a fake.”

Joe gave a low whistle. “Neat maneuver.”

Frank then unwrapped the stone for his father’s inspection. “When can we find out if this is genuine, Dad?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” the detective answered. “Mr. Baker-Jones is much better, but the doctor in charge said that he should gain strength for a day before we talk to him.”

Mr. Hardy examined the stone and its markings closely.

“It certainly fits the description we got,” Joe observed hopefully.

“Yes, it does,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “But we’ll find out positively when Baker-Jones sees it.”

That evening the three had dinner in the seclusion of the detective’s hotel room. The next morning, as soon as the hospital would allow them to see the London Museum representative, the Hardys rushed over with the rune stone.

When they entered his room, Peter Baker-Jones was sitting up in bed. He looked pale and weak. The tall Englishman, who wore a neatly clipped mustache, acknowledged Mr. Hardy’s introductions formally. But upon hearing why they had come, the patient’s eyes brightened.

“The rune stonel” His voice shook with excitement. “Please! Let me see it quickly!”

Mr. Hardy unwrapped the stone, and handed it to the expert on runic writings. The man put on his eyeglasses and carefully studied the tablet as the visitors waited tensely. A look of disappointment spread over the Englishman’s face.

“This stone is not authentic,” he said wearily, but with certainty. “I can tell by the sharp edges of the lines that it was not carved in the ninth century. It is a rather clever imitation.”

“So—this Viking stone was faked—to decoy us off the case if the opportunity should arise,” Joe said angrily. “Boy! Are they clever! We’ll have to work fast before the crooks decipher the real one and find the treasure.”

The Londoner was greatly agitated. “How can they be stopped?” he asked.

The Hardys gave him a rapid account of their sleuthing, and the older detective said, “We’ll let the gang think their ruse worked.”

Frank now told the men of his belief that the lodge thieves operating around Great Slave Lake and the rune stone robbers were the same gang.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “I agree. All we have to do is prove it—and capture the other gang members.”

“How can we convince them we’ve given up the case,” Joe asked, “if we continue to search for them?”

“The thieves must be made to believe we’ve returned to the States, and Mr. Baker-Jones to England,” the detective replied.

Mr. Hardy then revealed a plan he had worked out. He suggested that the museum representative be taken secretly to a convalescent home outside Edmonton. “You can regain your strength there, Mr. Baker-Jones, and when we find the real rune stone, we’ll need your help for verification.”

Mr. Baker-Jones acceded to this suggestion. Fenton Hardy talked to the hospital authorities, and it was agreed that the Englishman would be moved quietly the next morning. When the Hardys left Baker-Jones, they told him that they would contact him at the convalescent home.

“Now let’s get down to police headquarters,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’re going to need one of their men.”

When they arrived, the detective and his sons hurried to Inspector Knight’s office. After an exchange of greetings and news, Mr. Hardy asked him, “Is there a tall, thin man in your department we can borrow, Inspector?”

The man’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but he answered, “Yes, there is. And you’re welcome to use his services.”

Frank grinned. “Dad, you’re planning another impersonation—only not for yourself—right?”

“Exactly!” The detective went on to explain that he, Joe, and Frank would board a plane for the States, taking with them someone to pose as Peter Baker-Jones.

The inspector nodded understandingly. “And that’s the role for my man. I’ll get him now.”

Knight left his office and returned with a tall policeman. “This is Officer Brent.”

“Let’s see how you look with a mustache,” Mr. Hardy said, after explaining the ruse. The detective handed Brent a false mustache.

When the officer held it in place, Joe burst out, “Terrific! With a hat and raincoat on, no one will know you’re not Peter Baker-Jones!”

The group agreed to meet at the Hardys’ hotel later that afternoon. They would take the plane bound for England, but would get off at Calgary.

The boys and Mr. Hardy returned to their hotel. After a late lunch, they left for the airport with “Mr. Baker-Jones,” who was bundled up and walking slowly, the two boys supporting him. Joe carried a suitcase. When they boarded the plane, Mr. Hardy whispered to Frank, “I think our plan is working. I’m sure we’re being watched!”

The airliner took off for the United States on schedule, and when it dropped down at Calgary, the four alighted. The policeman went into the rest room, and when he rejoined the others, he was minus his disguise and carrying the suitcase.

The Hardys said good-by and thanked him as he rushed off to make the next flight back to Edmonton.

“We’ll go straight to Hay River,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “There’s a flight by way of Saskatoon this afternoon.”

They had dinner on the plane and arrived at Hay River late that night. It was still light, since the Arctic summer sun was just setting.

“We’re logging more miles than a veteran airline pilot,” said Frank, yawning.

“We could use a good night’s sleep,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “We’ll hunt for Sam and the boys tomorrow.”

The next morning the three sleuths were up early. At breakfast, Joe said, “The Mounties probably can tell us where Sam and the fellows are hiding.”

“We’ll check with them,” his father said.

When they arrived at the RCMP station, the officer in charge told the famous detective and his sons the route to the hiding place of Radley and the three boys.

“They’re in an abandoned schoolhouse on the northern outskirts of town,” said the officer, spreading out a map on the desk. Pointing with a pencil, he continued, “If you follow this trail, you’ll come to a field. The schoolhouse is right beyond that.”

The Hardys thanked him and left the station, going by way of back streets to the edge of town. They made their way through the high grass of the field and came upon a ramshackle wooden school building. When they knocked, there was no answer until Mr. Hardy identified himself. Suddenly the door was pulled open and the trio stepped inside.

“Boy! Are we glad to see you back in one piece!” Chet grinned as they all shook hands.

“So far so good!” Joe laughed.

The Hardys’ friends listened closely while the detectives related the recent events in Edmonton.

“I thought that stone was a fake,” Sam said grimly.

“Have you found any clues to the gang’s hideout?” Joe asked him.

“Well, Chet might have,” Radley replied.

It was the Hardys’ turn to listen with keen interest as Chet told his story.

“Last night I sneaked out for food,” the chubby boy said, “and went to the restaurant nearest here. I bought some food at the back entrance and on my way past the side of the place, I overheard some men talking by an open window in the dining room. One mentioned something about ‘the stone.’ ”

Joe snapped his fingers. “Maybe the thieves hang out there!”

“I have an idea,” Frank said. “Joe, you and I will apply for jobs in the restaurant’s kitchen. If the thieves show up tonight, maybe we’ll be able to capture them.”

“I’ll make a dandy clean-up boy.” Joe grinned. “Frank, you can be dishwasher!”

“Thanks a lot!” Frank grimaced. “But anything in the line of duty! All right, let’s go apply!”

The two boys left, but returned to the schoolhouse an hour later with news that they had received part-time jobs and would start work that night.

“The restaurant isn’t open until evening,” Joe explained.

At the appointed time the brothers reported and got busy with their chores. At every opportunity they observed the patrons in the small dining room. Neither boy saw nor heard anything suspicious.

It was near midnight when Joe, mopping the floor by the half-open kitchen door, noticed two men come into the dining room. As they walked over to join several hard-looking men seated at a table, Joe heard one of the pair ask, “What’ll become of Kelly?”

Joe beckoned to his brother. Frank hurried over. The boys pressed against the wall near the door.

“Kelly’s biding his time,” the second man was saying. “We’ll meet him at the place now that the Hardys have gone back!”

Was it possible these men did not know Kelly was in jail?

“What place?” asked the man who had first spoken.

There was no answer, but the boys heard the ring of a coin hitting the tabletop. Joe peered around the corner.

Bang! A waiter balancing a tray loaded with dishes hit the door from the other side. The tray crashed to the floor.

The waiter, furious, pushed the door wide open. Joe, taken by surprise, saw that the group of tough-looking men in the dining room were staring at him.

Suddenly one jumped up. “It’s one of those Hardy kids!” he yelled. “Get him!”

CHAPTER XIII

Explosion!

“LET’S go!” Frank dashed for the back door. Joe dropped the mop and ran after him.

As their pursuers leaped toward the kitchen, the waiter turned to retrieve the tray, and collided with the first man. The two went down with a thud, landing on the floor among the broken dishes.

“Blast!” cried a burly fellow behind them, and pushed past the two into the kitchen.

The Hardys heard the commotion as they hurried outside and into a dark alleyway behind the building.

“This way,” Frank whispered, as he whirled to the left. Joe followed.

They ran around to the front and across the road, passing through the light streaming from the window of the restaurant. Suddenly they heard the door bang open and a harsh voice yell, “There they go!”

“After them!” came a raucous cry.

The boys jumped into a deep ditch on the other side of the road. As they darted along the narrow gully they could hear pounding footsteps behind them. A short distance ahead Frank saw a culvert just large enough for them to crawl into.

“In here,” he said, and jumped into the opening.

Joe leaped in after him, and the brothers crouched in the dark, damp space. They held their breath until all the pursuers had run past and continued on. In a few moments the sound of footsteps died away and the men’s voices faded into the distance.

“Let’s go!” Joe urged.

“Wait!” cautioned his brother. “More of the gang may be coming. We’ll crawl through and out the other end.”

The boys had just pulled themselves out of the culvert when they heard a yell from the spot where they had been hiding.

“Here’s a culvert!” came a man’s excited voice. “Search it!”

Then another voice came from the darkness. “You look there and I’ll check down the road.”

Tensely the boys waited for the man’s approach. “We’ll jump him,” Frank muttered.

A few seconds later they heard footsteps. Ready for the attack, the boys waited until the man was almost upon them, then leaped out.

Frank clamped a hand over the man’s mouth and Joe made a flying tackle around his knees, bringing him to the ground. The Hardys pin-ioned his arms tightly.

Joe whipped out his handkerchief and gagged the husky captive. Then the boys hauled him to his feet.

“Let’s get him to the Mounties,” Joe urged.

“Right,” Frank agreed.

The boys marched the prisoner through the deserted back streets to the RMCP station. When they entered the station, the officer at the desk looked up in surprise.

“We’re sure this man is one of the rune stone thieves,” Frank told him. “There were some other men after us. Sorry we couldn’t capture them.”

The desk officer hurried to call the inspector, who came over to the office immediately. He searched the prisoner carefully and pulled out a wallet.

“Hank Fogert! Is that your name?” the inspector asked the surly-looking man. There was no answer.

“He’s a United States citizen, boys,” the inspector said, “according to these papers!”

Frank was sure the man was one of those whom the Hardys had surprised at the campsite. He might know about the mysterious digging operations. Frank faced the prisoner and asked, “What were you and your pals digging for on the lake shore?”

Fogert looked startled, but would say nothing.

“Well, Fogert, we’ll give you time in a cell,” the officer said brusquely. “Then maybe you’ll feel like talking. The charges against you are attempted assault and battery and suspicion of larceny.”

The prisoner glared defiantly as he shuffled off with a guard. At the door he looked around at the Hardys. “Kelly will get even with you!” he snarled, then was led away.

“Kelly must be a pretty important guy in that gang,” Frank remarked. “Maybe he’s the top man.”

“He must be at least one of the lieutenants,” Joe surmised, as the brothers walked down the front steps of the police station.

They returned to the schoolhouse to find everyone wide awake waiting for them.

“Did anything happen at the restaurant?” Chet asked eagerly.

“Oh, nothing much,” Frank said, grinning at his brother.

“No, nothing much,” Joe said. “We just captured another one of the rune stone thieves!”

After excited exclamations from Mr. Hardy and their friends, Frank and Joe told about the chase and capture of Hank Fogert. When they had finished their account, Sam said, “Great work! We’re really whittling down that gang!”

“Yes, but we still haven’t found the real stone,” Frank remarked. “I vote that first thing in the morning we investigate the shore where the crooks were digging.”

It was decided to separate into two groups. Sam, with Frank, Biff, and Tony, would go to the digging site to learn, if possible, what the gang was up to. The others would remain at the schoolhouse hideout.

The seven crawled into their sleeping bags. They awoke at sunrise, and after eating a hearty breakfast, Sam and the three boys set out. They hurried to the cove where Sam had secreted his boat and climbed in.

The craft hugged the shore of Great Slave Lake, and presently Frank pointed ahead. “There’s the place we spotted the diggers.”

In a few minutes the boat was beached. The foursome found the rectangular excavation and examined it closely.

“What do you suppose those guys were hunting for?” Tony asked.

“The Viking treasure mentioned on the rune stone!” Frank frowned. “That is, if they’ve deciphered the symbols.”

“I wonder what the treasure is?” Biff mused.

“Let’s search in the hole,” Frank said, jumping down. “Maybe there’s a clue here!”

The others joined him and spread out along the narrow excavation.

Suddenly Tony called out, “Here’s something!” He bent down. “It’s a wire!”

Frank was standing near him. As Tony grabbed the wire and pulled, Frank yelled, “Look out!” and leaping aside, pulled Tony to the ground with him.

Bah-room! A huge cloud of dust and pebbles rose high into the air and the earth shuddered with an underground explosion. Frank and Tony, though shaken, were unhurt. As the dust cleared, they saw Sam and Biff some distance away, struggling to their feet.

“Wh-a-at happened?” Biff demanded, when he and Sam ran up.

“A booby trap!” Frank stated grimly, rising. “We’re lucky to be alive!”

Tony got to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes. “What caused the explosion?” he asked.

“Dynamite!” Sam replied tensely. “They’re really eager to get rid of us, so they came back and booby-trapped this spot knowing we’d investigate it.”

“That wire I pulled triggered off the blast!” Tony realized in horror. “Thanks to me, we could have been blown sky-high!”

“Maybe there’s a clue here!” Frank said

Just then Frank’s attention was attracted by a tattered piece of paper sticking out of the dirt. He picked it up.

“A mapl” said Frank, as the others gathered around to look. “It covers this whole area.”

“There’s Hay River,” Tony observed. “And there’s Fort Smith and the Wood Buffalo National Park.”

“Probably dropped by the thieves,” Sam surmised. “But nothing special is marked on it.”

“Wood Buffalo Park,” Frank repeated thoughtfully. “Of course! Wood Buffalo Park!”

“What do you mean?” Biff asked.

“When Joe and I were working in the restaurant, one of the gang asked where ‘the place’ was. The answer was the sound of a coin hitting the table.”

“So?” Tony looked mystified.

“Well, I’ve had a hunch it was a signal or code, and I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what kind. I think I have it.” Frank continued, “It could have been a nickel—an American buffalo nickel!”

“Bet you’re right!” Tony cried out excitedly. “The gang is hiding out in Wood Buffalo Park!”

“With the stolen rune stone!” Biff added.

Back at the schoolhouse, the four related their morning’s experience. Chet turned pale. “Dynamite!” he quavered. “Those guys must be getting desperate.”

Mr. Hardy said gravely, “We must round up the rest of them—and soon.”

Frank now told his theory about Buffalo National Park.

“Sounds logical,” said Mr. Hardy. “I believe it’s worth checking out!”

“How?” Joe asked.

“Maybe we can trick Fogert into divulging some information,” his father replied.

The detective and his sons went immediately to the RCMP station. When they arrived, the officer in charge agreed to let them question the prisoner.

“We got no response from him,” he said grimly. “Maybe you’ll have better luck. I’ll bring him in.”

As Hank Fogert was led in by the officer and a police guard, Frank greeted him casually. “The boss sends his best from Wood Buffalo Park,” he said.

Fogert stopped suddenly, obviously startled by the remark. “How—” he began, looking puzzled. Suddenly the expression on his face turned from one of surprise to fierce anger when he realized that he had been trapped.

“Why, you—” he snarled, and lunged toward Frank.

CHAPTER XIV

Buffalo Park Clue

“No, you don’t!” Mr. Hardy stepped quickly in front of the thug.

The detective fell back, however, as the burly prisoner threw his full weight against him. Mr. Hardy instantly regained his balance, but by this time the police guard had overpowered Fogert. Nevertheless, he kicked out viciously and struck the detective on his kneecap.

“Take Fogert to his cell!” Mr. Hardy said. “He has already told us what we wanted to know.”

Fogert jerked his head like a snake ready to strike, and staring at the Hardys with hatred gleaming in his eyes, he said sneeringly, “We’re not through yet—not by a long shot.” The guard led him off.

Joe turned to the inspector and asked, “Is anyone in the cell next to Fogert?”

“Just a petty thief. I doubt if he knows anything about Fogert, but you’re welcome to question him.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Hardy said. “We will.”

The detective and his sons followed the officer down a corridor to a small, dimly lighted room fronted by long steel bars. A wizened little man sat forlornly on a narrow cot. He looked up glumly when the detective addressed him. “Has the prisoner next door talked to you?”

“Nope,” the man answered. “The only time that Yank talks is in his sleep. Snores and talks all night long,” the man complained. “I haven’t had any shut-eye since he came.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Hardy said, turning abruptly and walking back down the hall. His sons followed quickly.

“What’s up?” Joe asked when they were back in the Mounties’ office.

“I think we’re going to listen in on Hank Fogert tonight,” Mr. Hardy replied. “He might say something interesting in his sleep.”

“Terrific idea, Dad!” Frank said enthusiastically.

The Hardys conferred with the Mountie inspector about the idea. The officer agreed, and it was decided to have tape-recording equipment and a microphone hidden in Fogert’s cell.

“Let’s hope the noisy ‘Yank’ tells us more in his sleep than he does when he’s awake,” Joe said as they started back to the schoolhouse.

“And that what he says will give us a solid clue,” Frank added, “either about the Viking stone or where the rest of the gang are.”

The Hardys’ friends were enthusiastic when they heard of the hidden-recorder setup and discussed this new angle in the case. After lunch Mr. Hardy looked around the group. With a chuckle he said:

“I think we deserve a little vacation from detecting work. How about trying some of the famous fishing in this area?”

Everyone cheered the suggestion, and spent the afternoon on the waters of Great Slave Lake. When the fishermen returned to the schoolhouse, Chet and Biff carried creels full of lake trout and grayling.

“This is the life,” Chet declared later, as he and the others ate a hearty supper of succulent fried fish.

“Enjoy it now.” Joe grinned. “Something tells me we won’t have much chance to fish from now on.”

Chet groaned in mock dismay. “Meaning—back to the mystery full time.”

“Tomorrow bright and early,” Frank assured him.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Mr. Hardy, Joe, and Frank hurried directly to the RCMP station. The officer greeted them and indicated a tape recorder on his desk. “All set for you to play back,” he said. “I cut out most of the silent parts.”

Frank started the machine, and the four bent over the tape, listening intently. There was a short interval of quiet—then a raspy muttering could be heard.

“Fogert!” Joe hissed excitedly.

Another silence, followed by some unintelligible phrases. The Hardys glanced at one another in disappointment—was their plan to prove a fruitless one?

Suddenly they tensed as Fogert’s recorded voice spoke again. “Stone—shay,” he mumbled. “—Dulac—lake—”

The listeners strained their ears, but no further words could be distinguished from the rest of the tape. The recorder was shut off and Joe burst out, “Stone! Dulac! Abner Dulac? The rune stone?”

Elatedly the Hardys speculated on the words muttered by the sleeping prisoner.

“I think Dulac is the key word,” Frank stated. “He and Fogert know each other! Which means —Dulac is one of the rune stone gang.”

Joe agreed. “And trailed us from Edmonton after Caribou spotted him.”

Quickly they revealed what they knew of the unscrupulous trapper.

“Shay—lake—” Frank repeated. “I don’t get ‘shay’—and which lake? I doubt the gang would dare go back to Great Slave—” He broke off as a sudden thought struck him. “Say! Maybe the lake’s in Wood Buffalo Park!”

Mr. Hardy concurred. “I suggest heading straight for the park.”

“You bet, Dad!” Joe said eagerly.

“Shall we go back to Fort Smith and pick up the float plane for the trip?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” his father replied. “Flying is the best way. We can check with the Mounties there, and get a permit to enter the park.”

The Hardys hastened to the schoolhouse and briefed their friends on the latest findings. The group had a quick lunch, packed their rucksacks, and went to the Hay River airport. They were in time to board the early-afternoon plane for Fort Smith.

When they landed at Fort Smith, Frank went to the terminal and telephoned Corporal Fergus.

“The lodge gang seems to be operating near the Yellowknife area,” the Mountie reported. “Two lodges there have been robbed, but the thieves have eluded us.”

“Yellowknife?” Joe repeated in surprise, when his brother relayed Corporal Fergus’s message. “That’s way up on the other side of Great Slave Lake—the gang is back in that area! Why?”

“You think we’ve been wrong about there being just one gang?” Sam asked.

Mr. Hardy frowned. “Perhaps. But it could also be a manuever on their part to split our forces.”

“I see what you mean, sir,” Chet put in. “Now we don’t know whether to go to Yellowknife or to Wood Buffalo Park.”

“Exactly. Well, we can’t take any chances,” Mr. Hardy said. “Sam—you, Biff, and Tony go on up to Yellowknife and check on the gang’s activities there. Chet, Frank, and Joe—you scout Wood Buffalo Park.”

“What are you going to do, Dad?” Joe asked.

“I’m going to stay here in Fort Smith,” the detective answered. “I’ll maintain radio contact with both groups. Frank, you can rent a short-wave portable at the Hudson’s Bay store. Sam, of course, has his own. I’d join you on the trip into the park, but I must admit my knee’s been giving me a few twinges since my bout with Fogert. I wouldn’t be good for any long hikes!”

“You take it easy, Dad,” Joe advised. “We’re going to nab those thieves one place or another!”

“We’d better get moving,” Frank said.

“Right,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Sam, there’s a flight to Yellowknife leaving in a half hour. You three can take it.”

The two groups separated, with Biff, Tony, and Sam going off to buy tickets for the trip to Yellowknife.

“We’ll be in touch with you soon, sir,” Biff said to Mr. Hardy as they all exchanged farewells.

Then Frank, Joe, and Chet, accompanied by Mr. Hardy, headed for the Wood Buffalo Park office. When they arrived, a helicopter was just landing in the small clearing outside the administration office. A stocky, muscular man, with a ruddy, weathered face, stepped from the cockpit. He smiled at the Hardys and Chet as he jumped to the ground.

“Hello,” he said, coming toward them. “I’m Breen Connor. Were you looking for me?”

Mr. Hardy introduced himself and the boys and shook hands with the rugged-looking park superintendent.

“Have you had any recent visitors applying for passes into the park?” Frank asked the official.

“Yes, Frank,” Mr. Connor answered. “Quite a few. Only one stranger though, a fellow named Fontain.”

When Breen Connor described the man, the brothers and Chet looked excited. “That sounds like Abner Dulac!” Joe cried. “Where was he going?”

“To Shag Lake,” Breen Connor replied. “He seemed to know the country well.”

“Shay—Shag! That’s what Fogert mumbled in his sleep!” Frank exclaimed. “Joe, we have a terrific clue!”

CHAPTER XV

The Gray Terror

“SHAG Lake!” Chet echoed in excitement. “That must be the gang’s hideout!”

“The sooner we get there the better!” Frank said eagerly.

“How about today?” Joe turned to the park superintendent, “Can you issue us a pass now?”

“Yes,” replied Breen Connor. “But if you’re going up there, you’d better study the area first. It’s wild, dangerous country!”

He took the visitors into his office, and from a desk drawer pulled out a sheaf of papers. After he gave the required permit to the boys, the visitors sat down around a large table. The official brought over a detailed map of the area and spread it out.

“Shag Lake is named for the shaggy buffalo in this area,” Breen Connor told them, pointing to the lake, in the park’s southeastern corner. “Watch those buffalo,” he warned. “They’re ferocious—and so are the wolves.”

“Great!” Chet muttered, growing a shade paler.

“The Shag Lake region is strewn with great boulders, a result of an Ice Age moraine.”

“It sounds like a good place for a hideout,” Joe said.

Breen Connor nodded in agreement, then asked, “How do you plan to get into the park?”

“We’re going by float plane,” Frank answered. “Where is the best place to keep it?”

“Here on the south shore,” the man said, pointing, “is a small cove. It’s barely visible from the air. You could taxi in there and tie the plane to the rocks.”

“Fine,” Frank said, standing up. “Thanks for all the information, sir. It’ll be a big help.”

Mr. Hardy and his sons started to leave. As they walked outside, Breen Connor called after them.

“Be careful, boys!” he advised. “The buffalo are often uneasy this time of year. If you don’t bother them, they shouldn’t bother you, but anything unusual might start a stampede. Good luckl”

“We’ll need it!” Joe remarked, as the group hurried over to the Hudson’s Bay store. Here they bought provisions, rented a short-wave radio, and as a precaution, several rifles. Next, Joe called the airport. The float plane would be fueled and ready for them in a half hour.

After eating supper, the detective went with the boys to the airport jetty. “Keep me informed via radio,” he reminded the three boys, as they climbed aboard. “And be carefull”

“Sure thing, Dad. So long!”

With Joe at the controls, they took off and headed straight for Wood Buffalo Park. It was just dusk when they flew over it in the direction of Shag Lake. Joe located the hidden cove on the first pass. As he turned for his final approach, he switched off the engine.

“I’m going to make a dead-stick landing,” he told Frank and Chet, “so if the gang is down there they won’t hear us.”

With nothing but the whistle of the wind in the wings to betray its presence, the float plane swooped down over the trees. Joe pulled back on the stick as the plane dropped into the water for a perfect landing.

“Well done, Joe,” Frank said. The aircraft was pointed toward shore and drifted into its berth in the cove neatly and silently.

Quickly the boys unloaded their gear and moved far into the woods, away from the plane. Frank and Joe walked ahead, while Chet covered their trail with leaves and brush as they went along. When they reached a small clearing located near some protective rocks, the boys set up camp.

“Let’s take turns standing watch,” Frank said, as they spread out their sleeping bags.

“I’ll take first watch,” Chet offered. He sat down and leaned against a nearby tree.

Frank and Joe were soon asleep and the camp was quiet. “It’s almost too quiet,” Chet told himself uneasily.

But as the time passed uneventfully, and the bright, arctic moon rose, the chubby boy relaxed. Suddenly he sat upright. “What’s that?” Chet’s hair stood on end as an eerie howling came to his ears.

The bloodcurdling sound again floated in the still night. Chet sat rigid, as the howling came closer and closer. “I’d better wake up the fellows,” he decided. But before he had a chance to do so, Chet saw a stealthy movement in the shadows near the Hardys. He gulped, standing up slowly and peering into the darkness.

Suddenly Chet saw two red glowing eyes staring at him. The next moment a hulking, gray shape emerged into the moonlight and sniffed around. A chill of terror went down Chet’s spine.

“A wolf!”

Quickly he nestled the rifle stock against his cheek and centered the animal in his gunsights. The gray beast stood still, his jaws open and his head down, ready to attack.

Chet increased the pressure on the trigger, squinting his eyes. Then he released his grip abruptly. A rifleshot would surely kill the wolf, but it would also warn the thieves that the boys were in the vicinity.

Leaning over, Chet picked up a large rock. With careful aim, he hurled it at the animal. The missile hit the wolf squarely on the side of the head. Giving a sharp yelp of pain, he sped away.

“What was that?” Frank called out, as he and Joe awoke with a start. They scrambled from their bags and jumped up.

“A wolf,” Chet explained, somewhat shakily. “I didn’t want to risk a shot, so I threw a rock at him.”

“Smart thinking, pal,” Joe praised him, and Frank added, “Took a lot of nerve, too. You deserve a medal, Chet.”

Their friend beamed. “But I think I can use some sleep, fellows,” he said. “You keep away the next wolf!”

A quick search of the area proved that the creature was not lurking nearby, and the boys settled down again, with first Frank, then Joe on watch.

As soon as it was daylight the three friends had a quick breakfast, then began their search for the gang’s hideout. They picked their way along silently, being careful to stay under cover.

Just as the boys started along the base of a hill, Frank, who was leading, waved for the others to stop, and ran back himself.

“Behind that boulder, quick!” he hissed. “Someone’s coming.”

As the boys dropped behind the huge rock, they heard heavy footsteps approaching, then rough voices. The Hardys, crouching, peered cautiously around the boulder. Four men were trudging single file past their hiding place. Two were burly and husky, another pudgy and grizzled-looking. As the fourth man came into view, Joe started.

“That’s Dulac!” he whispered to Frank. “The others look like the men we saw in the restaurant.”

All four men were carrying rifles as they tramped on toward the woods. As soon as they were out of sight among the trees, the three boys crept quietly from cover, and turned to track the men.

“Listen!” Chet stopped suddenly.

They heard a faint cry. “Pretty far away,” Joe said, listening.

“More wolves?” Chet looked apprehensive.

“I don’t think that’s any wolf!” Frank said seriously. “Sounds like a human voice! It’s a cry for help!”

CHAPTER XVI

Secret Ingredient

“A CRY for help!” Chet echoed, his eyes widening. “Who could it be?”

“There’s one way to find out,” Frank said. “Let’s go!” He headed in the direction of the voice, which called out again at just that moment. Moving quickly, he, Joe, and Chet followed the trail Dulac and his friends had been traveling.

Once again they heard the cry, though fainter this time. “Hurry!” Joe urged. “Someone must be hurt!”

The three spread out, covering the woods edging the narrow, winding trail. Suddenly Joe shouted:

“Over here! It’s Caribou!”

Frank and Chet ran over. Shocked, they saw that the husky trapper lay beneath a spruce tree, bound hand and foot with rawhide thongs. His eyes were closed and his head moved from side to side. He groaned as if in pain.

“He has a bad gash on his forehead,” Frank said, bending down to untie their friend. “He’s semiconscious.”

“Those rats must have left him here for the wolves,” Chet said hotly, as he pulled out his canteen to bathe Caribou’s head.

“We could take better care of him at the plane,” Joe said. “Let’s carry him there.”

The Hardys and Chet hoisted the heavy man and slowly made their way back to the float plane. The boys’ muscles ached with the burden of both their equipment and the unconscious woodsman. But finally they reached the secret cove. After they laid the trapper down in the shade of a tree, Chet got out the first-aid kit and cleaned and bandaged Caribou’s wound. After a few minutes the French-Canadian stirred and blinked his eyes. He tried to sit up. but sank back with a moan.

“Easy,” Joe cautioned him.

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou exclaimed weakly. “My head is split!” Then he looked at the boys. “My friends! How did you get here?”

The three grinned at him reassuringly. “We’ll tell you later,” Frank said. “Lucky thing we heard you calling. What happened?”

“I trail Dulac to park,” the trapper replied. “Early this morning, follow him again, then suddenly four men jump out from the bush behind me and hit me on the head. That is the last thing I remember.” His face grew flushed. “I was a fool!” he stormed. “Dulac and Kelly must be the masked men who took the stone and money.”

“Who are the men with Dulac now?” Frank asked.

“All thieves—they have the rune stone!” Caribou answered. “Last night I sneak up on their hideout—a cave. I stood outside and hear them talk about the stone.”

Caribou rubbed his head gingerly. “Other three men called Mike, Red, and Fats.”

“Must be the guys we saw with Dulac a short while ago,” Joe said excitedly. “But they didn’t have the stone.”

“No,” Caribou said, “because it is in their cave. I hear them complain they cannot read the message on it. Kelly was to translate it but he got caught.”

“Did you hear anything else?” Chet put in.

“Oui,” Caron replied gravely. “They will kidnap Monsieur Baker-Jones. Make him tell what the stone says.”

“What!” Joe exclaimed. “I thought we had the gang fooled about Baker-Jones!”

Caribou looked doubtful. “The robbers think he is in Edmonton.”

“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked the Hardys.

“Get the rune stone,” Frank replied coolly. “How do you feel, Caribou?”

“It takes more than a sock on the head to keep Caribou away,” the trapper said, rising to his feet. “We go to the robbers’ cave!”

The three boys eagerly fell into step behind him. Swiftly and silently they followed the trapper for what seemed like miles. The trail led around the shore of Shag Lake, and north into the woods. Caribou strode to the foot of a hill, stopped, and pointed.

“The cave is over this hill,” he whispered. “If I can fool the crooks, you boys run inside and try to find the stone. I will meet you at your plane.”

“Right,” Frank said. “We’re ready.”

Caribou climbed the slope and went around some huge boulders to approach the hideout from the opposite direction. The boys, meanwhile, crawled straight up to the top of the hill where they could see the mouth of the cave. By this time Caribou had edged close to the entrance. He stood up and hurled a stone into the hideout.

A moment later Dulac emerged. He stared out into the sunlight, his hand shading his eyes from the glare.

“Dulac!” Caribou roared. “You goat! You weasel!” Then the big trapper staggered back, pretending to be overcome by weakness.

“It’s Caron!” Dulac shouted back into the cave. “He’s free!” Dulac ran toward the trapper, who began to back away from the cave. Three men emerged from the hideout and took up the chase.

Soon Caribou and his pursuers were out of sight behind the boulders. Frank, Joe, and Chet sped to the cave and dashed inside.

“Hurry!” Frank said breathlessly. “We haven’t much time. We must find the rune stone!”

The three boys searched frantically through the knapsacks lying around the rocky floor.

“Hey! The book stolen from the Bayport Library.” Joe held up a red volume he had pulled from a canvas sack. “Rune Stones and Viking Symbols by Peter Baker-Jones!”

“Keep it, Joe,” Frank said. “We’re on the right track.”

He began shaking out four bedrolls, while Chet rooted through boxes of gear. When they were through, Frank shook his head disgustedly. “No luck! The stone isn’t here!” he said.

Just then Chet spotted a long loaf of crusty bread on top of a box. “I’m starving!” he muttered.

“Chet! We must get out of here!” Frank warned, as his chubby friend hacked at the loaf with a knife. Scrape!

“Talk about stale bread!” Chet exclaimed, attacking the loaf again. “Hard as a rock!”

“Rock!” Frank echoed, grabbing the loaf. To his amazement, the whole top came off in his hand. Nestled inside was a long, odd-shaped stone with angular markings.

“The rune stone!” Frank cried out.

“This must be the real one!” Joe said joyfully. “Chet, it’s a good thing you got hungry!”

Frank scooped up the rune stone, and clutching it tightly, led the way as they all fled from the cave. As they headed for the hilltop, the boys saw two of the gang coming up the other side of the slope.

“Whew!” Chet panted. “We got out of there just in time!”

He and the Hardys sprinted silently through the high grass and into the woods. They followed the lightly blazed trail that led to the secret cove.

“Oh, no!” Joe suddenly exclaimed, stopping in his tracks. “I’ve dropped the book!”

“There’s no time to go back, Joe,” Frank said, urging him forward.

The boys continued along the path and finally reached the hidden float plane. Frank jumped into the cockpit. As Joe and Chet were climbing up, Caribou came crashing through the bushes at the edge of the cove.

“Bon tonnerre, mes amis!” the trapper shouted. “Hurry! There is no time to spare!”

He rushed to the plane and gave it a mighty push, then jumped in. The craft floated out into the cove.

“Go, Frank!” screamed the French-Canadian, his beard jutting out with excitement. “Dulac off the track now, but not for long.”

Frank hit the starter and the engine caught at once. Not worrying about the wind, Frank pressed home the throttle. He would have to make a crosswind take-off.

The roar of the plane was loud in their ears as they saw Dulac and his men appear on the shore. The boys watched Dulac raise his rifle. They could not hear the shots but they saw the wind snatch a wisp of smoke away from the muzzle.

Suddenly Frank felt the aircraft dip slightly to starboard. He knew they were not up on the step and the shock had not been hard enough for them to have hit a piece of floating debris.

“It’s the floats!” Joe shouted. “He’s hit the Boats! If they flood, we’ll never get off the water!”

CHAPTER XVII

Viking Message

“THE floats!” Frank thought. He knew they would be compartmented. But how well would the bulkheads between each compartment hold if more than one was Hooded?

The young pilot felt the extra weight of water on the right side of the aircraft dragging it to starboard. He knew he was in trouble.

Placing enough pressure on the rudder bar to straighten out the plane, Frank gently forced the stick over to the left. The engine was laboring against the extra weight, but the plane was picking up speed through the water.

He felt the right wing lift. As it did so, the starboard float cleared the water and the left float came up on the step.

Immediately the plane picked up speed, and as Frank eased the stick back a hair, they were airborne and away.

Frank pushed the stick forward to drop the nose and pick up more speed. Then he pulled back and they were swooping over the trees.

“Whew!” Chet breathed a sigh of relief. “Now, what about the landing at Fort Smith?”

“Shouldn’t be any trouble,” Frank said. “Any water that got in probably would have run out by now.”

Joe radioed a message to his father that they were on the way and would meet him at the RCMP station. After setting down at Fort Smith, the boys and Caribou went directly to headquarters.

Mr. Hardy and Corporal Fergus were waiting for them. Quickly Frank gave the details of the gang’s attack on Caribou and their narrow escape in the plane.

“And,” Joe said, grinning, “we brought you a present, Dad! Right, Frank?”

“You bet.” Frank had rolled his sweater around the rune stone. Now he unwrapped the ancient tablet and handed it to his father.

“Great work, boys!” said the detective in delighted surprise. “I can hardly believe it!”

“Congratulations!” added Corporal Fergus.

“We’re pretty sure this stone is genuine,” Frank told the men, “since the thieves went to the trouble of hiding it in a loaf of bread.” He grinned. “Chet had to go without something to eat.”

The plump boy feigned a look of starvation. “At this point I could eat rocks.”

Mr. Hardy suggested that he and the boys have a quick bite at a nearby restaurant. After eating, Frank said, “Dad, let’s take this stone to Mr. Baker-Jones as soon as possible, and also warn him to be on his guard against the thieves’ kidnaping plan. Maybe we should notify the police.”

“I’ll do that,” said Mr. Hardy, “and we should be on our way. There’s a flight out of here early this evening. Will you call, Joe, and make reservations for four?”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

“Please, Mr. Hardy,” Caribou spoke up. “I go with you to Edmonton. Dulac and his gang will not give up the stone so easy. You will be in danger. I will protect you!”

“We appreciate your offer, Caribou,” Mr. Hardy said. “But with your long whiskers I’m afraid the crooks would spot us a mile off!”

Caribou grinned. “I can get a shave and hair-cut right away.” He looked at the detective hopefully.

“Fine.” Mr. Hardy smiled. “Joe, make that reservation for five.”

The trapper beamed and strode off. When he returned in a half hour, he had short hair and was clean shaven.

“Caribou,” Joe said in amazement, “I’d hardly recognize you myself!”

The French-Canadian grinned. “I am something like a plucked chicken, no?” he asked.

They all laughed, then left to get ready for the trip. The boys returned the rented equipment to Bill Stone and took fresh clothes from their suitcases at the Hudson’s Bay Company store. Later, they met Mr. Hardy at his hotel.

“Any word from Sam and the fellows?” Joe asked his father.

The detective said Radley had just reported by radio that an unidentified float plane had been sighted. “Sam thinks the rest of the gang might be using it,” Mr. Hardy added. “He and the boys are working on that angle.”

The flight to Edmonton was nonstop, but it was too late for the group to visit Peter Baker-Jones in the convalescent home that night.

Directly after breakfast the following morning, the five left for the suburb of Edmonton. When they arrived at the large, old house that was now converted to a nursing home, they inquired at the reception desk and the attendant said that they might go right up to see the rune stone expert. Caribou waited downstairs to keep watch for anyone suspicious.

“We won’t mention the kidnap threat to Mr. Baker Jones,” Mr. Hardy decided. When he and the boys entered the patient’s room, they found him sitting up in an easy chair, reading.

“Good morning,” said the Englishman, nodding formally at the visitors. He looked much stronger and had more color than when they had last seen him.

“I have a surprise for you.” Frank smiled and brought out the tablet. “We hope you’ll find this to be the genuine rune stone.”

Mr. Baker-Jones’s reserve gave way to great enthusiasm. He listened with keen interest to the boys’ account of their adventures in finding the relic in the cave hideout.

“My word!” he exclaimed. “You have taken great risks in this case. If only those scoundrels can be brought to justice!”

“We’ll see to that!” Joe declared tersely.

The patient arose, took the stone, and placed it carefully on the table. He scrutinized the odd markings, as the Hardys and Chet waited with bated breath for his verdict.

“Hmm.” Mr. Baker-Jones ran his fingers across the characters cut into the surface of the stone, then lifted it as if trying to determine the weight. Finally, very deliberately, the museum representative placed the tablet on the table and removed his glasses.

“Well?” said Joe, unable to suppress his curi osity any longer. “Is it real?”

“Unquestionably genuine,” the expert pronounced. “Authentic ninth-century runic tablet.”

“Wahool” Joe cheered.

“Terrific!” cried Chet.

“We’ve solved half the mystery, at least,” Frank put in elatedly.

Mr. Hardy smiled, obviously pleased at his sons’ and Chet’s discovery, then turned to Mr. Baker-Jones and asked him, “Can you translate the Viking symbols?”

“I believe so,” the runic expert replied. He put on his glasses and bent over the tablet. After some minutes of intent study, he straightened. “Roughly, the symbols say a ship is hidden in a cove near a river which meets a knife-shaped body of water, on the north shore of a great lake. Apparently the vessel, which contained treasure, was sunk!”

“That ship must be what the crooks were dig ging for, but without this translation they couldn’t find the right place,” Joe said.

“If they had studied my book more thoroughly,” said Mr. Baker-Jones, “they might have found the answer.”

“Of course Kelly, their translator,” Joe said, “is in jail.”

Frank, meanwhile, had been pondering the message on the ancient Viking tablet. “A great lake,” he murmured. “Would that be Great Slave Lake?”

“The northwestern part of Great Slave Lake is shaped like a knife blade,” Joe said excitedly.

“And the cove must be near Yellowknife,” Frank added. “That’s where a river runs into the lake.”

Suddenly the group in the room were startled by loud voices coming from the first floor. Crash!

The Hardys dashed into the hall and down the steps two at a time. They found Caribou and a man struggling on the floor. The huge trapper was flushed with anger.

“Bon tonnerre!” he shouted as he tussled with his wiry opponent.

“Caribou!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed. “What happened?” Together, the boys broke the giant’s grip on the other man, whom they pulled to his feet.

“Abner Dulac!” Joe exclaimed in astonished recognition.

The captive wore a dark suit, and on the floor lay a physician’s black bag.

“That’s Dulac, all right!” Caribou snorted in disgust. He stepped toward his adversary and kicked the black bag open. A pistol tumbled out. The trapper glowered at his old enemy.

“He sneak in here to steal the rune stone, I bet!”

“Good work, Caribou!” Joe said. “I’ll call the police.”

When several officers arrived and handcuffed Dulac, he sneered at his captors.

“You think you have beaten us! But you haven’t. Kelly has escaped!” he gloated. “We smuggled a small gun to him in his food. We’ll get the Viking treasure first!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Whistler’s Signal

“KELLY has escaped!” Frank repeated in astonishment as Dulac was led off. “Think that’s true, Dad?”

Mr. Hardy frowned. “I’ll call the Hay River police right away and find out.” He hurried to the reception office to use the telephone.

In a few minutes the detective rejoined the boys. “Dulac was right,” he said. “Kelly escaped from the Hay River jail two nights ago by overpowering a guard.”

“What if he deciphered the symbols before we found the stone?” Frank asked worriedly.

“Or, he could have copied them down,” Joe said dejectedly, “figured out the message, and met the rest of his gang.”

“That means they might be digging up the treasure right now!” Chet put in.

“Let’s head for Yellowknife pronto,” Frank urged.

“First I’ll contact Radley,” said Mr. Hardy.

The five exchanged hasty good-bys with Mr. Baker-Jones and taxied back to their hotel. Here Mr. Hardy set up his short-wave set and radioed to his assistant. Soon they heard Sam’s voice over the transmitter.

“We spotted diggers along the lake shore. Before we could apprehend them, they fled in a float plane. We found the half-buried hull of a small Viking ship. The hold was empty, but we found a few gold coins and gems. Over and out.”

Frank cried excitedly, “Those crooks have found the rune stone treasure!”

“They must have used the stolen float plane we were looking for,” Joe said dejectedly. “I wonder where they went.”

“I’ll bet they’re in Wood Buffalo Park, but at another hideout.”

“And they’ll stay there at least until the heat’s off.”

“Then the gang’ll try to get out of the country?” Chet asked.

“Right,” said Frank. “Dad, I think we should go to Fort Smith, get camping gear, and take off into the park after the gang.”

Mr. Hardy agreed. “We’ll leave this afternoon.”

“Bon tonnerre!” said Caribou. “Think of all that gold!”

The group took the next flight to Fort Smith. When they arrived late that afternoon, the detectives went straight to the Hudson’s Bay Company store. After buying food, picking up their gear, and renting rifles, they went to the park administration office.

Curly Pike was there and greeted them as they entered the office. “Hi, fellows!” the pilot called out. “What are you doing back here? Still on a mystery?”

The Hardys introduced their father, then ex plained the proposed search. “We want to leave for Wood Buffalo Park as soon as possible,” said Frank. “Could you fly us in your copter?”

“I sure can,” Curly answered. “I’m pretty eager to have you capture those thieves myself. Can you leave in an hour?”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “I think we can, Curly. We’ll meet you back here.”

“I’ll be ready,” Curly replied.

Mr. Hardy, Caribou, and the boys went to a small restaurant where they had supper. When they returned to the park office, the large helicopter was being warmed up on the field next to the administration building. Curly was at the controls and waved to his five passengers.

They climbed aboard, and seconds after the door was shut, the helicopter lifted off. Soon they were cruising over Wood Buffalo Park, and Frank, who was seated up front with Curly, directed him toward the cave where they had found the stone.

“We may as well check the spot to be sure no one is hiding there.”

“I had a good look around here yesterday,” Curly shouted over the roar of the rotors. “I didn’t see a soul.”

“We’ll go farther inland to search then,” Frank said.

Presently the Hardys, after conferring with Chet and Caribou, signaled for Curly to set down. When the craft landed, the boys unloaded their gear and studied maps to determine their exact location.

“Good luck,” called Curly, as he boarded the helicopter. “Radio me when you want to be picked up.”

“Okay,” said Joe. The searchers strapped on their rucksacks and set off. Spreading out to cover the widest territory possible, they struggled and stumbled their way through thick brush and rocky, uneven terrain.

Just as it was growing dark, the group trudged across a barren hill. Reaching the top, they stood looking into a valley below. Feeding on the tall grasses was a huge herd of buffalo.

“Wow!” said Chet, when he saw the size of the hulking beasts. “They’re tremendous!”

The great black animals, the boys recalled, were the true wood buffalo, not the prairie bison of the American West. On the flanks of the herd stood bulls, flicking their tails and twitching their skin to shake off the black flies.

“I read that this buffalo’s skin is two inches thick,” Joe said, joining his brother, “and their hair eight inches long.”

“They’re big,” said Chet, “but they don’t look very bright.”

He walked ahead of his companions as they trudged downhill and skirted the edge of the herd. Chet drew near for a better look at the beasts.

“Not so close!” Caribou warned him.

Just then one of the bulls snorted and pawed the ground near the chubby boy. Suddenly the huge animal wheeled and lunged toward him.

“Yeow!” yelled Chet and stumbled back ward.

Fortunately, the bull evidently was only trying to scare off the strange human intruder. When Chet retreated, the beast rejoined his herd, keeping a wary eye on the hikers as they passed by.

“Not bright, eh?” Joe said, grinning, when Chet rejoined them.

“I take it back,” Chet said, laughing.

It was dark when the group stopped to camp. The Hardys and Caribou were busy unpacking necessary gear. Suddenly Joe looked around. “Where’s Chet?” he asked. The chunky boy was not in sight.

“I hope he not chase more buffalo,” Caribou said, chuckling.

Just then there was a rustling in the brush and Chet stepped out. “I was just doing some exploring,” he explained. “You know, it’s amazing how well you can hear the robins singing in this still air.”

“Wait a minute!” Frank said eagerly. “Did you say you heard robins?”

“Sure,” Chet said, “as clear as a bell!”

“You couldn’t have,” Frank contradicted him. “There aren’t any songbirds up here now. It’s one of the strange things about this part of the Northwest Territories.”

“That is right,” Caribou agreed, puzzled. “No songbirds here in the summer.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “Someone must be using the birdcall as a signal.”

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou muttered. “I think we get near our enemy.”

“Do you think they’ve spotted us?” Joe asked his father.

“I’m not sure, son. But even if they have, I don’t believe the gang will stop to put up a fight. They’d take the Viking treasure and run!”

“Well, let’s follow them,” Frank urged. “If they’re close by, we’d better not spend extra time camping.”

By now a full moon had risen and illuminated the trail chosen by the searchers. They started out in the direction of the area where Chet had heard the “robins.” Progress was slow through the tangled underbrush. Thorny branches tore at their clothes.

Suddenly all five stopped and listened. The sound of men’s voices came from directly ahead.

“We’ve located them!” Joe whispered tensely.

CHAPTER XIX

Stampede!

“We’ve found the thieves!” Chet repeated excitedly as the sound of voices continued.

Mr. Hardy held a finger to his lips, signaled for the others to follow, and retreated a hundred feet. The boys and Caribou gathered tensely around him.

“We must make plans,” he said, as they formed a huddle. “We have the element of surprise on our side.”

Shielding his flashlight beam, the detective pointed it downward and drew a large circle in the dirt.

“Caribou,” said Mr. Hardy, “you’re the most experienced woodsman in our group. You make your way around to the far side of the spot where the men are.” He indicated Caribou’s position on the circle.

“Oui,” said the French-Canadian. “I will be quiet like a mouse.”

“Frank,” the detective continued, “make your way to the right side, and Joe, you take the left. Chet and I will close in on the men from this direction.”

Everyone slipped off his rucksack. Then Frank said, “We should be all set and ready to charge in twelve minutes.”

“Better synchronize our watches,” said Joe. They took his advice, as he counted off the sec onds.

Caribou turned on his heels and disappeared into the forest, silently and swiftly. Just as quickly the others took off, heading for their positions. Chet and the Hardys carried rifles, and Caribou had his woodsman’s knife as well.

Frank and Joe reached their respective places and ticked off the minutes. From where they crouched the boys could barely hear the voices. Tensely the Hardys waited, barely breathing.

At the appointed time, the brothers rushed forward toward the sound. But suddenly each stopped dead in his tracks.

The voices belonged to Tony and Biff!

Tony was saying, “Frank, Joe, and Chet are coming to Edmonton tomorrow. Sam talked to Mr. Hardy, and he said the fellows are going to search for the rune stone.”

The Hardys were completely mystified. What were Tony and Biff doing here? And why was Tony repeating what had already happened?

Frank and Joe ran on until they came to a small clearing under a tree. At the same moment the others, equally mystified, converged on the spot. There was no sign of the two boys.

“Look!” Joe cried, shining his flashlight on a metal box.

“A tape recorder!” Frank exclaimed. “We heard Biff and Tony on tape!”

“A clever trick,” Mr. Hardy remarked wryly, as they examined the machine.

There were two packages of small batteries wired in series for power. A spring arrangement automatically turned off the tape, rewound it, and started the player again.

“Now the crooks have really slowed us down!” Chet said disgustedly.

“Biff and Tony’s room must have been bugged by some of the gang just after the fellows met Sam in Yellowknife,” Joe guessed, switching off the recorder.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “From what they were saying, it was before you left Bayport.”

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou boomed. “Those thieves probably are far away by now.”

“If they manage to reach their plane,” Mr. Hardy said, “we’ll have a hard job stopping them.”

Joe pulled out the map, and spread it on the ground. “I’d say we’re at this spot,” he said, pointing. “There’s a lake about three miles away from here.”

“Which would be a logical place for the thieves to keep their float plane,” Frank added. “Maybe they haven’t taken off yet.”

“We’ll head for the lake then,” said Mr. Hardy. “First, I’ll radio Curly Pike and let him know where we’re going.”

The five headed back to the spot where they had left their equipment and in a few minutes the short-wave set was operating. Mr. Hardy reached Curly on the first call, and explained what had happened. He also told Curly the route that they planned to follow.

After the detective signed off, everyone took up his gear and the party set out once again. For an hour the searchers made their way through the dense forest, traveling as quickly as possible. Just at dawn they came out of the heavy belt of trees and onto the rim of a saucer-shaped stretch of meadow, about a mile wide.

“Sure looks peaceful,” Joe commented. “No sign of the gang.”

The sun began to rise, casting a rosy light across several huge boulders on the other side of the valley. The glint of water lay just beyond.

“Must be the lake,” said Frank.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, the Hardys and Chet flopped down for another brief rest. Caribou paced back and forth, peering into the meadow.

“Something down there move!” he exclaimed, squinting into the faint light.

His remark brought the others to their feet. They scanned the valley intently. Among the tall grass moved a mass of dark, bulky shapes.

“Only buffalo!” Joe said in disappointment.

As the sun rose higher, the group made its descent into the meadow. They started across it, noticing that the buffalo were moving about restlessly. Some of the animals were grazing peacefully, but the bulls were snorting around the flanks of the herd.

“They probably have our scent,” Frank said.

Suddenly Joe cried out. “Over there! The gang!”

On the opposite side of the valley, a group of men could be seen moving from behind one of the large boulders. They were hurrying toward the water. Suddenly one of the men wheeled around.

“They’ve spotted us!” Joe said grimly.

“Let’s get them!” Frank broke into a run.

“Hold it!” Mr. Hardy warned.

The men across the field had turned and raised their rifles.

“They’re going to fire!” Chet shouted.

Three shots rang out, echoing back from the heavy boulders. A second volley followed. The next moment Caribou yelled, “They’re stampeding the herd!”

No sooner had he spoken than the Hardys and their friends realized in horror that he was right. The gigantic herd of huge, shaggy buffalo had turned toward them and the beasts were pounding across the flat valley in an enormous dusty wave. The ground shook as hundreds of hoofs thundered toward the five companions. They were by now far out in the open meadow with no protective trees nearby.

“We can’t get out of the way!” Joe shouted. “We’ll be trampled!”

CHAPTER XX

Norsemen’s Treasure

THE avalanche of wild buffalo thundered on toward the Hardy group.

“Back! Run back for the trees!” Frank shouted desperately. “It’s our only chance.”

The five turned and raced for their lives toward the woods.

“Ye-o-ow!” came a yell of panic from Chet, as he tripped and fell. He lay helpless, one of the straps from his pack tangled around his leg.

Quickly Frank bent down and tugged at the strap, slipping it off. The pounding hoofs of the buffalo grew louder and nearer.

“We’ll never make it, Frank!” Chet gasped, as his pal pulled him to his feet.

Suddenly there was another roar louder than that of the rampaging herd. A piercing hum split the morning air as a helicopter came across the trees and over the brow of the hill.

“It’s Curly Pike!” Joe yelled.

The helicopter swooped down and hovered between Frank and Chet and the charging buffalo. Using his stick and rudder skillfully, the pilot brought the chopper into a half turn. The roar of the rotor blades and the thick cloud of dust they raised filled the area.

The dust apparently seemed like a solid wall to the charging beasts, for Frank and Chet heard the snorting animals turn to the left and thunder off in another direction.

Curly followed the buffalo as they ran, moving back and forth behind them like a sheep dog herding his flock. When he had chased the beasts to the other end of the valley, the pilot brought the helicopter back to the group and landed near them. As he jumped out, the five raced over to the aircraft, grinning with relief and gratitude.

“Thanks,” Frank said, arriving first. “You came just in the nick of time!”

“I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t!” Joe added fervently.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy said, “you saved our lives.”

“And how!” Chet was still shaking from the narrow escape.

“Merci, mon ami!” Caribou put in. “A million thanks!”

The pilot smiled. “One of the first things you learn up here is never argue with a herd of buffalo. What happened?”

Mr. Hardy explained that the thieves had fired rifleshots into the herd. Then he quickly suggested a plan. “Curly, you take Frank and Joe in the copter and head for the lake to cut off the thieves’ escape.”

“Right,” said the pilot. “And I’ll radio to the Fort Smith Mounties for reinforcements.”

Caribou and Chet, too, were eager for action. “What’s our next move, Mr. Hardy?” Chet asked.

“We’ll track the gang on foot,” the detective replied. “If they backtrack, we may be able to capture them.”

The two teams quickly departed on their separate missions. As Mr. Hardy, with Chet and Caribou, moved swiftly across the valley, the helicopter lifted Frank, Joe, and Curly into the air.

“Let’s make straight for that lake,” Frank urged. The pilot complied, then radioed the RCMP station, which promised help at once.

A few minutes later the helicopter was hovering over the quiet water. “Look below!” Joe exclaimed. “A float plane! Must be the gang’s stolen one!”

Tensely the Hardys and Curly scanned the surrounding area for any sign of the enemy. They could see no one. “We’d better hurry and fix their plane so they can’t escape in it,” Frank said. “Suppose I go down and fasten a rope to the plane so we can tow it away.”

“Good idea,” Curly agreed. “The Mounties might not get here before the crooks do.”

He kept the chopper about thirty feet above the water while Frank snapped the lowering harness under his arms. Joe then fastened a hook at the end of the descent wire to the ring in the middle of the harness, and gave a sharp tug to make sure it was secure.

“All set!” Frank said tersely.

Soon Joe was carefully turning the winch and letting his brother down to the float plane. Frank dropped into position on its left pontoon. He unsnapped the hook from his harness and made three quick turns with the cable around one of the float’s struts.

He looked up at Curly and signaled. The pilot eased the helicopter forward. While Frank kept a firm grip on the strut, the float plane was towed rapidly across the water.

“That’s neat,” said Joe.

Curly built up speed and the plane skimmed toward shore. At the right moment, Frank loosed the half hitch on the strut and the craft’s momentum carried it up onto the beach among the trees.

The young sleuth hopped off the pontoon and ran along the shore. He stopped beneath the hovering helicopter and grabbed the lifting wire which dangled from it. In a moment he was being hauled up by the winch.

When he was aboard once more, Joe praised his brother. “Nice going!” As the helicopter gained altitude and headed toward the center of the lake, Joe added, “And not a second too soon! Look!”

The trio spotted a group of men, armed with rifles, standing on the far shore. They were gesticulating frantically and pointing to the spot where they had left the float plane. “The gang!” Frank exclaimed.

Suddenly the thieves caught sight of the helicopter as it swooped toward them.

“Hey! Kelly’s there!” Joe cried out as he recognized the pale, thin man. The next moment the outlaws broke and ran for the shelter of the trees.

“They’re heading into the forest!” Frank said.

“It won’t do them much good,” Curly said, pointing. “Your father, Caribou, and Chet are closing in from that side.”

“They sure are!” Joe said, as he intently watched the three familiar figures encircle the thieves.

Just then those in the helicopter saw three float planes swoop low over the lake. One after another, they splashed onto the surface and taxied toward the beach.

“The Mounties!” Joe yelled. “We really have the gang trapped!”

Curly dropped the helicopter over the sandy beach and set down near the RCMP planes. He and the Hardys hopped out and ran to where Corporal Fergus and his men were snapping handcuffs on the four surly-looking gangsters. Mr. Hardy and the others came up at the same time.

“No escape this time, Kelly,” the corporal was saying to the prisoner.

“Where’s the treasure from the Viking ship?” Frank shot the question at the captured thieves.

Kelly glared at him, but indicated three canvas sacks lying near the rifles and packs. “Over there,” he said in a sullen voice.

Mr. Hardy, Caribou, and the boys ran eagerly to the bags and opened them rapidly. Reaching deep into a sack, Chet pulled out a handful of glittering gold coins.

“Wow! Look at these!” he cried.

“And this statue must be worth a fortune!” Frank held up the gold figure of a Viking warrior.

“This is a historical find, as well as a valuable one,” Mr. Hardy said. “It definitely links the exploration of northern Canada to the ancient Norsemen.”

The other three prisoners—Mike, Red, and Fats—were Americans. Fats was the pilot who had made off with the float plane on Great Slave Lake. They were eager to talk, and named Kelly and Dulac as the instigators of all the robberies.

They disclosed that Kelly was his real name, although he sometimes used the alias Jesse Keating. He was the ringleader. A disbarred lawyer from northern Maine, Kelly once had been associated with a law firm in Quebec, where he had handled a case which involved the history of Vikings and rune stones. A Canadian museum was suing a man who had sold a rune stone, which later proved to be a hoax.

While delving into rune stone history, Kelly had uncovered a fragmentary clue to the whereabouts of a treasure buried on the shore of Great Slave Lake by Vikings who had explored inland for hundreds of miles. Thinking that Great Slave Lake was part of an ocean, they had stopped to construct a sturdy ship, only to find that the body of water was a vast lake.

This information had started Kelly on the quest of the treasure, and when he learned of the find which Caron had made, Kelly figured it might contain more specific information about the treasure. His guess had proved to be astute.

But Kelly had been dismayed when he learned through a London confederate that famous Fenton Hardy had been called in on the case. The Bayport venture was to frighten him off, if possible, and to glean more information about rune stones from the excellent collection in Bayport Library.

“So you wrecked our short-wave antenna,” Joe said to Kelly.

The prisoner confessed nothing, but gave him a baleful stare.

“Who actually stole the stone and money?” Mr. Hardy asked the handcuffed men.

“Dulac and Kelly!” the man named Fats answered readily. “That was a real mistake, because then Caribou was squarely on your side after they grabbed his two thousand bucks.”

“Who tossed that knife at me in Fort Smith, and caused our canoe to leak on Slave River?” Frank demanded of Red.

The grizzled prisoner replied that Dulac had been responsible for both acts. Red also confessed to having driven the getaway car for Kelly in Bayport.

Upon their return to Canada, they had contacted the rest of the gang and assigned Dulac to trail and harass the Hardy boys.

“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou exploded. “I knew that trap-robbin’ weasel was no good!”

After further questioning, the Hardys learned that the lodge thefts around Great Slave Lake were continued partly to finance Kelly’s venture. The remainder of Caribou’s money, fifteen hundred dollars, was found and returned to him. The Bayport Library book, stolen by Kelly, had been picked up by Fats, who handed it over. Mike had posed as Fenton Hardy.

As for the mysterious radio threat picked up in Bayport, that was Red’s doing, he confessed. “We had hoped to scare off Hardy by threats and sabotage,” he grumbled. “But it didn’t work.”

“You can say that again,” Chet chirped.

Corporal Fergus and his men put the four thieves into the RCMP float planes for the trip back to Fort Smith. The Mountie shook hands with the Hardys and their friends.

“Congratulations!” he said. “You solved a tough case.”

“Thanks to my sons and their buddies,” the detective replied.

The Hardys, Chet, and Caribou boarded the Wood Buffalo Park helicopter, with Curly at the controls. They were all in high spirits as Frank radioed Radley in Yellowknife and told him the good news. The two groups would meet that night at Fort Smith.

On the way back, Curly set the helicopter down near one of the buffalo which had been shot by the gang. Adeptly the pilot dressed one of the beasts.

“What are you going to do with the meat?” Joe asked.

“Most of this goes to the Indians,” Curly answered, grinning at Chet’s dubious look. “Buffalo’s fine eating. I’ll save a big roast for your supper tonight.”

A few hours later at Fort Smith a joyous reunion took place when Radley, Biff, and Tony arrived at the hotel.

“You fellows are first-rate detectives,” Biff said, congratulating the Hardys and Chet.

“And we’ve learned a real lesson,” Tony said. “We’ll never let anybody eavesdrop on us again.”

“You can say that again!” Biff added earnestly.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “What counts is you’ve both learned a valuable lesson in sleuthing, done your part to help solve the case, and earned the bonus.”

“We’re all ready for another mystery,” said Biff with a grin.

“But no stampedes, please,” Chet added.

The Hardy boys’ next case was along completely different lines. They called it THE MYSTERY OF THE AZTEC WARRIOR.

“Let’s celebrate the Viking symbol mystery by having supper!” Joe urged. “That bison roast might taste pretty good.”

“It should be ready by now,” Frank said. “Curly gave it to the cook when he got back.”

The group was seated around the table when a waiter entered carrying a huge platter with a gigantic buffalo roast.

“Bon tonnerre!” Chet said with a grin. “Look at the size of that! Enough for twenty Vikings!”

“And for Chet Morton, too!” Joe joked.

Everyone laughed, then Caribou lifted a carving knife. “Mes amis,” he said, “this feast is most happy farewell.”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - The Injured Intruder

CHAPTER II - An Attic Mishap

CHAPTER III - A Mysterious Companion

CHAPTER IV - The Hijacked Plane

CHAPTER V - The Tattoo

CHAPTER VI - Unwanted Passenger

CHAPTER VII - Mexican Disguise

CHAPTER VIII - Ambushed Detectives

CHAPTER IX - Iguana Scare

CHAPTER X - Ghost-City Search

CHAPTER XI - Yankee Warning

CHAPTER XII - “Five Rabbit”

CHAPTER XIII - A Charging Bull

CHAPTER XIV - A Matador’s Clue

CHAPTER XV - The Tule Tree Discovery

CHAPTER XVI - Stunning News

CHAPTER XVII - Treacherous Trail

CHAPTER XVIII - Vaquero Attack

CHAPTER XIX - Island Prisoner

CHAPTER XX - A Secret Unearthed

THE MYSTERY OF THE AZTEC WARRIOR

The handwritten will of a deceased world-traveler is strange and mysterious. Its cryptic instructions are to deliver “the valuable Aztec warrior to the rightful owner, a descendant of an Aztec warrior.” What is the valuable object and where is it? What is the name of the owner and where is he? Frank and Joe Hardy have only one slim clue to work with: the name of a complete stranger who can help find the answers.

Despite the harassments, the threats, and the attacks made upon them by an unknown, sinister gang, Frank and Joe unravel clue after due in their adventure-packed search for the living descendant of the mighty Aztec nation which once ruled Mexico. The hunt leads to a market place in Mexico City, to the Pyramids at Teotihuacan, to the tombs of Oaxaca—where Chet Morton, the Hardys’ pal, is nearly buried alive by foul play.

It takes as much high courage as clever deduction for the young detectives to defeat their ruthless foes and to decipher the fascinating secrets of the strange and mysterious will.

“We must get to that courtyard!” Frank yelled

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1992,1964 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07656-9

2007 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

The Injured Intruder

FRANK and Joe Hardy followed their father into the law office of Otis Weaver, a Bayport attorney.

“Hello, Fenton!” said Mr. Weaver, getting up to shake hands with the tall, athletic-looking detective. “Frank—Joe—how are you?”

Tall, dark-haired Frank said, “We’re fine and ready to tackle a case, Mr. Weaver.”

His brother Joe, blond, seventeen, and a year younger, smiled in anticipation.

The four sat down. “I have a really mysterious one for you to solve,” the short, balding lawyer began. “You probably read in the paper recently of the death of Mr. Jonathan Moore.”

The three Hardys nodded, and the boys’ father added, “He was a bachelor, I believe. Rather eccentric and not in town for very long periods.”

“That’s right,” said the attorney. “He traveled a great deal. Mr. Moore had no relatives closer than cousins. There are a number of beneficiaries mentioned in his will, but none of them can receive any money until a certain mystery is cleared up.”

Mr. Weaver revealed that although Mr. Moore had handwritten his will, it was quite clear, and legally acceptable. There had been two witnesses.

“But these two men are deceased and therefore cannot answer any questions that might help to solve the mystery.” The lawyer smiled. “I’m sure you three sleuths are eager to hear what the mystery is. I will read you certain paragraphs in the will.”

From a drawer he pulled out a document and read: “ ‘I direct that the valuable Aztec warrior be given to the rightful owner, who claims to be a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior.’ ”

“Is that all?” Joe queried, as Mr. Weaver stopped speaking. “The person isn’t named?”

“No,” the lawyer answered. “There are two other notations which concern you three.” He turned to the last sheet of the will and read aloud:

‘I direct that Fenton Hardy, detective of Bayport, and his sons Frank and Joe find the Aztec warrior and deliver his property to him. All expenses are to be paid from the corpus of my estate, and no monies are to be awarded to my beneficiaries until the Aztec warrior’s property is returned to him.’ ”

Mr. Hardy asked that the two sections in the will be read again. After hearing them, he frowned, puzzled. “Have you any leads, Otis?”

“Not one. I’ve questioned each of the beneficiaries and other people who knew Mr. Moore, but none of them can offer a solution. There’s one more item concerning you detectives. This sentence reads: ‘The Hardys must find Roberto Hermosa.’ ”

Mr. Weaver handed a copy of the will to Mr. Hardy, asking if he would like to read it to see if there were any clue the lawyer had missed. The detective studied the document, then commented, “The rest of the will is quite clear. I’ll just copy the parts which concern the boys and me.”

While Mr. Hardy was busy writing in his notebook, Joe remarked, “Roberto Hermosa sounds Spanish. I wonder who he is.”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Weaver said.

Frank asked the attorney if he had any idea what the Aztec warrior object was.

“No, none.”

“Maybe it’s a statue of an Aztec warrior,” Joe remarked.

“There’s none in Mr. Moore’s house,” the lawyer answered quickly.

“Could it be some kind of stuffed bird or animal?” Frank queried. “The winged serpent was sacred to the Aztecs.”

“I didn’t find any on the premises—or any paintings of birds or animals,” Mr. Weaver replied. “In fact, I didn’t come across any object which might have even a remote connection with an Aztec warrior.”

Mr. Hardy, recognizing an interesting challenge, said enthusiastically, “Otis, my sons and I will start working on the case very soon.”

Frank and Joe were thrilled and asked if they might begin at once. Their father said he had an appointment and must leave.

“Suppose Frank and I go out to the Moore estate,” Joe proposed. “Maybe if we look around the house we’ll find a clue to the mysterious object.”

The lawyer said he would take them. He drove out of town along a road where there had once been large estates which were now developments. He remarked that as soon as the Moore mystery was solved, the deceased man’s property would be sold to a development company. “That will add a nice sum for the beneficiaries.”

Presently Mr. Weaver turned into a driveway lined with stately old pine trees and pulled up to a large Victorian house, with grounds bordered by trim hedges. The lawyer parked the car and led the way up the high steps of the large porch. He unlocked the door, and the three entered.

The interior was attractive, with highly polished mahogany furniture. Heavy red draperies hung the full length of the living-room windows, which reached almost from ceiling to floor. A large desk stood at one end of the room just beyond an enormous stone fireplace.

“As you search for clues here,” said Mr. Weaver, “you will find that this is typically a bachelor’s home. Housekeepers whom Mr. Moore employed from time to time were not permitted to add any feminine touch to the furnishings.”

Frank and Joe made a quick tour of the first floor to decide where to start their search for the Aztec warrior object. There were many objects standing on pedestals and on tables—gladiators, cowboys, and figures of athletes in action.

“Well, what do you think, boys?” asked Mr. Weaver, who had waited for them in the main hall. “I suppose you’ll start tapping walls and—”

At that instant there was a terrific crash upstairs.

“What was that?” Frank asked.

“I have no idea,” Mr. Weaver replied.

He and the boys dashed up the stairway, two steps at a time. Quickly they separated and looked in the various bedrooms. There was no sign of anything having fallen.

Mr. Weaver opened the door leading to the attic stairway and started up, with the boys crowding close on his heels. As they reached the attic, the three gasped. Amid a conglomerate of boxes and old furniture was a large mahogany bureau. It had fallen face forward.

Pinioned underneath it was a man! He was struggling to free himself.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed, as he and Frank and Mr. Weaver dashed forward.

In a few moments they had raised the bureau to a standing position, then turned their attention to the thin, middle-aged man who had been caught under it. He had ceased to struggle and now lay on the floor, unconscious. He had a nasty gash on his head, was extremely pale, and his pulse rate was very slow.

“We’d better call an ambulance and have him taken to the hospital,” Mr. Weaver spoke up. “I can’t understand what he was doing here.”

“Do you know who he is?” Joe asked.

“I think so,” the lawyer replied. “We’ll look for some identification to be sure.” He opened the man’s jacket and pulled a wallet from his pocket. “Yes, this is John Brower. He’s one of the beneficiaries named in Mr. Moore’s will.”

“One of the benenciaries!” Frank exclaimed. “He must have been looking for something special.”

Mr. Weaver asked Joe to hurry downstairs and telephone for the ambulance. “We’d better not move Mr. Brower.”

While he and Frank were waiting they kept close watch of the victim, but began to pull out the dresser drawers one by one to see what the man was after.

The man was struggling to free himself

“These certainly are stiff,” Frank remarked. “Mr. Brower must have tried to open one and pulled the dresser over on himself.”

“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Weaver agreed. “He had no right being here. I wonder how he got in.”

The drawers were filled with a collection of old books and old clothes. “Nothing unusual at all,” Frank remarked. “I was hoping maybe we could find a clue to the Aztec warrior object.”

Joe returned from the first floor and said the ambulance would be there in a few minutes. He went back downstairs to wait for it and in a very short time an intern and an attendant carrying a stretcher came up to the attic. The doctor examined Mr. Brower, then said, “This man must be taken to the hospital.”

The two men transferred the patient to the stretcher, carried him downstairs and out to the ambulance, with the boys following. As soon as it had driven away, Frank said he would like to return to the attic and make a search.

“Mr. Brower may have had a good hunch. Also, I noticed several boxes of picture slides. Maybe there’ll be a clue to our case in one of them!”

“Then let’s go!” Joe urged.

CHAPTER II

An Attic Mishap

“You mean there might be a picture of the Aztec warrior among these slides?” Mr. Weaver asked, as he and the Hardys reached the attic.

“Yes, either of the man or of the object,” Frank answered eagerly.

Mr. Weaver was intrigued by the idea and suggested that the three of them carry the boxes of slides downstairs. “When I was searching the house, I noticed a screen and projector on the first floor. By the way, only a few of the boxes are marked, so you’ll probably have hundreds of pictures to look at.”

Quickly they gathered up the boxes and began lugging them down the two flights of stairs. As Joe, in the lead, started for the first floor, he suddenly tripped on a worn spot in the carpeting. Two boxes flew from his arms, and he went sprawling.

Joe started to slide downward but caught a banister rail and pulled himself up, rubbing a bruised elbow. The slides lay in the hallway below, hopelessly mixed up.

“Great!” he said in chagrin.

Frank chuckled. “All in a sleuth’s day.”

The boys picked up the slides, and Mr. Weaver brought out the screen and projector.

While Joe set these up in the living room, Frank put aside the boxes on which there were notations of Greece, Italy, Egypt, and India. “I’m sure we won’t find a picture of either Aztec warrior among these,” he said. “I’ll bet what we’re looking for has something to do with Mexico.”

The draperies were drawn, and Frank began handing slides from unmarked boxes to Joe. The first group of pictures looked as if they had been taken in the Rocky Mountains. Then came scenes in Hawaii, Canada, and England.

Although the boys had not yet come across any pictures of Mexico, they were so fascinated by the slides that they did not realize a full hour had gone by. Presently Mr. Weaver mentioned the time. “Two more boxes and we’ll have to quit,” he announced. “I must get back to the office.”

Joe turned the projector to full speed, and the slides began flashing on and off the screen.

Suddenly Frank gave a shout. “We’ve hit Mexico! That’s a building at the University in Mexico City!”

“You’ve been there?” Mr. Weaver asked him.

“Joe and I visited Mexico and once had a fleeting glimpse of Mexico City. But I recognized the university from pictures I’ve seen.”

Joe then threw a slide on the screen which Mr. Weaver recognized as the Pyramid of the Sun, one of the great ruins outside Mexico City.

“Hold that picture!” Frank called out. “It’s Aztec. There might be a clue in it.”

The Hardys could not detect anything extraordinary. The few people in the picture were not distinct enough to be recognized.

Joe released the hold button, and the projector began to work automatically again. There were some pictures of candle cactus, and of a lake with fishermen who held strange-looking nets.

“That’s Lake Patzcuaro,” said Mr. Weaver. “Those are the butterfly nets. It’s the only place in the world where fish nets like those are used. Well, boys, I must leave. We’ll come back sometime and look at the rest of the slides.”

“Would you mind if Joe and I stay here and finish them now?” Frank asked.

Mr. Weaver smiled. “Personally, no, but I have a responsibility as an executor, and such a thing might be criticized.”

While he was talking, Joe showed one more slide. It was a picture of two men standing side by side. Joe pushed the hold button.

“That one on the left is Mr. Moore!” the lawyer said excitedly.

“And the Indian-Spanish-looking gentleman with him?” Joe said. “Is he Roberto Hermosa?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Weaver replied.

Frank was staring at the picture. “He just might be the direct descendant of the Aztec warrior!” he cried out.

Mr. Weaver was so excited he forgot all about leaving. Joe quickly ran through the rest of the slides in the box. Each one showed the same two men in various parts of a lovely garden.

“Mr. Weaver,” said Frank, “since some of these slides are similar, would you let me take one and make a print from it?”

The lawyer considered the request, then finally consented.

Frank picked out the clearest view of Mr. Moore and his companion, put the slide in a handkerchief, and slipped it into a pocket.

The projector, screen, and boxes of slides were put away. Then the lawyer and the two young detectives left the house, locking the door. As soon as the boys reached home, they went to their workshop over the garage to make a print, which Frank later tucked into his wallet.

As the brothers were walking to the house, their father drove in. “Any luck?” he asked.

“We think we had a little,” Frank told him, pulling out the picture. “One man is Mr. Moore. The other may be either Roberto Hermosa or the Aztec warrior descendant. We found the picture in a box of Mr. Moore’s Mexican slides.”

The three went into the comfortable, well-furnished house, where they were greeted by Mrs. Hardy. She was a small, slender woman with a sweet smile. She tried to take the adventuresome life of her family philosophically, but worried over the dangers she knew they encountered.

They were met also by Miss Gertrude Hardy, the detective’s sister, who lived with them. She was a tall, spare woman, who adored her nephews, but frequently made it quite clear she thought they were not cautious enough in their sleuthing. Upon a few occasions her dire predictions of danger had come true.

Frank and Joe had been through many hair-raising adventures, starting with the mystery of The Tower Treasure. Recently they had solved a most unusual case, The Viking Symbol Mystery, in northwest Canada.

When Aunt Gertrude heard about the beneficiary who had been searching in the attic, she said tartly, “The idea! Why, he should be cut out of the will! There’s no telling what he’s already gotten away with!”

“We don’t know that he was trying to steal anything,” Frank defended Mr. Brower.

Aunt Gertrude was unconvinced. “There may be secret hiding places in that house,” she declared. “If I were in Mr. Weaver’s place, I’d get out a search warrant and go through all that Mr. Brower’s effects.”

Mr. Hardy patted his sister’s shoulder. “I’m sure that the man will have a good explanation when he regains consciousness. Let’s give him a chance to tell his story.”

“This is your case, of course, but I wouldn’t put too much faith in that man!” she said, and hurried to the kitchen. Mrs. Hardy waited with the boys while the detective telephoned the hospital. He reported to his family that Mr. Brower was still unconscious.

“He must have had a bad whack on the head,” Mr. Hardy remarked.

Frank and Joe talked about the case until luncheon was ready. The meal included one of Aunt Gertrude’s famous strawberry shortcakes topped with a sea of whipped cream. Presently the conversation turned again to the mystery.

“I think we should bone up on Mexican history,” said Frank, “especially the period when the Aztecs were in power.”

They excused themselves from the table and went to their father’s library. Each boy selected a volume on Mexico’s fascinating history.

“Whew! Human sacrifice!” Joe suddenly exclaimed. “They chose a young man, and for one year gave him the best food and clothes and entertainment possible, then killed him as a sacrifice to the war god!”

“Yes, and everything was done in the name of religion, with the priests as the killers!” Frank remarked.

The boys studied pictures of the elaborate costumes worn by Aztec warriors.

“Pretty fancy!” Joe remarked.

He pointed to a colorful illustration of a warrior in headdress and shirt of yellow parrot feathers and sprays of costly quetzal feathers, all decorated with gold. Another picture showed a whole squadron wearing uniforms made of jaguar skins and carrying shields adorned with golden disks, butterflies, and serpents; on their feet were embroidered sandals with thongs of orange leather.

The Hardys looked up as they heard a car roar up in front of the house and stop.

He grinned. “I’ll bet that’s Chet!”

Joe peered from the window. “You’re right.”

Coming up the walk was a stout, good-natured-looking boy, a schoolmate of the Hardys. Chet Morton was a particular friend and often but unwittingly found himself involved in the mysteries the brothers were solving.

“Hi, fellows!” he said, as Joe opened the door and he walked in. “Why so glum?” he asked. “Something happen?”

“Oh, nothing much, except that we rescued an unconscious man, and we’re searching for an Aztec warrior,” Frank said nonchalantly.

Chet’s eyes bulged. “You what!”

Quickly Frank and Joe told their friend the story of the Moore mystery. “Sounds crazy,” Chet remarked. “But the part about Mexico interests me. I’ve read some of that history myself. Say, do you know what those old Aztecs used to eat?”

“No.”

“They cooked with flowers,” was Chet’s surprising answer. “The acacia flower was supposed to cure melancholia. They sprinkled the flowers into an egg batter, fried it, and covered it with sugar and cinnamon.” Chet smacked his lips. “I’ve always meant to try it.”

“You suffering from melancholia?” Frank teased.

“Did they use any other kinds of flowers?” Joe asked.

“Sure. They made pie fillings with roses—boiled them up with sugar and lemon, and they made a drink out of the red blossoms from the Jamaica tree. You’ve heard of eating squash blossoms, haven’t you? The Aztecs munched them during ceremonies to their rain-god.”

Joe grinned. “I’m sure Aunt Gertrude would love to make some geranium soup!”

Chet laughed. “I just stopped by to ask you fellows if you’d be interested in going to a movie. But now I suppose you’ll have to stick around to solve this mystery.”

“I’m afraid we will,” Frank said. “But we’ll be in touch!”

“Well, lots of luck to you,” said Chet as he left the house. Frank and Joe watched him roar off down the street in his open jalopy. Then suddenly both brothers wanted to be on the move themselves.

“How about driving out to the Moore house tonight?” Joe proposed. “No restrictions on looking over the grounds.”

“Sure thing.”

After supper the boys took flashlights and set off in their car, with Frank at the wheel. When they reached the entrance to the Moore property, he stopped.

“Let’s leave the car here,” he suggested.

The boys hopped out and started up the driveway. It was still dusk, so there was no need for their flashlights. As they reached the left side of the house, the brothers were surprised to see a plump, white-haired woman standing there, gazing upward.

Hearing them, she turned. For a moment she looked hard at the boys, then smiled. “Good evenin‘,” she said. “You startled me. I thought maybe you were burglars. But you’re nice-lookin’ lads. My name is Mary O’Brien. I used to work by the day for the dear old gentleman who lived here.”

“You mean Mr. Moore?’ Frank asked her.

Mary O’Brien nodded. “It was sad, his death. Such a fine person. I enjoyed workin’ for him. I was just relivin’ those nice times.”

Frank and Joe asked the woman if she had worked there recently. “Not for a couple of years,” Mary O’Brien answered. “Lately Mr. Moore wasn’t here much—he traveled a lot—so he didn’t have any regular help.”

“Miss O’Brien,” said Frank, “did you ever hear Mr. Moore mention an Aztec warrior?”

A blank look came over the woman’s face. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“Mr. Moore traveled a lot in Mexico, didn’t he?” Joe questioned.

“Oh my, yes—several times. He was a great one for bringin’ back souvenirs from there.”

“What did he do with them?” Frank queried.

“Well, some he kept and some he gave away.”

The boys asked her if Mr. Moore had ever mentioned any friends in Mexico or people with whom he had traveled. Mary O’Brien shook her head. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Moore didn’t talk a whole lot. He did say one time, though, that he was lookin’ around Mexico for Indian weapons for his collection. A man traveled with him. But I’m sure he never mentioned his name.”

“You say Mr. Moore had a collection of weapons?” Frank asked.

“He did have,” Mary O‘Brien answered. “He was talkin’ about givin’ the weapons to a museum. I wish you could’ve seen them. I used to have to dust every one, and some of the old pieces were pretty deadly lookin’.”

“And you never heard Mr. Moore use the word ‘Mexico’ or ‘Aztec’ in connection with any of the weapons?” Joe questioned.

“No, he never did. The pieces came from Europe and Africa. Well, I got to be goin’. Good-by, boys.”

The same thought was running through the minds of the brothers. Could the mysterious property of the Aztec warrior be some kind of weapon?

Frank and Joe walked silently across the lawn, past the front of the large house. As they looked down the right side of it, each gave a start.

A man, standing on a box, was trying to get into a first-floor window!

CHAPTER III

A Mysterious Companion

AT ONCE Frank and Joe sped toward the intruder. Unfortunately, the stranger spotted the Hardys. Jumping quickly from the box, he picked up a rock and threw it at the boys. Then he turned in the opposite direction and fled. The boys dodged the rock.

“Stop!” Joe yelled, although he knew the command was useless.

The brothers turned on their flashlights and dashed after the short, dark-haired figure, but he apparently was familiar with a rear exit from the grounds and disappeared among the shadows. Frank and Joe searched thoroughly, but the beams revealed only a series of dim footprints which faded out on a concrete path.

“I suppose we should report this,” said Frank as they gave up the chase. “I’ll stay here and keep watch. Joe, you go and phone the police.”

Soon two officers arrived in a patrol car and examined the area where the intruder had been. They lifted fingerprints which the man had left on the window sill and said they would take along the box with the shoe prints on it.

“Thanks for the tip, boys,” the driver of the patrol car said as the officers started away. “If you see any more burglars, let us know.”

After the men had gone, Frank and Joe began their search for possible clues to the Aztec mystery. Beaming their flashlights around, they looked for some time with no success.

Then suddenly Frank exclaimed, “I think I’ve found something!”

Joe ran to his brother’s side as Frank focused his light on a large tree. Crudely carved into the trunk were the head and shoulders of an Indian.

“It’s hard to tell what he represents,” Frank remarked, “but he could be an Aztec warrior.”

The boys examined the whole tree trunk, looking for more clues. Another carving? A hollow spot? Nothing came to light.

“Maybe something is buried in the ground near here,” Joe suggested.

There seemed to be no place within a radius of five feet of the tree trunk which looked as if it had been dug up. The ground was level, and the grass was the same color and texture as the surrounding area.

“If something’s buried here we can’t dig it up tonight,” Frank said practically. “Let’s get Mr. Weaver’s permission to do some digging here in the morning.”

“I’m with you,” his brother said.

Frank and Joe returned home and reported their discovery to Mr. Hardy, telling about the collection of weapons.

“That’s very interesting,” the detective said. “I’ll ask Mr. Weaver about it. And I agree with you there’s a good possibility an object is buried near the tree.”

He phoned Mr. Weaver, who consented to having the area spaded up. He said he would meet the Hardys at the Moore estate about nine the next morning.

In answer to a question about the weapons collection, the lawyer said, “Mr. Moore gave it away a year ago. I came across the list of items. None of them had anything to do with the Aztecs.”

As soon as Mr. Weaver and the Hardys arrived at the Moore estate the next day, Mr. Weaver produced spades, a shovel, and pickax from the garage. During the next hour, sod was carefully lifted, then deep holes were made in the ground. There were no signs of anything having been buried. Disappointed, Frank and Joe filled in the holes and patted the squares of sod back into place, got the garden hose, and sprinkled the grass generously.

Mr. Hardy said, “Otis, if you can take the time, I’d like to go into the house and search through Mr. Moore’s letters for clues to both Aztec warriors.”

The attorney consented, saying he would help, although Mr. Moore’s more recent correspondence had already been read.

Frank asked, “How about Joe and me looking through some more of those slides?”

“Good idea,” said Mr. Weaver. “By the way, the police told me this morning that the fingerprints of that would-be intruder last night aren’t on record, so he’s not a previous offender as far as they can ascertain.”

“And how about Mr. Brower—has he regained consciousness?” Frank asked.

“Not yet,” replied Mr. Weaver, unlocking the house. “But his condition is better, and the doctors expect him to become conscious soon.”

The boys hurried inside. They immediately set up the projector and screen and brought out more boxes of slides. It was some time before they came across a second box of Mexican pictures, but in a few minutes Joe exclaimed excitedly:

“Here’s a real clue!”

The picture had been taken in front of a pyramid and showed the mysterious companion of Mr. Moore in the full costume of an ancient warrior.

“Hold everything until I get Dad and Mr. Weaver!” Frank said.

He ran off to the library, where the men were going through old letters and memorandums, and asked them to come look at the picture.

“Hmm!” said the detective, after seeing it. “I believe this is an excellent lead. The man in the picture may well be the one Mr. Moore referred to as the Aztec warrior.”

“And is the rightful owner of the property we can’t find,” Mr. Weaver added.

“Who is he?” Frank asked. “Roberto Hermosa or someone else?”

“I’m sure this settles one thing,” Joe spoke up, “and that is, the person we’re trying to find is definitely in Mexico.”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “Come now, Joe. Don’t jump to conclusions. It does seem likely the man is in Mexico, but he might only have been visiting there.”

Mr. Weaver pointed out that even if this were the man they were looking for, there was nothing in the picture to indicate what the property was which should be returned to him.

“What I can’t understand,” the lawyer added, “is why Mr. Moore put this whole stipulation in his will without giving the name of the owner.”

“And why hold up payments to the beneficiaries until the mystery is solved?” Mr. Hardy asked.

Frank remarked, “Mr. Moore might have been trying to protect both the owner and his possession for some special reason.”

“You have a point there,” said Mr. Weaver. “But what was the reason?”

“If it’s something very valuable,” Joe remarked, “Mr. Moore may have been trying to keep thieves from knowing about the Aztec warrior object.”

“Then we’d better watch our step,” Mr. Hardy commented.

The hunt for clues proceeded. The men went on with their search among the letters, and the boys continued to look at slide after slide. They came across a picture of the mysterious man alongside a tremendous tree. Printed on the slide were the words: TULE TREE AT MITLA.

“Wow! I never saw such a big tree trunk!” Joe exclaimed.

A few minutes later they came to another picture marked: ZÓCALO AT TAXCO.

“Here’s our friend again!” said Frank, as the familiar figure was shown on the screen.

When Mr. Hardy and Mr. Weaver returned to the room, the boys showed them the two slides.

The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I feel pretty sure we’ll find the man in these pictures in Mexico.”

Frank and Joe watched their father’s face as he gazed off into space. What was going through his mind? Suddenly he turned to his sons. “Boys, I believe that you and I had better divide up work on this case. I can’t get away from here right now because of other commitments. How about you fellows going to Mexico and seeing if you can locate Roberto Hermosa?”

Joe grinned. “I could be ready to leave in an hour,” he said. “And boy, what a trip!”

“You just buy my plane ticket, Dad,” said Frank, “and I’ll be on my way!”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “It won’t be that easy. There’s a ruling against teen-agers going around Mexico without an adult. I’ll have to arrange for special passes for two young detectives on a worthwhile mission.”

As Mr. Hardy stopped speaking, Mr. Weaver clapped him on the shoulder. “Fenton, that’s a brilliant idea. You and I will keep on hunting around here for the Aztec warrior property. It will be kind of a race to see which half of this team comes out ahead.”

Mr. Hardy laughed, then said to Frank and Joe, “How would you like to take Chet Morton along?”

“You mean it!” the boys exclaimed together.

Their father nodded. “He’ll hold you down if you get too fool-HARDY!”

The brothers grinned. Then Frank asked Mr. Weaver if he might take the slides showing the mysterious man and make prints of them. The lawyer consented. The boys hurried home. After lunch, Joe went to the workshop to make the prints, while Frank telephoned Chet. There was a war whoop from the other end of the line.

“Hot tamales!” Chet exclaimed. “I can have all of them I want!”

“How about coming over so we can talk about our trip?” Frank asked.

“Be right there,” Chet promised.

“Meet you out in our workshop,” said Frank.

Fifteen minutes later the boys heard the sound of a familiar horn. Instead of a few blasts, the raucous noise continued.

“Chet sure is happy!” said Joe with a grin. “Well, we may as well go out and welcome him!”

Standing at the curb was Chet’s jalopy, its horn still blowing continuously. The stout boy was not inside the car. He was standing on the sidewalk, his face red with embarrassment.

Aunt Gertrude was there, wagging a finger at him and saying, “The idea! If you don’t know how to take care of a car, you have no business running one!”

By this time several neighbors had come rushing toward the jalopy. One woman called out, “Is something the matter at your house, Miss Hardy?”

Frank and Joe howled with laughter as they hurried toward the scene.

CHAPTER IV

The Hijacked Plane

FRANK waved at the crowd gathered near Chet’s jalopy. “Nothing’s wrong here except a little short in the horn-button wiring,” he said.

Joe quickly released the car hood and disconnected a wire. The horn stopped blowing.

“What’ll I do now if I want to use it?” Chet asked, dismayed, as the onlookers dispersed.

“Just get the wire replaced,” said Joe.

Chet scratched his head. “I haven’t many spare parts, but I do have some extra wire!”

“Get to it, boy,” said Joe. “Unless you want us to send for a mechanic!”

“Okay, okay,” Chet agreed. He found a pair of pliers in the dashboard compartment and went to work. With Frank and Joe’s help he soon had the old wire replaced and the horn in proper working order.

“Thanks, fellows,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hold up your plans. Tell me about this Mexican trip. I can’t wait to go.”

First they gave Chet some kidding advice about eating in Mexico. “You’ll have to be careful,” Frank told him, “or you’ll burn up your insides.”

“Oh, all their food isn’t hot,” Chet retorted. “Tortillas and enchiladas are mighty good eating, but no red pepper chocolate sauce for me.”

Joe chanted in a singsong, off-key voice:

“For making tortillas you’ll use a metate. And for a bed we’ll use a petate.”

Chet scowled. “You won’t catch me sleeping on any straw mat. I’m not an Aztec!”

Frank and Joe laughed, then led the way into the house to brief Chet on the trip and show him the prints. “We’re going to the various places where Mr. Moore took pictures,” Frank told him.

“That means we’ll see some Indian ruins?”

“We sure will—probably several of them.”

Chet looked dubious. “I hope you won’t ask me to climb to the top and look for clues. I hear those steps are so narrow you have to walk sideways to keep from falling off.”

“Right,” said Frank. “That’s the best way to go either up or down, according to the Indians. You zigzag from left to right, so you never get tired or out of breath.”

Shortly afterward, Mr. Hardy came in to announce that all the arrangements for the trip had been made. “I have the special passes for you three teen-agers and have reserved hotel accommodations in Mexico City. If there are any other places you want to investigate, you’ll have to make your own plans.”

“How are we going to travel?” Chet asked.

“In my plane,” the detective answered. “Jack Wayne will take you and then return immediately. He’ll fly down for you when you’re ready to come back.”

Mr. Hardy had found it necessary to purchase a plane for use in emergencies connected with his work. Both Frank and Joe had piloted the craft, but Jack Wayne was always in command on long trips.

“When do we start?” Joe asked.

“How about tomorrow morning?”

The three boys said they would be ready, and Chet left to go home and pack. Frank busied himself working out an itinerary of the places shown in Mr. Moore’s pictures. Joe went to the workshop to print extra copies of the deceased man’s mysterious companion.

When this was done, the brothers drove to the airfield to check out the Hardy plane. Jack Wayne was not there, so the boys hopped into the blue-and-white, single-engine craft and Frank took the controls. Soon they were soaring above Bayport, then out over Barmet Bay.

“Seems to be shipshape,” Frank observed, circling back.

As they prepared to land, Joe suddenly gasped in horror. “Look out!”

Zooming directly toward them was another plane! There was not a second to lose. Frank pulled back on the stick and sent his craft sharply upward. A collision was avoided by mere yards as the other plane sped on below them.

The Hardys shuddered at the close call. “That pilot must be nuts!” Joe said hoarsely.

Frank landed without further incident. From the tower they learned that a novice had been flying the other plane, and had temporarily “frozen” in panic.

“Too bad,” said Joe. “He’d better stay grounded for a while.”

Still shaken, the boys went home. As they entered the hall, their father was answering the phone. Mr. Weaver was calling to say that Mr. Brower had regained consciousness. Could the three detectives come to the Bayport Hospital?

“Right away,” Mr. Hardy promised.

The three went to the hospital. After inquiring at the Information Desk where Mr. Brower’s room was, they took the elevator to the second floor. Mr. Weaver greeted them at the door of the patient’s room.

Although somewhat pale, Mr. Brower managed an apologetic smile. “I am sorry I put you boys to so much trouble. I was very foolish and regret having entered the house. Jonathan gave me a key years ago that I never returned.”

Mr. Brower added that he was badly in need of the inheritance willed to him. “I was merely doing what you people are—looking for a clue to the Aztec warrior object.”

“By finding it, you could receive your inheritance sooner,” Mr. Hardy remarked.

“That’s right. Well, I didn’t have any luck and did have a bad accident for my trouble.”

Mr. Hardy asked Mr. Brower if he had any idea what the Aztec warrior object was. The sick man shook his head. “Jonathan told me a long time ago that he had received a very unusual and valuable piece from a descendant of the Aztecs, but he never told me what it was. My cousin was pretty secretive.”

“And you have no idea what this thing was?”

“Not the slightest.”

Mr. Brower said that his cousin had told him the precious piece had been lent to him on condition that he return it at the end of five years. “He may have meant the Aztec warrior object mentioned in the will.”

“Then it’s possible this mysterious piece may have been sent back already and Mr. Moore forgot to take the notation out of the will,” Mr. Weaver suggested.

Mr. Brower said he doubted this. “Only three years have gone by since Jonathan received it. My cousin said he had the object safely hidden. I have assumed it is in his house.”

Since nothing more could be learned from Mr. Brower, his visitors left. When they reached the street, Frank suggested that they all return to the Moore home and make a still more intensive search. The others agreed and soon the lawyer was unlocking the front door of the mansion.

Mr. Hardy, who always carried several detecting devices in the trunk of his car, went to get them.

The boys helped to carry in a portable fluoroscope and a metal detector. Every wall, floor, and ceiling was gone over. Several times Frank and Joe became excited as the fluoroscope lighted up objects or the detector began to click, but nothing of importance was located. The Hardys had no better luck with a systematic examination for hollow walls and trap doors. Nothing was found.

Mr. Weaver, who had followed the Hardys around in amazement, sighed. “The answer to this whole mystery must lie with Roberto Hermosa.”

Mr. Hardy agreed that they seemed to have come to a dead end in every other direction. He asked if there had been any late word on the man who had tried to get into the house.

“No,” Mr. Weaver replied. “Just to be sure the fellow wasn’t one of the beneficiaries, I checked each one. Every man has an alibi.” The lawyer smiled. “I tried hard to be a detective but haven’t come up with a single clue.”

“I think you have done very well for an amateur,” said Mr. Hardy with a smile. “Here we are, trained in this kind of work, and we haven’t done any better than you!”

When they reached Mr. Weaver’s office, the lawyer got out of the car and wished the boys the best of luck in Mexico. “It has just about everything one could wish in the way of scenery, the mystery of ancient civilizations, and the fascinating Spanish influence.”

Joe grinned. “We’ll try to take in all of them, and solve your mystery besides.”

When the Hardys reached home, the boys’ mother greeted them in Spanish, adding, “I thought I might as well give you a little practice.”

Frank and Joe were amazed at their mother’s command of the language, which they and Chet already spoke.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” she said. “I’ll tell you a little secret. I studied Spanish in school but forgot most of what I learned, so I have been taking lessons for the past two months.”

“Mother, why don’t you come along with us?” Frank asked suddenly.

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “I don’t think I’d be equal to meeting an Aztec warrior!”

The Hardys spent a pleasant evening together. The following morning Chet’s father dropped his son off at the Hardy home. With warm embraces from Mrs. Hardy for Frank and Joe, and words of advice from Aunt Gertrude to watch out for jaguars, the three boys set off for the airport with Mr. Hardy.

As they drove along the road toward the terminal, Joe exclaimed, “Isn’t that your plane, Dad, way over on that last runway?”

“Yes, it is. I guess Jack will taxi up. We’re a little early.”

The detective let the boys out, since he had an early appointment. He said good-by and called after them, “I hope to see you soon with the mystery solved!”

The three young travelers walked through the administration building and out to the area where private planes taxied up to take on passengers. The Hardy plane was still at the far end of the runway. Suddenly it began to move, but instead of taxiing toward the boys, it gathered speed, rolled down the runway, and in a few moments was airborne.

“Say, what’s going on here?” Frank asked. “Jack Wayne wouldn’t take off without us!”

“You bet he wouldn’t!” Joe cried excitedly. “Something sure is going on! Our plane has been hijacked!”

CHAPTER V

The Tattoo

“WHAT do you mean your plane’s been hijacked?” Chet Morton asked unbelievingly.

“Just that!” Joe answered.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Frank added, starting to run toward the administration building. “We must talk to the tower right away!”

The report from the tower was even more disturbing. Jack Wayne himself was at the controls and had asked for immediate clearance. Frank quickly told his story, and the dispatcher said he would do all he could to bring back the Hardy plane.

The boys paced anxiously while awaiting word. Presently they were informed that there was no response to calls to the aircraft.

“Must be a hijacking,” the tower dispatcher said. “I’ll report this to the FAA.”

Frank and Joe told the dispatcher that they would get in touch with the police, then do some investigating at the field to see what they could learn. Their sleuthing revealed little that they did not already know.

Several mechanics had seen Jack Wayne and even spotted him getting into the Hardy plane. They had not observed anyone going aboard with him, but they had noticed a stranger talking to him on the field.

“What did this stranger look like?” Frank asked one of the mechanics.

“I can’t tell you much. He was rather short and dark. To tell you the truth, he was too far away for me to make out any details. I sure am sorry to hear what happened and hope you get your plane back soon.” The man returned to his work on the landing gear of a jetliner.

As the boys walked away, Joe said, “I’ll bet that stranger is connected with our mystery—he might even be the one we chased away from the Moore house—and forced Jack to get clearance for a take-off.”

“Let’s go to the tower and find out what’s doing,” Frank suggested.

The dispatcher greeted the boys with a worried look. “There’s no trace of your plane, fellows. All the big airports have been notified. They haven’t been in contact with your plane.”

Because the dispatcher was extremely busy, the three boys went back to the waiting room to discuss the unexpected situation.

“Do you know what this means?” Joe pointed out. “A kidnapping as well as a hijacking.”

Chet’s usually smiling face was glum. “I sure hope Jack doesn’t get hurt. He’s too swell a guy. The thing I can’t figure is, what does the kidnapper hope to accomplish?”

“I guess if we knew the answer to that,” said Frank, “we’d have a clue on how to trace Jack and the plane.”

Chet wanted to know what the boys were going to do. “Give up the trip?”

The Hardys shook their heads vehemently. “Not on your life!” Joe said firmly.

Frank decided to get in touch with Mr. Hardy. He telephoned home, but the detective was not there. Mrs. Hardy, who had answered, was alarmed by what had happened and said she would call several places where she thought her husband was going to stop.

“You boys wait at the airport, and I’ll have him get in touch with you there if I can find him.”

They chafed under the delay. All three tried to pass the time by reading newspapers, but the words seemed meaningless as their thoughts reverted to the missing plane and pilot.

Finally Frank announced that he was going to call Mr. Weaver, saying it was just possible he might have some lead to offer. The lawyer was astounded at the story, and could offer no clue.

“Do you suppose,” Frank asked, “that the man who tried to break into the Moore house could also be the hijacker?”

“That’s very possible,” Mr. Weaver conceded. “But we don’t know anything about him.”

“That’s right, except Joe and I did catch a glimpse of him,” Frank said. “That, together with a set of his fingerprints and shoe prints, may help to locate the man.”

When Frank returned to the waiting room, he was delighted to find his father there. Mr. Hardy was greatly troubled by the news and concerned for Jack Wayne’s safety. He expressed the opinion that it would be difficult to locate the hijacked plane. “No hijacker would dare land at a big airport where he would be arrested immediately. He’ll probably come down at some farm or uncontrolled airfield.

“Personally,” added Mr. Hardy, “I believe someone else is trying to locate the Aztec warrior. Apparently he is trying to scare you, thinking you’ll give up the case and not go to Mexico to search for the warrior.”

Joe, restless, was pacing back and forth as his father talked. “If that’s the case,” he said, “why don’t we take one of the commercial flights to Mexico?”

His father’s blue eyes twinkled. “That’s just what I was going to suggest.”

Frank sped to the reservations counter. By the time the others reached him, he had learned that the boys could obtain reservations on a late-night flight from New York City to Mexico City. “We’ll have to take a plane out of here and change at Idlewild Airport.”

The boys, eager to start the journey, decided to leave on the next plane to New York and spend a little time looking around the immense New York City air terminal.

“All right,” said Mr. Hardy, and purchased three tickets.

When the boys arrived at Idlewild, Frank and Joe watched the incoming and outgoing airliners from one of the observation decks. Chet, declaring he was hungry, had gone to a snack bar.

Suddenly Frank grabbed Joe’s arm. “Look at that mechanic down there!” he cried excitedly.

“What about him?” Joe asked.

Instead of answering, Frank started to run from the deck and down the stairs with Joe following, perplexed. They dashed through a corridor until they came to a gate near where the man was standing. “We’re detectives!” said Frank to the guard. “Please let us go out and talk to that mechanic with the tattoo!”

The guard looked at them and at first was not inclined to grant their request. But apparently the boys’ honest faces convinced him that they were telling the truth, and he let them through the gate. The mechanic was nearing the building and now Joe could see why his brother had been so excited.

The man’s sleeves were rolled up. On his left arm was a tattoo of an Aztec warrior!

“And the fellow looks like an Indian!” Joe thought.

The Hardys stopped him, and Frank asked about the tattoo. The man laughed and said in English, with a Spanish accent, “I had this put on because I am direct descendant of an Aztec warrior.”

Frank and Joe were almost speechless with astonishment. Had their quest for a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior come to an end? Was this the person to whom the valuable object belonged? Frank asked the mechanic if he knew a Jonathan Moore.

“No, I am Mexican—maybe you have guessed that? I have been in your country only short time. I do not know many people.”

Mexico!

“Is your name, by any chance, Roberto Hermosa?” Joe asked.

The mechanic looked amused. “No. I never hear of Roberto Hermosa.”

The Hardys’ enthusiasm was waning but was not entirely dispelled. From a pocket Frank pulled a picture of the man they suspected of being Roberto Hermosa. “Have you ever seen this person?” he asked.

“No, I never see that man in my life. But you call him Hermosa. For several years I work at beautiful hacienda near Taxco. It called ‘Vista Hermosa.’ That mean ‘Beautiful View!’ You should visit.”

Frank told the mechanic they were trying to locate the person shown in the picture.

“I wish I could help you,” the Mexican replied.

“You really are a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior?” Joe asked. When the man nodded, the young sleuth added, “Just a few days ago we heard of someone else who makes the same claim.” Joe did not mention Mr. Moore’s will.

The Mexican gave a wide grin. “I have well-educated rival for my position as pure descendant. I have never seen him, but I know his name —Senor Tatloc.”

“Where does he live?” Frank questioned quickly.

“I do not know. He travels around a lot digging.”

“You mean he is an archaeologist?” Frank queried.

“That is right.”

The Hardys asked several other questions, but the Mexican was unable to answer any of them. Finally they said good-by and went to the waiting room.

On his left arm was a tattoo of an Aztec warrior

“For Pete’s sake, where have you fellows been?” said Chet. “I thought you’d flown off without me!”

“It would have served you right,” Joe needled. “If you keep on eating, Chet, you’ll be so overweight they won’t take you on the plane.”

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Chet. “Now tell me what you’ve been doing.” He was astounded upon learning that his friends had picked up a good clue.

“Senor Tatloc, eh?” he repeated. Then he gave a great sigh. “I can just see you fellows making me climb all over those crumbly old ruins!”

The boys’ plane finally took off. After a delicious meal on board, they fell asleep. It was Sunday morning when they awoke, and the stewardess announced that they would land at the Mexico City airport in twenty minutes. The boys quickly washed, combed their hair, and straightened their rumpled suits. Then they watched from the windows as the great plane circled and came to a landing.

“Let’s take a taxi into town,” Frank suggested. “We’ll get the driver to show us some of the interesting sights as we go along.”

They found a taxi driver, who grinned in delight when he found the boys spoke his native tongue. He said he would be honored to take his passengers on a sightseeing trip before delivering them to their hotel.

The boys climbed into the car, and the driver sped out of the airport and onto a wide highway. The road was bordered by low stucco houses and open-air markets with here and there a tall apartment house.

“This doesn’t look very old,” Chet remarked. He sounded disappointed.

“Wait!” the driver advised. “We come to old part of city soon.”

A short time later he turned into a large square. “This is the zócalo,” he announced proudly. “The cathedral on the north side was finished in 1667 and built on the ruins of a great Aztec temple.”

The boys gazed at the huge church with interest. Then, pointing to a long low building which covered one side of the plaza, the driver explained that this was the National Palace. On the other sides of the square were the Palacio Municipal and an arcade which sheltered a row of small shops.

“This part looks pretty old,” Chet acknowledged.

Suddenly a taxi passed the one in which the boys were riding. A man’s hand protruded from it. He was waving a white handkerchief frantically as if to attract their attention.

“Is that a signal to us?” Frank asked excitedly.

CHAPTER VI

Unwanted Passenger

“DRIVER, pull up alongside that taxi,” Frank cried, pointing ahead.

The taximan put on a burst of speed, while the Hardys strained their eyes to see who was inside the other taxi.

They were barely able to catch a glimpse of its passengers, but Frank whispered, “That man with the handkerchief is Jack Wayne! The other man looks Mexican.”

Suddenly their own taxi stopped. Quickly Frank and Joe turned to see why. To their amazement a stranger, with flashing black eyes and swarthy skin, and holding some kind of badge in his hand, was climbing in beside their driver.

“You’re under arrest!” he told the taximan.

“What! I have done nothing!” the frightened driver said.

Frank and Joe looked at each other and at Chet, who gulped nervously. Did this have something to do with them? Was this a ruse to capture them as well as Wayne? Frank whispered to the others, “We’d better get out of here—and fast!”

Joe nodded, grabbed his suitcase, and opened the door. The next moment he and Chet, swinging his bag, were on the street. Frank threw a bill to the taxi driver and hopped out with his luggage. The stranger ordered the taximan to hurry on.

Instantly horns began to toot at the boys, and cars swerved to avoid hitting them. Chet and the Hardys realized they were raising a traffic commotion. It was impossible for them to reach the sidewalk.

“I wanted to follow that other taxi,” said Frank, as a car nearly sideswiped him.

“N-not me,” quavered Chet. “We might be in jail by now!”

“We’ll never be able to catch up with it now,” said Joe as the brakes of a taxi near him screeched.

Finally the boys held up their hands and the motorists realized the trio’s predicament. One car after another came to a grinding halt to let the visitors run to the sidewalk.

Chet, speechless with relief, sat down on his suitcase and wiped the perspiration from his face. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” he pleaded. “I lost five years off my life.”

“Too bad it wasn’t ten pounds,” said Joe. “We took our lives in our hands—and all for nothing!”

Frank said it was his fault and asked if either of the boys had obtained the license number of the taxi carrying Jack Wayne. Neither of them had.

“I was too busy watching traffic,” Joe confessed. “I did notice one thing, though. The taxi was yellow.”

“And needed paint,” Chet added.

“I saw a triangular dent in the right-hand back door,” Frank said. “Well, that’s pretty good identification. I think we should track down that taxi and quiz the driver.”

“Not me!” Chet said firmly. “Do you realize all that has happened to us in the short time we’ve been in this city? I think you fellows imagined that was Jack Wayne. He would have called out to us. I vote we go to our hotel. Me for a bath and a nap.”

Frank had spotted an empty taxi and hailed it. The boys climbed in with their luggage, and the driver was directed to their hotel. The room assigned to them was large and had three beds in it. Chet gave a flying leap and sprawled onto one of them.

“Boy, does this feel good!” He closed his eyes, and a minute later it was evident from his deep breathing that the stout boy was asleep.

“First casualty,” Frank said with a grin. “I guess we’ll have to carry on alone for a while.” He became serious. “It seems to me that Jack Wayne must still be a prisoner and was waving a distress signal.”

“Do you suppose it was just a coincidence that he saw us?” Joe asked.

“I doubt it,” Frank replied. “But I’m fairly sure that we weren’t supposed to see him. His taxi was following us and because of the flow of traffic was forced to pass us. I’ll bet the man who jumped into our taxi to arrest the driver was a phony and an accomplice of the abductors. Maybe it was an attempt to capture us.”

“Good logic, but we still haven’t a clue to who our enemies are,” said Joe. “One thing seems certain. That Aztec warrior object must be mighty valuable.”

Frank looked at Chet, then said, “Joe, while he’s asleep, how about you and me going to police headquarters and reporting everything?”

“We certainly need all the help we can get,” said Joe. “Let’s go!”

Frank wrote a note to Chet, then the boys went downstairs and asked the way to the policia. It was not far, so the brothers decided to walk. When Chief Diaz heard their story he told them that the taxi driver had reported the incident of the attempted arrest. The phony officer had jumped out of the taxi at the next traffic light.

Gravely the chief said, “I had a report from the States about your friend Jack Wayne, but we have no leads to him. He did not land at our airport. Now you say he probably is in our city. I will use every method to find this man.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Frank said. “Perhaps you can also help us find two other men we are looking for—Señor Tatloc, the archaeologist, and a Roberto Hermosa.” The chief promised he would help them in any way he could.

The boys thanked him and left. As they retraced their steps to the hotel, Joe said, “Why don’t we hire a taxi and cruise around to see if we can find the one which was carrying Jack?”

Frank waved down an oncoming taxi. After the boys had jumped in, he described to the driver in Spanish the kind of car for which they were searching.

The man looked inquisitive. He said politely, “It is not for a driver like me, Gomez, to be curious about my passengers’ wishes, but may I know why the two young gentlemen wish to locate this vehicle?”

Joe smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you we’re after a kidnapper?”

The Mexican’s black eyes blinked several times. “I do not wish to have any trouble with a kidnapper,” he said, “but I will ride around the streets so you can find the car you seek.”

He went up one street and down another, through alleyways and back onto the famous Paseo de la Reforma. There had been no sign of the yellow taxicab with a dent in a back door.

Gomez looked at his meter. “This ride will be very expensive for you,” he said.

“Give us another ten minutes please,” Frank replied, glancing at his watch. “That’ll make it an even hour.”

The time was just about up when suddenly Joe cried out, “I see it! Gomez, stop!”

Their driver pulled to the curb directly behind the yellow taxi. The boys asked Gomez to wait for them, then ran up to talk to the other driver.

“Excuse me,” said Frank, “but we’re trying to find a friend of ours—an American—and a Mexican companion. They were riding in your taxi a little over an hour ago. Do you know where they went?”

“Sí, sí,” the taximan replied. “I dropped them at the Lagunilla Market.”

“Lagunilla Market?” Frank repeated. “What’s that?”

The driver laughed. “It is a place where people go to find bargains. Most of the merchandise is old and poor. Once in a while, however, something fine turns up. The merchants there have bought most of their things from strangers, and occasionally it is stolen property.”

“Let’s have this man take us to the Lagunilla Market,” Frank suggested. “I’ll pay Gomez.”

The boys changed taxis and were taken to an old, shabby-looking section of town. The open-air market ran from one street to another. Many of the vendors had their merchandise spread out on straw mats or blankets on the ground. A few had small booths with canopies set up. They were loudly hawking their wares in both Spanish and English.

The Hardys soon found that the merchants were suspicious and the boys had to buy trinkets in order to get responses to their questions.

“We may go bankrupt before we get a clue,” said Joe with a grin.

They had gone nearly the full length of the market when they came to a woman merchant selling silver jewelry. Frank put his question to her, and instead of being ignored, it was answered at once.

“I remember the men you speak of,” she said with a smile, straightening the many-colored apron she wore. “The man from your country bought a handsome bracelet from me—a man’s bracelet. It was studded with turquoise—a great bargain.”

The young sleuths were grateful for the information. To show their appreciation they bought two bracelets that looked old enough to have been worn by Aztec women. Their mother and Aunt Gertrude, they decided, would be pleased to receive them as souvenir gifts.

Suddenly the Mexican woman’s face clouded. “The American was a very nice man, but I did not like his companion. He had a wicked face and I saw him buy a large knife.”

The Hardys were startled and asked for further identification. She said he was short and rather stout. The brothers again thanked the woman. Feeling that they now had a clue for the police, they started back to their taxi.

Suddenly the woman called out, “When you find your friend, I hope you will not laugh at him. He put the bracelet on his arm and said he was going to wear it all the time.”

The Hardys figured that Jack was using the bracelet as identification in case the Hardys should pick up his trail.

“Did you notice which way the men went from here?” Joe asked.

“No. I’m sorry.”

The taximan drove them to headquarters where they dismissed him. Chief Diaz was surprised to see his visitors so soon again and commended them on their sleuthing ability.

“That turquoise bracelet is a fine clue,” he said.

The boys returned to their hotel. To their surprise Chet was not in the room, but propped against the mirror of the bureau was a note:

“Mystery solved. Have gone to get the Aztec warrior. Will bring him to our room.”

CHAPTER VII

Mexican Disguise

“IF Chet Morton can prove to me that he has found the Aztec warrior,” said Joe, pacing the floor of his hotel room, “I’ll give him a big fat five-dollar bill!”

Frank was staring out the window. “It would be worth a lot more. I just can’t believe it!”

The brothers speculated excitedly about their pal’s discovery. They did not dare leave the room for fear Chet might return, and they most certainly wanted to be on hand if the mystery had been solved!

Nearly an hour went by when a soft tap came on the door. Both brothers ran to open it. As they swung the door wide, Frank and Joe stared in disbelief.

Standing before them was a plump figure in full Aztec warrior garb—feathered helmet, a long, elaborately embroidered tunic, and sandals!

The figure strode into the room. As the light from the window fell on him, Frank and Joe’s amazement turned to hilarity. They burst into guffaws of laughter, spun in half circles, and dropped onto the bed.

“Chet Morton, you loon!” Frank exclaimed. “Where did you get that outfit?”

“I guess we deserve having a joke played on us.” Joe chuckled.

Chet Morton did not even smile. He stood looking at his chums with a hurt expression on his face. “This isn’t funny,” he said. “I figured the best way to get a lead on the living Aztec warrior was to wear this costume in the street and attract attention. Everybody will be asking questions and then we can ask some in return.”

“You’re likely to be taken to the funny farm,” said Joe.

Slowly Chet removed the helmet. As he laid it on the bureau, he said, “I guess you fellows don’t like my idea, and I thought it was such a good one. You don’t know what a hard time I had finding a costume store that was open and carried this getup. And I paid a whole week’s rental on it!” he added woefully.

“That’s too bad,” said Frank, grinning. “Maybe you ought to buy the costume and take it home. It sure would make a hit in Bayport.”

“Okay. I will.”

The stout boy was saved from further needling by the ringing of the telephone. Frank answered and learned that the call was from police headquarters. “Can you come right down?” Chief Diaz asked. “Your friend Jack Wayne is here.”

“Really!” Frank exclaimed. “That’s great. We’ll be there pronto.”

When he reported the news to the other boys, they were astounded. Joe remarked, “Mighty efficient police force, I’d say!”

The Hardys helped Chet out of his costume, then the trio raced downstairs to the hotel entrance. Frank flagged a taxi and soon they were hurrying into police headquarters.

“Jack!” the Hardys cried out joyfully upon seeing the pilot.

There were hearty handshakes, then Frank and Joe asked for the full story of the kidnapping and release.

Their lean, tanned friend looked haggard but produced a broad grin. Pointing to the silver-and-turquoise bracelet on his arm, he said, “This did it. If you fellows hadn’t uncovered the clue, I might still be the prisoner of those lowdown weasels! The police quizzed people who saw me wearing it and trailed me to the house where I was tied up.

“Nobody else was there and those crooks haven’t been captured yet. The only one whose face I ever saw was the man who climbed into your father’s plane at the Bayport airfield, poked a gun into my ribs, and ordered me to take off. I didn’t have any choice, but I was sure you Hardys would trail us.”

As Jack Wayne paused, Frank said, “It’s a lucky thing we saw your handkerchief signal this morning.”

“Yes. My abductors threatened to harm me if I tried to escape, so I used that method to warn you that you were being followed.”

While the chief took a phone call, the pilot added in a whisper, “The gang is after the Aztec warrior object, and my kidnapper tried to find out from me where it is. He said it’s worth a fortune.”

When the chief finished his call, Jack went on, “The kidnapper—I never did learn his name—directed me to land on a field at an abandoned farm outside this city. A group of masked men met us and put me in a car. Then we came into the city, and I was forced into a house. There I was made to answer a lot of questions about you Hardys. I probably shouldn’t have bragged that I knew you would come after me.

“Then, the hijacker took me out to a taxi, and we drove to the big airport to watch you come in. We kept you in sight to find out where you were going. Suddenly the traffic forced us to pass your taxi. I decided to try that handkerchief signal to alert you.”

“It did,” said Joe. “And that man with a badge who jumped into our taxi—we thought at first he was a detective—probably intended to kidnap us too.”

“I know about him,” said Jack. “He’s one of the gang. He was in another taxi. As soon as he saw my warning signal to you, he got out of his taxi and stopped your driver. I was looking back and sure was glad when I saw you fellows hop out.”

“Why were you taken to the Lagunilla Market?” Joe asked.

“So you wouldn’t be able to pick up our trail and find out where I was being held,” the pilot replied. “The men thought you’d probably quiz our driver, so we changed taxis at the Lagunilla Market. While we were there, the kidnapper purchased one of the wickedest-looking knives I’ve ever seen.

“I managed to persuade him to let me buy the bracelet. I wore it, hoping you fellows could trace me.” Jack gave a broad grin. “And you did, thank goodness!”

Chet, who had been silent up to this time, reminded the pilot that he had said he knew only his kidnapper. “Would you recognize the man who got in our taxi if you saw him again?”

“I couldn’t see his face,” said Jack. “By the way, the hijacker told me he had tried to break into Mr. Moore’s home, but that you’d stopped him.”

“We didn’t get a very good look at him,” said Frank. “He’s short and dark. What else can you tell us about him?”

“The outstanding thing about him is that his teeth are quite crooked and overlapping.”

The Hardys and Chet further learned that a man referred to as Jimenez seemed to be the leader of the group.

Chief Diaz spoke up. “He and his friends may be hard to capture. I feel sure none of them will return to the house where we found you, Señor Wayne. The gang probably had a lookout, and when we tracked you down, he no doubt warned those scoundrels and they got away in a hurry.”

The officer promised that his department would continue their search. In the meantime, if the pilot was ready, they would drive him to his plane, which the police had learned was still where it had been landed. “I understand you wish to get back to Bayport as soon as possible.”

“That’s right,” Jack replied.

While the chief was making arrangements, the pilot whispered to the boys, “I’m sorry I couldn’t find out more about the Aztec warrior—both the thing and the man.”

Frank spoke up, “Jack, you’ve done a great job and given us some important clues. It’s too bad you had to be kidnapped in the process, but it sure is paying off.”

After Jack had left in the police car, the boys talked over what their next move should be. They decided to go at once to the University of Mexico and try to talk to someone connected with the archaeological department about Senor Tatloc. Since the buildings were some distance out of town, they took a taxi.

Along the way were beautiful new homes, most of them a delicate shade of pink concrete. All were set among rolling lawns and gardens of profuse, bright-colored flowers.

As the taxi drew near the university buildings, Chet leaned out the window and gaped in amazement. “Boy, look at that!” he exclaimed, gazing at the beautiful, intricate mosaic work which formed the walls of the huge library.

One side showed a gigantic figure—half of it representing the Indian background of Mexico, the other its Spanish influence.

At the administration building Frank asked the driver to stop while he went inside to inquire if he could see a staff member of the archaeological department. He was given directions to the nearby home of Professor Rincon. The boys found it and requested the taxi driver to wait for them.

Professor Rincon was a friendly, scholarly person who said he knew Senor Maxli Tatloc well, and identified him as one of the two men in the photographic prints. “I have not seen him in a long time, however. Tatloc is a very retiring person and moves often. I believe he has no permanent residence.

“Tatloc is greatly sought after but hard to find. He spends practically all his time at various ruins and has dug up some very interesting relics. It is strange, but he never bothers to deliver these himself either to government or private museums. He always sends them by messengers.”

Frank said the boys were eager to locate Tatloc. “But evidently we’ll have a hard time doing it,” he said, smiling.

“I’m afraid so,” said the professor, “because there are not only the well-known ruins but also many still to be unearthed.”

“Thank you very much,” said Joe. “I guess we’d better get started on our hunt.”

Professor Rincon wished the boys luck. “If you find Señor Tatloc, please give him my best regards and tell him I should like him to speak before some of my classes.”

The three boys went back to their waiting taxi. Frank looked at his wristwatch. “Too late to see any ruins today,” he remarked with a sigh, “but tomorrow let’s hire a car and go to the closest ruin, Teotihuacan.”

“Isn’t that the place where Mr. Moore took a picture of his friend in costume?” Chet asked.

“Yes.”

The Hardys and Chet spent the evening studying the various pictures they had brought and a list of all ruins which were accessible by car.

“If we don’t have any luck, we’ll try the less accessible ones later,” Joe said.

Chet was particularly interested in the Teotihuacan ruins, originally the religious center of the Toltecs and later invaded by the Aztecs.

“This Pyramid of the Sun sure looks high,” he remarked. “You fellows aren’t going to make me climb to the top of that to hunt for a clue to Senor Tatloc, are you?”

The Hardys grinned, and Joe said, “I promise it’ll take a few pounds off you. But then, I’m not sure you could get to the top without puffing to death.”

“Listen, I have more extra wind in my lungs than anybody on the Bayport High football team,” Chet declared.

“You’re absolutely right,” said Frank. “And that’s why you’re elected to climb to the top first and tell us if there’s anything worth going up there to look at!”

Chet retaliated by picking up a pillow and heaving it at Frank’s head.

“So you want to get in practice, eh?” Joe asked. “Okay, here goes!”

For a few minutes pillows flew back and forth until Frank advised the boys to quit before the pillows burst and spread their contents all over the room. Shortly afterward, they went to bed.

Directly after breakfast Monday morning the three chums went to an automobile rental agency. They chose a convertible and headed for Teotihuacan.

As it neared noontime, Chet smiled and smacked his lips. “Let’s stop at the Grotto restaurant,” he suggested.

Frank turned off the road and went to the famous restaurant in a mammoth cave. The Bay-porters found it to be a unique eating place, and thought of the time when some ancient Indian tribe had lived there.

Chet was about to order a second tamale when Frank cautioned him, “Remember, we have a long climb ahead.” Reluctantly, Chet changed his mind.

When the boys’ car reached the area of the great four-sided pyramids with their hundreds of shallow steps, the three young visitors stared in wonder. The area was teeming with groups of diggers in various phases of uncovering further buried ruins.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “We expected to find a ghost city—and instead it’s crowded with archaeologists.”

Chet looked up at the Pyramid of the Sun in awe. “Boy, this is a lot higher when you’re nearby —it almost reaches the sun! And just to let you know I’m no sissy, I’m going partway to the top.”

As he started straight up the narrow steps, Joe called out after him, “Hey! Remember the ancient Indians said you should put your feet sideways on the steps and zigzag when you go up or down.”

Frank and Joe started up in this fashion, but Chet paid no attention to their advice. He had climbed about thirty feet when suddenly one foot slipped. Down he went, clutching wildly at the craggy steps but unable to get a hold. Now he began to roll over and over toward the bottom.

Joe was some distance away and too far down to help his chum. Frank, closer at hand, tried to stop Chet’s rapid descent. But the tumbling figure knocked him over and the two boys spun down helter-skelter, gathering speed as they went!

CHAPTER VIII

Ambushed Detectives

BRUISED and scraped, Frank and Chet picked themselves up from the foot of the great pyramid. Joe hurried down the steps to see if the boys were all right.

He was relieved to find they were only dirty and shaken up. “You fellows looked like something out of an old-time comedy routine,” he said, chuckling.

Chet eyed Joe for a moment, then remarked, “I feel as if I’d been rolling for the past thousand years!”

Frank heaved a long sigh. “Well, I’m ready to try it again. You guys all set?”

It took Chet nearly half a minute to decide that he would accompany the Hardys. This time, the boys made the ascent more slowly and finally reached the flat summit. They walked all around it, gazing down in every direction.

“Boy, what a city this must have been!” Joe said. “All these temples kept people busy building, repairing, and preparing for the human sacrifices.”

“I read that a hundred thousand people lived here,” Chet spoke up. He pointed off some distance. “That’s the Pyramid of the Moon, isn’t it?” The Hardys nodded.

The pyramid was similar to the one on which they stood, except it was considerably smaller.

Frank indicated a temple. “That’s the one built in honor of a foreigner.”

“What!” Chet cried. “I thought it was erected a thousand years before the Spaniards came here.”

“It was. Haven’t you heard the legend? It seems a man of fair skin, long beard, and blue eyes arrived from across the ocean—some people say he was riding a plumed serpent and that is why the serpent was sacred to Mexicans in ancient times. This man, whom they called Quetzalcoatl—quetzal for their venerated bird—had knowledge far superior to that of the Indians who were here. He taught them how to build, raise food, and become skilled in the art of stone carving.”

“Did he live with the Aztecs?” Chet asked.

“No. He was here long before they came. After his death, the natives made Quetzalcoatl one of their gods.”

The three boys started zigzagging down the steps of the pyramid. Halfway to the bottom, Joe called out, “Fellows, see that man down there? He looks like the one in our pictures!”

“Señor Tatloc?” Chet queried.

“Could be.” Joe nodded as he put on more speed.

By the time he reached the base of the pyramid, the man was nowhere in sight. Thinking he had gone to another side of the pyramid, the trio sprinted along the base until they came to a corner, and turned down the side. Still the stranger was not to be seen.

The Hardys and Chet circled the base of the tremendous structure, but he had vanished.

Chet dropped to the ground, exhausted. “I just knew I was letting myself in for something,” he panted. “It would have been much easier walking around Mexico City in my Aztec costume.”

Frank and Joe did not answer. They were pretty winded themselves. Finally Joe remarked, “Those old Aztecs sure had lung power.”

Frank suggested that perhaps the stranger they sought had gone to another pyramid. The boys went to their car and drove first to the Pyramid of the Moon. The man was not there, so they set off for the Temple of Quetzalcoatl.

They went completely around the pyramid, scanning the steps and the ground for a glimpse of the elusive man.

Frank frowned. “That probably was Senor Tatloc. Since he’s such a retiring person he would have hurried away when he saw us.”

“That’s just great,” said Chet. “If he takes off every time we spot him, how are we ever going to talk to him?” The stout boy sighed. “Oh, well, maybe the guy we saw wasn’t Tatloc, anyway.”

The boys spent the next hour examining the weird carvings on the temple. There were huge heads of serpents with open jaws and wicked-looking teeth. Interspersed among the stone reptiles were heads, which they figured represented the god Quetzalcoatl.

“He has on a flat top hat,” said Chet with a grin, and added, “That must have been the style during the period he was a human—not so fancy as the ones the Aztecs wore later.”

The three visitors marveled at the number of carvings which stretched not only along the base of the pyramid but in rows up the sides.

“Do you suppose,” said Frank, “that Mr. Moore’s slides indicate we’ll find a clue here to the Aztec warrior object? This is certainly the place where he took one picture.”

Joe surveyed the huge temple. “If you mean some letter or document is hidden in one of these carvings, it would take us at least a month to search for them.”

The Hardys decided that they could always come back to the Temple of Quetzalcoatl. In the meantime, they would search at various other ruins to find Senor Tatloc.

The boys drove away. As they neared the outskirts of Mexico City, Chet proposed that they eat at a real Mexican restaurant. He directed the way to a long narrow building. Frank found a parking place some distance down the street.

The restaurant had booths for four on each side of a wide aisle. A man in a black velvet, gold-embroidered, tight-fitting suit and a large black hat which he wore at a rakish angle was playing a guitar at the rear of the restaurant. Couples were dancing in the aisles.

The three boys were shown to a booth. After looking over the menu they ordered bean soup, roast chicken without the chocolate pepper sauce, and totopos—an American-type frito served with a sauce made of mashed avocado, boiled tomato, olive oil, onion, salt, and lemon.

“Mm, this hits me just right,” said Chet, after sampling all the dishes.

At that moment the music stopped. The hungry boys ate rather than talked and could plainly hear the chatter around them. Suddenly the Hardys detected a voice in the booth behind them asking the waiter in Spanish to find out the boys’ destination. It occurred to the Hardys that the man might belong to the kidnapping gang!

Frank, who had the aisle seat, leaned out and looked around. Four men occupied the booth. One, young with an evil-looking face, was handing the waiter a tip. Instantly Frank drew back and put a finger to his lips as a sign for Joe and Chet to let him do the talking.

When the waiter reached the boys’ booth, he asked Frank in Spanish where the boys were going.

“I don’t understand,” Frank said vaguely.

By signs and gestures the waiter tried his best to get the message across. At last he shrugged, gave up, and went back to the other booth. He reported that the boys did not speak Spanish.

The three chums grinned and tried to hear the conversation of the inquirer and his friends. But the men had dropped their voices to whispers.

In turn Frank lowered his, saying, “Maybe these men aren’t part of the gang, but just plain thugs out to rob us. If they follow us from the restaurant, we can be sure they’re up to no good.”

“What’ll we do?” Chet quavered.

“How about giving them the old football rush?” Joe suggested.

To the Hardys’ surprise, the episode took away Chet’s appetite. He not only did not finish the food in front of him, but refused dessert.

“Players shouldn’t eat much before a game, anyhow,” Joe remarked. “Let’s go!”

The three boys had barely reached the sidewalk when the four men from the booth started after them. Chet and the Hardys walked fast, thinking that if they could reach the car, then they could make it safely to the hotel.

The men behind them apparently anticipated the boys’ plan and decided to act in a hurry. As the young sleuths reached an alleyway, the four men converged on them. Instantly the Americans were forced into the dark alley!

CHAPTER IX

Iguana Scare

To THE surprise of the Mexicans, the Hardys and Chet instantly turned around and rushed at them like battering rams. Chet knocked out one man, and he fell to the cobblestone pavement.

The Hardys’ fists flew and their arms flailed with telling blows. The other three Mexicans were so thunderstruck that within seconds they gave up the fight and fled down the dark alley.

Joe started after them, but Frank grabbed his brother’s arm. “We don’t know what’s down there. The men may have reinforcements.”

Joe paused. “Anyway, we have one captive for the police.”

By this time a small crowd had gathered, and an officer pushed his way through. Frank explained what had happened.

The man on the ground, who was beginning to regain consciousness, was dragged by his arms out to the sidewalk. In the street light the policeman recognized him.

“This man is a wanted local hoodlum,” the officer said. “He and his friends prey on tourists.” Looking at the Hardys and Chet, the policeman added, “You boys certainly defended yourselves well.” He smiled. “You are athletic—maybe you should train to become matadors!”

The three boys laughed and Chet said, “No thank you. I’ll stick to football. I don’t want to ram into anything with horns.”

The dejected hoodlum, still in a somewhat groggy state, was marched to a police sedan. Frank, Joe, and Chet were requested to go along in their own car and tell their story to the officer in charge.

When the boys arrived at headquarters, Chief Diaz was there. He was not on duty but had dropped in to pick up some papers. When he heard the story of the encounter, the officer beamed at them.

“Bravo!” he said. “We could use more of your kind here to help us discipline our lawbreakers.”

Chief Diaz waited until the boys had made a formal charge against their attackers, then he walked outside with them.

“I have been trying to reach you boys on the phone to tell you something,” he said. “A few hours ago I heard a rumor that an archaeologist had just made a great discovery at Monte Alban. I wondered if he might be the man you’re looking for.”

“Señor Tatloc?” Frank asked.

“No one knows,” the officer answered. “The report was that a traveler had arrived in town with the information. He said the archaeologist did not wish to be identified. I’m inclined to think he may be Senor Tatloc.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste any time getting down to those ruins and looking for him,” Joe said eagerly.

The Hardys queried the chief further about what the discovery was. His information was scanty. The traveler who had reported the news had not revealed the nature of the find.

The archaeologist probably was still at Monte Alban, looking for other treasures of antiquity. If he were Senor Tatloc, the boys had a good chance of locating him!

“It’s pretty late to start for the ruins tonight,” Frank remarked. “I hear there’s a long detour through the mountains. Suppose we get up early tomorrow. With steady driving we should be there by evening.”

When the boys reached their hotel room, they studied the map and decided to stop at Oaxaca, a small city three hundred and fifty miles south-east of Mexico City.

“We’ll stay at a hotel there,” Frank said, “then go out to Monte Alban.”

The young detectives got an early start but found plenty of traffic on the Pan-American Highway. In a couple of hours they had to branch off onto secondary roads through the mountains. There were sharp curves which Frank took carefully, sounding his horn frequently. Approaching drivers, apparently familiar with the road, did not bother to warn of their approach and whizzed around the corners at breakneck speed.

“Whew!” cried Chet, as a car narrowly missed them. “That driver must have hot tamales in his engine!”

The boys found the scenery gorgeous. Mountains were rugged, steep, and often merely bare granite rock. Some were gray in color, reminding the boys of those they were used to seeing in the Bayport area. But a great many cliffs were pink and in the dazzling sunlight stood out like rare paintings.

Joe was particularly impressed with the cacti. There were many varieties—from the low-growing, tulip-shaped maguey to the mammoth candle cactus. This resembled a giant green-and-silver candelabra with very tall candles of the same color.

Once the travelers came to a plateau on which grew a cactus orchard.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Chet cried out.

Frank pulled to the side of the road and stopped. Chet pointed to a Mexican, wearing an enormous sombrero, who was kneeling on the ground, his face buried in one of the cactus plants.

“I guess he’s having a drink,” said Joe. “Shall we all go over and get one?”

“I’m not sure we should drink raw cactus juice,” Frank said, “but let’s talk to the man anyway.”

As the boys drew closer, they were astounded to see what the Mexican was doing. As he raised his head from the plant, he held a long brown thorn in his teeth. To it was attached what looked like a stout white thread. To the boys’ amazement, the man kept tugging like a bird pulling a worm from the soil. In a few moments he stood up with a thread a yard long dangling from the thorn, which the boys now could see was as sharp on the end as a needle.

“Buenos dias,” said Frank. He continued in Spanish, “We are curious to know what you intend to do with this.”

The Mexican grinned. “My good wife will mend my clothes with it,” he said. “Cactus thread is very strong.” The man demonstrated by pushing the cactus needle through his shirt as if he were sewing. “Would you like to take this with you for a souvenir?” he asked.

“Gracias,” said Frank. “We may need it!”

“You know about the cactus plant?” the man asked. “Every part of it is used—from the leaves we make thatched roofs for our huts and fibers to weave cloth. In the desert many weary travelers have stayed alive by drinking cactus juice.”

Hearing this, Chet decided to try a drink. He asked how he could suck the liquid out of the plant. The man laughed and said this would be hard for anyone as stout as Chet.

The Hardys smothered grins, but their pal took the remark good-naturedly. The Mexican then offered to get a siphon. He hurried off to a thatched roof hut nearby and soon returned with the equipment. The man chose one of the older plants, saying the juice from it would be more palatable, and inserted a narrow hose down inside it. He told Chet to put the other end of the hose into his mouth and suck.

Chet went about this eagerly. It took several seconds, and he was red in the face before the sap of the plant began to come out. After two mouthfuls, Chet took the hose from his mouth.

“You like it?” the Mexican asked.

Chet did not, but he wanted to be polite. “It’s a little too sticky for me,” he replied.

Before leaving, Frank and Joe each took a couple of mouthfuls. They agreed with Chet that this was all they wanted to drink of the sweet liquid. They thanked the native for his kindness and drove on.

It was not long before Chet gave a great yawn and announced that he was ready for the lunch which the hotel had packed, then for a rest. They chose a pleasant little patch of woods near a stream.

“I hope this box has something good in it,” the stout boy remarked, untying the string.

Inside he found cheese sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, a quantity of cookies, and several oranges.

“Not a thing Mexican,” he said in some disappointment.

“Anyway. you started with maguey juice,” Joe reminded him.

When the boys finished eating, the Hardys were eager to be on their way. Chet rebelled. “What’s the hurry?” he asked, yawning. “I sure need a nap. I won’t sleep long, fellows, honest.”

Chet propped himself against a tree and in a few moments was fast asleep. Frank and Joe walked around for exercise. On their return they noticed a barefoot Mexican boy approaching them. As the Hardys came nearer, he stopped and smiled in a friendly way. When Frank and Joe spoke to the lad in Spanish, he was delighted.

“You are North Americans,” he said. “I learn in school that you have a great country. You shoot off rockets toward the moon. I would like to go to the moon someday.”

The Hardys grinned. “You probably will,” Frank predicted.

The native youngster was extremely intelligent, and although his clothes indicated that he lived on a farm which was not too prosperous, his face showed eagerness and willingness to learn.

Suddenly the Mexican boy’s expression changed to one of alarm as he looked beyond the Hardys. The next moment he made a dive past them.

Frank and Joe turned just in time to see a large iguana moving swiftly toward the sleeping Chet.

The little boy by this time had reached Chet’s side. Sweeping his right arm downward, he grabbed the iguana by the back of the neck and the tail, and yanked it up into the air. He cried out something in an Indian tongue to the reptile, which wriggled to free itself. But all it could do was claw the air and hiss.

The commotion awakened Chet, who stared in disbelief. For a moment he thought the boy was going to throw the iguana on him and dashed out of the way.

“Where’d that ugly thing come from?” he exclaimed. “Take it away!”

By now, the Mexican boy was smiling again. He explained that the iguana must have crawled for some distance from a valley near a river.

“I thought iguanas were harmless,” said Frank.

“They are,” the lad answered. “But I was afraid that if your friend woke up and saw it, it might give him a bad scare.”

Chet thanked the boy profusely, and before starting off with the Hardys, he handed his “rescuer” several coins.

“See you on the moon someday!” Joe called out as their car pulled away.

It was late afternoon when the three boys reached Oaxaca. They decided to stay at a hotel on the edge of town. After registering and unloading their baggage, the three set off for a look at the town.

They had not gone far when Frank called, “Listen!”

He and the others stopped. From a distance ahead of them came sounds of music and shouting. The boys could not tell from the babble of voices whether they were sounds of merriment or of some kind of protest meeting.

“How about our finding out what’s going on?” Frank suggested.

CHAPTER X

Ghost-City Search

FRANK, Joe, and Chet soon found that the shouting they heard came from the zócalo. The large square was being used as a stage, with an enthusiastic audience standing around its sides.

“No trouble here,” said Joe in relief. “Just a celebration.”

They watched a group of children in gay Spanish costumes dancing to the music of several guitars. Chet and the Hardys observed with interest the intricate steps such small boys and girls could accomplish.

A bystander heard Frank’s admiring comments and said, “Children in Mexican schools have regular instruction in native dances at an early age. Many become professional dancers.”

Frank asked whether schools taught only the Spanish-dominated period in the country’s history. The man shook his head. “Our pupils learn the history of Mexico from prehistoric times. Many of them can speak the various Indian dialects, and through legends handed down in their families, know a lot about the great civilizations that were here in ancient days.”

The children’s performance came to an end and they ran off, giggling and bowing. The next number on the program brought rapt attention, not only from the native audience but from the Bayport visitors.

A group of men were costumed as ancient warriors. Their act, done in dance form, represented a battle. The soldiers used long-handled daggers with which they fenced adroitly to overcome their opponents.

“They’re great!” said Chet.

“Sure are,” the Hardys agreed.

Presently it became evident that one side was victorious, when most of their opponents fell as if slain. In rushed a man dressed as an ancient priest, holding up his hand to end the slaughter. He commanded the victors to bring him one of the conquered warriors who was still on his feet and ordered the man to follow him.

The priest cried out, “You have been chosen for the human sacrifice!”

“Ugh!” said Chet. “That old fellow looks fierce enough to carry out his threat!”

The Hardys and the friendly man who stood next to them laughed, and the stranger said, “I am glad that you found the performance so realistic. You could almost believe there was to be a sacrifice. We Spanish stopped that ugly custom among the ancient people. It took many, many years to convince the Indians that their gods were not demanding this form of obeisance.”

“All I can say,” Chet spoke up, “is that I’m glad I’m living today. I would have been too nice a fat morsel for those bloodthirsty people!”

The man hastened to assure Chet that the Indians were not cannibals. They carried on human sacrifice only in accordance with their religion.

When the performance was over, Frank asked the Mexican if he knew anyone named Roberto Hermosa.

“No, I’m sorry. Does he live in Oaxaca?”

“We don’t know,” Frank replied. He pulled one of the photographs of Tatloc from his pocket. “This is another man we’re trying to find. He is an archaeologist named Senor Tatloc. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Sí, sí,” the man answered quickly. “I have never seen him, but I have heard that a Senor Tatloc has dug many times in ruins near here.”

“At Monte Alban?” Joe asked eagerly.

“That I do not know,” their informer replied.

The boys thanked him and said good-by. Then they questioned some of the dancers and onlookers who stood around. None of them knew Hermosa or Senor Tatloc nor did they recognize the photograph.

“We had a good time, but so far as the mystery is concerned, we drew a blank,” said Frank with disappointment, as the boys trudged back to their hotel.

There they talked with the manager, but he could not help them either. He had not even heard the story of the prize relic having been found at Monte Alban.

Joe changed the subject and asked how early they might eat dinner. “Six o’clock,” was the reply.

At once Joe proposed that the boys eat early and then drive out to the Monte Alban ruins to search for Tatloc. “It doesn’t get dark until late. What say?”

The others agreed and by seven o’clock the three sleuths were on their way. Unfortunately, they were not familiar with the road and presently found themselves off course. To get back in the right direction, they took an unpaved and rather desolate side road.

Chet, who was riding in the back seat alone, began to complain. “My supper’s going to be jounced down in twenty minutes at this rough rate,” he said, almost hitting the top of the car as Frank drove in and out of deep ruts.

To Frank, the pace seemed very slow. “I hope this won’t last long,” he said worriedly.

“Good place for a blowout,” Joe remarked.

“And a—a holdup!” Chet added.

Fortunately, the boys reached a paved road without any tire or engine trouble. Frank put on speed, and the car climbed the mountain to the ruins. The delay had been costly in terms of time, and when they reached the summit of Monte Alban, the sun had set and the moon had already come out.

“We mustn’t forget our flashlights,” Frank reminded the others. “And, Chet, look out for ghosts!”

The stout boy gave a grunt. “No ghost’s going to come after me. He’ll be looking for two guys named Hardy who are searching for an Aztec warrior.”

“Okay, Chet, you win,” Frank conceded.

In the moonlight the great pyramidal temples, tombs, and palaces of Monte Alban looked ghostly and weird indeed. The boys found a tremendous esplanade with giant structures surrounding it. Frank parked the car at one of the openings between the buildings, and the boys proceeded on foot. All of them felt a sense of awe at the immensity and silence of the area where once there had been so much activity.

“What’s the history of this spot?” Chet asked, as he looked warily from left to right.

“I understand that during the early fifteen hundreds it was a city,” said Frank, “but after the place was captured, the new owners built another city and used this one just to bury their great leaders and to hold religious ceremonials.”

“Then it is a ghost city,” said Chet. They were passing a stone wall on which were carved life-sized figures of dancers. “Wow!” Chet cried out, pushing against the Hardys. “Look!”

Frank and Joe turned. “What’s up?”

“They’re—they’re alive!” Chet murmured.

The brothers began to laugh. “You’re going loco!” said Joe. For fun he went up to the wall, pretended to put his arm around one of the figures, and performed a few dance steps.

Chet did not join the hilarity. “I don’t care what you fellows say, I think there are haunts around here. It’s too spooky for me. Let’s go!”

“Not on your life!” said Frank. “Have you forgotten why we came? We’re looking for Senor Tatloc.”

“But you’re not going to find him,” Chet predicted. “Even if he does work on the ruins, why would he stay at night?”

Chet had almost convinced the Hardys he was right, when suddenly Joe cried softly, “Look!”

At the top of a pyramid just ahead was a flickering light, like that of a lantern.

“We’re in luck!” Joe said excitedly. “That might be Senor Tatloc up there.”

Frank looked doubtful. He suggested that the whole story of the archaeologist’s being at the ruins might have been a hoax. He reminded his brother that the hotel manager had not heard of the great discovery.

“But why would anybody make up such a story?” Joe asked.

“It’s a long guess, but it might even have been done to lure us out here,” Frank answered. “Our enemies would know that we would be sure to investigate. We’ll go up that pyramid and see what the light’s all about. But we’d better be on our guard.”

This latest thought of Frank’s did not please Chet. He said he wished the three of them had never come and why didn’t they go home at once?

The Hardys did not answer. They were already scrambling up the steps at a fast pace. Chet remained below, debating with himself what to do. He did not relish running into Wayne’s kidnapper or the mysterious Mexican named Jimenez. On the other hand, he did not want to be left alone.

Frank and Joe, eager to get to the top, had not noticed that Chet had stayed behind. Suddenly their chum let out an agonizing yell.

“Look out, fellows! There are—”

At that moment something hit Chet hard on the head. He blacked out!

CHAPTER XI

Yankee Warning

HEARING Chet’s warning, Frank and Joe turned abruptly. Two shadowy figures had sneaked up near them. Each held a raised club, about to descend on the Hardys’ heads!

With quick reflexes, Frank and Joe struck out and sent their assailants spinning down the steps. Then the brothers raced for the top of the pyramid.

As they ran Frank gasped, “Maybe we’re running into a trap! The light on top may belong to the gang that’s after us!”

“You mean we’d better not take a chance?” Joe asked.

Frank continued to dash upwards, saying, “I don’t think we have any choice. We know there are enemies below and—”

He suddenly stopped talking and stood still. After gazing all around, he said worriedly, “Where’s Chet?”

Joe looked about him. The moonlight was bright enough for him to get a clear view of the steps. Chet was not on them.

“I guess he didn’t follow us,” Joe said finally. “When Chet saw those men, he ran away.”

“But where is he?” Frank persisted. “He may have been attacked!”

Their eyes roved slowly across the great plaza below them. There was no sign of their chum.

Panic seized the Hardys. “Those hoods we knocked down probably got him!” Frank gritted.

“But Chet warned us,” Joe reminded his brother. “Why wouldn’t he have run away?”

“The men who tried to club us probably had pals with them,” Frank reasoned. “They nabbed Chet!”

The Hardys wasted no more time in conversation. Abandoning the plan to find out who had been using the light at the top of the pyramid, they hurried down to the base. Without depending entirely on moonlight for their search, the brothers swung their flashlights in great arcs. They failed to pick up any trace of their chum. Sure now that he had been kidnapped, the boys berated themselves for failing to check on him when they had started up the steps.

“How could we be so stupid?” Joe said glumly. “I suppose we’ll have to go back to town and—”

He stopped speaking as the boys noticed two figures hurrying from a doorway in one of the ancient stone buildings. Instinctively, the Hardys followed. But the men were some distance ahead and apparently more familiar with the place than the brothers. They turned a corner of a temple and disappeared.

Frank and Joe doubled their speed but were unable to catch a glimpse of the fleeing figures. A few minutes later they heard the roar of a car motor and were sure that the men had left the area.

“One thing is certain,” said Joe. “They didn’t have Chet with them.”

Frank nodded. “Which leads me to believe that they may have left him in that building they came out of.”

The brothers started back on a run. When they reached the doorway, the boys beamed their lights inside. It revealed nothing but an empty room.

“Maybe Chet’s tied up nearby,” Joe suggested. “Let’s call him.”

He shouted into the building, then outdoors. There was no reply.

“We’ve heard only one car leave,” said Frank. “If some of the gang took Chet with them, they carried him off before those two men fled. And if they did, we certainly aren’t going to find him here.”

Nevertheless, Joe continued to call his friend’s name. Finally he stopped and the two boys stood still, trying to decide on their next move.

Frank suddenly shifted his weight. “I heard something!” he whispered.

The brothers listened intently. A sound like a muffled groan came to their ears.

“It must be inside this building,” Frank insisted.

The brothers inspected the walls of the room. At one point there was a chest-high narrow opening, almost filled with several large loose stones. They were apparently part of an ancient doorway. Through it, the Hardys could hear the groaning more plainly. Working frantically, they began tearing down the blockade.

The Hardys squirmed through the opening, and Frank swung his flashlight around a small inner room. On the floor lay Chet Morton, semi-conscious!

Frank and Joe leaped to examine their stout friend. Evidently he had been struck on the head, but otherwise he appeared to be uninjured.

“I wish I knew where there was some water,” said Frank. “It might help revive him.”

The sound of Frank’s voice seemed to have a stimulating effect on Chet. He blinked his eyes open and looked uncertainly about him.

“Chet!” Frank and Joe cried out together, and Frank added, “Thank goodness you’re all right!”

Chet was too groggy to talk. But being used to rugged treatment in football games, he tried to sit up.

“We’ll take you outside into the fresh air,” said Frank.

He and Joe carefully raised Chet to a standing position. Then, supporting him under his arms, they helped him out to the esplanade. He took several deep breaths of air and seemed to be somewhat refreshed.

“Did somebody hit you?” Frank asked.

“I—I guess so,” Chet answered weakly. As his head cleared, he said, “I’m glad you fellows are all right. Boy, when I saw those two guys with the clubs about to hit you on the noggin, I nearly passed out. You heard me yell, didn’t you?”

“We sure did,” Joe told him. “Thanks for saving our necks.”

Suddenly Chet began to wobble. The Hardys grabbed him and insisted that they go back to the hotel at once. Supporting him again, they made the trek to their car. For a moment Frank was worried that their unknown assailants might have tampered with the automobile. To his relief, as soon as he turned on the ignition, the motor roared to life.

As they started off, all three boys wondered what the mysterious assailants had hoped to accomplish. Were they part of the gang looking for the valuable Aztec warrior and still harassing the threesome to keep them from proceeding with their detective work?

“Whoever they were,” said Chet, “you Hardys were too smart for them. I’m sorry I fouled you up and you couldn’t find out about that light on top of the pyramid. Do you suppose those gangsters hide out up there?”

“I doubt it,” said Frank. “It would be too noticeable. Maybe some of our questions can be answered if we come back tomorrow and search Monte Alban in the daylight.”

Chet said nothing. His head ached, and he felt a little dizzy. “Bed sure will feel good,” he said. He did not mention that he hoped Frank and Joe would make the trip by themselves the following day.

Actually the Hardys had the same idea. But they decided to wait until morning before saying anything to Chet.

When they reached their hotel room, the dazed boy dropped onto his bed. “I think I’ll sleep with my clothes on,” he said. “Too much trouble to take ’em off.” His voice faded.

“We’ll do it,” the Hardys offered.

First, they removed his jacket and hung it up. Next came his shoes and socks, then his trousers.

As Frank unbuttoned Chet’s sport shirt, a wadded piece of paper fell to the floor.

Frank picked it up. “What’s this?” he asked.

Chet, who had closed his eyes, responded sleepily, “What’s what?”

“This piece of paper you wadded up and put inside your shirt.”

“I didn’t put anything in my shirt,” Chet insisted.

Eagerly Joe grabbed the paper and smoothed it out. Printed boldly in Spanish was a warning. Joe blinked, but refrained from reading it aloud, not wishing to disturb Chet any further.

Frank sensed that his brother had found something important but waited. The stout boy had become drowsy again and said nothing more about the paper. The Hardys finished undressing him and put on his pajamas. Within another thirty seconds, Chet was fast asleep.

Frank counted his friend’s pulse beat. “He’s okay, Joe.”

Quickly moving to the bureau where Joe had laid the paper, Frank gasped in astonishment. The message read:

Yankees go home. You cannot steal any of our treasures. If you disobey, you will lose your lives!

CHAPTER XII

“Five Rabbit”

IN whispers, so they would not awaken Chet, Frank and Joe discussed the strange warning.

“I think we should take it to the local police,” said Frank.

At the hotel desk Joe asked the manager if it would be safe for them to be on the streets alone at this hour of night. Mr. Perez looked at them in surprise and said that Oaxaca was a very fine town with excellent police protection.

“No offense intended,” said Joe, “My brother and I were attacked recently in Mexico City.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Mr. Perez smiled. “You wish to go to a restaurant?”

“We may drop in for a midnight snack,” said Joe, not wishing to give his real reason for going out. “If we get into any trouble, we’ll make a beeline to police headquarters.” He grinned. “Where is it, by the way?”

Mr. Perez gave them directions and the boys set off. At headquarters they told the officer on duty, Captain Valero, what had happened to Chet and themselves at the Monte Alban ruins.

The officer frowned. “I am sorry you were subjected to this indignity. Did you bring the paper with you?”

Frank handed it to Captain Valero, who read it several times. Finally he spoke up. “There’s a band of young reactionaries in this area, I am sorry to say, and this may be more of their work. Their motives are perhaps laudable, but they should not try to act independently of the law.”

Frank and Joe, puzzled, asked what the young men did.

Captain Valero replied, “They are against visitors from your country and from every other nation. They have an idea that sightseers come here for the sole purpose of stealing our relics. As you know, there is a law that anything of value found in Mexico must be turned over to our government. The presentation is often made to a museum.” He smiled. “Our State Museum here in Oaxaca has a priceless collection of artifacts. You must visit it.”

“But it isn’t true that all visitors from the United States come here with theft in mind,” Joe protested.

“The authorities know that,” the captain stated, “but it is difficult to persuade hotheaded young men that they are wrong in the methods they use to carry out their fanaticism.”

Frank changed the subject. “Joe and I are down here looking for two men. That is why we went out to the ruins. Do you happen to know a Roberto Hermosa or a Señor Tatloc?”

“I have not heard of Roberto Hermosa. Senor Tatloc is an archaeologist, yes?” As the boys nodded, Captain Valero went on, “I have heard that some famous archaeologist—I don’t know the name—was working at Monte Alban. Perhaps he is Señor Tatloc, but I cannot say for sure.”

The police officer paused a few moments, then said, “I am afraid I have not been of much help to you boys. But I wish you luck in your quest. In the meantime, I will keep this note. It will be very good evidence against this overpatriotic, troublesome young group, if they are guilty. I must warn you that they can be dangerous. But you have already found that out.”

The Hardys said they would be on guard and report any further trouble to the police. As the brothers walked back to the hotel, they discussed the young zealots. Were they sincere in their motives, or had they perhaps, undercover, been doing a job for the men who were trying to find the Aztec warrior?

“I can hardly wait for morning to come so we can get back to Monte Alban,” said Joe. “I have a hunch we’re going to get a break in this mystery at last.”

“I sure hope that you’re right,” Frank answered.

The boys passed a food shop which was still open and went inside. Their night’s adventure had made them hungry, and they also figured that when Chet woke up, he would be ravenous. They purchased three large enchiladas and took them along, together with three bottles of soda.

Chet was still asleep, so the brothers set the food on his night table. They ate their own midnight snack and then went to bed. When the Hardys opened their eyes the next morning, Chet was sitting up in bed reading a magazine, munching his enchilada, and drinking soda.

“Hi, you lazy guys!” he said with a pretended look of reproach. “Forget you had an invalid on your hands?”

The Hardys grinned. “Want to ride to breakfast in a wheel chair?” Joe quipped.

Despite his early-morning snack, Chet ate a breakfast of fruit, cereal, eggs, bacon, and two big rolls. The Hardys told him about the warning note, their talk with the hotel manager, and visit to police headquarters.

Their friend gulped. “It’s a good thing I didn’t know about those guys’ reasons for hitting me last night,” he said, “or I wouldn’t have slept a wink. Things are dangerous enough! You fellows aren’t going out to Monte Alban again, I hope.”

“We sure are,” Frank told him. “Aren’t you coming along?”

“Now listen,” Chet said, “I’m not chicken, but I don’t aim to walk right smack into the middle of big trouble. I got a pretty bad whack on the head, don’t forget. You haven’t mentioned my goose egg, but believe me, it’s plenty sore. Tell you what. Why don’t I stay in town and go to the State Museum? I might see something in their collection that would give us a clue.”

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “See you later.”

After he left, Frank and Joe decided to telephone their father and give him a full report. They also wanted to find out how he had progressed with his end of the case of the Aztec warrior.

“Hello, Dad!” said the brothers, taking turns with the phone in their bedroom.

Frank brought the detective up to date on what had happened in Mexico, then Joe asked what luck their father had had.

“Practically none,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Sam Radley and I have been over the grounds of the Moore estate several times but haven’t found anything to help solve the case.” Sam Radley, Mr. Hardy’s assistant, was an ace detective himself.

Frank and Joe learned that the only new thing which had been found was another marking on the same tree where the boys had found the carving of the Aztec warrior’s head.

“There was a tiny arrow—barely noticeable—near the base of the trunk,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Sam and I assume that it might be a guide to something Mr. Moore had buried. We dug pretty deep in several places, but we didn’t find anything.” The detective chuckled. “We’re not giving up, though!”

Frank asked whether there had been any more intruders at the Moore home. The answer was no. “So far as we can discover, there has been no disturbance at the estate, but the police are keeping a close watch. As you boys know, sometimes a criminal will lie low, hoping to discourage his pursuers. When he thinks he’s safe, he’ll strike again. Well, watch your step, boys. If you turn up anything worthwhile, give me a ring right away.”

The brothers promised they would and hung up. After purchasing a booklet on Monte Alban at the hotel newsstand, they set off for the ruins.

In the daylight they could see that the ancient city was even more extensive than they had realized the night before. Of particular interest was an astronomical observatory, around which were grouped a series of mammoth structures containing immense palaces and courtyards.

A court the size of a football field on the far side of the central plaza caught the boys’ attention. To reach it they had to climb up and down a series of steps.

“According to this guidebook, the Indians played a game called ‘tiachtli’—a combination of our basketball and soccer,” said Frank. “They never touched the ball with their hands, only with their shoulders, knees, and feet. The ball had to go through stone rings built high in the side walls.”

“Boy, that would really take some doing!” Joe exclaimed.

“Listen to this,” Frank went on, “and be glad you didn’t live when that game was played. Members of the losing team were put to death!”

“Wow! Sounds more like a battle!” Joe commented. “Well, I’ve had enough sightseeing. Let’s go back to that building where we saw the light last night.”

When the brothers reached it, they looked all around for lurking figures, but spotted no one. Quickly they zigzagged to the flat top and scanned the level area below. Nothing extraordinary met their scrutiny.

“If anybody was here,” said Frank, “he has certainly packed up and left.”

Joe remarked, “Do you suppose those men who tried to attack us came and kidnapped the person?”

Frank did not reply. He had suddenly seen something unusual lying not far away and hurried over to it. Joe followed, and the boys walked around the object—a broken-off chunk of stone. It measured about two by three feet, and was four inches thick. The slab had once been a perfect oblong, but now the upper right-hand corner was gone. On the stone was a carved figure wearing quilted armor, feathered headdress, and ear and lip ornaments. Beneath this was picture writing.

“That’s an Aztec warrior!” Joe cried excitedly.

“Exactly!” Frank agreed. “I wonder if it has any significance for us and how valuable it is.”

“Say, Frank!” his brother exclaimed. “Maybe this is the valuable find the traveler reported!”

“Could be. But if Senor Tatloc discovered this, why would he have gone away without it?”

“Beats me,” replied Joe. “I don’t think we should leave it here.”

“Right.”

The stone, while heavy, was not impossible for the boys to carry. The only thing which worried them at the moment was getting down the steps without damaging the relic. They found it necessary to pause several times in their descent and lay the stone aside.

During one of these periods, Frank took a magnifying glass from his pocket and scrutinized the various symbols on the stone. He smiled. “This thing down in the corner that’s almost worn away is a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?” Joe repeated.

“I suppose it means that the warrior in this carving was getting ready to offer it as a sacrifice. He has his arms spread out in front of him as if in supplication.”

The brothers finally reached the base of the pyramid and started their trek to the car. As they passed the place where Chet had been left unconscious the evening before, Joe remarked, “The guidebook says this is Tomb Number Seven, the one from which so many priceless objects were removed to the State Museum.” He chuckled. “Wait until I tell Chet he was buried alive!”

“He’ll laugh about it now,” said Frank, “but it was no fun being sealed up like a sardine in this place!”

The boys went on to the car. While Joe held onto the unusual stone relic on the rear seat, Frank drove back to Oaxaca and went directly to the museum.

The brothers carried their find into the reception hall and asked for the curator. He came at once, and they showed him the slab.

“We found this at Monte Alban,” Frank explained. “We don’t know whether it’s valuable or not.”

The curator, Mr. Louis Juan, asked the Hardys to carry the stone into his office. They laid it on the floor. The man produced a magnifying glass and, kneeling, went over the stone inch by inch

The boys waited impatiently for his analysis. Mr. Juan, trained in spotting the difference between ancient relics and faked ones, showed no reaction for fully five minutes. Then he stood up and faced his visitors.

“This is remarkable! Absolutely remarkable!” he said.

The Hardys blinked and asked him to tell them why.

The curator explained that the suppliant figure was indeed an Aztec warrior. “He probably was offering a prayer to the war god Huitzilopochtli. That figure no doubt was broken off.”

“And what do the rabbit and the little circles around it stand for?” Frank questioned.

“They represent the date. It is the Aztec year ‘five rabbit.’ That is 1510 according to our calendar.”

The Hardys were astounded. “That’s even better than we hoped for,” said Frank.

The boys were more convinced than ever that this valuable find must have been made by the elusive Senor Tatloc. Would he now be deprived of the credit for having unearthed it? And what had become of him? Had he met with foul play?

Mr. Juan was speaking again. “This relic is outstanding because it proves that there was Aztec influence at Monte Alban as far back as 1510. The city there was founded by the Zapotecs, who were later conquered by the Mixtecs, and whether or not the Aztecs left any impression has been debatable.”

“The name Mexico comes from the Mixtecs, doesn’t it?” Joe asked.

The curator nodded. “Until now, we have never had any solid proof of Aztec warriors having come this far south. Boys, I congratulate you on uncovering this valuable object.”

Frank and Joe insisted that they had merely picked the stone up. “Somebody else discovered it,” Frank added.

“And we strongly suspect that it was found by the archaeologist Senor Tatloc,” Joe added.

Mr. Juan thought their supposition very interesting. He said that if Senor Tatloc had found the stone, he certainly would receive credit for it. The Hardys, already worried about the safety of the archaeologist, felt that now they had an additional reason for finding him as quickly as possible.

“We’d like to locate Senor Tatloc,” said Frank. “Can you give us any leads, Mr. Juan?”

The curator shook his head. “That man is like a recluse. We have several very fine relics here which he has sent, but he has never brought any of them himself and refuses to appear in person for any kind of honors.”

Before leaving, the Hardys asked the man whether their friend Chet Morton had visited the museum.

“Is he rather heavy-set?” Mr. Juan asked. When they nodded, he said, “Yes, your friend was here. In fact, he told me proudly that he had made a great discovery!”

CHAPTER XIII

A Charging Bull

“WHAT’S your guess about Chet’s discovery?” Frank asked his brother as they hurried back to their hotel. To the brothers’ disappointment, he was not there nor had any message been left for the Hardys.

“Chet probably went off to try out another loony idea like that Indian costume bit,” Joe said. “When that door opens, be ready for anything!”

As time wore on and Chet did not return, Frank and Joe ceased to joke about it. They became alarmed. There was a good possibility that a member of one of the gangs stalking the boys had captured him. The enemy could be Jack Wayne’s kidnapper; the fake detective who had jumped into the boys’ taxi; the ringleader, Jimenez; the alley hoodlums looking for revenge; or the overzealous young patriots might have followed Chet and managed to trap him.

A few minutes later Joe said, “It’s lunchtime, but I don’t feel like eating.”

“Same here,” Frank agreed. “Perhaps we should get in touch with the police and tell them about Chet.”

Joe had another theory about Chet’s absence. “He might have seen one of our enemies on the street and followed him.”

Frank disagreed. “Chet’s a good scout and a big help to us, but I don’t think he’d trail a criminal by himself, especially in a country he doesn’t know.”

As the brothers paced the room trying to make up their minds what to do, the door opened. They heaved sighs of relief. Chet wore a broad grin, so they knew he was all right.

“What’s the point of scaring us half to death?” Frank berated him.

The scolding failed to erase the smile from Chet’s face. As he unwrapped the package he carried, he said:

“While I was over at the museum this morning, I saw something that gave me an idea. It was an ancient dagger with a serpent’s head for a handle. I got to thinking about our Aztec warrior. Mr. Moore was a collector of weapons. Why couldn’t the thing we’re looking for be a dagger with an Aztec warrior’s head for a handle?”

The Hardys stared at their friend. This was good reasoning.

“Chet, I think you’ve hit the bull’s-eye this time,” said Frank.

Joe added, “You sure were using your old noggin.”

Chet beamed as he finished unwrapping the package. He threw down the paper and held up a dagger.

“Pretty neat, eh?” he asked. “This should solve the mystery.”

The Hardys examined the dagger eagerly. The blade was made of stone and very sharp, with a wooden handle carved in the form of an Aztec warrior’s head. The whole thing measured about fifteen inches.

“This is great, Chet!” said Joe. “Where on earth did you ... ?”

The door to their room suddenly burst open. Two men raced in and one cried, “Give me that!”

Wayne’s kidnapper and the phony detective!

The kidnapper wrenched the weapon from Frank’s hand and the two intruders backed toward the doorway.

“You can’t get away with this!” Frank warned. “We know who you are!”

“You think so?” said the man with the dagger.

“You’re Jack Wayne’s kidnapper!” exclaimed Joe. He turned to the other man. “And you’re the fake detective who got into our taxi in Mexico City!”

The accused men gave a start but made no move to hand over the dagger. Instead, the kidnapper held it pointed menacingly toward the boys until the men were in the hall. As he pulled the door shut, the “detective” warned, “Don’t try to follow us or you’ll get hurt!”

The Hardys disregarded the threat. Frank whipped open the door and the three young sleuths dashed down the corridor after the fleeing men. The thieves took a back stairway, which the boys had not noticed before. Grabbing the banister, they leaped down two and three steps at a time. But even at this speed, the men they were after were quicker. The pair dashed out into a courtyard. Here they were lost to view amid dense flowering shrubs and trees.

Frank, in the lead, finally spotted the men heading for an open gate to a side street. It was part of an iron picket fence.

“Stop them!” Joe shouted.

Near the gate stood a tall earthenware jardiniere. As Frank drew closer to the men, the kidnapper upended the jardiniere and rolled it directly toward the boy.

Though he, Joe, and Chet managed to leap over it, the momentary delay had been costly. The men had disappeared down the side street. Their pursuers made a minute search but could not locate the thieves.

“Tough luck!” said Joe in disgust.

“All my work for nothing!” Chet complained.

Frank said he would report the incident to the police at once, then he wanted to hear the full story of the dagger from Chet. Ten minutes later they found a quiet table in the hotel dining room where they could talk in private.

“You wouldn’t use my Aztec costume,” Chet began, “but I thought maybe this dagger would help you. When I was in the costume store, I admired some carvings and got the name of the man who had done them. He lives here in Oaxaca. I went over to his shop later this morning and told him what I wanted. He said he wasn’t busy and would make it for me cheap. I thought he’d only carve the head, and I’d have to hunt for the blade myself. But he had an old stone blade that he was going to put a handle on when he had a chance. So he let me have it.”

Frank asked, “What made those thieves think it was the real thing? And how’d they find out you were bringing it?”

Joe answered, “I believe we’re being shadowed. Those men were listening outside the door. From what little they heard of the conversation they assumed we had the valuable object and took it.”

He was interrupted by the waitress. The boys glanced at the menu. “What are chalutas?” Joe asked.

She explained that they were small tortillas folded over chicken, with peas, carrots, lettuce, tomato, and then fried.

“Stop them!” Joe shouted

“That’s for me,” said Chet. “And I’ll have some hot chocolate with cinnamon,” he added, smacking his lips.

“Make it three,” Joe added with a grin. After the waitress had left, Chet continued his story. “It was really great watching that wood carver. Boy, was he fast! I thought maybe I wouldn’t have the dagger until tomorrow.” Chet heaved a great sigh. “And now I don’t have it at all!”

“Never mind,” said Joe. “Let’s be glad it wasn’t the real object Mr. Moore mentioned in his will. But if those thieves think it is, maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

“And when they learn the truth, they’ll come after us again,” Frank predicted.

“In the meantime they’ll probably try to sell it,” said Joe.

Frank remarked that if the local police had put out a net for the kidnapper and the fake detective, officers should be able to pick them up before they had a chance to dispose of the dagger.

“Those thieves are pretty tricky,” Joe reminded him. “They probably were a long distance away from here before the police could start looking for them.”

The delicious food seemed to put Chet in better spirits. He asked what the Hardys were going to do next.

Frank slapped his chum on the arm. “Right now we’re going to follow Detective Morton’s clue and look for an ancient dagger with a handle in the shape of an Aztec warrior!”

Chet beamed broadly at Frank. “You mean it? My clue was that good?”

“It’s worth tracking down,” Frank replied. “As soon as we finish eating, I’m going to phone Dad and tell him about your theory.”

Chet stuck out his chest so far he almost burst a button off his shirt. All three boys laughed.

They went back to their room and put in the long-distance call. Fortunately, Mr. Hardy was still at home. He was very much interested in the boys’ new theory and advised pursuing this angle.

Frank told Mr. Hardy about the discovery of the stone relic and of the Oaxaca curator’s great excitement over it.

“Excellent!” the detective said. “Keep going at that rate, and I’m sure you boys will solve the mystery in no time.”

With this encouragement, the boys decided to question people along the alleyway into which the dagger thieves had fled. Maybe, Frank said, they could pick up some clues. Since no word had come from the police, the boys assumed the men had not been found.

The three sleuths went down the back stairway and through the courtyard to the cobblestone alley behind it. They walked along slowly toward one of the main avenues, questioning a few people looking out of second-floor windows. None of them had noticed the fugitives. Just before reaching the end of the narrow street, they heard warning shouts.

“Wonder what’s up?” said Chet.

A moment later the three boys stopped short. A snorting, angry bull had entered the alley and was thundering directly toward them!

CHAPTER XIV

A Matador’s Clue

TERRIFIED, the Hardys and Chet whirled about to flee from the charging bull. They could hear its angry snorting directly back of them.

“We must get to the hotel courtyard!” cried Frank.

He had noticed that all of the open first-floor windows and doors along the alley were barred. There was no chance for the boys to dive to safety through any of them.

The trio had an added moment of panic when Chet stumbled on the cobblestones. But he caught himself, and they went on. By this time the commotion and shouting from people looking out the second-floor windows had spurred the bull on to frantic speed.

Fortunately the gates to the hotel patio were open. The three boys dashed inside, and Frank slammed the gate shut.

They were just in time. The maddened bull pulled up short, eyed the boys malevolently, then continued on down the alley.

“Boy, I never want to go through that again!” said Chet, dropping to the ground and panting.

The Hardys heaved sighs of relief. Frank said, “I wonder where the bull is now.”

“Let’s go find out,” Joe proposed.

He opened the gate and looked cautiously down the narrow street. The bull was not in sight, but the boys could hear cries of excitement. Quickly they ran in the direction of the shouts. On the way they saw a young Mexican rush from a house. He was carrying a red cloak and a sword.

“He must be a matador!” Joe guessed.

Excitedly the boys hurried after him. The way led to the zócalo, where people were running helter-skelter to get away from the animal. Suddenly the angry bull halted, swinging its head from side to side, its horns lowered.

One of the fleeing bystanders spotted the young matador and shouted, “Roberto! Roberto.” Others in the crowd called out to him.

Without hesitation, the matador sheathed his sword with the red cloak and walked slowly toward the bull. As it charged toward him, he adroitly swung the cloak and side-stepped the animal. The bull trotted off a short distance, then turned back.

Once more, Roberto walked toward it with short, steady steps. The animal stood still and glared. Suddenly it lowered its horns again and made a lunge for the matador. Several women screamed, fearful that the man would be gored!

Roberto gracefully swung his cloak and pivoted to one side. The bull’s horns hit the earth and he gave a loud bellow.

“Olé! Olé!” the crowd shouted in praise of the matador’s expert move.

As the frustrated beast came toward him, Roberto suddenly pulled out his sword. Frank, Joe, and Chet experienced a sickening sensation -evidently the bull was now to be dispatched. As the crowd watched tensely, a shout came from the edge of the zócalo.

A man appeared, crying out, “Do not kill the bull!”

He carried a lariat in his hands. The next moment it snaked out neatly. The immense loop at one end settled down over the bull and was quickly jerked tight. The animal dropped helplessly to the ground, writhing and snorting.

“Pretty clever!” said Frank.

The beast was pulled to the edge of the zócalo, where a truck was parked. The tailgate was down, and quickly the animal was pulled aboard. Then the gate was fastened and the lasso removed from the bull’s legs.

Frank, Joe, and Chet exchanged pleased grins that no harm had come to the animal.

Chet remarked, “We sure had a front-row seat to a bullfight that time!”

The man with the lasso explained to the curious crowd that he was driving the animal to a farm outside of town. When the Mexican had stopped for a traffic light, the tailgate had become unfastened and fallen down. The bull had immediately escaped.

“I would have put a ring in his nose and tied him to the side of the truck,” the man said ruefully, “but I was hoping to enter him in a bullfight and did not want to mar him.”

As the bull’s owner drove off, Frank nudged his companions. “Let’s go talk to that matador, Roberto, and find out his last name.”

The boys pushed their way through the crowd to the center of the zócalo where the young matador was receiving congratulations from bystanders.

“Great performance,” said Frank, smiling. “By the way, what is your last name?”

The young Mexican grinned. “My full name is Roberto Hermosa Alberto Sanchez.”

“What!” Chet’s eyes bulged.

The young man looked at him, then said, puzzled, “You seem surprised.”

Immediately Joe asked the matador if he knew a Mr. Moore in the States. “No, I don’t. I never heard of him.”

The Hardys were disappointed. For the second time their hopes of finding the right Roberto Hermosa were dashed. They now wondered whether Hermosa was the last name of the man they sought.

“Do you know an archaeologist named Tatloc?” Frank questioned him.

Again the matador shook his head. “I spend most of my time training to be a bullfighter. I would have no opportunity to come in contact with a man like that.”

Chet now asked, “Is there any shop around that sells antique weapons?”

“Yes. It’s not far away,” Roberto replied, and gave the address.

“Thanks,” said Chet. “And good luck to you in your bullfights!”

As the boys walked away, the Hardys beamed at Chet. “You’re really becoming quite a sleuth,” Frank said, and added, “If you find a dagger with an Aztec head on the handle, I’ll buy you a good dinner!”

Chet patted his stomach and grinned. “I’ll start planning what I’ll order!”

When the boys reached the shop they found it to be an amazing place, full of almost every kind of old-time weapon. Glass cases were filled with pistols and daggers. Walls were covered with helmets, suits of armor, and many varieties of swords and sabers.

A pleasant, middle-aged man emerged from a rear room. He said the owner was on vacation, but could he help them? Frank told him that they were interested in trying to find an antique dagger with the head of an Aztec warrior on the handle.

The clerk beamed. “You are in luck. One was brought here less than an hour ago.”

The Hardys were almost speechless. Chet was grinning broadly. “What did I tell you?” he asked.

The clerk went to the rear room, and came back in a moment with a dagger which he laid on top of a counter. The boys could hardly believe their eyes. The dagger looked just like the one Chet had brought to the hotel!

The stout boy picked up the weapon and examined it. He gave the Hardys a significant look, confirming that it was the same dagger.

“How old is this dagger?” Frank asked the man.

“Quite ancient,” the shop clerk replied. “It was found in one of the ruins by two men. The museum didn’t seem to want the dagger, they said. I’m sure that it’s authentic. Anyway, I paid the men who came in here a good price.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been gypped,” said Chet. “That dagger belongs to me. I had it made and it’s not old—at least the handle isn’t.”

The clerk stared in astonishment, then a frightened look came over his face. “If you’re right, I’ve spent an awful lot of my boss’s money for nothing!”

“That’s too bad,” said Frank. “But the story’s true. Could you tell us what the men looked like?”

The description that followed exactly fitted that of Jack Wayne’s kidnapper and the phony detective. Joe then explained how the boys had been robbed.

“I shall get in touch with the police at once,” the man said nervously.

The boys wanted to take the weapon with them, but knew the police would have to examine it first. They told the shop clerk they might return, and he feebly said good-by. The man stood staring after them, chagrined and unhappy.

The boys felt nonplused. Their sleuthing for the afternoon had yielded little, except to prove that the men they were after had quickly realized they had obtained the wrong dagger and sold it under false pretenses to the unsuspecting clerk.

“Here comes the matador!” Joe announced suddenly.

On a hunch Joe walked up to the young man and asked if he knew of anyone else in Mexico having the name Roberto Hermosa.

The matador replied, “Yes, I have heard of such a man. I have never met him, but I understand he lives out near the Tule Tree. He is an authority on Mexican ruins.”

CHAPTER XV

The Tule Tree Discovery

THE Roberto Hermosa for whom they were looking might be an authority on Mexican ruins! This, thought the Hardys, was certainly a connection with Señor Tatloc!

The boys thanked the matador for his information and returned to the hotel. After consulting his map, Frank remarked that the Tule Tree was on the way to the Mitla ruins. “We may as well keep going and take in the ruins while we’re at it.” He added excitedly, “Remember the picture we found at Mr. Moore’s house of the man under the giant tree?”

“You think maybe you’ll find Senor Tatloc near there?” Chet questioned.

“Possibly. Or at Mitla which is not far from it.”

Joe, who had been looking at the guidebook, asked, “Did you know the Tule Tree is three thousand years old? It’s supposed to be the oldest living thing on the American continent!”

“What kind of tree is it?” Chet asked.

“A green cypress.”

“Imagine living all that time and growing bigger every year!” Chet exclaimed.

Joe began to laugh, “Pal, you’d better not live so long!”

The stout boy took the remark with a grin and said, “I’m not worried. The needles you’re always putting into me will keep me from expanding.”

The following morning Chet decided to go back to the weapon shop and retrieve his dagger. “The police must have finished with it by this time,” he said.

“Okay,” Frank agreed.

When the boys stopped at the shop, the clerk said they would have to go to headquarters to claim the weapon. He confided that he had not slept a wink all night. “When I told the police about those thieves, they looked at me as if I were stupid. Well, maybe I am. I’m certainly out a lot of money—I know. I’ll have to make good.”

The three boys felt sorry that the clerk had been duped, but had no solution to offer for his mistake.

“Maybe you’ll get a break and make a lot of big sales today,” said Frank, as the boys walked toward the door.

“I hope so. I’ll have to do something,” the clerk said dolefully. He began to mutter distractedly about “cheats and hoodlums.”

The boys slipped out quietly and climbed into the car. After Chet had retrieved his warrior dagger from the police, Frank drove in the direction of the Tule Tree. A few miles beyond town they came upon the tall, stately cypress standing majestically in a park area. The three boys stepped from the car and gazed in amazement at the mammoth trunk.

“It’s astounding!” said Joe.

A sign nailed to the trunk said that the tree was one hundred and sixty feet in circumference. Its many branches spread out gracefully over a tremendous distance.

Frank walked around the base of the giant tree. As he gazed upward, thinking how symmetrical the branches were, his foot kicked something. Looking down, Frank saw that he had dislodged a small stone. In the small depression lay a metal object. Frank stooped and picked it up.

“Find something?” asked Joe, who had followed his brother.

“Yes. This looks like a belt buckle.”

“Valuable?” Chet asked, grinning.

Frank, intent on scrutinizing the buckle through his magnifying glass, did not answer immediately. “Valuable!” he exclaimed finally. “I’ll say! Just look at this!”

Engraved on the back of the buckle was the name Maxli Tatloc. On the face was an ornate engraving of an Aztec warrior standing in the center of a circle formed by a coiled serpent.

The fangs of the serpent formed the initial M and the tail the initial T. Excitedly Frank suggested the meaning. The serpent signified time with the Aztecs. So the warrior, encircled by time, could mean that Maxli Tatloc was a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior.

“Wow-eee!” Chet exclaimed. “That museum curator—back at Oaxaca—sure has competition.”

Suddenly the three noticed a Mexican boy of about twelve who had come up silently and stood eying the visitors. Frank smiled and asked him, “Can you tell us something about this tree?”

“For a few pesos I will give you whole history.”

Frank dug into his pocket and extracted some coins. The lad’s face broke into a flashing grin. He said, “My name is Carlos.”

After relating the facts which the boys already knew, Carlos added that the great Spanish conqueror Cortes had rested under the tree on his way to Honduras.

Frank asked the boy if he knew anyone named Maxli Tatloc. “No, I do not. But I have learned in history that in ancient times Maxli was a great Aztec warrior.”

His listeners exchanged excited glances. This bit of information seemed to lend credence to the idea that Señor Maxli Tatloc was the Aztec warrior whom they sought!

“Does anyone around here dig in the ruins?” Chet asked Carlos.

The boy replied with a grin, “Everybody does! We all hope to find treasures and sell them to our government.”

“Have you ever heard of a Señor Tatloc?” Joe queried.

“No.”

“How about Roberto Hermosa?” Frank asked.

The boy’s eyes lighted up. “Yes. Senor Hermosa live nearby. If you wish to see him, drive straight down this road”—he pointed in an easterly direction—“turn left on first street, and stop at house with high white wall around it.”

Joe pressed another peso into the boy’s hand. “Can you tell us anything about this Señor Hermosa?”

“He is a fine digger,” Carlos replied. “He go sometime on long trips with professors.”

The Hardys were delighted with this revelation. They hardly dared hope their search might soon be ending, but they had strong hunches it was. The Roberto Hermosa whom they were going to seek out must have knowledge of the whereabouts of the Aztec warrior descendant for whom they were looking.

The youngster accompanied the three sleuths to their car and waved good-by. In a few minutes Frank drew up in front of the house where Roberto Hermosa lived, and the boys hopped out. Joe knocked and soon the door was opened by a plump, elderly housekeeper wearing a black dress and a flat piece of black lace on her gray hair.

“Senor Hermosa is not at home,” she said in answer to Joe’s question. “He is out at the Mitla ruins.”

“We were going out there. No doubt we’ll see him,” Joe went on.

“Perhaps you will,” she said noncommittally. “Mitla is an enormous place, and Senor Hermosa works in any area which strikes his fancy. I must warn you about one thing. He has his dogs with him—and they are not friendly.”

Chet frowned. “You can be sure we’ll stay away from them,” he said.

Frank smiled. “If we do, we won’t be able to talk with Senor Hermosa—and it’s very important that we do.”

“I regret I cannot be of more help,” the housekeeper said. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must get back to my work.”

The boys returned to the car and drove the rest of the way to Mitla. “That woman was right—this place is immense,” said Chet, glancing around in awe. “Boy, look at all those pyramids!”

They parked the car and started to walk.

“According to this guidebook,” said Joe, “the architecture of the Mitla pyramids is unique. Every stone that went into the buildings is four inches in length, and they are fitted together so perfectly that no mortar was needed. They have lasted since about the year A.D. 70!”

The site contained four huge major palaces and a number of smaller ones. These opened off a central court.

“Look at all those steps!” Chet remarked. “I’m going to call Mexico the country of steps.”

The Hardys were more interested in the angular stone doorways, some of them opening into tombs from which skeletons and treasures had long since been removed.

As the three sleuths neared one of the buildings, Chet looked in dismay at the low doorway. The only possible way to enter was to crawl. This prospect did not please him.

“You fellows go ahead,” he suggested. “If you see anything worthwhile, give a yell and I’ll come.”

The Hardys gave their chum a look of pretended disgust. Joe said, “What kind of sleuth are you?”

“I’ll stay out here and look around for Roberto Hermosa,” Chet announced, unruffled.

Frank and Joe dropped to their knees and pulled themselves through the low opening. The roof of the tomb was not much higher, and they were unable to stand up.

Joe, in the lead, advanced a few feet. As he was reaching inside a hip pocket to pull out his flashlight, he heard a menacing snarl. Was this one of Hermosa’s unfriendly dogs or a wild animal?

Joe started to back up hurriedly and bumped squarely into Frank. Before either boy could reach the exit, suddenly terrific growling and yapping started in the tomb. The next second an animal’s long fangs sank into one of Joe’s legs!

CHAPTER XVI

Stunning News

JOE cried out in pain. Instantly a man’s voice yelled in Spanish, “Down, Sol! Down!” The animal released its hold on the boy’s leg.

A bright light was beamed on the Hardys, who were still trying to back out of the tomb.

“You’re only boys!” cried the voice behind the light. “I thought you were ruffians! I am sorry! Are you hurt?”

Frank and Joe did not reply. They kept scrambling backward until they were outside.

“Wh-what happened?” Chet asked in concern.

Before the brothers could answer, a man emerged from the low doorway. He was followed by two handsome but fierce-looking shepherd dogs.

Without speaking, the Mexican examined the teeth marks on Joe’s leg. Seeing that the skin had not been broken, he looked relieved.

“I hope you will forgive Sol. I keep the dogs with me for protection. He felt you boys were going to harm me. I was in an inner room of the tomb and did not hear you come in.”

Frank looked directly at the Mexican and asked, “Are you Senor Roberto Hermosa?”

“Why, yes, I am. How did you know?”

Frank explained about stopping at the man’s house and that they had come down from the States searching for a person by that name. “You won’t mind if we ask you some questions?”

“Not at all.”

“Did you know a man named Jonathan Moore who lived in Bayport?”

“No, but I heard a friend of mine mention his name many times.”

Frank inquired if the friend Hermosa had just mentioned was Senor Tatloc.

The Mexican’s eyes opened wide. “Yes. And how did you know that?”

The young sleuth did not answer the question directly. Instead, he asked whether the two men were business or personal friends.

Roberto Hermosa laughed. “I guess you might call us both,” he replied, “although I do not see much of Senor Tatloc any more. A few years ago we used to go on digs together, then suddenly he seemed to want to work by himself.”

“Do you know where he is now?” Joe spoke up.

Hermosa shook his head. “But I will be very glad to help you find him, if it is important. You spoke of a Mr. Moore. Who is he?”

Frank pulled the various prints from his pocket and showed them to the Mexican. He instantly recognized Senor Tatloc in the picture, but said he did not know the other man.

“That’s Mr. Moore,” said Frank. “He mentioned a Roberto Hermosa in his will, and we think you are the one.”

“I am in his will!” the Mexican exclaimed.

“It is still a puzzle to us,” said Joe. “My father is a detective. He and my brother and I were commissioned to find a descendant of an Aztec warrior and also an Aztec warrior object.”

As Hermosa fairly jumped in amazement, the boys introduced themselves.

“Then you’re young detectives,” said Hermosa. “Well, maybe you can explain a few things to me. I told you I take my dogs everywhere with me for protection. The reason is that during the past two weeks I have been mysteriously attacked several times. Men I have never seen before seize me and threaten my life if I won’t tell them where the valuable Aztec warrior is.”

The Hardys and Chet gave one another significant looks. Were Hermosa’s attackers part of the same gang who had been harassing the boys regarding the Aztec warrior?

“I have no idea what these men are talking about,” the Mexican continued. “Every time I have insisted they have the wrong man, and they finally release me. Can you enlighten me about these Aztec warriors?”

“That’s one thing we are trying to find out,” Frank replied.

Roberto Hermosa seemed to be a forthright and interesting individual. The Hardys felt it safe to tell him the provision in Mr. Moore’s will.

Suddenly the Mexican gave the boys a big wink and laughed. Then, to their surprise, he told them that Senor Tatloc had lent Mr. Moore a valuable and ancient heirloom which Tatloc planned to will to a museum. Apparently the North American had promised to return it within a given period, and was to keep the whole matter a secret to avoid any publicity and possible theft.

“I do not know what the article was, however,” Hermosa concluded.

“The only hitch was that one or the other of the men might die before the time was up,” said Frank. “In this case, Mr. Moore passed away first.”

Roberto Hermosa said, puzzled, “Evidently I was elected to be the intermediary. I was to identify Senor Tatloc, who does claim to be a direct descendant of the Aztecs. But what I cannot understand is the reference in the will to the Aztec warriors. Have you any ideas?”

“Yes, but only theory,” Frank replied. “Since Mr. Moore was a weapons collector, we think the object is an ancient weapon, with part of it, perhaps the handle, representing an Aztec warrior. Did Senor Tatloc ever mention such a thing?”

“No.”

Hermosa was thoughtful for a moment, then he said, “The men who attacked me must know about Mr. Moore’s will or have other information about the warrior. How could they have got it?”

The Hardys gave him a quick but complete account of the mystery from its start.

The Mexican frowned. “I do not like being mixed up in this affair,” he said. “But since I am, I will question other men who dig in the ruins. They may have seen Senor Tatloc recently.”

“Thanks,” said Frank. “By the way, was there a great Aztec warrior in ancient times named Maxli?”

“Indeed there was! And you will be interested to know that Senor Tatloc is a direct descendant of that great Aztec warrior.”

The Hardys and Chet could hardly conceal their excitement. There was now no doubt in their minds that Maxli Tatloc was the man for whom they were looking!

Frank showed the belt buckle to Hermosa. “We found this near the Tule Tree,” he said. “Do you think this belongs to your friend?”

“Yes, that is Senor Tatloc’s buckle. I knew that he had lost it. He was very much upset because he prized it highly. He would be pleased to know it has been found.”

Frank smiled. “It would give us great pleasure to present it to Señor Maxli Tatloc.”

The Hardys said they would keep in touch with Roberto Hermosa, and asked that he telephone them if he picked up any clues to the whereabouts of the archaeologist. They all shook hands and the boys went to their car.

As they drove along, Joe suggested they report their latest findings to Mr. Hardy.

When they reached the hotel Frank put in the call. Mr. Hardy praised the boys’ productive sleuthing and then said he thought they should advertise in the large Mexican newspapers for any information leading to Señor Maxli Tatloc.

“We’ll do it right away,” said Frank.

As soon as he had said good-by, the Hardys and Chet set off for the office of an Oaxaca newspaper. They were told that the advertisement would appear in the following morning’s edition.

Next day the boys hurried downstairs for an early breakfast. Frank paused to buy a paper. A headline splashed across the front page made him catch his breath. He hurried to catch up with his companions, crying, “Look at this!”

The headline read:

WELL-KNOWN ARCHAEOLOGIST MAXLI TATLOC BELIEVED KILLED IN FALL FROM MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER XVII

Treacherous Trail

AFTER Frank, Joe, and Chet had recovered from their initial shock, they read the article which gave the details of Senor Tatloc’s probable death. Three North American tourists—William Kimmer, Ronald Naylor, and Burt Humphrey—had reported seeing Senor Tatloc in a wild, mountainous area.

“The minute the men saw him topple over the cliff,” the article went on, “they rushed to the edge. But there was no sign of Tatloc anywhere below.

“Kimmer telephoned the authorities. Naylor phoned the story to this paper. A rescue party was sent out at once, but the archaeologist has not been found. It is assumed that Tatloc fell into the river at the foot of the canyon, was killed, and his body swept away.”

The boys reread the article before speaking. Finally Chet said, “It’s terrible news. This will change your plans, won’t it, fellows?”

“It looks that way right now,” Frank conceded. “Before we do anything more, I believe we should phone Dad.”

As soon as they finished breakfast, Frank put in the call. Mr. Hardy, who fortunately had not yet left the house, was stunned by the news. “This changes the whole aspect of the case,” he said. “Does the newspaper article say that Tatloc fell off the cliff?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just possible he was shoved off,” said the detective. “You boys have plenty of evidence now that certain people will let nothing stand in their way to obtain the Aztec warrior object. One of their big stumbling blocks would be Tatloc.”

“This gives a pretty grim twist to the case,” Frank commented. He then asked his father what the boys should do next.

Mr. Hardy took so long to answer the question that Frank thought the connection had been cut off. He finally said, “Hello? Are you there, Dad?”

“I’m still here,” came the answer. “I was thinking—it just occurred to me that this whole story of Tatloc’s death may have been trumped up.”

Frank was astounded. “You mean those American tourists are fakes?” he asked.

“That’s my suspicion—there may not be any tourists from the States with those names. I suggest you check at once with the Mexican Tourist Department. You remember they took up one part of your tourist card when you entered the country. In that way, the department has a record of everyone coming into Mexico.”

“Great idea, Dad! We’ll do that!”

Frank repeated the conversation to Joe and Chet, then put in a call to the Tourist Department in Mexico City. The official to whom he talked promised to look up the information and call him back as soon as possible.

While they were waiting the boys began to speculate: If the story were false, what was the reason behind it?

“Maybe it’s some kind of scheme the gang planned,” Chet suggested.

Frank agreed. “Yes, that could be—to force Senor Tatloc to disclose his whereabouts.”

Joe jumped up from the chair. “Could be this whole story was faked just so we’d give up the case!”

Again the boys became silent for several minutes. Finally Chet sighed and said, “I wish we’d hear from the Tourist Department. This suspense is killing me!”

At that moment the phone rang. Joe answered. He listened, then thanked the caller and hung up.

“That settles it!” he exclaimed. “No American tourists with those names have entered Mexico.”

“Wow!” Chet cried. “Then the whole story is phony!”

“This gives me a new idea,” said Frank. “I think we should work on the theory that Tatloc was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped!” Joe explained. “By whom?”

“By the Aztec warrior gang!”

“Sure!” Joe agreed excitedly. “We can try to get a lead on those tourists from the police. Then we can scout the area where Tatloc was supposed to have disappeared.”

“We’d better report all this to Dad,” Frank suggested.

Mr. Hardy was waiting for his son’s call. “Good work, boys!” he said. “Let me know if you find out anything about those tourists.”

“Will do, Dad. By the way, any developments on your end of the Aztec mystery?”

“Very little,” the detective answered. “We made another exhaustive search of the Moore grounds, however, and came across something of possible significance.”

“What is it?” Frank queried eagerly.

His father said that on various trees near the house, he and Sam Radley had found tiny arrows carved into the trunks at ground level. Some of the markings were even hidden by grass. “As yet Sam and I haven’t figured out what they mean. But we’ll keep working at it on this end. Good luck to you boys!”

Mr. Hardy said good-by and Frank immediately phoned the police. He was told that the story of Tatloc’s fall had come in by phone. Frank relayed to the other boys their newest assignment to trail the kidnapper.

“Good night!” cried Chet. “Now you expect me to tangle with kidnappers who push people over cliffs?”

“Suit yourself,” said Frank. “The thing that bothers me is how we can ever trail these kidnappers without a single clue.”

Joe suggested, “If the mountain area is the place where Senor Tatloc was kidnapped, he was taken some distance away. But we might pick up some kind of lead to the place where he’s being held.”

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “If searchers are still looking for him in the canyon, we’ll probably have a better chance of picking up an un-trampled clue on the mountain.”

Once more the boys consulted their map. The region in the newspaper account lay in a north-easterly direction from Oaxaca. The Hardys and Chet set off in the car and soon found themselves on a narrow, twisting road which led higher and higher up the mountain, its peak lost in the clouds. There was a scattering of native huts.

Now and then the boys caught glimpses far below of a rushing stream which they assumed was the one into which Señor Tatloc was supposed to have fallen. Near the base of the mountain, tall evergreens grew thickly, but higher up these thinned out and gave way to shrubs and bare rocks.

“If Senor Tatloc was around here, there must be ruins,” Chet remarked.

“It doesn’t mention any on the map,” Joe pointed out. “But he may have made a discovery.”

“Could be,” Frank conceded.

For some time they had passed no more mountain huts and in a little while the road ended.

“Now what?” Chet asked.

Frank again studied the map. Then he said that the spot for which they were aiming was directly above them. “From here I guess we climb.”

Chet groaned loudly. “What’s the use of all of us going?” he asked. “If there are kidnappers around, somebody ought to guard the car.”

“Okay, you do it.” Frank grinned. “I’ll turn this bus around, so it’s heading down. Chet, if you hear us give our special birdcall whistle, drive back to town fast, and get the police.”

“Suits me,” the stout boy agreed.

Frank and Joe started up the craggy mountainside, each wondering if they were on a futile mission. The brothers were beginning to doubt that Senor Tatloc would have come to this spot. Also, it occurred to the Hardys that they might be walking into a trap! They stopped for several minutes to discuss the matter.

“Dad suggested this trip,” Frank argued, “and we have a job to do.”

This thought spurred the boys on, and they began to climb faster. Chet, watching from below, lost sight of his friends as the clouds enveloped them.

“It’s chilly up here,” said Joe, “and visibility’s poor.”

“That should keep us from being spotted,” Frank remarked.

The Hardys finally reached the summit, which was flat for several hundred yards. They crossed it and looked down into the canyon. Through spaces between the drifting clouds they could see the almost barren mountainside with the rushing stream below.

“Nobody could have survived a tumble down there,” said Frank. He shuddered slightly.

The boys walked around the plateau but could see nothing to give them a clue. They kept walking for some distance along the top until they came to a place where it started sloping downward.

Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank’s arm and pointed at the earth. “Footprints! And all mixed up!”

“Must have been a scuffle here!” Frank stated.

The Hardys, excited, followed the prints. They found some indicating that a man evidently had been dragged away!

“These prints are easy to follow,” said Joe. “Come on!”

He and Frank slipped and slid on the treacherous gravelly soil through which a natural path dipped and rose. At an especially slippery, jagged section the footprints disappeared completely. Nevertheless, the boys climbed over the huge outcropping and came to the path again. Here the footprints resumed.

Instinct warned the Hardys to become more cautious. They almost tiptoed along, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of the presence of human beings.

About a hundred yards farther on, the boys suddenly stood stock-still. Just ahead of them was a crude thatched-roof structure built close against the mountainside.

“Imagine living here!” said Joe in a whisper.

“That crude hut looks newly constructed,” his brother observed. “We may have reached the end of our trail, Joe!”

Moving with extreme caution, the young detectives proceeded. Since no one seemed to be around, they moved up to the hut and looked through the open doorway.

Inside, on the floor, lay a man bound and gagged!

CHAPTER XVIII

Vaquero Attack

ALTHOUGH the face of the prisoner in the hut was distorted by the gag in his mouth, Frank and Joe were sure he was the man they were seeking.

The Hardys hastened inside. Joe quickly untied him, and as Frank pulled out the gag he asked, “You are Senor Maxli Tatloc?”

The lean, gray-haired man sat up and nodded, apparently unable yet to speak. Joe noticed a gourd hanging at the back of the hut. “Maybe there’s water inside,” he thought, and dashed over to get it.

Returning to the archaeologist, he said, “Perhaps a drink of this will help.”

The man, with a grateful look, drank thirstily. Then Senor Tatloc heaved a great sigh and with the boys’ help stood up.

“Gracias,” he said weakly. “Thank fortune you have come.”

“Are you sometimes called the Aztec warrior, Senor Tatloc?” Frank asked.

The archaeologist looked startled. “Yes, I am. How do you know? Who are you?”

“Frank and Joe Hardy. We’ve come to help you,” Frank told him.

“Then get me away from here as quickly as possible,” Senor Tatloc said in a stronger voice. “We must all get away from here before those bandits return!”

Frank and Joe were eager to question the man further, but realized that this was not the time to do it—he was barely able to walk or talk. Explanations on both sides must wait.

Though the Hardys chafed at the necessary delay, they said no more. Supporting the archaeologist between them, the trio started back along the ridge, intending to follow the natural trail down the mountainside.

They had not gone a hundred feet when three tough-looking Mexican men they had never seen before appeared from behind an outjutting rock. At the same instant, three lassos snaked out toward Frank, Joe, and Senor Tatloc!

Two of the lariats landed around the shoulders of Frank and the archaeologist, and were quickly drawn tight. Joe managed to dodge the one meant for him, and put up a game fight against the man who had just tried to capture him. The two rolled over and over on the ground as Frank and Tatloc’s captors roared loudly with laughter.

Frank was on the point of giving the whistle signal, but stopped himself. Right now it might only lead to further danger for him and the others. He struggled violently to get free, but, with both arms pinioned tightly to his sides, his efforts were futile. He was infuriated to see the stranger getting the better of his brother, but the Mexican was apparently a trained fighter. In a few minutes he overpowered Joe and tied him up with the lariat.

The strangers, who avoided calling one another by name, soon had all their prisoners tightly roped. The men kept laughing raucously, and finally one said in Spanish:

“We are vaqueros, but not roping cattle this time. We came to get this prize fish.” He indicated Senor Tatloc. “When we saw you two boys climbing up the mountain, we went back to our car for our ropes in case we needed them. Lucky we did.”

“Why do you want to capture us?” Frank demanded.

The vaquero laughed. “In your country do you not punish anyone who tries to take a prisoner away?”

“But you have no legal right to be holding this man,” Joe spoke up angrily.

“That is a matter of opinion,” came the quick reply. The man shrugged. “I thought you two boys were little fish, but I believe now maybe you are a big fish too. And we caught you with something better than a butterfly net. You cannot get away!”

The vaquero stopped speaking, called his friends to his side, and talked in whispered tones. The boys could not distinguish any of the conversation. From the men’s scowls, however, it was evident they were having an argument. Finally the leader announced, “We have decided to take only the biggest fish with us. You boys will remain in the hut.”

Frank and Joe gritted their teeth in desperation. They were so tightly roped that even though they might eventually free themselves, precious time would be lost and Senor Tatloc probably would have been taken far away!

“At least we could go to the police and give a description of these vaqueros,” Frank thought.

His hopes waned a moment later when the boys were told that the man with whom Joe had fought would remain as guard.

“I’m going to try our whistle,” Joe decided in desperation. “If Chet can hear me, he’ll go for the police.”

But before Joe could whistle, the guard came up to the Hardys, whipped handkerchiefs from his pocket, and gagged the brothers. Frank and Joe were pulled into the hut, while the archaeologist was led off by the two vaqueros.

The Hardys writhed in anger and discomfort. Now they could neither move nor talk! All they could do was consider their predicament and try to figure out a method of escape. Also, they were greatly worried about Señor Tatloc.

The boys’ thoughts also turned to Chet. What was he doing? When the Hardys did not return, or signal within a reasonable time, surely he would become extremely concerned. Would he drive off and get the police?

In a little while the guard came over to where Frank lay on the earthen floor and stared down at him. “If you do not yell out, and answer my questions,” he said, “I will remove the gag.”

Without waiting for a response, he yanked out the handkerchief and asked, “Where is the Aztec warrior?”

“Why, you just took him down the mountain,” said Frank.

“Oh, I don’t mean that old fossil,” the guard replied. “You know well what I mean. Where is the valuable item you boys are going to turn over to Tatloc?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Frank could have yelled for joy. The gang not only had not found the Aztec warrior object but did not know that it probably was still in the States.

“I wish we knew,” Frank replied coolly. “Suppose you tell me how you and your friends happen to know about this warrior business.”

“That is none of your affair,” the man answered. “You and your father are very clever, I’ll admit. You have hidden that Aztec treasure well, but we’ll find out where it is.” Suddenly the man’s eyes grew fiery. “We’ll worm the information out of that crazy archaeologist!”

“How—if he won’t talk?” Frank asked.

The guard laughed. “That old man prides himself on being a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior. Well, we’ll try some of those ancient Indians’ torture methods on him. He’ll talk!”

With that, the guard thrust the handkerchief back into Frank’s mouth. The Hardys exchanged frantic looks. Their own situation was bad enough, but Señor Tatloc was in real danger! Somehow they must get free, and rescue him!

The hours wore on and dusk began to fall. From his pockets the guard pulled out a couple of tortillas and a bottle of water. He sauntered outside, leaving the door open. He seated himself in front of the hut, leaning back wearily against it.

The man ate the food greedily and drained the contents of the bottle. From where the Hardys lay, they could watch him clearly. Suddenly the man’s head dropped forward and within seconds he was snoring loudly.

At once Frank and Joe began working vigorously to loosen the lariats. The knots were tight, however, and the boys’ efforts proved futile. Exhausted, they lay back to catch their breaths. Suddenly the Hardys saw a stout figure glide into the hut.

Chet!

The brothers’ hearts pounded excitedly. Chet tiptoed over to them and yanked out their gags. Then he produced a pocketknife and quickly cut the knots and unwound the lariats.

Frank and Joe could have hugged him for joy, but there was no time to take one extra moment for anything but escape. The three boys rapidly wound the ropes around the still-sleeping guard. As the man started to wake up, Frank gagged him with a handkerchief. By this time, the man was fully awake, but could do nothing except glare malevolently at his captors as they dragged him inside the hut.

“I brought a couple of flashlights,” said Chet, pulling them from a pocket. “Frank, lead the way!”

“Chet,” said Joe, “in return for rescuing us, I promise not to needle you again—”

“Ever?” asked Chet.

Joe grinned. “Well, not until tomorrow anyway.”

Frank called over his shoulder, “Chet, you really came through in the clutch. My reward to you will be a dinner with all the food you can eat!”

“It’s a deal.” Chet grinned.

The brothers’ hearts pounded excitedly

As the boys carefully picked their way down the mountainside, Chet explained that he was sure something had gone wrong. “I didn’t want to take time going for the police, so when I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, I grabbed flashlights and started up here. Boy, what a climb! Did you find out anything about Senor Tatloc?”

When Chet was told what had happened, he whistled in dismay. “You found him and then before you could question him those vaqueros ruined your chance of solving the case!”

“I don’t think our chances are ruined,” Joe spoke up. “When the police get hold of that guy up in the hut, I’ll bet he’ll talk.”

The boys returned to Oaxaca as quickly as they dared drive on the winding roads. Though disheveled and dirty, they went at once to police headquarters and reported what had happened. The officer in charge promised to send police out to the mountain spot at once and bring in the vaquero.

“You young men had better go to the hotel and get some rest now,” he said kindly. “Tomorrow morning I’ll let you know what the prisoner reveals. In the meantime, please do not say anything about the fact that Senor Tatloc is alive. It must have been the gang that captured you who gave out the false report about the archaeologist’s death. If they are not aware that we know the truth, it may be easier to round up these criminals.”

The Hardys and Chet promised to keep the information to themselves and went to a restaurant. Ravenous, they ate a hearty meal. Then they walked directly to the hotel and dropped into bed, exhausted.

The next morning Frank, awake first, greeted the others with the remark, “I think I know where Señor Tatloc was taken!”

CHAPTER XIX

Island Prisoner

“WHERE?” Joe and Chet exclaimed in astonishment.

“Lake Patzcuaro!” Frank told them excitedly. “Remember the reference those vaqueros made to butterfly nets? That’s what the fishermen there use.”

“You’re right!” Joe declared. “Let’s go!”

Chet too was eager for the trip. “Even if Senor Tatloc isn’t there, I’d like to see those fishermen who use nets different from any others in the world.”

Patzcuaro was a long way from Oaxaca in a northwesterly direction. The boys decided to start out early and stop for lunch at Taxco, which was on the way. At eight they phoned the police. The guard at the hut had been jailed but refused to answer any questions. There was no other news.

By nine o’clock they were on the road. They reached Taxco around lunchtime and parked in the large, tree-shaded zócalo. Cobblestone streets rose up the steep mountainsides surrounding it. Facing the public square was a very handsome old stone cathedral. The other three sides were lined with attractive shops and restaurants.

As the boys walked around before selecting a place to eat, they noted that many of the shops sold silverware. “Taxco is noted for its silver mines and skilled silversmiths,” said Frank as they paused before one window. “Boy, look at that figure!” On display was the statue of an Indian carrying a large pouch from which he was sowing a handful of corn seeds.

As the boys walked on, they saw several artists, seated on canvas stools, painting the scenes around the zócalo. The boys stopped to watch a red-bearded man who was wearing a bright-blue smock. He was sketching a little boy pulling a tiny burro.

The artist looked up at the visitors and smiled. “You are from the States?” he asked in English. When they nodded, he went on, “I lived there once myself, but I found so many fascinating things down here to paint I never went back!”

“Do you specialize in figures?” Joe asked him.

“Pretty much,” the artist replied. “By the way, my name is Don Hawley.” The boys shook hands and introduced themselves.

Mr. Hawley continued talking as he went on with his sketching. “I don’t believe this picture will be much good. I am feeling sad. I read in the newspaper that a man whose portrait I painted was killed.”

Mr. Hawley added that the man was a great archaeologist. Hearing this, Frank asked quickly, “Was he, by any chance, Señor Tatloc?”

“Why, yes. I guess you read the account, too.”

“We did,” Frank replied, then asked, “Where is the portrait of Senor Tatloc?”

“In my studio. It is a living likeness. Come, I’ll show it to you. I’m too upset to do any more work today.” He put a few pesos into the hand of his boy model and told him to return the next day.

On the way to the studio, Joe asked Mr. Hawley about the archaeologist. The artist said that the man was an extreme contrast to his nickname. “Senor Tatloc was a very peaceful person, yet his friends at the university affectionately called him ‘the Aztec warrior.’ ”

“Was his only hobby going on digs for relics?” Frank queried.

“Just about,” the artist replied. “Señor Tatloc had one of the most extensive and enviable collections of Aztec weapons and other artifacts in the world. Many had been handed down through his family for hundreds of years. Upon his death he wished the pieces to go to the State Museum. They’re locked up in a bank vault since he had no permanent home.”

The Hardys and Chet acted casual, but were excited at the new information. Tatloc and Moore did have the common interest of collecting weapons. By this time they had reached the studio, which opened directly off the pavement of a side street. Inside, they were confronted by a life-size figure on canvas. This was indeed the man the boys had met in the hut!

“The painting is great!” said Frank. Grinning, he added, “I wish I had money to buy it.”

“Oh, it’s not for sale,” said Mr. Hawley. “This picture was commissioned by a man very much interested in the State Museum. The portrait is to hang there, but Senor Tatloc requested that this not be done for another two years. He didn’t say why.”

The Hardys glanced at each other. Two years more would round out the five-year period after which Mr. Moore was to return the Aztec warrior object to its owner. Was there a definite tie-in between the two dates?

The boys drew closer to the portrait to inspect it in detail. Señor Tatloc was arrayed in a gorgeous Aztec costume, and in his hand he held a dagger with an obsidian blade and handle, which was carved in the form of a plumed serpent. It was studded with turquoise.

“Have you ever seen Señor Tatloc’s weapons collection?” Frank asked Mr. Hawley.

“No, and he was rather secretive about it. In fact, Senor Tatloc remarked at the time we started this portrait that he wished it were possible for it to be painted two years from now. At that time he would have received a much more interesting dagger.”

“What does that one look like?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Señor Tatloc did not say.”

The boys thought they knew the answer! The dagger must be the Aztec warrior object! Frank asked Mr. Hawley, “Did Señor Tatloc ever mention a man named Jonathan Moore?”

“No.”

After looking at several other fine pictures, the boys thanked the friendly artist and then said good-by. As they walked down the street toward a restaurant, Chet remarked, “That was a lucky break. You fellows just about have this mystery wrapped up, don’t you?”

Frank shook his head. “I wish it were true, Chet. We don’t know where the living Aztec warrior is, and we don’t know where the missing dagger is hidden.”

After lunch Chet took the wheel of their rented car. As he drove along, he caught up to a bus crowded with men, women, and children, carrying strange-shaped bundles and baskets from the market. The overflow of passengers was seated on the roof of the bus, clutching live chickens and dogs. One boy even had a baby goat.

The sight of barnyard creatures on a bus set the three boys to laughing. Suddenly a chicken wriggled loose from under its owner’s arm. The hen squawked loudly as it flew through the air and landed smack on the windshield of the car. Startled, Chet let the car swerve, narrowly missing a deep ditch at the side of the road as he jammed on the brakes.

“Good night!” he cried, as the stunned chicken fell into the road.

By this time the owner of the hen, a stout woman, had yelled for the bus driver to stop and was now climbing down a ladder on the outside of the vehicle. Reaching the pavement, she ran back to the boys’ car and began to wave her arms in anger at Chet.

He sat mute as she picked up the hen, which was dead, and demanded in voluble Spanish that Chet pay for tne finest egg layer in her flock.

“You’d better do it,” Joe advised with a grin.

“But it wasn’t my fault!” Chet remonstrated. “Anyway, if I have to pay her for the hen, it’s mine. But what’ll I do with a chicken? It’s probably good eating, but how could I cook it?”

At this, both Hardys burst into laughter. Their hilarity infuriated the woman. She held the hen by its feet and waved it in the air with one hand. With the other she made irate gestures at Chet, threatening to have him arrested.

Completely abashed and a bit frightened, Chet pulled out his wallet, removed a bill, and handed it to the woman. Her reaction was a surprise. Dark looks changed to a broad smile and with a mighty heave the woman threw the hen into the car. Then, waving the bill triumphantly, she ran back to the bus and climbed the ladder. As the vehicle started off, she blew kisses at the boys!

The Hardys roared with laughter as Chet, red in the face, sat staring at the chicken. “What are we going to do with this?” he asked.

“Like to stop for a picnic?” Joe needled him.

Just then Frank noticed a little girl standing not far away in a field. Evidently she had heard the commotion while playing near her farm home which was not far away. Without a word, Frank picked up the hen. He walked over to the child and handed it to her.

“You take this home,” he said, smiling.

“Gracias,” the little girl said, and ran off across the field.

The boys drove on and toward evening reached the quaint village of Patzcuaro. They checked into a small hotel on one of the narrow streets. After washing up, they lost no time in trying to find a clue to Senor Tatloc’s whereabouts. As they questioned people in the hotel and on the street, they showed the pictures of the archaeologist. No one had seen the man in town. Disappointed, the boys went to bed.

“I can’t get the reference to butterfly nets out of my mind,” said Frank, just before they all went to sleep. “Tomorrow morning let’s go down to the lake and question fishermen.”

This procedure brought results. Three men said they had seen the stranger in the pictures. He was in a public launch heading for the island of Janitzio. The boys could see the hilly island, far out in the lake. Atop it was a huge statue of Morelos, the priest who headed the victorious revolution of 1810.

At once Frank inquired about renting a launch to take them over to the island. He was directed to a small dock where a boat was waiting. The boys quickly climbed aboard, and soon the craft was chugging across the water.

The boys were fascinated as they watched fishermen swing their huge nets, which resembled giant butterfly wings, and gracefully let them down into the water. As the nets were raised again, thousands of tiny fish the size of sardines squirmed and flopped inside.

The pilot of the launch told his passengers it took years to become skilled at using these nets.

“What do they do with such tiny fish?” Joe inquired.

“They are taken to Janitzio, dried on mats in the sun, and sent mostly to Mexico City. They are considered a great delicacy.”

As the boat drew near the island, the boys saw that along the beach was a row of crudely hewn dugouts which belonged to the fishermen.

“They’re unusually wide and long compared to the ones we sometimes use for camping trips,” Frank said.

Here and there on the beach were groups of women busily mending fish nets. Their dexterity amazed the boys.

Frank made arrangements for the pilot to wait, and they began their sleuthing. First, Frank showed the pictures of Señor Tatloc to the women, who pointed up the hilly street just beyond. It was a narrow, cobblestone road lined with shops and houses. In front of them stood huge poles between which the giant butterfly nets had been stretched.

Again Frank showed the pictures, this time to some men, who also pointed up the hill.

“Now we’re getting some place!” said Joe, starting off at a fast pace.

“Hold on!” Frank advised. “I don’t see any policemen around, and we may run into trouble. I think we should get a couple of husky men to go with us.”

The other boys agreed. Two fishermen, with pleasant faces and bulging muscles, were chosen. When Frank explained the situation, the men looked startled and one said:

“Kidnappers on our island! Zapato and Pancho will be glad to help you search.”

The group trekked up the hill, inquiring at each shop and house, but they met with no success. At the top the road turned left. The Hardys decided that the searchers would divide their work.

Frank chose the most distant point and sprinted ahead of the others toward the last house on the street. All the doorways were open.

“Nothing looks sinister or suspicious around here,” he thought.

Nevertheless, Frank inquired at each dwelling. As he came to one where no one seemed to be at home, he was suddenly yanked inside and the door closed.

Frank’s cry for help was cut off by a gag being thrust into his mouth. The next instant his arms were pinioned and a huge fish net wound round him. He was then thrown into a comer of the one-room shack, where a pile of fish nets was tossed over him.

Frank churned with anger at being caught off guard. There was silence for several minutes, then Frank heard a man say, “What can I do for you?”

“Can you identify the man in this photograph?” It was Joe speaking!

There was a slight pause, then the man answered, “Yes, I saw this old fellow. He was with two other men. They went down to the lake. An American boy was following them.”

“Thank you very much,” said Joe. “We’ll go right down there and look for them.”

Silence followed. As Frank lay helpless, he knew that Joe and the others had left.

CHAPTER XX

A Secret Unearthed

THE silence was broken by Frank’s captor starting to taunt him. “You thought you were so smart, but I have outwitted you this time.”

The man’s voice was not familiar, so Frank knew he was neither Jack Wayne’s kidnapper nor the phony detective.

The man went on, “You and Senor Tatloc will never be released until you tell us where the valuable Aztec dagger is. You fooled my friends once with an imitation.”

Frank felt as if he would suffocate beneath the fish nets. As he shifted uncomfortably, Frank suddenly became aware of another human being lying next to him. The prisoner must be Senor Tatloc! Frank’s heart pounded excitedly, but quickly his hopes of rescue or escape faded.

Meanwhile, Joe and his companions had reached the shore. Their launch was still there.

Joe rushed up to the pilot. “Did my brother leave here in another boat?” he asked quickly.

“No. I haven’t seen him.”

Joe looked at Chet and the two fishermen, Zapato and Pancho. “Frank must have been captured! I’ll bet he’s in the hut where that man told me Frank went down the hill!”

He turned and hurried back up the incline, with the other three following him.

It did not take the group long to reach the hut. The two men inside looked startled as the searchers walked in boldly.

“Where’s my brother?” Joe demanded.

“What do you mean?” asked one of the men.

By this time Joe’s and Chet’s eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness of the hut. One of the men was the phony detective!

Frank, hearing the commotion, made a desperate attempt to move and managed to thump the earthen floor once with his feet.

“He’s here!” Chet exclaimed.

At this, the two thugs made a rush for the doorway. Zapato and Pancho grabbed them, while Chet blocked the entrance.

Joe was already throwing aside the heap of fish nets and now set about freeing the two prisoners. He released Frank first, then the archaeologist. The elderly man looked exhausted.

“Thank goodness you have come!” he murmured.

Gently Frank and Joe carried Senor Tatloc out to the street.

“I’ll be all right,” he said. “Last night I heard my kidnappers talking about you boys and your famous father. You must be excellent detectives to have traced me here!”

“They certainly are excellent detectives!” said Pancho. “But this one!” he exclaimed, glaring at his prisoner. “He lives here—among us. But he’s a bad one. I should have known right away he would be mixed up in this evil thing.” He gave the prisoner a shake. “What shall we do with these two bad ones?”

“We must take them to the police in Patzcuaro,” Joe replied. “Could you go there with us?”

“We will be glad to,” said Zapato.

The island residents along the way watched in open-mouthed amazement as the prisoners were marched down to the launch.

The pilot stared in disbelief. “You caught the kidnappers?” he cried out.

“We sure did,” Chet answered.

The prisoners were sullen and refused to talk. Señor Tatloc, however, told the whole story of his abduction. He had suspected the mountaintop held the ruins of an ancient temple and had gone there to investigate.

“I was captured and taken to the hut where these same two men tried to force a secret from me. Then you boys came and were taken prisoners. How did you escape?”

“Chet Morton rescued us,” Joe replied.

Senor Tatloc said he had been dragged down the mountainside, put into a car, and driven to Patzcuaro. “These men”—he pointed to the prisoners—“threatened to torture me if I didn’t tell them what they wanted to know. But I refused.”

The prisoners’ eyes flashed with hate, and the phony detective snarled, “Don’t think you’re safe! You haven’t captured our friends yet, and they’re going to get what they want!”

“The police will take care of that,” said Frank.

As soon as the group reached Patzcuaro, they went to police headquarters and the prisoners were taken into custody. The fishermen said they must return to the island. Frank tried to pay them for their work, but they refused the money.

“First time in my life I ever captured a crook,” said Zapato with a wide grin. “It has been a pleasure meeting you brave boys.” There was a round of thanks, then the two islanders left.

When the officer in charge heard that the phony detective was wanted in Mexico City and Oaxaca, he telephoned the police in both cities. After a while he came back to the boys, smiling broadly.

“I have excellent news for you,” the officer said. “The leader of the gang, Pedro Jimenez, has been taken into custody in Mexico City.”

“Pedro Jimenez!” Señor Tatloc exclaimed bitterly. “He was my guide and helper for many years!”

The officer interrupted to say he had further information. “The man who kidnapped your pilot,” he told the Hardys, “is also in custody in Mexico City. The other two vaqueros were jailed in Oaxaca after their friend talked. They gave the false report about Senor Tatloc’s death. The whole gang has now been caught.”

“What a relief!” said Senor Tatloc. Chet and the Hardys grinned their satisfaction.

Before leaving police headquarters, the boys learned that Jimenez had confessed his guilt. He had been working for a very wealthy, dishonest collector who would go to any length to get what he wanted. The hoodlums in Mexico City and the young zealots at Monte Alban were not part of Jimenez’s gang.

The Hardys thanked the police for all their help, then left with Chet and Senor Tatloc for the hotel. Here Frank made the elderly archaeologist lie down to rest while the boys explained about Mr. Moore’s directive to the Hardys to find the Aztec warrior and return his property to him. Briefly, they outlined their adventures since undertaking the case, including their meeting with Roberto Hermosa.

The archaeologist listened intently, and when Frank and Joe finished, he said quietly:

“Now I will tell you the story of the Aztec warrior object. One day, about six months ago, after discharging Jimenez—he had become very surly—I was in a hotel room talking on the phone with my good friend Mr. Moore. I caught Jimenez eavesdropping. I’m afraid he overheard enough of our conversation to have planned the theft of a dagger—a priceless heirloom which has been in my family nearly a thousand years. My relatives bicker about it. They think the weapon should be sold and the money divided among them. I don’t agree, mostly because it belongs to me. For this reason I have always kept its whereabouts a secret.”

As Senor Tatloc paused, Frank asked, “You lent the dagger to Mr. Moore, but no one knew this except you two and Pedro Jimenez?”

“That’s right.”

Chet asked a bit impatiently, “What does the weapon look like, Senor Tatloc?”

“The blade is made of obsidian and is still sharp. The handle, beautifully carved in the shape of an Aztec warrior, is inlaid with jade and turquoise and rubies.

“Three years ago when Mr. Moore came down here looking for old weapons, I showed him my collection. He begged me to sell him the dagger. I told him I didn’t think it should be taken out of Mexico, and said that I planned to will it to the State Museum. Finally he persuaded me to let him enjoy having it in his possession for a while. Knowing that he could be trusted to take good care of the dagger and return it within the five-year period we agreed upon, I let him take it.”

“Did Mr. Moore ever tell you where he kept the dagger?” Joe asked.

“No, he did not tell me. Do you mean it hasn’t been found?”

“Not yet, Señor Tatloc.”

The archaeologist looked stunned. “I shouldn’t have let him talk me into borrowing it. But he was very persuasive—in fact, he offered a check to finance a museum field expedition. We arranged to have a guarded stipulation in both our wills for the return of the relic.”

“I’m sure we’ll locate it,” Frank said. “But the dagger is certainly well hidden. Mr. Moore must have known—or suspected—that thieves were after it.”

“Where does Roberto Hermosa fit into the picture?” Joe asked.

Señor Tatloc answered, “To prevent anyone’s learning I owned the object mentioned in Mr. Moore’s will, we chose Roberto Hermosa to make the identification of me. Roberto knew that I had lent Mr. Moore an heirloom, but did not know what the object was. I am deeply grieved to hear of Mr. Moore’s death, and I must say that he took every precaution to keep our secret. During the telephone conversation that Jiminez overheard, I told Mr. Moore that as soon as I received the dagger I was going to present it to the State Museum. I was afraid that some of my greedy relatives might get hold of it. I would like to go to Bayport with you and help search for the heirloom.”

“Great!” Frank said.

He told the archaeologist about the pictures they had found among Mr. Moore’s slides. “One was taken in a garden.”

“Oh, yes, that was at a house outside Mexico City. Mr. Moore rented it for a month.”

“Another picture shows you in costume,” said Frank.

Senor Tatloc smiled. “A celebration was held near the Pyramid of the Sun. Some of the university professors requested that I take part in the celebration. I did not wish to, but they insisted. I wore a very old costume I have and Mr. Moore took my picture.”

“By the way,” Joe asked, “were you at that pyramid the other day? We thought we saw you there.”

“No, I wasn’t,” the archaeologist replied.

Frank asked him, “Did you find a relic at Monte Alban and leave it there?”

“Yes, Frank. I uncovered an ancient slab with an Aztec warrior and a date—five rabbit—carved on it. The slab was too heavy for me to carry away. While I was waiting for a friend to come and help me, I went up to that mountain to look for the ruins of a temple. That’s when the kidnappers took me prisoner.”

“We found the slab,” said Joe, “and took it to the State Museum. We told the curator we thought you had uncovered it.”

“And that’s not all we found,” Frank said. “This belongs to you.” He handed over the belt buckle and told him about picking it up.

Señor Tatloc stared in amazement, then said, “Thank you, boys, for all you have done.”

Frank put in a call to his father, who was both amazed and pleased to hear what had happened. “Your hunch paid off, Dad. And now we’re ready to come home. Señor Tatloc will accompany us.”

“Very good,” said the detective. “I’ll send Jack Wayne right down.”

The boys and their passenger drove to Mexico City the next day. There they took off in the Hardys’ private plane. Jack Wayne was generous in his praise. “I’m certainly glad my kidnapper is behind bars!” he said.

The morning after they arrived in Bayport, Mr. Hardy, Sam Radley, and the lawyer, Mr. Weaver, took the boys and their guest out to the Moore estate. Frank and Joe were eager to examine the tiny arrows which the two detectives had found on the trees.

After seeing them, Joe spoke up, “Dad, is it possible that this circle of arrows represents a boundary to limit the area where we are supposed to search? And that the Indian’s head is the starting point?”

“You may have hit on the answer!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed.

Though many sections within the circle had already been dug up, work was started on other sections. Suddenly Mr. Hardy disappeared inside the house but soon came out, smiling.

“I may have a clue,” he said. “A tile pipe leads out from the cellar and under the lawn. It doesn’t seem to have any use. I poked a stick in as far as I could, but didn’t find anything. Boys, will you look around for a plumber’s snake? We’ll run it into the pipe and see if we can hit anything.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet rushed off to the garage, part of which housed a tool shed. Inside, they found the long wire tool, hurried to the cellar, and inserted the snake. About twenty feet underground it came to an obstruction, but the boys were unable to budge it.

“Let’s dig up the ground at the end of the pipe,” Joe urged.

Excitement mounted as the searchers rushed outdoors. They judged that the pipe’s end lay under a large spiraea bush. Frantically they dug it up, then spaded out the earth beneath.

Soon Frank’s pointed shovel uncovered the end of the pipe from the cellar. It was plugged with a concrete disk. Unsuccessfully the boys tugged at it. Using a chisel, they finally yanked the disk loose.

Inside the pipe lay a package with a waterproof canvas cover. The boys pulled it out carefully. Attached to the end which had faced the cellar was a metal ring.

“Mr. Moore probably had a long pole with a hook on the end of it to grab the ring so he could drag the package out to the cellar,” said Frank.

Chet groaned. “I saw one in the garage.”

Frank lifted out the package and handed it to Señor Tatloc. “I think you should have the honor of opening this. Don’t you, Dad?”

“Without question,” his father agreed.

“I think we’d better go into the house to look at the contents,” Mr. Weaver advised, leading the way.

The package was laid on Mr. Moore’s desk. Fingers trembling, Senor Tatloc opened it. Revealed was the Aztec warrior weapon! Its carved handle, inlaid with turquoise and jade, and the warrior’s headdress of fiery red rubies glittered in the light.

“This is the handsomest piece of its kind I’ve ever seen!” Mr. Weaver exclaimed. “Senor Tatloc, you indeed own something priceless that a gang of thieves would certainly go to great lengths to steal.”

The archaeologist smiled. “It wouldn’t have done anybody any good if it had not been discovered by the Hardys and Chet. Without them, my secret might have remained one forever and a precious relic lost to Mexico. Hundreds of years could have gone by before this object was discovered. I am very grateful to you all.”

As the boys, somewhat embarrassed, were searching for an answer, Mr. Weaver spoke up. “There are a great many other people who are going to be thankful as well—the beneficiaries of Mr. Moore’s will. They’ll be able to collect their inheritances now.”

Frank and Joe, though pleased that the mystery of the Aztec warrior had been solved, were already wondering what their next adventure would be. Very soon another exciting case—THE HAUNTED FORT—would be a real test of their ingenuity and courage.

Chet Morton was overwhelmed by all the praise and excitement. “Señor Tatloc and Mr. Weaver,” he burst out, “when Frank and Joe solve a mystery, they usually have a party with plenty of good food. Let’s all go to the Hardys’ house and give Senor Tatloc a chance to taste some good old U.S.A. cooking!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Scalp Warning

CHAPTER II - Highway Chase

CHAPTER III - Inquisitive Student

CHAPTER IV - A Crimson Clue

CHAPTER V - Danger Alley

CHAPTER VI - Chet vs. Impasto

CHAPTER VII - An Angry Sculptor

CHAPTER VIII - Treacherous Detour

CHAPTER IX - The Hermit’s Story

CHAPTER X - Mysterious Flag

CHAPTER XI - The Lake Monster

CHAPTER XII - A Strange Tomahawk

CHAPTER XIII - Detective Guides

CHAPTER XIV - Lucky Watermelon

CHAPTER XV - An Eerie Vigil

CHAPTER XVI - The Deserted Cottage

CHAPTER XVII - The Accused

CHAPTER XVIII - A Sudden Disappearance

CHAPTER XIX - Dungeon Trap

CHAPTER XX - The Final Link

THE HAUNTED FORT

A long-distance telephone call from Chet Morton’s uncle summons Frank and Joe Hardy and their staunch pal Chet to a summer art school, located near old Fort Senandaga which is reputed to be inhabited by a ghost. The young detectives’ assignment: recover two famous oil paintings stolen from the valuable Prisoner-Painter collection owned by Jefferson Davenport.

Mr. Davenport, millionaire sponsor of Millwood Art School, reveals that one of the famous Fort Senandaga pictures painted by his artist ancestor, General Jason Davenport, contains a clue to the hiding place of a priceless chain of gold.

Vicious threats and deadly traps beset Frank, Joe, and Chet as they search for clues to the stolen paintings and the gold treasure—a search that is complicated by a stormy feud between a proud Englishman and an equally proud Frenchman over the military history of the ancient fort.

Here is a thrilling mystery-adventure guaranteed to hold the reader in breathless suspense from first page to last.

“Watch out!” Frank cried out. “The wall!”

Copyright ©1993,1965 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Pumam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. THE HARDY BOYS®is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 65-13775

eISBN : 978-1-101-07657-6

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Scalp Warning

“CHET MORTON inviting us to a mystery—I don’t believe it!” Blond seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy smiled as he and his brother bounded off the back steps toward the garage.

Frank Hardy, dark-haired and a year older than Joe, eagerly keyed the car motor to life. Soon they were headed out of Bayport for the Morton farm. Dusk was falling.

“Chet seemed too excited to say much on the phone,” Frank explained. “But he did mention there might be a vacation in it for us—and a haunted fort.”

“A haunted fort!”

When the brothers pulled into the gravel driveway of the rambling, brown-and-white farmhouse, pretty lola Morton, Chet’s sister, danced off the porch to greet them.

“Frank and Joe! What a surprise! You’re just in time for our homemade hootenanny!”

“And I can play two chords!” Callie Shaw waved from the front doorway, a large guitar hanging from her neck. Callie, a slim blonde, was Frank’s special friend, while vivacious Iola often dated Joe.

“It sounds great,” Frank began, “but Chet called us over to—” He glanced suspiciously at Joe. “Say, do you think these two got Chet to lure us over here about a mystery?”

“Of course not, sillies,” dark-haired Iola protested, her eyes snapping. “Besides, who wants to talk about murky old mysteries? Wait until you hear Callie’s new ballad records.”

As the four entered the house, a round face beneath a coonskin cap peered from the kitchen. Then the stocky figure of Chet Morton made an entrance.

“Hi, Hardys ! Anybody for a haunted vacation?”

“Chet! Then there really is a mystery?” Joe’s face brightened as Chet nodded and motioned the brothers upstairs to his room. But not before the girls frowned disdainfully.

“Meanies!” Callie said. “Don’t be forever!”

As the Hardys took seats, Chet reclined on his bed and began, “My uncle Jim phoned late this afternoon from Crown Lake in New England. You know, he’s chief painting instructor at a summer art school there.”

Chet explained that the place, named Millwood, was sponsored by a millionaire for the benefit of talented teen-agers.

“Sounds like a swell arrangement for aspiring artists,” Frank remarked.

“Uncle Jim loves his job,” Chet continued, “or at least he did before the painting thefts started.”

“You mean thefts of students’ paintings?” Joe interrupted, puzzled.

“No. Something much more valuable. Uncle Jim didn’t go into details, but he did mention somebody called the Prisoner-Painter. Two of his pictures have disappeared.”

“What about the local police?” Frank asked.

“They’ve already tried to solve the case. No luck. That’s why Uncle Jim wants us to live at the school for a while.”

“How’d he know about us?” Joe put in.

“I mentioned you fellows in letters. ’Course, I didn’t tell him any of the bad things about you—only that you were a couple of great detectives.”

Frank grinned and arced a slow-motion swing toward his teasing pal, but in a flash Chet was on his feet, twirling his coonskin cap. “I’m half-packed already.” He brightened, a hopeful look in his eye. “Will you fellows come along?”

“Try and keep us away!” Joe exclaimed. He was as excited as Frank at the prospect of adventure.

Both boys, sons of Bayport’s famous detective, Fenton Hardy, had already tackled and solved many mysteries. From the baffling secret of The Tower Treasure to their most recent case, The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior, the boys welcomed each new challenge. Chet, their loyal and close friend, though sometimes reluctant to sleuth with them, often proved to be of great help.

“Chet,” Frank added, “didn’t you mention a haunted fort on the phone?”

“Oh that!” Chet groaned. “Yes, I did. Uncle Jim said something about an old French fort nearby, but maybe it’s not important. Gee, fellows, haunted places don’t agree with me!”

“I don’t know,” Frank mused, winking at Joe. “I hear some ghosts are pretty well-fed. Think we could introduce Chet to one or two up at Crown Lake?”

Chet could not repress a smile as the brothers chuckled, then patted him on the back. Suddenly they heard a scream from the front porch.

“That’s Callie!” Joe cried out.

The three boys rushed downstairs. Iola stood trembling in the doorway. Callie, pale with fright, pointed to a hairy object on the lawn.

“What happened?” Frank asked in alarm.

Callie said that a speeding black car had slowed in front of the house and somebody had tossed out the object.

“It looks like—like a scalp!” Iola shuddered.

The Hardys rushed out to the lawn and Frank knelt over the strange thing.

“It’s a scalp!” Frank exclaimed

“It’s a scalp all right—made of papier-mâché! Looks pretty real with all this red paint.”

Joe picked it up. “There’s a note attached!” He removed a small piece of paper from the underside. Frowning, he read the typewritten words aloud:

“ ‘Use your heads, stay away from Crown Lake.’”

“Did you get a look at the driver?” Frank asked, as Iola and Callie joined the boys.

“No, but I think it was an out-of-state license plate,” Callie replied. “I thought he was just a litterbug until I saw—that.”

The gruesome-looking object was made from black bristles of the sort used in paintbrushes. Frank turned to Chet and Joe. “What do you fellows make of it?”

Joe shrugged. “Who would want to stop us from going to Crown Lake—and why?”

“Also,” Chet added, “how did anybody even know we had been invited up to Crown Lake by my uncle?”

The young people discussed the strange warning as the Hardys returned to their car, where Frank deposited the fake scalp.

“This grisly clue indicates one thing,” Frank concluded. “Somebody wants us to stay away from Millwood Art School! If that’s where our ‘scalper’ is from, it might explain how he learned of Mr. Kenyon’s invitation.”

“Speaking of invitations,” Joe said, “what time do you want to leave tomorrow, Chet?”

“Leave!” Iola and Callie exclaimed.

“Sure.” Frank grinned. “I’ve always been interested in Indian haircuts—that is, unless Chet wants to back out.”

“Me—back out?” Chet swallowed, then resolutely replaced the coonskin cap on his round head—backward. “Fur Nose Morton will pick you up tomorrow morning at ten sharp. Don’t forget to pack some warm duds!”

The girls protested in vain. After making the boys promise not to be away for the whole summer, they wished them a safe and pleasant trip. As Frank drove the car down the drive, Joe leaned out the window.

“We’ll take a rain check on that hootenanny, girls. See you in the morning, Chet!”

Full of anticipation about their new mystery, the Hardys drove directly to their tree-shaded house at the corner of High and Elm streets. After securing permission from their parents for the trip to Crown Lake, the excited boys spent the rest of the evening packing three large suitcases. Before retiring, they quickly perused several school-books on the history of the Crown Lake region. It had been an area of conflict during the French and Indian War.

“Here’s a fort!” Joe remarked. “Senandaga! That may be the place Chet’s uncle mentioned. According to this, Senandaga was an impressive stronghold, though it didn’t play a large role in the campaigns.”

“If a fort’s haunted, we can’t expect it to be historical too,” Frank said, grinning.

“Wait a minute!” Joe looked up. “There’s a small painting of this fort right in the Bayport Museum!”

“The same one?”

“Yes. What say we have a look at it tomorrow before Chet gets here?”

After a sound night’s sleep the boys awoke a half-hour earlier than usual the following morning and quickly arranged their luggage on the front porch. Leaving word that they would be back by ten, they drove in their convertible to the Bayport Museum.

A small, pug-faced man carrying a large sketch pad was just leaving the building as they reached the top of the marble steps. After bumping into Frank, he bowed nervously, then hastened down the steps and up the street.

“He’s sure an early-bird artist,” Joe remarked.

They passed into the cool, echoing foyer and were just about to enter the American Collection Room when they heard running footsteps and a cry for help. A distraught, bespectacled man waved to them and pointed ahead.

“That man—stop him—he’s stolen our fort painting!”

CHAPTER II

Highway Chase

“FORT painting!” The words set Frank and Joe racing after the thief. They darted outside and down the marble steps three at a time! Frank went in one direction, Joe the other. But there was no sign of the fugitive.

After the Hardys had checked several side streets, they headed back and met at the museum.

“No luck,” Frank said.

“He must have had a car,” Joe declared.

“Another thing,” Frank said, “I’ll bet he hid the painting in that big sketch pad of his.”

In the foyer of the museum, the brothers were questioned by two policemen. After Frank and Joe had given their statements to the officers, they spoke with the museum director, the man who had alerted them to the theft. As Frank suspected, the thief had apparently concealed the small painting in his sketch pad.

“I don’t know why he chose the picture of Fort Senandaga,” the director lamented, “but I’m sorry he did. So far as I know, ours was the only work of the Prisoner-Painter in this area.”

The Hardys started in surprise. This was the same artist whose pictures had been disappearing from Millwood Art School!

After the director had thanked them for their efforts, they returned to their car, each with the same thought: Had the morning’s theft any connection with the art school mystery?

When they reached home, Chet was sitting disconsolately on the porch steps fanning himself with a blue beret.

“Leaping lizards! What a morning you fellows pick for going to a museum,” he moaned. “I could have had a second breakfast while I’ve been waiting for you.”

“We’re sorry, Chet,” Frank apologized, “but it turned out to be a four-lap, dead-end workout.”

While the Hardys loaded their bags into Chet’s freshly polished yellow jalopy, the Queen, they told him of the museum theft. Chet whistled.

“Do you think the thief’s the one who threw that scalp on our lawn?”

“It’s likely,” Frank replied.

When the jalopy had been loaded up to the back windows, Mrs. Hardy came out and embraced the boys warmly. “Do take care of yourselves.” She smiled. “Dad will be home in a few days. I’ll tell him about your case, but I feel sure you can solve it by yourselves.”

Amid good-bys, Chet backed the car down the driveway, and soon the jalopy was headed north out of Bayport. After following the county road for half an hour, Chet guided the car onto the wide-laned state thruway extending like a white ribbon beneath a light-blue sky.

The boys conversed excitedly about their destination and the mystery to be solved there.

“You really did some tune-up job on the Queen, Chet,” Joe commented from the back seat. “One of these days she may be a threat to approaching the speed limit.”

Chet smiled good-naturedly at the gibe, then frowned, tugging at his beret to keep it from being blown off by the brisk wind. Finally he gave up. “Alas, what we artists must bear.” He sighed and stuffed the cap into the glove compartment.

Frank grinned. “What happened to that coonskin job you had yesterday?”

“Oh,” Chet said airily, “I thought I’d get into the artistic spirit.”

As they drove by a gasoline-and-restaurant service area, a black sedan pulled out onto the thruway from the service area exit. When Chet moved to the middle lane to pass, Joe glanced at the sedan and sat up sharply.

“Frank! The driver of that car—it’s the picture thief!”

Immediately Chet slackened speed. Looking over, Frank too recognized the pug-faced man at the wheel an instant before the thief saw the Hardys. Clearly alarmed, the man gunned the engine. The black car shot ahead, but Frank glimpsed in its back seat a large sketch pad!

“Stay with him!” Joe urged, as the gap widened between the two cars. Futilely, Chet floored the Queen’s old gas pedal, then noticed a large sign to the right: PAY TOLL—½ MILE.

“Quick a quarter!”

Ahead, they could see the black car slow down at the exact-change booth to the right. Chet closed the space quickly before the other car moved ahead, less swiftly this time. Beyond the toll, a parked State Police car was visible.

“Now’s our chance to catch him!” Frank exclaimed. Chet pulled up to the same booth and hastily flipped the coin into the collection basket. Without waiting the second for the light to turn green, he gunned the Queen in hot pursuit of the black car.

Ahead, a blast of exhaust smoke told the pursuers that the thief was tromping on the gas. As Chet strained over the wheel trying to gain speed he heard a siren behind him, and the trooper waved the jalopy to the roadside.

“What happened?” Joe asked anxiously as Chet stopped.

The trooper pulled ahead, got out, and ambled over. “It’s customary to drop a quarter in the toll basket, young fellow.”

“I did.”

The trooper looked annoyed. “The light still says red, and besides, the alarm bell rang.”

“But—but—” Chet spluttered in surprise.

“Let’s see your license.”

“Officer,” Frank spoke up, “we’re in a hurry. We’re chasing a thief!”

The trooper smiled in spite of himself. “Well, I’ve never heard that one before.”

“But we are!” Joe insisted. “A painting was stolen in Bayport.”

“You can check with Chief Collig there,” said Frank.

The trooper eyed the trio suspiciously. “Okay. But if this is a hoax, I’ll arrest all three of you.” He strode to his car and spoke into the radio. Three minutes later he trotted back. “Accept my apologies, boys. You were right. Can you describe that car?”

As Joe gave the information, including the license number which he had memorized, Chet hurried to the toll basket. He returned waving a cloth in his hand. “That’s a clever crook!” he shouted. “He dropped this rag in the basket so my quarter wouldn’t register.”

“He won’t get away from us,” the trooper said. He ran to his car, radioed to police ahead, then sped off at ninety miles an hour.

“Now we’ve got action,” Frank said as Chet urged the Queen along the thruway.

Three exits later, they saw the trooper parked alongside the road. Chet pulled up behind him.

“Sorry, boys!” the officer called out. “The thief gave us the shake. But we’ll track him down!”

After a brief stop at a snack bar the trio continued on toward Crown Lake, with Frank at the wheel.

The flat countryside gave way to ranges of dark and light green hills, several of them arching spectacularly up on either side of the broad road, curving toward the blue sky.

An hour later they left the state thruway and proceeded through several small towns before sighting the bluish-gray water of Crown Lake. It appeared, partially screened by a ridge of trees, then came into full view at a rise just beyond where there was a dirt road and a sign: MILLWOOD ART SCHOOL 500 YARDS AHEAD TO THE RIGHT. Frank swung into the road and in a few minutes the sloping green lawns of the estate came into view. Frank pulled the car into a parking area facing the edge of the slope and stopped next to a large oak.

Chet led the way vigorously down a graveled path which wound across the grounds. “Uncle Jim’s teaching his class now,” he called back to the Hardys.

Ahead, on a level stretch of lawn, the trio saw a group of young people standing in front of easels. Near one student stood a tall, husky, blond-haired man in a painting smock. When he saw the boys, he beamed and hurried over.

“Chet! Good to see you again!”

“Hello, Uncle Jim!” Chet promptly introduced Frank and Joe to Mr. Kenyon, who shook hands warmly.

“Welcome to Millwood.” He smiled. “Fortunately, my last class today is finishing, and I can help you with your luggage.”

The painting instructor accompanied the boys back across the lawn toward the uphill path. Suddenly one of the students cried out:

“Look out! That car—it’s rolling!”

A shudder passed through the boys as they saw the yellow Queen starting down the slope from the parking area. Directly in its path two girls stood rooted in terror at their easels.

Chet’s jalopy gathered speed. It hurtled faster and faster toward the girls!

“We’ve got to stop it!” shouted Joe, on the run.

CHAPTER III

Inquisitive Student

JOE sprinted across the slope and dived for the car. Hanging on, he reached through the window and wrenched at the wheel. The Queen swerved, missed the girls by inches, crushed the easels, and came to rest in a tangle of thick underbrush.

Then Joe ran up to the frightened students. “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

Both girls nodded, trembling with relief. One said, “We owe you our lives!”

“And our paintings too,” said her companion.

Their two half-finished canvases had been knocked off the easels and lay intact, face up on the ground.

By now Frank, Chet, and Mr. Kenyon had rushed over. “Are you all right, Joe?”

“I’m fine, but I’d rather tackle a whole football team than a runaway car!”

The praises of the onlookers for his bravery embarrassed Joe. “Let’s find out what happened to the Queen,” he said.

The boys found the car undamaged. “Hey!” Chet cried out. “The emergency’s off! I know you set it, Frank.”

The jalopy was driven back to the parking area. This time it was left well away from the rim of the incline. Frank looked around.

“The car didn’t just happen to roll. Somebody deliberately released the emergency brake.”

Mr. Kenyon frowned. “What a terrible prank!”

“I don’t believe it was a practical joke,” Frank said. “What the motive was, though, I can’t guess yet.”

The boys took their luggage from the car, and then Mr. Kenyon led them toward a small, newly painted building. “I’m sorry you had to be welcomed to Millbrook in this manner,” he said. “But we’ll try to make up for it.”

He took the visitors through a side door into a large, cluttered room, piled with dusty easels, rolls of canvas, and cardboard boxes filled with paint tubes. “This is our storage house,” explained the art instructor.

The boys followed him down a narrow stairway into a small basement studio. The stone room smelled of oil paints. Several unframed modern paintings lay along one wall. Mr. Kenyon reached up with a pole to open the single window near the ceiling.

“This is my little garret—subterranean style,” he explained. “Make yourselves comfortable. Since the thefts, I’ve been rooming upstairs where I have a better view of our art gallery across the way.”

The boys set down their bags on three sturdy cots. Joe grinned. “I’m beginning to feel like an artist.”

“So am I,” Frank said. “This room is fine, Mr. Kenyon.”

“Just call me Uncle Jim. How about supper? You must be hungry.”

Chet beamed. “I could eat an easel!”

First, however, he eagerly recounted the scalp incident to his uncle, then the Hardys told of their experiences at the Bayport Museum and on the thruway. Mr. Kenyon agreed there likely was a connection with the Millwood thefts.

“But the man you describe doesn’t ring any bells with me,” he continued. “Our summer session had been going along well until five days ago when I discovered a painting missing from our small gallery. The day before yesterday, a second was stolen during the night—both works of the Prisoner-Painter.” He sighed. “We have to keep the building under lock and key now, even from our students.”

“So tomorrow we’ll start our sleuthing,” said Joe.

“Right. Perhaps by mingling with the students you can pick up some clue,” replied Uncle Jim. “Though I’d hate to suspect any of them.”

“Can you tell us about this Prisoner-Painter?” Frank asked.

“I could,” Mr. Kenyon said, smiling, “but I think Mr. Jefferson Davenport would rather tell you himself, since the artist is his ancestor.”

“The wealthy man who started Millwood?” Joe put in.

“Yes. He looks forward to meeting you detectives, but he won’t be receiving visitors today, because of the anniversary of a battle.”

“A battle?” Frank echoed in surprise.

The instructor chuckled. “You’ll find Mr. Davenport is quite a buff on the science of military fortification, in addition to his interest in painting. You’ll see when you meet him tomorrow.”

“What about this haunted fort?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Senandaga?” Uncle Jim’s eyes twinkled. “There are apparently some weird goings-on there. But Mr. Davenport will fill you in on that, too.”

Uncle Jim then took the Hardys and Chet to the Davenport lakeside mansion, an old gabled house staffed only by a woman cook and a part-time chauffeur-gardener.

“Mr. Davenport has invited us to have meals in the kitchen during your stay here,” the instructor said.

After a hearty supper Mr. Kenyon took the boys on a tour. He explained that the Millwood grounds were tended by the students themselves, who rented rooms in the nearby village of Cedartown. Art materials, all instruction, and part of rent costs were financed by the millionaire patron. Several townspeople also painted on weekends at the school.

Uncle Jim showed his visitors the studios, the gallery building from the outside, and finally, a boathouse near the mansion. Several canoes were tied up to a dock. These, Mr. Kenyon said, were for the students’ use.

As he accompanied the boys back to their quarters the instructor said with a grin, “Don’t expect Mr. Davenport to be too—er—ordinary.” He did not explain further, and bade them good night, saying the art patron expected them to call at nine A.M. the next day.

Early the next morning Joe awoke to see an unfamiliar face peering down into their room through the single, high window. The boy, who appeared to be about nineteen, scowled at Joe, then disappeared.

At that moment Frank awakened.

“What’s the matter?” he asked his brother, who was sitting up in bed staring at the window.

“Some fellow was looking in here. He didn’t seem the cheerful type.”

Frank laughed. “One of the students, probably. Maybe he’s envious of our artist’s garret. Let’s wake up Chet and get some vittles.”

After breakfast the three boys strolled around the grounds, already dotted with students setting up easels or heading for studio classes. Joe started as he noticed one student, carrying a small easel, approaching them.

“He’s the one I saw at the window this morning!”

Like many of the other students, the boy wore a gray smock. His face, long and with pudgy lips, had a faintly insolent expression. He came up to the Bayporters.

“You new here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” Frank answered. “We plan to pick up some painting tips as guests of Mr. Kenyon.” He introduced himself and the others.

The student stared at them speculatively. “Oh, is that so? Well, my name’s Ronnie Rush.” He went on sullenly, “Kenyon would have to lock up the whole gallery just because two measly paintings are gone. I could be doing some research.” With a shrug Ronnie added, “Guess I got nothing against you fellows, though. See you around.”

Before the Hardys or Chet could retort, the student shuffled off.

“He’s got some nerve,” Chet said indignantly, “criticizing Uncle Jim! And why was he looking in our window, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said, “but he certainly seems curious about us.”

At that moment Uncle Jim, wearing a fresh white smock, came over and greeted the boys cheerfully. He immediately led them in the direction of the Davenport mansion.

“I’m heading for my watercolor class,” he explained, “but you sleuths can have a private conference about our mystery with Mr. Davenport.”

The instructor led them onto the porch, through the open front door, and pointed down the wood-paneled hallway to a large double door at the end.

“That’s Mr. Davenport’s study, where he’s ex pecting you. We’ll get together later!”

After Chet’s uncle had left, they walked quietly down the hall to the study. Frank knocked. A few seconds later a voice from within said, “Come along.”

The boys entered, closed the doors, and found themselves in a high-ceilinged room with heavily draped windows. Bookshelves lined one wall behind a cluttered mahogany desk. The adjacent wall contained a blackboard.

As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Joe gave Frank a nudge. “Look there!” he whispered.

Standing on a hassock was a small, gray-haired man in a white summer suit. He held a long pointer in one hand and was looking down at a fort structure of toy logs set up on the floor.

“Never! Never!” exclaimed the man as he collapsed the fort with a swish of the stick.

The trio watched, mouths agape. The man looked up quickly and said, “Hello, boys.”

“Mr. Davenport?” Chet said, nonplused.

“I am. And you are James Kenyon’s nephew Chester, I believe, and the two Hardy boys! Much honored!” The man jumped down and shook each boy’s hand, bowing slightly. He spoke in a pleasant Southern drawl, but his twinkling blue eyes revealed a lively personality.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Davenport said.

“We appreciate your invitation to Millwood,” Frank said as they settled in comfortable chairs.

“Poor strategy,” the art patron muttered. He threw open the draperies and paced the room.

“Pardon, sir?” Joe hesitated.

“Vicksburg, of course,” Mr. Davenport answered, frowning at the scattered toy logs. “Yesterday was my annual Vicksburg Day.”

“Have you many military—er—holidays in the year, Mr. Davenport?” asked Chet.

“Fifty-seven, not a one more!” he replied. “Used to have fifty-six till I admitted Bunker Hill this year. Sad days, many of ‘em, but—”

Mr. Davenport paused. Suddenly he rushed over to the toy logs, reshuffled them into a fort, then stretched out on the floor, sighting along his pointer. Chet watched in bewilderment while the Hardys exchanged smiles. Indeed, Mr. Davenport was no ordinary person!

Seconds later, the millionaire leaped up. “Terrible defense. It would never hold! Never!” Crouching, he squinted at the logs with his face almost to the floor. Holding the pointer like a cue, he again toppled the logs.

Seating himself in a rocker, the art patron sighed heavily, thumbed his woolen vest pockets, and peered earnestly at his callers. “Now, what were you saying?”

Frank hastily told him about the scalp warning and the escaped museum thief. Upon hearing of the stolen Senandaga painting, the elderly man became upset and again paced the room.

“Could you tell us something about the Prisoner-Painter, Mr. Davenport?” Joe asked. “And the fort, too?” At that instant Frank heard a faint sound and saw the double door of the study open a fraction of an inch!

“An eavesdropper!” he thought. Frank rushed across the room, but already footsteps were racing down the hallway. Grabbing the knobs, he flung the doors wide open.

CHAPTER IV

A Crimson Clue

STUMBLING footsteps sounded at the bottom of the high porch, but by the time Frank dashed outside, the eavesdropper had vanished.

Disappointed, he returned to the others in the study. “Whoever he was, he didn’t drop any clues,” Frank reported.

“You’re alert, boys,” Mr. Davenport commented. “I like that. What’s more, you’re not afraid, like that custodian who guarded my fort.”

“Your fort?” Joe asked in surprise.

“Yes, young man, Senandaga belongs to me.”

“What happened to the custodian?” asked Frank.

“He left. Quit. Said he couldn’t stand all that haunting—queer noises and so forth. To hear him talk, there’s a whole regiment of ghosts manning the parapets.” Mr. Davenport looked thoughtful. “Of course, he claims he had some close calls.”

“Such as?” Frank queried.

“Said chunks of masonry nearly fell on him a couple of times. But”—the art patron looked skeptical—“I don’t put much stock in that.”

“Now nobody takes care of the fort?” Joe asked.

“Nobody. And there aren’t any pesky visitors, either,” Davenport said with satisfaction. “Anyhow, we have enough to do tracking down the art thieves without worrying about the fort.”

Then the boys asked Mr. Davenport about his ancestor, the Prisoner-Painter.

“Jason Davenport was a great soldier,” he began. “When hostilities broke out between the North and the South, he rose quickly to brigadier general. Then, in one rally near the Potomac, he broke the Union line but penetrated too far without logistical support and was captured. He was held prisoner for the duration at my fort.”

“A brave man,” Joe said. “An ancestor to be proud of.”

“The fort is south of here on Crown Lake, isn’t it?” Frank asked.

Mr. Davenport nodded, motioning toward the large window. “If it weren’t for the promontory nearby, you could see Senandaga.” He reflected. “Jason Davenport died shortly after the war ended. But had he not been a prisoner there, there wouldn’t be the seventeen canvases of Fort Senandaga, three of which,” he added in a rueful tone, “have been stolen.”

Mr. Davenport explained that the general had taken up painting to while away the days. He was a popular hero, well liked by his captors, and received many special favors, including the art materials necessary for his new interest.

“He showed a real genius in imagining different views of the fort from the surrounding countryside.”

“And that’s why his paintings are valuable enough to tempt a thief?” Joe asked, impressed.

“I’d like to think so,” Mr. Davenport answered, “but I fear that’s not the real reason. You see, there were rumors later that Jason had discovered an old French treasure in the fort—and that he had left a clue to its hiding place. My father and uncle didn’t believe it, but I did. So I bought the fort two years ago from a private party.”

“The general left this clue in a painting?” Chet guessed.

“Yes. Either in the picture itself, or the frame.” The art patron went on to explain that his forebear had fashioned a very unusual frame, which he used for all his paintings. “The frames themselves are valuable,” he said. “Unfortunately, some of the originals have been lost over the years, so a few of the fort pictures in our gallery are conventionally framed.”

Joe asked how many of the general’s works were in the school’s possession.

“Fourteen.”

“Who has the others?”

Mr. Davenport’s face turned an angry red. “One, I’m sorry to say, belongs to a person who doesn’t deserve it.” Suddenly, however, he chortled. “But I’ll get back at him.”

The boys were mystified,but before they could question him, the elderly man added, “Another fort picture belongs to a hermit fellow, an Englishman. He bought the painting years ago at an auction. Lives out on Turtle Island.”

“And nobody has found a trace of any clue so far?” Frank asked.

“Not a one. I’ve been trying to find the fort treasure ever since I came here.”

“What is it?” Frank asked. “Jewels?”

“Oh, no. A boom chain, such as those used with logs for blocking ships in the French and Indian War, when Senandaga was built.” The man picked up two of the toy logs and seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Marvelous, marvelous idea, those log-and-chain defenses!”

“Could even a historical chain be tremendously valuable?” Joe inquired, to lead Mr. Davenport back to the main subject of discussion.

“This one is!” the man returned emphatically. “It’s called chaîne d’or—a chain of solid gold.”

“Gold!” The three sleuths sounded like a chorus.

Their host explained that in 1762 the proud Marquis Louis de Chambord, builder and commander of Senandaga, had ordered the chain to be forged, not to be used of course, but as a symbol of his fort’s strength. There was a disagreement, however, among historians over whether the chaîne d’or actually had been made.

“I’m of the firm opinion that it was,” he concluded, “which is why I had James invite you boys up here—to track down the art thief and uncover the gold treasure. So you boys feel free to come and go as you please in my home.”

“Could one of Millwood’s students be the thief?” Frank asked hesitantly.

The art patron wagged his head sadly. “Can’t believe it. They’re all fine young people! Which reminds me—young people get hungry. How about lunch?”

On a lakeside terrace the Bayporters were served club sandwiches and iced tea. As they ate, Frank questioned their host about his cook and chauffeur.

“I trust them implicitly. Both came with excellent references.”

The meal over, Frank, Joe, and Chet thanked Mr. Davenport and walked back to the school. There, Frank pointed to a long, skylighted building in a grove of birches.

“What say we look for clues right where the paintings disappeared—the gallery?”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. They crossed a wide lawn and eagerly headed for the old stone structure. Reaching it, Frank used the key given him by Mr. Kenyon and opened the large padlock. The boys filed inside and closed the door.

The interior was dim and cool, but sunlight came through the panes of a skylight to brighten the three windowless walls, on which were hung some fifty paintings. The wall at the far end of the room contained General Davenport’s, each of which showed a different view of Fort Senandaga.

The boys now noticed the distinctive frames mentioned by the art patron. Their corners jutted out in a diamondlike shape.

“Look!” Joe pointed to a large yellowed diagram, half of which was torn off. It hung near the fort pictures. “That must be Senandaga.”

The Hardys and Chet went over to examine the ancient parchment. Beneath was a label explaining the remnant was from one of the original drawing plans for the fort. Despite the missing part, they could see enough to tell that its layout resembled the form of a star.

“The Prisoner-Painter made his frames roughly in the same shape,” Joe observed.

Frank nodded, then said, “I’m sure the police searched here, but anyway, let’s take a look around ourselves for a clue to the thief.”

Chet took the end wall, Frank and Joe the sides. On their knees, the boys combed the stone floor, then studied the walls for possible telltale marks.

After an hour, their efforts had proved fruitless. “There’s still the wall around the entrance,” Joe said with a sigh. “Let’s inspect every stone.”

While Frank examined an empty desk, Chet and Joe pored carefully over the wall. No luck there.

“Say, fellows,” Joe suddenly exclaimed, “what about the fort paintings themselves? If the thief was undecided about which one to take, he may have touched some.”

“You’re right!” Frank agreed. They rushed across to the row of aged canvases. Removing the paintings from the wall, they began inspecting the backs and edges of the frames.

“Look! I found something!” Chet called out.

Across the paper backing was a sticky smear of red oil paint! “This was made recently,” Joe observed. “It still has a strong paint odor.”

“There’s no fingerprint on the smear,” remarked Frank, looking at it closely, before rubbing some of the paint onto a small piece of paper.

“I wonder if the thief is an artist himself,” Chet said.

The three left the gallery, and locked the door behind them. The next step, they agreed, would be to identify the paint, then track down the person who used it.

“Except for Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport,” Frank cautioned, “we’ll keep this clue to ourselves.”

Millwood students were now strolling from their classes, and Ronnie Rush emerged from a knot of chatting young artists.

“Pick up many painting tips today?” he asked, setting down his easel. “I see you rated getting into the gallery.”

“We’ve just been sort of on a tour,” Frank answered, deftly concealing the paint sample in the palm of his hand. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’ve been working on a couple of oils,” Ronnie said importantly. “Want to see ’em?”

“Not right now,” Joe replied. “We’re busy. Thanks anyway.”

Ronnie looked annoyed and eyed the three boys sullenly as they hurried to their quarters. There they found Jim Kenyon in the storage room shifting art equipment about. He was keenly interested in the paint sample, and congratulated them on finding the clue. He immediately identified the paint.

“It’s called alizarin crimson,” he said. “Many of our students use it.”

“Pretty hard to pinpoint the culprit,” Frank observed. “But we won’t give up.”

After washing his hands in turpentine and soap, the husky instructor accompanied the boys to supper. A tasty meal awaited them in the Davenport kitchen.

After supper the boys went to the lakeside for a look at the boathouse. They peered up at the promontory behind which Fort Senandaga lay.

“Let’s go over to the fort tomorrow,” Frank suggested. “Right now, we might do some boning up on art. It might sharpen our eyes to finding that treasure clue.”

In their basement room, Chet and the Hardys spent the evening mulling over books on painting borrowed from Mr. Kenyon. Later, they went upstairs for a conference with Chet’s uncle. Using paints and a canvas, the instructor illustrated various art techniques.

“Want to try your hand, Chet?” Mr. Kenyon offered, holding out the brush to his nephew. He winked at Frank and Joe. “I think he has the makings of a painter, don’t you?”

But before either Hardy could answer, the building shook with a deafening roar that reverberated up the stairwell!

Frank jumped to his feet. “That came from downstairs!” The smell of burnt powder reached them as they all charged down the narrow steps. When they entered their room, Chet gasped.

The wall near which their luggage lay was splattered with red dots!

“A shotgun!” Joe exclaimed, picking up a used cartridge under the window. He grimaced and held out the shell. “Look.” Everyone gasped. It was covered with red.

“Bl-blood?” Chet quavered.

His uncle examined the cartridge. “No. Red paint—alizarin crimson!”

On the floor lay a small paintbrush. Wrapped around it was a piece of paper. Frank unfolded the sheet to disclose a typewritten message:

A mural for the Hardy Boys. Leave Millwood or my next painting will be a coffin—yours.

CHAPTER V

Danger Alley

CHET looked nervous. “Another threat!” he exclaimed. “I guess that scalp warning wasn’t any joke.”

Uncle Jim’s face showed concern. “Whoever stuck a gun barrel through that window wants to scare you boys off—that’s plain.”

Joe said wryly, “Lucky we weren’t on hand for the barrage.”

Frank compared the note with that found earlier on the scalp. “Both were done on the same typewriter—and this red paint looks like that ‘blood’ on the papier-mâché.”

With flashlights the instructor and the three boys searched the ground outside the shattered window, but no clues were found.

While the boys swept up the broken glass and fallen plaster, they speculated on the identity of their mysterious enemy. The Hardys felt he might very well be the same person who had thrown the scalp and stolen the fort painting in Bayport.

Chet gulped. “You mean—that thief trailed us here?” Then he asked, “Do you think that snoopy Ronnie Rush could have had something to do with this?” He told his uncle of their encounters with the boy.

“Well,” said Mr. Kenyon, “Ronnie’s sometimes a little hard to work with, but I don’t think he’d do something like this. Our annual outdoor exhibit is to be held on Senandaga Day—next Saturday. I’ll be pretty busy getting ready for it, so I won’t have much time to help you detectives.”

Jim explained that Senandaga Day was celebrated every year. The town decreed that the fort be opened at this time to the public. “By having our art exhibit then, we attract more visitors.”

The Hardys decided to track down if possible the source of the empty cartridge. Frank obtained from Uncle Jim the name of a Cedartown hunting equipment shop, the only one in the area.

“It’s run by Myles Warren,” the painter added. “He’s one of our weekend painters, by the way.”

Before retiring, the Hardys fastened some slats across the window. The rest of the night passed uneventfully. After breakfast the next morning, the three attended the quaint little church in town and located the shop of Myles Warren.

“We’ll come here first thing tomorrow,” Frank said.

Back at the school, the boys had midday dinner, then strolled across the lawn toward several students at work on their paintings.

Frank said in a low tone, “Let’s see who has been using the alizarin red.” The trio split up. Each boy had a paper bearing a smear of the paint. They began browsing near easels set up not only on the main lawn, but also in various nooks on the outskirts of the estate.

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed to himself, coming upon a dazzling creation being worked on by a thin, red-haired boy in dungarees. The plump boy tried to make some order out of the reddish-brown swirlsand zigzag silver streaks. “Looks like a vegetable cart that’s been hit by lightning.”

The student paused and greeted Chet. “Like it?” He smiled. “It’s a meadow in wintertime.”

“Oh—er—very unusual.” Chet walked on, muttering, “Guess I’ll have to get the hang of this stuff.”

He stopped at several other easels, some of which bore landscape scenes, and others, views of the Millwood buildings or of the surrounding lakes.

“Hi!” A round-faced jovial girl peeked out at Chet from behind an easel. “Are you a new student at Millwood?” she asked, wiping some red paint from her hands onto a rag. Chet explained that he was trying to pick up some pointers.

“You’ll have to see our exhibit,” she said brightly. “I’m just touching up my portrait. One of the other students modeled for it.”

“Is that alizarin crimson?”

“Oh, you! You’re an old pro to recognize it,” the girl said.

Chet gulped. “She’s so nice, she couldn’t be the thief,” he thought, then peered wide-eyed at the bizarre maze of green and yellow triangles, wavy black lines, blobs of thick red shading, and one eye.

“You say another student modeled for you? Is he all right now?”

The girl giggled. “Quit teasing. You know well enough this is an abstract!”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Chet smiled and moved on to inspect several other student canvases before meeting the Hardys near the gallery. “Hope you fellows had more luck than I did,” he said.

Frank shook his head. “Everybody is using alizarin crimson. We can’t narrow down this clue.”

The next morning they walked up the shady lake road to the quaint village of Cedartown. Picturesque shops, a small church, and a barnlike playhouse graced the narrow main street. Frank pointed out the Cedar Sport Store on the other side.

“If the shotgun shell was bought any place in the area, there’s a good chance it was here,” he said. They crossed and entered the dimly lighted shop.

A long, cluttered counter extended along a dusty wall hung with assorted hunting and fishing equipment. Frank rang the counter bell, and a slender hawk-nosed man with a full black beard emerged from a back room.

“Mr. Warren?” Frank inquired.

“Right. What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling. He spread his hands on the counter and looked with interest at the boys.

“Can you tell us whether this was sold here?” Joe asked, handing him the paint-marked cartridge.

The owner pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and looked closely at the shell. He shook his head and handed it back.

“If it was used in this area, it’s probably my stock,” Warren affirmed. “But I sell hundreds of this brand to hunters. Although without the red paint,” he added, chuckling.

“Then you have no way of pinpointing the customer?” Frank asked.

“I’m afraid not.” The man then asked, “You all up here for the fishing? It’s great at the north end of the lake.”

Frank shook his head. “Just visiting.”

After thanking the dealer, the three left the shop. The next moment they heard a cry of anguish from an antique shop across the street. Its owner stood in the doorway gesturing frantically. “Help! Thief! Help!”

The boys rushed to the sidewalk. “Over there!” Joe yelled.

Directly opposite, a small man was running into a cobblestone alley. He carried a picture frame under his arm. The boys sprinted across the street and up the alley. They were closing the gap when the man stopped at a parked black sedan. The Hardys gasped.

It was the man who had stolen the fort painting from the Bayport Museum!

“He’s got an old fort frame!” Frank cried out, recognizing the odd shape.

The boys put on more speed as the thief hopped into the car and started the motor.

The sedan roared down the alley directly toward the boys! “Quick, this way!” Joe yelled.

They darted to the right and flattened themselves against a building. The speeding vehicle almost brushed them. In a moment it had screeched around the corner and disappeared up the main street.

A curious crowd had gathered, but were quickly dispersed by a policeman. The Hardys and Chet then went with the officer to the antique shop. The owner explained that the pug-faced man, whom he had never seen before, had offered to purchase the frame. Upon hearing the price, the man said that it was too high, and he started toward the door.

“So I went into my workshop in back,” the dealer continued, “and returned just in time to see that scoundrel making off with the frame.” He groaned. “An irreplaceable loss.”

Next, the boys were taken to police headquarters, where they told their story to the chief. He said a state alarm would be issued for the fugitive. Since the earlier alert, sent out right after the boys’ chase on the thruway, the police had discovered through the license number that the sedan was stolen.

“We know the fellow’s in this area now,” the chief said. “We’ll keep you boys informed.”

Walking back to Millwood, the three discussed the stolen frame.

“Probably,” Frank remarked, “the thief didn’t have any luck finding a treasure clue in the paintings.”

Joe looked thoughtful, “You think this guy stole the gallery pictures, too?”

Frank stared at his brother. “Say! He could be in league with someone else!”

Back at Millwood, Chet and the Hardys told Mr. Kenyon of the Cedartown incident. “Pretty bold move,” he commented, “risking a theft in broad daylight.”

“Well,” Joe said glumly, “let’s hope the treasure clue isn’t in that frame.”

After some further discussion of the new development in the mystery, Uncle Jim said, “How would you like to get your first look at Fort Senandaga?”

“You bet!”

“Good. Mr. Davenport has asked us to go.”

The boys and the instructor went to the mansion, where they were introduced to Alex, the millionaire’s chauffeur-gardener, dressed in blue uniform and cap. Tall, with a clipped black mustache, he bowed stiffly to the boys, then moved around to the rear door of a polished limousine.

“Boy, we’re going to ride in real style!” Chet exclaimed. “Old Queen will get jealous.”

Mr. Davenport came out, greeted them cordially, and all took seats in back. Soon the limousine was heading south along the pretty, winding lake road. Past the end of the lake, the car turned up a gentle hill and paused at a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign. Alex got out and unlocked a wire gate. The entire south end of the fort promontory was enclosed by fencing marked with NO TRESPASSING signs.

As they drove ahead through overgrown woods, the elderly Southerner spoke proudly of Fort Senandaga’s history. He explained that little was known of the one battle fought there between the British and French.

“There’s dispute till this day about its outcome,” he went on, “and which side was the last to leave the fort. That’s probably why some folks believe Senandaga is haunted—ghosts of soldiers from both forces still fighting, no doubt.” He added, “Someday I aim to have that fort fully restored.”

Chet asked if the public often visited the site at other times besides Senandaga Day. Davenport’s face turned livid and his eyes blazed. “The—the public!” he sputtered, sitting up and thumping his cane on the floor. Chet sat petrified until his uncle put a warning finger to his lips and smoothly changed the subject.

Alex parked in a small clearing and everyone got out. The chauffeur stayed to guard the car. Mr. Davenport, his composure restored, led the others to a grass bluff. “There she is!”

The entire lake could be seen, dotted in the distance with islands like scrubby green battle-ships. To the boys’ left, up a gentle slope, rose the stone fort, an expansive star-shaped ruin surrounded by a shallow ditch, overgrown with brush. Although much of the masonry was crumbling, all the walls were at least partially intact.

As they walked toward the ramparts, Chet’s uncle pulled the boys aside and accounted for his employer’s sudden outburst.

“I guess I should have warned you,” he said, chuckling. “There are two things you should never mention in Mr. Davenport’s presence. One is admitting the public to his fort—he has a great fear that someone will get careless wandering around the ruins and be injured. The other is Chauncey Gilman.”

“Chauncey Gilman? Who is he?” Joe asked.

Before Uncle Jim could answer, Mr. Davenport summoned them all down the steep counterscarp, or exterior slope of the ditch. As they proceeded, the elderly man talked excitedly.

“Good walls, these,” he pointed out, his voice echoing upward. “The man who drew up the plans for Senandaga followed the star-shaped design made famous by Marshall Sebastian de Vauban, military engineer for Louis XIV. Genius—sheer genius!” he added as they came to a wide-angled turn in the towering wall. “A century later my ancestor was imprisoned here.”

Frank and Joe marveled at the imposing defense the fort must have provided. “How could any army capture a place like Senandaga?” Joe asked.

“Not without much bloodshed,” the millionaire acknowledged. “A man like Vauban could have succeeded, though. Long before Chambord built Senandaga, Vauban devised a parallel trench system for assaulting forts.” He explained how attacking armies in Europe had got nearer and nearer to fort walls by digging one parallel trench, then zigzagging ahead to dig another, and so on.

“Boy, what terrific strategy!” Frank said.

“Brilliant—brilliant,” Mr. Davenport agreed. “The Marquis de Chambord, by the way, was a great admirer of Vauban’s achievements.”

Chet glanced out at the peaceful lake, which once was the scene of warring canoes or attacking fleets. “It doesn’t seem haunted,” he whispered to the Hardys.

Frank was about to answer when a rumbling sound came from above. Looking up, he cried out:

“Watch out! The wall!”

A huge section of crumbling gray masonry collapsed in a cloud of dust and came toppling downward!

CHAPTER VI

Chet vs. Impasto

THE crumbling wall broke into a spreading, plunging landslide.

“Quick!” Frank shouted.

Instantly he pulled Mr. Davenport to safety while the others leaped from the path of the rocky avalanche.

When the danger was past, Frank saw that Mr. Davenport was holding his hand to his chest and breathing hard. “Are you all right, sir?”

The art patron shook his head but said nothing. His face was pale and he hung onto the boy for support. Frank turned to the others. “I think we’d better get him to a doctor!”

They quickly returned to the car. Alex drove them immediately to Mr. Davenport’s physician in Cedartown. To everyone’s relief, an examination showed that there was nothing seriously wrong.

“Just see that you get plenty of rest,” the young doctor directed, “and stay away from dangerous ruins!”

As the limousine headed back to Millwood, the millionaire, looking somewhat better, pursed his lips and grumbled. “No sooner get to visit my own fort than it has to fall down on me. I can’t understand it—Senandaga rock’s not likely to give way like that.”

Joe and Frank shared a frightening thought: Had the masonry been pushed down?

“You take care of yourself, Mr. Davenport.” Joe smiled. “Frank, Chet, and I are up here to earn our keep as detectives. We’ll investigate the fort and keep you posted.”

All three boys were eager for a second crack at Senandaga. Was a gold chain made by order of the Marquis de Chambord hidden somewhere beneath its ruins? If so, would they be able to beat the thief, or thieves, in finding the Prisoner-Painter’s clue?

During a late lunch the boys asked Uncle Jim about Chauncey Gilman, the man for whom Mr. Davenport apparently had a violent dislike.

“Gilman lives across the lake,” he replied. “He’s wealthy—inherited a lot—and is an art critic. Writes a column for the local paper.”

Uncle Jim also explained that Gilman had bought a fort painting years ago from the Millwood philanthropist. “Mr. Davenport has regretted it ever since.”

He explained that the critic, a failure as an artist himself, had grown extremely harsh in his published statements about the school. “He’s not a very pleasant fellow,” Jim added. “You’ll probably run into him here on Senandaga Day.”

When they had finished eating, the Hardys called the local police and learned that the stolen sedan used by the antique-shop thief had been found abandoned off a highway outside Cedartown. “Maybe he’s gone into hiding nearby,” Frank conjectured. “We’ll have to keep a sharp lookout.”

The boys went to tell Mr. Davenport about the theft. He was disturbed to learn of the stolen frame. “If I’d known it was at the shop, I would’ve bought it,” he fumed.

The art patron then opened a small safe and took out a photostat. It was a copy of an old, detailed map of Fort Senandaga, labeled in script, which Mr. Davenport said the boys could borrow.

“This should be a big help when we begin combing the ruins for some clue to the treasure,” said Frank, pocketing the map.

At Chet’s urging, the Hardys agreed to attend a studio oil-painting class that afternoon. “You sleuths can still keep your eyes open,” said the plump youth.

Joe eyed him suspiciously. “Chet Morton, I sense you’ve got an ulterior motive.”

Chet grinned widely, but said nothing.

Uncle Jim welcomed the three boys to the cool, stone-walled room in which the class was held. Here, long, high windows let in ample daylight.

“I’ll just watch,” said Frank.

“Me too.” Joe grinned. “We’ll leave the brush-work to Chet.”

The stout boy obtained an easel and the necessary art material, and chose a spot at the back of the room.

Ronnie Rush stood at an easel in front of Chet. He turned around and smirked. “You have talent?”

“I’ll soon find out,” Chet replied as the Hardys strolled over.

On impulse Joe asked, “Say, Ronnie, you use much of that alizarin crimson?”

Ronnie looked surprised. “Sure. Everybody does.”

“In painting, that is?” Joe asked pointedly.

Ronnie stared in bewilderment. “Of course. Why?”

“Oh, just curious.”

Jim Kenyon now came over to show his nephew about blending colors and brush techniques.

When he had moved away, Frank murmured to his brother, “Ronnie didn’t act like he had anything to do with that cartridge shell.”

Joe nodded. “I’d still like to find out why he’s so resentful.”

The brothers looked at Chet. Their stout pal, completely engrossed, was wielding his brush with vigorous strokes. Joe chuckled. “Chet’s really got the painting bug.”

A little later the Hardys decided to take a closer look at the fort paintings and headed for the gallery. As they approached the building, footsteps came up behind them. The boys turned to face Ronnie Rush. “I’d like to see those fort pictures,” he said petulantly.

The Hardys were nonplused. Finally Frank said, “Mr. Kenyon told us no students were allowed in the gallery now.”

Joe added, “Do you have a special interest in forts? Senandaga, for instance?”

“Oh, just the painting techniques,” Ronnie said hastily. “And why are you two so interested?”

“We’re doing some research on the fort’s history,” Frank replied.

“Oh. History.” Ronnie squinted. He did not seem inclined to leave, so the brothers gave up their plan for the moment and returned to the studio where Chet was still working at his easel.

“Can we see your masterpiece?” Joe asked, grinning.

“Oh, no, fellows,” Chet replied earnestly, waving them off. “Not yet.”

After supper Frank said, “We ought to try another tack. I vote we pay a visit to Mr. Davenport’s enemy.”

Chet’s eyes widened. “Chauncey Gilman?”

“Yes. After all, he owns a fort painting.”

Joe was enthusiastic. “Maybe Gilman himself has information about the gold chain.”

Taking Chet’s jalopy, the three were soon heading north along the west shore of the lake, an area lined with tourist homes. Farther on, imposing lakeside mansions came into view, and in another twenty minutes they pulled into a sloping gravel driveway. A chain-hung sign along the side read: CHAUNCEY GILMAN, ESQ. Atop the rise stood a handsome Tudor-style house overlooking the lake.

“What a setup!” Chet whistled as he parked.

From a shrubbed terrace at the rear, a plump, wavy-haired man arose from a lounge chair. He stared in disapproval at the vehicle and its smoking exhaust, then at the boys as they got out.

The Bayporters had never seen a man quite so elegantly attired. He wore a green velvet jacket, striped trousers, and white cravat.

“Are you sure you’re at the right address?” he droned nasally, removing his glasses.

“Mr. Gilman?” Frank inquired.

“The same.”

Frank introduced himself and the others, explaining they were vacationing at Crown Lake and hoped to see his fort painting.

“Are you one of those Millwood students?” the critic asked disdainfully.

“Not exactly,” Joe replied.

“Very well.” Gilman shrugged and ushered the boys across the terrace toward a back door.

“Real friendly type,” Joe whispered to the others.

Inside, the critic led them through elaborately furnished rooms, then up winding stairs into a large hall. To one side was an arched doorway.

“My own lake-view dining room,” he announced, leading them past a suit of armor and around a long table on which lay a large dictionary. On the far wall he gestured toward a painting.

The canvas, not in the original frame, showed a distant twilight view of Fort Senandaga, with a thorn apple tree in the foreground. The boys noticed that the scene had a three-dimensional effect.

“A rather good effort,” Gilman intoned grudgingly. “Acquired from a most misguided man, I might add. Fine impasto, don’t you think?”

“Er—exquisite,” Chet replied, receiving amazed looks from both Hardys. He bit off a smile and wondered what “impasto” meant. “Sounds like a salad,” he thought.

The critic turned to Frank and Joe. “No doubt,” he went on condescendingly, “you’ll want to see the general’s other paintings at that so-called art school.” He sniggered with relish. “I’ll be paying my annual visit there to the students’ exhibition, and pass judgment on the—er—works of those amateur juveniles—a most amusing task!”

Chet had edged over to the large dictionary. He would get one up on the Hardys, and at the same time not feel so stupid about “impasto.”

Frank observed their stout friend from the corner of his eye, but made no move to give him away. Chet picked up the book and leafed through it, backing toward the window for better light.

Joe, meanwhile, could not resist asking Gilman, “Do you paint?”

The plump man looked out the window, his hands behind his back. “I am, first and foremost, a critic,” he declared haughtily, “and widely known by the elite of the artistic world. I—”

Crash!

The Hardys and Gilman jumped and wheeled about. On the floor lay the suit of armor. Standing over it was Chet, his face flaming red. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “I backed right into it.” Quickly he put the dictionary on the table.

“Studying too hard?” Frank grinned as he helped right the knight figure. “No damage, sir.”

The critic raised his eyes to the ceiling. “My nerves!”

Chet sheepishly placed the dictionary on the table and joined the brothers as they studied the fort painting. “Impasto,” muttered the plump boy, “is the thick application of pigment to a canvas or panel, for your information.”

“Okay, professor.” Joe chuckled.

They peered closely at the picture’s surface, trying to detect some kind of telltale marks in the composition. From several strategic questions, the Hardys gathered that Gilman knew nothing of any clue to the chaîne d’or.

Finally, the critic coughed meaningfully. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I must be getting to work on an important critique.”

The boys, disappointed in the outcome of their mission, thanked the man and left.

“So that’s Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said scornfully as they headed south on the lake road. “What a swellhead! And he sure has it in for Millwood. No wonder Mr. Davenport doesn’t like him.”

“You said it!” Chet agreed, “Uncle Jim and his students must resent a character like that.”

Frank appeared lost in thought. “I wish we could do more in getting to the bottom of this mystery. If only we knew what kind of clue to look for!”

“Do you think Gilman has any interest in the gold chain?” Chet asked.

Frank shrugged. “He didn’t act like it—but you never know.”

Joe’s lip curled. “He’s too busy dreaming up acid criticisms.”

The suit of armor crashed to the floor

A mist hung over the lake now, the water below them seeming almost colorless through the trees. Up ahead at a bend in the road, Chet noticed an observation area offering a commanding view of the lake. The boys decided to pull over for a look.

“Maybe we can see the fort from here,” Joe said. Chet parked on the wide shoulder and they got out.

A strong wind coursed up the slopes from the lake. Several homes were scattered along the opposite shore. The boys looked out to their right. Barely visible in the dusk was the jutting outline of one of Senandaga’s walls. The Hardys again speculated on the collapse of the fort section that morning.

Suddenly Joe leaned forward and asked curiously, “What kind of craft is that?”

The others looked down and saw a small white barge, coupled to a green tugboat. They could dimly make out two metal strands coming from the front of the barge.

“Oh, that must be the cable ferry Uncle Jim mentioned,” Chet recalled. “It takes cars and passengers across the lake.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go back,” he said. “Supper was a long time ago!” The famished boy grinned and the brothers laughed.

They started for the car. Joe, who was last, abruptly stopped in his tracks. His ears strained to catch a distant sound.

“Fellows, wait! Hear that?”

They listened intently. Echoing down the lake from the ramparts came the ominous thump, thump, thump of a drum!

CHAPTER VII

An Angry Sculptor

“LISTEN!” Joe urged, as Frank and Chet joined him apprehensively at the lookout.

“What is it?” Chet asked.

Joe held up his hand for silence and they listened intently. Frank leaned far out in the direction of the mist-shrouded fort. The only sound was that of the wind through the trees.

Joe explained as they got back in the car. “I’m positive it was drumbeats!” he said emphatically. “It was coming from—the fort!”

A cold chill raced up Chet’s spine. He shuddered. “Y-you think Senandaga really is h-haunted ?”

“It could have been the wind playing tricks,” Frank speculated. “Personally, I think it was your stomach rumbling, Chet. Why didn’t you tell us you were so hungry?”

The three broke into laughter, and drove back to Millwood, where they persuaded the kind-hearted cook to provide them with a snack.

The Hardys suggested they check the grounds before going to bed. The place seemed to be deserted. Joe happened to glance over toward the moonlit gallery and noticed something move in the shadows. A man was crouched at the locked door!

“Somebody’s trying to get into the gallery!”

The boys broke into a run across the lawn, but the man jumped up and tore into the woods.

“Fan out!” Frank yelled to Joe and Chet.

Separating, they crashed through the brush in pursuit. In the darkness ahead, they could hear pounding footsteps.

“This way!” Joe yelled, heading left toward the sound of a breaking twig.

“Where? I can’t see a thing!” Chet stumbled into a fallen tree and groaned before following a shadow to his left. “F-Frank—is that you?”

“Yes. Come on! Over here!”

Darting quickly from one tree trunk to the next, Frank plunged forward through bushes, then paused. Hearing a branch snap, he rushed ahead to the left.

“He must have headed to the right!” Joe’s voice rang out.

Squinting for a glimpse of the prowler, Frank jumped over some rocks and darted through a clearing. As he sprinted into an adjoining wooded patch, he collided with someone and went sprawling on the ground.

“Joe—it’s you!”

“Frank!”

Presently they saw Chet’s chunky shadow approach. “Where did he go?” Chet panted, exhausted.

Kneeling and breathing heavily, they listened for a sign of the fugitive. But there was only silence throughout the woods.

“That guy’s a phantom,” said Chet, mopping his forehead.

“One thing is certain,” Frank remarked. “He knows the area well. Probably somebody local.”

“Wonder who he was,” Joe said as they hurried toward the gallery. “He was tall—dennitely not the thief we’ve already seen.”

The boys found that the gallery padlock had been tampered with, and hastily summoned Chet’s uncle.

“We didn’t get a good look at the man,” Frank reported, “but this is definite proof there’s more than one person after the fort treasure.”

He phoned headquarters, and soon an officer arrived on the scene. He dusted the door for prints, and made a search of the grounds near the gallery.

“No footprints,” he reported. “Check with us in the morning.”

Afterward, the young sleuths and Uncle Jim got tools and worked by lantern light to reinforce the lock.

Frank and Joe also inserted a high-watt bulb into the unused socket over the door, then switched on the light. It was past midnight when they gathered up the tools.

Mr. Kenyon wiped his brow. “This bright light may discourage intruders. This gallery wasn’t designed to hold off thieves!”

Joe grinned. “I hope we are.”

The next morning Chet was snoring contentedly when the Hardys finished dressing. Strong tugs at his legs awakened him.

“Come on,” Joe urged. “Up and at ’em! You’re four hours behind the birds!”

The heavy youth grumbled and burrowed deeper into his covers.

“Breakfast is ready!” Joe shouted.

Covers flew up and Chet landed squarely on the floor with two feet.

After eating, the trio went directly to the gallery. This time no one interfered. They found the remaining fort paintings were as varied in style as they were in views of the impressive fortress.

Several were painted as if from the middle of Crown Lake; others as if from a nearby mountain. Some were night scenes, others broad daylight. Green and brown colors stood out boldly, and lighting effects were worked with fine brush strokes upon the fort’s stone ledges.

All the paintings were signed with an interlaced J and D.

“As I see it,” Frank observed, “there’s a choice of ways in which a painter could leave a clue on canvas.”

“Or in the frame,” Chet added.

Frank nodded. “But I think the paintings themselves are the best bet. The clue could be a tiny word in a corner or even a symbol. Or”—he pointed to one picture—“it might be where a figure is standing—this Union soldier for instance.”

“Also,” Joe interposed, “we should keep our eyes open for any unusual color or brush stroke.”

By noon they had found nothing definite, but all three had kept notes of possible clues. Back in their room, the boys placed tracing paper over the photostat of the Senandaga map and marked the places they wanted to check. Joe then locked the map in his suitcase and put the tracing paper in his pocket. After lunch the Hardys were impatient to begin exploring the fort, but Chet had a suggestion.

“Uncle Jim told me there’s a new instructor in sculpture. He’s French, and has definite views on Fort Senandaga. Maybe we should see this René Follette.”

The Hardys agreed, although they strongly suspected their chum was trying to postpone another visit to the old fort. First, Frank phoned headquarters. No trace of the thief or of last evening’s prowler had turned up. The fingerprints had proved inconclusive.

The Bayporters headed for the sculpture studio. On the way, they passed Ronnie at his easel. Chet twirled his beret and sang out, “Getting ready for the exhibit?”

The student sneered. “I’m all set to take first prize. Half the kids here can’t paint a barn door.”

Chet glanced at the garish orange and purple circles on Ronnie’s canvas. “Rush” was signed at the bottom in large flourishing letters.

“You wouldn’t understand it.” Ronnie guffawed, then said slyly, “I saw you three coming out of the gallery. Did you give up painting lessons ?”

“Not me,” Chet declared cheerfully.

“Ha! I suppose you’re going to enter the exhibit.”

Chet’s face grew red. The Hardys winked at each other but said nothing. The young detectives moved on.

As they entered the sculpture workshop, the fresh smell of clay reached their nostrils. Colorful pottery and ceramic figures stood on high tables, as well as several in bronze. A stocky, red-faced man with snapping black eyes was darting among his students. About fifteen boys and girls were standing before long tables, working on both clay and metal sculptures.

When he saw Chet and the Hardys the instructor beamed. “Come in, come in!” He made a sweeping gesture of welcome. “You are new, n’est ce pas? I am René Follette.”

The boys explained that they were visiting Millwood as guests. “We’re especially interested in Fort Senandaga,” said Frank. “Could—”

“Ah! Magnifique!” the Frenchman broke in dramatically. “I shall tell you the story.” The boys settled down at an empty table by a narrow open window. Follette removed a denim apron and joined them.

His first words were startling. “Senandaga! Bah! Fort du Lac is the real name!” He struck his chest. “It was built by a Frenchman—le Marquis de Chambord.”

Intrigued by the peppery sculptor, the Hardys asked him about the battle said to have taken place during the French-Indian conflict. “Is it true the British conquered the fort?” Frank asked.

“Jamais! Never!” was the violent protest. Waving his hands, the Frenchman told how the British, under the command of Lord Craig, coming by boat down Crown Lake, had attacked the bastion. They had forced the French to flee, but apparently had not held the fort long, since Chambord’s men had returned to drive out their foe.

“Chambord was a great man!” Follette exulted. “His men were the last seen on the ramparts of Fort du Lac-not the Englanders!” He pounded the table fiercely.

At that moment Joe glimpsed a flash of gray moving away from the window. He could not be sure, but assumed it was someone in an artist’s smock. Had the person been listening, or just passing by?

Frank was asking René Follette about the gold boom chain ordered by Chambord.

“I believe it was made,” the sculptor replied. His voice lowered. “I also believe it was stolen—by the Britishers. It is my intention,” he added, “to find the truth. In my own way.”

With that, the excitable Frenchman arose and resumed his instruction.

Outside, the boys looked at one another. Chet grinned. “Mr. Follette is ready to fight that battle all over again,” he said. “Think it’s true about the French being the last holders of Senandaga?”

Frank chuckled. “Mr. Davenport may know. Why don’t we drop over and see him?”

“Let’s take the map along,” Joe said. “I’ll go back for it and meet you outside the mansion.” He headed across the grounds to the storage building. At the top of the stairwell inside, he heard a scrambling noise from below. Somebody was in their room!

Tensely, Joe swung down the winding metal steps and burst inside the open door. Too late he heard a sound behind him. A crashing blow descended on his head. The room reeling, Joe sank to the floor.

CHAPTER VIII

Treacherous Detour

REGAINING his senses, Joe found himself on his cot, looking up at the anxious faces of Frank and Chet. He sat up groggily, wincing as he touched his throbbing head.

“Ooo, who—scalped me?”

“The same person who stole our map of the fort,” Frank said, handing his brother a cool gauze compress.

“The map!” Joe exclaimed. “Stolen!” He remembered hearing the rummaging noise before he was struck unconscious.

Frank pointed to their scattered clothing. “Somebody pried open our suitcases. Anyhow, the photostat’s gone. Too bad we didn’t come back sooner to find out why you didn’t show up.”

Joe insisted he felt well enough to accompany Frank and Chet to inform Mr. Davenport.

“I hope this theft won’t upset him too much,” Chet said worriedly.

“If it wasn’t the picture thief or whoever we saw at the gallery last night, I’ve got another guess,” Joe proposed. “Ronnie Rush.”

“Possibly.” Frank’s brow creased. “It would help to find out if he’s only being nosy, or if he has a special interest in the gallery besides ‘research.’ ”

They picked up Jim Kenyon at his studio and walked together to the mansion.

“Too bad,” he said upon hearing the boys’ story. “As far as I know, Ronnie’s background is okay. But I’ll try to keep a closer watch on him.”

They trudged up the drive and came upon Alex, now in overalls, weeding a flower border. Even in work clothes, the man had a formal manner. He nodded slightly to the boys as they passed.

Inside, the Hardys and their companions found the elderly Southerner in his study, moodily pok ing his cane at the toy fort. He brightened at the entrance of his visitors.

“I declare, I’m delighted to see you all. My fort problem’s sort of getting me down. Any progress on the treasure?”

Frank took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we have another theft to report.”

Mr. Davenport was greatly agitated after hearing of Joe’s experience. “Bad business,” he muttered. “Don’t like any of you boys getting hurt.”

Joe grinningly assured him, “We’re rugged. I’m sorry about the map, though.”

“Have one other copy tucked away.” Mr. Davenport extracted a photostat from his safe and handed it to Frank.

“We’d like to visit the fort again,” Frank said.

“Go right ahead. I don’t mind you boys being there, so long as the confounded pub—”

Joe broke in hastily to query him about the strange drumbeats. Mr. Davenport was intrigued, but had never heard the sounds.

Frank then asked about the sculptor’s claim that French soldiers had been the last to leave the fort in the disputed battle.

The elderly man gave a little smile. “My feeling is, boys, that there’s truth on both sides. Trouble is, both Lord Craig and Chambord lost their lives at a battle just after Senandaga. There are questions no one may ever be able to answer.”

Chet spoke up. “We’ve studied the pictures some more. We even visited Chauncey Gilman—oh!”

The forbidden name was out of Chet’s mouth before he realized it! Mr. Davenport began thumping his cane on a tea table, jarring the china.

“Gilman!” his voice rose. “Gilman! That long-nosed, uppity Yankee! If that stuffed-shirt critic’s trying to carpetbag more of my fort paintings—or the treasure—Why, I’ll—”

Chet’s uncle quickly eased the breathless art patron into a chair while Frank said soothingly, “Mr. Davenport, we understand how you feel. But as detectives we have to investigate every lead. Mr. Gilman isn’t very likable, but I don’t think he’s a thief.”

The old man gradually calmed down, and wiping his brow, apologized for his outburst. He gave Joe a key to the fort gate and a short while later the boys departed.

Outside, Joe said eagerly, “I’m for a trip to the fort, pronto.”

Chet looked unhappy. “You go, fellows. I—er—have some work to do.”

“Work!” Joe echoed teasingly.

Uncle Jim grinned. “Chet has promised to help spruce up the grounds for our exhibit. My students are devoting all their time to finishing their entries.”

Joe grinned. “We’ll pitch in and give you a hand if you’ll drive us to Senandaga. Is it a bargain, Chet?”

“Okay, okay!”

While Jim went off to a class, the Bayporters set to work. Chet and Joe teamed up to wash windows. Frank mowed the grass, starting with the area around the gallery.

Still wondering about the stolen fort map, he kept his eyes open for Ronnie. But the youth was nowhere to be seen.

Later, at the sculptor’s studio, as the students were leaving, Frank found Joe washing the outside panes.

“This is one way to earn our keep.” Frank grinned. “Say, where’s Chet?”

“Don’t know,” Joe replied. “He and Uncle Jim went to the oil-painting studio about an hour ago. Let’s check.”

Joe put down his bucket and rags and the brothers walked over to the studio. Chet was perched atop a high, three-rung stool before an easel. He moved the brush slowly over his large canvas.

“Well,” Joe said, laughing, “from window washer to artist. I should’ve known—from those fine rag strokes on certain windows.”

Chet looked up. “I’m sorry, Joe,” Chet said. “I’ll do my share. But I just got so interested in—er—my painting. Besides, Uncle Jim thinks it’s not bad.”

“You know, Chet,” Frank said, “I have a wild hunch your painting will turn up at the exhibit.”

Somewhat embarrassed, Chet admitted this was his secret plan. The Hardys watched as their pal continued to work. When not biting the end of his paintbrush with indecision, he would hunch forward, dip the brush in a thick purple blob on his palette, and absorbedly make a squiggle on the canvas.

“What’s it going to be?” Joe asked at last.

“You’ll see,” was all Chet said.

After a while the boys returned to their chores, and it was not until after supper that everything was finished.

The Hardys and Chet went down to the lake for a cooling dip before starting out for Senandaga. The afterglow of sunset cast the opposite shore in a pale-rose light. Dusk shrouded the wide lake, Frank was swimming some distance from shore when he heard a sound that made his spine tingle.

Like a distant heartthrob behind the promontory came the single beat of a drum, then silence, then the beat again!

“Fellows! Listen!” he shouted and swam over to Joe and Chet. They strained their ears.

“The drum!” Joe hissed.

The boys dashed out of the water. They found Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport talking near the mansion. Upon hearing the boys’ report, both men agreed the young sleuths should investigate the fort at once, but cautioned them to be on guard.

“Not that I believe in any haunts, of course,” added Mr. Davenport. “But there could be some kind of danger lurking there.”

The boys hurriedly dressed and drove off in the jalopy. Darkness was falling as they headed south. Chet switched on the high beams and guided the Queen around a series of curves until they reached the end of the lake. There were few houses, and only rarely a light in one. Chet slowed down.

The trees grew dense and overhung the road. From deep in the woods came the hoot of an owl, mournfully echoing over the constant whisper of cicadas. Like brittle witch fingers, branches clawed the side of the car.

“Willikers, it’s spooky!” Chet said, rolling up his window. He turned right up a winding dirt road, then left.

Suddenly Chet screeched to a halt. The road was blocked by two wooden sawhorses! By the light of a flashing red lantern, the boys saw an arrowed white sign: DETOUR—LEFT—ROSKSLIDE.

“Guess we haven’t much choice,” Joe said. Chet turned the car and started down what proved to be an extremely narrow, steep lane.

The lake was visible below. Suddenly a tree loomed directly in their path. Hastily Chet yanked the wheel, but the car scraped against high rocks. As the Queen bounced over a yawning hole, Frank cried out:

“This isn’t any detour! It’s a trap!”

Panicky, Chet hit the brakes. But the left front tire had already pitched steeply down. Desperately he tried to swerve the rolling car.

“I can’t stop!”

Faster and faster they skidded downward. Like bulky phantoms, trees grazed the fenders as Chet steered frantically between them. Jolted, his hands lost control of the wheel.

“We’re going into the lake!” Joe yelled.

The front of the car seemed to lurch into the air. Their heads banged the roof an instant before the Queen struck water. She stopped almost instantly.

Frank shouldered his door open and sloshed through the shallow depths to pull Chet out. Joe crawled from the back window and the three waded to shore.

“Everybody all right?” Frank asked breathlessly.

“Yes—but the Queen!” Chet exclaimed in dismay. The jalopy stood fender-deep in water.

Joe scrambled above to get help. Frank and Chet, grabbing a rope out of the trunk, moored the car to two trees to keep it from rolling out any deeper. There were dents and a smashed headlight, but the boys were worried there might be serious mechanical damage.

Chet heaved a sigh. “My poor Queen!”

Shivering in wet clothing, the two boys waited in the darkness for what seemed hours. Then they heard vehicles stopping and excited voices. Soon Joe appeared, accompanied by two policemen.

“I finally flagged down a car,” he panted. The driver had notified the police, who in turn summoned a tow truck.

Joe had already given a report to the officers. “A nasty trick—that fake detour,” one said. “We’ll step up our patrol along there.”

The boys wanted to stay until Chet’s car was pulled to safety, but the policemen insisted on driving them back to Millwood.

Huddled under blankets, the three sleuths speculated among themselves on the return trip. Who could have set the dangerous trap? And why?

“I’ll bet someone rigged it to keep us from Fort Senandaga!” Joe exclaimed.

“How’d he know we were going?”

“Could’ve overheard us talking about it,” said Frank. “Maybe those drumbeats were to lure us there.”

At the Millwood entrance they thanked the officers and headed quickly toward their quarters. “Wait until Uncle Jim hears about this!” Chet’s teeth chattered.

As they cut across the wide lawn, Joe glanced over at the grove in which the gallery stood. It was in total blackness.

“Funny,” he murmured. “What happened to the light we put over the—?”

Instinctively sensing trouble, the Hardys streaked across the lawn. Chet followed. They found the front door unlocked and cautiously pushed it open.

A flashlight beam struck them squarely in the eyes! A shadowy figure approached. The boys dashed in, ready for a fight. The next moment they stopped short.

“Uncle Jim!” Chet gasped. “What—?”

The instructor’s face was ashen. Wordlessly he flicked on the light switch and pointed toward the far wall of the room. The twelve fort paintings were gone!

CHAPTER IX

The Hermit’s Story

“ALL the Senandaga paintings—stolen!” Jim Kenyon’s words echoed dismally across the stone gallery as the boys rushed over. The wall showed twelve empty picture hooks.

Uncle Jim told them he had returned from Cedartown a short while ago. He had gone to check the gallery, found that the bulb had been smashed, and a moment later, discovered the theft. “I was about to phone the police, then break the news to Mr. Davenport.”

“But how did the thief get in?” Joe asked.

The instructor pointed upward. “The skylight.”

The boys noticed a large section of panes was missing where the glassed roof met a wall.

“The thief must have had a lookout,” Frank surmised, “while he was cutting the panes.”

The police were called and arrived shortly to examine the gallery. They found the missing glass panes, but there were no fingerprints. Nothing of significance was discovered. When the officers had left, Jim and the boys went to the mansion.

It took them a long while to persuade Mr. Davenport that the twelve paintings actually had been stolen. The art patron kept shaking his head, as if in a daze.

“What are we to do?” he lamented. “The thieves are still at large and growing bolder—Jason’s paintings in their possession, and likely, the clue to Chambord’s gold chain.”

Suddenly he and Uncle Jim became aware of the boys’ disheveled appearance. “What on earth happened to you?” asked the instructor.

In the excitement, the Hardys and Chet had temporarily forgotten their own experiences. Quickly they described the ill-fated drive.

The two men listened in great astonishment and concern. Mr. Davenport snapped out of his gloom. “Desperadoes!” he stormed. “Why, you boys could’ve been hurt something dreadful!”

“They’re desperate all right,” said Frank. “Which means they may tip their hand soon and give themselves away. The trouble is,” he added, “somebody in the area seems to know every move we make, or are going to make.”

“Do you think,” asked Uncle Jim, “those drumbeats and your accident are related to the painting thefts?”

“Yes,” replied Frank. “Whoever the master-mind is, he doesn’t want us at Fort Senandaga to look for the gold chain.”

Joe set his jaw. “We’ll get there yet and do some hunting.”

The weary boys slept late the next morning. After breakfast Chet phoned the Cedartown police. His jalopy had been salvaged, but it would take at least a week for repairs.

Chet groaned. “How will the Queen live without me?”

“Cheer up!” Joe grinned. “You’re going to be pretty busy painting from now on. We’re expecting big things from you at the exhibit!”

Chet slapped his forehead. “You’re right! I’ve only got a little more than two days!” He pulled his beret from a pocket and pulled it on. “This calls for short-order genius!”

“In the meantime,” Joe said seriously, “we’re stymied for transportation.”

“Not quite,” Frank replied. “We’ll use one of the canoes.”

“Great!” said Joe. “What’s the first stop?”

“Turtle Island.” Frank proposed that they visit the English hermit and have a look at his fort painting.

Chet wanted to go with his friends, but finally decided to work on his painting. The trio were about to separate when they saw Ronnie Rush setting up his easel near the main path.

At once the Bayporters hurried over. Joe asked bluntly, “Ronnie, we’re missing a photostat of an old map. Have you seen it around?”

The student bit his lip. “Map? Why ask me? If I had, it’d be my business anyway.”

“This one happens to be our business,” Joe retorted. “You seem to be pretty good at spying. Maybe you saw the person who knocked me out, broke into our luggage, and stole the map.”

Ronnie’s face reddened, but he merely blustered, “I—I didn’t see anybody. What’s so special about an old map?”

“It’s of Fort Senandaga,” Joe said.

Ronnie gave a perceptible start, but at once took up his palette and brush. “Stop bothering me. I’ve got to finish my picture.”

“Your prize-winning one?” Chet asked airily.

“A lot you know about art, fatso!” Ronnie muttered.

The three boys turned away. “I’ll show him,” Chet vowed.

Joe grinned. “The brush is mightier than the sword!”

“Anyhow,” Frank said, “we got a rise out of Ronnie about the map, though we still can’t be sure he took it.”

“Yes,” Joe said, “but he sure didn’t like our questions.”

The Hardys got directions to Turtle Island from Uncle Jim, and permission to use his own canoe, then hurried to the boathouse. They lifted the handsome red wooden craft from its berth into the water. Joe settled himself in the bow, and Frank in the stern, then they paddled off.

Bright white sails were visible downlake as they glided across the sun-speckled water. Here and there a motorboat sped along. The canoe traced a shimmering line over the surface as Frank steered toward a group of small islands a mile out.

“There’s Turtle Island,” Joe said presently, spotting a wooded hump of land straight ahead where a cabin of stone and log was partially visible.

Coasting between two large, jutting rocks, Frank steered the canoe onto a sandy strip. Nearby lay a weatherbeaten rowboat. Joe jumped out and pulled in their craft. Suddenly they heard a ferocious barking, then a flurry in the bushes, and a huge German shepherd dog appeared.

“Look out!” Frank cried.

The dog bared his teeth threateningly. Growling, he crouched as if to spring. The Hardys darted backward.

“Basker!” shouted a deep voice. “Hold, boy!”

The dog subsided instantly as a tall, sunburned man in a brown tweed suit emerged from the brush. Frank and Joe relaxed as he stroked the panting animal. The tall man peered at them beneath bushy eyebrows and greeted them in a British accent.

“Hello there!” he said cordially. “Terribly sorry about Basker—he’s not used to seeing many people out here.” He extended his hand. “Lloyd Everett’s my name.”

The boys introduced themselves, thinking Everett unusually well-dressed for a hermit. They told him why they had come. He agreed to let the Hardys inspect his Prisoner-Painter picture and led them toward the cabin.

“Dare say you chaps have had wind of that French gold-chain legend,” he remarked. “I don’t take any stock in it myself—it’s false, like most of the past French claims about Fort Royal.”

“Fort Royal?” Joe repeated.

Everett nodded. “Senandaga is its Indian name, but it’s properly called Fort Royal, named by its last holder during the French-English campaigns, the great Lord Craig, my ancestor.”

Remembering the French sculptor’s account of the fort, Frank glanced at Joe.

In the simply furnished but comfortable living room, Everett lifted down the painting from its place over the fireplace. Frank took out a pocket magnifying glass and studied it closely. The view was painted as if from below the ramparts at Crown Lake’s edge.

“A fine rendition,” the Englishman remarked. “I don’t generally collect art, but since I’m interested in the historical aspects of Fort Royal, I persuaded Mr. Davenport to sell it to me a few years back.”

While Joe scrutinized the picture, Frank asked if it were true that French soldiers had been the last on the fort’s ramparts.

“Nonsense! Sheer nonsense! Who told you that?” Everett demanded.

When Frank mentioned the Millwood sculptor, the hermit clutched his hair.

“Blast it! A Frenchman! What else?” Striding angrily over to a small cork board, he plucked out seven darts. In rapid order he pitched them at the board.

“This Follette told you a pack of lies about Chambord, no doubt,” Everett growled. He did not pause for a response and proceeded to relate how Lord Craig had taken Senandaga. The French had apparently mismanaged their cannon defense and fled before Craig’s forces.

When Joe mentioned the story of the English having stolen the chaîne d’or, Everett angrily plucked the darts from the board.

“As a descendant of Lord Craig, I shall not tolerate such lies. Here!” He handed the boys a small book. Its title was The True Story of Fort Royal. “Read this—you may keep it,” he said. “I wrote the book myself when I first moved here to my island retreat.”

The Hardys thanked him, intrigued by his differing account of the battle. The boys studied the Senandaga painting again. Suddenly Frank noticed a slight irregularity in a corner brush stroke.

“Joe, let me have the magnifier!”

Excited, he held the glass over the area. But he looked up in disappointment. “It’s just a scratch.”

Nothing else unusual was detected in the painting. The brothers made a note of the location of two soldiers standing below the ramparts. They thanked the Englishman as he walked back with them to the canoe.

“Wish you boys luck, of course,” said Everett. “Take my advice—the so-called chaîne d’or doesn’t exist. Just another of many French exaggerations.” He added that he rarely crossed to the mainland except to buy provisions. He had not left the island in a month.

The Hardys waved as they pushed off. “Cheerio!” called Everett. “Be sure to read my book!”

Joe was dejected. “That painting was another lost hope. I guess all we can do now is search the fort itself for the chain. If there is one!”

“We also have the job of tracking down the thieves and stolen pictures,” Frank said. “By the way, Everett told us he hadn’t been off the island for a month. But his rowboat was wet and muddy—and it hasn’t rained for days!”

Joe remembered seeing oars in the boat also. Was the recluse lying? Did he know anything about the Millwood thefts?

“Well,” Joe quipped, “we could always take a new case: Who were the last holders of Fort Senandaga—I mean, Fort Royal!”

“Or Fort du Lac!” Frank smiled, shifting his paddle to the right.

Smoothly, the brothers stroked forward. They were halfway to shore when Joe first noticed water around his feet.

“Frank! We’re taking in water!”

Ceasing to paddle, Joe slid back carefully to locate the leak. “I can’t find it!” he cried out.

Frank quickly pulled in his paddle and crept forward. But he had no sooner taken a step than he heard a cracking noise.

“Joe—this wood—”

With a splintering noise, the section of flooring beneath Frank’s left foot gave way, entrapping his leg. Water poured in as the sinking canoe capsized.

The lake surface closed over the Hardys!

CHAPTER X

Mysterious Flag

COLD stinging water coursed through Joe’s mouth and nose as he sank beneath the surface. He could see the shadow of the capsized canoe above.

Shooting up for air, he immediately plunged beneath again.

With a mighty yank he freed Frank’s leg from the hull, and both boys were soon hugging the splintered boat.

“Are—are you all right?” Joe gasped.

Frank coughed for several moments before answering. “Yes, except my leg’s a bit sore. I don’t get it, Joe. This canoe is practically new.”

As the Hardys signaled an approaching motorboat, Joe noticed something on the canoe’s hull. “Frank, look!”

Joe pointed to a wide crusted hole where Frank’s leg had gone through, then noticed several smaller holes edged with a painted paste.

“This canoe was sabotaged!” he panted, tread ing water. “Somebody must have cut these holes, then used a sealer and paint! Whoever did it knew that it would just be a matter of time before water—or we—went through.”

The motorboat, manned by a man and his wife, pulled abreast of the stranded sleuths and helped them aboard. With the canoe in tow, they were soon on their way back to Millwood. Frank pulled wet book from the pocket of his slacks.

The True Story of Fort Royal was soaked but safe!

At the school dock the Hardys thanked their rescuers and hurried across the grass. Several students eyed the water-soaked boys curiously. Chet and his uncle spotted them and came rushing up. The two were mystified and worried upon hearing of the boat incident.

“Somebody must have been hoping you’d use my canoe,” the instructor said grimly.

“You mean the trap was intended for Frank and Joe,” Chet finished. “And maybe me too. No place is safe around here!”

As the Hardys changed into dry clothes they told of their visit to Lloyd Everett. Uncle Jim grinned. “He takes that battle as seriously as René Follette and Mr. Davenport.”

“And how!” Frank looked thoughtful. “He’s friendly enough-doesn’t look or act much like a hermit.”

During a late lunch the three boys and Uncle Jim discussed possible suspects in the canoe episode. Ronnie Rush? The short thief? The gallery prowler?

Joe noticed that Chet was staring into space and said, “You decided what your picture’s about?”

Chet grinned good-naturedly. “Okay, mind reader, I have. But you’ll have to wait and see.”

“Is your entry a still life, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Yes. A moving still life!”

The others groaned at the pun.

They were just leaving the kitchen when the art patron stormed out of his study, swinging his cane. A magazine was clutched in his hand.

“Confound him! That fogbound, silky-voiced, boiled shirt! That honey-dewed melonhead—”

“Now what?” murmured Chet.

Mr. Davenport was finally persuaded to calm down and explain. “Just look at this!” he directed, opening the magazine and pointing to a paragraph which read:

“In the coming days, it will be my consummate pleasure to review the Millwood Art Exhibit, the annual artistic joke of the region. The public would better spend its time at nearby Fort Senandaga than risk dying of laughter at the ‘wood’ painted at the Davenport ‘mill.’ ”

Frank looked up in disgust. “This was written by Chauncey Gilman.”

Mr. Davenport said that the critic himself had mailed him the magazine. As soon as possible the Hardys changed the subject. The boys told the patron of their unsuccessful study of Everett’s fort painting, then of the canoe incident.

The Southerner, who had been tapping his cane rapidly on the floor, suddenly stopped. To the others’ amazement, he announced, “There’s one more painting. It’s in my attic.”

“What?” cried Joe.

“I declare, it slipped my mind,” said the art patron. “Guess because it’s the one work by Jason I never did like. Style’s different from all the others, so I just plumb hid it.”

“May we see it?” Frank asked quickly.

“Might as well.” Mr. Davenport led the excited group to the third floor and into a dim alcove. There he removed a dust-covered canvas from a closet and set it on an antique table. The boys studied it closely with the magnifier.

“This is a contrast to the other fort paintings,” Frank remarked. “It’s all done in blacks, grays, and pale yellows. The storm clouds over the fort are ghostlike.”

“Indeed they are,” said Mr. Davenport. “I don’t know what got into Jason.”

Frank examined the back of the picture. He pointed to one corner, where a faded date was scrawled in a wavering hand: April 1, 1865.

“That was just before the Civil War ended,” said Uncle Jim.

Again the boys scrutinized the gloomy scene. The artist’s initials were as usual in the lower corner, but were fainter than in the other paintings. Frank’s mind was racing. Why had the Prisoner-Painter changed to such a somber style?

Just then Mr. Davenport looked at his watch. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Expecting the carpenter any minute. He’s working on a project for me.” A mischievous twinkle came into the man’s eyes, and as they went downstairs, he chuckled softly. His visitors were curious, but he offered no explanation.

“Let’s try the fort again,” urged Joe. “Right now.”

The Millwood owner insisted they borrow his limousine. “Alex isn’t here today, so I won’t need it.” He handed them the car keys.

Outside, Uncle Jim excused himself to return to his students. Chet decided to stick with his painting. “I’ll keep an eye on Ronnie Rush,” he promised.

The fort map in Joe’s pocket, the brothers headed for the mansion garage. On the way, they passed a tall, bearded man at an easel set up on a knoll. The Hardys recognized Myles Warren, who ran the Cedar Sport Shop.

“Hi,” said Joe. “You must be one of the weekend painters, only this is Wednesday.”

“Yes,” the man said pleasantly. “I’m pushing to finish my picture for the exhibit.”

The Hardys glanced at the canvas—a landscape in vivid greens, reds, and yellow. Warren kept his brush moving. “Tried that fishing at the north end yet?”

“No.” Frank smiled. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

In the garage Frank slid behind the wheel of the luxurious limousine and pulled out into the road above Millwood.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the fort. There had been no trace of the phony detour sign. Frank parked, and they unlocked the gate, then climbed the hill toward the ramparts. Pausing on the glacis, the boys looked at the map, then at the tracing showing the locations of figures in the pictures.

The actual shape of Senandaga was that of a square with diamond-shaped bastions at the corners of its four ramparts.

Frank pointed to a high, wedge-shaped defensive stonework which stood in front of the ditch. “That must be the demilune—the south one. There’s another to the west.”

They decided to begin their hunt by checking outside the fort walls and ditch. First, the Hardys walked north along the zigzagging ditch, then to the spot where the wall had fallen. They stopped to examine the rubble.

“Hey!” Joe yelled, pushing aside a rock. Underneath lay a round black object. “An old cannon ball!”

The Hardys wondered: Had it been hurled against the ancient wall to cause the collapse? They surveyed the crenelated walls of blocked stone. Although its soldiers and cannon were long gone, a forbidding, ominous silence seemed to make itself felt around the bastion.

As Frank’s eyes passed over the crumbled roofs visible above the walls, he stopped suddenly. “Joe, look!”

Waving atop a flagpole on the southeast ramPart was a white and gold flag!

“It’s the flag used by the French before their revolution!” Frank exclaimed, recognizing the pattern of three white lilies. “But it wasn’t here the first time we came.”

“One thing is sure—it’s no relic,” Joe said. “Mr. Davenport didn’t mention anything about a flag.”

They stared at the mysterious banner, recalling the drumbeats they had heard earlier. Who had placed the old French colors over the fort?

Hastily the Hardys continued along the ditch to an area which they had marked on their tracing sheet. They hoped to find some kind of marking or rock formation at the same spots the figures stood in the paintings.

“Over here, a little more to the right,” Joe said, comparing the map and sheet. Frank noticed that freshly churned-up soil surrounded their feet.

“Joe! Somebody’s been digging!”

“You’re right!” Joe reached down and felt the earth.

“If the treasure was here,” Frank reasoned, “we’re out of luck.”

They walked toward the west demilune. But halfway, Joe noticed a pillar of black smoke in the sky. It came from beyond a shadowed promontory to the north of the lake.

“Frank, that looks like a fire!”

“It is. I wonder—Joel It’s coming from Millwood!”

CHAPTER XI

The Lake Monster

“WE’VE got to get back!” Frank urged.

The brothers raced down the slope to the parked car and soon were streaking around the lake road leading to Millwood. The column of black smoke swirled higher and they heard sirens.

Reaching the school, Frank wheeled the limousine to the parking area and they jumped out.

“It’s the boathouse!” Joe exclaimed.

Waves of intense heat rolled out from the flaming structure. The Hardys ran toward the lakeside, where a crowd watched the firemen fighting the holocaust.

The dock was already lost, and what had been canoes were smoking shells on the bank. Voices echoed as spumes of water played against the blazing boathouse. Suddenly Frank detected a strong oily smell in the air.

“Kerosene!” he said. “This fire must have been set!”

The Hardys spotted Uncle Jim and Chet among the spectators back of a cordoned area near a police car. Chet was glad to see his pals.

“Was anybody hurt?” Frank asked, worried.

“Fortunately, no,” Mr. Kenyon replied. “But our boat area is a complete ruin.”

In an hour the fire had been extinguished. According to a student, the conflagration had apparently broken out suddenly—on the lake itself.

“Which means somebody poured a kerosene slick on the water and ignited it,” Frank said.

Chet nodded solemnly. “With the wind and floating pieces of burning wood, we’re lucky it didn’t spread along the whole shore front.”

By now, most of the onlookers had dispersed and the fire trucks and police car were leaving.

The Bayporters surveyed the grim, charred skeleton of the boathouse, wondering who the arsonist could have been, and what his motive was. Another attempt to discourage the Hardys from investigating Fort Senandaga?

“It wasn’t Ronnie Rush who set it, anyway,” Chet declared. “He was too busy making fun of my painting.”

The three boys searched the burned wreckage for evidence. They found nothing but a fat, charred cork, smelling of kerosene, bobbing on the waterfront.

“A pretty slim clue,” Joe muttered, stuffing the cork into his pocket. After supper they stopped in with Uncle Jim to see Mr. Davenport. He seemed inconsolable. The school’s exhibit was only two days away, and the blackened ruins would detract greatly from the estate’s appearance. Joe had an idea.

“We’ll begin clearing away the debris first thing tomorrow, and have the lake front in good shape by Senandaga Day.”

Mr. Davenport brightened, and Uncle Jim said, “That would be a big help. At least the lake residents will be able to beach their boats.”

“There’s one person I suspect,” the art patron burst out angrily, “who would want to spoil our exhibit. A certain party down the lake.”

The boys assumed he meant Chauncey Gilman, but somehow they could not picture the critic in the role of an arsonist.

The brothers then told the others about the mysterious French flag they had seen at the fort. Mr. Davenport expressed complete bewilderment.

“A flag over Senandaga!” he exclaimed incredulously. “It must be the work of some blamed touristl A trespasser!”

Frank doubted this, saying that even a practical joker might not go to the trouble of climbing the fence.

“Don’t tell me a ghost put up that flag,” Chet gulped.

Mr. Davenport shook his head. “You can get to the fort by boat, too.”

The Hardys left him, wondering if the strange incident was part of the puzzle they were trying to solve.

Directly after breakfast the boys plunged into the task of cleaning up the dock site. With axes and wheelbarrows, charred wood was cut up and carted away, as well as burned shrubbery. Up to their waists in water, Frank and Joe hewed down the remaining boathouse supports and dock stakes.

“Whew!” Chet exclaimed as noontime approached. “I feel as though I’d been building a fort.”

Ronnie Rush came up just then and looked on smugly. “Want to help?” Joe asked him.

“My time is too valuable,” Ronnie said, and sauntered off.

“He may not have burned the docks, but he sure burns me up!” Chet muttered.

At last the boys finished their project, having set up bright buoys offshore. After lunch they were summoned to Cedartown Police Headquarters, where the chief handed them a photograph. “Recognize him?”

“The picture and frame thief!” Joe exclaimed.

“His name’s Adrian Copier,” the chief informed them, adding that the man had a long criminal record as a thief, especially of art objects. There was no indication of his being an arsonist.

“I wonder if he’s the brains behind the thefts at Millwood,” Frank said, “or if he’s working for a higher-up.”

The chief shrugged. “Copler seems to be as elusive as he is clever. But I’ll keep men on the lookout.”

Back at the school, the boys discussed their future trips to the fort. “The Queen’s still laid up and we can’t keep borrowing the limousine,” said Frank. “A canoe would be fine—but the fire took care of that.”

“Guess we’ll have to rent a boat,” Joe said.

When Mr. Davenport heard of the boys’ quandary, he called them into his study.

“We can’t have you detectives grounded,” he said. “How would you like to use a Colonial bateau?”

“A what?” Chet asked.

He smiled. “A bateau was a boat used during the French and Indian campaigns.” Mr. Davenport explained that the wooden craft, resembling a modern dory, had been used by the English as well as the French for carrying supplies and for scouting. The original bateaux were up to forty-five feet long; later, they varied in length.

“Sounds great!” Joe broke in. “But where can we get a bateau?”

“My carpenter, George Ashbach, has a keen interest in historical boats. Out of curiosity, he put together a bateau last year. Doesn’t use it much, but I understand it’s navigable. I’m sure he’d be glad to let you boys borrow it.”

“Super!” Chet exclaimed.

The elderly Southerner beamed. “Mr. Ashbach will be finishing up—my—er—job today. I’ll talk to him.”

“Are you building something?” Joe asked.

A devilish gleam sparkled in the patron’s eyes. He smiled, but gave no answer.

That evening, as dusk fell, the boys sat on the bank, wondering whether they would hear the eerie drumbeats again.

“I’d like to know if that French flag was lowered at sundown,” Joe commented.

“By the same ghost, maybe,” Frank said, grinning.

Chet was not amused. “Aw, fellows!” He shivered. “Can’t we talk about something-er-cheerful ?”

The only sound was lapping water, ruffled by a chilly breeze. Chet glanced out over the lake to the grayish islands, huddled like waiting phantom ships. Dim lights were visible across the water, but to the south, where the fort lay, all was black.

Suddenly Chet stiffened. Out on the water, about fifty yards from where the boys sat, something broke the surface, then disappeared !

Rooted to his place, Chet blinked and looked again, his eyes as big as half dollars.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked. “Do you—?”

He broke off with a gasp as all three stared in disbelief.

A speck of white showed on the dark water. Then an immense, curved black shadow loomed larger and larger, gliding, waving toward them.

Chet stuttered with fear as the shadow drew near. It had a long neck and a huge glistening head, gaping jaws and long sharp teeth!

CHAPTER XII

A Strange Tomahawk

JUMPING up, Chet screamed. “A sea monster!”

In a burst of foam, the phantasmal creature sank beneath the surface and again emerged, its white eyes gleaming above moving jaws.

Frank and Joe dashed along the bank until they were abreast of the weird figure. It seemed at least thirty feet in length!

“It’s a serpent!” Joe cried out.

They watched for the monster to surface. Then a subdued, drawling laugh broke the silence. Chet, terrified, had caught up to the brothers. The three stopped short as two figures emerged from the nearby woods.

“Mr. Davenport!” Joe burst out, recognizing one of them.

“Frank! Joe! Chester!” The art patron grinned. “I reckon I must ask your forgiveness for being victimized by my Crown Lake monster!”

He introduced the tall, lean man with him as Mr. Ashbach, the Cedartown carpenter.

“You mean that thing we just saw was artificial?” Joe asked.

The carpenter chuckled. “Joe,” he said, “we had to test it on somebody, and we figured you young detectives were as tough a test as anybody.”

Mr. Davenport nodded. “Now you know what my building project is!”

Still mystified, the boys noticed wires in the men’s hands trailing off into the water. They began reeling in and soon the “serpent” broke the surface. A minute later it lay on the shore. The boys walked around the huge object.

Shaped like a brontosaurus with gills, it had been built over a wood-and-wire frame. The “skin” was of inflated rubber, touched in spots with luminous paint. Both the neck and jaws were hinged, and the snouted head had been fitted with two light-bulb eyes and jagged rubber “teeth.”

“It’s ingenious!” Frank laughed.

“Thank you.” The millionaire smiled, patting the wet rubber proudly.

Chet kicked a pebble, embarrassed. “Jiminy, do I feel like a goof! But what are you going to do with this—er—serpent, sir?”

“You boys will see, soon!”

The curious sleuths could learn no more about the redoubtable monster.

“A sea monster!” Chet screamed

The Hardys arranged with Mr. Ashbach to pick up the bateau at his shop the next day.

Later, walking back to their room, Chet was preoccupied with Mr. Davenport’s lake serpent. “I bet he’s going to give rides on it!” Chet guessed finally.

Joe grinned. “Beats me.”

After breakfast the next morning the Bayporters found the school grounds a beehive of activity. Uncle Jim and the students were busy getting the pictures in final shape for Saturday’s exhibit.

Hurriedly the Hardys and Chet tidied up their quarters. Frank’s mind kept turning over an idea which had been growing steadily. “Maybe it’s a wild one, but—” Suddenly he dashed from the room. “Come on, fellows!”

Mystified, Joe and Chet followed him across the grounds to the Davenport mansion. The door was open. Frank led the way upstairs to the musty attic alcove. Joe was excited. What inspiration had struck his brother so forcibly?

Frank lifted the fort painting carefully onto the table. Chet wore an expression of utter perplexity as Frank pointed to the date on the back of the canvas. “This was the last picture Jason Davenport did. I think that’s why the style is so different—he knew he was going to die.”

“I get it!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “He must have left the clue in this picture, knowing he’d never have a chance to get the treasure himself,” Joe guessed.

“Right.” Frank now indicated the specklike daubs on the canvas. “Let’s study them from a distance.”

Frank set the painting against an opposite wall. At first the boys noticed nothing unusual. Then they were startled to see, out of gray and yellowish dabs, a design taking shape in the corner!

It was a tomahawk, entwined by a chain!

“The treasure clue!” Chet whooped.

The image seemed to lose itself as they stepped closer, then to reappear when they stood back.

“There must be a similar marking somewhere inside the fort!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys then noticed hat the tomahawk handle had small notches, and wondered what these meant.

“The main thing is to keep this a close secret,” Frank cautioned.

When they showed Mr. Davenport their discovery, he congratulated the boys heartily.

“It was Frank’s brainstorm,” Joe said.

The art patron looked at the painting. “I should have known Jason had a special reason for using that strange style.”

The millionaire, too, was puzzled by the notched tomahawk.

“Did Indians fight at Senandaga?” Frank asked.

“They were involved in the Crown Lake campaigns,” Davenport replied, “but it’s not known whether they played a major role at the fort itself. I’ve studied the battle for years, but there always seems to be a piece missing.”

The boys wondered if the chain-entwined tomahawk had any relation to the mysterious fort conflict?

“We’ve got to get inside Senandaga,” Joe declared.

The boys hurried to tell Uncle Jim the good news, and their plan to search the fort that evening. Chet then excused himself to work on his painting. The boys were about to part when the French sculptor came running over. He carried three pamphlets.

“Bonjour!” he cried. “I hear you will use a bateau. Wonderful! A fine boat it is, used by le Marquis de Chambord. Here, my friends, these for you !”

He handed each boy a pamphlet. The title was The Final French Victory at Fort du Lac.

Follette pounded his chest proudly. “This I wrote to give the true account of this battle. Read it. Au revoir!”

Joe chuckled. “The second ‘true’ story of Seriandaga.”

After the Hardys left for Mr. Ashbach’s shop, Chet worked feverishly on his painting, even forgetting to eat lunch. By midafternoon the chunky boy realized he was ravenous and went to the house for a snack.

As Chet came outside he heard a horn beep urgently. He looked up in astonishment. A car, with a trailer bouncing behind it, was pulling into the lot. On the trailer sat an unusual-looking gray boat, flat-bottomed and tapered at both ends.

The car stopped and Frank and Joe hopped out. As Chet hurried over, Joe grinned. “Behold the bateau!”

“You sure she’s seaworthy?” Chet asked, cocking his head.

“Indeed she is,” came a deep voice as the carpenter, Mr. Ashbach, got out of the car.

He and the boys hauled the old-fashioned craft down to the lake and beached it a short distance from the water. The young detectives thanked Mr. Ashbach, who wished them luck and left.

Chet now studied the bateau curiously, noting its overlapping board construction. He asked about a pair of long poles lying in the bottom beside the paddles.

“The poles are used in shallow water,” Frank explained.

As soon as dusk fell, the boys eagerly launched the bateau and clambered in. Jim Kenyon came to see them off. “Be careful,” he warned. “Weather doesn’t look good.”

Heavy dark clouds shrouded the lake and the wind was rising, but the boys were undaunted. Chet was in the middle seat while Frank stood in the rear and Joe in the bow. Plying the poles, the Hardys got the Colonial craft under way.

“Wow, this is smooth!” Chet said. “How long is she?”

“Fifteen feet,” Joe answered, “and four wide.”

The brothers at first had trouble but soon were poling in rhythm. They were amazed at the ease with which the bateau could be moved.

With the strong wind at their backs, they passed several islands. The darkening sky remained overcast and few private boats were out. “Hope the rain holds off for Senandaga Day tomorrow,” Chet said anxiously.

Joe grinned. “You can always put an umbrella over your painting.”

Reaching deeper water, the Hardys switched to paddles. Presently they approached the cable-ferry dock on the west shore.

The passenger barge was just pulling out. There was only one car aboard. The boys could barely see the cables stretching taut, reaching into the water.

The wind was now lashing the lake into a mass of whitecaps.

“It won’t be any picnic returning against this gale,” Joe remarked, as they paddled abreast of the chugging ferry. Its tugboat pilot waved to them from the lighted cabin.

Suddenly they saw him spin the steering wheel frantically, then race out onto the passenger barge.

“Something’s wrong!” Joe exclaimed. The three boys leaped to their feet. Frank looked back at the dock and saw two metal strands lying slack on the choppy surface!

“The cables have broken!” he cried out.

The pilot had dashed to the rear of the pitching barge. Suddenly he staggered in a terrific blast of wind and toppled overboard!

Horrified, the boys watched the ferry veer wildly off course!

CHAPTER XIII

Detective Guides

THE ferry drifted aimlessly on the storm-tossed lake past the dock, while its pilot was struggling to keep afloat. Paddling strenuously, the Hardys swung about to the rescue.

Swiftly the bateau closed the gap. The ferry passengers, two women, huddled panic-stricken in their car.

“You fellows get the pilot!” Frank said, flipping his paddle to Chet. “I’m going for the boat.”

In a flash he was overboard and swimming through the choppy waves. Finally he managed to grasp the end of the ferry barge and pull himself aboard. Frank ran past the car, tore into the pilot’s cabin of the tug, and spun the wheel hard to the left.

He realized cutting the motor would be dangerous, since the heavy craft would only drift farther. Determinedly, he steered against the strong current.

At first it seemed useless. Then, slowly, the ferry backed toward the cable area, where Frank swung her to the right and headed for the far dock.

Just before reaching it, Frank cut the engine. Three men quickly secured the ferry and raced into the pilot’s cabin.

“Young fellow—we can’t thank you enough!” one of them said to Frank. “There could have been a tragic accident.”

The women, shaken and pale, added their praise, then were helped ashore.

Frank peered worriedly out over the wind-driven water. To his relief he saw the bateau, with Joe and Chet paddling and the pilot safely aboard, plowing crosscurrent. When they pulled in, all three boys were warmly congratulated.

“Your presence of mind saved us all!” the pilot said gratefully.

Trying to determine what had happened, two of the dockworkers began reeling in the cable sections attached to the pier.

“How could they have broken so suddenly?” Chet asked, as the ends of the cables came to view. To everyone’s astonishment, there was no sign of fraying.

“The cables were cut!” Joe cried out.

The pilot and dockers agreed. They said that the ferry had run for years without a cable breakdown. “I’m afraid,” said the pilot, “it’ll be some time before we’re able to repair the damage.”

After local authorities had been notified, the pilot insisted on driving the boys back to Millwood. He located a boat trailer on which to tow the bateau.

During the trip they discussed the accident. Who could have cut the ferry cables? Was there any connection between this, the art thefts, and the other strange occurrences?

“It’ll probably cut down the turnout at our exhibit tomorrow.” Chet sighed gloomily.

“It sure didn’t help our treasure search,” Joe murmured.

Once back in their room, and after a hot shower, the boys felt less despondent. Frank suggested that he and Joe offer to act as guides at Senandaga. “It’ll give us a chance to look around inside the fort, ’ he added.

They consulted with Uncle Jim, who was shocked to learn of the ferry mishap. He readily agreed to the Hardys’ proposal and was sure Mr. Davenport would concur.

The exhausted sleuths then went to bed. “At least,” thought Chet in satisfaction as he dozed off, “my painting is ready.”

When Joe woke the next morning he hopped to the window. “The sun’s out!” he exclaimed. “Wake up, fellows!”

After breakfast the Hardys wished Chet luck as he hurried off with his painting. The entire school grounds were devoted to the display. Some students hung their watercolors and oils on a long wooden backing sheltered by a red-striped awning. Other paintings stood on easels scattered about the lawn. The sculpture entries were displayed on several long benches near the judges’ table.

Meanwhile, the Hardys were ready to tackle their job at the fort. They had decided to go in the bateau. Heading for the lake, they met Mr. Davenport, dressed impeccably in a white summer suit. He was in good spirits.

“Happy Senandaga Day, boys!” he drawled. “Great idea you two being guides.” Frowning slightly, he cautioned them to admit the tourists only in groups and to keep them at the ground level of the fort ruins.

“Safer that way,” he said. “Also, less chance for someone to sneak off alone and look for the treasure.”

“We’ll do our best,” Frank promised.

Soon the brothers were paddling downlake in the bateau. They passed several canoes and motor-boats heading in the direction of Millwood. “Looks as if the ferry accident may not affect attendance too much,” Joe said.

Rounding the promontory, the Hardys looked up at the flagpole over the sprawling, gray fortress. They could not believe their eyes. A banner fluttered from the staff, but this one bore three crosses, two red and one white on a field of blue.

“It’s the British Union Jack!” Frank exclaimed.

Quickly the boys poled into a cove at the foot of the fort and beached their craft. They scrambled up a steep path and made their way around to the moss-covered entrance passageway in the north wall.

The brothers hurried through it and found themselves on the old parade grounds. Around the sides stood the ruins of two barracks and the officers’ quarters. In the center was a deep hole which, according to their map, had once been a well. As a precaution, they placed some old planks over it.

The Hardys once more stared up at the British flag.

“Well,” said Frank, “if there’s a ghost prowling around Senandaga, now’s the time to track him down. Visitors will be arriving soon.”

They walked about the massive, crumbling interior. After circling the parapets, the boys reached the south demilune by a wooden draw-bridge, which Mr. Davenport had had reconstructed. After checking the west demilune, they headed back through the entrance tunnel.

“No flag-raising ghosts so far,” Joe quipped as they walked inland to unlock the promontory gate.

“The ramparts seem safe enough,” Frank observed, “but the west demilune, dungeons, and stores are in bad shape. They’ll have to be off limits.”

Soon a trickle of tourists began. Frank and Joe took turns meeting them at the gate and escorting them, careful to keep the visitors in groups. After a while the sightseers swelled in number. Several times the Hardys were asked about the ghost rumors, and also about the British flag. The brothers would grin, merely saying these were mysteries no one had yet solved.

Frank and Joe were kept so busy they had little opportunity to look for any tomahawk marking. At noon they hastily ate sandwiches they had brought, then resumed their job. Later, Jim Kenyon stopped in to see how they were faring.

“Business here is fine,” Frank reported. “How is the exhibit doing—and Chet?”

“We have a good crowd. And my nephew’s as happy as a lark. His painting has attracted a lot of attention.” Uncle Jim left, reminding the Hardys that the judging would be at seven o’clock.

“We’ll be there,” Joe said.

During the afternoon the boys overheard some of the visitors commenting on the Millwood exhibit. One elderly lady said to her companion, “That still life by that Morton boy is striking!” The Hardys exchanged grins.

They found most people to be impressed by the brooding majesty of the Senandaga ruins and several spoke in favor of the fort’s being restored.

Minutes before closing time, Frank led the last tour around the fort. Suddenly, from the ramp, he noticed a boy of about six make a beeline for the fort well. Frank saw with horror that the boards no longer covered it, but had been shifted to one side!

“That’s dangerous—stop!” he shouted, running down the ramp.

But the child ignored the warning and leaned far over the yawning hole. A cry broke from the boy’s lips as he lost his balance. Frank just managed to yank him to safety. He patted the youngster’s head reassuringly as the frightened mother dashed up.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “We had these boards over the hole. They were moved.”

The woman thanked Frank and quickly led her son away.

When the last visitor had left, the Hardys went over to the well. Each wondered the same thing: Had somebody moved the boards on purpose, hoping to cause an accident? If so, was it the work of the same enemy?

“I sure wish we could wait for sundown to see if anybody lowers that flag,” said Joe.

“So do I. But we promised to be back. Chet will be disappointed if we don’t show up.”

It was now a little before six o’clock. They hurried down and set off in the bateau. Poling off, they looked back at Fort Senandaga. The Union Jack was still waving from the mast.

“I wonder,” Frank said, “if these flags popping up have some connection with Senandaga Day—and that mysterious battle.”

“Could be.”

As soon as they had landed at the Millwood beach, the Hardys sought out Chet among the throng of visitors and art students.

They spotted him under a tree, and were astonished to see Chet, looking dejected, lifting his canvas from the easel.

“Why so glum, pal?” Frank greeted him. “We heard you were a big hit!”

Chet’s face grew longer. “It was swell until just this minute,” he mumbled. “I went to get some lemonade. While I was gone—”

Unable to finish, Chet swallowed and held up his painting. Frank and Joe gasped. What had been a still life of purple grapes in a yellow basket was smeared with blobs of dripping, green paint!

CHAPTER XIV

Lucky Watermelon

“MY painting’s ruined!” Chet looked sadly at the ugly blotches on the canvas.

“That’s a dirty trick!” Joe said, as Frank looked around angrily for possible suspects.

“What about Ronnie Rush?” Joe asked. “I wouldn’t put it past him, especially if he was jealous of the hit your painting made.”

At the moment Ronnie was not in sight. Frank had an idea. “Chet! You’ve still got a little time before the judges arrive. Maybe you can fix up the picture.”

Chet seemed doubtful, but Joe quickly joined in to raise his hopes. “Look—only the grapes in the center are ruined—the rest is okay. You could make those green paint blobs into something else!”

“Maybe you’re right!” Chet acknowledged, brightening. “I’ll try it!” Carrying his canvas, he trotted excitedly toward the painting studio.

“What a blow for Chet!” Frank commented.

Joe agreed. “He was really crushed.”

The Hardys met Uncle Jim. His face fell when they told him of the prank, but he was reassured on hearing of Chet’s last-minute attempt. “I’ll run over and try to keep up his inspiration!”

The Hardys then saw Mr. Davenport at the sheltered exhibit area, and went over. The elderly patron was walking from one canvas to the next. He spoke volubly, proudly commending his students.

“Well constructed, Bob, good attack!” he told one smiling boy, and moved on to a large, historical battle scene done by another youth.

“Excellent subject, Cliff! You’ve got your figures well deployed!” Twirling his cane happily, he proceeded to another entry. Next to it, looking nervous, stood a blond-haired girl. Her entry was an imaginative view of the Millwood mansion.

“Good thickness of paint there, Ellen.” Mr. Davenport beamed. “Invulnerably designed!”

Joe chuckled. “He sounds as if he’s talking about the construction of a fort!”

Frank laughed, but quickly became grim. He pointed to a knoll some distance away.

Ronnie Rush stood on the slope near two easels. He had a garish painting displayed on each. The Hardys hurried up to him.

“Say, what happened to your fat friend?” he asked, smirking. “He get cold feet and withdraw from the exhibit?”

“Not yet,” Frank said coldly. “Do you know who messed up Chet’s painting?”

The smug look on Ronnie’s face turned to one of anxiety but only for a moment. He sniggered. “Fatso probably messed it up himself.” He pointed to his canvases. “The judges will know good stuff when they see it. Say,” he added abruptly, “why are you two cruising around in that weird boat, anyhow?”

“Part of our research,” Joe replied tersely. By now it was almost seven o’clock, and the Hardys wondered how Chet was making out. They started for the studio and met Chet coming out, his canvas grasped carefully in both hands.

“Any luck?” Joe asked eagerly.

“I hope so.” Chet held out his revised painting.

The yellow basket now contained a large, green, elliptical fruit. Below was the title—“Still Life of a Watermelon in a Basket.”

Frank and Joe praised their friend’s ingenuity. “It looks good enough to eat, Chet!” Frank grinned.

For the next hour four men judges viewed the paintings and sculptures, frequently jotting down notes.

The Hardys diverted Chet somewhat by telling of their experiences at the fort that day. The plump boy grew tense, however, as the judges paused at his easel. Inscrutably they eyed the still life, scribbled on their pads, and passed on to the next painting. Chet shrugged. “Guess I don’t have a chance.”

An air of anticipation hushed the crowd as the judges returned to their table and conferred privately. Finally they handed a sheet of paper to Jim Kenyon, who announced:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to award the prizes.”

The crowd surged close, and waited silently. First, the sculpture awards were read by René Follette. Mr. Davenport stood next to the prize table and handed out a ribbon and a gift to the three winners.

Uncle Jim stepped forward to give the painting awards.

“Boy, even I’ve got butterflies—they’re coming out of my ears!” Joe whispered.

“First prize for the best watercolor goes to ‘Night Crossing’ by Carol Allen.”

Applause accompanied each announcement as the lucky students accepted a ribbon and a gift. A smile crossed the instructor’s face.

“And finally, first prize for the most original work, in all categories, goes to ‘Still Life of a Watermelon in a Basket’ by Chester Morton!”

Chet was speechless with delighted surprise.

“Go ahead, pal!” the elated Hardys shouted above the applause, slapping their friend on the back.

Proudly Chet went forward to receive hand-shakes from both his uncle and Mr. Davenport. Several students congratulated him warmly as he squeezed his way back to Frank and Joe.

“Look what I got—a complete oil-paint set!” He beamed, cradling a large wooden box in his arms. “Thanks a lot, fellows, for your encouragement.”

Joe could not resist a pun. “We knew it’d just be a matter of time before something tickled your palette!”

The three Bayporters laughed.

“O-oh, look who’s coming,” Frank said as Ronnie Rush pushed through the crowd. His name had not been among the prize winners and his face showed it.

He glared resentfully at Chet. “Just plain dumb luck, fatso!” Ronnie kicked at a rock and marched angrily up the hill.

“What a poor loser!” Joe said.

“Maybe I should have thanked him,” Chet said, “if he did try to make trouble for me.”

“Speaking of trouble,” Joe said tersely, “look at what’s coming.” He pointed to the lake where a cabin cruiser was anchored a little way beyond the promontory. Standing on deck was Chauncey Gilman! Then the pilot rowed him to the beach and helped Gilman step ashore.

The critic, as elegantly dressed as before, moved disdainfully through the throng. The Hardys and Chet watched as Uncle Jim greeted the newcomer guardedly. Mr. Davenport followed, clearly exerting all his will power to keep calm. “I trust, sir,” he said in a formal manner, “you will be fair in your review.”

“Fair?” Gilman repeated loftily. “Why, the only way I could be fair to your juveniles’ exhibit would be to shut my eyes!”

With a shrill laugh, he moved away and began viewing the student paintings. Mr. Davenport, scowling, trailed behind, accompanied by Jim and the three boys. Gilman paused at the painting which had taken the first prize.

“My, my. If this is one of the best, what must the worst be!”

With apprehension, the boys watched Gilman proceed, audibly abusing the paintings and sculptures one after another.

“Tsk! Tsk! Who victimized this canvas?” He pointed at a landscape done in watercolor. The girl who had painted it seemed on the verge of tears.

When he came to Chet’s still life, the reviewer burst into high-pitched laughter.

“Oh, priceless, priceless! The blue ribbon must be from a fruit market!”

Although annoyed, Chet was not greatly upset by Gilman’s remark, and Uncle Jim said, “The judges thought the exhibition today was one of the finest they had ever seen. The worst thing,” he added, “is that Gilman’s derogatory comments about Millwood will be printed.”

Mr. Davenport had been unusually quiet. The boys noticed a peculiar expression on his face as Chauncey Gilman closed his notebook and said, “Thank you all for a most entertaining evening. Better luck next year!”

As Gilman strutted toward his rowboat, Mr. Davenport whispered to Jim Kenyon. The instructor, looking puzzled, called for everyone’s attention. “Mr. Davenport wants us all to go right out to the promontory,” Uncle Jim announced. “It’s a surprise.”

The group, sensing something unusual afoot, soon gathered at the end of the dusky headland. Gilman’s rowboat could be seen approaching the lighted cruiser.

The Hardys and Chet were surprised to see Mr. Ashbach crouched beneath them on the bank, and, at some distance to the right, Mr. Davenport, also bending low. Each man held the end of a wire!

Gilman’s droning laugh could be heard over the splash of the oars. Then, at a signal from the millionaire, Mr. Ashbach began pulling his wire.

The next moment a luminous serpent’s head with gleaming white teeth broke the surface just ahead of the rowboat! Writhing, it headed for the craft.

Gilman shot up out of his seat, giving a shriek of terror.

“A m-monster! It’s—it’s a monster! Rogers! Help! Rogers!” he blubbered. “Save me!”

CHAPTER XV

An Eerie Vigil

THE hideous serpent bumped violently into the rowboat. With howls of horror, Chauncey Gilman and his pilot were pitched overboard. They floundered wildly in the lake, and the soggy notebook sank out of sight.

As the glistening monster hove from the water toward them, Gilman and the boatman splashed furiously for the cabin cruiser.

The group gathered on the promontory rocked with laughter. Doubled up with mirth, the Hardys, Chet, and Uncle Jim saw a grinning Mr. Davenport finally relax his wire, and the carpenter did the same.

“So the ‘monster’ was constructed just for Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said as the millionaire climbed up to join them.

“Yes, siree. And I’ll see that he reads a detailed account—in print,” declared Mr. Davenport.

Happily, the group dispersed for the night. All the next day the Millwood grounds echoed with laughter at the successful serpent scare.

Monday morning, as Frank hung up the phone in the mansion hallway, Joe asked, “Any word on Adrian Copier?”

“Not a thing,” Frank reported. “The chief says Copier’s done a complete vanishing job. The police did find an unrusted hacksaw underwater near where the ferry cables were cut. They’re following that clue.”

Frank also had learned that a statewide check was being made on art dealers for the stolen fort paintings.

Chet, having just finished breakfast, joined the brothers. “Well,” he said as they went outside, “what’s for today?”

“A camp-out tonight,” Joe said promptly.

“Great!” Chet responded. “Where?”

“Senandaga.”

“S-Senandaga?” Chet gulped. “Of all places to pick!”

Frank grinned. “Chet, you may have a chance to paint some ghosts.” He added seriously, “We’ve got to unearth that tomahawk clue before somebody else does.”

“You’re right.”

The Bayporters went into Cedartown to buy food and other necessary supplies. Finding no hardware store, they went to the sport shop. Myles Warren was not there, but a crew-cut youth waited on them. With difficulty, he finally located three folding-type spades.

“Sorry for the delay,” he apologized. “Don’t know the stock as well as Mr. Warren.”

“Is he on vacation?” Frank asked.

“No, but several days a week he goes out to do some painting. Can I get you anything else?”

The boys picked out three high-beam flashlights, sleeping bags, and a scout knife. “Guess that’s all,” Joe said.

“Where are you fellows going to camp?” asked the clerk.

“Probably down at the south end of the lake,” Frank replied noncommittally.

The clerk shook his head. “You wouldn’t catch me in that neck of the woods. From what I hear about that fort, I’d keep as far away as I could. But—good luck.”

After informing Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport of their camping plan, the boys loaded up the bateau. Swiftly they pushed off and headed south. When the fort came into view, they glanced at the flagpole. The Union Jack was gone.

Joe stopped paddling. “That’s weird,” he said. “First French, then British, now none!”

“Whoever put them up,” said Frank, “may come by boat. He’d have an easier time getting in than climbing the fence.”

“By boat,” Joe repeated.

The brothers exchanged glances. “You two have an idea,” Chet said knowingly. “What is it?”

Frank reminded him of the wet rowboat on Turtle Island, which contradicted the hermit’s claim that he had not left the island for a month. “He was mighty opposed to the French claims at Senandaga,” Frank recalled. “And don’t forget his true account of—Fort Royal. He might have raised the Union Jack.”

The bateau was guided past protruding rocks, and into the cove. The boys landed and climbed up to the old fort.

“We might as well start on the outside,” Frank suggested, referring to the map. “If you see anything resembling a tomahawk, let out a war whoop.”

The boys split up, each taking a designated area of the stone perimeter. They moved slowly along the shallow ditch, inspecting the huge stone blocks as far up the wall as the eye could see.

The task seemed endless and tedious, but they could not afford to dismiss the possibility of finding clues lying outside the foit.

Several hours later Joe called to Chet, “Any luck?”

A fatigued voice echoed from around a bend in the wall. “No. I think I’m going to be counting stones in my sleep.”

The young sleuths paused to eat a sandwich, then resumed their search. The afternoon sun grew hotter by the hour. Twice they took breaks at the lakeside, refreshing themselves from canteens.

“There must be a million square miles of stone in this fort.” Chet sighed, cooling his bare feet in the water.

A little later first Joe, then Chet, came upon freshly dug and refilled holes outside the ditch.

“Someone else is still searching,” Joe remarked.

Suddenly Chet glimpsed a figure watching them from the wooded shore below.

“Ronnie Rush!”

They started toward the student. He turned and disappeared into the woods.

“Snooping again,” Joe said. “Maybe he dug these holes.”

They decided not to waste time in pursuit—Ronnie had too much of a head start.

It was late afternoon before the boys had finished examining the wall sections still standing. No luck. There were piles of fallen masonry they had not even touched.

“It’ll take us days to go through them,” Frank said. “I think tomorrow we should concentrate on the inside.”

“Whew! I’m bushed—and empty!” Chet declared. “Let’s pitch camp and cook up some grub.”

The boys decided not to build their campfire near the fort. “No use advertising our presence,” Joe said.

As they started down to the bateau, Frank’s foot struck something metallic.

“Look!”

Reaching down, he picked up a wooden-handled, chisel-like tooL There were traces of clay on the blade, which was only slightly rusted.

“It’s a sculpture knife!” Frank said, turning it over in his hand. He detected two letters scratched on the wood—R. F.

“The owner’s initials.”

“René Follette, the French sculptor!” Joe burst out. “I wonder what he was doing here!”

“And he believes in Chambord’s gold chain,” Chet put in. “Except he thinks the British took it. Wow! I’m mixed up!”

Frank said decisively, “We’re going to have a talk with Mr. Follette when we get back tomorrow.”

Tired and hungry, they set off in the bateau. Reaching a point on the shore beyond the promontory, Joe spotted a small clearing inland. Quickly they tied up and soon had a fire going. The hungry boys thoroughly enjoyed a simple meal of frankfurters and beans. When the sun had dropped behind the western hills, they doused the fire and pushed off in the bateau.

A chilling wind rolled down the lake as they neared the fort, its massive, jagged hulk outlined against the night sky.

The Hardys paddled cautiously between the outjutting rocks and pulled ashore. Carrying sleeping bags and flashlights, they crept up the slope.

Some fifty yards from the western rampart, they set their gear down behind a thorn apple tree. From here they could also keep watch on the bateau.

For a long time the trio kept their eyes fixed on the fort, alert for any moving figure or signs of activity. Their ears strained for any suspicious sound, such as the clank of shovels or picks.

Only the noise of summer insects broke the silence. Chet shifted to a more comfortable position.

“Don’t even hear a drumbeat,” he said in a reassured tone.

The Hardys were beginning to feel discouraged when Chet whispered, “What’s that?” He inched closer to his pals. “L-listen!”

The boughs above them thrashed in a gust of wind. But the Hardys could also hear a hollow, echoing, breathlike sound from the fort!

“Maybe only wind—along the moat,” Frank reasoned, listening as the wind died down. The strange sound subsided, but was still audible.

“Wind! I’ve never heard wind like that!” Joe whispered. “Unless it’s coming through the holes and notches in the walls. It sounds like a seashell when you hold it up to your ear.”

“I know what it is—a ghost breathing!” Chet muttered.

The vigil continued until the boys’ eyes ached. Finally the three campers decided to sleep in turns. Past midnight, the wind became stronger and the moon broke through the clouds.

As it did, Frank tensed at a strange image on the fort wall. It looked like a skull!

But it proved to be only an area of gutted masonry with spaces resembling eye sockets and teeth.

Later, Chet took his turn on watch and propped himself against the apple tree. “So far nothing suspicious,” he thought, relaxing. One second later he suddenly froze.

Thump! Thump! Drumbeats!

His breath locked tight, Chet sat up, trying to detect the direction of the sound.

Thum! Silence. Thump!

Frantically he shook Frank and Joe, who bolted awake. “What is it?”

Above the sighing wind, the Hardys clearly heard the drumbeats. They were not coming from the fort but from somewhere near the lake!

Leaping to their feet, they looked down the moonlit water. Frank scanned the calm expanse.

“Look—out there!”

A hooded black figure was gliding toward shore!

Joe, unable to believe what he saw, was the first to gasp.

“It’s a g-ghost-walking on the water!”

CHAPTER XVI

The Deserted Cottage

THE black, billowing figure glided over the moonlit lake, its wind-blown shroud trailing a shimmering shadow.

For moments Frank, Joe, and Chet remained transfixed until Joe cried, “Come on!”

The Hardys raced down the slope. Chet, although shaking with fear, stumbled after them.

The ghost, its draped arms outstretched, was already nearing shore. The boys saw it disappear beneath overhanging trees beyond the fort promontory.

They ran back for flashlights, then hurried downhill to the area where the specter had vanished. But it was nowhere to be seen.

“I still don’t believe it!” Frank said. “Maybe I was just having a nightmare.”

“Not unless we all had the same one,” Joe said. “We all saw that-thing.”

“But—walking on water!” Chet exclaimed, shivering. “Nobody’ll believe us.”

“Listen—the drumbeats have stopped!” Frank said. They checked the bateau, found nothing disturbed, and returned to their post on the slope.

Hoping to get another glimpse of the ghost, all three remained awake for some time. But the phantom did not reappear. Near dawn the boys finally fell asleep.

They awoke several hours later, took a dip in the lake, and had breakfast. A search along the shore turned up no clues. Eager to report their experience, they returned to Millwood. Mr. Davenport and Uncle Jim were incredulous when they related their ghost story.

The art patron looked hard at the boys. “You all aren’t pulling an old Confederate’s leg, are you?”

“Oh, no! We saw it. Honest!” Chet said earnestly.

“Sir,” said Joe, “this ghost walker wasn’t another—er—lake monster, was it?”

“No. At least, not mine.”

“We’ll keep at our investigation,” Frank assured him.

Later in the morning they told Uncle Jim about seeing Ronnie Rush near the fort. The instructor said that Ronnie had not appeared for any of his classes the day before. “Maybe he’s still sore about losing out at the exhibit,” said Joe. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s after the fort treasure himself.”

The boys then showed Uncle Jim the sculpting tool. “It may be Follette’s,” he said. “I’d like to go with you to see him, but I’m getting ready for a class.”

He filled two bowls from a glass turpentine container, then placed several brushes in one. He was about to dip his paint-covered hands into the other when Joe dashed over and grabbed his wrists.

“Don’t!”

“What’s the matter?”

Joe pointed to the bowl containing the brushes. “Look!”

Faint smoke rose from it. They all could see the brushes disintegrating!

“That’s not turpentine—it’s an acid!” Frank cried out.

Mr. Kenyon sniffed the liquid. “You’re right! Somebody must have put it in the turpentine bottle during the night!”

“Could it have been just a mistake?” Chet asked.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve never had any reason to keep acid here.” He thanked Joe for his quick action, then asked the Hardys, “Do you think whoever did this caused the other accidents and left the shotgun warning?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “Or else a confederate. But I doubt that any of the students are involved except maybe Ronnie Rush.”

Joe looked thoughtful. “One thing is sure. It’s someone who knows his way around here—night or day.” The Hardys and Chet left, and went to the sculpture studio. They drew René Follette aside and showed him the initialed tool.

“Yes, yes, it is mine!” he said readily. “It has been missing—oh, maybe two days. Where did you find it?”

The sculptor gave a start when the boys mentioned the mysterious flags at Senandaga but denied any knowledge of them.

Feeling it wise not to reveal details of their visits to Senandaga, the boys left. Outside, Frank said, “Follette didn’t act guilty. Perhaps someone stole his knife.”

The Hardys debated their next move, eventually deciding to do some detecting on the property of both Gilman and the English hermit.

“I still think there’s something fishy about Everett’s wet boat.”

“And Gilman,” Joe added. “He might have had his own reasons for getting hold of the Davenport paintings!”

They divided forces. Joe and Chet would go in the bateau to scout Turtle Island. Frank got permission to borrow the limousine to visit Gilman’s estate.

“Here are the keys, sir,” said Alex, outside the mansion garage.

Frank thanked him and soon was driving north. He parked in a wooded spot, and trudged along the overgrown shore. Soon he reached the Gilman property.

The Tudor house, as well as the lake-front patio, looked deserted. Circling the grounds convinced Frank that Gilman was not at home.

His ears keen for the sound of a car on the driveway, Frank peered into first-floor windows. If Gilman were behind the gallery thefts, where might he hide the paintings?

“The attic or the cellar!” Frank thought, wishing it were possible to search these places.

He found the garage open and looked around inside. Nothing suspicious there. Next, Frank pressed his face against a cellar window but saw only garden furniture, tools, and piles of old newspapers. Feeling thwarted, Frank then walked to the lake front. Through a grove of willows to the right, he noticed a boathouse and a long dock.

“I’ll check there,” he decided, and followed a path through the woods. Suddenly Frank heard footsteps behind him. He was about to spin around when he was struck hard on the head.

Frank’s legs turned to rubber and everything went black.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he came to with a throbbing headache. Sensations spun through his consciousness ... a strong, acrid smell ... hushed voices ... echoing ... a feeling of being adrift.

Suddenly he felt a trickle of water on his face. Frank opened his eyes to darkness. He was encased in something made of metal.

Then he saw jagged holes of light above his head. A chill of horror jolted him!

He was trapped in a steel barrel!

Frantically, Frank tried to turn over. But the container rolled with his movement, forcing water in through the holes.

The steel drum was sinking in the lake!

CHAPTER XVII

The Accused

FRANK kicked at the bottom of the container, then gagged as water rose over his chin.

Sputtering, he pounded his heels against the steel, but it was no use!

In a last desperate effort Frank gave a mighty push upward with his head and hands. The top gave a little. He pushed again, this time loosening the lid enough to free himself. His lungs at the bursting point, Frank swam away from the sinking trap and shot to the surface.

Gasping and gulping in air, he found himself about fifty yards offshore from the limousine.

No boats were in sight as he made it to the shore and collapsed, exhausted. As soon as his strength returned, he stood up and looked about for signs of his attackers. “Maybe someone is hiding in the boathouse,” he thought. Frank headed for the building, moving with caution. Finding the padlock open, he slipped inside.

Gilman’s lavish craft swayed gently in its berth. Frank peered about the dim interior but saw no one lurking in the shadows. He kicked at a tarpaulin, uncovering a pile of wood molding. “Wonder what they’re for,” he mused, and picked up several pieces. Underneath lay a familiar-looking, ridged strip. It had a diamond-shaped corner !

“It’s part of an old fort frame!” Other fragments also appeared to be from the Prisoner-Painter’s originals. “Gilman!”

The evidence pointed to the critic as the thief. But Frank was puzzled. Would Gilman have gone so far as to try to drown him?

“The police should know about this immediately,” he decided, covering the frames. He ran to the limousine and drove directly to the school. He called the chief, who sent officers Bilton and Turner to meet him at Gilman’s. After changing clothes, Frank went back to the critic’s house. To his surprise, Gilman was there.

“What is the meaning of this?” the owner demanded as Frank and the policemen approached.

“We’d like to take a look inside your boathouse,” said Officer Turner. He showed a search warrant.

Gilman climbed to his feet, his face a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. “Why? What—?”

“Because this young man tells us some stolen property is in there.”

“Which I discovered,” Frank added, “after someone knocked me out and tried to sink me in a steel drum.”

Gilman was flabbergasted. “I’m not guilty of such a terrible thing,” he protested. “I’ll have you know I am a reputable citizen.”

“Come along with us,” Officer Turner ordered.

Inside the boathouse, Frank pointed out the diamond-shaped piece of wood. “Recognize that, Mr. Gilman?”

“Of course. It looks like an original frame for a Davenport painting.”

“Yes. A stolen frame,” Frank challenged. “Maybe you can tell us what it’s doing in your boathouse?”

The critic threw up his hands. “I don’t know how any of this wood got in here. I am innocent of these hideous accusations. My driver, who also pilots the cruiser, can testify to that. He’s been with me for the last few hours.”

The driver was questioned closely. He provided a perfect alibi and vehemently denied any part in the attack on Frank. He also maintained that the stack of wood had not been in the boathouse earlier that day.

After searching the premises for the stolen paintings, the officers decided to recover the drum. Frank offered to dive for it, so the three took the rowboat to the spot where he had surfaced. Stripping to his shorts, Frank plunged overboard and streaked downward. Fortunately the water was clear, and he soon spotted the drum, and the lid near it, resting on the sandy bottom at a depth of ten feet.

When Frank bobbed up bearing the evidence, he was helped aboard and the trio returned to the boathouse. The critic paled when he saw his address printed on the side of the drum. “That contained insecticide,” he said. “We used up the last of it a week ago.”

Gilman looked completely deflated and his chin slumped to his chest. “I didn’t have anything to do with this fiendish thing,” he muttered.

The officers ordered him not to leave the premises. “You’ll have to stay here until we find out the truth,” said Turner. He and Bilton took the container and pieces of frame as evidence. By now, Frank had dried off in the hot sun and dressed, so they drove back in the limousine.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Bilton remarked.

Frank nodded. “I’m thankful that * wasn’t put on any tighter,” he replied. He remembered the voices he had heard just before sinking. “There must have been two men at least.”

“At any rate, this is pretty heavy evidence against Gilman,” said Turner.

Chet, Joe, Uncle Jim, and Mr. Davenport were first stunned, then angered upon hearing of Frank’s experience. He had told them his story in the art patron’s study. The elderly Southerner kept muttering, “I know Chauncey Gilman’s dead set against me—but this—incredible.”

“I feel the same way,” Frank said. “I don’t believe he’s to blame.”

Joe agreed. “If Mr. Gilman was so shook up by a fake monster,” he said wryly, “I can’t see him having the nerve to do anything criminal.”

“How about the paintings?” Jim Kenyon asked.

“Not a sign,” Frank replied.

“Do you think Gilman knows anything about that ghost we saw last night?” Chet put in.

Frank shrugged. “Remember, Adrian Copler’s still at large, and his partners. If we only had some leads to their identity!”

Joe reported that he and Chet had found Turtle Island deserted. Everett and his rowboat were gone. There was no trace of the stolen paintings.

“His dog was there, but chained up, lucky for us,” Chet added.

Mr. Davenport declared he himself would visit Chauncey Gilman that afternoon. “I don’t like him, but I won’t judge him guilty till it’s proved.”

The boys had a late lunch, after which Frank suggested revisiting the fort. “We can give the interior a good going-over this time,” he said.

Jim Kenyon offered to accompany the boys, since he had the afternoon free.

“Swell,” said Joe. “We could use a hand combing the fort.”

After getting some digging tools, they climbed into the bateau and set off. When they reached Senandaga, the foursome went directly through the entrance tunnel. Pausing in the middle of the parade ground, Frank took out their map.

“Let’s see. We’re facing south.” He pointed to a long, roofless building to his right. “That must be the West Barracks—”

“Or what’s left of it,” Chet interrupted.

“—And the ruin behind us—here—the North Barracks. This building to our left was for officers. Other than the two demilunes outside, the four corner bastions, and the ramparts themselves, that’s the setup aboveground.”

“How about the dungeons?” Joe asked. “Jason Davenport must have been kept prisoner in one.”

Frank turned the map around. “They were under the West Barracks.” They walked over to the stone structure, which rose just above the rampart. Rubble clogged an entrance which evidently led underground.

“It’ll be a job getting down there,” Frank said.

“Of course General Davenport likely had the run of the fort,” Mr. Kenyon reminded them. “He could have found the chaîne d’or anywhere.”

They decided to comb the barrack ruins first, Frank taking the one to the west, Joe the old officers’ building, and Chet and Uncle Jim the North Barracks.

Originally three-storied, these were now little more than shells with empty window and door frames. Two bleak chimneys remained standing.

Joe climbed through a broken wall section and began searching among the chunks of stone and mortar, most of it from the fallen upper floor.

Hours passed as the boys and Jim worked. Senandaga echoed with the sound of shovels and shifting stones. Each began to doubt the clue could ever be found. What if it were hopelessly buried?

“Look, here’s an old sword blade!” Frank called out.

“Great!” Chet responded. “We just found a rusted grapeshot rack!”

Joe later uncovered a wooden canteen almost intact. But none of them saw anything resembling a tomahawk or a chain. Finally the weary searchers took a break, relaxing on the shore near the bateau.

Suddenly they were startled by men’s angry shouts from inside the fort!

Frank and Joe, followed by Chet and his uncle, ran up the slope and through the tunnel, then halted in amazement.

At one side of the parade ground, two men were furiously exchanging blows!

CHAPTER XVIII

A Sudden Disappearance

“RENÉ FOLLETTE and Lloyd Everett!” cried Frank in astonishment.

The Hardys, Chet, and Jim Kenyon rushed over and separated the fighting men. Mr. Kenyon silenced them. “What’s this all about, René?”

“This hermit—he insults my ancestor, the great Marquis de Chambord!”

Everett snorted. “Who was brought to heel by my forebear, Lord Craig!”

“Then it’s you two who have been raising the French and British flags,” Frank declared.

Reluctantly, first Everett, then Follette admitted having done so to have his country’s flag flying for Senandaga Day. Each man had lowered the other’s banner, but neither had been looking for the golden chain. Each had, however, come at various times to search for proof of his ancestor’s victory.

René grunted. “You, Everett, struck me unconscious last Tuesday!”

“Utter nonsense! Besides—you struck me cold yesterday!”

“A lie!”

The Hardys exchanged glances. Who had knocked out the Englishman and the sculptor? Frank asked them if they had seen a black-robed “ghost” around the fort.

“Ghost, no!” Follette waved emphatically. “But I still feel that blow on my head!”

Jim Kenyon, with some difficulty, got the two to shake hands and declare a truce.

After the men had pushed off in their boats, the boys and Uncle Jim resumed their explorations, skirting the ramparts. Frank and Joe noticed small openings at foot level along the entire parapet, evidently rifle ports to reinforce cannon fire. But looking through one, Joe found it obstructed.

“Look!” he called to his brother. “Somebody’s wedged a tin can in here! And in the next opening, too!”

Frank found the same thing true along the north rampart.

“This explains the eerie noise of the wind we heard!” he said. “These might have been stuck in to make the spooky sounds!”

Suddenly he knelt down and yanked out a rectangular can from one port. Joe sniffed at the open top. “This held kerosene!” he exclaimed. He pulled the cork from his pocket. It fit perfectly.

Frank held onto the tin. Crouching, the Hardys moved along the notched wall guarding the fort. Bend by bend, they checked for markings or loose stones.

“Let’s try the demilunes,” Frank urged at last.

They were just crossing the wooden planking to the southern demilune when Chet’s voice rang out.

“Frank—Joe—Uncle Jim, come here!”

Rushing down to the end of the North Barracks, the others found Chet holding up a piece of black cloth. Excitedly the Hardys examined it.

“Frank—you think—?”

“It’s from the ghost? Could be!”

Jim Kenyon took the torn fragment and rubbed his fingers over the cloth.

He looked at the boys. “If so, your ghost got his costume from Millwood! This is a piece of a painting smock—dyed!”

He pointed out white markings still faintly visible beneath the black dye. They spelled “Mil.”

“Wow!” Chet burst out. “You think the phantom is an artist?”

“Whatever he is,” Joe said, “how did he walk on water?”

Frank showed Chet and his uncle the kerosene tin, and told of the other cans he and Joe had found. “They look like fruit-juice cans,” he added. “Maybe someone bought supplies in Cedartown.”

“Like Adrian Copier!” Joe ventured. “Or a crony. I’ll bet a cracker that thief is in hiding near Senandaga.”

Although disappointed at not unearthing the treasure clue, they felt encouraged by Chet’s discovery, and the Hardys planned to try tracing the piece of smock.

They had just pulled up the bateau on the Millwood beach when Alex the chauffeur came running toward them, a troubled expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” asked Uncle Jim.

“Have any of you seen Mr. Davenport?”

They shook their heads. “No, we just came from the fort,” Frank answered. “Why?”

“He had me drive him to Mr. Gilman’s early this afternoon,” Alex reported, worriedly fingering his cap. “Mr. Davenport was to phone me to pick him up before dinnertime. It’s past that now, and I haven’t heard a word!”

“Do you think something has happened to him?” Joe asked.

“I just telephoned Mr. Gilman. He told me he hasn’t seen Mr. Davenport.” Alex added that the art patron had gotten out of the car on the road just before the critic’s property.

“Could Gilman be lying?” Chet put in.

“Let’s find out,” Joe urged.

Hastily leaving their gear outside the mansion, the boys jumped in the limousine and drove to Gilman’s home. The man appeared completely bewildered. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he whined. “Everything is blamed on me.”

A thorough search of the grounds proved futile. There was no sign of Jefferson Davenport. Next the Hardys and Chet made inquiries in town. No one there had seen the man, nor could any of the Millwood students provide the boys with a clue.

By midnight, with still no word on the millionaire, Chet’s uncle telephoned headquarters. The chief said a missing-person alarm would be sent out.

Next morning the school buzzed with the news of Mr. Davenport’s disappearance. The Hardys felt that there was a strong link between it and the art thefts.

“It could be a desperate move by Copler and his gang to get information about the treasure,” Frank said. “I move we check the fort again. If that’s their hideout, they may be questioning Mr. Davenport there.”

Joe and Chet agreed, and the three hurriedly took off in the bateau.

Once inside Senandaga, they searched for the millionaire. Finding no sign of him aboveground, they decided to tackle the dungeon entrances. There were two in the West and two in the North Barracks. “Let’s try the north first,” said Frank. The opening was blocked by what seemed tons of rubble. The old steps were barely visible.

“How’ll we ever dig through this stuff!” Chet groaned.

The boys found many of the rocks too large to be moved with shovels. In minutes their faces were covered with perspiration.

They tried the second north entrance. Here they found decayed timber poking out of the rocks. Frank and Chet lifted out a rotting door and set it against a wall.

The diggers proceeded, making a little headway.

Suddenly they heard a splintering thud. The boys whirled to see a hatchet embedded in the old door! It had narrowly missed Frank’s head!

“Who threw that?” Joe yelled angrily.

“Look!” Chet quavered, pointing.

They saw, fleeing out the main gateway, a hooded black figure!

The three boys raced in pursuit.

“You two go that way!” Frank yelled, jumping into the ditch and running off to the left. Chet and Joe sped in the opposite direction.

But they circled the fort walls without spotting the ghostly figure. Back at the digging site, Joe pulled the hatchet from the door. “It’s an ordinary camping type, but I’m glad we weren’t in its way!”

“Who threw that?” Joe yelled angrily

Frank studied the broad blade of the ax, then took out the photostat of the fort map and spread it on the ground.

“What’s up?” Joe asked curiously.

“Look at this hatchet,” Frank urged, “then at the shape of any side of the fort!”

Joe looked at the eastern rampart on the map as his brother’s hand covered one of the corner bastions. “It’s like a tomahawk!” he exclaimed. “It must be the clue painted by General Davenport!”

The three boys were greatly excited. “Which side of the fort is the right one, though?” Chet puzzled.

“In the painting the tomahawk was parallel to the west wall! And remember the notches on it near the end of the stock?” said Frank.

“The West Barracks!” Joe said. “The notches must refer to one of the dungeon cells! But that hatchet-throwing ghost—could he know about this clue?”

“I doubt it,” Frank said. “He was trying to scare us out of this fort, but the joke may be on him. If we’re right, he gave us a swell lead. Maybe we can find Mr. Davenport and the treasure too! Come on!”

Grabbing their shovels, the three moved over to the West Barracks, at the entrance nearest the notches shown in the picture. Spurred by renewed hope, they worked furiously.

An hour later Frank managed to wriggle through a hole they had opened in the rubble. Joe and Chet watched tensely as he lowered himself into blackness.

“It’s all right!” Frank called.

The others passed the shovels down and joined Frank. Chet squeezed through with the Hardys’ help. The boys switched on their flashlights and found themselves in a long, dank corridor, partially filled with debris.

A row of cells extended along the left wall. The Hardys were eager to explore and started for the nearest cell. Together, the boys inspected one dungeon after another, their rotting wood doors sagging on rusty iron hinges.

Frank and Chet were playing their lights on the floor of the fourth cell when Joe shouted behind them. “Look—on the back wall!”

His beam focused on faint scratch marks in the stone.

The boys hurried over. Now they saw the scratches formed a definite shape: a broad blade, notched handle, and an encircling chain—identical to the one in the Davenport painting!

“This must have been the Prisoner-Painter’s cell!” Frank exclaimed.

They felt the wall with their fingers. Joe frowned. “Solid as steel,” he commented. “How about the floor?”

Frank kicked aside the remains of what had been the prisoner’s cot. As his foot touched one of the floor stones, it rattled!

“Joe—a shovel!”

Prodding with the spade, Frank levered the large slab, and the others lifted it out. Their flashlights revealed a gaping hole!

CHAPTER XIX

Dungeon Trap

“IT’s not very deep.” Frank crouched. “I’ll go first.”

The Hardys dropped down into the opening and beamed their lights around.

“It’s a tunnel!” Joe hissed.

Behind them was a blank stone wall, but ahead stretched the low, dirt passageway. Chet lowered shovels and all three moved forward, ducking their heads.

“Easy—this ceiling doesn’t look safe,” Frank cautioned. “I don’t get it. We’re going west, which means the chain must be hidden outside the fort. Why?”

“Beats me,” Joe replied.

There appeared to be no turns. Farther on, they were surprised to find the tunnel angling downhill, then realized this was because of the fort ditch above.

Suddenly the trio were brought up short by a wall of dirt. Joe whispered. “Do you think it’s the end, or a cave-in?”

Frank probed the sloping earth with his spade. “It looks like a cave-in, and a big one.”

The three debated about digging through the dirt barrier.

“We’ll be risking another cave-in,” Frank said. “If only we knew whether or not this tunnel continues. And if it does, where to.”

“Let’s chance it,” Joe urged.

The Bayport sleuths set their flashlights on the floor and began shoveling with utmost care.

Beneath its hard-packed outer layer, the dirt was loose. The boys dumped spadeful after spadeful to one side. Suddenly they stopped digging, and listened, motionless.

Stealthy footsteps were approaching!

Grabbing a flashlight, Joe swung the beam back down the passage. It fell on the face of a tall, sullen-faced youth.

“Ronnie Rush!”

“Well, I finally caught up to you three. I hitched a ride in a motorboat, and trailed you here at the fort. Did you find the gold chain?”

Ronnie, striding forward defiantly, forgot to duck. His head struck the low ceiling. A thunderous sound followed as the tunnel walls gave way.

“Look out!” Frank cried.

Ronnie leaped ahead. He and the boys went down beneath a barrage of falling earth. Choking dust filled the tunnel pocket. Joe staggered to his feet and thrust a shovel into the mass of earth. “Frank! We’re cut off!”

The Hardys dug furiously, but it was no use. They were sealed in!

“There’s not enough air to last the four of us even a couple of hours!” Frank warned. “So every move will have to count.”

Chet glowered at Rush, who lay stunned. “If it weren’t for you—”

“You really scored this time, Rush,” Frank agreed. “But we can’t waste air arguing about it.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Ronnie said, contrite for the first time. “I was wrong to snoop, and steal your fort map. I had overheard Mr. Davenport and Mr. Kenyon talking about this treasure, and that you fellows were coming up here and—”

“Conked me to get our map,” Joe finished.

Ronnie shook his head, puzzled. “No! I took the map, but I don’t know anything about knocking you out—honest!”

As the youth seemed genuinely contrite, the other boys traded glances. If he hadn’t struck Joe, who had? Ronnie looked fearfully around at the enclosing walls.

“I just want to say, in case we—we don’t get out of here, I—uh—well, I’m really sorry about Chet’s painting and all—”

“Right now, you can be our shovel relief,” Frank said tersely.

First the boys recovered their flashlights, then dug steadily. When Chet collapsed with fatigue, Rush took up his shovel. The three lights cut bright spears through the small black space. Breathing was difficult and their clothes were drenched from exertion.

“Come on! We’ve got to get through!” Ronnie panted.

Seconds later, Joe’s shovel pierced the barrier and a cool draft hit their hot faces.

“We’ve made it!” Frank shouted.

The boys clawed rapidly with their tools, cutting a wider opening. Then they ducked through single file and advanced slowly; their flashlights beamed ahead. A short distance farther on was a wall with openings to the right and left.

“I’ll bet these are infiltration tunnels!” Joe exclaimed.

They entered the opening to the right, and found it littered with old French weapons, including rusty muskets and three small cannon, but as Frank feared, the tunnel ended in a solid blank wall.

The searchers hastily returned to enter the lefthand opening.

“Frank, how far out from the fort wall do you think we are?” Chet asked.

“Maybe a hundred yards west, probably to the woods. What an ingenious idea—if Chambord ever did use this for infiltration!”

He recalled Mr. Davenport’s mention of the Vauban parallel trenches, once used by attacking armies to close in on fortresses. Had Chambord reversed this idea, building these tunnels for defense ?

Fifty yards ahead, they reached another dirt wall.

“There’s got to be a way out!” Frank reasoned. “Let’s try the wall.”

They spread out, and with Chet holding the lights, gently probed the dry earth. Minutes later, a section fell away under Ronnie’s shovel.

“Here it is!”

Carefully widening the hole just enough, they ducked quickly through and proceeded down a tunnel heading back toward the fort.

“It’s parallel to the other,” Joe observed.

Presently they came to the beginning of the passageway—a wall of dirt.

“Funny,” said Frank. “The other tunnel started from a stone wall.”

Just then Joe flashed his light above and exclaimed, “Look!”

The beam revealed a square slab of stone. Hopefully the boys pushed it up and minutes later climbed out to find themselves in another cell. Covered with grime, the companions trudged along the dungeon corridor, and picked their way through the debris outside the entrance. They emerged on the parade ground again as dusk was falling.

Suddenly Frank spotted a uniformed man standing at the fort entrance. He ran toward them.

“Alex!” Frank cried out.

“Thank goodness you’re safe!” the chauffeur exclaimed. “Mr. Davenport has been found. He’s with Mr. Kenyon right now!”

“Where?” Frank asked.

“Come with me!” Alex led them across to the North Barracks, where an opening had now been cleared through a dungeon entrance—the same where the boys had started digging before the hatchet was thrown. “Mr. Kenyon found him down here—he’s not well!”

Concerned, they slid below, where several lanterns illuminated a dank corridor. The boys stared in amazement at two figures at the far end. One was Jefferson Davenport, propped against the wall with his legs bound. The other was a short, pug-faced man who held a rock over Mr. Davenport’s head.

“Adrian Copler!” Joe exclaimed. “Why, you—” Stepping forward, he was blocked by Alex !

“One move, my young Mr. Hardy,” he said, smiling coldly, “and Davenport is done for.”

As Copler swung the rock menacingly, the chauffeur thrust Frank back. “All of you—on your stomachs on the floor!”

“Why—you’re in with them!” Chet muttered incredulously.

“Shut up!” Alex barked.

The boys exchanged hopeless glances, and in order to spare Mr. Davenport, submitted to being tied hand and foot. Then Alex dragged his four prisoners roughly along and pushed them against the wall a short distance from the millionaire.

“I told you we’d get ’em!” Alex said. “Those snooping Hardys!”

“Good work!”

A hooded black figure appeared out of the shadows. Spellbound, the boys heard a soft laugh, then saw a gloved hand whisk down the hood to reveal a bearded, hawk-nosed face.

Myles Warren!

CHAPTER XX

The Final Link

THE trapped boys stared at Warren in astonishment, hardly able to believe their eyes.

“Then you, Alex, and Copler have been behind the painting thefts and the haunted fort!” Joe exclaimed.

“No doubt you’re surprised,” Warren answered with an irritating air of superiority. “Too bad you had to find out. But you may be able to tell us more than stupid Copler.”

The art thief flushed. “Oh, yeah? You haven’t been holed up in this miserable dungeon—all because of that worthless junk!”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. It was then, in the dimness, that the boys noticed a stack of paintings, some without frames, against the wall farther up the corridor. The stolen fort pictures!

“Shut up!” Warren snapped at his partner. “You talk too much!”

“Alex, it was you who kidnapped Mr. Davenport for the treasure clue,” Frank prodded. “Where does Gilman fit in?”

Warren laughed. “He doesn’t. After we failed to find any clues in the old frames, we removed several in order to ‘frame’ Gilman, so to speak.” The merchant went on to admit being the ring-leader, and that he and Alex had put Frank in the steel drum.

“We didn’t intend to drown you,” Alex put in. “That’s why we didn’t put the lid on tight.”

The sport-store owner had quickly engineered the fake detour after Alex phoned him that the boys were heading for the fort that night. Warren also had been responsible for the canoe sabotage, as well as the dock fire. It was Alex who had learned the Hardys had been asked to come to Millwood.

“No doubt you, Alex, and Warren stole all the fort paintings from the gallery,” Frank said.

Warren nodded, boasting, “Pretty clever I was to get into Millwood by playing the weekend painter bit.”

He said that the red paint smear had accidentally been rubbed off from his artist’s smock onto the back of the picture while he had been examining it in the gallery.

“And of course you had a swell chance to shotgun that red paint into our room,” Joe said.

“Naturally.” Warren’s eyes glittered. “I trust you remember that message I left.”

The Hardys and Chet felt a chill of fear as they recalled the ominous threat.

Ronnie spoke up. “Joe, he must be the one who hit you on the head!”

Warren glared. “And you must be the twerp who beat us to that map!”

“Did you push my car down the slope?” Chet asked. Warren pointed to the chauffeur.

“My orders, of course, though your pal was lucky enough to foul them up. Alex tells me he gave you three quite a runaround in the woods one night.”

Not to be outdone, Alex boasted of cutting the ferry cables. “We had to do something to discourage tourist pests. Unfortunately that zany Frenchman and Everett kept nosing around the fort—they had lumps on their heads to show for it.”

“By the way,” Copler whined proudly, “those well boards didn’t move by themselves. You Hardy pests kept me cooped up that day, but I sneaked out once.”

The boys learned that the drumbeats were made by Copler who had used an Indian tomtom to signal his partners for meetings.

“What have you done to Mr. Davenport?” Frank demanded, worried because of the elderly man’s silence and drawn face.

“He hasn’t been cooperative.” Warren smirked. “He’ll get worse treatment if you don’t tell us where the gold chain is hidden!”

Even Chet now realized they must spar for time. “One thing still puzzles us,” he said, “is how you walked on the lake Monday night. It was great.”

“Simple,” Warren bragged, holding up two black slotted objects resembling small surfboards. “Water shoes, made of urethane. Copler trimmed ‘em down. By the way”—he chuckled—“Alex provided Kenyon with a little acid ‘turpentine—”

“You batted zero out there, Warren,” Joe taunted. “We already uncovered that.”

Warren became furious. He struck Joe across the face. “Wise guy! What’s that painting clue? When you almost dug into our setup here, Copler overheard you say something about a tomahawk what? Better still, where’s that gold chain?”

“We don’t know yet—we’ve been looking in a tunnel,” Frank said.

“Tunnel? Where?” Alex demanded. “You’ve got a lead—out with it!”

The Hardys explained the clue, adding that Warren’s hatchet had given them the lead. “The west dungeons, either entrance,” Joe said. “There are loose cell stones. One tunnel leads to a cave-in. We can show you.”

“No you don’t!” Warren said harshly, satisfied with the information. He picked up two lanterns.

“Copler, you stay here and keep your eye on these punks. Alex, we’re going for that chain!”

After Warren and the chauffeur had left, Frank racked his brain for a way to escape. Joe looked over and shrugged. Adrian Copler boasted, “You fools should have paid attention to my warning in Bayport. You’ll be sorry you didn’t!”

A few minutes later Copler began pacing the room nervously. Frank glanced at Mr. Davenport, who winked and signaled the boy closer.

Though bound hand and foot, Frank inched along the floor until he was two feet from the millionaire. Suddenly Davenport moaned and slumped over. In alarm Copler rushed to him.

“Davenport! What’s happened? Don’t die! Please. Not here!”

All the while Frank was pulling his knees up until he was poised like a spring.

Wham! His feet flew forward and caught Copler on the side of the head. The thief collapsed like an empty sack.

Instantly the millionaire opened his eyes and smiled. “Good work!” He untied Frank, who promptly released the others. As they freed Mr. Davenport’s legs, he assured them he was all right. He chuckled. “Some act I put on, eh?”

Ronnie agreed to stay with him while the Hardys and Chet went after Alex and Warren. The Bayporters emerged and crossed the vacant parade ground to the West Barracks. “They could have gone in either one,” Frank surmised. “Let’s check the first!”

They squirmed below and crept along the silent corridor into the clue-marked cell. Frank switched off his light before dropping soundlessly into the hole at the beginning of the tunnel. Chet followed, then Joe.

They listened carefully before flashing on their beams. The lights hit the barrier of caved-in dirt sixty feet ahead. Nobody in sight.

“They must be in the other tunnel,” Joe said, and turned about. “Come on!” But his attention was suddenly caught by a straight fissure in the stone wall at the start of the tunnel. On a sudden hunch Joe grasped a projecting stone edge and he tugged with both hands. Frank did the same. The stone moved slightly. Excited, the Hardys pulled with all their might. Finally a door creaked open!

“What do you know about that!” Chet exclaimed.

Cautiously they stepped inside a paved passageway.

Wondering if they would meet Warren and Alex, the three boys followed the newly found tunnel beneath the fort interior. At its end, they played their flashlights around a large chamber.

Frank spotted a glitter of metal and followed it with his ray. Link by link, a huge gold chain was revealed, hanging majestically around the vault!

“The treasure!” Joe exclaimed. “We’ve found it!”

“And look at this,” said Frank, pointing to a dusty book and tomahawk on a table.

“I knew the Prisoner-Painter had a reason for putting the clue in that one cell!” Joe said.

The boys were curious about the book, but Frank rushed the others back into the passage. “Let’s get to that other tunnel!”

They went up to the second dungeon entrance and slipped down to the cell above the tunneL The stone had been pushed aside from the hole.

“Quiet!” Frank whispered, turning off his light. They dropped below and tensely moved forward into the darkness. After a while they saw a lantern flash ahead!

“Get down!” Joe whispered. They dropped to their stomachs, hearing first Alex’s voice, then Warren’s.

“But the kid said something about a cave-in down there to the right—it’s a dead end.”

“You’re crazy—the cave-in’s the other way!” Warren retorted. “There must be a link-up in this direction.”

“I say left,” the chauffeur persisted.

As the men’s voices rose in argument, Chet and the Hardys crept closer.

“Suit yourself,” Warren said finally, “I’m trying the right. Yell if you find it.” Their footsteps receded. Frank signaled the others to their feet.

“They’ve separated—let’s take Warren first!”

With Joe remaining on guard, Frank and Chet turned down to the right, moving along opposite walls. When they reached the pale glow of the leader’s lantern, Frank jumped him.

Startled, Warren wrenched him off and swung his lantern. He was about to bring it down on Frank’s head when Chet tackled him.

“Alex!”

Warren’s cry echoed as he kicked Chet away, only to reel staggering into the wall from Frank’s smashing uppercut. A second punch dropped him unconscious before Alex rushed out of the shadows.

“Why, you—” As the man lurched toward Frank, Joe caught him from behind with a stinging bang on the left ear. Enraged and thrown off balance, Alex threw a backhand blow. Joe ducked it and at the same time Frank swung a round-house right. It landed on the point of Alex’s jutting chin. Out cold, he fell face forward on the tunnel floor.

As Frank rubbed his bruised knuckles, Chet and Joe bound the captives with belts.

“Wow! You really bombed him,” Chet praised Frank. “Hey, what’s that noise?”

They left the conspirators and hurried outside to the parade ground. Mr. Kenyon rushed up to them, followed by half a dozen policemen!

“Frank! Chet! Joe! You’re a sight for sore eyes! Did you find Mr. Davenport?”

“Yes. He’s okay.” Chet grinned. “We have three prisoners, too.”

Rapidly the boys related their amazing adventure, ending with outwitting the thieves.

“I knew something was fishy when you didn’t get back to Millwood,” Uncle Jim explained, “especially after the housekeeper said Alex had gone to look for Mr. Davenport, and never showed up again.”

He expressed astonishment at Warren and Alex being in cahoots with Copler, and surmised that the chauffeur had forged his references. “But it sounds like Ronnie Rush has reformed a little,” he added, smiling.

The Cedartown police chief congratulated the boys, then sent his men below for the prisoners. The Hardys, Chet, and Uncle Jim rejoined Mr. Davenport and Ronnie. Grinning, Joe asked the art patron if he could stand another shock.

The elderly Southerner straightened his shoulders. “Reckon so if I can deal with criminals.”

With Ronnie meekly trailing behind, the Hardys led the way to the secret chamber beneath the center of the fort. There the group gazed in awe at the magnificence of the gleaming chain of gold.

“It’s beyond words!” Mr. Davenport said happily. “Thanks to you detectives, and Jason’s clue, this priceless treasure is safe! I’ll see that it’s properly displayed near the paintings of my esteemed ancestor.”

Chet looked slyly at Ronnie. “If I do a painting of the treasure, will you ‘help’ me win another prize?”

Ronnie grinned sheepishly. “Never again!”

The Hardys then explained their theory about the infiltration tunnels, and Joe pointed out the old book. Mr. Davenport leafed through it. He looked up, astonished.

“What you boys have uncovered will rewrite history!” he declared. “This is a ledger left by Chambord hours before he and his garrison evacuated Senandaga, using these tunnels to escape to another battle area. According to this account, he planned to station Iroquois Indians—disguised as French soldiers—on the ramparts.”

“To decoy Lord Craig!” Frank guessed.

“Precisely.”

“Then the men the British attacked were actually Indians!” Joe put in, then frowned. “But Follette said ‘Frenchmen’ had been seen on the ramparts after the English had left.”

The boys recalled Everett’s account of the “French” fleeing when they could not manage the cannon.

“The disguised Iroquois must have come back!” Chet exclaimed. “Maybe to loot the fort.”

Mr. Davenport nodded. He said that Craig, after taking the fort, must have suspected the trick, and left immediately. “Chambord’s estimate here of the size of the attacking British force seems too large—Craig himself may have played a trick!”

“So the last true holders of Senandaga were the Iroquois!” Joe exclaimed. He held up the tomahawk. “Wait until René Follette and Mr. Everett hear about this!”

Frank and Joe looked at the chaîne d’or and wondered when another challenge as baffling as the haunted fort would come their way. Sooner than they expected, they would be called upon to solve THE MYSTERY OF THE SPIRAL BRIDGE.

Mr. Davenport grinned. “I’m hereby inviting you all to celebrate with a hearty Southern repast. How does that sound to you, Chet?”

The stocky boy beamed. “Super! Right now, I could use some real fortification!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Bad News

CHAPTER II - A Midnight Alarm

CHAPTER III - Who Is Felix?

CHAPTER IV - Attack From Above

CHAPTER V - Dead End

CHAPTER VI - An Insulting Warning

CHAPTER VII - Bug Bait

CHAPTER VIII - New Strategy

CHAPTER IX - Fake Names

CHAPTER X - Monkey on a String

CHAPTER XI - Jailbird Language

CHAPTER XII - The Protector

CHAPTER XIII - Surprise Password

CHAPTER XIV - A Real Sacrifice

CHAPTER XV - A Lofty Lookout

CHAPTER XVI - Lower Than Pigs

CHAPTER XVII - Dangerous Terrain

CHAPTER XVIII - A Shot-put Blast

CHAPTER XIX - The Spiral Bridge

CHAPTER XX - Swinging Tactics

THE MYSTERY OF THE SPIRAL BRIDGE

FRANK and Joe Hardy are determined to bring to justice the vicious criminals who kidnapped their detective father while he was investigating sabotage of a road-building project in the Kentucky wilderness.

After Mr. Hardy’s amazing escape, the boys pick up a clue—the word “Felix” mumbled by their sick father in his delirium. When they discover that the dossier of a notorious ex-convict has been stolen from Mr. Hardy’s files, the two young sleuths are doubly spurred to action.

The trail leads them to New York City but ends abruptly in a cemetery! Stunned, Frank and Joe come upon another clue—a spiral symbol. Aided by their pals, the boys take jobs on the highway construction crew in Kentucky to try to track down the kidnappers and the nefarious saboteurs. But who among the crew is friend and who is foe?

In a desperate maneuver that almost costs them their lives, the Hardys bring to a spine-tingling close one of the most action-packed and suspenseful mysteries they have ever solved.

The huge bear lunged from the cave

Copyright © 1994,1966 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07658-3

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Bad News

“CHECKMATE!” said Frank Hardy as he glanced across the chessboard at his brother Joe.

“Okay. You’ve got me.” Joe frowned at his trapped king. “I can’t keep my mind on the game, waiting for that call and wondering how Dad is.”

Dark-haired Frank, eighteen, and blond Joe, a year younger, sat in their laboratory next to a short-wave set. The room, filled with the latest scientific and detecting apparatus, was located over the garage behind the Hardy home in Bayport. Suddenly a metallic voice filled the lab. Both boys became tense.

“Radley calling Frank and Joe! Do you read me?”

“Roger,” replied Joe. “Where are you, Sam?”

“Fifty miles from Bayport. We ran into a storm which slowed us down. Jack Wayne is preparing to land. Incidentally, boys, we’ve been tailed all the way from Kentucky! The other plane keeps just far enough away so we can’t identify it.”

Frank pushed closer to the microphone. “How’s Dad?”

“Sorry. No change.”

“We’ll have an ambulance waiting,” said Frank.

“Roger. Over and out.”

Immediately Frank phoned Dr. Bates, the family physician, who had already been notified that Fenton Hardy was gravely ill. The doctor promised to arrange for the ambulance to meet the plane.

The brothers then hastened downstairs and entered the house by the rear door. The boys’ mother and their aunt, Gertrude Hardy, were waiting anxiously in the living room.

“Dad’s arriving shortly,” Joe announced. “Come on. We’ll all drive to the airport.”

The four Hardys hurried to the family car and Frank took the wheel. For a while they rode in silence, oblivious of the pleasant air, reflecting on the near tragedy which had overtaken Fenton Hardy.

Once a famous detective on the New York City police force, Mr. Hardy now had his own successful investigating practice. He had often been assisted on cases by his sons, who had gained renown for their talent as amateur sleuths. Sam Radley was Mr. Hardy’s able assistant, and Jack Wayne was his private pilot and close friend.

Laura Hardy spoke up. “I had a strong feeling this case would prove unusually dangerous when Fenton agreed to accept it.”

Mr. Hardy’s assignment had been to investigate suspected sabotage on part of a road being built by the Prito Construction Company in the Kentucky wilderness. Mr. Prito was the father of one of the Hardy brothers’ best friends, Tony.

A bridge on which the Prito’s crew were working had collapsed. The county inspector was accusing the firm of having used faulty material, although this had been ruled out by tests. However, Mr. Prito had discovered that bolts had been removed from supporting steel girders. Inquiries among the workers had shed no light on the identity of the saboteurs.

The detective had flown to Kentucky in his personal plane, piloted by Jack Wayne. But the day after his arrival Mr. Hardy had mysteriously disappeared. Sam Radley had been summoned to help on the case and was to have met his boss for a briefing at the construction site that same day.

When Mr. Hardy did not appear, Sam had gone to the neighboring small town of Boonton, sure that the investigator would soon return. But Fenton Hardy was gone for almost a week.

His family recalled vividly Sam’s account of the detective finally stumbling into Boonton, his hands manacled behind his back, gravely ill and delirious. The small local hospital had diagnosed pneumonia, but with baffling complications, and urged that he be returned home immediately.

Sam had reported, too, that no clue had been found to explain who had held Mr. Hardy prisoner, or where. Also, his brief case was missing.

As Frank swung into the parking area of the airport, Joe leaned excitedly out the window.

“There’s Dad’s plane. Jack’s bringing her in!”

Minutes later the family stood near the ambulance, waiting alongside the apron. The four watched the blue-and-white, single-engine plane glide to a landing and taxi up to the ambulance.

Two white-coated attendants hopped out and joined Frank and Joe as they rushed to the craft. The cabin door opened. Sam Radley poked his head out. “Your dad’s already on a stretcher,” he told the boys.

They leaped aboard. Both gasped at first view of their father. A rugged man, Fenton Hardy’s face normally had a healthy glow. Today he looked pale and drawn, and his eyes were closed. Gently the brothers and Sam lowered the stretcher to the attendants.

Laura Hardy wept softly as her husband was carried toward the ambulance, and Aunt Gertrude tried hard to hold back her own tears.

Joe bent over the stretcher. “Dad, can you hear me?” Mr. Hardy’s eyelids fluttered. His lips moved feebly, but no intelligible words came out.

“Still delirious,” said Radley. “He’s been mumbling like this on and off. I couldn’t catch a thing.”

“If only we could get a few words,” Frank said. “They might give us a clue to the fiends who did this to Dad.”

The stretcher was placed in the ambulance. The Hardys and Sam looked back to the plane. Jack Wayne, somber-faced, peered out of the cockpit and waved. Then the pilot taxied the craft to its hangar.

It was decided that Frank and Mrs. Hardy would accompany the patient, while Aunt Gertrude, Joe, and Sam would go in the car. Soon the ambulance was speeding toward Bayport.

Joe, at the wheel of the Hardy car, asked Radley, “I didn’t notice any plane landing before we left the airfield. You have any idea who was tailing you?”

“No. The guy was dever—kept a safe distance all the way.”

Joe looked troubled. He was thinking hard. “Sam, I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll stop home for our tape recorder. We can set it up by Dad’s bed in the hospital, just in case he says something understandable when we’re not there. We need a due desperately.”

“It’s worth a try. Maybe we’ll get some answers to vital questions in this mystery. For instance, who masterminded your father’s kidnapping? Where was he held? And how did he get back to Boonton, handcuffed and sick the way he was? Somebody must have brought him there, but why?”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this!” Joe vowed. He turned off the highway and headed for the Hardy residence on Elm and High streets.

Aunt Gertrude, usually critical of her nephews’ detective work, for once agreed.

“Oh, I’d like to get hold of those—those terrible creatures myself!” she declared vehemently. “But please, Joe, you and Frank be very careful. We don’t want you in the hospital, too.”

“By the way,” Sam asked as they pulled into the driveway, “have you heard from my wife?”

“Yes,” Joe answered. “She phoned yesterday, asking about you. She’s fine.”

Sam and his wife lived in an apartment near the center of town, about half a mile from the Hardys.

Joe hurried to get the tape recorder. He tested it and put on a new tape. He and Sam were about to leave when a taxi screeched to a stop in front of the house. To their amazement, Frank leaped out and rushed inside.

“Hey, what happened?” Joe greeted him.

“A clue, our first one!” his brother announced. He reached into a pocket, pulled out an envelope, and held it open to reveal a white, gritty substance.

“Where’d you find this?” Joe asked quickly.

“In the cuffs of Dad’s trousers. Come on. We’ll examine this stuff right away.”

The boys and Sam ran up the stairway to the garage lab. First the Hardys studied the white grains under a microscope. “Looks like tiny bits of rock,” Frank observed.

“This could be limestone,” Joe said. “Let’s run a chemical test.”

As Sam looked on, Frank shook the particles into a flask while Joe filled a beaker with clear limewater, then connected the two containers with glass tubing. Frank next picked up a bottle of dilute hydrochloric acid and poured it onto the grains. Bubbles appeared in the beaker and the limewater turned cloudy, then clear again.

“Limestone it is!” Joe exclaimed. “Sam, do you know of any limestone quarries around where you and Dad were in Kentucky?”

“Not offhand. But there are plenty of unusual rock formations. In fact, plans are underway for developing an immense park—sort of a tourist attraction—featuring the peculiar formations.”

“Near the highway construction site?” Frank asked.

“Quite near.”

As the Hardys put away the apparatus, the extension phone rang. Frank answered. “Hello.... What was that? ... I can’t understand you.... Wait a minute.” He turned to Sam. “Sounds like your wife, but she’s awfully upset.”

Sam grabbed the phone. “Hello? ... Ethel?” A frightened look came into his eyes. “I’ll be right over. Try to keep calm!”

He wheeled about to face the boys. “Something’s happened to my wife. Let’s hurry!”

The three pounded downstairs. While Joe sped into the house to pick up the tape recorder, Frank and Sam ran to the car.

“Aunt Gertrude!” Frank exclaimed, “We have to rush over to Sam’s. Something’s wrong. Wait here at the house, and don’t let anybody in until we return!”

Miss Hardy got out of the car. “Very well. But what about Mr. Kenfield? He’s coming to inspect the roof today.”

“Okay. But he probably won’t have to come into the house. He’ll use a ladder to get to the roof.”

The Hardys and Sam sped to the Radley apartment. It was located on the second floor. The door was slightly ajar and Radley burst in, the boys at his heels. “Good grief!” Sam cried out.

His wife was lying on the living-room floor, her feet bound together and her hands secured in front of her with stout twine.

“This could be limestone,” Joe said

“Sam! Sam!” she sobbed. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!”

Frank whipped out his pocketknife and cut the bonds. Mrs. Radley, still trembling with fright, was helped to her feet. Joe hastened to get her a glass of water, while Sam insisted she rest in an easy chair. When Mrs. Radley had regained her composure, she told them what happened.

“I’d been out shopping for about an hour. When I returned, I was surprised to find our door unlocked, but thought I’d absent-mindedly left the catch off. I went inside and almost fainted when I saw a strange man in the living room.”

The intruder had clapped a hand over her mouth, bound her, and warned her to make no outcry.

Frank wondered whether the prowler had anything to do with the Hardys’ case. “What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“He was tall, dark and—Oh, I can’t tell you any more! I was so frightened.”

“He was here for a purpose, that’s sure,” Sam said as he inspected the door lock. “It’s been jimmied.”

Nothing seemed to be disturbed in the living room. Then the Hardys accompanied Sam into his study. One drawer of a filing cabinet was partly opened. Radley quickly examined the contents. “None of these files are missing,” he said, perplexed.

Frank pointed to the top drawer. “How about that card index?”

Sam pulled out the drawer. “You’re right! There are a couple of cards sticking up, as if someone had riffled through them.”

With painstaking care, the three sleuths checked the cross index of a long list of criminals which Sam had catalogued.

“You know there’s a duplicate set in your dad’s office,” he told the boys.

By this time they had reached the names listed under M. “Mander—Manning—Matlack. Wait!” said Sam. “I’m missing the run-down card on Milo Matlack.”

“Who’s Matlack?”

Radley gave a low whistle. “He’s an ex-convict, a dangerous character—one of the worst!”

CHAPTER II

A Midnight Alarm

“IF Matlack’s the bird we want, we’ll clip his wings,” said Joe, “no matter how tough he is!”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” cautioned Frank.

Sam went through the rest of the file. No other card was missing.

“We’ll check the duplicate file right after we visit Dad,” Frank said.

Satisfied that Mrs. Radley was feeling all right, the Hardys left the couple. “We’ll keep in touch with you about developments, Sam,” Frank promised.

The boys hastened outside to their car and soon reached the hospital’s parking lot.

“I hope Dad is better,” Joe murmured as they rode the elevator to the third floor. But he and Frank found Mr. Hardy’s condition the same. Mrs. Hardy was quietly talking with Dr. Bates. Both were looking gravely at the detective, who was breathing irregularly and still in delirium.

Noting Frank’s and Joe’s alarmed expressions, the medic assured them everything was under control. “Your dad is very ill, of course. The pneumonia we can treat, but we’ll have to conduct further tests to determine the exact cause of his prolonged loss of memory.”

“How did he ever catch pneumonia?” asked Joe, stepping close to the bedside and looking down at his father’s face, now flushed with fever.

“Possibly through extreme mistreatment,” the doctor said. “Mr. Hardy might have been kept in a dark, damp place without food and sufficient water.”

Frank set his jaw grimly. “Could’ve been an underground prison,” he declared, “which might explain the limestone in Dad’s trouser cuffs.”

Just then Mr. Hardy turned his head on the pillow. His eyes were still closed. He mumbled, but as before, the words were unintelligible.

Mrs. Hardy sighed. “He’s been doing that all the time I’ve been here,” she told her sons.

Joe placed the tape recorder on the night table next to his father’s bed, and explained what he had in mind. Frank plugged in the machine. Just then a pleasant-looking nurse came into the room. She introduced herself as Miss Tice.

“I’ll be on night duty here,” she said. “Is there anything special you’d like me to do?”

“Yes, please.” Frank showed her how to turn off the recorder and change the tape. He left a spare reel on the table.

“When you put on the new tape,” Frank went on, “please put the used one in the drawer so it won’t be damaged.”

The boys and their mother were assured by the doctor that Mr. Hardy would respond to treatment.

“Your husband needs complete rest, Mrs. Hardy,” the physician added. “If there should be any change, we’ll call you immediately.”

Joe switched on the recorder, then the three Hardys left the hospital and drove home. They found Aunt Gertrude setting the table for supper and gave her the latest report on her brother’s condition.

“See anybody prowling around while we were gone?” Joe asked.

“Goodness no!” Miss Hardy said tartly. “Didn’t we have enough worry for one day?” Then she added, “Mr. Kenfield was here, of course. I heard his ladder being propped against the side of the house, and I saw his truck parked in front.”

Frank only half heard his aunt’s words. His memory was suddenly jogged by another thought. “Joe! Let’s check Dad’s files!”

Aunt Gertrude fixed her nephews with a stern gaze. “Don’t be late for supper!” she ordered. “We’re having lamb stew and I don’t want it to get cold!”

“Aunty,” Joe said, “we’re never late for lamb stew.”

He winked at his brother and followed him upstairs to Mr. Hardy’s study on the second floor. From a secret compartment under a desk drawer, Frank withdrew the key to his father’s extensive files.

Quickly they began looking through the cross index and the individual run-down cards.

“Nothing’s been touched so far,” Joe observed as Frank deftly separated the cards.

“Yes, everything’s okay through L,” Frank said, then started on the M’s.

A moment later Joe exclaimed, “Hey! There’s no card for Milo Matlack.”

Frank grinned. “Don’t get excited. Dad took the card himself and left this memo.”

A slip of paper with Mr. Hardy’s handwriting bore the notation that the detective had taken not only the card, but also the complete dossier on the ex-convict with him to Kentucky.

“I knew it!” Joe burst out. “Matlack’s our man beyond a shadow of doubt.”

“Guess you’re right,” Frank conceded. “So, if we can find Milo Matlack, we may crack this case. Something tells me it’ll be no cinch.”

The brother sleuths had already solved a number of baffling mysteries, from locating The Tower Treasure to recently uncovering the secret of The Haunted Fort.

As Frank locked the files, Joe grabbed the telephone and dialed Radley’s number. Sam answered. Joe first inquired about Mrs. Radley.

“She’s feeling better. But no leads yet to the intruder.”

“Sam, we’re hot on a trail!” Joe told the operative of Mr. Hardy’s memo, then asked if Sam could describe Matlack and give some of the criminal’s history.

“I can’t recall much detail,” Radley replied. “But I do remember that Milo has gray hair.”

“Where are we likely to find him?”

“Possibly in New York City, his old home.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go!” Joe declared. Sam promised to round up all the information he could on the former jailbird. Joe thanked him and hung up.

“Boys! Supper!” Miss Hardy called up.

The boys quickly washed, then hurried to the dining room. Joe held a chair for his mother, and Frank helped Aunt Gertrude place a steaming tureen of stew on the table. As Mrs. Hardy served, her sons told the women about the latest exciting developments in their father’s mystery.

“There are two things Joe and I have to do!” said Frank. “Capture Milo Matlack and make him pay for what he did to Dad, and second, unearth the real story behind the bridge collapse.”

“The police should handle such a—a fiend,” Aunt Gertrude stated.

“The police can help us,” Joe said, “but we want to collar Matlack ourselves.”

Although fearful for her sons’ safety, Mrs. Hardy was proud of their courage and ability. Quietly she advised them to exercise the utmost caution.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” said Frank. “We will.”

After supper the boys went to their father’s study and discussed the mystery until bedtime. Before retiring, Frank telephoned the hospital and learned that Mr. Hardy’s condition was about the same.

Late that night the boys were jolted from a deep sleep by the shrill jangling of the telephone. Frank switched on the bedside lamp and dashed to pick up the hall extension. Joe followed.

The caller was Miss Tice, the night nurse. “You’re to come right over to the hospital,” she told Frank in a tense voice.

Frank’s heart sank. “You mean the whole family?”

“Certainly not,” replied the nurse. “Just you and your brother.”

“We’ll be there,” said Frank and hung up. “Hurry, Joe! Something must have happened!”

Hastily the boys changed from pajamas to street clothes.

They were grimly silent as they whizzed through the streets to the hospital. There they took the elevator to the third floor. It seemed forever until they reached it and the door slid open. The boys rushed to the nurses’ station.

“Is Dad—Fenton Hardy’s condition worse?” Frank asked the nurse in charge. “Is that why Nurse Tice called?”

“Mercy, no!” she whispered. “If anything, your father is slightly improved.”

Although vastly relieved, Joe said wryly, “We sure had the daylights scared out of us!”

“I’m afraid we’ve had the daylights scared out of us, too,” the nurse replied. “Miss Tice will explain.”

On tiptoe, Frank and Joe ran down the corridor. Nurse Tice, red-faced and distraught, met them outside Mr. Hardy’s room.

“Why didn’t you post a guard here if you expected trouble?” she asked indignantly.

Frank gulped. “Trouble? Did somebody try to hurt Dad?”

“No, not that.”

“Tell us what did happen!” Joe said impatiently.

“A man, dressed as an intern, sneaked into your father’s room, that’s what!” said the nurse.

Frank drew a deep breath. “And then?”

“I was coming back after my coffee break,” Miss Tice continued, “and I saw this man in white removing the tape from the recorder. I was so surprised I cried out and he came rushing at me. I tried to stop him, but he got away.” The nurse looked puzzled. “Why anybody would steal a tape with just mumbling on it is a mystery to me!”

CHAPTER III

Who Is Felix?

FRANK and Joe stared at each other in dismay. “We should have had someone guarding Dad,” Frank said glumly.

“Well, there are two police officers here now,” Nurse Tice replied.

“Policemen?” queried Joe. “Where?”

“They’re searching the building. The night supervisor phoned headquarters as soon as I reported seeing that thief.”

The Hardy boys had hoped to handle this case mostly by themselves. Now the police already had been called in. Sensing their concern, Miss Tice became apologetic. “I don’t usually flare up like that,” she said. “But it was an unnerving experience.”

“We’re sorry you had such a scare,” said Joe. “I’d sure like to get my hands on that phony.”

“At least,” Miss Tice remarked, “you still have the tape.”

“What?” Frank exclaimed. “I thought the thief got away with it.”

“I forgot to mention I’d changed the tape.” The nurse opened the night-table drawer and pulled out the first tape.

“Thanks a million,” Joe said. “We’ll take the recorder and play the tape when we get home.”

When the nurse had checked Mr. Hardy’s pulse and respiration, Frank asked if she could describe the thief.

“The man was tall,” she said, “with jet-black hair and a mustache.” The impostor, she added, had worn a mask which she had almost torn off during her tussle with him. “If I’d known Judo,” added Miss Tice, “I might have caught him!”

The boys exchanged glances. Except for the mustache, this description resembled that of the intruder at Radley’s apartment!

At the sound of brisk footsteps in the corridor, the nurse and the Hardys left the room. Outside, they met Chief Ezra Collig of the Bayport Police Department, followed by a patrolman, who held a rumpled white jacket in his hands.

“Hello, Frank, Joe,” the husky, keen-eyed chief said. Collig was an old friend of the Hardy detectives. “When I learned your father was here, I wanted to investigate this matter myself.”

Joe looked at the jacket. “Is that the one the thief wore?”

“Yes,” replied the chief. “We found it near the first-floor fire exit.” Collig’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure, Miss Tice, there was nothing else stolen from this room? Like hypodermic syringes or sedatives?”

“Positive,” the nurse assured him.

Frank spoke up. “Joe and I hope to solve this mystery on our own, Chief, but we’d like to brief you on it.”

The boys gave the officer a concise account, ending with their plan for possibly picking up a clue on tape.

“Good idea,” the chief said. “I’ll do my best to help you. At least we can have an alert sent out for anyone resembling the intruder. I’m posting a guard on this floor, and also will have this jacket analyzed in our lab.”

“Thanks, Chief. That’s swell,” said Frank.

When the police had gone, Frank asked the nurse, “Did you have much of a tussle with the thief?”

“No. When I grabbed his mask, he pushed me aside and ran.”

“Would you mind showing me your fingernails?” Frank requested.

The woman held out her hands. Using a pocket flashlight, Frank carefully scrutinized both hands. Suddenly he said, “Here’s something—a wisp of black hair!” He pointed to the nurse’s right forefinger.

“Why, I never noticed it!” she exclaimed.

Miss Tice removed the tiny hair, which Frank folded in a sheet of white paper and put in his slacks pocket.

The young sleuths took the recorder, thanked the nurse for her cooperation, and left the room. Outside Mr. Hardy’s door was a patrolman whom the boys knew. He assured them, “No sneak thief will get by Tim Callahan.”

The Hardys grinned. “I believe it, Mike,” said Joe.

As soon as they arrived home, Frank and Joe went directly to their lab. Frank was first to study the strand of hair under a powerful microscope. “Joe! Take a look!”

His brother did so. “Say! That hair’s gray near the roots. It’s dyed black!” Joe was exuberant. “Matlack’s for sure. I bet the mustache is phony too.”

Both boys were exhilarated by the thrill of their discovery. Now for the tape. Did it, too, hold a valuable clue?

Soon the tape was revolving on the machine, and although Frank had turned the volume up full, there were great stretches of silence. These were interspersed by Mr. Hardy’s mumbling, which was indecipherable—except one word that came through with relative clarity.

“What’s that, Joe? Something like ‘licks’? I’ll play it back.” The strange word, or part of a word, came over three times.

Joe listened intently. “Sounds to me like Felix,” he said.

“Could be. Perhaps Felix is a henchman of Matlack’s.” Frank shut off the machine and Joe telephoned police headquarters. Chief Collig was still there.

“Chief,” said Joe, “do you know of any underworld character named Felix? We think that’s a word which came over on the tape.”

Collig said this did not ring a bell, but he would check his files thoroughly. “I’ll let you know.”

When Frank and Joe returned to the house, they quietly went into the kitchen and made cocoa. As they drank, the brothers discussed the night’s events. Suddenly Joe put down his cup. “Frank! In all the excitement we forgot to check the airport for the plane that tailed Jack!”

Frank immediately telephoned Bayport Airport, and learned that one other plane from Kentucky, an air taxi out of Louisville, had asked for landing permission the previous afternoon. It had taken off a short while ago.

“Joe, that Kentucky pilot must have been the one who tailed Dad’s plane!” Frank exclaimed. “Wish we could’ve nabbed him.”

“Where is he headed?” Joe asked.

“La Guardia Airport in New York.” Because it was too late for the Hardy boys to do anything further, they tumbled into bed. Early the next morning Aunt Gertrude summoned them to breakfast. Although the bacon and scrambled eggs were delicious, Frank and Joe hardly tasted the food. Directly after the meal, the boys rushed to the telephone in their father’s study.

It seemed an interminable wait, but Frank finally contacted an official at La Guardia. The man said that an air taxi from Louisville had landed early that morning and discharged its only passenger.

“Is the plane still there?” asked Frank.

“Yes,” was the reply. “The pilot is checking weather reports. Would you like to speak with him?”

Frank’s eyes brightened. “Certainly would!”

The pilot, who proved to be an accredited flier, reported that his passenger, a dark-haired, tall man with a mustache, had carried a large roll of hundred-dollar bills, from which he had peeled the fee for the chartered flight.

Upon hearing that he had flown a suspected criminal, the pilot whistled. “I wondered why he seemed so nervous about the plane ahead. Kept telling me not to get too close—just an act, I guess.”

Frank then asked, “Do you happen to know where he was heading?”

“Afraid not. Just that he was going to take a taxi into the city.”

Frank thanked the flier and hung up. When he told Joe what had happened, his brother said, “Well, at least, if the rat’s in New York City, maybe he won’t be pestering Dad.”

The boys went downstairs. Suddenly they heard a series of loud bangs from outside. Aunt Gertrude ran out of the kitchen and gave a startled squeak. But her nephews grinned, quickly recognizing the source of the noise.

“That’s only Chet’s jalopy, backfiring,” Joe said.

This conclusion was verified by a cheerful whistle as Chet Morton came through the back door. Frank and Joe entered the kitchen just as Chet, their best pal, plopped his ample frame into a chair. A longing look came over his round, freckled face.

“Oh—oh,” Joe said knowingly. “Guess who’s ready for a second breakfast?”

Chet was known far and wide for his never-failing and huge appetite. “We-ll, I could use a snack.”

“Humph!” Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “After you scared us half to death with that noisy jalopy?”

“That backfire is getting better, isn’t it?” Chet said good-naturedly.

Soon he was enjoying a thick bacon-and-egg sandwich on toast and a glass of milk, served by Miss Hardy.

“Sure is a beautiful day, fellows,” he said, between bites. “What say we take a ride on Barmet Bay in your motorboat?”

“Not a chance,” said Frank.

“Why not? By the way, have you heard from your father?”

The brothers related everything that had happened. Chet was shocked to hear of Mr. Hardy’s illness. “Boy! He must have run into a gang of dangerous criminals.”

Joe could not resist saying, “In fact, that hospital prowler might turn up around our neighborhood.”

Chet swallowed hard. “W-what? Are—are you going after him?”

“Sure thing,” Frank said. “You want to help us?”

Chet groaned. “Count me out! This is vacation, remember?”

Fond of fun, opposed to hard work, and inclined to back away from danger, Chet nonetheless was staunchly loyal to his pals. When necessary, he pitched in with two-fisted determination to assist Frank and Joe in threatening situations.

Now the chubby boy looked up sheepishly from his second glass of milk. “You know, if you really need me, I’ll—”

“That’s the spirit!” Joe grinned. “We’ll expect you to come on the run if we call for help.”

“I’ll be available.”

Excusing themselves, Frank and Joe once more hastened to the study. First they checked with Chief Collig. There were no clues on the intern’s jacket, and no Felix in the police files. Then Joe phoned Sam Radley and listened with raised eyebrows as the operative talked.

“Sam, you’ve really been busy! I’ll take that down.” Joe wrote quickly on a note pad. When he hung up the phone, he told his brother, “Sam contacted a New York prison where Matlack served time. He was released a year ago, and went to live in New York with a widowed sister. I have her address.”

“What a break!” Frank exclaimed. “All clues point to Manhattan—so that’s our next stop.”

He called Jack Wayne, who agreed to fly the boys to La Guardia early that afternoon. When the brothers announced their plan, Aunt Gertrude objected. “You can’t just leave us,” she said. “I know the police are protecting your father, but what about your mother and me?”

“I can help,” Chet offered.

“Great!” said Frank. “Maybe Biff, Tony, and Phil can, too. We’ll call them for a meeting.”

Within an hour the three boys had joined Frank, Joe, and Chet in Mr. Hardy’s study. Biff Hooper was a well-built, six-footer whose favorite pastime was boxing. Tony Prito, slightly shorter, was handsome with an olive complexion and dark eyes. Phil Cohen, slender and agile, had an easy-going manner. His friends admired his great talent for drawing and painting.

“I sure feel terrible about what happened to your dad,” said Tony. “Especially since he was working on this case for my father. Tell us what to do.”

Frank and Joe outlined their plans. All four of the Hardys’ chums would take turns helping Radley guard their home, and if necessary, relieve Collig’s guards at the hospital.

“I hope you nail this guy Matlack,” said Biff. “Good luck!”

After lunch and a visit to see their father, Frank and Joe drove to the airport. They left their car in the parking lot and hurried to meet Jack at the plane. Twenty minutes later the boys were looking down on the green countryside five thousand feet below, as Jack headed for New York.

The brothers were licensed pilots, and took turns at the wheel. But as they neared the metropolis, Wayne resumed control, contacted La Guardia tower for instructions, and soon brought the plane in.

Grabbing their suitcases, the Hardys thanked Jack for the lift and hopped out.

“So long,” called the lean young pilot. “Call me if you need me.”

“Will do!” The brothers hurried through the terminal, hailed a taxi, and headed directly for the address which Radley had given them. Presently they reached a dingy section of downtown Manhattan, and soon pulled up in front of a dilapidated, multiple-family dwelling.

“This is it, Number 47,” said Frank. He paid the taximan and the boys got out.

The Hardys stood for a few minutes, noting the various details of the structure—windows, doorway, and fire escape. “Shall we make inquiries now?” asked Joe.

“Not yet. We better find a place to stay. There’s a hotel down the street. Doesn’t look like much, but at least it’s close.”

The young sleuths sauntered to the shabby hotel and mounted a short flight of steps which led into the dimly lighted lobby.

The brothers grimaced at the stale musty odor which greeted them. They registered at the desk and were given a key to Room 306.

“Cash and carry,” said the clerk, a prune-faced individual with thinning hair. “Pay now and carry your own bags.”

“Great welcome,” Joe whispered wryly as they climbed the creaking stairway.

Frank and Joe’s room was no more than they expected: peeling wallpaper, one bare ceiling light bulb, a sagging bed, and two lumpy chairs.

They had just finished unpacking when they heard the low growl of a siren outside. The Hardys looked out the window. Parked directly below was a police car, its red toplight spinning.

“Wonder what’s up,” Joe said.

The next instant the door to their room was kicked open with an earsplitting slam!

CHAPTER IV

Attack From Above

STARTLED, Frank and Joe wheeled about to see a dark-suited man standing in the doorway, pointing a revolver in their direction. “Stand where you are!” he barked.

“Who are you?” Joe blurted.

“Detective Mulvey, New York Police Department.”

Immediately two uniformed policemen stepped from behind Mulvey. “Turn around and put your hands high against the wall!” The brothers did as they were told and the police searched them. “They’re clean,” one said.

“What’s this all about?” Frank protested. “We’re not crooks.”

“Identify yourselves.” Frank and Joe pulled out their wallets and produced the necessary cards.

“Our father is Fenton Hardy,” Frank said. “He used to work for the New York Police Department.”

“I’ve heard of him. Good cop,” said Mulvey. Then he apologized for the mistake. “But we have to follow up every tip we get.”

“Tip?” Joe asked.

Detective Mulvey said a man had telephoned the police, saying that two dangerous criminals had registered in Room 306 at the hotel.

“Somebody sure has a tail on us,” Joe commented. “Who do you suppose he could be, Frank?”

“Beats me.”

The detective spoke up. “Whoever it is, you obviously have an enemy. This is a rough neighborhood. I advise you to return to Bayport.”

“We’ve got to find a man named Milo Matlack,” Joe said. “Do you know of anybody in this neighborhood by that name?”

The three officers, who had just recently been assigned to cover the area, shook their heads. “But that doesn’t mean a thing,” said the detective. “A lot of the characters around here use aliases.”

After the police left, Frank and Joe flopped down in the decrepit, overstuffed chairs, half angry, half amused.

“What a joke!” Joe burst out. “We’re trying to catch an ex-con and we almost get nabbed instead. I feel as if I’m in left field without a glove.”

“At least we’ve been alerted,” Frank said. “We’ll be on our guard every second.”

After supper in a nearby restaurant the Hardys decided to turn in early. “Tomorrow we’ll investigate that house first thing,” said Frank.

As a precaution against prowlers the boys stood guard in four-hour shifts. The night passed uneventfully, however.

After an early breakfast, the boys walked to No. 47. They climbed the steps and rang a rusted bell. Several minutes went by. Finally the door opened just enough to disclose a woman in a faded pink housecoat peering out over the safety chain.

Frank introduced himself and Joe. “We’d like to talk to you about Milo Matlack, please.”

“Milton who?”

“Milo—Milo Matlack. He lives here with his sister.”

“Never heard of him.” The woman’s eyes, close-set in her pudgy face, regarded the Hardys blankly. She brushed her straggling hair back from her forehead. “You boys got the wrong place. Ain’t nobody with that name lives here, and I know all my tenants.”

“But did Mr. Matlack live here at one time?” Joe said, growing impatient.

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” The woman was about to close the door when a sudden noise from above made Joe glance up.

“Frank, look out!” he cried out. A metal trash can was hurtling down toward the boys. They leaped aside, but the can grazed Frank’s shoulder, clattered on the steps, and rolled down to the sidewalk.

“Let us in!” Joe demanded. “Someone on your roof is trying to kill us!”

The safety chain clicked open. The Hardys dashed past the startled woman and ran up four flights of stairs to the roof. They glanced about in all directions.

“Over there.” Frank pointed.

The small, monkeylike figure of a man was poised on the roof edge. He gave a flying leap and landed nimbly atop the next building.

“After him!” Joe urged.

Frank and Joe had to spring with all their might to equal the monkey man’s leap across the five-story-high chasm. In doing so, they both sprawled on the tar roof of the adjacent building. By the time the boys had pulled themselves up, the small man had slithered down the fire escape and jumped to the ground.

Long before Frank and Joe had descended the iron ladder, their quarry was out of sight.

“Great horned toads!” said Frank, rubbing his bruised shoulder. “Who was that nut?”

“Just somebody trying to knock us off,” Joe said angrily, and the boys hastened back to pursue their inquiry. The landlady now stood at the bottom of the front steps, having retrieved the trash can.

“You hurt?” she asked Frank.

He nudged Joe, then replied, “I hope not, ma’am. But that was a close call. I could’ve been killed.”

“You won’t sue me or nothin’?” the woman said, wringing her fat hands.

As if debating with himself, Frank did not reply. The woman grew more nervous by the second. Joe now looked her squarely in the eye.

“We won’t make any trouble for you, if you tell us about Matlack.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, unhappily beckoning the boys to step closer. “I don’t want nobody to hear what I’m tellin’ you,” she whispered. “And don’t you say I told you.”

After Frank and Joe had promised not to betray her confidence, the woman admitted that Matlack and his sister had lived there. “They’re gone now,” she added, gesturing with her hands. “I can’t tell you nothin’ more.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “Thanks.”

The boys walked slowly down the street, conjecturing about the strange actions of the monkey man.

“I bet he’s in cahoots with Matlack,” said Joe.

“It’s possible. Say, now that we know Matlack lived here,” Frank went on, “let’s question some of the other people on the block.”

“Okay.”

They entered what seemed to be primarily a hardware store, but which also contained a jumble of miscellaneous articles.

“Boy, what a junk shop!” Joe murmured as they approached the short, squat man behind the counter. He peered gravely at the Hardys through thick-lensed glasses.

“We’re looking for a man named Matlack,” Frank said. “We understand he used to live in this neighborhood. Do you know anything about him?”

The stout man stared unblinkingly at the Hardys, first at Frank, then at Joe, as if sizing them up. Then, suddenly, he broke into raucous laughter.

“Can’t you answer our question?” asked Joe, annoyed.

The man stopped laughing. “Are you kiddin’?” he said gruffly. “If you guys don’t want to buy nothin’, get out!”

He stalked to the back and disappeared through a doorway. The Hardys shrugged and left.

Joe grumbled, “He must have had raw meat for breakfast!”

The boys continued down the street. Both were so engrossed in their quest they were unaware that two tough-looking youths were trailing them, until one roughly elbowed Frank.

“Move over!” he snarled. “You own the whole street?”

“Excuse us,” Frank said calmly.

“Oh, excuse us,” the youth echoed mockingly. “Hey, Spike! A couple of real polite country boys!”

Joe turned on the pair, but his brother restrained him. “Come on, Joe. Let’s not waste our time. These two are spoiling for trouble.”

The Hardys started on, but the second tough clamped a hand on Joe’s shoulder, spinning him around. This was too much for Joe. He seized his assailant, and with a flying mare sent him over his shoulder. The fellow landed on his back with a grunt. His pal, meanwhile, had tried to grapple with Frank, but his success was no greater. Frank applied a half nelson, until beads of sweat stood out on his opponent’s forehead. Then, with a shove, Frank sent him sprawling. The two thugs, muttering threats, retreated into an alley. The Hardys headed straight toward their hotel.

“Listen, Joe,” Frank said, “we’ve got to plan some strategy. We’re getting nowhere in a hurry.”

They were about to mount the steps to the hotel’s front door when a grizzled, gaunt, shifty-eyed man approached them. “Oh—oh, this bum wants a handout,” Joe said in a low voice. “He must be king of the down-and-outers.”

Despite the warm weather, the man wore a long, threadbare overcoat which nearly touched the ground. His brown hair was streaked with gray and slicked back. A dead cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth.

“Whatcha say boys, whatcha say!” mumbled the man. “How about a dime for a cup o’ coffee?”

“Oh, we might as well,” Joe whispered. “It’ll be worth it to get rid of him.”

“Wait a minute.” Frank addressed the pan-handler.

“Have you been around this neighborhood long?”

The beggar’s long, sharp nose twitched and his foxy-looking eyes nearly closed with mirth as he said with a chuckle, “Long! I’ll say—I was born here.”

“Then you must know the people on this block, right?” Frank queried.

“Sure do. You lookin’ for somebody special?”

“Yes, a man named Milo Matlack.”

Frank and Joe watched closely for the stranger’s reaction. His brows furrowed deeply and his eyes rolled from side to side, as if searching his memory.

“Yeah, I know Matlack,” the man finally said.

‘Can you tell us where he is?” Joe put in eagerly. “It’s important.”

The tramp rubbed his fingertips over the moth-eaten labels of his coat with evident satisfaction.

“So—you wanna know where Milo Matlack is, eh?”

“That’s the idea,” Frank said somewhat sharply, realizing the man was purposely delaying an answer.

“Well, I can tell you.” The tramp thrust his grizzled chin at Frank. “I can tell you—for a price!”

CHAPTER V

Dead End

JOE HARDY could barely control his irritation. He opened his mouth to protest, but his brother muttered, “Cool it.”

Frank then calmly turned to the man. “What is your price, Mr.—”

“Prince. Mortimer Prince is my name, and my price is a hundred dollars.”

“No. That’s out!” Frank said in disgust, and began to mount the steps.

Mortimer Prince tugged at Frank’s arm. “We can bargain, can’t we?” he said with a shrug. “So you ain’t got a hundred dollars. How about fifty?”

“I wouldn’t give you even a dime,” Frank said icily, shrugging off the grimy hand.

“All right, all right, don’t get mad,” the bum said hastily. “Tell you what—I’ll settle for some grub.”

“It’s a bargain,” Frank said quickly. “All you can eat if you tell us where to find Milo Matlack.”

Mortimer Prince grinned cheerily and beckoned the boys to follow him. Halfway down the block he ushered them into a dingy place called “Jack’s.” The three took seats at a small round table.

The vagrant blithely ordered six hamburgers and a double plate of baked beans. As he dived into the food, the boys plied him with questions, but Mortimer did not reply.

“Can’t talk while I’m eatin’,” he mumbled through a mouthful of meat.

The Hardys waited with growing impatience. With a huge sigh of relish, Mortimer swallowed the last of the beans, wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve, then asked the boys for pencil and paper.

“I’ll keep my promise,” he said. “I’ll show you how to find Matlack.”

Frank produced a pencil and Joe a piece of paper, which the derelict took into his grubby hands. “I’ll draw you a map where the—er—treasure is,” he said.

“You mean Milo Matlack?” Joe said quizzically.

“Yeah, he’s the treasure you’re lookin’ for, ain’t he?”

“Go ahead. Write,” Frank said.

The Hardys watched as the pencil moved, outlining a diagram of streets. Mortimer Prince sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Look, you fellows follow the arrow to this place marked X, see? That’s where Matlack is.”

“Okay.” Frank folded the map and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

“Now I’d like some dessert,” Prince said. “Three scoops of ice cream’ll do me.”

When he was served, the vagrant ate the ice cream with gusto, but paused occasionally to complain that it was too cold for his teeth. To the Hardys’ great relief, he finished soon and stood up, proffering his hand to the boys. “No hard feelin’s. We’re fair an’ square.”

Frank paid the bill, and the young detectives and their strange guest parted company.

“Leapin’ lizards!” Joe exclaimed as he and Frank set off down the street. “They say you can meet any and all kinds in New York. And boy, I believe it!”

Frank laughed. Then suddenly he wheeled and grasped his brother’s arm. “Joe, look!”

Reflected in a store window, next to them, was the monkeylike figure of their rooftop assailant! Both boys swung around. The monkey man, on the other side of the street, stood staring at them!

Impulsively Joe dashed across the road. A horn blared. Brakes screeched. A taxicab, bearing down on Joe, stopped a hairbreadth from his flying legs. The driver, red-faced, leaned out the window and shook his fist at Joe.

“You birdbrain! That’s a quick way to get to the graveyard!”

Frank hastened to his brother’s side, glancing about for the monkey man, but he had disappeared again.

“Joe, next time watch it!” Frank chided him.

“I’ll say,” the angry taximan agreed. “Guys like you make it hard for a man tryin’ to earn an honest livin’.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” said Joe. “We’ll give you some business, anyhow.”

The Hardys hopped into the taxi and Frank showed the driver the map drawn by the tramp. “Can you take us to the place marked X?”

“It’s over on Long Island,” the man said. “Cost you a fat fare.”

The driver sped off uptown, through a tunnel, and finally emerged onto a broad highway. Presently he turned off and half an hour later slowed down at a small cemetery. To the Hardys’ astonishment, the driver turned into the cemetery entrance, stopped, and pointed to the X on the map.

“This is it, fellers.” With a wink at Joe and a chuckle, he added, “You got to the graveyard after all, didn’t you?”

Joe smiled weakly at the gruesome joke. Then the boys paid the driver and stepped out.

“Have fun!” The taximan waved and roared off.

“For Pete’s sake!” Joe fumed. “I had a feeling that Mortimer would trick us.”

“I wouldn’t say he did,” Frank replied. “Sure, this is a cemetery, but maybe Matlack works here as a gardener or gravedigger.”

They approached a small brown building marked “Office.” The door was ajar and the boys stepped inside. Behind a desk sat a portly man with a fringe of white hair like a halo about his head, bushy eyebrows, and a hooked nose which reminded the Hardys of the well-known puppet character, Punch.

“Are you boys looking for a relative?” the man asked solicitously. “I’m the superintendent here.”

“Not exactly,” Frank replied, barely smothering a smile.

“We’re looking for Mr. Milo Matlack,” Joe spoke up “Have we come to the right place?”

“Indeed you have. Our groundskeeper can show you.”

He led the boys outside and pointed across the gravel lane. A man in overalls was pruning a row of shrubbery. Before the Hardys could walk over, a funeral cortege drove slowly through the entrance gates.

“Sorry,” said the superintendent, “guess you fellows will have to wait.” He excused himself and re-entered the office.

The procession was a long one and the Hardys counted fifteen limousines as they slowly drove past. Then the boys hastened across to the groundsman. He readily agreed to take them to Milo Matlack. The trio walked along the gravel lane to the rear of the cemetery. The boys’ guide paused at a low, flat area.

Frank and Joe looked about. They could see nobody.

“Where’s Matlack?” asked Joe.

“Maybe he’s eating lunch,” Frank said.

This remark brought a look of shocked disbelief to the face of the groundskeeper.

“L-lunch?” he quavered.

Puzzled, the boys followed him in silence to a grave of comparatively recent origin. Frank and Joe bent down to examine the headstone. The brothers sucked in their breath sharply and Frank gasped out, “Dead! Milo Matlack—dead!”

CHAPTER VI

An Insulting Warning

THE Hardys’ prime suspect dead! Frank and Joe looked at each other, their mouths agape with bewilderment.

Noting the boys’ queer expressions, the workman asked, “Were you friends of the deceased?”

“Oh, no,” Joe replied. “Milo Matlack was a—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” the man interrupted. “But believe me, Milo repented for his crimes. He became very religious while in prison. Was a handyman here, very diligent worker, too.”

The brothers thanked the groundskeeper for his trouble and returned to the office. Here Joe asked the manager if Matlack had met his death at the hands of old gangland enemies.

“No,” was the reply. The superintendent explained that Milo had become ill soon after the death of his sister and had passed away quietly one night.

“Bad ticker, I believe,” the superintendent said, thumping his chest. “I think his heart just plumb gave out.”

Outside the cemetery grounds, the Hardys looked at each other sheepishly, their hands thrust deep in their pockets.

“Well—Mortimer Prince must be doubled up laughing at us,” Joe said bitterly. “For this joke we bought him lunch!”

Frank tried to sound cheerful. “I realize our deductions have been knocked out of orbit, but at least we know Matlack’s off our list.”

“I feel like a goof,” Joe admitted. “Here we tackle a case for Dad, and we’ve come across nothing but dead ends.”

“If we don’t get on the ball pretty soon,” Frank remarked, “we’ll be low sleuths on the totem pole!”

The Hardys decided to walk for a while before returning to Manhattan. As they strode briskly along, they reviewed every aspect of the mystery. If Matlack was not their man, why was his record stolen from Radley? And why had Fenton Hardy taken Matlack’s files with him to Kentucky?

“The answers probably are in Dad’s missing brief case,” Frank surmised. “Maybe his dossier on Matlack would help to solve the puzzle.”

“You’re right. But that brief case could be any where in or out of Kentucky right now.”

For the next ten minutes the brothers walked along in silence. Then Frank said, “One thing is certain. Dad’s enemies have a super-intelligence system. They didn’t waste a minute picking up our trail, and seem to know everything we’ve planned at home or in New York.”

“Which means,” Joe said, “that monkey man is one of the gang.” He suggested that they return to Bayport. “If we can track down their spy network there,” Joe added, “it might put us on the right trail.”

Frank hailed a passing taxi, and after a speedy ride, the driver let them out in front of their hotel. Frank paid the fare and turned to his brother.

“Let’s case this block first!”

“You’re right! That monkey man might still be spying on us.”

The boys separated, each sauntering along opposite sides of the street. As inconspicuously as possible, they surveyed the rooftops, and carefully watched for any suspicious motion behind the dirt-streaked windows.

Joe was passing the house where Matlack had lived, when the front door opened. Out stepped the slovenly landlady, still wearing the pink housecoat. She held a broom in her hands and began to sweep the steps. Joe bounded up to her and Frank followed.

“Milo Matlack’s dead. Why didn’t you tell us?” Joe asked.

Instead of replying, the woman scurried into the house and locked the door.

“Boy, she’s really scared,” Frank declared. “Somebody has threatened her to keep quiet.”

“But why—if Matlack is out of the picture?”

“To keep us on the wrong track!”

Frank and Joe walked across the street and posted themselves in the doorway of a vacant store in case any suspicious person showed up at No. 47. Nothing happened, however, and the landlady did not reappear. The boys also kept an eye out for the vagrant who had tricked them, but the grubby drifter was not to be seen among the passers-by.

Finally they returned to the hotel. The desk clerk handed Frank the room key. “You two check ing out? Otherwise you’ll owe us for another day.”

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

In their musty room the Hardys threw the few possessions they had brought into their overnight bags. Joe said to himself, “Shaving kit, toothpaste—” His mental check stopped suddenly when he picked up his red-handled toothbrush from the side of the wash basin. A white paper was wrapped around it, held securely by an elastic band.

“Frank, look at this!” Joe slipped off the elastic and opened the paper. Printed on it in crude letters was “Warning—Bayport is for Brats.” It was signed with an odd-looking M with three spiral loops.

Frank gritted his teeth. “If Matlack weren’t dead, I’d swear he left this warning.”

“It’s a dirty insult! Bayport for Brats, eh?” Joe exploded. “We’ll show them.”

The brothers quickly finished packing, hastened downstairs with their bags, and queried the desk clerk. He denied knowledge of the toothbrush warning. A silly grin came over his face. “Say, maybe some joker did it before you left home.”

The Hardys made no comment. Handing over the door key, they left.

“That was a bright theory!” Joe said sarcastically as the two walked away from the hotel.

Frank stopped at the first public telephone booth and contacted Jack Wayne. The pilot told them the plane was in readiness and that he would take off immediately to meet them at La Guardia. Exactly on schedule Jack set down the Hardy plane at the airfield and the boys climbed into the cabin.

The flight to Bayport was smooth and fast. From the airport, the young sleuths drove directly to the hospital. It was past visiting hours, but they were allowed to look in briefly on Mr. Hardy. Much to Frank and Joe’s relief, they found their father slightly improved, but as yet unable to talk clearly.

Back home, Joe called Sam Radley and told of their experiences in New York. He was surprised to learn that Matlack was dead.

“This mystery is a real puzzler,” Sam remarked. “At least you two found out somebody’s worried by your sleuthing.”

Sam said no further clues had turned up locally to the prowler’s identity. Then the Hardys checked with their pals. None of the four had detected anyone suspicious lurking near the hospital or the Hardy house.

The following morning Frank and Joe discussed what their next move should be. From the living room came assorted thumps and clicking noises. Aunt Gertrude was assembling the vacuum cleaner with her usual vigor.

“Goodness gracious, Gertrude!” came Mrs. Hardy’s voice. “We cleaned thoroughly just a few days ago!”

The boys grinned and went into the living room. Joe squinted his eyes, as if inspecting the room. “Aunty, relax, there’s not a cobweb in sight!”

Aunt Gertrude pursed her lips. “Don’t be funny,” she said tartly. “There happens to be a spot on the ceiling in one corner of your father’s study.” With an accusing look at her nephews, she added, “You and your friends were the last to use it.”

“Wow!” Joe said. “Aunty, I’ll bet you could spot a speck of dust ten miles away. Better be careful, though, it might be a beetle!”

“Humph!” Aunt Gertrude gathered her equipment and carried it up the carpeted stairs.

Suddenly an electrifying thought flashed through Frank’s brain. He ran upstairs. Aunt Gertrude was about to enter the detective’s study when Frank grabbed her. The startled woman gasped.

“What—?” was all she could get out, because Frank clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged his flabbergasted aunt into the hall.

CHAPTER VII

Bug Bait

GERTRUDE HARDY’S eyes bulged with fright as Frank kept a hand clapped over her mouth and half carried her down the stairway into the living room.

“Good night!” exclaimed Joe. “What—”

“Sh, sh!” Frank whispered frantically. “Don’t make a sound.” He released his aunt and led the trembling woman into the kitchen. The others followed.

Mrs. Hardy spoke first. “What on earth are you up to, Frank?”

“I know,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly as she smoothed her disheveled hair and set her spectacles straight. “Frank has gone stark raving mad, that’s what!” She glared at her elder nephew.

“I’m sorry, Aunty,” Frank said soothingly. “You see—I think that dirt spot on the ceiling you’re talking about is a bug.”

“Oh! It really is a beetle! Ugh!”

“Not that kind of bug,” Frank went on with a smile. “ ‘Bug’ is slang for a hidden microphone.”

“So that’s how the crooks knew all about our plans!” Joe whispered hoarsely.

“But that seems impossible!” Mrs. Hardy said. “No outsider has been here recently!”

“Except Mr. Kenfield,” Aunt Gertrude said. She had calmed down, but there was a look of deep concern on her face.

“Hmm. You said you heard his ladder against the house,” Frank reflected. “Joe, let’s go take a look at that ceiling spot.”

After cautioning the two women to keep their voices low, Frank and Joe kicked off their shoes and padded up the stairs. They went into the study and looked at the speck. No larger in circumference than a pencil, it protruded an eighth of an inch from the ceiling, so close to the corner that it might not ordinarily have been seen.

Frank put his finger to his lips and beckoned Joe out into the hall. There he whispered into his brother’s ear, “It’s a listening device all right. The transmitter must have been installed in our attic.”

Silently Frank opened the door to the attic stairway, and the boys tiptoed up. One window was opened halfway, and near it the Hardys spotted a small radio transmitter, inserted between two floorboards. Impulsively Joe reached down to yank it out, but Frank restrained him.

Retracing their steps, the boys hastened back to the kitchen.

“Well, what kind of beetle is it?” Aunt Gertrude asked.

“The big-eared type,” Joe replied. He quickly reached for the wall phone extension and called Mr. Kenfield. He asked the roofer to come over immediately.

In about ten minutes the roofer parked his truck in the front of the house. Mr. Kenfield, short and portly, was wearing his work clothes.

“Hello, Frank, Joe,” he said as the boys stepped outside to meet him. “I suppose it’s the garage roof you want me to look over, right?”

“No,” Joe said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Shoot.”

The boys’ first query was whether or not the roofer had gone into the attic. He said No; that he had examined the roof from the outside only. “But the electrical inspector,” Mr. Kenfield continued, “went into your attic.”

“Who?” asked Frank.

“An electrical inspector. He said you had some rewiring done, and he’d been called to look it over.”

The brothers exchanged glances. This was news to them!

“How did he get in?” Joe queried.

“Asked if he could use my ladder. It was okay with me. You know I’m willing to oblige.”

“Can you describe this fellow for us?” Frank asked.

“Why, sure. He was short, thin, kind of bandy-legged and agile. You should’ve seen him zip up that ladder! Like a—”

“Like a monkey?” Joe put in.

“Yes, sure, that’s it! I was going to say monkey myself, but I didn’t want to insult him if he’s a friend of yours.”

Joe could not help smiling. “He’s not.”

Frank concluded that the roofer was not to blame. He had had no reason to suspect the “inspector” was a fraud.

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Kenfield,” Frank said. “That’s all we wanted to know.”

“Glad to help, any time.”

As soon as the roofer had left, Frank exclaimed, “Joe, now we have a chance to turn the tables! We’ll ‘confer’ in Dad’s study and feed the bug false information.”

“Great!” Joe said with enthusiasm.

“That way we can tell if the mike’s still in operation, and even lead the crooks on a wild-goose chase,” Frank added.

First the boys told their mother and Aunt Gertrude what they had learned. “So, if you see the monkey man anywhere around, call us right away,” Frank said. “And if we’re not here, notify Chief Collig.”

Aunt Gertrude shuddered. “First bugs, now a monkey! Oh dear!”

Frank and Joe put their plan into operation. They walked up the stairs noisily and entered their father’s study, chatting loudly.

“Well, we’ve got the dope on them,” Frank said. “Let’s fly down to Kentucky.”

“Right away?” Joe asked. He looked up toward the microphone and winked at his brother.

“You bet. We can get ready in a jiffy.” Frank made the telephone clatter as he lifted it from its cradle. Then, pressing the button down, he dialed and feigned talking with their pilot.

“Jack Wayne? ... This is Frank Hardy. Get her fueled up. We’re taking off for Kentucky this afternoon.”

Frank hung up with a noise that was sure to be picked up by the bug, then added, “Come on, Joe. We’ll give those crooks a hard time.”

The boys confided in Mrs. Hardy what they had done and Frank told her, “We’re going out to Chet’s. If Jack should phone, please have him buzz us there.”

“All right. I hope your ruse works.”

The Mortons lived on a farm. The rambling homestead, surrounded by rolling countryside, was a favorite haunt of the Hardy boys. The foremost attraction was Iola Morton, Chet’s dark-haired sister, whom Joe regarded as his best girl. Her friend Callie Shaw, a slender, blond, lithe-some girl, was often at the farm, which suited Frank fine since Callie was his favorite date.

Today, as they pulled up to the house, Frank beamed. “There’s Callie’s car.”

Joe’s face lit up. “That means Iola’s home. We’re both in luck.”

The Hardys hopped out and looked around for their friends. Suddenly they heard a dull clunk from behind the barn, followed by several giggles. “Oh, Chet, that was marvelous!” came Callie’s voice.

“Wonder what Chet’s up to now,” Joe said.

He and Frank trotted around a henhouse and reached the rear of the barn in time to see Chet, in a bulky sweatshirt, bend down to pick up a heavy metal ball. The two girls sat in the grass, their backs propped against the barn wall. Seeing Frank and Joe, they immediately jumped up.

“Hi!” dark-eyed Iola called gaily. “You’re just in time to see the exhibition of the year, by no less than my brother!”

“Aw, cut it out,” said Chet.

“No, really,” Callie insisted in mock seriousness. “Chet, you are destined to be a fabulous shot-putter.”

The Hardys stood grinning. From time to time their stout friend would plunge enthusiastically into a new sport or hobby. As a rule, the new interest was short-lived.

Frank and Joe flopped down beside the girls. “C’mon, muscles.” Joe urged. “Let’s see you hurl.”

With deliberation, Chet walked back to a circle he had marked out on the grass. He picked up a book lying there and studied it intently. The title was Proper Methods for Putting the Shot.

“I’m glad to see you concentrating so hard, Chet old boy,” Joe needled.

“Kid all you want,” retorted Chet, mopping a trickle of sweat from his brow. “Don’t forget, the Olympics are coming up and Uncle Sam needs shot-putters!”

Iola finally spoke up in defense of her brother. “No fooling, boys, Chet’s really getting good at this.”

The stout boy threw out his expansive chest, balanced the shot in his right hand, and began to move his shoulders rhythmically.

“Let her fly!” Frank called.

Chet spun around and released the sphere.

“Wow!” Joe cried out. The ball arced directly over the henhouse.

Crash! With the sound of splintering wood, mingled with the squawking of the fowl, the metal ball pierced the roof, leaving a jagged hole.

The noise brought Mrs. Morton to the back steps of the farmhouse. “Chester!” she called out. “What’s all that racket?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about, Mom,” Chet replied hastily. “Say, Mom, would you like to have chicken for supper?” But Mrs. Morton had already gone inside. Fortunately, as the young people discovered, Chet’s mighty missile had missed the chickens.

“Chet, you’ve got a great throw,” said Joe. “I mean it. What power!”

“Yeah, but what a long time it’ll take me to fix the henhouse roof!” Chet groaned.

The young people’s laughter was interrupted by Mrs. Morton’s calling:

“Frank! Telephone!”

He rushed into the house, his face flushed with excitement. Joe ran after him.

“Hello.... Jack? ... I thought it might be you.”

Joe stood by tensely. Then Frank burst out, “Just as I figured!”

CHAPTER VIII

New Strategy

JACK WAYNE had reported to Frank that someone using a high-powered rifle had fired a bullet into the propeller of the Hardy plane. It would take several days to get a new prop.

“The gunman must have shot from a good distance,” Jack said. “He probably hid in foliage outside the field.”

“Our enemy really wants to stop us,” said Frank.

“But how did you know something like this might happen?” the pilot asked.

The young sleuth told him about their ruse and the events leading up to it. “Jack,” he added, “this shows we can turn that bug to our own advantage.”

“Right,” Wayne replied, “and perhaps lead the crooks into a trap. But next time tell me, eh?”

After Frank had apologized for the oversight, he relayed the entire conversation to Joe, Chet, and the girls.

“Ha!” Joe was gleeful. “They sure went for our bait.”

“Now it’s time to plan new tactics,” Frank said. “We’ll get the other fellows together for a meeting today.”

“And leave us out?” Callie gave a small pout.

“We were going to invite you boys to a dance,” Iola said, dimpling.

Joe brightened. “A dance? When?”

“Next Wednesday. It’s the annual Fresh Air Camp Benefit Ball,” said Callie. “We were going to buy the tickets and surprise you.”

“That’d be neat, but we can’t make it then,” Frank said regretfully. “We’ll probably be far away from here.”

“Like Kentucky, maybe,” Joe put in. “Can we take a rain check?”

The girls were disappointed, but they wished the young detectives well and offered to help in any way they could.

“Okay,” replid Frank. “Can you suggest a good place for us to hold a secret meeting?”

“How about Tony Prito’s?” asked Callie. “They have a terrific basement rec room. Remember the party we had there last spring?”

“Perfect,” Joe replied. He immediately telephoned the Prito residence. Tony was not at home, but his mother answered.

When Joe made his request, Mrs. Prito said, “By all means, you boys come over. And save your appetites—I’ll make spaghetti and meatballs for all of you. You can hold your meeting after dinner. We’ll eat at seven o’clock.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Prito, but—”

“No trouble at all. I’ll tell Tony as soon as he gets home.”

“That’s real nice of you, Mrs. Prito,” said Joe. “Thank you.”

When Chet heard of the dinner plans, he was delighted. “Great!” he declared. “Spaghetti and meatballs! Just what I need for building shot-putting muscles!”

Telephone calls were quickly made to Biff and Phil, who said they would come. Shortly before seven that evening, Frank and Joe drove to the Prito home, located on the north side of town. Chet Morton, who was the last to arrive, explained that he had practiced shot-putting until an hour before, just so he would be certain to have an appetite!

This statement tickled Phil Cohen. “Chet, you could work up an appetite just twirling your thumbs!”

Tony explained that his father had gone to Kentucky the previous day. Mrs. Prito looked troubled. “More bad luck on the road project,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t know when it will end. Of course, the worst of it is your father’s illness, Frank and Joel”

For a while, however, the mood of worry was dispelled by the sumptuous spread that Mrs. Prito had prepared. The meal started with antipasto, followed by thick minestrone soup. By the time the boys had eaten their first helping of spaghetti and meatballs, most of their hunger had been satisfied. As usual, Chet was the exception.

Mrs. Prito watched with a broad smile as Chet accepted a second generous portion.

“Building up my strength,” he said, spearing a succulent meatball. After dessert of fresh fruit, the boys thanked their hostess.

“Wow, that was some feast!” said Chet, patting his stomach. “I’ll be a champion shot-putter yet!”

Biff grinned. “How about a little exercise before we start the meeting?” Everyone agreed, and the boys clattered down to the basement.

In the spacious recreation room the Hardys, Phil, and Tony decided on a billiard game, while Biff and Chet trotted to the Ping-Pong table at the far end.

“This’ll get rid of that stuffed feeling, Biff,” assured the stout boy.

After a few minutes of warming up, the two engaged in a furious tilt. The sound of the bouncing balls mingled with the jolly banter of the billiard players.

As Frank lined up a shot to send the nine ball into the side pocket, a terrific crash filled the basement. This was followed by a loud “oof.”

Startled, the other boys’ companions wheeled around to face the Ping-Pong table. It lay flat on the floor, with hapless Chet sprawled out across it. Red-faced, as the others roared with laughter, he picked himself up.

“What happened?” Tony asked.

“I fooled him with a spin shot,” Biff said. “Good old Chet leaned over too far and that did it.”

Frank found that except for one splintered leg, no damage had been done to the table.

Joe and Tony quickly got tools from a workbench and repaired the table leg.

“Okay, fellows,” Frank said finally. “Before Chet has any more accidents, let’s get down to business.”

First, Tony took the precaution of posting his German shepherd dog outside the basement door.

“Axel will warn us if anybody comes snooping around,” he said.

The boys seated themselves in a partitioned-off den-study, and Frank opened the discussion.

“Joe and I will lay our cards on the table. We’ve met with nothing but setbacks ever since we took over Dad’s case.

“You’re not giving up?” Tony Prito put in quickly.

“Of course not!” Joe assured him. “There’s no mystery that can’t be solved, if it’s worked on long and hard enough.”

“Right,” Chet Morton said sagely. “You two should know.”

Phil Cohen winked at Biff. “A hunch tells me you Hardys got us together to decide on a plan of action.”

Frank smiled. “You’re right, Phil. You fellows have always stuck with us when the going got rough.”

Chet Morton nodded vigorously. “What else are pals for?”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Joe said, “because now we come to the heart of the matter.”

The Hardys were silent for a moment as Frank looked from face to face. “Joe and I,” he said, in measured words, “are asking each of you to join us on a dangerous mission.”

Chet’s eyebrows arched like the trajectory of a soaring shot. “Dangerous? Where?”

“Kentucky.”

The Hardys’ friends exchanged excited glances.

“Yes,” Joe said, “let’s go to Kentucky and find out more about that sabotaged bridge and who dry-gulched Dad.”

The Hardys thoroughly briefed the others on their sleuthing so far, including the New York trip. They had just concluded when Tony’s dog began barking.

“Something’s going on!” said Tony. He dashed to the basement door, opened it, and peered into the darkness.

The big German shepherd was leaping up at the shadowy figure of a man near the basement window!

CHAPTER IX

Fake Names

“DOWN, Axel!” A deep voice came from out of the darkness, followed by a happy whimper from, the German shepherd.

“It’s my father!” Tony exclaimed.

A sturdy-looking man, the dog bounding at his heels, stepped into the basement.

“Hello, Mr. Prito.” Joe grinned. “For a minute we thought you were a prowler.

The broad-shouldered contractor’s face, ruddy from years of outdoor work, creased in a smile,

“Not guilty. When I saw all those cars parked in the driveway, I thought maybe a political rally was in progress here.”

“Frank Hardy for mayor,” Phil quipped.

Everyone laughed, then sobered as Frank spoke up. “We were having a powwow about your road job, Mr. Prito.”

The group adjourned to the den, where the contractor pulled up a chair and sat down wearily.

“I’m afraid we are licked.”

“Did something else go wrong, Dad?” Tony asked.

“My men started to repair the bridge, and it collapsed again. This time we found an acetylene torch was used to cut through the stress points of the girders. The cuts were covered with a putty filler and painted over to resemble rivets—so of course no one noticed anything wrong until the structure gave way.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Chet put in.

“Fortunately, no—they scrambled to safety in time.” Mr. Prito sighed. “Unless we can find out who is causing the sabotage, and prove it, I may have to give up the whole project.”

“And lose all that money?” Biff said.

Joe spoke up. “Frank and I were just asking the fellows if they could go to Kentucky with us. Our idea is to get jobs on the road crew and maybe then we can solve this mystery.”

“A bold idea. What is the rest of your plan?”

Frank first of all inquired if Mr. Prito had a trusted foreman who could handle the hiring of the boys.

“Yes, John Losi. I sent him down to Kentucky temporarily, because the regular hiring agent, a local man named Bond Deemer, is on a week’s leave from the job.”

“What could be sweeter!” said Joe.

Then the Hardys went on to explain their scheme. Each of the boys would get a different job. Tony could be a mechanic for road-building equipment, such as graders and earth-moving ma chines.

“Big Biff here could man a truck,” said Joe, and Frank suggested that Phil sign on as a timekeeper, to see whether anyone stayed away from work for any length of time.

Phil grinned happily. “Great! That’ll give me time to sketch.”

“Hey, what about me?” demanded Chet.

“A laborer,” Frank said. “That’ll really build up your muscles—while you’re picking up gossip from the other workers.”

“Sort of like a spy, eh?”

“That’s right,” Tony interjected. “Secret agent 008, with the accent on the a-t-e.”

Chet grinned and accepted his new role. “And what may I ask, are Frank and Joe Hardy going to be? Spy supervisors?”

“Espionage foremen, so to speak,” quipped Tony.

“Not quite, pal.” Frank explained that the Hardys would work with the bridge crew. In that way, they could keep close tabs on the workmen in case one or more might be connected with sabotaging the project.

“But everybody knows the name Hardy,” Mr. Prito said. “The saboteurs would soon catch on that you are Fenton’s sons.”

In answer Frank pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. “We’ve already worked that out, by each of us keeping his first name and changing only the surname.”

Joe added, “The payroll records can be corrected for the government later, can’t they, Mr. Prito?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Frank unfolded the paper and spread it on the table.

“You picked our fake names already?” Biff asked with a grin.

“Sure thing, Listen:

Frank Teller

Joe Jensen

Chet Ball

Biff McGuire

Tony Gonzales

Phil Rubinow.”

“A masterpiece!” Phil declared. “Joe, you’re blond like a Scandinavian, and Tony could pass for Spanish.”

“But what about Chet Ball?” asked Biff.

“Oh, I get it,” said Chet. “That metal ball I’ve been shot-putting.”

The boys began trying out their aliases on one another.

“Biff McGuire,” said Biff. “Not bad, sounds like a real rugged character.”

“And we’ll need a few on this trip,” declared Joe.

By now the Hardys had generated such enthusiasm among their friends that Mr. Prito finally acceded to the plan.

“It’s a risky one, remember!” the contractor warned. “But good luck. You can reach me here if necessary. I have several other projects going.”

Frank and Joe suggested that the other boys leave Bayport one by one, at varying times, in order to avoid attracting attention.

“We’re leaving on the early bus tomorrow morning,” said Frank. “We’ll see you all in Kentucky.”

On the way home Joe was jubilant. Now that they had hoodwinked their enemies by their own microphone, he was sure the criminals could be thrown completely off the trail.

Joe laughed. “Maybe we can say we’re going fishing in Canada, or something like that.”

“I hope we can fool them, but let’s not count our chickens too soon,” Frank said as they drove into the garage.

So exuberant were the two boys that they dashed through the kitchen and raced upstairs to their father’s study. Frank closed the door, winked at his brother, and mustered up his most doleful voice.

“Joe,” he said, “this case is too much for us. I think we should quit and let the police handle everything.”

With a mocking expression, Joe jabbed his finger over the back of his shoulder toward the bug on the ceiling. “Right, Frank. We know when we’re licked.”

Just then there was a quiet knock at the door. When Joe opened it, Mrs. Hardy beckoned them into the hall and down the stairs. In the living room she whispered, “You two came in so fast, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Tell us what?” queried Frank, noting his mother’s look of alarm.

“Come, I’ll show you.

Aunt Gertrude joined them. She, too, seemed fearful.

“Oh, do be careful, Frank and Joe,” Miss Hardy said in a strained voice.

Joe scratched his head. “What’s this all about?”

Mrs. Hardy walked into the kitchen, picked up a flashlight from the table, and led her sons into the side yard. She played the beam up the house. Her sons gasped. A light nylon rope, looped around the chimney top, ran past an attic window to within a foot of the ground.

“Gertrude and I noticed it when we came home from the hospital,” Mrs. Hardy explained.

“Great gophers!” Joe exclaimed. “Somebody climbed up there!” In a moment the boys were bounding through the kitchen, into the hall, up the stairs and into the attic. Frank turned on the switch and the attic was flooded with light. The Hardys took one look and groaned. The radio transmitter was gone!

The trickers had been tricked!

Joe hastened to the window near the chimney and looked out. The nylon rope dangled only inches away from the sill.

“The monkey man!” Frank exclaimed.

The boys looked at each other, sick with fury over the way they had been outmaneuvered. Suddenly there was a crash, followed by a tinkling of glass.

“It’s downstairs,” Frank said. “Come on!”

The boys ran to the first floor. They arrived in the living room to find Aunt Gertrude and Mrs. Hardy standing motionless, their faces registering shock.

“What happened? What—”

Joe pointed to the living-room window, which had a large, jagged hole in the center. The boys’ gaze traveled to the rug, on which lay a large ball bearing with a paper wrapped loosely around it.

Aunt Gertrude found her voice. “Thieves! Criminals! Murderers!” she cried shrilly.

Frank snatched up the paper, and with hearts pounding, he and Joe read the message: “Wise guys stay in Bayport.” It was signed with the three-looped letter M.

CHAPTER X

Monkey on a String

THE latest threat from the Hardys’ enemies only served to stiffen the boys’ resolve. Frank and Joe quietly left the house and stealthily searched the grounds. But they discovered no clue to the missile hurler.

Frank stopped at the dangling nylon rope and yanked it hard. It was firmly fastened around the chimney.

“The fellow must be great with a lariat,” said Joe. “Wonder why he left it here.”

Frank had a theory. If the intruder had been surprised by Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, he might have shinned down a drainpipe on the other side of the house.

“Without time to unfasten and take his rope,” Joe added.

“Right.”

The boys had a whispered conference.

“Okay!” Joe said. “Let’s try it!”

They confided their reasons for the Kentucky trip to their mother and Aunt Gertrude. The women, although apprehensive, did not oppose the idea.

“We found your father better this evening,” said Mrs. Hardy. “But he’s still not fully conscious. I suppose he would want you to take his place.”

Next, Joe phoned Radley, telling him of their plans. Sam approved heartily and wished the boys success.

“I’ll keep an eye on your dad and your house,” he promised. “Keep me posted.”

The boys then got out their suitcases, and as they packed, cut off all telltale labels from their clothing.

“Have you got the binoculars?” asked Frank.

“Roger. And our miniature radio transmitter.” They were about to shut their bags when Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came into the room.

“Do you have your heavy sweaters?” Miss Hardy asked with an air of authority. “Kentucky isn’t Miami, you know.”

“But, Aunty, we’re not going to the North Pole!” Joe protested. “Besides, it’s summer.”

“Never mind. It still gets chilly in the woods at night,” she insisted.

“All right,” Frank agreed. He reached in the closet and pulled out two heavy wool sweaters which he and Joe hurriedly packed.

“And now, Mother,” Frank said, “will you drive us to the bus depot? We can catch the midnight bus.”

After receiving parting admonitions and a hug from their aunt, the boys and Mrs. Hardy got into the car and soon were at the terminal.

“This bus to Kentucky goes via Pittsburgh, Mom,” Frank said. “Good-by and don’t worry.”

He and Joe embraced their mother, then swung aboard. A few minutes later, with a roar of its diesel motor, the vehicle swung out onto the main street. But it had gone only four blocks when Frank tapped the driver on the shoulder.

“We’d like to get off here, please.”

“What? We’ve hardly started,” argued the driver. “This isn’t a local, y’know.”

“It’s very important,” Joe said solemnly.

“Okay, okay.”

The bus stopped at the next corner and the boys hopped off. They strode rapidly back home, approaching the house cautiously from the rear. Nimbly they hopped a fence into their backyard. Silent as shadows, the Hardys cached their suitcases behind the garage, then crept to a sheltering clump of rhododendrons. Tensely they waited, their eyes fixed on the chimney.

Joe whispered, “Do you really think someone will come back for the rope?”

“Sure.”

Earlier Frank had reasoned that their enemy was watching for his opportunity to return to the Hardy home undetected and retrieve the rope. Therefore, he would be more likely to do so if he thought the brothers had left town.

Half an hour passed. Forty-five minutes. Joe glanced into the starry sky and saw that Orion had moved some distance west in the velvety black sky. The boys’ muscles ached.

“Frank, I don’t think anybody will—”

Joe’s words were cut off by a nudge from his brother. The crouching boys peered through the shrub at a small figure creeping around the side of their house. Joe put his mouth to Frank’s ear. “The monkey man!”

“Sh!”

The prowler stopped, listened, then advanced toward the nylon rope. The Hardys were tense with excitement, but dared not move a muscle lest they scare off their enemy. They must capture him at any cost, if their trip to Kentucky were to bring results. Otherwise, the monkey man would be certain to give away the Hardys’ identity, and alert those mixed up in the bridge sabotage.

The intruder waited as if to make sure everyone was safely asleep in the darkened house. Then the man sprang to his full height, which was a scant five feet. Like a cat, he glided up to the rope, seized it, and began virtually walking up the side of the Hardy house.

The boys put their plan into action. Cautiously Joe moved from his hiding place, quietly unlocked the back door, and sped upstairs in the darkness. Frank, meanwhile, darted to the dangling rope and began to pull himself up hand over hand.

The jerk on the rope signaled Frank’s presence. The monkey man, now halfway to the roof, uttered a high-pitched cry. The lights in the house blazed on, and Joe stepped out of the attic window close to the rope. He, too, seized the nylon rope and began to slide down it.

The monkey man was caught between the Hardys!

He shrieked in rage and defiance. “You won’t get me!”

With that, he crashed through the screen of an open second-floor window. Instantly Frank dropped to the ground. A moment later he heard a scream, a bang, and a thump coming from downstairs. He dashed inside to find the monkey man picking himself up from the hall floor at the bottom of the stairs. Aunt Gertrude stood nearby, brandishing an umbrella.

“Crashed right into me!” she gasped.

Frank made a dive for the intruder. Then Joe, halfway between the first and second floors, leaped from the stairway and landed on the monkey man’s back. As the trio rolled over and over, the trapped prowler, though small, fought with the fury of a wild animal. His arms and legs writhed like snakes as he tried to escape the Hardys’ steel grip.

Disheveled and bruised, the boys finally subdued the monkey man, and sat astride him. Mrs. Hardy had called the police and soon a squad car roared up. A lieutenant entered and snapped handcuffs on the prisoner.

Chief Collig arrived minutes later, having received word of the fracas at his home.

“Do you know this man, Chief?” asked Frank as the monkey man glowered at his captors.

“I’ll say. He’s on the wanted list. His name is Monk Smith, an ex-con.”

Frank and Joe told Collig of Smith’s trash-can assault on them in New York. “We figure,” Joe added in a low voice, “he fits in somewhere with the bridge mystery Dad was working on.”

The chief turned to the prisoner. “Who put you up to this caper, Monk?”

Smith only scowled, and would not reply to this question or to any others.

“Okay, take him down to the lockup,” Collig instructed finally. “Maybe he’ll sing there.”

The police chief said that the ex-con would be held without bail for a few days, in order to give the Hardys a better chance to work incognito in Kentucky.

After the police car had sped off, the boys took down the rope. “This might come in handy,” Joe said as he coiled the light nylon and put it in his suitcase.

The monkey man was caught between the Hardys!

In a short time the brothers said good-by again to their mother and Aunt Gertrude.

Joe grinned. “This time we’re really Kentucky-bound.”

He and Frank took a taxi to the bus terminal, and caught the next trip out. Settling back in the comfortable seats, the weary young sleuths soon fell fast asleep as the bus hummed along the dark highway.

The next day found the Hardys’ pals leaving Bayport as arranged, separately and at different times: first, Tony; next, Chet; third, Biff; and Phil was last to depart. Their arrival times were spaced so that over the weekend, each made his way independently to the construction shack of John Losi.

Mr. Prito’s trusted assistant was expecting them, and without delay assigned the four to their respective jobs. Monday, their first day at work, was a busy one. It was not until Tuesday morning that the Bayporters became worried about the delayed arrival of the Hardy boys. Chet rested on his shovel next to a pile of dirt alongside a section of freshly poured concrete.

“Where are Frank and Joe?” he wondered. “They left before any of us did.”

Among the swarms of workers in the densely wooded area Chet could make out his three cohorts. Tony, stripped to the waist in the hot sun, was repairing a tractor by the roadside. Biff was driving a concrete mixer, while Phil Cohen, busy writing on a clipboard, stood near an abutment of the bridge under construction.

A brusque voice at his elbow startled Chet.

“We’ll never build this road with you leaning on your shovel, buster.”

The newcomer, a sandy-haired, hard-eyed man, told Chet he was Bond Deemer, the regular hiring agent. “I just got back this morning before Losi left. When did you come on the job?”

Somewhat taken off guard, Chet stammered, “Well, ah, we—I—got here late Saturday, when Mr. Losi hired me.”

“What’s your name?”

Chet gulped. “Chet Ball.”

“Okay,” said Deemer. “I expect a full day’s work. Understand?”

Deemer strode off and Chet resumed shoveling. The hefty boy glanced up now and then at his strange surroundings. Across from the road site, set among the pine trees, were five trailers. Four were used as bunkhouses and the fifth, much larger, contained the kitchen and commissary.

Despite his gloomy mood, Chet felt hunger pangs. “Wish it was chow time,” he thought. The nearest town, Boonton, was too far away for a quick hop to obtain a sack of hamburgers.

Chet’s eyes roved to the wide, gushing stream and the bridge, built halfway across. This was the one, he knew, that twice had collapsed, and now the crew was busy pushing its construction for the third time.

Almost unconsciously, Chet again paused in his work. How could they do any sleuthing without Frank and Joe? he asked himself disconsolately.

“Hey, Ball!” A lantern-jawed man hopped off the cement mixer and strolled toward Chet.

“Wh-who, me?”

“Your name is Ball, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Angan,” Chet replied hastily.

It hadn’t taken the newcomers long to learn that Robert Angan was the foreman, and a rough task-master at that!

“Look, Ball, you’re not paid to stand there like the Statue of Liberty! Get to work!”

Embarrassed, Chet dug his shovel deep into the loose dirt. “That’s right,” Angan needled. “Act like you’re alive!”

A few minutes later Chet straightened up to ease his aching back. Across from him he spied two sturdy youths in dungarees hauling a large log on their shoulders. Chet bravely restrained a whoop of joy. Frank and Joe Hardy!

Frank, in the lead, gave a slight nod of recognition as he and Joe proceeded toward the bridge. Chet started to whistle, and dirt flew furiously from his shovel.

“Hey, Ball, that’s more like it!” yelled Angan.

A shrill blast from a steam whistle signaled the noon hour. Trucks and construction vehicles ground to a halt, and all the workmen headed toward the commissary. Meals were eaten on long, rough-hewn tables inside the trailer. Many of the old-timers sat together, talking and joking as they ate.

Frank, Joe, and their friends managed to find seats near one another, but chattered casually as if they had just met. Across from the Hardys sat a tall hillbilly youth. He had large hands and a long neck, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed.

“My name is Jensen—Joe Jensen,” Joe Hardy said, extending a hand.

The youth looked up shyly from under a shock of brown hair. “Mine’s Willy Teeple.”

“Live around here?” asked Joe.

“Yup.”

The Hardys could see that Willy was not one for conversation. The sentences he spoke were barely longer than one or two words. The foreman, Angan, who happened to be at the boys’ table, seemed to take great delight in riding the work men.

“See here, Gonzales,” he said to Tony. “If you don’t get that tractor fixed pretty soon, you’ll be heading back south of the border!”

“Yes, sir!” Tony replied.

“Don’t sir me!” Angan shot back. “Just do what you’re hired for.”

“Yes, Mr. Angan.”

“As for you, Jensen, you dumb Swede”—Angan turned to Joe—“I noticed you bothering the guys with questions. What are you? A reporter?”

With difficulty Joe held back a retort and mumbled, “Sorry.”

Chet, ravenous, reached for a third piece of bread. He changed his mind abruptly as Angan stared at him.

“We don’t like heavyweights on our crew!” the foreman said pointedly.

Having finished, Chet rose to leave. As he neared the end of the bench where Angan sat, Chet accidentally jostled the man’s elbow, and the cup of coffee he held spilled over the table.

“Dummy!” roared Angan, jumping up. With one hand he grasped the front of Chet’s work shirt and twisted it until the buttons nearly popped. His other fist cocked back. “For two cents I’d—”

Without warning, Willy Teeple’s big hands grasped the foreman’s wrist in a viselike grip.

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Angan,” Willy said softly.

CHAPTER XI

Jailbird Language

WILLY TEEPLE’S grasp prevented Angan’s fist from sailing to its mark on Chet’s jaw. The foreman released him and swung on Willy. At the same instant, Bond Deemer ran over and forced himself between the two.

“What’s the idea of interfering, Teeple?” Deemer thundered. “Angan handles the men around here.”

The hillbilly backed off, his face showing no resentment. “Okay, Mr. Deemer,” he said.

Chet, meanwhile, had stood by half stunned by the foreman’s sudden violence. His pals had found it hard not to go to his aid. To their surprise, Angan turned to Chet apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Ball,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. But we’re in an awful mess around here and my nerves are on the raw edge.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Angan,” replied Chet, relieved.

“You know what’ll happen if our bad luck continues,” Angan said, looking about in appeal to the onlooking workmen. “The Prito company will be penalized five hundred dollars a day for every day extra it takes to finish this job beyond the time we’ve contracted for.”

Tony spoke up. “I guess that would just about put Mr. Prito out of business, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Angan replied, “and Prito’s a good guy.”

“Okay, break it up,” Deemer ordered impatiently. “Back to work.”

With a scuffle of heavy boots, the workmen filed out of the commissary. On the way Chet thanked Willy for coming to his rescue. The gangling youth gave a quick nod and turned off. Soon power shovels were chugging and earth-moving equipment went bouncing over the rough, unfinished portions of the highway. Working together, Frank and Joe found an opportunity to discuss the work gang.

“It’s hard to tell who’s friend or foe,” Joe remarked. “But I guess it’s too soon to form any suspicions.”

The Hardys agreed that Angan, although hot-tempered, seemed to be regular.

“He was actually sorry for Mr. Prito,” Frank observed.

“Deemer’s not especially good-natured, either,” said Joe. “But he seems okay.”

The Hardys’ contact with their pals for the rest of the day was brief and surreptitious.

“Anything new?” Frank asked as he passed close to Chet.

“No.”

The same question, whispered in passing, to Phil, Biff, and Tony also produced a negative reply.

After the evening meal was finished, Frank drew his brother aside. “We’ve got to do some sleuthing tonight,” he said.

The Hardys sauntered amid the workmen lounging about, some smoking, others chatting in front of the bunk trailers. Frank sat on a tree stump while Joe flopped on a grassy knoll nearby. Soon they were casually approached by Tony.

“Hi, there,” he said in a loud voice. “How do you like working here?” Then, in lowered tones, he added, “What took you both so long?”

In a nonchalant manner, but with a guarded voice, Frank explained that he and Joe had stopped to investigate the town of Boonton.

“We thought we’d give the rest of you fellows a chance to get settled on the job before we showed up,” Joe put in, adding that they had checked in with Mr. Losi just before he had left for Bayport earlier that morning. The brothers had learned that no one named Felix was on the work force.

Frank told of the equipment they had brought. “We’ve got the binoculars, a nylon rope, and a miniature short-wave radio set hidden in a large cinder block under our bunk trailer.”

“Good,” Tony said with a smile. “The rest of us only brought muscles. And do we need ’em!”

As it grew dark, cool air settled down from the hills and the tired workers drifted away to turn in for the night.

Frank and Joe were billeted in a trailer away from the rest of their pals, with Frank’s bunk located above Joe’s. Near midnight the Hardys, careful not to awaken their bunk mates, sneaked outside and noiselessly made their way to the neighboring trailer, housing Angan and Deemer. Voices came from inside.

Joe stood on his brother’s shoulders and peered through one of the windows. Angan was sleeping. Deemer was sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing cards with two men. Willy Teeple looked on sleepily.

As one of the workmen turned his head, Joe ducked out of sight and dropped to the ground. The Hardys pressed close to the metal wall of the trailer and listened intently. The language of the card players was interspersed with many slang words which the boys had never heard before. It certainly was not the jargon of their Bayport High School crowd! The young sleuths made mental notes of the odd expressions.

Pair of bins; oiler; half stamp; clobby joint; long nit; bath in the canal; bice; baron.

“What kind of lingo is that?” Joe whispered.

Suddenly there was shuffling of feet and Deemer said in a loud voice, “Willy, you be the long nit tomorrow.”

“They’re breaking up!” Joe muttered. He and Frank hastened to their own bunks and quietly climbed in.

Next morning, as the Hardys dressed, Frank whispered to his brother, “Joe, I think I have it solved. I remember Dad speaking about convict lingo, and some of those words last night sounded like jailbird slang.”

“Good night!” Joe exclaimed. “We may be in a hornet’s nest of ex-cons.”

The workday started early and the Hardys were assigned by Angan to carry planks for the carpenters who were building concrete forms to be used for the bridge’s support columns. They spotted their four buddies as they passed by. Frank and Joe also noted that Willy Teeple was nowhere to be seen.

At midmorning the workmen paused for their coffee break. This gave Frank the chance he had been waiting for. He hastened to his bunk trailer, crawled beneath it, and removed the small radio. Concealing it under his shirt, Frank hurried back to Joe and slipped him the set.

“Quick!” Frank whispered. “Nobody is working on the bridge now. There’s a good hiding place underneath the abutment. Contact Radley and ask him about those strange words.”

While Frank stood guard some distance away, Joe nonchalantly ambled over to the bridge. He made sure no one was looking, then ducked underneath, turned on the transmitter, and called Radley in Bayport.

After a few tense minutes of waiting, Joe got through to his father’s operative. He spoke rapidly, asking about the odd vocabulary the boys had heard the night before.

“That’s con language, all right,” Radley said. “Joe, be extra careful!”

Radley translated the words which Joe carefully memorized:

Joe thanked Radley and signed off. Then he thought in surprise “So that’s why Willy’s not on the job today—he’s lookout for that con bunch.”

Joe secreted the short-wave radio in his clothes and started to climb out from under the bridge. Suddenly he stopped short. Nearly concealed behind an empty cement bag were three sticks of dynamite! Joe examined them gingerly. They were not as yet connected with any detonating device.

“So that’s next on the gang’s list—blow up the bridge!” Joe thought, picking up the sticks. Just then he heard the familiar birdcall whistle used by the Hardy boys to warn each other.

Before Joe had a chance to move, Robert Angan scrambled down the slope. He glared angrily at Joe. “So you’re one of the guys making trouble for us!” Angan said, and snatched the dynamite sticks. “Where’d you get these?”

Joe pleaded innocence, explaining that he had gone under the bridge to cool off during the break and had spotted the explosives there.

“That’s a great story,” the foreman snorted. He hid the dynamite sticks in his shirt so that the others would not notice them. Then he marched Joe directly to the project shack. Bond Deemer was working on some papers.

Angan produced the explosives. “Caught Jensen here with it.”

Deemer was speechless for a moment, then he stormed, “You sneak. You’ll go to jail for this.”

“But I had nothing to do with this dynamite!” Joe protested. “Remember, I just started work yesterday. Somebody else put these sticks under the bridge.”

“Listen, Jensen,” Angan said, “I had you pegged for a troublemaker the minute you showed up here.”

Deemer’s anger had receded. He tapped his pencil and looked thoughtfully at Joe. “We can’t afford to lose men on this job. Angan, I believe the kid’s telling the truth about the explosives.”

“Okay,” said Angan, pacing nervously. “It’s your responsibility, Deemer. But one false move” —he pointed at Joe—“and you’re through!”

This time Angan assigned Joe to learn to run a grader machine. “So I can keep you in sight,” he said.

Later, the foreman approached Frank. “You there, Teller!” he called. “I want you to learn how to handle a pan.” He pointed to a huge high-wheeled earth-carrying machine stopped beside the road and Angan called up to the driver, “Yancy, teach this kid how to operate it, then he can spell you.”

Frank climbed on to the monster machine, the rubber tires of which were taller than he. He found Yancy to be a bluff individual, sun-tanned, with bulging arm muscles and a broad face.

The machine started to bounce along, and Yancy readily explained its mechanics to Frank. After the machine had dropped a load of dirt by the side of the road, Yancy turned to his new assistant. “You got an easy job, kid. You must know the baron.”

“Who?” Frank could have bitten off his tongue. From that moment on, Yancy said not a word and it was all work and no talk.

Several times Frank tried to start a friendly conversation, but with no luck.

At the end of the day’s work, the Hardys met beside the swift-moving stream to wash up.

Frank told his brother of Yancy’s clamming up after he had asked who the baron was.

“Do you know where Yancy’s bunk is, Joe?”

“Yes, in Deemer’s trailer.”

“Then I think I’ll do a little eavesdropping tonight,” Frank said.

An offhand exchange with the other four boys proved that they had uncovered nothing unusual during the day. Late that night Frank sidled up to Yancy’s trailer and put his ear close to the door. The voices inside were subdued, but clear enough for the young sleuth to identify as Yancy’s and Deemer’s. The boy held his breath and listened intently, noting certain words he was sure were underworld lingo.

Frank heard Deemer mention Joe’s name in connection with the discovery of the dynamite. Then Yancy spoke up. “What about this Frank Teller? I thought he was an apple, but he ain’t.”

A third voice said, “I hear by the grapevine Teller did a bice.”

A cold chill went up Frank’s spine. So they thought he was an ex-jailbird! “No wonder Yancy figured I knew the baron!” Frank gritted his teeth. “If only I hadn’t asked ‘who’?”

Suddenly there was a noise nearby. Frank ducked around the trailer and flattened himself against it as a flashlight’s beam stabbed the darkness.

CHAPTER XII

The Protector

FRANK held his breath as the light flashed about near the entrance to the trailer. Then it went off. The door squeaked open and shut.

A voice from inside said, “Oh, it’s you, Willy. What a layabout! Here, give me the glasses.”

“Arkitnay!” retorted Willy Teeple. Frank heard two heavy boots drop to the floor, then all grew silent. Frank waited, but no further talk came from within, so he quietly returned to his own trailer. Inside he whispered to Joe:

“First we have to prove those ex-cons are doing something crooked here. In that case, maybe the police can help us. But we’re up against a tough assignment, Joe. Come on. Let’s contact Radley again.”

The two boys took flashlights and slipped out of the trailer. Joe retrieved the radio set, then the Hardys cautiously made their way into the woods bordering the road.

Once out of sight of the work camp, Frank flicked his light on and off just enough to pick their way through the dense forest. Progress was slow.

“Do you think it’s safe to stop now?” asked Joe.

“No. They may have a lookout this close to the trailers.”

Stumbling and groping, Frank and Joe plodded on through a stand of pine trees. Finally they came to a small clearing, where the moonlight illuminated a huge boulder. The Hardys dropped to the ground, their backs against the stone.

“Okay,” said Frank. “Let’s get Radley.”

Joe turned on the transmitter, then put in the call to Bayport. No response.

Joe tried again, without results. “Did you check the batteries?” asked Frank.

“There’s plenty of juice,” his brother replied.

Just then a ham operator came in strong and clear. He asked Joe where he was located.

Joe was polite, but said this was an emergency call and would the ham please sign off.

“As you say. Good luck. Over and out.”

“Whew! I hope the cons aren’t listening in,” said Frank.

“If they are, we’re sunk!” declared Joe. He called Radley again. This time a faint reply reached their ears among interference. Joe tuned out some of the static.

“Sam? ... This is Joe. How’s Dad?”

The reply was heartening. Fenton Hardy was improving steadily! “He has intervals of lucidity,” Radley reported, “but his memory is foggy.”

The operative went on to say that X rays had shown the reason for this. “Fenton must have been hit in the back of the neck,” Radley said. “The doctors feel that his memory won’t be clear for at least a week or so.”

“But he will get better!” Joe said tersely.

“Definitely.”

With a sigh of relief, Joe passed the radio to Frank, who told Sam, “I’ve heard more of those jailbird words. For instance, they called me an apple. What’s that?”

“A swindler.” Radley chuckled. “They think you’re a crook, Frank. That’s good!”

“Don’t tell Aunt Gertrude!” Frank grinned.

“Got a pencil and paper?” Radley asked. “I can give you a list of prison slang your father compiled.”

“Roger.”

Joe turned on his flashlight and laid it on the ground. Then, as Sam dictated, he jotted down:

Suddenly Radley was cut off.

“Oh—oh, what’s up?” Joe fretted.

“Bad atmospheric conditions, probably,” Frank said. “We’d better get back.”

“Okay, swindler,” needled Joe. “We have enough words to work on.”

They started back as quietly as they could. But it was impossible to avoid stepping on twigs which snapped and cracked loudly. Frank used the light sparingly, as a precaution against being spotted.

Suddenly Joe said, “Hey, look!”

Just ahead of them lay a narrow path, which came to a fork. A right turn would lead them to the camp. The left-hand trail headed in the direction of a mountain ridge. Frank bent down and flashed his light over the ground near the path. Among the matted pine needles was a half-burned safety match.

“Somebody’s been using this trail, and more than likely one of the workmen,” Frank commented.

“Let’s follow it toward the mountain,” said Joe.

“Sort of late now.”

Joe was not to be dissuaded. “But we might find a good clue.”

“Okay, but we can’t be long,” Frank replied.

At first the path was easy to follow, with the moon providing enough light to guide them. But as the Hardys reached higher ground, a series of switchbacks made the going laborious.

Joe stopped suddenly. “Say, Frank,” he whispered, “do you suppose this leads to some kind of lookout spot?”

Instead of answering, Frank seized Joe by the wrist and pulled him behind a pine tree. “I thought I saw something move!” He pointed to an opening between the pines.

“I don’t see anything,” said Joe.

“Follow me!” Frank ordered. Getting down on all fours, the boys crept across the trail, flattening themselves now and then to listen. They heard a clink, like the sound of metal.

Frank skirted around the trees, then stopped at the edge of the opening. Here the pines grew so close together they completely obscured the moonlight.

Joe inched up beside his brother. “It looks like a cave of some kind,” he whispered.

Frank nodded, pointing to a stump some thirty feet away, atop which was a boxlike object.

The boys lay side by side in the darkness, wondering what to do next. Was someone hiding in the cave? Should they risk entering it? Or should they wait and come back later?

“We have the advantage of surprise,” Frank said finally. The boys rose to their feet, then tiptoed forward. Now they could see plainly that the opening was indeed a cave.

“When I shine the light, we’ll dash in,” Frank said. Click. The flashlight’s glare revealed two eyes gleaming at them, as a menacing growl issued from the cave mouth.

“Good night!” Joe cried out. “A bear!”

As the huge beast lunged from the cave, the Hardys turned and fled. The growls of the bear became fiercer as it crashed through the trees.

Frank and Joe fairly flew onto the trail. Suddenly the bear gave a loud grunt. This was followed by a ferocious thrashing about. Soon the boys realized that the animal was no longer pursuing them. They halted, trembling and out of breath.

“Whew! I thought we were done for,” Frank said. “A black bear that size can tear your head off.”

The young detectives retraced their steps cautiously to the spot where the bear had stopped. “There he is.” Joe pointed, and Frank shone his light on the animal. The boys’ jaws dropped in astonishment. The bear was fettered by a long chain, at which he strained toward the box on the stump, two feet away.

“Leapin’ lizards!” Frank exclaimed. “That’s a beehive!”

“What a fiendish setup,” said Joe.

The Hardys deduced that someone wanted the trail guarded and had done this by keeping the bear chained in the cave, tantalizing it day and night by a feast of honey just out of reach.

The length of the chain was cunningly contrived, the boys observed. It extended across the trail so that an unsuspecting wayfarer would be frightened out of his wits, or even gravely injured by the voracious bear.

“Bears normally stay out of peoples’ way,” Frank remarked, “but this one has a right to hold a grudge against humans.”

Making sure to stay clear of the bear’s flicking claws, the boys lifted the hive from the stump and heaved it close to the bear, whereupon the animal quickly ripped the hive apart and began to devour the honey.

“Wow! Somebody is going to be surprised!” Joe said with a chuckle.

They speculated on the reason for the “bear trap,” and who was responsible, and wondered if it had any connection with their case. The boys started back along the sloping trail. As they descended, the Hardys were startled to hear a man’s voice calling:

“Hey, Swede! Teller! Are you there?”

“It’s Deemer,” Frank whispered. “Let’s lie low. We don’t want to tip our hand yet.”

The Hardys dived behind a thicket and crouched motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Suddenly came the sharp crack of gunfire! Bullets whizzed overhead, thudding ominously into the trees. Then it was quiet. Finally the cracking of twigs came to their ears.

As the sound gradually grew fainter, Joe took a deep breath. “He’s leaving. Why do you suppose he shot at us, Frank?”

“He’s jittery.”

The Hardys made their way cautiously along the trail behind the rifleman. But, again, they were halted by a strange happening. Through the trees a weird rosy pink glow spread over the sky.

“Good grief!” said Joe. “It’s not sunrise yet!”

The eerie light gave the black sky an awesome tint.

“This is the spookiest spot I’ve ever been in,” Joe murmured.

“And the most dangerous!” Frank added.

“I’ll say! Maybe there’s a forest fire!” But Joe’s guess proved wrong when the pink light soon vanished and all was dark again.

Mystified, the Hardys went on toward the work camp. Every few feet they stopped to listen. The thought of Deemer, perhaps lying in wait to ambush them, caused the boys to break out in a cold sweat. Finally the trailers came into view.

“Look!” said Frank, halting abruptly. In the moonlight they could see Deemer sitting beside the door of their trailer, holding a rifle between his legs.

“Oh, swell!” Joe said in disgust. “How do we get in?”

The boys decided on a decoy action. Joe scooped up a rock and hurled it full force over the trailer. It landed with a thud. Deemer leaped up. Joe tossed another large stone in the same direction.

This time the hiring agent darted out of sight around the trailer.

“Inside, fast!” hissed Frank.

He and Joe sprinted from the trees and slipped into their sleeping quarters.

They undressed silently in record time and climbed into bed. When Frank adjusted his pillow, his hand touched a piece of paper. “Another warning,” he thought. By using his flashlight under the cover, Frank read the note. It was from Biff and read:

“Phil’s in trouble. Going to be fired. Caught making sketches of D and A.”

CHAPTER XIII

Surprise Password

FRANK whispered the message to Joe just before the screen door opened. Deemer stood silhouetted in the doorway, a gun in his hand. He tiptoed over to look at Frank and Joe, who feigned sleep. Joe sat up, as if alarmed.

“Something wrong, Mr. Deemer?”

“W-why, I—er—” The hiring boss was clearly flustered. “I thought—er—you’d both gone into the woods and gotten lost. It’s dangerous there, especially at night.”

Frank, too, sat up and put on a sleepy act. “Mr. Deemer, do you usually carry that equalizer?” Joe asked.

Frank turned on his brother and snapped, “Arkitnay!”

Deemer almost dropped the gun and his eyes bugged. He opened his mouth to speak, then evidently thought better of it. Without a word he stalked off to his own trailer.

“We got him worried, anyhow,” Joe said with satisfaction.

“Yes, but we’ll have to be careful. We’re still in the dark as to what his game is.”

Despite only a few hours’ sleep, Frank and Joe awoke refreshed and keyed up for the sleuthing which lay ahead. At breakfast Frank casually seated himself next to Phil and said, “We heard what happened.” Amid the clatter of utensils, Frank instructed his friend, “If you’re fired, put on a sad face. Soon as you can, go to Boonton and stay at the Eagle Hotel. We’ll get in touch with you there.”

Phil nodded. Further conversation was impossible because Bond Deemer arose and pounded on the table for attention. “Quiet! Quiet!”

A hush fell over the workmen. Deemer turned to stare at Phil and a sarcastic smile curled his lips. “Rubinow,” he said, “if you want to draw pictures, okay. But not here. You’re fired!”

With a stricken look, Phil asked, “When?”

“Right now.” Deemer pulled a brown envelope from his pocket and flung it at the boy. “Here’s your pay. Scram!”

Amid the murmur that arose, Phil, pretending to be stunned, took the envelope and left the trailer.

“He’s a layabout, anyway!” Frank said in a voice that could be plainly heard. A few eyebrows were raised among the men, but there was no comment.

Later, at the busy construction site, Frank climbed aboard the pan next to Yancy. The motor thundered and growled as the big machine responded to Yancy’s touch. It scooped up a huge bucketful of dirt, then trundled off to deposit it by the side of the highway. As they started back for another load, Frank decided to put out a few feelers.

“You think I’m a bindlestiff, eh, Yancy? I figured you to be a finger.” Yancy, surprised, jammed on the brake so hard they both nearly flew off the seat. Frank continued, “I’m a torch man, but a tin star caught me on a cheeser. Ain’t it the way? Copped a heel but fell flat.”

Yancy gave the machine more gas. “You’re okay, kid, but stow the con gab. The baron don’t like it. We ain’t all in the club.”

“What about the local yokels?” Frank parried.

“Most of ’em are okay. They’re all scared of Rosy.”

“Rosy?” Frank thought fast. “The big fire at night?”

Yancy turned, grinning. For a fraction of a second he did not look where he was going. The machine hit a rock projecting from the roadbed and tilted crazily.

“Jump!” Yancy yelled and dived from his seat. Frank followed suit, landing unhurt on the soft shoulder of the road. The vehicle flipped over with engine racing and wheels twirling madly.

Frank and Yancy dived from their seats

Frank and other workers ran up to Yancy, who had landed on a hard-packed surface. He lay moaning, clutching at his right leg. Angan hurried over, looking disgusted. “You’re supposed to be an expert!” he growled. “What’s the matter with you?”

One of the men arrived with a first-aid kit. He stripped the coverall from Yancy’s leg, and after examining the injury, said, “Afraid it’s a bad fracture. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

A temporary splint was applied to Yancy’s leg. Grimacing with pain, he was placed on a stretcher, which two men slid into the back of a small truck. It eased onto the completed section of the highway and sped away.

Angan turned his attention to Frank. “What happened, Teller?”

Frank shrugged. “Couldn’t say.”

The foreman scowled. “You guys stick together pretty thick!” he said. “Pick a partner, Teller, and get the derrick to haul up that pan.”

Frank looked at his brother. “Hey, Jensent I could use a squarehead on this job.”

With Tony’s help, the Hardys directed the crane operator to lift the huge vehicle. It needed a few repairs, which Tony handled with skill. While he worked, the three boys had a chance to confer.

Frank told the others of Yancy’s reference to the baron and added, “If we could only get to him!”

“But who is he, and where does he stay?” asked Joe.

Tony had not yet heard any reference to a person called the baron. “I don’t think Biff and Chet have, either.”

“Quiet!” Frank warned.

A truck hauling rocks had drawn up close to the trio. A brawny man jumped from the cab, motioned Frank aside, and walked him out of earshot of Tony and Joe.

“What’s up?” asked Frank.

The truck driver looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Helix.”

Two thoughts flashed through Frank’s mind: Mr. Hardy’s mumbled word, which the boys had thought was Felix must instead be helix, meaning a spiral! And the warning received earlier by the Hardys was signed with a three-looped spiral resembling the letter M.

Frank deduced that “helix” must be the gang’s password, or at least a special sign used by them.

“Okay.” Frank made a spiral loop with his right forefinger and pointed upward. This seemed to satisfy the workman. He beckoned Frank again, moving farther away.

“We got a job to do tonight, Teller.”

“A job? On whom?” Frank asked sharply.

“On McGuire. He’s been snoopin’ around like a dick, so he’s gettin’ a bath in the canal.”

Biff to be drowned? A wave of terror enveloped Frank, but he remained outwardly calm. “How do I know that’s true?”

“Listen, If I—Mike Shannon—say so, it’s true.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “McGuire thinks I’m his friend.”

“Good. You and the Swede can take care of him at midnight.”

Frank trudged back to the pan, his mind in a turmoil. Biff Hooper was the next target of the gang. When Joe and Tony heard of the nefarious plan, they too were horrified.

“We’ve got to save Biff!” Joe said.

“We will,” Frank assured him. “I’ve got an idea.”

It was agreed that Tony would alert Biff later at an opportune moment, give him the plan of action, and warn him to show no surprise or emotion that night when the Hardys came to pick him up.

Outside the trailer after supper, Frank and Joe began a loud argument to provide distraction for Tony to speak with Biff. The Hardys disputed who could heave a rock the farthest. Chet, having been tipped off earlier, joined in the hassle. The three selected a round rock about the weight of a shot and started a contest. The men gathered around cheering as first one boy, then another took turns.

Even Deemer was intrigued. “I can do better than any of you!” he boasted. His put, several inches better than Chet’s, spurred others to enter the contest. Tony, after a few hurls, melted away from the crowd and disappeared behind his bunk trailer. Biff, having received the high sign from Frank, did the same. A few minutes later the two sauntered back to the “meet.”

Meanwhile, Chet’s practicing paid off, and he became champ shot-putter a fraction of an inch over Deemer’s best hurl. Everyone cheered, but Angan said acidly, “If you worked as hard with the pick and shovel, Ball, we’d get some work done around here.”

“Yes, sir,” Chet replied meekly, and laughter drifted among the tall pines.

After sunset, darkness came on quickly and the trees loomed black against the fading daylight. Now the work camp took on a strange, foreboding hush which the Hardys had not experienced before.

Later, finding themselves alone in the trailer washroom, the brothers spoke in whispers.

“I wonder how many of these guys know Biff’s due for a bath in the canal,” said Joe.

Frank, drying his face, muttered through the towel, “Maybe only a few—or maybe more. That’s the trouble. We have no idea how many are involved.”

In their bunks the two boys passed the time reading magazines. But all the while they had the strange feeling that the others in the trailer were furtively watching them.

At eleven-thirty Mike Shannon stepped inside and came over to Frank. “Here’s the tool you’ll need for that job, Teller. In fact, maybe you and Jensen could fix it right now.” He slipped a blackjack into Frank’s hand and ambled out.

The brothers dressed, noting that the men appeared to be sleeping, undisturbed by Mike’s visit.

Five minutes later the Hardys roused Biff from his bunk. “Hey, McGuire, we got something to show you,” said Joe.

“Aw, let me sleep,” Biff said, putting on an act.

“Come on, you big lunk!”

“Okay, okay.” Biff dressed and followed the Hardys outside. As the trio set forth, Frank noticed that Mike and another man were trailing them.

Biff feigned annoyance. “What are you jokers going to show me this time of night?” he asked loudly.

“You’ll see. It’s down by the water,” Joe replied.

The boys made their way through the darkness, guided by the churning sound of the swift-running river. When they reached the edge of the water, the men’s footsteps grew louder. “Quick!” said Joe.

Frank drew back the blackjack and made a sweeping motion toward Biff’s head. With an anguished cry, Biff keeled over and fell, face down, into the rushing water.

“Boy, what a great act!” Joe whispered gleefully.

But his joy was short-lived. As he and Frank started to turn, the two men leaped on them! Each boy was dealt a heavy blow on the head. The Hardys reeled backward, unconscious, and tumbled into the torrent.

CHAPTER XIV

A Real Sacrifice

FRANK HARDY had the hideous sensation that he was caught in a maelstrom at the bottom of Niagara Falls. Tons of water crushed the air from his lungs, and his chest was constricted by a band of steel.

Then, as water swirled about his head, Frank regained consciousness. He was floating on his back, and the tightness around his chest was the strong arm of Biff Hooper.

“Easy, Frank. I got you.”

The boy felt himself being grabbed under both arms and pulled up on a stony bank. “You all right?” Biff asked.

At first Frank could hardly speak. His head throbbed and he was half choking from the water he had swallowed. “Joe—Where’s Joe?”

“I haven’t found him yet. Don’t worry. He’ll revive and make it to shore.”

Frank sat up groggily. “Man oh man, did those crooks ever double-cross us!” He rubbed his aching head and groaned. “They must’ve found out who we were! You saved my life, Biff. Thanks! Now we’ve got to find Joe!”

Frank struggled to his feet and staggered about, trying to gain his equilibrium. Finally his head cleared enough for him to walk without assistance. “We’ll follow the shore downstream, Biff.”

Pushing their way over jumbled rocks and through tangled brush which grew nearly to the water’s edge, the two boys followed the course of the surging stream. Frank stumbled once, but pressed on, his jaw set with determination.

It was half an hour later when the two came to a gentle bend in the river. Silt had washed ashore forming a sandy crescent, and near the middle of it the searchers saw two prone figures. Biff ran ahead, with Frank plodding behind him. Drawing closer, they noticed that the pair were half in, half out of the water.

“Joe!” called Frank. “Is that you, Joe?”

Biff was already kneeling beside one of the figures when Frank stumbled to his side. The ghostly moonlight revealed the faces of Joe Hardy and Tony Prito !

Tony moaned, stirred slightly, then blinked his eyes. Frank at once applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to his brother. Tony, meanwhile, slowly sat up, gasping from exhaustion.

Finally Joe sucked in a great breath of air. His eyelids fluttered and he smiled wanly at Frank.

“He’s okay!” Biff exulted, and set about briskly massaging Joe’s arms and legs.

It was not until fifteen minutes later that Joe and Tony felt equal to telling their story. Tony began. He had gone to the Hardys’ bunkhouse shortly after the two had left, and from the doorway, had seen Bond Deemer searching through the brothers’ belongings.

“Deemer didn’t notice me. He exploded when he found your heavy sweaters!” Tony said. “They had your name labels.”

“Leapin’ lizards!” Joe said weakly. “I know how that happened, Frank.”

“So do I. We stuck ’em in at the last second to please Aunt Gertrude and forgot to take the labels off. What goofs!”

Tony reported that he had trailed Deemer, who, furious at the deception, had passed the word along quickly to Mike and another man.

“I couldn’t stop them from going after you,” said Tony, “so I followed, figuring I could help later, and posted myself downstream a short way.”

When he saw the Hardys fall in, Tony had swum to the rescue and reached Joe first. “I spotted Biff grabbing you, Frank.”

The Hardys expressed gratitude to their buddies. “We would have been goners without you two,” said Joe.

“Which reminds me,” Biff said dryly, “the gang probably thinks the three of us are dead.”

“And I suppose they’ve got me pegged,” said Tony.

“That leaves Chet alone,” said Frank. “He’s the only connection we have left to Deemer and his mob.”

The four boys sat on the sand, discussing their next move. They all thought that Chet might have a chance to remain unsuspected of being one of the sleuthing team. Should they ask him to stay on the job as their only direct link with the ex-convicts?

“It’ll be pretty risky,” Joe said. “We’d better leave the decision up to Chet.”

Having agreed to this, the boys made their way farther downstream, crossed an old bridge, and edged stealthily back toward the construction camp. Joe had brought a waterproof flashlight, so the quartet had little trouble finding their way.

Tony, whose bunk was near Chet’s, volunteered to arouse him. While the Hardys and Biff waited in the woods, Tony slipped into the trailer. “Keep quiet and come with me,” he whispered. “Hurry!”

Befogged with sleep, Chet groped after Tony in the darkness. When they joined the others, Frank and Joe recounted the latest happenings.

The chunky boy was now fully awake. “Zowie, fellows! You sure had a close call!” He shifted uncomfortably. “Guess it’d be awfully dangerous to stay here alone.”

“Yes,” said Frank. “That’s what we were going to ask you about.”

“Hmm.” Chet drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

“Well?” Biff prompted.

“I’ll stay!”

“Good boy!” said Joe. “We knew you would.”

The plan was to have Chet contact Phil Cohen at the Eagle Hotel in Boonton if anything important developed. “We’ll check with him later,” said Frank and added, “Just keep on working as usual, and keep your ears and eyes open.”

After handshakes all around, Tony returned with Chet to retrieve the Hardys’ radio and binoculars and rope from the cinder block. Chet was about to re-enter his trailer, when Tony said, “Got any food around, Chet?”

“Well, I did stash some away—”

“As usual.” Tony chuckled.

Chet disappeared inside and emerged carrying a paper bag. “There’s bread and cheese in here,” he said. “A midnight snack I was saving. Don’t say I never gave you anything!”

“You mean take all of it?”

“Every bit,” said Chet. “I better get back.”

When Tony told the others of Chet’s sacrifice, Joe whistled. “A real pal! Giving up his last bite!”

The four young sleuths pressed deeper and deeper into the woods. Finally they approached the area where the Hardys had seen the eerie rosy light in the sky. There the boys stopped and Frank contacted Radley by radio, giving him a full report.

The operative was stunned to hear what had happened to the Hardys and their friends.

“We’re okay now,” Frank said. He asked Sam to have the Boonton police keep tabs on Yancy and any visitors at the hospital.

“All right,” Radley said. “But from what you tell me, I think we should close in on the mob immediately.”

Frank explained that first he wanted to find out who the baron was. “He must be the ringleader,” Frank added. “Besides, we have to uncover what’s behind the bridge sabotage.”

Radley reluctantly agreed to wait, but warned the boys to be extremely careful in their search for the baron. Sam informed the Hardys that their father was improving, but his memory remained unclear. Also, the prisoner Monk Smith had not yet talked.

“We’ll keep in touch, Sam,” Frank said.

“Over and out.”

“What next?” asked Biff.

Joe replied promptly, “Get some rest and start out at dawn to find the baron. He had scarcely spoken when a muffled blast in the distance filled the air.

“Dynamite!” Tony cried out.

CHAPTER XV

A Lofty Lookout

THE blast was followed immediately by a rosy light which spread over the horizon like the aurora borealis. The glow lasted for five minutes, then disappeared.

“That’s Rosy,” Frank said, recalling what Yancy had told him about the weird light. “I’ll bet it’s some sort of trick to scare the superstitious hillbillies.”

“But why?” queried Biff.

The Hardys both guessed that the strange phenomenon was designed by the criminals to keep the local people in a state of fear so they would not interfere with the gang’s project.

“Whatever that is,” added Joe.

“If their leader can make that kind of magic,” Frank went on, “think what’ll happen to anyone who defected or refused to obey orders.”

This line of reasoning interested Tony particularly.

“Then you think Rosy has something to do with the road and bridge construction trouble?”

“Yes,” Frank replied, “but the explosion puzzles me. I don’t think it sounded like dynamite. I suggest we go on a hunt for Rosy after we get some shut-eye.”

By now the pink hue had died away. The weary foursome selected a sheltered spot, carpeted with pine needles, and flopped down. In a minute all were sleeping soundly.

The sun’s rays slanting into his eyes awakened Frank. He aroused the others, who stretched and yawned.

“I could have slept all day,” said Biff, standing up to flex his muscles.

“Not when we have a date with Rosy,” Joe quipped.

Biff came right back. “I wonder if she’s as cute as Iola Morton.”

Scouting around for a few minutes, Tony found a rivulet of clear spring water. After a refreshing drink, the boys bathed their faces and hands. Next, Chet’s gift of grub was divided equally.

When they finished eating, the Hardys decided they should follow the trail which forked up the mountain, since the light seemed to have come from that general direction. Single file, the boys trudged up the slope, circumventing the bear cave.

Suddenly Joe stopped dead in his tracks. “Frank, look at that!” he said, pointing.

They all glanced to the top of the ridge.

“What do you see?” Biff asked.

“The tallest pine tree right there in the center. Watch near the top.”

A moment later there was a glint as the sun’s rays bounced off a bright object.

“Binoculars!” said Frank.

“Mama mia!” Tony burst out. “A lookout. The gang must have a hideout nearby.”

The boys agreed this would be the most likely place for the gang to post a sentry. A spy, high in the tree, could command a view of the valley and the entire road project. Anybody coming or going on the trail would be in the sweep of vision.

Frank cautioned everyone to walk parallel to the trail, careful to keep concealed among the trees.

“It might be hard to find the tree when we get there,” Frank said as they neared the ridge. The young sleuths craned their necks but could not see the lookout.

When they reached the summit, the boys glanced in every direction. The boughs grew so thick that it was almost impossible to see the treetops in an unbroken line.

“At least,” Joe said, “the spy probably can’t see us so easily. That’s some advantage.”

Frank guessed that they might have drifted too far to the south in their climb. “Let’s walk north along the ridge,” he suggested.

The boys spread out, inspecting one pine after another.

Biff, in the lead, waved wildly, signaling for silence. The others hurried to where he stood at the base of a towering tree. Biff pointed to an odd-looking cut, slightly higher than his head.

“Good night!” Joe whispered. “That’s the spiral sign.”

The carving closely resembled what the Hardys had previously mistaken for an M with three loops.

“This is our tree!” Frank whispered, and looked around at the other side of the trunk. “Oh baby, see what I found!”

A set of spikes, hammered into the tree at regular intervals, provided footholds leading up among the dark branches of the evergreen.

Biff was jubilant. “We’ve treed the polecat,” he said. “Let’s climb up and sack him.”

“That might not be so easy,” Tony said. “We’d probably find ourselves taking a nose dive into the pine needles.”

Frank and Joe agreed with Tony. An assault from below could be dangerous. The person perched in the tree had the advantage of height. Also, he might alert the gang through a coded flash of some kind.

“Maybe they’ll change lookouts soon,” Frank said. “Our only hope is to wait.”

The boys posted themselves at various spots within a five-yard radius from the tree and began their vigil. Several times the twittering of birds and the warmth of the sun almost lulled them into drowsiness. Time dragged by.

Frank, rubbing his eyes to stay awake, caught the movement of a small piece of bark floating down from the big pine. He glanced up and saw that the branches far above him were shaking. Their quarry was climbing down. Frank sprang to his feet and signaled the others. The boys dashed behind a cluster of nearby pines and watched as a pair of long legs came into view, descending the spikes. Then, with both arms clinging to the trunk, a tall, gangling youth scrambled to the ground. Simultaneously, the Hardys and their pals leaped from hiding and seized him.

“Willy Teeple!” Frank cried out. The hillbilly looked half-frightened to death. He squirmed and struggled, but to no avail.

“What were you doing up there?” Frank asked.

“He’s the long nit, don’t you remember?” Joe put in.

“You—you know about that?” Willy quavered, shaking with fright.

“Of course we do,” Tony said.

“Sure,” Frank went on, “the helix too, and more.”

A look of earnest pleading came into Willy Teeple’s eyes. “Look! You fellows know too much,” he said. “Go away and don’t come back.”

“We’re going to stay right here,” Joe said, “and get to the bottom of this!”

“Please don’t,” Willy implored. “Else you’ll get the same thing that—that happened to your father!”

The mention of Fenton Hardy electrified the boys.

“What do you know about our father?” Frank snapped.

“Did you have anything to do with what happened to him?” demanded Joe.

Willy shook his head, but would say no more about Mr. Hardy.

Both Biff and Tony were all for Willy being turned over to the Boonton police, but the hillbilly begged them not to do this.

“If the boss knows you’ve captured me, he’ll hurt my father,” Willy went on.

“Who’s your boss—the baron?” Joe prodded.

Willy’s face went ashen. “I can’t tell you.”

“What do you expect?” Frank said. “That we just let you go?”

“I won’t fink on you, honest!” Willy Teeple said fervently. “I don’t want to work for those crooks, but if I say any more, they’ll kill me if they find out.”

Willy swore again that he would not betray the Hardys and their friends. While Biff kept an arm-lock on their captive, Frank and Joe stepped to one side to discuss the matter.

“Okay,” Frank said, stepping forward. “Willy, we’ll let you go, but don’t say one single word about seeing us.”

Joe tried another question. “What about Rosy? Is that part of the gang’s scheme?”

Willy, terror in his eyes, remained silent. The boys did find out from him that the trail continued down the other side of the mountain and connected with a narrow road leading to Boonton.

“Fellows, please go away from here. It’s awful dangerous,” Willy pleaded.

At that moment there was a noise in the underbrush. The four boys ducked out of sight while Willy walked nonchalantly toward the sound. Mike Shannon stepped from the brush. The two merely exchanged nods; then, as Willy Teeple hastened back along the mountain trail, Mike climbed up the spikes of the lookout tree.

“What do we do about this guy?” muttered Biff.

“Nothing yet,” said Frank. “We still don’t want to alert the baron.”

“I think we can trust Willy Teeple,” Joe said. “He’s in the gang’s clutches, for sure.”

The four boys set off once more in search of a clue which might lead them to Rosy. As they headed down the opposite slope, Biff, who was in the lead, broke into a trot. Joe was close behind him. Suddenly Biff let out a cry of alarm and disappeared before Joe’s eyes!

CHAPTER XVI

Lower Than Pigs

JOE checked his speed just in time to keep from falling into a deep pit. Biff lay moaning at the bottom of the hole.

Frank and Tony ran to help Joe pull Biff out.

“Ow! My left ankle! It’s broken!”

Frank quickly examined the injury. “It could be, but I think it’s only a bad sprain. Here, try to stand.” Biff made the attempt, winced, and nearly fell down.

“Somebody pulled a dirty trick,” Joe said.

The boys found that the freshly dug pit had been covered with boughs and a strip of tar paper, over which pine needles had been scattered.

Frank surmised that they probably were pretty close to Rosy, and that the trap had been placed there to discourage the curious.

After a hurried consultation, it was decided to get Biff back to Bayport as soon as possible.

“We’ll have you flown from the Boonton Airport,” Joe said. “Phil can go with you. Here, Biff, put an arm around my shoulder.”

With Frank and Joe on either side of their injured pal, Biff hobbled as fast he could. Occasionally Tony spelled each of the Hardys, until they reached the road leading to Boonton. It was gravelly and barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass.

“We might have to wait all day for a lift,” Biff said, discouraged. Frank examined the injured ankle once more. It was so swollen that Frank removed the work boot. As he did, the sound of wheels drifted from around a bend in the road, and into view came a horse pulling a wagon loaded with pigs.

The driver, obviously a farmer, stopped when the boys hailed him. He was tall and gaunt, showing a thin, weather-beaten face in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

“Going to Boonton?” Joe asked.

“Yep.”

“Would you give us a lift? Biff here is injured. Sprained his ankle.”

“Ain’t room enough.”

“Please, Mr.—”

“Teeple’s the name.” The man tilted his hat and jerked a thumb toward his pigs. “I’m going to market. Got a full load.”

Frank tried a long shot. “Are you Willy Teeple’s father?”

The question caught the man by surprise. “You know my son?”

“Sure, he works for the baron!”

“You in that gang too?” the farmer asked, frightened, and Frank saw he was about to put the whip to the horse.

“Wait, Mr. Teeple. No, we don’t work for the baron, but we heard about him, on the road job. Do you know who the baron is, and where he hides out?”

The farmer grew agitated. “All I can say is the baron’s a bad man. I don’t know what he’s done to my Willy. But terrible things have been happening. Okay, the three of you get in back with the pigs. I’ll take the injured lad up front with me.”

Frank, Joe, and Tony pushed Biff up onto the seat beside Willy’s father. Then they jumped in with the pigs, and the wagon started toward Boonton.

“What are you boys doing here?” the farmer asked. “It’s dangerous.”

“Willy told us that,” Frank said. “We’re looking for Rosy.”

“The devil himself makes that fire!” the farmer exclaimed. On further questioning, he told the boys that several people, who had ventured near it, had vanished. “Including a detective!”

Before Frank could ask another question, a jeep appeared over the brow of a rolling hill, a mile away. Joe whipped the binoculars to his eyes.

“Here comes trouble. Four rough-looking customers and I’ll bet they’re the baron’s men.”

“We’ll have to hide among the pigs,” Frank said. He grabbed Biff by the shoulders and pulled him into the back of the wagon. Then the four companions lay flat, with the pigs snorting and grunting and stepping over them with their cloven hoofs.

“This isn’t exactly a perfume factory,” Joe remarked.

“Quiet,” Frank whispered. “Here comes the car.”

With screeching brakes, the jeep came to a stop, alongside the farmer’s wagon.

“Hey, you! We’re looking for four guys. Have you seen ’em?”

“What you say?”

“We’re looking for four of our road crew. They’ve stolen the payroll!”

“Hay what?”

“Oh, he’s deaf,” one of the men growled. “Let’s go.”

The jeep roared off, and when it was out of sight, the youths crawled from under the pigs.

“Thanks, Mr. Teeple!” Frank said. “That was a close call for us. And we’re not thieves.”

“I know it.”

The wagon crossed a small brook and stopped so the boys could wash and bathe Biff’s swollen ankle in the cold water. When they finally arrived at the airport, the Hardys and their pals thanked the farmer.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Teeple,” Frank said. “Your son is okay. We’re going to try to help him! But don’t say a word about this to anybody.”

The farmer promised and the hitchhikers got out, assisting Biff gingerly into the terminal building. Joe immediately phoned Phil, asking him to check out of the hotel and hurry to the airport. Then the starved boys went to the lunch counter.

By the time they had finished three hamburgers apiece, Phil Cohen stepped out of a taxi and ran to greet them. After hearing their story, he said, “I’ve got some news, too.”

Phil reported spying on four suspicious men staying at his hotel. “I heard them giving the password ‘helix’ to the bellman,” he said, and pulled a sketch from his pocket. It showed the faces of the four men.

“I think they’re the ones who were in the jeep,” said Joe. He took the sketch for future reference.

When Phil heard he was to accompany Biff back to Bayport, he asked, “What do we do for money?”

“Fly now, pay later.” Frank chuckled, and hurried away to convince a charter pilot that Radley would pay the bill at Bayport.

After the two boys had winged off, Frank, Joe, and Tony went directly to the Boonton police station. There they inquired whether Yancy had had any visitors at the hospital. A lieutenant named Murphy reported that Yancy had had but one visitor—a seedy fellow who looked harmless enough. “Claimed to be a distant cousin.”

“Did you put a tail on him?” asked Tony.

Murphy said a patrolman had shadowed the man as far as a shack at the outskirts of Boonton. “It convinced us that he was just a drifter,” Murphy continued, “so we didn’t bother any further.”

The boys thanked the officer, got directions to the shack, and hastened to find it. It was located not far from the town dump, and was constructed of old planks and wooden packing cases. The makeshift roof, of corrugated tin, was full of holes.

The trio approached the rickety door of the windowless shelter. Frank listened. Silence. He opened it quietly and the three stepped inside.

“This isn’t exactly the Waldorf-Astoria,” Tony said with a chuckle. The shack was littered with empty bottles, tin cans, and stacks of old newspapers.

Frank and Joe immediately poked about the debris, looking for a clue to the mystery man. On the floor, poking out from under a moldy mattress, was a handle of a brief case. As Joe bent down to reach for it, footsteps sounded outside.

“He’s coming back,” Frank whispered. “Duck!”

The boys hid behind a stack of cartons and listened. The footsteps came closer, then circled the shack. Finally the door opened slowly.

“Oh boy!” a childish voice sang out. “He’s not here today, either.”

“Now we can play detective club again,” a second voice chimed in.

Frank, Joe, and Tony stepped out from behind the boxes to see two young boys peering inside. They cried out with fright, turned, and fled.

“Come back here,” Joe called. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

The youngsters stopped, then hesitatingly returned. “You aren’t robbers or anything?” asked the older one, who was about ten.

“Of course not,” said Joe. “Say, what are your names?”

The older boy was Andy Pulaski; the other, three years younger, was Rick. “We’re brothers and we live on Church Street,” declared Andy. He said they often came to the shack to play, but a rough-looking man had scared them away several times.

“He’s a bum!” Rick said, nodding his head vigorously. “I can tell, ’cause he doesn’t shave.”

“Well, you can play here all you want,” said Frank. He reached down and pulled the brief case from under the mattress. Then, leaving the boys to their fun, the young sleuths hastened away.

In the seclusion of a grove of trees, Frank and Joe stopped to examine the brief case, while Tony looked on.

Both sides were scorched and charred, and the place where initials would normally be imprinted was covered with dried mud.

Frank took out his knife and scraped away the crusty dirt. The initials showed up clearly—F.H.!

CHAPTER XVII

Dangerous Terrain

“DAD’s brief case!” Joe exclaimed. He opened it and looked inside. The case was empty, except for a gritty white substance in the bottom.

“Limestone!” Frank said, “Come on, fellows.”

On the double he led them back to the shack, where the two Pulaski youngsters were playing. Frank asked more questions about the man who had chased them away, but the children were vague in their descriptions.

“When he yelled ‘Scram,’ Rick and I just ran,” Andy said.

“He scared me,” Rick added. “I didn’t look back.”

Joe produced the sketches which Phil Cohen had made. “Did that fellow look like any of these?” he asked.

The children looked at the sketches and shook their heads.

“Well, if he comes back and chases you away again,” Frank said, “please tell us. We’ll be staying at the Eagle Hotel. Ask for Frank, Joe, or Tony.”

“Are you detectives?” asked Andy.

“Sort of,” said Joe.

“Gee, we’d like to know how to be real detectives,” said Rick. “Will you show us someday?”

“Maybe,” Joe replied. “See you later.”

Leaving the boys, Frank, Joe, and Tony made their way back to town. First, they stopped at the police station to report to Lieutenant Murphy what they had found and to leave the brief case there for safekeeping.

The lieutenant made a note of their investigation, saying he would be on the lookout for the vagrant. He added, “Maybe the old geezer found your father’s brief case somewhere. Doesn’t mean he stole it.”

Frank agreed that they should not jump to conclusions, but said he still believed that the shack dweller must be considered a suspect.

“And what about this light in the sky called Rosy?” Joe asked.

“Oh, that,” Murphy said with a shrug. “I’ve never seen it myself. Who knows what to believe?” Chuckling, he added, “These hill folks tell some awful tall tales.”

Frank told the police officer that they would be staying at the Eagle Hotel, in case any new leads turned up.

The boys went directly to the hotel, located two blocks from the station house. It was an old frame building with a small lobby. The boys registered as Frank Brown, Joe Jones, and Tony Wilson and paid in advance for one night’s lodging.

“No bags?” the clerk asked.

“We’re traveling light,” Frank replied.

The clerk summoned the bellman, a stoop-shouldered and shifty-eyed individual. He led the boys to a room on the second floor, in which there were twin beds and a cot. After showing them the bath, the man left.

Meanwhile, the three boys plopped into their beds. But the next instant Frank jumped up and said, “There’s something I forgot to ask Murphy.” He went to the telephone and had a call put through to the lieutenant. Frank questioned him about limestone deposits in the area. He was told that there undoubtedly were some in the caves and in a natural bridge deep in the woods.

“But nobody goes there,” the officer said.

“Why?”

“Dangerous terrain.”

Frank was about to quiz Murphy further, when he heard heavy breathing on the line. Quickly he thanked the lieutenant and hung up.

“An eavesdropper!” Frank said.

“The bellman, I’ll bet,” Tony exclaimed. “Phil warned us about him.”

Joe bolted the door lock, while Frank switched on an antique radio atop the bureau. A shrill jazz tune welled up.

“Nobody can overhear us now,” Tony said. “Where do we go from here, fellows?”

“Find Rosy,” Frank said promptly. “If we do, I’m convinced we’ll also find the baron. My guess is he’s behind that black magic.”

“First, I want a good, hot bath,” Joe said, stripping off his clothes.

He was in and out of the tub quickly. Tony followed. By the time Frank had finished toweling himself and stepped back into the bedroom, both Joe and Tony were sleeping soundly. Frank, too, stretched out, and despite the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in, he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

The boys awakened to find it dark outside. Tony checked his watch. “Nine-thirty! Did we ever need that sleep!” he said.

“And I could use some chow, too,” Joe declared.

They dressed and were about to leave when Frank suggested he and Joe take along the short-wave, the binoculars, and the rope. “Just in case somebody breaks in,” he said.

As the boys walked through the lobby, they noticed the bellman, his head tilted forward, apparently dozing. He did not stir as the trio passed. They found a diner several doors from the hotel, and had a hearty, though inexpensive meal.

“How’s our money holding out?” Joe asked as Frank paid the bill.

“For payroll robbers we’re pretty broke,” Frank quipped, then added seriously, “It’s time we phoned Radley.”

On the street once more, the sleuths found a public booth and Frank called Sam’s number collect. Radley was not home, but his wife accepted the charges. She said that her husband had gone to the airport and met Biff and Phil. An examination by a doctor showed that Biff had, indeed, suffered a severe sprain.

The woman reported that Mr. Hardy continued to gain strength, but it would take time to overcome his lapse of memory.

“Your mother and Aunt Gertrude are fine,” Mrs. Radley added. “Any message for them?”

“Tell them we’re okay,” Frank replied. “Thanks, and good night, Mrs. Radley.”

Back at the hotel, the boys went quietly to their room. Frank turned the key, opened the door, stepped inside, and switched on the light. As he did, something white appeared from under the connecting door of the adjoining room.

Joe leaped to snatch it up. “A message!” he said, unfolding the sheet of paper. He read it aloud:

“‘Get out! This is your last warning!’ and signed ‘the baron’!” Joe held out the paper and they all saw beneath the name the now-familiar spiral sign.

Before the Hardys could stop him, Tony rushed out into the hall. In two strides he reached the adjoining room and tried the door. It was not locked, and he pushed it open. The room was pitch-dark. The light from the hallway failed to show any occupant. Tony slipped inside and felt for the light switch, but before his fingers could reach it, the door suddenly slammed shut. A brass-knuckled fist crushed against the side of his head and he went down in a heap!

A moment later the Hardys reached the closed door and pushed against it.

“Something’s propped against the other side,” Joe said.

He and Frank put their shoulders against the door and shoved it open enough for Frank to squeeze inside. He found the switch and flicked on the light. Frank gasped. Tony lay unconscious behind the door!

Frank ran to the open window, which opened onto a fire escape. Nobody there. He tried the connecting door to their room. Locked. Whoever delivered the note and the knockout blow had made a neat getaway.

The Hardys carried Tony back into their room, where he was revived with a cold compress. He stood up shakily.

“Whoo!” he said. “I’m—dizzy.”

“We’d better get a doctor,” said Joe. “You may have a concussion.”

Joe snatched up the sheet of paper

Frank decided to use a telephone outside the hotel, to call a physician and to report the attack to the police. He returned saying that a Dr. Jones was on his way.

All the boys were relieved when the examination indicated Tony needed only a few days’ complete rest before resuming normal activity. When the doctor had left, the young detectives were in a quandary as to where Tony might stay.

“It better be some place unknown to the baron,” Frank remarked.

“You’re right,” said Joe. “That gangleader is picking us off one by one—divide and conquer.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Frank said. “How about those two kids we met at the shack?”

“Good night,” Tony moaned, “I don’t want to stay in that dump!”

“No, not there,” Frank went on. “Remember Andy and Rick want to be detectives? Maybe their mother would put you up until you feel better. Meanwhile, Joe and I will look for Rosy and the baron.”

The Hardys thought they should leave the hotel at once. “One attack’s enough,” said Joe.

Tony was able to navigate with the Hardys’ help, so the boys took their belongings and went downstairs. Nobody was in sight, not even the desk clerk.

Outside, they soon got a taxi and climbed in. The driver was familiar with Church Street and knew where the Pulaski brothers lived. He let the boys off in front of a modest, neat-looking house.

Frank rang the doorbell. A tall, lean man answered.

“Mr. Pulaski? Sorry to bother you so late.”

“Yes. What can I do for you fellows?”

Quickly Frank explained about Tony, without giving specific details of the mystery. He did say that he and his brother Joe were working on an important case.

“We met your sons Andy and Rick,” Frank went on, smiling. “They told us they’d like to be detectives, so we thought maybe Tony could give them some pointers in exchange for your giving him shelter. Of course we’ll pay you—”

Mr. Pulaski broke in. “Don’t you worry about that. Be glad to help you out. Come on inside. My wife’s right smart ’bout takin’ care of sick folk.”

Mrs. Pulaski proved to be a cheerful, kindly woman. “We’ve got a spare room all ready,” she told Tony. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks, ma’am. That’s swell.”

Just then footsteps sounded on the stairway and Andy and Rick, in pajamas, scampered joyfully into the living room.

“I knew you’d all come back!” Ricky said. “ ’Cause you’re going to show us how to be detectives.”

When they heard that Tony was to stay for a few days the youngsters were overjoyed. Frank now cautioned the family, “We’d appreciate it if nobody else knows he’s here.”

The Pulaskis all readily agreed, eager to assist the young sleuths in the mystery. Sure that Tony was in good hands, Frank and Joe thanked the family and left. They walked through Boonton, found the road over which they had ridden in Teeple’s wagon, and began to hike back toward the wilderness. The night was cool and moonlight bathed the countryside.

Three miles out of town a panel truck rumbled up behind them and the boys thumbed a ride. The driver, an affable young man, took them to the place where they had met Mr. Teeple and the Hardys hopped out.

Using their flashlights, they found the trail over the ridge and made their way back to the dense woods. The boys kept a constant alert for the rosy glow, but the sky remained dark.

“Guess Rosy’s taken the night off,” Joe said as they carefully skirted the pit into which Biff had fallen. The trap had not been reset.

“What do you make of that, Frank?”

“They think we’ve cleared out.”

“But what about other snoopers?”

“Oh, I guess the baron thinks he has everybody else under control and scared. Just as well for us.”

The boys continued on to a spot not far from the trailers. There they stopped to rest.

“As soon as possible, let’s talk to Chet. Maybe he’s found some new evidence,” said Frank.

The loud chirping of birds awakened the Hardys to a bright, hot morning. Nearby was a tall tree which they climbed for a better view of the road-building operation. Activity was already under way, as engines coughed and the various crews began their day’s work.

Joe pressed the binoculars to his eyes. “I see Chet!” he said. “Take a look.”

Chet was shoveling dirt by the roadside, not far from the bridge. The Hardys shinned down the tree, then advancing cautiously on stomachs and elbows, edged closer for a better look. Now Frank had the glasses trained on Chet’s face. The stout boy kept glancing at the bridge, frowning. Finally he edged his way steadily to the span.

Suddenly Frank turned to his brother. “Joe, something’s up!”

CHAPTER XVIII

A Shot-put Blast

OBLIVIOUS of the fact that Frank and Joe were watching him, Chet Morton scrambled down the riverbank and peered under the partially completed bridge. The round, black object lying there intrigued him.

It appeared to be a kerosene flare, the kind which workmen use at night to warn passers-by of construction dangers. But the wick was not lighted. And wasn’t it odd, Chet thought, that the bridge crew had not yet appeared?

Chet glanced at his watch. It was quarter past seven. Angan was always furious if work did not start at seven sharp. Chet looked up. There was the foreman himself, starting down the bank toward him.

“Maybe he knows about this flare,” Chet thought, and advanced to pick up the black object. He bent down and lifted it.

Tick-tick-tick-tick!

Like a bolt of lightning, the horrible truth struck Chet. This was no flare. It was a time bomb!

Chet was so paralyzed with fear that he could not even drop the menacing black ball. Instead, he ran toward Angan with it.

“Mr. Angan! Mr. Angan!”

“What you got there?”

“A b-b-bomb!”

Angan froze like a statue. “A bomb! Get rid of it!”

Chet wheeled about and assumed his best shot-putting stance. And, with the ticking loud in his ear, he let the object fly! It was a record-shattering heave, sailing high over the bridge and landing downstream some fifty feet. Before the swirling current carried the missile twenty more feet, the air was rent by a deafening explosion. Rocks and debris shot high into the air, falling back into the water like giant hailstones. But the bridge was not damaged.

Chet Morton quaked with the shock. Speechless, he faced the foreman.

Angan roared, “Where’d you get that bomb?”

“I—I found it under the bridge.”

“You’re a liar! Same as Joe Jensen!” Angan lunged to grasp Chet, but the stout boy darted out of his way.

When necessary, Chet could move swiftly despite his weight and he sprinted up the riverbank toward the woods bordering the road construction.

“Stop!” the foreman cried out, in hot pursuit. “Stop, or I’ll have you arrested!”

Chet paid no heed. The Hardys’ faithful pal bulled through a thicket close to where Frank and Joe were hiding. Muttering dire threats, Angan charged after him. But his chase ended in a dull thud as he hit the ground with Joe Hardy’s arm clamped around his legs.

The foreman tried to rise, only to be pinned by Frank. Chet had glanced over his shoulder to see what the commotion was about. He retraced his steps, a look of surprise and gratitude on his round, perspiring face.

“Where—where’d you guys come from?”

“Explain later!” Frank replied. “Chet, you saved the bridge!”

“And thousands of dollars for Mr. Prito,” Joe added.

“Let me up!” Angan sputtered. He strained and tried to kick, but the Hardys held him down firmly.

“Chet, grab that vine!” Frank commanded.

Chet pulled up a stout green tendril and handed it over. Frank and Joe deftly made loops and secured Angan’s hands and feet.

“I’ll get you for this!” he threatened.

“The gang’s already tried that!” Joe retorted. “Are you in with them, too?”

Without waiting for an answer, they left their trussed-up captive and melted into the woods.

Frank and Joe were unstinting in their praise for Chet.

The stout boy beamed with pride. “That shot-putting stuff came in handy, eh?”

“Sure did,” Joe remarked. “I think you broke the world’s record, Chet!”

The Hardys headed for the mountain trail, and as they pushed on through the woods, they briefed Chet on their adventures and what had happened to Phil, Biff, and Tony. In turn, Chet told the brothers what new information he had learned.

“Word got around,” he said, “that anybody who stepped out of line would be treated like you three guys. And they were sore when Tony disappeared.”

“Is the whole crew made up of ex-jailbirds?” asked Frank.

Chet replied that from what he had overheard, he judged only a handful of the men worked for the gang. “But they’re enough to keep the job slowed down and scare the other workers.”

“If only we knew which ones are sabotaging the bridge,” Frank said.

Chet expressed the belief that despite Angan’s bad temper, he was loyal to the Prito company.

“Deemer’s a big wheel in the gang,” the chunky boy went on. “He was really burned up when you fellows let the bear eat the honey.”

“So he knows we did that,” Joe remarked. “Wonder if that trap was his idea.”

“Does Deemer know he didn’t succeed in drowning us?” Frank asked.

Chet bobbed his head. “They picked up your tracks in the woods, and I heard last night you were in Boonton.”

“The baron has a regular spy network,” Frank observed. He and Joe were sure that the bellman had reported the Hardys’ presence. Chet had not learned anything about the baron’s identity, or the secret of Rosy.

“You did some swell detective work, though,” Joe said.

The stout boy grinned. “I just eat and listen.”

“Which reminds me—it’s nearly lunchtime,” Frank said, “and our stock is nil.”

“Fear not,” said Chet. He reached into his bulging shirt pockets and produced three sandwiches. “I was saving these for coffee break, minus the coffee.”

The boys stopped near a brook, ate the sandwiches, and had a refreshing drink of cold, clear water. Afterward, the Hardys renewed their quest for Rosy. With Chet, they set forth up the mountain trail, giving the bear cave a wide berth. This time the boys did not cross the ridge, deciding instead to search the terrain south of the trail.

It was almost dusk when the trio paused to rest near a patch of wild blackberries, which they ate with zest.

“We’d better find a good place to camp for the night,” Frank said.

All three scouted about until Chet came upon a shaded glen. Alongside it was a waterfall, which dropped in a foaming arch some ten feet into a deep, gurgling stream.

The boys cut branches for a lean-to, had supper of more berries, then settled back to watch for the rosy light in the darkening sky. Because all were weary from the day’s tramp, the young sleuths took turns standing watch. Joe’s trick was ten until midnight. He sat with his back against a tree, desperately trying to keep his eyes open until the stroke of twelve. Once his chin bobbed against his chest, and he opened his eyes with a start. The night sky seemed brighter.

“Frank! Chet!” Suddenly the pink light mushroomed into the sky, with a brilliance which made the boys gasp. “Rosy!”

“Leapin’ lizards!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s close by!”

Excitedly the trio scrambled out of the glen in the direction of the light. They crossed the stream and climbed to the top of a small knoll. The Hardys and Chet looked down in amazement at the scene below.

Out of a depression in the ground issued a stream of fire. Around it moved the figures of several men, their forms silhouetted against the glow.

“Good night! What’ll we do?” Chet whispered.

“Get out of sight!” Frank commanded. “The light’s shining on us, too, you know.”

The boys ducked for cover, raising their heads now and again above the rise to take in the awesome sight.

Suddenly the flame diminished and disappeared.

“Let’s go back,” Frank said. “If we’re caught prowling around here now, we’ve had it!”

Despite their weariness, the Hardys slept little the rest of the night, wondering what the significance of their discovery was. Would it give them the solution to the mystery they had come to solve?

As soon as dawn tinged the horizon, the trio set off again. They advanced over the knoll and looked down to the spot where the great flame had been. There they saw a charred area, thirty feet in diameter. In the center of it, a black pipe protruded from the ground.

Chet Morton sniffed. “I smell gas!”

“Me, too,” said Joe.

The same thought dawned on all three boys at the same time. A gas well!

“Jeepers! Why didn’t we think of that!” Joe’s exclamation was punctuated by the sound of rifle-shots. Bullets thudded into the trees near the boys.

“Run for it!” Frank yelled.

As he and the others turned to flee, Mike Shan non and another man raced up the knoll.

“Stop, or we’ll shoot!” Shannon ordered. But the Hardys and Chet kept going.

They swerved sharply and plunged through a thicket. Their skin was scratched and their clothes torn by the brambles, but the barrier delayed their pursuers. More bullets ripped the twigs perilously close to the boys’ heads.

“They’ll pick up our trail again,” Joe muttered. “We’d better find a place to hide!”

“The waterfall!” Frank said. “We can hide behind it!”

Reaching the stream, the boys slashed into the water and made their way toward the churning falls. They burst through the curtain of water and stood chest-high in the swirling eddies.

“What’ll we do if they look behind the falls?” Chet asked.

“Duck under,” Joe said, “and hold our breath.”

Just then two dark forms appeared on the other side of the opaque, watery screen.

“Down!” Frank commanded.

CHAPTER XIX

The Spiral Bridge

EACH boy sucked in a chestful of air and sank beneath the surface. How long could they hold out? All their athletic training came into play at this crucial moment. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. One minute! Their lungs ached for oxygen.

Frank swam underwater to the rocky wall behind the cascade. He had to surface! Coming up slowly, he scanned the watery chamber. Chet and Joe appeared at the same time.

“We fooled them!” Joe whispered.

“You think they’ll look here for us?” Chet asked.

The Hardys could not answer with certainty, but at least the shadowy shapes could not be seen through the tumbling screen of water.

“Maybe we ought to wait here a while,” Chet suggested.

“Not too long,” Frank said. “If Mike Shannon and his pal think we’ve escaped, now’s our chance to turn the table and trail them.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “They might lead us right to the baron’s hideout.”

The three sleuths let a few more minutes elapse, then Joe volunteered to be first out of the waterfall hideaway. He swam underwater, surfaced, and quickly reported back to the others that Shannon and his crony were nowhere in sight. The boys swam out cautiously, climbed out of the stream, and wrung the water from their clothes.

“Lucky it’s a hot day,” said Joe. “Won’t take long to dry off.”

Their field glasses were soggy but not damaged, and the short-wave, which Joe carried, was protected by a waterproof pouch.

The boys’ plan was to fan out in order to pick up the trail of their erstwhile pursuers. The Hardys’ bird whistle would be the signal if anyone came across the trail. The trio proceeded, still bearing south.

It was Frank who found the tracks made by the two men. Broken twigs and trampled underbrush told him that their enemies apparently had made no effort to conceal their route. Frank gave the whistle. Joe and Chet joined him on the run.

“Remember,” Frank said, “these men are armed. They’ll really let us have it if they spot us again. We’ll trail them, but be careful!”

It took only a short time for the boys to catch sight of their quarry. Shannon and his partner were climbing over a jagged outcropping on a steep, rocky slope. The ground ahead was rough and uneven, and the Hardys recalled Lieutenant Murphy’s statement about dangerous terrain.

The boys waited until the men had disappeared over the crest of the hill.

“Okay,” whispered Frank. “Let’s go.”

Exercising utmost stealth, the boys advanced to the slope. Loose stones and shale underfoot made the ascent a difficult one. A misstep could mean a landslide, or painful fall. Finally the Hardys and Chet reached the top. Below was a long valley, creased by a placid stream. Spanning this was a natural bridge of great beauty, resembling a noble arch.

The men were just nearing the span. Suddenly they vanished!

“They didn’t go under the bridge or around it!” Chet said.

Frank and Joe studied the formation through the binoculars. It was obviously composed of limestone, about fifteen feet thick. The left side of the bridge jutted out from high ground, then curved gracefully to the right, down amid a jumble of boulders at the level of the brook about seven yards from shore.

Crawling from bush to bush, the boys drew closer to the bridge. Frank stopped to study it again with the field glasses. Now he saw that in the center of the arch, on the underside, there was an opening the size of a manhole, through which water dripped into the stream below.

“Chet, you stand as a lookout,” Frank said, “while Joe and I scout around the bridge. These crooks must have a hideout nearby. If you see anyone coming, give the bird whistle.”

Chet concealed himself behind a thicket, while the Hardys darted from bush to tree as they moved toward the lower side of the natural bridge. There they examined the crevices among the boulders, but did not find an opening.

Since there was no warning from Chet, Frank and Joe boldly struck across the shallow water and climbed the slope to the top of the bridge. Carefully they walked onto the flat surface.

“Look at this.” Joe pointed to a small trickle of water which seemingly vanished into a small hole in the rock.

“That explains it!”

“Explains what?”

“The water coming out of that hole underneath,” Frank replied. He reasoned that the tiny rivulet, over thousands and thousands of years, had cut into the limestone bridge and gouged its way out underneath.

Joe snapped his fingers. “Frank!” he said quietly. “Do you suppose this whole bridge could be hollowed out by water erosion?”

Frank shrugged. “Could very well be.”

The boys returned to Chet and told him what they had found.

“What a great tourist attraction!” Chet declared. “Boy, I’d like to have the concession for a soda pop and hot-dog stand!”

“No doubt.” Joe groaned. “Chet, you would have to talk about food when we haven’t a crumb to eat!”

“Cut the chatter,” Frank warned. “Those crooks might be listening to us right now.” In low tones he urged that they scour every inch of ground around the natural bridge. “Mike and the other man didn’t just vanish by magic!”

It took until late afternoon before Joe stumbled upon a clue. He noted that a number of branches had been freshly cut from a willow tree.

“You think they were used for camouflage, Frank?” Joe asked.

“That’s my guess,” Frank said. “They’re hiding something.”

“Come on. We’ve got to find it,” Joe said excitedly.

The rays of the sinking sun were filtering through the treetops, casting an oblique light on the forest floor. It was then that a glint caught the searcher’s eyes. It showed through what appeared to be a thicket, but on closer examination the Hardys found a cleverly rigged bower of willow boughs.

Tensely the boys parted the greenery and peered into the depths. The glint shone from the steering wheel of a jeep! “The same jeep we saw coming from Boonton!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys found that the vehicle bore a license number, but otherwise no identification. The Hardys, however, noted that the hiding place was close to the right-hand base of the natural bridge, with the car facing the rock pile.

The trio posted themselves near the camouflage for an hour, but nobody appeared. Soon it grew dusky and the boys retreated downstream to observe the bridge. As darkness fell, Chet suddenly pointed to the underside of the span. “Frank! Joe!” he said excitedly. “There’s a light coming from that hole!”

“Somebody’s inside!” Frank turned to his brother. “Joe, your guess about erosion really zeroed in! The bridge itself is the gang’s hideout!”

But how to get inside? Frank finally came up with a plan. “There must be an opening among those boulders. Joe, you and Chet look again. I’ll stand guard here.”

Joe left the binoculars, a flashlight, and the radio with Frank. Also the nylon rope, which he had carried looped from his belt.

The light from the rising full moon helped guide Chet and Joe to the other side of the brook and the rocky base of the arch.

This time even the surface of each boulder was examined carefully. One after another proved to be hard and firm, with no hint of a possible crevice entranceway.

Suddenly Chet beckoned excitedly to Joe, who scrambled over.

“Look!” Chet whispered. He pointed to a yawning hole near the bottom of a huge boulder. “I can just squeeze through it!”

Joe put his ear to the opening. The sound of men’s voices echoed dimly from inside.

“Let’s get Frank!” Chet said.

“Wait,” Joe whispered. “If we can case this layout, it’ll be a big help to the police.”

Reluctantly Chet agreed. “Lead on,” he said with a resigned sigh.

The narrow opening quickly gave way to a tunnel which was head-high. Joe and Chet stood up and listened. When their eyes became accustomed to the dimness, the boys felt their way upward along what proved to be a series of looping curves.

A thought struck Joe. “Sure!” he said aloud. “This passage is like a spiral! That explains the helix password. Dad must have discovered this natural spiral bridge just before he was captured!”

Chet opened his mouth to reply, but never did. Suddenly two men sprang toward them from tall niches on either side of the rock wall.

Joe and Chet, caught off balance, struggled violently but in vain. Ropes bound their arms to their sides and they were pushed roughly along through the spiral interior. Here and there, kerosene lanterns, fastened to the wall, lighted the sinister faces of their captors. Neither was familiar to the boys. “We got you pests for good this time!” snarled one. “Your luck’s run out.”

“It sure has, Pete,” the other chortled.

By now they were at the top of the arch where the tunnel leveled off. The captive sleuths were shunted into a small side chamber, carved out of solid rock. The light from several lanterns showed the place to be a veritable arsenal with weapons of all types hanging on the walls, and around a rough-hewn table in the center sat four men—the same men who had been riding in the jeep the other day.

Another man, tall and gaunt-faced, stood lounging in the shadows against the far wall. When he came forward into the light, Joe’s jaw dropped and he stared at the man in utter disbelief.

“Mortimer Prince!” The vagrant Frank and Joe had met in New York!

As Joe watched, half-dazed, Mortimer Prince moved to the head of the table and sat down. The thug called Pete stepped up and addressed him with an air of great self-satisfaction.

“We got the Hardy boys. What’ll we do with them, Baron?”

CHAPTER XX

Swinging Tactics

JOE blinked in astonishment. Mortimer Prince was the baron! The gangleader rose from the table, his face contorted in fury.

“Fools!” Prince stormed at the two henchmen. “You only got Joe Hardy. This fat boy is not Frank!”

Pete looked frightened. “Ferd and I thought we had ’em both.” He pointed to Chet. “You sure he ain’t Frank Hardy?”

“I know the Hardys!” the baron shouted. “Get going and nab Frank!”

Ferd and Pete scurried out of the rock-hewn chamber. In an undertone Joe rapidly told Chet that the baron was the bum that he and Frank had encountered in Manhattan. “Shut up, you two!” the baron ordered.

“Who are you, anyway?” Joe asked boldly. “And what kind of racket are you up to?”

“Never mind. It’s enough for you to know that I’ve outsmarted Fenton Hardy and his sons!”

“You’re the one who nearly killed my father!” Joe said angrily. “Why?”

The baron’s eyes held a cruel glint. “That old man of yours sent me up the river twice!”

One of Prince’s henchmen said menacingly, “Nobody can do that to the baron. It means curtains!”

Chet went white as a sheet, and Joe felt a tingle of fear up his spine. If Frank could only get away! Meanwhile, Joe decided to try stalling for time.

“Those ex-cons working for you now,” he said, “aren’t following your orders to sabotage the road construction just for laughs.”

“That’s right.” The baron was obviously pleased with himself. “Once you and your nosy pals are out of the way, I’ll put the kibosh on Prito’s job permanently.”

Chet found his voice. “You’ll never get away with it.”

“Ha-ha! Listen to fatso!” came Mike Shannon’s sneering voice as he entered. “This time you punks are all washed up.”

Joe ignored him and shot another question at the baron. “Are you trying to prevent the road from being built because of those natural gas wells?”

A mocking expression crossed the baron’s face. He bragged that one of his men had found the gas deposit by accident. Now the baron was scheming to buy the land at a ridiculously low price.

“Meantime,” he added gloatingly, “I have a pipe down there with a valve on it. When we light the gas at night, it scares the devil out of people around here—keeps ’em from snooping.”

Joe queried him about the explosion the boys had heard after seeing Rosy. The baron smirked. “That was because of faulty ignition.” He went on to say that the new county road would bring too much traffic near the gang’s unique hiding place in the spiral bridge. He was determined that the road construction would not be completed until he had secured the land with the gas deposit.

The boys learned from the baron how Willy Teeple had been forced to work for the gang. “I just remind Willy that if he squeals on us, his father will get the same treatment as Fenton Hardy.”

The baron went on to describe the detective’s capture. He had been waylaid by several of the gang near the gas well, where his scorched brief case had been found later by the baron.

“After that everything was simple,” Prince said smugly. “We put Hardy in our special dungeon here. Foolishly he tried to break loose but we—er—discouraged him.”

Joe clenched his fists. “He still managed to escape from you rats!”

“He must have pulled a Houdini act.” The baron shrugged. “But he’s through as a gum-shoe.”

“Baron,” Joe said, “you should give up. You’re a two-time loser. Next time you’ll go to prison for life.”

“There won’t be any next time,” said the baron. “By the way, I intend to spring Monk Smith after we take care of you kids!”

The other men guffawed. “We’ll bury the evidence, won’t we, Baron?” one said with a meaningful look at the captives.

At that moment Frank Hardy was busy eluding the two henchmen, Pete and Ferd. He had seen them emerge from the boulder entrance, and surmised that Joe and Chet were in the hands of the criminals. Frank had quickly hit upon a plan.

As the two men ranged farther from the bridge, Frank crept up to the camouflaged jeep. On the floor he found a toolbox and took out a stout screw driver and a small sledge hammer. Next he opened the hood, and, groping in the darkness, finally managed to jump the wires to the ignition. The engine turned over and chugged to life.

Carrying the tools, Frank scrambled with desperate speed onto the top of the stone bridge directly over the hole underneath. He found a small fissure into which he inserted the screw driver, and tamped it as quietly as he could into the soft limestone rock.

Then the young sleuth tied one end of the nylon rope around the makeshift piton. The other end he secured tightly to his belt.

“This is my only chance,” Frank thought, his heart pounding.

He grasped the rope tightly and let himself down toward the underside of the arch. Now came the crucial moment. He pushed hard against the rock with his feet, at the same time paying out ten feet of rope. The result produced a pendulum motion.

Swinging back and forth, Frank aimed for the hole. Could he make it? Twice his feet missed the opening by inches. On the third try Frank succeeded, and with a jackknife movement, pulled himself up into the bridge.

Exhausted, Frank flopped onto the stony floor. But a moment later he untied the rope from his belt and weighted the end with a heavy stone. Frank set forth through the passageway, dimly lighted by kerosene lanterns on the wall.

Although his main concern was whether or not his decoy trick with the jeep would work, Frank noted the spiral shape of the corridor. The helix sign flashed through his mind just as a voice echoed hoarsely down the passage. “Hey, the jeep’s runnin’!” someone yelled.

Frank crouched in a deep rocky niche and heard heavy footsteps pounding on the stone floor. When he was certain the men had gone outside, Frank proceeded until he came to a side chamber hollowed from the rock. Inside he saw Chet and Joe.

“Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “How’d you get here—what—”

“Tell you later. Hurry!”

Their arms still bound to their sides, Chet and Joe followed Frank to the hole in the bridge. Frank whipped out his knife, cut their bonds, and whispered. “The fireworks should start any minute. When they do, we’ll slide down the rope and drop into the stream.”

No sooner had he spoken than a volley of shots filled the air. “They’re firing at the jeep. They think someone’s trying to steal it. Come on!”

Chet was first down the rope, Joe next, then Frank. They slipped into the stream and swam quickly to cover on the far bank. They could see flashlights winking on and off in the woods like fireflies, and then, abruptly, the gunfire ceased.

The silence that ensued was almost uncanny. Cautiously the Hardys and Chet crept from concealment toward the flickering lights. The scene that met their eyes made them gasp in amazed relief and joy.

Held at bay by a force of law officers, mostly State Police, were the baron’s men! Accompanying the police were Tony, Willy Teeple, and Robert Angan, the foreman.

“The baron got away—disappeared!” Tony shouted upon seeing his three pals.

Frank pointed to the stone bridge. “He’s probably inside.”

A tear-gas bomb was lobbed through the hole. Soon the baron, choking and begging for mercy, staggered into view.

The Hardys and their pals clapped one another on the back and exchanged stories. “Tony, how did you and the posse find this hideout?” asked Frank.

“I just couldn’t stay put when I suspected you fellows were in danger. Besides, I feel okay now.” Tony explained that he had spotted Willy Teeple in town and pleaded with him, for the Hardys’ sakes, to reveal what he knew about the gang. The two boys then had persuaded the Boonton police to round up a search force.

First, the lawmen had gone to the road construction site, where members of the gang, including Bond Deemer, were placed under arrest.

“We got here just in time to hear the shooting,” Tony said.

Standing among the captured gangsters was the bellman from the Eagle Hotel. He readily admitted eavesdropping on the boys and conking Tony. The Hardys and Chet related to the police what the baron had told them of his activities. Lieutenant Murphy stepped forward and praised the boys for their clever sleuthing.

“You’ve made a big catch,” he added, indicating the baron. “That’s really Gerald Thurston, master of disguises! He was the ‘cousin’ who had visited Yancy in the hospital.”

Joe whistled. “I’ll say! Intern, housebreaker, and bum!”

Thurston glared balefully at the Hardys but said nothing. Frank, Joe, Chet, and Tony were also congratulated by Angan. “The road crew owes you a lot,” he said gratefully, and Willy agreed vigorously.

The next day the boys flew back to Bayport. When Frank and Joe reached home they found their father resting in his room.

“Dad!” said Joe. “It’s great to see you looking better!”

“Terrific job, fellows!” Mr. Hardy said.

Frank beamed. “Thanks. I’m glad we could pinch-hit for you. But we’re still puzzled about a few things.”

The boys took seats near Mr. Hardy’s bed and the detective told his story. Before setting out for Kentucky, he had pulled two cards and dossiers from his files, Matlack’s and Thurston’s. When the baron had found Mr. Hardy’s brief case, he discovered the records inside. He had promptly flown to Bayport, gone to Radley’s home and stolen Matlack’s card, knowing that Frank and Joe would check their father’s duplicate file. Mr. Hardy smiled at his sons.

“When your pursuit of Matlack ended in the Queens graveyard,” he said, “Thurston figured you’d be discouraged and give up the case.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Frank. “Now I get it!” He hurried into his father’s study and opened the files to the T’s. Thurston’s card was gone, and there was a memorandum in its place saying, “I suspect Matlack or Thurston, but because of his M.O. I think Thurston is our man.”

Frank burst into his father’s room, waving the card. “Dad, what a terrific deduction!”

Mr. Hardy explained that Thurston had written him threatening letters while in prison. “When he was released, I suspected he’d make trouble for me if he ever had a chance.”

“He sure did!” Joe said grimly.

Frank asked his father how he had escaped from the dungeon in the spiral bridge.

“Willy Teeple helped me at great risk to himself,” said the detective. “One day the gang left Willy as lookout at the bridge. He unlocked my handcuffs and assisted me to the road, where Mr. Teeple gave me a ride to Boonton. Willy put the handcuffs on me again so the baron would not suspect him of defecting.”

Frank and Joe, pleased that the mystery was solved, wondered if another as exciting would come their way. They were soon to find out when challenged by The Secret Agent on Flight 101.

At this point, footsteps were heard on the stairs and into the room trooped Mr. Prito with Tony, Chet, Biff, and Phil.

Everyone cheered when Mr. Prito announced that since the Kentucky wilderness would be opened up by the completion of his road project, plans had been made to develop the natural bridge as a main tourist attraction of the proposed park.

Joe grinned. “You still going to open up a hot-dog stand down there, Chet?”

The chunky boy groaned. “No more spiral bridges for me. I’m going to stick to something safe, like shot-putting!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Vanishing Act

CHAPTER II - The Hexton File

CHAPTER III - The SKOOL Man

CHAPTER IV - Cryptic Message

CHAPTER V - Mysterious Rendezvous

CHAPTER VI - Aerial Chase

CHAPTER VII - Suspect on the Run

CHAPTER VIII - Sailing Sleuths

CHAPTER IX - The Lighthouse Prison

CHAPTER X - Wing Signal

CHAPTER XI - Important Assignment

CHAPTER XII - A Startling Welcome

CHAPTER XIII - Sky Spies

CHAPTER XIV - Nerves of Steel

CHAPTER XV - A Furious Scot

CHAPTER XVI - Secret Compartment

CHAPTER XVII - Night Attack

CHAPTER XVIII - Chet’s Big Assist

CHAPTER XIX - “Prepare to Ditch!”

CHAPTER XX - Desperate Flight!

THE SECRET AGENT ON FLIGHT 101

Rarely do magicians reveal their professional secrets. Consequently Frank and Joe Hardy are amazed when a well-known magician, the Incredible Hexton, offers to reveal the secret of his “Vanishing Man Act” and invites Mr. Hardy to be the subject. When their detective father fails to reappear, his sons are convinced that something sinister is afoot, despite Hexton’s insistence that Mr. Hardy is playing a joke on them.

While desperately searching for their father, Frank and Joe find themselves working with SKOOL, a U.S. organization of crack secret agents pitted against UGLI, an international ring of spies stealing government secrets from the U.S. and other democratic countries.

In a lighthouse off the coast of New England and in Scotland, Frank and Joe and their pal Chet Morton grimly match wits with UGLI’s evil agents. With cool daring the three boys invade the magician’s Scottish castle, where an astounding surprise awaits them.

The young detectives’ gripping adventures culminate in a dramatic climax when they unmask the secret agent on Flight 101.

“Good luck, lad!” the pilot called

Copyright © 1995, 1967 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

library of Congress Catalog Card Number: AC67-10521

eISBN : 978-1-101-07659-0

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Vanishing Act

“How can the hand be quicker than the eye?” asked Chet Morton. “That’s hard to believe!” He climbed into the back seat of the Hardy boys’ convertible next to Joe.

“Perhaps the Incredible Hexton will convince you,” remarked Frank, who was at the wheel. “All set, Dad?” he asked the handsome man beside him.

“Take off!” Mr. Hardy said, smiling.

It was Friday evening. Bayport High had closed for summer vacation the day before. To celebrate, the Hardy boys and their stout friend Chet were being treated to a magician’s show in the nearby city of Claymore.

“I read in a newspaper,” Chet went on, “how pickpockets use sleight-of-hand methods. In fact, I have the clipping here in my—” Suddenly he sat bolt upright. “My wallet!” he cried. “It’s gone!” Frank brought the car to a stop. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Chet searched his pockets frantically. “It’s gone all right!”

“Probably dropped out when you got into the car,” Frank suggested.

“Then we’d better go back,” Mr. Hardy said.

Joe tried to hide a grin. But Chet noticed it. “Wait a minute!” He eyed Joe suspiciously. “Okay, mastermind. Hand it over!”

Joe burst out laughing and gave his chum a brown leather wallet. “Just wanted to prove to you the hand really is quicker than the eye.”

“You caught me off guard,” Chet replied goodnaturedly.

Joe Hardy, blond and seventeen, enjoyed joking and was more impulsive than his dark-haired, eighteen-year-old brother. Both boys were trim all-around athletes. Chet, their schoolmate, had a chunky build and played on the Bayport High football team.

“Let’s go, boys!” said Fenton Hardy, grinning. “Any more pocket-picking and I’ll pull you in!”

Frank and Joe’s father was a nationally known detective who had earned his fame as a member of the New York City Police Department. After his retirement from the force, he had set up his own sleuthing organization. Both sons were following in his footsteps and already had solved many challenging mysteries on their own. Chet often joined in their adventures. Although the stout boy preferred safer pursuits, no danger could make him desert his friends.

“What do you know about Hexton the magician?” Frank asked his father.

Mr. Hardy said the man was a performer of some renown throughout the world, and was much acclaimed for his demonstrations of sleight of hand.

Joe asked, “Dad, do you by any chance have a professional interest in him?”

The detective laughed but did not reply and Joe decided not to press his query further. But he sensed that he had hit upon the truth.

They drove into Claymore, parked in the lot behind the theater, and took their seats just as the houselights dimmed. A tall, dark figure slipped through the curtains and the spotlight blazed upon the Incredible Hexton.

The gaunt magician wore a top hat, flowing black cape, and carried a silver-handled cane. His face sent a chill through Chet.

Hexton had heavy brows, a sharply pointed chin, and the piercing eyes of a medieval sorcerer. He moved into his performance with a cat-like grace which indicated a disciplined and powerful body.

The boys watched eagerly as the magician caused coins, cards, and other small objects to disappear, then reappear at his fingertips.

The finale of the show was billed as the “Vanishing Man Act.” Hexton led a short, muscular aide to a boxlike compartment, walled in on three sides by curtains and on the front by draperies. He opened and closed these a couple of times. Inside the curtained area was what looked like an oversized picture frame, supported at each end by posts.

Hexton’s aide was strapped to a plank, which the magician and a tall, thin assistant set horizontally into the frame. This was tilted toward the audience at a forty-five-degree angle.

Hexton closed the small curtain and gestured with his cane. In seconds the curtain was reopened. The audience gasped in amazement! The magician’s aide, and the plank to which he had been strapped, had vanished!

Hexton bowed low, and his aide strolled onto the stage from the wings, to thunderous applause from the audience. Hexton bowed several times more, and stepped behind the curtain.

“Great performance!” Frank said as he rose from his seat and stretched.

“Do you know how he did it, Dad?” Joe asked.

“I have an idea. Let’s go backstage. I think it would be interesting to talk to Hexton.”

The detective and his three companions made their way to a door at the side of the stage. They went through it and up a short flight of steps to the wing, where they found Hexton.

Mr. Hardy introduced himself and his party. “You had us baffled,” he said. “Good show!”

“Especially the last trick,” said Joe. “That was great!”

The performer smiled cordially. “Perhaps you would like to see how it is done.”

Frank looked surprised. “I thought magicians never gave away their secrets.”

“Customarily they don’t,” Hexton replied smoothly, “but, you see, I have recognized your name. I know Fenton Hardy is a star performer in his own field. We both deal in secrets. Mr. Hardy, my job is to mystify, yours just the opposite. I will show you the trick as a professional courtesy.”

“That’s very gracious of you,” the detective replied.

“Not at all,” Hexton said quickly. “I have a feeling we ought to become better acquainted.”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “An excellent idea.”

“One moment,” said Hexton. “I must alert my assistant. In the meantime, will you boys please take seats down in the auditorium.” Hexton strode off but returned in a couple of minutes. “Follow me, Mr. Hardy.”

He led the detective onstage in the now-empty theater. “Would you do me the honor of being my subject?” he asked with a sweeping bow.

The short assistant strapped Fenton Hardy to the plank. With the three boys watching intently, the magician closed the curtain and waved his cane. When he opened the compartment, the subject had vanished.

“That’s neat!” Chet said.

The boys watched for Mr. Hardy to reappear. When some time went by and he did not come out of the wings, Frank and Joe became worried.

“What’s happened?” Frank asked anxiously. He and Joe ran onto the stage to examine the compartment, but Hexton blocked them.

“I can’t permit you to inspect my device,” he said, dropping his pleasant manner.

“Then tell us where our father is!” Joe demanded.

“I don’t know,” Hexton said slyly. “He must be playing some kind of joke on you.”

Joe moved toward the magician. “Step aside. We’re going to take a look at that gadget of yours.”

Hexton called quickly, “Vordo! Stony!”

Two men emerged from the wings. The first one appeared to be nearly seven feet tall. His massive shoulders, muscular arms, and hard features made him a formidable sight. The other was the thin fellow who had helped with the vanishing act.

“See to it that these boys leave immediately,” the magician ordered.

Joe was ready to fight, but Frank caught his brother’s upraised arm. Perhaps Hexton was telling the truth.

The assistant strapped Mr. Hardy to the plank

Joe acceded. “All right, have it your way!” he said. “But we’ll be back!”

The trio hurried out of the theater. Joe insisted upon going to nearby Claymore Police Headquarters to request that a couple of officers go back to investigate.

“All right,” said Frank.

When the group returned to the theater, Hexton became enraged. “If you try to look at my equipment without a warrant, I’ll sue you!” he stormed.

The officer told the boys that since there was no evidence of a crime, the only thing they could do was to file a missing-persons report.

“But we can’t just sit around and wait!” Joe declared hotly.

“On the other hand, it’s possible Dad is staying away on purpose,” Frank reasoned in a low tone. “Let’s wait a while before we report him missing.”

Joe was not satisfied. “At least let’s search the theater.”

The police agreed to this and the manager was summoned. He gave permission, but stressed the point that he had no jurisdiction over Hexton’s equipment.

The magician and his assistants glared at the Hardys and Chet as they inspected the stage thoroughly. Then they searched other sections of the theater. There was no sign of Fenton Hardy. Frank suggested that they return home, in the hope that his father would try to reach them there.

Deeply worried, the three boys hurried across the dark parking lot and got into the Hardy car. As they sped along a straight stretch of road leading from the city, Chet looked out the rear window. He noticed the headlights of a pickup truck drawing swiftly closer.

“Some character is tailgating us,” Chet said. “Doesn’t he know that’s dangerous?”

“Best thing is to let him go by,” Frank replied, and pulled closer to the shoulder of the road.

The small truck roared past the Hardys’ car.

“A speed demon!” Joe said sarcastically as the truck disappeared from sight.

The route Frank had chosen led them along a narrow, winding mountain road, bordered on one side by a guard rail. Below it was a sheer drop of several hundred feet.

As the car rounded a sharp curve, the boys were horror-stricken to see the headlights of a car directly in front of them. They had only the fraction of a second to brace themselves for a collision!

CHAPTER II

The Hexton File

CRASH! There was a loud, piercing sound of shattering glass as the oncoming headlights made contact. Yet there was no collision! Like an apparition, the other vehicle had vanished completely.

Frank struggled to maneuver the car away from the guard rail. He jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. They all looked startled.

“Wh-what happened?” Chet asked.

“I don’t know,” Frank said. “This is weird—”

Joe pulled out a flashlight. “Let’s go back up the road and investigate!”

The boys walked to where they had encountered the headlights. As Joe played the beam along the road, they noticed broken glass scattered about. Frank picked up a fragment.

“Look at this!” he said.

“It’s a piece of mirror!” exclaimed Chet.

“So that’s it!” Frank exploded. “Someone set a mirror on the road. What we saw was the reflection of our own headlights!”

Joe’s eyes widened in anger. “We might have swerved over the embankment!”

“Exactly!” Frank answered. “Whoever planted the glass put it too close to the bend in the road. We came upon it so quickly I didn’t have time to swerve!”

The young sleuths wondered if Hexton or his assistants had set the trap for them. Or had it been intended for another unsuspecting victim?

“This mystery is getting too dangerous,” Chet said gravely. “A guy could get hurt.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Frank vowed.

The Hardys searched the area more closely. Joe picked up a sliver of wood. He noticed several similar pieces scattered along the road.

“What do you make of this?” he asked.

Frank examined it. “Undoubtedly this is part of a wooden easel that was used to support the mirror.”

“Magicians often use them in their acts,” remarked Joe. “Hexton could have had a big mirror brought here in a pickup truck.”

Frank agreed. “The one that passed us was certainly traveling fast enough to reach this spot well ahead of us.”

“If Hexton did plant the mirror, how could he know we’d take this road?” Chet inquired.

“It’s the fastest way back to Bayport,” Frank replied. “He may have had us followed.”

After scuffing the glass and wood off the road, the boys drove on. At the Morton farm on the outskirts of Bayport, Chet got out.

“S’long, fellows,” he said. “Keep me posted about your dad.”

Frank and Joe drove home in silence. Their mother and Aunt Gertrude were waiting for them in the living room. Reluctantly the boys told what had happened.

“Oh dear!” their aunt shrilled. “Quick! Call the police. Fenton’s been kidnapped!”

Gertrude Hardy, tall and angular, was the sister of Fenton Hardy. Although she admired the sleuthing abilities of her brother and nephews, she constantly worried about the dangers involved.

Mrs. Hardy, an attractive and gracious woman, was too stunned by the shock of her husband’s disappearance to talk. Frank put a comforting arm about her.

“In case Dad disappeared on purpose, let’s not notify the police. Joe and I will find him. He may not be far away.”

The boys excused themselves, then went to their father’s study.

“I think Aunty’s right about the kidnapping,” said Joe. “Dad must have had something pretty big on Hexton.”

“In that case,” Frank said, “we ought to find it in his files.”

But there was no record of Hexton under the letter H.

“Try M for magician,” Joe suggested.

Frank looked. “Not there.”

They checked several other headings, but did not find any mention of the man. Then Joe noticed a folder marked “School.”

“That’s funny,” he said. “I don’t remember Dad having a case to do with a school.”

He took out the file and opened it. “Frank! Look here! This is it!”

Fascinated, the boys read the notes. Mr. Hardy described the magician as a diabolical man who for years had headed a gang of thieves. Working as the crew for his show, they moved about the country with him, pulling the robberies he planned. The detective had discovered the setup recently. “So far no real evidence,” he had noted. Written at the bottom of the page was: “Last two years agent UGLI.”

“UGLI!” Joe exclaimed. “Undercover Global League of Informants!”

Frank gave a low whistle. “This is really big! UGLI is the most powerful espionage ring in the world.”

“And hostile to democratic countries,” added Joe.

The boys exchanged grim looks. If their father had been kidnapped, he was in ruthless hands!

“I think I know now why this is filed under school,” said Frank.

Joe nodded. “That’s probably a camouflage word for SKOOL. Dad must be working for them.”

Both boys had heard of the famous supranational counterespionage ring which worked on behalf of democratic powers. The letters stood for Secret Knowledge Of Organized Lawbreakers.

“If only we could contact them,” said Frank, “they might be able to give us a lead. But the organization is so secret, there’s no way to reach them.”

“Unless they’ve called you first,” said Joe. “Maybe Dad left a note on how to get in touch.”

But a thorough search turned up no information. The boys perused the report again and learned that for the past two years State Department secrets had been leaking out of Washington to enemy countries at an increasing rate. The detective had written, “Offices, cars, and homes of diplomatic corps must be very cleverly bugged. Agents probably transmit microtape to couriers who take it abroad.”

On the margin at the left were the words, “See Dell.”

Frank and Joe searched the file and all the other drawers in the room, but could find no further reference to Dell. Who was he?

Before they put the Hexton report away, Frank read aloud the note at the end of it: “ ‘Do not think Hexton is aware of investigation. Perhaps should discuss with Frank and Joe when more substantial evidence is found.’ ”

“It’s dated yesterday!” Joe exclaimed.

“Somehow Hexton must have learned that Dad was onto his game,” Frank observed.

“And our showing up at the theater,” Joe said, “probably made him nervous. So he pulled a kidnapping.”

Frank reminded Joe of the magician’s suggestion that the two men get better acquainted. “I’ll bet Dad thought if he went along with the idea he might be able to get the goods on Hexton. The first step was taking part in the trick.”

“But what a risk!” said Joe.

“You know Dad,” Frank said quietly. “If he figured it was worth while, he’d take it.”

The night wore on with no word. Finally Aunt Gertrude insisted upon phoning a missing-persons report to the Bayport police. The next morning there was still no word from the detective, and the police had found nothing.

Frank and Joe decided to drive back to Claymore. They arrived at the theater to find the front door locked. Walking around to the back, they were confronted by a guard. He told them that Hexton had given his last performance the night before and had already departed. The magician had left two of his assistants behind to supervise the packing of the show’s equipment.

“Our father disappeared here last evening,” Frank said. “We’d like to have a look inside.”

“Sorry,” the guard answered, “I can’t permit anyone in the theater. Manager’s orders.”

“Then we’d like to see him,” Joe said.

“He’s not here. I’d advise you to go.”

“Okay,” Frank signaled Joe with his eyes and the two walked off briskly around the side of the building. There they stopped abruptly and Frank peered back.

After a few minutes the guard left his post and disappeared around the far corner.

“Let’s go!” Frank commanded.

Quietly the boys edged their way toward the stage door. They pulled it open and darted inside, stopping to let their eyes adjust to the dim light. Then, cautiously, they made their way to the stage. Nobody was around.

“Where are Hexton’s men?” Joe whispered.

“Out for a coffee break,” Frank guessed.

The stage was cluttered with packing cases containing the magician’s equipment. At the rear the boys spotted the vanishing-man device. It had already been partially dismantled.

“Look! The plank’s missing,” Joe said. “Maybe packed in one of these cases.”

Further examination of the device revealed that it had a false bottom, beneath which was a secret compartment.

A soft rustling noise had sounded overhead. “What’s that?” Frank said. He glanced up in time to see a ballast sandbag hurtling down toward them from the flies.

“Look out!” Frank shouted. He leaped aside, pulling Joe with him. The sandbag crashed to the stage and burst open. The boys looked up and saw a man running along a catwalk.

“After him!” Joe yelled.

“Hold it!” commanded a harsh voice. “Stay right where you are!”

CHAPTER III

The SKOOL Man

THE Hardys whirled to see the theater guard approaching. “So it’s you two!” he shouted angrily. “Didn’t I tell you to shove off?”

“Yes, but—” Joe began.

“That crash—” the guard cut in. “What happened?” He looked at the sand scattered about the stage.

“Someone tried to drop a sandbag on us,” Frank explained.

“A likely story.” The guard eyed the boys suspiciously. “You’re probably up to something. I’m calling the police!”

Keeping an eye on the boys, the guard walked to a wall telephone and dialed. Within minutes an officer arrived.

“Oh, the Hardy brothers,” he said, and turned to the guard. “I heard about these kids. They’re trying to find their father.”

“I thought that was a gag,” the man replied.

“No. It’s on the up and up.”

The guard apologized and helped the young sleuths examine the sandbag. They discovered that the ropes which held it had been cut.

At that moment the magician’s thin assistant walked onstage. When the policeman questioned him, he gave his name as Stony Bleeker. The man said he had been out for a walk and insisted he had had nothing to do with dropping the sandbag.

“Where’s the other man who was helping you pack?” Frank asked.

“How should I know?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell us that you don’t know what happened to our father, either!” Joe said.

“You’re nuts!” Bleeker growled.

The Hardys climbed up to examine the flies, but there was no trace of their attacker. “He must have sneaked down the ladder and out the side door while we were hassling with the guard,” said Joe.

Back on the stage, the boys found further questioning fruitless. The policeman said he would request that the detective squad investigate the matter.

Stony Bleeker quickly set about packing the rest of Hexton’s equipment, telling the policeman that a truck would call for it shortly.

“Well, that’s that!” Frank said glumly. “Come on, Joe. Let’s go home.”

On the way back to Bayport, the boys decided to search their father’s study again.

“Maybe we can find out who or what Dell is,” Frank said. “That might give us a lead.”

But their efforts were of no avail until Frank examined the books on his father’s desk. A torn envelope flap was sticking to the back cover of one. On it was the notation, “Kenneth Dell, Great Circle Airways, Westboro, 789-1010.”

“You found it!” Joe exclaimed.

The boys surmised that their father had put the book down on the gummed paper and failed to notice later that it had stuck to the cover.

Quickly Frank dialed the Westboro number. A man with a deep, commanding voice answered and identified himself as Kenneth Dell. Frank explained why he had called, and Dell revealed that he was chief of security for Great Circle Airways.

Amazed to hear about the disappearance of Mr. Hardy, Dell said it was imperative that he talk to the young detectives and he would fly to Bayport the following day.

“Meet me outside the airport restaurant at twelve-thirty,” Dell said. “I don’t want to come to your home for fear we’re being watched by Hexton’s men. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

After church the next day, Frank and Joe drove through the heavy Sunday traffic to the airport and anxiously awaited the security chief’s arrival at the restaurant. Soon they were approached by a tall, stocky man, with distinguished features and slightly grizzled hair. Accompanying him was a thin, gray-haired man in a dark suit.

“You’re the Hardy boys, I take it,” said the stocky one. “I’m Dell. This is Mr. Smith.”

Both men shook hands and Dell added, “Your father has told me a lot about you two. He’s very proud—says his sons are great detectives.”

The four entered the restaurant and seated themselves at a table by a front window. Mr. Smith kept looking down at his hands.

“Who is he?” Frank wondered.

Both boys noticed that Mr. Smith was twisting a crested gold ring on his finger.

“Looks like a school emblem,” Frank thought, then suddenly realized what the man was telling him. “He’s from SKOOL!”

Joe got the message at the same time and threw a quick glance at his brother.

Dell smiled. “I felt sure you would understand. It is safer if some things are not said aloud. Mr. Smith and I work together.” So Dell was also a member of SKOOL, working under the guise of security officer for Great Circle Airways!

He went on to say that Mr. Hardy had come to him some weeks before and asked for dossiers on all employees and the passenger lists for the past two years. “I supplied the information.”

Dell was interrupted for a minute while a waitress took their orders. Smith gave none. Then the security chief leaned closer.

“Your father found out that Hexton owns a castle in the north of Scotland. It’s a retreat, the magician claims, where he rests and devises new tricks for his show. He goes there several times a month on our planes.”

“Sounds like a great setup for smuggling secrets out of this country,” Frank said softly.

“That’s just what your father concluded,” Smith said. “But he disappeared before he had a chance to give me a detailed report. So far nothing has been proved.”

In turn, Frank and Joe quickly told about the information they had gleaned from Mr. Hardy’s file on Hexton.

“Where is Dad” Frank asked urgently. “Have you any idea??”

“I had a reliable tip that Hexton has taken him to South Africa,” Smith replied. “My organization will move in on the situation there.” He glanced at his watch and abruptly stood up. “If you need me, contact Mr. Dell. Good luck.” He walked off quietly.

A few moments later the food came. As they were eating, Joe suddenly exclaimed, “Look!” He clutched his brother’s arm and pointed toward the large front window of the restaurant.

“What is it?”

“A man just peered in here! I’m sure he’s Stony Bleeker!”

The boys darted outside, followed by Dell. But Bleeker was not among the passers-by.

“Maybe he ran around back!” Joe suggested.

“Quick!” Frank ordered. “Let’s split up and check the building on all sides! Joe, you stay here in front! Mr. Dell, I’ll take the east side, if you’ll take the west!”

“Let’s go!” the security chief agreed.

Frank raced along the east side of the building. Carefully he rounded the corner, but did not spot Bleeker. Just then he heard sounds of a scuffle coming from around the far side.

“Uhff!” someone groaned.

Frank ran to the spot to find Dell lying on the ground. He bent over the prostrate man.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked worriedly. He helped the security chief to his feet.

“I almost had him,” Dell said, breathing heavily. “But he got in a fast punch.” Dell pointed. “There he goes now!”

Frank turned and saw Bleeker dashing into the airport parking lot. The boy bolted after him. The man had too big a lead, though. Before Frank could reach him, Bleeker scrambled into a car and sped away. Disappointed, Frank returned to the restaurant. Dell was already there.

“Any luck?” Joe asked his brother.

“No. Didn’t even get the license plate number.”

“Bleeker’s thin,” Dell commented as he rubbed his chin, “but he packs a lot of power.”

“What’ll we do now?” Joe asked.

Frank thought for a moment. “We’ll check the list of cities scheduled on Hexton’s tour. If we can trail him without his knowing it, we might trap him into revealing where he took Dad.”

“I still have a copy of the playbill from his last show,” Joe recalled. “I believe his tour schedule is listed in it.”

“Good thinking,” Dell remarked. He instructed the boys to call him if they wanted help. Then he boarded a plane to return to the Great Circle Airways base at Westboro near New York City.

“Let’s go home and check that playbill right away,” Frank said.

“Hexton knows that we’re on to him and his gang,” Joe remarked. “Do you think he’ll continue with his tour?”

“Probably not,” Frank answered. “But right now it’s our only chance to find him.”

When they returned to their car, the Hardys were surprised to see a pencil-printed note attached to the steering wheel. Frank removed it and read the contents aloud:

“‘Mind your own business! Or you’ll never see your father again!’ ”

CHAPTER IV

Cryptic Message

“BLEEKER must have left the warning here!” Joe exclaimed.

“That’s for sure,” Frank agreed. “And it’s no idle threat. Besides, I have a hunch Dad wasn’t taken to South Africa. Otherwise, Hexton wouldn’t be so determined to keep us off the trail.”

The Hardys were more eager than ever to get their investigation under way. Upon arriving home, they examined the playbill which listed the cities on the magician’s tour.

“According to this list,” Frank observed, “Hexton is scheduled to appear at the Tivoli Theater in Darville tomorrow.”

Joe paged through the atlas and pinpointed the location of the city. “Here’s Darville. It’s about four hundred miles from here.”

The boys telephoned Jack Wayne, pilot of Mr. Hardy’s twin-engine plane, and arranged to fly to Darville the following day. Frank and Joe had private pilot licenses, but thought it wise to have Jack along. “He’s a tough man in a fight,” Joe said.

When they invited Chet, he eagerly accepted. “I’ll meet you at the field.”

The next morning Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude nervously prepared breakfast for the young detectives.

“Now don’t do anything foolish,” their mother cautioned. “This Hexton fellow sounds terribly dangerous to me.”

“I fear the worst!” Aunt Gertrude said, shaking her head. “Detective work involves taking too many chances. No good will come of this. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Joe assured them. “Hexton might be a clever magician, but we have a few tricks of our own.”

After receiving more admonitions at the doorway, the boys drove to the airport. Jack Wayne, the tanned, lean-faced pilot, was waiting for them at the plane. Chet came puffing up a few moments later. Soon they were airborne and streaking toward Darville. Two hours later they circled it and set down.

Frank rented a car and they drove directly to the theater where Hexton was scheduled to appear. As they approached the Tivoli, the boys were amazed to see a man standing on a tall ladder against the marquee, removing the big black letters which spelled out the magician’s name.

Frank pulled up in front of the theater, and Joe called out, “What’s going on? Hexton’s first show is scheduled for tonight!”

The man on the ladder shrugged. “I only follow orders. Sorry.”

He pointed to the box-office window. A cancellation notice was spread across a large poster advertising the show.

“Let’s have a talk with the theater manager,” Frank suggested. He parked and they hastened to a door marked “Manager L. Sardella.” Joe rapped loudly.

“Come in!”

When the four entered, a small, thin man with a waxed mustache removed his feet from a desk and glowered. “Yes?”

“Mr. Sardella, where is Hexton?” Joe asked tensely.

The man arose and eyed them sharply. “You want refunds?”

“No. We’re private detectives,” Chet said importantly. “Where is he?”

“Hexton? That’s what I’d like to know. The skunk! I’ll spend the rest of the day giving refunds on my advance ticket sale, and still have no show tonight.”

“Why didn’t he come?” Frank asked.

“Search me. He phoned long-distance. Gave no reasons. I’ll sue him!”

Sardella said that the magician had mentioned he was canceling the remainder of his tour with the exception of one last performance.

“Where?” Frank asked.

“Some little place called Granton. Don’t ask me what state, because I don’t know. Said they pushed up the date to tonight to accommodate him. Accommodation—bah!”

The Hardys and their friends thanked the manager and hurried back to the car. They returned to the airport and hastened to the operations room to consult a large aeronautical chart mounted on the wall.

“Here’s Granton,” the pilot said, pointing. He quickly plotted a course. “It’s a little bit more than a thousand miles from here.”

“Good grief!” Chet exclaimed. “We’ll never get there in time.”

Frank glanced at his watch. “We ought to be able to make the trip in under seven hours, wouldn’t you say, Jack?”

The pilot manipulated a small flight computer, which he had taken from a jacket pocket. “With the present winds, I’d say we could do it in seven hours easily.”

“If we take off right now,” Frank said, “we can be in Granton before Hexton’s show ends.”

“I’m game, fellows,” Chet piped up, “if you’ll let me get some chow for the trip.” He trotted toward the airport cafeteria and returned a few minutes later with a bag of sandwiches and milk.

Soon the four companions were in the air, speeding toward Granton. They set down late that evening at an airport thirty miles from the town, rented a car, and started off. Fortunately, the speed limit was generous. Also, Granton had only one theater, which Frank found easily.

It was nearly time for the show to end. Frank parked the car across the street from the lighted marquee.

Joe walked down an alley to the rear and reported that there was only one other exit besides the front. “It’s on the side.”

“Keep a sharp lookout for Hexton and his men after the performance,” Frank instructed the others. “Also, remember that they mustn’t spot us or our chance to follow them might fail.”

Twenty minutes later the show ended and people spilled out through the doors. Presently a green sedan drove up in front of the theater.

“Look!” Joe said in a loud whisper. “The driver is Stony Bleeker!”

Four men appeared from the alley exit. “There’s Hexton!” Chet whispered.

“And Vordo with two short men!” Frank observed.

“They look like twins!” Joe exclaimed.

“I’ll bet that’s how Hexton works the vanishing bit,” said Chet. “One twin disappears in the box and the other appears from the wings! From the audience, who could tell they weren’t the same man?”

The magician and his assistants got into the car and sped off. Frank and his companions followed at a safe distance. Several blocks farther on, the green car passed a high wall surrounding a garden back of a hotel, then pulled around the corner and stopped in front of the Granton Inn. The men got out and entered, while a doorman drove the car into the hotel’s underground garage.

Frank parked a short distance from the entrance. “Let’s stay out here and see what happens,” he said. “We’ll take turns keeping watch. Good thing there are no exits except to this street or the garden.” The foursome settled down for a long vigil.

As they waited, Joe noticed that Chet seemed preoccupied. His stout friend was staring at something high on the side of the hotel.

“What are you looking at?” Joe asked.

“That window up there near the top. The room light is going on and off.”

The young sleuths watched the light for a time before noticing that it was following a definite pattern.

“Dit-dit-dit dah-dah-dah dit-dit-dit,” mumbled Frank in tempo with the light.

“An SOS!” Joe cried. “In Morse code!”

“No doubt about it!” Frank exclaimed. “Maybe it’s from Dad! He could be a prisoner in Hexton’s room!”

Throwing caution to the winds, the Hardys dashed into the hotel. Chet and Jack Wayne remained in the car to watch the exit. The desk clerk was startled when the boys rushed in.

“Which is the Incredible Hexton’s room?” Frank asked.

The man automatically answered, “He’s in Suite 924. What are your names? I’ll announce you.”

“Never mind,” Joe said.

“But I have to announce all visitors,” the clerk insisted. “It’s a hotel rule.”

As he scooped up the house phone, Frank and Joe darted into an elevator. They burned with impatience while the car rose slowly. When it reached the ninth floor, the boys hopped out and rushed to Hexton’s suite. To their surprise, the door was partly open. On it hung a sign: DO NOT DISTURB.

“Careful!” Frank warned. “It might be a trap.”

Cautiously they entered and hurriedly glanced into each of the rooms of the suite.

“Nobody here!” Joe declared.

“They were warned by the desk clerk’s call,” Frank said. “Let’s go after them! They must have escaped by a stairway.”

The boys ran along the corridor toward an exit sign and bounded down the staircase. Reaching the lobby, they asked the clerk if he had seen Hexton or his assistants pass through.

“I’ve seen no one,” was the response. “What’s this all about?”

“No time to tell you now,” Frank said. “How do we get to the underground garage?”

“By the elevator or the back stairs,” the clerk answered.

“Quick! Outside!” Frank shouted to Joe. “Maybe we can cut them off!”

They raced from the hotel and headed for the driveway leading to the underground garage. Just then the green sedan roared out.

“Watch it!” Joe yelled. They fell backward as the speeding car grazed their jackets. Scrambling to their feet, the boys ran for their own car. It was gone!

“Chet and Jack must have recognized Hexton,” Frank surmised, “and followed him.”

He and Joe hurried back to the hotel to search the magician’s rooms for clues.

“Come here!” Frank called softly to Joe as he opened the door to an adjoining bedroom. “This is where the SOS was sent from!” The electrical plug to a lamp was only part way in the wall outlet.

“The signal must have been sent by manipulating the plug,” Frank said.

“What’s that?” Joe exclaimed, pointing to something written near the base of the wall. The pair bent down to examine the faint scribbling. It read:

441810682300 Am all right—

“That’s Dad’s writing!” Joe exclaimed. “He was trying to tell us something!”

“The ‘Am all right’ is clear enough,” Frank remarked as he carefully studied the writing. “But the numerals—what do you make of them?”

Joe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Nothing—yet. But I’ll bet they’re mighty important.”

Frank took a notebook from his pocket and jotted down the cryptic message. The boys then went downstairs and walked out of the hotel just as Chet and Jack Wayne drove up.

“We chased ’em!” Chet said.

“Any luck?” Frank asked.

“No! Only their license number. Lost ’em in traffic,” Jack answered.

“But,” Chet continued eagerly, “we did get close enough to see that there were six men in the car.”

Frank nodded. “I’m sure the sixth was Dad!”

After phoning a description and the license number of the green car to the police, Jack and the boys decided to return to the theater.

“Hexton must have left his stage equipment behind,” Frank said. “Perhaps he gave instructions where he wanted it sent.”

At the theater a local truck was parked near the side entrance.

“Maybe it’s waiting to pick up the gear,” Joe said.

“Let’s ask some questions,” Frank suggested.

Chet and Jack Wayne were instructed to keep an eye on the truck while the Hardys went inside. They confronted the theater manager just as he was locking his office, and asked him where Hexton’s equipment was to be taken.

“As far as I know,” the man replied, “Hexton made arrangements to have it stored in a local warehouse.”

“Did he leave anyone behind to dismantle and pack the stuff?” Frank inquired.

“Yes—a man I never saw before. Said he had just arrived in town this morning,” the manager replied. “Hexton took his four regular assistants with him.”

A shout came from the street and the boys rushed outside.

Chet’s face was flushed with excitement. “A man forced Jack into the truck and drove off! He had a gun!” Chet pointed down the street. “There they got”

Frank and Joe caught a glimpse of the vehicle as it rounded a corner several blocks away. They grabbed Chet’s arms and dashed for their car!

CHAPTER V

Mysterious Rendezvous

FRANK jumped behind the wheel, the doors were slammed shut, and the car roared off in pursuit of Jack Wayne’s kidnapper! Seconds later, the headlights picked the truck out of the darkness on a road leading from the city.

“The driver must know we’re after him,” Frank observed as the vehicle speeded up. “I’ll try to head him off.” He bore down on the accelerator until the needle touched the speed limit.

“We’re gaining!” Chet yelled. Gradually the car moved alongside the truck. Then, with a burst of power, it pulled ahead and in front.

“Be careful!” Joe pleaded. “That truck could plow right through us!”

The two vehicles reeled back and forth across the road as Frank tried frantically to prevent the truck from pulling ahead of them.

“If someone comes toward us from the opposite direction, we’ve had it,” Chet mumbled as he wiped his forehead.

He relaxed a bit when the speedometer indicated less than forty miles per hour. Frank had noticed that the truck had suddenly slowed and begun to wobble violently.

“What’s happening?” Joe asked.

“Leaping mackerel!” Chet yelled. “Jack and the driver are fighting! Oh, I hope that man doesn’t shoot!”

He had hardly finished speaking when the truck skidded off the road. Crash! With a thud the heavy vehicle tumbled on its side into a shallow ditch, its wheels spinning.

Frank squealed to a stop. The boys leaped out and ran to the wreck, just as Jack Wayne pushed his door open.

“Jack! You all right?” Frank panted.

“A little shaky, but this guy’s been kayoed.”

Jack climbed out and the others dragged the driver through the door. He regained consciousness a few moments later and weakly shook his head.

“Who are you?” Frank demanded.

“None of your business,” the man muttered. He was tall and husky, with bulging muscles. He looked for his revolver, which now lay on the road.

“The police will be interested to know you kidnapped Jack Wayne,” Joe said, pointing to the pilot.

“All right!” the driver bellowed. “My name is Burly Wilkes!”

“How long have you been working for Hexton?” Frank asked.

“Just today. And I didn’t try to kidnap anybody!”

“I suppose you just felt like taking our friend for a ride at pistol point,” Chet remarked scornfully.

“Hexton hired me to take care of his equipment,” Wilkes said. “He told me there were some guys trying to steal his stuff. When I saw your friend snooping around the truck, I thought he was one of ’em. I just wanted to give him a scare.”

At that moment a police car arrived on the scene. An officer jumped out and walked toward them. “What’s going on here?”

When the boys explained, the officer took Wilkes into custody and requested that Jack Wayne follow him to police headquarters to file a complaint.

Further questioning of Wilkes by the police revealed nothing more than what he had already told the young detectives. Apparently, Frank reasoned, he was more afraid of Hexton than of being thrown into jail.

The Hardys and their companions checked in at a motel to get a little sleep. Early the next morning they flew back to Bayport. Chet said good-by and headed for the farm in his jalopy.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were overjoyed to see Frank and Joe, and instantly asked about Mr. Hardy. They received a detailed report.

“I’m still fearful,” said the boys’ mother, “but the news is somewhat encouraging. You say he wrote, ‘Am all right—’?”

“Yes,” Frank assured her.

Aunt Gertrude said in her forceful way, “That’s enough for me. I’m sure Fenton is a better magician than Hexton when it comes to escaping from traps. He’ll get out of those villains’ clutches!”

“You’re right,” Joe agreed. “Just the same, I think he needs our help.”

Directly after supper Frank and Joe went to their father’s study and tried to decipher the message scribbled on the hotel wall.

Joe read aloud, “‘441810682300.’”

“I’m stymied,” Frank admitted. “The numbers don’t fit into any code Dad’s used with us before.”

“Maybe it isn’t a code at all,” Joe suggested. “The numbers might represent something else.”

Just then Chet arrived. He strolled into the study with a large silver bowl tucked under one arm. In his other hand he held a big square of blue silk.

“Okay, you masterminds! Give me your attention!” he demanded. “You see standing before you the dean of sorcerers! The master of legerdemain! The world’s most outstanding thauma—thauma—thaumaturgist!”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Listen to him! You’d better get the dictionary, Frank!”

Chet placed the bowl on the desk as the Hardys watched in amusement. “You are most fortunate,” he said, “since you will see a private performance by the great—the incredible—the fantastic Morton!”

Chet paused, a faint smile curling his lips and added, “Perhaps you hadn’t heard that I’ve been taking a mail-order course in magic!”

The Hardys looked unimpressed and said nothing. Chet eyed them with a smug expression. “Will you please bring me an egg, some relish, mustard, catsup, and perhaps some vinegar and water.”

“Yes, master!” Joe left the study and returned shortly with the items. “Here you are.” He grinned. “And whatever you plan to do with them it had better be good. Aunt Gertrude almost took the broom to me for bringing this stuff.”

Ignoring Joe’s remark, the chubby youth continued with his spiel. “All right! Prepare yourselves for the impossible!” he declared. “Listen now to my weird and strange incantations! Utterances that will mystify the ages!”

The boys watched as Chet cracked the egg and dropped it into the bowl, shell and all. He added the vinegar, water, and other ingredients.

“What a crazy concoction!” Joe said as his chum stirred the mixture.

Chet covered the bowl with the silk cloth. “Brace yourselves for the most amazing feat of all time!” He began to pass his hands slowly over the bowl. “Ezard, Kazard Mokim, Whumpf!”

“Now what” Frank asked.

“Ah!” Chet announced. “You have just witnessed an astounding display of my mystical powers! The ingredients in this bowl have vanished. Puhff! Just like that!”

“Okay, Merlin,” Joe said, laughing. “Prove it. Uncover the bowl.”

“You doubt my magical skills?” Chet said. “I won’t just uncover the bowl—I’ll go a step further to prove my powers.” He placed the bowl on his head upside down.

“There! You see, I—” He stopped short as its contents flowed over his head and face. Some spattered on the floor. “Oh, ugh!”

The Hardys howled with laughter. “You’d better clean up that mess fast,” Frank warned. “If Aunt Gertrude sees it she’ll cause you to vanish. Puhff! Just like that!”

Frank and Joe howled with laughter

Joe rushed out of the study and returned with an armful of paper towels. It took considerable rubbing before Chet became recognizable again and the carpet clean.

“I can’t understand,” he murmured. “The book said it would work!”

Joe chuckled. “Maybe you got your incantations mixed.”

“Anyway, I was just trying to cheer you fellows up,” Chet mumbled.

“We appreciate that,” Frank said. “But how about less spectacular tricks for a while?”

At a loss for words, Chet sat down in an armchair and examined his silver bowl.

The ringing of the telephone broke the silence in the study. Frank took the call. “Frank Hardy speaking.”

“If you and your brother want to see your father,” said a muffled voice, “come to the old Landon Mansion in an hour. And come alone!”

“Who is this?” Frank demanded. There was a sharp clicking sound. The mysterious caller had hung up!

The message startled the boys. “Did you recognize the voice?” Joe asked.

“I’m not sure,” Frank said, “but it sounded like Hexton’s giant helper, Vordol”

“The Landon Mansion, eh?” Joe queried. “That old dilapidated house hasn’t been lived in for years. I understand it’ll be torn down soon.”

“If I remember correctly, it’s just off Highway 18,” Frank recalled. “It’ll take us about thirty minutes to drive there.”

“But it may be a trap!” Joe declared.

“We must take the risk,” Frank insisted. “Dad really might be there.”

They asked Chet to post himself at the telephone. “If we’re not back in two hours, notify the police,” Frank requested.

He and Joe stopped to tell Mrs. Hardy their plans. Though worried, she conceded they should go. Ten minutes later the Hardys’ car was humming down the highway on the outskirts of town. The night was clear and a strong breeze lent a chill to the air. A full moon bathed the trees and fields in an eerie, silvery light.

Before long, the Hardys came to a narrow dirt road and turned onto it. Neglected for many years, it was pitted with holes and covered in spots with clumps of grass and weeds. There were signs, however, that some kind of vehicle had traveled the road recently. Much of the grass had been flattened and there were tire tracks.

At the end of the rutted road, the two sleuths discovered iron gateposts. The gates had long since fallen from their rusted hinges. In the distance stood the Landon Mansion, ghostly in the moonlight. Frank and Joe got out of the car and walked toward it. The only light came from a window on the second floor.

Reaching the house, they stopped and listened for a moment. All was quiet.

The Hardys furtively made their way to the door and eased it open. Silently they slipped in, but froze like statues when Vordo’s voice boomed from upstairs.

“Your father’s waiting here!”

Frank and Joe broke into a cold sweat. “That guy must have radar eyes,” Frank whispered. “Come on, Joe! We can’t turn back now.”

The boys climbed the creaky staircase, which groaned under their feet. Just before they reached the top, a grinding sound echoed through the old building. With a splintering crash the staircase parted just where they were standing. The lower section fell away and the boys plunged toward the darkness below!

CHAPTER VI

Aerial Chase

FALLING, Frank made a grab for the step ahead of him and hung on as Joe gripped his waist. Though his arms ached from the strain, Frank pulled desperately, hoisting himself up inch by inch.

Finally Joe reached out and grasped the step. After much effort, both boys worked themselves safely onto the next tread.

“These guys don’t play around,” Frank murmured, rubbing his swollen hands. “Well, up we go.”

They climbed the few remaining steps and entered the room straight ahead. It was empty, except for a small table, on which a single candle burned.

At the end of the room was a window. The boys rushed to it and looked down into the yard in time to see Vordo and Stony Bleeker leap into a car and speed off.

“Neat getaway,” Joe muttered.

“No use trying to chase them,” Frank said. “They’ll be out of sight by the time we get to our car.”

“Dad wasn’t with them,” Joe commented.

“Of course not. Calling us over here was just a trap,” Frank replied. He pulled angrily on the rope which Vordo and Bleeker had used to get from the window to the ground.

The boys went to examine the remaining section of the staircase. It had been sawed more than halfway through! In a sober mood Frank and Joe returned to the window, slid down the rope, then drove home. Chet was greatly relieved to see his friends.

“What about your dad?” he asked excitedly, and was quickly told what had happened.

“Wow! Well, I’m glad you’re safe,” Chet said. “While you were gone two important phone calls came in. The first was from the police chief in Granton. He said Burly Wilkes has escaped!”

“What!” Joe exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

“A detective had handcuffed Wilkes to a table in the interrogation room while he went out for a few minutes,” Chet said. “When he returned, Wilkes was gone. Somehow, he had slipped out of the handcuffs.”

“A trick he could have learned from Hexton,” Frank mused.

“And another thing,” Chet went on, “the green sedan was Hexton’s and it has not been picked up.”

“What about the second call?”

“It was from Kenneth Dell,” Chet answered. “He wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”

Frank picked up the phone and dialed the private number of the Great Circle Airways’ security chief.

Dell sounded excited. “I’ve had a report that one of our flight stewards, named Timken, has been acting suspicious lately. He used to be friendly and stay around for a while after landing. Now shortly after he gets in from Scotland on Flight 101, he leaves in a waiting helioplane. He never says where he’s going.”

“That is strange,” Frank remarked. “A helioplane! The kind that can take off and land in short distances?”

“Right! It can also fly at very low speeds.”

“Have you any idea where the steward goes?” Frank asked.

“No flight plan was filed,” Dell said.

“Who owns the plane?” Joe inquired.

“I don’t know, but now I mean to find out,” Dell replied. “Whenever the pilot has asked for landing instructions, he has identified himself as ‘Helioplane 345.’ Of course those are only the last three figures in his whole number.”

Joe asked, “What about Timken as a steward?”

“He was hired by our firm only a couple of months ago. Seems efficient and so far we haven’t found anything incriminating in his record. Flight 101 is part of his regular schedule, and I’m watching it for anything the least bit suspicious. With Hexton’s headquarters probably in a Scottish castle, we can’t be too careful about our Scotland flights.”

“I have an idea,” said Frank. “The next time Timken takes the helioplane, Joe and I will follow him.”

“Follow him?” Dell said. “How?”

“In Dad’s plane.”

“But if you were to take off immediately behind the helioplane and trail it on the same course,” Dell countered, “wouldn’t that arouse the pilot’s suspicions?”

“We would take off from a different airport,” Frank said. “Hold on just a minute, will you?”

He beckoned Joe, who handed him an aeronautical chart. Spreading it out, Frank examined the area in the vicinity of Great Circle’s base. Then he picked up the phone again.

“There’s a small general airfield at Burnsbie near your base,” he told Dell. “We’ll land there and wait. When you see the steward boarding the helioplane, let us know.”

“It might just work at that,” the SKOOL agent agreed.

“What is Timken’s first name and when is he scheduled to return from his next flight?” Frank asked.

“Stand by. I’ll check the crew schedule.” There was a brief pause, then Dell came on again. “His first name is Guy, and he’s scheduled for an outgoing flight tonight. He’ll be back here at ten o’clock Thursday morning, our time.”

“Good!” Frank said. “Barring bad weather, we’ll plan to be at the field at least an hour before Timken is due back.”

Frank said good-by, then called Jack Wayne and informed him of the plan. The pilot said he would have the plane fueled and ready to fly Thursday morning at the crack of dawn.

As the first rays of sunlight appeared in the east that day, the Hardys got up and dressed. They were surprised to find their mother and Aunt Gertrude already in the kitchen preparing breakfast for them.

“Um! Sausage and cakes!” Joe said with a grin.

Immediately after breakfast, the boys drove to Bayport Airport. There they made a final check on the weather. The forecaster told them it would be CAVU-Geiling and Visibility Unlimited—for at least another forty-eight hours.

“The ship’s all set to fly!” Jack Wayne called as they walked across the ramp.

He and the Hardys got into the plane and fastened their seat belts. A sudden roar echoed across the field as Jack started engines. He made a quick but thorough check of the instruments. Minutes later, they were airborne and climbing rapidly above Bayport.

“We should get to Burnsbie with plenty of time to spare,” Frank said as he glanced at his watch.

Upon arriving at their destination, Jack at tended to the refueling of the plane, while Frank and Joe waited in the operations room for a call from Kenneth Dell.

It was a few minutes after ten o’clock when the telephone rang. The airport manager scooped up the receiver, then announced that the call was for the boys.

“This is Kenneth Dell, Frank! Timken just got into the helioplane. They’re taxiing out now for take-off.”

“Roger!” declared the young detective. “We’re on our way.”

In a matter of minutes, Jack Wayne and the Hardys were approaching Great Circle’s base at several thousand feet.

“There’s the helioplane!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s at the three-o’clock position.”

The craft veered slightly to a northeast course. Jack followed at a safe distance.

A short time later the helioplane made two complete turns, then reverted to course. Jack did the same. Moments later, their quarry repeated the maneuver.

“Why all those turns?” Joe asked.

“He’s probably checking to see if he’s being followed,” Jack replied.

“Do you suppose he spotted us?” Joe asked.

Frank replied, “No doubt. But we’ve nothing to lose by continuing the chase.”

The gap between the two crafts, however, decreased more and more as the helioplane reduced speed.

“That clunker up ahead can fly much slower than we can.” Jack’s voice showed concern.

He attempted to keep his distance, but another glance at the airspeed indicator told him that their plane was dangerously near to a stall. The Hardys tightened their seat belts when the craft began to buffet.

“Sorry, boys,” the pilot said. “I can’t make it.” He was about to increase power when suddenly the helioplane executed a sharp turn and headed directly for them. Jack quickly maneuvered out of the way, but the sharp movement of the controls caused the aircraft to stall.

The plane rolled into an almost inverted position and dived vertically toward the ground!

CHAPTER VII

Suspect on the Run

FRANK and Joe were thrown against their seat belts as the plane dropped earthward, and the wind whistled an eerie dirge against the wings.

“Hang on!” Jack shouted as he pulled the throttle closed and applied aileron and rudder control.

He managed to level the wings, then concentrated on recovering from the steep dive. As he eased back slowly on the wheel, the boys were pressed down into their seats by the increasing G force.

Finally Jack had the aircraft back to straight and level—but with not much altitude to spare. He increased power and the plane climbed higher. For a moment nobody spoke.

“Whew!” Joe finally exclaimed as he wiped perspiration from his face. “I can’t say I’m too keen on this kind of maneuver.”

“Whoever is flying that helioplane,” Jack Wayne remarked, “is a pretty good pilot.”

“Keep a sharp lookout,” Frank urged as he searched the sky above them.

They continued to gain altitude and the boys scanned the area on all sides. Ahead, puffy white cumulus clouds built up over the hilly terrain.

“I’m afraid we’ve lost our quarry,” the pilot said. “And I’ll bet they’re members of UGLI!”

“Yes, worse luck,” Frank answered. “The clouds offer excellent cover. Trying to find those agents in it would be like trying to find a flea in a fog.”

The Hardys decided to discontinue the chase and return to Great Circle’s base. Upon landing, an announcement came over the public-address system.

“Frank and Joe Hardy, please report to the operations room.”

The young sleuths sprinted to the administration building. In the operations room Kenneth Dell was clutching a telephone to his ear.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“Flight Service has just given me the helioplane’s full registration number. I told them to let me know if they heard anything from the pilot,” Dell said. “Looks as if we’re in luck! He ran into bad weather north of here, and had to file an instrument flight plan.”

“What’s his destination?” Joe asked.

“Logan International Airport, Boston,” the security chief replied.

“Jeepers!” Joe exclaimed. “Do you think that’s where he was headed all the time?”

“I doubt it,” Frank replied. “Timken wouldn’t want anyone to know where he’s going. I think they’re just planning to land and wait for the weather to clear. Then they can continue the trip without a flight plan.”

Dell signaled for silence as he pressed the receiver closer to his ear. He jotted down a few notes and then hung up.

“Here’s something else,” he announced. “The pilot’s name given on the flight plan is Mazer. And the owner of the helioplane is the Coastal Courier Service.”

“Say,” Joe spoke up, “why don’t we have Jack fly us to Boston right away? Logan is a busy airport. Timken might not notice our arrival.”

“Good idea,” Dell said. “In the meantime, I’m going to check out this information.”

An hour and a half later Jack Wayne and the boys were cleared for an ILS approach at Logan International Airport.

“Looks as if the weather’s beginning to improve,” Jack remarked as they taxied to the parking ramp.

“I don’t see the helioplane anywhere,” Joe observed.

“We’ll check with operations,” Frank said.

The boys hurried into the administration building. They located the operations manager and inquired about the helioplane.

“Why, yes,” he said. “I remember the craft distinctly. It caught my eye, since that kind of thing is a rarity around here.”

“Where is it now?” Joe asked.

“I think it took off about thirty minutes ago,” the operations manager replied. “But why don’t you check with the control tower?” He pointed to a wall telephone. “That’s a direct line.”

Frank picked up the phone.

“Logan Tower! Stigand speaking!” crackled from the receiver.

Frank said, “A helioplane departed from here about half an hour ago. Can you tell me its destination?”

“Stand by!”

There were a few seconds of silence, then Stigand reported, “The pilot filed an instrument flight plan for Concord Airport, New Hampshire. However, he broke into clear weather at Manchester and canceled his flight plan.”

“Thank you,” Frank replied, dejected.

“So we’ve lost them again,” Joe remarked.

“Timken and his pilot played it smart,” Frank said. “They knew they’d fly into clear weather. I’ll bet they never had any intention of landing at Concord.”

Just then two men approached the youths.

“What’s your interest in the helioplane?” one of them demanded.

“Who are you?” Joe retorted.

“We’re detectives! Boston Police Department!” They flashed their badges.

“My name is Amory,” one said. He pointed to his partner. “And this is Detective Sergeant Doran.”

Frank introduced himself and his companions.

“Hardy!” Amory exclaimed. “Any relation to Fenton Hardy the private detective?”

“We’re his sons,” Joe answered.

“Why did you ask us about our interest in the helioplane?” Frank inquired.

“A couple of hours ago a local jeweler was approached by a fellow who tried to sell him a diamond. When the jeweler began to question him as to where he got it, the guy walked out. The jeweler became suspicious and called us.”

“What started you looking for this man at the airport?” Joe asked.

Amory replied, “The jeweler said he was wearing a Great Circle Airways uniform. So the airport seemed a logical place to begin a search, although Great Circle doesn’t come in here. We want to ask that fellow a few questions.”

“He’s gone,” Frank said. “The man you’re looking for is the same one we’ve been following. He took off in the helioplane about half an hour ago.”

“That adds up,” Doran commented. “The operations manager told us a fellow answering the jeweler’s description had already left.”

“We approached you boys,” Ames added, “because we heard you inquiring on the phone about the helioplane.”

There was little more the young sleuths could do, so they took off. During the return flight to Bayport, they mulled over the latest event.

“What do you make of Timken trying to peddle a diamond?” Joe asked.

“It sounds to me like an attempt to get rid of stolen goods,” Frank concluded.

“Could be,” Joe said thoughtfully. “You remember Dad’s report said that Hexton’s gang were robbers. If Timken is one of them, he may be smuggling in jewels stolen overseas and disposing of them here.”

Frank agreed. “But UGLI’s business is espionage. I doubt if they would become involved in jewel robberies. On the other hand, Hexton and his gang might be playing the two games at once.”

When the boys arrived home, Frank at once telephoned their suspicions to Kenneth Dell.

“You have a good theory there,” Great Circle’s security chief said. “I’m going to call Scotland Yard and inquire about recent jewel robberies.” He promised to get in touch later.

After Frank hung up the phone, he stood silent for a moment. “Next we must figure out that message Dad left on the hotel wall,” he told Joe.

Again they examined the row of numerals: 441810682300. But after more than an hour of attempting to decipher them, Joe gave a sigh of frustration. “It doesn’t make any more sense to me now than when we first started,” he admitted.

“If this is a code, it’s a real puzzler,” Frank agreed. “But we’ve got to crack it!”

When Mrs. Hardy announced that dinner was ready, the boys reluctantly interrupted their task. They ate quickly, then went right back to the message.

Frank stared at it. “Neither the substitution nor transposition ciphers jibe.”

The young detectives worked late into the night. Exhausted, they finally went to bed.

Early the next day Frank and Joe continued to study the message, but all their efforts to decipher it ended in failure.

Shortly after ten o’clock Chet arrived at the Hardys’ home. He plodded up the stairs to the detective’s study.

“You’re too late for breakfast, chum,” Frank said with a grin.

“Aw, cut it out,” Chet mumbled. “Anyway, I stopped at Biff Hooper’s house before I came here. His mother was baking the most delicious pancakes I ever saw, with sausages and all the trimmings.”

“Glad to hear that,” Joe said jokingly. “We wouldn’t want to see you fade away.”

“How is Biff?” Frank inquired as he glanced at his friend. Biff Hooper was a schoolmate of the boys at Bayport High.

“He’s just fine. I wanted to show him a couple of my magic tricks.”

“Don’t tell us you took that silver bowl of yours along?” Joe asked.

“No, that’s old stuff,” Chet retorted. “My new tricks are more sophisticated.”

“Oh yeah!” said Joe, chuckling.

“Go ahead and laugh if you want to,” Chet continued indignantly. “At least Biff appreciated the great latitude of my genius.”

At Chet’s remark, Frank sat bolt upright in his chair.

“What’s the matter?” Chet asked, startled.

“Would you repeat what you just said?” Frank asked excitedly.

“You mean about Biff’s appreciating the latitude of my genius?”

Frank sprang up. “The key! You’ve given me the key!”

CHAPTER VIII

Sailing Sleuths

CHET looked confused. “What key? I don’t see any key,” he said, glancing around.

“You mentioned latitude! That must be it—latitude and longitude!” Frank pointed to the numerals in the mystery message.

“I still don’t get it,” said Chet.

Frank explained. “Notice that there are a total of twelve digits. The first six—441810—must mean 44 degrees, 18 minutes, 10 seconds of latitude. The remaining figures—682300—would then stand for 68 degrees, 23 minutes, 00 seconds of longitude ”

“You’re right!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank riffled through a stack of maps and selected one showing the Atlantic seaboard. “Those coordinates would locate a position in the area covered by this map.”

“Hold on!” Joe said as he glanced at a chart of the world that he had just unfolded. “The message doesn’t specify whether the latitude is east or west, or the longitude north or south. Therefore, these coordinates might designate a location in Asia, the southern tip of South America, or the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

“True,” Frank agreed. “But since Dad didn’t make that clear in the message, I’m certain he means the position is in our own hemisphere.”

He marked the spot on his map indicated by the coordinates. It was about eighteen miles off the northeast coast of the United States.

“But that’s a spot in the Atlantic Ocean!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank pulled out a nautical chart. It was on a smaller scale and showed more detail. Replotting the position, he discovered several small islets in the vicinity—so small they did not have names. The latitude and longitude coordinates lay directly over one.

“Eureka!” Joe exclaimed. “It looks as if we’re onto something! My guess is one of two possibilities—either the place is UGLI’s headquarters for the U.S., or else it’s where Dad was taken.”

“Maybe it’s both,” Joe added. “We’d better make a trip to that island!”

“What about me?” Chet demanded. “Can I come, too? After all, I found the key!”

Frank bowed toward his chum. “It’ll be a pleasure to have you along, genius,” he said. “We might need your help.” Then he walked to the telephone. “I’ll call Jack and tell him to have the plane ready tomorrow morning.”

When Frank told the pilot their destination, Jack assured him there were several aviation radio facilities in the vicinity that would permit them to pinpoint the islet from the air.

Early the following day the Hardys, Chet, and Jack were winging their way toward the mystery spot. Soon they paralleled the Atlantic coast.

“How long do you estimate it’ll take us to reach the place?” Frank asked Jack.

The pilot checked the bearings indicated by the radio compass and omni-navigation receiver, then thumbed his small computer. “I’d say about thirty minutes from our present position.”

The boys gazed below. Ocean waves broke against the craggy coastline, tracing it with a ribbon of white foam that stretched as far as the eye could see.

As they passed over a small sailboat, Joe took out binoculars and scanned the area below. “Little islands ahead,” he announced, and soon the others made out small sprinkles of land dot-ting the surface of the water.

“According to the cross bearings I calculated,” Jack announced, “we should be over the place you want within one minute.”

“And what exactly are we looking for?” Chet queried.

“I don’t know,” Frank answered. “But if—”

“Hey!” Joe interrupted. “I see a lighthouse on that islet just below us.”

Frank took the binoculars. “You’re right. It appears to be abandoned, but there are several cylindrical-shaped objects just to the left of the lighthouse.”

Jack took the plane to a lower altitude and Frank readjusted the glasses. “They look like drums of oil, or gasoline,” he said.

“But for what?” Joe questioned. “A boat? Certainly couldn’t be for an airplane.”

The pilot asked for the binoculars and studied the islet. “The surface is level enough for a plane,” he observed, “but it’s much too short to be used as a runway—that is, except for a helicopter, or perhaps a helioplane!”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other. Could there be a connection between the islet and the helioplane in which Timken had eluded them?

Frank suggested they fly back to the coast and land at the nearest airport. “I want to find out about the islet,” he said.

Jack found a small field not far inland and set the plane down. The Hardys hopped out and hastened to the operations shack. There they met a solid, middle-aged man with a shock of gray hair, who introduced himself as Ty Carter, the owner of the airport.

“I don’t know much about that islet with the abandoned lighthouse,” Carter told them, “except that it is private property. It was sold at auction recently.”

“Have you any idea who bought it?” Joe asked.

“Fellow named Bodkins. He’s not from around here so I can’t tell you anything about him.”

“Bodkins?” Frank thought. A possibility struck him. “Could this be an alias of Hexton’s?” Aloud he questioned, “Have you ever seen a helioplane in the vicinity of the islet?”

“Funny you should mention that,” Carter replied. “During the past couple of weeks I saw one headed in that direction several times. But whether it was going to the islet or not, I wouldn’t know.”

The boys thanked the man for his cooperation, then returned to the plane.

“Fellows,” Frank said suddenly, “I have an idea. Why don’t we rent a boat and look at the place?”

“What if Hexton and his men are on the islet?” Chet asked.

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

After lunch Jack remained with the plane, while Chet and the Hardys hiked to the nearby coastal town. They found a boat-rental place, but unfortunately all the power craft were in use. Frank finally selected a small jib-headed racer.

He manned the helm while Joe and Chet hauled the sails to the top of the mast. A strong breeze carried them quickly away from the dock. Nearly three hours passed before the islet appeared off the port bow of their craft.

“Seems deserted,” Joe said.

Frank manipulated the helm to direct the boat in a wide circle around the tiny point of land. From the other side of the islet a fast powerboat appeared.

When it drew closer, Joe exclaimed, “That’s Stony Bleeker at the wheel! And Vordo’s with him. They must have spotted us!”

“The boat’s going to ram ours!” Chet shouted as the craft headed directly for the sailboat.

Frank applied hard helm and changed course quickly. The powerboat missed the stern by a few inches and threw a heavy spray of water over the boys. Its wake rocked the sailboat violently.

“Hold fast!” Frank cried out. “Stay in the center, fellows, or we’ll capsize!”

“Look!” Joe yelled. “They’ve turned and they’re coming at us again!”

As the powerboat sped perilously close, more water foamed over the gunwales.

“We can’t stay upright much longer!” Joe shouted.

The next pass by the powerboat was so close that the two craft sideswiped. The boys hung on, but plunged into the sea an instant later as the sailboat went over on its side.

Vordo burst into wild laughter. Stony was so preoccupied watching the boys come to the surface he failed to notice that he was steering directly toward the islet.

“Watch out!” Vordo bellowed at him.

Bleeker made a desperate, last-minute effort to turn away. Too late!

Crash!

The powerboat’s momentum carried it onto the craggy shore, and a sharp rock ripped through its hull.

The men leaped out. Furious, they shook their fists. “We’ll get you for this!” Vordo thundered at the three boys, who now lay across the half-overturned hull of the sailboat.

“Now what?” Chet asked.

Frank and Joe were glumly silent. They knew that trying to right their boat with its water-soaked sails would be next to impossible and the only haven within swimming distance was the islet!

CHAPTER IX

The Lighthouse Prison

IN a split second Frank had made up his mind. “Quick!” he shouted. “Help me haul in the main-sail! It’s our best bet.”

Joe unfastened the lanyard while the other two with great effort pulled the top of the partially submerged sail down the mast. When they had it tightly lashed around the boom, the boys secured the working jib.

“Jumping catfish!” Chet yelled in alarm. “We’re drifting closer to the islet!”

While he and Joe watched the movements of Vordo and Bleeker, Frank swam to the other side of the boat. He put his weight against the bottom of the keel and tried to force it downward into the water.

“Push up hard on the mast!” he shouted to Joe and Chet.

The power of their combined efforts started to rotate the sailboat.

“Harder!” Frank yelled. “Push up harder!”

Suddenly the boat rolled to an upright position. Frank reached for a hand bail-out pump clamped against the inside of the hull. Working frantically, he pumped the water out of the boat. Then he flung himself over the gunwales, followed by Joe and Chet.

“They’re taking off!” Vordo bellowed to Bleeker. “After ’em!”

The two men plunged into the water and swam toward the three boys.

“Up with the sails!” Frank commanded. “I’ll take the helm.”

Joe and Chet hoisted the sails into place. A strong breeze caught them and began pushing the boat ahead. Frank turned the craft sharply away from the islet.

Vordo screamed at them furiously, “Stop!”

“He seems to be the excitable type,” Chet said, weak with relief, as they went speeding back toward the mainland.

“We certainly didn’t win that battle,” Joe observed wryly. “We’re retreating.”

Frank nodded. “We’ll have to find another way to get here, and fast,” he declared. “If Dad’s a prisoner in the lighthouse, they’ll probably move him out as quickly as they can.”

The boat had covered nearly half the distance to the mainland when the sails became almost limp.

“The wind is dying down,” Joe said, alarmed. “We’re barely moving.”

Gradually the breeze subsided to a complete calm. The sailboat ceased to move ahead and rocked gently with the waves. Frank grabbed a paddle that was clamped under the gunwale. “Guess we’ll have to get back the hard way.”

“It’ll take us all night at this rate!” Chet exclaimed. “There can’t be much more than another hour or so of daylight.”

“We have no choice,” Frank said. “Let’s take turns paddling.”

Chet’s prediction proved to be right. It was well into the night before they could see the vague outline of docks strung along the coast.

Presently they heard the put-put of an outboard motor and a bright beam of light swept the surface of water ahead. As the boat drew closer, they recognized the pilot as the man who had rented them the sailboat.

“Hey!” he shouted. “You said you wanted the boat for the day, not for the night!”

“Right.” Frank grinned. “We were becalmed. How about giving us a tow to your dock?”

The man threw them a line and went on, “I’ve been searching for you guys since dark. In an hour I was going to notify the Coast Guard.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank said.

When they reached land, the boatman saw that the youths were totally exhausted. “I have extra bunks in my shack,” he said. “It’ll be daylight in another couple of hours. Why don’t you lads eat a bite, then get some sleep?” The boys accepted his offer gratefully.

Before turning in, Frank called the airport and asked to speak to Jack.

“I was worried about you fellows,” the pilot said with deep concern. “I’ve been waiting here in the operations shack, wondering what happened. I almost notified the police.”

Frank told him of the day’s adventure, then suggested that they meet in the morning for breakfast.

It was five o’clock when Frank was awakened by the sound of a motor. He climbed from his bunk and peered out the window. What he saw caused him to snap wide awake. Vordo and Bleeker in their powerboat! “They must have made temporary repairs,” he thought.

Frank awakened his companions. “Wh-what’s the matter?” Chet mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Look!” Frank said, pointing to the boat. It was just docking at a pier where a sign read: CLARK’S BOAT REPAIRS.

“That’s it!” Joe declared. “They’re having the hull fixed.” An idea flashed through his mind. “Now would be a good time to return to the islet!”

“Don’t tell me we’re going to paddle ourselves all the way,” Chet complained.

“We’ll rent a motorboat,” Frank said. He made arrangements for the craft, then telephoned the airport and explained his plan to Jack. “Vordo and Stony Bleeker just arrived with their damaged powerboat. It’s docked at Clark’s Boat Repair place. Could you rent a car, drive down here, and keep an eye on those two? If they should start back to the islet before we return, fly out and warn us by making a low pass. If they start to leave town, notify the authorities.”

“Wilco!” the pilot replied. “I’ll get going right away.”

When the boys went to the dock, the owner said, “Fellows, I’ve just learned by radio there’s some bad weather in store—a nor’easter.” He pointed toward a darkening ridge of clouds far off on the horizon. “You can see it stirring up already.”

“But this is important!” Frank insisted.

The boatman pondered for a moment. “Well, if you promise to keep a sharp eye to the weather and to pull into land if it starts blowing too much, I guess you can have a boat.”

The boys thanked him and after a quick breakfast started out to the islet. The trip took less than half the time it had required in the sailboat. Nevertheless, when the lighthouse came into view, the sky had grown dark and the howling wind had developed into gale force.

“A hurricane!” Chet cried out.

Torrential rain burst upon the boys and the boat was tossed around like a cork in the heavy seas. But Frank skillfully kept it headed for the islet and finally maneuvered close to shore.

Joe tied the mooring line around his waist and leaped into the water. He swam hard to the craggy shore and soon had the boat on solid ground.

“Whew!” Chet groaned. “It’s going to take me a month to dry out.”

The boys peered through the sweeping sheets of rain at the lighthouse. Frank signaled his companions to be silent as they crept toward a lighted window near the base of the structure. Peering inside, they saw a man seated at a table.

“Burly Wilkes!” Joe whispered.

“He’s alone,” Frank observed. “That’s a break for us.”

“But what about Dad?” Joe asked.

“If they’re holding him prisoner here,” Frank said, “he’s in another room.”

“Let me take a look,” Chet suggested, and stretched higher for a glimpse inside. He slipped on a rock and banged his head against the glass. Burly Wilkes whirled around.

“Hide!” Frank ordered.

As Wilkes stomped to the window, the boys flattened themselves against the wall. Apparently satisfied nothing was wrong, he returned to his chair.

‘A hurricane!” Chet cried out

“That was close,” Joe commented.

“Sorry,” Chet mumbled sheepishly. “Now what?”

Frank whispered a plan. “We’ll break in and take Wilkes by surprise. When I give the signal, hit the door with all you’ve got.”

The boys positioned themselves. Frank raised his hand slowly, then dropped it. The three threw themselves against the door and it burst open. Wilkes jumped up from his chair, too startled to utter a cry.

“Stay where you are!” Frank commanded.

But Wilkes, recognizing the Hardys, bolted for a staircase which spiraled up to the top of the lighthouse. The boys raced after him.

Reaching the top, Wilkes rushed through a doorway and started to swing the metal door closed behind him. But Joe managed to prevent it from slamming shut by jumping into the narrow opening.

“There he goes!” Chet shouted as he spotted Wilkes running out onto a catwalk encircling the top of the structure.

Finally the fugitive could go no farther. He was trapped and turned to face his pursuers. He threw a punch but missed. Frank countered with a blow to the stomach that sent the man sprawling. In a flash, Joe and Chet were on him and Wilkes was pinned helplessly to the metal grating of the catwalk.

“Let go of me!” he screeched.

Frank motioned the other two off, then dragged the man to his feet. “Hexton kidnapped our father, didn’t he?”

“Yes. But I had nothing to do with it!”

“Where are they keeping him?”

“He was here.”

“Was?”

“Well, he’s gone!”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Hardy escaped more than five days ago. Those SKOOL men are pretty smart!”

CHAPTER X

Wing Signal

THE boys were dumfounded. “What do you mean our dad escaped?” Joe asked. “How?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”

Frank believed that Wilkes was telling the truth. But where could their father be? And why hadn’t he been in touch with them?

The Hardys tied Wilkes securely to a chair. Then Frank, Joe, and Chet settled down to wait out the storm.

While the wind and rain beat against the lighthouse, Frank and Joe questioned Wilkes further. Their prisoner said he did not know the whereabouts of Hexton, nor just what sort of an operation he was running.

“I’m a new man in the outfit. The magician hasn’t taken me into his confidence,” he added.

“So you’re just learning the UGLI business,” Frank remarked. Wilkes nodded.

He admitted that the metal drums which the Hardys had spotted contained airplane fuel, but now were empty. This was confirmed by Joe’s thorough search as soon as the rain subsided and the sun burst through the broken clouds.

“Okay, Wilkes,” Frank said tersely when his brother returned. “You told the truth about the drums. What about the helioplane?”

The man’s jaw dropped. “Wh-what’d you mean—helioplane?”

“You know all right!” Joe said. “So far, we’ve made things easy for you, Wilkes, but if you don’t tell the whole story, we’ll have you charged as an accomplice to a kidnapping!”

“No, no!” he whined, blanching a sickly white.

“I saw the plane land here twice. Both times it stayed a few minutes, then took off again.”

“Were there any passengers aboard?”

“Just one guy wearing some kind of uniform.” The man began to perspire freely. “Hexton will kill me if he finds out I told you.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Chet said. “The Hardys will take care of that crooked magician.”

Just then they heard an airplane and rushed outside. Looking up, they saw their own plane coming in from the west. It dived and made a low pass over the islet “The signal!” Frank exclaimed. “Vordo and Bleeker must be on their way back!”

“Let’s wait and nab ’em,” Joe suggested.

Frank was about to answer when Jack Wayne headed in toward the islet again. He made another low pass, but this time the boys saw a small object drop from the plane. It bounced along the rocky surface and rolled to a stop close by. It was a metal box with a message inside:

Vordo and Bleeker on way back! Have two other men with them. Believe they are armed. Suggest you leave immediately. Head north before turning toward mainland to avoid their boat.

“Let’s get out of here fast!” Chet said.

“I don’t like the idea of running,” Frank said, “but the odds are against us. We’ll go back to the mainland and notify the police.”

Pushing the reluctant Wilkes before them, the boys hastened to their motorboat. Luckily it was undamaged by the storm. A quick check of the fuel, however, showed they could not take the northerly course Jack had suggested.

“We have just enough gas to make shore,” Frank announced.

“What about Vordo and his men?” Chet asked.

“Maybe we’ll be able to slip by without their noticing us,” Frank answered.

Wilkes became arrogant at hearing that his cohorts were on their way back. “You’d better leave me behind if you know what’s good for you,” he growled.

“Nothing doing,” Joe retorted angrily. “And don’t try to attract the attention of your buddies. I’m sure they’d reward you for having talked,” he added sarcastically.

This frightened Wilkes. He slumped down.

While Jack circled overhead, the boys made a beeline for the coast. A little more than half an hour had passed, when Jack throttled the engines on and off several times.

“Is he having trouble?” Chet asked.

The pilot gunned the engines again.

“No!” Joe exclaimed. “He’s signaling us!” Joe pointed to a small object in the distance, moving across the water. “That must be Vordo!”

Frank quickly turned the motorboat onto a different course as the approaching boat drew steadily closer. In it were four men. The pilot, a tall, massive fellow, was unmistakably Vordo. He was steering directly toward the boys’ boat.

“They’ve seen us!” Joe cried.

Frank attempted some evasive maneuvers, while still heading for the mainland. But the other boat was faster. Although Frank spun his wheel sharply in a series of turns to port and starboard, their pursuers continued to gain.

Finally Vordo bore down, but as he did, Frank pointed skyward and yelled, “Look up there!”

Jack roared down in a screaming dive and pulled out directly in front of the powerboat. Then, just as a collision seemed imminent, Jack pulled up, missing Vordo and his men by inches. Vordo veered out of the way but Jack repeated his maneuver.

The Hardys and Chet momentarily forgot their predicament as they admired Jack’s flying skill. At times he came so close to the surface that little water spouts were generated by the whirling propellers.

“Wow!” chortled Chet. “Vordo’s getting discouraged.”

“I’d say he’s scared to death—and who wouldn’t be. Attaboy, Jack!” Joe grinned.

Again and again Jack Wayne made close passes at the powerboat, forcing Vordo and his cohorts farther away from the boys. By the time the three sleuths neared the mainland, their pursuers were lost from sight. Jack then flew high above the boys, waggling his wings in salute.

Upon reaching shore, the Hardys turned Burly Wilkes over to the authorities. A police helicopter was immediately dispatched to the islet. Soon a report was radioed in from the copter. The island was deserted, and a search of the surrounding area had revealed no clues to the suspects.

Frank asked an officer if he might make a phone call to Ty Carter’s airfield. Moments later he had Jack Wayne on the wire.

“Thanks for getting us out of this one,” Frank said. “That was great flying.”

The pilot chuckled. “I don’t mind a little exercise now and then.”

“Did you notice where Vordo was headed?”

“They took a northerly course, but I couldn’t trail them because my fuel ran low. Sorry. I did give the police the lead.”

Frank asked Jack to meet them at the hotel. “We’ll stay at least another day, in case something turns up. Better bring the car you rented.”

Next morning the Hardys received a telephone call from Ty Carter. He said a helioplane had just landed at his field.

“What’s the registration number?” Frank asked excitedly.

When Carter told him, Frank noted that it was identical with that of the helioplane they had chased.

“I don’t think it’ll be staying here long,” the man continued. “The pilot is sitting in the cockpit. Apparently he expects some passengers to show up any minute.”

“Can you delay their take-off for a while?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know. The guy seems to be in a great hurry. But I’ll try.”

Jack Wayne and the boys drove to the airport immediately and ran to the operations shack.

“They’re taxiing out for take-off right now,” Carter told them. He pointed through the window at the helioplane as it moved slowly toward the active runway. “I couldn’t delay them any longer. The pilot asked that his plane be refueled. I told my line boys to take their time about it. But the pilot’s passengers arrived.”

“Vordo and his gang!” Joe exploded.

“Let’s head them off!” Frank urged.

The boys dashed to their car and drove out after the taxiing aircraft. Moments later the car came to an abrupt halt, bogged down in a stretch of marshy ground just off the airport taxiway.

“Oh nuts!” Chet blurted.

“They’re getting away!” Joe shouted.

Frank jumped out and chased after the helioplane. His companions followed. He was the first to reach the craft, just as it lined up for take-off. He recognized three of the passengers—Vordo, Bleeker, and the steward Timken. Frank lunged at the plane, but stumbled, lost his balance, and fell across the tail. The aircraft was moving so fast he could not let go.

Joe, Chet, and Jack, who had continued the chase, now stopped in their tracks and watched in horror.

The plane continued its take-off run, with Frank clinging desperately to the tail!

CHAPTER XI

Important Assignment

FRANK fought back panic as the helioplane lifted off the runway. With both hands he grabbed hold of one of the elevators and hoisted his body farther onto the tail.

He could feel the pilot tugging at the control wheel, but Frank’s desperate hold on the elevator kept it from moving. The pilot was forced to reduce engine power and drop back down onto the ground.

He jammed the brakes on hard, then executed a partial ground-loop to avoid going off the end of the runway. The movement flung Frank from the tail onto the grass-covered shoulder.

Getting to his feet, dazed but unhurt, he watched helplessly as the plane headed down the runway. In a moment it had left the ground and was soaring upward.

“Quick!” Frank shouted as he ran to meet Jack Wayne and the others. “Let’s follow them!”

“You okay?” Joe asked.

When Frank said Yes, the four pursuers leaped into the Hardy plane and quickly took off. Ahead, Joe caught a glimpse of reflected sunlight flashing from the helioplane’s metal wings.

“There it is!” he yelled.

Jack rammed the throttle ahead as far as it would go. He climbed rapidly above the altitude of the fugitives, then dived to get extra airspeed. The maneuver began to close the distance between the two craft.

“We’re gaining on it!” Joe observed.

Chet pointed to the right wing of their own plane. “Look!” he yelled. “The fuel cap is loose!”

“On the left wing, too!” Joe shouted. By now both caps were vibrating furiously.

“That can’t be,” Jack Wayne insisted. “I checked them myself after I refueled!”

“This must be Vordo’s doing!” Frank surmised.

The next moment the two caps came loose and fluttered in the wind on the small chains which held them to the tanks. Instantly the slipstream began to drag fuel from the wings. As two gossamer-like columns sailed off into the distance behind them, Jack Wayne applied hard aileron and rudder and turned back to the airport.

“I’m landing!” he said. “We’re losing every drop of gas. I just hope a spark from the engine exhaust doesn’t ignite that trail of fuel, or we’re goners!”

Tensely the boys watched gallon after gallon of high octane spray from the open tanks.

“How long will she keep running?” Frank asked anxiously.

“I don’t know!” Jack replied. “But by the look of our fuel gauges—not long!”

Finally the airport came into view. Jack entered the traffic pattern just as their tanks ran dry. Starved of fuel, the engines sputtered, then quit completely. Fortunately, the plane was high enough to glide safely to the field.

“Whew!” Chet murmured as the wheels touched down lightly. “That’s the closest I’ve ever come to being barbecued.”

Jack grinned. “I was once told that flying involves long hours of boredom, interrupted by moments of extreme fright.” He took a deep breath. “This was one of those moments.”

“No use trying to go back up after the helioplane,” Frank said disconsolately.

He telephoned Kenneth Dell at Great Circle Airways and told him of Burly Wilkes’ capture and their father’s escape.

“I learned about it yesterday,” Dell replied. “In fact, your father was in contact with me.”

“What!” Frank said excitedly. “You talked to Dad?”

“Yes. I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t know where to get in touch.”

“But he escaped over five days ago,” Frank said. “Why didn’t he let us know? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Dell assured him. “However, I don’t know where he is. He wants his whereabouts kept secret. Said he’d explain everything later and asked me to inform your mother, which I did.”

Dell added that he had an important assignment for the boys, and would like to meet them at their home in Bayport the next day.

“Thanks,” Frank said. “See you tomorrow.”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were overjoyed to see Frank and Joe that evening. But they were worried that Mr. Hardy was keeping his whereabouts a mystery.

“He’s probably traveling incognito and in disguise,” Aunt Gertrude said.

Thoroughly exhausted by their recent adventures, the boys went to bed shortly after dinner. The next morning they enjoyed a hearty breakfast of wheatcakes and sausages, then adjourned to their father’s study. Kenneth Dell arrived shortly and joined the boys in the upstairs room.

“Well, I suppose you want to hear the assignment?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes,” the boys replied, and Frank added, “What’s your plan for us, Mr. Dell?”

“How would you like to fly to Scotland?”

The query caught the young detectives by surprise. “Scotland?” Joe echoed incredulously.

“That’s right.” Dell rose from his chair and began to pace the floor slowly.

“Two days ago I called Scotland Yard. They told me there have been several remarkably clever jewel thefts lately in Scotland. Each of them oc curred on a day when the steward Timken was over there. The Yard checked and learned that he had visited Hexton’s castle on those days.

“So we were right,” said Frank “He is one of the gang.”

“Yes, but as usual there is no usable evidence.”

“If only Frank and I could get inside that castle,” said Joe, “we could get the goods on both the UGLI operation and the robbery ring.”

“That’s exactly the idea,” said Dell. “My airline is cooperating with the Scottish police and Inspector Clyde of Scotland Yard. I want you to go over as my operatives.”

“We’d sure like to take a crack at it!” Frank declared.

“What about SKOOL?” Joe asked.

Dell shook his head. “No sale. They’re going straight for Hexton himself and they’re sure he’s not at the castle just now.”

“Have the authorities over there made any progress on the thefts?” Joe questioned.

“So far, they haven’t turned up any evidence incriminating Hexton. One police official there will be working with you—Inspector Clyde. He’s a member of the London Metropolitan Police—that’s Scotland Yard, you know.”

The boys nodded.

“Clyde is on special assignment in Scotland to see what he can dig up on our magician friend.”

“When do you want us to leave?” Frank asked.

“One of our planes departs day after tomorrow.”

“We’ll be ready!” Frank promised.

“And by the way,” the security chief added, “if you’d like to bring your friend Chet—”

“A herd of elephants couldn’t stop him from coming!” Joe put in.

Dell said he would meet the boys at the Great Circle base for a final briefing the day of the flight. He then wished them luck and left.

Brimming with excitement, Joe phoned the news to Chet. “A castle in Scotland!” their chum exclaimed. “Wow!”

“Maybe we can find another magic silver bowl for you,” Joe said jokingly. “One that works.”

“Aw, come on,” Chet protested. Then he perked up. “But wait till you see some of my new tricks!”

“We’ll see them when we get back,” Frank advised him. “Right now we’d better think about packing.”

“You fellows just don’t have any appreciation of my uncanny skill,” Chet said and hung up.

Mrs. Hardy’s and Aunt Gertrude’s reactions to the coming trip were quite different. “Scotland!” the boys’ aunt exclaimed. “First your father decides to play hide-and-seek, now you two want to go traipsing into danger on the other side of the Atlantic!”

Mrs. Hardy looked at her sons with a worried smile. “You know you have my permission. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course we will,” Frank and Joe assured her.

After supper they began preparations for their trip. Frank had just brought suitcases from the attic when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

“Are you Frank Hardy?” a man asked.

“That’s right.”

“I’ve got to see you.” There was a note of urgency in the caller’s voice. “It’s important.”

“First, suppose you tell me who you are,” Frank said.

“I’m Stan Mazer, pilot of the helioplane!” was the astounding answer.

CHAPTER XII

A Startling Welcome

AMAZED and perplexed by the call, the Hardys agreed to meet the helioplane pilot the following day at their home.

“Why should he want to come here?” Joe asked. “If he’s an UGLI agent, you’d think this is the last place he’d visit.”

“It’s sure strange,” Frank agreed. “I can’t wait to hear what he has to say. In any case, I think we should notify Dell to have him followed when he leaves here.”

“Right.” Joe telephoned the SKOOL man.

Late the following morning Stan Mazer arrived at the Hardy home. He was a middle-aged man, of medium height and slender build, and had a troubled expression.

“I’m Mazer,” he announced.

The Hardys led him into the living room and they all sat down.

“You’re the pilot of Hexton’s helioplane?” Frank asked.

“That’s right,” Mazer answered. “I was hired about two months ago.” He shifted nervously in his chair. “I needed a job so badly I snapped it up without question. But I didn’t know it was connected with anything illegal.”

“Weren’t you ever suspicious?” Joe asked.

“Yes, from time to time, but I wasn’t sure. Actually I closed my mind to the whole situation until you tried to stop my take-off.”

“It was a pretty unnerving experience,” Frank said dryly.

Mazer apologized. “I didn’t know you were clinging to the tail until you were thrown clear,” he explained. “I wanted to get out and help you, but Vordo forced me to take off.”

“What about the day we chased you and Timken?” Joe said. “You turned right into us. We nearly collided!”

“I didn’t know that was you,” Mazer said, surprised. “I thought it was some hot-shot pilot wanting to play games. I pulled that maneuver hoping I’d throw a scare into him. Sorry.”

When Frank asked Mazer where he had taken Vordo and his cohorts, the pilot replied, “To a large airport near New York City. When we landed, Vordo and his companions deplaned and disappeared—I had no idea where.”

Mazer said that while he was parking the helioplane, he was confronted by a Federal agent, who told him that all FAA offices had been alerted to be on the lookout for the aircraft. To his surprise, the registration papers turned out to have been obtained under a fictitious name and address.

“The agent immediately impounded the plane,” Mazer said, “and my pilot’s license was revoked pending a hearing.”

The Hardys asked him if he knew anything about their father’s being kidnapped.

“I know nothing about that,” he insisted, “although I did suspect something strange was going on in the lighthouse.”

“In what way?” Joe asked.

“I was never allowed to enter,” the pilot answered, “or even to remain long on the islet after delivering my passengers.”

Frank pretended to be suspicious of the story. “Are you going to tell us you don’t belong to the same secret criminal organization Hexton does? He wouldn’t let you work for him if you didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Mazer asked, and his amazement seemed genuine. “I never heard about any criminal organization and I’m certainly not a member!”

Joe asked him, “How did you learn who we are, and where to contact us?”

“Vordo mentioned your names during my last flight,” Mazer replied. “He said you’re smart detectives.”

Frank looked at the pilot searchingly. “What made you decide to come here and tell us all this?”

Mazer appeared harried. “After what happened at the airport, I knew I’d become involved in something that would get me into deep trouble,” he confessed. “I thought if I told you fellows what I know, you’d help me.”

Frank and Joe sensed that the pilot was being honest, and a slight nod between them said, “He’s okay.” They promised to do what they could and advised Mazer to repeat his story to Kenneth Dell.

“I’ll do it at once,” he said.

When the pilot left, the boys chuckled at the thought of the agent who had been assigned to follow Mazer. “I’d like to see his face when he tails him to Dell’s office,” said Joe.

The Hardys spent the rest of the day packing. Their flight to the Great Circle base was scheduled for the following morning.

Late that afternoon Chet’s bright-yellow jalopy screeched to a halt in front of the Hardy home and the chubby youth leaped out.

“I’m packed and champing at the bit!” he exclaimed as he greeted his friends.

“Good!” Frank said. “How about dinner? Aunt Gertrude’s trying out a new recipe for beef stew.”

“Well—okay, but I’ll have to make it fast. I want to get home in time for supper!”

Chet then assumed a nonchalant air. Strolling slowly around the room, he began to whistle softly. The boys watched as he extended his arms in front of him, then clenched his left hand into a fist. From it, with his right hand, he drew out a vivid purple silk scarf, followed by a train of varicolored kerchiefs.

“Bravo!” Joe said, clapping loudly.

“Great trick, eh? I thought you’d like it.”

When the last scarf refused to come out, however, Chet became aggravated. “What’s the matter with this thing?” He tugged on it violently.

“Something go wrong?” Joe needled.

Suddenly the kerchief pulled free and dragged the lining of Chet’s jacket sleeve along with it. A small black container was revealed. From it popped a metal spring which shot through the air, then bounced around the floor like a grasshopper.

“So that’s where all those scarfs came from,” Frank said. He tried not to laugh.

Chet whipped off his jacket and frantically stuffed the lining back into the sleeve. As he chased the bouncing spring around the room, the Hardys burst into howls of laughter.

“You fellows are a jinx when it comes to my magic tricks,” Chet said indignantly.

“Maybe Hexton will give you a few pointers when we get to his castle,” Joe teased.

By the time Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude announced dinner, Chet had regained his composure. He had a second helping of dessert, then decided he must leave.

“Thanks for the delicious meal,” he said.

Chet slowly rose from the dinner table. He stuffed the string of silk kerchiefs into his pocket and lumbered out to his jalopy.

The next day Frank and Joe said good-by to their mother and Aunt Gertrude, then drove off. They picked up Chet and went directly to the Bayport field. Jack Wayne was already warming up the engines when they arrived.

Tossing their luggage into the plane’s baggage compartment, the boys climbed aboard and strapped themselves into their seats. Minutes later they were streaking down the runway on take-off.

Kenneth Dell was waiting for them at Great Circle’s base. He gave a long briefing, then at six P.M. led the boys to the plane that was to whisk them overnight to Scotland. Chet and the Hardys took their seats with the other passengers. Soon the sleek jetliner roared down the runway, lifted off, and headed over the Atlantic.

After a while Chet struck up a conversation with a pretty red-haired stewardess. She managed to keep him amply supplied with food, while he related stories of his long and daring hours in the air.

“I don’t like to boast,” Chet said as he munched on a plateful of cookies, “but I’m going to wake up some morning and find I’ve sprouted wings if I don’t spend more time on the ground.”

Frank and Joe, meanwhile, studied every passenger aboard, occasionally strolling up and down the aisle on the chance they might recognize some member of Hexton’s gang. But nothing seemed to be amiss. Also, no one indicated to the Hardys that he was a SKOOL man.

Suddenly the loudspeaker crackled to life. “This is your captain speaking,” announced a deep voice. “We expect to encounter a cold front in a few minutes. The weather forecast lists it as a weak system, so there should be only light to moderate turbulence. We should be through most of it in forty minutes. Please fasten your seat belts and relax.”

The boys looked out the window. Already the blue sky was beginning to be obscured by wisps of gray clouds. It grew so dark that the cabin lights had to be turned on. The jetliner began to toss jerkily. Chet fell quiet as the stewardess returned to her seat. He stared straight ahead with a blank expression.

“What’s wrong with you?” Frank called across the aisle.

“I—I feel awful,” Chet moaned. Seeing the stout boy’s expression, the Hardys knew he had overeaten.

Chet remained tight-lipped for nearly fifty minutes until the plane came out of the churning clouds and into clear air. By this time he was asleep.

Several hours later the captain announced that the plane was commencing a gradual descent to Prestwick Airport, Scotland. For a moment the jetliner was enveloped in a milky whiteness as it entered a blanket of stratus clouds that stretched for miles north of the Irish Sea.

Frank looked down while the plane descended through the overcast. “That chain of islands over there must be the Hebrides,” he said.

“And look!” Joe added, pointing off in the distance. “There’s Ireland.”

Suddenly Chet snapped alert. “Wh-where are we?” he asked.

“Just coming up on the Scottish coast,” Joe told him. “How do you feel?”

Chet rubbed his eyes. “Oh—okay, I guess,” he answered sleepily. “But never again so much food!”

“Oh no?” Joe grinned.

At seven o’clock Greenwich time, the jetliner’s wheels touched down on the macadam surface of the runway and taxied to the parking ramp.

As the boys walked across the ramp toward the administration building, a shiny black car marked “Police” sped up to them. Seated behind the wheel was a man with a large sweeping mustache and a hat pulled low over his eyes. He rolled down the window and called out, “Are you the Hardys?”

“That’s right,” Frank answered. “And our friend Chet Morton.”

“Inspector Clyde sent me to fetch you chaps. He wants to see you right off. We’ll send for your luggage later.”

“What about customs?” Frank inquired. “We’ve already arranged special clearance,” the driver explained.

Frank, Joe, and Chet squeezed into the back seat. On the floor in front a blanket covered a large package. The car started off with a violent lurch. It sped across the airport ramp, out through an exit, and onto a road leading away from the field.

At that moment the driver yanked off the blanket. A man crouched beneath it straightened up and settled in his seat. The boys were flabbergasted at his sudden appearance.

“Wh-what—?” Frank started to say, when the man turned around and faced them. They gasped.

Vordo!

CHAPTER XIII

Sky Spies

As the boys stared in dismay, the driver pulled off his false mustache and removed his hat. Stony Bleeker!

Vordo looked at the Hardys with contempt. “Insist on poking your noses into our business, hey?” he growled. “We’ll fix you for good!”

Frank realized that the boys could not risk attacking their abductors. The driver would surely lose control of the car and all might be killed. Besides, the men undoubtedly were armed.

Frantically the Hardys searched for a way out of their dilemma. Frank noticed that Bleeker was beginning to drift to the right.

Vordo also saw what was happening. “Get over to the left!” he snapped. “You know they drive on the opposite side of the road here!”

Bleeker swerved the car sharply to correct his mistake. “Sorry,” he said, mopping his forehead. “I keep forgetting we’re not in the U.S.”

“See that you don’t forget again,” Vordo growled, “or the Hardys and their fat friend won’t be the only ones to regret this ride!”

Farther along, the road bent sharply in a hairpin curve. As Bleeker rounded it, he again instinctively favored the right side.

“Get over, you idiot!” Vordo bellowed, seeing a double-decker bus coming head-on.

Bleeker spun the wheel and the car rocked violently. Then, with a splintering crash, it tumbled over on its side! Vordo and Bleeker were thrown clear.

The three boys scrambled dazedly from the vehicle. The bus had stopped a short distance down the road. Its driver and several passengers were running toward them.

“Are you lads all right?” shouted the driver.

“Yes!” Frank called out. He then ran around to the front of the car. “Our men! Where are they?”

One of the passengers pointed off into the distance. “I saw two men disappear over that dune as we ran from the bus.”

The boys gave chase but found no sign of Hexton’s henchmen.

“We’ve let Vordo and Bleeker slip through our fingers again!” Joe said in disgust.

“But we’re free,” Frank reminded him.

“And still in one piece,” Chet observed.

He and the Hardys walked back to the bus. Frank asked the driver to notify the police. Before long, three constables arrived to take the boys’ story and examine the car. They said it was a stock model, rigged up to look like a police car.

“Clever job,” a constable remarked. “I can see how it fooled the airport police.”

He drove the boys back to Prestwick, where they checked through customs. One of the officials, recognizing their names on the passenger manifest, said that an Inspector Clyde had telephoned him shortly before they had landed.

“You’re to meet him at the chief constable’s office in Ianburgh,” he said. “A car has been sent to pick you up.”

The boys thanked him and lugged their suitcases to the front of the terminal, where the car was waiting. This time the driver produced a card to identify himself and the boys got in.

The trip to Ianburgh took little more than an hour. The visitors were intrigued by the pleasant rolling countryside, dotted with stone and thatch-roofed cottages.

At the chief constable’s office they were greeted by a tall, distinguished-looking man who introduced himself as Inspector Clyde of Scotland Yard.

“My dear chaps,” he said crisply, “I am sorry you have had such a rough reception.” He turned to a stocky man with bristly gray hair and mustache. “This is my colleague, Chief Constable Burns.”

“I’ve had a report on your kidnapping, of course,” said the constable as he shook hands. “It was a daring trick. I think this gang has the wind up.”

“They’re scared,” Frank agreed. “And that makes them more dangerous. But it doesn’t matter. Through Hexton we might be able to identify the other members of UGLI and break the whole organization. But first we must get the goods on Hexton.”

“That we must,” Clyde said grimly. “UGLI has secret eyes and ears in every country of the world.”

Burns nodded. “The jewel robberies are big-and very cleverly done—but they are nothing compared to the international danger.”

“Will you be in charge of the investigation in Scotland?” Frank asked the inspector.

“Not officially,” Clyde replied. “I have been invited to cooperate with the Scottish authorities.”

The chief constable smiled at the boys. “Scotland Yard is tops, you know. Local authorities are often pleased to have them lend a hand.”

“There’s something that has always puzzled me,” Chet interrupted. “How come Scotland Yard isn’t in Scotland?”

“Many years ago—in 1829 to be exact,” the inspector explained, “a police station and office were set up in a private house at Number 4 Whitehall Place in London. The rear of the house opened onto a court named Scotland Yard because it was part of the palace grounds where the kings and queens of Scotland lodged when they visited the English Court in medieval times.”

Frank was eager to return to the case. “Inspector Clyde,” he said, “Joe and Chet and I would like to try to get into Hexton’s castle.”

“Good boys,” said Clyde. “Dell told me you suggested it.”

“Where is the place?” Joe asked.

Chief Constable Burns unfolded a map on his desk and the boys leaned over to study it. “About one hundred miles north of Ianburgh.” He put his blunt finger down on a spot. “There it is. A huge stone fortress, set deep within a private park surrounded by miles of high iron fence.”

Joe grinned. “Sounds like fun, getting in.”

“Actually,” said Clyde, “since the gang have impersonated officers and attempted kidnapping, we have a right to go there and demand entrance. But it would be defeating our purpose.”

Frank nodded. “Yes. Vordo and Bleeker have sounded the alarm by now. Besides, by the time you got through the gates and up to the castle, every bit of evidence would be well hidden.”

“It’ll have to be an undercover job,” Joe agreed.

“Maybe we could start by spying on it from the air,” Frank suggested.

“Capital idea!” the inspector said.

“I know exactly the man who can help you,” said Burns. “Aaron McHugh. He’s an excellent pilot.”

The chief constable said McHugh flew in the vicinity of Hexton’s castle on a charter to the Hebrides, so the sight of his plane in the area would not be likely to arouse the suspicion of the magician and his men.

After leaving the constable’s office, the boys went to their hotel and registered, then had showers, food, and several hours of rest.

That afternoon they were introduced to Aaron McHugh, a middle-aged man with a jutting square jaw and a crop of wiry brown hair that sprang out from his head.

The pilot was unusual looking, but his plane, which he used to haul cargo, was even more so. The boys were surprised and amused to see a metal-covered, trimotored craft with unusually thick wings and a system of exposed control cables that stretched back to the tail. Although the craft appeared antiquated, McHugh assured them that it was as durable and reliable as the day it was built.

“My tin bird is no’ ver’ fast, lads,” he explained, “but it’s a splendid workhorse.”

Frank decided that they should waste no time in getting their first look at Hexton’s castle.

“Chet, Joe,” he said, “got your binoculars and cameras?”

“Righto,” Chet replied.

Joe grinned and slapped the leather case slung over his shoulder. It also contained the Hardys’ high-power photographic equipment.

The trio climbed aboard the plane and sat down on the floor. McHugh fired up the three engines. The craft lumbered along during the initial take-off run, then began to bounce lightly across the rough turf runway.

Soon it lifted off the ground and started to climb slowly, like a tired bird. When McHugh felt he had sufficient altitude, he tapped the various instruments on the panel with his finger to make sure none of the dials were sticking and giving false indications.

“We have a wee bit of a headwind,” he announced, “so it will take about an hour to reach our destination.”

The boys enjoyed the flight as they gazed down at the craggy landscape of the Scottish coast. As McHugh had estimated, nearly an hour elapsed before he pointed ahead.

“There it is!”

He adjusted his course, then rolled the plane into a shallow bank to give the boys a better look. Far below was the large stone castle. Its sturdy gray battlements were sharply defined from an altitude of three thousand feet.

“It must be centuries old,” Joe observed.

“About the eleventh century,” McHugh said.

Chet exclaimed, “It has a moat, too, just like in the history books, but there’s no water!”

“Nowadays, with planes,” said their pilot, “a moat of water isn’t much protection.”

Frank asked McHugh to circle the castle without getting too close. Using binoculars, they peered down. Frank observed that the castle was on high ground, without trees or shrubbery, and noted that it would be impossible to approach it on foot without being seen.

Joe extracted a camera, attached a telephoto lens, and clicked off one frame after another. Presently his viewer picked up two men on the castle wall.

“Oh-oh!” he exclaimed. “We’d better get out of here. I think we’ve been spotted.”

McHugh turned the plane back toward Ianburgh. When the craft landed, the Hardys hurried to the police darkroom to develop their photographs. To their disappointment, the glare of the sun on the plane’s window had obscured a clear view of the castle.

“Rotten luck!” Joe exclaimed.

“We’ll take another crack at it,” Frank said.

He suggested that in order to avoid arousing suspicion, this should be done during one of McHugh’s regular charter flights.

“Tomorrow morning I’m taking a load of feed to the sheep raisers near Stornaway in the Hebrides,” the pilot told them. “Come along.”

Shortly after dawn, McHugh and the boys again boarded the plane. Its fuselage was crammed with feed bags, and the three passengers had to worm their way to separate spots near the windows. The pilot started the engines and taxied out for take-off.

Without warning, a man appeared from behind a stack of feed bags and darted for the passenger door. Frank grabbed him and uttered a cry of surprise when he recognized the intruder’s face. Timken, the Great Circle’s steward! UGLI spying again!

“Let me out!” Timken shouted frantically. “I want to get off! You hear me?”

“I’m not deaf,” Frank said, pinioning the man against one of the sacks. “Why are you here?”

As he spoke, the plane lifted. “We’re already airborne,” Frank continued. “I wouldn’t suggest your taking a walk just now!”

With a snarl, Timken thrust his feet against the cabin wall and broke Frank’s grip. He grabbed a feed bag and threw it at the boy, knocking him to the floor. But Frank sprang up and leaped at his attacker. Timken threw a punch, which Frank ducked. He got off a hard counterblow, catching the man squarely on the chin. The steward fell, unconscious.

“Joe, Chet!” Frank called out over the roar of the engine. “Lookee here! We have company!”

The boys climbed over the sacks.

“Timken!” Joe cried as he gazed in amazement at the man on the floor.

“Right.”

“What’s he doing here?” Chet asked.

“I don’t know,” Frank answered. “But we’ll sure find out when he comes to!”

They tied up their unexpected passenger, then tried to revive him. Several minutes elapsed before Timken regained consciousness. When he realized he was still in the plane, he became panic-stricken. “How long have we been in the air?” he screamed.

“Why do you want to know?” Frank retorted.

“Quick! Tell me!” The steward’s face turned pale with fear.

Frank glanced at his watch. “Ten ... maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Let me out of here!” Timken screeched. “You’ve got to land this plane, or we’ll all be killed! There’s a bomb aboard!”

CHAPTER XIV

Nerves of Steel

“A BOMB!” Frank shouted frantically.

“That’s right!” the steward cried.

“Where is it?” Frank demanded, shaking Timken violently.

“In the nacelle of the left engine! You can’t reach it!”

Frank dashed to the pilot’s compartment to tell McHugh, who looked out his window at the stretch of rocky coastline below. “I no’ can land in this area, lad!” he said grimly.

“But we have only minutes!” Frank looked out at the cowled engine, located beneath the left wing. “There’s just one thing to do!”

“What’s that?” the pilot asked.

“Climb out on the strut and try to reach that engine nacelle. I’ll do it.”

“But I no’ have any parachutes aboard,” McHugh told him. “The slipstream might pull ye off the strut!”

“I must take that chance,” Frank declared, “or we’re goners!”

He went back to Timken. Seizing the steward by his collar, Frank pulled him to his feet. “Exactly where in the engine nacelle did you place the bomb?” he demanded.

“I ... I put it just inside the access door to the oil-filler cap!” Timken stammered. “But it’s too late! There’s nothing you can do!”

Frank grabbed a screwdriver from the pilot’s tool kit and slipped it in a pocket. He asked Joe and Chet to help him kick out the window located directly above the strut leading to the left engine.

As the boys kicked with all their might, the window cracked in several places, then shattered and disappeared below. The thunderous roar of the slipstream echoed through the interior of the fuselage.

Frank squeezed his body out the window. Hooking his legs around the strut, he pushed himself away. The force of the slipstream felt like the hand of some vengeful giant trying to hurl him off into space.

Frank, crouching low, locked his arms about the strut. He then proceeded to shimmy, at a painfully slow rate, toward the engine nacelle. Drawing closer, he moved into the area of the propeller blast and the engine exhausts. The sound was deafening, and the fumes and heat stifled him. However, they made him insensitive to the fact that he was hanging thousands of feet above the ground. Once Frank almost lost his grip.

McHugh reduced power on the right engine in an effort to ease Frank’s ordeal. Joe and Chet watched anxiously, their nerves stretched almost to the breaking point.

Frank tightened his grip on the strut with one hand. With the other he took out the screwdriver and reached for the Dzus fasteners which secured the small aluminum access door on the nacelle.

The wind lashed against his outstretched arm, but he continued to probe for the fasteners. Finally the door loosened. It popped open and flapped violently.

Frank reached in through the opening and desperately felt for the bomb. Nothing! He stretched his arm in farther, his efforts becoming more frantic as his strength began to ebb. Then his hand felt something cylindrical in shape and about the size of a flashlight. Frank locked his fingers around the object and slowly drew it out. There was a small timing device at one end, revealing that the bomb had only seconds to run!

Now to get rid of it!

Looking down, Frank saw that they were still flying over a desolate stretch of coast. He flung the bomb from him and watched it hurtle down and behind the plane. It was almost out of sight when a white-and-black puff of smoke appeared. Seconds later the faint, thudding sound of an explosion could be heard.

Frank slowly worked his way back to the window and with the help of Joe and Chet dragged himself inside. Exhausted, he slumped to the floor.

“Whew!” Joe exclaimed. “That was close!”

“You can say that again,” Frank said shakily. “Another ten or twenty seconds and it would have taken searchers a year to pick up the pieces.”

“That was a brave deed, lad!” McHugh shouted from the cockpit. “And I’m grateful to ye for saving my ship! Do you want to go back to Ianburgh with your prisoner?”

“No,” Frank replied. “Let’s continue with the flight as planned. Timken isn’t going to give us any trouble.”

The boys returned to Timken. Joe asked, “Who put you up to this?”

“I didn’t want to plant the bomb in your plane,” Timken muttered, “but Vordo ...”The UGLI assistant stopped short. Obviously their prisoner was fearful of what might happen to him if he talked.

“And Vordo got his instructions from Hexton, didn’t he?” Frank pressed.

Beads of perspiration oozed from the steward’s

The pilot reduced power to ease Frank’s ordeal forehead. “I don’t know! Vordo threatened me. I had to do it!”

“When did you and the others arrive in Scotland?” Joe questioned.

“The day after you tried to stop our take-off in the helioplane,” Timken answered. “While we were at an airport near New York City, the plane was impounded by a Federal agent. When I told Vordo and Bleeker, they decided to get out of the country right away.”

The steward’s answer confirmed what Mazer, the pilot of the helioplane, had told the Hardys.

“Besides the pilot, there were four men that day,” Joe said. “Who was the fourth?”

“One of Hexton’s cronies. A guy named Arnold.”

“Is he a spy for UGLI?” Frank snapped.

Timken jumped. “You know about—” The steward caught himself. “I won’t talk to you lunks. I’ve said too much already!”

Joe spoke up. “Don’t get so nasty, Timken. You forget that my brother saved your life. What kind of gratitude is this?”

Still no reply.

“Listen, buddy,” Joe continued, “you know you’re going to prison for trying to kill the rest of us. You might get a lighter sentence if you answer a few questions. For instance, what was your racket on the Great Circle flights?”

“I won’t squeal!” Timken shouted, and clamped his lips together.

Joe shrugged. “Have it your way.” The boys left their prisoner.

The plane landed at Stornaway and was quickly unloaded. After a conference, McHugh and the boys decided to return the UGLI agent to Ianburgh. On the return trip the pilot adjusted his course so the boys could take more aerial shots of Hexton’s castle.

Back in Ianburgh, the Hardys handed their prisoner over to the chief constable, who was thunderstruck at the bomb story. He then let them develop their latest photographs. Frank spread the prints out on a table and they all scrutinized them closely. But the pictures revealed no clues.

“The ground around the castle is as clean as a whistle,” Joe observed. “We couldn’t possibly sneak up on the place without being seen.”

“What about climbing up the surrounding wall?” Chet suggested. “Robin Hood used to do it all the time.”

“Not a bad idea.” Joe grinned. “But it brings us back to the original problem. How do we get inside the fence and up to the wall without being seen?”

Frank’s brow creased in contemplation. “I’m afraid this is a tough one.” He signed. “Whatever plan we come up with will have to be pretty far out.”

At that moment Inspector Clyde arrived. He carried a long, slim black umbrella, which he hooked to the coat rack when he entered the room.

“Ah, there you are,” the inspector said. “I have some interesting news for you chaps. Mr. Dell telephoned from the States while you were gone. He’s leaving for Scotland immediately. Something very important and highly secret has come up!”

CHAPTER XV

A Furious Scot

DELL arrived in Ianburgh that same night and met the boys at the chief constable’s office. There Inspector Clyde ushered them into the interrogation room and the young sleuths told about the capture of Timken.

“Great work!” the security chief exclaimed. “I’ll want to question him myself before I go back to the States.”

When Clyde left the room, Frank said, “I understand something important has come up on your end, too.”

“Yes,” Dell replied. “Our investigation has turned up a very interesting lead. Timken has been spending a lot of time with another Great Circle steward named Ross. We checked him out thoroughly and learned that he had a record for petty theft under another name. We suspect he’s part of the Hexton-UGLI setup, but that he and Timken were working together.”

“You mean they were double-crossing Hexton?” Joe asked.

“Yes. I doubt if Hexton would dispose of stolen goods in the clumsy way Timken has been doing.”

“I see,” said Frank. “These two manage to hold out a diamond here and there from the gang’s robberies, then sell them.”

“Right. We could pick Ross up on suspicion, of course. But I’d rather give him a little rope. Maybe we’ll get a stronger case on him. Catching him first might make it easier to get Hexton.”

“Where do we fit in?” Chet spoke up a bit fearfully.

Dell smiled. “Your assignment is to make a trip to the United States on our Flight 101. Ross will be steward. Use assumed names and occupations on the plane. Watch Ross and see if you can pick up any leads for SKOOL.”

Joe grinned. “I’ll feel like a secret agent on Flight 101!”

When Clyde returned, the Hardys told Dell about their aerial reconnaissance of Hexton’s castle and of their efforts to think of some way to get inside.

The security chief laughed. “Sounds tough! But I’m betting on you.” Dell told them that the next Flight 101 trip from Prestwick to New York was scheduled to depart in forty-eight hours.

“We’ll have time to make another flight to the castle before we leave,” Frank said. “I wonder if McHugh—”

Just then the telephone rang and the inspector picked up the receiver. “Hello. Inspector Clyde here! ... Oh, it’s you McHugh.... What? ... Good heavens! That’s incredible, I must say. Yes! The boys and I will start for the airport straight off!”

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“Somebody has cut the external control cables on McHugh’s plane,” he answered. “He wants to see us right away.”

While Dell stayed behind, the inspector and the boys leaped into a police car and drove to the field. McHugh, in a furious mood, stood glowering beside his plane.

“Can you no’ find the brigand who did this?” he shouted. “I’d like to get my hands on him! Here! Look at these!”

The boys examined the severed control cables, which dangled loosely from their connections at the tail and at the point where they entered the cockpit.

“Gee,” Chet remarked, “they’re cut clean in half.”

“When did this happen?” Frank asked.

“It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes ago,” McHugh replied. “While I was at the plane, I was told there was a telephone call for me in the office, so I went there. But no one was on the other end of the line. When I came back here, I found the cables cut!”

“Obviously the call was a trick to lure you away from your plane,” Frank observed.

Just then there were sounds of a loud commotion in the airport office. McHugh hurried toward the building, followed by the others.

When they entered, an aircraft mechanic was clutching a stocky man by the arm. Another man, who McHugh said was the airport manager, was questioning the stranger.

“What’s going on here?” Inspector Clyde demanded. “I’m with the chief constable’s office!”

“I found this fellow going through my clothes locker,” the mechanic said. “And look at what he was carrying!” He held up an oversized pair of scissors.

“Those are metal cutters,” McHugh stormed. “So this is the brigand who cut my cables!”

“I didn’t cut anything!” the man growled.

“Let me at him!” McHugh bellowed, and started to roll up his shirt sleeves.

“Calm yourself!” the inspector ordered. He turned to the man. “What were you doing at the locker?”

“It was open. I thought I’d look around. That’s all!”

“What about these cutters?”

“I found ’em! Besides, is there any law against carrying metal cutters?”

The boys gazed at the man. There was something familiar about him, Frank thought, but he could not recall where he had seen him before.

Inspector Clyde demanded that the stranger show him some identification. The man hesitated. Then he pulled a wallet from his pocket and handed it to the inspector. It contained an international driver’s license in the name of Karl Arnold.

“Arnold!” Frank exchanged a quick glance with Joe. “The man Timken said was the fourth passenger in the helioplane the day I tried to stop its take-off!” he said to himself. Aloud he exclaimed, “You’re one of Hexton’s men!”

“Hexton? Never heard of him,” the man insisted.

“Don’t lie to us!” Joe snapped. “We know who you are!”

“You’ve got me mixed up with somebody else,” Arnold retorted with a smirk.

“Let me shake it out of him!” McHugh bellowed.

The boys urged the pilot to relax. Then they suggested that Arnold be taken back to the chief constable’s office to have Timken identify him. The inspector agreed to do this.

Arnold seemed unconcerned as they returned to Ianburgh. When they reached the office, they found Dell questioning Timken in the interrogation room. The steward was visibly startled when he saw Arnold.

“We ran across one of your friends at the airport,” Frank announced.

Timken was obviously nervous. “Friend?” he said shakily. “What friend?”

“This man right here,” Frank replied sharply, pointing to Arnold.

“Why—I—I never saw him before,” the steward insisted. “I don’t know him.”

“Stop playing games!” Joe ordered angrily. “This man is Karl Arnold. You told us about him!”

Arnold’s face flushed with anger, but he said nothing.

“That was somebody else,” Timken said. “I’ve never seen this man before.”

“Satisfied?” Arnold said indignantly. “Now, if that’s all, I’ll leave!” He turned and stormed out of the room.

“But we can’t let him go!” Joe protested.

“I’m afraid we must.” The inspector sighed. “We haven’t any evidence to hold him on, but we’ll keep track of him.”

“The inspector’s right,” Frank assured his brother. “We have no witnesses who saw him cut the control cables. And there is no law against rrying wire cutters. If he’d resisted the temptation to ransack the employees’ lockers, he’d have got away altogether.”

Dell looked discouraged as he and the boys left the interrogation room. “I didn’t have much luck, either,” he remarked. “Timken wouldn’t tell me anything more than he told you.”

“I suppose it’s a pledge the UGLI men take,” Frank said. “Besides, Timken is afraid of Hexton. That’s why he wouldn’t identify Arnold.”

Minutes later, McHugh stalked into the chief constable’s office. “I hope you have that Arnold fellow in jail!” he declared.

“We had to let him go,” Frank admitted.

“What!” the pilot exclaimed. “Why, he’s as guilty as a witch!”

“You don’t have to tell us,” Joe murmured.

“Can you repair the control cables?” Frank inquired.

“No,” McHugh replied. “A new set will have to be made up special. It’ll take two or three days before my tin bird will be flying again.”

“Well,” Frank said, “that washes out our plan for another reconnaissance flight before our trip. We’ll have to wait until we get back.”

The next day Dell, wishing the boys luck, returned to New York. The following morning the Hardys and Chet were on their way to Prestwick Airport, enthusiastic about their new assignment and the opportunity to spend a couple of days at home before returning to Scotland. Soon they were winging their way westbound across the Atlantic on Flight 101.

Frank was using the name Bud Richmond and introduced himself to a few passengers as an announcer on station WHOX, meaning to him HOAX.

Joe had chosen to be Larry Walker, a student returning from a hike through Scotland. Throughout the flight, both Hardys kept an eye on the steward Ross. Chet, as a pro-football player named Chuck Brown, spent most of his time in the galley getting lemonade and asking Ross a hundred unimportant questions.

He was always being interrupted by a whiskered old man wearing dark glasses, who was seated near the galley. From time to time both the steward and stewardess had to assure him that the wings were not bending off, that the engines were not about to catch fire, and they were sorry that the tea they had served was weak.

The only incident out of the ordinary occurred after landing at Great Circle’s base. The elderly man accidentally tripped Ross with his cane while disembarking from the plane. The steward fell flat in the doorway and the old man leaned down to help him up.

“So sorry,” he said in a high, quavering voice. The boys had arranged to have Jack Wayne meet them, and after clearing customs, were soon on their way to Bayport. They were sorry not to have picked up any clues for SKOOL, but assumed Ross would be shadowed by agents.

The Hardys dropped Chet off at his farm, then drove quickly to their home. “Hello!” Mrs. Hardy cried out, and hugged her sons. “Did you see your dad?”

“No, Mother.”

“He phoned a few minutes ago but didn’t say where he’s going. He’s all right, though.”

“Where did he phone from?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You two boys look peaked,” Aunt Gertrude spoke up, “but a few home-cooked meals will remedy that.”

“It’s good to be back,” Frank declared.

The two women showed their disappointment when they heard that Frank and Joe would be returning to Scotland so soon.

“But we’re sure eager for a shower and some American chow!” Joe said, grabbing the boys’ two suitcases and bounding up the stairs. He set his bag on the bed and opened it to get a clean shirt.

“Hey! What’s this?” he exclaimed, and picked up a carelessly hand-printed note from the top of his shirts. It read:

YOUR FATHER WARNS BE CAREFUL. GAME IS VERY DANGEROUS.

CHAPTER XVI

Secret Compartment

“But who could have written this note and put it in your bag?” Frank exclaimed. “Didn’t you lock it?”

“No, I never do.” Joe looked at the message. “Maybe Hexton found out about our assignment, and had one of his UGLI men plant the note to throw us off the track.”

Joe nodded. “And I bet I know when. At Prestwick the porter put our bags on his cart with a lot of other luggage, but then he went away for a while and the cart stood unattended.”

Frank shrugged. “But what could Hexton possibly hope to gain? He knew it wouldn’t stop us and we’re aware it’s dangerous.”

Two days later Frank and Joe were again saying good-by to their mother and aunt. They picked up Chet at the Morton farm and headed for the airport, where Jack was waiting to fly them to the Great Circle base.

On the return trip to Scotland, the plane encountered moderate turbulence, but all the passengers took it calmly. The steward proved to be Ross. When he saw them, the man at once became ill at ease.

After the boys took their seats, Joe whispered to Frank, “I wonder if he suspects we’re watching him.”

During the first half of the flight a blond-haired man, wearing dark glasses, sideburns, a small mustache and a beard, made his way down the aisle several times.

“I have a feeling he’s looking us over,” Frank said. “We’d better watch him as well as Ross.”

Nothing suspicious happened during the flight, however, and in the morning the jetliner landed at Prestwick Airport. Frank and Joe made a point of being the last passengers to leave. Chet was just ahead.

While debarking, they all noticed that the steward seemed in a hurry to leave the plane. He ran down the steps after them and shot past. Instantly the man in the dark glasses hurried toward the steward. Ross, seeing him, broke into a run. The passenger sprinted ahead.

“Come on!” Frank exclaimed. “Let’s see what’s up! It could be that passenger is a SKOOL man! Maybe we can help him!”

The boys dashed after the two men, who disappeared around the corner of a hangar. Frank spotted the steward running into the building.

“Chet! Stay outside and cover the exits!” Frank cried. “Joe and I will go in after him!”

The building was filled with aircraft, which made it difficult for the Hardys to spot their quarry.

“Let’s split up,” Frank suggested. “I’ll cover the left side, you take the right.”

The boys separated. As Frank slowly wound his way among the aircraft, he heard a muffled noise and stopped to listen.

Bummf.

There it was again! The young sleuth’s attention focused on a twin-engine plane directly ahead. Cautiously he stalked toward the cabin door. Just as Frank reached it, the door burst open and slammed into the boy’s head with a force that made him cry out and sent him crashing to the floor. Half dazed, Frank looked up to see Ross leap from the craft and dart toward a side exit of the hangar.

“What’s going on?” Joe called as he ran past the closely packed planes to his brother’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay,” Frank replied, getting slowly to his feet. “Just a little dizzy. Quick! Outside! Maybe Chet spotted Ross leaving the hangar!”

As the Hardys dashed from the building, they saw Chet leaning against a low wire fence which enclosed an automobile parking lot. He was breathing hard.

“G-golly, but that guy could run!” the stout youth gasped as the Hardys approached him. He gulped in more air. “He’s faster than a gazelle.”

“You mean the steward?” Joe asked.

“Yes.”

“Where did he go?” Frank queried.

“He jumped the fence into the parking lot and roared off in one of those little foreign sports cars,” Chet answered. He stared at the ground with a sheepish expression, then began to shuffle some pebbles with his foot. “Sorry I goofed, fellows. I was checking the rear of the hangar when Ross zipped from the side exit. He had too much of a head start.”

“That’s okay,” Frank said. “It would take a dozen men to cover a building that size.”

“Hey! And something else!” Chet exclaimed, glancing up. “Just after you two chased inside after the steward, I caught a glimpse of that guy in the dark glasses watching from around a corner of the next hangar.”

“Did you let on that you saw him?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” his chum admitted. “In fact, I started walking toward him and he ducked behind the hangar. I thought of chasing him, but I didn’t want to leave the exits unguarded.”

“It’s funny,” said Frank. “He was chasing the steward, but apparently didn’t try to catch him.”

“That’s not the only mystery,” Joe added. “Chet, we wonder if that passenger is a secret agent from SKOOL. Let’s try to find him and give a sign we’re sort of working second hand for the organization.”

“What kind of sign?” Chet asked.

“Oh, we could talk about school and school rings,” Frank answered.

Chet was enthusiastic at once. “I’d feel a lot safer if I could hook up with a full-fledged SKOOL man.”

The three boys made a thorougn search of the place but failed to find the man. At last they gave up, went through customs, and took a taxi to Ianburgh. When they arrived, they found Inspector Clyde and the chief constable anxiously awaiting them.

“One of the constables was rechecking Timken’s personal effects and he discovered a secret compartment in his wallet,” the inspector explained. “Look what he found there—most extraordinary.”

He handed an envelope to the young sleuths. Inside were a one-way train ticket to Edinburgh and a newspaper clipping. The item was headed:

Nairn Loch Manor to Be Opened to Public

Newly Discovered Jewel Collection on Display

“Nairn Loch Manor? Jewel collection? What’s this about?” Joe asked.

“The Manor is to be maintained by the Scottish Trust as a historical shrine,” Burns explained. “When they began to renovate it a few months ago, a worker discovered a magnificent collection of jewels hidden beneath the floor. It is said they were placed there about four hundred years ago.”

“I remember reading about the discovery in a newspaper back home,” Frank recalled. “The value of the collection is considered second only to the crown jewels in the Tower of London.”

“Precisely,” the inspector replied.

Joe looked at the clipping and train ticket again. “Do you think Hexton and his UGLI men might be planning to steal the collection?”

“I don’t know,” Inspector Clyde admitted. “We have to consider that possibility, of course. But the place will be so heavily guarded that any thieves will be caught.”

“Why would Timken go to Edinburgh by train?” Joe asked. “I should think the thieves would use a car for a quick getaway.”

“Most likely they will,” Frank said. “Maybe Timken was only being sent there to case the place for Hexton.”

“Exactly the conclusion I came to,” Inspector Clyde declared. “Now they’ll have to use someone else.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “Perhaps that’s where Ross was heading.”

“We’ll check,” Clyde told him.

Frank was thoughtful for several seconds, then said, “Probably Hexton, with his sleight-of-hand ability, will do the actual stealing.”

The conversation turned to the reason the boys had come to Scotland—to get into Hexton’s castle.

Inspector Clyde paced the floor in thought. “The question remains, just how do you manage to do that?”

“Perhaps another reconnaissance flight will give us an idea,” Frank suggested. “Let’s alert McHugh.”

“Oh!” Burns said quickly. “He isn’t available at the moment. He’s off ballooning.”

“He’s what?” Joe asked, with a puzzled expression.

“Ballooning,” the chief constable repeated. “McHugh belongs to a club of enthusiasts who go darting about in bags filled with hot air. Jolly good fun, they think, unless they get caught in a tree, or on a church spire. They’re having a race somewhere near Perth.”

“What a ball!” Chet burst out. “I’d like to see that.”

“Hold on!” Frank put in. “That solves our problem. We’ll balloon into Hexton’s castle!”

CHAPTER XVII

Night Attack

INSPECTOR Clyde laughed. “See here, my dear fellow. You’re not serious about ballooning into Hexton’s stronghold, are you?”

“I realize it sounds fantastic,” Frank admitted. “But at least it’s worth discussing with McHugh.”

Joe scratched his head dubiously. “Hexton’s guards are bound to spot a balloon.”

“Maybe not if we drop in at night,” Frank replied.

Chet pointed a determined finger at his friends. “Don’t think you two are going to get me to ride in one of those oversized basketballs!”

Joe grinned. “Okay. Anyway, I don’t believe there’s enough hot air in Scotland to lift you off the ground!”

A little later the boys rented a car and drove to the site of the race. On a grassy plain a few miles west of Perth, more than fifty balloons of all shapes and sizes were preparing for the competitions. Their bright colors and vivid designs gave the scene a touch of the pageantry of a medieval tournament.

“Look at that!” Chet yelled as they walked across the field. He pointed to a balloon displaying the French national colors from its gondola. “What a beauty!”

At the firing of the starting gun, the contestants leaped onto bicycles, sped to their balloons, and jumped into the gondolas. Then the balloons were released from their moorings and sailed across the field. One of them never lifted off the ground; another, the French entry, rose into the air but became snagged in a tree branch.

“Nom d’une pipe!” screamed the flier. “Il est fichu, mon beau ballon!”

“Tough break,” said Joe.

Frank asked one of the club members for McHugh. He learned that the pilot was not racing that day, but was helping another contestant a short distance down the field.

McHugh was surprised to see the boys. Frank told him about the plan for getting into Hexton’s castle.

McHugh chuckled. “So ye want to be invaders?” he teased. “ ’Tis a daring plan ye’ve come up with, lad. And it will no’ be an easy thing to do.”

“Can you get a balloon large enough to carry all of us?” Frank asked.

“Sure. We’ll borrow one from the club.”

“I’m not going,” Chet insisted.

“But we need you for ballast,” Joe said with a grin.

“If we get into Hexton’s castle,” Frank added, “you might see some of his magic equipment!”

“Well—” Chet muttered, weakening. “I guess you’ll need somebody around to keep you two out of trouble.”

After the races, McHugh and the boys returned to McHugh’s apartment in Ianburgh to plan their daring adventure. The pilot examined an aeronautical chart and carefully plotted the position of the castle. He pointed out that their success depended entirely upon the winds and the position from which the balloon was launched.

“I understand a balloon has no directional control,” Joe said.

“That’s not entirely true,” McHugh replied. “Since the wind direction generally changes with altitude, we can get some control by ascending or descending.”

“How do you do that?” Chet questioned.

“By varying the amount of ballast, or weight carried in the form of sandbags,” the pilot explained. “The more ballast dumped overboard, the higher the balloon will go. To descend, we simply release some of the gas from the bag by means of a valve.”

“Just one thing,” Joe put in. “If we manage to reach Hexton’s castle, how do we keep from floating right on past it?”

“By using a length of rope attached to a grapnel,” Frank replied. “We’ll lower it as we approach the castle—and hope it catches somewhere on the wall. This will act as a mooring. Then we can slide down the rope.”

Chet took a deep gulp.

“Obviously,” Frank continued, “we can’t keep the balloon moored there. Hexton’s men would spot it sooner or later. So, after we’re down, we’ll release the grapnel.”

“Then I’ll sail the balloon a short distance away and land,” McHugh added. “With your approval, I’ll ask one of the club members to help us. He can drive the lorry containing the launching equipment and assist in our take-off preparations. Later, he can rendezvous with me at the landing spot.”

The boys thanked McHugh and drove back to Clyde’s office.

“A report that will interest you chaps came in while you were gone,” the inspector said. “An Ianburgh resident said he was involved in a minor automobile accident several hours ago. It happened on a road north of here. According to the report, it was a near head-on collision. Luckily, both drivers jammed on their brakes and merely smashed bumpers.

“This fellow stated that the other driver seemed in a devil of a hurry. He simply backed away and sped off in his sports car.”

“Sports car!” Frank exclaimed. “Did the other driver get its license number?”

“Yes,” the inspector replied. “I’ve checked it out. The car belongs to a chap named Ross.”

“The steward we chased into the hangar!” Joe exclaimed.

“And another thing,” Inspector Clyde said. “The accident occurred not far from Hexton’s castle.”

“I’m not surprised,” Frank mused. “Ross could have been on his way there from Prestwick.”

The boys were eager to get their balloon trip under way. Weather conditions the next night were unsuitable for the venture. But on the following night, McHugh telephoned the Hardys at their hotel room that, in his estimation, conditions were ideal.

“The way I calculate the winds, lads,” he said, “we should take off from a point about five miles southeast of Hexton’s castle. I’m familiar with the area, and know several open fields that will serve our purpose.”

“Good!” Frank replied. “We’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

Frank relayed the message to the other boys and all checked the equipment they would take— miniature tools, two-way radios, and pencil flashlights.

McHugh had telephoned his fellow club member and soon the lorry containing the balloon and launching equipment was at the door. McHugh was in his own car and the young sleuths hopped in with him. About two hours later the pilot pointed to a clearing just off the road.

“There’s a good spot,” he announced.

The boys helped to unload the balloon and set up the equipment to inflate it. Makeshift moorings were established to prevent the craft from floating away. Soon a large, spherical, gas-filled bag was looming over their heads, tugging gently at the mooring lines. McHugh and the boys climbed into the gondola and prepared to launch.

“Aye, the surface winds are very light,” McHugh observed. “That’ll make our attempt to moor at the castle much easier.”

As they rose slowly into the air, Chet watched the ground slip away. “Hey!” he declared with a wide grin. “This isn’t bad at all!”

A half moon in the night sky provided enough illumination for them to distinguish the terrain below. McHugh varied the altitude by dumping ballast and manipulating the gas-relief valve. The balloon altered its track slightly with changes in wind direction.

More than an hour passed, then Joe pointed directly ahead. “There it is!”

The medieval structure, turrets looming skyward, presented a ghostly image in the dim moonlight. As they drew near it, Chet called attention to a far corner of the courtyard.

“Look!” he said. “A light! Seems to be coming from one of the castle windows.”

“No more loud talking,” Frank ordered. “We’re getting close. Help me lower the grapnel line over the side.”

Slowly the balloon drifted toward the castle. The pilot released gas and eased down to a lower altitude. Just then a sharp, metallic sound pierced the night air.

Ping!

“The grapnel just made contact with the castle wall,” Frank observed.

“What’s that?” Chet whispered as he and the Hardys heard a faint scraping sound.

Frank peered over the side of the gondola. “The grapnel is being dragged up the side of the wall,” he murmured. “It isn’t catching hold.”

They floated over the courtyard toward the opposite wall. With a lurch the balloon came to a halt.

“We’ve made it,” Joe whispered excitedly. “The grapnel caught.”

“So far so good,” Frank said tensely. “Now, over the side and down the rope. I’ll go first.”

“Good luck, lad!” the pilot called.

The boys waited for a moment to make certain the coast was clear. Then Frank eased himself over the side of the gondola and got a tight grip on the line. He hung precariously above the ground for an instant, then began to slide down.

Lowering himself gently onto the stone rampart, he peered through the darkness and listened. He then signaled for Joe and Chet to follow. When they were down, they freed the grapnel. The balloon drifted off into the darkness.

The three groped their way along, finally coming to a flight of stone steps. Frank cautiously led his companions down the stairs into the courtyard below.

“There’s the light I spotted from the air,” Chet whispered, pointing across the courtyard.

“And the door right next to it is partially open,” Joe observed.

The boys crept forward slowly until they reached the door. Frank eased it open wider. Peering inside, they saw a long, dimly lighted corridor which extended deep into the castle. It was lined with suits of armor mounted on low, wheeled platforms.

“I don’t see anybody around,” Joe whispered. “Let’s go in.”

At intervals along the corridor were large wooden doors with massive iron hinges. As the young sleuths neared the end, they heard muffled voices coming from a room. Its door was slightly ajar. Slowly they stalked toward it and Frank looked inside.

Clustered around a huge oak table were Hexton, Vordo, Bleeker, Arnold, Ross, and the short twins.

Hexton’s voice carried through the opening. “Now get this straight, Vordo. You all know the layout of Nairn Loch Manor?”

“Every detail,” Vordo replied.

“No mistakes,” Hexton said harshly. “You especially, Bert and Lou.” The twins nodded.

“Then it’s all set,” Hexton said. “Day after tomorrow we’ll have in our hands the most valuable collection of jewels in Scotland!”

Frank stiffened. So Hexton did plan to steal the Nairn Loch collection before it went on display!

The men stood up to leave, their chairs scraping on the stone floor. Instantly Frank motioned Joe and Chet to retreat down the corridor. Chet hesitated before a suit of armor.

“What are you doing?” Joe whispered.

“Getting myself a weapon.” Chet began to tug at a mace.

A metal gauntlet pulled loose and crashed to the stone floor. The sound echoed through the corridor like a burst of thunder. The door creaked open and the men sprang from the room.

“W-why, it’s those snoopers!” Vordo bellowed in surprise.

“Get them!” Hexton commanded.

When the men lunged at the trio, Joe caught Arnold with an uppercut that sent him spinning across the corridor. Frank pushed a suit of armor from its platform, directly into the path of the UGLI men.

“Watch out for Vordo!” he yelled at his brother.

Joe whirled to see Vordo picking up the gauntlet. He flung it at the young sleuth. The heavy object grazed Joe’s head, stunning him.

Meanwhile, Chet was leaping behind one platform after another, pushing suits of armor into the paths of Bleeker and Ross, who were lunging at him. The stout youth grabbed a lance and charged the men.

“Look out!” Bleeker howled.

Chet continued his gallant charge, with Bleeker and Ross running just inches ahead of the point. But the lance proved too cumbersome. The tip lowered to the stone floor, throwing up sparks. Chet stumbled and the two men were quickly upon him.

Arnold, meanwhile, recovered from Joe’s uppercut and ran to help Hexton and Vordo, who were grappling with Frank. Three adversaries proved too much and Frank was finally overpowered.

Joe gradually regained his senses and scrambled to his feet. Hexton glared at them.

“How did you get in here?”

“Figure that out for yourself!” Frank snapped defiantly.

“What now?” Vordo asked Hexton.

The magician’s decision came quickly. “We’ve no time to waste,” he said. “Let’s take these sons of Fenton Hardy and their friend through the secret passageway to my storeroom. We’ll keep them around as insurance—in case we run into any trouble.”

“I’ll go ahead and open the door,” Bleeker volunteered.

The boys were frisked and the tool kits were removed from the secret pockets of their jackets. Their miniature short-wave radios were also taken.

“Leave ‘em their flashlights,” Hexton said, and added with a sardonic chuckle, “It’ll help ’em see what a lot of trouble they got themselves into.”

The three prisoners were prodded along the corridor, then through a camouflaged opening in the wall. Single file, they walked down a long, stone staircase and through a secret passage beyond. The boys could see nothing of their surroundings other than what Vordo’s flashlight picked out of the darkness, but they felt a clammy dampness in the air.

“Here we are,” Hexton said finally.

Directly ahead was a huge iron door. The hinges squeaked as Vordo pulled it open.

“Get in there!” Bleeker growled.

The Hardys and Chet were shoved into a large dungeon-like room. Scattered about were various devices that Hexton had developed for his magic shows.

“We can’t keep ’em here!” Vordo warned. “The lock on this door is so old it won’t work!”

“I know,” Hexton replied. “But I’ve something else in mind.”

He pointed to an oversized trunk, standing on end. It was constructed entirely of heavy steel, and held together with large rivets. Near the base were several air holes.

Hexton removed the three massive padlocks that secured the trunk. “Put them in here,” he ordered. “They’ll never escape from this!”

“You can’t do that!” Joe shouted. “There isn’t enough room!”

“Shut up!” Vordo snarled.

The magician’s cohorts pushed the boys toward the trunk and forced them to step inside.

“This will give you time to regret that you ever thought you could outsmart the Incredible Hexton!” the magician declared, uttering a spine-chilling laugh.

Seconds later the trunk was slammed shut, and the Hardys and Chet were locked in inky blackness!

CHAPTER XVIII

Chet’s Big Assist

“WE’LL never break out of here!” Chet told the Hardys.

“It does look pretty hopeless,” Joe admitted glumly.

“Think!” Frank commanded. “We have to come up with something!”

He and the others took the pencil flashlights from their pockets and played the beams around the small steel prison. They saw no chance of escape.

“Hexton was right,” Frank conceded gloomily.

“Hey!” Chet burst out. “Turn your flashlights this way.”

He began to explore the top and sides of their enclosure. Finally he said, “Hmm. There might be a way out of here—”

“No kidding,” Joe declared. “In case you’re thinking of a magic trick to make us fit through the keyhole, forget it.”

“Nothing short of an acetylene torch can solve our problem,” Frank put in. “These trunk walls must be an inch thick.”

“I know,” Chet said, “but look at those rivets.”

“What about them?”

“The ones along the top,” Chet explained, “are just a bit shinier than those along the sides.”

The Hardys nodded in agreement.

“Do one of you have a pocketknife?” Chet asked. “Or did the UGLI’s take it?”

“That’s something they missed,” Frank answered. “Here.”

He and Joe looked on quizzically as Chet placed the point of the blade against the edge of a rivet at the top of the trunk. Clenching his fist, he hammered against the end of the knife. After several sharp blows, the rivet turned slightly.

“Eureka!” Chet shouted. “I was right!”

“How about letting us in on whatever you’ve found?” Joe pleaded impatiently.

“The top of this overgrown trunk,” Chet explained, “is attached by false rivets.”

“False rivets?” Frank queried.

“Yes,” his chum replied. “Actually they’re not solid rivets, but are cut through in the middle and threaded so the ends can be screwed together just like a regular nut and bolt.”

The Hardys looked at Chet in amazement. “How did you happen to know about this?” Frank asked.

“When I began to study magic,” Chet replied, “I read a book about famous magicians. A few, like Houdini, were also great escape artists. The book described false rivets as one of the tricks they used.”

Chet continued to pound his fist against the knife. Soon the rivet head was loose enough to turn by hand. After several twists, it came apart.

“This is the hard way of doing it,” Chet said. “The escape artist uses a special wrench which fits over the rivet head. That’s why these are shinier than the others.”

“Boy, your interest in magic really paid off,” Frank remarked with a grin.

“But why would Hexton lock us up in something we could escape from?” Joe asked.

“He never expected any of us to figure it out,” Frank surmised.

By this time Chet had loosened three of the rivet heads. Frank and Joe each took a turn working with the knife. The job was hard and tedious. Several hours passed before the last of the false rivets was unfastened.

Grinning in satisfaction, the boys pushed up against the metal top. It broke free and toppled to the floor with a loud bang. Elated, they quickly scrambled out of the trunk and stretched their aching bodies.

“Great going, Chet,” murmured Joe.

Frank echoed this, then beckoned the others to the door. The lock was, indeed, defective and the boys had no difficulty opening it. They stepped outside into a small vestibule. There they saw the entrances to several passageways.

“Leaping hyenas!” Joe exclaimed. “Which way do we go?”

“Golly!” Chet gasped. “Do you fellows remember which passage Hexton and his men brought us through?”

“I didn’t realize there was more than one,” Frank admitted. “It was too dark to see.”

“This is like a maze.” Joe shook his head in bewilderment.

Using his flashlight, Frank led the others through one of the passageways, up flights of stone steps, through places where the ceiling was so low that they almost had to crawl, then along several sharp turns that completely confused them.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” Chet complained.

“This castle must be honeycombed with secret corridors,” Frank said.

He swept his flashlight beam ahead and saw that the passage branched off in three different directions. They went down the middle one for what seemed like an hour, but could only have been a few minutes. It came to an abrupt end. They were facing a blank wall.

“Now what?” Joe sighed.

“What I wouldn’t give for a road map of this place!” Chet mumbled.

The boys backtracked, then turned down the left passageway. More stone steps led them deeper and deeper inside the cellar of the castle.

Presently Frank stopped short. “Wait a minute,” he ordered. “Do you fellows notice anything?”

“Not me,” Chet said.

“I don’t—Say!” Joe replied. “The air is getting real damp and clammy!”

“Right,” his brother agreed. “Just like it was in the passage to Hexton’s storeroom. Maybe we’re on the right track.”

The boys continued on and made several sharp turns. Frank pointed his flashlight ahead and uttered a cry of dismay. They stood before the iron door to the storeroom, the very same place from which they had started!

At that moment they heard muffled footsteps. Frank snapped off his flash. From a distance, beams of light played across the iron door. The trio flattened themselves against the wall where it angled away from a little alcove.

Frank leaned closer to Joe and Chet. “It must be a couple of UGLI’s to check on us,” he whispered. “Watch where they come from. It’ll have to be the passageway that will lead us out of here.”

The men drew near. Would they see the escaped prisoners? Fortunately the men failed to notice the Hardys and Chet in the darkness and entered the storeroom.

“Hey!” came a shout almost immediately. “They’re gone!”

By this time the boys had dashed down the corridor, along which the men had come.

“There they go!” one of Hexton’s pals yelled. “After ’em!”

Frank, Joe, and Chet had a good head start. They ran as fast as the narrow, winding passageway would permit. Behind them swept the beams from the flashlights of their pursuers.

Ahead, the tunnel forked out into two flights of steps. “Oh no!” Joe cried despairingly. “Which way?”

Frank searched the steps with his flashlight. The ones on the left were more worn. “This way,” he said as the sound of the pounding feet behind them grew louder.

The three boys raced up the long flight of steps and down another corridor, but soon realized that their choice was wrong. The passage ended in a blank wooden wall!

“There must be a way out!” Frank declared. He picked up a loose stone and hammered against the wall. “Listen!” he said. “This wall doesn’t sound solid. It must have a secret panel. Quick! Help me get it open.”

Joe and Chet pushed against the wall with all their strength.

“It won’t budge!” Joe gasped.

The sounds of their pursuers’ approach pounded in their ears. As the trio braced themselves for the oncoming struggle, there was a sudden grinding noise in the wall. They turned to see a panel slowly opening. A man, holding a flashlight, poked his head from behind the secret door. The boys’ eyes widened in astonishment.

Kenneth Dell!

CHAPTER XIX

“Prepare to Ditch!”

“FRANK! Joe! Chet!” Great Circle’s security chief exclaimed.

Behind him in a hallway stood Inspector Clyde. “I say!” he exclaimed. “What are you chaps doing in there?”

Before the three startled boys could reply, their pursuers rushed up. They almost collided as they came to an abrupt halt. Bug-eyed, Hexton’s pals gazed at the lawmen, reinforced by other police. The UGLI’s whirled about and ran back through the passageway.

“Come on!” Frank shouted. “After them!”

The boys rapidly gained on the men. Frank, in the lead, caught the nearest one with a flying tackle. He fell against the pair ahead, causing them to topple like a row of dominoes. There was a brief struggle while Inspector Clyde and several Scottish police officers rushed up to help the boys subdue their captives.

The UGLI men were handcuffed and led away by the police, while Frank, Joe, and Chet followed Dell and the inspector through the open panel into the main hall of the castle. They noticed it was already daylight, and Chet yawned sleepily as the group went to sit down in a huge library.

“We’re amazed to see you, Mr. Dell—and you, Inspector,” Frank said. “How did you get in without being caught?”

“First, let me tell you why I came here,” Dell said. “SKOOL’s work is paying off at last. Frank and Joe, your father has almost single-handedly cracked UGLI’s operations in all European countries except the British Isles, and in the United States.”

“That’s great!” Frank exclaimed.

“It sure is,” Joe added. “And the mystery of the undercover work here is—well, half solved.”

Clyde said that shortly after dawn McHugh had telephoned him, fearful something must have happened to the boys. “I gathered a few constables together and came straight here.”

“Lucky break for us!” Joe remarked.

“At the castle gate,” Clyde continued, “we met a most unsavory-looking character. One of the constables recognized him as a thief wanted by the police in Glasgow. He resisted arrest and ran into the castle. We chased him.”

Clyde told the boys that inside he and the constables had encountered four other men who also resisted arrest. They were Arnold, Ross, and the twins.

“I questioned them,” he said, “but they refused to talk.”

“What about Hexton, Vordo, and Bleeker?” Frank asked.

“Apparently all three got away,” the inspector said. “Tell us, what happened to you?”

Joe briefed the men, then said, “I’ll bet Hexton and the others are on their way to Edinburgh. Last night we overheard them discussing plans to steal the jewels at Nairn Loch Manor before it’s opened to the pub—”

Joe stopped speaking at the sound of a faint hissing and turned abruptly. Then he burst out laughing and pointed to Chet, who had fallen asleep in an easy chair. His hands were folded on his stomach and he snored lightly.

“You all deserve a good sleep,” Dell suggested, but the Hardys were too excited to accept the idea. There were still many questions to be asked.

“How did you find the entrance to the secret passageway?” Frank wanted to know.

Dell replied, “We were starting to search for you when a pounding sound came from the other side of the wall. All of us suspected it might be you signaling for help and hunted for a secret panel. I discovered that by moving the left gauntlet on one of the suits of armor in the main hall, a portion of the wall began to open!”

“And thank goodness,” said Joe. “We thought that wall was the end of the line for us.”

“Somewhere in this castle,” Frank spoke up, “there must be evidence of Hexton’s espionage setup. Have you found it?”

“No,” Dell replied. “Haven’t had time to look.”

“Let’s see if we can find it,” Joe suggested.

No one had the heart to awaken Chet, so they left him. Inspector Clyde offered to investigate the library. Dell and the boys started down the adjoining hall to examine various other rooms.

The Hardys looked into several, but saw nothing to indicate espionage paraphernalia. At the end of the hall, they found themselves facing an enormous faded tapestry.

“Maybe this hides something,” Frank said.

He and Joe slipped behind the hanging and found a large double door which opened inward. As they entered, the Hardys were awed by the vastness of the room. The ceiling arched high above their heads, and lancet windows spilled bright sunlight onto the floor. At one end was a huge map of the world with colored pins stuck in various cities.

“UGLI’s centers of operation!” Frank exclaimed. “If Dad missed any, this will tell him where else to look!”

In the center of the room stood two oak tables. There was an elaborate radio setup on one. Joe whistled. “Powerful baby!”

On the other table were several metal cases, sealed without any visible means of opening.

“Trick boxes,” said Frank. “One of Hexton’s specialties.”

Dell walked in as the boys looked them over and tried pressure in several places. Nothing worked. Then Frank had an idea. He turned one box toward him and the side slowly opened.

Joe grinned. “Hardy, the magician!” “No,” said Frank. “Electric eye.” He moved the other two cases and each opened in the same way, revealing rows of drawers.

In the first one the boys found packages of microfilm and microtape, each labeled with a code tag.

“Tells where they came from and where they’re going,” Frank guessed. “Hexton brings them here. UGLI operators make the pickup and take them to countries hostile to the United States and other democratic powers.”

Dell frowned. “These are probably films of secret plans and drawings of highly classified material.”

“Here’s the roster of UGLI operators!” Joe exclaimed, riffling through a notebook. “Probably these names are in code.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Frank. He held up a red leather volume. “Here’s the codebook!”

“Well,” said Inspector Clyde, entering the room, “that will come in handy when it’s time to round up those UGLI blighters. I saw the tapestry hanging awry and guessed you might have found a hidden door.”

He stood in amazement at the boys’ discovery. “What a treasure for Scotland Yard, the FBI—”

“And SKOOL,” Joe spoke up. “UGLI, the biggest undercover subversive operation in the world, cracked wide open!”

Frank’s enthusiasm was dampened by the fact that some of UGLI’s top men were still at large. “Unless we catch them, they’ll start a new operation somewhere else.”

“That’s true,” Clyde said, and the others agreed.

“Then let’s find them!” Joe cried.

At that moment a constable ushered in McHugh.

“I returned to Ianburgh to get my plane,” the pilot said, “and flew ’er back here. Thought I might be a wee bit o’ help.” He had landed on an open field close to the castle, he told them.

“That’s great!” Frank replied eagerly. “Will you fly us to Edinburgh?”

“Certainly.”

McHugh was introduced to Dell. The pilot grinned. “Man, ye got a couple o’ fine detective lads here,” he said. “Well, I’m ready to start.”

Inspector Clyde decided to stay at the castle. “I’d better remain here in case something important pops up on this end.”

Frank and Joe roused Chet, who rubbed his eyes and stubbornly demanded breakfast.

“Come on!” Joe urged. “We’ll grab a bite when we land. Chet, wait till you hear what we found!”

This roused the stout boy and he followed the Hardys and Dell to the plane. All the boys cat-napped during the flight, and later at Edinburgh Airport stoked up on bacon and eggs. Then, while McHugh stayed with the plane, the boys and Dell went to the local police office to reveal Hexton’s daring scheme of robbery the next day.

The constable on duty, a plump man with reddish hair who introduced himself as Officer Watson, was highly indignant. “Impossible! Thieves could not get within five hundred feet of the Manor without being challenged!”

“Don’t underestimate Hexton,” Dell warned. “He’s an extremely clever crook.”

“Now that he knows we’re after him,” said Frank, “he might very well pull the robbery today.”

“Is Nairn Loch Manor far from here?” Joe inquired.

“Oh, just a few minutes by car,” Watson replied.

“Will you come with us?” Dell asked him.

“Well-all right. But I tell you, this man Hexton hasn’t got a chance!”

They climbed into Watson’s car and soon arrived at the large, fortress-like structure built of stone. The windows were heavily barred, and the thick oak doors were secured by large iron bolts.

Watson showed his credentials, then introduced his companions. He asked to see the custodian, Angus Hamilton. The custodian scoffed when he heard about Hexton’s intentions. “Impossible! Utterly impossible!” he asserted. “The Manor is too well guarded.”

“What about burglar alarms?” Frank asked.

“A complete system is now being installed,” Hamilton answered. “In fact, the Manor will not be opened to the public until it’s completed.” He grinned. “No, I’m afraid your fears are unwarranted. This Hexton fellow would have to render himself invisible to get onto the premises.”

“I’m not sure he couldn’t do just that,” Chet mumbled.

“May we see the jewel collection?” Frank requested.

“I’ll be happy to show it to you,” Hamilton said with pride.

He led them down a long hallway. At the far end was a heavy oak door, flanked on each side by a guard. With a large black key the custodian unlocked the door. He ushered the Hardys and their companions into the chamber.

“You gentlemen,” Hamilton said, “are about to see one of the most splendid collections of—” His voice trailed off, and his face turned ashen. “The jewels!” he gasped. “The jewels! They’re gone!”

The Hardys ran to the glass cases in which the treasure had been kept. Except for a gold crown and several scepters, the cases were empty!

“B-but how?” the custodian cried, almost in a state of panic. “I checked the collection just a little while ago!”

The local constable took command of the situation and questioned the guards. None of them had seen any suspicious strangers in the area. A quick inventory revealed that all the smaller, but extremely valuable jewels were missing.

“Hexton left the crown and scepters behind because they’re too bulky,” Frank surmised.

“What’s your guess, Mr. Dell,” asked Joe, “as to the way the thieves got in here?”

Dell turned to the custodian. “Are there any architectural plans of the Manor available?”

“Indeed yes. I have them in my files. But if you’re looking for a secret passageway, you won’t have any luck. I’ve studied those plans thoroughly.”

Watson, meanwhile, had telephoned his office and ordered his men to close off all roads leading out of Edinburgh. Also, airports and piers throughout the country would be alerted at once.

“Do you think Hexton is headed back to his castle?” Joe asked.

“If so,” Frank said, “he’ll find quite a welcoming committee waiting for him. But now that he knows the police were there, I’d say he’ll stay away from the place.”

“We’d better phone Inspector Clyde about the robbery,” said Chet. But when Joe tried to do this, he found there was no telephone at the castle.

“We’d better fly back there right away,” Frank said.

Dell announced he must return to the United States. “If Hexton comes there, I’ll be on hand to pursue that part of my assignment.” He said good-by and went off in a taxi.

Watson drove the boys to the airport, then went back to his office. As the young detectives hurried toward the trimotored plane, they saw that the pilot was already seated in the cockpit. Frank signaled to him and McHugh responded with a not-too-enthusiastic wave of his hand.

“Something seems to be troubling him,” Joe observed as they climbed into the cabin and slammed the door. The pilot started the engines and the plane began to taxi toward the runway for take-off.

Frank walked up to the cockpit. “What seems to be the mat—” He stopped abruptly and gasped. Crouched in the seat next to McHugh was Stony Bleeker! He held a gun pointed at the pilot.

“Get back into the cabin!” Bleeker commanded.

Frank turned to see two men emerge from beneath a tarpaulin at the rear. Hexton and Vordo!

“It’s nice of you boys to accommodate us like this,” the magician said with a smirk. “We happened to be in need of fast transportation.”

“W-when did you get aboard?” Joe stammered. “We thought you’d be a long way from Edinburgh by this time!”

“Our car broke down on a back road near the airport,” Hexton snapped. “Then Bleeker spotted this plane and we decided to hitch a ride.”

“Where to?” Joe demanded.

“We’re all going for a nice little flight to Ireland,” the magician announced sarcastically.

“I told you I can no’ make it there!” McHugh shouted. “We’ve no’ enough fuel!”

“Don’t try to fool me!” Bleeker growled. “Your gauges show full tanks!”

“The gauges haven’t worked for weeks!” the pilot insisted. “I calculate my fuel consumption by the amount of time I fly. And I tell ye, we no’ have enough fuel to make Ireland!”

Hexton let out a spine-chilling laugh, and eyed the Hardys and Chet. “Your pilot will have to think up a cleverer trick than that, because I don’t intend to go back to my castle and meet your Inspector Clyde!”

“How do you know about that?” Frank asked.

The magician’s weird, piercing eyes focused on the boys with a fixed stare. “Bleeker stayed behind when Vordo and I left for Edinburgh,” he replied. “He was there when the constables arrived, and escaped without being seen. Of course he came straight to Edinburgh to warn us.”

“Incidentally,” Frank put in, “how did you manage to pull off the Manor robbery?”

“Shut up!” Vordo growled. “You’re asking too many questions!”

“No, no, Vordo. I don’t mind telling them,” Hexton said boastfully. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. “This,” he said, “is the architect’s original plan of Nairn Loch Manor. There are copies, of course. But this is the only one showing the secret passageway.”

“The passageway,” Frank said, “that leads into the chamber where the jewel collection was kept.”

“Yes, and very convenient for me,” the magician replied smugly, “especially since its entrance is located in a hill nearly a quarter of a mile away. As for this,” he added, tapping the parchment, “it used to be on display in a small private museum, but a master key and a little sleight of hand put it in my pocket.”

As the plane continued on course, the Hardys noticed that their captors’ jackets bulged and a sealskin pouch jutted from one of Hexton’s pockets. Undoubtedly it contained the stolen jewels!

A few minutes later McHugh shouted another warning. “We’re leavin’ the coast! We can no’ go any farther!”

Frank gazed below. They were passing over the west coast of Scotland and heading out over the Irish Sea. Just then the port engine sputtered. Seconds later the center and starboard engines began to quit.

McHugh whirled the plane in a tight turn back toward the Scottish coast. Leveling the craft out on a reciprocal course, he tightened his grip on the control wheel.

Frank and Joe stared at the propellers as they windmilled noiselessly in the powerless glide. Below them was the choppy surface of the Irish Sea.

“I can no’ reach land!” McHugh shouted. “We’re goin’ down. Prepare to ditch!”

CHAPTER XX

Desperate Flight!

MCHUGH flicked his radio transmitter to 121.5 megacycles—the international distress frequency.

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” he shouted into the microphone. “This is Trimotor—Victor—Victor—Fox! About twenty miles southwest o’ Skip-ness radio! Lost all power! Have t’ ditch!”

Hexton and his cohorts were pale with fright as they watched the plane sink closer to the water.

“Quick, lads! Jettison the cabin door!” McHugh ordered.

Near the door was a red handle. Joe dashed to it and gave a sharp pull. As the door shot off into space, there was a thunderous rush of air through the cabin.

“Sit with your backs against the forward bulkhead!” the pilot yelled. “Clasp your hands behind your heads and brace yourselves!”

Everyone took ditching positions. The wait was nerve-shattering. Finally the plane hit the water. It bounced off the surface on first contact, then nosed down into the choppy sea with a violent impact. Water gushed into the cabin. As the boys recovered from the shock, Frank turned to see Hexton pushing himself out through the cabin entrance.

“We’re sinking fast!” Joe yelled.

“Look!” Chet shouted. “McHugh’s unconscious!”

“So are Vordo and Bleeker!” Joe added.

“We must get them out of here!” Frank declared. “I’ll take McHugh! You two grab the others!”

Clutching the unconscious men, the boys edged their way to the cabin entrance and pushed themselves clear of the sinking aircraft. They were not too far from land and began swimming.

Joe, who was dragging Vordo along with him, looked toward the shore just as Hexton reached it. The magician stumbled ahead and disappeared into the tall grass.

“Hexton’s getting away!” Joe shouted.

“We’ll have to let him go,” Frank replied. “We can’t let Vordo and Bleeker drown.”

Chet, meanwhile, was too winded to speak, as he swam doggedly on with his heavy burden. Bleeker was a dead weight. The boys had almost made it to shore when a motor launch of the Air-Sea Rescue Service sped toward them.

“We received your distress signal,” one of the crewmen shouted as the boat pulled alongside. “Anybody missing?”

“No,” Joe shouted back. “One man made it to shore.”

Vordo and Bleeker began to recover as they were hauled aboard the boat.

“We’d better tie up these two,” Frank said. “They’re jewel thieves.” Rope was produced and the prisoners bound.

Joe and Chet helped McHugh, who groaned and slowly got to his feet. Grief-stricken, he watched the tail of his plane disappear beneath the surface of the water in a bubbling sea of foam.

Joe began going through the prisoners’ pockets. “Look!” he cried, holding out several sealskin pouches. They were crammed with jewels.

“Firsthand evidence,” said Frank. “Hexton must have the rest. Now that his espionage work has been destroyed, he probably figures on living off the haul he made today.”

“Let’s ask these UGLI’s a few questions,” Joe suggested. He turned to Vordo and Bleeker. “How did you kidnap our father?”

The two men glared. “You’re getting nothing out of us!” Vordo snarled.

“That’s tellin’ em, Vordo!” Bleeker snapped. “Too bad the mirror Hexton had you put on the road didn’t work out and that Lou missed with that sandbag. We’d have been rid of these snoopers long ago! And it’s a shame they have a crackerjack pilot who safely landed their plane after you loosened the fuel caps.”

When the rescue ship reached shore, the prisoners were turned over to the authorities. The others proceeded to Prestwick in a car lent to McHugh by a friend. Regretfully the three boys bid good-by to the brave pilot.

“You’re tops,” Joe added, and Frank said. “One of the best sports I ever met!” Chet nodded.

McHugh smiled. “You’re the finest lads I ever knew. Come again sometime and have a ride in my new plane.”

“We’ll do that,” Chet answered.

After the pilot had left them, the boys went for a bite to eat. Joe expressed his frustration that Hexton had escaped.

“Where do you think he’ll go?” Chet asked. “Ireland, like he said?”

Frank shook his head. “My guess is New York.”

Joe’s eyes lighted up. “And maybe on Flight 101! It leaves tomorrow morning.”

Chet snorted, “An UGLI secret agent on Flight 101!”

“We’re going to be on board, too,” said Frank. “If he’s there, we’ll nab him.”

The boys informed Inspector Clyde of their plan. They could hardly wait to take off. Next morning they watched intently as the passengers filed aboard.

“Hey!” Joe exclaimed, nudging his brother. “There’s that same man we saw on our last flight to New York—the one with the dark glasses and whiskers and cane.”

“Well, he can’t be Hexton in disguise,” Frank commented. “This man’s heavier set.”

“I don’t see anybody that looks like Hexton,” Chet lamented.

They observed another elderly bewhiskered man with a cast on his left leg hobble up on crutches. A steward helped him into the plane.

The boys were the last to go aboard. During the flight the boys studied the other passengers but saw nothing suspicious.

When the wheels screeched down at Westboro, Joe stretched his arms wearily. “Guess we drew a blank this time.” He sighed.

At the Great Circle Airways ramp, the passengers began to debark.

“Let’s keep our seats until everybody’s out,” Frank whispered. “Watch carefully.”

The plane emptied until only the two elderly men, the three boys, and the steward were left. The man with the cast eased himself onto his crutches and started down the aisle.

Joe stiffened. “Hey! Did you see that?” he whispered excitedly. “That old man was walking on his injured leg! I’ll bet he’s a fake.”

“I saw it too,” Frank replied. He bolted out of his seat and called, “Wait a minute! We want to talk to you!”

The man stopped abruptly. Then he swung one of his crutches at Frank as the youth darted toward him. The other elderly man sprang from his seat and dealt him a blow with his cane that sent him stumbling up the aisle.

“Steward,” bellowed the man with the cast, “keep these guys away from me!”

“That voice!” Joe yelled. “It’s Hexton’s!”

The steward was about to pounce on Frank, when Chet cried out, “This man’s wanted by the police!”

Frank leaped at Hexton as the magician again swung his crutch. The young sleuth ducked and lunged forward, crashing into his opponent’s midriff. As Hexton fell, his cast struck a seat and broke open. From it, a cascade of jewels spilled into the aisle. At the same moment several men poured in through the passenger door.

Among them was Kenneth Dell. “Looks as if you fellows already have things under control.”

Chet picked up two sections of the cast. “It’s light plastic,” he said, “and looks as if it’s made to come apart.”

Frank yanked the magician to his feet, and whipped a wig from the man’s head. Then he ripped off Hexton’s false eyebrows and whiskers.

Joe whistled. “Amazing what a little disguise can do to change a man’s appearance!”

“You’re right!” said the other elderly man.

“We want to thank you, sir, for your help,” Joe said gratefully.

“That’s all right, Joe,” the man replied, chuckling.

Joe! As the boys looked on in amazement, the man removed his dark glasses and a false beard.

“Dad!” the young sleuths exclaimed, overjoyed to see their father.

Then Frank whispered to him, “So you were the secret agent for SKOOL on Flight 101!”

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy said quietly. His “aged” slouch was gone, and he pulled himself to his full height. “Sorry to keep my whereabouts a secret. But the job was so dangerous I couldn’t risk telling anybody where I was.”

“You never were in South Africa?”

“No.”

Hexton was livid. “You haven’t heard the last of me!” he snarled.

“Save your breath,” Joe retorted. “You’ll need it when the authorities begin questioning you and the other members of UGLI.”

Federal agents arrived to take custody of Hexton. The boys learned that Mr. Hardy had cabled Dell to have the agents on hand because he suspected who the “injured” passenger was.

“I wanted him captured on U.S. soil,” the detective said.

“Tell us, Dad,” Frank asked eagerly, “how Hexton managed to spirit you away in that vanishing-man device?”

“It was quite a simple trick,” Mr. Hardy explained. “The bottom of the plank I was strapped to was a highly polished mirror. After setting it in the frame, the frame was rotated so the mirror side of the plank was angled toward the audience. In this position, it reflected the roof of the enclosure, which was made of the same material as the draperies forming the rear wall. To an observer it looked as if the plank had vanished, including the subject. Meanwhile, a man of the same size and build wearing the identical clothes appeared from the wings.”

“That was Lou, then,” said Joe. “Bert’s double. Chet, old pal, you were right about the trick.

Chet beamed modestly. “It was nothing.”

“In my case,” Mr. Hardy went on, “Bleeker was hiding in a secret compartment in the base of the device. When Hexton closed the curtain, he popped up and jabbed me with a needle containing a powerful drug. UGLI members always carry these hypodermics for emergencies. I passed out in seconds.”

“How did you escape from the lighthouse?” Joe asked.

Fenton Hardy grinned. “I had a lucky break,” he said. “Vordo and Bleeker handcuffed me to the metal railing of the spiral stairway, with my hands behind my back. Fortunately I spotted a short piece of baling wire on the floor. It was a tough job, but I managed to get the wire to stick to the heel of my shoe. Then I bent my leg back far enough so I could reach the wire with my fingers.”

“And you picked the lock of your handcuffs!” Joe guessed.

“Yes,” Mr. Hardy replied. “It took me hours. Then I sneaked out while Vordo and Bleeker were sleeping and borrowed their dinghy. I had almost reached the mainland when I heard their powerboat coming from the islet. So I capsized the dinghy and swam the rest of the way.”

Frank grinned. “You hoped Vordo and Bleeker would find it and think you had drowned.”

“Exactly,” his father answered. “At least it would keep them guessing.”

Mr. Hardy then described his investigations of the Great Circle stewards he suspected. “I used several disguises including a blond wig.”

Chet asked him why he had tripped Ross with the cane.

“I thought maybe he had a small package of jewels in his sleeve or under his coat, and it might fall out when he fell. But I was wrong. I also slipped the note into Joe’s suitcase.”

“What about Mazer, the pilot of the helioplane?” Joe inquired.

“I believe he was a victim of circumstances,” Dell replied. “The authorities are going to let him off with a year’s suspension of his pilot’s license.”

The group got out of the plane and Mr. Dell said good-by. “See you on the next case, Fenton,” he called, and hurried off.

Frank and Joe fervently hoped they might be included, but first they were called upon to solve the Mystery of the Whale Tattoo.

“Now, fellows,” Mr. Hardy said with a grin, “I suggest we call Jack Wayne and have him fly all us SKOOL boys home.”

“SKOOL boys? What do you mean?” Chet asked.

The secret agent grinned. “I think you’ve all earned places in the organization as junior members!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Hey Rube!

CHAPTER II - Whale of a Discovery

CHAPTER III - A Staunch Refusal

CHAPTER IV - Wheel of Danger

CHAPTER V - How Was It Done?

CHAPTER VI - A Well-Salted Guest

CHAPTER VII - Night Attack

CHAPTER VIII - A Fishy Cargo

CHAPTER IX - A Decoy Report

CHAPTER X - Tim Varney

CHAPTER XI - The Eavesdroppers

CHAPTER XII - An Odd Messenger

CHAPTER XIII - A Great Surprise

CHAPTER XIV - An Airport Snatch

CHAPTER XV - Tattling Tattoos

CHAPTER XVI - A Phony Exposed

CHAPTER XVII - Rembrandt’s Confession

CHAPTER XVIII - Bird Dogs

CHAPTER XIX - A Bitter Loss

CHAPTER XX - Settling a Score

MYSTERY OF THE WHALE TATTOO

ONE exciting event follows another when Frank and Joe Hardy are hired to apprehend the pickpockets who have been plaguing Solo’s Super Carnival. When their friends Tony Prito and Biff Hooper exhibit a stuffed whale dug up at a construction project, they all but put the carnival out of business.

Other unforeseen problems ensue when the teen-age sleuths become involved in their father’s latest case. Fenton Hardy is tracking down a priceless ivory idol stolen from a Hong Kong art collector. A postcard clue found at the carnival leads Frank and Joe and their buddy Chet Morton to the historic seaport town of Mystic in Connecticut, to a seaman’s home in New York City, to a stunning discovery in Los Angeles.

In this thrilling mystery the young detectives pit their wits against a gang of thieves whose bizarre identification, a three-part whale tattoo, proves to be a nearly insolvable riddle.

“Frank!” Joe gasped. “We’ll never make it

with the statue!”

Copyright1996, 1968 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 68-12750

eISBN : 978-1-101-07660-6

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Hey Rube!

JOE Hardy studied the photograph in his hand and frowned, then burst out laughing.

“What a weirdo!” exclaimed the blond seventeen-year-old boy. “Take a look at him, Frank!”

He gave the snapshot to his dark-haired brother, who was eighteen. Both boys, sons of Fenton Hardy, the famous private detective, had hurried into the living room at the call of their Aunt Gertrude. She had just opened an envelope which contained the snapshot and a letter.

Frank gazed at the man in the picture. His head was topped with a shock of light-colored hair, and his cheeks and chin were hidden beneath a full, flowing beard.

“Sure is a freak,” Frank commented.

“That’s not the way to talk about a relative, especially when he’s coming to visit,” Aunt Gertrude said sternly, trying to hide a smile.

She was a tall, sharp-featured woman who wore metal-rimmed spectacles. Her prim visage was deceptive, though, for beneath her forbidding appearance she was really one of the kindest persons one could ever hope to meet.

“A relative?” Joe burst out. “You’re kidding!”

“I am not! That’s Elmer Hardy, a second cousin to your father and me,” their aunt corrected. “Too bad Fenton’s not at home,” she added.

Mr. Hardy was on a tricky undercover assignment in New York City, where as a young man he had achieved an enviable record on the police force. That was before he had come to Bayport to start his own detective agency. Now Frank and Joe were following in their father’s footsteps as astute young sleuths.

The news about Elmer Hardy’s proposed visit stirred their curiosity.

“How come we’ve never heard of him?” Joe asked.

“Well, you see nobody in the family has set eyes on him for thirty years,” Aunt Gertrude explained, “ever since the day he ran away to sea. Elmer always was a bit of a wild one.”

Frank shook his head. “Thirty years is a long time to go without hearing from someone.”

“A relative?” Joe burst out. “You’re kidding!”

“Oh, we’ve exchanged a few letters over the years. Right from the start he’s had a standing invitation to come and visit us, and that’s just what he’s going to do.”

“Great!” Joe said. “I’ll bet he can tell some terrific sea tales.”

Aunt Gertrude consulted Elmer Hardy’s letter. “He’ll be arriving in about two weeks, perhaps sooner if he can manage it.”

“May I keep the picture a while, so I can show it to Chet?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Aunt Gertrude said. “But mind now, you boys get all that laughing out of your system before Elmer arrives.” She waggled a finger at them to emphasize her point.

“Yes, ma’am!” Frank and Joe grinned.

The telephone rang. Frank picked it up. “Hello?” His eyes widened. “Just a second, Dad.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Joe, Dad’s run into some problems. Get on the extension in his study.”

Frank waited while his brother raced up the stairs to the second floor. It was highly unusual for Mr. Hardy to contact his family while working undercover and both boys were on the alert.

Joe picked up the extension. “Okay, Dad, go ahead.”

“I’ll try to make this brief,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “I want you to find someone for me, if it’s at all possible. I’ll give you the background so listen carefully.”

“All right. Shoot!” Joe said.

Fenton Hardy explained that his quest was for a life-sized statue known as the “Ivory Idol,” carved in the shape of a six-armed deity during the Ming dynasty. Ten years ago a gang of merchant sailors had stolen the Ivory Idol from the internationally famous Dudley-Harris collection in Hong Kong.

“There were reliable reports,” Mr. Hardy said, “that the statue arrived in the United States a few months after its theft, but the police failed to turn up the slightest trace of it.”

Frank and Joe jotted down the pertinent bits of information in pocket-sized notebooks, as their father went on, “One month ago R. R. Dunn, the famous New York art collector, received a note saying he could purchase the Ivory Idol for his private collection.”

“Wow! So it turned up!” Joe exclaimed.

“Not quite yet. The price is fifty thousand dollars, and the thieves are asking a ten-thousand-dollar advance to cover their ‘expenses.’ ”

“Who sent the note?” Frank asked.

“It’s signed Blackright, nothing more,” Mr. Hardy answered.

The detective went on to say that R. R. Dunn, as an honest collector, had notified Mr. Dudley-Harris immediately. The latter called the police and also engaged the services of Mr. Hardy.

“Any clues so far?” Joe inquired impatiently.

“Yes. An informer contacted the police last night and said that he knew something about Blackright. But the price he asked for his information was too high. Furthermore, he wanted a huge reward if Blackright was apprehended.”

“Quite a wheeler-dealer!” said Frank.

There was a slight pause, then Mr. Hardy continued earnestly. “Now here’s the crux of the matter. That phone call was traced to Bayport.”

“What?” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes. To be precise, from a phone booth in the north quadrant of the fairgrounds. I want you boys to stake out the place.”

“That’s going to be a little rough,” Frank said. “Solo’s Super Carnival came to town yesterday and set up at the fairgrounds. They’re opening tonight. No telling how many people have used that particular phone.”

“Oh? I see,” Mr. Hardy said. “Perhaps the man we want is connected with the carnival.”

Frank and Joe tingled with excitement. They had often helped their father on important cases and had gained some renown with their clever solutions.

The Tower Treasure was their first successful case, and not long ago they had solved the mystery of The Secret Agent on Flight 101.

“Dad, we’ll go to the fairgrounds right away,” Joe said.

“But wait. I have a word of advice,” Mr. Hardy said seriously. “This may be a dangerous gang with a lot at stake. Take no unnecessary chances.”

“We’ll watch ourselves,” Frank assured his father and they hung up.

Joe came downstairs to join his brother in studying their notes. They were still discussing the mystery half an hour later, when the doorbell rang. Frank rose, but Mrs. Hardy passed the living-room entrance on the way to the front door and motioned for him to sit down.

The boys heard the voice of a man and the name Solo and were out of their chairs in an instant and on the way into the foyer. Solo was a tall man with ruddy cheeks and good-humored eyes.

After Mrs. Hardy introduced her sons, Sid Solo said, “I sure am sorry Mr. Hardy’s out of town. We’ve been plagued with pickpockets in the last six towns we’ve played. Bad for business, keeps the customers away. I thought if I hired Mr. Hardy—well, what with his reputation and all—those pickpockets would skedaddle pretty quick.”

Frank winked at Joe, then said, “Mr. Solo, perhaps my brother and I can help you.”

The carnival man beamed. “Why, I’d consider that a personal favor. I’ve heard of some of your exploits and I’ll lay two-to-one odds that those cheap crooks won’t be any happier with Fenton Hardy’s sons on the job than they would be with your dad.”

Solo hired the boys on the spot, told them he opened daily at three in the afternoon, and then left.

As soon as they had finished supper, Frank and Joe hurried out to their convertible and were on their way to Solo’s Super Carnival. Frank was at the wheel.

“It’s perfect,” he said as they sped down the highway. “We can kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Mr. Solo’s pickpockets and search for our mystery informer at the same time.”

At the fairgrounds they parked in one of the spacious lots, with scores of other cars. As they walked toward the carnival, the voices of pitch-men could be heard shouting above the noise of a merry-go-round calliope. Delighted shrieks from riders on the roller coaster added to the buoyant feeling of the carnival. Frank and Joe strode briskly to one of the side gates, where there were not many patrons.

The ticket taker was a large, burly youth only a few years older than the Hardys.

Frank smiled. “We’re the Hardys. Mr. Solo is expecting us.”

Joe took a step toward the entrance, but the sullen-faced attendant blocked the way. “You’re the Hardys! So what? You gotta buy a ticket!”

Frank explained their mission as sleuths, but the fellow kept shaking his head. “Get lost!”

Frank grew impatient. “I’ll leave my brother here,” he said. “But I’m going to find Mr. Solo, bring him back, and get things straightened out.” He started past the booth.

The big ticket taker grabbed Frank roughly around the neck and threw him to the ground. Then he poised for a kick.

“Watch it, Frank!” Joe yelled and tackled the bully, bringing him to the ground with a thud.

With a curse, the ticket taker lunged to his feet and rained hammerlike blows upon Joe. At the same time, he threw back his head and bellowed, “Hey Rube!”

The traditional carnival trouble call sounded over the fairgrounds.

“Hey Rube!” he shouted again.

CHAPTER II

Whale of a Discovery

JOE’s assailant paused only a split second, but it was time enough for the Hardy boy to land a roundhouse blow to the solar plexus of his opponent. The burly youth dropped face first, just at the moment when angry shouts filled the air. Joe glanced around to see a group of tough-looking roustabouts bearing down on them.

“Oh, oh, Frank. Here comes trouble.”

“We’ll try to talk our way out,” his brother replied.

“There they are!” cried the leader of the carnival laborers. “They kayoed Knocker Felsen. Let’s get’em, boys!”

Frank and Joe stood shoulder to shoulder, braced to meet the charge. “Wait a minute!” Frank yelled.

“They’re not going to listen,” Joe said. “We’re in for it now.”

The carnival men had almost reached the boys, fists poised and eyes flashing, when an authoritative voice shouted, “Hold it! I’m Police Chief Collig, and I’ll arrest the first one who throws a punch!”

The carnies hesitated and looked at one another uncertainly. Then, realizing that the chief’s threat was not an idle one, they unclenched their fists and began to mill about. The men muttered angrily among themselves and cast sour glances at Frank and Joe.

“Wow!” said Joe when the police chief appeared at their side. “Are we glad to see you!”

“I can understand that,” Chief Collig said. “It’s a rough bunch. I’d like to know what’s going on here.”

Frank and Joe told him. By the time they finished their story, Knocker Felsen had regained his feet. Chief Collig vouched for the Hardys, but the carny leader was hard to convince. He looked dubiously at Frank and Joe.

“Well, if Mr. Solo hired them,” he said finally, “and if you say they really are detectives, then I guess it’s all right.” He looked embarrassed. “Sorry about the trouble, fellows.”

Frank and Joe accepted his apology. Knocker Felsen, however, with one hand pressed to the pit of his stomach, sulked away a few steps, grumbling.

“Let’s shake and forget it,” Frank said, but Knocker refused the offer and marched back to his ticket booth.

“He’s a real sorehead,” Joe observed.

Chief Collig nodded. “I’d be a little careful of him.”

The Hardys thanked the officer and wandered into the already crowded avenues of the carnival to begin their double duties. Near the merry-go-round Joe spotted a familiar figure.

“Hey, Chet!” he called.

Their best friend swiveled his ample frame around and trotted over to their side. His round, freckled face was attentive as Frank and Joe told him about the call from their father and about Sid Solo.

“How would you like to give us a hand, Chet?” Frank asked.

Chet Morton considered the offer silently. The husky boy was fond of fun and strongly opposed to hard work. He had no great taste for danger and usually backed away from it. But when Frank and Joe were in a tight spot, Chet always pitched in to help.

Finally he replied with a big smile, “Sure. This is the kind of detective work I like—observation and investigation. Everything from a distance.”

The three laughed and sauntered down the carnival’s midway, their eyes searching for suspicious characters. As they walked, Chet told them of his latest hobby—scrimshaw. He was constantly discovering new hobbies and sports, plunging enthusiastically into each one. But after a few weeks, his interest would wane.

Now it was scrimshaw—the art of polishing whale teeth and walrus tusks, then carving a picture or a design into the ivory. Frank and Joe were somewhat familiar with this art. They owned a walrus-tusk cribbage board, decorated by an Alaskan Eskimo.

“Scrimshaw really is the greatest,” Chet bubbled. “Why, did you know that old-time sailors would spend as long as six months carving one single sperm whale tooth? And it’s no wonder! Those fellows spent an average of three years on each whaling trip.”

Chet explained how the ivory was softened by a soaking in brine, how its roughness was removed with a rasp, and later how it was polished with pumice and finally rubbed to a gloss with the palm of the hand.

“But, Chet,” said Frank, “are you sure you have the patience?”

His friend was not listening. “The carving itself,” he went on, “was done with sail needles or jackknives. Once the design had been etched on, they used India ink to stain the lines. Of course today some people use power tools, but that’s not for me. No sir! I’ll do it by hand.”

“We’ve got a new hobby, too,” Joe said. “Collecting lost relatives.”

“What do you mean?” Chet asked, stopping beneath the platform on which Boko the Clown was doing a unicycle routine.

“Look at this!” Joe showed him the picture of Elmer Hardy and told of the impending visit. Chet chuckled over Elmer’s picture and expressed the hope that the old seaman could teach him a few more things about scrimshaw.

Suddenly a hoarse cough sounded above the boys’ heads. They looked up to Boko peering down at the photograph of Elmer Hardy.

“Excuse me, fellows,” Boko said. “I just finished my act and I’m on my way off the platform.”

The boys stepped aside. Boko leaped to the ground and disappeared around the comer of the canvas facade.

“I think,” Frank said, “that this would be as good a time as any to start asking some questions.”

Joe and Chet agreed, and Frank led the way around the corner in the direction Boko had taken. They found the clown drinking coffee in a small private resting place for the performers. He had taken off his dunce cap, but was still wearing his baggy polka-dot suit, his floppy shoes, and his red-and-white grease paint.

With him was Rembrandt the Tattooed Man. Rembrandt, wearing only bathing trunks, was covered from head to foot with multicolored tattoos of every imaginable kind. Included was a scene depicting whalers closing in on a huge sperm whale whose giant, blunt head rose far above the waves. This artistic gem covered Rembrandt’s entire chest.

The boys introduced themselves. Rembrandt and Boko were friendly enough until Frank deftly turned the conversation to a criminal named Blackright and an unknown man who wanted to sell information about Blackright. Then Boko and Rembrandt grew distant. Their answers became curt.

Finally Boko said, “Look, you guys. We never heard of nobody named Blackright. We don’t know nothin’ about it. Now, why don’t you leave us alone so we can take it easy a while? We got to go back on stage in a few minutes.”

On the midway again, Joe shook his head. “It’s possible,” he said, “that they’re telling the truth.”

Frank looked dubious. “Carnival performers work hard and they need their coffee breaks,” he said. “But their change of attitude was a bit too sudden for my taste.”

Chet agreed with Frank, and the boys decided that Boko and Rembrandt definitely warranted further attention. Earlier, Chet had promised to meet his sister Iola and her friend Callie at the Venus Rocket Express. That was fine with the Hardys. Joe regarded vivacious, dark-haired Iola Morton as his regular date. Slender, blond, lithe-some Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite partner.

“Hi, Joe!” Iola cried gaily when the boys reached the roller coaster. “Are you and Frank going to take us up?” She cast a sidelong glance at her brother. “Chet wasn’t at all happy with the idea.”

“Aw, lay off!” Chet replied. “You know what that does to my stomach.”

It was agreed that Frank and Joe would take the girls on the ride and that Chet would maintain the lookout for pickpockets while they were gone. The two couples hurried to the ticket booth, climbed into a red-and-green car, and started up a long incline. There was a breathless moment’s hesitation at the peak; then a dizzying plunge down the steep drop that made the girls scream as the wind whipped their hair about. Iola and Callie clutched Frank and Joe for protection and hung on tightly until the coaster came to a stop.

The four young people emerged with bright eyes and happy expressions.

“Oh, oh,” Frank said. “Look over by the shooting gallery, just behind Chet.”

Their buddy was shadowing a seedy-looking man, watching his every move. Behind the stout sleuth was a clean-cut fellow in slacks and a sports jacket, whose appearance would have aroused no one’s suspicion. As they watched, however, this man’s hand removed a wallet from the back pocket of a short, balding onlooker beside him. The victim felt the touch and whirled around. Panicky, the thief slipped the stolen wallet into Chet’s pocket!

“Let’s go!” Frank said. He and Joe rushed to the scene. The irate patron had seized the pickpocket, who in turn had denied his guilt and accused Chet. Poor Chet was bewildered and confused, especially when a quick search revealed the missing wallet in his possession.

“But listen,” he said, befuddled, “I—I—” A crowd formed and the pickpocket tried to slip away. Frank and Joe grabbed him.

“All right, folks,” Frank said. “Please go about your business. We’re security detectives for Mr. Solo.”

The pickpocket protested his innocence and said that “the fat kid” had stolen the wallet.

“For your information,” Frank told him, “not only is Chet Morton a good friend of ours, but he’s our assistant!”

Frank and Joe each took one of the pickpocket’s arms and they escorted him with firmness to Sid Solo’s private office. The victim came along to make the identification. Police Chief Collig was called, and after he had heard the story, one of his patrolmen ran the pickpocket out of town with a warning that if he showed up again he would be put behind bars.

Solo walked Frank and Joe back to the spot where they had left Chet with Callie and Iola. The carnival man was in high spirits and heaped praise and congratulations upon the Hardys.

“I knew I’d get results with you two on the job,” he said, clapping them on the shoulders.

Knocker Felsen was standing nearby. Upon hearing the praise he sneered, turned his back, and walked away to show his contempt.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. When the crowds thinned out and the carnival began to shut down, the Hardys said good night to Chet.

“So long, fellows,” he replied. “I’m going to stash away a couple of pizzas Mr. Solo promised me.”

Frank and Joe drove Callie and Iola home, then returned to their own house. Their mother was waiting for them with a twinkle in her eyes and a clipping from the evening newspaper in her hand.

“What have you got there, Mom?” Joe asked the slender, pretty woman.

“I think you might call it a whale of a story,” Mrs. Hardy replied brightly. “Look!”

Her sons studied the clipping together. It read:

Earth-moving machines working at the site of the new Bayport shopping center this morning dug up a stuffed Blue Whale. The Blue Whale, largest of all sea-dwelling mammals, grows to nearly one hundred feet long. The Bayport whale is not that big, however. It had evidently been buried a long time.

“I’m all for digging up buried treasure,” Joe said. “Matter of fact, we have several times. But old whales, no sir!”

“How do you suppose a whale ever got to Bayport?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Maybe during the ice age,” replied Frank.

“But it was stuffed,” his mother said.

“From overeating,” Joe jested. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Hey! Mr. Prito has the contract for the shopping-center project, doesn’t he?”

“He sure does,” Frank said with a yawn. “Let’s give Tony a call in the morning and ask him how it feels to be captain of the good whaling ship Bulldozer.”

The next day after breakfast Frank was dialing Tony’s number when the doorbell rang. Joe hastened through the living room to answer it.

“Frank,” he called from the hall, “hang up. Tony and Biff are here.”

The Hardys’ school friends walked in, grinning. Tony Prito, a good-looking youth with black wavy hair and olive skin, was followed by Biff Hooper. Biff was tall, broad-shouldered, and the most rugged lineman on the Bayport High football team, of which Frank and Joe were star performers.

Tony raised his hands, signifying silence, before either Joe or Frank could get a word out. He took the pose of an orator.

“My friends,” he said somberly, “you are looking at two very high-class entrepreneurs.” He pointed to Biff, then to himself. “We have just purchased one legitimate whale—for a very fair sum, I might add—and we are going to show it to the good citizens of Bayport for fifty cents a look.”

Tony jumped into the air and clicked his heels. “Yahoo! We’re in business!” he exulted.

CHAPTER III

A Staunch Refusal

TONY stopped cavorting and talked seriously. “We bought the whale from the man who owns the property. He said there was nothing in the world he could do with a whale, and so he gave us a good price.”

Biff chimed in, “The old blimp’s in swell condition. It was protected with oilskins. We put in a good day’s work scrubbing it down. Looks as good as new now.”

“My father’s letting us use that vacant lot he owns with a work shack on it,” Tony said. “We spent all last evening putting up a big tarpaulin around our pet. Built a ticket booth, too.”

He looked ruefully at the blisters on his hand. “We thought you Hardys might give us a hand and that all four of us could go into this thing together—be partners and share the profits.”

“We’d like to, Tony,” Frank said with a tinge of regret. “It sounds like a lot of fun. But we have a couple of jobs to do. We’re trying to find someone who’s connected with a case Dad’s working on, and at the same time we’ve been hired by Sid Solo to spot pickpockets at the carnival.”

Tony was disappointed. “Well, maybe later. We’d sure like to have you with us.”

Biff glanced at his watch. “Come on, Tony. We have a long day ahead of us.”

As they moved toward the door, Aunt Gertrude entered the room. “Wouldn’t you know it?” she said. “Every time I take a tray of fresh-baked cookies from the oven, our boys’ friends show up!”

Biff grinned. “I see your aunt was up before breakfast.” He turned to Tony. “On second thought, partner, it’s not that late.”

The boys followed Aunt Gertrude into the kitchen. “Where’s Chet Morton?” she inquired. “He usually leads the charge when there’s something edible around.”

“The last time we saw him,” Joe said, “he was polishing off pizzas at the carnival.”

Aunt Gertrude stood proudly by while the boys finished their snack. Then Biff and Tony left, amid best wishes from their pals.

That afternoon Frank and Joe arrived at the carnival to find Sid Solo pacing around, very much upset. “Just look around you,” he said with a wave of his hand.

The Hardys had been walking through the grounds of Solo’s Super Carnival for nearly an hour, and were well aware of the problem. The midways had been overflowing with patrons the night before. Wave after wave of them had surged from tent to tent—from side show to side show. But today there was only a trickle of customers. The few who had come were wandering aimlessly about, looking bored and spending little money.

“I don’t understand it,” Frank said. “Last night you’d have had a hard time keeping ‘em away with artillery.”

“It’s those two fellows—Tony Prito and Biff Hooper!” Solo fumed.

“What have they to do with it?” Joe asked.

“It’s that stupid whale of theirs. People figure they can always see a carnival, but a whale’s a once in a lifetime thing. Prito and Hooper are stealing all my customers!”

Solo smacked a fist into his hand. “Well, I’m not going to sit around and watch my show go bankrupt. Come on! We’re going to pay a call on those guys. I’ll buy their silly whale, and that’ll be the end of that!”

As they walked to Solo’s station wagon, Frank and Joe explained that Biff and Tony were their friends, and really had not intended to take any business away from the carnival.

Grim-faced, Solo did not reply. He beckoned to Knocker Felsen, who was lounging in the shade of a tent, chewing on a long stalk of grass.

“Come along, Knocker!” Solo ordered. Felsen, looking pleased at the prospect of trouble, jumped into the front seat with Solo. The ride was short, and when they approached the lot on which the whale was located, a long queue was waiting to buy tickets.

Biff and Tony were in the shack which they were using as an office. They stepped out to greet the Hardys and the carnival duo.

Solo made his offer. Biff and Tony talked quietly for a moment, then Tony said:

“I’m sorry, Mr. Solo, but we can make more money by showing the whale ourselves.”

“You’re ruining me!” Solo cried.

“Mr. Solo,” Biff said, “in a day or two, most of the people in Bayport will have seen our whale and they’ll go swarming right back to your show.”

“Maybe,” the carnival owner replied. “But I can’t afford three days like this.”

Frank took Joe off to the side and whispered, “We’re in a bad position. If we side with Mr. Solo, Biff and Tony will be angry. If we side against the carnival, then Mr. Solo will blow up. I have a plan that might make everybody happy. Back me up, okay?”

Joe nodded.

“Excuse me,” Frank said. The argument between Solo, Biff, and Tony quieted. “Mr. Solo, why don’t you pay Biff and Tony half of your original offer, take the whale and show it in your carnival, but pay a percentage to Biff and Tony on each ticket sold? That way people will come to the carnival, but the boys will still be making money.”

“That sounds great,” Joe said.

Solo scratched his head. “I don’t know...”

“Don’t do it, boss,” Felsen urged. “Don’t let these jerks hold you up.”

Biff’s temper flared. “Nuts to you. We’ll keep the whale!”

Felsen bunched his big knuckles and lumbered forward. “You punk!” He flailed at Biff, landing a couple of clumsy but hard-hitting punches.

Biff quickly dropped into a boxer’s defense position. Spotting an opening, he shot out his right fist. It hit Felsen squarely on the jaw. Glassy-eyed, he stumbled back and fell to the ground. Frank and Joe pinned him down before he could rise and attack again.

“Knocker!” Solo roared. “How many times have I told you not to go off half-cocked like that? You’ve ruined any chance we had of making a deal.” He reached down, grabbed the big youth by the arm, and yanked him to his feet.

The telephone rang in the shack. Tony answered it while Biff kept a wary eye on Felsen. “Frank, Joe,” Tony said. “It’s for either one of you.”

Joe took the call and spoke low, so as not to be overheard. Outside, Frank tried to smooth things over. Tony went so far as to tell Solo that he and Biff would think about his offer and that maybe they could discuss it again in a couple of days.

Solo and Felsen left, Knocker glowering over his shoulder at the boys. Solo said he would wait in the station wagon until Frank and Joe were ready to return to the carnival.

Joe finished his conversation and hung up. “It was Dad,” he told Frank. Their father had first phoned home. Mrs. Hardy had directed him to call the carnival, where an aide to Solo had told him where his boss and the Hardys had gone.

“The informer called again last night,” Joe went on, “and from the same booth! The police still won’t pay the price he’s asking for the information, but Mr. Dudley-Harris will, through Dad. We have to find out who made those calls, and soon!”

The young sleuths told Biff and Tony they were sorry for the trouble that had erupted. Their friends agreed it certainly was not the Hardys’ fault. Sid Solo drove back to the carnival in silence, with Knocker Felsen brooding in the front seat and gingerly massaging his bruised jaw.

Back at the fairgrounds, there was not much for the Hardys to do, since pickpockets work only in crowds. The informer had never called during the day, and Frank decided that there was no reason for him to change his pattern. They worked out a plan whereby, as soon as darkness fell, one of them would maintain a vigil over the phone booth from a position of concealment within a carnival truck parked nearby.

They spelled each other, Frank taking a one-hour shift while Joe wandered through the carnival, and then reversing their roles for the next hour. It was nearly closing time and they had spotted nothing.

Frank was dejected. Maybe the informer had been frightened away! His spirits brightened considerably, however, when Joe came rushing up.

His brother had two facts to report. First, a slightly built youth with sandy hair had lurked in the shadows for more than half an hour near the telephone booth. He finally left. Five minutes later Boko the Clown appeared, entered the booth, and made a call. Joe had not been able to hear much of the conversation, but he did know that Boko had been arguing with someone about money!

“Let’s go,” Frank said. “It’s time to ask Boko a few pointed questions.”

They found the clown in his dressing room, still wearing his costume and makeup. At first he was angry and told the boys it was none of their business. But when Frank sternly reminded him of the seriousness of the case and of the severe punishment that would be meted out to the guilty parties, Boko changed his attitude.

“Look, fellows,” he said plaintively. “I don’t know anything about any ivory statue or some joker named Blackright. I got angry, ‘cause—well, it’s a personal matter. I was arguin’ with my wife about some bills.” The clown looked down at his feet. “That’s not the kind of thing you like to tell other people.”

Frank and Joe told Boko they were sorry to have bothered him, and left. No further leads developed the remainder of the night. When the carnival closed, the Hardys went to Sid Solo’s office. The owner was gloomily going over the figures of the day’s gate receipts. Frank and Joe sat in chairs, relaxing.

“I was so sure he was our man,” Joe said unhappily.

“Mr. Solo,” said Frank, “does Boko argue with his wife about money very often?”

Without looking up, Solo said, “Boko? Ha, how could he? He’s never been married.”

“What!” the boys exclaimed in unison. They sprang to their feet and were out of the door in an instant, leaving Solo looking perplexed.

“Something fishy going on here,” Frank stated, pausing to look around.

“I’ll say!” Joe agreed. “This could be a big break in the case, Frank.”

The Hardys separated, deciding they would have a better chance of finding Boko that way, and agreed to meet back at Solo’s office in half an hour.

Frank questioned several carnival employees, but with no success. When the half hour was up he returned to Solo’s office, hoping that Joe had had better luck.

Joe was not there. Fifteen minutes passed, then another fifteen. Frank grew nervous.

An hour after the appointed time Frank was forced to admit a disturbing fact—Joe had disappeared!

CHAPTER IV

Wheel of Danger

FRANK searched through the carnival frantically, his emotions in turmoil. If anything had happened to Joe ... He set his jaw grimly and went on.

Sid Solo had enlisted half a dozen of his men to help Frank. They spread out through all parts of the darkened carnival, calling Joe’s name, probing into pitch-dark tents and under trucks and wagons with flashlights.

None of the people Frank questioned had seen Joe. Nor, for that matter, had anyone seen Boko the Clown.

Frank stopped to catch his breath and leaned against the side of a booth. His anger and frustration had knotted the muscles in his shoulders. He forced himself to relax, knowing that a man who loses control of his emotions weakens his own cause.

There was a long, low-pitched creaking sound above him. Frank looked up and saw that the carnival’s giant Ferris wheel was moving—ever so slightly. Then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open with shock.

In the pale light of the full moon he could see a figure standing high above the ground in the uppermost car. It was Joe! He was blindfolded and his hands were tied behind his back. He was trying to feel his way out of the car.

“Joe! Sit down!” Frank screamed. “You’re on top of the Ferris wheel. Don’t try to get out or you’ll be killed!”

Joe heeded his brother’s warning and Frank sighed with relief.

“Frank!” Solo called from the distance. “Is that you? Have you found Joe?”

“We’re at the Ferris wheel, Mr. Solo,” Frank answered. “Come quick! We need you.”

A few moments later Sid Solo burst upon the scene. “What’s wrong, Frank?” he queried anxiously.

“Up there. Somebody bound and blindfolded Joe and put him on the wheel.”

“Oh, no!” Solo said, horrified. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called up to Joe. “Sit tight, son. I’ll have you down safely in just a minute.”

He opened the plate covering the engine controls at the base of the Ferris wheel and fired the gas engine. Then he grasped the upright stick that dictated the motion of the wheel and gently eased it forward. Moments later Joe’s car reached the ground. Frank pulled the blindfold from his brother’s eyes and cut the bonds on his wrists with a penknife.

“Thanks,” Joe said gratefully. “That was a close one.”

“What happened?” Frank asked. “How did you get up there?”

Joe touched the back of his head and winced as his fingers made contact with the large bump. “I don’t know. I was looking for Boko. I passed by the Ferris wheel, called his name, then someone clobbered me. When I came to, I stood up and that’s when I heard your shout.”

“Someone’s going to pay for this,” Frank vowed through clenched teeth.

“I hate to think that it was one of my people,” Solo said, “but I did see someone slinking away as I came running.”

“Who?” Frank demanded.

“I’m not sure. It was too dark for a positive identification, but it might have been Rembrandt.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” Frank said. “Along with Boko and Knocker Felsen.”

“That goes double for me,” Joe added.

A short time later the trio confronted Rembrandt, Felsen, and Boko in Solo’s office. All the suspects firmly denied guilt.

“Let’s get this straight,” Frank said. “Boko, you say that you were out taking a walk alone. Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if it was just a harmless walk,” Frank continued, “then why did it come right on the heels of the lie you told us about your ‘wife’?”

“That’s my business,” the clown snarled. “Money matters are personal. I don’t have to tell anybody about them.”

“What about you, Felsen?” Joe asked.

“I ain’t gonna account to no punks for my actions,” the big carny said.

“You’d better!” Solo snapped.

Felsen looked from his employer to the Hardys, then shrugged. “I was checkin’ the animals—all alone.”

“That leaves you, Rembrandt,” Frank said.

“I was sound asleep in my wagon.”

Frank pointed out that there was not a single witness who could back up any of their stories. He added that it looked very odd, but he admitted that since he and Joe had no proof, they had no choice but to drop the matter, at least for the present.

After a good night’s sleep Joe was in fine shape. The lump on his head had gone down and his headache disappeared. The boys reported to the carnival in the afternoon and found about as much happiness as a ball team on the short end of a 50-0 score.

“We’ve had less than a hundred and fifty customers in the last day and a half,” Solo told them. “I’m unable to meet my pay roll in full.” Solo had arranged to close the carnival for an hour. He had called a meeting of all his employees, and invited Frank and Joe to attend.

The carnival people gathered under the roof of the largest tent on the lot. Some of them sprawled on the floor, others took up casual positions in the seats normally used by patrons. Everyone was glum. Solo mounted a platform and outlined the situation to them. When he explained that he could not pay full salaries that week, a loud grumbling broke out.

“Please,” he said, “bear with me. We’ve been through hard times together before. We’ve survived, and we’ll survive this time, too. As soon as business improves, I’ll not only make up the back pay I owe, but give a bonus to every person here.”

This promise seemed to help, but it was obvious that the carnival people were still not happy about the situation. Rembrandt rose to his feet. His face was hard.

“Boss, we got one big problem—the whale, right?”

Solo nodded.

“Well, I know a way to fix that,” Rembrandt said. “And I sure ain’t gonna waste no time doin’ it.”

“Wait a minute,” Solo said. “It’s true that the sooner we can do something about the whale, the faster we’ll climb out of the hole. But I want to make two things clear. One, there is to be no rough stuff, and two, I don’t want anything dishonest done.”

Rembrandt said nothing, just smiled.

After attending to a few more details, Solo ended the meeting.

“Some of these people are in pretty ugly moods,” Frank said. “I think we’d better give Biff and Tony a call and tell them to keep a weather eye peeled for signs of trouble.”

Before the young detectives had a chance to get to a phone, Boko the Clown came up behind them and placed a nervous hand on Joe’s shoulder. Even the grease paint could not conceal the lines of tension around his mouth.

“Can I talk to you guys?” he asked, and glanced around furtively. “Some place where nobody can hear us.”

“Sure,” Frank said. The three of them went to a spot near the water-boat ride. “What is it?” Frank asked.

Boko’s eyes flitted about. He said nothing until he was sure he could not be overheard. Then, in a frightened voice, he whispered, “They’re out to get me. And if they do, I’m a dead man!”

Frank and Joe exchanged significant glances. “Who’s out to get you?” Joe asked quickly.

“I can’t tell you!” Boko said, trembling.

In his fear, the clown made a tight fist of his right hand. Frank’s sharp eyes spotted a very curious tattoo. There were three blue marks on Boko’s hand, one at the base of the thumb, one at the tip of the index finger, and the third at the base of the index finger. When Boko clenched his fist, these three portions joined to make a complete tattoo of a small whale. Frank made a mental note of this oddity.

The Hardys tried hard to persuade Boko to tell them more, but he refused. To their surprise, he took a thin, silver chain from around his neck and handed it to Frank. A small key was attached to the chain.

“If anything happens to me,” Boko said, “I want you to go to my bunk wagon. Turn up the mattress and you’ll find a loose board. There’s a strongbox under the board. Open it up, and you’ll know what to do.”

A small group of concessionaires walked toward the trio. Boko saw them coming and he scampered away.

“We’re on to something all right,” Frank said. “Let’s give Boko the night to calm down, then maybe he’ll answer some questions for us tomorrow.”

As the Hardys drove home, lightning pierced the night sky. They were scarcely in their bedroom when a fierce thunderstorm drenched the Bayport area.

Next morning they were eating Aunt Gertrude’s hearty breakfast of eggs, sausages, wheat-cakes and blueberry muffins and watching the early-morning newscast on television when the announcer said:

“Bayport police have a king-sized mystery to contend with this morning. Sometime during the night the Blue Whale belonging to Tony Prito and Biff Hooper was stolen. Tony Prito, who was standing guard, is missing and...”

Frank and Joe did not wait to hear any more. They delayed only long enough to tell their mother and Aunt Gertrude what had happened, then dashed out to their car. Moments later they were speeding to Tony’s house. When the Hardys reached there, Police Chief Collig’s car was just pulling up to the curb. Tony was in Collig’s car, his clothes dirty and torn, his expression glazed.

Mr. Prito, a sturdy-looking man, dashed down the front steps and ran to his son. When Tony was settled comfortably in a chair in the living room, he told his story. Someone had slashed the tarpaulin with a knife and tried to get at the whale. Tony drove him off, but did not get much of a look at the intruder. Taking no chances, Tony decided to stand guard all night. The last thing he remembered was smelling something strange. Then he fell into unconsciousness.

“Gas!” Joe said.

Police Chief Collig nodded agreement. Tony had awakened less than an hour before, near the entrance to the carnival.

“Those people are responsible!” Mr. Prito stormed. “They should be prosecuted!”

Chief Collig pointed out that no matter what they suspected, they had no proof. Tony’s father reluctantly had to admit this was true. Mrs. Prito, still shaken by the night-long vigil waiting news of Tony, fussed like a mother hen over her son.

“I’m okay,” Tony insisted. “Forget about me. There’s only one thing I want.” He turned to Chief Collig and the Hardys. “Find that whale!”

CHAPTER V

How Was It Done?

WHEN the Pritos’ family doctor assured them that Tony would be all right after a day’s rest, Frank and Joe drove to the site of the whale heist. But after a careful search, they had turned up no clues to the thieves.

“We can’t even locate any truck tracks,” Joe said ruefully. “The rain washed out everything.”

“Maybe it wasn’t carried off by a truck,” Frank said thoughtfully.

“How else, then?” Joe retorted impatiently. “They sure didn’t carry it off on their shoulders.”

“I don’t know, Joe. It just doesn’t make any sense to me. We’ll have to dope this out later.”

Deciding that a further examination of the site would be fruitless, the Hardys returned to Tony’s house. Now that Tony was over the initial shock of his experience he might be able to tell them something he hadn’t remembered before.

“I’m sorry, fellows,” Tony said apologetically, “but everything’s a blank from the moment I got a whiff of that gas until the moment I woke up.”

Biff Hooper, who had rushed to the Prito house as soon as he had learned the news, was stalking up and down the living room.

“Boy!” he said angrily. “Would I like to get my hands on Knocker Felsen. I’ll bet anything he’s the one who did this. I shouldn’t have let him off so easy the first time!”

“Hold it,” Frank said. “We can’t leap to conclusions, Biff.”

“Wait a sec!” Joe cried suddenly. “I know how they could have stolen the whale. A helicopter! A big cargo helicopter, powerful enough to hoist the whale up on cables and fly away with it!”

“Hey! That just might be it!” Frank agreed excitedly. “Let’s phone Jack Wayne and see what he can tell us about helicopters in the area.”

Jack was Fenton Hardy’s personal pilot and a close friend of many years’ standing. He told Frank and Joe he would get a rundown on all helicopters, including those for hire, within a fifty-mile radius of Bayport and call back. It did not take him long to gather the information.

“Frank, I hate to disappoint you,” Jack reported, “but the storm last night was pretty widespread and there wasn’t a single helicopter flying.”

“I guess we can knock out that possibility,” Frank said. “I still think Joe’s idea is a good one, though. Somehow, I’m sure it was done by air. After all, even if you could find a truck big enough, you couldn’t just drive through the middle of town with a whale!”

“Not without being noticed by an awful lot of people,” Jack agreed.

“I think it would be worth our while to do some scouting by air. Would you get our plane ready right away, Jack?”

“Sure thing.”

Forty-five minutes later the Hardys were at Bayport Airport. Both boys were licensed pilots. Frank slid behind the control wheel, obtained clearance from the tower, then taxied the single-engine, blue-and-white plane to the active runway and took off.

Frank flew around Bayport in ever-widening circles, drifting farther and farther from the city, while Joe scanned the ground through high-power binoculars. Four hours of searching were in vain.

“We’re below the halfway mark,” Frank said, indicating the gas gauge. “I think we should go down and refuel.”

“Right,” his brother answered. “Harrington Field is ten miles to the east. That’s where they have the Strato Balloon Club. So keep an eye peeled.”

Harrington Airport had a single paved runway pretty much off the mainstream of air traffic. It had only a rickety office building and one gas pit. Frank guided the plane down to a gentle landing, then taxied to the pit. Grizzled old Mr. Harrington came out to meet them.

“Hi, Frank. Hi, Joe. Top her off?”

“Okay,” said Frank. While the man pumped gas into the plane, he added, “What’s new, Mr. Harrington?”

“Only thing new around here,” the man replied with a snort, “is that someone stole a couple of balloons belonging to the club. What do you think of that?”

“Pretty mean,” Joe said. “We’ll keep a lookout for the balloons.”

The boys paid him for the gas and took off. Half an hour later Joe pointed to a stand of oak trees and cried, “Look there!”

Frank took the plane as low as he safely could and Joe got an excellent look through the binoculars. He relayed what he saw to Frank. “Those are the balloons all right. They’re torn apart-all deflated. And, Frank, there are ropes attached to them, ropes with frayed ends!”

Satisfied, they headed back to Bayport. The method of the theft was now clear to them. The whale had been lifted silently and efficiently from its resting place by the balloons. The thieves evidently had depended upon air currents to carry it to whatever site they had selected. But the storm had wrecked their plans and the balloons as well. Somewhere along the line the whale had been torn loose and lost.

As soon as they landed at Bayport Airport, Frank reported their find to Harrington. Then he called Jack Wayne and asked him to check on the wind velocity and direction over Bayport the previous night.

“Give us all the meteorological info you can get your hands on,” Frank urged.

The boys had something to eat and then drove out to the carnival.

Now that the carnival had no competition, business was booming. Sid Solo was happy about this, but he was wringing his hands over a new problem.

“Boko’s act is due to start in ten minutes,” he said. “But he’s disappeared. What am I going to do? The tent is packed and the customers are going to raise a big ruckus if I can’t give them a clown.”

“Boko’s gone?” Frank exclaimed with alarm.

“Yes. He hasn’t been seen since late last night.”

Frank said to Joe, “I think we’d better call Chief Collig and tell him to be on the lookout. Boko’s either in danger, as he told us last night, or else he’s tied in with the stolen whale.”

As Joe went to call Chief Collig, Solo moaned. “There’s no way out of this one. Those people are going to want their money back, and I don’t blame them.”

“Cheer up, Mr. Solo,” Frank said. “I think we can find a clown for you.”

Solo’s head snapped up. “Who? Where?”

“Chet’s been on pickpocket duty until we got here, right?”

Solo nodded.

“Well, we’re back,” Frank said.

Afraid of being disappointed, Solo was almost unwilling to let himself hope. “Do you think Chet will ... ?”

“We won’t know until we ask him.”

They found Chet and put the question to him. The chubby boy grinned and said, “Well, sounds like fun. Sure, I’d be happy to.”

Solo pumped his hand. “Thank you. Thank you. If you pull this one off, you have my permission to eat free at every food concession in the carnival.”

“Let’s go!” Chet said eagerly.

The trio rushed to the costume and makeup trailer, hastily fitted Chet out in a clown suit, and daubed his face with grease paint. Solo grabbed a handful of props and stuffed them into Chet’s pockets.

“It’s time,” Solo cried. He took Chet’s hand and pulled the tubby youth toward the big tent. “Wait here until I call you.”

A bareback riding troupe had just completed its act and the ringmaster was standing in the center of the arena looking unsure of himself. Apparently he did not know what announcement to make since the next slot was Boko’s. Solo rushed forward, waved to the crowd, then took the microphone from the ringmaster.

“Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages,” he announced. “Due to circumstances beyond our control, Boko will not appear.” The audience made loud sounds of disappointment. “But,” Solo hurried on, “we have been very fortunate in securing for you the services of-of Chesterton the Great!” He turned away from the microphone and whispered to the bandleader, “Give ’em Number Three.”

The band struck up a very serious and pompous march.

“Oh, oh,” Chet said nervously. “That’s for me.”

“Good luck,” Frank said.

Chet moved into the arena. He walked with great and exaggerated dignity, then suddenly he tripped and fell, shot quickly to his feet, and whirled around as if to see who had tripped him. The crowd roared at Chet’s antics.

Chet shook his fist at them and stalked over to the nearest seats in mock anger. He selected a man and pointed a plastic flower at him, then showed the rest of the audience a squeeze bulb that would send water squirting into the man’s face. He pressed the bulb—and the water squirted out the back of the flower into Chet’s face! Chet feigned surprise and the audience howled with delight.

Next, the newly born clown drew a long chalk line on the floor. He opened a tiny umbrella, then stepped gingerly onto the chalk line, as if it were a wire stretched high above the ground, and began a balancing routine. The audience was laughing heartily by the time Solo rejoined Frank, who was howling in glee. Solo chuckled.

“It’s really great!”

“I’d love to stay and watch,” Frank said. “But I think there’s something we should do.” He told the carnival owner of Boko’s instructions concerning the strongbox.

“Well,” said Solo, “I think the situation justifies your opening it.”

They left the Big Tent, found Joe, and went to Boko’s wagon. As they drew near it, a figure burst from inside and dashed away.

“After him!” Joe shouted.

Frank threw all his strength into the chase, moved ahead of Joe and Solo, and gained on the fugitive. The man rounded a corner, Frank close behind. Then suddenly a low-strung tent rope caught Frank by the ankle and sent him pitching headlong to the ground. Joe and Mr. Solo came pounding up as Frank was pushing himself to his feet.

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“I tripped,” Frank said disgustedly. “We’ll never find him in the crowd now.”

The crowd roared at Chet’s antics

“Are you all right?” Joe asked.

“Fine. Let’s get back to Boko’s wagon and see what that guy was up to.”

They walked back, mounted the wagon’s steps, and pushed through the half-open door. “I smell smoke,” Joe said.

Frank sniffed the air. “You’re right.”

The young detectives went directly to Boko’s bunk, pulled up the mattress, and after a moment’s search located the loose board. Frank raised it and stared into the empty hole. “The box is gone!”

A quick check of the wagon turned up the missing container under a pile of rags in a corner.

“I found it!” Joe exclaimed. Mournfully he added, “We’re too late!”

He held the strongbox up for Frank and Solo to see. The lock had been broken open. The box was empty!

CHAPTER VI

A Well-Salted Guest

“WE missed it by minutes,” Joe said. He set the strongbox down and shook his head. “Another blind alley.”

“Let’s search the wagon,” Frank suggested. “The intruder might have left something behind that could prove valuable to us.”

Frank, Joe, and Solo began a methodical investigation, opening storage lockers, tilting back the few pieces of furniture, running their fingers along cracks and crevices.

“Here’s something!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. Solo and Joe gathered around him. On the floor near the entrance, mashed by a heel, was a small mound of dark, flaky ashes. “This accounts for the smoke you smelled, Joe. Whoever was in here must have burned the contents of the strongbox.”

Frank sifted the ashes and snatched out a fragment of yellow paper that had not been consumed. “We’re in luck!”

He held the brown-edged piece of paper up to the light. A few words were still legible: Whitey Meldrum knows a ...

“Did you ever hear of a Whitey Meldrum?” Frank asked Solo.

“No. The name doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

Frank put the scrap of paper into his wallet. Further search revealed nothing. They left the wagon. As they were descending the three steps to the ground, Joe said, “Look!” He bent and retrieved a torn photograph. Its edge was charred and there was a smear of chewing gum on it.

“This must have been in the strongbox,” Joe surmised. “The fire didn’t get it and it probably stuck to the thief’s foot when he ran out.”

The picture was of a wiry man, hawk-faced, and dressed in circus tights. Solo identified him as an aerial artist named Kane who had been killed some years ago in a fall from a high wire.

“Well,” Frank said, “we’re on to something, but I’m not sure what. I think our next move should be to get in touch with Dad.”

Joe agreed. They thanked Solo for his help, left the carnival, and drove home. There they related the day’s events to their mother and aunt.

Mrs. Hardy said, “Your father would want to be brought up to date.”

“He certainly would,” Aunt Gertrude sputtered. “You should turn it all over to him. You boys have gone every bit as far as you should, maybe even farther. You’re out of your depth, and it’s too dangerous.”

“Don’t worry, Aunty,” Joe said. “We’re being careful.”

The boys attempted to call their father at the New York hotel in which he was staying. The desk clerk told them Mr. Hardy was out; in fact, he had not been seen for the last forty-eight hours.

“That’s odd,” Frank said.

“He’s probably tracking down a lead,” Joe commented.

Frank suggested they try a radio message and the boys went up to their “ham” short-wave shack in the attic.

Their radio equipment was separate from that in their father’s study. It included a receiver, a transceiver with VOX hookup, a signal generator, and a phone patch. Colorful QSL cards studded the wall over their gear, attesting to contacts with hams all over the world.

Time and again the boys called for their father to come in. No luck. Finally Frank clicked off the radio with a sigh and stood up.

“Dad must really have gone underground if he’s not answering our radio call,” Joe said as they trotted down the attic stairs.

“He probably has a hot lead,” Frank said, “and doesn’t want to risk breaking his cover.”

When they reached the first floor they found Aunt Gertrude all atwitter. “Elmer Hardy called,” she told them. “He’s arriving at eight o’clock tomorrow morning!”

“That’s great!” Joe said with a wide grin.

“But we didn’t expect him that soon, and we’ll have to prepare the guest room and .. : ”

“Don’t worry, Aunty. You’ll have plenty of time in the morning. We’ll pick him up and meanwhile you can straighten up the house.”

The next morning the boys drove to the bus terminal, parked the car, then scanned the crowded waiting room. Elmer Hardy, looking like some romantic figure straight out of the Great Age of Exploration, was not difficult to spot. His sun-bronzed skin, great mane of hair, thick beard, and rough seaman’s garb set him miles apart from the rest of the travelers.

“Cousin Elmer!” Frank called out. “Oh, Cousin Elmer!”

The man swiveled his head and his face lit up with pleasure. “You must be Frank and Joe,” he said, hastening through the crowd toward them. His right arm was in a sling, so he used his left hand to shake hands. Then the visitor stood back and looked the youths over from head to foot.

“Well, knock me down with a belayin’ pin! I can hardly believe that you are Fenton’s sons. Why, you’re practically full-growed!”

“We’re really happy to meet you, Cousin Elmer. From what Aunt Gertrude tells us, you’re practically a family legend.”

“Oh, pshaw! Just call me Elmer. Nothin’ legendary about me. I’m an old sea dog, that’s all.”

“Did you break your arm?” Frank said solicitously.

“Nope. Just a strain. Got it heftin’ my duffel bag the wrong way. Speakin’ of that, hate to bother you, but could you boys give me a hand?”

“Glad to,” Joe said.

Elmer walked to the baggage claim area and pointed out a huge canvas sea bag with his name stencilled upon it. “There she be.”

“Wow!” Joe said. “I’ll bet that took up half the bus.”

Elmer laughed. “Only a quarter of it, boys, only a quarter.”

Frank and Joe lugged Elmer’s bag to the car, placed it in the rear seat, then drove their cousin home. Elmer greeted Laura Hardy and Aunt Gertrude with warmth, and as he kissed each of them fondly on the cheek, tears glistened in his eyes.

Aunt Gertrude had prepared a hearty breakfast and Elmer pitched into the food with great gusto. He was reluctant to talk about his past except in general terms.

“Oh, there were good times and bad times, just like in anybody’s life, I guess.” He sighed. “I’m well into middle age now and these last few years I really been hankerin’ to see my relatives. Just think—me being cousin to the famous Fenton Hardy. I’m awfully sorry he’s not here. But enough about me. Fill me in on what all of you have been doin’ over the years.”

Later Joe and Frank asked to be excused, since they wanted to see Tony.

They found he had made a fine recovery, and that the doctor had said it would be all right for him to get out of bed. Frank and Joe went down to the spacious recreation room, where Tony was pacing up and down.

“I don’t care if Mr. Solo did call me and offered to help in any way he could,” he fumed. “I say those carnival people did it!”

Biff Hooper, lounging on a couch, supported Tony. “I’m with you!”

“Even if it was someone from the carnival,” Frank said, “I just don’t think Mr. Solo was in on it. Sure, he’s an excitable guy, and your whale exhibit was taking business away from the carnival but I feel he’s okay.”

“That may be,” Biff said. “But I’m not so sure about that goon Felsen. And for that matter, Boko and Rembrandt don’t seem to be Cub Scout leaders, either.”

“Speculation’s an integral part of detective work,” Frank said. “But what we need now are facts. Facts!”

“Who’s fat?” said a voice from the stairs. Then Chet clomped down into the recreation room.

“Fellows,” Joe said with a sweep of his hand, “I give you Chesterton the Great!”

Biff and Tony applauded with the Hardys. Chet made a comic bow, then crossed the room and slumped wearily into an easy chair. “Oof! I just had a dozen pancakes for breakfast!” He patted his middle section and rolled his eyes.

Just then Mrs. Prito came down to the recreation room bearing two steaming hot mushroom and sausage pizzas. She smiled. “I thought I might interest someone in a snack,” she said. “Any takers?”

“You bet!” said Biff. Tony opened some bottles of soda while Biff helped Mrs. Prito cut the pizza.

“Chet? How about you?” Mrs. Prito asked.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” he groaned. Then, a brief moment later, he said, “Well, just a little to keep up my strength.” He helped himself to a large wedge.

The boys ate silently. Midway through a hot triangle of pizza, Frank looked up suddenly.

“I just remembered something about Boko,” he said, and told the others about the clown’s strange whale tattoo. “Think there might be any connection between that and the missing whale?”

Biff shrugged. “It’s probably just coincidence.”

“You know,” said Joe, “Rembrandt has a whale tattooed on his chest. That makes three whales.”

Tony looked doubtful. “Still coincidence. Tattooed men have all kinds of designs and pictures on their bodies. There’s no reason why a whaling scene shouldn’t be one of them.”

“Still,” Joe said, “three whales...”

“Four whales!” Chet cried, springing to his feet.

The others stared at him.

“Frank,” Chet said, “didn’t you tell me that the name on the note sent to R. R. Dunn offering the Ivory Idol for sale was Blackright?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “What of it?”

“Well, Blackright is a whale, too!”

CHAPTER VII

Night Attack

“How do you know?” Frank asked in surprise.

“Scrimshaw’s the answer to that,” Chet replied proudly. “I’ve learned a lot in my hobby. It’s pretty hard to study the art of carving whale ivory without picking up some information on whales themselves.”

“That’s obvious,” Joe said. “Come on, Chet. Get to the point.”

As the only person in the room who knew the answer to the riddle, Chet was enjoying his position and consequently in no hurry.

“Look,” he said. “First, there are two general classes of whales: toothed whales, like the Sperm Whale and the Killer Whale and the Bottlenose and so on. And what they call baleen whales. None of the whales in this last group—the group, incidentally, that Tony and Biff’s Blue Whale belonged to—have any teeth. They all have a series of ‘plates’ in their mouths that act like giant sieves. They swim around with their mouths open, take in a couple of tons of water that has food in it like shrimps and tiny fish, then close their mouths and expel the water through the plates, or as they’re properly known—through the baleen.”

“Listen, Chet,” Frank put in quickly, “get us off the hook! Tell us about Blackright.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Chet protested.

“In the most roundabout way I’ve ever seen,” Tony said with a long sigh.

“Ah,” Chet went on, “to think of the tragedies that befall people such as I, who try to bring enlightenment to the world.”

“Come on,” Biff growled. “I can’t take any more of this.”

“Okay, okay,” Chet resumed quickly. He explained that when men first started pursuing whales they called the most-sought-after variety Right Whales. One in this category was black, hence the name Blackright.

Chet wore a smug expression and folded his arms.

“Is that all?” Tony asked.

“All!” Chet said. “I think it’s quite a bit!”

“It’s an intriguing bit of deduction, Chet,” Frank said. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

“Sounds pretty far-fetched to me,” Tony remarked.

“I think the chain of whales is a good theory,” Joe said, “but for the moment let’s concentrate on what we know to be true.”

Chet whacked his forehead with his palm.

“Aiieee! The trials and tribulations we geniuses go through.”

“Fellows,” Frank said, “duty calls. Let’s drive to the carnival. Later, when the crowds are gone we could go to the spot where Tony regained consciousness and see if we can turn anything up.”

All agreed. They left Tony’s house, piled into the Hardys’ convertible, and drove to the fairgrounds. After the carnival had shut down for the night, the four boys spread out so as to cover more ground, each probing with a flashlight beam as he searched for possible clues. Their efforts took them farther and farther away from each other, and so, thinking he was alone, Frank was startled when a hand dropped on his shoulder. He whirled around, ready to meet an attack.

“Frank, it’s me!” came Joe’s urgent whisper.

Frank relaxed. “You took me by surprise. What happened to your flashlight?”

“I doused it on purpose. I was scouting near the gate and caught sight of someone moving from shadow to shadow toward one of the carnival wagons—Knocker Felsen’s, to be exact.”

“We might lose him if we stop to get any of the other guys,” Frank decided. “Better handle this one alone.”

“That’s why I came for you. Let’s hurry.”

Frank extinguished his own flashlight and the two made their way stealthily toward Knocker Felsen’s wagon.

“There,” Joe whispered. “See him?”

Frank squinted against the blackness and made out the dim silhouette of a crouched figure moving toward the wagon. “Let’s not jump the gun. We’ll wait until it’s absolutely certain he’s going to break into Felsen’s quarters,” Frank advised.

“Right.”

They watched the figure advance a few more steps, pause, move forward and pause again.

“He’s reached the steps,” Joe said tensely. The intruder dashed up the steps and reached for the door. “Let’s take him!” Frank yelled.

As the boys rushed forward, the figure poised before Felsen’s door and spun to meet them. Frank was the first to get to the wagon and his speed earned him a punch in the jaw that sent him sprawling.

Joe came running and was hit like a tackling dummy. Crash! Both he and the stranger hit the ground. Frank shook his head to clear the cobwebs, sprinted to the struggling pair, and leaped into the fray. “Wow!” he thought. “This is one tough cookie!”

Their adversary fought with skill and power; only Frank’s agility and quick reflexes saved him from being kayoed.

But suddenly he spotted an opening, seized his opponent by the wrist, spun on his heel and threw him over his shoulder. The intruder hit the ground with a thud and Frank pinned him.

Voices sounded in the distance as Joe thumbed his flashlight to life. The Hardys gasped as the beam revealed the face of Biff Hooper!

At the same time, sleepy-eyed Knocker Felsen poked his head from the wagon with a blank look.

Biff groaned. He saw Frank and Joe, shook his head, and said, “Boy, you guys play awfully rough!”

“Us!” Frank fingered a bruise. “What about you?” In a lower voice he added, “What were you doing, sneaking up on Felsen like that?”

Frank had relaxed his grip and Biff got to his feet. “We all know he did it. I was going to force a confession out of him.”

“Biff,” Joe said, “that’s no way to do detective work!”

“I guess so,” Biff said dejectedly. “How come you jumped me?”

“We didn’t know it was you,” Frank answered “How come you lit into us like that?”

Biff grinned. “Same reason you came after me—I didn’t know who you were.”

Flashlights bobbed toward the trio and a moment later Chet and Tony arrived. Close on their heels came Sid Solo.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“Yeah, what’s up?” chimed in Knocker.

“Just a bit of a mix-up,” Joe explained. “We came back in the hope of finding new clues and we-ah-stumbled over each other in the dark.”

Felsen yawned, squinted against the bright lights, and lumbered back to bed.

Solo was sympathetic and again expressed regret over the theft of the whale.

“We just can’t give up,” Frank said. “Mr. Solo, would it be all right if we had another look around Boko’s wagon?”

Solo consented. He went with them to the clown’s quarters and opened the padlocked door with a key from his chain. Solo and the five youths gave the wagon a fine-toothed combing, but at the end of an hour they had found nothing of any value.

“It’s hopeless,” Joe said. “I think we’d better call it a night.”

Biff finished thumbing through a file of magazines and tossed them on Boko’s bunk. One slipped to the floor, and the corner of a postcard protruded from the pages. Frank’s alert eyes caught sight of it.

“Hey, Biff, did you see that?” he exclaimed, pulling the card out.

“No. Must have missed it.”

The others looked around him while he examined the card. It bore the postmark “Mystic, Conn.” and the message “Getting hot. Beluga.”

“Beluga!” Chet cried out. “I told you! Now will you believe me?”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked.

“Beluga’s another name for the White Whale. Just try and tell me it’s another coincidence!”

The boys now had to agree with Chet. This could no longer be chalked up to chance. Perhaps the whale names were the key to a code, Frank suggested.

During the ride back to Tony’s house, they discussed the various developments in the mystery.

Frank and Joe dropped Biff off on the way, then left Tony at his home and said good night to Chet.

Their husky pal, beaming with success, got into his jalopy. Before he started the motor, Joe cautioned, “For Pete’s sake, easy on the backfire, Chet. Everybody’s asleep around here.”

“Sure,” came the answer, then blam! The chassis jiggled as the engine started, and Chet sheepishly headed for the farm where he lived, on the outskirts of Bayport.

Back at the Hardy house, Joe said, “Beluga, Blackright, Rembrandt’s tattoo, Boko’s tattoo and the missing whale! I just can’t fit the pieces together.”

“I can’t either,” Frank said. “But I think it might be worth while to make a trip to Mystic and—”

Frank was interrupted by a short ring of the telephone. Aunt Gertrude called from the kitchen, “Boys, is Chet here?”

“No,” replied Joe.

“Well, pick up the phone. Iola Morton’s on.”

Joe grabbed the extension phone in their father’s study. “Hello, Iola. Isn’t it rather late for a growing girl to be up?”

But his banter was short-lived. He sensed immediately that something was wrong.

“Joe,” Iola said in a quavering voice, “I just talked to Tony. I’m worried. Chet should have been home long ago. We haven’t seen or heard from him at all!”

CHAPTER VIII

A Fishy Cargo

“I’M sure Chet’s all right, Iola,” said Joe, trying to soothe the worried girl. “He probably had a flat tire, or just stopped for a late snack. Tell you what. Frank and I will go look for him, and as soon as we find him, we’ll give you a call. Okay?”

“Thank you, Joe. I knew I could depend on you.”

When Joe hung up and told Frank, the older boy looked concerned. “I don’t like the sound of this. Chet could change a flat in ten minutes and be on his way again.”

“I know,” Joe said. “But there wasn’t any sense in worrying Iola any further.”

“Right.” Frank reached in his pocket for his car keys. “We’d better get started.”

Joe was just opening the front door when two muffled explosions split the still night air.

“Speak of the devil!” Frank exclaimed with obvious relief.

Chet’s battered old jalopy pulled up to the curb. The car backfired a third time before sputtering into silence on the quiet street. Chet jumped out and ran up to Frank and Joe.

“Have I got something to tell you!” he blurted. “A fantastic piece of luck!”

“All right,” Joe said, “but first you’d better call your sister. She’s worried about you.”

“Oh.” An expression of regret crossed Chet’s face. “I know I should have phoned, but I had to get here as fast as I could.”

“Come on in,” Frank said. “Call Iola and let her know where you are, then tell us about it.”

Chet quickly telephoned his sister, then announced to the boys, “I’ve found another whale!”

“Where?” Joe asked. “What kind?”

“California Gray. When I left you guys I headed straight out of town on the parkway. You know Marty’s Giant Burgers place?”

“Sure,” Frank answered.

“Well, I was feeling a little hungry so I stopped in for a quick bite. There was a fellow sitting at the counter next to me—a big man, rough-looking, strong. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and when he raised his coffee cup, I saw the tattoo. It was a small one on his right biceps. As good a picture of a California Gray as I’ve ever seen.”

Chet said that when the man had noticed him staring at the tattoo, he had gulped down the remainder of his coffee, paid his bill quickly, and hastened out of the diner.

“I followed him,” Chet said. “He got into the cab of a large tractor truck—a very large truck!”

“Large enough to hide a Blue Whale in?” Frank asked.

“I’m not sure,” Chet said. “But I do know that it was one of the biggest trucks I’ve ever seen. And to top it off, it was a Connecticut license plate. I remembered the postcard clue, and here I am!”

“What are we waiting for?” Joe asked.

“Not a thing,” Frank said, heading for the Hardys’ car. “Did you get the license number, Chet?”

“You bet I did.” Chet produced a scrap of paper on which he had written the plate number.

The boys sped down the highway, overtaking several trucks, but not the one they wanted. Joe had done some quick computations and reckoned they should close the remaining gap within the next half hour.

“There it is!” Chet cried finally.

The truck was a huge tractor-trailer combination with twin diesel exhaust stacks that belched thick, acrid columns of smoke into the air. Frank moved the car into a position that was a short, but safe distance behind the roaring behemoth.

“What do we do now?” Joe asked.

“I’ll wait for an open stretch of road,” Frank said. “Then I’ll move into the next lane and pull abreast of the cab. When the driver can see you, motion for him to swing onto the shoulder and stop.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Joe queried.

“We’ll assume he’s got something to hide, and we’ll find the nearest phone, call the State Police and have him stopped.”

“That’s a fine plan if it works,” Chet said fearfully. “But what if he waits until we’re alongside, then decides to run us off the road?”

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Frank answered coolly. “I’ll be on my guard. Everyone set?”

The car swung into the passing lane and zipped forward.

“A little bit more, just a bit more,” Joe said tensely. The two vehicles were almost nose and nose. Joe began waving for the truck driver to pull over. Nothing happened.

“He either doesn’t understand, or he’s just not going to stop,” the boy shouted above the roar of the truck’s motor.

“Looks as if we have our answer!” Frank bellowed. “I think it’s time to call the police.”

“Wait a minute!” Joe yelled. The truck’s directional signal blinked like a big red eye as the thundering wheels eased onto the shoulder of the highway.

Frank pulled in behind on the gravel strip and stopped. The three boys leaped out and ran forward to where the truck had hissed to a halt. The driver climbed down from his cab to meet them. To the Hardys’ surprise, he wore a friendly smile.

“What’s the trouble, guys?” he asked. “Motor problems or something?”

The boys were taken aback by the trucker’s unexpected good humor. Frank suddenly realized they might have made a mistake. “One question,” he said. “What’s the tattoo on your right arm?”

The boys were poised, ready to spring into action at the first sign of a hostile move.

The driver touched his arm. “You mean Hilda?” he asked, bewildered.

“Hilda?” Frank repeated with equal confusion.

“Sure.” The truck driver exposed his arm and offered his tattoo for the youths’ inspection. He even jiggled his biceps. “She’s just something I had put on while I was in the U.S. Navy.”

The boys gaped. The tattoo was a girl in a bikini reclining on one elbow.

“You and your California Gray Whale!” Joe exploded at Chet.

The stout boy stared at his feet with embarrassment. “Well, if you look at it from an angle, it does look like a Gray Whale. And besides, you Hardys are always drumming into my head that no possible clue can be overlooked.”

“You do have a point there,” Frank admitted.

“Hey, guys!” the trucker said. “Since you pulled me off the road, would you mind letting me in on the story?”

The boys apologized, then told the driver who they were and what they were doing. The man, who gave his name as Adam Snow, burst out laughing. “So you thought I might have a whale in here, eh?” He led them to the back of the truck and opened the massive doors. Instantly a pungent, fishy odor assailed the young sleuths’ nostrils.

“Eight tons of salted fish,” Snow said, pointing to the stacked barrels. “But it’s all mackerel and herring, not whale!”

The boys chatted with Snow a while longer. Learning he had been raised in Mystic, they asked him if he could recommend a place to stay.

“That’s easy,” Snow told them. “Best place in town belongs to Mrs. Elmira Snow, my mother! She rents rooms, sets the finest table you can find, and her place is within walking distance of the Marine Historical Museum.”

The boys thanked Snow and the four of them parted with a hearty round of handshakes. On the ride back home, Joe teased Chet again about his California Gray Whale.

“Look at it this way,” the chubby boy said. “Without me, we’d never have found such a good spot to stay in Mystic.”

“We?” said Frank. “Since when have you been eager to go on a trip that might prove dangerous?”

“Oh,” Chet answered, “I think we can be cautious enough to avoid danger, but the big thing is that one of the best scrimshaw collections in the United States is located at the museum in Mystic. And I’m not going to miss that, let me tell you.”

“To say nothing of Mrs. Snow’s kitchen abilities,” Joe added.

“That is an extra incentive,” Chet admitted.

Before he drove off in his jalopy, the boys decided to depart for Mystic the day after next.

“I’ll be ready!” Chet promised. Frank and Joe stood grinning a moment as the jalopy backfired its way down the street and disappeared, then they went inside.

Joe raided the refrigerator and the boys had a short snack before they went to bed.

Early the following morning they began making preparations for the trip. First they called Biff and Tony and asked them to fill in as carnival sleuths until they returned.

Biff and Tony promised they would and said they would begin their duties as soon as the carnival opened for the day. Then Joe called Solo, who agreed to the change and wished the Hardys luck in their hunt for the mysterious person known as Beluga.

“Mr. Solo said the arrangement would be fine,” Joe told his brother.

“Good,” Frank said with an air of abstraction. He was staring out the window and his brow was wrinkled. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Wow!” he said. “What an idea I just got to smoke out our enemies!”

CHAPTER IX

A Decoy Report

JOE responded to Frank’s plan with enthusiasm and the boys hastened to Chief Collig to secure his cooperation. After they had exchanged greetings and were seated across the desk from Collig, Frank said, “Chief, Joe and I have a favor to ask of you.”

Collig folded his hands. “I’m always willing to listen.”

“We’d like to have you arrange for a phony news item to appear in the evening papers.”

Collig raised his eyebrows. “A phony item?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “A story reporting that Joe and I found the stolen balloons and have figured out how the theft was managed.”

“Nothing untrue in that,” Collig stated.

“But that’s only the first part of the story,” Frank went on. “In the second part, we want it stated that we’ve discovered the precise location of the whale, and that as soon as we’ve recovered it, we’re going to set up another colossal whale show.”

Collig thought for a moment, then asked, “What do you think a story like this will accomplish?”

“I’m convinced,” Frank answered, “that some of the carnival people are in this, but I suspect quite strongly that they’re not the only ones. I feel there’s a good chance this ruse might smoke them out into the open.”

“It’s possible,” Collig agreed. “But you’re aware, aren’t you, that you’ll be setting yourselves up as targets? If you’re right in thinking the whale’s been lost, those crooks might well come after you.”

“We realize that,” Joe said. “We’ll be on guard.”

Chief Collig doodled on a scratch pad while he reflected. After a minute’s silence he said, “Well, it does look like our best course of action. If you boys promise to stay alert, I’ll arrange to have the story put into the paper.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Frank said and stood up. “I have a hunch we’re going to get some results.”

The boys left the police station and drove out to the carnival. Biff and Tony were on the job. Since everything was running smoothly, the Hardys stayed only for a few minutes of social conversation and then returned home. They started to pack, and when that was finished, they studied road maps to select the best route from Bayport to Mystic.

Their mother and Aunt Gertrude had taken Cousin Elmer out to see the sights of Bayport, and the afternoon crept by at a turtle’s pace. Finally at five o’clock they sauntered down to a stationery store a few blocks from their home.

Gus, the balding proprietor, waved to them when they entered. “Hi, Frank. Hi, Joe. See you got your names in the papers.”

“Oh?” Joe feigned surprise.

“Yeah. Right there on page one. Ain’t you seen it yet?”

“No,” Frank said. “Where?”

Gus scooped up the top paper from a stack of fresh deliveries and spread it open on the counter. He jabbed a story with his finger. “See? Right there. ‘Bayport Sleuths Solve Riddle of Missing Whale,’ it says. Boy, that was pretty fast work. You guys are sure good.”

“Oh, no!” Frank groaned as he scanned the item.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“They’ve printed the whole story,” Frank replied.

“What’s wrong?” Gus inquired. “You guys act like something terrible’s happened.”

“I don’t know how this paper got hold of the story,” Frank said. “But by running it, they’ve tipped our hand.”

“What do you mean?”

“We didn’t want anyone to know we’d located the whale until we were ready to make our move,” Joe said. “The time isn’t right yet. We still have a few things to do.”

Gus scratched his head. “Sorry they jumped the gun, but you guys cracked this case in fine time. You got every reason to be proud.”

“Thanks, Gus,” Frank said.

The Hardys paid for the paper and left the store. Walking home, Frank said, “I really hated to fool Gus like that, but if anyone does some checking, our story will hold up.”

Joe nodded. “We can set things right with Gus later. He’ll understand.”

The boys reached home to find that the others had returned. Cousin Elmer, who claimed that his sea legs were not up to so much walking, had gone to his room for a nap. Frank and Joe showed the news item to their mother and Aunt Gertrude and explained their plan.

Aunt Gertrude’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, land’s sake! What have you boys done!”

“It’s all right, Aunty,” Frank said. “Joe and I’ll be ready for anything.”

“But those are dangerous criminals,” Miss Hardy wailed.

Joe patted her hand. “Aunty,” he said soothingly, “you’ve never known us to be reckless, right? Well, we don’t intend to change now. Dad’s working on a tight schedule and every moment counts.”

Mrs. Hardy, too, was worried about the boys, but she had confidence in their resources and abilities. “They will do all right, Gertrude,” she said.

The phone rang. It was the Bayport branch office of a national television network. The TV news interviewer asked Frank to comment on the story and to give him additional information if possible.

“Well,” said Frank, “we didn’t want the news to break this early, but as long as it has, there’s nothing we can do about it. Yes, it’s true. All I can tell you is that we’ll pick up the whale when the time is right—which shouldn’t be long.”

A second call, this one from a local radio station, followed on the heels of the first. And so it went for the rest of the evening. Joe and Frank took turns answering the inquiries, and by the time they were ready for bed, they had spoken to representatives of more than half of the major radio and television networks and all of the local stations.

Chet arrived early the next morning. In addition to his plaid zippered suitcase he carried a small black leather case.

“Hey, doc,” Joe said jokingly, “got all your instruments?”

“Why’d you bring that?” added Frank. “For house calls?”

“You’re both pretty nosy,” Chet said mysteriously. “I’ll tell you what’s in this later.”

The Hardys said their good-bys and were on the road shortly before nine o’clock. They listened to a newscast on the car radio and were pleased to hear the details of the story they had planted.

“If this doesn’t bring our enemies out,” Frank said, “then nothing will.”

It was a fine, bright day. The highway was relatively free of traffic and the travelers made good time. They had been driving for two hours when they heard the wail of a police siren approaching them from behind.

At the wheel, Frank spotted the State Police car in the rear-view mirror. “Boy, he’s moving fast. Must be awfully anxious to catch the car he’s after.”

“It isn’t us,” Joe remarked. “We’re within the speed limit.”

Frank edged to the right to allow the police car plenty of room to pass. To his surprise, the trooper motioned for him to pull off the road and stop. Frank complied.

“We’re in for it now,” Chet fretted. “They’re going to arrest you guys for planting a phony news story. And they’re going to charge me with being an accomplice!”

“Don’t be a worrywart, Chet,” Joe said. “We had Chief Collig’s permission. It must be something else.”

The trooper got out and walked to Frank’s open window, the leather of his holster and his highly polished boots gleaming in the sunlight.

“We’re in trouble!” Chet lamented. “Look at his face. He means business!”

The trooper consulted his note pad, then asked “Are you Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton?”

“Yes, sir,” Frank replied. “What’s wrong, Officer?”

“I received radio instructions through Chief Collig’s office in Bayport to relay a message to you. Your mother received a call a short while ago in reference to the case you’re working on. The man didn’t identify himself and his message was short: ‘Lady, tell your brats that they’ll lay off if they know what’s good for ’em!’ ”

“Man!” Frank said. “We got through to them. They’re really worried now!” He thanked the officer for having delivered the message. The policeman said he was glad to be of help. He cautioned the boys to be on the alert, then he returned to his car and drove off.

The young sleuths maintained maximum vigilance during the remainder of the drive to Mystic. Chet was the only one who noticed anything out of the ordinary. He pointed out a blonde in a red coupé who seemed to have been following them for half an hour. Frank and Joe laughed.

“She’s probably going to Mystic, too,” Joe said. “I don’t think we have much to fear from a pretty girl. To tell the truth, Chet, I think you’re just looking for an excuse to flirt.”

Chet blushed, mumbled, and looked straight ahead for the next five miles.

By the time they arrived in Mystic, it was midafternoon. Joe took a map of the town from the glove compartment and directed Frank toward Mrs. Snow’s house.

Suddenly there was the roar of an accelerating engine behind them. The same red coupé went shooting past, cut sharply in front of them, and forced Frank off the street and over the curb.

The windshield was filled with the sight of a huge elm tree. They were heading straight for it!

CHAPTER X

Tim Varney

“HANG on!” Frank shouted.

He slammed the brake pedal down and wrenched the wheel violently to the side. The car went into a skid, tipped precariously up on two wheels, then was brought to a bone-jarring halt when the right fender buckled against the tree.

“Anybody hurt?” Frank gasped.

“I’m okay,” Joe said.

“Me too,” Chet answered shakily.

“Lucky we had our seat belts fastened,” Frank said.

“There is no doubt that our enemies are here,” Joe muttered. “That blonde certainly was no lady.”

“She may come back to find out what happened to us,” Frank remarked. “Mrs. Snow’s house should be right down at the end of this block. Let’s get there fast, conceal the car, and keep a lookout.”

“Good thinking,” Joe said.

“I’m all for concealment at this stage of the game,” Chet added.

After a quick check, which revealed that the only damage was the crumpled fender, Frank drove to Mrs. Snow’s house and parked in her driveway. The boys hurried up the front steps and rang the bell.

Mrs. Snow, a small, white-haired woman, opened the door. The boys introduced themselves hurriedly and told of what had just happened.

“Why, the nerve of those scoundrels!” Mrs. Snow replied. “Joe and Chet, come right inside. Frank, you can take your car around back and park it in the garage.”

Frank drove into the rickety clapboard garage behind the house and closed the door. When he turned to go back into the house, he saw the tail end of a red car whizzing by.

“Wow!” he said softly to himself. “She certainly came back in a hurry!”

He raced in to join the others. “Did you see—?” he started, but Joe interrupted him.

“Negative. It was not the same car. We’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.”

The trio and Mrs. Snow stood alongside the front windows, keeping vigil at the edges of the drawn curtains.

“Aha!” Joe said ten minutes later. “Here comes the coupé.”

“Are you sure it’s the right car?” Chet asked.

“I’m not likely to forget that one for a long time.”

The red automobile was moving slowly down the street. As it passed in front of Mrs. Snow’s house, the sleuths noticed that there were now three people in it.

“She must have picked up some confederates,” Joe said.

“Do you recognize any of them?” Frank asked Mrs. Snow, who stood at his elbow.

“I never saw the girl,” she replied. “But I’ve seen the big man, the one in the blue work shirt. I’m not sure, but I think he’s a retired seaman.”

Unfortunately the boys could not get a really clear look. To do so, they would have had to open the curtains and possibly give away their position. The car passed by the house twice again in the next fifteen minutes, then vanished.

“I think our trip is really going to pay off,” Frank announced. He asked Mrs. Snow if he might use her telephone to make a long-distance collect call. She led him to the phone table in the hall.

Frank had the operator ring his home in Bayport. Elmer Hardy answered, accepted the charge, and told Frank that his mother and aunt were out. Frank asked him to report that he had received Mrs. Hardy’s message and everything was all right.

Elmer said there had been no word from Mr. Hardy yet and that none of Chief Collig’s men had been able to uncover any news about Boko. Frank thanked Elmer and hung up.

The boys decided to remain at Mrs. Snow’s, since there seemed to be little they could accomplish the rest of the day. Mrs. Snow showed them to their rooms, and while they unpacked, she went downstairs and had supper waiting by the time they reappeared.

The boys slept well that night in spacious, comfortable beds. They got an early start in the morning and arrived at the museum just as it was opening.

“We’ll case the area first,” Frank said, and warned Chet to act casual. “And if you see the blonde,” he added, “for Pete’s sake, don’t sing out!”

They bided their time, strolling through the streets and visiting the period buildings. The Hardys took particular delight in the dark and triangular Shipsmith Shop and the relaxing, convivial atmosphere of the Spouter Tavern. Chet’s chief interest lay in the many beautiful pieces contained in the separate collections of scrimshaw in the museum.

Around eleven o’clock they strolled toward the wharf at which the old whaling ship Charles W. Morgan was moored. A group of leathery-skinned men in seamen’s garb was congregated on a nearby bench.

“That fellow in the blue shirt,” Frank whispered to Joe and Chet. “Isn’t he one of the guys who was in the red car?”

Chet and Joe admitted there was a strong resemblance, but could not be sure.

Frank decided to strike up a conversation with the man while the other two went aboard the whaler. He sauntered to the bench and sat down.

“What a beautiful ship,” he said. “I’ll bet she has quite a history.”

“Aye. She does,” replied the man in the blue shirt.

“I’d sure like to go through her with someone who could tell me her background,” Frank went on.

“I’ll take you—for a dollar!”

“It’s a deal.” Frank took a bill from his wallet and handed it to the grizzled man.

“Thanks. Tim’s the name.”

Frank’s heart quickened as he saw a whale tattoo, similar to Boko’s on his guide’s blue-veined hand.

The two quickly boarded the Charles W. Morgan, and walked past Joe and Chet, who were chatting with a man in a captain’s uniform. Tim took Frank on a quick tour of the deck. He knew his subject well, pointing out the davits from which the longboats were lowered to pursue whales, the brick hearths over which the oil was boiled from the blubber, and explained the function of the huge pieces of block and tackle.

As the old fellow expounded, Frank noticed that Chet and Joe were now following him at a discreet distance.

Tim took Frank below deck, where the enormous backbone of a Bowhead Whale was propped against the ribs of the ship. The two moved in its direction, while Tim explained how the ship’s frame and planking had been built of live oak. He pointed out the broad-bladed harpoons used for the original strike against a whale and the thinner, long-shanked iron lances employed in the final killing thrust to the heart.

An old anchor chain lay in a great coil near the tall, gleaming white backbone. Frank bent down to examine the chain’s massive links.

“Do you mean,” he said, “that they really cranked something this heavy up by—?”

His question was cut short by a grating sound. He jerked his eyes up and saw the backbone falling on him. Instantly he hurled himself backward, hit the deck, and rolled away. The heavy whale-bone crashed over the coiled chain!

Joe and Chet came pounding to his side as he regained his feet. “Frank! Frank! Are you all right?” his brother asked.

“Yes. It missed. Quick, where did Tim go?”

Instantly Frank hurled himself backward

“He ran up that gangway,” Chet cried. “Right after he shoved the backbone at you.”

“After him!” Frank commanded.

The boys dashed up the steps to the upper deck. The area was jammed with tourists and also the wharf below.

“Too late,” Joe said angrily. “We’d never find him in this crowd.”

The boys leaned against a rail. “We know his full name at least,” Joe said.

Frank looked surprised. “How so?”

“From Captain Flint,” Joe explained. “It’s Tim Varney.”

Frank nodded approvingly. “Nice work, Joe.” He told them about Varney’s whale tattoo, and suggested they talk to Captain Flint again.

Flint was outraged that such a thing had happened on his ship, and apologized to Frank. “I wish I could tell you more about Varney,” he said, “but I can’t. Nobody around here knows anything about him, except that he’s a drifter.”

“Captain,” Joe asked, “are you familiar with stuffed whales?”

The captain pursed his lips. “Well, there’s only one that I’ve ever heard of. It’s in a museum of natural history. Wait a minute. There’s somebody who knows more about this than I do.”

He walked to the prow of the ship and hailed an old man seated on one of the benches, sunning himself.

“Oh, Murphy!” Captain Flint called out. “Will you come over here, please.”

The man, gray and toothless, waved in reply and walked up to the whaler. “You want something, Captain?”

Flint cupped his hands and asked the question about stuffed whales.

“Sure, I know another one,” Murphy replied. “It was washed ashore on Montauk in the 1920’s. Some carnival guy stuffed it.”

“You know his name or where I can find him?” Frank asked. But the old man shook his head, and shuffled back to his bench.

“That’s a great help, Captain,” Frank said. “Another question. Have you ever heard of a man named Whitey Meldrum?”

“Whitey Meldrum? Sure. He’s an old merchant marine seaman. I don’t know the specifics, but he was mixed up in a couple of shady deals several years back.”

“You have any idea where he is now?”

Captain Flint removed his hat and scratched his head. “I’m not sure, but I seem to remember someone mentioning that he was living in New York. That was about two months ago.”

“Captain,” Frank said, “you’ve been a tremendous help to us and I want to thank you very much.”

“Not at all. My pleasure. Oh, there’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I just recalled. Strange thing, you looking for Meldrum. There was another fellow up here just a couple of days ago. He was looking for old Meldrum, too.”

“Who was he?” Joe asked.

“Marlin. Called himself Spike Marlin.”

CHAPTER XI

The Eavesdroppers

“ARE you joking?” Joe asked. “Spike Marlin. Turn it around and you get marlinespike, the tool used in rope splicing.”

“It struck me the same way,” Captain Flint replied. “But that’s what he said his name was.”

“Fine alias for a guy with a sense of humor,” Frank said, and asked the captain where Marlin was from or where he was going. Flint did not know. “Was there anything unusual about him, anything that might help us to identify him?” Frank asked.

“Not much. His clothes were worn, but pretty nondescript. I did notice an anchor tattoo on the back of his left hand. He might have been a seaman, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”

“Those are pretty good clues,” Joe said. “Thanks a lot.”

The boys left to scan the area, trying to pick up Tim Varney’s trail. They had no luck, so they returned to Mrs. Snow’s in the late afternoon. After supper they headed back to the seaport.

They searched in seamen’s meeting houses and in cheap restaurants, and questioned proprietors of stores and clerks at hotel desks. But their efforts were fruitless. Several persons readily admitted to knowing Varney, but no one had seen him for the last few days or knew where he might be found.

Finally the trio stopped at a drugstore and ordered sodas.

“Boy, these are really good!” Joe said after the first cooling gulp.

“Good! My friend, they’re superb!” Chet responded. He finished his soda before the Hardys were halfway done and ordered another. After the gurgling sound of the straw reaching bottom, Chet gave the Hardys a plaintive look. “Fellows,” he said, “it’s not that I’m trying to get out of work or anything, but these sodas are the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“What are you trying to say, Chet?” Joe asked.

The chubby boy wore a sheepish expression. “Well, if you guys think you might be able to do without me for a while, I’d sure like to stick around and do some real justice to that artist who makes these ice-cream dreams.”

“Look, Chet,” Joe said. “We were planning on having you lead us in a couple of double-time laps around the block.”

Chet raised his hands in mock horror, and Frank added, “Okay. If we run into any trouble, we’ll come back and get you. Otherwise plan on meeting us here in an hour.”

Frank and Joe left the drugstore and continued their search. Darkness was falling and the moon was visible only as a dim, thin crescent above a layer of black wind-driven clouds.

“Do you think Tim Varney has gone into hiding?” Joe asked.

“It’s a possibility. I—Wait a minute! Over there by the grocery store, Joe!”

Joe squinted against the blackness, focusing his eyes on the figure that was moving furtively along the other side of the street. “That’s our man, all right.”

“Into this doorway, quick,” Frank said. “Give him a chance to get a bit of a lead, then we’ll follow him.”

Varney glanced nervously around, as if to make sure that he was not being followed. After a moment he shrugged and hurried on. When he was half a block away, Frank and Joe stepped out of the doorway. They tailed the man through a labyrinth of twisting streets until he arrived at a clapboard shack close to the waterfront. Varney paused, looked around him, then pulled open the door and went inside.

Frank and Joe pressed against the side of a warehouse, watching. “What do you think we should do now?” Joe asked.

“Well,” Frank said, “there was no light when he entered, and he still hasn’t turned one on. It’s my guess that he’s waiting for somebody. I think we should stick tight and see what happens.”

“Okay.”

After fifteen minutes Joe grew restless and began to fidget, when Frank suddenly whispered, “Something’s moving off to the side of the shack.”

Joe looked. Two dark forms—one of them much larger than the other—were approaching the ramshackle structure. They made their way to the door, then rapped on it with four sharp knocks. The door opened and they stepped inside. Moments later a weak light appeared behind the covered windows.

The boys crouched low and covered the distance between the shack and the warehouse at a half-run. A thin wedge of light knifed through a crack on the side of the door. The Hardys each pressed an eye to the opening.

Inside, three men were pacing about. One of them strode close to the door. Instantly Frank and Joe recognized him as the hulking man who had been in the red coupé with Varney and the blonde.

“Hey, Mug!” came Varney’s voice.

The big man turned. “What?”

The boys could not make out Varney’s next sentence. A higher voice said, “Wish we could get this job finished.” Frank and Joe strained for a look at the speaker. Moments later they succeeded, when a youth about their own age, slightly built and with sandy hair, stomped angrily past the door, snarling the name “Hardy.”

“There’s nothin’ you can do, Baby Face!”

“Well, I don’t like sittin’ around, Mug,” replied the blond youth hotly. “There’s no sense talkin’ any more. Let’s get out of this hole.”

He strode toward the door, barely giving Frank and Joe time to scoot around the corner of the shack. The light went out, the door slammed shut, and the three vanished into the darkness.

Frank peered around the corner in time to see two headlights wink on, a motor start, and a car pull away.

“Nuts, we can’t follow them,” he muttered.

Joe grabbed his arm. “Remember that night I saw someone lurking near the phone booth at the carnival?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that fellow Baby Face is the one I saw hanging around there.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “This gets more interesting—and complicated—every moment.”

“There’s no doubt that Varney was trying to split your skull on the whaler,” Joe said. “But just what do you think is this job they’re talking about?”

“I don’t know. It could be connected with the stolen whale, or it might have something to do with Dad’s case.”

“Or both cases, for that matter,” Joe added.

“Right, but remember we still don’t have one shred of positive proof. Originally we thought the whale had been stolen by someone from the carnival. Now suddenly we find this fair-haired guy was at the carnival, which, while not ruling out the carnival people, seems to imply a bigger gang. Also there’s that postcard signed Beluga that was mailed from here.”

“And once we got to Mystic,” Joe said, “we started running into seamen who are involved—Tim Varney and Whitey Meldrum. The gang Dad is after is made up of seamen. Wow! What a mess! Frank, I think we should get the police to arrest these guys right now.”

“No good, Joe. There’s nothing they can be charged with—at the moment.”

“Varney tried to smash you with that whale-bone!”

“He could claim it was an accident, and we couldn’t prove otherwise.”

“Well, I still think we should get them while we have the chance,” Joe said.

“They’d only be set free ten minutes after the police brought them in,” Frank countered, “and besides, they’re not sure how much we know about them. We’d be tipping our hand. Come on. Let’s investigate this shack!”

They walked in. Joe struck a match and lit the wick of the old-fashioned lamp.

Two things instantly captured their attention—a woman’s blond wig and a souvenir cane from Solo’s Super Carnival!

CHAPTER XII

An Odd Messenger

JOE picked up the wig and turned it over in his hands. “You know, when Chet said ‘That was no lady’ he didn’t know just how right he was!”

“Baby Face in disguise,” Frank muttered. “He and I are going to have a few things to settle when we finally come face to face.”

Joe set down the wig on the cane, which he twirled a moment like a baton. “This proves that at least one of them if not all three were at the carnival.”

They went through the rest of the shack, but discovered no additional clues.

“We still don’t know Beluga’s real name,” Frank said tersely.

“Or what his game is,” Joe added.

Frank’s brow wrinkled as he repeated the message Beluga had sent to Boko. “‘Getting hot. Getting hot.’ It could mean a couple of things. For instance, ‘We’re almost to our goal.’ Or, ‘The police are close on our trail.’ ”

The boys pondered the possibilities. Finally Joe said, “I think we’ve done about as much as we can do here. What do you say we go back for Chet?”

Frank glanced at his watch. “Okay. The hour’s just about up to meet Chet.” They hastened off. Reaching the drugstore, the Hardys saw nearly a dozen youths clustered around the soda counter, talking excitedly.

“C’mon, boy. You can do it!”

“Just take it slow and easy.”

“No problem, fellow. Still plenty of room left.”

“Go for broke, champ!”

The Hardys made their way forward and discovered the object of everyone’s attention—Chet Morton! He grinned weakly when he saw his pals. “Hi, Frank. Hi, Joe.”

“What are you doing, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Competing in a marathon.” Chet made a sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in a row of empty soda glasses.

Joe counted. “Five! You put down five sodas?”

“You bet he did,” said a girl at Joe’s elbow. “And he’s far from finished!”

“That’s right,” agreed a boy. “The big one’s still ahead of him.”

“You see,” Chet said, “I’ve never encountered such scrumptious sodas in my life, and before I knew it—well, I knocked off five of them. And now, Charlie ... Oh, excuse me. Frank and Joe, I’d like you to meet Charlie, a soda-making genius!”

The man behind the counter smiled. “Your friend here is a marvel. I’ve never seen anybody put’em away like him.”

“That’s the problem,” Chet explained. “Charlie was so impressed that he offered me a King-Size Wonder—that’s his specialty—on the house. I’m not sure I can handle it, but I just can’t bring myself to turn it down!”

As the crowd chattered encouragingly, Frank and Joe shook their heads in amazement. “How do you do it, Chet?” Frank asked. “How in the world do you do it?”

“I have a natural talent,” Chet replied modestly.

“Well, what’s it going to be?” Charlie asked cheerfully. “A King-Size Wonder or defeat?”

Chet gnawed on his lower lip. A freckled red-head clapped him on the back. “Hey, buddy, I got an idea. Why don’t you take a couple of spins around the block. That’ll work off some of the sodas you’ve already had, and give you the room you need to take on the big baby.”

Chet contemplated this a moment, then smiled and stood up. “Ordinarily,” he said, “I shun physical exercise. But this is a worthy cause and I feel that a sacrifice is in order.”

“That’s the spirit,” Charlie said.

Chet walked out of the drugstore. He stood on the sidewalk, hitched up his pants, and rubbed his hands together. A determined look settled over his face, then he jogged down the block. The freckle-faced boy and another fan went with him.

Ten minutes and two laps later, Chet returned to his stool in front of the counter. Charlie had the King-Size Wonder waiting. It was a huge soda, made with four flavors of ice cream and enhanced with a great variety of nuts and fruits. A large mound of whipped cream topped it and a bright-red cherry sat at the peak of the whipped cream. The audience murmured appreciatively.

Chet picked up his spoon, looked around like a matador, then tackled the soda. His fans cheered as he ate with a slow, steady rhythm. When he reached the halfway mark, the spectators began to applaud. The sound of their clapping hands grew progressively louder as the tubby boy neared the end, then broke into a wild crescendo when Chet scooped out the last bit of ice cream.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” Frank said.

Chet’s admirers followed the boys out of the store, congratulating him heartily. A block and a half later the last of the fans fell away. Chet sighed and patted his stomach. “A truly inspiring experience,” he said.

Frank and Joe could do nothing but express their awe. Then the subject turned to what had happened at the shack. “So that cute blonde of yours,” Frank finished, “was none other than Baby Face!”

“Oh, no!” Chet exclaimed. Then he said quickly, “I almost forgot. I have some news for you, too.”

“What?” Frank asked.

“Knocker Felsen’s in Mystic. He’s looking for you.”

“You’re kidding!” Joe exploded.

“No I’m not.”

“What’s he want?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. But I told him he could find us at Mrs. Snow’s house.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Joe said. “Didn’t you stop to think that Felsen may be a member of the gang we’re after?”

Chet looked embarrassed. Apparently this possibility had not occurred to him. “I’m sorry, fellows. Since he came looking for you right out in the open...” He held his hands up helplessly.

“What’s done is done,” Frank remarked. “I think we should play it cool and approach Mrs. Snow’s place indirectly, in case Felsen is up to something sneaky.”

Three blocks from Mrs. Snow’s house the boys took to back yards and advanced stealthily. Reaching Mrs. Snow’s property, they split up to reconnoiter, agreeing to meet again behind a large clump of lilac bushes.

Joe was the first to spot Felsen. He was hiding behind a tree close to Mrs. Snow’s back porch. The three boys knelt at the base of the lilac bushes. “Here’s what we’ll do,” Frank whispered. “Joe and I will circle around and come at him from both sides. Chet, you stay out of the action. If Joe and I run into more than we can handle, you pitch in.”

The boys moved out and began creeping toward their positions. When they were set, Frank whistled shrilly and rushed forward. He and Joe reached Felsen at the same moment and the three went down with a thud.

Felsen recovered from the surprise attack quickly and jammed an elbow into Frank’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He threw Joe off and made a rush toward a neighbor’s yard. Joe was after him in a flash, bringing the burly carny to earth with a flying tackle. Frank scrambled to his hands and knees, rested a moment until he got his breath back, then rushed into the fray just as Felsen was struggling to his feet. Pow! A right to the chin flattened the big youth.

“Okay, tough guy,” Frank said, pulling the groggy Felsen to his feet. “Let’s have some explanations.”

Felsen pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. “Look, you guys, I’m not your enemy, Why’d you jump me like that?”

“Why were you skulking behind that tree?” Chet asked, stepping forward.

“Mr. Solo sent me to give you a message. He told me you were on a tricky case and that I was supposed to be careful.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “What’s the message?”

“The carnival’s closing in Bayport. We made as much as we can there and we’re moving on to Newton.”

Newton was a small town thirty-five miles from Bayport. Neither Frank, Joe, nor Chet could understand why Solo would send Felsen all the way to Mystic just to inform them of the move.

“Was there anything else?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. A note.” Felsen went through his pockets. A worried expression came over his face. “I must have lost it!” he exclaimed.

The boys searched the ground, but found nothing. Then Knocker explained that he had planned to return to Bayport earlier that evening. “I can’t go now,” he said dejectedly. “It’s too late.”

“Where will you sleep?” Chet asked him.

“Don’t know. Could I stay with you guys?”

Frank was suspicious and far from pleased at the prospect. Joe felt the same way. Chet, however, felt that Knocker was okay.

“All right, you can stay with us,” Frank said finally. “But no funny business!”

Felsen was given a cot and fell asleep quickly, and the Hardys and Chet followed suit shortly.

At daybreak Frank suddenly snapped awake and glanced about. Felsen’s cot was empty! He leaped up and roused Chet and Joe. Neither of them had heard Felsen leave.

Frank sat down on the cot. “I knew this would happen. Hey, what’s this?” He reached down and drew an object from within a fold in the covers. “Felsen’s wallet!”

The three of them examined the wallet carefully and Frank located a cleverly concealed secret compartment. From it he drew out a folded piece of paper which he opened.

It was a pencil drawing of a man’s fist. At the base of the thumb, and on the tip and the base of the index finger were three sections of a tattoo, which, when joined, formed a whale!

CHAPTER XIII

A Great Surprise

“WHAT do you think of Knocker Felsen now, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Can’t win ’em all,” Chet said apologetically.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Joe called out.

The door opened and there, out of breath, stood Knocker Felsen. The three boys regarded him in stunned silence.

“Man,” said Felsen, “I was just getting on my bus when I discovered I’d lost my wallet. Did you see it laying around anywhere?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “And we also found this!” He confronted Felsen with the whale tattoo.

“What’s that?” Felsen asked.

“You tell us,” Frank replied. “We found it in your wallet. And say, why’d you sneak off like that?”

“Didn’t want to disturb you,” Felsen said. He eyed the note. “Hey, that’s what Mr. Solo gave me to deliver to you. He found it near Rembrandt’s bunk and he thinks it might be a clue. Am I glad it wasn’t lost after all.”

Frank eyed Felsen with distrust. “Well, thanks anyway. And say thanks to Mr. Solo, too.”

Felsen took his wallet and left, grumbling all the way out. The boys waited until his voice faded before they spoke.

“What do you think?” Joe asked.

Frank sighed. “I don’t really know. He might be telling the truth and he might not. Too many unknowns to start drawing conclusions.”

“I wonder if we might get anywhere trying to trace the Long Island whale that Murphy told us about,” Joe said.

“I was thinking along that same line,” Frank remarked. “I suggest we look through the old newspaper files in the New York Public Library.”

Both Hardys looked to Chet for confirmation. He shrugged his big shoulders. “It’s okay with me. I’m just the Indian. You guys are the chiefs.”

They packed their bags and went downstairs. Mrs. Snow served them breakfast in the dining room. The boys ate, thanked her for her help and hospitality, settled their account and left.

The drive to New York City was long and une ventful, and the boys took turns at the wheel. The arrived in the midafternoon, parked near Times Square, and walked the few blocks to the mair branch of the library. It was a huge, imposing building. The long flight of stairs that rose to its main entrance was guarded by two stone lions.

The boys went directly to the section in which the microfilm copies of old newspapers were kept. They checked out the indexes of the various New York papers for the years 1919 through 1929. Frank, Joe, and Chet each took a third of the material to be perused, sat down, and began poring through the thick volumes.

Other patrons of the library came and went, as the large clock on the wall silently marked the passage of time.

Joe marked his place, looked up, and stretched. Suddenly he went rigid. Across the room and seated at a table pretending he was reading a newspaper was Baby Face! Without taking his eyes from the youth, Joe reached over and tapped his brother’s arm.

At that moment Baby Face looked up. Joe noticed two things in the split second that followed. First, the man’s shocked look of panic at having been recognized—and second, a black circular mole just above the bridge of his nose and directly between his eyes.

Baby Face was the first to move. He leaped from his chair and bolted out of the room. Frank and Joe were after him in a flash. They hesitated when they reached the hall. Including the up and the down stairwells, there were five possible directions in which Baby Face could have gone.

A guard came up to them. “Here, here! You can’t run through the library making a racket like this!”

“We’re chasing a criminal,” Joe explained. “A young man, short and slightly built, with sandy hair. Did you see him?”

“No. I just came out of the manuscript room.”

Frank’s shoulders slumped. “I’m afraid we’re out of luck, Joe. There are too many directions he could have taken. We’d never find him.”

Frank and Joe apologized for the disturbance and returned to the newspaper section. Chet looked up when they approached. “Where did you guys go? You took off like rockets before I even knew what was happening.”

The Hardys told him about Baby Face spying on them and of how they were unable to catch him.

“Well, it’s not a total loss,” Chet said. “While you were gone I found this.” He turned the index in his hands around so that they could read it and pointed to a specific entry:

WHALE. Discovered off Montauk Point.

May 14,1924. Section III, p. 15, col. A

“Good work, Chet,” Frank said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

They requested the appropriate roll of microfilm and put it into the viewing machine. Frank worked the crank handle until he located the page they wanted. Chet and Joe pressed in on either side of him. It was not a very long story, but it did confirm that the stranded giant was indeed a Blue Whale and that it had been sold to Ralph Zelemeyer—owner of Zelemeyer’s Circus—who intended to have it stuffed and to use it as a side-show attraction.

The boys returned the microfilm to the librarian. They decided to sit in the park behind the library a while, have an ice-cream bar, and discuss what they had learned. New York City’s businesses were closing and the park was crowded. The boys strolled through it, seeking an unoccupied bench.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt that the Montauk whale is the same one Biff and Tony discovered,” Frank said. “The next step is to locate Zelemeyer’s Circus.”

“As long as we’re in New York,” Joe suggested, “why don’t we skip the circus a while and try to run down Whitey Meldrum?”

“That sounds reasonable,” Frank agreed.

“Hey, fellows,” Chet said, “I hate to spoil a good ice-cream bar, but there are some not-too-friendly friends of ours over there.”

Frank and Joe looked in the direction Chet indicated. Near a water fountain they saw Baby Face talking to Tim Varney.

Frank flung his ice cream into a trash basket and sprinted forward. “Let’s go!”

Chet and Joe were right behind him. Their dash was like running an army obstacle course. They had to thread their way through knots of people and careen around others. Baby Face and Tim Varney spotted them coming.

“It’s the brats!” Varney yelled. “We gotta scram!”

The criminals ran out of the park and plunged into a subway entrance. Frank, Joe, and Chet followed them, but three minutes of search in the jammed labyrinth were futile. They emerged disappointed.

“Let’s hope we have better luck with Meldrum,” Joe said.

After Frank had consulted his notebook for the addresses of three homes for old seamen that Captain Flint had given them, the boys were lucky enough to find a taxi in the rush-hour traffic.

Frank gave the driver the first address. Half an hour later they pulled up in front of a three-story brick building with white shutters and wrought-iron grillwork.

A plaque set into the cornerstone identified it as Seamen’s Haven.

The boys entered the building and went to the clerk’s desk. “Excuse me,” said Frank. “We’re looking for an old merchant sailor by the name of Whitey Meldrum. Does he live here by any chance?”

“He used to,” the clerk replied. “Took off ’bout a week ago. Don’t know when he’s comin’ back—if ever!”

“Boy, what a sense of timing we have,” Joe said. “Say, would you have a guest here by the name of Spike Marlin?”

“Matter of fact, we do. Checked in a couple of days after Meldrum left. Friend of Meldrum’s. What do you want with him?”

“We—er—have some mutual acquaintances. We promised them we’d look old Spike up.”

The clerk shrugged. “He’s in room 2-D. Up the stairs and to your left. Second floor.”

“Thanks,” Frank said.

Grinning with excited anticipation, the three ascended the stairs, walked softly down the hall, and stopped in front of 2-D.

Frank put an ear to the door and listened for a while. Someone was moving quietly about. Since there was no conversation, Frank assumed the person inside was alone. He stepped back and beckoned to the others.

“We don’t know what to expect,” Frank whispered, “so let’s be ready for anything. Joe, you and Chet each get on one side of the door. I’ll knock. Ready?”

Frank whispered, “Let’s be ready for anything!”

Chet and Joe took up their positions and nodded. Frank tensed his muscles and prepared himself for instant action. He clenched his hand into a fist and rapped loudly upon the door.

Silence. Frank knocked again, this time even louder.

“Just a minute,” came the muffled reply.

Footsteps approached, then the door was flung open. A well-built man stood before them.

Frank’s eyes bulged and his jaw dropped. “Dad!” he gasped.

CHAPTER XIV

An Airport Snatch

“FRANK!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy in astonishment. “What in the world are you doing here?”

The detective was even more amazed when Chet and Joe stepped into view. He glanced up and down the hall to make sure no one had witnessed the meeting, then beckoned the boys inside.

Mr. Hardy was dressed in old work clothes. His hair was dyed gray and his face made up to look old. Though the masquerade was effective, Frank and Joe would have recognized their father’s tall figure and handsome countenance anywhere.

“Don’t tell us you got tattooed just to make your disguise authentic!” Frank said, looking at the blue anchor on the back of Fenton Hardy’s left hand.

The sleuth laughed. “No, it’s only a semipermanent ink. It’ll wash out with a few good scrubbings.”

“Spike Marlin, what a name!” Joe grinned. “Takes real talent to make that up!”

“Don’t you know you’re looking at a genius?” his father quipped.

When the boys made themselves comfortable, Frank asked what connection Whitey Meldrum had with the Ivory Idol.

His father explained, “The back of the envelope in which the letter to R. R. Dunn was sent was sealed with cellophane tape. I managed to take a good thumbprint from the tape. It proved to be Meldrum’s. Now, may I ask what interest you boys have in our elusive Mr. Meldrum?”

Joe told about the scrap of paper bearing Meldrum’s name which had been found in Boko’s wagon.

“That links Meldrum pretty well with Boko,” Mr. Hardy said. “And probably a man named Tim Varney, too.”

“Tim Varney!” Frank exclaimed. “How does he fit into your case?”

“I’m not sure yet. All I know for certain is that Meldrum left here in a hurry after an argument with Tim Varney.”

Excitedly the brothers filled their father in on all they knew about Tim Varney and his confederates.

“It’s beginning to look more and more as if there’s only one case, and not two, as we thought at first,” Frank noted.

“That’s a very strong possibility,” Fenton Hardy agreed.

“Well, what do we do next?” Joe asked.

Mr. Hardy smiled. “I think the most pressing matter at hand is to get some supper.”

“Hear! Hear!” Chet said. The Hardys laughed and the quartet walked down the stairs.

“Your friends found you okay—huh, Spike?” the clerk commented.

“Yeah,” Mr. Hardy replied in a gruff voice. “Thanks for sendin’ ’em up.”

“Sure thing.”

A sallow-faced man appeared behind the clerk, a dirty duffel bag in his hands. “Hey,” he said, “what am I supposed to do with these old shirts of Meldrum’s?”

“I don’t know,” the clerk answered. “Maybe we should dump ’em. We ain’t runnin’ a storehouse.”

“Did you say that duffel belongs to Whitey?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Yeah. It’s full of dirty shirts.”

“Look,” said the detective. “No sense in dumpin’ ‘em. I’ll keep ’em until ol’ Whitey comes back.”

The clerk took the duffel and plopped it on the counter. “Help yourself.”

Mr. Hardy picked up the bag and casually went back up the stairs. The boys followed. Once back inside 2-D, they locked the door and took the durfel over to the bed.

“Cross your fingers, boys,” Mr. Hardy said. “If we’re lucky, we might pick up a clue or two.” He spilled the shirts onto the spread. There were a dozen of them, several stained and torn. Mr. Hardy and the boys began going through the pockets.

“Here’s something!” Chet said. He handed an old faded piece of paper to Mr. Hardy.

The detective studied it and read aloud: “ ‘It’s getting worse every day. Don’t know what will happen to Jonah. The Hong Kong job turned out to be a real flop. I’ll let you know what happens. J. Kane.’ ”

“Wow!” said Joe. “We know now that Kane was one of the thieves who stole the Ivory Idol. But we can’t get anything from him. He’s dead.”

Mr. Hardy was surprised to hear this and continued to search through the rest of the shirts, with negative results. Then, leaving no stone unturned, Frank pulled the duffel bag inside out and examined it. Close to the bottom seam he spotted a line of words in small letters, printed with India ink. “Listen to this!” he said. “‘Society of the Whale Tattoo: Blackright, Beluga, Blue, Bottlenose, and Pygmy.”’

“That’s great, Frank,” Mr. Hardy said. “From the thumbprint we know that Meldrum is Blackright, but who are the others? Tim Varney? Maybe Boko?”

“And is this really a society?” Joe asked. “Or an old gang?”

Mr. Hardy became silent. After thinking for a while, he said, “Frank and Joe, how would you like to take a fast trip to Los Angeles?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “What for?”

“To nail down this Society of the Whale Tattoo. The Los Angeles Police Department has the most extensive file on tattoos in the world of criminology. They arrest more than two hundred thousand persons each year, and every tattoo they find is recorded. Their file has been indispensable in breaking several difficult cases.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “We can catch a plane tonight and grab some sleep during the flight.”

“What about me?” Chet asked.

“If you don’t mind,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’d like you to stay here and lend me a hand.”

“All right,” Chet said. “But as long as we have the details settled, what about that food we were going out for?”

They went to a small Italian restaurant, and after dinner walked back to the Seamen’s Haven.

While Frank and Joe looked for a taxi, Mr. Hardy conferred briefly with Chet. The chubby boy accompanied the brothers to the parking lot where they had left their car. Next, Frank and Joe dropped Chet and his suitcase off at Seamen’s Haven, then headed for Kennedy Airport.

They parked and took their luggage from the trunk of the car. “I sure hope we can find some answers,” Joe said as they walked to the terminal.

“So do I,” Frank answered. “Blackright won’t be wasting much more time on R. R. Dunn. There are a great many wealthy art collectors in this country, and unfortunately, not all of them are as scrupulous as Mr. Dunn. If Blackright contacts one of them, the Ivory Idol may disappear forever!”

They checked in at the ticket counter and were told that the next flight to Los Angeles did not leave for another hour and a half. Frank bought tickets, had their luggage tagged and put on the conveyor belt, then walked with Joe into the main lobby, where they bought two magazines at a newsstand. They found an isolated grouping of chairs and sat down to read.

Soon they were engrossed in their magazines. There was a rustle in the chair next to Frank but the boy did not look up. He was turning a page when a gruff voice said:

“Hello, brats!”

Startled, Frank discovered Mug sitting beside him! A quick glance revealed that Joe was flanked by Baby Face. Joe started to move, but Frank waved him back, realizing that if Mug and Baby Face were confronting them in the open, the two thugs must have a pretty good trick up their sleeves.

“That’s good thinkin’,” Mug said. “You guys don’t want to make a scene here.”

“Yeah,” Baby Face gloated. “Get up nice and quiet and take a little walk to our car.”

“Why?” Frank’s voice was cool.

“One, so your old man with his dopey dyed hair and his fake tattoo won’t get hurt—and two, so your fat buddy stays just as healthy as when you dropped him off at Seamen’s Haven.”

“You see,” Mug said with a sardonic smile, “our men are holding both of them. If anything happens to us, or if we don’t come back with you two, then nobody’ll see Daddy and Fatso again!”

CHAPTER XV

Tattling Tattoos

“Now, I want you to walk real slow and calm between me and Baby Face. Remember, any funny business and you’ll be responsible for what happens.” Mug stood up. “Come on.”

Frank and Joe left their chairs and began walking with Mug and Baby Face toward the exit.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Joe said through clenched teeth.

“Wrong!” Mug answered. “We’re going to get paid for this.”

“That’s for certain,” Frank said. “But not the way you expect.”

“Shut up!” Mug growled. “You guys have been a pain in the neck long enough and I don’t want to hear no more out of you.”

The two thugs directed the boys through the parking lot to a large green sedan. Baby Face opened the door in the rear and told Frank to get in. Baby Face followed the dark-haired youth, then ordered Joe to enter.

Mug went around the other side of the car and slid in behind the wheel. The big man lit a cigarette and stared idly out the window, smoking, as Baby Face quickly bound Frank’s and Joe’s wrists and ankles with stout rope.

“On the floor!” he said when he had finished. “Quick, move!” He pushed the boys down and threw a blanket over them. “Okay, Mug. Let’s go!”

The car started off with Frank and Joe cramped, hot, and uncomfortable. “We really botched this one,” Joe whispered. “We should have slugged it out with them right in the terminal.”

“You know we couldn’t, Joe.”

“I guess you’re right. But what if it was just a ruse? What if Dad and Chet are really all right?”

A shoe slammed down on Frank’s back. “Shut up, you punks!” Baby Face grumbled.

“Aw, let ‘em talk,” Mug said. “It ain’t gonna hurt nothin’. Besides, they won’t be talkin’ much longer!”

Baby Face seemed to find this statement hilarious. His laughter sounded like a high-pitched whinny.

“Frank,” Joe said desperately, “if we don’t think of something quick, we’re going to end up on the bottom of a river!”

From the sounds of traffic, Frank guessed they were on an expressway. Mug drove at a steady speed for some ten minutes.

“There’s the turnoff on the right,” Baby Face said.

The car veered and a few moments later the sound of heavy traffic had been left behind. “That country road’s only two miles from here, Mug,” Baby Face directed. “Watch for an old scarred oak tree.”

Frank and Joe had scraped their wrists raw trying to loosen their bonds, but to no avail.

“Here we are,” Mug announced. “I’ll go right past that deserted farmhouse, and if there’s no one else on the road, I’ll turn around, come back, and park.”

“Good.” Baby Face prodded Frank and Joe with his foot. “Say your prayers, punks, you’ve come to the end of the line!”

The boys were sweating. “Joe,” Frank whispered, “we’ve got to hit them like wild demons when they drag us out of the car. Tied or untied. It’s our last chance!”

“Right. We have nothing to lose.”

Mug shouted suddenly, “Hey! What’s that crazy cab doin ’?”

“Look out!” Baby Face yelled. “He’s gonna run you off the road!”

There was the tearing sound of wrenching metal, and the car came to an abrupt halt. Frank and Joe heard car doors opening. Noises of a scuffle followed swiftly and Baby Face was dragged cursing from the rear seat.

“Frank! Joe!” called a familiar voice.

“Chet!” Frank yelled.

The blanket was stripped away, and Chet Morton’s anxious face peered down at them. “Boy, what would you do without me to get you out of scrapes?” he said, pulling his pals from the sedan.

Frank saw Baby Face shaking his head and trying to rise from the ground. Mug was wrestling with the driver of the taxi.

“Get us untied, quick!” Frank said.

Baby Face regained his feet and stood looking around groggily. Mug picked up a rock and hit the taxi driver on the head, stunning him. “Let’s get out of here!” he shouted.

Baby Face needed no further urging. The two leaped into the car, and before Chet could untie the Hardys, it roared off.

“Man!” said the taxi driver, rubbing his head. “You told me it’d be rough, but I didn’t think you meant getting clobbered!” He slowly scrambled to his feet.

In the taxi on the way back to the airport, Chet explained that the first job Mr. Hardy had given him was to shadow Frank and Joe to make sure they got off all right. Chet had seen Mug and Baby Face take his buddies to the car and tie them.

Afraid the criminals would be gone by the time he could get to a phone, Chet had jumped into a taxi and followed the sedan. He and the driver hoped to find a police car, but when they did not, Chet decided he had to go into action. He promised the driver that Mr. Hardy would pay him a reward for rescuing Frank and Joe.

“Great going!” Frank praised.

“Then Mug and Baby Face really were bluffing about holding you and Dad prisoners!” Joe said. “Were we ever fooled!”

Having only ten minutes to catch their plane, the Hardys thanked their pal and the taxi driver as he drove into the airport. They raced to the departure gate and made it with seconds to spare. After the plane was airborne, both boys fell into a deep sleep, awakening when the captain announced that they were landing at Los Angeles.

The Hardys spent the rest of the night at an airport motel, then went directly to the central offices of the Los Angeles Police Department, where they explained their mission to Sergeant Bill Thompson.

“Come with me,” the officer said. “I’ll take you to the files.”

On the way through the corridors, the sergeant told them that most tattooing was a form of exhibitionism. Originally, tattooing had been done for purposes of adornment and beauty. It was an ancient craft—practiced by the Egyptians nearly three and a half thousand years ago.

Some people, like the Burmese and Maoris, had brought tattooing to the status of a very refined art. Tattoos, said the sergeant, could not be removed without leaving telltale scars and thus they were a good means by which to identify suspects.

The sergeant muttered to himself as he went through the card file. “Whale ... whale ... whale ... Hundreds of ’em here.” Then his eyes lit up. “Wow! Are you in luck!” He handed Frank a card marked:

WHALE, SOCIETY OF

Only a glance was needed to tell the Hardys this was what they were looking for. The society had been founded by a high-wire artist known as J. Kane. He was only five-feet-three and weighed a hundred and five pounds.

The names on the list found in the pocket of Meldrum’s shirt, Frank recalled, were Pygmy, Blackright, Beluga, Blue, and Bottlenose.

“I think we can assume that Kane was Pygmy,” Frank said. “Look here. The other known members of the society are listed as Tim Varney and Whitey Meldrum.”

“Meldrum is Blackright,” Joe remarked.

“Right. And Tim Varney, because of the postcard from Mystic signed Beluga, is our best candidate for Beluga.”

“That leaves us Blue and Bottlenose,” Joe went on. “Boko could be one or the other.”

Thompson said he would have a photostatic copy made and took the boys to the police laboratory. Joe stopped short as they rounded a corner. He pointed to a Wanted poster on a bulletin board and exclaimed, “Baby Face!”

Quickly they told Sergeant Thompson of their encounters with Baby Face. He took down the poster and let the Hardys examine it. Baby Face’s real name was Vinny Merks. His features were deceptive, for in reality he was in his late twenties.

Merks, who had served time in a Federal penitentiary, often posed as a juvenile. He was wanted in California on a variety of charges, and at last report was suspected of working with a former cellmate named Mug Stine.

The Hardys were exuberant over their discovery. When the copy of the file card was ready, they thanked the sergeant and left the police station. Since their return flight was not scheduled until the afternoon, Frank and Joe decided to go sight-seeing.

“Where shall we start?” Joe asked, hailing a taxi outside police headquarters.

“Where the action is,” Frank replied with a grin. “In Hollywood, of course. Maybe we can see some famous movie stars, too.”

They asked to be let off at Hollywood and Vine. The world-famous intersection lived up to everything the boys had ever read about it, including two large groups of youths who took up positions on opposite sides of the street and began hurling insults at each other.

“At the rate they’re going,” Frank noted, “they’ll be using fists before very long.”

Joe was about to answer when he was seized from behind and dragged to a spot masked from public view by a truck that was backed up to a loading platform. As Frank spun to help Joe, a burly forearm choked off his windpipe.

Their captors were Baby Face and Mug Stine! Baby Face flashed a long, wicked knife. “Tell us where the Ivory Idol is!” he demanded. “Or else!”

CHAPTER XVI

A Phony Exposed

THE milling youths now provided an excellent screen for Mug and Baby Face, who kept their knives poised against the backs of the Hardy boys.

“We don’t know anything about the Ivory Idol,” Frank said calmly.

“Quit kiddin’. We read the papers, too.”

“Listen, Merks,” Joe exploded. “You’ll never get away with this! That tattoo between your eyes is like a signal light and you know it!”

Baby Face was taken aback. “Where’d you learn my name?” he asked “And how’d you know that’s a tattoo?”

“We know about you,” Frank replied.

“And the Ivory Idol,” Baby Face hissed. “I’ll give you three more seconds to start talkin’—”

“Dump!” Joe cried out. Frank instantly recognized the signal for an old trick. Both boys bent quickly at the waist, grabbed the ankles of their captors, and pulled hard. Mug and Baby Face lost their holds and dropped to the pavement.

“Into the street!” Frank shouted. They dashed forward the same moment the two gangs of young hoodlums charged at each other. The Hardys were caught in the middle!

They dodged, feinted, and ducked to get clear of the scene. Baby Face and Mug were not far behind, battling to get at them.

Suddenly sirens wailed and police cars and paddy wagons screeched into the area. Several of the youths bolted. A few got away, but most were caught within the police cordon.

Frank and Joe grinned as they waited their turn to enter the paddy wagon. “Just like in the movies,” Joe said. “The cavalry arrives in the nick of time.”

Frank craned his neck and looked around for Baby Face and Mug. “If we’re lucky,” he said, “the police will have picked up our playmates.”

“All right!” said a big patrolman. “Into the wagon. Hurry it up!” The ride to the station house was short. The gang members were herded together in a large room to be booked. Frank and Joe, who looked out of place among them, identified themselves to the officer in charge and requested that he call Sergeant Bill Thompson at headquarters to verify their story.

Thompson came to the boys’ aid immediately. Hearing what had happened, he checked the list of prisoners. “Good news, boys,” he reported. “Merks was picked up. Unfortunately Stine got away.”

“Too bad,” Joe said.

“Well, your job may be a bit easier now that Merks is out of the running,” Thompson said. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

He stayed with the Hardys until they boarded their flight. Soon after they were airborne, Frank pulled the copy of the information card on the Society of the Whale Tattoo from his pocket. He and Joe studied it carefully.

Mug and Baby Face, the boys concluded, were not in the society. Neither of them had the proper whale tattoo. Apparently they were independents hired by the society.

“Our first real response,” Joe said, “came when we planted the story about knowing where the missing whale was. From that time on, we’ve been shadowed pretty closely.”

“Right. But what about those thugs insisting that we know the location of the Ivory Idol?”

“Frank, I’ve got it!” Joe slammed his fist on the armrest. “Remember Merks’ remark ‘We read the papers, too’!”

“The Ivory Idol is in the whale!” Frank interrupted excitedly. “I should’ve guessed it before now. Kane must have hidden it there before he was killed.”

“It makes sense! We’ve got to find the whale—and fast!”

It was late in the evening when the Hardys finally reached their home. Their mother and Aunt Gertrude welcomed them warmly and prepared hot chocolate and a tasty snack. As they relaxed, Frank and Joe related their adventures, including their search for Zelemeyer’s Circus. But they toned down the more dangerous parts.

“Well, that’s not quite the same version Chet told us,” Mrs. Hardy said with a twinkle in her eyes. “But I suppose it’s close enough.”

“Chet’s back in Bayport?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Your father felt he could form a new cover much better without Chet. But he’s still working on your case, asking everybody about Zelemeyer’s Circus.”

“That’s a good thought,” Frank nodded. “Maybe Zelemeyer’s did play in Bayport.”

“Gracious,” Aunt Gertrude said, “I meant to tell Chet about Mrs. Hendricks. She went to every one of them before her arthritis got so bad.”

“Went to every what?” Joe asked.

“Circus, of course,” his aunt replied.

“Sort of a circus nut, you’d call her, I guess,” Mrs. Hardy said, and the boys looked in surprise at their mother.

“Well”—Mrs. Hardy looked embarrassed—“you can’t live around two teen-agers without picking up some of their language.”

Her sons laughed, and Frank said, “How do we contact Mrs. Hendricks?”

Miss Hardy went to the telephone, dialed a number, and handed the receiver to Frank.

“Oh, hello,” Frank said to the pleasant though somewhat quavering voice of the woman who answered. “I’m Frank Hardy.... She’s fine.... My mother, too.... No, nothing’s wrong. I wonder if you remember a certain circus in town.”

Frank explained, and as he listened to Mrs. Hendricks’s reply, his eyebrows lifted. “Yes, go on, please.... And you remember a whale? Now, Mrs. Hendricks, please tell me all you can recall.”

After listening a few minutes longer, Frank thanked the woman and hung up. Then he grabbed Aunt Gertrude and danced her around the room.

“My goodness, Frank! Are you mad?” she protested. “Careful of my spectacles!”

“For Pete’s sake, spill it!” Joe cried.

“Okay. Listen carefully,” Frank said as Aunt Gertrude flopped down in an easy chair.

The Zelemeyer Circus had played in Bayport many years before, at the old fairgrounds adjacent to the very spot where the new supermarket was going up. The circus went broke and disbanded. The stuffed whale they were exhibiting was buried on the spot because nobody wanted it.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “What news! Cousin Elmer should hear this. Hey! Cousin Elmer!”

“Save your breath, Joe,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Cousin Elmer is no longer with us.”

The boys looked startled. “You mean he died?” Frank gasped.

“Of course not. He left. Flew the coop.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Hardy confirmed. “Elmer just upped and vanished two days ago without a word to anybody. We found a note on his dresser saying he was sorry he couldn’t stay and meet Fenton.” Their mother got the note and the boys read it.

“That wasn’t very polite of him,” Frank said.

Aunt Gertrude agreed emphatically. “Indeed not. And the way he ate my apple pie, you would have thought he’d say good-by in person. Not a true Hardy, that’s all!”

“He might be the black sheep,” Joe said, trying to make light of it, but the boys were instantly suspicious of the man who had accepted their hospitality.

“Anything missing around the house?” Frank asked guardedly.

Mrs. Hardy assured them that nothing had been stolen, and none of Fenton Hardy’s records and files had been disturbed.

Frank was still not convinced. “There’s something fishy about the whole deal—the way he came early, the way he wouldn’t give any details about his past, and now his sudden disappearance.”

“But the motive’s missing,” Joe said. “If he was an impostor, he’d have to have a reason.”

“I’m sure he did. It’s just that we can’t see—Wait a minute!” He looked again at the note Elmer had left, then said, “Joe, do we still have that scrap we saved from the burning of Boko’s strongbox papers?”

“Sure.”

Joe went to their room to get it and Frank compared the two. “Oh, no! Our guest was none other than Boko the Clown! That sprained arm in the sling was a dodge to hide his whale tattoo!”

CHAPTER XVII

Rembrandt’s Confession

No doubt about it. The writing on the two pieces of paper was identical.

“Oh! That—that terrible man!” Aunt Gertrude wailed. “To think we were living under the same roof with a criminal!”

“Well, he’s gone now,” Mrs. Hardy said. “He probably was scared that Cousin Elmer would arrive.”

“We’ve got to find him,” Frank declared. “He may well have the key to our mystery.”

The next morning, after doing some chores around the house, the boys started to Solo’s Super Carnival in Newton. If the heat was off, Boko might have gone to his old haunts. If they were lucky, the young detectives might actually nab him, or at least learn something about his whereabouts.

The miles whizzed away beneath the purring wheels and the fresh morning air filled Frank and Joe with a sense of well-being. But when they rounded a bend in the road, a garish billboard broke the spell. It read:

NEW, SPECTACULAR WHALE SIDE SHOW!

At Solo’s Super Carnival

See with your own eyes

The world’s greatest

rarity

The lettering was in an inverted pyramid and painted at each side was a colorful whale spouting a great white plume of water.

“So it was Solo himself who got the whale!” Joe said indignantly.

“I can’t believe it,” Frank said. “No one but an absolute moron would steal practically the only stuffed whale in the world and then put it on display just a few miles from the scene of the crime.”

As Frank guided the car skillfully over the rolling countryside, Joe wondered aloud whether Boko’s action had anything to do with their buddies’ whale.

“We’ll know soon,” Frank said. “There’s Newton up ahead.”

The tents and fluttering pennants came into sight, close to the edge of town. Cars were already trickling into the dusty parking lot. The Hardys found a place close to the entrance and locked their convertible.

A familiar figure greeted them at the ticket booth. “Hi, Frank. Hi, Joe,” said Knocker Felsen. “How’re you doin’?”

“Pretty well,” Frank answered. “And you?”

“Not bad. Listen, you guys, why don’t you go right on in? Free, I mean, to make up for what happened the first time. I guess I was just plain jealous and I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.”

“Thanks, Knocker.” There was a thin trace of sarcasm in Joe’s voice. “Your change of heart have anything to do with the whale?”

Knocker looked blank as Frank went on, “And how about Boko. When did he come back?”

“Boko? What do you mean? I ain’t seen him in a long time. He ain’t been around here, if that’s what you mean.” Knocker studied the serious expressions on the Hardys’ faces and a smile came to his lips. “Oh, the whale? Is that what’s eatin’ you?” He broke into a laugh. “You haven’t seen our new side show yet. Go ahead. First midway to your left.”

“What did you make of Knocker?” Joe asked as they headed toward the whale side show.

“If he’s hiding something he’s sure putting on a great act,” Frank replied.

The Hardys paid their money and entered the huge tent. “Hey, what’s this?” Joe asked with surprise.

A variety of mounted fish were positioned along the Walls—sailfish, tuna, groupers, a few sharks, and several other multicolored specimens. On a long board in the center of the tent was a stuffed dolphin, much the worse for wear. And over the dolphin was a hastily lettered, single word: Whale.

“What a con job that is!” Joe groaned.

“You’re right,” Frank said. “But no one can accuse the carnival of fraud because from a technical scientific point of view the dolphin actually is a toothed whale.”

“Boy, that’s stretching a point mighty thin!” Joe declared as they left the tent.

“To say the least, but that still leaves us minus one Blue Whale and one Ivory Idol.”

The boys went to talk to Sid Solo. He was happy to see them again, but had heard nothing further about Boko. Still under the impression—as was most everyone else—that the Hardys knew where the missing whale was, Solo congratulated them on their sleuthing abilities. He readily granted permission to talk to his employees about Boko.

Frank and Joe questioned the carnival people for nearly three hours, speaking a few minutes with them between acts and during coffee breaks. No one told them anything they had not heard before. One of the last they queried was Rembrandt the Tattooed Man. When Frank asked him if there was anything he wanted to add to his earlier statements, Rembrandt stared silently at his feet. He would not raise his eyes to meet Frank’s.

“Rembrandt,” Frank pressed, “there is something more, isn’t there?”

Rembrandt bobbed his head. “I ... I . . . don’t know how to say it. I ...”

Frank laid a comforting hand on the tattooed shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. Take your time and tell us in your own words.”

Rembrandt shook his head. “I was frightened, that’s why I didn’t speak up before. It’s not easy for a man to admit he’s a coward.”

“Frightened of what?” Joe asked.

“It’s a gang, I think.”

“Why would they want to hurt you?” Frank pressed on.

Rembrandt swallowed deeply, then said, “Boko was one of them. I overheard a telephone call he made. There was something valuable hidden in that whale your friends found. So far as I could tell, Boko’s gang had stolen whatever it was a long time ago and was now trying to sell it.”

“But then why did Boko disappear?” Frank asked.

“He was going to double-cross his gang. Some private detective was going to pay him for information. Well, the gang found out and came looking for Boko. He took off. Me, I was too scared to let on that I knew anything at all. I’m sorry, fellows.”

“It’s all right,” Frank said. “We understand.”

“I know I should have spoken up earlier, but I hope you can still do something with the information.”

“We can,” Joe said. “Your information helps us to fit some of the scattered pieces of this puzzle into place. It explains why Boko was arguing over the phone about money.”

The Hardys tried to cheer the tattooed man, but when they left, Rembrandt was still glum. The boys went to a phone and called the Bayport Airport and asked that the Hardy plane be made ready for flight. Then they called Chet and told him they were going to have another crack at finding the missing whale. They asked him to stop by their house, pick up their binoculars, and meet them at the airport.

They were only five miles out of Newton when the music program they were listening to was interrupted by an announcer.

“News bulletin,” the crisp voice of the news-caster said. “Learning that Frank and Joe Hardy returned to Bayport late yesterday, a reporter from this station went to their home to obtain a follow-up statement concerning Biff Hooper and Tony Prito’s stolen whale. At the Hardy home our man spoke to Chet Morton, close friend of the young sleuths. Contradicting earlier reports, Morton said that the brothers had not yet located the whale. In fact, they were going to make another search by air this very afternoon. Neither Frank nor Joe Hardy was available for comment. We now return you to our regular program.”

“Oh, that’s just great!” Joe fumed. “Now they know we’ve been bluffing all along. That little announcement might just have blown the case!”

Frank pressed down on the accelerator and stepped up their speed to the legal maximum. “We’re not through yet. Those crooks are going to redouble their efforts to find the whale, but as of now they’re no closer than we are. We’ve got to beat them to the punch.”

They arrived at the airport, parked the car, and found Chet waiting for them next to the blue-and-white, single-engine plane. He still carried his little black case, and looked terribly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, fellows,” he murmured.

“Ye cats, Chet!” Joe said. “Whatever made you spill the beans like that?”

“I didn’t—I mean not actually. It was that tricky reporter. He started firing questions at me like a machine gun. I got confused, started to hem and haw, and zingo! He put two and two together and went dashing away. I couldn’t stop him.”

“Well,” Frank said, “no use crying about it. Let’s get into the air and start working!”

The boys climbed into the Hardys’ plane, fastened their seat belts, and warmed up the engine. Obtaining clearance from the tower, Frank taxied down the runway. The light plane gained speed and was almost at the point where Frank would pull back on the wheel and ease the craft up. But suddenly the plane slewed violently to the left and ground-looped.

CHAPTER XVIII

Bird Dogs

FRANK cut the engine instantly and the plane’s wild gyrations came to halt a few moments later.

“Joe, Chet! You all right?” Frank yelled.

“I’m okay,” Joe answered. “What happened?”

“Don’t know.”

Hearing a groan behind them, Frank and Joe turned to see Chet, his eyes glazed, his forehead marked with a red splotch from a bang against the cabin wall. The Hardys quickly unfastened their seat belts and loosened Chet’s.

“Don’t move,” Frank cautioned. “We’ll get help.”

The chubby boy’s eyes were clearing. “No, no,” he mumbled. “I’m okay. Just a king-sized headache.” He probed his injured head. A lump was appearing rapidly. “Ugh! Lucky I’m thick-skulled. What’d they do—drop the roof on me?”

Sirens wailed. Two crash trucks sped across the field to the stricken plane, their red lights flashing. They squealed to a stop and men jumped from the vehicles with fire extinguishers.

“My brother and I weren’t hurt,” Frank told them, “but Chet has a nasty bump on his head.”

Chet insisted he was all right, but one of the men advised that he see the airport doctor. They helped him from the plane and into one of the crash trucks which then sped off.

First making sure there was no danger of fire, Frank and Joe examined the plane. Two mechanics arrived in a jeep to probe for the cause of the trouble.

“She just whipped off to one side and began ground-looping,” Frank explained. “Felt as if I’d lost a wheel.”

Joe bent down and inspected the left wheel. “In a way you did lose one,” he announced. “This wheel is locked solid.”

Frank examined it, too. Joe was right. With the help of the mechanics, the boys tried to push the plane ahead. Its left wheel would not turn.

“That’s impossible,” one of the mechanics named Hank said. “We checked the wheel bearings just yesterday. There was enough grease on them to keep it turning for a year.”

Frank leaned closer and sniffed. “Joe, can you identify that odor?”

Joe shook his head.

“We haven’t any proof yet,” Frank said, “but I’ll give odds that this is sabotage. There are half a dozen acids which lay dormant until activated by heat.” Frank reasoned that such an acid could have eaten into the bearings, causing them to freeze.

“We’ll check it out for you,” Hank said.

The mechanics lifted the left landing gear and wheel onto a dolly. Then they climbed into the jeep with the boys and towed the plane back to the hangar area.

While Frank and Joe waited for Chet to return from the doctor’s office, they checked to see if they could rent a plane for the afternoon. They were disappointed that nothing was available except a helicopter—and neither of them was qualified to fly such a craft.

“That’s just great,” Joe said. “While we’re stranded, those crooks will find the whale and then the Ivory Idol will be gone for good.”

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “Jack Wayne has his helicopter rating!”

“You’re right. Let’s phone him.”

Jack informed the Hardys he would be at the airport within an hour. Heartened by this, the boys returned to the doctor’s office. They found Chet smiling.

“Nothing broken,” he said. “But I’m supposed to take it easy for the next few days.”

Chet was told of the proposed helicopter trip. He volunteered to stay at the airport and keep an eye on the Hardys’ plane. “I’ll keep a lookout for any suspicious characters,” he added.

“We’d appreciate it,” Frank said. “But are you sure you’re up to it?”

Chet nodded. “You could do me one favor, though.”

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“Bring me that black case I had with me in the plane.”

“Sure. But what’s in it? You’ve been lugging that thing around with you ever since this investigation began.”

“In it, my good man,” Chet said, “are the tools of an artist. All my scrimshaw equipment. You don’t think I’d let little things like a stolen whale and an ivory statue interfere with my hobby, do you?”

They brought Chet his case and got him positioned just outside the hangar in which their damaged plane was being examined.

Jack Wayne had arrived and checked out the helicopter. When Frank and Joe were securely strapped into their seats, Jack started the engine, let it idle a while, then engaged the rotors.

The copter lifted slowly from the ground, skimmed a few feet down the runway, then shot straight up into the air. They were on their way. Jack freed one hand and passed an air chart to Frank and Joe.

“That line in black grease pencil,” he shouted over the roar of the engine, “represents a direct route from where the whale was stolen to the point at which you found the balloons.”

“That’s one of the problems,” Frank answered. “Joe and I flew over every inch of that route and we didn’t find a trace of the whale.”

“What are the red elliptical lines you’ve drawn in, Jack?” Joe asked.

“Now there’s where we might have some luck,” the pilot answered. “Taking into consideration the meteorological data about the storm on the night of the theft, those red lines indicate ways in which the weather balloons carrying the whale might have drifted off course.”

“I see,” Joe said. “So if we search along these routes we might find the spot where the whale tore loose.”

“That’s the idea.”

The first two areas they covered turned up nothing and consumed valuable time. Joe was discouraged. “Cheer up,” Jack told him, “we still have two more to go.”

“What happens if we draw blanks there too?” Joe asked.

“We’ll just have to think of something else,” Frank said.

Fifteen minutes later Jack pointed down to a field bordered by a small stand of trees, beyond which lay a sparkling lake. “Somebody else seems to have lost something, too,” he said.

Three men were covering the ground bird-dog fashion. “Let’s go down and take a look,” Frank said. He pressed the binoculars to his eyes.

Jack brought the helicopter lower. As it neared the ground, the three men looked up, pointed, then ran for the woods. “It’s Tim Varney and Mug Stine!” Frank exclaimed. “And Rembrandt is with them!”

“Rembrandt!” said Joe. “Well, I’ll be a cross-eyed monkey. He certainly had us fooled.”

The three men disappeared into the woods. Moments later, several white puffs of smoke appeared from the shadows of the forest. Bullets pierced the helicopter’s Plexiglas canopy near Frank’s head. Jack Wayne sent the aircraft leaping skyward.

“That was a close one.” Frank took a deep breath.

“We’re out of range now,” Jack said. He radioed the airport, giving their position and reporting the fact they had just been fired upon. Wayne gave the criminal’s names to the tower operator and requested that Police Chief Collig of Bayport be notified immediately.

Bullets pierced the helicopter’s canopy

“Man, would I like to get my hands on Rembrandt!” Joe said as the helicopter hovered. “I’ll bet if we examined his right fist we’d find a three-part whale tattoo. Who would have thought of looking for a thing like that on a man whose entire body is covered with tattoos?”

“I guess we all goofed,” Frank said, and added, “Suppose we keep an eye on those birds until the police get here.”

Wayne circled over the woodland, but there was no sign of the trio. Finally the Hardys decided it was futile to keep up the surveillance. Also, seeking out the lost whale was more important.

Frank turned to the pilot. “Jack, there’s nothing we can accomplish here. The police will have to find those men by themselves. Let’s continue on the search route.”

“Okay by me,” Wayne replied.

He manipulated the controls and the helicopter moved forward. Past the trees, they flew over a cabin at the side of the lake. A speedboat was moored at the cabin’s pier. Wayne came down for a closer look. The place appeared to be deserted.

“I think we can skirt around the lake,” Joe said. “The whale wouldn’t—Hey! Wait a minute!”

The thought that stopped Joe occurred to Frank at the same time. “Do you think it might have fallen into the water?”

“Why not?” Joe said with excitement. “If the whale went down in the lake, that would certainly account for the fact that no one has spotted it.”

“Jack,” Frank said, “take her up and move directly across the lake.”

The pilot complied. From their vantage point, they could see far down into the clear water. The bottom was covered partly by weeds, partly by sand and jagged rocks.

Near the opposite end of the lake, Joe shot out his arm and shouted, “Look!”

Below them on the bottom of the lake they spied the dark silhouette of the whale!

CHAPTER XIX

A Bitter Loss

“WE’VE found it!” Frank shouted. The boys pounded each other on the back and shook hands with Jack Wayne.

The pilot grinned. “Okay, super-sleuths, you’ve located the whale. But what do we do with it now?”

Frank scratched his head. “This chopper’s not powerful enough to carry the whale back to Bayport, is it, Jack?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“We can’t take a chance on leaving the whale here, though,” Joe said.

“I know what,” Frank said. “There’s a coil of strong rope behind Joe’s seat. If we could rig it to the whale, we might have enough power to raise the thing to the surface and tow it to the shore.”

Jack thought for a moment. “Yes, I think we can do it,” he said finally. “But how do we get the rope on the whale?”

Frank began unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll attach it. The whale can’t be much more than ten or twelve feet down. That’s not too bad a dive, eh?”

“I don’t know, Frank,” Joe said doubtfully. “That water’s pretty clear. The whale might be deeper than it looks.”

Frank stripped off his shirt and T-shirt, then removed his shoes and socks. “Well, if it’s too deep, then it’s too deep and we’ll have to think of something else. But the Ivory Idol is almost within our hands and I don’t want to take any chances—not with those crooks in the woods. Take her down, Jack.”

The pilot eased the helicopter to an altitude of no more than a dozen feet above the water. The down blast of its whirling rotors chopped up the surface.

Frank shucked his pants as Joe unlimbered the coil of hemp and secured one end to the framework of the helicopter seat.

Then he poised himself in the doorway, the free end of the rope in one hand, his pocketknife in the other. Jack brought the helicopter another six feet nearer the water.

“Wish me luck!” Frank called.

“Go get ’im!” Joe cried.

Frank dived cleanly into the water. The surface turbulence created by the rotor breeze prevented Jack and Joe from seeing more than a blurred light-colored patch as Frank swam down to the whale. Joe leaned forward tensely.

Frank forced his way down with powerful scissor kicks and sweeping strokes of his arms. The whale’s back seemed elusive, remaining just beyond his reach. The water was deeper than he had guessed, but he did not turn back.

At last Frank touched the rough skin of the whale. He probed quickly and felt one of the hooplike metal strips that supported the creature’s basic form. Frank plunged his knife through the skin first on one side of the hoop, then on the other.

By now his chest felt as if it were on fire. His body was screaming for air. But he inserted the rope into the first gash and pulled it out through the second. Then he let go of the rope and swam furiously upward.

Frank’s head and shoulders crashed through the surface like the prow of a submarine, and he sucked in a huge mouthful of air. Water, chopped up by the helicopter, splashed hard against his face and into his mouth. He motioned for Jack to draw the helicopter off a distance.

Refreshed, Frank bent sharply at the waist and dived down again. This time he located the rope, tied two hitches in it, and surfaced.

He signaled Jack to raise the whale. The helicopter ascended carefully, moved directly above the whale, then went up again. Frank let the taut rope slide through his hands. He could feel displaced water rolling against his feet as the whale rose.

Slowly the leviathan broke the surface with a great whooshing sound, water rolling from its sides. Frank rode high on its back.

The youth sleuth whooped with joy. He looked up to see Joe leaning out the copter door and gesturing shoreward. The craft moved forward, its rotors protesting mightily as the whale was towed sluggishly toward land.

The great behemoth created a large wake. Frank waved one arm around his head like a broncobuster in a rodeo and kicked the whale with his heels.

After the whale was beached, Jack set the copter down nearby. The trio congratulated one another exuberantly. Frank dried himself and slipped back into his clothes.

“Where do we start?” Joe asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. “The statue will probably be toward the center. Let’s make a slit down the length, from the head to the tail.”

It took the Hardys and Jack a while to cut through the tough hide. Then they rolled it up a few feet, giving themselves easy access to the sodden mass of straw and excelsior inside. Digging it out was no easy task.

“It’s a pretty big whale,” Joe said, panting. “But if I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed how much stuffing it could hold.”

“I know what you mean,” Jack said, stretching to loosen his tired muscles.

“We’re looking for an ivory needle in a haystack,” Frank observed.

“A six-foot needle!” His brother shook his head. “And we still can’t find it.”

As they worked, the distant put-put of an outboard motor came to them from across the lake. They looked up and saw the fishing boat that had been moored at the other end of the lake.

“Oh, oh! That just might be our three friends,” Joe said. He sprinted to the helicopter and returned with the binoculars, which he pressed to his eyes.

“What’s it look like?” Frank asked.

“There’s only one man in the boat, sitting in the stern by the motor. I can’t make out his face, but he’s wearing an old fishing hat and jacket.”

“Can’t blame him for being curious,” Jack said. “I’ll bet it’s not very often that he sees a helicopter hang over the lake, then dredge up a whale and tow it to shore!”

The boys laughed. “Well, back to work,” Joe said.

The three thrust their arms deep into the stuffing and threw great bunches of the wadding onto an ever-growing pile. They had cleaned out nearly a fourth of the whale’s stuffing before they had any luck.

Rummaging with a stick, Joe struck something hard. “Hey!” he called. “Over here. I might have hit pay dirt!”

Frank and Jack rushed to his side. The three of them tore away stuffing in large handfuls. Suddenly they exposed something about the size of a man—only thinner—wrapped tightly in old canvas that was secured with rope. They removed the item gingerly from the whale and set it upright upon the ground.

“Easy does it!” Frank cautioned. Their faces were tight with expectancy as he cut the ropes and pulled away the canvas.

Jack shook his head in disbelief. The Ivory Idol, glossed with a slight patina of age and carved with a delicacy that could only have been born of genius, stood before them.

“It’s beautiful!” Joe said with awe.

Frank whistled. “No wonder everyone wants it.”

Their mood was broken by the sound of the motorboat. It was drawing near the shore very quickly.

Frank looked up and said, “I’ll bet the fisherman has never seen anything like this before.”

The trio took a few steps forward to greet the visitor. Ten feet from land the fisherman pulled his throttle wide open and the boat rushed onto the sand with a grating sound.

The next moment two figures leaped up from the bottom of the boat. Rembrandt and Mug Stine!

The man at the motor threw off his hat, revealing himself as Tim Varney.

“To the copter—hurry!” Frank yelled.

Frank and Joe picked up the heavy statue and moved toward the helicopter as quickly as they could. Jack Wayne dashed ahead of them and tried to start the motor. The blades spun weakly a few times, but the engine coughed and would not catch.

“Frank!” Joe gasped. “We’ll never make it with the statue. They’re gaining on us!”

“Set it down!” Frank yelled. “We’ll have to fight ’em!”

The boys laid the statue on the beach and braced for the attack. A moment later Joe went down beneath Rembrandt and Varney. Frank dodged Mug Stine and rushed to his brother’s aid. The dark-haired boy tripped over a root and fell, landing on his back. The last thing he saw was Mug Stine swinging a hamlike fist down at him.

Mug joined Rembrandt and Varney. Outnumbered, Joe struggled fiercely, but it was a losing battle. In the background he heard Jack Wayne’s frantic radio message to the police. The pilot signed off, leaped out of the helicopter, and ran to Joe’s aid. By the time he flung himself onto the criminals, Joe, too, had been kayoed. Jack, fighting bravely but alone, was no match for the attackers.

The victors were grimly silent as they tied the Hardys and the pilot back to back. Jack grimaced with pain as Tim Varney savagely tightened the bonds.

“That ought to hold you,” Varney snarled.

The assailants picked up the Ivory Idol and carried it to their boat. Then they shoved off, started the motor, and headed across the lake.

CHAPTER XX

Settling a Score

FRANK regained consciousness a little after his brother did. “You all right?” Joe asked.

“Yes. But my head feels like a balloon.”

“I know what you mean.”

Jack filled them in on what had happened after they had been knocked out. “So,” he said ruefully, “I’m afraid all our efforts were in vain.”

“We were so close,” Frank said angrily. “So close! I just can’t believe it.”

“Well,” Jack said, “we did manage to get off two radio messages to the police. Maybe they’ll intercept these rats and recover the statue.”

Joe’s voice was morose. “Maybe, but it’s only a slim chance.”

Frank snapped himself out of his depression. “There’s no sense in sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves. Let’s go to work and see what we can do about getting loose.”

“That’s going to be tougher than it sounds,” Jack said. “I’ve been trying and I’ll say one thing for that guy Varney, he sure knows how to tie knots!”

Jack and the Hardys bent all their energies to freeing themselves. They drew in great lungfuls of air and flexed their muscles, then exhaled and relaxed, trying to work some slack into the rope. They pulled and pushed against one another, but could not loosen the bonds.

The afternoon lengthened into dusk, and soon their only light was provided by the half moon that shone above them. Swarms of mosquitoes added to their misery.

“Ouch!” Joe exclaimed. “I’m being sucked dry by these miniature vampires. What’s keeping the police? Do you think they might not be able to find us?”

“Now there’s a cheery thought,” Frank said. “No, they’ll find us, but we’ll just have to sweat it out until they come.”

Exhausted by their efforts to escape, the three huddled as close together as possible in an effort to offer only minimal exposure to the insatiable mosquitoes. Some time later Joe saw flashlights stabbing through the darkness.

“Look!” he cried. Then voices called their names—searching, anxious voices.

“Here! We’re over here!” Frank yelled, and they all joined in excited shouting.

The bobbing flashlights swung in the direction of the captives, then advanced on the double. In moments Jack and the Hardys were surrounded by six state troopers, two of whom immediately set to work cutting the ropes.

“Are we glad to see you!” Frank said. “Did you pick up those thieves in a dragnet? Is the Ivory Idol safe?”

“I’m afraid the answer to both questions is negative,” said the officer in charge. “We did the best we could, but on such short notice were spread too thin. They slipped through us.”

Frank, Joe, and Jack were helped to their feet, stiff and aching from their ordeal. Never had the boys been more crestfallen.

Jack Wayne went to tinker with the helicopter and managed to get the motor going. Then he and the Hardys thanked the police, climbed into the copter, and headed for Bayport. On the way, Jack radioed a message to Chief Collig requesting him to inform Mrs. Hardy of their safety.

Everyone was glum on the flight home. Each was thinking about the lost statue. They found Chet still faithfully waiting at the airport.

“I heard about it,” he said sadly as he packed his scrimshaw in the carrying case. “Rotten luck all the way around. If I hadn’t banged my head, maybe I could have gone along and helped.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Frank said. “By the way, any snoopers around our plane?”

“No,” Chet replied ruefully. “They were all after you, I guess.”

The Hardys said good-by to Jack, then climbed into their car with Chet. After dropping him off at the Morton farm, the boys made straight for home.

The usually ebullient Joe slumped in the seat beside his brother, chin in hand. He was quiet as the car skimmed over the highway. Finally he said, “Frank, we ruined our record today. This will be our first unsolved case.”

“Don’t agree,” Frank replied. “We solved it all right, just didn’t win it.”

“Like in the carnival, huh? Rang the bell but didn’t get the prize.”

“Righto. But try to cheer up. Your chin’s dragging on the ground. Don’t let Aunt Gertrude read us, or we’re in for a lecture.”

“Don’t worry. We’re in for one, anyhow. Look at these rope burns. She’ll be sure to spot them.”

As Frank pulled into the driveway, Joe spied a familiar figure through the living-room window.

“Great spoutin’ whales!” he shouted, nearly leaping from his seat. “It’s Dad!”

Frank braked the car with a jerk and the Hardys hastened into the house. Greetings were warm and enthusiastic. To their relief, Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were out. Fenton Hardy was in fine fettle. He had captured Whitey Meldrum in New York and turned him over to the police, then returned home.

“And now,” he said, “my boys are back again.” He clapped both of them on the shoulders.

“But we didn’t do such a hot job, Dad,” Joe confessed glumly. He and Frank gave a detailed report of their exploits.

Mr. Hardy’s face grew grave. “Frank and Joe, I’m as disappointed as both of you that we didn’t recover the Ivory Idol. No one likes to fail. But you did have it in your grasp! It was only circumstance that snatched it away from you. When all is said, I’m as proud as a peacock about the way you handled yourselves and the work you did on this case.”

The boys appreciated their father’s efforts to try to cheer them up, but the taste of defeat cast a pall over them. Joe asked whether the gang might fly the statue out of the country.

“That’s very likely,” Mr. Hardy said. “And after that, it’s highly improbable it will ever be recovered. I know it’s—”

“Holy mackerel!” Frank slammed a fist into his palm, then struck himself on the forehead. “I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I think of it before?”

“Think of what?” Mr. Hardy asked.

Frank told him about the shack on the waterfront where Tim Varney, Mug Stine, and Baby Face had met.

“Remember, Joe? There were some extra articles of clothing, some bedding and cans of food.”

“Right,” said Joe. “You think they might use it as a hideout until the heat is off?”

“It’s possible. After all, they don’t think anyone knows about the shack. What’s your opinion, Dad?”

Mr. Hardy thought it was definitely worth a try. Speed was of the essence, so they ruled out driving to Mystic. At this hour there were nearly no requests for rented planes and they secured one easily.

“Let’s give Jack a call,” Frank suggested “I’m sure he’d like to come, and besides, we might need some reinforcement.”

Joe hurried to the phone. Jack Wayne, who had just reached his home, was eager to join them and said he would meet them at the airport.

After leaving a note for Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, father and sons hurried off. Jack Wayne was waiting at the plane when they reached the airport.

Up they flew into the night sky, and after a smooth flight touched down at a small private field five miles from Mystic.

Locating a taxi in the middle of the night took half an hour, but they finally found one and instructed the driver to stop three blocks from the shack near the Mystic waterfront. Mr. Hardy paid the fare, then they moved in on the shack by foot, advancing cautiously and keeping to the shadows.

“Look!” Frank said. “There’s a light seeping around the edges of the windows. Someone’s inside.”

“Your hunch just might have paid off,” Fenton Hardy agreed. “Easy now. We don’t want to give ourselves away. Is there another entrance besides the one in the front?”

“No,” Frank replied.

They crept to the shack and peeped through the crack in the door. Frank spied a long object on the floor, wrapped in a white tarpaulin. His whole frame tingled. The Ivory Idol!

“Listen,” said Mug Stine’s voice. “If we dump this baggage in the sea, no one will be the wiser.”

“It’s okay by me,” Rembrandt agreed. “How about you, Tim?”

Varney nodded.

The Hardys and Jack Wayne pulled back a few feet. “We hit the jackpot all right,” Joe said. “But I don’t understand why they’d want to discard the statue. It doesn’t make sense.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Frank whispered. “Listen, Dad. We’ve got a score to settle with those goons in there. If it’s all right with you, we’d like to do it right now.”

“Roger,” Jack hissed.

“Go to it,” Fenton Hardy said. “Clean ’em up!”

Frank and Joe charged the door and it flung open with a shattering bang. Mug, Varney, and Rembrandt were stunned into immobility as the Hardys and Jack set upon them.

Frank’s one-two punch toppled Rembrandt; Joe’s flying tackle flattened Varney, and Mug failed to duck a haymaker delivered by Jack.

With a smile of satisfaction Fenton Hardy looked at the three men sprawled on the floor, rubbing their bruised jaws and glaring up at their captors. Joe dusted his jacket and said, “Guess you guys aren’t so tough when the odds are even!”

The answer was a groan—but not from Varney, Rembrandt, or Mug. It came from the wrapped figure on the floor!

“Wh-what’s that?” Joe blurted out.

“Me! Get me out!” came a muffled reply.

Fearing some kind of trick, Fenton Hardy handcuffed the criminals together, then bent down to unwrap the prone figure, which had started to wriggle. He split the tarpaulin with a knife and rolled the prisoner out.

Boko the Clown!

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “They were going to dump him into the sea!”

“We should have!” Varney grumbled.

“Quiet!” Fenton Hardy ordered. “Now tell us your story, Boko!”

Shaking with fright, Boko showered the Hardys with gratitude before revealing his bizarre tale.

He was Bottlenose in the Society of the Whale Tattoo, and Rembrandt was Blue. Kane, who was Pygmy, had hidden the Ivory Idol in the whale owned by Zelemeyer’s Circus, where he worked, because it was too hot to sell. When Zelemeyer had gone bankrupt, the whale was buried and Kane died before he could divulge its location to the society.

“When your friends dug up the whale,” Boko explained, “something had to be done.”

It was Rembrandt, however, not Boko, who was the informer. He believed the statue was still too hot to sell, so he decided to turn stool pigeon and make some money for himself.

The tattooed man glowered. He was the one who had entered Boko’s bunk wagon and burned the contents of the strongbox.

“I knew he was after me and I had to get out,” Boko continued. “I remembered the picture you boys had of Elmer Hardy, so I decided to move into your house as him.”

“But why did you take off so suddenly?” Frank inquired.

“Well, the real Elmer Hardy was due soon,” Boko said, “and besides, since the carnival had moved, I felt safer.”

The clown was kidnapped, however, soon after he left the Hardy home. Rembrandt convinced Mug and Varney that Boko was the informer and they decided to silence him once and for all.

“They almost got away with it,” Boko concluded.

Mug Stine and Tim Varney were just as surprised as the Hardys and started yelling at Rembrandt.

Joe interrupted them. “Never mind that now. We’re not finished yet.” Turning to the tattooed man, he said, “You were the one who put me on the Ferris wheel, weren’t you?”

“What else was I supposed to do with a nosy brat?” Rembrandt retorted.

“What about the whale? You couldn’t have carried that off by yourself with those weather balloons,” Frank questioned.

“Whitey and Tim lent me a hand, and Baby Face...” His voice trailed off.

“And of course you had to knock Tony out to get to the whale,” Joe figured.

Rembrandt shrugged.

Mr. Hardy turned to Mug Stine. “How did you happen to be at Kennedy Airport when Frank and Joe were waiting for their plane?”

Mug sneered, “We’ve been watching ’em ever since they left Mystic and went to New York.”

Joe grew impatient. “Where’s the Ivory Idol?” he demanded.

“Lashed beneath their rowboat,” Boko revealed. “It’s moored outside.”

“Show us the place,” commanded Mr. Hardy, and asked Jack Wayne to stay with the prisoners, who again started arguing among themselves.

Using their flashlights, the Hardys and Boko reached the harbor side, where small waves leaped against a dory tied to a wooden dock. Stout ropes fastened to the oarlocks disappeared beneath the boat. Frank and Joe pulled off their shoes and trousers and jumped into the water, which was only chest high.

“I feel it!” Joe cried triumphantly.

“Me too,” Frank said on the other side of the boat.

Inside the dory, Mr. Hardy and Boko quickly untied the knots.

“Okay, Frank. Got her?”

“Right!”

The boys eased the treasure to the dock where their father and Boko lent a hand to pull the magnificent ivory figure up to safety.

Joe grinned. “I guess we didn’t lose our case after all, eh, Frank?” he said.

With the criminals and the Ivory Idol safely in the hands of the Mystic police, the Hardys and Jack returned to Bayport. Shortly after daybreak, Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were awakened by lively banter as Mr. Hardy and the boys entered the house.

After a hearty breakfast the three detectives turned in and slept soundly until past noontime.

Chet, meantime, arrived at the Hardy home and was delighted to hear that a big victory party had been planned for that evening. It would include Biff, Tony, Callie, Iola, and other friends of the Hardys.

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude scurried about all afternoon preparing for the feast. When the guests were all gathered in the living room, they insisted that Frank and Joe relate the events of the past twenty-four hours.

In the middle of the party, Chet Morton stood up and asked for silence so that he could make an announcement. He said he had just put the finishing touch on a piece of scrimshaw which he now presented to Aunt Gertrude. It was an ivory instrument of delicate, symmetrical design. One end had three long tines and the other had a revolving wheel with a toothed rim.

“Oh, it’s lovely, Chet! Thank you so much,” Miss Hardy said. “But what is it?”

“It’s called a jagging wheel and you use it for ruffling and marking the edges of pies.”

“Are you trying to tell me something, young man?”

“Only that I hope you use it very often!”

At Chet’s remark Frank and Joe burst into laughter, totally unaware that at that moment a sinister plot was brewing for them in The Arctic Patrol Mystery.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hardy went to answer it. She returned with a man whose skin was weather-tanned, whose head was topped with a shock of sandy hair, and whose cheeks were covered with a full, flowing beard.

“I ... I’d like to introduce Elmer Hardy to you,” she said in a faltering voice.

Frank and Joe looked blank for a moment, then Frank grinned. “I can’t believe it. Our real cousin!”

Elmer Hardy stared at them in bewilderment. “I beg your pardon?”

Frank chuckled, strode forward, and shook the man’s hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Cousin Elmer. Come sit down and I’ll explain everything to you. It’s a whale of a story!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Icelandic Secret

CHAPTER II - Thug for Hire

CHAPTER III - An Ancient Custom

CHAPTER IV - Astronauts’Salute

CHAPTER V - The Boiling Pit

CHAPTER VI - Tricked in the Sky

CHAPTER VII - A Harrowing Blizzard

CHAPTER VIII - Something Fishy

CHAPTER IX - Man of the Sea

CHAPTER X - The Arctic Patrol

CHAPTER XI - Over the Waves

CHAPTER XII - A Mysterious Offer

CHAPTER XIII - Eavesdroppers

CHAPTER XIV - A Perfect Disguise

CHAPTER XV - A Bad Break

CHAPTER XVI - The Boxes

CHAPTER XVII - Shut In

CHAPTER XVIII - Divide and Conquer!

CHAPTER XIX - Hijackers!

CHAPTER XX - Cool Hand Chet

THE ARCTIC PATROL MYSTERY

PRIVATE investigator Fenton Hardy enlists the aid of his teen-age detective sons in a search for a missing man being sought by an insurance company. All leads to the sailor’s whereabouts have petered out and the boys fly to Iceland, the man’s native land, hoping to find a new clue.

From the moment Frank and Joe arrive in Reykjavik, the capital city of Iceland, they are in constant danger. They are shadowed by a mysterious blond man who is later responsible for the crash landing of their chartered plane on a vast glacier. Stranded in a fierce blizzard, the detective brothers narrowly escape death. Other perils confront them when their friends Chet Morton and Biff Hooper vanish under alarming circumstances.

In the spine-chilling pursuit that follows, Frank and Joe uncover a diabolical espionage plot that threatens the life of a U.S. astronaut and NASA’s moon project.

Copyright © 1997, 1969 by Simon & Schuster. Inc.

All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-12164

eISBN : 978-1-101-07661-3

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Icelandic Secret

“How would you boys like to fly to Iceland?” Mr. Hardy asked his sons.

Frank and Joe, seated in their father’s study on the second floor of the Hardy home in Bayport, looked stunned.

“Iceland? Up near the Arctic Circle?” asked blond-haired, seventeen-year-old Joe.

Frank, dark-haired and a year older, had the same incredulous look as his brother, but he realized that his famous detective father was not joking. “Of course, Dad! What’s the pitch? Another mystery?”

Fenton Hardy rocked slightly in his high-backed swivel chair. “I would call it a mild mystery compared with some others you’ve handled. But it could develop into the most dangerous one yet, provided...” Frowning, he paused for a moment.

Joe queried excitedly, “Provided what, Dad?”

“That depends on another assignment I’m not at liberty to reveal. It’s top secret—for the moment at least. Your job is to find a man named Rex Hallbjornsson. An insurance company wants to pay him fifty thousand dollars.”

Frank smiled. “That’s not hard to take. Who left him that tidy little fortune?”

“A person whose life he saved at sea.”

“Then this Hallb—what’s his name—is a sailor?” Joe asked.

“Right. Probably one reason why Hallbjornsson hasn’t been found. And I have a hunch his long Scandinavian name might have something to do with it, too.”

Mr. Hardy quickly outlined the important facts. The missing man’s last known address was a London steamship company. That was before his ship was sunk by a drifting mine off the coast of France. European detectives tracked him to a family on the coast of Brittany, but Hallbjornsson had long since gone from there. He did leave a clue—a scrap of paper which bore the word ‘Island.’

“Island is the Icelandic word for Iceland,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Hallbjornsson would be in his sixties by now. My guess is that he returned to his native land. Your mission—track him down. There’s a direct flight from New York to Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland.”

“What about Chet?” Joe asked. “Can he come With us?”

Chet Morton was the Hardys’ best friend. He was a stout boy, great as a lineman on the Bayport High football team, but less than enthusiastic as a sleuth. Chet would side-step danger, if possible. However, when the chips were down, he always proved to be a true pal. He was fond of food and hobbies, the latter changing as often as the weather.

Mr. Hardy pondered the question about Chet in silence for a few moments. “Yes,” he said finally, “Chet might be of assistance as well as good company. But you must warn him to be silent. Premature disclosure of our plans could prove disastrous.”

Frank and Joe made careful note of their father’s warning, because Fenton Hardy was an expert in detective work and security. He had been a crack member of the New York Police Department, and his superiors hated to lose him when he left to start his own agency. Now he was world-famous and his sons were following in his footsteps.

Their first case, known as The Tower Treasure, had whetted the boys’ appetite for mysteries, and they had solved one after another, their latest being Mystery of the Whale Tattoo.

“Great, Dad!” Frank said, jumping to his feet. “With spring vacation coming up we won’t miss any time at school!”

“Are your passports up to date?” his father asked.

“Sure, we always keep them that way.”

A telephone call brought Chet Morton and his old jalopy backfiring to a halt in front of the Hardy home on Elm Street. Chet lived on a farm several miles out of town. He had a sister, Iola, who was Joe’s girl friend.

Frank’s special date was Callie Shaw. But girls were far from the minds of the young detectives as they ran out to greet their friend.

Chet hopped out of the car, his round face beaming. “Hi, fellows. Another mystery? By the way, how’s your Aunt Gertrude fixed for pie?”

“Come in. We’ll find out.”

Laura Hardy, the boys’ mother, had gone marketing, leaving Aunt Gertrude in sole charge of the kitchen. Miss Hardy, their father’s sister, was tall, spare, and decisive.

She often looked askance at the mysteries in which her nephews became involved. Nonetheless, Frank and Joe were very special to her as was Chet Morton, chief connoisseur of her excellent culinary abilities.

“Well! You sound like a bunch of elephants tramping in here!” Aunt Gertrude said.

“Chet’s hungry again,” Frank declared with a wink.

“What else?” Joe joked. “That’s a permanent condition with him.”

“Aw, cut it out, fellows,” said Chet, pulling out a kitchen chair and sliding his ample frame into it. “What’s your latest in pies, Aunt Gertrude?”

Miss Hardy pursed her lips in a mock look of annoyance, yet she was secretly pleased with her reputation as a baker.

“Rhubarb pie, Chester. It’s chilling in the refrigerator.”

A sly smile spread over Chet Morton’s face. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “My favorite! You must have known I was coming!”

“Cut out the baloney, Chet,” said Joe. “You’d eat anything.”

Chet’s hurt look vanished when a large wedge of pie was placed before him, along with a tall glass of milk.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said as Aunt Gertrude left to take care of other household chores. Then he turned to his friends. “Now what’s this latest proposition?”

“We’re going to Iceland,” Frank said seriously, “and would like to take you with us.”

Chet grinned broadly. “Good thought!”

“But you must keep this absolutely mum,” Joe warned. “Not a word of it to anyone.”

“You can trust me to be quiet,” Chet stated between mouthfuls.

“And we mean quiet!” Frank added emphati cally.

“Okay, I’m with you.” Chet savored a long swig of milk. “And what are we going to do there?”

Briefly the Hardys told of their mission, and Chet seemed delighted with the idea. “Finding somebody doesn’t seem too dangerous,” he said. “Besides, I’d like to see some real Eskimos.”

As he finished speaking, Chet banged the side of his hand on the kitchen table, making the pie plate jump.

“What are you trying to do?” Joe demanded.

“Just practicing my karate chop.”

“Your latest hobby?” Frank asked.

“Sure. The art of self-defense. Got to get the old hands toughened up. Never can tell when you need it.”

“You’re a nut,” Joe said, grinning, as the boys stood up and walked to the front door.

“Thanks for the pie,” Chet said to Gertrude Hardy whom they met in the hall. “It’ll give me lots of strength for our next case.”

“Quiet!” Joe said. “You’re spilling the beans already.”

Aunt Gertrude sniffed, as if scenting a danger, and her eyebrows raised above the rim of her glasses. “Another case?” she asked, looking from Frank to Joe. “What is it?”

“Something simple,” Frank assured her. “An easy investigation. Don’t worry.”

“Just practicing my karate chop,” Chet said

“Humph! I worry all the time about you.”

“We’re only going to Iceland,” said Joe.

“Iceland?” Aunt Gertrude made a face as if the entire country were run by wild, long-haired Vikings. “You’ll freeze to death up there, if you’re not eaten by a polar bear!”

“Or lost on the stormy seas,” Joe added.

“Don’t get smart, young man,” his aunt replied, and marched into the kitchen, where she put the remaining pie and the milk back into the refrigerator.

Frank remembered studying about Iceland in school and knew that the weather should be mild in April, although there were occasional storms in the area at that time of year. “Bring some heavy clothes just in case,” he told his friend.

“How about skis and snowshoes?”

“Forget it, Chet. I didn’t say the North Pole!”

“What about the rest of the gang? Shall I tell them?” asked Chet.

Frank hesitated. “Dad cautioned us not to say anything to anybody.”

“Well, Tony and Biff will know the next day that we’re gone,” Joe put in. “Suppose we tell them we’re going away on a secret mission without saying where.”

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “Maybe we can have a get-together before we leave.”

“Good idea.” Chet said good-by and chugged off. He made a stop at the Bayport Hardware Store for some farm supplies before heading back home.

As Chet hefted a bale of peat moss to his shoulder and carried it to his jalopy, he nearly bumped into Fred Marney, who broadcast the news on the Bayport TV channel. Marney was well acquainted with the exploits of the Hardys and their friends.

“Hi, Chet. Getting the garden ready?” he greeted the boy.

“Not me. This is for my mother’s roses. No time for gardening.”

“What? With spring vacation coming up?”

“Oh, I’ll be busy,” said Chet and moved toward the car.

“Busy with what?” Marney persisted. “Another Hardy boys’ case?”

Chet tossed the bale to the back of the car and turned to frown at the broadcaster.

“So I hit the nail on the head, eh?” the news-man persisted.

“I didn’t say anything!” Chet said, sliding behind the wheel. “The trip to Iceland is nobody’s business except—”

Chet could have bitten off his tongue as Marney smirked and turned away. He had broken his promise! What would the Hardys say now? Well, maybe it was of so little importance that Fred Marney would forget it.

That evening, just before the TV newscast, Chet got a phone call from Tony Prito. “Listen, Chet, big doings at our place tonight. My mother’s giving a pizza feast. The whole bunch will be here. I told Iola already. Come with your appetite.”

“Then you know about the trip?” Chet asked.

“Biff and I do, but that’s all. Frank and Joe want to keep it a secret.”

“Yeah, I know about that,” Chet said limply. “I’ll be there, but I don’t know about my appetite.”

Tony Prito laughed as he hung up, and Chet tuned in the evening report. His eyes were glued to the TV screen. National news came first, then other reports of statewide importance, and finally an item about the Bayport city council. Chet breathed a sigh of relief. His secret had not been violated!

In the Hardy home Frank, Joe, and Mr. Hardy were watching the same program while the boys’ mother and Aunt Gertrude were preparing supper. After the council report Fred Marney smiled at his viewers and said, “And now a little juicy tidbit for fans of the famous Hardy boys.” Frank and Joe froze and Mr. Hardy frowned deeply.

The reporter went on, “This time it’s a trip to Iceland for Frank and Joe and, of course, their pal Chet Morton, too. Since this is not a junket for fun in the sun, we wonder what the detectives are up to now.”

“Holy crow!” Joe exclaimed and flicked off the set. “How did he find out about that?”

“I’m afraid this means trouble,” Mr. Hardy said, thumping a fist into the palm of his hand. “Well, what’s done is done!”

“Do you suppose it was Chet?” asked Frank.

The answer came with the ringing of the telephone. Joe grabbed it. The voice on the other end was so low that he could hardly hear it. “What? ... Oh, it’s you, Chet.... Yes, we heard.” There was a long silence while Chet explained.

Then Joe went on, “No, I don’t think it’ll wash out the trip, but Dad’s very much upset. See you later.”

Joe told the others what had happened, which was not of much comfort to his father. After supper Mr. Hardy announced that he was leaving for an important secret meeting.

Frank and Joe showered and dressed for the party in the Pritos’ rumpus room. Chet was bringing his sister Iola, and Frank was to pick up Callie Shaw at her home. Just as the boys started out to their car, they heard the phone ring.

Aunt Gertrude answered. After listening for a few moments, she said, “You shouldn’t play pranks like this, Callie Shawl What is it you—?” Then she turned to the boys with an astonished expression on her face. “Goodness, she hung up on me!”

“That couldn’t have been Callie,” Frank said. “She wouldn’t do a thing like that!”

“What did the caller say?” Joe asked.

“She claimed it was the White House calling Fenton Hardy.”

The boys climbed into their convertible, uneasy about the strange call. Had it been a joke?

“We’d better not mention this to anyone,” Frank said. Joe agreed.

A few minutes later they pulled up at the Shaws’ house, and Frank hurried to pick up his pretty blond date.

When they arrived at Tony Prito’s place, Frank parked in front of the house, and the three entered. Chet and his vivacious, dark-haired sister were already there. They all trooped down to the basement, where brawny Biff Hooper and good-looking Tony were playing a game of Ping-Pong.

Their dates were shouting encouragement to the two, when Tony sent a sizzling backhand shot which nicked the end of the table.

“You win!” Biff said and put down his paddle. “Hi, Frank, Joe! The news is all over town!”

When Frank remained silent, Tony said, “Hey, you guys, where’s your bounce tonight?”

“The news shouldn’t have gotten out,” Joe explained. “Well, let’s forget about the whole thing and have some fun.”

The boys grabbed billiard cues and went to the large table which occupied one end of the basement. Callie, meanwhile, put on some dance records, and as the evening progressed, the fun increased until Mrs. Prito appeared carrying a large tray of red-hot pizza.

Frank touched Callie’s arm. “I’d like to get out for a little fresh air before we tackle the goodies.”

“Me, too,” Callie replied. “It’s stuffy in here.”

The couple stepped out into the star-studded evening. As they walked toward the front of the house, Frank noticed a car parked five feet from the curb, almost directly behind his convertible. All its doors were open.

Three men approached Frank as he walked forward. Callie lingered behind. When the man in the lead had almost reached Frank, he suddenly commanded, “Come with us!”

Callie stifled a scream and ran back into the house!

CHAPTER II

Thug for Hire

FRANK sized up the situation in a split second. The doors of the car stood open, and its motor was running. All prepared, Frank thought, to receive the kidnap victim.

The young detective dodged the man in front of him, raced through the clutching hands of the other two, and dived into the car. In a twinkling he had it in gear and floored the accelerator.

Whoosh! Tires screeched as the car bolted ahead. It zigzagged wildly, its doors flying, until Frank gained control and spun around the corner. Now to get back to the thugs as quickly as possible !

Frank circled the block and returned to the Prito house, where everyone was standing on the front lawn.

Only one thug was in evidence, flat on his back, with Tony kneeling on his chest. Moments later two police cars, blinkers flashing, raced up. Bayport’s Chief Collig jumped out, followed by his driver. Patrolman Riley leaped from the other car.

“What’s going on?” Collig asked crisply. He was a portly, middle-aged man, a close confidant of the Hardys.

“A kidnap attempt,” Frank said.

“Here’s the one we caught!” Tony said. “The other two got away.” He pulled the man to his feet. He was thin and of medium height with sunken cheeks and bulging eyes. Tony’s hand twisted the thug’s shirt front, until the man winced.

“Who are you?” Tony demanded.

“And your pals?” Joe added.

But the captive would not talk.

“We probably have a file on him,” Chief Collig said. He handcuffed the prisoner and turned him over to Riley. Then he went to his car and radioed headquarters. Returning, the police chief stated, “We’ll search for the other two men, don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, and the young people went back to their party.

After refreshments, Frank and Joe dropped Callie off, then drove home. Mr. Hardy was not back yet, and Frank told their mother what had happened.

He had just finished when the lights of the detective’s car swept the front windows as it pulled into the driveway. Mr. Hardy entered through the back door, looking serious.

When he heard about the kidnapping attempt, he shook his head. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this whole nasty business.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Joe said. “We can take care of ourselves.”

Mr. Hardy seemed lost in thought for a moment, then asked, “Anyone telephone while I was gone?”

“No, dear,” his wife replied, but added quickly, “Oh, yes, someone did call. Gertrude thought it was a joke.”

Mr. Hardy glanced at her in alarm. “Where was the call from?”

“The White House—at least that’s what the girl said.”

The detective gave a low whistle and shook his head again.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” Frank asked sympathetically. He had never seen his father so dejected.

The detective managed a smile and looked at his sons. “I can’t tell you now,” he said. “Later, perhaps.” He gave each boy a pat on the back, then climbed the stairs to his study.

Frank and Joe went to bed, wondering what it was all about. A little later they heard their father go to his bedroom and then make a telephone call on the upstairs hall extension. He spoke in low tones and they could not hear what he was saying.

In the middle of the night, both boys were awakened by Mr. Hardy’s footsteps going downstairs. Joe leaped up and opened the door a crack. He heard his father greet two men in whispered tones. Then he led them upstairs to his study.

“Holy crow!” Frank whispered. “This is regular cloak-and-dagger stuff, Joe!”

“You can say that again!”

They returned to bed and slept fitfully until morning. At breakfast no mention was made of the mysterious callers.

Finally Mr. Hardy said, “Boys, I’m going on a special mission to Texas. There’s something I want to give you to take to Iceland.”

Frank and Joe followed him to his study. He unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out what looked like a small transistor radio.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“It’s the latest in decoders,” Mr. Hardy replied, “and it works on the decibel principle.”

He explained that the high peaks of sound in any conversation were the keys to the code. “Once you have established these,” he said, “the message can be decoded by using this special book.”

He reached down again and handed Frank a small black codebook and a miniature tape recorder. “The recorder can be attached to a telephone or radio,” he concluded.

Father and sons went over the principles of the decibel machine. When they had finished, the detective said, “Boys, you must guard this machine and the codebook carefully. These may be a lot more important on the second case I’m investigating.”

“Is it connected with Iceland?” Joe asked.

“Very possibly. I want you to leave on tonight’s Loftleidir flight to Reykjavik.”

Frank made reservations immediately. After their father had left, Joe telephoned Chet.

“We’re leaving for Kennedy International Airport at six,” he said. “So bring your gear over to the house at five o’clock.”

By four all was ready at the Hardy home. As the boys were locking their suitcases, a call came from police headquarters. Frank talked to the chief, and when he had finished, relayed the information to his brother. The prisoner had been identified. He was from New York City, a thug for hire, and seemed fearful about mentioning his employer.

“The other two made a getaway,” Frank said. “They’re probably in New York. Police there have been alerted.”

Half an hour later Frank and Joe were amazed to see Chet’s car pull up in front quietly and without backfiring. “Oh, oh, there’s the reason,” Joe said with a big grin. Frank looked out the window to see Iola at the wheel with Callie Shaw sitting beside her.

The Hardys ran out to greet them. Chet occupied the rear seat along with his suitcase, a flight bag, an extra heavy overcoat, and a small camera and a radio slung around his neck.

“I thought I’d better drive,” Iola said with a dimpled smile, “because we wanted Chet to start his trip in good health.”

“I just came along to say good-by,” said Callie, looping her arm through Frank’s.

“Chet, bring the stuff over here,” Joe suggested. “We’ll put it all in our car. Iola can drive it back and pick up the jalopy here.”

Perspiring under the load of all his equipment, Chet deposited his baggage beside the Hardys’ car.

When good-bys had been said to Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, he reached down to pick up a black box. “Here, Iola, take this home. I won’t need it. Frank and Joe have their short-wave radio.”

Iola put the instrument aside, and the three boys loaded their belongings into the convertible.

“Got everything?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied.

The girls drove them to Bayport Airport in a matter of minutes. There they boarded a plane that arrived at Kennedy International Airport in ample time to sign in for the Icelandic trip.

After they had checked in with Loftleidir, Chet asked the ticket clerk, “Do you serve dinner on this flight?”

“Yes, sir. About an hour after you’re airborne.”

Chet rolled his eyes with a pleased expression. They headed for Gate 18, where a sleek jetliner was taking on passengers. The boys entered through the front and walked toward the rear. Three seats were on either side of the aisle. Joe sat next to the window, while Chet slipped into the aisle seat, leaving Frank the place in the middle.

Then the plane’s door was shut and it taxied to a runway. Buzzing like a bottled bumblebee, the huge craft lifted off and headed out across the sea toward the north.

Soon seat belts were removed and the boys tilted their seats back to enjoy the flight. By this time darkness had settled over the ocean beneath them.

The attractive stewardesses began bringing trays of food. Frank and Joe, being on the inside, were served first.

“What, no more food left?” Chet asked with a worried expression.

The stewardess smiled down at him. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

When she returned, Chet started a conversation. “We’re going to Iceland to see the Eskimos.”

“Oh, really?” The dark-haired girl repressed a laugh. “But there aren’t any Eskimos in Iceland.”

“What?” Chet was perplexed.

Touching her fingers one at a time, the stewardess explained, “There are no Eskimos, no frogs, and no snakes in Iceland.”

Joe grinned. “Then what is there in Iceland, Miss—?”

“Just call me Steina. You wouldn’t remember my last name, it’s too long.”

The girl went on to say that there were glaciers and hidden people and night trolls—and, of course, ghosts. Then, before the boys could ask any other questions, she moved off to serve their fellow passengers.

“Hey, this is going to be an interesting trip!” Chet remarked, slicing through a juicy piece of steak.

“We’ll have to learn more about those ghosts and night trolls,” Frank said with a chuckle.

Steina returned later to remove their trays, but could not tarry to chat.

“She sure is good-looking,” Chet whispered to Frank.

But Frank’s mind was on the special equipment his father had supplied. He reached down into his flight bag tucked under the seat. The tape recorder was there in place. So was the codebook, slipped in tightly beside it. For no special reason, Frank pulled out the decibel counter. Suddenly a curious expression crossed his face.

“Holy crow, Joe, what’s this?”

His brother’s head was buried in a magazine. Now he turned to look at the object in Frank’s hand. “It’s the decibel counter Dad gave us to—” He stopped short and his eyes grew wide. “Wait a minute—it’s a radio!”

“Sure, it’s mine,” Chet put in. “I wonder how it got into your bag. Just before we left I gave it to Iola!”

CHAPTER III

An Ancient Custom

THE brothers stared at the radio they had brought by mistake. Without the decibel counter, the codebook was of no use! If Mr. Hardy had an urgent secret message, they could not receive it!

Frank shook his head. “Whew! This Icelandic case is starting off like a disaster! First the attempted kidnapping and now this!”

“I’m to blame for the whole thing,” Chet muttered, crestfallen.

“No you’re not,” Joe said. He tried to console his friend. “It could have happened to anybody. The two cases look very much alike.”

Frank realized that they had to get a message back home as soon as possible. He beckoned to the stewardess, who hastened up the aisle and bent over the seat.

“Steina,” Frank said, “we have an emergency on our hands. We must get a radio message back home.”

“Emergency?”

“Yes,” Joe added. “This is serious.”

“All right. Come with me. We’ll go to the captain.”

Frank followed the pretty stewardess down the long aisle. When they reached the door of the crew’s cabin, Steina knocked lightly and they entered. In the dim glow Frank saw four men who seemed to blend into the console of dials and instruments, which reached clear to the roof of the pilot’s cabin.

The captain turned his eyes from the windshield and spoke to Steina in Icelandic. Then he switched to English and addressed Frank. “So you have an emergency, young man? ... Yes, I can send a message by radio. What is it?”

The copilot handed Frank a pad and pencil. Quickly he printed the message to be delivered to his home in Bayport. He asked his parents to please get the black box from Iola Morton and send it to them at Keflavik Airport on the same flight next day.

Then Frank thanked the captain and the stewardess and returned to his seat. Soon the cabin’s main lights were switched off and the passengers settled back for a short nap before the early dawn which would come about two o’clock.

The boys dozed fitfully until the lights came on again and stewardesses busily went up and down the aisles serving breakfast. Frank looked out the window and gasped in amazement.

“Joe, Chet! Look at that!”

On the portside, rising out of the sea like a strange white world, loomed the snow-covered mountains of Greenland.

“Wow! That gives you the chills, doesn’t it?” said Chet.

As the view of the great peaks inched by the wing tip, the boys talked about the huge island of Greenland, which seemed to spell adventure. Frank knew it was owned by Denmark, populated by Eskimos, and that there were several air bases on its shores.

“There’s a Danish one called Narssarssuaq,” he stated. He pulled a map from the seat pocket in front of him and opened it. “Here it is, look!”

“Boy, I’m glad I’m not an Eskimo,” said Chet. “I could never spell a word like that!”

Their banter was interrupted by Steina, who brought them breakfast. Not long after they had eaten, the captain’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

“We are on our descent to Keflavik. Please fasten your seat belts.”

As the plane glided lower, the boys craned for a look at the country below. It had been born of volcanoes, and much of its surface was covered with lava and volcanic ash. Steaming hot springs lay next to its glaciers, and geysers spouted steam high into the air.

When the huge aircraft touched down, Frank swallowed hard to release the pressure in his ears.

“Exit through the front,” Steina said. “Good-by, and have a good time in Iceland.”

“We’re on business,” Chet said importantly. “But we’ll try to have fun.”

Lugging their hand baggage, Frank, Joe, and Chet climbed down the steps, breathing deeply of the crisp fresh air. Snow covered the airfield.

“Pretty bleak,” Joe remarked as they hastened into a long, low building to be checked through customs.

An official stamped their passports and directed them to the back of the building, where a bus and taxis were waiting.

Frank talked to the driver standing beside the bus, and learned that Reykjavik was approximately thirty miles away. The bus would leave in twenty minutes.

The trio put their bags by the side of the building, then looked about the unusual landscape. A wide, black, barren valley swept off into the distance before rising abruptly to a bald, snow-clad mountain ridge.

“That’s probably all made of lava,” Joe declared, moving off a few paces to get a better look. Not far away an open jeep was parked on the side of the roadway, its hood lifted. A boy about their own age was tinkering with the motor.

Frank, Joe, and Chet casually walked over to him. “Find the trouble?” Frank asked.

The youth smiled at them. With a slight accent he replied, “Something’s wrong with the carburetor.”

“Let’s take a look,” Joe said. “Maybe we can help.”

“Sure, be my guest.”

The American colloquialism surprised the Hardys. “Oh, you’ve been in the States?” asked Frank.

“Yes, just got back a couple of days ago. My name is Gudmundur Bergsson.” The boy wiped his hands on a piece of cloth and shook hands with the three. “Just call me Gummi.” He told them that he was a student at a flying school in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and was learning to be a mechanic. “Now I’m home for spring vacation,” he concluded.

Before Frank and Joe could examine the stalled motor, the loudspeaker blared: “Paging Frank and Joe Hardy!”

The boys looked up in surprise.

“Paging Frank and Joe Hardy,” the announcer said again.

Joe started into the building, but Frank restrained him. “Not so fast, Joe. Nobody was to meet us here. Maybe it’s another kidnapping attempt!”

“That’s right,” Chet chimed in. “We can’t be too careful.”

Gummi looked on, bewildered by the unusual conversation. “Somebody is trying to catch you guys?” he asked.

Frank nodded and said to Chet, “Just stroll inside and see who’s paging us.”

Chet left, returning a few minutes later. “A short, heavy-set guy with long blond hair and a mustache. Look, here he comes now!”

A square-looking man, his hair flowing, walked from the building. Frank and Joe ducked behind the jeep. The fellow looked right and left before climbing into a small foreign car. Then he drove off.

Frank glanced around for a taxi, but they had all gone. “I wish we could have followed him,” he said disappointedly.

Gummi looked at the boys dubiously. “Hey, what’s all this? Are you a couple of spies or something?”

Frank grinned. “We’re detectives.”

“No kidding.”

“Look, it’s a long story. We’ll tell you later.”

Gummi went to his tool kit without asking further questions, and before long, he and Frank had disassembled the carburetor.

“There’s your trouble,” Frank said, and wiped a piece of sludge from the intake.

Gummi laughed. “I can get you a mechanic’s job in Reykjavik any time you want,” he said and started the engine. “Where are you fellows staying?”

“The Saga Hotel in Reykjavik,” Joe replied.

“Want a ride into town?”

“Great!”

The boys got their bags and climbed into the jeep. On the way, they told Gummi about their search for Rex Hallbjornsson.

“Seems like looking for a needle in a haystack,” the Icelandic boy commented. “There are two hundred thousand people on this island.”

“How big is it?” Frank wanted to know.

“East to west about three hundred miles. Larger than Ireland, but we have not nearly as many inhabitants.”

“What do people do for a living here?” Joe asked.

“Most of our income is derived from fishing,” Gummi explained as he drove along a curving road hugging the rugged coastline. Not a tree was in sight. Only black lava formations.

Frank pointed to small piles of stone along the road. “What are these for?”

“They guided winter travelers in the olden days,” Gummi replied. “And that village over there to the left is Hafnarfjordur.”

As they entered the outskirts of Reykjavik, Gummi said, “When the first settlers came to this harbor, called a ‘vik,’ they saw steam coming from the ground in the distance. Thinking it was smoke, or ‘reykja,’ they called the place Reykjavik.”

Gummi drove along a wide street lined with buildings which were faced with corrugated iron. The roofs were gaily painted in apple green, white, blue, or yellow.

“Quite a colorful place,” Chet commented as he banged the side of the car with his right hand.

“Are you practicing karate, too?” Gummi asked. “It’s the craze in our school right now. But Icelanders like wrestling better.”

Finally they reached the center of town, where a small plaza was decorated with red-white-and blue bunting and American flags.

Joe grinned. “Boy, they must have known we were coming!”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d believe it.” Gummi chuckled. “This is in honor of three U.S. astronauts who came here to study our lava surface, which is very similar to the terrain on the moon.” He rounded a corner and pulled up in front of a modern white hotel located at the hub of three radiating roads. “Here you are.”

The boys jumped out, unloaded their baggage, and thanked Gummi. He gave them his address and phone number. “Call me any time if you need help,” he said. “I’ll take you around in my jeep.”

Frank and Joe occupied one room, and Chet an adjoining one. After unpacking, they took the elevator to the eighth-floor restaurant for lunch.

“Well, masterminds,” Chet asked between mouthfuls of broiled trout, “how are you going to find your boy Rex?”

“As soon as we’re finished, let’s look in the telephone book,” Frank suggested.

When they consulted the directory, however, they stared at each other in confusion. “I can’t make heads or tails of this,” Joe stated. “It looks as if everything with ‘son’ at the end is a first name!”

“We’ll give Gummi a call. Maybe he can explain,” said Frank, and dialed their new friend’s number. “Hey, what’s all this crazy name business in Iceland?” he asked Gummi. “We can’t find anybody by the name of Hallbjornsson under H.”

Gummi laughed loudly. “People are listed by their first names in the telephone book,” he said, and explained that the last name changed with every generation.

“Take me, for example,” he said. “My father’s name is Bergs Anderson. That makes my last name Bergsson. If I have a son, he’d be called Gudmundurson, and my daughter Gudmundurdottir. It’s a holdover from the ancient Scandinavians. We still use it here.”

“So we have to look under Rex, is that it?”

“Right. Good luck.”

The boys thumbed through the directory. No Rex was listed.

“It looks as if we’ll have to scan each page in search of Hallbjornsson,” Joe said. “Rex might be a nickname.”

About a half hour later Frank said, “Look! Here’s an Ingrid Hallbjornsdottir. Maybe she’s his sister.”

They called Gummi again, who picked them up ten minutes later and drove them to the address. It turned out that the woman had no brothers and had never heard of Rex Hallbjornsson.

“Back to the phone book,” Joe grumbled.

“Tell you what,” Gummi said. “I’ll help you look, and if we come up with any more leads, I’ll call them from your hotel. This way we might save ourselves a few trips.”

“Great idea, Gummi,” Frank agreed. “You can question those people in Icelandic.”

The boys drove back to the hotel and divided the work by getting three telephone directories. Each boy checked a different section. When they finished they had found two more Hallbjornsdottirs and one Hallbjornsson. Gummi called him. The man knew nobody by the name of Rex. Calls to the two women proved to be equally futile.

Since it was getting late, the Hardys said good night to Gummi. “Would you take us to the airport tomorrow morning?” Frank asked. “We’ll have to pick up a package arriving on the early flight.”

“Sure thing. I’ll be here on time.”

Next morning after breakfast the boys went to the lobby. Gummi was just coming through the revolving door. “How’s this package coming? By air express?” he asked.

Frank said he did not know. They would inquire after the plane had landed.

At the airport the boys went to the waiting room and watched the passengers stream in to claim their baggage.

Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank’s arm and turned him toward the door. “Look who’s here!”

“Can it be?” Chet blurted.

“Sure it is,” Frank said excitedly. “Hey, Biff Hooper!”

CHAPTER IV

Astronauts’Salute

GRINNING broadly, Biff Hooper greeted the Hardys and Chet, then handed Frank a little black box which he carried under his arm.

“Oh boy, am I glad to see this!” Frank said. “Thanks, Biff.”

“Your dad phoned me,” Biff said. “He didn’t want to send it by air express.” Then he squared his broad shoulders. “Besides, he thought you might need me!”

“That sounds ominous,” Joe stated. “Does Dad think there’ll be any trouble?”

“Couldn’t say,” Biff replied, glancing about the airport building.

Frank beckoned to Gummi, who had been standing in the background. After introductions were made, Biff claimed his baggage and the five went out to the jeep. On the ride back to Reykjavik, Frank asked Biff if he had noticed anyone following him.

“No, I didn’t see anybody.”

Back at the hotel, Biff moved into Chet’s room. After he had freshened up, Gummi suggested lunch at the Hotel Borg. “It is in the center of town on the plaza,” he said, “and if you like seafood—”

“That’s for me!” Chet said quickly.

“Okay, let’s go.”

They were downtown in no time at all, and after Gummi parked the car, they entered the ground-floor restaurant, which looked old-fashioned by American standards. The waiters were young, no older than the Hardys, and they moved about with ease and aplomb. Gummi ordered a seafood tray and mentioned something else to the waiter in Icelandic.

“Yow, yow!” the waiter replied, grinning.

“What’s yow, yow?” Chet wanted to know.

“It means yes, yes, spelled ja,” Gummi told him.

“I knew I’d learn Icelandic eventually—yow, yow, yow!”

“And don’t forget, no is nei.”

The waiter brought a small plate of yellowish dried fish, cut into small bits.

“It’s hardfisk,” Gummi explained, “and a specialty of Iceland. You put butter on it and eat it like this.”

Chet put a piece in his mouth and started to chew. “Tastes like wood splinters,” he complained.

“Keep chewing,” Gummi advised.

“Hm! Now it tastes good—it melts in your mouth.”

When everyone had tried the hardfisk, the waiter arrived with a platter of ten different kinds of seafood; sild herring, small shrimps, caviar and other delicacies.

“Iceland is not a bad place for a detective case,” Joe remarked. Just then they heard the sound of horns. The boys looked out the window.

“I think the astronauts are driving by,” Gummi said.

Half rising from the seats of their booth, they looked out onto the street. A car came by, with two small American flags fluttering at the front fenders.

“They’re our astronauts, all right,” Frank said. “I recognize them.”

Three men were riding in the back seat. The one in the middle held his head low, with his cap well down over his eyes.

“That one must be Major Kenneth McGeorge,” Frank said. “They’re probably on their way back to Keflavik for their trip home, now that they know what the moon looks like.”

“Next trip for them the moon,” Joe said.

“I know they’ll make it,” Gummi said. “They’re great guys.”

Chet Morton, as usual, ate more than anyone else. When he had finished the last morsel of shrimp, Gummi Bergsson said, “In regard to your insurance case, I have a suggestion. You should see Anders Sigurdsson at the Foreign Office. Tell him your problem. He might be able to help.”

The Foreign Office was located on a small hill near the center of town. The two-story building looked like an oversized bungalow. Gummi waited outside with Chet and Biff while the Hardy boys entered. They were ushered to an office on the second floor, where a short, smiling, gray-haired man greeted them. The boys told him their problem.

“So you’re looking for Rex Hallbjornsson,” the man mused. “I have never heard of him, but that’s not unusual. I would suggest that you put an advertisement in our five daily newspapers.”

“Five newspapers in a city of seventy-five thousand?” Frank asked in amazement.

“That’s right. Icelanders like to read. In fact, there is no illiteracy in our country. Also, these papers are sent to other towns on the island.”

“We’ll follow your suggestion, Mr. Sigurdsson,” Frank said. “Thank you very much.”

“Not at all. Come back if I can be of more help.”

Frank and Joe left the building, stopping at the front door to survey the small city which lay before them. Traffic kept to the right side of the road, as in America, and the narrow streets were filled mostly with European-made autos.

Frank scanned the view from left to right, where the road led down to the waterfront. Suddenly he backed into the doorway. “Joe, duck!”

A German-made Taunus car drove slowly toward the front of the building. Its driver had long blond hair and a flowing mustache ! The man pulled to the side of the road and scanned Gummi’s jeep.

“That’s the fellow who had us paged at the airport!” Frank whispered.

“He must have found out what hotel we’re staying at and is trailing us,” Joe said.

The man’s eyes went up the long walk to the door of the Foreign Office, but he could not see the Hardys.

“Something’s fishy,” Frank stated. “Maybe he has something to do with the guys who were trying to kidnap me.”

“Never can tell,” Joe replied. “We’d better be careful until we find out who he really is.”

As they watched, the Taunus moved off slowly, turned the corner into Austur Straeti, and disappeared.

The Hardys hurried to the jeep.

“Did you see that guy?” Joe asked Gummi.

“Sure did. Come on. We’ll follow him.”

Traffic was heavy, and soon the Taunus was out of sight. “He might have driven down to the harbor area,” Gummi said. “Let’s try that.” He made a few turns but could not pick up the man’s traiL

“He gave us the shake,” Gummi said in American lingo. “Where do you want to go now?”

“I saw a newspaper office at the head of Austur Straeti,” Frank replied. “Let’s go back. I want to place an ad in all the local newspapers.”

“Okay, I’ll take you to each one of them. Hey, this detective stuff is great!”

It took the rest of the afternoon to place the ads in the five dailies. Frank kept it short. Will Rex Hallbjornsson please contact the Hardy boys at the Saga Hotel and collect insurance money due him. Gummi translated it into Icelandic.

“Do you think it’s wise to mention money?” Biff Hooper asked.

Frank shrugged. “It might be the only way to get him to reply.”

“Sure, what have we got to lose?” Joe said.

On the way back to the hotel, Biff pointed to a cluster of huge tanks sitting on the hill in the center of Reykjavik. “What a place to put gas tanks!”

Gummi laughed. “Gas tanks? Those are filled with hot water.”

“What for?”

Gummi explained that the tanks were located over boiling springs of water, which surged up from the depths of the earth. “The hot water is stored and piped into every home in Reykjavik,” he said. “We don’t have any heating problem here.”

“Quite a system!” Biff remarked.

“And you’re always in hot water!” Chet quipped.

“Throw him out!” said Biff.

“Careful of me,” Chet replied, and banged his seat with a karate chop.

“What a clown!” Biff said, laughing.

Gummi had some chores to do for his father and left the Bayporters at the hotel. That evening after dinner the Hardys unlimbered their radio, because they expected a message from their father.

“Don’t forget there’s a four-hour difference in time,” Frank said. “I have a hunch Dad won’t transmit until night, when the atmosphere is clear.”

The boys fiddled with the set, tuning in various stations. They were rewarded at midnight when they received a coded broadcast from Mr. Hardy. Frank quickly attached the decibel unit to the radio and started the conversation.

Mr. Hardy talked about the opening baseball game in the major leagues. “The Yankees scored three in the ninth to win their game,” he said. “With good pitching they should have a great season.”

It sounded casual enough. The boys had decided not to reveal their suspicions concerning the blond stranger. They would wait until they had some constructive evidence.

When Mr. Hardy signed off, Frank went to work on the decibel counter. The peaks, visibly recorded on the tape of the machine, were transposed into letters.

Then Joe took out the codebook. “Here, give me a pencil, Frank!”

Frank pulled one out of his pocket, and his brother began to decode the message word by word. At the end of the first sentence, Frank and Joe gasped in amazement. One of the U.S. astronauts missing! It couldn’t be true. But there were the words: Ken McGeorge has been lost in Iceland!

CHAPTER V

The Boiling Pit

THE news of Ken McGeorge’s disappearance hit the boys like an avalanche. Their hearts beat wildly as they continued to decode Mr. Hardy’s message:

Keep your eyes open for any clues to McGeorge. Chet and Biff must be sworn to complete secrecy. Space program at stake.

Mr. Hardy added that he had obtained clearance from Washington for his sons and their friends to help.

Chet had been standing with his mouth open. Now he blurted, “But—but—we just saw the three astronauts on their way to Keflavik!”

Frank snapped his fingers. “Remember the fellow in the middle? He had his hat pulled down low over his face. I’ll bet he was a stand-in for McGeorge!”

“That’s right,” said Joe. “Obviously the government doesn’t want the news to leak out. It might jeopardize the whole NASA program.”

“What a mystery you got yourselves into this time!” Biff Hooper exclaimed.

“Now the pieces fall into place,” Frank said. “Dad must have been working on this case before we left. Remember, Joe, the mysterious call from the White House?”

“Right. And those two men who visited him in the middle of the night were probably government officials!” Joe briefly told Biff and Chet about the occurrences in the Hardy home.

“He went to Texas just before we flew to Iceland,” Frank concluded. “Probably checking out McGeorge’s co-workers and friends.”

“If we’re going to find the major in Iceland,” Joe said, “we’d better work fast. If he was kidnapped, they might force information from him.”

“Now we’re all going to take a pledge of secrecy,” Frank said. He slapped his hand on the table. Chet came forward with his, then Joe, and finally Biff.

“Not a word to anybody, through thick and thin,” Frank said.

“Gosh, who knows what’ll happen to us!” Chet said worriedly.

“Whatever does,” Biff stated with a grim jaw, “nobody will ever learn anything from us!”

Suddenly the radio crackled again, and another message came from Mr. Hardy, saying that the astronaut had disappeared on the lava plain near Reykjavik.

“We’ll go there tomorrow,” Frank said. “Maybe we’ll find a clue.”

The four companions were up early the next morning, and Frank phoned Gummi. He tried to conceal his excitement. “How would you like to take us around today, Gummi?”

“Sure. Where to?”

“The tour the astronauts made on the lava plain near here sounds interesting.”

“Okay. I’ll check the newspapers to find the exact route. It was well publicized.”

An hour later he arrived outside the hotel, beeped his horn, and the Americans climbed into the jeep.

A smooth highway led south out of town, but soon the Icelandic youth turned onto a rugged road leading into a valley of breath-taking desolation. Gaunt, snow-capped mountains rose on either side, and the valley was black with oddly shaped chunks of lava.

“Did the astronauts get out and walk around here?” asked Frank as the jeep bounced along.

“That’s what they came for,” Gummi replied. “This place is said to resemble the moon’s surface.”

“I can just see moon people hiding out there now,” Biff quipped.

“We have our own hidden people in Iceland,” Gummi replied.

“Hidden people?” Biff asked.

Frank recalled Steina’s remark on the plane. “Not to mention ghosts!”

Gummi turned in surprise. “You know about the ghosts?”

“Not much,” Frank admitted.

“I’ve got my special ghost,” Gummi declared. “He travels with me all the time.”

“Who’s he?” Joe asked.

“My grandfather.”

“What superstition!” Chet said, and Gummi did not look pleased.

“It’s a fact!”

“No offense,” Chet muttered.

The road meandered to avoid large black masses of lava. Gummi fought the wheel to keep the jeep on course over the rugged terrain.

“This looks as if it leads to nowhere,” Frank commented.

“What about these hidden people?” Joe asked.

Gummi explained the Icelandic belief. “They live in little green hillocks, and if you look carefully, you might see them peering out at you. They wear bright-colored clothes, and their faces are pale and peaceful.”

Chet shuddered a little bit and looked about the eerie valley. Suddenly he leaned forward and gripped Gummi’s shoulder.

“Hey-y-y! I just saw one!”

“Saw what?” asked Frank.

“Something moved behind one of those rocks!”

Gummi hit the brakes, and the boys jumped down onto the road.

“Chet, you’re letting your imagination run away with you,” Joe said with a grin.

“I’m not kidding!” the stout boy replied. “I really saw someone.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Maybe there was something in Chet’s story! They could not afford to take any chances, knowing that the blond man had been trailing them.

“Okay. Let’s see where the ghost appeared,” Frank suggested.

The boys followed Chet over the abrasive surface toward a large chunk of lava which looked something like a troll bent over.

Gingerly Chet stepped around it. Nobody was there!

“Maybe he went over that way!” Chet said, pointing to the next hiding place behind another rock fragment.

The boys continued their search, circling half a dozen lava rocks. Suddenly Joe cried out as he stepped into a crevice. Wincing, he pulled his right leg out and danced around in pain.

“Wow! I scraped my shin!”

“You must be careful climbing around here,” Gummi warned.

Joe stepped into a crevice

“All right, Chet, are you satisfied now?” Joe asked, annoyed by the accident.

“Okay, but I really—”

“Baloney!” Joe replied, hobbling back to the jeep.

Gummi smiled to himself as he started off again. As the road wound higher along the mountain, it grew soggier because of the recent melted snow. Soon they passed a broad lake which lay gray and forbidding in a small pass.

“This whole place gives me the creeps,” Biff said. “I wish I could see some trees!”

“That’s what I like about Oklahoma—the trees,” Gummi declared. “There were trees in Iceland centuries ago, but the early settlers cut them down.

“Well, here we are,” he said finally as he pulled off the road onto a small trail with several inches of snow.

“Somebody’s been here before,” Joe observed, pointing to tire tracks which led in and out.

Soon they came to the place where the other vehicle had stopped. Footprints led from the spot over the brow of a small rise, but they did not come back!

Beyond the rise a jet of steam, hissing like a gigantic snake, rose high into the air.

“That’s coming from the sulfur pit over there,” Gummi explained, “and the steam hole, too.”

Joe leaped out first and ran up over the brow of the hill.

“Careful!” Gummî warned. “You don’t want to be cooked in sulfur!”

Frank jumped down from the jeep and surveyed the terrain. He lingered behind the others so he could look for clues without being questioned.

Several thoughts ran through his mind, “How could one astronaut have disappeared? No doubt the three were accompanied by government officials. Major McGeorge must have separated from the rest and been waylaid. But how could he have been carried off without anyone noticing it, and by whom and where to?”

Finding no clues, Frank trailed after the other four. When he reached the rise, he looked down at the pit. It was about six feet across, bubbling and burping from the bowels of the earth.

The atmosphere was filled with the smell of sulfur, some of which came from the steam shooting out of a huge pipe with an earsplitting roar.

Frank suddenly noticed that only Gummi, Biff, and Chet were in sight. He raced toward the trio, standing beside the pit. No use shouting, nobody could hear. Frank glanced about wildly. A black leather glove lay close to the edge of the bubbling sulfur. Footprints were nearby.

A chill ran down Frank’s spine as he looked from the glove to his friends. Gummi suddenly caught on. His face took on a look of terror. He gestured at Frank and the other boys, and all had the same thought. Where was Joe? Had he fallen into the pit?

CHAPTER VI

Tricked in the Sky

FRANTICALLY the boys searched for Joe. Each shouted at the top of his lungs, but the thundering steam bursting out of the pipe like a hundred roaring jet engines muted every other sound.

Frank suddenly gesticulated toward the standpipe, with an expression of utter relief on his face. Joe Hardy emerged from behind it. He hastened over to them as Chet picked up the glove from the snow, and they all moved off to a distance where they could hear each other.

“Holy crow!” Frank sighed. “Joe, you had us scared to death. We thought you’d fallen into the pit.”

“Sorry about that,” Joe replied. He had bent down to examine the rusted bolts at the foot of the standpipe. “The sulfur in that steam is corroding everything,” he said. “Someday the whole pipe is going to blow right up into the air.”

“I wonder whom the glove belongs to,” Gummi mused.

The Hardys and their two friends were thinking the same thought, but did not speak out in front of the Icelander. Did Ken McGeorge drop it while being kidnapped?

The brothers lagged behind to talk in private, while the others returned to look at the sulfur pit. Frank said, “It stands to reason, Joe, that this place has been searched thoroughly by the authorities.”

“That’s right. They would have found the glove long before we did.”

“The only answer,” Frank went on, “is that the glove was dropped recently.”

“By Major McGeorge?” Joe asked.

“It’s a puzzler,” Frank admitted. He walked over to Gummi and asked when it had snowed last.

“Early yesterday morning,” Gummi replied.

The split-second glance that Frank exchanged with his brother was significant. If it were the astronaut’s glove, he must have returned to the pit the night before. But why?

The boys stayed a few minutes longer to look at the sulfur pit and the steam blowhole.

Gummi explained that there were many such phenomena over the entire island. “Iceland probably popped out of the sea just like Surtsey,” he said, referring to the underwater volcano which had boiled up out of the sea a few years ago, causing the formation of a small island off the south coast.

Frank took the leather glove from Chet and put it in his pocket. It was a clue that might prove significant, but they could not give it to the police without tipping their hand.

First thing to do now, Frank thought, was to check the lone set of footmarks, which did not return to the spot where they had started. He and Joe followed them for a way, and realized that they were double prints, leading in a roundabout way to the road about two hundred yards distant. Apparently two men had approached the sulfur pit, one behind the other, the second one stepping in the first one’s footprints.

“This is fantastic,” Joe remarked. “Maybe we should tell the police about this right away.”

“No,” Frank replied. “Let’s first examine this glove and find out if it’s GI.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“We’ll have to get another one from the U.S. base in Keflavik. Then we can compare the leather under a microscope.”

The Hardys trudged back to the jeep, where the others were already waiting. As they drove back over the bumpy road toward the highway south of Reykjavik, fear gnawed at Frank. Had the astronaut’s captors disposed of him in the sulfur pit?

Gummi dropped them at their hotel and left for home. At lunch the Hardys talked about their plans with Chet and Biff.

“Listen, fellows,” Frank said. “You two stay here and watch out for any suspicious characters, while Joe and I take a taxi to Keflavik. We’d like to let Gummi in on this, but we’d better not.”

After explaining that they would try to find a glove of similar manufacture, Frank and Joe left.

Arriving at Keflavik, they obtained permission to enter the base. Frank spoke to a captain in charge of general issue and asked if he might borrow a leather glove used by officers. The captain was amazed at the request, but after the Hardys identified themselves as American detectives working on an insurance case, the officer gave them a glove.

“We’ll return it,” Frank promised.

“That’s all right. You can keep it.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

Back at the hotel, Frank asked the desk clerk if he could direct them to a medical laboratory.

“Anybody sick?” the man asked in surprise.

“No,” Joe replied. “We have another reason.”

The clerk looked at them curiously, riffled through a sheaf of addresses, and came up with one.

Although it was late in the afternoon, Frank and Joe took a chance. They called the lab and found that it was still open. “We would like to borrow a microscope,” Frank explained. He was told that no instruments could be taken from the premises, but was invited to come over and use one.

“We close at six,” the man said in perfect English.

“We’ll be right there,” Frank replied.

The Hardys took a taxi to the laboratory, which was located at the center of town, not far from the Foreign Office. A courteous technician greeted them and directed the boys to a small room. A microscope stood on a table to the left. The man asked if they would be examining germ cultures.

“Oh no,” Joe said with a smile. “We’re just comparing two pieces of leather.”

“Go ahead,” said the technician and left.

The research did not take long. First they examined the outside leather. Each glove proved to be of the same general quality. The stitching was made by similar machines, and the woolen linings were identical.

“That does it,” Frank said. “This was lost by a military man.”

“Should we tell the police now?” Joe asked.

But Frank was adamant about following their father’s instruction. “Not yet, Joe. Not yet.”

The Hardys thanked the lab technician and left. Returning to the hotel, they found Biff and Chet eagerly waiting for them in the lobby. Biff waved a letter in his hand.

“Frank, Joe, you got an answer to your ad!”

Frank took the envelope and tore it open. It was from Reykjavik’s leading newspaper, and inside was another letter. He read the message. It had come from Akureyri, a city on the north coast.

A man signing his name Rex Hallbjornsson said that he was the one they were looking for. He requested that the boys come to see him.

“That was easy,” Chet commented. “Our first swing’s a home run!”

“Too easy,” Joe replied.

“I think you’re right,” his brother said. “We’ve got to be careful about this.”

Chet scratched his head. “Always suspicious.”

“Just cautious,” Joe said.

Biff agreed with the Hardys. “After all, it’s kind of fishy that the guy won’t come here. If somebody offered me money, I wouldn’t mind picking it up myself!”

It was agreed that Frank and Joe would fly to Akureyri the next day, leaving Chet and Biff at the hotel to guard their radio and decoding equipment.

“I’m going to Flugfelag Islands,” Frank announced after breakfast the next morning.

“What?” asked Chet.

Frank handed him a travel folder which he had picked up at the desk.

“Flugfelag Islands,” Chet read. “I wonder where they are.”

“Listen, dummy,” Biff Hooper said, giving Chet a mock stiff-arm, which his buddy parried with a karate chop. “Flugfelag Islands means Iceland Airlines.”

“Attaboy, Biff!” Joe grinned. “You’re learning the language.”

The Hardys recalled seeing a Flugfelag office in the hotel lobby. Joe had noticed a dark-haired woman behind the desk the day before, but when the Hardys went to the office, it was empty. A few seconds later a man came in and sat down.

Frank approached him. “We’d like to take a plane to Akureyri,” he said. “Today.”

“Sorry,” the man replied with a slight accent. “There are no scheduled flights to Akureyri until tomorrow. I would suggest that if you want to go today, you take a small private plane—it is cheaper, too.”

“Will you make the arrangements?” Joe asked.

“Of course. What are your names?”

When the boys had given him all the information, the man said, “Be at the Flugfelag terminal at twelve noon. It is quite near the hotel, you know.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “Please charge it to our room.” He gave the man the number. Then the boys hastened to the elevator and went back upstairs.

Chet was sprawled on Frank’s bed, while Biff sat looking out the window. “I’d like to see Akureyri, too,” he grumbled. “Can’t we just leave Chet here to guard the equipment?”

“What’s the big idea?” the stout boy said, rising. “I can tackle two, perhaps three guys, but no more. And they might send half a dozen here, you know!” He cleaved the air with a couple of karate strokes.

“All right, I’ll stay,” said Biff. “But get back soon!”

“Sure.” Frank grinned. “And just so your job won’t be too demanding, I’ll put this in the safe!” He took the codebook and went down to the lobby.

At eleven-thirty Frank and Joe stood in front of the Saga, where a taxi drove up to get them. Ten minutes later they reached the airfield. As they stepped inside the terminal building, they were met by the agent.

“I thought I would be here to help,” he said. “Follow me.” He led them out onto the field, where they saw a small twin-engine plane warming up.

“The pilot does not speak very good English,” the agent explained, pulling open the cabin door against the propeller’s slipstream. “But he will bring you to Akureyri in less than an hour.”

Frank and Joe climbed in, fastened their seat belts, and glanced toward the pilot’s cabin. The door was shut. Outside, the agent waved to them, then the plane taxied for take-off. Soon they were airborne, and the boys looked down on the bright-colored roofs of Reykjavik.

“Well, let’s find out where Akureyri is, exactly,” said Frank after a while and pulled a map of Iceland from his pocket. Both studied it, then sat back to watch the mountainous terrain unfolding before them.

Frank, who was sitting next to the window on the starboard side, glanced up at the sun.

“Hey, Joe, this is funny. We’re supposed to be heading north, aren’t we?”

“Sure,” Joe replied. “That’s where Akureyri is.”

“But look! We’re going east. See the position of the sun?”

According to the boy’s reckoning, they were flying in the wrong direction. Frank’s fears were confirmed when he glanced down and saw the jagged south coast of Iceland far beneath them.

“What’s going on with that pilot?” Joe asked, annoyed.

“We’d better find out.”

The boys slipped from their seats and approached the cabin. Joe opened the door and cried out in alarm. The pilot was their blond enemy!

“Where are you taking us?” Joe demanded.

The man motioned the boys away. “No speak!”

“Of course you speak English!” Frank said angrily, realizing that every pilot had to be versed in that language.

Joe pulled his brother out of the cabin so they could speak without being overheard.

“Frank, what are we going to do about this guy? You know what’s happening—we’re being kidnapped.”

“We’ll have to take over,” Frank replied tersely.

Both boys were skillful pilots. Although they did most of their flying in single-engine planes, they felt sure they could handle the twin-engine job.

“Where’ll we land?” Joe asked.

“Once we have control of the plane, we can radio Reykjavik for instructions,” Frank stated, glancing out the window. Below, a huge glacier came into view. The boys had studied the map carefully and realized that they were over Vatnajokull, the largest and most forbidding glacier in all of Iceland.

“We’ll go in and I’ll drag him from behind the wheel,” Frank said. “You grab the yoke on the copilot’s side. Okay?”

“Let’s go!”

They approached the pilot. Frank reached forward to get a headlock on him, but the man swung a quarter way around and clipped him on the chin. As Frank staggered back, the portside engine began to sputter. Seconds later the starboard engine conked out. And all at once the pilot spoke perfect English!

“Let me handle this!” he said. “We are going to have to land on the glacier!”

CHAPTER VII

A Harrowing Blizzard

STILL groggy from the blow on the chin, Frank dropped into the copilot’s seat. He grasped the wheel as Joe, his eyes flashing anger over the brazen kidnapping, swung a hard right at the pilot. The fist caught him at the side of the jaw, and the man slumped unconscious.

Wind whistled eerily over the wings as the plane glided toward the gigantic sheet of white ice beneath them.

Closer and closer it angled down toward Vatnajokull. Now the boys saw that much of the glacier was serrated with jagged knife-edged ridges. Small hills of ice and crevasses came into sharp focus.

“Frank, we’ll never make it!” Joe cried out.

His brother sat grim-lipped and silent. Skillfully he guided the descent so as not to lose flying speed. His feet firmly on the rudder bar, Frank banked the plane and headed for what appeared to be a smoother spot in the sloping glacier about half a mile away.

Landing on the slope would be tricky enough for the most skilled pilot. With the wheels now inches above what proved to be bumpy ice, Frank pulled back on the yoke.

The whiteness rushed up to meet them! Their plane bounced with a terrifying crunch, lifted into the air, and settled again with tires squealing.

The aircraft slid back a few feet before finally coming to a halt. Joe felt limp. “Thanks, Frank,” was all he could say. “That was the greatest!”

Both boys felt lucky to come out of the crash landing alive, but were furiously angry with the man responsible for their dire predicament.

The pilot was now conscious. He lifted his head and looked about dazedly.

“Okay now,” Joe said, shaking him by the shoulder. “Who are you? And what’s your racket?”

“Help—we need help,” was the weak reply.

“You know the ropes!” Frank said impatiently. “Get on the radio and call for aid!” He climbed out of the copilot’s seat and looked about the plane.

Meanwhile, the man picked up the microphone and slowly transmitted their position. There was silence for a minute or two, then he signed off.

“Someone will come for us,” he reported.

“Okay—but that doesn’t explain who you are!” Frank resumed their interrogation. But the man remained mute, shaking his head as if still in a stupor.

The Hardys were both aggravated and frightened. “Here we are, wrecked on top of the world,” Joe muttered, “and this dummy won’t tell us anything!”

He pulled the man from his seat and pushed him to the plane’s door. Frank frisked the pilot to make sure he had no weapons.

The icy air blanketing the glacier hit them like a bucket full of cold water as they stepped onto the slippery surface. They looked the plane over. Both propellers were bent, and even if the engines could have been repaired, a take-off looked impossible.

Despite continued questioning by the Hardys, the pilot remained silent. As they were about to give up, they suddenly heard the distant sound of a helicopter.

“Wow! That chopper came pretty fast!” Joe said, shielding his eyes to watch the craft hover over the glacier.

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “It’s only a two-seater job!”

“Well, you know who goes out first—in hand-cuffs. Old blondie here is getting a ride to jail!”

Frank looked at their sullen kidnapper, whose shifty eyes glanced up at the rescue craft. “You’ll talk when the Reykjavik police get hold of you,” he said. “They’ll find out what’s behind all this hocus-pocus.”

The helicopter landed close to the airplane, and a man of medium height hopped down. He had black hair, rugged features, and a long nose which looked anything but Scandinavian. He began speaking immediately in a foreign tongue.

“Can you speak English, sir?” Frank interrupted.

“A little.”

“This joker tried to kidnap us, but the engines failed. You don’t happen to have a pair of hand-cuffs, do you?”

“No. But I have some rope.”

The man reached into the seat of the helicopter and produced a length of stout twine. Frank bound the wrists of their captive.

“We’ll press charges when we get to Reykjavik ourselves,” Frank went on. “Please turn this man over to the police and come back for us as soon as you can.”

With a smart salute, the chopper pilot pushed the prisoner into the helicopter, then climbed into his seat and took off.

“Am I glad to get rid of blondie!” Joe said. “That guy gave me the creeps.”

“Pretty evil-looking character,” his brother agreed, then added, “Just to double-check, I’m calling Reykjavik on the radio and tell them the helicopter’s coming back.”

The boys climbed back into the plane, closing the door to keep out the glacier air.

Then Frank tried to activate the radio. No luck! “Hey, Joe, look at this!”

“What’s the matter?” his brother asked, coming forward along the sloping cabin.

“The radio’s conked out!”

All at once a chill of realization surged over the Hardys. The pilot had sabotaged the set! Frank quickly examined it. The frequency crystal was missing.

“I don’t believe he sent a rescue message at all,” Frank stated. “We’ve really been had, Joe!”

“You mean the helicopter was following us all the time?”

“I’m afraid so. Now we’re in a real pickle!”

Perspiration stood out on Joe’s forehead. “What’ll we do, Frank?”

“Look for the part. Our blond Viking might have dropped it onto the ice when we weren’t looking.”

The boys hopped out of the plane again and searched the icy surface, but in vain! Dark clouds sped in from the south, dropping lower and lower.

“Now we’re in for it!” Joe muttered. He looked up to see snowflakes land on the disabled plane.

“Looks as if it might be a bad storm,” Frank said, and the boys climbed back inside the cabin.

Before long, the snow fell so thickly that they could not see three feet ahead. The wind rose, and by nightfall the Hardys were caught in a howling glacial blizzard. At the same time, the temperature dropped sharply.

“We didn’t come dressed for anything like this,” Frank said, shivering. He glanced about for some extra clothing. Joe found a repair locker. In it were some tools and a greasy overall.

“You put that on,” Frank said.

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll have to start a fire to keep us warm.”

“And burn the plane up?”

“We’ll have to take that chance.”

Although the remaining fuel in the tank might have provided the much-needed heat, Frank and Joe decided against using the highly volatile gasoline. Instead, they opened the door a crack for ventilation, then tore off bits of interior woodwork with which they built a small fire on the floor of the aircraft.

The resultant warmth proved to be adequate. “At least we won’t freeze to death now,” Joe said with a wry grin.

“We’ll take turns tending this fire all night,” Frank suggested, glancing out the window. Nothing could be seen but the thick covering of snow and the crack in the door revealed only the blackness of the storm’s fury.

The boys agreed to sit up in shifts, feeding the fire with whatever material they could find to burn.

Near dawn, the howling winds abated, and Joe tore one of the passenger’s seats apart for fuel. Suddenly he let out a cry of delight.

“Frank, I found it!”

CHAPTER VIII

Something Fishy

ROUSED from a fitful sleep, Frank sat up groggily and rubbed his eyes. “What did you say, Joe? You found something?”

“Sure, look at this!” Joe held up a square-shaped metal piece about the size of a nickel. “The frequency crystal for the radio. It was thrown behind one of the seats!”

The news electrified Frank into direct action. Stepping over the glowing embers of their fire, he hastened to the front of the plane. After he had replaced the part, the radio was in perfect condition. Within seconds, Frank made contact with the radio tower at Reykjavik.

After he had told his story, the dispatcher said that an Icelandic coast guard helicopter would come to their aid.

Frank sent another message to be relayed to Chet and Biff at the Saga Hotel, saying everything was okay.

Despite the cold, the boys jumped from the plane into the deep snow. They trudged about, packing down a place for the helicopter to land. An hour later it came zooming low over the glacier.

The Hardys waved furiously to attract the pilot’s attention. In minutes he had the craft on the glacier and stepped out to meet them.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No, we’re all right,” Frank said.

“Pretty nasty accident. You were lucky to come out alive. Did you rent your plane in Reykjavik?”

Briefly Frank related what had happened, and how their kidnapper had gotten away.

“That was not one of our rescue copters,” the airman stated.

“We figured that,” Joe replied.

The pilot got into the copter, with the Hardys following.

“Can we ask you a favor?” Frank said when the craft was airborne.

“What is it?”

“Could you take us directly to Akureyri?”

The man frowned. “Why Akureyri?”

Joe explained that they were American detectives on the trail of a Rex Hallbjornsson who had answered their ad with a letter postmarked Akureyri.

The pilot grinned. “I suppose our government can do a favor for American detectives.” With that, he wheeled the craft northward.

Soon the glacier gave way to rolling meadows, with patches of green showing through the light covering of snow.

“Look sharp,” the pilot said, “and let me know if you see any polar bears.”

“Polar bears?” Frank asked. “I didn’t know there were any in Iceland.”

“Usually not,” the man replied. He explained that the winter had been severe, causing a huge tongue of ice to extend from Greenland around the north coast of Iceland. It curved down along the eastern shore of the country.

“Several polar bears were carried down on the ice and they climbed onto our island. One has been caught, but some are still roaming around, as far as the west coast. They have killed sheep, and one farmer had to flee for his life.”

Frank and Joe kept looking for bears, but all they saw were several small settlements with sod huts and flocks of sheep grazing on the greening pastures.

Every now and then the boys spotted small ponies. When they questioned the pilot, he said, “Ponies used to be our chief means of transportation. We still use them a lot here. Icelandic ponies are strong and durable.”

The north coast came into view and the airman pointed to a bay that cut deep inland. “There’s Akureyri!”

Shortly afterward, he landed the craft in a field not far from the center of town, and the boys got out.

“Good luck to you,” the pilot said, waving good-by. “I’ll make a report to the coast guard in Reykjavik.”

First, Frank and Joe found a drugstore where they purchased shaving equipment. The next stop was a small hotel, where they registered, cleaned up, and had breakfast in their room.

Tired out from their harrowing experience, they decided to sleep for a couple of hours. But when they awakened, it was already growing dark.

Frank was annoyed with himself. “We should have had the clerk buzz us earlier,” he said.

“Well,” Joe replied, stretching luxuriously, “Rex Hallbjornsson probably works, and wouldn’t have been home anyhow.”

The boys ate supper in the hotel dining room, then set out to find the elusive Icelander. His address was a small one-family house, made of aging brick and plaster, with a steep corrugated roof. It was located on a side street, across from a fish factory.

As they approached, Frank held his nose. “Phew!” he said. “They must be making fertilizer in there!”

Joe knocked and the door was opened by a middle-aged woman, who spoke fairly good English. Yes, Hallbjornsson lived there, she said, adding that another American had been looking for him, too.

“Another?” Frank asked, perplexed.

“Yes, come this way,” the landlady said, disregarding his query, and ushered the boys down the hall into a small room. Seated in a well-worn easy chair beside a small cot was a man, completely bald. His blue eyes blinked as he stared at the callers.

“We’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank said. “Are you Rex Hallbjornsson?”

“Ja.” In halting English, Hallbjornsson said he was both excited and glad to see the boys. He motioned for them to sit on his cot, then made a quick phone call in a foreign tongue.

When he returned, Frank said, “We understand you’re a seaman.”

“You were shipwrecked, too,” Joe added. “Pretty lucky man to be alive.”

Hallbjornsson nodded and proceeded to tell them a long story about his travels to Europe. None of the details agreed with the information their father had given them. And the man did not have the weather-beaten face of a sailor.

“I was shipwrecked in Spain,” he went on, “and hit my head on the gunwale of the rescue boat. Then I had—what do you say?—amnesia. For five years I wandered, until one day in Turkey—”

“That was when you worked for the Greek shipping company,” Joe put in, embroidering the man’s false tale.

“Ja. You know about that?”

Frank nodded and pursued Joe’s tack. “Then you went to Syria, and finally back to Iceland, right?”

“Good. I am glad you know the details,” Hallbjornsson said. “That will make it easier for me to collect. How much money do I get?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Frank replied.

The man’s eyes bulged greedily. “Do you have it with you?”

“No, we don’t have any money with us,” Frank replied. “Naturally, we’ll have to make a report to the insurance company first. But if you’re the right man, you’ll get what you’re entitled to receive.”

“Ja, ja,” the man murmured. “Make it soon. You see how I am living here in this cheap room. And I am getting old.”

The boys said good-by, stepped out into the hall, and made their way to the front of the house. They tried to find the landlady to question her about the other American, but she was nowhere in sight.

It was pitch dark when they stepped out into the street. Then there was an explosion of light, and darkness again, as Frank and Joe crumpled under blows to their heads!

They awakened to the pungent smell of fish. How much time had passed neither boy knew. Joe looked up, glassy-eyed, into the face of Biff Hooper, who was bending over them.

“Take it easy,” Biff said. “Just a bad bump on the noggin—both of you!”

Joe raised up on one elbow and winced. He had a splitting headache. Then he looked about. Both he and Frank were on a conveyor belt.

“Where—where are we?” asked Frank.

“In a fish factory. Don’t you smell it?” Biff replied. “Right across the street from Rex Hallbjornsson’s.”

“That faker!” Joe muttered. He swung into a sitting position and slid off the conveyor belt, rubbing his head gingerly.

Frank followed suit. “For Pete’s sake,” he said, “tell us what happened, Biff! How did we get here, and where did you come from?”

“Let’s get out of here first, and I’ll give you the whole story,” Biff suggested. Walking the Hardys to their hotel, he explained that he had become worried about their trip to Akureyri. “I had a feeling you might be dry-gulched there. So I got a regular flight this morning and followed you.”

“You must have left before our message arrived,” Frank said. “When you didn’t find us here, then what?”

Biff had gone to Hallbjornsson’s address, but he was not in. “The landlady told me the guy had come there only recently,” he explained, “and she thought he was a foreigner.”

Biff said he had wandered around town, watching the fishing boats and talking to American tourists. Then he had returned to Hallbjornsson’s in the evening.

“I guess we arrived before you,” Joe put in.

“Right. When I got here, I saw two men lurking in front of the house. I decided to play it by ear and stepped into an alley to see what would happen. A few minutes later you came out, and these fellows blackjacked you.”

Frank gave a low whistle. “Now I know why Hallbjornsson got on the phone as soon as we came in!”

“Then,” Biff continued, “a siren sounded, and you should have seen those fellows go to work. They dragged you into the fish factory. I was hoping it would be the police, but it was only an ambulance going past.”

“So you followed the guys?” Joe asked.

Biff said that when the men did not come out of the building, he stole in to find the Hardys lying on the conveyor belt. “They must have scrammed out a side door,” he concluded. “Now tell me, what happened to you?”

Frank gave him a brief report, and soon they reached the hotel. Frank and Joe got ice packs to apply to the lumps on their heads, and ordered a cot to be put in their room for Biff.

Next morning after breakfast the trio caught a plane back to Reykjavik. When their taxi arrived at the Saga Hotel, a strange sight greeted them. Chet was in front of the hotel, wandering about aimlessly.

“Hey, Chet!” Frank called out. The stout boy turned slowly and stood still. “Hi,” he said listlessly.

“He sure looks funny,” Frank stated. He said to Chet, “Come here!”

Chet obeyed, childlike.

Biff looked closely at him. “He isn’t right. Look, Frank, his eyes are dilated.”

Chet’s head lolled as if he was in a stupor.

“I’ll bet he’s been drugged!” Joe cried out. “Holy toledo! Maybe somebody’s upstairs fooling around with our radio and decoder!”

“Biff, take Chet to the front desk and get a doctor for him,” Frank said quickly. “Joe and I will go upstairs.”

The Hardys hastened into the hotel, dashed to an elevator, and let themselves out on their floor. Tiptoeing down the carpeted hall, they came to their room.

Someone was inside, moving about!

Frank silently inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and swung the door open.

Two men, taken by surprise, whirled around—the blond pilot and his phony rescuer!

CHAPTER IX

Man of the Sea

CAUGHT red-handed, the two men glared hate-fully at the Hardys before diving for the door. Frank and Joe were bowled over and a furious melee ensued. Punching and cursing, the intruders bulled their way past the two boys.

Joe made a plunge for the blond man and got a firm grip on his wavy hair. But suddenly he was holding a wig in his hand! The thug was utterly bald!

Rex Hallbjornsson!

“Get him, Frank!”

The Hardys dashed along the hall, but the intruders made the elevator ahead of them.

“Down the stairway, Joe!”

The boys leaped three steps at a time in an effort to beat the elevator to the lobby. At the second floor the elevator doors opened. Out rushed the two men and raced down an adjacent corridor into a huge ballroom filled with tables and chairs.

Grabbing chairs as they ran, the thugs flung them into the path of the pursuers.

Frank hit one and fell flat. Joe stumbled over his brother. By the time they picked themselves up, the men had vanished down a back stairway and out of the building!

Disappointed, the Hardys limped upstairs. In Biff’s room a doctor was examining Chet, a stethoscope to his ears.

“You say you had a cup of coffee with two strangers?” he asked as Frank and Joe walked in.

“That’s right, Doc,” replied Chet, who seemed much improved.

The Hardys introduced themselves, and the physician said, “Your friend will get over it all right. He was drugged. Do you have enemies?”

“Perhaps.” Frank did not want to reveal their mission.

“Well, be careful. I am sorry such a thing had to happen to you in Iceland.”

“Thanks for coming over so soon, Doc,” said Biff. “What do we owe you?”

The doctor waved them off with a smile. “Nothing. Glad to help visitors.” He put away his stethoscope and picked up his bag. “I would advise some exercise for you, young man. How about a swim in one of our warm water pools?”

“That’d be great!” Chet said, a big smile returning to his round face. “Where?”

“I suggest Sundholl. It is indoors, and not far from here.”

The boys thanked the doctor again, and he left. Frank picked up the codebook from the safe, and they all went to the Hardys’ room.

“Looks as if a cyclone hit it,” Biff stated. “Are you sure one of them was Hallbjornsson?”

“No doubt about it,” Joe replied. “First he looked for us at Keflavik Airport, then he followed us around the downtown area and finally kidnapped us in that plane.”

“I feel kind of silly,” Frank replied. “The blond wig and mustache disguise had us completely fooled.”

The young detectives were relieved to find that the radio had not been damaged, nor had the intruders had time to locate the black box hidden in a comer of the clothes closet.

As Frank smoothed out two crumpled shirts, the telephone rang.

“Okay,” he said. “Quiet, fellows. I have a hunch that these are our phony friends.” Quickly he attached the recording device to the telephone and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” The boy made a wry face as he said, “Yes, sir. Thank you,” and hung up.

“What was it?”

“The hotel manager. Asked us to cut down on the noise. Somebody complained.”

Frank hit a chair and fell flat

They all laughed, and Chet quipped, “Sure, we’ll be quiet, if the crooks promise, too.”

The phone rang again, and this time Joe scooped it up. The voice on the other end was harsh. “Hardys, get out of Iceland!” This was followed by heavy breathing into the mouthpiece, then the caller hung up.

“Why—those dirty bums!” Joe said hotly. “They’re trying to scare us out of this country!’

“Fat chance!” Chet said bravely.

“Did you recognize the voice?” asked Biff.

“The phony Hallbjornsson! Who else?”

With the room set to rights again, the four boys had lunch, then sprawled on the beds and the two chairs, trying to find a logical answer to all that had happened.

Why did the phony Hallbjornsson want to kidnap Frank and Joe? Obviously he had impersonated Hallbjornsson only for that purpose. Who was he really?

Finally Chet Morton stood up and stretched. “Well, Frank and Joe, you’re the brains department. Try to figure it out while Biff and I go for a warm water swim!”

“I’m for it!” said Biff.

“You can get the address at the desk,” Joe advised. “Call a taxi, but be careful about drinking coffee with strangers!”

A few minutes later there was a light tap on the Hardys’ door. Frank opened it. Gummi stood outside.

“Come on in,” Frank invited. “What’s new?”

“Plenty!” Gummi took a chair, wet his lips, and settled back with a great air of satisfaction. “I’ve been busy with some detective work to help you.”

“Any luck so far?” Joe asked.

“I’ll say! I tried to get in touch with you yesterday, but you were always out. I’ve found your man Rex!”

“No kidding!”

Gummi leaned forward and gestured with his hands. “Now, I won’t guarantee that this is the guy you really want. He’s an old seaman who’s out on a fishing trawler called the Svartfugel—it means blackbird.”

“How do we get in touch with him?” Frank asked.

Gummi explained that the trawler was at sea but that he had found out where the Svartfugel’s skipper lived. “His name is Rensson. Perhaps his wife can tell us something about this Rex,” he added.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s scram!” Joe said excitedly. They hastened down to the lobby, hopped into Gummi’s jeep, and drove to a neat yellow house near the waterfront.

Gummi knocked, and a tall blond woman answered. The youth questioned her in Icelandic. “Ja, ja,” she replied. “Rex Mar.”

“Tack, tack,” Gummi said and continued the interrogation. After they had left, Frank said, “What’s the pitch, Gummi?”

The boy explained that Rex’s name was Mar.

“Like the sea?” Joe recognized the word.

“Right. Rex is supposed to be an old salt, and full of sea stories.”

“And where is he now?” Frank questioned.

“Somewhere off the northwest coast.”

“We can’t overlook any possible clue,” Joe mused. “Maybe he changed his last name because it was too long.” The boys had learned from their detective father that even the slightest clue can sometimes solve a difficult case.

Gummi dropped the boys off at the hotel and said good-by. He would see them later.

Frank checked the desk for any messages. There were none. Then he and Joe went up to their room.

“I’m really getting worried,” Frank said. “Joe, I think we ought to contact Dad and tell him what happened.” He unlimbered the radio and began to send out signals. As he did, someone pounded on the door.

“Good night!” Joe jumped up. “What’s going on?” He opened the door.

Chet Morton burst in, his face flushed with excitement. “Guess who we met?”

“We can’t guess!” Frank said.

“Come with me—downstairs—now!”

“Chet, have you gone wacky?” Joe asked.

Frank turned off the radio, and the Hardys followed their friend. When they stepped into the elevator, Frank tried to question his excited buddy. “Did you catch the phony Hallbjornsson?”

“You’ll see!”

A few seconds later they arrived in the lobby. There was Biff Hooper chatting gaily with Steina the stewardess!

CHAPTER X

The Arctic Patrol

“HELLO, Steina. How are you?” Frank said, extending a hand to the smiling black-haired girl.

Joe, meanwhile, glanced about the lobby. “Chet, I thought you found Hallbjornsson.”

“No, it was Steina we found, and guess where—at the swimming pool!”

“I was glad to meet them on my day off,” said Steina. Then she turned to Chet with a wink. “Tell me, have you found any Eskimos yet?”

“No, but we’ve had our adventures,” the stout boy replied. But this time he kept his secrets to himself. They moved to the side of the lobby and took comfortable seats around a coffee table.

Biff Hooper spoke to Frank in a low voice. “Do you think Steina might be able to help us? She probably knows lots of important people in Iceland.”

“Yes, she might,” Frank replied and looked at the stewardess. “Steina, we’d like to contact a man named Rex Mar on the fishing trawler Svartfugel. Do you know how we can get in touch with him?”

“Of course,” the girl answered with a wave of her hand, as if the request were an easy one.

Joe had his doubts. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No. My uncle Oscar will help you, I’m sure.”

“Your uncle Oscar?” Chet raised his eyebrows. “Who’s he?”

“Head of the Icelandic coast guard,” Steina replied, cocking her head coyly.

“Great!” Joe exclaimed. “Will you give us an introduction?”

Without a word the girl rose, went to a wall telephone nearby, and dialed a number. After chatting in Icelandic, she hung up and returned to the boys. “Uncle Oscar Sigtryggsson is in his office. He’s expecting you.”

“Thanks a million, Steina,” Frank said. “Can we see him in half an hour?”

“Sure. I must be going along now,” the girl replied. Waving good-by, she left in her small car which she had parked in front of the hotel.

The boys went directly to the Hardys’ room, where Frank and Joe clued their buddies in on the Mar information. Then Joe flicked on their radio and began sending signals. Fifteen minutes later they received an answer. The conversation was amiable and casual. Frank told his father that the only Hallbjornsson they had found so far proved to be the wrong one, but that they had had some trouble getting rid of him.

Afterward, Joe rapidly figured out their father’s message. Mr. Hardy said that the high Icelandic officials now knew that his sons were working on the astronaut case. He also warned them to beware of a Felix Musselman.

The description of this man fit the phony Hallbjornsson to a T. Originally a Rumanian, Musselman had fake passports for several countries. “He may be tied in with the astronaut case. Exercise extreme caution!” Mr. Hardy ended.

Frank returned the radio to the hiding place in the closet.

“Wow!” Joe said. “So Hallbjornsson-Musselman may be an agent of a spy network mixed up in the astronaut case!”

“That’s probably his primary mission,” Frank reasoned. “When he found out we were coming to Iceland, his second mission was capturing us in order to get us out of the way. He must have been afraid we would get involved with the case.”

“Now what?” Biff asked.

“Well, we’d better go see Steina’s uncle. You and Chet stay here and stand guard. Okay?”

Soon Frank and Joe arrived at the Icelandic coast guard headquarters, called by the almost unpronounceable name of Landhelgisgaezlan. Its offices were located on Seljaveg, close to the waterfront.

“The Hardy boys?” a male clerk asked as they entered.

“Right. Frank and Joe, from Bayport, U.S.A.”

“Captain Sigtryggsson is waiting for you. This way, please.”

He ushered the visitors into an office with nautical decorations and closed the door. They were greeted by a tall gray-haired man who rose from his chair behind a long desk.

“So,” he said, after shaking hands and offering the boys two chairs, “you are American detectives!”

“Yes,” said Joe. “I know we’re still young, but—”

“Not at all,” the captain replied. “Our best men in the coast guard are young fellows like you. We start them at fifteen, and by the time they are eighteen or nineteen, believe me, they are excellent seamen. Your father is a world-famous detective and I gather he has trained you well in his profession.”

Frank and Joe felt much at home in the presence of Captain Sigtryggsson. “You have a very fine niece in Steina,” said Frank, returning the compliment.

“That’s what the boys tell me,” the captain said with a smile. “Ja, ja. Now tell me, what is your question?”

“We wish to speak to a man named Rex Hallbjornsson,” Frank began. “He may be Rex Mar, sailing on the trawler Svartfugel.”

“I think I can help you,” the captain said. He rose from his chair and went to a map hanging on the wall. “The Svartfugel is probably fishing in waters near Snaefellsjokull.”

“The glacier?” asked Joe.

“Ja. Right here. Perhaps ten miles offshore. We will send you up there.”

The boys were thunderstruck. “Really?” asked Joe. “How?”

“On the Thor. Are you good seamen?”

“Pretty good,” Frank replied.

The Icelander walked over to the model of a ship sitting on a table beside the boys.

“This is the Thor,” he explained. “You know, we don’t have a large navy, but it is a good one.” He said that the Thor was setting out the next day on a fourteen-day tour of duty in Icelandic waters.

“Your Arctic Patrol—isn’t that what you call it?” Frank remarked.

The captain nodded and continued. “Naturally, I don’t think it will take fourteen days to find the Svartfugel.”

“Then how’ll we get back?” Joe asked.

“We’ll arrange that later. Perhaps on the Albert. It is a smaller boat on its way back to Keflavik from a two-week tour.” The captain sat down at his desk again and looked straight at the boys. “You are working on the McGeorge case, too!”

Frank and Joe were startled. “Yes. It’s top secret,” Frank managed to reply.

“Of course. It is most unusual to have civilians involved. But perhaps you can be of help.”

“We already have a clue,” Frank said, and told about the leather glove. “It matches a similar one we got at the base in Keflavik.” He explained how they had found it, and when.

“Excellent. But Major McGeorge disappeared earlier than that. We searched the area of the sulfur pit.”

“Perhaps he came back,” Frank offered. “Maybe his captors threatened to throw him in if he didn’t tell his NASA secrets.”

“A good possibility,” the captain admitted. “We’ll look into this.”

The boys rose and thanked him, promising to be at his office at two o’clock the next afternoon.

“Captain Carl Magnusson, the skipper of the Thor, will be here to meet you,” their host said as he ushered the Hardys to the door.

When they returned to their hotel, they found Chet and Biff brimming with excitement. “Here’s another letter answering your ad in the paper,” Biff said.

Frank opened it. A Hallbjornsson living in Hafnarfjordur thought that he might be a relative of the man called Rex.

Frank shook his head. “Now we’ve got two leads to follow.”

“What did the coast guard chief have to say?”

“We’re leaving on one of their boats tomorrow.”

“That was fast. Well, suppose Chet and I go down to Hafnarfjordur and investigate the other guy?”

“Great idea!”

Chet and Biff departed the next morning, and at two o’clock the Hardys, traveling as lightly as they could, appeared at Captain Sigtryggsson’s office.

There they met a tall, handsome man in his late thirties—Carl Magnusson, the skipper of the Thor. After hard handshakes, Captain Magnusson said, “Come with me, men. We’re on our way.”

He took them down the harbor where the Thor, a spotless white cutter, was waiting.

“She’s a big ship,” Frank observed.

“Two hundred and six feet long—nine hundred and twenty tons,” the captain explained.

As they stepped from the dock down a ladder to board the cutter, Frank and Joe noticed a 57 mm gun mounted on the front of the boat. Behind the gun deck, at a lower level, lay a large rubber raft. Two pontoons on either side were bullet-shaped.

“We use that for transfers in rough weather,” said Captain Magnusson, who had noticed the boys’ inquisitive looks.

They followed the skipper up and down a maze of companionways to his quarters. A comfortable wardroom was located forward, and the captain’s bunk was to the left. On the right side were quarters for the visitors.

“Make yourselves at home,” Captain Magnusson said.

“Do you suppose you can find the Svartfugel for us?” Joe asked, putting down his bag.

“I think so, if we don’t run into any foreign poachers.” The skipper explained that recently some ships of foreign registry had been sneaking through the twelve-mile limit. “But we spot them on radar,” he continued, “and get them!”

“Then what do you do?” Frank asked.

“Bring them back to port and fine them. They cannot get away with our codfish!”

Frank and Joe looked about the ship. Several seamen, about their own age, were busy hosing and swabbing the decks. Some of them spoke English, and the boys chatted with them about their training and their ambitions.

Then they strolled about, looking at the colorful Icelandic coastline slipping past.

“You know,” Joe said to his brother, “I’m beginning to enjoy our trip!”

“Well, let’s hope we’re successful,” Frank replied with a grin.

About sundown, Snaefell Glacier came into view, its bare, rugged peaks bathed in orange light. Suddenly Captain Magnusson, who stood on the bridge, beckoned to the Hardys. They hastened up a ladder and were at his side a moment later.

“Look over there!” the skipper said tersely, peering through his binoculars. “A poacher! She’s in our territorial waters!”

He handed Frank the binoculars, so high-powered that they brought the fishing trawler seemingly close enough to touch. She was about forty-five feet long and bore the name Tek.

Frank surveyed her from stem to stern. Five crewmen could be seen on deck. Suddenly he gasped. “Joe, there he is!”

“Who?”

“Musselman. I’ll bet anything!”

CHAPTER XI

Over the Waves

JOE took the glasses to confirm Frank’s suspicion. No doubt about it! The face was that of the bogus Hallbjornsson!

“Captain Magnusson,” Frank said, “there’s a wanted man on the Tek!”

“The entire trawler is wanted,” the captain replied with a grim smile. “She’s poaching in Icelandic waters.”

He dispatched a radio message commanding the Tek to stop. Then he took the binoculars and watched. Suddenly he gave an exclamation in Icelandic. The trawler was turning about and racing toward the open sea!

“She’s trying to get away!” Frank cried out.

If Captain Magnusson was startled by the poacher’s action, he did not show it. Calmly he gave the order for full speed ahead.

Much to the surprise of Frank and Joe, the fleeing boat had exceptional speed. Churning up a greenish-white wake, it high-tailed straight west. But it was no match for the Thor. The cutter gained with every minute.

Finally the ships came side by side. Captain Magnusson, using a bullhorn, ordered the fleeing boat to stop for boarding. “You are under arrest!” he thundered.

Beckoning to the Hardy boys and two seamen, he boarded the poacher and was met by her irate skipper, who declared in broken English, “You cannot stop us. It is illegal!”

“You are in Icelandic fishing waters,” Captain Magnusson replied evenly. “And you are not Icelandic.”

“I am thirteen miles off your shore!”

“Only ten by my calculations. And my calculations are what count.” Magnussen asked curtly, “Why did you flee when I radioed for you to stop?”

“I did not hear your message.”

“Then you should get your radio repaired. What you did was dangerous; you could have been shot.”

The captain accompanied the poacher to his bridge, where he obtained the fishing boat’s registration and other vital details. Then Magnusson said, “I think you are harboring a fugitive from Iceland and will conduct a search.”

The poacher glared at him in rage. “How dare you! You cannot do this!”

“But we will,” Magnussen retorted. He motioned to Frank and Joe, along with his two crewmen. The four conducted a painstaking search for the fugitive, expecting to see Musselman pop out of a closet or jump out of a locker at any moment. But the baldheaded spy could not be found.

“Maybe he’s hiding in some kind of a container,” Frank said.

“You mean under the boat?” Joe asked.

“It’s possible.”

Although they searched the sides of the boat for any telltale line leading under the water, their efforts were fruitless.

“Come on. We’ll give the crew’s quarters one more look,” Frank said.

The bunks were thoroughly checked to see if anyone was hiding under a false mattress. Each mattress was thumped, but all were genuine. No Musselman!

The crewmen left. Frank and Joe gave the last bunk one more look. A small bit of paper stuck between the wall and the blanket caught Frank’s eye. He plucked it from its hiding place.

“Holy crow! Joe, look at this!” It had been torn from an Icelandic newspaper.

“It’s our ad!” Joe exclaimed. “The one Musselman answered!”

“See, we were right!” Frank said. “He was on this boat!”

“One thing is sure,” Joe muttered. “That crook isn’t here now, and if he is, he certainly is well hidden.”

The boys decided not to tell Captain Magnusson about their clue. When they returned to the bridge, the skipper asked, “Any luck?”

“No. We couldn’t find him.” Frank observed the poaching captain all the while. He did not twitch a muscle, and his eyes remained cold and angry. If he knew of Musselman’s presence, he gave no indication.

Magnusson called for his first lieutenant, who vaulted over the rail.

“Hjalmar, take this boat to Reykjavik. We will follow!”

After admonishing his prisoners not to do anything rash, Magnusson returned to the Thor, with the Hardys at his heels. The coast guard cutter and its captive turned about and were under way toward the Icelandic capital city.

In the captain’s cabin Frank and Joe talked with the skipper. “What’ll happen to these fellows now?” Frank asked.

“They will be fined, and their fish confiscated.”

“But what about our search for Rex Mar?” Joe asked.

A broad smile came over the captain’s face. “I knew you would ask that question. Everything has been taken care of.”

“How?”

“We will pass the Albert about two o’clock this morning. We will transfer you for the continuation of your search for Rex Mar.”

“Great!” Frank said. “Thank you, sir.”

“But it will not be as easy as boarding the poacher,” the skipper went on. “You see how rough it is getting? We will have to transfer you by raft.”

The Thor had begun to pitch and yaw. As night settled over the sea, the wind blew harder.

“We may be in for a little rough weather,” the captain declared. “But you are good sailors, right?”

Joe hoped that neither of them would get seasick. But he felt a little queasy already. Dinner with the crew, however, settled Joe’s stomach. The boys joined the young crewmen in a hearty meal of roast lamb and boiled potatoes. The coffee was black and piping hot.

When they returned to the deck again, the swell was even greater, and the ship rolled and rocked.

“Get some sleep now,” the captain advised them. “We will wake you when the Albert comes in sight.”

Frank and Joe slipped into their bunks and the rolling sea lolled them to sleep in no time at all. The next thing Frank knew, there was a hand on his shoulder.

“Come. We have the Albert in sight,” Captain Magnusson said. “You have your gear ready?”

“Yes, we’re all packed,” Frank replied as Joe rose sleepily from his bunk.

On deck the fresh wind with the bite of glacier snow assailed the Hardys’ nostrils, and they were instantly wide awake.

In the distance the lights of the Albert bobbed up and down. Captain Magnusson gave an order, and a searchlight atop the mast shone down on the sea in a brilliant yellow cone.

“There comes the raft now,” the skipper said, pointing over the sea. At first it looked like a cork; then, as it drew closer, Frank and Joe saw that it was identical to the one lashed on the forward deck of the Thor. Three seamen, using long oars as paddles, propelled the raft toward them.

On the Thor a section of rail was lifted up, and as the raft drew alongside, one of the sailors hurled a line aboard.

“Everything is perfectly safe,” Captain Magnusson assured the boys.

Frank wondered. The raft rose and fell on each wave, coming even with the deck of the Thor, then dropping ten feet into the trough.

Clutching their bags, the Hardys waited. Up came the raft. Joe stepped in, and went down like an elevator. Up it came again for Frank. Then the line was cast off, and they were gliding over the frigid sea.

The raft resembled a small bug struggling in the rolling waves. Overhead, a silver moon illuminated the snow-capped mountains along the shore.

The young seamen paddled hard. Their oars flashed as they dug deep into the brine.

Frank’s eyes scanned the ocean. Suddenly he leaned over to Joe. “Something else is out there!”

“Where?” asked Joe, looking about in the stiff breeze.

“I saw a wake!”

Joe peered intently, but could spot nothing. “What do you suppose it was?”

“A small boat, or a raft, maybe with a motor!”

Presently the Albert loomed up black beside the raft. A section of its deck rail also had been lifted, but Frank Hardy was not ready to board yet. Crouched in the raft, he looked up at the captain and shouted, “I think I saw another small boat out there, skipper. I’d like permission to look for it!”

“What? Speak slower, please. I am not too good with English.”

Frank repeated his request, and the captain called back, “Wait. I will try first to find it on my radar.” He went into the control room, while the raft, banging against the side of the Albert, rose and fell with a dizzying motion.

The seamen did their best to hold everything steady, and two more aboard the Albert clung to the line which had been thrown to them.

Then suddenly it happened. A huge wave bore down on them. It hit the raft while it was in a deep trough, and after it had passed over the clinging occupants, Frank Hardy was gone!

CHAPTER XII

A Mysterious Offer

A HEAD bobbed to the surface beside the Albert, then disappeared beneath the sullen waves again. Instantly two of the crewmen sprang overboard, while the third restrained Joe from diving in after his brother.

Someone on the deck flashed a powerful light on the turbulent waters and Joe saw Frank in the firm grasp of the two seamen. His face was pale, his eyes shut.

Frank was pushed into the raft, then hoisted quickly to the deck of the Albert. Seconds later, on a rising wave, Joe stepped safely aboard.

The Albert’s captain, a square-jawed man named Holmquist, immediately applied artificial respiration to Frank, and finally the boy’s eyes fluttered open. The captain helped him to his feet. “You tried to swallow all of the North Atlantic, but it cannot be done!”

“I sure did go under, like a sinker,” Frank said, shivering from the icy water.

“Come down below and change into some dry clothes,” Captain Holmquist said.

Still groggy, Frank followed him and Joe into a warm cabin. There he was supplied with seamen’s clothes, while his own were hung up to dry. Then the three sat down at the table in the skipper’s quarters.

“Did you see the other raft?” was Joe’s first question.

“Something was out there,” said Captain Holmquist. “But a raft—I doubt that. Probably a whale. We have them in these waters, you know.”

“We can’t look for it any more, then?” Frank asked.

The skipper shrugged. “There’s nothing on our radar now. Anyhow, our mission is to find the Svartfugel, right?”

“That’s what we came for.” Frank managed a grin. “You think you can find her?”

“I found her already. She is located on our chart. In the morning you will have your trawler served up for breakfast!”

Frank and Joe laughed at the captain’s good humor and thanked him again for his help. Then they retired to their bunks and fell fast asleep.

The Albert was alive with the sound of ship’s noises when the Hardys awakened. Footsteps sounded on gangways, and the smell of ham and hot coffee drifted into their cabin.

By this time Frank’s clothes had dried. The boys dressed hurriedly and found their way to the breakfast table. The seamen joked about Frank’s dunking.

“He went down like a seal!” said one of his rescuers with a chuckle.

“More like a walrus I would say,” Frank replied, and took his place at the square table beside Captain Holmquist.

“Now you will have something to tell back home,” the skipper said.

The Hardys had soft-boiled eggs, cereal, and milk. In the center of the table stood a tall can of cod-liver oil. After watching the seamen help themselves, Frank and Joe each took a large spoonful, washed down by a second glass of milk.

“Now you’re all set for the Svartfugel,” Captain Holmquist said. “She’s off our port bow, if you’d like to take a look.”

The boys hastened to the deck and looked across the leaden waters toward a tubby little trawler. The captain followed with his bullhorn. In Icelandic he asked if Rex Mar was aboard.

“Ja, ja,” came the answer.

The ocean was calm enough for the two boats to pull alongside and soon Frank and Joe dropped to the deck of the Svartfugel.

“Take your time,” Captain Holmquist said. “We will wait for you.”

The small boat had only a crew of five, and its skipper called below decks for Rex Mar. The man appeared, wearing a brown sweater. Its turtleneck set off a square, weather-beaten face, topped by a patch of flowing gray hair beneath a seaman’s cap.

Frank Hardy extended a hand in greeting. Rex Mar’s looked like a bear paw in comparison.

“I’m Frank Hardy. Do you speak English, Mr. Mar?”

“Yes.”

Joe introduced himself and said, “There’s something we would like you to do.”

“No, I won’t do it!” Mar said and turned down the narrow gangway.

“Wait a minute!” Frank called out. “You won’t do what?”

The old fellow regarded them grimly through watery blue eyes. “I won’t do what you want me to do. I was asked before. The answer is still No!”

Frank and Joe exchanged puzzled glances. Finally Frank said, “Mr. Mar, we only want you to identify yourself.”

Rex Mar closed one eye suspiciously. “Rex Mar is the name, and that’s all.”

From the rail of the Albert, Holmquist looked down with a slight smile of amusement on his face. In rapid-fire Icelandic he spoke with the old seaman. Instantly Mar seemed more ready to cooperate.

“What is it you want to know?”

“We are looking for Rex Hallbjornsson,” Frank said.

“Why?”

“Somebody left him some insurance money.”

The man’s face lit up like the aurora borealis. “Rex Hallbjornsson. Ja, I am the one!”

Frank and Joe beamed at each other and shook hands vigorously. “Frank, we’ve done it!” said Joe. “We found our man!”

But the elder Hardy boy was not convinced that the man standing before them was the real Rex Hallbjornsson.

“Tell us,” he said, “how, why, and when did you change your name?”

The old seaman took a pail, turned it upside down, and used it for a seat. Frank and Joe leaned against the capstan and listened to his tale.

Mar said that he once was shipwrecked off the coast of France. After he had been rescued, his name Hallbjornsson—hard to spell for foreigners —had been recorded incorrectly.

“I went to Spain,” he said, “where my name was spelled wrong again. What a mess it was! The b, j, and the l’s were all mixed up. I don’t think anybody could sneeze the name!”

Joe chuckled at the description. “So you changed it?”

“Yes. I chose the name Mar because it means sea. You see, I had to do it. In Spain they thought I was a spy since all the names on my papers were spelled differently. And you know,” he said, rubbing the side of his nose, “somebody still thinks I’m a spy.”

“Who?” asked Frank.

“Two men. They came to see me.”

“About what?” Joe wanted to know.

“About a job.” Mar explained that someone wanted the help of a man who knew the coast of Iceland intimately. “But I didn’t take it!”

The Hardys were immediately alerted by the strange request. Frank said, “If they ever come to you with that proposal again, will you let me know?”

“All right,” Mar replied, glancing up at Captain Holmquist.

Convinced that Mar was indeed Rex Hallbjornsson, Frank told him that he had been named the beneficiary in a life insurance policy paying fifty thousand dollars. The old fellow’s jaw dropped, and he stood up, looking bewildered.

When the name of the policyholder was given, a faraway look came into his eyes. He told the Hardys that it was a man he saved from drowning. “Now he will make my old age a comfortable one,” Mar said with feeling.

Frank suggested that he come with them, leaving the trawler at once. “You’ll have to sign some papers in Reykjavik, and then we’ll try to get your money as soon as possible, Mr. Mar.”

The Svartfugel’s skipper gave permission for his crewman to leave, and Rex Mar and the boys boarded the Albert.

It was late in the afternoon when the coast guard boat pulled into Reykjavik Harbor. The Hardys thanked Captain Holmquist and his crew, then stepped onto the dock. The old seaman followed. A taxi took them into town. Mar was let off at his rooming house, with instructions to await word from the boys, and Frank and Joe continued on to their hotel.

After hastening upstairs, they rapped on the door of Chet’s room. No answer. They went to their own room and phoned the desk. Had Biff and Chet left any message?

The answer nearly floored them. Their friends had checked out of the hotel the day before.

“What’s going on?” Frank asked the clerk.

The man did not know, except that he had observed the pair talking with Gummi shortly before they signed out.

Instantly Joe got on the phone to their Icelandic friend. “Gummi, where are Chet and Biff?”

“You should know! They left after getting your message!”

CHAPTER XIII

Eavesdroppers

“WE didn’t send any message!” Joe exclaimed, holding the receiver so that Frank could follow the conversation.

“Oh no!” Gummi said that Chet and Biff had returned from an unsuccessful visit to Hafnarfjordur and shortly afterward received word ostensibly from Frank and Joe to meet them somewhere.

“Good night! That was a hoax! Tell me, where were they to meet us?”

“They didn’t say. Chet only told me it was a secret.”

The Hardys were worried. Obviously this was an attempt by Musselman to split the ranks and deal with them individually.

Frank took the phone from Joe. “If we only had a clue! A single clue! Think hard, Gummi. Didn’t Chet or Biff drop some kind of hint where they were going?”

“Yes, Chet did,” Gummi said after a thoughtful pause. “He mentioned that he had better get some seasick pills.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you remember anything else, Gummi, give us a ring, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

Frank hung up.

“At least we know they were going somewhere by boat,” Joe said.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Joe. The deduction might be true, and it might not.”

“If it were,” Joe reasoned, “perhaps Chet and Biff went somewhere off the coast of Snaefell Glacier where you saw the mysterious raft!”

“There’s only one thing to do now—inform the police and the coast guard,” Frank said crisply. “I’ll call them right away.”

After he had notified the authorities about their missing friends, Frank telephoned Captain Magnusson. The skipper told him that the poachers had been heavily fined. The Tek was also fine-combed again, but the only thing found was a coil of fine nylon line attached to an underwater hook. No sign of a man fitting the description of Musselman.

Then Frank told the captain about Chet and Biff.

“The Thor is going on patrol again tonight, Frank,” Magnusson said. “If they are anywhere in the Icelandic waters, we’ll find them!”

“Thanks, Captain.” Frank hung up and turned to Joe. Quickly he told him the news. “Obviously the nylon line was for towing something,” he concluded.

“Yes, but we didn’t see any boat behind the Tek,” replied Joe.

“I know. It’s a puzzler all right.”

“What’s next?”

“Let’s have something to eat, then we’ll radio Dad.”

After a quick supper the boys contacted their father. They got through to Texas immediately.

Frank reported that they had found Rex Mar, and Mr. Hardy congratulated them. Then he spelled out in detail an affidavit, which Frank was to prepare for the man to sign. The boy copied down the document, then told about Chet and Biff’s mysterious disappearance.

Mr. Hardy expressed his worry, and casually switched to code. He was sure that the boys’ disappearance was tied in with the astronaut case.

“If you find Musselman, you will probably find Biff and Chet,” Mr. Hardy advised.

After their father signed off, the boys tried to map out a plan of action.

“We’re really stuck,” Joe muttered. “The only clue is that Chet and Biff may be on a boat, and we can’t chase them on the ocean.”

“The coast guard’ll have to do it,” Frank admitted. “But where to find Musselman? As far as he’s concerned, we don’t have any clues at all!”

Joe sighed. “How about going over to Rex Mar with the affidavit? There’s not much else we can do tonight.”

“Okay.”

The boys walked the short distance to the sailor’s place. He occupied a large room on the first floor.

Mar greeted them cordially, putting down his pipe on a small table to shake hands with them. He offered them chairs, then sank back onto a sofa and sent ringlets of smoke from his pipe.

“You look pretty happy, Mr. Mar,” Frank said jovially.

“I am a rich man.”

“You will be, after a few formalities,” Joe agreed as Frank produced the affidavit.

Rex Mar held it at arm’s length, scrutinizing every word, then he took the pen proffered by Frank in his gnarled fingers and scratched his name at the bottom of the paper.

“After this is processed in the States,” Frank said, “you will receive your money.”

“Fine,” Mar replied. Then he looked at the Hardys seriously. “I have something to tell you,” he said as Frank returned the affidavit to his pocket. “They were here again to see me.”

“Who was?”

“The men who think I am a spy. You asked me to tell you.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Frank replied, leaning forward in his chair. “What did they say?”

“They want me to get a boat and help them take something out of the country illegally!”

“What did you tell them?”

“I said I wanted to think it over. They will return in an hour for my answer. I was about to call you when you rang my bell.”

“Mr. Mar, what did these fellows look like?” Joe queried.

“One was bald, short, and heavy-set. The other was black-haired with a rather long nose. They are due here any minute.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. There was no doubt in their minds that the men were Musselman and his pal.

“What do you want me to do?” Mar asked.

“Go along with their proposition,” Frank said.

“But it is illegal!”

“That’s just it. We might be able to uncover a nefarious scheme.”

“All right. I will do as you say. You go now and I’ll tell you later exactly what they want me to do.”

Joe looked around. “I have a better idea. We’ll listen in.” He pointed to a small closet. “Can we both get in there?”

Mar sucked on his pipe, sending out a billow of smoke. “I think so.”

He opened the closet, which was rank with the odor of old clothes. A few tools were stacked in one corner. The boys squeezed in. A narrow crack between the floor and the bottom of the door would allow enough air to keep them from suffocating.

“When they come, I will get them to leave as soon as possible,” Rex Mar said.

Frank coughed a bit, and Joe’s throat burned, as he inhaled the pipe smoke which drifted over the room like an early-morning heavy fog.

The doorbell rang. As Mar went to answer it, Frank and Joe ducked into the closet. Seconds later they heard Mar return with a visitor. The voice was unmistakable. Musselman!

Frank and Joe hardly dared to breathe, lest any sound give away their eavesdropping hideout.

“All right now,” said Mar. “Tell me just what do you want me to do?”

“How many times must I tell you?” the caller replied impatiently. “I want you to rent a small fishing boat.”

“And then what?”

“Are you absolutely daft, old man?” snapped Musselman. “Go to the coast near Snaefellsjokull and I’ll be waiting for you there. Look, here’s the spot.”

Frank and Joe heard the crinkling of paper as a map was spread out on the table.

“Yes. I see it,” said Mar. “But I cannot sail such a boat all alone.”

“Then get yourself a crew. I will pay you well.”

“How many will you pay for?”

“Three good men. It may be a rough trip.”

Joe could not resist whispering to his brother. Putting his lips close to Frank’s ear, he said, “Let’s turn the tables on this goon! We’ll go with Mar, and at the same time we can hunt for Biff and Chet!”

There came the scraping sound of chairs pushed back from the table as the caller prepared to leave.

“I’m leaving Reykjavik early tomorrow morning,” Musselman said, then added, “I can trust you to take care of this assignment?”

“Ja.”

“Then here is an advance payment. Get a seaworthy boat and do it as quickly as possible.”

Joe longed for the man to depart. The stuffy air in the closet and the tobacco smoke filled his lungs. How good it would be to inhale some fresh air!

“Good-by,” Mar said, and the boys heard the door close. But before they could open the closet, the lock clicked shut.

Frank tried to turn the knob and stifled a gasp. They were trapped!

Frank and Joe ducked into the closet

CHAPTER XIV

A Perfect Disguise

“JOE, we’re locked in!”

“Holy crow! Were we ever suckered by Rex Mar! Frank, what are we going to do?”

The boys talked in hushed whispers.

“Let’s not panic. We’ll get out. Easy does it, Joe.”

“Yes. But suppose they’re out there waiting for us?”

“That’s the chance we’ll have to take,” Frank replied, feeling about the dark closet.

“What are you looking for?” Joe asked.

His brother said that he had seen some tools. Maybe one of them would be of use. By this time it had become insufferably hot. Perspiration began to drip from their faces.

“If we had only carried a flashlight!” Joe muttered. He pressed his ear close to the door. There was no sound outside. If Mar was in league with the criminals, perhaps he had left with Musselman.

“Joe, I found something!”

“What is it?”

“A jack.”

“Good. Now if we had a two-by-four—” With both hands Joe rummaged the floor of the closet. “Here’s something—a block of wood!”

“How long?”

“Not long enough.”

Frank’s hand touched a large hammer. “Now I think we have it, Joe!”

Pushing the old clothes to one side, he placed the base of the jack against the rear wall of the closet. Joe held the block of wood and the hammer end to end between the door and the head of the jack. They fit loosely.

Using an old wrench handle, Frank activated the jack. Click! Click! Click! Their improvised battering ram was wedged tightly between the back of the closet and the door. Frank applied more pressure. The door creaked a little. Could their device spring the lock?

Click! Click! Crash! The lock was forced and the door sprang open.

The room was not empty after all. There sat Rex Mar, puffing on his pipe and smiling.

Slack-jawed, Frank and Joe looked at him in amazement. “What—what—? Why did you do that?” Frank asked.

Joe’s fists were clenched in anger. “You nearly suffocated us. Is this your idea of fun?”

The old sailor motioned the boys to simmer down. “You proved yourselves,” he said. “I wanted to see what you would do in a difficult situation.”

“Then you knew the jack was in the closet?” Frank asked.

Mar nodded. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of cold water. Frank and Joe each gulped down a glassful.

Now calm after their ordeal, Frank asked, “Was that the blond man you spoke to?”

“Right. Did you see him through the keyhole?” “How could we! The key was in it,” Joe said caustically.

“Yes. I forgot.”

“What was his name?”

“He did not tell me.”

“How about your crew?” Frank went on.

“You two, of course,” Mar replied. “I told you, you proved yourselves.”

Frank and Joe nodded to each other. They would have to level with Mar.

“We’ll need disguises,” Frank said.

“What for?” The old seaman looked surprised.

“Judging from the voice of your visitor, he might be a member of a gang we’re after. We’ll get the third crewman, too, an Icelandic friend of ours by the name of Gudmundur. You can depend on him.”

“Good.” Mar asked no further questions. “I will look for a suitable boat. When I find one, I will call you at your hotel.”

The boys agreed and bid the seaman good-by. Even though it was very late, they stopped at police headquarters to find out if any word had been received about the missing Biff and Chet. The report was negative.

Glum and disappointed, Frank and Joe returned to the Saga Hotel. They sat quietly in their room for a while, mulling over the entire situation.

“I must confess,” Frank said, “that I’m still not thoroughly convinced about Rex Mar.”

“I know,” Joe said. “We’re putting ourselves in his hands. If he turns out to be one of Musselman’s guys, we’re really in for it.”

“On the other hand, if he’s in league with Musselman, why did he tell us about this ‘illegal’ job to begin with? Why did he let us know that he knew Musselman, and why did he let us overhear their conversation?”

“Search me.”

“Well, with Gummi it’ll be three against one on that trawler. I think we can handle the situation.”

A phone call brought the Icelandic boy to the hotel early the next morning. “Any word from Biff and Chet yet?” he asked as he came in the door.

“No. But it seems we found the right Hallbjornsson.”

“Great! Now your official mission is over, and once you find Chet and Biff you can have some fun in Iceland.”

“Well, there’s a complication,” Joe replied, “The fake Hallbjornsson is trying to get the real Hallbjornsson involved in a smuggling job and—”

Gummi interrupted the boy with a gesture of his hand. “Now look, fellows! You gave me that story about being detectives on an insurance case, and I bought it. Now you’re overdoing it. I’m not exactly stupid, you know. Either you level with me, or I’ll exit right here and now!”

“Calm down, Gummi,” Frank said. “We are American detectives on an insurance case, and everything we told you is true. But we got involved in something else—” He exchanged a quick glance with Joe, who nodded his agreement.

“Well?” Gummi still had a suspicious look on his face.

“Will you promise to keep it to yourself? It’s a top-secret affair concerning both the American and the Icelandic governments.

“I’ll keep quiet.”

Frank and Joe revealed everything to their friend. When the Icelander heard the story, he eagerly pledged his support as a crewman.

“I might be able to help my country, too,” he said enthusiastically. “Are you going to tell the coast guard?”

“Yes. I’ll phone Captain Sigtryggsson and clue him in on our plans. He knows we are working on the case,” Frank said.

“When do we start?” Gummi asked.

“As soon as Rex Mar finds a boat,” Joe replied.

“And you and I will have to work up disguises,” Frank put in. “We’ll go down to the barbershop right now and have our hair dyed. Gummi, can you get us some old seamen’s clothes?”

“Sure. I have some at home. Come on over when you’re finished.”

The boys parted at the elevator in the lobby, and Frank and Joe went to the barbershop in the basement, where they had their hair dyed a reddish color. False eyebrows and cheek pads completed their disguise. Grinning contentedly, they took a taxi to Gummi’s house.

“Boy, if I didn’t know better, you could have fooled me,” he said admiringly. “Here, put these on!” He handed them well-worn work clothes.

“Let’s go down to the harbor and see if we can spot our friend Mar,” Frank suggested when they had changed.

“Good idea. We can try our disguise on him,” Joe said.

All three scrambled into Gummi’s jeep. On the way, the Icelandic boy said, “One more thing. Don’t speak English when those thugs are around!” He taught them a few Icelandic words, which, if muttered repetitively, would fool any foreigner.

They parked the car in the busy harbor area and strolled along the waterfront.

“Look!” Joe said said after a while. “Isn’t that Rex Mar over there?”

“Right. He’s checking out a trawlerl” Frank exclaimed.

Mar was dickering with a sailor aboard a small fishing boat. Then he turned, smiled, and stepped back onto the dock.

“Let’s go!” Frank said, and they walked directly toward the approaching seaman. Mar showed no sign of recognition. When they passed him, Frank deliberately stumbled into him. The man teetered back. Frank mumbled a few Icelandic words, and the boys walked on.

Out of earshot, Joe let out a muted whoop. “We did it, Frank! That old salt didn’t recognize us at all!”

The boys turned to see Mar sizing up the trawler. She was about thirty-five feet long, broad of beam, with a squat, sturdy look. As the old fellow turned to go, the boys accosted him.

Mar’s eyebrows nearly raised to the peak of his cap as Frank revealed their identity. Then Gummi was introduced. They shook hands.

“We saw you make a deal,” Frank said. “When do we set sail?”

“This afternoon, if you’re ready.”

“We are. Okay, Gummi?”

“Right.”

“We will meet on board at five o’clock,” Mar said, then hastened off to lay in supplies.

At five-thirty that afternoon the little boat named Asdis churned out of Reykjavik Harbor and along the coast in the direction of Snaefellsjokull. Once safely at sea, Frank and Joe removed their cheek pads and eyebrows and fell to helping skipper Mar with chores on the deck.

By eight o’clock a stiff wind kicked up white-caps on the sea, and the boat began to rock. On the bridge, Mar regaled Frank and Joe with stories of Iceland.

On the wall behind the wheel was the Icelandic coat of arms. It showed a shield, which Frank recognized as the insignia on Icelandic coins. Standing on the right side of the shield was a giant, holding a staff. On the left side was a bull. Over the top loomed a dragon and a huge bird.

“What does it mean?” Frank asked.

“There’s a legend behind it,” Mar said, and Gummi nodded. As the storm worsened, the Hardys were told the story of a bad Viking king named Haraldur Gormsson, who wanted to conquer Iceland.

“But he realized he must send a scout to look the place over,” the old seaman explained, “so he sent his lieutenant, who turned himself into a whale to swim around the island.”

“Like a spy submarine,” Joe said.

Leaning against the side of the cabin for balance, Gummi laughed. “There was plenty of magic in those times. Same as today.”

“Do you expect us to believe that?” asked Frank.

Rex Mar made a face. “Believe what you want, but that whale was met on the east shore by a furious dragon, breathing poisoned fire. The dragon was also accompanied by giant worms and snakes, so the whale withdrew.”

Gummi took up the yarn. “Next he went to the north shore. There he found a huge bird, like a falcon, whose wings touched the mountain on both sides of a fjord. With him were other birds, big and small.”

“And they scared the whale?” asked Joe.

“What else?” Mar chuckled. “On the west side, the whale was met by a bull, who came snorting and charging into the seas.”

“All alone?” Joe asked.

“Oh no,” said Gummi. “With him were other guardians of the island—the trolls and the hidden people. Naturally he scrammed out of there!”

Rex Mar scratched his head at the colloquial English which he had not heard before.

“On the south shore,” Gummi continued, “the whale saw a giant with an iron staff in his hand. This guy was taller than a mountain, and with him were many other giants. Nothing was left on the shore now but sand, glaciers, and heavy seas. So the whale withdrew and reported what he had seen to King Gormsson.”

“Did the king tackle Iceland after that?” Joe asked.

“Not on your life! Today these four creatures are known as the defenders of Iceland.”

The sea had become so rough by now that the skipper suggested everyone go below. He throttled back the engine and headed into the wind. But suddenly the gale shifted and the Asdis rocked violently.

Mar’s face was impassive and showed no sign of fear, but Gummi was worried. “I’ve never seen a storm like this before,” he said. He had barely finished speaking when the Asdis pitched forward. The entire crew was thrown to the deck!

CHAPTER XV

A Bad Break

WAVES crashed over the deck, nearly swamping the Asdis. The boys battened down the hatches while Rex Mar switched on the pump motor.

“I could do with some of Chet’s seasick pills now!” Frank shouted above the howling gale.

The little trawler endured the buffeting by the elements for two hours before the storm let up a bit. Then the winds tapered off gradually, giving the crew time for catnaps before dawn lighted up the jagged coastline.

After a breakfast of cold lamb, bread, and milk, the boys joined Rex Mar at the wheel. “We’ll spell you for a while, sir,” Frank said. “You need some rest.”

The Icelander accepted the offer, but would not go below. Instead, he stretched out on a bench and fell fast asleep.

While Frank held the wheel, Gummi read the chart spread out on a table. “X marks the spot where we’re to put ashore,” he said.

Frank checked the coordinates. “Wow! Look here!” he called to Joe. “This is right near the place where we transferred to the Albert!”

The sturdy Asdis rode the waves for another hour, then Gummi awakened the skipper. “I think this is where we take her in,” he said.

The old man stood up stiffly, looked at the map, then peered over the water at the sullen coastline. “Ja. There’s the inlet.”

Frank spun the wheel and guided the trawler toward shore. Near the mouth of the stony inlet, Joe exclaimed, “Hey, Frank! A rubber raft!” He reached for the binoculars on a shelf and whipped them to his eyes. “And it has a small outboard!”

“I didn’t see a whale after all!” Frank said.

Joe moved toward the radio. “Shall I contact Captain Magnusson right now?”

“No. If Musselman is listening in on our wave length, it would give us away,” Frank replied.

Mar made the Asdis fast to the makeshift dock in the inlet and said, “Now we will have to wait until the man contacts us.”

“Meantime I’m going to check on that raft,” Frank said.

While Gummi scrambled up a low ridge near the shore to keep a lookout, Frank and Joe climbed around the jagged shore to where the raft bobbed in a small rock-strewn inlet.

Joe was first to step into the craft. “It has a watertight canopy!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen one like this before. And look, Frank, these pontoons aren’t metal. They’re rubber, with valves like ballast tanks.”

“You’re right. See these little compressed air containers?”

Joe grew even more excited. “Of course! This is the underwater gimmick we suspected. Musselman was towed by the Tek until they came near this landing spot. Then he surfaced and beat it for shore!”

“At the same time we were transferring to the Albert. That was a close call for him!”

Frank and Joe left the raft as they had found it and returned to Gummi with their information.

“Those guys are no amateurs,” the Icelandic boy said. “We’d better be careful.”

They had to wait almost all day for their rendezvous. When dusk began to settle over the ocean, the skipper took his binoculars and scanned the shore. “Here comes our man now,” he said, and handed the glasses to Frank. A jeep came bouncing over the rough ground. Musselman was at the wheel.

“In your disguises, quick!” Mar ordered.

Frank and Joe hastened below, attached their false eyebrows and padded out their cheeks. When they came on deck again, Musselman was there to greet them. Beneath his jacket bulged a pistol in a shoulder holster.

Frank chuckled inwardly at the confrontation. Disguise versus disguise! Obviously Musselman wore his to mislead Icelandic authorities, but the Hardys knew his secret. They hoped he would never discover theirs!

Now the man leaped nimbly on deck. Smooth-spoken, he complimented Mar for bringing the boat through such a fierce storm.

“You wanted a seaworthy boat, and I got one, Mr.——”

Musselman grinned. “Call me Chief, that’s all you have to know.” He glanced at the three boys, and his eyes returned to the skipper. “You will sail to Greenland for me, but we must avoid the Arctic Patrol.”

“We are carrying contraband? What kind?”

A sly smile crossed Musselman’s lips. “Are all Icelanders so inquisitive? Well, I’ll tell you. I have three boxes of rare metal ore. A new find in this part of the world. But the Icelandic government will not let me take it out.” He shrugged. “So we do it anyway. Bring your crew and follow me!”

The four leaped ashore and walked to the jeep with Musselman. It was an open-top vehicle, much like Gummi’s. Mar sat in front, while the youths squeezed into the back.

The jeep banged and jounced over the rough ground, heading for the interior. Presently a trail came in sight. It was nothing more than tire tracks which curved and undulated over the barren ground.

The driver increased his speed, and as they came to a bend around a small gully, the jeep slewed to the right and a rear wheel teetered over the edge.

“Look out!” Joe shouted.

The jeep banged on its rear axle before regaining the trail again. Musselman half turned his head toward the back seat.

“Did someone speak English?” he asked.

“Nei,” Gummi replied.

“I have one bad ear,” Musselman said. “I must have heard wrong.”

Joe kicked himself mentally for the slip of the tongue and determined to be more careful in the future. One false move now, and all would be ruined!

Presently the ground became even rougher, and soon the jeep stopped. A hundred yards farther and halfway up the edge of a stony slope stood five ponies. The rugged little horses had shaggy coats and waited patiently as the five travelers approached.

The ponies were saddled and the party mounted Musselman took the lead. They trudged along and rounded a bend in the valley, then turned into a partially hidden glen, shielded by towering chunks of lava.

Behind one of these stood a large sod hut built into the hillside. A long thin antenna stuck out of the roof.

Musselman stopped, and after they dismounted led the quartet inside. The interior was sparsely furnished, yet warm and comfortable. The table, chairs, stove, and other accessories were modern.

The Hardys looked around for the three boxes. None were in sight.

“Pretty elaborate setup, Joe,” Frank murmured to his brother out of Musselman’s earshot.

Just then the door opened and another man appeared. Musselman’s pal—the helicopter pilot who had lifted him off the glacier! Now for the first time they heard his name—Diran. He, too, glanced at the Hardys without recognition, then spoke in low tones with his accomplice.

After a meal of beans, bread, and cold meat, Musselman dragged out some folding cots and directed the boys to turn in for the night.

Then he and his confederate slipped out into the darkness.

“Come on, Joe! Now is our chance!” Frank said.

They hastily pulled on trousers and shoes, crept across the earthen floor, pushed open the door and went out into the night.

As they rounded a large lava boulder, they heard voices. Both boys ducked down. About ten feet ahead stood the two suspects. The men spoke in a language that neither one of the Hardys had ever heard before.

Suddenly a chill of fear struck them when Musselman mentioned the name “Hardy.”

Was the boys’ presence known? Had their cover been blown?

CHAPTER XVI

The Boxes

AT hearing the name “Hardy,” Frank’s heart sank. No doubt the men were well armed. Making a break for it now would be foolhardy. The boys crept back into the sod house and whispered their discovery to Gummi and Mar.

“I wonder what they intend to do,” Gummi said.

“Well, we have no choice but to play it by ear,” Joe muttered glumly.

Only Musselman returned to the hut that night. His confederate remained outside. The boys concluded that he was guarding the door.

Shortly after daybreak Diran stepped in and began to prepare breakfast. He gave no sign of recognition and the boys were relieved. Perhaps everything was all right, after all.

Breakfast was a makeshift affair, with everyone eating eggs and bread in tin plates wherever they could find a place to sit.

Sidling up to Rex Mar, Frank murmured, “Ask them about those boxes.”

The seaman spoke in English. “The boxes with the contraband, Chief—I do not see any. Where are they?”

Musselman put down his plate and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not so fast, Mar. They are not here.”

“Oh?”

With a crooked smile Musselman motioned to his accomplice. “Diran and I are leaving for a while. All of you stay here until we come back,” he ordered. “More of my men are outside.”

After they had left, Frank looked out the small window. Musselman and Diran disappeared be. hind a big volcanic boulder. “Come on,” Frank said tersely to the others. “Let’s search this place.”

“Right,” Joe added. “We might come up with a clue!”

The three boys, assisted by Rex Mar, left nothing untouched. They looked into every utensil, pounded the thin mattresses, and pulled out the cots to look beneath them.

Joe was about to replace Musselman’s bed when his eyes caught a thin crack in the earth floor. “Hey, Frank, look at this!”

The boys dropped to their hands and knees. Frank pulled out his pocketknife and worked it into the crack, which grew wider.

Following its course, the knifepoint outlined a square, between two and three feet wide.

“It’s a trap door of some kind,” Gummi declared.

Rex Mar stood by fascinated as the young detectives worked feverishly. Frank asked him to stand guard at the window in case the two thugs should return.

The boys prodded until they found a ring, which they pulled hard.

Up came the trap door!

A ladder led into the dark cellar. No light switch was in evidence. “Do you have a cigarette lighter, Mr. Mar?” Joe called out.

The man reached into his pocket and tossed a lighter. Joe flicked it on and descended.

“Holy crow, Frank! Come down and take a look at this!”

Frank climbed down the ladder, and the two found themselves standing in a small room, one side of which was literally covered with radio and electronic equipment.

“What a sending-and-receiving station!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank gasped as his eyes roved over the elaborate setup. “This is a top-quality spy center, Joe!”

The Hardys were skilled at radio transmission, and knew how to operate much of the equipment which gleamed in the glow of the flickering lighter.

“Frank, I wonder what this is,” Joe said, and lightly touched the edge of a highly polished metal box.

Suddenly there was a sizzing sound, accompanied by blue sparks. Without a word, Joe sank to the ground. The lighter fell from his hand and was extinguished.

An icy chill ran down Frank’s spine as he stood in the pitch blackness. He dropped to his hands and knees and searched about until he found the lighter. Flick—it failed to respond. Flick—flick. Finally it burst into flame again, sending its feeble light over Joe’s ashen face.

Frank felt for his brother’s pulse. He was breathing. “I’ve got to get him out of here, and quick!” Frank thought.

Just then Gummi leaned over the trap door. “What’s going on down there, fellows? Is everything all right?”

“No, Joe’s been shocked,” Frank replied. “Come on down and give me a hand. We’ve got to get him up.”

Gummi descended, and together they lifted Joe’s limp body from the floor. Gummi climbed the ladder first, tugging at the boy’s arms. Frank stood beneath his brother, shoving as hard as he could. Soon the unconscious Joe was lying on the earth floor.

Frank rolled him quickly out of the way. Gummi replaced the trap door and patted the earth so that the cracks did not show. Then he put the cot back into place.

Frank, meanwhile, administered artificial respiration to his brother. Suddenly Rex Mar called out, “Here they come!”

“How far away?” Gummi asked.

“A hundred yards.”

Frank worked like fury. Joe’s eyes opened and Frank and Gummi pulled him to his feet. “Snap out of it, Joel” Frank hissed, but his brother was still groggy.

Half dragging, half walking Joe to his cot, the boys put him down, tucked his hands in behind his head, and crossed his feet, making it look as if he were napping.

By now Joe was fully conscious but still weak and his left forefinger bore a slight burn.

“They stopped to talk,” Mar reported.

Frank wondered what the discussion was about. The boxes, no doubt. A thought, half submerged in his subconscious, now came to the surface strong and clear.

Three boxes and three missing people!

Frank whispered his suspicion to Joe and Gummi. Joe looked sick with fear. Were Major McGeorge, Chet, and Biff “the rare metal ore” sealed in those boxes?

Gummi was more optimistic. “We haven’t seen the boxes yet,” he said. “Maybe they’re only small ones!”

Joe had a plan. He wanted to break out of the door just as the others were entering, grab one of the ponies, and race back to the Asdis. “I could radio for help,” he said. “I’m certain these fellows have something to do with the missing astronaut.”

“No doubt,” Frank agreed, but cautioned against any rash move. “Gummi’s right,” he said. “We have to get a look at those boxes before we do anything.”

“Quiet!” Mar ordered. “They are coming now.”

The door opened and the two men stepped inside.

Gummi, who stood beside Frank, quickly stepped to the other end of the room. In doing so, his foot accidentally banged into Diran’s leg. The fellow cursed and hit the Icelandic boy with the back of his hand. Gummi staggered before regaining his balance, but said nothing.

“Outside, all of you!” Musselman commanded. He spoke in English, and the Hardys pretended not to understand. The chief jerked his thumb toward the door. Frank and Joe walked out behind Gummi and Mar.

Waiting behind a boulder were three carts with ponies harnessed in readiness. The two men hopped into the first one and beckoned the others to follow. Mar got in one cart with Frank.

“That fellow Diran didn’t curse in Icelandic,” the seaman whispered.

“What was it?”

“Some kind of Balkan language. I heard it when I was shipping in the Black Sea.”

The lead pony cart wound in and out among the boulders on a trail which slanted up the hillside. Finally the boys realized what their destination was when the yawning blackness of a cavern appeared before them.

Flashing powerful lights, Musselman and Diran drove right into the cave, beckoning the others to follow. Then Musselman stopped and everyone jumped down.

“Follow me!” ordered the chief.

They walked deeper until the light revealed three rectangular boxes in one corner of the volcanic cave. They were made of fresh wood and stood against the wall like oversized coffins!

CHAPTER XVII

Shut In

THE sight of the three boxes propped against the wall of the cave struck fear into the hearts of the boys. Joe gulped and looked about for a possible clue. His eyes lighted upon a khaki jacket crumpled on the hard floor. It bore the U.S. insignia of majorl

No doubt any more. The astronaut must have been here! Frank also spied the jacket and glanced at Joe. Both had the same plan in mind. With Gummi and Mar they would make a break out of the cave at any cost, and try to get back to the Asdis.

Joe signaled Gummi, and Frank motioned to Rex Mar. Then Joe let out a bloodcurdling war whoop and made a dash toward the daylight at the mouth of the cave.

Frank and Gummi raced after him, but Mar had no chance to escape. Musselman had blocked his way the very instant Joe let out his cry.

Just as the three youths dashed into the open, the cave echoed to the crack of a pistol shot. Two men, lying in wait outside, reacted to the signal.

They jumped Frank and Gummi and sent them flying. Joe whirled around to join the fierce fracas which followed. Fists flew. Gummi was downed by a blow to the head, but Frank staggered his opponent with a right cross to the jaw.

Then Musselman and Diran plunged into the fray. A swinging pistol butt sent Joe Hardy to the ground. Frank was seized, and it was all over.

Pulling stout cords from their pockets, the men tied the boys’ hands behind their backs.

Just then Rex Mar, looking bewildered, walked out of the cave. “What are you doing to my crew?” he demanded.

“Quiet!” Musselman snapped.

The three were dragged to their feet, still reeling under the impact of the assault.

“These boxes will be of good use after all,” Musselman said and nodded toward the cave. Then he laughed loudly.

“The major and that fat kid would have been awful heavy anyway,” one of his henchmen said.

“So would his buddy, the tall one,” said the other.

Musselman looked grim. “That is not the point. Bring the boxes out. We will go back to the hut and await instructions.”

The two fellows went inside and carried the boxes out one by one. Then they stacked them on one cart. Musselman ordered the three boys into the second cart, which he drove himself, while Diran and Mar took the third.

Soon they were back at the sod hut. Frank, Joe, and Gummi were pushed inside and shoved onto the cots. Mar followed and fell into a chair.

Musselman and Diran sat down also, while the other two men lifted the trap door and disappeared into the radio room below.

“So we have captured the Hardy boys at last!” Musselman sneered.

“How did you recognize us?” Frank demanded.

“Your brother spoke English in a moment of danger. It was not very smart!”

Joe gritted his teeth. You won’t get away with this, Musselman!”

His captor merely smiled and went on quietly, “We have gotten away with it already. And it was not easy. You slipped through our net in Bayport, but we caught the little sardines in Iceland!”

“Let us go!” Gummi hissed. “I’m an Icelander. My countrymen will find us and you’ll pay for it, you finky foreigners!”

Color rose to Musselman’s face. He pointed to Diran. “Mr. Ionescu and I happen to have Icelandic passports.”

“Fake ones, of course,” Joe said sarcastically.

“Why did you try to get rid of us?” Frank asked.

“We knew your father was working on the astronaut case and suspected he sent you up here to help.”

Frank stiffened. So the spies had known all along that his father was involved in the case. Would they try to capture him, too—or perhaps had done so already?

“Then you tried to pose as Rex Hallbjornsson to get the fifty thousand dollars,” Frank went on.

Their captor snapped his fingers. “Fifty thousand dollars! It is nothing compared to our real prize. We wanted you—as a ransom to get your father off the case, but now it is too late. You are expendable.”

Diran Ionescu pointed a finger at his superior. “But you almost did not catch them. They slipped away at the airport, and they got off the glacier, too!” He laughed.

Musselman snarled, “Quiet! If you had had that plane’s engines tuned up, I could have flown them to the east coast and then to our—”

He was interrupted by one of his henchmen, who poked his head through the trap door. “I just made contact. Plan B is in operation. They are on their way.”

Musselman smiled. “Excellent. We are ready.”

“Ready for what?” Frank thought frantically. He tried to stall further action by taunting their enemies. In a sarcastic voice he said, “You think you’re clever. But we know you got Major McGeorge and threatened to throw him into the sulfur pit unless he gave you NASA secrets. And the Icelandic authorities know it, too!”

Musselman looked startled, and Frank went on, “But he wouldn’t talk, would he?”

“He’ll talk when we get him out of this country,” Ionescu boasted. “Then we will have the facilities to make him talk!”

“And what is your Plan B?” Gummi spoke up.

Musselman shook his head and said, “You will never know.”

Just then the sounds of a radio broadcast issued from the trap door. It was from the American base in Keflavik. In terse, short sentences the newscaster broke the big story:

“Major McGeorge has vanished on his trip to Iceland. A force of Marines is prepared to comb every nook and cranny of the island....”

“Shut it off!” Musselman screamed and went below. The boys heard him send a message. When he reappeared, he said, “Into the boxes with them!”

The three boys were led outside. Despite the pleading of Rex Mar, they were roughly tossed into the boxes. They struggled, but it was of no use. The criminals shut the lids and secured the latches. Frank, Joe, and Gummi were sealed inside to meet their fate!

The boys were roughly tossed into the boxes

Mar was forced to help move the boxes onto the carts and the ponies started off. Joggling and bouncing, Frank looked about the dark interior of his prison. He detected a thin crack of light. At least there was enough air coming in to keep him alive, for the present.

He judged that they were halfway to the place where the jeep had been left. Suddenly he heard Ionescu cry out in fright. “There it is! It’s coming for the ponies!”

“Or us!” Musselman shrieked.

Frank heard Rex Mar shout the Icelandic word isbjorn.

Ice bear—polar bear! Several of the beasts were known to be in the area. If they were hungry, they would attack anything!

Frank pressed his eye to the crack and saw a large white form advancing. The horses reared and his box was almost jerked off the cart.

There was the crack of a rifle, then another, followed by a fierce growl and a snarl amidst the panicked neighing of the ponies.

“Ionescu, you fool!” came Musselman’s voice. “You only wounded him. Run—run for your life!”

Rapid footsteps could be heard as the men ran for cover. Frank hoped his frantically galloping pony would not throw off the box and braced himself during the short but violent ride.

Then all was silent. Suddenly Rex Mar’s voice sounded above Frank’s box. “The bear is after them!” he said hoarsely and opened the lid.

Frank jumped out and helped the seaman free Joe and Gummi.

“Why didn’t you run away?” he asked Mar.

“The bear jumped over me and knocked me down. When I came to, they had already fled, and the beast was after them.”

“If they escape the bear, they’ll come back for us,” Joe said. “We’d better scram.”

“But then we’ll never catch those spies!” Frank said. “I say we fill the boxes with rock. Would you be willing to stay and pretend we’re still in there, Mr. Mar? Meanwhile, we’ll make a run for the trawler and radio for help.”

Mar nodded grimly. “They will not get away with this. I will stay!”

Quickly they collected chunks of lava, wrapped them in their jackets and put them into the boxes. Then they shut the lids. The men were still out of sight.

One had dropped his gun. Mar picked it up. “Just in case the bear comes back,” he muttered. Then he lay down on the ground about ten yards away from the carts. “I will pretend to be unconscious,” he declared. “This way they will not be suspicious. Now run and radio for help, quick!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Divide and Conquer!

THE trio set off at a fast trot. If they could reach the Asdis before Musselman and his gang, they had an outside chance of trapping the spies.

Frank took the lead for a while. The three ran, Indian file, dodging in and out behind the grotesque volcanic formations. Then Gummi took the lead until they came in sight of the jeep.

“Now we can ride the rest of the way,” Gummi panted jubilantly. He sprinted and leaped into the driver’s seat. But before he could start the motor, Frank ran up to him. “No, Gummi, that won’t do!”

“Why not?”

“If the jeep’s gone, they’ll know someone took it.”

“Frank’s right,” Joe stated. “We don’t want to alert them.”

“But when they reach the jeep, they’ll overtake us,” Gummi protested.

“I think not,” Frank replied. “Don’t forget they’re carrying those three big boxes, and they wouldn’t fit on the jeep, along with four men!”

Gummi reluctantly admitted that the Hardys were right. He hopped out of the vehicle and lifted the hood.

“What are you going to do?” asked Joe.

“Disconnect one spark plug. That ought to give them a little more trouble.”

Then the three set out again. The short rest had relieved their aching muscles, and the smooth rhythm of their bodies carried them swiftly toward the shore.

Finally they came to the crest of a small rise, and halted to gaze down at the sea, churning and foaming on the rocks below. There, at the crude dock, bobbed the Asdis.

“What a welcome sight!” Frank called out.

The boys raced down the hill and onto the trawler. Joe’s first reaction was to radio the Icelandic coast guard for help, but Frank opposed the move.

“If Musselman’s crew has a radio, they might intercept our call.”

“Then they’d have to change their plans again,” Gummi said, adding, “That would be the end of poor Rex Mar.”

“Then ambush is our only choice,” Joe declared.

Frank grinned. “Divide and conquer!”

“How will we work it?”

“Let’s talk about it over some chow, I’m starved,” Frank suggested.

The boys quickly refreshed themselves with food and water, all the while discussing the best way to seize the enemy. By the time they had finished their snack, a basic plan had been worked out.

Frank was to hide in the lifeboat, which swung gently on its davits. Joe would secrete himself in a locker on the bridge, while Gummi would hide in the captain’s quarters.

“It’s going to be mighty rough,” Frank said. “We’ll have to take them one at a time.”

“Suppose one of us gets into trouble—more than he can handle?” Gummi asked.

“Then we’ll give a rebel yell,” Joe suggested.

“It’ll be all for one,” Frank said. “Let’s each get some rope so we can tie up our friends.”

They found rope in a locker, then gathered on the bridge. Gummi took the binoculars and scanned the forbidding coastline.

“What if they don’t come?” he asked nervously.

“Don’t worry,” Frank replied. “This caper is too big for them to drop it now.”

“So we catch them. Then what?”

“We’ll go back and search the cave. I have a hunch that someone is still there.”

“Like who?” Gummi put the question without removing the glasses from his eyes.

“It could be that—”

“Here they come!” Gummi interrupted.

On the brow of the hill appeared a strange-looking caravan. In the lead was the jeep, occupied by four men. Tied to the back of the jeep were the pony carts. Two boxes were laid across one of them, the remaining box was in the second cart, along with Rex Mar.

“Okay, fellows, to your places!” Frank said.

Joe remained on the bridge. He opened a vertical locker, which contained only the captain’s coat, squeezed in, and closed the metal door until only a crack remained.

Gummi hastened to the captain’s quarters, where he hid behind the washroom door. Then Frank, making sure to keep himself shielded from view, lifted one end of the lifeboat cover.

He crept inside and peered out from beneath the canvas. Musselman’s caravan jounced along.

“We’ve got them fooled so far,” Frank thought as he watched Diran Ionescu brake the jeep to a halt by the dock.

Musselman turned to address the boxes behind him. “Here we are! Ready for the big ride?” He laughed and turned to his lieutenant. “They are not talking!”

“I suppose they know when they are defeated,” Ionescu said. “All right, men, onto the boat with them!”

The three boxes were lugged onto the deck and placed alongside the rail. Then Musselman ordered his crew to cast off. The engine was started and a low throbbing vibrated through the Asdis.

“Onto the bridge, Mar!” Musselman commanded.

“What do you want me to do?” Mar protested as Musselman shoved him roughly toward the wheel house.

“Head for Greenland! Once we are past the twelve-mile limit, over go the boxes.”

“You are going to kill them?” Mar asked as he steered the boat out of the little cove.

Taking in every word, Joe Hardy shuddered at the thought of the fate that might have overtaken them.

“But what about me?” The old seaman sounded frightened.

“We will take care of you when we get to Greenland.”

The spy stepped backward. Should Joe attack now? He could fling open the door hard, but before he could act, Musselman quickly left the bridge.

Joe opened the door wider. “Psst! Captain Mar!”

The skipper whirled around in astonishment, then an expression of relief came over his face.

Joe put a finger to his lips. Quickly he told where the other boys were stationed and added, “The next guy who comes onto the bridge will get it!”

Mar nodded and smiled.

Frank, meanwhile, peered out from beneath the lifeboat cover. One of the two henchmen walked casually past and leaned on the rail to look over the sea. Silently Frank crept out of his hiding place. The davit rocked and squeaked, causing the thug to turn around. But Frank had already launched himself. He collided with the man in midair and together they sprawled on the deck.

The thug wore a look of complete amazement as he scrambled to his feet. Frank got in the first blow, a crushing right hand to the solar plexus!

“Umph!” His opponent doubled up, just as Frank delivered a stiff left to his chin. The man went down like a sack!

Quickly Frank bound his hands and feet. Then, struggling with all his might, he lifted him up and dropped him into the lifeboat. One down, three to go!

The boy stalked the deck, then ducked behind a stanchion as the second henchman came by. Swiftly Frank put his foot forward. The man tripped, landed on the deck, and turned, wild-eyed.

Frank grappled with him, but the wiry henchman wriggled from his grasp and ran along the deck, shouting, “They’re out! Musselman, they’re out!”

Instantly the chief and his lieutenant appeared. Musselman reached for his gun, but Frank bulled into him, head lowered. At the same time, he let out a bloodcurdling rebel yell.

Hearing, it, Joe dashed out of the locker and down the deck. Gummi came out of hiding and raced up the deck. The melee that followed was a bone-crushing battle. Each of the boys took an opponent.

Frank struggled to subdue Musselman, while his brother exchanged blows with Ionescu. Gummi had his hands full with the third man. They rolled over on the deck, scrambled up, and fought along the rail.

Suddenly Gummi was seized by the shirt front and lifted halfway over the rail. Another few inches and he would be cast into the cold sea!

Just then Rex Mar raced over and grasped the thug around the throat with his huge paw of a hand. Together, he and Gummi tossed the man over the rail. With a splash he hit the water and screamed for help.

Gummi grabbed a life jacket and threw it to him. The fellow clung to it, then disappeared far behind the boat in the wake.

Joe, meanwhile, was near exhaustion, battling the powerful Ionescu. Gummi came to his aid, distracting the spy for a split second. It took Joe only a moment to deliver a chop to the forehead. Ionescu went down.

Now Mar and the boys turned their full attention to Frank’s fight. But Frank needed no help. He had Musselman on the rail, flailing him with rights and lefts.

The man’s knees sagged and Rex Mar rushed over to seize him. He lifted Musselman overhead like a sack of grain, and threatened to drop him into the sea. Musselman screamed for mercy and Mar dropped him to the deck.

“So you were going to murder these boys!” he shouted. “Frank, Joe—tie him up. The captain is in command of his boat again!”

Mar went back to the bridge and radioed the coast guard for help. Then he turned the boat around. A few minutes later they picked up the man bobbing in his life jacket.

With all the criminals safely tied, Mar headed for the old dock. When he pulled up, Frank and Joe jumped ashore.

“Captain Mar, will you and Gummi wait here for us?” Frank asked. “We’ll go back to the cave and search the place thoroughly.”

“We sure will,” Gummi replied, grinning. “The coast guard should be here shortly to take care of these jerks!”

“We should put them into the boxes and drop them in the ocean,” Mar growled.

“We’d better leave their punishment up to the authorities,” Joe said. “Well, keep your fingers crossed that we find Major McGeorge and the fellows!”

The boys waved, disengaged the pony carts, and set off in the jeep. Soon they reached the place where the ponies had been left. Each mounted one of the rugged little horses and rode to the sod hut.

Reaching it, they cautiously looked about in case any of Musselman’s men were around. There were none. Joe found a flashlight in the hut, then they hastened to the cave. Inside, it was dark and gloomy.

“This is much bigger than I thought,” Frank murmured as they made their way cautiously into the farthest recess. At the end, their beam illuminated a figure, bound and gagged, lying face down.

“Major McGeorge! Is that you?” Frank cried out as he raced ahead and bent over the man. There was no reply. “Here, let’s roll him over, Joe!”

They grabbed the shoulder of the husky figure and rolled him face up. Their light shone upon a pale face with eyes closed.

It was Biff Hooper!

CHAPTER XIX

Hijackers!

WORKING speedily, Frank and Joe untied Biff, then carried him out of the cave into the daylight.

“He’s in bad shape,” Joe said worriedly as he glanced at the peaked countenance of their once-rugged friend.

“Come on. We’ll give him a good massage,” Frank suggested.

After the Hardys had stimulated Biff Hooper’s circulation, their pal opened his eyes. He tried feebly to rise, but fell back onto the ground.

“Easy now,” Frank said. “You’re very weak, Biff. Where are Chet and Major McGeorge?”

With a blank expression, Biff looked straight ahead, as if not seeing the Hardys at all. Joe patted his face vigorously.

“Biff! Wake up! Tell us what’s been going on!”

Biff’s lips moved wordlessly. Finally, with great physical effort, he whispered, “Bomb—bomb set to—”

“Good night, Joe! Let’s get out of here before the cave blows up!”

Frank and Joe lifted Biff upright, with an arm over each shoulder and ran as quickly as possible.

Well away from the cave entrance, the boys stopped and glanced back. They had reached their ponies, but needed another one to carry the injured Biff.

“Look, Joe,” Frank said, pointing to the side of the cave, “there’s another pony grazing.” The boys called to the animal, but it paid no attention to them.

“I’ll go get him, Frank!”

“No! The whole place might blow up in your face! We’d better wait until—”

But Joe had already dashed toward the pony. If this had been the running track at Bayport High, he thought grimly, he would have set a new record for the 440!

He reached the pony, grabbed its tether, and pulled. The little horse responded instantly, running by Joe’s side as he hastened with eyes half shut, anticipating the bomb explosion.

Perspiration streaming down his face, he returned to the others. Frank had helped Biff onto one of the ponies, but he leaned forward groggily over the animal’s neck.

“We’d better tie him on,” Joe panted as he pulled some rope from his pocket. Frank helped him, then they mounted their own ponies and rode on either side of Biff.

They set off at a brisk pace, but their backs were turned to the cave no more than a minute when a terrific boom shook the ground.

The concussion nearly knocked the three boys off their ponies, and Frank and Joe struggled hard to keep Biff upright. The animals reared in fear, but finally the Hardys regained control.

Joe glanced back over his shoulder to see a gaping, smoking hole where the small knoll once had been. “I hope Biff can explain everything,” he thought as they plodded on.

Once they were in the jeep, their task was easier. Joe, at the wheel, gave it the gun, while Frank clung to Biff to keep him from bouncing out.

Joe handled the wheel like a race driver, cutting in and around the volcanic boulders. Finally he came to the rise of ground which overlooked the sea.

There, below them, lay two boats! The Asdis had been joined by the coast guard ship Thor. There was much activity on both decks. By the time the jeep reached the dock, Captain Magnusson and his men were there to meet the arrivals.

“We got Biff Hooper!” Frank called out. “He can’t talk. Here, give me a hand with him!”

Crewmen from the Thor raced for a stretcher and carried Biff below deck where a first-aider worked to revive him. The skipper, meanwhile, lauded the Hardys for their catch.

“The president of Iceland should give you a medal for this!” he said, pumping their hands. “That Musselman’s a bad one. Gummi told us how you bagged all four of them!”

Captain Magnusson had just finished telling the boys that the prisoners were now secured in chains on the Thor, when a helicopter appeared out of the blue. Moments later it landed neatly on the Thor’s afterdeck. The door opened, and out stepped Mr. Hardy.

“Dad!” Joe cried out as the boys ran to greet their father.

“Am I glad to see you two alive!” the famous detective said. “You were playing with dynamite. Musselman is known to be a ruthless international spy!”

“Dynamite is right,” Joe said. “He nearly blew the three of us to kingdom come!”

The helicopter pilot, who had stayed with his craft, waved good-by and the chopper slid into the brisk air.

After introductions had been made all around, Captain Magnusson led the Hardys and their friends to his quarters. Everyone sat down, and conversation crackled with vital news.

Mr. Hardy’s quest in Texas had turned up a clue which had led to the unmasking of one of Musselman’s cohorts.

“This man actually had an important job with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration,” the detective reported. Interrogation had led to information that Frank and Joe were in grave danger.

“I hurried here as quickly as possible,” Mr. Hardy continued, then added with a grin of satisfaction, “But you fellows got the job done before I arrived.”

“It isn’t finished yet, Dad,” Frank spoke up. “And Biff may have the key to the riddle, if we could only get him to talk.”

Just then the Thor’s first lieutenant came in with the news that the American boy was regaining full consciousness.

Frank and Joe went to Biff’s room and found him greatly improved. But he still seemed unable to give a coherent story.

Captain Magnusson, who had followed the boys, suggested they let Biff rest for a while and have dinner. Soon everyone was seated around the large table, enjoying a hearty meal. Everyone but Rex Mar—who had been assigned three of the Thor’s men to bring in the Asdis.

After supper, Mr. Hardy grilled the four prisoners. They refused to answer even the simplest questions. Meanwhile Frank, Joe, and Gummi sat at Biff’s side, trying hard to stimulate his memory. It was well after midnight when Biff cried out, “Frank, Joe, I think I’ve got it now!”

The boys, who had fallen asleep on makeshift bunks near their friend, jumped up excitedly and Frank ran for his father. Then everyone crowded around Biff.

“How about starting at the beginning,” Mr. Hardy suggested.

Frank put in, “Gummi told us you got a message to meet us somewhere.”

“Right,” Biff began. “We received a telegram from Akureyri, saying you needed help and instructing us to take a private plane from Reykjavik which would be waiting for us.”

“We thought you’d gone by boat!” Joe interrupted. “Chet mentioned something to Gummi about seasick pills!”

“Well, Chet had eaten a lot for lunch that day and his stomach was upset, so he bought some for the plane trip.”

Joe grinned ruefully. “That’s what you call a mis-clue!”

“On the plane,” Biff continued, “we were socked and tied up. It landed on a small strip near the cave. Obviously they wanted us out of the way, so Frank and Joe’d be easier to handle.”

“Then what happened?” Gummi inquired.

“We were supposed to be shipped to Greenland in three big boxes, together with Major McGeorge. In case they had difficulties, there was an alternate solution which they called Plan B.”

Frank and Joe exchanged excited glances.

“What was that?” Frank asked.

“McGeorge was to fly out together with Chet,” Biff went on. “The astronaut and I are about the same size, and even look somewhat alike. He would travel under my name.”

“Is that what finally happened?” Joe asked, his nerves on edge.

“I guess so. They took McGeorge and Chet away, and planted a bomb to blow up the cave. Musselman wanted to do it right away, but the guy he called Diran has a sadistic streak in him. He was going to give me a little more time!”

Frank clenched his fists when he heard of the devilish scheme of their enemies. “That animal!”

“Well,” Biff concluded, “it didn’t really make much difference to me. They hadn’t given me any food or water, so I was in no shape to worry about anything.”

“How were McGeorge and Chet to fly to Greenland?” Mr. Hardy wanted to know.

“I have no idea. I told you everything.”

Everyone went back to sleep again until Captain Magnusson called them for breakfast. They had hardly finished eating when the Thor pulled into Reykjavik Harbor. The Hardys thanked the captain and his crew, then hopped into a taxi and sped directly to the airport. Gummi took Biff to the hotel.

At the airfield the Americans hastened to passport control. Mr. Hardy talked to an official who confirmed that Chet Morton and Biff Hooper had already passed through the gate.

“But that wasn’t Biff Hooper at all!” Joe blurted out.

“Who was it, then? A criminal?” the man asked, perplexed.

“Anything but,” Mr. Hardy said. He quickly told about the spies’ plan.

“We’ll have to stop the plane!” the official declared. “I hope they have not taken off yet. I think the flight to Scotland is scheduled to leave at eight-thirty.”

“Scotland?” Frank cried out. “Weren’t they going to Greenland?”

“No,” the man replied. He led the Hardys into his office. There he quickly relayed a message to the tower.

“Prevent plane to Scotland from taking off! Abort take-off. Urgent!”

Instantly the request was relayed to the plane. No reply!

The Hardys and the airport official ran out to the field. The jet stood at the end of a runway, ready to speed down the white line.

“Dad, we have to stop it!” Frank yelled. Just then an airport jeep drove past. Frank flagged it down. He looked at the official, who nodded and barked an order in Icelandic to the driver. The man jumped out. Frank and Joe instantly hopped in and raced down the runway.

As Frank sped toward the plane, the big aircraft moved forward, its engines thundering. Car and plane were on a collision course!

CHAPTER XX

Cool Hand Chet

FRANK realized that a crash was imminent. He swerved to the left just as the craft became airborne. It whizzed overhead, its hot jet blasts barely missing the speeding car.

The plane virtually stood on its tail, reaching for altitude as fast as possible.

Frank drove the jeep back toward the airport buildings. The official waved them in the direction of the tower. When the boys reached the airport’s nerve center, they found Mr. Hardy listening to the radio report from the Scotland-bound plane.

“If anyone follows us,” the voice said, “we will shoot the pilot!”

“Good night!” Frank said. “They mean business.”

“But they will not get away with it!” the tower dispatcher stated angrily.

Mr. Hardy followed the plane with binoculars until it was out of sight, then watched on radar as the blip continued in an easterly direction.

“Maybe they’re going to Scotland after all!” Joe said.

“Not likely,” his father replied. “The plane’s veering north.” After a 180-degree turn the craft headed west.

By this time, government officials had arrived in the tower, and a plan was evolved within a few minutes. Both the United States authorities in Keflavik and the Danish Air Force in Greenland were notified. Within minutes, a dozen planes were launched from both bases.

Frank spoke up. “We’d like to be in on the chase.”

“There’s not much you can do now,” an American officer replied. He stood next to Frank and introduced himself as Colonel S. P. Smith of the U.S. Air Force. “But we’ll need you in Narssarssuaq.”

“Is that the place where they are going to land?” Joe asked.

“I’m sure they don’t plan to land there, but we’ll try to force them down. We have them covered with an umbrella of planes.”

The colonel led the Hardys out of the tower and onto the field, where they boarded a speedy military jet.

“We should be in Greenland in about half an hour,” he explained.

No sooner had the Hardys fastened their seat belts than they were thrust backward by the terrific take-off speed of the jet. It whistled into the air, banked sharply, and headed west. Now relaxed in their seats, the trio chatted with Colonel Smith.

“So far everything is going like clockwork,” he said. “That plane is a fish in our net.”

“But what if the hijackers should get desperate and wreck the plane?” Joe asked.

“We’ll just have to play it by ear,” the colonel replied.

Now a voice crackled over the plane’s P.A. system. “They are closing in,” their American pilot said.

He had hardly spoken when the pilot in the hijacked plane snarled, “Stay away from us! If you try to force us down, we will crash the plane!”

Presently another of the pursuing pilots reported that the airliner suddenly had gone into a steep dive.

Colonel Smith barked a brisk order. “Ease off, but keep them in sight!”

“They must be madmen!” Mr. Hardy said gravely. “The lives of all those people are in jeopardy.”

As the colonel pondered over what action to take, another voice came suddenly from the passenger plane.

“This is Major McGeorge. Do you read me?”

Colonel Smith and Mr. Hardy exchanged suspicious glances, before the colonel took the microphone.

“Your tricks won’t accomplish anything!”

“It’s no trick. This is really McGeorge. Chet Morton and I have everything under control. We will see you at Narssarssuaq! Over and out!”

Excitement ran high in the Hardys’ plane. Soon the mountains of Greenland came into view and shortly afterward their pilot circled over the airfield at Narssarssuaq. It touched down and taxied to one side of the field.

Before the pilot could turn off the engines, Frank and Joe saw the hijacked airliner. It flew around the field once, then came in for a landing.

Two military planes followed directly behind and escorted the jetliner to the loading area. The portable stairway was quickly rolled to the rear door, and excited passengers streamed down the steps.

After all had debarked, the three Hardys and Colonel Smith dashed up the stairs and into the plane.

Along the aisle stumbled two men, their hands tied behind their backs. One had a bruised swelling on his forehead. The other, with a puffed right eye, glared out the window.

Behind them strode Chet Morton. “Come on there, out! Both of you!” he ordered. But when he saw the Hardys, he asked anxiously, “Hey, fellows, did you find Biff?”

“Yes. He’s fine,” Frank called out.

The prisoners were hustled out of the plane and taken into custody by military police. Then the crew and Major McGeorge stepped off the jetliner.

Introductions were made, hands clasped, and backs slapped. Then Colonel Smith led the Hardys, Chet, and the astronaut into an airport office. Here the incredible story of Major McGeorge’s kidnapping was pieced together.

“I’m sure glad the government put such able detectives on my tracks,” the tall, handsome astronaut said, and thanked Mr. Hardy and the boys for saving his life.

“Well, the last step you did yourself,” Frank said with a grin. “How’d you manage to take over the plane?”

“I was recovering from the drug they had given me,” the major explained, “and signaled Chet that I was all right.”

“Then I did it,” Chet put in, blushing. “One of those jerks who boarded the plane with us was up front and kept a gun on the pilot. I gave the other one an elbow in the ribs and finished him off with a karate chop to the forehead. Pow! Like this!” Chet made a fast motion with his right hand, and the Hardys chuckled.

“Your hobby really paid off!” Frank patted his friend on the back.

“After that,” McGeorge went on, “we used the fellow as a screen and marched him up to the cabin. The other guy was completely taken by surprise.”

“And Major McGeorge took care of him real fast,” Chet concluded.

“Well, thank goodness it’s all over,” Mr. Hardy said. “Now tell us, Major, how did they ever get hold of you in the first place?”

“I was seized at gunpoint by three men after I had separated from our group at the sulfur pit to inspect the area. They put me into a helicopter and flew me to a cave.”

“That’s not there any more,” Joe told him. “They blew it up.”

“I know. A time bomb was set when they took Chet and me out. Good thing you found Biff Hooper before it went off!” The major went on to say that he was interrogated for hours, but would not reveal any NASA secrets.

“Then they took me back to the sulfur pit and threatened to throw me in,” he reported.

“That’s where we picked up your trail,” Frank spoke up.

“Well, those devils circled around the pit, and when I still would not talk, they drove me away again.”

The Hardys learned that in the early confusion following the disappearance of the major, the helicopter had made a clean getaway.

“A chopper was found abandoned on the east coast,” Mr. Hardy put in. “I’m sure it was the same craft.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “East coast! I bet that’s where we were headed when Musselman kidnapped us in his plane.”

“Could be,” Mr. Hardy replied. “They had a speedboat hidden in a cove. I think they planned to take you out and dump you in the Atlantic.”

By midafternoon Major McGeorge, the Hardys, and Chet Morton had returned to Reykjavik. At the Foreign Office they learned that Musselman and Ionescu still were tight-lipped. One of their men, however, was telling all he knew about the spies to save himself from a life behind bars.

It was revealed that the thugs were spies for hire. A foreign power had set up the diabolic plan to kidnap an American astronaut, then take him to their country, claiming that he had defected.

“Iceland proved to be an effective place to carry out the kidnapping,” Anders Sigurdsson told them. “Our country is entirely law-abiding and nobody would ever suspect such a thing could happen here.”

“But how could such elaborate preparations have been made so far in advance?” Frank asked, recalling the sod hut with all its sophisticated equipment.

“The agents have been here for a long time,” Mr. Sigurdsson explained. “They were spying on your military base and knew far ahead of time that the astronauts were scheduled to visit Iceland.”

Biff flooper, meanwhile, had recovered enough to have supper with his pals and Mr. Hardy in the Saga’s beautiful rooftop restaurant. They looked down over the harbor, now blinking with light, and while dining on a delicious dish of hot smoked lamb, talked with their guest Major McGeorge.

In the middle of the meal, Captain Sigtryggsson of the coast guard entered with his niece Steina. They were escorted to the Hardys’ table, where introductions were made.

After complimenting the astronaut and Chet on their escape, Captain Sigtryggsson said, “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardy. Your sons and their friends have been of great service to Iceland.”

As the waiter pulled up a chair for the two newcomers, the door opened again and in strode Rex Mar. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit and joined the Hardys’ table.

The detective shook the old man’s hand vigorously and thanked him for all he had done for the American boys.

“They have done something for me, too,” Mar replied with a smile. “They made me rich!”

“What are you going to do now, Mr. Mar?” Joe asked. “Buy yourself a fishing trawler?”

“Sure,” Frank added. “You can go into business—”

“With me, for instance,” came a voice from the door. Everyone cheered as Gummi walked toward the table.

“Will you be my lieutenant?” Rex Mar asked him.

“Why not?”

They laughed and chatted about their adventure, little knowing that a new one, Mystery of the Bombay Boomerang, was soon to come their way.

Finally Frank rose and requested everyone to be silent.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “We found something near the sulfur pit which we should return to its owner!” With that he pulled a black glove from his pocket and handed it to Major McGeorge.

The astronaut’s eyes opened wide. “What detectives!” he exclaimed.

“Yow! Yow!” Chet agreed.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Cry for Help

CHAPTER II - Mercury Mystery

CHAPTER III - The Hotel Caper

CHAPTER IV - The Battered Car

CHAPTER V - The Missing Missile

CHAPTER VI - X Marks L. Marks

CHAPTER VII - Desperate Dive

CHAPTER VIII - Hotel Hideout

CHAPTER IX - A Bug on a Wire

CHAPTER X - The Disk Jockey’s Dog

CHAPTER XI - Patter in Code

CHAPTER XII - Cemetery Search

CHAPTER XIII - Aboard the Indian Freighter

CHAPTER XIV - Down the Hatch

CHAPTER XV - Sailor Suspect

CHAPTER XVI - Boomerang or Batarang?

CHAPTER XVII - Precious Wreck

CHAPTER XVIII - Joe Leaves a Clue

CHAPTER XIX - The Nerve-Gas Plot

CHAPTER XX - Secret in the Air

THE BOMBAY BOOMERANG

FRANK and Joe Hardy become involved in a case affecting national security when Joe dials a wrong telephone number and gets the Pentagon. Two words—“Bombay Boomerang” —that the boys hear before the line goes dead plunge them into a whirlpool of danger and intrigue.

At the same time, their father is investigating the baffling thefts of mercury shipments occurring along the Atlantic seaboard. The celebrated detective finds himself up against a murderous gang who nearly dispose of him in a cask at the bottom of Baltimore harbor. Frank and Joe’s astute sleuthing ability not only saves Mr. Hardy’s life, but also links the mercury thefts to the top-secret Super S missile mysteriously stolen from a government arsenal.

In a race against time the three Hardys foil a diabolical scheme to create widespread havoc in the United States. Pulse-pounding excitement fills every page of this suspense thriller.

Joe grabbed hold of a cable

Copyright © 1970 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07662-0

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Cry for Help

“THIS gang seems to be operating along the entire Atlantic seaboard,” Fenton Hardy said. The world-famous private detective sounded as casual as if he were reporting a routine burglary in Bayport. But his two sons sensed an undercurrent of tension in his voice.

“You’re really worried about this one, Dad, aren’t you?” asked eighteen-year-old Frank, the dark-haired member of the Hardy clan.

His father nodded. “A little.”

“Since it’s quicksilver the gang is after,” Joe Hardy mused, “they’d naturally operate out of cities like Boston, Baltimore, and Bayport. After all, most of the stuff we import comes from Europe, doesn’t it?”

“Right,” Mr. Hardy replied.

Joe, who was a year younger than Frank, went on, “I boned up on the subject when we were doing our mercury ionization experiments in high school a few months ago. Spain produces more quicksilver than anyone. And we’re among her best customers.”

Fenton Hardy stretched his long legs, leaned back in his chair, and looked out the window of his study. “You fellows appear to be way ahead of me,” he said with a laugh.

“Just did our homework,” Joe quipped.

“But seriously,” his father said, “you’re both right. Our industries need more quicksilver than we mine in the United States, so we import the stuff to the tune of millions of dollars every year. That kind of money attracts criminals, and the ones involved in the mercury thefts are canny operators, judging by the jobs they’ve pulled off.”

The boys had worked on quite a few cases with their father, a former member of the New York Police Department. Starting with The Tower Treasure, they had helped solve many baffling mysteries, their most recent being The Arctic Patrol Mystery. The Bayport sleuth was proud of his sons’ ability and usually discussed his cases with them.

“As you know,” he continued, “quicksilver is one metal that remains liquid at room temperature. Looks something like liquid silver.”

“How is it being brought in, Dad?” Joe asked.

“In iron flasks about fourteen inches tall, shaped like milk bottles. Each flask has a strong steel cap that screws down tight to prevent leakage. And a flask is heavy when it’s full. Weighs one hundred and thirty-five pounds.”

“Which means,” Frank put in, “that you can’t pick one up and slip it into your hip pocket when nobody’s watching. What on earth—!”

His exclamation was caused by the sound of shattering glass as a large object came crashing through the window and landed in the middle of the floor.

Quick as a flash, Joe leaped on it, ready to toss it out the window. The thing might be a bomb!

Suddenly he relaxed with a rueful grin. The object in his hand was a stick about twenty inches long, curved in the middle at a ninety-degree angle.

“A boomerang!” Joe announced. “That means Chet Morton is lurking on the premises!”

“That’s our buddy Chet”—Frank chuckled—“introducing himself in his inimitable manner.”

“Are boomerangs his latest craze?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “Last we heard, he was holed up in his workshop at the farm trying to master the carving technique. Evidently he’s started throwing them, and not too accurately, as you can see!”

Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. A plump, freckle-faced youth burst into the study, puffing from his climb.

“Gee, Mr. Hardy, I’m sorry about the window,” he apologized with a stricken look on his usually placid countenance. “That was one that got away!”

“The latest one that got away,” Fenton Hardy suggested dryly. “Chet, you’ll have to be more careful with your Australian artillery. However, there’s no harm done as long as the broken glass is cleaned up and the window repaired.”

“Right-o,” Chet promised, relieved that his errant boomerang had not hit anyone. He headed for the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan.

Chet Morton was the Hardy boys’ best friend, and they were resigned to his enthusiasm for one hobby after another, despite the often unexpected consequences. They knew that for all Chet’s amiable, easy-going nature, and professed dislike for danger, they could count on him to act with sturdy courage whenever he became involved in one of their adventures.

When Chet left the study, Mr. Hardy told the boys he was leaving for Baltimore to follow a lead in the mercury case. His best bet, he thought, would be to go underground, adopting one of his many disguises, and try to make contact with the thieves.

He would register at a waterfront hotel under the alias of L. Marks. “Here’s the telephone number where you can reach me,” he said. “Keep it under your hat, or my life may be in danger!”

“What can we do, Dad?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Here’s the first thing. On Monday around noon call the number on this slip of paper. It’s the Mersex Iberia Company in New York City, area code 212. Get the shipping department and ask if they have anything from Spain arriving within the next ten days.”

“Mercury?” Frank asked.

“See if they mention it. But don’t let on that that’s what you’re interested in. If they get nosy, say you’re making a survey on Spanish melons. And hang up before they trace the call.”

Frank nodded. “Okay.”

“We don’t want any member of the gang getting wise to the fact that we’re on to them,” Mr. Hardy went on. “They just might have planted one of their agents in the front office, and also there is the possibility that they’re tapping the company’s wires.”

Later the boys watched as their mother packed the detective’s bag. Laura Hardy was a trim, pleasant woman with blue eyes. She worried about her husband’s dangerous occupation, but always prepared him with whatever he might need on his assignments.

Mr. Hardy put the records of the mercury case in a large envelope and slipped it into a secret compartment of his suitcase. Joe handed him a coil of fine wire with a small metal sphere attached to one end.

“Don’t forget the insect,” he said.

His father smiled and took the coil. It was a bugging device that picked up sounds and transmitted them to the receiver at the opposite end.

“I’d never leave without my bug.” Fenton Hardy chuckled as he snapped the bag shut. Half an hour later he left for the airport where his pilot, Jack Wayne, was waiting to fly the Hardys’ private plane to Baltimore.

The following morning after church services, Frank and Joe drove out to Chet’s farm on the outskirts of Bayport. On the way they picked up pretty blond Callie Shaw, Frank’s favorite date. The three talked about the next day’s cookout at the home of Phil Cohen, a regular member of the group. When Frank briefly mentioned his father’s new case, Callie said:

“I hope it won’t keep you from the festivities.”

“You never can tell when Dad’s on an undercover job,” Joe responded. “All we know is that he’ll follow the trail wherever it leads, and send us an SOS if he needs help in a hurry.”

Frank turned the car off the highway, down the dirt road leading to the Morton farm, before giving his opinion. “Looks as if the picnic is safe enough. We don’t have anything to do except make a phone call on Monday.”

The car jerked to a halt in a cloud of dust as Frank put on the brakes.

“Hi, fellows,” Chet called out. He was waiting for them with a boomerang in his hand. His sister Iola, whom Joe considered his steady date, waved at the trio. “Have a throw!” she invited.

They all began to inspect the boomerangs in the workshop under what Chet termed “my professional direction.” He explained that the boomerang is found in many lands, even among the Indians of our Southwest; but the most famous is the Australian boomerang.

“The principle,” Chet intoned in a lordly manner, “is that the angle of the arms and the symmetrical planes, plus the torque that moves the ends off the center line, give the weapon an aerodynamic impetus that causes a reverse vector.”

“Come again?” Callie giggled, making a face.

Joe winked. They knew Chet liked to talk about his hobbies almost as much as he liked eating.

“In other words,” Frank interpreted Chet’s explanation, “a boomerang returns to the spot from which it was thrown. And there also are non-return boomerangs, aren’t there?”

Chet gave a superior smile. “Of course, but they’re the kind you use to bop an enemy or a kangaroo. But I’m more interested in the science of the return boomerang.”

Frank and Joe, for all their joshing, were interested in Chet’s hobby. Who could tell? A boomerang might come in handy on a case!

“Here, let me have one,” Joe said.

They all tried a few throws. But it was not as easy as it seemed, and they began to get a bit discouraged.

Then Joe seized a boomerang in his hand, whooped loudly, and hurled it in a straight line toward the front gate. The weapon whirled through the air at terrific speed, curved to the left, and came back—heading directly for an antique lamp on a post in front of the house!

“Watch out!” yelled Callie.

“Duck!” called Iola.

Chet was terrified. “Do something!” he wailed.

Joe was too far away to do anything. But Frank leaped up and caught the boomerang with one hand just as it was about to crash into the lamp!

“Wow!” Chet said. “That was close. Thanks, Frank!”

“Bad shot,” Joe admitted. “Next time I throw a stick like that, it’ll be down in the pasture!”

After lunch at the Mortons’ Frank and Joe drove home. They were greeted by their Aunt Gertrude.

“Boomerangs!” sniffed the peppery spinster sister of Mr. Hardy when the boys spoke of Chet’s latest hobby. “Boomerangs are for the Wild Man of Borneo!”

“Oh, Aunty, they’re really a lot of fun,” Frank said.

“Fun!” His aunt shook her head. “I would expect you to find a more genteel hobby. Mark my words, no good will come of it. Just think of how Mrs. Morton would have felt if you’d broken her antique lamp!“

Frank leaped up and caught the boomerang

“Fortunately, we didn’t,” Joe said contritely. “Anyhow, we’ll soon be experts!”

“Humph!” was his aunt’s reply.

Frank and Joe drove over to Phil Cohen’s on Monday morning to help him with the preparations for the cookout.

Phil was a distinct contrast to Chet. A quiet boy, good with the books, he had an artistic nature. He was slender and agile, quick on the uptake, a useful fellow to have around in time of danger.

The trio went to work at once, setting up the barbecue and hanging party decorations. About noontime, as they finished arranging tables and chairs, Frank asked, “Can I use your phone, Phil? Joe and I promised to make a call for Dad.”

“Sure. Business before pleasure,” Phil replied with a grin. “Just put your dime in the little box next to it!”

The Hardys went into the house and Joe dialed the number his father had given them. Frank listened in with an ear close to the receiver.

The phone rang on the other end. There was the familiar clicking sound as someone picked it up. “Hello?” said a man’s voice.

“Is this Mersex Iberia in New York?” Joe asked.

“No, it’s a Washington, D. C. number,” the voice answered. “This is area code 202. You want 212.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t mention it. Happens all the time.”

Joe was about to hang up and re-dial when he and Frank heard the party on the other end give a hoarse shout. The words that followed were clearly audible.

“Help! They’re after the Super S data! Help! Help!”

CHAPTER II

Mercury Mystery

STARTLED by the shout, Frank and Joe froze. Their experience in crime detection told them to wait for some clue to the mysterious voice, which cut off suddenly.

There was silence for a moment at the other end of the connection.

“Must be a joke of some kind,” Joe muttered impatiently. He pulled the phone away from his ear, intending to hang up.

Frank grabbed his wrist with the whispered warning, “Hold on! If thugs have jumped that guy in Washington, we don’t want to lose our communications. We might miss the one piece of evidence we need to get on their track!”

Muffled sounds came through the receiver. Drawers banged, locks snapped, and papers rustled as if an office were being ransacked. Men’s voices could be heard in hurried conversation. The boys could not make out what they were saying until the very end when two words came through clearly: Bombay Boomerang. Then the line went dead.

Joe turned to Frank with a mystified expression. “Did you hear what I heard?”

Frank nodded emphatically. “Bombay Boomerang. But what on earth does it mean?”

Joe shrugged. “You don’t think we may have imagined it?” he inquired doubtfully. “Maybe we’ve got boomerangs on the brain. If so, we can chalk off one illusion to old Chet and his identified flying objects.”

“Well, what about Bombay? I don’t recall Chet ever mentioning the Indian city, although he’s spouted about ten thousand words concerning Australia.”

“It’s a puzzle, all right.”

Phil came into the house. “Finished?” he asked.

Joe shook his head. “Got the wrong area code.”

Phil chuckled. “Try again. Better get it right this time, though, or your father will begin having second thoughts about the reliabilty of his seconds-in-command.”

Joe picked up the phone again as Phil walked out to the porch.

“Two—one—two,” he counted aloud before dialing the number. A secretary in the Mersex shipping department confirmed without hesitation that cargo was due in from a Spanish port aboard a freighter. Of her own accord she provided the information that it was mercury.

“Okay,” Frank said after Joe had hung up. “Now to get through to the Baltimore hotel and let Dad know what we’ve learned. Perhaps he’ll have a theory.”

Fenton Hardy was interested to hear about the Mersex cargo. But he became disturbed when Frank related the tale of the wrong-number phone call to Washington.

“This could be of vital importance to our national security,” he declared.

“Are you going to call Washington?” Frank asked.

“Yes. An old friend, Admiral Rodgers is one of the top men in missile research, and he’s got an office in the Pentagon. I’ll talk to him and get back to you later on.”

Frank and Joe joined Phil on the porch. “I’m expecting all of you this evening,” their friend announced. “My strategy is elementary. The girls can make the hamburgers, the boys will eat them.”

“Chet Morton will like that,” Joe said, grinning. “Just include a few wedges of chocolate layer cake, some slices of pie, lots of ice cream and soda—”

“Say, I’m getting hungry,” Frank interrupted. “We’re about due home for lunch. Aunt Gertrude will lecture us if we’re late!”

“See you tonight,” Phil called as they pulled out of the driveway.

Later that afternoon the Hardys’ front doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Frank said to his mother and aunt, who were in the living room sewing.

Two men stood outside. They had a tough look about them, in spite of their fashionably-cut clothes. Frank sized them up. “Plenty of money,” he thought to himself, “but a couple of slippery characters all the same.”

“Won’t you come in?” he said politely. Joe joined the group in the hall.

“We’d like to speak to Fenton Hardy,” declared the man in the trench coat and snap-brim hat.

“Yeah, important business,” said his partner in the windbreaker and beret.

The boys said their father was away from home. They did not volunteer any information as to his whereabouts.

“Since your father isn’t here, maybe you can help us,” the first fellow declared in a gravelly voice.

“Not likely!” was the reply that occurred to Joe, but he held his tongue.

“Do you have a Mercury for sale? We were told you advertised a second-hand job. If the price is right, we just might be willing to take it off your hands.”

Frank and Joe answered that they had never advertised a second-hand car.

“Oh. Well, maybe we’ve got the wrong address.”

As the two men went out, Snap Brim turned around and mentioned the name of a hotel on the Bayport waterfront. “If you hear of anyone with a Mercury that’s in shape for a long drive, let us know! We’re in Room 203.”

The door shut behind them.

“What do you make of those guys?” Joe asked his brother.

“I don’t like their looks,” Frank replied. “Where do types like that get enough money to patronize the best clothing stores? If they have money, why are they living in a waterfront hotel? And why would they be interested in a second-hand car?”

“Seems to me we should do a little investigating. Let’s go to the hotel and call their bluff!”

Frank went along with that, but another thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute! Biff Hooper’s uncle has an old Mercury. Could be he’s in the market for a buyer.”

Joe put in a phone call and came back with the report. “Affirmative. The old heap is available for the first guy with ready cash who turns up. You know what this does? It gives us a good excuse to visit our new friends—I use that last term loosely.”

“New enemies might be more like it,” Frank concurred. “Still, we don’t have much to go on, except appearances. It could be that the Mercury bit is merely a coincidence.”

Joe chuckled. “Will our faces be red if those fellows really want to buy a second-hand car!”

Deciding to take no chances, the Hardys asked their pals Biff Hooper and Tony Prito to accompany them to the waterfront. Both were ready, willing, and able.

Biff, a blond six-footer, knew how to use his fists, and dark-eyed, olive-skinned Tony could always be counted on in a dangerous mission.

The two roared up the driveway a little later in Biff’s car. “What’s the play?” Tony demanded, jumping out of the bucket seat before the vehicle jolted to a stop.

“How many desperadoes do we corral this time around?” Biff quipped.

“Don’t crave too much action,” Frank advised. “You might get more than you bargained for!”

Quickly the Hardys filled them in, after which the four headed for the waterfront. Biff parked on a side street near the hotel, a dilapidated building with shingles askew on the roof, and paint peeling off the walls. The neon lights had half the letters missing.

The boys got out and advanced cautiously. The front door was open, revealing the small, dingy lobby. A sleazy clerk sprawled over the desk, reading a newspaper.

After one look, Biff gave his verdict. “My impression is that we’re inspecting the place most likely to have a guest list made up of characters from the rogues’ gallery.”

Tony bobbed his head up and down. “Certainly not the Waldorf-Astoria,” he said.

“I know,” Frank agreed. “That’s why we asked you to come along. There’s a slight chance that these fellows are on the up-and-up about the car. But we think there’s something phony about them. And we want to know what it is.”

“No matter how you slice this salami, we’ve got to go in there,” Joe added.

“Since Joe and I can identify the guys we want to check, we’ll go up to their room,” Frank continued. “If all we have to do is arrange a deal about a car, we should be back here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“If you don’t see us pretty quickly, you’ll know something’s gone wrong,” Joe added. “That’ll be your clue to come busting in. Let’s put a time limit of ten minutes on the operation.”

“Roger,” said Biff, and the four synchronized their watches. Then the Hardys entered the hotel.

The desk clerk raised his eyes from his paper and gave them a suspicious stare. When they told him the number of the room they wanted, he jerked a thumb toward the stairs and mumbled, “Second floor, third left.”

“Pleasant receptionist,” Joe observed sarcastically as they climbed the stairs.

They found the room and rapped on the door. It was opened by the man in the beret.

“Well, look who’s here!” he said, sounding so threatening that Joe was reminded of the story about the spider and the fly. “Won’t you come into my parlor—” he recited under his breath.

Frank and Joe went in. They immediately recognized Snap Brim standing at the window. He came toward them with a menacing scowl. Shaking his fist at them, he spoke with suppressed fury. “So you think we want a car, do you? I’ll tell you what we want. Mercury!”

“Your old man is poking his fingers into a hot racket, and we don’t like it!” Beret added.

Joe spun on his toes and headed for the door. He was quick, but not quick enough. Beret stepped in front of him. Tall and beefy, he flexed his powerful shoulders, raising his long arms in a wrestler’s stance.

“Come on,” he barked. “I’m itching to take care of you. Next time you bob up, it’ll be in the bay, and you’ll be as dead as an iced mackerel!”

CHAPTER III

The Hotel Caper

SUDDENLY the door splintered inward with a terrific crash, dislodging the lock. Biff and Tony hurtled into the room.

“Sorry we haven’t been introduced,” Tony said to the beefy character, “but I imagine we’ll get to know one another real fast!”

“It’s all a question of timing,” Biff quipped. “To wit, ten minutes!”

Joe covered his relief with a whimsical remark. “We were about to have a ball, just the four of us.”

“A brawl!” Frank corrected him.

“A real go-round,” Biff added, “only our invitations never arrived. Anyway, the party’s over.”

The two men were caught off balance. Snap Brim, who had lowered his fist, recovered first. “Okay,” he snarled at the Hardys. “So you’ve got a bodyguard. But next time may be different! And there’s sure gonna be a next time! We’re not through with you by a long shot, or with your old man, either! You can tell him that!”

Frank, Joe, Biff, and Tony stepped past the door which was crazily swinging on its hinges. The desk clerk, who had heard the noise and came upstairs, looked at them uncomprehendingly as they walked past him and out of the hotel.

“That caper had a happy ending,” Tony remarked.

“I wouldn’t be too sure it’s ended,” Frank warned. “The curtain hasn’t gone up on act two yet.”

A series of rapid-fire explosions dented their eardrums. Down the street chugged an antiquated jalopy—fire—engine red, bucking like a bronco and backfiring explosively with nearly every revolution of the cylinders.

Roly-poly Chet Morton guided his favorite vehicle to a stop at the curb and jumped out. “I’ve just been to your house,” he said. “Your mother says your dad phoned from Baltimore. She looked so worried, I think there’s something brewing. You’re to contact your father before you do anything else.”

The Hardys glanced up at the second floor of the hotel and spotted a scowling face at the window of the room they had just left. Beret stared down on them, a slightly baffled expression on his face.

Had he heard Chet’s booming voice clearly enough to understand the message from Fenton Hardy? If so, it could mean trouble, and plenty of it!

Biff came up with an idea. “Suppose I stay here to keep an eye on these birds? If they come out, I’ll tail them. That’ll give you a chance to go home and put in that call to Baltimore. We’ll meet here later and compare notes.”

“I’ll keep you company,” Tony suggested. “Just in case you need some reinforcement.”

“Good thought,” Frank said. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll take you in my car,” Chet offered.

“And arrive with an aching back!” Joe groaned.

Everybody ragged Chet Morton about his bone-rattling car. But he wheeled it around the busy streets of Bayport, and boasted a good safety record, partly because pedestrians and motorists who heard him coming got out of the way.

Right now the Hardys were glad to have Chet give them a lift to their house. While Chet went into the kitchen looking for one of Aunt Gertrude’s specialties which were usually available, Frank dialed the number of his father’s hotel. The detective answered almost immediately.

“Let me call you right back,” he said. “Stand by!”

A few minutes later the phone rang. Frank picked it up, while Joe ran upstairs to the study to listen in on the extension.

“I didn’t want this call to go through the switchboard here,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Someone might eavesdrop on us.”

“Dad, what’s going on?” Frank wanted to know.

“Well, not too much on my end,” his father replied. “However, I’m not discouraged. I picked up a few leads that are worth checking out. Right now I’m posing as a hood. It’s the best disguise for undercover operations along the waterfront where hoods hang out.”

Frank interjected, “Do you realize that the mercury gang is on to you? They came to our house hoping to find you here. And when we went to their hotel to check up on them, they got violent over your part in the case. Said to get off their backs—or else!”

The news surprised Mr. Hardy, who listened grimly to Frank’s detailed account of the events that afternoon.

“Obviously word has gotten around that I’m working on the case. You and Joe better watch your step as long as those two mugs are loose in Bayport. It was a good idea to have Biff tail them. Perhaps they’ll lead him to something.”

“I hope so. What’s your next step, Dad?”

“Well, I’m not exactly in the safest spot here. The thieves might even know that Hardy and Marks are the same man.”

“If that guy in the hotel heard Chet mention that you’re in Baltimore, they might put two and two together!” Frank said.

“They might and they might not. I have no choice but to continue as L. Marks and play it by ear.”

Frank and his father batted the details around to be sure of covering all angles. Finally Mr. Hardy said, “The Bayport pair look like our best bet right now. They probably rank on a lower echelon of the organization and receive strong-arm assignments from the top. They might lead you to the ringleader. Try not to let them shake you and tail them wherever they go.”

“Right. I’m sure Biff and Tony will help, too.”

“Okay. But at the same time you’d better get the police to back you up. Tell the whole story to Chief Collig. He’ll know what to do.”

“What about the boomerang bit?” Frank asked, changing the subject.

“That’s why I called in the first place. I talked with Admiral Rodgers at the Pentagon. He’s very concerned about what you boys heard when Joe made that wrong call to Washington. But he wouldn’t give me much information over the phone. Says the matter is top-level security stuff, too hush-hush to discuss outside his office.”

“Are you going to see him personally, then?”

“I can’t leave Baltimore with the mercury gang on my hands. However, I’ve made an appointment for you and Joe to meet him. Be at his office tomorrow morning.”

“Will do.”

“If your friends can’t take over the surveillance of the Bayport hoods during that time, Chief Collig will.”

“No problem,” Frank said.

“So long then. Good luck, and be careful!”

The phone clicked on the other end. Joe came down again and observed that the mystery was thicker than ever. “Which,” he continued, “is all the more reason for us to pitch in and give Dad all the help we can.”

“Exactly. Let’s go to headquarters right away.” They went to the kitchen to tell Chet, who was enjoying a piece of Aunt Gertrude’s fresh-baked apple pie.

“Be a sport and drive us over to see Chief Collig,” Frank said.

“Whatever you say.” Chet stuffed the last bite into his mouth and followed the Hardys outside. A few minutes later they reached their destination.

“Have to double-park,” Chet declared. “You two go ahead. I’ll wait for you here.”

Seconds later Frank and Joe confronted Chief Collig in his office. He was an old-timer who had worked his way up on the force. He understood criminals because he had collared his share, and often assisted the Hardys in their cases.

“Sit down, boys,” he said with a smile, “and tell me what brings you here. A new case, I suppose. That’s what comes of having a detective for a father. Maybe you should listen to your Aunt Gertrude more often. She’d find another occupation for you, double-quick!”

The chief stopped kidding, however, when Frank and Joe gave him the facts.

“I’ll put two of my men on the case. They can stake out the hotel and check up on those characters.”

He made a brief phone call and talked to one of his officers. Then he turned to the boys again.

“Let me have the address and descriptions of the men.”

Frank complied.

Collig wrote it down and added, “Tell Biff Hooper to stay there until a green Ford arrives. If he has already left, call me.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

Chet drove the Hardys back to the hotel. Biff and Tony were still parked in the side street, keeping an eagle eye on the entrance.

“Anything stirring?” Frank queried.

“Not even a mouse,” Biff reported. “I’ve been staring at that door until I’m cross-eyed.”

“Our friends are still inside, no doubt,” Tony added.

“Let’s make sure,” Frank suggested.

He and Joe went into the building. Strolling casually up to the desk, they questioned the clerk about the two suspects.

To their amazement they had checked out. “Paid their bill and left by the back way about an hour ago. They didn’t leave a forwarding address,” the clerk added with obvious relish at the Hardys’ disappointment.

They returned to the car to tell their friends what had happened. Biff and Tony were crestfallen, blaming themselves for flubbing a critical assignment.

“Think we should investigate the desk clerk?” Biff inquired. “He’s a slippery fish, a definite suspect as far as I’m concerned.”

“Trouble is,” Frank replied, “there’s no evidence against him. He’s about as amiable as a porcupine, but that’s no crime. We can always move in on him later.”

“Now what?” Joe asked.

“We better call Chief Collig and cancel the backup squad,” Frank said. “Or, on second thought, let’s wait till they get here and ask them to check out the room. Maybe we’ll find a clue.”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed.

Soon an unmarked police car arrived and two officers jumped out. Frank quickly explained the situation, and asked if he and Joe could join in the search.

“Sure. Come on,” one of the men said and went to the desk. He showed his badge and they were admitted to the room. Their search, however, was unsuccessful. The pair had left nothing!

Dismayed, all four boys returned home. Frank and Joe spent the rest of the afternoon reconstructing the apparently unrelated events that had occurred with such swiftness. There were so many puzzles that didn’t make sense—the Bombay Boomerang, the Super S data, the Bayport suspects.

“I don’t know where to begin fitting the pieces together!” Joe groaned.

Before his brother could answer, they were startled by a solid object that crashed through a window pane and landed on the carpet amid a shower of glass.

“Chet again?” Frank complained. “Isn’t he getting a little out of hand with his boomerangs?”

“Hold it!” Joe interrupted. “That’s no boomerang!” He picked up the object, which turned out to be a heavy bolt with a piece of paper wrapped around it, held in place by a rubber band.

Joe spread the paper out on the table. Frank peered over his shoulder. With mounting excitement they read a message written in crude letters approximately an inch high. It was a warning that gave them cold chills.

WE KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU! SPLIT OUT OR

YOU’LL WIND UP IN A CEMENT BARREL!

CHAPTER IV

The Battered Car

“WHAT’S that?” asked a nervous voice behind the boys. Aunt Gertrude had rushed in to see who had broken the window.

“Just another message,” Frank replied, trying to soothe her. “It’s hardly worth mentioning.”

But her inquisitive eyes had already scanned the words on the paper. “I believe they mean it!” she retorted in frightened tones. “You’d better drop the case right now. I’m not interested in going to a funeral—least of all mine!”

Joe slipped the bolt into his pocket, then phoned Baltimore and asked to speak to L. Marks.

“He checked out,” said the hotel clerk. “Packed his bags, paid his bill, and left without giving us any forwarding address. Seemed to be in a hurry.”

“Dad must be on to a hot lead,” Frank declared. “That would explain why he departed so suddenly. Besides, if he had run into any trouble, he’d have left a code message for us.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s hope he contacts us before we fly to Washington tomorrow morning.”

“Meanwhile, we might as well enjoy ourselves tonight,” Frank suggested. “It’s almost time to start for Phil’s.”

The boys went upstairs to tell their mother that they were leaving. Laura Hardy said she was relieved that for once nothing dangerous was involved. Aunt Gertrude sniffed, saying that her nephews were able to find danger wherever they went.

“You look for it hard enough!” she accused them sternly.

Frank and Joe chuckled as they headed for their convertible. Just then a shiny new car pulled into the driveway. It belonged to a friend of Mrs. Hardy.

“Good evening, Mrs. Jackson,” Joe greeted the woman at the wheel. “Here, let me help you out.”

“Nice little runabout you have there,” Frank added admiringly.

“That’s a compliment,” Mrs. Jackson said with a smile. “I selected it myself. One drive around the block, and I was hooked. It’s a gift from my husband for our wedding anniversary, so you can bet I’ll take good care of it!”

She went into the house, and Frank and Joe drove to Phil’s. Callie and Iola were already there, along with Biff, Tony and Chet, and most of their friends.

“We’ve got a mystery for you,” Joe announced.

“Suppose we get to the chow first,” Chet urged, patting his rather expansive waistline. “Mysteries are more solvable when the inner man is satisfied.”

Soon the group were enjoying hamburgers and hot dogs, which the girls had barbecued.

“What mystery?” Biff queried.

Joe pulled the bolt from his pocket. Extending it on the palm of his hand, he asked, “What do you make of this object?”

Tony Prito picked it up and examined it. Since his father was a building contractor, he had seen many bolts of all sizes, shapes, and makes. He looked at this one with an expert eye.

“It’s a type used in the construction business on the end of reinforced bars,” he told the others. “Nothing unusual, as far as I can see.”

“What’s unusual,” Joe observed, “is that somebody pitched it through our window today.”

Phil shook his head in mock surprise. “The kind of games you two play!”

Frank nodded. “Great fun. It had a warning attached to it that we might get acquainted with a barrel of cement!”

Their friends immediately became serious. “Maybe it’ll tell us something if we can find out where it came from,” Chet suggested.

Tony cautioned that the bolt could have come from lots of places. “Every contractor uses this kind of fixture. There must be dozens of warehouses near Bayport where you could find them piled up.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Biff put in. “The guy who threw Frank and Joe a curve might be in the construction business. If he works for a contractor, he’d have a supply of bolts to pick from whenever he got the urge to go on a window-breaking spree.”

“Yes, but if he’s a crook, he could have stolen this one,” Phil reasoned. “Suppose he slipped into one of the warehouses Tony mentioned and left with the bolt in his pocket?”

Joe turned that suggestion over in his mind. “I don’t see the point in stealing a single bolt. Why would anyone go to that trouble when a rock would have carried the message just as well?”

“We don’t know that he only stole this bolt,” Phil replied. “What if he took a whole shipment? He could have decided to use the bolt as a carrier pigeon on the spur of the moment, because it happened to be the handiest thing available.”

Mrs. Cohen came into the room while the discussion was going on. She told Frank and Joe that their mother was on the phone.

Frank took the call. “Hi, Mom,” he said.

Laura Hardy sounded frantic. “Come home right away!” she cried. “Something terrible has happened. Mrs. Jackson is in a state of shock, Aunt Gertrude is having hysterics, and I don’t know what to do!”

Frank turned to his brother. “We’d better leave right now.”

Calling out a quick explanation to their pals, the boys ran outside and jumped into their convertible.

An appalling sight met their eyes when they turned into the Hardy driveway. Mrs. Jackson’s spanking new car, so bright and lustrous when they first saw it, was a total wreck! All the windows were broken. The hood, chassis, and fenders were dented and twisted. The dashboard was smashed in.

Frank whistled. “This car has been wrecked deliberately!”

“And here’s the weapon,” Joe declared.

He picked up a steel bar from the driveway. About four feet long and a little over an inch thick, it was flecked with paint from the car, and it fitted into the deep dents on the hood. The wielder of the steel bar had pounded the new car into ruins!

But why? Joe pointed to the side of the vehicle. There, written in spray paint, was the warning:

GET OUT OF THE MERC RACKET

“These guys sure want us to get the message,” Frank commented. “Nothing subtle. Strong-arm all the way!”

“No wonder the women are in a tizzy,” Joe added. “We’d better go inside and see how they are.”

When the women calmed down, Mrs. Jackson revealed that she had seen the vandal attacking her car with the steel bar. Her description matched the beefy fellow in the beret!

Frank and Joe exchanged glances, then Frank turned to Mrs. Jackson. “If it’s any consolation to you,” he said, “this vandalism was not aimed at you. Whoever did it made a mistake. He was trying to scare us and thought he was wrecking one of our cars.”

“But why anyone would do a thing like that!”

“It has something to do with a new case our father is working on,” Joe explained.

Mrs. Jackson shook her head. “It’s terrible. Simply terrible.”

“Have you called the police?” Frank asked.

“Certainly we have,” Aunt Gertrude put in.

“They were here before you arrived and surveyed the car. Then Chief Collig called and said you should get in touch with him in case you have any suspicions or clues.”

Frank telephoned the chief to confirm that the vandals, no doubt, were the two men they had encountered earlier. He also told Collig about the warning.

“I’ll alert all our men in the Bayport area to be on the lookout for those two,” Collig said. “Let me know if something new develops.”

“Sure thing,” Frank promised and hung up. Then he turned to Mrs. Jackson.

“Is vandalism covered by your insurance?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Oh, I hope it is!”

“Let me have the number of your agent and I’ll find out,” Joe suggested.

Mrs. Jackson pulled out a business card from her handbag. “We had the agent over just the other day. Here it is.”

Joe phoned the man and learned that luckily the damage was covered. The news helped Mrs. Jackson to regain control over her nerves, and she left shortly afterward in a taxi.

Frank and Joe discussed the latest event.

“Those thugs are determined to get us out of the way,” Joe declared, “and they have no scruples about how they do it!”

“When they realize that we won’t give up, they’ll undoubtedly use even more drastic methods,” Frank added.

Aunt Gertrude had another fit of hysterics. “Attacked by brutes who think the Hardy family’s concerned about their old mercury! Why, I haven’t even heard the word since high school chemistry! Oh, why can’t Fenton leave crime to the police!”

Frank and Joe were hoping their father would call that night. To their disappointment, the phone remained silent.

“Whatever Baltimore dive he’s investigating,” Joe said, “he probably can’t get to a phone.”

“Might make a suspect suspicious,” Frank agreed. Finally they turned in for the night.

They were up early Tuesday morning to get ready for their trip. Aunt Gertrude had prepared breakfast and she fussed about their eating too fast. Meanwhile, their mother packed two overnight bags, just in case they had to stay over until the next day. “Don’t forget to call Jack Wayne,” she reminded them.

Fenton Hardy’s pilot was at the airfield and had just finished his inspection of the plane.

“Everything A-OK,” he told Joe over the phone. “We can leave as soon as you get here.”

The boys decided it would be risky to leave their mother and aunt alone in the house with the thugs prowling around. They contacted their friends, who all agreed to take turns guarding the Hardy home while Frank and Joe were out of town.

At the airport Jack greeted them with some disturbing news. “Two toughs have been asking questions about you. I didn’t know who they were so I kept my mouth shut and they went away no wiser than when they came.”

“What’d they look like?” Frank asked.

Jack described the pair.

“Snap Brim and Beret,” Joe commented.

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

“That’s the headgear they were wearing when we first met them,” Joe explained. “You see, we’re real close to those two. In fact, too close for comfort.”

“New case?” Jack inquired.

“Right,” Frank replied. “Could their angle this morning have been to arrange an accident for our plane?”

“They might have had that in mind, but I didn’t let them anywhere near it. Every working part is in order. Well, I’d better turn the engine over a few times. Warm her up for take-off. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “I’m rather thirsty, so I’ll grab a quick cup of tea in the cafeteria meanwhile.”

“I’ll come with you,” Joe said. “We’ll meet you at the plane, Jack!”

As they were sipping their steaming tea, a voice echoed over the loudspeaker. “Calling Frank and Joe Hardy! Calling Frank and Joe Hardy!”

They looked at each other in surprise. “What do you make of that?” Joe asked.

Frank shrugged. “Let’s go find out!”

They hastened to the desk and were informed that Mr. Marks wanted them to meet him at one of the airport repair shops. The clerk gave them directions.

“So Dad finally surfaced and right here!” Frank said. “Wonder why he picked this place.”

“I was there with Jack Wayne once,” Joe replied. “He told me that it’s hardly ever used in the morning. At this time it should be vacant.”

“This could mean two things. Either this is on the level and Dad doesn’t want to be seen, or it’s a neat little trap set up by our two buddies.”

“Let’s proceed with caution,” Joe advised as they approached the shop. No one was in sight. Frank slowly opened the door. There were power tools in one corner; drills, auger bits, and screwdrivers along the wall.

“Mr. Marks?” Frank called out.

“Sh! Over here, Frank!” came a whispered reply.

The boys walked inside. Parts of a dismantled engine lay on a broad workbench. Crates stood piled up behind it. There were no workmen in sight.

Suddenly Frank and Joe had visions of roman candles going off, followed by an explosion of blinding light. Then they blacked out!

CHAPTER V

The Missing Missile

A VOICE that seemed to come from far off said, “Frank, Joe, wake up!”

Groggily Joe opened his eyes. The repair shop came into focus. So did Jack Wayne, who was squatting on his heels and shaking him by the shoulder.

“Boy, whoever clouted you on the head really did a good job!” the pilot said as the boys came to. “You both were unconscious when I found you!”

“You can say that again,” Frank groaned. “The place seemed empty when we came in. Somebody whispered ‘Over here,’ and it sounded just like Dad. Then, pow! The building caved in on us.”

Joe rubbed the back of his head gingerly, wincing when he touched the bump caused by the blow. He rose unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself with one hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t see anyone, either. I’d swear we were mowed down by a runaway jetliner! Whoever sapped us must have been hiding behind the door.”

“And he, or they, laid you two out like a couple of iced mackerel,” Jack observed.

“We walked right into that trap,” Frank said ruefully. “Should have known better. I bet Snap Brim and Beret never left the airport after talking to you, Jack.”

“Sure. They sneaked around here, baited the trap with that bogus message from L. Marks, and knocked us out,” Joe added.

“They must have been pretty sure you’d fall for it,” Jack went on. “Who’s L. Marks, anyhow?”

“An alias Dad used,” Frank explained.

“Well, that’s how I found you,” Jack said.

“The desk clerk told me that you were paged by Marks, who asked you to meet him in the repair shop.”

“One thing is certain,” Frank said. “They know about Dad. His cover is blown. We must alert him right away!”

“But we have no way of contacting him,” Joe pointed out. “We’d better get on with the Washington assignment and hope for the best.”

The boys discovered that their jackets were missing. A search of the repair shop failed to turn them up.

“We’re minus our wallets, money, and driver’s licenses,” Joe lamented.

“We’ll have to call Chief Collig,” Frank said.

They all went to the administration building, where they telephoned police headquarters.

Collig took down the details. He promised to have his men comb Bayport for the thugs who had knocked the boys out.

“Meanwhile, what do we do for money?” Frank asked after he had hung up.

Jack Wayne came to the rescue. “Don’t worry about financing your expedition to the Pentagon. I’ll loan you the money. And there are a couple of jackets in my locker that you can borrow.”

Wayne cashed a check, then the three boarded the plane. Receiving the green light from the control tower, Jack gave her the gun, zoomed down the runway, and lifted the nose into a perfect take-off. Smoothly the aircraft gained altitude. The pilot locked the automatic controls.

They flew over Baltimore. Frank and Joe looked down at the Maryland city, wondering whether their father was still there.

Their speculations came to a halt as Jack brought the plane down to a smooth landing at the Washington airport. While he stood by, the Hardys hailed a taxi and rode to the Pentagon.

A naval officer escorted them to Admiral Rodgers’ office. A model warship stood on a bookcase. A multicolored map of the Pacific hung on the wall behind the desk.

The admiral was in uniform with a row of service stripes on his sleeve. He had fought in many battles on the high seas without flinching. But now he looked worried!

He asked the Hardys to tell him all they knew. Joe gave a rapid account of his attempt to put through a call to New York City, only to find that he had dialed incorrectly and had reached an office in the Pentagon.

Frank related the sound of scuffling, the call for help, and the reference to the Super S data. “And then,” he added, “there were those mysterious words about the Bombay Boomerang!”

Admiral Rodgers listened with a grave expression. “You’ve stumbled into a real-life drama here at the Pentagon,” he said. “Happened down the hall in the office of Commander Wenn, who’s been directing secret research on our latest missile systems.”

“Was he the one who answered our call?” Joe asked.

“Yes. He was still on the line when the intruders appeared. Luckily he had a split second in which to press a button underneath the edge of his desk. This triggered a tape recorder in a false bottom of one drawer. We’ve got a tape of everything that was said, including what you heard.”

“What happened then?” Frank inquired.

“Someone bashed the commander over the head, knocking him out. They ransacked his office. Looked as if a tornado hit it. Drawers overturned, locks broken, files rifled, official documents strewn around like confetti!”

“Wow!” Frank exclaimed.

“The worst part is that they found what they were looking for. You heard Commander Wenn’s shout about the Super S data. Well, they took it! And that is what’s got us in a serious jam!”

“But what does it all mean?” Joe was baffled.

“The Super S is the newest addition to our missile program. Air-to-ground. This one zeros in on heat. The instrumentation is sensitive enough to be set for any degree of temperature above the level of lukewarm water. You probably know from your scientific experiments in high school that precisely equal degrees of heat are rarely found together outside the laboratory. The Super S will ignore every heat level except the fraction of a degree it’s programmed for.”

The admiral ran his fingers through his hair. “Virtually nothing can fox this missile,” he concluded. “The target is a dead pigeon the moment the pilot launches a Super S.”

“Are we the only nation who has it?” Frank asked.

“We used to be,” Rodgers said grimly. “We’ll run into international competition if those thieves smuggle the information out of the country, though! I could mention a number of foreign powers that would be interested in a deal at any price!”

“Is that what the thieves are planning, sir?” Joe inquired. “I mean, selling the information. Does the tape indicate that?”

The admiral frowned. “No, it doesn’t,” he replied slowly.

Frank pursued this line of questioning. “What about the phrase Bombay Boomerang? Joe and I could swear that we heard it mentioned.”

“You did,” the admiral told him.

“It could mean that India is involved.”

“It could.”

“What else is on the tape, Admiral?”

Rodgers held up one hand. “Sorry. I’ll have to flag you down on that question. Can’t give you the answer.”

“Why not, sir?”

“Because it’s classified information. No one has security clearance on the missile program except those directly assigned to Super S research.”

The Hardys’ expressions showed that they were keenly disappointed. They were depressed that they had made the trip to Washington, only to find the riddle as perplexing as ever.

“Don’t be so dejected,” Admiral Rodgers went on. “You both know what it means to be sworn to secrecy, don’t you?”

Frank and Joe nodded. “You’ve proved yourselves in helping your father with some difficult cases. I have some information for him which I will give you now. But it’s strictly confidential.”

The boys took the oath binding them to secrecy. Then the admiral proceeded.

“We’ve been trying to keep the lid on a very serious situation we’re faced with. A Super S missile has been stolen from the Baltimore arsenal!”

Frank and Joe gasped. “How could anyone make off with a rocket belonging to the U. S. Navy?” Frank exclaimed. “It seems impossible!”

“It happened,” the admiral said dryly. “Now here’s what I want you to do. Tell your father, but under no circumstances anyone else. And you must speak to him personally. Don’t say anything over the telephone.”

Frank nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I have no opportunity to contact him myself,” Admiral Rodgers went on, “since he is working underground. But I want him to get in touch with me as soon as he can.”

Admiral Rodgers escorted them to the elevator. “Let me know if your father discovers any leads that tie in with this affair. It’s a race against time. If we don’t recover the missile, it might change the balance of power in the world!”

Frank and Joe thanked him, the elevator doors closed, and they were on their way out of the Pentagon.

They hastened back to the airport and put in a call to the Baltimore hotel where Fenton Hardy had been staying. Joe asked if L. Marks had returned.

“Yes, he has,” the clerk replied. “He left a message for two fellows named Fred and Jim. They’re to meet him here. Are you Fred or Jim?”

“Jim. Thanks.” Joe hung up. “We’re in luck!” he exulted.

Frank was not ready to celebrate yet. “I hope you’re right. But this could easily be another phony. Remember what happened to us last time we answered a communication from L. Marks?”

“Do I?” Joe probed the tender spot at the back of his head. “How could I forget, with this bump? What do we do now?”

“We go to Baltimore,” Frank decided. “Only we’ll be more cautious about walking into anybody’s parlor.”

Joe grinned. “The resident might be the spider in this case!”

“Right. The point is, we can’t simply ignore the message. If Dad really left it for us, we’ll have to see him. Besides, he might be in a tight corner.”

Frank and Joe described their plan to Jack Wayne, who offered to help. En route to Baltimore they got down to details. Jack would remain at the airport, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

Frank said, “We have no idea where this mystery will end. Boston could be our next stop, or Miami!”

“We’ll let you know what’s cooking when we discover what those crooks have on their menu,” Joe added.

When the plane landed in Baltimore, they had a quick bite to eat. Then Jack ensconced himself in a chair with a newspaper, prepared to sit it out until the call to action. The boys gave him the address of the hotel so he could start a search if he did not hear from them within three hours.

“Good luck!” Jack called to them as they left. Frank and Joe hailed a taxi and settled back for the ride into town. The driver guided his vehicle through the streets with a practiced hand, weaving in and out of traffic, swerving around pedestrians, and timing his speed to catch the green lights block by block.

A big black sedan roared up abreast of the cab at top speed. “That guy sure is in a hurry,” Joe observed.

The driver of the car pulled sharply to the right, cutting in front of the taxi. Frantically the cabby twisted the steering wheel to avoid a collision. He lost control as the black car forced him off the highway.

The cab careened wildly into a dead-end street! As it slewed around, the rear end slammed toward a telephone pole with terrific force! The Hardys braced themselves for the crash!

CHAPTER VI

X Marks L. Marks

THE tires of the cab screeched against the curb. Frank hung on grimly, and for one split second he got a look into the black car.

The two thugs from Bayport! Almost subconsciously, his mind registered the license plate number as the sedan shot past. Much good it would do him if the taxi wrapped itself around the telephone pole!

The vehicle bounced off the curb, shook violently, teetered sideways on two wheels, jolted to a stop and fell over just short of the pole.

“Couple of inches more, and we’d have been goners!” gasped the driver, pale with fright. Bracing his feet against the steering wheel for leverage, he forced the front door upward and scrambled out. Frantically he wrenched open the back door.

“You guys all right?” he inquired of his passengers, who had been dumped in a heap on the bottom side of the cab.

“All right would be an exaggeration,” Joe grunted. “Let’s say shaken up, with cuts and bruises, but hopefully no broken bones. How about you, Frank?”

“I’ll live,” Frank predicted.

Just as the boys were climbing out of the taxi, a couple of motorcycle policemen roared to the scene of the accident. The usual formalities of name-taking began.

“H-a-r-d-y,” Frank spelled out.

“Any relation to Fenton Hardy the detective?” the officer asked.

“We’re his sons.”

The cabdriver, turning livid as his indignation mounted, gave a graphic description of what had occurred. He was delighted to hear Frank report the license number of the black sedan.

One of the policemen immediately pulled out a list of stolen vehicles from his pocket and ran a finger down the numbers. “Here it is!” he said.

A little while later another officer arrived in a squad car with the information that he had found the car itself with open doors, abandoned in an alley close by. No sign of the men.

“Something funny about this whole business,” he said slowly, after hearing the boys’ story. “Let’s go over and give this car the once-over before we tow it in.”

While the police examined the sedan, Frank and Joe stood by silently. Finally, just as the tow truck was driving up, Frank inquired if they might have a look inside. The officers nodded permission.

The boys saw nothing of any interest and were turning away in disappointment when Joe caught sight of a white fleck at the edge of the front floor mat.

“Just a minute. There’s something under the mat.” He pulled out the slip of paper.

“Takes an amateur to teach us our business,” snorted one of the policemen and took it.

“Beginner’s luck, Officer,” Frank suggested.

“Beginner’s bad luck, seems to me,” the policeman retorted with obvious satisfaction after examining the paper. “You’re Frank Hardy, aren’t you? Well, this is a driver’s license. Take a look.”

Frank gulped. “It’s mine!”

The boys knew they were on the spot. Since their jackets and wallets had disappeared in Bayport, they lacked any proof of identification. They were unknown to the Baltimore authorities, and all the evidence so far pointed to a connection with a car theft.

“Whatever you’re up to, you’ve got some tall explaining to do,” the officer warned them. “We’ll have to book you if you don’t come up with a believable story fast!”

“Will you believe Fenton Hardy?” Joe put in.

“Sure. If he were here!”

“To begin with,” Joe explained, “we told the truth. He’s our father. Furthermore, he’s working on a case here in Baltimore. If you’ll just take us to his hotel, he’ll vouch for us.”

The tow truck started moving, pulling the stolen car behind. Since there was nothing more to be learned at the scene of the accident, the police decided to take Frank and Joe down to headquarters. There they were placed in the custody of a plainclothes detective for the ride to Mr. Hardy’s hotel.

They drove in an unmarked car. “That’s a rough neighborhood,” the detective explained. “No sense in alerting everybody in sight to the fact that the law is coming.”

The car swung into a heavily industrialized area, past grimy smoke-blackened factories and shoddy businesses. Here and there a delicatessen or a supermarket catered to customers with more money to spend than those who frequented the dingier shops.

The car nosed through the toughest area of all, down near the docks. Waterfront characters loomed in doorways, talking loudly. A rolling gait often betrayed the sailor. The varied accents of the foreign seamen indicated that their home ports ranged all around the world from Singapore and Liverpool, from Marseilles and Calcutta.

They stopped in front of the hotel where Fenton Hardy was supposed to be staying. Joe looked at the tacky, run-down place. “How does such a beat-up establishment stay solvent?” he wondered.

Entering the hotel, they advanced to the desk. The clerk was a handsome fellow, with dark skin and a profile of classic regularity.

He greeted the strangers with his palms together and an ingratiating smile. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Looks like a native of India,” Frank thought.

The detective came right to the point. “We’d like to see Fenton Hardy.”

“Fenton Hardy? I don’t recognize the name. He can’t be staying in this hotel unless my memory is playing tricks on me. Let me see what the ledger has to say.” He ran his finger down a page. “No, just as I thought. There’s no such name here.”

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. They had forgotten to tell the officer that their father was not using his real name on this assignment.

Now they were really in a bind. What would the authorities think of Fenton Hardy and L. Marks being one and the same man? What would happen if the oily-mannered clerk put two and two together?

Still the truth was the only way out.

“Have you an L. Marks registered here?” Frank asked anxiously.

As the desk clerk re-examined the ledger, Joe drew the detective aside and gave him a quick account of his father’s alias.

The clerk looked up. “I’m very sorry,” he dedared with a smirk that seemed to contradict his apology. “There’s no L. Marks staying in the hotel either. Shall I search for yet a third name that may be of interest to you?”

“No thanks. We’ll try for three another time.” The detective turned away from the desk. “Okay, there’s nothing more to be gained down here,” he said to the boys. “We’ll go back where we came from and start all over again.”

Frank and Joe were completely discouraged as they climbed silently into the car. Suddenly Joe had an idea. “Admiral Rodgers!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t we think of him before? We just saw him at the Pentagon. He could vouch for us!”

“Maybe you know the president, too,” the detective replied sarcastically.

“Look, we’re not kidding,” Frank protested. “Will you at least call him?”

“Sure. I’ve got a hot line to Washington.”

By the time they arrived at police headquarters, they had persuaded the officer to put in a call to the Pentagon. Frank and Joe listened breathlessly to the conversation that followed.

The detective stated his case, then there was a brief pause. “Yes,” he continued. “Let me see now. You say Frank is eighteen years old, dark hair and brown eyes.... And Joe Hardy is seventeen, blond hair and blue eyes.... Yes, the other details check out.... You want to speak to Frank?...Here he is.”

The elder Hardy talked briefly with the admiral. Then he returned the phone to the detective, who thanked Rodgers for his help and hung up.

“You’re off the hook,” he said. “Admiral Rodgers gives you a clean bill of health. You can go now. And give your father my regards when you see him. We appreciate the work he’s been doing.”

“Dad’ll be pleased by your compliment,” Frank replied. “He’s a former member of the force himself.”

Leaving headquarters, Joe reflected that they still did not know why L. Marks was not registered at the hotel.

Frank nodded. “But there’s a catch to that. We only know what the clerk told us. Remember, he was the only one who looked into the ledger. He never pushed it across the desk so we could see for ourselves. How can we be sure he was telling the truth?”

“I’ll bet my money the other way around. He didn’t look the type to inspire confidence, anyhow. What’s next?”

“A look at the ledger!”

They phoned Jack Wayne at the airport, and asked him to stand by until the next day. “We intend to find out whether Dad is in that hotel or not, but we should be back by the afternoon.”

Returning to the dock area, Frank and Joe staked out the hotel from a small, all-night diner, conveniently situated across the street, hoping for a chance to slip unnoticed into the hotel. It was a long wait.

“Look at this!” Frank whispered excitedly

They could see the desk clerk from where they sat and it seemed he was a permanent fixture. Not once did he move away. Just as they were about to give up, two seamen arrived in search of lodgings for the night.

It was now or never. The Hardys watched the clerk, a different one from their Indian friend, produce the ledger to be signed. Then he reached for keys and escorted the men to their room.

This was the opportunity the boys had been waiting for. They hurried across the street, slipped through the door, and walked to the desk. Frank pulled the ledger over and opened it. Frantically he flipped the pages to the current list of guests.

“Look at this!” he whispered excitedly. He placed his finger on an entry where the name of L. Marks was inscribed in their father’s handwriting! A large X was scrawled in the margin beside it!

The sight of the X mark chilled them. But they had found the information they were after and had to get out before they were discovered.

Hastily they replaced the ledger. They had taken only a few steps toward the door when a harsh voice booming across the lobby stopped them short.

“I saw you!”

CHAPTER VII

Desperate Dive

“LOOKS as if we’ve had it!” Joe muttered. “He probably saw us looking at the ledger!”

“Let’s not hit the panic button!” Frank replied guardedly. “Keep cool, and we’ll try to talk our way out of it!”

The boys wheeled around and walked back to the desk, feeling uncomfortable under the beady eyes of the clerk, who obviously was determined to question them about their actions.

“I saw you!” he repeated. Then he added reproachfully, “You should have waited a minute or two when you discovered there was no one at the desk. I had to show two men to their room. There’s one vacancy at the moment. Do you want it?”

Frank and Joe needed all their self-control to avoid giving themselves away. What a relief! He had not spotted them at the ledger after all! Now to put up a bold front before he became suspicious.

“Yes,” said Frank to the clerk, “we’d like a room for the night. My partner here is Jay Mackin, and I’m Roy Bard.”

They signed the register, paid in advance, and were shown to a room.

Joe sat down on one of the twin beds. “Thank goodness we pulled that off safely!”

Frank nodded. “The thing is, we’re really in the lion’s den now. This place may very well be the hideout of the gang we’re after, and they wouldn’t think twice about rubbing us out.”

“I wonder what’s become of Dad,” Joe mused.

“For all we know, he’s somewhere in this building. Maybe he’s being held prisoner!”

“That X opposite the name L. Marks in the ledger convinced me that Dad’s not among his greatest admirers,” Joe agreed.

Frank stared out the window into the dimly lighted street. A car horn broke the stillness with a raucous blast. Four tipsy sailors staggered past, bellowing a sea chanty at the top of their lungs.

The elder boy took in the scene before answering. “You won’t get any argument from me. This hotel gives me the creeps. And we’re cut off from the outside world. There’s no telephone in this room, no way to contact the police.”

“Right. We’re a couple of sitting ducks wondering when the hunters are going to begin taking potshots at us.”

The boys, tired and worried, put their heads together in the hope of coming up with a plan. Nothing practical suggested itself.

“Let’s sleep on it,” Joe proposed. “We can’t do much until we find out who’s in the hotel, and what kind of shenanigans are going on. These beds will probably give us nightmares,” he concluded, feeling the lumps in the mattress before snapping out the light.

In spite of this prediction, he was soundly asleep when Frank shook him by the arm.

“What’s up?” Joe inquired, with closed eyes.

“Wake up. Hurry!”

“What time is it?”

“Four A.M.”

Joe groaned. “That’s not a fit hour for man or beast to be up and around!”

“Quiet!” Frank whispered. “Some funny business is going on next door. There was a heavy thump—shook the room and woke me up. Then a sound as though wheels were being rolled over the floor. One of them needed oiling because it squeaked. Listen!”

Low conversation and a scuffing, thumping sound could be heard through the flimsy wall. Obviously something heavy was being moved.

By now Joe was wide awake. “Holy catfish! Sounds as if they’re disposing of a body!”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. We’d better find out for sure.”

The two threw on their clothes. Stealthily they opened their door a crack in order to have a clear view down the length of the hall. Moments after they took up their vigil, the door to the other room opened.

A man came out, glanced around to see that the coast was clear, and motioned to someone inside. A second man emerged, pushing a hand truck on which was a large wooden cask.

Gingerly, as quietly as the creaking floorboards would permit, the pair maneuvered it down to the end of the hall, where they squeezed it into a rickety service elevator.

As soon as the sliding doors closed, the boys tumbled out of their room in a headlong dash for the stairs. They went down the steps three at a time. Panting, they pulled up at the bottom.

“Quick!” Frank pointed. “Let’s get behind that stack of laundry baskets and see what happens when they get down.”

The elevator indicator moved down to number one. The doors opened. The two men eased their hand truck out, still balancing the cask on it.

One picked up the handles and began to push the burden toward the back entrance of the hotel. The other guided the carrier, while keeping a hand on the cask to prevent it from rolling off.

Silently, carefully, the boys followed. A dusty pickup truck was parked in the back alley. Tilting the hand truck forward, the men raised the cask to an upright position so each could get a grip.

Straining and swearing under their breath, they levered the cask up into the rear of the pickup, bolted the tailboard, then climbed into the front seat. The motor came to life and the truck started to move.

“Come on,” Joe hissed. Rushing forward he managed to get a foot up on the bumper and propelled himself into the back of the vehicle. Frank was right on his heels. They crouched behind the cask, hoping fervently the driver would not see them in his rear-view mirror.

The truck, gathering speed, moved rapidly through empty streets in the direction of the harbor, rattling the cask against the metal it was standing on and jouncing the boys up and down every time the rear wheels hit a bump.

Finally the driver stepped on the brake, slowing the truck on an oil-soaked dock where the water lapped against the pilings ten feet below.

“Come on,” Frank whispered in Joe’s ear. “Let’s beat it out of here before they get wise to us.”

The boys sneaked one at a time over the tailboard, dropped lightly to the dock, and dashed round the back of a nearby dilapidated shed.

“Wow!” puffed Joe, “that was pretty close. But I don’t think they noticed anything.”

Frank was peering cautiously round the corner of the shack. “They’re unloading the cask,” he reported. “Now they’re rolling it to the edge of the dock.”

There was a loud splash.

“They’ve dumped it into the water!” Frank said.

This task accomplished, the two men ran back to their truck and roared off without a backward glance.

The Hardys raced to the spot. “There it is,” called Joe, pointing excitedly. “It’s sinking fast.”

He was right. As the cask went under, a cloud of air bubbles began to rise to the surface from around the edges of the lid!

“Somebody or something’s inside,” Frank said in alarm. “And maybe still alive!”

There was no time to debate the situation. Both boys kicked off their loafers and hit the water in a desperate dive.

Plunging downward, they arched underneath the cask, took hold of the bottom rim on either side, and hoisted it to the surface. With some effort they maneuvered the bulky cylinder so that it lay lengthwise on the water.

“If we can get it over to that boat slip before it sinks we’ll be lucky,” gasped Frank. “Let’s swim behind it and try to push it and keep it afloat at the same time.”

They soon had the cask bobbing toward shore.

Despite the green slime that covered the slip, they managed to get it out of the water.

“Let’s stand it upright now,” Frank said, grunting with effort as he proceeded to do so. “Anything we can use to pry the lid off?”

Joe crawled up the slope from the water’s edge and returned triumphantly with an iron bar he had found in a pile of rusty junk on the dock.

“This should do the trick,” he told Frank as he applied the bar to the rim of the cask.

The lid snapped off and clattered on the concrete. Eagerly the boys peered inside.

Slumped in a heap, seemingly unconscious, was a man in a rough tweed jacket, corduroy pants, and battered brogans.

“Dad!” Frank cried out. “Is he still breathing?”

“Yes, he is,” Joe answered quickly. “Look, he’s beginning to come round.” He tugged at their father’s arms. “Here, help me lift him out.”

As gently as they could they eased Mr. Hardy out of the cask and carried him up to the deserted dock. There they slapped his face and chafed his wrists until his breathing became stronger. The color returned to his cheeks. He began to struggle feebly.

“Dad! It’s us!” Frank whispered into his ear. “Don’t worry, the thugs are gone!”

It took the detective a few minutes to realize that he had been rescued by his own sons. “In the nick of time, too,” he said weakly. “Good work, boys. However did you know I was here?”

“We didn’t,” Frank said. “It was pure luck.” And they told their story.

Then they turned the bulky container on its side and rolled it completely over. One stave bore the legend Quantico Quicksilver in heavy black letters.

“I’d call that a clue,” Fenton Hardy declared with satisfaction. “Quantico Quicksilver is a major chemical company that has been losing mercury flasks to thieves!”

Frank dubiously looked at the cask. “Any point in preserving this memento?”

“No. Better put it back in the water before the thugs notice it lying around.”

The boys carried the cask to the edge of the dock, depressed the open end to make sure it shipped water, and allowed it to sink out of sight. The lid, which had no markings, would only float if tossed in, so Joe kicked it behind some packing cases.

Daylight was breaking, bringing sailors and longshoremen down to the docks to assume sea duty or handle cargoes. Soon the whole harbor area would be as busy as a beehive. “Let’s go,” Mr. Hardy said.

They walked back to the hotel, keeping to the side streets, and discussed their next move. Slinking into the back alley, they climbed up the fire escape to the window of the room from which the cask had been taken.

They flattened themselves against the wall and listened eagerly for sounds from inside. Several men were stirring around. Spoons clinked in cof fee cups. Cigar smoke drifted through the slightly opened window.

The talk was audible to the three eavesdroppers. “Who would have thought Marks was Hardy?” gloated one of the men. “Good thing we tapped his phone or we might never have got on to him. He sure knew how to use those disguises. Only the last one didn’t work!”

“Rest his soul in the briny deep,” another said with a laugh. “He’ll never know about the Super S now!”

CHAPTER VIII

Hotel Hideout

THE Hardys, clinging to the wall outside the window, exchanged baffled glances. The Super S again! What could these hoods know about the missile that had disappeared from the Baltimore arsenal?

The men in the room were, they knew, members of the mercury gang. They seemed to be common thieves, clever at stealing the flasks of liquid metal, but hardly important enough to put a scare into the Pentagon!

There was the flat thud of a fist against flesh and the sound of a heavy body falling against the door.

“Don’t mention that, you fool!” snarled a voice menacingly.

“Why not?” came the sullen retort, presumably from the recipient of the blow. “With Hardy out of the way, there’s nothing for us to worry about! We’re in the clear again!”

“Oh, yeah? Suppose the Feds pick up where the gumshoe dropped out of the case? Do you want them to put us on the run?”

“If you’re so concerned,” sneered the other, “just tell U3 how the Feds could have heard my remark about the subject we’re not supposed to mention! I checked this room for bugs myself. Even if they knew we were here, they couldn’t tune in!”

A string of oaths greeted the protest. “You talk here, you’ll talk where it isn’t quite so private. So shut up!”

A third voice broke into the row. “Lay off, you guys. We’ve got to get on with the timetable. Dumping Hardy among the fish was only the beginning. We’re moving into high gear as soon as we get the green light from Mr. Big!”

There was the scrape of a chair, then he continued. “Orders are for us to meet here tonight. Break it up for now. You’ve got jobs to do. I’ll lock the door.”

The Hardys quickly slipped down the fire escape into the alley. Finding the service elevator conveniently empty on the ground floor, they crowded in and soon entered the boys’ room.

Frank was seething mad. “They tapped our home phone! That’s how they knew you were Marks, Dad!”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “That’s one thing I didn’t expect.” He started to take off his soggy clothes and continued, “My strategy worked perfectly at the start. Finding that members of the gang were staying in this hotel, I arranged to have an accidental meeting with them. We happened to be in the elevator together, and I happened to have a light when one of them brought out a pack of cigarettes.”

“Accidentally on purpose,” Joe mused.

“Right,” his father said. “I managed to make them think L. Marks was a gangster. They assumed I was hiding out from the police and needed a job. Which impressed them favorably, of course!”

“I’ll bet,” Frank said with a grin.

“They were pretty close-mouthed at first, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that the ringleader—whoever he is—had indoctrinated his strong-arm squad effectively with the need for secrecy.”

“How did you manage to break the ice?” Joe asked.

“By bragging about being a candidate for public enemy number one, I gained their confidence. The chances were beginning to look good that they might let me in on the deal.

“I’m almost sure I was on the verge of a breakthrough when they bugged our telephone. Obviously they wanted to keep tabs on me. And what they found out was that I was L. Marks!”

Mr. Hardy paused to take a shower. When he came out of the bathroom he rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and took a deep breath. The effects of his ordeal showed in dark circles under his eyes. He lay down on the bed while the boys cleaned up, then continued his story.

“I had a hunch that they were on to me, so I checked out of here and returned later in another disguise, trying to find out what they knew about L. Marks. But the entire case blew up in my face last night. Two of the thugs barged into my room. They shouted that the game was up, told me they were holding you prisoners, and threatened that I’d never see you again unless I gave them my entire dossier on the mercury case!”

“Did you?” Frank asked.

“I had no choice. They had me cornered by sheer weight of numbers. Besides, they showed me your jackets and wallets.”

Joe described how they had been stolen at the Bayport repair shop near the landing field. “I couldn’t understand this bit of petty thievery at the time,” he said. “Now it makes sense. They wanted to be sure you’d play ball.”

“They couldn’t have kidnapped us at the airport very easily,” Frank went on. “Not with all those people around. So they tried a different gimmick, pretended kidnapping!”

“Which served their purposes almost as well,” Mr. Hardy pointed out. “They got what they really wanted—the information I had gathered on them.”

“Then what happened?” Joe inquired.

“Well, they had no motive to keep me alive and every reason to get me out of the way. They knocked me out, stuffed me into that cask, and took me to the harbor on a one-way trip. Luckily you two showed up in time!”

The Hardys pondered their next move.

“We’re in better shape than we were before,” Frank commented. “Those thugs are convinced that they’ve disposed of Fenton Hardy. Okay, we’ll play it their way! Let them continue to think you’re dead, Dad. They won’t be suspicious that anyone is on their trail, let alone closing in on them. Could be they’ll become careless.”

Joe was excited by Frank’s strategy. “Since they don’t know we’re in the same hotel with them, this is the perfect hideout for us. We’re their next-door neighbors. So we’ll be able to keep an eye on them.”

“An ear too,” Frank added with a chuckle. “It shouldn’t be too difficult for us to bug their room!”

“That’s a problem,” Mr. Hardy put in. “Those hoods took my electronic equipment. We’ll have to retrieve it somehow.”

Frank spoke up. “I’ll go down and arrange for another night in this room. It would be embarrassing if our hideout were suddenly pulled out from under us because we neglected to pay the bill!”

“And while you’re downstairs, how about picking up some food?” Mr. Hardy suggested. “I’m famished! Haven’t had anything to eat since noon yesterday!”

Frank took the elevator down to the lobby. The day shift had not taken over yet, a big relief to him since he preferred to avoid the Indian of the previous afternoon. The night clerk willingly agreed to let “Mackin” and “Bard” occupy their room the following night, and Frank paid up.

Then he sauntered out of the hotel and into the diner across the street. He ordered a stack of sandwiches along with cartons of steaming hot coffee and was soon back in their room.

The sandwiches diminished rapidly under the onslaught of the three Hardys. The coffee disappeared just as quickly. They all felt better as they put the debris into the wastebasket. The detective was beginning to be himself again.

“A couple of hours’ sleep and we should be as good as new. That’s all we can afford if we’re to keep the gang under surveillance.”

“I think one of us had better stand guard in case anyone tries to break in,” Joe suggested.

“Good idea.”

Joe volunteered to stay awake since he was not particularly tired at the moment. While the others turned in, he stationed himself in a chair near the window.

Turning over the pages of a magazine, he listened to the sounds of the hotel coming to life. The buzz of cars in the parking lot indicated that the day shift was replacing the night shift. The elevator clanged as guests arrived and departed. A low hum of voices from the street reached the room.

Suddenly footsteps approached along the hall. Two men stopped at the door of the Hardys’ room, conversing in an undertone. “Shall we go right in?” Joe heard one ask.

He stiffened. “The enemy is preparing to charge!” he thought. “Better summon reinforcements.” He stepped around the bed to wake his father. Then he paused.

“There’s no point in going in there,” the second man declared. “That’s not our room. We’re on the floor below.”

“That’s what comes of going on a bender just off the ship!” replied his comrade with a hiccup. “Come on. Let’s go down before my legs give out. I’m gonna snooze the clock around!”

Joe relaxed and went back to his chair. “This kind of interruption I can do without,” he murmured. He allowed his father and brother to catch up on their sleep, and roused them at the time agreed upon. Both were ready for action.

“Anything happen while we snoozed?” Frank wanted to know.

“Nothing but a false alarm, although it gave me quite a turn,” Joe told him, and went on to describe the incident of the sailors in the hall.

“It’s good you took note of them,” Mr. Hardy said soberly. “From now on, we have to be extra careful of those we’re dealing with. Regard everyone who approaches as a suspect until he clears himself. We’ll cover our tracks—”

A pounding on the door cut him off. Mr. Hardy’s voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t be seen here when you’re the only ones registered. If you need help, yell!” With that he disappeared into the closet.

“Who’s there?” Frank called out sharply. “What do you want?”

Joe slid silently behind the door, prepared to jump anyone who tried to force his way in.

“It’s the desk clerk,” stated the man outside. “You guys gotta get out, we need the room!”

CHAPTER IX

A Bug on a Wire

“WHAT are you trying to pull?” Frank demanded. “We’ve paid in advance so we could stay in this room for another night!”

“Too bad about that,” said the surly voice. “But there’s been a mistake. We had an earlier reservation the night clerk didn’t know about. Another party’s coming in. So you’ll have to vacate!”

Frank played for time. “Okay, we’ll pack our things and get out of here. But how about another room in the hotel? After all, we’re paying customers, cash on the barrelhead!”

“Nothing doing. Every room is occupied. My orders are to get you out before check-out time. Nothing personal, you understand. Just business.”

“Okay, we’ll be off the premises by noon. However, you’ve still got the money we’ve paid in advance. If we don’t get it back pronto, you’ll have to carry us out!”

“Don’t worry, wise guy,” growled the clerk. “You’ll get your dough—right now!”

There was a rustling sound as some dollar bills appeared under the door. Frank stooped and picked them up as footsteps retreated down the hall.

“Better see if it’s all there,” Joe said.

“It’s all here,” Frank said cheerfully, flipping the bills with his thumb. “They’re only too glad to pay off. Which means they want to get rid of us with as little fuss as possible.”

Now that the coast was clear Mr. Hardy emerged from the closet. The three held a council of war about what to do next.

“We’ll have to work fast and pick up as much information as we can before noon,” Mr. Hardy said.

“Think there’s anything in that story about an earlier reservation?” Joe asked. “The man who came to our door didn’t sound like the day clerk we met yesterday.”

His father shrugged. “Perhaps. It could also be that they want to clear the hotel of any outsiders.”

Frank sighed. “Well, it’s all in the game. We can’t take anything for granted.”

“What now?” Joe asked.

Fenton Hardy gave Frank and Joe a rundown on the main facts of the case. The evidence he had collected before being discovered pointed to a high-power conference of the gang that night. And what they had heard on the fire escape proved it.

“We ought to sit in on their session,” Joe observed. “By remote control. How do we get our bug back, Dad?”

Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful. “Those thugs who put me in the cask took it. Before they knocked me out, I saw one of them place my electronic equipment in a closet. If we can only get into their room, we should be able to find it easily enough.”

“In other words, it’s time for us to see if anyone’s home!” Frank chuckled.

The hall was empty. The Hardys walked quickly to the room next to theirs where the thugs were staying. Frank tapped on the door. He was sure no one had returned, but was prepared to ask for a fictitious person if anyone answered, and then pretend that he had made a mistake in the room number.

The subterfuge was not necessary. No sound came from within. Frank tried the knob. “Locked, of course,” he stated.

His father took a long needle-sharp gadget from his pocket to pick the lock. Meanwhile the boys stood guard on either side, looking up and down the hallway, keeping a nervous eye on the elevator, ready to give instant warning if anyone appeared.

Mr. Hardy worked with deft speed. “This one’s a cinch compared to most I’ve opened in my career,” he said softly.

Then he stood up, turned the knob, and pushed. The door swung inward, revealing an untidy scene. Bedclothes were piled up where they had been thrown aside, cigarette butts were scattered on the floor, an overturned coffee cup had spilled its contents on the table.

Fenton Hardy did not have to explore the room. Quickly he walked to the closet, opened it, and felt carefully along the shelf. “Here it is!” He brought down the coil of wire with the metal sphere on one end and the receiver on the other.

“Everything okay?” Frank queried anxiously, poking his head into the room.

“Yes. They may have intended to use the bug themselves. If so, they’ll have to postpone that plan because we have a prior claim.”

Mr. Hardy closed the closet. “Let’s get out of here!”

As Frank looked around the room, his eyes rested on a newspaper on the table.

“Dad,” he murmured, “over there—the Bayport Times!”

Mr. Hardy picked it up. “That’s strange. I wonder why they brought it all the way to Baltimore.” He stuffed it inside his shirt. “We’ll take it along and catch up on the news back home.”

They quickly left the room. Mr. Hardy closed the door, jiggled the knob to be sure the lock had slipped back into place, then led the way to the elevator.

“Now where are we going?” Joe asked.

“We haven’t much choice. I’d say the roof,” Mr. Hardy replied.

They stepped out of the elevator on the top floor, climbed a narrow flight of stairs, and arrived at a skylight door. Frank pushed it open and they went onto the roof.

“This seems our best hideout,” Mr. Hardy said, looking around.

“Might as well get set for a long siege,” Frank added. “Our friends aren’t due back until this evening.”

They found a corner where the projecting skylight cast a long shadow across the roof, agreed that this was a good vantage point, and sat down to rest and wait.

Mr. Hardy pulled the Bayport newspaper from his shirt. Frank and Joe looked on from either side as he flattened it out.

“Hm! Nothing on page one to interest us,” the detective commented. “Or have I overlooked something?”

“Not as far as I can see,” Joe answered. “Maybe there’s a clue on the inside pages.”

They carefully scanned the paper, remarking on stories of the Bayport scene, but found nothing that had even the remotest connection with the case.

Mr. Hardy said, “It’s unlikely that there’s anything in the radio and TV section. But let’s check.”

Joe whistled as he looked at the first page. “Hey, what have we here?” He placed a finger at the top of the program listings where somebody had drawn a red pencil circle.

“That’s our local kilocycle number for Bayport radio,” Frank said. “The station plays hit tunes nearly round the clock as you can see from the program. What’s the name of the disk jockey again, Joe?”

“Teddy Blaze. He’s only been with the network a short time, I believe.”

“What do you make of this?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

“Beats me,” Frank replied.

“Why the thugs would be interested in popular music is a mystery to me,” Joe added.

When darkness fell, they carried their electronic bug to the parapet. Mr. Hardy readied the receiver while Joe cautiously payed out the wire over the edge until the instrument dangled outside the thugs’ window.

Soon it began picking up sounds of the gang congregating inside. Feet scuffled. Chairs creaked. Voices buzzed. Bits and pieces of conversation came through.

“Now that Hardy is out of the way,” someone declared, “we can get on with the job of heisting the empties.”

Frank and Joe looked blankly at their father as if asking, “What empties?”

He shrugged, indicating that he was as mystified as they were. Nothing in the talk going on down below enlightened them. Obviously the gang understood the reference without having the details spelled out.

The discussion shifted to topics that the Hardys already knew about. They were beginning to doubt that they were going to hear anything useful, when suddenly an authoritative voice issued a warning that made them prick up their ears.

“I want you guys to get this through your heads! Button up your lips about the Bombay Boomerang! We’re too close to the big play to let anything go wrong now! The whole deal could be ruined if the cops get wise to what we’re up to.”

Breathlessly the Hardys waited for him to continue. Were they finally going to learn about the Bombay Boomerang?

So intent were they on the conversation down below that they failed to notice the rising breeze. It caught their wire, with the tiny bug dangling on the end, and wafted it against the windowpane in a series of sharp taps!

The window went up with a thump. A head peered upward. “Someone’s on the roof!” a voice yelled. “Get up there quick!” Chairs scraped and fell over as the entire gang jumped up and pounded through the door.

Joe cautiously payed out the wire

There was no time to lose. Desperately the Hardys sprang to close the skylight door. What could they use as a barricade? Only a master TV antenna was on the otherwise empty roof. Frank and Joe ripped it down, jamming its metal rod against the solid tin door, using the parapet to anchor the other end.

Just in time! The first gangster up the stairway was banging against the door with his fist. Those behind cursed and shouted, telling him to keep going.

The Hardys were trapped! No sense trying to climb down the fire escape with the thugs so close behind. There was only one desperate chance. They would have to leap across the alley to the building next door!

Mr. Hardy went first. Gathering speed as he ran he leaped onto the parapet and sprang into space. The boys gasped in relief as he landed squarely on the other side.

Frank followed, using the same technique. Then came Joe. But when his foot touched the parapet, seeking leverage for the jump, it slipped. He could not stop himself and knew he would never clear the distance. Below him lay a solid six-story drop and the hard pavement of the alley!

CHAPTER X

The Disk Jockey’s Dog

DESPERATELY Joe threw his arms forward! His fingertips clutched at the edge of the roof, and he hung there, straining every muscle. He knew he could not last for more than a few seconds. Already his grip was beginning to weaken. He slid back toward destruction!

“Hold on, Joe,” Frank yelled.

Rushing to where Joe dangled helplessly, Mr. Hardy and Frank grabbed him by the wrists. Hauling frantically, they got him safely up on the roof.

“Thanks,” Joe panted. “I hope that’s my last cliff-hanger!”

“We’d better get out of here before we have company,” Frank warned, pointing toward the opposite building, where by now the barricaded door started to give.

They hastened to a skylight door leading downstairs. Luckily it was unlocked. With Mr. Hardy in the lead, they lost no time in getting to the elevator.

“I hope it doesn’t stop on the way,” Joe said nervously.

“If we’re delayed, we might have to hide out in the building,” his father remarked. But the elevator went straight down and they hurried to the front door.

“Keep your cool,” Mr. Hardy warned under his breath. “We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”

Frank peered outside. “The coast is clear,” he reported. “And—wow! We’ve got help! Jack Wayne is just getting out of a red Ford over there!”

“What timing!” his father exclaimed. “Let’s make for Jack’s car!”

Walking briskly across the street, the fugitives reached the Ford, jumped in, and crouched down on the floor. Frank peeked through the rear window.

“I don’t see the hounds yet. The elevator next door must have stopped on every floor,” he said.

“What about Jack?” his father queried.

“He went into the hotel. Probably got worried about us.”

Joe rose slightly to get a view of the hotel entrance. “Oh, here they come!” he warned. “Duck low!”

Four men barreled out of the door. Two ran in opposite directions. The other two plunged into the alley and continued right around the building.

They met again, shrugging in obvious disappointment, and began to argue furiously. Finally they dashed into the building where the Hardys had just been.

Jack Wayne emerged from the hotel accompa nied by the desk clerk. They, too, were in the midst of a heated dispute, the pilot insisting that the Hardys must be there, the clerk just as certain they were not.

“If Frank and Joe cleared out, they’d certainly have let me know,” Wayne stated vehemently. Getting nowhere, he broke off the discussion, returned to the car and jumped in.

Frank tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Startled, Jack wheeled around.

“Easy, Jack,” Fenton Hardy whispered. “All three of us are here. Act as if nothing has happened and make tracks for the airport, quick!”

Catching on, the pilot whipped the car out of the parking spot and maneuvered it skillfully through the traffic.

The Hardys relaxed. “That was simply beautiful, Jack,” Frank said. “Where’d you get the car?”

“Borrowed it from a fellow I know at the airport,” Jack replied. “Since you didn’t call, I thought I’d better check up on you. What happened?”

“Nothing, really,” Joe said. “We just had to make a rather unorthodox exit. Our friends at the hotel didn’t want to let us go!”

Soon the airport came into view. Mr. Hardy’s plane stood on a side runway. He went straight to it.

“We’ll wait inside,” he said. “Gives us more privacy than the lobby. Jack, do me a favor. Call Captain Stein at police headquarters and have him come out here if possible.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Hardy.” Jack strode into the administration building. Only ten minutes after his return the captain arrived.

Fenton Hardy briefed his colleague on the current status of the mercury case. The captain whistled.

“We had no idea the affair was that big! Murder, eh? We’ll have to look into that!”

“I’d like to see two steps taken right away,” Mr. Hardy replied in grave tones. “To begin with, the hotel should be placed under surveillance at once. At least three or four plainclothesmen, considering the size of this gang. We don’t know who the leader is yet, but one of his henchmen might lead us to him.”

“Right.” Captain Stein scribbled a few lines in his notebook. “And then?”

“If you could spread the word to the news media that Penton Hardy of Bayport has disappeared under mysterions circumstances it would help. Add that no clues have turned up, and that the case appears to be running into a dead end.”

“I get you,” the captain declared, snapping his notebook shut. “When those guys read the story in the Baltimore papers, they’ll be more sure than ever that they’re safe. You’ll have a better chance to find out what they’re up to, since they won’t be looking for you!”

“That’s the idea, Captain. I’m glad you approve of it. Makes me feel more secure.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Hardy. We like to have you on our side, too.”

“Well,” Mr. Hardy said, “I’m flying back to Bayport with Frank and Joe. We have some clues to follow up.”

It was the middle of the night when Jack Wayne set the plane down at the Bayport airport.

“Before we go home, I want to make a call,” Mr. Hardy said. “It’s not the best hour to phone Admiral Rodgers, but I have to talk to him.”

The admiral brushed aside an apology for waking him up. “My sleep is of no consequence when national security is concerned,” he said. “What have you to report?”

Fenton Hardy said as much as he could over the phone and proposed a secret meeting in Pittsburgh the following evening. Admiral Rodgers agreed.

Then the Hardys returned home to an affectionate welcome from Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.

The next morning Frank and Joe held a get-together with their friends. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at the Hardy house during their absence, the boys reported.

“If anything had happened,” Joe said, laughing, “I’m sure Aunt Gertrude would have informed us the moment we stepped in the door.”

“We’ve come up with another problem,” Frank said. “What do you know about that disk jockey Teddy Blaze?”

“He’s considered a groovy character,” Biff related. “Puts on platters with a real beat. The kids at school are wild about his program.”

“One thing bugs me about him,” Chet offered. “He’s forever chattering about his dog. Tells us his canine companion is named Balto, and then talks to him over the air. Weird kind of nonsense you can’t make out.”

“Chet, you may just have given us a vital clue,” Frank said. “Balto—it’s worth checking out. Come on, Joe! Let’s see what we can find out at the newspaper office!”

They located the radio and TV critic in his cubicle writing a review of a Bayport jazz concert.

“What do I know about Teddy Blaze?” he replied to their question. “Not much. He’s new around here. Comes from somewhere in the South. Maryland, I think. Anyway, the kids go for him in a big way. If you’re after personal information, you’d better go see Teddy himself. He’ll be at the studio now.”

Frank and Joe thanked him and had no difficulty getting into the studio when they announced they were fans of Teddy Blaze. The disk jockey had left orders that his fans were to be admitted.

“Good publicity,” said the doorman with a wink.

The boys found Blaze in top form, or as Joe put it, “flip and insufferable!”

“You fellows look like refugees from the Bach brigade,” he gibed. “Are you beginning to see the light? Does my music provide you with spiritual sustenance?”

Frank was nonplused. “That’s not the kind of patter I expected,” he thought. “Hardly the lingo of the hep generation.”

Joe took up the disk jockey’s line. “We’ve switched. But I imagine we’re not the only ones in these parts. You must have a lot of fans.”

“You’re coming through loud and clear,” Blaze boasted. “But modesty forbids me to tell you the size of my listening audience. Ask my press agent. He’ll be less humble about it.”

The man gave the visitors a sidelong glance and asked slyly, “How’s your famous father? I’d have given him the big hello if he’d come with you. I dig his detective methods!”

Joe put on a long face and said glumly, “Haven’t you heard? Dad’s disappeared. Took a trip to Baltimore and hasn’t been seen since. Very mysterious!”

Blaze seemed hardly distressed to hear it. “Any suspicions?” he inquired in a somewhat mocking tone. “Any idea of what could have happened to Bayport’s celebrated sleuth?”

“Plenty of suspicions,” Frank answered, “but they don’t seem to lead anywhere. Perhaps we’ll have news about him later. I don’t really want to talk about it. Let’s get to the music!”

“We came down to the studio to discuss your program,” Joe added. “It’s for a paper we have to write in school. How do you pick the platters you play on the air? Intuition?”

“Not entirely,” Blaze replied smugly. “Intelligence might be a better word. Look here. This is a list of the disks that are selling best around the country. I know what my millions of fans are going for each week, and I give it to them.”

While Frank deliberately kept the disk jockey engrossed in his own cleverness, Joe walked around the room, looking at pictures and records. Then he leaned behind a filing cabinet, holding a record from the stock lying on the table. He removed an envelope from his pocket. Making sure that Blaze’s back was toward him, he scattered some fine powder over the center of the record where the man had braced his thumbs to avoid smudging the grooves.

He blew the powder aside, revealing a perfect thumbprint. Guardedly he brought out his miniature camera and snapped a picture of the print. “If there’s anything on Blaze in the police files, this should do the trick,” he thought.

Replacing the record, he rejoined his brother and Blaze, who were debating the merits of two combos that had recently performed in Bayport.

As the Hardys took their leave, Blaze remarked maliciously, “I hope you find your father. It wouldn’t do for his brilliant sons to be foxed on a case where the missing person happened to be the famous man himself!”

Frank and Joe pretended to be downcast at the thought. They hurried from the studio as the disk jockey returned to his records and his fans.

The boys went straight to the office of Chief Collig, where Joe brought out the film of the thumbprint from Teddy Blaze’s disk.

“I’ll have it developed right away,” Collig agreed, “and do an immediate check to see whether it matches one in our files.”

Driving home, Frank suggested that they listen to Blaze’s program. Joe fiddled with the knob until he got the right kilocycle. A pop tune came bouncing through the radio. As it ended, they heard Blaze’s voice:

“Hello, out there! Ready for an afternoon of the sweet and cool with a dash of hot syncopation? That’s what you want, and that’s what I’ve got for you. And now to my dog Balto. Are you listening? The next number is dedicated to Flatfoot and the Flunkies. You don’t believe it? How suspicious can you get? Plenty. Sock it to ’em! Right up here in Bayport. That’s the ticket!”

Joe snapped the radio off. “Is that stuff supposed to be groovy?” he growled.

CHAPTER XI

Patter in Code

“I don’t think Blaze is trying to be groovy,” Frank responded with a thoughtful frown. “That kind of talk sounded to me more like a riddle.”

“You mean a code? Secret information for listeners who know how to decipher it?”

“Why not? Look, what do you make of Flatfoot and the Flunkies?”

“Dad and ourselves!” Joe exclaimed. “I’ll bet that’s it! Balto must stand for Baltimore. He’s telling his confederates in Baltimore that you and I are suspicious about Dad’s disappearance!”

Frank shifted gears and turned into their driveway. “That’s how I figure it. The rest fits in, too. When he mentions socking it to ’em in Bayport, that could be an order for his pals to deal with us!”

“But we can’t be sure that’s his game after hearing him on the air only once. Let’s have his program monitored while we’re in Pittsburgh. Chet and the others will probably be glad to oblige. I’ll give them a ring.”

Their friends were enthusiastic. They liked Blaze’s recordings. And they vowed to listen in turn to his patter in the hope of breaking the code, if there was one.

That settled, the Hardys were preparing for their trip when Chet Morton’s car drew up in front of their house, wheezing and backfiring as usual.

Joe was puzzled. “We just talked to him over the phone. Wonder why he’s coming to see us.”

“He must have bounced over here as fast as his motorized tin can would travel,” Frank replied. “We’d better go out and see what’s bothering him.”

Chet’s car was standing at the curb. The driver sat at the wheel, fiddling with the ignition.

Joe called out, “Chet, what’s up?”

“That’s not Chet!” Frank shouted the warning. “Duck, Joe!”

Too late! A man hiding in the back of the car leaped out. Leveling a spray gun at them, he fired its contents into their faces. The liquid burned and stung. Frank and Joe staggered back, temporarily blinded by the assault.

“There’s more where this came from,” snarled their assailant. “Pull out of the mere racket while you’ve got time! Stay on our backs, and you’ll go the way your old man went! We’re through fooling with you!”

Before Frank and Joe could open their eyes to get a look at the pair, the car had roared off. The boys soon recovered, agreed that they had been the victims of a variety of tear gas, and returned to the house. After a thorough soap-and-water washing, they consulted their father about the incident.

The phone rang during the conversation. Chet was calling. “You know what’s happened?” he queried glumly. “My car’s been stolen. My pride and joy is in the hands of thieves!”

“We’ve just seen it,” Joe told him. “In fact, it was borrowed for a visit to Frank and me.” He described what had happened. “Report the theft to the police, Chet. They should be able to locate it easily. There aren’t many cars like it around. And tell them that it was used for shooting gas into our faces. I was just about to call Chief Collig myself.”

Chet phoned later to say that his jalopy had been found. “The thieves abandoned it near the bay. The crime lab people examined it, but found nothing incriminating.”

“No clues at all?” Frank questioned.

“No. Chief Collig says the guys were pros who didn’t leave any calling cards. Not so much as a fingerprint. So he still has no lead to the mercury gang.”

Mr. Hardy decided that leaving from Bayport for Pittsburgh might be too risky, so he and his sons drove to an airport several miles away. Jack Wayne had flown in to pick them up, and they were soon in the air.

When the Golden Triangle at the confluence of the Allegheny and the Monongahela showed up in the distance, Jack cut his engines, made a big circle, and came down. for a landing on instructions from the control tower.

Then he went into the administration building, while the Hardys rented a car. “We’re to rendezvous with our friend at the third motel right down this highway,” Mr. Hardy explained. “Place called Vacation Inn.”

Frank made the turn at the neon sign. The motel was an oblong structure with rooms along three sides. They parked and went directly to the room where the admiral was waiting. It was in the middle of one section, so the get-together would be as inconspicuous as possible.

The officer was dressed in civilian clothes when he opened the door. “Another precaution,” he informed the Hardys. “My naval uniform would stick out like a sore thumb in this place.”

He motioned Frank and Joe to sit down on the sofa, while Mr. Hardy made a quick search for hidden microphones. Then the admiral went right to the heart of the matter.

“This Bombay Boomerang angle has me stumped. At the Pentagon, we’ve played the tape from Commander Wenn’s office over and over. With regard to that phrase, we literally don’t know anything yet.”

He glanced at the two boys. “I hear you fellows are experimenting with boomerangs, so maybe you have a theory.”

Frank shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir.”

“My secretary did some research, and she said the weapon is native to India as well as Australia. Does that tidbit lead us anywhere?”

Frank shrugged. “Where it leads—if it leads anywhere—I don’t know. But your secretary is right, Admiral. The Indian boomerang isn’t as famous as the Australian version, but many Indian families cherish their boomerangs as heirlooms and even as sacred relics.”

“Our expert, Chet Morton of Bayport, says that in olden times Bombay was the metropolis of the southern India boomerang country,” Joe put in.

“India keeps popping up in this case,” Frank noted. “Remember that Indian desk clerk in Baltimore. He’s been one of our suspects ever since we saw him. And—”

Mr. Hardy held up a warning hand. “Sh! Someone’s outside the door!”

A key eased into the keyhole. The individual trying the lock twisted it gently at first, then with greater force as it stuck. He was determined to get into the room.

Admiral Rodgers strode to the door. Flinging it open, he surprised a man bending over and fumbling with the key.

“What do you want?” the admiral barked.

“I want to get into my room. What are you guys doing here? This is number 69, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s 89!” The admiral’s tone showed his annoyance at the interruption.

The man was plainly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he stammered apologetically. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He retreated toward number 69.

“An honest mistake, I believe,” Rodgers said, rejoining the circle. “But it’s enough to give one the jitters when strangers crash into a conference like this.”

“We can arrange to keep them away,” Joe declared with a grin. “At least honest ones!” Stepping over to the door, he hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outer knob.

Mr. Hardy picked up the thread of the conversation. “I believe the vital question concerns the relation between the mercury case and the missing missile. What can they possibly have in common? If we knew that, we’d have the solution.”

“There’s another mystery that might link the two, although right now I don’t see how,” Frank said. He and Joe reported their suspicion of Teddy Blaze, the artist of the disks.

They stressed their belief that his patter contained coded messages for his confederates.

“Anyway,” Frank continued, “we may soon have a break on this angle. Joe took a thumbprint from one of Blaze’s records. We left it with Chief Collig to be checked out.”

Admiral Rodgers was impressed by the news.

“It’s a lead worth running down,” Mr. Hardy stated emphatically. “There’s got to be a Baltimore-Bayport connection in all this. What do you think, Admiral?”

“I agree with you. But the Indian angle also has to be considered. I’ve been looking into it myself. A freighter from India is docking at Baltimore day after tomorrow. The Nanda Kailash.”

“You think she warrants investigation?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Find out what cargo she carries, what crew is handling her, and if there is anything suspicious about her voyage.”

“We’ll be glad to check her out, sir,” Joe said.

“Fine. But I don’t want everyone on the ship to get wind that an official investigation is underway. I’ll arrange with the captain for you to go aboard without arousing suspicion. And you’re both good detectives. Is that all right with you, Mr. Hardy?”

“Frank and Joe can take care of themselves,” the detective replied. “I have every confidence that they can give the freighter the once-over, and bring back the facts.”

“Okay, then.” Rodgers wound up the conference. “We’ll leave it at that until something breaks. You can report to me at my office. If I’m not there, call my home any time of the day or night and we can get together. This case must be solved, and judging from the Hardy record, you could be the ones to do it.”

“That’s a compliment, Admiral,” said Mr. Hardy, “and I hope we can make it stand up. This is about as tough an assignment as I’ve ever been on.”

Frank and Joe echoed the words of their father. “We’ll do our best to beat this gang,” Frank said.

Admiral Rodgers went immediately to the airport to fly back to Washington. The Hardys spent the night at the motel. Early Friday morning they left for Baltimore. They took turns driving the rented car.

Frank looked at his watch as they neared their destination. “This is one of the hours when Teddy Blaze is on the air. We might as well listen to his program, Dad. It’ll give you some idea of what we’re talking about. And you might pick up a clue that would get by us.”

Joe flipped the radio to the Bayport station. The disk jockey was playing a popular recording, and the rhythmic beat filled the car.

“Nothing to pick up there,” Mr. Hardy declared. “That music isn’t my cup of tea. Guess I’m too old and far away from the younger generation to appreciate it.”

The piece ended. Blaze came on with his breezy patter. At first everything seemed in order. He was talking the jargon of the trade, using the slang of the new generation to hold the attention of his audience.

Suddenly his tone changed, and so did his patter. Through the radio came the words, “Balto says tonight is the night for a new record album ”Steal My Heart Away,” and it’s strictly for you, precious.”

“Now there’s a nonsense line if I ever heard one,” Joe volunteered. “That is, if it really is nonsense. You see, Dad, that’s why we think there may be more to it than meets the ear.”

Frank had been musing over Blaze’s announcement. “Assuming that he’s in with the mercury thieves, he could be telling them that a new assignment is on the agenda. He might be ordering them into action tonight. But where?”

The three discussed the possibilities in this interpretation. They were baffled when they came to the word “precious” in the disk jockey’s talk.

Suddenly Mr. Hardy sat bolt upright. “I know a company in Baltimore named Precious Metals!” he exclaimed. “Can it be next on the gang’s list? Will Precious Metals discover tomorrow that a shipment of mercury has been stolen?”

CHAPTER XII

Cemetery Search

“IF those thugs are planning to hit Precious Metals,” Fenton Hardy mused, “then I’d better warn the company. We can’t just sit on this information while they make off with the mercury.”

“Well, we certainly have to do something,” Frank agreed. “But suppose an employee of the firm belongs to the gang. If you phone he might get wind of what’s up and sound the alarm. And he could be in management. Even if you went there in person—”

“That’s right!” Joe interrupted. “They could call off the heist at the last moment and reschedule the operation for a later date.”

His father mulled over the problem. “You’re probably right. In any case, we should be able to keep the factory under surveillance. Pull into that service station over there, Frank. I want to phone a friend of mine.”

After making the call, Mr. Hardy explained that his friend had an office in a high-rise building across from the Precious Metals company.

“He’s invited us to use his premises in any way we see fit. As there’s some distance between the two buildings, my idea is to rig up a telescope and watch events in the factory yard. We can buy a ten-magnification model on our way downtown.”

Soon they had reached their destination. With Frank carrying the black barrel of the instrument, and Joe the tripod, they went to the top floor. Mr. Hardy’s friend, who was on his way out of town, had telephoned the superintendent to unlock his office and let them in. Without wasting a minute they set the telescope up at an open window.

Training it on the rear of the factory, Mr. Hardy scrutinized the area. “This will do nicely. We’ll be able to spot a single flask of mercury, and even the label. Have a look!”

Frank peered through the eyepiece. The magnifying power of the instrument made every object look enormous. Swiveling it from left to right, he took in the panorama of office buildings, warehouses, and trucking areas.

“A lot of movement going on,” he said. “And a row of mercury flasks in one corner. Could they be what the gang is after?”

Joe took his turn at the telescope. “Wonder if anybody we know is working down there. Guess not, but we seem near enough to strike up a conversation. Wouldn’t that driver in the green truck be surprised to learn that we’ve met by way of a telescopic lens!”

The Hardys had a clear view of Precious Metals until evening when rain started to fall heavily.

“No use staring into that deluge,” Fenton Hardy muttered in disgust. “Our rig will be useless until it stops.”

About an hour later the rain slackened off, then petered out. The three observers trained their telescope back on the factory yard, which was now empty.

“The afternoon shift has gone home,” Frank observed. “The only guy left is the guard at the gate.”

“Anything suspicious we should report to the police?” his father inquired.

“Maybe!” Frank answered with suppressed excitement after a short pause. “The guard is letting a truck through. It’s pulling up to the mercury flasks! The men in the truck are too furtive to be legitimate. I think the robbery must be on, although the truck is blocking our view! Take a look at that, Dad!”

Meanwhile, Joe called Captain Stein. “We’ll have reinforcements in a few minutes,” he said as he put down the phone. “The police are on their way.”

“Those flasks are heavy,” Frank added. “Stealing that many should keep them occupied long enough for the U. S. Cavalry to come riding to the rescue!”

“Wrong!” his father exclaimed in startled tones. “The truck is moving already! There it goes, right through the gate! And the flasks are all gone!”

The Hardys rushed down to the street to meet the police. A rapid inspection of Precious Metals showed that the detective had been right. The thieves had gotten clean away with the mercury. There was no sign of the guard, either.

“An inside job,” Mr. Hardy explained to the two police officers who had arrived with Captain Stein. “The guard at the gate was in on it. Obviously the thieves waited for him to give them the high sign. All they had to do was drive in, load the truck, and drive out. He probably went with them.”

“The mystifying thing is the timing of the job,” Frank declared. “Even with inside help, it should have taken much longer to steal a shipment of mercury. No one can juggle one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound flasks as if they were empty beer cans!”

The captain shook his head. “Something mighty strange is going on here. Did you get the license number of the truck?”

“Yes.” Frank handed him a slip of paper on which he had written it down.

“We’ll check it out, even though I’m afraid it’s a phony.” Captain Stein went to his car and reported the number over his radiotelephone. Then he rejoined the Hardys.

“Frank and Joe, suppose you get to work on this problem with Captain Stein right away,” Mr. Hardy suggested. “I’ll have to get back to Bayport before morning.”

“Okay,” said Frank. “Let’s take our rig down at the office and be on our way.”

Upstairs, while the boys disassembled the telescope, Mr. Hardy donned one of his numerous disguises. “Can’t go back into the lion’s den any other way.” He grinned. A thick black wig covered his head and he pulled a matching beard and mustache out of his brief case. By the time he was finished, even his sons did not recognize him.

“One more point,” he said, before departing. “Since I’ll be in Bayport, I’ll see what I can find out about Teddy Blaze, beginning with a visit to headquarters. The thumbprint report should be on the chief’s desk by now.”

Frank and Joe joined the police in searching the Precious Metals property for clues to the robbery.

“Footprints first?” Joe inquired. “After the cloudburst, the thieves couldn’t have tramped across the yard without leaving some pretty good prints.”

“We have a clear set right here,” an officer grunted with satisfaction. He was pointing to the spot where the men had lifted the flasks into the truck. “The guy who made them was big. Size thirteen shoe, probably. Otherwise, I can’t see that they tell us anything we didn’t know before.”

Frank was squatting down, giving the footprints a thorough inspection. “Look closer, Officer. What do you make of the depth of these marks?”

“Depth? Oh, I see what you mean. They’re shallow. Those guys don’t seem to have been carrying much more than their own weight.”

“Yet,” Frank pursued the point, “they’re supposed to have been toting flasks weighing a hundred and thirty-five pounds. One flask is enough to make a man sink flat-footed in the mud!”

The policeman frowned. “Perhaps we’ll have the answer when Jack here from the crime lab takes impressions. Footprints and tire marks both,” he added to his colleague, who was getting out his equipment.

Frank and Joe watched as the lab man took impressions from the soft ground. “We’re not the only ones interested,” Frank said suddenly, cocking a thumb at a couple of sailors who seemed fascinated with the proceedings at the scene of the crime.

The seamen were Indians, each dressed in a blue jacket with a red stocking cap on his head. Their dark eyes took in the scene, flickering from the Hardy boys to the policemen, and then down along the ground where tire ruts had corrugated the earth just off the pavement.

“The Indian theme again,” Joe murmured. “Do they give you the impression of being spies, Frank?”

“I haven’t made up my mind on that. Anyway, they have a perfect right to watch what we’re doing. No point in challenging them just yet. Better wait for them to tip their hand.”

Captain Stein approached. “We’ve got clear impressions. Nothing more on the footprints than you mentioned before. They’re too shallow for men carrying heavy burdens.”

Frank nodded. “I thought so.”

“The tire impressions are something else. We know that the left rear tire of the truck is worn nearly bald, far down past the treads. The right has a deep slash that’s cut into the rubber almost to the inner tube. They’re sure headed for a super blowout.”

“That might just be the break we need,” Frank said.

“Right. We’re going to cruise around this part of Baltimore and look for the truck along the routes leading toward the city. Want to come along, boys?”

“Sure!” was the instantaneous answer. They climbed into the back of the car, while the three officers occupied the front seat. Back and forth they cruised, up and down the truck routes, without sighting the vehicle that Frank and Joe had watched at Precious Metals.

“Let’s try the service stations,” remarked the captain, “in case a blowout’s occurred already. They may have called for assistance.”

He cut off the highway into the first gas station. Frank and Joe got out and asked whether the attendant had received a call concerning a truck with a flat tire, but the answer was negative. They had no more luck at the next half-dozen service stations. Then Captain Stein received a report on the radio that the license number was a phony.

Finally the first break developed. One attendant told them about a call he had received from near Westminster Churchyard, at Fayette and Greene streets. A truck driver had reported that his right rear tire had gone completely. “He wanted us to give him a tow,” the man said. “I told him we’d be along whenever we could, but we’ve been tied up with an accident along the highway. Haven’t been out to Westminster yet.”

“We’ll take care of it,” said Captain Stein, and stepped on the gas.

One of his colleagues turned and glanced at the Hardys. “As detectives you should be interested in Westminster Churchyard. The writer who invented the detective story is buried there. Edgar Allan Poe himself.”

Joe chuckled. “We sure could use him on this case. It’s as tough as the murders in the Rue Morgue any time!”

The patrol car swung through the city up to the cemetery. “There he is.” The officer pointed to Poe monument, Baltimore’s salute to the master of mysteries. “And that appears to be the truck we’re looking for!”

It was the one all right. The blowout had torn the one tire to shreds, but the second fitted the impression taken from the Precious Metals loading area.

“No one inside,” Frank observed. “They must have been scared off while they were waiting for a tow.”

“No load, either,” Joe added. “The mercury flasks are gone!”

“The crooks probably carted them off by hand,” Frank went on. “If they transferred them to another truck, they wouldn’t have called the service station to fix the blowout. Joe, the flasks might be stashed away not far from here!”

“The cemetery! We’d better give it a search!”

Captain Stein agreed. “Let’s separate. You two go together, and if you see anything, give a yell!”

“And don’t let the spooks get you,” one policeman said with a grin.

“It’s spooky all right,” Frank muttered as they set out.

In the moonlit graveyard leaves rustled in the wind. Tombstones cast eerie shadows. Off in the distance a dog howled.

Frank and Joe began working down from the northwest corner where the Poe monument stood, stepping carefully around the graves as they searched.

A cloud scudded across the face of the moon, leaving the cemetery in darkness. The boys waited for the brightness to return. To while away the time, Frank asked in an undertone, “Which of Poe’s characters does this situation remind you of?”

“The black cat.” Joe grimaced.

The cloud swept past. They resumed their search under the light of the moon. “What’s that?” Frank pointed to an object, shaped like a milk bottle, near a large mausoleum.

“A mercury flask!”

They hastened around behind the mausoleum and found a pile of containers, heaped up as if they had been thrown there in a hurry.

Frank picked one up. “Hey, Joe! This sure doesn’t weigh a hundred and thirty-five pounds. In fact, it’s empty!”

Joe examined a number of others and whistled softly. “So are they all. The mercury is gone!”

CHAPTER XIII

Aboard the Indian Freighter

JoE held one of the flasks upside down and waited to see if any last drops of mercury would drip out. None did. He tried the same experiment on several more containers with the same negative results.

“If it had been a quick-change operation and the thieves had poured the mercury into their own containers, we’d be almost certain to find a trace in each flask. Yet these are all bone-dry.”

“Of course they are. They were empty to begin with,” Frank said, “which helps us to fit together two pieces of this jigsaw puzzle. First, we heard one of the gang mention ‘heisting the empties.’ That makes sense now. And second, the footprints at the Precious Metals loading yard were too shallow for men carrying one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound flasks. Now we know why. There was no mercury in them.”

“It must have been stolen earlier,” Joe agreed. “Probably on the dock where the cargo was landed, or maybe aboard ship. The empty flasks might have been taken to throw us off the track.”

“So,” Frank said, “it’s just as well we have an appointment with an Indian freighter. Right now we’d better tell Captain Stein of our discovery. And we’ll call Dad early tomorrow morning.”

The police investigated the place where the flasks had been discarded. After that, they drove Frank and Joe to a hotel, where the boys took a room for the night. Next morning they telephoned their father through a Bayport neighbor, since they were afraid their own phone was still being tapped. Mr. Hardy was puzzled by the empty mercury flasks. He said he would query other companies that handled mercury and call back.

An hour later the boys were still batting the mystery back and forth when the phone rang. Their father said that several companies reported finding empty mercury flasks. “They’re baffled about the method used by this gang. You could be right in suspecting thievery on the dock or the ships. See what you can find out aboard the Nanda Kailash and keep your eyes open for any connection between the disappearing mercury and the Bombay Boomerang, Frank!”

“Okay, Dad. We’ll go to the ship right away.”

Frank and Joe took a taxi to the harbor. They drove along a narrow street lined by large warehouses and heavy trucks to an open area dominated by the Indian freighter tied up at the dock. She was painted black, with a white band high above the waterline amidships. Derricks, slings, and lifts rose over the hold from which the cargo was being unloaded. The stern, riding high out of the water as it became lighter, bore the name Nanda Kailash, and underneath her home port, Bombay.

The taxi stopped at a gate where the guard told the boys they would have to proceed on foot. They saw mobile cranes handling massive bales of jute. Piles of debris covered much of the dock—broken crates, empty barrels, lumber, and other fallout of unloading activity. A big red barge, rocking at the dockside behind the freighter, was receiving part of the cargo for transportation across the harbor.

“Plenty of action around here,” Joe observed.

Dark-skinned workmen from the Nanda Kailash, wearing navy-blue sweaters, bustled between the deck and the dock. Frank asked one how to get aboard. The man, giving them a suspicious stare, pointed to a steep metal stairway extending up the side of the ship.

“Climb we must,” Frank quipped. He took hold of the white rope railings on either side and started up the steps, feeling them sway under his weight. Joe followed close behind.

They were halfway up the stairs, with a steep drop to the dock beneath them, when Frank suddenly jerked to one side and yelled, “Duck, Joe!”

His brother swung out on one railing in a reflex action. A huge bale of jute came hurtling down, barely missing them and landing on the dock with a heavy thud.

Joe took a deep breath. “Wow! Was that, or was it not accidental?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. “Anyway, let’s get up on deck before we’re treated to an encore.”

The long deck extended toward the bow on the right, to the stern on the left. The boys had paused to inspect a bulletin board where the names of the ship’s officers were posted when a steward asked what business they had on board. After listening to their explanation, he led them down a narrow corridor to a large cabin.

“This is the chief officer’s quarters,” he said in a soft Indian accent. “Please sit down. I will inform him of your arrival. Would you prefer tea or coffee? ... Coffee? ... A few moments, please.”

Frank and Joe glanced around the room. They were surprised at the degree of comfort it reflected. The paneled walls and furniture seemed to be mahogany. A couch, three chairs, and a table were covered in a gay multicolored print. One cabinet held a radio and record player.

On the opposite side of the cabin was a built-in bunk with a drawer in its base, flanked by a desk on which lay a volume entitled Rough Logbook. Nautical pictures hung on the wall opposite the porthole.

“Nice pad,” Joe murmured. “Life at sea must have its compensations.”

The door opened. A dark, good-looking man came in. Shaking hands with the boys, he introduced himself in excellent English as Chief Officer Jal Agopal, substituting for the captain, who was ashore.

The steward appeared holding a tray with a white coffeepot, three cups, milk and sugar. Deftly setting a cup and napkin at three places on the table, he withdrew.

Jal Agopal took a sip of coffee, then inquired what he could do for his visitors. “Naturally I am anxious to aid Admiral Rodgers in every possible way,” he said.

“Perhaps the first thing I should mention,” Frank replied, “is an incident that happened when we were coming aboard.” He described the bale of jute that nearly knocked them off the ladder.

The chief officer expressed his apologies, adding that he was as mystified as they were. “You must have noted that the cranes swing cargo over that part of the ship. But I’ve never known that kind of thing to happen before. I will make an investigation.”

“Duck, Joe!” Frank yelled

Joe asked about the crew.

“We carry fourteen officers and thirty-six men,” Agopal replied. “I’m not familiar with the personal background of each one of them. All I can say is that every man is skillful at his particular job on the freighter. If there is anything wrong, it hasn’t come to my attention.”

“Perhaps the cargo might give us a clue,” Frank put in. “What are you carrying this trip?”

“The usual things. Tea, curios, jute, burlap, carpets—”

“Mercury, too?”

“Yes, also mercury. We loaded the flasks at the Spanish port of Cadiz.”

“Where do you keep them during the voyage from Spain to the United States?”

“In the hold with the rest of the cargo. Come. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Jal Agopal led the Hardys out of the cabin, along the narrow corridor, and back on deck. As they walked toward the hold, Joe nudged Frank and nodded toward a sailor slinking along on the opposite side of the deck.

He was a rough-looking character in a plaid work shirt, who ducked behind a pile of crates when he realized that he had been spotted. When the boys pretended to have lost interest in him, he promptly reappeared.

“Our bodyguard,” Joe whispered to his brother. “Services rendered free of charge.”

They reached the hold, a yawning cavern that looked to be two or three stories deep. The men working at the bottom were shifting carpets onto hooks attached to cables that carried them in swinging arcs up to the deck and across the side onto the dock.

“Quite a lot of activity,” Frank said to the chief officer.

“We have only a limited time to unload, load, turn around and meet our timetable for the trip back to India,” he replied. “To you it must seem very confused. Actually, every step is precisely planned.”

“I don’t see any mercury flasks,” Joe said.

“You will. They come aboard on trays, fifty at a time. You undoubtedly know that they are heavy, and are fastened with screw-type steel caps. As a sling lowers a tray into the hold, members of the crew lift the flasks off one by one and store them together in the hold space provided for them.

“Because of their weight, they need special attention when they reach the hold. We shore them up with wood to prevent slipping. And we do not pile any other type of cargo on top of them.”

“How safe are the flasks in the hold?” Frank asked. “I mean, can the crew get at them either during the voyage or in port?”

“Oh, yes. The hold itself is open. These particular flasks have not been unloaded yet. But there is no rule that prevents the members of the crew from going down into the hold and inspecting them, as long as no one gets in the way of the men working on the docks.”

The boys leaned over the edge for a better look. Men called back and forth in their native tongue. Those below signaled to the men above when to haul away. Winches, tackle, and cables strained under the weight of their burdens.

Joe stepped onto a pile of rope, paying little attention to the events on deck. Suddenly the rope tightened with a tremendous jerk as someone yanked the other end. Joe tumbled head over heels into the hold, hurtling down toward the bottom far below!

CHAPTER XIV

Down the Hatch

HORRIFIED, Frank saw his brother topple head over heels into the hold. The chief officer gasped. Crewmen shouted excitedly in Hindustani and English. But no one could do a thing to help!

Flailing his arms wildly, Joe fell like a stone. Then, in mid-air, his toe hit something. Throwing out a hand, he grabbed hold of a cable and swung himself onto a rolled carpet that was being hoisted up onto the deck of the Nanda Kailash.

Joe stood up shakily when the carpet hit the deck. “This kind of trip I could have done without,” he muttered, managing a weak smile.

Frank was ghastly pale. “I thought we’d be picking you up in little pieces at the bottom!”

“Someone on this ship doesn’t like us,” Joe said, his face grim. He looked straight at the chief officer.

Jal Agopal plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Thank God we were unloading carpets when you fell,” he said with a sigh.

Then his gaze traveled beyond the boys to the crew. “This is an outrage!” he declared, and there were both anger and fear in his voice. “I intend to find out at once who pulled the rope that tripped this boy! If it was deliberate, he is a murderer! I want him identified!”

He ordered the entire crew to be mustered on deck. The men lined up along the railing towering over the dock. Agopal addressed them.

“Most of you must know by now of the near-fatal accident that just occurred. For those of you who haven’t heard, I will simply say that one of our American guests fell into the hold because someone pulled a rope from under his feet. He managed to seize one of the cables, which is the only reason he is alive to tell the tale. If any of you have any information on this, speak up!”

A dead silence greeted the announcement. Jal Agopal spoke to a number of the men assigned to the unloading, but they all insisted that they were hard at work at the time. Even the eyewitnesses had no idea how it had happened.

Frank and Joe conversed in low tones with the chief officer, describing the individual who had been following them around the ship. Agopal invited them to inspect those on the deck, and to see if they could identify their shadow.

The boys went down the line, peering sharply into each face. At the end, they declared positively that the man in question was not there.

“He must have sneaked aboard,” Frank suggested to the chief officer.

“That may well be correct,” he replied with a worried frown. “This is the whole crew. Any additional personnel would be strictly unauthorized. As long as we remain in port, I will post special guards to catch this stranger if he tries to slip on or off the ship. But why would he deliberately try to harm you?”

“Perhaps he mistook us for someone else,” Frank said casually. Soon after that, he and Joe went ashore. They shook hands with Jal Agopal, climbed down the swaying stairs from which they had almost been swept while boarding the ship, and made their way back to the hotel.

Soon they were sitting in their room munching sandwiches and discussing the recent events. Frank scratched his head. “The mystifying thing is how this character knew enough to follow us aboard. We didn’t broadcast the news of our arrival.”

“I’m with you on that. But don’t forget that the mercury gang has a lot of operatives, including several who can identify us on sight. They must have tailed us, learned of our plan, and detailed an agent to arrange a rousing welcome for us on the freighter.”

Frank nodded. “Rousing and final. He carried out his assignment so well that flowers would have been appropriate if that carpet hadn’t come along in time to offer you a lift.”

“Don’t I know it! I can still feel myself going down the hatch in a perfect swan dive!”

“Then there’s the question—”

Frank never got to state the question. A tremendous thump on the door brought both boys to their feet. Racing to the door, they wrenched it open and caught a glimpse of a furtive figure disappearing into the elevator.

A heavy, circular, wooden object, propped up against the door, toppled forward, tripping them up.

“This looks familiar,” Joe observed as he tilted it on edge and rolled it into the room.

“It should,” Frank answered grimly. “That’s the top of the cask Dad was in when the thugs dropped him into the harbor. They must have found it down on the dock. Do you realize what this means?”

“This!” Joe pointed to a message painted across the wood with a spray gun. It said:

PUNKS! SO YOUR OLD MAN IS ALIVE!

WE WILL GET HIM, AND YOU TOO!

Joe touched the lettering with his finger. “This paint job wasn’t done too long ago. It’s hardly dry.”

“It was probably done after your unsuccessful trip into the cargo hold. I wonder when they found the lid!”

“We’d better call Dad and tell him that his escape has been discovered.”

“First let’s clear out of this place or—” Another sound at the door brought them to their feet again, ready for action. Since they had left the door ajar, they expected a band of thugs to come storming in on them. Frank seized a chair and swung it in front of him. Joe prepared to use his favorite karate technique.

A hand pushed the door wide open. Two figures stood on the threshold.

“Relax!” a familiar voice exclaimed.

“No need to break up the furniture just because we’re here,” said another.

Phil Cohen and Tony Prito!

Joe grinned at their pals from Bayport. “Boy, are we glad to see you! We were expecting to tango with some rather unfriendly partners.”

“Including,” Phil guessed, “the strong-arm pair from our home town?”

“The same. But what brings you here just when the death-defying Hardys were about to go into their act?” Frank asked.

“Your father,” Tony explained. “Indirectly, anyhow. He told us he had left you here to case an Indian freighter. After we talked to him, it seemed cruel to let you handle this problem by yourselves, especially since you might be eyeball-to-eyeball with an entire gang. So we decided to give you some shock troops support.”

“We can use it!” Frank said, then told his friends about the enemy’s latest strike against Joe.

“Seems as if we’re going to get a piece of real good action!” Phil declared.

“You might. But first tell us the latest news from Bayport. How’s Chet doing?”

Tony chuckled. “We would have brought him along, but he’s too busy with his boomerangs. In fact, he’s such a success that he’s going into business, selling them to a local hardware store. There’s no lack of customers. The kids have a boomerang club, and they’re tossing those things like crazy all over the landscape!”

“Not only the landscape,” Phil said with a laugh. “So many of them keep whirling off-course in Bayport that the glaziers are doing a bang-up business replacing broken windows. Quite a few hats have been knocked off, too. No injuries, however, as far as we’ve heard.”

Finally Frank called the meeting to order. “Phil and Tony, suppose you stay here in the hotel room. Joe and I will go down the fire escape to avoid any thugs who might be lurking in the lobby. We must phone a warning to Dad that his cover’s been blown for a second time. Then the four of us will hold a council of war concerning our tactics. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Frank and Joe descended the fire escape without incident, located a pay phone booth, and called their Bayport contact again. No one was home at the Hardy house, however, and the neighbor promised to pass the warning on to Fenton Hardy as soon as he returned.

The boys went back to the hotel and circled around to the rear. Suddenly Joe nudged Frank and pointed upward. A man was climbing up the fire escape toward their room! He moved cautiously, casting covert glances at the tenth-floor window.

The Hardys exchanged silent signals. Joe ran around to the lobby. Seizing the house phone, he told Phil and Tony of the approaching prowler. Frank started up the fire escape at top speed, but the man, with a long head start, reached the open window before him and edged himself through into the room.

As Frank mounted, he heard sounds of a struggle. Phil and Tony had jumped the intruder, and he was giving them a battle royal. Breaking loose, he scrambled back over the window ledge, regained the fire escape, and started down.

Only then did he become aware that Frank was on his way up to meet him. He turned to retreat up the fire escape. Frank brought him down with a flying tackle on the ninth-floor landing.

High above the street, they grappled with one another on the iron platform. Frank’s powerful adversary threw him on his back and began to pound his head against the iron grating. In a desperate attempt to break the man’s grip Frank wedged a hand under his chin.

Clutched in deadly embrace the two rolled toward the edge of the landing, and toward nine stories of empty space beneath them!

CHAPTER XV

Sailor Suspect

FRANK grabbed one of the bars of the fire escape to keep from going over the edge. Wrenching himself free, he scrambled to his feet and met his opponent with a one-two combination of punches. The man keeled over backward and lay motionless.

“Cold as a clam,” Frank thought. “It’s good he left me that opening or I might be on a long jump to the street.”

He turned to the other three who had joined him on the landing. “Let’s tote our visitor inside and hear what he has to say for himself.”

They carried the man into their room and placed him on one of the beds. As he gradually returned to consciousness, his body twitched and he mumbled in a foreign language. He was young, no more than twenty, the boys estimated.

They searched him and found a carved dagger of a type common in the Orient.

“He’s from India,” Phil observed, studying the youth’s skin and regular features.

“And that must be Hindustani he’s speaking,” Tony said. “It’s no language I ever heard.”

“Correct on all counts,” Joe asserted. “I’ve seen this man before. He was aboard the Indian freighter. Remember, Frank? He was in that line-up we inspected.”

Frank pinched his lower lip thoughtfully. “Yes, I thought I recognized the face during our tussle on the fire escape. This can only mean one thing. He’s in cahoots with the guy that tried to throw you down into the cargo hold, Joe. Maybe others are involved too—including our friend Agopal.”

Joe nodded grimly. “I was hoping that it had been an outside job, but now the whole crew is suspect.”

“You should have your answer in just a moment,” Tony spoke up. “Our friend appears to be coming to.”

The man groaned and opened his eyes. Obviously the four faces staring sternly down at him frightened him. He moved over to the wall before sitting up.

“Who are you?” he stammered, looking at Phil and Tony.

“Suppose you tell us who you are,” Joe said firmly.

“My name is Nathoo Keeka. I belong to the crew of the Nanda Kailash. We finished unloading here in Baltimore and were given shore leave.”

“What have you got against me and my brother?” Frank demanded. “You’re going to stay where you are until you tell us the truth!”

The Indian sailor hesitated. He seemed to be debating with himself about how much he should tell. At last he spoke.

“I will tell you the truth, no matter what you may decide to do with me. There is nothing the least bit dishonorable in my conduct.”

“Oh, no?” Tony exploded. “What’s so high-minded about armed robbery with a dagger?”

“Robbery was not my intention,” Keeka protested indignantly. “I am no thief. I am a faithful worshipper of the high god Krishna!

“You!” He pointed an accusing finger at Frank and Joe. “You are the guilty ones. You have committed a sacrilege!”

The four boys were dumbfounded.

“Come again?” Joe suggested weakly.

“You two have desecrated a statue of Krishna. For that you must be punished. I am but the unworthy instrument of divine vengeance!”

“There’s a crazy kind of sense coming out here,” Frank muttered, pulling up a chair. He waved the others back to give the man more breathing room.

“Now listen to me,” he advised their prisoner. “That’s an absurd charge. We haven’t been near a statue of Krishna or any other Hindu god. Who told you that story?”

“Another man on the dock described the incident. He swore he saw you deface the image. I must vindicate the honor of the god who is sacred to me!”

“Tell us about the man who spun this yarn,” Phil urged. “Who was he? What did he look like?”

“I do not know his name. He was an Indian seaman I met on the dock.”

Nathoo Keeka proceeded to give a detailed description of a man in a plaid work shirt who had set him on the trail of the Hardy boys.

“The sneaky character aboard ship!” Frank burst out. “The one who followed us around the Nanda Kailash and yanked that rope that tumbled Joe into the hold!”

“You mean he is an enemy of yours?” Nathoo asked in amazement. “He insisted that he had no interest in you personally. He was concerned, he said, about nothing except punishing you for the sacrilege you committed.”

“Why didn’t he punish us himself?” Joe inquired.

“He told me he was not a Hindu.”

“Then why does he want to avenge a Hindu god?”

Nathoo Keeka looked troubled. He folded his hands across his chest. “I see that I have been grossly deceived. My profound apologies to both of you. It is fortunate that you stopped me. I shall offer no resistance if you wish to summon the police to take me to jail.”

The boys held a hurried consultation. Believing the story, they decided to be lenient with their unexpected visitor.

Frank spoke for the group. “Don’t worry, Nathoo. Your explanation has convinced us that this is not a case for the police. Instead of prosecuting you, we’d like you to help us.”

“I will be glad to do anything you say.”

“The sailor who deceived you is a criminal. You don’t want him to go free, do you?”

The seaman shook his head.

“Neither do we. But this thing is bigger than one man. A gang is involved, and we could use another hand to help break it up.”

Frank gave Nathoo a general account of the mercury thefts. The Indian quickly grasped the problem. “Mercury? My freighter often carried cargoes of it. I have helped load and unload the flasks many times. Not as easy as you might think. They are heavy.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “But they seem to lose their weight somewhere between the ship and their destination. That’s why we would like your cooperation.”

“How? I am merely a sailor aboard the freighter. How can I possibly help solve an American crime?”

“We’re not so sure that it’s strictly American. Anyhow, we have to start at the spot where the stuff comes into the country. It would be extremely useful if you could keep us posted regarding events aboard ship, so we can follow the mercury from the moment it is being unloaded.”

Keeka seemed doubtful. “Wouldn’t it be better to have the help of one of the officers?”

“Not at all,” Frank replied. “We need a man who can mingle with the crew and the workmen on the dock.”

“You fit the bill, Nathoo,” Joe urged. “Besides, you know one member of the gang. You might find a lead there. How about it?”

Nathoo Keeka reacted to the plea with a simple word. “Okay!”

After a minute he continued, “My country and yours will be better off for the capture of these criminals. And I will have the satisfaction of settling my account with the deceiver who hoped that I would murder you!”

Frank stood up. “That’s fine, Nathoo. Here’s your dagger. Now let’s get out of here.”

Since the Hardys had paid in advance, they did not have to go to the lobby. The five climbed through the window and descended the fire escape. Walking rapidly through a maze of streets and alleys, they headed for another hotel. Frank was sure they had not been followed.

All the while the boys kept up an animated conversation with their new friend. It had nothing to do with crime or criminals, but with the fascination of India.

“I’m interested in the god Krishna,” Phil declared. “Tell us more about him.”

“The great god Krishna,” Nathoo Keeka intoned gravely, “is the deity who preserves the universe. He is the hero of our epics. He is the teacher of kindness and brotherhood. You can see why he is so important in Hindu religion. The life of our people would be entirely different if we did not worship the mighty preserver of all things.”

Frank cast a glance at the Indian’s serious face as he continued:

“I was obeying our commandment against sacrilege when I tried to kill you. If you had really been guilty, I would not have felt a twinge of remorse!”

Tony felt slightly uncomfortable at Nathoo’s last statement and changed the subject with a quip.

“When I think of India, I have visions of tigers and elephants and maharajahs. That’s what I’ll be looking for if I ever go there!”

Nathoo Keeka laughed. “Tigers and elephants are there in the jungle. The maharajahs still exist, even though they are not as powerful as they used to be. My friend, come to India and we will hunt the tiger together!”

Joe mentioned the Taj Mahal. “Ah, there you have our masterpiece!” Keeka declared. “The Taj Mahal in Agra, built by the Great Moguls, who invaded India. But then, so much in our country was put there by invaders.

“My home city Bombay was only a small fishing village a few centuries ago. Then the British came. They needed a big seaport to handle merchantmen from Europe, and Bombay provided the site.”

Frank judged this the right moment to spring a surprise question on their informant.

“What do you know about the Bombay Boomerang?” he asked sharply.

“Why, we have plenty of boomerangs in Bombay. The people of southern India used them for hunting. Today, however, they are mainly considered objects of art, sacred relics, and cherished heirlooms. Antique dealers do a thriving business in them, especially to American tourists. Our—”

“I’m not talking about boomerangs in general,” Frank interrupted. “I’m talking about the Bombay Boomerang.”

“Bombay Boomerang? I don’t know what you mean. No single weapon has a special place in our tradition.” Nathoo stopped and broke into a grin. “Perhaps you refer to the Bombay Batarang? That is another freighter en route from India. She will dock at Baltimore this afternoon!”

CHAPTER XVI

Boomerang or Batarang?

THE boys gaped in astonishment. They had been convinced that Bombay Boomerang was the phrase that had come through the phone in Commander Wenn’s office.

Was it possible that the words had been Bombay Batarang? the Hardys wondered.

“What’s all this boomerang stuff about?” Phil inquired.

“Just a phrase we picked up. Thought it meant something,” Frank replied.

He pulled Joe aside and they let the others go ahead. “What do you make of this?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Admiral Rodgers, too, is sure that the intruders said Bombay Boomerang.”

“That was before we heard about the ship,” Frank countered. “Maybe the Pentagon tape should be checked again. Suppose the gang intends to slip the Super S on board the Batarang for a trip out of the country?”

“We don’t have time to go back to the Pentagon, not with the freighter docking here this afternoon. Let’s check out the Batarang as soon as she comes in.”

“Since there are five of us, we could divide forces, one group to go aboard, the other to patrol the docks,” Frank mused.

“Right. But remember, all this is classified information. We can’t tell the others much about it.”

“They don’t have to know the details,” Frank decided. “And we can give them a general idea of what we’re after.”

They found a suitable hotel and checked in. Then Frank called a conference and outlined their plan. Phil and Tony were eager and ready for action, and Nathoo Keeka spoke up excitedly.

“I can help. I have friends on the ship. We could visit them.”

Joe was enthusiastic. “That’s great, Nathoo. I’ll go with you.”

“Me, too,” Phil volunteered.

“Fair enough,” Tony said. “Three on board and two ashore. That leaves Frank and me to patrol the docks. Suit you, Frank?”

“Sure thing. Nathoo knows the ship and we’ll familiarize ourselves thoroughly with the docks. That way we should get a pretty good idea of what’s going on.”

The five went down to the dock to acquaint themselves with the area, streets, warehouses, fences, and the ships at anchor.

“Not much doing on Saturday afternoon,” Frank remarked. “Wonder who’s responsible for that eyesore.” He pointed to pile of junk. “Look at that Chevy. Vultures sure have done a job on it. Not a door or a wheel left.”

“Not even a window,” Joe added. “Well, there’s the Bombay Batarang at the pier. We’d better go aboard.”

“Don’t forget,” Frank warned, “that you three are to rendezvous with us here on the dock this evening. If you don’t show up on time, we’ll have to assume that you’ve run into’trouble and come for you. Maybe we’ll even call the police.”

“Why don’t you give us more time?” Joe asked. “Let’s say till the early-morning hours. We might be able to find out something by talking to the crew when they’re off duty tonight.”

“Okay, let’s make it dawn,” Frank agreed.

Joe, Phil, and Nathoo walked across the dock toward the Bombay Batarang. Behind the freighter a red barge bobbed up and down on the waves. Stevedores were busy transferring jute into the barge, moving the huge bales through side doors that gave access to a deep, dark interior.

The three climbed a steep ladder, with Nathoo Keeka in the lead.

“Here’s hoping no one throws a bale of jute at us this time,” Joe thought, recalling the narrow brush with death he and Frank had encountered while boarding the Nanda Kailash.

One by one they stepped onto the deck of the freighter. From the opposite side of the ship came the loud clang of hammers beating on metal.

“What’s that noise?” Phil asked.

“Members of the crew knocking the rust off the hull,” Nathoo explained. “But allow me to describe the layout of the freighter before anyone interrupts us. After all, we might get separated, in which case you should know where you are on the ship and how to get off by the most expeditious route.

“The first deck—the one on which we are standing—has the chief officer’s cabin, much like the one on the Nanda Kailash. The second deck has the captain’s cabin.”

“Probably the nicest accommodations on the ship,” Joe remarked.

Nathoo grinned. “The third deck,” he went on, “is of the utmost importance because that is where the chart room and the bridge are located. I know the first mate in charge of navigation. His name is Ram Giga.”

He led the way up to the third deck via a series of metal stairs. Continuing on toward the bow, Nathoo and his companions reached the chart room.

This was a narrow cubicle with a high built-in worktable. Books on navigation and maps on the Atlantic coastline were scattered across it. The log told the daily story of the voyage from India. The echo sounder on one side indicated the depth of the water under the ship.

The two officers in the room looked up as the visitors entered. One was Ram Giga.

“Welcome, Nathoo!” he said with a wide smile. “Who are your friends?”

Nathoo introduced Phil and Joe and asked for permission to spend some time aboard the vessel.

“We will be glad to have you,” Mr. Giga replied.

His colleague, Assistant Engineer Luckman Kann, wore a sour expression. He seemed irritated by the arrival of strangers, and kept giving Joe and Phil venomous looks.

Ram Giga, an affable individual, willingly answered a few questions.

When Joe asked about cargo, Giga replied, “We have a hold full of many items for American-Indian trade.”

“What about mercury?” Joe asked.

“Part of the cargo is mercury. We will deliver it to the dock as soon as we can get it out of the hold. It is due to be carried off this evening.”

Joe and Phil had the feeling that Luckman Kann resented the chief mate being so free with information. “The mercury is only part of the cargo,” he declared harshly. “You may be more interested in some other things we are carrying, ivory statuettes and similar curios from the Malabar Coast, for example.”

Joe and Phil quickly agreed, in order to dispel any suspicion about their visit.

Ram Giga, ignoring Kann, went on, “We’re late in unloading due to the dock strike that just ended. Usually we would have the mercury off by now, but the rest of the cargo had to come first. The men are working overtime tonight to get all the cargo ashore. Now I must get back to my duties. You are welcome to look around.”

“Is this wise?” Luckman Kann grumbled. “They will only be in the way!”

“I will amend the invitation, then,” Mr. Giga said mildly. “You may move around the ship freely as long as you do not interfere with the unloading.”

“Thank you. We will be most careful not to disturb the labor,” Nathoo assured him.

Motioning to Joe and Phil, he led them out of the chart room to the bridge, where he explained the technical gadgets.

“The high seat you see is for the pilot. The wheel may seem small to you, but it is the ship’s brain, transmitting directions that maintain a true course. The gyrocompass next to it gives the bearing so that the navigator can be sure of his direction.”

“What’s that orange dial in the low metal housing over there?” Joe asked.

“Radar. I cannot imagine how sailors ever made a safe voyage without it.”

Phil examined a large wheel equipped with a handle to turn it through the various positions around a circle.

“That is the telegraph,” Nathoo said. “Sends orders regarding speed to the engine room.”

“Better not spin it, Joe, or you’ll have the engine room on the phone asking what’s happening on the bridge,” Phil remarked jokingly.

Nathoo went on, “The small windows along that circle belong to the smoke indicator. Each window is connected to a vent from a different part of the ship. In case of fire, smoke is sucked into one of these holes and one can tell where the fire is. But we have seen enough here. Let us go down to the engine room.”

The three stood on oily catwalks, high above the throbbing engines. Narrow, slippery steps led down to the floor. After looking around for a while, Nathoo said, “We better stop sightseeing and get on the job.”

“Right,” said Phil. “Let’s go back to the deck.” He was in the lead when they climbed up again. They made their way through a maze of passages until, on reaching the third deck, Phil suddenly realized that he was all alone. Joe and Nathoo were gone!

He went down again, but could not find them. “No point wasting time looking for them now,” he told himself. “I’ll have another look at the bridge. We might have missed something the first time around.”

Finding the bridge empty, he began to examine the navigation instruments once more. That was the last he remembered. A heavy blow on the head knocked him unconscious, and he collapsed against the telegraph!

CHAPTER XVII

Precious Wreck

SLOWLY Phil regained consciousness. He heard voices conversing in a low key. He felt a wet cloth on his face, and the hard floor on the bridge underneath him.

Opening his eyes, he saw that several officers were grouped around him. As they swam into focus, he realized that one was the captain of the Bombay Batarang.

Phil got to his feet with the assistance of willing hands. “What happened?” he asked weakly.

The captain placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Do not be too concerned about what happened. The main thing at the moment is to be sure that you are all right. I am having you moved to my cabin to recuperate.”

“Someone hit me over the head!” Phil declared.

“Yes. With a blunt instrument. In falling, you struck the telegraph handle, spinning the wheel and alerting the engine room to the fact that something was wrong on the bridge. I rushed up here and found you lying in a heap. You have a headache?”

“Awful,” Phil replied, and everything began to spin again.

While he was being put to bed in the captain’s cabin, Frank and Tony were on a back street, maintaining surveillance from a doorway about a block from the piers. All had been quiet as far as they could tell.

“Not a suspicious character in sight,” Tony complained. As he started to walk away from the doorway, a truck lumbered slowly up the street.

Frank seized Tony’s elbow and pulled him back. “That truck is similar to the one that hauled away the empty flasks from Precious Metals!” he said tensely. “We’ve got to find out whether this one is carting mercury!”

The truck rolled to a stop across from the doorway, at a spot where the pavement widened out along a fence with a gate nearby. Frank and Tony peered across the intervening distance, to see if they could spot a mercury flask.

Two men got out of the truck and opened the tailgate. Using a block and tackle, with a winch for power in leverage, they lifted their load into the air, swung it out of the back, and deposited it on the pavement. Releasing the hooks, the men swung the block and tackle back into place and returned to the front seat. Then they drove off.

Frank and Tony watched the whole procedure in utter amazement, for the load was the wreckage of what once had been a car. Like the Chevy they had seen earlier on the dock, this hulk had been stripped clean of every usable part. Motor, wheels, fenders, lights, doors—all were gone. Little more than a skeleton remained, battered metal that seemed hardly worth the attention of a junk dealer.

“Why would these characters bother to transport this unholy mess?” Tony asked.

“Perhaps a once-over will tell us. Come on!”

Frank was already moving, with Tony on his heels. They stealthily crossed the open space to the derelict car.

Close up it looked even worse. All the windows were smashed, and slivers of broken glass littered the interior. The upholstery dangled in shreds and tatters. The back seat was piled with junk—bolts, hubcaps, twisted wire, a rusty jack handle, and various other useless odds and ends.

Tony surveyed the scene with complete disgust. “There isn’t anything here to help with the mercury case. I’d say—”

He broke off as slow footsteps approached the gate from the direction of the dock. Hastily the two boys regained their vantage spot in the doorway, where they could survey the scene with no fear of discovery.

They were barely ensconced there when a man came through the gate. He was hunched way over, his hands cupped together at the waist, suggesting that he carried a heavy burden concealed under his coat. Two more, similarly bent forward, followed him in single file up to the wreck.

Gingerly the first man looked around, lowered a mercury flask to the pavement, and took a funnel from his pocket. He placed it in the opening to the gas tank, heaved his flask into the air, and turned it upside down over the funnel. The mercury ran out, down into the interior of the car.

As soon as he stepped away with the empty flask, the next one took his place, then the third. After they were finished, they walked back through the gate toward the dock, only to be replaced by three more who went through the same motions. The two groups alternated for quite some time.

“Say,” Tony marveled, “that heap must have a gigantic gas tank!”

“A gigantic tank, anyway. No car holds that much. They must have put a special tank in to use for this operation. What a gimmick! Who’s going to challenge the battered wreck of a defunct car? They could waltz down Main Street in Bayport in total safety!”

The men were still pouring mercury into the tank when a policeman came strolling along, swinging his nightstick, glancing alertly around.

The man heaved his mercury flask into the air

The men at the wreck caught his eye. Curious, he moved in their direction to investigate. At precisely that moment the sounds of a heated dispute broke the stillness. Two sailors lurched out of the shadows.

“All right! All right!” one yelled. “Put ’em up and we’ll settle this here and now! No need of a referee to pick the winner!”

“You’re on!” screamed the other. “I may be drunk, but I can sure finish you off!”

As the sailors appeared about to pummel one another fiercely, the officer hustled over. “Break it up! You guys have had too much to drink. Better sleep it off!” Taking each by the arm, he pushed them down an alley toward a flophouse for seamen at the opposite end.

“Decoys?” Tony asked Frank in a subdued tone of voice.

“Yes,” Frank replied. “Those two were a couple of good-luck charms for the mercury mugs. Gangsters working this kind of a job don’t leave much to chance. They must have kept tabs on the timetable of the police patrolling the waterfront. And they were prepared to lure unwelcome representatives of the law away from the center of operations.”

“Their plan succeeded brilliantly,” Tony commented, pointing to the wreck. No one was to be seen. The men with the flasks had finished their work and had melted away in the darkness. Silence, and shadows rendered sharper by the fitful glare of the street lights, had descended over the area.

“Too bad we didn’t have a chance to warn that policeman,” Tony remarked. “Still, one man couldn’t very well have taken on all of those guys.”

“Not only that, but we’d have alerted the ring-leaders. If they knew that we saw the derelict auto, and how it figures in their plans, they would have disappeared by now. And we’d only have netted a few underlings at best.”

“True. What’s our next step?”

Frank looked at his watch. “Just past midnight. I’m sure they won’t do anything with this wreck until the activity starts around here in the early-morning hours, or even later! If they carted it away in the middle of the night, it would alert the harbor police.”

“We might have to go after Joe and the others on the ship,” Tony said.

“True. Tell you what. You wait here and keep an eye on the car, while I get the police. They can stake out this area and wait for those thieves, in case we have to leave.”

Frank left Tony in the doorway and walked around the block until he met a policeman. He explained the situation and the officer went to a call box and phoned his report to Captain Stein.

Fifteen minutes later the captain and a patrol car full of police arrived at the spot. Frank showed them the wreck and the doorway where he and Tony had hidden out.

Captain Stein praised the boys’ detective work. “That was a great job! We’ll give those crooks a real reception when they come back for the stuff.”

He issued orders to stake out the area. Frank and Tony took their places and everyone settled down to wait for their prey to walk into the trap. Hours ticked by. Frank’s eyelids began to droop due to the lack of sleep, and Tony, sitting in the doorway, fell into a short and fitful slumber.

Finally dawn broke. Activity began along the waterfront and the noise jolted the boys into a tense alert. Cars and trucks drove up and down the street. By early morning the tasks of loading and unloading the many ships were in full swing.

Tony spotted the quarry, a wrecker, trundling toward the car. The driver pulled up ahead of it. He and his partner climbed out, went around to the rear, and started fastening ropes to the battered vehicle they had come to fetch.

Then a figure appeared out of nowhere. “Hold it!” Captain Stein ordered. “Police! Stand where you are!”

Instead of standing where they were, the pair took to their heels, bolting in opposite directions. The driver ran directly into the arms of three officers at the corner of a warehouse. They quickly overpowered him and snapped on handcuffs.

His partner was hitting top speed when Tony downed him with a tackle. Frank piled on to make sure of the capture. After being hauled to their feet, the two fugitives stood panting and glowering beside a patrol car.

“So we meet once again!” Frank addressed the pair sarcastically.

They were the hoods from Bayport!

CHAPTER XVIII

Joe Leaves a Clue

CAPTAIN Stein confronted the pair. “What are your names?” he demanded.

The beefy member of the duo nudged his partner to remain silent while he handled the situation. “We’re not saying a thing!” he grated with a sullen stare. “We want to see a lawyer. We got our rights, and we’ll have your badge for false arrest. You can’t push innocent people around!”

“We’ll see how innocent you are! Turn around and put your hands on the hood of the car!”

The men were frisked. Papers they had on them gave their names as Clyde Cheever and Russ Bucko. They insisted that they were in the towing business, and that their only interest in the wreck was for scrap.

“Nothing incriminating, Captain?” Frank inquired as the officer shuffled the papers taken from the two.

“Nothing, except the fact that they were trying to make off with a shipment of stolen mercury. That’s enough to book them. Then I can have their story about the towing business checked out.”

“We know they’re lying, Captain,” Tony remarked. “They tried to scare Frank and Joe off the mercury case several times. Why would they do that if they’re on the up-and-up?”

“You’ve put it in a nutshell, young man.” Cheever and Bucko were taken away in the patrol car. The last the boys saw of them they were scowling menacingly.

Frank turned to Captain Stein. “Our friends and my brother are on the Bombay Batarang and were supposed to meet us here at dawn. We assume they ran into trouble.”

“Would you like us to board the ship?”

“Tony and I will try it alone first.”

“What’ll be our strategy, Frank?” Tony asked.

“Level with the ship’s captain and tell him what’s up.”

“Suppose he’s in with the gang?”

“Then we’re sunk. But we haven’t much choice. Captain Stein, suppose you send a backup squad if you don’t hear from us in a couple of hours?”

“Sure thing. I wouldn’t let you go if I wasn’t convinced that the captain is an honest man. I’ve met him a few times, and he has a fine reputation. I think you’ll be all right. Someone on his ship is in league with the gang, though, and we’ll have to check out the whole crew if you don’t come up with something. Good luck!”

Frank and Tony hustled down to the dock, climbed aboard the freighter, and asked to be taken to the captain. He was on the bridge.

Frank recounted the story of the mercury that had been stolen from the cargo.

“This is preposterous!” the captain fumed. “How could so many flasks be removed without anyone on the ship being aware of it?”

“Somebody must have seen the thieves,” Frank agreed. “The operation could not have succeeded without assistance from someone on this freighter!”

The captain looked startled. “Do you suspect any member of my crew? Rest assured, I’ll find out who he is before we leave Baltimore!”

Tony inquired about Joe, Phil, and Nathoo Keeka.

The captain chuckled. “We have an American boy on board. He is in my cabin, resting.”

Frank tensed. “Is there something wrong with him?”

“He suffered a blow on the head that rendered him unconscious yesterday. And he told me that he lost his two companions on the ship. We searched everywhere but did not find them.”

Frank and Tony looked at each other apprehensively. “They must have followed a lead and left the ship,” Frank said.

“But where did they go?” Tony queried.

Frank heaved a sigh. “That’s anybody’s guess. When did you look for them, Captain?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Can we see our friend in your cabin now?” Frank asked.

“Certainly.” The captain signaled a crewman. “Jawal will take you there.”

Was it Joe or Phil? both boys wondered as they followed the Indian down a narrow corridor.

Seconds later they had the answer. “Phil!” cried Tony as he pushed the cabin door open.

“Boy, I’m glad you’re here,” Phil said. He looked pale and still suffered a severe headache. Quickly he explained the events of the previous day.

“We’d better start searching for Joe and Nathoo right away,” Phil suggested. “Matter of fact, I was just on my way to the captain to tell him I was leaving the ship.”

“Do you feel up to it?” Frank inquired.

“Oh, sure. But getting rapped on the head with a blunt instrument is something I don’t recommend for a rest cure.”

“Do you have any leads to work on? Anything you may have noticed while casing the ship before you got conked?”

“One thing. I think the assistant engineer is one of the gang. Fellow named Luckman Kann. He was pretty put out when we came aboard. Didn’t want us to see anything on the ship, least of all the mercury. I suspect he’s the one who am-bushed me on the bridge!”

The boys passed this information on to the captain, who sent for the assistant engineer. But Luckman Kann was missing!

Frank, Tony, and Phil began a search, starting at the spot where Phil had last seen Joe and Nathoo, and extending over the side down onto the dock.

“The barge has been moved,” Phil commented. “It was riding behind the freighter when we went aboard yesterday.”

“What’s this?” Tony stared at a strip of black leather lying on the dock, pointing toward the place where the barge had been moored. He picked it up and examined the silver buckle at one end. The initials J. H. were engraved on it!

“Joe’s belt!” Frank exclaimed exultantly. “He must have put it there so we’d know where he’d gone. All we have to do now is to find out the destination of the barge.”

From a stevedore he learned that it had transported bales of jute to a warehouse along the waterfront. The three boys walked away from the docks to avoid being conspicuous, took a parallel street, and cut back down to the dock area. Soon they came to an enormous, dingy building, blackened by soot, and with several windows boarded up.

Tony and Phil staked out the warehouse, while Frank sneaked through some bushes, edged along one wall to a rickety wooden door, and slipped inside. He found himself in a gloomy, cavernous building. The ceiling towered far above his head. Its crossbeams extended from one side of the warehouse to the other.

Boxes and crates were stacked on top of one another. Bales of jute, looking like huge cubes, awaited transfer to the mills. Steel bars, each ending in a heavy bolt, lay in disorderly heaps where they had been dumped.

Frank examined one. It was the type of bolt that had crashed through the window of the Hardys’ house!

The boy surveyed the layout of the warehouse, noting that the back door led onto the platform where the barge cargoes came in. The office was at the far side, a mere cubbyhole in the vastness of the interior.

Frank ducked around cartons and crates, lay down on his stomach to snake-crawl past a pile of reinforcement bars, and reached a point where he could see through a dirty window into the dimly lighted office. Figures became discernible. Frank rose on one knee for a better view.

Suddenly his sixth sense warned him that somebody was sneaking up on him. He twisted sharply to one side and bounded to his feet, hands up to ward off an assailant.

Then he dropped his arms. “Joe!” he gasped.

Joe put a finger to his lips and beckoned his brother to retreat with him behind some stacks of cargo. “Don’t make any noise,” he whispered. “We’ll be in a tough spot if those birds come flying out at us!”

Quickly Joe briefed Frank on what had happened on board the Bombay Batarang. He and Nathoo had been walking behind Phil when they heard one of the officers mention the Bombay Boomerang on the telephone. It was Luckman Kann! When the assistant engineer hung up, the boys had melted into a doorway, then followed him onto the barge. They had concealed themselves behind bales of jute. The only clue Joe had time to leave was his belt, a signal he hoped Frank would read.

“Good idea,” Frank murmured. “Without it we still wouldn’t know where you were. But where’s Nathoo?”

“They got him!” Joe said grimly and continued his story.

“Kann stayed on the barge till it left early in the morning. We hid during the ride along the waterfront. When the barge stopped, we could see the warehouse, so I got out at the rear while the stevedores were opening the side doors. Nathoo wasn’t so lucky. They caught him and marched him into the warehouse.”

“How did you get in here?”

“By way of a broken window. I was just wondering how to handle this situation when you showed up!”

“All right, let’s join forces and see what’s up in the office over there.”

A piercing scream rent the silence, bouncing echoes off the walls and ceiling. “They must be beating Nathoo,” Joe whispered. “We’ve got to get him out of there!”

Reaching the window, they looked in. Nathoo was sitting on a chair, tied hand and foot. His face was bruised where he had been struck by the four men who held him captive. Luckman Kann stood to one side, watching with approval. Next to him was the sinister Indian sailor who had tripped Joe into the hold of the Nanda Kailash, and who had instigated Nathoo to murder the Hardys.

“You’re going to tell us about the Hardys,” one man threatened viciously, “if we have to beat you all day!”

Nathoo groaned but remained silent.

“What happened to Cheever and Bucko?” another demanded in violent tones. “They went off after the mercury and now we don’t know where they are!”

“I know nothing,” Nathoo pleaded. “Nothing at all!”

Frank placed his lips close to Joe’s ear. “The police have those goons in custody. I’ll tell you about it later.”

One of Nathoo’s tormentors decided that their third degree would not force any information out of him. “Where are we going to get rid of this bum?” he asked savagely.

“The harbor, of course,” a confederate retorted. “A little cement will do the trick.”

A confused conversation followed until Frank and Joe caught the following dialogue:

“Is the plane ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll be in the air in plenty of time to complete the job. The Super S will home in right on target!”

The Hardys held their breath in the hope of hearing more about the missing missile. What they actually heard was a ferocious barking on the other side of the warehouse. A powerful mastiff came barreling down on them, fangs bared!

CHAPTER XIX

The Nerve-Gas Plot

THE Hardys plunged headlong behind some bales of jute for protection, but the burly mastiff was nearly on them! With snapping fangs, it gave a tremendous spring over the barrier.

A shot rang out. The dog fell onto the top bale of jute, yelping in pain. Slipping off, it tumbled to the floor and lay still.

“You fool!” a voice rasped. “Why did you shoot? The watchdog would have killed them for us. Now we’ll have to do the job ourselves!”

By now Frank and Joe had vanished. Using the bales for a screen, they sneaked along the wall to a pile of reinforcement bars and crouched low.

But one of the gang who had circled around spotted them. He raised his gun and fired. With a loud clang the bullet ricocheted off steel about six inches from Frank’s head.

A second shot barely missed Joe. A clatter of footsteps warned of the gang converging quickly on that part of the warehouse.

“Joe, this way!” Frank said in a hoarse whisper, and raced toward the middle of the building. There he dived headlong behind a stack of cartons. Joe was right on his heels. Panting, they peered around the corner of the pile.

The men were scouting the floor in the vicinity of the reinforcement bars. “We’ve lost them!” one growled in disgust. “Go over this place with a fine-toothed comb. We don’t have to worry as long as they don’t get out alive!”

The pursuers were approaching the stack of cartons. Frank and Joe dashed toward another pile of jute. Bullets cut into the floor as the gang caught sight of them and opened up with a hail of lead.

Then the shooting stopped. “We’ve got ’em! They’re penned in! Hold your fire!” came a voice.

Wildly Frank and Joe looked around. They were boxed into a corner of the warehouse. Suddenly Frank seized Joe by the arm and pointed to a ladder. It led up the wall to a platform on the crossbeams overhead.

“You go first,” he hissed. “Don’t move until I create a diversion to cover the retreat!”

He picked up a rusty pail standing in the corner. Balancing it in his hand, he lobbed it beyond the cargo, where it careened noisily along the floor. Whirling around, the gang sent a fusillade after it. Slugs tore into the pail, causing it to spin and bounce crazily.

Joe scrambled up the ladder to the platform before the men below realized they had been tricked. Frank made it by inches as bullets splintered under his foot.

Rough hands gripped the ladder. Heavy feet hit the rungs. The boys were about to have company.

No retreat was left except across the platform. “Another ladder!” Frank panted as they reached the opposite end. They slid down to the racket of feet pounding after them. They found themselves near the front door and ran outside.

To their enormous relief, they were greeted by a group of policemen! Tony and Phil had given the alarm when they heard the first shot in the warehouse!

The gang came rushing out the door into the arms of the officers.

Led by Frank and Joe, the policemen entered the warehouse office and released Nathoo who, despite his bruises, was not seriously injured. He promised to testify against the criminals, all of whom proved to be ex-convicts wanted for armed robbery in seaports along the East Coast.

Mission accomplished, Phil and Tony returned home. Frank and Joe, after phoning their father, made arrangements to meet him in Washington for a top-priority meeting with Admiral Rodgers.

During the ride to the Pentagon, Fenton Hardy told the boys some dramatic news.

“Chief Collig got a report on the thumbprint you left with him. Teddy Blaze has a record. Started as a boy delinquent, graduated to the rank of thief, and became a disk jockey in prison.”

Frank let out a low whistle. “I thought so!”

“That’s not all. Collig thinks Blaze may be the ringleader of a gang of thieves operating in the East. He also suspects that this ring may have been infiltrated by agents of a foreign power.”

Upon arriving at the Pentagon, the Hardys went directly to Admiral Rodgers’ office, who listened soberly to the detective’s summation of the case. Frank and Joe added their own comments.

“You’ve gathered so much information,” the admiral said, “that there’s no point in holding back on the rest of what we know. I told you that the tape from Commander Wenn’s office contained classified data. Well, here’s the story:

“One of the voices on the tape mentioned Colorado. The government has nerve gas stored there underground, in natural caves. There’s been some talk about this—residents complaining about the danger if an earthquake tremor should split the ground and the stuff got out into the air. One farmer charges that his cattle have already been affected by leakage.”

Mr. Hardy frowned. “Is that true?”

“No. All of these accusations are unfounded.

The gas is in containers that can’t be cracked by an earthquake and are leakproof. The real peril is that someone might use artificial means to release it. I mean, explosives!”

Frank and Joe looked at their father, who stared at the admiral. None of them had realized the deadly nature of the threat to the nation.

“I see you’re startled,” Rodgers went on. “So were we when we listened to the tape the first time. Another angle. Army intelligence found a wooden shack in the woods near where the nerve gas is stored. Brand new, and clearly put up in a hurry after the last patrol had been through the area. Inside was a large electrical heating unit.”

“A heating unit?” Frank repeated. “For what?”

“The thing puzzled us, too. If it had been a cache of dynamite, the explanation would be simple. Enemy agents intended to touch off an explosion that would break the crust of the earth, crack the gas containers, and turn the lethal vapor loose. An electrical heating unit didn’t seem to make much sense.”

“Is it still there?” Joe inquired.

“Yes, but inoperable. We took no chances. A couple of key parts were removed in utmost secrecy. Of course we didn’t want to scare the agents off.”

“Let’s see,” Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. “We’ve got a missile missing, a store of highly dangerous nerve gas, an electrical heating unit—”

“There’s the connection, Dad!” Frank burst out. “The Super S is programmed for heat. Whoever has the missile must have set up that heating unit in Colorado! They want to send the Super S crashing into it with enough force to smash both the cave ceilings and the nerve-gas containers!”

The admiral nodded. “That’s what we figured.”

“And there’s the explanation of the Bombay Boomerang!” Joe put in, barely able to control his excitement. “We’ve been assuming that Bombay is one word because we’ve only heard it spoken. We never saw it written down.”

“I get you,” Frank said. “It might be two words: Bomb bay. The Super S is an air-to-ground missile. So bomb bay would refer to the fact that it’s launched from an airplane! And the crooks said the plane was ready!”

Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Boomerang also makes sense. The whole operation has been planned to make the nerve gas boomerang on the United States. It’s a great code word!”

“Your theory sounds perfectly plausible,” Admiral Rodgers said gravely. “Military precautions must be taken without delay. I’ll start the ball rolling by informing the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Are you going back to Bayport now?”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “I think our mission here is accomplished.”

The admiral pressed a buzzer and an aide came in. “Order a car for these gentlemen, please!” Rodgers said, and the aide disappeared.

“Mr. Hardy, I’m grateful to you and your sons,” the admiral said to the detective. “You’ve done a fine job. Your car will be here in about ten minutes. Meanwhile, I’d better get to work.”

He escorted the Hardys to the elevator and shook hands all around. Seconds later the Hardys emerged on the ground floor and made their way to a spot outside where official cars pulled in to pick up passengers.

A car driven by a chauffeur eased up to the curb. A second man in uniform got out and opened the back door with a deferential bow to the Hardys. “Your limousine, gentlemen.”

Mr. Hardy laughed. “The U. S. Navy is a lot speedier than Admiral Rodgers imagines!”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied smoothly. “We do our best to please. If you will get in, we’ll have you at the airport in a jiffy.”

As the Hardys climbed in, the uniformed man slammed the door and rejoined the chauffeur in the front. The car took off with a jolt that threw the passengers against the back seat. They swished down the drive, through the Pentagon grounds, and out into the street.

“He came fast and he’s going even faster,” Mr. Hardy remarked, rubbing his elbow where it had hit the armrest.

“We’d better tell him to take it a little easier,” Frank proposed. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”

“Besides, we’re liable to pile into somebody,” Joe added as the car snaked swiftly through the maze of traffic.

“Say!” Mr. Hardy spoke up in alarm. “This guy isn’t going to the airport. He must be a numb-skull as well as a cowboy. We ought to buy him a map of Washington!”

Frank rapped sharply on the glass partition that separated the front and the rear of the limousine. The man next to the driver turned around and gave an evil grin.

“These characters aren’t working for the Navy!” Mr. Hardy exploded. “They’re phonies! We’re being kidnapped!”

CHAPTER XX

Secret in the Air

THE man leering at them slid open the glass panel on his side of the car. A long, narrow cylinder appeared in his hand, pointing straight into the back seat.

“A pencil gun,” Joe muttered. “Just what the well-dressed thug is wearing this year.”

Frank spoke with barbed sarcasm. “Excuse me, but you seem to be headed in the wrong direction.”

“Have fun while you can, wise guy!” the man snapped. “You don’t have an awful lot of time left!”

“Mind telling us where we’re going?” Mr. Hardy inquired.

“You’re the detective. Take a guess!” The driver sniggered at his partner’s humor. The two were enjoying themselves.

The limousine swung deeper into Virginia, and turned off into a lonely wooded section where tall trees shaded thick undergrowth. Residential districts had been left far behind. Only hunters were likely to be seen in this part of the state. And even they would not be coming through until months later when the hunting season began.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” the driver said. “We’re on our way to a funeral. Your funeral. We’ve got a hole in the ground already dug for you.”

“I would like to register a protest.” Joe was talking tongue-in-cheek. “I’m allergic to funerals, especially my own.”

“Actually,” the second man commented, “I’m glad it worked out this way. There wasn’t any sense in giving you guys all those warnings to get off the mercury case. Cheever and Bucko dreamed that up. They always were a couple of dimwits. We’ll see to it that our method is more effective.”

Frank decided to trick the two thugs into revealing more information. “Well, one good threat deserves another. You might as well forget about operation Bomb Bay Boomerang. You’ll never get away with it now.”

“That’s what you think. It’ll work out all right. And there’ll be a hot time in the old USA when it hits. That nerve gas will knock out enough people to start riots from coast to coast. The government will be overthrown.”

Fenton Hardy knitted his brows. “The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle has just fallen into place. Mercury fulminate is an explosive used for such things as cartridge detonators. You plan to put the liquid metal and the missing missile together!”

“Smart guy. You guessed it. We’ve developed a super warhead made of mercury fulminate. Get the picture? The bomb sets up shock waves so devastating they can crack the crust of the earth for miles and miles!”

“How?”

“You’ll keep our secret—you won’t be alive to tell it. The missile will home in on a heating unit we’ve set up in Colorado right under the nose of the military. We’ll get the underground defenses one after the other. The gas will be all over the state in a matter of minutes, with a terrific toll!”

The driver glanced at his watch and snapped on the radio. “Time to listen to a little music,” he said.

Teddy Blaze’s program came on. Stomping rhythms blared for a couple of minutes before the disk jockey stopped the recordings and went into his patter.

“Endsville for now, chums. Midnight tonight our program will leave Bayport. Good-by, Balto. Deadline for the big shakeup. Are you with me out there? Let’s go, one and all!”

The driver clicked the radio off.

“So,” Frank reasoned aloud, “the troops are being called in from Baltimore. Your plane will leave tonight with the Super S aboard from Bayport, bound for Colorado!”

The two gangsters in the front seat were visibly astonished by the accuracy of the deduction.

“You know about Blaze, do you?” snarled the driver. “Cracked his code? Never mind. When you are out of the way, no one will be any wiser.”

“Tell me,” Joe said amiably, “where did you hide the Super S?”

“In Teddy’s garage in Bayport. Good place, eh? He was building an addition, so the truck which delivered the missile also carried some roofing sheets and cement. All in order.” The man chuckled.

His partner, however, objected to his frankness. He nudged him. “Get to the graveyard fast. I want to plant these characters.”

The car picked up speed along a rough dirt road. Branches scraped the sides as it lurched over boulders and down into potholes, jouncing those inside up and down until they reached for the nearest support.

Taking advantage of the jolting ride, Joe leaned down toward the floor. The man with the pencil gun pushed his hand through the partition. “Sit up,” he ordered, “or I’ll see to it that you stay down permanently!”

Joe came up with a karate kick that slammed the thug against the dashboard. Reacting instantaneously, Mr. Hardy reached through the partition, grabbed the driver by the arm, twisting it until he yelled with pain.

The car, out of control, careened wildly off the road. Bouncing across a gully, it zoomed into a clearing, hit a massive tree with a swipe that caused the vehicle to turn over, and came to rest back on its wheels.

Frank and Joe were thrown clear as the impact jarred a back door open. Mr. Hardy and the two abductors were still inside, but out cold.

Frank sat up. “Joe—Joe, are you all right?” Joe answered with a grunt. “I hope so. Where’s Dad?”

“Still in the car.”

While the boys were picking themselves up, a patrol car stopped by the side of the road. Several policemen led by Captain Stein piled out and rushed across to the limousine.

“Just in time!” Frank called out in relief.

“We’ve been tailing you ever since you left the Pentagon,” the captain explained. “Your real driver saw you go off with these phonies. He checked with the admiral, then told us you were being kidnapped.”

“He was right,” Frank said dryly.

The three occupants of the limousine were lifted out onto the grass. “They’ll be okay,” one of the officers declared. “Temporarily separated from their senses. Nothing worse. In fact, they’re coming around now.”

Frank and Joe were kneeling anxiously at their father’s side. Mr. Hardy soon revived and gave an account of the abduction at the Pentagon, and said he would prefer charges against the hoodlums.

The two prisoners, glaring in anger, were marched to the squad car as soon as they could walk. Two more police cars arrived with reinforcements.

“National security is involved,” Joe told the captain. “We must get back to Bayport as fast as we can.”

“No problem. Get into the first car, and we’ll take you to the airport in no time.”

Minutes later, the car reached the highway, and with siren screaming for traffic to get out of the way, sped to the Washington airport. After thanking Captain Stein for his help, the Hardys quickly joined Jack Wayne on their private plane for the flight home.

“What’s our next step?” Joe asked when they were airborne.

“The gang’s plane won’t leave until midnight,” Mr. Hardly replied. “We might as well go home and be back by eleven. That should give us enough time to stop the take-off.”

“Shall we alert the airport police?” Frank asked.

“No. Admiral Rodgers wants as few people as possible to know about the whole thing. We’ll handle this ourselves. But I’ll call him as soon as we land about having FBI men on hand.”

The plane touched down in Bayport and the Hardys took a taxi home. Mrs. Hardy gave them an affectionate welcome. Aunt Gertrude opined crisply that they would have done better if they had stayed in Bayport.

“If this is where the action is, what was the point of going to Baltimore?”

Joe grinned. “Well, Aunty, we couldn’t have known where the action is if we hadn’t dug up clues in Baltimore.”

“And we did have a rather exciting time when we were there,” Frank added.

“In any case,” Joe said, “you’ll be glad to hear that we expect to conclude this case tonight.”

“I hope so!” Miss Hardy said. “It’s about time that you stayed home for a while!”

Frank called his friends and asked them to come over. Soon they arrived in Biff’s car, Chet with an armful of boomerangs.

“Since we might have some spare time on our hands,” he announced, “I brought something to occupy us.”

Before the Hardy boys could answer, their father came dashing out the door. “Admiral Rodgers just called. He’s picked up some information that the midnight flight has been changed. The plane will take off earlier!”

Frank and Joe were aghast. “We’ve got to leave right away!” Frank exclaimed.

“Right. Hurry up!”

“What’s going on?” Biff asked.

“We’ll tell you later,” Frank said. “Just follow us!” He jumped behind the wheel of their convertible. Mr. Hardy and Joe slid in beside him. When they reached the airport they sped directly out to the runway.

A private, single-engine jet was gathering speed for take-off. Blazoned on its nose was a large crimson boomerang!

“That’s the plane!” Joe yelled. “What can we do to stop it?”

“Use our boomerangs!” Chet quickly threw a couple to each of his friends.

As the jet roared past a few feet from where they were standing, the boys hurled a barrage of weapons at it. Two struck the air intake, and were sucked in, causing the engine to quit. The plane slowed to a halt.

Teddy Blaze, glowering furiously, shook his fists at the boys through the window.

Joe chuckled. “I guess he knows by now that although we’re not his most enthusiastic music fans, we do have a certain interest in his career!”

FBI agents swarmed aboard the plane. Overpowering the thugs who made a brief resistance, they cleared the intake. An FBI pilot turned the craft around and taxied back to the hangar, where Blaze and his confederates were removed in handcuffs for the trip to jail.

The pilot flipped a switch, and while the Hardys and their friends, who had followed the plane in their cars, looked on, the bomb-bay door swung down.

A glistening cigar-shaped missile came into view, perched in its rack, complete with sinister warhead, programming mechanism, and spreading tail fins.

The Super S!

The Hardys’ friends stared in utter amazement. While Frank and Joe filled them in on the importance of their caper, Mr. Hardy left to phone the Pentagon. When he returned, he addressed the group of boys with him.

“Admiral Rodgers is very relieved that the conspirators were caught before they could launch their attack. He says the final report by his staff shows that Teddy Blaze is indeed the gang leader who mixed crime instructions with his music patter over the radio.”

Chet whistled. “And before Frank and Joe suspected him, we thought he was just a kooky talker!”

Mr. Hardy nodded and went on. “The Blaze gang has been stealing defense secrets and military hardware for a foreign power. They were on such an assignment when they ransacked Commander Wenn’s office for the Super S data.”

“And we got involved when I dialed the wrong number and got the Pentagon!” Joe said.

“Exactly. The same foreign power paid for the theft of the mercury, and even sent an airman to pilot the plane to Colorado. They set up the heating unit for the missile to home in on.”

“Which foreign power?” Frank asked.

“The admiral is not at liberty to say,” his father replied. “One more thing. We’re receiving a commendation from the Defense Department for services to the nation.”

He was about to turn back to the car when a sudden thought struck him. “You know,” he said with a smile, “one of us did more than the rest to ground that plane. I think he deserves a special vote of thanks.”

Chet grinned and held up a hand. “Say no more, sir. I get the message. The Bomb Bay Boomerang was knocked out by a Chet Morton Special!”

The laughter and banter that followed put everyone in a happy, relaxed mood. But it was not to last long, because another mystery—Danger on Vampire Trail—soon was destined to test the sleuthing ability of the Hardy boys.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Sporty Swindlers

CHAPTER II - About Face !

CHAPTER III - Farewell Party

CHAPTER IV - Four Flats

CHAPTER V - A Strange Hiding Place

CHAPTER VII - Charred Evidence

CHAPTER VIII - The Missing Cruiser

CHAPTER IX - Sanctuary

CHAPTER X - Buckskin Clue

CHAPTER XI - A Shattering Experience

CHAPTER XII - Prince Cuthbert

CHAPTER XIII - A Grizzly Attack?

CHAPTER XIV - Death Warrant

CHAPTER XV - A Terrified Escapee

CHAPTER XVI - Royal Trouble

CHAPTER XVII - An Unexpected Denial

CHAPTER XVIII - The Vampire Cave

CHAPTER XIX - Then There Were Three

CHAPTER XX - The jackpot

DANGER ON VAMPIRE TRAIL

AN assignment from their famous detective father to track down a ring of credit-card counterfeiters takes Frank and Joe Hardy on an exciting camping trip to the Rocky Mountains.

The cross-country trek with their pals Chet Morton and Biff Hooper is jinxed from the very first day. Trouble with their tent trailer is compounded by vicious harassments all the way to Colorado. Here their enemies strike at Biff’s lovable bloodhound in another attempt to scare the teen-age detectives off the case. In Denver a skein of clues confuses the Hardys. How many gangs are out to get them—one, two, or three?

Strange happenings on a nearly impassable moun. tain lure Frank, Joe, Chet, and Biff to almost certain death before they discover the sinister reason for the danger on Vampire Trail.

Frank saw the robed figure of a man

Copyright ©1971 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07663-7

2008 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Sporty Swindlers

“Do you boys feel up to tackling a counterfeit case?” Detective Fenton Hardy asked his sons. He looked at eighteen-year-old, dark-haired Frank and then at blond, seventeen-year-old Joe. They were seated in comfortable leather chairs in their famous father’s study.

Frank grinned. “Of course, Dad! Well tackle anything from flying fullbacks to dangerous crooks. What’s the scoop?”

“A strange one,” Mr. Hardy replied. “A gang is counterfeiting the famous Magnacard.”

“The so-called millionaire’s charge card?”

“Yes. No questions asked on purchases or ready cash up to ten thousand dollars.”

“How can we help?” Joe wanted to know.

“By taking over the entire assignment. I’ve been asked to handle a high-priority case for the government.”

Frank and Joe had assisted their father in solving many cases. The first one was the mystery of The Tower Treasure, and in their most recent caper, The Bombay Boomerang, the boys had saved Mr. Hardy’s life.

The responsibility of a sleuthing job always gave Frank and Joe a tingling of excitement.

“Well?” Fenton Hardy said, his lips curling into a slow smile. “Anyone interested?”

Joe blurted, “You know we are!”

“When do we start?” Frank said.

“In a few days. But it’ll involve a camping trip.”

“Camping! That’s right up our alley, Dad.” Joe got up and paced around. “Chet’s been bugging us to go on a camping trip for a long time.”

“He sure has,” Frank agreed. “Chet wants to get a trailer tent, but he’s short of cash.”

Mr. Hardy said, “We might work something out. Expense money, perhaps. Then there’s a possibility of the reward.”

“What reward?” Frank asked.

Mr. Hardy explained that a very rich man, who had been duped by the counterfeiters, had posted a reward of two thousand dollars for their capture and conviction.

“Wow!” said Joe, grinning.

Realizing the importance of the exciting mission, the boys became serious. “Tell us all about the case, Dad,” Frank urged. “What’s the M.O. in this new racket?”

The modus operandi was one of the first lessons in criminal psychology Mr. Hardy had taught his sons. Habit, the boys knew, had been the downfall of many thieves, who plied their nefarious trade in the same manner every time they committed a crime.

Mr. Hardy said, “The swindlers apparently got hold of Magnacard’s master file-important data on all the clients, including copies of their signa tures. They duplicated the credit cards perfectly, then forged identification papers—drivers’ licenses and the like. They purchase goods which are then billed to the owner of the charge card.”

“A lot of rich men must be pulling their hair out, getting all these bills!”

“To say the least. It’s up to you to keep them from getting absolutely bald!”

Joe asked, “But why the camping trip? How does that come into the picture?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask that,” Mr. Hardy replied. He lifted a sheaf of papers from his desk drawer. “The counterfeiters have been operating mostly in the Rocky Mountains area, although there have been some incidents in the Midwest, and the East, too.”

The detective sat back, fingers locked behind his head, while his sons examined the dossier. Then a quick look of enlightenment crossed Frank’s face. “Hey, Joe. I see it! These guys have been using the Magnacards to buy sporting equipment.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Hardy said. “They purchase motorboats, motorcycles, tents—you name it. Then they sell the merchandise lower than the retail price.”

Joe remarked, “To suckers who are unaware they’re getting hot goods. Or to dishonest, greedy people who are more interested in buying something cheap, regardless of whether the deal is on the level or not.”

The detective nodded and pulled a small photograph from his pocket. “Here’s a prime suspect,” he said. The boys leaned over the desk to look at it.

“Pretty fuzzy picture,” Joe remarked.

Frank said, “Probably a blowup from a small negative. Right, Dad?”

“That’s it. An amateur photographer took it by chance after one of the swindlers had borrowed five thousand dollars from a bank and was coming out the front door.”

The young detectives studied every detail of the photograph. The face was round, with a low, black hairline. The eyes were far apart. The mouth was small and turned up at the comers in a puckish grin. The general appearance was that of a short man in his thirties.

At that moment the trio were startled by a scream from downstairs.

“It’s Aunt Gertrude!” Frank exclaimed. He bounded from the room, with Joe at his heels. They scrambled down the stairs and rushed into the kitchen. Their aunt was pointing a shaking hand at the window. Her jaws moved, but no words passed her lips.

Instantly Frank and Joe, as well as Fenton Hardy, who had followed them, saw the cause of the woman’s fright. A huge hound dog was look ing through the window screen. Aunt Gertrude, after recovering from her shock, told them that she had been seated at the kitchen table, deep in thought. Turning her head, she suddenly had looked straight into the sad droopy eyes of the Peeping Tom dog.

Joe started to chuckle. “It’s Biff Hooper’s bloodhound, Auntie! He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Don’t laugh!” she scolded.

“I’m not laughing,” Joe said. “But it was so funny—”

“Not funny, either!” snorted Miss Hardy.

Frank turned his head away, knowing that Aunt Gertrude’s wrath would be further aroused if she detected the faintest trace of a grin on his face.

Mr. Hardy said, “Well, that crisis is over,” and went upstairs to his study.

His sister had come to live with Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and their two sons several years ago. Beneath her stem manner, she was extremely fond of the boys. Gertrude Hardy had never approved of her brother’s daring exploits when he was a detective in the New York City Police Department, nor was she outwardly impressed by the international reputation he had acquired as a private investigator.

“Too dangerous, too risky,” she always said.

When her nephews followed in their father’s footsteps, Aunt Gertrude was even more forceful in her warnings.

Frank and Joe realized that their safety was her chief concern, and that her heart was really soft as the fluffy meringue on top of her famous lemon pies.

Meanwhile, the dog had padded around to the kitchen door. A voice called:

“Sherlock! Come here!” Biff Hooper, a tall blond boy, appeared, bent down and snapped a leather leash on the hound’s collar. He looped the end over the outside doorknob and entered.

“Hiya, guys,” he said breezily. “Just taking old Sherlock on a training exercise and he got away from me. Headed right for the Hardy home. Are you baking pie today, Aunt Gertrude?”

“I was going to,” Miss Hardy replied, “until that beast frightened me!”

“Don’t mind him,” Biff said and straddled a kitchen chair. “He’s harmless.”

Biff Hooper was a six-foot, broad-shouldered athlete—big and powerful as a football lineman, fast and hard-hitting as a boxer. But his usual good-natured smile was missing now, and the Hardys sensed that he had a problem.

A huge hound was looking through the screen

“What’s up, Biff? You look worried,” Frank said.

“Something wrong?” asked Joe.

“Could be.” Biff hesitated, and Aunt Gertrude stepped out of the kitchen, realizing the boys wanted to talk in private. “It’s about Chet,” Biff added.

Chet Morton, the Hardy boys’ closest friend, lived on a farm on the outskirts of Bayport. He was on the high school’s grid squad by virtue of his ample bulk, which could plug a hole in the team’s forward wall like a truck. Neither Frank nor Joe had seen Chet in several days.

“What’s the matter?” Frank prodded. “Did something happen to Chet?”

“Oh no,” Biff replied. “At least not yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe I’m imagining things,” Biff said with a frown. “But I noticed Chet coming out of the bank—”

“You think he robbed it?” Joe quipped.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Biff retorted. “I saw him coming out of the bank holding an envelope—I mean clutching it!”

“Go on,” Frank urged.

“So I said, ‘What do you have there, Chet? The key to Fort Knox?’ ”

“What did he say?” Joe asked.

“He wouldn’t tell me anything,” Biff replied. “Chet seemed awful mysterious. He looked up and down the street and hurried off to his jalopy. I thought you fellows ought to know about it, seeing you’re such buddies.”

Joe said, “Do you think someone’s after Chet’s hard-earned money?”

“Possibly.”

Just then the phone rang. Joe picked up the kitchen extension.... “Chet? We were just talking about you!”

The voice on the other end was curt. “Joe, I haven’t got time to gab.”

“How come?”

“Never mind. I’ve got to see you and Frank right away.”

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“We’ll come right over.”

Joe hung up and turned to the others. “Your hunch seems to be right, Biff. I think Chet’s in trouble. Let’s go, Frank!”

CHAPTER II

About Face !

AFTER bidding good-by to Biff, the Hardys jumped into their car. Minutes later they arrived at the Morton farm and drove up to the comfortable rambling house.

As they parked, a dark-haired, pixie-like girl came to the door. She was Iola Morton, Joe’s “special friend.” She and Joe often double-dated with Frank and his girl friend, Callie Shaw.

“Why the frowns?” Iola said breezily as she hooked an arm through Joe’s.

“We think your brother’s in trouble,” Frank said. “He phoned us to come out.”

Iola laughed. “That was just a trick to get you here in a hurry. He’s over there behind the barn,” she said, pointing.

“I’m glad to hear he’s okay,” Joe said, “but I ought to sock him for worrying us!” He and Frank trotted around the barn. To their amazement, they saw Chet standing beside a brand-new trailer tent. It was opened up and ready for occupancy.

“That’s a beauty!” Frank said. “Where’d you get it, Chet?”

“And where’d you get the green stuff to buy it?” Joe asked. “This outfit’s worth more than a thousand bucks!”

Chet beamed. “One question at a time,” he said with a matter-of-fact air. “First, let me show you around this camper paradise.”

Frank and Joe stepped inside. The smell of newness pervaded the air, and the interior was bright and spotless. Fold-out arms of the compact little trailer provided two bunks, sleeping four. Other facilities included a lavatory, refrigerator, and a three-burner gas stove.

“Chet, this is simply the greatest!” Joe exulted. “How did you know that Frank and I were going on a camping trip?”

“Cut it out,” Chet replied. “I’ve been trying to persuade you for a long time. Thought I’d take the bull by the horns and do something about it.”

“Honest,” Frank said. “We are going on a trip.”

Chet’s eyes narrowed. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business primarily,” Frank replied. “Dad’s given us a new case.”

“When I go camping,” Chet said, “I want to go for fun. None of this dangerous detective stuff.”

“But we’d chip in expense money,” Joe said. “Dad would help finance us.”

“And then there’s the two-thousand-dollar reward,” Frank said evenly, watching Chet’s face for a reaction.

Chet’s eyebrows shot up.

“There’s a reward for catching some credit-card counterfeiters,” Frank explained.

“Where do we go?”

“Out West.”

“Now you’re talking!” Chet said, putting a hefty arm around Frank’s shoulder.

As they stepped out of the camper, Joe said, “Chet, where’d you buy this? And if you don’t mind my asking, how much?”

The stout boy put one foot on the trailer step and assumed an attitude of casual superiority. “My astute business acumen,” he said, “culminated in a most beneficial purchase.”

“Come on,” Joe said, annoyed by Chet’s pretentious air. “Give us the straight facts.”

“All right. To put it in language you understand, I put an ad in the newspaper and landed a great bargain.”

“Go on,” Frank prodded.

“A man came to me,” Chet said, “and offered this beauty at a reduced price. After he had purchased it, his wife became ill and their camping trip was called off.”

“What do you call a reduced price?” Frank asked.

“How about four hundred dollars?” Chet replied, arching his eyebrows.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s a steal!”

“Was everything legal?” Frank wanted to know, recalling what his father had told them about the credit-card gang.

“All in order,” Chet assured the boys. “I’ll get my plates tomorrow.”

Joe laughed and told Chet how Biff had seen him coming from the bank with the money.

“Sure, I was holding onto it tight,” Chet said. “That four hundred dollars was my entire fortune.” He added, “Hey, maybe Biff would like to come along, too!”

“It’s your camper,” Frank said. “Why don’t you invite him?”

Chet said he would, and the Hardys departed for home. Mrs. Hardy, who had been out shopping, was delighted to hear of their plans. “Be sure to take your heavy sweaters, and raincoats, and—”

“Our rubbers,” Joe finished the sentence.

“Of course not,” Laura Hardy said with a pretty smile. “I was about to say take your waterproof boots.”

As Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude busied themselves preparing dinner, the boys told their father of the camping plans. “If Biff can go, it’ll really beef up our forces,” Joe concluded.

Later that evening Biff Hooper phoned. “I think I can join you on that trip, Frank. But I’ll have to bring my hound along.” Biff explained that he had been training the bloodhound and did not want to break the routine.

“Not a bad idea,” Frank said. “Having a dog named Sherlock on a detective case might bring us luck.”

Preparations for their trip occupied the Hardys and their friends for the next two days. Frank and Joe had installed a trailer hitch on their car and had gone to Chet’s house to pick up the camper.

The outfit presented a sleek silhouette, low enough for the driver to have clear vision to the rear.

On the morning of departure the Hardy family got up at five o’clock. At six Biff arrived with the sad-eyed hound and got in the back seat with Chet. Frank took the wheel and Joe sat alongside of him. With shouts of good-by and wishes of good luck from the elder Hardys, the quartet set off.

Fenton Hardy had briefed his sons the night before. He wanted them to check out sports resorts in the Rocky Mountains area for evidence of Magnacard swindles and try to track down the perpetrators. They were also to quiz merchants who had been duped. Their father had given them a typed list of the dealers’ names and addresses.

As they drove out of town, Joe remarked, “I wish we had more concrete clues to start with.”

“Hah!” said Chet. “If I know you guys, you’ll fall into a mess of them soon enough!”

The day was pleasant and traffic was light at that early hour. The car hummed along, with the camper gliding behind. Frank followed Shore Road for several miles until it joined a superhighway leading west. The speed limit was higher, so Frank accelerated.

The boys were about fifty miles from Bayport when they heard the wailing of a siren.

“You’ve got a heavy foot,” Biff said to Frank. “Must have gone over the speed limit.”

Chet moaned. “Here’s trouble even before we get started!”

A trooper moved alongside and motioned Frank to pull over to the shoulder. Frank complied, then stepped out of the car. The officer, who had parked up ahead, strode up to him.

“What’s the trouble, sir?” Frank asked.

“Let’s see your license and registration.”

Frank pulled out the papers. The trooper studied them, then eyed the camper. “Do you own this?” he asked Frank.

“No. Our friend Chet Morton does.”

“Where is he?”

“Right here, Officer,” Chet said, getting out. The dog yelped as Chet stepped on his foot in the process.

“We weren’t speeding, were we?” Frank inquired.

“No.”

“But then why—?”

“It’s the trailer I’m interested in. I’ll have to take you back to Bayport.”

“You must be kidding!” Joe exclaimed. “What’s the charge?”

“Possession of stolen property.”

“Stolen property!” Chet exclaimed. “But I paid cash for this!”

“Tell that to the police captain.” The trooper gave Chet a suspicious look, then ordered Frank to turn about and follow him.

For several miles they traveled in glum silence. Finally Frank said, “I thought you got the camper pretty cheap, Chet.”

There was no reply. Chet was crushed by the thought of losing his bank account and of being involved in a shady deal.

Biff tried to be helpful. “I don’t think they can arrest you, Chet. You were an innocent victim.”

Finally Chet spoke. “Am I stupid!” he muttered, then sat silent again.

The trooper pulled into the State Police barracks on the outskirts of Bayport. Chet was interrogated by the captain in charge.

When the boy had finished his story, a man was called in from an adjoining room. He was introduced as George Browning, owner of the Bayport Sports Equipment Company. The Hardys had heard of him. Mr. Browning identified the trailer tent as the one he had sold to a man who had given his name as Cyrus Kogan.

Chet perked up immediately. “That’s the man I got it from. Isn’t that perfectly legal?”

“Kogan bought the goods with a fake credit card,” Browning replied. “One of those counterfeit Magnacards!”

The Hardys were thunderstruck. A fake Magnacard operator in Bayport! Frank pulled out his wallet and showed the photo clue to Chet and the merchant.

Both identified the man as Kogan!

Biff said, “This crook’s been under your nose right in town, fellows!”

The camper was left at the police barracks. Mr. Browning refused to press any charges against Chet, and even offered to sell him the camper at a reduced price because it was now considered a used one.

When the boys returned home, the elder Hardys were shocked and dismayed to learn of the discouraging turn of events. They all consoled Chet, and much to the relief of Frank and Joe, Aunt Gertrude did not say “I told you so.” Instead, she offered to bake him any kind of pie he desired.

“Humble pie,” Chet said, downcast.

“Now you just erase that long face, Chester,” Aunt Gertrude said. “You’ll have a deep-dish apple pie tomorrow!”

That afternoon the Hardy boys and their father went to Bayport Police Headquarters to have a conference with Chief Collig. He was a ruddy-faced man, who cooperated fully with the detective and his sons whenever they were working on a case.

“I was sorry to lower the boom on Chet,” he said, “but it was my duty to notify the State Police of any trailer tents I saw around Bayport.”

The chief explained that he had warned merchants to beware of the fake Cyrus Kogan. “However,” Collig added, “I think he’s skipped town by now.”

Mr. Hardy spoke up. “Bayport’s a pretty big place with many shops, Chief. I think the guy might hang around to swindle another dealer or two. His success at Browning’s may feed his ego.”

The boys agreed with their father and laid a plan to catch the criminal. That evening they called their friends together. Chet and Biff came over, along with Tony Prito and Phil Cohen. Tony was a handsome boy with an olive complexion. Phil was a slight youth and an A-student in Bayport High.

When they had all gathered in the living room, Frank outlined the plan. They would stake out the stores in Bayport where expensive merchandise was sold.

“We’ll watch fur shops, fancy jewelers, and the like,” Frank said. He showed the boys the picture of Kogan, and Chet added whatever description he could. “The guy’s as smooth as maple syrup,” he concluded.

The stakeout the next day produced nothing but tired feet and boredom as the weary boys watched in vain.

On the second day, while Frank and Joe were home for lunch, Phil Cohen phoned, his voice edged with excitement.

“What’s up, Phil?” Joe asked.

“I saw him, Joe!”

“Where?”

“He went into the Corner Antique Shop.”

“Okay. Keep an eye on him. Frank and I will be right over.”

Joe flipped his napkin on the table, grabbed the car keys, and ran out. Frank followed.

“I hope we get him!” Frank said, sliding into the seat next to the driver. “But it means the end of our camping trip!”

“Don’t be too sure about that,” Joe said. “He’s not the only Magnacard swindler. And he might not talk!”

Minutes later Joe parked at a prudent distance from the shop, located near a residential area north of town.

The shop was housed in a rustic cottage which lent an aura of antiquity to the establishment. There was only one car in sight, parked halfway down the block. As they approached the shop, Frank and Joe saw Phil flattened against the wall next to the front door. He motioned them to be silent.

The Hardys slithered up beside Phil and listened. Frank put one eye to the edge of an open window. The customer, whom Frank identified immediately as their man, was examining an antique rifle.

“This one is rather expensive,” the shopkeeper said. “It’s extremely rare!”

“Rare guns are my hobby,” the customer replied. With that Kogan pulled out his wallet and produced a credit card.

“Ah, a Magnacard,” the shopkeeper said, smiling.

“Oh nuts!” Frank thought. “This dealer hasn’t been warned.” To his brother and Phil he said, “Come on.”

They walked in quietly but the man heard them. As he wheeled around, the Hardys made a dive for him. But Kogan was agile. He swung the rifle, hitting both boys across the chest.

Frank and Joe cried out in pain and fell to the floor.

CHAPTER III

Farewell Party

TERRIFIED, the shopkeeper ducked down behind the counter. The man, still carrying the gun, dashed past Phil, jabbed the boy with the muzzle and knocked him off balance. Then he raced outside, sprinted halfway down the block, and jumped into the car which the boys had noticed before. Seconds later he roared off.

The Hardys were stunned by the painful wallop, but they recovered quickly. Joe dashed to the phone to call the police, while Frank ran outside with Phil. Although too late to stop the swindler, they got the license number of the getaway car.

The shopkeeper, meanwhile, was bemoaning the loss of the antique rifle. “You’d think if he’s rich enough to have a Magnacard, he’d pay for the merchandise!” he said.

Joe told him that the credit card was probably a fake and briefly explained about the counterfeit operation.

“I won’t accept any more of those Magnacards,” the man said as Frank scoured the shop for possible clues.

“Look at this!” Frank exclaimed. He bent down to pick up a loafer-type shoe which apparently had fallen off as the fugitive ran out. The quality of the leather and the workmanship were superb. The label read: Mountain Dogies.

“Evidently our crook buys nothing but the best,” Joe remarked.

“Did you ever hear of this brand?” Phil asked.

“No, but we can check it out,” Frank replied.

Two policemen arrived a few minutes later. The boys reported all they knew, then followed the officers back to headquarters where they talked with Chief Collig.

The swindler’s license number was quickly checked out. It proved to be that of a car stolen the day before from a Bayport parking lot.

“And here’s the shoe the fellow lost,” Frank said. “There might be fingerprints on the shiny part of the leather, Chief.”

The department’s fingerprint expert was called. He lifted several prints, and Collig dispatched them immediately to the FBI via wirephoto. The Hardys thanked Phil for his good detective work, then went home to take hot baths to relieve their bruised ribs.

Early the next morning Collig phoned. “We know the identity of that swindler,” he told Frank. “Thanks to the fingerprints on his shoe.”

“Who is he, Chief?”

“Archibald Lasher. His nickname is Whip.”

Collig ticked off Whip Lasher’s record. “It includes several bunco raps, mail fraud, and automobile thefts.”

“But here’s something interesting in his profile,” the chief went on. “He’s a great outdoors-man—very fond of camping. And he’s a practical joker.”

“Could you send us a copy of his dossier?” Frank asked. The chief promised he would and hung up.

“Well, Dad,” Frank said, after relaying Collig’s information to his father and Joe, “what do you think Lasher will do next?”

“My guess is that he’ll lie low for a while.”

“Do you still want us to go west?” asked Joe.

“Certainly. Lasher is only one of the gang. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if he headed west right away.”

Then the detective proposed lending the boys money to put a down payment on Chet’s ill-fated camper.

“That would be great, Dad!” Joe said, and immediately phoned the good news to Chet and Biff.

Next day Frank, Joe, and Chet made arrangements with Mr. Browning to purchase the trailer tent. The dealer cut the price drastically and allowed plenty of time to complete payment.

Before returning home, the Hardys went to police headquarters and talked to Collig. He told the boys that Mountain Dogies shoes were sold exclusively in the huge Mountain Dogie sporting goods store in Denver.

“All clues point west,” Frank mused. “Could we have the inner sole of that shoe, Chief?”

“I don’t see why not,” Collig replied. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Give Lasher a hot-foot!” Frank joked.

The chief had one of his men cut out the inner sole and handed it to Frank.

“Hope it helps,” Collig said. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Incidentally,” Collig said, “we found the getaway car abandoned. I don’t think we’ll see Whip Lasher around here any more, not after that close escape yesterday.”

“Good,” Joe said. “Then we can have a farewell party in peace!”

That evening the four travelers along with Tony and Phil gathered at the Hardy home. All the boys brought dates. Joe played the guitar while his friends sang and danced. There was plenty of good food, topped off by Aunt Gertrude’s pies.

“One thing you must take with you is your guitar,” Callie Shaw told Joe.

“Out on the prairie,” Iola said laughingly, “you can sing sad songs and dream of us, pining for you at home.”

“Not on your life,” Biff remarked. “We’ll be busy tracking down the crooks.”

“That’s why we’re bringing Sherlock along,” Frank said. “Once he picks up Whip Lasher’s trail there’ll be no stopping him!”

Mrs. Hardy looked in on the young people to see if their food supply was ample.

“Joe tells me you’re having a birthday soon, Mrs. Hardy,” Callie called out.

“Oh, no one was supposed to know about that!” Laura Hardy replied shyly. “But Frank and Joe never forget the day.”

“What would you like for a present, Mother? Maybe we can buy it on our trip,” Frank said.

“I always wanted a sapphire birthstone from the West,” Mrs. Hardy replied. She said that her great-grandfather had been a pioneer in the Rockies. Just then the front doorbell rang and Phil quipped, “Maybe the neighbors called the police to put a lid on the noise.”

The man standing at the door was dressed in a messenger’s uniform. He quickly handed an envelope to Mrs. Hardy, then hurried off.

“Fenton!” she called out. “It’s for you!”

The detective came downstairs, took the envelope, and opened it. Inside was a Magnacard made out in his name.

Chet chuckled. “Now you can take your wife on an around-the-world trip—on the cuff, Mr. Hardy.”

“Didn’t you say Whip Lasher is a practical joker?” Mr. Hardy asked Frank.

“Chief Collig did,” Frank replied.

“Well, I think this is one of Lasher’s tricks. No doubt this card is a counterfeit.”

As the party broke up, the young people thanked Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude for helping to make it such an enjoyable evening.

Before setting out the next morning the campers checked to be sure they had packed everything. Their equipment included a collapsible rubber boat, a small outboard motor, campers’ guidebooks and maps and their two-way radio.

Tony and Phil came to say good-by, and with much horn-tooting the four started off for the second time. Sherlock sensed the excitement, and yapped a couple of times as the car and trailer turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Frank stayed at the wheel for three hours, then changed places with Joe. Bayport lay far behind and the road stretched ahead like an undulating ribbon.

Biff played his harmonica for a while, but quit when Sherlock started to howl.

“You’re hurting his ears,” Chet said, “and mine, too!”

“Okay,” Biff said. “Joe and I will give you a concert tonight.”

The car was climbing a long hill when Joe decided to pull out and pass a slow-moving truck. Coming in the opposite direction was another vehicle. But it was far enough away to give Joe time to pass. He stepped on the gas, but did not get as much speed as he expected.

“Oh man! I forgot about our trailer,” Joe said. “It’s heavier than I thought.”

The Hardys’ convertible was nearly parallel to the truck’s cab. The oncoming vehicle loomed larger by the second. Joe was in a dilemma. Should he press forward or fall back? Either way was risky. In the back seat Biff and Chet froze. Frank offered no advice, Joe would have to make the decision himself.

He floored the accelerator, the car crawled past the truck, then he cut sharply to the right. The truck driver put on his brakes and the other car zipped past with only inches to spare.

Looking back Chet saw that the camper, tilted on one wheel, had barely cleared the truck’s front bumper.

Everybody exhaled in relief at the same time. No one spoke for a few minutes. Then Joe remarked sheepishly, “From now on I won’t forget we’re towing a trailer.”

To ease the tension, Biff pulled out his harmonica again and played for a few minutes until Sherlock howled for a halt.

The sun was low on the western horizon when Frank suggested they look for a place to camp. He studied one of the guidebooks. “There’s a place up the road about a hundred miles, but it sounds pretty fancy according to this. The rates are high,” he announced.

Biff said, “I’d like to camp out in the open—a spot like that orchard up on the next hill.”

Chet, who was driving, slowed down and glanced at the extensive orchard which swept up over the brow of the hill and down the other side.

There were no houses in sight. A small dirt lane led from the road through a broken fence into the symmetrical stand of apple trees.

“Let’s spend the night here,” Frank said

As Chet pulled over to the shoulder of the highway, a car passed them, then slowed and stopped.

The man in the car appeared to be studying a map, then continued on. Chet drove up the lane and pulled their camper to a fairly level spot among the trees. Eagerly the boys jumped out of the car, and in ten minutes time the trailer tent was unhitched and set in place.

“Chet, you’re the great chef!” Joe remarked. “Get busy in the galley.”

“Right,” Biff said. “I’m hungry.”

“Chow will be ready in half an hour,” Chet declared with a grand gesture.

Biff went off with Sherlock, while Frank and Joe stretched out on the bunks until suppertime.

Soon the aroma of minute steaks filled the air and Chet called out, “Chow’s ready.” Meat and vegetables were the main course; fruit for dessert. The boys relished every mouthful. As soon as darkness fell they unzipped their sleeping bags and crawled into their bunks.

Sherlock walked round and round, seeking out a comfortable spot. He finally settled down at the foot of Chet’s sleeping bag.

All four boys dozed off quickly and slept soundly until the middle of the night when a mysterious thumping on the roof awakened them. Joe whispered, “Frank, do you hear that?”

The wind had risen and whistled through the trees. Again came the thump, thump.

Sherlock began to whimper, and Biff tried to quiet him.

Suddenly Chet let out a cry of terror!

CHAPTER IV

Four Flats

CHET’s bloodcurdling scream caused his friends to scramble out of their bunks. They fumbled for flashlights, and soon three bright beams illuminated Chet Morton. He was blinking sheepishly.

His heart still pounding, Joe asked, “Why—why did you scream, Chet?”

“I heard the knocking and it woke me up.”

“We all heard it,” Frank said. “Is that what made you yell?”

“Naw. Sherlock’s what made me holler.” Chet said that when he had reached for his fiashlight, he had put his hand into the hound’s mouth!

“It scared me,” Chet went on. “That warm, wet tongue. Ugh! I guess Sherlock sleeps with his mouth open.”

“Remind me to have his adenoids removed,” Biff said with a chuckle.

“Listen, fellows,” Frank put in. “How come the knocking?”

“Maybe some ghosts are conducting a séance,” Biff joked.

“It isn’t funny,” Chet said.

Frank suggested they get out and take a look around. By now the wind had decreased, but the apple-tree branches moved slightly in the breeze.

The beams of their flashlights revealed a low-hanging limb over the camper. A cluster of green apples swayed back and forth, barely brushing against the top.

“There’s the answer,” Biff said. “In the high wind the apples knocked on our roof!”

“And scared all of us,” Frank said. “Boy, are we ever brave!”

Before they climbed into their bunks again, Chet tied the dog to the refrigerator door. In the morning he found the door open and Sherlock poking around some well-wrapped meat. Chet scornfully ordered the hound outside and told Biff his dog would have to sleep under the stars hereafter.

“The chef’s got some rights too!” Chet grumbled.

“Okay,” Biff said, stretching. “Quit talking and start producing.”

After he had splashed himself with cold water, Chet busied himself at the stove, while Frank, Joe, and Biff went to get some heavy sweaters from the car, which was parked about fifty feet away in a clearing.

Approaching it, Joe dashed suddenly forward. “Of all the rotten tricks!”

Frank hastened to his side. “What’s the matter?”

“The tires! All four of them—flat!”

“Can’t be,” Biff said. “Maybe it’s just the tall grass that gives it that appearance.”

Closer examination disproved Biff’s wishful thinking. Air had been let out of all four tires. Worse than that, someone had removed the valve cores!

“Now we’re in real trouble,” Frank said.

“We’ve got a foot pump, haven’t we?” asked Biff.

“Sure, but we don’t have any spare cores,” Joe replied.

“Who could have done it?” Frank turned to scan the orchard as far up the hill as he could see.

Their speculation was interrupted by Chet calling, “Come and get it! Ham and eggs on the menu this morning!”

When Chet heard the bad news about the flat tires he almost dropped the skillet. “Listen,” he said as he served the others, “why don’t we ride down to the shore for a nice quiet holiday instead of going west?”

“Um, good eggs,” Frank said, ignoring Chet’s comment.

“Look, I’ve got part of a shell here,” Biff complained with a wink.

“No extra charge,” Chet said cheerfully. “If you don’t like it, save it for Sherlock.”

“Yeah, what about him?” Biff asked. “Has he had—?”

“I gave that hound chow first thing,” Chet replied.

“Good man,” Biff said. “Do we get seconds?”

“Sure.”

Chet cracked two white shells and neatly dropped the eggs into the skillet.

When they finished breakfast Frank said he would have to hitchhike into the next town to buy valve cores. As he stepped out of the trailer, a short, heavy-set man wearing dungarees and a blue denim shirt strode down the hill with a look of determination on his face.

“Oh, oh. More trouble,” Frank called to the others.

The three boys came outside to see what was going on. The stranger was about forty, sunburned, and with bulging biceps that bespoke days of hard manual labor.

“Good morning,” Frank said pleasantly.

“What’s good about it?” said the man tartly. “I can have you all arrested and I’ve a good mind to do it!” He introduced himself as the owner of the orchard and went on, “You kids think you can drive in here and squat on private property?”

The boys felt embarrassed, realizing that they had done the wrong thing. Frank tried to appease the farmer.

“We—we didn’t see any houses around,” Frank explained.

“Then you didn’t look hard enough,” the farmer said. He turned halfway around and pointed to the top of the ridge. “My place is right over there.”

“Well, gee, we were hungry and tired,” Biff put in. “All we wanted was to eat some chow and hit the sack.”

“You should have asked permission to camp here,” the farmer insisted.

“Don’t you think you’ve punished us enough?” said Joe, a little more vehemently than he had intended.

“What do you mean by that?”

“All our tires are flat.”

“Are you accusing me?” The farmer’s jaw thrust forward, and he took a step closer.

“Oh no offense meant,” Joe said. “That is if you didn’t do it.”

The farmer half-smiled in spite of himself. “If I wanted to punish you, I’d give you a boot in the britches.”

The expression made the boys laugh. Their humor was infectious and the man joined in with a loud guffaw.

“Honest,” Frank said, leading the way to the Hardys’ car. “Someone came in here last night and deflated us.”

“And took the valve cores, too,” Joe added. “We’re really stuck.”

The farmer pursed his lips and shook his head. “Too bad. But I think I can help you.”

“Have you got some spares?” Frank asked quickly.

“Yep. Up in the barn. Come along, young fellow, and I’ll give them to you.”

Frank apologized again.

“Forget it,” the farmer said. “You told me once, that’s enough.”

Frank had trouble keeping up with the man, whose sturdy legs were used to climbing the hilL Tagging a few feet behind, he finally came to the ridge and saw a snug farmhouse sheltered just below the brow of the slope. A barn stood nearby, with baskets stacked along the side. A mud-splat tered half-ton pickup was in the driveway.

While Frank waited, the farmer went into the barn and returned with a flat, thin packet containing four valve cores.

“Let me pay you,” Frank said, reaching into his pocket.

“No need. And if you want a place to camp on your way back from wherever you’re going, just toot your horn a couple of times to let me know.”

Frank thanked the man, then trotted over the hilL Going down the other side, he saw Biff circling the orchard with Sherlock straining at the leash. Chet and Joe followed close behind them.

When Frank caught up with the group, he asked, “What’s up?”

“I had a hunch,” Joe replied. “Gave Sherlock a smell of the inner sole from Whip Lasher’s shoe.”

“And old Sherlock picked up the trail,” Biff added, restraining the hound.

Frank declared, “So that’s who let the air out of our tires!”

“Didn’t Collig say he was a practical joker?” Chet said. Then he shuddered. “Hey! Think what might have happened. That goon could have murdered us all in our sleep!”

Frank agreed they should be extra-cautious. The bloodhound led them closer and closer to the highway. However, when they reached the edge of the road, Sherlock lost the scent.

Suddenly Joe remembered something. “I’ll bet he was the guy who stopped ahead of us when we drove in here.”

“You could be right,” Frank admitted.

“Sure. He waited to play his dirty trick until we were asleep.”

The valve cores were replaced quickly. Using a foot pump, the boys labored hard to inflate the tires. Luckily the side walls had not separated from the rims and the boys completed the task successfully.

Leg-weary from the pumping, they folded up their camper and the caravan was on its way again. That night and the following one were spent in small trailer camps, where the fees were modest and the facilities good. They were now approaching the area where many of the Magnacard swindles had taken place.

The Hardys consulted the list of dealers who had been victimized, and stopped in stores in three different towns. There they learned that at least two other men besides Whip Lasher had purchased goods, most of it sporting equipment. They were both described as shorter than average, stout, and dark-haired.

One merchant, in particular, was furious. “Those polecats got a beautiful cabin cruiser from me,” he said.

“That would be sort of hard to hide, wouldn’t it?” asked Joe.

“Well, it was several days before I realized I had been swindled,” the man replied. “By that time they could have been thousands of miles away from here.”

“I don’t think it would be easy to sell a high-priced boat like that,” Frank said.

The man shrugged. “I suppose if they can’t sell it they’ll use it themselves.”

Then he cocked his head. “You say you’re after the swindlers?”

“Right,” Joe replied.

“Well, I’d advise you to keep your eyes open in all camping spots.”

“That’s what we intend to do,” Frank said.

After jotting down the cruiser’s description and engine number, the boys set off on the highway again. Toward late afternoon, Joe studied the map and picked out a large trailer park fifty miles ahead.

“I’m all for stopping there,” Chet said. “It’s getting late.”

When they pulled into the camp, the boys were surprised to see how large it was. In one section trailers were parked close together, and the vacationers sat on folding chairs, chatting with their neighbors. Some of the house trailers had plaques on the doors, with the names and addresses of their owners.

Joe drove to a secluded spot, where they quickly set up the camper. As they finished their evening meal, a loudspeaker boomed out the announcement there would be a talent show that evening.

“Come one, come all and enjoy the fun,” the announcer said. “We’ll meet at nine o’clock at the campfire.”

“How about it, Joe?” Frank asked. “Want to show them a little Bayport talent with that guitar of yours?”

“Sure,” Joe replied. “If Biff brings his mouth organ.”

“Oh, come on,” Biff said. “Don’t you think a big guy like me would look funny playing a little bitty harmonica?”

Frank noticed the pout on Chet’s face. “Now don’t feel left out, Chet,” he said. “Maybe you could do a hula dance. Did you bring your grass skirt?”

“Lay off, will you!” Chet retorted. “I got another surprise for you.”

“What’s that?” Joe asked brightly.

Somewhat embarrassed, Chet admitted that he had been practicing on a jew’s-harp.

“Hey, that’s great!” said Joe. “Then all three of us will do our thing!”

“Sure,” Frank added. “The Bayport Symphony. I hope they have a talent scout from Hollywood here tonight.”

The boys laughed, looking forward to an evening of fun. Shortly after dark the park manager trucked a load of logs to a pit in the center of the grounds. A huge bonfire was started and its flames lighted up the night.

After a crowd had gathered around, the master of ceremonies called for volunteers to entertain. One boy stepped forward with a trumpet. After a good jazz rendition, he was followed by a solo drummer.

“Not bad,” Frank said. Then he introduced the Bayport Symphony. But before the boys could plunge into the folk tunes they had planned, the stillness of the evening was broken by the staccato sound of a motorcycle.

A small trail bike weaved around the edge of the crowd. The rider, a young fellow with flying blond hair, grinned devilishly at the onlookers.

The emcee ordered him away and the bike turned back. When the put-put of the motor faded out, Joe, Biff, and Chet launched into their act. The crowd clapped and howled with laughter as Chet did a soft-shoe while playing the jew’s-harp.

Then suddenly the trail bike chattered again like a machine gun.

“That guy must be nuts,” Biff declared as the driver whizzed past where they were standing.

Joe jumped out of the way, lost his balance, and dropped his guitar. Biff shook his fist at the cyclist, who turned around and headed for them again.

Nimbly the boys jumped aside, but the rider was not aiming at them. He took a leap at the guitar.

Crunch! It was cut to pieces by the trail bike!

CHAPTER V

A Strange Hiding Place

WHEN the trail bike smashed Joe’s guitar, cries of dismay came from the onlookers. Joe sprinted after the rider, but his flying legs were no match for the motorbike. It arrowed out of the camp gate and disappeared down the road.

When Joe trotted back, Frank was gingerly picking up the pieces. He turned to his brother. “I’m afraid this is totaled.”

Joe seethed with anger at the senseless act of destruction.

Chet said, “Some nerve that creep’s got! He’s driving around on the main road without lights or even a vehicle registration. Someone’ll catch up with him sooner or later!”

“That someone’s going to be me!” Joe vowed. He took the remains of his instrument and tossed them into a trash can.

The Hardys wondered whether the youth had a trailer in the area, and began to query the people who had gathered around to offer consolations to the Bayport Symphony. All were incensed over the vicious incident.

Light from the big bonfire flickered across their concerned faces as they gave Frank and Joe some bits and pieces of information. Several campers had seen the blond youth before. One of them, a man from Texas, had warned him to use the unlicensed cycle only on the mountain trails.

“But of course he paid no attention to me,” the man said.

A young woman pushed her way through the crowd and told Joe, “If you’re looking for that mean boy I may know where he’s staying.”

“You do?” Joe said in surprise. “Where?”

The woman said that the day before the same trail bike had zipped past her on the highway, then turned onto a dirt road. “I saw it pull up to a camp,” she said. “It’s two and a half miles from here, off to the right.”

Joe thanked her and decided to visit the place the next morning.

That night Sherlock was tied up outside and the night passed quietly.

“What are you going to tell that hoodlum when you see him?” Chet asked as he prepared breakfast.

“Nothing,” Joe replied. “I’m going to punch him in the nose.”

“That is if you find him,” Biff said. “Suppose he’s left already?”

“Come on, Chet. Hurry up,” Joe said. “We can’t wait all day for the sausages.”

Half an hour later they were ready to go. Frank drove out of the area and onto the highway. Exactly two and a half miles down the road Frank slowed, and the boys peered into the heavy growth of trees and brush on the right side.

“Look, I see it!” Joe called out. “Turn here, Frank.”

The lane, made by car wheels, was barely visible. Frank drove in slowly with twigs cracking under the tires. As they approached a small clearing they saw a trailer, the kind that normally sleeps two. No car was in evidence, but the trail bike was propped against a tree. Painted on the gas tank were two words: Vampire Trail.

The only person in sight was the blond-haired youth. He was washing tin dishes in a pan of water. When the car drew nearer, he turned around. Joe got out first, walked up to him, and said, “I’m Joe Hardy. Who are you?”

The boy pushed the hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Name’s Juice Barden. What do you want?” He had a thin face and light-blue eyes which blinked nervously. Joe judged him to be about eighteen years old.

“Look, you broke my guitar last night,” Joe said.

“So?”

“So it’s no joke. You’re going to pay for it!”

“Now there’s a real joke,” Juice said arrogantly. “You didn’t get out of the way fast enough.”

“You’ve got no right to buzz a trail bike around a crowd of people!”

“La-de-da,” replied Juice. He reached down, picked up a half-empty bottle of orange soda, and took a swig.

Infuriated, Joe cocked his right arm and was about to let fly with a punch when Biff grabbed him. “Don’t hit Junior, he’s no match for you,” Biff said. “We’ll just wait to see his father and tell him what a bad boy he has.”

Juice sneered, “You think you’re great because there are four of you.”

Chet, meanwhile, was strolling around the campsite. From nails driven into the trees hung a few pieces of drying laundry and a blackened skillet. Chet spied a guitar dangling on a leather thong.

“Hey, Joe, look at this!” he called out. “You want a guitar? Here’s one!” Chet lifted the instrument off the nail and walked over to Joe.

Juice took a step forward but thought better of interfering. “You can’t take that!” he declared.

“Oh no? I’ll keep it until you buy me a new one,” Joe said.

Juice replied coolly, “Fingers won’t like it.”

“Fingers?” asked Chet. “Who’s he?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

The four boys shrugged and turned to leave. Joe looked back for a moment. “Okay, Barden. Tell Fingers the guitar is in good hands.”

“What a crumb!” Chet muttered as they got into the car.

“I wonder who this Fingers is,” said Biff.

“My guess,” Joe said, “is that he’s some fancy pants dumb-dumb. What’s the old saying—birds of a feather flock together?”

“Is it a good guitar?” asked Biff as Frank started off.

“Fair, I’d say,” Joe declared after strumming a few notes. “Mine was a lot better.”

They sped westward for an hour and when Biff spelled Frank at the wheel they stopped to admire a spectacular waterfall. It gushed out from a crevice in the pine hills and churned white on rocks close to the road’s edge, before boiling under the highway bridge. The boys got out and stood on the bridge to enjoy the sight, until Biff became impatient.

“Come on. We’re wasting too much time,” he said, and walked toward the car which was parked off the bridge on the side of the road.

As the others ambled along behind Biff, a sedan pulling a small trailer, squealed past them and drove up directly in front of the Hardys’ convertible. Juice’s trail bike was lashed to the rear of the sedan.

The doors opened and out jumped Juice Barden and two others. One was a youth about Juice’s age, who had frizzy hair, droopy eyelids, and a sullen expression. The other was a man in his twenties, thin, agile, and as tall as Biff.

“These are the ones,” Juice said to the tall man.

Frank looked at him. “I suppose you’re Fingers.”

“I’m Fingers, all right.” The man turned to the droopy-eyed youth. “Rip, you and Juice look for my guitar.”

“Oh no you don’t!” said Joe. “This buddy of yours crushed mine with his trail bike!”

“Juice is no responsibility of mine,” Fingers replied coldly.

“Don’t be tough!” Biff spoke up and stepped forward. “You’ll get your guitar when you pay Joe for his.”

“Oh yeah? How much?”

“Fifty dollars,” Joe replied.

“Out of sight,” retorted Fingers as his two pals slowly walked to the Hardys’ car.

“Touch that and I’ll flatten you!” Biff thundered.

“We’ll see about that!” snapped Fingers. His right hand flew to his pocket. He pulled out a knife, pressed a button, and a switchblade flashed in the sunlight. “Okay now, we’ll take my guitar,” he said with a menacing sneer.

Frank’s mind whirled. “Better not push this too far,” he thought, “or somebody’ll really get hurt.” Aloud he said, “Okay, Fingers, I guess you win this time.” He walked to the car, got the guitar, and approached Fingers. As he did, Biff edged closer.

“Here, take it,” Frank offered.

As the man reached for the instrument, Biff lashed out with a karate kick. The toe of his boot caught Fingers’ wrist, sending the knife flying.

Biff followed up with a chop and Fingers landed on his back. As he struggled to his feet, Rip jumped on Frank and wrestled him to the ground. Juice threw a punch at Joe.

“You asked for it,” Joe muttered. With a lefthand feint and a right-hand cross to the jaw, he sent Juice sprawling. The battle was short. Without his knife, Fingers was no match for Biff. Chet picked up the knife and the seven stood there glaring at one another.

Fingers’ guitar lay broken.

“Okay,” Frank said. “That evens things up. One broken guitar a piece.” He bent over to pick up Fingers’ smashed instrument and his eyes widened. Inside were some blue stones, glued to the wood.

“What are these?” Frank asked.

Wincing, Fingers reached out for the guitar. “None of your business,” he muttered. He took the fractured instrument, turned, and climbed into his car. Juice and Rip followed and they drove off. The Hardys passed them a few miles down the road.

Frank, meanwhile, had been thinking about the stones. Obviously they had been hidden for a reason. “Sapphires are blue, aren’t they, Joe?” he asked.

“Sure. Don’t you remember, Mother’s birthstone?” Joe shook his head. “You missed a chance to get her a present, Frank!”

Shortly afterward they stopped at a rest area to have lunch, then rode on for the balance of the afternoon. It was four o’clock when they reached a sparkling lake. Its sandy beach had accommodations for a few trailers and Joe eased their camper to a shady spot close to the water.

“How about a swim, fellows?” he asked.

They were all eager to get into the cool water and soon had put on their swim trunks which they kept handy in the car.

“What’ll we do with Sherlock?” Biff asked, reaching into the car’s trunk for a towel.

“Tie him to the bumper,” Frank advised. “We’ll let him have a dip when we’re finished.”

The boys raced into the water, their arms and legs flying. Strong strokes carried them far out. Chet rolled over and floated on his back, spewing a plume of water into the air.

Frank chuckled. “There’s good old Chet the whale.”

Encouraged by this remark, Chet dived and surfaced like a porpoise. As Joe watched him, he looked back and saw another car parked near the water’s edge. Two men got out.

Biff sent the knife flying

“Look, fellows!” Joe cried in alarm.

One of the men produced a bottle from his car, then lighted a wick at the mouth of it.

“It’s a Molotov cocktail!” Frank gasped.

With swift strokes the boys churned toward shore. But they were not in time to prevent the men from hurling the bottle at the camper. It burst in a sheet of flame as the pair jumped into their car and sped off.

The bloodhound, unable to get away, strained at the leash and howled pitifully.

Biff yelled, “Sherlock’s going to get burned!”

Midnight Stakeout

REACHING shore, the boys dashed to the camper. Flames were blazing close to the terrified bloodhound.

Biff untied the dog while Frank, Joe, and Chet threw sand on the fire. Then Biff grabbed the fire extinguisher from the Hardys’ car and doused the last of the flames.

The boys assessed the damage. Paint had been burned off the side of the trailer and one of the tires gave off a pungent odor. But the damage was slight.

“Thank goodness Sherlock wasn’t hurt,” Frank said, bending to scratch the dog’s ears.

Chet said, “Somebody’s really out to get us.”

“And you can bet it’s Fingers,” Biff added.

As they dressed, Frank said, “Biff, I doubt that it was Fingers who did this.”

“Why?”

“Because he would have done it himself. Neither of those men was Fingers, or his pals. It looks more like Whip Lasher’s mob.”

“Another one of his practical jokes?” Biff said.

Frank nodded.

The boys hit the road again. Two hours later the low hills they were passing through flattened out to rolling prairie as far as the eye could see.

“Where are we going to camp tonight?” Joe asked.

“We’d better stay away from a popular trailer court,” Frank said.

“Let’s get a secluded place,” Biff suggested.

“Right,” Joe agreed. “I’ll take my sleeping bag and station myself a distance away in case we should have more visitors.”

As the sun began to set, Chet was at the wheel. He noticed a cleared area in a cornfield which seemed to stretch for miles. “How about this?” he asked.

Frank and Joe looked about for any sign of habitation. There was none. Chet pulled off the road close to the green stand of head-high corn. The trailer was unhitched, and the camper set up.

“Let me take the galley tonight,” Joe said. “You look kind of pooped after that long drive, Chet.”

“Okay,” Chet said and stretched himself out on one of the bunks.

After sundown, darkness dropped like a blanket over the warm prairie. Joe took his sleeping bag, walked toward the road, and found a nook between rows of corn.

He slept intermittently, an occasional passing car stirring him to semiwakefulness. Shortly after midnight he heard the distant noise of a motorbike. Then the bike stopped.

Joe crept out of the sleeping bag, crouched, and listened. From the side of the road someone with a covered flashlight was approaching. There was no beam, just an eerie red eye searching through the cornstalks.

Joe decided to surprise the prowler. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The challenge stopped the prowler in his tracks. A voice from the dark said, “You know who I am. You palmed some of my sapphires. Now give them back!”

Fingers again! What was he up to now?

“We didn’t take any of your sapphires. Maybe you dropped them along the road,” Joe said.

“Impossible.”

“Perhaps Juice or Rip took them.”

Fingers did not advance. It seemed obvious that the man was thinking over what Joe had said.

The young detective took advantage of the pause. “Is that why you fire-bombed us this afternoon?”

“Fire-bombed! Are you crazy?”

“Don’t deny it!”

“I wouldn’t try to burn anybody.” Fingers sounded as if his feelings were hurt.

Just then Sherlock started to bark.

“Don’t turn that mutt on me!” Fingers cried.

His light retreated to the side of the road and disappeared. A few minutes later Joe heard the whine and staccato of the bike’s motor as it came to life, then the sounds gradually faded and the night was still.

“Hey, Joe! What’s the matter? Any trouble?” It was Frank.

The boys gathered outside the camper and Joe told what had happened.

“So those stones were really sapphires,” Frank said. “I wonder where he got them.”

“Probably stole them, and now he claims we took them from him,” Joe said.

“I believe the other two guys swiped them,” said Chet. “They didn’t strike me as being trustworthy.”

“And he denied the fire-bombing?” Biff asked.

“Downright emphatic about it,” Joe reported. “I think that underneath, Fingers has a soft heart!”

Biff grumbled, “You’d have to prove that to me.”

“Anyhow,” Frank said, “it seems that our three friends don’t trust one another.” He pointed out that Juice obviously had not known about the concealed gems when Chet lifted the guitar from the nail in the tree.

“I’m going to phone Dad tomorrow morning and tell him the circumstances,” Frank said as they all settled down for the rest of the night.

At dawn Frank roused the others. By the time the sun had risen, breakfast was over and the camping gear stowed for the next leg of their journey.

At the first town Frank stopped to telephone Bayport. His father was away on his case. Mrs. Hardy, who usually was calm, seemed agitated. “Frank, we got a strange letter,” she said.

“About what, Mother?”

“About you. Wait while I get it.”

Mrs. Hardy returned a few moments later and read the message. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Fenton Hardy and said:

I KNOW THAT YOUR SONS ARE ON THE WAY WEST TO TRACK DOWN THE GREAT WL. KEEP THEM OUT OF THE ROCKIES OR THEY WILL NEVER GET BACK ALIVE.

“Who sent it?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know. It’s unsigned and was sent airmail from Indiana,” his mother replied.

“Don’t worry,” Frank told her. “We’re capable of taking care of ourselves. Someone has been bothering us and now I’m sure that it’s Whip Lasher and his gang.”

Frank decided not to mention the fire-bombing. He said that if his father called to tell him that the trail had been cold to medium. When it got hot, Joe or he would phone home again.

It was afternoon when the flat prairie gave way to a clutch of low hills on the western horizon. The boys had not seen Fingers and his pals and hoped that they had turned either north or south.

“That Terrible Trio really bugs me,” Biff said.

At a curve in the road a woman stood beside a disabled car, waving a white handkerchief.

“Okay, Sir Galahad,” Chet told Frank, who was driving. “Pull over and we’ll give yon damsel a sample of our superb chivalry.”

“She has a flat tire,” Frank said. “Want to change it?” He braked slowly, stopping on the downgrade some distance ahead of the disabled car. All four got out and walked back.

The woman, attractive and in her twenties, smiled nervously as the boys approached. “Will you please help me?” she asked. “I’ve never changed a tire in my life.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joe said. “Chet here has volunteered to do the job.”

“How thoughtful,” the woman replied. “Then I suppose you’re a mechanic.”

Chet’s look of chagrin turned to one of proud pleasure. “Sure. I can do almost anything with a car. Is your spare in the trunk?”

She nodded and handed him the key.

Chet found the jack and soon had the rear end several inches off the ground. He removed the rim and tried to replace it with the spare. It would not fit!

“Having trouble, Chet?” asked Biff.

The perspiring boy glared and the woman said, “Chet, I think you’re putting it on backward.”

“Oh yes. Thank you.” Chet reversed the wheel and it snapped quickly into place.

“I guess the heat got to me,” Chet said, screwing the lugs back on. Then he banged the hubcap in place. While he was doing this, several cars drove past. Joe was on the alert, watching for Fingers’ trailer but it did not come by.

As Chet replaced the tools, the woman suddenly put a hand to her mouth and cried, “My goodness, isn’t that your car?”

All heads whipped to the spot where they had parked. Their car and the camper were moving slowly down the incline.

“I don’t believe it!” Frank shouted. “I’m sure I set the brakes!”

He dashed ahead of the others as the car picked up speed. It was impossible to overtake it! All at once he noticed the young woman driving alongside him.

“I’ll help you!” she called out.

Frank flung his arm into the open right-hand window and hung on. The woman put on speed and soon her car and the Hardys’ were side by side.

“Closer! Can you come closer?” Frank shouted.

The two vehicles were now hardly more than a couple of feet apart and Frank saw Sherlock looking forlornly out the back window.

Frank made a lunge, releasing his hold on the woman’s car and clutching at the steering wheel of his own. A pain shot up along his arm. His fingers nearly lost their grip but he held on. The car was heading off the side of the road toward a deep gully. Frank struggled desperately to control it!

CHAPTER VII

Charred Evidence

FRANK gripped the door and with a mighty wrench pulled his shoulders through the window opening. Then he wriggled onto the seat, jammed on the brakes, cut the motor, and twisted the wheel. The car lurched to a halt on the lip of the embankment.

“The trailer!” Frank thought. He hardly dared to look behind. The camper dangled over the gully! The slightest motion might send it and the car crashing down.

Joe, Chet, and Biff raced to assist Frank. While they grabbed the car so it would not teeter, Frank opened the door and slid out.

Sherlock jumped into the front seat and bounded out into Biff’s arms.

“Some camping trip!” Chet muttered. “We spend half of our time rescuing Sherlock!”

Joe said, “This is either more of Fingers’ work, or Whip Lasher’s!”

“We didn’t see Fingers’ trailer go by,” Chet remarked.

“Well, if it was Fingers, he and his pals must be somewhere near here,” Frank said. “We’ll search for them after we get our camper back on the road.”

As he spoke, a large transcontinental truck moved cautiously down the grade and Joe hailed it. “Can you pull us back on the highway?” he asked.

The truckers said they would be glad to. From their gear locker they pulled out a long chain, which they attached to the front of the Hardys’ car. Then carefully—a few inches at a time—the large vehicle eased the car and the trailer up over the edge and back onto the shoulder of the road.

“Thanks a lot!” Frank said.

The truckers replied with a salute and left.

“They’re great guys in an emergency,” Biff declared.

Frank turned around and headed back. A couple of miles along the road they saw a rest area they had not noticed before. Two small trailers were parked next to picnic tables, where four people sat, eating and chatting.

“Hi, there,” Frank said as he approached the two middle-aged couples.

“Hello, boys,” one of the women said. “If you’re hungry, sit right down and join us.”

“No, thank you,” Frank replied. “We were just looking for a small trailer. We thought it might have been parked here.”

“The one with the Vampire Trail motorbike?”

“That’s right.”

“They left a while ago,” her husband added. “After they cooked some grub over a fire.” He pointed to a stone pit about twenty-five feet away.

“Which way were they headed?” asked Biff.

“West,” the other man said.

“Funny,” mused Chet, “we didn’t see them on the road.”

“That’s because they decided to take a shortcut by a back road. Look, it’s here on the map.”

He handed Frank a road map and traced the line of a secondary road. “It might be a little rough,” he added, “but it avoids the traffic on the highway.”

Frank thanked him and said in a low voice to Joe, “I’ve got it figured. One of them drove past in their car, released our brake, turned around and came back here. Then they high-tailed off through the hinterland so we wouldn’t see them!”

Chet, meanwhile, had wandered off to the stone pit. At the edge of the stones lay the charred remains of a camping magazine.

“Oh, Frank! Here’s something that might interest you.”

He picked up the magazine and gave it to Frank. In it were the usual stories about good camping sites, a rundown on new models of motorbikes, and a section on house trailers.

Frank turned another page. “Look at this, Joe,” he said. A short article was titled “Sapphire Trek.” The dateline had been burned off, but most of the text was intact. It told of illegal mining of precious stones in the Rockies. The following page had been torn out.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Both were asking themselves the same questions. Had the sapphires in the guitar been mined illegally? Did Fingers and his gang have anything to do with such an operation?

The Hardys talked it over and decided there must be some connection. They discussed their theory with Chet and Biff.

“If they tore out a page, it proves they were interested in something to do with the mine,” Biff agreed.

Chet said, “So now we have two mysteries. Which one are we going to concentrate on, Frank?”

The Hardys were determined to follow their original case. Scant as clues had been, they had a hunch that Whip Lasher was not only following them for the purpose of harassment, but also was heading for a hideout in the Rockies.

Frank tossed the magazine into a trash can. The boys said good-by to the couples, and continued on their way. Biff was driving, with Joe next to him. Biff said, “I think the Terrible Trio will keep out of our sight from now on.”

“Right,” Joe said. “They’ll know we suspect them of releasing the brake.”

In the back seat Chet hooked his thumbs into his belt and heaved a sigh of relief. “If we never see them again, it’ll be too soon.”

Frank studied the map as they went over mountainous terrain. “Denver is not far away,” he said. “A couple of hundred miles or so.”

The sun hung red on the horizon and Biff flipped the driver’s visor down to cut the glare. Up ahead he could see a car hauling a shiny white cabin cruiser on a boat trailer.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Joe.

Biff nodded and reduced his speed to follow behind the boat. The boys studied it in detail, comparing it with the one bought with the counterfeit credit card. It fitted the description perfectly.

“But let’s not jump to conclusions,” Frank warned Joe.

“We could stop him right away!” Joe said.

“Negative. If we make a citizen’s arrest and we’re wrong—”

“Frank’s right,” Biff put in. “If this fellow is going to camp overnight, how about buddying up?”

“Great idea,” Chet said. “Besides, I’m getting hungry.”

A half mile farther on a huge sign announced that a flood control and hydroelectric power reservoir lay ten miles ahead. Campers were welcome.

Frank consulted the map. “Wow! This place is twenty miles long and about five miles wide!”

“I’ll bet that’s where our friend’s going,” Biff said.

His guess proved correct. The next fork in the road had a sign: Turn left to Badland Reservoir. State boating laws in effect.

Frank dropped to a discreet distance behind the boat trailer. It headed directly to the shore of the lake and parked in the camping area.

The Hardys pulled up alongside and set up their camper. Frank had warned the others not to pay any attention to their neighbor but to busy themselves around their own trailer.

The plan worked well. Biff unlimbered his fishing rod and began casting it into the reservoir. Joe tinkered under the hood of the car, checking the oil, while Frank and Chet prepared supper. Finally the door of the other car opened. A man got out and warily watched the boys. He was in his middle thirties, stout, with receding black hair, a large nose, and small eyes. His shelving chin added to the general appearance of a sleek beaver.

He approached the steps of the camper, knocked, and when Frank came out, introduced himself as Edward K. Mungo.

“Pretty efficient layout you boys have here,” he said.

“We like it,” Frank replied.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“I’m Frank. The chef is Chet. The guy fishing is Biff. And the other one is Joe.”

Chet, meanwhile, continued his stint at the stove, cutting up three large onions into a skillet with melted butter.

Frank said, “Mr. Mungo likes the smell of our chow. What do you say we invite him to dinner?”

Chet nodded and the man said, “That’s very friendly of you. Thank you. I accept with pleasure.”

When the meal was over, Mungo said, “It’s a lucky thing you fellows parked near me. How would you like to help me launch my cruiser?”

“Glad to,” Frank said.

The hitch was uncoupled and the boys trundled the cruiser into the reservoir. Mungo started the motor, waved, and set out with a throaty purr of the engine.

Darkness was falling but not fast enough to conceal another boat coming up to meet the cruiser. Both craft stopped, with motors idling.

“I’d like to take a look at what’s going on out there,” Frank said.

“We’ve got our foldboat,” Biff remarked. “Let’s put it together.”

The two-seater collapsible boat was pulled out of the trunk of their car and quickly inflated. Frank and Joe got in and paddled silently across the dark waters.

They came as close as they dared to the two boats. The sounds of voices drifted over the lake, but the conversation was not clear enough to be understandable. Suddenly the conversation ceased. A powerful flashlight illuminated the area. Frank and Joe ducked and began to paddle back toward land. When they reached the shore, Biff and Chet were waiting.

“Quick, put the boat away,” Frank said.

He and Joe stood on the shore while the others deflated the boat and stowed it. They waited a long time but the cruiser did not reappear.

“He’ll have to come back some time,” Frank said. “Well, let’s hit the sack. We can check that guy out in the morning.”

The four slept soundly. At daybreak they rose, dressed, and stepped out onto the dewy grass to see whether the boat had returned.

“He came back all right,” Chet said, pointing to a cruiser drifting at anchor a few feet from shore. “Mungo’s probably sleeping aboard.”

“Why not blow the whistle on him right now, Frank?” Biff asked.

“Not so fast,” Frank replied. “Take a look at that boat again.”

The boys peered through the mist rising over the reservoir. Biff exclaimed, “It’s not the same one!”

“Correct,” Frank stated. “Mungo pulled a switch during the night!”

CHAPTER VIII

The Missing Cruiser

THEIR evidence against the Magnacard swindlers had vanished! The boat lying at anchor in the still waters of the reservoir was not the one they had trailed along the highway.

“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.

“Play it cool,” Frank replied. “Mungo’s probably sleeping out there. If we act suspiciously, he might give us the slip.”

It was decided that he and Joe would take the rubber boat and scout the reservoir. If they had any important news for Chet and Biff, who were to keep an eye on Mungo, they would report it over their two-way radio.

Just then the boat they were watching rocked a little, sending a small ripple over the quiet surface.

“Let’s duck,” Joe suggested. “Mungo’s probably getting up.”

Frank carried the foam boat some distance down the shore, while Joe lugged the small motor. When they were safely out of Mungo’s earshot, they unlimbered the boat, attached the motor, and cruised along the shore, keeping a sharp lookout for the white craft.

The sun grew hot, dispelling the mist over the reservoir. Along the shore were more campers than the boys had imagined. Some were in trailers, while others emerged from bright striped tents and waded into the water for a morning swim.

Boats began to move across the lake. Some were small; others were as large as the white cruiser.

“We’ll be all day at this job,” Frank said, scanning the long shoreline. It stretched for miles ahead before curving around toward the low hills on the other side of the lake.

The Hardys pulled ashore several times to ask campers if they had seen the white cabin cruiser but no one had. At noon they approached land to quiz a number of boys and girls who were their own age. All ran down to the water’s edge to greet Frank and Joe as they beached their boat.

“Hi,” Frank said, stepping out. He introduced himself and his brother.

The young people proved to be high school students from Kansas City, who had driven west on vacation. Their chaperons, Mr. and Mrs. Rickle, gave the Hardys a warm welcome.

Joe spoke up. “Mrs. Rickle, do you mind answering some questions?”

“Not at all,” the woman replied.

One of the girls who had crowded around giggled. “Is this a Gallup poll or something?” she asked.

Joe grinned. “Nothing like that,” he replied. “We’re looking for a cruiser.”

“What kind of cruiser?” Mr. Rickle inquired.

After Frank described it, Mr. Rickle remarked, “Pretty classy job.” He turned to the campers. “Have any of you seen one like it in this area?”

The group had been paddling around the reservoir for three days, but no one had seen a boat that fitted the Hardys’ description.

“Did you lose it?” Mrs. Rickle asked half-jokingly.

“Someone else did,” Frank said.

“It would be pretty hard to lose a thing like that,” one of the girls remarked. She had long flaxen hair and a quizzical smile.

“All right,” Joe said with an embarrassed grin. “It was stolen. We’re on the trail of it.”

“Are you sure it’s on this lake?” the girl went on.

“Don’t be so nosy, Barbie,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Frank said. “We’re the curious type ourselves.”

The girl laughed and Frank said, “Well, thanks a lot. We’d better be moving along.”

Mr. Rickle glanced at his watch, then to a barbecue pit in front of one of the tents, where hot dogs were roasting on a grill.

“You can’t go without food,” he said.

“Well, we really—” Frank protested.

“Come to think of it,” Joe interrupted, looking at Barbie, “I’m hungry.”

“That settles it.” Mr. Rickle grinned. “Come and join us. If you don’t mind sitting on the ground, that is. We’re not fancy.”

The campers laughed and joked, their appetites whetted by the aroma of sizzling frankfurters. Barbie popped a chef’s hat on her head, speared the hot dogs with a long fork, laid them deftly on the rolls and sang out, “Come and get ’em while they’re hot!”

The Hardys ate two apiece, thanked their hosts, and said good-by.

“But you can’t go without some cake,” Barbie shrieked.

“Honestly,” Frank said, “I’m stuffed.”

The girl, however, would not take no for an answer. She wrapped two huge pieces of chocolate layer cake in aluminum foil, tucked them into a small paper bag, and handed it to Joe.

“Thanks,” Joe said. “You’ve been awfully kind to us.”

The Rickles waved as the rubber boat putted away.

Another dozen stops were made along the shore to question campers. Some had vague recollections of having seen the white cruiser. But nothing definite turned up. By now they were on the far side of the reservoir and the sun was low. A strong wind churned the water to whitecaps.

“We’d better get back,” said Joe, who was at the tiller. He turned the bow of the boat into the waves and started across the wide expanse of water, but made little progress against the wind.

“This outboard isn’t strong enough,” Frank said. “We’re getting nowhere fast.”

Joe turned about and skirted the shore, hoping the wind would die down. Instead, it increased in intensity.

“Looks as if we’re stuck for the night,” Frank said.

They decided to find a sheltered place where they might put up. Joe steered closer to the shore, scanning the hills which sloped directly to the water without any beach whatever.

“Hey, look up ahead,” Frank said, pointing.

There was a small cave at water level. Obviously the action of the waves had eroded soil and rocks in the embankment.

“We could duck in there for protection,” Joe said.

By bending their heads low, the rubber boat slid into the small pocket cave. The roof was high enough so they could sit upright.

“Good luck so far,” Frank said.

They waited for the wind to subside. After about an hour, the lake gradually grew calmer.

“What about Chet and Biff?” Joe asked. “They’re probably wondering where we are.”

“I’ll try to raise them on the radio,” Frank replied.

Their friends had been instructed to leave the waveband open in case of an emergency. Frank flicked on his set and called. Biff answered. “What are you doing? Where are you? When are you coming back?”

Frank told him about their predicament, then said, “What’s going on over there? Where’s Chet?”

“He’s keeping an eye on Mungo.”

“Then he hasn’t left yet?”

“No.” Biff added that Mungo had asked some pointed questions during the day about the Hardys’ boat trip.

“Did he see us leaving?” asked Frank.

“Right,” Biff said. “He had his binoculars trained on you all the time. Chet and I spied him just as you shoved off.”

“Then he’s not quite so friendly as he was?”

“You can say that again. And he hasn’t taken very kindly to Sherlock. He eyes him suspiciously.”

“Stick with it,” Frank said. “If Mungo leaves, let us know right away. See you in the morning.”

Frank had just signed off when Joe said, “Look out there!”

The running lights of a boat gleamed in the dusk. They pushed their boat close to the cave opening and strained their eyes to peer into the gloom. A white craft moved past, nearing the shore at low speed.

“That’s the cruiser!” Joe hissed.

Quickly the boys guided their boat out of the cave, started the outboard, and began to trail the craft. They followed it stealthily.

The cruiser approached a cluster of lights on the shore ahead.

“Looks like a marina,” Frank whispered. “Steer as close as you can, Joe.”

The cruiser sounded its horn in three short blasts and several men appeared quickly at the water’s edge.

Joe stopped the outboard, then paddled nearer to the marina. Flashlights bobbed. The boys eased themselves out of the rubber boat, tied it up, and crept along the shore. Now they could hear the conversation.

“The boss’ll like this deal,” a man said. “I sold it to a sucker down the pond a piece. To be delivered in the morning.”

“Good work, good work,” another man praised. “Did you sell it as is?”

“No. He wants a blue model.”

“So it needs a paint job.”

“Right. Otherwise it’s clean. All identification has been removed.”

Soon there came the gentle hiss of paint being sprayed on the cruiser.

Frank and Joe did not dare to whisper. If they were heard, they would be easy prey to the thieves.

Hours passed. Finally the first man spoke again. “Okay, the job’s done. Radio E. K. and tell him to scram, if he hasn’t gone already.”

Mungo’s initials!

Frank and Joe backed up quietly. When they were certain they were out of earshot, Frank said, “We’ll call Chet and Biff to detain Mungo.”

They crept back to the boat, reached for the radio, and switched it on. “Chet. Biff. This is Joe calling.”

A sleepy voice replied. “Chet here. What’s up?”

“Grab Mungo and don’t let him get away!”

Suddenly lights shone not twenty feet from where they crouched. An angry voice boomed out, “We’re being spied on!”

Cries went up from the gang near the cruiser. Shouting and cursing, the men raced along the shore, their flashlights bobbing.

The man closest to the Hardys made a lunge for them as they slipped into their boat. Would they get away?

CHAPTER IX

Sanctuary

IN feverish haste Frank and Joe shoved off from the shore. Their pursuer made one last desperate lunge with a knife, half falling into the water as the tip of the blade dug into the rubber boat!

Joe started the outboard, giving it full power. Their escape was painfully slow. They felt the cold water slowly seeping through the rent in the rubberized fabric.

Their pursuer pulled himself out of the water and raced back to his confederates. Joe saw them launch a small motorboat into the reservoir. It started with a roar.

“Frank, I don’t think we can make it!” Joe said, keeping their little craft close to shore and seeking the sanctuary of the small cave.

“It must be up ahead,” Frank said anxiously.

Joe brought the boat so close to shore that they could nearly touch the rocks.

The speedboat, meanwhile, whined angrily as it cut across toward them.

Finally Frank spotted the cave. “Joe, there it is! Right up ahead!”

They ducked and eased into the safety of the cave. Seconds later the motorboat flashed past and droned out of earshot.

“Whew!” Frank felt the side of the boat until his fingers found the cut. “Joe, reach in for the first-aid kit, will you?”

“What for?”

“Adhesive. I think I can fix the tear with it.” Frank patched the tape firmly over the rip. “Now it’ll hold tight. But we’ve got to get the water out of here.”

Joe took off his sweat shirt and sopped up the water in the bottom of the boat. After wringing out the shirt a number of times, the floor was fairly dry.

As the boys sat waiting for their pursuers to return, Frank said, “Boy, am I hungry!”

“Hey!” Joe exclaimed. “The chocolate cake!”

He pulled out a package from under his seat. The cake was slightly damp, but tasted delicious to the two hungry boys.

“Bless that Barbie,” Frank said, after swallowing the last crumb.

Again they heard the motorboat. It crisscrossed the water not far from shore, then headed for the marina.

“I guess they think we sank,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “Let’s start now,” he said. “Keep that motor at low speed until we’re far out.”

The sky was velvety blue and the wind had abated completely. Stars could be seen briefly above the cover of cirrus clouds.

With a burping cough the outboard came to life and propelled the craft out into the lake. It crept along for ten minutes until Joe gave it more power. He aimed straight for the opposite shore. An hour later they reached the other side, slightly north of where their car was parked.

“Easy now, Joe,” Frank warned as they edged along the shore. “We don’t want to bang into Mungo’s boat!”

They came to the spot where the suspect’s car had stood. It was gone, and so was his boat!

“Frank!” Joe exclaimed after he had scanned the area. “Our car’s not here, either!” Only the camper remained, dimly silhouetted against the eastern sky.

“Chet and Biff might have parked it somewhere else. Come on.”

The boys climbed out of the boat. They pulled it ashore, then ran to the trailer. Frank opened the door and they walked inside. They played their flashlights about. The place was empty, except for Sherlock. He lay on the floor in a deep slumber.

“Frank, something happened here,” Joe said. “That hound’s not sleeping, he’s unconscious!”

“And where are Biff and Chet?” Frank wondered. “Maybe they’re in trouble!”

Joe ran back to the boat and got the radio. They tried to raise their friends over the air, but had no success.

“What now?” Joe asked.

“Let’s follow the tracks.”

Frank shone his light on the ground and picked up the tire marks of their car. But instead of heading toward the highway, the trail circled to the left.

“See here, Frank,” Joe said. “There’s only one set of tracks. Where’d Mungo go?”

Before they had a chance to ponder this, their car loomed up ahead. The Hardys ran to it and shone their lights inside. Chet and Biff were in the back seat, tied up!

Frank and Joe swung the doors open and dragged their friends out. Chet was unconscious, but Biff began to mutter. The boys chafed their hands and massaged their necks, until Biff could talk coherently and Chet revived.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

Biff explained that Mungo had driven off to get some ice cream. “We thought he was returning the favor for having eaten chow with us,” Biff said.

“The stuff tasted kind of funny,” Chet put in.

“I didn’t like it either.” Biff made a face. “And Mungo wouldn’t have any at all. So Sherlock ate most of it.”

The pair related that they had suddenly become groggy. Unable to defend themselves, Mungo had tied them up, put them into the car, and parked them in the woods.

“Did you see where he went?” asked Joe.

“No. How’s Sherlock?” Biff said.

“In the camper, unconscious. That’s how we knew something was wrong. Well, let’s get back.”

Frank drove the car to their campsite. Biff ran into the trailer and bent over Sherlock, then he shook his head sadly. “Poor dog’s awfully sick,” he said, stroking the animal’s back. “We’ll have to locate a vet.”

The boys lifted the dog gently and carried him to the car. The tent was folded away in the trailer and they set off.

By the time they arrived in the nearest town, the sun was up. They asked a passer-by where they could find a veterinarian and were directed to Dr. Cameron’s Animal Hospital.

“He lives on the second floor,” the man said. “Just ring the bell.”

Biff carried the dog to the door and the Hardys followed with Chet. Frank said, “We should really do some sleuthing about that ice cream. You stay here till we get back, Biff.”

“Okay,” Biff said and rang the doorbell.

The three boys walked around town until they came to a large ice-cream stand. The man who was cleaning up the place turned out to be the proprietor. Frank asked whether he had sold any ice cream the previous day to a man resembling Mungo.

Chet and Biff were tied up!

“Oh yes, I remember him,” the man replied. “He bought a half-gallon brick—strawberry and chocolate with peach ripple in the middle.”

“You’ve got a good memory,” Joe said, pleased with their quick success.

“I couldn’t forget that guy,” the man replied. “He walked down the end of the counter, split the brick in the middle, and poured something on it.”

“Didn’t you think that was strange?” Frank asked.

“Sure. Why didn’t he wait till he got home before he cut it up and poured syrup over it? But there are all kinds of weird people.”

“It wasn’t syrup, it was poison!” Joe declared hotly.

The proprietor blanched. “Are you sure? Did anybody get sick?”

“Not real bad,” Frank said. “Only our dog.”

The man looked distressed. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said. He reached into the freezer and pulled out another half-gallon brick. “Maybe you’d like to have this to make up for it,” he said.

“No thanks,” Frank said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Their next stop was at police headquarters. The boys told the deputy chief in charge about the poisoned ice cream and the stolen cruiser, and he promised to put out an all-points bulletin for Mungo and his pals at the marina.

When Frank, Joe, and Chet returned to the animal hospital, Biff was sitting outside on the steps holding his head in his hands.

“He really loves that dog,” Chet said as they walked up to him.

“Hi, Biff,” Frank called out. “How’s old Sherlock?”

Biff replied with a long face, “Not good. I don’t think he’ll make it!”

CHAPTER X

Buckskin Clue

“You mean Sherlock’s going to die?” Chet asked.

“It looks like it,” Biff replied in a downcast voice.

All four went inside to speak to the doctor, a kindly-looking man in a white uniform.

“Don’t be so glum, Biff,” he said.

Biff’s face brightened. “Is there some hope for my hound?”

“He’s past the crisis,” the vet replied.

“Good old gumshoe,” Joe said.

Frank asked, “Can we take him with us now, Doc?”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Sherlock’s in no condition to travel.”

“But we’ll have to move on,” said Joe.

Biff spoke up. “In that case I’ll stay until the dog’s ready to go and catch up with you later.”

The boys looked at one another. Joe shrugged. “That’ll be okay with me,” he said.

“But,” Chet said, “you can’t carry a dog on a bus. I tried it once. No go.”

“Leave the details to me,” Biff said. “I’ll get there somehow.”

“Where will you stay while Sherlock’s recuperating?” Frank inquired.

The vet smiled when he heard this. “Biff can help me around my hospital and in return he can have a bed in my home,” he said. “The dog’s recovery should only take a couple days.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Biff said, grinning. Then he turned to the Hardys and Chet. “So long, fellows. Good luck! Try to find Whip Lasher by the time we meet again.”

It was decided that the trio would have breakfast, then go ahead to Denver and notify Biff where they were staying. The ride was uneventful except for the grandeur of the country which opened up before their eyes. Their car climbed upward to the mile-high city on the eastern slope of the Rockies. The air was crisp and clear and the city sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine.

Chet poured over a map. He located a large camping site on the northern fringes of Denver and they pulled in between two other trailers. After the boys had set up their tent, the young couple on their right strolled over.

“Hi, my name’s Henry,” said the man. “This is my wife Betty.”

Frank Hardy introduced his group and Henry went on, “You’re just in time for the cook-off competition.”

“What’s that?” asked Chet.

“It’s really something to see,” Betty remarked. She told them that a soup company sponsored the Open-Fire Camp Cooking Contest. “Contestants’ recipes are selected for main dish, vegetable, and dessert,” she said.

As she spoke, the aroma of food drifted over the campsite, and the boys saw other people being drawn to the competition.

“We’re going over now,” Betty said. “Want to come along?”

Frank, Joe, and Chet joined the couple and walked to an area behind the campsite. Twenty or more campfires were burning and contestants with skillets, pots, and pans were nearly finished with their masterpieces.

A tall man wearing western boots and a ten-gallon hat spoke over a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! We have fifteen judges—seven men, seven women, and a little girl. But one of the fellows dropped out. Do we have a volunteer taster?”

“Here!” Joe cried out and lifted Chet’s arm in the air.

“Wait a minute!” the stout boy protested.

“Ah-ha,” the official called out. “That well-fed young man will be perfect.”

Frank and Joe pushed Chet forward as the emcee went on, “What is your name?”

“Chet Morton.”

“You’ll be one of the dessert tasters.”

A benign smile crossed Chet’s face. Desserts were his favorites!

“I’m really in luck!” he told the Hardys.

The aroma of the cook-off was enough to make anybody hungry. The smoke which drifted over the area carried the scent of grilled trout, gingered ham in tantalizing juices, and Twirly Birds, a special chicken recipe. Frank and Joe followed Chet to a table marked Desserts.

“Look at these!” Chet exclaimed as he read the labels. “Caramel peach crunch, apple dumplings, and peach turnovers.”

“Will the tasters eat sparingly of the sweets,” the announcer said. “I’m saying this for your own good!”

Several men and women joined Chet as they sampled the luscious recipes. “Hm!” Chet mused. “Can’t seem to make up my mind!” He went from dish to dish, taking a man-sized portion each time. His eyes rolled and he smacked his lips.

“Come on, Chet!” Joe prodded him as the onlookers chuckled.

“They’re all so good,” Chet said. “It’s awfully hard to figure out which is best!”

“All right,” Frank said. “Just one more time, fellow!”

Chet patted his stomach and started down the line again, relishing each mouthful. Finally he decided. “I vote for the caramel peach crunch,” he said when the roll was called.

“Chet’s in for trouble,” Joe whispered to Frank. “Look, he’s getting pale.”

“I’d say he’s getting green around the gills,” Frank remarked.

Chet’s smile had vanished. “Fellows,” he said, “I’m going back to our trailer. How far is it?”

“About ten miles,” Joe said. “Don’t say that!” Chet made his way through the crowd at a half-trot and held his stomach.

By the time Frank and Joe reached the camper, they found their buddy lying down.

“How do you feel, my gourmet friend?” Joe asked.

“Better.”

But Chet’s illness lasted the balance of the evening. In the morning he was still not his bouncy self.

“Want to come downtown with us?” Joe asked after breakfast.

“What for?”

Frank explained that they were going to visit the Mountain Dogie Store.

“Don’t ask me to do anything for a while, will you?” Chet begged.

“Okay, you stay and recuperate,” Frank said. “Joe and I will be back later.”

With a nod of appreciation, Chet said good-by. The Hardys unhitched their car and drove to a public telephone, where they contacted Biff to tell him of their whereabouts. Sherlock was well enough to travel, Biff reported, and they would leave that morning. Then Frank and Joe went on to downtown Denver. It did not take long to find the Mountain Dogie Store. A sign announced: The World’s Greatest Emporium for Sports and Camping.

The smell of new cloth and leather goods pervaded the huge store. Crowds moved about inspecting hundreds of items from camping gear to sports clothes.

At an information booth they obtained directions to the shoe department. Frank asked for the head clerk. He was a young man in his twenties.

“We’d like to know,” Frank said, “if anybody recently bought shoes here with a Magnacard.”

The young man was immediately interested. “I think we might have some information on that,” he said. “You’ll have to talk to the general manager. Follow me, please.”

They went up a flight of stairs to an office located off the mezzanine. There they were introduced to a thin, balding middle-aged man named Jerrold Morris.

“They have a question about a Magnacard,” the clerk said and excused himself.

Morris motioned the boys to be seated and looked at them suspiciously. “Now what was that about a Magnacard?” he asked.

The Hardys identified themselves, explaining they were on the trail of Whip Lasher. “We’re sure he bought a pair of shoes here,” Frank concluded.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s the same man or not,” Morris said, “but a fellow calling himself Robert Wheeler bought a pair of shoes a couple of months ago. Besides that, he outfitted himself with some of our best merchandise.”

“On a phony Magnacard?” Frank queried.

“That’s right. There was another man with him. I wish we could lay our hands on those twol The police are working on the case.”

“Did you get a description of Wheeler and his companion?” Joe asked.

Morris nodded. “Our shoe clerk remembered Wheeler quite well.”

Frank showed him the photograph.

“This could very well be the same fellow,” Morris said.

“Did he leave any clues?” Joe wanted to know.

“No. We questioned our salesmen. They have no idea where the man was from or where he was going.”

“What about the wrappers?” Frank asked.

Much to the Hardys’ surprise, the packers had not been questioned.

“We would like to talk with them,” Frank said.

“Sure.”

Morris rose and led the way downstairs to an aisle in the back of the store where several women were busy packing merchandise. He asked if anyone remembered wrapping an order including a buckskin jacket and Mountain Dogie shoes, bought with a Magnacard charge plate. “This might be the man who purchased it,” he said and passed the photo around.

One woman, Mrs. Jones, identified Wheeler from the picture. “Whenever I see Magnacard on the sales slip,” she said, “I’m interested in the customer. We don’t get millionaires down here very often.”

“What did the other man look like?” Frank asked.

“Well, he was kind of chubby, and had dark hair. That’s all I remember about him.”

“Did they talk to each other while they were waiting?”

The woman frowned. “They mentioned a place called Foot Meadow a couple of times.”

“Where’s that?” Joe asked Morris.

“Never heard of it,” the man replied.

“Neither have I,” Mrs. Jones added.

“Well, thank you for your information,” Frank said. “You may have been a big help to us.”

“If you should capture those fellows, let me know,” Morris said.

“Will do,” Frank promised.

The boys returned to their car, then drove out of the store’s parking lot into a busy street which led past the Brown Palace Hotel. Farther on, as they passed a jewelry shop, Frank jammed on the brakes.

“Joe, look!”

In front of the shop stood three familiar characters. Juice, Rip, and Fingers!

“Oh-oh,” Joe said. “They followed us to Denver!”

“Wonder what they’re doing in front of that shop,” Frank said. He pulled up to the curb.

“I’d say they’re trying to case the place.” Joe glanced back and saw Fingers walk into the store while the others waited outside.

Joe looked at his brother. “Frank, do you suppose this is a stick-up?”

CHAPTER XI

A Shattering Experience

FRANK and Joe looked around for a policeman, but there was none in sight. So they hastened toward the jewelry store.

Frank said, “I’ll go inside just in case there’s trouble. You stay out here to cover me if those two guys try anything funny.”

When Juice and Rip saw them coming, their mouths dropped open in surprise. Juice held a bottle of orange soda in his hand. Trying to be casual, he took a swig.

“What are you guys doing here?” Rip asked.

The Hardys did not reply. Joe stayed outside while Frank strode into the shop. Counters lined both sides and the far end, where Fingers, his back to the door, was talking to the clerk.

Quietly Frank stepped forward. Fingers reached into his jacket and pulled something out.

Frank edged closer. “Thank goodness,” he said to himself, “it’s not a holdup.”

Fingers had a pouch in his hand. He opened it and shook several sapphires onto the velvet pad covering the glass counter. “Want to buy them?” he asked the clerk.

“Where’d you get these?”

“In the mountains. Blackfoot country.”

The clerk picked up the stones one by one to examine them. “These weren’t stolen?”

“No.”

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Fingers spied Frank. He wheeled around and blanched. “What’re you trailing me for?” he said.

“Who’s trailing who?” Frank shot back.

Fingers looked at the clerk and said, “Excuse me a minute.” He motioned Frank toward the front of the store.

“Look, you’re going to spoil this whole deal for me!” he hissed.

“How can I spoil anything if you’re on the up-and-up?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Fingers replied “Now leave me alone. I need some money.”

“Okay.” Frank stepped out into the sunlit street. There he found Joe being heckled by Juice and Rip.

“You’ve got nothing on us,” Juice was saying.

With an innocent look, Joe said, “Of course not. You three guys are model citizens.”

“Don’t be wise,” Rip said. “You’ll get what’s coming to you if you keep following us.”

Frank spoke up. “It’s a free country. We’ll go anywhere we please.”

Just then Fingers came out of the door, glowering. His forehead was lined with anger. “You blew it for me!” he muttered at Frank.

Joe noticed that Rip was edging closer to him. Suddenly Rip kicked viciously. Joe hopped nimbly aside and Rip’s foot went through the plate-glass window.

It shattered as if hit by an explosion. The whole pane fell in, splintering over the display of jewelry and setting off the burglar alarm.

“Beat it!” Fingers cried out.

The trio raced down the street, dodging passersby. A patrol car appeared and screeched to a halt. The clerk came racing from the store and a crowd hemmed in Frank and Joe.

An officer pushed through the milling throng and began to ask questions.

Joe related what had happened, and a man stepped forward to corroborate his story.

“Do you know where those fellows were headed?” the policeman asked the Hardys.

“No, sir.”

“Okay, you can go. We’ll look for them.”

On their way back to the campsite, a thought suddenly leaped at Frank.

“Joe, Fingers mentioned Blackfoot country in the jewelry shop!”

“So?”

“Remember that wrapper in the Mountain Dogie Store said that Lasher and his pal had mentioned Foot Meadow?”

“Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe exclaimed.

“That could be it,” Frank said. He pulled to the side of the road, grabbed the camping guide on the dashboard, and thumbed through the book. “Look, here it is!”

Frank pointed to the name Blackfoot Meadow. It was a public camping spot maintained by the State of Colorado, located in extremely rugged mountainous country.

“Just the place for a hideout,” Joe said.

“We ought to drive there right away,” Frank said.

“But what about Biff and Sherlock?”

“Guess we’d better wait here for them.”

By this time Biff and his dog had already left the animal hospital and were on their way to the campsite. The two had not been able to get on a bus. On Biff’s back was a cleverly devised sling made of an old bedsheet and in it rested Sherlock.

The hound’s lugubrious visage looked out over Biff’s shoulder as the sturdy young athlete walked along, trying to thumb a ride.

Several cars slowed down to look at the unusual sight, but continued on without stopping.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” Biff said. “We’ll get there. But I wish this was Be-Kind-to-Animals Week.”

After several miles Biff put the dog down and Sherlock walked for ten minutes. The hot sun and the weakness caused by his recent illness brought the panting animal to a halt. Biff poured some water from his canteen into a tin dish and Sherlock lapped it up. Then the boy hoisted his pet onto his back again.

His right arm had gotten tired of thumbing when a car slowed down and stopped. In it were a man and a woman. “You poor boy!” the woman said after rolling down the window of the air-conditioned Ford. “What are you doing out here?”

“Trying to get to Denver with my dog,” Biff replied.

“We’d like to give you a lift, but my husband is allergic to dogs.”

“Anyway, it’s nice of you to stop, ma’am,” Biff said.

“Here, maybe this will help,” the woman said. She reached into the back seat and pulled two sandwiches from a bag. Smiling, she handed them to Biff.

“Thank you,” the boy said. “This will come in real handy.”

The woman rolled up the window and the car sped on. Biff ate one sandwich, Sherlock the other. “Okay, old chum,” the boy said. “We’re off again.”

He trudged on under the blazing sun, but no one offered him a lift. Biff was beginning to feel discouraged when he spotted a car parked beside the road in a clump of cottonwood trees a quarter of a mile ahead.

As Biff approached, he saw that the hood was up and a man was tinkering with the motor.

He looked up and smiled at Biff. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to laugh,” he said with a thick German accent. “But I’ve never seen a boy before with a dog knapsack!”

“Man’s best friend,” Biff replied with a grin. “I’m sure Sherlock would do the same for me if he could. But he’s just recuperating from a recent illness.”

Biff put the dog down and looked at the motor. “Overheated?” he asked.

“No. I don’t know what’s the matter. Something in the ignition system, I think.”

Biff had taken his own car apart and put it together several times. He studied the maze of wires carefully. “Sometimes a loose connection will cause trouble,” he said.

“Ja, I was thinking that. Except that I cannot find anything loose.”

“Tell you what,” Biff suggested. “If I fix your car, will you take me to Denver?”

“And the Hund, too,” the man said, smiling.

“Sure. He’s my baggage.”

Biff introduced himself and told his story. Then he found out that the stranded motorist was Fritz Burger from Austria. He was on a tour of the United States.

“I do a lot of climbing in the Alps, and I intend to see if your Rockies are as great a challenge,” Burger said, watching Biff as he checked the automobile’s wiring.

Finally Biff found the trouble. A cable beneath the low-slung car had been cut, as if by a sharp knife.

“Have you been over some rough ground?” Biff asked.

“Ja.”

“A sharp flying stone could have done this. I’ll fix it.”

“Thank you,” Burger said with a grin. “Good thing you came along. Now we all go to Denver.”

Biff expertly repaired the damage and soon they were on their way.

It was late afternoon when Burger pulled into the Hardys’ camping spot.

“Biff, you made it!” Joe called out when he saw his friend approaching.

Frank and Chet came out and introductions were made. Burger said he would stay for the night and continue on the next morning.

“Where are you going?” Frank asked.

The Austrian explained that there were two mountains he wanted to climb. “One is Eagle Ridge, the other Blackfoot Peak.”

“That must be near Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe said. “We’re headed there too!”

As he spoke, an object whizzed through the air, just missing Joe’s head. It crashed into the side of the camper and burst to pieces!

CHAPTER XII

Prince Cuthbert

AT the sound of the crash everybody ducked. Splinters of glass fell on Joe’s hair and he gingerly combed out the pieces.

The Austrian said, “You have enemies?”

“A few,” Frank replied. He bent down to examine the larger pieces of glass. “Just as I thought!” he muttered. “An orange soda bottle. Juice probably threw it.”

Leaving Biff and Burger, the Hardys and Chet fanned out over the area in an effort to locate the assailant.

“He’s a pretty slippery guy,” Frank remarked as they came to the edge of the camping area beside the highway.

“Look!” Chet said, pointing. “There’s his trail bike!”

The motorcycle was parked a hundred yards away. As the Hardys approached, they could see the name Vampire Trail on it.

But before they had a chance to advance farther, a figure darted out of a huge drainpipe laid under the highway.

“There he goes!” Joe cried.

Juice was closer to the bike than the Hardys. Joe was only ten feet behind when Juice gave the machine gas, sending up a spray of dirt and gravel into Joe’s face. He sped off down the road, waving defiantly.

“No use to chase after him now,” Frank said as the youth zigzagged through the traffic and finally disappeared from sight.

When they returned to the camper, Biff was feeding Sherlock and chatting with Burger. The boys invited the Austrian to have supper with them and he gratefully accepted.

As they ate, the Hardys plied Burger with questions, mainly about his country. The man said he was an engineer and that his hobbies were travel and mountain climbing. “So now I try your American mountains,” he said.

Biff remarked, “Fritz says Blackfoot Peak is dangerous.”

“In what way?” Frank wanted to know.

Burger shrugged. “That I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“Thanks again for helping Biff and Sherlock,” Joe said. “In German I believe you say—Danke schön!”

“Bitte schön,” Burger replied with a grin.

“Gosh,” Chet said, “I didn’t know you could speak German, Joe.”

Joe chuckled. “Picked it up on TV.”

Burger said good night, adding that he hoped to see the boys again. But by the time they awakened the next morning, the Austrian’s car was gone.

“Now let’s see if we can have a peaceful day,” Biff said, after he had exercised Sherlock and they were ready to depart.

“If we don’t have any more trouble with that dog of yours, we should reach Blackfoot Meadow this evening,” Frank said. He pulled out of the parking area and joined the sparse traffic on the mountain road.

After a short stop for lunch they set off again. The road led higher and higher, and the boys breathed deeply of the thin, exhilarating air.

“By the way,” said Chet, who was munching a spare sandwich in the back seat, “when you find this guy Whip Lasher, what will you do with him?”

“Turn him over to the police,” Joe said.

“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched,” Frank put in. “We’ll have to catch him first, and that won’t be easy.”

In the middle of the afternoon they drove down the main street of the village of Snowcap.

“Pretty snazzy,” Biff remarked as he looked at the elegant stores lining both sides of the street.

Joe studied his guidebook. It stated that Snowcap was an exclusive ski village in the winter, and in summer catered to vacationists at the many luxury dude ranches located in the surrounding area. It had a number of smart shops and fine restaurants.

“This is no place for us,” Biff said. “Too rich for our blood.”

“Who wants this ritzy stuff, anyhow?” Chet said. “We’re the camper type. Let’s go on.”

The road switched back and forth as they climbed even higher. Finally it dipped into a broad, flat valley spreading open like a wide green carpet between two towering peaks. A sign announced: Blackfoot Meadow State Park.

All types of trailers dotted the cozy sites laid out along a stream shaded by willows and cotton-woods.

“What a great view,” Frank said.

At the park entrance were a cluster of rustic shops and modern facilities for campers. Joe eyed the grocery store since they needed to stock up. Chet pointed to a laundromat.

“Look, you guys,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of shirts that are a little gamey. Think I’ll do some laundry.”

“Okay, go ahead,” Frank said. “I’ve got a few things to be washed, too.”

“Same here,” the others chimed in.

After they had found a pleasant camping spot, the boys uncoupled the trailer tent and quickly set it up. While Frank and Joe went to the grocery store for supplies, Chet gathered up the clothes and took them to the laundromat.

He pushed through the door and looked around. Two women sat on folding chairs, watching their laundry tumble behind the glass doors of the machines. At the far end, a girl about Chet’s age was bending over a half-filled basket of clothes.

Chet got a packet of soap powder from a vending machine and approached a machine with its door half open. Paying more attention to the girl than to the clothes in his hand, he stuffed them into the machine, tossed in the detergent, and closed the door. The machine began to whirl.

Suddenly the girl turned about. An expression of indignation covered her pretty face.

“You can’t do that!” she cried out.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Chet asked. “Can’t boys do laundry in this place?”

“Not in my machine!”

Chet looked bewildered as the girl chided him.

“Half of my laundry was in the machine you’re using!” she told him rather sharply.

Chet blushed. “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t see it!” He was embarrassed and sat down on the bench, looking glum.

“Oh, don’t take it so hard,” the girl said finally. “There’s no harm done.”

Encouraged, Chet brightened and began to tell her about his friends and the camping trip. “You see, we’re detectives,” he said importantly. “And we’re looking for a crook called Whip Lasher.”

“What an odd name,” the girl said.

“He’s one of the country’s most wanted swindlers.” Chet went into great detail in describing the suspect, including the buckskin jacket.

The girl said, “Several men around here wear buckskin jackets. One of them could be the one you’re looking for.”

“Oops, the wash is done,” Chet said.

“I’ll dry it for you,” the girl offered.

When it was ready, Chet raced back to the camper. Frank and Joe were stowing away the canned goods they had bought.

“We’ve got hamburgers and hot dogs too, Chet,” Joe said.

“And I’ve got a clue!” Chet exulted. “A couple of guys in this camp are wearing buckskin jackets. One of them could be Whip Lasher!”

“Calm down,” Biff said. “Buckskin jackets are a fad right now, Chet old boy. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

Chet passed out the laundry. “Okay. But I’ll bet if you let old Sherlock smell that inner sole he’ll pick up the scent!”

“Good idea!” Frank replied.

He produced the inner sole and the sad-eyed hound sniffed at it. Then Biff attached a leash and led Sherlock outside.

They walked leisurely about the meadow, chatting briefly with some of the campers who made admiring comments about the dog. Sherlock paused to sniff several spots, but then disdainfully padded away. As they passed an equipment store which sold and rented trail bikes, Sherlock became interested in a new scent and strained at the leash.

“He’s on the trail, Frank!” Biff exclaimed.

They walked rapidly behind the hound who kept his nose to the ground, with ears flapping. He stopped beside the steps of a small trailer. It was weirdly painted in psychedelic colors.

The dog moved around in circles as if he had lost the scent. Did Lasher get into a car at this spot or was he inside the trailer? Joe pressed close to the screen door and looked in. What he saw of the dim interior was even more weird than the exterior.

The walls were covered with paintings and tapestries. Colored tassels hung down from the comers of the ornate picture frames. Two rows of bookshelves were set high above a silk-covered couch laden with embroidered pillows.

Joe turned to the others. “This is fantastic,” he said.

Just then a voice boomed out, “Who’s there?”

The Hardys gulped and Frank stepped forward. “Just some curious visitors, sir.”

“Then come in.”

Frank motioned to the others to wait, then he opened the door and stepped inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw the robed figure of a man seated in a thronelike chair at the rear of the trailer.

He had a full beard, squared off at the bottom. His mustache was waxed, with each end standing straight up like a spear. On his head was a jewel-studded Norman-style helmet made of cloth. Several medals were pinned to his velvet jacket and rings sparkled on his fingers.

Frank’s gaze met the keen blue eyes of the regal-looking occupant. “I’m—I’m Frank Hardy,” the boy said.

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Prince Cuthbert de Solo Prudham du Paris.”

“Oh. Do you always dress like this?”

“Indeed I do, as befits royalty.” The man’s piercing eyes never wavered. “You see, I’m a direct descendant of King Arthur and the lawful prince of the British Isles and Normandy.”

“That’s quite an honor,” Frank commented with a straight face. He glanced about, but saw no sign of Whip Lasher. “Nice to meet you, Prince,” Frank said as he backed toward the door.

“I suppose you’re a camper, too,” the prince went on. “New to these parts?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll be here for a day or two.”

“My advice is to beware of Vampire Trail!”

The same name as Juice Barden’s trail bike!

“What’s Vampire Trail?” Frank asked casually.

Prince Cuthbert explained that it was a path leading to the top of Blackfoot Peak. “Don’t go there,” he warned. “It’s very dangerous—vampire bats and the like!”

“Thank you,” Frank said and hastened outside.

He beckoned Joe, Chet, and Biff to follow him. When they were a discreet distance from the trailer, Frank burst out laughing.

“Wow! You should have seen that guy who lives in there! A real wacky eccentric who thinks he’s related to King Arthur!” Frank told the boys about his conversation with the man and they chuckled.

“Did you ask him about Whip Lasher and show him the picture?” Joe asked.

“No. He might be in with Lasher, for all we know.”

“And what about Vampire Trail?”

Frank shrugged. “We’ll have to find out what’s going on there.”

Biff spoke up. “Suppose I rent a trail bike and explore that Vampire Trail while you look for Whip Lasher.”

“Okay,” said Frank.

Biff left the bloodhound with Chet and hurried off to rent a motorbike.

“Don’t be too long,” Chet called to Biff. “Dinner’s at seven!”

A further search of Blackfoot Meadow turned up no trace of Lasher. Questions put to shop-keepers and campers elicited only negative replies.

“How about rustling up some grub?” Frank asked Chet when they returned to the trailer.

Biff had not come back yet. Chet cooked the hamburgers and set out the tasty repast. “If Biff doesn’t show up soon, he just won’t get any,” he declared.

It was after dusk when a car pulled up beside the boys’ camper. A trail bike was lashed to the top. Out stepped Fritz Burger. He walked around to the other door, opened it, and helped Biff to his feet.

“Biff! Fritz! What’s the matter?” Frank exclaimed.

“Your friend was attacked on Vampire Trail,” Burger said.

Biff shook his head groggily, and Chet noticed a red welt on his neck.

“A vampire bite!” Chet moaned.

CHAPTER XIII

A Grizzly Attack?

By the time Biff had completely recovered, Fritz Burger was on his way again to Blackfoot Peak.

Biff said, “I was dry-gulched by somebody. Wow! I didn’t know what hit me!”

“It was the vampire bat!” Chet said. “Remember what Prince Cuthbert told Frank.”

“There aren’t any vampire bats in this part of the world,” Frank declared. “They’re found in warmer climates like Central America. I think this vampire bat had two legs!”

The Hardys were determined to pursue the matter further. Next morning they sought out a forest ranger who had an information booth next to the grocery store. He was brown-haired and slender, and told them he was a graduate student who worked there in the summer. His name was Herb Johnson.

Frank brought up the subject of Vampire Trail and asked if there had been any previous trouble in that area.

“Why, what happened?” Johnson asked.

“One of the fellows with us got clobbered there last evening,” Frank replied.

Johnson shook his head. “Funny thing about that place. You know, the real name is not Vampire Trail at all, it’s Grizzly Trail. But alleged recent vampire bat attacks prompted the nickname.”

The ranger shook his head. “I thought the bats were merely a figment of the campers’ imagination.”

“The attack on our friend was not imaginary,” Frank said and mentioned the welt on Biff’s neck.

“Could it have been a mosquito or spider bite?”

“Hardly. By the way, have you ever been up there?” Joe asked.

“Yes, a couple of years ago. Two other students and I went up on a grizzly bear survey.”

Herb related his experience. They had anaesthetized several bears with darts and tagged them for future observation.

“We’d like to go up, too,” Frank said.

“I suppose you could make it. But look out for those grizzlies. One swipe with a paw and you’ve had it!”

The ranger promised to report the attack on Biff to his supervisors. “We’ll have to send a group up and see who’s prowling around,” he said.

When Frank and Joe returned to the camper, they found Chet in a peevish mood. “This place is getting too crowded,” he complained. “Trailers here, trailers there. Didn’t we come out here to enjoy the wide-open country?”

“You’ve got a point,” Biff agreed. “I’m afraid Sherlock might get run over in all this traffic.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “Let’s pull out.”

They decided to drive up Blackfoot Pass Road until they found an isolated spot not too far from the main camping facilities. Quickly the trailer was folded up. Then the rented bike was secured over the trailer hitch. The caravan moved slowly out of the park and onto the highway leading through Blackfoot Pass.

After Frank had driven about a mile, Biff said, “Vampire Trail is up ahead to the right.”

Frank slowed down. Dense foliage hung over the trail which showed scant evidence of use. Years ago it probably had been used as a logging road.

Joe was surveying the area to the left. The hills sloped gradually to a spot sheltered by a screen of pine trees.

“Let’s camp up there,” he suggested. “That’s plenty private.”

“Good idea,” Biff agreed. “Then we can keep an eye on Vampire Trail.”

“Okay,” said Frank. He turned left and drove across the shoulder of the road, then carefully wound his way upward among the trees and low bushes. When he stopped, they were about fifty feet from the road, looking down at a thirty-degree angle.

“Boy, we’re hidden and yet we can see everything!” Chet chortled.

He and Biff offered to set up the camper, while Frank and Joe rode the bike back to the trailer park to continue the search for Whip Lasher. When purple shadows began to creep into the meadow, the Hardys decided to return to their campsite.

Chet was busy with the skillet when they arrived. “We had a nice quiet afternoon,” he stated. “A little snooze and plenty to eat.”

“Did anyone go up Vampire Trail while we were gone?” Joe asked.

“No,” Chet replied.

Biff, who had hiked through the woods with Sherlock, had nothing to report either besides sighting four startled deer.

Shortly after they had gone to bed, the boys heard the put-put of a trail bike. Frank and Joe scrambled out of their sleeping bags and ran to look through the pine trees down to the road below.

“It’s going up Vampire Trail,” Joe said.

The bike’s lamps bobbed and swerved along the rough, twisting trail. Finally the light disappeared from view.

“Come on, Joe. Let’s follow.”

It was agreed that Chet and Biff would guard the trailer while the Hardys went up the mountain. They dressed hurriedly, took their flashlights, and started up the trail. The sound of the bike’s motor grew fainter.

After several hundred yards, Frank paused. “Joe, listen. Do you hear anything?”

Except for the rhythmic song of the peepers the woods were silent.

“The bike has stopped,” Joe declared. “In that case, we’ve got to be very carefuL Let’s not walk together.”

They split up, Frank taking the left side of the trail, Joe the right. They moved along quietly, using their flashlights as sparingly as possible. Occasionally they signaled each other by winking the lights briefly.

The trail became steep. Frank climbed over a low boulder and slipped. With a grunt he landed on his stomach. Had there been another outcry at the same time? Frank was not sure. When he regained his footing, he flashed to signal Joe. There was no return blink!

Frank’s heart pounded. Dared he risk discovery by calling out to his brother? He flashed again. Still no response.

Frank crawled to the opposite side of the path and began a methodical search—from the edge of the trail twenty feet into the dense woods and back again. “Joe, where are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

All was silent. Frank reasoned that if he continued to search alone he, too, might be assailed by the unknown enemy. It would be more practical if Biff and Chet joined in the hunt.

Frank hurried to the trailer and told the others what had happened.

“What if the vampire bats got Joe!” Chet cried.

“Sherlock will find Joe,” Biff said.

He let the dog sniff the boy’s sleeping bag. Then they set off. This time they did not take the precaution of dousing their ftashlights. Speed was essential.

After a while Frank said, “It was right about here that I slipped.”

“Look, there’s Joe!” Biff exclaimed.

The boy lay in the middle of the trail. Hearing the others, he sat up groggily. Sherlock went up and licked his face.

“Joe, what happened?” Frank asked as he and Biff helped his brother to his feet.

“Remember when you slipped?” Joe said. “Just then I heard a rustling behind me. I was kayoed by a blow across my back.”

“Was it a bear?” Biff inquired.

“No. Whoever walloped me carried me up here to the middle of the trail.”

“Let’s look at your neck,” Chet said. He shone his light on the open collar of Joe’s shirt. There was a red welt!

“What’d I tell you?” Chet quavered. “The vampire bat struck again!”

Joe regained his strength gradually. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, he was matching strides with the other three. Back at the camp, Chet applied medication to the welt.

It was hard to settle down for the night. All were too excited about what had happened. Frank said, “Somebody must be camping on the trail.”

“That’s what I think,” Joe agreed. “It might be a hideout for Whip Lasher and the other credit-card crooks.”

“That’s right;” Biff said. “They’re sportsmen, aren’t they?”

“Great sports!” Chet muttered. “When they hit you and you’re not looking!”

The boys listened for an hour, but there were no sounds of the trail bike returning.

“If it’s up there, we’re going to find it!” Joe vowed.

“You can say that again,” Frank said.

After breakfast the next morning Frank decided to report the attack on Joe to the forest ranger, Herb Johnson. He and Biff cycled to Blackfoot Meadow, but the ranger was not at the information booth. On the counter were maps of the area. Frank took one.

As he turned to show it to Biff, his eyes lighted on a fringed buckskin jacket. The man wearing it was hurrying across an open area toward a trailer parked among the trees.

“That could be Whip Lasher!” Frank exclaimed. “Come on, Biff!”

But instead of going to the trailer, the man in the fringed jacket waved at a car driving past. It stopped to pick him up, then drove out of the park toward Snowcap.

Frank and Biff ran to their bike, jumped on, and followed. It irked Frank that he had not gotten a look at the man in the buckskin jacket. He gave the cycle full throttle and it gained on the car ahead.

Suddenly the motor began to sputter. They slowed down and came to a halt beside the road.

“Oh nuts!” Frank said. “It would conk out just now!”

“Sounds as if there’s dirt in the fuel line,” Biff said. He opened a small tool kit slung under the seat and soon found the source of the trouble. “Dirty gasoline, just as I thought,” he added.

Quickly he cleaned the fuel line, then the boys set off again. By the time they reached Snowcap, the trail had been lost completely.

“No telling where they went,” Frank said as he stopped on the main street.

“My guess is that Mr. Buckskin is right here in Snowcap,” Biff said.

“The vampire bat struck again!” Chet quavered

“Could be. Let’s take a look around.”

The boys walked up and down the streets. Although they saw several men wearing buckskin, none was the notorious Whip Lasher.

Frank decided to take this opportunity to question local merchants about the Magnacard. Going from one shop to another, he asked discreetly if the owner had any trouble with Magnacard holders and presented Lasher’s picture.

He was told that some clients had Magnacards, but there had been no swindles. At Burn’s Jewelry Shop, however, the proprietor said he would take no more Magnacards.

“Did you get stuck?” Biff asked.

The jeweler nodded. “Someone bought a big sapphire from me on a Magnacard which proved to be fake.” A hard look came over his face. “When I get hold of that crook, he’s going to pay for it!”

“You’ll have to leave that up to the police,” Frank said. He pulled out Lasher’s photo. “Is this the man?”

Burn studied it intently. “No.”

“Can you describe the swindler?”

“Well, his face was round, too. Like this fellow in the photograph. But his hairline was higher. He was dark-haired and not very tall.”

“What was the name on the Magnacard?”

“Minks. John Minks.”

“By the way,” Frank went on, “where do you buy your sapphires?”

The man seemed startled by the question. He forced a smile and replied, “That’s my professional secret!”

CHAPTER XIV

Death Warrant

On the way back to their camp Frank called out over the rushing wind, “What do you make of this, Biff?”

“Strange that Burn wouldn’t tell us where he got the sapphire. Maybe he bought it from Fingers!”

“I wonder where Fingers got those stones.”

“So do I. As far as Minks is concerned,” Biff said, “no doubt he’s one of Lasher’s gang.”

They decided to stop at the state park grocery store to buy some bottles of soda. As they turned into the entrance, they saw Joe leaning against the Hardys’ car.

Frank stopped. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Chet and Sherlock,” Joe replied with a look of exasperation. He explained that they had driven the car into camp after Frank and Biff had not come back, thinking they might need some help.

“What happened to you?” Joe asked. “We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Frank told about the latest developments, then added, “So now Chet’s lost?”

“Don’t worry,” Biff said. “He must be around somewhere. Just ask the campers if they’ve seen a left tackle with a hound dog.”

They followed Biff’s suggestion. Several people indicated that they had seen Chet near the psychedelic trailer! The trio walked up to it and Joe knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Chet called out. They entered.

There sat Chet in Prince Cuthbert’s chair. On his head was the jeweled helmet. Beside him on a velvet cushion lay Sherlock.

“Chet, are you out of your ever-loving skull?” Joe demanded.

Chet grinned benignly. “Lower your voice when speaking to royalty,” he said with a wave of his hand.

“What’s this all about?” Frank asked.

“I’m minding the trailer while His Highness is out on an errand. And you know what he’s giving me for doing it?”

“No, what?”

“Half the city of London!”

“You’re in the money,” Joe quipped. “What are you going to do with half of London?”

“Quit ribbing me. You know that old geezer doesn’t have all his marbles.”

“I’m beginning to have my doubts about you, Chet,” Frank said. “What’s all this business with the fancy helmet?”

“I was wondering what it feels like to be a descendant of King Arthur,” Chet replied.

“Aside from all that nonsense,” Joe said, “I don’t trust the prince.”

“I think he’s harmless enough,” Frank put in.

The Hardys and Biff left Chet and resumed their search for Whip Lasher, on the chance he had returned to the campsite. Two hours later they went back to Prince Cuthbert’s trailer. Chet was impatient.

“He said he’d be back soon,” the boy moaned, glancing at his watch. “I didn’t know he was going to abdicate!”

Biff laughed. “In that case, that makes you the lord and master!”

Just then the door handle turned and the prince entered. “Sorry—so sorry,” he said.

“You took a long time,” said Chet, removing the jeweled headpiece. “Where were you?”

“In Snowcap.”

“Oh,” Joe said. “Were you hobnobbing with American aristocracy?”

“No, none of that,” Prince Cuthbert replied testily. “I was trying to sell some gems to a jeweler.”

Frank asked quickly, “Are they sapphires?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Just a guess. Did you sell them?”

“My venture ended in complete failure,” the prince replied. “The jeweler said he had plenty of sapphires.”

“What a pity,” said Joe, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “My mother wants a sapphire for her birthday. Let’s see what you have to offer.”

Cuthbert took a pouch from his pocket and dropped several stones into the palm of his hand. They were uncut, the kind that Fingers had in his guitar.

Joe studied them carefully, then looked the prince straight in the eye and asked, “Where did you get these?”

“I bought them at a bargain.”

“From whom?” Joe pressed.

“Three lads I met here at the park,” Cuthbert answered. “They were an odd assortment.” The eccentric went on to describe the Terrible Trio perfectly.

Joe rolled his eyes. “So they’re here, too!”

“They just won’t give up,” Biff said.

“You know them?” the prince asked.

“We’re acquainted,” Frank said. He had an idea and asked Biff to get Sherlock. The tall boy stepped outside to bring in the dog.

One of the sapphire peddlers, Cuthbert said, had sat in the overstuffed chair in a comer of the trailer. Biff let Sherlock sniff the cushion. Then the boys thanked the prince for his information and left.

“Okay, Sherlock,” Biff said. “Get busy!”

The dog’s ears flapped as he zigzagged about, sniffing one scent, then another. Finally he found the trail of the person who had sat in the chair.

Sherlock strained at the leash, and the boys followed him across the campground. The dog led them out of the area and into a wooded section.

“It’s getting late,” Chet declared. “I hope we find those guys soon. I’m getting hungry.”

Tire marks were evident on a path which led deeper into a pine woods. Frank and Joe studied the ground, finally locating the spot where a vehicle had turned off the trail.

Sherlock made the turn. “They can’t be very far ahead,” Biff said. “We’d better be quiet.”

It was decided that Frank and Joe would go on ahead, while Chet and Biff remained behind with Sherlock. If the dog should bark, he would give away their position.

Moving from tree to tree, the Hardys finally spied the trailer. “Ha, we found the culprits,” Joe whispered.

They crept as close as possible to the trailer without risking being seen. Voices came from inside. One belonged to Fingers. He said, “Listen, Pick! Let us work for you again. We won’t steal anything this time!”

A deep voice replied, “I can’t trust you. You take too many of the stones.”

Juice retorted, “Suppose we tell the cops about this thing?”

Pick replied coldly, “That would be your death warrant. Now scram out of this territory!”

“We will,” Fingers said, “if you give us a few more stones. We’re broke.”

“Okay. Here,” came the reply.

Then a door slammed and the Hardys ducked for cover. A short, stocky man left the trailer and vanished into the woods in the opposite direction from which the boys had come. He moved so fast that Frank and Joe could not get a look at his face.

Seconds later there came the sound of a motorbike, but it was too far away for the Hardys to follow.

They hastened back to where they had left Chet, Biff, and Sherlock. “Fingers and his pals are definitely involved in a crooked deal,” Joe said and told what they had overheard.

“I wonder what they’re up to,” said Chet.

“And who is this character Pick?” Biff added.

“First thing to do is notify the police about those goons,” Frank suggested.

Before leaving the public campsite, he put in a phone call to the Denver authorities, giving the location of the suspects’ trailer and car.

Then the four took their car and the motorbike and returned to the trailer tent. After supper the Hardys decided to scout Vampire Trail, but with sufficient equipment to spend the whole night if necessary.

“What can I do?” Biff asked.

After a discussion it was decided that Biff should spy on the Terrible Trio. Chet, meanwhile, would remain and guard their camp with Sherlock.

Frank and Joe took sleeping bags and a small amount of food.

“Good luck,” Chet said. “And watch out for vampire bats!”

The Hardys picked their way carefully up the treacherous path. Night had settled and an eerie silence pervaded the woodland, broken every now and then by the spine-chilling call of a hoot owL

The boys had been trudging along for nearly an hour when an unearthly cry rent the black stillness of the forest. They hastened toward the place from which the sound had come. This time they stayed close together for their mutual protection.

Suddenly Frank stepped on something squishy. He bent over, shone his light on the ground, and picked up a creature about three inches long. It had pointed ears and a horrid-looking face.

“A vampire bat!” Frank hissed, dropping it to the ground. As he did, another shriek sounded down the trail!

CHAPTER XV

A Terrified Escapee

HAD the cries come from a human being or from a trapped animal? The third time the Hardys heard the chilling shriek there was no doubt that it was the voice of a terrified man.

Frank and Joe strained their eyes to see through the darkness. Suddenly they made out the figure of a man, lumbering along, wheezing as if his lungs would burst.

Other footsteps sounded behind him, accompanied by muttered curses.

“He’s being chased,” Frank whispered to Joe. “We’ve got to save him!”

The boys sprang toward the startled man. Each seized an arm and they dragged him into the concealment of the forest and dived down behind a huge boulder.

Joe put a handkerchief over the man’s mouth to mute his labored breathing. Seconds later two pursuers charged past them up the trail. The boys waited tensely until the angry voices disappeared into the night. When they felt it was safe, they shone their lights on the fugitive.

His eyes rolled and he gasped for breath. Frank judged him to be about forty years old. He had a plump face and thin black hair covered his head in streaks. His jacket and trousers, of fashionable-cut, were ripped from his flight up Vampire Trail.

“Who are you? What’s your name?” Frank asked.

“Wait ... not ... now... later.”

“He’s in no condition to talk yet,” Joe said. “Let’s take him back to camp.”

The Hardys helped the man to his feet, lifting his arms over their shoulders. Thus supporting him, they half carried, half dragged him down Vampire Trail. Periodically they stopped and listened to make sure the man’s pursuers were not returning.

When they came to Blackfoot Pass Road, the boys stopped. Leaving Joe with the man, Frank scouted the road for a hundred yards in each direction, making sure that no one was lying in wait. Then the Hardys assisted the stranger up the hill to their camp. Chet was wide-eyed with surprise when he saw them.

“Make room on Biff’s bunk,” Frank told him. “This man is nearly dead from exhaustion.”

The stranger gratefully accepted the boys’ kindness. After two pillows had been propped under his head, his breathing quieted to near normal. He began to answer questions.

“My name is Farkus,” he said. “I’m a financier.” He rolled to one side, fumbled for his wallet, and showed identification.

“What was going on up that trail?” asked Joe.

Farkus said that he had been kidnapped by three men in Snowcap.

“Why?” Frank inquired.

“I don’t know. I think they were taking me up there to kill me!”

Farkus explained that he had been transported in a car as far up the trail as possible. When it had stopped, he dashed out and started to scramble ahead. “If you boys hadn’t grabbed me, it would have been the end,” he concluded.

The Hardys reasoned that the third man must have remained in the car, and had driven away before they had descended the trail again.

Chet confessed that he had been asleep for a while and had heard nothing.

Frank said, “Mr. Farkus, when you pull yourself together, we’ll take you to the police. Things are getting pretty rough around here.”

Farkus sat up on the edge of the bunk, shaking. “No! No! You can’t do that!”

“But it’s for your own protection, sir,” said Chet.

The man pleaded not to be taken to the police. “Those kidnappers will kill me if they find out,” he said. “Let me handle it my own way. I’ll report it, but later.”

Mention of the police seemed to have unnerved Farkus even more and Frank grew suspicious about the man’s protestations. Farkus’ hands moved around the bunk as if searching for a lost article.

“What’s the matter?” asked Joe. “Did you drop something?”

“No—no. I’m just afraid of spiders. That’s all,” the man replied.

Frank and Joe stepped outside and discussed the stranger in low voices. “I think he has something to do with all those mysterious happenings on Vampire Trail,” Frank said.

“On the other hand,” said Joe, “maybe he’s innocent. If he’s a financier, perhaps the kidnappers were holding him for ransom.”

Their minds tired from speculation, the young sleuths prepared for bed. They woke up occasionally and looked at Biff’s bunk, half expecting that Farkus had gone. Near daybreak both boys fell into a deep slumber. They were awakened by the sound of sizzling bacon. Chet and Farkus were already up, and although the financier glanced about the woodland suspiciously, his face had lost the terror of the night before.

“You picked a good camping spot,” he remarked.

“Yes,” Chet agreed. “We can see what’s happening on the trail.”

“Oh? You have a special interest in that path?”

“Ow!” Chet cried as some grease spattered on his hand. “Not really—I mean, it’s just supposed to be a dangerous place, that’s all.”

After breakfast Farkus stretched and yawned, saying that he would like to step outside for a breath of fresh air. Joe accompanied him.

Inside the camper, Frank cautioned Chet not to say anything more about Vampire Trail. “This guy Farkus could be in with the crooks,” he said, adding, “The trail’s a lot more dangerous than you think. I found a dead vampire bat last night!”

Chet, who was drying the skillet, let it clatter to the floor. “A real vampire bat?”

“A dead one. It was a scary-looking thing.”

“I don’t want to see any,” Chet quavered.

Just then Biff came up the hill, pushing his trail bike. He was surprised to see Joe chatting with the stranger, and after being introduced, he went into the camper.

“What goes with that fat guy?” he asked.

Frank told him briefly what happened and said, “How about the Terrible Trio?”

“Still there,” Biff replied. “I overheard them say that they’d stay for a while. So I thought I’d come back.”

Frank nodded. Then he told Biff and Chet that he and Joe would take Farkus back to Snowcap.

“Okay,” said Chet. “Meanwhile, we’ll take a ride down to the park campsite and see what’s going on.”

The Hardys got into the front seat while Farkus slid into the back. As they passed the camping park, Joe, who was at the wheel, looked into the rear-view mirror. Farkus was hunched down in his seat as if to avoid being seen. The man kept silent all the way to Snowcap.

“Well, here we are,” Frank said as Joe pulled up to the curb not far from Burn’s Jewelry Store.

“Don’t—don’t stop here,” Farkus begged. “Go down a little farther to my motel.”

Joe continued on until Farkus pointed to a motel set back from the street. He pulled into the semicircular driveway.

“Thanks,” Farkus said. He jumped out of the car and dashed into Room 14.

Joe drove back onto the street and out of sight of the motel. He parked and the two walked back.

“We’ll check on him,” Frank said. “Maybe his name isn’t Farkus and maybe he isn’t a financier.”

The desk clerk in the motel office was friendly. He answered their questions, saying that Room 14 was rented to a man named A. Larson.

“Thanks,” Frank said. “We thought it was someone we knew.” Outside, he took his brother’s arm. “Did you get that, Joe? A. Larson-the same initials as Archibald Lasher!”

CHAPTER XVI

Royal Trouble

“WHAT do you know!” said Joe. “So our friend Farkus is possibly tied up with Lasher. Maybe he’s one of the gang!”

“Let’s find a cop to make the arrest,” said Frank.

The boys hurried up the main street, looking for a policeman. They could not locate one. Finally Frank said, “I wonder if there’s a police station in this town.”

“Let’s ask someone,” Joe suggested. They stepped into a haberdashery, where the clerk looked them up and down.

“We’re not here to buy anything,” Frank said. “But we’d like to know if there’s a policeman in Snowcap.”

“Why? Did you run into trouble?”

Frank did not reply. Instead he said, “You have a police station, don’t you?”

“Hardly. The State Police usually takes care of our criminals—and bums.”

“Don’t get snooty with us,” Joe said. “We’re campers.”

The boys left the store and went into a tearoom several doors away. The woman at the cashier’s counter was polite and answered their questions.

“Yes, Snowcap has one policeman,” she said. “He’s usually at the information booth a block away. The town, however, has no jail.” Beaming, she added, “We have very fine people here.”

When they were on the street again, Joe snorted. “Fine people like Lasher and his cronies!”

“And if we don’t find that policeman soon, they’ll get away!” Frank stormed.

The town’s lone police officer was seated on a chair outside the information booth. Frank told him of their suspicions. Talking slowly, the officer agreed to accompany the boys to the motel. His gait was even slower than his speech. To the impatient Hardys it seemed like hours before they reached the motel.

The policeman asked to see the occupant in Room 14.

“There’s no one in there now,” the clerk said. “Mr. Larson and his friend left a few minutes ago.”

“You mean there were two men in Room 14?”

“That’s right. Mr. Larson and Mr. Farkus.”

Frank pulled out Lasher’s photo. “Is he one of them?”

“Yes. That’s Mr. Larson.”

“May we look the room over?” Frank asked.

The clerk shrugged. “As long as the law’s with you.”

The officer stood by the open door while the Hardys looked around for clues. The wastebasket had been emptied. A search of the drawers and closets proved fruitless, too. Finally Joe glanced at the memo pad next to the telephone. Nothing was written on it, but the young detective’s sharp eyes noticed indentations on the paper. He tilted the pad up to the light, then set it back again.

“Okay, nothing here,” he said as they stepped outside. They thanked the officer and left.

Nearing their car, Joe said, “Frank, there was something on that pad!” He told of the indented letters. “They spelled Mungo!”

“Wow! The entire gang may be meeting at that motel,” Frank said.

“Which means we may be able to catch the whole bunch,” Joe said hopefully.

“I doubt it. They’ve been warned by Farkus and cleared out.”

Frank headed west. Halfway to Blackfoot Meadow the Hardys saw Biff Hooper racing toward them on the trail bike. He waved frantically and Frank stopped. Biff pulled over beside him. He lifted the visor of his riding helmet and exclaimed, “Something awful has happened!”

“You look as if you’ve been in an earthquake,” said Joe.

“It was more like a tornado. You should have seen the place.”

“What place?” asked Frank. “For Pete’s sake, calm down and tell us what’s happened.”

“Prince Cuthbert’s trailer—somebody raided it. They bound, gagged, and blindfolded the poor old guy and ransacked the interior.”

“I wonder what they were looking for,” Frank mused.

Biff shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they thought his jewels were real!”

The Hardys decided to visit Cuthbert and ask him a few questions. Biff followed them into the campground. When they reached the gaily painted trailer, they learned that the park police had already been there and left.

The prince’s quarters were still in disorder. When the boys entered, he was trying to hang the pictures back on the tapestried walls. Then he adjusted his helmet, set his throne back on the small dais from which it had toppled, and seated himself.

“I must not forget that I am royalty,” he said, “despite the adversities which have beset me.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” said Biff. “You’re taking this mighty calmly.”

The prince raised his hand. “I shall send word to my retainers. They will hasten from Europe and track down the assailants.”

“Tell us what happened,” Frank said. “What were your attackers looking for?”

Cuthbert said that in the middle of the night someone forced the door. Two men entered, and before he had a chance to sit up, they bound and gagged him. The prince had not seen them, because they blindfolded him before turning on the lights.

“Did they take anything?” Frank asked.

“Only those sapphires I had. That’s what amazes and confounds me. My crown jewels, worth much more, were untouched. Even the royal documents were overlooked by those scoundrels.”

With Cuthbert’s permission the boys searched for clues but found none. Frank advised the prince to get a stronger lock for his door. Then the young detectives stepped outside and walked over to a Coke machine.

“Who do you think robbed the prince?” Joe asked.

“He must have told other people about those sapphires,” Frank said. “Perhaps Fingers and his gang came back to steal them.”

They were finishing their refreshing drinks when Chet Morton approached at a trot with Sherlock on a leash.

“Here, have a drink,” said Joe. He produced another bottle and handed it to the perspiring boy.

Chet took a long swig, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and pulled something from his pants pocket. “Another clue,” he declared, handing a Magnacard to Frank. It was made out to John Minks.

“So Farkus swindled the jeweler!” Frank exclaimed. “Burn’s description fits him, too! “Where’d you get this, Chet?”

“In our camper. I was cleaning up the place and found it under Biff’s bunk. Figured our friend Farkus dropped it.”

“I don’t think he dropped it,” Joe said.

“What do you mean?” Chet asked.

“I think he hid it when he showed us the identification in his wallet. Then he couldn’t find it again. Remember how he was looking around, saying he was afraid of spiders?”

“That was a lot of baloney, all right,” Frank declared.

“Anyway, it throws a different light on the mystery,” Joe said.

The four discussed the new development. Perhaps Farkus had not been kidnapped at all. Maybe the two pursuers were enemies and he had been racing up Vampire Trail to reach the protection of his own gang!

“That Magnacard bunch could have a hideout at the top of the mountain,” Joe stated.

Biff snapped his fingers. “Maybe they manufacture the cards there!”

“Could be,” said Joe.

Frank pocketed the charge plate and they returned to their car. Chet got in back with the dog, while Biff mounted the bike for the ride back to their camp.

“It’s past chow time,” Chet complained.

“Okay, you can whip something up real quick,” Joe said.

The thought of juicy hamburgers made Chet’s stomach grumble. “Come on, Joe! Can’t you go a little faster? I’m dying of hunger.”

The car hummed along the highway between the towering green walls of Blackfoot Pass. Finally they veered left up the hill to their campsite.

“Boy, our trailer sure is well hidden,” Chet said as they neared the spot. “You can’t even see it from here.”

Joe drove a little farther, then cried out, “I’ll say you can’t. It’s gone!”

CHAPTER XVII

An Unexpected Denial

CHET fumed. “The Terrible Trio stole it, that’s who!”

“Somebody sure doesn’t want us near Vampire Trail,” Frank remarked. He glanced about for a clue to the thief or thieves.

There was nothing but tracks made by the wheels of their camper. Apparently it had been pulled down to the road before being hitched onto a car.

“Where do we start looking?” Biff asked.

Frank said there were three possibilities. The thieves could have driven east or west along Blackfoot Pass Road, or up Vampire Trail. The latter, however, showed no sign of fresh car tracks.

“Biff, you and Chet ride the cycle back to Blackfoot Meadow,” Frank said. “Joe and I will drive west over the pass.”

“Good luck,” Biff called out. “We’ll meet back here.”

“Okay.” Frank stepped on the gas. As Blackfoot Pass Road ascended, the valley became narrower and more twisted. The boys checked both sides of the road for a sign of their camper, but in vain.

Near the top of the pass was a turnout cut into a rock wall looming thirty feet high on the left. Much to Frank and Joe’s surprise, their stolen camper rested close to the base of the cliff!

“Now who’d do a thing like that?” Joe asked.

“Whoever stole it,” Frank commented, “must have realized he couldn’t get very far with it.”

They glanced about in all directions for possible spies. Frank happened to peer up at the summit of a sheer peak. It was about a mile south of where they stood.

“Look, Joe! There’s a flashing light!”

The boys squinted into the afternoon sun at a curious yellow-gold light winking at the top of the mountain.

“Somebody’s using a mirror signal,” Joe said.

“Signaling who?”

“The guys who stole our camper, maybe?”

“Could be.”

Joe turned and started toward their trailer.

“Wait a minute,” Frank warned. “This might be a trap.”

Together they cautiously approached the camper. It seemed to be in good condition. As Joe was about to enter, a scraping noise came from above, accompanied by a shower of pebbles.

“Quick!” Frank commanded. “Flat against the cliff!”

They dashed to the rock wall, pressing themselves against the cool stone.

The sound grew louder and clods of earth pelted down. Then a huge dead tree crashed and splintered on the ground. It missed Frank and Joe by a foot, but the twisted branches cut deep ridges into the camper.

“You were right, Frank! It was a trap!”

“We’ll spring a trap of our own.” Frank muttered. “Let’s go!”

They worked their way along the base of the precipice, finally reaching the wooded slope adjoining the cliff.

Looking up, Frank said, “We’ll circle around and approach them from the rear.”

Moving carefully so as not to make any noise, the boys crawled up the slope, using the dense foliage for cover. When they were about thirty feet from the top, something moved in the bushes near the cliff edge.

On their stomachs Frank and Joe inched ahead, pulses pounding with excitement. Soon they were within earshot of two hiding figures.

One said hoarsely, “Look, I’m a thief, not a strong-arm man.”

“Same here,” said the other. “I don’t like this heavy work.”

There was silence for a few moments, then the first man said, “I wish they’d show themselves again so we could bop them. Mungo, take this big rock!”

Mungo! The man who had been trailing the white cabin cruiser! Frank and Joe recognized the speaker’s voice as Farkus’.

At Frank’s signal, the young detectives let out piercing war whoops and sprang up. The two men wheeled around, their eyes as big as saucers. The Hardys leaped upon them, pinning them to the ground inches from the edge of the cliff.

“Don’t! Please don’t throw us over!” Mungo pleaded.

“Wait a minute!” Farkus cried out. “We didn’t want to do this!”

The boys dragged the men to their feet, bound their wrists with some rope Joe had in his pocket, and marched them down the slope. Their captives stumbled and fell. When they pulled themselves up again, they begged for mercy.

“We’ll cooperate, we’ll do anything you want!” said Farkus.

“That’s right,” Mungo added as they reached the turnout. “We’re fed up with working for Lasher!”

“How did you get here? Where’s your car?” Frank asked the men.

The pair motioned to a spot a hundred yards distant. Their automobile was hidden in a sheltered glen. While Joe watched the captives, Frank drove it back to the camper.

A huge tree crashed down

“You’re coming with us,” said Joe.

The prisoners were shoved into the back seat of the Hardys’ car. Then Frank hitched on the camper and drove off. Joe chauffered the other vehicle.

An amazed Chet Morton and an equally surprised Biff Hooper watched the arrival of the strange caravan. They had returned minutes before.

Frank ran their camper up the hill and Joe parked the swindlers’ car on the shoulder of the road. Then the boys pulled their prisoners out.

“I suppose you want a lawyer before you say anything,” Frank said.

“Don’t need any lawyers,” Mungo said. “We’ll tell you all about it.”

He explained that Lasher wanted to silence the Hardys. Farkus had told him of their campsite and Lasher had worked out a scheme to lure the boys away and injure them.

“You can tell that to the police,” Frank said. “We’re taking you into town.”

But before they could push their captives back into the convertible, they heard a car door slam on the road below. A park ranger strode up the hill. They had not met him before.

“Hello, boys,” he said. “I see you found a good camping spot. Don’t forget to wet down all fires.” Then his glance fell upon the bound wrists of the captives. “What’s going—?”

“Help us! We’ve been kidnapped!” Mungo cried out.

“We demand our civil rights!” Farkus added. “Arrest these kids!”

The boys looked at one another in amazement. Biff said, “Why, you crooks! You’re the ones who should be arrested!”

“Don’t believe a word they say,” Farkus bellowed. “See how they got us tied up!”

The park ranger was in a quandary. “I can’t take anybody’s side,” he said. “How do I know who’s telling the truth?” He pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the bonds.

“They’ll escape!” Chet protested.

“You’re the ones who’ll run away,” Farkus barked.

“Nobody’s going to run away,” the ranger said. “You all are coming with me to Snowcap.”

Mungo and Farkus seemed willing enough. Farkus was to drive their car. The ranger told Mungo to get into the forest service car. Biff set his bike beside the camper and joined Frank, Joe, and Chet in the convertible.

Chet fumed at the thought of how the pair had duped the officer. “What liars! It’s a wonder they didn’t say they were Smokey the Bear and his brother!”

As they entered the town, Frank exclaimed, “Hey, we’re in luck! There’s a State Police car!”

The ranger pulled up behind it, stepped out, and spoke to the trooper. The Hardys joined him and told their side of the story.

“Those men are mixed up with a ring of credit-card counterfeiters,” Frank said. “And we can prove it!”

“You mean you know someone who can identify them as swindlers?” the trooper asked.

“Yes.” Frank told about Burn, the jeweler who had been bilked. The State Police officer agreed to take Farkus and Mungo to the store.

The suspects were silent as the group walked toward Burn’s shop. While Biff, Chet, and the ranger waited outside, Frank and Joe accompanied the officer into the store with Farkus and Mungo. Burn looked up in surprise from a gem he was examining. A young woman assistant disappeared into the back of the store.

The trooper said, “I understand, Mr. Burn, you accepted a fake Magnacard recently.”

“That’s right.”

“Did either of these men present it to you?”

Farkus and Mungo stood before the counter, looking tense.

The jeweler studied them carefully. Then he said, “No. I’ve never seen these men before!”

CHAPTER XVIII

The Vampire Cave

DISMAYED by the reply, the Hardys faced the eler. “But—but you told us about John Minks and—” Joe began.

“I told you nothing!” Burn’s mouth turned down and a look of defiance came into his slitted eyes. “Now why don’t you go away and stop bothering me!”

The police officer put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘As you can see, it’s a case of mistaken identity. We all make a boo-boo now and then.”

“But I tell you,” Joe persisted, “it’s not a mistake!”

Frank nudged his brother. “We can’t get anywhere without Burn’s help. Protesting won’t do any good. Let’s go!”

“And let these guys go scot-free?” Joe demanded.

“Listen to your brother,” the officer advised. “You haven’t got a case here.”

Joe realized that the officer was right. Without proof, there was no way to take the criminals into custody.

Frank and Joe joined their friends outside. Chet and Biff were amazed to see Mungo and Farkus walk out and amble down the street.

“What happened?” Biff asked. “You had those crooks dead to rights!”

“The jeweler copped out on us,” Frank said. “There’s something real fishy behind all this, and we’re going to find out what it is.”

Biff said, “Of course it’s possible that Farkus was not the man who used the Minks Magnacard.”

“Theoretically, yes,” Frank replied. “But I’ve watched the jeweler and he acted funny. I’m sure it was Farkus.” He asked Chet and Biff to follow the two men.

“Joe and I will keep an eye on the jewelry shop,” he said. “I think Burn will react fairly soon. We’ll meet you later at the campsite.”

Biff and Chet hastened to the Hardys’ convertible and drove slowly after the suspects. The men hopped into their own car, accelerated quickly, and headed in the direction of Denver.

“Come on, Biff. Can’t you get this heap to go any faster?” Chet complained.

Biff had the pedal down to the floor as they ascended the steep mountain road. It curved sharply and the suspects’ car disappeared from sight.

Rounding the curve, the boys saw a road repair-man waving a red flag. Biff hit the brakes. Up ahead a power roller was repairing one side of the highway and traffic was alternating, a dozen cars at a time in each direction.

Mungo and Farkus’ car had been the last to get through!

Biff and Chet chafed at the delay. Vehicles came from the opposite side in single file. A large trailer was proceeding extra-cautiously.

“Why doesn’t he step on it?” Biff fumed.

Finally the last car had passed and the boys were given the go signal. Biff eased slowly past the roller. Once in the clear, he tromped on the gas. But no matter how fast he went, they could not get a glimpse of the other car.

Chet observed. “They must be miles ahead of us by now. We’ll never catch ’em, Biff.”

“You’re right. We might as well go back.”

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe were carefully concealed in a doorway, watching the jewelry store in Snowcap.

Finally their vigil was rewarded. The jeweler stepped out and looked up and down the street. Then he set off at a rapid gait and crossed the road. The boys followed.

“He’s really got something on his mind!” Frank thought.

Turning a corner, the man headed toward the second house on the left. After opening the front door with a key he disappeared inside.

Joe and Frank crept around to the back yard. The young sleuths worked their way to the rear porch. Through an open window they heard a chair scuff against the floor as Burn sat down.

Then came the dialing of the telephone. After a few seconds, Burn said, “Pick? ... Listen. Those big-money fakers are still around, but I couldn’t get my hands on them!”

There was silence for a few seconds.

Then the jeweler continued, “I could have grabbed two of them, but the fuzz interfered. I think they skipped town.”

Again only silence, then an exclamation, “What? ... You’ve got them? ... Up the trail tonight? ... But those Hardys are still poking around ... Where? ... The Vampire Cave? ... Okay.”

The phone clicked in its cradle. Moments later the front door slammed.

Peering around the side of the house, the Hardys saw Burn striding up the street. Apparently he was returning to his shop.

“What did you make of all that?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Maybe the credit-card thieves were caught!”

“By Pick’s gang?”

“I’m beginning to think so.”

The boys pondered the new turn of events. Were two gangs battling each other?

“This mystery is turning out in reverse!” said Joe. “The other gang—the guys who are after the Magnacard crooks—must be up on Vampire Trail!”

“And tonight’s the showdown!” said Frank.

“The moment of truth is at hand.” Joe grinned.

As the Hardys walked back to the main street, trying to get a lift to their campsite, Chet and Biff rode by and stopped. They were chagrined by their failure to keep on the trail of the Magnacard fakers. But when Frank and Joe told them the result of the stakeout, they regained their optimism.

“Boy, that’ll be a great show!” Biff said.

“Maybe they’ll knock each other off,” Chet chortled. “Then we won’t have so much work to do.”

They decided to return to their trailer tent and lay a plan of action. As they neared Blackfoot Meadow campground, Chet said, “Let’s visit Prince Cuthbert and see if he’s had any news from the police about those sapphire thieves.”

The boys were surprised to find that Cuthbert’s psychedelic trailer was not in its place. They got out of the car and queried the neighbors.

“Oh, the prince?” said one. “He left.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Frank asked.

“No. He just hitched up the trailer to his old jalopy and chugged off.”

“He seemed mighty disturbed, that’s all I can say,” someone else added.

“Gosh,” Chet said, “he didn’t even say good-by to us.”

“You kind of liked that old eccentric, didn’t you?” Biff asked.

“He wasn’t so bad.”

Joe, however, still felt that Cuthbert was suspect. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him,” he stated as they returned to their car.

After an early supper the boys formulated plans for their hike up Vampire Trail. Sherlock would be tied to the camper with enough food and water to last at least twenty-four hours.

“Silence is essential,” Frank declared. “We don’t know how many of those crooks might be lurking along the trail. Use your flashlight sparingly, and if it’s necessary to say anything, whisper it.”

As soon as darkness fell, Frank and Joe took one side of the path, Chet and Biff the other. The stony, tortuous trail tested both their strength and agility. Clouds obscured the moon and the resulting jet-black darkness made the climb even more difficult. They pressed ahead, giving a winking signal now and then to mark their positions.

About halfway to the top of the mountain they halted and had a whispered conference.

“Let’s lie in wait for a while,” Joe suggested. “If anyone comes up the trail tonight, he’ll have to go right past here and we can grab him.”

Frank interposed, “Only let’s not grab anybody. The idea is to follow him to his gang’s headquarters.”

They returned to their positions and waited. Suddenly Chet gave a cry of alarm. Almost at the same instant something fluttered close to the Hardys’ heads.

“For Pete’s sake!” Joe hissed. “Keep quiet!” He and Frank hastened to Chet’s side.

“The bats!” Chet moaned. “One of them almost brushed against my ear. Sorry, fellows.”

“Sh,” Frank warned. “I hear something.”

Far down the path came the sound of footsteps, then a mélange of angry voices.

“You shut up,” one said harshly.

“I’ll take this case to the Supreme Court!”

“That’s Farkus,” Joe said.

Another voice, which the Hardys identified as Burn’s the jeweler, sneered, “Supreme Court? You’ll see your supreme creator first!”

“You can’t do this to us. It’s illegal!” It was Mungo speaking.

“Look who’s talking about legality,” someone said with a laugh.

The boys crouched low alongside the trail as the men passed them. Frank could have reached out and touched one who said in a whining tone, “We’ll give you anything. Anything you want, but let us go!”

“Lasher, you’ve had it. The end of the trail will be the end of your crooked career.”

The voices trailed off. When they became inaudible, the boys whispered again.

“Just as we thought,” Frank said. “It’s gang against gang. The guys who hold Vampire Trail have caught the Magnacard crooks!”

They walked up the center of the trail with Joe as lead man. When they came to a steep defile, they stopped for a moment and listened. The mountain was ominously still.

“Okay,” Joe said. “The road’s clear.”

They pressed on single file through the narrow passage which opened onto ground less steep.

“We must be right near the top,” Frank said.

Again they heard voices. Crawling on their stomachs, the boys made their way to the edge of a small amphitheater which nature had cut into the mountaintop.

“A great hiding place!” Joe whispered.

“Right,” Frank said. “Completely hidden from below.”

They crept closer for a better look. In the middle of the amphitheater a small fire was burning. A knot of men were gathered around it. Pick was doing the talking. His voice came through deep and booming.

“Nobody’s going to cheat us and get away with it! You swindled Burn!”

“But we’ll give you anything,” Lasher pleaded. “All the dough we made in the credit-card racket. I’ve got it hidden. It’s all yours. Just let us go!”

“You had your chance to pay when you bought the sapphire,” Pick said. “Now you’re going to pay—in a different way!”

The Hardys strained their eyes trying to identify the others standing in the flickering firelight. They could make out the terrified faces of Mungo and Farkus, whose jowls were quivering with fear.

Suddenly one of Pick’s henchmen whispered something to him and he stopped censuring his captives. With a gesture toward the inky black night he said in a voice dripping with mock kindness:

You kids can come out of hiding now. All of you are my prisoners!”

CHAPTER XIX

Then There Were Three

PICK’S words hit the boys like a bucket of ice water! Was this a bluff meant to dislodge then from their hiding place? How had they been discovered on their trek up Vampire Trail? They crouched, every muscle tense.

There was a rustling in the bushes behind them. Frank, Chet, and Biff spun around to look. But Joe, falling flat to the ground, slithered off in an effort to escape.

Just then a powerful beam of light flashed into the eyes of the trio. Two men carrying rifles appeared. “Okay, you guys. On your feet. Reach for the stars!”

There was nothing to do but obey.

It was only when they stood up that Frank became aware of Joe’s absence. “Good boy,” he thought. Joe’s escape was the only hope for rescue!

The three were escorted to the fire, gun muzzles prodding them in the back. As they approached, they got a better look at Pick.

His high forehead was crowned by disheveled blond hair. His eyes looked green in the flickering firelight, which threw sinister shadows on his pocked face. His stubbly chin was thrust out defiantly.

“Only three! I said there would be four!” Pick yelled to the guards.

“We found only three,” one of the men replied.

“So I see!” Pick’s eyes blazed. “You—the other boy—come out of your hiding place! There’s not a chance of you getting away. My men have been spying on you kids for the last half hour.”

In a lower voice he told the three captives, “The trail is tightly guarded and the only way out is a sheer drop of a thousand feet over that rock wall.”

The trio remained silent.

Pick glanced at his wrist watch and again bellowed, “Every minute you hide out will mean that much more time in the bat cave!”

“The bat cave? What’s that?” Frank spoke up.

“Pretty curious, aren’t you?” said Pick. “Curiosity killed a cat, and it’s going to kill a lot more!”

“In that case,” Biff put in, “you’ve nothing to lose if you tell us what this is all about.”

“Yes,” said Chet. “After all, we don’t want to die ignorant.”

Pick let out a yell of delight. “Ignorant? You all were pretty ignorant to come snooping around here. What are your names?”

The boys told him.

“The other Hardy kid is the one that’s missing,” Pick said to his men.

“That’s Joe,” Lasher volunteered, groveling for favor.

“Shut up!” Pick glowered at the man, then turned his attention back to Chet.

“Some people are just born unlucky,” he said. “But since you want to know all about it, I’ll tell you.”

He went into a long discourse, waving his arms and punctuating the strange story with sarcastic bursts of laughter.

He and his men were engaged in the illegal mining of sapphires. They had discovered an abandoned digging on land which was now government property. The only way up to the mine, outside of scaling the cliff, was by Vampire Trail.

“So we waylaid unwelcome campers,” Pick said, “and scared everybody off.”

“With your vampire bats,” said Frank. “But they only live in Central America!”

Pick gave a gleeful laugh that reverberated through the rock-walled clearing. “I got them from a buddy of mine in Nicaragua. Smuggled them into the country.”

In one part of the mine, he said, there was a thermal cave, where bats could live comfortably. Occasionally he let some of them out on the trail to frighten people away, but the poor mammals died quickly when exposed to the cold mountain air.

“But what about the marks on our necks?” Chet asked.

“First we bopped you kids, then nipped you with a pair of pliers.”

“Look, Pick, why don’t you let us go?” Frank said. “We were only out to get those credit-card crooks.” The young detective was trying to stall for time so Joe would have a chance to get help. “Incidentally, what’s your beef with them, and what about Fingers’ gang?” he asked.

“Now that’s quite a story,” the gang leader replied. He explained that Elkin Burn, the town jeweler, was one of the outlets for his sapphires. The Terrible Trio had helped him work the mine but had been caught stealing so he fired them.

“Pick, we don’t have a grudge against you,” Frank said.

“I’m sorry, kid, truly sorry.”

“Then you’ll let us go?” Chet asked.

“Of course not.” A savage look came into the man’s eyes. “You know too much. Sometimes the innocent must suffer with the guilty.”

“Meaning what?” Frank asked.

“I’ll have to drop you all into the flooded mine shaft. But first Mr. Lasher goes into the bat cave.”

“Don’t, please!” Lasher begged, crawling over to Pick.

The miner gave him a kick. “Get out of here, you crumb! You double-crossed Burn with that phony credit card. Now you’re going to get it!”

Lasher pleaded, “Let me go! I can make a lot more money with those credit cards. I’ll turn it all over to you!”

“Too late!” Pick said. “You’re going in with the bats!”

“But I can’t stand bats!” Lasher cried. “They drive me crazy!”

“Good!”

Lasher sprang up and made a dash toward the edge of the clearing. A gun barrel was smacked hard against the back of his neck and he fell in a heap.

“Don’t put him in the bat cave until he recovers,” Pick ordered. “We’ll play the rest of our little game after we catch Joe Hardy.”

When Joe had heard Pick’s first threat he had unstrapped his rucksack and crawled toward the edge of the cliff. He lay in the tall grass, praying that no one would find him. If there were only some way down!

In the light of the moon which now shone through a rift in the heavy clouds, he could see that there was no means of escape, except perhaps with mountain-climbing gear.

As Joe peered down into the abyss a tiny point of light caught his eye. Eagerly he leaned over as far as he could without falling off. A small fire glowed at the base of the cliff.

“A campfire!” Joe thought. “If I only could attract the attention of whoever’s there!”

He picked up a few pebbles and dropped them over the cliff. Then he covered himself with brush and tall grass, hoping that Pick’s men would not discover him.

Joe fell into a deep sleep. When he awakened, the sun was rising. He peered over the cliff and was amazed by what he saw.

A mountain climber was halfway up the rock wall! He was using pitons and every available handhold.

The man lifted his head and Joe recognized him immediately. Fritz Burger!

Still half concealed, the boy beckoned. Burger saw him and Joe motioned the Austrian to be silent.

At the same time one of Pick’s men, who had begun to search again at dawn, was working his way closer to the edge of the cliff. Joe lay perfectly still, watching fearfully through the thick blades of grass.

Methodically the man beat the bushes, coming closer and closer to Joe’s hiding place.

“On the next pass,” Joe thought, “he’ll step right on me!”

Just then a hound bayed in the distance. The searcher stopped and listened. The dog bayed again and the man wheeled around in the direction of the miners’ camp.

CHAPTER XX

The jackpot

FEARING trouble, the guard raced to the camp. His legs flew as he traversed the tall grass and low bushes. Suddenly he stumbled and fell headlong.

Uttering an oath, the man picked himself up and glared at the object he had tripped over. It was a rucksack. Stenciled on it was the name J. Hardy.

The man scooped it up. As he approached the camp he saw Sherlock the bloodhound fawning over Biff Hooper.

“Down! Get down, Sherlock!” Biff said.

“So that bloodhound followed you,” Pick said to Biff. Seeing the guard running toward him, the gang leader barked, “I told you to find Joe Hardy!”

“He got away, Boss, but I found this!” The man held up Joe’s rucksack.

A foxy look came into Pick’s eyes and he smiled at the clever thought which crossed his mind.

“Bring that hound here!” he ordered.

Biff took the dog by the collar and led him over to Pick.

The miner held the dog’s nose to the rucksack, then said, “Now go and find Joe Hardy!”

Frank and Chet, their eyes bloodshot from an anxious, sleepless night, cried out in protest.

“What’s the matter?” Frank said. “Aren’t your men clever enough to find my brother without a hound?”

“Maybe not,” Pick replied. He added with a sneer, “I think your brother got away—for good!”

“Like falling over the cliff.” Burn chortled. “It wouldn’t surprise me, Pick.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” the miner replied. “No need to hurry. Rustle up some chow first.”

Pick’s men produced a portable stove from inside the tunnel and prepared breakfast.

“Don’t we get something, too?” Chet asked.

“You’ll have no need for food,” Pick retorted with a wicked grin.

“But—but—even a condemned man gets a last meal!”

“The kid’s got a point,” said Burn.

“What do you say, Lasher?” Pick asked.

The Magnacard swindler turned his ashen face away. His hands trembled.

“Lasher’s not hungry,” Burn needled. “Neither are his two cronies.”

“We are,” Frank spoke up. “Make my eggs once over lightly.”

“Some spunk these kids have,” said Pick.

The three boys ate leisurely, and Frank kept glancing at his watch when all had finished. Pick wiped his greasy hands on his shirt and announced that the search for Joe Hardy would be renewed.

“Sherlock will lead us to him,” he said. Tying a rope around the dog’s collar, he let the canine sniff around the area. Finally Sherlock picked up the trail.

With Pick beckoning to them devilishly, the boys followed the dog toward the edge of the cliff.

Sherlock strained at the rope and walked right up to the rim. Frank’s stomach felt like a lead weight. Had Joe fallen into the abyss during the night? Suddenly he spied two objects on the ground close to the cliff edge. He knelt down to shield the spot from the view of Pick and his men.

Biff, too, had seen the piton and the ring! Devices used by mountain climbers! Frank realized that Joe had miraculously escaped. Now they must play for time until help could arrive!

“Say your prayers if you want,” Pick said and turned to his henchmen. “One less Hardy boy to deal with.” Then he snarled, “Okay, bring ’em all back. We’ll finish the elimination.”

The three prisoners were prodded to the camp, where Lasher, Mungo, and Farkus sat around in dejected silence. A shout came from one of the men who had been guarding the approach to the miners’ camp. He marched up the trail pushing a disheveled figure before him.

“Prince Cuthbert!” Chet called out in amazement.

The prince’s helmet crown was askew and his robes were tattered. Chet and Frank hurried to his side.

“Chet—and Frank! I thought I’d never find you. Where’s Joe?”

“Never mind the gab,” Pick cried out. “Who is this nut?”

“Sir?” Cuthbert squared his shoulders and looked Pick straight in the eye. “I came to say good-by to my friends. I set off hoping to avoid a tearful farewell, but turned my caravan about.”

Cuthbert spoke to the boys. “I found your trailer tent with Sherlock guarding it. So I let the poor dog loose hoping he would lead me to you—and so he has!”

Pick’s men looked on, smiling and twirling their forefingers at their heads.

“What impudent fellows!” the prince continued. “Let us return to your trailer. A cup of steaming hot tea will be in order.”

Chet shook his head in disbelief. “You mean you came all the way back to say good-by to us?”

“Not only that,” Cuthbert replied. He thrust his hand inside a satin cummerbund, pulled out a sapphire, and gave it to Frank. “This is a gift for Mrs. Hardy. When Chet told me it was her birthstone I took this sapphire from the pouch and put it in a safe place. Fortunate that I did, otherwise the robbers would have gotten this one too.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “You’re very thoughtful, Prince.”

“Not at all.” Cuthbert bowed. “Now will you introduce me to these uncouth friends of yours?”

The gang members laughed heartily at this remark and the prince’s face showed his annoyance. “That one looks familiar,” he said, pointing to Burn.

“Of course. You’re the man who wanted to sell me those sapphires,” the jeweler sneered. “Instead, one of Pick’s men and I broke into your trailer and got them free.”

“Shut up, Bum,” Pick growled. “And that goes for this old lunatic, too!”

“Indeed,” Cuthbert shot back, curling one of the points of his mustache. “I see you are not used to royalty!”

“So that’s it!” Pick said cynically. “You think you’re a king or something.”

“A prince,” Cuthbert corrected him. “Descended from the line of King Arthur.”

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” Pick said, bowing mockingly. “We can use some royalty. It might add legality to what we’re going to do here.”

“And what is that?” asked the prince, straightening his crown.

“An execution! That’s what. We’ll give a royal execution to these three kids and Lasher’s crew. Now, won’t that make it legal?”

“Please don’t hurt the prince!” pleaded Chet.

“Of course not. We’ll let him go. Who’d believe his babblings, anyhow?”

“Desist,” Cuthbert said, “or my archers will fall upon you, not to mention my knights in armor!”

In a low voice Frank said, “Keep it up, Prince. We need as much time as possible.”

Cuthbert turned on him coldly. “You don’t believe me?”

“Well,” Frank said quietly, “I thought you were kid—”

“Cut the nonsense,” Pick interrupted. He motioned to his men. “Lasher goes to the bat cave right now.”

Two of the miners seized the swindler, who began screaming and kicking as he was carried into the tunnel. His wails of anguish were fading in the distance when three shots rang out in quick succession.

“Don’t move. Drop your guns and stay where you are!” The strident voice came over a bullhorn and five State Police officers appeared. Behind them was Joe Hardy.

“Joe!” Chet cried in relief.

Pick’s eyes popped and his jaw dropped as if he were looking at a ghost. His guards threw their guns to the ground.

With Joe was the Austrian mountain climber, Burger. Frank realized what had happened. Burger had rescued Joe!

“Search the tunnel! Hurry!” Frank cried out, pointing.

One of the troopers hurried forward, pistol drawn. He returned a few minutes later with the two guards and Lasher.

Pick was tight-lipped, but his inner fury showed in his blazing eyes. Finally he blurted, “You Hardys ruined my racket!”

“And the Magnacard caper, too,” one of the troopers said, while the others were rounding up the prisoners. They were all advised of their rights.

Mungo and Farkus readily admitted their guilt in the credit-card swindles. Whip Lasher made a full confession. He admitted that it was he who had followed the Hardys in the beginning of their camping trip and had let the air out of their tires.

“A real prankster,” one of the troopers commented. “Well, you won’t be playing any tricks for a long time to come.”

It was Lasher, too, who had fire-bombed the boys’ camper. Farkus had been with Lasher at the Mountain Dogie Store.

Just then a report came in over the police portable radio which one of the troopers was carrying. The Terrible Trio had returned to Denver and had been picked up. They were being charged with malicious mischief. Mungo’s pals at the Badland Reservoir Marina headquarters had also been arrested.

Joe Hardy apologized to Prince Cuthbert for suspecting that he had any connection with the criminals.

Chet was very superior about it. “Can’t you tell a good guy when you see one?” he asked.

“Thank you, Chet,” Cuthbert said with a broad smile. “Now I must wend my way through the mountains. My travels eventually will carry me back to the land of my ancestors.”

The police looked on in amazement as the eccentric shook hands with the boys and took his leave.

“Be sure to give my compliments to your dear mother,” the prince called over his shoulder.

Frank fingered the sapphire in his pocket and promised to convey the message.

The handcuffed prisoners were marched down Vampire Trail and put into State Police cars.

As the four boys walked to their camper, Joe asked, “All set to go home now?”

“Go home?” Biff exclaimed. “Why, we’ve hardly started our camping trip!”

“That’s right,” Chet added. “I vote for a little more fishing. And don’t forget, we have some reward money to split up.”

“You’re right on both counts,” Frank said. “Ill telephone Dad and tell him we solved the case. Get lunch ready, Chet. Joe and I will go to Blackfoot Meadow to make the call.”

As the Hardys rode off on the motorbike, Biff scratched Sherlock’s ears. “I’m glad the mystery of Vampire Trail has been solved, old boy,” he said.

But the carefree days which followed proved to be only a short respite for Frank and Joe. Almost immediately upon their return home, they would be faced with another challenging mystery, The Masked Monkey.

The Tower Treasure

The House on the Cliff

The Secret of the Old Mill

The Missing Chums

Hunting for Hidden Gold

The Shore Road Mystery

The Secret of the Caves

The Mystery of Cabin Island

The Great Airport Mystery

What Happened at Midnight

While the Clock Ticked

Footprints Under the Window

The Mark on the Door

The Hidden Harbor Mystery

The Sinister Signpost

A Figure in Hiding

The Secret Warning

The Twisted Claw

The Disappearing Floor

The Mystery of the Flying Express

The Clue of the Broken Blade

The Flickering Torch Mystery

The Melted Coins

The Short-Wave Mystery

The Secret Panel

The Phantom Freighter

The Secret of Skull Mountain

The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

The Secret of the Lost Tunnel

The Wailing Siren Mystery

The Secret of Wildcat Swamp

The Crisscross Shadow

The Yellow Feather Mystery

The Hooded Hawk Mystery

The Clue in the Embers

The Secret of Pirates’ Hill

The Ghost at Skeleton Rock

The Mystery at Devil’s Paw

The Mystery of the Chinese Junk

Mystery of the Desert Giant

The Clue of the Screeching Owl

The Viking Symbol Mystery

The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior

The Haunted Fort

The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge

The Secret Agent on Flight 101

Mystery of the Whale Tattoo

The Arctic Patrol Mystery

The Bombay Boomerang

Danger of Vampire Trail

The Masked Monkey

The Shattered Helmet

The Clue of the Hissing Serpent

The Mysterious Caravan

The Witch master’s Key

The Jungle Pyramid

The Firebird Rocket

The Sting of the Scorpion

Hardy Boys Detective Handbook

The Hardy Boys Back-to-Back The Tower Treasure/The House on the Cliff

Celebrate 60 Years with the World’s Greatest Super Sleuths!

THE MASKED MONKEY

FRANK and Joe Hardy are called upon to find a wealthy industrialist’s son who has mysteriously disappeared.

Did Graham Retson flee from his home because he was at odds with his father, or was he kidnapped? Finding the answer turns into something more dangerous and larger in scope than Frank and Joe ever bargained for. The only clue in the case leads the two young detectives to South America, where the intrigues of evil adversaries almost cost them their lives. Involved in this complex mystery are a fierce-looking monkey trained to be a killer, a school of voracious, man-eating piranhas, a ruthless gang of passport thieves, and a cleverly operated change-your-identity mill for criminals.

Only through their courage and perseverance do the Hardys solve one of the toughest cases they have ever tackled.

“I have to get out of here!” Frank thought

The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

THE MASKED MONKEY

BY

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Publishers • New York

A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1972 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the U.S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 71-180994 ISBN: 978-1-101-65729-4

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I   A PUZZLING DISAPPEARANCE

II   BOUNCING BALLS

III   CARELESS TALK

IV   A GHOSTLY FIGURE

V   AWAY TO BRAZIL

VI   UNDERGROUND VOODOO

VII   BURU’S VISION

VIII   FISH BAIT

IX   A CURIOUS NUMBER SEVEN

X   ADRIFT ON THE AMAZON

XI   DANGEROUS STRANGER

XII   THE MONKEY MASK

XIII   ONE MORE CHANCE

XIV   BIG DEAL FOR CHET

XV   MIDNIGHT PURSUIT

XVI   THE AMBUSH

XVII   GOLF BALL ARTILLERY

XVIII   BAD NEWS

XIX   A TELLTALE BUG

XX   UNMASKING THE GANG

CHAPTER I

A Puzzling Disappearance

“YOU mean your eighteen-year-old son drew fifty thousand dollars from his bank account and then disappeared?” dark-haired Frank Hardy asked incredulously. His blond brother Joe, sitting beside him on a sofa, also looked bewildered.

The two teen-age investigators from Bayport were in the posh office of J. G. Retson, owner of a stone quarry near Granite City. He sat behind his desk, rocking nervously in a high-backed chair.

“Yes!” Retson answered Frank’s question. “That’s exactly what I mean. The fifty grand is gone, and so is Graham.”

“And you want us to find him?”

“That’s right!” Retson declared, striking the desk with his fist. “Find him and bring him back home. Tell him he can be anything he wants to be. He has my word on that.”

“Sounds as if there’s been a family quarrel,” Joe observed.

Retson threw his hands in the air with a pained expression. “Graham and I didn’t understand each other as a father and son should,” he confessed. “He had some weird ideas I didn’t go along with. But things will be different when he gets home. I won’t try to change him any more.”

The industrialist paused. All choked up, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his eyes.

The Hardy boys felt embarrassed. They waited silently until Retson regained his composure.

“We’ll do our best,” Joe assured him. “But we’ll need some clues. How long has Graham been missing?”

Retson folded his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. “Two months,” he replied.

“You must have made some effort to find him in that time,” Frank said.

“Of course. I went to the Granite City police when he didn’t come home after a few days.”

“Any results?” Joe asked.

“Nothing. Every lead petered out. Chief Carton calls it the most baffling case he’s ever worked on. And he’s cracked some big ones.”

Frank stared out the window while he puzzled over the mysterious disappearance of Graham Retson. Then he remarked, “Sir, you obviously think we might succeed where the police failed. Why us?”

“I know your reputation as detectives,” Retson replied. “According to the papers, you’ve helped your father on many of his cases.”

Retson was referring to Fenton Hardy, the renowned detective, who had been a member of the New York City police force before becoming a private investigator. Frank, eighteen years old, and Joe, a year younger, were well experienced in tracking down criminals. Their first case was The Tower Treasure, and their latest success, Danger on Vampire Trail. But this seemed to be a different kind of mystery.

Retson continued. “That’s not all. The point is, you’re both about my son’s age. There’s a generation gap between Graham and me. But you fellows speak his lingo. You should be able to get through to him.”

“We’ll try,” Frank said, “if we can find him.”

Retson gave a deep sigh. “That’s a relief. Stay right with the case. Money is no object. Spend whatever it takes. Go to the ends of the earth if you must, but find my son!”

“We’ll give it all we’ve got,” Joe vowed. “But we’ll need some information from you.”

“Such as?”

“Photos, letters, diary—anything that might give us a lead.”

“I see what you mean,” Retson said. “Well, I’ll give you all the help I can. Come out to my place, Whisperwood, tomorrow. It’s on a ridge of Granite Rock near the waterfall. Take the highway west till you see the wire fence around the property. You can examine Graham’s personal belongings.”

“We’ll be there.” Frank and Joe left the office, climbed into their convertible, and headed back to Bayport.

“What do you think of it?” Frank asked as he turned the car into the driveway of their home.

“Let’s discuss it with Dad tonight,” Joe suggested.

“He won’t be home until late. But we’ll see him in the morning.”

At breakfast the next day Mr. Hardy listened closely while his sons described their visit to Granite City.

“It’s a real mystery,” he admitted. “No wonder Retson’s worried.”

“Dad, can you give us a hand?” Joe asked.

Fenton Hardy smiled but shook his head. “I’d like to, but I’m tied up with a fake passport case. A ring of unsavory characters is doctoring stolen United States passports. Strange coincidence, they were stolen in Granite City in a post office holdup two years ago. So I’m off to Washington this morning.”

As the front door closed behind him the phone

rang. Joe answered, heard a familiar voice, and turned to Frank with a grin. “It’s Chet,” he said.

Chet Morton was the Hardy boys’ best friend. A plump, freckle-faced youth who jolted around town in an ancient jalopy, he was always involved in some new hobby.

Frank chuckled. “What’s he up to?”

Chet was telling Joe excitedly, “I want to see you guvs right away. Got a big deal on! If you sweet-talk me, maybe I’ll give you a piece of the action. I’m coming over to your house pronto.”

“No use, Chet,” Joe said. “We’re on our way to a meeting in Granite City.”

Chet gave a low whistle. “You’re on another case? … Say, is there anything I can do? Nothing too dangerous, of course.”

He had helped the Hardys solve several mysteries. Though Chet was not fond of hair-raising assignments, Frank and Joe knew they could rely on him when the going got rough.

“We’ve just started,” Joe answered. “We’ll know more when we get back tonight. Come on over tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

“Okay,” Chet replied. “And we’ll discuss my big deal, too.”

“Right.” Joe laughed. He hung up and joined Frank for the drive to Granite City.

Beyond the outskirts of Bayport, Frank swung the convertible onto the highway leading west. After two hours the level terrain gave way to a section of hills and ravines. The car rolled through a pass cut in solid rock.

“There’s the ridge Mr. Retson mentioned,” said Joe, glancing ahead at Granite Rock. “And that must be the fence around Whisperwood.” He pointed to a tall barrier of heavy meshed wire.

“Right, Joe. It’s a huge estate. I don’t even see the gate yet. Oh, there it is.” Frank guided the car past a stand of pine trees and stopped before a large iron portal guarding the entrance. A brass bell was mounted beside it.

Joe got out and tried to turn the massive handle. “Locked,” he muttered. “And there’s not a sign of a gatekeeper to let us inside this fortress.”

Frank jangled the bell clapper, and the sound boomed through the grounds, but it brought no response. “Looks as if they don’t want company,” he muttered.

“Well, we’ve got an invitation,” Joe said. “It’s not polite for a couple of guests to keep their host waiting. So here goes.”

Grasping the fence wire with his fingers, Joe got a toehold and swarmed up the fence. He dropped down on the other side to the sound of tearing cloth.

“Ripped my jacket,” he groaned. “Well, I made it, though. Come on.”

Frank, who had followed Joe up the fence, jumped down. Together they walked toward the Whisperwood mansion, outlined against the sky at the summit of the ridge. A butler answered the bell.

“Ripped my jacket!” Joe groaned

“My name is Harris,” he announced in solemn tones. “Mr. Retson is expecting you. But you’ve torn your jacket, Mr. Hardy. Here, let me have it and I’ll see it’s repaired before you leave. I’m so sorry I didn’t hear the bell clapper.”

Joe handed over the garment, then the butler ushered them into Retson’s den.

Their client apologized when he heard about their experience at the gate. “I didn’t expect you so early. You see, I do insist on complete privacy in Whisperwood.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Retson,” Frank said. “Let’s get down to the question of where your son might be. First of all, what does he look like?”

Retson lifted a photograph from the mantelpiece. “This was taken just a few days before Graham disappeared.”

Frank and Joe examined the picture. They saw a frail youth wearing long hair and glasses with round metal rims that made him appear owlish.

“Any distinguishing characteristics, Mr. Retson?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Graham has a nervous habit of nodding his head while he’s talking.”

Joe looked hard at the photo. “He’s not the rugged type, if I’m any judge.”

“Hardly. Graham is very sensitive. In fact, he spends most of his time writing poetry.”

“What started the feud between you two?” Joe wanted to know.

Retson snorted. “A cage of silly hamsters. Graham brought the beasts home. I stood them as long as I could. Then one day when my son was out, I told the butler to get rid of them.”

“Could we have a look at Graham’s poetry?” Frank asked.

Retson opened a cabinet and pulled out a magazine. “Here, this is published by the private school he went to. You’ll find his stuff on page 58. It’s Greek to me.”

Frank spread the magazine on top of the cabinet. The boys began to read the verses.

“Say, this isn’t bad,” Frank said. “Your son has talent.”

“But it doesn’t tell us where he is,” Joe mused. “We’d better have a look at his room.”

Retson led the way up a broad staircase to a bedroom at the end of the hall. “I hope you’ll find a clue to Graham’s whereabouts,” he remarked, and left them.

The Hardys searched the closets, carefully looked through the bureau drawers, and examined the missing youth’s collection of poetry books.

Joe was disappointed. “Nothing here.”

“Let’s try the desk,” Frank said.

They went through the drawers, beginning at the top center, working down the left side and then turning to the right.

“Still nothing,” Joe said. “No diary, no letters, no clues.”

He started to slam the bottom drawer shut when Frank grabbed his arm.

“Wait a minute, Joe. What’s this?” Frank reached to the back of the drawer and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read aloud four lines of verse:

“ ‘My life is a walled city

From which I must flee;

This must my prison be

So long as I am me.’ ”

Frank turned the paper over. There were two more lines on the other side.

“ ‘There is a way,

But what it is I cannot say.’ ”

Joe said, “This could be a clue! Judging by those first four lines, Graham wasn’t too happy here.”

“And the last two lines could mean he found a way to escape,” Frank said.

Just then Mr. Retson came into the room. Frank showed him the piece of paper. “Is this Graham’s handwriting?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“May we keep it? It might be a message in code.”

“Certainly. Keep anything that will help you find Graham. Incidentally, you can stay at Whisperwood while you’re on the case. There’s an apartment over the old stable. The horses are gone, so we’ve had the rooms renovated and call it the guesthouse.”

Frank and Joe decided they might accept the offer later on.

“We’d better get back to Bayport today,” Joe said. “If we find it would be easier working from here, we’ll be glad to park ourselves over the stable.”

The butler showed the visitors out. “Here’s your jacket, Mr. Hardy,” he said to Joe. “I believe you will find the repairs satisfactory.”

“Looks as good as new,” Joe assured him. “Thanks a lot.”

When the young detectives arrived home, Joe hung his jacket in the hall closet. Something crinkled in one pocket. He reached in and pulled out a folded page torn from a small notebook.

“What’s that?” Frank queried.

“A bit of scribbling. Apparently somebody wrote it in a hurry.”

“What does it say?”

Joe read, “ ‘Don’t look for Graham. You’ll ruin his life!’ ”

CHAPTER II

Bouncing Balls

“THIS is a warning!” Frank gasped. “Who could have written it, Joe?”

“Harris the butler could have slipped the paper into the pocket before returning my jacket.”

“We’d better have a talk with Harris,” Frank declared. “If he’s trying to scare us off the case, I’d like to know the reason.”

“You boys are jumping to conclusions,” said a tart voice behind them. Fenton Hardy’s sister was dusting the living room. Gertrude Hardy lived with her brother and his family. She loved her nephews dearly. But she never hesitated to give her opinion about the boys’ detective work.

“I heard what you said about the butler,” she went on, flicking her duster around a vase. “And I say you’re jumping to conclusions. I’ve read enough murder mysteries to know that the butler is always accused.”

“We’re not accusing him, Aunty,” Frank said. “He just seems to be the prime suspect at this point. Anyway, this isn’t a murder mystery. At least we don’t know that anybody’s been murdered.”

“We’re involved in a missing-person case,” Joe explained. “Graham Retson lived at Whisperwood near Granite City with his parents. He’s disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”

“Granite City!” Miss Hardy sniffed. “That’s a hundred miles from here. You’ll burn a lot of gas commuting back and forth!”

“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “Mr. Retson offered to put us up at Whisperwood over his stable while we’re hunting for clues. Besides, there might not be a criminal involved at all.”

Gertrude Hardy clucked like a wet hen. “Stable indeed! Mr. Retson should have offered you better lodgings. One of you might get kicked by a horse.”

Frank and Joe soothed their aunt by assuring her there were no horses at Whisperwood to do any kicking.

“Well, I imagine you’ll find some kind of danger there,” Aunt Gertrude said. “So be careful.” With this parting shot, she flounced out of the room.

Frank and Joe mulled over the strange disappearance of Graham Retson and the warning note. They decided to accept the industrialist’s offer and go to Whisperwood the next day.

In the morning Frank and Joe were having breakfast with their mother and Aunt Gertrude when a series of rackety explosions erupted in the street.

“That’s Chet’s jalopy,” Laura Hardy said.

The doorbell rang and Frank let their friend in. He was puffing with excitement as he entered the dining room.

“Morning, Mrs. Hardy, Aunt Gertrude,” he said. When he saw the food on the table, he halted in delight, rubbed his belt buckle, and glanced significantly at the women.

“Chester Morton, there’s no mystery about what you want,” said Gertrude Hardy. “Can I tempt you with some pancakes?”

“Please do,” replied Chet, who loved nothing better than eating.

Joe laughed. “After all, our buddy’s only had one breakfast this morning. His inner man is telling him it’s time for an encore.”

Chet sat down and consumed a stack of pancakes at an alarming rate. He also drank two glasses of milk. Then he leaned back with a pleased expression. “That was just great,” he said as the women cleared the table. “Thanks very much.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “What’s the big deal you mentioned on the phone yesterday?”

Chet rolled his eyes. “You guys ever hear of golf ball scavenging?”

“Negative,” Frank said. “What is it? A new hobby?”

“No, a get-rich-quick scheme. Duffers keep dunking golf balls in water hazards on most of the golf courses. Scavengers retrieve them and sell them. I’m a scavenger, and I’ll cut you in if you’re interested.”

“We might be,” Frank said, “when we have the time.”

“We’ve got to go back to Granite City this afternoon,” Joe told Chet.

“You can’t do that!” Chet protested. “I’m counting on you. Hold everything. You’ve got this morning free, right?”

Frank and Joe nodded.

“Okay,” Chet went on. “That’s enough time to start operations. Let’s go.”

The three climbed into Chet’s jalopy and drove to the farm outside of Bayport where he lived. On the way, Chet explained how golf balls were retrieved.

“Many amateur divers and frogmen,” he said, “descend into water hazards to scour the bottom. Professionals, however, don’t go into the water. They use suction pumps and underwater vacuum cleaners.

“About sixty million balls are recovered every year,” Chet stated, “and are resold for about fifteen million dollars.”

Frank whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Enough to buy several golf courses,” Joe remarked.

“Sure,” Chet said. “And I aim to get my share of the dough from the golf courses around Bayport.”

At the Morton farm the three transferred to a small truck. In the back was a very large box with a gasoline engine attached. Lines of small holes showed on one side, and a long hose dangled from one corner.

“Dad’s letting me use his pickup,” Chet said. “I spent a week building the retriever. Come on. Let’s go to the nearest course and see how my suction pump works.”

When they arrived at the Bayport links, Chet explained his gadget to the club’s golf pro. He was willing to let the boys have a try at the water hazard, providing they gave him half the golf balls they recovered.

The trio then drove to a pond at the third hole. Chet turned on the engine, pushed the nozzle of the hose down through the water, and began to vacuum the bottom.

A mixture of mud and water, sucked through the hose into the container, spewed out through the side holes and back into the pond. Loud rattling came from inside.

“Those are the golf balls!” Chet exulted. “They’re too big to go through the holes, so they’re banging against the sides. We’ve struck it rich!”

“The pump works like a charm,” Joe admitted. “Chet, for once you’ve come up with something practical.”

About an hour later the pro rode up in a golf cart. He told them the recovery operation would have to wait until early evening because some golfers were impatient to play the third hole.

Chet wound up the hose and opened a door at the top of the container. Frank and Joe peered in. Several hundred golf balls—dirty and muddy from their stay in the pond, but otherwise in good condition—were piled up inside.

“We can sell these for a good profit,” Chet said, “when we’ve cleaned them.” After turning over half of the take to the golf pro, the boys tossed the rest into the back of the pickup to dry off, and drove to Bayport.

As they went through the main intersection, a wild uproar broke out behind them. Horns blew. People shouted.

“What’s wrong?” Chet muttered. “I didn’t go through a stoplight!”

Joe, looking back, cried out, “We’re paving the avenue with golf balls! The tailgate’s open. We’re losing them!”

Their cargo was streaming out of the pickup into the crossing. Pedestrians went into frantic contortions as the golf balls rolled under their feet. Cars jolted to a halt. Traffic was snarled in four directions.

Chet pulled over to the curb. “We’re in for it now,” he groaned.

“You can say that again,” Frank muttered. “Here comes the traffic cop.”

“And he’s not too happy about running the obstacle course we just set up,” Joe added.

“Everybody out!” the officer commanded the three youths. “Start picking them up!”

Frank, Joe, and Chet meekly climbed out of the truck and began gathering the golf balls. A group of youngsters pitched in for the fun of it. When the balls were back in the truck, Chet double-checked the tailgate before driving off.

“Lucky I didn’t get a ticket,” he sighed.

“And fortunately nobody got hurt,” Frank said.

They arrived at the Hardy house to find their pals Phil Cohen and Tony Prito waiting for them. Phil was the sensitive, studious type, but could be counted on when Frank and Joe were on a dangerous mission.

Olive-skinned Tony, the son of a Bayport contractor, was another friend who frequently helped the Hardys solve mysteries.

The two were told about Chet’s new business. They agreed to accompany him to the golf course that evening to complete the ball scavenging operation.

Frank and Joe drove to Whisperwood. They had dinner in a roadside restaurant. When they reached the estate, Retson showed them to his guesthouse. From a distance came a constant hissing sound.

“It’s the waterfall,” Retson explained. “It seems to be whispering all the time. That’s why we called our home Whisperwood.”

“Did your son ever come to the guesthouse?” Frank inquired.

“Yes, occasionally. You see, Harris used the place while a wing of the mansion was being renovated. Graham liked him and visited him sometimes. Now the work on the house is done and Harris is back in his own quarters.”

Joe described the incident of the note in his jacket pocket. “We’d like to talk to the butler about it,” he said.

“Of course!” Retson replied. “Harris will have to answer to me if he’s the one responsible.”

Their host led the way back to the mansion, where they confronted the butler.

Joe handed the note to him. Harris became pale as he scrutinized the message. His eyes bulged. His breath came in gasps. He folded the note and handed it back. “Where did you find this?” he asked.

“In my jacket pocket, after you fixed it yesterday,” Joe said.

Harris frowned. “If you think I wrote this, you are mistaken,” he said.

“Can you prove that, Harris?” Retson asked harshly.

“Yes, indeed, sir. As you know, I make out the shopping list for the week. Here is the one I just wrote.” Harris drew a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Compare my handwriting with the note Mr. Hardy found in his coat.”

Joe placed the two pieces of paper side by side. Frank looked on. The two scrawls obviously did not match!

“It seems someone else wrote the warning,” Joe mused.

“But who?” Frank replied. “Who else lives in this house?”

“Jackson, the gardener,” Retson said. “His wife is our cook. And of course there’s Mrs. Retson. My wife has had a nervous breakdown. She rarely leaves her room in the east wing. A nurse is on duty with her constantly. You can talk to Miss Hopkins if you want to. But don’t bother Mrs. Retson.”

“We’ll have to check out the whole staff,” Frank said.

“Well, get on with the investigation first thing in the morning,” Retson urged. “My son may have been kidnapped. Criminals may be holding him prisoner right now!”

Frank and Joe walked back to the guesthouse. “We’re fresh out of clues,” Joe commented.

“Maybe we’ll come up with a theory after a little shut-eye,” Frank said.

“That is, if we can get any shut-eye. Whisperwood gives me the willies. It’s real spooky back here.”

A high wind blew mournfully through the pines, and clouds scudded across the face of the moon. Granite Rock lay in deep shadows except for outcroppings of stone that resembled gigantic human figures trying to escape over the crest.

Despite the uncanny atmosphere, the boys fell into a deep sleep. They were awakened by a loud splintering sound in the middle of the night. A missile had crashed through the picture window into their room!

CHAPTER III

Careless Talk

“FRANK! What on earth was that?” Joe asked, fumbling for the light switch.

Frank had already jumped out of bed to the broken window. Bright moonlight gave him a clear view of the grounds. “No sign of the thrower,” he reported. “Whoever it was ducked out of sight.”

Joe turned on the small lamp next to his bed and the two searched around the room for the missile.

Joe reached under his bed. “Look,” he said. “It’s a golf ball!”

“I suppose it’s a practical joke,” Frank said. “But I don’t think it’s very funny.”

“Whom do we know who might toss a golf ball in our direction?” Joe asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Chet Morton, that’s who! Let’s collar him if we can.”

After dressing quickly, they hurried down the stairs and out the door. Joe circled the guesthouse. Frank pushed through the bushes searching for a figure crouching behind them.

“When I spot an oversize shadow, that’ll be our fun-loving pal,” he said to himself.

Frank searched the bushes but found no one. Joe reported failure too. Finally they returned to their room and slept soundly the rest of the night.

Early the next morning there was a knock on the door. Frank opened it. There stood Chet!

“Do come in,” Frank invited. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

“What were you doing here last night?” Joe asked.

“What makes you think I was here?”

“This!” Joe showed him the golf ball. “It came through that window.”

“Don’t look at me,” Chet protested. “I was home in Bayport!”

“You’re here now,” Frank put in.

“Sure. But I just arrived. I’m after golf ball scavenging contracts around Granite City. I just dropped by to see you two before making the rounds.”

Frank shook his head. “You made a wonderful suspect. Now we’re back where we started.”

“Let me have a look at that ball,” Chet said. He turned it over between his fingers. “Condor brand,” he noted.

“Think you could find out where it came from?” Joe queried.

“Condors are popular,” Chet said with an air of authority. “Even an expert such as myself might have trouble identifying a single ball. However, I’ll ask around and see if any Granite City club sells Condors.”

“How soon will you let us know?” Frank said.

“I’ll stop by this evening and give you the info.”

Chet drove off to the golf courses. Frank and Joe went to the Whisperwood mansion for breakfast, and told their host about the golf ball and the broken window at the guesthouse.

Retson also was puzzled, but finally he said, “I still suspect Harris.”

“Why are you so down on your butler?” Frank inquired.

“Well, Graham spent a lot of time with Harris,” Retson replied.

“More than with you?” Joe asked.

“Much more. I’d rather have seen the boy playing football. But no. He preferred writing verse. Harris said he liked the poetry, which could have been a come-on. He may well be part of a plot against my son.”

The Hardys suggested checking the handwriting of the rest of the staff before accusing the butler. They set about gathering samples. Joe went to the kitchen, engaged the cook in conversation and persuaded her to write down a recipe for his mother.

Frank, buttonholing the gardener for a talk about the roses, managed to pocket a shopping list for seeds. Retson himself produced a memo written for Mrs. Retson by Miss Hopkins, the nurse.

None of the samples of handwriting resembled that in the warning note found in Joe’s jacket!

Frank looked disappointed. “We’ve learned what everybody’s scrawl looks like, but that doesn’t give us a lead.”

“I still suspect Harris,” Retson insisted.

“He could have had a confederate,” Joe mused. “Maybe we should give him a lie detector test.”

“I’ll get him up here,” Retson said. He pressed a button that rang a bell in the servants’ quarters. The butler appeared.

Frank asked him, “Harris, you still claim to be innocent of that note, don’t you?”

“Of course, Mr. Hardy. I am innocent.”

“Would you be willing to take a lie detector test to prove it?”

The butler blanched, but quickly regained control of himself. “Whenever you wish.”

Joe offered to go to Granite City Police Headquarters and ask for a loan of a polygraph, the kind used in testing the veracity of suspects. He was back within the hour carrying a portable machine.

Harris sat patiently in a chair while the instruments for measuring pulse rate and blood pressure were attached to his body.

Frank set the graph which recorded physical reactions. Joe then directed a series of test questions at the butler. Then he said, “Harris, did you write that note I found in my jacket?”

“No.”

“Do you know who wrote it?”

“No.”

“Have you any idea where Graham is now?”

“No.”

Watching the graph unroll, Frank saw that the pattern of the needle across the paper remained steady as the questioning continued. Finally he said, “Harris seems to be telling the truth.”

Retson was clearly disappointed in the results of the test. He told the butler to leave the room and warned him to remain on the premises.

“I don’t think he’ll go anywhere,” Frank said. “He seems like a loyal employee.”

“Somebody is disloyal!” Retson exclaimed. “How else do you explain that note?”

Joe said, “You have to admit, Frank, it looks like an inside job. Still, the handwriting provided no clue.”

“Well, let’s be thorough and give all of the staff a lie detector test,” Frank said.

The Hardys told each employee about the surreptitious warning. No one seemed overly surprised to hear about it, although they all denied any knowledge of who sent it. Also, none of them objected to submitting to the polygraph test. In each case the results were negative.

Miss Hopkins, the nurse, said Mrs. Retson was too ill to be questioned, and the boys did not pursue the matter. They repacked the equipment in thoughtful silence. They had drawn a blank. Besides being disappointed, they were slightly annoyed by the patronizing half-smile on Retson’s face.

“Too bad,” he said. “Now what kind of explanation can you come up with?”

“It’ll take time to figure out,” Frank said. “But there’s an answer to everything. We’ll solve this mystery sooner or later.”

“I trust it will be sooner,” Retson said as the Hardys left to return the polygraph. “I’m depending on your fine reputation as detectives to find my son!”

Frank and Joe were glum as they drove alongside a golf course on their way to Granite City Police Headquarters.

The green for the seventh hole lay close to the road, and a crawling sprinkler had come to rest near the edge of it, squirting water onto the pavement. Just as a car approached from the opposite direction, water splashed across the windshield of the Hardys’ convertible, spraying them and momentarily blinding Frank’s vision.

Cru-unch! They sideswiped the oncoming car and came to a halt with screeching brakes.

Frank and Joe got out, as did two men from the other vehicle. One was a muscular individual wearing a slouch hat. His companion was young, slim, and had thick blond hair.

He managed a smile. “That was a pretty close shave,” he said. “What happened? You seemed to swerve.”

“Water from that sprinkler hit my windshield,” Frank said.

The four circled the cars, examining the doors and fenders. The convertible had a slight dent near the left door handle. The only damage to the other car was a scratch on the fender.

The older man said, “If you’re willing to overlook the dent, why don’t you forget the small damage to my car? You know these insurance companies—miles of red tape.”

“Fair enough,” said Frank.

The man looked at the lie detector equipment in the back of the convertible and smiled. “Somebody’s been put through a grilling, I see. You boys on the police force?”

“No, but we do detective work,” Joe said.

“Are you on a case?”

“Yes, we’re trying to pick up the trail of Graham Retson of Whisperwood.”

“Ah, yes,” the blond man said. “He disappeared some time ago. Think you can find him?”

“We hope to,” Joe said.

“Come on,” Frank urged. “We’d better be going. Thanks for your cooperation,” he said, turning to the men. “Next time we’ll be more careful about golf course sprinklers.”

After the two cars had started off, Frank said, “Joe, you really yacked about our investigation. What’s the idea?”

Joe looked embarrassed. “You’re right, Frank. Sometimes I talk too much. I doubt, though, that those fellows had anything to do with the Retson mystery.”

“Likely not, but there’s no sense taking chances.”

The boys returned the polygraph to the police. They thanked Chief Carton, who offered to cooperate with them in any way he could.

Then they drove back to Whisperwood. Frank parked the car near where the gardener was planting a small bush.

“This might be a good time to ask him a few questions,” he said.

“Right,” Joe agreed.

The boys walked up to the man. He was on his knees, firming the earth around the bush. When he saw the boys approaching, he looked up questioningly.

Frank came directly to the point. “Mr. Jackson,” he said, “how do you feel about young Graham’s disappearance?”

The gardener troweled some more earth onto the roots of the plant. “I just work here,” he said calmly. “It’s not my place to have any feelings about it.”

“You must see a lot that goes on around here,” Frank persisted. “Did Graham actually leave without you spotting him?”

“He did.” Jackson was becoming surly. “I’m not his baby-sitter. And I don’t keep a watch on the front door, either.”

Just then the screen door of the kitchen opened. The gardener’s wife stepped out. “I heard those questions about Graham Retson,” she stated bluntly. “And let me tell you something. I’m glad that he’s not cooped up here any more!”

“Can you help us find him, Mrs. Jackson?” Joe asked.

“I wouldn’t if I could,” snapped the woman. “Why don’t you mind your own business and leave the boy alone? He had good reason to run away!”

Mrs. Jackson’s tirade was interrupted by the sound of feet pounding along the brick walk. As Frank and Joe turned around, Chet Morton raced up to them.

His face was red from exertion. His breath came in big gulps. Wiping streams of perspiration from his forehead, he said, “Hey, fellows, I found out plenty!”

CHAPTER IV

A Ghostly Figure

FRANK and Joe pulled Chet aside, and Frank asked, “What’s up?”

“The Condor!” Chet puffed. “I’ve got the dope on it!”

“You mean the one that came through the window last night?”

“Not exactly,” Chet answered. “But I’ve discovered who sells the Condor golf balls around here.”

“Who’s that?” Frank demanded.

“The golf pro at the Olympic Health Club. He’s got a special concession. When you buy a Condor, you buy it from Gus McCormick.”

“So Gus sold our ball to one of his customers?” Joe asked.

“That’s my theory,” Chet replied.

“That gives us something to go on,” Joe said. “We’d better case the Olympic Health Club and see what gives over there.”

Frank nodded. “That would be easy if Chet got a contract to retrieve golf balls from the Olympic water hazard.”

Chet looked crestfallen. “Sorry, Frank. I’ve tried. I wangled two contracts from courses in town, but it was no dice at the Olympic. Say, I’d better get cracking with my suction pump. Business won’t wait.”

He left, and Frank and Joe resumed questioning the cook.

“Mrs. Jackson,” Frank said, “what did you mean when you said Graham had good reason to run away?”

“He wasn’t happy here,” she replied. “There were things he wanted to do that he wasn’t allowed to.”

“For instance?”

“Take those hamsters. They didn’t do anyone any harm. And Graham got a lot of pleasure from them. Getting rid of them was a shame.”

Her husband rose to his feet. “Be quiet, Martha!” he commanded. “You’re talking too much.”

“Mrs. Jackson isn’t revealing any secrets,” Joe said.

“If Mr. Retson wants to tell you about Graham, that’s up to him,” the gardener retorted. Turning to his wife, he asked crossly, “Do you want to get us fired?” He pulled her into the kitchen and the screen door slammed behind them.

Frank and Joe strolled over to the guesthouse.

“We’ve quizzed everybody except Mrs. Retson,” Frank pointed out. “She may have vital information about Graham. We’ll have to talk to her.”

“Retson might not go for the idea,” Joe said. “Let’s slip into the house when no one’s looking.”

As soon as darkness fell, the boys made their way through the grounds to the mansion. Circling around through the bushes, they reached the east wing of the building, pried open a window, and climbed over the sill into an unused room.

They went into the hallway and upstairs to the second floor where Mrs. Retson had her apartment.

Joe knocked softly on the door. It opened. “What do you want?” asked Miss Hopkins.

“We’d like to speak to Mrs. Retson,” Frank said politely.

“Impossible! Mrs. Retson doesn’t receive visitors.” The nurse started to shut the door, but Frank and Joe slipped past her before she realized what they were up to.

“Mrs. Retson!” Frank called out, advancing toward the bedroom. “We must speak to you!”

“It’s about Graham,” Joe added. “And it’s urgent.”

The nurse followed, protesting all the while. No reply came from Mrs. Retson. The three reached the bedroom doorway and peered in. They stood speechless.

The bed was empty!

Frank and Joe hastily searched the apartment. There was no sign of the woman anywhere. Joe pointed to an open window in the bedroom. A rope ladder was attached to the frame. “That’s the explanation. She climbed out!”

“Your patient must be pretty agile,” Frank said to the nurse as he looked out the window. Nobody was in sight.

“It’s all your fault!” Miss Hopkins cried angrily. “When you barged in you must have frightened Mrs. Retson. If anything happens to my patient I’ll hold you responsible!” She pointed to the door. “Please leave immediately!”

“We’re leaving,” Frank assured her. “But we’ll be back!”

As the boys went down the stairs, Frank said, “We’d better alert Retson that his wife is missing.”

“Why don’t we look for her first?” Joe suggested. “If we tell him now, Hopkins might convince him it was our fault.”

“Okay. Let’s make a quick search around the premises,” Frank agreed.

The boys left the house by the same route they had come in. They were about to split up when a loud cry echoed through the night air. A single word rang in their ears—a woman’s voice screaming:

“Graham!”

Startled, Joe asked, “Where did that come from?”

“The waterfall. Come on!”

Frank pushed through the bushes and raced among the trees with Joe at his heels. The roar of the falls became louder with every step.

They turned up a narrow ravine. In the moonlight they saw the water spilling over the edge of a rocky cliff. It plunged into a churning whirlpool, from which a stream with a strong current coursed along the side of Granite Rock.

The Hardys moved toward the falls by stepping gingerly from rock to rock, struggling to keep their balance. “Once in that whirlpool,” Frank warned, “and it could be the last swim we ever take. Watch your footing, Joe!”

The younger boy halted suddenly and pointed to the top of the waterfall. “Look!” he yelled.

High above them on a boulder near the edge of the drop stood the ghostly figure of a woman. Her head was held high. Her body was tense. She stared into the distance.

The boys wiped the spray from their eyes for a better look, but a rising wind whipped a scarf across the woman’s face, concealing her features.

Frank was galvanized by the sight. “Joe, that woman may look like a wraith, but I’ll bet she’s Mrs. Retson. I’m going to introduce myself.”

The boys leaped over the rocky terrain. Suddenly Frank, who was slightly behind Joe, lost his balance, clutched at the air, and fell into the water with a heavy splash.

The whirlpool took hold of Frank, bouncing him around like a cork. Desperately he struggled to escape from the swirling mass of water. A moment later he was thrown to one side. His head struck a rock with a thud and he blacked out.

Joe saw his brother go under, bob up, and float downstream. Frantically he dashed along the bank. Scrambling at breakneck speed across the boulders, he reached the spot where Frank was hurtling along helplessly toward certain death. Ahead was another drop full of razor-sharp rocks!

In the nick of time Joe reached down, grabbed Frank by the shirt collar, and dragged him to safety.

Frank lay quiet and Joe quickly applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until his brother regained consciousness. He gasped as he came around, “Thanks for fishing me out!”

Joe grinned. “As you said, this is no place for a swim.”

Frank struggled to his feet. “The wraith—is she still up there?”

Both boys glanced toward the rock where the woman had been standing. A dense cloud covering the moon left the entire falls in darkness.

“She’s probably gone by now,” said Joe. “No use looking for her in this murk. We both might slip into the whirlpool next time.”

“Joe, I didn’t slip,” Frank replied somberly.

“What?”

“Somebody pushed me!”

“Did you see who it was?” Joe’s voice was tense.

“No. But I think it was a man, judging by the force of the shove. He must have been lurking on the bank when I came along.”

“Well, I didn’t see anybody. I thought we were all alone at the bottom of the falls. Anyway, it proves something.”

“Like what?” Frank asked.

“Somebody wants us off the Retson case. And he’ll stop at nothing!”

“Which means we must be getting warm,” Frank said. “Let’s go back to the mansion. Perhaps Mrs. Retson has returned by now.”

They retraced their steps. As they approached the east wing, a figure way ahead of them ran across the lawn.

“A woman!” Frank exclaimed.

“Must be Mrs. Retson!” Joe dashed off at top speed. Frank followed at a slower pace. But they were too late! The woman reached the building and began climbing up the side.

“She’s going up the rope ladder!” Joe moaned.

“No doubt she’s used to that contraption, the way she handles it,” Frank said.

“Hey, what’s this?” Joe said, picking up a piece of flimsy material torn from a scarf. He examined it for a moment, then put it in his pocket.

Since Frank was feeling exhausted from his ordeal in the whirlpool, they decided to call it a night. At the guesthouse Frank promptly fell into a deep sleep.

Joe lay in bed with his hands clasped behind his head, trying to make sense of the Retson riddle. “I wonder if Nurse Hopkins is in cahoots with Mrs. Retson and knew where she went,” he said to himself. Gradually he dozed off.

A hard pounding on the door snapped Joe wide awake. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Frank sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s all that noise about?” he asked groggily.

Joe got out of bed, opened the door, and confronted Harris the butler. He waved a cablegram wildly in Joe’s face.

“It came this morning,” he blurted out. “Now we know where Graham is!”

CHAPTER V

Away to Brazil

JOE seized the paper and read the message. “Help,” the cablegram said. “Come Excelsior Grao Para. Do not reply. Just come. Graham.”

“You see,” the butler remarked, “Graham must be in that hotel.”

“Where is it?” asked Frank, who by now was wide awake.

“The cable was sent from Belem, Brazil. It’s on the Amazon River, I believe.”

“That’s a strange place for him to be. Well, we’d better speak to Mr. Retson right away.”

“Yes, sir. He is waiting for you in his den,” Harris said.

The Hardys found the tycoon looking very much relieved. “It’s obvious what’s happened,” he chortled. “Graham has learned the error of his ways. He’s got over all his nonsensical ideas and is ready to come home. The mystery is solved!”

“Looks as if there’s nothing more for us to do,” Joe observed.

“Wrong!” Retson retorted. “I hired you for an assignment, and it’s still your case. Go to Brazil and escort my son home. Judging by his cablegram, he’s in some kind of trouble. Get him out of it, even if it’s only an unpaid hotel bill.”

Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s okay by us, sir. But before we leave for Belem, we would like to talk with Mrs. Retson.”

The tycoon frowned. “Ordinarily I’d say no. But this new information about Graham is sure to cheer her up. Only make it short. I won’t rest till I know you’re on the plane to Brazil.”

When Frank and Joe appeared at Mrs. Retson’s apartment, Miss Hopkins greeted them in stony silence. Had she told Retson about the incident the night before? Did she think the Hardys had? Her face showed nothing. She swung the door open and invited them in with a wave of her hand.

Mrs. Retson was sitting in an armchair, a shawl over her shoulders and a blanket across her knees. Her head was tilted to one side and her eyes were half-closed. She seemed completely listless.

Frank suspected the woman was under sedation.

“Mrs. Retson, we’ve come to ask you a few questions,” Frank said.

The woman opened her eyes. “Questions? What kind of questions?”

“Well, we saw a woman at the waterfall last night. She resembled you!”

“It wasn’t me!” Mrs. Retson shuddered as she spoke and averted her eyes.

“This woman later climbed up a rope ladder to your room,” Joe went on. “Who else could it have been?”

Mrs. Retson’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “I don’t know! I don’t know! You must have made a mistake in the darkness.”

“There was a full moon last night,” Frank stated. “It lighted up the whole area of the waterfall.”

“That explains what happened,” she cried. “People often have delusions at the falls, especially under a full moon! You boys imagined you saw a woman.”

Joe picked up a flimsy scarf from an easy chair. From his pocket he pulled the fragment of material he had found the previous night, and fitted it into a tear in the scarf. It matched perfectly.

Mrs. Retson seemed terror stricken at the sight. When Joe explained where the piece had come from, she slumped into unconsciousness.

“She’s fainted!” Frank exclaimed. He began chafing her wrists while Joe massaged the back of her neck. Miss Hopkins came in quickly and held a glass of water to her lips.

Mrs. Retson began to moan. She opened her eyes and gazed in bewilderment. After sipping a little water, she sat up. Joe adjusted the shawl, which had slipped down.

The nurse broke the silence. “That’s enough. Mrs. Retson isn’t strong enough to be badgered like this. Do your investigating somewhere else!”

“We’ll be leaving here soon,” Joe promised. “We’re going to Brazil to bring Graham home.”

Upon hearing this, Mrs. Retson raised a hand and cried out, “No! No! Graham is not in Brazil. He’s right here!”

Startled, Frank begged her to explain herself. But she merely gave a knowing smile and refused to say another word.

Frank and Joe left the apartment, expecting the nurse to slam the door behind them. Instead, Miss Hopkins joined them in the hall.

“You must be mystified by Mrs. Retson’s remark,” she said.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Joe replied.

Frank nodded in agreement. “What could she possibly have meant about Graham being right here?”

“She believes in extrasensory perception and psychic phenomena,” Miss Hopkins explained. “She thinks a person can be in two places at once.”

“So that’s it,” Frank said. “Thanks for telling us.”

The boys went outside. Walking away from the mansion, they glanced back and looked up at Mrs Retson’s apartment. They saw a face in the window. The woman herself was staring down at them with a pleading expression.

“I really feel sorry for her,” Joe said. “She must be mentally ill. That explains her going down to the waterfall last night and calling Graham!”

The boys returned to the guesthouse. Chet Morton was there, and half an hour later Phil and Tony arrived. They had come to join Chet in the business of retrieving golf balls from the Granite City golf courses. The five discussed the latest events.

“So Joe and I will go to Brazil,” Frank concluded. “Meanwhile, it would be a good idea if you guys could keep an eye on the Retson estate.”

“How?” Chet asked. “You can’t do it with a place this size from outside!”

“Maybe Retson will let you stay here. During part of the time you can scavenge golf balls, and when you’re not busy, you can keep track of what’s going on.”

“Sounds good,” Chet said with a grin. “It would save us money, too. Let’s go see the big man.”

The industrialist appeared gratified to know he could count on Chet, Phil, and Tony. “It’ll be nice to have you fellows on the premises,” he said. “Mrs. Retson will feel much safer if we have muscular reinforcements as near as the guesthouse. Not that I think anything will happen,” he added.

Frank and Joe made plane reservations, then said good-by to their pals and drove back to Bayport to get ready for the flight to Brazil. Their mother made lunch, then helped them pack their belongings. Laura Hardy always made sure the detectives in the family were properly equipped.

“I do hope you won’t be gone long,” she said.

“Not too long, Mom,” Frank assured her. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

“That’s long enough to get caught by a boa constrictor or eaten by piranhas,” came the voice of Aunt Gertrude, who had stepped into the boys’ bedroom. “You’ll probably get lost in the Amazon rain forest where the jaguars will take a bite out of you. Or the natives might nick you with their poison arrows.”

“Aunt Gertrude, we’re only going to Belem,” Joe reminded her. “It’s a modern city!”

“Anything can happen down there,” Miss Hardy said sharply. “You boys had better look before you leap. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

That evening Frank and Joe caught a connecting flight to New York. At Kennedy Airport they transferred to the jet to Brazil, and an hour later they were thundering through the air headed south.

The Hardys had the first two seats in their row. The window seat was occupied by a black-haired Brazilian in his early forties who spoke excellent English. He introduced himself in a friendly manner. “We will be on this plane for quite some time so we might as well get to know one another. My name is Joachim San Marten.”

Mrs. Retson was staring down at them

Frank introduced himself and his brother. “What kind of a city is Belem?” Joe asked their new acquaintance.

“Very romantic,” San Marten replied. “It is at the mouth of the Amazon, and has buildings dating back to colonial times. Do not miss the Ver-O-Peso market. But remember that the Portuguese name means Watch-the-Weight. That’s a wise rule to follow.” He laughed.

Further conversation revealed that San Marten was a trader in wild animals.

“Zoos are always in the market for the snakes and big cats of the Amazon basin,” he told the boys. “I buy them from the natives and ship them around the world. You have no doubt seen some of my animals in the United States. And why are you two gentlemen going to Belem?”

Frank said, “We’re on our way to meet a friend in the city.”

“Frank’s afraid I’ll spill the beans again,” Joe thought and remained silent.

“Do you have good accommodations?”

“We are going to stay at the Excelsior Grao Para,” Frank replied.

“Oh?” San Marten looked doubtful.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just that this hotel has not the best reputation. It is said to be run by gangsters.”

Frank grinned. “We’ll watch out for the mob.”

San Marten nodded. “Please remember, if I can be of any assistance, do not hesitate to call on me.” He handed Frank his card.

“Thanks,” Frank said. Then all three settled back in their seats for a snooze.

Hours later, in bright morning sunlight, the jetliner descended, and prepared for its landing at Belem. Through the window the boys could see the city. A riot of color was reflected from red, green, and yellow tiled roofs. Small craft and freighters rocked gently in the harbor.

When they left the plane, the Hardys noticed San Marten waiting for a large crate that was being taken from the cargo compartment. It was covered by a tarpaulin.

“I wonder if one of our friend’s dangerous animals is in there,” said Joe.

“I suppose so,” Frank replied. “Maybe he’s brought back an American cougar for the Belem zoo.”

After they were finished with the formalities at passport control and had claimed their baggage, they caught a taxi and soon arrived at the Excelsior Grao Para, which turned out to be a rather small hotel.

The desk clerk informed them that Mr. Graham had checked out of his room.

“What? He’s left?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Graham has departed.”

“Where did he go?” Frank asked.

“He left no forwarding address.”

“That’s funny,” Frank said, puzzled.

“Maybe he left a message for us in his room,” Joe suggested. “Mind if we have a look?”

The clerk shrugged. “It’s empty, so go ahead. Number 225. I think it’s open.”

Frank and Joe left their bags at the desk, took the elevator upstairs, and found the room. It was open and the key was in the lock. They walked inside.

“Let’s give it a thorough once-over,” Frank said.

They checked the dressers, the desk, and night table. Nothing. Frank searched the wastebasket but found no clues. Joe opened the closet. “Hey, here’s something!” he said.

Joe brought out a leather jacket. It bore a label from a Granite City store. Methodically he searched the pockets. In one of them was a cigarette lighter.

“Look at this,” Joe said. Out of curiosity he flipped the top open.

A sharp needle sprang out from a hidden trap.

It pierced Joe’s thumb. He staggered back with a cry, went rigid for a split second, and then toppled over, unconscious!

CHAPTER VI

Underground Voodoo

FRANK rushed over to where his brother lay on the floor. “Joe, what happened?”

Joe made no reply. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale. He breathed heavily as if gasping for air.

“I’ve got to get a doctor fast,” Frank thought desperately. He went to the door, twisted the old-fashioned knob, and jerked hard. It did not budge! He tried shouting for help, but nobody heard him.

Frank ran to the telephone beside the bed. The desk failed to answer. Frantically, Frank poked his head out the window. There was a fire escape, but his heart sank when he saw that the bottom part of the ladder had been removed, leaving a thirty-foot drop to the pavement. He would need a rope!

Frank pulled the sheets from the bed, tore them into strips, and knotted the pieces together. Then he started to climb out the window.

Suddenly a click at the door caused him to turn around. “Hello?”

The door opened and San Marten stepped in. He looked in amazement at the torn sheets in Frank’s hands and at Joe lying unconscious on the floor.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“Quick, I need a doctor for Joe,” Frank said “He’s been poisoned.”

San Marten ran to the phone. The desk answered and he called for the hotel physician.

While they waited, Frank asked, “How did you get in here, and why did you come?”

“The key was on the other side and the door unlocked,” San Marten replied. “I was in the neighborhood and decided you might need some help in a strange city. The clerk told me you were up here. How was your brother poisoned?”

Just then the doctor hastened in. He set down his bag and kneeled beside Joe. After feeling the boy’s pulse, he asked, “What caused it?”

Frank indicated the lighter. The doctor examined it closely. Then he pulled a syringe out of his bag and gave Joe an injection.

“The young man will be all right,” he said. “But he could not have lasted much longer. He is suffering from a powerful poison. Fortunately he has a strong heart or he would be dead by now!”

“This seems to be a fiendish plot!” San Marten declared. “You will have to take precautions.”

“Somebody in Belem doesn’t like us,” Frank agreed. “I’m glad you do, Mr. San Marten. It’s nice to have a friend in a strange city.”

“I am happy to have been of assistance,” San Marten replied. “If you take my advice, you will not remain at this hotel. Go somewhere else.”

“We will,” Frank assured him, “as soon as Joe’s back on his feet.”

While they were speaking, Joe regained consciousness. The doctor examined him and pronounced him out of danger.

When Joe stood up, he wobbled. “I’m a trifle queasy,” he said. But gradually he felt stronger and the physician left.

“Incidentally,” San Marten said, “where is the friend you were looking for?”

“We don’t know. He checked out before we arrived,” Frank replied.

“It is strange that the young man departed so suddenly,” San Marten said. “Perhaps something happened to him.”

“Graham must have been in a tizzy,” Joe agreed. “After all, he left without his jacket.”

“And his cigarette lighter,” Frank added. “That is, if it was really his.”

A bellboy opened the door and San Marten called him in.

“Perhaps you can give us some information about the former occupant of this room?”

“Yes, sir. A very rich American by the name of Graham Retson. About my age.”

“What became of him?” Frank asked eagerly. “Did he say anything to you about where he was going?”

“All I can tell you is that he left the hotel in the company of two men. I do not know what their destination was.”

“Did you know the men?” Joe asked.

“One of them,” the bellboy stated. “I have seen him before many times at the Ver-O-Peso market. But I do not know his name or what he does.”

Close questioning of the bellboy elicited no further information and he left.

“If you like, I will be glad to take you to the Ver-O-Peso market to look for your friend,” San Marten said.

“We’d appreciate it,” Frank said.

The boys took a room at the hotel, then sallied out into Belem with the Brazilian.

Crowds of people streamed past them on the streets. Rickety cars bumped over the cobblestones. A wisp of smoke drifting by carried the scent of roasting nuts.

San Marten smiled as he sniffed the aroma. “Nuts are one of the most important exports of our country. See this truck? Those big bags piled on top are full of Brazil nuts.”

Joe noticed a monkey climb to the top of the sacks. He was about to call attention to him when suddenly one of the bags moved.

“Frank! Jump!” Joe yelled.

The massive bag smashed on the cobblestones where Frank had been. The truck stopped, the monkey disappeared, and the driver recovered his cargo.

“Thanks for the warning, Joe,” Frank said. “I’d hate to be knocked off the case by a bag of nuts. But accidents will happen.”

Joe was not convinced that it was an accident. The monkey had pushed the nuts. Could someone have put him up to it? Or was he just monkeying around?

The three stopped for lunch in a small restaurant, then continued on to the colorful market. They walked between stalls heaped with tropical fruits, sandals, and gewgaws.

Sellers offered their wares, buyers scoffed at prices, and haggling went on amid a din of Portuguese epithets.

Joe gestured toward one of the stalls. “How about a baby python, Frank? Or maybe you’d settle for some alligator teeth?”

“No thanks. I think I’ll take a voodoo charm home to Aunt Gertrude,” Frank replied.

Joe tried to find an opportunity to tell his brother about the monkey but San Marten did not leave their side.

Finally they stopped in front of a witchcraft stall, where a wizened, gnome-like old man offered to sell them weird idols, magical potions, and wax figures in which to stick pins.

San Marten spoke to the man in Portuguese, then turned to the boys. “We’re invited to join a voodoo rite. Buru here claims he can conjure up a vision of where your friend is.”

The witch doctor smiled and nodded, showing broken teeth.

“Tell him we don’t believe in visions,” Frank said.

San Marten smiled. “I’m sure you don’t. But these dances are interesting to watch, and you do not get a chance like this often.”

Frank shrugged. “Okay.”

San Marten again spoke in Portuguese to the witch doctor, who bowed and gestured. Then he led the way through his stall, between piles of dried snake skins and jungle herbs, to a small door at the rear. He opened it, and a narrow spiral stone staircase lay before them

Cackling softly to himself, Buru lifted a battered lantern off the wall, lighted it, and descended. The air became cool and the stone walls dripped moisture. The lantern threw flickering rays of light that only made the darkness behind seem more intense.

The old man stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and spoke in his native tongue. San Marten translated: “We are in a subcellar far below the level of the street. The magical rites are held down here to prevent unwelcome intrusions by unbelievers, especially the police!”

The police! A shiver ran down Frank’s spine. What kind of a place were they being taken to?

Bum pulled out a black key. The lock clicked and the door opened into a large musty room. Enormous dust-coated beams supported the high ceiling.

About twenty silent natives sat in a circle on the stone floor. All were dressed in flowing white robes. An earthenware jug passed from hand to hand around the circle, each man taking a swig as it reached him.

“My friends,” San Marten whispered, “you have entered the world of macumba.”

“Macumba?” Joe asked, puzzled. “What’s that?”

“A form of voodoo. These people are convinced they can bring back departed spirits by means of a magical dance. The spirit possesses one of the dancers.”

“They’re not dancing now,” Frank remarked.

“They are preparing for it by drinking the secret brew. A vile concoction, I assure you. I tasted it once.”

The macumba mediums began swaying from side to side. They broke into a rhythmical chant and clapped their hands.

“This is the sacred song,” San Marten explained. “By chanting these verses, they seek to placate the dead and open the path of communication.”

The shadowy faces assumed ecstatic expressions as the Hardys watched. In the lamplight black eyes glowed like embers. The chant rose to a soaring crescendo.

Suddenly the nearest man got to his feet and began a jig. One by one the others imitated him, until they were all on their feet, stamping and waving their hands.

The circle began to move. Fascinated, Frank drew closer. The wild-eyed macumba dancers seemed to have hypnotized him. As if drawn by an invisible magnet, he moved into the middle of the ring, which revolved faster and faster.

Suddenly a piercing shriek brought Frank out of his trance. One of the natives fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. The others screamed and danced more wildly.

Frank looked around. The hair rose on the back of his neck.

“This is ridiculous,” he thought. “I have to get out of here.” He plunged between two of the dancers, looking for his brother and San Marten. A chill went down his spine when he realized that that they were no longer with him.

Frank began a systematic search, making his way to the rear of the circle, and walking once around. No luck! Again he pressed himself between the ecstatically gyrating bodies to the center. San Marten and Joe were nowhere in sight! Had they left?

Frank looked for the door. It had disappeared, too! His pulse beat like a jackhammer. He was trapped amid the zealots of voodoo!

CHAPTER VII

Buru’s Vision

WITH sinuous movements, hands reached out toward Frank. Was he about to become a victim of macumba rites?

“Not if I can help it,” he thought. “I’ll go down swinging before I let those lunatics get me!” He assumed a judo stance, ready to hit the first attacker with a karate chop.

“Cool it, Frank,” came a low familiar voice. “It’s me.”

“Joe?” Frank was dumbfounded. In the dim light he could barely make out his brother’s features.

“Right. Don’t let the party costume fool you. I just put it on for this shindig. Same for my dancing partner here. He’s not what he seems.”

Frank recognized San Marten. “What’s the big idea?” he demanded.

“San Marten suggested joining the dance,” Joe said. “I figured you were coming, too.”

“I thought we might learn something that would lead us to Graham Retson,” San Marten said.

“Down here with these weirdos?” Frank shook his head. “Let’s get out of here. We can resume our conference when we get away from these shimmy-shakers.”

The voodoo dancers were becoming more frenzied. Their chanting became stentorian, and their contortions more furious.

Frank saw Buru coming toward them as Joe and San Marten slipped back into their own clothes. The old man motioned to them, then led the way around the dancing circle, edging along so as not to attract attention, to a point where a big stone block stood against the wall.

Gesturing to the others to help, he began to push at the block. The rest pitched in, shifted the obstruction to one side, and gained access to an opening through which they had to crawl on their hands and knees.

They reached another stone staircase. Hastening upward, they returned to the witch doctor’s stall. With their hands they shielded their eyes from the daylight until they became reaccustomed to it.

The two Brazilians began an animated conversation. Frank tugged at Joe’s sleeve and the boys moved off to one side, out of earshot.

“Wow! Am I glad to be back on earth!” Frank said.

Joe grinned. “Actually, it was fun!” Then he became serious. “A lot of strange things have happened since our arrival,” he said. “That bag of nuts which fell off the truck, for instance. It was pushed by a monkey!”

“That figures,” Frank said. “Somebody’s after us. And I’d include San Marten among the suspects. I haven’t yet discovered why he’s so concerned about us.”

“I think he’s okay,” Joe said.

“Maybe so. But I don’t see why he brought us to this place. He can’t take that voodoo stuff seriously.”

“Of course not. He just thought it would be interesting for us to watch.”

“And what about his showing up at the hotel just at the right time? He claimed the door was open, but I’ll bet somebody locked it after we went into the room. And how come part of the fire escape ladder was missing just when I needed it?”

“How’s that again?”

Frank told his brother about his movements while Joe had been unconscious. “When I tried to call for a doctor, I got no answer. After San Marten had come in, the desk answered immediately.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. The clerk might have had another call.”

“And how do you explain the locked door?”

“It could have been stuck.”

“Then the bellboy walked in when nobody called for him.”

“He might have been sent to take out the dishes. I saw a tray and a couple of glasses on one of the dressers.”

Frank sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but the whole thing is too pat, too—”

Just then San Marten beckoned to the Hardys. “Buru has a prediction about where to find Graham. He says he had a vision that your friend is going up the Amazon to Manaus.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s a port near the juncture of the Amazon and the Negro rivers nearly a thousand miles from here.”

“Baloney!” Frank murmured to Joe.

The witch doctor sensed their skepticism. He smiled and spoke volubly.

San Marten said, “He warns that we had better believe his vision. Otherwise serious harm might come to Graham. If you want to find him, go to Manaus.”

“We’ll think it over,” Frank began, “and when we reach—”

He was interrupted by a rustling sound at the back of the stall. Furry fingers pulled the curtains apart. A simian face appeared in the opening. Frank and Joe saw a howler monkey about three feet tall, with silky black fur and a savage expression.

The Hardys got only a brief glimpse before the face pulled back behind the curtains.

“So you keep a monkey for a pet, Buru,” Joe said.

When San Marten translated that remark, the witch doctor shook his head angrily and went into a torrent of negatives.

“He denies he has a monkey on the premises,” San Marten reported.

“We saw it!” Frank insisted.

“Buru says that whatever you saw was caused by your imagination.”

“Like his visions,” Joe scoffed.

San Marten smiled. “Perhaps. Still I believe it would be better if I left your comparison untranslated. Witch doctors are not the best-tempered people in Belem.”

Joe looked amused. “You mean Buru might place a curse on us?”

Sensing hostility, Frank said, “We’d better return to the Excelsior Grao Para.”

“Not there, my friends,” San Marten protested. “My home in the suburbs is at your disposal. Please use it freely as long as you stay in Belem.”

Frank and Joe, however, would not be swayed. “You see,” Frank stated, “we need to be in the city while looking for our friend.”

“Some other time,” Joe promised. “We’ll take a rain check just now.”

They parted with friendly handshakes, and the boys went to the hotel. The desk clerk waved to them. “Mr. Graham returned while you were out.”

“Is he here now?” Joe asked excitedly.

“No. He came for his leather jacket and departed again.”

“Did he give you any forwarding address this time?” Frank queried.

“All he said was that he was going to Manaus, and that he could not wait. He mentioned no address in that city.”

The boys went to their room and Joe closed the door. “Good night, Frank! Buru was right. It’s incredible!”

Frank suspected trickery. Joe, on the other hand, felt that the voodoo witch doctor might have some psychic power of insight. They discussed the case from every angle and tried to figure out how to proceed from here.

“Now we’re faced with the monkey mystery, too!” Frank said. “Are you sure that sack of nuts was pushed by the monkey?”

“Listen, Frank. I told you!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t let this give us the jitters. Was it the same one we saw at Buru’s?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Monkeys all look alike to me.”

Frank sagged into a chair and let out a long breath. “San Marten bugs me.”

“You worry too much,” Joe said. “Tell you what. If it will make you feel better, why not have Dad inquire about him at the Brazilian Embassy in Washington?”

“Good thinking. We’ll send Dad a cable.”

“What about Manaus?”

“It’s our only clue. I suggest we go, but proceed with extreme caution.”

“I’m with you,” Joe said. He took out a cablegram blank from the desk drawer and wrote: “Need info Brazil Embassy Joachim San Marten. On way to Manaus re Graham.”

“I’ll take it down to the telegraph office,” he said when he was finished. “Better not trust the bellboy with it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Frank said. “I’m starved.”

The boys had dinner in a small restaurant near the hotel, then returned to their room. It was not air conditioned and seemed like an oven.

“We’d better get as much air as we can,” Frank suggested, forcing the window wide open.

“Come to think of it,” Joe said, “the fire escape would be a good place to sleep on a night like this. Natural air conditioning.”

They showered and then turned in. Frank placed a flashlight on the table beside the bed for emergency use, which was an old habit with him.

Both boys slept fitfully, turning and tossing on sweat-dampened sheets. Suddenly both were wide awake. There was a strange noise in their room. Dimly they made out a figure bending over their clothes.

“A thief!” Joe thought.

Carefully Frank reached for his flashlight. Pointing it toward the intruder, he snapped it on. A cone of light stabbed through the darkness. It revealed a hideous-looking simian standing beside a chair, holding Frank’s shirt in one of its paws. The monkey’s nose was wrinkled, the eyes drawn into narrow glaring slits, and his fangs were bared in a ferocious scowl!

CHAPTER VIII

Fish Bait

FRANK and Joe jumped up and dived for the simian. Joe got a hand on a furry leg, but the animal scampered free. It dashed to the fire escape and swung down the metal framework from floor to floor, using its long prehensile tail as a fifth paw. The boys watched in dismay as the monkey finally leaped to the pavement and vanished around a corner of the hotel.

“That’s the ugliest brute I’ve ever seen,” Joe said in a shaky voice. “I’d consider it a nightmare if you hadn’t seen it too, Frank.”

“Oh, it was real enough,” said Frank, who had been examining his clothes. “Real enough to make off with my wallet, key ring, passport and other identification papers.”

Joe went through his pockets. “Good night! I’m cleaned out, too!”

Frank sat down on the bed. “Joe, we’re dealing with a monkey clever enough to be a professional burglar. A human being couldn’t have pulled off the job more neatly.”

“A human being put that monkey up to it!” Joe said.

An odd feeling swept over both boys. They felt as if they were in the grip of some evil power, as if a malevolent force was bent on their destruction.

“Frank,” Joe said, “we’re stuck. No money, no passports, no nothing. What’ll we do?”

“Go to the American Consulate,” Frank said. “Then I suggest we call San Marten and tell him our sad story. If he’s involved in it, we might as well stick close to him. He doesn’t know we suspect him, so maybe we can pick up a clue.”

At nine in the morning Frank asked the hotel clerk to put him through to San Marten’s home. After a brief wait, the Brazilian’s voice came over the wire. Frank told him they had been robbed.

“I will help you,” San Marten assured them. “Come here for breakfast. Take a taxi at my expense. I will instruct my servants to set two extra places.”

Frank and Joe accepted his invitation, but first made their way to the consulate. A United States official gave them some cash, arranged for them to cable home for money, and promised to have identification for them shortly.

The boys thanked him, caught a taxi in front of the consulate, and reached the suburbs of Belem in about twenty minutes. It was an exclusive residential area of large houses with broad lawns. Maids were sweeping off front porches and washing windows. Gardeners were spading the earth.

“Nice area,” Joe commented. “The rich live well here, too.”

The Brazilian’s home turned out to be a plush one. A wrought-iron gate gave access to a walk flanked by tropical flowers leading up to a big house. The door was opened by a servant who ushered the boys through to a patio in the rear of the property.

San Marten sat at a table beside a broad, deep swimming pool. Thick shrubbery grew a few yards from the pool on three sides; the fourth side facing the house was open.

San Marten rose. “I am very happy to see you here,” he said, waving them to a couple of empty chairs.

Frank noticed the table was placed on the west side of the pool in the morning sun. They sat down with their backs to the glare.

A second servant brought in a platter of ham and eggs, which the boys ate with great relish. At the same time they discussed the theft by the monkey. San Marten seemed thoroughly mystified. He folded his napkin and placed it on the table.

“I will speak to the police immediately,” he said.

“We’ll go with you,” Frank said.

“That won’t be necessary. You stay here and relax. Enjoy a swim in the pool,” San Marten said. “You’ll find suits in the cabana.”

Before they could object, he stepped into a light-blue sports car parked nearby and roared off in the direction of Belem.

Frank and Joe sat lazily in the sun for a while, then Joe said, “I think I’ll take San Marten up on his swim invitation. How about you?”

“First we’ll get rid of the breakfast dishes,” Frank said with a grin. “Aunt Gertrude would never approve if we left the table like this.”

He rang the bell for the servants, expecting someone to come and clean up the table. Receiving no response, he went into the house, found it empty, and returned to the patio.

“The help has vamoosed with the master,” he told Joe.

“Must be their day off,” his brother guessed. “We’ll have some peace and quiet for our dip.”

“They were here when we arrived, so it’s hardly their day off,” Frank said, an uneasy feeling coming over him. “I think maybe San Marten is up to something.”

Joe had already started for the cabana and quickly slipped into a pair of trunks which looked as if they would fit. Frank followed suit, still pondering the strange disappearance of the servants. As they emerged from the cabana, the sunlight reflected from the surface of the pool in blinding rays. Joe climbed on the diving board, where he poised for a full gainer.

Frank, shielding his eyes, spotted a slight movement down in the water. Suddenly Aunt Gertrude’s warning rang in his ears: “Look before you leap!”

Leaning over the edge of the pool, he saw a small fish not more than eight inches long. It had a blunt face with an underslung jaw, a silvery bluish body, and a touch of red on its fins.

“Joe, don’t dive!” Frank shouted.

The warning came almost too late and Joe had trouble regaining his balance. “Why, what’s the matter?” he asked.

“You’ll have company you may not care to meet. Come here!”

Joe descended from the diving board and peered down at the fish.

“Frank, there’s more than one. In fact, a whole school. Wait a minute! I have a hunch!” Joe ran to the table where the breakfast dishes still lay. Seizing a piece of ham from the platter, he returned to the pool.

He tossed the ham through the air. It hit the water with a splash and had hardly started to sink when the school of small fish darted to it. They became a swirling horde of ferocious predators, tearing off mouthfuls and gulping them down. The ham was gone in seconds!

Frank and Joe shuddered.

Piranhas!

“No wonder San Marten and the servants vanished so suddenly,” Frank muttered. “They set up operation bone yard for our benefit, but didn’t want to witness the gory details. And the table was set up facing the sun to keep us from spotting the fish.”

“Wow! I’m beginning to feel sick,” Joe said.

“Come on,” Frank said. “I’ve got an idea.” He led the way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. They found a rib roast, two large hams, a big loin of pork and a leg of lamb.

“Our host must have been planning a party,” Frank said. “Joe, help me carry these!”

The boys lugged the meat outside. “In they go!” Frank said as they tossed the provisions into the water.

The piranhas were on them in a flash. The water boiled with the assault. In a few minutes only cleanly picked bones lay at the bottom of the pool.

Suddenly the front door slammed. Frank and Joe dodged into the shrubbery, crouched down, and parted the leaves. The two servants walked warily across the patio to the pool.

One laughed, elbowed his companion, and pointed to the bones. The other guffawed as if he had just heard a good joke.

“They think they’re looking at our remains,” Joe whispered.

Frank nodded. “We’d better get off the premises before they find out the truth. Come on!”

As they slipped through the shrubbery Joe tripped and fell. Frank paused to help him up. Then came the sound of pursuers.

The boys careened past large bushes and small trees toward the fence at the back of the property. Frank scrambled to the top. Joe followed, barely escaping the clutching fingers of one of the servants.

“They’ll come after us!” Joe panted.

They ran down the street and turned a corner.

“In there!” Frank replied, pointing to the nearest building. It was a low neat structure with the sign BIBLIOTECA beside the front door.

“It’s a library,” Frank said. “And look how we’re dressed.”

The dark-haired pretty girl at the reception desk was startled by the sudden appearance of two boys in swim trunks. Readers looked up from their books and newspapers to see what all the commotion was about.

The boys asked for help and the girl, in halting English, said, “I will get police. You wait.”

Frank and Joe squatted behind some book-stacks. A few minutes later a squad car transported the Hardys to headquarters. The chief, Captain Vasquez, spoke English quite well.

Frank asked for San Marten, but was told he had not come to headquarters. Then the boys went over the morning’s events repeatedly, only to be met with grins of disbelief.

“Americanos good with joke!” said a lieutenant, bursting into loud laughter.

“Joachim San Marten would never do anything like this,” the captain insisted. “He is a respectable resident.”

“Send your men to investigate his swimming pool,” Frank urged.

Vasquez hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed. The squad car went out. It returned ten minutes later and the two policemen reported nothing unusual about San Marten’s pool.

Frank was crushed. “The servants must have removed the piranhas and the bones,” he said weakly.

“We will forget your fish story,” Vasquez said, shaking his head, “and let you go this time. Get out of those swim trunks. We will find your size among clothing left by former prisoners.”

“Thanks,” Joe said glumly, disappointed that nobody believed them.

The boys changed, then left. As they walked into the lobby of the Excelsior Grao Para, Frank grabbed his brother’s elbow. “Sh! Look over there at the desk!”

“San Marten!” Joe gasped.

The Brazilian was in a towering fury. His face was flushed, his body trembling. He pounded the desk with his fist.

“Where are the Hardys?” San Marten demanded in English.

“Sir, I have no idea.”

San Marten seized the man by the lapels and shook him. “Where did they go? Where can I find them?”

“Sir, if I knew, believe me I would tell you,” the clerk gasped.

Thrusting him aside with a contemptuous gesture, San Marten wheeled around. The Hardys hastily ducked behind a large pillar. Had they been fast enough? Had their murderous enemy seen them?

CHAPTER IX

A Curious Number Seven

SAN MARTEN motioned savagely in the Hardys’ direction. He started walking toward the pillar behind which they were hiding.

“He’s spotted us!” Joe warned.

“Get ready,” Frank muttered. “We’ll have to fight our way out of this one!”

San Marten’s vigorous strides brought him quickly abreast of the pillar. The boys could see the angry tightening of his jaw. Tensely they prepared for a counterattack.

The Brazilian, however, did not circle the pillar. He walked straight past toward a man in the doorway at whom he had been gesturing. The pair disappeared out of the hotel.

Frank mopped the perspiration from his forehead.

“Wow! That was close.”

“Let’s scram while we’re still in one piece,” Joe urged.

“Right. But we’ll need our suitcases.”

“How do we get to the room—by asking the clerk for the key?”

Frank grinned. “I’d rather not. Let’s take the fire escape. Since we paid one night in advance when we registered, I suggest we forget about checking out, too.”

The boys managed to climb up to their window unseen. They jumped into the room, took their bags, and exited the same way.

“Where to now?” Joe asked.

“There’s a park a few blocks down the street,” Frank said. “San Marten won’t think of looking for us there. We’ll have to hang around a while till money from home arrives.”

They found the park practically deserted. Seated on a bench under some spreading tropical foliage, they were able to talk freely with no fear of eavesdroppers.

“San Marten can’t be operating against us all by his lonesome,” Joe remarked. “He must be the leader of a gang.”

Frank agreed. “Try this for size, Joe. The gang kidnapped Graham Retson, took the money he withdrew from the bank, and are now holding him for ransom. They’re out to get us before we rescue Graham.”

“You’re on my wave length, Frank, coming through loud and clear.”

Frank paused to think over the problem. “I can’t figure out where Manaus fits in. That clue might be a plant to lure us up the Amazon so San Marten and company can ambush us.”

“On the other hand,” Joe countered, “Graham could really be in Manaus. Our job is to find him, so we can’t ignore the whole thing.”

“Besides,” Frank said, “if it’s a trap, we may be able to turn the tables on the gang. Forewarned is forearmed, as Aunt Gertrude would say.”

“I’ll buy that,” Joe said. “But how do we get to Manaus? If we take a boat upriver, it’ll take weeks before we arrive.”

“We’ll have to fly.”

“San Marten will have the commercial lines watched,” Joe predicted. “And I doubt if e can rent a plane without identification papers. That second-story monkey grounded us.”

“Maybe the man at the consulate can give us some advice,” Frank said. “We’ll have to check in there anyhow for our money. I hope it has arrived.”

Toting their bags, Frank and Joe returned to the American Consulate, which was near the park. The man they had spoken to that morning greeted them with a smile. “Your money is here,” he said. “I’m having your passports canceled and you will have new ones soon.”

Frank explained that they wanted to fly to Manaus and the man made a quick phone call. He spoke in Portuguese, smiled, and hung up.

“This should do the trick,” he said to the Hardys. “Go to the airport on the edge of town. A pilot by the name of Rico Armand is waiting there. He has a small private plane and will fly you to Manaus.”

“Thank you very much,” Frank said, and the Hardys walked out of the office.

They hailed a taxi and an hour later were at the airport. They found the pilot, a handsome youth in his early twenties, who spoke English.

Armand shook hands, mentioned his fee, and the boys paid in advance. Then the three took off.

They circled over the vast delta of the Amazon, heading upriver. The east coast disappeared behind them, and the rain forest extended on both sides like a huge green carpet.

Smaller tributary streams could be seen snaking through towering trees before emptying into the broad river.

The plane flew on and on, and it seemed nothing else existed in the world except those countless miles of jungle beneath their wings.

Two refueling stops were made at intermediate airstrips. Armand followed the Rio Negro from its confluence with the Amazon, and finally Manaus came into sight.

Frank and Joe looked down on hundreds of canoes in the river, paddled by natives headed for the waterfront market with cargoes of fruit and vegetables. The buildings of the city were a conglomeration of styles, running from primitive huts to old colonial and modern high rise.

One building in particular stood out—an ornate structure of pink and white marble. Frank and Joe stared in disbelief.

“How did that ever get into the jungle?” Joe asked.

“That’s the old opera house,” Armand replied. “Manaus used to be the rubber capital of Brazil. The wealthy planters had the best of everything, including opera.”

“The city must have gone downhill since then,” Frank remarked.

“Brazil’s rubber doesn’t sell too well these days,” said the pilot. “Can’t compete with the East Indies. So Manaus is pretty much what you Americans would call a ghost town of the Amazon.”

“How do people make a living now?” Joe asked.

“Partly from tourism. Manaus is a free port and you can buy things duty free. That’s one reason I see more visitors in Manaus every time I come.”

A message from the airport tower came over the radio: “Wait for permission to land.” Armand began to circle. His fuel gauge showed the plane could not keep flying much longer.

“I don’t understand the delay,” he said nervously. “I’ll have to land without permission if this keeps up.”

“Frank,” Joe muttered, “this may be San Marten’s doing.”

The fuel gauge pointed to empty and the three aboard were braced for a crash landing when the control tower finally gave the okay.

“Down to the last drop of gas,” Armand commented as they taxied to a halt. In the terminal they found out that a maintenance truck had been stalled on the runway.

After a quick sandwich at the airport the boys said good-by to the pilot, then took a taxi to a hotel in the middle of town. After checking in they began to scout Manaus for Graham Retson. None of the hotels had any record of him, so they turned their attention to the rooming houses. It was not till the next day, however, that they struck a lead.

“Yes,” said the owner of a small rooming house, a German named Bauer, “Graham Retson was here, but left yesterday. I found this paper in his room. Maybe it will help you.”

Frank took the piece of paper. It was dirty and wrinkled as if it had been crumpled into a ball and tossed aside. He examined the crudely scrawled message. It was dated May seventh and said: “I am being taken to a small boat next to the Argentine freighter in Manaus harbor. My captors intend to take me farther up the Amazon. Help! Graham Retson.”

Joe whistled and pulled his brother aside. “Frank, this is a real clue!”

“You’re wrong, Joe.”

“Why?”

“Look at the date. The seven has a bar through it. That’s the European way of writing the number. No American would do it like that. Another thing. Today is May seventh. The landlord said Graham left yesterday. He’s in cahoots with San Marten, Joe! Bauer wrote the note himself. They’re trying to trick us!”

“We’ll trick them in return!” Joe declared. “They want to get us aboard their boat for a oneway voyage to the bottom of the Amazon. Instead, we’ll stay off the boat and listen to what’s going on.”

“With our bug, you mean?” Frank asked. “Great idea.”

The boys went back to their hotel. Frank opened his suitcase and drew out a length of coiled wire from a hidden pocket under a false bottom. One end of the wire had a set of earphones attached. From the other dangled a sensitive metal sphere. The Hardys had often used this detection device to listen in on conversations at long range.

They walked to the harbor at nightfall. Frank pointed to the lights of a hulking vessel anchored there. “That’s the Argentine freighter, Joe. And that small boat beside it has to be the one we’re looking for.”

“Okay, I’ll go to work.”

Frank, holding the earphones, sat down behind some crates on the dock. Joe stripped quickly to his shorts, then slipped into the river carrying the wire, which payed out from the bank as he swam. Reaching the boat, he carefully planted the bug on one of the portholes.

“The insect is ready to strike,” Joe announced when he came back to Frank, shaking the droplets of water off his body. Then he began to put on his slacks and shirt.

“Hurry,” Frank said suddenly. “We’re having company.”

Two men walked down to the water’s edge and stopped a few yards from where the Hardys were concealed. Obviously convinced that they were alone in the darkness, they spoke clearly in English. The Hardys recognized the voices.

“San Marten!” Joe whispered.

Frank nodded. “The other guy sounds like Bauer—that guy at the rooming house.”

San Marten spoke in more informal English than they had ever heard him use before. “Are you positive every angle’s covered? I don’t want any slips, mind you.”

“Don’t get upset,” his companion replied. “Diabo is standing guard. No one can sneak past him. He’s foolproof.”

“Hurry,” Frank said. “We’re having company.”

“Okay,” San Marten said with satisfaction. “Soon the river will have the Hardys.”

“Joachim, that was a good idea to lure them to Brazil. With Graham on our hands back north at—”

A sudden noise caused Frank and Joe to whirl around.

They saw the monkey with the evil face charging at them! He was so close that they did not have a chance to move. Snapping and snarling ferociously the animal catapulted into the Hardys. The force of the assault toppled them over into the river!

CHAPTER X

Adrift on the Amazon

FRANK and Joe plummeted down through the water until they steadied themselves. Kicking convulsively, they shot back to the surface.

At once the howler monkey was on them, clawing their backs with his hind paws, nipping and scratching at their heads.

Frank twisted around and pulled the creature off Joe. Their combined strength was too much even for their savage assailant. Suddenly the monkey wrenched himself from their grasp. Streaking through the water, he made for the shore.

“Don’t let him get away!” Frank spluttered.

But a fusillade of shots changed the Hardys’ minds. Bullets skipped off the surface of the river and whined into the darkness.

Joe halted abruptly, treading water. He turned back toward Frank. “We can’t get to shore,” he warned.

“Let’s swim downstream,” Frank suggested.

“And quick,” Joe said. “They’re coming after us!”

The put-put of a motorboat echoed across the water, growing louder as the craft cut the distance between it and the boys. Frantically Frank and Joe swam out into the river. The motorboat gained on them rapidly.

Just then a pleasure launch came gliding in their direction. The lights of the cabin threw a sheen over the Rio Negro. Three or four couples were dancing to the rhythm of a small combo.

“Follow me!” Frank gasped. “To the other side!”

Waiting until the launch was slightly upstream from him, he took a deep breath and submerged. Kicking hard, and using his arms in a powerful breaststroke, he arched down under the launch. The keel scraped his back as he passed. His lungs were bursting for want of air when he came up on the opposite side of the craft. Reaching out, he grasped a railing just above the water line.

A split second later Joe bobbed up beside him. They clung to the railing side by side, gasping for breath. The launch carried them swiftly down the river.

“Now what?” Joe asked. “Shall we call the skipper?”

“Better not,” Frank said. “There’s no telling who’s on board. San Marten’s confederates would be only too happy to arrange a reception committee for us.”

They clung to the launch until it passed the confluence of the Rio Negro and the Amazon, a few miles below Manaus. Feeling safe, they dropped off and swam to the shore.

“I’ve had it,” Frank said, flopping down in a patch of tall jungle grass.

“Rest a while,” Joe said. “I’ll get us a snack.”

He walked off into the jungle and returned ten minutes later with a big bunch of bananas. Voraciously they downed the fruit, tossing the skins over their shoulders as they worked through the bunch.

“At least we won’t starve here,” Frank observed.

“We’re okay,” Joe said, “as long as we don’t get eaten. I’d hate to wake up and find a hungry jaguar staring me in the eye.”

“There’s probably a lot of them in this area,” Frank said. “Hear those monkeys chattering in the trees? Jaguars feast on monkeys.”

Joe pondered Frank’s remark. “That reminds me. We’ve learned the name of the beast that’s been annoying us—Diabo.”

“Which means devil in Portuguese,” Frank said. “You couldn’t think of a better name for that horrible creature.”

Joe yawned. “We’ve left him far behind. Now it’s me for dreamland.”

They both were soon sound asleep on the banks of the Amazon. The sun had risen by the time they woke. After breakfasting on bananas and berries, they walked along the shore, waving and shouting at boats passing by in the middle of the river.

“No go,” Joe said after a while. “They’re too far out to notice us.”

“We’ll have to build a raft,” Frank stated. “There are plenty of fallen trees in the jungle. They’ll do for logs.”

The boys began hauling tree trunks out of the nearest patch of jungle. When they had gathered about a dozen, Frank lined them up in a row. Joe pulled down some thick, sinuous creepers from the trees to use as rope. Skillfully they braided the creepers over and around the logs. The result was a seaworthy raft. Flat driftwood provided a pair of paddles.

The boys gave their craft a stiff push into deep water. Then they scrambled onto it and began paddling toward the middle of the Amazon.

The strong current caught the raft, propelling it along at a rapid rate. “No use fighting this,” Joe panted. “The best we can do is travel on a diagonal line downstream.”

Dipping their makeshift paddles rhythmically into the water, the boys managed to guide their raft toward the lanes followed by river traffic.

Frank ceased paddling and looked around at the bare expanse of water, sky, and jungle. “We seem to have the Amazon all to ourselves.”

Joe also shipped his paddle. “Well, we’re far enough out, Frank. There’ll be boats coming by and we’ll be able to hitch a ride back to Manaus.”

He rose to his feet, shaded his eyes with his hands, and squinted up the river. A dot on the horizon grew larger. The outline of a substantial vessel took shape.

“Tour ship coming,” Joe announced jubilantly. “I’ll flag it down.” Taking off his shirt, he fastened it to his paddle by the cuffs. Then he began to wave his improvised flag at the ship, which slowed down and eased alongside.

A rope ladder swung down over the railing. The boys quickly mounted to the deck. In the captain’s cabin, they told him that they had become lost in the jungle on the previous night.

“Where do you wish to go?” the captain asked.

“To Manaus,” Frank answered.

“We will be glad to take you.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

Frank and Joe freshened up and had a second breakfast. “Good thing we still got our money,” Frank said with a grin. “It got soaked, but it’ll still buy us what we need.”

“How about a plane trip back to Belem?” Joe asked.

“Good idea. The only thing is, who’s going to take us?”

Joe shrugged. “We’ll just have to make it to the airport and play it by ear.”

It was about noontime when the Hardys arrived in Manaus. After getting their bags, they took a taxi to the airfield and Frank inquired if Rico Armand happened to be there.

The airport manager, a rotund Brazilian with a bald head, shrugged. “If you know his plane, go out and look around. There are many small planes coming in here and I do not know all the pilots by name.”

The boys made a methodical search of the field.

“Hey, Frank,” Joe said, “doesn’t that crate look like the one we came on?”

“Sure does. I recognize the number. Wow, are we in luck!”

“Tell you what,” Joe said. “I’ll stay here by the plane while you try to locate Armand.”

“Okay.” Frank left. He returned a half hour later without the pilot. “Somebody told me he’d be flying out about three o’clock,” he said. “But no one knows where he is now.”

“We’ll wait right here,” Joe said. “It’s our best bet.”

The boys squatted down beside a hangar from where they could keep the plane under surveillance. Rico Armand appeared about a half hour later. He was surprised to see the boys, who quickly asked for a ride back to Belem.

“Sure, get in,” the pilot said. “I’ll be glad to take you.”

They arrived in Belem in the evening and found a small hotel to spend the night. After dinner they discussed the situation.

“What next?” Joe asked, stifling a yawn.

“Obviously the Brazilian angle was nothing but a wild-goose chase,” Frank said. “We were lured here by San Marten and his gang to be eliminated.”

“Suppose Retson had come instead of sending us?”

“Then no doubt he would have run into the same difficulties.”

“Too bad we didn’t learn where Graham really is,” Joe said with a sigh.

“Back north most likely meant the United States. I vote we return to Granite City and work on the case from there,” Frank said.

“I’m with you. Maybe we can get our papers tomorrow.”

At the American Consulate the next day the Hardys were greeted by the same man they had spoken to before. “Your passport problem is solved,” he told them. “The lost ones have been canceled. Here are a couple of identification cards that will enable you to return home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Frank replied.

The young detectives made plane reservations and sent a cable to their family, saying they would be on a late-afternoon flight from Belem to New York. Then they taxied to the airport, bought tickets, and boarded a jet.

Before they left the ground, Joe, who was at the window, nudged his brother. “Frank, look at that!”

They saw a crate with a howler monkey being lifted into the hold of a plane operated by another airline. The animal stood on its hind legs, grasping the bars, and peered through with sharp black eyes.

“Would you say that’s Diabo?” Joe asked.

“Hardly. This one has a pleasant face, not at all like the leering monster we tangled with.”

They landed at Kennedy Airport the following morning. After they made their way through customs, they found Chet Morton waiting for them with a big grin.

Joe clapped their freckle-faced friend on the shoulder. “Chet, how did you know we were coming?”

“I had something to do for my dad in New York. Before I left, your mother called me. She got your cable and asked me to let you know your father’s coming in on the shuttle from Washington just about now. He’ll join us for the connecting flight to Bayport.”

The three youths went to the shuttle terminal coffee shop to kill time while waiting for Fenton Hardy. They took a booth near a window where they could see the planes coming down for a landing.

After the waitress had served them, Frank sipped his coke. “How’s business, Chet? Last we knew Phil and Tony were joining forces with you in the golf ball project.”

“Anvone drown in a water hazard yet?” Joe needled their rotund pal.

Chet downed a bite of doughnut. “You guys don’t take scavenging seriously enough,” he said. “Business is booming. We’ve recovered about a thousand balls. At least a hundred bucks apiece for each of us.”

Frank brought the conversation around to the mystery. “Chet, what’s going on in Whisperwood? Everything quiet out there?”

“Quiet!” Chet exclaimed. “Are you kidding? Mrs. Retson has disappeared!”

Frank drew a sharp breath. “Disappeared!” he repeated incredulously.

“Gone! Scrammed! Vamoosed!” Chet replied.

“Give us the facts,” Joe said grimly.

“First I learned about it was when I went up to the house the day after you left. Mr. Retson blew his top. Told me his wife had vanished from her room.”

“What about Hopkins the nurse?” Frank put in. “She must have been on duty.”

“Says she heard nothing. She was eating her lunch in another room. When she returned, she found the bed empty. She’s been having hysterics. Claims you two upset Mrs. Retson so much she just up and ran away.”

“So we have two mysteries,” Frank said. “First it was Graham, now it’s his mother.”

“There must be some connection,” Joe observed. “I’ll bet San Marten is behind this too.”

“Maybe Mrs. Retson received a secret message from Graham,” Chet ventured. “He might have let her know somehow where she could find him.”

“It’s possible,” Frank replied. “Joe and I failed to locate Graham in Brazil.” He told Chet about their trip.

Suddenly Chet said, “Do you know a guy who wears a Panama hat?”

Frank shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone.”

“Me either,” Joe chimed in. “Why?”

“There’s a man standing in the doorway who seems awfully interested in you!”

CHAPTER XI

Dangerous Stranger

JOE casually turned around for a look. The doorway was empty!

“Whoever it was, he’s gone,” Joe said.

“Well, he sure gave you fellows the once-over,” Chet stated. “Kept staring at you as if you were his long-lost cousins.”

A sudden thought caused Joe to sit bolt upright. “What if this character followed us from Belem, Frank! Maybe it was San Marten!”

“What did the man in the Panama hat look like?” Frank asked.

“Small, scrawny. Has blond sideburns. Wears steel-rimmed spectacles.”

Joe breathed a sigh of relief. “It wasn’t San Marten, thank goodness.”

“Could be one of his gang,” Frank stated. “On the other hand, maybe the man thought we were somebody else and realized his mistake.”

“Well, I watched him for a while to make sure,” Chet said. “He never took his eyes off this booth till Joe turned around.”

“Listen, they’re announcing Dad’s plane,” Frank said.

Joe nodded. “Let’s go outside and meet him.”

The boys quickly paid their check and went to the gate. The detective came through shortly and shook hands with all of them.

“How much time do we have before our flight leaves for Bayport?” he asked.

“An hour, Dad,” Joe replied.

“Then let’s park ourselves somewhere and compare notes about our investigations.”

“Okay, Dad,” Frank said.

They went to the airline waiting room, where they settled themselves in easy chairs around a low table. Mr. Hardy kept a firm grip on his black briefcase.

“This is loaded with vital documents,” he said in an undertone. “I’d be in big trouble if a thief grabbed it and got away.”

“Have you had any breaks in your investigation of the passport gang?” Joe asked.

“Yes. A man carrying one of the stolen and doctored passports was apprehended at Kennedy Airport.”

Chet looked glum. “Then there’s nothing for us to do, Mr. Hardy. You solved the case without us.”

The Bayport detective smiled. “Not quite, Chet. Our suspect clammed up. I’ll have to run down more clues before I collar the ringleader. You fellows and your pals may come in handy before we round up the gang. By the way,” he continued, “how’s your own case progressing? Have you found Graham Retson?”

Frank described their fruitless quest for Graham in Brazil and Joe told about San Marten’s attempts to eliminate them, including an account of the hideous Diabo.

Mr. Hardy frowned. “I didn’t think the Retson case was going to be that dangerous,” he said, sounding worried.

“That isn’t all, Dad,” Joe went on. “We haven’t found Graham, and now Mrs. Retson is missing.”

“Come again?”

“Chet can explain. He was there.”

Chet repeated the story of how Mrs. Retson had vanished from her room.

“As I understand it, Chet, you, Phil and Tony were supposed to keep Whisperwood under surveillance,” Mr. Hardy said mildly.

“Correct, sir,” Chet said. “But we were out golf ball scavenging when Mrs. Retson got away.”

A voice over the loudspeaker announced that the plane for Bayport was ready to board. Gripping his briefcase firmly under his left arm, Mr. Hardy led the way to the ramp. Once on board, he retired to the back of the lightly loaded plane to examine some papers. Frank and Chet took two seats together, while Joe sat in the same row across the aisle. There was nobody behind them. Only a few passengers were scattered around the rest of the cabin, and several went to sleep as soon as the plane became airborne.

Chet unbuckled his seat belt and returned to the subject of golf balls. “You want to know the system I’ve worked out so we don’t miss any?” he asked.

“Sure,” Frank said.

“Well, Phil and Tony work as my divers.”

“What do you need them for? I thought the suction pump did the trick,” Joe said.

“It does, in most cases. But some of the water holes and lakes are too deep and my hose doesn’t reach down. So I hold a bushel basket on a long rope and let Phil and Tony fill it up. We’ve brought back quite a haul every time.”

“And that way you don’t get wet,” Frank noted.

Chet assumed a hurt look. “You guys know me better than that. I’m the brains of the operation. I’ve got to direct traffic topside.”

Frank and Joe kept needling their pal. Suddenly he jarred them by saying, “Something mysterious is going on at the Olympic Health Club!”

“I thought you couldn’t get a contract there,” Joe said. “How did you get in?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Chet admitted. “But I have an agreement with the golf course next door. During the night I saw strange things over at the Olympic. So did Phil and Tony. They’ll back me up.”

“What kind of strange things, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Flickering lights on the roof. They flashed on and off, then went out for good. We never saw that happen before. Couldn’t figure out what it meant.”

“Was that all?” Joe inquired.

“No. There were peculiar noises, too. Like someone shouting. At first I thought I was hearing things. But when Phil and Tony came up from their dive, they heard it too.”

“Did you investigate?”

“We climbed over the fence and sneaked into the golf course. But whoever was there had gone by the time we made it.”

As the boys talked, Fenton Hardy looked up from his papers. He noticed a man rise and walk slowly down the aisle. The passenger then eased himself into a seat behind Frank and Chet, who never noticed him.

Sensing something sinister about the man, Mr. Hardy strode down the aisle and paused to observe the stranger a few steps to the rear.

Covertly the man drew something from his pocket. Shielding his hands with his body, he fiddled with the object until a metallic clicking sound occurred. He hunched over, feeling for the space between the seats in front of him, where Frank and Chet sat. With the other hand he guided a long slender tube into the space.

“Just a minute!” Fenton Hardy said sternly. He grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him out into the aisle. As he did, the plane hit some turbulence, jostling the passengers. Fenton Hardy was thrown to one side. The other man fell to the floor heavily, with the tube under his hand. He lost consciousness!

A stewardess ran up to inquire what was wrong. “This!” said the detective. He picked up the tube, which had a sharp needle projecting from one end. “It punctured his wrist,” Mr. Hardy went on. “It might be poison. He needs a doctor.”

The pilot radioed ahead, then made an emergency landing at an airport near a small town. An ambulance rushed the stricken man to a hospital while Fenton Hardy and the three boys followed behind in a police car.

In the emergency room an intern examined the stricken passenger and the tube, then administered an injection.

“Was it poison?” Fenton Hardy asked.

“Tes. Definitely. The antidote seems to be working, although he nearly died. Who is this man?”

The police officer went through the victim’s pockets. When he pulled out a United States passport, Mr. Hardy asked to examine it. It was issued to Harold Solomon.

“It’s not genuine,” the detective said.

“How do you know?” the officer asked.

“It’s my business to know,” Mr. Hardy replied, and showed his credentials to the policeman.

“Then we’ll hold Solomon on several charges,” the officer said. “Attempted murder and carrying a false passport.”

Frank, Joe and Chet, meanwhile, discussed the bizarre case. “A poisoned needle!” Frank shuddered. “And it was meant for us!”

Chet walked over and looked at the ashen face of the stranger, who was still unconscious. “You want to know something!” he said suddenly. “That’s the guy who was watching you in New York!”

CHAPTER XII

The Monkey Mask

THE boys peered down at Solomon, whose eyelids began to flutter.

“He must belong to San Marten’s gang,” Joe said. “Probably a professional killer.”

“That’s a good theory,” Fenton Hardy agreed. “I’ve checked his clothing. No identification marks. But his suit, shoes, and hat are all South American style. I’d say he’s from Brazil. But here’s the clincher.”

The detective held a ticket between his fingers.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“A baggage claim check for a crate back at Kennedy Airport. Guess what’s in the crate!”

Joe gasped as the truth suddenly dawned on him. “A monkey!”

“Right. The claim check is clipped to a health certificate declaring the animal has had all its shots and can be brought into the United States.”

Two more policemen, one a captain, entered the hospital as he was speaking. Introductions were made. “Good to meet you, Mr. Hardy,” the captain said. “We can always use an assist from America’s number one private eye.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” the detective replied. “But the praise actually belongs to these young men. They can tell you what happened.”

Frank described the trip to Brazil. Then Chet reported how the man in the Panama hat had kept them under surveillance at Kennedy Airport. Joe explained his theory that the man belonged to San Marten’s gang.

“That seems to make sense,” the captain said. “We’re here to take Solomon into custody—if that’s really who he is. He’s conscious now. All of you can come along and hear what he has to say for himself. We’ve examined the plane, by the way. It’s clean.”

The doctor said the patient was well enough to leave the hospital. Two squad cars took the group to headquarters.

After the prisoner was seated and given a drink of water, he was advised of his rights to consult a lawyer before answering questions. He nodded and even refused to divulge his name.

“It really isn’t Solomon, is it?” the captain asked. “And what’s your nationality?”

“None of your business.”

“Where did you get the metal tube with the poisoned needle?”

“It isn’t mine. I happened to fall on it in the aisle, that’s all. And I won’t have any more to say until I see a lawyer.”

“That’s your privilege,” the officer replied.

The prisoner was taken to a cell. Fenton Hardy summoned the three youths aside for a conference on their next move.

“I’ll stay here to press charges against Solomon,” he said. “What plans do you have?”

Frank made a quick decision. “I think we should go back to New York with that baggage claim check. The crate calls for a look-see.”

“That’s what I had in mind, too,” Joe agreed.

The police provided photographs of the ticket claim check and the health certificate and kept the originals for evidence.

“I’ll continue on to Bayport,” Chet remarked. “I’ll brief the folks back home on the latest news from the Hardys, and then hit the road for Granite City.”

The group broke up. Frank and Joe returned to the airfield with Chet, and soon everyone was airborne.

Frank and Joe had lunch aboard. Upon landing at Kennedy they hastened to the warehouse where the animals in transit were kept. They told the attendant that a friend had supplied them with the photographs and asked them to take a look at the monkey. He would pick the animal up later. The man told the boys to follow him and led the way through the building.

It was an enormous structure lined with cages of many sizes.

“This must be how Noah’s Ark looked,” Joe said as they walked along. “I’ve already counted a baby hippo, a pair of lions, a sackful of snakes, and a wild assortment of zebras, tapirs, and antelopes.”

“Not to mention plain old cats and dogs,” Frank said with a grin. “Who owns these animals?” he asked the attendant.

“Well,” the man replied, “the domestic animals are mostly pets belonging to passengers. The rest are bound for zoos, menageries, and circuses.”

“San Marten’s line,” Joe muttered to Frank. “He told us he was a wild animal trader. Remember?”

“Yes. But that obviously was a cover-up.”

Suddenly another attendant came dashing through the warehouse. “A snake has gotten loose!” he yelled. “A king cobra!”

The Hardys knew that cobra venom was among the deadliest of all. And the king cobra was the biggest of the poisonous serpents, ranging up to eighteen feet in length!

“Where is it now?” asked the first attendant.

“I don’t know. I found the lid to its box ajar. It slipped out unnoticed. Goodness knows where it is!”

“Okay, everybody be careful,” the other man warned. “Don’t step into a dark patch on the floor without looking to see if it moves. And don’t feel around the tops of the cages with your hand. This cobra could be lurking anywhere. And it strikes like greased lightning.”

“We’d like to help capture the cobra,” Frank offered. “We’ve had experience with them.”

“Fine. Let’s spread out and go over this warehouse yard by yard. First one to spot it, sing out loud and clear.”

Joe moved to the area housing the birds. In one cage an Andes condor flapped its wings. A dozen brilliantly hued parrots lent a splash of color to the dim interior of the place. Some jungle fowl began to cluck and scold.

Joe edged toward them. A slithering movement behind him caused him to turn. Around the corner of the cage whipped a king cobra at least twelve feet long!

It reared three feet off the floor. The hood spread wide open, and the reptile began to sway slowly from side to side. Its eyes locked onto Joe’s with a malevolent stare.

Sweat poured down the boy’s face. His hands felt clammy. “It’s too close to miss me,” he thought.

For what seemed like an eternity, Joe stood as immobile as a statue. If he turned to run, the cobra would strike. The fangs would pierce his leg, pumping venom into his blood stream that would cause him to die in agony. Joe’s nerves started to give way. He would have to move!

Suddenly a cord dropped over the serpent’s head, pulling it to one side. Frank stood there holding the creature securely in the loop of a snake hunter’s rod. The cobra writhed and twisted, hissing ferociously, but it could not break the hold of the loop. Skillfully Frank maneuvered the snake over to its box, dropped it in, and slammed the lid.

Trembling from head to foot, Joe sat down on the next cage. He was too shaken to speak.

“Take it easy,” Frank advised. “When I heard the jungle fowl clucking, I figured they were scared of something. So I hustled over for a look. But I didn’t expect to see you cornered by the runaway snake.”

Frank gave Joe several minutes more to rest. Then they went to the cage corresponding to the number on the baggage claim check. Inside sat a howler monkey. He looked like the one they had seen at the Belem airport!

He chattered and gazed at them with a gentle demeanor, holding out one paw appealingly as if to shake hands.

Frank rubbed his chin. “We thought this critter was too nice to be Diabo. We were right, weren’t we?”

“Absolutely. I’ll never forget the way Diabo snapped at us. This is an amiable monkey. Must be from a better jungle family.”

The boys turned to leave. As they neared the door on their way out, two men walked in. One was dressed in a whipcord jacket and corduroy pants. The other had on a trench coat and a snap-brim hat. Their faces were hard. They beckoned to the attendant, who was walking a few steps ahead of the Hardys.

“We came to get a monkey you have here,” Corduroy Pants said.

“May I see your claim check?”

“Forget it, buddy,” Snap-brim growled. “We lost it. But we know the number. That’s good enough for us. It’s good enough for you.”

As the attendant eyed the intruders nervously, Frank pulled Joe behind a cage with baby hippos.

“What’s the number?” the warehouse man asked.

“Forty-two-o-seven-six.”

The attendant led the way back to the cage he had shown the Hardys.

“I’ll have to call the supervisor,” he told the men. “I’m not allowed to give you the monkey without a claim check.”

“That’s all right,” Snap-brim said. “Meanwhile we’ll go see our little pet.”

“Did you send your friends to look at the monkey?” the attendant asked timidly.

“What?” Snap-brim looked puzzled.

“Never mind,” Corduroy Pants said impatiently. “Call the supervisor. We’re in a hurry.”

As soon as the attendant had left, the two men grasped the cage by the corners. Grunting and swearing, they maneuvered it out of the warehouse as fast as they could to a station wagon parked nearby.

Frank and Joe, ducking behind crates, had trailed the two men to the spot where the monkey cage had stood, then followed them to the door. They saw Snap-brim and Corduroy Pants lifting the cage into the rear of the vehicle.

As they did, the cage tilted and a package wrapped in brown paper fell out onto the road. The men did not see it. They hopped into the car and drove off.

“We’ve got to follow them!” Frank said. The boys ran out of the warehouse. Joe pounced on the package, which was small enough for him to slip into his jacket pocket. Frank took down the license number of the men’s car, at the same time flagging a taxi. The boys jumped in, and Frank ordered the driver to follow the station wagon.

It moved fast in the heavy traffic at the airport. The driver kept right on its tail, zooming around and past slower cars. It was a close race until the station wagon whizzed through a red light.

The taxi had to stop. Disappointed, the boys watched their quarry vanish into the myriad of cars headed for New York City.

“No use trying to catch up with them now,” Frank said, and told the driver to return to the airport. They got out and paid the fare.

Joe suddenly remembered the package he had picked up. “Let’s see what is in it,” he said. “Maybe it’ll give us an idea of what to do next.”

He unwrapped the brown paper and took out a rubber mask of a hideous countenance. The snout was misshapen. The eyes were mere slits of hatred. The fangs were bared in a savage scowl!

“A monkey mask! It’s the face of Diabo!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER XIII

One More Chance

“THE face of Diabo!” Frank repeated. “Now I get it. This hideous mask is a form of psychological warfare. It sure can scare the wits out of a victim.”

Joe turned the mask over, noting how the rubber would stretch under a simian’s jaw and over the back of its head. The earpieces were broad and thick, almost like earmuffs.

“Do you suppose,” Frank said, “that the monkey in the cage really was Diabo?”

“That howler was friendly,” Joe replied. “I can’t imagine him spitting and snarling like Diabo.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “Joe, something else just occurred to me. If San Marten knows this fellow Solomon, then the Brazilian may be involved in Dad’s passport case, too! Remember, Solomon had a doctored passport.”

“Wow!” Joe shook his head. “This San Marten is really a master criminal. Playing two rackets at the same time.”

“Except that we don’t know for sure that the monkey is Diabo.”

“I can’t believe he is,” Joe said. “But it would be a strange coincidence if he wasn’t.”

Frank and Joe took a plane back to Bayport. At home they held a long session with their father after dinner.

“I go along with your suspicion of San Marten as far as the passport racket is concerned,” Mr. Hardy said. “The man’s an enigma. The Brazilian Embassy hasn’t been able to come up with any information on him. All they know is that he lives in Belem, has no police record down there, and doesn’t court publicity.”

“Anyhow, maybe we can help each other in our investigations,” Frank said.

“Right. If I smash the passport gang, it may lead me to Graham Retson. Or, if you fellows find Graham, you may find the gang’s ringleader at the same time.”

Early the next morning Frank and Joe drove back to Whisperwood to join their buddies. Chet was in high spirits. “I hope you guys are doing as well as we are,” he greeted them.

“Just how well is that?” Joe asked.

“We retrieved a couple of hundred more golf balls last night,” Phil said.

“Most of them in pretty good condition, too,” Tony added. “They’ll bring in a lot of clams after we put them in the washing machine.”

“Tonight,” Chet said, “we’ll be working the big water hole at the Olympic Health Club.”

“I thought they wouldn’t give you a contract,” Frank put in.

Phil winked. “They wouldn’t let Chet in the place. But Tony and I wangled the contract.”

“It was easy,” Tony said. “We just walked in and said how about it and they said okay.”

“Wait a minute,” Chet interrupted. “You guys were my bird dogs. I let you go ahead, that was all. I could have made the deal if I had wanted to.”

When the boys’ laughter at his bragging had subsided, Frank and Joe asked Chet about Mrs. Retson. They were told she was still missing. The Hardys went to the mansion to report to their client. Harris opened the door.

“Mr. Retson is in the den,” he said and escorted them in.

Retson was seated at his desk, looking over some papers. He glanced up in surprise.

“Hello, Mr. Retson,” said Frank. “We’re sorry to hear about your wife.”

“What? Oh yes. More trouble. All I seem to have is trouble. Well, where’s Graham?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t found him,” Frank said. He explained about San Marten and the wild-goose chase up the Amazon.

“So you failed!” Retson exploded. “I should have known this case was too big for a couple of amateurs!”

“Sir, we haven’t failed completely,” Frank said coolly. “We have reason to believe that your son was kidnapped. Chances are he is somewhere in the United States.”

“And is being held captive by San Marten and his gang,” Joe added.

“Nonsense!” Retson said. “I don’t believe there’s any such person as this San Marten you keep talking about.”

Retson composed himself and in a lower voice added, “I’ll give you one more chance. But if you don’t find my son pronto, you’re fired.”

“Mr. Retson, have the police investigated the disappearance of your wife?” Frank asked.

“Yes, yes. They’re working on it. You don’t have to concern yourself with that.”

“She and Graham might have been kidnapped by the gang!” Joe put in.

“I doubt it,” Retson said sharply. “A rope ladder was found hanging down from her window. I believe she completely lost her mind and ran away. You leave that up to the police. Just find Graham!”

The Hardys returned to the guesthouse. On the way Joe said, “Retson brushed off his wife’s disappearance quite casually.”

“He sure did,” Frank agreed. “And he doesn’t seem to take us very seriously, either.”

“We’ll have to do something to convince him that he can rely on us,” Joe said. “But what? We haven’t got a single clue to go on.”

“Let’s try the Olympic Health Club,” Frank said. “Those flickering lights and the noises Chet reported might mean something. Also, remember the Condor golf ball which was thrown into our window the first night? That points to the Olympic too, according to Chet.”

Joe nodded. “Let’s join the scavenging operation tonight and check out the premises. Another thing. What should we do about Mrs. Retson?”

“Nothing. I’m sure once we find Graham, we’ll find his mother.”

Chet was enthusiastic when he heard that the Hardys would join him that night. “We can use all the help we can get. We’ll even cut you in on the profits!” he said with a grin.

During the rest of the day, Frank and Joe kept the mansion and the staff under surveillance, but nothing unusual happened. At nightfall the five boys drove to the club in Chet’s pickup with the suction pump in the back. The Olympic golf pro, Gus McCormick, let them in, waited while they transferred the pump to a golf cart, and watched them vanish into the darkness over the golf links. Frank wheeled the cart up to the edge of the water hole, which was a distance from the clubhouse.

“This is a combined operations strategy,” Chet said pompously. “We’ll have four units acting under central control.”

“Where’s central control?” Joe asked.

Chet slapped his chest. “Here!”

“Shall we synchronize our watches?” Phil asked jokingly. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t have any.”

“Neither do I,” Tony said. “I won’t be able to tell the time when I’m in the pond.”

“I’ll keep time for all of us,” Chet told them.

“Where do Frank and I come in, General?” Joe asked.

“Frank, you handle the hose to the suction pump. Sweep up all the balls along the edge. Joe, you take the basket and gather the booty that Phil and Tony bring back from the water hole. Let’s go, team!”

By midnight the boys had a basketful of golf balls, and the suction pump container was loaded.

“All right, time to go,” Chet said. “We’ve gathered all the wealth in this place. Those balls in Joe’s basket look pretty good to me. Let’s take a gander at the container. It’ll probably have to be cleaned out.”

He lifted the lid, took a peek, gave a low whistle and called, “Hey, fellows, look at what we dredged up tonight!”

“Look at what we dredged up tonight,” Chet called

Reaching in, he brought out a woman’s shoe.

Tony chuckled. “Some lady player must have gone back to the clubhouse barefoot.”

“That’s not all,” Chet said, reaching into the container again. This time he came up with a badly rusted pistol. The other boys looked in amazement.

But before anyone could comment, a loud cry echoed over the golf course. Lights flickered on the clubhouse roof!

CHAPTER XIV

Big Deal for Chet

“THOSE lights must be a signal to somebody!” Joe said excitedly. “Let’s get over to the clubhouse and see what’s going on!”

Frank grabbed his arm. “Take it easy. Somebody’s coming.”

The Hardys slipped away into the darkness just as several men ran up to the water hole. “What are you doing here?” one of them shouted.

Chet explained.

“Who gave you permission?”

“Gus McCormick.”

“We have a contract with Gus,” Phil said. “We get half the golf balls we retrieve, and he gets half. It’s a fifty-fifty deal.”

The man grunted angrily. “Well, the deal’s off. Gus had no business making it. Now, you three, get out of here. And don’t come back or I’ll make it hot for you!”

He and his companions strode off toward the clubhouse and the Hardys moved back to the water hole.

“Those roughnecks are really mad about something,” Frank said. “I wonder what’s bugging them.”

“Beats me,” Chet replied. “All the other pros gave us the go-ahead without any beefing by the management. What’s so special about this place?”

“Gus acted as if he were in charge,” Phil commented. “He was glad to let us do all the work while he was getting half the profits.”

“Something fishy’s going on,” Frank declared. “Remember the shout we heard? And the flickering lights? And the pistol we dredged up?”

“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.

“We’ll have to get off the premises,” Joe replied. “Let’s go back to Whisperwood.”

“And we’ll contact the authorities tomorrow,” Frank added. “Chief Carton might want to take a look at that gun we found.”

The Hardys drove into Granite City early in the morning, taking the pistol and the shoe with them. They found the chief at his desk and explained their reason for calling on him.

Carton toyed with a pencil. “I haven’t been out to the Olympic Health Club often,” he said. “It’s a private outfit and no member has turned up on the police blotter yet. However, this pistol calls for an investigation. I’ll have it put through tests in our crime lab. Want to come along and watch?”

“Sure would,” Joe said, and told the chief about their own private lab at home.

The fingerprint expert could find no prints on the pistol, but the serial number became visible after the weapon had been carefully scraped. Also, it was still in good enough condition to b fired by the ballistics expert, who returned a while later to the lab with his report.

Carton left the office and returned with a file folder. Then he placed the ballistics report and the open file side by side. He rubbed his chin and commented, “This is very interesting.”

“What, sir?” Frank asked.

“A man held up a post office in Granite City two years ago. His name was Roscoe Matthews. This is our file on him.” He tapped the folder. Then he hefted the weapon in the palm of his hand. “And this is the holdup gun!”

“Are you sure?”

“The serial number proves it belongs to Matthews. And a bullet found at the crime scene matches the one just fired in our lab.”

“Is Matthews a dangerous criminal?” Joe wanted to know.

“Highly so. During the robbery he shot a guard in the shoulder. He would have killed him except the guard’s badge deflected the bullet. We put out an all-points bulletin on Matthews, but he dropped out of sight.”

A sudden thought struck Joe. “What kind of loot did Matthews get away with?”

“That’s the strange thing,” Carton answered. “He ignored the money. All he took was a batch of passports.”

“Passports!” Frank exclaimed. “That’s what our dad is working on right now!” He gave Carton a quick explanation of both their father’s case and their own.

“Do you have a picture of Matthews?” Joe asked.

Carton pulled a photograph out of the file. It showed a broad-faced blond man with a long nose and a slight squint. It was not San Marten, as Joe had secretly hoped, and Carton had no further information to give.

“Was Matthews a member of the Olympic Health Club?” Frank asked.

Carton shook his head. “No. How the gun ever got into their water hole is a mystery to me!”

“Talking about the water hole,” Joe said, “we also found a shoe. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but we brought it along anyhow.” He pulled the shoe from the paper bag in which he had carried the two items.

Carton looked at it. “All I can say is it hasn’t been under water very long.”

An idea flashed into Frank’s mind. “Maybe it belongs to Mrs. Retson!”

“She might have lost it running away,” Joe added. “Or—or do you suppose she was murdered?” he said, his face registering shock.

Carton stared at the shoe. “I’ll find out if it belongs to her. If it does, we’ll have to dredge the water hazard at the Olympic golf course.”

On the way back to Whisperwood the boys discussed the latest turn of events. “I sure hope it’s not Mrs. Retson’s shoe,” Joe said.

“Chances are it’s not,” Frank told him. “Any number of women play golf there. And why should she have run across the course? She would have been seen, recognized, and brought back. Don’t forget, she left in bright daylight.”

“The question is, Did she go on her own or was she kidnapped,” Joe mused.

“We’ve got to zero in on the Olympic Health Club fast, Frank. All these mysteries may be part of one big package.”

Back at the guesthouse, the Hardys found Phil and Tony preparing to leave for Bayport.

“What’s up?” Joe asked.

“We’ve picked the golf courses clean around here,” Phil answered. “Now we’ll give the duffers a chance to dunk some more, then we’ll come back for another scavenging operation.”

“You’re taking off when mysteries are busting out all over,” Frank protested.

“We’ll be here in a jiffy if you need us,” Tony assured him. “Just give the word.”

“How about you, Chet?” Joe asked.

Before Chet could reply, the phone rang. He answered, then beckoned Frank and Joe to listen in.

A strange voice asked, “Are you the guy who cleaned out the water hole at the Olympic Health Club last night?”

“Correct,” Chet said.

“Then you’re in possession of everything that was dredged up?”

“Correct.”

“How would you like to make a fantastic deal for the entire haul?”

“What kind of deal?”

“A cool thousand bucks!”

Chet let out a low whistle. Frank gestured to him to keep the stranger talking.

“That sounds great,” Chet went on. “How come—?”

“You wonder why I’m offering so much?” the man interrupted. “Well, I want the golf balls plus everything else your suction pump brought up.”

“Like a gun and a shoe?” Chet asked casually.

There was a moment of silence. Then the man said, “I mean everything. Understand?”

“Sure. Will you come over here? Or shall I bring the stuff to your place?”

“Neither. Put it in a golf bag and leave it tonight under the tall elm in the woods south of the Olympic Health Club. Come back tomorrow night, and you’ll find your money in a paper bag under the same tree.”

The phone clicked off and Chet gulped. “Wow! I’m in the middle of a dangerous mission!” He looked pleadingly at his friends. “I’ll need some protection!”

“Don’t worry,” Frank said.

“I wonder how this guy knew where to find you, Chet,” Joe mused.

“That makes the whole business even stickier,” Frank replied. “We’re onto something big here. Whoever phoned knew the gun was down there, and must be connected with Matthews.”

“It could have been Matthews himself,” Joe said.

“Who’s Matthews?” Chet asked.

Joe told about the ballistics test on the pistol.

“Hey, I’m getting out of here!” Chet quavered. “I don’t want to get mixed up with any gunman.”

“You’ll have to pretend you’re going through with the deal,” Joe replied. “Besides, there’s a thousand bucks in it for you.”

“That’s what you think! He won’t pay!”

Joe grinned. “True. But he won’t know if you gave him the gun until he opens the bag. Meanwhile, we can get a look at him.”

Swiftly Joe outlined his plan. He took a golf bag from the closet, poured a stream of bails into it, then crumpled up some newspapers and forced them down on top of the balls. Then he lifted the bag in his two hands, testing the weight.

“That’s not bad,” he said with satisfaction. “Let’s hope our plan works.”

After lunch Tony and Phil left for Bayport, wishing their friends luck with their case.

“We’ll need it,” Chet said, apprehensive about their impending mission.

At night the trio drove to the woods near the Olympic Health Club. Frank and Joe circled through the trees, and crouched behind a clump from which they could observe the tall elm. Chet walked openly to the tree. He placed the golf bag upright against the trunk, then went back to the car, got in and waited.

The minutes ticked away. When the moon rose, leaves and branches cast weird shadows on the ground under the elm. In the distance a dog howled.

“My foot’s going to sleep,” Frank complained in a whisper.

“And I’m getting a backache,” Joe replied. “Chet always comes out on the right end of our stakeouts. I imagine he’s snoozing comfortably in the car—”

Joe stopped at the sight of a moving shadow. Someone was in the tree.

“Get ready to charge!” Frank advised. “We can’t let him escape!”

The figure moved from limb to limb in an agile descent. Bounding to the ground, it turned in the direction of the Hardys, who looked directly into the leering face of Diabo!

Before either of them could move, the simian seized the golf bag and scampered off into the darkness. Pursuit was futile.

“Outwitted by that monkey again!” Joe exploded.

“But he provided a good clue,” Frank said. “Old Diabo is the pet of San Marten, so San Marten is definitely in league with Matthews or his pals. Everything points to the Olympic Health Club as their headquarters!”

“As you always tell me,” Joe said wryly, “don’t jump to conclusions.”

Just then Chet ran up. As Joe had guessed, sleep had overtaken their hefty pal and he had missed the monkey episode.

They drove back to Whisperwood in silence, pondering the odd twist in the case.

At breakfast the next morning the phone rang. The same man was calling Chet.

“Buddy, you pulled a fast one on me last night. But you’d better not try that stunt any more,” the man threatened. “You’ll hear from me again, and this time make it real or you’ll never hunt for another golf ball!”

The phone went dead. Chet looked pale under his freckles. He stretched uncomfortably. “You know,” he said, “I’m really not anxious at all to go out of business!”

“You won’t,” Frank said. “Don’t worry. Just sit tight here while we go and check out the Olympic Health Club.”

“Okay,” Chet said as Frank and Joe left.

At the reception desk of the health club they met Gus McCormick, and told him that they would like to play golf.

“Impossible!” the pro snapped. “It’s only for members—the names in here.” He slapped the register on the desk.

“Suppose we’re the guests of a member?”

“Then it’s okay.”

“Mind if I have a look at this book?” Frank inquired. “Maybe we know somebody who belongs here.”

“Help yourself.”

Frank ran his eye down the list of names, while Joe looked over his shoulder. Finally he came to J. G. Retson.

“Can we go in as Mr. Retson’s guests?” Frank inquired. “We know him quite well.”

“He’ll have to tell me so himself,” said Gus. “Sorry, those are the rules.”

“I’ll call him.” Frank phoned their client, but he was not at home.

“Too bad,” said Gus.

“Was Graham Retson a golfer?” Frank asked.

“No. He stuck to Ping-pong. Usually played with one of our caddies, Harry Grimsel.”

“Grimsel? Is he here now?”

“Yeah. In the locker room. Go right through that door if you want to talk to him.”

“Thanks.”

Frank and Joe went in and found a slim young man putting some golf clubs into a locker. When he turned around, they recognized him. One of the pair in the sideswiped car!

CHAPTER XV

Midnight Pursuit

“HI, Harry!” Joe greeted him. “Long time no see!”

“Remember us?” Frank added. “We met you on the highway.”

Grimsel pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “Oh, now I remember,” he said. “What can I do for you? Want a game of golf?”

“Maybe later.” Joe said. “First we want some information.”

“Like what?”

“Does Mr. Retson play the Olympic golf course?”

“Yes. I’ve caddied for him lots of times. He’s not much of a player, though. Too hot-tempered. Has a habit of throwing his clubs in the water hazard after a bad shot.”

“How well did you know Graham Retson?” Frank inquired.

“Pretty well. We played Ping-pong together. He talked a lot about himself. Said he couldn’t get along with his father and wanted to run away.”

“Did he ever tell you where he was planning to go?” Joe asked.

“Well, he mentioned a number of places,” the caddy said, knitting his brows as if trying to remember. “The South Sea Islands, India, Ceylon, Hong Kong, and—”

“Brazil?” Joe interrupted casually.

“No—yes, he did say something about Brazil, but I forget what.”

Frank realized that they would not get anything useful out of Grimsel and shrugged. “Maybe he went to the moon. How about some golf now?”

“Okay,” the caddy replied. He went off, saying he had to make a phone call first. He returned a few minutes later and supplied the Hardys with clubs and golf balls, then led the way out a side door to the first tee. They each hit a solid drive. Soon there was a putting duel on the green. Frank sank a long putt and took a one-stroke lead.

“Say, you guys play better than most of the club members,” Grimsel remarked.

The course wound around the back of the clubhouse. After sinking their shots, Frank and Joe would step aside from a hole and take a good look at it.

“This place is a lot bigger than it looks from the front,” Joe muttered to Frank while Grimsel was making his last shot on the ninth hole.

“It seems they’ve added an entire new wing to the old building,” Frank said. “And see that ventilator on top? Must be the biggest unit in Granite City.”

On the next hole, Joe stood a few yards to one side as Grimsel started to swing back.

“Do you know anything about howler monkeys, Harry?” Joe asked.

The question broke the flow of the caddy’s movement. The ball sliced, struck Joe on the side of the head, and bounded down the fairway.

Joe slumped to the ground as if he had been clubbed with a bludgeon!

“Gosh, I didn’t mean to hit him!” Grimsel exclaimed, worried.

Frank looked at the bruise over Joe’s left ear.

“I don’t think he’s badly hurt,” he said. “But he’s out for the count. We’d better get him back to the clubhouse. You stay here. I’ll go for a golf cart.”

Frank started off at a run. He was hardly out of sight when Joe stirred. As his eyes focused, he saw Grimsel standing in front of him.

“Sorry I bashed you like that,” the caddy said.

“So am I. That’s what I get for talking while you concentrated.”

“Think you can make it to the clubhouse? Your brother went for a cart, but they all might be in use.”

Joe rose to his feet and took a couple of steps. “I’m okay. But what a headache I’ve got!”

As the two neared the clubhouse they heard loud angry voices. Rounding the corner they found Frank being escorted to the front steps by Gus McCormick. Behind him was a large stout man with a flushed face.

“That’s Charles Portner, the general manager,” Grimsel whispered.

Portner was furious. “Throw this trespasser off the premises!” he ordered, pointing to Frank. Then he noticed Joe. “Bounce that one, too! He’s not a member either. They’ve got a nerve using our private golf course!”

Portner caught the guilty expression on Grimsel’s face. “You didn’t give them permission, did you?”

The caddy was silent.

“Answer me!”

“Mr. Portner,” Harry whined, “I thought it was okay as long as a member of the staff was with them.”

“It wasn’t okay. And it won’t happen again because you’re fired!”

At that moment a police car drove up to the clubhouse. Two officers got out and climbed the steps. “I’m Lieutenant Cain,” one of them said. “What’s going on here?”

Portner calmed down. “Nothing to bother you with, Lieutenant. Just a couple of trespassers.”

“That’s your affair,” said the other policeman. “We’ve come on a different matter. Concerns the wife of one of your members.”

Portner tucked his chin in and cocked his head. “Who may I ask?”

“Mrs. J. G. Retson. She’s disappeared from her home in Whisperwood. We’re checking the neighborhood.”

Frank and Joe listened intently as the conversation went on. They quickly realized that the police were being purposely mum about the pistol and the woman’s shoe.

“Has Mrs. Retson been here at the club recently?” Lieutenant Cain asked.

Portner tapped his forehead. “No. She hasn’t been around for at least three months. Of course, I can’t swear to it. I might not have seen her.”

Portner hesitated, then went on, “A woman has been seen around here several times after nightfall. She ran across the golf course.”

“Did anyone recognize her?”

“No.”

“Could it have been Mrs. Retson?”

Portner frowned. “I have no way of telling. She appeared in the dark, and disappeared in the dark.”

“Okay, Mr. Portner,” said Lieutenant Cain. “We’ll continue our search. And let us know if you catch the mysterious lady of the golf links.”

As the squad car rolled off down the driveway, the Hardys strolled back to their convertible.

Joe said, “A woman’s been running across the golf course. And we’ve found a woman’s shoe at the bottom of the water hazard. How do you figure it?”

“Even if it turns out to be Mrs. Retson’s shoe, it still doesn’t mean she’s been murdered,” Frank said, trying to cheer both of them up. “Let’s give Dad a call when we get to the guesthouse. I think I’d feel better if we could talk it over with him.”

Back at Whisperwood, Frank put a call through to Bayport. His mother answered.

“Dad’s out of town,” she reported. “He’s checking some new clues in that passport case. How are you boys?”

Frank decided not to worry her by talking about their latest suspicion. He merely said that they were collecting evidence at the Olympic Health Club.

“A health club sounds safe enough,” Laura Hardy said with a soft chuckle. “Stay close to it. And I’ll tell Dad you called when I hear from him.”

Frank hung up. “We’ll take Mother’s advice and stick close to the Olympic Health Club. But it may not be as healthy as she thinks!”

That night the boys left Chet in the guesthouse and drove to a road bordering the club. They turned off the lights, parked the car in a stand of trees, and set off for the golf course. At the rear of the clubhouse thick shrubbery provided good cover. They settled down here to keep the place under surveillance.

An hour dragged by. Two. Three. The drone of cicadas lulled Joe to sleep and Frank had trouble keeping his eyes open. Finally they took turns dozing off. Just before dawn headlights flashed into view and two cars turned into the long driveway leading to the clubhouse.

Tensely alert, Frank and Joe crept forward as five men got out. They entered the building and reappeared in a few minutes. One car started off with three passengers. Two men lingered beside the second car and talked in low voices.

“Let’s tail this one!” Frank whispered.

They raced across the golf course and climbed into their convertible just as the vehicle came out of the driveway. In total darkness Frank shadowed it, keeping the taillights in sight.

The driver ahead sped to the Granite City airport, where he parked near the airstrip. Frank stopped at a distance. Nobody left the waiting car.

“Let’s sneak up and spy on them,” Joe said.

“Okay.” Frank pulled the key from the ignition. Hunched over, they made their way close to the other car. They noticed that only the driver was in it. Obviously the other man had stayed behind at the club.

Suddenly a plane sounded overhead. A small craft came down through the darkness for a landing. It taxied to the edge of the lighted runway and a man stepped out. He hastened to the waiting car and climbed in beside the driver. Who was he?

The boys moved closer and crouched behind a bush near the car. A match flared in the front seat. The newcomer bent forward to touch the flame to his cigarette.

The flickering light played over the man’s face. San Marten!

CHAPTER XVI

The Ambush

THE match went out, leaving only the burning tip of the cigarette visible in the darkness. San Marten and his friend conversed in low tones.

Frank whispered in Joe’s ear, “Let’s jump them!”

Joe bolted forward, seized the handle, and flung the door open. He grabbed San Marten by the lapels and started to pull him out when suddenly a powerful spotlight snapped on behind the Hardys, catching them sharply in the white glare.

“We’re ambushed!” Frank cried. “Cut out, Joe!”

They turned and ran. San Marten and his companion leaped from the car, and were joined by the man with the light. The three raced after the boys.

In his haste, Joe’s foot caught in a vine. He tumbled head over heels, landing on his back. Before he could regain his feet, their pursuers pounced upon him.

Running like mad, Frank was unaware of what had happened until he reached the convertible. Only then did he realize he was alone. He jumped behind the wheel, started the engine, and swung the car around, roaring back to the scene. San Marten and his accomplice had disappeared, and so had Joe. The sound of a motor could be heard in the distance, diminishing in the direction of the highway.

Frank set out in desperate pursuit of Joe and his captors. By the time he reached the highway, the gang’s car was out of sight.

Frank made a quick judgment. The Olympic Health Club! “That’s where this caper began,” he thought. “That’s where it will probably end.”

He drove to the top of a hill that overlooked the clubhouse. Peering down at the valley, in the first light of day, his eyes followed every turn and twist in the highway for miles ahead. Not a thing moved on the road!

“They must have gone the other way,” Frank reasoned. He decided to drive to Granite City and report Joe’s capture to the police.

The sergeant at the desk took down the particulars. Frank was turning away, wondering what to do next, when a familiar figure emerged from the office of Police Chief Carton.

“Sam Radley!” Frank exclaimed in amazement. “What are you doing here?”

Fenton Hardy’s assistant, a pleasant sandy-haired man, was dressed in a tweed jacket and slacks. He wore heavy shoes and a battered felt hat.

“Hello, Frank,” Radley said. “I’m here on a case of my own.”

“What’s the scoop?”

“Tell you later. First clue me in to what you and Joe are doing.”

Frank rapidly described the Retson case, beginning with Graham’s disappearance and ending with Joe’s kidnapping.

“I’m convinced that we’ll find the key to the mystery in the Olympic Health Club,” Frank concluded. “A lot of fishy things have been going on there.”

Radley raised his eyebrows and Frank continued, “The general manager seems awfully anxious to keep us away from the place. And now—what about your case?”

Radley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When I was in New York a few days ago,” he said, “I met an old partner of mine. We used to specialize in missing-person cases. He asked me if I’d undertake an investigation for a good friend of his.”

“Who’s the good friend, Sam?”

“Mrs. Retson of Whisperwood!”

“Mrs. Retson!” Frank exclaimed. “And we thought she might be dead. We’ve been wondering if her body was at the bottom of the Olympic water hazard where we pulled up a woman’s shoe and a pistol.”

Radley shook his head. “She’s in New York, in a state of near collapse. Her doctor’s keeping her under sedation.”

“How did she get there?”

“She climbed out of her bedroom window, caught the bus to New York, and asked her friend to look for Graham. He passed the assignment on to me.”

“That’s strange,” Frank said. “Mrs. Retson knew Joe and I were on the case. Why didn’t she cooperate with us?”

“Because you’re representing her husband.”

“What’s the difference? They’re both looking for their son!”

“That’s true. But you’re to bring him home. I’m supposed to prevent him from coming home. ‘Prevent him at all costs,’ was how Mrs. Retson put it.”

Frank grimaced. “Sam, we’re working at cross purposes here.”

Radley shook his head again. “Not really, Frank. Mrs. Retson thinks her son is in danger. So do you and Joe. Let’s rescue Graham and then worry about bringing him home.”

Frank started. “What about Joe? We’ve got to rescue him before we do anything else!”

The sergeant left the desk and approached them. “We’ve got a tip on that getaway car with your brother.” he told Frank. “It was spotted speeding up the road to the abandoned Milten Dairy Farm.”

“How do we get there?” Frank asked.

“Take the highway south from Granite City for ten miles. Look for the big Milten sign on the right-hand side. I’ll dispatch a car as soon as I can.

Frank and Radley, who carried a small suitcase, hurried out, slid into the convertible, and zoomed down the highway. At the Milten Dairy sign Frank turned off, and the convertible bounced along a rutted dirt road. It led to a complex of barns and sheds.

“Slow down, Frank,” Radley said. “There’s a car in that big thicket over there.”

“It’s San Marten’s!” Frank replied. He parked behind the thicket, and they got out.

“Look—footprints!” Radley said in a low voice.

The trail led to a run-down house. Carefully the two sleuths edged up to it and peered over a window sill into a dingy room.

Through the dim light Frank and Sam saw Joe sitting in a chair with his hands tied behind him. San Marten and two other men were taunting the captive with threats.

“You’d be wise to answer my questions,” San Marten was saying. “Or I’ll let Belkin and Moreno go to work on you. They have ways of making people talk!” He turned to one of the men. “Right, Belkin?”

“You’d better believe it,” said Belkin. He pulled out a switchblade knife and tested the edge with his finger. At the same time Moreno turned his face and Frank recognized him. He was the driver of the car the boys had sideswiped alongside the golf course when the sprinkler had obscured their view! Harry Grimsel had been with him.

Joe tugged frantically at the ropes and San Marten clouted him across the face.

As Joe moaned, the door splintered open. Frank and Sam Radley barreled in. San Marten and his men spun around, mouths agape.

Frank floored Belkin with a swinging right and fell on top of him. Radley bowled over San Marten and tripped Moreno at the same time!

CHAPTER XVII

Golf Ball Artillery

THE criminals bounded to their feet and a wild melee ensued. Punches, karate chops, grunts, and curses filled the room as Joe sat helplessly looking on.

Frank decked San Marten and Radley staggered Moreno with a forearm smash. Belkin laid Frank and Sam low with a two-by-four, but was nearly exhausted. San Marten pulled himself up shakily.

“Let’s go!” he yelled and raced out, followed by his two confederates.

Frank and Sam rose slowly, shaking their heads to clear the cobwebs.

“Thanks,” Joe said. “You did a great job.”

Frank quickly untied his brother and they dashed toward the big thicket. Radley was the first to spot San Marten’s car moving out. It gained speed and disappeared.

The Hardys and Sam jumped into the convertible, eager to take up the pursuit. To Frank’s horror the car keys were gone.

“Oh, no! I shouldn’t have left them here!” Frank chided himself.

“Don’t fret,” Sam said. He pulled a pad from his pocket and wrote something. “I got the license number. We can phone it to the police.”

“Hey, what’s that?” Joe said. A glint in the sun had caught his attention. He walked over to it. Nearby in the grass lay the car keys, wet with dew and reflecting the sun’s rays.

Frank started the engine and they sped away. At the first public phone booth they stopped and Joe reported to Chief Carton. After a short conversation he told the others that the getaway car had been stolen the day before. “The chief checked the license number right away. They’re on the lookout for it. And another thing—the shoe we found in the water hole was not Mrs. Retson’s. Wrong size!”

Frank grinned. “I’m glad about that. Otherwise they might have started dredging the water hole.” As he started the car again, Radley asked Joe:

“What kind of information was San Marten trying to pry out of you?”

“He wanted to know about Dad’s investigation of the bogus passport ring.”

“So he knows Dad’s on the case,” Frank remarked.

“He sure does. He kept asking where Dad is right now.”

“This proves what we suspected,” Frank said. “He’s in on the passport racket.”

“What else did he want to find out?” Radley went on.

“All about Graham Retson. Where is he now? What’s he doing? When is he coming home? Things like that.”

Frank whistled. “Those were trick questions. We know that he knows where Graham is. He was on a fishing expedition to see how much we’ve learned.”

“Well, it didn’t do him any good. I refused to bite.”

“That reminds me,” Radley said. “How about a bite to eat? There’s a diner ahead.”

“Great idea,” Frank agreed. “I’m starved.”

Over ham and eggs, they continued to analyze the Retson case.

“We forgot to tell Sam about this,” Joe said suddenly and pulled a piece of folded rubber from his pocket.

“The monkey mask!” Frank exclaimed. “How could that have slipped our minds!”

Radley was amazed at Joe’s account of Diabo. “This could be very important,” he said. “I’d like to take this mask with me. Something tells me it might come in handy before the mystery is solved.”

“Where are you going, Sam?”

“To the Olympic Health Club. I called and told them I had arthritis and signed up for the two weeks’ treatment they advertise.”

“How come you’re zooming in on Olympic, too?” Joe wanted to know.

“Mrs. Retson is convinced Graham’s being held there,” Radley revealed. “As a patient, I can do some snooping. See if I can find any trace of him.”

“Olympic seems to be San Marten’s headquarters,” Frank pointed out. “Won’t he recognize you?”

“Unlikely,” Radley said. “It was pretty dim in that building and he didn’t get a chance to see my face. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

They got up. “I’d better call a taxi,” Sam said. “It would look suspicious if you dropped me off.”

When the taxi arrived, Radley got in and waved good-by.

“Good luck,” Frank said, then the Hardys drove on to Whisperwood. Chet was waiting in the guesthouse. He looked worried.

“The guy who played that monkey trick on us called again,” he said.

“What did he want this time?” Joe asked.

“His offer of a thousand bucks still stands,” Chet replied. “He only wants the pistol.”

“What did you say to that?” Frank asked.

“I told him I didn’t have it,” Chet replied. “But he wouldn’t believe me. Said I’ll end up in the water hole myself if I don’t deliver the gun.”

Frank and Joe agreed it would be safer for Chet if he returned to Bayport right away. They hid behind the suction pump in the back of his pickup, so they would be on hand if the anonymous caller tried to ambush the truck. They intended to see Chet safely beyond Granite City, planning to return to Whisperwood by bus while their pal continued on home.

Chet was freewheeling the pickup down a side road toward the highway when a car with two men came racing up behind. He steered to the right, but the other car refused to pass. Instead, the driver cut diagonally into Chet’s lane, forcing him off the road into a ditch.

The pickup bucked over a couple of boulders, tilted precariously, and jarred to a halt.

Chet leaped from the cab and ran to the rear of the truck. The two men came after him.

Frank and Joe peered out from their hiding place. San Marten and Grimsel!

“Let’s see how good my pitching arm is,” Frank muttered. Plucking a golf ball from the suction pump container, he took aim and bounced it off San Marten’s head.

Joe promptly grabbed a couple of balls and fired away. Chet quickly leaped on the truck and joined the artillery.

San Marten and Grimsel tried to ward off the barrage

San Marten and Grimsel tried to ward off the barrage with their hands, but the boys kept pitching too fast. Their targets bent over, shielding their heads with their arms.

“Cease fire!” Chet yelled finally. Jumping from the truck, he plowed into Grimsel with both feet. His weight knocked the caddy into a quivering heap.

Frank and Joe raced after San Marten and subdued him. Quickly they bound his hands with rope from the truck, then tied up Grimsel.

“You’ll pay for this!” San Marten snarled.

“Save it for the judge,” Frank advised him.

“What’ll we do with them now?” Chet asked.

“Take them down to headquarters. Chief Carton will be delighted to see them, no doubt.”

The men were lifted into the truck. Frank and Joe stood guard over them, while Chet drove to headquarters. When they arrived, the Hardys announced a citizen’s arrest and turned the pair over to be booked.

San Marten and Grimsel were told that it was their constitutional right to consult with a lawyer before making any statements. Then Chief Carton ordered both to be fingerprinted.

At this point San Marten panicked. He resisted the procedure so furiously that it took two officers to hold him while a third cleaned his fingertips preparatory to rolling them in the ink.

The Hardys watched intently. Why would San Marten lose his nerve like this?

“I’ll bet he has a record,” Frank said to Joe.

San Marten scowled savagely at the Hardys, but he saw that further resistance was futile. He stood stolidly as his fingertips were rolled in the ink and recorded on the FBI standard fingerprint card.

“Send the prints to the FBI,” Chief Carton said. “But first check our files to see if we have anything on him.”

“Give me a few minutes, Chief,” said the officer, who had taken the impressions. He left the room.

Carton was discussing the Retson case with the Hardys in his office when the man returned and placed a report on the chief’s desk. Carton picked it up, read it, and dropped it with a puzzled frown.

“This is unbelievable!” he said.

CHAPTER XVIII

Bad News

FRANK and Joe looked curiously at the police chief. “What’s the matter?” Frank asked.

“It doesn’t add up,” Chief Carton replied. “Here, take a look. Who would you say this is?” He pushed a photograph across the desk. Frank, Joe, and Chet studied it.

“It’s Matthews,” Joe said. “We saw his picture before.”

“That’s right,” Carton replied.

“What are you getting at?” Frank asked.

“San Marten’s fingerprints match those of Roscoe Matthews!”

The boys looked dumbfounded.

“It can’t be!” Joe exclaimed. “No two people have exactly the same fingerprints.”

“It follows that Matthews and San Marten are the same person!” Frank declared.

He reexamined the photograph of Matthews. “San Marten seems to have a narrower face,” he commented.

“And his nose is much shorter,” Joe observed.

“Also, no squint,” Chet said.

Carton nodded. “San Marten’s hair is black, not blond. Of course that’s easy to do with dye. But the other features are so different!”

“Plastic surgery,” Frank surmised.

“That’s possible,” Carton agreed. “It’s an old dodge among the criminal elements. Sometimes a crook’s mother wouldn’t recognize him after the operation.” The police chief stared off into space.

“The thing that doesn’t fit into this theory is the difference between the behavior of Matthews and San Marten. Your Brazilian buddy appears to be quite sophisticated and tricky. Matthews wasn’t like that at all, according to our records.”

“Matthews must have changed his personality along with his face!” Joe said. “It’s been done by other criminals.”

An idea struck Frank. “Remember Graham Retson’s poem, Joe?”

“I sure do.”

“What poem?” Carton asked.

“We found it in Graham’s room and weren’t sure what it meant,” Frank said. “It goes like this:

‘My life is a walled city

From which I must flee,

This must my prison be

So long as I am me.

There is a way,

But what it is I cannot say.’”

Carton was thoughtful. “Are you implying Graham Retson wanted to change his identity?”

Frank got up and paced around excitedly. “It sounds far-fetched, but we know San Marten changed his, and Graham is mixed up with San Marten. Isn’t it possible that both did the same thing?”

“I don’t know,” Carton said. “If Graham decided to do this voluntarily, why would San Marten have kidnapped him?”

“I doubt that San Marten would tell us,” Joe said. “But maybe Grimsel will volunteer some information.”

“Good idea,” Carton said and had the caddy brought in.

He looked frightened. Carton advised him of his constitutional rights, then began to ask him questions. Grimsel answered most of them. Gradually his confidence returned. He even became boastful.

“I know something that could blow the Olympic Health Club wide open,” he bragged.

“All right, give us the facts,” the chief said.

The caddy smirked. “I’m not that dumb. I know what happens to informers. They end up in the water. Very dead.”

“You mean the water hazard on the golf course?” Frank asked in a nonchalant manner.

“Never mind what I mean,” Grimsel said surlily. “I’m not talking any more.”

Grimsel was taken back to his cell.

“Here’s what we do next,” Carton said. “We’ll get a search warrant for the Olympic Health Club and investigate the place, based on the discovery of the gun.”

“We’d like to go along,” Frank said.

“Why not? You boys collected most of the evidence so far.”

After the warrant was obtained, Chief Carton and two detectives drove to the health club. Frank, Joe, and Chet followed in the pickup. The manager met them as they entered.

“Search warrant, Mr. Portner,” Chief Carton said and presented the document.

Portner turned pale. He examined the warrant briefly, then said, “Go right ahead. We have nothing to hide.”

The officers went to inspect the manager’s office. Meanwhile, Frank, Joe, and Chet made a tour of the facilities. First they visited the swimming pool, where about twenty members were splashing around. Next they paused in the doorway of the exercise room. Several men were lifting dumbbells and pedaling stationary bikes.

“Nothing suspicious here,” Joe said.

Then they went to the gym. Two teams were playing basketball. Another group of four was tossing a medicine ball.

Suddenly Frank felt a thump between his shoulders and pitched forward on his face. The medicine ball had flattened him!

Joe helped him up. Frank was gasping for air.

“Sorry, fellow,” a balding man apologized. “My aim isn’t usually that bad. I hope you’re not hurt.”

“Just shaken up,” Frank said, and moved on to the steam room with his pals.

Three men were sitting around in thick bath towels, soaking up the heat.

The boys immediately recognized the figure nearest them—Radley! But neither they nor Sam gave a sign that they knew one another.

“Whew!” Radley said to no one in particular. “I could use some ventilation in here!”

Was he trying to give them a hint?

“It’s rather hot,” Frank agreed. “I don’t think I’d like to stay very long.”

Sam did not continue the conversation, however, so the boys left. Outside, Frank said in a low voice, “Sam meant to tell us something with that remark. There was no other reason for him to speak.”

Joe nodded. “But what did he mean?”

Frank shrugged. “I wish I knew. Just keep it in mind, maybe it’ll make sense later.”

“Okay. Let’s get back and see if the police discovered anything.”

They found Portner talking to Carton about Grimsel. “I fired the caddy,” said the general manager. “His record here was bad. He broke the rules many times. That’s why he’s no longer with us.”

“Know anything about a man named San Marten?” Carton inquired.

“No.”

“A fellow named Matthews?”

“Never heard of him. Really I’m quite unfamiliar with the people you mention. We have so many members and patients who come here for treatment just for short periods that it’s impossible to know everyone’s name.”

The two policemen came back from their search. Carton asked, “Any results?”

“No,” one of them replied. “The place appears clean.”

Portner looked from one to the other. “At least you could tell me what you were expecting to find?”

“Oh, nothing in particular,” the chief replied. “It just so happened that a gun was found in your water hazard which belonged to a fugitive from justice.”

“Well, I do hope you’re satisfied. I don’t want our members disturbed by all this!” The general manager seemed genuinely distressed by the police visit.

“All right, Mr. Portner,” Carton said. “We’ll clear out and let you—”

The phone rang on the desk. Portner answered, then said to Carton, “It’s for you.”

The officer took the phone. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Back to headquarters on the double!” he said, his face tense.

As they hurried out to the cars, Frank asked, “What’s up?”

“San Marten staged a jailbreak!”

“How did he get away?” Joe asked.

“He had a confederate spring him,” the chief replied grimly. He climbed into the squad car.

“You mean another member of his gang?” Frank asked.

“Not on your life!” Carton said. “It wasn’t a person at all. San Marten was helped by a monkey!”

CHAPTER XIX

A Telltale Bug

THE news of San Marten’s accomplice stunned the Hardys and Chet.

“How did he escape?” Joe asked.

Carton shrugged. “We’ll have to wait till we get to headquarters.”

The police car drove off, and the boys followed in Chet’s pickup. When they arrived, Officer Jensen, who had phoned the chief, supplied the details. “Near as I can figure, the monkey climbed down from the roof, got hold of the bars to San Marten’s cell, and wedged himself through. He brought San Marten a plastic explosive and a gun.”

“And San Marten did the rest,” Joe commented.

Jensen nodded. “He planted the explosive under the lock and blew it off. The men on duty came running back to find out what happened. They saw a lot of smoke, dust, and falling plaster.”

“Where was San Marten?” Frank asked.

“Under the bed. He scrambled out with the gun in his hand, got the drop on them, and made them throw their gun belts into his cell. Then he locked them in another cell and beat it with the monkey.”

“Did the guards get a good look at the animal?” Joe inquired.

Jensen nodded again. “That’s one of the strangest things. They said it was the most repulsive creature they’ve ever seen. A leering, snarling little monster. About three feet high with a long tail and blackish fur.”

“Diabo!” Joe gasped.

“What did you say?” Officer Jensen asked with a baffled frown.

“A Brazilian howler monkey we happen to know,” Frank said. “Your description fits him perfectly.”

Joe explained their experience with Diabo. “We think that horrible face your men saw was a rubber mask.”

“A masked monkey! That’s a new one on me!” Jensen snorted. “But that was not the only confederate San Marten had when he broke jail. A car was waiting for him outside. San Marten and Diabo jumped in and were gone before we could do anything about it.”

“Did Grimsel get away at the same time?” Frank wanted to know.

“No. San Marten left him behind. I’ve put a special guard on the caddy’s cell.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet went back to Whisperwood. In the guesthouse Chet slumped into an easy chair. “I’m bushed,” he announced. “How about you guys going to the kitchen and rustling up something for the inner man? Make mine root beer and ham sandwiches.”

Frank chuckled. “Those threatening phone calls don’t seem to have affected your appetite, Chet.”

“Please, Frank. Don’t remind me. Just bring on the eats.”

“Okay, okay.”

While they were munching on their sandwiches, Joe remarked. “As long as San Marten’s still at large, none of us is safe.”

“And don’t forget the guy who’s been phoning me about the pistol found in the water hazard,” Chet said. “He’s after us, too!”

Joe took a sip of root beer. “When we saw Sam in the Olympic steam room, he mentioned the word ventilation. What could he have meant?”

“You know,” Frank said, “the ventilation apparatus at the club is huge. Maybe for a reason. I vote we go back tonight and check it out. And it might be a good idea to take some detecting equipment.”

“Lucky we’ve got a spare bug,” Joe commented. “The other one must have sunk to the bottom when the monkey pushed us into the Amazon.”

When it was dark the boys put a scaling ladder and a mountaineer’s rope aboard the truck. Then Chet drove to an inconspicuous dirt road and parked in a concealed spot. The three got out, took their gear, and stealthily approached the Olympic Health Club.

The new wing of the club loomed high above. They could barely make out the oblong shape of the ventilator on top.

“We’ll have to go all the way up,” Frank said in a low tone.

“Not me!” Chet muttered. “I’m volunteering for low-altitude duty.”

Joe snickered. “Your weight would probably break the rope. We’ll all be better off if you stay below and hold the ladder steady.”

They anchored the scaling ladder near some large bushes. Chet placed his feet against it, and the Hardys climbed the rungs. Frank was first. Joe followed with the rope.

The ladder fell far short of the top. Frank surveyed the gutters and the ventilator, trying to figure out how to get the rest of the way up to the roof. He spotted a two-inch pipe sticking up at one corner of the ventilator.

“That’s the hold we need,” he thought. Gripping the top rung with one hand, he reached for the rope with the other.

Frank made three tosses before the noose dropped over the pipe. He tested the rope for security, then hoisted himself hand over hand, gaining added leverage by walking up the wall with his feet. Clambering over the gutter, he gestured to Joe to follow.

Joe gripped the rope tightly, then swung himself upward. His feet hit the wall at an angle that caused him to veer wildly away from the building. As he swung back, he felt for the top rung with his right foot, intending to steady himself before making a second attempt to climb up.

His foot probed into empty space! The ladder was gone! Joe dangled at the end of the rope with nothing beneath him except a two-story drop to the ground!

Desperately he strained every muscle to keep his grip on the rope. Finally he managed to wedge both feet against the wall. Hand over hand, foot by foot, he climbed up until he was high enough for Frank to lean over and haul him onto the roof.

Joe lay there for a moment, gasping for breath.

“What happened to the ladder?” Frank asked.

“We’ll have to ask brother Morton about that.”

“Come on. Let’s take a good look at the ventilator,” Frank urged.

Cautiously they crept along the roof until they reached the equipment, which hummed softly. Through an opening they peered far down into a dimly lighted subcellar.

“Let’s see if someone’s down there,” Frank whispered. He removed the listening device from his jacket pocket and lowered the cord into the ventilator shaft. The bug descended and dropped through one of the chinks in a metal grate at the bottom.

Frank held up a hand to indicate that was far enough. He and Joe crouched over the earphones. Sounds came through clearly. A group of men were talking loudly!

“We got the dope on Radley,” said one. “He’s a fuzz. Works for Fenton Hardy. We’ll have to do him in before he sets the Feds on us.”

A second voice startled the eavesdroppers. It was San Marten’s! “I told you to screen Radley before accepting him for treatment!” he hissed. “Arthritis! What a dodge! And you fell for it. This whole racket might hit the skids!”

“You weren’t so quick on the uptake yourself,” accused a third voice. “Whose bright idea was it to lure the Hardys to Brazil? Who promised us they’d never come back? We should have knocked them off here in Granite City like I wanted.”

The first man spoke again. “Now they have the evidence they need. If they spill what they know, we’ll all do time in the pen.”

“Stop caterwauling,” San Marten commanded. “We can get out of this mess if we keep our heads. I’ll devise a new plan.”

“I hope it works better than the old one,” came a surly reply.

“This one will be foolproof,” San Marten promised. “We’ll finish off the Hardys and Radley, and get away with the loot. Break it up for now.”

Chairs scraped over the floor. The scuffling of feet indicated that the men were rising. Frank motioned Joe to draw the bug up.

“We’ve heard enough,” he whispered. “Let’s get away from here and alert Chief Carton!”

“Right,” Joe said. “I sure hope Chet’s got the ladder up again!” He grasped the cord and pulled on their listening device. It was stuck! He gave the cord a jerk. The bug banged against the metal grating.

“What’s that?” San Marten exclaimed.

“Somebody must be spying in the ventilator shaft!”

“Alert Portner and his guards!” San Marten screamed. “And turn the signal lights on. Hurry!”

Lights began to flash on and off at the corners of the roof. Frank and Joe rushed to the parapet, leaving the bug in the shaft. Frank beamed his pocket flashlight. No ladder!

“We’ll have to find another way!” Frank ran to the other side of the roof. But there was no alternate escape route in sight!

Suddenly a trap door flew open. Three armed guards sprang out and seized the Hardys at gunpoint. They were hustled through the trap door and into an elevator for a rapid descent to the subcellar.

There the elevator stopped and the men hurled Frank and Joe out. The boys picked themselves off the floor and were confronted by five men with brutal, cruel, animal-like features.

The men were wearing monkey masks!

“Five oversized Diabos!” Frank said.

“So you know all about Diabo.” The speaker was San Marten. “You’re about to meet him again!”

With those words he opened the door of a cage in the corner of the room. Diabo emerged, wearing his hideous mask. The beast looked more sinister than ever because in one paw he held a thin, razor-sharp dagger.

San Marten boomed, “Play your game, Diabo!”

CHAPTER XX

Unmasking the Gang

THE howler monkey obeyed the command and began a weird caper. He jigged madly around Frank and Joe, waving his arms and throwing his body into contortions. At the same time he rasped out a stream of eerie snarls and whines.

“That’s the voodoo dance of the macumba witch doctors!” Frank gasped. “The same as we saw in Belem!”

Diabo circled closer, flailing the stiletto. Another step, and the ferocious simian would be near enough to stab the boys.

Over the monkey’s shoulder, Frank and Joe saw a door open. A sixth man slipped into the room. He, too, was wearing a monkey mask. Just as Diabo poised for a thrust at the boys, the sixth man pulled a gun from his pocket.

“Stop!” he shouted.

Startled by the sound, the monkey turned his head. Frank jumped forward and seized the paw that held the dagger. Joe gripped Diabo by the other arm. While the newcomer held the men in check with his gun, Frank and Joe hustled the animal over to the cage, forced him in, and slammed the door.

“Thanks,” Frank said to their rescuer. “You got here just in time.”

“It’s a pleasure,” came a familiar voice behind the mask. Sam Radley!

Sam pulled off his mask. As he did, one of the gang members picked up a small chair and hurled it at him, knocking the gun from his hand. Two men jumped the detective, while the other three went after Frank and Joe.

Frank met the first attacker with a stiff right-hand punch that put him down for the count. Joe felled the second with a karate chop. They wrestled the third to the floor, and subdued him after a violent struggle.

Radley took care of his two opponents by grabbing their shirt collars and cracking their heads together. He picked up his gun, and as the gangsters recovered, ordered them to line up along the wall. Sullenly they obeyed.

Then the door opened again. Fenton Hardy rushed in, followed by Chief Carton and a contingent of police. Chet Morton was at their heels.

“Dad!” Frank and Joe cried out in surprise. “How did you get here?”

“I had a late appointment with Chief Carton. A man was caught with a falsified passport in New York, and he spilled the beans regarding the Olympic Health Club. While I was talking to the chief, Chet rushed in and gave us the word.”

“Right after you went up on the roof, I heard someone coming so I took the ladder and ducked,” Chet said. “Then, before I could set it up again, those lights went on. I was worried plenty, but I see you have the situation here well in hand.”

“Sam gets the credit for that,” Joe said, and quickly explained to his father what had happened.

“So that’s it,” Mr. Hardy said. “I was wondering how he got in on this caper. You did a great job, Sam.”

“You mean your sons did, Fenton,” Radley replied. He walked over to the prisoners and began to remove their monkey masks.

“Belkin!” Joe exclaimed as the first face became visible. “The guy who wanted to carve me up with his switchblade knife!”

Radley jerked off the second mask.

“Moreno, our Brazilian buddy’s other strong-arm man,” Frank told his father.

The third man to be unmasked was San Marten. “No surprise,” Joe commented. “We recognized his voice.”

When Radley ripped off the fourth mask, the Hardy boys were startled. “Buru!” Frank exclaimed. “What’s a Belem witch doctor doing in Granite City? But you’re really an American criminal posing as a witch doctor, aren’t you?”

Bum’s guilty look confirmed Frank’s deduction.

Radley reached the end of the line. Putting his fingers under the chin part of the last mask, he wrenched it off. Everyone gasped in amazement. J. G. Retson!

“Caught red-handed!” Fenton Hardy declared. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Retson.”

“Wait a minute,” said Sam. “There’s somebody waiting outside who should be in on this.” He went to the door and beckoned. A young man entered. He wore long hair and spectacles that gave him an owlish look. His face was pale.

“Meet Graham Retson,” Sam Radley introduced the youth. “He’s ready to provide some answers to the questions in this case.”

“Wow!” Joe said, shaking hands with the youth. “We tramped all over Brazil looking for you!”

“Believe me, I wish you had found me sooner,” Graham said. “As it was, Sam was just in time to rescue me from the sauna room before I passed out. They locked me in there and turned up the temperature!”

Frank looked at Sam Radley and his father. “How about letting us in on all the details?”

“To begin with,” Mr. Hardy explained, “San Marten and his gang have been running a Change-Your-Identity operation here at the Olympic Health Club. Criminals were outfitted with new faces, personalities, and passports, which were in ample supply from the post office heist. Of course, the documents were doctored to fit their new owners.”

“How did they ever get away with it?” Joe asked. “This health club is a big place, and to keep an operation like this secret—”

“They had everything set up in this subcellar,” Radley put in. “It is cleverly concealed from the rest of the building. No one who worked here knew about it, except Portner, Grimsel, and the three musclemen who acted as the ground patrol. Every time those signal lights on the roof flashed on, they checked the premises for unwanted intruders.”

With a sidelong glance at San Marten, who stood in silent rage, Carton said, “We’ve arrested those four already. Grimsel, incidentally, was never really fired. That was just an act Portner put on to underline his ‘no trespassers allowed’ policy.”

“Sam, how did you ever find out about the subcellar?” Frank asked. “We’ve been here with the police searching the whole place and came up with nothing!”

“It took me a while. It is only accessible by a hidden elevator. See that cubicle over there? It’s the operating room where the gang’s doctor—Buru, incidentally—performed plastic surgery.”

“Wow! And we thought he was a witch doctor,” Frank said.

“What about personality changes?” Joe asked.

“They brainwashed people,” Sam said. “Mostly criminals. For an exorbitant fee they gave them psychiatric treatment, including hypnosis. Moreno here, who poses as a strong-arm man, is really a licensed psychiatrist. Exhibit A—San Marten himself.”

Now Graham Retson spoke up. “I learned about their operation by accident. They made me a prisoner in the club.”

“You mean you never ran away from home?” Joe asked.

Graham shook his head. “I was going to leave after I found out my father was involved with that gang. I went to the bank and withdrew money, but the bank president notified my father immediately and he intercepted me on my way from the bank to the airport.”

Graham paced back and forth as he related the past events. “I tried to escape a few times, but I could never get far enough before they found out. Those lights flashing on and off were signals for the guards to look for me. Once I got as far as Whisperwood—”

“Were you the one who threw a golf ball through the guesthouse window?” Joe interrupted.

“Yes. I thought Harris was there. I didn’t know he had moved back into the main house. He was my friend, and I was trying to signal him. My father caught me that time. Another time I almost made it to the waterfall. I heard my mother call me. Then Grimsel and Moreno seemed to appear out of nowhere and Moreno clubbed me. I heard them talking later about Grimsel spotting you at the falls that night.”

“So he was the one who pushed me into the water,” Frank said.

“Graham,” Joe said, “how did your mother know that you were at the Olympic Health Club?”

“I don’t think she actually knew for certain. It must have been terrible for her. It caused her breakdown, no doubt. Sam Radley told me about that.”

Graham looked at his father accusingly. J. G. Retson flushed.

“I owed money to their loan sharks and couldn’t pay it back. So they forced me to work with them. I have many important contacts in industry and was able to launch many of their clients in various businesses. For that the gang charged an extra fee. You discovered the scheme, Graham, so we had to hold you prisoner in the club. I worked out arrangements to send you abroad, however. You would have had your freedom and enough money to live on. Look, Graham—”

“Forget it,” Graham said disgustedly.

Frank spoke up. “Why did you insist that we investigate Graham’s disappearance. Mr. Retson?”

“To make it look good. My wife was suspicious, and I had to convince her that I was eager to find the boy. I didn’t want to hurt her, believe me—”

“So you put that note in my jacket to throw suspicion on the butler,” Joe cut him short.

“Also,” Frank said, “you sent us on that wild-goose chase to Brazil. You had your nerve, complaining when we returned without Graham!”

Joe turned to Sam Radley. “How did you ever hit on that ventilator clue, Sam?”

“Well,” Radley replied, “I had found out about the sub-basement. But as a patient, I couldn’t possibly get down there without being suspect. I figured the only way to investigate was through the ventilator shaft from the outside. I tried it once but almost got caught.”

“Not almost,” Frank said. “We heard them say that Radley was the fuzz. They knew, and were probably waiting for a good opportunity to get rid of you.”

“I guess that just about winds up the case,” Fenton Hardy remarked to Chief Carton.

“There’s one thing that hasn’t been explained yet,” Frank spoke up. He went over to the monkey cage. Diabo glared at him through the bars.

“Joe, give me a hand here,” Frank said. “I want to see what makes this monkey tick.” He opened the door to the cage. Immediately the monkey growled menacingly, and Joe had to use all his might to keep him down while Frank removed the mask.

As soon as the boy had pulled the rubber mask off, the monkey calmed down. A pleasant, gentle simian face emerged, and bright eyes glanced around the gathering in a friendly way. Diabo seemed to be wondering which of these human beings would be good for a handful of nuts or a banana.

Fenton Hardy shook his head in disbelief. “That’s the most astonishing transformation I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Diabo must have been trained to be vicious only when he had the mask on. I wonder how.”

“Here’s a possible answer,” Frank said. He turned the rubber mask inside out, revealing a couple of tiny earphones hidden in the thick earpieces. “Somebody’s been radioing instructions to Diabo.”

Joe observed San Marten move his head uncomfortably, as if his collar were too tight. The boy went over to examine the prisoner closer.

“Just as I expected!” Joe exclaimed. He removed a collar mike and followed the cord to a sending unit concealed under San Marten’s shirt.

The Hardys studied the apparatus. Finally Fenton Hardy said, “I see it now. High-frequency signals sent out between oral instruction could drive the poor animal crazy.” He turned to San Marten. “You’re a sadist!”

“Dad,” Frank said, “I think Diabo’s first monkeyshine was tossing a bag of nuts at me from a truck in Belem.”

“Wait a minute, Frank,” Joe said. “He wasn’t wearing a mask then.”

Frank laughed. “You’re right. He was strictly monkeying around on his own that time.”

“But he had the mask on when he burglarized our room at the hotel,” Joe went on.

“And when he pitched us into the Amazon,” Frank added.

“Diabo’s a very versatile monkey,” Chet put in.

“So is the whole gang, in a sinister way,” Frank muttered. He was thinking of his first day in Belem. “I wonder if that hotel clerk at the Excelsior Grao Para was in with the gang.”

Retson answered. “No. San Marten had someone pose as Graham at the hotel.”

“What about Bauer in Manaus?”

“He’s a confederate.”

Frank addressed San Marten. “He was with you that night at the dock when you had us thrown in the Amazon, wasn’t he?”

The man shrugged.

“We’ll inform the Brazilian police about Bauer,” Chief Carton said.

“One more thing,” Chet said. “Who phoned me about the pistol?”

“I did,” Moreno grumbled.

Chief Carton motioned to his men. “Take the prisoners to headquarters.”

Joe Hardy grinned at his brother. “Well, I’m glad that’s over. I don’t want to do anything more serious than scavenge golf balls with Chet from now on!”

“Count me in, too,” said Frank as everyone filed out.

But neither Frank nor Joe were aware that they would have little time to participate in Chet’s project. A new case, The Shattered Helmet, would soon involve them in a chain of exciting events.

Upstairs in the lobby Frank turned to Graham Retson. “You know,” he said, “our first clue in this investigation was a poem we found in your room. It goes like this:

“ ‘My life is a walled city

From which I must flee;

This must my prison be

So long as—’”

“I remember that,” Graham interrupted.

“We figured you were thinking about escaping from home, or even changing your personality when you wrote it. Were we correct?”

Graham chuckled. “Sorry, Frank. You were on another wild-goose chase.”

“Then what does the poem mean?”

“You’ll have to ask the author, not me. I copied it out of a magazine!”

THE SHATTERED HELMET

Danger is the name of the game when the Hardys agree to help their pen pal from Greece, Evan Pandropolos, search for a priceless, ancient Greek helmet Years ago, Evan’s uncle had loaned it to a Hollywood movie company for use in a silent motion picture, but the treasured helmet had been lost.

At Hunt College, where Evan, Frank, Joe, and Chet Morton are taking a summer course in film-making, the boys are harassed by enemies who grow more and more vicious. Are gangsters hounding them to force Mr. Hardy to give up his investigation of an international crime syndicate? Or are the boys’ sinister foes also seeking the helmet?

Clues that the young detectives unearth keep them constantly on the move—from college campus to California and finally to Greece. In a sizzling climax the Hardys, Evan, and Chet match wits with their powerful enemies on the island of Corfu.

Suddenly Jock’s foot kicked out!

The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

THE SHATTERED HELMET

BY

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Publishers • New York

A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1973, by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 72-90825 ISBN: 978-1-101-65730-0

CONTENTS

I

A WEIRD WELCOME

II

START WORRYING!

III

FIRECRACKER PLAN

IV

TRAILED BY AN AMAZON

V

TRICKY LEON

VI

A CLUE ON FILM

VII

THE MYSTERIOUS RED CAR

VIII

MOTORCYCLE MONSTERS

IX

THE DISAPPEARING ACT

X

FLASH FLOOD

XI

CHEESE BAIT

XII

SUSPECT JOE

XIII

LOS ANGELES RENDEZVOUS

XIV

SURPRISE PHONE CALL

XV

CAT AND MOUSE

XVI

FLIGHT TO GREECE

XVII

MASQUERADE

XVIII

SYMPATHETIC VANIDES

XIX

THE CAVES OF CORFU

XX

BANG-UP ROUNDUP

CHAPTER I

A Weird Welcome

“CAN you tell a Greek by looking at him?” asked Joe Hardy.

“Stop kidding,” his brother Frank replied, “and keep an eye peeled. This is quite a crowd. We may miss him.”

The boys scanned the faces of incoming passengers hurrying to the baggage claim area of Bayport Airport. They were waiting to meet Evangelos Pandropolos, a Greek student who would attend Hunt College with them for a few weeks while taking a course in film-making.

“There he is!” Joe exclaimed.

The youth at the claim center looked exactly like the photo he had sent the Hardys. He was shorter than Frank and Joe, had wavy black hair, keen dark eyes, and a handsome face. At the moment he looked perplexed.

“He’s in trouble!” Frank said. “That big blond guy is trying to take his suitcase!”

Frank and Joe hurried over to Evangelos. He and a tall, good-looking young man were grasping the handle of the same suitcase. The man, who was slightly overweight around the middle, carried an expensive movie camera in his other hand.

“Evangelos!” Frank said. “What’s the matter?”

The Greek youth turned and smiled. “The Hardys? What an embarrassing way to meet you. This person wants my suitcase.” He spoke excellent English with a pleasant accent.

The tall man broke in, “Listen here! I’m Leon Saffel, and this is my bag, bud. Come on, let go!”

“I beg your pardon,” Evangelos replied. “Perhaps if we both let go, I can prove to you that it belongs to me!”

His adversary sneered. “You foreigners are all alike. Always want to prove something.” With this he gave a furious tug. Evangelos let go at the same moment.

Saffel stumbled backward over another suitcase and landed flat on his back, desperately clutching his camera with one hand and the bag with the other. He lay stunned for a moment. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered to see what all the excitement was about.

Frank and Joe tried to hide a look of amusement, then each grasped one of Saffel’s arms and helped him to his feet.

Saffel stumbled backward.

“Leave me alone!” Saffel fumed. “If this camera is damaged I’ll have you all arrested! I’ll sue you!”

“Calm down,” Evangelos said. “It was your fault.”

“You asked him to let go,” Frank added. “Now, let’s get this straightened out.”

As he spoke, a uniformed baggage claim agent pushed through the crowd and asked if he could be of help.

“Yes, sir,” Evangelos said. He opened his ticket folder, took out a claim check, and handed it over. “This man has my bag.”

The agent compared the numbers. “That’s right. This suitcase is yours.” He took it from Saffel and gave it to the Greek.

“B-but—” Saffel stammered in disbelief.

“Here comes another one like it,” the agent said, pointing to the conveyor belt. He stepped forward, grasped it, and asked Saffel for his claim check. Then he verified the suitcase as his.

Saffel looked embarrassed as the three boys walked out of the terminal building to the parking lot, where the Hardys’ car waited.

“Evangelos,” Frank said, “you entered Bayport with a bang!”

“How’s that?”

“With plenty of excitement,” Joe said, smiling.

“Quite unfortunate,” Evangelos said. “I hope it isn’t a bad omen.” Then he added, “Please call me Evan. Now which is Frank and which Joe?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two photographs. “I get confused.” He studied the boys’ faces as they stood beside their car, then referred to the pictures. “Ah, yes. You’re Frank, the older one.”

“Right. I’m eighteen.”

“And, Joe, your hair is light—almost the same color as the unfortunate Mr. Saffel’s.”

Joe laughed. “I’m just about a year younger than you and Frank.”

“Good. Now I have you straight, I think,” Evan said and shook hands with his new friends.

Joe swung the bag into the trunk, then slid into the rear seat. Frank beckoned Evan to sit beside him. “We’ll give you the fifty-cent tour of Bayport on the way home,” he said and drove out of the parking area.

The adjacent highway led through open country to the outskirts of town. Bayport was a city of fifty thousand inhabitants located on Barmet Bay, a sweeping indentation on the Atlantic coast. Evan watched the unfolding panorama with rapt attention. He smiled when Frank drove along the waterfront, where two freighters were berthed at wharves and smaller boats lay at anchor in the bay.

“Just like in Greece,” he said. “We like the sea and ships.” He added, “I’m really excited about our studies at Hunt College.”

Evan had heard about the summer course from Frank and Joe. The three boys were pen pals, members of an international camera club.

“Our friend, Chet Morton, has enrolled, also,” Frank told the visitor. “He’s a movie-making buff, too.”

“It’ll be great fun,” Joe said. “The campus is out in the country about fifty miles from Bayport.”

“What kind of camera do you have?” Frank inquired.

“A new Cyclops,” Evan replied. “It’s in my suitcase.”

“Great. Say, that was a beauty Saffel had. Joe and I own good ones, but not that fancy.”

Finally Frank drove to the Hardy home on Elm Street, a shady avenue of one-family houses, and pulled into the driveway. The boys got out. Joe took care of the suitcase, and Frank escorted Evan inside.

Waiting to greet him were the Hardy boys’ parents and their Aunt Gertrude. Evan seemed shy as introductions were made.

“We’re so glad you could come,” Mrs. Hardy said, taking Evan’s hand in both of hers. “Please make yourself at home.”

Evan smiled, shook hands with Mr. Hardy, and bowed to his sister Gertrude, an angular woman with pessimistic views of her nephews’ detective activities.

“It is very kind of you to ask me to stay overnight in your home,” said Evan, then added warmly, “I think Americans—like Greeks—are very hospitable people.”

Aunt Gertrude’s face brightened. “Evangelos,” she said, “you seem like a very nice young man. The proper kind of companion for Frank and Joe.”

“Now wait a minute, Aunty,” Joe said. “You make it sound as if our friends were a bunch of freaks.”

“Yes,” Frank added. “What about Chet and Biff and all the rest? What’s wrong with them?”

Gertrude Hardy raised her eyebrows. “I’m not referring to them. What I mean are those terrible criminals you and your father often get mixed up with.”

Mr. Hardy smiled. “Frank and Joe often help me on my investigations, Evan,” he explained.

Evangelos Pandropolos knew from their correspondence about Mr. Hardy’s profession, but since he was not an American, he did not realize how famous the detective was. Fenton Hardy, formerly with the New York City Police Department, had left the force to set up his own agency in Bayport when his sons were quite young. They had grown up steeped in police lore and had gained a reputation in their own right.

Starting with a case known as The Tower Treasure, Frank and Joe had proved their keen sleuthing ability. Their latest adventure, The Masked Monkey, had taken them to Brazil in the hair-raising quest for a missing youth.

Laura Hardy smiled. “Their cases often are dangerous, but I have confidence in my boys. Come now, supper is nearly ready. Frank and Joe, why don’t you show Evan to his room?”

The three went upstairs to the guest room, which was small but comfortably furnished.

“Our room is next door,” Frank said. “You can share our bath.”

As Evan unpacked, he remained silent, as if thinking about something. After putting his shirts in the dresser drawer, he turned to the Hardys. “This could be a very lucky day for me,” he said.

“How so?” Frank asked.

“Meeting a detective family like yours.”

“Don’t tell me you have a mystery to solve,” Joe quipped as they trooped downstairs.

“It’s almost an impossible one,” Evan said. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

The delicate aroma of Aunt Gertrude’s apple pie mingled with the smell of sizzling roast beef. It sharpened the appetites of the three boys.

During the meal, conversation switched from one subject to another—the film school at Hunt, cameras and lenses, American television.

“Speaking of television,” Joe said, “Dad’s on a very interesting assignment right now.”

“It’s the first of its kind for me,” Mr. Hardy explained. “I’m a consultant for a TV documentary exposing a crime syndicate.”

“Dad knows how criminals operate,” Frank put in. “He’s really digging out a good story about Twister Gerrold’s operation.”

The Hardys told Evan that Twister Gerrold was a crime overlord who kept in the background and let his assistants do the dirty work.

“His real name is Filbert Francisco Gerrold,” Frank said, helping himself to another slice of beef. “The mention of it infuriates him.”

“Is it an odd name?” Evan asked.

“Guess he thinks it’s too fancy a name for a gangster,” Joe replied. “Ol’ Filbert Francisco’s getting pretty nervous about the documentary. Dad has unearthed some juicy new evidence against him and his gang.”

Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “Nothing good will come of it, I tell you, Fenton. You should stay away from such evil men before something terrible happens to all of us.” She paused and held up a finger. “What was that noise?”

Everyone was silent for a moment. “I don’t hear anything,” Joe said.

“I certainly did,” Aunt Gertrude insisted.

“You’re jittery,” Frank said. “Would it make you feel any better if I turned on the outside alarm system?”

“Yes. Please do.”

Frank rose from the table to activate an electric surveillance system protecting the Hardy property.

“Okay,” he said after he returned. “Now we can eat our dessert in peace. By the way, Evan, what’s that mystery you were talking about?”

Fenton Hardy leaned forward in his chair. “You’re involved in a mystery? You’ve come to the right place.”

“Let’s hear it,” Joe said eagerly. “We’re ready for an exciting new case!”

Miss Hardy clucked disapprovingly, but listened intently as Evan began to spin his tale. “You are probably aware that Nicholas Pandropolos, the Greek shipping magnate, is my uncle.”

“We were wondering whether you were related,” Joe said. “How does it feel to be the nephew of a millionaire?”

Evan grinned. “It’s not my money. Anyway, he wasn’t always rich. When he was young, Uncle Nick was very poor. At fifteen he signed on a ship as a sailor. About that time, some boys in my hometown near Mycene discovered an ancient helmet which probably belonged to a Greek warrior.”

Evan went on to say that a curator from an American museum who was touring Greece had seen the helmet. It was split in the back, as if by a sword, and had several undecipherable letters inscribed on the front above the nosepiece. They were copied down, but no picture had been taken of the helmet.

“The curator told about a museum in Los Angeles that might be interested in buying it,” he said. “Since Uncle Nick’s ship was going to California, he was entrusted by the townspeople to take the helmet with him.”

Aunt Gertrude drew in her breath. “Don’t tell me he lost it!”

“Someone else did. When he arrived in California, Uncle Nick made friends with a movie cameraman who was working at the time on a film called The Persian Glory. They needed an authentic Greek helmet so Uncle Nick loaned it in exchange for a bit part in the movie. The prop department somehow lost the old treasure.”

“What a shame!” Laura Hardy said.

“It was quite a blow to Uncle Nick,” Evan continued. “He returned to Greece very sad. The townspeople forgave him, but he never forgave himself. He really wants to find the ancient helmet.”

“That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Frank said.

“Too difficult an assignment for you?” Mr. Hardy teased.

“Are you kidding? We’ll give it a try.”

“You will?” Evan could hardly believe his good luck. He swallowed the last bite of pie, thanked his hosts, and asked to be excused.

“I’ll go upstairs and write Uncle Nick immediately,” he said.

“Use the desk in our room,” Frank suggested. “You’ll find paper in the top left drawer.”

Evan was gone only a few seconds when the Hardys heard him cry out in alarm. Frank and Joe dashed up the stairs three steps at a time.

“What happened?” Frank asked as they burst into their room.

Evan pointed to Joe’s bed. On the spread lay a hairy tarantula. As the boys stared at the creature, the alarm system suddenly shrieked a warning!

CHAPTER II

Start Worrying!

FRANK grabbed the empty wastebasket beside the desk, turned it upside down, and trapped the spider on the bedspread. Then the three boys dashed downstairs and outside, where Mr. Hardy was beaming a powerful flashlight around the grounds.

“See anybody, Dad?” Joe asked.

“No. The intruder was scared off.”

Frank quickly explained about the tarantula on Joe’s bed. “Obviously whoever put it there sneaked in before the alarm system was turned on, and it went off when the intruder was making his getaway.”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude, who had stepped out into the back yard, heard Frank telling his father about the spider.

“A tarantula in our house!” Aunt Gertrude cried out. “Oh, Laura, I understand they multiply fast. We’ll have tarantula eggs all over the place!”

“Don’t worry, Gertrude,” Mr. Hardy said. “We’ll destroy it before it can lay any.”

“Let’s see how the prowler got up to the second floor,” Frank suggested.

“I’d say he climbed the drainpipe,” Joe said, pointing to the metal tubing located behind a rhododendron bush. It extended past the boys’ window to the gutter at the end of the sloping roof.

Frank took his father’s flashlight and carefully parted the bush, “Footprints!” he announced. “But, Dad, they’re so small—like a child’s!”

At that moment a blast shook the Hardy house. Glass from the window above rained down on the rhododendron. Frank jumped back to avoid being hit.

“What in the world was that?” Joe exclaimed.

“Something exploded in our room!” Frank said.

Evan stood by open-mouthed at all the excitement. Then he followed the others upstairs.

Joe’s bedspread was torn, so were the sheets. A piece of wood from the frame had hit the mirror and shattered it. The wastebasket had been blown to the ceiling, where the circular bottom had made a mark.

“The spider!” Evan cried out. “What happened to the tarantula?”

“It was a fake,” Frank said grimly. “Someone made a clever imitation, concealing an explosive device.”

“But why?”

“Obviously this was a warning,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’m probably putting too much heat on Twister Gerrold. One of his favorite methods of retaliation is to threaten members of someone’s family.”

“What a welcome to Evan,” Joe said.

The Greek youth grinned. “I must say life has been exciting since I arrived in Bayport.”

After scanning the bedroom for clues, Frank found that the window screen had been forced open.

“Who could it have been?” he wondered aloud.

“Kitten Cole is my guess,” Mr. Hardy replied.

“Who?”

“Kitten Cole,” the detective repeated. He told his sons that Cole was a famous cat burglar and lock expert. “He’s been part of Gerrold’s gang for years,” Mr. Hardy said. “And he has very small feet.”

“You mean Gerrold gave him the job of leaving the tarantula to warn you to give up the investigation,” Evan asked Mr. Hardy.

“Probably. Come on, I’ll show you what Cole looks like.” Mr. Hardy led the way to his study, opened a file cabinet, and removed a dossier. Cole’s mug shots showed that he was an odd-looking man. He had a small, narrow face, a receding chin, and an upturned nose. His height was five feet, and he weighed only ninety pounds.

Cole’s record showed that he had served several terms in prison. But he had been out for the last three years.

“Well, I’d better call the police,” Mr. Hardy said and dialed Chief Collig’s number. The chief, who was a good friend of the family, said he would have his men check on the Hardy residence and also be on the lookout for Cole.

Aunt Gertrude, who had been quiet up to this time, finally regained her composure. “I told you I heard a noise,” she said. “But no one believed me!”

“You’re right,” Mr. Hardy said. “We should have investigated. You see, you’re a better detective than all of us.”

Mrs. Hardy threw up her hands in despair. “It’ll take us a week to straighten out this mess!”

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Frank said. “We’ll give you a hand after the police investigation.”

Before long, two young officers arrived. When they had finished dusting for fingerprints and made casts of the footprints under the rhododendron bush, they gathered tiny parts of the explosive device. Then they questioned the family and left.

Everyone helped to clean up. Under Aunt Gertrude’s able direction, the job was completed sooner than had been expected.

Finally Evan sat down to write his letter. He had just finished and come downstairs to join the others when loud backfiring could be heard in front of the Hardys’ home. Heavy feet clomped onto the porch and Chet Morton called through the front screen door to announce his arrival.

Chet was as tall as the Hardys, with a broad back and a waistline which was far from trim. He was known all over Bayport for his enormous appetite.

“Hi, come on in, Chet,” Joe said. “We’d like you to meet our guest.”

The two boys shook hands. “How’s everything in Greece?” asked Chet.

“Quiet in comparison to America,” Evan said with a grin.

“If you want excitement, you came to the right place.”

“Yes, I found that out already.”

“No kidding. What happened?”

Frank and Joe told about the intruder and the explosive tarantula.

“Well, it might be dangerous around here,” Chet said, “but Aunt Gertrude’s baking makes up for everything. How about it, Aunty? Any of that apple pie left?”

“I’ll get you a piece,” Miss Hardy replied.

“You know she always saves some for you,” Frank said. “You’ve got influence!”

As Chet ate his pie, Joe said to Evan, “Chet’s big on film-making. He’s going to drive to Hunt College with us.”

“Right,” Chet said. “Lots of people here are interested in the subject”

“It’s popular world-wide,” Evan said. “Young people in Greece are very keen on it.”

“Living on campus ought to be fun,” Chet said. “I wonder what kind of chef they have up there.”

“There you go again,” Frank said. “Always thinking about food.”

“An army travels on its stomach,” Chet remarked solemnly. “And movie people have to live too.”

“What kind of films have you made?” Evan asked. “I’d like to see them some time.”

“You said the wrong thing,” Frank said with a laugh.

“Would you really like to see some of my work?” Chet inquired. “I just happen to have a couple of reels in the car.”

He hastened outside to his jalopy and returned with the films. Joe set up the screen while Frank readied the projector.

“I’m warning you, Evan,” said Joe, “that Chet is his own greatest subject.”

“Oh, cut it out,” Chet replied. “In the country, where I live, there aren’t too many people around.”

“You got a cow and some chickens!” Frank teased. “But of course they’re not as gorgeous as you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but this film happens to be about Iola,” Chet said haughtily as the projector began to whir.

A lovely girl in a swimsuit emerged from a pond, stretched, threw back her long dark hair and ran toward the camera in slow motion.

Evan was spellbound. “Who is that beautiful girl?”

“My sister,” Chet said proudly.

“Really?”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Frank commented.

“I certainly would like to meet her,” Evan said.

“Forget it, pal,” Joe quipped. “I never introduce her to a prospective rival.”

“Is she your girl friend?”

“I’ve been dating her.”

Evan sighed. “Too bad for me. Well, Chet, I must admit the photography is excellent.”

“I like to use outside natural light,” Chet said. He explained details as the film went on for about ten minutes. When he rewound it, Frank said, “Now that you’ve seen Otto Preminger at his best, we’d better get our things ready so we can leave after breakfast tomorrow.”

The next day was sunny and warm. The boys stowed their cameras and suitcases in the trunk. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy cheerfully wished them a good time at the film school, but Aunt Gertrude was less than enthusiastic about the trip.

“Be careful of criminals!” she warned. “That thug who climbed up the drainpipe last night might follow you. Lock the doors and windows of your room.”

“But, Aunty, it’s summer,” Joe said as he slammed the trunk shut. “We’d suffocate.”

“Better than being murdered in your sleep,” she said dolefully.

“All right.” Frank grinned. “We’ll be extra careful.”

The trio left in high spirits, but Frank, who was driving, checked his rear-view mirror occasionally. Nobody seemed to be tailing them, although a red car passed them once before dropping behind in the slow lane.

“That’s a cool foreign job,” Joe remarked idly. “I go for that neat white trim.”

At noon they stopped at a diner for a sandwich. Frank locked the car doors before going in. When they returned after the meal, he exclaimed, “Hey, look! What are these beads on the front seat?”

“Komboloi,” Evan said.

“What’s that?” Chet asked.

“Worry beads.” Evan explained that many men in Greece play with strings of beads. “It keeps their hands busy and is said to be relaxing. Personally I don’t use them.”

“But what are they doing in the car?” Chet asked. “Didn’t you lock it, Frank?”

“Sure did.”

“Do you suppose that Kitten Cole, the lock expert, was following us?” Joe conjectured.

“Probably,” Frank said. “He wants us to start worrying.”

“As if that explosive tarantula wasn’t enough,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “We’d better keep our eyes open from now on,” he said. “Well, let’s get going.”

A few miles from the town of Hunt they passed a spectacular waterfall cascading down the side of a wooded hill. A sign read Silver Mine Falls State Park. Shortly afterward, they reached their destination.

Hunt College proved to be an attractive small school with modern buildings set against a green sloping hillside. A quiet river ran through the glade.

The boys registered at the office and were directed to a dormitory. Their room, A-14, was large and airy, with double-decker bunk beds on either side. The window was some ten feet above the grassy lawn and commanded a pleasant view of a tree-lined path which led to the other buildings.

The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the campus. One part of the river widened into a small basin where a flock of ducks paddled about.

It was early evening when the boys went to the cafeteria for dinner. They sat at a large table with other young men and women. After the meal a dozen students gathered around a piano. Seated at the keyboard was a smiling man in his thirties playing popular tunes.

While Chet was working on his second dessert, Frank, Joe, and Evan joined the group. Just then a tall, blond young man entered the room. He wore a green-and-yellow checkered jacket and a red scarf tucked around his neck.

“Good night!” Joe said. “Look who’s here—Leon Saffel!”

Evan’s eyes widened. “Is he an instructor?”

“If he is,” Frank said, “we might be in for a rough time!”

CHAPTER III

Firecracker Plan

LEON SAFFEL’S gaze swept across the room, but he showed no recognition of the boys as he walked toward the piano. He squared his shoulders, tugged at the lapels of his jacket, and fussed with his scarf.

“Oh, boy!” Joe said. “Isn’t he cute?”

“Don’t be jealous,” Frank quipped.

By now Chet had joined his companions and the Hardys clued him in. Chet watched as Saffel squeezed onto the bench beside the pianist and smiled into the faces of those gathered around.

“Yep. He probably is a prof,” Chet said. “If he has it in for you guys, I suggest you get a refund and split.”

“And you?” Joe asked.

Chet studied his fingernails. “I’ll stay, of course. Ol’ Chet can make friends with a polecat.”

“Then he’s your man,” Frank said. He got four bottles of Coke from a nearby machine and handed them out. Sipping their drinks, the boys edged closer to the piano. The player ran his fingers up the keyboard and broke into a familiar camping song.

Everyone joined in and the formality of a new situation melted into carefree camaraderie. A slim girl with long jet-black hair hopped onto the piano and gave a solo performance of one of the verses. The students clapped. Leon Saffel, however, cleared his throat and said:

“My dear, that was quite good, but you tend to go flat in the higher register. You should really take vocal lessons.”

“I say she’s very good!”

All eyes turned to the speaker. He was in his twenties, wore a green sweater, had reddish hair and a full beard.

“Thank you,” replied the girl and blew him a kiss. Then she looked hard at Leon. “I do take lessons.”

A high-pitched laugh of embarrassment filled the room. The girl continued to stare at Leon and added, “Perhaps you could give me some pointers. I presume you’re a teacher.”

“Oh, no. I don’t teach. I’m a student here.”

Chet, who was taking a long swig of Coke, tried to swallow, but choked. The Coke sprayed from his mouth as if from an atomizer. It hit Leon in the back of his neck, dripping all over his collar and the silk scarf.

Several girls held their hands to their faces to suppress giggles, but a few boys openly guffawed.

Saffel wheeled around and glared at Chet while daubing at the wetness with a breast pocket handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, Leon,” Chet said. “It was one of those things. I get the hiccups sometimes.”

“Well, get them somewhere else!” Saffel fumed. Then he did a double-take. “How come you know my name?”

“Why—er—I’ve heard about you.”

“How’s that?”

“Some of my friends saw you lying down in Bayport Airport.”

Saffel’s eyes scanned the other faces. “So! You’re here!” he said, having discovered the Hardys and Evan.

Frank stepped forward. “Look, Saffel. Why don’t you let bygones be bygones? We’re all here to learn something about film-making, and we should be friends.” He held out his hand.

Leon tossed his head. “I’m particular about my friends!”

The red-haired young man said, “You fellows better kiss and make up now, because you might be working together later on.”

“Says who?”

“Says Jeff Riker, one of your instructors.” He winked at the pianist and left.

“You’d better believe him,” said the player. He started another lively tune and the tension was broken.

Half an hour later the pianist stopped playing. He walked over to the Hardys and their friends. “I’m Johnny Almquist,” he said, and shook hands. “I teach English at Hunt and drop in for a look-see during the film course.” He continued in a low voice, “Don’t be too hard on Saffel. I understand he’s a rich kid. Sort of spoiled, you know. He ate in town tonight because he didn’t like the carrots on our menu.”

“He sounds like a doll,” Frank said, then added, “Thanks for the tip. We’ll try to be nice to him.”

“Okay. See you around. Don’t forget, the first meeting is at nine tomorrow morning.”

Before going to bed, the boys told Chet about their latest mystery—the search for the ancient helmet.

“Sorry,” Chet said, “but I think this is one case you’re not going to solve.”

Evan looked disappointed and Chet added, “You’ve got absolutely nothing to go on.”

“Well,” Frank reasoned, “if we could dig up a copy of The Persian Glory, we could find out what the helmet looks like and take it from there. And Hunt might just be the place to start. Some of these film people might give us a lead.”

The first lecture next morning was given by Jeff Riker in a small theater packed with young people.

“Motion pictures used to be strictly entertainment, but are now beginning to gain recognition as an art form,” Riker said. “As we discuss techniques, we will study old films at the same time.”

The theater darkened and two reels of a classic comedy were shown. Discussion followed about the overdrawn acting and the fine lighting for the period in which the movie was made.

“With the arrival of sound movies,” Jeff went on, “not much attention was paid to the oldies. Many were mislaid in studios. Some were destroyed by fires. Others were stolen. But films have a way of turning up in some forgotten vault or dusty attic, or in the hands of private collectors.”

Frank whispered to Joe, “Jeff Riker would be the one to ask about The Persian Glory.”

After class the instructor was besieged by enthusiastic questioners. The Hardys had to wait until lunch to talk with Riker. They found him sitting alone at the far end of the cafeteria.

“Hi, fellows,” he said as they approached. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for an old film,” Frank replied.

“Pull up chairs.”

The boys told about the lost helmet, the recovery of which hinged on locating the movie in which it was used.

“There are no photos of this helmet?” Jeff asked.

“Not one.”

“What’s the name of the film?”

“The Persian Glory.”

Riker let out a low whistle. “That’s one of those lost movies. Collectors have been trying to find a copy for years.”

Frank sighed. “What rotten luck! Well, don’t tell anyone about this, please. The fewer who know about our search the better.”

Riker agreed.

After lunch there was another class. A woman instructor stressed the mood in film-making.

She said, “I want you to go out this afternoon and shoot some footage indicating mood.”

Several hands were raised in question. What kind of mood? Where could it be found? Would it be illustrated by people or locale?

“That’s up to you. Film whatever you like,” she said. “Tranquillity, excitement, or whatever.”

As they left the class to get their cameras, Joe said, “I vote for excitement.”

“Like what?” Chet asked.

“Like photographing a waterfall, for instance,” Joe replied. “Remember Silver Mine Falls we passed on the way?”

“Not a bad idea,” Frank agreed.

The boys got their cameras, loaded them with 16-millimeter film, jumped into their car and headed toward Silver Mine Falls. On the way Chet suddenly cried out, “Hey, Joel Stop a minute.”

Joe had hardly braked the car on the side of the road when Chet opened the door and jumped out. He made a beeline for a small roadside stand covered with red, white, and blue bunting. A big sign beside it announced Fireworks.

“Chet, come back here,” Frank called out. “We haven’t got time for that!”

But Chet had already made a purchase, which he slipped into his pocket. He hastened back to the car and slammed the door.

“What did you buy?” Evan asked.

A wide grin spread over Chet’s freckled face. “Firecrackers.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! We’re up here for some serious work, and you want to go around shooting off firecrackers!” Joe shook his head.

“Not shooting off,” Chet said. “They’re for a special purpose.”

“Like what?” asked Frank.

“I intend to set them off tonight to scare our fancy friend, Leon Saffel.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Frank said. “You’ll have us thrown out of Hunt before we get started.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “Hand them over, Chet.”

“B-but—”

“Come on,” Joe urged. “All we need now is a big ruckus to blast our chance for finding a clue to The Persian Glory.”

“Okay,” Chet replied and gave the package to Joe, who slipped it in the pocket of his windbreaker.

Then he drove off again. Shortly afterward, he turned into a parking area several hundred yards from the falls.

Carrying their cameras and tripods, the group set off along a narrow path which led to the bottom of the falls. From high up on the hillside the water leaped down in three cascades until it frothed into a whirlpool basin.

A rushing stream carried it off under a bridge and finally to the river which flowed past Hunt College.

“This is mood all right,” Joe said. He set up his tripod and filmed the swirling waters.

Evan said, “I think we could get better shots from high above. Look, there’s a trail going to the top.”

Chet had already started up, and the others followed. The way was steep and rocky, running parallel to the falls which cut a swath through the heavily wooded hillside.

At the foot of the top cascade was a large shallow basin which sloped slightly downward and was dotted with big boulders. Evan jumped nimbly from one to the other until he reached the far side. There he set up his camera.

Chet climbed to one of the boulders in the middle of the rushing water. Perched up high, he had a dizzying view of the two cascades plunging below him to the valley.

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe ventured a little higher on the trail. From Frank’s vantage point, he had a clear shot of almost the entire falls. As his camera began to whir, Joe suddenly cried out, “Look out, Frank!”

A rock, hurled from somewhere above, missed Frank’s head by inches. It continued down the gorge and scored a solid hit on Chet’s camera!

CHAPTER IV

Trailed by an Amazon

THE camera fell from Chet’s hands into the swift-running water. He jumped in and began groping for it. But his fingers clutched only slippery stones. Suddenly his feet shot from under him. He fell and was swept toward the edge of the basin! Wildly he grasped at a rock and slid off. A foot from the drop-off he gave a desperate lurch, wedging himself between two boulders.

In a moment Evan had leaped to his assistance. Both boys worked their way to the side of the falls where Frank and Joe helped them onto the bank.

“That was pretty close,” Frank said soberly.

Chet managed to catch his breath. “Who threw the rock?” he asked. “Did you see it?”

“No. It came from over our heads. Somebody farther up the trail must have heaved it.”

Chet removed his shirt and wrung it out. He looked at Frank from the corner of his eye. “Do you suspect that Saffel did it?”

“It’s possible,” Frank said. “We’ll have to check him out.”

“I think it was somebody from Twister Gerrold’s mob,” Joe said.

They hastened back to Hunt, where some of the students had already arrived with their mood films.

“Let’s have your work,” Jeff said, “and we’ll send it out for rushes.”

“I don’t have any,” Chet said, and told Riker what had happened.

“That’s too bad. There’s a camera shop in town. Perhaps you could rent some equipment.”

At dinner that evening the Hardys made discreet inquiries regarding Saffel. A girl told Joe that Leon had been photographing ducks in the river. But she did not know whether he had spent all afternoon there. Neither did anyone else.

Next morning Jeff continued his lecture on the first motion pictures. “Film was dangerous in the old days,” he said, “because it was made of volatile nitrate. One film, in a vault in Argentina, exploded and blew the whole place apart. In fact, just moving a can of nitrate film could cause it to explode.”

He continued, “But now we have a triple acetate, or safety film. The manufacturers say it has a life span of four hundred years.”

Riker explained that nitrate stock could be copied on acetate, but that it was costly and time consuming. “The old Charlie Chaplin films have been copied that way, and they’re still very popular.”

The boys returned to their room after the lecture. Joe unlocked the door with his key, then stopped short and exclaimed, “Look at this! The place is a mess!”

The others crowded in to see the torn-up condition of their quarters. Desks and chairs had been knocked over. Clothes that had been pulled from dresser drawers were strewn about the floor. Two study lamps lay broken.

“Here’s how the prowler got in,” Frank said, pointing to the open window.

“The cameras!” Evan said. “What happened to our cameras?”

The boys found their equipment where they had left it, safely tucked away in a closet.

“If the intruder was here to steal something, he certainly missed the only thing that was worth a lot,” Frank said.

The Hardys scoured the room for clues. When nothing turned up, Joe stepped out the window onto a brick ledge and dropped down to the ground. There he found footprints. Most were indistinct, but one set of toe prints told him that the intruder had sprung up to grasp the ledge before hoisting himself into the room.

“The place is a mess!” Joe exclaimed.

Joe searched to the right and left. Suddenly an object lying under a low bush caught his eye. He pulled out a white work glove. On it was a smudge of black paint. He climbed back into the room and showed it to the others.

“Maybe the guy wore gloves,” Chet said, “so as not to leave fingerprints.”

“But why the black smudge?” Evan asked.

“He might have used them for a paint job,” Frank conjectured.

The boys checked and found nothing missing. “Maybe the fellow wasn’t a thief,” said Joe. “This could be malicious mischief.”

The Hardys reported the vandalism to the school authorities, who notified the campus police.

The boys straightened their room and after lunch drove into town to find the camera shop.

Frank pulled into a parking lot and they walked along the quaint business section, looking into display windows.

Chet glanced over his shoulder and whispered, “Frank, I think somebody is trailing us.”

The quartet lingered in front of a sports shop and looked back to see a tall girl wearing a sweat shirt, dungarees, and sneakers. She had a winsome face, short auburn hair, and large hips. In her right hand she carried a shopping bag.

The girl stopped and looked the other way until the boys moved on. Then she followed again.

Chet said jokingly, “I think she’s got a thing for you, Joe. Maybe she’s just too bashful to speak up!”

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Joe said. He turned and walked toward the girl. “Is there something we can do for you?” he asked.

She nodded with downcast eyes. “I—I guess I’m a little nervous. I don’t usually talk to strangers.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Joe said. “We’re perfectly harmless. I’m Joe Hardy. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.”

Joe walked ahead of her and said, “Fellows, this is—?”

“Thelma Sanger,” she said. “I live here. My father has a farm outside of town.”

Chet brightened. “My family has a farm too! What do you raise?”

“Corn, potatoes, tomatoes, and some tobacco.”

Frank said, “Thelma, we’re taking the film-making course at the college.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Joe noticed a park across the street and he suggested they all go there and sit on the grass.

When they were settled under a shady elm tree, Frank began, “Now tell us, Thelma, how do you know we’re taking the film course?”

“I was watching you at the falls.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I followed you up the trail, because I wanted to find out what you were doing.”

“We didn’t see you,” Evan said.

“I was sort of hiding,” the girl said shyly and looked at Chet. “I saw what happened.”

“To my camera?”

“Yes. I think I heard a man sneaking off into the woods. But—well, it might have been a deer.”

“I’m glad you told us about it,” Frank said. “Why didn’t you talk to us right then and there?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t have the nerve.” She looked at Chet again. “I know all about the falls. I’ve explored them since I was a little girl.” She put a hand in her shopping bag and pulled out a camera.

Chet looked dumbfounded. “Hey, that’s mine! Where did you get it?”

“When you left, I climbed into the basin where you dropped it. I found it between the rocks.”

“Thanks! That’s great! I guess the film’s ruined, but otherwise it doesn’t look too bad.”

“Let’s take it into the camera shop,” Frank suggested. “They can check it out.”

They all trooped across the street and entered the shop. The proprietor examined the camera carefully. He noticed a dent in the housing, but the lens, spring-wind motor, and shutter were undamaged.

“Thanks again, Thelma,” Chet said. “Can I get you a reward? Something like a chocolate soda?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

As they started up the street Frank said, “Chet, you go on with Thelma. We’ll see you back at school.”

“Okay.” Chet waved gaily and the two entered a soda shop.

Frank, Joe, and Evan got into the car, drove around a monument in the center of town, and headed over the bridge toward Hunt College.

At the entrance to the campus they passed Jeff Riker driving in the opposite direction. There was a screeching of brakes, then he backed up.

“Hi, fellows,” he called out. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“What’s up?” Joe asked.

“Oh, just an idea I had that might help you. I’ll tell you later. Suppose I come to your room after dinner tonight?”

“Fine,” Frank said and drove on.

Chet arrived just before dinner. He had thumbed a ride back to school and met Frank and Joe who were strolling across the campus. They had left Evan reading in the lounge.

Chet was smiling, and patted his stomach with satisfaction.

“Did you enjoy your soda?” Frank said.

“You bet. All three of them. And brother, can Thelma pack ‘em away! She kept up with me!”

“Yes, I would say she looks well-fed,” Joe said. “Does she play tackle or guard on the high school team?”

“Cut it out,” said Chet. “She may be big, but she sure has personality. Besides, she likes me!”

Banter about Chet’s new girl friend continued through the dinner hour. When they finally left the cafeteria, Jeff Riker joined them. They went to their dorm and closed the door. The four boys sprawled on the two lower bunks, while Riker straddled a straight-back chair.

“I think I can help you locate a clue to The Persian Glory,” he began.

“How?” Joe asked.

“There’s an old film actress living in New York named Betty Love. Her hobby is collecting movie posters from way back. If she has one about The Persian Glory, it might list the names of the actors, producers, and writers. If any of those old-timers are still living, they might give you some kind of clue.”

“Great!” Frank said. “By contacting them we could perhaps learn who has a copy of the film.”

“Precisely.”

“Do you know Betty Love’s address?”

Jeff nodded. “When you met me on the road I was going to the telephone company office. I found her name and address in a Manhattan directory.”

“Suppose we go see her tomorrow!” Evan said enthusiastically. “It’s Sunday, and we won’t miss any classes.”

“Why not?” Frank said. “The sooner the better.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall and disappeared as the boys discussed their plans. Suddenly Evan put a finger to his lips. “Listen!”

There was a rustling noise outside the door.

Frank got up, quietly turned the knob, then suddenly flung the door open.

Leon Saffel fell into the room!

CHAPTER V

Tricky Leon

SAFFEL fell to the floor, then scrambled to his feet, red-faced.

“Welcome to our room,” Joe said. “Why didn’t you knock?”

“I know why,” Chet said. “He had his ear to the keyhole.”

“That’s not true!” Saffel protested. “I was just about to knock when the door opened.”

“All right, cut the baloney,” Frank said. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to Jeff.” Saffel admitted that he had seen the Hardys and the instructor leaving the cafeteria together.

Riker seemed more amused than annoyed. “Okay, Saffel, what is it?”

“You know I’ve got connections,” Leon replied. “I know where we can get those rushes done very cheap.”

“We already have a good film lab,” Jeff said. “Even if I could get a lower price, I wouldn’t want to change at this point.”

Saffel shrugged. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Thanks just the same,” Jeff said as Saffel left.

“Why is he spying on you?” Riker asked the Hardys. “Do you have any idea?”

Evan told of the unpleasant scene at the airport. “I don’t think he likes us because of that,” he said.

“But that wouldn’t explain the eavesdropping,” Jeff said with a frown.

“’He’s trying to harass us for some unknown reason, perhaps,” Joe said, and told about their room being ransacked.

“I don’t like to see things of this sort going on at Hunt,” Jeff said. “If there’s any more trouble, please let me know.”

“Roger!” said Frank. “Thanks for the information about Betty Love. We’ll fly to New York and talk with her.”

“I’ll come with you,” Evan offered.

“Me too,” said Chet. “I’d rather stay here and shoot some film, but I don’t want to be the only one.”

“But you’ll have Thelma,” Joe needled.

Evan rubbed his chin. “Okay, Chet, we’ll both stay. But, Frank, can’t we help in some way?”

“Sure,” Frank said. “See what Saffel’s up to. And remember, lock the room and the window when you leave.”

“Just as Aunt Gertrude told us,” Joe added with a wry grin.

The next morning the Hardys rose first. “We’re off to see Lady Love,” Frank said. “Dress neatly, Joe.”

Chet rolled over in his bunk, rubbed his eyes, and sat up on one elbow. “Quit kidding me about my lady love,” he said.

The Hardys laughed and Frank threw a pillow at Chet. “Down, boy. We’re not talking about your Thelma.”

Evan was awake by now and wished the Hardys good luck.

The boys said good-by, drove to the nearby airport, and parked the car. Their flight would leave in half an hour and return from La Guardia Airport early in the afternoon.

They picked up their tickets, had a quick breakfast, and boarded the plane. Soon they were winging over the green countryside.

The pilot set his course along the Hudson River, which glistened like a silver ribbon. But near New York City, the atmosphere became cloudy.

When the buildings of Manhattan loomed out of the haze, Frank checked the address which Jeff had given him.

“Let’s take a taxi direct from the airport,” he suggested.

On the way to the city, the driver was talkative.

“That address is in a good neighborhood,” he said. “Nice old brownstone houses. You gonna visit your grandmother?”

“How did you know?” Joe asked.

“A lot of nice elderly ladies live in them buildings,” the driver replied. “Most of ‘em have dogs. They gotta be careful. Lots of burglaries around here.”

The taxi stopped in front of a quaint building. The boys paid the driver, mounted the front steps, and Frank pushed the button under the name B. Love.

Soon a buzzer sounded and the Hardys entered. Halfway down the hall a door opened a crack, and a high, trilling voice said, “Who’s there?”

It was accompanied by the sharp barking of a dog.

Frank announced who they were and that they would like to talk about old movie posters. The dog yapped some more and Miss Love commanded silence. “Are you from Hunt College?” she asked.

The boys were taken aback. “Yes,” Joe said. “But how—?”

“Come on in,” she interrupted. “Greta won’t hurt you.”

The door opened wide to reveal a fragile woman. Betty Love’s face still retained traces of the beauty of her youth. She was short, prim, with fading blond hair and a small straight nose.

Greta proved to be a saucy Pekingese. She sniffed the boys’ trouser legs, then curled up on a velvet hassock and eyed them suspiciously.

“Have a seat,” Miss Love said cordially. “This Is just the strangest coincidence. An hour ago I sold a number of my posters to a very nice young man. He was also from Hunt College. Why do you look so startled?”

Frank tried to gain his composure, “We were looking for The Persian Glory. Did you—?”

“Yes. That was among them. Are you the young man’s friends?”

“Was he tall, blond, and a little on the heavy side?”

“Oh, yes. And he had such delightful manners. He was so fond of Greta—even guessed she was named for Garbo.” The actress petted the dog. “His name was Segal—Oh no, Sapphire—”

“You mean Saffel? Leon Saffel?” Joe spoke up.

“Yes, that’s it. He’s already a film director and intends to produce a spectacular.”

“That sounds like him,” Frank muttered. “Well, we were trying to find an authentic Greek helmet used in that old movie. We don’t know what it looks like. And now—”

“Persian Glory was one of the finest,” Betty Love said. “In fact, it was my very favorite. I played the princess.”

“Then you remember the director?” Joe said.

“Certainly,” the actress said. She knew not only the director, but the entire cast and the production people.

As Frank made notes, Miss Love rattled off name after name, then gave a big sigh and let her hand fall limply into her lap. “That was yesteryear, I’m afraid. Only one person from all of those is still alive.”

“Who’s that?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Buster Buckles.”

“Oh, we know about him,” Joe said. “His movies are being revived right now. Can you tell us where he lives? Maybe he has a copy of the film.”

Betty Love laughed and her hands fluttered. “Oh, that’s impossible,” she said. “There are no more copies of The Persian Glory. But Buster—I think you might find out something about him from Actors Equity, even though he’s retired.”

She jotted down the name, address, and phone number. “They keep tabs on those old-timers,” she said.

“Miss Love, you’ve been very helpful,” Frank said as the boys rose to leave.

“Good-by, Greta,” Joe said and received a growl in reply.

On the street, Frank remarked, “Leon Saffel is one up on us, Joe.”

“That’s because he was so nice to Greta. But we’ve got the information we wanted!”

Frank chuckled. “The great director probably heard our plans when he listened at the door last night.”

“No doubt about it,” said Joe. “We’re kind of early for the plane. What say we walk over to Times Square?”

The boys strolled to the busy intersection. Then they went down to the piers to look at the ships. They ate a snack of hot dogs and sauerkraut at a street vendor’s cart before taxiing back to the airport and boarding the plane.

When the Hardys arrived at Hunt, the first thing they saw was a group of young people gathered around Leon Saffel’s display of old posters which were spread on the grass.

“What’d I tell you?” Joe said. “He’s gloating already.”

They walked closer and Saffel flipped over one of the posters so the Hardys could not see it. He gave them a sarcastic look.

“Something tells me you’ve been to the big city,” he said. “That’s my turf. Country hicks should stay away.”

There was no reply, and Leon went on, “I hear you like to visit old ladies. Did Betty Love give you my regards?”

“Yes. By the way, what’s that spectacular movie you’re going to make?” Joe needled.

This time there was silence on Saffel’s part. The Hardys coolly walked around the display and Frank said, “You know, Joe, I can see right through the back of this poster here. Behind it is the one about The Persian Glory.”

“Yep,” said Joe. “I can see it, too.”

The onlookers became interested, and Frank continued. “Oh yes. There’s the name of the director—Bart Lund, and the producers, Soderbeg and Lister.”

“And don’t forget the cast of characters,” Joe said, and proceeded to rattle off the list of names.

The students started laughing as Frank clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You’ll get an A in clairvoyance, Joe.”

Then one of the girls said, “Say, Leon, I thought you weren’t going to show that poster to the Hardys. They seem to know all about it!”

Saffel picked up his posters and walked away with a scowl on his red face.

“I guess that evens the score,” Joe said.

Frank grinned. “Right. Now let’s go find Chet and Evan.”

They were not in their room, so the Hardys had dinner alone. Shortly after dark Chet wandered into the dormitory, starry-eyed.

“Don’t tell us,” Frank said. “You had a date with Thelma.”

Chet rolled into his bunk and heaved a sigh. “She’s wonderful!”

“So she’s the greatest,” Joe said. “Where’s Evan?”

“There’s nobody like her in Bayport, or anywhere else for that matter. You know, she beat me at Indian wrestling three times out of five! You know, the hand-type.”

“I’m sure she can also lift you off the ground with one hand,” Frank said. “Now listen to me, Chet. Where’s Evan?”

“What biceps!” Chet hugged his pillow. “She’d be great working on a farm!”

Joe grabbed Chet’s legs and pulled him onto the floor. He hit with a soft thud.

“What’s the idea?” Chet complained.

“You’re not listening to us!” Frank said. “Would you mind coming back to reality for just a moment?”

“Okay, now I’m listening,” Chet said, finally roused from his daydream.

“Have you seen Evan?”

Chet jumped to his feet. “Gosh, no. Not since this afternoon. Do you think he’s in trouble?”

CHAPTER VI

A Clue on Film

“DON’T panic,” Joe said. “I doubt if he’s in trouble.”

Frank looked serious as he thought about it. “With Gerrold’s gang after us,” he reasoned, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

Chet told them that he and Evan had spent nearly all day together making films. “Then I had this date,” he concluded, “and Evan went into town.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s hunt for him,” Joe suggested. “Chet, why don’t you stay here just in case he comes back while we’re gone.”

“Okay.”

As the Hardys left the room, Chet picked up a film manual and began to study.

The Hardys had not quite reached the parking lot when they heard whistling in the darkness ahead. The figure coming toward them was in a happy mood.

“It’s Evan!” Joe exclaimed, running toward their friend.

“We were worried about you,” Frank called out. “Where’ve you been?”

“I met some Greeks!” Evan said. He had a white bag in his hands and held it up.

“What’s in it?” Joe asked.

“Baklava, Greek pastry. It’s delicious. But you’ll have to eat it with a fork. It’s sticky.”

On the way back to their room, Joe said, “Say, who were the Greeks you met?”

Evan told them that he had gone to town for a long walk and had become hungry. “I found a Greek restaurant,” he explained. “Their special today was dolma, grape leaves stuffed with rice and meat.”

“Sounds delicious,” Joe said.

“It is. The proprietor’s name is George Kolouris. He has a wife and a son, and all three were very cordial. They’re from Sparta. That’s on the Peloponnesus near my hometown.”

When the three arrived in their room, Chet was very much relieved.

“I’m sorry you worried, Chet,” Evan said. “Here, this will make you feel better.” He offered Chet and the Hardys the sweet and sticky baklava.

“Hm!” Chet said, savoring the thin pastry with nuts and honey. “This is just as sweet as—”

“Thelma!” Joe put in.

Chet raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“Just guessed.”

The next morning as the boys were finishing breakfast a messenger from the administrative office entered the cafeteria. He paged Evan.

“Over here,” Evan said and stood up.

“Cablegram for you.”

Evan read it and clutched the message in his fist. “Let’s go back to the dorm,” he whispered. “It’s important—and secret.”

Frank surmised that it in some way was connected with their case. His hunch proved correct.

Behind the locked door of their room, Evan read the cablegram from his Uncle Nick.

The shipping magnate said that the cryptic writing copied from the helmet had just been deciphered by an eminent Greek scholar. It indicated that the headgear might have belonged to King Agamemnon.”

“Agamemnon! He was very important!” Frank exclaimed.

“That means the helmet is of great value,” Joe added.

“Priceless,” Evan said. He refreshed the boys’ memory about the Greek king. “Agamemnon had been away fighting the Trojan War for ten years, and shortly after he returned to his castle he was slain.”

“Maybe he was wearing the helmet on the day he was killed,” Chet conjectured.

“There are conflicting stories as to his death,” Evan stated. “For all we know, Chet’s theory might be correct. Anyway, if Uncle Nick gets this helmet, he wants to give it to the Greek government. But anyone else could sell it for a fortune!”

Frank and Joe were eager to get on with the search for the shattered helmet. However, it was too early to call Actors Equity in New York, so they went to the morning lecture first.

The subject concerned light when shooting with color. The instructor, a middle-aged man connected with a New York studio, explained that lighting could be a very complex process.

“When it is flooded all over the scene, the results figuratively resemble a picture postcard, devoid of any style,” he said. “The Victorian era in film-making is over, however, and the matter of prime importance is to express the dramatic element of the film.”

The boys were busy writing notes. The light that comes from the sky, they learned, has a bluish tint, whereas light reflected from the ground has a brownish cast. In like manner, light reflected from leaves and foliage has a greenish quality.

In a question-and-answer period Evan remarked that reproduction of colors in some movies was not exactly accurate.

“That’s true,” said the instructor. “The only things that must be faithfully reproduced are colors of recognizable objects, such as the American flag and flesh tones, for instance.” He added that great care must be taken to shield certain objects and the skin surface of the human body from unwanted color reflections.

“And now,” he said, “your project for this afternoon will be to combine good color rendition and an action scene. At three o’clock we will review the rushes which were taken Saturday.”

The boys phoned Actors Equity after class, but the line was busy. “We’ll try again later,” Frank said. “Meanwhile let’s have lunch.”

During the meal they decided to use Chet for the action shots in the color rendition. The stout boy was agreeable and did a series of pratfalls which made everyone laugh. Then he disappeared for a while to get some footage of his own.

When they had finished their project, they tried Actors Equity again, but could not get through. There was no more time left and they hurried to the theater to watch the rushes.

Jeff was in charge. He said, “Now you’ll see what you did for the art as film producers.”

The efforts were short and amusing. One was a mood picture of children at play. Saffel’s gliding ducks were well filmed and drew a praise from Riker. The Hardys’ shots proved interesting, Joe’s in particular. It panned along the edge of the woods before centering on the waterfall.

“Wait a minute!” Frank said suddenly. “Can you run that scene backward, Jeff?”

“Sure. Is there something you wanted to see?”

“I think I noticed a face in the woods.”

The projectionist reversed the film slowly.

“There it is!” Frank cried out. “Can you hold that frame?”

Although a bit fuzzy, the picture showed a man peering out from behind a bush. He had a heavy black mustache and wore what looked like a chauffeur’s cap.

“Okay,” Frank said. “You can roll it again.”

When the session was over, the boys hastened outside to discuss Frank’s discovery. Evan said, “You know, fellows, that could have been a Greek by the waterfall.”

“How so?” Frank asked.

“His features were Greek, and his hat was just like the ones that the Greek sailors wear.”

“You think he threw the rock?” Chet asked.

“He couldn’t have,” Joe remarked. “It came from over our heads. The man in the picture was below us and on the other side of the falls.”

“He might have seen who did it, though,” Joe said. “I vote we go back to the falls and look around for clues.”

The boys stowed their cameras in the closet and hastened to the car. Soon they were at the foot of the falls, and climbed toward the spot where the mysterious man had been hiding.

They crisscrossed the area, their eyes glued to the ground. The grass was trampled down in spots and they found some broken twigs, but that was all.

Suddenly Chet let out a low whistle. “Hey, what’s this?” He bent down to pick up a small blue bead lying on a fallen green leaf.

The boys examined it carefully.

“It’s a worry bead,” Evan said. “I told you the man could have been a Greek!”

“I wish we knew where to find him!” Joe said.

“I have an idea where he could be,” Chet quipped. “In a Greek restaurant!”

“Wait a minute, Chet,” Frank said. “You might be right. Let’s go see Mr. Kolouris!”

They drove to town, parked in front of the restaurant, and went in to question the proprietor. He was a short man with a pleasant face and dark, curly hair.

After Evan introduced his friends, he said, “Would you like some more dolma? I just made it a little while ago.”

“Not this time,” Evan said. “We’d like to find out if a certain person has come here to eat.”

Frank described the man in the film, stressing the Greek-type hat

Mr. Kolouris thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. “Yes. He was here for lunch a couple of days ago!”

CHAPTER VII

The Mysterious Red Car

CHET’S hunch had proved correct, and he beamed with pride as Frank asked, “Was this fellow a Greek?”

Mr. Kolouris looked at Evan and smiled. “Yes. He was busy with worry beads. The string had broken and he was putting them together again while his soup cooled.” He added after a moment’s pause, “Besides, he had a Greek passport sticking out of his shirt pocket.”

Evan reached in his jacket and pulled out his own blue passport. “Like this one?”

“Yes, the same.”

“Did you notice anything else about him, Mr. Kolouris?” Joe asked.

The Greek’s plump wife, who had been listening, spoke up. “I saw his car. Would that be of help to you?”

“Yes, of course!” Evan said excitedly. “What was it?”

“A small foreign car. Red with white trim.”

“Efharisto,” Evan said.

“Parakalo.”

“What was that?” Chet asked.

Evan laughed. “Nothing more than ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome.’ I can see you fellows will have to learn Greek.”

He asked the woman if she remembered the license number of the car, but she did not. As the boys left the restaurant, Chet whispered to Evan, “How do you say thank you?”

“Efharisto. It sounds like F. Harry Stowe.”

“I think I can say that,” Chet declared. At the door he turned around and waved gaily to the Greek couple. “Harry F. Stowe!”

When the Kolourises looked perplexed, the Hardys laughed and Chet realized his mistake. “F. Harry Stowe,” he corrected himself.

“Parakalo,” Mr. Kolouris said with a grin. “You sure can speak Greek well!”

As the boys drove toward the campus, Frank reminded the others of the red car which had passed them on the first day of their trip.

“I’ll bet it was the same one this Greek fellow was driving,” he said.

“You think he planted the worry beads on our front seat?” Chet asked.

“Yes. But Kitten Cole must have been with him, because whoever did that pulled a nifty lock job.”

“A dangerous pair,” remarked Joe. “We’ll have to watch out for them.”

The following morning Frank went to a phone booth and called Actors Equity again. This time he reached them without delay. Buster Buckles, he learned, lived in a suburb of Los Angeles. His telephone number was 748–2948.

Frank opened the door a crack and quickly clued in the others. Then he called California, using the family’s credit card number.

The voice at the other end was obviously a recording. It told Frank that Buckles’ phone had been temporarily disconnected.

“Oh nuts!” Frank said, stepping out of the booth. He told the boys the result of his call.

“Do you suppose the old boy has died?” Joe asked.

“I don’t think so. Actors Equity would have known about that.”

“I’ve got it,” Joe said, snapping his fingers. “Let’s get in touch with Rena Bartlett.”

“The Hollywood columnist?” asked Chet.

“Sure. She knows all about the actors.”

“It’s worth a try,” Frank agreed and went into the booth again. It took him a while before he reached the columnist’s office in Hollywood, where he spoke to a secretary. She was cordial, but insisted that he put his request in writing to Miss Bartlett, who was very busy.

“But this is urgent!” Frank pleaded. He told of the call to Actors Equity and of Buckles’ disconnected telephone.

“All right,” she finally said. “I’ll see what I can do. Hold on.”

A few seconds later a voice said, “Rena Bartlett.”

Frank introduced himself to the columnist and explained their problem in finding a copy of The Persian Glory, and their search for the shattered helmet.

“What an interesting story,” she said. “Just the thing to use in my television show.”

“But, Miss Bartlett,” Frank said, “this is a secret mission. We don’t want the whole world to know about the helmet!”

There was silence on the other end for a few moments. Finally Rena Bartlett said, “Will you promise to let me know the solution—first?”

“Certainly,” Frank said. “You’ll get an exclusive report if we find the thing.”

“That’s a deal. Now, as to Buster Buckles. He and his dog are touring the Southwest in a half-ton pickup camper. Last time I heard he was in the Sangre de Cristo mountains near Santa Fe, New Mexico. So far as I know, he’s still there. I’d love to have him and his dog on my show. And you, too. What’s your name again?”

“Frank Hardy. But please, no publicity until we solved the case!”

“Don’t worry. You can rely on me.”

Frank thanked her and hung up. When the others heard the latest news, Joe said, “We’re getting somewhere, Frank! Let’s fly down to New Mexico.”

“But what about our film-making course?” Chet asked.

“We’ll have to see what kind of arrangement we can make,” Frank said. “Right now we’d better get to class. It starts in five minutes.”

They went to the theater to watch the action color rushes. Even with the few lectures they had attended, the students had improved noticeably. Evan’s film had been selected as a good example, and everyone chuckled at Chet’s antics.

After the work of other classmates had been flashed on the screen, Jeff announced, “That’s all for today.”

“What about Frank’s and mine?” Joe asked.

“You drew blanks.”

“What?”

“There was nothing on your film. Sorry.”

The announcement was greeted with mixed derision and needling. Saffel’s boos were exceptionally loud.

Frank and Joe were dumbfounded. If it had happened to only one, it would have been understandable. But both?

“Maybe the film was faulty,” Frank said as they hurried back to the dorm.

“But I used the same kind!” Chet said.

The boys made a beeline for the closet where the cameras were kept. They opened them and examined the inside mechanisms.

“Good grief!” Evan cried out. “It looks as if someone sprayed paint on your lenses! They’re all blacked out!”

“Ruined! Our cameras are ruined!” Joe fumed. “And I’ll bet it was Saffel who did it! Under the guise of ransacking our room!”

“But what about Chet’s equipment and mine?” Evan asked. “Wouldn’t he have damaged that too?”

“Not necessarily,” Frank said. “It’s Joe and me he can’t stomach. Come on. Let’s go find him!”

Saffel was not in his dorm. One of his roommates, Ron Kennedy, said that he had driven off in his car a few minutes before.

“Where did he go?” Joe asked.

Ron tilted back in his chair with a humorous grin. “How come you want to know? It seems you and Leon aren’t exactly buddies.”

“We’re not. And if it’s a big secret, Ron, don’t tell us where he went. We just wanted to give him something.”

“In that case,” Ron said, “I’ll tell you. He mentioned something about the falls.”

“Thanks,” Frank said and turned to go.

“What is it you’re going to give him?” Ron inquired.

“A punch in the nose!” Joe said.

The boys hurried to their car. They drove off through town and took the road to Silver Mine Falls. Joe was at the wheel. He braked the car just before their destination and rolled slowly into the parking area.

Evan said, “There’s his car.” It stood at the far end of the lot. Near it was a foreign red car with white trim! Two people were in the front seats.

As Frank drove closer, one of them suddenly jumped out. Leon Saffel!

The red car drove off, kicking up a cloud of dust that concealed the license plate.

Leon hurried toward his own car, but the Hardys and their friends intercepted him.

“Not so fast, Leon,” Frank said.

“What do you want?” Saffel’s face showed fright and anger.

“Did you paint our cameras?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You broke into our room and sprayed paint on the lenses!” Frank insisted.

Leon denied this vehemently.

“You climbed into our window!” Joe said. “We found your footprints below the ledge.”

“Tell it to the campus cops,” Leon replied with a smirk.

“We did that already. But we haven’t reported that we found your fingerprints on the cameras.”

“You couldn’t have!”

“Because you wore gloves?”

Saffel did not reply. He slid into the front seat of his car and fumbled with the keys.

Chet, meanwhile, glanced into the back seat. “Wow! Look at this, Frank!” He pointed to a white glove and a can of spray paint.

Saffel reached over the backrest, grabbed the paint can, and jumped out of the car. He started running across the parking lot, with Joe in hot pursuit.

Suddenly he whirled around, aimed the nozzle at the boy, and pushed the release button.

Black spray shot toward Joe’s face!

CHAPTER VIII

Motorcycle Monsters

THE can of spray paint hissed at Joe as he swung around to avoid it. He felt the wetness on the back of his head.

Saffel moved in to get a closer shot. At the same time Frank shouted a warning. Joe delivered an elbow thrust, which caught Leon in the midsection. With a grunt he dropped the can to the ground.

Joe whirled about, and with an open hand dealt Saffel a resounding blow on the side of the face.

Leon staggered backward, all the fight gone out of him. By this time Frank and Chet had raced over, with Evan on their heels. They surrounded the stunned adversary. Joe wiped the black paint from his blond hair with a pocket handkerchief.

“What’s the big idea?” he fumed. “Saffel, you must be crazy! If that paint had gotten into my eyes, it could have blinded me!”

“Can’t you guys take a little joke?” Leon asked shakily.

“I’d say it’s a pretty rotten joke,” Frank said. He picked up the can and examined it. “This is what you sprayed on our cameras.”

“I don’t know anything about any cameras.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Chet said. He showed him the white glove. “This matches the one we found under our window. How can you deny the evidence?”

Leon’s mouth twitched. He looked from one boy to the other. “All right, I did it,” he said finally. “But don’t beat me up!”

“Nobody wants to beat you,” Frank said. “We prefer not to get physical, but you don’t give us much choice.”

“Why did you do it?” Joe demanded.

“I was trying to get even,” Leon admitted.

“Then let’s stop this feud right here and now,” Frank said. “It’s getting ridiculous.”

“But you’d better pay for the repair of the cameras,” Chet said.

“All right.”

Joe shot a question, hoping to catch Leon off guard. “Do you know Twister Gerrold?”

“Who?” Leon’s face showed no emotion.

“Forget it.”

“Can I go now?”

“Not yet,” Frank said. “Who was the joker in the red car?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were talking to him.”

“Yes, but I didn’t ask his name. He was Greek,” Leon added. He said that the man had approached him on campus and suggested that they meet in some quiet place.

“We’d only been here a minute when you came along.”

“Well, what did he want from you?”

“Said he wanted a job done.”

“What kind of job?” asked Evan.

Leon shrugged his shoulders. “He was about to tell me when you interrupted.”

Frank said, “I’ll advise you not to get into any more trouble.”

“Okay. Let me go now.” Leon jumped into his car and drove off.

The boys discussed the latest events. Why would the Greek stranger want to talk to Leon? What kind of job did he have in mind? Did it have anything to do with the Hardys?

“I’ve got a strong hunch it has,” remarked Frank.

“And that means trouble for us,” added Joe.

The boys drove back to the campus and had lunch. Then they went to their dorm, locked the door, and mapped out their sleuthing strategy.

Both Frank and Joe were eager to track down Buster Buckles in their quest for The Persian Glory.

“Our film-making course here is important,” Frank said, “but we have a job to do. And I don’t think it can wait any longer.”

“That’s right,” Joe agreed. “I have a strange feeling about this case. That man in the red car gives me the creeps. He’s up to no good.”

“If Leon was the one who threw the rock at Chet’s camera, and Red Car saw him,” Frank conjectured, “Red Car might have figured that Leon has something against us. So he gets in touch with our joking buddy and asks him to do a job—”

His voice trailed off. The others nodded silent agreement to Frank’s theory. But what was the job Saffel was to do?

“If you two plan to split,” Chet finally said, “where does that leave Evan and me?”

“Stay and continue,” Frank advised.

“Not me,” Evan spoke up. “Remember, I got you into this mystery and I want to help you solve it.”

“That takes care of that, then,” Chet said. “I’m coming, too. We can always take the course some other time.”

Frank hesitated. “I’d rather you stay here, Chet.”

“Why?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on Saffel and Red Car. They’re up to no good.”

“Besides,” Evan put in slyly, “Thelma’s here.”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “She’d be heartbroken if you left.”

Chet broke into a smile. “Maybe you guys are right. I’ll stay.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “Would you take our cameras to the shop in town and have them fixed? We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

He and Joe hastened off to see Jeff Riker and reported their plan to him.

“Too bad you won’t be able to finish the course,” Jeff said, “But I know how you feel about your case. Maybe you can take the course later.”

“I hope so,” Frank said. “We sure enjoyed it”

Since they planned to purchase knapsacks and sleeping bags in New Mexico, the boys took a minimum of clothing in a duffel bag and mailed the rest home. They called their father, who promised to make ticket arrangements for them right away and to wire some money to Santa Fe.

At eleven o’clock the next morning the Hardys and Evan boarded a plane for Chicago, where they would transfer to the Santa Fe flight.

At the window seat, Evan’s eyes were fixed on the landscape. The vast green forests and lakes, interspersed with towns and cities, had him spellbound.

“I didn’t know there was so much undeveloped land here in the United States,” he said.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Joe said. “Wait till we get out west!”

The flight from Chicago was at extremely high altitude, and only when the plane was on its descent did the Greek boy marvel once again at the countryside.

The forested mountains of the Sangre de Cristo gave way to rolling hills dotted with juniper bushes and rabbit brush. Evan said the semiarid land was much like the hills around Athens.

After they had landed at Santa Fe, the travelers checked at the airline counter. Their money had already arrived.

They took a taxi to the La Fonda Hotel, where they checked in, then went directly to the office of the New Mexican, the town’s leading newspaper.

Frank spoke to the city editor, Felix Montoya, asking what he knew about the presence of Buster Buckles in the nearby mountains.

“Oh, he’s quite a character,” Montoya said. “Last time I heard about Buster, he was camping at Chimayo.”

He walked over to a wall map and pointed out the location of the Spanish settlement north of the city, known for its rug-weaving.

The boys thanked the editor for the information and left. Next they bought knapsacks and sleeping bags at a sporting goods store called The Trading Post, and visited a motorcycle rental agency. The Hardys had had experience with trail bikes in an adventure called Danger on Vampire Trail. They knew what they were looking for and soon selected three sturdy Hondas. Evan remarked that this machine was also well known in Greece. The rental agreement was signed, along with adequate insurance coverage.

In the evening they strolled around the central plaza, which was swarming with Pueblo Indians. The men wore jeans and cowboy hats, the women voluminous skirts and colorful shawls. The Greek boy was surprised to hear so much Spanish spoken on the streets.

The following morning they started out, their gear strapped to the back of the cycles.

Evan’s face glowed with irrepressible delight. The new country, the keen crisp air, and the promise of high adventure made his blood tingle with excitement.

The turnoff to Chimayo opened onto a rough road that snaked through dun-colored hills. Finally they came to a small settlement of low adobe houses and a few shops.

The riders parked their cycles in front of a store bearing a sign Indian Rugs and Blankets. They entered and queried the proprietor. Had he seen Buster Buckles? Did he know where the old actor was encamped?

The man, leathery-faced and friendly, said that Buckles had been camping near the town. “But he left two days ago,” he added.

“Do you know where he went?” Frank asked.

The man waved his hand. “Toward Taos. I hear Buster wants to stay there a week or so.”

“Well, we’ve nearly got him,” Joe said as they left the store and had a quick sandwich. Then they mounted their bikes again and started toward the main highway.

“Hey, look what’s coming!” Frank shouted.

From around a bend halfway down the hill appeared seven motorcycles. The Hardys and Evan pulled far to the right side, allowing plenty of room for the oncomers to pass single file.

But instead they approached en masse, blocking the way completely. The lettering on their jackets could be seen plainly: Monsters.

The pack stopped, as did the Hardys and Evan. The leader pushed up his goggles, revealing a tough-looking face with squinty eyes. On his helmet was the name Jock. Standing astride his bike, he said, “Where you guys going?”

“To Taos,” Frank replied.

The leader turned to his companions and laughed. “They think they’re going to Taos!”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked. “Why don’t you just move aside and let us pass!”

“Anybody who rides a cycle should be ready for a challenge,” Jock said with a grin.

“Like what?”

“How about a hill-climbing race, dudes?”

“We’re not out for any hill-climbing,” Joe replied.

“That’s what you say! I say you’re just in the mood for a race.”

The three boys exchanged glances. The Monster pack laughed in derision.

“All right,” Frank said. “We’ll race you up a hill. Then we’ll be on our way again.”

Jock ordered his pals to turn around. They retreated along the road a hundred yards, then turned sharply right onto a small trail which led to the top of a lava flow.

The black hill was strewn with boulders, and from the many tire tracks on the trail, the Hardys deduced that this must be the Monsters’ practice place.

The bikes assembled on a level turnout just below the steep incline. Jock pulled the goggles over his eyes.

“All right, you foreigners,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll give the signal. The guy who reaches the top first is champ.”

“Are there any rules?” Evan asked.

“Oh, now, isn’t he polite,” one of the Monsters said with a sneer.

Another shouted, “No rules. Every man for himself!”

Frank turned to Joe and said, “Fifty-four, twenty-one, thirty.”

His brother recognized their football signal. The play was on an off-tackle run, in which Frank led his brother through the line.

Joe acknowledged with a slight nod. Frank would go first and he would follow slightly behind.

Now the racket became a din as the riders gunned their machines and waited for Jock’s signal. A mad scramble started. Dirt and pebbles were spewed into the air from spinning tires. The pack jumped into motion.

Soon it became evident what no rules meant. One of the Monsters cut off Evan. His cycle slewed to one side. The Greek gained control, only to be cut off by another gang member.

This time his front wheels hit a boulder. Evan flew from the seat and landed in a patch of rabbit brush as his cycle skidded on its side.

Frank and Joe gamely fought their way uphill, dodging Monsters while trying to retain equilibrium. Jock and a buddy were in the lead, with Frank following and Joe close behind.

The Hardys had ridden cycles in Bayport and had had some hair-raising experiences, but none like this!

The Monster ahead of Frank swerved to cut him off. Frank braked momentarily, then, with a burst of speed, nudged the rear wheel of the rider. With a look of surprise the Monster veered out of control on a sandy spot.

Watching from below, Evan saw the pack thinning out. Two of Jock’s men had bumped each other, and were out of the running. The others kept on like a pack of hounds after Frank and Joe.

Now the top of the hill was in sight. Jock turned his head to see the Hardys in pursuit. He let Frank come even with him on the left, and both riders, their heads bent low, tried to gain the advantage.

Suddenly Jock’s foot kicked out. The blow caught Frank on the thigh and he swerved momentarily. Jock followed the advantage by pulling ahead. His rear wheel brushed against the front of Frank’s machine, which skidded over to one side, and out of the race.

Jock glanced back to hurl an epithet, unaware that Joe had gained on his right.

Now the Monster leader had another Hardy challenging him! He tried the same trick, kicking out his foot viciously. But Joe, who had seen what had happened to Frank, was ready. He gave Jock a karate blow against the shin.

More surprised than pained, the Monster let up for a split second. Joe burst into the lead and reached the small circular plateau on the summit. There he stopped his machine and waited.

Jock arrived first and threw off his helmet angrily. “What was the idea of whopping me like that! You threw me off balance!”

“So what?” Joe retorted. “No rules, remember?”

The motorcycle leader fumed. Soon the others had gathered around. Frank said, “Nice going, Joe.” He turned to Jock. “Now we’ll be on our way.”

Jock clenched his fists and stepped forward menacingly.

Evan said, “We made a deal, didn’t we? We had the race and Joe won. What are you getting uptight about?”

Jock turned to his pals, searching their faces for an answer. One of them, a short boy who looked like an Indian, said, “I guess a deal’s a deal. Let them go, Jock.”

Frank, Joe, and Evan drove down the hill, onto the bumpy road and finally reached the highway.

They sped toward Taos, looking back over their shoulders occasionally. But the Monsters were nowhere to be seen. Finally they slowed down and took a short break.

“I’m sure glad our buddies aren’t playing tag,” Joe said, stretching out in the tall grass to the side of the road.

“They slightly outnumber us,” Frank agreed. “A real fight with that gang would be all we need.”

Evan said, “I have heard of motorcycle gangs in your country, but I never expected to encounter one!”

Frank laughed. “Just stick with us and you’ll get into all kinds of tight spots.”

Ten minutes later they mounted their cycles again and continued toward their destination.

On the outskirts of town, the boys made inquiries at several gas stations, but nobody had heard of Buster Buckles.

“I guess only the old-timers know about him,” Joe said. “Before we go any farther, how about some chow? There’s a diner over there and I’m starved.”

Frank and Evan were, too, and they pulled into the diner’s parking lot. Several trucks were standing in front.

“Maybe we can find out some scuttlebutt about Buster here,” Joe suggested as they went inside.

Over steaming plates of stew and crusty bread, the young adventurers relaxed. They asked the waitress about Buckles, but she knew nothing. However, a rancher in a sombrero who had overheard the question said that he had seen Buckles camping near his spread.

“Where is that, sir?” Joe asked.

The man smiled and shook his head. “It wouldn’t do you any good if I told you. Buster’s not there now. He just up and disappeared. I was hoping he’d stay a little longer. He’s quite a character.”

The boys thanked the rancher and started on their apple pie a la mode when suddenly a patron sitting next to the window pointed and cried out, “Stop! You’ll run right over them!”

CHAPTER IX

The Disappearing Act

PATRONS craned at the window to see what was happening. A husky man in a red plaid shirt exclaimed, “That’s my truck! What’s going on?” He made a dash for the door.

By this time the boys had caught a glimpse of what was happening. A huge trailer truck was backing up to where their cycles were parked.

“Oh, no!” Joe cried out. “Stop it!”

The three motorcycles were knocked down and the wheels of the huge truck passed over them with a metallic crunch!

Customers jumped up and rushed to the door, all trying to get out at the same time for a look at the destruction.

“Get that guy!” someone called.

“Where’d he go?”

When the Hardys reached the truck, nobody was in it. The man in the red shirt looked at the damage to the motorcycles and shook his head. “Now who’d do a thing like that?”

“I’d like to know, too,” Frank muttered. “These are our bikes!”

Introductions were made. The trucker’s name was Tim. “It was done on purpose!” he said. “But I still have the keys.” He hefted them in his big hand. “The guy must have been a clever lock-picker.”

“Oh, oh,” Evan said. “That sounds like Mr. Cole.”

The boys questioned witnesses, but none of them had had a good look at the culprit, although all agreed that he was a small man.

Joe pressed through the crowd to a phone booth and called the police. Shortly afterward, a patrol car pulled up with an officer wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He asked questions and took notes.

“Do you have any enemies?” he said to the Hardys.

“A few,” Frank replied.

“Who are they?”

The boys looked at each other. Enemies indeed. They seemed to have more than a few.

Frank continued as spokesman. “We had trouble with a motorcycle gang, the Monsters, after we beat them in a hill-climbing race.”

“I know them,” the patrolman replied. “They haven’t been around here today. Who else?”

Frank briefly told about their harassment by Kitten Cole. “My guess is he flew out here after us.”

“And there seems to be a mysterious Greek who’s in the act, too,” added Joe.

After Frank gave descriptions of the men, the patrolman said he would be on the lookout for them. But he doubted whether he could press charges.

“It’s only your guess that they did it,” he said. “We don’t have any witnesses to the act. All we know is that a man jumped out of the truck and disappeared before anyone got a good look at him.”

“We realize that,” Joe said, adding, “Is there a place in town where we can get these bikes repaired?”

The officer recommended a cycle shop operated by two young proprietors. “Their place is open late,” he said.

Tim offered his sympathy. “I feel real bad about this,” he said, “since it was my truck that caused the damage.”

“It wasn’t any fault of yours,” Frank said.

“Well, anyway, I’ll help you pick up the pieces and haul ‘em to the repair shop. Here, give me a hand with this bike.”

Together they lifted the wrecked motorcycles onto the truck. Then Tim climbed up behind the wheel. Evan joined him in the cab, while Frank and Joe rode in the back.

Tim said, “Some guys want to stop you from going wherever you’re going.”

“Well, they won’t!” Evan said emphatically and the Hardys smiled at his determination.

The mechanics at the repair shop assessed the damage. The front wheels of the three cycles had been badly crushed. Fortunately, the shop had spare parts on hand. It would take two days, however, to finish the job. Luckily the rental agency’s insurance would cover the damage.

“We’ll just have to stay in Taos until the bikes are ready,” Frank said.

Tim dropped them off at a motel, and they thanked him for his help. “It’s my pleasure,” he said. “I’ll be delivering around town and picking up more cargo. Hope to see you again.”

“Under better circumstances,” Joe said, laughing, and they shook hands.

The next morning was spent sightseeing around Taos. The historic old town, once a frontier settlement, was now the center of a burgeoning art colony, with shops displaying the works of young artists. Evan browsed around while Frank and Joe went to police headquarters in the afternoon.

There was still no clue as to who had sabotaged their cycles. When the Hardys asked about Buster Buckles, however, the police knew all about him. A local newspaper reporter had written a feature story several days ago.

They lifted the wrecked motorcycles onto the truck.

“I think we still have a copy,” said the sergeant, who was in charge. The boys eagerly read the article, which said that the comedian would be heading back to California by way of Arizona.

Joe asked the sergeant if he would contact the State Police in Arizona to find out if they had information about Buster’s whereabouts. At first the officer was hesitant. “He’s not a missing person, is he?”

“Not exactly,” Frank replied, “but we’d sure like to find him. He told of their search for the shattered helmet.

The sergeant agreed finally and put a query on the teletype machine. Almost immediately an answer came back from Flagstaff.

Buster Buckles’ camper had broken down on the highway, and the State Police had given him assistance. He was camped not far from the Grand Canyon. Directions for reaching the site were supplied.

The Hardys thanked the sergeant and hastened off to find Evan. He was in an art gallery, buying a small painting to send back to Greece.

“You’re going to see more of our beautiful West,” Frank told him. “Lots of rocks, and very few people. We’re going to Arizona.”

The next day the repairs on their bikes were finished and they started out around lunchtime toward Arizona. They had not gone far before they passed Tim and his truck. He gave several blasts on his big horn and motioned them to stop.

They pulled off to the side of the road and Tim called out, “I get a little lonesome driving this big hack. How about taking a ride with me?”

“Okay,” Frank said, and Tim let down a ramp so they could stow their bikes inside. Evan sat in the rear. Frank and Joe sat up front.

They drove along, talking about everything from baseball to surfing. About a hundred miles farther on, near the Arizona border, a car passed them on the right.

Joe glanced out the window and looked down at the driver as he flashed by. The man had a pinched face. A passenger was sitting beside him but Joe could not see his face. A third man with blond hair sat in the back.

“Frank, look!” Joe exclaimed.

But before his brother could lean over to see any of the occupants, the car had sped on ahead. It was a maroon Buick sedan with New Mexico license plates. The Hardys memorized the number.

“I’m sure that the driver was Cole,” Joe said.

“Luckily we’re in this truck,” Frank said. “If that car had overtaken us when we were on our bikes— Wow!”

“Where do you suppose they’re going?” Tim asked.

“That’s another mystery,” Joe said.

They approached the next truck stop and the Hardys scanned the area for any sign of the maroon car.

“There it is!” Frank said suddenly as he recognized the license number. “They must be in the restaurant!”

“Are you going in to see?” Tim asked.

“Yes, but not through the front door. Joe and I’ll go around the back way. Evan and you had better stay here. This could be dangerous.”

“You know,” Frank said as he stepped down from the cab, “that guy in the back seat might have been Saffel.”

“That’s a wild guess,” Joe said. “But we’ll see.”

They entered a screen door in the back of the place, which led to the kitchen. As the chef and a waiter stared at them, they mumbled apologies and entered a hallway leading to the dining room. At the end of the hall was a beaded curtain. From behind it came the murmur of voices.

“Careful,” Frank whispered. They reached the curtain and peeked through the beads.

Cole and the mysterious Greek were seated five feet away! But there was no sign of the blond man.

Frank and Joe eavesdropped as Cole spoke. “So far so good. The boss’ll pat us on the back for bugging the Hardys and the Greek kid.”

“Don’t get cocky,” the Greek answered in fluent but heavily accented English. “We have to find Buckles before they do or he’ll shoot us in the back!”

The Hardys were thunderstruck!

How did these men learn of their plans? Were they after the helmet, too, or did they just want to prevent the Hardys from finding it?

The Greek, who was fingering a string of worry beads, spoke again. “The kid’s gone for the big stuff. If the Hardys show up again—teliose!”

“You mean it’s curtains for them?”

“Right.”

Suddenly Frank and Joe heard footsteps behind them. Turning, they saw the waiter approaching with a large tray of food held high in his right hand. The boys pressed flat against the wall to give him room to pass, but it was not enough.

The man stubbed his toe against Joe’s foot. He lost his balance and tumbled toward the boy.

Joe and the waiter fell headlong into the dining room!

CHAPTER X

Flash Flood

THE food flew into the air, some of it spattering onto Cole and the Greek. Both men jumped to their feet, cursing.

As Joe arose from the slippery floor, they recognized him and bellowed abusive remarks.

Joe raced back along the hallway. Frank was ahead of him. The Greek and Cole ran after them, slipped on some mashed potatoes and gravy, and fell to the floor. By the time they reached the back entrance, the Hardys were not in sight.

Frank and Joe had made a dash for the truck, flung open the door and dived to the floor of the cab.

“What’s going on?” Tim asked in surprise.

“Those guys are after us,” Frank said. “I think they were the ones who ran over our bikes. Tim. see what they’re up to.”

The truck driver reported every movement of the disheveled pair as they searched the parking lot. “They’re looking for your bikes,” Tim said with a chuckle. “And are they mad!”

Finally Cole and the Greek gave up the search and returned to the restaurant.

Tim set off down the highway. After several miles he had to turn off in another direction so he stopped to let the Hardys out. The boys unloaded their bikes and thanked him for the ride.

Tim waved and drove off. Before mounting their cycles, Frank said, “You know, the blond character was not with the two men. Maybe he’s ‘the kid who’s gone for the big stuff.’ I’d like to call Chet and see if Saffel is still at Hunt.”

“Let’s stop at the next phone booth,” Joe agreed.

A mile farther on they found a highway telephone. Frank went inside and made a person-to-person call.

In a few seconds Chet was on the line. He was delighted to hear from the Hardys and began asking questions about their case.

Frank said, “Listen, Chet, I don’t have much time. What I want to ask you is this: Has Saffel left school?”

“Matter of fact, yes.”

“When?”

“Right after you left.”

“Have you seen the red car?”

“No! Not since the day we saw it at the falls.”

“Thanks, Chet. How’s Thelma?”

“Great, just great! I’ve gained five pounds eating goodies at her house.”

“How’s the film course?”

“Super. I’m taking lots of footage of Thelma.”

Frank chuckled and hung up. “Joe, Saffel’s gone.”

“He might have followed us,” Joe said. “Well, let’s go and keep our eyes open.”

Just before sundown the boys arrived in the area where Buckles had been reported to be camping.

They made several inquiries about a man with his dog and were directed to a camper which had parked in a shady glen. Driving close to it they stopped and approached the camper. Joe knocked on the door. A woman answered.

“Sorry,” the boy said. “I think we made a mistake.”

“Whom are you looking for?” she asked.

“Buster Buckles, the old actor,” Joe said. “We were told that he’s camping in this area.”

“You mean the movie funnyman with his little dog?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

A man appeared behind the woman and joined in the conversation. “He wasn’t very sociable,” he said.

The couple told the boys that other neighbors had reported Buster was on his way to Bald Eagle Mountain.

“Hardly anybody goes there,” the man said. “No facilities.”

Frank looked at a road map. Bald Eagle Mountain was not far away. The elevation showed 6,100 feet.

“Do you think we can make it before dark?” Evan asked.

“If we push hard,” Frank said.

They hopped on their bikes again and set off. In the distance a great mass of black clouds began to settle into a valley.

“That storm’s a long way off,” Joe thought. But minutes later lightning forked through the sky. The valley became dark with rain, and the setting sun produced a full rainbow.

Frank, in the lead, held up his hand in a signal to stop at a crossroad. They checked their maps again and found that the road leading to Bald Eagle Mountain turned left, into the same valley where they had seen the storm.

They continued on, riding parallel to an arroyo with only a thread of water trickling through it. But the riders noticed that the stream grew larger by the minute. Now the road dipped down over a bridge to the other side of the broad gulch.

Frank and Joe crossed the bridge first. Evan was third in line. He stopped, fascinated, and reached for his camera. The Hardys did not notice his absence until they had gone several hundred yards.

Suddenly Joe shouted and Frank turned to look. To their horror they saw a wall of water swirling down the arroyo.

“A flash flood!” Frank cried out as he wheeled his cycle around. “Evan, come on, hurry!”

The Greek boy, however, seemed mesmerized by the oncoming flood. He took some more footage. Frank and Joe raced toward him full speed. They braked to a screaming halt at the edge of the bridge and waved their arms wildly.

All at once Evan realized the danger. He stowed his camera and hopped aboard his cycle. As he did, the first wave of water swept several inches above the bridge. Evan gunned his machine and the wheels set up a spray as he flew across the span.

Seconds later three feet of muddy, boiling, sandy water flooded over the bridge, carrying pebbles and debris, just as the three cyclists reached higher ground.

They stopped to look back at the phenomenon. Evan’s hands were shaking a little. The roof of a cabin swirled against the bridge, tearing apart like matchwood. Three uprooted pine trees followed. The span shuddered as they banged against the superstructure and stuck there.

“I just got out in time,” Evan said. He promised to be more careful in the future.

“You’d better,” Frank said with a grin. “We don’t want to send you back to Greece in a coffin!”

The cyclists followed the uphill road, which gradually became nothing more than an indistinct trail. Off to one side, in a grassy gully, they spied about two dozen cattle being urged along by a lone cowboy. They waved to him and drove over to ask if he had seen Buckles.

“The old man with the dog?” the man said.

“Yes,” Frank replied.

“Are you looking for him, too?”

“What do you mean, too?”

The horse grew restless and the cowboy leaned over to pat the animal’s neck. “A young fellow like you asked the same question about an hour ago.”

“Was he blond?” Evan inquired.

The cowboy nodded. A smile crossed his wrinkled face. “You’ll find the old guy up there on the mountain,” he said. “But I’m warning you. He’s about as friendly as a wounded grizzly bear.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “You’ve been a big help.”

The trio drove quietly around the cattle, found the dim outline of the trail again, and continued on as evening settled.

Frank said, “Do you suppose it was Saffel who asked the cowboy about Buster?”

“We’ll find out,” Joe replied.

But soon it became too dark to follow the trail. Finding the elusive Buster Buckles would have to wait until morning. They made camp at the base of three towering pine trees, ate some canned food, and crawled into their sleeping bags.

The sighing of the wind blowing through the treetops lulled the weary travelers to sleep. Frank was awakened at dawn. He had been dreaming that he was swimming in choppy water. Suddenly he realized that something was lapping against his forehead.

The boy opened his eyes slowly and saw the face of a friendly fox terrier. He reached up, patted the dog, and called to the others. “Look, fellows. We’ve got a mascot.”

Joe and Evan crawled out of their sleeping bags, skinned into dungarees and shirts, and combed their hair. The terrier continually jumped up and down, and Joe said, “Hold still while I look at your collar.”

Attached was a small tag. Joe studied it and whistled. “Hot dog! If this isn’t luck. Little Bozo belongs to Buster Buckles!”

“Which means,” Frank said with a whoop, “that he’s close by.”

“Come on, pooch,” Joe said. “Take us to your master!”

The dog yapped several times, then headed up the hill through a stand of trees.

“If we ride our bikes, we might scare the daylights out of the old boy,” Frank said. “I don’t think he’d appreciate that. Let’s go on foot.”

The dog cavorted around, yapping at his newfound friends, and led them over a small hill. Down the other side, not more than three hundred yards, was a camper. Several shirts had been hung on the roof to dry.

The boys followed the dog to the door and Frank called out, “Hello, Mr. Buckles!”

Someone stirred inside. Then the door opened and a wrinkled face poked out. The gray hair was disheveled, and the eyes were full of sleep.

The face showed annoyance at being rudely awakened. The man retreated for a minute, then reappeared, wearing glasses,

“What in thunder!” he growled. “Where did you find my dog?”

“In our camp,” said Joe and introduced himself, Frank, and Evan.

“Hello and good-by,” Buster Buckles said churlishly. “Look, I came out in the wilds here to be alone. If you want my autograph, I’ll give it to you, and then you can buzz off.”

“Please wait a minute, Mr. Buckles,” Frank said, trying to soothe the old fellow. “We’re very sorry to bust in on you this way. But it’s very important.”

“What’s more important than a good night’s sleep? I don’t usually wake up till nine.”

Frank laughed. “Well, your dog woke us up at daylight.”

“Teddy, you shouldn’t have done that!” Buster scolded the dog. “His name’s Teddy—after Teddy Roosevelt.”

A smile appeared on the comic’s thin lips. “All right, boys, I’m over my morning grouch. Now you may call me Buster. Let’s have coffee. I’ve got to fix myself some breakfast. Will you join me?”

“Sure thing,” said Joe. “We’re hungry, too!”

Buster brought out a gasoline stove, lighted it, and put several slices of bacon in a large frying pan. It started sizzling, and a mouth-watering aroma scented the brisk morning air.

The actor did not talk much, and the Hardys decided not to ask any questions until they had finished eating. They sat down on the ground after Buckles declined their offer to help. He removed the bacon, cracked eight eggs into the pan, and brought a loaf of bread from his larder. Then he passed around paper plates.

“Dig in,” he said simply.

After they had eaten, Buster said, “Now, tell me, what brings you here?”

Frank explained about their quest for the helmet and The Persian Glory.

“So you’re old movie bugs, eh?” Buster said. “Let me tell you, there was more guts in those pictures than there is today. Why, these young upstarts—”

“But do you know where we can find a copy of The Persian Glory?” Frank asked impatiently.

“I thought you might be coming to that,” the actor said, leaning forward on his camp stool. “I think—”

Just then a thunderous explosion rent the air and shook the ground!

CHAPTER XI

Cheese Bait

“IT’s an earthquake!” Buster Buckles cried out, and dived headlong into his camper. Tail between legs, Teddy slunk in after him.

At first the boys looked at each other in stunned silence. Then Frank exclaimed, “Something’s happened over the hill!”

They raced up the slope toward their campsite. When they reached the brow of the hill, they looked down on a scene of utter devastation!

At the place where the bikes had stood there were now three shallow holes in the ground. The machines had been blown to bits! Parts dangled from the pine trees. A wheel had smashed into a rock, and a handlebar stuck out of the ground. Only the sleeping bags were still intact and lay crumpled on the ground about thirty feet away.

In stunned disbelief, the boys walked down the hill to the site of the demolition.

“This is terrible!” Evan whispered. “We’ve been dynamited!”

“Our enemies are really desperate to get us out of the way,” Joe said.

“Somebody must have been spying on us,” Evan conjectured, “and when we disappeared over the hill, set up the explosives.”

Frank nodded. “Good thing they didn’t go off while we were sleeping!”

The three boys poked around the debris for clues. After searching in vain, Frank said, “Remember what Cole said in the restaurant? ‘The kid’s gone for the big stuff.’ That kid could have been Leon Saffel going for the dynamite!”

The boys made one more round of the area. This time they picked up their sleeping bags and the motorcycle license plates, one of which had become embedded in the trunk of a pine tree.

“I think the police and insurance company will need these for evidence,” Frank remarked as they trudged back over the hill.

Waiting on the other side was Buster Buckles, a rifle on his shoulder.

“Hey, Buster!” Joe called out. “Put the shooting iron away. The varmints are gone!”

“Oh, it ain’t real,” Buster replied, explaining that the gun was an old comedy prop he carried along to scare off snoopers.

The actor plied them with questions about the explosion. Upon hearing the details, he blanched.

“Listen, I’m getting out of here!” he declared.

“But the bad guys are gone!” Frank insisted.

“How do you know they won’t come back? Maybe they’ll blow up my camper next! The whole world’s gone cuckoo. You can’t even find peace in the wilds of Arizony.”

Frank agreed they should leave and report the bombing to the police.

“Could you give us a ride to the next town?” he inquired.

Buster nodded. Then he said, “Hey, what was that you were asking about The Persian Glory?”

“We are looking for a copy of the film,” Joe said. “That’s why we’re here. Do you have one?”

Buster shook his head. As the boys moaned their disappointment, he added brightly, “I think I have an outtake, though.”

“What’s that?” Evan asked.

Buster explained that an outtake was film footage that had been clipped out for one reason or another.

“It might have been a poor shot,” he said, “or cut to tighten the action. Or, perhaps, the film was just too long.”

He went on to say that one old Hollywood movie had been eight hours long. “They edited out six hours of it. “Boy, was the director ever mad!”

“But how come you have outtakes of films?” Frank asked.

Buster explained that his hobby had been to collect them. “I used to splice them all together,” he said. “It made a very funny movie. You could hardly follow the plot.” He slapped his knee with delight. Suddenly his face turned serious again.

“We’re getting out of here, boys,” he said, and carried the little stove back into the camper.

Frank pressed for more information. “Do you really have some footage on The Persian Glory?”

“I think I do. I’m not sure.”

“Where is it?”

“At my place.”

“You mean your home in California?”

“That’s right. I have cans of film in the back of the garage. They’re under a pile of junk, but I’m sure I could find them.”

“Then let’s go!” Joe cried.

Buster looked reproachful. “What’s the hurry? I came here to fish!”

“But—but Mr. Buckles, this is important,” Joe said. “It can’t wait!”

Frank signaled his brother to be quiet. Then he said, “All right, Buster. It’s your vacation and up to you how long you want to stay. But after that, may we go to California with you?”

“Sure.” When Buster was certain that every scrap had been picked up from the campsite, he spoke again of the fishing trip.

“I tell you,” he said, “those trout are that long!” He indicated the size with his hands.

“Please,” Frank pleaded, “can you drop us off at the police so we can make the report while you go fishing?”

Arms akimbo, Buster gave them a look of annoyance. “The fish are in a little lake at the top of this mountain. It’s nowhere near town. We’ll fish first, then find the cops!”

The boys stepped to one side and discussed the plan. Traveling on foot in these wilds, they reasoned, was almost impossible. They would have to go along with the old man’s wishes.

Buster climbed behind the wheel. Frank sat beside him, while Joe and Evan rode in the back.

It was a bumpy ride over the trackless ground to the summit of the nearby ridge.

“Only a few Apaches and cowboys know about this lake,” Buster said. “And those little rascals are waiting for their cheese!”

“Who? The Apaches or the cowboys?” Frank asked.

“The trout, of course. They love cheese. That’s what I use for bait.”

“Fish also like bread. Maybe we can give them a whole cheese sandwich,” Frank quipped.

“Okay, wise guy. You’ll see!”

Soon a small blue lake came into view. It lay in a crater, reflecting the cloudless sky overhead.

Buster parked the camper beside a boulder and they got out. “I’ve only got three rods,” he said. “You can use two of ‘em.”

“Go ahead, fellows,” Evan said. “I’ll walk around the lake.” He wandered off along the rocky shoreline.

Buster sliced off a piece of American cheese and cut it into small cubes. “Put these on your hooks,” he said to Frank and Joe, “and watch the fun.”

The Hardys did. They flicked out their lines and the cheese dropped into the lake. Joe’s bait had sunk no more than six inches when he felt a swift strike.

“Wow! I’ve got one!” he yelled.

Buckles was already reeling in a fat, flopping trout. “What did I tell you?” he asked with a happy grin.

In a short time the three fishermen had caught all they could possibly eat in one meal. Frank had just unhooked a shimmering beauty when the mountain silence was broken by a sharp cry.

“That’s Evan!” Frank said, alarmed.

The cry came again.

“He must be in trouble! Come on, Joe, Let’s go!”

The Hardys dropped their rods and set off among the boulders until they caught sight of Evan. He stood with his back against a slab of brown rock, tense and motionless, staring at something.

“Good grief!” Joe whispered. “Look at that rattler!”

The sidewinder slithered toward the Greek boy, its tongue flicking. Quietly Frank and Joe picked up stones. Joe hurled his. It missed.

Frank dashed in close and the snake turned its head, weaving from side to side.

“Watch it!” Joe cried.

Crash! Frank’s rock hit the reptile directly on the head. As the creature writhed, Joe finished it off with another blow.

“Thanks,” Evan said weakly. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “It really is dangerous in America. Say, how’s the fishing?”

“Tremendous,” Joe said. “We’ll have some for lunch.”

The three walked back to the camper cautiously, watching for sidewinders. But they had no more trouble.

Buster had already set up his stove. The boys cleaned the fish, and soon a delicious aroma filled the air. After the meal, Buster caught some more trout which he stored in the small freezer of his camper. Finally he pulled in his gear.

“Have you had enough fishing now?” Frank asked.

The man tilted his straw hat and grinned. “Yep. Let’s go find the sheriff.”

He turned the camper around and started back. Suddenly another car appeared, bouncing over the rough terrain.

“It’s the State Police,” Frank exclaimed.

The vehicle stopped nose to nose against the camper and two officers stepped out. Buster and the boys did the same.

The policemen identified themselves as troopers Jones and Olivio and studied the four travelers.

Frank said, “We were just going to look—”

Olivio interrupted and pointed a finger at Joe. “We want you to come with us for questioning!”

CHAPTER XII

Suspect Joe

“ME? For questioning?” Joe stepped forward. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Olivio advised Joe of his legal rights. “You don’t have to tell us anything,” he said. “And we can get you a lawyer in town.”

“We don’t need any lawyer,” Frank said hotly. “We’ve done nothing wrong. Now will you please tell us what this is all about?”

Trooper Jones searched the camper, while Olivio explained why Joe Hardy was under suspicion.

“There was a theft of dynamite at a construction job near here,” he said. “A blond boy was seen slipping away with three sticks. The watchman got a good look at him.”

“But what makes you think it was me?” Joe asked.

The officer said the police had been on the lookout for a blond youth, and a rancher had reported seeing such a person in the area.

As his partner spoke, Jones stepped out of the camper holding something in the palm of his hand.

“Where did you get this blasting cap?” he asked sternly. “What was it doing in one of your sleeping bags?”

“Listen,” Frank said, “if you’ll give us a chance to explain, we can clear the whole thing up.”

“Go ahead.”

Frank told about the bombing episode, which had destroyed their motorcycles. “Come with us,” he concluded, “and we’ll show you the place.”

“All right,” Olivio said. The police car followed the camper to the site of the explosion.

After the lawmen had looked around, Jones said, “Dynamite all right. But how do we know that you didn’t steal it and the stuff went off by accident?”

“We wouldn’t be here if it had,” Evan said. “We’d have been blown up.”

“Well, you’ll have to come to headquarters,” Olivio said. “Stay right behind us and don’t try to get away.”

The town, twenty-eight miles distant, was the county seat. It comprised a courthouse, a movie theater, garage and a dozen shops, surrounded by a scattering of frame houses.

The troopers entered their office, where a bronzed man in his thirties was seated behind a desk. He had jet-black hair and eyes to match. A plaque on his desk read Captain Popovi.

Jones said, “Captain, we found a blond boy who answers the description Callahan gave us.”

The captain, whom the Hardys figured to be an Indian, rose from his desk, sat on the edge of it, and looked keenly at the impatient quartet.

“Have a seat.” He pointed to a long bench, and turned to Olivio and Jones. “Go get Callahan.”

Then he listened quietly while the boys related what had happened on the mountain.

Captain Popovi said that he had read about Buster Buckles touring the area. He was glad to meet him, and also a visitor from Greece.

“But what brought you three boys out here?” he asked.

Frank smiled. “It’s a long story, Captain.”

“Go ahead, tell it. It’ll be some time before Callahan gets here.”

“Who’s he?” Buster asked.

“A witness. Now go on with your story.”

Frank told about their search for The Persian Glory and how they had come to find Buster Buckles.

“We’ve been harassed all along,” Frank said. “But this bombing is the worst yet.”

The captain said he was well-acquainted with the machinations of the Gerrold gang. He also knew of Mr. Hardy’s reputation and concluded, “If you’re innocent, we’ll know soon enough.”

After nearly half an hour Olivio appeared with a man even older than Buster Buckles. The fellow had a flowing white mustache, gnarled brown hands, and walked with a decided stoop.

“We have a suspect, Callahan,” the captain said.

“Where?” The old man looked into the faces of the four seated on the bench.

“Stand up, Joe Hardy,” the captain said.

Callahan took a long look at Joe. “He’s young, and he has blond hair. But he’s not the kid that ran off with the dynamite.”

“Are you sure?” Popovi asked.

“Positive. The thief was sort of fat in the middle, even though he was about the same height.”

“All right, that does it,” the captain said. He stepped forward and shook hands with each of the four. “Sorry to detain you like this. But you understand.”

While Callahan was driven back to his job, the Hardys chatted briefly with Captain Popovi. He promised to be on the lookout for Cole and the Greek suspect, as well as the dynamite thief.

“Good-by and take care!”

Outside headquarters, the Hardys urged Buster to head for California immediately.

“The way you boys eat,” he protested, “we have to get more supplies.”

They chipped in some money and bought groceries to stock the larder. “That ought to hold us for a while,” Buster said.

After an overnight stop, they continued on the straight highway, with Frank and Joe spelling Buster at the wheel.

The miles could not fly fast enough to suit the Hardys as they neared their destination. Finally they crossed the border and drove through the jagged mountains at the western edge of the state.

It was evening when the little camper pulled up in front of the home of Buster Buckles. It was an old-fashioned bungalow located in a run-down area. A small one-car garage stood in the rear of the weed-covered lot.

Joe was all for plunging directly into a search for the film. But Buster said, “What’s your hurry? It’s late. We’ll look for it in the morning.”

He parked the camper in front of the house and led the way inside. The interior of the bungalow had a musty smell and the boys helped Buster open all the windows.

Evan said, “Mr. Buckles, what does a can of old film look like?”

The old man said the tin was about fifteen inches in diameter and an inch and a half deep. “It holds a thousand feet of thirty-five millimeter film,” he explained. “Now look, I have only one bed. So bring your sleeping bags in. I’ll make a snack, then we’ll all hit the sack.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “But I’d like to call home and let my folks know where we are. Is there a phone nearby?”

“I’ve got one,” Buster said.

“Yours is disconnected.”

Buster grinned. “I had that done before I left, but it’s on again since the first of the month. That was yesterday.”

Frank called his father and told him of their adventures so far. When he came to the dynamite episode, Mr. Hardy interrupted. “I know about that.”

“What?”

“The mob’s harassing you to get me off the investigation. I received a note after they dynamited your bikes, saying that the next time it wouldn’t just be the bikes but you too.”

Frank whistled. “I wish I’d called sooner.”

“So do I. I wanted to warn you but couldn’t get in touch. From now on, be extra careful.”

“Okay, Dad. Don’t worry.”

In the morning, after Buster had made pancakes for everyone, he took a key from a shelf and beckoned to the boys.

“Now we’ll go look for the film.” He led them to the garage and unlocked the door.

Inside sat a dusty compact car. Around it on three sides was an assortment of junk—old tires, empty oil cans, a ladder, garden tools, and an ancient bicycle.

“I’d better take the car out first,” Buster said, “or we’ll never get to the stuff.” He drove the automobile into the street and parked it there. Then he walked to the front of the garage.

“I think the film is in this corner somewhere,” he said, pointing to a dirty tarpaulin. Under it was a piece of black oilcloth, sticky with age.

Frank and Joe lifted it to reveal a dozen film cans covered with cobwebs. Frank brushed away a layer of dust with the back of his hand. Then he, Joe, and Evan each picked up a can.

“Be careful,” Buster warned. “Those things can explode!”

CHAPTER XIII

Los Angeles Rendezvous

HEEDING Buster’s warning, Frank, Joe, and Evan gingerly carried the tins into the house and placed them gently on the dining-room table.

“Let’s examine these reels right away,” Joe said.

Frank agreed. If The Persian Glory was in one of the cans, they might not have to bother with the others still in the garage.

Lids were removed with great caution. Inside lay the old nitrate celluloid, its pungent smell rising from the tins.

Buster unreeled and examined them one at a time as the boys peered over his shoulder.

“Look at that,” Frank said. “Part of an old Tom Mix movie.”

Evan read a caption and asked, “Who was Eddy Polo?”

Buster explained that he was the hero of an adventure series in the days of the silent films.

The first two cans contained several dozen outtakes. But none of them was from The Persian Glory.

Buster had just started to examine the third reel when the house was shaken by a muffled roar. He put down the film and they all raced outside.

Black smoke billowed from the garage. An instant later the frame structure was engulfed in red flames.

“Good heavens, the film’s blown up!” Buckles cried out. “Run for your lives!”

His warning was hardly necessary, because the heat forced all of them back to a respectful distance.

Buster rushed into the house and phoned the fire department. Five minutes later three fire engines screamed to the scene.

While the young detectives looked on, crestfallen and silent, the firemen quickly attached their hoses. Two streams of water gushed into the inferno, whipping up sparks and blackened ash.

Joe was glum as he watched the garage fall with a shower of sparks. “Frank, now we may never solve this mystery!” he muttered.

Buster seemed to be in a trance. His eyes were fixed on the flaming boards which gradually disintegrated.

“Are you insured?” Frank asked him.

He nodded, coming back to reality. “But I’m glad the car wasn’t parked inside,” he said.

A policeman, who had joined the scene, approached the actor. With him was a man carrying a camera in his hands.

“What happened? How did it start?” the officer inquired.

“I guess something shifted and fell and the old film just blew up,” Buster replied.

“Old film? You mean nitrate? That stuff’s dangerous. You shouldn’t have it around.”

“Well, it ain’t around any more,” Buster said.

“It must have started by spontaneous combustion,” the policeman deduced.

Joe thought it could have been set off deliberately and said so.

“Set off by whom?” the policeman asked.

“The people who have been tailing us,” Joe replied. “Either someone else wanted to get that film, or wanted to prevent us from having it.”

“What film? And who are these people you’re talking about?”

The boys told their story briefly, and Frank noticed that the man with the camera took notes.

“What are you doing that for?” the boy asked.

“I’m a reporter for the Afternoon Gazette,” the man replied.

When Frank heard this, he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Publicity was the last thing Evan and the Hardys wanted.

“Does all this have to go in your newspaper?” he asked.

The man smiled pleasantly. “You bet it does. Can’t you see the headline? ‘Old-time actor involved in modern drama. What secret lies in The Persian Glory?’ Wow!”

He turned and hurried off, stepped into a car, and disappeared.

The usually smiling Evan was a picture of dejection. His mouth dropped at the corners. “Now everyone will know about the helmet!” he said gloomily.

The firemen, meanwhile, continued to douse the smoldering remains of the garage long after the flames had subsided. Finally they left the blackened mess.

Buster led the boys back into his house. “Let’s look at the last few outtakes,” he said, picking up the film and unreeling it slowly.

“No—no. That’s not it.” He rolled off a couple of more feet and his eyes focused sharply. “Wait a minute!” he said, and held the film up against the light. His hands began to shake.

“Boys, if I’m not mistaken, this is it! Yes, here’s Cornelius Doornheim, who played the lead, and he’s wearing the helmet.”

The surge of excitement was electrifying. Frank, Joe, and Evan pressed closer for a better look.

“Boys, this is it!” Buster said.

“Be careful!” the actor cried. “You’ll knock me over and we’ll all explode!”

He rolled up the film again and placed it back in the can. “I don’t want to put this in my projector,” he said. “It would be better to have it copied on safety film first.”

“Do you know a lab who would do it?” Frank asked.

“Yep!”

“Great! Can we go right now?”

“Why not? Follow me in the car. I’ll take the camper and return it to the rental agency.”

On the way Joe remarked, “We might as well get two copies. Jeff Riker would love to have one, I’m sure.”

The technician at the laboratory promised to make two copies by late afternoon.

Buoyed by enthusiasm, they drove back to Buster’s bungalow. A few blocks away they stopped for gas at a service station. While they were waiting, Frank’s eyes lighted upon a maroon Buick up on the rack.

“Joe! See that car with the New Mexico license number?”

“The one Cole and the Greek were using!” Joe exclaimed.

“Right. They must have followed us here and are spying on us.”

“Now we know for sure they set the fire,” Joe said. “Let’s talk to the mechanic.” He and Frank approached the man who was working on the car, while Buster and Evan stayed behind.

“We’ve been trying to get in touch with a Greek friend of ours,” Frank said. “But he’s moved. I believe this is his car. Do you have his address?”

“The car belongs to a Greek, all right,” the mechanic replied. “George Dimitri.”

“That’s our friend,” said Frank

“I don’t have his address. He said he’d pick up the car tomorrow or the day after.”

“What’s he driving in the meantime?” asked Joe.

“A blue Chevy. He rented it from the place down the street. You want me to give him a message?”

“No. We’re leaving town tonight. Thanks all the same.”

At Buster’s house, the young detectives went into a huddle to map out their strategy.

“We’ll have to stake out that garage, then follow Dimitri when he picks up the Buick,” Frank said.

“Do you think Buster will give us his car for the whole day?” Joe asked.

“I wouldn’t even ask him. We can’t impose on him like that. Let’s rent one. But first I want to call Dad. It just occurred to me that he might know something about George Dimitri.”

Mr. Hardy did indeed. “He’s a shady character who came from Greece not long ago and joined the Gerrold mob. What his racket is I don’t know yet. I’ll try to find out.”

Frank then told his father about their planned stakeout.

“No need to rent a car,” Mr. Hardy said. “Sam Radley is in Los Angeles right now. Call him at the Ambassador Hotel. He might be able to do the surveillance job for you.”

Frank called his father’s operative, who had assisted them on many cases, and reported what had happened. Sam promised to watch the garage the following two days.

Later Buster went out to get the afternoon paper. At the bottom of the front page was a three-column picture of his burning garage. He handed the paper to the boys. “Take a look at that story!” he said.

They read the report and groaned in dismay. All details of their quest for the old movie had been given to millions of readers in the Los Angeles area!

Frank shrugged. “Well, our enemies knew all about it, anyway. What difference does it make at this point whether the whole world knows?”

At five o’clock Buster received a call from the film lab. The copies were ready and could be shown in the lab’s viewing room.

“Fine,” Buster said. “We’ll be over after dinner.”

“All right,” came the reply. “Mr. Simmons is going to stay late today anyhow. He’ll wait for you.”

When Buster and the boys left an hour later, they looked cautiously about to see if anyone were spying on them. Only a motorcycle sped past. Nothing else. Still, Frank had the uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched. He kept looking out the car’s rear window all the way to their destination, but saw nothing suspicious.

When they arrived at the lab, it was closed, but Mr. Simmons let them in. He locked the door after them and ushered them to a room on the second floor that looked like a miniature movie theater.

On a small table in the back of the room were the two copies of The Persian Glory outtake. Mr. Simmons put one of them in a projector.

“Make yourselves at home,” he said while adjusting the film.

They sat in the front row on comfortable cushioned seats, and in a few minutes the old silent movie flashed on the screen. The Hardys realized that The Persian Glory must have been a high-budget enterprise. A scene showed hundreds of people attacking an ancient castle, then came a close-up of a young man.

“Evan, that’s you!” Joe exclaimed.

Evan laughed. “It’s Uncle Nick. We sure look alike!”

Nick Pandropolos walked to the lead man who wore the ancient Greek helmet.

“Can you rerun that shot?” Joe asked Mr. Simmons. “We’re interested in the helmet.”

“Sure.” Simmons ran the film backward.

“There! Hold it.”

The boys studied the headgear. The top was rounded and a long piece of metal extended down to cover the nose.

“Could you make us a couple of enlargements of that frame?” Frank asked Mr. Simmons.

“Be glad to.” Simmons turned the light on, rewound the reel, and said, “Did you take the other copy of the film I left on the table over there?”

“No,” Frank said. They stared at the table. The reel was gone.

“It’s been stolen!” Joe exclaimed.

CHAPTER XIV

Surprise Phone Call

NONE of them had seen anyone enter the screening room. The theft must have been accomplished when the lights were out!

The boys ran downstairs to the main floor. The door stood open, but by the time they reached the street there was no sign of anyone who looked suspicious.

Joe and Evan went in one direction, Frank and Mr. Simmons in the other. They questioned passersby. No one had seen a man running away from the lab building. Half a dozen queries produced no results, but finally Joe talked to a man who was standing on the opposite side of the street waiting for a taxi.

“Yes, some guy came out of that building—a short, wiry fellow. He took off fast and kept looking back over his shoulder,” the man said.

Joe and Evan thanked him and hastened back to the others.

“Obviously it was Kitten Cole,” Joe said. “He must have followed us somehow, picked the lock, and come in while we were viewing the outtake.”

“May I use your phone?” Frank asked Mr. Simmons. “I’d like to report this to the police.”

“Go ahead.”

Frank made the call, then asked when they could pick up the enlargements.

“Tomorrow. Do you want me to make you another copy of the outtake?”

“Yes, please. And thanks very much for your trouble.”

Back at Buster’s house, over cups of tea, they pondered the new events.

“I don’t think Dimitri and Cole set the fire,” Frank said. “They not only wanted to prevent us from having the film, but they wanted it themselves.”

Joe nodded. “Let’s give Chet a call and see if there’s anything new at his end,” he suggested.

It took a few minutes to get in touch with Chet. When he finally came to the phone he was out of breath.

“Hi, fellows. I ran all the way. What’s up?”

Frank told him what had happened.

“Wow! You sure had a lot of adverse action out there,” Chet said.

“True. How about you?”

“Nothing happened here. Red Car never showed up again.”

“That figures. By the way, how’s the romance?”

“Great, just great. And boy! I’m learning a lot about film-making. I’m going to be a director someday.”

“Okay, Chet, keep your eyes open.” Frank hung up.

The boys retired for the night after watching a show on Buster’s television. Next morning they were awakened by the persistent ringing of the telephone.

Buster Buckles reached it first. “Who?…Who do you want?…Yes, they’re here. Hold on, please.”

Joe Hardy had wriggled out of his sleeping bag and Buster handed him the phone. “It’s for you. A woman.”

“Hello, this is Joe Hardy.”

“Joe, this is Betty Love. I’m here in California.”

“Oh—Miss Love, how did you find us?”

The woman chuckled. “I read the papers.” She added, “I’d like you to come and see me. I have some information for you.”

“What kind of information?”

“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. Do you have a pencil? Then write down this address in Hollywood and come over right away.”

Joe fumbled for a piece of paper in his jacket pocket and wrote down the address. When he finished he thanked Betty Love and hung up.

“What was that all about?” Buster asked.

“Betty Love wants to see us.”

“Betty Love, the actress? I remember her. She played in The Persian Glory.”

“She was the one who told us about you. Now she says she has some more information. Obviously about The Persian Glory.”

Buster scratched his head. “You’ve got an awful lot of enemies. Suppose that wasn’t Betty, but a trap?”

Frank nodded. “I was just thinking that myself. On the other hand, we have to pursue all possibilities. Buster, would you go with us? You and Evan can wait outside, and if we don’t come out in ten or fifteen minutes, call the police.”

“You bet!” Buster said. “But let’s eat first, eh? Who wants to get trapped on an empty stomach?”

After breakfast they left. Again, there was no sign of any tail, but to be on the safe side, Buster drove in and out of side streets and made a quick U-turn at a gas station to throw off any possible pursuer.

The address which Betty had given them proved to be a lovely home on a tree-lined street. Buster and Evan stayed in the car, while Frank and Joe walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell.

A strange woman opened the door, smiled, and beckoned them inside. Their footsteps were muted by a thick oriental rug which led to a gracious living room. Seated in a high-backed chair beside the marble fireplace was Betty Love.

She smiled. “Frank and Joe, I’d like you to meet my friend Marian Stewart. She’s another old actress like me.”

After the boys were seated, Betty Love went on, “I was going through some things Marian kept in storage for me over the years. I found an old diary which might be of interest to you.”

“Does it have to do with The Persian Glory?” Joe asked.

The elderly woman nodded, reached for a leather-bound book lying on the table beside her, and opened it.

She leafed through the yellowed pages until she found what she wanted. The entry was dated a few years after Nicholas Pandropolos had returned to Greece. It said that the old, authentic Greek helmet had been found at the studio.

“I remember now,” Miss Love said, “the director was going to send it back to Greece, but with one thing and another he didn’t and it wound up in the storage building.”

“Maybe it’s still there!” Joe said, hardly able to contain his excitement.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Miss Love said, shaking her head sadly. “All of the things were sold at an auction when the company dissolved three years ago.”

“Who bought the stuff?” Frank asked.

The woman did not know, but told them that a story about this had been printed in the newspapers. “It was in the spring,” she said.

Frank and Joe thanked Miss Love for her information. “You really put us on the trail of the helmet,” Frank said. “I’m sure we can track down who bought the things.”

The boys hastened out to tell Evan and Buster the good news. “Next stop the newspaper office,” Frank said.

A clipping from the newspaper’s library provided the next clue. While viewing microfilm of the feature story, the Hardys learned that a dealer named Mervin Hecht had bought the entire contents of the movie company warehouse, including stage settings and props of all kinds.

The boys thanked the librarian for his help and hastened back to Buster, who was temporarily double-parked in front of the office.

“Come on, or you’ll get me a ticket!” he said. “Where to next?”

Joe consulted the notes they had taken in the newspaper office. Hecht’s shop was in Hollywood and turned out to be a small place next to an interior decorator. The three boys entered and were greeted by a slender man wearing a wide tie and a carnation in the lapel of his blue jacket.

When Frank asked about his purchase from the movie company, he replied, “That was a few years ago. I didn’t keep the stuff long. The sets I sold to amateur groups and the junk—saddles, bridles, Civil War uniforms—went to a New York outfit.” He paused and looked at them quizzically. “Just what are you looking for?”

Frank avoided a direct answer. “We’re trying to find some old props used in a certain movie. We’re studying film-making.”

“Well, maybe the New York shop still has some of the stuff,” Mr. Hecht said. He pulled a business card from his pocket, turned it over, and wrote a name on the back.

“The place is called the Antique Salon,” he said. “I can’t remember the address, but you can look it up in the telephone directory.”

The boys thanked him and left. Frank slid in beside Buster, and Joe and Evan hopped in the back.

“Something funny’s going on,” Buster said tensely. “A blue Chevy pulled up behind me and a guy got out. He peeked in the window of Hecht’s shop while you were in there!”

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“Stocky, dark hair.”

“Did he have a mustache?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“Where did he go?”

“Back in the car and drove off. Do you suppose he was following you?”

“Sounds like it might be Dimitri,” Frank said.

They returned to the bungalow and had a late lunch while they continued to discuss the man in the blue car. “If he goes to see Hecht,” Frank said, “he’ll learn the same thing we found out.”

“In that case, we’d better get to New York as soon as possible,” Joe declared.

Just then the phone rang. Frank picked it up. The caller was Sam Radley.

“I’ve been trying to get through to you fellows,” he said. “Listen! This is urgent!”

CHAPTER XV

Cat and Mouse

FRANK pressed the receiver to his ear and motioned for silence. “What’s the scoop, Sam?”

As he listened, Frank’s eyes reflected intense excitement. “All right, we’ll find the place. Meet you in your room.”

Frank hung up. “How about that! Dimitri left with the maroon car. He had a passenger. From Sam’s description it was Kitten Cole.”

Radley had followed the car to a motel ten miles north of the city. “They’re on the first floor,” Frank said. “Sam took the adjacent room and set up an electronic surveillance. He wants us to take over while he guards the exit.”

“Why doesn’t he have them arrested right away?” Evan asked.

“Not enough proof, but the eavesdropping might reveal further clues to the whole operation.”

Buster was told about the phone call from Radley, but he had a headache and decided to stay home. However, he offered them his car.

When they left the house, the boys noticed a motorcycle across the street. The rider tried to start it, but the machine did not respond.

Frank said, “You know, I think that fellow passed here when we drove to the film lab last night. Maybe he’s spying for Cole!”

Joe shrugged. “If he is, he’s out of luck right now.”

The cyclist seemed to pay no attention as the trio started off in Buster’s car. A superhighway carried them north at a rapid clip and soon they reached the motel. A pine woods stretched out to the right of it, providing an isolated setting.

Frank drove into a clearing in the woods and parked the car out of sight. “Sam’s in Room 29B,” he said as the boys walked to the motel.

The boys found the door and knocked. Sam Radley, sandy-haired and grinning, let them in. After he and Evan were introduced, Sam said, “Right now these guys seem to be sleeping. It might be a long wait. Keep tuned in at all times. I’ll stay outside and watch the driveway.”

“Good idea,” Frank said. He took the headset of the listening device and Sam quietly left the room.

Not a word was spoken in the adjoining room until nightfall. Then the phone rang.

“Yes?” one of the men answered. He listened for a while, then said, “Rotten luck. Well, I hope they didn’t go far.”

He hung up. “That was Mitch. The Hardys and their friend took off and he couldn’t follow because his bike kept stalling.”

“Too bad,” said a man with a Greek accent, obviously Dimitri. “Did they leave in the old man’s car?”

“Yeah.”

“Then they’ll be back.” There was silence until Dimitri resumed the conversation. “I’m glad you got the film, Kitten. Twister’s going ga-ga to lay his hands on the prize. Then he wants to get out of sight for a while. I can’t blame him. Pressure’s too much. After the next shipment to Greece we’re going to lie low.”

“Yeah,” Cole said. “No use to risk your necks. By the way, what happened to the kid?”

“He high-tailed it back to New York. Got cold feet. But Twister found him.”

“Look,” Cole’s voice came again. “We’d better call him. He’ll want to know about Hecht.”

A number was dialed, and Dimitri asked for Gerrold.

Frank felt utterly frustrated. The gang knew about the studio props, and if Gerrold were told, he would get to the Antique Salon before they could!

But luck was with them. Gerrold could not be found, and Dimitri hung up. “We’ll have to wait until we get back to New York,” he said.

Frank turned and whispered, “Cole’s got the film. We can have him arrested for the theft!”

Joe nodded. In a low voice he called the police, after which Frank told him and Evan the rest of the men’s conversation.

He had hardly finished when the phone next door rang again.

“Hello?” Cole said. After a few seconds’ pause, he uttered a string of oaths, followed by, “Impossible!”

There were a few minutes of silence, then a door slammed, and footsteps sounded outside.

“They’ve split!” Frank cried out. “The guy on the switchboard must have tipped them off!”

By the time the boys raced from their room, the criminals were nearly out of sight. Dimitri rushed past the office and right into Sam Radley. He bowled the detective over and sprinted down the driveway to the road.

Cole had run off toward the woods. Joe and Evan dashed after him, while Frank helped Sam to his feet. They started after Dimitri just as two police cars zoomed into the driveway.

An officer jumped out of the first one and ordered Frank and Radley to halt. By the time the two had identified themselves, the Greek was gone.

Joe and Evan, meanwhile, raced through the woods, looking for Cole. Suddenly they came upon a wire fence barrier. On the other side, the land dropped steeply down to a superhighway, where cars whizzed by at seventy miles an hour.

“If Cole climbed the fence,” Evan reasoned, “he might have gotten a ride. What do you think?”

Joe was skeptical. Stopping on the freeway could cause a mammoth pile-up. “I doubt if someone would pick him up.”

Radley, Frank, and a policeman arrived at the fence. “Well,” the officer said, “I guess the other one got away too.” He obtained the description of Cole and left. Radley and Frank followed, but Joe and Evan lingered behind.

Soon all was still again in the dark pines. Joe whispered, “Don’t make any noise. I have a hunch Cole is still in these woods. Let’s wait a while.”

The two moved quietly beneath the domed canopy of inky blackness, tensely alert for the slightest sound. Minutes ticked by, a quarter of an hour passed. Joe was about to give up when he heard a slight rustle. It seemed to come from directly overhead.

Suddenly something brushed against Joe’s face, startling him. He reached out in the dark to grasp the end of a thin rope. A thud followed as someone dropped down, landing lightly on the spongy ground, inches from the boys.

With a banshee yell Joe jumped upon the figure of Kitten Cole. Evan joined in. The three rolled and thrashed about, shouting at the same time and calling for help.

Finally they pinned each of Cole’s arms to the ground as a light appeared among the trees. “Joe, Evan!” Frank called out. “Where are you?”

“Over here!”

Soon the flooding light revealed a disheveled Kitten Cole, tightly in the grasp of his captors. Frank was accompanied by the policemen, who had stayed to question the switchboard operator and examine the men’s luggage.

Cole was frisked and the stolen film found in his pocket. Then handcuffs were snapped on his wrists. Cole was advised of his constitutional rights as an arrested person, then led away.

A half hour later everyone met at headquarters. Sam Radley, who was going to stay in Los Angeles for a while, pressed charges against Cole for the theft of the film. He promised to send the reel to Jeff Riker when the police released it. Cole remained mute.

Finally the boys returned to Buster Buckles’ house, where Frank phoned home. Mrs. Hardy answered. She said that their father was in New York and gave the number of his hotel. Joe made the second call and reached the detective.

Mr. Hardy congratulated the three young sleuths on their work. “I’m still gathering information on the Gerrold mob,” he said. “I just hope I’ll have enough solid evidence to have him arrested before he disappears.”

“So do I,” Joe said. “We’re coming to New York, Dad. Will you make our flight arrangements with your credit card?”

“Sure. I’ll call you back and let you know what plane I booked you on.”

The detective managed to get midmorning reservations for the following day, and after breakfast the boys called a taxi and said good-by to Buster Buckles.

He was sorry to see them go. “You made me feel young again with that mystery of yours,” Buster said as he shook hands with each of them. “Be sure to visit me when you come west again.”

On the way to the airport they picked up the enlargements from the film lab, as well as the outtake. Frank and Joe each pocketed one of the pictures and stowed the reel in their duffel bag. They reached the plane with only minutes to spare.

After landing at Kennedy International Airport they went directly to Mr. Hardy’s hotel. It was a happy reunion, and stories were exchanged over an early dinner. After the meal the boys looked up the Antique Salon in the telephone book. The company had two shops, one in the Bronx, the other in Manhattan on Third Avenue near Sixtieth Street.

The following morning, while Mr. Hardy pursued his investigation, Frank and Evan went to the Bronx, and Joe visited the shop on Third Avenue.

It was full of old statuettes, vases, sundry pieces of art, and oriental antiques. Joe told the manager that he was looking for spears and helmets.

“Putting on a school play?” the white-haired man asked.

“Could be,” Joe replied.

“Well, follow me,” the man led Joe into a back room piled high with articles of all kinds. “Take a look,” he said. “If you see anything you like, bring it out.”

Joe’s eyes roved around. There were wooden spears, along with other theatrical accouterments—but no helmets. Then he noticed a huge Swiss cowbell, the kind used to decorate cattle when they come down from the high Alps in October. He remembered reading about the festival held at that time.

Joe was curious. He lifted the bell to ring it. Under it lay an ancient helmet!

Joe set the bell aside and picked up the helmet. The back had a cleft as if it had been struck by a heavy sword, and above the nosepiece was a cryptic inscription.

Hands trembling, Joe pulled out the photograph of the shattered helmet and compared it with the antique. There was no doubt. This was the prize they were looking for!

Trying to hide his excitement, he cradled the helmet in his left arm and walked to the front of the shop.

“Find something?” the manager asked.

“I guess this will do,” Joe said.

“I’m glad,” the man said with a smile. “I’ll give you a real bargain since you’re a student. Twenty-five dollars.”

Joe took the money from his wallet. The man wrote a receipt, wrapped the helmet, and gave it to him.

Success at last! Joe felt as if there were wings on his heels. He stepped out into the sunlight on Third Avenue, thinking about the cheers that would greet him when he delivered the shattered helmet.

But as Joe looked for a taxi he felt a sharp blow on the back of his skull. He slumped to the sidewalk, and at the same time the helmet was snatched from his hands!

CHAPTER XVI

Flight to Greece

BY the time Joe woke up, a crowd of people had gathered. The antique dealer and two other men helped him to his feet.

The boy rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “Who hit me?”

The shopkeeper said that three men had jumped him. One delivered the blow, another had snatched the helmet. All three had turned the corner and dashed toward Lexington Avenue so quickly that nobody could give a good description of them.

With a hasty thank-you, Joe turned the corner. To find his assailants, he realized, would be almost impossible, but he would try. He reached Lexington Avenue and glanced both ways, but saw no one who was carrying his package.

As he trotted toward Park Avenue, questions raced through his mind with computer speed. Had his attackers followed him to the Antique Salon? Had Dimitri ridden in the same plane from Los Angeles to New York? Had these men already attacked Frank and Evan?

Joe crossed Park Avenue and was hurrying toward Madison when he spotted three men half a block ahead of him hailing a taxi. One of them carried a bulky package. The helmet!

Joe bolted forward, but the car was off in traffic before he could reach it. Then another cab pulled up and a passenger got out.

Joe hopped in and pointed to the taxi with the three men, which had stopped for a red light. “Follow them!” he said.

“Playing cops and robbers?” asked the driver.

“Please! Don’t lose them in traffic!” Joe begged. “They’re thieves!”

“I’ll stick to ‘em like glue. Relax.”

When the signal changed to green, their quarry went north on Madison. The boy craned forward to get a look at the passengers, but all he could see was the backs of their heads.

The pursuit led across Sixty-third Street, then north on Eighth Avenue. The lead taxi stopped near Seventy-second Street and the men got out. Joe handed his driver a five-dollar bill and ran after them. One of the fugitives, who looked like Dimitri, turned and spied Joe. Abruptly the men ducked into a place called the Peloponnesian Restaurant.

As Joe reached the door his way was blocked momentarily by a couple who were leaving. Then he rushed inside, glancing about wildly. Where had the thieves gone?

The manager, a handsome man in a black jacket, approached him. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Three men! They came in a minute ago!”

“Not only that, but they ran out the back way!” the manager said disapprovingly.

Joe did the same, dashing through the kitchen and into an alley that led to a parking lot on Seventy-third Street. The men were nowhere in sight. Joe hurried to the street and looked in all directions. His quarry was gone!

Dejectedly he returned to his father’s hotel. Frank and Evan had already arrived. Joe told what had happened. “I wonder how they knew which Antique Salon had the helmet!” he said glumly.

“I can answer that one,” Frank replied. “The salesman in the Bronx told Evan and me that a Greek fellow had been there before, looking for a helmet. Since he had none, he sent him to the Third Avenue branch.”

“That must have been Dimitri. He was one of the guys who bopped me. I recognized him when he turned around. The second man could have been Saffel. But who was the third?”

Frank had an idea. “Dad, do you have a picture of Gerrold with you?”

“Sure.” Mr. Hardy went to his briefcase and produced a photograph of the racketeer. He had an intelligent face and curly brown hair.

“Let’s show this to the manager of the Peloponnesian Restaurant,” Frank suggested.

The boys returned to the restaurant, where the manager confirmed that Gerrold was one of the fugitives who had run through his establishment.

Back at the hotel, they mulled over the case. Why was Gerrold so eager to get the helmet? Could he have learned of its real value? Did it have any bearing on Mr. Hardy’s investigation of the underworld?

“My head is spinning,” Joe said, “from the bump and the questions. Now what?”

“I think the gang will beat it to Greece,” Mr. Hardy said.

“That’s it, Dad!” Frank said. “Dimitri told Cole that Gerrold wanted to get out of here for a while.”

“Let’s fly to Greece!” Joe urged.

“Good. I’ll be your guide,” Evan said.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “Make reservations right away. I’ll wire Evan’s parents and tell them you’re coming.”

All planes to Athens were filled for the day, but there were seats available for the following day on three flights.

The young detectives decided to travel separately so they could cover all three. They inquired whether Dimitri or Gerrold were booked on any of the planes, but the reply was negative.

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” Mr. Hardy said. “They could have used aliases. Watch carefully for them.”

The boys made their preparations. Evan’s flight took off first, with Joe’s following. Frank’s plane left in the evening. When it was airborne, Frank got up and moved around slowly, studying faces.

None of the passengers seemed to resemble Gerrold or Dimitri. But then Frank noticed a man fingering worry beads. He had no mustache, but he did have dark hair, and his stocky build looked like the Greek’s!

Frank spoke to a stewardess. “Isn’t that man over there named Dimitri? I think I know him. But I don’t want to make a mistake.”

“I’ll find out for you,” the girl said and went over to the man. When she returned she said, “Yes, his name is Dimitri.”

Frank decided to confront him at once and walked over to his seat. “You might as well give up now, Dimitri,” the boy said. “I’m going to tell the captain that there’s a fugitive on board!”

The man rose and looked at Frank quizzically. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You’re tied up with Gerrold and Kitten Cole!”

The passenger laughed loudly. “Listen, you’ve gone off your rocker. You’re talking Greek to me.”

Suddenly it dawned on Frank that the man spoke English without the slightest accent. Could he be wrong?

“Your name is Dimitri, isn’t it?” Frank asked.

“That’s right,” the man replied. “Dimitri Jones from Keokuk, Iowa.”

Frank was tongue-tied. “B-but I thought you were Greek!”

“Half Greek,” the man said. “My mother came from Thessaly. That’s how I got the name Dimitri.”

Frank felt his face grow hot from embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I took you for somebody else. Please excuse me.”

“I think you read too many detective stories,” Mr. Jones said, shaking his head.

Frank slumped back into his seat. “Boy, what a boo-boo,” he thought. “I’m glad Joe and Evan weren’t here!”

Suddenly two strong arms grasped him from behind. They locked around his head so tightly that Frank could not utter a sound!

CHAPTER XVII

Masquerade

FRANK struggled but the grip grew tighter. Suddenly the viselike hold relaxed and he heard a familiar chuckle.

Wheeling around, Frank looked up into the jolly moonface of Chet Morton!

Chet moved forward and lowered his hefty frame into the seat next to Frank’s.

He grinned broadly. “Frank Hardy supersleuth. I knew you’d be in trouble without me!”

“All right!” Frank groaned. “And how did you get here just at the right time?”

“Your guiding angel sent me. Actually it was Aunt Gertrude. I phoned your house and she told me you were coming to New York. The school had planned an optional field trip for this week and I begged off. Came into town and spoke to your father. He told me about your trip. It sounded exciting so I rushed to the airport and almost missed the plane. Well, anyway, here I am.”

“I don’t believe it! You spent all that dough for the fare just to join us?”

“Besides having the important mission to look out for you. Also, I’m making a documentary film.”

“No kidding. On what?”

“Dumb detectives. Oh, no. Grecian beauties,” Chet corrected himself as Frank gave him a playful punch.

“For the Greek beauties you broke away from Thelma?”

Chet winced. “Frank, to tell the truth, I was glad to get out of there.”

“How come?”

“She wanted to get engaged!”

Frank doubled over with laughter.

“Anyway, she fed me too much,” Chet went on. “Look at this!” He patted his well-rounded midsection. In the next breath he said, “When’s dinner?”

Frank sighed in mock despair. “There you go again. Now listen to me. This whole thing is rather serious.” He brought his pal up to date on the latest events. “Chet, we’ll have to scrutinize everybody on this plane.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Chet said. “I’ll start my documentary right here with the passengers. That way I can look at everybody real close.”

Chet took his camera and went up and down the left aisle, filming short footage of passengers he thought looked interesting. Meanwhile, Frank strolled down the right aisle and carefully scrutinized each person.

Chet deviated from his task for a moment to smile at a pretty girl. Then his eye caught the middle-aged man beside her. He had gray sideburns and light hair.

Seeing Chet’s camera, he quickly held a magazine before his face. Chet was alerted immediately. He made his way to Frank and told him about the bashful passenger.

“This guy really acted suspicious, Frank!”

“Some people are camera shy,” Frank said. “Did you say he was middle-aged?”

“Yes.”

Frank pulled out Gerrold’s picture. “Is that him?”

“No. He’s quite pale and has light hair.”

“Then it’s not Gerrold. And it doesn’t sound like Dimitri either. But I’ll take a look on my way back.”

Chet returned to the man. The girl beside him had left her seat and Chet slipped into it. He tried to start a conversation.

“Great flight we’re having,” he said.

The man mumbled something unintelligible.

“I’m from Bayport,” Chet went on. “Where do you live?”

The man coughed, put a handkerchief to his face, rose from his seat and made his way to one of the rest rooms.

Chet joined Frank. “That guy is definitely suspicious,” he declared, and told of his attempt to make a conversation.

“We’ll watch him,” Frank decided

Twenty minutes passed before the man finally appeared. Frank and Chet stood in the aisle and observed him take his seat.

“He’s built just like Saffel,” Frank said. “And his hair color is the same. But Leon’s not that old!”

“He could be in disguise.”

“Let’s sit down. They’re just beginning to serve dinner.”

Frank took the seat next to the suspect, while Chet established himself on the other side of the aisle. Not a word was said.

Frank observed the man from the corner of his eye. He sniffed and seemed nervous. A stewardess slid trays of hot food before the passengers. Beef filet, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Frank picked up his fork and began to eat.

The suspect sat stiffly. He ate a small piece of meat and a dab of mashed potatoes. The carrots he pushed off onto his bread plate.

Something flashed through Frank’s mind. Leon Saffel couldn’t stand carrots!

“Well,” Frank thought to himself, “here we go again.” He took a deep breath, then said to the man in a low voice, “Quit playing games, Leon!”

A fork clattered onto the tray. Saffel’s hands shook from fear and fatigue.

“All right, I give up!”

Chet’s eyes bulged. “Holy crow! It’s really Leon!”

“In disguise,” Frank said. “You had us fooled for a while. Now tell me, why did you get mixed up with that Gerrold gang?”

Saffel sighed. “You really embarrassed me at Bayport Airport the first time we met. I wanted to get even. Dimitri saw me smash one of your cameras at the falls. He approached me later and asked me to help him harass you guys.”

“Did he tell you why he was after us?”

“No. I didn’t realize how serious the whole thing was until they made me steal the dynamite and blow up your bikes. I took off after that and went back to New York, but they found me and threatened to kill me. I knew they weren’t fooling, so here I am.”

Frank remembered Dimitri saying to Cole in the motel room the kid had high-tailed it back to New York and that Gerrold had found him. “It seems Saffel’s telling the truth,” the boy said to himself.

Chet addressed Leon. “Did you follow the Hardys and Evan to Santa Fe from Hunt?”

Leon nodded. “I wore this disguise. Cole and Dimitri took another flight and we met out there.”

“All right, I give up!” Saffel said.

“Who ran over our cycles in Taos?” Frank asked.

“Kitten Cole did. He started the truck.”

“I thought so. Now, what are you doing here?”

“I don’t really know. All Gerrold and Dimitri told me was to go to Greece and meet them there.”

“Where are they now?”

“They took a private plane out of Teterboro, New Jersey, and flew to Bermuda. From there they planned to go to London, and from London to Athens.”

“Were you with them when they stole the helmet from Joe?” Frank asked.

Leon nodded. “Sorry Dimitri clouted your brother.” He shrugged wearily. “Look, I’ll do anything if you can get me out of this!”

“We’ll try,” Frank promised. “Where are you supposed to meet them?”

“Outside the arrivals building at Athens Airport. There’s a line of taxis and I’m to walk toward the end of the line. That’s all they told me.”

Frank had an idea. “Listen, Chet, how about you taking Leon’s place? You can put on his disguise and get away with it, at least for a little while. You two have about the same build. We’ll follow you, and when you need help, give us a signal. Okay?”

“Sure. I’ll try anything,” Chet agreed.

It was early the next afternoon when the huge jet descended toward Athens International Airport. Chet had donned Leon’s disguise and fixed up his face with make-up Saffel had in his bag.

“Now you know what you’re going to look like in a few years,” Frank needled his chum.

The plane landed, and the next twenty minutes were taken up by passport control and customs. Finally they walked out of the arrivals building. A long row of taxis stood ready.

Chet, his movie camera over one shoulder, strode to the end of the line. Frank followed, with Leon behind him at a safe distance.

Suddenly the door of the taxi next to the last swung open, an arm reached out, grabbed Chet and dragged him inside. As Frank and Leon raced toward the vehicle, it took off with a burst of speed!

CHAPTER XVIII

Sympathetic Vanides

MOMENTARILY stunned by the turn of events, Frank stood helpless as the taxi sped away with Chet. Then he beckoned to Leon, and the two got into another waiting cab. Frank told the driver to follow the getaway car.

The man turned around and asked Frank to repeat his instructions.

“Get that guy! Hurry! Follow him!” Frank said.

But the driver only shrugged. “Which hotel, sir?”

“No, no. I want you to—”

The other taxi was out of sight by now. Frank tried to hide his frustration. Resigned, he reached in his pocket, pulled out the address that Evan had given him, and showed it to the driver. He nodded, smiled, and started the car.

Evan’s family had an apartment near the center of the city. When Frank and Leon arrived there, Joe and Evan were the only ones home. They gasped in amazement when they saw Leon. “Where did you get him?” Joe blurted out.

Frank told about the capture on the plane, and Leon apologized again for what had happened in the past.

“All right, forget it,” Joe said. “I’m glad you’re on our side now.”

“That’s the good news,” Frank said. “Are you ready for the bad?”

“Oh, oh,” Joe said. “Let’s have it!”

“It’s about Chet.”

“Was he hurt at school?” Evan asked with a worried look.

“No. He was kidnapped at Athens Airport.”

“What?”

When Frank had given the details, Evan quickly telephoned the police and gave a description of Chet. He also mentioned the fact that he carried a movie camera. The police promised they would contact all taxis in the city and be on the lookout for the kidnappers.

Evan also mentioned that Gerrold was a known gangster in the United States and the officer thanked him for the information. He promised to get in touch with them immediately if he had any leads.

It was five o’clock when Evan’s parents arrived, surprised to find visitors. They had been away for the weekend and had not received Mr. Hardy’s cablegram.

Mr. and Mrs. Pandropolos were gracious people and welcomed their guests warmly. They were immediately apprised of all that had happened.

“Oh, how terrible!” Mrs. Pandropolos said when she heard about Chet. “Have you called Uncle Nick yet?”

“No,” Evan replied. “We were keeping the line free in case the police should call.”

Just then the phone rang. Evan snatched it from its cradle. He listened, then spoke briefly in Greek. Finally he hung up.

“The police think they have a clue!” he said excitedly. “A cab driver found a movie camera on the floor of his taxi and turned it in. We are supposed to go over right away and see if we can identify it.”

Leon remained behind while Frank, Joe, and Evan took a taxi to headquarters. With Evan as their spokesman, they introduced themselves and a lieutenant showed them the camera.

“It’s Chet’s, all right,” Joe said. “See, here’s the dent where the rock hit it.”

Frank said to Evan, “Ask the officer to have the film developed. Chet might have left a clue.”

The officer agreed. While the boys waited, the film was removed from the camera and quickly processed in the police laboratory. Then the lieutenant put it in a projector and showed it on a small screen.

First appeared the faces of the airplane passengers, including Leon Saffel holding up the magazine. Next came a series of disconnected shots. Several frames showed blurred buildings. This was followed by clear footage, revealing two close-up profiles.

“Dimitri and Gerrold!” Frank cried out. “Now we know for sure they kidnapped Chet!”

The last shot focused on the ruin of an ancient arch.

“That’s Hadrian’s Gate,” Evan said. “One of the famous landmarks of Athens.”

“What do you make of that?” Joe asked Frank.

“It’s probably where they got out of the taxi. And Chet, the fox, left his camera on the floor. The question is, where did they go from there?”

The lieutenant promised to continue the search. “We will alert police all over the country in case the kidnappers try to flee,” he declared.

The boys thanked him and left. They decided to go to Hadrian’s Gate first thing in the morning to see if they could pick up the trail.

After breakfast the next day Evan’s parents left for work in the government offices. Leon, who had come down with a bad cold, stayed in the apartment, while Frank, Joe, and Evan set out to Hadrian’s Gate.

It stood on one side of a heavily trafficked street not far from Evan’s house. The Greek boy explained that it had been built in ancient times to separate the Greek and Roman settlements in the city.

The boys looked around. Across the street Frank spied an auto rental agency. “Hey!” he said. “Maybe they rented a car and took off into the mountains.”

They waited for the light to change, then raced across the street and into the agency. A pretty girl greeted them cordially.

“Ah, Americans,” she said. “You would like a compact car?”

“No,” Frank said, and explained what they were looking for. He pulled out Gerrold’s photo. “Did this man come in here yesterday and rent a car from you?”

She scrutinized the picture. “He came in the afternoon and took a tan Fiat.”

“Was anyone with him?” Joe asked.

“Two men waited outside in a taxi.”

“We have to catch up with these men,” Evan said. “Could you give us the license number of their car?”

The girl looked it upon a voucher. “But I don’t know where they went,” she said.

“Did the man ask for a map?” Frank inquired.

“Yes, he did.”

“Try to remember,” Frank urged, “if he mentioned anything about his plans.”

The girl frowned in deep thought. “He spread the map out over here. Ah, yes, I do remember. He followed the national highway with his finger. And I believe he indicated Delphi.”

“Thank you very much!” Evan said. “You’ve been a great help.”

The boys were elated when they left the rental agency. They took a taxi back to Evan’s house and from there relayed the information to the police.

Minutes later the doorbell rang. The caller was Nicholas Pandropolos, Evan’s famous uncle. He was a tall, portly man with a high forehead, rugged face, and a handshake to match. He was very much upset over Chet’s disappearance.

Evan told him about the Delphi clue and asked, “Could we use your car, Uncle Nick? We want to follow Gerrold.”

“Of course,” Uncle Nick said and looked at Leon. “I think you should stay here until the criminals are caught. You might be their next target.”

Leon nodded gratefully.

“What do you suppose the mob will do with Chet?” Evan asked his uncle.

“They can’t let him go; he knows too much. On the other hand, he would be a nuisance to take wherever they went.”

“That leaves only one alternative,” Joe said, “and I don’t even want to think about it!”

“If we could only find out more about George Dimitri,” Frank mused, “it might lead to a clue. His friends, connections, a former job—”

Uncle Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “You know, I remember that a man named George Dimitri worked once for my competitor, Spiro Vanides. He got into some trouble and was dismissed. Perhaps this is the same Dimitri.”

“Do you think we could talk with Mr. Vanides?” Frank asked.

“Well, Vanides and I have never seen eye to eye in business matters, but I don’t think he’d refuse you any information. Let me drive you to his office. You can take my car from there. And, Evan, I’ll tell your parents.”

“Thanks, Uncle Nick,” Evan said.

A half hour later they met Spiro Vanides in a plush new office building. He was younger than Evan’s uncle, with straight black hair combed back, a thin face, prominent jaw, and slender frame. He appeared very agitated over the kidnapping, and when he heard that Dimitri was a suspect, he shook his head.

“If it is the same man, he is no good. He worked for my company some time ago. But we dismissed him because of cargo thefts. Our security men suspected Dimitri but lacked enough proof to have him arrested.”

“Do you know any of his friends?” Frank asked.

Vanides shrugged. “Unfortunately, no. But I will try to find out more information for you. Perhaps some of my employees will know. I will call you later.”

They thanked the shipper, then set off immediately for Delphi in Uncle Nick’s Mercedes Benz. With Evan at the wheel, they raced north over the national highway, making a turnoff at the exit marked Levadia. Near the outskirts of the town, Evan pulled into a roadside haven called The Friendly Stop.

“How come this place has an English name?” Joe asked.

Evan said that tour buses and foreign travelers stopped here for refreshments. “Let’s go inside and find out if Gerrold and company were here.”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. “I’m starved, anyway.”

In his native tongue Evan asked the manager if he had seen Gerrold and Dimitri, and showed him Gerrold’s photograph.

The man gesticulated and pointed out to the parking lot.

“What’d he say, Evan?” Frank asked eagerly.

“They stopped here yesterday. Gerrold came inside and bought some pastry. Meanwhile, there was quite a commotion. A boy was struggling in the back seat and a man was holding him down. Gerrold said he was suffering from a fit, and that they were taking him to Delphi.”

“Poor Chet,” Joe said as they started off again after a quick snack. “No one realized what trouble he’s in.”

The road snaked through rolling hills and along the slope of a steep mountain. It was late afternoon when they arrived in Delphi. The Hardys marveled at the seat of the ancient Greek civilization, where ruins of temples stretched up the hillside to a magnificent marble amphitheater.

“The stadium is even higher up. You can’t see it from here,” Evan said. “But we’d better not take time for sightseeing.”

They drove into town and questioned many people. But no one had seen their quarry. Finally they hit pay dirt at a gas station at the western end of Delphi. The attendant told them that a tan Fiat had stopped the day before and that one of the passengers had had a fit. The two men with him had mentioned that they were taking their sick companion to a doctor in Mesolongion.

Now the way led downhill, curving like a roller coaster through a gray forest of olive trees. After an hour Frank spelled Evan at the wheel. The road led upward in hairpin turns over a bare mountain, then down again into a long, narrow valley cut by a placid stream.

All at once the valley was filled with gray clouds.

“A storm’s coming our way,” Evan said. “I’ve seen them before. Something like in Arizona, only more suddenly.”

Rain came down in a torrent. Frank turned on the wipers, but they could not keep up with the flood of water. Straining to get a glimpse of the road, he bent over the wheel, driving slowly.

From the steep hillside on the left several rocks rolled across the road, then without warning—crash! The back end of the car slewed around as a boulder bounced off it.

The boys got out to look at the damage and were drenched in seconds. They found that the rear wheel was crushed.

“It’s hopeless!” Frank groaned. “We’ll have to move the car off the road.”

The three pushed and hauled until finally the vehicle was on the shoulder.

The boys jumped back inside, soggy and shivering. They took some dry clothes from their bags and changed. Half an hour later the clouds disappeared and the setting sun broke through the dripping landscape.

“We’re in a great fix,” Joe said. “Your uncle’s car is wrecked, Chet’s lost, and we’re stranded!”

“Not a bright outlook,” Evan agreed. “And this is a pretty deserted area. We might have to wait hours for a car to come by.”

“Maybe we can go for help,” Frank suggested. “Somebody must be living out here.”

“Let’s look then,” Evan agreed.

They trudged down the road for half a mile, then Evan pointed uphill.

“There’s a shepherd’s place,” he said.

“Where?” Joe asked.

“The long, low stone structure. See it now?”

“Yes. Blends right into the hill.”

They climbed the slope until they reached the cottage. Evan knocked on the rough-hewn door and a peasant woman answered. He explained their predicament.

A short conversation followed during which the shepherd arrived, prodding his flock into the small stone enclosure next to the hut. The Greek couple suggested that the boys have supper and stay overnight.

“The valley is full of boulders. They drop down for some time after the storms are over,” the shepherd said.

Frank, Joe, and Evan thanked their hosts, ate with them, then settled down on piles of straw at one end of the long room. Near dawn all three awakened at the same time.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“Sounds like a helicopter,” Frank replied. “And it seems to be getting closer!”

The boys dashed out and looked up into the gray sky. A small chopper was alighting far up on the hillside.

“What luck!” Joe said. “Maybe that guy can give us a lift!”

They raced up the hill, slipping and sliding in the soft mud. Soon they saw a small hut nestled against the dun mountain. The boys began to shout.

The helicopter was now at rest, its rotor whirring slowly. Suddenly a familiar cry shrilled through the air.

“Help! Help!”

“It’s Chet!” Evan exclaimed.

“You’re right!” Frank gasped. “And look, they’re dragging him to the chopper!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Caves of Corfu

CHET, whose hands were tied, put up a fierce resistance. When he heard the shouts, he threw himself to the ground and kicked violently.

His captors realized there would not be enough time to get Chet into the helicopter. They ran to the chopper and it rose into the air amid a maelstrom of wind and noise.

Evan, first to reach Chet, unbound his hands. The boy winced as the circulation in his wrists resumed, but quickly recovered from his ordeal. His friends surrounded him and rapidly fired questions at him.

Chet said he had been brought to the hut by Dimitri and Gerrold the previous day, and was left there, tied to a post.

“Where did they go?” Frank pressed.

“I don’t know. They mentioned the word Kerkira a lot, whatever that means.”

“That’s the Greek name for Corfu!” Evan said. “An island off the northwest coast near Albania. Maybe that’s where they went!”

“Who were the guys with the chopper?” Frank asked.

“I have no idea. They just appeared a little while ago. Didn’t say where they were going to take me. Now tell me, how did you get here just in the nick of time?”

Frank and Joe took turns explaining the latest events. Suddenly Chet clasped his stomach. “I feel weak! I haven’t eaten since yesterday!”

“We know a place where you can get breakfast five minutes from here,” Evan said.

“Let’s go!”

The boys worked their way back to the shepherd’s hut, where they had goat’s milk and bread. Then they thanked their hosts and returned to the Mercedes.

They found a national police car parked alongside. One of two officers was taking down their license number. They looked surprised at the four boys.

Evan explained their predicament in Greek and the police radioed to Navpaktos for a service car. Then Evan told the officers about Chet’s rescue and the helicopter take-off. They promised to notify Athens, call the Pandropolos family, and keep a lookout for the chopper. Then they left.

Two hours later a mechanic arrived. He had brought a spare wheel and replaced the smashed one. After paying him, the boys set off westward toward Corfu.

The narrow highway twisted and turned before it made a sweeping loop in the descent toward Navpaktos, a small town on the Gulf of Corinth. There they stopped for gas and oil.

“Let’s keep on going,” Evan said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll catch the last ferry from Igoumenitsa to the town of Corfu.” He showed the Americans a map. The road led west to Mesolongion, then northward to Ioannina and west again to the coastal town of Igoumenitsa.

The boys spelled one another at the wheel. Frank drove for the last few miles. He skillfully negotiated the tortuous mountain road, which finally dropped down to the seacoast.

Evan pointed, “There’s the ferry! It’s loading. Hurry, Frank, and let me out when you come to the tollhouse.”

Frank slowed enough for the Greek boy to hop out, then sped to the last position in a line of cars boarding the ferry.

Evan came back with their tickets in time, gave them to the ferryman, and joined his friends aboard the boat. The whistle blew a mournful note and the craft eased out of the harbor for the crossing to Corfu.

The two hours sailing time seemed like an eternity to the Hardys. The sun lowered into the waves and not long afterward darkness spilled over the Ionian Sea. By the time the steel ramp clanked down on the wharf at the town of Corfu, the sky was inky black. Headlights creeping off the ferry illuminated a broad plaza, bordered by shops and hotels.

“How about some chow and beddy-by?” Chet asked. “I’m beat.”

The others agreed. “We can’t do any investigating this time of night, anyway,” Frank said.

They registered at the Hermes Hotel and had dinner.

“Wake me up after you catch those crooks,” Chet said when they were back in their room. “I think I can sleep for a whole week.”

The next morning, however, he rose with the others, eager to pursue the suspects. They had breakfast in the hotel’s coffee shop and the waiter gave Evan directions to the police.

Half an hour later the four boys entered headquarters, where Evan conversed in Greek with the sergeant on duty. He told of their mission to capture Dimitri and Gerrold and their search for the ancient helmet.

“So! You, too!” The policeman smiled as he replied in English. Seeing their puzzled looks, he went on, “Yes. We are hunting for them, also. We know all about Gerrold and Dimitri through a teletype from Athens.”

“Any luck yet?” Frank asked.

“We found the tan Fiat—abandoned. And a small boat is missing.”

Evan looked amazed. “You mean they took off for Albania?”

“It is possible.”

“They’ll be caught and tossed in jail over there,” Frank reasoned.

“Not likely. Dimitri is an Albanian. He will ask asylum for his friend, the American gangster,” the policeman said.

Frank let out a low whistle. “Dimitri an Albanian?”

“Yes. He crossed the strait illegally some years ago, obtained a fake Greek passport, and eventually slipped into the United States.”

Joe said, “So he knows this area well.”

“Yes. But our men are patrolling the strait and have not seen them. There is a good chance the fugitives are still on Kerkira.”

Evan thanked the officer. “If you learn anything, will you leave a message for us at the Hermes?”

“Certainly.”

Evan looked discouraged. Outside, he pointed northeast across the narrow belt of water to whitish hills rising starkly not more than ten miles distant.

“There’s Albania. Not a very friendly country. If those criminals got away, good-by to the helmet!”

“There’s still hope,” Joe said. “Those hoods could be holing up somewhere, waiting for a good chance to make a break for it.”

“The question is, where could they be hiding?” Chet said.

Evan was thoughtful for a few moments. “If they stole a boat, they have to hide that, too. There are many caves along the shore. Perhaps they’re using one of them!”

“Let’s get a boat and look,” Joe said.

The boys hastened to the waterfront and rented a sturdy eighteen-foot craft with an inboard engine. Evan purchased a detailed map of the island and they set out with the Greek at the wheel.

The coast swung north in a curve until nearly touching Albania at a place called Kouloura.

“It’s only a mile and a half across at that point,” Evan said.

Unlike the area around Athens, Corfu was clothed in green hills that sloped down to the water’s edge. Part of the shore was rocky, with caves cut deeply into the limestone. In other places, lagoons provided harbors for small boats and beaches for bathing.

Evan held his course a quarter mile offshore. “There’s Dassia,” he said. “English people vacation here a lot. Not many Americans.” He pointed out the settlement and continued north.

The coast became more rocky, caves more abundant. Whenever a large one came into view, Evan drove closer and they examined it carefully.

Now Albania seemed as close as a pitch from deep center field to home base. It looked chalky white in the midday sun.

“Let’s put in at Kassiopi for lunch,” Evan suggested. Kassiopi was a small harbor edged with a low concrete bulkhead. Behind it were several restaurants.

“That’s my kind of detective work,” Chet said. “Water sports and food.” While the others made fast the boat, he headed straight for the nearest restaurant. When his friends caught up, he was trying to make the waiter understand what he wanted.

While lunch was being prepared, the young detectives asked several people if two men resembling the fugitives had been seen in the area. They showed Gerrold’s picture around, but got no result.

Finally the waiter beckoned them to an outdoor table. Evan shot one more query at him. The waiter cocked his head, examined the photograph, and lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, I saw this man. I made up a dozen sandwiches this morning for him to take out, together with two Thermos bottles of hot coffee.”

“Where did he go?” Frank asked.

The waiter shrugged.

Nevertheless, the boys were elated. “Those crooks must be hiding somewhere nearby,” Joe said, “biding their time. It’s unlikely they’d leave in broad daylight. Let’s hurry and continue our search.”

When they had finished, Evan took the helm again and skillfully guided the boat as close to the shore as he could without scraping the bottom.

Every navigable cave was entered and the work grew tedious and tiring.

“We’ll never make it by nightfall,” Chet said, shielding his eyes from the low sun.

“I’m not giving up yet,” Evan stated grimly.

They continued their search until dusk, but then the light became so dim that the boat was in danger of being ripped by underwater crags.

“We’ll have to call it a day,” Joe said.

“Okay,” Evan agreed. “I guess— Hey, what’s that?”

An aircraft engine broke the stillness.

“It’s a chopper I” Chet cried out. “Look, the same kind that nearly got me!”

CHAPTER XX

Bang-up Roundup

THE helicopter landed on a rocky promontory not far from where their boat lay hidden by a jutting boulder. A man appeared, seemingly out of the ground, got into the chopper and the craft took off.

“He must have come from the rear entrance to a cave,” Frank said excitedly.

“Yes, I see the opening,” Joe said. “Right behind that rock.”

Evan cut the engine and began maneuvering the boat with an oar. “Should we go in?”

“We don’t really know if the cave is empty,” Frank said. “Someone else might still be there.”

Evan paddled the boat softly through the water and finally stopped at the entrance to the cave. The boys sat silently for a few minutes, straining to pick up a sound. There was none.

Finally Frank said, “Let’s go in. Joe, you stay here as a lookout.” He took a flashlight from a locker and the boys climbed over the rocks inside the cave, using their light as sparingly as possible. They passed several cracks and crevices in the crumbling limestone walls, then came upon a flat area floored with hard-packed sand. Footprints were all over the place.

Suddenly the light fell upon a small outboard boat.

“No doubt the stolen one,” Evan said. “Hey, look at this!”

On the floor of the boat lay a neatly tied brown carton. Evan reached for it.

“Wait!” Frank commanded. “It might be a booby trap.” He cut the string carefully, then gingerly opened the top of the carton. Inside lay the shattered helmet!

“Wow!” exclaimed Chet. “Look at that!”

“Quiet!” hissed Frank. “They might hear us!”

“Of course we hear you!” Dimitri’s voice boomed out. They whirled around to see the Albanian and Gerrold step out of a shadowy crevice. Dimitri held a brilliant flashlight.

“I wouldn’t touch that helmet!” he said.

“Says you,” Frank declared. He picked up the box. “Come on, Chet. Show Evan how to run interference against these thugs.”

Suddenly a voice behind the boys spoke with chilling effect. “Put that helmet down!”

Frank turned slowly to look into the nose of a nickel-plated pistol.

“Spiro Vanides!” Frank gasped.

Evan said, “You—you— I can’t believe it!”

“Neither will anybody else,” Vanides said coldly. “I wanted this helmet and I have it, thanks to my friends—and of course your good detective work.”

The three boys were stunned by Vanides’ admission.

“You risked an awful lot for the helmet,” Frank said. “Why?”

“Why?” The shipper waggled the gun toward Evan. “Because of his Uncle Nick, that’s why!”

“My uncle never harmed you!” Evan protested.

“Oh no? He gets the fat shipping contracts. He’s praised for his charity. He wants Agamemnon’s helmet to present to the state! More praise, more glory!”

Vanides’ face flushed with hatred. “Now I have the helmet and Nick’s favorite nephew and assorted trash from the United States!”

Frank stepped forward impulsively.

“Don’t move or I will shoot you!” Vanides snarled.

Dimitri said, “We have the fat kid again. Can’t seem to get rid of him! And that’s your fault, Vanides. Your chopper pilot should have dropped him off in the Gulf of Corinth! Same as we planned to do with that stupid Saffel before he got away!”

“Quiet!” Vanides ordered. “Where is the other Hardy boy?”

“He’s not with us,” Frank stated.

“Brilliant observation!” Vanides said sarcastically.

“You’re not so smart yourself,” Frank said, “or you wouldn’t have pulled this caper. All you have is us, a broken helmet, and a lot of trouble.”

“Trouble?” Vanides laughed. “You are in trouble. I have won!” His grinning confederates joined in his pleasure. “As for the helmet,” he said, “it goes to the Moscow Museum of Antiquity—benefactor Spiro Vanides!”

Gerrold interrupted at this point. “And as for you kids, what a great ransom!”

“No!” Vanides’ voice rose. “They will go to the bottom of the Ionian Sea!”

“But we could get a million dollars for them!”

“Listen! You might be boss in the States, but I am boss in Greece. You will do as I say!”

Frank saw Twister flinch and quickly pressed the advantage. “What do you know! Filbert Francisco isn’t the big shot any more!”

The taunt threw the gangster into a rage. His face grew livid and he lunged toward Frank.

At that instant the whole cave reverberated with the staccato of explosions.

“Joe’s back with the cops!” Chet shouted.

Vanides stood dumbfounded for a second. The gun slumped momentarily. Frank knocked it from Vanides’ hand with a karate chop. At the same time Chet and Evan set upon their tormentors with strength born of desperation.

The cave was filled with groans and grunts as the battle raged evenly. The sudden appearance of Joe gave the boys the advantage. He kayoed Gerrold with a smash to the point of his chin. Chet took care of Dimitri while Frank and Evan tied up the hapless Vanides.

Then Frank picked up the gun with his handkerchief and pocketed it as evidence. As the other two were being tied, he asked, “Where are the police with the guns, Joe?”

His brother grinned wryly. “Guns? What guns?”

“The explosions!”

“Oh, those were firecrackers. Thank Chet. I still had them in my windbreaker.”

Chet chuckled. “I had a hunch we’d need them!”

The boys stowed the helmet in their boat, then carried the three men outside.

Frank scanned the sky for the helicopter, but it had disappeared. Evan guided the boat into open water and it chugged toward the town of Corfu.

Meanwhile, accusations flew from gunwale to gunwale. One prisoner set himself against another in rage over being outsmarted by a handful of boys.

Frank and Joe asked questions that helped to supply some missing facts in the case. Dimitri spoke freely, revealing the motive for the caper.

It all started, he said, when Cole was assigned by Twister Gerrold to harass the Hardys because of their father’s investigation. When these tactics failed, Dimitri joined Cole at Hunt College to kidnap Frank and Joe.

“Why didn’t you?” Joe asked.

“Before we had a chance to, Vanides learned through Nick Pandropolos’ secretary that the shattered helmet might have been Agamemnon’s and was worth a fortune. That changed things. Now we followed you to find the helmet.”

“But you kept harassing us. Why?”

“Gerrold hoped it might eventually have an effect on your father and he would drop the investigation.”

“But how does Vanides tie in with Gerrold?” Frank asked.

“Shut up!” Vanides shouted and glared at the Albanian, but Dimitri continued.

“Vanides is a smuggler. Twister is his partner in the States. What Vanides asks, Twister does.”

The town of Corfu came into sight now. When Evan docked, Joe went to get the police. The officers were amazed to see Vanides tied up, and for a while were inclined to believe his story that the boys had kidnapped him.

Back at headquarters, however, they radioed Athens and soon had the truth. The Athens police, meanwhile, seized Vanides’ helicopter when it landed there and arrested the pilot and his companion.

Two days later, after Evan’s Uncle Nick presented the shattered helmet to the museum at an impressive public ceremony, a reception was held for all the participants. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hardy had arrived by plane in time for the event, which was covered by radio, television, and the press.

While Frank, Joe, Chet, and Evan received official accolades, a movie camera whirred to record the event. The boys glanced up to see Leon Saffel, one eye pressed against the viewer. He waved and the young heroes returned the greeting. If Leon’s camera had been a crystal ball, they might have foreseen their next adventure, to be known as The Clue of the Hissing Serpent.

“Hey, Joe!” Frank said suddenly. “We forgot to do something!”

“What’s that?”

“Cable the news to Rena Bartlett in Hollywood!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Runaway Balloon

CHAPTER II - A Custom-made Rocket

CHAPTER III - Tricky Surveillance

CHAPTER IV - A Hissing Blast

CHAPTER V - Cat Trap

CHAPTER VI - A Risky Chance

CHAPTER VII - Aerial Surprise

CHAPTER VIII - A Tough Break

CHAPTER IX - A Gathering Storm

CHAPTER X - A Strange Hope

CHAPTER XI - Over the Cliff

CHAPTER XII - The King’s Curse

CHAPTER XIII - The Third Man

CHAPTER XIV - The Oriental Connection

CHAPTER XV - Faked Out!

CHAPTER XVI - A Bold Caper

CHAPTER XVII - The Chinese Note

CHAPTER XVIII - Kim-Kim

CHAPTER XIX - The Payoff

CHAPTER XX - The Beggars of Tai Pak

THE CLUE OF THE HISSING SERPENT

Why is a wealthy sportsman so frightened by the serpent design on a mysterious balloon that he begs Frank and Joe Hardy to protect him? And who stole the ancient, life-size chess king which is to be presented to the winner of the world chess championship?

These questions and others equally as baffling in this exciting mystery seem to defy explanations.

On the ground and in the air Frank and Joe find themselves the targets of diabolical enemies. An odd clue that they discover leads them across the Pacific to Hong Kong. There the young detectives match wits with their adversaries. How they help the police smash an international criminal organization provides an electrifying climax to one of the most challenging cases the Hardy boys have ever tackled.

To Frank’s horror, both fell over!

Copyright © 1974 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-13373

eISBN : 978-1-101-07664-4

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Runaway Balloon

“YOUR father sounded desperate,” Aunt Gertrude said, looking worried. “He wants you to meet him at four o’clock in the lobby of the Treat Hotel at Oak Knolls. Better hurry!”

Frank and Joe Hardy had just arrived home from a swim at the Bayport pool when their agitated aunt met them at the kitchen door. The telephone message seemed innocent enough, but Aunt Gertrude always feared the worst for her famous detective brother Fenton.

“Oh, yes,” she continued, “he mentioned the word Falcon. What does that mean?”

“Falcon! Holy crow, Frank, let’s go!” Joe urged excitedly.

The boys bolted out the door and into their car. Joe took the wheel and they sped off.

Falcon was a secret word used by the two young detectives and their father. It meant danger ahead. But what was the danger Fenton Hardy had foreseen in their meeting?

They mulled it over as they hit the speed limit and arrowed along the highway due west from Bayport. Mr. Hardy had not mentioned any new case. Hence, if there was danger, it had sprung up suddenly. Frank and Joe were worried.

Dark-haired Frank, who was eighteen, glanced at his watch. “Three o’clock. We should make it in time.”

Joe, a blond seventeen-year-old, nodded. “I just hope it doesn’t rain. Might slow traffic.”

The sky, which had been bright and sunny during the morning, had turned ominously gray in the west and a chilly wind began to dissipate the late June heat.

“Looks like a storm is heading our way,” Frank said. “And traffic’s slowing already. But it can’t be because of the weather. I wonder what happened.”

“I guess there’s been an accident.” Joe craned his neck out the window for a better look. But all he could see was a line of cars moving at a snail’s pace. Horns were honking impatiently. Then traffic stopped completely.

People began stepping out of their cars, and Joe did the same. Suddenly his eyes grew wide in amazement.

“Frank! I see the trouble!”

“What is it?”

“A balloon! Flying pretty low and coming closer to the road. Everybody’s stopped to look at it.”

Frank reached into the glove compartment and grabbed binoculars which the boys kept handy. He jumped out to scan the green-and-white striped balloon. Like a giant pendulum, it whipped dangerously back and forth.

“It must be caught in some kind of crazy wind current,” Frank said. “Here, take a look, Joe.”

Now the balloon was no more than a hundred yards away. Joe focused on the two passengers hanging desperately to the sides of the basket.

“What are they going to do?” he cried out. “Land on the highway?”

Suddenly the balloon veered to the right, coming to rest in a field beside the road not far from the Hardys.

Frank pulled the car over to the side. “Come on, Joe. Maybe we can be of some help.”

A lot of other motorists had the same idea, and soon a huge crowd raced across the pasture to where the balloon was gradually deflating.

The boys were in the forefront and reached it first. The two balloonists were just climbing out. Frank’s jaw dropped open in amazement as the younger one turned around to face them. It was none other than their staunch buddy Chet Morton!

“Hello, Frank. Hi, Joe,” Chet said.

“What in the world are you doing here?” Joe demanded.

The chunky, freckle-faced youth squinted up at the collapsing balloon and remarked casually, “I’m taking lessons. Didn’t want to tell you until I became a full-fledged balloonist.”

His companion walked up to the group. “Oh, fellows,” Chet said, “this is Mr. Albert Krassner. And these are my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy.”

The man seemed to be about forty, with thinning black hair and a paunch. He had a broad, fleshy face, full lips, a wide nose and slightly droopy eyelids, which made him look half asleep. Yet there was a brisk alertness in his voice as he spoke.

“Glad to meet you.” He extended a pudgy hand to the young detectives. “We really got into trouble. A sudden wind came up and we tried to land, but a faulty vent prevented us from getting down fast enough. We almost drifted onto the highway!”

“A faulty vent?” Joe asked.

Chet nodded. “You pull a cord to vent when you want to descend more rapidly than simply letting the balloon’s air cool. The vent lets the air out—the longer you hold it open, the quicker. Ten feet above the ground you rip the top if the wind is high. It pulls off the circular panel and lets the hot air out in a rush.”

“Chet, what are you doing here?” Joe demanded.

“I see,” Joe said. “But you have to be just above the spot where you want to land to do that.”

“Right,” Chet said.

Krassner went back and continued to deflate the balloon, answering questions of other onlookers. The Hardys took Chet aside and asked him about his new friend.

“He’s a rich guy,” Chet said. “An investment banker. Belongs to the Lone Tree Balloon Club near Oak Knolls.”

“How’d you meet him?” Frank inquired.

“I used to hang around the club,” Chet said. “Krassner took a liking to me and offered these lessons free.”

“This could have been your last lesson, Chet!” Frank said. “You almost got killed!”

“And if you’re such a buddy of ours, how come you didn’t let us in on your new hobby?”

“Now don’t get sore,” said Chet. “I told you, I wanted to make it a surprise.”

“It sure was,” Frank said. Then he glanced at his watch. They had twenty minutes to reach their destination. “We’ve got to meet our dad at the Treat Hotel in Oak Knolls,” he said. “See you later.”

Traffic had started to unsnarl with the aid of two State Police men. As the boys hastened to their car, they saw a pickup truck drive across the field to retrieve the balloon. A small black sports car followed it.

“Probably Krassner’s,” Joe commented. “Looks like an Italian job.”

The Hardys crept along for a while until they could pick up speed. Joe passed dozens of cars, but eased off on the gas when the needle exceeded the speed limit. “If we get a ticket, we’ll never get there on time,” he said.

Finally they reached the exit for the small town of Oak Knolls. By now it was ten minutes past four. When they drove into the parking lot, the clock on the tower in the town square stood at four-twenty.

The boys rushed into the hotel. “Any message for Frank and Joe Hardy?” Frank asked the desk clerk.

“No, nothing. Were you expecting to meet someone?”

“Yes.” Frank looked worriedly about the lobby.

“Would you like accommodations?”

“No, thank you,” Joe replied. He noticed a meeting room off to one side with the door open. The boys walked in. The place smelled smoky and cigarette butts lay in numerous ashtrays. Printed agendas were scattered on folding chairs and long tables.

On a dais at the far end of the room stood a blackboard. Chalked on it were numbers indicating that a business meeting had taken place.

“Maybe Dad attended,” Frank mused. “It couldn’t have ended long ago.” He took a closer look at the blackboard. In one corner something was printed in small letters. “Joe,” he exclaimed, “it says Mayday Room 211 Falcon!”

“Dad’s in trouble!” Joe said. “In Room 211!”

Suddenly both were startled by a voice behind them.

“The world’s full of trouble!”

Frank and Joe whirled to confront Albert Krassner.

“W-what are you doing here?” Joe asked.

Krassner smiled blandly. “Chet told me where I could find you. He also told me you’re the famous Hardy detectives.”

“We’re not famous,” Frank said. “But our father is.”

Actually, Frank and Joe had become as famous as Fenton Hardy, who had retired from the New York Police Department to set up his own private practice. Starting with a mystery called The Tower Treasure, the Hardy boys had solved many baffling cases themselves. Their previous one was known as The Shattered Helmet.

Joe said, “Mr. Krassner, if you want us to join your balloon club, we can’t talk about it now.”

“No, no. It’s not that. I want you to help me!”

“How?” Frank asked.

Suddenly Krassner’s face contorted with pain. He grabbed Joe by the shoulders. Before the boy could move, both landed on the floor with a thud.

CHAPTER II

A Custom-made Rocket

JOE pushed the man away and sprang to his feet, but Krassner did not move.

“He’s out cold,” Frank said. “Must have had some kind of attack!”

The Hardys knew that ill people sometimes carry instructions on them in cases of emergency. Joe went through the man’s pockets. “Here’s a bottle,” he said. “And a note wrapped around it!”

They read it quickly. If Krassner suffered a heart seizure he was to be given one tablet under his tongue.

Frank administered the medicine. Seconds later Krassner opened his eyes. The Hardys helped him up and to a comfortable position on a sofa.

Joe ran out to get a glass of water. When he returned, some color had come back into Krassner’s pale, puffy face.

He spoke in a shaky voice. “Sorry to be such a nuisance, boys. Guess I had too much excitement for one day. And I’m sure glad you found my pills.”

“Think nothing of it,” Frank said. “Why don’t you just rest here a while? We’ll be right back.”

Krassner nodded and the two walked out of the conference room. “This is all very strange,” Frank whispered. “We’d better find Dad fast.” They hurried through the lobby and up to the second floor.

In front of Room 211 they stopped and listened quietly. At first they heard nothing. Then there was a thump and a low moan.

“Let’s break down the door,” Joe said.

“Wait,” Frank replied.

He tried the knob. It turned and he pushed the door wide open. Inside, midway between a bed and a dresser, lay Fenton Hardy. He was bound hand and foot and gagged. The boys rushed over and freed their father. Stiffly the detective sat up and rubbed the back of his head.

“I thought you’d never get here,” he murmured.

“Sorry,” Frank said. “We were delayed by a balloon.”

“What?”

“We’ll tell you later, Dad. Get up now. Easy.”

As they helped Mr. Hardy to a nearby chair, Joe noticed a piece of paper stuffed into his shirt pocket.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Hardy replied.

Joe took it and read the message. “Dad, it says, ‘Keep your mouth shut.’ ”

“Fat chance!” Frank exclaimed. “Dad’s a pretty hard man to intimidate.”

The detective smiled wryly and told his sons what had happened.

“It all started with a telephone call to Sam Radley,” he began, referring to an operative who had often helped him in his investigations. “The caller wanted Sam to bug the home of Conrad Greene in Ocean Bluffs.”

“The United States chess champion?” Frank asked.

“That’s the one.”

“But why?” Joe queried.

“The world championship is coming up soon,” Mr. Hardy said. “It might have something to do with that. Anyway, when Sam told me about it, I went in his place to see his so-called client.”

“And met with him downstairs,” Frank concluded.

“Correct. When I arrived, there were two men in the room. Obviously there must have been a group of people who had just left. I don’t know whether the two men had any connection with them or not. They told me their names were Smith and Jones.”

“Sounds as phony as a three-dollar bill,” Joe said. “What did they look like?”

“Smith was short, slender, with long pointed fingers. He had a slightly Mongolian look. The other fellow, Jones, was strictly Anglo-Saxon. Long face, typically English, I’d say. Narrow thrusting chin. Both were in their late thirties.

“What I wanted you boys for,” Mr. Hardy went on, “was to tail these men.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find them if they’re anywhere in this area,” Frank assured him.

“Anyhow,” Joe said, “you told them it was no go on the bugging deal.”

“Right. Then they invited me to Room 211 to talk it over some more. I excused myself on the way out because I forgot my briefcase. That’s when I put the message on the blackboard.”

“Good thing you did,” Frank said.

Mr. Hardy nodded. “When I entered Room 211, a third person conked me from behind.”

“Do they still think you’re Radley?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. In any case, this illegal wire-tapping must be stopped. If Smith and Jones find some dishonest detective to put a tap on Greene’s phone, it could lead to real trouble.”

Mr. Hardy felt better now and they went downstairs. Krassner was not in the meeting room, so they questioned the clerk at the desk.

He said that 211 had been rented as a hospitality room for a sales meeting of Eco Incorporated. “I’ve never heard of that company,” he told them. “But one of the salesmen mentioned Associated Jewelers. They’re a house-to-house operation with headquarters in Bayport.”

“Did you see the gentleman who came in after us?” Frank asked.

“Oh yes. He left a little while ago.”

The Hardys thanked the man and went outside. Frank and Joe explained about the delay on the highway and how Krassner had suffered a heart seizure.

“He sounds like an odd character,” Mr. Hardy said. “Wanted help and didn’t tell you why.”

“Maybe he changed his mind,” Frank said. “What now, Dad?”

It was decided that Frank and Joe would investigate the assault, because Mr. Hardy was occupied with a case involving Hong Kong custom tailors.

“The Association of Menswear Retailers wants me to track down this gyp operation,” the detective said. “About half a dozen men are involved. They take orders for custom-made suits from Hong Kong, request a fat down payment, and disappear. It shouldn’t take too long to crack it. Crooks like this usually aren’t too bright.”

Mr. Hardy drove out of the parking lot and the boys followed in their car. At home, Mrs. Hardy met her three men, as she called them, and asked, “What’s this big mystery Gertrude was telling me about?”

Frank gave her the gist of what had happened and added, “Don’t worry, Mother. Things are under control.”

Mr. Hardy made a few phone calls, then said to his sons, “Eco Incorporated and Associated Jewelers are not listed in any trade register I can get hold of, but Associated Jewelers are in the phone book. I think Eco was just a phony cover for that company. I suggest you check it out.”

“Will do,” Frank said.

“I also called Conrad Greene’s home to warn him about the wiretap, but no one answered.”

“We’ll have to try again,” Frank said. “Let me see if I can get in touch with Chet to quiz him about Krassner.”

Chet was home and took Frank’s call. “Boy, Krassner was full of praise for you,” he reported. “I just saw him a little while ago. Said you helped him when he had an attack.”

“Do you have any idea what he wanted to talk to us about?” Frank asked.

“No. But why don’t you drop by the balloon club tomorrow and ask him? He usually comes over early. Besides, I want to show you the setup.”

“We’ll be there.”

Right after breakfast the next morning the Hardys started out for the club. Near Oak Knolls they turned off the highway at a sign announcing Lone Tree Balloon Club. A narrow lane led through the woods and to an open meadow. Off to one side was a frame structure no larger than a two-car garage. A single, large oak tree stood next to it.

Out in the field Chet Morton and another youth were busy unfolding the envelope of a red-striped balloon. Joe parked beside the clubhouse and the Hardys walked up to their friend.

“Hi, guys,” Chet greeted. “I’d like you to meet Ken Flippen. Just call him Fearless. That’s his nickname.”

Frank and Joe shook hands with a slightly built boy of sixteen. A shock of black hair hung over his eyes and he tossed his head occasionally.

“Sure glad to meet you,” Fearless said with a friendly grin. “Chet’s clued me in on your detective work. Says you’re on another important case. That must be exciting!”

Frank gave Chet a slit-eyed look. “What have you been telling people?”

“Can’t I brag about my friends—a little?”

“Very little,” Joe said, and turned to Fearless. “Don’t believe everything this big panda tells you. By the way, what are you fearless about?”

“Aw, nothing.”

“I know,” Chet said. “When he was a kid, he hung onto a rope and got pulled into the air by a balloon. Hung on for ten minutes until it came down.”

Fearless looked embarrassed, and Frank said, “There you go again, bragging about your friends!”

They all laughed and Chet said, “Fearless knows a lot about balloons. His father and two other men own this one. We’re practicing inflation.”

Fearless was pleased to tell the Hardys about his balloon. It had a two-man aluminum gondola or basket, and was lifted by hot air. Two propane gas tanks lay on the floor of the basket, and from each a stainless-steel tube led to a multiple pilot-light structure mounted on a metal framework above the gondola.

“When the pilot pulls this cord,” Fearless said, “the blast valve releases propane which is ignited by the pilot light.” He demonstrated, and a roaring blast of flame shot upward.

“This goes into the open mouth of the balloon,” the boy went on, “keeping the air inside hot, or heating it more if it’s cooled.”

“Hey, that’s keen!” Joe said. “You can carry your own hot-air furnace with you.”

“Right. This balloon is made of flame-resistant nylon. If by accident the flame melts a hole in the fabric, it will not burn the balloon up.”

Chet and Fearless proceeded to shoot hot air into the huge bag, and Chet said, “If you want to descend gradually, you don’t shoot any more air in and the balloon will come down.”

“There sure is a lot to know about ballooning,” Frank said. “Chet, when will you get your pilot’s license?”

“Maybe in a month,” Chet said proudly.

Joe changed the subject. “Where’s Krassner?”

“He didn’t show up.” Chet said. “That’s unusual. I expected him early this morning. But maybe he doesn’t feel too well. Why don’t you wait a while?”

Frank shook his head. “No, we have some work to do. We’ll catch up with him later.”

“So long, Fearless,” Joe said.

“Come back for a ride someday!”

“We will.”

The Hardys went to their car, looking back once toward the balloon which was now partially inflated.

“Chet sure does latch on to some good hobbies,” Frank said as they drove back to Bayport to investigate Associated Jewelers.

Their office was near the waterfront, and turned out to be a relatively new one-story building. Across the street stood an ancient three-floor wreck of a house bearing a sign: Danger. Building Condemned.

The boys parked and entered the jewelry company. In an anteroom were three chairs and a writing table. The door at the far end opened and a woman appeared.

“Are you answering our ad?” she asked.

Frank hesitated, “Why—er—”

“Then come right in. Mr. Jervis will talk to you.”

The inner office contained four filing cabinets, a number of chairs, and a cluttered desk. Behind it sat a pale, thin man wearing thick-lensed glasses. A nameplate on the desk read: Reginald Jervis.

“Have a seat,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “You’re rather young, but we could use two men right now. What is your experience in door-to-door sales?”

Before either had a chance to reply, Jervis went on, “We have a fine line of jewelry, and if you succeed in selling it, we have another most attractive offer.”

Finally Frank interrupted. “We don’t want a job, Mr. Jervis.”

“What? Then why are you here?”

“To ask some questions.”

“About what?”

“About Smith and Jones. Who are they?”

“Never heard of them!” Jervis snapped.

“And you’ve never heard of Eco Incorporated, either, I suppose,” Joe put in.

Jervis rose from his chair and pointed a finger at the door. “Get out!” he said.

“So you don’t know Smith and Jones?” Frank said coolly. “Well, there are other ways to find out about them.”

The boy’s calm demeanor infuriated Jervis. “I said get outl” he yelled. “Or I’ll throw you out myself!”

CHAPTER III

Tricky Surveillance

THE man pushed back his chair and took a step toward Frank and Joe.

“You don’t have to get physical,” Frank said. “We’ll go.”

Back in their car, Joe said, “We sure touched a sensitive nerve. Something fishy’s going on at Associated Jewelers.”

Frank nodded. “Jervis was really on edge. Now I’m sure Smith and Jones are connected with that outfit.”

Joe suggested they visit the Bayport Better Business Bureau. “Maybe they can shed some light on Jervis’s company.”

The Hardys drove along the waterfront, past a number of Chinese-operated shops known as Little Chinatown. They stopped at a hamburger place for a quick snack, then proceeded to Main Street, where the Better Business Bureau was located.

They were cordially received by the woman in charge of consumer protection. In answer to Frank’s question, she replied that she had heard of Associated Jewelers. The Bureau had received numerous complaints of high-pressure salesmanship and shoddy merchandise.

“The company is on our list,” the woman said. “So far, we haven’t enough solid evidence against them to warrant a lawsuit.”

“Has the public been warned?” Frank asked.

“There was a report in the newspaper,” the woman replied. “But I’m sure that many people did not see it.”

When the boys returned home they found that Mr. Hardy, in response to a tip from Police Chief Collig, had gone off to question several persons who had been cheated by the jewelry peddlers.

“He’ll be home later,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“I wish we could watch one of their salesmen in action,” Frank said.

“Perhaps you can,” Aunt Gertrude spoke up. “But for goodness sake, be careful. If they cheat people, there’s no telling what else they’re capable of.”

Her nephews looked perplexed. “What are you talking about?” Joe asked.

“Mrs. Snyder,” Aunt Gertrude said.

“Well, what about her?”

“Mrs. Snyder—you know, the one who lives on Lincoln Street—has arranged for an Associated Jewelers representative to come to her house. I just spoke to her a few minutes ago. Your father had already left. She told me a very nice man phoned her and offered free earrings for letting him show their products.”

“When will he call?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know exactly when You’ll have to ask her.”

“Gee, thanks, Aunty,” Frank said. “This may be a big help in our case.”

Just then the telephone rang. Frank answered. It was Krassner, inviting the boys to his home in a suburb of Bayport that evening.

“We’ll be there,” Frank said. “How about eight-thirty?”

“Roger. See you then.”

“This sure is a big day for us,” Joe said. “Come on, Frank. We’ve got a lot to do.”

The boys had just stepped out of the house for the short walk to Mrs. Snyder’s home when Biff Hooper came along with his hound dog, Sherlock. Biff was a tall, athletic high school pal of the boys.

“Hi, Biff,” Frank said. “Is Sherlock taking you for a stroll?”

“Something like that,” Biff replied with a friendly grin. “Matter of fact, I dropped by to ask you how about some tennis after supper tonight? I’ve got Tony Prito lined up for doubles.”

“Sorry,” Joe said. “We’re busy.”

“Official business?”

“Yes. We’re interviewing one of Chet’s friends. He may have a case for us.”

“You mean Krassner, the balloon guy?”

“How’d you know that?” Frank asked in surprise.

“Chet was in town at noon. He keeps me posted on your doings.”

Frank laughed. “Good old Chet. He’s a balloon buff now.”

“It’s a good sport,” Joe said. “I’m getting interested myself.”

“Where you guys going?” Biff asked.

Frank told him.

“I’ll walk you over,” Biff offered as Sherlock strained at the leash.

The trio turned a corner and proceeded along the block to the fifth house on the right. On the front steps sat a huge, tawny cat. Sherlock lunged, nearly pulling the leash from Biff’s hand.

“Hold it, Sherlock!”

The hound let out a mournful bay and the cat raced up a mimosa tree on the front lawn. The commotion brought an elderly couple to the porch. The man looked over the top of his eyeglasses.

“Get that hound out of here!” he ordered. “He’s scaring Princess!”

“All right. No harm meant,” Biff said politely. “So long, fellows. See you later.”

As he left, Frank addressed the couple. “You’re the Snyders, aren’t you?”

The woman nodded with a prim smile.

“We’re Gertrude Hardy’s nephews Frank and Joe. May we talk to you a minute?”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Snyder preceded the boys into the house while her husband went to retrieve Princess from the tree.

“You see, we love cats,” the woman said. “Not that we don’t like dogs, too, mind you.”

It was then that the boys realized that there were cats all over the house. They seemed to blend into the furniture. Frank counted six in the living room.

“Please be seated,” Mrs. Snyder said. “But be careful of our pets.”

One of them jumped off the sofa where Frank and Joe were sitting. At the same time Mr. Snyder entered, carrying Princess. He dropped down in an overstuffed chair and stroked the animal in his lap.

“We’re sorry about the dog,” Frank said, knowing that it was the wrong time to ask for a favor.

“Don’t worry about it. Tell us what we can do for you,” Mrs. Snyder said.

“We understand you’re expecting a visit from an Associated Jewelers salesman,” Frank began.

“Yes, he’s coming tomorrow.”

“Well, there have been complaints about this company. High-pressure salesmanship and shoddy merchandise. It might have something to do with a case we’re investigating, and we’d like to listen to what this man has to say to you.”

At that moment he felt a terrible tickle in his nose and let out a resounding sneeze. “Excuse me, please.”

Mr. Snyder nodded. “How are you planning to listen in?”

“We could conceal ourselves somewhere.”

“Goodness! Wouldn’t that be dangerous?” Mrs. Snyder asked.

“I doubt it,” Frank said. “Anyway, we’d be here to protect you.”

“I don’t like it,” Mr. Snyder said.

“Don’t be grumpy,” his wife intervened. “What would Gertrude think if we turned her nephews down?”

“Then may we come?” Frank asked hopefully.

“Certainly. The salesman is due at two. Why don’t you stop by at one-thirty?”

Mr. Snyder looked none too pleased but did not object. The boys expressed their thanks and left.

At home, Frank and Joe praised Aunt Gertrude for her aid. “Did you know the Snyders have a houseful of cats?” Joe asked as the family sat down to dinner.

“Oh yes. One named Princess Golden Girl of Bayport is a champion.”

When the meal was over, the boys set out for Krassner’s home. It was located in a wooded area about twenty miles out of town.

The sun was setting as they neared the property. Suddenly they heard a strange hissing noise.

Frank slowed down. It was not from the car, but seemed to come from overhead. Both looked up in amazement to see a weird balloon. Hot air was gently shooting into the envelope with a sound like auto tires on a wet pavement.

“Look at those crazy colors!” Joe exclaimed as the craft drifted over the woodland. It was mottled in shades of green, blue, and yellow, and its central decoration was an evil-looking, twisting serpent of the same hues.

“Someone has an artistic touch,” Frank said admiringly. “Let’s follow it to see where it lands. It was flying pretty low.”

“Okay. We have half an hour to spare, anyway.”

They turned around and a hundred yards farther on found a narrow lane leading into the deep woods.

Overhanging branches brushed past the car as it probed deeper into the forest along the rutted trail. The slow going was maddening. But finally they reached a clearing.

Off to one side was a tumble-down barn, and beside it a stark blackened chimney—all that remained of a burned-out farmhouse.

“Look,” Frank said. “There’s the balloon. And their pickup truck got here ahead of us.”

They could see why. A good blacktop road was no more than a hundred yards away on the opposite side of the clearing.

Frank and Joe parked the car and trotted toward the barn. Perhaps the serpent balloonists were from the Lone Tree Club.

Behind the old building the deflated envelope was being packed up. Three men worked with great rapidity, and the balloon and gondola were loaded onto the truck. The men jumped in.

“Hey, wait a second!” Frank called out as he and Joe ran forward.

The truck started up and the Hardys hailed it again. But instead of slowing down, the driver accelerated. Frank and Joe moved to the side of a gully, because it was coming right at them!

“Holy crow!” Joe exclaimed. “They’re trying to run us down!”

“Jump!” Frank cried out.

CHAPTER IV

A Hissing Blast

DIVING headlong, Frank and Joe cleared the side of the road and landed in a bramble patch as the truck sped by.

Joe rose painfully from the thorny foliage and Frank followed him, pulling thorns from his hair and clothing.

“Did you get the license number by any chance, Joe?”

“Oh, sure, I jotted it down while flying through the air!” he quipped. “Frank, do you think those guys have something to hide or are they just nasty?”

“I’d say both.”

They brushed the weeds from their disheveled clothes and returned to their car.

“It must have taken months to decorate that balloon,” Frank said.

“Right. Maybe they’re entering a contest for the most artistic design. Anyway, whoever was driving deserves an artistic punch in the nose.”

Joe got into the driver’s seat while Frank slipped in beside him.

“Ow!”

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“I didn’t get all those confounded thorns out of my britches!”

They went back by the same route and regained the main road leading toward Krassner’s home.

“I guess this is it,” Joe said finally.

Dusk had settled now and the lights from their car illuminated a bronze plaque set in a huge boulder announcing the residence of Albert Krassner. A pebbled driveway traversed an acre of lawn extending like a green velvet collar around a sumptuous gray stone mansion.

“I’ll say he’s rich,” Frank commented. “This place must be worth a small fortune.”

As the car approached, an ornamental carriage lamp was turned on, casting a pleasant yellow light over a broad band of marble stairs leading to the front door.

Joe parked and they mounted the steps. Frank pushed a button set in the masonry beside the glass-and-wrought-iron door. When chimes sounded inside, a maid in a dark dress and starched white apron answered.

“You’re the Hardy boys?”

“Yes, we are,” Frank replied.

“Wait a moment, please. I’ll see if Mr. Krassner is ready to receive you.” She led them into a center hall, then mounted a broad stairway.

Frank and Joe looked around. Suddenly Joe whispered, “Frank! Come over here!”

On a table near the door was an Oriental vase. Frank moved closer. “The serpent design! It’s almost like the one on that balloon!”

“Very similar.”

Then something else caught Frank’s eye. He went to examine a beautiful trophy cup. “Here’s something interesting, Joe. Mr. Krassner is a chess champion!”

The inscription stated that the cup had been awarded for the regional chess title.

Just then the maid came down. “Mr. Krassner will see you now,” she said.

She led the boys upstairs and ushered them into the largest bedroom they had ever seen. One side was completely lined with mirrors, reflecting the beautifully appointed interior. At the far side was an immense canopied bed and on it, propped up with large pillows, lay Albert Krassner. He beckoned Frank and Joe to his side.

“First of all,” he said, “I want to thank you for helping me when I had that seizure.”

“Are you better now?” asked Frank.

“Oh yes. I just wanted to take it easy for a couple of days. The old ticker gives me trouble now and then, but I can afford to have the best doctors.”

“You are fortunate,” Joe said.

“In that respect, yes. But money isn’t everything. Learn that while you’re young.”

“That’s the way we feel, sir,” Frank said. “Personally, we prefer mysteries and adventures.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Krassner said. “What’s happening to me is a frightful, dark mystery. I need your help!”

Frank tried to ease Krassner’s obvious tension and chuckled. “Speaking of frightful things, Mr. Krassner, we sure had an odd experience on the way over here.”

“That’s right,” Joe added. “A crazy-looking balloon with a fantastic snake design flew over our heads like a hissing serpent.”

“What? You saw it, too?” Krassner’s face turned ghastly white against the pillow.

“Are you having another attack?” Frank asked, worried.

The man did not reply. Instead he pressed a small buzzer half concealed beneath the sheet and the maid appeared like a genie.

“Please see the boys out,” Krassner murmured. ‘I don’t think I can take any more conversation tonight.”

“I’m sorry if we upset you, sir,” Joe said.

“No, no. It wasn’t you. See you later.”

The man waved a pudgy hand and the Hardys were escorted to the front door. When it clicked shut behind them, they were silent for a mo ment.

Then Joe said, “I don’t get it. Every time he wants to tell us what bothers him, he becomes so upset that he can’t.”

“He must have seen that balloon, too, and for some reason it scared the wits out of him. I wonder why,” Frank mused.

“By the way, is he married? Did Chet ever mention it?”

“No. All he said is that Krassner’s rich. And he wasn’t kidding.”

A crescent moon hung low in the dark sky as the Hardys went to their car. Joe drove to the main road and they hummed along toward Bayport. Suddenly Frank said, “There’s that noise again!”

Joe took his foot off the accelerator and listened. They glanced up, but could see no balloon. The sound was coming from the back of their car!

Joe stopped quickly and they hopped out. “Look,” Frank said, pointing to the tail pipe. Fire was shooting from it, accompanied by a hissing sound.

“Turn the engine off, Joe!”

But before Joe could move—blam! An explosion rocked the car and pieces of metal clattered to the roadway.

“What the dickens happened?” Joe blurted out.

“Get the flashlight and you’ll see,” Frank said.

They slid underneath the car and assessed the damage. The blast had ripped open the tail pipe, muffler, and resonator.

“They’re blown apart,” Frank said. “Somebody put a charge into the tail pipe!”

The boys picked up some of the metal debris and tossed it into the trunk.

“Who could have done it?” Joe asked. “Do you suppose Krassner was involved?”

“It’s possible,” Frank said. “Or maybe Jervis or his buddies were following us.”

“How about the serpent balloon people? They didn’t seem too fond of us, either.”

“Well,” Frank said, “speculation will get us nowhere right now. Let’s see if this heap will go.”

The engine started up, but the racket it made was fierce.

“It sounds like a machine gun,” Joe quipped. “Hop in, Frank. The sooner we get home the better.”

The Hardys drove on through the night, hoping to reach Bayport without further incident. Going through the village of Allendale, Joe slowed down in an effort to mute the exhaust.

“Hope we don’t wake up everybody,” he said as the car picked up speed once more.

Two miles farther on, a siren sounded behind them. Joe glanced into the rear-view mirror to see the revolving roof light of a police car.

“Frank, here comes trouble.” He pulled to the side of the road, stopped, and got out.

An officer, hardly older than the Hardys, emerged from the squad car.

Frank and Joe walked up to him. “Is there something wrong, Officer?” Frank asked.

The policeman looked grim. “What were you trying to do?” he said. “Wake up the whole town? You drove through it like gangbusters.”

“Oh,” Frank said, “we’re sorry about the noise. Had trouble with the muffler. In fact, it blew apart. We’re heading for Bayport for repairs.”

“Don’t you know it’s against the law, riding without a muffler?”

“We know,” Joe said. “But the accident happened only a little while ago. We’ll stop at the next gas station.”

“They’re all closed,” the policeman said.

“Well, what do you want us to do?”

“I’m taking you to headquarters.”

“Officer,” Frank said, “we’re not lying to you. The muffler blew apart just down the road!”

“Where’s your driver’s license?”

Joe handed it to him and the policeman studied it. “Hardy,” he said. “The name sounds familiar.”

“Our father is Fenton Hardy, the detective,” Frank explained.

“That cuts no ice with me. You think that entitles you to privileges?”

“We don’t want any privileges. Just give us a break so we can get this muffler fixed.”

“Tell it to the magistrate,” came the unyielding reply. “And now get in that bomb and follow me!”

Disgusted, the boys returned to their car and drove after the policeman to Allendale. He pulled up in front of an old house which had been converted into headquarters.

Inside, a small light illuminated the sparse office. The officer motioned for the Hardys to sit down, then made a phone call. Ten minutes later an elderly man arrived.

He was wearing pajamas under a light coat and looked suspiciously at Frank and Joe. “What’s up?” he demanded.

“The charge is disturbing the peace while driving without a muffler,” the officer said. To the Hardys he explained, “This is the magistrate.”

Without listening to the boys’ side of the story, the man declared, “Fine is twenty-five dollars.”

“But we don’t have that much with us,” Frank said.

“Then we’ll have to lock you up. Besides, you can’t drive that car. It’s got to be towed away!”

CHAPTER V

Cat Trap

JOE was visibly frustrated. He started to reply, but Frank realized that saying the wrong thing would make matters even worse.

“Cool it,” he whispered to his brother. Then he turned to the magistrate. “Don’t you think this is a bit much, sir? We haven’t got the money to pay the fine and on top of that we can’t even drive the car. What do you suggest we do?”

“That’s your problem,” the judge replied with a curt wave of the hand. “The law’s the law. You stay here till that fine is paid.” With that he walked out the door.

“Being such a small town,” the officer said, “we just have one cell. Get the money up or in you go!”

“May I use the telephone?” Frank asked.

“Sure. Calling your lawyer?” the policeman asked.

“Of course not. I’m going to talk to my father.”

Aunt Gertrude answered, and to Frank’s dismay told him that Mr. Hardy was not home yet. But she detected the frustration in her nephew’s tense question.

“Are you in trouble?” she asked, then answered her own question, “Yes, you’re in trouble. I can tell by your voice. Laura, get on the extension. The boys are in trouble!”

Frank heard a click, then his mother said, “What’s the matter, Frank?”

“We’ve been arrested.”

Both women gasped. “What for?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“The muffler broke. The car makes an awful racket and the law says you can’t drive like that.”

Frank explained where they were and his mother said, “That’s a shame. It would only be a short drive home.”

“Makes no difference in this place,” Frank said quietly. “We need twenty-five dollars to pay the fine and we’ll have to get the car towed.”

Joe gave his brother a nudge. “Ask Mother to get in touch with Tony Prito. He can pick up the money and rescue us with his father’s truck.”

Frank nodded and passed on the information.

“I’ll call Tony right away,” Mrs. Hardy promised.

The policeman allowed the boys to sit in the office while they were waiting. An hour later a half-ton pickup stopped in front of the building. Out stepped Tony Prito, a handsome boy with black curly hair, whose father owned a construction company.

“Are we glad to see you!” Joe greeted him. “This hasn’t been our day!”

“Always call Prito for immediate service,” Tony quipped. He handed Frank the money to pay the fine. Then the boys went out, put a tow-line from the truck to the car, and drove back to Bayport.

When they arrived at the Hardy house, Tony said, “Biff and I will help you make the repairs tomorrow, okay?”

“Thanks,” Joe said. “We’ll go down to the auto store first thing in the morning and get the parts.”

Mr. Hardy had come home half an hour earlier and listened while his sons told about the weird balloon, the strange visit to Krassner, and the explosive charge in their tail pipe.

“Krassner sounds like a man in trouble,” Mr. Hardy said. “Did he give any inkling of what’s bothering him?”

“Nothing, Dad,” Frank replied.

“Well, boys, it’s after midnight. Let’s hit the sack and talk more about this tomorrow.”

The next morning after breakfast Frank and Joe went to an auto store and returned with the necessary parts to repair their car.

Biff and Tony were already waiting with a couple of heavy-duty jacks, and soon they were busy at work underneath the automobile.

At lunchtime Mrs. Hardy brought out sandwiches. The boys got cleaned up and took a half-hour break, then continued with their installation. By one o’clock they had still not finished.

Joe said, “Frank, why don’t you go over to the Snyders’, and I’ll stay here until the job’s done?”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. He washed the grease from his hands, took a shower, and put on clean clothes. He entered the Snyders’ house shortly before the salesman was scheduled to arrive.

“I found a good place for you to hide,” Mrs. Snyder said. “Near the entrance of the living room is a closet with sliding doors. Get in there and peek out when the man comes.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “That’s just perfect.”

The bell rang. “Get inside, hurry!” the woman said and went to answer it.

Frank hid in the closet and closed the doors, leaving only a small crack through which he could observe the living room.

Mrs. Snyder walked in with a stocky man. He had a large black mustache and a beard, and introduced himself as Mr. Horgan.

Mrs. Snyder beckoned him to sit down on the sofa. He did, putting a sample case on the floor. Then he opened the bag and revealed a large selection of costume jewelry.

“Here are your earrings, ma’am,” he said. “A present from Associated Jewelers.”

Mrs. Snyder accepted the gift graciously and put them on.

“They’re lovely,” Horgan said, beaming. “Now look at these other things, ma’am.”

The woman examined the baubles which Horgan showed her. She tried on a necklace, held brooch after brooch to her dress to study the effect, and slipped several rings onto her fingers.

Horgan looked up nervously once in a while. Then he stood up and walked to the window.

“Are you expecting someone?” Mrs. Snyder asked.

“No, no. It’s just not my nature to sit still.” Horgan smiled. “Now which of these beautiful pieces of jewelry would you like to buy?”

At this point Frank became aware of something he had not noticed before. He felt a slight movement in the darkness and reached out. The tail of a cat gently brushed past his leg!

“Good grief!” Frank thought. “Another one. They’re even in the closet.”

The animal wanted to get out and began scratching on the door. Frank picked up the cat, hoping to keep it quiet, while Horgan went on with his sales spiel.

“Get inside, hurry!” Mrs. Snyder said.

He would give Mrs. Snyder a lovely brooch if she would allow a friend to fit Mr. Snyder for a Hong Kong custom-tailored suit.

“You see, ma’am, the cost of labor in Hong Kong is very cheap and the tailors are excellent. My friend can take your husband’s measurements, airmail them to Hong Kong, and deliver the suit in about four weeks.”

“I’ll have to ask Ralph about it,” Mrs. Snyder said. “Wait a moment. I’ll be right back.”

When she left the room, Horgan walked to the window again and looked out with a nervous expression.

Frank’s mind whirled. “Associated Jewelers must have taken on a new line—Hong Kong suits,” he thought. “I wonder if it’s legitimate. Maybe it has something to do with that tailoring racket Dad’s working on.” He felt a tickle in his nose and suppressed a sneeze.

He still held the cat in his arms, but now it strained to get free, meowing loudly. Horgan cocked his head to listen.

Frank muffled another sneeze. Suddenly he knew why. The cat’s furl He must be allergic to it.

Horgan turned and stared at the closet. The cat, meanwhile, clawed Frank’s arm and yowled. He had to sneeze again. His eyes began to water, and he felt as if he were choking. “It’s no use,” he thought. “I need air.” He opened the doors, sneezing loudly, and the cat flew out, landing in the middle of the living room.

The effect on Horgan was electric. His eyes bulged wide and his jaw dropped open. When he realized he was being spied on, the salesman let out an oath and dashed out of the house!

CHAPTER VI

A Risky Chance

FRANK watched the man jump into his car and speed away as Mrs. Snyder came back into the living room.

“What happened?” she asked. “Why did Mr. Horgan run off like that? And he left his case!”

Frank quickly explained and showed Mrs. Snyder the scratches on his arm.

“Did Princess do that? Oh dear! I’ll get some antiseptic.” She returned a few minutes later and daubed Frank’s arm.

“What are you going to do with that sample case?” she asked.

“Use it for evidence,” Frank replied. “Maybe we can identify that salesman through his finger prints. I’m sure Horgan uses an alias.”

Frank took out his handkerchief and clicked the case shut. “If he comes back for it, tell him it’s being delivered to Associated Jewelers. And thanks for your help, Mrs. Snyder.”

When he arrived home, the repair work on the car was done and Biff and Tony had left. Frank went up to their father’s comfortable study, where he found the detective talking to Joe.

“Dad, tell Frank what you found out,” Joe urged.

Mr. Hardy sat back in his swivel chair and smiled. “The Hong Kong tailoring racket I’m supposed to crack is tied in with various jewelry sales operations. When the jewelry business slacks off, they offer to have their customers measured for a suit.

“After they receive the down payment, the clothing is never delivered. By the time the customers catch on, the swindlers have skipped town.”

“What are you grinning at?” Joe asked his brother.

“I found out the same thing.”

“At the Snyders’?”

“Right. And here’s the sample case of an Associated Jewelers salesman.”

“That ought to be a real good clue,” Mr. Hardy said. “You didn’t disturb the fingerprints, I hope.”

“No. I was careful about that,” Frank replied.

Joe went for their fingerprint kit and set to work dusting the black plastic covering of the sample case. Horgan had provided them with a neat set of prints of both his left and right hands.

“We’ll take these down to headquarters. Maybe Chief Collig can find out whether Horgan really is who he says.”

“What I don’t understand,” Frank said, “is why Smith and Jones, who are obviously connected with Associated Jewelers, wanted to bug Greene’s phone. I mean, that’s out of their line.”

“We assumed that they worked for Jervis because he acted so strange when we mentioned their names,” Joe said. “Maybe we were wrong.”

“But they also wanted to meet Radley at the Treat Hotel, where Associated Jewelers had a sales meeting,” Frank said. “It’s just too much coincidence.”

“And Krassner’s an enigma, too,” Mr. Hardy added. “You said he was a chess player himself. Maybe there’s a connection between him and Greene.”

Joe sighed. “And where do those crazy balloonists come in? And who blew up our tail pipe?”

“Questions and no answers,” Frank said. “What do we do next?”

“Take the fingerprints to the police first thing in the morning,” the detective said. “And keep Associated Jewelers under surveillance.”

“There’s a vacant building right across the street,” Joe said. “Maybe we could use that to spy on them.”

“By the way, Dad, did you warn Conrad Greene about the bug?” Frank asked.

“I tried but no one’s home yet.”

Just then the doorbell rang. It was Chet. “I have some good news,” he said brightly.

“No kidding,” Frank said. “Did you get your balloonist’s license?”

“No, not yet. But Mr. Krassner feels better and wants to see you.”

“When and where?” Joe asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon at the clubhouse. Can you make it?”

“Sure. We’ll be there.”

The next morning the Hardys took the fingerprints to Chief Collig. He was a heavy-set, slow-talking man, who had cooperated with the Hardys on many cases.

When Frank and Joe told their story, he congratulated them on their detective work. “We’ll take the sample case to Associated Jewelers to see Jervis’s reaction,” Frank said. “Is that okay with you, Chief?”

“Sure. Go ahead. If the prints tell us anything, I’ll let you know.”

When they arrived at Jervis’s office, the receptionist told them that her boss was out.

“Well, we have something that belongs to him,” Frank said. “When will he be back?”

“Wait a moment,” she said and walked out of the room. A few seconds later she returned. “He’s in now,” she said.

The boys entered the office and laid the sample case on the man’s desk. “We thought you’d like to have this back,” Frank said. “It must be valuable.”

Jervis opened the kit. “This doesn’t belong to us,” he said.

“Mr. Horgan, who used it, claimed to be a representative of Associated Jewelers,” Joe said.

Jervis remained cool. “We have been bothered by impostors lately,” he said. “Trying to use our good name.”

“And you don’t try to sell Hong Kong tailored suits, either?” Frank said.

Jervis’s mouth twitched a little. “Of course not. And now, get lost. I’m busy!”

As the boys walked out they could hear him grab the telephone off the cradle.

“Somebody’s going to catch it!” Joe said with a grin.

“Tsk, tsk. Poor old Horgan,” Frank said in mock sympathy as they drove home.

During lunch Chief Collig phoned. “Horgan is an alias,” he reported. “The man’s real name is Gerard Henry. He has a long record of petty crime.”

“I had a hunch he wasn’t on the level,” Frank said, and told about their visit to Jervis. “We’d like to stake out his place,” he concluded.

“There’s an old building across the street where we could set up some cameras.”

“Just be careful,” the chief warned. “The place is unsafe. Also, we flush out vagrants now and then. Mostly junkies. They stay there at night.”

“We’ll watch out,” Frank promised. “Thanks for your help, Chief.”

The boys told their father the latest news and that they were planning to set up surveillance equipment.

“We’d like to start right away,” Frank said, “but we have an appointment with Krassner this afternoon.”

“I can’t pitch in, either,” Mr. Hardy said. “I have a meeting. But maybe Sam Radley could help us out.”

A telephone call brought the detective’s sandy-haired operative to the Hardy home. He agreed to begin surveillance immediately.

Frank and Joe loaded film into a movie camera and a still camera with a telescopic lens. They also brought a two-way radio and a folding chair and drove off with Sam.

They parked on a street behind the old building and worked their way through an alley to the rear entrance.

“This place certainly is in bad shape,” Sam commented as they entered a broken door leading to a flight of badly tilted stairs.

“It even smells rotten,” Joe said, sniffing the musty odor of the interior.

They climbed to the third floor and saw no sign of habitation. Sam checked all the windows until he found a suitable spot. “How about right here?” he suggested.

The boys set up the cameras on tripods and focused clearly on the entrance to the Associated Jewelers office.

“If anyone goes in or leaves, take his picture,” Frank said. “We’ll join you later.”

“Okay.” Radley adjusted the folding chair and waved to the boys as they made their way downstairs and out the back.

When the young sleuths arrived at the balloon club, Krassner and Chet were already there.

“Frank, Joe I’m glad you came,” Krassner greeted them.

“You’re looking great today,” Frank said.

“That’s the way it is. These attacks knock me out for a couple of days, but I bounce right back.”

“We thought that snake balloon got you upset,” Joe said.

Krassner smiled. “Oh no. That was nothing.”

Frank said, “We noticed a similarity in the balloon design and the serpent figure on your vase.”

“You mean the one in the hall?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh yes. Antique Chinese. They used that pattern a lot Well, Fearless is going to inflate his father’s balloon. Chet, why don’t you see if he needs help?”

“Sure thing,” Chet replied, and hurried out to the grassy clearing.

Turning to the Hardys, Krassner said, “I want to talk to you alone about my problem. And I don’t want to go to the police. Once the newspapers get wind of a thing like this, there’s a lot of publicity, even notoriety. And in the investment business—well, you know how it is.”

“Just what is the trouble?” Frank asked.

“My life has been threatened,” Krassner said. “I’ll be killed unless I hand over the Ruby King!”

CHAPTER VII

Aerial Surprise

“THE Ruby King? What’s that?” Frank asked.

“A fabulous chess piece,” Krassner replied. “A beautiful work of art made centuries ago in China. It is decorated with Burmese rubies and was part of a set made for an ancient warlord.”

“Where are the other pieces?” Joe asked.

“Gone. Vanished in the mists of antiquity,” Krassner said poetically. “That’s one of the reasons why the Ruby King is so valuable.”

“And you’re in possession of it?” Frank queried.

“Yes. But it’s not really mine.” Krassner explained that he was part of a consortium of wealthy chess enthusiasts who had purchased it in China.

“We’re going to present it to the winner of the world chess championship. Meanwhile, the prize is in my safe.”

Frank and Joe knew about the match, which was to take place in Hong Kong the following month. It would pit the United States champion, Conrad Greene, against the Oriental title holder, a Korean named Chan Loo Duc.

Was there a connection between the valuable Ruby King and the intended wiretap on Greene’s telephone? Obviously someone wanted the chess piece badly.

“Isn’t your safe a rather vulnerable place?” Frank asked. “I think a bank vault would be better.”

“My safe is very strong,” Krassner replied. “Now I want you to keep our conversation in confidence. The whereabouts of the Ruby King is known only to a few people.”

“Whoever threatened you must have found out,” Joe said.

“That’s what worries me. I want both of you to be on call in case of emergency.”

Frank felt an uneasy suspicion about the man. Why would a rich banker ask the Hardys to shield him when he could well afford to hire an entire protection service? He put the question to Krassner.

“I’ll tell you why,” Krassner replied. “Life would be unbearable with an army of bodyguards. The press would be on my back with all kinds of speculations and innuendos.” He stopped and smiled. “Besides, Chet Morton tells me you have never failed to carry out your assignments to the fullest satisfaction of your clients.”

“You flatter us,” Joe said with an embarrassed grin. “We’ll do all we can to help you.”

“But first,” Frank added, “we’d like to see the Ruby King.”

“Yes, I’ll have you over the house soon. Here comes Chet.”

The husky boy strode purposefully over to the three. “How about some ballooning today, Mr. Krassner?” he asked.

“That was my plan.”

“Great. You can take Frank and Joe, and I’ll go with Fearless.”

“That’ll be keen,” Joe said.

“You’ve never been up before?” Krassner asked.

“Only in airplanes,” Frank replied. Both Hardys were experienced pilots and often flew a plane which their father kept at Bayport Airport.

“I’m sure you’ll like this kind of flying,” Krassner said. “Come on. Let’s get ready.”

Everybody helped with the preparations. Krassner telephoned for two pickup trucks while the boys inflated the envelopes. People from the surrounding farms gathered to watch the spectacle of a twin ascension.

“They can hold the ground ropes for us,” Fearless said. “It’s a great sport.”

Between bursts of hot air from the burners, the boys discussed ballooning. Chet proved to be a competent historian on the sport. He said two Frenchmen, the Montgolfier brothers, made the balloon used in the first recorded human flight over Paris. The year was 1783.

“Aeronauts have had plenty of adventures since then,” Chet said. “Did you know that Napoleon used balloons to spy on the enemy? They were popular in the Civil War, too. And then there was a guy named Andrée who tried to fly over the North Pole in a giant balloon.”

“Did he make it?” Joe asked.

Chet shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not.”

“All right, men,” Krassner called out. “We’re nearly ready.” He and Fearless checked their radios and altimeters. The pyrometers, which measured the heat in the bags, were in working order. So were the variometers, needed to tell the rate of climb.

Just then the two pickup trucks arrived. The crowd cheered as the five stepped into the baskets. They held on tightly to the ground ropes until Fearless bellowed, “Hands off!”

Up went the two craft in perfect weather conditions. There was hardly any wind and a clear blue sky. The huge license numbers on the rounded sides stood out brightly in the late-afternoon sunshine.

Standing beside Krassner, Frank felt an exhilaration unlike anything he had experienced in an airplane. As the ground fell away beneath them in silence, the boy was engulfed in an unreal feeling of total peace.

Below, the waving spectators grew smaller, and the pickup trucks set off on the road, as a gentle fluff of wind sent the balloons on their way.

Krassner and the Hardys watched the other craft behind them as they drifted higher and higher. A farm slid past below them and three dogs looked up and barked furiously. Frank was surprised he could hear them so far off.

“Enjoying yourself?” Krassner asked. He picked up binoculars and scanned the countryside.

“I never had such a good time in my life!” Joe said enthusiastically. “Thanks a million for the ride.”

“Don’t mention it.” Krassner’s face looked serene. “Ballooning takes you away from all the world’s troubles.”

But the flight did not lull Frank’s mind. It kept working to find the missing links in the puzzle. Was the Ruby King contraband—perhaps stolen in China? Was that the reason Krassner had shunned the police?

As they sailed on silently, the Hardys studied the uninhabited woodland carefully. It was not at all like the view from a fast-flying airplane. Suddenly Frank heard the radio crackle:

“Frank, this is Chet. Do you read me?”

“Roger. What a swell ride!”

“Listen. There’s another balloon.”

“Where?”

“At three o’clock.”

Frank turned around. “I see it.”

“Look close,” Chet advised, and Frank asked Krassner for the glasses. He trained them on the third craft. It was the serpent balloon!

Frank told Krassner, and his face again showed tension and fear.

Chet’s voice sounded once more. “Keep an eye on the snake. It’s armed!”

Frank focused the binoculars on the other gondola. Three men were in it and one had a rifle. There was a muzzle flash, then a bullet whistled over them.

“They’re firing at us!” Krassner screamed.

“Duck!” Joe ordered, “and let’s land as fast as possible!”

Frank radioed to Chet, “We’re descending. Better come with us.”

“Roger.”

Krassner had regained his composure, and Frank admired his airmanship. The man pulled open the vent and the craft sank rapidly. Three more shots sounded in the distance, but Krassner’s fast-moving balloon made a difficult target. However, two slugs ripped through the balloon.

The wind freshened and the sinking balloon picked up speed. Frank saw that Krassner was heading for a small farm at the edge of the woods. There was a level, cleared area bordered on one side by a pond, on the other by an electric power line.

Fearless and Chet were close behind, but the serpent balloon made no attempt to follow them down. As their attackers flew out of sight, Frank talked to Chet again.

“Did you get a look at the snake’s license number?”

“Affirmative. But Fearless says it’s a phony. And listen to this. The snake has a little propeller, probably battery driven. That’s how it caught up with us.”

“The police should be notified.”

“I’ve already done that,” Chet said. “Called the pickup trucks and told them to phone the State Police.”

“Good thinking. We’re landing now. See you later.”

Krassner maneuvered the craft toward the middle of the field while the farm children ran out of the house to witness the descent. The electric wires seemed a safe distance to their left and the pond far enough to the right.

“You’re a great pilot, Mr. Krassner,” Joe said tersely.

“We’re not down yet—Oh, oh, trouble!”

An errant gust hit the balloon, carrying it toward the power lines. Frank and Joe were gripped by a sickening feeling as the metal wires loomed ominously closer.

“The blast valve!” Krassner shouted. “It’s over your head, Joe. Pull it!”

Joe reached up and grasped the lever, sending hissing flame into the envelope. Nothing happened.

“It’s not working!” Frank cried out.

“It will in time,” Krassner said. “At least I hope so!”

Several seconds passed, then all at once the balloon lifted. The gondola cleared the power lines with two feet to spare!

Krassner looked limp and Frank let out a sigh of relief.

Joe shook his head. “We almost got fried!” he said.

The balloon dropped down once more and landed beside the farmhouse.

In their excitement the Hardys had paid no attention to how Fearless and Chet were faring. Now they jumped out of the basket, with Krassner on their heels, and ran to avoid the collapsing envelope.

Only then did they notice the other balloon. It was descending rapidly over the pond.

Splash!

Chet and Fearless hit the water like home-coming astronauts!

CHAPTER VIII

A Tough Break

FRANK and Joe raced toward the pond, followed by a farm boy and his two sisters dressed in Levis. When they reached the water’s edge, Fearless was splashing toward shore.

“Where’s Chet?” Frank yelled.

Fearless glanced back, reversed his course, and swam furiously to the spot where the basket had sunk. The Hardys dived in at the same time and with powerful crawl strokes reached it seconds later. They gulped in deep breaths of air and aimed for the bottom.

Meanwhile the three youngsters ran for their rowboat which was tied to a small dock.

“Jenny, Wendy,” the boy shouted, “if we get the balloon out, maybe we can keep it!”

“Don’t be silly, Kurt,” the elder girl said as they pushed the boat into the pond. “Come on, Wendy, we’ll row.”

In the clear water, Frank and Joe saw Fearless trying to free Chet’s foot which had become entangled in the coil of rope lashed to the side of the gondola. Frank helped give a final tug, and Chet, nearly unconscious, was whisked to the surface.

He was quickly towed ashore and pulled up onto the grass, where he lay gasping.

“You took in a lot of water,” Frank said. “Just lie still for a while.”

In the confusion of the rescue, no one had paid any attention to Krassner. Suddenly they heard a feeble call. “A pill! Give me a pill!”

Joe ran to the man, who was lying helpless on his back and quickly gave him the medicine. Minutes later Krassner sat up shakily. “Someone’s out to get me!” he moaned. “My heart can’t take this terror much longer!”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Krassner,” Joe said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this whole thing yet.”

While the farm children were busy retrieving the sunken gondola and the deflated envelope, the balloonists talked about their scary adventure. Joe was of the opinion that the serpent gang was only out to frighten Krassner.

“With a telescopic sight they couldn’t have missed,” he reasoned. “Besides, they didn’t bother to pursue us any farther when we descended.”

“You may be right,” Frank said.

Krassner turned the situation into a feeble jest. “Well, if they tried to scare me, they certainly succeeded.”

“But why, Mr. Krassner?” Fearless asked. “What do these men have against you?”

Krassner avoided answering the question, and the boys busied themselves with the balloons. First they folded up Krassner’s craft, then set about to help Jenny, Wendy, and Kurt drag the other one up onto the shore.

“I haven’t seen your mom and dad,” Joe said.

“They’re in town with the truck,” Kurt said. “Wow, wait till they hear what happened. Are finders keepers?” he added mischievously.

“Hey, this is no toy!” Fearless chuckled. “But for a reward, how would you like a ride some time next week?”

“Oh, that’d be great!” Wendy’s eyes sparkled.

“Look, here come the State Police,” Jenny declared.

Two squad cars drove right up to the pond, and a pair of uniformed officers plied the balloonists with questions about the mid-air assault. During the interrogation, the farm children said they had noticed the weird serpent balloon about four or five times in the past month.

But no one could shed any light on its owners, or why they had shot at Krassner. The man himself made no mention of the Ruby King.

A few minutes later the pickup trucks appeared and the equipment was loaded. It was dusk when they reached the balloon club, where the gear was stowed away.

“So long, everybody,” Joe said as he and Frank went to their car.

“I’m going to your house first,” Chet said. “I want to be in on the rap session with your dad.”

“You ought to go home and hit the sack,” Joe advised. “You’ve had quite a day.”

“No, really, I feel fine now. I’ll phone my folks so they won’t worry.”

Chet followed the Hardys to their house. When the two cars pulled into the driveway, Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude ran out to meet them.

“You had us worried to death!” Mrs. Hardy said. “We heard a radio report that several bal loonists had an aerial war!”

“You were in it—yes you were!” Aunt Gertrude stared at them piercingly, then shook a skinny finger. “Now tell us all about it!”

“I guess the State Police released the news,” Frank said and reported what happened. “Where’s Dad?” he added.

“Out looking for you,” Laura Hardy replied.

“Did he talk to Sam over the radio before he left?”

“Yes. It seems Sam had some success in his surveillance.”

“Let’s get in touch with him right away,” Joe said.

They used the set in their car and called Radley. There was no reply. They tried again. Nothing!

“Either his set’s out of order or something’s happened,” Frank declared.

Chet, meanwhile, had wandered into the house looking for food. Aunt Gertrude, who had anticipated their need for sustenance, had ham sandwiches ready for them. Chet phoned home, then called out, “Come on, fellows. Let’s eat!”

“Forget it,” Joe replied. “Something might be wrong at our surveillance post. We’re going over there right away.”

“Wait for me!” Chet grabbed a fistful of sandwiches and wriggled into the back seat.

The three boys ate on the way. When they reached the street behind the old building, Frank turned off the lights and they crept cautiously toward the alley leading to the back entrance.

Armed with flashlights, which they used only sparingly, they ascended the crooked, creaking stairs. The rotting rooms smelled damp and unpleasant. All was quiet.

On the third floor Frank’s light flashed into the room where Radley was stationed.

The boys gasped. Sam lay unconscious on the floor, a deep gash on the side of his head.

Chet said, “I think he’s dead!”

“He’s breathing,” Frank assured his pal. As the Hardys administered first aid, Frank noticed that blood had congealed around the wound.

“Joe, this must have happened a while ago,” he said and ripped off a shirttail. He tore it into strips and fashioned a bandage. As he applied it, Radley moaned and his eyelids fluttered.

“He’s coming to,” Joe said.

They helped the man gingerly to his feet and Frank said, “Chet, grab my flashlight and round up the equipment while we take Sam to the car.”

“Will you be back?”

“Sure. You can’t carry it all yourself.”

Chet listened to their creaky footsteps fade away on the stairs. Then he shone the light around the room looking for the cameras.

“Holy crow!” he murmured. “I can’t see them anywhere. They’ve probably been stolen.”

He got down on his hands and knees and felt about the wooden floor until he came to an old door. It had been broken down and lay propped against the wall in one corner. Chet lifted it. Underneath was the still camera, its long lens sticking out like a telescope!

“Sam must have had enough time to hide it,” he thought as he picked it up. Then he froze. Were those voices drifting up from below?

He did not move a muscle, hardly daring to breathe. Now he could hear voices distinctly. They were not Frank’s and Joe’s. There were quiet whispers, interspersed with oaths!

Then everything was silent for a while, until footsteps sounded again. “The Hardys must be coming back!” Chet thought.

All at once angry shouts filled the old house, punctuated by scuffling and banging.

Chet grabbed the camera and raced downstairs. On the second floor landing he found Frank and Joe dazed and sprawled out on the dirty floor.

The Hardys pulled themselves to their feet slowly. “What a blitz!” Frank murmured, rubbing his head.

“How many of them?” Chet asked.

“Four dirty bums.”

Joe grasped his jaw and moved it from side to side. “Nothing broken, I guess,” he said. Then he felt in his pockets. “But my wallet’s missing. And so’s my watch!”

“Mine, too,” Frank said. “Those rats. Probably the ones who conked Radley.”

“I found one camera under a door,” Chet said. “But the movie equipment’s gone.” He handed the instrument to Frank.

Frank and Joe decided there was no point in chasing the hoodlums in the darkness. They had too much of a head start. The three boys walked down the rickety stairs to go home. Suddenly an ominous rumble filled the old building. The next moment plaster began falling on their heads. One wall of the stairway was moving inward!

“Run, fellows!” Chet yelled and braced himself against the wall. “I’ll hold this till you’re out!”

The Hardys dashed down to the rear entrance. Then Chet took his shoulders from the wall and ran. But he did not have enough time. Wood and plaster filled the stairway.

Frank and Joe turned in horror to see their friend imprisoned in the debris! Only his head showed above the rubble!

The dust and dirt made Chet cough, but he managed to shout, “Help! I’m stuck!”

“Hold on. We’ll get you out,” Joe cried out.

They clawed at the debris but could make little headway. They needed assistance! While Joe stayed with Chet, Frank raced to the car. On the way to the nearest alarm box, about two blocks down the road, he told Radley what had happened.

“I’ll call the police, then drop you off at the hospital,” Frank said. “How do you feel now?”

“Not too hot,” Radley said weakly.

“By the way, the movie camera’s gone. The other one was under a door.”

“I hid it there.”

“Did you take any photos?”

“Quite a few. Hope they’re the ones you want.”

Minutes later sirens screamed as Chief Collig and the fire department rushed to the dilapidated building. The men carefully worked their way through the rubble.

Frank returned half an hour later. He and Joe helped under the direction of the fire chief. Huge lights illuminated the area.

“It’s touch and go,” the official said. “One false move and the whole building could come tumbling down.”

Chet’s good humor began to abate as the work went on painstakingly slowly.

“I’ve got an awful pain in my arm,” he said. “Maybe it’s broken. Frank, better call my parents.”

Half an hour later Mr. and Mrs. Morton arrived with Iola, Chet’s sister. She was a pretty dark haired girl who often dated Joe. At the same time, reporters and photographers rushed to the scene where firemen were shoring up the sagging walls with stout beams. Others picked away at the pile of wood, bricks, and plaster.

The Hardys were questioned about the accident. Why were they in the building? Didn’t they realize the danger? How did they manage to escape unhurt?

Frank and Joe tried to avoid direct answers, knowing anything they said might tip off their enemies. Joe did, however, tell about Chet’s heroic action.

An onlooker, who knew the Hardys, said, “You must be on some detective work. Was it a surveillance?”

“We’d rather not talk about it now,” Frank replied. He turned to his brother. “Look, Dad just arrived!”

Mr. Hardy came directly to his sons, who briefed him on the frustrating events. Meanwhile, Chet’s spirits had been lifted greatly by the appearance of his family, though he looked pale and wan.

It was long after midnight when the rescuers pulled him from his miserable prison. Two attendants arrived in an ambulance and verified Chet’s suspicion about a broken arm. They applied a splint before lifting him into the ambulance, then whisked him off to Bayport Hospital.

His family followed and the Hardys hurried home. In their lab they developed the film expertly, then started to make prints.

“Hey, these are just great!” Frank said as Mr. Hardy looked over his shoulder. Two persons, photographed entering and leaving the premises of Associated Jewelers, were indeed Smith and Jones!

“Now we know for sure they’re all in together,” the detective said.

After a few hours’ sleep and a quick breakfast Mr. Hardy phoned the hospital and learned that Chet was in satisfactory condition and Sam would be released about ten o’clock. Then he and his sons took the photographs to Chief Collig. They were compared with mug shots of known criminals in the area, but to no avail.

“I’ll send copies to the FBI in Washington,” Collig said. “Maybe they can identify them.”

Then the chief drove with the Hardys to Associated Jewelers. The area across the street had been roped off, while workmen razed the remainder of the structure.

The chief tried the door of the office building. It was locked. Frank and Joe went around to look into the windows. “Holy crow!” Frank exclaimed. “They’ve cleared out. The place is empty!”

The workmen were questioned but had seen nothing.

“Obviously our friends left through the back door,” Frank declared.

“Well, Bayport is lucky to be rid of those scoundrels,” Chief Collig said.

“But we still have to keep on their trail,” Mr. Hardy stated. “I’m sure they’ll go to another city, probably even another state, and start all over again with their fraudulent business.”

By the time the Hardys returned home, the Bayport Times had trumpeted the bravery of Chet Morton all over the front page. Pictures and stories described the disaster and hailed the Hardys’ friend as the hero.

“He probably saved our lives,” Frank commented.

“And he certainly didn’t think about his own safety,” Joe added. “Let’s hope his arm gets better soon.”

The boys notified the Motor Vehicle Bureau of the loss of their driver’s licenses and Aunt Gertrude drove them to the agency to get new ones.

Mr. Hardy, meanwhile, called Conrad Greene and spoke to the chess champion’s father. When his sons returned, the detective said, “The senior Greene was rather unfriendly and his son won’t talk to anyone!”

“Maybe we’d better drive out there and see him personally,” Frank said.

Joe nodded. “But first let’s visit Chet in the hospital.”

The Hardys were surprised to find Krassner sitting at their pal’s bedside.

“Hi, Mr. Krassner,” Joe greeted him. “What do you think of our hero?”

“He’s got plenty of guts,” Krassner said admiringly.

“I’ve also got a cast on my arm that’s heavy enough to sink a ship,” Chet said. “Here, take a look at this!”

Just then two pretty young nurses entered the room. “Chester, we came to autograph your cast,” one of them said.

“Oh sure. Right over here!”

While the girls were inscribing their names, Chet said, “What about the surveillance, fellows? Get any good shots?”

“I’ll say so!” Joe replied. “Great close-ups of Smith and Jones!”

At that moment Frank happened to glance at Krassner. At the mention of Smith and Jones, a fearful expression came over his face!

CHAPTER IX

A Gathering Storm

FRANK gave his brother a nudge. But Joe had already realized that he should not have talked about their case in front of Krassner.

The man’s look of concern now turned into a subdued smile. “I’m glad to see Chet’s coming along so well,” he said, leaning forward to write his name on the plaster cast. Then he turned to the Hardys. “How about setting a date for visiting me, boys? You wanted to see the Ruby King.”

“Sure,” Frank said. “Is tomorrow okay with you?”

“That’ll be fine. Late in the afternoon.”

The young detectives said good-by to their friend, waved to Krassner, then hastened down the hospital corridor. As they were climbing into their car, Frank said, “Krassner must know Smith and Jones. Did you see the look on his face when you mentioned their names?”

Joe nodded. “Sorry I didn’t keep my mouth shut.”

Frank shrugged. “He seemed to be frightened,” he said. “I wonder why.”

When they reached home, Fenton Hardy was waiting for them in his study.

“I think we’ve hit pay dirt,” he said. “The FBI has records on Smith and Jones. Smith’s real name is Peter Lee Fong. He comes from Hong Kong.”

“And Jones?” Joe asked eagerly.

“He’s Cyril Eggleby from Kowloon.”

“That’s near Hong Kong, isn’t it?” asked Frank.

“Yes. Right across the harbor. These two are being sought for smuggling operations.”

“Smuggling?” Frank looked amazed. “Seems we’re on to a big-time racket.”

“And a very disturbing one,” Mr. Hardy said. “Krassner is a well-known and trusted citizen. How he fits into the picture might prove very embarrassing to him.”

“He sure fits in somewhere,” Joe said, and mentioned their observation at the hospital.

Mr. Hardy was thoughtful. “Let’s review what we know so far. Krassner is afraid of Smith and Jones and has been shot at in the air. Were his attackers Smith and Jones? And why do those two want to bug Conrad Greene’s phone? Maybe because he might win the Ruby King. Someone threatens Krassner’s life unless he gives up the Ruby King—”

“So it stands to reason,” Frank put in excitedly, “that Smith and Jones are Krassner’s enemies who are after the chess piece!”

“Wow!” Joe said. “That is the logical conclusion. But what do Smith and Jones have to do with Associated Jewelers?”

Mr. Hardy shrugged. “We don’t know. And we’re not sure if our deductions are correct. Let’s think about our next step.”

“I’d say we better see Conrad Greene,” Frank said.

“What if he won’t talk to us?” Joe asked.

“You’ve got to make him listen somehow,” Mr. Hardy said. “Also, I think a surveillance of the area where you saw the serpent balloon is in order.”

“Aerial surveillance, Dad?”

“That would be fine. Maybe you can discover its home base. I have to go to New York for a few days. Perhaps I can find out more about Krassner from Wall Street friends while I’m there.”

In the interest of speed, it was decided that Frank would go to Ocean Bluffs to see Conrad Greene while Joe would do the surveillance. Frank phoned Biff Hooper, inviting him to come along, and Joe contacted Tony Prito and asked him how he would like to do some flying.

“Sure, when?” Tony asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Something to do with your case?”

“Right. Aerial reconnaisance. I want to look for that serpent balloon.”

“What about Frank?”

“He’s busy on another angle.”

“Okay,” Tony said. “When do we meet, and where?”

“At the airport, about ten o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.’

When Tony showed up at the airport the next morning, he found Joe busy reading weather conditions in the communications office.

“Good flying weather,” Joe said. “There’s a cold front due later this afternoon, but I don’t think it’ll bother us.”

Outside, Tony squinted up at the clear blue sky. “We’re going to have some fun. I’m glad you asked me along.”

“Listen, this is no joy ride,” Joe reminded him. “We’ve got a lot of looking to do—but not at the scenery.”

When they were airborne, Joe headed first to the area where he and Frank had seen the serpent balloon land at the old farmhouse.

There was no sign of the craft anywhere. “Now what, skipper?” asked Tony from the right-hand seat.

“We’ll go to the spot where the shooting took place. Keep your eyes peeled on the ground.”

The two scoured the area, but there was not a trace of the serpent balloon.

Joe crisscrossed back and forth, finally droning over the Morton farm. He flew low and dipped the wings.

“Look, Iola’s running out of the house,” Tony said.

“I think she knows the sound of our engine,” Joe said with a grin as the girl waved up to them. Then he pulled back on the yoke and the plane reached for more altitude.

“Hey, I see something!” Tony cried out suddenly.

Far in the distance a balloon-shaped object seemed to be rising up from the trees. Joe made a beeline for it. Coming closer, both boys started to laugh.

“It’s a water tower.” Joe chuckled. “Tony, you’re a great detective.”

They lapsed into serious silence once more. “Can’t we get a little rest from all this?” Tony asked finally.

“Okay. I’ll take her up high for a while.”

The plane gained altitude as Joe flew through a gorgeous cloud which had begun to form in the west. In the brilliant sunshine he guided his craft deftly along the cloud’s tumbled slopes, following the ridges, then dropping down to gaps in the fluffy walls.

“Boy, this sure is beautiful,” Tony said.

Along the cloud edges, small puffed balls had broken away and Joe felt the wind nudging the plane even higher.

It was then that he noticed a warning sign. In the distance the cloud wall had become black.

“Tony, we’d better get out of here,” he said.

“It does look like a storm,” Tony agreed, “but it’s a long way off.”

“Not as far as you might think.” Joe glanced down. The ground no longer stood out clearly as before. Long streaks of clouds had slid between the plane and the green woodland. “Oh, oh,” he said. “We may be headed for trouble!”

The wind had become rather severe. Joe had to apply extra pressure on the stick and rudder to keep it in level flight. Finally he saw a long cloud canyon ahead of him. It looked like a deep, narrow valley and was what he needed to get down safely. He knew the landmarks well, having flown this area many times before.

Joe glanced at Tony, whose mouth now was set tensely. “Don’t panic, we’ll make it,” he said and pulled on a knob.

Warm air flooded the carburetor system. “That’s so we won’t ice up,” Joe explained. He slid the throttle control back and the roar of the engine became a throaty hum. Then he eased the stick forward and slightly to the left, at the same time applying pressure with his left foot to the rudder pedal.

They were boxed in between two thunderheads!

The plane rolled into a wide curving spiral, dropped her nose, and sailed along in a controlled turn toward the earth.

As it rounded the corner of the cloud canyon, Joe suddenly experienced a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

There was no way out! He was boxed in between two mighty thunderheads—giant cumulonimbus clouds with howling winds and forked spears of lightning!

“Tighten your seat belt, Tony.”

The air heaved and rocked the plane. Joe had to hang onto the wheel with all his might to keep it from tearing from his grasp.

Then came a rattle of hail, followed by sheets of rain. It seemed as if they were flying under a waterfall.

“Joe, do you think we’ll make it?” Tony asked.

“Start praying, old buddy.”

The plane shuddered.

“Mama mia!” Tony cried out. “The wings are coming off!”

CHAPTER X

A Strange Hope

WHILE Joe and Tony struggled for survival in the aerial maelstrom, Frank and Biff drove toward Ocean Bluffs. Halfway there, the same storm which had engulfed the Hardy’s plane burst with sudden fury on Biff’s car.

First there was a machine-gun rattle of hail, followed by a torrent of rain. The windshield wipers were of little use.

Biff pulled off to the side of the road for a few minutes. “I hope Joe and Tony got back before this storm,” he said.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Frank said. “Joe’s a careful pilot.”

The thunder and lightning finally subsided and after ten minutes the downpour let up suf ficiently for Biff to continue on.

Ocean Bluffs was a small community located on a rocky cove and got its name from cliffs which dropped off quite steeply toward the water. It might have been a popular recreation area if not for the narrow beach. At high tide it was barely more than five feet wide, stony and uneven.

The boys found the home of Conrad Greene close to the ocean, midway between a desolated road and the cliffs. With some difficulty Biff negotiated the muddy driveway and pulled up in front of the house, a low ranch type which sat squat and undistinctive in the driving downpour.

“What an isolated place,” Biff said. “It would give me the creeps to live here.”

“I guess Conrad likes privacy,” Frank said as they made their way over the soggy ground to the front door. There was no bell, so Frank rapped loudly. No answer!

The boy banged again.

“Maybe nobody’s home,” Biff suggested, turning up his collar to keep the rain from running down his neck.

They were about to leave when the door opened a crack. An elderly man stood behind it.

Frank smiled. “Are you Mr. Greene, Senior?”

“Go away. I don’t want to buy anything.”

“We’re not salesmen. I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my friend Biff Hooper. We’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Look, Mr. Greene, I can’t explain while we’re drowning. Please let us in!”

“Okay,” the man replied grudgingly. “But I’m telling you, I’ve got nothing to talk about.”

By this time Frank and Biff were dripping wet. At the end of a vestibule which led to a large living room, Greene said, “You can dry off, but then you’ve got to go.”

He shuffled into the living room, with the boys following behind him.

“What I want to talk about concerns your son Conrad,” said Frank.

“What about him?”

Just then a medium-sized thin man with jet-black hair and a gaunt face appeared from a door on the opposite side of the room.

“Who are these people?” he demanded. “I told you not to let anybody in!”

“They’re only going to dry off,” the older man said.

“We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Greene,” Frank spoke up.

“And we don’t want any autograph, either,” Biff added, irked by the unfriendly treatment.

“Somebody wants to tap your telephone,” Frank began. “Perhaps it’s bugged already.”

“What?” Conrad Greene now seemed willing to listen.

Frank told about Fenton Hardy’s experience with Fong and Eggleby. “Of course my father wouldn’t consider doing such a job,” he said, “but someone else might not be so ethical.”

Color rose to Conrad Greene’s pale face. “The Ruby King!” he muttered. “They don’t want me to win it!”

“What was that?” Frank asked. “Did you say Ruby King?”

“Forget it,” Conrad said curtly. “Can you tell me whether my phone is tapped now?”

Frank, who knew a lot about detection equipment, checked around the house, taking apart the telephone and the single extension. The other three looked on, fascinated by his expertise.

“Seems you’re clean,” Frank said finally.

By this time the chess master’s frigid manner had relaxed somewhat. “I’m glad you came to tell me,” he said. “And I hope you’ll understand how I feel in regard to strangers—their interminable questions about chess. I lecture, but I don’t give individual instruction.”

Frank nodded. “By the way, do you ever pass confidential information over the telephone?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” the man replied. “Being a grandmaster, I often discuss chess with other masters all over the United States.”

Frank suggested that perhaps Fong was trying to get some of Greene’s strategy on behalf of the opposition. “Or maybe he just wants to snoop into your personal business to psyche you out,” he added.

Greene’s lips curled in a sly smile. “Nobody will psyche me. I’m pretty good at that myself.” With that, he said good-by and left the room. His father escorted the boys to the door.

“I hope my son loses the championship,” he said. “I don’t want him to win the Ruby King.”

“Why not?” asked Frank.

Mr. Greene did not answer and shut the door quietly behind the boys. They made their way to the car. Starting down the driveway, Biff asked, “Why do you think old Greene doesn’t want his son to win the Ruby King?”

Frank shrugged. “All I can say is that Joe and I intend to find out about the King pretty soon.” He told Biff about developments in their case and the husky six-footer was much impressed.

As the boys drove back to Bayport, lacy patterns of lightning were still flickering in the sky far to the west, indicating that the storm had not completely passed.

At that very moment Tony Prito was crossing himself. The Hardys’ plane shuddered with teeth-chattering violence. It lifted like an express elevator, then plunged with a velocity that seemed to turn Joe’s stomach inside out. The wheel was wrenched from his hands.

“This is the end,” he thought.

Suddenly the miracle happened. The plane dropped down out of the heavy clouds and visibility increased. It was in a spin, heading toward the hazy green earth below. Joe shook his head to dispel the feeling of dizziness. He grasped the wheel and it responded sluggishly.

Glancing over at Tony, whose eyes were shut tight, Joe said, “You can open them now, pal. We’re not going to heaven yet.”

But Tony was not ready for quips. Glassy-eyed, he looked straight ahead for several minutes, while Joe brought the craft down even lower, skimming above the dark forest land. Finally Tony said, “That was great handling, Joe.”

“Thanks. We were lucky.”

Joe nursed the damaged controls, hoping they would stay intact until they reached the airport. It was then that Tony’s sharp eyes spied a crude cabin in the woods.

“Hey, look down, Joe! Isn’t that a flatbed trailer behind the shack over there?”

“Sure is.”

“Can you fly lower for a better look? Maybe it’s the hideout of the serpent balloon gang!”

“Sorry, I can’t,” Joe replied. “The plane’s not handling very well. I’ll need all the altitude I can get if we have to make an emergency landing.”

The shack slid from view and Joe made a beeline for Bayport Airport. He radioed ahead telling the control people he was in trouble.

“Emergency equipment will stand by,” came the reply from the tower.

“Hold your hat, Tony,” Joe said as they came in for the landing. “I hope this crate sets down in one piece!”

A fire truck and ambulance stood beside the runway, but his skilled handling brought the plane down safely.

Joe and Tony reached the Hardy home minutes before Frank and Biff pulled into the driveway.

Excited conversation ensued for the next hour over sandwiches, then Biff and Tony left and the Hardys arrived at Krassner’s place an hour and a half later. They locked the car and walked up to the door.

Krassner met them in the sumptuous foyer, and shook their hands warmly. “Glad you came,” he said. “I’ve taken the Ruby King out of the safe. It’s in the library.”

Hearing that the valuable antique stood unguarded, Joe frowned.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Krassner said. “Don’t worry. We’re alone. I can assure you of that.”

He led the way to a wing of the mansion and entered a plush library. Bookstacks extended from the floor to the ceiling, and a dim light filtered through heavy curtains on half-open French doors at the far end of the room.

Suddenly Frank and Joe noticed a shadowy figure standing near the doors!

CHAPTER XI

Over the Cliff

SUDDEN fear gripped Frank. Had the intruder already raided Krassner’s safe? And was he making off with the Ruby King?

Joe’s reaction was to dash across the room, but Krassner held him back. “Joe, what are you doing?” he asked. “The King won’t run away!”

“Is that the King?” Joe asked in disbelief.

With Frank at his side, he approached the figure cautiously. Now they saw that the chess piece was life-size, intricately carved, and bejeweled with bits of ruby.

“Why—we thought—”

“Yes, that should have occurred to me,” Krassner said and chuckled. He parted the curtains, throwing more light on the unusual antique. “You probably assumed the Ruby King was small.”

“We did,” Frank admitted.

“And made from a solid piece of ruby,” Joe added.

The boys walked around the figure, amazed by the subtlety of its carving and the placement of the precious gems. Two of the larger pieces made up the eyes, giving the King a crafty appearance.

“I never knew there were life-size chess pieces,” Frank said.

“Oh yes,” Krassner told him. “The ancient nobility prized them highly. In several instances the warlords battled over possession of these figures.” He went on to explain that the ancients were known even to use people as chess pieces. “Courtyards were laid out as boards,” he said, “and the living pieces, usually slaves, moved from one place to another at the master’s bidding.”

“You know what threw us off,” Frank said. “You mentioned keeping the Ruby King in your safe. It must be quite a large one.”

Krassner went to the opposite wall, pulled a tapestry aside, and revealed a steel door. The dial was the size of a kitchen plate, and the handle so bulky that it required two strong hands to turn it.

“That’s built like a fortress,” Joe remarked.

Krassner nodded and pulled the door open. A light sprang on inside and the Hardys looked into the cavernous vault.

“I’d say this is a safe place, wouldn’t you?” Krassner said with a self-satisfied smile.

“Where’d you get the design?” Frank quipped. “From Fort Knox?”

Krassner shrugged. “In my business I need a good vault. Now let’s put the King in again. Here, Joe, give me a hand.”

The boy helped him carry the prize into the safe and Krassner locked the door. Then he put the tapestry back into place and motioned the boys to sit down.

“Well, now you’ve seen it,” he said. “It would be almost impossible to steal, and equally difficult to cart off.”

Mr. Hardy had told his sons that no safe ever made was impervious to clever thieves, but Frank and Joe had to admit that Krassner’s setup looked pretty tight.

“Matter of fact,” the banker went on, “the consortium trusted me with the piece because of my unique vault.”

“Mr. Krassner,” Frank asked, “how did you acquire the chess piece?”

“It was purchased in China and shipped to this country via Hong Kong.”

“Probably smuggled out,” Frank thought to himself. He did not quite trust Krassner, and still suspected that the chess piece might have been stolen.

On the way home the boys mused about the Ruby King.

“That was a real shockeroo, wasn’t it, Frank?” Joe asked.

“I’ll say. Were you going to tackle that wooden dummy?”

“Okay, don’t rub it in. I’ll bet you thought it was a thief, too.”

Frank nodded. “Hey, we’re not far from the Morton farm and Chet’s home from the hospital. Let’s stop in and say hello.”

Joe agreed and soon they arrived at the farmhouse. Chet was sitting in the living room watching television.

“Look at this!” Joe quipped. “He’s watching kiddie shows!”

Chet was unhappy. “What else can I do? The doctor told me to take it easy for a few days.” He sighed. “What’s up? Are you breezing around the countryside looking for trouble?”

“Not exactly,” Frank said. “We were looking at a life-size chess king.”

Iola had come in and overheard the last sentence. “What?” she said in surprise. “Is there really such a thing?”

“Yes. And it came all the way from China.”

“Tell me more.”

“Unfortunately that’s all we know.”

Iola looked thoughtful. “I might be able to find out more about ancient chess pieces. Would that be of any help to you?”

“Sure. How are you going to do it?”

“Oh, leave it to me,” Iola said coyly.

On the way home, Frank said, “I wonder what Iola has in mind.”

“She’s pretty smart,” Joe said. “Don’t worry about it.”

As they pulled into the driveway, Frank said, “Joe, I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?”

“Conrad Greene’s place. Maybe the wiretap is on the outside of the house!”

“You only checked indoors?”

“Yes. It didn’t occur to me until just now.”

“Then let’s take a look tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. We’ll phone him tonight.”

After dinner Frank called the Greene residence. Conrad’s father answered, saying it was all right to come the next day and check the outside.

“This time you won’t get wet, either.” He chuckled. “The weather bureau predicted sunshine.”

When Frank asked about Conrad, he learned that the champion was out of town conducting an exhibition tour.

“He plays ten games simultaneously—and blindfolded!” Mr. Greene said proudly.

Frank thanked him and hung up. When he told Joe about the grandmaster’s exhibition, the boy whistled. “Wow! I’ve trouble playing one opponent with my eyes open!”

“You’re not a genius, Joe. I keep telling you that.”

Joe gave his brother a good-natured poke in the ribs. “Well, let’s see what kind of a genius you are in solving our new mystery.”

The boys waited until ten-thirty the next morning, thinking their father might call from New York, but finally Frank said, “We’d better be on our way. I wanted to tell Dad about the Ruby King, but it’ll have to wait.”

The day was bright and clear. On the highway a black sedan kept behind them for a while, and Joe became suspicious. A man and a woman were in the car. But it turned off onto a side road before they reached Ocean Bluffs.

The elder Mr. Greene let them in and Frank introduced his brother.

“How’s that big fellow who was with you. What’s his name? Boff?”

“Oh, you mean Biff. He’s fine. Mr. Greene, may we check in the house again for any bugs? Then we’ll investigate outside. It could be they have tapped your line by the pole near the road.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

The boys went to work with speedy efficiency. “Nothing here,” Joe said finally. As they moved toward the front door, a shrill scream pierced the stillness.

The boys ran outside, followed by the old man. They saw a woman running frantically toward the steeply sloping cliff. A man was chasing her!

Suddenly she whirled about and in a high-pitched voice shouted, “I’ll throw myself into the sea if you come one step further!”

The man hesitated, then started his pursuit again.

“Do you think it’s a lovers’ quarrel?” Joe asked.

“Whatever it is, it could have serious consequences. That woman might kill herself!”

The Hardys raced up to the man. “Hold it!” Frank called out. “Leave her alone!”

“You take care of him,” Joe said to his brother. “I’ll try to keep the woman from jumping off.” He rushed toward the cliff.

“What’s going on?” Frank asked the man.

“Don’t let her do it!” he panted, throwing up his arms in despair. “She’s crazy enough to do anything!”

Joe, meanwhile, had reached the woman, who stood precariously close to the edge of the cliff. He put both arms around her waist and began pulling her back. Suddenly she spun around. Now Joe was at the lip of the cliff himself! The woman tried to shove him over, and in her efforts a wig fell off her head!

“Holy crow!” Joe thought. “It’s a man!”

Frank was having his troubles, too. The man, who had pleaded for help a moment before, set upon him and wrestled him toward the cliff. In the distance, Mr. Greene wrung his hands in despair. “They’re trying to shove you overl” he cried out.

This was painfully evident to the Hardy boys, who had a tough fight on their hands. Frank got the better of his adversary with a karate chop. The man staggered, then ran back toward the driveway.

Frank rushed forward to help his brother. Both Joe and his adversary were still wrestling at the lip of the cliff. Suddenly, to Frank’s horror, both fell over and rolled down the steep embankment, locked together in a bear hug!

As they tumbled down the sandy, rocky slope, Frank saw that the other man was getting the worst of it. His head crashed against one rock, then another. By the time both hit the narrow beach a hundred feet below, they rolled apart and lay motionless.

Frank’s adversary had reached his car which was parked down the road and drove off. It was a black sedan! “We were followed after all,” Frank thought to himself.

He turned to Mr. Greene, who had come up alongside him. “They’re hurt,” the boy said. “Is there a way to the beach?”

The elderly man pointed to a narrow, rutted lane some distance away, which twisted steeply to the water’s edge. “It hasn’t been used in years,” he said. “Part of it’s been washed away by rain.”

“I’m going down,” Frank said. “Better call an ambulance.”

When Frank reached the bottom he raced over to his brother. Joe was just opening his eyes.

“You all right?” Frank asked, his throat dry.

Joe stood up cautiously and moved his arms and legs. “I guess so. Don’t think I broke anything. But this other character might not be so well off.”

The boys walked over to Joe’s adversary. He was lying on his side.

“Better not touch him,” Frank warned. “He might be in serious trouble.”

They bent down to get a look at the man’s face.

“Good grief!” Frank said. “It’s Gerard Henry!”

“The jewelry salesman?”

“That’s right.”

Frank and Joe splashed water on Henry’s face, but the man did not revive.

Just then two policemen carrying a stretcher came down the narrow trail.

“I’m Lieutenant Skillman,” one of them introduced himself. “And this is Officer Gray. What happened?”

Frank told him quickly. “He’s still unconscious,” the young detective concluded.

The officers carefully moved the man and put him on the stretcher. Then they carried him up the cliff, while Frank helped Joe, who was still shaky and hurting.

A police ambulance stood at the Greenes’ house, and Gerard Henry was lifted into it. Joe noticed that one of his ladies’ shoes was missing.

“The wig got lost, too,” he commented wryly.

Just then the “phony lady” came to. He rolled his eyes and sat up, looking ludicrous in his dress. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

Lieutenant Skillman advised the man of his rights and began questioning him, but Henry’s jaw was set tight and he refused to say anything. Frank and Joe, who had already told what had happened, filled the officers in on Henry’s part in the jewelry racket.

“Will you press charges for assault and battery?” Skillman asked the boys.

“With intent to kill!” Frank declared.

“All right. You’ll be called as witnesses.” Skillman handcuffed Gerard Henry and made him lie down in the ambulance.

“We only have a small jail in Ocean Bluffs,” he said, “but I think it’ll be adequate. As soon as you’re released from the hospital, that’s where you’ll go.”

Mr. Greene shook his head in disbelief as they walked back toward the house. “You boys sure got into a lot of trouble on our account,” he said. “Why do you suppose those men were trying to throw you over the cliff?”

“To get us out of the way for some reason,” Joe said.

“Let’s take a look at that telephone pole,” Frank said. When they reached the end of the drive he climbed partly up the base of the pole. It was covered with creosote and tar.

“What a mess,” he grumbled as he climbed higher. At the junction he examined the wires and called down: “Here’s the tap, Joe. What’ll we do with it?”

“Listen, Frank, I’ve got an idea,” Joe called up. “Why don’t we leave it and tell Conrad to pass on false information as to how he would tackle different problems in chess? He can get in touch with his partners on a public telephone and clue them in.”

“Not bad,” Frank agreed. “It would confuse his enemies.”

When he came down, Mr. Greene chuckled. “Hey, this is like reading a detective story,” he said. “I’m sure Conrad will go along with your strategy.”

It was early afternoon when the Hardys arrived home. They were met at the kitchen door by Aunt Gertrude. A look of horror crossed her face when she saw them.

“Oh, Frank, Joe!” she shrieked.

CHAPTER XII

The King’s Curse

FRANK felt the blood drain from his face. “What’s happened? Is Dad all right?”

“Nothing’s happened to your father,” Aunt Gertrude said tartly. “But look at you—you’re a mess! Filthy, and your face is scratched, and Joe’s clothes are torn and he’s bruised all over—”

“Is that all?” Frank interrupted, heaving a sigh of relief. “We thought the sky had fallen in.”

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Hardy entered the kitchen. Worriedly she scrutinized the boys, then said, “You do look pretty bad. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Frank’s dirty because he climbed a telephone pole,” Joe said, “and I’m a little sore from fighting a lady that was no lady. But everything’s okay, Mother.”

“Have crooks been chasing you?” Aunt Gertrude demanded. Without waiting for an answer, she said. “Of course they have. Where were you?”

Frank told their story and finally managed to calm his excited aunt. “Did you hear from Dad?” he asked.

“Yes, we did,” Mrs. Hardy replied.

“Has he had any luck?”

“He said he was making good headway, that’s all.”

The boys went up to their room and soon returned with clean clothes. They handed the dirty ones to their mother.

“Let me put some antiseptic on your scratches,” Mrs. Hardy said.

She went to the bathroom to deposit the clothes in the hamper and returned with the liquid. While she pressed soaked cotton swabs against the boys’ injuries, Frank dialed police headquarters.

“Hi, Chief. Frank Hardy. I’ve got some good news. The Ocean Bluffs police captured Gerard Henry.”

“He’s a slick operator,” the chief replied. “How’d they do it?”

Frank told of their adventure and how they had left the wiretap in place in order to mislead Conrad Greene’s enemies.

Collig thanked him for his information. “I’ll get in touch with Lieutenant Skillman,” he said. “We can tack a few more charges onto that hoodlum.”

“Like fraud, you mean?”

“That’s right. Let me know if anything further develops, Frank.”

The hungry boys had just finished a snack when a youth about eighteen came to the door. He had an envelope marked Bayport Museum for the Hardys.

Frank took it and the messenger hurried off.

“Hey, Joe. I wonder what this is all about,” Frank said and slit open the envelope. On a piece of museum stationery was typed:

Frank and Joe Hardy:

May have some information to help you.

Ruby King

“Is this some kind of a gag?” Joe asked.

“It may be a trap,” Frank said. “We’re pretty good at falling into those lately, you know.”

“Not this time,” Joe said. “Let’s call the museum and ask about this Ruby King.”

Frank did not like the idea. “It might be like phoning the zoo and asking for Mr. Fox,” he said. “We’ll go over ourselves tomorrow morning.”

“But not without bodyguards!”

The Hardys decided to phone their backup team of Biff Hooper, Tony Prito, and Phil Cohen. The latter was a slight, intense boy with a razor-sharp mind.

The three friends readily agreed to meet the boys next morning and serve as lookouts around the museum.

When they rendezvoused at nine o’clock, Joe looked at the austere stone building without windows and said, “Not a very inviting place. When I was a little kid, I used to think this was a mausoleum.”

Biff, Tony, and Phil stationed themselves on the outside. They would go in if the Hardys were not back in fifteen minutes.

Frank and Joe bounded up the marble steps and opened the heavy bronze door. Inside sat a blond young woman behind the information desk.

“We’re here to see Ruby King,” Frank said.

“You’ll find Mrs. King down the hall in the room marked Ancient Art.”

“You mean there really is a Ruby King?” Joe asked.

The receptionist cocked her head and looked at the Hardys quizzically. “What made you think there wasn’t?”

“Oh, nothing,” Joe muttered. The boys found the proper door and entered a large high-ceilinged room. In it were plaster facades of ancient buildings, glass cases filled with artifacts, tapestries, and a few paintings.

Their eyes swept the room, finally coming to rest on a small desk in one corner. Behind it sat a buxom, dark-haired woman. She wore a blue dress and eyeglasses. Her hair was piled high on her head. She smiled as the boys approached.

“You must be Frank and Joe Hardy.”

“Yes,” Joe said, surprised, as the woman continued, “You’re detectives, interested in an ancient Chinese chess piece.”

Frank laughed. “I think you’re the detective, Mrs. King. By the way, is that really your name?”

“Of course it is. I was born Ruby Smith, but when I married Mr. King, I got the name of the famous chess piece.”

Mrs. King explained that she had been hired recently from the Museum of Natural History in New York City to become a curator in Bayport. “Oriental art is my field, and I understand you’d like to know more about this particular antique.”

Suddenly an idea occurred to Frank. “Did Iola Morton tell you?”

“That’s right. She was in yesterday.”

“You’re very kind to take such an interest,” Joe said.

The curator said that the piece had been made in India and carried by caravan to China during the Ming Dynasty. “Of course, it was part of a complete set,” she explained.

“So we heard,” Frank said.

“But did you hear about the curse?”

“A curse, really?” asked Joe.

“Every person who has come into possession of the Ruby King has died under unusual and tragic circumstances,” Mrs. King went on. “The first warlord who owned the piece was struck by lightning the day after he acquired it. Another owner died from poison a week after he bought the King, a third drowned in a flood which carried the Ruby King all the way down the Yangtze River.”

“Then what happened to it?” asked Frank.

“It was found by a poor peasant who was gored to death by a bull the next day.”

“Then Mr. Krassner better look out,” Joe said. “Do you really believe these fairy tales, Mrs. King?”

“Maybe they’re only legends,” the woman replied. “But I thought you’d like to know about them.” She went on to tell the boys about the game of chess, which originated in India. “Shah mat means The king is dead,” she said. “That’s where we get the word checkmate. The German word for it is Schach matt.”

While the boys listened intently, Tony, Biff, and Phil waited impatiently outside.

“Wonder what’s taking them so long,” said Biff.

“Maybe they got conked,” Tony said.

“Let’s go in and take a look,” Phil suggested. “The fifteen minutes are almost up.”

The three went inside and were greeted with the same hospitality as the Hardys. When they asked about their friends, they were directed to the room of Ancient Art.

“Let’s enter one at a time,” Biff said. “Phil, you go first. If there’s any trouble, whistle.”

Phil went in. As he approached the group, Mrs. King was saying, “The curse can be lifted, according to an old story.”

“How?” asked Frank, waving to Phil.

“If it’s buried.”

Joe let out a low whistle. Biff and Tony burst into the room, glancing wildly about. But Phil motioned with his hands. “Calm down, fellows, everything’s all right.”

“What’s going on?” Mrs. King asked, surprised.

The three boys were introduced and the whole thing explained. She laughed, and they resumed their conversation.

“If the curse can be lifted, why didn’t one of the previous owners bury the King?” Joe asked.

“That’s the point,” the curator went on. “It must not be buried by the owner, or anyone who knows him.”

“How is that possible?” Frank asked.

Mrs. King shrugged. “That’s all I can tell you about the Ruby King. Has it been of any help?”

“Very much so,” Frank said.

They thanked the woman and left, their footsteps echoing along the marble corridor.

Outside, the Hardys discussed what they had just heard, then Frank said, “Are you fellows busy this afternoon? I’d like to check out that cabin in the woods. Want to help?”

The answer was an enthusiastic Yes.

“Good idea,” Joe said. “But first, how about some chow at our house?”

After lunch of roast-beef sandwiches, topped off with wedges of Aunt Gertrude’s apple pie, the boys drove off to look for the shack which Joe and Tony had discovered in their horrendous aerial search.

It took more than an hour before they found the small country road which led to the old cabin. Biff parked and they proceeded on foot, peering out from the trees to observe the solitary building.

“It looks deserted,” Joe whispered.

The windows were boarded up. Weeds grew high around the walls, and the cabin gave the appearance of having been abandoned long ago.

As the boys were about to go closer, Phil whispered, “Duck!”

Everyone dropped to the ground, and five pairs of prying eyes watched a man sneak out of the woods.

“He looks like Eggleby,” Joe whispered.

The man knocked on the door and said, “Shah mat!”

A bolt clicked and he was let in.

The boys conversed in low tones about what to do next.

“If that was really Eggleby, he might know us,” Frank said. “Tony, you and Phil go up and knock at the door. Give the password. We’ll back you up in case of trouble.”

“Okay. Here goes,” Tony said. He and Phil crept from their hiding place, walked across a small open area, and knocked on the door. “Shah mat!” Phil said.

The door opened and they were admitted into the dark interior. All became quiet—ominously quiet, Frank thought. After ten minutes, neither of the two boys had returned.

“Something fishy’s going on in there,” Joe said. “I think we’d better take a look-see.”

“All right,” Frank agreed. “Come on.”

The Hardys and Biff went to the door, knocked, and Frank said in a loud voice, “Shah mat!”

There was no answer. Joe tried the doorknob. It was locked.

“Stand back,” Biff said. He leaped forward and banged his shoulder against the door. It gave way with a cracking sound, and the boys dashed inside. It took a few seconds for their eyes to become adjusted to the dark interior.

“Good night!” Frank said. “They’re all gone!”

CHAPTER XIII

The Third Man

“THEY’VE vanished!” Biff exclaimed. “Disappeared into thin air!”

“There must be another way out,” Frank declared, moving around.

“All the windows are barred and there’s no back door,” Joe observed.

“Maybe there’s a trap door,” Biff suggested.

The three got on their hands and knees, probing along the wooden floor with their fingers.

“Here’s something,” Frank said as he felt a small, countersunk hinge.

In the shaft of light coming through the door, the boys made out the thin outline of a small trap door, barely large enough to admit a broad-shouldered person. Biff pried it open with his pocketknife and lowered himself into the hole, which was about five feet deep.

He groped about, finally locating an opening into the hard-packed earth. “Hey, guys, it’s a tunnel!” Biff said.

“Can you get through?” Frank asked.

“Just about.”

“Okay, go ahead. I’ll follow you. Joe, better stay topside, just in case.”

“Okay,” Joe said.

Frank dropped down into the hole, found the opening, and proceeded to wriggle through behind Biff. Bits of dirt fell on top of the boys as they inched forward. The air grew heavy, redolent of musty soil.

Biff stopped momentarily. “Are you coming, Frank?” His muffled words sounded like a voice from a tomb.

“Yes. Go ahead. But don’t press against the roof too hard.”

While the two continued to mole their way through the dank tunnel, Joe stepped outside the cabin and listened. Except for birds twittering, no sound came from the surrounding woods.

“I wonder where they’ll finally exit,” the boy mused.

Ten minutes later Biff called back to Frank again, “I see the light up ahead.”

“Okay, Biff. I’m right behind you.”

Now the tunnel widened considerably and the boys scrambled side by side toward the end. Just before they reached it, they came upon Phil and Tony. They were tied hand and foot and gagged, and trussed up in such a way that the least movement would choke them.

Frank and Biff tore off their gags and cut the ropes. “You okay?” Frank asked anxiously.

Tony nodded, sat up, and said weakly, “They’re getting away. Outside—look!”

Frank and Biff rushed from the exit, which proved to be the mouth of a cave, and found themselves in a wide clearing. Suddenly they heard the engine of a car. Through the leafy branches of low-hanging trees they could make out a black sedan as it started along a rutted trail. Three men were in it!

Phil and Tony had followed the boys and staggered toward them.

“Were those the three guys who conked you?” Frank asked, pointing to the car.

“Only two did,” Phil said.

“Then the third man must have been a lookout at the end of the tunnel,” Frank conjectured.

“Where’s Joe?” Tony asked.

“Back at the cabin. I’ll have to give him the signal.” Frank imitated the cry of a bird.

Joe heard it faintly and repeated it. He started out across the woods, reaching the clearing a few minutes later.

“Those two had weapons,” Phil said. “They made us crawl through the tunnel, and when we neared the end, they gagged us and tied us up.”

The boys walked back through the woods to make a thorough search of the cabin.

“I guess they cleaned it out completely,” Frank said. “Joe, did you look around outside?”

“Yes, but I didn’t have time to check in the back.”

“Okay, let’s do it now,” Frank said, and led the others through the door and to the rear of the cabin.

Phil noticed something far off in the weeds. “What’s that?” he asked, running toward it. He reached into the tall grass and pulled at a dirty tarpaulin. Beneath it was a neatly packed balloon!

Within minutes, the boys had spread open the envelope. “It’s the serpent!” Joe exclaimed.

“What a find!” Tony said.

“We’ll take it to the police as evidence,” Frank decided. “It’s the balloon from which we were shot at!”

As they repacked the nylon envelope, Tony spied a piece of paper which apparently had fallen from the folds.

“Frank, Joe, look at this!”

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“A cablegram from Hong Kong!”

The boys crowded around as Tony read the message aloud: “‘Ming Do very ill. Hurry via Queen. Serpents.’ ”

“What do you suppose that means?” Phil asked.

The Hardys studied the cable carefully and Frank said, “A person named Ming Do wants someone to hurry by the way of Queen something or other.”

“And Serpents means the serpent gang,” Biff added.

“But what is Queen? Is that some kind of code word?” Joe wondered.

“The balloon won’t fit in the car,” Tony said. “I’ll drive back to town and get our pickup.”

“Good idea,” Frank said and handed him the keys.

Tony returned shortly and the boys loaded up the balloon. On the way back to Bayport, they speculated about the turn of events. The evidence they had found certainly advanced the Hardys’ case. Or perhaps, as Frank secretly thought, it had plunged them even deeper into an insoluble mystery!

When they arrived at police headquarters, Chief Collig was amazed to hear their story. He accepted the serpent balloon as evidence and looked at the cable.

“Whoever they’re talking about is going to Hong Kong soon,” he conjectured. “If only we had a way to stop him. But we don’t even know who’s involved!”

He shook his head slowly. “I have some news, too,” he continued. “Not good, I’m afraid.”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“Frank, Joe, look at this!” Tony said.

“Gerard Henry escaped from the Ocean Bluffs jail.”

“How’d he do that?” Biff asked.

Collig said that Henry had feigned illness and fooled an inexperienced guard. When his cell was opened, he had jumped the officer, disarmed him, and raced right out the front door.

“Listen,” Joe said. “Do you suppose he was that third man in the woods?”

“Might have been,” Collig said.

After they had made their report, the Hardys thanked their friends for their help. “We couldn’t have pulled this off without you,” Frank said.

“You’ll make detectives out of us yet,” Tony said as he drove them back to his house where he had left the Hardys’ car.

Frank and Joe decided to visit Krassner in his office to tell him that his tormentors had apparently fled. And perhaps the man could shed some light on the mysterious cable. On the way they dropped Phil off at his house.

Krassner occupied a suite in Bayport’s newest office building and received the boys cordially.

“We’ve got some exciting news for you,” Joe said.

The financier looked pleased, but as the story unfolded, his face clouded with fear and apprehension. When Frank mentioned the contents of the cable, Krassner paled.

“Call my wife!” he ordered his secretary. When she reported that his home phone was dead, Krassner jumped up. “The worst has happened!” he cried and ran outside.

Frank and Joe followed him, trying to find out what had upset him so.

“Later,” Krassner said. He leaped behind the wheel of his sports car and started the engine. Then he drove off.

Frank and Joe took their own car and followed. “Do you think he’s going home?” Joe asked.

“Looks that way,” Frank replied. “Funny. We never saw his wife. I didn’t think he had one.”

“Maybe he feels she’s in danger,” Joe said.

They pulled into Krassner’s driveway directly behind him and the three hurried into the house. The banker called for his wife, but she was not there.

“It’s the servants’ day off, too,” Krassner said, rushing into the library. He tried the handle to his vault. It was locked.

“Maybe the worst hasn’t happened after all,” Joe said. “That is, if you were talking about the theft of the Ruby King.”

Krassner did not reply. With trembling fingers he dialed the combination, turned the handle, and pulled open the steel door. Everyone gasped.

The Ruby King was gone!

CHAPTER XIV

The Oriental Connection

FOOTSTEPS sounded and a woman entered the library. She was slightly built, with a calm and lovely Oriental face.

“Albert! What happened?” She looked at Krassner in alarm. He stood as if in a trance in front of the yawning vault.

His mouth moved, but no words came out.

“The King has disappeared,” Joe explained. “Are you Mrs. Krassner?”

“Yes. Oh dear!” The woman stepped forward and put an arm around her husband, who finally regained enough composure to talk.

“What’ll I do?” he repeated over and over. “What’ll I do?”

Frank turned to the woman, who tried to calm her husband. “Did you just come home, Mrs. Krassner?”

“Yes. I left this morning to visit a friend.”

“Did you see anything unusual when you left?”

The woman thought for a moment, then she said, “Yes, two men. They were in a car near the entrance to our driveway.”

“Did you get a good look at them?” Joe asked.

“Their faces were turned away.”

“Weren’t you suspicious?”

“No. Not really. People often stop to admire our place.”

Frank took his brother aside and spoke to him quietly. “Those two men probably were Fong and Eggleby. And the Ruby King might be what Ming Do wants!”

“It wouldn’t surprise me!”

Mrs. Krassner summoned the Franklin Township Police, and they arrived in a few minutes to look for clues. Fingerprints were found on the safe, but they proved to be those of Krassner, who by now had gone to his bedroom in a virtual state of collapse.

After calling a doctor, Mrs. Krassner thanked the boys and ushered them to the door. Outside, they were startled to see their father drive up.

“Dad! When did you get back?” Frank asked.

“About an hour and a half ago. Mother said you had gone to see Mr. Krassner. I called his office and was told all three of you had dashed out of there in a hurry because his home phone was dead. It sounded like trouble so I came out.” Mr. Hardy pointed to the police car. “I take it the Ruby King has been stolen.”

Joe nodded. “Dad, we’ve got an awful lot to tell you.”

“I have some news, too,” Mr. Hardy said. “Let’s stop at the next diner and talk.”

Frank and Joe led the way in their car until they came to a new restaurant at a traffic circle. They pulled into the parking lot and their father followed.

Inside, they found a comfortable isolated booth, where nobody could overhear their conversation. Frank and Joe ordered hamburgers and coke, while Mr. Hardy was content with a cup of coffee.

“Wait till you hear about Mrs. Krassner!” Joe said after a waitress had taken their order.

“She’s—”

“Chinese,” Mr. Hardy said.

“How’d you know?”

“I found out in New York. Also learned a few other tidbits.”

“Come on, Dad, out with it!” Joe urged.

“For one thing, Krassner is originally from Hong Kong. One of his grandmothers was a Chinese, which makes him one fourth Oriental.”

“So that’s what gives him that odd look,” Frank said.

“His wife’s family,” Mr. Hardy went on, “is very prominent in Hong Kong circles. Her father is Moy Chen-Chin, a social big wheel and very rich.”

“So now the chop suey thickens,” Joe quipped. “What else?”

As the boys munched their hamburgers, Mr. Hardy filled them in on Krassner’s career. “As a youth, he got involved in a smuggling ring. His father-in-law got him out of that scrape and Krassner came to this country. He’s been a citizen of the United States for the past twenty years.”

“Funny,” Frank said. “I never quite trusted him.”

“He’s been straight ever since and has a fine record as an investment banker. Much of his work involves Oriental securities,” Mr. Hardy said.

“And his father-in-law is his Oriental connection,” Joe put in. “No doubt an invaluable asset.”

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “There was no sign of forced entry in this theft. Maybe Krassner returned to his crooked ways and stole the piece himself! Was it insured?”

“You caught on fast. Yes. He took out a large policy on the Ruby King several weeks ago,” Mr. Hardy said.

Joe looked dubious. “I can’t quite believe that. I have another theory.”

“What’s that?” Frank asked.

“Krassner was intimidated by Fong and Eggleby. We know that he was afraid of them. Maybe they discovered his past and threatened to expose him unless he handed over the Ruby King!”

“Could be,” Frank said. “That would be a better reason for his not wanting to go to the police. I never believed his story that he was afraid of the publicity. After all, he was the official custodian of this valuable antique. Just because someone was after it, Krassner’s reputation wouldn’t have been ruined!”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “Of course anyone buying an expensive object like that would insure it properly. I tend to agree with Joe’s reasoning.”

“Our next step is to find the King,” Frank said. “And we’d better be fast about it or Ming Do will get it.”

Mr. Hardy looked puzzled, and the boys clued him in on their adventure in the woods, the cable they had found, and Mrs. King’s information on the old chess piece.

Mr. Hardy was thoughtful for a while, then he said, “The most logical way of transporting an item like that would be by sea. Perhaps there’s a ship in the harbor named Queen!”

“Let’s go home and call the harbor master,” Frank urged, and stood up.

Mr. Hardy paid the bill and soon they were on their way. It was dark when they turned into Elm Street and they were surprised to see their security spotlights casting a dazzling glow all around the house.

“Oh, oh, something’s happened,” Joe said as Frank drove toward the garage. An alarm bell was ringing.

“Something’s definitely wrong,” Frank said.

All three jumped out of their cars and raced inside. Joe shut off the electronic alarm system, then followed his father and Frank into the living room, where Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude rose to meet them.

“Laura, what’s the matter?” Mr. Hardy asked.

“We’re a little frightened, Fenton.”

“I’m scared to death!” Aunt Gertrude said. “It’s on account of those terrible criminals.”

“Easy,” Frank said. “Just tell us from the beginning.”

“We received a package!” Aunt Gertrude pointed to a cardboard shoe box lying on the coffee table. Frank went to open it.

“Don’t touch it! You’ll get bitten!”

“By what?”

“A snake! A big venomous snake!” Gertrude Hardy cried.

Mrs. Hardy spoke up. “It’s not really big, and I don’t think it’s poisonous. But you never can tell.”

“How’d you get it?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Hardy said it was delivered to the door shortly after dark. “We jumped out of our skin when we opened it,” she concluded.

Frank set the box on the floor and took the lid off. Inside lay a small garter snake. He picked it up and it crawled over his hand and up his left arm. “I’ll take it out in the yard,” he said.

“No doubt it was a warning from the serpent gang,” Mr. Hardy said.

“Fenton, you’d better drop this case while we’re still healthy!” his sister implored him.

“If I dropped my cases because of threats, I’d soon be out of business,” Mr. Hardy said. “But let’s turn the alarm system on again, just to be on the safe side.”

“Now that the Serpents have the Ruby King, why are they still bothering us?” Frank asked.

“They know we’ll keep after them and might nail them yet,” Joe said.

Mr. Hardy put in a call to the harbor master’s office. “They’ll check and let us know,” he told his sons after he had finished.

The next morning during breakfast the phone rang. Frank took it, listened tensely for a few seconds, then hung up.

“Guess what!” he said. “There’s a Japanese ship in the harbor that’s due to sail day after tomorrow at midnight.”

“Where to?” Joe asked.

“Hong Kong. And her name’s Queen Maru!”

CHAPTER XV

Faked Out!

“THAT’S the Queen mentioned in the cablegram!” Joe exclaimed. “It has to be!”

Frank was skeptical. “I doubt that the Serpents would be that obvious about it.”

“I’m convinced,” Joe said. “I’ll bet that Fong and Eggleby are still in the area and they plan to ship the Ruby King on the Queen Maru.”

“It’s a strong possibility,” Mr. Hardy agreed. “Better drive down to the harbor and take a look at the Queen Maru.”

Before the boys left, the phone rang again. It was Conrad Greene’s father. He told Joe that his son was still on the chess exhibition tour. “He’s due to play in Bayport tomorrow night,” Mr. Greene said, “at the VFW Hall.”

“Thanks for letting us know,” Joe said. “We’d like to see the match.”

Half an hour later, Frank and Joe arrived at the dock and parked near the Queen Maru. On her deck giant booms were hoisting heavy machinery into her hold.

The Hardys climbed the gangway, asked for the captain, and were directed to a neat forward cabin. At the door they were greeted by a short, smiling, barrel-chested Japanese named Taro Ono.

“May I help you?” he asked cordially.

The boys explained they were detectives and were looking for a wooden box, roughly two-feet-two by six, containing contraband destined for Hong Kong.

“About the size of a coffin,” Captain Ono said, stroking his chin. “No. We carry only large crates of machinery, as you can see for yourself.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know my cargo well,” the captain answered, still maintaining his pleasant look.

“Well, thank you, sir,” Frank said and the boys clambered down the steel gangway to the dock.

“Now what?” Joe asked.

“The ship doesn’t leave till tomorrow night. We’ll have to keep a constant watch on it.”

Joe sighed. “Okay. Let’s get our reinforcement team for help.”

Biff, Phil, Tony, and the Hardys staked out the freighter all day and night. No suspicious box was loaded and nothing unusual happened. Tony had drawn the late-night shift, and Frank and Joe arrived in the morning to spell him. After a few encouraging words from their tired pal, they settled in a strategic spot and prepared for a long wait.

About ten o’clock an old hearse drove up next to the freighter. At the wheel was a youth not much older than the Hardys. He hopped out, opened the back of the hearse, and began pulling out a pine box.

“Joe! We might have hit pay dirt!” Frank said excitedly.

“Come on, Frank. Let’s find out and ask this character a few questions!”

Frank and Joe ran up to the youth. “You work for an undertaker?” Frank asked.

“No. What’s it to you, anyhow?”

“Where’d you get the hack?” Joe asked.

“At the junkyard. Not bad, eh? The girls really like it. Say, who are you guys?”

Frank told him. “And what’s your name?”

“Oscar.”

“If you don’t work for an undertaker, Oscar,” Joe said, “what are you doing delivering a coffin?”

“Oh, is this a coffin?” The youth eased it onto the dock.

“Don’t try to be funny,” Frank said. “We want straight answers.”

“Okay, okay. So I’m delivering a coffin,” Oscar said. “Some Oriental-looking guy asked me to bring it to this ship. And he paid me twenty-five bucks. That’s all I know. Why don’t you get off my back?”

“You can’t deliver a corpse without a license,” Joe said.

“I’m getting out of here!” Oscar slid in beside the wheel and started off as Frank jotted down his license number.

Joe sat on the pine box while Frank went to call Chief Collig. When the policeman arrived with another officer, Joe related their suspicion that the Ruby King was hidden in the wooden box.

“We can find out soon enough,” Collig said. He ordered the policeman to open the box, the lid of which was fastened by eight screws.

The officer got a screwdriver from the trunk of the squad car and went to work.

Finally he was finished. The Hardys held their breath as the top was removed. Then they let out a groan!

Inside lay a five-foot log!

Chief Collig turned the piece of wood over and examined it. “This doesn’t look like contraband, fellows,” he said.

Meanwhile, Captain Ono had noticed the police and came off his ship to investigate. When asked about the box, he denied any knowledge of the strange cargo.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked, puzzled. “I can’t load it without papers.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chief Collig said. “You’re not loading it at all. I’m taking it to headquarters.” He turned to the boys. “We’ll give it the once-over in the lab. I’ll let you know if we find any clues.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Frank said.

Then Frank and Joe discussed the ruse. “When the gang suspected that we had found the cable,” Joe said, “they must have figured we’d be watching the ship. So they went to all this trouble to keep us here, meanwhile transporting the Ruby King some other way.”

“Such as?”

“Such as by airplane!”

“We should have thought of that before!” Frank said. “Come on. Let’s call the airport!”

At home the boys took turns telephoning all the airlines using the local terminal. One after another the replies were negative. No coffins had been shipped out. No rectangular boxes, nothing to indicate that the Ruby King had been flown away.

“Here’s a strictly freight service,” Frank said, scanning the phone book. “Premier Airways.” He called the number and talked with a friendly agent. Two coffins had been transported to the West Coast the day before. Both were from local morticians and had been properly documented.

Frank pressed further. “We’re looking for a wooden figure. Very valuable. That’s why it was stolen.”

“Oh, stolen goods! We’d like to help you, but—Hold on. Could it have been hidden in a rug?”

“Sure could! Was a rug part of your cargo?”

“Yes, yesterday. A large one, wrapped in heavy brown paper. One end was torn, and now that you mention it, I saw something wooden showing through.”

“Where was the destination?” Frank’s heart thumped with excitement.

“Wait a minute, I’ll check.” The answer came shortly. “We shipped the rug non-stop to San Francisco. Final destination was Hong Kong!”

“Then it’s out of the country by now,” Frank said.

“Sure. Matter of fact, it must have arrived about a half hour ago.”

Frank thanked the clerk and hung up, shaking his head. “Boy, did we get faked out! Now what are we going to do?”

“Call Chief Collig,” Joe suggested and dialed headquarters. After he told the chief the bad news, Collig said, “This isn’t our day. I just learned that Gerard Henry was seen in town the night before last. But he slipped away before we could apprehend him.”

Frank and Joe sat in gloomy silence until Joe suggested they have some lunch. As they were eating their sandwiches, Chet walked in the back door.

“Hi, guys,” he said breezily. “What’s new with his Majesty?”

“It’s in Hong Kong,” Joe said.

Chet shook his head when he heard the story. “Tough break,” he said. Then he turned to Aunt Gertrude. “You haven’t signed my cast. Tell you what. I’ll let you autograph it in exchange for a piece of pie.”

He offered a pen to Miss Hardy. She signed her name on the white surface, which by now had been crisscrossed by other signatures. “There,” she said. “If it weren’t for that Ruby King and those cutthroats connected with it, you wouldn’t have broken your arm.”

“It’s all in the line of duty,” Chet said with a grin. “Anything for my friends.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Frank answered it. Outside stood a man who introduced himself as Peter Carpenter and presented credentials indicating that he was from the security section of the International Insurance Company.

“I’d like to speak to Fenton Hardy,” he said.

“He’s not here at the moment,” Frank told him. “But won’t you come in? Maybe my brother Joe and I can help you. I’m Frank Hardy.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Carpenter said. “Yes, I’ll talk to you.”

Frank led the visitor into the living room where Mrs. Hardy, Aunt Gertrude, and Joe joined them. Chet lingered in the kitchen over a slab of peach pie with an ear cocked to the living room.

“We would like either your father or you to accept an assignment for us,” the man began.

“Sorry, but we’re busy on something else. So is our father,” Frank said.

“You mean the Ruby King?”

“How did you know?”

“That’s the case I’m referring to. It was insured with us.” Carpenter produced a file and went on, “My company stands to pay a sizable settlement unless the chess piece is found. We want you to find it!”

“Mr. Krassner asked us to do the same thing,” Joe said. “Unfortunately we have reason to believe that the Ruby King has been shipped out of the country. It might be in Hong Kong.”

“Then you must fly to Hong Kong immediately!”

CHAPTER XVI

A Bold Caper

“YOUR father could join you once your preliminary investigation is underway,” Mr. Carpenter continued. “Your age also is in your favor. You can pose as students or tourists.”

Frank and Joe were dumfounded! They tried to take the proposal calmly, but their hearts raced with excitement at the prospect of a trip to the Orient.

“We’ll talk it over with Dad,” Frank said. “How can we get in touch with you, Mr. Carpenter?”

“I’ll be in my office until tomorrow afternoon, and I do hope you’ll accept the assignment. All expenses paid and a fee based upon a percentage of the money you save us.”

Seconds after the man left, Chet burst into the living room. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Did I hear that man say something about going to Hong Kong?”

“You did,” Aunt Gertrude said. “And the answer is no!”

“Now, Gertrude,” Mrs. Hardy said, “it might not be such a bad idea.”

“Bad! It’ll be a calamity! We’ll never see these boys again. They might be kidnapped and taken to an opium den!”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Chet spoke up. “With me to help them they’ll be perfectly safel”

“Chet, you’ve got a broken arm,” Joe said. “You couldn’t help.”

“What do you mean? I can really conk someone with this cast!”

“Look, old buddy,” Frank said, and put an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “The insurance company will only pay for our expenses, not yours.”

“I’ve got a couple of dollars,” Chet said. “And besides, I like Chinese food!”

“No!” Joe said.

“Aw, shucks!” Chet tried to smile as he left the Hardy house. “Will you bring me a souvenir at least? Like a carved dagger?”

“Too dangerous,” Frank replied. “How about an incense burner?”

“Phooey!” Chet said, and a minute later his car sputtered off.

Frank and Joe contacted the airport. There were no flights available until two days later, and that plane would leave early in the morning.

“I’m sure Dad’ll go along with the idea,” Joe said. “Let’s get passports and our inoculation shots right away.”

“Good. Then we’ll visit Mrs. Krassner. Maybe she’ll give us a letter of introduction to her family.”

Tingling with excitement, Frank and Joe drove first to the doctor for the necessary shots, then to the banker’s estate where Mrs. Krassner received them cordially. Her husband was at his office. When she heard that they planned to go to Hong Kong, the Chinese woman’s eyebrows raised. “You don’t think it would be too dangerous?”

“We’ve handled risky assignments before,” Frank assured her. “Could we meet your family, Mrs. Krassner?”

“I’m sure they’d be delighted to help you in any way. Are you certain the Ruby King was taken there?”

“Reasonably certain,” Frank said.

Mrs. Krassner went into the library, where she penned a note in Chinese. “Give this to my father, Moy Chen-Chin,” she said.

“Any directions?” Joe asked.

Mrs. Krassner smiled. “Everybody knows Moy Chen-Chin.”

On the way home the young detectives exulted over this rare opportunity. “Should we tell Conrad Greene about this tonight?” Joe asked.

“Sure. Why not? After the exhibition,” Frank said.

At dinner that night Mrs. Hardy said, “Boys, where are your appetites? You’re just picking at your food.”

“I guess we’re too excited,” Frank said. “Hurry up, Joe. The chess exhibition starts soon.”

The VFW hall, a barnlike auditorium, with wooden folding chairs, was half-filled when the Hardys arrived. On the stage was a long table, where six of Conrad Greene’s opponents were already seated.

“Conrad will probably come through the back door,” Joe said. “He’s not one to rub elbows with the peasantry.”

The boys looked about, nodding here and there to friends and neighbors. Suddenly a scuffling sounded from backstage.

“Help! Help!” a man screamed.

“That’s Conrad!” Frank cried out.

The Hardys ran forward and vaulted onto the stage. There was a door on either side. Joe took the left, Frank the right. The room behind was empty! They raced out the back door and looked around. Nobody was there but a boy of about ten.

“I saw him!” the boy volunteered. “I saw everything!”

“Tell us what happened. Hurry!” Joe urged.

The youngster said he was parking his bicycle when he noticed a man enter the building.

“Then two guys jumped from a car and pounced on him. I saw it right through the door there. The man screamed and kicked, but the two bad guys dragged him to the car.”

“Where’d they go?” Frank asked.

The boy indicated a side street, which led to the dock area.

Frank and Joe thanked the boy and hurried to a nearby telephone booth, where they called police headquarters. Collig was off duty, but a lieutenant took the report that Conrad Greene had been kidnapped. He said he would dispatch a car to the VFW Hall to check out the incident.

After he hung up, Joe said, “Frank, maybe they took Greene to the Queen Maru! I still think Ono’s in with the serpent gang!”

“The ship’s not due to sail until midnight,” Frank said. “We’ll have a little time. Let’s go down to the dock.”

They were just pulling up to the pier when Frank cried out, “Hey! Look!”

The Queen Maru was moving slowly away from her berth!

“She’s leaving ahead of time,” Joe said. “Come on, Frank. We’ve got to stop them!”

The boys called headquarters again. Chief Collig had been notified and was there busily organizing a search for the kidnapped man.

“We think he’s on the Queen Maru!” Frank said. “She’s sailing ahead of schedule.”

“Good work, boys,” the chief said. “I’ll send the police launch to intercept them.”

“We’ll go in the Sleuth,” Frank said. “Meet you out in the bay!”

The Hardys’ sleek speedboat was berthed three blocks away. The boys ran to the boathouse and in minutes were streaking across Barmet Bay, their powerful searchlight skimming over the wave tops.

In a few minutes the gray hulk of the Queen Maru loomed on the dark horizon. Joe was at the wheel of the Sleuth and circled the slow-moving cargo ship.

“There’s not a soul on deck,” Frank remarked.

He looked back toward the harbor. The Queen, despite her lumbering pace, was putting more and more distance between Bayport and the open sea. Near the three-mile limit, the boys spied a light racing toward them from a distance.

“Here comes the launch,” Frank said.

The police boat approached with signal lights blinking. The message was easily translated by the Hardys. “Police. Stop immediately!”

Seconds later the lights blinked again. “Lower a ladder. We are boarding.”

The launch pulled alongside the freighter. Three officers scrambled up to the deck. Frank and Joe latched the Sleuth onto the launch and climbed up behind them.

The party was met by Captain Ono, his face wreathed in a broad smile.

“What can I do for you now?” he asked, fixing the Hardys with a long look.

“There’s been a kidnapping,” Chief Collig said. “We think the victim may be on your ship.”

Ono bowed. “Go ahead and search. I have neither a box nor a prisoner.”

The police began a careful search of the holds, galley, crews’ quarters, and the captain’s cabin as well. Meanwhile, Frank and Joe sauntered over the deck.

“Let’s check the lifeboats,” Frank suggested.

They looked beneath the canvas cover of each one, but could see nothing suspicious. Just as the police emerged from the holds, they approached the last lifeboat.

At one end of it, the sea breeze fluttered a piece of the covering which had come loose.

“Watch it, Joe,” Frank warned. “It might not have been the wind that tore off the canvas!” He signaled Chief Collig. “Over here!” he called.

The officers ran to the lifeboat. One flashed his light under the canvas, then barked a crisp order. “Come out with your hands up!”

The cowering figure of a man emerged above the gunwale.

“Holy crow!” Joe exclaimed. “It’s Gerard Henry!”

CHAPTER XVII

The Chinese Note

THE prisoner looked surly as the police pulled him to the deck and snapped on handcuffs. Captain Ono, who came running up, was flabbergasted.

“Is—is this your kidnapped man?” he asked.

“No,” Collig replied. “But he’s an escaped felon.”

“How did you get on my ship?” Ono asked Henry sternly.

The man confessed that he had climbed a rope and reached the deck shortly before the Queen sailed. Collig turned to Ono. “Why did you leave ahead of schedule?”

“All was in readiness. So why wait?”

“Did you notify the harbor master?”

“Of course. We adhere to proper procedure.”

The prisoner was led down to the police launch and Ono was told he could proceed. Frank and Joe hopped into the Sleuth and headed home.

When they arrived they received a phone call from their father. Frank answered it. He told about their proposed trip to Hong Kong and asked, “Is it okay with you, Dad?”

“Sure. I’ll follow you as soon as I can. Right now I’m going to Dallas. Seems a branch of the tailoring-jewelry racket has sprung up there.”

The next morning at breakfast there was a knock on the back door and Phil Cohen entered.

“Hi, Phil,” Frank said. “What brings you over here so early?”

Phil looked serious. “I noticed something funny and wanted to talk to you. It’s about Chet.”

“What about him?”

“He went into Paul Goo’s Chinese Laundry yesterday afternoon.”

“Nothing funny about that,” Joe said. “Maybe he took his shirts.”

“You know his mother does all his laundry. He took nothing and picked nothing up. Before he went in he glanced up and down the street as if he wanted to make sure no one saw him. It looked suspicious to me.”

“Hml” Frank said thoughtfully. “Why would he do that?”

“That’s just it. It’s not like Chet,” Phil said. “Maybe he got mixed up in your Chinese mystery somehow, being that he spends so much time with Krassner—”

“I’ll get to the bottom of this right now,” Frank broke in. He picked up the telephone and dialed the Morton farm. Chet answered.

“Hey, old buddy,” Frank said, “what were you doing in Paul Goo’s laundry yesterday?”

There was silence on the other end. Then Chet said, “Who told you?”

“A little Chinese bird. What were you doing there?”

“Nothing much. Just got some lechee nuts.”

“Tell me the truth, Chet!”

“I am. Is it against the law to visit a Chinese laundry?” Chet would say nothing more.

When he hung up, Frank felt uneasy. “Let’s check out the laundry,” he suggested.

“Right,” Joe agreed. “But first we’d better stop at headquarters. Maybe there’s some news on Conrad.”

“See you later,” Phil said. “Let me know what develops.” He left through the back door when giggling voices of girls could be heard in the front. After a brief knock, Joe opened the door and Callie Shaw and Iola Morton breezed in.

Frank grinned at Callie, a pretty blond girl with brown eyes, whom he often dated. “Hi. What’s up?”

“We’re selling tickets to a benefit.”

“When, where, why?”

“Tonight in our barn,” Iola said. “Eight o’clock sharp.”

“But for whose benefit?” Joe inquired.

“That’s our secret. You’re coming, of course.” Iola reached into her pocket and pulled out two tickets. She handed them to Joe. “You can pay us later,” she said.

Just then Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude came in and greeted the girls. As they chatted, the boys drove off to headquarters. There they learned two pertinent facts. Nothing had been heard from Conrad Greene, and they were told that Paul Goo, the Chinese laundry owner, had an impeccable reputation.

“He’s been in this country a long time,” Chief Collig said. “A friendly old duck. Likes kids.”

Frank and Joe thanked the officer, then drove to Mully Street. It was the main thoroughfare of Bayport’s Little Chinatown. They passed two restaurants, a Chinese grocery, and a gift shop before coming to Paul Goo’s place. They parked and went in. A tinkling bell announced their presence. The interior of the shop smelled of soap, starch, and steam.

Behind an ironing board stood Paul Goo, a spare, elderly man, whose eyes were shuttered in deep fleshy folds. “Hello,” he said with a smile. “You have some shirts?”

“Not today,” Frank said. “We want to ask your prices.”

“Oh yes. Very reasonable here.” Goo handed the boy a small printed paper listing his services.

“Thank you,” Frank said. “Do you have lechee nuts?”

The elderly man blinked. “Sure. For my friends.” He put a hand beneath the counter, produced two of the thin-shelled nuts so popular with Orientals, and handed one to each boy.

“Thank you,” Joe said. “You are very kind.”

They turned to go, but Frank hesitated a moment. “Are you from Hong Kong, Mr. Goo?”

The laundryman smiled broadly. “Yes. How you guess? Most people in Little Chinatown are from Hong Kong.”

Outside, the boys cracked the nuts. “Not bad,” Joe said. “What do you think of Goo, Frank?”

“He seems all right. But you never can tell. Let’s put a tail on good old Chet and find out what’s going on.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “Phil Cohen would be a good man for the job!”

The Hardys stopped at Phil’s home. The sound of piano playing drifted across the front lawn and the boys found their friend busily composing a song.

“Sorry to disturb your symphony,” Joe said, “but do you have time for a surveillance job?”

“I think so. What is it?”

“Follow Chet. See if he goes to that Chinese laundry again. He may be headed for trouble.”

“Will do,” Phil agreed. “I’ll phone Iola. She can tell me when Chet’s coming into town again.”

“Thanks, pal,” Frank said.

As Frank and Joe drove off, they heard Phil picking on the piano keys again. An hour later he called them at home.

“I spoke to Iola, and guess what? Chet’s on his way to town!” he reported. “I’m going to Mully Street right away.”

“Good. Keep out of sight and let us know what’s happening.”

While the Hardys ate lunch, Phil hurried off to Mully Street. He stationed himself in a doorway where he had Paul Goo’s shop in a clear line of sight. And he did not have to wait long.

Down the street strolled Chet, his lips moving as if he were mumbling to himself.

“The poor guy’s gone bananas,” Phil thought. He left his hiding place and quietly fell in behind Chet, who seemed oblivious to the whole world.

When he stepped into the laundry, Phil flattened himself against the building and listened. He could not make out any words, but Chet and Goo conversed for about ten minutes in low tones. Then another customer entered. The mumbling ceased and Chet came out, a piece of paper in his hand.

His eyes were so intent upon it that he bumped squarely into Phil. “Oh, hello there,” he said.

“Getting more nuts?” Phil asked.

Chet was not the least shaken by the point-blank query. “No. Not today. Well, I have to go now.”

Phil watched Chet walk away. Suddenly he noticed the piece of paper fall to the ground. Unaware of it, Chet got into his jalopy and drove off.

Phil ran to the spot and picked it up. His eyes widened in surprise. “Wait till the Hardys see this!” he said to himself. Minutes later he drove up to their home.

“Hey, Frank, Joe!” he called out as he rushed to the door.

“What’s the matter?” Frank let him in. “You’re all out of breath.”

“Look at this!” Phil handed him the paper.

On it were lines of Chinese characters, delicately brush-stroked. Alongside each were phonetic pronunciations written in English.

Joe said, “Maybe Chet’s some kind of go-between. It could be a message!”

“And he might have to deliver it orally, hence the mumbling,” Phil remarked, and relayed the information he had gleaned on his surveillance.

“We’ll have to take this to an Oriental language expert,” Frank said.

“You do that,” Phil said. “I’ll get back to my song.”

He left, and while Frank and Joe were studying the mysterious paper, the telephone rang. Joe answered. It was Conrad Greene’s father.

Phil flattened himself against the building and listened.

“I have some information for you,” he said in a quavering voice.

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone. Come over here as soon as you can!”

“What a day,” Joe said to Frank with a sigh. “Mr. Greene wants to see us pronto. Do you suppose he received a ransom demand?”

“We’ll find out soon. Come on.”

The boys went to their car after quickly telling their mother where they were headed. Forty-five minutes later they parked in front of the house on the cliff. They hastened to the door and were flabbergasted when it was opened by the grandmaster himself!

“Conrad Greene!” Frank exclaimed. “How did you get loose? Where were you held? Who kidnapped you?”

“Come in and I’ll answer your questions one at a time,” Greene said with a grin.

In the living room his story unfolded. He had not seen his captors, because a hood had been clapped over his head. Where he was held was a mystery, too, but the why was perfectly clear.

“My captors warned me not to win the international championship!” he said. “They didn’t hurt me, but guaranteed that I would be if I made an attempt to win. They drove me back just a little while ago.”

“Have you notified the police?” Frank asked.

“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.”

Frank grabbed the phone and spoke to Chief Collig. Then he said, “Come on, Joe. We’ll disconnect that phone tap. I don’t think the gang is being fooled by it any longer, if they ever were.”

The job was quickly accomplished, and as Joe climbed down from the pole, a police car drove up. It was Lieutenant Skillman from the Ocean Bluffs force.

“Chief Collig notified me,” he said. “He also got in touch with the FBI. I’m sure they’ll have a lot of questions for Mr. Greene.”

The boys left as Conrad beckoned Skillman into the house. On the way home, Frank said, “I think this whole caper was done to unnerve Conrad.”

“No doubt,” Joe agreed.

They mulled over the latest developments. The serpent gang had carried off the Ruby King, and it seemed logical that they also had been the ones who had kidnapped Greene. But why did they want him to lose the championship, now that he could not receive the valuable prize, anyway?

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Frank said.

“Well, what do we do next?” Joe asked.

Frank looked at his watch. “It’s too late to have that Chinese note deciphered now. We’ll just be in time for dinner. And the party starts at eight.”

When the Hardys reached the Morton farm, the barn behind the house was vibrating with music. Frank and Joe entered to find the place festooned with colorful crepe paper and balloons. They recognized many of their friends from high school and the Bayport area. Couples were dancing to the rhythmic tunes produced by a three-piece combo.

“Wow, what a blast!” Joe said.

When Callie and Iola noticed the boys, they came over, took them by the hand, and led them to a long table. On it stood a punch bowl and a variety of sandwiches.

“Now tell us what this is all about, Iola,” Joe urged. “You said the party was for a benefit?”

“Right. Yours, to be exact.”

“Wait a minute. What—?”

Iola interrupted him by putting a hand on his arm. At the same time she tapped a spoon on the punch bowl and called out, “Silence, please!”

Everyone became quiet.

“As you all know,” Iola began, “our two private eyes are going to Hong Kong on a most dangerous mission. We, their friends, felt they needed a bodyguard—a big one. We are holding this party to raise extra money for that bodyguard.”

The Hardys were dumfounded. “Who is he?” Joe finally asked.

“Who else?” Chet declared, a grin on his face.

Everyone cheered.

“We should have guessed,” Joe said. “He is the biggest one of our friends—or rather the fattest!”

“But size alone is not enough,” Chet said. “I have made myself indispensable in other ways!”

“Such as?” Frank had a hard time keeping a straight face.

“I learned Chinese! Listen: Ho-La-Ma, Mmm Goy, Ngor But Duck Lew Ah-h-h, Gau Miang Ah-h-h, Mau Sot Ah-h-h-h!”

“Those were the words on the paper!” Frank said.

Chet’s lips curled in a supercilious smile. “Of course. My gag worked. I dropped it on purpose.”

Frank and Joe slapped Chet on the back. “Now tell us what all that means!” Joe asked.

Chet took a deep breath. “Hello—please, I’m in trouble—help—murder!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Kim-Kim

AT a signal from Phil Cohen, the combo broke out in a catchy tune. Everyone started to sing:

Frank, Joe, and Chet, farewell to thee,

Sock ‘em, rock ’em

Till the Ruby King is free.

Hello, Hong Kong,

You can’t hide Fong

or the slippery Eggleby.

Joe laughed at the serenade, and Frank recognized the tune Phil had been composing on his piano. Then came a rousing refrain:

For the Hardys will get you

Sooner or later,

So surrender right now while you can.

They’ll give you fits

With their uncanny wits.

They always come up with their man!

The merrymaking still rang in the minds of Frank, Joe, and sleepy-eyed Chet when they set off from Bayport at six o’clock the next morning. After the first two transfers the flight became monotonous and the boys were weary by the time the big plane landed in heavy rain at Kai Tak Airport the following evening. They retrieved their baggage, then went through customs.

“Before we leave the airport,” Frank said, “let’s check on the rug.”

They made their way to the freight terminal and inquired about the shipment. The clerk told them he did not know the name of the man who had picked up the rug but would check it out and call them at the hotel.

“Thank you,” Frank said and they left. Outside the terminal they hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of their hotel, the Star Termi nal, in Kowloon.

As they approached the city, Chet said, “Wow, this is a big place!”

“What did you expect?” Frank needled. “A dreamy little fishing village? Take a look across the bay!”

Part way up the Hong Kong hill, white high-rise apartments rose like sentinels, looking down on modern glass-and-steel office buildings in the harbor area.

Finally they arrived at their destination. “Boy, I’m beat,” Chet complained.

“We’ll hit the sack as soon as we get upstairs,” Joe said.

They checked in and half an hour later were sound asleep.

The next morning they woke up refreshed and excited by prospects of adventure in the Orient. Joe pulled open the curtains. “Hey, take in that view!” he said, pointing to ferryboats plying their way back and forth in the harbor among the many junks, sampans, and small fishing boats.

“Give me breakfast before any view,” Chet said.

“Not a bad idea,” Frank agreed. “After we eat we’ll go to visit Mrs. Krassner’s parents. I’ll call them right now and tell them we’re coming.”

An hour later the boys hastened down to the ferry slip to await the next boat to Hong Kong. They joined the good-natured, jostling crowd that elbowed onto the craft like a colony of ants.

Frank, Joe, and Chet sat on the upper deck and watched as the teeming shore of Hong Kong came closer and closer. The ferry glided smoothly into its slip and the three debarked.

Frank hailed a taxi and told the Chinese driver to take them to Moy Chen-Chin’s house.

“Ah, so.” The man nodded and smiled, obviously impressed with the importance of his riders.

The higher the road snaked up the hill, the more luxurious the homes became. Finally they reached the estate of Moy Chen-Chin and were amazed by its opulence.

Formal gardens bordered both sides of the drive and gave the grounds the appearance of a royal park. Men were trimming, pruning, and tending the flower beds.

The taxi stopped in front of a beautiful house with a wide terrace. An elderly couple came out to meet them and introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Moy.

As they led the boys to the veranda, Chet whispered to Frank, “I thought their name was Chin.”

“In Chinese the last name always comes first,” Frank replied.

As soon as tea was served, the Moys plied the boys with questions about their daughter Mrs. Krassner and her husband.

After the Americans had told them all about Bayport and their life at home, Mr. Moy said seriously, “We know you have come for the Ruby King. Will you take some advice from a wise old man?”

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“Drop your case. It will bring you only misery, even death!”

The awkward silence that followed was broken by Chet, who said “Daw Jer” which meant “Thank you.”

Mrs. Moy smiled. “Oh, you speak our language. Where did you learn it?”

“At Paul Goo’s laundry,” Chet said and told his story, which the Chinese couple found very amusing.

“You must see all the sights,” Mr. Moy said. “Spend a week or two and have a good vacation. Then return home.”

“We’ll tour the area to get our bearings,” Frank said. “But really, Mr. Moy, we can’t take your advice. We have an obligation to Mr. Krassner and the insurance company which is paying for our trip.”

Mr. Moy shrugged slightly. Then he said, “Our chauffeur Daniel will take you on a tour. Shall I send him to the hotel tomorrow, say, at ten o’clock?”

“That would be great!” Joe said.

A few minutes later the boys thanked the cordial couple and went back to their hotel. On the way Frank said, “I wonder why Mr. Moy made that remark about the Ruby King. He sounds like Conrad Greene’s father!”

“He must know about the curse, too,” Joe said.

At the hotel they found a message from the airport. The name of the man who had picked up the rug was Choy Bok. But there was no address.

“Let’s look in the telephone book,” Joe suggested.

After thumbing through the directory he was perplexed. “Six people are listed under that name,” he said.

“We’d better check out each one,” Frank said.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Joe countered. “We may tip off the real Choy Bok in the process.”

“I’m aware of that,” his brother replied. “But we have to start somewhere. If any of these men react to the password Shah mat, at least it will give us a lead.”

The boys left the hotel again, hired a taxi, and were on their way. The first two Choy Boks lived in the poorest section of town, and neither spoke English. The driver acted as an interpreter while Frank talked to the men. They looked blank when he mentioned the password, and the Hardys were convinced that they were not involved with the serpent gang.

The young detectives were no luckier with the next three, who were also poor, elderly men. The last Choy Bok lived in a high-rise apartment, seemed reasonably well-to-do, and spoke good English.

He greeted the boys affably, and when Frank mentioned the password, he said, “Oh, you play chess?”

Frank nodded. “We have a chess club in Bayport, where we come from. One of the members is Chinese. Told us to visit his friend Choy Bok in Hong Kong.”

“Oh? What’s your friend’s name?”

“Fong,” Frank said. He watched the man intently.

Choy Bok raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think I know him.”

“Well, he forgot to give us the address. We looked in the phone book, but must have made a mistake.”

“I think you did. But have a cup of tea, anyway.”

Mr. Choy called his wife and the friendly couple served them a snack. They talked amiably to the Americans for quite some time, then Frank rose. The boys thanked the Choys and left.

Tired and discouraged from the long day’s sleuthing, they returned to their hotel.

As they trudged up to their room, Joe said, “I’m afraid the whole thing was for the birds. I’m sure none of the men we talked to is a member of the Serpents.”

Frank nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. Whoever comes up with a good idea on what to do next gets a prize.”

“Let’s have dinner and call it a day,” Chet said. “And I’ll take the prize.”

“That kind of idea doesn’t qualify,” Frank said. “But we’ll follow your advice.”

The next morning at ten o’clock sharp Mr. Moy’s chauffeur arrived. “I’ll take you through town and out to Aberdeen,” he said. “Then if we have time, to the New Territories, which overlook the Peoples’ Republic of China.”

For many miles the road led along a barren shoreline. Then they came to a bay with hundreds of sampans lying side by side.

“Do people live on the water like this?” Chet asked.

Daniel, the driver, nodded. “This is Aberdeen. The government is trying to get the sampan dwellers to move into new developments, but their way of life is hard to change.” He stopped for a few minutes while the boys took photographs with a palm-size camera Frank and Joe had brought along.

As they clicked away, a small boy climbed up a steep embankment to the road. “Me Kim-Kim. I help you,” he said.

“I don’t think we need you,” Frank replied, but the ten-year-old was not to be deterred.

He attached himself to Chet. “I help you!” he said. “You big man. I carry your camera.”

Kim-Kim wore tattered shorts and a discarded army jacket, its long sleeves hanging down over his hands. As the Americans returned to the car, he slipped in beside Chet before anyone could stop him.

“Out!” Daniel commanded.

But Kim-Kim refused. He kicked and struggled, and clung to Chet’s neck.

“Okay,” Frank said. “We’ll take him back with us, give him a square meal, and turn him over to the police.”

The little fellow grinned. “I bring you good luck!” he promised.

After Daniel had been driving a while, Frank noticed a semicircular wall built into a hillside. He asked about it.

“It’s an armchair grave,” Daniel replied. He explained that the deceased were buried in such graves for one year. Then their bones were disinterred and placed in earthen jars. He pointed. “There’s one now.”

In a farm field stood a mud-colored container about three feet high.

“It looks like my mother’s cookie jar,” Chet commented.

“A little gruesome, isn’t it?” Joe said.

Then suddenly the monsoon rains hit. Water came down in torrents and the road ahead of them turned into a river.

“This could be dangerous,” Daniel said, and turned the car around.

Traffic moved along slowly. As they edged past the hillside, a wall of mud slid down, nearly blocking the road. But Daniel drove skillfully over the sheet of yellow slime, finally guiding the car safely back to Kowloon.

“So that’s a monsoon!” Chet said as they entered the hotel.

“Well, Kim-Kim, you got us through that,” Joe said, opening the door to their room. “And now into the shower with you!”

By dinnertime Kim-Kim, who said he was an orphan, had convinced the boys to let him stay with them as an interpreter as long as they were in Hong Kong. After breakfast the next day, while Chet bought him some new clothes, Frank read about the storm in the morning English newspaper.

“Hey, look at this!” he said suddenly. “Ming Do’s obituary!”

The world-famous collector of chess pieces had died two days before. The funeral was to take place the next afternoon. The article said that Ming Do was the oldest member of the Royal Chess Club of Hong Kong.

“Ming Do!” Joe exclaimed. “That cable we found mentioned that a man by that name was very ill!”

“Right. He must have been the customer who wanted the Ruby King!” Frank said.

They told Chet the news when he returned. “Wow!” he said. “Who’s going to buy it now?”

Frank shrugged. “Maybe we can learn something at the Royal Chess Club.”

They discussed strategy. Chet and Kim-Kim would stay outside the club, which was located not far from their hotel. The Hardys would go in and investigate.

Frank and Joe entered the plush interior thirty minutes later and looked about. A chill of recognition ran down Joe’s spine. He nudged his brother.

Sitting at a table at the far end corner was Fong, playing chess with another man!

The Hardys approached as close as they could without being seen. Then they slipped behind a heavy drapery to eavesdrop.

The men talked in low tones, and the name Ruby King could be heard now and then.

“Who do you suppose that other guy is?” Joe asked.

Suddenly the Hardys became aware of a commotion. They peered from their hiding place to see Kim-Kim running into the club with Chet chasing him!

“Frank, Joe!” Kim-Kim cried out.

“Good grief,” Frank said. “Now we’re in trouble!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Payoff

“COME here, Kim-Kim! Wait!” Chet called as surprised club members looked askance at the intruders.

But the small Chinese boy did not stop. His sharp eyes searched the room until they alighted upon the feet of Frank and Joe showing beneath the drapery. He revealed their hiding place, took both by the hand, and pulled the embarrassed Hardys out into the room.

“What are you doing?” Joe muttered.

“No time to lose!” Kim-Kim said. “Big danger!”

His eyes glinting with anger, Fong rose from his chessboard and confronted the eavesdroppers. He beckoned two attendants and spat out some Chinese, whereupon the men grasped the boys by the arms.

“So! The detective babies have left the Bayport playpen. How quaint! What do you want here?”

“You know!” Joe shot back. “You and your crooked Serpents!”

Fong laughed derisively and the men standing about smiled at the discomfiture of the young Americans. “Play your children’s games somewhere else,” Fong went on. “But I warn you both —and your fat friend, too—you are not in the United States now. Go home before it’s too late!”

He spoke more Chinese to the attendants, who promptly hustled the boys and Kim-Kim out into the street. When the bouncers had disappeared, Frank said, “Chet, for heaven’s sake, why did you let Kim-Kim blow our cover?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Chet apologized. “He heard something you should know about, and before I could tell him to wait, he ran in there.”

“What is it?”

Kim-Kim turned his head slowly and said in a whisper, “Those two men across the street—in front of store window—no look now—they going to kill you. Say so in Chinese!”

“Okay, Kim-Kim, don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it,” Joe said, trying to calm the excited child.

The Hardys engaged in casual chatter while Frank took out the tiny camera and unobtrusively snapped a few pictures of the men. Then they walked toward the hotel and stopped at a camera shop to drop off the film. Prints were promised that evening.

“We might never see them,” Chet said pessimistically. “I’ll bet someone followed us.”

“Those two guys didn’t, I made sure of that,” Joe replied. “Anyway, it might help to learn who they are. If they’re really out to get us, maybe the police could arrest them.”

Back at the hotel, Chet and Kim-Kim remained in the lobby coffee shop while the Hardys took the elevator to their room. Joe turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.

There sat Fong, smiling like a welcome guest, his feet resting on a coffee table! “Surprise!” he said.

“How did you get in?” Joe demanded angrily.

“Calm down,” Fong said, and beckoned the Hardys to be seated. “How I got in is simple enough. Kowloon is my turf, as you say in the States.”

“What do you want?” Frank asked. “You’ve got the Ruby King!”

“Money. I want money,” Fong replied. “You can get it for me and save your necks at the same time. Sound interesting?”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

Fong removed his feet and leaned forward intently, gesturing with his long, slender hands. “I will sell the Ruby King to the insurance company you represent,” Fong said, “at a depressed figure —say twenty-five thousand dollars. The claim will cost them much more than that.”

Frank’s mind whirled. Of course the serpent gang must have deduced that their trip to Hong Kong was paid by the insurance company who had to pay for the loss of the King. What a cunning plan!

“And what if they don’t accept this offer?”

“They will,” Fong said. “It’s smart business. Phone me at the chess club when you get a reply from your employer.” He rose, went to the door, and turned around. This time his face had a sinister expression.

“By the way, no police involvement, or Mrs. Krassner’s family will be in big trouble!”

A sudden thought flashed through Frank’s mind. “Is that how you got her to leave her husband’s safe open?”

The question seemed to jolt Fong but only for a split second. “Let’s say Mrs. Krassner could be persuaded,” he said unctuously. “She knows the power of the Serpents. You should follow her example.”

When Fong had left, the boys discussed the strange offer and Mrs. Krassner’s part in the disappearance of the chess piece.

“I feel sorry for her,” Joe said.

Just then running footsteps sounded in the hall and Chet flung open the door with a bang. Kim-Kim stood, wild-eyed, beside him.

“F-Fong!” Chet said. “He just came off the elevator. I thought maybe he—”

“Had murdered us?” Joe said.

“Yes. I’m sure glad to see you alive.”

Joe told Chet what had happened, while Frank composed a message to the insurance company. Then they went downstairs to the desk and sent the cable.

For the balance of the day and through the dinner hour, the Hardys speculated on the outcome of Fong’s proposal. Whatever the decision of the insurance company, the boys faced considerable risk.

If the answer was “no deal,” their lives certainly would be in jeopardy. Even if the money were sent, there was no telling whether the Serpents would carry out their end of the bargain.

As Chet put it, “Fong might take the twenty-five thousand dollars and keep the Ruby King too. Then what would you do?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” Joe said, “because we probably wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale.”

Leaving Chet and his Oriental shadow to linger over dessert, Frank and Joe stepped out into the muggy night air and made sure they were not being followed as they walked to the photography shop. The prints were waiting and the Hardys examined them.

“Good clear shots,” Joe said. “What next?”

“Let’s take them to the police,” Frank said. “Maybe we can find out who our charming friends are.”

At headquarters the captain in charge, a tall, thin fellow named Hawkins, identified the two men instantly. “They’re hit men for the serpent mob,” he said.

“A friend of ours heard them say they’ll kill us,” Frank said.

“Then my advice is to be very careful. Unfortunately this is not enough to press charges and to arrest them. We’ve been trying to crack that ring for a long time, but without success.”

In their hotel again, the three boys and Kim-Kim studied the inscrutable faces of the hit men. “I’ve a hunch we’ll see them again,” Joe said.

They were all at breakfast the next morning when a cablegram was delivered for the Hardys by a bellhop. Frank took the envelope and opened it. “From International Insurance,” he said. “They accepted the offer!” The message said twenty-five thousand dollars had already been deposited in a Hong Kong bank.

The Hardys were to take it out in cash and buy the Ruby King back. The cable ended, “As much as we dislike this arrangement, it seems feasible at this time. Please be extremely cautious.”

The boys hastily finished their meal and telephoned the chess club. Fong was not there and they left a message for him to return the call.

Only ten minutes elapsed before he telephoned.

“Fong speaking. What’s the deal?”

“Affirmative,” Frank said.

“Ah, good. It will be a cash transaction.”

“Of course.”

“And no police!”

“They haven’t been told,” Frank said.

“Then here’s how we’ll do it,” Fong said. “Got a pencil and paper?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

Fong spoke slowly while Frank took notes. After the Hardys obtained the cash they were to take a taxi out past Aberdeen and into the countryside. “That Chinese kid with you will show you the way,” the man said.

He then mentioned a small settlement of sampans. One mile to the north, on the right-hand side of the road, they would see a bone jar one hundred and fifty yards from a farmer’s shack made of corrugated sheet metal.

“You understand what a bone jar is?” Fong asked.

“Yes. I’ve seen one.”

“Put the cash in it. It’s empty.”

“What about the Ruby King?” Frank asked.

“A note in the jar will tell you where to find it.”

The time was set for twelve-thirty that afternoon, and before Fong hung up, he warned that any double cross would be fatal.

The young detectives were keyed up with almost unbearable excitement. They hastened to the bank, where the manager frowned in disbelief as he counted out the amount in large bills and tied the money in a small package. Joe put it inside his shirt and they returned to the hotel.

“Whew!” Frank said, rubbing the sweat from the palms of his hands. “So far so good.”

Carefully following Fong’s directions, the four set off by taxi toward the rendezvous. Kim-Kim looked wistfully at the city of junks and sampans as they passed by Aberdeen. All watched for the hut and the bone jar.

“There it is,” Chet finally said, pointing to the side of the road.

“Looks like it all right,” Frank agreed. “Stop here, driver.”

They got out and walked toward the dun-colored jar. Two farmers, sharpening sickles, watched from the side of the tin shack. Nearing the jar, Chet tripped over a bundle of bamboo poles lying in the tall grass.

“Careful. Don’t break your other arm,” Joe said.

All this time Kim-Kim kept his eyes on the two men. “They no look happy,” he said.

“They probably work for the Serpents,” Joe remarked, “and are disguised as farmers.”

“No,” Kim-Kim said. “They real farmers and they get madder.”

The boys had reached the bone jar and Frank boldly removed the lid. He put his hand inside. “Let’s get the directions to the Ruby King first,” he said, feeling about until his fingers touched something soft and at the same time hard.

Frank pulled out a fistful of matted hair and bones!

“Ugh!” he said in disgust. “Somebody’s remains are in here!”

“Yes. I think so too,” Kim-Kim said. “Here come farmers. Very mad.”

The two men raced toward the trespassers brandishing the sickles, which gleamed in the midday sunshine.

“Holy crow!” Joe exclaimed. “Maybe it’s the wrong bone jar!”

“Either that, or it’s a booby trap!” Frank said. “Run!”

The boys ran toward the waiting taxi, but Chet, with his arm in the cast, could not keep up.

“Hey, don’t let ’em chop me up!” he pleaded.

Frank and Joe stopped to pick up the bamboo poles, and when the irate farmers approached, they warded off the sickle blows, while Kim-Kim ardently apologized in Chinese.

But the enraged farmers could not be mollified. One of them flung his weapon and it came at Frank’s head like a spinning boomerang!

CHAPTER XX

The Beggars of Tai Pak

“DUCK!” Joe’s warning sent Frank tumbling into grass, and the sickle sailed harmlessly over him. He regained his feet to see the farmers standing with arms akimbo, glowering at the retreating intruders.

Panting for breath, the boys reached the taxi and piled in on top of one another. When the door slammed shut, the driver sped off and Kim-Kim climbed into the front seat. He grinned back at the Americans.

“Farmers very mad. You disturbed honorable ancestors!”

“We didn’t mean to. How did we ever get the wrong place?” Joe wondered.

“I’ll tell you how,” Frank said. “Look up ahead. There’s another shack and another bone jar. This must be it!”

“Please, fellows,” Chet begged, “be more careful this time. I’m not quite ready to be cut up for chop suey.”

After the taxi had stopped, the Hardys sent Kim-Kim on ahead to reconnoiter the shack. He returned with a big smile. “Nobody home. Okay go see!”

Still somewhat weak-kneed from their narrow escape, Frank, Joe, and Chet tramped across the field until they came to the bone jar. It looked older than the first, and a thin crack ran from the lip to the base.

“You put your hand in this time!” Frank said to Chet.

“Oh no. Not me!”

“I’ll do it,” Joe volunteered. He reached inside, until his whole arm disappeared. “No bones here,” he said, feeling around with his fingers. Finally he pulled out a folded piece of paper. On it was a message. He read it aloud:

“ ‘Hardys:

Leave the cash here and go a thousand yards up the road. On the opposite side behind a row of trees is an armchair grave. The Ruby King is buried in it. Remember, you are being observed. If you pull any tricks with the money, you will not return to Hong Kong alive!’ ”

“I expected something like that,” Frank said. “We’d better leave the dough.”

“But what if the King is not where it’s supposed to be?” Joe asked.

“We’ll have to take the chance. Put in the money, Joe.”

The boy removed the package from his shirt and dropped it into the bone jar. Then they hurried to the taxi and instructed the driver to proceed slowly until they came to the row of eucalyptus trees, about a hundred yards back from the road.

While the driver waited, the four approached the spot. Suddenly voices drifted toward them from behind the trees.

‘Sh!” Frank warned. ”We’ve got company. Let’s sneak up and see who it is!”

Noiselessly they moved to the trees and peered through the branches. There was the armchair grave as the note had indicated, and two men were pulling something out of it. One had his back turned toward the boys, but Frank and Joe recognized the other! He was the man Frank had wrestled with at Ocean Bluffs, just before Gerard Henry and Joe had rolled off the cliff!

Now the other man let out a string of curses and the Hardys recognized his voice.

“It’s Reginald Jervis!” Joe whispered.

Frank nodded. “And they’re digging up the Ruby King!”

Jervis was still ranting. “Those crooks! Took all the rubies out! It’s worthless now, totally worthless!” The men let the King fall down and Jervis kicked it with his foot. “Let’s go,” he grumbled.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Frank said. The three boys, followed by Kim-Kim, set upon the men like lightning.

Jervis whirled around when he heard the commotion. He still had the shovel in his hand. Instantly he raised it over his head and whacked Joe.

Frank tackled his erstwhile adversary while Chet came to Joe’s help. Before Jervis could raise the shovel again, Chet’s plaster cast hit him on the side of the head. He toppled and lay still.

Frank, meanwhile, had subdued the other man. “Chet, see if our driver has some rope so we can tie up our buddies,” he said.

“I don’t think we need it,” Chet said. He pointed toward the trees. “Look who’s coming!”

Captain Hawkins and another policeman crashed through the branches. “You young foreigners had us worried,” he said, “so we tailed Fong’s thugs. Followed them to a bone jar and caught them with a bundle of money. You know anything about it?”

While the police snapped handcuffs on the boys’ prisoners, Frank and Joe told about the ransom deal.

Jervis laughed out loud. “So Fong was going to let you have the Ruby King after all. But minus the goodies. I thought he’d send you back to Hong Kong after you had delivered the dough.”

“And you figured you could help yourself to the goodies?” Frank asked.

Jervis gritted his teeth. “Fong’s a dirty doublecrosser ! You want him? I’ll tell you where he is. Sitting at the Tai Pak Restaurant, waiting for the twenty-five thousand clams!”

“Tai Pak?” Kim-Kim said brightly. “I know. Near where I live. Good place to make money.”

Hawkins explained that Tai Pak was a large floating restaurant, famous throughout the Orient. “We’d better go and see if this man is telling the truth,” he said.

He ordered the other policeman to take the handcuffed prisoners to headquarters. “I’m going to the waterfront with the boys,” he added. “Have a squad car meet me there.”

Soon they arrived at the harbor, alive with small canopied boats. They were propelled by women, wearing black pajamas and coolie hats, who sculled the craft along with a long oar.

“Those are water taxies,” Hawkins explained. “They take passengers to Tai Pak.” He hailed one of the little boats.

The boys noticed that some small open craft were rowed by children. They circled among the fleet of water taxies, begging coins from the more affluent passengers.

“Is that what you meant by a good place to make money?” Chet asked Kim-Kim.

The Chinese nodded and called out to several friends he had recognized.

Just then a squad car arrived with four policemen. While the boys hopped into the water taxi Captain Hawkins had hailed, they took another and soon everyone was headed for the floating restaurant.

The Hardys were amazed at the dexterity of the women, who maneuvered their boats through the traffic without even the slightest collision.

Finally they reached the huge double-deck eating place, colorfully festooned with lights and lanterns. They went aboard and Hawkins suggested that the boys check topside, while the police scoured the main deck.

The Americans were amazed at the size of the restaurant. Scores of tables occupied every foot of the deck. Waiters, carrying large trays, moved through the guests with acrobatic ease.

A broad center staircase led up to the second deck, which was equally crowded.

“Let’s split up,” Frank suggested. “If you spy Fong, don’t make a scene. Just run down and call Captain Hawkins.”

The clatter of dishes, the laughter of the diners, and the swiftly moving waiters made concentration difficult. In addition, the savory smell of Chinese cooking made Chet hungry. Nonetheless they spaced out and carefully passed table after table.

Suddenly Joe’s eyes fell on Fong. He was seated in a secluded booth next to the wall, talking with another man. Fong glanced nervously at his watch, while his eyes roved the room.

Joe snatched a handkerchief and held it to his face. Then he edged closer, trying to get a look at Fong’s companion.

He turned and Joe recognized him. It was the friendly Choy Bokl

A waiter touched Joe’s elbow. “Can I help you find a place?”

“No, thank you. Not now.”

At that moment Chet hurried to Joe’s side. “I see him!” he whispered, and swung his cast in the direction of the booth.

It hit the back of a chair with a sharp crack. The diner sitting there turned around in surprise. At the same time Joe noticed Fong and Choy Bok rise. They had realized that the boys were after them!

“Run down and get the captain!” Joe told Chet. As he hurried off, Frank and Kim-Kim appeared.

“Come on!” Joe cried. “They’re getting away!”

The young detectives raced among the tables, trying not to knock into the annoyed patrons.

“There they go! Up the steps!”

The fugitives fairly flew up a small metal stairway onto the roof of the restaurant, and without a moment’s hesitation, dived over the railing into the water below.

The Hardys saw them surface and climb into a water taxi.

“After them!” Frank cried out. He and Joe, followed by Kim-Kim, plunged into the bay. They came up next to a surprised taxiwoman and wriggled into her boat. Kim-Kim gave orders in Chinese, and the woman set off after Fong’s craft.

“We’re losing them!” Joe said. “Faster, pleasel”

“Don’t worry, I help,” Kim-Kim said.

He called out to his little beggar friends, who responded with excited cries. Rapidly they began to surround the getaway taxi. With much banging and shouting, they had its path blocked within a few minutes.

It was boxed in so tightly that escape was impossible. The police arrived in another boat with Chet to arrest the two stony-faced fugitives.

Meanwhile, the Hardys emptied their pockets of all their change and tossed the coins to the beggar boys, who grinned and cheered.

“Good job, Kim-Kim,” Frank praised the little Chinese.

An hour later everyone met at headquarters. The Hardys were congratulated, and as interrogation of Jervis, Fong, and Choy Bok proceeded, loose ends of the mystery were tied up.

A cablegram from Mr. Hardy had arrived only minutes before. It said that Eggleby had been caught in the States with Radley’s help. He and Jervis had been trying to set up another jewelry operation in Texas, but when Eggleby was caught, Jervis quickly left the country.

Jervis admitted knocking out Mr. Hardy at the Treat Hotel and putting the explosive charge in the boy’s tail pipe on orders of Fong. And it was Jervis who shot at Krassner in the balloon fight. Fong and Eggleby were with him at the time.

“You idiot!” Fong muttered. “Why don’t you keep your mouth shut?” But the angry gang leader could not do anything to stop his former confederate from telling everything. As he and Choy stood by with suppressed anger, Jervis provided the answer to the serpent gang’s interest in Conrad Greene.

“They ran a world-wide gambling operation,” Jervis said, “and were trying to frighten the American champion into losing the match because they had placed all bets on his Korean opponent. The phone tap was meant to find out Greene’s strategy, and when that did not work, he was kidnapped and threatened.”

“Was he taken to Bayport Harbor?” Joe asked.

“No. We drove him to Fong’s apartment not far from there.”

“Why did you want to ship the Ruby King via the Queen Maru?” Frank inquired. “Is Captain Ono part of your gang?”

“No. He’s clean,” Jervis said.

“Who went into Krassner’s home to steal the King?” Frank asked.

“Fong and Eggleby. They took the antique to the shack in the woods, but when your two buddies arrived, they quickly drove off in Fong’s car. Later Gerard Henry had the King wrapped in the rug and took it to Bayport Airport.”

“What gave you the idea of using the serpent balloon to harass Krassner?” Joe asked.

“Fong knew Krassner was an avid balloonist,” Jervis continued. “He also was well aware that Krassner feared the serpent symbol. The balloon seemed a logical idea to unnerve him.”

“But he wouldn’t hand over the King, even though you threatened to ruin his reputation,” Joe said.

“No. He held out. When we put the pressure on Moy Chen-Chin, Mrs. Krassner cooperated without her husband’s knowledge.”

“Well, I’m sure glad Krassner is exonerated,” Chet said. “I always liked him.”

“I’m just sorry we couldn’t retrieve the King undamaged,” Joe put in. “Without its jewels the chess piece is probably worthless.”

“Fong knows where the rubies are. Ask him!” Jervis said.

“I know nothing,” the Oriental said as his face contorted in an arrogant sneer.

“Where does Fong live?” Frank asked Jervis.

The man shrugged. “He’s been staying with Choy Bok ever since he arrived.”

“Why don’t we look in Choy’s apartment?” Joe suggested. “We know where it is!”

“Good idea,” Captain Hawkins said.

An hour later a search party with a warrant arrived at Choy’s high-rise apartment. There was no sign of Mrs. Choy. The police combed the place until one of them yelled, “Captain, come here!” In the pocket of Mrs. Choy’s dressing gown was a sack of gems!

Captain Hawkins invited the boys and Kim-Kim to dinner that night and thanked them for smashing the serpent gang. “Please return the Ruby King to its rightful owner,” he said. “It won’t be hard to restore it to its original beauty.”

“You go back to United States?” Kim-Kim asked, his eyes sad.

“We’ll have to. The case is solved,” Joe said. Little did he know then that soon they would be involved in another one, The Mysterious Caravan.

Chet put an arm around his little friend. “We must leave. But we have a surprise for you. Frank and Joe have decided that part of their fee rightfully belongs to you because of your help!”

Kim-Kim’s eyes lit up. “Me good detective!”

“A friend of ours,” Chet went on, “will come to Hong Kong soon for the big chess championship. His name is Conrad Greene. He’ll give you your reward. You just tell Captain Hawkins where he can get in touch with you.”

“Speaking about the chess match,” Joe said, “now that all the pressure is off, Conrad might win it, and with it the Ruby King!”

“And old Mr. Greene won’t have to worry any more,” Frank added with a smile. “The King was buried not by its owner, but by Fong’s men. The curse is lifted!”

THE MYSTERIOUS CARAVAN

WHEN the Hardy Boys take a winter vacation in Jamaica, Joe finds an ancient bronze death mask washed up near their beach house during a violent storm. Did it come from a Portuguese galleon wrecked offshore centuries ago? Why are three treasure hunters determined to snatch the relic at any risk? Is it because of the cryptic Arabic words concealed in the mask?

Helping the Hardys and their friends in this bizarre mystery is William, a Jamaican boy, who flies to New York with startling news, only to be intercepted and held for ransom—the death mask!

How Frank and Joe rescue William, plunge into their father’s airline-ticket theft case, and fly into a maze of danger in Africa will hold Hardy Boys fans breathless to the last page of The Mysterious Caravan.

Frank and William raced for their lives!

The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

THE

MYSTERIOUS

CARAVAN

BY

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Publishers • New York

A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

Copyright © 1975 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the U.S.A

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74–10463

ISBN: 978-1-101-65731-7

CONTENTS

I

THE FACE IN THE SAND

II

BWANA BRUTUS

III

THREE BAD EGGS

IV

AN ANCIENT LEGEND

V

AN OMINOUS TELEGRAM

VI

BUG ON THE WINDOW

VII

FRANK’S BRAINSTORM

VIII

THE SUAVE STRANGER

IX

THE CLUE IN THE COAT

X

A MUDDY RACE

XI

CHET THE GENIUS

XII

SIGN OF THE JU-JU MAN

XIII

THE SPOOKY VILLA

XIV

FOILED BY A DONKEY

XV

THE SPY AT THE WALL

XVI

GHOST IN THE SOUQ

XVII

THE PURPLE VAT

XVIII

THE SIXTY-FORTY DEAL

XIX

FIGUE BARBARI

XX

THE MYSTERIOUS MIRAGE

CHAPTER I

The Face in the Sand

WIND shook the flimsy seaside cottage and banged a loose shutter with such violence that Joe Hardy gave a startled jump. “If this gets any worse,” he said, “we’ll be blown right off the island of Jamaica.”

“And they advertised no storms at this time of year,” his brother Frank said with a laugh.

The two boys, along with four high school friends, reclined on cots in the beach house they had rented for a ten-day winter vacation. A candle they had lit after the power failed gave a fluttering light for several seconds before expiring. Now they were talking in total darkness, trying to be heard above the crashing surf and screaming gale.

“Feel this place swaying?” Tony Prito asked.

“Like it’s dancing the calypso,” Biff Hooper added as he adjusted his big frame for more comfort.

“All we need now is a steel-drum section,” was Phil Cohen’s comment.

Bang! went the shutter again.

“Whoops!” chubby Chet Morton said. “Let’s see if we can fasten that plagued thing.”

“I wish we had a flashlight,” Frank muttered. He felt his way to a front window and reached out for the slatted cover, when he noticed lights tossing on the cresting seas.

“Hey, fellows! Look here! Somebody’s in trouble!”

The others jumped up to peer out into the maelstrom.

“Incredible,” Phil said. “That boat won’t stay afloat for long!”

“There she goes!” Chet exclaimed.

The lights disappeared for a few seconds, then shone feebly again.

“She slid down into a deep trough,” Tony said. “How can she take such a pounding?”

Once again, amid the whistling gale, the lights disappeared and the boys waited anxiously. But it stayed dark.

“Probably capsized,” Biff said.

“Come on, let’s try to help,” Frank suggested. “If a victim is washed ashore, we might be able to rescue him.”

The others agreed and stepped out into the storm. They were all young and good athletes. Everyone except Phil was on the high school football team. Phil was a lightweight, but fast as a cat and he held the county tennis championship.

Eighteen-year-old Frank, and Joe, a year younger, were the sons of world-famous sleuth Fenton Hardy. But they had become detectives in their own right. Starting with The Tower Treasure, their careers spanned many adventurous cases. The last one, known as The Clue of the Hissing Serpent, had carried them to far-off Hong Kong.

“We’ll fan out along the shore,” Frank said. “But don’t get pulled into the surf.”

The velvet sky was streaked with low scudding clouds, providing a ghostly backdrop for the palm trees that were bent nearly double. Fronds and branches skittered along the sand like giant spiders seeking refuge from the storm.

In seconds their sneakers were soaked, and they were drenched to the skin by rain. The hissing surf chased them up the sand; then when each gurgling wave receded, the boys ran to the water’s edge, peering through the gloom for possible survivors of the shipwreck. There seemed to be none.

Separating farther from one another, the companions strung out, trying to cover as much of the shore as possible. They knew the sea currents could be tricky. People might be carried along the beach for quite a distance.

Joe had raced on ahead of the others. He searched the sand near a spit of land, where palm trees bent close to the water’s edge. Did he see something? He moved forward cautiously toward an object lying at the foot of a palm tree and bent down to examine it.

“A timber!” he said half aloud. “A ship’s timber. I wonder if——” He heard a crack, then nothingness.

The large branch that hit him on the head lay beside the supine boy as the tide continued to rise. The waves lapped over Joe, rocking him to and fro.

Meanwhile, the others had searched in vain for survivors and struggled back to the cottage. They entered, skinned off their wet clothing, and toweled down. Frank fumbled in his suitcase for a change of underwear.

“Hey, Joe, did you borrow any of my things?” he asked.

No answer.

“Listen Joe. I definitely remember I had another pair of shorts here. Joe? Where are you?”

“He isn’t here,” Chet said.

“Where is he?” Biff asked.

“Who knows?”

Frank felt a shiver of fear climb his backbone. Had Joe been sucked into the raging sea? Surely his shouts for help would have been drowned out!

“We’ll have to find him!” Frank declared. “Let’s go!” He put his damp clothes on again and ran out into the gale. The others followed.

How long Joe had lain unconscious, he did not know. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the cracking tree. Now he heard the surf, felt it filling his ears, nose, and mouth with bitter saltiness.

The water was about to cover him completely. Joe moved, and a pain stabbed the back of his head. “I hope it isn’t fractured,” he thought. Wincing with every movement, he inched higher onto the sand. The effort exhausted him, finally, and he stopped a few feet above the collar of suds lacing the beach.

He flung out his arms and breathed deeply, praying for the air to renew his strength. His left hand felt the wet sand, but his right rested on something the size of a coconut shell. It felt slimy.

The boy’s fingers studied the contours of the object and his pulse quickened. “Good grief!” he thought. “It feels like a face!”

Could this be a victim of the shipwreck, half buried in the sand? Thoroughly stimulated, Joe raised himself on his elbow. At the same time he heard shouts in the distance. It was Frank and his friends.

“Here I am, over here!” he rasped, the taste of salt burning his throat. He struggled to his knees and called out again. They heard him and rushed over. Eager hands pulled Joe to his feet.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

“I got conked by a palm tree.” Joe gingerly felt the back of his head. He had a bump the size of a large egg.

“We’ll help you back,” Biff said, and he steadied the injured boy with a strong grip.

“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “I think there’s a body in the sand. You might be stepping on it.”

“Where?” Tony asked.

“Right there.”

Tony and Phil dropped to their knees and felt about.

“Argh! Here it is,” Tony said. His hands found the face, slippery and covered with sea moss and barnacles.

“Careful as we dig,” Phil cautioned. “If it’s been in the water long, it might fall apart.”

Biff still held onto Joe as the others clawed the sand from around the face.

“Hey, it’s a skull!” Frank cried.

Phil felt it. “Half a skull,” he said with a shudder. “The back of it is sheared right off!”

“Leave it be,” Chet advised. “In a voodoo place like this I want nothing to do with a skull. Its ghost may come to claim it!”

“What are you scared of?” Frank asked. “This might be a help to the authorities. It could have been a missing person.”

“It feels like a face!” Joe thought.

“Most likely a murder victim,” Biff said.

Joe bent down impatiently and picked the thing up. It had not felt like a skeleton to him. He remembered the cold lips and firm chin. “We’ll take it back to the cottage,” he said, “and examine it there.”

All five trudged along the beach, with eyes still peeled for possible bodies from the shipwreck, but had seen nothing by the time they entered the beach house and shut the door behind them.

Phil, who had a medical career in mind, got the first-aid kit and applied medication to Joe’s bump.

Frank fixed the shutter while Biff lit the candle on the table. They all pulled up wooden chairs to look at Joe’s find.

“See. It’s not a skull,” Joe said. He pressed his thumbs into what should have been soft flesh.

“Hard as a rock,” Frank observed.

“Suppose it’s ossified?” Tony asked.

“Hardly,” Phil said. “Not in the water.”

The light flickered over what appeared to be a man’s face. The nose was straight, the chin firm with a curly beard.

“It’s some kind of mask,” Joe said. He pulled out his penknife, flipped open a blade, and was about to scratch away the covering of sea growth when Phil stopped him.

“Hold it,” Phil said. “This should be done by an expert, or it’ll be ruined!”

“What about you?” Frank said. “Didn’t you work for the museum once?”

“Right. I restored old artifacts. That’s why I was worried when Joe tackled it.”

“Well, can you do it?”

“I’ll try. But no guarantees!” Phil took the knife and started to work on the mask. “It’s metal,” he said after a while. “See it shine?”

“Am I glad,” Chet said. “No skull, no ghost!”

“Where do you suppose it came from?” Tony asked.

“That’s anybody’s guess,” Frank said.

The boys watched, fascinated, as Phil worked on the mask carefully.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better about the ghost,” Tony ribbed Chet. “I didn’t know you believed in spooks.”

Chet grinned wryly. “You never can——”

His words were cut off by three loud raps on the door. They all jumped!

CHAPTER II

Bwana Brutus

IT was the middle of the night and the boys were not expecting a visitor. Could it be a shipwreck survivor? Frank raised his hand in a signal of caution as the knocks came again, this time even louder.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“It is I. William.”

Frank stepped forward and flung the door open. “Hi, William. Come on in.”

Framed in the entrance stood a tall, well-built black youth, about the same age as the boys from Bayport. He had a handsome face, lit up now by a broad white smile. Like the others, he wore cut-off jeans and a tee shirt. Around his neck dangled a small trinket carved in the shape of an African native.

The boys had met William on the beach shortly after their arrival and had become friends. Joe had developed a special interest in William’s hobby of African lore and his great admiration for King Mansa Musa. He had even learned a few words of Swahili, which William was studying.

“Hujambo?” (“How are you?”) William asked.

“Sijambo, ahsante,” (“I am well, thank you,”) Joe replied.

“You learn Swahili fast,” William said with a nod as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I came because I feared your house might have been blown down.”

“Thanks,” Phil said. “The cottage survived but we nearly lost Joe.”

“How so? And what do we have here?” The Jamaican boy looked curiously at the mask.

“It’s a long story,” Joe said.

Spelling one another, the companions told their guest about the lights on the sea, Joe’s disappearance, and the discovery of the strange face in the sand.

“Now we’re trying to figure out what this mask is all about,” Frank concluded. “Have a seat while Phil scrapes off the sea moss.”

“Take my place,” Chet said, offering William his chair.

“Thank you, Chet. You are very considerate.” William spoke with a slow, measured cadence. His English, with a slight British inflection, was perfect.

“I’m just sleepy,” Chet said with a yawn. “I want to go to bed. Hey, what’s that under your belt?”

“A present for you all,” William said. He drew out a plastic-covered paperback book and handed it to Chet. “This is the Swahili word book I was telling you about.”

“Oh, great! Thanks,” Chet said, and he moved his cot out toward the table in order to catch a little light from the candle. He thumped his pillow into a ball and lay back to read the book.

The others, meanwhile, watched as Phil continued to work on the mask.

“That is a most distinguished face,” William said. “Probably the replica of an important man.”

The knife blade worked about the eyes. They were blank. The mouth, cleaned of the greenish covering, looked stern and noble. Even the beard seemed patrician, with every curl carefully arranged.

“Wait a sec,” Phil said. “You know what? I think this is a death mask. Remember the pictures in our ancient history textbook?”

“You’re right,” Joe said. “When a famous or rich person died they’d take a plaster impression of the face and make a mask from it.”

“Sometimes,” William added, “even while the person was living, they would do this.”

Phil stopped scraping and looked closely at the treasure.

“A real handsome guy,” Tony said. “He looks Italian.”

“Maybe a Roman or a Greek,” William ventured.

“Let’s call him Brutus for the moment,” Biff suggested.

“Not bad,” Phil said with a smile. He wrinkled his brow in thought. “Habari za asubuhi, Bwana Brutus.”

“Very good,” William said. “Good morning, Mr. Brutus. You are learning fast, Phil.”

From the cot came Chet’s sleepy voice. “That’s nothing. Nahitaji vigwe vya viatu.”

“What’d he say?” Joe asked.

“I need a pair of shoelaces,” William translated. “Chet, your pronunciation is quite acceptable.”

But there was no more comment from Chet. The book rested on his chest, which rose and fell rhythmically to the sound of gentle snoring.

The boys were getting sleepier by the minute, but Phil kept on cleaning the mask.

“Now the face looks pretty good,” he finally said. “Let’s try to dig some of this crud out of the back.”

The mud and other detritus came out in big chunks, and soon the mask resembled a hollow shell. When Tony wiped off the last few sandy particles with his handkerchief, he peered intently into the back of the cast. “I think there’s some writing here,” he said, handing the mask to Joe, who squinted at the odd-looking lettering written in several neat lines. But he could make nothing of it, either.

Phil examined the text. “It looks like Arabic to me,” he said. “What do you say, William?”

“You may be right. Did you know the word Swahili is a modified form of the Arabic sawa-hil, meaning ‘coast people?’”

“You’re a walking encyclopedia,” Biff said with admiration. “Why the coast people?”

“It was the language of East Africa,” William explained, “and it was carried to the interior by traders and missionaries.”

When talk swung back to the mysterious mask, Phil said, “We ought to keep it a secret. What say, Frank?”

“Yes, until we learn more about it. I’ll hide it in my gear.”

“Good idea,” Joe agreed. “And now let’s call it a night. Will you stay with us, William? We have an extra sleeping bag.”

“I would be honored to be your guest.”

Frank snuffed out the candle and stretched out on his cot. The last thing he remembered was William telling Phil about Mansa Musa, fabulously rich king of Mali in fourteenth-century West Africa.

The storm abated sometime during the night, and when Frank awoke the next morning, the bright Caribbean sunshine was sifting through the cracks in the shutters. He rose and flung them open, flooding the cottage with daylight. As he shielded his eyes to peer out at the sea, he noted knots of people standing on the beach. They seemed to be talking excitedly.

“Look, guys, something’s going on out there!” Frank said as the others rose from their slumber. They dressed quickly and hurried outside.

“Don’t you want breakfast first?” Chet asked. “I’m starved.”

“You stay and make it,” Joe said.

“Okay. How many want eggs, sunny-side up, and bacon?”

All the boys accepted with a good-natured cheer, and Chet padded around the kitchen, searching for the skillet. The others ran to the spectators, who appeared to be looking for something along the shore.

William spoke to a group of Jamaicans, while the Americans mingled with vacationers. Fifteen minutes later they met to exchange information.

“This is the story,” William began. “A treasure-hunting ship was wrecked offshore last night. It had found the site of a sunken galleon by radar, and the men were about to dive when the storm struck.”

“Were they drowned?” Biff asked.

William shook his head. “That is the miracle. All three survived.”

“Pretty rugged, I’d say,” Phil commented.

“Their boat is a total loss,” William went on. “It broke like matchwood.”

“Are the people looking for the pieces?” Tony asked.

“No. Jamaicans who understand the sea think part of the old galleon may have been washed in. They are looking for treasure!”

“Come on, let’s join them,” Phil said. The boys walked back and forth, eyes glued to the strip where the shiny sand met the lapping surf. Seaweed and odd pieces of debris dotted the sand. Farther down the shore, a girl cried out in surprise and held up an old coin.

“No doubt it is from the galleon,” William said.

Minutes later Biff bent down to retrieve another. “Hey, I’ve got something!” he cried.

His companions crowded around for a look, and others joined them to gaze curiously at the blackened coin, which probably had been buried for centuries.

Three men pushed through to Biff. The oldest, handsome and in his middle thirties, asked to see the find. He turned it over and over, studying it carefully.

“It’s authentic,” he said. “A Spanish silver piece.”

The two other men examined it next. They were younger and rough looking.

“How do you know it’s authentic?” Tony asked.

“I’m Tiffany Stribling. These are my assistants, Sam Brown and George Aker. That was our boat that sank last night.”

“Oh, you’re the treasure hunters,” Phil said.

Aker nodded with a one-sided smile. “You know, big boy, you can’t keep this. It belongs to the Jamaican government.”

“We’ll turn it in,” Frank said, and added, “What kind of galleon were you looking for?”

This time Brown spoke, his voice edged with condescension. “That’s our secret. Why should we tell you amateurs?”

Joe bristled and was about to respond when Chet trotted up to say that breakfast was ready. He caught part of the conversation and blurted, “Amateurs, eh? We’ve found a——”

Joe stepped on his foot.

“Oh, you found something else?” Stribling said. “What was it?”

CHAPTER III

Three Bad Eggs

TIFFANY’S question went unanswered, and his friendly demeanor disappeared suddenly.

“Why all the secrecy?” he demanded. “We’re experts and can tell you whether the item you found is worth anything or not.”

Frank shook his head. “We prefer to keep it to ourselves.”

Aker put on his lopsided smile again. “We can turn you in for concealing Jamaican property!”

“Who says we’re concealing anything?” Phil said. “Maybe it was just an old log.”

“Don’t get smart,” Sam Brown said.

Finally Chet pleaded, “Listen guys. Breakfast is ready. If you don’t come now, those eggs will taste like scuba flippers!”

They hurried back into the beach house to find their meal still warm enough for total enjoyment. Nothing was said to Chet until they had finished, and he kept looking from one boy to the other until the question finally came.

“Why did you spill the beans, Chet?” Biff demanded. “You didn’t have to tell those guys we found the mask.”

“I didn’t say anything about the mask,” Chet protested.

“You indicated we found something.”

“Don’t scold him,” Frank said. “Remember, he was asleep when we decided to keep this a secret”.

“Thanks,” Chet said. “Frank, you want some more eggs?”

The boys laughed and Joe said, “Don’t forget, Chet, button your lip from now on, okay?”

William had been silent for a while, but when he finished his coffee he put down the cup and said, “I think there may be trouble ahead.”

“You mean those men?” Tony asked.

“They looked like ruffians to me! Jamaicans do not like that kind of treasure hunter working off our shores.”

“They were pretty high-handed,” Phil agreed.

“Let’s find out everything we can about the mask today,” Frank suggested. “I noticed a museum next to the post office.”

“It is a good one, too,” William said. “The museum has a fine collection of shipwreck relics and old records.”

“Will you go with us?” Joe asked.

“I wish to be excused,” the Jamaican said. “I promised my grandfather to visit him today. He lives a way up the beach from here.”

“Okay. Will we see you later?”

“Of course. Since you are leaving for home tomorrow, I would like to spend as much time with you as possible.”

“William, can I go with you?” Chet asked. You told me about your grandfather and I’d like to meet him.”

“Certainly. He will be delighted. But I suggest that we find a better hiding place for that mask before we all leave.”

They looked around until Tony located two loose floorboards in the kitchenette near the sink. Frank and Joe pried them up enough to slip the mask underneath.

Chet and William lingered to finish the chores while the others walked along the beach. Half a mile farther on, they headed inland until they reached the center of town. The streets were narrow and lined with shops catering to the tourist trade.

Main Street gave onto a small park dominated at one end by an ancient cannon. To the right were the municipal buildings. The Bayporters went straight to the museum. After they explained their mission to the curator, an intense middle-aged woman, she took a great interest in the Americans.

“So many ships were sunk off Jamaica,” she said. “English, Spanish, Dutch. And many lives were lost.”

“Were there any Arab ships?” asked Joe.

The woman thought for a moment. “No. But I do recall that a Portuguese slave ship, the Africanus Rex, was lost some time in the early seventeenth century. It carried an Arab Barbary crew.”

The curator added with a smile, “It’s interesting that you should mention this, because some of the slaves escaped to shore and became free men.” She glanced over Frank’s shoulder. “Is that man looking for you?”

The Hardys whirled to see George Aker’s back as he tried to slip out unobserved.

“Quick, keep a tail on him, Phil,” Frank said. “Biff, Tony, you help out, too.”

The boys dashed out while the Hardys thanked the curator for her assistance.

“You’ve really given us quite a bit of help,” Joe said. “By the way, is anything known about a death mask lost on one of your beaches?”

“I never heard of anything like that.”

Frank and Joe hurried from the museum. Partway down the block they noticed Biff stationed at the corner. When they caught up with him, he said, “Come on. Tony’s down the next street. I think he knows where Phil went.”

They turned right and passed a number of shops. Then they saw Tony beckoning. “Phil’s on Aker’s trail. He’s standing in that doorway. See?”

The boys turned left this time and walked in single file close to the store fronts. They arrived at the spot where Phil had concealed himself.

“Aker met the other two guys,” Phil reported, “and they went into that restaurant two doors down.”

“Stribling and his boys are very much interested in us,” Joe said. “Too interested to suit me.”

“I wonder what their game is.” Phil said.

“If we could eavesdrop, we might find out,” said Frank.

“But how?” Phil asked.

“You stay here while Joe and I reconnoiter.”

Just then a boy about ten years old walked past, and Frank reached out to touch his arm. When he stopped, Frank asked, “Would you like to earn a dollar?”

“Yes, sir!”

Frank took a single from his wallet. “Here’s what you have to do. Walk to that restaurant and look through the window. See if three men are sitting together, and tell me just where their table is located.”

“That’s easy,” the boy said. He took the money and skipped down the street. He peered into the window, shading his eyes against the reflection of the glass. Then he turned and hurried back. “There are no men that I could see.”

“None at all?”

“No. But there are booths in the back,” their young spy went on, “and the waiter was serving somebody. I could not see who it was.”

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “Did the waiter serve the food to the booth closest to the window or farther back?”

“The first one,” the boy said.

“Okay. You did a good job.”

The Jamaican smiled brightly and hurried off.

Biff said, “Now what?”

Frank mulled his strategy for a moment. “If we walk in the front door and try to listen, they’ll spot us.”

“What about the back way?” Joe suggested.

“That’ll have to be it. But we’d better not all go in. Just one.”

The Hardys looked at Phil.

“You mean I’m elected?” the boy asked.

“Unanimously,” Frank said. “You’re good at this kind of thing. Find the back door; then slip into the booth next to Stribling and his crew.”

“Will do, skipper. Where shall we meet?”

“In the park,” Frank replied.

Phil started off. He turned into an alley until he reached a narrow lane behind the buildings. He found the back of the eating place easily enough. Garbage cans stood filled to the brim, and, as he passed them, a cat jumped out of one and scampered off.

Phil entered the kitchen through the screen door, but a huge black man with a chef’s cap blocked his way. “You can’t come in this way, man! Go around front!”

Phil looked at him pleadingly and spoke several sentences of gibberish.

A smile crossed the cook’s face. “You don’t speak English?”

Phil pointed to his mouth, indicating that he was hungry.

“I never heard any language like that,” the Jamaican said.

Phil uttered more gibberish, and the man pointed to the swinging door leading into the restaurant.

Phil went in quietly, staying close to the right wall, and slid into the second booth. He could hear the men talking. Just then a waiter appeared with the menu.

“Cook says you don’t speak English,” the man said, and ran his finger down the day’s offering. Phil pointed to chicken soup and grinned. It was brought to him immediately, along with some biscuits.

Phil remained quiet, listening carefully for tell-tale information. The men spoke in low voices, and the hum of an air conditioner nearly drowned out their words. Finally Phil heard something.

“Rex,” Tiffany was saying.

“Yes, Tip,” came Brown’s voice. “That’s right.”

There was some mumbling, then Stribling again, “What do you think, George?”

Aker said, “The Hardys. They rented the place. Later on——”

Phil could not make out the rest. The men stood up and walked out of the restaurant.

The boy left his soup, beckoned to the waiter for the check, paid, and hurried through the kitchen again.

The chef’s eyes grew large with surprise. “I don’t know what country you come from,” he muttered, “but they have funny customs, man!”

Phil dodged between the garbage cans, ran up the alley, and hurried to the park. The others were waiting, and he quickly repeated everything he had heard. When he gave a sample of his “foreign language,” the boys laughed.

“That was a good trick,” Joe said.

“I want to learn more about this gang,” Frank said. “There must be a newspaper in town that can help us.”

By asking a policeman for directions, the boys found the small office of the Gazette without any difficulty. It smelled of ink and paper.

Frank asked for the city editor and was directed to a cubicle along one wall. A black man was typing. The nameplate on his desk read, “James Douglas.”

“Hi, Mr. Douglas,” Frank said. He then introduced himself.

The newsman swiveled around. “What can I do for you?”

Frank told him about the treasure hunters and explained that he and his friends would like some additional information, if possible.

Douglas smiled. “Those three have quite a history. They’ve looked for treasure in several parts of the world.” He named various places, including Africa.

“Do they have a good reputation?” Phil inquired.

“I won’t speak against any man,” the editor said. “But I would advise you not to associate with them.”

“You mean they’re criminals?” Tony prodded.

“They have not been in jail in Jamaica. But in your country—you might call them bad eggs.”

“We get the picture. Thanks, Mr. Douglas.”

The boys stepped outside. “I’ve got the uncomfortable feeling that our mask is in jeopardy,” Phil said. “Let’s go back to the cottage.”

“Can we stop at the post office on the way?” Joe asked. “Maybe we’ve got some mail from home.”

Their family had promised to write in care of General Delivery, and much to their delight several letters were waiting for the Hardys.

One of them was in Aunt Gertrude’s hand-writing. Frank opened the letter. “Listen to this, Joe,” he said. “‘Nothing good can come of going so far from home. Keep your hands on your wallets. You never can tell when foreigners pick your pockets!’”

Frank rocked with laughter, then continued. “‘Beware of strangers. They can only lead to trouble.’”

“Good old Aunty,” Joe said. “She’s always worried about us.”

“She may be right, warning about strangers,” Phil said with a grin.

As they walked on, Frank opened a letter from his father. After scanning it, he said, “Dad’s on a new case. A multimillion-dollar racket involving the theft of airline tickets.”

“I read something about that,” Tony said. “Now you’ll probably go back and dig into a brand-new mystery.”

“I think we have one right here,” Biff said, as the boys jogged to the waterfront.

“Boy, could I go for a swim,” Tony said.

“You can, as soon as we get back,” Phil told him.

When the Bayporters reached their beach house and stepped through the door, Joe emitted a cry of despair. The place was a mess. Everything had been ransacked!

“Good grief!” Frank exclaimed. He ran to the kitchenette and pried up the floorboards.

The mask was gone!

CHAPTER IV

An Ancient Legend

“OH, nuts!” Biff said. “We should have taken Bwana Brutus with us, or left Chet to guard the place.”

“It’s too late to moan over it now,” Joe said, “and perfectly obvious who the thieves are. We have to find them!”

The area was quickly scouted for footprints. Besides their own tracks in the sand, the boys discovered evidence that the beach house had been circled several times. There were deep depressions in the sand beneath the windows, indicating that the prowlers might have stood on their toes to look inside.

“See. Here the tracks lead along the beach,” Tony said. “They shouldn’t be hard to follow.”

“Tip and his gang are too smart for that,” Frank said. “But let’s check ‘em.”

The trail was clear for several hundred yards. Then, abruptly, it took a right-angle turn and disappeared into the surf.

“You were right, Frank,” Phil said. “Who knows how far these crooks walked in the water?”

They scanned the shore for another quarter mile with no success. Then Joe shifted his gaze inland to a grove of palms, where a darting movement had caught his eye.

“Look!” he said. “I think somebody’s hiding behind those trees!”

Biff’s long legs carried him across the sand first to the fringe of palms. The others were close on his heels, when a man stepped out from behind a triple clump.

“Sam Brown!” Biff exploded. He leaped forward and grasped the surprised Brown by the shirt front.

“Wait!” Frank cautioned.

But Biff was in no mood for prudence. He shook Sam, whose head bobbed back and forth as he protested with curses.

“Give back that mask!” Biff boomed.

By this time Frank and Joe had pried Sam loose from their buddy’s clutches.

“Cool it,” Frank advised, “before you snap his head off.”

Sam stepped back and scowled. “Oh, so that’s what you found on the beach! Thanks for telling me. But I don’t have your mask. Keep your hands off me and go play Halloween somewhere else!”

As he spoke, Stribling and Aker appeared from a tangle of sea grapes. The latter rushed up to Biff and swung a right-hand punch.

Biff blocked it and countered with a stiff blow to the chest that sent the man sprawling. At once a free-for-all ensued. It lasted several minutes before Stribling yelled out, “Hey! What are we fighting about?”

“I’ll tell you!” Joe stormed. “You ransacked our place and stole something!”

“Stole what?”

“A mask of some sort,” Brown said.

“Well, now. That’s interesting.” Stribling flashed his smile again. “Can you be more specific, please? If we’re charged with theft, it’s only fair that we know the particulars.”

The Bayporters stood there, uncomfortable. Stribling had a way of putting them down. What if he had not taken the mask? Frank and Joe knew that without solid proof of burglary it would be useless to press the issue.

“I think you know all about the particulars,” Frank declared.

“Anything you say,” the man retorted mockingly.

Then Aker added, “Any more of this physical stuff and you’ll regret it!”

Frank turned to his companions. “Okay. Let’s break it up.” They walked back toward their cottage.

“What’ll we do now?” Phil asked as they strode along.

“There are several things we could do,” Frank said, his brow furrowed. “Number one, go to the police. They might listen, since these men have shady reputations. But there’s a problem. Do we own Bwana Brutus or don’t we?”

“That’s debatable,” Phil said.

“Number two. We could put a tail on the gang. If they have the mask they’ll probably do something with it. But we’re stymied here, too. Our plane leaves tomorrow, so that doesn’t give us much time.”

“Kind of hopeless, isn’t it?” Biff said.

Nobody answered, and they walked on in silence. Chet and William had not yet returned when they reached the beach house.

“So who’s for a swim?” Tony said brightly, trying to dispel the pall of defeat.

Joe managed a smile. “Okay, maybe it’ll cool Biff off.”

Minutes later all were in the sea. Tony and Frank wore snorkel gear and splashed along in shallow water, enjoying the myriad colors of marine life.

After a while Joe tapped his shoulder and Frank looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“Here come Chet and William.”

Far down the beach they could make out the pair. William, tall and lithe; Chet, block-solid, with a rocking gait. Between the boys and supporting himself with a cane, walked an elderly, gray-haired black man.

The Hardys called to their friends and all swam ashore. It was then that they noticed that William was carrying a brown paper bag.

“I’m glad you brought lunch!” Phil joked.

William looked at Chet and smiled. Then he introduced his grandfather. The boys shook his hand, rough-skinned and firm from a lifetime of hard work.

“Glad to meet you, Granddad,” Frank said. “We’re having a lot of fun with William. Wish we could stay longer on your island.” Then he turned to the Jamaican boy and Chet.

“The mask is gone! Those devils stole it while we were in town!”

“No, man,” William replied. “Bwana Brutus is right here—in this bag!”

“What?”

The Americans crowded around as he opened the top of the sack. “See? You did not have to worry.”

“Worry!” Joe blurted. “When we saw it was gone we set off after Stribling and company like the Marines! What happened?”

“It is quite simple,” William said. “After you left this morning, Chet and I noticed Stribling and his friends heading this way.”

“They were walking very slowly,” Chet added, “and they kept looking around.”

“So we guessed that they were coming to search for Bwana Brutus,” William concluded.

“What did you do?”

“We got him out from under the floor, slipped out the back door, and took off!”

“I wanted to fight them,” Chet said.

“But I dislike violence,” William commented. “So we did it the easy way.”

“That’s using your head,” Biff said with a chuckle. “Good thing you weren’t with us,” and he briefly related the details of the brush with the gang.

“Which proves what Dad has told us many times,” Frank said. “Never jump to conclusions.”

“Yes,” William agreed. “A wise course of action.”

While they spoke, the old man listened intently and smiled, evidently pleased with his grandson’s new friends.

“Let’s go inside for some chow,” Joe finally suggested.

“I’m all for it,” Chet added. “We have fixin’s for sandwiches in the cottage.”

While they lingered over lunch, conversation eddied about the strange mask. How long had it lain in the sand? What did the cryptic writing say? Why were the treasure hunters so interested in it?

“Grandfather may have a clue,” William said. “Babu, tell them what you told Chet and me.”

The old man, who had finished eating, pushed his chair back from the table and rested his hands on the crook of the cane. His voice, high-pitched with age, was clear and expressive. He spoke slowly.

“There is a legend, passed down many years from my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather.”

“Is it a true story?” asked Phil.

“Maybe not.”

“Go ahead,” William coaxed.

“It is about a ship called the Africanus Rex. My ancestors were on it. It had a treasure. It was neither gold, nor silver, nor gems, but a secret kept in the captain’s cabin. Anyone who dared look was——” He moved a forefinger across his throat.

“Life was cheap then,” William said.

“Say, do you suppose the mask has something to do with that treasure?” Frank asked.

The old man shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“I’ll bet the galleon the treasure hunters were looking for was the Africanus Rex!” Biff declared.

Frank turned to William. “Do you or your grandfather know anybody in town who can read Arabic?”

“Oh, yes,” William replied. “Ali El Ansari does.”

“Who’s he?”

The boys were told that Ali El Ansari was a merchant, originally from Cairo. He ran a curio shop that contained a large collection of African objects.

“I visit him often,” William said. “He might be able to help us.”

The grandfather excused himself and said good-by. He went home while the boys hastened to town.

Ali El Ansari’s shop, they found, was only several doors down from the restaurant where Phil had spoken gibberish to gain entrance.

“Behave yourself now and speak nicely,” Frank said, nudging his friend.

“Okay, Dad,” Phil quipped.

The store interior was postage-stamp size. A single counter faced the door, and glass cases extended from floor to ceiling on either side. When William tapped a hand bell on the counter, footsteps sounded from inside, and a slender man in his thirties appeared. He had high cheek bones, black curly hair, and a tan complexion, which, with his neat dark business suit, gave him a somber appearance.

When he saw William, he greeted him with a subdued smile. “Good afternoon, my friend. What can I do for you today?”

“I have something to show you, sir,” William said, pulling the mask out of the brown bag. The man leaned on the counter on his elbows and held the metal object, turning it from one side to the other. Then he looked up.

“This is a rare find. Where did you get it?”

“On the beach,” Joe said.

“It is very old and valuable,” El Ansari said.

“Is it a death mask?” Phil asked.

“I believe so.”

“What we would like to know about,” Frank said, “is the writing on the inside. Is it Arabic?”

“Indeed, yes. Let me get my magnifier.” The man went into the back and returned with a thick lens, which he put to his eye.

After studying the inscription for a while, he translated, “‘He who does not travel will not know the value of men.’ That is a Moorish proverb. The person who owned this probably was educated and well-traveled.”

Then Ali El Ansari said, “There is more here. It is visible only under my glass.”

“What is it?” Frank asked eagerly.

“A compass. This is curious.”

The man concentrated on the new discovery. Finally he said, “At the South point of the compass is the word ‘gold,’ at the North, the word ‘salt.’ And beneath the compass it says, ‘Mysterious Caravan!’”

CHAPTER V

An Ominous Telegram

JOE Hardy let out a low whistle. “Mysterious caravan! What could that possibly mean?”

“It means you’re into another mystery. What else?” Chet said. “Anything unusual about that?”

The others laughed while Frank jotted down the words on a piece of paper, and put it in his wallet.

The Arab said, “Would you consider selling this piece?”

“You know we can’t,” Frank said. “It belongs to the government of Jamaica.”

The man stroked his chin thoughtfully and replied, “Not necessarily. Who is to say it came from the sea? Perhaps somebody lost it in the sand years ago.”

“You should have seen the moss and barnacles we scraped off it,” William said. “It came from that old wreck all right.”

“In that case,” Ali said with a bow, “I abide by your decision.”

The Hardys thanked the shopkeeper and the boys returned to the beach house for their last full day of sun and fun on the island. But the cottage was never left unattended. One of them remained there at all times, guarding the treasure, while the others enjoyed snorkeling and skin-diving.

William left for his own home shortly after supper. The night was starlit, with tropical softness in the air. Much to the surprise of the Hardys, they were not disturbed by prowlers. The next morning Tony Prito said, “How do you like that for a peaceful sleep? Stribling and his boys must have given up.”

But they found out soon that this was not the case. William raced up the beach and burst in to greet his friends. He was breathing hard from the long run.

“Did you hear about Ali?” he asked.

“No. What happened?” Frank said.

“They got to him last night. Three men wearing stocking masks beat him up. He is in the hospital now.”

“Did they rob his place?” Phil asked.

“That is the strange part of it. The shop was thoroughly ransacked, but nothing was taken. They were looking for Bwana Brutus!”

“How do you know?” Joe asked.

“Ali reported to the police that the men demanded the mask the Hardy boys had ‘sold him.’”

“You mean he got beaten up on our account?” Frank said. “What a shame! Stribling’s goons must have seen us enter the shop.”

“We owe him something,” Tony Prito stated. “Let’s all go to the hospital and visit him.”

The boys readily agreed and decided to take him a present.

“We’ll stop in town and buy something,” Joe said.

“What about the mask?” Phil wanted to know. “We shouldn’t leave it here.”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking care of that right now,” Joe replied. He removed the equipment from his camera case and inserted the death mask.

“Old Brutus is going with us,” he declared.

On the way to the hospital they stopped at a florist’s to get a bouquet for the injured man. When they entered the Arab’s room, they were stunned by his condition. Ali’s head was swathed in a broad bandage. His right eye was blackened, and his left arm, immobile and in a cast, lay on the sheet. A nurse had cautioned the boys not to stay long.

After conveying their regrets, they prepared to leave. Ali smiled wanly and whispered, “Be very careful. That mask must be of fabulous value. Do you still have it?”

Joe patted the leather camera case.

“Get rid of it as soon as you can. Your lives are in danger!”

The boys said good-by and returned to the cottage, where the chore of packing began.

“Listen, Joe,” Frank said. “I was about to ask you the other day. What happened to my other pair of shorts?”

“Don’t look at me!” Joe said with mock hurt. “I wear only one pair at a time.”

“Chet?”

“They wouldn’t fit me,” the chubby boy said, and Tony, Phil, and Biff claimed they had not seen them either.

When the suitcases were filled, Frank threw his sport jacket over his arm. The thought flashed through his mind that he had not worn it once since removing it from his bag the day they arrived.

“Everyone ready to go?” he asked.

They all were. William would accompany his friends to the airport for the final good-by. Before they left, he removed the trinket from around his neck and handed it to Joe.

“Here, this is a gift to you,” he said. “A keepsake of friendship.”

“But I can’t accept that,” Joe said, embarrassed by the generous offer. “It’s some kind of an heirloom, isn’t it?”

“Please,” William said. “I know we’ll always be good friends.”

Their eyes met for a few silent seconds, then Joe smiled. He took the gift and put the chain over his head. “William, you’re a great guy!”

Carrying their bags, the boys trekked into town.

“We’ll drop the mask off at police headquarters,” Frank said.

“Take this silver coin, too,” Biff said.

“There is a cab,” William spoke up. “Shall I hold it? It is already late and we need two.”

“Tell you what,” Frank said. “Why don’t you go ahead, while Joe and I take care of the mask. That’ll give you more time to check in. Take our bags, too, and we’ll meet you at the airport later.”

“Okay,” Phil said, and the four piled into the taxi. Joe and Frank walked toward the municipal buildings. They were halfway down the block when they heard rapid footsteps behind them. Whirling around, they saw Sam Brown, George Aker, and another man.

“Wait a minute,” Aker called out. “What’s your hurry?”

The men’s ploy was obvious. “Let’s split and run,” Frank said. “We’ll meet at the airport.”

“Roger.”

The boys dashed off, Frank running across the street, Joe straight ahead toward police headquarters.

There shouldn’t be any problem, Joe thought, of reaching the police before the pursuers, one of whom had followed Frank.

But he had taken no more than twenty steps when Stribling and an unkempt-looking fellow approached him from the opposite direction, trying to block his path!

Joe raced into the street, just missing a car that screeched to a halt to avoid him. As he gained the other side, he tripped on the curb and fell, sprawled out on the sidewalk. Quickly he picked himself up, grabbed the camera case, and dashed away while onlookers stared at the chase. “Not a cop in sight!” Joe thought desperately. “What’ll I do?”

As the men gained on him, he saw the restaurant where Phil had eavesdropped. He ducked into an alley, went around behind the place, and burst into the kitchen, nearly bowling over the big chef.

“Help me!” Joe gasped. “Please!”

The Jamaican grabbed his shirt front. At the same time his eyes fell on the African trinket around Joe’s neck.

“Where did you get this?”

“William Ellis gave it to me.”

Without another word the chef shoved him into the pantry and barred the back door with arms akimbo.

Joe’s pursuers were now looking behind garbage cans, peering into every doorway.

“Did you see a white kid hanging around here?” Stribling asked the cook.

“We’ll meet at the airport!” Frank said.

He looked impassively at the questioner. “Listen, man, I mind my own business. But if you spill one of those cans, I’ll put it on your head like an Easter bonnet.”

The men hurried off, cursing their bad luck. When they were safely out of sight, the chef opened the pantry door. “What they want with you, man?”

“They’re thieves. Tried to take my camera case.”

“Well, they’re gone now.”

“Could you call a taxi for me, please?” Joe said.

The big man went to the telephone in the restaurant and a few minutes later a cab appeared in front of the place. Joe said good-by with a look of gratitude on his face.

“If you’re a friend of William’s, you’re a friend of mine,” the Jamaican said, with a big grin.

The taxi sped toward the airport.

In the meantime, Frank had already arrived and told the others what had happened.

“I figured I could make them run after me instead of Joe,” he said. “But I guessed wrong.”

“I hope nothing happened to him,” Phil said. “We shouldn’t have left you the way we did.”

Their flight was called and passengers filed from the waiting room through the final gate.

“Please don’t leave till my brother Joe arrives,” Frank said to the agent who checked the boarding passes.

“We’ll hold it as long as we can,” the man replied.

Soon the plane was filled. “I’ll have to close the gate now,” the official said. “Do you want to take another flight?”

“I think we’ll have to—oh, there he is!” Joe hurried up to them, the camera case swinging in his right hand.

“Just in time,” Frank said.

“Kwa heri,” William said. “Good-by to all of you!”

The boys shook hands and invited William to visit them in Bayport whenever he could. Then they hurried through the gate and onto the plane.

Once aboard, Frank handed his sport jacket to a stewardess, asking her to hang it up. Something white fluttered to the floor. She picked it up.

“Does this underwear belong to you?” she asked.

A dozen heads turned and the boys laughed out loud.

“Your missing shorts!” Joe snorted, sliding into his seat. “And you blamed me! Some nerve!”

“They must have gotten stuck inside my jacket in the suitcase,” Frank said lamely. “But now tell us. What happened to you?”

Joe described his escape. “William’s trinket saved me,” he concluded. “It must have a special meaning.”

“And you still have the mask?”

“Right here in my camera case.”

“Now you’re carrying contraband,” Phil declared.

“We’ll just have to take it along,” Frank said. “Nothing we can do about it.”

The flight north was smooth and they enjoyed a good lunch. In New York they changed planes and arrived in Bayport without further excitement. Their parents were on hand to meet them, and they went their separate ways.

At the Hardy home, after their aunt greeted them, she handed them a telegram. Frank ripped it open.

“It’s from William! Listen: ‘George Aker took the second section of that flight to New York. He is on your trail.’”

The boys told Aunt Gertrude and their parents what had happened, and Mr. Hardy immediately turned on the electronic surveillance system that protected their home.

Then Joe pulled the mask out of his camera case. Aunt Gertrude shuddered. “How horrible!” she exclaimed. “A death mask. This can bring nothing but bad luck. Look at those eyes! It just gives me the willies!”

“It won’t bite you,” Joe said with a grin.

“Worse than that,” Aunt Gertrude said. “It’s going to haunt us!”

Later in the evening, Mr. Hardy called his sons into his study. He was a handsome man, graying slightly at the temples. His face was rugged, his shoulders square, and his general demeanor confident. Fenton Hardy had once been a top-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, but had retired to Bayport to raise his family and conduct a private-investigation service that had gained a world-wide reputation.

He sat behind his desk as Frank and Joe slumped into lounge chairs.

“I think you had quite some excitement,” Mr. Hardy said.

“You can say that again,” Joe replied, adding, “can you tell us anything about your new case?”

His father explained that he had been commissioned to work for a number of airlines, acting together. “It’s a pretty serious situation,” he said. “Carriers are losing millions of dollars in ticket thefts. Previously, a few had been stolen by employees every now and then, but now a wholesale pilferage is going on. Cartons of blanks are hijacked from printing plants and wind up in the hands of a crooked network. They even went as far as demanding ransom for the blanks!”

“It wasn’t paid, was it?” Joe asked.

“It was. One airline paid seventy-thousand dollars for tickets that could have been worth two million. This must be stopped and the airlines are going all out to—”

A shrill noise interrupted the detective. The alarm!

All three rushed to the door. Aunt Gertrude screamed that her prediction had come true. The “intruder,” however, was Biff Hooper. He walked briskly up the front steps.

“Hey, it’s only me!” he said. “I was driving by and noticed someone snooping around. Thought you’d like to know.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Aker,” Frank said.

“Aker?” Biff asked. “He’s in Jamaica!”

“Not any more.” Frank showed his friend William’s telegram.

“Wow!” Biff said. “You must really have hit on something with that mask.”

“No doubt it holds a clue that the crooks know about and we don’t,” Frank said. “I’m sure they wouldn’t go to those lengths for just a piece of metal, even if it is an antique.”

The Hardys notified the police immediately, then started a search themselves.

“Frank, you check the shrubs on the other side of the house,” Mr. Hardy said. “Joe and Biff, try the back. I’ll look across the street.”

They rushed out the door and split up. Frank walked through remnants of snow to a dark clump of mountain laurel. As he was about to peer into the shadows, a figure jumped out and clapped a crushing headlock on him!

Frank tried to cry out, but in vain!

CHAPTER VI

Bug on the Window

FRANK struggled with his assailant, but could not break the deadly grip. He felt the man’s muscles flexing as he applied more pressure to the headlock. Spots began to swim before the boy’s eyes, and he knew that he was in danger of passing out.

With one final wrench Frank broke loose from the vise and fell to the ground while the intruder ran toward the street. Moments later, Frank heard the sound of a motor revving up and a car making a fast getaway.

Frank rested on hands and knees until his head cleared, then struggled to his feet and called for help.

Joe and Biff raced over to him to hear what happened.

“We’ll chase that scoundrel!” Biff declared, racing to his car with Joe at his heels. But it was a futile effort. The intruder was long out of sight, and minutes later the two boys returned.

Meanwhile, the police had arrived and were searching the grounds. The only clue was footprints between the mountain laurels and the first-floor windows.

“It was Aker. I feel sure of that,” Frank said. He told his father about the man’s sturdy build. “Powerful arms, as I recall,” he concluded.

At breakfast the next day Fenton Hardy announced that he and Sam Radley, his assistant, were leaving town for a few days to investigate the airline-ticket racket.

“There’s a printing outfit in Connecticut,” the detective explained, “that supplies blanks to several airlines. A truck from this plant was hijacked, and the thieves stole thousands of tickets.”

“Sounds like an inside job,” Frank said.

“That’s what we think. Sam and I will give the place a thorough check to see if any employees are involved.”

“Can we help you, Dad?” Joe asked.

“Later, perhaps,” Mr. Hardy replied. “So far Sam and I can handle this alone.”

Frank and Joe decided to go to the local library to look up African history. Perhaps they would find a clue to the gold-salt reference carved into the back of the mask.

Half a dozen volumes were available, but the librarian recommended one title in particular, The Golden Trade of the Moors.

Frank obtained it and they walked into the hushed and carpeted reading room. Sitting side-by-side, they pored over the events in North and West Africa from the fourteenth century on.

“Look, here’s something about Mansa Musa, King of Mali,” Joe pointed out. “No wonder William admired him so much.”

Their excited voices could be heard by one of the librarians. She looked up and cautioned them to speak lower. They nodded in embarrassment and quietly devoured the pages devoted to the fabulous Mansa Musa.

The black king, who was a Muslim, set out on a hadj, or pilgrimage, to Mecca in 1324. Mounted on horseback, he was preceded by five-hundred slaves. Each slave carried a staff of gold weighing five hundred mithqual. A footnote explained that a mithqual, or mithkal, was about one-eighth of an ounce of gold. They proceeded in a camel caravan numbering nearly one-thousand camels.

“Holy catfish!” Joe whispered. “Can you imagine what that’s worth at today’s prices?”

When the king passed through Cairo, he gave away so much gold as gifts that the country was thrown into a terrible inflation that lasted many years.

“What a guy,” Frank said.

The report went on to say that Mansa Musa was a good, just king, greatly loved by his subjects.

“Do you know how far that trip was?” Frank asked. “Let’s look it up on the map.”

“Wow! On foot and with camels? It seems impossible.”

Joe went through the indexes of the remaining books and finally said, “Frank, look at this. Salt was carried south from Sijilmasa and exchanged for equal weights of gold in West Africa! That’s what the inscription on the mask refers to.”

Further reading told them that Sijilmasa had long since become a lost city.

“Perhaps that’s where the mysterious caravan vanished,” Frank conjectured.

The hours had flown by quickly, and it was noon before the Hardys realized it.

“We’d better get home for lunch,” Joe said. “My stomach’s growling.”

“Mine, too.”

The boys arrived to find their mother and Aunt Gertrude in a state of excitement.

“You’ve had a phone call,” Mrs. Hardy said, “from Jamaica!”

The brothers looked at each other in amazement.

“Who was it?” Frank asked.

“Your friend William. He wants you to call him back right away.”

Mrs. Hardy handed Frank the number, and he had no difficulty reaching William.

“Hi, this is Frank Hardy. What’s going on down there?”

Frank listened for more than a minute, then said. “Sure. That’s fine. You let us know and we’ll meet you at the airport.”

After Frank hung up, the others were eager to hear the news.

“Is he coming to visit us?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Yes. He shadowed Stribling and Brown and found out that they want to get the mask at any cost. They’re leaving Jamaica for New York tomorrow morning. Whether they’ll come on to Bayport, William doesn’t know.”

“Our buddy’s really on the ball!” Joe said with admiration.

“Sure is. He’ll take the same flight and follow them wherever they go. He’ll call us from New York and let us know what’s up.”

“My goodness, that’s very dangerous!” Aunt Gertrude said. “He should stay in Jamaica. What if those terrible cutthroats come to Bayport?”

“We’ll take care of them!” Joe vowed.

“It also solves the problem of the mask,” Frank said. “William can take it back to Jamaica when he leaves.”

“And it’ll give us more time to study it,” Joe added.

“Right. By the way, Ali’s back in his shop and feeling much better.”

After lunch Joe said, “You know, Frank, I think Callie and Iola would get a great charge out of this mask. Why don’t we invite them over? They can help us polish it.”

“Good idea.”

Iola Morton, Chet’s sister, dated Joe, while Callie Shaw was Frank’s favorite girl. When Frank phoned the Morton farm, Callie was there and both accepted the invitation readily. Iola said, “Chet’s coming to see you later this afternoon anyway. We’ll drive over with him.”

“And stay for supper, okay?” Frank asked, raising his eyebrows and nodding to his mother.

Mrs. Hardy smiled a quiet consent. She, too, was fond of the girls.

When Aunt Gertrude heard the news, she bustled about the kitchen to make Chet a pie. His appetite was usually appeased by Aunt Gertrude’s goodies, and he praised her cooking all over Bayport and its environs.

At four o’clock a few heavy backfires announced the arrival of Chet’s jalopy. The girls were bundled up in ski jackets, and their faces were bright and rosy from the cold air as they entered the Hardys’ living room. Chet followed, a bright-yellow skating cap perched on his head.

“I wish I were back in Jamaica,” he said. “How would you like to swim in that warm surf today, Joe?”

Callie and Iola were intrigued by the mask, and after a delicious supper suggested that Frank and Joe drive them back to the Morton farm, where Iola had a special cleaning fluid.

“It’ll make Bwana Brutus’s face shine,” Iola said. All agreed, and by seven-thirty were on their way to Chet’s place, snow tires humming against the highway.

Frank and Joe kept looking behind to see if anyone was tailing them. Several cars passed, but far back, dim headlights seemed to be holding their position.

“You think that’s someone following us?” asked Iola.

“It’s probably Chet,” Frank said. “He left with us but dropped off the pace.”

Conversation turned to winter sports. Skiing had not been good, but the ice skating was the best in years.

“Our pond’s like glass,” Iola said. “Why don’t we have a skating party soon?”

“Fine with us,” Joe said as they pulled into the long driveway on the Morton farm. Chet arrived a few minutes later.

It was not until the mask lay on sheets of newspaper on the kitchen table and the girls, using cotton-tipped swabs, were cleaning every crevice in the beard, that the Hardys told them about William’s plan to visit.

“You’ll like him,” Joe said. “He’s tops.”

“Listen!” Callie said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“I thought I heard a little tap on the window.”

None of the others had, but nevertheless the Hardys and Chet hurried out into the biting cold to look around. No one was in sight.

When they were back inside with the girls, Iola inquired, “When is William coming?”

“He’s leaving on the nine fifteen A.M. flight to New York tomorrow morning, and will call us when he arrives.”

“Maybe he can teach you Swahili,” Chet said, looking at the girls. “And I’m warning you. It’s not easy!”

Everyone laughed; then Iola held up the mask. The face seemed to be more expressive than ever. Tilted at a certain angle, the mouth even appeared to have a faint smile.

“I still think it’s spooky,” Chet said.

Later, when the boys got ready to leave, Frank said, “It looks like old Brutus here had a real good beauty treatment.” He thanked the girls and offered Callie a ride home.

Just then Chet glanced out the window, which offered a view of the country road that curved around the farm.

“Look at this, guys,” he said. “A car just turned on its lights. It must have been parked.”

The Hardys became apprehensive. Why would a car be standing there at this time of night? Frank had a hunch, which he hardly dared think about. “Callie,” he said, “which window did you hear that noise at?”

She pointed to the one nearest the kitchen table. After putting on their coats, the Hardys went outside. They scanned every bit of the glass. Suddenly Frank saw it!

Far in the left-hand corner was a tiny suction disk. Attached to it was a small matchbox-size instrument and a long, trailing wire.

“The place has been bugged!” Frank cried out.

“You know what that means?” Joe said. “Someone in that car heard our conversation about William!”

“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.

“Get in touch with William and map out an alternate strategy,” Frank said.

Both boys were glum as they dropped Callie off. “Cheer up,” she said. “Things can’t be that bad!”

“You win an Oscar for optimism,” Joe said.

When the Hardys arrived home, they telephoned William. But there was no answer.

“I hope we reach him before his flight leaves tomorrow morning,” Joe said, worried.

They tried every hour all night long, but to no avail.

“Maybe he’s staying with his grandfather,” Joe said. “And we don’t even know his name. It’s his mother’s father.”

The next day the boys waited for a call from New York. The minutes ticked by in silence. Neither boy spoke much, and they picked sparingly at the food on their plates.

Mrs. Hardy tried to cheer them with no results.

Finally, late in the evening, the phone rang. Joe ran to pick it up. A look of horror came over his face as he listened to the voice on the other end.

“Give us that mask if you want to see William alive again!” a man rasped.

CHAPTER VII

Frank’s Brainstorm

THE caller hung up, leaving Joe holding the receiver.

“They’ve got William!” he finally burst out.

“How terrible!” Aunt Gertrude wailed. “I told you to have nothing to do with strangers! If you took my advice, you wouldn’t get into these horrid situations.”

“It’s not the boys’ fault,” their mother defended them. She turned to Frank. “Could it be just an empty threat? Maybe these people are only bluffing.”

The phone rang again. This time Aunt Gertrude snatched up the receiver. The voice on the other end was loud enough to be heard by the others.

“I mean business!”

“So do I!” Aunt Gertrude berated. “You villains leave my nephews alone or I’ll—I’ll—”

Click! The caller hung up.

“Those ruffians make me furious!” The woman huffed.

“You’ll never get anywhere talking like that!” Frank said. “We must be calm and find a way to trick them.”

“Whoever it is, he’ll phone again,” was Joe’s guess. “We can’t turn over the mask without knowing when, where, and how.”

The bell sounded once more and Frank took the call. The voice said, “We’re not going to give you more than a couple of days to decide.”

“We get the message,” Frank said evenly. “And we don’t want anything to happen to William. How soon shall we make the exchange?”

“I’ll contact you tomorrow. We’ll discuss details then.”

Realizing it was impossible to trace the call, Frank and Joe immediately set off on another tack. First Joe telephoned the airline’s New York office. They were told that William Ellis had debarked at Kennedy International Airport. Had he boarded a plane for Bayport? No, he had not.

“Is his baggage in New York?” Joe asked.

After a long wait he got the answer. “No.”

“Then perhaps it went through to Bayport.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“Thanks for your help,” Joe said, and he hung up.

“Let’s find out right away,” Frank said.

They jumped into their car and rode to Bayport Airport.

“If William’s luggage has arrived,” Joe said, “it might give us a clue.”

The terminal was nearly deserted at that time of night, as most flights had already come in. The baggage master gave the boys his prompt attention. Several suitcases were still unclaimed. Could they possibly identify their friend’s luggage?

It proved to be easy because one of the bags, a tan one that looked rather new, had William Ellis’s name on it in bold white letters.

“That’s it,” Joe said. “May we take it?”

“Not without authority.”

Joe went to a pay phone and called Chief Collig of the Bayport Police Department, a friend who had worked closely with them on many cases. He was not there, but the desk sergeant gave the boy his home phone number. When Collig answered, Joe outlined the case and said they were hoping to find a clue in William’s bag.

“Like what?” asked the chief.

“I don’t know. But can’t we at least bring it to headquarters?”

The chief gave his permission and said that a patrol car would arrive shortly to pick up the suitcase.

When it arrived, the officer signed a receipt and drove to headquarters, with the Hardys following.

By the time they got there, Chief Collig himself had arrived. “This is interesting,” he said. “I’d like to see what’s in the bag.”

The lock was picked by an expert and the suitcase laid open on the desk. In it were the usual things a young man would carry: slacks, a sport jacket, shirts, and a gift-wrapped package marked “Mrs. Hardy.”

Chief Collig slit the paper and revealed a jar of preserves. “Looks like mangoes,” he said.

“No doubt from William’s mother,” Frank said.

In a side pocket of the suitcase the chief found William’s Swahili wordbook. A slip of paper marked a certain page and Frank opened it. On it were written two words: Hatari Dingo.

“Hatari means ‘danger,’” Joe said and verified it in the book. But Dingo was not listed.

“Maybe it’s one of those words that are seldom used,” Frank said.

The contents of the suitcase were replaced and locked in the properties room for delivery to William if and when he should arrive.

The Hardys drove home. As they entered the driveway they saw a light in their father’s second-floor study.

“Dad must be home,” Frank said as he parked the car. “I wonder what’s new in the ticket racket.”

The boys hurried upstairs and found Fenton Hardy poring over a sheaf of notes.

“Dad, did you hear about William?” Joe asked.

“Mother and Gertrude told me,” the detective replied. “A very serious matter. I’d say you’ll have to relinquish the mask. It’s not worth a human life!”

“What did you and Sam find out?” Frank asked.

“I think we have a good lead,” his father replied. He told them that their investigation focused on a man named Kenleigh Scott, an employee of the printing plant who had been hired about six months previously.

“He’s very bright,” the detective went on, “and received several quick promotions. By his diligence he worked his way into the traffic department.”

“So he knew the routes of all the trucks. Is that it?” Joe asked.

“Exactly.”

“Did you question him?”

“I’m afraid not. He left without notice after the last big haul of tickets.”

“What does he look like?” Frank wanted to know.

“The photos filed with Plant Security have disappeared,” Mr. Hardy said, “but I’m confident that Sam can turn up something if he probes long enough. I left him on the case.”

Now speculation turned back to the death mask, and Mr. Hardy had an idea. “Why don’t you have a duplicate made at a foundry?” he suggested. “There’s a good one in Millvale. A friend of mine, Alex Krusinsky, is a foreman. I’m sure he could take care of this with absolute secrecy. You might even try to palm the copy off on the crooks!”

“Terrific thought!” Frank said. “We’ll see him first thing in the morning.”

While they were still at the breakfast table the next day, Chet’s jalopy bombarded its way down the street and their friend appeared at the back door, his freckled face beaming. “What do I smell, ham or sausage?”

“Sausage,” Aunt Gertrude said. “Farm fresh.”

“Can’t say I’d turn it down,” Chet remarked as he pulled up a chair. “And only two eggs, please, Aunt Gertrude. I’ve already had breakfast.”

“We were just talking with Dad about Bwana Brutus,” Joe said as he finished a glass of milk.

“Gives you the creeps, doesn’t it, Mr. Hardy?” Chet shook his head. “A mysterious caravan that existed hundreds of years ago. I’m afraid its secret is buried in the sands of time.”

“You’re getting pretty poetic so early in the morning,” Frank quipped. Then he added with a snap of his fingers, “You know, I just had a brainstorm.”

“Let’s hear it,” Joe said.

“Suppose a cargo of gold disappeared on its way from Mali to Sijilmasa. And suppose it was hijacked and hidden. And suppose a smart man knew where it was and made a map.”

“Go ahead,” Fenton Hardy said. “It intrigues me.”

Frank said that a parchment map could be destroyed, and so could wood. “That leaves metal, right?”

“Right!” Joe said. “The map might be on the death mask! Old Bwana Brutus might hold the key to the riddle!”

CHAPTER VIII

The Suave Stranger

“MAYBE the mask was the treasure in the captain’s cabin, and was lost in the wreck of the Africanus Rex,” Frank said.

“And I found it!” Joe was exuberant.

Chet put away his second fried egg and was savoring a sausage. “Fantastic!” he said. “And impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible, Chet,” Mr. Hardy said. “Maybe Frank has something there.”

“You know all the lines in those whiskers?” Frank went on. “They might camouflage the map that leads to the hiding place of the mysterious caravan!”

“It’ll take time to work this out,” Mr. Hardy said. “It might be a good idea to get a duplicate, even if you can’t give it to the kidnappers.”

“We’ll go to the foundry right away,” Joe said.

“Don’t take it over yourself,” Mr. Hardy advised. “Your enemies are desperate and might follow you. We’ll have to do this by stealth.”

They decided to call Tony Prito. He was to arrive in his father’s truck, dressed in work clothes, and would bring a toolbox in which to carry the mask out of the house.

“That’ll throw Stribling and company off the trail if they’re spying on us,” Joe said.

Tony agreed to cooperate. “Boy, just like a detective movie,” he said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

When he walked into the kitchen, the boys got the mask from the safe and put it into the box Tony was carrying.

“I’ll leave in our car a little later and meet you at the foundry,” Joe said. “Frank wants to go to the library, in the meantime, to get some old maps of Africa.”

Fifteen minutes after Tony had left, Joe drove to the foundry in Millvale, about ten miles away. He took a back road for a short cut. No one seemed to follow him. When he arrived, he looked for Tony’s truck, but there was no sign of it.

“Good grief!” he thought. “I hope nothing has happened!”

Joe hurried into the foreman’s office and asked Alex Krusinsky if the mask had been delivered.

“Not yet,” the man replied. “Was it supposed to?”

Joe felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Had Tony been waylaid and the mask stolen? He told Krusinsky about his mission, looking out at the parking lot over and over again. Then he phoned Tony’s home. Mr. Prito had not seen his son since he left the house with the truck.

Joe breathed deeply, trying to control his emotions. He made a second call to his father. Mr. Hardy answered and spoke in a low voice.

“I can hardly hear you, Dad,” Joe said. He could sense his father putting his lips close to the mouthpiece.

“I can’t talk any louder, Joe. A caller has just arrived, and I don’t want to be overheard.”

“Do you know what happened to Tony?” Joe asked, and he told his father about his futile search for the truck.

“No,” Mr. Hardy replied. “But don’t panic, Joe. Maybe the truck broke down. Just stay there till he comes and then hurry home. It’s important.”

“What is it, Dad?”

But Mr. Hardy had clicked off.

No sooner had Joe put the phone down, than he looked out the office window and saw Tony pull in. The boy parked and brought his toolbox inside.

“Where’ve you been, Tony?” Joe asked in an irritated tone. “You had me scared to death!”

“Flat tire! It does happen now and then, you know.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Joe said, and his friend opened the toolbox to remove the mask.

Alex Krusinsky looked it over carefully. “I can do a good job on this,” he finally said. “Call me tomorrow.”

“And don’t forget,” Joe warned, “it’s strictly confidential.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do it myself.”

The boys thanked him and left the office. On the way out Joe said, “Dad wants me to go right home for something important.”

“Maybe word from the kidnappers?”

“He didn’t say.” Joe opened the door of his car. “Okay, chum, see you later. And thanks.”

Both boys drove off, and Joe thought about his father’s cryptic message all the way home. He pulled into the driveway, having noticed a convertible parked in front. A man was slouched behind the wheel, with only his peaked cap showing.

Joe entered through the kitchen door. As he went in, he could hear the conversation in the living room. The visitor had a mellifluous baritone voice that Joe could not identify.

The boy walked into the room and saw his parents and Aunt Gertrude having tea with a tall, handsome man. The suave, sun-tanned stranger was introduced to Joe as Elroy Abrams, a representative of the Jamaican Consulate. He rose to shake hands, then sat down again, crossed his legs comfortably, and looked Joe directly in the eye.

“I’ll brief you quickly on my mission,” he said. “Our government was alerted to the fact that you found an ancient mask on the beach in Jamaica. It is in the police report after the beating of Ali El Ansari. I have come to reclaim that mask. It belongs to the people of our country, you know.”

“We were going to send it later, Mr. Abrams,” Joe said lamely. Through his mind flashed the question: What if this man demanded the mask right now? And how would they satisfy the kidnappers? Should he tell the whole story to Abrams?

The man went on, “You should not have kept it at all!”

“We tried to return it before our flight home,” Joe said. “But we ran into some trouble.” He did not elaborate further. “Anyway, we got on the airplane with it. Just in time, too, I might say.”

The man smiled ingratiatingly. “You won’t be in any trouble if you turn it over to me now.”

Joe perspired. “What a box I’m in!” he thought.

He was interrupted by the sound of Frank’s footsteps as he came through the front door and entered the living room. Frank was introduced to Abrams; then he looked nervously at his father.

“Dad, I must speak to you alone. Could you come upstairs for a minute? It’s important.”

Frank smiled at the caller. “You will excuse us, Mr. Abrams, but it’s something that can’t wait.”

The man nodded amiably and addressed Laura Hardy, saying that she had two mighty fine sons.

When Frank and his father entered the study and closed the door behind them, the boy pulled a letter from his pocket. It was sent by air-mail, special delivery.

“I intercepted the postman on the sidewalk,” Frank said. “It’s from Sam Radley.”

As Mr. Hardy slit it open, he said, “We’re in a tight fix, Frank. That gentleman from the Jamaican Consulate wants us to turn over the mask pronto.”

“Ye gods, and it’s at the foundry!”

“Right. Maybe we can promise it for this evening. Trouble is, he is insistent and wants it immediately.”

“Dad, we couldn’t give it to him if we had it. What about William?”

Mr. Hardy had taken the letter from the envelope and a photograph fell to his desk.

“Oh, good,” he said. “Sam got a picture of our man Scott.” He scanned the letter. “It was taken unknown to him at an employees’ picnic,” Radley had written.

Frank stared at the snapshot and gasped. “Oh, no!”

He took a magnifying glass from the desk drawer and focused on Scott. The people in the photo were magnified to twice their size.

The Hardys exchanged shocked glances. “No doubt, Dad.” Frank said. “This man is in our living room right now!”

CHAPTER IX

The Clue in the Coat

THE suspense and excitement were nearly unbearable. Although the sound of their voices was well insulated from the floor below, Frank found himself talking in a whisper.

“Dad, what do you make of it? If the man is really the airline-ticket thief, why does he want the death mask? And how did he know about it?”

“Easy, Frank,” his father replied. “Maybe there’s a connection we don’t know about, though he did show us his credentials. I’ll phone the Jamaican Consulate in New York.”

The operator gave Mr. Hardy the number, and his call went through in a few moments.

After the detective had identified himself, he said, “We have a visitor here named Elroy Abrams. He is representing himself as an official of the Jamaican Consulate. I’d like to verify his credentials.”

A minute or two of silence followed. “No, Mr. Hardy,” was the reply. “We have no person by that name in our employ.”

“Then he must be an impostor!” Mr. Hardy said. After hanging up, he tapped out the number of Bayport Police Headquarters and spoke to Chief Collig, asking him to send two men over to arrest Abrams.

“Three squad cars are investigating an accident on the highway,” the chief said. “But I’ll have someone there as soon as I can.”

“Well,” Mr. Hardy said to Frank, “let’s go down and see what Mr. Abrams-Scott has to say for himself.”

“Are you going to nab him right away?”

“No. Not until the police arrive.”

When father and son returned to the living room, Mrs. Hardy had just brought in another pot of tea and a tray of cookies.

“Good,” Frank thought. “This’ll give us the time we need.”

The boy’s heart was thumping at the bizarre situation. Joe seemed embarrassed to have the bogus official dun him for the mask. The women, in an affable mood, were chatting with the caller, whose charisma was undeniable.

After munching on a couple of cookies, for which he complimented his hostesses, the caller pressed his napkin to his lips and said with some finality, “Now what about the mask? I have to leave shortly to get back to New York. Joe, will you bring it to me?”

Joe was not often tongue-tied. In fact, Frank had never known his brother to lack for an answer. But this time Joe’s mouth opened and no words came out.

Frank quickly took up the slack in the conversation. He had to keep the ball rolling until the police arrived.

“First of all,” Frank said, “Joe and I want you to know that we appreciate your kindness. You’ve been fair with us, and we’ll be fair with you, Mr. Scott.”

Instantly the boy was stunned by his own blunder as well as by Scott’s reaction, which hit like a thunderclap. Realizing he had been found out, the man overturned his tray, the utensils and china thudding onto the carpet. Joe was immobilized by the suddenness of it all. He thought the man had gone crazy!

Mrs. Hardy emitted a cry and Aunt Gertrude screamed, knocking over the half-empty teapot. The liquid spilled on Mr. Hardy’s trousers. The impostor leaped up, grabbed his stylish leather coat, and tried to struggle into it while dashing for the door.

“Get him!” Mr. Hardy cried out. Frank lunged and so did Joe. The leather slipped through their fingers and Kenleigh Scott dashed down the front steps, still struggling to get into his coat.

Joe leaped from the top step, grasped the dangling sleeve, and hung on with bulldog tenacity. Scott whirled around. He struggled free of the garment and ran into the waiting car, the back door of which was open. Wheels skidded in the soft snow for a second; then the vehicle took off like a rocket.

Frank made a mental note of the license number. Then he groaned. “Where are the police? Why didn’t they come in time?”

“Frank, will you tell me what this is all about?” Joe asked. “Why did Abrams flip his lid?”

“His name isn’t Abrams,” Frank said, as they returned, shivering, into the house. “That was Kenleigh Scott. We were just about to catch him when I blew it!”

Still shaking from the ordeal, Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law were busy cleaning up the mess on the living room floor. They were dazed by their guest’s explosive departure, and when Mr. Hardy explained what had happened, Aunt Gertrude sank onto the sofa.

“A criminal! In our house!” she said weakly. “And we served him tea! Oh, dear, he might have murdered us all!”

Frank and Joe pitched in with the cleanup job until a squad car arrived. After the patrolmen were given a description of the getaway car, one of them immediately radioed headquarters. The other units would be on the lookout for it.

The impostor leaped up!

Shortly afterwards headquarters called back. It had been a rental car, signed out by an A. E. Dingo.

“Hey, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “Dingo is the name in the Swahili wordbook! He’s the one that William thought was dangerous!”

“Well, he got away this time,” Frank said. He turned to his father. “I’m sorry, Dad. If we had caught Scott, you might have wound up your case quickly.”

“Don’t worry about it, son,” Mr. Hardy replied. “It doesn’t always work out that easily.”

“Have you tried to figure out the double role of Kenleigh Scott in the ticket-mask mysteries?” asked Joe.

“That has me up a tree,” the detective ruefully admitted. “But if there’s an answer, we’ll find it!”

Now the Hardy family was settled again after the frightening experience, and Mr. Hardy said, “Gertrude, don’t wash these dishes.”

“Goodness sakes! Why not? I’ll use double-hot water on that cutthroat’s cup!”

“Wait a minute. We need fingerprints,” her brother replied. He assigned Frank to lift prints from the cup handle, the edge of the saucer, and the spoon. Then he examined the fine leather coat that now lay on the sofa.

“Look at the label, boys,” he said. “It’s from Paris.”

“Expensive, no doubt,” Joe said, as he felt the material. “Kenleigh Scott must have lots of money from his ticket racket.”

“I think it’s kidskin,” the detective went on, jotting down the name of the company. “We’ll send them a cable asking for a list of possible dealers in the United States.”

“I guess it’s a long shot, Dad, but it’s worth trying,” Joe said.

Frank, meanwhile, had lifted two sets of prints from the cup and saucer. One was Aunt Gertrude’s. The second, they felt sure, belonged to the impostor.

“Let’s take them to Chief Collig,” Joe suggested.

“How about sending a copy to Interpol?” Frank said. “If this airline-ticket racket is spread all over the world, Interpol might have something on our friend Scott.”

“An excellent thought,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

As they started to send the information out, Mrs. Hardy asked, “Fenton, where did Gertrude go?”

“She was here a minute ago. There she is, outside!”

“What is she looking at in the gutter?” Frank wondered.

Gertrude Hardy was bent down, tugging at something in the wet snow with her bare hands. The boys ran out to question her.

“Aunty, what’s going on?” Joe asked.

“Humph!” she replied, straightening up. “You think you’re the only ones who know how to look for clues?”

Joe winked at his brother and said, “Of course not. What have you got there?”

She held up what appeared to be a letter. It was soaked and crumbled from lying in the wet snow.

“This could have fallen from that scoundrel’s pocket,” Aunt Gertrude declared. “You spun him around like a pinwheel, Joe.”

“All right, let’s bring it inside to dry,” Frank said. “And thanks for helping us.”

Once indoors, Joe spread the soggy paper on the drainboard in the kitchen. The words, written in ink, were smudged and barely legible.

Aunt Gertrude went upstairs and returned minutes later with her hair dryer. She plugged it in and soon had warm air blowing on the mysterious letter.

“Maybe it’s somebody’s shopping list,” Joe quipped.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Aunt Gertrude retorted tartly. “Fenton, come here and look at this! That’s no shopping list at all!”

Mr. Hardy, who had been busy dispatching the information to Interpol and to the French company, came into the kitchen to examine his sister’s find.

“There, it’s showing up more clearly now,” he said. “Joe, we need a magnifying glass, the powerful one you keep in your desk.”

Joe raced up the stairs, two at a time, and returned with the lens. He bent over to study the writing and his face grew beet red.

“It’s—it is a clue, Aunt Gertrude!” he exclaimed.

“Then read it to us.”

Joe sucked in his breath. “I can’t make out all the words, only a few. They say, ‘Get mask…us…and…will knock off Fenton Hardy.’”

CHAPTER X

A Muddy Race

“YOU know what this means?” Frank asked. “Dad’s enemies and ours have gotten together somehow.”

“You’re right,” Mr. Hardy said. “They’re working together and are twice as strong now.”

The boys felt sheepish when they complimented Aunt Gertrude on her good piece of detective work.

“We Hardys have to stick together,” she replied with a coy smile. “I hope it helps you solve your case.”

“Aunt Gertrude, you’re something!” Joe said. “We’re sorry we took it so lightly.”

The next morning they called the foundry. “Is the job ready?” Joe asked.

“Yes. It turned out fine,” Mr. Krusinsky replied. “Come and get it any time.”

Another four inches of snow had fallen during the night, but since then the temperature had risen above freezing, and the roads were covered with a sloshy, slippery mess. With Frank at the wheel, they drove toward the foundry.

“I hope our scheme works,” Joe said as they sped out into the open country. “We’ll give up the duplicate mask for William and continue to study the original, if at all possible.”

“Right,” his brother said. “This investigation is a long way from being finished. Do you suppose we can catch the kidnappers?”

“It’s going to be risky. But we’re duty-bound to report it to the police.”

“If we could only spring a trap and nail the whole gang!” Frank said.

They drove through farmland. Corn had been planted on both sides of the highway the summer before and the stubble poked through the fresh covering of snow. The boys had been watching the road behind them for possible spies, but it had been clear of traffic for several minutes. All at once, however, a red Ford sedan, traveling at high speed, pulled up close.

“I wish that guy would stop tailgating,” Frank said. “If I had to brake suddenly, he’d climb right up my back!”

He drove as far to the right as he could to let the sedan pass. It did, but instead of streaking off, it slowed in front of them. When Frank tried to overtake the Ford, he was blocked!

“What’s the matter with that joker?” Joe asked.

Just then another car appeared, as if from nowhere, and positioned itself behind them. They were boxed in!

“We’re in trouble, Joe,” Frank said. “Did you get a look at these goons?”

The two men in the rear car wore ski masks pulled down over their faces, as did the driver in front. Their heads were covered except for eye slits and a mouth hole.

Frank tried again to pass the Ford, but it moved out to the center of the highway and their bumpers banged. The Hardys were sandwiched in tighter than ever, and their tormentors brought them almost to a halt.

“They want us to stop,” Joe said.

“Not on your life! I’m going to make a break for it!” Frank declared. They had come to a place where only a shallow ditch dropped off on the left side of the road. Frank watched for oncoming traffic. Now he had a chance!

Turning the wheel sharply and flooring the gas pedal, he broke out of the tight formation. Their right fender crumpled for a split second with a grinding crunch, but the car broke free!

Frank crossed the road, drove down into the ditch, and up the other side. “Look back, Joe. What are they doing?” he asked.

“Coming after us!”

“I think we can shake them off.”

The soft snow on the muddy field in front of them made driving treacherous. Frank drove in a tight semicircle, hoping to regain the highway and speed back to Bayport. Joe saw the trailing cars falling back.

“We’ve got it made!” he exulted.

Frank fantailed on the mucky topsoil and headed at full speed for the road. The rear wheels kicked up a rooster tail of snow and mud, and the motor growled as he urged every bit of horsepower from it.

But then—slam!

About a hundred yards from the side of the highway, the car stopped dead in its tracks.

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“Must have been a rock hidden by the snow,” Frank said. “We’re high centered!”

“Look, they’re gaining on us!” Joe said. “The only thing left to do is to stand and fight.”

The boys leaped from the car and got behind it while their pursuers raced up.

“If they hit the car, get ready to jump!” Frank told his brother.

The two other vehicles, however, slowed to a stop and the three men stepped onto the snow. They approached the Hardys, who stood poised for the attack. Besides being good boxers, they excelled in karate.

“We don’t have the mask you’re looking for!” Joe said hotly.

“We’ll see for ourselves,” one of the men replied. After searching the car in vain, their leader said, “We could drop you both in the snow right now, if we wanted to.”

“Why don’t you try?” Frank said.

“No. We don’t want to hurt you. We want you to take a message back to your old man. Tell him to lay off his case! He’s not dealing with a bunch of stumblebums this time!”

“So, what if he doesn’t?” Joe demanded.

“That might just be the end of Fenton Hardy!” The men chuckled at the boys’ predicament and drove away.

“Now what?” Joe asked.

“Here, put your shoulder to the back of the car.”

The boys pushed and shoved, to no avail. The automobile was stuck tight.

“We’ll have to go for help,” Frank said. “There’s a farmhouse on that ridge over there.”

The brothers trudged across the field, past out-buildings and sheds, and knocked on the farmhouse door. A gray-haired man opened it. Frank introduced himself and his brother and said, “Can you help us, please? We’re stuck in your field and can’t get out.”

“I saw them cars a while ago,” the farmer said. “What was that, some fraternity initiation?”

“Nothing like that,” Joe replied.

“Well, whatever it was, it was plumb crazy!”

“We’re high-centered on a rock, sir,” Joe said.

“I just ought to let you sit,” the farmer grumbled. “Where’d this nonsense get you? Into trouble, that’s where!”

“Perhaps we could use your tractor,” Joe pleaded.

“It ain’t working.”

“Do you have a horse?”

“Yes. I got a horse. Two of ‘em.”

“Could we have them pull the car out?” Frank asked. “We’d be glad to pay you.”

“I wouldn’t take no money from no kids. Okay. I’ll get the horses. But next time you’re fooling around with your friends, don’t play tag in my fields!”

The farmer put on boots and coat, and the Hardys followed him into the barn, redolent of hay and horses. The animals nickered and tossed their heads.

“Quiet! Easy there!” the man said.

Frank and Joe patted the horses while the farmer led them out of the barn. He harnessed the animals to a whiffletree and said to the boys, “You know how to handle horses?”

“Yes. We’ve done it before,” Frank said.

“Okay. Take them and pull your car off the rock, then bring them back to the barn.”

“You’re very kind,” Joe said. “Thanks for helping us.”

The farmer replied with a grunt, and he went back into the house.

Frank and Joe walked the animals across the field, then hitched them to the front of the car. Holding the reins, Frank said, “Giddap, there, fellows. Pull!”

The horses strained for a few seconds. With a scraping noise the underside of the chassis came free of the stone. Joe drove the car to the highway, while Frank took the horses back to the barn. After unharnessing them, he led them into their stalls. “Thanks, old boys.”

When they arrived at the foundry, Krusinsky greeted them cordially. “Well, here you are,” he said, showing them the two masks on his desk. “Can you tell ‘em apart?”

“That’s a great job!” Frank exclaimed. “I think you’d better tell us which is which.”

The foundry man pointed to the original, then wrapped them up.

“How much do we owe you for this?” Joe asked.

Alex Krusinsky smiled. “Your dad said he’d take care of it later. Give him my regards. By the way, your mother has been trying to get you on the phone. She said you should have been here half an hour ago.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “May I use your phone?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Frank dialed the number and Mrs. Hardy answered. Her voice sounded nervous and she spoke fast. “Frank, they telephoned!”

“The kidnappers?”

“Yes. They left instructions. Hurry home as fast as you can!”

CHAPTER XI

Chet the Genius

GRABBING the package, the boys raced outside. Off they went toward Bayport, both looking grim and wondering what instructions the kidnappers had given.

They found Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude in the living room.

“What did they say, Mother?” Frank asked.

Mrs. Hardy picked up a piece of paper from an end table. “I made the notes right here,” she said. “The kidnappers will meet you at two o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Where?”

“Behind Mary’s Quick Stop.”

“The little hamburger place on the Shore Road?” Joe asked.

“That’s right. They have William, and they warned us not to notify the police.”

“But we’ll have to,” Frank said.

“It’s pretty woodsy out there,” Joe added. “Good cover for a possible ambush.”

Joe returned the masks to the Hardys’ safe while Frank phoned police headquarters. Officer Kennedy answered.

“I don’t know you, do I?” Frank asked.

The man replied that he had been on the force only three months. The desk lieutenant had been called away momentarily. What was it that Frank wanted?

“Is Chief Collig there?” Frank asked.

“No. Can I give him a message?”

“All right,” Frank said, and he gave the rookie details of the kidnappers’ phone call.

The boys paced about the house restlessly and only nibbled at their lunch. Mr. Hardy was out of town and would not return until later, so they could not consult with him.

“Listen, Joe,” Frank said finally. “Let’s work on the mask and compare the lines with the maps I got from the library.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the telephone rang. It was Callie Shaw. “Iola and I can’t get that spooky mask out of our minds,” she said. “Can we help you any more?”

Joe chuckled. “You mean you want to come over?”

“Well—”

“Sure. We’d like to see you. Something’s really brewing. We’ll tell you when you get here.”

The girls arrived in the Shaw family car, and when Frank told them about the kidnappers’ plan their eyes danced with excitement.

“Oh, that’ll be so dangerous!” Iola said. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“Dad will be back by that time,” Joe said. “Besides, the Bayport police probably will have the place staked out. When the crooks walk into the trap, snap! We’ve got ‘em!”

“Joe’s an optimist,” Frank said, smiling. “It might not be all that easy.”

After laying the work out on the dining-room table, Callie and Iola made rubbings of the mask, using the original. Then they inked in the lines of the face and beard.

“Among all these squiggles,” Callie said, “might lie the secret.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Frank said.

The four young people studied, compared, and repeated their efforts time and again. Finally Joe said, “I’m getting cross-eyed from all this.” He sat back wearily, as his mother walked over.

“You need some fresh air,” she said.

“Me, too,” Frank muttered.

“Why don’t you go ice-skating on Iola’s pond for a while? You just can’t sit around fidgeting until two o’clock in the morning.”

The girls agreed and pulled Frank and Joe out of their seats. While Frank returned the mask to the safe, Joe gathered up the maps and tracings and put them into a briefcase. “Let’s take them with us,” he said. “Maybe we can work on them later at your house, Iola.”

“I’ll chauffeur you,” Callie offered. “You boys can relax and rest your brains.”

When they arrived at the Morton farm, Chet was at the kitchen table, finishing a late lunch.

“I have some great news!” he said. “And some bad news, too.”

“Well, out with it!” Joe said.

“The good news is that school will be closed for another two weeks at least. Just heard it on the radio.”

“How come?”

“The steam boiler broke down. It has to be replaced and they can’t get a new one right away.”

“I would say that’s bad news,” Frank said.

“Oh, no. The bad news is that we’ll have to make up the lost time at the end of the year.”

“That sounds logical,” Callie commented.

“But it’ll be almost summer by then,” Chet protested. “Sun shining, birds singing—”

Mrs. Morton interrupted Chet’s reverie by asking if the young people wanted some hot chocolate to fortify themselves. While they drank it, they told Chet their latest news.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “I hope everything goes all right! You know, sometimes kidnappers kill their victims!”

“Don’t even think that,” Frank said.

When they were finished, the young people took their skates and walked out behind the barn.

“You were right,” Joe told Iola. “It’s like a mirror.”

While Callie and Iola donned their skates, the boys collected some firewood and soon had a bonfire burning on a knoll beside the pond.

“Now we won’t freeze to death,” Frank said as he put on his skates to join the others. They glided over the ice gracefully, doing figure eights and whizzing about the pond arm in arm. After a while they went to the fire to warm their cold hands and feet.

“I can’t help thinking about William,” Frank said. “Here we are, having a good time. I wonder what he’s doing right now?”

“You’ll have him back soon,” Callie said kindly. “Worrying won’t do you any good.”

After half an hour of skating, Chet said, “Who’s for snap the whip?”

The girls were given first chance at the end of the whip. Iola was to start. The whip snapped her at high speed, and she sailed around the edge of the pond, screaming in delight. Callie followed. She nearly lost her balance, but remained on her feet to enjoy the ride.

With rotund Chet anchoring the end of the line, Frank and Joe spun away like cannon shots, their friends cheering them on.

When it was Chet’s turn, the five skated fast. Then Frank anchored the line. Chet spun off at the end at terrific speed, and somehow lost his balance. His feet went out from under him and he landed on his back, his head hitting the hard ice.

Callie and Iola screamed and raced to the supine boy. Chet was stunned momentarily and did not move, and Frank put a hand under his shoulder to lift his head from the ice. At the same time Joe felt the back of Chet’s head through the yellow skating cap.

“He’s got quite a bump,” Joe said. “Iola, will you bring a handful of snow?”

The girl skated to the edge of the pond and returned with the snow, which Joe applied to the contusion. Then they slid Chet carefully across the pond and carried him up gingerly beside the bonfire. There his sister rubbed more snow in his face and his eyes flickered open.

“Who—who turned out the light?”

“You got kayoed,” Joe said.

“Ow!” Chet winced. He tested his muscles. Everything seemed all right with the exception of the bang on his head.

“I guess I’ll survive,” he decided. “But I’ve had enough skating. Let’s go inside.”

Mr. and Mrs. Morton had left to visit friends, having told Iola they would return later in the evening.

“I’m in charge now,” Iola said, dimpling. “Chet, you lie on the sofa until you feel better.”

They decided not to tackle the riddle of the mask again until after supper.

Callie and Iola busied themselves in the kitchen, and even before the meal was ready, Chet walked in, sniffing the aroma.

“Out!” Iola demanded. “No picking! Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

The stuffed peppers the girls had made were eagerly devoured by the hungry skaters, and when the dishes had been cleared away, Frank spread the maps and tracings on the table.

“All right, let’s start all over,” he said. “Chet, you want to help?”

“I think you could use my expert assistance,” the stout boy replied.

They worked for several minutes, overlaying the tracings onto the dozen or so ancient maps. Then Chet picked up one of the tracings. “Here, let me try.”

“You’ve got it wrong-side up, dummy,” his sister said with a chuckle.

“Hey! Wait! It matches!”

The young people looked dumbfounded at Chet’s mistake.

“Good grief, he’s right!” Frank said. “Would you believe it?”

“Chet, you’re a genius,” Callie exclaimed. “The fall on the ice must have done you some good!”

The boys reasoned that in order to make the riddle even more difficult to decipher, the person who made the mask had deliberately reversed the lines.

“See here?” Frank said, as he put the upside-down tracing on several more maps. “The lines correspond. All except one.”

That one meandered up to the Atlas Mountains. “Today that would be southern Morocco,” Iola said. “Where do you suppose the line stops?”

“Probably at the end of the route taken by the mysterious caravan,” Joe guessed.

In high spirits the girls prepared duplicate copies on thin tissue for Frank and Joe, who folded them carefully and put them into secret compartments in their wallets.

“What about me?” Chet asked, hurt.

“The fewer of these around the better,” Frank said. “Don’t worry, Chet. We’re giving you credit for the greatest discovery!”

“I want a dish of ice cream instead. All that brainwork made me hungry.”

After another dessert for Chet, the friends parted, and Callie drove Frank and Joe home. Mr. Hardy was there when they arrived.

“Dad! We solved the riddle of the map!” Joe said, bursting into the house.

“Wait a minute,” Frank said as he shucked his gloves. “You mean Chet solved it.”

The three adults listened in amazement as the boys told their story.

“Well, what does all this mean?” Mrs. Hardy asked. “You’re not going to Africa, are you?”

Frank and Joe looked at each other, and before they had a chance to reply, Aunt Gertrude spoke up.

“Laura, don’t put such thoughts in their heads! Next thing you’ll know they’ll be off and we’ll never see them again. Oh, dear! Pygmies and poisoned arrows, man-eating crocodiles, snakes—”

She clapped her hand to her forehead, and Mr. Hardy said, “Gertrude, please don’t subject us to the horrors of your imagination!”

He turned to the boys. “Look, it’s some time before two o’clock. I suggest we rest so we’ll be fresh for the rendezvous.”

“Dad, I want to check with the police again,” Frank said.

“I’ve already done that,” the detective replied. “Chief Collig has received the message from Officer Kennedy. The FBI was notified, too. All we have to do is to be at the designated spot with the duplicate mask at two o’clock.”

Frank and Joe went to their room and lay down. Overstimulated, they lingered at the edge of sleep for an hour or so, never really dropping off to a deep slumber. They got up at one-thirty, after hearing their father on the floor below. Their mother and Aunt Gertrude were up to see them off.

Fenton Hardy drove the car, with the two boys seated beside him. Frank held the mask on his lap. The temperature had dipped below freezing again and the air was nippy, with stars shining brightly.

“Mary’s Quick Stop is just around the next curve,” Joe announced. The detective dimmed his lights and approached the place slowly. No one was in sight.

“I’ll go around the back and we’ll wait there,” Fenton Hardy decided. A driveway circled the place; and once concealed near the rear entrance, their car could not be seen from the road.

The detective shut off the engine. They waited tensely. Joe switched on the radio and turned it very low. The dim beat of rock music was the only sound in the stillness.

Frank kept looking at his watch. Finally he said, “It’s two o’clock exactly, Dad.”

“They should be here any minute.”

Just then a flashlight blinked at the side of the restaurant. The detective answered by turning his lights on and off quickly. As the three got out of the car, a voice said, “Put your hands up, all of you!”

The Hardys did, Frank holding the mask high above his head.

Now the speaker appeared. He wore a ski jacket and a mask. Behind him stood the tall figure of William Ellis.

“You’re covered, so don’t make a false move!” the criminal said. “Give me that mask!”

Frank stepped forward and turned it over. To himself he thought frantically, “Where are the police? When is the trap going to be sprung? Now is the time!”

In the dim starlight the boy tried to make out the face behind the mask. But there was no chance of recognition.

Now the Hardys noticed that William was blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back. The man shoved him in the back, and he stumbled into Frank’s arms.

“He’s all yours,” the kidnapper grumbled, and William gave a small sigh of relief.

“Don’t worry, William,” Joe said. “You’re safe now.”

As the kidnapper retreated along the side of the restaurant and out of sight, Joe said, “Dad, what happened to the police? They should have been here!”

“Somebody must have goofed,” his father replied. Seconds later a motor sounded, and with its lights switched off, the car drove away from Mary’s Quick Stop.

“They’re taking off!” Frank shouted and ran to the front.

CHAPTER XII

Sign of the Ju-Ju Man

MR. HARDY waited a few more minutes, then turned on the engine, and was just about to drive away when three sets of headlights zipped down the road. Approaching Mary’s Quick Stop, the lights were turned off and the cars proceeded more slowly.

“Jumping Catfish!” Joe declared. “It’s the police!”

The silhouette of their domes became visible as the squad cars blocked the Hardys’ exit. A number of men jumped out with flashlights illuminating the detective and the boys.

“What happened to you?” Mr. Hardy demanded as he stepped out of his car.

Chief Collig, who was in the lead, looked embarrassed. “We thought it was Tom and Mary’s Diner down the road about a half mile.”

“Oh, nuts,” Frank said in disgust. “I wondered whether Kennedy got the message fouled up.”

“He’s new on the force.” Collig tried to apologize. He turned to the other men, including three agents from the FBI and told them that obviously a mistake had been made in the location.

“Well, the kidnappers are gone now,” Mr. Hardy said. “That way.” He pointed. “We have the hostage, safe and sound. He’ll be available for questioning later.”

“Fine. We’ll get a statement from him tomorrow,” Chief Collig said, and the police took off in the direction of the kidnap car.

On the way back to Bayport, the grateful William described his ordeal. When he had reached New York, two men who claimed to be operatives for Mr. Hardy duped him into thinking that Frank and Joe were waiting in the city.

“They did not look at all like criminals,” the boy said.

“Not all of them do,” Mr. Hardy said. “Then what happened?”

William described how they had entered a small hotel, where he had been seized, bound, and gagged. “They pushed me into a closet near the reception desk. After about an hour, I was taken into a car and driven a long way to what seemed like the country. A quiet place, with not much traffic.”

“They probably hid you near Bayport,” Mr. Hardy surmised. “Did you overhear anything?”

“They talked about the mask. The reason why they want it so badly is that according to a legend they heard, the clue to the treasure on the Africanus Rex was on a mask. It seems that it was the secret hidden in the captain’s cabin.”

“Right!” Joe said. “We arrived at the same conclusion!”

“They forced Ali to tell them about the inscriptions,” William went on. “Then they tried to figure out what they meant, but could not.”

“We did!” Joe said. He explained how the lines on the beard actually traced the route of the ancient Sahara caravans.

“That was very clever!” William said in admiration.

“Wouldn’t it be great to go treasure hunting in Africa?” asked Joe as they approached Elm Street.

“You know, that’s a super idea,” Frank said. “We could take William with us. His knowledge of Swahili might come in handy!”

“You must be jesting,” the Jamaican said. “Aren’t they, Mr. Hardy?”

“Stranger things have happened,” the detective replied. “We’ll talk more about it later.”

Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude were still up when they arrived, and the women were delighted to see that William had been released unhurt.

“You must be starving,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I’ll make you a sandwich. Would you like it toasted?”

“Yes, ma’am, please.”

All the while Gertrude Hardy studied their midnight guest. As he ate, she adjusted her spectacles, peered over them, then concentrated her gaze through the lenses.

Joe nudged her and whispered, “Don’t stare at him like that, Aunty.”

“He’s a handsome boy,” his aunt replied, “and so polite.”

“Then you won’t mind if he goes to Africa with us?”

Aunt Gertrude smiled benignly. “That’s out of the question. School is going to be in session.”

“But it’s closed. Haven’t you heard? The boiler broke down.”

“Good heavens! That would be the end of all of you, traipsing around in Africa!”

When William had finished eating, Mr. Hardy said, “We’d better turn in now. William can talk to the police in the morning and pick up his bag.”

“Oh, you have it?” the boy asked.

“It’s at headquarters.”

“Good. There is something very special in it.”

“What?” Joe pried.

“You will see tomorrow.”

William was shown to the guest room, and soon the Hardy home was quiet. Later that morning everyone was jarred awake by the ring of the telephone. Chet and Iola were on the line, asking about William.

“He arrived safely,” Frank said. “But the crooks got away.” He briefly sketched what had happened, then said, “We’ve got a lot to do this morning, Chet. See you later.”

After breakfast the boys took their guest to headquarters. Chief Collig was there to meet them. He apologized for the fiasco, then took a long statement from William about his experience with the kidnappers.

“And now may I have my suitcase?” the boy asked.

“We took the liberty of looking through it for clues,” Frank said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Did you happen to read my note on Dingo?”

“Sure did,” Joe said, and he told William how Dingo had driven the phony Jamaican envoy in his escape from the Hardy home.

“And the preserves?” William went on. “You did not open them, did you?”

“No. Of course not.”

They drove off with the luggage and as soon as they entered the Hardy home, William gave the jar to Mrs. Hardy. “It is from my mother,” he said, “but there is something in it for Frank and Joe.”

While the others looked on, Mrs. Hardy unscrewed the cap. Inside were delicious stewed mangoes. She poured them into a serving tureen, and as she did so, an aluminum tube, about three inches long, fell out with the fruit.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Hardy said, removing it with a spoon.

William wiped the tube and took off the metal cap. An unusual piece of ivory on a chain fell out.

“A lion’s tooth,” the Jamaican explained, holding it up for the others to see. “Inlaid with copper. It is the sign, or signature, of a ju-ju man. I hid it in the mangoes for safekeeping.”

William said that the ancient relic had come from Ghana and was the gift of Ali El Ansari. “He took quite a liking to Frank and Joe.”

“What’s a ju-ju man?” Joe asked.

“He is like a medicine man to the American Indians,” William said. “According to the natives, the ju-ju man has magical powers. If one puts a curse on you, it will take another, more powerful, ju-ju man to remove it.”

“I’d like to put a curse on those crooks!” Joe said with a wry smile.

Frank took the lion’s tooth from William and examined it closely. “This is beautiful inlay work,” he said.

“You wear it, Frank,” William said and he placed the relic around the boy’s neck.

The rest of the morning Frank and Joe drove William around Bayport, but not before he was warmly dressed in one of Joe’s sweaters and Frank’s ski jacket, which fit him snugly. A pair of Mr. Hardy’s gloves completed the outfit.

Halfway through the sightseeing tour, the boy said, “Man, I am cold. You know, I have never seen winter before!”

“What about snow?” Joe asked.

“First time, too.”

“You wouldn’t object to a little snowball fight to warm up, would you?” Frank asked. He stopped along the side of the road, where a snow plow had formed a mound.

When the boys got out, the Hardys showed William how to make snowballs. After preparing an arsenal of six apiece, they fired.

“Hey, he’s got quite an arm,” Frank said, as he ducked a flying snowball. William’s next shot knocked Joe’s hat off, and he laughed gleefully.

“Look who’s coming!” Frank said suddenly.

With a triple bang, Chet parked his jalopy behind the Hardys’ car. The stout boy jumped out, tilting his yellow cap down over his eyes. After greeting William, he said, “Listen, this is no time for a snowball fight. I just came from your house. Good thing I found you.”

“What happened?” Joe asked.

“Plenty,” Chet said with an air of authority. “Cablegrams, suspects, plans for Africa.” He beamed. “And I think I’m going with you!”

“Oh yes? Don’t be too sure,” Joe said. “They have enough elephants there already.”

Chet looked insulted. They got into their cars and he followed the trio back to Elm Street. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were eating lunch, but Frank knew something exceptional must have happened. His father’s cool demeanor was seldom ruffled by either good news or bad, but now he seemed excited.

“Tell us what’s going on, Dad!” Frank urged, as the boys joined their parents at the table.

“Your case and mine seem to be breaking fast,” the detective stated. “I just got a cable from the company in Paris. That leather coat Kenleigh Scott left behind him was custom made at an Arabian shop in the souq of Marrakesh.”

“In the what?” asked Chet, wrinkling his freckled nose. “What’s a souq?”

“A marketplace,” William told him. “All kinds of things are sold there.”

“Then Scott must be an Arab,” Joe said.

“Not necessarily,” Mr. Hardy said. “Custom-made leather goods are produced in Morocco for customers all over the world. But listen to this. I’ve just been informed that an airline-ticket-theft suspect named Jason Hickson was nearly caught by police in New York. He eluded them, and later it was learned that he had taken a plane to Casablanca.”

“And was caught there?” Frank asked.

“No. He got away again,” Mr. Hardy replied. He pulled a picture from his pocket. “See, that’s the fellow.” Hickson was a short man with a broad, pudgy face and a thin mustache on his upper lip.

“Two good clues. And I know what you’re going to say,” Frank said.

“Right,” Joe added. “There’s a Morocco connection!”

“Exactly. Your idea of going to Africa might not be a bad one,” Mr. Hardy said. “In fact, you have the assignment if you’d like it.”

“You mean it?” Frank asked. He grinned broadly.

“Yes. Three different airlines have agreed to defray expenses. They’ll pay for two detectives and two assistants.”

Chet let out a startling yell. “That means I can go! Boy, I’ll be the greatest assistant!”

Mr. Hardy turned to William. “How would you like to join my sons?”

“That would be my distinct pleasure,” William replied, excitement shining in his dark eyes.

Before Frank and Joe had a chance to discuss anything with Chet, they heard the door close, Chet’s engine start, and his jalopy pull away.

“Wow!” Joe laughed. “He’s off like Paul Revere!”

For the rest of the day the Hardy home was busy with phone calls, one of them to Marrakesh, where the detective had a friend, Dr. Henri Cellier. Mr. Hardy explained that he had met the doctor, who was now head of the Avenzoar Hospital, in New York years before.

“Henri was a medical student when I was a rookie in the New York Police Department,” Mr. Hardy said. “He’s a grand fellow, and we became good friends.”

When the call to Marrakesh went through, Fenton Hardy renewed his old acquaintance and told Dr. Cellier that his sons, with their two friends, would arrive in a day or two. Would he give them a hand in their work? Dr. Cellier said he would do everything in his power to assist the boys and that he would get in touch with them on their arrival in Casablanca.

While all the preparations were underway, Mrs. Hardy and her sister-in-law looked on quietly. It was obvious that they were apprehensive, thinking of the safety of the four boys in a strange continent.

“Please don’t worry about us,” Frank said. “We’ve got William to help us, and Chet, who’s proven his reliability many times. As a matter of fact—”

Mrs. Hardy, who was looking out the window, suddenly shrieked, her shoulders shaking.

“Mother!” Frank exclaimed. “Are you laughing or crying?”

“L-look!”

Somebody clomped onto the porch and Joe opened the door. There stood Chet Morton! He wore tan shorts, a military blouse with epaulets, and a pith helmet. A canteen was slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, let me in quick!” he cried out. “I’m freezing!”

CHAPTER XIII

The Spooky Villa

“CHET, you’ll catch pneumonia and won’t be able to go to Africa with us!” Joe said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll warm up in no time.” Chet danced a jig, which looked even more comical because of his red legs and short pants.

The fun over, the boys settled down to the serious business of making plans. William called his parents, who gave him their permission to take the trip. Then a travel agent booked them from Bayport to Kennedy International Airport in New York and on to Casablanca, where they got reservations at the Hotel Marhaba.

“When you get there, telephone the United States Consul, John Klem, and make an appointment to see him,” Mr. Hardy suggested. “He’ll brief you on Morocco, and you’ll be oriented in no time at all. Also, read up on the country in the encyclopedia.”

The boys spent the entire evening doing that. Morocco, they learned, was once under French control, and the French language was still widely spoken along with Arabic. One-hundred-thousand Frenchmen were scattered about the country. Arab women wore caftans and the men, djellabahs. But the ordinary street dress was the burnoose, a long, hooded cloak.

Early the next morning the Hardys dispatched Chet to pick up their tickets at the travel office, and after lunch they started out for the airport. After Phil, Tony, and Biff had given their friends a surprise send-off, the four boys caught the plane to New York and did not have to wait long for the connecting flight. The ride over the Atlantic was pleasant, and when they touched down in Casablanca, the companions took a taxi directly to their hotel. They were assigned two adjoining rooms on the sixth floor.

Frank phoned Mr. Klem immediately. The consul’s secretary said he was out for the day and set up an appointment for the following morning.

“Thank you,” Frank said. “By the way, can you recommend a good restaurant? We’d like to try the native food.”

“There’s no finer dining place than Al Mounia,” she replied. “It’s really beautiful, and the cous-cous is out of this world.”

“What’s that?”

“Order and you’ll see,” she answered, laughing. “But easy with the sauce. It’s very hot.”

The friends spent the day driving around the city. The hotel concierge suggested that they rent a carrossa, a horse-drawn carriage, so as to take in the sights leisurely.

All the main streets radiated from a hub in the center. Like spokes on a giant wheel, the thoroughfares went in every direction of the compass and were lined with gleaming white buildings.

The boys stopped their driver and browsed through curio shops, where William was particularly interested in art objects made by the black tribes south of the Sahara desert.

“Look at this!” he said. “The kind of dog I always wanted.” In his hands he held a carving of a small, lightly built animal with a short back, which seemed to be set high on the legs compared to its length. It had a wrinkled forehead and carried its head proudly. The dog’s demeanor was poised but alert.

“What breed is it?” Chet asked.

“It’s a Basenji,” William replied, “an African dog. Look at that sleek head!”

“I’ve heard about them,” Frank said. “But I’ve never seen one.”

William had, in Jamaica, and vowed that some day he would have one. “As far back as three thousand B.C.,” he said, “these dogs were favorites of the pharaohs in Egypt. They disappeared from sight for centuries, and finally were rediscovered as companions of the pygmies in the African Rain Forest.”

“Basenji sounds like a Swahili word,” Joe said.

“It is, and it means a ‘wild thing,’” William explained. He added with a grin, “This dog’s bite is worse than his bark, because the Basenji does not bark at all. He makes a noise almost like a chortle or a yodel.”

Joe took the carving and handed it to the clerk. “William, you now own your favorite breed. It’s a gift from us to you.”

The dog was wrapped, paid for, and presented to the Jamaican boy, who thanked the Hardys warmly.

Then Chet said, “Listen, fellows. It’s getting near that time.”

“Okay, Chet,” Frank said. “Are you all set to try the cous-cous?”

“I would try cous-cous, goose-goose, or moose-moose,” Chet said, patting his belt. “Sightseeing makes me hungry.”

Their driver dropped them off at Al Mounia and Frank told him not to wait. Then they entered a walkway leading to the restaurant, with its Moorish arched facade.

“Those mosaics are beautiful,” William said. “It looks more like a museum than an eating place.”

The inside was even more impressive. The walls and ceilings were also covered with colorful mosaics. Instead of sitting at tables, diners sat on divans around the walls.

The maitre d’hotel, in formal clothes, ushered the boys to one of them, and they sat down on the low cushioned seats. A colorfully dressed black man presented them with large menus. He wore a white jacket, red fez, white stockings, and black pantaloons.

“Hey, this is really cool!” Chet said. “Nothing like Bayport.”

The boys ordered and waited expectantly. It did not take long for the waiter to bring a large silver tray laden with food. First, he spooned out a pile of semolina on each plate.

“Looks like rice,” Joe commented.

Around it, the man carefully arranged raisins, onions, carrots, chick peas, and turnips. Over this he ladled chunks of lamb and yellow broth, which was quickly absorbed by the semolina.

Beside each plate he placed a small dish of condiment. The sauce, he indicated, was to be put on the meat.

“Well, here we go,” said Chet. He had been gazing around at other diners, paying no attention to what the waiter said. “I think I’ll try a little of the soup first.”

Eagerly he put a spoon into the sauce and before the Hardys could stop him, swallowed a mouthful. Immediately he had spasms of choking. His face grew red, and he reached for a glass of water. Chet drank it down, his eyes rolling and sweat pouring from his forehead. His voice was a hoarse whisper as he slid off the divan. “I-I’ve been poisoned.”

“No you haven’t,” Joe said as the waiter rushed up with another glass of water.

“That’s not soup,” Frank said. “It’s a condiment. A little bit goes a long way!”

He helped Chet to his seat, and the boys began to eat their meal eagerly.

About halfway through, the waiter moved unobtrusively to Frank’s side and pressed a note into his hand.

The boy read the message. “It’s from Mr. Klem,” he told the others. “He wants to see us immediately.” The note gave the consul’s home address.

“We’re not going to fall for that one, are we, Frank?” Joe asked.

“You mean it might be a trap?” William said.

“It’s probably phony,” Joe said, and Frank was inclined to agree. He signaled the manager, who hastened over to them.

“Oui, Monsieur,” he said. “Is everything satisfactory?”

“The food is wonderful,” Frank replied. “By the way, do you know Mr. Klem, the United States Consul?”

“Oui. Very well. Is he a friend of yours?”

“We’ve never met him,” Frank said. “But I just received a message asking us to his home.”

“I-I’ve been poisoned!” Chet rasped.

“Who gave it to you?”

Frank pointed to the pantalooned waiter, who had overheard the conversation and quickly explained that the note had been given to him by a taxi driver.

“The address is authentic,” the maitre d’hotel said, glancing at the note. “If there is any doubt, why don’t you telephone Monsieur Klem?”

“That’s a good idea,” Frank said. He was directed to a phone near the entrance. He dialed the number and received a busy signal.

He returned to the table and told his friends about the call. “At least someone’s home,” he said. “Shall we go?”

“I think so,” Joe decided. “Maybe Klem’s secretary told him that we were here. And obviously he is known at Al Mounia.”

“Hey, fellows,” Chet said, “I don’t feel so hot. Maybe that sauce did me in.”

“Tell you what,” Frank said. “You and William go back to the hotel, while Joe and I visit Klem. Okay?”

Chet nodded, and the boys paid their bill. On the way out Frank tried the consul’s number again. It was still busy.

As they stepped into the street, a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of them. The driver, a smiling Arab wearing a burnoose, jumped out and opened the door.

“You go ahead,” Chet said to the Hardys. “We’ll get another cab.”

“Right. See you later.”

The Hardys climbed in and showed the driver Klem’s address. After ten minutes, Frank said, “I thought he’d live in a nice residential area. Look, Joe, this seems more like a slum!”

The road finally ran into a sparsely settled part of town, and the man stopped in front of a low, white villa that sat far back from the street. A dim light was shining inside.

“You’re sure this is the right address?” Frank asked the driver as he paid him.

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“You stay here,” Joe added, “so you can take us back to our hotel.”

But as soon as the boys walked toward the house, the driver quickly started off.

“How do you like that?” Frank said. “You suppose he doesn’t understand English?”

“I don’t like this at all,” Joe commented as they cautiously approached the front door. “It’s spooky here.” He noticed another car coming out of the darkness in the distance.

Frank pressed a bell. The door flew open and a bright light flashed into their faces. Four strong hands reached out and grabbed the boys!

Frank and Joe struggled to escape as the car stopped in front!

CHAPTER XIV

Foiled by a Donkey

FRANK and Joe fought furiously to keep from being dragged into the house. Then two figures jumped from the car and raced up the walk.

Chet and William!

Without a word, they pitched into the fray and pulled the Hardys loose.

“Let’s get out of here quick!” Chet panted. They ran to the waiting taxi and sped off. There was no pursuit.

“Take us to the police,” Frank told the driver. He turned to Chet. “How come you arrived just in the nick of time?”

“Well, we felt we were copping out on you,” Chet explained. “We didn’t know whether it was a trap or not, so we decided to follow—a backup team, so to speak.”

“Good thing you did,” Joe said wryly. “How’s vour stomach?”

“In all that excitement I forgot about it.”

When they arrived at headquarters, the Hardys took turns explaining what had happened to them. But the officer at the desk shrugged, his arms outstretched. “I do not speak the English so good,” he said.

The boys tried to use their high school French, but with no better results. The officer seemed as baffled as they were. On the way back to their hotel, Joe said, “What a way to start an investigation in Africa. Our cover’s blown already!”

“We have probably been spied on ever since we landed,” William surmised.

“It gives me a creepy feeling,” Chet said. “Now it’s getting real dangerous.”

“But who are they?” Frank thought aloud. “The goons from the ticket racket or the treasure hunters?”

“Who knows?” Joe said. “Maybe both.”

After breakfast the next morning the young sleuths went directly to the office of the United States Consul. Mr. Klem, a short, slender, balding man, greeted them cordially and listened attentively to their story.

Finally he said, “About your father’s case—the airline-ticket racket—we’ve had trouble here, too. The police have no leads, and I know anything you can do to help them would be appreciated.”

Frank said, “And have you heard about an ancient mysterious caravan?”

The official explained that many legends and rumors abounded about ancient treasure in the Atlas Mountains, but he could tell them nothing substantial. “Perhaps you can learn more when you go to Marrakesh,” he concluded.

Just then the phone on his desk rang. He listened for a moment and looked up at his visitors. “There’s a caller for you,” he said.

The door opened, and the boys turned to see a beautiful dark-haired girl enter. She seemed to be about eighteen years old, slim and lithe. Her slightly almond-shaped eyes flashed over the Americans and she smiled. “Frank and Joe Hardy?” she asked in a lilting French accent.

“That’s us,” Joe said. “Over there’s Frank.”

“Then this must be Chet Morton and William Ellis. Am I right? Mr. Klem and I have met before.”

The man rose from behind his desk and said, “Mademoiselle Christine Cellier.”

“Dr. Cellier’s daughter?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Father sent me to help and I found out from the concierge at your hotel that you would be here.”

“That’s great,” said Chet. “We could use a guide.”

Christine said that she would spend the day with the boys and would then accompany them to Marrakesh to meet her family the following morning. “I am staying overnight with an aunt here in Casablanca,” she explained.

The young Americans thanked the consul and left with their new friend. They walked along the street until they came to a sidewalk cafe.

“Let’s stop here and sit down,” Frank said.

Over frosty glasses of coke, the young people relaxed and talked. Christine laughed when she heard about the cous-cous. This led to discussion of the frightening experience of the evening before; then Frank told the girl about their father’s case.

“I think a travel agency might be a good cover for such a ticket-theft gang,” he concluded. “Maybe we should check out all such places in Casablanca.”

“I will be glad to help you,” Christine said. “There is one that I know well, and others we can go to.”

When they had finished, the five visited the three largest agencies in town. The people were very cordial and said that as far as they knew, the ticket racket had made little progress in their city.

In the Agentur d’Este, where Christine knew the proprietor, the Hardys picked up their first clue. The owner said that a new agency had opened in a very old part of town, which was odd. It was not known to tourists, and was rarely frequented by business people. The man shook his head. “Where they get their trade, I do not know.”

“You think it is worth investigating, Frank?” William asked.

“Definitely. Let’s go.”

They stopped long enough for a snack before the girl led them into a run-down part of town, located some distance from the commercial center. The narrow streets were cobblestoned, and very old houses were built against one another. The doors, flush on the sidewalk, opened into dark interiors.

Finally Christine said, “Here is the place.”

It was no more than a hole in the wall with a sign over the door in Arabic. “World Travel Agency,” Christine translated.

The office was so small that there was room only for Frank, Joe, and the girl. The other two remained outside.

A man appeared from the back room, noticed the three, and quickly ducked out of sight again. The Hardys pretended not to see. But Joe moved Frank aside and whispered, “That fellow looked familiar!”

“He’s the cabbie who set us up last night!” Frank said.

The man, who now wore European dress instead of the burnoose, did not come back. Christine called out in French, then in Arabic. Finally the three stepped out again into the blazing sunlight.

Quickly they told Chet and William about the suspect. “Let’s split up and stake this place out,” Frank suggested. “Joe, you and William see if there’s a back door. The rest of us will watch the front.”

“Roger.”

Joe and the Jamaican hurried down the street, turned into a side lane, and went around behind the travel agency.

“This should be it,” Joe said. They concealed themselves in a doorway and watched. Within a few moments, the suspect poked his head out and looked around cautiously, but did not see the boys. Then he closed the door behind him, locked it, and turned left, down an alley. It grew so narrow that it was possible to leap over the rooftops from one side to the other.

Joe and William followed him, bumping into Arabs in their haste. Then they heard the cry “Balik! Balik!” A bearded man approached, leading a donkey. The beast’s back was piled high with rugs, which nearly touched the buildings on each side of the alley.

The boys tried to squeeze past the load, but could not. They had to press themselves tightly against a building as the cargo passed.

“I guess we learned an Arabic word,” Joe said. “It must mean ‘out of the way!’”

William nodded. “So is our man. I cannot see him any more.”

“He disappeared!” Joe said grimly. “Let’s go back to the others before we lose them, too.”

They found Frank, Chet, and Christine still staking out the front entrance of the travel agency, and explained how the suspect had slipped away.

“Nothing happened on this end,” Frank reported, “except that the guy locked the front door.”

“He did the same at the back entrance,” Joe said.

“Well, we know for sure there’s something fishy going on,” Chet said.

“This could be a branch of the ticket thieves,” Frank agreed. “But now that they’re tipped off, it will be hard to find evidence.”

They walked back to the center of town, and looked at exotic merchandise displayed by vendors, whose little shops extended nearly to the curb. Several colorful hassocks made of multi-colored goatskin intrigued Frank and Joe.

“Let’s send one home,” Frank suggested.

Christine helped them pick out an unusual design of red and black and bargained with the shopkeeper over the price.

“La,” she kept saying. “La.”

The merchant gestured with a pleading expression until Christine finally agreed that the price was fair enough.

“Something you should remember in Morocco,” she said, smiling. “You have to bargain, otherwise you pay double the price and the merchant is insulted. La means ‘no.’”

“I figured that,” Joe said.

“Now you have a nice pouf,” she added, and made arrangements to have it shipped to Bayport.

“I’d like to buy a dagger,” Chet said.

“Not here,” Christine objected. “Wait till you see the souq in Marrakesh. They make beautiful ones there.”

“They also make clothing out of leather, don’t they?” Frank said.

“Yes. That’s a specialty.”

The boys returned to their hotel, where Christine said, “I would like to introduce you to Father.”

“Is he here?” Chet asked.

“No. In Marrakesh. But I promised to call him.”

They phoned the Moroccan city, which lay many miles inland on a hot desert plain. When Dr. Cellier answered, Christine introduced the boys.

“Ah, Frank, I have a cable from your father,” the doctor told him. “It came this morning.” He read it carefully. “Interpol identified fingerprints. Scott international thief. Born Frenchman. Speaks many languages, including Arabic.”

Frank relayed their experience in Casablanca and the doctor said, “I do not like this. Your enemies must have been shadowing you. I suggest you check out of your hotel and try to evade them.”

Frank thanked him, hung up, and told the others about his conversation.

“If Scott speaks Arabic,” William reasoned, “he could be operating here in Morocco.”

“Or, for that matter, anywhere in North Africa,” Christine added.

Frank was thoughtful. “Your father is right,” he said. “Our enemies can strike any time. They know where we are. Let’s leave this place and get rooms somewhere else.”

“It is past check-out time for the day,” William noted.

“We won’t check out. We’ll just leave quietly and let the concierge think we’re still in our rooms.”

Christine knew of a small hotel nearby, on the way to the railroad station where they would take the train next morning. One at a time, the boys unobtrusively carried their luggage out through a back entrance and followed Christine. They took a large room with two double beds.

“I am going to visit my aunt now,” Christine said when they were checked in. “I will see you tomorrow morning at ten.”

After supper, the boys watched television in the lobby. A French film was showing. Eventually they got bored since they could not follow the foreign language.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Frank said. They went to their room, which looked out over the city.

“We can see the Marhaba from here,” Chet noted. “Matter of fact, even the windows of our rooms.”

As they skinned into their pajamas, the night sounds were interrupted by the strident hee-haw of sirens.

“Boy, that’s a funny sound,” Chet said. “Is it fire engines?”

William looked out the window and called to the others. “Look at the Marhaba!”

The side of the hotel was illuminated by flood-lights.

“Good night!” Frank exclaimed. “Smoke’s coming out of our windows!”

CHAPTER XV

The Spy at the Wall

A PHONE call to the Marhaba Hotel revealed that the rooms occupied by the boys had been fire-bombed.

“Two men broke into your quarters,” said the concierge. “We are very sorry. If your baggage was destroyed, we have insurance——”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frank said. “We won’t be back.”

“Frank, I am glad we followed Dr. Cellier’s advice,” William said. “We might have been killed had we stayed there!”

“Which proves,” said Joe, “that we’ve come very close to the operation of the ticket thieves.”

“Too close for comfort,” Chet added as he watched the smoke from the windows dissipate and the spotlights finally wink off.

The boys decided to return to World Travel the next morning. “If someone’s there,” Frank said, “we might get a line on what’s doing.”

After an early breakfast, they set off toward the back alleys. Proceeding carefully through the labyrinth, they arrived at the office.

A sign in Arabic was posted against the door, which was locked. “This probably says ‘closed,’” William said.

Joe noticed a woman dressed in a caftan, standing across the street. Her eyes, peering over the black veil followed their every move. Crouched directly above the boys on the rooftops was a man in a white burnoose. The woman sent him a hand signal.

“Let’s get out of here before we’re attacked!” Chet urged.

Frank agreed, and the boys retreated casually. At the hotel, Christine met them promptly at ten, bright faced with enthusiasm. When they told her what had happened, her eyes opened wide.

“I think it is best to leave Casablanca right away,” she said. “At least in Marrakesh there will be some protection. My father is an influential man. By the way, I made reservations at the Hotel Manzur for you.”

The boys thanked her, and they went to the railroad station. They boarded the train, took seats, and were soon rumbling eastward over the desert.

“There will not be much to see until we reach our destination,” Christine said, looking out over the barren landscape. Sand, a few palm trees, camels, goats, and scrubby farms, no larger than an acre or two, flashed by.

After a couple of hours a vendor arrived, selling sandwiches and drinks.

“I thought you’d never come,” Chet said. He bought something for everybody.

Christine put her head close to Frank’s and said, “See the man in the djellabah over there, on the other side?”

The boy slowly moved his eyes in that direction. “The Arab eating the sandwich?” he asked.

“Yes. Watch what he is doing with his right hand.”

At first the boy saw nothing unusual, but then he noticed that the man was rolling a piece of bread into a tiny ball.

Christine leaned close again. “He is not an Arab, Frank. He is a Frenchman. That is an idiosyncracy of the French, especially of the people who live in the Gueliz, the French quarter of Marrakesh.”

“Another spy?” Frank asked.

“Possibly.”

When the fellow disappeared from his seat for a minute or two, Frank told the others, and they kept an eye on the man until a grove of palm trees and green lawns indicated that they had arrived at the Marrakesh station. The man jumped nimbly from the train and hurried off.

“He kept his face well concealed, did he not?” Christine said.

“It could have been that taxi driver,” William surmised.

As the boys piled up their baggage on one side of the platform, Christine hailed two taxis. They were very small, and the young people had trouble squeezing into the narrow seats.

“We will drive to your hotel first,” Christine said. “I picked the Manzur because it is quite close to our home.”

As they neared the city, the wall that surrounded the ancient settlement loomed larger and larger. Located quite some distance apart were arched gates leading inside.

“Our home is built right against the other side of the wall,” Christine explained as they approached one of the entrances.

Just then Chet spied an Arab standing beside a camel, waving to tourists and pointing to the animal.

“He’s selling rides!” Chet said. “I want to sit on the camel!”

Christine asked their driver to stop, and the other cab pulled up in back.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Try it.”

The boys jumped out, smiling broadly, and paid the Arab. The beast lowered itself on his command, and Chet stepped aboard. With a great lurch, the animal’s back legs levered his rear into the air. Then the front legs unhinged as the camel stood up.

The man led it around in a circle.

“Whoopee!” Chet cried out.

Then the others took turns riding the camel. Joe was the last in line. As he climbed onto the camel’s back, William drew Christine aside.

“See that man against the wall? Is he the one from the train?”

“I think so. Look at what he is doing!”

The man had pulled a camera from his djellabah and was snapping a picture of Joe!

“Maybe he took shots of all of you,” Christine said. She looked worried.

William approached the man, but when the fellow saw him coming, he rose, turned, and disappeared in the crowd pushing through the gate.

William returned to the others and told them about the incident.

“What do you make of it, Frank?” he asked.

“I think it’s bad news,” Frank replied. “No doubt he took those pictures for a reason.”

The boys and Christine piled into the taxis again and went on to the Manzur Hotel. It was old-fashioned and roomy, and the mosaic tiles under their feet resounded as they walked to the concierge’s desk.

Christine waited until they had put their bags into their large room, the French window of which looked out over a lovely garden. Then she said, “Now come and meet my family. It is only a short walk.”

The Cellier home was located at the far end of the hotel’s extensive gardens. It was built of cement and red clay. On one side a stone stairway led to the top of the ramparts. “The view is beautiful from up there, especially at night,” Christine said.

Inside, the travelers found a modern home with European decor, tastefully furnished. Dr. and Mrs. Cellier stood in the living room to meet them. Frank raised his eyebrows in surprise. No wonder, he thought, that Christine had such an odd and beautiful look. The doctor was an Oriental and his wife was a Frenchwoman.

After introductions had been made, Dr. Cellier chuckled. “Did Fenton tell you I was Vietnamese?”

“No,” Joe said.

“Ah. Is that why you looked so surprised when you came in?” Cellier added with a wide grin.

The boys liked Christine’s parents immediately. Mrs. Cellier was a charming woman with blond hair pulled back tightly.

“Have a seat and relax,” she said in an accent that was much stronger than her daughter’s. Conversation bounced back and forth as the Hardys told the Celliers about their father’s work and their life in Bayport. Then Frank launched into a recital of the two cases that seemed to converge in Morocco.

The Celliers showed a great deal of interest in the mask and the secret map. “My husband knows a lot about Sijilmasa,” Mrs. Cellier said.

“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “I have been a student of North African history for years. The old city is buried, you know. Some day I would like to find it.”

“Maybe we can search for it together,” Chet said enthusiastically.

“Perhaps. I have been planning a holiday. We could rent jeeps and go on an expedition.”

After an hour of animated conversation, the boys said good-by.

“I have a music lesson late this afternoon, but I will take you sightseeing tomorrow morning,” Christine said. “How would you like to start with our souq?”

“That’ll be great,” Frank said as they left.

The boys spent the rest of the day swimming and diving in the hotel’s pool, and lounging under palm trees in the garden. The heat had been blistering. But in the evening, a breeze flowed out of the desert and a refreshing coolness settled upon the town.

“It is like something out of the Arabian nights, is it not?” William said as they finished dinner.

“Sure is,” Chet said. “All these exotic things, people, foods——” He yawned contentedly.

Christine arrived the next morning during breakfast and chatted with them until they had finished. “Now remember what you have to say most in the souq,” she said.

“Oo-la-la,” Chet said.

The girl laughed. “And do you know ‘balik’? It means attention—get out of the way.”

“We’ve learned that,” Joe said.

The quintet went off on foot, deeply inhaling the fresh morning air as they traversed the circular driveway leading onto the street. Half a mile farther on they came to another inner gate, beside which loomed the minaret of a mosque.

Passing through the gate, the boys were surprised to see a huge area comprising many acres. Part of it was a flat, open expanse, filled with a milling crowd, mostly in Arabic dress. On the left was a long, low, one-story enclosure.

“What’s that?” asked Joe.

“The souq,” Christine said. “Hundreds of stores open onto a lot of tiny lanes. They are all covered by slats of wood. And look over there!” She pointed to a circle of people gathered around a group of performers. “Story tellers and snake charmers. Arabs like to be entertained. See those jugglers from Nigeria? They have a ju-ju man with them today!”

The boys looked at each other in amazement but said nothing as Christine continued. “We will go into the souq first. Later we can watch the acrobats.”

Once inside, the Hardys understood the reason for the slatted covering. The midday sun beating down on the market would have been unbearable without some protection. Now the rays shone in tesselated patterns on the dirt floor.

The aisles teemed with people. Customers wandered from stall to stall. Donkeys bearing produce pushed through the milling humanity. Shopkeepers, standing in front of their places, extolled their wares with rapid speech and gestures.

“This seems like a madhouse,” Frank said as he walked in the lead with Christine.

“To us it is quite orderly,” she said.

“Hey, Chet. Here’s a sword place.” Joe pointed to a stall next to a rug bazaar.

The boys stepped into the low, narrow store. Its walls were hung with scimitars, swords, be-jeweled daggers, and radiant hunting knives.

The Americans, fascinated, examined the wares eagerly. The shopkeeper spoke French, and with Christine as an interpreter, they learned much about the exotic blades.

Seemingly from nowhere, another salesman appeared. More loquacious than the first, he had the advantage of knowing some English. He took Frank by the arm and led him deeper and deeper into the store.

“The best things are in back!” he said.

Frank felt uneasy. When they reached the rear, the man pushed him through a doorway heavily hung with a curtain of beads.

Before the boy could protest, he found himself facing an Arab holding a magnificent dagger. The fellow grinned and approached the boy!

CHAPTER XVI

Ghost in the Souq

INSTANTLY Frank assumed a judo defense posture. If the man were to lunge, he would be ready! The thought of calling out flashed through his mind, but if the Arab were an assassin, he could strike before help arrived.

The boy emitted a low guttural challenge and watched for the slightest move from his adversary. But instead of the anticipated thrust, the man smiled benignly.

“You are not in danger,” he said. “This part of the shop is a special place. It contains nothing but my very best merchandise.”

He proffered the dagger and Frank took it in his hand. The blade, curved slightly, was finely honed and the haft was inlaid with beautiful copper work. Then the salesman showed him the sheath. It was made of leather and copper, intricately patterned in a red-and-blue design.

“This you will find nowhere else,” the shopkeeper said. “But for you a special price.”

When he quoted it, Frank remembered Christine’s advice. “La!” he said. “Too much.”

“Ah, you speak Arabic,” the man said, nodding his head in appreciation. “You know something about our country. We will reduce the price. Only for you.”

But the twenty percent reduction, Frank reasoned, was not enough. They haggled back and forth, and every time Frank turned to walk away, the man clutched his arm and lowered the price by a few more dollars.

Finally Frank made a counter-offer of half the original price. The shopkeeper rolled his eyes up, said his children would starve if he carried on business this way, and ended by saying, “Good. We have a bargain.”

To make sure, Frank walked back into the main part of the shop to consult Christine. She agreed that the dagger was worth that much, and that it was a good buy.

Frank paid and showed his purchase to the others. “I’m going to hang it on the wall of our room as a memento of Marrakesh,” he said.

As they stepped out of the shop, Joe asked Christine where the leather store was located. She said it was not far ahead. They continued pushing through the crowd, and as the sun rose higher, the colors of the interior became even more vivid. Displayed in front of a boutique was a sky-blue djellabah with a black face veil, also a shocking pink one with a purple veil.

William remarked that the clothes concealed the wearer’s figures, so their identity was unknown.

“And what about the face?” Chet said. “All you can go by are the eyes. And every girl seems to have big brown eyes.”

Joe laughed. “You came here to do a bit of detective work. Remember? Don’t worry about the girls.”

They stopped at another shop and watched a group of men sewing the embroidered caftans worn by women and adding gold braids and trimmings of colored sequins.

“Hey,” Joe said, “if we get one for Mother, do you think she’d wear it?”

Frank laughed. “To a costume party maybe.”

Farther on was a stand devoted to sandalwood from Indonesia. “This is burned for incense,” Christine remarked and added, “Look, there is the leather-goods shop.”

The stall was hung with all kinds of clothing made of leather. “It smells like a new football,” Chet remarked, as he sniffed the air.

The owner spoke rapidly in French. Frank said, “Do you speak English?”

“Non, Monsieur,” He looked sadly at them until Christine smiled and addressed him in the melodious language he was accustomed to.

Acting as their interpreter, she described a beautiful leather coat the boys had seen in the United States. It had carried a Paris label. Who could have bought it?

The man at first did not seem to understand, but suddenly his face brightened. “Yes,” he said, “I made a few special garments for the French company and inserted the labels myself. But before I could ship them abroad, a customer bought one right here.”

“Do you remember who he was?” Christine asked.

The leather man seemed pleased that praise for his work had reached America. “Oui, Mademoiselle.”

He was about to open his mouth again, when his eyes fell on something in the crowd. A look of fright crossed his face. His mouth shut tight, and with a grim look he turned and walked to the rear of his shop.

“What’d he see?” Chet asked. “A ghost?”

“Maybe someone gave him the high sign to quit talking,” was Frank’s guess.

Christine added, “Perhaps it was the buyer himself!”

“We’re being spied on,” Joe declared. “There’s no doubt about that!”

“Let’s get out of here,” Frank said.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Chet said. “I’ve got my eye on that vest over there. Wouldn’t that look great with my checkered sport jacket?”

Christine smiled and said, “I will stay with Chet and help him bargain.”

“Okay, we’ll meet you outside,” Frank said, and the boys hurried off. They walked back through the teeming alley of the souq, glancing at everyone who wore European clothing. But Scott was not among them.

“And to think he may be living right here in Marrakesh,” William said, frustrated.

“Not only that,” Frank added. “He knows we’re here.”

“Probably has our photos, too,” Joe put in. “Frank, this could be dangerous.”

When they emerged from the souq into the glaring sunshine, the first thing they saw was the snake charmer.

“Let’s watch the act,” Frank suggested, “while Chet’s making up his mind about that vest. No use to look for our elusive friend any more.”

The snake charmer, bareheaded and dressed in a dirty djellabah, sat cross-legged before an earthen jar. About his shoulders was coiled a large black snake. He picked up a flute and began to play a weird, random tune.

A cobra’s head appeared from the jar. Its eyes shone like black diamonds, and its tongue flickered as the hood rose ominously. Then, to the delight of the onlookers, the cobra swayed to and fro to the rhythm of the music.

The crowd, which had been sitting back some fifteen feet or so, pressed in closer to watch the dancing snake. Most were Arabs, but a handful of gaping tourists were among them.

The music stopped. The snake charmer spoke harshly to the cobra and its head disappeared into the jar. Then he stood up with the large black snake still over his shoulders. He smiled, showing a gleaming gold tooth, and begged for coins.

The spectators flung a few in his direction, as did the Hardys and William. The man walked up to the trio, pulled the snake from over his head and offered to drape it on one of them.

William spoke a few words of Swahili, where-upon the man grinned broadly and nodded.

“I will try it,” William said. “He says it is harmless.”

With that the snake charmer put the reptile over the Jamaican boy’s head, and William began to stroke it.

“This baby is really cold,” he said.

The snake charmer now hissed a few words to his beast. Instantly the snake coiled around William’s chest; then it covered his face, so the boy’s shouts of protest became muffled grunts.

The man danced around, as Frank and Joe tried to pull the reptile from William’s body. But it was like a band of steel!

“He’ll be killed!” Joe stormed at the Arab. “Get it off!”

CHAPTER XVII

The Purple Vat

WHILE William and the Hardys struggled with the snake, the Arabs in the crowd laughed gleefully. Finally one of them, with a neat beard and spotless djellabah, touched Frank on the arm. He spoke good English.

“This is part of the act,” he said. “The snake will not hurt your friend. You must pay the owner a fee, however, to get it off.”

Frank whirled about. “How much?”

“You have United States dollars?”

“Yes.”

“I suggest you give him one.”

Frank whipped open his wallet and threw a greenback in the direction of the snake charmer. The man stepped forward to retrieve the money. Then he clapped the reptile on the head, spoke rapidly, and the snake let go. With a sinuous movement, it climbed back on its master’s shoulders.

“Are you all right?” Joe asked William.

“It did not hurt me, but I was quite startled,” the boy replied.

They looked about for Chet and Christine, who had not yet appeared. Joe grew impatient. “I’m going back into the shop,” he said. “Meet you here in a little while.”

He sidled through the murmuring crowd. Finally he saw his friends coming. Chet held a package under his arm.

“Where’ve you been?” Joe asked.

“We had to do quite a bit of bargaining after the shopkeeper decided to talk to us again,” Christine explained.

“He had just what I wanted,” Chet added, affectionately patting his package.

“Well, come on now,” Joe said, “the fellows are waiting.” He was about to tell them about the snake, when he happened to glance back toward the leather shop. He noticed a man in native dress duck into the place. A ray of sunlight flashed across his face for a split second.

“It’s Scott! I’m sure it’s Scott!” Joe exclaimed.

“What? Where?” Chet asked.

“He went into the shop. Look, you go and get the others. Christine and I will try to eavesdrop.”

“But——” Chet began to protest.

“Vamoose!” Joe ordered, and gave him a push. Chet realized that this was no time to argue and left.

Joe and Christine pushed through toward the merchant’s stall and stopped at the rug bazaar next to it.

“In here!” the boy whispered.

They wriggled into the hanging folds of a Persian rug, unnoticed by the proprietor, whose back was turned. Once concealed, they listened intently. Voices were coming from the leather shop. The men were speaking French. The man Joe thought was Scott, was being addressed as Monsieur Dubonnet. His new coat, the shopkeeper said, was not ready yet.

Christine translated in a hushed whisper.

“There has to be fine needlework in the lining,” the artisan declared. “Give me a few more days, Monsieur Dubonnet.”

“But I am very busy,” was the annoyed reply. “I need it right away.”

“I will send it to your home,” the merchant offered.

“Good.”

With his heart pounding, Joe heard the man give his address in French. “Did you get it, Christine?”

She bobbed her head.

Joe peeked out of the rug in time to see the man press money into the hand of the artisan.

“If you see or hear anything of those Americans again,” he said, “let me know.” Then he left.

The young people stepped out of hiding and Joe declared, “It’s Scott for sure. Let’s go after him!”

The man had concealed his face in the hood of the djellabah and was striding toward the exit of the souq.

“Here come the others now,” Christine said.

Frank, Chet, and William passed Scott, nearly touching elbows. Joe gestured wildly, but Frank did not get the message. Instead he called out, “Joe, was that really Scott?”

“Yes!” Joe replied, pressing forward as fast as he could. “He just passed you. Come on, we can still chase him.”

But the shouting had alerted the man. He dashed in and out among the shoppers, with the pursuers on his heels. The djellabah retarded Scott’s speed somewhat, but nevertheless he kept a safe distance ahead as he crossed over the open area and dashed to a gate in the city wall.

“Balik! Balik!” Chet cried, and the Arabs melted to one side. Outside the wall, they found themselves on a broad, dusty street. It was cluttered with carts, donkeys, and decrepit old automobiles, chugging along and laden with produce for the market.

“We’ll catch him this time!” Joe cried out as he tried to keep pace with William’s long strides.

Finally the fugitive reached a narrow slit cut into the ramparts. It contained a row of steps leading to the top of the wall. The man raced up, with the others in pursuit. William reached the top of the stairs first, in time to see Scott glide over several flat roofs and disappear.

“There he goes!” William said.

The others were at the spot in seconds and looked down over the edge to see a strange sight. In an area of several acres stood huge open vats half filled with dyes. They were yellow, red, and purple. A pungent smell rose from them.

“What crazy swimming pools,” Chet quipped.

“This is where wool is dyed,” Christine said. “Usually many men work here, but today is a holiday.”

“Scott must be hiding among those vats!” Frank said. He put a hand on the edge of the wall and vaulted down. The others followed.

The ground around the vats was mucky from dye that had dripped over the edges, and the boys slipped and slid in their haste to search around the gooey vats.

Finally Frank shouted, “There he is!”

Scott jumped up from behind his cover and ran off as fast as he could, the hem of his djellabah splashed with a rainbow of colors.

Joe was the first to get anywhere near him. With a desperate lunge, the young detective clawed at the cloak and stopped the man short.

“There he goes!” William said.

Scott turned on him, cursing in French. With strength that Joe had not anticipated, Scott pinned his arms to his sides and lifted him up to the rim of a purple vat! Looking down into the fluid, the boy flailed about furiously. If he were thrown into the dye, it might be fatal!

CHAPTER XVIII

The Sixty-Forty Deal

JOE struggled desperately. Finally he succeeded. Scott lost his grip and the boy fell down, into the muck outside the vat.

Scott crouched for a moment before darting off again. By this time the others had reached Joe and helped him up. Both his arms were purple.

“Hurry!” Christine said. “We must get him cleaned off right away. If the dye has sufficient time to set, his arms might be stained for a year!”

Too messy to use a taxi, they boosted and pulled one another up to the rooftop again, hurried down the stone steps, and jogged along the road toward the Cellier home.

Christine’s mother greeted them at the door with a baffled look. “What happened?” she exclaimed.

“Joe fell near a dye vat,” the girl said. “We need some strong soap, Mother. If you bring it out, I will use the garden hose.”

Mrs. Cellier returned with laundry soap and a box of washing detergent. Joe scrubbed for ten minutes, while his brother played the hose over his arms.

“I guess that’s about all that’ll come off now,” Frank remarked finally.

Joe looked at his arms. They were still rather dark. William broke into a white-toothed smile and said, “Joe, now we are brothers! Can you lend me a dollar?”

As the others laughed, Joe playfully reached for his wallet. Then a look of horror crossed his face. “It’s gone! My wallet’s gone! It must have dropped beside the vat!”

“I remember Scott bending down,” Frank said. “I’ll bet he picked it up!”

“I will go back and look,” William offered.

“I’m coming with you,” Chet said.

While the others cleaned their shoes, the two hurried off. Half an hour later they returned to say that a diligent search had failed to produce the missing wallet.

“That does it!” Joe said in disgust. “Now Scott has the map!”

“What a rotten break,” Frank agreed. “Lucky I’ve got the other copy.”

“Now what?” Chet asked.

“We’re going to Scott’s apartment to see if we can get that map back!” Frank said. “What was the address, Christine?”

The girl wrote it on a piece of paper. “I would go with you if I could,” she said. “But I have a meeting with a scholarship committee. You see, I intend to study medicine in Paris next fall.”

“We can find our way,” Frank said. “Besides, we’d better not all go anyway. That would be too obvious.”

It was decided that he and William would take on the assignment. They were to meet Joe and Chet later at the hotel.

“But I would advise,” Christine said, “that you wear djellabahs.”

“Good idea,” Frank agreed. “Where do we get them?”

“My father has several. They will fit you.”

Clothed in the Arab costumes, Frank and William set off immediately to the Gueliz, the French quarter where Scott-Dubonnet lived. Using a taxi, they found the street and stopped at the number indicated.

It was a small modern apartment house. The names of the tenants were listed above the mail-boxes in the foyer.

“Here it is,” William said. “Dubonnet. Second floor, apartment B.”

The companions ascended the narrow stairs quietly and moved along the hall about half-a-dozen paces until they faced 2B. Voices could be heard inside.

“I’m glad they’re speaking English!” Frank whispered.

Tossing back the hoods of their djellabahs, the boys pressed close to the door to eavesdrop. Unmistakably, two of the voices belonged to Scott and Sam Brown! The words of several others were indistinct.

Brown said, “Come in on the deal with us. When we capture the Hardys tonight, we’ll force the secret of the mask from them.”

Scott laughed as if enjoying a big joke.

“What’s so funny about that?” Brown demanded, obviously annoyed.

“I have your secret already,” was the reply.

Now Frank and William heard the crinkle of unfolding tissue. “Here it is,” Scott said.

There was a moment of silence, followed by murmurs of disbelief.

“How did you get it?” This was Tiffany Stribling.

“How? Well, it took some doing, but that’s my secret.”

“Wait a minute,” Brown said. “Here’s the mask. Let’s check this out.”

Again silence, and the boys realized that the criminals must be confused by the upside-down reading of the lines traced on the tissue. After a few minutes, Stribling discovered what Chet had stumbled upon. “Pretty clever. It’s reversed. This seems to be authentic.”

Scott spoke again. “Now listen. We have money to finance this treasure hunt, and the map. We’ll make a sixty-forty split. Sixty for us.”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Brown said, his voice rising.

“Have it your way, then. We’ll part company.”

Mumbling and grumbling followed, after which Stribling said, “Aker took care of that gumshoe Hardy. What more do you want?”

“I want sixty-forty!” Scott replied harshly. “How do I know that your man really rubbed out the detective?”

“He did. George has never failed an assignment.”

Frank turned ashen. Had his father paid with his life to pursue this case?

William whispered, “I am sorry, man. I am really sorry.”

“All right, you win.” Stribling said finally.

“Good,” Scott said. “Here’s money to get a couple of jeeps and supplies. We’ll leave——”

Just then footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs.

“Let’s go,” Frank said quietly, pulling up his hood. The two boys started down the stairway. Frank stole a look at the man who pushed past them.

The cab driver from Casablanca!

“Pardon,” he said and looked directly at the young detective. Then he cried out in alarm. “Dubonnet! Hurry!”

As the boys reached the foot of the stairs and raced out the door, they could hear a commotion behind them.

“There they go! Frank Hardy and an Arab!”

The boys found an alley and dashed through to a parallel street. A taxi passed by and they leaped into it. As it started off, their enemies, waving their arms and shouting, tried in vain to pursue them.

When the boys arrived at the hotel, they met Joe and Chet in the lobby.

“Did you get my wallet?” Joe asked. Then he noticed his brother’s disturbed expression. “What’s the matter? Did anything happen?”

“It’s Dad,” Frank replied, hardly able to control his voice. “They got him!”

“What?”

“Hold it. Now wait,” William objected, trying to calm the grief-stricken boy. “Remember, Stribling said that Aker was supposed to get your father. But there is no proof! Even Tiffany does not know if his man was successful.”

With tears welling in his eyes, Joe hastened to a telephone booth. “I’m phoning home.”

It took twenty minutes for the call to go through, giving the boys anxious moments to consider their predicament.

“If anything has happened to Dad,” Frank said, “we’ll have to return to the States right away.”

“Of course,” William said. “But do not give up yet!”

Mrs. Hardy finally answered and was surprised to hear from the boys.

“How’s Dad? Is he all right?” Joe blurted.

“Oh, I suppose so. But he isn’t here right now.”

“Where is he?”

“I really don’t know. He took an overnight bag with him and said he’d get in touch with me later.”

Joe bit his lip. What should he say?

“Is there anything wrong?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

“Well—maybe. But we don’t know for sure. Mother, if you hear from Dad, will you have him get in touch with us at the Manzur Hotel or at the Celliers’ in Marrakesh?”

“Yes. I’ll tell him to call right away.”

The boy looked bewildered as he hung up the phone.

“Good grief!” Chet said. “What are we going to do now?”

William spoke up. “Get the police and raid Dubonnet’s apartment!”

The Jamaican’s determined voice roused the Hardys, and they immediately agreed to the strategy. Since the boys were acquaintances of Dr. Cellier’s, the police were cooperative. They accompanied the Americans to Dubonnet’s place, but found it empty!

“It looks as if somebody left in a hurry,” one of the officers said.

“Let’s go back to the Celliers’,” Joe decided. “If we want to continue with the treasure hunt, we’ll have to act fast.”

Christine was home, and when she and her parents heard about the afternoon’s events, they were flabbergasted.

“I think your father would want you to pursue the case to the end,” Dr. Cellier said. “And you had better stay here for the night. Then, in the morning, rent jeeps and some gear, like sleeping bags, and get detailed maps of the area around the lost city.”

“Will you come with us?” Chet asked hopefully.

“I cannot go right now. But I will try to follow later.”

After the boys had picked up their luggage at the hotel, Christine showed them into the guest room. It had a large French window looking out onto the ramparts of Marrakesh. Mrs. Cellier brought in a cot, and Christine got her sleeping bag. “We do not have enough room, really,” Mrs. Cellier apologized. “But it is only for one night.”

“Please don’t worry about that,” Frank said. “The accommodations are just fine.”

The boys waited hopefully for a call from Bayport, but none came. Finally they went to sleep.

How long they had dozed off Joe did not know. But he was awakened by a noise. He sat bolt upright and adjusted his eyes to the moonlight streaming into the French window.

Now the others responded to his sudden movement. They looked, mouths agape, at a figure standing in the window. It was a man with his body painted in bright colors. He wore a grass skirt, but the most startling thing was his face. It was hideous. Obviously he was wearing a mask.

He spoke a few words, then leaped from the casement onto the top of the wall and disappeared.

“A ju-ju man!” William said, his throat dry.

“What did he say? Did you understand it?” Chet asked.

“Yes. He put a curse of death upon us!”

CHAPTER XIX

Figue Barbari

THE boys jumped out of bed and climbed through the window. When they reached the ramparts, however, the ju-ju man was out of sight, and they returned to their room.

“You don’t believe in this curse stuff, do you, William?” asked Chet, trying to act unconcerned.

“N-no,” the Jamaican replied. “Not entirely.”

“Tell you what, William,” Frank said. “Now that we have the whammy on us, you take this charm to ward off the wizard’s power.” He removed the lion’s tooth from his neck and placed the chain over his friend’s head.

“I’ll try,” William said.

The next morning they were up very early. They gave Dr. Cellier a duplicate of the map in case he could join them later, and said good-by to their hosts. Christine accompanied them to the business district, where Chet and William rented two jeeps, while tents, camping equipment, shovels, crowbars, and assorted digging tools were rounded up by the Hardys.

All the while one nagging question persisted. Would they or their enemies be first to find what lay at the end of the route of the mysterious caravan? Time was now more important than ever.

With their chores swiftly completed, the young detectives consulted a reliable road map Dr. Cellier had given them.

“Good-by, Christine,” Joe said.

The girl shook hands with each one. “You will see a lot of little fortified villages along the way,” she said. “These are called casbahs. The natives are usually very nice people. They are Berbers.”

“Not Arabs, you mean?”

“No. The Berbers are blue-eyed Caucasians. Where they came from originally nobody seems to know. They live in the Atlas Mountains and are farmers or herders.”

Frank drove one jeep and Joe the other, and they set off along the highway, which wound higher and higher through the mountains to the east.

For the first twenty miles the road was good, although seemingly little used. They passed very few cars along the way. Frank floored the accelerator for a while but had to ease off because the road narrowed and grew steeper.

“I wish this buggy had more zip,” he said to William, who was seated beside him.

Several miles farther on they left the paved highway and jounced along hard-packed dirt and gravel. Just past a bend, William spied a goat in the middle of the road.

“Frank, look out!” he shouted.

Frank swerved and stood on the brake. The jeep missed the animal, but slewed around. The rear wheel dangled dangerously over a sharp culvert beside a foaming mountain stream.

The boys gingerly stepped out so as not to upset the jeep’s balance. Joe pulled up beside them. It was not until then that they noticed five men standing below at the edge of the stream. They had built a small lagoon of stones, and inside the quiet water hundreds of potatoes bobbed around.

“How do you like that?” Chet exclaimed. “They’re washing spuds!”

“Probably Berber farmers,” said Frank as the men scrambled up the side of the gully and stood grinning at the foreigners.

One, a stubble-bearded fellow with a skull cap pointed to the car, then to the road, and nodded.

“You want to help?” William said. “Fine, lend us a hand.”

The natives joined in to lift the jeep safely onto the road. When it was done, Chet noticed a bush laden with ripe figs at the side of the road. He picked a few, pointing first to the figs, then to his open mouth.

“Leave it to Chet to find something to eat,” Joe said, laughing.

The Berber farmers looked at the boy and nodded.

Chet stuffed a fig into his mouth. Now one of the men frowned, shook his head, and indicated no.

“Why can’t they make up their minds?” Chet asked while he chewed on the fruit. “This doesn’t taste bad!”

Shortly after midday, as the road grew even rougher, Frank stopped briefly. No sign of the criminals.

“We’re at a pretty high altitude now,” Joe said. “Look at those clouds. They’ll be down on top of us before we know it!”

An hour later, Joe’s guess proved to be correct. A dense fog settled over the road, which threaded around the mountain passes perilously close to precipitous cliffs. Their speed was reduced to a crawl.

Finally Frank stopped and jumped out of his jeep to consult with Joe and Chet. William joined them.

“We’d better wait till the fog lifts,” was Frank’s advice. “I can’t see more than a few feet. If we go over the edge, it’ll be the end.”

They waited for several hours. No traffic came from either direction.

“I am wondering,” William said, “whether the Scott-Stribling gang is up ahead or trailing us.”

“Either way,” Frank said, “there’s no use in worrying. This fog may have stopped them, too.”

“I wish I could quit thinking about Dad,” Joe said, “where he is, and what he’s doing.”

“He’s always been able to take care of himself,” Frank remarked. “You know, William, you may be right. Stribling could have been bluffing.”

Now it grew dark, and as the boys were about to break out some sandwiches they had brought along, Chet said, “Wow! Have I got a stomachache!”

It rapidly grew worse, and the stout boy bent over with pain. “The figs! They were poisonous!” he cried.

“Holy crow!” Frank muttered. “I hope not!” He was just about to reach for their first-aid kit to find the Alka-Seltzer, when William put a hand on his shoulder.

“Look!” he said.

Several figures appeared across the road. They moved slowly, their djellabahs blending into the heavy fog like wandering spirits.

As Chet began to moan, they came closer to look at him. Then a man said in hesitating English, “Are you in trouble?”

“We sure are,” Frank replied. “Chet must have been poisoned by figs.”

“Figue barbari?”

“They were growing by the side of the road.”

“Not poisonous,” the man replied. “But they must be cooked.” He told them that he had worked in Tangier for a year and that he and the others lived in a little settlement nearby.

“You come with us,” he concluded.

The Berbers led the boys into a village consisting of a few huts made of rock and mud. Chickens darted around and the noise of goats could be heard through the fog. Dogs barked as they drew closer.

They were taken into one of the huts, where a family of friendly blue-eyed people smiled and nodded while the boys described their travels to the interpreter. Then they were served bread and goat meat and were led into a small anteroom. Its walls were lined with crude bunks.

Chet, meanwhile, having learned that he was not about to die, improved quickly, and by the time they all lay down on the straw bedding, he felt much better.

Neither Frank nor Joe slept well during the night. The noise of chickens and the occasional barking of dogs sounded eerily through the thick fog, which continued to blanket the mountaintop.

By morning it had lifted, however, and when the Hardys opened their eyes, Chet was already up. He peered out of a window and let out a gurgling scream!

“Help! I’m nuts!” he wailed. “I’ve gone cuckoo!”

William was first to rush to his side and look out. There, in a scrubby tree in front of the hut, a goat was climbing in the topmost branches!

William laughed. “Chet, you are not daft. I have heard about these goats. They really do climb trees!”

“Phew!” Chet said. “I thought I was hallucinating from the figue barbari.”

The farmer and his wife were preparing breakfast, but Frank said, “We have food in the car and will bring it in.” With gestures he indicated what he meant, then hurried to the jeep with William. They were digging under a tarpaulin for their supplies when a sudden rumbling sound filled the air. Chet and Joe ran out to see what the noise was and froze in fright!

Rocks, boulders, and debris crashed down the side of the mountain with the roar of a hundred jets! The two jeeps were directly in the path!

“A rockslide!” Joe cried. “Frank, William, run!”

CHAPTER XX

The Mysterious Mirage

FRANK and William looked up in time to see what was happening. Racing for their lives, they were pelted with small stones that stung their backs and arms.

Then a huge boulder crashed like a thunderclap into the provisions jeep, sending it far over the edge of the cliff and into the valley below.

The boys reached the hut, where Joe and Chet were viewing the spectacle with terror. They watched as the second jeep was showered with dirt and pebbles.

Then it was all over. Quiet settled over the mountain once again. The little settlement had been spared, but not by much. Cautiously, the Berbers came out of their huts, talking excitedly.

“Wow!” Frank said, his hands still shaking. “That was close.”

William nodded. “We were fortunate, but we lost a jeep.”

The Berbers helped free the remaining one, which was laden with spare gasoline and digging tools.

“We’ll have to carry on with only one vehicle,” Frank said, rubbing his sore shoulders.

“I wonder if the ju-ju man’s curse is working,” William said. He fingered the lion’s tooth charm. “Baby, do your thing! Wipe out the curse!”

The Berbers supplied the boys with bread, goat cheese, and water, and waved them off on their journey. Joe and Chet sat high on their equipment, with Frank at the wheel and William beside him. The road became even narrower, winding like a serpent coiled on the rim of the mountain.

William’s finger followed their progress on the map spread out on his lap. “We are getting close to Rissani,” he said. “The buried ruins of Sijilmasa should be around here somewhere.”

With their destination near, a new exhilaration gripped the adventurers. Joe put the binoculars to his eyes and studied the deep valley below. “That must be Rissani,” he said.

The road that had tilted up so many miles now descended rapidly and before long they were driving past the Rissani casbah.

“From here it’s compass work,” Frank said as he pulled to a stop outside the town. He took the death-mask-tissue map from his wallet, and with William he studied the lines. From Rissani the trail went south and west in a looping arc.

Frank and William raced for their lives!

Frank was in favor of stopping at Rissani to ask a few questions, but was out-voted by the others.

“We need every minute of time,” Joe argued.

“But we might pick up a clue,” Frank reasoned. “Maybe the gang stopped here for something or other.”

“So what if they did?” Chet said. “Let’s not waste any time, Frank.”

William agreed, and they kept on.

“What’s over there?” Chet said, shading his eyes. “Another mountain?”

“It’s a cliff,” Joe announced. “Here, have a look.”

The binoculars were passed around, and each of them surveyed the barrier that lay about thirty miles distant.

Joe spelled Frank at the wheel and William climbed up on the back with Chet. Now they realized that the desert, which had seemed to be so flat, was studded with outcrops of rocks between which steep dunes rippled like waves on a beach.

Coming to the top of a small rise, Frank studied the cliff again. “We don’t seem to be any closer to it,” he said. “Look!”

“What’s the matter?” Chet asked.

“Camels!”

“You’re seeing things. Nothing’s there,” Joe said.

“I guess you’re right. Now I don’t see anything—wait a minute! They are camels all right!”

Each of the boys scanned the shimmering expanse in front of them. The heat waves danced off the sand, obscuring and then revealing what appeared to be a small caravan. Suddenly, everything disappeared.

“It is a mirage,” William said. “Deserts are known for them.”

“Maybe it’s the mysterious caravan written about on the death mask!” Chet said.

The boys stopped now and then to sweep the desert with their binoculars. Once Chet reported sighting seven camels, but Joe gently suggested that it was his imagination. There was no sign of jeeps and they were confident that their enemies were far behind them.

“The sun is apt to get you out here,” Joe said.

Nonetheless, Frank ordered a sharp lookout for camel tracks. But he had to admit after another ten miles of driving, that the wind might have blown sand over any vestige of animal footprints.

Gradually the cliff loomed larger, and a cleft was clearly visible. It ran diagonally from the sand up into the top.

“I suppose we have to move south around this obstacle,” Chet said.

“Not till we reach the base,” Frank remarked.

“Could this be the end of the journey taken by the mysterious caravan?” William asked.

“It’s possible,” Joe said, and the boys wondered about it as they drove even closer to the escarpment. Now it stood only a few miles away, and the cleft in the rocks had grown to fantastic proportions.

“There may be a road running right through the cliff,” William said.

“We’ll have to explore it, Frank,” Joe urged.

“Right. But in case anybody’s there, I’ll scout it first.” He worked his way inside and returned shortly with word that he had not seen a sign of anybody.

The Hardys scanned the desert again to make sure they were not being followed. But nothing moved on the stark landscape.

Now they drove in, stopped, and appraised their situation. “No road,” Frank noted. A quarter mile ahead of them the defile narrowed and the gray rocks towered so high they had to crane their necks to see the top.

“We’d better turn around and get out of here,” Chet said.

Frank nodded and started back. Another, smaller, cleft became visible.

“I wonder what’s in there,” Joe said. “Think we should find out?”

“What if it’s a cave without bottom?” Chet said. “We might fall all the way down.”

“And land in China?” Joe quipped.

“All right, explore it if you want,” Chet said.

Leaving their jeep, the boys decided to go in, but they stationed Joe outside in the desert as a guard.

“If you see anything, holler,” Frank told him.

“Roger,” Joe said.

Frank, Chet, and William pushed into the narrow cleft and suddenly found themselves at the mouth of a cave. Its entrance was partially sealed by crumbling stones.

“Look, somebody put these together with mud mortar,” William observed. They pulled away at the loose rocks. Age-old dust rose into their faces and made them cough.

“It’s pretty dark in here,” Frank said. “We need a flashlight.”

“I’ll get it,” Chet volunteered. He went back to the jeep and returned with one. Its six-inch lens sent a powerful beam to the back of the cave. Just then Joe came in.

“I saw an airplane going overhead in a direct line,” he reported. “Do you think it could be our enemies spying on us?”

“Maybe. Better watch it,” Frank advised.

Joe’s eyes, slowly becoming accustomed to the dark, focused on the cavern floor.

“Holy crow, look at this!” he exclaimed. “Skeletons!”

The bones of five men, laid out side by side, rested stark on the ground. The skulls grinned ludicrously at the boys, who stepped over them gingerly.

Farther back they came upon small piles of dust and pebbles, and the remnants of leather sacks that had crumbled with age. Frank bent down and rubbed the dust between his fingers.

“Gold!” he cried out. “Gold! We’ve found the treasure!”

“You have done us a great favor!” The harsh voice behind them sounded familiar. The boys whirled about. Several men, clothed in djellabahs, advanced toward them.

Their enemies!

The speaker was Scott. His face was now clearly visible. Beside him was the phony taxi driver and Jason Hickson, who had fled to Casablanca. Farther back were Stribling and Brown. The rest of the men were dark-faced strangers.

The boys realized that the camel caravan had been no mirage! The criminals had been ahead of them after all and must have hidden behind a dune, allowing the Hardys and their friends to complete the discovery!

Stribling spoke. “You were most kind, gentlemen, to lead us to the treasure. What fools you were to think you could outfox us.”

“All right,” Frank said, trying to keep his cool. “You win. Here’s the treasure. It’s all yours. Just let us out of here.”

“Frank,” Joe whispered, “we can’t do that. Let’s fight ‘em!”

Dubonnet-Scott laughed loudly. “Of course the treasure is ours, and of course you’re not going to fight us. You won’t escape, either. We’ll leave you right here with the other skeletons!” He kicked a pile of bones, and a tibia skittered across the cave.

As their enemies approached menacingly, Frank, Joe, and Chet held up their fists in self-defense. But William whispered, “Frank, those black men. They are the acrobats from Marrakesh. And the small one is the ju-ju man. I’m sure of it!” With that he whipped the African charm from around his neck. He stepped forward and spoke in Swahili.

The ju-ju man shrank back, as did the acrobats, and they murmured among themselves.

“What did you tell them?” Joe asked.

“I said I was a more powerful ju-ju. I would put a terrible curse on them unless they defeated their confederates.”

Seconds later a fracas broke out, and the cave reverberated with shouts, screams, and curses. The agile acrobats pounced on the criminals and even before the Americans could pitch in, their adversaries lay subdued, moaning, begging for mercy, and rubbing their bruises.

Suddenly a clear voice rang through the cavern. “Stand where you are, all of you!”

“It’s Dad!” Joe cried out.

“Nobody move. We have you covered.” It was the commanding voice of Fenton Hardy again. Joe raced forward and flung his arms around his father. “We thought you were dead!”

“A base canard!” the detective said with a grin. “An inexcusable exaggeration!”

Lined up behind him with weapons poised stood Dr. Cellier and two police officers.

Stribling looked up in disbelief. “But—but Aker was supposed to have rubbed you out!”

“He tried,” Mr. Hardy said. “But I laid a trap for him. Then I caught two of your men. Mr. Dingo, Scott’s chauffeur, confessed everything!”

Dingo had been left behind to see that Aker did his job properly, but both had fallen prey to the detective. “It was Dingo,” Mr. Hardy said, as the police handcuffed everyone except the acrobats and the ju-ju man, “who led us to the World-Travel Agency in Casablanca. In the cellar under it we found thousands of blank tickets, name plates, sucker lists, and paraphernalia used in the racket all over the world.”

“And when your Dad contacted me,” Dr. Cellier added, “I told him where you had gone.”

“Great!” Frank exclaimed. “But how did you find us here?”

“We hired a plane and spied Joe outside.”

“What I would like to know,” Frank said, “is how did you know we were going to Africa, Mr. Scott? You must have shadowed us all along.”

“None of your business!” Scott grumbled.

But Brown, obviously hoping to make things easier for himself if he talked, gave the answer. “We did. When your fat friend picked up the tickets, we followed him. Then one of our men took the same plane.”

“Shut up!” Scott growled.

“But how did you ever combine forces with Scott?” Frank pressed on.

Brown was silent, but Mr. Hardy reported that a spy from each group had been scouting the Hardy home and by accident had run into each other. Finding they had a common enemy, though two diverse causes, they melted into one gang.

“But why did Scott impersonate the Jamaican envoy and try to get the mask from us at the same time that the kidnapping exchange was being set up?” Frank asked.

“It would have been easier that way,” Mr. Hardy said. “But since it didn’t work, they went through with the exchange.”

“And once we were in Casablanca, Scott tried to do away with us through that phony note from Klem!” Joe said accusingly.

Scott’s face was expressionless.

“And when that didn’t work, he set our hotel room afire!” Joe added.

Scott shrugged. “Prove it!”

“And you were the man sitting across the aisle from us in the train to Marrakesh!” William said. “The Frenchman in Arab disguise, who rolled his bread into little balls.”

“How did they know we were going to Marrakesh?” Chet asked. “They lost our trail when we left the Marhaba!”

“We went back to the travel agency the next morning, remember?” Joe said. “No doubt that man on the roof was one of their gang, and he followed us.”

The next question was where the crooks got the camels. It was revealed that Stribling, who knew the ways of the desert, had sent ahead for a caravan to wait in readiness at Rissani.

Frank said, “We might have discovered this had we stopped there and asked a few questions.”

Joe’s face grew red. “You win, Frank. Never leave a stone unturned.”

A celebration was held the following night in the Cellier home. During the evening Frank whispered to Christine, “May I use your phone, please? I want to call home.”

In the next room he talked quietly to his mother, and when he returned, Chet said, “What’s up? You look happy as a clam at high tide.”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

Three days later, the missions of father and sons having been brought to a successful conclusion, the Hardys and their friends touched down at Bayport Airport. As they all trooped into the house at Elm Street, a surprise was waiting. Tony, Biff, and Phil greeted them with grins on their faces, and the women hugged them. In the middle of the living room stood a wire-mesh cage. In it a dog paced about, sniffing at the arrivals and making odd, chortling noises.

“It’s for you, William,” Mrs. Hardy said. She turned to Frank. “I did have quite a job finding a Basenji breeder, but I managed!”

William stood tongue-tied for a few moments. His eyes widened as he looked from face to face and then at the cage.

“Thank you. Oh, thank you so much,” he finally said, opening the top. Out jumped the lithe animal, pointed ears alert, and pranced around the room. Then he sprang into William’s open arms, nuzzled him, and licked his face.

“Okay, okay!” the boy laughed. “I am glad to see you, too!”

“He can tell a ju-ju man from just any ordinary fellow, see?” Joe quipped. “Smart dog!”

Even Aunt Gertrude smiled and nodded, while the happy reunion went on for another hour. It was fortunate that the Hardys could not foresee the future, because around the next bend lurked a treacherous and frightening mystery to be known as The Witch Master’s Key.

Match Wits with The Hardy Boys®!

Collect the Complete

Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

by Franklin W. Dixon

#1: The Tower Treasure

#2: The House on the Cliff

#3: The Secret of the Old Mill

#4: The Missing Chums

#5: Hunting for Hidden Gold

#6: The Shore Road Mystery

#7: The Secret of the Caves

#8: The Mystery of Cabin Island

#9: The Great Airport Mystery

#10: What Happened at Midnight

#11: While the Clock Ticked

#12: Footprints Under the Window

#13: The Mark on the Door

#14: The Hidden Harbor Mystery

#15: The Sinister Signpost

#16: A Figure in Hiding

#17: The Secret Warning

#18: The Twisted Claw

#19: The Disappearing Floor

#20: The Mystery of the Flying Express

#21: The Clue of the Broken Blade

#22: The Flickering Torch Mystery

#23: The Melted Coins

#24: The Short-Wave Mystery

#25: The Secret Panel

#26: The Phantom Freighter

#27: The Secret of Skull Mountain

#28: The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

#29: The Secret of the Lost Tunnel

#30: The Wailing Siren Mystery

#31: The Secret of Wildcat Swamp

#32: The Crisscross Shadow

#33: The Yellow Feather Mystery

#34: The Hooded Hawk Mystery

#35: The Clue in the Embers

#36: The Secret of Pirates’ Hill

#37: The Ghost at Skeleton Rock

#38: The Mystery at Devil’s Paw

#39: The Mystery of the Chinese Junk

#40: Mystery of the Desert Giant

#41: The Clue of the Screeching Owl

#42: The Viking Symbol Mystery

#43: The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior

#44: The Haunted Fort

#45: The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge

#46: The Secret Agent on Flight 101

#47: Mystery of the Whale Tattoo

#48: The Arctic Patrol Mystery

#49: The Bombay Boomerang

#50: Danger on Vampire Trail

#51: The Masked Monkey

#52: The Shattered Helmet

#53: The Clue of the Hissing Serpent

#54: The Mysterious Caravan

#55: The Witchmaster’s Key

#56: The Jungle Pyramid

#57: The Firebird Rocket

#58: The Sting of the Scorpion

#59: Night of the Werewolf

#60: Mystery of the Samurai Sword

#61: The Pentagon Spy

#62: The Apeman’s Secret

#63: The Mummy Case

#64: Mystery of Smugglers Cove

#65: The Stone Idol

#66: The Vanishing Thieves

The Hardy Boys Back-to-Back

#1: The Tower Treasure/#2: The House on the Cliff

Celebrate over 70 Years with the World’s Greatest Super Sleuths!

THE WITCHMASTER’S KEY

THERE is no time for explanations when Mr. Hardy telephones Frank and Joe from the West Coast and sends them flying off to England to help his old friend Professor Rowbotham.

Their stay in East Anglia begins with a weird omen, as they witness the bizarre funeral of an old witchmaster. From then on, strange things happen. They are shadowed, trapped, sprung upon by a huge black dog, and smitten by an old crone’s curse. Who are their enemies? The same people who burglarized the professor’s witch museum and robbed him of his life’s investment? When the Hardys learn about the strange disappearance of Lord Craighead, the plot deepens. Danger lurks everywhere and follows them to Ireland and the Isle of Man.

After surviving a shipwreck in the storm-tossed Irish Sea, the clue of a frightened white witch leads them into the torture chamber of a black witches’ coven. Frank and Joe barely escape alive in the final struggle with their fanatic adversaries, from whom they finally snatch the telltale Witchmaster’s Key!

“My basketball set shot!” Joe whispered.

The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories®

THE

WITCHMASTER’S

KEY

BY

FRANKLIN W. DIXON

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Publishers • New York

A member of The Putnam & Grosset Group

Copyright © 1976 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-17392 ISBN: 978-1-101-65732-4

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I

A SPOOKY FUNERAL

II

THE WITCH MASKS

III

GRAVEYARD SURPRISE!

IV

A NIGHT SEARCH

V

THE RUNAWAY HORSE

VI

THE MISSING MARQUIS

VII

CURIOUS YANKS

VIII

THE FORTUNETELLER

IX

JUMPY SLEUTHS

X

A WILD RIDE

XI

THE STONEHENGE CAPER

XII

MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE

XIII

A NEAR MISS

XIV

THE CURSE

XV

SOS IN THE IRISH SEA

XVI

A COVEN FEUD

XVII

A HAPPY REUNION

XVIII

KIDNAPPED!

XIX

THE TORTURE CHAMBER

XX

THE SKELETON

CHAPTER I

A Spooky Funeral

AS the giant jet hissed toward London, Joe Hardy looked out the window at the flaming sunrise.

“Frank,” he said to his brother, “have you made head or tail of this mission?”

“Negative. I couldn’t get a solid clue out of Dad. His phone call from California was so hurried. Could it be he’s putting us on?”

Joe shrugged. “It wouldn’t be like him to send us on a transatlantic wild-goose chase. But it all happened too fast. Not a hint except that we’re to help his old friend Professor Chauncey Rowbotham in any way we can.”

Airline seats were hard to get at this time of year; so the Hardys had taken the first available flight, even though the professor would be away, lecturing, for another day or two. And only he could brief them properly on their mission!

The boys were used to mysteries. They often helped their father, Fenton Hardy, the famous private investigator. But they had never been so confused at the start of a case as they were this time.

Frank and Joe had established their reputation by solving the case of The Tower Treasure. Their latest, known as The Mysterious Caravan, recently took the boys to Morocco. Now, what awaited them in England?

Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe winced, pressing his hand against his cheek.

“That aching wisdom tooth again?” asked Frank, who was dark-haired and a year older.

“Yes. I should have had it pulled before we left J.F.K.”

“Hang in there. We’ll find you a good English dentist.” Trying to distract his brother, Frank went on, “What’s your guess about this caper? Forgery, bank robbery, missing person, murder?”

“Maybe old books.” Joe tried to smile. “Professor Rowbotham lectures at Cambridge. Perhaps somebody walked off with his Shakespeare collection.”

“Could be. Anyhow, we’ll know when we get to Griffinmoor in East Anglia.”

Joe rubbed his jaw gingerly. “Lucky we don’t have to see the professor for two days. That’ll give me a chance to get this tooth pulled.”

The gentle thud of unlimbering wheels signaled the approach to London airport, and the jet came in for a smooth landing. Passengers yawned and stretched, then filed off the plane.

Joe wrestled their baggage through customs while Frank hired a car at the booth in the terminal.

“We’d better get used to driving on the left side of the road,” Frank remarked as he slid behind the wheel.

“That’s for sure,” Joe answered. “We don’t want to bump heads with some guy coming the other way.”

Following the signs, Frank eased the car through roaring London traffic. Near the center of the city they passed a number of vintage automobiles, which bore colorful flags and triangular insignia of shields with crossed arrows and star clusters.

“Who are they?” Frank wondered.

Joe peered back. “London Motor Club. Must be headed for a car show.”

Reaching the outskirts of London, Frank stepped on the gas. They sped through the countryside of East Anglia beyond the town of Chelmsford. At Colchester they turned left along the road leading to Ipswich and on north. Just before Norwich, Frank veered east while Joe picked out their route on a map spread across his knees.

“We’re in Norfolk County,” he said. “Griffinmoor can’t be far now.”

The car rolled over broad level plains as small hamlets and big farms slipped by. The boys crossed rickety wooden bridges over slowly meandering streams where windmills stood on the banks, their sails revolving lazily in the breeze. Chickens fluttered away from the car wheels, clucking in fright.

Joe broke the silence. “This is the lowest part of England. Any lower and we’d be under water.”

Outside Griffinmoor, Frank eased to a stop to let a funeral procession cross the narrow road.

The mourners were strange-looking people, wearing bedraggled clothes. Six men carried a rough-hewn black coffin on their shoulders, while an unkempt woman followed behind it with a black cat in her arms.

The leader of the procession was a man with a heavy shock of gray hair and a bushy beard. He carried a sword upright in both hands.

The mourners crossed the road in silence. Then they entered the woods on the opposite side and started to chant.

“Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Cast a spell! Cast a spell!”

Frank glanced at his brother. “This is worth a look-see.”

“I’ll say so,” Joe agreed.

Frank ran the car behind a clump of trees and they got out. Creeping through the woods, they followed the funeral procession into an ancient churchyard cemetery high on a hill overlooking Griffinmoor.

The mourners crossed the road in silence.

Weeds covered the graves, and the headstones were chipped. The nearby church was weather-beaten and deserted.

The Hardys watched from behind a moss-covered tomb while the mourners placed the coffin in an open grave. The leader walked around it three times, pointing at the coffin with his sword. He then struck it three blows with the blade.

The group began to sway from side to side, chanting eerily:

Power of land and surge of sea,

Light of moon and might of sun,

Do as we will and let it be.

Chant the spell and it is done.

All fell silent as two men lifted the lid off the coffin for the mourners to get a last look at the deceased. Frank and Joe pressed forward for a peek.

They shuddered. The dead man might have been a hundred years old! His wrinkled, wizened face was contorted in a savage scowl!

A low groan broke the silence. The mourners swung around and gazed fiercely at Joe Hardy, whose toothache had caused him to make the sound. Joe tried to look nonchalant, and Frank got ready for action in case the man with the sword decided to use it on them.

The boys were relieved when the mourners went back to burying the dead man. The six pallbearers quickly shoveled earth on top of the coffin, where it landed with a dull muffled thud.

The people drifted back to the road, and the Hardys returned to their car and resumed their trip.

“I wonder what that get-together meant?” Frank speculated.

“If you ask me,” Joe said, “they’re making a horror movie.”

A few minutes later they were in Griffinmoor, driving down the main street between rows of quaint cottages to the town square. Frank stopped in front of an inn with a signboard showing a soldier in a scarlet coat and steel helmet. They went in.

“Welcome to the Marquis of Granby Inn,” the desk clerk greeted them. “What can I do for you?”

“First you can let us have a room,” Frank said.

“Righto.”

“Second,” Joe added as Frank signed the register, “can you tell us about the funeral we passed outside of town?”

The clerk stopped smiling. Nervously he reached for the key to their room and handed it to Frank.

“Number sixteen on the second floor,” he said.

“Do enjoy your stay at the Marquis of Granby.”

“The funeral,” Joe prodded him. “The Boris Karloff characters, who were they?”

The clerk leaned over the desk and said in a low voice, “If you want my advice, you’ll forget you ever saw the funeral, because the next one could be yours!”

Thunderstruck by the mysterious warning, the Hardys questioned the clerk further, but he insisted he could tell them nothing more.

“That guy’s holding out on us!” Joe said as he and Frank unpacked. “I’d say he’s afraid of something.”

Frank nodded. “And I’d like to find out what it is.”

After washing, they went to the town square and tried to start a conversation with some bowlers on the Griffinmoor green. The men became sullen at the mention of the funeral.

One bowler drew the boys aside. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

“Just over from the U.S.A.,” Joe said.

“Then you don’t know about old John Pickenbaugh. That was his funeral.”

“So?”

“John Pickenbaugh was a witchmaster!”

“Come off it,” Joe scoffed. “There aren’t any witches.”

“You’ll know better before you leave East Anglia,” the man retorted, and returned to his game.

The boys inquired in a few Griffinmoor shops. Nobody would talk to them about John Pickenbaugh and his funeral.

“We’re getting brush-offs instead of answers,” Frank observed.

Finally they came to a run-down tearoom, where a caged parakeet, jars of herbs, and a zodiac chart stood in the window. The name Mary Ellerbee was painted on the window ledge. They went in.

Mary Ellerbee was an old woman with a polka-dot bandanna around her head. She offered to read tea leaves for her customers and tell them their fortune. Frank said they’d have tea and cakes but no fortunetelling. They took a corner table.

“Know anything about John Pickenbaugh?” Joe asked before taking a bite of a chocolate cupcake.

“What about old John?” Mary asked suspiciously.

“Was he really a witchmaster?” Frank put in.

“Of course he was! And the mourners at his funeral today were witches from the Griffinmoor coven!”

Frank and Joe exchanged startled glances. Frank lowered his cup of tea. “How do you know that?”

Mary Ellerbee gave a high-pitched cackle. “That’s my secret! I’ll tell you this, though. You shouldn’t be asking about John Pickenbaugh. You should be asking about his successor!”

Joe looked puzzled. “His successor?”

The old woman grinned like a harpy. “Of course. The title is handed down from one witchmaster to another. We’ve always had a witchmaster in East Anglia.”

A black cat leaped into her lap. She stroked its silky fur and whispered something in its ear. The cat yawned, showing long fangs, and peered at the Hardys with green eyes.

Suddenly Mary Ellerbee cackled again, and Joe felt a cold shiver run up his back.

“So!” she cried. “Who do you think is the new witchmaster of East Anglia?”

“Do you know?” Frank asked.

“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t!”

Realizing they would learn nothing more from her, the boys got up. Frank dropped a few British coins on the table.

As they left the tearoom, Mary Ellerbee called out, “Remember East Anglia is witch country of Old England! Strange things happen here!”

As her strident voice died away, they turned down the street toward the Marquis of Granby Inn.

“What an odd character!” Frank said. “But at least she talked to us. It’s lucky we went into her tearoom.”

“Not so lucky for me,” Joe said. “That chocolate cupcake was a mistake. My jaw feels as though it’s blowing up like a basketball!”

“We’d better get you to a dentist, pronto,” his brother suggested.

At the inn, Frank found the name of Doctor Vincent Burelli and put through a call. The dentist said it was after hours, but he’d take anybody with a toothache.

The Hardys walked across Griffinmoor just as night was falling. Raindrops pattered down out of a black sky, and the boys sloshed through mud puddles on a side street, looking for the office.

Finally they spotted it and made their way to a door that stood ajar. It bore a nameplate reading: DOCTOR VINCENT BURELLI, DENTAL SURGEON.

Frank rang the bell. No answer. He rang several times. Silence. “Maybe he’s treating a patient, Joe. Let’s go in.”

They found themselves in a tiny waiting room. Through a half-open door on the opposite side they saw the office and the dental chair.

“I don’t see any patient or the doctor,” Frank said. “We’ll have to wait.”

They sat down and Frank began to leaf through a magazine on oceanography when footsteps sounded from the direction of the office.

After exchanging perplexed glances, the boys tiptoed across the waiting room and pushed through the door.

Inside they saw an opening trap door beyond the dental chair. A man emerged with his back toward them. He lowered the door and turned around.

The boys gaped. The face was horribly deformed. The eyes bulged. The nose was squashed. A puffy tongue hung limply from a frothing mouth!

CHAPTER II

The Witch Masks

THE horrid-looking creature placed a thumb under his chin and gave a jerk upward. His face came off!

“It’s a mask!” Frank cried.

“Only plastic and paint!” Joe marveled.

“Doctor Burelli at your service.” The man introduced himself with a low bow.

He was of medium height with short, uncombed brown hair, blue eyes, horn-rimmed glasses, a prominent nose, and an expanding waistline. He smiled easily.

“Quite a start for our visit to Griffinmoor!” Frank mumbled.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the dentist said seriously. “I’m an amateur actor, and secretary of the Gravesend Players in town. I make masks for our company in my basement workshop. The trap door allows me to work on them between patients. I believe one of you has a toothache. Let me look.”

Joe sat down in the dental chair, opened his mouth, and pointed to the sore spot.

“Well,” the dentist said after an examination, “You haven’t shown much wisdom about that wisdom tooth. The wisest thing would have been to have had it extracted long ago.”

He chuckled at his own witticism. Amid a barrage of comic comments, he gave Joe a local anesthetic and waited for it to take effect.

“Who are you fellows?” he inquired. “I notice an American accent.”

Frank explained that he and Joe were two Americans who did detective work at home in Bayport. He concealed the fact that they were in Griffinmoor to deal with Professor Rowbotham’s mystery. “No sense in gabbing too much,” he thought.

Frank was the cautious Hardy. Joe was more likely to leak a secret, but just now Joe couldn’t talk.

“So you’re detectives,” Burelli said. “You must know about masks.”

“We use disguises from time to time,” Frank admitted.

The dentist clamped his forceps around Joe’s tooth, applied leverage, and extracted it.

“No mystery here,” he declared. “You see the offender before you. Now you can rinse.”

A few minutes later Joe got out of the dental chair, rubbing his jaw.

“Since you’re detectives,” Burelli went on, “perhaps you’d like to see my collection of masks in the basement.”

The boys said they would, and Dr. Burelli lifted the trap door, wedged it open, and descended the ladder. Frank and Joe climbed down after him.

They found themselves in a gloomy room lighted by a single overhead bulb. A long bench held a series of masks of well-known people. They recognized Winston Churchill, General Douglas MacArthur, and Marilyn Monroe.

“A few of my friends,” Burelli said airily.

“Those masks wouldn’t scare anybody,” Joe observed.

The dentist beckoned to them and led the way to another table against a side wall. Four horrid faces with distorted features and misshappen heads glared at them. These masks were as hideous as the one Burelli had worn.

“What an ugly bunch!” Joe exclaimed.

“Worse than the rogues’ gallery,” Frank added.

The dentist looked pained. “Please! You’re talking about the masks I love! Anyway,” he said, “I make horror masks for my own amusement.”

“Boy, I’d like to have these on Halloween,” Joe said. “Nobody could find anything scarier.”

Suddenly Burelli became serious and mysterious. “If you think that, look at these!”

He moved to a dark corner that the light of the overhead bulb barely reached. The Hardys could just make out a number of masks that were more sinister than any they’d seen yet.

A man’s mask peered at them through slitted eyes, the corners of the mouth turned up in a malevolent smirk. A woman’s face was wild-eyed, the nostrils flaring, the mouth open as if to bite.

Frank and Joe shivered in spite of their long experience with criminals. They had never come across faces that exuded evil, as these masks did.

“I thought you’d be impressed,” Burelli stated.

“What are they?” Frank wondered.

“Witch masks!”

Joe shook his head as if he were coming out of a trance. “What are witch masks?”

“Faces copied from woodcuts and pictures of witches in old books,” Burelli explained. “I make drawings of the witches and then design the masks. I read the old records of witch trials to get in the mood before I start work on a witch mask.”

“They’re enough to give anyone the willies,” Joe said.

“Well,” the doctor answered, “you two are the only ones who have gotten the willies, if I may use your expression, because you’re the only ones who have seen my witch masks.”

“Why the secrecy?” Joe wanted to know.

“You’ll find out soon enough if you stay in Griffinmoor. Now then, we’d better go upstairs. Another patient may be waiting. I hope you’ll keep this under your hat. I don’t want word of what I’m doing to get around.”

The Hardys assured him they’d keep his secret. Burelli revealed that he was hoping for a one-man exhibit of his masks in London.

“That show’ll scare the public,” Frank predicted.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Burelli said.

They climbed back up the ladder and the dentist lowered the trap door into place. A faint smell hung in the atmosphere, reminding Joe of the Bayport riding stables.

“Don’t tell me you have a horse in the waiting room,” he quipped.

“Nothing as spectacular as that,” Burelli said with a grin.

“Quit the bloody jokes,” a voice called out. “I’ve been waiting for ages!”

“That’s Nip Hadley,” Burelli informed the Hardys. “He’s the groom of the Craighead estate. Cracked a tooth this afternoon, playing soccer. He made an appointment with me just after you called.”

The dentist led the way into the waiting room. Nip Hadley was Joe’s age and height, but more stocky in his build and rough in his demeanor. His husky shoulders showed that he had the strength to handle a horse.

Burelli introduced them. Joe offered his hand but the groom refused. He glared at the Hardys.

“I heard about you Yanks. You been asking questions about old John Pickenbaugh. Pretty nosy, ain’t you?”

“We just stumbled on the funeral,” Frank protested.

“Sure,” Nip jeered. “You might get a bang on the snoot if you keep pushing it in where it ain’t wanted. And I’m the one who’ll do the banging!”

The boy’s challenge was too much for Joe to take. He moved forward with his fists up, ready to swing at Nip.

Burelli quickly stepped between them. “You fellows seem anxious to keep me in business. But I’m not looking for any more right now. There’s been enough dental damage for one day.” He and Nip went into the office, while the Hardys walked into the street and headed back toward the inn.

“Nip Hadley seems like a tough customer,” Joe remarked. “He’s about as friendly as a bear with a sore head.”

“He sure wouldn’t win any popularity contest,” Frank agreed. “But your remarks didn’t help. Maybe you wouldn’t feel friendly if you had a cracked tooth and somebody said you smelled like a horse.”

“I guess you’re right,” Joe confessed. “I’ll apologize if we meet Nip again.”

“Chances are, in this little town you will,” Frank replied.

“You know, there’s something eerie about this place,” Joe went on. “No one wants to talk about John Pickenbaugh or the witch business; and all we get are cryptic warnings about finding out about it if we stay in Griffinmoor long enough.”

Frank nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t expect anything like this. Everyone is a little strange. Did you ever hear of a dentist whose hobby is making witch masks?”

Joe laughed. “No, but why not? I like Dr. Burelli. He seems to be a good dentist and a jolly good fellow, too. Maybe all the jaws he sees day after day inspire him to make those crazy masks.”

The rain began to fall harder. As the Hardys turned a corner, they stepped into a gooey mud puddle and had to scramble out.

“My shoes are a mess!” Joe complained.

“Mine, too.”

They hastened back to the inn and went to bed. They were sleeping soundly when they became dimly aware of a commotion going on downstairs.

Joe opened one eye and looked at his watch. “Six o’clock!” He groaned. “You’d think they’d hold their karate exercises later in the day!”

“Something must be up,” Frank said.

Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. A fist banged loudly on their door. Frank jumped out of bed and opened it. Joe joined him.

A tall police constable stood there.

“Are you Frank and Joe Hardy?” he asked.

“Yes, we are. What’s the matter?” Frank inquired.

The constable glowered at them. “John Pickenbaugh’s grave was robbed during the night! I’d like to ask you a few questions. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you!”

CHAPTER III

Graveyard Surprise!

“WHAT? You mean we’re being arrested for grave robbery?” Joe exploded.

“Cool it, Joe,” Frank urged his brother. “We haven’t been charged with any crime.”

“Not yet,” the constable explained. “But you’ll have to come with me for questioning.”

At headquarters the constable grilled them about their stay in Griffinmoor.

“How did your shoes get muddy?” he asked.

“We blundered into a mud puddle last night,” Frank said.

“Perhaps you were digging up the body of John Pickenbaugh,” the constable contended.

Joe got hot under the collar. “What would we want with a corpse? We didn’t even know the guy!”

“That’s what you say,” the constable noted. Suddenly he fired a question at them. “What do you know about witchcraft?”

Frank coolly fielded the question. “Not a thing, constable. America had witch trials in Salem. But this was long before our time.”

“We have an alibi,” Joe said. “We weren’t there.”

The constable cleared his throat. “Where were you last night at ten o’clock?”

“That’s easy,” Frank told him. “In bed at the Marquis of Granby Inn. Why don’t you check with the desk clerk?”

The constable picked up the phone and put a call through. After a brief conversation, he hung up.

“Okay,” he said. “Your alibi checks out. The manager tells me you came in long before that and did not leave again.”

“Does that mean we can go?” Frank asked.

“Not quite. I’ll need a character reference. Will anyone in Griffinmoor vouch for you?”

Frank scratched his head. “I guess the only one is Professor Chauncey Rowbotham.”

“Yeah,” Joe put in. “He knows who we are.”

The constable called the professor, who just had arrived at his home. Rowbotham said he would be right over. While they waited, Frank and Joe talked to the men at headquarters about British methods of crime fighting. They gathered a few tips to add to their criminology files in Bayport.

Professor Rowbotham bustled in. He was slight, with a goatee and flowing white hair. He carried a cane, which he waved around so carelessly that he nearly hit the constable. He stammered slightly as he talked.

After admitting he had never met the Hardys, he was challenged about how he could vouch for them.

“But–ah–ah, I know the father of these young men,” he said. “The sons of Fenton Hardy are sure to be all right.”

“Professor,” the constable said, “your word is good enough for me.” He turned to Frank and Joe. “Okay, you’re free to go.”

Rowbotham had a European compact car outside. While they drove, he explained the mystery that had brought them to East Anglia.

“Ah–ah, well, you see, the fact is, I’m curator of the Griffinmoor Witch Museum. It’s my life’s work. All my money is tied up in it.”

Joe nudged Frank. Griffinmoor seemed to be crowded with witches.

“So you want us to investigate the ladies who ride broomsticks?” Joe suggested.

“No–er–no, nothing like that. The problem is that the museum has been robbed. Burglarized! Cleaned out! I hope you fellows can find out who did it, because the police don’t seem to make any headway.”

They drove up to a large building not far from the cemetery where they had spied on the weird Pickenbaugh funeral. It was four stories high with a lot of corners and bay windows. The slate roof tilted at a steep angle that made it appear to be toppling over.

Professor Rowbotham escorted them through a few rooms of the Witchcraft Museum. All were stripped completely.

“Not even a stick of furniture left,” Frank muttered.

“Quite–that is–I would have to say you are quite right. Nothing is left. Everything is gone. The basement is here. I had a big collection of occult items down there. The rooms were locked. Now they are empty!”

“Why would the thieves take everything?” Joe wondered. “Why didn’t they concentrate on valuable objects?”

Frank pinched his lower lip. “They may have been after something specific,” he theorized. “Maybe they took everything so nobody could tell which piece they wanted.”

Rowbotham was impressed by the theory. “Very likely, very likely. But I cannot imagine what it could be. I wrote to your father because I was so stunned. I thought he might solve the mystery.”

“Dad was delayed by an important case in California,” Frank said. “He sent us instead.”

“I see–I see your point. I understand he trained you to be detectives. But ah–ah–the question is, will you take the case?”

“Of course we will, professor,” Joe assured him. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“First of all,” Frank said, “is there any tie-in between the burglary at the Witch Museum and the robbery of John Pickenbaugh’s grave?”

Professor Rowbotham said he doubted it. “Pickenbaugh was still alive when the theft took place,” he pointed out.

“Have there been any other burglaries around here?” Frank asked.

“Ah–ah–yes. There’ve been some at Eagleton Green. That is the artisan village next to Griffinmoor.”

“Artisan village?” Frank queried.

“A village of workmen who make things like clocks, guns, and jewelry. They have suffered from thefts lately, also arson.”

“Theft and arson!” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds like a gang operating in East Anglia!”

“But–ah–ah, although I’m not a detective,” Rowbotham said, “I must tell you these were small crimes. More like harassment.”

“Any suspects?” Frank persisted.

“A young man, a groom, I believe, from the Craighead estate.”

“Nip Hadley?” Joe blurted out.

“Just so. He was caught near the Eagleton Green Saddle Shop just after a fire bomb went off.”

“We’ve met him,” Joe said. “He might just be mean enough to do something like that.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Frank advised. “Let’s talk to Nip about this.” He turned to Rowbotham. “What kind of objects are we talking about? I’d like to know a witch collection when I see one.”

The professor produced a thick catalog. Frank and Joe studied the listings.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Cauldrons, robes, wands, bells, daggers, dolls with pins in them–the works!”

“Also,” Frank observed, “stuffed animals, astrology charts, poison potions, and the good old skull and crossbones.”

Rowbotham cleared his throat. “Notice the instruments of torture. They are my particular hobby. Pincers, thumbscrews, headsman’s ax, etcetera.”

Frank closed the catalog and handed it back. “With so many items involved,” he said, “we’ll have to go over this museum with a fine-toothed comb.”

“But ah–ah–, the police have already done so,” Rowbotham declared. “They even found a clue, and took it to headquarters.”

“Then we’d better mosey on down there and take a look at it,” Joe said.

“We’ll be back later,” Frank promised.

“You’ll stay with me,” the professor said, “in my house behind the museum. I’ll have your things brought over from the inn.”

“Sure thing, professor. Thanks. Meanwhile we’ll return our car. I doubt that we’ll need it.”

At headquarters they spoke to an officious sergeant named Joseph Rankin. When they asked about the clue from the Witch Museum, Rankin at first evaded the issue.

“Why should I say anything to you about the clue?” he growled.

“Because Professor Rowbotham hired us to investigate this case for him,” Frank said in a conciliatory tone. Quickly he filled the sergeant in.

“Well,” Rankin said, “in that case you might as well see what we found.”

He opened a drawer and produced a long purple-and-white feather, which he placed on the desk. “This was on the floor beside the door of the museum.”

“Any theory about it?” Frank queried.

“We know feathers were used to make witches’ brew. The thieves must have dropped it when they were moving the stuff out the door.”

“Then it was part of Professor Rowbotham’s collection?”

“He claims not. But why would anyone bring a feather along on a burglary job?”

“Thanks, sergeant,” Joe said.

“We appreciate it,” Frank added.

As the boys started for Rowbotham’s home, Joe said, “I think that’s an eagle feather.”

“Not exactly an eagle,” Frank disagreed, “but a close relative. I’m not sure. What bugs me, though, is that the professor claims it’s not his.”

Joe had an inspiration. “What say we make a detour around by the cemetery and take a gander at Pickenbaugh’s grave?”

“Good idea. Maybe the ghouls left a clue.”

They tramped through the woods to the spot where they had seen the weird mourners. The police were there, examining the empty coffin that had held the corpse of the witchmaster.

A few questions elicited the information that no clue to the desecration had been found.

Frank and Joe went up to one of the officers. “Found anything yet?” Frank asked.

The tall, thin man shook his head. Then he squinted. “What’s it to you?”

“We were accused of pulling this little job this morning,” Joe answered angrily. “So we’re interested.”

“Oh, you are the American fellows who are visiting here,” the officer said with a grin of recognition. “They tried to pin it on you but it didn’t stick. Well, it looks like a burglary to me. The lining of the coffin was ripped as if the villains were looking for something hidden in there.”

“But why would they take the corpse, then?” Joe asked.

The officer shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Let’s look around the cemetery,” Frank suggested. “Maybe we’ll find something the cops overlooked.”

They walked between headstones until they came to a freshly dug grave. Frank advanced to the edge of the hole and peered into it. Joe moved up beside him.

A sudden slithering noise made them whirl around. Two hooded figures leaped on them from behind a clump of bushes. Two clubs descended in a swinging arc. Zap! Everything went black!

Frank and Joe tumbled headfirst into the open grave and lay still!

CHAPTER IV

A Night Search

FRANK came to and sat up, rubbing the back of his head. Joe stirred beside him.

Footsteps sounded nearby, and in moments several people formed a ring around the grave and gazed down at the two boys.

“Young men,” said a clergyman, “what are you doing in this grave? We are about to hold a funeral!”

“Pretty embarrassing,” Frank muttered. He said aloud, “We fell in accidentally. Sorry about that.”

Some of the men bent down and helped the Hardys out. Nip Hadley was one of them. The mourners frowned as Frank and Joe stepped hastily past the coffin and made for the woods. Nip followed them.

Joe turned around. “Say, Nip, I want to apologize for being rude at the dentist’s the other day. I didn’t mean it.”

“That’s all right, I wasn’t my usual lovey self either. That tooth hurt a lot!” Nip grinned, then went on, “What happened? I don’t go for that accident stuff.”

“A couple of goons conked us,” Frank said. “I didn’t see who they were. Did you, Joe?”

“Negative. But you got to the scene of the crime awfully quick, Nip. How come?”

The groom looked hurt. “I followed the funeral procession, just like you guys did with John Pickenbaugh. Bushwhacking ain’t my style.”

“Okay, if you say so, Nip,” Frank said.

The groom changed the subject. “Know what’s happening at headquarters? You two are accused of being witches!”

Frank and Joe halted in their tracks. “Witches!” Joe exploded. “Who says that?”

“Old Mary Ellerbee. They say she’s a witch herself and was a member of old John Pickenbaugh’s coven. Anyhow, she was at his funeral.”

Something clicked in Joe’s mind. “The old woman carrying the black cat! I didn’t recognize her at the tearoom because of the bandanna she was wearing.”

“Come on, Joe!” Frank said. “We’d better get over there. Thanks for the tip, Nip.”

They found Mary Ellerbee at the police station. She was clutching an ancient book in her hands.

“Apprehend them!” she cried as they entered.

“What’s the charge?” Frank inquired.

“Malicious mischief!”

“Where’s the proof?” Joe challenged.

“Right here in this book. It says Melinda Hardy Smith was a Salem witch sentenced to be drowned. She was your ancestor. So you’re both warlocks. You’re up to mischief in Griffinmoor! If you didn’t rob John’s grave, you ordered it done!”

The Hardys knew that a warlock was a male witch.

“There’s one big hole in your theory,” Frank said mildly. “Our ancestors weren’t in America at the time of the Salem witch trials. So Melinda Hardy Smith has nothing to do with us.”

“That settles it,” a policeman said.

Furiously Mary Ellerbee stalked out, shouting strident threats as she went.

“She sure has it in for us,” Joe said. “I wonder why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Joe.”

They decided to let their parents know what was happening to them in England. At a telegraph office, they sent a cable to Bayport, explaining that they were on the Rowbotham case but had made little headway.

“It’s nice to be in touch with home,” Joe stated. “Here everyone is against us.”

“Except Professor Rowbotham and Dr. Burelli,” Frank said. “You know something? I wish Chet and Phil were here with us.”

Chet Morton and Phil Cohen, their Bayport pals, were on a bicycle tour of Ireland. They often helped the Hardys solve cases.

At Rowbotham’s home, the Hardys walked up along the semicircular drive to the house, where they found that the professor had installed them in a bedroom on the ground floor opposite the Witch Museum. They questioned him about the purple-and-white feather at the police station.

“It was definitely–ah–not in my collection,” he said emphatically. “A strange feather, incidentally. I would almost suspect it came from the mythical beast of Griffinmoor–the griffin, half eagle and half lion. Here, let me show you the Griffinmoor emblem.”

He led them into his study and pointed to a plaque on the wall. It showed a fierce eagle with a lion’s head, flying off into the sky while bearing a knight in armor in its talons.

The legend at the bottom read: “Norman invaders were repulsed here by the eagle with gigantic talons.” Below that was the motto: Avoir la Serre Bonne.

“The motto is in French,” the professor explained. “It means, ‘to have a strong grip.’ I imagine you realize the significance of such a motto.”

“When Griffinmoor grabs you,” Frank suggested, “it never lets go.”

“Ah–ah–that interpretation will do very well. Yes.”

Joe felt restless. “But what do we do is what I want to know. This confab isn’t doing anything to solve the mystery.”

Frank looked at Rowbotham. “Professor, I think Joe and I should search your museum. The police may have missed something.”

“As you wish,” Rowbotham conceded, and gave him the key.

They reached the tall, dark building just as dusk was falling. It had an air of sinister foreboding about it.

Frank unlocked the heavy door. They went in and Joe snapped on the master light for the building.

Wham! A gust of wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind them. The sound echoed through the cavernous Witch Museum.

“Sounds like ghosts upstairs,” Frank said.

“Witches would be more like it,” Joe noted. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Me too. It’s spooky.”

Hurrying up three flights of stairs, they entered the attic, a large room supported by rough crossbeams covered with dust and cobwebs. The walls slanted inward, and the Hardys could see the steep slate roof through a tiny window.

A pitch-black raven perched on the topmost pinnacle. As they watched, it emitted a loud, hoarse croak and flew off in the direction of the churchyard, which was visible in the distance.

The rising wind shook the top of the Witch Museum. Rain lashed the tiles outside. A bolt of lightning cut through the sky. Thunder boomed overhead.

Ignoring the storm, the Hardys inspected the attic thoroughly.

“See anything?” Joe asked.

“Couple of spiders. That’s about it.”

They went down a flight of squeaky stairs to the third floor. A sign on the door read: WITCHES’ BREW.

Inside they found rows of shelves on the walls, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. They were labeled with the names of witch poisons, ointments, recipes, and herbs. But the shelves were bare.

“Boy, Professor Rowbotham sure kept a lot of powerful stuff in here,” Frank commented. “Hemlock, belladonna, aconite—”

“Also henbane,” Joe added.

The Hardys knew these were deadly poisons. Frank gave Joe a worried look.

“Remember when I asked you on the plane what the East Anglia case might involve? Maybe it’s poison!”

Joe shuddered. “There must be a lot of this stuff floating around Griffinmoor, Frank. And the thieves might not know what it is!”

There was a rustling movement near the door. Something hurtled at them, aimed straight for Joe’s head!

Before he could move, the projectile veered off onto a high rafter.

“A bat!” Frank chuckled.

“Very funny,” Joe groused.

Another set of rickety stairs brought them to the second floor of the Witch Museum. Here the sign read: EFFIGY ROOM.

Frank scrutinized the place. “This is where the witches lived. Statues of them, anyway. I remember the pictures in Professor Rowbotham’s catalog. They showed witches in robes and Halloween hats, carrying candles. One held a crystal ball in the palm of her hand.”

“Don’t forget the witchmaster, Frank. He stood over here with a sword in his hands, just like the guy we saw leading the funeral procession to John Pickenbaugh’s grave.”

The Hardys descended to the main floor.

“We went through these rooms with Professor Rowbotham,” Joe said. “No need for a repeat performance.”

Frank nodded. A grandfather clock tolled loudly from a dark passageway. Boards creaked overhead.

“Joe!” Frank exclaimed, “I hear footsteps!”

“Probably a cat, Frank. A black cat, witch style. Come on. We’ve only got the basement and the sub-basement. Let’s get this over with!”

The basement walls were faced with brick. This was where Professor Rowbotham had kept his instruments of torture. Chains hung on the walls, but everything else was gone.

“Not my idea of a home away from home,” Joe said.

“Frankenstein’s castle,” Frank suggested, “or Dracula’s.”

The boys sounded the brick walls and the floor as they made their round of the basement. Since nothing suspicious caught their attention, they turned to a small wooden door on rusty hinges. Frank forced the bolt back. The hinges grated harshly as he drew it open.

A narrow stairway met their eyes. It fell deeply into total darkness.

“Obviously the sub-basement is not connected to the master switch. Maybe there’s a separate one downstairs,” Frank said.

He descended the staircase, guiding himself with a flashlight he had brought along.

“There’s the switch,” he said, flicking on a dim bulb and returning the flashlight to his pocket.

They found themselves in a musty dark room with a ceiling so low they could touch it by raising a hand. The flagstones that made up the floor were interspersed with ancient tombstones.

“If rheumatism is your bag,” Joe quipped, “this is the place to get it.”

“I hope we can get a clue to the burglary,” Frank said. “I’ll start on the opposite side. You begin here. We can compare notes after scouting around.”

“Okay,” Joe said.

Frank started across the stone floor. Joe walked along the wall next to the staircase. The clammy chill of the place began to seep into their bones.

Joe shivered. “It’s like being buried alive!”

“Pick your gravestone,” Frank joked, then added seriously, “Wait a minute! I see something! Joe, look at this!”

Frank had hardly spoken when the light went out. The Hardys were plunged into utter darkness!

CHAPTER V

The Runaway Horse

FRANK pulled out his flashlight, snapped it on, and played the beam around the room.

“Someone fiddled with the fuse box,” Joe muttered. “Or a fuse blew by itself.”

“Let’s find out. It’s probably in the basement.”

The boys ascended the staircase. The basement was just as dark. Frank found the fuse box and lifted the cover.

The master fuse was turned down!

“That explains it,” Joe said. “Somebody put the whammy on the whole lighting system.”

“Whoever did it,” Frank said, “doesn’t want us around. Must be afraid we’ll find a clue.” Joe pushed the master fuse back in place, and the museum lighted up again.

Quickly the Hardys searched the entire building, but found nobody.

“Whoever pulled that trick got away,” Joe said, “via the front door. We left it unlocked.”

“We won’t make that mistake again,” Frank said, and he turned the key. Then they hurried down to the sub-basement to see what Frank had discovered.

“Look here,” he said, using his flashlight for extra illumination. He pointed to a hole in the wall. It seemed to have been gouged out with some kind of tool, leaving a residue of fine dust.

Joe rubbed some between his fingers. “Frank, this is dry, not damp like the rest of the room.”

“That means the hole was dug out recently!”

“Righto. You know, I believe something might have been hidden here! This could be the clue that breaks the case!” Joe said, excited.

“We’ll make a cast of the hole even though it is very rough,” Frank said, “and try to figure out what it was! Maybe Nip Hadley can get us the stuff we need for the job.”

“Good idea. We can kill two birds with one stone by talking to Nip about his troubles.”

They went upstairs, turned out the lights, and left the building. The next day they walked past Eagleton Green on their way to the sprawling Craighead estate, stopping momentarily to look into the windows to see the artisans at work.

Finally the turrets of Craighead Castle loomed ahead. They towered over medieval battlements, with embrasures for shooting arrows at enemies beyond the drawbridge.

Before they reached the castle, they noticed the stables and corral in a field beyond. Nip, wearing a jaunty striped cap, was exercising a lively black horse.

Holding the reins in one hand, he pulled the animal up on its hind legs. Then he let it have its head in a canter. Finally he spurred into a gallop, took his mount over a couple of hedges, wheeled in a wide arc, and hurtled toward the Hardys. He pulled to a stop and jumped to the ground beside them.

“Nice ride, Nip,” Frank said.

“Better than Buffalo Bill,” Joe added.

Nip grinned. “Let me introduce Midnight, a skittish horse and a smart one.”

“Smart?” Joe wondered.

Nip slapped the animal’s neck. “He knows how to get the corral gate open. Sometimes he does a disappearing act and we have to chase after him. What brings you to Griffinmoor?”

Joe explained the clue at the Witch Museum and asked Nip if he could collect the ingredients for a cast.

“What do you need?” the groom asked.

“Two half-gallon cans, one containing plaster of Paris, the other empty. A can of clear plastic spray, and a wooden stick for stirring.”

“Sure, I can get all that,” Nip said. He offered to show them the grounds. “First, though, I’ll have to dispose of Midnight.”

He led the black horse to a corral. After opening the gate, he slapped the animal on the rump, urging it to amble in, then closed the gate.

He escorted the Hardys past the main hall of Craighead Castle and along a winding path to the stables.

“Those are my quarters,” Nip said, pointing to a window under the eaves above the stables.

“Do you like being a groom?” Frank inquired.

“Rather! I was born in East Anglia. Went to school in Griffinmoor. Raised with horses. So, I was lucky to be appointed groom when I asked Mr. Craighead for a job.”

The three strolled up a small hill overlooking the tilled farmland. Beyond lay an orchard. On the other side of the hill stood a stone wall.

“This wall,” Nip said, “divides the land belonging to the Craighead estate from that of Eagleton Green. Some awfully strange things are going on over there.”

“Like what?” Frank asked.

Nip cocked his head to one side and squinted at them as if making up his mind.

“I suppose I can trust you blokes,” he said. “You know those robberies and fires in the artisan shops? Well, I think it’s sabotage!”

Frank looked incredulous. “You mean somebody’s trying to put the craftsmen out of business?”

Nip came hurtling toward the Hardys.

Nip shrugged. “Looks that way.”

“But why?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

The three boys walked along a path leading to the rear of Craighead Castle. The sheer wall towered above them. Nip said the main windows belonged to the kitchen and dining room.

“What’s up there?” Joe asked, pointing to a tiny window that glinted in the sun high up in one turret.

“Don’t really know,” Nip confessed, whereupon Frank brought the conversation back to the Eagleton Green mystery.

He asked about the charge that Nip had fire-bombed the saddle shop. The boy was about to answer when they turned a corner of the castle and saw a man approaching them. He wore a riding outfit and held a whip in one hand.

Nip introduced him to the Hardys as Milton Craighead, owner of the Craighead estate.

Milton was about thirty years old. He was stiff and formal, barely shaking hands with Frank and Joe as if it went against the grain. While saying a few words to them, he cracked his whip against his boot

All at once loud cries interrupted him. A gardener was shouting, “Midnight is loose! Catch him! Catch him!”

“He escaped from the corral again!” Nip exclaimed.

Milton scowled. “How could that possibly have happened? Maybe we’ve had visitors who left the gate open!”

“He means Frank and me,” Joe thought. “Not a very friendly fellow.”

Milton and Nip raced to the stables and leaped on horses. They set out in pursuit of the runaway, which was galloping around the pasture. Frank and Joe followed on foot. There was a wild chase in which Midnight dodged several times.

Frank stood still for a moment in the middle of the pasture, shielding his eyes as he watched the black horse.

Suddenly he heard the thunder of hoofbeats in his ears. Turning sideways, he saw Milton’s mount coming at him full tilt!

CHAPTER VI

The Missing Marquis

NIP galloped up, grabbed the bridle of Milton’s mount, and forced it to swing wide, brushing Frank and knocking him over. Both horses halted.

Milton Craighead mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I lost control,” he said in a shaky voice. “I hope you’re not hurt.”

Frank scrambled to his feet. “Only a few bruises,” he reported.

“That’s fortunate.” Craighead seemed relieved. “Nip, let’s get after Midnight.”

The pursuers cornered the runaway in an angle of the stone wall. Nip threw a rope over its neck and led it back to the corral. While Milton made sure the gate was fastened, Frank and Joe had a quick conversation with Nip Hadley.

“Thanks for the assist,” Frank said.

Joe stressed the point. “You probably saved Frank’s life, Nip. We’ll do anything we can to help you. Just tell us what you know about the fire-bombing in Eagleton Green.”

“I can’t talk now,” Nip replied uneasily. “I’ll see you later and bring those things you need.”

Milton finished with the gate and walked toward them. “It’s securely fastened now,” he said. “If that horse escapes again, I’ll want to know the reason why. Nip, keep an eye on all strangers.”

Frank and Joe inferred that this was an invitation for them to leave the Craighead estate. They went back to the professor’s, where they discussed their visit.

Why was Milton Craighead hostile toward them? Had he really lost control of his mount? Or was he trying to run Frank down?

The Hardys wondered. The case was becoming more and more mysterious.

Nip rode up later with the ingredients for the plaster cast in his saddle bags. Saying he couldn’t wait because Craighead wanted him to break in a new horse, he emptied the bags quickly and rode off.

Frank and Joe went to the Witch Museum, made their way to the sub-basement with a container of water and got ready to make a cast of the hollowed-out part of the wall. They had often lifted impressions of footprints and tire tracks. In fact, they had devised the Hardy Plaster-Cast Kit, made up of the items they had asked Nip to bring.

Joe covered the break in the wall with plastic spray to firm up the dust and broken particles. He poured some water into the plaster of Paris, and stirred the paste to the proper consistency.

Then he pressed some into the depression with the stick. When it became firm enough, Frank inserted small bits of wood to fortify the cast as it solidified. Then he added the remaining plaster.

When it had dried sufficiently, Frank pried out the cast with his pocketknife and laid it on the floor. They now had an impression of the object that had been concealed in the wall. It seemed to be a straight cylindrical object about eight inches long and half an inch wide.

“Could have been an iron bar,” Frank said. “But there’s a loop at one end and a wedge at the other. Professor Rowbotham might be able to identify it.”

They took the plaster cast to the house. Rowbotham inspected it carefully.

“Ah–ah, this appears to be the impression of a key. A very old, very ornate, very large key.”

“A key to what?” Joe asked.

“As to that, I cannot say. But such keys were used in English castles long ago.”

“Craighead Castle!” Frank blurted. “It may open a door in Craighead Castle!”

“Possibly,” Rowbotham agreed. “However, you cannot get in there. Milton Craighead does not like strangers.”

“We know,” Joe said with a dry chuckle.

“Ah–ah, besides, a mystery hangs over the place.”

“What mystery, Professor?” Joe asked.

“The mystery of the missing marquis!”

Frank and Joe each felt tingles of excitement. Eagerly they urged Rowbotham to go on.

The professor said that the missing marquis, Lord Craighead, had been a distinguished soldier.

“Five years ago he announced his intention of visiting his old mates in Dublin. His servants helped him pack. His son, Milton, bade him farewell and he rode away in his car.”

Rowbotham paused for breath. The Hardys sat motionless, waiting for him to continue.

“The marquis hasn’t been seen since!”

“Not a sign of him?” Joe asked.

“In five years?” Frank exclaimed.

“Just so,” the professor assured them.

A shuffling sound outside the door broke into their thoughts. Frank put his finger to his lips. Getting up, he tiptoed across the room, silently turned the knob, and jerked the door open.

A tall, stooped man with white hair stood outside. He was Sears, Rowbotham’s butler.

“Were you listening at the door?” Frank demanded.

“Not at all, sir. I was bringing in the tea.” He lifted a large pot from a tea wagon and placed it on the table.

Joe, suspicious, questioned Sears closely. “Did you let the thieves into the Witch Museum?”

“No sir. The robbery took place on my night off.”

“That’s why I went out to dinner with an old friend,” Rowbotham confirmed.

After Sears had left, Frank said, “He could have doubled back and met a gang of confederates.”

“Impossible!” the professor said forcefully. “I trust Sears implicitly.”

They broke up after tea and the Hardys devised a new strategy. Frank had the first idea.

“We must have a key made from our plaster cast.”

“Let’s try Eagleton Green,” Joe suggested. “There must be a locksmith among the artisans.”

In the village, they walked along the main street and stopped at a gunsmith’s for information.

He told them to go to the shop of Lance McKnight, the locksmith.

McKnight was a rough-looking character with a heavy growth of beard. His shop was cluttered and dusty. Swords, daggers, and other weapons hung on the walls and a pile of keys lay on the counter.

McKnight claimed he could make keys from plaster casts. But when the boys produced theirs, his demeanor changed. He became evasive. “That’s a tough job,” he grumbled.

“You do tough jobs, don’t you?” Frank asked.

“Sure. But not that tough. The plaster isn’t right.”

“It’s the best East Anglia plaster.”

“Well, the cast is too big.”

“Why is it too big?” Joe pressured him.

The keymaker became surly. “Because I say it is. I don’t want the job.”

They asked if he knew someone else who could do the job.

“Not here,” McKnight replied. “Possibly in London. See Matthew Hopkins at the East Anglia Inn. He’s a wealthy, well-informed man who knows just about everyone in the city.”

As they walked back through Eagleton Green, Frank said, “McKnight wasn’t very friendly.”

“He sure changed his tune when he saw our plaster cast. I can’t figure out why.”

At the East Anglia Inn, Matthew Hopkins was having dinner. His greeting was friendly, and he listened with interest to the story of how they had made their cast.

“Yes,” he said, fingering the watch chain across his vest. “I know just the place in London where you can have a key made. It’s in Soho Square. Here, let me write the address on my card.”

Joe took the card, and the boys thanked him.

“Don’t mention it,” Hopkins replied in a hearty tone. “I’m always glad to be of any service to our American friends.” He went back to his dinner.

Frank and Joe returned to the lobby. They saw that one side of the card bore the printed legend: Matthew Hopkins, Real Estate, Berkeley Square, London. On the other side, Hopkins had written: “Marshall Street, Soho, opposite the Medmenham Book Store.”

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Frank said.

They took the short route across a wide meadow. Night had fallen, and the sky was cloudy. Leaves rustled as trees bent in the wind.

The Hardys were in the middle of the field when they heard a long drawn-out howl that drew rapidly nearer. The howl changed to a ferocious snarl.

An immense black dog with snapping fangs hurled itself at Joe. The younger Hardy hit the turf. The dog sailed over him, landed on the ground, and vanished into the darkness.

“Let’s get out of here, fast!” Joe grated as he got up.

Frank gulped. “I’d just as soon not have another brush with the Hound of the Baskervilles! I guess we’re lucky that he’s obviously trained to frighten only and not to attack!”

They hastened out of the meadow and back to Rowbotham’s house, where they recounted their adventures in Eagleton Green. When they got to the incident of the dog in the meadow, the professor gasped.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked. “Do you by any chance know who owns the dog?”

“He didn’t bite Joe,” Frank added. “On the other hand. I doubt that he tried to jump us without being told.”

The professor nodded. His stammer became more pronounced. “Ah–ah, your tale is–ah–what I might term incredible. A witch dog, the black hound of Norfolk, used to be seen in this part of East Anglia!”

CHAPTER VII

Curious Yanks

“THE Black Hound of Norfolk prowled by night,” Rowbotham explained. “Anybody he bit turned into a witch!”

Joe shuddered. “Looks as if I had a closer call than we thought. If I hadn’t ducked, I might be a witch right now!”

Rowbotham smiled wryly. “However,” he went on, “there is genuine history about the witchcraft of East Anglia. And I must tell you that the name Matthew Hopkins is ominous.”

Frank frowned and protested that he hadn’t noticed anything ominous about the real-estate man from London. Joe agreed.

“Ah–ah, the point is that there was a man named Matthew Hopkins in the seventeenth century, who called himself the Witch-finder of East Anglia. He investigated those who were suspected of witchcraft. He used what you Americans call the ‘third degree’ to force confessions. And he executed many. You came through Chelmsford on the way to Griffinmoor?”

“Yes,” Frank answered.

“Exactly. Well, in the year 1645 Matthew Hopkins hanged nineteen witches in one day at Chelmsford. But that’s not all. When the Witchfinder General died, it came to light that he was a witch himself!”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “The guy covered himself by pretending he hated witches!”

Rowbotham chuckled and said that the people of East Anglia were shocked when they learned Hopkins was a witch.

The Hardys noted that the Matthew Hopkins they were dealing with didn’t look like a witch.

Rowbotham held up a hand. “Ah–ah, that’s what they thought of the Witchfinder General in Cromwell’s time. You must admit there’s a strange coincidence in the two men having the same name. I would advise you to be careful in dealing with any man called Matthew Hopkins.”

They were preparing for bed when they heard a scratching sound on the window pane. It was Nip Hadley, who motioned to them to let him in. When Frank threw the window up, Nip slipped over the sill into the room.

Hurriedly he told them of more sabotage at the Eagleton Green artisan village. He was afraid he might be accused of setting more fires.

“And I didn’t even set the one at the saddle shop,” he said.

“Maybe you were framed,” Joe said.

Nip groaned. “Framed! That’s it! Will you blokes help me?”

Frank and Joe said they would do what they could to prove his innocence. A sudden thought struck Joe. “Nip, are there any other witch collections around here? The stolen items might have been sold to them.”

“There ain’t none in East Anglia,” the boy replied. “But there’s one in London. The most famous is the Hall of Magic on the Isle of Man. Well, I’d better be off.”

Climbing out the window, Nip disappeared.

“What do you make of that?” Joe asked his brother.

“I don’t know. Why would anyone want to frame a boy like Nip? Unless it’s just to distract attention from himself.”

“But why would anyone try to make all this trouble in the artisan village? Whoever it is, he goes through quite a bit of effort with fire bombs and other equipment. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps it’s a crackpot who gets his kicks out of setting fires,” Frank said.

At breakfast the next morning, Frank and Joe questioned Professor Rowbotham about the witch collection in London. He told them it was in Soho Square, not far from the Medmenham Book Store, so they could visit both the locksmith and the witch collection on one trip.

They decided to detour to the train station by way of Doctor Burelli’s office so he could examine Joe’s gum. The dentist reported that everything looked fine.

“Doc, I’m glad I have your vote of confidence,” Joe declared. “We’re going to London and I’d hate to get a toothache in the big city.”

“I’ve something you might like to have,” the dentist replied. Opening the trap door behind the dental chair, he climbed down into his workshop. A moment later he reappeared with a couple of masks. The dentist had a droll expression on his face.

“I detect you detectives are mystified. Well, the Gravesend Players wore these masks onstage last night. I have no further use for them. You might wear them next Halloween, back in the United States.”

He handed one each to Frank and Joe. They were stretch-type rubber masks with a skin-tight fit. The features were those of two freckle-faced youths.

“The actors portrayed Scottish boys of about your age,” Burelli explained.

The Hardys slipped the masks on and stared at the dentist.

“A perfect fit,” he said. “You could fool your own mother, not to mention the criminals you keep under surveillance.”

The boys pulled the masks off and pocketed them.

“Thanks,” Joe said. “Could we fool a witch?”

Burelli became serious. “I don’t know about a witch. But there’s talk about what you’re up to in Griffinmoor. The Gravesend Players were discussing you backstage last night. They know you were at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral and are investigating the burglary at the Witch Museum.”

“What do you think?” Frank queried.

Burelli grinned. “I think you two cover a lot of ground in one big hurry. Better be cautious.”

Another patient needed attention, so they left the office and caught the London train.

On arriving, they quickly located Soho Square, the international district of the city. They heard languages from French to Arabic. Chinese merchants peered out of dingy windows. Spanish sailors sauntered past. North African gold speculators conversed among themselves, and sleazy-looking characters buttonholed easy marks.

“Frank, I have a notion we could buy anything illegal in Soho,” Joe remarked. “Stolen gems, hijacked TV sets—”

“Forged passports,” Frank finished the sentence. “But there’s Marshall Street and the Medmenham Book Store, and a sign that says ‘Locksmith.’ That’s what we want.”

A small bell over the door tinkled as they stepped inside. The locksmith was a large, heavyset, jolly man, who guffawed when they showed him their plaster cast.

“That’s no key! It must have been a piece of scrap the masons dropped into the concrete when it was poured. And even if it was a key, the cast is too rough to work with.”

Frank and Joe could not convince him to try to make a key. But they did peek into his workshop because the door was ajar. They were fascinated by a suit of armor.

The locksmith noticed their interest. He said jovially, “Boys, how about minding the shop for me? I have to step out for a minute. Be my guests and look around.”

They eagerly agreed. As soon as he left, they pushed the door open and went into the workshop. A remarkable sight met their eyes.

There were several suits of medieval armor. A pair of crossed swords hung on the wall. A crossbow stood in a corner, cocked and ready to fire a steel-tipped arrow. A headsman’s ax lay on the floor, its wicked blade gleaming in the dim light of a small window overhead. A battleax was balanced in a vise with a file beside it. Darts and daggers littered the workbench.

Joe stood spellbound. “Frank, this guy must be hipped on medieval weapons!”

“I’d say he knows as much about them as Richard the Lion-Hearted. He should have been a crusader. Isn’t there anything besides weapons in this room?”

Just then a noise made them stiffen. Click! The door snapped into place behind them. Whirling, Joe seized the knob and strove to wrestle the lock open. It refused to budge.

“Frank!” he exclaimed. “We’re locked in! We’re trapped!”

CHAPTER VIII

The Fortuneteller

FRANK placed the plaster cast for the key on the workbench and tried the door. Like Joe, he failed to get it open.

“What’s up?” he wondered.

“Maybe it’s somebody’s idea of a joke,” Joe said.

Frank looked worried. “I think the locksmith is trying to scare us, or something worse.”

“Like what?”

“Like keep us prisoners!”

Joe whistled. “How do we get out of here?”

They inspected the room. The only exit besides the door was the overhead window.

“A bat couldn’t get through that,” Joe grumbled.

“Right,” Frank said. “But I’ve got an idea!” Rapidly he explained his plan. “I hope it works,” he concluded.

“Might as well give it a try, Frank.”

They quietly slipped into two suits of armor. The metal felt cold, and the joints creaked as they pushed their hands down the arms into the gauntlets. Now they were completely covered, from the helmets on their heads down to the greaves on their legs and the iron shoes on their feet.

Joe picked up a spiked ball of the type used in medieval battles.

“Ready, Frank?”

“All set!”

Joe lobbed the ball up in the air and sent it through the window with a crash, showering broken glass and chips of splintered wood.

They heard it bounce on the pavement outside. There was a sound of rushing feet and a loud buzz of voices.

“My basketball set shot,” Joe whispered.

“Quiet!” Frank warned. “Someone’s coming.”

A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and the locksmith lumbered into the room. The boys’ eyes followed him as he searched around. Paying no attention to the suits of armor, he halted a few feet from the Hardys.

Frank held his breath. Joe wrinkled his nose and just managed to stifle a sneeze.

The locksmith looked up at the shattered window, a stunned expression on his face. Then he rushed out and they heard the tinkle of the bell on the front door.

“He’s gone!” Frank exclaimed, “Come on! We’ve got to move fast!”

Climbing out of his suit of armor, Frank headed for the door. Joe called urgently after him.

“Wait a minute! I’m stuck!” Joe could not get his foot past the greave on the left leg. Frank ran back and held it, while his brother struggled to work himself loose.

“Wiggle your toes,” Frank advised. “Hurry!”

Joe finally eased his foot free. “Boy! Am I glad to be out of that iron overcoat!”

They ran into the front room of the locksmith’s establishment and out the door. At the corner they peeked around to the rear of the building, where a crowd was gathered.

People were milling about and pointing toward the smashed window. The owner stood holding the spiked ball in his hand and scratching his head in disbelief.

“Let him try to figure it out,” Frank said.

“My guess is he never will.” Joe chuckled. “His suspects are two suits of armor. And they ain’t talking.”

“Well, how about some refreshments? I’m starved.”

“Good thinking.”

They went into a teashop and ordered tea and cakes. When the last of the food had vanished, Joe said, “Any idea what our pal the locksmith really had in mind?”

“He may be in cahoots with Matthew Hopkins,” Frank theorized. “Hopkins may be the guy who’s wearing the black hat. He could have called ahead and ordered the locksmith to take care of–oh–for Pete’s sake!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I left the cast of the key!”

“There goes our clue!”

“If it was a clue, the locksmith will have smashed it by this time,” Frank said.

Joe nodded. “No use to go back. We might as well concentrate on our next project. Let’s go see the Soho witch collection.”

They paid their bill and walked down the block, mingling with the throngs who were out for the afternoon. A tout tried to sell the Hardys some black-market money, and quickly moved on when Frank said they were not interested. A sailor, who looked as if he had just jumped ship, followed them and stepped into a pub when he realized that they had noticed him.

“In Soho, there’s no telling who’s keeping you under surveillance,” Frank noted.

“That’s a good enough reason to hurry up and get out,” Joe said.

They passed the Medmenham Book Store again and came to a window filled with amulets, such as bronze necklaces designed to save the wearer from the evil eye. A sign on the door read: WITCHCRAFT EXHIBITION.

Joe followed Frank through the revolving door. A number of rooms extended before them crowded with shelves and display cases laden with objects similar to those described in Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum catalog.

An old woman was seated at a small table near the door opposite an empty chair. She had a craggy face, piercing black eyes, and a long crooked nose. The boys noticed she wore a bronze bracelet on her left arm, a red comb in her black hair, and a silk robe studded with shooting stars.

“A fortuneteller,” Frank murmured. “I wonder where she keeps the marked deck.”

As if reading his mind, the old crone called out, “I am a palmist. I read palms and interpret what I see there. Let me read yours. I never lie.”

“You might make a mistake,” Joe teased her.

“Never, oh unbeliever. I am the last of a long line of witches. I know the wisdom of the ages. Trust me!”

“The whole point,” Frank thought, “is that we don’t trust you.” Aloud he said, “Some other time.”

The palmist glared as the boys strolled past and began to work their way around the witch collection room-by-room. A number of items appeared to be identical with those pictured in Rowbotham’s catalog. One was a silver wand with a gold handle. Another was a crystal ball on a bronze tripod.

Frank rubbed his chin. “Joe, those could be part of the loot taken from the Griffinmoor museum.”

“You’re on my wavelength, Frank. I’d say this calls for a conference with the curator. He has some explaining to do.”

Returning to the first room, they asked the palmist where they could find the curator of the exhibition.

“He’s out for tea,” she cackled. “So, you must wait. Why not pass the time letting me read your palms. You have nothing to lose, have you?”

“I guess not,” Frank admitted.

Joe sat down in the empty chair and extended his hand. The woman took it in hers and examined his palm for a long time.

Suddenly she broke the silence with a loud “Hah! This is very interesting!”

“What is?” Joe inquired.

“This pattern of the lines of your palm. It tells me you have witch ancestry in your blood.”

“Not bloody likely,” Joe quipped.

“Do not scoff, young man. There is more. Let me see. Yes! Yes! Your life line is extremely short. Prepare yourself for sudden death if you proceed on your present course!”

Joe shivered in spite of himself and said he had heard enough. Frank took the chair. The palmist surveyed his hand.

“You are haunted by a witchmaster,” she informed him.

“Has he got a name?” Frank asked.

“The letters are here in your palm. I can read them. P-I-C-K-E-N-B-A-U-G-H. That is correct. His name is John Pickenbaugh.”

Frank started when he heard the name. The woman clutched his hand tightly.

“You had better leave England,” she intoned. “You are in grave danger!”

Frank tried to pull his hand away, but she kept clinging to it. Giving a sudden twist, she pressed something as sharp as a needle into his palm.

The room swam before his eyes. The face of the palmist became dim. Frank tried to say something to Joe but the words refused to come.

Abruptly he keeled over!

CHAPTER IX

Jumpy Sleuths

AS Frank toppled, Joe caught his brother and eased him onto the floor. Frank lay still. His face was deathly pale and his breath came in gasps.

“Frank!” Joe shouted. “Can you hear me?”

Receiving no reply, he whirled around to confront the palmist. She was gone! The slow turning of the revolving door showed where she had exited during the confusion.

Desperately Joe hastened out onto the street and began calling for a doctor. A man with a medical bag answered and offered his assistance. Joe dragged Frank into the witch exhibition, where he lay motionless.

The doctor felt Frank’s pulse and raised his eyelids for an examination of the pupils. Then he took a syringe from his bag and gave the boy an injection.

“Your brother has been drugged,” the doctor informed Joe. “But he’ll be all right in a moment.”

Frank began to breathe more easily. He regained consciousness, opened his eyes, and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and shaking his head.

“What happened?” he asked groggily. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. I was having my palm read when the Empire State Building landed on me.”

He struggled to his feet just as the curator of the witch collection arrived. He demanded to know what was going on in his establishment.

Joe quickly explained about the palmist. “She disappeared,” he concluded ruefully.

“What can you tell us about her?” Frank asked.

“Very little,” the curator said. “She arrived only this morning. Said she could read palms and would amuse the visitors to the witch exhibition. I gave her permission. I should have checked her references before doing so.”

“Do you know where she lives?” Joe asked.

The curator shook his head. “I didn’t see why I should ask.”

Frank grimaced. “She must have been lying in wait for us. And we walked into her trap!”

“The spider invited the fly into her parlor,” Joe joked. “Only this time it was a couple of flies, Frank. You and me.”

The curator looked surprised. “If that was her game, you boys must have made her angry. What’s your business in London?”

The Hardys confessed they were detectives working on the Griffinmoor case. They inquired whether the curator knew about the burglary in the Witch Museum.

He said he hadn’t heard of it because he had been on vacation in France until the day before.

“Well,” Frank pointed out, “you have quite a few items in this collection that look as if they had come from Griffinmoor.” He described the wand and the crystal ball.

The curator slapped his forehead in dismay. “I bought these articles only yesterday. A man brought them in and said they were family heirlooms. I couldn’t reject them. They are authentic witch equipment that once belonged to Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General of East Anglia. Of course I will return them if they were stolen.”

Frank saw a chance to pick up another clue. “Can you describe the man who sold you these objects?”

The curator nodded. “He was of medium height. He wore a long robe, had a heavy shock of gray hair, and a bushy beard.”

Frank and Joe exchanged startled glances. The description fit the leader of the witches at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral! The man who carried the sword!

Frank signaled Joe not to reveal their suspicion. He told the curator they would make a report to Professor Rowbotham. Then they thanked him and left.

They walked out of Soho and across London’s Piccadilly Circus to Green Park. There they sat down on a bench for a review of the case.

Joe tapped a knuckle against his chin. “Who can the palmist be, Frank? And why did she drug you?”

“My guess is that she used the needle when she couldn’t scare us off,” Frank said. “But how did she know where to wait for us? Who knew we were going to London today?”

“Professor Rowbotham.”

“Check,” Frank went on. “Who else?”

“Our buddy Dr. Burelli. And don’t forget Sears,” Joe said emphatically. “He knows we’re on the Griffinmoor case, and he listens at keyholes.”

Frank nodded slowly. “We’d better keep a close eye on him.”

“Anyway, we picked up three more clues,” Joe said. “First, the stolen articles. They might lead us to the thief.”

“Second,” Frank said, “there’s the guy who sold them to the curator–alias the witch leader at the Pickenbaugh funeral.”

“Third,” Joe added, “there’s the palmist. She might break the case wide open if only we could find her. Let’s get this info down in writing and see how it shapes up.”

They took out their notebooks with the pages headed “crimes,” “suspects,” “clues,” and “theories,” and filled in the facts of the Griffinmoor case.

The Hardys resumed their analysis of the mystery until they began to have a strange feeling that they were being spied on. Frank quickly looked in one direction and Joe in the other.

Under his breath Frank warned, “There’s a man watching us. He’s too far off to identify. But he’s keeping us under surveillance. Anybody on your side?”

“Yes. A fat woman. I don’t know who she is, either. But she’s got a bead on us with opera glasses.”

“Being spied on from opposite directions makes me jumpy,” Frank muttered.

Suddenly it seemed as if all the people in Green Park were staring at the Hardys. A nurse wheeled a baby carriage in their direction. An elderly man holding an armful of books peered quizzically over his horn-rimmed spectacles. Faces appeared and vanished behind bushes and trees like mocking ghosts.

Joe shook himself. “I’m as jumpy as you are, Frank. Shall we go?”

“Okay by me.”

“Suppose the man and woman follow us,” Joe said.

“We’ll have to give them the slip somehow. Come on!”

They got up and strolled down the street. “Let’s stop in front of the display window of that shoe store there,” Joe suggested. “Maybe we can see their reflections.”

Frank nodded and casually pretended to examine the shoes in the window. The man and woman were still behind them!

“Oh, great,” Joe muttered. “How about the department store across the street? Maybe we can lose them by leaving through a back door.”

The boys went in and hurried through an aisle toward the rear. No luck! There was only one entrance! As they walked out, they noticed the couple on the other side of the street.

“They knew we had to come out here and just waited for us,” Frank said. “Joe, I have an idea on how to get rid of them. Follow me!”

He led the way to a subway station, where they bought tickets for the underground at a vending machine. Hurrying to the escalator, they descended to the bottom. About ten yards opposite them, the up escalator was moving people toward the top exit.

Frank and Joe turned a corner at the bottom. They were alone.

“Quick!” Frank said. “Put on Burelli’s mask!” In moments both boys were transformed from visiting Americans into freckle-faced Scottish youths.

Frank turned the corner again with Joe on his heels. This time they stepped onto the up escalator. The man and woman from the park were on the other side, going down behind a crowd of riders. Frank and Joe looked at them. They returned the gaze without recognizing their quarry.

At the bottom, the pair hurried toward the train. At the top, Frank stepped over to the down escalator.

“You’re not going down again!” Joe blurted.

“Why not?”

“Pretty risky.”

“Joe, they don’t know us from Adam. And it’s time to get to the station.”

Riding to the bottom, they mingled with the Londoners waiting there. The man and woman had already gone along the platform and were looking through the crowd, when the train rattled in. It came to a standstill and the doors opened. The Hardys got on board. Some minutes later, safely on their way back to the train station, they chuckled over their strategy.

“We really fooled them,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “We should give Doc Burelli our special thanks!”

Before they had dinner aboard the train to Griffinmoor, the boys removed their masks and pondered the underground chase to see if they could make sense of it. Neither of them had been able to get a good look at the man. But they agreed that they could pick the woman out of a police lineup.

“Quick!” Frank said. “Put on Burelli’s mask!”

“She had the most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen,” Joe said.

It was dark when they got off the train at Griffinmoor, but a lurid red glare suffused the sky to the east.

“A fire!” Frank exclaimed. “A four alarmer for sure! Looks as if Eagleton Green is going up in flames!”

CHAPTER X

A Wild Ride

A FIRE engine rumbled past, its bell clanging loudly.

“Let’s follow it!” Joe exclaimed.

“Right. If there’s been any more sabotage at Eagleton Green, we’d better investigate.”

By the time the boys reached the scene, firemen were getting the blaze under control. A dozen shops had been damaged and their owners, who had congregated in the street, appeared to be stunned by the disaster.

Frank addressed the fire chief. “How did it start?”

“We don’t know yet. But it looks suspicious.”

While scouting around the area, the Hardys noticed that Lance McKnight’s locksmith shop was barely scorched even though it stood between two badly charred buildings.

“That’s strange,” Joe said. “The fire burned through the silversmith’s shop, jumped over McKnight’s, and landed right on the weaver’s next door.”

Frank shrugged doubtfully. “I wonder if it’s a coincidence, Joe. If McKnight set the fires, he’d make sure he escaped.”

“That figures.”

McKnight was working with the firemen. He held the nozzle of a hose and played cascades of water over the burning buildings. Seeing Frank and Joe, he swiveled toward them.

The powerful stream of water hit Frank in the chest. He was knocked off his feet and sent skidding. Joe got the same treatment.

Drenched, bruised, and shaken, the boys rose to face McKnight, who had given the hose to a fireman and run to his victims.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said effusively. “It was an accident. Really it was.”

“So was the London blitz!” Joe said angrily.

“The hose got out of control,” McKnight insisted.

“Okay. Forget it,” Frank said.

McKnight seemed relieved, and he went into the silversmith’s shop, where the fire chief was inspecting the damage.

“Well, he’s a cool customer!” Frank exploded.

Joe shook the water from his clothes. “He did that deliberately. We’ve got a score to settle with Mr. McKnight.”

Filtering through the crowd of Eagleton Green craftsmen, the Hardys kept their ears open. They learned that the fire just about ruined the artisan village and its residents.

“I’m ready to sell out,” a jeweler stated. “The thefts in the past few months were bad enough, but the fire is the last straw. Start packing, say I!”

“Aye! Aye!” his neighbors shouted.

The village bookbinder raised his voice. “What’s the reason for this harassment? Tell me that if you can!”

“Witchcraft!” a potter bellowed. “The robbery at the Witch Museum in Griffinmoor! It let the spirits of the witches loose! The spirits are haunting us!”

“That’s right!” said a woman. “There’s a lot of haunting around Eagleton Green! Pigs are dying, and no one knows why! Horses are falling sick, and the vets can’t cure them!”

“Sure!” another agreed. “If it ain’t witchcraft, what is it?”

It was depressing to listen to the crestfallen artisans. It appeared that Eagleton Green would not survive.

“Frank, look who’s coming,” Joe said as Professor Rowbotham weaved through the crowd toward them. Puffing, he swung his cane in a wide arc that barely missed Joe, who leaned back to avoid being hit.

“Ah–ah, I am pleased to have found you. I thought you might be–ah–interested in the fire. I came here in the hope of running into you.”

“What’s up, professor?” Frank inquired.

“I have a message for the pair of you. It might help your investigation, but it is not something to–ah–discuss here. Suppose we go home. I have my car.”

At his house, Rowbotham explained that an unidentified man had phoned to say he had vital information about the burglary at the Griffinmoor Witch Museum.

Joe became excited. “What kind of information is it? Does he have a suspect for us?”

“He refused to say. Indeed–ah–he told me he has sworn an oath never to reveal what he knows about the burglary.”

Frank looked crestfallen. “So, a guy tells you he’s got the info, and then he tells you he’s not telling.”

Rowbotham blinked. “Not exactly. I mean, he said he might be released from his oath under certain conditions.”

Frank perked up. “What conditions?”

“Ah–ah, he wants a meeting at Stonehenge.”

“You mean,” Joe said, “where the cave men tossed those boulders around like marbles?”

Rowbotham smiled. “I imagine we are talking about the same place. Yes, Stonehenge, where prehistoric people placed those–ah–massive stone blocks in a precise arrangement.

“The Druids used Stonehenge for their religious rituals. The man who phoned said he could speak freely at the Druid altar when the full moon is in the sky. To wit–tomorrow night!”

Joe chuckled. “Sounds like a lot of hocus-pocus to me. I’m not a Druid!”

“The man might know something,” Rowbotham said solemnly. “He might be a witch!”

“Or pose as one,” Frank remarked. “This could be a setup.”

Rowbotham looked puzzled. “A setup? I am not familiar with the term.”

“A trap,” Frank interpreted.

“He might want to ambush us,” Joe said, “down where the Druids play.”

Rowbotham looked dubious. “Ah–ah, I think we should take the risk. My informant might unravel the mystery for us. At least you boys will see Stonehenge. I’ll be your guide to the ruins.”

The three talked it over, and the Hardys at last agreed to go. Rowbotham said he would drive them the hundred miles or so to Stonehenge, and they could return to Griffinmoor immediately if the man did not appear.

“Now, then, what have you to report about your visit to London?” the professor inquired.

Frank described their adventures in Soho. “So you see,” he ended, “we were locked in by a locksmith and then I was drugged by this palmist who was supposed to be telling me my fortune.”

Joe took up the story, covering their stop in Green Park and the underground surveillance.

“What do you propose to do about these hostile persons?” Rowbotham asked.

“We could prosecute the locksmith,” Joe said.

“No good,” Frank retorted. “We don’t have any proof. I’d sure like to corral that palm reader, though.”

Rowbotham suggested a phone call to the London police. Frank agreed and conversed for a few minutes with the officer at the desk. Hanging up, he rejoined Joe and the professor.

“The police don’t know anything about the palmist,” he said. “She’s not local. They’ve got plenty of fortunetellers in their mug books, but none of them sounded like the gal with the needle.”

Joe mentioned the items in the London witch collection that seemed to have been taken from the Griffinmoor museum.

“Ah–ah, the wand and the crystal ball were stolen from here,” Rowbotham stated. “I myself discovered that they once belonged to the Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins. I am happy to know the curator is willing to return them. If only we could find the rest of the artifacts!”

Something clicked in Frank’s mind. “Perhaps some of it was shipped out of England! Interest in witchcraft has revived all over the world. Traffic in the stolen objects could be international. Let’s check with Interpol.”

“And with Dad, too,” Joe added.

“Ah–ah, I can give you a duplicate catalog for your father,” Rowbotham offered.

They prepared an air-mail package along with a letter to their parents, and Rowbotham ordered Sears to post it.

Frank and Joe were tired when they went to bed. However, they were up early the next morning, eager to get on with the case.

At breakfast, a letter arrived from Fenton Hardy. He told his sons that their ancestors had emigrated to America from Dublin after the Salem witch trials. He also suggested they check on the Irish genealogy of the Hardy family if they had time, and he sent his regards to his old friend Chauncey Rowbotham.

“Your father should see how well you are doing,” Rowbotham complimented Frank and Joe.

“Still, we haven’t solved your case, professor,” Frank said.

“Let’s see if the Griffinmoor police are doing any better,” Joe said.

He phoned local headquarters and asked about the Pickenbaugh grave robbery. He found that the police were at a dead end, without clues or suspects.

“They’re putting John Pickenbaugh’s case on the back burner,” Joe said after hanging up.

“Might as well make tracks for Stonehenge,” Frank concluded.

“We can ask the Druids to solve the case for us,” Joe said humorously.

They went outside and got into the car to wait for Professor Rowbotham. He appeared, wearing a long white coat, a peaked white hat, a pair of thick goggles, and heavy gloves with broad leather cuffs.

“My driving costume,” he explained to the Hardys, who were staring at him in bug-eyed amazement. “I never take a long ride without wearing my driving costume.”

He turned on the engine, released the brake, and started with a jerky motion and a grating noise that sounded as if he were stripping the gears.

“Ah–ah, we are off!” he announced.

Off is right! Joe thought.

The Hardys began to worry as the compact barreled southwest out of Norfolk across the center of England toward Stonehenge. Professor Rowbotham wandered from one side of the road to the other. He ignored traffic signals. He went either too fast or too slow. And he chortled to himself as he drove.

Not far from their destination, Rowbotham ran over a duck as he whizzed past a farmhouse.

“The farmer will have a duck dinner,” Frank muttered under his breath. He looked through the rear window. The duck had escaped between the wheels of the car and was waddling into the farmyard, quacking loudly.

On and on the compact sped. Just when Frank and Joe believed they would make it all the way to Stonehenge without an accident, Rowbotham swung across the road to pass the car in front of him. Unfortunately the other lane was occupied by a car being driven in the opposite direction at full speed.

Rowbotham gave his compact the gas in a frantic effort to get out of the way. It bucked, rocked, and skidded, as two wheels crunched onto a soft shoulder.

Out of control, the car careened into a ditch!

CHAPTER XI

The Stonehenge Caper

THE car jolted to a halt on the other side of the ditch. Frank’s neck whiplashed, and Joe grabbed the dashboard to avoid being thrown against it.

Professor Rowbotham slumped over the steering wheel, a trickle of blood above his eye showing where he had struck his head.

Joe shook him. “Professor! Professor!”

Frank rubbed the back of his neck to ease the pain. “He’s knocked out, Joe. Let’s give him some first aid.”

Frank ran around the car and Joe helped him edge Rowbotham from the driver’s seat to the ground. Frank pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the blood. “Just a little cut,” he said.

Rowbotham groaned and opened his eyes.

“How are you?” Frank asked anxiously.

“Ah–ah, I have a headache. But–ah–I’m all right. How about the car?”

Joe got in, started the motor, and guided the vehicle back up onto the road.

“She’s A-okay,” he called out, “except for a dent in the fender.”

“Ah–ah, then let’s continue to Stonehenge,” the professor said.

Frank looked doubtful. “Do you feel up to it? You have one big robin’s egg over your eye.”

“That doesn’t bother me,” Rowbotham said emphatically.

“It bothers me,” Joe thought. He said aloud, “I’ll drive if you like, Professor.”

“Certainly not,” Rowbotham replied testily. “I am quite capable of driving my car!”

They got in and resumed their journey, rolling through the counties of western England until they reached Wiltshire.

Rowbotham commented on the flatness of the terrain. “This is Salisbury Plain. Soon we will see Stonehenge. Ah–there it is!”

A group of tall stones came into view. They were arranged in a circle.

“We are now approaching the Avenue of Stonehenge,” Rowbotham explained.

“Avenue?” Frank said curiously.

“Well, you see, the people who constructed Stonehenge built a thoroughfare up to it.”

“The Druid Fifth Avenue,” Joe chuckled. “Not as lively as New York, though.”

Rowbotham spoke like a professor lecturing to a class. “The Druids were not responsible for the Avenue. My goodness, no!”

“I thought the Druids built Stonehenge,” Frank said in a puzzled tone.

“A popular misconception. Stonehenge goes back to the Stone Age. Ah–the Druids appeared much later. They lived here on Salisbury Plain in Roman times. However, it is true that they used the site for their ceremonies.”

He turned the car into a parking area and stopped. The three got out and walked across the grass to the group of stones. A broad entrance led through a low embankment, curving away on each side. Rowbotham swung his cane in a wide arc, forcing Frank to duck out of its path.

“This is the outermost circle,” he said. “The distance across to the other side of the circle is one hundred yards.”

“As long as a football field,” Frank noted.

“A ball carrier would have to do a lot of broken field running to reach the end zone,” Joe quipped. “Jumbo blocks of granite for linebackers. What a defense!”

“Ah–I don’t quite understand. Is that an American proverb?”

“Just football terminology,” Frank told him.

Rowbotham walked down to the center of the circle. He tapped a stone with his cane. “There are, as I said before, two stone circles. The outer one has stones–ah–thirteen feet tall. Only about half are still standing, but you can imagine what it looked like when they were all in place.”

He turned toward the largest blocks. “This is called the Horseshoe because five groups stood in a curve, with the open end facing the Avenue. The three still standing are more than twenty feet tall. They weigh–ah–over forty tons.”

Frank and Joe tilted their heads back and glanced up. The rocks of the Horseshoe looked like menacing giant sentries.

“How did these Stone Age skyscrapers get here?” Joe wondered.

“A good question. The witches of old England said Merlin the Magician transported them through the air from Ireland. Modern archaeologists say they came from the stone pits of Marlborough Downs, twenty miles to the north. Ah–how prehistoric men moved such heavy objects remains a mystery.”

Rowbotham tapped a single large slab lying in the center of Stonehenge. “This is the Altar Stone. Our Druids and witches still convene around it.”

“So,” Frank put in, “this is where the mystery man wants us to meet him.”

“Precisely. That is why I suggest he may be a witch.”

“He’s off his rocker, if you ask me,” Joe declared. “Druids! Who needs them!”

Rowbotham sighed. “I see you are skeptics who do not believe in Druids or witches. Our adventure tonight may change your minds. Ah–it is getting dark. We had better prepare for the meeting.”

Suddenly he pressed his fingertips to his forehead, swayed, and leaned on his cane. The Hardys urged him to see a doctor about the bump he had received in the accident on the road. He refused.

“Ah–ah, we would have to go into the town of Salisbury, which would be a waste of time. Besides, I’m not badly hurt. I will rest in the car until I feel better.”

Frank and Joe each braced one of his elbows and escorted him out of Stonehenge, along the Avenue, and back to the car. They carefully deposited him in the rear seat.

“Thank you,” the professor said in a grateful tone. “I think I will take a nap. You can keep the appointment in Stonehenge, and I will wait for you to return. By the way, ah–Stonehenge means Hanging Stones.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes.

“He’s still woozy,” Frank said.

“Well, there’s nothing more we can do for him,” Joe pointed out. “Come on!”

They retraced their steps along the Avenue and back to Stonehenge.

A fog was rising from Salisbury Plain, and a full moon hung in the night sky. The titanic monuments loomed stark, black, and sinister in its white glow. Narrow shafts of light filtered between them in eerie patterns. The only sound was the sobbing of the wind.

“I hope this guy doesn’t stand us up,” Frank said.

Suddenly they heard a musical note on the Avenue. It came closer, and the boys recognized it as the high register of a recorder, a flutelike instrument. They quickly ducked behind one of the Horseshoe stones and peered out.

“Holy cow!” Frank whispered. “Look at that!”

A long line of people came into view. Men and women were dressed alike in white robes and flowing white headdresses. Each carried a single flower in one hand.

“Who on earth are those people?” Joe asked.

“Druids, I guess!”

The marchers filed up to the Altar Stone and placed their flowers on it. Then they turned to face the full moon and began to chant.

Druid magic, Druid lore,

Be our guide as in days of yore.

Stonehenge stones and pale moonlight,

Guard our ritual tonight.

Joe shuddered as he listened to the strange chant. Frank, feeling his foot going to sleep, gave it a twist and accidentally kicked the stone.

“What was that?” one of the Druids called in a strident voice.

The leader, a burly man with a white beard, gazed around. The Hardys crouched low behind the stone. Their hearts thumped.

“An owl, no doubt,” the leader said. “The bird of wisdom. It is fortunate that he takes note of our rite. Now, let us go.”

The weird column filed out of Stonehenge and the sound of the recorder died away.

“Wow!” Frank said. “I’m glad they didn’t notice us.”

“They might not have taken kindly to intruders,” Joe agreed.

“This is a good hiding place,” Frank said. “We might as well stay here. When the guy arrives, I’ll go out. You stay as a backup. Okay?”

“Roger.”

They settled down to wait. The moon climbed higher in the sky. The wind blew harder. The fog grew denser.

“I can’t see the altar any more,” Frank said after a while. “Let me find a good spot closer to it. When I do, I’ll come for you.”

“Right.”

Frank slipped away into the mist. Five minutes passed. Joe became apprehensive. Had anything happened to his brother? He waited five minutes more, then he could stand it no longer. He crept out of his hiding place in the direction of the altar. There was no sign of Frank. Joe searched all around it.

“Frank,” he called in a low voice. “Frank, where are you?”

He heard a rustle behind him and whirled around. “Frank—?”

A white-hooded figure aimed a punch at his neck. He ducked in time. The man attacked him again, and the two wrestled in the dark. Joe’s adversary was powerful and agile. He gave Joe a punch to the jaw that jarred him back against the Altar Stone. The boy dodged a second swing, and the man’s fist hit the stone with a crunch. He groaned and backed off, breathing heavily through his mask.

Suddenly a second hooded figure appeared out of the fog. He forced Joe back onto the stone and began to choke him. With a superhuman effort, Joe struck back with a chop under the man’s chin. He gulped and let go.

Joe sat up groggily. He noticed the man clutching his jaw, and tried to figure out a way to escape. There was none. The other fellow, who had hurt his hand, now closed in on him. Joe raised his arms in self-defense; then an eerie sound pierced the night air. Was it a note on the recorder of the Druids?

It made the boy shiver. The two men looked at each other, and one motioned to the other to run. They raced past the monuments and vanished into the fog of Salisbury Plain.

“Wow!” Joe said to himself. “Whatever that sound was, it certainly saved me!” He stood up, still breathing hard. If only he could find his brother!

“Frank,” he called in a low voice. “Frank, where are you?”

No answer. Joe cautiously moved in the dense fog. “Frank!” he repeated.

Suddenly he heard a low moan. “Hey, Frank?”

“Here,” came the faint reply.

Joe felt his way in the darkness until he reached his brother’s prone figure. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “What happened?”

Frank sat up and shook his head. “I got kayoed by an apparition in a hood.”

“I almost did, too. It was a trap after all.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“No. Two men. They disappeared this way,” Joe said, pointing.

“No sense in following them in this fog,” Frank said. “We might as well go to the car.” He got to his feet.

As they turned to go back to the professor’s compact, Joe tripped over something soft. “Hey, what’s this?” he said. He picked up a striped cap and handed it to Frank.

“This looks like the cap Nip Hadley wears,” Frank exclaimed.

“Right. I wonder if he was one of that gruesome twosome.”

Frank turned the cap inside out. In the moonlight he read the label. The cap came from a store on the Isle of Man. They decided this was a clue they would investigate when they got the chance.

“Perhaps we should go there,” Frank said.

They trotted back to the parking area where they had left Rowbotham in his car. It was deserted. There was no sign of the auto. The professor was gone!

CHAPTER XII

Mysterious Message

JOE scratched his head. “I wonder where the prof is!”

“Search me. Looks like he vamoosed on us,” Frank said. “Think he’s a phony? Maybe he knew those guys were waiting for us. That would explain why he was so dead set on getting us to Stonehenge.”

“Could be. But why? Perhaps that bump on his head was acting up and he went to a doctor. Let’s check.”

They jogged into town, where they went to police headquarters. The officer on duty shook his head when they described Rowbotham. No such person had been reported injured.

The Hardys next tried the Salisbury hospital. The reply was negative there, too. No patient had come in to have a bump over his eye treated.

Frank and Joe walked to Salisbury’s main street.

“Lost–one professor!” Joe said, worried.

Frank, too, was solemn. “We’d better get back to Griffinmoor as soon as possible, if there’s a train at this time of night.”

The station was dark and deserted when they arrived. A schedule told them the next train to Griffinmoor did not leave until the following noon.

“Too bad we don’t have a broomstick to ride back to the witch museum!” Joe grumbled.

“We could try our thumbs,” Frank suggested.

Glumly they walked to the highway, trying to hitch a ride. Finally a car stopped. The driver was about their age. He said he was a student and would give them a lift as far as Oxford.

“Fine,” Frank told him. “It’s on the route to Griffinmoor. That’s where we’re going.”

As they drove along, the three discussed the differences between England and America. The sun had risen by the time the spires of Oxford came into view. The Hardys got out, thanked their driver, and began thumbing again.

At Bedford, a large Lincoln Continental pulled to the side of the highway to wait for them. Eagerly they ran to it.

The driver was a stout motherly woman, who wore an enormous hat that resembled a bowl of fruit. Around her neck was a large fox fur. She invited them to get in and started up again. Frank and Joe explained they were traveling from Salisbury to Griffinmoor.

“All the way from Salisbury!” the woman said sympathetically. “And all night on the road! You poor boys must be tired!”

“I could be more lively,” Frank admitted.

“And I’m not about to do any handstands either,” Joe said. Then he added, “Where are you going, ma’am?”

“Home!”

“Home?” the Hardys queried in unison.

“Yes. You boys need a bath, a meal, and a nap. My house is just the place. When you feel fit, you can resume your journey.”

Frank and Joe were alarmed at the thought of any delay in their investigation.

“Where’s home, ma’am?” Frank inquired.

“Johnshire. Only about twenty-five miles out of your way. We should be there in an hour.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you, but you see, we have to be in Griffinmoor at a certain time and—”

“Nonsense! Wherever you have to be, you won’t be any good if you’re tired out. Nothing’s as important as a good rest.”

“We’ve been resting in the car,” Frank protested weakly. “Right now, I feel like a million dollars!”

“And I’m ready to do handsprings like crazy!” Joe boasted.

“You’re just saying that,” the woman objected. “I know. I have three sons of my own. I understand what boys need. You’re coming home with me. I won’t take no for an answer.”

The Hardys became desperate. They urged her to drop them off. She repeated that they had to be spruced up after being awake all night. They insisted they did not want to be any trouble. The smiling woman replied that they would not be any trouble at all.

She kept on driving, and they wondered how to escape from the motherly grip of their good Samaritan. They were beginning to give up hope when she slowed her car to turn off the main road. Frank made a split-second decision. He nudged Joe with his elbow, a signal to get ready for action.

As the nose of the car began to turn the corner, Frank wrenched the door open and flung himself out. Joe piled out after him. They hit the turf alongside the highway, tumbled over, and scrambled to their feet.

“Whew! That was a close call!” Joe gasped.

They saw the car stop halfway up the side street. It began to back toward them!

“She thinks we fell out!” Frank cried. “Make tracks before she corrals us again!”

They raced up the highway and caught another ride in the nick of time. This driver took them into Cambridge and left them standing on the sidewalk in front of a grilled gateway. A plaque read: DOWNING COLLEGE.

“I’d like to see the Cambridge colleges,” Joe remarked.

“So would I,” Frank answered. “But we don’t have time.”

A lorry rattled down the road. The driver said he could take them as far as Griffinmoor.

“Great!” Joe said as they climbed up.

They reached the Rowbotham house, feeling tired, dirty, and discouraged. Joe punched the doorbell, and Sears gasped when he opened up.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked him. “Did you expect us to stay in Stonehenge permanently?”

“Oh, no sir,” the butler responded. “It is simply that Professor Rowbotham has been wondering where you were.”

It was the Hardys’ turn to stare. “You mean the professor is here?” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes sir. He is waiting for you.”

“How long has he been back?” Frank wanted to know.

“Long enough to become angry with you, I’m afraid.”

They found Rowbotham sitting in an easy chair in the study. He had his hands cupped over the handle of his cane. The bump on his head was still there.

They hit the turf alongside the highway!

“What did you mean, leaving me alone at Stonehenge?” he scowled.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Frank said. “You were the one who did the leaving! Why did you drive home without us?”

“But you sent me a message saying that you weren’t coming back with me!”

“What?”

“Oh dear, now I see. It must have been a deception. Tell me, what happened to you?”

After hearing them out, the professor looked embarrassed. “Ah–ah, I must apologize for blaming you,” he said. “The fact is that a man came along while I was asleep in the car. He woke me up.”

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“He had a heavy shock of ah–gray hair. Also a bushy beard.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. The description fitted the leader of the witch mourners at the funeral of John Pickenbaugh!

“The man,” Rowbotham went on, “told me he had a message from you boys.”

“What was it?” Joe asked.

“He said you had picked up an important clue, and had gone off to investigate it. He said you wanted me to drive back to Griffinmoor alone.”

“That was a lie!” Joe informed him. “We would never have told you to drive over a hundred miles when you were woozy from that blow on the head!”

Rowbotham nodded. “I can see that now. But at the time, I thought you had met the man who phoned here. I supposed he had given you vital information about the burglary at the Witch Museum.”

“That’s understandable,” Frank said soothingly. “But how did you manage to drive to Griffinmoor?”

“Ah–ah, by that time I felt rested. Had a bit of trouble starting the car, but the man was very kind and helped me.”

“I bet he was kind!” Frank muttered.

“Well, ah–ah, I suppose I should have suspected him. Not very perceptive at all. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “We made it back okay.”

“Ah–ah, I am glad you did. Now I’ll go to my room and take a nap.”

Sears helped him up the stairs. Frank and Joe went outside to make sure the butler would not hear them. They stopped by a rosebush to discuss the new turn of events.

“I suspect the prof,” Joe asserted. “Why didn’t he try to find us in Stonehenge?”

“And was he really as dizzy as he pretended?” Frank mused. “Or is he fuzzing up the facts to keep us in the dark? What’ll we do now?”

“The car, Frank! Maybe it’ll tell us more than the prof did.”

They went into the garage and searched the compact. Joe had his head in the trunk when Frank called him in an excited voice. He was in the driver’s seat. As Joe approached, Frank handed him a cablegram.

“Take a gander at this! I found it wedged between the two front seats!”

Joe opened the cablegram. It was from New York. The message read: Plans changed. Get rid of Hardys.

CHAPTER XIII

A Near Miss

JOE whistled. “Somebody’s awfully careless with his cables!”

“That’s for sure. This is one hot item to leave where we can find it. Any ideas off the top of your head, Sherlock?”

Joe hazarded a guess. “The cablegram was dropped when Bushy Beard helped the prof start his car in Stonehenge. Now we know for sure somebody’s out to get us. And he’s got a partner in the good old U.S.A.”

Frank reflected for a moment. “If Bushy Beard dropped it accidentally, then he’s our enemy, not the professor.”

“Still, I think we should ask point-blank if the cable belongs to him,” Joe said.

“All right. His reaction might give us a clue.”

The clatter of horses’ hooves announced the arrival of Nip Hadley. The Craighead groom rode Midnight up the semicircular driveway and drew rein. The Hardys joined him. They noticed he had a black eye and wasn’t wearing his cap.

“Where’d you get the shiner, Nip?” Joe asked.

“Playing soccer.”

“Why no cap?” Frank said.

“Left it in the stable.” The groom quickly changed the subject. “I’m glad you blokes are here. I have news for you.”

“Spill it, pal,” Frank said.

Nip glanced around to see that nobody was listening. Then he bent down and whispered, “I was in the kitchen over at Craighead Castle. I heard someone mention your name. Not a friendly voice, either. I don’t know who it was, but he could be an enemy of yours. You better watch out!”

“Looks as if we have enemies all over England,” Joe joked.

“Also across the Atlantic,” Frank continued.

“What are you driving at?” Nip seemed puzzled.

Before the Hardys could reply, a red MG eased into the driveway. Nip turned in the saddle to make sure the vehicle had enough room to pass his horse. Deciding it had, he looked again at his American friends.

The MG came up slowly until it was a few yards away. Suddenly the driver stepped on the gas. Gravel spun under the tires as the car powered forward.

The MG hurtled at Frank and Joe! They whirled and saw that the driver was wearing a mask. Instinctively the Hardys hit the ground behind Midnight, using the horse for a shield.

The sound of the advancing automobile frightened the animal. It reared and threw Nip out of the saddle. He landed on the Hardys, and all three lay sprawled in the driveway.

The MG careened past like a red flash and roared away in a cloud of dust.

Nip picked himself up and quieted his horse, while Frank and Joe got shakily to their feet. None of them had noticed the car’s license plate.

“I saw an emblem of the London Motor Club,” Joe reported. “At least it’s a clue.”

Nip remounted, wondering aloud why anybody would want to kill the Americans.

“That’s for him to know and for us to find out!” Frank responded grimly. “By the way, Nip, can you arrange a tour of the castle for us? We’d like to see how the Craigheads live before we go back home.”

Nip looked down in surprise. “When will that be?”

Frank gave Joe a sidelong wink, telling him to play along. “Pretty soon.”

“Any day now,” Joe agreed. “How about the tour?”

“Sorry. Ain’t got the authority. I’m just in charge of the stable. You’ll have to ask somebody who works inside the castle. Cheerio!”

Turning Midnight’s head, Nip slapped the horse with his crop and cantered down the driveway. The clip-clop of horseshoes on gravel died away.

“This case is getting more mysterious all the time,” Frank observed.

“And more dangerous,” Joe warned. “Let’s go in. We can talk to the prof when he wakes up. If he knows anything about the cablegram, he’d better come clean.”

Sears informed them that Rowbotham was awake and in the study. The murmur of voices told them a visitor had arrived. As they approached the room, they recognized the caller’s voice. It was Dr. Burelli.

“There’s only one way for us to solve the problem,” the dentist was saying, “and that is to get rid of—” He broke off upon noticing Frank and Joe.

Rowbotham invited the boys into the study.

“My patient and his brother,” Burelli greeted them. “How do your gums feel, Joe?”

“Fine,” Joe said. “No problem.”

“No pain?”

“None.”

“Ah–ah, we were discussing the Gravesend Players,” Rowbotham interjected. “One actor wants to play a lead role that he is simply incompetent to handle.”

“Fancies himself as Hamlet,” Burelli stated “but he should stick to Peter Pan. As I came in the back way, I spied you talking to Nip Hadley. You seem to be friends with him now. He’s not a bad chap when you get to know him.”

“Nip’s got a few rough edges,” Frank said. “That’s all.”

“The groom needs grooming.” Burelli laughed.

“We asked him if we could tour the castle,” Frank went on, “but he said he didn’t have the authority to let us in. Only someone who works in the place could.”

“Ah–ah, Sears’ sister is married to Goodman, the Craighead butler,” Rowbotham said. “Perhaps he could arrange it for you.”

“That would be great!” Joe said.

The professor rang for his servant and requested that he ask his sister about the matter.

“Certainly, sir,” Sears replied. “I am sure we can do it. My sister is the housekeeper at the castle and will be glad to take you around. I’ll go along to make sure everything is in order.”

The boys were galvanized. “How about tomorrow, Sears?” Frank asked. “We would like to get a good night’s rest before starting on that venture.”

“Agreed, sir,” Sears replied.

“Well, I must return to duty,” Burelli informed the gathering.

Rowbotham escorted him to the front door. When he came back, Frank pulled the cablegram from his pocket and handed it to him.

“What is it?” the professor asked.

“Read it, sir.”

Curiously Rowbotham glanced at the piece of paper. A look of alarm came over his face. “Ah–ah, that is–well, that is outrageous!”

“We thought so, too,” Joe said.

“Where did you find it?”

“In your car!”

“What? Impossible! How would it get—”

The professor staggered over to his easy chair and collapsed in it.

CHAPTER XIV

The Curse

ALL the blood had drained from the professor’s face. He looked ill.

Frank was alarmed. “You need to see a doctor, sir!”

Rowbotham shook his head. “Ah–ah, I did. He told me I had a mild concussion. Nothing to worry about.”

Joe was suspicious. “Is the cablegram what’s bothering you?”

“Just so. But I know–ah–nothing about it. I am concerned for your safety. Perhaps some evil person wants you out of the way because you are close to a solution of the burglary at the Witch Museum.”

“We have made no headway,” Joe scoffed. “This looks like one case we’re not going to solve!”

“I have a feeling all these mysterious shenanigans are connected with Lord Craighead’s disappearance,” Frank said. “Was he really on his way to Dublin five years ago?”

Rowbotham shrugged. “Everybody in Griffinmoor believed he was. Nobody denied it at the time.”

“It could have been a cover story he dreamed up,” Joe pointed out. “Anyhow, there’s one place to look for him.”

“Where?” Rowbotham asked.

“Dublin!”

Frank nodded. “I go along with that. We’d better add Ireland to our transatlantic tour. Professor, suppose you spread the word that we’ve gone home. That way we can carry on the investigation without fear of anybody tailing us.”

Rowbotham agreed. He told them to go to Tara Lodge near Dublin. “This is the home of Lord Craighead’s army friend, Colonel Melvin Stewart. They were supposed to meet there.”

The Hardys made their plans that night. They would visit Craighead Castle the next day, and on the following morning, fly to Dublin.

“I’ll pack the cap we found at Stonehenge,” Frank said. “Maybe we can go to the Isle of Man and check it out.”

The following day they set out with Sears for the Craighead estate. Joe drove Rowbotham’s compact through town and out into the countryside, while Frank mulled over the mysterious cablegram from New York. He put a pointed question to the butler.

“Sears, have you any relatives in America?”

“No, sir. But my brother-in-law, Mr. Goodman, has a cousin in New York. Why do you ask?”

Frank pretended to be unconcerned. “Just curiosity. Being Americans, we’re interested in Englishmen who have relatives living in our country.”

The tower of Craighead Castle appeared over the crest of a hill. Joe coasted down the grade, up the driveway, and across a drawbridge into the castle courtyard.

Goodman and his wife came out to greet them. He was short, they noticed, and she very thin. Cordially the couple escorted the visitors inside.

“Milton Craighead is in London,” Mrs. Goodman confided. “So there’s no fear of disturbing him. But first we will have tea in the drawing room.”

She rang a silver bell. Two servants wheeled a cart in. They placed cups and a large teapot on the table along with a tray of cakes.

Joe noticed that the housekeeper had piercing black eyes. She kept glancing at him even while talking to the others. He felt very uncomfortable under her gaze, but decided to forget it and down his share of tea and cakes.

After refreshments the tour of the castle began. First they went into the dungeon. A small round window let in just enough light to reveal a dismal sight. There were torture instruments in the middle of the floor–thumbscrews, racks, and braziers for heating pincers. Irons for holding wrists and ankles dangled from a rafter. Cowhide whips were stacked in a wooden cask.

“Of course we don’t use this room any more,” Mrs. Goodman informed the Hardys. “But it had quite a bit of use in the olden times.”

The boys were glad when the butler led the way up again into the living quarters. They went along corridors and saw rooms that still spoke of elegance and splendor, even though a time-worn shabbiness prevailed. Finally they reached the battlements. The embrasures once manned by archers were empty. The openings for pouring boiling oil on besieging armies were covered over.

“I guess Craighead Castle hasn’t been in a scrap for a long time,” Frank said.

“There hasn’t been a battle for over three hundred years,” Goodman replied.

The group ascended to the top of the tower, where a flag flew in the breeze. It bore a picture of a griffin carrying off a knight. Joe made out the legend: Avoir la Serre Bonne.

“The Griffinmoor emblem!” he exclaimed.

Mrs. Goodman fixed her black eyes on him. “You are right–this time,” was her cryptic response.

Before he could ask what she meant, the woman urged the group down the stairs from the tower and into the turret at the rear of the castle. The top room of the turret had no window. Explaining that the electricity had never been extended to the turret, Goodman lit a large candle and held it up high.

The flickering light fell upon an array of old armor. There was a Norman suit made of tiny bits of metal linked together. Behind it stood a French type, made of metal plates.

In one corner gleamed a suit of jet black armor holding a sword in one hand.

Frank patted the helmet. “So that’s what the well-dressed knight wore.”

“I hope he didn’t feel itchy,” Joe quipped. “How’d you like to try scratching your back through that tin outfit?”

The candle sputtered out. Goodman led them into the corridor. They descended into the courtyard and walked around the castle.

One thing struck Joe. Sunlight once more glinted off a window in the turret, but he could not remember seeing the window from within.

While pondering his oversight, they came to a wide stone staircase. Mrs. Goodman asked Frank to lead the way down. He did.

Zip! His feet skidded out from under him, and he plunged head over heels, bouncing from one step to another till he hit bottom. Joe rushed to help him up.

“What a terrible fall!” the housekeeper cried. “How did it happen?”

“I slipped on something!”

The Hardys and Sears examined the step and found a broad, dark, oozy discoloration.

“That’s oil!” Sears exclaimed, rubbing some between his fingers.

“Goodness, how did it get there?” the woman asked.

Goodman insisted that he had no explanation for the oil. He promised to look into the matter and see if anyone in the castle was responsible, and begged Frank to accept his apologies.

“It’s okay,” Frank said. “I banged a knee and skinned an elbow. But I’m still operational.”

The visit over, Joe drove back to Griffinmoor. Passing the tearoom in town, they were startled to see a figure in a polka-dot bandanna run out and jump in front of the car. Joe braked to a jarring stop.

“Mary Ellerbee!” he exclaimed.

The old crone pointed a bony finger at them.

“The witch’s curse!” she shrieked. “The day will come when it is done! The deed is nigh, the witch’s cry is heard on high. To you I say, avaunt!”

Gathering her robe about her, she strode back into her tearoom. The black cat leaped into her arms, and Mary Ellerbee stood in the doorway, stroking the pet and leering.

“What was that all about?” Frank wondered as Joe drove on.

“She’s harmless,” Sears said. “Pay no attention to her.”

“Witches are great on curses,” Joe murmured.

Mary’s action bothered the Hardys, even though they kept telling each other that superstition was ridiculous.

Next morning they bade the professor good-by and took the train to London, where a taxi whisked them to the airport. With their baggage safely on the conveyor belt, Frank and Joe stopped at a lunch counter for coffee and doughnuts.

Frank looked at his watch. “We’ve got an hour till flight time. What say we phone home? It’s noon here, so it’s morning in Bayport.”

“Good idea,” Joe said. “Won’t they be surprised!”

The call went through quickly, and their mother answered. She was delighted to hear their voices. “Professor Rowbotham must be a nice man.” She sighed in relief after listening to their story of events in Griffinmoor.

Neither Frank nor Joe wanted to worry Mrs. Hardy by mentioning their suspicions about their host. Fenton Hardy came to the phone. His sons gave him a rapid rundown of their investigation.

“It’s a bigger mystery than I thought,” the Bayport sleuth confessed. “But Sam Radley has made a discovery at this end that might help you crack the case.”

Sam Radley was Mr. Hardy’s operative. He had helped Frank and Joe solve a number of crimes. They knew they could depend on him.

“What is it?” Frank urged.

“We could use an assist in this ball game,” added Joe, who had his ear next to the receiver.

“Sam has been casing New York shops that specialize in the occult. He checked some items against the inventory you sent. They’re from Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum!”

“Holy catfish!” Joe exploded. “No wonder we couldn’t find more of the stuff over here!”

“We thought this might be an international gang,” Frank declared. “I guess our hunch wasn’t far off.”

“It was right on the money,” Fenton Hardy said approvingly. He admired the way his sons handled difficult cases.

“Keep investigating on your side of the Atlantic,” he said. “Sam will try to find out who peddled the stuff. I’ll say good-by, but Aunt Gertrude wants to tell you something.”

Gertrude Hardy, Fenton’s sister, was a spinster with a sharp tongue. She frequently criticized the boys, but was secretly proud of them.

“I hear you’re mixed up with witches,” she sniffed. “Is that true?”

“It’s true, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank admitted.

“Well, be careful,” she continued in a worried tone. “Just remember, witches often don’t appear to be what they really are.”

“We’ll be careful,” Joe promised. “Good-by, Aunty.”

Frank hung up and they went to the departure gate where the Dublin flight would originate. Suddenly three men ran past. The sound of pistol shots rang out. Bullets whined through the airport!

CHAPTER XV

SOS in the Irish Sea

“HIT the deck!” Joe yelled.

He and Frank plunged headlong onto the airport floor. People ran helter-skelter. A number of policemen surged through the frightened crowd, captured the gunmen, and took them off.

“They’re terrorists from abroad, shooting at each other,” said a bobby. “But we got ’em all. Nobody’s been hurt.”

“Thank goodness those guys didn’t kill anyone,” Joe said. “Frank, isn’t it a thrill to live in today’s world?” he added sarcastically.

“Not that bad, Joe. How about centuries ago, when people were accused of riding broomsticks–and burned? I’m glad to be away from spooky Griffinmoor for a while.”

They boarded their plane, which quickly became airborne. England vanished beneath their wings and they were over the Irish Sea. The plane bounced in the turbulence of air currents and down drafts. The stewardesses went down the aisle, calming the passengers.

“Pretty rough for an hour’s flight,” Frank grumbled.

“Any rougher and we’ll end up in the drink,” Joe agreed.

After landing at Dublin Airport, they caught a taxi to Tara Lodge. The driver took them down O’Connell Street, Dublin’s broad main avenue, across the Liffey River, and out past Phoenix Park. Tara Lodge was situated in the middle of a lawn that looked like a great green carpet.

Colonel Melvin Stewart was a tall man with a mane of white hair. When he heard that the Hardys were friends of Professor Rowbotham’s in Griffinmoor and working on his case, he gave them a warm welcome. He introduced his grandson Pat, a genial Irish youth of Joe’s age, who was staying with the colonel for a few days.

The boys told him they were interested in Lord Craighead’s disappearance and asked if he could give them any information.

“I’ll be glad to tell you all I know,” the old gentleman said, “but you’ll have to wait a while. I have an appointment with my solicitor in half an hour.”

Pat spoke. “Maybe you’d like to come with me in the meantime. I’m off to Phoenix Park for a game of rugby. We could use a couple of half- backs. How about it? You Yanks know how to play rugby, don’t you?”

The Hardys confessed they had played only once in an exhibition at Bayport High School. They would like to play again.

“Well then, off you go,” the colonel said.

The three boys walked to the field house and joined the rest of the team. Uniforms were found for Frank and Joe. They all ran out onto the field and the game began.

The ball bounced crazily across the ground.

“Take it, Frank!” Pat bellowed.

Frank grabbed the ball, ran a few steps, and was tackled. He passed off to another player. The ball moved down the field. Pat got hold of it.

“Go for the goal!” Frank shouted.

Pat scored. Then the players gathered around the ball in a scrum. They kicked and shoved until Joe managed to work the ball loose. He turned sharply and suddenly slumped to the ground. Pat ran up.

“I say, are you hurt, Joe?”

“It’s my trick knee. I twisted it in a football game at Bayport High.”

Pat and Frank helped Joe to the sideline. Another player took his place and the game went on, with Pat scoring the winning goal.

Joe needed assistance to limp back to Tara Lodge, where Colonel Stewart inspected his knee.

“Painful but not dangerous,” the old soldier diagnosed. “Here, I’ll tape it for you. Your knee will be as good as new if you stay off it a day or so.”

He offered the Hardys the hospitality of his home, which they gratefully accepted.

After dinner, Pat put a couple of logs on the irons in the fireplace and built a roaring blaze. Colonel Stewart drew his chair close to the hearth and invited his guests to join him.

“So you want to know about Lord Craighead? It was just five years ago. I expected him to arrive here at Tara Lodge. When he failed to appear, I got in touch with Craighead Castle. Goodman said he had left Craighead, ostensibly on his way to Dublin. Apparently he vanished!”

An idea struck Frank. “Maybe he had an attack of amnesia. Lost his memory.”

“Possibly,” Stewart said. “When I knew him in the army, he often acted strangely. He was a loner, introspective–always seemed to be thinking about something he didn’t care to divulge to anybody else.”

Excitement gripped Joe. “Lord Craighead might have been hiding a mysterious secret!”

“That’s also possible,” his host replied. “But my guess at the time was that he was worried about financial problems.”

“I’ve heard,” Pat interjected, “that the castle is loaded with debts.”

Frank looked doubtful. “I thought Lord Craighead was rich. Didn’t he have zillions of pounds?”

Stewart shook his head. “The aristocracy is burdened by taxes. And it costs a fortune to run a castle. That’s why so many people are selling. By the way, was the Craighead land sale ever completed?”

The question made the Hardys gape in total amazement.

“That’s new to us, Colonel,” Frank conceded. “Can you tell us about it?”

“I suppose it won’t hurt to now. You see, Lord Craighead was trying to sell all his property to a London syndicate. One thing was holding the deal up. The syndicate demanded a package transaction, including the Craighead estate and Eagleton Green. But the craftsmen at the artisan village threw a spanner into the works. They refused to sell.”

“So the deal fell through?” Frank asked.

“As far as I know.” The colonel offered no more on the subject, and the session broke up.

In their room, the Hardys discussed the possibility that Milton Craighead was still attempting to arrange the land sale.

“Maybe the syndicate is trying to drive Eagleton Green out of business by means of sabotage,” Frank speculated.

“And perhaps Matthew Hopkins has something to do with it,” Joe said. “He’s in real estate, remember? He could be connected with the same syndicate.”

Joe spent the next day in Colonel Stewart’s spacious walnut-paneled library, reading and resting his leg on a leather hassock. Frank and Pat, meanwhile, went to the Dublin Library to see what they could find about the genealogy of the Hardy family.

They ordered several enormous tomes at the desk, took them into the reading room, and leafed through the material. They spent an hour in hushed concentration.

“Lots of Hardys still in Ireland,” Pat said.

“Sorry to say we lost track of the old timers,” Frank confessed. “Look, here’s a note. It seems our ancestors emigrated to America in 1800. Fenton is an old family name among the Hardys of Ireland. So that’s where my father’s first name comes from. He’ll be interested to hear that.”

“You chaps are a distinguished clan,” Pat complimented him.

Frank returned the compliment. “Not so distinguished as the Stewarts. They used to be kings of England.”

“It was a different branch of the family,” Pat responded with a grin. “I can’t claim succession to the throne!”

They deposited the volumes at the desk, left the library, and walked to a bus stop. Dublin was alive with crowds and traffic. Motorcycles whizzed past Trinity College, where the statues of Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith stood. Men raised tankards and sang drinking songs in pubs. Pedestrians waited for the lights to change at the tall pillar on O’Connell Street.

Frank and Pat caught a bus to Phoenix Park and walked to Tara Lodge. Joe’s knee was nearly back to normal. He told them he had been reading a book on witchcraft.

“It’s about witches on the Isle of Man. There are two covens, one good and one bad. Good witches practice white magic. They’re out to help humanity.”

Frank chuckled. “I guess the black witches wear black hats.”

“Well, they practice black magic,” Joe said. “And specialize in curses. They stick pins in dolls and hex people.”

Pat had been listening, amused at Joe’s enthusiasm. “The Isle of Man is famous for its two covens,” he said. “Also for the Hall of Magic, the museum. But why are you chaps so interested in witchcraft?”

“Ever since we started working on the professor’s case in Griffinmoor we’re plenty interested,” Frank replied.

“And we were hoping to go to the Isle of Man, anyway,” Joe explained, “to follow a clue.” He told Pat about the striped cap they found at Stonehenge.

“There’s a ferry that runs every day,” Pat told them.

Frank nodded. “I think we should go tomorrow.”

Colonel Stewart agreed when he heard about their plans. The next morning, Frank and Joe downed a stack of pancakes, thanked Colonel Stewart, and said good-by to Pat. A taxi took them to the dock, where they boarded the ferry for the Isle of Man.

Soon it edged away from the pier and headed downriver into the Irish Sea. Passengers lined the rails, facing a rising wind. The engines pulsated rhythmically as the vessel churned beyond sight of land.

Frank and Joe went into the lounge, where they ordered soda pop and sat down to talk over their situation.

“What do we do first?” Joe asked.

“Check out the cap. Then we’ll try to find out as much as we can about the covens and visit the Hall of Magic.”

They finished their drinks and went out on deck. The ferry was beginning to pitch and roll in stormy weather. Foaming waves broke over the bow. Sea spray swept across the deck and everybody on it.

The sky darkened as banks of clouds massed overhead. A bolt of lightning streaked toward the horizon and the wind rose to gale force.

“We’re heading into an honest to goodness nor’easter,” Frank predicted.

“Or whatever they call ’em in the Irish Sea,” Joe added. “The crew had better batten down the hatches!”

As rain began to fall, crewmen appeared in boots and oilskins and prepared for the storm. They gathered deck chairs; then they coiled ropes and made sure the portholes were securely closed and bolted.

The Hardys moved toward the lounge with the other passengers when Joe gripped Frank’s arm and pointed to the crest of an approaching wave.

“That monster’s going to hit us, Frank!”

The wave came on, cresting higher by the second. It crashed into the ferry amidships. The vessel staggered under the impact of tons of water, and began listing to starboard.

“We’ve sprung a leak!” Frank shouted, but his voice was lost in the howling wind.

He and Joe hurried into the lounge. The other passengers were huddled together, many of them panic-stricken.

The crew hauled hoses to bail water from the hold, but it did no good. The ferry listed more sharply.

The voice of the captain came over the intercom. “Don life jackets!” He could be heard ordering his radioman: “Send an SOS!”

A couple of crewmen rushed into the lounge and handed out life vests. After the Hardys slipped into theirs, they went to the other passengers and helped those who had trouble putting them on properly.

“Everybody to lifeboat stations!” boomed the captain.

There was frantic pushing and elbowing as frightened people scrambled to the deck. By this time the list was so bad that the craft was in danger of capsizing.

“Lower the lifeboats!” the captain ordered. “Abandon ship!”

CHAPTER XVI

A Coven Feud

THE lifeboats hit the waves. The first were filled with women and children. The men piled in next, while crewmen manned the oars. The boats filled up quickly.

“There’s no room for us!” Joe yelled. “We’ll have to take our chances in the water!”

The upper deck was awash when the captain ordered the last of the crew to follow him over the side. The Hardys leaped into the sea and swam away as fast as possible. They had to get clear of the ferry to avoid being dragged down by suction when the vessel sank.

Safely out of range, they watched the death of the stricken ferry. The bow went under and the stern rose high in the air. For a moment she stood on end and then plunged into the depths!

Frank and Joe bobbed up and down like a couple of corks. They knew they were too far from land to swim for it, and the lifeboats had drifted away in the storm.

Joe yelled out to Frank, “What’ll we do now?”

“Wait to be picked up!” Frank shouted back. “The SOS must have got through!”

Gradually the storm died. The waves became calm, the rain stopped, and the sun came out. Some dots on the horizon grew larger. They were rescue boats answering the ferry’s SOS, and they began picking up survivors.

The Hardys yelled and waved frantically until one of the boats noticed them. It curved in a wide arc and stopped in a mass of frothy foam churned up by its propellers. The two were hauled aboard.

Frank’s teeth chattered. “Boy, are we glad to see you,” he told one sailor.

“Yeah,” Joe added. “We were getting cold out there!”

“You’re obviously Americans,” the seaman observed. “How do you happen to be swimming in the Irish Sea?”

Joe told him who they were and where they were from. He described how they went from East Anglia to Dublin and caught the ferry for the Isle of Man.

“That’s interesting,” the sailor said. Just then a call came for him from the engine room and he left.

“Joe! Zipper your lip, will you!” Frank rebuked his brother. “We’re supposed to be on our way home, remember, and we don’t want our whereabouts to get back to Griffinmoor!”

Joe looked embarrassed. “Sorry about that,” he said and added wistfully, “Too bad we lost everything in our suitcases.”

“Not everything. I salvaged this before we abandoned ship.”

Frank reached into his pocket and drew out the striped cap they had found at Stonehenge.

“Good thinking,” Joe complimented him. “At least we can check out this clue.”

The rescue boat pulled into the dock at Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man. Cold and stiff, the Hardys went ashore. The Red Cross put them up for the night. They took showers, had a meal, placed their money flat on a table to dry, and went to bed.

Their clothes were ready to wear again in the morning. They had breakfast, thanked their hosts, and strolled to the center of Douglas. Joe was wearing the striped cap.

The label in it read Cooper’s Clothes. They found the store on the Douglas promenade. Joe handed the cap to the clerk, a young man with blond hair and blue eyes.

“Recognize this?” he inquired. “Can you tell who bought it?”

The clerk turned the cap over in his hands. He peered closely at the cloth and opened his mouth to answer, when the proprietor of the store cut him off.

“No identification is possible,” the man said. “We sell thousands of such caps every year. Sorry we can’t help you.”

He strode over to a rack of raincoats and began putting on price tags.

“I guess that does it,” Frank remarked.

Joe twirled the cap on one finger. “For sale–cheap!” He grinned.

As they turned to leave, the clerk nodded slightly as a signal. He raised his eyebrows and looked toward the door, indicating that the Hardys were to wait for him outside.

Frank and Joe left the shop and sat on a bench, looking at the scene on the beach across the promenade. Half an hour later the clerk emerged from the store and approached the bench.

“Follow me!” he whispered as he walked past. He continued for a couple of blocks, entered a pub, and sat down at a secluded table in one corner. Frank and Joe joined him.

“It’s lunchtime,” the clerk said. “So we can chat a little. My name is Harry Burke.”

The Hardys introduced themselves. They noted that the pub was frequented by rough men who seemed ready for anything. Most were drinking at the bar. Several were tossing darts at a board.

After the waitress had brought three orders of fish and chips, Burk leaned over and spoke in a low undertone.

“I know that cap,” the clerk declared, “because it has a flaw in the cloth. And I remember who bought it.”

“Who?” Frank prodded.

“A man from East Anglia. I recall the incident because he demanded a lower price. He was a tough bargainer.”

“Do you know his—” Frank began.

Zing! A dart flew through the air, its sharp point penetrating the middle of the table. It stood upright with feathers quivering.

Startled, Frank wrenched the dart loose and hefted it in his hand.

“Is it a habit of the natives here to shoot toothpicks at strangers?” he asked tersely.

“That wasn’t meant for you. It was aimed at me!” Harry said.

“Why?” Joe asked.

“Witchcraft! There’s a feud going on. It’s the black witches against the white witches to see who dominates the Isle of Man.”

Joe was incredulous. “Harry, are you saying you’re a witch?”

“Yes. I’m a white witch.”

Joe scratched his head. “I’ve read about the black witches and the white witches. As I get it, the black witches practice black magic and the white witches, white magic.”

“Black witches worship Satan,” Burk said. “We white ones bow to Diana.”

“The Greek goddess with the bow and arrow?” Frank asked.

“Yes, Diana, the Huntress,” Burk told him. “That’s what the ancient Greeks called her. We white witches believe Diana is a principle of good in the world.”

“What do white witches do when they get together?” Joe wanted to know.

“We meet in places like Stonehenge when the moon is full. We chant invocations to Diana and dance in the moonlight.”

“Sounds interesting,” Frank said.

“That’s not all,” Burk explained. “The good we do comes from our knowledge of herbs, an old wisdom handed down from one witch to another. We gather the herbs in the forest in the dark of the moon and make medicines from them.”

“Magic cocktails!” Joe quipped.

“Medicines!” Burk stressed. “Many people are being healed right now through witch lore. Black witches hate white witches for the good they do.”

The clerk turned his head and glared at the group at the dartboard. They glared back at him.

“I know who threw the dart,” he informed the Hardys. “He intended it as a warning not to speak to you. Just for that, I’m going to tell you who bought the cap. He’s a black witch from Griffinmoor. He goes by the nickname of He Goat.”

“What does he look like?” Frank pressed. “Is he young or old?”

“Older man. Short. That’s all I know. Now, let’s get out of here before something worse happens.”

Frank and Joe proceeded to the promenade, discussing the meaning of what they had just heard.

“That gets Nip off the hook,” Frank said. He didn’t buy the cap. But who’s He Goat?”

“One of the fellows we tangoed with at Stonehenge,” Joe said. “And Nip could still have been the other guy.”

“You’re right. Nobody’s off the hook. We just have a new suspect in addition to everyone else. This mystery is too much! We’ve never been involved with one like this!” Frank said, discouraged.

“Well, we know one thing. The fellow who tried to trap us at Stonehenge is from Griffinmoor. Most likely it’s He Goat himself. But why did he buy the cap so far away from home?” Joe asked.

“This place is alive with witches,” Frank reminded him. “Maybe he visited the coven on the Isle of Man one time and picked it up during his stay.”

“Crazy,” Joe said. “Between white witches and black witches I’m slowly going crazy!”

Frank chuckled. “If we hang around long enough, either faction might try to convert us!”

“No way,” Joe said. “The black faction at Griffinmoor definitely doesn’t want us around. I just wonder why the Isle of Man group objected to Harry Burke talking to us. Unless they know who we are?”

Frank was thoughtful. “I’m beginning to wonder. “Maybe our cover is blown already and someone in Griffinmoor has warned the club here that we are coming?”

They bought toothbrushes and some clothes, then sat down on another bench. Behind them rose a row of hotels catering to the tourist trade. Traffic moved along the broad thoroughfare between them and the beach, where vacationers were lying in the sand, throwing beach balls or splashing in the water.

Adding to the activity, a platoon of motorcycles decorated in all the hues of the rainbow roared past. The leader wore a bright-red helmet and a black-leather jacket. Giving his machine the run, he zoomed in and out of traffic while his buddies zipped along behind him. The onlookers cheered.

Frank asked a pedestrian why there were so many colorful bikes.

“The International Tourist Trophy Races,” the man informed him. “The best drivers in the world come here every year to compete. You might say it’s the Isle of Man Grand Prix.”

“Where’s the race track?” Joe inquired.

“Covers most of the Isle of Man. Starts just outside Douglas, goes west across the island to Peel, then north to Ballaugh, east to Ramsey, and south to Douglas.

“Bad country roads, hills, dust, sheep–there are a lot of obstacles on the course. Well, I’m off to see the bikes!”

He walked away as a horse tram came slowly along, an open-air carriage riding on rails bisecting the promenade. A couple of cyclists were pedaling up behind it. They looked familiar, and Frank focused his eyes on them sharply.

“Hey, Joe! See those guys over there on the bikes? One looks just like Phil Cohen. If the other one was fatter, I’d say they were our pals Chet and Phil.”

Just then the two cyclists came abreast of the Hardys. The dark-haired, wiry boy with the glasses looked at Frank and stopped.

“Chet!” he yelled. “Look who’s here!”

CHAPTER XVII

A Happy Reunion

CHET Morton, a tall, strapping youth who was the Hardys’ best friend, almost fell off his bicycle.

“I don’t believe it!” he shouted. “What in the world are the famous Bayport detectives doing so far away from home?”

“Detecting, no doubt.” Phil chuckled. “Okay, spill it. What are you working on in these parts of the globe?”

“Just sightseeing,” Frank said.

“Sure. And we’re just off to a walk in the woods,” Chet quipped.

“I thought you were on a cycling tour of Ireland,” Frank declared.

“We were,” Phil replied, “but we decided to pop over here for the motorbike races.”

Chet varoomed like a motor revving up. “Those guys zip around the back roads like crazy! I’d like to be in on it!”

Frank and Joe knew that Chet was usually up to his ears in a new hobby.

“Is it motorcycles this time?” Joe asked.

“That is just one of my interests,” Chet answered with an airy wave of his hand. “My main concern on the Isle of Man is—”

“Cats!” Phil chuckled.

Joe looked quizzical. “Cats? We have scads of ’em in Bayport!”

Chet shook his head and looked pained. “Not Manx cats. The ones without tails that this island is famous for. I’d like to get one and ship it home.”

“I think you should stick to cycling,” Frank declared. “That’s a great way to get rid of extra pounds.”

Chet grinned and patted his belt line. “Terrific, isn’t it? I’ll be so trim when I get back that I might beat you out for halfback on the football team!”

Phil and Chet were staying at an inn, so the four decided to go there and compare notes about what they had been doing since their last meeting in Bayport.

The inn was a ramshackle building in an alley near Strand Street, the main shopping district of Douglas. They had to climb three flights of rickety stairs to reach the room.

“This is the best we could do,” Phil said. “Douglas is buttoned up for the races.”

The room held a couple of beds and chairs. Chet produced four bottles of root beer and sat down on the window sill.

“We cycled all over Ireland,” he boasted. “You guys should have been here. I could have given you some lessons.”

He chugalugged his root beer and patted his stomach. The other three sipped theirs slowly. Finally Frank placed his bottle on the floor beside his chair.

“You should have been with us,” he countered. “We could have used a couple of backstops when the going got rough.”

Phil pursed his lips. “As I surmised, you and Joe are on another case.”

“Right,” Joe confessed. He described their sudden departure from Bayport after Professor Rowbotham asked their father to help solve the burglary at the Witch Museum. He mentioned their adventures in East Anglia, London, and Stonehenge.

“Hey, we’d like a piece of the action,” Chet said. “Bring on the witches! But don’t expect me to ride a broomstick!”

“You couldn’t get airborne on a broomstick anyway, Chet.” Joe needled him. “You’d need to lose another twenty pounds.”

“Well, we’d like an assist,” Frank said. “We haven’t gotten too far with the witch case. He explained the problem of the Stonehenge cap and the black witch known as He Goat.

“Harry Burk says there’s a feud between black and white witches on the Isle of Man,” Frank concluded.

“I’ve got news for you,” Phil revealed. “Chet and I have been to Black Magic Hall. It’s owned by a couple of black witches!”

Frank became excited. “Is it a good exhibition? We were planning to go.”

Chet shrugged. “It’s okay. But we didn’t see the Super Exhibit. We would have had to pay an extra pound.”

A sound on the landing made the four sit up and listen intently. Footsteps stealthily approached the door and stopped. Joe crossed the room silently and pulled the door open. A slatternly woman almost fell against him before regaining her balance.

“I’m the landlady,” she declared. “I was just about to knock. Four in a room means you pay twice as much.”

“Then we want two extra cots,” Phil said.

The landlady told them to take the cots from a hall closet. They paid her and she went back downstairs.

“Was she eavesdropping?” Chet wondered.

“She may become the next suspect,” Frank replied. “What say we all go to Black Magic Hall and see the special exhibit?”

“Okay,” Chet said, and they left the inn.

The museum was located in a rundown area of Douglas. The man and woman who ran it were brother and sister, who admitted they were black witches.

“Why shouldn’t we be?” the woman demanded defiantly. “Witches have rights, too!”

“Suppose,” Frank replied, “you let us have tickets to the museum.”

The man took their money and handed them the tickets. His eyes followed the boys as they went inside.

The regular exhibition was good. They looked over witch dolls, masks, bells, and candles. They stopped before a black table covered with velvet cloth on which lay a wand, a crystal ball, two daggers that pointed in opposite directions, an astrology chart, and a sprig of mistletoe.

“Interesting but not suspicious,” Frank judged when they had circled the room. “I don’t see any of Professor Rowbotham’s things here.”

An arrow directed them up a flight of narrow stairs to a door with a sign reading: SUPER EXHIBIT. They entered a small dark room and closed the door behind them. Dim lighting illuminated the items on display.

The first was a witch’s cauldron.

Joe whispered, “Frank, that’s from the Griffinmoor collection! I remember the illustration in the catalog. The dent in the side is a dead giveaway!”

“And here’s a skull and crossbones exactly like Professor Rowbotham’s!” Frank murmured. “And this mask! And this dagger!”

The Hardys told their friends that the Super Exhibit appeared to be made up of stolen pieces from the Griffinmoor Witch Museum.

“We ought to make those crooks confess!” Chet said.

“No good,” Frank countered. “They’d only deny everything.”

“But we must do something!” Joe urged.

Phil thought for a moment. “How about visiting a witch’s coven? We might find some more proof that way.”

The Hardys agreed to try Phil’s idea. The four laid their plans and descended to the ground floor, where the two witches were talking in guarded whispers in a corner. They fell silent when they saw the boys approaching.

“I have a secret to tell you,” Frank said mysteriously.

“Oh, is that so?” the woman sniffed.

“Yes, you see we’re apprentice witches ourselves.”

“Where from?” the man snapped.

The unexpected question caught Frank off guard. As he fumbled for an answer, Chet came to his assistance.

“Bayport, U.S.A.”

“Witchmaster?” the man snarled.

“Chief Collig!” Joe said quickly.

Frank, Phil, and Chet had a hard time keeping their faces straight. Chief Collig was the head of the Bayport Police Department!

“Never heard of him,” the woman said. “But then, we never heard of Bayport, either.”

“You can find it on the map of the United States,” Joe assured her.

Frank intervened. “We’d like to visit a coven while we’re on the Isle of Man. Can you set it up for us?”

The black witches exchanged glances. Then the sister nodded. “Maybe we can arrange it for you.”

“It will cost you ten pounds each,” the man added. “Come back at nine o’clock tomorrow night. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Strolling back through Douglas, the Hardys discussed the situation with their pals. Phil and Chet agreed that forty pounds was a lot of money to invest in their adventure. They decided to cut the sum in half.

Frank and Joe would pay twenty pounds to visit the coven. Phil and Chet would tag along as backups in case of trouble.

“It will be worth twenty pounds if we discover any clues,” Frank pointed out.

“But now that we’ve found the stolen items from Griffinmoor,” Phil said, “shouldn’t we notify the police immediately?”

“Not yet,” Joe replied. “We don’t have proof. It would be our word against theirs. The Douglas police wouldn’t have any reason to believe us. We’ll have to get in touch with Griffinmoor first.”

Frank turned his head slightly and looked out of the corner of his eye. “Keep walking and don’t look back,” he said in an undertone. “We’ve got a tail behind us.”

Following his directions, Joe, Phil, and Chet strolled nonchalantly along as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

Phil also spoke in an undertone. “Do you recognize him, Frank?”

“I sure do. He’s the guy who threw the dart at Harry Burk in the pub!”

They turned a corner. So did their shadow. He pretended to be looking in the shop windows.

Frank said, “We’ll go to the inn as if nothing were happening. If he follows us, he may tip his hand.”

There seemed to be nothing better to do. When they arrived, the landlady was inspecting a batch of receipts at the desk. She ignored them.

Frank peered covertly out the lobby window. “Our shadow’s headed this way. He’s coming in!”

“What’ll we do now?” Chet asked.

“You three go up to the room,” Frank said. “I’ll stay on the second-floor landing and keep watch.”

Scuffing their feet, the boys made a lot of noise as they climbed the three flights of stairs. Frank silently remained on the second-floor landing. Then he tiptoed down as far as he could and peered over the bannister into the lobby.

Their shadow came through the door and advanced to the desk. The landlady leaned toward him and he whispered something into her ear. Then, furtively, he hastened out.

The landlady picked up the telephone and dialed a number!

CHAPTER XVIII

Kidnapped!

FRANK strained to hear what the landlady was saying, but she spoke in a voice too low for him to understand.

When she hung up, Frank tiptoed up the stairs to their room. Silently he opened the door, slipped inside, and told the others what had happened.

“I don’t know what we’re up against now,” he concluded. “But we’re sitting ducks. Maybe two of us should stand guard while two sleep.”

His companions agreed, and Phil and Joe took the first shift. But the night passed without incident.

In the morning they held a council of war to plan their strategy for the day.

“We don’t have anything on tap until nine o’clock tonight,” Phil observed. “What say we spend the day at the beach?”

“Great!” Chet said, and his eyebrows waggled. “Maybe we can meet some girls!”

“Take it easy, Romeo,” said Joe.

After breakfast they strolled to a bath house near the promenade, donned swimming trunks, and ran into the deep water. They swam around like seals for half an hour. Then they went to the beach and sprawled on the sand beside some other bathers. They began to chat.

Phil lowered his voice and said, “Why are these people smiling at us?”

“I noticed that, too,” Frank said. “Maybe they’re just friendly.”

A woman heard him. “I’ll tell you why,” she said. “It’s because you’re very brave boys!”

“What do you mean, ma’am?” Frank was puzzled.

“Aren’t two of you the Hardy boys?”

“Yes, we are. I’m Frank. This is Joe.”

“Well, then, you’d want to read this.”

The woman handed Frank a newspaper. Phil, Chet, and Joe gathered around him and read over his shoulder.

The London paper described the sinking of the ferryboat. Frank and Joe Hardy were named as the two American passengers who did not abandon ship until just before she sank, and were picked up by a rescue boat.

The captain was quoted. “They were very courageous,” he said, “to take their chances in the Irish Sea instead of trying to climb aboard a crowded lifeboat.”

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “A couple of heroes.”

“Indeed they are,” the woman said, as Frank returned the paper and thanked her.

But he looked unhappy. “No wonder our cover is blown,” he muttered. “Our enemies know where we are for sure.”

“Sorry,” Joe said sheepishly. “It’s all my fault for talking too much.”

“Nothing you can do about it now,” Chet said. “You’re big shots and you might as well enjoy it.”

“Oh, I hope you do!” the voice came from a girl behind Joe.

Startled, he turned around to look at the speaker, a willowy blond with a big smile.

“I mean, I hope you enjoy your stay on Man,” she said. “My name’s Shirley Evans. I live here.”

After introductions, Shirley asked Chet and Phil if they had been on the ferry boat too, and when she heard about their bicycle trip, she listened politely to their experiences for a few minutes.

But it was obvious that she had her eye on Joe. After a while, she directed all her attention to him. Joe did not mind at all. They chatted gaily for a while, then moved away from the others, discussing foreign politics of their respective countries.

Chet shook his head. “What do you know? Joe’s being swept off his feet right before our eyes!”

“Obviously he’s in love,” Phil added. “Just look at him. His face is one big grin!”

Frank chuckled. “Shirley’s very pretty. I would be grinning too if she’d picked me.”

Phil laughed. “Some talk for a hard-boiled detective! I thought you only had work on your mind!”

“There’s a place and time for everything. Hey look, we’re in again!”

Shirley had stood up and was addressing all the boys. “Why don’t you come and have lunch at my house? It’s just on the other side of the promenade. Mum and Dad would be glad to meet you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Joe said, and he sprang to his feet.

But the others were reluctant. “We want another dip. Join you later.”

Shirley gave her address, took Joe’s arm, and left. At home, she introduced her new American friend to her parents. Mrs. Evans, a charming woman with close-cut hair, was involved in social work. Mr. Evans, a tall, stout man, was a lawyer. They welcomed Joe, served lunch, and plied him with questions about himself.

“Frank and I have just been to Dublin,” Joe revealed. “We visited Colonel Stewart at Tara Lodge.”

“That’s quite a coincidence,” Evans said. “I served under Colonel Stewart in the Army.”

“Then you may have known the Marquis of Craighead! The one who disappeared five years ago. We’re trying to find out what happened to him.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know Lord Craighead,” the lawyer said. “But I remember when he vanished. It caused quite a stir in military circles. All kinds of rumors were about. One even placed him here on the Isle of Man!”

“How was that, sir?”

“A serving girl who had once worked in the kitchen at Craighead Castle took the ferry from Liverpool to the Isle of Man. During the voyage she saw a ragged, unkempt man who looked like Lord Craighead. She couldn’t be sure. I tried to find him without success.”

A ring of the doorbell announced the arrival of Frank, Phil, and Chet. They, too, had lunch while Evans repeated what he had told Joe.

“I couldn’t believe the ragged man really was Craighead,” the lawyer went on. “He was an aristocrat, who always dressed well.”

“He could have been disguising himself to fool everybody,” Phil commented.

Evans admitted the possibility.

Frank changed the subject. “Have you lived here long, Mr. Evans?”

“All my life. I was born here. This house belonged to my grandfather.”

“Then you must know about the feud between the black and the white witches.”

Their host nodded. “I’ve heard about it.”

“These black witches,” Chet asked, “where do they hold their big powwow?”

Evans laughed. “You mean, where does the coven meet? I’ve been told it’s in an ancient moldering castle on the west coast of the island. That’s all I can tell you about black witchcraft. The white witches are something else. Their headquarters are at the Witches Mill in Castletown.”

“That’s on the southeast coast,” Mrs. Evans explained. “I’ve been there. It’s quite respectable.”

Shirley giggled. “Respectable, Mother? How can witches be respectable?”

“Well, Shirley, the couple who run the Witches Mill told me the coven prayed for rain at their last meeting. I call that respectable. Our farmers need rain.”

After a little more chatting, the boys thanked their hosts and got up to go. Shirley said to Joe, “Don’t forget to write to me,” and added archly, “it will foster international understanding.” Her father chuckled.

“I’ll write, scouts honor,” Joe replied as he left.

On the way back, Joe took a lot of good-natured teasing from the others about his new girl friend, but in their room the talk became serious.

“If that guy the serving girl saw was Lord Craighead,” Phil wondered, “what was he doing on the Isle of Man?”

“Who knows? Perhaps he’s still here, alive and well,” Frank speculated.

“Maybe He Goat came here to see Craighead!” Joe exclaimed.

Chet flexed his biceps. “I’m ready to butt heads with He Goat!”

When night fell they returned to Black Magic Hall. The street was empty. A single dim light shone behind the drawn shades of the witch museum. Frank paused on a corner.

“Let’s synchronize watches,” he suggested. “It’s five to nine. Joe and I will go in and join the coven. If we don’t come out in an hour, you fellows rush to the rescue.”

“Understood,” Phil said. “Meanwhile, I’ll watch the front of the building.”

“I’ll patrol the back,” Chet promised.

“Okay,” Joe said, “here we go.”

The woman opened the door of Black Magic Hall when Frank tapped on it. An old dusty grandfather’s clock began to sound the hour of nine as they entered. The strokes boomed through the murky museum, setting up echoes in a long dark passageway leading to the rear of the building.

The sound made Frank uneasy. “That clock bothers me,” he whispered to Joe while the woman was bolting the front door. “It’s like the countdown to a funeral.”

The man they had spoken to the day before suddenly strode out of the dark passageway and confronted them.

“Have you the money?” he demanded.

Frank and Joe each handed him ten pounds.

The witch counted the bills carefully before putting them in his coat pocket.

“Never fear, the black witches will take care of you,” he said with a sinister smirk.

“You’ll have to wear this,” his sister hissed menacingly.

She deftly pulled a black velvet hood over Frank’s head and drew the string tight under his chin. Her brother did the same to Joe. The Hardys were blindfolded before they knew it.

They joined hands at a command from the woman, who took Frank by the arm and led him down the dark passageway. Joe followed and the man came last, gripping Joe’s shoulder with fingers like iron claws.

The rattle of a chain told the boys that a door was being opened. They were pushed out of Black Magic Hall to a car with its motor idling.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Frank protested. “Where are you taking us?”

“You want to visit our coven, don’t you?” the man asked. “That’s where we are going. Now get in the car!”

Frank felt his way into the back seat and Joe stumbled in beside him. Both were uneasy as the car roared off.

“I wonder if Chet saw us,” Frank thought.

Chet had spotted them, but the car shot away before he could do a thing. Racing around the building, he told Phil that the Hardys had been kidnapped. They frantically looked for a taxi, but the street was deserted.

“What’ll we do?” Chet wailed. “They’re gone, and we have no idea where!”

The car bearing Frank and Joe raced through Douglas, barreling along the streets and taking curves at high speed. The boys could feel the change from asphalt to a dirt road, and they realized they were in the countryside.

The driver cursed savagely when he had to slow down for a flock of sheep. Circling behind them, he made the speedometer jump again.

Joe estimated that they had driven for an hour when they began to feel salty sea air. The wheels bounced and jounced over roads pitted with potholes. Finally the driver braked to a jolting stop.

A couple of powerful men dragged the Hardys out of the car. Again they were ordered to clasp hands. Again they were led forward, blindfolded by the velvet hoods.

They went down a sloping ramp, through an open doorway, and up a stone staircase. Joe stumbled on the top step and fell.

The boys were blindfolded.

“Get up!” a harsh voice growled. “Move on or it will be the worse for you!”

Frank started to protest that they could scarcely breathe, let alone move, but his words got lost in the folds of his hood.

Joe scrambled to his feet. The march went on. A flagstone corridor led to a broad curve followed by a sharp corner. There were more stairs and more corridors.

By now Frank and Joe were completely confused about the route.

“That’s the idea,” Joe thought. “They’re taking us the long way so we won’t know where we are.”

Frank, who had been trying to memorize the many turns and twists of the route, gave up in despair. “A white mouse in a maze is a lot better off than we are,” he said to himself. “At least the mouse can see!”

Rough hands brought the Hardys to a sudden halt.

“The moon is full,” said a strange voice.

“The sun has set,” responded the man who had growled at Joe on the staircase.

“Since you know the password,” the strange voice continued, “only one question remains. Who are these two strangers?”

“Sacrifices!”

The word gave the boys cold chills.

“Are you sure of their identity?” the strange voice demanded.

“Yes. I followed them to their inn. The landlady gave me their names–Frank and Joe Hardy. She passed the information to Black Magic Hall. That is how we trapped them.”

“Well done. You may pass.”

The boys were pushed forward and hustled down one last flight of stone steps. They heard a key turn in a lock. A door screeched open and the two captives were hurled headlong into a room as cold and dank as a dungeon. A chatter of eerie voices greeted them. Then all was silent until a man spoke with a gloating cackle.

“He Goat, unmask them!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Torture Chamber

HE Goat’s fingers loosened the drawstrings and whipped off the velvet hoods. Frank and Joe got to their feet and blinked.

They were horrified by the scene before them. They found themselves in a large stone chamber with no windows. Rows of black candles flickered from sockets in the walls. Blazing logs on a big hearth sent tongues of flame flicking up the chimney.

Ten men and women stood in a semicircle facing the boys. All wore hideous witch masks. He Goat was unmistakable, since his mask was the head of a goat with a protruding snout and short, curved horns.

A wooden throne stood against one wall, and upon it sat a man representing Satan. His ghastly mask was crowned by a weird headdress of purple and white feathers. He held a wand in one hand and a sword in the other. At his elbow stood a crystal ball on a tripod.

The eyes of the evil creature glistened from the firelight as his gaze bored through the Hardys.

Now for the first time Frank and Joe noticed an open coffin lying at Satan’s feet. In it was a body, but the boys were unable to get a clear view of the cadaver.

Finally Satan intoned, “There are now thirteen present. That makes a coven, assuming that our two apprentice witches are genuine.”

Abruptly he leaned forward and waved his wand over the body of the coffin. His voice became hoarse as he croaked, “Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Abracadabra!”

The other witches took up the chant, which rose in a howling crescendo, making the Hardys’ blood run cold.

Then Satan leaned back on his throne and mumbled an incantation. He pointed the sword at the boys and shook his feather headdress ominously.

“Do you wish to survive this encounter?” he snarled.

“Yes, we do,” Frank answered.

“You must swear allegiance to me, Frank and Joe Hardy!”

Obviously this diabolical character knew them. But whose face was concealed behind that mask in the nightmarish charade?

The man spoke again. “You must swear allegiance to me!”

Joe clenched his fist and screwed up all his courage. “Nuts to you!” he replied.

“Second the motion!” Frank blurted out.

Satan shook with rage. “You cheeky impostors! You’re no apprentices! No!”

His seething voice became a low whine. “You had your chance to leave England. We gave you plenty of warnings. You refused to heed. Now you will remain with us forever! He Goat, prepare the rack! But first, the potion!”

Several men seized the boys, pinioning their arms and forcing their heads back. Two women came forward with gold flagons in their hands. The metal gleamed in the dim light.

Frank recognized the crest–a griffin carrying off a knight in armor and the legend: Avoir la Serre Bonne.

The flagon was from Professor Rowbotham’s Witch Museum! A split second later Frank felt something cold touch his lips. The witch tilted the flagon and a bitter liquid streamed into his mouth and down his throat. He choked on it.

Joe was also forced to swallow the fluid. They felt themselves growing faint.

“They’ve poisoned us!” Frank coughed.

Satan cackled. “It would be fortunate for you if we had. This potion will make you easier to handle, that is all. We want you to be awake for the climax.”

“The climax?” Joe gasped.

“The rack!”

Two medieval torture instruments occupied one corner of the room. They looked like wooden bed frames with slats held together by thick ropes. But the head and foot of each frame were movable and could be extended by a winch.

The Hardys were thrown on the racks. Their hands and feet were bound tightly in a spread-eagle position.

He Goat chuckled. “Now we are going to give you the treatment!” As he turned toward the winch, his mask slipped far enough to reveal his face.

Goodman, the Craighead butler!

“How did you get here?” Frank cried out.

He Goat adjusted his mask and chuckled again. “It doesn’t matter that you know who I am. You won’t tell anybody.”

Seizing the handle of the winch, he began to turn it. Frank felt his arms and legs drawn taut by the ropes. The stretching continued, causing sharp pains in his wrists and ankles.

Another witch turned the handle of the rack Joe had been tied to. The pain became agonizing, and when the boys cried out for help, the witches erupted into spasms of fiendish mirth.

They ceased at a signal from Satan. “That will do for now,” he commanded. “The torture will resume in a moment. Keep the racks in readiness.”

Descending from his wooden throne, Satan approached the Hardys. He drew a large, ornate key from under his robe and flaunted it in their faces.

“This is the key of death!” he cackled. “Look well at it!”

“What–is–it?” Joe gasped.

“The key to the door of your tomb!”

He was about to say something else when a small red light in the ceiling blinked on and off.

“Visitors!” Satan hissed. “To your work–all of you!” He handed the key to He Goat. “Keep this for me. I want to use it later.”

Frank and Joe were released from the ropes that held them and hauled to their feet. The witches draped the black hoods over their heads and pushed them to an exit. Again a car with motor idling awaited them.

In the fresh air the boys became alert. They ripped their hoods off and sailed into the witches, who were attempting to force them into the car.

“Let ’em have it!” Frank shouted as he gave He Goat a karate chop.

“But good!” Joe exploded, hitting another witch with a haymaker.

The whole coven seemed to be there, except Satan. Witch robes were shredded and witch masks torn off as the Hardys battled their captors.

The fight was still raging when footsteps were heard pounding inside the building. The witches ran. He Goat jumped into the car and sped off.

“Are you all right, Joe?” It was Shirley’s anxious voice.

“Yes–eh–fine. But you came just in time!” Gratefully the boys looked at their rescue squad–Chet and Phil, accompanied by Mr. Evans and his daughter.

Frank fought for breath as he gave Chet a weak slap on the back. “How’d you find us?”

Chet told him that he saw the Hardys taken out the back door of Black Magic Hall. “Phil and I had no way to follow you. So we went to Mr. Evans and asked him where the old castle was where the black witches met.”

“I happened to know it was here,” the lawyer told them.

“So, we drove over at once,” Shirley added.

“We heard an alarm bell ringing in the castle,” Phil said. “The witch sentinels must have spotted us. Anyway, we rushed the front door and ran through to the back.”

Frank and Joe quickly explained what had happened after the kidnapping. Then they led the way into the castle and attempted to find the room in which the witches had held them captive.

They went up and down stairs and along the corridors of the decrepit building. They pushed doors open and cased room after room. Each was empty!

“We were blindfolded,” Frank pointed out. “That’s why we can’t retrace the route.”

“We made more turns than a ball in a pinball machine,” Joe said.

They went back out to the spot where the fracas had occurred. Chet stubbed his toe on something lying in the grass. It was a large, ornate key!

“That’s the one Satan waved at us!” Frank said. “He gave it to He Goat!”

“You mean Goodman,” Joe observed. “He must have dropped it when you hit him with that karate chop.”

“Maybe it fits one of the doors in this place,” Phil said.

“Let’s try it,” Frank suggested, and the boys went back into the ancient castle, followed by the Evanses. But the key did not fit any of the doors.

“Perhaps it belongs to Craighead Castle,” Joe said. “After all, Goodman lives there!”

“You’re right!” Frank said excitedly. “We’ll have to try it!”

“That can wait,” Evans suggested. “We had better report to the police that strange things have been going on here. Come with me.”

He drove to the nearest town and parked in front of police headquarters. They all took turns explaining to the sergeant on desk duty.

“So you see,” Frank concluded, “the castle is being used by a coven of witches.”

The sergeant shook his head. “I doubt that we have the authority to do anything about it. Witch covens are not illegal.”

“But they were torturing these boys!” Mr. Evans protested.

The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “That’s different. We can’t have that sort of thing going on. I’ll round up some of my men and a police dog, and we’ll give the place a thorough search.”

Within minutes they were on their way back to the castle. The Evans car followed the police, and both vehicles drew to a stop in front of the building.

The sergeant took the police dog on a leash and held an abandoned witch mask under his nose. After sniffing, the animal padded around the castle and stopped at a grove of bushes. Behind the shrubbery was a sloping ramp.

“This is where we entered!” Frank exclaimed. “The dog’s a better detective than we are!”

The animal went down the ramp, tugging at his leash, and up a flight of stairs.

“This is where I tripped!” Joe said.

The dog began moving around corners, along corridors, and up and down more stairs until he reached one last flight of steps going down. Whining eagerly, he stopped at a flush panel.

The sergeant pushed it. Nothing happened. Then he tried to slide it open. It moved!

“This is it!” the Hardys cried in unison.

They all entered the quiet dungeon and looked about. The candles were still flickering and the air was pungent with smoke from the dying fire. Satan’s wood throne stood empty against the wall.

“There’s the coffin!” Joe said. Shirley covered her face with her hands while the others stepped forward. Inside the box was the mummified body of a man whose wizened features were contorted into a savage scowl.

“John Pickenbaugh!” Joe gasped. “The witchmaster of East Anglia!”

All were appalled by the spectacle of the mummy. Even the police could not repress a shudder. The dog sat down, raised his muzzle toward the ceiling, and howled mournfully.

Something suddenly moved in the shadows behind Satan’s throne. Shirley turned to look, then screamed out in terror!

CHAPTER XX

The Skeleton

IT was Satan himself! His repulsive mask looked more diabolical than ever in the flickering candlelight! The purple feathers of his headdress made him seem like a monstrous bird of prey!

Uttering an oath, he leaped from the shadows and flung himself on Joe. “I helped you!” Satan screamed. “And you ruined everything!”

The police overpowered him while he struggled, kicked, and shrieked. Frank ripped off the satanic mask and stood dumbfounded.

“Doctor Burelli!”

“My dentist!” Joe exclaimed. “So you’re the new witchmaster of East Anglia!”

The Evanses looked on open-mouthed as the drama unfolded.

“That workshop in your basement gave you a great cover,” Frank said. “We never guessed you were making masks for your witches as well as for your Gravesend Players!”

Joe’s mind was working at top speed. “You’re the one with the shock of gray hair and the bushy beard, Burelli. You carried the sword at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral.”

“And you had Pickenbaugh’s body dug up afterwards and brought it here!” Frank went on. “But why?”

“It is a satanic relic!” Burelli screeched at them. “Do not touch it, ever!”

“Who’d want to?” Frank said. “And when we got interested in your satanic relic, you had us pushed into the open grave. And you had Ellerbee harrass us.”

Burelli’s smile was evil.

“He was probably He Goat’s accomplice at Stonehenge,” Joe said. “The ‘friendly old man’ who gave Professor Rowbotham the fake message and planted the cablegram.”

“Now I get it!” Frank said. “Remember, Goodman has a cousin in New York? No doubt he sent it!”

“And it’s obvious who robbed the museum in Griffinmoor,” Joe deduced. “The purple feather fell out of the good doc’s fancy Easter bonnet!”

Chet nodded. “He probably wore it to frighten anyone who might surprise him. And it sure would have worked!”

“Robbery, eh?” one of the policemen took up the thread. “But why would a black witch rob a witch museum, of all places?”

By now Burelli realized he had lost. “We needed money for our coven,” he said dejectedly. “And being black witches, it was easy for us to sell the artifacts as family heirlooms.”

“Was Sears in on it?” Joe asked.

“No. He’s innocent.”

“And Milton Craighead?”

“He is too.”

Frank nodded. “And when we tried to find a clue in the empty museum, someone familiar with the place turned off the master fuse. Was it you?”

“Yes. I wanted to scare you out of the building. All your snooping could come to no good.”

“When we found the imprint in the cement and went to Lance McKnight for a cast,” Joe said. “He sent us off to Hopkins and London into the hands of enemies. Black witches too, no doubt.”

“McKnight? Hopkins?” Burelli looked surprised. “They’re not witches. I had nothing to do with them.”

“What about the key you waved at us before?” Frank pressed on.

Burelli’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll never find it!” he said craftily.

Frank drew it out of his pocket. “Here it is. Goodman dropped it!”

The dentist erupted into another paroxysm of fury. “No!” he bellowed. “You can’t have it! The key is mine! Do you hear? Mine!”

Since he refused to calm down, the police dragged him out of the castle and put him into the back seat of their car. It took two bobbies to hold him.

“We’ll arrest him,” the sergeant said. “And round up the rest of the black witches.”

“By the way, the special exhibit at Black Magic Hall was stolen from Griffinmoor,” Frank said, and he explained their mission to England.

“We’ll see that everything is returned,” the policeman promised, then got into the front seat. The dog leaped in beside him, and the car drove off.

The Hardys and their friends returned to Douglas. When they had said good-by to the Evanses and were back in their room at the inn, Frank said, “We’ll go back to Griffinmoor as soon as possible and see if that key belongs to Craighead. Want to come?” he asked Phil and Chet.

“I’d rather stay for the motorcycle races,” Phil said.

“And I want to corral me a pair of Manx cats,” Chet added, “and go into business. They should be a hit in Bayport.”

Next morning Frank and Joe flew to London and then went to Griffinmoor. They told Professor Rowbotham that they had found stolen items of his collection on Man and that they would be returned to him.

“With the pieces from London and those Sam Radley found in New York,” Frank said, “you’ll have most of your collection back now.”

“Ah–ah, that’s splendid,” Rowbotham stated. “The Witch Museum can reopen. The case is solved, thanks to you.”

“Not yet, professor,” Joe told him. “The key we brought back from the Isle of Man has to be checked out.”

“There is something you–ah–ought to know before proceeding,” Rowbotham declared. “It is said that Eagleton Green will be sold to the London Syndicate. They will have a mass meeting this afternoon.”

“Good. How would you like to be the star speaker?” Frank said. Rapidly he laid out their suspicions about the criminal pressure being put on the artisan colony to sell out.

“You can throw the wrench–er–spanner in the works,” Joe said.

“I say,” the professor replied, “that would be–ah–proper retribution. I’ll do it!”

Frank and Joe, meanwhile, drove to Craighead Castle, accompanied by a constable with a search warrant. Joe brought a flashlight.

When Mrs. Goodman saw the Hardys, her eyes opened wide in disbelief. “You–you—”

“Yes. We returned in one piece,” Frank said. “Where’s your master?”

“And we don’t mean witchmaster,” Joe added.

The woman said Milton Craighead was in London. When she turned to hurry off the officer restrained her.

“I need you as a witness,” he said. “I have a warrant to search this castle.”

“Why?”

“To see if this key fits,” Frank said, displaying the ancient relic.

Mrs. Goodman’s hands began to tremble. She took a deep breath. “Where would you like to start?”

“In the turret,” Joe said. “More specifically, in the armor room.”

Shakily, the housekeeper led the way up the stone stairway and stopped before the storage room. The policeman opened the door, and Joe shone his light inside. Then all three searched amid the relics of medieval warfare.

Finally the constable said, “I say, what are we looking for?”

“A hidden door,” Joe said. “Leading to a hidden room.” He told of the outside window, located roughly in this area.

“Oh yes. I see. But there is no door in here.”

“Hold it,” Frank said. He stopped behind a suit of jet black armor. “Here’s something.” With both hands he pushed against a panel in the wall. It slid silently to one side, revealing an oak door about five feet high!

Frank pushed Burelli’s key into the lock and exerted all his strength to turn it. Grating harshly, the lock snapped open.

The constable put his shoulder against the oak and pushed. The door swung back on creaking hinges. The trio ducked and entered a small chamber while the woman stood in the doorway.

It was musty with dust and cobwebs. Light came from the window Joe had noticed. It fell upon a treasure trove of witchery.

Charts bearing weird signs hung on the walls. Jars of herbs occupied the shelves. Cauldrons, wands, daggers, stuffed animals, and dolls pierced by pins were scattered around the room.

A ray of sunlight slanting through the window fell upon a bundle of old tweeds lying on the floor.

“Holy cow. Look!” Frank exclaimed.

From above the coat collar protruded a grinning skull! Bony hands extended from the cuffs!

The constable bent down on one knee to examine the label inside the jacket. On it was the name of a London tailor and the words, “Made exclusively for Lord Craighead.”

“Good grief! We’ve found him!” Joe exclaimed.

Further scrutiny revealed that a vial was lying next to one hand, a piece of paper near the other.

Frank read it. “Looks like the formula for a potion,” he said.

Suddenly the trio noticed that Mrs. Goodman had vanished. “I’ll get her,” the constable said. He hurried off, and in a few moments returned with the weeping housekeeper and Professor Rowbotham.

“I say, astounding news,” the professor said breathlessly. “Lord–ah–Craighead. Really.”

“Looks like it,” Frank said and added, “I thought you went to the meeting.”

“Most certainly. It’s–ah–all over.” He paused, looking down at the skeleton. “Poor fellow.”

“How about this?” Frank said and handed him the paper.

“This is the formula for an ancient rejuvenation potion. It’s in Lord Craighead’s handwriting.”

Frank shivered. “Then this must really be his skeleton! It’s been locked in this room for five years!”

“Maybe he came in here to drink the potion and become young again,” Joe theorized. “Perhaps it poisoned him.”

The professor shook his head. “Only if someone exchanged the liquid in the bottle for another. The potion is harmless.”

Rowbotham leafed through the papers on a small desk. “Here is more information,” he said. “It certifies that Lord Craighead was the witchmaster of East Anglia! Dear me! And his assistant was John Pickenbaugh! They practiced the arts of witchcraft in this secret room!”

All the while Mrs. Goodman was watching with piercing eyes. Suddenly Joe realized where he had seen those eyes before.

“Mrs. Goodman,” he accused her, “you’re the palmist from the London witch collection. You were disguised when you stuck the needle into Frank’s hand. The game is up. By now your husband has been arrested on the Isle of Man. He Goat is out of circulation along with the witchmaster, Dr. Burelli!”

Joe’s words struck the housekeeper like a thunderclap. She became hysterical, and finally confessed.

Pickenbaugh, she said, resented playing second fiddle to Craighead and poisoned him so he could be witchmaster. When he died, Burelli was next in line.

“And the doc didn’t like us trying to find out what was going on here,” Frank said.

“Yes, yes.” the woman sobbed. Both she and her husband, at Burelli’s order, had lain in wait in London. “He was disguised, too,” she said. “We followed you to the underground.”

“You also poured the oil on the castle steps, no doubt,” Joe said. “And did you have Mary Ellerbee accuse us of malicious mischief?”

The woman hung her head.

“You’ll have to come with me,” the policeman said as he led Mrs. Goodman downstairs. First, he phoned the coroner, then the police station, with his report.

The boys and the professor, meanwhile returned to his home. Frank felt the usual letdown that came over him whenever they solved a case. Would there be a new adventure? He would have cheered up if he had known that soon they would be traveling to Zurich and Mexico in The Jungle Pyramid.

When they arrived at the professor’s house, Sears served tea. He was shocked to hear that his sister was a witch.

“Her husband must have talked her into it,” he said weakly. “Oh, it’s terrible, just terrible!”

“Now tell us about the meeting,” Joe said to Rowbotham. “What happened?”

“Everything is fine now. Ah–we caught the scoundrels!”

“For goodness sake, professor, give us the details. Who were the scoundrels?”

“The ones you suspected.”

In what was virtually another interrogation, the Hardys pulled the story out of the professor. When he confronted Hopkins with the truth about his shady operation, the Londoner denied it all. But Nip Hadley came forward to confess his part in the arson plots.

“Said he did it under ah–duress,” the professor said. “The law will go lightly with him.”

“Then what?” Frank prodded.

Their host said that Hopkins and McKnight tried to sneak off. “They were about to drive away in McKnight’s red MG when the infuriated artisans surrounded them.”

“The red MG!” Joe exclaimed.

“Yes. Ah–I remember. It had the Motor Club emblem, as you once mentioned. There is now a charge against McKnight! By the way, he also admitted releasing his savage dog to frighten you after your visit to his shop.”

“So Eagleton Green is saved,” Frank said, grinning. “But, professor, there’s still one thing that bothers us. What became of the poison?”

“What poison?”

“The stuff that was stolen from your museum. The jars of hemlock, aconite, and I don’t know what all. We’ve got to find it before somebody else gets killed!”

Rowbotham held up a hand. “Ah–ah, there is no need to get excited.”

“Why not?” Joe demanded.

“Because there is no poison. The jars were empty!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - Gold Heist

CHAPTER II - The Subterranean Vault

CHAPTER III - “Deep Six F.H.”

CHAPTER IV - Stop Thief!

CHAPTER V - The Bulging Briefcase

CHAPTER VI - Over the Cliff!

CHAPTER VII - The Confrontation

CHAPTER VIII - A Warning

CHAPTER IX - Chet’s Mistake

CHAPTER X - The Boa Constrictor

CHAPTER XI - A Mysterious Shot

CHAPTER XII - The Jungle Pyramid

CHAPTER XIII - A Strange Figure

CHAPTER XIV - The Aztec War God

CHAPTER XV - Lethal Reptiles

CHAPTER XVI - Unexpected Revelation

CHAPTER XVII - Hypnotized!

CHAPTER XVIII - The Big Discovery

CHAPTER XIX - Captured!

CHAPTER XX - In the Nick of Time

THE JUNGLE PYRAMID

GOLD bullion—a million dollars worth-has been stolen from the Wakefield Mint under strange circumstances. Mr. Hardy is asked to investigate but before long his life is threatened, and he asks Frank and Joe to help him.

The boys fly to Zurich, Switzerland, hoping to get information at the Swiss Gold Syndicate and to find the man who has stolen a valuable ancient gold figurine from a New York museum. Their search on both counts seems futile. They return to the United States, where they uncover new clues that take them to Mexico and a breathtaking adventure at an archaeological dig in the Yucatán jungle.

But the Hardys travels lead to nothing but new doubts and nagging suspicions. And now their lives are in danger. Their adversaries are cunning, elusive, and determined to eliminate Mr. Hardy, and the boys too!

Events culminate in a surprising revelation when their enemies are finally outsmarted by the Hardys.

“Help-me!” Joe yelled.

Copyright © 1977 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07665-1

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

Gold Heist

FRANK Hardy turned the controls of a stereo set. “I’ll see if I can find some country music, Joe,” he said to his brother. “Waiting for Dad to phone about a new mystery gives me the jitters.”

“Same here,” said Joe. “I wonder why he didn’t tell us anything about the case he’s on.”

“It must be top secret.”

The Hardy boys were sons of Fenton Hardy, a private detective who worked out of Bayport since retiring from the New York Police Department. Dark-haired Frank was eighteen. Joe was blond and a year younger. Their father had taught them most of what he knew about crime detection, and they sometimes helped him with his investigations but often took cases of their own.

A Kentucky hoedown came over the stereo, and a nasal voice sang the “Blue Grass Blues.”

Joe was lying on the floor, his hands cupped behind his head. “It’s just as well that Mother and Aunt Gertrude are out shopping.” He chuckled. “This isn’t their beat.”

The country-western rhythm rose to a crescendo, then died away. Suddenly footsteps pounded on the front porch of the Hardy home. The door burst open and a plump, freckle-faced youth rushed into the room, clutching a rolled-up paper in one hand. He was Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best friend.

“I got it!” he cried. “I got it!”

“Got what, Chet?” Joe demanded.

“My correspondence-course diploma!”

Joe turned off the stereo. “A real one? Well, congratulations.”

“What’s this diploma for?” Frank asked.

“Collecting more bottle tops than anyone else?” Joe needled their visitor, who always became involved with one hobby after another.

Chet looked pained. “That’s kid stuff. I thought you guys were detectives.”

“Give us a clue,” Joe suggested.

Chet did not reply. Instead he unrolled the paper and held it up for them to see. The words STATE CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL were blazoned across the top. The diploma certified that Chester Morton was considered adept in gold artifacts, and it was signed by the president of the school.

Chet grinned. “Adept means I’m pretty good with the gold. Go ahead. Ask me questions. Want to know about Aztec masks or—”

The phone shrilled before he could finish his sentence. Frank seized the instrument and canted it away from his ear so the other two could hear. Fenton Hardy was calling.

“Frank, Joe,” he said hurriedly, “are you both there?”

“Yes, Dad,” Frank answered. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Wakefield. That’s a hundred miles from Bayport on the way to New York City. A consignment of gold has been stolen from the mint here. The case is too big for one detective, and I need your help. Come to the Archway Motel. Tell Mother and Aunt Gertrude where you’ll be, but don’t say there’s any danger involved. Make it fast! Ah-ah-aaa—”

Mr. Hardy groaned and ended his sentence in a gasp. Then the boys heard a scuffling noise.

“Dad!” Frank shouted. “Dad, what’s going on?” Something hit the floor with a heavy thump, and there was a dragging sound. A door slammed in the background. Then silence. The three boys stared at one another in dismay.

“What—?” Chet began.

“Sh—sh!” Frank said and motioned to the phone.

Footsteps could be heard approaching. Someone breathing heavily picked up the receiver.

“Hello!” Frank said. “Hello?”

The phone clicked, and the line went dead.

“That wasn’t Dad who hung up!” Frank exclaimed. “Something’s wrong!”

“That’s for sure,” Joe said grimly.

“Try the motel desk,” Chet suggested.

Frank dialed the Archway Motel and asked for Fenton Hardy’s room. A moment later the clerk reported that there was no answer. Frank asked to speak to the manager. He introduced himself, then explained to the man that he had heard strange noises coming from his father’s room.

“It sounded as if he were being attacked,” Frank concluded.

“Attacked!” the manager exploded. “I’ll check immediately and will call you back.”

Frank hung up. “What do you make of it?” he asked his brother.

“Somebody must have sneaked up on Dad while he was talking on the phone,” Joe said. “Someone he hadn’t counted on.”

“Probably more than one person,” Chet added. “He could have taken care of himself otherwise.”

“Not if he were hit by surprise,” Joe argued.

The phone shrilled again. Frank picked it up.

“Mr. Hardy’s room is empty,” the motel manager said. “I’ve also had him paged, but he doesn’t answer.”

“Anything wrong in the room?” Frank asked.

“No—except that the bedspread was half pulled off and some clothes were lying on the floor. When I see your father, I’ll tell him you called. I’ll also notify the police just in case your suspicions are correct.” The manager hung up, and so did Frank.

“Dad must have been dragged from the room,” the young detective theorized. “That could account for the bedspread. We’d better do something fast!”

“We’ll have to go to Wakefield right away!” Joe said.

“How about my going along?” Chet put in. “I know all about gold. Maybe I can identify the loot.” Then he added, “As long as it’s not too dangerous to handle.”

The Hardys were used to Chet’s shying away from danger, but they knew they could rely on him when the sleuthing became rough. He had been helpful in many of their investigations.

“Okay, Chet,” Joe said. “Call home and we’ll be off.”

“Leave your jalopy in our garage,” Frank suggested. “Better get some clean clothes out of it.”

Chet and the Hardys always carried extra clothes in their cars in case of an emergency.

Frank quickly scribbled a note telling his mother and Aunt Gertrude that they were on the way to Wakefield to join Mr. Hardy. He added that there was nothing to worry about. “Not much!” he thought to himself. “Just whether Dad’s dead or alive!”

Joe backed the car out of the garage and soon the three boys were rolling down Main Street. Joe fretted at the wheel because traffic was heavy, but finally they got out of the city. He stepped on the gas and they roared toward Wakefield.

Mile after mile zipped away beneath their wheels. They passed farmhouses and pastures. At one spot chickens, out of their coops, fled squawking as the car rocketed by them.

Chet remarked, “If you should run over any of our feathered friends, stop so I can pick some up. Chicken soup is a great dish. I haven’t had anything since breakfast but a couple of hamburgers and a bottle of soda.”

Food always interested Chet, even in the middle of an investigation. The Hardys usually laughed at his remarks, but this time they said nothing.

“Okay,” Chet said, “I get the message. I was just testing. Trying to cheer you up.”

“I could use some cheering,” Frank admitted. “Do you think Dad’s been kidnapped, Joe?”

“I’m afraid so,” his brother replied glumly. “Probably by the crooks who were responsible for the gold heist.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Chet advised. “Anyway, your father has always managed to get out of tight spots because he’s the smartest detective we know. Right?”

“Right,” said Frank and Joe in unison.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Chet said.

“Like what?” Joe inquired.

“Like gold!” Chet answered. “Do you know the melting point of gold?”

Joe grinned. “Over a thousand degrees centigrade.”

Chet looked crestfallen. “Oh, so you know that. Well, what can you dissolve gold with?”

“A mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acid.”

“You Hardys know everything,” Chet complained.

Frank decided to soothe their friend’s feelings. “Not as much as you do, Chet. It’s just that we ran some lab tests on gold for one of our clients.”

The Hardys had a criminology laboratory over their garage, where they did scientific analyses for their clients. They matched fingerprints under the microscope and carried out chemical tests of poisons, explosives, and other materials from the scene of a crime.

While the boys were talking, they approached a hill with a stone wall on the right. Joe drove up as fast as he could within the speed limit. Suddenly a large station wagon hurtled over the crest of the hill. The driver, a burly man, was hunched over the wheel. He was on the wrong side of the road and raced directly at their car!

“Watch it, Joe!” Frank shouted.

Because of the wall, Joe could not move any farther to the right. With split-second timing, he swerved to the left. The station wagon swept past on the right. The Hardys’ car skidded out of control for a moment, but Joe pulled it back into the correct lane and went on.

“Lucky you kept your cool,” Frank complimented his brother. “There wasn’t enough room for a dime between that station wagon and us.”

“You can say that again,” Chet remarked. “That knucklehead shouldn’t be allowed to drive a kiddie car.”

The three settled back for the rest of their trip to Wakefield, and Chet continued his lecture on gold. He described how prehistoric people used the yellow metal for jewelry, such as rings and bracelets, and later for money. He added that currently most of the gold was obtained from the deep mines in South Africa.

“The Russians,” Chet revealed, “mine gold in Siberia and sell it on the international market. Headquarters for the gold exchange is Zurich, Switzerland.”

“Perhaps the stolen Wakefield gold came originally from Siberia,” Joe reasoned. “But who knows whether or not we’ll ever see it.”

“Talking about gold,” Chet informed them, “there’s an exhibition at the Early Art Museum in New York. Old Scythian artifacts. I hear it’s fabulous.”

“Sounds interesting,” Joe said. “Maybe we can go there after we find Dad.”

He turned left to get off the highway at the Wakefield exit, and ten minutes later drew into the Archway Motel parking lot. The boys went inside, where a teen-age youth stood at the registration desk.

“Any message from Fenton Hardy?” Joe asked him.

“Watch it, Joe!” Frank shouted.

“No. But I have one for Frank and Joe Hardy. Is that you?”

“Yes,” Frank replied.

“Somebody called,” the clerk stated. “Didn’t give his name. Just said for Frank and Joe Hardy to come to the Stacy Hotel.”

“How do we get there?” Frank asked.

“Go left to the end of the road, make a right, then another right at the second traffic light. It’s a flea-bitten rattrap in a rough neighborhood. Watch your step.”

“Will do,” Frank said. “And thanks for the tip.”

The drive to the Stacy took the boys into an area of run-down houses and dismal streets. Local toughs sauntered by, glowering at them.

“I hope we don’t run into street gangs,” Chet remarked. “A guy could be mugged in this end of town without half trying.”

Joe parked in front of the Stacy. The boys climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the grimy exterior of the hotel. A bewhiskered tramp strolled up the street toward them. He was dressed in old clothes, battered shoes, and a slouch hat. They stepped aside to let him pass.

Abreast of them, the tramp suddenly turned and deliberately bumped into Joe. “Follow me,” he snarled, “if you know what’s good for you!”

CHAPTER II

The Subterranean Vault

Reacting instinctively, Frank and Joe grabbed the tramp’s arms to keep him from pulling a knife or a gun. Chet waved a fist under the man’s nose.

“Fellows, hold it!” said a familiar voice. “I’ll go quietly.”

The tramp was Fenton Hardy! As the boys showed their surprise, he whispered, “Don’t give me away. Play my game.”

“Okay,” Frank replied. “But we’re glad to see you.” Aloud he said, “All right, Harry, we’ll buy your dinner.”

He led the way into the hotel, where they sat down at a table in a secluded corner of the dining room. The other customers looked seedy, and the waitress chewed gum loudly as she took their order. When the food arrived, Chet seized his knife and fork and began to eat with gusto.

“I was in my room,” Mr. Hardy said in a low tone, “when a couple of men came in—”

He broke off as he noticed that the waitress was still standing near their table, flipping through her order pad. Then he said loudly, “A couple of men came in and asked me if I wanted to buy an encyclopedia.”

The waitress went to another table to present the check. Mr. Hardy resumed his story. “They jumped me while I was talking to you on the phone, and slipped a cloth saturated with chloroform over my face.”

Frank nodded. “We heard a thud and figured somebody was dragging you out of the room.”

“Right. When I came to, I was in an old abandoned garage. I—” Mr. Hardy suddenly changed the subject and talked about finding a job at the Wakefield lumber company, since the waitress again stood within earshot. After she had left, he continued, “That girl seems rather nosey. Well, anyway, I picked the lock, got out, went to my car, and put on this disguise. Then I called the Archway Motel from a pay phone and left the message about meeting me at the Stacy.”

“What’s it all about?” Frank asked.

“The Wakefield Mint has been robbed of a big consignment of gold bars. The haul is worth over a million dollars!”

Joe whistled. “That’s a big deal!”

Mr. Hardy agreed. “I’ve been hired by John Armstrong, the administrative assistant to the director of the mint. He asked me to keep this secret. That’s why I couldn’t tell you what the investigation was about. Then I received a threatening phone call warning me to get off the case. At that point, I decided I’d better send you an SOS.”

“Good thing you did,” Frank said.

Mr. Hardy went on, “Incidentally, Chet, I’m glad you came along. That fist you waved under my nose seems like a mighty lethal weapon.”

Chet tried to grin, but was not very successful since his mouth was full of baked potato.

“Got any leads, Dad?” Joe asked.

Fenton Hardy shook his head. “Not really. I assume the pair who chloroformed me belong to the gang that stole the gold. Beyond that, nothing.”

Frank and Joe ruminated over their father’s experience as they finished the meal. Chet downed his last mouthful of apple pie. As the waitress was adding up the tab, Frank handed his father a ten dollar bill.

“There, Harry, that should help you out for a while,” he said.

“Thanks, my boy,” Mr. Hardy replied, speaking in the whine of a tramp down on his luck.

Leaving the hotel, he whispered to Frank, “Stay at the Shadyside Motel down the street tonight. Meet me at my car at nine in the morning. It’s parked in a private garage at ten Pine Street. The people who own it are away, so I’m using it as my dressing room. I can change my disguises there without being seen.”

The elder Hardy slouched away into the darkness, and the boys drove to the Shadyside Motel, where they spent the night. In the morning they met Mr. Hardy as arranged. The detective no longer looked like a tramp. He had stashed the old clothes and the fake whiskers in the trunk of his car and resumed his usual appearance.

“Mr. Hardy, you sure fooled me last night,” Chet said.

“That was the idea,” the sleuth told him. “If my disguises didn’t fool everybody, I’d be in big trouble. Boys, suppose we take your car.”

Frank got behind the wheel. “Where to?”

“The Wakefield Mint.”

The mint was a square three-story building. Faced with white stone, it had rows of narrow windows along the second story. The ground floor was sheathed in stone and steeL

The foyer inside contained a collection of coins and medals produced by the mint. A crowd milled around the main exhibit, a medal representing John Smith at Jamestown.

Fenton Hardy showed his pass to a guard, who escorted him and the boys down a corridor, through a door lined with steel bars, to the office of the administrative assistant.

John Armstrong was a friendly looking man who wore horn-rimmed glasses. He got up from the swivel chair behind his big desk and shook hands with Mr. Hardy, then with each boy, as he was introduced.

“They’ve helped me on previous cases,” the investigator explained, “and I’ll need them to assist me on this one.” He described the kidnap attempt.

Armstrong expressed concern, then said he had no objections to the boys’ participating. “Perhaps, then, you can solve our problem quicker,” he remarked. “I want this case cracked before Director Wadsworth gets back from his vacation. I’m responsible for the mint while he’s away, you know.”

“Mr. Armstrong, suppose you clue us in,” Frank suggested.

Armstrong looked grave. “First, let me remind you that there must be no leaks about the theft. We don’t want any publicity in the news media.”

“Mum’s the word,” Chet vowed.

Joe inquired about security precautions.

“The best,” Armstrong stated. “See this panel on my desk? It monitors the entire mint. We have hidden television cameras watching every square inch of the building. Our security equipment includes trip wires, photoelectric plates, and laser beams. If anybody gets in their way, sirens go off and warning lights flash on the panel.”

“It sounds as if you’re better protected than Fort Knox,” Joe said. “How come the gold was stolen anyway?”

“That’s just it,” Armstrong said, looking bewildered. “The equipment must have been turned off. It was back on the next morning, however.”

“What about the guards?” Frank asked.

“That’s stranger yet,” Armstrong went on. “One was posted at the outer door, one at the inner steel door, and one here in my office, monitoring the mint through the TV cameras. They were supposed to alert the rest of the night shift if anything happened, but they didn’t.”

“In other words, they went off with the thieves,” Chet said.

“No. They’re here!”

“You mean they helped the thieves get in, then let them escape with the loot, and stayed behind?” Joe was incredulous.

“Yes. That’s what’s so strange,” Armstrong replied. “They claim nothing unusual happened at any time that night. The police questioned them after they were arrested but they’re sticking to their story.”

Frank shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Where was the gold taken from?”

“The subterranean vault,” Armstrong said. “Come on. I’ll take you down there.”

He ushered the group to his private elevator and pushed the button. The elevator descended three floors. The doors opened and Armstrong led the way to a steel door, where a guard was on duty. He spun the dial until the combination clicked and pushed the door inward.

The boys gaped. Gold bars about a foot long were stacked in rows on racks that stretched across most of the room. A yellow gleam shimmered under fluorescent lighting. A couple of men in shirtsleeves were counting the bars and entering figures in a ledger.

Chet’s eyes bulged. “There’s got to be a million dollars in here,” he practically shouted.

“More than that, young man,” Armstrong said. “We’re missing twenty-five bars. Each weighs over twenty-seven pounds, and with gold selling on the international market at a very high rate presently, that consignment comes to more than a million.”

He gestured toward an empty rack near the door. “That’s where the stolen bars were when we closed the vault for the night. The thieves must have carted the gold out of here and around to the outer door at the rear of the building. That’s where they made their getaway.”

Frank was peering at the nearest row of gold bars. “Why, they’re stamped with the hammer and sickle,” he noted.

“Same as the missing gold,” Armstrong replied. “The Russians traded it through middlemen in Zurich, who sold it to us.”

He conducted them out of the gold room and through the subterranean vault to a freight elevator. They emerged at the rear door of the mint. A guard let them through into a receiving area, where some armored cars were parked.

“I’m late for a meeting,” Armstrong said and excused himself. “Please look around all you want and we’ll talk later.” He went back to his office.

Frank quickly surveyed the lot. “Nothing to stop the crooks once they got the gold this far,” he concluded.

“Right,” Joe agreed. “But how did they get this far? We’ll have to talk to the guards.”

“You go ahead,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll carry on my investigation here at the mint and talk to the employees.”

“And I’m going to have breakfast,” Chet stated.

Frank chuckled. “Your second breakfast, Chet.”

“Got to keep my strength up if I’m going to solve this case,” the stout boy replied airily.

Frank and Joe dropped Chet at a diner and drove to police headquarters. They identified themselves to the sergeant at the desk.

“You’re Fenton Hardy’s sons?” the officer asked. “That’s good enough for me. Around here, we admire your father’s work. Come on! I’ll let you speak to the prisoners from the mint. Funny thing about them.”

“Funny?” Joe prodded.

“They’ve got to be guilty,” the sergeant said, “but they’ve taken a polygraph, or lie-detector, test. It says they’re telling the truth!”

The three men looked sullen. They were Herb Ponty, Fred Walters, and Mike Nicholson. Ponty did most of the talking.

He admitted they had been on duty the night the gold had vanished. He himself had been stationed in Armstrong’s office at the monitor. “Walters was posted at the outer door to the receiving area. Nicholson guarded the steel door to the gold room.”

The Hardys cross-examined the men. Had they left their posts during the night? Had they gone to sleep?

“No, not us,” Ponty replied defensively. “It’s our job to stay awake. Anyway, it wouldn’t have made any difference. A thief trying to get in would have kicked off the alarm system.”

“You could have turned off the alarm,” Joe asserted. “The control button is on the panel in Mr. Armstrong’s office.”

“If I had,” Ponty argued belligerently, “would I have hung around to be arrested? I’d have left with the thieves.”

“Yes,” Frank said, “but the gold is gone. Have you three any idea how the crooks pulled off the heist?”

“No, we don’t remember seeing anything unusual all night,” Ponty declared. “When Mr. Armstrong opened the vault the next morning, the gold wasn’t there and we were arrested.”

Frank and Joe realized they could not get any more information from the prisoners and headed back to the Wakefield Mint.

“This is the most mysterious case we’ve ever been on,” Joe commented.

“It sure is,” Frank agreed. “A consignment of gold vanishes. The guards say they don’t know a thing about it. And a polygraph confirms it.”

The boys picked up Chet at the diner as he was drinking his third malted. Then they rode back to the mint, where they told Fenton Hardy and John Armstrong about their talk with the accused men.

“How many people know the combination of the vault door?” Frank asked Armstrong.

“As I told your father, only Director Wadsworth and I. You see—”

A screaming siren cut him off. Red and blue lights flashed on the monitor panel. A moving blur appeared on one TV screen.

Armstrong gasped. “There’s a thief in the vault!” he cried.

CHAPTER III

“Deep Six F.H.”

JOHN Armstrong rushed into his private elevator. Fenton Hardy and the boys crowded in on his heels. The elevator descended three floors and the doors opened.

The noise of the siren was nearly deafening in the subterranean vault. A guard stood at the door of the gold room, which was wide open. He turned toward Armstrong.

“Unauthorized person inside, sir,” he announced. “The door was open and he got in.”

“I left it open, Porter,” Armstrong confessed. “I thought Millard and Lajinski had nearly finished counting the gold and would close it when they came out. My mistake.”

“They hadn’t finished when the siren went off,” Porter replied.

He led the way inside. The two men in shirtsleeves were still there, talking to a third, who looked embarrassed.

“I didn’t know a laser beam crossed the gold room,” he protested. “I got in the way by accident when I came in to see why the door was open.”

Frank stared at him. “If you’re an employee of the mint, why don’t you know about the alarm system in the vault?”

“I’m new here,” the man replied sulkily.

Porter nodded. “That’s true. We took him on three days ago. He hasn’t had time to learn the ropes, but he’ll catch on.”

Armstrong ordered that the siren be turned off and sent the man to his post; then he escorted his visitors to his office. He sat down in his swivel chair and mopped his brow with a large handkerchief from his breast pocket. Mr. Hardy took a stuffed leather easy chair. The boys occupied a couch.

“Mr. Armstrong,” Frank began the conversation, “you were saying that only you and Mr. Wadsworth, the director, know the combination to the steel door of the gold room. Do you think somebody else could have learned it?”

“I suppose someone could in spite of all our precautions,” Armstrong admitted. He added, “The gold was shipped from the Swiss Gold Syndicate in Zurich. The bars might be smuggled back there for resale by a shady international financier. I’d better send an agent to Zurich to investigate.”

Fenton Hardy smiled. “Two agents,” he suggested. “I dare say Frank and Joe will volunteer. They’re on their spring vacation.”

“Will you, boys?” Armstrong asked eagerly.

The Hardys quickly agreed. Chet looked crestfallen, but said nothing. Armstrong turned to him. “You’re included if you want to be.”

“Oh, great!” Chet said, and smiled again.

“The place to begin is the Swiss Gold Syndicate,” Armstrong pointed out. “They handle transactions on the world-wide gold market, and know about this theft. I’m sure they’ll be glad to cooperate. I’ll set up an interview for you.”

He made a long distance call to Zurich. While he spoke, the expression on his face changed from a frown to utter surprise. When he hung up, he said, “I think we have our first clue!”

“What happened?” Fenton Hardy asked.

“I didn’t speak to Johann Jung, the director of the syndicate. He’s in South Africa, inspecting gold mines, and won’t be back till next Monday. But his assistant just told me that he received a phone call from a man who said that he should watch out for the Wakefield gold. It is expected to be sold in Zurich illegally in about two weeks.”

“Wow!” Frank said. “Who was the caller?”

“He didn’t identify himself. But I hope you can find out. You’re supposed to be in Jung’s office Monday at two in the afternoon.”

Fenton Hardy arose. “That gives us some time for sleuthing here before you leave,” he said. “I have a notion the crooks have already flown the gold out of the Wakefield area or are about to. Transporting it by truck on the highway would be too risky. I’ll alert the airlines. You boys check the charter carriers. Also scout around and see if you can find a private airstrip where a plane could take off with a cargo of gold bullion. I’ll meet you at the garage later.”

The three boys went out and got into the Hardys’ car. Frank turned on the ignition and headed toward the center of town. Suddenly he circled around the block and stopped at a phone on the corner.

“Frank, what’s up?” Chet asked.

“I think we should check out Mr. Armstrong’s story.”

Chet’s eyes widened in astonishment. “He isn’t a suspect!”

Joe spoke up. “Frank’s right, Chet. Everybody’s a suspect in this case.”

Frank found Armstrong’s address in the phone book and the address of Wakefield’s only charter airline. They drove first to the man’s house. A motherly woman answered the door.

“Mr. Armstrong is not at home,” she told them. “I’m Mrs. Wright, his housekeeper. Mr. Armstrong is a bachelor.”

Frank mentioned the night of the gold theft. “Was Mr. Armstrong at home that night?”

“Oh yes. He returned from the mint in time for dinner, as usual. And he didn’t leave the house till the following morning.”

Frank thanked the housekeeper and the boys resumed their drive to the center of Wakefield.

“That clears Mr. Armstrong,” Frank commented. “He was in bed when the gold vanished from the mint.” In a few minutes Frank parked in front of the Carrier Consolidated office on Main Street. The boys went inside. They looked around in surprise. The office was a dusty cubbyhole. A pile of burlap bags lay in one corner, and a half-filled coke bottle stood on the counter. An old plaque on the wall proclaimed that Carrier Consolidated would ferry any cargo anywhere.

“This place could use a cleanup,” Frank muttered. “If only Aunt Gertrude were here! She’d give the guy in charge a piece of her mind.”

“I’ll see if he’s in the back room,” Joe said. He went around behind the counter. Suddenly a hand pointed a round metal barrel at him through the doorway!

“Watch out!” Chet whispered hoarsely. “He’s got a gun.”

Before Joe could move, a heavyset individual came through the doorway. “Look here,” he said. “This is our newest fire extinguisher. Point it like a pistol, pull the trigger, and presto! It shoots foam all over the blaze. Neat idea, eh?”

“Neat is right,” Joe answered. “I thought it was a real pistol.”

The man put the fire extinguisher on the shelf behind him. “Carrier Consolidated, at your service,” he said.

“Any flights to Zurich, Switzerland?” Frank asked.

“Sure. What’s on your mind?”

“We’re working on a deal involving a shipment,” Frank said.

The man reached for a ledger. “We had two flights to Zurich this month: a cargo of tin and a lumber shipment. The next flight will be in approximately a week. What’s the weight going to be?”

“Uh—about two hundred pounds.”

“No problem.”

“Okay. We’ll let you know when the deal goes through,” Frank said, and thanked the man for the information.

As the boys were leaving the office, they almost ran into a woman who came through the door and walked up to the counter. She was the waitress from the Stacy Hotel!

Frank nudged Joe as he started to close the door behind him. “What do you know about that?” he whispered.

“Let’s see if we can hear any of their conversation,” Joe replied and left the door open a crack.

The three friends stood still and pressed their ears against the door, but there was only the sound of muffled voices.

“What now?” Chet asked. “This is strange.”

“Let’s go to the Stacy and check up on the waitress,” Frank suggested. “Maybe she had a reason for being nosey last night.”

They went to the hotel and spoke to the manager. “We’d like to talk to your pretty, red-haired waitress,” Frank began. “Is she in?”

“No, it’s her day off,” the man replied with a grin. “But there’s no use in trying to date her.”

“Oh?” said Frank.

“Sure. Her husband runs the Carrier Consolidated office. He’d give you a hard time.”

The boys wanted to roar with laughter, but instead pretended to be embarrassed and left quickly.

“What do you know!” Frank said when the boys were back in the car.

“That you’re some smoothy,” Chet needled him.

Joe was serious. “Maybe both the husband and the wife are involved in our case.”

“What do we do now?” Chet asked.

Frank started the engine. “Let’s see if we can find a private airstrip.”

The superhighway curved around Wakefield to the north, east, and south. An undeveloped area lay to the west. They decided to scout in that direction. Frank parked at a dead end, and the boys crossed a field on foot. Then they plunged into the woods.

For two hours they tramped between groves of trees and thick bushes. They stumbled over stones and fallen tree trunks. Brambles tore at their clothing and scratched their hands. Doggedly they puffed up hills and down into ravines.

Finally Chet halted and sat down on a boulder, perspiration streaming down his face. His breath came in great gasps. He held up a hand and let it fall limply into his lap. “Fellows, I’ve had it!” he announced.

Joe grinned. “Don’t give up now, Chet! You’re getting rid of that spare tire around your middle. Besides, you’ve got to walk back out of the woods.”

Chet groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Frank was surveying the ground beyond the boulder. Suddenly he called to the others. Joe raced over. Chet followed slowly.

“What’s up?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Tire marks on the ground!” Frank exclaimed. “A car went right through the woods!”

“It probably came from the dirt road we crossed a couple of miles back,” Joe theorized, “Where did it go?”

“Let’s find out,” Frank urged.

Trained woodsmen, the boys followed the tire marks. They noted how the dried-out, brown grass was flattened, and how the vehicle had run over bushes and around trees. Silently the three sleuths pursued the trail through a thicket to where the woods ended. All the trees and shrubs had recently been cleared away in the shape of an oblong.

“It’s an airstrip,” Frank said in a low voice. “Do either of you see a plane?”

“No,” Chet answered, and Joe shook his head.

They scouted around the airstrip in Indian file, with Frank in the lead. They had nearly returned to their starting point when Joe noticed sunlight gleaming on metal in a grove of trees.

“I’ll investigate,” he offered. Dropping to the ground, he crawled to a large bush, peered through the bare branches, and saw a car parked in the grove. Nobody was in sight, so he waved to his companions to follow him.

The car was old and battered. Scratches on the fenders showed it had been driven a long distance through the woods. It had no license plates.

Finding the doors unlocked, Joe opened the glove compartment and took out a sheet of paper lying inside. Frank and Chet peered over his shoulder as he read a short typewritten message.

DEEP six F.H.

CHAPTER IV

Stop Thief!

THE boys were shocked. Frank felt cold chills run up and down his spine.

“I’ll bet F.H. stands for Fenton Hardy!” he exclaimed.

“And deep six means get rid of him,” Joe added grimly.

“No wonder your dad said it was a dangerous case,” Chet put in. “We’d better let him know the gang’s after him.”

They marched back to the dirt road and on to their car. Joe drove to the garage, where Mr. Hardy was already waiting. Frank quickly explained to him about the airstrip near the Wakefield Mint and the car hidden in the clump of trees.

“Here’s what I found in the glove compartment,” Joe said, handing him the message.

Mr. Hardy read it thoughtfully. “This ties in with that phone call I received,” he said. “Whoever stole the gold wants me off the case. When he realized that his warning had no effect, he and his pals decided to use other measures.”

“What now, Mr. Hardy?” Chet asked.

“Leave the car where it is. Don’t let on to anyone that you’ve seen it. I’ll keep the area under surveillance and see who comes back to the spot. That might break the case wide open. I only hope,” he added wryly, “that the person who is to receive this message has not seen it yet!”

Franked looked doubtful. “I think Joe and I shouldn’t go to Zurich, Dad. It’s too dangerous for you to be here without us.”

Joe supported his brother. “We’ll stay in Wakefield and help you out in case of trouble.”

Fenton Hardy shook his head. “I realize the danger,” he confessed. “But I’ll watch my step, and take my assistant, Sam Radley, off his case to give me a hand if necessary. We must look into the Zurich angle, and my sons are naturals for the assignment. Chet, if your folks consent to your going, too, I’m sure Frank and Joe will be glad to have you along. Go home to Bayport and arrange for your flight.”

Reluctantly the boys drove away early the next morning. On the way Chet begged to stop in New York to see the gold exhibit at the Early Art Museum before returning to Bayport.

The Hardys consented and they went on to New York City. Joe spotted a parking lot only a few blocks from the museum. They left the car and walked to the building. A large sign over the entrance read: SCYTHIAN GOLD. The words below stated that the art objects had been sent to the United States by the Soviet Union under a cultural-exchange program.

Chet assumed a learned expression. “The Scythians lived in an area that now belongs to Russia,” he intoned. “That’s why the Russians have the Scythian gold. They dug up a lot of it in places where those guys camped.”

Frank smiled. “Very interesting, Chet. We’ll hear the rest of your lecture later, Professor Morton.”

The boys were the first viewers to arrive at the museum. The man in charge of the exhibition was a Russian with jet-black hair and a black spade-shaped beard. He wore black clothes and a ring with a large black stone, which gleamed as he gestured.

“I am Ivan Orlov,” he introduced himself. “Perhaps you would care to have me describe our Scythian gold.”

Chet waved a hand. “That won’t be necessary,” he declared. “I’m a pro when it comes to gold.”

Frank nudged Joe. He concealed his mouth with his hand and whispered, “Chet’s up to his old tricks, telling the experts he knows more about their subject than they do.”

Joe grinned. “Let’s see if he gets away with it this time.”

Orlov gave Chet a dubious look. “I do not doubt you, my friend,” the Russian said, “but surely—”

“I’m an adept in golden artifacts,” Chet told him. “And I’ve got a diploma to prove it.”

“I have never heard of such a title,” Orlov said coolly. “But please go inside.” His black ring reflected rays of light as he gestured toward the first room of the exhibition.

The boys entered, noticing a sign with the words ANIMAL CHAMBER. Large locked cases held gleaming gold figures of horses, dogs, bulls, deer, mountain goats, tigers, and many other species.

“Those Scythians were big on animals,” Chet observed. “They made gold representations of everything that moved.”

The Bayporters walked through the display, marveling at the high quality of the Scythian art. They stopped before a huge vase ornamented in gold with the figure of a tiger leaping toward the horns of a defiant bull.

“Siberian tiger,” Chet identified the big cat.

The next case contained nothing but replicas of horses, large and small, reclining and standing, jumping and galloping.

“Don’t tell me, Chet,” Joe said. “Let me guess. The Scythians rode a lot.”

“Right. They were terrific riders.”

A small figurine in the lower left-hand corner caught their interest. It was a golden horse, rearing on its hind legs. The animal was perfectly modeled with uplifted head and tossing mane.

“I’d like to own that one,” Joe remarked. “I’ll bet Mother would put it on the mantel in our living room.”

Frank grinned. “Aunt Gertrude would surely keep it polished,” he added.

While they sauntered around the Animal Chamber another visitor came in and looked at the display with intense interest. He was a middle-aged man with gray hair, dressed in a pin-striped suit. Under his right arm he clutched a leather briefcase, his hand tightly grasping the handle as if he were afraid somebody might snatch it from him.

As the stranger stepped back to get a better view of the figurine of the rearing horse, he bumped into Joe. The briefcase fell to the floor. The man instantly reached down and picked it up.

“Excuse me,” he apologized in a high-pitched voice tinged with a slight Spanish accent. “I did not see you.”

“No harm done,” Joe said cheerfully.

The boys went into the next room, the Ornament Chamber. Every case gleamed with rows of Scythian rings, necklaces, bracelets, pins, brooches, earrings, buckles, and other items of personal adornment.

In an authoritarian voice Chet told his friends about the dress of the ancient tribe. “The Scythian girls went in for gold in a big way,” he said, “and the men, too. Everybody wore—”

He was interrupted by a frenzied shout from the Animal Chamber. “Stop, thief!”

Alarmed, the boys hurried out into the hallway. At the far end they saw the stranger with the briefcase and the Spanish accent push through the revolving door. A guard dashed from the Animal Chamber and ran after him. The three Bayporters joined the chase.

When they reached the street, however, the fugitive had already hailed a taxi and was speeding away in the traffic.

“What luck!” Frank fumed. “And there isn’t another cab in sight.”

“Mr. Orlov will be furious,” the guard said, his voice trembling with fear. “But I noticed it too late—”

“Exactly what happened?” Frank asked.

“That man ran out of the Animal Chamber. I became suspicious and checked. I found that the glass in one of the display cases had been cut open. A figurine was missing. I alerted Orlov and took off after the thief.”

“Was anyone else in the room at the time?” Frank queried.

“No. Mr. Orlov had gone to his office. Oh, just before the robbery a tall blond man came out of the room and buried his cigarette butt in the bucket of sand in the hallway. I appreciated that because we don’t want a fire in the museum. The man went upstairs. In a moment the thief appeared. Obviously he waited until he was alone in the room, then stole the figurine.”

The boys found Orlov in the Animal Chamber in front of a display case. A piece of glass had been cut out neatly, and the figurine of the rearing horse that Frank had admired was missing.

The Russian was extremely agitated. He demanded to know what had become of the thief.

“He got away, Mr. Orlov,” the guard replied. “Jumped into a taxi.”

Orlov began wringing his hands. “Americans! You cannot trust them. I never should have brought the gold here. Our government will be very angry!”

“Maybe we can help you recover the piece,” Frank offered. “We have been doing some detective work. Unfortunately, the thief seems to have left no clue.”

“I don’t know about that,” Chet spoke up. “While you were staring after that taxi, I picked this up from the sidewalk. Maybe the guy dropped it!”

He held up a telegram. The others crowded around and read the message.

PEDRO ZEMOG. TAKE CONSIGNMENT TO ZURICH. A.P.

CHAPTER V

The Bulging Briefcase

CHET grinned with a self-satisfied expression as the others read the telegram. “The Hardys aren’t the only detectives around here.” He chortled.

Joe scratched his head. “But what does the message mean?”

“Search me,” Chet replied.

Frank turned to the Russian curator. “Mr. Orlov, does the name Pedro Zemog suggest anything to you?”

“Nothing!” Orlov answered. “Nothing!”

“What about A.P.?”

“Nothing.”

The Hardys wondered about the briefcase Zemog had been carrying. Had he opened it in the museum and slipped the figurine inside?

“I saw nothing!” Orlov said.

The guard added, “The thief did not open his briefcase when I saw him. As a matter of fact, he acted as if it were made of solid gold, and he held it very tightly.”

“Your police had better do something about getting my ancient horse back!” Orlov exclaimed impatiently. “This theft could be a serious matter between our two countries.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “You’ll have to report it right away. But perhaps we can help you. Mr. Zemog is headed for Zurich according to this telegram. We’re planning to go there ourselves. Mr. Orlov, would you like us to try to find the thief?”

Orlov stared at him. “You—but who are you?”

Frank introduced himself, Joe, and Chet and told Orlov about his father’s work.

The Russian became interested. “You are going to Zurich? Good. I will let you pursue the case in Switzerland.”

Joe had a sudden thought. “What about the tall blond man? If he’s still upstairs, he might be able to tell us something about the thief.”

Orlov gave the boys permission to search the building. They rushed upstairs, but could not find anyone who fitted the blond man’s description. They returned and reported their failure.

“He must have left by this time,” Orlov said. “Too bad we did not think of looking for him sooner.”

“Maybe the guy didn’t know anything was wrong and simply strolled out after he looked at the exhibition,” the guard added.

Frank and Joe promised Orlov they would stay on the case. Then they went with Chet to the parking lot.

“Let’s stop at police headquarters,” Frank suggested. “We may be able to explain the loss of the gold horse better than Mr. Orlov.”

He took the wheel and a few minutes later they were talking to the lieutenant on duty. He agreed to cooperate. Hearing their names, he asked if Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy. When he learned that they were, he said, “Fenton is a great detective. I’m glad to hear you’re following in his footsteps.”

After the lieutenant heard the description of the suspect, he shrugged his shoulders. “Middle-aged man with gray hair, pin-striped suit, carrying a briefcase. Hundreds of men in New York match that description. But I’ll put out a bulletin on him and alert the airlines. Who knows? We might be lucky.”

The boys thanked the lieutenant and drove to Bayport. After dropping Chet at his house, the Hardys hurried home.

They found their mother in the living room, reading a magazine. She was a pleasant woman who worried about the cases her husband and her sons handled. But she had confidence in them and knew that they had squeezed out of tight situations many times.

“Frank, Joe,” she greeted them. The boys hugged her. “I’m relieved to see you. What have you been doing?”

“Pretending we’re gold bugs,” Joe said with a chuckle.

Another voice interrupted. “Bugs? We don’t want any bugs in this house! What are you boys up to now?”

The speaker was their aunt Gertrude, Fenton Hardy’s sister, who lived with the family. She was often stern with her nephews, but they knew she was very fond of them. Miss Hardy admired their skill in solving mysteries, although she tried not to show it.

Joe laughed. “Aunt Gertrude, these aren’t the kinds of bugs you sweep out the back door with your broom.”

“We’re not talking about entomology, the science of bugs,” Frank added with a grin.

“Goldology would be more like it,” Joe quipped.

Gertrude Hardy sniffed. “You boys can keep your ologies and your bugs,” she stated firmly. “Now explain your explanation.”

“Dad’s trying to recover a shipment of gold that was stolen from the Wakefield Mint,” Frank told her, “and we’re helping him. As a matter of fact, we’ll be going to Zurich, Switzerland, as soon as we can get a flight.”

“Isn’t that a risky adventure?” his mother asked.

Frank reassured her. “We’ll interview the director of the Swiss Gold Syndicate and ask if the gold has been routed through there.”

“You might get buried by an avalanche,” Aunt Gertrude remarked. “What will you do then?”

“We’ll wait for a Saint Bernard dog to find us,” Joe needled his aunt. “Seriously, though, we’ll be all right.”

“We don’t want to stay away too long,” Frank said. “Not when we have your delicious pies to come back to.”

Gertrude Hardy smiled and smoothed back her hair. She could never resist a compliment about her cooking, and promptly invited her nephews into the kitchen for cherry pie and homemade whipped cream.

The next morning Chet phoned. He was glum. “Dad says I have to stay home and help on the farm,” he reported. “Have fun, fellows, and round up the gold heisters.”

Frank and Joe flew out of Kennedy Airport the following evening. They would have liked to stay in the city longer to see if they could trace Pedro Zemog, but could not book a later flight that would get them to Zurich in time for their appointment with Johann Jung.

Their jet zoomed up from the runway, climbed into the sky, and circled over New York’s sky-scrapers. Frank and Joe settled near the rear and got a good view of the Empire State Building, the towers of the trade center, and the tip of lower Manhattan. Soon the plane gained altitude and all they could see below them were puffy white clouds.

“I wonder if there’s a connection between the Wakefield gold and the Scythian treasure,” Frank said thoughtfully.

“Could be,” Joe replied. “Both came from the Soviet Union.”

“And it’s our job to find both,” Frank reminded his brother. “The consignment mentioned in the telegram Zemog dropped-could it be gold bars that vanished from Wakefield?”

“Good question,” Joe replied. “Maybe we’ll find the answer in Zurich.”

He slipped out of his seat into the aisle and went for a drink of water near the center of the plane. Then he strolled up front and finally started back. He noticed a man with gray hair, dressed in a dark brown suit. Though he was asleep, he guarded a briefcase under one arm.

Joe paused a moment. “That guy resembles the thief from the museum, Pedro Zemog,” he thought. “Too bad he’s asleep. I wish I could find out if he speaks with a Spanish accent.”

Joe went to ask a stewardess. She replied that the man had not spoken so she did not know.

Joe returned to his seat and informed Frank of his suspicion. Frank immediately made a trip to the front of the plane. On his way back he glanced at the man, who was still sleeping.

“That guy resembles the thief from the museum!” Joe thought.

When Frank returned, Joe asked, “What do you think?”

“Hard to tell. We’re looking for a guy with a Spanish accent. Let’s wait till he wakes up. If this passenger is not Zemog, we could get into real big trouble by accusing him of being a thief.”

“But didn’t you see the bulge in his briefcase?” Joe asked. “It could be the gold horse.”

“Joe, the man had to go through the detection center at the airport. A gold object would have been spotted and he would have been arrested.”

“That’s right,” Joe had to admit.

“We’d better sit tight until we get to Zurich,” Frank urged, “unless we hear him talk in the plane.”

The stewardess arrived with a late dinner, which the boys lost no time in eating. After that, they checked on the suspect again. He had obviously not eaten and was still sleeping.

The boys returned to their places, pushed the reclining seat as far back as they could, and slept as the jet thundered toward Europe. When the Hardys awoke, they saw a magnificent view through the window. Snow-covered mountains spread far and wide beneath their plane. Tall peaks towered toward the sky. Villages nestled in the valleys.

“We’re over the Alps!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank glanced at his watch. “By my reckoning, we’re over Switzerland already.”

Over the loudspeaker a stewardess advised passengers to fasten their seat belts. The jet hissed over Lake Zurich, which extended from the city to the high mountains. The pilot kept on course and came down for a perfect landing at the airport. He taxied to the terminal, braked to a stop, and shut off the engines.

Frank and Joe stood up and tried to reach the suspect, but passengers blocked the aisle. The man in the brown suit waited at the head of the line to debark. Within minutes, he was off the plane.

Watching him through the window, the Hardys saw him hasten to the terminal and into the building. Finally Frank and Joe arrived too. By the time they passed through customs, their quarry was headed toward the exit with long, swift strides. Lugging their suitcases, the Hardys pursued him as fast as they could. They caught up with him at the taxi rank.

He whirled and glared at them when Frank spoke to him. “We’re interested in what happened in New York,” the boy said.

An expression of fear came over the man’s face. Suddenly he hurled himself at Joe, bowling him over backwards. Joe collided violently with Frank. The impact caused both the Hardys to lose their footing. They fell to the pavement in a heap.

A taxi bore down on them at full speed!

CHAPTER VI

Over the Cliff!

INSTINCTIVELY resorting to judo, Joe rolled to the right of the speeding taxi. Frank did a somersault to the left.

The vehicle careened between them and jolted to a halt. “Was ist los?” the driver shouted at them. “Was machen Sie denn da?”

The Hardys scrambled to their feet. Frank tried to apologize in his high school German: “Entschuldigen Sie bitte.”

The driver responded with a tirade in German before going on to pick up a fare.

Frank straightened his jacket. “Joe, I think he was telling us off for scaring him. What happened to Zemog?”

“He’s gone!” Joe said glumly, looking at the passengers lining up for taxies. “He must have disappeared while we were nearly getting run over by that cab.”

They walked to the end of the line and finally got an empty taxi. Frank told the driver to take them to the William Tell Hotel. At the desk, they signed identification cards and received a room key. They set their luggage inside and tidied up their appearance, then went to the Zurich police headquarters.

Frank explained to an English-speaking captain named Hartl that Pedro Zemog, a suspected thief, was somewhere in the city. Joe inquired whether the Swiss authorities had any information about the man.

The officer checked through the files and made a phone call. Then he turned back to the Hardys.

“Pedro Zemog has no criminal record in our country,” he informed them. “But we will watch for him. Tell me where you are staying, and we will call you if we learn anything.”

“Thank you,” Frank said. “We’re at the William Tell for the next few days.”

The boys returned to their room and unpacked, then contacted the Swiss Gold Syndicate.

Mr. Jung’s assistant told them there had been no more anonymous phone calls. “I asked a lot of people around town,” he said, “but found out nothing. I doubt anything will transpire over the weekend. Since Mr. Jung is coming back Monday, perhaps the caller will try to get in touch with him personally.”

Frank thanked the assistant and hung up. “What do we do now?”

Joe shrugged. “Let’s see the town.”

Taking the elevator to the lobby, they found people at the registration desk or following porters who carried their luggage. Others inspected items in the souvenir shop and relaxed in comfortable chairs. The Hardys paused to look at postcards on a revolving stand. Joe twirled it.

“Hey,” said a young American, “you just took the card I wanted.” A youth about Frank’s age peered at them from behind the revolving stand.

“Sorry about that,” Joe apologized. “I didn’t know you were on the other side.”

The two boys started a conversation and Frank joined them. The youth said his name was Rory Harper. He was in Switzerland to see the country and do some skiing.

“Listen,” Rory said, “I’m here with three girls, my sister Alice, my girl friend Jane Owens, and their friend Karen Temple. They’re standing over there by the window. Want to join us for a soda?”

Frank and Joe peered in the direction of the window and broke out in grins after glimpsing three very attractive teen-aged girls.

“Sure, we’ll be glad to,” Frank said.

After introductions, the Americans sat down at a low table in the lobby and ordered sodas. Rory’s group talked about home and their vacation in Switzerland.

Karen set her glass down on the table. “Joe,” she said, “do you ski?”

“A little,” Joe answered. “So does Frank.”

“That’s great!” Alice exclaimed. “We’re leaving today. Want to join us for the weekend?”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. “We don’t have to be back till Monday morning, Joe,” Frank said.

“And there’s nothing we can do here in the meantime,” Joe added.

“Good. Then it’s all settled,” Rory said. “We can rent our gear at the lodge. Let’s go!”

The young people went to their rooms and quickly packed warm clothing in an overnight bag, then met in front of the hotel. They hailed a large taxi and the driver let them off at the railroad station.

On the way to the nearest ski resort, they watched the beautiful landscape as the train snaked up the mountains. They exchanged cheerful banter.

“I hope you guys are pros,” Rory said. “You’ll have to move fast to keep up with me.”

“That’s right,” his sister added. “Rory is fast—on his rear end!”

“Aw, Alice, don’t say that!”

Jane giggled. “We should modify that statement. Sometimes he’s fast on his stomach, too! I’ll never forget that time in Vermont when he slid down head first.”

“Oh, that was a bad spill I took,” Rory admitted. “My hat went one way, my goggles another, the poles almost hit another skier, and if the safety straps hadn’t held the skis, they would have arrived at the lodge without me.”

“What were you trying to do, wind up in the hospital?” Joe kidded.

“No,” Karen said. “He was just trying to imitate Herman the German, who did a somersault over a three-foot mogul.”

“He’s one of the instructors up there,” Jane explained. “Only Rory can’t ski nearly as well as he.”

When they arrived at their destination, they hitched a ride to the lodge with a friendly farmer, who chugged along the road in a pickup truck. As soon as they got there, they rented skis, boots, and poles.

Rory and the three girls had brought ski clothes. The Hardy boys each bought a pair of warmup pants to wear with their jackets.

Sunlight glistened on the packed snow of the slopes, and skiers looked like moving colored dots on a white sheet.

After the Americans had bought their lift tickets, they lined up for one of the chairs. Joe paired off with Karen, Frank with Alice, and Rory got on the lift with Jane.

“Wait for us when you get up there!” Rory yelled to the first pair.

“Will do,” Joe called back as he watched a girl in a red suit expertly parallel down the slope.

When they arrived at the top, they surveyed the mountain. Alpine peaks formed the skyline around them. The snow-clad terrain dropped away at their feet into a steep run. A colorful white sign with an arrow read: AUTOBAHN-EXPERT ONLY.

Frank held up a hand. The rest gathered around him in a circle.

“Have any of you skied this slope before?” he asked.

He received only negative answers,

“Then we’d better take the Mouse Run over there first. That’s intermediate,” he advised.

Joe and the girls agreed, but Rory shook his head vehemently. “No, that’s too easy for me,” he said. “I’m going to take the Autobahn and beat you all to the bottom. See you later!”

He gave a strong push with his poles and began to parallel over the lightly packed powder.

“We’d better not let him go alone,” Frank called out. “If you girls think you’re up to it, let’s follow him.”

“We’ll make it,” Jane said.

Frank led the way to the starting point and pushed off with his poles. Joe and the girls followed. The slope took them in a long semicircle and once narrowed to a steep trail, where they had to go in single file. When it widened again, Frank swiftly decreased the gap between himself and Rory and caught up with him about three hundred feet from the bottom.

“Hey, slowpoke!” he yelled as he overtook the other boy.

Rory tried to catch Frank, but hit a slippery spot and fell.

This gave Joe and the girls enough time to pass him. and they waited at the bottom with Frank.

“Did you say you were a pro?” Karen joshed him.

“I hit an icy spot,” Rory said lamely. “My luck!”

“No excuses,” Jane said and laughed. “Just do better next time.”

Rory looked at the Hardys. “You guys ski well,” he admitted.

“We go to Vermont quite a bit,” Frank said.

They spent an hour or so skiing the Autobahn and surrounding slopes, then they rode up a different lift, which took them to a trail called St. Gotthart’s Pass. A barricade blocked the way and a sign read: DANGEROUS SNOW CONDITIONS. TRAIL CLOSED.

“We don’t want to ski down there,” Frank observed. “Let’s go to the right and get another run.”

“Aw, that sign doesn’t mean a thing,” Rory said flatly. “I’m not afraid to ski down there. According to the map, this connects with a slope called Rim Run, which sounds interesting. Let’s go anyway!”

He quickly slipped around the barricade and was halfway through the first turn before Frank could convince him not to go.

“Girls,” Frank said, “Take another run. We’ll meet you at the bottom.”

“Okay,” Jane said. “But be careful.”

Joe followed his brother, who was having trouble on the slippery surface. “Rory is crazy!” he fumed. “He’s going to kill himself and us along with him by going down this death trap!”

Uneven and rocky under the snow, the trail was narrow, the ridges precipitous, and the gorges deep.

“This is like Russian roulette,” Frank muttered to himself. “Guess wrong, and it’s your last chance. It’s over the edge, and somebody else picks up the pieces at the foot of the cliff!”

He was relieved when he saw he was catching up with Rory. “I’ll head him off,” Frank thought.

But Rory seemed determined not to be passed. He skied at top speed along ridges and past gorges. Reaching a steep decline flanked by an icy cliff, he looked back over his shoulder to see how close Frank was.

The gesture caused him to lose his balance. He slipped head over heels on the ice and lay still!

Wondering how badly his friend was hurt, Frank drove himself forward with his ski poles, his eyes on the crumpled form in front of him. His left ski hit a boulder hidden in the snow. His feet shot out from under him and he landed on his back. The momentum carried him into a long slide on the ice. Frantically he tried to stop himself, but it was no use.

Frank Hardy slid over the cliff!

CHAPTER VII

The Confrontation

JOE skidded to a stop near the top of the cliff, where he had seen Frank vanish.

Rory rose and shook his head woozily. “What happened?”

Joe did not explain. “Go get the ski patrol, prontol” he yelled.

Rory realized the seriousness of the situation instantly and quickly fixed his skis. Then he schussed down the treacherous trail as fast as he could.

Joe, meanwhile, had taken off his skis and edged himself over the cliff. Frank was clinging by his fingers to a stone ledge about two feet from the top. Beneath him there was a ragged drop.

“Hold on, Frank!” Joe shouted. He climbed onto the ledge. Planting his feet as firmly as he could, he gripped his brother by the arms and struggled to pull him up.

Frank tried to anchor his feet against the cliff, but it was of no use. His skis, dangling on his ankles by the safety straps, clattered on the rock.

“Just hold still,” Joe advised. “I sent Rory to get help.”

A few minutes later two men from the ski patrol arrived. A rope was dropped over the edge of the cliff, and Joe reached out to catch it. He tied it around Frank, who was drawn to safety by the men above.

“Thanks,” Frank said gratefully. “Thanks a lot.”

“You should have more sense than to ski down here,” one of the men chided. “Don’t you realize we close these trails for a good reason?”

“It wasn’t Frank’s idea.” Joe came to his brother’s defense. “Rory wanted to get the connection to Rim Run—”

“You can get it another way,” the man said curtly. “Now follow us down and don’t try it again!”

The boys put their skis back on and made it safely to the intersection of Rim Run. From there it was not far to the bottom, where they met Rory and the girls in the lodge. He was drinking a mug of hot chocolate and was glumly stroking the pigeon’s egg on his forehead.

“Boy, do I have a few choice words for you!” Frank said, anger welling up in him again.

“Oh, please don’t!” Rory said, rolling his eyes and pointing to his head. “I’ve ruined my beauty externally and it doesn’t feel so hot internally either!”

The Hardys laughed. “Serves you right, my friend,” Joe said. “And I think now we’d better quit!”

The skiers returned their equipment and found an inexpensive guesthouse in which to spend the night. The following day the Hardys skied till early afternoon, then said good-by to their new friends, who planned to stay for a few more days. Frank and Joe took the train back to Zurich.

At the William Tell Hotel, Frank phoned police headquarters and spoke to Captain Hard.

“We’re still looking for Zemog,” he informed the boy.

“Any clues?”

“Negative.”

After lunch the following day the boys walked to the Swiss Gold Syndicate. It was nearby in a gray limestone building.

“Looks like a fort,” Joe commented.

“Sure does,” Frank agreed. “It’s made of stone and filled with gold.”

The brothers identified themselves to one of the guards, who escorted them to the office of the director. It was a large room with a high ceiling, thick rugs on the floor, and small stone-framed windows.

Johann Jung, a tall, dark-haired man, greeted them in perfect English. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “We’ve had another call this morning.”

“Anonymous again?” Joe asked.

“Yes. It seems that a small time crook has gotten wind of the fact that the Wakefield gold is to be traded on the black market and wants to capitalize on his information.”

“What did he say?” Frank asked eagerly.

“He told us to deposit five hundred Swiss marks in a small pedestrian tunnel in the old section of town. When he finds the money, he’ll leave the information he has.”

“Could be a big hoax,” Frank said. “He might take the money and run.”

Jung nodded. “That’s possible,” he said. “On the other hand, the Wakefield gold heist is not known to anyone here except myself and the staff. How did he find out about it?”

“Shall we take a chance and pay him, then?” Joe asked.

“I have already,” Jung said. “He wanted the money at two o’clock. I sent someone to deposit it.”

“Can your man stake out the place and see who our anonymous friend is?” Frank asked.

“I doubt it. The fellow picked an excellent spot for this type of thing. The tunnel is short, narrow, and dark, and many people use it. Anyone waiting inside or on either end would be obvious.”

It was not long before there was a knock on the door. A young man entered and handed Jung an envelope. “I deposited the money, sir. This is what I got in return.”

Jung took the envelope. “Thank you, Hans. Did you see the man?”

Hans shook his head. “I waited about ten minutes after I left the money before going into the tunnel again. In the meantime, too many people walked through it. I have no idea who took the five hundred marks and left this envelope.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Hans left and Jung opened the message. It read: “If you want to find out about the Wakefield gold, go to Auerbach’s.”

“What does that mean?” Frank asked, puzzled.

“Auerbach’s is a restaurant in Niederdorf,” Jung said. “Maybe you’d better check it out. I’ll give you directions.”

Half an hour later Frank and Joe walked into Auerbach’s. A few people sat at scrubbed wooden tables. The boys approached the elderly man in an apron, who waited on them, and started a conversation in their high school German.

The wrinkle-faced Swiss grinned. “You Americans?” he asked.

Frank nodded. “I’m glad you speak English.”

“I lived in Chicago for ten years,” the man said.

They found out he was Xaver Auerbach, the owner. After some general comments on Zurich and their travels, Frank said, “We hear people around here trade in gold.”

The man looked at him suspiciously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joe pulled out a ten dollar bill. “A friend told us to come here if we wanted to buy gold.”

Slowly Auerbach took the money. “The only person I hear talking about gold around here is Karl Pfeiffer, and it seems to me he’s more talk than action. He usually drops in at five for something to eat.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “We’ll see him then.”

But at five Karl Pfeiffer did not appear. At six there was still no sign of him. Frank slipped Auerbach another bill. “Maybe we could talk to Pfeiffer at his house,” he said. “We really can’t wait any longer.”

“He lives at nine Annastrasse, three blocks from here to your right. The basement apartment.”

“Thanks.”

The boys found the address and knocked on the door. A sloppy-looking man in his thirties answered.

“Karl Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.

“Ja.”

“You speak English?”

“Ja. A little.”

“What do you know about the Wakefield gold?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what you’ve been saying at Auerbach’s,” Joe put in.

Pfeiffer looked scared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”

He looked up as a police car halted in front of the building. Then he whirled around and hurried into his apartment as two officers approached.

“Hey, Pfeiffer, wait!” Frank called out. He ran after the man, who had opened a window on the other side of his living room and was about to climb out.

“Hold it!” Frank said and pulled him back just as the policemen entered the apartment.

“Vielen Dank fuer die Hilfe,” one of the officers said, thanking Frank for his help. Obviously they had come to arrest Pfeiffer!

Frank tried to explain why the Hardys wanted to talk to the man, but the policemen spoke little English and the boys’ German was not fluent.

“Let’s go with them to headquarters,” Frank suggested, “and talk to Captain Hartl.”

“Right,” Joe said. “It’ll be interesting to find out why they nailed Pfeiffer.”

The officers did not object to the boys’ accompanying them to headquarters. When the group arrived, one of them showed Frank and Joe into Captain Hartl’s office. They explained what had happened, and the captain looked puzzled.

“Pfeiffer was seen at the scene of a burglary this morning,” he said. “That’s why we brought him in. He’s a petty thief, but is not known to be a smuggler. Why don’t you wait here and I’ll talk to him.”

The captain was gone for about fifteen minutes. When he returned, he held two envelopes in his hand. “This is a rather amazing turn of events,” he said. “Look what we found on Pfeiffer!”

One envelope contained five hundred Swiss marks, the other a few gold coins. In the upper left-hand corner of the second envelope were printed the words Wakefield Mint.

“Wow!” Frank exclaimed. “What a clue! Pfeiffer is involved in the gold heist!”

“I don’t think so,” Hartl said. “He told me the whole story. Pfeiffer was approached by a man last week and paid to spread the rumor about the Wakefield gold. The stranger also gave him the envelope with the coins for future use. Then he told him to call the Swiss Gold Syndicate and arrange for them to pay him five hundred marks in exchange for the information about Auerbach’s.”

“Who hired Pfeiffer?” Frank asked.

“He doesn’t know. But I know Pfeiffer. He’s been in and out of our jail several times. I think he’s telling the truth. He was set up by someone who wanted to mislead you!”

“What did the stranger look like?” Joe asked. “Maybe it was Zemog.”

“I asked Pfeiffer that,” Captain Hartl replied. “The fellow was tall, thin, and in his early thirties. He spoke German without a trace of an accent and Pfeiffer thinks he’s either German or Swiss. That doesn’t fit Zemog.”

“It doesn’t,” Frank had to admit.

“If I find out anything else about this case and Zemog, I’ll contact Mr. Jung,” Captain Hartl promised.

“Thank you very much for your help,” Frank said and the boys left.

“Let’s go back to the hotel and call Jung,” Frank said. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear the police recovered his five hundred marks.”

A short while later Frank and Joe took the elevator to the fifth floor of the William Tell Hotel. The door clanged open and they stepped into the corridor. At the same time, a man was about to enter the next elevator, which was going down. The boys looked straight at him. He stared in return.

“Pedro Zemog!” Frank exclaimed. Zemog still clutched his briefcase, shielding it with his arm. Then the elevator door closed.

“He’s headed for the lobby!” Joe cried. “We may be able to catch him!”

The Hardys took the stairs two at a time. They reached the lobby and looked around. There was no sign of Zemog.

“Too late,” Frank groaned.

The desk clerk could not tell them anything about Pedro Zemog, but he did say a man named Jones, who matched their description of Zemog, had been in room 506 and had just checked out of the hotel.

Back on the fifth floor, the Hardys noticed that the door of 506 was open. They went in. The bed was mussed, the drawers half-open, the closet door ajar. A quick tour of the room revealed nothing.

“Zemog didn’t leave a single clue,” Frank said in disappointment.

“Maybe he did,” Joe answered, as he reached into the wastebasket beside a table. He drew out some shredded yellow paper. Carefully he fitted the torn pieces together.

“It’s a telegram!” Frank said, looking over his brother’s shoulder, as Joe put the last piece in place. The boys felt completely stymied as they read the message:

PEDRO ZEMOG. TAKE CONSIGNMENT TO MEXICO CITY. A.P.

CHAPTER VIII

A Warning

FRANK and Joe stared at each other, wondering again if the telegram referred to the gold stolen from the Wakefield Mint.

Finally Frank shook his head. “It can’t be. I think the telegram indicates that the consignment referred to has been in Switzerland and is now to be shipped to Mexico. But the crooks wouldn’t be so foolish as to bring the gold to Zurich secretly and then spread a rumor that it would be sold here!”

“I see what you’re getting at,” Joe agreed. “The rumor was created to keep us far from the place where the Wakefield gold has been, or will be, taken. So Zemog’s instructions don’t refer to it.”

“Right. But let’s phone Captain Hartl about the telegram, anyway. We still want to find Zemog for the museum.”

Police Captain Hartl promised to alert the airlines about the fugitive’s planned trip to Mexico, but said, “Since Zemog called himself Jones at the hotel, he’s obviously traveling under an assumed name. That creates a problem. What are your plans?”

“I think we’ll go back to Wakefield,” Frank said.

“Good idea. If we find Zemog, we will get in touch with the Early Art Museum in New York.”

“Thank you very much,” Frank said and hung up.

The boys packed and flew home the next morning. When they arrived, their mother greeted them with hugs. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said. “I hope you weren’t in any danger.”

“Well, Frank did a cliff-hanger,” Joe said, laughing. He described the skiing party and his brother’s accident.

“Why, Frank, you could have been hurt!” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed.

“Mother,” Frank assured her, “I knew what I was doing. And anyway, Joe was watching and came to the rescue.”

“I wish the two of you wouldn’t take such chances.” Mrs. Hardy sighed.

“Chances? What chances?” said Aunt Gertrude at the doorway. “Have you boys been up to some of your harebrained stunts again?”

After hearing the story, she shook her head. “You must have nine lives, like they say cats do.”

Frank thought, “I used one up on that cliff.”

“By the way,” Mrs. Hardy put in, “a man named Ivan Orlov phoned and asked for you. I told him you’d be back today. He refused to say what he wanted.”

A short while later, the phone rang. Joe answered. The caller was Orlov. “So you are back from Zurich,” he said. “Have you brought the Scythian figurine with you?”

Joe confessed that he and Frank had failed to retrieve the golden horse. He described how the boys had spotted Zemog at the Zurich airport and at the William Tell Hotel, and said that the police were looking for him.

“Why did you not have him arrested? Why did you not take the figurine from him?” Orlov demanded.

“We lost him both times.”

“Lost him!” Orlov stormed. “You mean you and your brother permitted him to escape?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Joe said.

“Size? What does that mean—size?”

“It means you’re correct, Mr. Orlov.”

“You have brought back no clue from Zurich?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact we have,” Joe stated. He told the curator about the shredded telegram in Zemog’s abandoned hotel room and the message referring to Mexico City.

“You must follow him!” the Russian declared, excited. “You must go to Mexico City at once and find the gold horse! I will pay your expenses!”

Joe informed Orlov that they could not do this until they heard from their father. “He and my brother and I are involved in another case,” he explained.

Orlov became angrier. “Another case? What case could be more important than mine? Are you leaving me—how do you say it—in the lurch?”

“Mr. Orlov, if our father can spare us, we’ll be glad to pursue your case. But we’ll have to check with him first.”

“This is too confusing,” Orlov complained. “All I can say is that if the gold horse is not restored to me, it will be ... most unfortunate for your country!”

The Russian hung up so vehemently that Joe felt a painful buzz in his ear.

“Wow! Next time he calls, Frank, you talk to Comrade Orlov!” he said, holding his ear.

“What’s up?”

“He’s mad at us because we didn’t bring his gold horse back from Switzerland. Now he wants us to leave at once and chase Zemog around Mexico City.”

The phone rang again. Frank answered it.

“If it’s Orlov,” Joe muttered, “say I’m off on a moon flight.”

This time Fenton Hardy was calling. “I’m in John Armstrong’s office and we have you on conference call so we both can hear your report on Zurich,” the detective said.

“It was not a success,” Frank said and told about their visit to the Swiss Gold Syndicate, the false lead, and the arrest of Pfeiffer.

Mr. Hardy and John Armstrong agreed that the rumor was undoubtedly a diversionary tactic which the thieves had cunningly used to mislead the Hardys.

Frank told his father about Zemog and the stolen figurine from the Early Art Museum in New York. “Orlov wants us to go to Mexico City,” he said. “But we told him that we could only work for him if you don’t need us any more.”

“Well, I’m up against a stone wall right now,” Mr. Hardy said. “Let me talk to John.”

The two men conferred for a few minutes, then Mr. Hardy came back on the line. “When you mentioned Mexico City, John remembered something he had been told just the day before the burglary,” the detective said. “It had slipped his mind, but now it seems as if it might be a clue!”

“What is it?” Frank asked eagerly.

“One of the guards mentioned that he saw a private plane flying rather low over the mint with the words ‘Mexico City’ on the fuselage. John paid little attention to it at the time, but now we’re beginning to think that perhaps the plane landed on the hidden airstrip here in Wakefield and waited for the gold to be flown out.”

“Oh, Dad, that’s a great theory!” Frank said, excited.

“The only thing is,” Joe put in, “how do you know Mexico City was the plane’s destination?”

“You don’t,” Mr. Hardy said thoughtfully. Again he conferred with Armstrong for a few minutes, then he said, “John thinks that even if the plane didn’t fly to Mexico City, it might have been based there. Since there’s nothing for you to do here at this point, he wants you to fly to Mexico and see if you can track down the plane while you’re looking for Zemog.”

“We’ll be glad to check out the Mexican angle,” Frank said. “And Orlov will be pleased, too. We’ll leave as soon as we can. What’s new in Wakefield?”

“No clues,” Mr. Hardy replied. “I scouted around the airstrip in the guise of a backpacker and kept the abandoned car under surveillance for three days. No one went near it.”

“Was the car stolen?” Frank asked.

“Yes. The owner has it now. By the way, John said if you need any help in Mexico he’ll be glad to pay the expenses. He wants that plane tracked down as fast as possible.”

“We’ll ask Chet, Biff, and Tony to go along,” Frank suggested. “This way we can split up and divide the legwork.”

“Excellent idea. And good luck!”

Biff Hooper and Tony Prito were two more of the Hardys’ close friends. Biff was a husky six-footer who knew how to use his fists. Olive-skinned Tony was a carefree youth who was always ready for an adventure. Like Chet, the two boys had helped Frank and Joe solve some of their mysteries in the past. Frank phoned them at once. “Big doings!” he said. “Make tracks over here in a hurry or get left out!”

Twenty minutes later a series of loud, gunlike reports sounded in the street. Chet’s battered jalopy rattled up to the Hardy home, backfiring all the way. Chet was at the wheel, with Biff and Tony beside him. He brought the vehicle to a jolting stop at the curb and turned off the ignition. The jalopy stopped its bucking and subsided.

Tony jumped out and stretched. “Oh, my aching back!” He groaned.

Biff extricated his long legs from under the dashboard. “When you ride with Chet, you hurt all over.”

Chet grinned. “How come you guys let me give you a lift if my jalopy scrambles your anatomy?”

“We never learn,” Biff said.

The three hurried up the front steps. Frank and Joe were eating large pieces of cherry pie on the porch. “Go right through,” Joe told their friends. “Aunt Gertrude is ready for you.”

Chet, Biff, and Tony went to the kitchen and reappeared with slices of pie. Tony sat down in a rocking chair, Biff perched on the porch railing, and Chet reclined in a hammock, balancing the loaded plate on his belt buckle.

“Okay,” Tony said, “let’s have it.”

“It had better be good,” Biff warned.

“The cherry pie suits me,” Chet countered. “But I know what the Hardys are up to.”

“What?” Biff demanded.

“Gold!”

“Chet’s right,” Frank revealed. He briefly told them the story of the Wakefield and Scythian gold. “We are working on both cases,” he concluded.

“Next stop—Mexico City,” Joe added. “How about you guys joining the expedition, all expenses paid?”

“Wow!” Chet exclaimed, and the other two were equally enthusiastic.

“It might be dangerous,” Frank warned.

“We’ll outsmart our enemies,” Tony vowed.

Chet levered the last piece of pie from his plate into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed with a blissful expression. Then he put out a hand and pushed on the railing, causing the hammock to sway back and forth.

“You fellows can have the crooks,” he declared. “I’ll stick to archaeology. The Aztecs lived in Mexico City, and had tons of gold. I’d love to see their ancient masks.”

Frank shook his head. “You may not have a chance, Chet. Our assignments are the Wakefield gold and the horse figurine Orlov wants back.”

Chet gave in. “Well, as long as I get to see somebody’s gold. Aztec or Russian, it’s all the same difference.”

The others laughed. They were used to their stout friend making jokes when danger lay ahead.

The five spent the rest of the evening planning their expedition. The next morning they drove to the airport and caught a flight to Mexico City. Upon landing, Frank proposed that the group split up and see if they could find the plane from Wakefield.

Chet was to check with the tower, Biff and Tony were to talk to the pilots, and the Hardys would question the mechanics.

Chet went to the tower and discussed the mystery plane with the dispatcher.

“Mexican airlines have many craft marked ‘Mexico City,’ ” the man pointed out.

“This is a private plane,” Chet replied. “It flew down from the U.S.A. about a week ago.”

The dispatcher checked. “I have no record of the one you describe,” he said.

Meanwhile, Biff and Tony had been circulating through the offices of the airlines, questioning pilots. None could tell them anything about an aircraft marked “Mexico City.”

Frank and Joe had better luck. The fifth mechanic they interviewed had serviced a private plane with that marking. Its pilot was a young man.

“I heard him mention Palango,” the mechanic said.

“Palango?” Joe asked. “What does that mean?”

“I think it’s an archaeological term. Better ask Professor Carlos Alvarez at the university. He can tell you all about archaeological digs around here.”

“Thanks for the info,” Frank said.

He and Joe held a conference near one of the runways. Planes took off and landed, taxiing up to the terminal. Crews removed baggage as lines of passengers alighted.

“It’s sure noisy here,” Joe said.

They walked to a hangar servicing private planes. A small aircraft stood near them on the runway, ready for takeoff. They could see the pilot checking his instruments.

While they were talking, Chet joined them. Biff and Tony came up at the same time.

“No luck,” Chet reported.

“We drew a blank, too,” Biff said.

Frank told them not to worry. “We got a clue from one of the mechanics.”

“The plane was here, and the pilot mentioned the word Palango,” Joe added. “Professor Alvarez at the university might be able to tell us what that means.”

“You see?” Chet said triumphantly to Biff and Tony. “The Hardys always get their man. They’ll find the gold!”

His words were overheard by the pilot of the small plane near them. He had just climbed out of the cockpit and proved to be a hulking figure in overalls. He carried a long wrench in his right hand.

The man stared at the boys, his brows furrowed. Then he sidled up to them. “What are you guys doing here?” he scowled. “And who are you?”

“Who are you?” Biff retorted boldly.

“My name’s Murphy, and they don’t call me Rumble for nothing. Understand?”

“Understand,” Chet said hastily. He was not about to tangle with a man carrying a wrench.

“What are you after?” the pilot demanded.

“Gold,” Chet said.

“It has to do with Palango,” Joe put in.

Rumble Murphy stepped toward them. Glowering, he slapped the wrench menacingly against the palm of his left hand. “You’d better go home right now if you want to stay healthy!”

CHAPTER IX

Chet’s Mistake

RUMBLE Murphy brandished his wrench. Chet stepped back for fear of being hit, but Tony stood still, his hands on his hips. Biff assumed a karate stance.

“That sounds like a threat!” Frank said.

“It is a threat!” Murphy snapped.

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough if you butt in where you’re not wanted.”

Joe stepped forward and looked the pilot straight in the eye. “Come on, Murphy!” he demanded. “Why are you threatening us?”

The man’s answer was a punch that struck Joe on the jaw. Joe staggered backward and toppled over. Biff and Tony caught him as he fell.

Murphy ran to his plane and jumped in. The boys raced after him. Suddenly Frank shouted, “Hit the ground!”

They all plunged face downward on the runway. A landing plane sped toward them. They felt a gust of air as one wing passed over them with inches to spare! Shakily, the boys got to their feet.

“Lucky you shouted, Frank,” Biff said, “or we would have been mowed down.”

They watched helplessly as Rumble Murphy took off. He became airborne and vanished into the clouds scudding across the sky.

“Murphy’s a real pro when it comes to flying,” Frank observed.

Joe rubbed his jaw. “My guess is he’s a boxer,” he said. “That guy hit me really hard with that haymaker.”

The boys walked to the airport terminal.

“We must find out about Palango,” Tony remarked.

“Let’s set up an appointment with Professor Alvarez,” Frank suggested.

Biff clapped Chet on the shoulder. “You’re the expert on archaeology, Chet. We elect you to contact the professor.”

Chet grinned. “I’ll be glad to. Just lead me to the phone.”

He made the call to the university. Alvarez said he would welcome the visitors next morning.

The boys claimed their baggage and took a taxi to the hotel at which they had chosen to stay. After freshening up, they decided to use their free time sightseeing.

In the lobby, Frank inquired at the desk about a guide, and soon a wiry Mexican with wavy black hair appeared.

“You want to see Me-hee-co?” he asked the travelers with a friendly grin. “My name is Juan and my car is outside. It will cost you only a few pesos.”

They made a deal with the guide, who led them to an old auto with crumpled fenders and a crack in the windshield.

“This must be fifty years old,” Joe presumed. His companions were thinking the same thing. Feeling somewhat dubious about its reliability, they climbed in.

Juan started the engine, which wheezed and then made a put-putting sound that seemed about to choke off at any moment. He released the brake and chugged away from the hotel, dispensing tourist information as they rattled along.

First he took them through Mexico City’s main square. “The Zocalo,” he informed his passengers. “Our great plaza.”

The area was dominated by the cathedral. They saw the national palace, the library, the School of Fine Arts, and other public buildings in and around the plaza.

Traffic whizzed every which way. Their guide stepped on the gas and headed into it. His passengers braced themselves as he raced ahead of one car and braked sharply to avoid another.

“Chet, this is worse than your jalopy!” Biff muttered out of the comer of his mouth.

They reached a beautiful broad boulevard. The car bumped along past trees, office buildings, crowds of pedestrians, and benches where tourists and citizens relaxed. Next came the markets of Mexico City, colorful areas with shops and outdoor stalls. Most of the vendors were selling fruits and vegetables.

In the Merced Market, Chet tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to stop. Juan pulled into a side street.

“What’s up, Chet?” Frank asked.

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

They got out and followed him as he walked to a stall with succulent Mexican dishes. The aroma of tacos, tortillas, enchiladas, and chili filled their nostrils. Chet closed his eyes and inhaled rapturously.

“We might have known,” Joe said with a chuckle. “Chet never passes up any chow.”

“I’m with him this time,” Frank said.

The rest echoed the sentiment. They ordered a tortilla for each, including the driver, then strolled around the market, examining stall after stall. Juan talked to them animatedly, and occasionally conversed with the merchants in Spanish.

Chet, Biff, and Tony paused to look at some prints of Mexico City. Frank and Joe wandered down a side street into a dingy alley.

“Señores, permit me to tell your fortune!” The speaker was an old woman with piercing black eyes and a black lace veil over her hair. Her shop had an astrological chart of the heavens on the open door. “Señores, only a few pesos!” she urged them.

They went in and found her shelves covered with curios—herbs to be distilled for poisons, signs of the zodiac, and dolls with pins stuck in them.

The woman grabbed Joe’s hand and began to read his palm. “You have had a recent misfortune,” she said in a singsong voice.

Joe rubbed his jaw, which was still sore from Rumble Murphy’s punch. “Right,” he replied.

Frank extended his hand. “How about reading my future?” he suggested.

The woman surveyed his palm. Her eyes narrowed. “What do I see here?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Frank said.

“Much gold!”

The Hardys were startled. They tried to query the woman. Finding she would say no more, they paid her and left the shop.

“Could she know about the gold we’re after?” Joe wondered.

“Anything’s possible,” was Frank’s opinion.

The Mexican guide continued the sightseeing tour by driving to Chapultepec Park, a broad green area of woods and a lagoon, where entire families were enjoying the outdoors. Children played amid multicolored shrubs, bushes, and flowers. Fountains spouted water.

“Chapultepec,” the guide said. “That word means ‘grasshopper’ in the Aztec language.”

His battered car huffed and puffed as he pointed it up the hill. At the top he parked in the grounds of Chapultepec Castle, a white stone building with rounded arches and a tall oblong tower. A piece of sculpture on the terrace represented a huge grasshopper.

Inside, the visitors were streaming through the various halls. The boys from Bayport joined them. They saw costumes worn in Mexico City since Aztec times and the apartment once occupied by Emperor Maximilian, who ruled Mexico during the American Civil War.

“What happened to Emperor Max?” Joe asked.

“We shot him,” Juan said laconically.

They climbed up to the roof garden for a view of Chapultepec Park. Frank turned his head. A man with gray hair, wearing a dark suit, was on the other side of the garden. He held a briefcase! Frank tapped Joe on the shoulder and pointed.

“Zemog!” Joe gasped.

The brothers pushed through the crowd, turning and twisting in the press of bodies. At one point they were stopped by a solid wall of visitors and had to detour around them. Struggling and panting, they inched forward. At last they got to the other side.

“I see much gold!” the woman said.

The suspect was gone!

Frank and Joe hurried through the rest of the castle, only to draw a blank in every hall. They ran out to the terrace. Zemog was not there either.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Joe fumed. “Zemog pops up in the craziest places, and when we follow him, he dissolves into thin air!”

“We let him escape again, as Orlov would put it,” Frank agreed. “Which isn’t saying much for us!”

“I’m beginning to think it’s Zemog’s ghost who’s giving us this problem.” Joe chuckled.

The boys strolled around the terrace until they found Juan and their friends.

“What happened?” Biff asked. “You took off so fast we didn’t even have a chance to offer our help!”

“We think we saw Zemog again,” Frank explained. “And as usual, he escaped.”

“What do we do now?” Chet asked.

“I think we should finish our sightseeing tour at police headquarters,” Joe suggested.

Everyone agreed, and Juan took them to their destination. The boys thanked him for the tour, paid him, and went inside.

The sergeant at the desk spoke English well and listened to their problem with interest. He checked his records for Zemog, but found nothing.

“Zemog is not a Mexican name,” the sergeant said. “Unless he uses an alias, we should be able to track him down without too much difficulty. I will check all the hotels and see what I can learn.”

The boys returned to their hotel for the night. After breakfast the next morning, they taxied to the university to meet Carlos Alvarez. The professor’s office was lined with rows of books on archaeology.

He identified Palango at once. “It is an archaeological site not far from the great ruins of Chichén Itzá on the peninsula of Yucatán. Palango was recently discovered and digging has just begun. It lies in the same area as a lost pyramid of the Mayas. Fifty years ago a hunter reported seeing the pyramid. But since then, every attempt to find it has failed. What is your interest in Palango?”

Frank said that somebody might have flown gold from Mexico City to Palango.

Alvarez was puzzled. “I don’t know why anyone would do that. Usually it is the other way around.”

He gave them a little lecture on gold, noting that the Aztecs molded it into fine art pieces. “Their artifacts are so good many people cannot tell the difference between Aztec and Scythian.”

Chet puffed out his chest. “Oh, I can always tell Aztec stuff!” he boasted.

Alvarez smiled. He took a small piece of gold representing the head of a child from his drawer. “What do you make of that, my friend?”

Chet hefted the gold in his hand. “That’s Aztec, all right.”

“No, it comes from the Inca civilization down in Peru,” Alvarez corrected him.

Chet turned red in the face. His companions snickered, but Alvarez was indulgent. “An easy mistake to make.” He soothed Chet’s feelings.

That ended the session with the professor. The boys, deciding to run down the Palango angle at once, went to the airport and chartered a plane to fly them to Yucatán.

Three hours later they were on their way. The pilot flew across central Mexico, took the long leg of the journey across the Gulf, and zoomed past the shoreline over the jungle, thick with trees and tropical vegetation.

Suddenly the engine began to sputter. The boys looked at one another in alarm.

“What’s happening?” Frank asked tensely.

“I don’t know,” the pilot replied. “I had everything checked out before we left. But this is definitely trouble.”

He worked the controls frantically. But it was of no use. The engine quit and the plane nose-dived toward the jungle!

CHAPTER X

The Boa Constrictor

DowN, down they plunged! The jungle seemed to be rushing up to meet them and presently they could see the upper branches of the trees!

The pilot fought desperately to bring his plane out of its nose-dive. At the last moment, the engine came to life, and he regained control. They swooped down, then climbed just above the trees. Now he was able to zoom back to a safe altitude.

The pilot mopped his brow. “I don’t understand what happened. I double-checked everything before we left Mexico City.”

“Could be somebody doesn’t want us to get to Palango,” Frank observed in a shaky voice.

The plane flew across Yucatán and came down for a landing at Mérida, the main city in the northern Mayan region. The boys climbed out. All were shaken by the near crash.

“T-t-terra firma for me,” Chet stuttered.

“For me, too,” Biff added.

“The Mayas had the right idea,” Tony said. “They never fooled around with planes.”

The Hardys tried to cheer their pals. “We got here, didn’t we?” Joe pointed out.

“Better than hacking our way through the jungle,” Frank declared.

The pilot inspected his plane. “Somebody tampered with the engine,” he said grimly. “I’ll have to repair it.”

His passengers checked with airport officials to see if anybody had seen a private plane marked “Mexico City.” Nobody had, so the boys decided to go right on to Palango. Frank rented a jeep and drove to Chichén Itzá. All of them marveled at the ruins of temples and pyramids that once were the center of the Mayan culture of northern Yucatán. They asked a policeman about Palango.

“Take the dirt road northeast,” the man replied, “and then follow the jungle trail. The Palango dig is at the end of it.”

The boys set out, with Biff at the wheel of the jeep. The dirt road ended and the jungle trail began. It was so rough and bumpy through the dense tropical vegetation that they felt sore and bruised. Even well-padded Chet complained. “I’m not made to be a rubber ball,” he said.

Biff shifted into low gear. “We should have rented a Sherman tank,” he grumbled.

Joe laughed. “How about a swamp buggy?”

The jeep jounced over a large bush. An enormous hole loomed directly ahead! Biff stepped on the brake and the jeep halted at the edge of the hole with a jerk that nearly sent Chet flying over the windshield.

Frank pointed to a pile of fresh earth beside the trail. “Somebody dug that hole recently. I wonder—”

A splintering sound interrupted him. A giant tree beside the trail began to sway. It toppled toward the jeep!

Biff reacted instantly. He stepped on the gas, wrenched the wheel to the left, and scooted into the jungle undergrowth flanking the trail just before the tree fell with a crash. The boys ducked as the branches lashed over the jeep. Then Biff cut back out onto the trail beyond the hole and stopped.

He sighed with relief. “Anyone hurt?” he asked.

The others said no, then Frank proposed that they look around before going on.

The boys walked to the fallen tree. As Chet inspected the tangle of heavy branches, he remarked, “It’s lucky we got out from under.”

“The tree would have smashed us,” Tony agreed.

“Look at the trunk!” Joe declared.

It had been chopped nearly all the way through!

“Someone was setting a trap for us!” Tony exclaimed.

Frank nodded. “He dug the hole to make us stop, cut the tree with an ax till it was barely standing, and then pushed it over to make it topple on us.”

Biff clenched his fists. “That means he must still be around here somewhere. I’ll take him over the hurdles!”

He ran back up the trail. Frank and Joe took the underbrush on one side, Chet and Tony the other. The boys scouted through the area but found nothing except scuffed footprints near the base of the fallen tree.

“He got away!” Biff lamented.

“We may as well call off our search,” Joe said. “It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, only this haystack is the Yucatán jungle.”

An hour later the group bounced into Palango. A Mayan temple had been partially reclaimed, and nearby a deep excavation revealed further work in progress. Several tents had been set up in a cleared area. Four Americans were there along with a dozen Mexicans, descendants of the Mayas, who had been recruited to help with the dig.

The leader of the archaeological expedition came forward to meet them. He was tall and handsome with black wavy hair. “I’m Steve Weiss,” he introduced himself. “It’s a surprise to see you. Usually visitors don’t get this far in the jungle.”

Frank explained that he and his companions were trying to find gold.

“We have already found quite a bit!” said a voice behind them.

The boys turned to see a man wearing white shorts and a pith helmet. He had a superior smile on his face, as if to say that he was doing the visitors a favor by speaking to them. He carried a swagger stick, which he slapped against his leather boot.

“I’m Melville Courtney, assistant archaeologist on the dig,” he announced. “I’m also a Hawkins man.”

“He means Hawkins College,” Joe thought.

“We have already found gold, son,” Courtney repeated, “and are scarcely in need of your assistance on that score. The Mayas buried the gold. We retrieved it after much exertion and loss of perspiration.

“I’m sure you realize,” Courtney continued, “that your help would be superfluous.”

“A job is not what we have in mind,” Frank told him.

“Do you have armadillos in mind?” asked a woman who had just walked up. She was short, had golden hair, and a heart-shaped face. She wore a denim shirt and slacks.

“Rose Renda, our biologist,” Steve Weiss introduced her. “She just joined us a few days ago.”

“I’m an armadillo freak,” Rose declared.

Chet scratched his head and gave her a blank look. “Armadillo freak?”

“As you no doubt know,” Rose explained, “an armadillo is an armored animal native to these parts. It’s about five feet long from snout to tail in the biggest species. The armor on its back is approximately three feet long. The problem I’m researching is this: how is the armadillo related to the glyptodon?”

Now Tony looked blank. “What’s a glyptodon?”

Rose smiled. “You mean, what was a glyptodon? It lived millions of years before the armadillo, was about nine feet long, and had five feet of armor. The armor was completely smooth, and had a number of hinges that permitted it to turn more easily.”

“And you want to find out how the glyptodon evolved into the armadillo?” Tony asked.

“Yes,” Rose replied.

A man carrying a rifle joined the party. He was over six feet tall, slim, and quiet.

“This is Frank Pendleton,” Rose said, “our jungle guide. He knows everything about this area.”

“I should after twenty years,” Pendleton said, smiling.

“I take it you hunt, too?” Tony said with a glance at the man’s rifle.

“No. The gun is strictly for self-defense against the dangerous animals of Yucatán and the jungles south of Brazil. I’ve seen them all.”

“You mean jaguars?” Biff asked.

“That, and big snakes—boa constrictors, for instance.”

Chet grimaced. “I hope I don’t meet one.”

“You never can tell what you may meet in the jungle,” the guide responded. “I—”

“Time for chow,” Weiss interrupted.

Melville Courtney slapped his swagger stick against his boot again. “Dinner is indeed served, such as it is,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “K rations and coffee. Really!”

“However you say it,” Weiss laughed, “we’re all ready to eat.” He invited the Bayporters to share their fare, and they sat in a circle on the ground.

After a while Frank asked, “Has anybody here seen a private plane marked ‘Mexico City’? We’re trying to find it.”

No one had.

Joe put the next question to the group. “Have you ever met a man named Pedro Zemog?”

Again, everyone said no.

“Rumble Murphy?”

As the men shook their heads, Rose said, “Why are you looking for these people?”

“Because we’re trying to solve the mystery of a gold theft,” Joe replied. He told the group about the Wakefield heist and the theft of the ancient horse from the Scythian collection.

Courtney coughed. “Mr. Zemog and Mr. Murphy are obviously not gentlemen,” he stated. “I would not care to associate with them.”

“But they’re part of our mystery,” Joe pointed out.

“I don’t think you’ll solve your mystery here,” Weiss said. “There’s no reason for these gold thieves to bring their loot down here. They’d stick to Mexico City.”

Rose lowered her coffee cup. “It looks as if you boys have come a long way for nothing.”

Chet grinned. “Not me. I want to look at the Mayan gold you found, because I’m adept in gold artifacts.”

“What in the world is that?” Rose asked.

Chet explained his correspondence-course diploma.

Courtney gave him a supercilious look. “That is not like a degree from Hawkins,” he stated.

Chet looked hurt.

“Well, it’s an interesting title,” Steve Weiss interjected to make Chet feel better. “Sure, you can see our gold. The Mayas buried it to keep the Spaniards from getting it. Palango was once a thriving Mayan city. It was subordinate to Chichén Itzá, which you passed through to get here. You must have seen the temple-pyramid there.”

“Yes, we did,” Frank said.

“Well,” the archaeologist continued, “Chichén Itzá also had its Temple of the Warriors, its Court of the Thousand Columns, and its Observatory.”

“Observatory?” Tony asked. “Did those people study astronomy?”

“Oh, sure, and in a big way. They kept records of the stars and planets so they could be sure their Mayan calendar was accurate. They needed to know which days of the year to hold their religious festivals and other ceremonies.”

“Palango was minor compared to Chichén Itzá,” Pendleton put in. “But it did have a pyramid—the lost pyramid.”

“Boy, how can you lose a pyramid?” Biff quipped. “Kind of careless.”

Rose laughed. “The fact is that jungle growth covers everything in a few years.”

Weiss nodded. “And the jungle’s had almost five hundred years to cover the pyramid. When the trees, moss, vines, and creepers have done their work, you can walk within yards of a Mayan building and never spot it.”

Pendleton continued. “We know the lost pyramid is about twenty miles from here because a hunter spotted it fifty years ago. But he didn’t give the location. Even if we knew that, it would be very hard to hack our way through the jungle. There’s the vegetation, the heat, and the insects. As things are, every attempt to find the pyramid has failed because it’s like looking for a minnow in the Gulf of Mexico.”

“We may never discover it,” Rose added, “but we expect to run into a lot of armadillos. The jungle here must be loaded with them.”

“It is,” Pendleton assured her. “We’ll go out after armadillo tomorrow. Like to go along with us, fellows? You can help capture one.”

Biff spoke for them all. “That would be great!”

Weiss dug into the camp stores for more tents. Frank and Joe pitched the one they would share on the edge of the clearing near the Mayan temple. Branches of large trees, which surrounded the ancient building, were festooned with trailing moss, giving the scene an eerie look.

The Hardys said good night to their friends and were sound asleep when they were awakened by a terrified shout from Biff’s tent. It woke up others in the camp and brought footsteps pounding in his direction.

Joe snapped on his pocket flashlight and opened the flap of his friend’s shelter.

“Biff, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“On the ground!” Biff cried.

Joe trained the beam of his light lower. A long sinuous form was coiled just inside the door of Biff’s tent. The reptile raised its head in a menacing stare and started to hiss.

“It’s a boa constrictor!” Chet bellowed. “That thing will squeeze him to death!”

CHAPTER XI

A Mysterious Shot

BIFF crouched at the rear of his tent and eyed the big snake apprehensively. His friends formed a semicircle at the open flap of the canvas, not daring to get too close. The boa constrictor Nicked its tongue menacingly.

“What’ll we do?” Chet wailed.

“Step aside!” a woman ordered. Rose Renda walked into the tent. She was carrying a large burlap bag, the mouth of which she opened by releasing a draw-string. Just then three Mexican workmen, alerted by Pendleton because of their experience in handling snakes, joined the group.

The jungle guide teased the boa constrictor with a stick until it struck ferociously. As its head hit the ground, Pendleton’s hand flashed out and closed on the neck just behind the head.

Two of the other men grabbed the reptile around the body, while the third seized the lashing tail. The four lifted the boa off the ground and dropped it, tail first, into the open burlap bag that Rose was holding. Then they crammed in the sinuous body, and finally Pendleton shoved the head, instantly pulling his hand away. Rose drew the mouth of the bag taut.

“This will make a fine addition to the Mexico City Zoo,” she commented.

“The zoo can have it,” Biff muttered.

Pendleton told everybody to go back to sleep and stop worrying. “It’s almost unheard of for a snake of this size to invade an archaeological dig,” he told them.

“This one,” said Frank, “must have lost its way.”

“Poor, crazy mixed-up snake,” Joe said with a grin.

That broke up the tension and all the boys went back to their tents. In the morning, they joined Rose, Pendleton, and Courtney on a trek into the jungle in search of an armadillo. Pendleton wore the rough clothes and floppy hat of an experienced jungle guide. Courtney appeared in spotless white ducks, wearing his pith helmet and carrying his swagger stick.

“Melville, you’d better leave your helmet behind,” Pendleton urged.

“It’s part of one’s dress in hot climates,” was the reply. “I wish to dress correctly.”

“That’s when you’re out in the sun. We’ll be under the trees and you’ll need air. You’ll be too hot with a helmet on.”

Courtney insisted on wearing his helmet, however, so the guide shrugged and dropped the subject.

The party started their trek into the steaming jungle. Frank and Joe decided to say nothing but to keep their eyes open for a plane flying overhead. They might spot the one they suspected!

Soon they found themselves under a dense canopy of greenery. Branches, vines, moss, and creepers blotted out the sun. Much of the time the trekkers had to hack their way through with machetes. Birds and monkeys screamed at them from the trees, and weasels and other small creatures fled through the underbrush at their approach.

Insects stung them and sweat poured down their faces. As Pendleton had predicted, Courtney felt the heat worst of all because of his helmet.

“Ditch it!” the guide advised.

“A Hawkins man never gives up,” Courtney replied.

“Have it your way, but we have quite a distance to go before we reach armadillo country.”

They slogged forward, taking regular breaks since it was so difficult to advance. Late in the afternoon, the guide suggested, “Let’s call it a day.” The others willingly agreed. They opened crackers and tinned meat, and ate dinner.

Then Rose gave a talk on armadillos. “They’re rarely found together,” she stated. “When we spot an armadillo, we’ll run him to earth. He’ll try to reach the security of his burrow before you get there. If you head him off, he’ll roll up into a ball and stay put.”

“Why does he do that?” Tony queried.

Rose smiled. “He hopes that whoever is bothering him will get tired of waiting for him to uncurl and go away.”

“What are the chances of finding one tomorrow?” Chet asked.

“Pretty good. Yucatán has been the home of the armadillo for thousands of years. According to a Mayan myth vultures turn into armadillos when they grow old. There are plenty left here.”

In the morning, the march resumed. Insects swarmed around the hunters and Frank swatted a mosquito. “They’re as big as robins,” he complained.

“Big as crows,” Joe corrected him, knocking one off his cheek.

After hours of pushing through the jungle, Rose noticed an anthill that had been broken open. “An armadillo did that,” she said, excited. “Ants are number one on his menu.”

Pendleton told the group to split up. “Look under bushes and in burrows. If you flush an armadillo, sing out. The rest of us will come on the run.”

Courtney slapped his swagger stick against a tree. “I will direct the capture,” he offered.

“I’ll bet he will,” Frank whispered to Joe. “He’s not about to touch an armadillo.”

They separated to look for their quarry. Rose tried to pick up a trail at the ravaged anthill. Pendleton continued straight ahead in the direction they had been taking. Courtney stabbed into the bushes with his swagger stick, looking as if he hoped never to see an armadillo in his life.

Chet, Biff, and Tony moved beyond Courtney into the jungle. Frank and Joe went to the left. “There’s one thing we won’t find in here,” Frank remarked.

“What’s that?”

“The Mexico City plane. You couldn’t fit even a helicopter into this jungle with a shoehorn.”

“That’s right. Well, let’s concentrate on the armadillo.”

They split up. Frank vanished among some moss-laden trees. Joe took a route over a carpet of jungle vegetation. The undergrowth slowed him considerably. Vines caught his clothing, and creepers tripped him. A green parrot fluttered down onto a bush and squawked at him angrily, but he laughed as a hare stood upright on its hind legs, twitching its nose as he passed.

Presently Joe found an armadillo burrow, which he probed with a branch. It was empty. He went on, but after a while his legs were tired. He paused beside a tree in an open space of the jungle to rest. Wham! A rock slammed into the tree, inches from his head! It bounced off and caromed into a thicket.

Joe hit the ground in a headlong dive. He crawled over a tangle of creepers and pulled himself into a crouching position behind another tree. Gingerly he peered around the trunk. No one was in sight.

A sharp report cut through the stillness of the jungle. A shot! It had come from behind him! Joe dodged into the underbrush and stealthily moved in an arc toward the spot where the shot had been fired. He saw no one.

His companions had heard the shot, and ran up to see what had happened.

“Somebody used me for a clay pigeon,” Joe told them. “He fired right at me!”

Frank turned to Pendleton. “You’re the only one carrying a weapon. Did you fire at Joe?”

“Of course not.” The jungle guide strenuously denied the charge. He opened the breech of his rifle. “Look for yourself. It hasn’t been fired.”

“Who could it be, then?” Biff wondered.

Tony sighed. “We’re obviously not the only ones here in the wilderness.”

“Maybe it was a Mayan hunter after armadillo,” Pendleton suggested. “Mayas love armadillo steaks.”

“Or the guy who dug the hole and tried to conk us with a tree,” Frank said to Joe in a low voice. “Matter of fact, that’s more likely.”

“That would mean we’re being watched constantly,” Joe said in alarm.

Frank nodded. “It is a possibility.”

The searchers began beating the undergrowth. An armadillo, evidently startled, bolted from behind a rock. It was about three feet long, with a pointed snout, long ears, and a long tail. The armor fitted over its back like a half shell.

The animal hit Biff a hard blow on the ankles, knocking him off his feet, then raced past. Everybody chased the armadillo, careening and stumbling through the jungle undergrowth.

The creature veered into Chet’s path. As he lunged for it, his foot caught in a creeper, and he fell with a crash. The Hardys, too close behind him to stop, piled on top of the stout boy in a tangle of arms and legs. Frantically they scrambled to their feet and resumed the chase.

The armadillo did an about-face and raced between them. It plowed into Courtney, bowling the Hawkins man over. His pith helmet rolled into the underbrush. He got to his feet slowly, retrieved the helmet, brushed it with his sleeve, and placed it on his head, looking embarrassed.

“I shan’t associate with any armadillo,” he declared, seating himself on a stump and rapping it with his swagger stick. “I will wait here.”

The animal reached its burrow, but Pendleton, too quick for it, seized the armadillo and pulled it out, kicking and squealing. The creature resisted briefly before quieting down in the guide’s arms.

The other searchers arrived. The boys stroked the armor, which was composed of hide with a series of plates around the body, giving it flexibility.

“So that’s an armadillo!” Tony marveled.

“Yes indeed,” Rose answered. She scratched its ears with her fingertips.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Chet asked apprehensively. “You might lose a finger.”

Rose shook her head. “Armadillos have few or no front teeth, so they can’t bite.” She held the animal while Pendleton took a collapsible wire cage from his pack. They eased their captive into it and the jungle guide pulled the straps over his shoulders. The cage rode easily on his back.

“Mission accomplished,” Pendleton said.

“Right-o!” Courtney exclaimed. “We may now leave this jungle, of which I have had quite enough.”

Frank spoke. “I’d like to scout around here a bit longer.”

Joe and his friends agreed enthusiastically, but Pendleton objected. “We’ll have to get back to the dig. Do you want to stay here alone?”

“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”

“Not really. We’re on an elevation where the mosquitoes aren’t bad. I don’t think you’ll see any dangerous animals, either. Can you find your way back to camp?”

“Sure,” Frank said. “We’ll go by the compass. Since we came from a northeasterly direction, we’ll return that way.”

“Good enough,” Pendleton replied. “You stay then, and we’ll be on our way.”

Courtney doffed his pith helmet. “Adios,” he said solemnly, and Rose waved good-by.

As the three explorers disappeared into the jungle, their footsteps died away in the distance.

The boys walked in the opposite direction, noting the jungle flowers and animals as they went.

“There are a million monkeys here,” Biff judged.

“And a billion parrots,” Tony added.

“What do we do if we meet any Mayas?” Joe asked.

“Talk Mayan to them,” Frank quipped.

By nightfall the boys were extremely tired. Making a hasty meal of their rations, they set up camp beneath towering trees.

Frank could not sleep. He kept thinking about the strange events that had taken Joe and him to Switzerland, then to the jungles of Yucatán. It appeared that they were finally onto a clue—the plane marked “Mexico City.” But where was it?

He sat up and turned his head. Everything was pitch black. Suddenly through the darkness he saw a light. It moved in a circle and went out. Frank rubbed his eyes.

The light flashed once more, swaying back and forth for a few minutes, then went out again. In a moment the signal was repeated a third time.

Now fully awake, Frank reached over and shook his brother.

Joe yawned. “What is it, Frank?”

“A light out there! Look!”

The beam remained stationary for a few seconds. Then it started moving once more, vanished, and reappeared a moment later.

Frank jumped up. “Hurry, Joe, we’ll have to find out what this means!” He grabbed his compass and the two slipped through the jungle, guiding themselves by the mysterious light. After about half a mile, they reached a clearing.

The full moon revealed a weird sight. A stone building covered with jungle vegetation towered toward the sky. The vines and creepers spreading up the uncanny edifice from base to summit seemed like writhing serpents and disguised the building completely. The mysterious beam came from the summit.

“That’s a flashlight!” Joe said in a low voice. “Somebody’s up there. What’s he doing, Frank?”

“Joe, I believe he’s signaling a pal. But why?”

CHAPTER XII

The Jungle Pyramid

THE Hardys entered the clearing and cautiously approached the eerie edifice. It was more than a hundred feet high, tapered toward the summit, with indented rows of stone steps rising from the bottom to the top. The base was formed of massive stone blocks. On the summit stood a temple.

“I’ll bet it’s the lost pyramid!” Frank gaped.

“No wonder it got lost,” Joe whispered. “Rose was right. The jungle covers everything!”

Close up, they could see where winds had blown earth over the stone blocks. The seeds of plants, vines, creepers, shrubs, and flowers had imbedded themselves in the earth and sprouted in profusion.

Joe looked up toward the light on the summit. “Let’s find out what’s going on,” he whispered.

“Easy does it,” Frank counseled. “We don’t want to scare the person off. First we’ll explore the ground around the pyramid. Whoever is up there might be signaling an accomplice down here.”

Stealthily the two boys slunk past the staircase in the center of the facade, noting that it lead up to the temple entrance. As they turned the corner, Joe bumped into an upright slab of stone covered with raised squares and bearing strange symbols.

“Glyphs,” he thought.

They went on with their search. At the back of the pyramid, they saw the carved figure of a monstrous snake undulating down over the stone blocks. Eyes of obsidian glinted at them in the semidarkness. The open mouth revealed oversized fangs. Plumes bedecked the head and neck.

“The Feathered Serpent of the Mayas!” Frank said.

He and Joe had seen statues of this mythical creature many times since their arrival in Mexico. They knew it was the principal god of the Indians who had lived in Mexico before Columbus came to America.

Circling the pyramid, the boys returned to their starting point. “Nobody down here but us,” Joe said in a low voice.

The light was still showing on the summit. Suddenly, at the door of the temple, it went out.

“The man’s gone inside,” Frank observed. “This is our chance.”

Slipping and sliding, the Hardys silently climbed the steps to the top of the pyramid. Frank edged his way into the entrance of the temple. They did not see the light, and he whispered, “Maybe there are inner stairs to the top.”

“Then we can take him by surprise,” Joe said. He stepped forward, feeling his way along the wall. The boys did not want to use their pencil flashlights because they might alert the person inside to the fact that they were stalking him.

Suddenly Joe plummeted out of sight!

“Joe!” Frank whispered hoarsely. “Joe! Where are you? Joel”

Receiving no answer, Frank fished out his light and played the beam across the interior. At his feet the edge of a long stone incline dropped into utter darkness. Frank was horrified. Had Joe plunged down into a Mayan dungeon? If so, he might be hurt! He might be unconscious! He might even be—! “Joe!” he called. “Are you all right?”

Then he heard Joe’s voice behind him. “I’m okay, Frank. I just took a ride on a Mayan roller coaster!”

Frank breathed easier.

“It’s leading outside to the steps in the back,” Joe continued. “I landed next to the Feathered Serpent. He didn’t blink an eye.”

Frank kept the beam of his flashlight shining over the end of the inclined plane. The boys decided it must have been used to lever heavy objects up to the higher levels of the pyramid.

“No freight elevators for the Mayas,” Joe joked. “They did everything with muscle.”

“Not so loud!” Frank warned. He played his beam around the lower chamber of the temple. It flashed over a pile of clay pots and stone figures in a corner.

“Where are we?” Joe asked.

“It looks like a storeroom, Joe. They kept supplies here until they were needed upstairs.” The flashlight crossed a tall stone column in the opposite corner. Frank brought it back into focus. The column was a rectangular stone block standing on end, about as tall as the boys. The same face was repeated four times from top to bottom, the visage of a large cat, its fangs bared in a savage snarl. “The jaguar god,” Frank whispered.

“As Chet would say, I hope I never meet up with him,” Joe said.

Frank now pointed his flashlight toward the ceiling. It showed row after row of petroglyphs, which they could not read.

“I understand,” Frank said, “that Mayan script has not been completely deciphered yet.”

The Hardys circled the chamber. The only opening was a low doorway. Frank ducked under it, followed by Joe, into a small, empty room. A quick search showed it had no other outlet.

A rustle at the doorway made Frank snap off his flashlight. The boys whirled in the defensive stance of karate experts. The sound came directly toward them in the darkness!

The Hardys had a strategy for such confrontations. They counted silently to three, then Frank snapped on his light. At the same time, Joe leaped on the intruder. He received a whiplash across the face, and went down in a tangle of branches!

Frank chuckled in spite of the danger. “A bush! The wind blew it in here!”

Ruefully Joe extricated himself and got to his feet. “Next time, I’ll look before I leap!” he said.

The Hardys went back through the first chamber. “We’ll have to use the outer stairs to get to the top of the temple,” Frank declared. “I hope the guy inside won’t see or hear us.”

He pocketed his flashlight; then the boys went outside and maneuvered over to the staircase. The steps seemed to rise endlessly above them, steep and narrow. The footing was difficult, and clouds gathering across the face of the moon created a dark, murky atmosphere.

“Don’t fall!” Frank muttered. “It’s a bumpy road to the ground.”

They got about a third of the way up, gripping vines to steady themselves and making sure of a foothold on every step, before they were interrupted. Something moved among the vines near Frank’s right hand. Pulling his fingers away, he got out his light and shone the beam on the fluttering leaves. A menacing snake raised its head, stared at him for a few seconds, then slithered onto the bough of a small tree. It vanished among the creepers.

Frank felt his heart pounding. He had almost placed his hand on a fer-de-lance, one of the most poisonous snakes of the Yucatán jungle!

“You’re no snake charmer,” Joe whispered. “Don’t fool around with our lethal companions.”

They resumed their climb. A black object hurtled through the air at them. Joe ducked in time to avoid getting hit on the head, but lost his footing and toppled off the step! Frank grabbed his brother in midair and held him until he could regain his foothold.

The trajectile veered to one side and landed on a bush. A harsh croak jarred their ears.

“A raven!” Frank whispered. “He almost got us!” As they continued their climb close to the summit, Frank paused and looked up. The smoother stone of the temple gleamed through tangled tropical growth that sprouted on its roof and spilled down the sides, waving wildly in a rising wind. The entrance was a dark oblong in the front wall. Total silence reigned over the jungle pyramid.

Frank gestured to Joe not to make a sound. They moved slowly and carefully up the rest of the steps. The final one brought them to the sacrificial chamber. On it stood a platform with four feet on each side. The walls of the temple behind it were made of pink-red stone rising some twenty feet into the air. A doorway led into the interior, and blank walls extended on each side of the doorway. The roof was flat.

Frank and Joe stole to one side of the entrance and peered in cautiously. A shaft of moonlight gleamed through an opening in the opposite wall. There was no sign or sound of life in the temple.

“Do you think the guy heard us and ran?” Joe asked in a whisper.

“Well, if he did, let’s see what he was up to,” Frank said.

As the boys entered, Frank fumbled for his flashlight. Just then something rustled in a dark corner, and the next instant a man barreled out at them! He leveled Joe with a wild swing, then grappled with Frank!

The pair staggered back and forth in a furious test of strength until the assailant gave ground. Frank pressed him back. They swayed through the doorway and over to the staircase.

Joe recovered slowly from the blow. He felt woozy, but got to his feet. Then he realized he was alone in the temple. His brother and their attacker were gone!

“Frank!” he shouted. “Frank!”

The name echoed out over the jungle, but Frank did not answer. Frantically Joe rushed through the nearest doorway, which was the rear exit, and circled around the temple to the front.

There he could see Frank and the stranger still locked in combat! Joe rushed to help his brother, but before he could reach the spot, Frank and his attacker had lost their footing!

With a scream, they pitched down the main staircase and fell toward the bottom of the jungle pyramid!

CHAPTER XIII

A Strange Figure

JoE leaped forward and clutched wildly at Frank, but his fingers missed by inches!

Three new shapes were suddenly visible on the steps in the moonlight. Three pairs of arms caught Frank and his antagonist in midair. With great relief, Joe recognized Chet, Biff, and Tony!

The boys pulled Frank free. He stood to one side, panting from his struggle, while Biff gripped his adversary in a bear hug. The two wrestled fiercely on the temple staircase.

The man tripped Biff, who tumbled into a tangle of creepers. The assailant leaped up the steps, but Tony brought him down with a tackle around the ankles. Chet sat on him and grinned.

“Had enough?” Chet inquired.

“Chet’s a bit overweight,” Tony pointed out.

“I—can—tell—that!” the man gasped. “Okay. I give up!”

The boys pushed their captive up to the summit and backed him against the temple wall in the darkness.

“You guys came just in time,” Frank said to his friends. “How did you get here?”

Biff said he had awakened to discover that Frank and Joe were gone. “I noticed a light and figured you must have seen it, too. So I woke Chet and Tony and we decided to back you up in case you were in trouble. We found what we think is the lost pyramid, and we saw a hassle on the top.”

“We came up the Mayan escalator,” Tony quipped. “Stone blocks and leg power.”

Biff looked at their captive. “Say, who is this guy?”

Joe took out his pencil flashlight, snapped it on, and shone it in the man’s face.

Rumble Murphy!

“What are you doing here?” Frank asked the pilot.

“None of your business!” Murphy grunted.

“Let’s tie him up,” Frank suggested. “One of us can watch him, while the rest are searching the place. There should be some clue as to what our friend was doing in the pyramid.”

The boys handcuffed Murphy with Joe’s belt, and tied his ankles with Tony’s. Biff volunteered to guard the pilot, while the others would go over the temple and pyramid with a fine-toothed comb, using their flashlights.

First they entered the section of the temple where they had been before. It had a high ceiling. A raised altar stood at one end and a row of stone idols at the other. Here the priests of the Mayan religion apparently had presided over ceremonies to the gods.

“Wow!” Tony said as he played his light over the altar. “This is where the Indians prayed to the jaguar god and the feathered serpent.”

Frank nodded. “Right now I’m not interested in the feathered serpent, but in some clues to why Murphy was here.”

The boys looked in every nook and cranny, and were about to give up when Joe called out, “Hey, fellows! Come over here!”

The others ran up to him. Joe pointed to a bulky sack concealed behind a statue of the jaguar god. Together, the boys dragged it into the center of the room.

“It’s heavy as lead!” Tony exclaimed.

Excited, they opened it.

“Gold!” Chet cried in awe as they pulled out one object after another. First came a disc representing the sun. Small figurines followed. Finally there were dozens of ornaments—headdresses, bracelets, and rings.

“I don’t believe it!” Frank said. “This stuff is priceless!”

“All Mayan,” Chet added. “It takes an adept in golden artifacts to know that.”

Joe upended the sack and shook out the contents. “The Scythian horse isn’t here,” he said, a note of disappointment in his voice.

“This stuff is priceless!” Frank said.

But Chet was ecstatic. “Who cares! You were looking for one little figurine, and see what you’ve found instead!”

“Not the Wakefield gold, either,” Frank said.

“Let’s take one thing at a time,” Tony suggested, “and confront Rumble Murphy with the evidence. Maybe he’ll enlighten us as to the origin of this treasure.”

“Good idea,” Frank said, and the boys began putting the glittering objects back into the sack.

“Remember the fortune-teller in Mexico City?” Joe asked his brother. “She said there was much gold in your future. Maybe she meant this.”

Frank laughed. “Who knows?”

The boys carried the sack outside and showed it to Biff. Murphy mumbled under his breath.

“Okay, Murphy,” Frank said. “You may as well tell us what this is all about.”

Murphy glared as his captors surrounded him menacingly.

“Come on, talk!” Biff hissed and moved his bulky figure closer to the pilot.

“All right, all right,” Murphy grumbled. “I handle Mayan artifacts. Jeep them to Chichén Itzá, then fly them out of Mexico for international buyers.”

“Did you ever see a figurine of a rearing horse?” Tony inquired. “A Scythian piece.”

Murphy shook his head. “I told you I handle only stuff that’s found right here in Mexico—Aztec, Mayan, Olmec—no Scythian gold.”

“How did you find the pyramid?” Frank queried.

“I spotted it one day when I was flying low over the jungle. Later I discovered a way in by jeep from Chichén Itzá. And I saw it was the perfect hideout because nobody else knew where it was, so I stored my loot here.”

Frank changed the line of questioning. “Why did you threaten us at the airport in Mexico City?”

“Because your fat friend said you were after my gold!”

“Your gold?” Frank was puzzled.

“He said you always find your man, and you’d find the gold. I don’t know anyone else smuggling gold around here, so I figured you were after me! Who do you work for, anyway?”

Frank grinned. “The Wakefield Mint.”

“What!”

“Never mind. But we had nothing to do with you. If you hadn’t signaled tonight, we would never have suspected you.”

Murphy mumbled again, but said nothing aloud.

Biff said, “You were the one who dug the hole in the trail from Chichén Itzá and then caused the tree to tumble on us! You almost killed us!”

“I did no such thing,” Murphy grumbled, but the boys knew he was lying.

“And you tampered with the engine of our chartered plane,” Joe accused. “After you dug the hole you flew back to Mexico City and waited for us!”

“And you took a pot shot at Joe today,” Frank added.

Murphy did not reply.

“Why were you signaling with the flashlight tonight?” Frank asked.

“What signal?” Murphy asked defiantly.

“Don’t play dumb,” Frank said. “If we hadn’t seen your light, we never would have found you or the pyramid.”

“A buddy of mine Hies over here at night at a certain time to let me know if we found a buyer. I don’t know which night he’s coming, so I signal, then he drops the instructions. He didn’t show up tonight.”

“Why did you take a chance with us so close by?” Tony asked.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” Murphy said glumly. “I thought you had left with the others.”

By now the sun had begun to rise and a soft mist hung over the jungle.

“What’ll we do with him?” Chet asked.

“Murphy must have a jeep around,” Frank replied. “We’ll have to deliver him to the nearest police station in Chichén Itzá.”

Rumble Murphy looked at them with squinting eyes. “Do you have to be that drastic? Look, I could cut you in on the loot. This stuff is worth a bundle of money. If you don’t want to handle it yourselves, I’ll pay you in cash. Fifty-fifty. What do you say?”

“No,” Frank said laconically.

“All right. I’ll give you seventy-five percent. That’s robbing me, but what can I do?”

“Forget it, Murphy,” Joe said. “We’re not thieves.”

“You’re crazy! Do you realize what you’re turning down? Listen, I’ll give you everything, but don’t take me to the cops!”

Frank ignored the plea. “Where’s your jeep?”

Murphy realized that he had lost and started to scream at the top of his lungs. Suddenly he fell silent and would not utter another word.

“I’ll go find the jeep,” Frank offered. “It has to be around here somewhere. Hey, look!”

He pointed to a stranger entering the trampled area around the pyramid. He was a man dressed in the white suit worn by modern Mayas, with a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head. He edged around the pyramid in a suspicious manner.

“So, there’s your accomplice, Murphy!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s meet him, gang. Biff, want to guard our friend again?”

“Sure thing,” Biff replied as Frank, Joe, and Chet took the steps down as fast as they could, followed by Tony. They circled the pyramid, taking the direction opposite that used by the man in the white suit.

They met him at the corner. He had the light-copper coloring of an Indian. Lank black hair extended down to his shoulders. His cheeks were round and a scar ran across the right side of his face. He looked startled when he saw them.

“Are you looking for Rumble Murphy?” Joe asked.

The man responded in a rapid flow of Spanish. Though the boys had studied the language in high school, they could not follow him because he spoke so fast and with a strange inflection. Joe asked him to repeat slowly what he had just said, but the man stared at him blankly.

Chet had an idea. “Let’s try sign language,” he suggested. “I’ll take it from here.”

He touched the man on the shoulder, turned, and pointed into the jungle. He made a long sweep with one arm toward the pyramid.

“What does that mean?” Joe wondered.

“I’m asking him where he comes from, and how he got here,” Chet explained.

“Well, you could have fooled me,” Joe said.

The man smiled, shrugged, and spoke again.

“We’re getting nowhere fast,” Frank protested.

The boys decided to bring the man face to face with Murphy. One of them might give something away. They were discussing the best way to arrange the confrontation when the man suddenly spoke English.

“Bayport seems to be on the ball!”

CHAPTER XIV

The Aztec War God

THE boys gaped. The voice was unmistakably that of their father!

“Dad!” Frank cried out. “I don’t believe it!” He scrutinized the coppery face closely. Then he grinned. “I should have known. The color of your eyes doesn’t fit your make-up!”

Mr. Hardy chuckled. “A bit of make-up and cheek pads can do a lot to change one’s appearance. And I can always squint when necessary.”

“But, Dad, we thought you were investigating the case in Wakefield,” Joe said. “What’s up?”

“It’s a long story,” Mr. Hardy said. “And it was John Armstrong’s idea.”

“You mean he doesn’t trust us?” Frank asked.

“Well, he thought you could use some reinforcement. Actually, he decided all of a sudden that I was wasting my time in Wakefield. Since he had some business in Mexico City, he asked me to come along. We left the day after you did. When we arrived, John took care of his appointment in the city, while I asked questions around the airport about the mysterious plane.”

“Same as we did,” Joe said. “And that’s how you found out about Palango?”

“Palango? What’s that?”

“An archaeological dig near here,” Frank said. “That’s where we ended up.”

Mr. Hardy shook his head. “No one mentioned Palango to me. But I was tipped off that Rumble Murphy was smuggling gold, so I hid in his plane all the way to Mérida.”

“Wow!” Chet looked at the detective in admiration. “Neat sleuthing!”

“Well, I almost lost him when we arrived,” Mr. Hardy continued. “I had to rent a jeep while his was already waiting. But I caught up with him and followed him here.”

“Did he stop on the way?” Frank asked.

“Yes, in the jungle, for about an hour. He got out of his jeep and disappeared into the woods. Then another car came along the trail, nearly ran into a hole, and barely escaped a falling tree. I saw it from a distance.”

“That car was ours!” Frank cried out.

Mr. Hardy stared at the boys. “You’d better tell me all that’s happened to you,” he said gravely.

The boys described their adventures for their father, then Joe asked, “Dad, what did you do when you saw the pyramid?”

“There wasn’t much I could do,” Mr. Hardy said. “I pitched a tent nearby and kept observing Murphy so I could be sure he didn’t have a gang of people working here with him. Yesterday he left the place and I followed him into the jungle. There were people close by and he shot at something, maybe to scare them off.”

“He shot at me!” Joe declared. “But he didn’t scare us away!”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “I was hoping he’d leave for a while so I could search the pyramid, but he went right back.”

“Did you see the lights last night?” Frank asked.

“No. I must have dozed off. This morning I decided I’d better do something. So I disguised myself and was on the way to confront Murphy when I met you.”

“We’ve taken care of Murphy already, Mr. Hardy,” Chet announced and they reported their adventure of the previous night.

“Murphy admits he’s a smuggler,” Biff said. “We found his loot. Great stuff-gold by the sackful!”

“Unfortunately it wasn’t the Wakefield gold, or the Scythian figurine, either,” Frank said.

Mr. Hardy tried to cheer his son. “Even if Murphy and Palango were false leads, you discovered an illegal smuggling operation. The Mexican government will be very grateful to you, and Murphy deserves to be put out of business.”

Frank nodded. “You’re right. We were just about to take him to Chichén Itzá and hand him over to the police. If necessary, we’ll take him to Mérida.”

“Good thinking. We can use his jeep and mine. Let’s go get him,” Mr. Hardy said.

The group walked up the steps of the pyramid to where Biff was guarding Murphy. Biff marveled at Mr. Hardy’s disguise, and the thief glowered at them. “I want to see a lawyer,” he snarled.

“You’ll see one in town, Murphy,” Mr. Hardy said. “First we’ll take you and your loot out of here.”

The boys untied Murphy’s ankles and led him to their father’s jeep. He was put in the front seat, while Tony and Biff rode in the back to make sure the smuggler would not try to escape.

The others had soon located Murphy’s vehicle and Frank climbed behind the wheel with Joe and Chet as passengers. The jeeps took a long detour that Murphy had discovered was the easiest route through the jungle. Arriving in Chichén Itzá, they turned the man and his gold over to the authorities.

The police deputy was gratified. “We knew a smuggler was operating in this area, but we never could catch him. You have done us a great favor!”

After Murphy was led away, Frank said. “I don’t see any reason to go back to Palango. What do you think, Dad?”

“I agree. Let’s drive to Mérida and get a flight from there to Mexico City. Then we can see what Armstrong has in mind.”

In Merida, Mr. Hardy called John Armstrong at his hotel to tell him when they would arrive. He picked them up at the airport. Looking harried, he mopped his brow with his handkerchief.

“What’s new, Fenton?” he asked.

“No news of the mint thief, John. We didn’t find the stolen gold in the jungle,” Mr. Hardy replied, “but the boys nabbed a smuggler.” He told Armstrong about their adventure.

Armstrong sighed. “While you were away, I checked with the police on Zemog. Nothing positive there either. But I’m sure the answer—”

“Look!” Joe interrupted and pointed to a small plane with the words “Mexico City” on the fuselage. It was just taking off on the runway.

Joe memorized the craft’s number, and the excited boys went to check with the control tower. They found out that the plane belonged to Carlos Calderón. According to the pilot’s flight plan, he was bound for Mérida.

“I think he’s going to Palango,” the official in the tower told them.

“Results at last!” Joe said jubilantly as they went back to tell their father and Armstrong what they had just heard.

Armstrong was enthusiastic. “You see? We’ll have to go there right away!”

They took a flight the following morning. Mr. Hardy would stay in Mexico City to testify against Murphy, who was being transferred for his hearing the next day. Armstrong and the boys flew to Merida, where they rented two jeeps and once more drove to the dig. When they arrived, their archaeological friends greeted them with loud shouts.

“Thank goodness you’re all right!” Rose cried out. “We thought you were lost in the jungle! Frank Pendleton went out looking for you but had no luck!”

“We ran into an unexpected adventure,” Frank said. After introducing John Armstrong, he told about Rumble Murphy and the pyramid.

Steve Weiss was incredulous. “This is absolutely fantastic!” he said.

“Well, we didn’t find what we were after,” Frank said. “But the plane we were looking for has supposedly flown to Mérida and its owner, Carlos Calderón, was planning to come here.”

“Carlos!” Steve exclaimed. “He’s a good friend of ours, an archaeology student who visits once in a while. He does graduate work at the University of Mexico. Right now he’s out in the jungle with a couple of our men. Should be back any minute, however.”

“Why didn’t you tell us his plane had ‘Mexico City’ on it?” Joe asked.

“I didn’t know. He told us he bought a small plane recently, but I never saw it.”

Just then three men appeared at the excavation site. Two were Mexican workmen, the third a handsome young fellow with wavy black hair and a bright smile.

“Hey, Carlos!” Steve called out. “These people want to meet you.”

He introduced everyone, then Frank asked Carlos if he had ever been in Wakefield, U.S.A.

The young man was surprised. “No, I have never been out of Mexico. Why do you ask?”

“We’re trailing a private plane marked ‘Mexico City’ that took off from an airstrip near Wakefield.”

“When was that?” Carlos asked.

Frank gave him the date.

“Wait a minute,” Weiss intervened. “At that time Carlos was here at the Palango dig with us.”

Melville Courtney had been listening. Now he slapped his swagger stick against his boot and addressed the boys. “My dear chaps, you will have to look elsewhere for your culprit. My goodness, how suspicious you are!”

“I realize you have a case to solve,” Steve Weiss said. “But I hope you’ll stay and lead us to the lost pyramid. We’ll go out tomorrow and do a preliminary survey. After that we’ll take a work gang and begin clearing away the vegetation.”

Frank and Joe looked at Armstrong, who nodded vigorously. “Of course we’ll stay. We’ll be glad to guide you to the place.” To Frank he said in a low tone, “I don’t believe Calderón is as harmless as he seems. Maybe someone else flew his plane. We’ll stay here and keep him under surveillance.”

Steve Weiss and his group were excited about the lost pyramid, and they could hardly wait to explore it. “We’re glad you caught that smuggler,” Steve told the boys. “We just dug up a lot of artifacts, and he might have stolen them. Look here.” He showed them small statues, images of the Mayan gods, an assortment of weapons and knives, and some tablets bearing petroglyphic inscriptions.

“This is our masterpiece,” he declared, holding one up for all to see. “It’s an image of the Aztec war god. The Aztecs traded with the Mayas of Yucatán, you know.”

The image was a shining gold mask. The features were contorted into a ferocious scowl, and the jade eyes reflected the sunlight in shimmering blue-green.

Weiss handed the mask to Frank, who examined it and passed the piece around the circle. Everybody was thrilled by the Aztec war god. Chet and Carlos were fascinated.

Armstrong hefted the mask. “Feels like solid gold,” he announced. “I’d say it’s as valuable as one of our larger bars in the mint.”

He began to speak with Chet, Carlos, and Pendleton about the quality of gold. Later that evening, the four sat up after the others had gone to bed. Just before he fell asleep, Joe heard Chet retire to his tent.

A rattling noise woke Joe up hours later. It came from the tent where the artifacts were kept. Somebody was banging them together as if searching for something! Silently Joe crept toward the tent, straining his eyes to see in the darkness. A figure stole out and walked toward the jungle.

Dark clouds floated past overhead. Moonlight gleamed on a gold mask molded into a ferocious scowl.

“Whoever he is,” Joe thought, “he’s stealing the valuable gold mask!”

CHAPTER XV

Lethal Reptiles

For a moment Joe stared at the thief, who was slowly strolling along in the darkness. Then the young detective crept back to his tent and awakened Frank.

“Someone’s taking off with the golden mask!” he whispered into his brother’s ear. “We’d better stop him!”

Frank bolted out of his sleeping bag. “Go after him,” he said. “I’ll wake the others and we’ll be right there.”

Joe ran from the camp as quietly as he could in order not to alert the thief. The man might run into the jungle and disappear into the night! He saw the thief, still walking slowly in the moonlight, and caught up to him. “Stop!” Joe commanded. “Don’t go any farther!”

He expected the thief to whirl around and attack him, and was ready to fight. Instead, the man turned slowly, holding the mask over his face, and said nothing!

By now Frank and the others ran up. “Joe, did you get him?” Frank called out.

“Right here,” Joe replied.

“Who is he?” Steve Weiss demanded.

Joe stared at the thief, who stood motionless, his face hidden behind the ancient image. “Come on,” Joe said, “take that thing away and stop playing games!”

The man did not move. Joe grabbed the mask and pulled it from the thief’s face.

Carlos Calderón!

“Carlos, what are you doing with that mask?” Steve Weiss asked, incredulous. “You’re not trying to steal it, are you?”

“Of course he is,” Armstrong declared. “He took it and then tried to make a getaway. I suspected him all along!”

Weiss took the mask from Joe. “I don’t know the explanation,” he said, “but Carlos is not a thief. I’m sure of that.”

“Weiss, you’re out of your mind,” Armstrong exploded. “We’ve caught him red-handed!”

Carlos stood perfectly still, saying nothing. He looked at the rest with a fixed stare.

“He’s sleepwalking!” Tony exclaimed.

“No, that’s not it,” Frank said. “A sleepwalker would have awakened after all this commotion.”

Rose walked up to Carlos. She peered deep into his eyes, made passes with her hand in front of his face, and spoke to him. He did not react.

“He’s in a trance,” the biologist said. “I think Carlos has been hypnotized. I’ve studied the subject and I know all the signs. A hypnotized person looks just the way Carlos does.”

Frank became excited. “Somebody hypnotized Carlos and made him take the gold mask!”

Chet scratched his head. “But who?”

“Nobody in this camp,” Weiss said. “None of us is a hypnotist.”

“Could it be somebody hiding in the jungle?” Tony suggested. “The guy met Carlos, hypnotized him, and told him to get the mask. A confederate of Rumble Murphy’s, perhaps.”

“You may be right,” Joe said. “It’s one more mystery for us to solve.”

Weiss tapped a finger against his chin. “I’ve just thought of something. Aztec masks of the gods were supposed to have a hypnotic effect on worshippers in the temples. I wonder if the mask could have hypnotized Carlos.”

“Nonsense!” Armstrong objected. “He wasn’t in a trance when I left him last night. He stole the mask deliberately!”

“Why not ask him?” Biff suggested. He shook the student. “Carlos! Wake up!” he commanded. “Wake up!”

Carlos did not respond.

“It’s no use,” Rose said. “He can’t hear you. Besides, it’s dangerous to wake up a hypnotized person suddenly. It could affect his mind and impair his memory. Let him sleep it off.”

“Just like that?” Pendleton queried.

“Right. Most hypnotized people pass into ordinary sleep and wake up normally. In extreme cases, a doctor is needed. All we can do is see how Carlos comes out of this.”

Weiss led the way back to camp. Rose guided Carlos by the elbow. She deposited him in his tent while Steve replaced the gold mask with the rest of the artifacts from the dig.

“I’ll stand guard outside Calderón’s tent,” John Armstrong offered, “and make sure he doesn’t escape.”

The others went back to sleep. In the morning, Carlos came out of his tent to join the group for breakfast. Armstrong, who was still on guard, grabbed him.

“Hey, let go of me!” the student objected. “What’s the idea? I can walk on my own.”

“We saw that last night,” Armstrong replied sarcastically.

“What are you talking about?”

“About the way you tried to walk off with the gold mask!”

“John, you don’t make any sense at all,” Carlos said, looking puzzled. “You took the mask back to the tent before we went to bed, not I!”

“Come on, the others will tell you,” Armstrong said, dragging the student to the breakfast area.

Everyone seemed to stare at him in a strange way. Carlos began to feel uncomfortable. “Is anything wrong?” he asked. “John said something about my walking off with the mask. What is this?”

“Carlos, what is the last thing you remember last night?” Frank Hardy asked.

“Well, Chet, John, Pendleton, and I talked about the mask and admired the beautiful craftsmanship. Then John took it back to the artifacts tent and we all went to bed.”

“And then?”

“Then? Nothing. I went to sleep! What in the world are you getting at?”

“You walked off into the jungle with the mask in the middle of the night,” Armstrong said. “Don’t deny it because we all saw you!”

Carlos stared at the man in utter astonishment, then turned to Steve Weiss. “Steve,” he said, and his voice was shaking with fear and bewilderment, “what is this man trying to do to me? You know I’m not a thief. I didn’t touch that mask after I went to my tent. You people all know me. Please, won’t anyone stick up for me?”

Rose walked over to the student and put her arm around his shoulders. “Calm down, Carlos. Something happened last night, and we have a pretty good idea what. You were hypnotized and started to walk away from the camp with the mask. Moreover you didn’t react to anything we said to you.”

“Hypnotized! But—but I don’t remember anything of the sort.”

“You wouldn’t, so don’t worry about it.”

Carlos sat down and put his head into his hands. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

Armstrong did not speak out loud, but said to Frank in a low voice, “I don’t either. I think he’s putting on an excellent show. Let’s ask the authorities to investigate his story.”

Frank was inclined to believe Carlos, but since he worked for Armstrong, he did not contradict him. “Sure, Mr. Armstrong, we’ll check him out as soon as we get back to Mexico City.”

Carlos stood up again and looked at everyone at the table. “Who hypnotized me?”

“We don’t know,” Steve said. “Must have been an outsider who stole in here.”

“I haven’t talked to any outsiders since I arrived!” Carlos argued.

“Who knows?” Pendleton put in. “Someone could have come into your tent last night and commanded you under hypnosis not to remember ever meeting him.”

“But why would anyone want to do that?”

“Possibly so that you would take the mask and deposit it somewhere in the jungle.”

“What—what if it happens again?”

“It won’t. We’ll keep an eye on you. Relax,” Steve told him. “And now let’s get to work. We’re going to find the pyramid today. Remember?”

He organized a party, including Pendleton, the Hardys, and himself. Armstrong decided to watch Carlos; and Biff, Tony, and Chet would help Courtney to list artifacts from the dig.

“We don’t have to hike as we did last time,” Frank said. “I have a pretty good idea of how to find Murphy’s trail from here. Let’s take the jeep.”

Frank found the way without difficulty, and even though it was a roundabout route from Palango, the searchers reached the pyramid within a few hours.

The archaeologist and the guide were ecstatic. “This is absolutely phenomenal!” Steve Weiss exclaimed. “We’ve finally found the lost pyramid! Frank, Joe, you can’t imagine how grateful we are to you!”

The Hardys grinned. “Don’t forget, we discovered it by accident!”

While Steve and Pendleton entered the structure, Frank and Joe reconnoitered the jungle around it and plunged into the underbrush.

“I believe Carlos was hypnotized,” Frank said. “What do you think, Joe?”

“I’m with you. I hope whoever did it won’t come back and put all of us in a trance!” He took out his machete and began to hack through the jungle growth. Frank did the same. The keen blades of the long knives easily sliced through the vegetation, lopping off vines, creepers, and tree branches.

The boys reached a clearing, where they paused for a conference on what to do next. “If we go any farther,” Frank said, “we might lose our way. The undergrowth is dense around here. How about going back?”

Joe nodded. “Look! There’s a path. Want to try it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

The new route took them downhill into a swampy region of the jungle. They found a sluggish creek and tramped along its banks until it widened into a fast-moving stream.

A steamy haze rose from the ground. Black mud clung to their shoes. Grassy hillocks were slick with wet grass, and tree boles slanted crazily from the bank out over the water. Moss hung from the branches like long, heavy ropes.

“Let’s pretend we’re monkeys,” Joe proposed. “We’ll swing from one tree to another on the moss and avoid getting our feet wet.”

Frank chuckled. “Okay, Tarzan, you lead the way. I’ll follow when I see how you make out.”

Frank tripped over a root, and fell headlong into the ooze, breaking his fall with his hands. He pushed himself up into a squatting position and washed himself in the stream before proceeding.

The boys hiked along the stream, which flowed roughly in the direction of the pyramid. Massive tree roots compelled them to make a detour inland. They came to a rocky ledge, where ferns covered the mouth of a small cave.

Joe poked a branch into the darkness of the cave. Whoosh! A black snarling form flashed out at him! He ducked by reflex action. The creature just missed his head and zoomed up onto a branch overhead. Savage eyes glared down at him. Sharp fangs snapped.

“It’s a bat!” Frank exclaimed.

Joe shuddered. “A vampire bat. Let’s get out of here before his buddies in the cave come out!”

They hurried around to the bank and continued tramping downstream. The river gradually broadened until it extended a hundred yards across. The Hardys stopped to survey it.

A snout broke the surface and rose into the air, revealing a long head with tiny reptilian eyes. The body floated like a log. A pair of jaws opened, revealing a row of wicked fangs. A heavy tail whip-lashed the water. A similar reptile rose beside it. Then another, and another.

“Alligators!” Joe exclaimed.

“There must be a school of them!” Frank cried. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

He turned and climbed up the embankment. Joe started to follow him, but slipped in the mud. Wildly he flung his arms out in a desperate effort to maintain his balance. A hillock broke lose under his foot.

With a scream, Joe toppled into the river and was swept by the current toward the lethal reptiles!

CHAPTER XVI

Unexpected Revelation

ONE alligator spotted Joe in the water and eagerly moved toward him. Three others followed with open jaws!

Frantically Joe swam against the current. He was a strong athlete, but the swift-moving waves carried him downstream away from the bank. The alligators gained on him, slithering through the water like torpedoes!

Frank ran to a bend in the stream. He tore a long creeper from a tree and tossed one end far out into the water in his brother’s path. Joe grabbed the creeper as he went past.

“Help—me!” he yelled.

Frank braced himself on the bank and tugged on the creeper. As he drew it in, Joe kicked his feet and began to move faster through the waves. But the alligators were still gaining on him!

As Joe reached the shallow water, Frank dropped the creeper, held on to the tree branch with one hand, and extended the other out over the stream. Joe grabbed it and Frank pulled his brother up the bank.

A rasping crunch sounded just behind Joe. One of the alligators hurled itself out of the water in an effort to close its jaws on its prey. Missing by a hair’s breath, the giant reptile splashed back into the waves.

Joe lay high on the bank, gasping for breath. “Frank,” he panted, “you were better than the U.S. Cavalry galloping up to save the old homestead in the movies!”

“Well,” Frank replied, “I figured that if you insisted on playing tag with a bunch of alligators, you might need help in a hurry.”

When Joe recovered, the Hardys found that the bend in the stream carried it away from their starting point. Frank got a fix with his compass on a direct march through the jungle, and half an hour later the boys arrived at the pyramid.

Steve Weiss and Frank Pendleton had made sketches and layouts and were about ready to leave. “What happened to you?” Steve asked Joe, who was still wet from his swim.

“I was in a racing meet with some alligators,” Joe said and told them about his adventure.

Steve shook his head. “Please don’t pull any more stunts like that! We haven’t had any casualties so far, and we’d like to keep our record clean.”

When the group reached Palango, the Hardys showered and changed their clothes, then washed those they had worn and hung them up to dry in the late afternoon sun. Then they recounted their adventures to Chet, Biff, Tony, and Armstrong.

“Any news on this end?” Frank asked.

“Nothing,” Biff said. “Tony and I inspected the surroundings now and then, but spotted no one.”

Armstrong frowned. “I’m not surprised to hear that. I still think Calderón’s guilty.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Frank asked.

“Let’s go back to Mexico City and check with the authorities.”

Next morning the group thanked the people at the dig for their hospitality, then jeeped back to Mérida and took a plane to Mexico City. They found Mr. Hardy at the Montezuma Hotel, which he and John Armstrong had made their headquarters while staying in Mexico.

“Rumble Murphy has been indicted,” he reported, “and the police have arrested his Mexico City contact, a man by the name of Hank Corda. But there’s no evidence that they were involved with the Wakefield heist. What did you find out in Palango?”

Frank described the incident with Carlos Calderón and the gold mask. He mentioned the suspicion that the young man had been hypnotized.

“That’s possible,” Fenton Hardy mused. “Hypnosis has been used before in crimes.”

Armstrong stirred in his chair. “Calderón is our prime suspect! I want a thorough investigation of him. Take all the time you need. You’ve got to solve the Wakefield theft!”

The boys promised to get to work right away. First they went to the university and checked on Carlos. The administration confirmed that he was an archaeology student, top man in his class, and was doing work financed by the government. Carlos enjoyed the highest reputation in academic circles.

At police headquarters Frank and Joe were told that Carlos Calderón had no criminal record. The officer in charge made a call to the Department of Aviation to confirm that Calderón held a pilot’s license.

“The story Carlos told us checks out,” Frank advised his buddies as they walked toward a shop to have soft drinks.

“Does anybody think Carlos was working with Rumble Murphy?” Joe asked. “Frank and I doubt it.”

Their friends agreed.

“What about Pedro Zemog?” Joe went on. “Zemog took a gold horse. Carlos took a gold mask. Is there a connection?”

“We don’t know enough about this guy Zemog,” Biff commented.

Suddenly Frank sat up in his chair. He put his glass down so hastily that soda spilled over the rim onto the marble-topped table. “Zemog!” he exclaimed. “Ze-mog. I have an idea. Read it backwards!”

“G-o-m-e-z,” Tony ticked off the letters.

“That’s a popular Mexican name,” Frank continued. “Maybe that’s the real name of the man we’re after. Come on, let’s check the directory.”

The boys went to a phone booth and Frank flipped the pages of the telephone book. He ran his finger down a column of names.

“Boy, Gomez is like Smith back home,” he said. “And there are a lot of Pedros among them.”

“We’ll have to split up and take the names one at a time,” Joe suggested.

Frank nodded and wrote two lists of names. He gave one to Biff, who would be accompanied by Chet and Tony. The Hardys took the second list.

They called on half a dozen men named Pedro Gomez. None was the person they were looking for. The seventh call took them to an apartment in the suburbs of Mexico City. Frank rang the bell. A man with gray hair opened the door. When he saw the Hardys, he tried to shut the door quickly, but Frank blocked it by placing his foot on the sill. “Pedro Gomez,” he said. sternly, “we want to talk to you. May we come in?”

Gomez opened the door. “All right. You might as well. I am tired of running.”

They went into the apartment. Apparently Gomez was alone. He was nervous and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“You will not find what you came to get,” he told them in an unfriendly tone.

Frank and Joe were startled by the words.

“You admit you had it?” Joe asked incredulously.

“Of course I had it. But I have it no longer. I sold it a few days ago.”

“You sold the Scythian figurine?” Frank exclaimed.

Now it was Gomez’s turn to look startled. “The what?”

“The day you visited the museum in New York you stole the figurine of a rearing horse and ran off with it!” Frank reminded him.

“Oh, no! I did not steal the piece!”

Frank stared at the Mexican. “Come on, Mr. Gomez, we saw you running out of the place.”

“Of course I ran. I was afraid for my life!”

“Why don’t you tell us your version of the event?” Joe suggested.

The man nodded. “Yes. But I think you will not believe me.”

“Try us.”

Gomez said he had seen a tall blond man open the display case and take out the horse. When the man realized that Gomez had observed him, he hit the Mexican on the head and knocked him against the wall.

“When I got up, the blond man had left the room,” Gomez said. “I ran out after him, but could not see him. Then I heard the guard shout and realized I would be the prime suspect. So I hurried out the door and luckily got a taxi right away.”

Frank and Joe looked at each other. “A tall blond man!” Frank said. “That jibes with the description of the guard.”

“But, Mr. Gomez,” Joe said, “why do you travel under an alias?”

“I am a salesman of rare stamps. I must take every precaution when I travel.”

“So that’s what you had in your briefcase,” Joe marveled. “The bulge we thought was the Scythian horse was actually a package of stamps.”

Gomez nodded. “Unique Ruritanian issues, two hundred years old. Priceless! I thought you were trying to steal them from me. That is why I told you just now that I sold them. I did not know you were referring to the Scythian horse.”

“What about the letters A.P.?” Frank asked. “We found two telegrams addressed to Pedro Zemog, and signed with those initials.”

“They stand for Associated Philatelists,” Gomez explained. “I represent the company that sends me buyers’ orders by telegram when I am on the road. The first one told me to take the Ruritanian consignment to Zurich, but the Swiss buyer backed out at the last minute. Then I was told to go to my hometown of Mexico City, where a deal went through.”

“You ran from us in Zurich because you thought we were after your stamps?” Joe asked.

Gomez nodded.

“And you used the name Jones at the hotel because you knew we had seen you on the plane?”

“Correct.”

“Incidentally, were you in Chapultepec Castile the other day?”

Gomez smiled. “Yes. I saw you, and I knew you saw me. So I left.”

“Have you ever been to Wakefield?”

“What?”

Joe described the gold heist at the mint.

“My friend,” Gomez protested, “you have suspected me of two crimes that I did not commit!”

“My apologies,” Joe said.

“Now then, who are you?” Gomez demanded.

“We’re Americans from Bayport, Frank and Joe Hardy. We’re investigating the thefts we told you about.”

While Joe was talking to Gomez, Frank tried to reconstruct the scene at the museum. The guard had said he saw the tall blond man emerge from the Animal Chamber and bury his cigarette in the sand bucket. Maybe the man had hidden the figurine instead!

“Mr. Gomez,” Frank said, “may I use your phone and call the Early Art Museum in New York? I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Go ahead.”

Frank was connected with Orlov. Before he could say anything, the Russian curator gave a cry that Joe and Gomez could both hear.

“Finally you call!” he exclaimed. “Why have you not contacted me sooner?”

CHAPTER XVII

Hypnotized!

“WE didn’t have news for you until now,” Frank said.

“News? I hope good news!”

“Yes. Look for the missing figurine in the sand bucket in the hallway.”

“What? But—” Orlov put down the phone in confusion. A few minutes later he came back on. “You were right! This is fantastic. How did you know?”

“We found Zemog.”

“Remarkable. He hid it there?”

“No. The tall blond man did. When he saw the guard, he put the horse in the sand bucket because he was afraid he’d be caught.”

“You mean Zemog is not the thief?”

“No. He was an innocent bystander who saw what happened. The blond man hit him and knocked him against the wall. That’s why he ran out of the building.”

“Amazing, absolutely amazing! I am very happy about it. Thanks to you, good international relations have not been endangered, and I shall report on your good work to my government.”

Orlov hung up. Frank told Gomez and Joe about the discovery of the Scythian figurine.

“That is a relief to me,” Gomez said. “It proves once and for all that I am not the thief!”

“It sure does, Mr. Gomez,” Frank agreed.

“If we ever need rare stamps,” Joe said, “we’ll give you a buzz.”

The Hardys went back to the Montezuma Hotel and waited in the lobby for their pals. Chet, Biff, and Tony straggled in, looking worn out. Chet flopped down into an easy chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m bushed!” he said.

“I’m disappointed,” Tony stated. “Every Pedro Gomez we talked to was a false lead.”

“Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We found the right one!”

After telling his friends about the rare-stamp salesman, Frank led the way to the room where Fenton Hardy and John Armstrong were discussing strategy.

“Carlos Calderón is clean,” Frank said. “We also found Zemog. His real name is Gomez and he sells stamps. And—the gold horse never left the museum in New York.”

“What!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed in surprise. “Tell us all about it.”

When the boys had finished their account, Mr. Hardy smiled. “Good detective work, boys. As far as the Mexican angle is concerned, I think we’ve exhausted it. We’ve been in touch with every conceivable agent dealing in gold, and nothing has turned up. I’ve also spoken with Johann Jung on the telephone just now, and he says the gold has not surfaced in Switzerland.”

Armstrong put his head between his hands. “We’re up against a stone wall!” he said in despair. “No leads whatsoever. But I still feel the solution lies here in Mexico.”

“John, you can’t go by a hunch. I vote we return to Wakefield and start from scratch.”

Armstrong threw up his hands and sighed. “All right. At this point, I don’t know what to do.”

The group caught a jet for New York the next day. Chet, Biff, and Tony went back to Bayport, while the other four reached Wakefield in the evening. The Hardys checked into a motel, and Armstrong went home.

“I can’t get this hypnosis business out of my mind,” Joe confessed. “Who hypnotized Carlos? We know Murphy was in custody, and Gomez is on the level. Too bad Carlos couldn’t remember anything.”

Frank had an idea. “Wait a minute! That’s what the guards at the mint said. They couldn’t remember anything about the gold heist the night they were on duty. Maybe they were hypnotized, too!”

Mr. Hardy nodded. “Good thinking, Frank. That would explain how they passed the lie-detector test. They could have let the thieves into the vault. And they could be telling the truth when they say they don’t know a thing about it.”

Frank and Joe were electrified by the theory.

“Who could have hypnotized the guards?” Joe asked.

“The same guy who hypnotized Carlos,” Frank replied. “We were shadowed all the way from Wakefield to Palango. Look! The gang leader used hypnosis to steal the gold. If he came down to the dig, he could have worked on Carlos, too!”

“That’s an involved theory,” Fenton Hardy said. “And if you’re right, chances are the man followed us back to Wakefield. We’ll keep the mint under surveillance all day tomorrow and see what happens. Now let’s get some sleep!”

The private investigator and his sons roomed together, but had separate beds. Mr. Hardy was next to the window and Frank near the door, with Joe in between. Exhausted from their long journey, they fell asleep at once.

Frank woke suddenly in the middle of the night. He had an uncanny feeling that something was wrong. “Probably a nightmare,” he thought. Then he heard a scuffing noise and raised his head.

A ghostly figure glided across the room through the darkness, opened the door, and went out. The door clicked shut.

Frank noticed a slight sickish-sweet odor in the room. It grew rapidly stronger. His head began to swim. His detective training warned him what was happening. He leaped out of bed, and opened the door wide. Joe, awakened by Frank’s shout, threw all the windows up. Mr. Hardy lay still.

Coughing and choking, the boys pulled their father from his bed and propped him up with his head out one of the windows. They leaned over the other one, gasping for fresh air. Mr. Hardy began to breathe regularly again.

By the time he revived, the gas had dissipated. They all sat down on their beds and talked over their close call.

“It seems as if Frank’s theory has merit,” Mr. Hardy said. “Our enemy may have followed us back here, and now he wants to get us out of the way.”

“But if the gold is already in Mexico or somewhere else, why would he get nervous because we’re back in Wakefield?” Joe asked.

“He probably wouldn’t. Which means, the gold must still be here!”

“He’s sure determined to kill us,” Frank said. “He’s as dangerous as a rattlesnake!”

“I think one of us should keep watch for the rest of the night,” Mr. Hardy said. “I’ll do it.”

“We’ll take turns,” Frank suggested.

“Don’t worry about it,” his father said. “Most of the night is already gone. You two go back to sleep. Someone has to be bright and alert in the morning.”

The boys pulled their father out of his bed and propped him up with his head out the window.

They bolted the door, but nothing more happened. After an early breakfast they took a circuitous route through the woods to the mint. Fenton Hardy dropped off near the front gate and concealed himself behind a clump of trees where he could watch the entrance without being seen. Frank and Joe slipped behind some bushes at the back of the building and kept vigil near the rear door and side exit.

Workers began arriving. They left their cars in the parking lot and entered the building. Then visitors streamed in.

“They don’t know about the gold heist,” Frank whispered.

“Armstrong has been keeping the theft under wraps,” Joe observed.

Hours went by. The sun grew hot, and the Hardys felt cramped.

“I’m hungry,” Frank said.

“I’ll have a hot dog and a bottle of soda,” said Joe, pretending to nibble on a weiner.

“Make mine a hamburger,” Frank joked, “and a side order of French fries. I’d like to be in the Bayport Diner right now, Joe!”

“So would I,” Joe said. “Surveillance is tough when you’re hungry.”

They took out some cookies they had brought with them and had their midday meal. Evening came, and the boys strained their eyes toward the rear gate of the mint but saw nothing suspicious.

Suddenly dry leaves snapped in the bushes behind them! The Hardys whirled around and got ready for action as the sound approached.

“I’ll tackle him!” Frank whispered. “You clamp your hand over his mouth.”

The noise grew louder, then stopped behind the nearest bush. The branches parted and a face peered through at them. It was that of a little black and white terrier!

The Hardys laughed and sat down in relief.

“A canine suspect,” Joe chortled.

The dog advanced, wagging his tail. Frank stroked his back. Joe scratched his ears.

“Okay. Off you go,” the boy said. The terrier rubbed his head against the young detective’s arm and licked his hand. “Go home!” Frank commanded. Instead, the dog climbed into his lap, where he settled down.

The Hardys tried to push him away. Thinking they wanted to play, he rolled over and over, pawing the air in a friendly fashion.

“We must get rid of him,” Frank muttered.

Joe found an extra cookie in his pocket. “This should do the trick,” he said, chucking the cookie in a high arc over the bushes.

The terrier darted after the flying missile, and came back with the cookie in his mouth! The Hardys groaned as he laid it at Joe’s feet.

Eagerly the animal looked up at him, wagging his tail, obviously asking for another chance to fetch the cookie. Getting no response, the dog began to whine.

Frank became alarmed. “If he starts barking, everybody in the mint will know we’re here!”

Just then a small bearded man came through the back gate and headed in their direction. The Hardys were frantic with fear that the dog would give them away!

The bearded man came directly toward them, walking up to the bush they were hiding behind. The dog growled at him.

“That did it,” Frank thought. “How are we going to explain?”

The man seemed to pay no attention, however. Instead of circling around the bush and confronting the boys, he veered to one side and walked into the woods without even looking at the dog.

“Joe! What do you make of that?” Frank asked, puzzled. “He didn’t blink an eye!”

“I don’t know,” Joe said slowly, watching the man intently. “He—he’s strolling along in a funny way, almost like a zombie!”

“Joe! Maybe he’s been hypnotized. Let’s follow him.”

CHAPTER XVIII

The Big Discovery

THE bearded man walked rapidly through the woods. It was dark enough for Frank and Joe to follow him at a close distance. They were relieved when the terrier dropped behind and then ran off.

“I hope he’s headed for home,” Frank thought.

The man they were shadowing never looked behind or to either side as he went. He kept his right hand plunged into the pocket of his jacket as if protecting something. Reaching the dirt road Frank and Joe had scouted before, he avoided the road itself by moving through rough underbrush to the left.

“He doesn’t want to be seen by anyone coming down the road,” Frank murmured.

“I guess the guy who hypnotized that man told him to stay clear of it,” Joe replied.

The stranger turned away from the road on a long hike through the woods to the empty airstrip, which he crossed. A plane could easily land or take off on it.

“Somebody’s keeping the place ready to use,” Frank said in an undertone.

“A plane could even be parked in the underbrush,” Joe replied. “I wonder if the beard is meeting the pilot here.”

Their quarry did not stop, however. He walked across the airstrip into the woods on the opposite side. He and his two shadows continued past tall trees whose bare branches were etched in sharp outlines against the night sky.

Soon they came to an old unused dirt road. In spite of the darkness, the boys could see two parallel furrows. A vehicle had recently been driven up the road.

They followed the man until he came to a barbed-wire fence with a wooden gate. The Hardys ducked into the underbrush and watched the stranger advance to the gate. Another man approached from the other side, cradling a rifle over his arm.

“Give the password,” he demanded.

“Golden moonlight.”

The gate was opened and the beard went through, disappearing around a bend. The guard sat down on a stump and placed his weapon across his knees as he resumed his vigil.

Frank tapped Joe on the shoulder. He pointed along the fence, indicating that they should scout in that direction. Stealthily the two boys crept through the underbrush past the guard. They followed the fence until they noticed a light shining through the trees. Moving closer, they saw the outline of a cavernous barn on the opposite side. The light came from a window, its beam falling upon a dusty pickup truck parked outside.

“We’d better investigate,” Joe said, and he depressed the barbed wire with his foot. He put a hand on one of the fence posts and vaulted over. Frank followed, but his foot slipped and his jacket became entangled in the barbed wire!

“Joe!” he hissed. “I’m caught!”

His brother took off his own jacket, which he used to protect his hands as he pushed the barbed wire down. Frank pulled himself free and dropped down on the other side.

Slipping up to the area of the light, the Hardys hit the ground and crawled to the barn. Joe snaked his way around the pickup and Frank followed him. Then they peered into the barn window, which was ajar.

They saw an enormous room. A floor of broad planks extended from wall to wall. Dark rafters loomed overhead, and on either side of the room rickety stairs led to the haymow.

Each side of the building had a heavy reinforced wooden door fastened by a large bolt and chain. Peepholes had been cut in the doors so that anyone on the inside could identify visitors before admitting them.

Three men were seated at a table in the middle of the barn under a single overhead light bulb, playing cards. They were a rough-looking three-some with two days’ growth of beard on their faces. Two wore levis and plaid shirts. The man who seemed to be their leader was dressed in slacks and in a turtleneck sweater.

Turtleneck dealt the cards. Each man picked up his hand and looked at it. One of the plaids started his bet and threw some chips into the pot.

As Frank and Joe surveyed the scene, their eyes focused in a corner that gave off a golden glow.

Gold bars lay stacked on top of one another!

“Maybe that’s the gold from the Wakefield Mint!” Joe gasped.

Frank nodded as the betting at the table continued. Turtleneck drew in the pot, adding a stack of chips to those he already had.

“I’m having lousy luck,” one of his companions said. “I want a new deck of cards.”

Turtleneck glared at him. “You accusing Jake Slobodky of cheating? You saying I just dealt from the bottom of the deck?”

“Naw,” the man replied. “I’m just saying my luck might change with a new deck.”

The game continued. Jake won again. He grinned as he raked in the chips.

The third man slammed his cards down in disgust.

“You complaining about how I deal, too?” Jake demanded.

“I’m complaining about this waiting,” the man grumbled. “We’ve got the gold here. The plane’s ready. Let’s get this show on the road!”

“You calling the shots now?” Jake asked.

“No, but I got a stake in this operation. And if you want my opinion, I say—”

A loud knock on the door interrupted him. The three men jumped to their feet and tiptoed to the door, where the pair in plaid shirts flattened themselves against the wall. Jake opened the peephole and looked out.

“Give the password!” he ordered.

“Golden moonlight.”

“Okay. Come on in.”

Jake unfastened the chain and shot back the bolt. The beard entered. His eyes were wide open and his face expressionless.

“He looks just the way Carlos did,” Joe thought.

The beard still had his right hand deep in his pocket. He stopped inside the door as if rooted to the spot. The other three gathered around him expectantly.

Jake spoke loudly to him, emphasizing each word. “What is your mission?”

“I must deliver the message,” the man said in a weird voice that seemed to come from a great distance.

“What is the message?”

“I do not know.”

“Where is the message?”

“I have it here.” He drew his hand out of his pocket. He was clutching a piece of paper in a tight grasp.

“Give me the message,” Jake ordered. “And then return to your home.”

The man handed the paper to him, did an about face, went through the door, and walked down the road toward the gate. Jake locked the door. “The trance works,” he chortled. “That guy’ll be dead to the world till he wakes tomorrow morning. And he won’t remember coming out here. Just like the guards who let us heist the gold from the vault.”

“But this man was able to talk. I don’t like it,” one of the plaids objected.

“Nothing to worry about. He’s programmed to answer just the questions I asked. If the Hardys catch him, he won’t spill the beans.” Jake held the paper up to the light under the table.

“Wow!” he exploded. “Tomorrow is D-Day! The plane arrives at midnight and we’ll be airborne pretty soon and got to be ready to move. Hey, gang, we’re gonna be rich!”

After the general excitement had died down, the men started another game of cards. Jake won again. “This is my lucky day!” he boasted.

Frank nudged Joe. “They know we’re on their trail,” he whispered.

“But they don’t know how close we are,” Joe replied. “Think we should go and let Dad know?”

“Not yet,” Frank advised. “Jake and his pals are small-time crooks. Let’s stay and see if we can find out who the ringleader is.”

“Good idea.”

The card game ended, and the players rose to their feet. Jake stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. “Might as well hit the hay,” he announced.

“That’s not so easy to do,” the big loser grumbled. “The haymow’s full of hay and dust. What a place for us to be holed up!”

“We’ll use the cots in the corner, as usual,” Jake said, “and it’ll be for the last time.”

Click! A rifle bolt had suddenly slipped into place. Frank and Joe whirled around. They found themselves staring into the business end of a shotgun!

CHAPTER XIX

Captured!

THE guard who had been standing at the gate was looking through the sight of his rifle. The Hardys were caught! The man lowered his weapon and gave them a wolfish grin. “Okay, wise guys. We’ll take care of you. We don’t like snoopers around here. Get going and keep your hands where I can see them. Move!”

Frank and Joe started walking. The guard prodded them with his rifle. “Reach for the sky and hurry up. No funny business!”

He forced the boys around the corner of the barn to one of the doors and knocked three times in rapid succession. The peephole opened. Jake peered through suspiciously. “What’s up?” he growled.

“We got visitors.”

“Well, well. Bring them in!”

Jake opened the door, and the man with the gun forced the Hardys inside the barn.

“I found them eavesdropping at the window,” he explained. “Figured you might want me to introduce them to you.”

“You figured right!” Jake snapped. “How long have they been there?”

“Long enough!”

“Good going, Sam. If anybody else sneaks up to the barn, bring them in too. These guys may have confederates.”

“Right.” Sam left. Jake bolted the door.

The two men in plaid shirts were armed. They glowered at Frank and Joe while Jake started the interrogation.

“All right,” he snarled. “What do you mean by sneaking around here?”

The Hardys tried to bluff their way through the predicament in which they found themselves.

“We were hiking through the woods near here,” Frank said. “We didn’t know about the barn until we saw the light through the trees.”

“We were hungry,” Joe added, “and came to see if we could grub a meal.”

The three men laughed in a sinister manner. “Oh sure,” Jake sneered. “You just happened to be spying on us through the window. You punks had better talk—and fast!”

Frank and Joe remained silent. They were playing for time. Their captors scowled at them.

“Talk won’t do any good,” one of the plaid-shirted men said. “We’ve got to do them in. They’ve seen the gold.”

The other supported him. “They know too much. Let’s deep six ‘em, now!”

Amazement gripped Frank and Joe. Those were the words on the note Joe had found in the abandoned car at the airstrip!

The speaker misunderstood their reaction. “So, that scares you, does it? Well, it should. We mean business!” He moved toward Joe, and his companions walked up to Frank. The Hardys braced themselves.

Then Jake stopped. “We have to wait for Mr. Big. Maybe he’ll want to talk to them. Let’s tie these guys up and sit tight until he gets here. It won’t be long.”

The men pushed the Hardys into a corner, made them sit down with their backs to the wall, produced rope, and tied their hands behind their backs.

The crooks returned to their card game. Frank and Joe sat side-by-side with the ropes chafing their wrists and conversed in whispers.

“Joe, nobody knows we’re here,” Frank said. “Too bad we didn’t have a chance to alert Dad before we followed the beard.”

“Right. We’ll have to get out of this on our own,” Joe replied.

Three quick knocks sounded on the door, followed by three slow ones, then the three fast ones were repeated. The men at the card table leaped to their feet.

“Mr. Big!” Jake exclaimed. “That’s his signal. Get ready, and don’t talk out of turn.”

He unbolted the door without looking through the peephole, and swung it open. Mr. Big entered.

The Hardys gasped. John Armstrong, the administrative assistant of the Wakefield Mint walked into the room!

“Everything in order, Jake?” he asked.

“Sure thing, boss. Except a couple of prowlers came sneaking around the barn.”

“Prowlers?” Armstrong sounded alarmed.

“Don’t worry, boss. We caught ‘em and we’ve got ’em.”

“Where are they?”

“Over there.” Jake pointed to the comer where the two captives were tied up.

Armstrong threw up his hands in astonishment. “Don’t you know who they are?” he demanded.

“Should I?” Jake queried.

“Well, maybe not. They’re Frank and Joe Hardy!”

“Fenton Hardy’s sons?” Jake squinted uneasily. “That means the gumshoe is on to us.”

Armstrong shook his head. “Hardy doesn’t know anything about our operation. And these two don’t matter any more.” He advanced toward Frank and Joe. “Fooled you, didn’t I?” he asked slyly.

“You sure did,” Frank admitted. “First you steal the gold. Then you send us on a wild goose chase to Switzerland by spreading the rumor that the gold will be sold there.”

“It would have been sufficient if my friend Rudolf Kling hadn’t picked a loser like Pfeiffer to do the talking,” Armstrong growled.

Frank nodded. “Pfeiffer was caught in a burglary. And when we left Zurich after that, you sent us to Mexico by dreaming up the clue of the airplane, then insisted on traveling to Palango with Dad to get us and him as far as possible from Wakefield. The gold was here all the time.”

Armstrong agreed. “The guy I had hired to fly it out gave me trouble on the time schedule. That’s why I had to keep you occupied in distant places. Then the idiot got himself arrested in Mexico City just before we came back. But I got a replacement for him, who’ll do the job tonight and—”

Frank interrupted him. “Your pilot was arrested? Is his name Hank Corda?”

“Right. I didn’t know about his connection with Murphy. He had Corda’s name and address on him, and when he was booked the cops found it. That was all I needed! But I fixed it. This is the final case for Frank and Joe Hardy. We’re going to drop you into the sea from our plane and this time tomorrow you’ll be playing with the fishes in the Caribbean!”

The ringleader turned toward his henchmen. “Forget about these boys,” he said. “Our plane arrives around midnight. The pilot wants this to be a quick job. So do I.”

“Everything is ready, boss.”

Armstrong walked over to the gold bars, picked one off the top, and looked at it. It glittered in the glare of the overhead bulb.

“That’s a beautiful sight,” he said. “I haven’t seen these since they were in the vault at the mint. I was at home when the theft took place, if you recall.”

Jake grinned. “Best alibi anyone ever had.”

Armstrong looked pleased. “I think so. Well, these bars have come a long way to get to this barn. From Siberia to Moscow to Zurich to Wakefield. Next stop—an uninhabited island in the Caribbean. We divide the loot there and go our separate ways. If we ever meet again, we don’t know one another.” Armstrong put the bar back on the pile. “Say, how have you fellows been killing time out here?”

“Playing cards,” Jake replied.

“How about dealing me in?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Armstrong occupied the fourth chair at the table. Jake dealt the hands and the game began.

Frank gently tried to pull his wrists apart. He felt a slight give in the ropes. Tapping Joe’s foot with his, he leaned toward his brother. “I may be able to untie myself,” he whispered. “How about you?”

Joe tested his own bonds. “Not a chance.”

Twisting his right wrist against his left, Frank felt the rope stretch. He explored with his fingers until they closed over the knot. Using his escape technique, he figured out how the knot had been tied and rubbed it between his thumb and finger. Gingerly he tugged at the shorter strand.

It moved. Little by little, in an agonizingly slow process, Frank drew the shorter strand loose. His hands were free! He sat still for a moment, watching the card game. All four players were intent on the betting as the pot grew larger and larger.

Frank pressed his shoulder against Joe’s to hide his fingers, which were working on his brother’s bonds. The second rope fell away and Joe was released.

“They may not notice us,” Frank whispered, “if we sneak up into the haymow, go out the window, and shimmy down the drainpipe.”

“What about the guy at the gate?” Joe asked.

“We’ll worry about him when we get there. The first thing is to get out. Come on!”

The Hardys rose slowly to their feet, never taking their eyes off the card game. They tiptoed over to the stairs. Frank led the way up step by step. As he placed his foot on the top rung, it creaked loudly.

The noise cut through the stillness of the huge barn, setting up echoes in the rafters. Startled, Armstrong swiveled in his chair and looked for its source. He spotted Joe’s feet at the top of the stairs.

“The Hardys are loose!” he cried angrily. “After them! Don’t let them get away!”

The other three men scrambled to their feet, tipping over the chairs in their haste. They pounded across the floor to the stairs.

Now that their escape had been discovered, Frank and Joe plunged forward into the haymow. The atmosphere was hot, the air was dusty, and the hay was slippery. The boys leaped to the right behind a high pile of hay. Staying low, they ran toward the opposite end of the haymow, slipping and sliding all the way.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Jake and his two henchmen climbed into the loft.

“Where are they?” Jake bellowed.

Seeing no movement, he led the way to the left side, where clear boards offered easier footing. Frank and Joe saw them go past, and jumped into the middle of the hay, believing they could cross over and reach the stairs.

But Joe’s feet shot out from under him. He skidded on the hay—right into Jake, who had doubled back. The unexpected collision caused Jake to tumble into a large haypile. He coughed, wheezed, and sneezed, then came up with wisps of dry weeds sticking from his hair. Before he could extricate himself, Frank and Joe ran down the left side while the other two pursuers came up on the right.

A tall pole near the stairs at the far end of the loft reached up to a crossbeam. Frank shimmied up the pole onto the crossbeam, and Joe followed instantly. The brothers perched where they could look all the way across the haymow.

“I hope they think we went downstairs,” Frank muttered.

The three men gathered beneath them, panting, swearing, and looking around furiously. “They got to be up here!” Jake snarled. “We don’t go down till we find where they’re hiding!”

“Which way?” said a plaid-shirted searcher. “Left or right?”

“Left, right, up, and down! Look everywhere.”

The Hardys were sure to be discovered. Frank signaled Joe. Balancing themselves on the crossbeam, they hurtled down simultaneously, hitting the three men across the shoulders and knocking them down in a heap. Then the boys dived for the stairs, and jumped down three steps at a time. When they reached the bottom, however, they ran straight into the muzzle of a gun!

“Okay, wise guys,” Armstrong said. “The jig is up!”

CHAPTER XX

In the Nick of Time

As Armstrong gave his command, the Hardys froze in their tracks and raised both hands over their heads. Footsteps pounded down the stairs behind them.

“Nice going, boss,” Jake called out.

“Tie them up again,” Armstrong ordered, “and this time see that they stay that way!”

Frank and Joe were hustled over to a corner and bound with ropes around their wrists and ankles. Jake tested the knots.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “These guys will stick around till we move them.”

“Good,” Armstrong said. “All we have to do is take them with us and unload them from the plane at five thousand feet. By the way, you’d better bolt the barn door again.”

Jake walked to the entrance and reached for the bolt. Wham! The door burst open, the edge striking Jake and knocking him off his feet!

Fenton Hardy stepped into the barn, followed by the Wakefield chief of police and a number of officers. “Drop the gun, Armstrong!” the detective commanded.

Armstrong hesitated for a second, then the rifle clattered to the floor. The police disarmed his henchmen, who sullenly refused to say anything.

“We’d like to join the party,” Joe called out, “but we’re tied up.”

Fenton Hardy walked over and unfastened the ropes. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Frank replied. “But we wouldn’t have been for long. These men were going to let us take a long-distance swan dive into the Caribbean.”

“You got here just in the nick of time,” Joe said, relieved.

Armstrong swung around at the words. “Hardy,” he grated, “how did you figure out my little scheme?”

“It hit me while I was keeping the front gate of the mint under surveillance. The guards at the mint had been hypnotized. And from the way my sons described Carlos Calderón, he, too, must have been in a trance.”

“We wondered who did it,” Frank put in, “but never guessed the truth.”

“Neither did I, Frank,” Mr. Hardy said. “For the longest time I suspected a third person who might have tailed us to Mexico. Yet Armstrong had the opportunity to hypnotize both the guards and Carlos! Of course, the theory seemed ridiculous. The administrative assistant to the director robbing his own mint! Nevertheless, I decided to shadow him, and it paid off.”

“Dad, why didn’t you let us know?” Joe asked.

“By the time I realized all this, you two had left your post at the rear gate of the mint. I presume you had good reason?”

Frank described how they had seen the hypnotized man with the beard and decided to follow him.

“Good thinking,” Mr. Hardy said. “Anyway, I went to a pay phone and called Chief Erikson, and he came on the run with his men to help me make this arrest.”

“Glad to round them up, Fenton,” Erikson replied. “I know how often you’ve been right about criminals.”

Mr. Hardy turned to Armstrong. “We saw you come out of the mint. You didn’t know it, but you had a police escort every step of the way through the woods to the barn.”

“We collared the man with the rifle at the gate,” the chief took up the story. “Then we came up the road and watched the action in the barn for a while.”

“You took a chance, Erikson,” Armstrong declared. “As Hardy just said, the hypnotism theory was just a hunch. If you had made a mistake, I could have had your badge.”

Erikson shook his head. “Not really. You see, I come from Chicago, and I remember a stage hypnotist who called himself the Great Gordino. His pitch was to call for volunteers from the audience. He’d put them in a trance and make them perform odd antics, like playing leapfrog onstage, and so on. The Great Gordino got into trouble. He bet on the horses, lost heavily, and disappeared from the windy city one jump ahead of the sheriff.”

“What was his real name?” Joe asked.

“John Armstrong! I never connected Gordino with the Wakefield Armstrong until your father told me he suspected this man of being a hypnotist. Then I was sure. I felt we should go all out after this suspect.”

Armstrong caved in. “Sure, I was Gordino in Chicago before I arrived in Wakefield and got a job at the mint. And I had debts. Then I became greedy and wanted some of this gold.”

“So you figured out a way to rob the mint?” Frank prodded him.

“I took a vacation in the Caribbean last winter. When I met Hank Corda, I made a deal with him. He put me in touch with Jake, who, with his men, cut the airstrip in the woods.”

Jake glared at Armstrong, but did not deny the charges.

“Then you hypnotized the mint guards, told them to turn off the alarm system and the cameras, and to let Jake in,” Frank deduced.

Armstrong nodded. “It worked like a charm. I’m still a pretty good hypnotist.”

“You’re a pretty good actor, too,” Fenton Hardy said. “You fooled me completely when you engaged me to handle the case. And here you were simply using me to divert suspicion from yourself.”

“Of course. If anyone asked me what I was doing about the gold heist, I could say I hired the famous private investigator from Bayport to run down the clues. But you ran down too many, Hardy!”

“Why did you have our father kidnapped?” Joe asked.

“Because he brought you into the act. That spoiled my plans because with that many people working on the case, it became too dangerous. So we wanted to get him out of the way before he could tell you anything he might have found out.”

“But when he escaped,” Frank said, “you left the note instructing your men to deep six F.H. in the glove compartment of the car used to transport the gold to the barn. You were giving Jake his orders.”

Armstrong nodded. “Jake didn’t like this, so I tried to keep you all away until the gold was safely out of this country.”

Joe turned to his father. “He sent us to Zurich and had the rumor spread about the Wakefield gold being sold there,” he said. “When that didn’t keep us there long enough, he dreamed up the clue about the plane with ‘Mexico City’ on it.”

Mr. Hardy chuckled. “It must have been a surprise for you, John, when we actually found such a plane.”

“It fit right into his plans,” Frank put in.

“So you hypnotized Carlos Calderón in Palango to have another suspect who would take up our time,” Mr. Hardy said to Armstrong. “And when we came back to Wakefield earlier than it suited you, you gassed us in the motel. It was all part of your plot!”

Armstrong became angry. “Nothing would have happened to you if you had listened to me! Why wouldn’t you stay in Mexico? When you refused, I had no alternative!”

Frank chuckled. “You probably figured you had everything under control when you came out to the barn tonight. You must have been surprised to see Joe and me trussed up like a couple of chickens ready for the spit!”

“Armstrong, your pilot will get a surprise, too,” Fenton Hardy said. “The police will have a welcoming committee waiting for him when he lands at the airstrip.”

“The getaway plane is due very soon,” Frank reported. “We heard Armstrong say at about midnight.”

“Put a stakeout at the airstrip at once,” Erikson directed his lieutenant. “Impound the plane, bring in the pilot, and have these prisoners taken away.”

“Would you also call the Zurich police and have them arrest a man named Rudolf Kling,” Frank added. “He was Armstrong’s accomplice, who hired Pfeiffer to spread the rumor about the gold being sold in Switzerland.”

Armstrong, Jake, and their two henchmen were led out in handcuffs. Mr. Hardy and Erikson walked over to the corner where the gold was stacked. The boys joined them. The bright shimmer of the bars dazzled them, and the hammer and sickle imprint was clearly visible.

“I’ve always wanted to know what a million in gold looked like,” the police chief confided. “Now I do.”

“If Armstrong’s plan had succeeded, it would have been one of the century’s most notorious crimes,” Fenton Hardy observed.

“But it failed, thanks to you Hardys,” Erikson pointed out. “By the way, Director Wadsworth of the mint returned from his vacation today. He’s upset about the whole thing and will be relieved to hear that you’ve solved the case.”

“I’ll bet he won’t be pleased to hear who the culprit is,” Frank said.

“True. On the other hand, the three guards who were arrested are vindicated now and will be back at their jobs soon.”

The gold bars were loaded into the pickup, and two officers guarded them while a third took the wheel. Chief Erikson gave the Hardys a lift to their motel.

The following morning Mr. Hardy spoke to Director Wadsworth on the telephone. He confirmed that the pilot had been arrested and thanked Mr. Hardy profusely for his help.

“I would never have suspected John Armstrong,” the director said with a sigh. “I trusted him completely. Well, I’m glad he hired you to recover the gold.”

The Hardys packed their bags and were soon on their way to Bayport. Frank felt a little disappointed, as he usually did when they wound up a case and the excitement was over. He did not anticipate their next thrilling adventure, Mystery of the Firebird Rocket.

When they arrived home, they were greeted anxiously by Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Mr. Hardy said. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is great!” Joe replied with a grin.

“I’m sure it was dangerous,” Aunt Gertrude put in.

“Oh no, Aunty, it was no trouble at all. By the way, we brought you a souvenir.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“You have a choice. Either a jaguar god or a feathered serpent!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - A Frantic Warning

CHAPTER II - The Runaway Rocket

CHAPTER III - The Blow-Up

CHAPTER IV - A Strange Disappearance

CHAPTER V - Night Visitor

CHAPTER VI - A Ghostly Hand

CHAPTER VII - Radioactive Evidence

CHAPTER VIII - Danger in the Surf

CHAPTER IX - The Porter’s Clue

CHAPTER X - A Spy in the Crowd

CHAPTER XI - Chet’s Clever Plan

CHAPTER XII - Kangaroo Confrontation

CHAPTER XIII - Daring Escape

CHAPTER XIV - Frank Foils the Gang

CHAPTER XV - A Deadly Snake

CHAPTER XVI - Helicopter Hunt

CHAPTER XVII - Woomera Welcome

CHAPTER XVIII - The Trap

CHAPTER XIX - The Rope Trick

CHAPTER XX - Surprise in Port Augusta

THE FIREBIRD ROCKET

The launching of the Firebird Rocket is endangered when a famous rocket scientist disappears without a trace on his way to the Woomera Monitoring Station in Australia. Assigned to the case, Fenton Hardy tells his sons he needs their help. And Frank and Joe must turn down a request that they find the missing son of a prominent senator.

The search for the scientist begins at the Princeton Space Laboratory, where the boys realize they are being hunted by an unknown adversary. Clues lead them to Australia, and again they are followed.

Then suddenly their lives are in danger!

Someone in an automobile tries to run them over; and, later, at dockside, a heavy cargo bale falls and just misses them. Disregarding the danger and warnings of worse to come, the boys follow the trail to a cattle station in the Australian Outback.

With courage, wit, and clever detective work, the young detectives begin to close in on the enemy, only to discover that the tables have been turned. Captured by their cunning adversaries, the Hardys face certain death!

Will they escape? Will the Firebird Rocket ever be launched? Read this exciting mystery about Frank and Joe’s most difficult case.

“Your nitwit contraption smashed my hen house.”

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1978 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-76131

eISBN : 978-1-101-07666-8

2004 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

A Frantic Warning

FRANK and Joe Hardy were performing a chemical test in the laboratory over their garage. The boys were checking out a clue for their father, famous private detective Fenton Hardy.

Frank held a test tube up to the light. In it was a dark-colored solution soaked from a torn piece of cloth Mr. Hardy had sent from the Space Flight Center in Florida, where he was working on a new top-secret case.

“If Dad’s hunch is right,” said Frank, “that cloth was stained with the invisible dye he uses to trap suspects.”

Joe nodded. “The methyl test will tell us.”

He picked up a plastic bottle labeled METHYL YELLOW. Unscrewing the cap, he tilted the bottle until a trickle fell into the solution.

Pufff! A burst of acrid vapor shot up into the boys’ faces. They staggered back, clutching their throats! Frank dropped the test tube, which smashed, and the bottle fell from Joe’s nerveless fingers, clattering onto the wooden floor! The two boys rubbed their eyes, fought for breath, and felt giddy.

“The bottle!” Joe croaked. “It contains the wrong chemical!”

Desperately Frank groped about on the floor till his fingers closed over the plastic container, which was still oozing a wisp of vapor. He managed to screw the cap back on. Joe opened the window, and they collapsed on the sill.

Fresh air poured into the lab, dispersing the fumes and clearing their heads.

“That stuff was liquid tear gas, or I’m a monkey’s uncle!” Joe exclaimed.

Frank examined the bottle. “It’s supposed to be methyl yellow,” he declared. “That’s what the label says.”

“Somebody switched it!”

“That’s possible. But who? And why?”

“Let’s talk to the guy at the chemistry shop who sold us the bottle,” Joe suggested, always eager for a mystery.

Joe Hardy was blond and seventeen. His darkhaired brother, Frank, was a year older.

As they were clearing up the mess from the broken test tube, the Hardys heard the doorbell, which was wired to ring in the garage as well as the house.

“Aunt Gertrude will answer it,” said Joe.

“She can’t. She went out shopping with Mom,” Frank told him. “We’d better go see who it is.”

Hurrying out of the garage, they went through the house and opened the front door. The caller was a well-dressed, portly man, clutching an ivory-headed cane. He peered at the boys through gold-rimmed pince-nez, which he held in place on his nose with thumb and forefinger.

His gesture called their attention to the ring he was wearing. It was set with a huge red ruby.

“Is this the Hardy house?” he inquired in a deep booming voice.

“Yes, sir,” Frank replied.

“I’m Oliver Ponsley,” the man announced. “I would like to consult Fenton Hardy on an urgent matter.”

“Dad’s away on a case right now, but would you care to come in and tell us about it?” Frank said politely. “As soon as we hear from him, we can give him your message.”

“Thank you. I would appreciate a chance to explain my problem.”

Frank led the way into the living room. Their visitor settled himself on the sofa, which groaned under his weight, and clasped his hands over his ivory-headed cane. Frank and Joe sat down in easy chairs and waited for him to speak.

“You boys often assist your father on his cases, do you not?” Ponsley inquired, sizing them up with a shrewd glance.

“That’s right, sir,” Frank replied.

“And we’ve solved a few mysteries on our own,” Joe added, grinning modestly.

“So I’ve heard. Well, then, perhaps you can help me with this one, at least until your father returns.”

“We’ll be glad to do whatever we can, sir.”

“Fine! My problem is this—a young man named Michael Moran has disappeared, and he must be found. Quickly!”

“Have you notified the police, Mr. Ponsley?” Frank asked. “They should be able to help you on a missing persons case.”

“Not on this one,” Ponsley retorted sharply. “We can’t risk the publicity. Michael Moran is the son of Senator Jeff Moran!”

He reached into his pocket and produced an old snapshot, which he handed to Frank. The Hardys saw a clean-cut youth, not much older than Frank, holding a baseball bat on his shoulder.

“That’s the last photograph of Michael before he left home,” Ponsley told them. “He’s been gone for over a year now.”

“A year? Good night! Hasn’t his family tried to locate him at all?” Joe asked.

“No. They felt he wanted to go away and think things out for himself, and that he’d come back when he was ready.”

“Then why are they looking for him now?”

“Michael used to work for the Mid-County Bank. As you may have heard, the bank was recently broken into and robbed.”

“Gosh, yes. I remember hearing about that on the news!” Joe exclaimed.

“The next day, the police caught the two crooks who pulled the job,” Frank recalled.

“That’s right.” Ponsley nodded. “What you may not know is that the culprits are now trying to incriminate Mike Moran.”

“How come?”

“The bank’s alarm system was tampered with, which convinced the FBI that the robbers had inside help. So now those two scoundrels are saying it was Mike who gave them information on the wiring of the alarm system.”

“Is there anything to support their accusation?” Frank asked.

“Mike studied electrical engineering before he quit college to work at the bank. And a bank employe named Thurbow remembered that Mike showed some interest in the alarm system while he was there.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” said Joe.

“Certainly not!” Oliver Ponsley boomed. “So far, the FBI has made no official charge against Mike, but his family is very upset, especially since Senator Moran is running for reelection. A scandal could wreck his political campaign. He’s sure Mike is innocent, and wants him to come home and clear his name.”

“Mr. Ponsley, how are you involved?” Joe asked.

“I’m on Senator Moran’s staff and a friend of the family’s. I want to prevent any bad publicity before the news leaks out. That’s why I came to see your father.”

“Tell me,” Frank said, “when and where was Mike last seen?”

“Leaving the bank one day last February. But he never arrived home that day.”

“Has he written?”

“Yes, a number of postcards from Chicago. The last one came about three months ago, saying he was leaving the country. After that—silence.”

“Any other clues?” Joe asked.

“Just one.” Ponsley slipped the ring from his finger and held it up to the light so the boys could see it better. Sunshine slanting in through the window seemed to bathe the room in the gem’s s lustrous red glow.

“Michael always admired this stone,” Ponsley said. “He was fascinated by rubies, so his parents bought him one as big as mine and had it mounted in the same kind of setting. Find a ring like this, and you’ll find Mike Moran.”

The Hardy boys examined the gem and felt sure they could easily spot a duplicate.

“Now then,” said Ponsley, slipping the ring back on his finger, “I want you to get on the case right away. Fly to Chicago tomorrow and see if you can pick up Michael Moran’s trail. Make your first report to me by the end of next week. Speed is essential!”

“But we can’t leave town right now,” Frank said. ”We’re waiting for a phone call from our father. He may need us to help him with his own case.”

“Find a ring like this, and you’ll find Mike Moran.”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we’re in touch with him,” Joe added.

“Hmph.” Frowning, Ponsley rose to his feet and adjusted his pince-nez. “Very well. If that’s the best you can do, I’ll just have to wait. You can call me at this number.”

He handed Frank his business card and the boys escorted him to the door. They watched him lumber down the steps, squeeze behind the wheel of an expensive car, and drive off.

Frank and Joe returned to the living room.

“How about that ruby?” Frank enthused.

“Big as a pigeon’s egg!” Joe said. “Boy, that stone must be worth a bundle!”

“Say, could thieves have gotten to Mike Moran?” Frank said suddenly. “Maybe they did him in for his ring!”

The two boys exchanged worried looks. Joe felt cold chills prickle up and down his spine.

“A ruby that size would sure attract crooks!” he agreed. “I wonder—”

He broke off at the sound of brakes screeching out in the street. Tires grated harshly against the curb in front of their house, and a car jolted to a stop. Its door opened and slammed shut. Someone raced up the steps and pounded on the door.

“Open up!” a man’s voice shouted. “You Hardy boys are in danger! You may be killed!”

CHAPTER II

The Runaway Rocket

“WHO the dickens is that?” Joe blurted.

“Search me, but he sounds pretty worked up!”

The doorknob rattled violently, and the thumping continued. Then their caller began ringing the bell.

“Take it easy! We’re coming!” Frank yelled.

He yanked open the door. The man outside tumbled in and had some trouble regaining his balance.

“It’s Mr. Oakes from the chemistry shop!” Joe exclaimed, recognizing his face.

The man was gasping. He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a long plastic bottle. The label read METHYL YELLOW.

“My assistant made a terrible mistake,” Oakes said, panting. “He put the wrong label on a bottle of liquid tear gas and sold it to you as methyl yellow. This is what he should have given you. If you use that other stuff in the wrong kind of chemical experiment, it could even blow up in your faces!”

“We know. We found out the hard way,” said Frank. “We already had an accident.”

“Great Scott! Was anyone hurt?” Oakes inquired anxiously.

“No, luckily we reacted as soon as we inhaled the fumes, and Joe got a window open fast.”

“Thank goodness!” The man sighed with relief. “My store phone’s out of order, so I hopped in the car and drove here the minute I discovered what Bob had done. You both have my deepest apologies. I’m terribly sorry.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Oakes,” Joe said. “We were just about to come back to your place and find out what happened.”

“A mistake—a dreadful mistake! Would you please give me that wrong bottle now?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “I’ll go get it.” He took the methyl yellow out to the laboratory over the garage and returned with the liquid tear gas.

“We supply this stuff to various security guards around town,” Oakes explained. “In fact, one of them came into my shop to get some just before I told Bob to fill your order. I suppose that’s how the mix-up occurred.”

After repeating his apology, the manager of the shop left with the dangerous chemical.

“Well, that solves one mystery,” Frank said as he shut the front door. “Now we can concentrate on the Mike Moran case.”

“Unless Dad needs us,” Joe reminded him. “But listen. Suppose we do get a chance to look for that guy. How would we trace him in Chicago?”

“Good question. For one thing, we’d have to find out more about him—what his interests are, how he spends his spare time—stuff like that.”

Frank broke off as the telephone rang. Joe hurried to pick it up, heard his father’s voice, and gestured to Frank to come and listen in.

“Dad, where are you calling from?” he asked.

“The Space Flight Center in Florida,” Fenton Hardy replied. “This case is turning out to be even tougher than I feared.”

“Can you tell us anything about it?” Frank put in.

“Not on the phone. The investigation’s being conducted under airtight security.”

“We goofed on testing that scrap of cloth you sent us,” Joe said. He told his father about the accident in the lab.

“That’s all right. No harm done,” said Mr. Hardy. “I identified the wearer by means of a polygraph test. I had him figured as a prime suspect in this case, but he cleared himself. Now I’ve got another job for you, at Princeton.”

“You mean Princeton University?” Frank queried. “In New Jersey?”

“Yes. I want you and Joe to go there tomorrow morning. Talk to Professor Arthur Young at the Aerospace Laboratory. He’ll clue you in on the case, and I hope he’ll give you a lead to work on. Report to me after you see Professor Young.”

“Dad, how do we get in touch with you?”

“You can reach me through a hot line to the Space Flight Center. The number is the Center’s initials followed by the first four digits—SFC- 1234. Got it?”

“Got it,” Frank said.

Mr. Hardy’s voice became tense. “Be careful,” he warned. “This job is too important for any slips. NASA is involved. An international incident could be in the making.”

“We’ll be careful,” his sons promised, then Frank told his father about the visit by Oliver Ponsley.

“He wants us to find Mike Moran.”

“My case has priority,” Mr. Hardy replied. “After we’ve cracked it, you can look for young Moran. So long.” He hung up.

Joe replaced the phone and the boys began to talk about their trip to Princeton.

“The home of the Princeton tiger!” Joe said with enthusiasm. “Wow! Maybe we’ll get a chance to see some of their athletic teams work out.”

“I think we’d better just stick to the Aerospace Lab,” Frank said. “We’re on a case, remember? I wonder what Professor Young knows about Dad’s investigation. Maybe somebody stole a missile!”

“Yeah, sure.” Joe grinned. “Like maybe a crook slipped an interplanetary rocket up his sleeve and walked out unnoticed. If you ask me—”

He was interrupted by a series of loud reports in the street. A clanking sound drew near.

Frank grinned. “Chet Morton’s coming.”

Joe peered out the window at the approaching jalopy. “Looks like he’s got the whole gang with him. Let’s go see what they’re up to!”

As the Hardys grabbed their jackets and ran outside, Chet’s fire-engine-red car pulled up to the curb. Its roly-poly, freckle-faced driver applied the squeaky brakes and brought his car to a jolting halt that threw his passengers forward, then bounced them back in their seats.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe inquired. “Or are all of you still in one piece?”

“Wait’ll we check,” said Biff Hooper, a husky six-footer. He was crowded into the back seat with Chet’s pretty sister Iola and Tony Prito.

“No broken bones—yet,” Tony reported. “The question is, will we be able to walk away from this moving wreck?”

“What I’m worried about is my back,” groaned Phil Cohen, who was sitting up front beside Chet. “I think I slipped a disk when we stopped.”

Frank laughed at the driver’s indignant look. “What’s that you were telling us, Chet, about your rebuilt shocks and the smooth suspension you were engineering on this job?”

“So it’s got a few bugs.” The stout youth shrugged. “I notice that doesn’t stop these wise guys from thumbing a ride in my racer whenever they need a lift. You’ll have to admit it’s really sharp looking!”

“Pedestrians call it the Red Menace,” Phil wisecracked.

The car’s body metal had a worn, battered look but gleamed with a fresh coat of paint.

“Not bad for an old heap,” Joe said, grinning. “When are you going to install a refrigerator?”

“Hey, that’s an idea!” Chet said, snapping his fingers.

The Hardys’ plump pal had helped them on many investigations. Even though he preferred food to danger, Chet never let Frank and Joe down when they were in a tight spot.

“Hop in, you two. We’re wasting time!” he went on. “We can talk about food supplies later. Right now we’re on our way to Bayport Meadow.”

“What’s going on there?” Frank asked.

“The most exciting scientific event of the century!” Chet exclaimed. “Up, up, and away! Don’t miss it.”

“Chet just finished his rocket,” Iola confided. “He can’t wait to try it out. It’s in the trunk.”

Laughing, Frank and Joe crowded into the car, practically sitting on their friends’ laps. By now they were used to Chet’s mania for new hobbies. His latest was rockets, and he had been working on one in his basement for weeks. He intended to enter it in a national high-school science contest.

The jalopy sagged under the extra weight but began to move. Chet drove it noisily through Bayport and headed for the meadow outside of town, while the others chatted and joked about the contest.

Joe had managed to squeeze into a place next to Iola. He usually dated her when the gang went to picnics or dances.

“Chet just might win,” Iola told him. “He’s really worked hard on this project.”

“We’ll all be cheering him on,” Joe promised.

In a few minutes they reached the meadow, a large open area covered with dry brown grass. The soil was still slightly frozen from the winter’s cold.

Chet parked and they all got out and checked the area to make sure no one was in the way of the test.

“Looks like you’ve got a clear firing range,” Tony observed.

“As long as he aims straight,” said Frank.

“Don’t worry,” Chet boasted confidently. “I’ve designed a foolproof steering system.”

He opened the car trunk and lifted out his rocket. It was a two foot long cylinder with a pointed nose and tail fins. For a launching pad, Chet stuck two pipes in the ground, mounted a cradle on them, and placed the rocket in it. The missile tilted at an angle with its upper end pointing skyward. Then Chet attached a control wire with a switch at one end.

At last the tubby teen-ager stepped back proudly to survey his handiwork. “Ah! Ready for the countdown!”

“Man, that looks like a space probe to the planet Mars!” Frank joked admiringly.

“Powerful enough to carry an astronaut to the moon,” Joe suggested.

“Any astronaut but Chet,” said Biff. “With a payload that heavy, even a Saturn rocket would never get into orbit.”

“Quiet, you guys!” Chet commanded. “The Morton Moon Grazer is about to be launched. My electrical igniter will do the trick. Here goes!”

He pressed a remote-control switch. There were a flash and loud report, followed by a burst of smoke. The rocket shuddered, left its cradle, and shot high in the air. Chet’s friends were impressed and burst into applause.

Chet bowed. “It’ll land at the far end of the meadow,” he predicted.

They all shaded their eyes and watched. Suddenly the missile began to wobble and veer off course.

“Oh, oh! It’s looping over to the right!” Joe blurted.

The rocket appeared to be zooming down beyond the strip of woods fringing the meadowlands.

“There are farms on the other side of those trees!” cried Biff.

“What happened to your foolproof steering system?” Frank inquired.

Chet gulped and turned pale. “S-S-Something must have gone wrong!”

“No argument there. Come on! We’d better find out where your Moon Grazer lands!”

The boys and Iola ran around the edge of the meadow and headed through the stand of trees.

“Must’ve come down on Old Man Jessup’s farm!” Phil guessed. “Boy, that guy’s a real crab!”

Chet shuddered. It took them several minutes to cover the distance, and he was puffing and panting anxiously by the time they approached Jessup’s farmyard. He turned even paler as the loud squawks of frightened chickens with an angry bellowing voice reached their ears from the other side of the barn.

“Oh gosh!” Chet exclaimed. “Sounds like we’re in real trouble!”

“What do you mean we?” said Biff.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the barnyard noises were drowned by the shrill hoo-haw of an approaching police siren!

CHAPTER III

The Blow-Up

A SCENE of wild confusion greeted the teen-agers’ eyes as they rounded the barn. Feathers were flying as white Leghorns and Rhode Island reds hopped, cackled, and fluttered about the yard. Chet’s rocket had smashed their chicken coop.

Enoch Jessup, a gaunt, bushy-browed man in overalls, was shouting orders to his farmhand, who was trying to round up the frightened fowls and calm them down by scattering feed.

Just as Jessup’s glance fell on the young people, a police car with flashing lights screeched to a halt near the farmhouse. A burly man in a brass-buttoned uniform jumped out and strode toward the scene of the disaster.

“Oh, brother! It’s Police Chief Collig himself!” muttered Tony Prito.

“What’s going on here?” Collig demanded.

“You’ve got eyes! What does it look like?” Jessup retorted. “These young scamps just wrecked my chicken coop with their blame-fool contraption! Scared the wits out of my best laying hens!”

Turning to the high-schoolers, he growled, “Which one of you’s responsible for this outrage?”

“W-W-We weren’t aiming at your chicken coop, Mr. Jessup,” Chet stammered. “It was j-j-just an accident.... I mean, that is ... well, I—I guess I’m sort of responsible.”

“Sort of responsible, my foot! Your nitwit contraption smashed my henhouse, didn’t it?” Shaking his finger in Chet’s face, Enoch Jessup proceeded to bawl out the trembling youth.

“All right. All right! Take it easy,” Chief Collig cut in. “We got a CB call from some motorist who saw you kids about to fire a rocket. Good thing I grabbed a squad car and came myself. I might’ve known you’d be at the bottom of this mess, Chet Morton. You and your harebrained hobbies!”

“Actually, Chet made the rocket for a high-school science competition, Chief,” Frank Hardy spoke up. “I know the test went wrong, but he’s worked hard on this project. I think he deserves credit for making a model that flew as well as this one did. After all, our country needs rocket engineers, and they have to start somewhere.”

“Tell you what, sir,” Joe added. “If Mr. Jessup won’t press charges, we’ll all pitch in and repair his chicken coop. We’ll even help out with a few chores.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Collig agreed. “What do you say, Enoch?”

The farmer’s scowl relaxed. “Why not? Makes more sense than wasting time in court.”

Biff Hooper borrowed Chet’s car keys and hurried off to get some fresh lumber, while the others cleaned up the debris from the wrecked coop. Luckily the coop had broken the missile’s fall, so that the rocket itself was not much damaged.

“Boy, you Hardys really saved my neck,” Chet said as they drove back to Bayport.

“Forget it. It was fun,” Joe said.

“Think you can still enter your rocket in the competition?” Frank asked their chubby pal.

“Sure. I can make repairs tonight and turn it in tomorrow morning.”

Although spring vacation had started, Mr. Palmer, the science teacher, had promised to be on hand at the high school to receive last-minute entries.

Frank and Joe found their mother and aunt just back from the supermarket. Aunt Gertrude was their father’s sister.

“Where have you boys been?” she demanded tartly.

“Watching an unidentified flying object, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe told her with a grin.

“What’s that supposed to mean, young man?” Her eyes flickered suspiciously over her two nephews.

The tall, sharp-tongued spinster was extremely fond of Frank and Joe and secretly longed to take a hand in their detective work, although she could seldom bring herself to admit it openly.

“Chet fired a homemade rocket,” Frank said, and he described the crash landing.

“Good heavens! I’m glad no one was hurt,” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed.

Aunt Gertrude sniffed. “That boy Chet needs a firm hand.”

“Someone like you to help fire his rockets?” Joe teased.

“He could do worse,” Gertrude Hardy snapped. “Apparently you two didn’t help him steer it right.”

The boys laughed, and Frank said, “Score one for Aunt G.!”

He told them about Oliver Ponsley’s visit and their father’s call. “We have to go to Princeton first thing in the morning,” Frank added.

“Oh dear,” his mother said. “I hope you’re not going to get involved in anything dangerous.” Mrs. Hardy, an attractive woman, worried whenever her husband and sons took a new case.

“Well, what’s dangerous about going to a university?” Aunt Gertrude scoffed. “Might learn a thing or two there at Princeton, as long as they don’t start playing any foolish college pranks.”

“We won’t,” Joe promised, chuckling.

“You’re going alone?” Mrs. Hardy asked, still a bit concerned.

“We were,” Frank replied, “but now that you mention it, we might ask Chet to come along.”

“Hey, good idea!” Joe said.

He rushed to the phone and called their overweight buddy. Chet was delighted at the suggestion and agreed at once to accompany them.

“Pack an overnight bag,” Joe advised. “We may have to stay a day or two.”

“That’s okay with me,” Chet said. “I was just thinking it might be a good idea to stay out of sight the next few days. Chief Collig will probably have every cop in town breathing down my neck for a while.”

Joe then called Mr. Ponsley and told him that they could not start searching for Mike Moran until they knew more about what was expected from them in their father’s case. Ponsley agreed to the delay. “Call me as soon as you know more,” he added.

Early next morning, the Hardys got into their sleek yellow sports coupe and picked up Chet Morton. Then they headed for Princeton. Threading their way through traffic, they reached the highway, where Frank stepped on the gas and kept the car whizzing along at the speed limit. Once the rush hour was over, they made good time under the brilliant sunshine.

“Get your rocket fixed, Chet?” Joe inquired.

“You bet. Handed it in just in time. I think I’ve really got a chance to win.”

“I sure hope so. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

At a fork in the road, Frank turned onto Route 206 and soon they saw signs indicating that Princeton lay straight ahead. When they ran into Nassau Street, they knew they were at their destination. Shops lined one side of the famous Princeton thoroughfare, and university buildings occupied the opposite side.

“Now I know why it’s called Ivy League,” Chet quipped. “Look at the ivy on the dorms!”

“I wonder where the Aerospace Lab is,” Frank said. He stopped for a red light near a couple of high stone gates flanked by iron railings. Beyond the lawn they could see Nassau Hall, the main building of the campus. Its slender tower rose toward the sky and was topped by a weathervane.

A student carrying a couple of books under his arm started to cross the street with the light. Joe leaned out the window and asked him the way to the Aerospace Lab.

“Go down Nassau Street and turn right onto Washington Road,” was the reply. “The lab is near the football stadium.”

Frank followed the directions. They passed the psychology and biology departments, and arrived at a science complex, where Chet spotted a sign reading: PRINCETON AEROSPACE LABORATORY. Frank parked and the young detectives went in.

They found themselves in a rotunda, where a model of a Saturn rocket stood upright in the middle of the floor. Around the walls behind glass were exhibits of dramatic moments in the history of space exploration.

Chet pointed to one of them. “The astronauts on the moon!” he said.

“And there’s Skylab in orbit!” Joe exclaimed.

“And Telstar!” Frank marveled. “They bounce signals off it out in space, and the signals are picked up by TV systems around the world!”

A guard approached and inquired what they wanted. When Frank explained their mission, he escorted them down the hall to a door bearing the nameplate: PROFESSOR ARTHUR YOUNG. The guard knocked and went in. A moment later he returned and announced that Professor Young would see them.

They entered a study lined with books, graphs, mathematical equations, and blowups of major rocket launchings. The professor rose from his swivel chair and shook hands with the visitors. After introductions were made, he made a motion indicating that they take three chairs near his desk, and sat down again. He was tall, thin, and slightly bald. He looked intently at the boys as he tamped tobacco into his pipe and lit it.

“Your father phoned me and told me you were on your way,” he said with a smile. “I’m very glad to see you and your friend. We need fast action.”

“Professor, what is the problem?” Frank asked in a puzzled tone.

“How much do you know about the case that has developed here at the lab?” Young countered.

“Nothing,” Joe admitted.

“Well, I’ll give you all the information I have. First let me show you around the place, so you get an idea of what we’re doing. Then you’ll see what we’re up against and why we need your assistance.”

He led them out of his office and through the building. “Everyone here is devoted to the exploration of space,” Young commented. “This lab is one of the best in the world when it comes to interplanetary probes and the study of the solar system.”

The group passed a lecture hall, a library, two seminar rooms, and several offices belonging to famous scientists. Then they arrived at the lab itself, a maze of rooms in which experts were carrying out experiments on everything from liquid fuels to the problems of weightlessness in outer space.

“Boy, this sure beats Bayport High!” Chet exclaimed. “I could make myself a real rocket here. Maybe I’ll apply for a job after I win the state science competition.”

Young laughed. “Glad to have you aboard, Chet. Just be sure you get clearance from the Space Flight Center when the time comes. You’ll have to be okayed down there because we work for NASA. What we discover goes on the drawing boards at the Center.”

“No wonder Dad said the case was hush-hush,” Frank put in. “This lab must be filled with top-secret stuff.”

Young became solemn. “That’s the whole point of the investigation you’re undertaking.”

They arrived at a room where a youth was working at a modified atomic reactor. Young introduced him as Smoky Rinaldo, a senior at Princeton University.

“Smoky can show you around from here on,” the professor said. “When you’ve seen enough of the lab, meet me back at my office and we’ll discuss your assignment.”

He walked off and Smoky informed the visitors that he was doing research for a term paper.

“I’m into rockets, myself,” Chet spoke up. “Fact is, I’ve got my own missile.”

Frank chuckled. “You almost didn’t. It flew straight—straight to earth.”

“What are you talking about?” Smoky asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Chet said hastily. “Why don’t you show us the rest of the lab? I can’t wait to see it.”

The young people wandered through the last row of rooms, which were assigned to scientists experimenting with the shape of nose cones and tail fins for partly developed rockets.

Suddenly a movement caught Frank’s attention. Looking out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man behind them. He was tall and lanky and wore a black beard and tinted glasses.

Frank paused before a blow-up of a Saturn rocket. Joe and Chet joined him. The man stopped at a workbench and furtively glanced at them.

“I think we’ve got a shadow,” the older Hardy informed Joe and Chet in an undertone.

Joe traced the curved line of a nose cone with his finger, pretending to be interested in it. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“No. It could be a coincidence. Let’s go on and keep an eye on him.”

Joe turned as they walked farther, catching a glimpse of the man. “Beard with glasses?” he asked.

“Right.”

Smoky was slightly ahead of the group, explaining the interesting features of the lab. When they left the last room and walked back to where they had started, Chet asked, “Who’s that guy with the beard over there?”

Smoky turned around to look. “I’ve no idea. Matter of fact, I’ve never seen him before.”

The man obviously realized that the boys had noticed him, and instead of following them farther, he entered a door with the sign OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY.

“He must be on the staff here,” Smoky went on. “Would you like to see the reactor I’m working on? The interior is hot enough to handle uranium.”

They walked over to the instrument. “We can’t see the interior,” Joe pointed out.

“That’s because it’s running,” Smoky said. “Just follow me, and you’ll find out what’s in there.” He led the way to a diagram on the wall representing a slice through the reactor from top to bottom.

“This is how the machine is put together,” the student explained. “The core in the center marked A is where the uranium goes. The letter B stands for the pressure vessel, and C is the casing. These tubes extending from the core to the top are the fuel—”

A loud sputtering noise broke out. Red sparks fiashed through the air around them. Chet turned pale and shouted, “The reactor’s going to explode!”

CHAPTER IV

A Strange Disappearance

CHET dived to the floor, crawled under a workbench, turned around on his hands and knees, and stared at the other three. Frank, Joe, and Smoky remained standing.

“You guys want to get blown up?” Chet quavered.

“False alarm, Chet,” Smoky said.

“How do you know?” Chet demanded.

“Because that wasn’t the atomic reactor,” Smoky explained. “It has a failsafe protection. If anything goes wrong, the motor shuts off automatically. And besides, this is a modified reactor. It doesn’t have enough power for an atomic explosion.”

A man in overalls came over. He was wearing a plastic eyeshield and carrying a blowtorch. “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “I’m working on a wire coil with this torch. The coil’s too soft for the flame, and that’s the reason for the noise and sparks.”

“That’s okay,” Smoky said. “Don’t worry about it.”

As the man walked off again, Chet crawled out from under the workbench and got to his feet. He looked embarrassed. “Guess I overreacted,” he said sheepishly.

Frank soothed his feelings. “It’s better than taking chances. Well, we’ve seen the lab. Let’s report to Professor Young and find out about our assignment.”

The Bayport youths left Smoky Rinaldo tinkering with the heat shields on the atomic reactor. They rejoined the professor, who shuffled some papers, placed them on the desk, and leaned back in his swivel chair.

“How do you like the Aerospace Lab?” he inquired genially.

“We like it fine, Professor,” Frank declared, “except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We were being followed.” Frank told him about the man who seemed to be shadowing them through the lab.

Young frowned. “I’ve never seen anyone who matches that description, but I’ll try to find out who he is. The lab is strictly off limits to unauthorized personnel.”

He ordered through the intercom an immediate search of the premises. Then he turned back to his visitors. “Now,” he said, “let me tell you about the mystery.”

The boys leaned forward in their chairs, eager to hear every word.

“It concerns Dr. Adrian Jenson,” Young went on. “You may have heard of him.”

“The rocket scientist,” Joe said. “He’s been working on space probes ever since the astronauts landed on the moon.”

“And he won a prize for his math on trajectories,” Frank added. “The path of reentry from outer space into the earth’s atmosphere.”

Young smiled. “You know your rocketry,” he complimented them. “Well, Dr. Jenson and I have been working on a revolutionary new engine powered by nuclear energy. We call it the Firebird, and it’s due for a test flight in a couple of weeks. Dr. Jenson flew to Australia three days ago to follow the flight of the Firebird at the Woomera Monitoring Station.”

“Australia?” Chet spoke up. “Why there?”

“When a rocket is fired into orbit from our Space Flight Center, its path over the Southern Hemisphere is followed at tracking stations south of the equator. Woomera is one of the best of these installations. We are cooperating closely with the Australian government in monitoring our missiles, and our people go there frequently.”

“But why the mystery?” Joe asked.

“Dr. Jenson never got to Woomera. He hasn’t been heard of since he left Princeton!”

Frank let out a low whistle. “Did he actually get on the plane?”

“Yes. We checked with the airlines. He arrived in Sydney and picked up his luggage. There the trail ends. We also searched his desk for clues, but found nothing.”

“And you’ve notified the Australian police?” Joe asked.

“We did that immediately and they’ve been working on it ever since. However, both we and NASA wanted a top-flight investigator assigned to the case at this end—especially since there were indications that the plotters had been after him in this country. Our project’s top-secret, so the investigation has had to be kept under wraps, and your father seems the ideal man to handle it. But so far we have no real clue to Dr. Jenson’s whereabouts.”

“Maybe enemy agents kidnapped him!” Chet exploded. “Maybe they’re brainwashing him!”

“That’s possible,” Young admitted. “The Firebird Rocket is classified. Dr. Jenson and I are the only scientists who know the secret of the nuclear engine. If enemy agents kidnapped him, he may have revealed the secret. A foreign power could be building a Firebird right now!”

Frank said, “You mentioned that someone had been after Dr. Jenson in this country.”

Professor Young nodded. “A neighbor noticed a car with Florida plates parked outside his house after he left. And the police discovered that his home had been broken into and ransacked. Also, telephone company records show that a call was made from there that same night to a pay phone in Florida near the Space Flight Center.”

“So that’s why Dad’s been concentrating on the case down in Florida!” Joe said.

“Exactly. But he wanted all aspects of the case covered and decided his sons could handle the investigation here at the Aerospace Lab. So here you are.”

“And we’ve brought Chet,” Frank said. “He’s helped us many times before and is reliable.”

“That’s fine,” Young said. “I trust your judgment.”

Chet grinned and said he would do his best to help the Hardys crack the case.

The professor continued. “Your task is to investigate all possible leads at the lab and see if you can find the clue you need to solve the mystery while your father does the same at the Space Flight Center. I have some information that might help you.”

“Oh?” Frank asked. “What is it?”

Young’s answer surprised him. “Jenson and I received a warning letter and threatening phone calls. Here, I’ll show you.”

He reached into a drawer and took out an envelope. Removing the letter, he handed it to Frank. Joe and Chet craned their necks to see it. The message was crudely pieced together from words out of a newspaper.

It said: Kill the Firebird or else!

“Someone’s trying to sabotage your rocket!” Joe exclaimed. “They don’t want it to be launched.”

“That’s right, and whoever wrote the letter means business.”

“Professor,” Frank said, “do you realize that you may be in great danger yourself?”

“Everyone here is aware of that. I have been assigned a personal bodyguard, without whom I do not leave the building. I don’t want you to worry about me. Just find Dr. Jenson!”

Frank was about to say something when he heard a noise outside the door.

“An eavesdropper!” Frank thought. Leaping out of his chair, he strode to the door and swung it wide open.

Smoky Rinaldo was standing there!

“Hi,” Frank said. “Are you interested in our conference?”

Smoky looked surprised. “I didn’t know a conference was going on in Professor Young’s office. When I heard voices, I stopped momentarily to see if I should come in or not.” Glancing past Frank, he addressed Young. “I can’t tell if the fuel is getting hot enough. Would you mind checking it when you have a chance?”

“I’ll be right along, Smoky,” the professor promised. Then he said to the boys, “I’ll phone the Nassau Club and make arrangements for you to stay there while you’re in Princeton. It’s on Mercer Street.”

Young made the reservations, then went with Smoky to the atomic reactor while Frank, Joe, and Chet drove to the Nassau Club. The driveway curved in a semicircle past the steps leading up to the front door of the stately building.

Frank parked the car. “Do you think Smoky was eavesdropping?” he asked as the boys got out.

“I’m inclined to think he’s honest,” Joe said. “But we’ll keep an eye on him.”

The boys entered the building and went to the front office to see about their room. Frank inquired while Joe and Chet looked around.

A hallway led through the first floor to a coatroom at the rear. Members of the club were seated in the reading room to the left, scanning the latest newspapers and magazines. Two portraits hung on the opposite wall, flanking the entrance to the main dining room.

“I wonder who those old geezers are,” Chet whispered to Joe.

The younger Hardy walked closer, surveyed the inscriptions under the portraits, and came back. “They’re two presidents of the United States,” he said. “Woodrow Wilson and Grover Cleveland.”

Frank strode out of the office and announced that they were set for the night. The three drove to the rear of the club and left the car in the parking lot. Walking toward the back door, they examined the building, which had plenty of corners and angles, tilting roofs and high eaves.

“The club would make a good haunted house,” Joe suggested. “All we need is a spooky face at the window. Frank! There he is!”

“Who?” Frank asked, glancing in the direction his brother had indicated.

“The guy from the lab!” Joe gasped. “He was right there, looking out that window. The fellow with the tinted glasses!”

“I don’t see him now,” Frank stated, “but let’s go inside and see if we can catch him!”

The boys hurried up the wooden steps and through the coatroom door. Seeing nobody, they hastened down the hallway into the reading room, through the dining room, and to the front door.

A footfall on the carpet made them whirl. Their shadow was trying to tiptoe down the stairs to the basement!

The boys rushed after him. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, they saw him run into the bar. By the time they got there, he was exiting by another door.

The pursuers went pell-mell up the stairs to the first floor, and then to the second floor, where Chet was too exhausted to go any farther. He sat on the top step and watched the Hardys race along the corridor to where the man was climbing out the window. The fugitive slid down the fire escape to an alley at the bottom, and hurried around the corner into Nassau Street.

When Frank and Joe reached the spot, the man had vanished!

CHAPTER V

Night Visitor

“No SIGN of him,” Joe said, looking up and down the street. “He could be anywhere by now.”

Frank nodded glumly. “You’re right. We lost him.”

The boys returned to the club and picked up Chet, then went to their room. It overlooked the alley and had a fire escape under the window.

“Good,” Chet declared when he noticed the exit. “We can get out of here in a hurry if we’re cornered by crooks. Say, how about chow? I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I might faint.”

“If you do, you’ll shake up the club,” Joe quipped. “It wasn’t built for your weight.”

Chet looked pained, but Frank came to his rescue. “I’m with you, Chet. It’s dinnertime anyway.”

The boys freshened up a bit, then went to the dining room. After giving the waiter their order, Chet leaned back in his chair. “Well, Hardys,” he grinned, “do you have a plan for solving the big mystery yet?”

“We’re working on it,” Joe said, sipping water from his glass.

“I think Jenson was kidnapped by a foreign power,” Chet declared.

“Maybe he worked for a foreign power and left on his own,” Joe put in.

“You mean as a spy?” Chet asked.

Joe nodded. “Perhaps he developed the Firebird Rocket and sold the secret to someone else.”

Frank shook his head. “But why would he wait until the United States finished building the missile ? I think he would have given away the secret earlier and stolen the plans in order to prevent us from completing the project.”

Chet nodded. “I’m with Frank. The spy angle doesn’t seem to fit in this case. Jenson was probably kidnapped.”

“So where do we start with our work?” Joe wanted to know.

“We interview all the people at the lab,” Frank said. “Let’s hope somebody there will be able to give us a line on that bearded creep.”

The boys discussed their strategy during dinner, and after they had dessert, Chet suggested that they go for a walk to clear their heads.

“I have a better idea,” Joe said. “I noticed a sign saying that there’s dancing after dinner. Why don’t we listen to the music for a while?”

“Oh, good,” Chet said. “I’m all for it.”

A combo was playing in the lounge, and couples edged onto the dance floor. The boys sat down and before long Joe noticed three attractive girls standing nearby.

“Hey, what say we meet those young ladies over there?” he said.

“Sounds great,” Frank agreed. “I’ll invite them to our table.” He got up and soon returned with the girls in tow.

“Hi,” said the pretty blond right behind Frank. “I’m Hedy Hollweg. My friends are Pat Morrison and Jane Linski.”

The boys introduced themselves and asked the girls to dance. Frank paired off with Hedy, Joe with Pat, and Chet asked Jane. After a while, they went back to the table, and animated conversation followed.

“We’re freshmen at Princeton,” Hedy said, “and are studying American literature. What are you doing here? I haven’t noticed you on campus.”

“Detective work!” Chet boomed. “I’ve solved a lot of cases with the help of the Hardys!”

Frank and Joe grinned. They were used to having Chet brag a little, especially in front of girls.

The coeds were intrigued. They bombarded the boys with questions about crime investigation.

“You must be here on an important case,” Jane surmised.

Chet opened his mouth but Frank kicked his foot under the table as a signal to keep quiet about Dr. Jenson. Joe changed the subject. “How do you girls like Princeton?”

“It’s great!” Hedy said. “I’m glad they let coeds in.”

Pat nodded vigorously. “This is one thing Women’s Lib did for us. Princeton used to be for men only. But no more!”

“Personally, I wouldn’t want to go to a school that excludes girls,” Chet said, eying Jane appreciatively. He smiled at her. “Would you like to dance?”

The young people had a fun-filled evening, and when they finally said good-by to each other, the Bayporters thanked the girls for their pleasant company. Then Hedy, Pat, and Jane went to their dorm while the Hardys and Chet walked up to their room. Soon they were fast asleep.

A sudden noise woke Joe in the middle of the night. It came from the alley below their room. Throwing off his blanket, he got out of bed and padded silently to the window.

A pebble landed squarely on the pane. Joe peered over the sill into the darkness. He could barely see a figure on the ground below, throwing another pebble, and another.

Joe pushed the window open. “Hey, what do you want?” he whispered loudly.

“Joe! It’s me, Smoky. I’ve got something for you!” was the reply.

“Okay, come up the fire escape,” Joe said.

As Smoky climbed up the rungs of the ladder, Joe roused Frank and Chet. “We have a visitor,” he told them. “It’s Smoky.”

“At this time of night?” mumbled Chet, who was still foggy with sleep.

“Strange time for a visit, all right,” Joe agreed.

Smoky clambered in through the open window.

“What’s wrong with the front door?” Frank grumbled.

“They lock the place up at night,” Smoky explained, “and I didn’t want to cause a disturbance.”

“There’s also the telephone,” Chet pointed out.

“I know. But I didn’t want to call because I have something to show you. I—”

“How did you know this was our room?” Frank interrupted.

“It was the only vacant one before you came,” Smoky answered. “There was no other place for them to put you in.”

“Smoky, I think you’re crazy. Do you know what time it is?” Joe asked.

“Hey, don’t get mad. I’m trying to help you!” “Why couldn’t it wait till morning?”

“Because I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ve worked in the lab till now and I have an exam at noon. By the time I would be able to call you, you’d be gone.”

“All right. What have you got?” Frank asked.

Smoky withdrew a sheet from his pocket and held it up for them to read. “Look at this!” he said.

A row of words had been cut out of a magazine and glued onto the paper, just as in the threatening note Professor Young had received. It read: The Firebird will never fly!

Frank, Joe, and Chet were flabbergasted by the message, which seemed to leap at them from the paper.

“Where did you get this?” Frank asked Smoky.

“It was under the blotter on Dr. Jenson’s desk,” the boy replied. “He keeps memos there. As I told you, I worked late on the reactor, and I needed to clear up a problem about the power transmission. I thought Dr. Jenson might have left a memo on it, since we talked about it recently. So I looked under the blotter and found this paper instead.”

“Any idea how it got there?” Frank inquired.

“None. But I know that Dr. Jenson’s missing and figured you’re investigating. I couldn’t help hearing that much when you thought I was eavesdropping in the corridor. I decided I’d better get this message to you pronto. I’ll let Professor Young know about it in the morning.”

“Thanks for your trouble,” said Frank. “This could be important.”

“Professor Young told us Jenson’s desk was searched for clues when he disappeared,” Joe said. “How come it didn’t turn up then?”

“Must’ve been put under his blotter after that,” Frank guessed. He shot a questioning glance at their visitor, waiting to hear his comment.

“Strange time for a visit,” Joe said.

Smoky shrugged. “It could easily have been overlooked, because it was between a couple of memos. Well, I’d better be going. I have to get some rest or I’ll flunk my exam tomorrow.”

The boy jumped on the windowsill and swiveled his legs onto the fire escape. He climbed down into the alley and seconds later vanished behind the buildings.

Frank placed the puzzling message on the table under the light of the lamp and the boys studied the warning.

“What do you make of it?” Frank asked his two companions.

“The way it reads,” Chet declared, “this could be a threat or just a straight message.”

“Why cut out words to send someone a message?” Frank objected. “Why not just write it?”

“To avoid having your own writing recognized.”

“Sure, but whose own writing?” said Frank. “Are you saying Jenson himself is a phony or a traitor?”

“Well, he must be,” Chet argued, “if this is his work.”

“Yeah. If! That’s the question,” said Joe.

“There’s no way to tell. If you ask me, our first problem is, How did this get under Jenson’s blotter after he disappeared?”

Frank glanced at his brother. “You think Smoky’s lying?”

“Let’s just say we have no reason to trust him so far.”

“Maybe not. On the other hand, the message could have been overlooked, as he says.”

“That’s right,” Chet added. “Jenson may have put it under his blotter and forgotten about it. Perhaps he didn’t take the warning seriously.”

“Boy, the situation looks serious now,” Chet said. “If NASA goes ahead with the Firebird launching, it may be curtains for both Young and Jenson.”

“For all we know,” Joe warned, “it may have been curtains for Dr. Jenson already!”

CHAPTER VI

A Ghostly Hand

CHET gulped. There was silence for a moment.

Then Frank said, “We don’t have much time to solve this case. Professor Young said the Firebird will be launched in a couple of weeks.”

“From the Space Flight Center,” Joe added. “Maybe Dad’s onto something down there. Let’s call him in the morning and find out.”

The boys went back to sleep and were up bright and early. After breakfast they found the maid cleaning their room, which prevented them from using the phone. They decided to use the club phone in the basement.

Frank and Joe squeezed into the booth and shut the door, while Chet stood guard outside in case any suspicious character tried to listen in. Joe dialed SFC-1234, the hot-line number Mr. Hardy had given them for top-secret phone calls.

A woman’s voice answered. “This is Space Flight Center Control,” she said crisply. “Please identify yourself and the party you wish to speak to.”

“Frank and Joe Hardy,” Joe said. “We’d like to speak to Fenton Hardy.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been alerted that you have clearance. But Mr. Hardy isn’t here.”

“Can you tell us when he’ll be back?” Joe asked.

“Sorry, but I don’t know. Mr. Hardy wasn’t in yesterday, either, and he hasn’t phoned. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

“Yes. Please tell him to call us at the Aerospace Lab or at the Nassau Club in Princeton as soon as possible.”

Leaving the phone booth, the Hardys told Chet they had failed to reach Mr. Hardy.

“Where do you suppose he’s gone?” said Chet.

Frank shrugged. “He may be following up an outside clue or keeping someone under surveillance. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t had a chance to phone.”

“So what do we do now?” Chet asked.

“Let’s go over to the lab and start talking to people,” Joe said.

“Okay, but how about stopping at the library on the way?” Frank suggested. “I’d like to bone up a little on Australia. When Professor Young was telling us about Woomera yesterday, I realized how little I know about that whole continent.”

“Same here,” said Joe. “I guess we could all do with a quick fill-in on the scene down under. Who knows, it might even suggest another angle on the case to us!”

The three set out across the campus, passing students and professors on the way.

The university library was a stone building, three stories high. At the desk inside, Frank asked where they could find books about Australia. “On C Floor,” an assistant told him. “Three stories down. You can take the stairs or the elevator.”

“I don’t know about you,” Chet declared, “but I’ll ride.”

The Hardys followed him into the elevator, and Frank pressed the button. The doors closed, and they descended to the bottom floor, where a wall chart guided them to the left. Following the numbers that marked the shelves, they came to the section on Australia.

Each of the boys grabbed an armful of books, which he carried to a large circular table. They sat down and began to turn the pages, flipping through to the chapters and illustrations that interested them. Frank concentrated on geography and history, Joe and Chet on the people.

“I’m going to see if I can find something specific on Woomera,” Joe said finally and stood up. He returned his stack of books to their places. Then he scanned those on the shelf beneath. As he reached for one, a ghostly hand appeared from the opposite side! It clamped around Joe’s wrist and held tight!

Startled, the younger Hardy boy pushed a big volume out of the way with his free hand and looked through the opening. A young man grinned at him.

“Smoky Rinaldo!” Joe exploded.

“I couldn’t resist it,” Smoky said. “I’m a great practical joker, you know.”

“Some joke,” Joe grumbled. “You scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Smoky said. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” Joe asked. “I thought you wanted to get enough sleep to be fresh for your exam?”

“I woke up early so I came here to do some research. By the way, you’re being watched.”

“What?”

Smoky jerked a thumb in the direction behind Joe, who whirled around in time to spot an indistinct figure sneaking furtively between the stacks.

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” Smoky said, “but he seemed to be eavesdropping on you before, when you all sat at the table.”

“I’m going after him!” Joe decided. “Want to come?”

“Sure thing.”

Smoky and Joe met at the end of the stack. There was no time to alert Frank and Chet, since the man was hastening toward the exit.

Joe saw a ray of light reflected by tinted glasses. It was the man who had been shadowing them at the lab! He darted into the elevator and pushed the button. Joe and Smoky ran after him. He glowered savagely as they drew near, and then the elevator doors closed in their faces. The boys ran around to the stairs and took two steps at a time to the main floor, where they almost bumped into Professor Young!

“It’s lucky you’re here, professor,” Joe blurted, and quickly described their pursuit of the bearded man with the tinted glasses.

“I saw him!” Young declared. “He got out of the elevator and went up to the next floor. You may be able to catch him!”

The boys rushed up, found no one on the second floor, and continued to the top. There was no sign of the man anywhere! Joe and Smoky asked a group of students if they had seen him. No one had.

“He must have gone down the back stairs,” said a girl.

The boys returned to the ground floor. Young was still there and told them he had been watching the main staircase. “I was ready to call for help if the man appeared, but he didn’t.”

“He probably took the back staircase,” Joe said.

“Too bad,” Young said. “Well, I hope you catch him next time. I’ll keep an eye open and have him arrested if he shows up at the lab again. By the way, he apparently got in yesterday by flashing someone else’s pass. An employee reported that his was stolen. But now that everyone’s alerted, the fellow won’t be able to pull the same trick twice.”

Young walked off to work in the card-index file, and Smoky said he had to get going, too. He returned to the bookstack he had been examining before, while Joe went to question the attendant at the door.

“A man with tinted glasses and a beard?” the fellow said. “Yes, he walked out a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” Joe said. Disappointed, he joined Frank and Chet and told them about his unsuccessful pursuit.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll see our shadow again,” Frank muttered. “Meanwhile we looked at all the books, including the one you pulled halfway off the shelf. We didn’t find anything interesting on Woomera, so let’s get over to the lab and start working.”

The trio spent the rest of the week questioning employees and students at the lab, searching files and records, and investigating Dr. Jenson’s background and family. Not a single clue turned up.

As they were painstakingly searching the scientist’s desk, Frank noticed a lightning bolt engraved on one side. He asked Professor Young about it.

“That’s Adrian’s unofficial trademark,” Young told them. “The staff claims he solves problems with lightning speed, and one of the fellows marked his desk one day after Adrian helped him out on a critical project.”

On Sunday night the phone rang as the boys were getting ready for bed. Frank lifted the receiver. “It’s Dad,” he called out. Joe and Chet joined him at the instrument and filled the elder Hardy in on what they had done in Princeton.

“I’m still investigating people at the Space Flight Center,” Fenton Hardy said. “Director Henry Mason is afraid that an attempt may be made to destroy the rocket on its pad. I joined the work crew in disguise and spent two days at the launch site. However, so far I’m up against a stone wall.”

“Will you stay there until the launching?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I think so. It will take a lot more leg work to uncover a lead. Also, I’m setting up a brand-new security system for the launching. It’s of vital importance that nothing go wrong.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Frank asked. “We’ve talked to everyone in the lab and nothing has turned up.”

His father was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I think your best bet is to go to Australia!”

CHAPTER VII

Radioactive Evidence

“Australia!” Frank exclaimed.

“Yes. Tell Professor Young I want you to try to pick up Jenson’s trail in Sydney. A room was booked for him at the Australian Arms Hotel, but apparently he never checked in.”

“Okay, Dad. We’ll go as soon as we can.”

“And another thing. Try to shake your shadow. He worries me. He obviously knows you’re investigating the case and follows you wherever you go.”

“We’ll get rid of him on the way home,” Frank promised and hung up.

“Do you think Young will let me go along?” Chet asked apprehensively.

“We’ll ask him,” Frank said and called the professor’s home. He told Young about the conversation with his father and the detective’s suggestion.

“That’s a good idea,” Young agreed. “Your father is right. You’re being watched here. So far I haven’t been able to find out anything about your shadow, and it’s probably best if you leave Princeton without returning to the lab. Take a roundabout route and make sure you’re not being tailed.”

“Will do,” Frank said. “If I can’t get plane reservations for tomorrow or Tuesday, I’ll call you back. Can we take Chet with us?”

Young hesitated. “I’m responsible for the expenses in this case, Frank. I can’t really make a requisition for three people without a pressing reason.”

“I understand,” Frank said, disappointed.

Chet, who had overheard the conversation, looked crestfallen. After Frank hung up, he patted his friend on the back. “Don’t feel bad, Chet. We might be back sooner than you think.”

“Feel bad!” Chet said. “I feel worse! I would love to see the kangaroos and the Great Barrier Reef. Just think of skin diving in the coral reef, more than a thousand miles of it! And fish in all colors of the rainbow—”

“Listen, we’re not going sightseeing. We have a mystery to solve,” Joe put in. “Now I’d better call the airline and make reservations.”

Frank and Joe booked a flight to Sydney on Tuesday. Early Monday morning the boys left the Nassau Club and drove home, making sure they were not followed.

“The coast is clear,” Joe reported. “No one is behind us.”

They were not far out of Princeton, however, when Chet noticed a black limousine that seemed to keep them in sight. When Frank stepped on the gas, the driver of the limousine followed suit.

“You’ll have to get off this road to lose him,” Joe said to his brother. But before Frank had a chance to do this, the limousine pulled nearly abreast of them. The driver honked his horn and motioned for them to pull to the side.

“Make a run for it!” Joe advised and Frank pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Another car drove between the limousine and the Hardys. Their pursuer swerved to the left, increased the speed of his powerful V-8 engine, and passed the second vehicle. He inched up to the Hardys and proceeded to cut them off!

Frank noticed the legend on the limousine’s side: PRINCETON AEROSPACE LABORATORY, as he wrenched the wheel desperately to avoid a crash. With split-second timing he turned to the right, past the front fender of the limousine, careened off the highway into a rest area, and skidded halfway around before coming to a stop in a cloud of dust.

The limousine jolted after him and its driver braked to a halt. He bent his head and seemed to be searching for something in the seat beside him. Neither Frank nor Joe got a good look at him, but they wasted no time. They leaped from their car and wrenched open the door of the limousine. In a split second they collared the man and wrestled him out.

“Hey, fellows, wait a minute!” the driver pleaded. He was Smoky Rinaldo!

Frank dropped Smoky’s arm. “You nearly caused a crack-up!” he said angrily.

“Is this another one of your practical jokes?” Joe almost shouted.

“Of course not,” Smoky said. “But I had to catch you, and you ignored the horn when I tried to flag you down. You wouldn’t stop, so I had to make you!”

“We thought you were the guy who followed us all over Princeton,” Joe said, his anger cooling.

“I assumed you’d recognize me.”

“With that goofy cap pulled down over your face?”

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to cause an accident,” Smoky went on. “I thought I could detour you into the rest area by cutting you off.”

“What did you want to stop us for?” asked Chet, who had joined the boys.

Smoky held up his hand and revealed a metal flask with Dr. Jenson’s name on it. “Here, look at this!”

“What about it?” Frank asked.

“It’s radioactive!” Smoky asserted.

Chet retreated hurriedly. “It might explode!”

“Radioactive material doesn’t just explode,” Frank calmed him. “It takes a triggering device to start a chain reaction.”

Smoky swung his flask by its heavy top. “No fear of that. It’s not even radioactive enough to kill a cockroach.”

Frank was getting irritated. “Did you chase us all the way from Princeton to tell us that?”

“No. I wanted you to know that I think Dr. Jenson was up to something.”

“Why?”

“Because I found this flask in one of the file cabinets. I was digging in some records and ran across the flask in the back of the bottom drawer. It’s against regulations for anyone to take anything radioactive out of the lab.”

Smoky explained that the steel flasks were used to hold nuclear materials during experiments. When the experiment ended, the scientist conducting it was supposed to send his flasks to a storeroom lined with lead, where they would be decontaminated.

“Dr. Jenson took this one and hid it in the file,” Smoky concluded. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“Did he ever break the rules before?” Joe asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Did you tell Professor Young about it?”

“Sure. Right away.”

“What did he say?”

“He found it very odd and called you at the Nassau Club. He was informed that you had just left. Since he didn’t know what arrangements you had made and whether you would go home before you left for Australia, he asked me to try to catch up with you. He also gave me a photo of Jenson for you. So I drove in the direction of Bayport. I figured I’d go down the highway for a while, and sure enough, I saw your car.”

Frank was thoughtful. “This is odd. I’m glad you caught us, Smoky.”

“One thing bothers me,” Joe said. “We searched all the files in his office and the flask was not there then.”

“It wasn’t in his office. It was in the record room.” Smoky said. “In one of the general files that a number of people use. But it was Jenson’s flask, all right, none of the others have any occasion to handle radioactive materials.” He looked at the three boys. “Now you’re not mad any more that I cut you off?”

“Of course not. You had no choice,” Frank told him.

“Okay. I’ll head back then. And good luck to you. I hope you find Dr. Jenson!” Smoky got into the limousine and drove off.

Frank, Joe, and Chet resumed their trip to Bayport and discussed the latest development.

“How about that!” Chet said. “I wonder why Jenson hid that radioactive flask in the general file?”

“Maybe he was going to smuggle it out of the lab,” Joe suggested, “to hand it over to someone on the outside. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that he wasn’t kidnapped by foreign agents after all. He made a deal with them!”

Frank was doubtful. “What could anybody do with a radioactive flask?”

“I don’t know. They might analyze the atomic formula from the stuff in the flask,” Joe guessed.

“Okay,” Frank gave in. “But where does that leave the warning message Smoky found under the blotter on Jenson’s desk?”

“Jenson himself might have planted it there to throw people off his trail,” Chet said.

“I don’t know,” Frank mused. “Suppose his kidnappers did it to mislead us after they grabbed him? And, frankly, I have my doubts about Smoky. He found the note and the bottle. Yet, Young assured us that Jenson’s desk was searched. How do we know that Smoky didn’t plant the stuff?”

“Aw, Frank,” Chet said impulsively, “Smoky’s a nice guy. He wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Frank’s right,” Joe said. “We can’t take anything for granted, not even that Smoky is a nice guy.”

Chet sighed. “I don’t know what to think any more. I give up.”

“Let’s call Dad before we leave and ask him to check out Smoky,” Joe said. “And we’ll call Professor Young to make sure he sent Smoky after us.”

Some time later the trio rolled into Bayport. The Hardys dropped Chet at the Morton farm on the outskirts of town, then continued to their house, where they were welcomed by their mother and aunt.

“I’m so glad you’re back!” Mrs. Hardy said, giving them each a hug.

“Not for long,” Frank told her.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re leaving for Australia tomorrow!”

“Australia? Hmph, next thing you’ll be taking off for Mars,” Aunt Gertrude grumbled. “Now tell us what this is all about.”

The boys did, and Gertrude Hardy frowned. “Do you suppose this missing scientist could have been captured by headhunters?”

“I doubt it,” said Frank, keeping a straight face. “The Australian abos aren’t headhunters, Aunty, and they don’t run wild in Sydney.”

“I know that,” Miss Hardy snapped. “You didn’t say he disappeared in Sydney.”

“Well, that’s where his trail ends, anyhow.” Frank grinned and turned to his brother. “I’m going to call Professor Young.”

“Good idea,” Joe said. “I’ll come with you.”

They called Princeton, and the professor verified what Smoky had told them. “We didn’t check that file because Dr. Jenson seldom used it,” he said. “I’m sure it was his flask, though, because he wrote his name on it, and I know his handwriting. When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” Frank said. “We’ll get in touch with you when we find a lead.”

When Frank put the receiver back into the cradle, Joe said, “While you’re at it, would you call Mr. Ponsley? We’ll have to tell him that we can’t work for him.”

“Sure.” Frank dialed the man’s number. “This is Frank Hardy,” he said a few seconds later. “I’m sorry we can’t take the Moran assignment, but we’re involved in our father’s case and have to leave the country.”

Ponsley was unhappy. “That is disappointing news. I was counting on you to locate Michael,” he said. “Well, I’ll have to get another detective. I need one now more than ever, because I have a new cluel”

CHAPTER VIII

Danger in the Surf

FRANK started to ask what the new clue was, but a loud click at the other end of the line told him that the man had hung up.

“Mr. Ponsley says he has a new lead on Mike Moran,” Frank said to Joe.

“What is it?”

“Don’t know. He didn’t tell me. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. We’re tied up with the Jenson investigation. Somebody else will have to find Mike, wherever he is.”

Early next morning the boys packed their bags and were just about ready to depart for the airport, when Chet arrived in his jalopy.

“Guess what!” he called out, bubbling over with excitement.

“What?” Frank asked.

“I won first prize in my category of the science competition, fifteen hundred dollars in cash!”

“Wow, that’s great, Chet!” Joe exclaimed. “Have you decided what to do with it yet?”

“Sure! I’ll go to Australia with you guys, of course!” Chet said. “I already called the airline. They had a vacant seat on your plane, so I packed my bags and came over here pronto!”

“That’s terrific!” Frank said. “I’m glad you can come with us.”

“So am I,” Joe added. “And now we’d better leave so we don’t miss our flight.”

The boys said good-by to Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude and drove to the Bayport airfield, where they parked their car in an overnight lot. They took a plane to New York and transferred at Kennedy Airport to a jumbo jet for Sydney, Australia.

Soon they had settled into their seats at the rear of the plane. Chet sat at the window, Frank in the middle, and Joe on the aisle. Frank took a map of the Pacific from a folder provided by the airline and began to plot their route.

“We’ll touch down at Los Angeles and Honolulu,” he informed his companions. “From there it’s nonstop to Sydney.”

The plane took off. Suddenly a flash of red caught Joe’s eye. A stout man was napping on the other side of the aisle, a few rows in front of the boys. The color came from a large ruby ring he wore.

Joe stood up to see better. “That’s Ponsley!” he exclaimed.

Frank picked up the map spread across his knees and got up, too. He looked where his brother was pointing. “It sure is, Joe. What’s he doing here?”

“Maybe he’s tailing us,” Chet guessed.

“Well, if he is, he’s not very good at it,” Joe replied. “He’s asleep, and that giant ruby is a dead giveaway. Let’s wake him up.”

“Not me,” Chet said hastily. “I’ll stay in this seat until we land!”

Leaving their friend, Frank and Joe walked up the aisle. Joe nudged their portly acquaintance with his elbow.

Ponsley stirred, yawned, opened his eyes, and stared at the Hardys. He looked startled as he recognized them.

“Are you following us?” Joe demanded.

“Of course not,” Ponsley replied.

“How come you’re on this plane, then?” Frank asked.

“Senator Moran had a tip from a friend who just returned from abroad,” Ponsley explained. “The man said he recognized Michael in a newspaper photograph of a soccer game in Sydney. The senator didn’t give me time to find another detective. He told me to go to Australia myself, so I caught this plane and here I am.”

“Quite a coincidence,” Frank commented.

“That’s right,” Ponsley challenged. “What are you doing on this plane?”

“I told you we had to leave the country,” Frank pointed out. “Our investigation led us to Sydney.”

Ponsley beamed and gestured with his hand, causing his ruby ring to throw off rays of deep red. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Both investigations will take place in Sydney. You can work on them at the same time!”

The Hardys talked it over and concurred that they might handle the two cases while they were in Australia.

“That’s okay,” Frank told Ponsley, “but our assignment comes first. We can’t let the search for Mike Moran get in the way of that.”

“All right,” Ponsley said. “I’m glad you’ll help me. After all, I really am not a detective!”

The Hardys returned to their seats and informed Chet about their conversation with Ponsley. Then they settled back for the rest of the flight to Los Angeles, where some passengers got off, others got on, and the jet became airborne again. The boys napped as it crossed the California coastline and headed out over the Pacific. Finally the Hawaiian Islands came into view, and soon they landed in Honolulu.

The captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Please disembark. There will be a delay because of a technical problem.”

Everybody went down the steps and into the terminal, where a stewardess informed them that the delay would last overnight. “A bus is ready to take you all to a hotel on Waikiki Beach,” she said. “We’ll continue the flight in the morning.”

The boys and Ponsley boarded the bus with the other passengers and an hour later they had checked in at a luxurious hotel. From their window, the three Bayporters could see the broad band of white sand where the waters of the Pacific lapped ashore. White foam formed where the breakers rolled in. Surfboard riders tried to keep their footing on huge swells that carried them forward at express-train speeds, and most fell into the water. The rest glided triumphantly to the beach.

“What say we try it, too?” Joe asked.

“Affirmative,” Frank replied.

“I’ll show you how to ride a surfboard!” Chet boasted. “Lead me to itl”

They called Ponsley and asked him if he wanted to join them.

“No thanks,” he replied. “I’ll take a walk instead.”

Leaving him in the hotel, the boys went to the bathhouse, rented swim trunks, and toted surf-boards into the water. They pushed through the shallow waves and reached the point far out where breakers began to form.

“Last one in gets the booby prize!” Chet shouted gleefully, as he climbed up and balanced himself with his arms stretched out. A breaker caught hold of his board and sent it flying toward the beach.

Frank and Joe followed on either side. The three made long curves up and down over the ocean swells, and they leaned to one side or the other to compensate for the tilt of their boards. Sunlight gleamed off the water and the wind blew spray into their faces.

Chet had a lead at the start, but Frank and Joe skillfully maneuvered over the turbulent breakers until they were zooming along just behind him.

Then a wave cutting across the breakers at an angle struck Chet’s surfboard, knocking it around. The heavy impact caused him to lose his footing and he tumbled into the water. His crazily floating board whacked him on the side of the head and he sank out of sight!

Frank dived from his own board into the water in Chet’s direction, and Joe came headlong after him. They groped underwater as long as they could hold their breaths. Forced to surface, the Hardys gulped air and looked around frantically. Chet’s head bobbed up near Joe. His eyes were closed, and his body limp. Presently he slipped below the surface againl

“He’s out cold!” Frank yelled. “Grab him before he disappears!”

Joe did a seal flip that took him arching from the surface down into the depths, where he spotted Chet being dragged toward the open sea by a strong undertow. Using the breaststroke and kicking his feet hard, Joe reached his friend and pushed him to the surface. Frank splashed over, crooked an elbow under Chet’s chin, and swam on his back in the direction of the shore. Joe, who surfaced beside them, gave Frank a hand with his burden. As they touched the sand in the shallow water, Chet came to. The three stumbled onto the beach and sat down, gasping for breath.

A lifeguard jogged across the sand. “That was a great rescue,” he complimented the Hardys. “I didn’t come in because I could see you had the situation under control.” He turned to Chet. “How do you feel?”

Chet rubbed his head. “Okay, I guess,” he mumbled. “But I sure have a powerful headache. I’m going back to the hotel. Besides, I’m nauseated from swallowing half the Pacific.”

He got to his feet and walked off. Frank and Joe went with him. They insisted that he see the hotel doctor, whose prognosis was that Chet would be fit again after a night’s sleep. The diagnosis was correct. Chet woke up in the morning with nothing more than tenderness on the side of his head.

After breakfast the bus took all the passengers back to the airport, and soon they were on their way again. They flew southwest across what seemed to be an endless expanse of ocean before Samoa came into view. The boys talked to Ponsley for a while, then went back to their seats to read.

They stopped when the stewardess served their meals. Chet ravenously dug into everything that was put in front of him, looking blissful.

“Chet, there’s nothing like chow to bring you back to normal,” Frank declared.

“Lucky the airline doesn’t have to feed you every day,” Joe needled him. “It would go broke.”

Chet downed the last mouthful of cherry pie. “That’ll hold me for a while,” he predicted.

The stewardess removed the trays and the boys dozed off until the plane ran into turbulence and began to wobble.

Chet opened his eyes, slumped in his seat, and placed a hand on his belt buckle. “I don’t feel so good,” he confessed.

As the turbulence increased, the plane bounced up and down. Chet turned pale. His freckles stood out and his eyes bulged. “What’s happening?” he muttered fearfully.

“We’re in the jetstream, that’s all,” Frank reassured him. “We’ll soon be out of it.”

Suddenly the plane flew into a downdraft and dropped a number of feet.

“We’re gonna crash!” Chet cried. Desperately he clawed the life jacket from under his seat, slipped it on, and pulled the strings, triggering the inflation mechanism. The life jacket ballooned out, pinning Chet between the seats.

A stewardess rushed up. “Sir, what are you doing?” she demanded.

Chet closed his eyes and gasped. “If we survive the crash, we’ll all drown!”

CHAPTER IX

The Porter’s Clue

“NONSENSE!” the stewardess retorted sternly. “We are not going to crash!”

Chet opened one eye. “We aren’t?”

“Certainly not. Turbulence in the air is routine! You are disturbing the other passengers.”

Frank hastily assured her that he and Joe would take care of the situation. The stewardess thanked him and moved toward the cockpit. By now the jet was flying steadily on course. Frank let the air out of the life jacket, helped Chet wriggle out of it, and stowed it under the seat.

Chet swallowed hard and looked remorseful. “I thought we’d crash for sure,” he said.

“Forget it,” Joe said. “No harm done.”

“Get ready for Australia, Chet,” Frank advised.

The freckle-faced youth regained his composure. His broad grin returned. “Kangaroos! Boomerangs! I can’t wait!”

Finally they could see the coastline of Australia as the plane thundered down over Port Jackson, a large bay with long watery indentations into the land. Sydney Harbor came into view, spanned by a long suspension bridge.

“When we were reading up on Australia,” Joe said, “I remember one of the books said the people in Sydney call that bridge ‘the coathanger.’ ”

The boys could see big ocean-going ships tied up at the docks, and clusters of tall buildings. The city and its suburbs lay spread out below them in a pattern of streets, squares, and parks, illuminated by the evening sun.

The plane landed at the airport. After getting through customs, the boys and Ponsley took a taxi to their hotel. They had booked rooms at the Australian Arms, where Dr. Jenson had also made a reservation before he disappeared.

“May as well start our detective work right now,” Frank decided.

As they got out of their taxi, he showed the hotel porter photos of Dr. Jenson and Mike Moran.

“Recognize these people?” Frank queried.

The porter studied the faces and shook his head. “I’ve never seen either of them,” he declared.

They made the same inquiry at the hotel desk, but to no avail. During dinner, they discussed how they should proceed.

“We ought to check with police headquarters first thing in the morning,” Frank decided. “By now they may have some news on Dr. Jenson, and they may know something about Mike Moran, too.”

“I’m going with you,” Ponsley declared.

“Good. We’ll meet for breakfast at eight,” Frank said; then they retired for the night.

The following morning the Hardys got up bright and early. Chet did not feel well and decided to sleep a little longer.

“We’ll see you when we come back,” Joe told him, then he and Frank met Ponsley in the cafeteria. They had a quick breakfast and an hour later took a taxi to police headquarters. Here they explained their mission to a sergeant on duty.

“You’ll have to talk to Inspector Morell,” the sergeant replied. “He’s in charge of the search for that missing Yank scientist. But he’s not here right now. Should be back in half an hour.”

“Okay, we’ll talk to him later.” Frank added that they were also trying to trace another missing American, named Michael Moran, whose face had been spotted in a Sydney newspaper photo.

“Hmm.” The sergeant rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “We don’t keep tabs on all the tourists who come here—unless they get in trouble, of course. Let me just check with our Criminal Records Office.”

He picked up the phone, dialed, and conversed for a few minutes. Then he hung up with a grin. “You’re in luck, mates. Our computer turned up his name straightaway. He’s listed as a witness to an auto accident about a month ago. Gave his address as Flynn’s Guesthouse on St. James Road.”

The boys and Ponsley thanked the sergeant and took another cab to the guesthouse on St. James Road. They were disappointed, however, when the owner informed them that Mike Moran had departed about three weeks before, saying only that he was leaving town.

“So Moran’s trail ends right here,” Joe said glumly.

“And we haven’t even picked up Jenson’s yet,” Frank added.

“What’ll we do now, go around with the photographs?” Ponsley asked.

“Right. Let’s start here,” Joe said. He showed the owner Jenson’s picture, but the man told them he had never seen the American before. Then the group walked out into the street. The boys returned to police headquarters while Ponsley took a taxi to their hotel.

After the Hardys had introduced themselves to Inspector Morell, he said, “I was just about to call Professor Young at the Aerospace Lab. We have traced Dr. Jenson to a shabby place on Sixteen Wallaby Drive. There was a fire there recently in the lobby that destroyed the hotel register and forced the owner to close for a while. That’s why it took so long to track Jenson down.”

The boys noted the address and thanked Inspector Morell. Then they took a taxi to Wallaby Drive. It was in a rundown section of town and number 16 looked like a decrepit apartment building. Only a small faded sign over the door indicated that it was a hotel. The blackened woodwork around the doors and windows showed signs of a recent blaze.

“I wonder if that fire the inspector mentioned was an arson job,” Frank mused.

“That’s an idea,” Joe said. “Maybe someone was trying to keep the police from finding out Jenson stayed there.”

The boys went inside. Two men stood behind the desk in the empty hallway that now served as a lobby. One was the manager, the other had “porter” stitched on the breast pocket of his threadbare jacket.

When Frank inquired about Jenson, the manager looked annoyed. “I’ve already told the police all I know,” he said curtly. “Dr. Jenson left with two Americans the day after he checked in and I never heard from him again.’”

“Did he pay his bill?” Joe inquired.

“The men did.”

“Why not Dr. Jenson himself?”

“How do I know?” the manager asked gruffly.

There was a brief silence before Frank said, “Were you afraid of trouble if you told the police too much about Jenson?”

The man’s face turned sullen. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You had a fire here, for one thing. And maybe you received some threats.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Frank flashed a twenty dollar bill. “Try to remember. Was there anything even the slightest bit unusual about Jenson’s departure?”

The manager hesitated, obviously tempted. He glanced furtively around, then took the money and quickly put it in his wallet. “Well, Jenson seemed drunk,” he told the boys. “He was sort of slumped between these two blokes. They paid and led him outside, then pushed him into a car and drove off.”

“Do you think he was forced to go with them?”

“I dunno. I think he was drunk.”

“Can we look in his room for a clue?” Joe asked. “We must find him!”

“Go ahead. I haven’t rented it since.” The manager gave him the key and the boys went into Jenson’s room.

Joe looked into the closet while Frank went through the bureau drawers. They turned the wastebasket upside down, and lifted the mattress from the bed.

“Nothing here,” said Joe, standing in the middle of the room and gazing around. His eyes fell on the door, which was covered with scratches and graffiti. Joe went over and bent down, staring at the bottom panel.

“Hey Frank, come here a minute!”

Frank looked at the initials and sentences scribbled on the lower part of the door. “Graffiti,” he said. “Courtesy of the hotel’s high-class clientele.”

“Look close,” Joe advised. “See this sign?”

“A bolt of lightning!” Frank exclaimed. “The same as we saw on Dr. Jenson’s desk!”

“Correct. And after it are the letters A1 S. What do you think that means?”

“Maybe those are the initials of Dr. Jenson’s kidnapper!” Frank said, excited. “Could be his name is Albert Smith.”

“Or Alfred Scott, or a million other combinations,” Joe commented.

Their enthusiasm diminished as they realized the number of possibilities. “There are too many names with those initials,” Frank concluded. “We’ll have to find Jenson to find out whom he meant.”

“Let’s think about it as we go back to our hotel,” Joe suggested. “What say we walk instead of taking a cab?”

“Suits me,” Frank agreed.

Before leaving, they wrote down their room number at the Australian Arms and asked the manager to call them if he remembered any other details. Then they walked toward the center of the city, which was not far, and found that Sydney was built on a number of hills. Rows of houses painted in bright colors lined the streets, and cars whizzed back and forth through narrow thoroughfares.

“Why do you think Jenson checked into that crummy hotel?” Joe asked his brother.

“Maybe he suspected he was being followed and wanted to hide,” Frank replied.

“Or, if he’s not on the level, perhaps he wanted to disappear and obscure his tracks,” Joe concluded.

“I think he was kidnapped. I don’t believe he was drunk when those guys took him out of the place,” Frank said.

“You’re probably right. Boy, these streets are all uphill or downhill,” Joe said. “I’m getting tired!”

“Cheer up. We’re coming close to level ground,” Frank told him. He referred to Macquarie Street, where they saw the law courts before cutting over to George Street, the site of the magnificent Town Hall and St. Andrew’s Cathedral.

They stepped off the curb and began to cross over to the cathedral, when a car swished around the corner and barreled straight at them at top speed!

Instinctively Frank and Joe whirled to leap back onto the sidewalk. The car followed them, heading them off. Again they raced into the street, hoping to make it to the other side. The car careened after them. It was a wild chase until Frank slipped and fell. The car hurtled straight at him!

Joe barely had time to shove his brother out of the way. There was no chance to escape himself. He took a death-defying leap at the car, sprawling across the hood to avoid being run down!

The car zoomed past Frank, missing him by inches, and jolted over a patch of grass bordering the sidewalk. Joe was blocking the driver’s view, but a sharp twist of the wheel sent the youth sliding off. He rolled over and over. Only the cushion of grass saved him from serious injury.

As Joe lay half-stunned, he caught a parting glimpse of the bearded driver, scowling at him through the open window as the car roared away. The man was wearing tinted glasses!

He continued up the street, rounded the corner, and vanished. Frank and Joe got to their feet, shaking their heads at their narrow escape. The few pedestrians ran to help, but nobody had caught the car’s license number.

“Thanks for saving me, Joe,” Frank puffed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, except that fall rattled my eyeteeth.” The younger Hardy waited till they were alone again before adding, “Did you get a look at the driver?”

“No. Who was he?”

“The guy who shadowed us in Princeton!”

Frank gave a long whistle. “He followed us to Australia! How did he know we’d be here?”

“He didn’t follow us to Bayport,” Joe said. “And I watched on the way to the airport. No one was behind us.”

Joe took a death-de fying leap at the car.

“Maybe he overheard our telephone conversation with Professor Young,” Frank said. ‘Or he could have overheard Young and Smoky talking when the professor told Smoky to catch us before we left for Australia.”

“Or Smoky could have told him!” Joe added.

“Right. Once he knew we were coming here, all he had to do was check with the airlines and take an earlier flight or even get on the same plane with us in disguise!”

“This is getting serious,” Joe said. “The guy’s out to kill us. If we don’t crack this case soon, he may succeed!”

Taking various detours, the boys returned to the Australian Arms Hotel. When they arrived in their room, Chet was still sleeping. Frank woke him up and told him what had happened. He was just about finished when the telephone rang. Joe picked it up.

He heard a muffled voice say, “If you want information on Dr. Jenson, be at the Botany Bay Coffeehouse in King’s Cross in one hour!”

CHAPTER X

A Spy in the Crowd

“WHO are you and how will we know you?” Joe asked.

“I’ll know you, and that’s all that matters.” The phone went dead. Joe relayed the message to Frank and Chet.

“Sounds like a trap,” he added. “Probably another one of our shadow’s tricks.”

“I think we should chance it,” Frank said. “We don’t have any other leads in the case.”

There was a knock on the door. Frank walked over to it and asked, “Who is it?”

“Ponsley.” It was their friend’s familiar voice. Frank let him in and brought him up-to-date on the latest news.

“Suppose,” Ponsley said, “I go along and trail behind you. If the crooks gang up on you, I’ll call for help.”

“Great idea!” Joe said. “How about you, Chet?”

Chet was awake by now, and felt better. “Of course, I’m coming, too,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” Frank objected. “I think it will be better if we split forces. You stay here, Chet, and if we’re not back in an hour, alert the police. If you come along, they might get all of us and no one would know we’re missing.”

“Okay,” Chet agreed readily. The thought of being caught did not appeal to him at all. Ponsley looked a bit doubtful, too, but did not retract his offer.

The three left, and just before the hour was up, the Hardys entered the Botany Bay Coffeehouse, a popular gathering place for Australians of all types from Sydney businessmen to shop girls, office workers, and people in the arts. Like most Aussies, they seemed to have a sun-tanned breezy look about them that the boys liked. Over coffee and tea, a babble of cheerful voices could be heard.

Frank and Joe sat down at a table in a corner and ordered coffee. They surveyed the room without spotting a familiar face until Ponsley walked in. He took a table on the opposite side of the room, winked to indicate that he was keeping them under surveillance, and told a waitress to bring him a pot of tea.

“You’re right on time,” a voice said at Frank’s elbow. “You must be interested.”

It was the porter from the hotel Dr. Jenson had stayed in!

The man sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. “Look, mates,” he said in a low tone, “I know about Dr. Jenson. I opened the door for him and the two blokes who were with him. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was drugged. When they pushed him into the car, he began to struggle. I went out to see what was going on, and I heard him mutter something.”

“What was it?” Frank asked eagerly.

“He said ‘Alice Springs’ just before they slammed the door and drove off!”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Joe inquired.

“I told the manager. He said he didn’t want any trouble, and that I might have made a mistake. That’s why I couldn’t tell you at the hotel that I recognized Jenson’s photo. After thinking it over, I thought you should know that he wasn’t drunk. He was drugged!”

The porter drained his coffee cup and, after accepting some money from Frank in payment for his information, he rose to his feet. He was due back at the hotel and strode off. The Hardys stared at each other in consternation.

Joe broke the silence. “Now we know what Al S stands for. Alice Springs! She must be the leader of the kidnap gang. Maybe she’s holding Jenson a prisoner right now here in Sydney!”

“Joe, Alice Springs isn’t a person. It’s a place—a town way off in the Outback in the middle of the country. Jenson left a message saying that he was taken to Alice Springs!” Frank said.

Joe jumped up from his chair. “This is a hot clue, Frank! We’ll have to go to Alice Springs!”

“That’s the way I see it. We’d better get out there in a hurry.”

Ponsley left his table and joined them. “Who was that fellow and what did he say?”

Frank told him and repeated the conversation.

“Where is Alice Springs?” Ponsley asked.

“Let’s find out,” Frank suggested and pulled a map of Sydney from his pocket that showed all of Australia on the reverse side. He spread it flat on the table, running a fingertip from Sydney west across New South Wales into South Australia, and then up into the Northern Territory. His finger stopped almost exactly in the center of the continent, where the words “Alice Springs” were printed in black letters.

They could tell from the relief coloring that the town nestled in the foothills of the Macdonnell Ranges, at a point where a number of streams converged. The illustrations indicated that all around Alice Springs there were homesteads, mines, and cattle ranches.

Ponsley was aghast. “Impossible!” he cried, thumping the table with his fist until the ruby on his finger seemed to be a streak of red in the air. “That town is over a thousand miles from here!”

“A long trip,” Joe agreed.

“Too long!” Ponsley snapped. “You have to stay in Sydney and continue the search for Mike Moran!”

Frank shook his head. “Mike will have to wait,” he said firmly. “Jenson comes first. Besides, Mike said he was leaving town. Chances are he’s not in Sydney anyway.”

Ponsley groused and grumbled, but finally gave in. “I’ll go with you,” he decided. “I’m not the detective around here. I need you boys to solve my mystery. I’d better stay with you so I can be sure you start looking for Mike the minute you find Jenson.”

“Fair enough,” Frank said and paid the bill. He asked the waitress about the nearest travel bureau, which happened to be around the corner.

The boys were unable to book a scheduled flight for the next day, but the clerk referred them to the pilot of a small private plane, who had just come in to pick up possible fares.

“I belong to the Royal Flying Doctor Service,” the pilot told them. “The RFDS flies doctors, nurses, and medicine over the Outback wherever someone is ill or injured. Planes are the only way to get around quickly in that area.”

“You must be like the bush pilots in Alaska,” Joe surmised. “They cover a lot of territory.”

“Quite similar,” the pilot agreed. “Well, I operate out of Alice Springs and will be flying back there tomorrow morning. I’ll be glad to take you.”

“We’ll need four seats,” Frank said. “A friend of ours is coming, too.”

“That’s okay. I have enough room.”

The boys thanked the man and left the travel agency. “What say we call Chet to tell him the latest news, and then see a few more of the sights on the way back to the hotel?” Frank suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe and Ponsley agreed. They called from a public phone booth, then strolled along the Elizabeth Street shopping area, glancing at items in store windows and enjoying the bustle of the city. They paused at a fishmonger’s barrow.

“Anything on the menu from the Great Barrier Reef?” Frank inquired.

“Too far away, mate,” the man laughed. “My fish come from Ulladulla, down south of here. How about some tasty snapper or John Dory? Blimey, you’ll find ’em delicious!”

“Okay, you’ve convinced us.” Joe chuckled.

They all bought fish sandwiches and munched them hungrily. Then they deposited their paper napkins in a trash bin and walked on.

Suddenly Frank spotted someone watching them from the opposite side of the street. The older Hardy boy recognized the man with the beard and the tinted glasses!

“Our shadow from Princeton!” he told his companions.

“The guy who tried to run us down!” Joe exploded. “Let’s get him!”

The boys turned and hastened to the corner to cross Elizabeth Street. Ponsley brought up the rear as fast as he could. But the light turned red just as they arrived at the intersection and the flow of traffic compelled them to wait. By the time they got across, they could barely glimpse their quarry almost a block away.

“He’s heading toward the waterfrontl” Frank cried.

The Hardys and Ponsley ran after him. A sign, HARBOUR BRIDGE, pointed the way to the busy eight-lane steel span connecting Sydney to the North Shore.

Presently they came to the dock area, where ocean liners and tramp freighters were tied up at the piers to disgorge and take on passengers and cargo. Across the waters of Sydney Cove on their right could be seen the dazzling new opera house, looking like a cluster of pointed white concrete sails.

As the boys slowed to get their bearings, they almost bumped into a sailor who was hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Sorry, mates! I didn’t see you coming,” he apologized.

“Did you happen to pass a bearded man with dark glasses?” Frank asked him.

The sailor shoved back his cap and scratched his head. “Don’t recall noticing anyone like that,” he replied, “but if you want to come back to me ship for a minute, I’ll find out if anyone saw him.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, but weren’t you going the other way? We don’t want to hold you up.”

“That’s all right, cobber. I was just going on shore leave. Nothing that urgent.”

Ponsley sat down on a wooden bollard to catch his breath. “I need a breather after all that running,” he said. “You two go on. I’ll wait here.”

The boys accompanied the sailor to his freighter, which was moored nearby. On its stern was the name Sydney Cove.

The sailor grinned. “Recognize that name?”

Frank and Joe shook their heads. “Should we?” the younger Hardy boy asked.

“Maybe not, seeing as ‘ow you’re Yanks. But there once was a ship called Sydney Cove that sank. Only three ’ands survived to tell the tale. So now some say every ship with that name is jinxed.”

Frank laughed. “We don’t believe in jinxes.”

The sailor grinned. “Then you got nothin’ to fear. Come on aboard. You can call me Salty, by the way. Everyone else does.”

He led the way up the gangplank to the well deck, where the captain was giving orders to his bosun and deck hands. One of the men was attaching a huge bale to a cargo boom near the open hold.

“What’re you doing back aboard, Salty?” the officer bellowed.

“Just ‘elpin’ out these two Yanks, sir. They’re lookin’ for a bearded man with dark glasses. Anyone see ’im go by?”

The skipper and crewmen, who had stopped work, shook their heads. The boys thanked them and left the ship. They saw Ponsley coming toward them across the dock.

“I’ve seen enough of Sydney,” he declared. “I’m going back to the hotel. Want to share a taxi with me?”

“May as well,” Frank answered. “Looks like we’ve lost that creep we were chasing.”

As they turned to go, the freighter’s cargo boom swung out over the side with a heavy bale in its cargo net. The net opened just above the three and the bale hurtled down on them!

CHAPTER XI

Chet’s Clever Plan

FRANK caught a glimpse of the bale as it tumbled out of the cargo net. “Watch out!” he shouted.

Frank and Joe lunged into Ponsley, pushing him out of the way and knocking him over backwards. The three went down in a tangle of arms and legs as the heavy cargo slammed into the dock a few feet away from them!

The Hardys got up but Ponsley lay still. Joe leaned over and shook him by the shoulders. “Mr. Ponsley, are you all right?” he asked, worried.

Ponsley groaned and stirred feebly.

“He’s stunned,” Frank judged. “He’ll come around in a minute.”

Salty hurried down the ship’s gangplank to join them. “Blimey, I’m sorry!” he panted. “Someone swung the ruddy boom too far out. The net’s not supposed to open till the operator presses the button. I don’t know what ‘appened. That bale might’ve ’urt you somethin’ terrible!”

“It would have squashed us like beetles,” Frank said. “But we’re okay.”

Ponsley sat up and opened his eyes. “Speak for yourself!” he cried. “I can hardly see! Good heavens, I think I’m going blind!”

Joe noticed that Ponsley’s spectacles had been knocked off when he fell. The younger Hardy picked up the gold pince-nez, made sure the lenses had not been broken, and placed them back on Ponsley’s nose.

“How’s that?” he asked.

Ponsley adjusted the glasses with his thumb and forefinger. “Why, I can see again!” he said, relieved.

“We’re not hurt, Salty,” Frank told the sailor. “But I don’t want to be in the way the next time your cargo net goes haywire.”

Salty nodded and went back to the ship. Since Ponsley was more determined than ever to return to the hotel, they took a taxi to the Australian Arms.

When they stepped into the Hardys’ room, they found it empty!

“Where’s Chet?” Joe wondered.

“We’d better find out—fast,” Frank replied tensely as he called the hotel desk. The clerk denied any knowledge of Chet’s whereabouts. “Perhaps he went out for a newspaper,” the man suggested.

The Hardys and Ponsley waited for an hour to see if Chet would come back, but there was no sign of him. Finally Frank jumped to his feet. “Joe, what if Chet has been kidnapped?”

“A dreadful thought!” Ponsley interjected.

As they considered what to do next, a key scraped in the lock. Somebody was trying to get in without being heard!

“It may be Chet’s kidnapper!” Frank whispered.

The Hardys tiptoed across the room and stationed themselves on each side of the door, waiting for it to open.

The knob turned and the door swung inward. The mysterious visitor stealthily entered the room.

“Chet!” Frank and Joe cried in unison.

Their rotund friend closed the door quietly. Placing a finger on his lips, he jerked his head in the direction of the window, and led them over to it. He motioned them to stand back so as not to be seen and pointed to a department store across the street.

Two men were standing in front of it, watching the hotel. Another joined them and pointed at the boys’ window. He had a black beard and wore tinted glasses! When a policeman came along, the men pretended to look at the display of clothes behind the glass panels. When he had passed, they resumed their vigil.

Chet tugged Frank’s sleeve and drew his friends away from the window. “I noticed them right after you left,” he reported.

“Obviously they stayed here while Tinted Glasses shadowed us through Sydney,” Joe said.

“Maybe we should call the police,” Chet suggested.

Frank shook his head. “They can’t arrest these guys just because they’re standing down there watching us. Besides, Tinted-Glasses and his partners might not know where Jenson is. Their only job may be to keep us from finding him. If we get tied up in a hassle between these guys and the law, that may be just what they want. It’ll keep us from looking for Jenson.”

Turning to Chet, Frank explained the clue they had just received, which pointed to Alice Springs as the next focus of their search.

“Gosh, stop to think of it,” Chet said, “those lookouts may even be trying to find Jenson themselves—by shadowing us!”

“That’s possible.” Frank agreed. “Either way, I think our best bet is to give ’em the slip.”

“How?” asked Joe.

His brother turned back to their chubby pal. “Does the hotel have a rear door?”

“I checked that,” Chet replied. “Two more guys are out there in the alley. They look like they’re ready to jump us if we leave.”

“The roof!” Joe said. “Maybe we can try that.”

Chet shook his head. “I went up there. There’s a lookout on the opposite building. He’s watching the fire escape. And there’s no other exit.”

“Then we’re trapped!” Ponsley exclaimed.

“We are,” Chet agreed. “But I’ve worked out an escape route!”

“How?” Frank asked.

“Just grab an overnight bag with a change of clothes and come with me,” Chet said mysteriously. “Hurry up!”

Ponsley went to his room and was back shortly. The boys had each packed a small bag and were ready. Chet motioned them out of the room and locked the door carefully. Then he led the way to the freight elevator. They took it down to the basement, and followed Chet to a storeroom.

A tradesman was lifting empty crates into a truck backed up to the exit.

“These are the friends I told you about,” Chet addressed him. “Since we left our belongings in our room, you know we’re not trying to gyp the hotel. We’re coming back.”

“Righto,” the man replied. “You paid me. Now I’ll carry out my part of the bargain. Get into the truck, all of you, and lie low.”

Chet climbed into the vehicle and edged his way toward the cab. Ponsley came next, then Frank and Joe. They crouched down behind the load of empty crates and the driver slammed the tailgate up. Then he went around to the cab, started the engine, and slowly moved the truck away from the hotel.

Through a crack in the tailgate Frank could see the two men in the alley watching the back door of the hoteL

“We outsmarted them after all!” he said with a chuckle. “They’ll be standing there forever!”

The driver took them to George Street, where he stopped and let them off. “This is as far as you go,” he said. “Good-by and good luck!”

The boys jumped out and thanked the man, then the truck sped away.

“I saw the truck coming up to the back door when I was in the basement,” Chet revealed. “I figured the driver might make a deal with me, and he did.”

“Good thinking, Chet,” Joe complimented him.

Chet looked pleased. “What next?” he asked.

After a council of war, they decided to go to the airport and spend the night at a motel. From there, they phoned Inspector Morell and asked him to have the bearded man and his cohorts picked up for questioning. But an hour later Morell called back to report failure. Apparently the crooks had discovered that the Hardy boys and their friends had gotten away, and had abandoned their stakeout of the hotel.

Early next morning, the Hardys, Chet, and Ponsley took off for Alice Springs. The green areas around Sydney disappeared, and they found themselves flying deep into the Outback, where sand and huge stones extended to the horizon on all sides. Clusters of rocks ballooned from the desert floor into fantastic shapes.

“If we were in the States,” Frank said, “I’d guess we were over Death Valley.”

“Or the Dakota Badlands,” Joe added.

“Well, it’s hot and dusty here, too,” the pilot pointed out. “There aren’t any rattlesnakes down below, but there are Australian brown snakes, which are nearly as deadly.”

“You are not going to land, are you?” Ponsley asked, frightened.

The pilot laughed. “Don’t worry. Landing in this part of the Outback is the last thing I want to do.”

The plane crossed rivers where good farmland spread along the banks. Big cattle ranches occupied hundreds of square miles beyond the Macdonnell Ranges in Australia’s Northern Territory. Finally they landed at Alice Springs, and the four Americans got out. They stretched their muscles, cramped after the long flight, paid the pilot, and took a bus into town.

They found Alice Springs crisscrossed by rows of hardy trees that managed to stay alive in the arid soil. The buildings were mostly small and roofed with tin. On Anzac Hill, a shining monument commemorated the Australians and New Zealanders who fell in two world wars.

The boys stopped at police headquarters and asked about Jenson and Mike Moran. The officer on duty could supply no information on either, but gave the boys a list of hotels and guest houses where they could inquire.

“Good thing this town isn’t big,” Frank said. “We won’t have too much trouble checking these out.”

“Are they all within walking distance?” Chet asked.

Frank had obtained a map of Alice Springs at the airport and looked at it. “I don’t know. Let’s start here and work toward the periphery of the town.”

Checking with various hotels on the way, the four walked through Gorey’s Arcade, the shopping center of Alice Springs. They went along the streets past bars and hamburger joints, and noticed that many men wore cowboy hats, shirts, trousers, and boots. Some of the men were dark-skinned “abos.”

“Those guys look like they came from Tombstone with Wyatt Earp after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral!” Chet commented.

“Except that none of them carry six-shooters,” Frank added with a grin.

They came to a fenced-in enclosure where a competition was being held. Cowboys lined the rails, waiting for their turn to rope steer and ride bucking broncos. Three judges on a raised platform judged the performances and awarded prizes.

“A rodeo!” Joe exclaimed. “How about that!”

“Let’s spread out and keep our eyes open,” Frank suggested. “There’s always an outside chance of spotting Mike or Dr. Jenson in the crowd. While we’re at it, we can chat with people, too, and find out if anybody has noticed an American answering either description. We’ll meet here in half an hour.”

“Good idea,” Joe said, and the four separated and began buttonholing cowboys and spectators for information on the two missing men. None of the Australians had heard of them.

They were on the way to their meeting place again when the main event of the rodeo began. A rider came out of a chute, like a streak of lightning, on a coal-black horse that leaped and twisted in a savage effort to throw the man off its back.

Chet was fascinated by the violence of horse and rider contending to see who would win.

“I could get a better view from that fence post over there,” he thought and climbed up. Carefully he positioned himself on the small post. But he got so involved in the show that at one point he lost his balance and dropped into the enclosure.

Frank, who saw the incident from a short distance away, muttered something about Chet and his ideas. Then the bronco threw its rider and charged full-tilt at Chet, who had just gotten to his feet.

“Watch out!” Frank yelled.

CHAPTER XII

Kangaroo Confrontation

CHET froze as the black horse, glaring and snorting, galloped toward him with pounding hooves!

Frank moved like lightning. He snatched a lasso that had been used in the steer-roping competition and hurled the noose in a long flying arc.

As it settled over the horse’s neck, he fastened the other end of the lariat to a fence post. The enraged animal was about to trample Chet when the rope tightened and brought it to a rearing halt in a cloud of dust!

Chet scrambled over the fence and fought for breath. “Frank,” he puffed, “you’re better than those TV cowboys any day!”

There were loud cheers and a round of applause for Frank’s rescue. One of the contestants came up and spoke to him admiringly. “Good-oh, cobber! Your China would’ve ended up a proper mess if you hadn’t come through with that rope trick!”

“China?” Frank looked puzzled. “Is that a word you cowboys use down under?”

The Aussie laughed. “It’s good old cockney rhyming slang—‘China plate’ for ‘mate.’ And we’re not cowboys down here, Yank. We’re stock-men. My name’s John Harris.”

Shaking hands, Frank introduced himself and his companions. Together they watched the rest of the rodeo, and Harris captured first prize for broncobusting. He invited them to join in the horseback ride around the ring. Ponsley quickly refused, saying he would rather wait on the viewing stand. He climbed up the few steps and sat down in a chair vacated by one of the rodeo judges.

Harris brought up three mounts. Frank, Joe, and Chet climbed into the saddles and trotted in the procession around the enclosure. The Hardys, who had ridden horseback many times, guided their mounts with practiced skill.

Chet clutched the reins with one hand, waved the other, and shouted, “This is for me!” His horse, feeling the tug of the bridle, thought it was time to rear up on its hind legs. The movement alarmed Chet, who slackened his grip and let the horse have its head.

Finally the ride ended, the rodeo broke up, and the boys joined Ponsley for a walk back toward the center. They checked two more hotels without luck, then stopped at a luncheonette and ordered hamburgers.

Chet pitched into his enthusiastically. “Nothing like a horseback ride to set you up for chow.”

Frank laughed. “Chet, who was in charge, you or the horse?”

“Maybe you’d like an encore,” Joe needled him. “We can go back if you like.”

“No, thanks,” Chet said. “I showed the rodeo what I can do. That’s enough for me.”

Ponsley was becoming annoyed. “This trip has not been a success,” he argued. “I’m sure Dr. Jenson isn’t here, and neither is Mike Moran.”

Frank munched a pickle. “We only have a few more places to check, and we never give up prematurely.”

Just then John Harris walked into the luncheonette, recognized the Americans, and came to their table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Frank said, inviting him to sit down. Harris ordered a hamburger. While he ate, Frank told him they were looking for two missing Americans. “Got any suggestions?”

Harris looked thoughtful. “I overheard a Yank talking to someone right here in this luncheonette not too long ago. He mentioned Cutler Ranch, a cattle station up north, owned by Americans.”

Frank showed him the photographs. “Was it either of these two men?”

Harris shrugged. “He had his back turned to me. I just remember the accent, since it’s rare in these parts.”

Frank exchanged glances with his brother.

“Worth a try,” Joe agreed.

“It’s a long ride up north, beyond McGrath Creek and the Sandover River.” Harris warned. “So pick a car that gets a lot of miles to the gallon. You won’t pass any petrol pumps on the way.”

Finishing his hamburger, he said good-by and left. Joe seemed to be watching someone. Presently he got up and muttered, “Let’s go!”

Frank and the others paid their bill and followed Joe outside. But they had gone scarcely a block when Joe suddenly whirled around. His three companions saw him grab a seedy stranger in a battered, greasy-looking felt hat, who had been walking several paces behind them.

“Why are you following us, mister?” the younger Hardy demanded angrily.

The stranger cringed when he saw the fighting look on Joe’s face. “You’ve got me all wrong, mate,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t following nobody.”

“Don’t give me that! You were eavesdropping on everything we said back there in the restaurant.”

“Well....” The stranger hesitated nervously, then blurted, “I expect I did listen closer’n I should’ve done. But I was worried about what that stockman was telling you. Didn’t know if I ought to warn you or not.”

Joe frowned. “Warn us about what?”

“The Cutlers.”

“What about them?” Frank demanded.

“They’re strange blokes. From what I hear, they don’t welcome visitors—especially visitors who ask questions.”

“How come?” Joe pressed.

The seedy stranger shrugged. “All I know is what I’ve heard some of the abos hereabouts say.”

“What do they say?”

“That they’ve seen nosy swagmen ride up to the Cutlers’ cattle station, but they’ve never seen none of them ride away again!”

The four Americans stared at the seedy stranger uneasily. Before they could cross-examine him, he wriggled free of Joe’s grasp and hurried off down the street.

“What did he mean by ‘swagmen’?” Chet asked with a worried, wide-eyed look.

“Traveling cowhands, carrying their ‘swag’ or personal belongings in a blanket roll,” Frank explained. “I remember that much from what I read about the Outback.”

“They may be traveling cowhands,” said Ponsley, “but if what we just heard means anything, once they go nosing around the Cutlers’ place, their travels come to a sudden end!”

Chet felt cold chills. “You really think the Cutlers polish off trespassers?”

“Suppose that guy was just trying to scare us off?” Joe suggested. “Suppose he doesn’t want us to see something out there? Maybe Jenson is a prisoner at the Cutler Ranch and they don’t want us to rescue him?”

Frank stood up. “It’s still daylight. Let’s go!”

Ponsley was against it. “I believe this will be another wild-goose chase,” he protested.

“Mr. Ponsley, we can’t stop now,” Frank urged. “We know Americans took Jenson to Alice Springs. The Cutlers are Americans, and someone’s trying to keep us away from their place. We have to see what’s going on at the Cutler Ranch!”

“You can stay here until we get back,” Joe proposed.

“No, no!” Ponsley objected. “I don’t want to stay alone. I’ll go with you!”

The group went to the only car-rental agency in town and selected a compact that gave them good mileage to the gallon.

“You’re lucky,” the agent told them. “We were all out of cars, but someone returned this one sooner than expected.”

“Good,” Frank said and paid for the rental. Then they drove north from Alice Springs with Joe at the wheel. The fertile region gave way to desert, after which signs of agriculture reappeared around McGrath Creek. They could see farm-houses with tall windmills pumping water from underground.

Soon the desert began again, and they were traveling a dusty road through desolate country marked by the bleached skeletons of horses and cows that had succumbed in the waterless waste.

“I believe we should pause for a rest,” Ponsley finally said. “Let’s stop here.”

Joe pulled over to the side of the road, where a strange formation of huge rocks rose above the desert. They noticed that one of the rocks was covered with painted figures. A serpent wound its way in long sinuous coils up from the base of the cliff. On the left, an owl perched in a flutter of feathers, as if terrified by the snake. On the right, a kangaroo hopped fearfully out of the way. Above these animals, a medicine man wielded a magic wand to ward off the serpent’s poison.

Chet scratched his head. “How did this guy and his pets get here?”

“The Aborigines painted them,” Frank replied. “I read about their rock paintings when we were in Princeton. These could be hundreds of years old.”

Ponsley nodded. “Terrific technique,” he declared. “Compares favorably with modern art.”

The four marveled at the figures done in white, black, brown, and dark red. At last, the boys sat down with their backs against the cliff. Ponsley, who complained about his stiff back, wandered away into the desert. A moment later he shouted frantically.

The boys scrambled to their feet and raced toward him, but stopped halfway, jarred by what they saw.

Their portly friend was confronted by a large kangaroo!

The animal stood on its hind legs with its heavy tail extended on the sand. Its fur was gray, shading to white underneath, and the tip of the tail was black. It held its small front paws up in the air and stared at Ponsley, who raised his hand in a frantic effort to frighten it off. His ruby ring glittered in the sun.

Suddenly the kangaroo began to hop toward him! The more Ponsley waved, the faster it bounded forward, its eyes fixed on his hand.

Frank recalled that kangaroos are attracted by bright objects. Obviously this one was after Ponsley’s ruby ring!

“Stop waving!” the boy yelled, but Ponsley did not seem to hear him. He backed away from the kangaroo, turned frantically, and ran as fast as he could. The kangaroo also increased its speed, caught up with, and sprang at him in a high bound!

Ponsley’s feet became entangled with one another, and he fell headlong into the sand. The kangaroo leaped clear over him! The boys yelled at the top of their lungs to frighten the creature, and, after landing on its strong hind legs, it hopped rapidly away into the distance.

The Hardys helped Ponsley up and brushed the sand off his suit. He was indignant about the kangaroo confrontation, and for the rest of the drive he kept insisting that they should never have ventured into the Outback.

They crossed the Sandover River and continued north until Frank spotted a large warning sign: CUTLER RANCH—KEEP OUT!

“Maybe we shouldn’t drive in there,” Chet advised.

“Hey, we’ve come all the way from Alice Springs to check this place out,” Joe reminded him. “Besides, it’s almost dark already and no one will see us.” He switched off the headlights and turned up a rutted drive leading to the property. He drove slowly till they reached a wire fence with a gate. Beyond it stood the ranch house.

Joe stopped the car and the boys strained to look at the building. Suddenly a light snapped on in one window.

“I don’t think it would be wise to barge up to the front door and knock,” Frank commented.

“Right,” Joe agreed. “We’ll have to sneak in.”

Ponsley shook his head. “You do as you please. I’ll stay here.”

“That’s okay,” Frank told him. “Joe, why don’t you park behind that pile of rocks over there so the car will be out of sight.”

Joe did and the boys got out, leaving Ponsley huddled in the back seat. The three youths headed for a point well to the right of the gateway. The fence was made up of five taut wire strands.

When they reached the gate, Frank and Joe got down on their hands and knees and crawled under the lowest strand. Chet followed, but the wire caught him in the back. “I can’t move!” he muttered to his friends.

“We’ll get you loose,” Frank whispered. “Just a minute!” Bracing himself with his feet, he lifted the taut wire as far as he could. Joe took hold of Chet’s collar and tugged it. The wire released the boy, who shot forward on his face into the sandy soil on the opposite side of the fence.

“Okay, let’s go!” Frank said.

“Wait. I lost a shoe!” Chet pleaded.

Joe slapped his forehead. “What a time to pick!” He felt around in the darkness, found the shoe, and pushed it into Chet’s hand. “Tie it right this time,” he warned. “You’ll run like a lame duck with one shoe on and one off.

Chet did and the boys slipped from the fence across the yard to the lighted window, which was open halfway. Carefully stationing themselves in the darkness to one side of the light, they peered into the room.

A sofa stood against the wall, facing a big sideboard holding a number of decanters. In one corner a roll-top desk was open, revealing a series of pigeonholes filled with documents.

Six men sat around a table. Frank craned his head to get a better look at them. Then he whispered excitedly, “There’s Tinted Glasses!”

“And Salty, the friendly sailor who almost killed us with his cargo!” Joe added. “And there’s the guy who tried to scare us away from Cutler Ranch!”

One of the men spoke, addressing Tinted Glasses. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Stiller. Everything’s worked out just as you said it would.”

Stiller nodded. “Sure, Bruno. But it would be better if Salty had picked the Hardys off on the dock!”

“I ’d them set up,” Salty declared. “They were lucky to get out of the way when I dropped that bale on them!”

“Well, make sure you carry out your assignments without any slip-ups in the future!”

“Sure I will,” Salty said sullenly. “It’s my neck as well as yours, you know.”

“The next job is the most important of all,” Stiller continued. “It’s the last one. And everything’s riding on it.”

“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” Bruno declared. “I want to get back to Wisconsin.”

Stiller nodded. “I feel the same way. I’m tired of trailing the Hardys halfway around the world.”

Salty chuckled. “Me, I’m luckier than you Yanks. Australia’s ’ome to me.”

Stiller frowned. “Your captain doesn’t suspect you, does he?”

“No danger, mate. When you led the ‘ardys down to the docks and tipped me the wink, I just slipped ashore long enough to get ’em off your back and set ‘em up for the kill. All the skipper knows is, I’m an able seaman what knows ’ow to off-load cargo.”

The door from the hall opened and a man and woman came in. The man was burly with long arms and large hands. The woman was short and dark with an intense expression. Both looked pleased as they shut the door.

Stiller addressed the man, “Well, Cutler, have you got the final marching orders for us?”

“I sure have,” Cutler grinned. “I’ve just been on the phone to Sydney. We’re to finish the job tonight!”

CHAPTER XIII

Daring Escape

“You finally got clearance to dump him in the Outback?” Bruno said. “Good. The desert will take care of him.”

Stiller gave a wolfish grin. “That’s right,” he chortled. “It’s as lethal as Death Valley back home in California.”

“Dr. Jenson will never see the Firebird fly,” Mrs. Cutler smirked.

“Right. The boss will come here to extract the missing information, then we’ll dump him out among the snakes and lizards and leave the sun to finish the job.”

The seedy man from Alice Springs shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not so sure that we’ll be home free after the job,” he spoke up. “I don’t like the idea of the Hardys being in Alice Springs. I tried to scare them off when they started to get nosy, but we can’t be sure it worked.”

Cutler frowned. “Too bad this cowboy had to open his mouth about the ranch,” he muttered.

“Well, they can’t come out here to tonight,” the seedy man went on. “I called the car rental agency and they were all out of transportation. But the Hardys just might show up here in a day or two and snoop around.”

“By that time we’ll be rid of Jenson,” Stiller assured him. “And we’ll destroy any incriminating evidence before tomorrow morning. I agree. We can’t be careful enough. These guys are pretty smart. I still don’t know how they got out of the Australian Arms Hotel without our seeing them!”

“And what gave them the idea to come to Alice Springs?” Bruno asked. “I know Jenson had no chance to leave word when Jim and I took him out of that fleabag hotel on Wallaby Drive. He was so doped he couldn’t have written his own name, even if he had had a piece of paper.”

“Maybe they just guessed,” Bruno suggested.

“I don’t know,” Cutler said. “I have a bad feeling about this. Stiller, you’d better burn the lists of clients. The stuff about our previous kidnap-pings and the smuggling job could send us all up for life. Also, for as long as we’re still here, we’ll post a guard down at the road.”

The Hardys listened outside the window with bated breath. Chet felt a cramp in one of his legs. He turned to place his weight on the other leg, stepped on a twig, and made a slight rustling noise.

Those inside looked in the direction of the sound. “What’s going on?” Cutler snarled.

“Maybe someone’s outside the window!” Mrs. Cutler cried. “Somebody might be spying on us!”

She rushed across the room to the window, while the boys ducked around the corner in the nick of time. Mrs. Cutler lifted the lamp and thrust it through the opening. Leaning out, she surveyed the area for a minute or two. Finally she pulled her head in, put the lamp down, and said, “Nobody’s there. It must have been the wind blowing through the bushes.”

The boys tiptoed back to the window as Cutler turned toward the gang. “What about our new man—the one guarding Jenson?”

“He’s okay,” Bruno declared. “I recruited him myself.”

The boys felt their hearts pounding with fear as they listened to the criminals. Frank plucked Joe’s and Chet’s sleeves and motioned to them to move back from the window. They stopped near the fence where they had sneaked in.

“We’ve got to help Dr. Jenson!” Frank urged.

“How?” Chet queried. “We don’t know where they’re holding him. Could be anywhere in the farmhouse from the basement to the attic.”

“We’ll have to climb into the house and search it,” Joe suggested.

Frank agreed. “Let’s case the place and see if there’s a way in. I tell you what. I’ll scout the fence and see if there’s an escape route. You two circle the ranch house in opposite directions and check the windows and doors. We’ll meet here in a few minutes and compare notes.”

“Right,” Joe said. “Come on, Chet.”

The pair went off into the darkness while Frank walked up to the fence and began following the strands of wire to guide himself around the perimeter of the yard. About every twenty-five feet he came to a post, but there was no break in the fence until he reached the gate in front. It was fastened by a chain and a padlock, but no guard was at the gate as yet.

“They must think no one but the gang will ever get out here,” he thought. He continued around the fence to the place where they had sneaked in.

Joe, meanwhile, had gone to the left of the house. His path took him to a cellar door, a sloping wooden oblong obviously covering a small flight of stairs to the basement. Taking hold of the metal handle, Joe strove to lift the door. It was locked!

Farther on he passed a pickup truck and a station wagon. Noting that the keys were in both, he reflected, “These guys must really feel safe. Wouldn’t it be something if the crooks’ cars were stolen!”

Chet circled the house around the right side. He tried the dark lower windows only to find that they would not move. Then he stepped back for a view of the upper windows, which were inaccessible from the ground. “Not even a corner drain-pipe to climb,” he thought, disappointed.

Moving on, he met Joe sneaking toward him. Consulting in whispers, they decided to join Frank at the fence.

“If we can get Jenson out,” Frank reported, “we’d better make a run for it down the road. Otherwise we could get lost in the desert.”

“We may not be able to get him out,” Chet said. “The ranch is buttoned up.”

“I think the cellar door is our best bet,” Joe stated. “Maybe we can spring the lock while they’re all in the front room.”

Frank nodded. “And then we’ll have to jump the guy guarding Jenson before he can alert the gang. Let’s hope it works!”

The three crept stealthily back to the house, edged around to the cellar door, and tried to wedge it open. Suddenly an uncanny scream made their hair stand on end!

“What’s that?” Chet gasped.

A cat raced past, pursued by another. Noisily they vanished into the bushes and the boys breathed in relief.

“Wow!” Frank whispered. “They nearly gave me heart failure!”

The boys started to work on the cellar door once again. Joe took out a small set of pocket tools he carried for such emergencies, slipped the end of a tiny chisel between the edge of the door and the jamb, and levered skillfully until the spring of the lock snapped back. Elated, he began to lift the door.

A sound came from the rear of the ranch house, and Joe immediately eased the cellar door down into place again. The boys sprang up, pressed themselves flat against the wall, and froze as the back door opened.

Cutler came out on the patio. He held a flashlight in his hand and played it over the yard from the fence to the house. Foot by foot the light advanced across the ground to the cellar door. The boys stood stock-still, not daring to move a muscle! Now the beam shone inches from Chet’s shoes, moving toward him!

At the last moment it wavered to one side because Mrs. Cutler emerged from the house and joined her husband on the patio. “What was that screeching sound?” she demanded.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Cutler replied. He flipped the beam from the ground to the bushes, barely missing Chet’s belt buckle.

Suddenly two pairs of eyes gleamed through the bushes and one of the cats began to growl.

“Only a couple of cats,” Cutler informed his wife. “Nothing to worry about.” He snapped the flashlight off and they went back inside.

Chet let out a sigh of relief. “Boy, that was a close call. I thought we were goners for sure!”

“What was that screeching sound?” Mrs. Cutler demanded.

“If he’d aimed that flashlight a little higher,” Joe whispered back, “he could have taken our pictures.”

“There’s no time to lose,” Frank warned. “Let’s make sure they’re all in the front room. If one of them is prowling around, we’re in trouble.”

He led the way to the lighted window, where they could see that the Cutlers and gang members were assembled.

“Good,” Frank declared. “We can go in—”

Wham! A window slammed over their heads and two men leaped down toward them from the darkness above. Instinctively the boys flattened themselves out against the wall. The men hurdled clear over them, hit the ground, jumped to their feet, and ran to the station wagon.

The Hardys got a good look at one man’s face in the light from the window and recognized him from his photo. He was Dr. Jenson!

They could not see the other man’s face, but as he jumped his hand caught the light from the room and sparkling red rays were reflected from a large ring on his finger.

“That must be Mike Moran!” Frank gasped.

CHAPTER XIV

Frank Foils the Gang

A TUMULT of furious screaming and shouting broke out in the ranch house.

“The room is empty!” Cutler yelled at the top of his voice. “They’re gone—both of ‘em!”

“Catch them!” Mrs. Cutler screeched savagely. “Don’t let them get away!”

“We’ll head ‘em off!” Stiller shouted. “Put on the searchlight so we can see ’em!”

A moment later a beam of yellow light from a lookout post on the roof cut through the darkness. It picked up Jenson and Moran as they jumped into the station wagon. Moran started the car. The engine turned over—and died!

Shots rang out and bullets flew toward the station wagon, clanging off fenders and hub caps. One shattered the rear window as the men rushed out with Stiller in the lead. They pounded across the yard toward the fugitives.

Moran desperately turned the key in the starter again. This time the engine came to life. He shifted gears, and the vehicle moved off just as Stiller grabbed the door handle on the driver’s side. He glared angrily at the two men inside. He reached for the steering wheel and struggled with Moran for control, but Moran held on with an iron grip.

Stiller was dragged for about ten yards before losing his hold and falling off. He somersaulted in the dust and landed flat on his back. Cursing furiously, he got to his feet. The gang rushed up. Those who carried guns opened fire, but the station wagon was far ahead, moving quickly toward the gate.

“They’ll have to stop!” Stiller snarled. “The gate’s chained!”

The criminals ran as fast as they could, while the searchlight focused on the speeding station wagon. Moran stepped on the gas and smashed into the gate, causing it to splinter under the impact. The vehicle plowed through, carrying broken boards with it, and disappeared down the road.

Frank, Joe, and Chet observed the escape after sneaking to a corner of the ranch house from which they had a view of the gate. They felt like cheering when they saw the station wagon vanish into the darkness.

“They got away!” Chet chortled.

Joe shook his head. “Those guys’ll go after them in the pickup unless we act fast!” He ran to the truck, followed by Frank and Chet, leaned in, and snatched the keys from the dashboard. “That’ll stop ’em!” He grinned.

“They may have another set of keys,” Frank said. “Better let the air out of this tire.” He tried to unscrew the valve cap, but it refused to budge.

Taking out his penknife, Frank gouged its point into the rubber and began carving a small slit in the tire sidewall until air leaked out with a low hissing sound.

“Look out!” Joe warned. “They’re coming!”

The boys melted into the darkness and hid behind tall shrubs.

“We’ll take the pickup and go after Jenson and Moran,” Stiller ordered. “Don’t stand there! Get in. I’ll drive!”

As his henchmen obeyed, he squeezed behind the wheel and reached for the keys. His fingers hit an empty keyhole on the dashboard.

“My keys are gone!” he exploded. “Who took ’em? Which of you guys has been fooling around this heap? Fork the key over!”

Each one denied knowing anything about the key. Finally Bruno fished his own key from his pocket and gave it to Stiller.

“No use arguing about it, boss,” he said. “They got a head start on us. We’ll have to move if we want to catch up.”

Muttering to himself, Stiller turned on the ignition and the pickup took off with a roar. But by this time the leaking tire had gone completely flat. The rapidly whirling wheel bumped and clattered loudly over the rough ground, throwing the flattened tire casing halfway off the rim.

The truck lurched and jounced crazily from side to side while Stiller fought to bring it under control. One jolt broke the catch on the back gate, which dropped, and one of the men tumbled out. Finally Stiller brought the pickup to a stop.

“We’ve got a flat!” he fumed. “Salty, I thought you were gonna put new tires on so we could take Jenson for his ride!”

“I did, boss,” Salty said defensively. “Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“Don’t worry. I will,” Stiller retorted. He got out along with the others. The man who had fallen joined them, rubbing his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” he said, “but those guys won’t be when we nab ’em.” He waved his fist.

“If you ask me, the tire was slashed!” fumed Bruno. “I’ll bet Moran did it!”

“That’s right,” Stiller said. “He came out earlier to stretch his legs—or so he said. No doubt he punctured the tire while we weren’t looking. He’s the only one who could have. But he won’t get away with it. We’ll track him down.”

“What I want to know,” Salty interjected, “is ’ow Moran became a member of our group.”

Bruno shrugged. “My fault. I met him at a soccer game in Sydney and he told me he wanted a job in the Outback because the law was after him. I fell for his story.”

“You stupid jughead!” Stiller granted harshly. “We never should have listened to you.”

“What do we do now?” Cutler asked.

“Change the tire. What else?” Stiller hissed. “Get busy, you guys!”

“The jack’s in the station wagon,” Bruno said sheepishly.

“What! You’ve got to be kidding!” Stiller screamed furiously. A shouting match followed until Salty brought it to an end. “Mates, I’ve got it!” he yelled.

“Got what?” Stiller demanded.

“The station wagon’s low on petrol. I forgot to top ‘er up yesterday. They’ll get stuck somewhere between ’ere and Alice Springs!”

Stiller was thoughtful for a moment. “That’s right. And all they can do is hide in the Outback, close to the road. We can get in touch with Bartel in the morning, and—”

“We won’t have any trouble finding them, boss,” Bruno added. “Don’t worry about that.”

“All right. But I don’t want any more slip-ups. Let’s set up guards for the rest of the night. We can’t be sure that these snoopy boys won’t show up sooner or later! Go inside and get some more ammunition. Then position yourselves around the property. We’ll do two shifts.”

The men agreed and everyone went inside. Frank pulled Joe and Chet by their jackets. “Let’s get out of here, quick!”

CHAPTER XV

A Deadly Snake

THE boys raced through the darkness and wriggled through the fence. Then they ran around the rocks to the car. It appeared deserted as they approached.

“Where’s Mr. Ponsley?” Chet puffed. “Do you think he got scared and ran off?”

“We’ll have to stay and look for him,” Joe said. “We can’t just drive away and leave him behind!”

A loud noise interrupted him.

“No need to look for Mr. Ponsley,” Frank observed. “He’s here all right.”

The boys peered through the window. Ponsley was sitting in the back seat with his hands crossed on his vest. His head was bent forward and his chin touched the enormous tie he wore. His mouth was open; and with every breath he snored.

Relieved to find he was still in the car, Frank, Joe, and Chet piled into the compact, then Frank took the wheel as they moved off. He drove carefully, not daring to use his lights until they were around the rocks and well down the road.

“We’re safe now,” Frank said, snapping on the headlights and stepping on the gas.

“As long as our car doesn’t conk out,” Chet stated. “I’ll give three cheers when we get to Alice Springs.”

“First we’ve got to find Jenson and Moran,” Frank reminded him.

They came to a rough part of the road and jounced up and down over rocks and deep pot-holes. Frank shifted into low gear to maneuver past the worst spots. The jolting ride brought Ponsley awake with a start. He raised his head and looked around. “Where are we?” he demanded irritably.

“On the Cutler road,” Frank replied.

Ponsley became peevish. “Well, you are driving this car as if you were riding a bronco at the rodeo.”

“Can’t help it,” Frank said. “The Cutlers never built a paved highway for visitors to drive to their ranch.”

Joe turned around and addressed their companion. “Mr. Ponsley, did you notice anything after we left you in the car?”

Ponsley covered a yawn with his hand. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The station wagon. Did it keep on going down the road past the rocks?”

“What station wagon?” Ponsley inquired. “I know nothing about a station wagon.”

Frank was incredulous. “You mean a station wagon crashed through a board fence only a few yards from where you were and you didn’t hear anything?”

“I don’t recall a thing between the time you left and just now, when you woke me up.”

Frank increased speed as they reached a better stretch of the road. “Unbelievable!” He chuckled.

“Why are you going so fast?” Ponsley complained.

Joe explained that they had to get safely away from the gang of crooks at the Cutler Ranch.

Ponsley became cross. “I should think we are far enough away to slow down. I don’t like being in an automobile at high speeds.”

Frank turned onto the main road and increased his speed. “We have another reason for making time, Mr. Ponsley,” he declared.

“Oh, what’s that?”

“We’re trying to catch Dr. Jenson and Mike Moran!”

Ponsley’s mouth dropped open as the meaning of the statement sank in. The boys took turns describing events at the Cutler Ranch leading up to the climax, when Jenson and Moran leaped from the window of the house and fled in the station wagon.

“How did you know the man with Jenson was Michael?” he spluttered.

“He was wearing a ring with a red stone,” Joe said. “It reflected in the light from the house.”

Ponsley became excited. “Then it must be Michael! Frank, speed up! Catch the station wagon!”

Frank kept the gas pedal flat on the floor as the car raced forward. But trouble was in store. Several miles farther on, the car suddenly stalled. Lacking proper tools and light to work by, the boys puttered over the engine a long time before discovering that the distributor cap had sprung loose.

Later, after resuming their journey, they sighted distant figures silhouetted on the skyline. Ponsley insisted that they stop and investigate. The figures turned out to be wild aborigines hunting at night. Returning wearily to the car, they continued southward to Alice Springs.

Dawn began to break. Shafts of sunlight glanced from the desert in shimmering rays. Near the Sandover River, a group of kangaroos bounded away, and a rabbit scooted across the road, seeking safety in scrub vegetation.

Then something caught Joe’s eye up ahead. “The station wagon!” he exclaimed.

Frank hit the brakes and brought the car to a stop behind the vehicle they had been chasing. Rocks and gullies extended on both sides of the road.

“Salty was right,” Frank said. “They must have run out of gas.”

Ponsley got out of the car as fast as he could. “Michael, Michael!” he called out.

There was no reply. Ponsley groaned. “They’re gone!”

“The keys are still here,” Joe pointed out.

Chet squeezed into the front seat, turned on the ignition, and glanced at the dashboard dials. “The gas needle’s down to empty,” he confirmed.

“Then they must be somewhere near here,” Ponsley said hopefully. “But where?”

“Let’s see if we can find their footprints and follow them,” Frank suggested.

The four walked around the station wagon, but the terrain was too rocky for footprints.

“It’s no use,” Joe finally said. “We can’t tell which way they went.”

The boys shaded their eyes with their hands and scanned the horizon. Ponsley sat down on a boulder. Not a sound broke the silence of the desert, and not a movement could be seen among the rocks.

Joe was about to say something when he looked in Ponsley’s direction and stopped short. Their friend was staring down toward his left hand, which was hidden by the boulder on which he sat. He looked deathly pale, his eyes bulged with fear, and a trickle of sweat rolled down his face. He seemed to have stopped breathing.

Joe stepped slowly around to see what was wrong. He noticed an Australian brown snake, about five feet long, coiled behind the boulder! The snake’s neck arched in the air. Flashing wicked fangs only inches from Ponsley’s hand, the serpent swayed menacingly back and forth, hissing ferociously.

Ponsley was mesmerized by the venomous creature. He sat as if turned to stone, too terrified to move.

Cautiously, to avoid startling the snake and causing it to strike at Ponsley’s hand, Joe gave a danger signal to Frank and Chet. Responding, they moved up, and were horrified when they realized that Ponsley was in danger.

Chet picked up a dried branch, evidently blown from a far-off straggle of gum trees, made a wide circle, came up behind the snake, and brushed the sand with the stick. With blinding speed, the snake whirled and sank its fangs into the wood!

Frank and Joe instantly grabbed Ponsley and pulled him away from the boulder. He trembled and gasped for breath. Chet stepped back, dragging the snake, which maintained its grip on the stick.

“Look!” Joe cried suddenly.

Between the serpent’s coils gleamed a piece of metal. When the snake released the stick and slithered off among the rocks, Joe retrieved the object, a key chain with the initial M on it.

“That’s probably Michael’s!” Ponsley exclaimed. “He must have dropped it here!”

“Most likely on the way up this gully,” Frank observed. “So that’s where we go.”

The gully led to a point where the rocks were taller and more spread out, with defiles leading in several directions. They halted, not knowing which way to take.

Frank cupped his hands around his mouth. “Mike Moran!” he shouted. “Come on out! We’re friends!”

His words echoed among the rocks and then silence fell again.

Joe called, “Dr. Jenson! Dr. Jenson!”

Again silence. A small stone tumbled from one of the tall rocks. Looking up, the boys saw a figure vanish over the top.

“There they are!” Chet cried out.

The four climbed over a pile of rocks and reached the top just in time to see the figure jump down on the other side and run into a defile.

“They think we’re Stiller and company,” Joe said. “They won’t come out.”

“You follow them,” Frank replied. “I’ll cut them off.”

Noting that the defile curved around in a semicircle, he scrambled down the pile of rocks, turned left, and met Moran and Jenson running through toward him!

Jenson was a slight, scholarly-looking man. Moran appeared to be the outdoor type, and he assumed a boxer’s stance as soon as he saw Frank.

“Relax, Mike,” Frank told him. “We’re not in league with the Cutlers. Those crooks are a long way from here.”

Just then the others came up. Ponsley hastened forward and cried, “Michael! Michael!”

Moran stared at him in utter astonishment. “Mr. Ponsley, what are you doing here?”

“And who are these boys?” Jenson put in.

“Friends!” Ponsley said. Then he explained how they happened to be searching for Moran and Jenson.

When Ponsley mentioned that Michael had been accused of tipping off two bank robbers about the Mid-County Bank’s alarm system, Moran shook his head in disbelief. “Dad needn’t have worried about that. The alarm system they’ve got now is totally different from the one in use when I worked there. I know nothing about the present system.”

“Can you prove that?” Joe asked.

“Sure. The old system had a number of flaws. I know because I checked it out. The manager called in a security engineering firm to install a new one. The job hadn’t been finished when I left. The records will back me up on that.”

“So the two men who were arrested must have been trying to frame you to cover up for someone else,” Frank reasoned.

“You bet they were!” said Mike.

Ponsley heaved a sigh of relief now that he knew the senator’s son could be cleared. The conversation reminded Frank of something. “You spoke about a bank employee named Thurbow, who helped to throw suspicion on Mike,” he said to Ponsley. “What’s his job there?”

“Security guard, I believe.”

“Any idea what he looks like?”

“I have,” Mike broke in. “He’s a stocky, redhaired guy with a broken nose. I never did like him.”

Frank turned to his brother. “Remember the man who was in the chemistry shop talking to Mr. Oakes when we ordered that methyl yellow?”

Joe’s eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. “Holy smoke, you’re right! It was a chunky red-head! I remember wondering if he might be a pro boxer with that broken nose. That must have been Thurbow.”

“Check! Mr. Oakes told us he was talking to a security guard when the mistake occurred. I’ll bet Thurbow switched the methyl yellow with his own bottle of liquid gas.”

“Probably because he heard at the bank that Senator Moran planned to call us in on the case.”

The two boys told their listeners about their accident with the tear gas.

Later Ponsley inquired reproachfully, “Michael, why did you leave your home like that?”

“I wanted to see the world without my father’s help. I decided to stop being Senator Moran’s son for a while and try to make it on my own.”

“How did you get involved with the Stiller gang?” Frank asked.

“I met Bruno at a soccer match in Sydney. He said he was from a ranch in the Outback and when I told him I was looking for a job, he hired me. I didn’t know anything about the illegal operations till I got to Cutler Ranch.”

Frank remembered that Bruno said Moran had claimed the police were after him, but decided not to mention it at this point.

“Mike was already there when they dragged me out of the hotel in Sydney,” Jenson took up the story. “They drugged me to make it easier, but I heard them mention Alice Springs and wrote the letters AL S on the door. Did you read my message?”

“Sure did,” Frank said. “But tell me, why did you pick that fleabag hotel in the first place?”

“I had a feeling I was being followed. I had reservations at the Australian Arms, but I took a taxi at the airport and told the driver to take me to the opposite part of town. Unfortunately, it didn’t help. They found me anyway.”

“So after that you two met at the Cutler Ranch,” Joe said to Mike.

“Right. That’s where Bruno took me. He told me to guard Dr. Jenson when they brought him in. Bruno handed me a rifle and ordered me to see that Dr. Jenson stayed put in the upstairs room until his fate had been decided. When it seemed that they were going to drop him in the Outback, we escaped through the window. We didn’t see you fellows. It was too dark. I had been in the yard, and I knew the keys were in the station wagon. That’s why we used it for our break-out. We drove till the gas ran out.”

“Then we hid in the rocks,” Jenson continued. “When you came along and stopped behind the station wagon, we thought you were Stiller and his henchmen.”

“That’s why we hid even deeper,” Moran said. “By the way, how did you know which way we had gone?”

“We found this at the head of the gully,” Joe replied. He handed the key chain to Mike Moran.

Moran took it and put it in his pocket. “I must have dropped it after we got out of the car. Good thing you found it!”

“Thank the deadly snake, Mike,” Joe quipped.

“What’s that again?”

Joe described the incident of the hissing serpent.

Moran became solemn. “I’m sorry you were in so much danger, Mr. Ponsley.”

The latter held up his hand. “Think nothing of it, Michael. I have found you, and nothing else concerns me at this point.”

Frank turned to Jenson. “Do you have any idea why the gang kidnapped you?”

“None at all. It’s a mystery to me.”

“Could they be agents of a foreign government?”

“They might,” Jenson confessed. “Professor Young and I received several messages warning us not to test the Firebird Rocket. Certainly a foreign power might be involved. It might be a plot to hold up our space program.”

A loud clatter broke out overhead and a helicopter zoomed through the sky. It was painted white, and bore no markings. The pilot made a wide circle around the two cars parked by the side of the road. Obviously interested in them, he returned for a second look.

“Chopper!” Chet cried. “If we can attract the pilot’s attention, maybe he’ll pick us up. Come on, we’ll send him an SOS before he flies off!”

The rotund youth ran down the gully and out into the open. The others followed on his heels. Chet began to wave his arms frantically.

“Chet, be careful!” Frank warned. “It could be Stiller and his gang!”

Chet ignored the warning. Exultantly he realized that the pilot had spotted the group. “He saw us and is coming down for us!”

The chopper swung low toward them. Then machine guns chattered! Bullets kicked up puffs of sand on the desert floor!

CHAPTER XVI

Helicopter Hunt

“RUN BEHIND the rocks!” Joe shouted. “We’re clay pigeons out here in the open!”

He raced back up the gully, followed by the others. The helicopter pursued them, its machine guns spraying bullets at their heels. They circled around the rocks until they found sanctuary under an overhanging ledge. Baffled by this obstruction, the chopper pilot hovered in the sky like a hawk waiting for its prey to emerge from a hole in the ground.

The six fugitives crept into a large cave at the end of the ledge. Ponsley sank down and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Jenson sat down beside him. The Hardys, Chet, and Moran peered through the mouth of the cave at their enemy overhead.

“We’re safe for the moment,” Frank said. “But the helicopter will keep hunting us.”

Ponsley turned pale and gasped, “Then why are we staying in here? We’ll be trapped!”

“We can’t get back to the car while the chopper’s in the air,” Frank replied. “Let’s wait until the pilot lands.”

As if in response to his words, the whirlybird began to circle lower and lower, finally settling on the desert in a cloud of dust. The door opened and Stiller jumped out, followed by Bruno and another man. They both carried machine guns.

“Run before they find us!” Frank called out to his companions. “Now!”

He was first out of the cave. Chet, Moran, Jenson, and Ponsley came after, with Joe at the end of the line to make sure no one was left behind. They took the reverse direction along the overhanging ledge, just making it around the rocks before a volley of shots rang out as the gang spotted them.

Quickly they ran down the gully to the car and piled into it. The gang pounded after them.

Frank took the wheel, and the car roared off amid a hail of bullets fired by Stiller and his henchmen.

“Anybody get hit?” Joe asked anxiously.

He felt relieved when everyone reassured him that he had not. Peering through the back window, he saw the gang turn and run up the gully.

“They’re going back to the chopper!” he said grimly. “That means they’ll be after us again.”

“Oh, no!” Ponsley protested. He was squeezed into one corner of the car with his elbows pressed tightly against his sides. “It’s bad enough riding like this! I can’t breathe!”

“It’ll get worse in a minute,” Joe predicted.

He was right. The helicopter appeared in the sky and thundered after the car. One of the machine guns opened up again, kicking up sand behind the rear wheels of the speeding vehicle.

Frank swerved sharply from one side of the road to the other, presenting a moving target to the gunner. Reaching a row of hills, he dodged into them. He sped in and out among them, rocking the car violently as he took sharp corners on two wheels. The brakes squealed.

“We’ll never get out of this alive!” Ponsley lamented. “We’re done for!”

“Not yet!” Frank vowed. “We’ll give them a run for their money!”

The hills ended, and the car was forced back onto the road through the Outback. The chopper resumed the chase, throwing a moving shadow on the earth like that of a giant prehistoric bird flapping through the early morning sunlight.

Frank raced down the road. “How long can that guy keep missing us with his burp gun?” he wondered.

“They’re trying to draw a bead on us,” Joe warned. “Here they come. Everybody duck!”

“Duck?” Ponsley quavered. “I can’t even move!”

“What’s that?” Chet cried, pointing down the road to a speck on the horizon that was growing larger by the second.

“It’s a car!” Frank exclaimed.

The two vehicles raced toward one another. Frank blinked his headlights on and off as a signal to the other driver that he was in trouble.

“I hope he can help us!” Chet said.

“He sure will!” Frank replied. “That’s a police car!”

The helicopter pilot, recognizing the police insignia, veered off and clattered away, vanishing in the distance. Frank drew to a stop, and so did the patrol car. Two officers got out.

“Boy, are we glad to see you!” Frank exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” asked one of the officers.

Frank introduced himself and his companions, then explained that the helicopter had been chasing and firing at them.

“Why were the men in the chopper after you?”

Joe and Chet took turns describing what had occurred since they arrived at the Cutler Ranch. Moran and Jenson added their testimony, and told how they happened to be at the ranch.

The policemen listened in amazement. “We saw the copter and heard the gunfire quite a distance away, but we couldn’t figure out what was going on,” said one officer.

His partner added, “We’ll call for reinforcements and drive to the Cutler homestead immediately.”

“But the chopper will get there before you,” Frank pointed out.

“True. But it’s too small to fly out that many people. We should be able to nab at least some of the gang.”

The two officers got into their patrol car and started up the road through the Outback, while Frank and the others continued to Alice Springs. They drove straight to the rental agency and returned the car.

Ponsley was so stiff that he had to be pulled out of the back seat by Chet and the Hardys. “Oh, my aching back!” he complained. “Mike, why did you ever have to come to a place like this?”

“I like this country,” Mike said with a grin. “What do we do next?”

“Fly back to America at once!” Ponsley declared. “Michael, your father can’t wait to see you.”

Moran nodded. “And I can’t wait to see him and Mom.”

“I’d better fly to Sydney to check in with the Australian authorities and confirm my clearance at Woomera,” Dr. Jenson said.

Frank said, “And I think we should go with you in case the gang tries to kidnap you again. Until they’re behind bars, I know Dad would want us to act as your bodyguards, Dr. Jenson.”

The scientist smiled. “I’ll be happy to have you. It makes me feel a lot safer.”

On the plane to Sydney, Mike Moran told them about some of his experiences and how he had run out of money and accepted the job Bruno offered him.

“Did you tell him the police were after you?” Frank asked bluntly.

Mike stared at him for a moment. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Bruno said you did.”

“You spoke to him?”

“No. We overheard him saying it.”

“Well, it’s not true.”

Frank had doubts but changed the subject. “Now you can help your father in his political campaign,” he suggested.

“I’ll be glad to,” Mike said. “After my experiences down under, politics will be a tame game. But that’s all right. I don’t want to get involved with any more criminals.”

At the Sydney airport, Ponsley and Moran said good-by and went to catch a plane for the United States. The boys accompanied Dr. Jenson to police headquarters and then returned with him to the airport to await a flight to Adelaide, where they would transfer to another plane for the Woomera rocket station.

While they were sitting in the terminal, a voice announced over the loudspeaker: “Call for Joe Hardy! Call for Joe Hardy!”

“Who can that be?” Joe wondered.

“You’ll find out when you answer,” Chet said.

After checking with the information desk, Joe went to the designated phone booth and picked up the receiver. “Joe Hardy speaking.”

“Listen, punk,” growled a disguised voice, “you and your brother better get out of Australia! And take your fat friend with you—or all three of you will wind up in the hospital! Or in coffins!”

CHAPTER XVII

Woomera Welcome

JOE started to ask who the speaker was but the phone clicked off at the other end. Replacing the receiver, the boy returned to the others and quickly described the warning call.

“The helicopter gang knew we were with Dr. Jenson,” Chet said. “They could have called ahead of us to alert another member. He may follow us, so we’d better be on our guard.”

Frank nodded thoughtfully. “But do you know what this means? Unless they called their accomplice while they were still in the air, they escaped the police!”

“I’m going to get in touch with the Alice Springs police right away,” Joe said and hurried off to a phone booth. He managed to reach the officer in charge. “Did you capture the Stiller gang?” he asked.

“No such luck. We found the Cutler station abandoned. Obviously other gang members arrived with cars to help evacuate everyone. So far we haven’t traced the helicopter or its crew.”

Joe groaned in disappointment. “Any clues in the house?”

“Nothing. It was cleaned out except for some fingerprints. There were a lot of ashes in the fire-place and bits of paper, but nothing conclusive. They obviously burned anything incriminating.”

“And no hint to where they might have gone?”

“None. But we’re working on the case and will find out sooner or later.”

Joe thanked the officer and hung up. When he joined his brother and the others, they could tell from the expression on his face that something had gone wrong.

“The Cutler gang escaped?” Frank asked.

“Without a trace. They burned all the evidence and were gone when the police arrived.”

“They must have been prepared even before the helicopter went off to chase us,” Frank muttered.

“Do you think they’ll make another attempt to kidnap Dr. Jenson?” Chet asked.

“It’s possible. We have to be very careful.”

The scientist turned pale when he heard that his captors were still at large. “I’m glad you fellows are with me,” he said. “And I’ll feel better yet once we get to Woomera. The security there is so tight, I doubt that any of the gang could get in.”

His companions nodded, and they kept a sharp eye out for anyone who might be following them. They boarded the plane without noticing anything suspicious.

The plane flew over the desolate terrain of Southern Australia, then made a big circle to the coast over Gulf St. Vincent and into Adelaide for a landing at the airport. There, a message was waiting for Dr. Jenson.

“Professor David Hopkins is here to meet me,” he declared after reading the note.

“Dr. Jenson, who is this professor?” Frank asked. “Do you know him?”

“We can’t take chances with strangers,” Joe added.

Jenson laughed. “I’ve never met him, but I know he’s a famous scientist. He’s one of the experts I came to Australia to meet. Hopkins works out the astronomical tables for interplanetary probes and will help track the Firebird.”

“The man who is meeting us here could be a phony,” Frank objected.

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Jenson assured him. “I know what Hopkins looks like. I’ve seen several pictures of him.”

“Good,” Frank said. “I’d hate to walk into a trap.”

Jenson led the way to the waiting room, looked around, then waved to a man sitting on a bench. It was obviously Hopkins. Frank was relieved by the gesture.

The scientist was a short-sighted individual wearing steel-rimmed glasses. He came forward and introduced himself.

“Dr. Jenson, the Sydney police informed us that you were coming,” he said. “I couldn’t wait to see you, so I flew down to Adelaide. We’re all so glad to hear that you survived your ordeal unharmed!”

“So am I,” Jenson said with a smile. He shook Hopkins’ hand, introduced the Hardys and Chet, and gave Hopkins a brief rundown on his escape from the Cutler Ranch. “The boys came along as my bodyguards,” he concluded.

“That’s a splendid idea in view of the danger,” Hopkins declared emphatically. “Now then. We’ll fly to Woomera in an official plane. The station’s in the desert, where the rockets can be safely tested.”

The plane was a medium-sized, propeller-driven craft, just large enough for them to squeeze in behind the pilot. After taking off, they headed northwest over Spencer Gulf and Port Augusta into a region of lakes that broke up the arid, sun-bitten terrain of western Australia.

After their long, cramped flight drew to an end, Hopkins pointed out the window and said, “This is the Woomera prohibited area. It’s a very large tract of land, absolutely barred to visitors who don’t have official permission to enter.”

“I know why,” Chet boasted. “Your rockets are top secret! Space probes! Spy-in-the-sky! All that hardware!”

Hopkins smiled. “You seem to know about this.”

Chet puffed his chest out. “I built a rocket myself and won the high school science competition!”

The Australian smiled again. “Perhaps some day you’ll be working here as a scientist.”

Chet looked pleased. “I would—”

“We’re about to land,” the pilot interjected. He maneuvered the plane in line with the run-way, set down the wheels, and taxied to the terminal. Hopkins oversaw his companions’ clearance by the Woomera security staff, then took them in his car to their hotel.

“This town sprang up overnight,” he said as they drove along. “Even the trees you see were planted. Now we have homes, apartments, swimming pools—everything from a post office to a hospital. We’ll go out to the rocket range in the morning,” he added upon drawing up to the curb to let his passengers out.

It was decided that Dr. Jenson would share his room with Chet for security reasons, and the Hardys asked for adjoining quarters. However, the night passed without an incident, and Hopkins picked them up, as promised, early next day.

They drove to the central installation and saw rockets of all sizes at launch sites. Some stood upright, ready to fly into orbit. Others were canted at an angle that would keep them from reaching outer space.

Hopkins took the boys into a building and led them to its main room, which contained rows of sensitive instruments. Scientists and technicians were seated at consoles, checking the readings. “This is the control room,” he said, “and these instruments monitor our rockets.”

A man in a white coat was bending over a telemetry computer. When he heard Hopkins’ voice, he straightened up and looked around. The Hardys stared in surprise. He was Professor Young!

“Adrian!” Young exclaimed, stepping over and shaking Jenson’s hand. “I’m so glad the Hardys found you! Good job!”

Frank and Joe smiled and Chet looked a little disappointed because he had not been mentioned.

“Well, I want to welcome all of you to Woomera,” Young went on. “I came here to follow the Firebird flight because I was afraid you wouldn’t make it!”

“I almost didn’t,” Jenson said, and told Young about his experiences since he was last heard from.

Young looked grim. “NASA will do everything to see that your kidnappers are brought to justice. Please give me all the details of your capture.”

He questioned Jenson and the boys very closely for an hour. At the end, he said, “Adrian, I take it you still have no idea why the Stiller gang kidnapped you.”

Jenson shook his head. “I wish I could tell you. But I can’t.”

“When Cutler and his men are found, they may talk,” Frank suggested.

“Let’s hope so!” Young declared fervently. He invited Jenson to come into his office for a briefing about the Firebird. Then he turned to the boys. “While Dr. Jenson and I are talking, I’ll bet I know what you fellows would like to do.”

“I’d like to see a rocket launching!” Chet said.

“I figured that,” Young said with a smile. “You’re in luck. There will be one in about five minutes. Come along with me.”

He escorted the boys to a special observation window through which they could see a huge missile poised on its launch pad. Then the two men disappeared while the Hardys and Chet waited expectantly, their eyes glued to the rocket.

The nose cone was painted dark green and the booster was white with the name Wallaby on it. A supporting gantry moved back, leaving the rocket standing by itself on the launch pad.

An Australian scientist came up to watch. “You’re Americans, aren’t you?” he asked.

Frank said they were.

“I thought so from hearing you speak. That rocket is named for a small kangaroo, the wallaby. It will put a weather satellite into orbit.” He stood near them while preparations for the launching continued. At last everything was ready.

“Here we go!” Chet cried. “The countdown!”

A voice intoned the numbers: “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero! Lift off!”

Exhaust gases poured out onto the launch pad in a dense white cloud. The rocket started straight up, slowly at first, then gathered momentum, and increased its speed. Soon it was hurtling through the sky high above the earth.

The scientists and technicians in the control room cheered loudly and the boys joined in.

“That’s a beauty!” Joe said enthusiastically. “I hope she makes it into orbit!”

“So far, so good,” reported Frank, who was following the flight through a pair of binoculars offered him by the Australian. “It looks like a perfect flight.”

“I’ll show you how perfect,” the Australian said when the rocket had disappeared from view. He took them to a battery of instruments to check the moment the booster rocket fell away and the nose cone continued into orbit.

Young’s voice sounded behind them. “Everything is going as planned. The flight is A-okay.”

He and Jenson had come up without being noticed, and stood looking at the instruments over Frank’s shoulder.

“It’s an important flight for us,” Jenson said. “The data it sends back will be used to plot the flight of the Firebird.”

Everyone in the control room relaxed. They began to discuss the Firebird, its revolutionary nuclear engine, and the path it would take deep into space. Young showed the boys around, introducing them to Australians and Americans responsible for space programs conducted jointly by the two nations.

The rocket slowly started straight up.

Chet eagerly asked as many questions as he could think of and the scientists cooperated goodnaturedly with the boy. Finally, in the late afternoon, the young detectives escorted Dr. Jenson back to their hotel. They had a pleasant dinner, then retired to their rooms. Before going to bed, Frank telephoned Alice Springs again.

“Any clues yet?” he asked the officer in charge.

“We found the helicopter abandoned in the Outback,” was the reply. “It was registered in the name of Bartel. At this point we haven’t been able to establish yet whether that’s a fictitious name or not. But there’s no trace of the gang.”

“I was afraid of that,” Frank said. Slowly he hung up and told Joe what the officer had reported.

“I just hope that dodging the police will take up all the gang’s time and attention,” Joe commented. “This way they won’t be able to follow us.”

Joe’s hopes, however, were dashed the following morning when a loud knock sounded on the door. Dr. Jenson and Chet burst in. The scientist looked pale and shaken, and his hand trembled slightly as he held out a piece of paper to show the boys.

“This was slipped under the door of our room,” he exclaimed. “They’re going to kill mel”

CHAPTER XVIII

The Trap

FRANK and Joe stared at the message. It was pieced together with letters cut out of a newspaper, a method the crooks had used before, and read: THE FIREBIRD WILL DIE, AND SO WILL YOU!

“They haven’t given up,” Joe stormed. “And they know where we are. It looks as if security isn’t tight enough, even here at Woomeral”

“Maybe Arthur can help,” Jenson said. Suddenly he sounded tired and depressed.

“Look,” Frank told him, “don’t worry about the gang. That’s what we’re here for.”

Jenson smiled wanly. “Okay, I’ll let you worry. Do you think it’s safe to go downstairs and have some coffee?”

The group went into the cafeteria, and less than an hour later the official limousine picked them up. They were driven to the rocket range, where they met Young in the laboratory.

He was agitated when he saw the note. “This is unbelievable!” he exploded. “But they won’t get away with this. I won’t let them!”

“You didn’t get a note like this?” Frank inquired.

“No,” Young said, and he turned pale. “Not yet.”

“What are you doing for your own safety?” Joe added.

“I traveled with the two men who guarded me in Princeton,” Young replied, “and we’re sharing a room. That, of course, may not discourage the gang from coming after me, too.”

“What are we going to do?” Jenson asked.

“I’ll talk to the security people here and arrange for a hideout where the four of you can stay until the gang is captured,” Young replied. “I’ll figure out a way we can communicate with each other, and also request closer protection for myself. Just wait here while I make a few phone calls.”

Young disappeared into his office and returned a short time later. “All set,” he declared. “The private pilot who flew me here will take you to a safe place down in Port Augusta. No one will suspect you’re there, and the local police will keep an eye on it. Please don’t leave until I contact you.”

Soon Jenson and the boys took off, and less than an hour later they landed at the Port Augusta airfield, where a car was waiting. The pilot himself drove them to a hotel on the outskirts of town. He pulled into the rear and backed up closely to the door.

The boys had noticed a large sign out front that read: CAPTAIN COOK’S FLAGSHIP. The ancient three-story building needed a coat of paint, the windows needed washing, and the lawn needed mowing.

“This is not exactly a first-class joint,” Chet commented.

“Why did Professor Young send us to a place like this?” Joe wondered.

“Obviously he thinks no one would look here for an eminent scientist,” Frank suggested.

They went in and found a surly clerk at the desk. He glowered at them as they signed the register, and told them their room was on the third floor.

“The only phone in the hotel is this one on the desk,” he snapped. “You can have sandwiches from the kitchen. Water and ice are in the basement. Take the stairs up, and don’t ask me if there’s a lift. There isn’t.”

“He’s about as friendly as that brown snake Ponsley met in the Outback,” Frank said sarcastically as they climbed the stairs. Finding their door number, they entered a dusty room with four cots, and a window that was stuck. Joe and Chet had to force it up by pushing together.

Jenson looked around and sighed. “I hope we don’t have to stay here very long.”

“Stiller and his friends might be rounded up at any time.” Frank reassured him. “Then we can leave.”

Joe punched one cot with his fist. “This’ll be like camping out in the Bayport Woods,” he grumbled.

Chet clicked his teeth. “I’m thirsty. I’ll go get some ice water in the basement.”

He went out, carrying a cracked jug that had been sitting on a small table. Joe locked the door and put the key on the bureau. Frank and Jenson sat down on two cots and discussed the situation, wondering what would come next. Suddenly the floorboards in the hall creaked and footsteps approached.

“I didn’t think Chet would be back that fast,” Joe said.

The steps came closer and stopped outside their door. However, the caller did not knock.

“Whoever’s out there must be eavesdropping on us!” Jenson whispered nervously.

“Shhh!” Joe warned, putting his finger to his lips. He and Frank tiptoed over to the door. Joe stationed himself flat against the wall next to it, while Frank turned the knob quickly and flung the door open.

Outside stood the desk clerk!

“What’s the idea of eavesdropping on us?” Frank demanded.

“Who’s eavesdropping? I came up to tell you there’s a phone call for Frank and Joe Hardy. You can take it at the desk.”

“Then why didn’t you knock?”

“I wanted to make sure no one was around. I was told to be cautious and not to draw attention to this room.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Jenson spoke up. “Arthur doesn’t want anyone to know we’re here. He’s being careful.”

“It’s possible,” Joe commented.

The desk clerk glared at them. “I delivered the message,” he grated. “Now I’ve got other things to do.” He walked out and disappeared down the hall. The Hardys followed him after warning Jenson to lock the door and not to open it for anyone except Chet until they returned.

“This call must be from Professor Young,” Joe said as they descended the stairs. “Maybe the police caught the gang!”

They took the lower stairs two at a time and ran to the desk. The clerk was not in sight and the phone lay on its side off the hook.

Frank lifted the instrument to his ear and Joe stood close enough to listen in. “Hello?” Frank said.

A disguised voice replied, “Listen, Hardy! You and that stupid brother of yours don’t seem to have sense enough to save yourselves, much less protect Jenson!”

“Who is this?” Frank demanded.

“The same person who called Joe Hardy at the Sydney airport.”

“What are you calling about now?”

“You all disregarded my warning,” the man retorted. “I gave you a chance to save your necks and you didn’t take it. You decided to stay in Australia. All right, now you’ll stay permanently. Six feet under!”

The man continued his threats. Frank put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “Joe, do you recognize his voice?”

“It’s disguised,” Joe replied. “I don’t know him from Adam.”

Frank removed his hand from the telephone and said, “Who’s going to make us stay permanently?”

The man hung up without answering and the Hardys stared at one another in puzzlement.

“This means we can’t stay here either,” Frank said. “We’d better phone Professor Young!”

Joe called and described the threat. Young was disturbed. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “I’ll phone my pilot to go back for you right away. He’s still in Port Augusta. All of you had better go to the airfield with him before the gang gets to the hotel!”

“Will do, professor,” Joe said. “See you later.” He and Frank hurried upstairs and knocked on the door of their room. There was no answer. Joe tried the knob and found the door was locked.

“Dr. Jenson!” the Hardys called in unison.

Frank looked grim. “Something’s happened. We’ll have to break in!”

He kicked the door until a panel splintered under the impact. Reaching through, he turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The room was empty!”

Footsteps in the hall made them whirl around. Chet came in, carrying his jug. “The ice water comes out in a trickle,” he complained. “Say, what have you done to the door?”

“Dr. Jenson is gone!” Frank said. “Did you see him downstairs?”

“Or anybody else?” Joe added.

Chet shook his head. “I was all by my lonesome.”

“There’s only one other way out,” Frank said. “Through the window!”

The Hardys rushed over and saw that a sheet had been torn into strips and knotted together to form a rope. One end was tied to a radiator. The other dangled over the windowsill to the ground.

“Dr. Jenson got out through the window!” Frank exclaimed. “We’ve got to catch him!”

“But why would he do that?” Chet asked.

“I have no idea. All I know is that we must get him!” Frank said. He left a bill on the dresser for the damage to the door, then gripped the improvised rope, and shinned to the ground with the celerity of a squirrel. Joe followed at the same speed, then looked up.

Chet was hesitating.

“Hurry up or stay behind!” Joe urged.

Faced with the choice, Chet climbed down. He got hold of the torn sheet, and squeezed through the window, shutting his eyes tight. He dangled over empty space. “It’s a three-story drop,” he quavered.

“Slide down! Let gravity take over,” Joe advised. “You’ll make it in no time.”

Chet had almost reached the bottom when one end of the torn sheet snapped. He plummeted down with a loud yell. Frank grabbed his shoulders and Joe caught his legs, and the three ended in a tangle on the ground.

“Good show!” said a familiar voice behind them as they struggled to their feet. The boys froze. It was Stiller! He and his gang had them surrounded! In the background, Salty was guarding Jenson, whose hands were tied.

“We laid a trap,” Stiller smirked, “and the smart Hardys walked right into it!”

Frank realized what had happened. “You guys must have sneaked in the back way before we ever got that call. And somehow you fooled Dr. Jenson into opening the door while your confederate kept us talking down at the hotel desk.”

“That’s right.” Stiller gloated. “We pounded on the door and pretended you two had had an accident. When Jenson opened, we grabbed him and left that knotted sheet dangling out the window before we ducked down the back stairs again. One of my men actually climbed down the sheet so he could lock the door from the inside. You fools fell for the trick and plopped right into our arms!”

Jenson and the young detectives were taken to two parked cars. At the wheel of one was the hotel desk clerk!

“So you’re in the gang, too,” Frank accused him.

The clerk grinned. “I am now,” he said as the captives were pushed into the cars. “It pays well.”

“Where are you taking us?” Frank asked Bruno, who sat next to him.

“Shut up!” his guard answered and jabbed him viciously in the side with his elbow.

Frank winced in pain and asked no more questions. The cars were driven to an abandoned warehouse several blocks away. It was a five-story building. Most of the windows were broken or boarded up.

The gang marched the captives inside and up a flight of dark stairs to the loft at the top. One man was posted to guard them while his companions left. About an hour later, the other crooks returned with a new prisoner. The boys gasped as they recognized him.

“Professor Young!” they cried out in disbelief.

Dr. Jenson stared at his partner. “Arthur! So they’ve got you too! How on earth did it happen?”

“A fake phone call right after I talked to Joe,” Young replied. “The caller pretended to be with the Port Augusta police. He said they had a line on the gang and were ready to close in. He wanted me to fly here immediately to help identify them as soon as they were captured. But the person who met me at the airfield when I landed turned out to be my kidnapper.”

“We tricked you as easily as we tricked your friends here,” Stiller sneered at him.

“What are you going to do with us?” Chet asked.

“Finish you off, what else!”

CHAPTER XIX

The Rope Trick

FRANK and Joe looked at each other. Both realized that they would have to fight their way out. Frank counted the gang members that were in the room with them. Stiller, Salty, Bruno, the hotel clerk, and another man that Stiller had called Bartel. “The owner of the helicopter, no doubt,” Frank thought and wondered vaguely where the Cutlers were.

The Hardys knew they had a chance to subdue their adversaries if Young helped. Jenson was handcuffed. With a yell to Joe and Chet, Frank threw himself on the man nearest him. Joe did the same, and Chet, who caught on immediately, flattened Salty with a blow to the chin.

The next few minutes were bedlam. Stiller attacked Frank, while Joe took Cutler with a flying tackle. Young seemed frozen and stood stock-still as Chet seized Bruno in a tight headlock. Even Dr. Jenson got into the fray and tripped a couple of men who were about to attack the Hardys.

Just then Mr. and Mrs. Cutler arrived. Cutler threw himself into the fight, turning the odds heavily against the young detectives. One by one the boys were overpowered. Jenson was lying on the floor, and Young stood frozen, as if in shock.

“Let’s tie ’em up,” Cutler panted, and his wife went to get a supply of rope. Soon the boys and the two scientists had their hands bound behind their backs and their ankles tied. Then the gang filed out of the room.

“They won’t be here long,” Stiller muttered to Salty on the way out. “And I’ll be glad when we’re rid of them for good!”

The door slammed shut, a key turned in the lock, and the men went downstairs. Slowly their footsteps died away.

“Work on the ties,” Frank advised his companions. “If we slide up to one another, we can try to use our fingers to loosen each other’s ropes. Here, watch me.” He rolled up to Joe and wriggled until the two lay next to each other, facing opposite directions. Then, with great patience, he worked on his brother’s bonds. Jenson and Young followed suit, while Chet waited until Frank had untied Joe and was able to help him. A half hour later everyone was free. Dr. Jenson sat down in a corner with his head in his hands. He had gone through so much already that he had lost all hope.

Young, however, had overcome his panic and tried to encourage his partner. “Adrian, don’t give up yet. Perhaps we’ll all be saved, and the Firebird will be launched on schedule. Let’s go over those final calculations again so we’ll be prepared.”

“You really think there’s a chance?” Jenson asked, wanting to believe there was.

“There always is,” Young assured him. “Here, I have some paper in my pocket. Let’s write down the equations.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet, meanwhile, looked around the huge bare dusty room, seeking some means of escape. Aside from the door, which had been locked, the only other way out seemed to be through a single unboarded window. Its pane was cracked and the frame broken, but Chet managed to open the sash far enough to peer out.

“We can’t climb down,” he informed his friends. “Too high up.”

Frank and Joe joined him and saw that the wall descended five stories without offering a toehold anywhere along the way. Nor was there any possibility of climbing to the roof, ten feet above.

“Are you sure?” Young called out, interrupting his discussion with Dr. Jenson.

“Positive,” Chet confirmed. He craned out as far as possible, surveying the wall to the left and right.

“Maybe if we tied all the ropes together,” Young suggested, getting up to see for himself.

As he approached the window, he suddenly stumbled and fell heavily against Chet. The chubby youth lost his balance and, with a yell, started to plunge over the sill!

Desperately Joe leaped forward and grabbed Chet’s pants leg. He managed to hold on long enough for Frank to seize their friend’s arm and clutch his shirt. Together the Hardys pulled him back into the loft.

Chet was as white as chalk and Joe’s hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry!” Young said, staring at the boys. “I didn’t mean to—it was an accident—I——”

Chet gulped. “That’s okay, professor. It’s just that I’m not built for flying.” He tried a brave smile, and Young turned around in embarrassment to sit with Dr. Jenson.

The boys stood without talking for a while. Finally Frank said, “There’s only one possibility and that is to clear the boarded-up windows. Maybe we can escape through one of them and climb down one of the other walls.”

The young detectives wrenched the boards loose from each window, but were disappointed. The ground and the roof remained inaccessible.

“There goes our last chance,” Joe said, discouraged. “We can’t climb up or down, and the only stairs are guarded!”

Suddenly Frank had an idea. “Do you have a pencil?” he asked his brother and Chet.

“Yes, here,” Joe said. “Why?”

Frank pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled a hurried message. “Help. We are being held prisoners in the warehouse!” Then he leaned through the window and tossed the paper out. It drifted down onto the deserted street.

“Do you have any more paper?” Joe asked, excited.

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

Chet did not have any either, and Frank said, “Let’s ask the others.”

The two scientists were involved in a serious conversation. Dr. Young had scribbled a number of equations on a piece of scrap. He looked up in surprise when the boys approached him. “This is all I had,” he declared. “What do you need it for?”

They explained, and he said, “Forget it. This place is obviously so deserted that no one would find it anyway.”

“It was a good try,” Chet said. “And we have nothing to lose, right?”

“I suppose so,” Young muttered, but he did not seem convinced.

They sat in silence for a while, overwhelmed by the hopelessness of their situation. Joe stared out the small window, his mind desperately trying to find a solution. Suddenly he sat up straight.

“Hey, did you see that?”

“See what?” Frank asked.

“The rope! In front of the window!”

“What?” Everyone looked in the direction of the opening, at the same time noticing a scuffling of feet on the roof.

“Someone’s up there!” Frank exploded, as the rope came into view again, swinging back and forth wildly in the empty space.

“He’s climbing down!” Joe shouted.

Young and Jenson stood up. They were about to rush to the window when a man shinnied down the rope, braced his foot against the wall, pushed back, and swung forward in a wide arc through the opening into the loft.

Everyone stared in amazement as the newcomer landed and bounced in an upright position. He looked at them with a big smile.

Jenson and Young hastened over, and Frank cried out, “Dad!”

“Mr. Hardy?” Chet mumbled, his mouth agape. “Is it really you?”

“Mr. Hardy!” Young stammered. “Are—are you here alone?”

“Yes,” the detective replied, looking intensely at the scientist.

“Dad, how did you get here?” Joe asked. “We thought you were still in Florida at the Space Flight Center!”

“I discovered a clue that led me to Australia. Then I got a line on the gang ringleader. I followed him till I came to this place.”

“Why did you post yourself on the roof?” Joe wanted to know.

“I knew the gang was using the warehouse as a hideout, and I had reason to expect them to bring you here. When they left this morning, I followed them but lost them. So I came back and decided to wait. I climbed up to the roof, tied a rope around the big weathervane, and eventually saw the gang taking you up to the loft.”

“You think we’ll get out of here safely?” Jenson asked anxiously.

Fenton Hardy nodded. “We will, except for the one rocket scientist who’s at the bottom of this mystery.”

Jenson turned pale. “I don’t understand. Are you accusing me?”

“Not you, Dr. Jenson.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Fenton Hardy looked straight at Young. “Professor, you’re facing criminal charges in Australia and the United States!”

CHAPTER XX

Surprise in Port Augusta

As THE boys and Jenson stared in utter astonishment, Fenton Hardy pointed a finger at the professor. “You were behind the whole thing!”

“Prove it!” Young sneered.

“I will, and you’ll spend time in prison! You’re under arrest!”

“That’s what you think, Hardy!” Young snapped viciously. “This is your last case. We’ve got you outnumbered. You’re finished!” Pulling a whistle from his pocket, he blew a shrill blast that echoed through the whole building.

Bruno’s voice responded from the landing at the top of the stairs. “Okay, chief,” he said and turned the massive key in the lock. He pushed the door open and entered, covering the group with a revolver while Young moved over to join him.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Led by Stiller, the rest of the gang came in. The Cutlers brought up the rear with puzzled looks on their faces. “What’s going on?” Cutler asked.

“We caught a real big fish this time,” Young chuckled. He pointed to the Bayport detective and asked Stiller, “Do you know who this is?”

Stiller grinned. “Sure. That’s the gumshoe Fenton Hardy, who sent me to jail ten years ago. I’ve been itching ever since to get even!”

“You were guilty,” Mr. Hardy reminded him. “You got what you deserved.”

Stiller scowled. “I’d have got away with it except for you. Now I’ll take care of you and your punk sons, too.”

“This is your chance for revenge,” Young said. “Get them out of here. I don’t want to see any of them again, ever!”

“It’ll be a pleasure!” Stiller snarled.

He and his gang moved forward. Frank doubled his fists. “We may as well go down swinging!”

Joe assumed a karate stance with upraised palms and challenged the gang, “You won’t take us without a fight!”

Stiller looked at Cutler. “Shall we finish them off here?” he asked roughly.

Cutler shook his head. “I had to rent this dump. Any evidence of a crime committed here might be traced to me. We’ll take them to the woods out in back. There’ll be plenty of cover out there.”

Cutler glanced at Young. “Sure you’ve got all the dope you need from Jenson?”

Young nodded impatiently. “Don’t worry about that. He’s given me the final equations. Come on —let’s finish this job so I can get back to Woomera.”

The gang began to circle the boys and Mr. Hardy held up a hand. “Don’t resist,” he told the boys.

The advice surprised the three so much that the gang members were able to break through and overpower them after a brief struggle.

“Tie ’em up again and do a better job this time,” Mrs. Cutler commanded as Bruno picked up the ropes and handcuffed the prisoners.

“Dad!” Frank cried out. “Why did you tell us not to fight?”

“There’s no need to resist,” Mr. Hardy said. “Didn’t you hear tires screech down below?”

The gang froze in dismay, then Cutler dashed to the open window and looked down. “It’s the cops!” he cried. “Let’s get out of here!”

He and Mrs. Cutler ran from the loft and down the stairs, followed by other members of the gang. But the police already had the building surrounded. A detective sergeant and several uniformed constables arrested and disarmed the crooks as they tried to escape. The prisoners were herded back upstairs, and the captives were untied.

“You’re right on time, sergeant.” Fenton Hardy grinned.

“No trouble, sir. Mr. Moran alerted us a couple of hours ago.”

“Mr. Moran?” Frank asked incredulously.

“That’s correct,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Here he comes.” He pointed to Michael, who had followed the police to the loft.

Chet’s mouth dropped open. “Mike! Wh-what are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story,” Mike said with a smile as the criminals were handcuffed and taken downstairs by the officers.

Professor Young stared at the newcomer. “You double-crossing rat!” he fumed. “You were supposed to be working for us!”

“Sorry, professor.” Mike grinned coldly. “I happen to be working for the U.S. government. And it was my assignment to investigate the Cutler-Stiller gang for a series of international kidnap-pings and other offenses. I didn’t know then they were behind the Jenson disappearance.”

“Fantastic!” Frank exclaimed. “So you got a job with them—saying the law was after you?”

Mike grinned. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth, Frank. Now I can because my assignment is over and I’m a free agent again.”

“What about Mr. Ponsley?” Chet asked.

“I had to let him know because I wasn’t going with him.”

“But how did you meet with Dad?” Joe inquired.

“After I left Ponsley at the airport, I phoned my superior at the U.S. Consulate,” Mike went on. “He instructed me to assist Mr. Hardy in the Jenson case and the rounding up of the gang. So I met your father in Sydney and told him all I’d learned. We combined forces and flew into Port Augusta yesterday evening. By pooling all we knew, we were able to trace Stiller’s mob to this warehouse—but we still didn’t have the evidence to convict Young.”

“You’ve got it now,” said Chet. “Boy, what a case! So that’s why you couldn’t let your dad know what you were doing or where you were.”

Mike nodded. “But it’s all over now.” He glanced at the two Hardy boys. “By the way, your deductions about that bank security guard were correct. Thurbow has confessed that he was the one who tipped off the robbers about the alarm system, and that he switched those chemicals in the hope of putting the Hardys out of action.”

By now all the crooks had been taken downstairs except for Young. When a constable approached him with a pair of handcuffs, the scientist made a sudden break for the window. He squirmed through, grabbed the rope still dangling outside, and in seconds had shinnied down to the ground.

The constable leaned out the window and took aim with his gun.

“Don’t shoot!” Mr. Hardy warned. “We want him alive!”

Frank edged past them and went down the rope after the fugitive. Young headed for the woods behind the warehouse, and Frank followed at top speed. Joe, meanwhile, flew down the stairs, hoping to head Young off. The others followed.

The prisoners were being loaded into police cars in front of the warehouse. The constable paused to explain the latest turn of events to the sergeant, while Mr. Hardy and Chet followed Joe around to the rear of the building, just in time to see Frank disappear into the woods.

“Young must be ahead of him!” Joe said as they hurried after the young detective.

Frank lost sight of Young among the trees, but a path led him through the underbrush and he went forward until he came to a fork, where he had to guess which way Young had gone. He decided to take the left branch. A hundred yards in he caught sight of the fugitive.

Young, glancing over his shoulder, noticed Frank. Puffing from exertion, he darted from the path into the underbrush. He stumbled and tripped in the thick shrubbery, but he refused to slow down because he could hear his pursuer forcing his way through after him.

Young reached the right-hand path, looked around, and then ran back toward the fork, hoping to confuse Frank.

Joe, meanwhile, had taken the right-hand path, his father and Chet the left. The boy ran until he reached a towering tree, where he paused to get his bearings. He heard a rustling sound and looked up.

Young leaped down on him!

The rocket scientist hit the younger Hardy between the shoulders, and the pair went down amid leaves, vines, and plants. Stunned by the collision, Joe felt Young’s hand closing around his throat and choking off his breath. Grimly he struggled to break the hold. The man had a strategic advantage over him, and Joe gasped convulsively. The branches of the tree above him seemed to swing wildly as if whipped about by a heavy storm; then everything darkened and Joe went limp.

Suddenly he felt a hand pull him by the shoulder. He seized a wrist with his last bit of strength.

“Hold it,” Frank said. “It’s me!”

“Where’s Young?” Joe croaked.

“He ran off when he saw me coming—back toward the warehouse. We’ve got to get him. Think you’ll make it?”

“Sure, now that I can breathe again!” Joe rubbed his throat and the boys raced up the path. They reached the open space behind the warehouse and spotted Young jumping into the gang’s pickup. Two policemen hurried around the corner, but Young got the truck going and roared straight at them, forcing them to spring out of the way.

The man powered toward a side road near where the Hardys emerged from the woods.

“Don’t get in front of him!” Frank warned his brother. “He’ll run you down!”

“I won’t,” Joe replied, “but this will! Give me a hand, Frank!”

Together, they levered up a fallen log from the ground and hurled it under the front wheels of the speeding truck. The vehicle struck the log with a thump, careened wildly to one side, and jolted to a halt in the underbrush.

The Hardys pounced on Young and dragged him out of the driver’s seat. Realizing he could not escape again, he surrendered without a struggle. He too was loaded into one of the police cars in front of the warehouse, where Frank and Joe rejoined their father and Chet.

The Australian police detective complimented the Hardy boys on their quick thinking and fast action. “Now we have the whole gang,” he added with satisfaction.

Young gave Fenton Hardy a venomous stare. “What made you suspect me?” he rasped.

“Frank and Joe asked me to check out Smoky Rinaldo. He’d found all the clues at the Aerospace Lab that seemed to incriminate Dr. Jenson, and he could easily have planted them himself. But he turned out to be clean, as far as I could tell. Then I realized you could have planted the clues just as easily. What’s more, you were the only person who could have kept the gang tipped off about Frank and Joe’s moves. For that matter, you were probably the one who stole that pass Stiller used to get into the Aerospace Lab.”

“So Stiller followed us around the lab,” Frank commented. “And, on orders from Young, he shadowed us at the Nassau Club.”

Joe looked at Young. “You put on an act at the Princeton Library! You told me Stiller got out of the elevator and ran upstairs. Instead, you probably warned him to leave through the front door while you sent us on a wild-goose chase!”

Young glared at him but said nothing.

Frank spoke up. “And you told Stiller that we would be flying to Sydney so he could resume his job in Australia. By the way, was it you who phoned us at Sydney Airport and threatened us after we’d returned there with Mike Moran and Dr. Jenson?”

“What do you think?” Young snapped.

“I think he’s right,” Chet broke in. “I also think it was you who made that phone call to the hotel here in Port Augusta to keep Frank and Joe busy while your gang kidnapped Dr. Jenson from our room.”

“Right,” said Joe. “By that time, his private pilot was probably already flying back to Woomera to pick him up and bring him here.”

“And later,” Chet said to Young, “you tried to push me out of the warehouse window. If you weren’t handcuffed, I’d punch you right in the nose!”

Dr. Jenson spoke up with indignation. “Arthur, why did you go through that miserable play acting up in the warehouse loft just now?”

“Because I needed the last Firebird equations you’d been working on. That’s why. So I pumped you for the information in order to handle the project on my own.”

“But I don’t understand. Why was that so important to you?”

“I can answer that,” Mr. Hardy said. “In case you didn’t realize it, Young’s been working for a foreign power. When their intelligence agents picked up news of the Firebird’s development, they approached Young and paid him to eliminate you, Dr. Jenson, so he would be the one controlling the project. He was then to devise a scheme to foul up the launching in such a way that it would take NASA a long time to find out what went wrong. Young was supposed to turn over all our plans to this power so they could build a Firebird rocket of their own before we could recover from the foul-up and thus be ahead of us in this area of our space program.”

Frank shook his head in disgust. “It’s a good thing we prevented him from going through with his scheme,” he said. Frank was proud that he had had a part in solving the case, but also felt the familiar emptiness he always experienced when a case was finished. Would there ever be another mystery for the Hardy boys? Frank did not realize at this moment that their help would soon be needed in The Sting of the Scorpion.

“Well, Dr. Jenson,” Joe said, “now the tables are turned. You’ll be in charge of the rocket launching.”

“And it’ll be right on schedule!” Chet added enthusiastically. “I’m sure it’ll be a great success!”

Frank nudged his friend and grinned. “Not like yours at Bayport Meadow, Chet!”

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I - An Elephant Vanishes

CHAPTER II - X Marks the Spot

CHAPTER III - A Trumpeting Tusker

CHAPTER IV - Wheel Trouble

CHAPTER V - Queen of the Skies

CHAPTER VI - Jungle Man

CHAPTER VII - Cave Camp

CHAPTER VIII - A Dangerous Dummy

CHAPTER IX - Sky Show

CHAPTER X - Mole Mystery

CHAPTER XI - The Knobby-Nosed Peddler

CHAPTER XII - Green Shadow

CHAPTER XIII - The Sea-Faring Stranger

CHAPTER XIV - The Yelping Lion

CHAPTER XV - Aunt Gertrude’s Prisoner

CHAPTER XVI - The Scorpio Symbol

CHAPTER XVII - A Saboteur Surfaces

CHAPTER XVIII - A Fast Fadeout

CHAPTER XIX - A Fiery Trick

CHAPTER XX - Stalled Takeoff

THE STING OF THE SCORPION

During Mr. Hardy’s investigation of a ruthless gang of terrorists, Frank and Joe witness an explosion in the sky near an airborne dirigible owned by Quinn Air Fleet. They decide to look into the matter. The first clue takes them into a new animal park outside Bayport, where they are lured into a trap by an unknown enemy.

Pop Carter, the park’s owner, has problems, too. He is being pressured into selling out by a competitor as well as a real-estate firm that wants the land for other purposes. At the same time, strange occurrences frighten both visitors and animals.

Frank and Joe are warned to stay out of the case, but follow up another clue. It leads them to an abandoned island, where they barely escape severe injury. When they return, they find a threatening message on their front door, written in an Oriental language. Do they have to contend with yet another adversary? They face danger from all sides, but their superior sleuthing skills and their courage win out in the end, when they unravel the threats of this many-faceted mystery.

Chet yelled in fright as he plunged to the ground.

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

Copyright © 1979 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset

Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

eISBN : 978-1-101-07667-5

2005 Printing

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I

An Elephant Vanishes

THE roar of an engine passing overhead vibrated through the Hardy house on Elm street one June morning.

“What in the world is that?” said Frank Hardy, who had just finished breakfast. “Sure doesn’t sound like an airplane!”

“Let’s find out!” exclaimed his younger brother. Blond and impetuous, Joe Hardy leaped up from the table.

Dark-haired Frank followed. They rushed out on the porch to peer up at the sky. A gleaming silver airship was sailing over Bayport.

“It’s the Safari Queen!” shouted Joe.

“She was never that loud before.” Frank frowned. “I wonder if they’ve got engine trouble?”

Seventeen-year-old Joe shaded his eyes against the sunshine and watched the huge airship anxiously, while his brother hurried inside for binoculars. The Safari Queen, biggest craft of its kind since the ill-fated Hindenburg, had aroused the keen interest and hopes of all lighter-than-air enthusiasts.

Frank returned and focused the glasses. “Oh, no!” he cried out. “Something fell out of the gondola!”

A vivid flash dazzled the boys’ vision. A boom like thunder reached their ears, and billowing clouds of smoke blotted the airship from sight.

“Maybe the Queen exploded!” Joe gasped.

But the dirigible soon became visible again as the smoke cleared. Something else could be seen —and it caused the boys to stare in horror.

An elephant was plunging from the sky!

“I d-don’t believe it!” stuttered Joe, who could discern the creature even without binoculars. The words were hardly out of his mouth when another explosion startled the brothers.

“The elephant blew up!” Frank exclaimed in a shocked voice. He lowered the glasses and the two boys exchanged stunned glances.

“I heard on the TV news that the Queen was bringing a load of wild African animals on this trip,” Joe said, “for that new animal park, Wild World. But I never thought one would fall overboard!”

“If it really did,” Frank added thoughtfully.

“What do you mean? We both saw it happen.”

“Yes, but I was watching through binoculars and, you know, there was something funny about that elephant.”

“Funny? What’s funny about an animal blowing up?” Joe demanded indignantly.

“Nothing. But I’m not sure that it was a real animal.”

“You think we were seeing things?”

“Of course not. But somehow that elephant looked—” Frank paused and scratched his head, “Well, I don’t know, sort of stiff and unnatural.”

“You mean, like a dummy?” Joe asked with an expression of quickening interest.

Frank nodded, frowning. “I guess so—a stuffed animal, or something like that.”

“But why would anyone pull such a trick?”

“Search me. A publicity gimmick, maybe?”

Joe snapped his fingers. “Hey, that’s an idea. Wild World just opened recently. Maybe someone thought this would attract customers to the park.”

“Could be,” Frank agreed. “But if you’re right, I’d say whoever dreamed it up has weird taste in publicity stunts.”

The dirigible seemed to be proceeding smoothly on course with no further sign of trouble. But the two explosions and the loud engine sound, compared to the Queen’s normally silent flight, were alarming. The falling elephant added an even stranger touch.

“Let’s go watch her land, and find out what happened!” Joe suggested.

“Good idea!”

The Hardy boys were fond of mysteries, and this one looked intriguing. They were heading for their car when the mailman came along. He had watched the startling sky scene, as had several other people in the area.

“What did you make of those blasts up there, fellows?” he asked, handing Joe a batch of letters.

“We can’t figure them out,” Joe replied. “But we intend to go and see.”

“Leave it to you two.” The postman chuckled.

Frank and Joe, both star athletes at Bayport High, were the sons of Fenton Hardy, a former New York City police detective who had retired from the force and was now a world-famous private investigator. His two boys already showed signs of following in their father’s footsteps. Their most recent mystery, The Firebird Rocket, had taken the young sleuths to Australia on the trail of a missing space scientist.

Joe glanced through the letters the mailman had handed him and plucked out one addressed to The Hardy Boys. He went inside and tossed the others on the hall table, then hurried to join his brother, who was already easing their car down the drive. Soon they were bowling along toward the Quinn Air Fleet terminal, just north of town, where the airship would dock.

“Too bad this had to happen,” Frank remarked as he steered the car through traffic. “Those explosions may start people thinking all over again that dirigibles are unsafe.”

“True,” Joe agreed. “It could set back the whole lighter-than-air movement.”

The fiery crash of the Hindenburg, decades before, had ended dirigible development for many years. But the successful maiden voyage of the Safari Queen, which was the first of several such craft to be built for the Quinn Air Fleet, had raised hopes for a new generation of airships. Today’s incident might dash those hopes.

As the boys approached the terminal, the number of cars heading toward the scene increased to a massive traffic jam, with drivers and passengers gawking at the fenced-in grounds of the Quinn Air Fleet base.

The dirigible was now nosed into her mooring mast, a stubby domed tower especially designed for quick, convenient debarking of the passengers.

“Looks okay,” Joe reported, craning out the car window for a better view.

“Thank goodness,” Frank said in relief. “I’ll bet half these people thought they might see another Hindenburg disaster!”

The lines of traffic crawled, bumper to bumper, toward the terminal entrance. Just as the Hardys reached the intersection fronting the gates, the light changed to red. A policeman waved all cars away from the terminal, and the boys realized that their trip had been wasted.

The officer spotted them and came over to exchange a few words while they were stopped.

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, fellows. Can’t let anyone else inside. Too big a tieup.”

“Was the Queen damaged?” Frank asked.

“Nope. They haven’t figured out yet what caused the explosions, but apparently they didn’t do any harm.”

“What about the elephant that fell overboard?” Joe put in.

“The word I get is, all animals are safe and accounted for,” replied the officer, taking off his hat to mop his brow. “The whole thing’s a total mystery—right up your alley.”

“Boy, what a mystery!” Joe agreed.

“Say hello to your dad for me,” the officer added.

“Will do,” Frank promised as the light changed and the policeman walked off.

The boys were just getting past the worst of the traffic jam when a light flashed and the dashboard radio buzzer sounded. Joe switched on the speaker and lifted the mike. “Hardy here. Come in, please.”

“G calling F and J.” It was the voice of their spinster aunt, Fenton Hardy’s sister Gertrude.

“What’s up, Aunty?” Joe inquired.

“I’ve just had a code message from your father.

“You’re out of luck, fellows. Can’t let anyone else inside.”

He wants you two to stand by for a phone call at one-thirty.”

“We’ll be there,” Joe replied. “Any idea what it’s about?”

“Something dangerous, I suspect,” Miss Hardy stated darkly. “He said to beware of the scorpion’s sting!”

“Okay, Aunt Gertrude, we’ll be careful.”

“See that you are! Over and out.”

“What’s that about a scorpion?” Frank asked, puzzled, as his brother hung up the mike.

“Search me. But that reminds me, we got another message this morning.” From his hip pocket Joe pulled the letter that had come in the mail, and he tore open the envelope. Inside was a colored folder.

“Who’s it from?” Frank inquired, his eyes still on the road ahead.

“There’s no name or anything. Just a brochure from Wild World, the kind they hand out to visitors. Wait a second,” Joe added as he opened the folder. “There are markings inside.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s a map of the park layout, and someone penciled in a diagram of the area right near the lion enclosure.”

Frank pulled over to the curb to look. “What’s this X-mark for, labeled ‘hollow tree’?” He frowned.

“Maybe something’s hidden inside the tree,” Joe suggested, “and whoever sent this wants us to go there and find it.”

“Funny way to tip us off.”

“Sure is. It could be a practical joke.”

Frank nodded. “But I think we should check it out. It may be connected with a case Dad’s working on.”

“Right.”

Wild World was located on the coast of Barmet Bay, between the town of Bayport and the Quinn air terminal. Summer vacation had begun just a few days ago, and the park was crowded with people.

After driving through the entrance gateway, Frank turned left into one of the parking areas. He and Joe were getting out of their car when once again their radio buzzer sounded.

“Hardys here,” Joe responded, almost expecting to hear another bulletin from their aunt.

Instead, a male voice came over the speaker. It sounded disguised. “If you want an important crime tip, meet me as soon as possible!”

“Who’s this?”

“Never mind. Are you interested or not?”

Joe shot a glance at Frank, who nodded. “We’re interested,” the younger Hardy replied.

“Then go through the woods near the park opposite the entrance. Head for Spire Rock. It’s a tall pointy rock formation, sticking up through the trees.”

“We see it.”

“I’ll meet you there. Make it snappy. And don’t tell anyone!” The transmission ended abruptly.

As Joe replaced the microphone, he looked questioningly at his brother. “Another practical joke?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Frank declared. “Let’s go!”

Crossing the graveled parking lot, the boys plunged into the wooded area their unknown caller had indicated. They followed a narrow trail, winding among the trees. Suddenly they heard a rustling noise behind them. Before the Hardys could glance around, each felt something hard jammed against his back.

“Freeze—both of you!” a gruff voice barked in their ears. “One wrong move and you’re dead!”

CHAPTER II

X Marks the Spot

FRANK and Joe glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes. Both were wondering the same thing. Had they walked into a trap, or was this the punch line of a joke someone was playing on them? In either case, was it safe to turn their heads and find out?

As if reading their minds, someone behind them—a different voice this time—snarled, “We don’t want to hurt you, but the first one who tries looking around will get this bounced off his skull!”

A hand slid between them, displaying a nasty-looking leather-covered blackjack to emphasize the speaker’s warning.

“Okay, we get the message,” Frank said curtly. “What do you want?”

“Put your hands on your heads, where we can see ’em, and start walking toward those beech trees over to the left of the trail.”

The boys obeyed, pressing forward through the dense vegetation without a word, though they were sizzling with anger. Each was ordered to lean against a tree, supporting himself with his upraised hands, as if for a police frisking.

“Now get this, and we’ll only tell you once,” the gruff voice warned. “You two keep your noses out of the Safari Queen trouble!”

“And don’t take on any new cases,” the second voice added threateningly. “Understand?”

“We heard you,” Frank replied coldly, controlling his anger. “Is that all?”

“That’s all for now, punk. Just remember what I said!”

The first voice chimed in again. “And don’t turn around for the next five minutes. Just stay like you are—if you want to walk away from here alive!”

The Hardys listened as footsteps moved away from them through the underbrush. As soon as the sounds had faded, they glanced at each other, then lowered their hands and looked behind them.

“Those wise guys!” Joe fumed. “They may have been bluffing all along!”

“Maybe and maybe not.” Frank shrugged. “They had the upper hand, and remember what Dad always says. No smart detective takes unnecessary chances.”

“Think we should try to trail them?”

“And risk stumbling into another ambush? No thanks,” Frank said. “With all this brush, we can see only a few yards in any direction. And think of all the people strolling around the park just beyond this screen of trees. How can we spot the guys who braced us when we don’t even know what they look like?”

“You’re right,” Joe said bitterly. “But in that case, what chance have we to nail them?”

“Whoever they were, they must be mixed up in the Safari Queen mystery,” his brother reasoned. “That gives us one lead to work on.”

The Hardys decided to continue along the trail to Spire Rock, though it seemed certain the radio call had been a trick to set them up for what had just happened. The odd upthrusting rock formation was surrounded by a small clearing. Nearby was a public fountain at which a woman and two small children were drinking water.

No one else was in sight.

“Looks as if we wasted our time,” grumbled Joe.

Just then three figures burst out of the bushes behind the boys.

“You wanted a crime tip—try this!” growled a voice, and the tip of a finger jabbed Joe hard in the ribs.

The Hardys whirled around, chuckling in spite of themselves. Both had recognized the voice of their chubby pal, Chet Morton. Two more of their high school buddies were with him, big rangy Biff Hooper and dark-haired, bookish Phil Cohen.

“Wow! Did you guys ever fall for that one!” Chet exulted. His plump cheeks jiggled as he bobbed up and down in sheer high spirits, poking Joe playfully.

“You’re nuts!” Frank grinned. “You mean it was one of you who broadcast that phony radio message?”

“Who else?” Biff grinned back. “We saw you pull into the parking lot, and decided to feed you a little excitement.”

“And you fell hook, line, and sinker!” Chet went on, rubbing it in. Then he paused to wipe the perspiration brought on by his cavorting from his moon-shaped face.

“After all,” Phil added, “it’s been at least a week since your last mystery, hasn’t it?”

“That’s what you think,” Joe said wryly. “Matter of fact we’ve got a new one on our hands just since we left the parking lot.”

Their friends were startled when they heard how the Hardys had been waylaid en route to Spire Rock.

“I don’t get it,” said Biff with a puzzled frown. “How could those hoods have known you’d be going through the woods just at that time?”

“They must have heard you broadcast the message,” Joe deduced. “Where were you calling from?”

“The parking lot on the other side of the entrance you pulled into. Right after Phil spotted you, we used the CB radio in Tony Prito’s pickup truck.”

“Did you notice anyone eavesdropping?”

Biff looked at Phil and Chet. All three thought for a moment, then shook their heads.

“I guess not,” Biff concluded. “But that doesn’t prove much. There were people all around us, hopping in and out of cars. We were getting such a bang out of fooling you, we probably wouldn’t have noticed, anyway.”

“Where’s Tony?” Frank inquired.

“He had to help his dad on some construction work.” Biff explained that he and the others had come to Wild World to apply for jobs as park attendants in response to an ad in the Sunday paper. Although Tony .had to leave as soon as they filled out their forms and were interviewed, Chet, Biff, and Phil had decided to stick around and enjoy the rides in the park’s amusement area. “How about you guys?” he asked. “Did you come to apply, too?”

“Nope.” Joe grinned, teasing. “We came to check out an X-mark on a map.”

Their chums’ curiosity was immediately aroused. When the Hardys showed them the mysterious folder that had arrived in the mail, their three friends insisted on coming with them to inspect the hollow tree.

Although Wild World was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, the animal park proper was also partitioned off from the amusement area. To reach the spot indicated on the map, the Hardys’ car would have to take its place in the line of vehicles cruising slowly along the road that wound through the animal range. A sign above the gateway warned spectators not to leave their cars.

“That X-mark better not be a gag,” Chet grumbled as they paid their admission fare through the car window to an attendant with a coin changer on his belt. “This ride’s costing us money.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your money’s worth just seeing the animals,” Joe said.

“You bet!” Phil piped up enthusiastically. “I went through with my whole family a couple of weeks ago. It’s almost like a trip through an African game preserve!”

His words were borne out as they passed in close view of grazing giraffes, ostriches, and gazelles. The sights were impressive. Many spectators pulled off the road to photograph the animals, and Joe wished he had brought his camera.

One ostrich gulped a peanut Biff tossed out the window. The creature seemed to take a fancy to him and raced alongside the car, keeping up easily with long loping strides of its knobby legs.

“Careful. I think it’s fallen for you!” Frank joked. “Either that or it’s hungry.”

Biff hastily pulled back from the window. “Better get my head in before it gives me a peck on the cheek!”

“Serve you right for wasting good peanuts,” said Chet, munching. He and Biff had each bought a bagful outside the gate, and the chubby youth was busily cracking the shells and popping goobers into his mouth.

“Boy, all you need’s a good monkey suit, and you’d make a great addition to this park,” Phil wisecracked.

“Listen, I haven’t had a thing to eat since breakfast,” Chet said defensively.

Joe glanced back from the front seat. “When was that, an hour ago?”

“Hey, we’re coming to lion country!” Biff exclaimed, peering ahead over the Hardy boys’ shoulders.

This area was enclosed by a fence of its own, and visitors were advised to keep their windows up. Frank, at the wheel, followed the cars ahead. Half a dozen or more of the big cats could be seen, including two males with flowing dark manes, several females, and at least one cub.

One male was fast asleep with his legs in the air, snoring audibly.

“Now that’s what I call a real snooze!” Chet said enviously.

Frank grinned. “You should know.”

He braked to a stop at the gate booth as they were leaving the lion enclosure.

“Can I help you?” said a black youth on duty in the booth. Pinned to the pocket of his green park attendant’s uniform was a badge showing his name, Leroy Mitchell.

Frank took out the folder with the X-mark. “We’re searching for a certain tree.”

The youth glanced at the diagram, then looked up with an expression of puzzled interest. “Where’d you get this?”

“It came in the mail,” Frank replied and showed him the envelope.

Leroy Mitchell’s eyes widened. “Man alive! Don’t tell me you’re one of those dudes?”

“Which dudes?”

“The ones who solve all the mysteries—the sons of that famous detective.”

“You guessed it. That’s us,” Frank said. “I’m Frank, and this is my brother Joe.”

Leroy broke out in a friendly grin as he shook hands with the boys. “Wait till I tell everyone about meeting you two!”

“How about the tree,” Frank asked, glancing around. “If I read this map right, it must be near here.”

The black boy studied the diagram for a few moments. “Yeah, it’s got to be that big old hollow oak.” He pointed to a tree about a hundred yards off, on the right side of the road leading away from lion country.

“Okay if we get out and take a closer look at it?”

“Sure. I guess so. Nothing dangerous around there. But watch your step.”

“Thanks, Leroy.”

“Any time. Nice meeting you guys.”

Frank drove near the hollow oak, then pulled to the side of the road. He and Joe got out.

“The rest of you had better wait in the car,” Frank suggested.

Biff nodded. “Sure.” He and his two friends in the back seat watched as the Hardy boys approached the oak.

“What do you think?” Joe asked his brother.

“Maybe there’s something hidden in it.” Frank stuck his arm in the hollow trunk.

“Anything there?” Joe asked eagerly.

“Yes, it feels like an envelope.” Frank picked it up and withdrew his arm. As his hand came out, clutching the white object, Joe turned pale.

“Watch out!” the younger Hardy boy yelled. “Look what’s on it!”

CHAPTER III

A Trumpeting Tusker

CLINGING to the envelope was a brown creature, several inches long. It had two crablike front claws, eight legs, and a tail ending in a stinger.

“A scorpion!” Frank gasped, his eyes widening in horrified disgust. The small animal’s tail was curving forward over its back, ready to sting him in the hand. Frank dropped the envelope as if it were red hot!

The same question occurred to both boys.

“Is this what Dad was trying to warn us about?” Joe wondered out loud, still a trifle breathless.

Frank shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe, though I don’t see how he could have known I’d stick my hand in this hollow tree.”

“He might have known someone would use a scorpion sooner or later to harm us.”

“Could be.”

The loud sound of a put-putting motor caught the Hardys’ attention. Turning, they saw a park guard speeding toward them on a trail bike. He had a visored uniform cap on his head and a holstered weapon on his hip.

Red-faced with annoyance, the burly officer braked his bike and swaggered up to growl at the Hardys. “What are you two kids doing out of your car?”

Joe started to explain, but Frank cut him short. “We got permission from one of the attendants.”

“What attendant?” the guard demanded, as if he thought Frank were lying.

“Leroy Mitchell in the gate booth at lion country.”

The guard turned to look in the direction Frank indicated. Leroy, evidently noticing that the Hardy Boys were in trouble, left his post and hurried toward them. Two or three passing cars slowed or halted so their occupants could see what was going on.

The guard started to bluster at the Hardys again as Leroy reached the scene.

“Take it easy,” the black youth said to the officer. “I told them it would be all right to get out of their car just this once. They wanted to take a look at the tree.”

“Don’t you know it’s against regulations for visitors to leave their cars?”

“Sure, but they only wanted to get out for a couple of minutes. And there’s nothing dangerous around here.”

The only animals in sight were a pair of mild-eyed gazelles, grazing and paying not the slightest attention to human goings-on.

“It’s still against regulations,” the officer said roughly.

“Okay. If I’ve done wrong, report me,” Leroy said. “Don’t hassle these guys.”

The guard grunted and told the Hardys to go back to their car. “And from now on,” he warned, “obey the park rules!”

Joe pointed to the brown creature crawling on the grass near the envelope. “If you’re so anxious to protect visitors, better get rid of this scorpion before it stings someone.”

The guard was taken aback and seemed reluctant to touch the odd creepy-crawler. Leroy grinned and brought an empty milk carton from his booth to scoop up the scorpion for safe disposal.

Frank retrieved the envelope, and after thanking the black youth, he and Joe rejoined their buddies in the car.

“What was that all about?” Biff asked.

Joe filled him and the others in as Frank peered inside the envelope. It contained a card bearing a seemingly senseless jumble of letters.

“Some kind of code,” the elder Hardy boy declared and passed the card to his brother. “Guess we’ll have to try cracking it later.”

Joe studied the letters while Frank started the car and turned back onto the road.

“I wonder if the same party planted both this code message and the scorpion?” Joe mused.

“Good question,” Phil agreed.

“There’s another,” Chet put in. “Would a scorpion sting kill you?”

“It would certainly hurt,” Frank said, “and I think the venom of some species can be fatal. Matter of fact I intend to read up on scorpions in the encyclopedia when I get home.”

“Likewise,” said Joe.

“You really think someone planted that scorpion, and tried to set you guys up?” Phil inquired.

Frank shrugged. “I doubt that it got there on its own.”

On either side of the road roamed zebras and several kinds of antelope, which the boys identified from the park folder as gnus, elands, and hartebeests.

Ahead, they were coming to a fenced-in elephant pen. Because the animals were big enough and strong enough to overturn a car, visitors were not allowed to enter their compound and could only drive past the fence, a few yards from the road.

Nevertheless, spectators were able to get an excellent view. Three of the huge beasts were drinking at a shallow creek that flowed through the enclosure. One was wading in the stream and scooping up water, then flipping its trunk backward for a do-it-yourself shower.

“I wouldn’t mind cooling off like that,” Chet observed enviously, fanning his chubby-cheeked face with the now-empty peanut bag.

“Why don’t you get in there and join ’em?” Biff joked. “You’d look right at home—you’re built along the same lines!”

“Don’t knock it.” Frank grinned. “That kind of beef makes a good football lineman.”

Visitors’ cars had slowed to a halt and everyone seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. In a foreign-made station wagon just ahead, a bearded man with a camera was waving and shouting to attract the elephant’s attention, then hastily snapping pictures. Checking the rearview mirror, Frank noticed two men in sport shirts sitting in a blue car. They were wise-cracking loudly and chucking popcorn out the window at the elephants.

Suddenly one big tusker bellowed, taking everyone by surprise. The animal waved its upraised trunk to and fro as if sniffing the air, then charged toward the road, trumpeting loudly! When it reached the fence, the huge creature reared up on its hind legs, as if ready to batter down any obstruction!

“Oh, no!” Phil gasped. “Is that elephant powerful enough to break out?”

“Sure looks like it,” Joe said, “if he gets worked up sufficiently.”

The tusker’s bellows of rage seemed loud enough to be heard all over the park. A guard speeded to the scene and summoned a trainer by walkie-talkie.

Presently a four-wheel-drive wagon appeared inside the compound. Evidently it had entered from the opposite side. It drove right across the creek and stopped about fifteen feet away from the angry elephant. The khaki-clad driver got out.

He began talking to the tusker in a coaxing, soothing voice and offered some tidbits on his outstretched hand. Gradually the enraged beast calmed down.

Chet glanced out the window. “Oh-oh,” he muttered. “Here comes more trouble.”

The guard who had scolded them earlier for inspecting the oak tree was striding toward their car. “Don’t you guys ever learn!” he bawled at them angrily.

“What have we done now?” Joe demanded.

“I warned you once about obeying park rules! Now you’re stirring up the elephants.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Frank said, refusing to be bullied. “We were just sitting here, watching them.”

“Yeah? And I suppose that big one got peeved because he didn’t like somebody’s face.”

“Don’t look at us,” Frank said evenly.

“Don’t get smart with me, kid!” the burly park guard stormed. “I’m going to teach you a lesson!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re all coming with me to the office. If I’ve got anything to say about it, this is a case for the police!”

He ordered the Hardys to follow him in their car while he escorted them across the grounds to a neat frame bungalow outside the fence. Here he made all five boys get out and took them into a room furnished with a desk and several file cabinets.

An elderly man with a tanned, weather-beaten complexion and white mustache listened calmly to the guard’s ranting. Then he got up from his desk and shook hands with each of the boys.

“My name’s Carter, fellows. Pop Carter, most people call me. I own Wild World. Glad you could come and see our animals today.”

After the boys had introduced themselves, Mr. Carter added, “Is what the guard here says correct?”

“No, sir, it isn’t,” Frank replied. “It’s true one of the elephants got worked up—”

The park owner nodded. “I know. I’ve already had a call from the trainer.”

“But we didn’t goad him in any way,” Frank went on. “We were watching like the other spectators. If your guard was going to pick out anyone, why not the two men in the car behind us? They were acting like wise guys and tossing popcorn toward the elephant pen.”

“Not only them,” Joe put in. “There was a black-bearded guy with a camera ahead of us, who kept waving and shouting at the elephants in a foreign language. He was trying to get them to face his way, I guess, so he could snap their pictures. Maybe that irritated them.”

A strange expression appeared on the park owner’s face. He glanced at the burly guard, who burst out, “They’re trying to talk their way out! I think you should make an example of these smart alecks.”

“All right, that’ll do for now. I’ll handle this,” Pop Carter said calmly.

The guard left the office, red-faced and muttering. A moment later they heard his trail bike go put-putting off with a loud roar of exhaust.

Pop Carter grinned apologetically. “Sorry about that. He means well, but he has off days now and then. Got family problems, I guess.”

The kindly old park owner tried to refund the boys’ admission fares, but they refused his offer, having enjoyed their view of the animals despite the unpleasant episode.

“Mind answering a question?” Joe murmured hesitantly.

“I’ll try, son,” Pop replied. “Shoot.”

“Why did you look so concerned when I mentioned the bearded foreigner?”

Mr. Carter eyed Joe in surprise and slowly filled his pipe. “You’re quite a detective, my boy.” Mention of the word detective seemed to strike him suddenly, causing him to do a double-take. “Wait a minute. You and your brother wouldn’t be the sons of Fenton Hardy, by any chance?”

“We are, sir,” Frank nodded. “Do you know Dad?”

“Met him once in Florida, when I was wintering there with the circus. Fine man. And I hear you two take after him.”

Joe grinned. “Let’s say we enjoy unraveling mysteries—or trying to.”

Pop Carter seemed to make up his mind as he lit his pipe. “All right, here’s one for you.” He explained that the elephant, Sinbad, who had become enraged, was normally a peaceful, good-tempered animal and had only gone berserk once in the past. This had occurred when Pop was running a small circus and had hired a new trainer—a bearded Pakistani named Kassim Bey.

“Taking him on was one of the worst mistakes I ever made,” Pop said, shaking his head reflectively. “Mind you, I’ve known other Pakistanis who were excellent with animals. But Kassim was just plain mean—he mistreated Sinbad and drove him crazy. I fired the no-good fellow as soon as I found out what had happened.”

Kassim had reacted vindictively, cursing both Carter and Sinbad and vowing revenge.

“Said he was going to call down a Djinn or evil spirit to haunt us,” Pop went on. “I paid no attention, of course, and Sinbad was a good elephant from then on. Behaved docilely at all times, up until a week or so ago, that is.”

“Then what happened?” Frank asked.

“One night he started acting up again, trumpeting like all get-out. I live here, you see, and I could hear him, so I jumped out of bed and went to see what was wrong.”

“What did you find?” Joe asked the elderly man.

“Nothing. Couldn’t make out a thing, except —well, a dark shape soaring up and away through the trees.”

“You don’t mean one of those evil spirits that Kassim called down?” Frank inquired, half joking.

Pop Carter shrugged and looked at the Hardys with a sheepish grin. “I still don’t know what to make of it. Maybe you two can solve the mystery.”

CHAPTER IV

Wheel Trouble

THE boys were mystified by the park owner’s story.

Pop Carter scratched his balding head and gave another helpless shrug. “Anyway, now Sinbad’s thrown another tantrum. If it happens again, I may have to get rid of him,” Pop added unhappily.

“Could those dirigible explosions this morning have upset him?” Joe suggested.

“I reckon it’s possible. They were certainly loud enough around here. In fact, the airship was practically right over the park when it happened.”

“Or maybe that bearded photographer reminded Sinbad of Kassim Bey,” Frank put in.

“That’s what I wondered at first,” Pop admitted.

“Hey!” Joe snapped his fingers in sudden excitement. “Maybe that guy was Kassim Beyl”

Pop seemed momentarily startled by this idea. “What did this fellow you saw look like?” he inquired.

“Well, he had bushy black whiskers and a twirled-up handlebar mustache,” Joe replied. “A big man, I think, although we never saw him out of his car.”

The park owner shook his head thoughtfully. “Nope. Doesn’t sound like Kassim. He had a slick black mustache that curved down on each side of his mouth and joined a neat little black chin beard. Above the mustache, he was clean-shaven.”

Pop puffed on his pipe for a moment, then added with a sigh, as if annoyed at himself for taking the idea seriously, “Anyhow, it’s impossible. I heard Kassim was killed in an accident after he left the circus.”

From his worried expression, it seemed obvious to the Hardys and their friends that Mr. Carter had more on his mind than the elephant’s misbehavior. The boys watched him as he moved away from his desk and stared out the window for a moment.

“Wild World seems to be quite a success,” Frank remarked, breaking the silence. “Do you enjoy running an animal park more than a circus?”

“I love it,” Pop said, turning back toward the visitors. “Put my life savings into this place. But now I’m wondering if I made a mistake.”

“How come, sir?”

“Well, I opened the park in April, and I had Sinbad and his two mates brought here in May. Since then, it seems I’ve had nothing but trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” Chet inquired.

“First, someone tried to break into the park one night. The fence is wired, you see, so that set off an alarm. Upset all the animals and almost caused the giraffes and zebras to stampede. Terrible time we had getting ’em calmed down again. Then, later on, when the weather got warm, someone threw a stink bomb in the park on a real hot, crowded day. You can imagine what a commotion that caused!”

“I’ll bet,” Joe said sympathetically.

“Next, somebody started a rumor that the animals were rabid and might be dangerous to visitors.”

“Hey, that’s right. I remember hearing that,” said Phil. “Did it lose you much business?”

“Sure did. Attendance fell way off for the next few days till I managed to get a full denial in the newspapers, and a clean bill of health from the State Wildlife Bureau.” Pop spread his hands. “Why go on? It’s been one thing after another. Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be smarter to sell out.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Has anyone made you an offer?”

“Sure. Matter of fact, two parties keep after me to sell.”

“Mind telling us who they are?”

“One of them is Arthur Bixby. He owns several animal parks in other parts of the country, and now he wants to open one around here.”

“Who’s the other one?” Biff asked.

“Manager of a real-estate firm—fellow named Bohm. Clyde Bohm. Wants to develop this land around here as an industrial site, or some such.”

Frank said, “Do you think one of them might be making trouble for you on purpose, trying to pressure you into selling out?”

Pop Carter tapped out the ashes from his pipe. “I won’t say the idea hasn’t crossed my mind. ‘Course I can’t prove anything. As far as facts are concerned, the whole thing’s still a mystery.”

“Joe and I will look into it,” Frank promised.

“I’ll sure appreciate it if you turn up anything.”

Before the boys left his office, the elderly park owner insisted on giving them free passes to all the amusement rides.

Chet was ecstatic. “Wow! What a break! Let’s try everything!”

His enthusiasm cooled, however, by the time they had sampled the first five. In fact, he appeared slightly green around the gills and decided to wait on a bench while his friends boarded the Ferris wheel.

Frank and Joe strapped themselves into one seat, with Biff and Phil facing them in the other. Presently the wheel began to turn.

“Wow! What a view!” Joe gasped. From the top of the wheel they could see not only the whole Wild World layout but most of Barmet Bay, with Rocky Isle clearly visible far out from shore.

“Know who invented the Ferris wheel?” Frank asked.

Biff grinned. “That’s easy. A guy named Ferris.”

“Wrong. It was William Somers, who built one in Atlantic City. Ferris copied it for an exposition in Chicago in 1893 and got all the credit.”

To the boys’ surprise, the wheel squeaked to a halt as their car reached the top for the third time.

“Something must be stuck,” Phil said apprehensively.

Anxious minutes passed before the operator cupped his hands and shouted up that the drive mechanism had temporarily jammed but was now being fixed.

“Another headache for Pop Carter,” Frank muttered.

The wheel soon began to revolve again, but the experience of being stranded helplessly in midair had been unnerving. Afterward, Biff and Phil went off in Chet’s jalopy with a parting wave, while the Hardys drove home in their own car.

“Hmph! Late for lunch again,” Aunt Gertrude observed as they entered the kitchen.

“We got hung up.” Frank grinned.

The tall, angular woman was about to retort sharply when Joe added, “On a Ferris wheel.”

“My stars! What happened?”

The boys described the amusement park mishap.

“Sounds suspicious, if you ask me,” Miss Hardy commented. “If I’d been there, I’d have questioned the operator.”

“We did,” Frank told her. “He claimed it was just an accident, and that no one who doesn’t work at the park had had any chance to tinker with the mechanism. We think he was telling the truth.”

Their aunt eyed the boys shrewdly. “Are you two working on a new case?”

The boys winked at each other and nodded with a smile, well aware they had no chance of evading her cross-questioning. Besides, although Miss Hardy would never have admitted it, they knew what a thrill she got out of their detective work. They, in turn, enjoyed hearing their aunt’s opinions, which more than once had given them a new angle on a mystery.

Over ham sandwiches and milk, followed by juicy wedges of apple pie, they told her about the anonymous letter and map that had led them to Wild World and the hollow tree incident. Miss Hardy was incensed when she heard how Frank and Joe had been waylaid in the woods when they first arrived at the animal park.

“I’d have taken a stick to those scoundrels!” she declared.

“I’ll bet you would have,” Frank said.

Just then the telephone rang, and he glanced at his watch. “One-thirty on the nose. That must be Dad!”

Both boys jumped up from the table. Frank hurried to the living-room phone, while Joe answered on the kitchen extension. Sure enough, it was their father, calling from St. Louis.

“What’s up, Dad?” Frank inquired after switching on a scrambler to insure secrecy for their conversation. This synchronized with a portable device Fenton Hardy used whenever circumstances permitted.

The sleuth explained that he had been hired by the government to help round up a band of political terrorists known as the Scorpio gang.

“I’ve heard about them in the news!” said Joe. “They go in for bombings, don’t they?”

“Among other things,” Mr. Hardy replied drily. “But bombs are by no means their only weapons. They’ll use any form of terror to hurt American companies or individuals they don’t like.” The gang’s leader, he went on, was code-named the Scorpion.

“So that’s what you meant by that warning in your radio message!” Frank exclaimed.

“Right, son. He knows I’ve been assigned to crack his gang, so he may well try to strike back at my family. I want you two to be on guard at all times.”

“We will, Dad!” the boys promised.

Mr. Hardy related how he had zeroed in on the gang’s hideout in New York City more than a month ago, and had tipped off the FBI only to have the group escape moments before the police closed in. Since then he had been following up fresh leads in other parts of the country.

He was keenly interested when the boys told him of their morning adventures.

“I’d say there’s no doubt the Scorpion himself was responsible for that park map you received in the mail,” Fenton Hardy declared. “What’s more, I believe the Quinn Air Fleet has been chosen as the gang’s next target.”

The owner of the airship service, Lloyd Quinn, he went on, had already received threatening messages. The messages called Quinn an imperialist tool and accused him of using the Safari Queen to help loot the resources of new African countries.

Mr. Hardy said he himself had been informed by the FBI about the dirigible explosions that morning, within minutes after they occurred.

“That’s why I radioed you boys. I believe those explosions may be only the first move in the gang’s war of nerves against Quinn. Now then, I’d like you to go out to the air terminal and talk to him. Scout for clues. You may be able to—”

The detective’s voice broke off with a sudden gasp. “Hold it, sons! I think I’m being—”

Again his voice halted. The boys heard confused sounds, then a loud report.

Next moment the line went dead!

CHAPTER V

Queen of the Skies

“DAD! Dad!” Frank cried, jiggling the hook frantically. It was useless. The only response was a dial tone.

Hanging up, Frank went glumly back to the kitchen, where Joe greeted him with a worried look.

Noting their expressions, Aunt Gertrude demanded sharply, “What’s going on? Is something wrong with your father?”

“He broke off the conversation suddenly, Aunty,” Frank admitted, “but that doesn’t mean he’s in trouble.”

Miss Hardy started to retort, then pursed her lips. “Hmph. Perhaps you’re right. We’d better not alarm your mother.”

Frank phoned the Quinn Air Fleet terminal and asked to speak to the head of the company, Mr. Lloyd Quinn. When he explained why he was calling, he was put through immediately.

Lloyd Quinn listened to Frank’s opening remarks, then said, “The FBI told me about your father’s investigation of the Scorpio gang, so I’ll be happy to talk to you and your brother. If you can do anything to clear up this problem, believe me, I’ll cooperate in every way possible.”

“Could we see you this afternoon?” Frank asked.

“Any time. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Good. We’ll be right over.”

The terminal was a vast, sprawling complex of buildings, which included both an assembly plant and spacious maintenance hangars. It was also, in effect, an international airport. There was a reception building for passengers, with customs and immigration personnel to deal with incoming flights.

Dominating the whole scene was the mooring tower, with the huge, silvery, cigar-shaped Safari Queen floating majestically in full view.

“Boy, what a sight!” Joe exclaimed as they drove through the gate. “I wonder when the next airship in the fleet will be ready for its maiden voyage?”

“In a month or two, I think,” said Frank.

Lloyd Quinn’s office was in the reception building. After announcing themselves, the boys were whisked up by a private elevator and ushered in to see him. Quinn, a stocky, broad-shouldered man in shirt-sleeves, with a pug nose and a friendly grin, shook hands with the Hardys and invited them to sit down. His dress and manners were as plain as his office.

“What would you like to know, fellows?” he said, coming straight to the point.

“For one thing,” Frank said, “have you any idea what caused those explosions this morning?”

“Grenades. Not much doubt about that. Someone aboard the Safari Queen dropped them just as she was arriving over Bayport.”

“Any suspicions as to who that someone might be?”

Quinn shook his head. “Not really. But there are only two possibilities. Either a member of the crew was paid to do it, probably by this terrorist gang, or the grenades were tossed out by one of the passengers.”

“How could a passenger throw something outside?”

“Through an emergency hatch. There are a number of them in the gondola. The Queen’s not pressurized like a jetliner, you see. It cruises at much lower altitudes. In fact, it can drop down to rooftop height for sightseeing. That’s one of the beauties of airship flight.”

“What about the engine noise?” Joe put in. “It seemed a lot louder than usual.”

Quinn smiled wryly. “It sure was. Normally she’s as silent as a sky ghost. But some of the muffling came loose.”

“Accidentally?”

“I’d be inclined to say yes if it hadn’t happened just before those grenades went off. Under the circumstances, the answer may be sabotage.”

Frank said, “Which would point to a crewman, right?”

“Right,” Quinn agreed, with a troubled look.

“It fits in too neatly to be an accident,” Joe pointed out. “First, the engine noise attracts people’s attention and makes them look up at the sky, the way Frank and I did. Then they see and hear the grenade explosions.”

“And the elephant falls out,” Frank added. “Any idea how that stunt was pulled?”

“Not a hint,” Quinn said, getting up from his desk to pace about angrily. “But the whole thing was fiendishly clever. It was purposely planned to give my air service a black eye and remind everyone of the Hindenburg disaster!”

Both Hardys had read about the fiery explosion of the famous German dirigible at Lakehurst, New Jersey, in 1937.

“That couldn’t happen to the Safari Queen, could it?” Joe asked.

“Of course not. It wouldn’t have happened to the Hindenburg if we’d let them have American helium gas, as they requested. We didn’t, so they had to use highly flammable hydrogen. And even at that, what happened was no accident. More likely that, too, was caused by sabotage. But anyhow, the Queen’s filled with helium, which can’t burn. Most people don’t realize it, but a helium-filled rigid airship is actually the safest method of air travel known to man.”

“You really think dirigibles are coming back, sir?” Frank inquired.

“They’re bound to,” Quinn declared. “Not just because I’m a believer—the facts dictate it. Planes depend on airports, ships depend on seaports, and trucks depend on highways, but airships can haul anything anywhere, and do it cheaply, quickly, and safely.”

“What about helicopters?” Joe questioned.

“Too costly and inefficient to operate, even if they were built big enough for real freighting. By comparison, the Queen can haul three hundred tons in a single trip, profitably.” Quinn broke off with a boyish grin. “But don’t get me started on all that. You’re talking to a lighter-than-air enthusiast!”

He glanced proudly out the big picture window of his office at the Safari Queen, the first airship on the Quinn Air Fleet.

“Look at her. Isn’t she beautiful? How would you fellows like to go aboard?”

“We’d love to!” the Hardys exclaimed.

In the elevator Frank asked, “By the way, were any of the African animals you were transporting here for Wild World harmed?”

“Not at all. They’ve all been inspected and safely trucked to the animal park.”

The mooring tower was built with a projecting ramp, somewhat like the lip of a pouring spout. The nose of the dirigible rested atop this ramp, from which an extended walkway and conveyor led directly into the gondola, the cabin structure underneath the airship.

Quinn told the boys the Safari Queen was 600 feet long and could cruise at 150 miles per hour. It was powered by four turbines, which drove the main rotor and the blowers for the steering and hovering jets.

Frank and Joe were surprised by the spacious accommodations, which extended above the gondola well up into the main structure. The inside of the airship was not simply hollow and filled with gas, but divided into separate cells so that a sudden disastrous leak would be impossible.

As they went through the engine compartment, Joe noticed a young crewman who was eyeing them furtively. Without saying anything to the others, Joe snapped the fellow’s picture with his miniature pocket camera, which he had brought along to photograph any clues that they might discover.

The aerial bridge, or flight deck, was a marvel of neatly arranged dials and control consoles.

“The ship can be flown from here to Africa entirely by autopilot,” Quinn explained. “And the steering jets are computer-controlled to help counteract any crosswinds that might affect our course or stability.”

The boys were thrilled at the view from the dirigible’s wide cabin windows. “Sure gives you a lot better outlook than those peepholes on air-liners!” Joe remarked.

Quinn smiled. “You bet they do! There’s no finer sightseeing in the world than the view a traveler can enjoy on an airship voyage. And the Germans proved long ago that such trips can take place between continents on regular schedules, with no serious weather problems.”

After showing the boys the Safari Queen, Quinn took them to his assembly plant, where a second dirigible, the Arctic Queen, was under construction.

“Where will this one fly?” Frank asked.

“To northwestern Canada, hauling supplies for a three-year pipeline project.” Quinn’s face darkened as he added, “That is, if what happened this morning doesn’t cause the pipeline company to cancel our contract.”

“You think they might, sir?”

“Who knows? Those explosions could arouse their fears about airship safety.”

“Have you had any trouble before this?” Joe asked.

“Yes, two or three sabotage incidents.”

Frank said, “Do you suspect anyone?”

Lloyd Quinn frowned and hesitated before replying. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not making accusations. But the only possible enemy I can think of is a man named Basil Embrow. My former partner.”

Joe snapped the fellow’s picture with his miniature camera.

“The two of you broke up?”

“We had to,” Quinn replied. “We were having too many violent disagreements, so I went ahead and formed this dirigible company on my own. Embrow may bear me a grudge.”

After asking for and obtaining computer printout data on the crew and passengers aboard the Queen’s morning flight, the Hardys returned home.

Their mother informed them that they had received a phone call from Eustace Jarman, a well-known New York industrialist and head of a large corporation called Jarman Ventures.

“What did he want, Mom?”

“Actually, it was his secretary who called. She didn’t say what it was about, but left this number. She wants you to call back.”

Frank dialed the number, only to learn that Jarman was out. His secretary asked if the boys would be willing to come to New York City and talk to him. An appointment was set up for eleven thirty the next morning.

Afterward, Frank phoned Mr. Hardy’s ace operative, Sam Radley, and asked him to trace Quinn’s ex-partner. Frank also read him the names and other data on the twelve passengers who had arrived in Bayport that morning from Africa aboard the Safari Queen. All of them were foreigners.

“Would you please find out if the FBI has anything on any of them?” Frank asked.

“Will do,” Sam promised and rang off.

Meanwhile, Joe had developed and enlarged his photograph of the crewman. He had no special distinguishing features, except for a mole near his left eye. A check of their father’s crime files revealed no data on him or any other member of the crew.

“Looks as if we’re up against a blank wall.” Joe sighed.

“For the moment, anyhow,” Frank agreed.

The boys now set to work on the code message they had found in the envelope hidden in the hollow tree at Wild World. It read:

HXTREXST OCHOXTEH ROXCFUTX SVSKIETH

EEHYVSLA SXOXEDER HNRIXAXD

OOESAYWY ERXLMXIS

“There are quite a few X’s,” Joe mused. “Those could stand for spaces between words.”

“Right,” Frank said. “If you’ll notice, there are exactly eight letters in each group—so those groups almost certainly don’t stand for individual words as the message is now laid out. Hm, let’s see.”

A lengthy silence followed while the boys racked their brains for a possible key. Each tried various transposition and substitution ciphers without success.

“Wait a second!” Frank exclaimed suddenly. “There are nine groups and eight letters in each group, which adds up to seventy-two.”

“Hey, I get it!” Joe said. “You mean this may be one of those ‘twisted path’ ciphers, laid out in a square.”

“Right.”

The boys tried arranging the letters horizontally.

“That’s it!” Frank exulted.

CHAPTER VI

Jungle Man

WITH the nine groups of letters laid out in rows, side by side, the Hardys had the following box:

HORSESHOE

XCOVEXNOR

THXSHOREX

ROCKYXISL

EXFIVEXAM

XTUESDAYX

SETTLEXWI

THXHARDYS

“In this case, it’s not really a ‘twisted path’ cipher at all,” Frank said. “Just a straight-line path.”

“Check.” Joe agreed. “Follow each line straight across from left to right, one after another, with the X’s representing the spaces between words. Let’s see what that gives us.”

The deciphered message read:

HORSESHOE COVE NORTH SHORE ROCKY ISLE FIVE AM TUESDAY SETTLE WITH HARDYS

The brothers looked at each other, and Joe whistled. “Settle with Hardys!” he read aloud. “That sounds like trouble!”

“It sure does,” said Frank, frowning uneasily. “Seems as if enemies of ours are arranging a meeting to plot how to get even with us.”

“Or get rid of us!”

“Right. The place will be Horseshoe Cove on the north shore of Rocky Isle, at five A.M. Tuesday—tomorrow morning.”

“And the ones holding the meeting,” Joe added, “could be this Scorpio gang that Dad’s after.”

Frank looked puzzled. “But that would go against Dad’s theory. Remember, he suggested that it might be the Scorpion himself who sent us the park map in the mail—hoping one of us would get stung when we checked the hollow tree!”

“Yes. I’d forgotten that,” Joe said, scratching his head. “But that doesn’t add up either, Frank. Why would the Scorpion warn us about a plot by our enemies?”

“Maybe the warning’s a phony. I mean this code message may be just a trick to lure us into a trap.”

“In other words, if that scorpion in the tree didn’t sting at least one of us, the gang would still get us when we go over to the island tomorrow morning to spy on their meeting.”

“Right,” Frank nodded. “But I think we should check out this information in the message, Joe, phony or otherwise. Only let’s not wait till tomorrow morning. Let’s go right after dark and keep watch tonight so they don’t get a chance to set up a trap.”

“Smart idea. And we’ll take a couple of the fellows with us for extra muscle, just in case.”

The boys hopped in their car and drove to the construction project, where they found Tony Prito jockeying a wheelbarrow full of cement. Tony, a dark-haired youth who had taken part in many of the Hardy Boys’ mystery cases, readily agreed to accompany them to Rocky Isle.

“And how about taking your boat instead of the Sleuth?” Frank added, referring to the Hardys’ own motorboat. “If this tip-off in the code message is a trick, the gang may be keeping watch on our boathouse to see if we take the bait.”

“Smart thinking, Frank. The Napoli’s all set for a run. I topped up her tank this morning.”

From the construction site, the boys drove to the Morton farm on the outskirts of town. They found Chet’s slim, pixy-faced sister, Iola, curled up on the front-porch swing, reading a book.

“Hi, Iola,” said Joe, who rated her the cutest girl at Bayport High School. “Where’s Chet?”

“Out in that patch of woods behind the barn.” She smiled. “He’s busy on a new project.”

“What now?” Frank asked. “Training squirrels to gather nuts?”

Though he avoided most forms of exertion, Chet developed a new hobby every few weeks. He would work at it furiously till the first flush of enthusiasm wore off, or an obstacle arose that threatened to require too much effort to overcome.

Iola giggled. “Go and ask him.”

The Hardys tramped around the barn and into the wooded grove behind it. They found their roly-poly chum in T-shirt and gym pants, holding on to a rope tied to the branch of a tall tree and swinging.

At the sight of the brothers, Chet dropped to the ground. He was sweating profusely, but his moon face was wreathed in smiles.

“Hi, guys. Meet Jungle Man!” he thumped his barrel chest and gave vent to an errie bellow that shook the leaves on the trees.

“What in the world are you up to?” Joe asked.

“Wait till I tell you. Boy, have I got a great idea!”

“I’ll bet.”

“No, really! That setup at Wild World, it’s really a form of show biz, right? I mean, the animal displays, and the amusement rides to help attract crowds. Pop Carter himself used to run a circus.”

Frank shrugged. “I suppose you could call it a form of show biz. So what?”

“So I have an act that’ll top everything!” their chubby chum announced.

“Chet Morton as Jungle Man?” Joe stared. “Are you kidding?”

“No. Let me give you a sneak preview!”

Chet spat on his palms, which were red and blistered. “I ought to rub some chalk on my hands first, but never mind.”

He grabbed the dangling rope, took a few steps backward, then launched himself with a running jump. As he swung back and forth like a pendulum, he pumped with his chunky legs to increase the arc of his swing.

Finally he was far enough out to touch a tree behind him with his feet. Using its trunk to give himself a fresh push, Chet swung high in the air, aiming for the branch of another tree some distance away.

Unfortunately, the branch was too slender to support his weight, or perhaps it was already cracked from too much use. Whatever the reason, it suddenly gave way, just as he managed to land on it precariously.

With a loud report, the branch broke off. Chet yelled in fright as he plunged to the ground.

Luckily Frank and Joe had dashed to his aid as soon as they saw the bough start to bend, so they were able to break his fall. But Chet was badly shaken by his mishap. “I think I need some nerve tonic!” he gulped.

“I think you’re right, pal.” Joe chuckled, and the boys went into the house.

Over ice-cold glasses of cola, the Hardys told their friend of their plan to spy out a possible enemy move on Rocky Isle. Chet tended to get the jitters whenever their mystery cases became too exciting, but could always be depended on in a tight spot.

“Okay,” he agreed. “But let’s play it careful, huh, and not go asking for trouble.”

“We won’t,” Frank promised. “Anyway, it can’t be any more dangerous than your jungle-man act.”

Shortly after eight o’clock that night, equipped with sleeping bags and camping gear, the four boys shoved off from a dock in Bayport Harbor aboard Tony Prito’s boat, the Napoli. A cool evening breeze had set in across the bay, carrying a bracing salt tang toward the shore.

“Should be great sleeping tonight,” said Tony as he steered a course across the dark, moon-dappled water, kicking up plumes of spray.

“I just hope we get some sleep!” Chet remarked nervously.

Frank grinned. “We’ll take turns standing watch. I wish it weren’t so bright. But maybe it’s just as well. At least we won’t have to use our flashlights much to find our way around.”

“Hey!” Joe exclaimed softly. “Speaking of flashlights, take a look over there!”

He pointed toward the brightly lighted amusement park area of Wild World, which could be seen overlooking the waterfront just north of town. A green light was flashing on and off from the revolving Ferris wheel.

“Somebody’s signaling!” Chet Morton gasped.

CHAPTER VII

Cave Camp

TONY slowed the Napoli so they could watch the flashes.

“They’re signals all right,” Frank agreed, “but not in Morse code.”

The same thought was going through everyone’s head. Were the signals in any way connected with their secret scouting expedition to Rocky Isle?

“I don’t like this,” Chet gulped. “Maybe someone spotted us leaving the dock!”

“That’s not likely,” Joe argued. “Why would they watch Tony’s boat? But I’ll bet it has something to do with the gang.”

Frank nodded thoughtfully. “I agree. If you’ll notice, the flashes only occur around the top half of the wheel’s turn, so the signals could probably be seen by someone on the island.”

“Especially by someone on the north shore,” Joe added, thinking of the code message.

“Want to turn back?” Tony asked in a disappointed voice.

“Not unless you fellows do,” Frank said.

“Not me!” Tony declared with an air of suppressed excitement.

The Hardys glanced at Chet, who hesitated a moment, then shrugged cheerfully. “Oh, well, we’ve come this far. May as well see what’s out there.”

“Good,” Frank said. “But from now on we’d better watch our step and be extra careful.”

The green light flashes had ceased while they were talking. The boys continued their cruise to Rocky Isle, with only the sound of the boat engine and the slap of water against the hull to accompany their passage. As they neared the island, Tony shut off the motor and they made the final leg of the trip with muffled oars.

On Frank’s suggestion, they beached the boat on the southwestern shore and covered it with brush and driftwood.

Rocky Isle was a popular picnic and swimming spot by day. The boys had briefly used a Chinese junk to operate a ferry service between there and Bayport. After dark the regular ferry service ceased, and the lighthouse was now automated, which left the island in desolate loneliness during the night hours. Even the park guard’s cottage was dark.

“Let’s leave our stuff here and scout the north shore before we settle down for the night,” Frank said, after they had lugged their camping gear halfway across the island.

“Suits me,” said Chet, who was beginning to puff a bit.

The boys hiked the rest of the way with their hands free except for flashlights, and cautiously probed the northern portion of the tiny island. The terrain was rocky and vegetation sparse, affording few places for cover.

The horseshoe-shaped cove was fringed by a sandy beach, which in turn was overlooked by flat-topped cliffs, barren except for weedy clumps of dune grass and here and there a gnarled, stunted tree. There was no sign of any other human in the area.

“We must have beaten the gang over here,” Tony observed, “if they’re coming at all.”

“Sure looks that way,” Joe agreed. “Let’s bring our gear and lie down.”

They unrolled their sleeping bags in the tall grass on the bluff overlooking Horseshoe Cove. A few boulders and a nearby tree gave them a certain amount of cover, and from this vantage point they could see anything happening on the beach below.

“We’ll stand two-hour watches, okay?” Frank plucked several weed stalks, broke off the tops, and clutched four uneven pieces in his fist with the ends sticking out. “Draw straws for turns,” he proposed. “Shortest stands the first watch, second shortest takes the second, and so on. Okay?”

Joe drew the first two-hour sentry assignment, and Tony the next, followed by Chet. Frank, who was left holding the longest straw, would stand the last watch, by the end of which time, the boys figured it would be daylight.

In the peaceful night air, with the sound of surf in their ears and the occasional distant mewing of seagulls, the three boys soon fell asleep. Joe was left to study the stars and keep his eyes and ears trained for any suspicious comings or goings. The lighthouse beam swept intermittently out to sea.

Some time later, Frank awoke in the darkness. He had heard a faint noise somewhere in the distance. Cautiously he squirmed upright out of his sleeping bag and looked around him.

Chet, who was guard at the time, was slumped against a rock. A low, sawing noise issued from his open mouth!

“Oh, no!” Frank muttered to himself. He wormed his way through the tall grass toward the edge of the cliff and scanned the shore, where a fresh shock awaited him.

On the beach, not far from a point just below his own position, he could make out the figures of three men!

Frank wriggled back toward his own group and shook their sleeping sentry.

“Chet, wake up!” he hissed, then immediately clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth before he could utter a startled outcry.

“Wh-wh-whassa matter?” Chet managed to say in a muffled voice between Frank’s fingers.

“You fell asleep at the switch, that’s what,” Frank whispered in his ear, “and now three of the gang are down on the beach.”

With the utmost caution, the pair woke up their two companions, and Frank, Joe, and Tony hastily pulled on their sneakers. Then, as silently as Indians, the boys wriggled toward the edge of the bluff. The three men appeared to be digging in the sand.

“What are they up to?” Joe whispered in his brother’s ear.

“Search me.”

Tony wormed his way closer to the brink of the cliff for a better look. In doing so, he dislodged a few fragments of gravel, which skittered down the steep slope! Instantly the three men on the beach jerked to attention. One swung a flashlight beam in the boys’ direction.

“Someone’s up there!” he shouted.

Frank realized that he and his pals might be in a tight spot if the men were armed. Thinking fast, he called out, “There they are, sergeant!”

Joe immediately clued in and exclaimed loudly, “I’ll go get the rest of the men!”

Their ruse worked even better than they had dared hope. The crooks appeared to panic.

“It’s the law!” one of them cried. “Let’s get out of here!”

All three broke into a run down the beach.

“What do we d-do now?” Chet stammered, excited.

“Go after them!” Frank blurted. “Maybe we can scare them into surrender, or at least get a good look at them!”

The boys slid and scrambled down the steep slope and took off in hot pursuit, though the sand slowed their pace. The crooks were already out of sight in the darkness.

The shoreline curved sharply beyond the cove. As the boys rounded the arc of the horseshoe and continued along the jagged beach, they could see no sign of their quarry. Finally they halted to look around.

“Where did they go?” Tony asked, puzzled.

“They probably went up the hill to cut across the island,” Frank conjectured. “The slope isn’t that steep here. It wouldn’t take them long to reach higher ground. I imagine they beached their boat a safe distance away, just as we did.”

The four boys clambered back up the hillside for a better view. The moon drifted out from behind a veil of clouds, but despite the increased brightness, they could see no one.

Joe snapped his fingers. “Wait a second. I’ll bet I know where they’ve gone!”

“Where?” Chet panted.

“That cave you discovered when we solved the Chinese Junk mystery!”

Frank was less hopeful, but agreed the cave might be worth looking at in the absence of any better leads. It was located on the north side of the island, not far from their present position. The boys walked toward it through the moonlit darkness.

To reach the entrance, they had to climb several yards below the brow of the cliff. Here Frank called a momentary halt before entering. They strained their ears for the slightest sound from within but could hear nothing.

“Okay, come on!” Frank led the way, keeping his fingers over the lens of the flashlight so as to provide just enough illumination to see where they were going, without glaringly advertising their approach.

Even in the dim glow of his flash beam, the interior of the cavern looked awesome. Because of water seepage, it was a “living cave” with glittering icicles that thickened into stalactites and stalagmites as the boys probed deeper into the bedrock of the island.

Finally the passageway widened into a huge chamber with a vast, greenish scum-laden pool that gave off faint ripples as water bubbled up from below. Frank shone his flashlight around more boldly now, convinced there was no one hiding in the cave.

“What’s that?” Joe exclaimed, snapping on his own beam to brighten their view of a spot that Frank’s light had just swept over.

There were unmistakable signs that someone had recently been camping there!

Excited, the boys skirted the small underground lake and hurried toward the far wall of the chamber. Besides a camp cot and a beat-up, greasy-looking pillow with uncovered striped ticking, there were several cartons of canned food along with eating utensils, bottled beverages, a kerosene lantern, and a supply of candles and matches. Accumulated trash from a number of meals lay nearby.

“Whoever the guy is, or was, he must have been here for more than a few days,” said Tony. “He left plenty of empties.”

Frank picked up a book from the cot. Its title was Elephant Lore. “Joe, look at this!” he exclaimed. “The guy’s been reading about elephants!”

The Hardys traded startled glances, each remembering what Pop Carter had told them about his recent difficulties with Sinbad.

“And that’s not all,” Frank added suddenly as he leafed through the book. “What do you make of these?” He pulled out two snapshots that had been stuck between the pages.

“Jumpin’ catfish!” Joe gasped. “They’re pictures of us!”

Tony and Chet crowded closer and stared at the photographs.

“Not very good shots,” Tony observed.

“Don’t worry. We never posed for them,” Frank said wryly. “These are telephoto shots, snapped on the street when we didn’t even know our picture was being tak—”

He broke off as Chet suddenly clutched his arm and hissed, “Shhh! I think I heard something!”

The Hardys instantly doused their lights. A moment later, a shot blasted the darkness!

CHAPTER VIII

A Dangerous Dummy

KAPOW! The bullet ricocheted off a stalagmite close by. The cavern rang with echoes and all four boys sank to the ground.

“Spread out!” Frank whispered urgently.

More shots followed, spraying the area where they had just been standing.

Joe snatched a hunk of rock from the floor and pegged it hard in the direction of the last gun-flash.

He was rewarded by a yelp of pain and, almost at the same instant, the splashing sound of something falling into the water.

Silence ensued, the boys scarcely daring to breathe. Tense moments lengthened. Then suddenly the stillness was broken by footsteps running away through the cavern.

Was their enemy’s retreat just a trick? The four teenagers wondered.

At long last, Frank groped for a rock and ventured to flash his light, ready to douse it again instantly and hurl his missile, should his beam reveal a glimpse of their unknown assailant.

There was no one in sight!

He played the light around thoroughly to make sure the gunman was not hiding behind a thick stalagmite or rock formation.

“All clear, I guess,” he murmured.

The four boys rose warily to their feet, and Frank’s companions switched on their own flashlights.

“Whew! Wh-what an experience!” Chet quavered. “I might have known something like this would happen, once you Hardys started chasing clues!”

“Thank goodness you heard the guy in time. You probably saved us,” Frank congratulated their plump chum. He added to his brother, “Nice going on your part, too, Joe. I take it you heaved a rock at him. At least that’s how it sounded.”

“Right. I guess I hit him.”

“Yes. And then he must’ve dropped his gun in the pool.”

“So he decided to get out fast before we got him.” Tony chuckled in relief.

The boys retraced their steps to the cavern entrance, moving carefully, ready to react at any moment if their enemy was lying in wait.

As they emerged into the night air, the faint drone of a boat engine reached their ears. They listened as the sound slowly faded in the distance.

Joe glanced at his brother. “Think that was the crooks leaving?”

Frank nodded. “Probably.”

The Hardys went back into the cavern long enough to retrieve the elephant book and snapshots, as well as the eating utensils, the lantern, and one of the empty soft-drink bottles.

“These should be enough to give us some clear fingerprints of the man who was hiding in the cave,” Frank declared.

They ripped open the pillow ticking and used it as a makeshift bag to carry the evidence. After the Hardys rejoined their pals, the boys trekked back to Horseshoe Cove. Here they shone their flashlights around the site where the three men had been digging.

A seated figure startled them momentarily, but Frank waved reassuringly. “Relax. It’s only a dummy.”

The dummy’s back was propped against the cliffside, in a slight shallow recess formed by two projecting rocky outcrops.

“Why did they plant that here?” Joe wondered. He started to move forward to examine the seated figure, when Frank stopped him, flinging his arm across Joe’s chest.

“Hold it! There’s your answer!” Frank pointed to a round disklike object that Joe had almost stepped on.

It was made of green plastic and was about the size of a small Frisbee. Apparently the men had been burying it in the sand when Tony’s move had alerted them to the presence of watchers on the cliff.

“What’s that?” Chet blurted.

“A land mine, unless I miss my guess.” With cautious fingers, Frank unearthed the device. Under Mr. Hardy’s expert training, he had learned how to recognize and disarm such contrivances. He took no chances, treating this one with the utmost respect.

Luckily he saw a pressure switch lying in the sand close by and realized the crooks had not had time enough to rig a detonator.

“A booby-trap setup?” Joe questioned, shaken.

“Right. That’s why the dummy was put here. To arouse our curiosity. After walking up to examine it, one of us would have stepped on the mine, and—boom!”

“Whew!” Joe wiped his forehead. “And I almost did!”

“It wasn’t fixed to go off yet,” Frank reassured him.

“Thank goodness!”

“Also, from the looks of this,” Frank went on, “I’d say it doesn’t contain enough explosive to do more than stun us, or at worst, injure us slightly.”

“Then what was their angle?” Tony asked.

The older Hardy boy theorized that the code message had been carefully planted as bait for the booby trap. “They figured we’d know enough about secret codes to decipher the note. Then when we got here, the mine would either scare us off the case or disable us enough to be captured without a fight.”

“In which event,” Joe added, “they would have held us as hostages to force Dad off the case.”

“Correct,” Frank agreed.

There was silence as the four youths digested the grim significance of their find.

Finally Tony stretched and sighed. “What do we do now?” he asked. “Hit the sack again or go back to Bayport?”

“May as well go back,” Frank advised. “We’ve accomplished what we came to do.”

“That suits me fine,” said Chet. “I’ve had enough of this creepy place!”

Before leaving the island, the boys stuck a note under the park guard’s cottage door, informing him that a man who might be involved in criminal activities had been hiding out in the cave. Then they lugged their camping gear to the Napoli and climbed in. As they headed back across the bay, the first pearly light of dawn streaked the horizon.

Joe was silent and thoughtful as they entered the harbor. “Do you suppose those three hoods came to Bayport after they left the island?” he asked his brother.

Frank shrugged. “Hard to say. They seemed to be heading down the coast, but the way sound spreads out over water, it’s hard to judge direction. Why?”

“Remember why we went in Tony’s boat instead of our own?”

“Sure. We figured the gang might be watching the Sleuth to see if we took the bait.”

“Right,” said Joe. “So if those hoods didn’t come back here and report what happened, our boathouse may still be staked out!”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an idea! If we move fast, maybe we can nab the guy who’s keeping watch!”

“And make him talk,” Joe added grimly.

As soon as they had entered the marina and tied up at the dock, the Hardys left Tony and Chet to unload the Napoli while they themselves hurried off along the waterfront to check out their hunch.

They were still fifty yards or more from their destination when Frank suddenly flung out his hand in warning. “Joe, look!”

A man was tampering with the lock of their boathouse door!

CHAPTER IX

Sky Show

IN unspoken accord, Frank and Joe quickened their pace, preparing to grab the trespasser before he could get away. But he evidently heard their footsteps pounding across the wharf.

The man turned with a startled expression. Then he let go of the lock and darted away. The boys got only a quick glimpse, but noticed that he was dark-complected and had a black mustache.

The two young sleuths gave chase.

Their quarry was heading for a dockside warehouse. Barrels, crates, and empty oil drums were crowded against the front wall. Just before rounding the corner of the building, the stranger knocked over two of the drums with a sweep of his arm and sent them rolling toward the boys.

“Look out, Joe!” Frank yelled.

The younger Hardy tried to sidestep hastily, lost his balance, and fell, sprawling headlong on the wharf! Frank himself had to dodge the rolling drums, and by the time the boys resumed the chase, the fugitive was out of sight.

“Come on. We’ve got to catch him!” Frank urged.

As they ran around the side of the warehouse, they suddenly saw the intruder.

“There he goes!” Joe yelled.

The mustached man sprinted across a parking lot and then an open field, heading for a street that ran parallel to the waterfront.

Just then a bus came into view, filled with workers on their way to early-morning jobs in Bayport. The man turned toward a bus stop straight ahead.

“Oh, no!” Joe groaned as the boys redoubled their speed.

The bus rolled to a halt and the man leaped aboard.

“Stop, thief!” Frank shouted at the top of his lungs.

But apparently his words failed to carry. The bus doors swung shut, and despite the Hardys’ frantic waving, the vehicle sped off toward town.

The Hardys skidded to an angry halt. “Of all the luck!” Joe fumed, socking his fist into his open palm. “Think there’s any sense getting out our car and trying to follow the bus?”

Frank shook his head in disgust. “It’s already out of sight, and our car is way over at the marina. By the time we catch up, if we ever do, the bus will be unloading downtown. And for all we know, that guy might jump off at the first stop.”

Glumly the young sleuths rejoined their two chums, loaded their sleeping bags and other items into their car, and drove home.

Aunt Gertrude, as usual, was up bright and early, and so was their slender, attractive mother. Both women listened attentively while the boys recounted their night’s adventure.

“What about that explosive whatchamacallit the crooks were hiding in the sand?” Aunt Gertrude inquired.

“We dropped it overboard in the deep water on the way back to Bayport,” Joe informed her.

Miss Hardy nodded approvingly, then pursed her lips. “Those criminals may strike again.”

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “That’s why we’ve got to nail them. If we can identify any fingerprints on this stuff we brought back from the cave, at least the police will know whom to look for.”

“Smart work,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I’ll make breakfast now. Then you two had better get some sleep.”

“I could sure go for bacon and eggs,” said Joe. “But I don’t feel like turning in just now. Guess I’m too keyed up.”

“Same here,” Frank said. “We have to go to New York this morning to see Eustace Jarman, the business tycoon. We can doze on the bus.”

Both brothers wolfed down a hearty breakfast, then set to work in their basement lab, dusting the objects from the cave with powder. Much to their surprise and disappointment, there were no fingerprints on any of them.

“That guy must’ve wiped everything he touched,” Joe grumbled.

Frank nodded. “He was playing it safe and taking no chances in case anyone discovered his hideout.”

“Which means that he must be a pro.”

“I’d say there’s no doubt about it.”

The boys showered, changed their clothes, and started out for New York City. It was only a few minutes after eleven o’clock when their bus rolled into the Port Authority Terminal, which gave them ample time to keep their eleven thirty appointment at Jarman’s midtown office. The weather was bright and sunny.

“Let’s walk,” Frank suggested.

“Good idea.”

The sidewalks were filled with the usual bustling crowds. Noting the bumper-to-bumper cross-town traffic, Joe chuckled. “We’re probably making better time on foot than we would by taxi.”

A ripple of gasps and excited remarks ran through the throng of pedestrians, and the boys suddenly noticed people stopping to stare skyward.

“Hey, look!” Joe exclaimed.

A sleek, silvery airship was gliding majestically over Manhattan !

“The Safari Queen!” said Frank.

Awed, excited comments could be heard all around them.

“I’ll bet Quinn sent her here to prove that nothing serious happened yesterday,” the older Hardy boy guessed, “and to show everyone his dirigible’s as good as ever.”

“If that’s his idea, it’s working,” Joe said. “Listen to the way everyone’s admiring her.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when two baby blimps suddenly soared up into view.

“Hey! Where’d they come from?” Joe asked.

“A skyscraper up ahead,” said Frank. “They must have been berthed on the roof.”

“The two mini-airships headed straight for the Safari Queen. They looped and swooped and maneuvered about the larger craft like baby whales frolicking around their mother. The sidewalk observers chortled with delight at the spectacle.

“What a show!” Joe chuckled.

“I doubt if the Queen’s pilot appreciates their company,” said Frank. “But the crowd really goes for it. I wonder who thought this one up?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to get some pictures while the show’s on!” Joe took his miniature camera from his pocket and began snapping photographs rapidly.

The boys finally walked on as the dirigible sailed southeast toward Brooklyn and Long Island. At the Jarman building, they took the elevator to the industrialist’s penthouse office. A smiling, beautifully dressed secretary ushered them in.

Jarman was a tall, intense-looking man with long dark hair and a hawklike profile—the perfect picture of a hard-driving business executive. He got up from behind his huge modem desk to shake hands with Frank and Joe.

“Glad you fellows could come. I’m sorry I was out when you returned my call yesterday.”

“What was it you wanted to see us about, Mr. Jarman?” Frank asked when they were all seated.

“My security department’s been in touch with the FBI about the activities of those confounded terrorists, the Scorpio gang,” Jarman explained. “I gather you Hardys are working on the case.”

“Dad is, sir. We’re helping unofficially,” Frank replied.

“That’s good enough for me. From what I’ve heard about you two, your ‘unofficial help’ is often mighty effective.”

“Did you want us to investigate something, Mr. Jarman?” Joe inquired.

“Yes,” the businessman said emphatically. “If you’re not already working full time to run down those terrorists, I’ll pay you to do so.”

“Thank you, sir, but there’s no need for that,” said Frank. “In fact, I doubt if it would be right for us to accept such an assignment from you, since Dad’s already in charge of the case. But, as I say, we’re working with him, and Joe and I intend to do all we can to help catch the Scorpio gang. May I ask what your interest is in the case?”

“I wonder who thought this one up?” Frank asked.

“Jarman Ventures is a vast corporation. We do business in many fields, and we’ve already had several brushes with terrorists. But that’s not all.” Jarman clipped off the end of a long cigar, lit it, and eyed the boys with a thoughtful frown as he blew out a cloud of smoke. “I’m sure any thing I tell you will be kept confidential.”

Frank and Joe nodded. “Of course.”

“The fact is, Jarman Ventures is moving into the lighter-than-air field.”

“You’re building a dirigible yourself?” Joe asked with keen interest.

The businessman nodded. “My aircraft division has already laid the keel of one even larger than Quinn’s. It’ll be called the Globe Girdler to indicate its worldwide flight range. So naturally I’m pretty angry over what happened yesterday.”

“You mean,” Frank said, “the bad publicity?”

“Exactly. Anything harmful to his dirigible is bound to affect my project, too. That’s why I want to do anything I can to help nab these filthy terrorists. And that’s why I contacted you two.”

“Believe me, sir,” Frank declared, “we’re as anxious to round up the Scorpio gang as you are. And we’ll be happy to follow up any leads you can provide.”

“Good. Then I’ll instruct my security department to pass along any clues they uncover.”

“What got you interested in the lighter-than-air field, Mr. Jarman?” Joe inquired.

“The tremendous future I see for it. Matter of fact, we’ve been building blimps, which are non-rigid airships, for several years.”

The Hardys exchanged surprised grins.

“Those little ones we saw this morning wouldn’t be yours by any chance, would they?” Joe inquired.

“You bet they would!” Eustace Jarman replied with a pleased smile. “I keep them berthed right here on the roof of this skyscraper.”

He got up from his desk again and strolled across the room to gaze out the huge floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office.

“Here they come now!” he said.

Frank and Joe both joined the industrialist. Looking east, they could see the two little craft over Manhattan.

“I got the idea of sending them up on the spur of the moment, when the Safari Queen appeared over New York,” Jarman related proudly. “Then I had my public-relations department phone all the news agencies and TV networks.”

“It made a terrific spectacle,” Frank said, genuinely impressed.

“I knew it would,” the tycoon boasted. “Unless I miss my guess, that scene will show up in news photos clear across the country. I expect it to generate as much publicity as those dirigible explosions yesterday morning.”

Jarman glanced at his watch, and the boys got the impression they were politely being dismissed. “I wish I could have lunch with you fellows, but I’m booked with some European manufacturers. You’ll have to excuse me. This is a high-pressure schedule I work under.”

He strode to his desk and picked up a pen. “Let me write you a check, though, to cover your time in coming here today.”

When the Hardys declined, Jarman promised to take them for a ride personally in one of his baby blimps on Thursday, and asked them to meet him at Bayport Airport at noon.

“We’ll really enjoy that, Mr. Jarman,” Frank said, shaking hands.

After leaving the tycoon’s office, the Hardys went down to the lobby.

“There are phone booths up ahead.” Joe pointed. “Maybe we ought to call home and see if anything’s happened.”

“Good idea. I hope they’ve heard from Dad!” Frank found enough coins in his pocket to cover the call and dialed the Hardys’ area code and home number. After depositing the amount of money requested by the operator, he was put through.

Aunt Gertrude’s voice came on the line. “Hardy residence,” she said crisply.

“This is Frank, Aunt Gertrude. We’re still in New York.”

“Well, make it brief. These long-distance calls cost money!”

“You’re telling me.” Frank grinned as he looked at his depleted stock of coins. “We just wanted to find out if anything has come up while we were gone.”

“Yes. You had a call from Sam Radley. It sounded important. He wants you boys to phone him right away!”

CHAPTER X

Mole Mystery

“OKAY, Aunt Gertrude, I’ll ring Sam as soon as I hang up.” Frank hesitated uneasily before adding, “No word yet from Dad, I suppose?”

“No, indeed—we’ve heard nothing so far.” Miss Hardy’s voice reflected her own anxiety. Then she reverted to her usual tart tone, like a top sergeant bracing up recruits. “But I don’t want you boys to worry about him. Do you understand? Just mind your own p’s and q’s, especially in a city as big as New York. The streets are dangerous these days, from all I hear. As for Fenton, he can take care of himself!”

“Thanks, Aunty, we’ll bear that in mind,” Frank said, comforted in spite of himself by her brisk, no-nonsense manner. “Tell Mother we’ll be home soon. ‘Bye now.”

He replaced the receiver in its cradle and shook his head in response to Joe’s questioning glance. “She says they haven’t heard from Dad. But we’re to call Sam Radley, which means I’d better get some more coins.”

After breaking a bill at a drugstore news counter, just off the lobby, Frank returned to the phone with his brother and rang his father’s long-time operative.

“Hi, Sam. This is Frank,” he said when the detective answered. “Aunt Gertrude gave us your message. Got something for us?”

“Sure have,” Radley replied. “I’ve traced Quinn’s ex-partner, Basil Embrow.”

“Nice going. What’s the scoop?”

“He’s now running a business called Embrow Exports in Manhattan. I figured you two might want to check him out while you were there.”

“Right. We’ll do that. What’s the address?”

The operative read it over the phone and Frank copied it down. “Thanks a lot, Sam,” he said and hung up.

“Lower Manhattan,” Joe noted, glancing at what Frank had written. “We can take the subway.”

Leaving the building, the boys were thrilled to see the two baby blimps directly overhead. The minicraft were just about to settle into their berths on the penthouse deck, high atop the skyscraper.

“Boy, I can hardly wait to ride in one of those things,” Joe said eagerly.

“Right. They’re tubby little cigars, but they do look like fun.”

The Hardys took a subway train downtown. Embrow Exports occupied a tenth-floor suite of offices in a dingy area, but the firm looked busy and prosperous.

“I’m not sure Mr. Embrow can see you,” a receptionist told the boys. “Have you an appointment?”

“No, but give him this, please,” Frank said. He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to the young woman, who excused herself and took the message to her employer.

Joe shot his brother a quizzical glance. “What did you write?” he asked in a low voice.

“Just ‘Quinn Air Fleet.’ Let’s see if it works.”

Apparently it did. The receptionist soon returned and said that Mr. Embrow would see them.

The businessman wore a puzzled frown as the boys were ushered into his office. “What’s this supposed to mean?” he asked, flicking his finger. nail at the paper.

“Nothing in particular. It’s the only thing I could think of that might get us an interview,” Frank replied.

Embrow, a balding, raw-boned man, responded with a smile to Frank’s boyish grin. “Fair enough. At least you’re honest. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you. Am I mistaken in thinking you two are the sons of that famous detective?”

“No, sir, you guessed right,” Joe replied. “Fenton Hardy’s our father. In fact that’s why we’re here. We’re helping him on one of his cases.”

“Indeed? What sort of case?”

“It has to do with those dirigible explosions yesterday morning,” Frank replied.

Embrow sighed, nodded, and settled back in his chair. “I see. I thought there might be some connection.” He rolled a pencil back and forth between his palms for a moment and frowned. “Well, what would you like to know? Do I take it I’m under suspicion?”

“Why should you think that?” Frank inquired.

“Look! Let’s not play games. I’m sure you’ve found out by this time that I used to be Lloyd Quinn’s partner and that we broke up after a quarrel. Why else would you be here?”

“Naturally we have to check out every angle,” Frank said.

“Sure, I understand that. But if you think I had anything to do with those explosions, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Any comment you’d care to make about the case, Mr. Embrow?”

“Just one. No. Make that two. First, I hope you Hardys catch whoever’s responsible. And second, I wish Lloyd Quinn nothing but good luck.” Embrow grinned at the boys’ wary expressions and added, “Does that surprise you?”

Joe grinned back. “Well, it’s not exactly the sort of attitude we were led to expect.”

“I can imagine. Lloyd and I are both hot-tempered guys. We went at it hammer and tongs before we busted up. But that’s water over the dam. I’ve got too much going for me right here to waste any time harboring grudges.”

“How did you two meet?” Joe asked curiously.

“We served in the Navy together,” Embrow replied. “In blimps, on Atlantic-patrol duty. That’s what got us interested in dirigibles. We both made up our minds that someday we’d go into the field commercially.”

“Do you regret leaving?”

“Frankly, sometimes I do. It’s an exciting field with a great future. On the other hand, my export business has been highly successful, and I must say, I don’t envy Lloyd any of his present headaches.”

Joe nodded at a framed desk photograph that Embrow had been toying with as he spoke. It showed a youth in an academic cap and gown. “Is that your son?”

“Yup, it’s his high-school graduation picture.” Basil Embrow smiled proudly. “Quite a lad if I do say so, though I don’t see much of him these days.” He moved the photograph aside with a brisk back-to-business gesture and said, “Well, is there anything else I can tell you fellows?”

“No, sir. You’ve answered all our questions,” Frank replied, rising. “We appreciate your frankness.”

“And thanks for your time,” Joe added.

The boys shook hands with Embrow and left. Outside the building, they headed back to the subway entrance, a couple of blocks away.

“What do you think?” Joe asked his brother.

Frank shrugged. “Hard to say, but he seems a decent enough guy.”

“I agree. He’s not my idea of a sneaky saboteur.”

“By the way, why did you ask him about that high-school picture?”

Joe’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t spot it?”

“Spot what?”

“That mole next to the boy’s left eye.”

Frank stopped short with a gasp. “Now I get it! Just like that Quinn air crewman you photographed who was giving us the once-over!”

“Check. I snapped a shot of Embrow’s desk photo, too, with my pocket camera.”

“Good work!”

As soon as the boys arrived in Bayport, Joe developed his roll of film. Then he enlarged the picture of the youth in the desk photo and compared it with his shot of the air crewman.

“Hmm. The mole’s in the same place,” Frank mused, “and their faces are similar, but I’d hate to bet they’re the same person.”

“Ditto,” Joe agreed. “Besides, there’s at least five or six years’ difference in ages, and neither one of these blowups is ideal for identification purposes. Also, the name stenciled on the crewman’s coveralls isn’t Embrow. It’s H. Maris.”

“Which could be phony,” Frank pointed out. “He’d hardly apply for a job under his own name if there were enmity between his father and Quinn, especially if he were planning to sabotage the Safari Queen.”

“True, but it’s not that easy to get the kind of fake ID he’d need, like a social-security number and maybe a birth certificate and so on. Unless—wait a minute!” Joe snapped his fingers. “Do you suppose there might have been someone else filling in yesterday, doing some temporary maintenance work, and wearing Maris’s coveralls?”

“Let’s find out.” Frank picked up the phone, dialed the Quinn Air Fleet number, and was soon talking to Lloyd Quinn himself. But the air-fleet owner said no temporary help was ever employed, partly for security reasons and partly because of the high degree of specialized training needed for dirigible work.

“I had a call this morning from that pipeline company,” Quinn added glumly. “The one my next airship was supposed to haul supplies for. Needless to say, they heard about the midair explosions yesterday, and the way they’re talking now, they may cancel our contract, just as I feared.”

“At least it hasn’t happened yet,” Frank said, refusing to be discouraged. “We’ll do our best to crack the case before it does happen.”

He hung up without mentioning his family’s fears for his father’s safety.

Meanwhile, Joe was studying the computer printout data on the crew.

“Look. It says here Maris attended Ardvor College,” he remarked after listening to Frank’s report. “Why don’t we drop over there tomorrow and see what we can find out about the guy?”

“Good idea.”

Just then the phone rang. Frank picked up the handset and answered. His face burst into a happy smile as he heard the voice at the other end of the line.

“Dad! We’ve been worried about you. Are you all right?”

“Yes, son. I’m calling from Cleveland. Sorry I had to end our last conversation so abruptly.”

“What happened, Dad?” Joe put in. He had realized that Frank was speaking to their father and now he eagerly crowded close to the receiver.

“I discovered I was being watched,” Mr. Hardy replied.

“By whom?”

“A known terrorist. At least that’s who he looked like. I was calling on an airport phone. When he saw I’d spotted him, he snatched a traveler’s bag and hurled it at me, and then got away in the confusion.”

“You think the guy’s a member of the Scorpio gang?”

“It’s possible. The odd thing is, he was reported to have fled this country over a year ago. He’s a Hindu named Jemal Raman, and at that time I was investigating him for acts of terrorism against his own government’s embassies over here.”

Fenton Hardy explained that he had gathered enough evidence against Raman so that the U. S. Immigration Service was preparing to deport him. But before a hearing could be held, the Hindu escaped aboard a freighter, evidently fearing arrest.

After listening to the boys’ report of their own activities, the detective advised them to keep an eye out for Raman. “He could be vengeful and dangerous. Better check him out in my files.”

“Will do, Dad,” Frank promised. After hanging up, he got Jemal Raman’s dossier from the crime file in his father’s office so he and Joe could study its contents. These included three long-range telephotos, snapped without the subject’s awareness. They showed Raman to be dark-skinned, with a drooping mustache.

“Do you suppose this could be the snoop we spotted at our boathouse this morning?” Frank asked, with a glance at his brother.

“Sure looks like him.” Joe was startled as he examined the photos closely. “Jumping catfish! Notice how his mustache curves down on each side of his mouth?”

“What about it?”

“With a black chin-beard, this guy might even fit Pop Carter’s description of that elephant trainer, Kassim Bey!”

Before Frank could reply, a scream rang through the house!

CHAPTER XI

The Knobby-Nosed Peddler

“THAT’S mother!” Frank cried.

Joe dropped the photos and both boys dashed into the kitchen. They found their mother backing away from a huge scorpion!

The horrid-looking creature, now poised on the kitchen counter, was brown and hairy and about six inches long. Mrs. Hardy, pale, stared at it with a shocked expression, holding one hand over her mouth. In her other hand she held a wide-mouthed plastic container.

“Out of the way! I’ll swat the nasty thing!” exclaimed Aunt Gertrude as she burst in from the dining room. Brandishing a fly swatter, she advanced on the scorpion with lethal intent.

“No. Don’t kill it!” Frank protested. “It’s an interesting specimen.”

“Interesting, my hat!” sniffed Aunt Gertrude. “That creature may be deadly!”

“I’m not so sure. Where did it come from?”

“Out of here,” Mrs. Hardy replied in a shaky voice, holding up the plastic container.

Frank and Joe examined the label, which bore the name Vinegareen. But no manufacturer’s name or address was shown.

Joe glanced at his mother, puzzled. “Where’d you get this, Mom? At the supermarket?”

“Certainly not!” Aunt Gertrude cut in, in a scandalized voice. “I got it this morning from a door-to-door peddler.”

“Some phony!” said Joe angrily. “What did he tell you?”

“That he was handing out free samples of a new food product. Said it was highly condensed, and mixed with water, it would give a particularly rich, flavorful form of vinegar.”

The spinster paused to examine the plastic container. “Hmph. Empty, is it?”

“It is now,” Frank said drily.

“I might have known there was something wrong with such an offer. I thought at the time the fellow looked suspicious. ‘That man’s got a criminal type of face,’ I said to myself. ‘He’ll come to no good end!”’

Miss Hardy seemed as annoyed about being cheated out of the expected free sample as she was about the sinister trick that had been played.

The boys smothered grins, then Frank turned anxiously back to their mother. “It didn’t sting you, did it?”

“No, but it frightened me out of my wits.”

“I don’t blame you. That thing really looks scary.”

With a shudder, Mrs. Hardy went on, “When I opened the container, it crawled out on my hand! I had to shake it off in the sink.”

“It’s a wonder it didn’t sting you,” Joe said.

“From what I read in the encyclopedia,” Frank said, “I’ve a hunch this is a whip scorpion called a vinegaroon, a kind that’s found in the southwestern United States and Mexico. It’s called that because it emits a vinegary odor when aroused, just as this one’s doing. Many people think they’re highly venomous, but the scientists who study scorpions say they are not.”

Aunt Gertrude described the peddler as a knobby-nosed man with sideburns, wearing a yellow knit sport shirt and checked summer slacks.

“Neat description,” Frank said approvingly. “You make a good witness, Aunty.” He added with a slight frown, “Funny thing is, the guy sounds familiar, somehow.”

Unfortunately, with no photographs of the Scorpio gang to go on, there was no way to identify the man as a member.

The boys managed to corral the scorpion back into the plastic container and delivered it to the home of Thomas “Cap” Bailey, their science teacher and track coach at Bayport High, with whom they had once searched for fossils out West in a place called Wildcat Swamp. Cap verified Frank’s guess that the creature was a vinegaroon.

“It’ll make a great specimen for our science collection,” he added. “Thanks, boys.”

“Too bad we didn’t see those guys who ambushed us in the park yesterday,” Joe remarked as they drove home.

“Or those creeps on Rocky Isle last night,” Frank said. “Then we might know for sure whether Aunt Gertrude’s phony peddler was one of the gang.”

“I’ll bet anything he was,” Joe declared.

“Likewise. But definite evidence would be better. Which reminds me, Joe, speaking of the park, we still haven’t checked out those two guys Pop Carter mentioned.”

“You mean the ones who’ve been trying to buy him out?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s call them as soon as we get home,” Joe suggested.

After phoning, the boys made an appointment for an interview the following morning with Clyde Bohm at his real-estate office. The animal park magnate, Arthur Bixby, agreed to see them Thursday.

After dinner that evening, the Hardys decided to find out whether or not there was anything in Joe’s notion that the mustached terrorist, Jemal Raman, might actually be the fired elephant trainer, Kassim Bey, who was believed to be dead.

“I know it sounds far out,” Joe admitted, “but there must be some connection between these two cases we’re working on—the Scorpio gang causing the dirigible explosions and Pop’s trouble at Wild World. Take that pair who ambushed us in the woods. They warned us to keep out of the Safari Queen mystery, but the ambush happened at the park.”

“Check. And that’s also where the hollow-tree code message was planted, along with the first scorpion,” Frank added. “And don’t forget the gang member who was hiding out on Rocky Isle. He was reading up on elephants!”

“Right. Plus the fact that those green-light signals being flashed toward Rocky Isle came from the Ferris wheel at Wild World.”

“I agree, Joe, there must be some connection; otherwise we’re up against too many coincidences. It won’t hurt to check out your hunch with Pop Carter.”

As they drove down Elm Street, away from their house, Frank, who was at the wheel, suddenly muttered, “Oh-oh!”

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“That parked car we just passed back there on the left. The guy in it had a mustache like Raman’s!”

“Jumping catfish! You mean he’s got our house staked out?”

“Could be. He’s not just sitting there for his health. But I didn’t want to slow down for a closer look. It might put him on guard, and then he’d take off before the police got here.”

“Circle around the next block,” Joe proposed, “and come back on the same side he’s parked on.”

“I intend to,” Frank said. “You give him a good once-over as we go by.”

Much to the boys’ frustration, the car was gone by the time they returned.

“He must have realized you spotted him,” Joe grumbled.

When the Hardys arrived at Wild World, they were surprised to see Tony Prito and Phil Cohen on duty near the gate in the green-jacketed uniform of park attendants.

“What are you fellows doing here?” Frank asked.

“Three guesses.” Phil grinned.

“We all got calls this morning,” Tony said.

“What do you mean, ‘we all?’ ” Joe inquired.

“Chet, Biff, Phil, and I, all four of us.”

“Chet and Biff are here, too?” Joe asked, gazing around.

Phil shook his head. “Not now. They work in the afternoon, while Tony and I have the evening shift. We each put in four hours a day.”

“Nice going. Congratulations!” Frank said.

“What about you?” Tony asked. “What brings you here? Just out for fun?”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t think so. What cooks?”

Frank took out the photographs of Jemal Raman and explained Joe’s idea. “Even if Joe’s wrong, the guy might turn up in Bayport. In fact, he may be here already, so watch out for him. Dad spotted him in St. Louis and thinks there’s an outside chance he may be working with the Scorpio gang.”

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Phil promised.

Pop Carter was glad to see the Hardy boys, but after glancing at Raman’s picture, he shook his head. “No. This fellow looks nothing at all like Kassim Bey.”

The elderly park owner sighed and fingered his thinning white hair. “Anyhow, I’m sure Kassim’s dead.”

Nevertheless, he thanked Frank and Joe for their efforts and was glad to hear that they would be checking on Clyde Bohm and Arthur Bixby.

Next morning the boys went to keep their appointment at Bohm’s real-estate office. Joe backed the car out of the garage and started down the drive. But as he was turning into the street, Frank suddenly exclaimed, “Hey, hold it!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Look at those white marks on the front door!”

Joe frowned. “Somebody scribbled something in chalk.” He stopped at the curb, and both boys hurried up the porch steps to inspect the strange marks.

“These aren’t just scribbles,” Frank declared. “It looks to me like some kind of Oriental script. This must mean something!”

“True.” Joe nodded. “And something tells me the meaning’s not pleasant!”

CHAPTER XII

Green Shadow

FRANK had the same foreboding as his brother about the strange inscription chalked on the door. “Who do you suppose wrote it?” he wondered aloud.

“That’s easy,” Joe said. “It’s got to be that mustached guy you spotted in the parked car last night.”

“I think so, too, which makes me more certain he must’ve been Raman. He could have sneaked back here after we left for Wild World.”

“Right. It was dark when we got home, and we went in the back door after you pulled into the garage, so we wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Maybe we can find some professor at Ardvor College who can translate it for us,” the older Hardy boy suggested.

“Smart thinking, Frank. Here—I’ve got some paper. Let’s copy it down.”

It was nine fifteen when they arrived at the downtown offices of the real-estate firm of which Clyde Bohm was the local manager. He eyed them suspiciously as they were shown into his office, and, without rising, gestured curtly for the boys to sit down.

“What is it you want to see me about?”

Frank decided blunt frankness was the best policy. “About the Wild World animal park,” he said in a clear, firm voice.

His words seemed to take Bohm by surprise. The manager snuffled nervously and retorted, “What about it?”

“We’d like to know why you’ve tried so hard to buy Mr. Carter out.”

“What business is that of yours?” Bohm demanded, blinking and squinting rapidly through his steel-rimmed glasses.

“Mr. Carter’s been having certain troubles at Wild World,” Frank replied. “We’re investigating them for him, and we’re trying to get an overall picture of the situation. You seem to be part of the picture.”

Bohm fiddled with his glasses and squinted at the boys more suspiciously than ever. “Exactly what is that remark supposed to mean?”

“You’ve tried desperately to buy Wild World. Do you mind telling us why?”

“Certainly not. I’ve made no secret of that. My company believes that land could be more profitably developed into an industrial site, or perhaps a shopping plaza.”

Bohm suddenly rose to his feet and sniffed again. “You’ll have to excuse me a moment,” he said and went abruptly out the door.

The Hardys looked at each other. Joe rolled his eyes, and, pointing to his head, twirled his forefinger rapidly. Frank grinned.

Presently Clyde Bohm returned, still squinting and snuffling. He made no move to sit down, as if to make it clear to the boys that the interview was over. “Now then, I’m a busy man,” he said. “If you’ve nothing more important to talk about, I’m afraid I have other things to do.”

“Just one more question, Mr. Bohm,” Frank persisted. He was determined to apply more pressure in the hope of extracting a possible clue from Bohm’s reaction. “Can you suggest any reason why someone might harass Pop Carter and try to drive him out of business?”

“I’ve no idea,” snapped the real-estate man. “But you’d better not make any such charges against this company, if that’s what you’re implying, or you may find yourself facing legal action!”

Frank rose from his chair calmly. “Mr. Carter may also have to consider taking legal action, if the harassment continues,” he said, leaving Bohm gaping open-mouthed at the Hardy boys as they walked out of his office.

Outside, Joe chuckled. “You really took the wind out of his sails with that last crack, Frank!”

“I hope so. He strikes me as a first-class creep!”

“What do we do next?”

“See what we can find out about Bohm and his real-estate company.”

The boys got into their car and Frank drove several blocks through the business section to the Bayport Bank and Trust Company, where Fenton Hardy kept his professional accounts. In the lobby, he asked to speak to Henry Dollinger, the vice-president, who knew all the Hardys.

“Howdy, boys.” Mr. Dollinger, a shrewd-eyed man with a gold watch chain across a slight paunch, greeted the brothers with a friendly smile and handshakes in his office a few moments later. “Can I help you?”

“Hope so, sir,” Frank said. “We’re working on a case that involves a tract of land outside of town. We’ve just been talking to a real-estate man named Clyde Bohm. Is that name familiar to you?”

Mr. Dollinger nodded. “Bohm, eh? Yes, I know him.”

“Can you tell us anything about him? Is he an honest, reputable businessman?”

The banker pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. “Well, let’s say I’ve never heard anything against him. But suppose I check with our credit department.”

Lifting the phone, he dialed a number and carried on a low-voiced conversation for several minutes. Finally he hung up and turned to the Hardy boys again. “The real-estate company Bohm works for is a fairly large firm. He simply manages their local office, which was opened recently. From all reports, it’s a profitable, well-run business with no black marks on its record.”

“What about Mr. Bohm himself?” Joe inquired.

“That’s a little harder to say,” the banker replied. “He came to Bayport a month or two ago to take charge of the company’s new office here, so we have nothing on him before that. However, he does have a private account at our bank. So far none of his checks have bounced, and he hasn’t run up any bad debts that we know of.”

The last words were spoken with a slight waving gesture and an offhand smile.

Frank grinned back. “Thanks a lot, sir. We appreciate what you’ve told us.”

As they drove off, Joe remarked, “Bohm may be a creep, but apparently he operates inside the law.”

“So far, anyhow,” Frank agreed, “or at least so far as the bank knows. But that doesn’t clear him completely. It doesn’t prove he didn’t have some kind of sneaky part in causing Pop Carter’s troubles, like the stink bomb or the phony rumors about the park animals being rabid.”

“You mean, trying to ruin attendance at Wild World so Pop would have to sell out?”

“Right.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully and scratched his head. “I guess it’s a mistake to judge a person’s character from the way he acts the first time you see him, but Bohm sure looks the part. I wouldn’t put it past him. What’s next on the schedule?”

“How about running out to Ardvor College?”

“Suits me.” Joe noticed his brother watching the rearview mirror. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

“Don’t look now,” Frank said, “but I think we’ve got a tail.”

“Since when?”

“A green sedan with a radio antenna on its right front fender was behind us all the way from the real-estate company to the bank. Now it’s following us again.”

“I’d say that’s no coincidence.”

“So would I.”

Frank pulled to the curb sharply and braked to a stop. As the green sedan went by, the boys caught a fleeting glimpse of a driver with a crew cut.

Frank hastily started up, turned into an alley, emerged onto a residential block, then zigzagged through several side streets. When he finally headed for Ardvor College via a different route, there was no further sign of their shadow.

“Looks as if you’ve shaken him,” Joe said, with a glance out the back window.

“For the time being, anyhow.”

Ardvor College was located in a nearby town. The Hardys drove to the administration building in the midst of a pleasant, tree-shaded campus. A secretary told the boys the dean was busy, but would see them in a few minutes.

While they were waiting, Frank slipped out to the corridor on a sudden impulse and called Sam Radley from a phone booth.

“What can I do for you?” the operative responded good-naturedly when he heard who was calling.

“Does the name Clyde Bohm ring any bells?” Frank asked.

“Not offhand,” Sam replied. “Who is he?”

“A real-estate man who keeps pressuring the owner of Wild World to sell out. A middle-sized guy with glasses. Very ordinary-looking, except that he has this nervous tic—he keeps snuffling and squinting at you when you talk to him.”

“Wait a minute,” Radley said in a slow, thoughtful voice. “That tic does ring a bell.”

“Somebody in a case you and Dad have worked on?”

“No. I doubt if you’d find him in Fenton’s crime files. But I recall some crook with a snuffling, squinting tic who was wanted a few years back on an out-of-state fugitive warrant. Let me check with the FBI and get back to you later.”

“Thanks, Sam. I’d appreciate it.”

When Frank returned to the office, the boys were told that the dean would see them. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a thick mop of silvering hair and a brisk, friendly manner. The Hardys had consulted him more than once before.

“Another mystery?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes as they shook hands.

“You’ve guessed it, sir,” said Frank. “It has something to do with those dirigible explosions Monday morning. One of the crew is named Maris, Hector Maris, and according to the personnel records, he went to Ardvor College. We wondered if you could tell us anything about him.”

“Maris, hmm.” The dean frowned briefly. “Oh, yes, Hector Maris. I recall him now. Very nice young chap. Graduated a year ago. He’s not under suspicion of anything, I hope?”

“Not exactly,” Joe said. “In fact we’re wondering if there may be a mixup in identities.”

“I see. Well, the Hector Maris who attended Ardvor got very good marks as I recall. He was a pre-med student. Also on the swim team.”

“A pre-med student?” Frank echoed and exchanged a puzzled glance with Joe. “Why would a pre-med student apply for a job on a dirigible crew?”

“Good question,” said the dean, pinching his upper lip thoughtfully. “Maybe he couldn’t raise the money to continue his education. Or perhaps he wasn’t accepted at any medical school. There’s intense competition among applicants, you know. But let me just check our files.”

The dean pressed a switch on his intercom and spoke to his secretary. A few moments later, she brought in a folder bearing the name Hector Maris.

“Now then, let’s see what we have on him,” said the dean, opening the folder. “Ah, perhaps this picture of him would help to clear up any confusion. All students here at Ardvor are required to include a photo with their entrance application.”

Frank and Joe were startled as they looked at the form the dean handed them. The young man shown in the attached photo was blond and stocky. But the Hector Maris Joe had photographed aboard the Safari Queen was dark and slender!

Frank scanned the application data hastily before handing the form back to the dean. “Thanks, sir. You’ve cleared up one question, at least. This isn’t the fellow we’re investigating.”

“He’s the only Hector Maris who attended Ardvor,” the dean reported after having his secretary double-check the files.

Frank nodded. “Which means either someone’s goofed in the Quinn Air Fleet personnel department, or somebody’s trying to pull a fast one.”

“There’s one other thing you might be able to help us on, sir,” Joe put in, handing the dean the piece of paper on which he had copied the inscription chalked on the Hardys’ front door. “We think this may be some kind of Oriental script.”

The dean studied the odd markings. “Yes, I agree.”

“Could someone please translate it for us?”

“Hm. Yes. I think our professor of Oriental studies may be able to help.” Picking up the phone, the dean arranged for the boys to meet Professor Meister, who proved to be an elderly, pipe-smoking man with bushy eyebrows. He needed only a brief look at the markings to translate them.

“These are three words in Hindi, a language spoken in India and written in the Devanagari script. Hoshiar! Bura kismet!”

“What do those words mean, sir?” Frank asked.

“I suppose you could call it a warning. They stand for Beware! Bad luck!” The professor brushed some ashes off his vest and flashed the Hardys a quizzical look. “Where did you run across them?”

“On our front door,” Joe replied with a wry smile.

As the boys were driving away from the college, Frank said, “I guess this practically proves that our unknown caller was Jemal Raman. He’s a Hindu.”

“Could be,” said Joe. “But the language might also apply to that elephant trainer, Kassim Bey. That is, assuming Pop Carter’s mistaken and Bey is still alive.”

“Pop said Kassim Bey was a Pakistani.”

“Sure, but Pakistan used to be part of India, and the two countries are right next to each other. It wouldn’t be surprising if he could read and write Hindi.”

“Guess you’re right,” Frank conceded, scratching his head. “But if Pop Carter says Kassim’s dead, let’s leave him that way unless we find out otherwise. Jemal Raman’s a big enough headache!”

When they reached their house, the Hardys decided to phone the airship crewman who called himself Hector Maris and give him a chance to explain why the photograph on his college application differed so drastically from his appearance.

“Of course it’s still possible there are two Hector Marises,” Joe mused.

Frank shook his head. “No chance. I took a good look at the data on his college application. It matched the Quinn Air Fleet personnel data all the way.”

After dialing the air-fleet terminal, Frank was told that Maris had not reported for work that day. Nor had he answered the telephone.

“Looks as if we’re up against another blank wall,” Frank remarked. His hand was still on the receiver when the phone rang. He answered, “Hardy residence.”

“Frank?” said a voice at the other end of the line. “This is Leroy Mitchell, the park attendant at Wild World. I met you and your brother on Monday when you went through lion country.”

“Hi, Leroy,” Frank said, recalling the black youth instantly. “Good hearing from you. What’s new?”

“I understand you Hardys are looking for a man with a mustache.”

“How did you know?”

“Your friend Phil Cohen told Chet Morton, and Chet told me when I was talking with him at the hot-dog stand.”

“Well, it’s true,” Frank confirmed. “Have you seen the guy?”

“No, but I have something else that may interest you,” Leroy reported. “Did you notice the two dudes in the car just behind you, when the elephant started kicking up all that fuss?”

“Yes, two wise guys in sport shirts, munching popcorn.”

“Right, they’re the ones. I came to see what was going on just as the guard pulled your car out of line and took you to see Pop Carter. They were laughing and carrying on like it was all a big joke.”

“It probably was, to a couple of loudmouths like them,” Frank said wryly. “Why? What about them?”

“Well, I saw those two even before that,” Leroy said. “They were in one of the cars that pulled up to watch when you stopped to check out that hollow tree. And that’s not all.”

“What else?”

“Those same fellows drove through the animal park again today, and they sure don’t look like nature lovers! I felt they were up to no good. When my partner relieved me at the gate booth,” Leroy continued, “I went to tell Chet. Believe it or not, I spotted them again. They were skulking among some bushes, snapping a picture of Chet!”

CHAPTER XIII

The Sea-Faring Stranger

FRANK was alarmed. He at once thought of the snapshot of himself and Joe that they had found tucked between the pages of the elephant book in the cave on Rocky Isle.

If a gang member had photographed the Hardys unaware so the others would recognize them and harass them, maybe they were now planning to annoy the boys’ friends.

“Are the two guys still n the park?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Chet’s keeping an eye on them.” Leroy explained that their chum had been temporarily assigned to clean up candy wrappers, soda bottles, and other litter, which gave him the opportunity to keep the suspects in view at all times.

The black youth added that he himself would be working for the rest of the afternoon in the amusement park area, and that he would look for the Hardys near the salt-water-taffy booth.

“Good! We’ll be right over. And thanks for calling, Leroy!”

Frank filled Joe in on the phone conversation, then the brothers hopped into their car and headed for Wild World. On the way, Joe said, “If Leroy’s hunch is right, those two guys could be the ones who jumped us in the woods!”

“Just what I’m thinking,” Frank agreed. “And later they followed us to see if we got the message in the hollow tree.”

But a bitter disappointment was in store for them. When the Hardys reached the park and went to the amusement area, they found Chet waiting, long-faced, with Leroy.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“I lost them,” the plump youth reported.

“How come?”

It turned out that Chet’s help had been enlisted by a frantic mother trying to find her lost child. By the time the little boy had been located, watching the roller coaster and smearing his face with a huge tuft of pink cotton candy on a stick, the suspects had disappeared.

“Never mind, Chet,” Frank said. “At least you lost track of them for a good cause.”

“That’s what you think,” Chet retorted glumly. “When I tried to take the kid’s arm and lead him back to his mother, the little brat kicked me in the shins.”

The Hardys could not help laughing at the sour expression on their pal’s moon face. But Leroy shook his head, obviously much disappointed that his first detective effort had misfired.

“It’s a tough break,” he grumbled. “I’m sure there was something fishy about those guys. They seemed to be a couple of hoods, you know, completely different from the people who normally drive through the animal park. Most of our customers are families with children or high school students with their friends. But these two were toughies. They looked like they couldn’t care less about wild animals. Yet they not only showed up on Monday, when you fellows were here, they came back two days later for another visit!”

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to convince us, Leroy,” Frank told him. “I’m sure your hunch is right. The fact that they were snapping Chet’s picture practically proves they’re part of the gang we’re after.”

“And I’m sure glad you tipped us off,” Joe added. “This opens a whole new angle on the case.”

Leroy brightened under their appreciation. So did Chet.

“What did these men look like?” Frank asked. “Getting a full description of them could be a real break.”

“Well, one was wearing a denim jacket and jeans,” Chet said. “He was dark haired with a big underslung jaw and a dimple in his chin.”

Frank nodded. “That jibes with what I remember from those glimpses in the rearview mirror when we were watching the elephants.”

“And the other one,” Leroy added, “was wearing a turtleneck shirt and black-and-white checked pants. He had long sideburns and a big bumpy nose with a bulge on the end of it.”

The same thought clicked in both Hardy boys’ minds. Joe snapped his fingers. “The peddler who gave Aunt Gertrude that Vinegareen container!”

“Check,” Frank nodded. “No wonder her description of him rang a bell!”

Chet and Leroy were astounded to hear how the vinegaroon scorpion had been slipped into the Hardy household.

Before either could comment, a voice called out, “Hey, Frank! Joe!”

The boys turned around and saw Biff Hooper hurrying toward them in his green park-attendant’s uniform.

“What’s up, Biff?” Frank asked.

“Pop Carter wants to see you.”

“What about?”

Biff shrugged uncertainly. “Search me, but it must be important. He seemed worried. He just said, ‘Try to find the Hardy boys, Biff, as quick as you can. They must be somewhere in the park.’ ”

“How would he know that?” Joe wondered.

“The quickest way to find out is to ask him,” Frank said logically.

The Hardys hurried toward Pop Carter’s bungalow. They found the white-mustached park owner in his office.

“Biff said you wanted to see us, sir,” Frank greeted him.

“That’s right, boys. I had a mighty strange telephone call just a few minutes ago.”

“From whom, Mr. Carter?” Joe inquired.

“Wouldn’t give any name, but it must be someone at Wild World because he knew you were in the park. Said he’d just seen you himself, near the rides.”

“What did he want?” Frank asked.

“Wanted me to get a message to you, but not to call out your names over the public-address system. He was very insistent about that.”

“And what was the message?”

“He wants you lads to meet him—alone—in that little clearing between the boat pond and the animal fence. Said you’re to look for an old man with a cap, that he’s got some important news for you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Carter!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s go, Frank!”

“Hold it, fellows!” the park owner blurted. His usually cheerful face appeared agitated. “I’m not so sure you should go there, at least not alone.”

“Why not, sir?”

“How do we know it’s safe? Something mighty funny’s going on around here, and there may be a criminal angle to it. I wonder if I did right, unloading my troubles on you. Maybe some enemy of mine’s trying to get back at me and give the park a bad name by hurting you boys.”

“I doubt it, sir,” Frank replied, a little more confidently than he felt. “If your caller were planning something underhanded, surely he wouldn’t advertise it in advance, or try to do it right in the center of the park.”

Pop Carter paced back and forth, worried. “At least take a guard along with you!”

“That might spoil everything,” Joe argued. “You said yourself he wants us to come alone. If he really does have information for us and spots a guard, he may be scared off.”

After a hasty discussion, it was agreed that a guard would keep a distant watch on the boat pond. The Hardys would pass there en route to the meeting spot, and if they did not return within fifteen minutes, he would raise an alarm and the park gates would be closed.

Frank and Joe hurried off to keep the rendezvous. The clearing was well screened by trees and other vegetation. There was no one in sight. The boys seated themselves on a lone bench and waited.

Presently the bushes parted and an old man hobbled out. He was stooped and wore the battered white cap of a ship’s officer, with the visor pulled low over his forehead. His clothes looked shabby, and, instead of a shirt, he had on a seaman’s jersey under his blue jacket. His face, stub-bled with a grayish growth of beard, was twisted into a permanent scowl by a long scar down one cheek.

The fellow glared at the boys intently as he came toward them, looking around suspiciously. Frank and Joe felt a twinge of uneasiness.

“So you weren’t afraid to meet me, eh?” the stranger cackled. Then his voice became twenty years younger as he added, “I’m glad you came, sons!”

“Dad!” both boys exclaimed in astonishment.

“Excuse the disguise,” Fenton Hardy said with a chuckle, “but I didn’t want to take a chance on the Scorpio gang finding out I was anywhere near Bayport.” He shook hands warmly with Frank and Joe, and added, “From what you’ve told me, I figured you might turn up at Wild World, and luckily you did. I spotted you as you came into the park.”

The boys exchanged detailed reports with their father, bringing him up to date on their activities.

“You really think the Scorpio gang’s in the Bayport area?” Frank asked.

“I’m sure of it,” Mr. Hardy declared, “especially after what you two have just told me. I’d better go now, sons, but I’ll keep in touch. You carry on as you’ve been doing, but be cautious at all times. And take care of your mother and Aunt Gertrude.”

“We will, Dad,” Frank and Joe promised.

Frank and Joe felt a twinge of uneasiness.

On their way out of the park, they passed Chet and Leroy again.

“Everything okay?” Leroy inquired, searching their faces.

“Sure is,” Frank assured him with a grin.

“Listen,” Chet said, “We were talking to Biff, and we decided to have a picnic here tomorrow evening. Biff and Leroy will bring their girl friends, and you two can ask Iola and Callie.”

“Great idea,” Joe said.

“How about Phil and Tony?” Frank asked.

“They’ll just be coming on duty,” Leroy said, “but I’m sure they can eat with us.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Chet promised. “Another thing. How about coming out to the farm later on this afternoon, when I get off work? I have something terrific to show you.”

“Okay,” the Hardys agreed.

Driving home, Frank suddenly muttered, “Oh, oh!”

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

“That green sedan’s on our tail again!”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely. Same driver, same radio antenna.” As he spoke, Frank suddenly slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street.

“What are you doing?” Joe exclaimed.

“Having a showdown with this guy!” Frank leaped out of the car and started toward the green sedan behind them.

But its driver evidently panicked at the sight of the boy’s determined face. He backed up, U-turned illegally, and sped off with a roar of exhaust.

“Take the wheel and pull over,” Frank instructed his brother hastily as horns began to honk.

“Did you get his license?”

“I sure did. I’m going in that drugstore to call Chief Collig.”

Phoning police headquarters, Frank quickly checked out their shadow’s license via computer hookup with the State Motor Vehicle Bureau. Then he looked up the owner’s name and address in the phone directory and dialed his number. A woman’s voice answered. Frank asked to speak to the owner.

“I’m sorry, he’s not here,” she said. “Who’s calling, please?”

Frank deliberately slurred his own name in replying and asked, “Can I reach him in Bohm’s office?”

“Certainly,” the woman said. “He doesn’t get out of work until five.”

CHAPTER XIV

The Yelping Lion

Joe saw the triumphant look on his brother’s face as Frank returned to the car. “Any luck?” he asked.

“You bet!” Frank grinned. “It was Clyde Bohm who sicked that guy on us.” He explained how he had found out.

“Nice going,” Joe said. “We might’ve known it was Bohm. The shadowing started right after we left his office.”

“Sure. Not only that, but remember how he excused himself for a few minutes? He probably went to tell the guy to wait in his car and follow us.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Wait’ll we hear from Sam Radley,” Frank replied. “Then we’ll put pressure on Bohm.”

Later that afternoon, the Hardy boys drove to the Morton farm as Chet had requested. Mrs. Morton told them with a smile that their pal was out in the barn. Chet was not alone. Iola and Biff Hooper were with him, and so was Biff’s huge Great Dane, Tivoli. Iola wore a pretty blue-and-white terry-cloth beach jacket, and Chet’s barrelchested figure was encased in a red bathrobe. He was tying what looked like a black string mop, or several of them, to Tivoli’s head, while Biff clutched the Great Dane’s collar.

The Hardys eyed the scene with mystified grins.

“Mind telling us what you’re doing to that poor pooch?” Frank inquired.

“This is no pooch,” Chet retorted. “He’s Simba the lion, king of the jungle, and this black wig will be his mane.”

“I thought you were the king of the jungle,” said Joe.

“No. I’m Jungle Man. Get down, you idiot!” Chet blurted as the huge dog reared up on its hind legs and began lapping his face. Standing erect, Tivoli was taller than the boy.

“That critter’s really gotten enormous,” Frank remarked in awe.

“Right. He’ll probably make a pretty good lion at that!” Biff chuckled proudly.

“What do you feed him?”

“Better ask what we don’t feed him. He’ll eat anything he can wrap his jaws around, possibly including Chet!”

“Listen! Jungle Man can handle any kind of wild beast!” the plump performer boasted as he finished tying the black mop under Tivoli’s chin.

“What have you got in mind, Chet?” Joe asked.

“Stick around and you’ll see.”

Joe turned to Jungle Man’s sister. “Are you part of the act, too?”

Iola giggled, looking a bit embarrassed. “Chet talked me into it. I owe him five dollars, but he promised to cancel the debt if I’d be his assistant.”

“Sounds like blackmail to me,” Joe cracked.

“Go ahead and make fun, wise guy,” Chet said confidently. “I’ll bet we get offers from television once our act premiers, and maybe even from Hollywood!”

“You mean they’ll offer you money to keep the act out of sight?”

“Very funny!”

“On second thought,” Joe corrected himself with a glance at Iola, “at least part of the act will be worth looking at.” She blushed.

Chet sniffed and turned to her with a dignified air. “Just ignore the remarks from the peanut gallery. Let’s get ready for costume rehearsal!”

He flung off his robe and Iola did likewise. She was wearing a bikini swimsuit, but despite her attractive costume, the boys couldn’t help goggling at Chet. His beefy figure was revealed by a suit of fake leopard-skin tights that strapped over one shoulder.

“Sufferin’ snakes! Where’d you get that?” Joe exclaimed.

“I made it for him on Mom’s sewing machine,” Iola confessed, giggling again.

“You’ll bring down the house!” Frank told Chet.

“Think they’ll like it?” Chet asked eagerly, preening himself proudly before an imaginary audience of thousands.

“That’s not quite what I meant.”

“I get it. You’ve no confidence in the act.” Chet snorted. “Well, this didn’t just happen overnight. I’ve been working on the show for weeks. I got the idea long before Pop Carter hired us at Wild World, and it’s been developing ever since.”

“Maybe you should have squashed it when it first hatched,” Biff said with a wink to the others.

With another disdainful sniff, the leopard-skinned boy led the way out of the barn and into the wooded grove at the rear. Long ropes were dangling from several trees. Chet grabbed one, and with remarkable agility, swung himself up onto a high branch.

Despite their teasing a few moments earlier, his school chums broke into spontaneous applause.

“Not bad, Jungle Man!” Joe called out.

Chet sketched a pleased professional bow, teetering precariously on the branch as he did so. “Okay, white princess and Simba!” he shouted down. “This is your cue! Go get her, Simba!”

Biff let go of Tivoli’s collar, but the huge Great Dane merely stood there, panting and gazing around contentedly.

“What’s he supposed to do?” Frank inquired.

“Leap at Iola with fangs bared,” Biff explained, trying to keep a straight face. “Then Chet will swing down to her rescue and grapple with the ferocious man-eating lion.”

After several encouraging slaps of the flank, Tivoli finally ambled toward Iola, tongue lolling and tail wagging amiably.

“Trying to keep that mop out of his eyes,” Frank deduced.

“Go on! Snarl at her, you dumb cluck!” Chet berated the dog from his tree branch. “Act ferocious!”

“Gr-r-r!” Iola growled, trying to get Tivoli to imitate her. Instead, he licked her hand.

“Oh, never mind!” Chet fumed in disgust.

At that moment, Tivoli suddenly reared up on his hind legs and began to slobber kisses on Iola’s face.

“Hey, that’s great! Hold it!” Chet yelled.

“Well, hurry up!” Iola cried frantically, covering her face with her hands in a vain effort to protect it from Tivoli’s moplike tongue.

“Here I come!”

With a jungle bellow, Chet swung down from his perch. As he did, his leopard-skin snagged on a projecting branch, threatening to strip him down to his underwear!

Desperately Chet let go of the rope with one hand and tried to hold his costume in place. But his hefty weight was too much to support. Losing his grip, he slid down the rope and, with a plop, landed heavily astride the Great Dane, who bounded off into the underbrush, yelping loudly!

Jungle Man wound up sprawling among the dead leaves on the ground, with his costume half off.

His audience staggered around and leaned against nearby trees, rocking with laughter.

Chet got up sheepishly, brushing himself and examining his torn clothes. “I guess the act needs a little more work,” he conceded, then burst out laughing, unable to control his own mirth.

Joe flung an arm around his plump pal. “What a sense of humor! Chet, you’re wonderful!”

The Hardys escorted their pal into his house, then left for home. When they arrived, the telephone rang. The caller was Sam Radley.

“I just heard from the FBI,” he reported. “Clyde Bohm’s got a record, all right.”

“No kidding!” Frank exclaimed. “What for?”

“Fraud and embezzlement. He served two years behind bars in Kansas and got out a couple of months ago. But the Bureau’s got nothing on any of the foreign passengers who flew in Monday on the Safari Queen.”

“What you just told me about Bohm is news enough,” Frank said with an eager smile. “And that’s not all, by the way.”

He informed the operative about the car that had shadowed them that afternoon and how he had discovered that their shadow was one of Bohm’s employees.

“Good work, Frank,” Sam Radley congratulated him. “Are you going to confront Bohm with all this?”

“You bet! I think Joe and I will drop around to his place tonight. Want to come along?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Sam chuckled.

After dinner that evening, he accompanied the Hardy boys to Clyde Bohm’s home, which they found by consulting the latest phone directory. It proved to be a rented flat on the north edge of town.

The real-estate man was at first indignant that the Hardys should bother him after hours. “What right have you got to come snooping around here at this time of evening?” he ranted, snuffling and squinting at his three visitors. “I’ll report this to the police!”

“You do that,” Frank said calmly. “And while you’re at it, maybe you’d better tell them how you’ve been employing this fellow lately.” He held out a piece of paper bearing the name, address, and license-plate number of their shadow, which he had obtained from the police that afternoon. Bohm turned pale as he read the information.

“Maybe they’ll also be interested in your record as a con artist and embezzler,” Sam Radley added.

Gulping and stammering, Bohm stepped back from the door. “M-M-Maybe you’d better come inside.”

Wringing his hands after they had entered and sat down, the real-estate man went on, “My reputation could be ruined here in Bayport if all this comes out. Remember, I’m new on this job, gentlemen. Surely you won’t find it necessary to make the information public?”

“That depends on how well you cooperate,” Frank said.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Bohm whined. “Anything at all!” He then revealed that he had been ordered to buy out Pop Carter’s interest in Wild World, using available means.

“Did that include harassing him with stink bombs and nasty rumors?”

“No, no! Nothing like that!” Bohm assured them.

“Where did your orders come from?” said Frank.

Bohm claimed they had been passed down by some unnamed official higher up in the holding company that owned his real-estate firm. “We’re just a subsidiary!” he stressed.

After the trio left, Sam Radley promised to trace the owners of the holding company. “But it may not be easy,” he added. “The financial structure of corporations can get complicated these days. Often holding companies are used to mask the real owners of a business.”

The operative was amazed to hear about the Hardy boys’ investigation of the dirigible crewman, Hector Maris. “If he turns out to be the son of Quinn’s ex-partner, he may be the saboteur behind the Safari Queen explosions,” Sam conjectured, “trying to avenge his father’s breakup with Quinn.”

“That’s the angle we’re working on,” Frank said.

After dropping Sam Radley at his house, the Hardys drove to their own home on Elm Street. As they turned up the drive, Aunt Gertrude suddenly appeared in the glare of their headlights. Waving a broom, she appeared to be in a state of high excitement.

“Help me!” she cried. “I’ve caught the culprit!”

CHAPTER XV

Aunt Gertrude’s Prisoner

FRANK slammed on the brakes, and both boys leaped out of the car.

“What culprit, Aunt Gertrude?” Joe demanded.

“Over there!” she replied, jabbing the air with her broom in the direction of the back porch. “He may be the head of that Scorpio gang Fenton’s after! Or at least the rascal who chalked those marks on our front door!”

Joe had snatched a flashlight from the car’s glove compartment, and aimed it in the direction in which Miss Hardy was pointing.

A man was slumped on the back-porch steps, clutching his head in both hands. He looked up groggily. The Hardy boys gasped as they recognized his mustached face.

“It’s Jemal Raman!” Frank exclaimed.

The man shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

“Tell us another story,” Joe scoffed. “How’d you catch him, Aunt Gertrude?”

Miss Hardy explained that she had been home alone and had noticed a suspicious-looking mustached stranger lurking on the corner when she went out to the drugstore to buy some indigestion pills.

“When I came back, he was no longer in sight,” she went on, “but I remembered what you had told me about that terrorist Fenton had mentioned, so I decided not to take any chances.”

“Smart thinking, Aunty,” Frank approved.

After scouting the front of the house, she had circled around through a neighbor’s yard and had glimpsed a dark form huddled outside one of the Hardys’ rear basement windows.

“I retreated to the front porch,” Aunt Gertrude related, “and armed myself with a broom I had left out this morning. Then I tiptoed around the house and attacked the intruder. I whacked him good and proper!”

“Aunt Gertrude, that’s the bravest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” Frank declared, hugging her.

“You said it!” Joe chimed in, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Hmph! Well, anyhow,” she continued, trying to maintain her poise, “I was just about to go in and call the police when you boys drove up.”

“We’ll attend to him,” Frank said.

After herding their prisoner inside and frisking him, the boys made him sit down on a kitchen chair while Joe checked the contents of his wallet. To their surprise, the man’s ID showed his name as Gopal Raman.

“I’m Jemal’s brother,” he confessed. “I’ve been a student in your country for three years.”

Gopal explained that he had happened to see Fenton Hardy at the St. Louis airport and had recognized him from news photos. This gave him the idea of coming to Bayport during the detective’s absence and trying to break into his office.

“What for?” Frank asked.

“I wanted to find out exactly what evidence he had gathered against my brother. You see, Jemal wants to apply for re-entry into the United States on a student visa. So I thought if I could find out what your father has against him, it would help him prepare his case.”

“And what was the idea of trying to break into our boathouse?” Joe prodded.

“I learned you two had a boat while talking to some fan of yours on the plane flying into Bayport.” Gopal Raman said he had hoped to find something useful in the boathouse, perhaps even a spare set of keys to the Hardy home, which would enable him to slip in easily when everyone was out or during the night.

His spying and the chalk mark on the door were intended to unnerve the family. “That way, if I were spotted breaking in,” Gopal confessed glumly, “I hoped to scare the women into letting me go without a struggle.”

“Boy, you sure didn’t count on our broom-toting aunt!” Joe chuckled.

The prisoner was so depressed and woebegone, the Hardy boys hardly had the heart to turn him over to the police. They both felt that Gopal Raman had proved himself a rather bumbling, inept villain.

“P-please don’t hand me over to the authorities,” he quavered. “I shall be totally disgraced and disowned by my father if I am kicked out of this country and sent home without completing my education!”

Joe scratched his head and glanced at Frank. “What should we do with him?”

Frank turned to their aunt. “He’s your prisoner, Aunt Gertrude. What do you think? Should we give him another chance?”

Gopal’s large dark eyes fastened hopefully on Miss Hardy. He placed his palms together in the praying namaste gesture of India. “P-p-please, Madame!”

“Hmph!” Miss Hardy frowned and fussed uncomfortably. Despite her tart, forbidding manner, she was soft-hearted. “Use your own best judgment, Frank,” she decided.

“Okay. Joe, take his driver’s license, his car registration, his passport, and any other LD. he’s carrying.”

Joe nodded. “Right—I’ve got them.”

Frank turned to the prisoner. “Where are you staying here in Bayport?”

“At the Regent Hotel.”

“Our father should be home in a day or two. If you’ll promise not to leave town, and to remain in your hotel room until he’s able to interview you, we’ll let you go for now.”

“Oh, I shall! I shall!” Gopal Raman promised fervently, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears.

“Okay, then beat it!”

As the Hindu disappeared into the darkness, Frank shut the door behind him and headed for the hall phone.

“What are you going to do?” Joe inquired as his brother consulted the telephone directory.

“Call his hotel and make sure he doesn’t pull any fast ones.” Frank dialed the Regent Hotel’s number and spoke to the manager. After explaining the situation, he asked the man if he would notify the Hardys at once if Gopal tried to check out.

“You can depend on it!” the manager promised.

Next morning the Hardy boys left home early to keep their appointment with Arthur Bixby, the second party who had tried repeatedly to buy Wild World. The animal-park magnate had opened a temporary office in Bayport while he conducted negotiations.

Bixby was a stout, jolly man, built along much the same lines as Chet Morton. Throughout most of the interview, a king-sized cigar tilted upward from one corner of his mouth, filling the office with wreaths of blue smoke.

“So you two are the Hardy boys, eh?” he said, rocking back in his desk chair. “Heard lots about you, but I never expected you to come calling on me!” He chuckled and slapped his thigh to emphasize his surprise. “What can I do for you, lads?”

“Not to beat around the bush,” said Frank, “we’d like to know why you’re bidding so hard for Wild World.”

“Because it’s a good investment. Why else?” Bixby boomed.

“If you’re so eager to own an animal park around here,” Joe probed, “why didn’t you open one yourself?”

“I intended to, but old man Carter beat me to it. I may still have to, if he won’t sell out. That’s why I’ve opened this office, so I can scout the area and pick out a good location.”

“You don’t really think this area would support two separate animal parks?” Frank challenged.

Bixby chuckled, but his eyes remained cold. “You’re a smart young feller, me lad! No, between the two of us, I don’t think so. That’s why I’ve been trying to buy Wild World.”

Joe said, “Do you believe it’s fair to pressure Pop Carter into selling out after he’s worked so hard to get the park started and invested all his life savings in it?”

“Business is business, son. Besides, I’m offering Pop a good price. I’d even be willing to let him stay on and run the park. After all, I’m a showman. So’s he. A good one. We’d get along!”

“Wouldn’t be quite the same for Pop, though, would it,” Frank pointed out, “working as a hired hand for someone else, compared to running his own show?”

Bixby undamped long enough to wave his cigar through the air. “Ah, what’s the difference? I treat all my employees right. They love working for Arthur Bixby. Talk to them if you don’t believe me.”

“May I ask you a blunt question?” Frank said.

“Shoot!”

“Do you want Wild World badly enough to resort to dirty tricks to crowd Pop into selling out?”

“Dirty tricks?” the stout impresario cocked a perplexed eyebrow at the Hardys.

“Like having someone toss a stink bomb in the park on a hot, busy day,” said Joe, “or spreading scare stories about the animals’ being rabid.”

“I’ve never resorted to such tactics in my life, and I don’t intend to begin now!” Bixby thundered, thumping his fist on the desk. A moment later, his little blue eyes twinkled and his doublechinned face burst into a sly smile. “On the other hand, I play to win!”

Frank glanced at Joe, who shrugged and smiled faintly.

“Thank you, sir,” Frank said, rising. “No need to take up any more of your time. I guess we’ve learned all we’re likely to.”

“Oh, no, you haven’t, son! If you’re smart, you’ll go on learning all your life, just as I try to do. And just to make sure you don’t forget old Arthur Bixby, let me present you each with a little memento of this cherished meeting!”

Bouncing up from his chair, he extracted two small plastic animals from a box on his desk and handed them to the boys—a giraffe to Joe, and an elephant to Frank.

“What are these?” Frank asked, slightly mystified.

“Read what’s on them, son!”

Both boys examined their presents carefully and discovered the words, Souvenir of Arthur Bixby, Animal Parks, Inc. stamped into the plastic base.

Bixby roared with laughter as he ushered them out the door.

“Quite a character!” Joe remarked drily as the Hardys drove off in their car.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Frank said. “Under that jolly mask, he may be as hard-boiled and ruthless as they come.”

At home, Frank made another call to “Hector Maris” at the Quinn Air Terminal. Once again he was told that Maris had not reported for work.

“Where’s he gone?” Frank pressed.

“Don’t ask me,” the crew chief rasped over the phone, “but if I don’t hear from him in the next twenty-four hours, he’s going to be out of a job!”

Frank shook his head at Joe as he hung up. “Still missing.”

“What do you make of it?” Joe asked.

The older Hardy boy shrugged uneasily and plowed his fingers through his dark hair. “I don’t know, but if Maris doesn’t show up by tomorrow, maybe we should notify the police.” After an early lunch, the boys sped to the Bayport airfield for the blimp ride Eustace Jarman had promised them. Both were eager to try out one of his mini-aircraft.

Apparently the baby blimp had touched down shortly before they arrived. Jarman was proudly holding forth about the craft to a crowd of admiring onlookers. To the Hardys’ amazement, its gas envelope had shrunk to less than half its normal size as compared to the gondola cabin, which rested on well-sprung landing gear.

“How come it’s deflated?” Joe asked.

“Come aboard, boys, and I’ll show you,” the industrialist replied.

Once they were seated inside the luxurious cabin, Jarman explained that the helium gas had been compressed and pumped into a storage cylinder. This decreased the lift and enabled the blimp to land.

“For takeoff, we do just the opposite, valve the gas back into the cigar-shaped envelope and let it expand again.”

Frank and Joe were excited at the spectacular view as the baby blimp rose into the air, then cruised over Bayport and along the coast. Below, on the blue-green waters of the Atlantic, they saw pleasure boats and commercial ships as well as a warship steaming out to sea.

The Hardys were even more thrilled when Jarman let them try their hands at the simple controls. At the magnate’s suggestion, Frank steered the craft inland again. When they approached Wild World, he cruised lower, so they could glimpse the spectators and the herds of animals.

“Hey! What’s that?” Joe exclaimed suddenly.

“What’s what?” his brother inquired.

“That sign!” Joe said, pointing downward. “It’s painted on the ground, right outside the fence!”

Frank gasped as he saw the odd, bright-orange marking. “That’s the astrological symbol for Scorpio!”

CHAPTER XVI

The Scorpio Symbol

“WHAT? Let me see!” blurted Eustace Jarman, craning.

Frank gestured toward the spot below. The symbol had been splashed so boldly and brightly that it was clearly visible from the air. It looked like a lower-case m with the tail of the letter curved sharply to the right and capped with an arrowhead.

“You say that’s the symbol of Scorpio?” Jarman demanded, turning back to Frank with a frown.

“Yes, sir. It’s one of the signs of the zodiac.”

“And you think this may have something to do with the Scorpio gang of terrorists?” The tycoon’s glance flicked sharply back and forth between the Hardy boys.

Frank nodded. “There’s no doubt about it.”

“That’s the Wild World animal park down there, Mr. Jarman,” Joe added. “We’ve already had half a dozen other clues connecting the gang with the park. That symbol’s got to be more than a coincidence!”

“Then let’s descend and take a closer look!” Jarman said with an air of tense excitement. “Perhaps you’d better let me handle the landing, son.”

The remark was directed to Frank, who promptly surrendered the controls. Jarman took over and deftly brought the baby blimp to a gentle, well-cushioned landing just outside the park fence.

He and the Hardys leaped out of the cabin, one by one, and hurried to inspect the strange mark. The symbol was made up of lines almost a foot wide, in brilliant orange phosphorescent paint that looked as if it had been slapped on with a whitewash brush over the grass, stones, and bare earth.

“Wow! I’ll bet this could be seen from the air even at night!” Joe exclaimed.

“You’re right,” Frank agreed, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “The question is, what does it mean?”

“Any ideas?” said Jarman, watching the boys hopefully.

“Not really.” Frank frowned. “Unless that arrowhead on the tail of the symbol is supposed to be pointing at something.”

“Hmm, let’s see.” Jarman turned in the direction indicated by the arrowhead, then emitted an excited whoop. “By George, you’re right! Look over there—under that tree!”

The boys hurried after the tycoon as he strode toward the tree. Screened from aerial view by the overhanging tree branches was another mark on a bare patch of ground. This one, a wiggly, jagged line that was only about the width of a man’s finger, was in white paint and was much smaller than the Scorpio symbol.

“This one is surely no zodiac symbol,” Eustace Jarman mused as he studied the white line.

“Definitely not,” Frank agreed. “But don’t ask me what it is.”

“Beats me, too,” Joe admitted, after copying it on a piece of paper. “It doesn’t look like writing, and it’s not a picture of anything, either, at least not that I can recognize.”

His brother was equally baffled. Jarman glanced at his watch—once again the hard-driving, tightly scheduled businessman. “Maybe an idea will occur to you later. Meantime, I’m afraid I have to get back to New York, but I’ll drop you at the airport first.”

The Hardys were silent and thoughtful on the way back to the Bayport airfield, each racking his brain for a solution to the odd mystery of the painted markings. Nevertheless, both enjoyed the brief flight.

“These baby blimps are really nice!” Joe said effusively. “They’re a lot more fun to ride than a regular airplane.”

“And safer,” Jarman boasted.

“What do you call this model, sir?” Frank inquired. “Got a name for it?”

The industrialist smiled proudly. “I have, indeed, the Jarman Hopscotch. It’s delightful for short hops, and very tight on fuel costs.”

Both boys nodded politely.

“Eventually,” Jarman went on, “I plan to develop this into a road car, so that it can be driven as well as flown, and even have an amphibian hull. It’ll then be a true all-purpose vehicle.”

“And how!” Joe said admiringly.

“With living facilities like a present-day camper, it would be ideal for family vacations.”

“Let us know when it hits the market.” Frank grinned. “We’ll order the first one off the production line!”

After landing, the Hardys thanked their host and watched him take off again. Then they headed for their car in the parking lot.

They had just paid their fee and were turning onto the airport exit road when a buzzer sounded and the light flashed on their dashboard radio. The caller was Miss Hardy.

“What’s the good word, Aunt Gertrude?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know how good it is,” her tart voice crackled over the speaker, “but you and Frank just had a call from someone named Hector Maris.”

“The dirigible crewman!” Joe exclaimed with an excited glance at his brother.

“So he told me,” Aunt Gertrude said.

“What did he want, Aunty?”

“He wants to drop in this evening at eight thirty for what he calls a confidential talk with you two.”

“Great!” said Joe. “If he calls back again before we get home, you tell him we’re eager to see him!”

Sometime after five o’clock, the Hardys picked up Frank’s date for the picnic. She was Callie Shaw, a pretty blond girl with brown eyes. Then they drove to the Morton farm to get Iola.

“Hi, everyone!” Chet’s sister smiled as she climbed into the car with a large basket over her arm.

“Did you bring enough to feed Chet?” Joe asked.

“I brought enough to feed everyone!” Iola giggled.

“We’ll really have a feast, then,” Callie said gaily. “I have a hamperful of sandwiches and cookies, and the boys brought some of Aunt Gertrude’s fried chicken and a chocolate cake.”

“Think we’ll be able to stagger home?” said Frank.

“We may have to,” Joe wisecracked, “if none of us can squeeze in behind the wheel.”

It was not yet six when they pulled into the parking lot at Wild World. They soon found Chet, Biff, and Leroy in the picnic area of the park. The boys, who were now off duty, had shucked their green jackets and cleaned off one of the tables. They were bringing armloads of soda bottles and a plastic tub full of ice cubes to keep their drinks cold.

Biff’s date, Karen Hunt, and a pretty brown-skinned girl who proved to be Leroy’s girl friend, Elgine Brooks, were laying out place mats. Then they set the table with items from their own picnic baskets.

“Hey, look who’s coming!” Joe exclaimed as they sat down and began eating.

Phil Cohen grinned as he walked up to the table in his park attendant’s uniform. “Got a handout for a hungry man? Tony’ll be along later.”

“Help yourself, pardner,” said Frank with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got enough here to feed an army!”

“Just a drumstick will do. And how about one of those pickles?”

“Anything your little heart desires,” said Biff, passing the pickle bottle.

Silence fell for the next minute or two. Suddenly they were all startled by a loud whistling beep that seemed to come from Frank.

“Jumpin’ Jupiter!” Chet exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you’re carrying a portable burglar alarm?”

“Not that I know of,” Frank replied. He was as puzzled as everyone else. Hastily he groped in his pockets and pulled out the toy elephant Bixby had given him.

The sound was coming from the small plastic animal!

“Where did you get that, Frank?” Callie inquired, intrigued.

“From a guy named Arthur Bixby, who’s trying to buy Wild World. Joe and I saw him this morning. But don’t ask me what this is all about!”

“He gave me a toy giraffe, but I left it in the car,” said Joe. “I wonder if it’s beeping, too?”

A look of dawning comprehension passed over Elgine’s face. “Wait a second!” she murmured. “I’ve been to one of Bixby’s parks near Washington, D. C. Those animals are sold as souvenirs. He calls them Bixby’s Beasts.”

“But why the beep?” put in Leroy.

“There’s a sound device inside,” Elgine explained. “I guess it responds to a radio signal—you know, like one of those pocket-phone alarms that doctors carry to let them know a patient’s trying to get in touch.”

“Funny thing to put in a toy animal.”

“Not when you hear why. It’s an advertising stunt. The people who buy the souvenirs are supposed to keep them handy, where they can hear them, and two or three times a week, the park broadcasts a signal that makes the animals sound off.”

“Then what?” Iola asked.

“When you hear it, you’re supposed to call right away, and the first ten people who phone in get free tickets to the park, including all rides.”

“Hey, that’s quite a gimmick!” Joe said.

“But Bixby has no park around here,” Frank pointed out thoughtfully, “so what made this elephant sound off?”

The loud whistling beep, which had attracted the attention of other picnickers also, had now ceased. It was followed by several shorter beeps.

The Hardys wondered if the signals had anything to do with the Scorpio gang.

“Maybe we ought to call Bixby and find out!” Joe suggested.

Frank nodded and they hurried to a public telephone. After trying Bixby’s office number and getting his answering service, they were finally able to reach him at his apartment hotel.

“Yep, you guessed it, son!” The man chuckled when asked about the beeping. “I got me a portable transmitter and broadcast those signals so you’d see what a live-wire showman I am. Take it from me, I can double the attendance at Wild World. You tell Pop Carter that.”

Frank made a polite rejoinder and hung up with a glance at Joe, who had listened in.

“What a gimmick!” Joe chuckled wryly.

Back at the picnic table, they found Chet eagerly explaining a brand-new idea, which sounded as if it might nudge his Jungle Man act into second place. “Animal balloons!” he exclaimed to the Hardys. “If I could get a concession at Wild World from Pop, I could make a fortune!”

“Wait a minute!” Frank said slowly. “I think you’ve got something there.”

“Sure, I could design them myself and get a balloon company to—”

“No, I mean you’ve given me an idea! Joe. I’ll bet I know how that dirigible saboteur pulled his falling-elephant trick. You know those big animal-balloon floats that are used in some parades?”

Joe’s eyes lit up. “You’ve got it! He dropped a rolled-up balloon, and it was inflated in the air, by a CO_2 cartridge!”

“Maybe we should ask Sam Radley to check out specialty-balloon manufacturers,” Frank said.

“Good idea,” Joe said. “I’ll bet it will lead us straight to the crooks.”

Leroy snapped his fingers. “Hey! Talking of crooks, that reminds me.” He reported that he had seen one of the two suspects at the park again that afternoon. Although unable to trail the man immediately, he had observed him drop a crumpled piece of paper, which Leroy later picked up.

The Hardys examined it eagerly, then passed it around. It bore the name Sandy P.

“Who’s Sandy P.?” Iola inquired with a puzzled frown. “One of their pals?”

“Maybe and maybe not,” said Joe, who seemed quietly excited. “I’ve got an idea about this, Frank. We’ll check it out later.”

When they finished eating, the Hardy boys went to lock the picnic baskets in their trunk. As they neared the parking lot, Frank’s eyes widened. A man was crawling under their car!

CHAPTER XVII

A Saboteur Surfaces

THE stranger held a wrench in one hand! Frank cried out, startled. Evidently the man heard him. He glanced at the approaching boys with fear in his eyes, then sprang to his feet and darted off through the trees bordering the parking lot!

The Hardys chased him, but soon lost him in the gathering dusk.

“That creep!” Joe fumed. “I never even got a good look at his face. Did you?”

Frank shook his head grimly. “But he saw us, all right. We were just passing under a lamp when I spotted him.”

“Trying to sabotage our car, no doubt.”

“Sure, he was probably going to tamper with the steering or the brakes. Maybe we’d better check and make sure he didn’t have time to do anything.”

Their car doors were still locked, and after carefully examining the undercarriage, the boys were relieved to find no sign of damage.

“Think our would-be saboteur was one of the Scorpio gang?” Joe asked his brother.

“Could be, but the time angle’s interesting,” Frank mused.

“What do you mean?”

“That elephant beep went off, so we called Bixby. And you remember I mentioned to him that I was calling from the park. How long ago would you say that was?”

Joe shrugged. “Twenty minutes, half an hour, as long as it took us to go back to the picnic table and finish eating.”

“Also, just long enough for Bixby to send a man here to Wild World and find our car on the lot.”

Joe whistled. “You think that’s what happened?”

Frank frowned and shook his head uncertainly. “Not really. Bixby strikes me as a guy who gets fun out of showing off with publicity stunts and outwitting his competitors in business deals. Resorting to force or out-and-out crookedness doesn’t fit, somehow. But we have to consider all the angles.”

“Well, I think I’ve got an angle on that Sandy P. note,” Joe declared.

“You figured out what it means?”

“I have a hunch it stands for Sandy Point, but that’s not all.” Joe unlocked the car and got a large-scale map of the Bayport area out of the glove compartment.

“You mean that spot on the coast called Sandy Point?” Frank asked as Joe spread out the map.

“Right—and look here.” Joe reached in his pocket and produced the paper on which he had copied the odd white markings they had found near the orange Scorpio symbol outside the park fence.

The wiggly, jagged line exactly matched the coastline around Sandy Point!

Frank was excited. He clapped his brother on the back. “Joe, that’s terrific! You solved it!”

“But we still don’t know how Sandy Point figures in the gang’s plans.”

“No, but we’re going to find out. Let’s take the Sleuth and investigate after we call Sam and talk to Maris.”

“Suits me,” Joe agreed, “but that’s quite a run. Maris isn’t due at our place til 8:30. Considering the time back and forth, we wouldn’t get home before midnight.”

“All the better! The darkness will give us good cover while we look around.”

Frank and Joe locked the baskets in the trunk and helped the others clean up their picnic table. Then they called Sam Radley from a public telephone, asking him to check out balloon and novelty manufacturers.

Later the boys and their dates enjoyed the rides. The free passes Pop Carter had given them would be good throughout the summer. The group had so much fun that Frank and Joe were sorry to leave the park before closing time.

After dropping off Iola, Chet, and Callie, the Hardys returned home to await their visitor. Shortly before eight thirty the doorbell rang. Joe answered and admitted Hector Maris.

The young dirigible crewman, clad in chinos and a zippered jacket, was clearly nervous. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and sat down awkwardly in the chair Frank offered.

“I suppose you know why I’m here,” he began.

“Why not tell us?” Frank replied. “Including why you’re going under the name of ‘Hector Maris.’”

Their caller gave a guilty start. “I figured you were on to me. Well, you’re right. I got my job under a false name. The real Hector Maris is a good friend of mine, who’s attending medical school in Europe.”

Frank nodded. “And your real name is—Embrow?”

The young man gulped, his eyes opening even wider. “Yes, I’m Terry Embrow—though I can’t imagine how you found out. My father, as you probably know, used to be Lloyd Quinn’s partner, but they had a fight and broke up.”

“So why do you work for Quinn?” Joe asked.

“Believe it or not, I’m an ardent lighter-than-air buff. I got that from my father, I suppose. He used to fly blimps for the Navy and always wished he could have flown in the Hindenburg. When Mr. Quinn started hiring a crew for the Safari Queen, it seemed like the chance of a lifetime. But I knew perfectly well he’d never take me on if he recognized me as Basil Embrow’s son. So Hec Maris agreed to let me use his name while he was out of the country.”

Frank said, “Did anyone else know about this arrangement?”

“Nobody,” Terry replied. “Not even my Dad. He thinks I’m working for a trucking company. That’s what made the call so mysterious.”

“What call?”

“Sorry, I’m getting ahead of my story,” the young crewman apologized. “Just before we took off for Africa on our last trip, I got an anonymous phone call. Whoever it was, somehow he’d found out my real identity!”

“What did the caller want?”

“He threatened to expose me to Mr. Quinn and tell him who I really am, unless I agreed to—to do those things that happened Monday morning,” Terry ended lamely.

“Better spell it all out,” Frank advised.

“Well, he—he wanted me to loosen the muffling, so it would sound as if the Queen was having engine trouble, and then drop two items from the gondola as we sailed over Bayport.”

“What two items?”

“A smoke grenade and a tightly packed balloon in the shape of an elephant. The balloon was designed to inflate automatically in the air after it was released. Obviously it contained a small grenade or destruct charge in it, but he didn’t tell me that beforehand.”

Joe gave Terry a scornful look. “Is that supposed to be an excuse?”

“No, of course not.” Terry Embrow shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I realized what bad publicity all this might cause for the Quinn airship fleet, and I didn’t want that. I’m as eager as Mr. Quinn to see dirigibles come back. On the other hand, I had to weigh those bad effects against losing my job. I was sure he’d fire me once he found out I lied on my application and was really his ex-partner’s son.”

“So you went along?”

Terry nodded guiltily. “I had to—at least that’s what I told myself.”

“How did your anonymous caller get the grenade and the balloon to you?”

“They were dropped outside my apartment door the night before we took off. I found them the next morning. But whew! I was sweating icicles all during the flight to Africa and back, for fear I’d be caught. Then when I saw Mr. Quinn showing you around Monday afternoon, I figured the jig was up.”

Joe said, “You knew who we were?”

“Sure. I heard him introducing you to the crew chief. And I remember seeing your pictures in the paper a couple of times in connection with mysteries you’ve solved.”

“Where have you been since then?” Frank inquired.

Terry rubbed his hand over his forehead. “I panicked. I was sure you suspected me, but I had no idea how much you knew. Then I began to wonder whether I should give myself up. So I decided to think things over. I knew of an old cabin in the Ramapo Mountains where Hec and I used to go sometimes. That’s where I’ve been staying for the last couple of days—until this morning.”

“And now what?” Joe pressed.

Terry Embrow shrugged and swallowed hard. “I decided to talk to you and make a clean breast of everything.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Frank said, “If you’re hoping we’ll intercede for you with Mr. Quinn, you’re out of luck. We don’t have any special influence with him, at least not as far as crew-hiring goes.”

“I’m not asking you to do that. I’m not asking for anything,” Terry retorted proudly. “I came here to tell you the truth and that’s what I’ve done. If you want to turn me over to the police or report me to Quinn, that’s up to you.”

After drawing Joe aside for a brief consultation, Frank returned to the young crewman and said, “We’re not going to do anything yet, Terry, until we’ve cleared up this whole mystery. In the meantime you’re free to do as you like about telling Quinn.”

Terry Embrow heaved a deep sigh and rose to his feet. “Fair enough. And thanks for listening, both of you.” He shook hands with the boys and left.

The Hardys immediately drove to their boathouse. Soon they were chugging across Barmet Bay in their sleek motorboat, the Sleuth. They talked little, each occupied with his own thoughts about the case.

Finally Joe remarked, “You think Terry was telling the truth?”

Frank gave a thoughtful nod. “Yes, I don’t believe he’d be a good enough liar to fake such a story. Besides, why would he?”

“But how did the gang find out his real identity?”

“That wasn’t hard. They probably checked out the whole crew, looking for a weak link. Once they started probing the background of ‘Hector Maris,’ they realized what was up.”

“Guess you’re right,” said Joe. “And they took advantage of it. Well, at least we’ve solved part of the dirigible mystery.”

“But we haven’t helped Dad capture the Scorpio gang yet,” Frank pointed out wryly.

“Or unraveled the animal-park mystery, either,” Joe added.

Moonlight silvered the Atlantic rollers as the boys emerged from the bay and rounded southward down the coast. At Sandy Point, they beached the Sleuth quietly and began to reconnoiter the area. Frank pointed to an old weather-beaten cabin, visible among the pines. Its windows were partly boarded up or patched with cardboard, but a light gleamed from inside.

“That shack could be the gang’s hideout,” Frank murmured in a low voice.

“And someone’s there!” Joe said tensely.

They approached cautiously. A beaten path led up to the cabin through the trees.

“Wait!” Frank hissed suddenly. “We’d be smarter to close in from two directions. That’ll give us a better chance to see what’s going on inside.”

They tossed a coin. It landed heads, which meant that Joe would approach from the front, while Frank would come through the trees on the left. They agreed on flashlight signals, then separated.

Step by step, Joe moved closer, pausing from time to time to listen for sounds from within. He almost held his breath as he covered the last few yards. Suddenly a cry of alarm escaped his throat as he felt the ground giving way beneath him. Next instant he was plunging down into darkness!

The boys beached the Sleuth quietly.

CHAPTER XVIII

A Fast Fadeout

FRANK heard his brother’s scream, and, glancing around in the moonlight, saw Joe being swallowed up by the earth.

“A covered pitfall!” he realized.

But there was no time to pull Joe out. When the trap was sprung, a buzzer sounded inside the cabin. An instant later a man rushed out, clutching a poker.

“Got ya now, you punk!” he gloated.

Apparently he intended either to finish Joe off or take him prisoner. Frank did not wait to find out which. He had picked up a hunk of wood that he had stumbled over earlier, and now dashed through the brush to his brother’s rescue.

The man from the cabin was just raising his poker to strike. Frank hit him over the head from behind, and the man’s legs buckled!

But he buffered the impact of his fall with his hands as he went down on all fours. Levering himself upright, the now-disarmed poker-wielder swung around and knocked the driftwood out of Frank’s hand. Then he launched himself with a bull-like rush and butted Frank in the stomach!

This time Frank went down. Swinging his legs upright, he stopped his opponent’s rush with two well-placed shoe soles in the solar plexus. As the man staggered back, gasping, Frank surged to his feet and belted him in the jaw.

By then Joe had managed to claw his way out of the deep pit. Without bothering to raise himself from his sprawling position, Joe grabbed his enemy’s left ankle, yanked his foot off the ground, and upended him!

The man landed flat on his back, cursing. Before he could struggle up again, the Hardy boys were looming over him menacingly. Joe was now clutching the poker and Frank the hunk of driftwood.

“One wrong move, mister,” Frank said coldly, “and you’ll be spitting out a mouthful of teeth.”

“Hey!” Joe exclaimed. “This must be the knobby-nosed man that Aunt Gertrude described.”

“Right. And also one of the guys who braced us in the woods. I can tell by his voice,” Frank added. Then he looked at their prisoner. “Roll over on your chest and hold your hands together in back of you.”

“Try and make me!”

“You want a broken nose?”

The man obeyed. Frank and Joe ripped some tangled vines from the underbrush and bound his wrists.

“You can get up now,” Frank ordered. “Then walk ahead of us into the cabin.”

The shack contained a potbellied stove, two bunks, a rickety table and chairs, and a shelf of canned goods. The only light came from a burning candle jammed into the mouth of an empty bottle. A few magazines and paperback novels were scattered about.

“You want to talk to us,” Frank asked with an edge to his voice, “or the police?”

“Talk about what?” the prisoner sneered. “You got nothing on me. All I did was dig a trap to protect myself against prowlers like you. No law against that!”

Frank realized there was a measure of truth in the man’s bluster. Without having seen their ambushers’ faces, Joe and he could not prove that this fellow was one of the men who had waylaid them in the woods.

The knobby-nosed crook seemed to sense Frank’s frustration and chuckled nastily. “You goofed all the way tonight. While you’re here at Sandy Point, wasting time on me, you’ll be missin’ the real show near Bayport!”

“What kind of show?” Joe challenged.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, sonny boy! All I can tell you is that there’s gonna be a lot going on tonight!”

Frank turned away in disgust. “Watch him, Joe. I’ll look around and see if the gang left any clues.”

The prisoner kept teasing and making fun of the boys as Frank searched. Joe boiled and was barely able to control his hot temper. Finally he averted his glance to avoid giving the crook the satisfaction of watching the effect of his mockery.

“Hey, look at this!” Frank exclaimed suddenly.

“What is it?” Joe moved toward his brother.

Frank had picked up a battered paperback bearing the title Elephant Boy. The colorful picture on its cover showed an Indian mahout driving his elephant through the jungle, with a snarling leopard poised to spring on him from a tree branch.

“True story or a novel?” Joe inquired, looking over his brother’s shoulder.

“True, I guess,” Frank said, flipping through the pages. “It probably tells about how elephants behave, just like the book we found in th—”

He broke off suddenly and whirled around to check on their prisoner. “Joe! He’s gone!”

The man had sneaked through the open door while the boys were occupied with Frank’s find!

Groaning and berating themselves for their carelessness, the Hardys dashed outside in pursuit. The man was nowhere in sight and the young sleuths realized that he could easily lose himself in the surrounding brush, with the darkness for added cover. Carefully they probed among the shadowy trees. Then a disturbing thought hit Joe. “Frank, our boat!”

“You’re right!” Frank muttered angrily. “Come on, let’s see if that’s where he’s gone.”

The boys hurried toward the beach. Clouds partially veiled the moon, but far ahead, at the water’s edge, the Hardys could see the figure of the fugitive. He was crouching in the cockpit of the Sleuth!

“Trying to hotwire the ignition!” Frank blurted.

“He must have had a knife in his pocket to cut himself free!” Joe fumed. “We should’ve frisked him!”

Their voices carried and the man in the Sleuth straightened up. Next moment he snatched what looked like a hammer from their tool kit and swung a hard blow at the instrument panel. Then he leaped out of the cockpit, ran a few paces out into the water, and dived from view!

The Hardys’ pulses were pounding with anger and exertion as they reached the scene. “He’s smashed our radio!” Joe cried, then peered into the darkness. “Can you spot him, Frank?”

“Don’t even waste time looking. He could swim underwater along the point and sneak ashore anywhere among the reeds.”

“But he’ll get away! There’s a highway back inland. He may have a car stashed there.”

“Probably does. He tried to swipe our boat and leave us stranded. We’ve got to get back fast!”

“You think those remarks he made meant something?”

“I’m sure of it.” Frank worried. “He said ‘near Bayport.’ That sounds as if the gang may be planning a raid on Wild World!”

“Leaping lizards! And we haven’t even got a radio to warn Pop!” Joe realized.

“Exactly, so come on!” Frank urged. “Let’s get the Sleuth out in the water and shove off!”

Planing up a bow wave, they sped north along the coast to Barmet Bay, then headed inland to the boat harbor. When they finally berthed the Sleuth in her boathouse, more than an hour had elapsed since their departure from Sandy Point.

Frank ran to a phone booth on the wharf, inserted a coin, and dialed the animal-park number.

“No answer!” he reported after lengthy ringing.

“Call Chet!” Joe suggested. “Tell him to rouse the gang and meet us at Wild World!”

“Roger!”

Minutes later, their car was speeding toward the animal park. All seemed peaceful as they drove to the entrance. The boys leaped out, gazing through the moonlight at Pop Carter’s bungalow, which was dimly visible in the distance beyond the amusement area.

“No sign of troub—” Joe started to say, but his voice broke off as the frame building suddenly exploded into white-hot geysers of flame!

“It’s a fire bomb!” Frank cried.

CHAPTER XIX

A Fiery Trick

THE Hardys were frantic with worry for Pop Carter’s safety. “He may be in there, unconscious!” Joe exclaimed. “Maybe that’s why he didn’t answer the phone!”

“I know,” Frank said tersely. “Come on, there’s no time to find the watchmen. We’ll have to go in over the gate.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a loud boom shattered the night. The ground reverberated beneath their feet. As the echoes died away, a cloud of smoke could be seen billowing on their right.

“Part of the fence is down!” Frank cried.

Rather than waste time running along the park boundary to the section of wrecked fence, the boys scaled the gate as Frank had originally proposed. Dropping down on the other side, they raced across the grounds toward Mr. Carter’s bungalow.

The crackling sound of the flames grew louder as they neared the building. Its walls were ablaze and tongues of flame licked toward the sky from every window.

“Hold it! Someone’s coming!” Joe told his brother.

A running figure emerged from the darkness. It was Pop Carter, his wispy hair flying in all directions. Apparently he had pulled on trousers and suspenders over his pajamas.

“Thank goodness!” said Frank. “Are you okay, sir?”

“Yes, yes! But how did this blaze start?”

“Magnesium firebomb, from the way it looked.” Frank hastily related the circumstances that had brought the Hardy boys rushing to the park. “We tried to call and warn you but got no answer,” he added.

Pop explained that he had been roused from sleep by a call from one of the park’s two night watchmen, who reported glimpsing an intruder inside the grounds. Pop and the other watchman had hurriedly joined the one who called. Then all three had spread out to search the area.

“Soon as I saw the glow from the flames, I came back to see what had happened. This is terrible!”

The heat from the blaze was intense, adding to Frank’s suspicion that it was a magnesium fire bomb. “Another bomb exploded right after your bungalow ignited,” he told the park owner. “It wrecked part of the fence.”

Both bombs, Frank speculated, could easily have been planted during the day or evening by one of the visitors, with timing devices to make them go off during the night hours.

“What about that prowler the watchman sighted?” Joe put in. “Wouldn’t he have touched off an alarm when he broke into the park?”

“He should have,” Pop Carter replied, shaking his head in puzzlement. “As I told you fellows the other day, the fence is wired. I can’t figure out how he sneaked in!”

“Well, never mind now, sir,” Frank said, sympathetically putting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “The first thing is to fight this fire. You’re outside the Bayport city limits, so you’ll have to rely on the local volunteer fire brigade till they put through an official call for assistance. What about your two watchmen?”

“They should be along soon,” Pop said anxiously. “Wherever they are, I’m sure they can see the fire by now!”

“Good! And our gang’s coming to pitch in. Why don’t you go to the nearest phone and call for help, while Joe and I open the front gate for our friends.”

Pop agreed gratefully and gave the Hardys a key before hurrying off. Chet’s jalopy was already rumbling up to the entrance by the time Frank and Joe got the gate open. Phil and Biff were with Chet. Tony Prito’s pickup arrived moments later, with Leroy Mitchell in the cab beside the driver.

Luckily, hydrants had been installed when the park’s water system was put in, along with a water tower to maintain adequate pressure. One of the hydrants was located halfway between Pop’s bungalow and a nearby cluster of buildings, which included supply sheds, a veterinary clinic, and half-completed winter quarters for the tropical animals.

The boys quickly unreeled a fire hose, and soon were spraying a lively stream of water over the blaze. They also used buckets to dampen the surrounding brush to keep the flames from spreading.

“Hey!” Joe exclaimed as the Hardys refilled their buckets. “Do you hear that?”

Frank paused and caught the distant sound of an elephant trumpeting. “It’s Sinbad!”

“Do you suppose he’s just excited by the fire?”

“He’s pretty far away to get that excited!” A look of dismay came over Frank’s face. “Joe, I think we’ve been tricked!”

“How come?”

“That second bomb, the one that wrecked the fence! It would also knock out the alarm circuit!”

Joe gasped as he caught on. “Which means someone else could have broken into the park. Maybe near the elephant compound!”

“Right! And the whole purpose of the fire bomb,” Frank went on tensely, “was to divert everyone’s attention to this area, while the crooks carried out their real raid unnoticed!”

Joe nodded. “Let’s see what’s going on over that way!”

Dropping their buckets, the Hardys jumped into Tony’s pickup truck and sped off toward the animal area.

They leaped out at the gate, scaled over it, and continued down the road leading past the elephant compound. In the moonlit darkness, they could sense the restless movement of animals disturbed by Sinbad’s trumpeting.

As they neared the elephant enclosure, a strange scene met their eyes. At least three men with flashlights groped about the low rocky hillock that bordered the creek running through the compound. Some distance away, a fourth was holding Sinbad and his mates at bay with fiery squirts from a flamethrower!

Frank and Joe were thunderstruck. But neither hesitated. They scrambled over the fence and charged toward the trespassers on the rocky rise. The men saw them and turned to fight. Soon fists were flying.

Though outnumbered, the Hardy boys were well trained in boxing, karate, and other forms of unarmed combat. Nevertheless they quickly realized that they were up against tough, professional thugs. The melee began to go against them.

Then two newcomers joined the fray. One, a pudgy roundhouse swinger, rushed in like an angry bear. The other threw lightning punches at a big-jawed crook who had tried to edge around the Hardys and attack from behind.

“Chet and Leroy!” Joe cried to his brother. With fresh spirit, the Hardys pressed their own attack.

“Look out!” Leroy shouted suddenly. “That dude with the flamethrower’s coming!” He decked his opponent with a right hook, snatched a hefty rock, and hurled it with all his might as the fourth crook started up the hillock toward them.

The rock hit the man in the arm, knocking his flamethrower into the creek below. With a bellow of rage, he charged up the slope at the boys. The free-for-all took on fresh fury.

Once again, the outcome wavered. Frank, who was trading punches with the nearest intruder, glanced toward the elephants as Sinbad filled the night with a fresh trumpet blast.

A dark figure was running toward them past the three angry tuskers.

CHAPTER XX

Stalled Takeoff

FRANK felt a momentary surge of dismay. If the newcomer was one of the gang, he would tilt the odds against them and the fight might be lost!

The man dashed up the slope with long strides, his fists cocked for action. Moonlight gleamed from the visor of his battered white cap. Suddenly Frank realized who the man was.

“Dad!” he cried happily.

Mr. Hardy’s arrival brought fresh hope to the hard-pressed youths and glum despair to the gang as the detective’s fists began crashing among them. One by one, the criminals were knocked to the ground or gave up. Soon they were lined up with their hands in the air.

Just then Tony, Phil, and Biff appeared.

“You’re too late,” Chet crowed, waving his fists overhead like a match-winning boxer. “We’ve rounded up the whole gang!”

“But we could use some light,” Joe said. “How about going back and asking Pop to turn on the lamps in the compound?”

“I think there’s a switch panel in the gatehouse,” Tony reported. “I’ll go see.”

“Good. And look for rope while you’re at it, so we can tie these creeps up!” Frank called.

As Tony ran off, Frank turned to his father. “How did you get here, Dad?” he asked.

“I had a strong hunch the gang was planning something at Wild World tonight,” Fenton Hardy replied, “especially when I spotted a boat pulling in just below the amusement park area.”

“Then you must be the man the watchman saw,” Frank said. “But how did you get over the outer fence without setting off the alarm?”

Mr. Hardy chuckled. “Good question. It’s twelve feet high. But you see, I cleared sixteen as a college pole-vaulter.”

Presently the lights flashed on in the elephant compound, giving a better view of the prisoners. Among them was the dark-haired, heavy-jawed crook with the dimple in his chin who had been one of the two park lurkers described by Chet. Another was the knobby-nosed bruiser whom the Hardy boys had encountered at Sandy Point.

“You were right, Joe,” Frank said. “He must’ve had a car stashed near the cabin.”

Joe nodded. “Yes. He was just trying to swipe our boat so we’d be stuck out there all night.”

“Too bad you didn’t both wind up in that pitfall!” the man growled. “I’d have finished you off then and there.”

“Pipe down!” Mr. Hardy warned, shoving him back in line, “or I’ll finish you off right now!”

The gang had been looking for a satchel hidden in the enclosure. Only a moment before the fight started, they had retrieved it from one of the deep crevices honeycombing the rocky rise along the creek.

The satchel contained explosives and timing devices as well as several letters and other written material. But there was no time to examine them. Tony returned with rope, and Mr. Hardy supervised tying-up the prisoners. Meanwhile, the boys were occupied with another problem.

“How do you suppose these guys got in?” Frank wondered.

“They probably chopped out a section of the rear fence with wire cutters after the second bomb went off and killed the alarm system,” Joe reasoned.

“But that’s wild, mountainous terrain in back of the park. How did they expect to get away afterwards?”

“Maybe some kind of off-the-road vehicle. Once they got back on the highway, they could escape fast enough,” Joe offered.

Frank shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not so sure. They’d be taking an awful chance of being spotted by firemen or police directing traffic. There’ll probably be TV crews and all kinds of gawkers on the road before very long.”

Tony, in fact, had reported that firemen and a highway patrol car had now reached the scene.

“The best way to avoid being trapped would be an aerial getaway,” Joe remarked.

Frank’s eyes suddenly lit up. “You’re right! And I’ll bet that’s exactly what they planned!”

He dashed out of the elephant enclosure. Joe followed, exclaiming, “You mean they’ve got a helicopter waiting outside the park?”

“Not a copter. Something a lot quieter. And talking about getting trapped—remember how we got steered into that pitfall setup at Sandy Point?”

“Well, first we sighted the Scorpio symbol, and then that white line painted on the ground nearby—”

“Right. And remember who thoughtfully made sure we’d see it?”

Joe gasped as his brother’s meaning sank home. But he did not waste time replying. The two hopped into Tony’s pickup, which their friend had driven up, and sped off toward the outer fence enclosing the rear of the animal park.

As expected, a small section had been cut open. Outside this gap in the fence, the glare of their headlights picked out the dark form of a baby blimp!

The boys leaped out of the pickup and ran toward it. The blimp’s gas bags began to fill, and the craft started rising slowly off the ground. But the Hardys struggled to hold it down with their added weight! Joe clung desperately to its landing gear while Frank opened the cabin door and yanked the pilot away from the controls.

Squirming aboard, the older Hardy succeeded in switching on the compressor pump. As the airship’s envelope swiftly deflated, the blimp settled back to earth with a bump!

The pilot fought frantically, his face a mask of rage. But, between them, the Hardys finally overpowered and frisked him. He was Eustace Jarman!

“You confounded pests!” he exploded as the boys gripped his arms.

“Speaking of pests.” Joe chuckled, “I’d say a certain scorpion has stung his last victim!”

“You don’t have any idea who the scorpion is,” Jarman jeered.

“Yes, we do,” Frank answered. “And we’ll be sure when Sam Radley tracks down the firm that made the elephant balloon for you.”

The boys drove Jarman to the elephant enclosure, using his own weapon to keep him cowed. Then all prisoners were taken to the park entrance, where State Police had arrived and were talking to Pop Carter.

The satchel contained crucial evidence. Realizing their position was hopeless, the men broke down and talked freely, despite Jarman’s angry protests.

Several weeks earlier, when Fenton Hardy had discovered the terrorists’ New York hideout, they had fled the city by car. A breakneck chase ensued. For a long time it appeared that they had lost their pursuers, but the police caught up with them again, and the gang desperately turned into Wild World.

It was a gray day with few visitors, so the terrorists seized the opportunity to dump the satchel with its damaging evidence. One of them spotted the rocky crevices near the creek and jumped out of the car long enough to hide the satchel in one of them. They planned to retrieve it as soon as possible, but when they returned to the park about ten days later, they found the site occupied by the newly set-up elephant compound.

Jarman, the gang’s leader, was furious at this turn of events. The written material in the satchel identified the various members and incriminated him as the Scorpion. Though well out of sight in the rocky crevice, the satchel might be discovered by a trainer or park attendant. Jarman realized it must be retrieved at all costs, or he might face disgrace, ruin, and a possible life sentence for his terrorist activities.

“What was a big-shot businessmen like Jarman doing, leading a terrorist outfit?” asked one State Trooper.

“He was sympathetic to a foreign power and was aware of the dirigibles’ military capabilities. The gang was financed by this power, and he used them as a weapon to attack and ruin competitors,” Mr. Hardy replied. “One of them was the Quinn Air Fleet.”

“He wanted to make sure his fleet would have the only serviceable airships in the country,” Frank explained.

The gang had first tried to retrieve the satchel by breaking into the park at night, but had been frustrated by the alarm. Later they had flown in aboard a baby blimp, but again they had drawn a blank when Sinbad’s angry trumpeting brought Pop Carter and the watchmen to investigate.

Joe snapped his fingers. “The blimp was that ‘dark shape’ Pop saw soaring up and away through the trees!”

“And when we came here Monday,” Frank added, “Sinbad must have recognized those two crooks in the car behind us. That’s why he kicked up a fuss!”

“Reckon you’re both right.” Pop chuckled.

Desperate to recover the satchel, Jarman had tried every way possible to force Pop Carter to sell out, including ordering the real-estate firm Bohm worked for, a subsidiary of Jarman Ventures, to buy Wild World.

The Hardys posed a fresh obstacle. The phony code message luring Frank and Joe to Rocky Isle and the Scorpio symbol trick to get them to Sandy Point had both been attempts to use the boys as pawns to force Fenton Hardy off the case.

The detective chuckled. “I’d say they turned out to be considerably more than pawns!” he said ironically.

Jarman’s response was an angry glare at the boys. The dropped note picked up by Leroy had been a deliberate part of the tycoon’s scheme. And the attempt to sabotage the boys’ car, as well as the vinegaroon episode had been other moves to harass the Hardys.

Following their flight from New York, the gang separated and went under cover. Jarman flashed green light signals from the park Ferris wheel instructing the crook hiding out on Rocky Isle to come ashore and transmit the boss’s orders to the other gang members.

With the case closed and all terrorists in custody, Fenton Hardy, his sons, and Chet Morton went to talk to Lloyd Quinn the next day.

When they arrived at the air-fleet terminal, they found Terry Embrow seated glumly in Quinn’s office.

“We’re wondering if you couldn’t see your way clear to keep Terry on,” Mr. Hardy asked the airship owner.

“What? This sneaky young thug!” Quinn roared angrily, glaring at Terry. Then he grinned and added in his normal tone of voice, “He’s one of the best men in my crew! If he can assure me that there will never again be another incident, I’ll keep him on!”

Terry could hardly believe his good luck. He promised good behavior and tried, with a dazed expression, to thank his boss.

“Don’t thank me—thank the Hardys,” Quinn said. “And by the way, fellows, that pipeline company wants to sign a contract right away, chartering the services of our new Arctic Queen, now that they know the real story behind those explosions!”

“Then the sky’s the limit for the dirigible business!” Chet exclaimed enthusiastically. “Speaking of which—how about a sky-high malt, fellows?”

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